#okay I like the scene itself it’s pretty good it’s just that like. FORTY FIVE MINUTES

[towalover]

Making a playthrough of slow damage is a double edged sword because while I can reexperience some important character moments I also have to rewatch the entirety of every sex scene in auto mode so each of them take 45 minutes….45 minutes of awkward taku handjob….

[baiyunli]

would u consider posting more snippets of the retirement fic. pretty please. its so good!

for sure!! most of the fully-written scenes don't make sense without context, but i have one near the beginning, when jack still hasn't told nico what he's looking for here and nico's just angry and still hurt from everything jack had done before. no idea why i picked the wings for luke lol but here:

There were moments, after Jack was traded and before Luke signed with Detroit, where Nico would look at Luke and all he saw was Jack. 

He never thought they looked similar: Luke was a head taller and not as talkative in the half-charming, half-flippant way that Jack was, but in certain lights, during warmups or after practice or in the middle of a goal celebration, Nico reached out and saw someone else.

He knew Jack was gone, but it didn’t stop Nico from seeing him everywhere. He’d rubbed off onto Luke, his mannerisms and locker room nicknames and pregame routine, and Nico was just tired of always looking for someone who was never his, tired of coming up empty.

The first year afterwards, Nico couldn’t even look at his old locker: as if he was the only one responsible for Jack’s leaving and the guilt was close to crushing him, one of those quiet, tragic hurts he never truly knew how to share. He’d look at Luke and see the same heartbreak on his face.

Luke’s gone now, swept away in offseason free agency. Nico is happy that he’s playing well, at least. The Wings are good. Better than the Devils right now. And the Canucks, but that part speaks for itself.

“He had an awesome season,” says Nico. Second place in Norris voting. “Tell him I said congratulations.”

Jack grins. “Obviously. Thanks for taking care of him,” he says. “After I got traded. Like, I think it was the first time he actually had to learn how to cook, and shit. God knows I couldn’t have taught him myself.”

“I had to get him out of ordering takeout somehow. He was going to die otherwise.”

Late twenties and early thirties blend in Nico’s brain. Now, thirty years old is far enough in the rearview mirror that everything in the interim feels the same, a foggy lacuna from the first time they qualified for the playoffs to their first Cup win. The years when they thought nothing could hurt them, that the worst had passed long ago, young and stupid and too reckless to care about the idea that the future might not swing in their favour. And even off the ice: nighttime drives on the turnpike, the closest they could get to the end of the world. The hum of tires along the rumble strip, watching the light hug the soft planes of Jack’s face. Nico had tried so hard to stay away from Jack, those years.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jack says in self-defense. He raises his hands. “We cooked sometimes.”

“For loose definitions of ‘cooked.’ And ‘sometimes.’”

Jack makes a face. “You make it sound a lot worse than it was. I got it together eventually. When it stopped being—okay, I guess. That I didn’t know how to be an adult. And I couldn’t get away with it anymore.” He worries at his lower lip with his teeth, folds his hands in his lap. “I wanted to—” his voice stumbles, stops. “Never mind.”

There’s a curl of hair falling into his eyes that Nico wants to brush away. Nico wants too much: he wants to ask Jack to finish the sentence, wants to say why didn’t you talk to me for five fucking years, wants to know why Jack came to his apartment if not to apologize for the last five years of silence. 

He wants to put his fist through the wall, kick something, but he’s almost forty and should know better, so really he wants to go outside for a long walk until his throat no longer itches. He wants to crawl out of his skin until he’s so far away he can’t see Jack. He wants Jack to leave and he wants to stop him from ever leaving again. He just wants to hear him say sorry.

“Sure,” says Nico, curt. “Good for you.”

Jack wavers. “What?”

He rubs his forehead. “Jack, I just. I’m glad you’re doing better, but I still don’t know how long you’re planning to be here.”

Nico hears Jack’s breath hitch. “Not that long,” he answers, and then he flashes his brightest smile, all-American and pearly white, to make up for the pause before his reply. “I’m—sorting some stuff out, that’s all. Told Quinn it was unfinished business. But I can go. If you don’t, uh. If you don’t want me.”

“It’s—no,” Nico responds. He runs a hand through his hair and does not admit that Jack Hughes is all he’s ever wanted. “You can stay.” 

Jack looks down at the table. “I’ll get it together,” he says, quieter, and it strikes Nico, for a second, the reality of it. “I promise. I’ll get my shit together soon.”

During Jack's whole first season with the Canucks, Nico dreamed about having him back in New Jersey, eating dinner with him and falling asleep on the couch before Jack could make it back to his own apartment. And now Jack’s here, eating his food, staying in his apartment, and Nico thinks that his most self-pitying dreams didn’t do shit to prepare him for it. “I didn’t. I’m not asking you to fulfill any promises,” he tells Jack. “Do whatever you have to. But the season starts soon.”

“Soon,” echoes Jack, his face shuttering. “You’re right.” He pokes at the rest of his dinner. He plays with a noodle, twirls it around his fork and drops it back in the takeout box.

“Jack,” Nico says. “Are you—is there something wrong?”

“No,” Jack says, too fast, brittle. “Not something wrong, I just, uh. I have to make some decisions. Tired of trying to be an adult, I guess.” He holds up the leftover takeout. “You want me to pop this in the fridge, or do you have a container I can put it in?”

[whumpurr]

Adrien and Sawdust part 1

cw: pet whump (and everything that comes with that), whump recovery, past whump, emeto, disordered eating, unreliable narrator, 'it' as a pronoun

part 2

--

Adrien didn’t know what possessed him to show up to that sale. Maybe his house was finally too big for him, with it’s cold, empty, dark corridors and uninhabited bedrooms. He knew that he wasn’t looking for any sort of uncouth company, and he wasn’t searching for something to keep his bed warm. The days had blurred together enough that he’d decided to find something to space them apart, to mark each day from the next and to make life interesting again.

And he wanted to help someone.

So he wound up getting in his truck and driving away from his house, the skyscrapers of his fencing fading off into the rest of the woods that surrounded it as he put the wheels to the dirt and headed out.

Adrien was shocked to see that there were only a handful of cars and trucks pulled up to the sale. It was a lot less formal than he had expected as well. He had anticipated more of an auction type setting, in a building with rows of chairs and someone bringing the pets up to the stage to parade them around. He wasn’t too experienced in the matter, but he wasn’t thinking that it would just be the equivalent of a yard sale. The pets are mostly in cages, arranged haphazardly in the mud and grass. Some of the pets are curious, scarred fingers picking at fallen leaves or pebbles that they can reach through the bars of their dog cages. The pets that were not left in cages were either standing or kneeling down in the dirt. There were maybe eight pets, give or take. Adrien couldn’t account for ones he might not be able to see past people’s cars, boxes, and empty crate kennels.

The air had a little bite to it. Adrien was in a heavier jacket- not a full on winter coat- but the majority of the pets were dressed in tattered t-shirts and shorts, kneeling on the hard cage floor or on the cold ground. Adrien couldn’t help but feel his gut wrench as he looked on while people did their deals, talking to some of the ones Adrien could only assume were the sellers. People in simple black polo shirts, scattered about the scene, talking to customers who came in their casual clothes. It really was no big event to many of these people, but for Adrien, this was something he would likely only see this one time.

Welp.

Time to pick one.

Adrien shoved his fists into his jacket’s pockets, trying to look comfortable and blend in with the other patrons. He had been stuck at the entrance just staring for long enough to see a good number of the pets get snatched up by other customers. Adopters? Future owners? He didn’t know what the right word for it was. As dirty as this all felt, leaving a bad taste in Adrien’s mouth, he had only found the event through an ad on his social media. The fact that it would be pushed so casually made him feel even worse about being here.

He approached a cage that had a seller standing near it. The cage had been looked over and passed by a good number of times by the other patrons, and that piqued Adrien’s curiosity, as uncomfortable as he was.

“So,” He cleared his throat, glancing at the opaque plastic dog crate and the worker, “What’s wrong with this one?” He pointed his chin to the crate, trying to sound as gruff and uncaring as he thinks everyone in this event does. The worker looked down at a small clipboard they were carrying.

“This one was a rescue from a previous owner.” The worker stated. Right, rescue. Adrien remembered that the people running this whole even claimed they were ‘rescuers’ of pets. That being said, Adrien still recalled having seen a couple articles exposing them for being viciously cruel to pets while they were in their care.

“Right… And that’s an issue because?” Adrien pushed. The seller looked at him, first like he was stupid, but then with a sense of respect.

“That could mean the previous owner could want them back, at some point.” They put a hand on their hip, “Either you’re dumb or you’ve got a maximum security prison for a house. Speaking of, the old owner was arrested. Something about a dog fighting ring, and the pet’s here now. Got surrendered to us by the cops, they even gave us all it’s shit.” With that, they pointed a finger to a dirty blue duffel bag set next to the crate. “You want it or not?”

A quick look around the venue let Adrien know that most of the pets had been bought already. He hadn’t even gotten to look at this one, but he knew that if he waited much longer, it’d be snatched out from under him.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll take it.” He extended a hand and the paperwork was shoved into it. Listed were places to sign his name, and fill out his information, legally putting the pet under his name. He got to work on signing it. “How- how much is it?”

“Forty five bucks.” The worker said, nonchalant. Adrien’s seen dogs sell for more, much more. He pulled out his wallet and took out forty five in cash, putting it on top of the clipboard as he handed it back. “Thanks. Need someone to help put it in your ride?” The seller must have been asking as a courtesy, they looked like they already knew the answer as they looked up and down Adrien’s muscular body.

“No, thanks.” Adrien picked up the duffel bag first, putting it in the car before returning to grab the pet. Warily, he held onto the handle at the top with two hands, preparing to heave it up. With one solid pull, he almost sent himself flying backwards as the crate weighed maybe a third of what he was expecting. As he stumbled, he heard a small gasp from inside the crate.

Hurriedly walking over to his truck with long, striding steps, he put the crate down on the back seats, pressed against the back of the passenger seat. The metal grate of the front door was facing him as he peered into the dark cavern behind it.

In the cage was a small person, a pet, as he had expected. It had long, matted, brown hair, and deep brown eyes that stared wide at Adrien before diverting. The pet had on at least a shirt, from what Adrien could see. It was cramped in the crate, but even so, the pet pressed itself against the back wall to get away from Adrien.

“Okay,” Adrien sighed out, “I can see that this is all scary for you.” He shut the side door as softly as he could and got in the driver’s seat, turning the car on and turning the heat up. “I’m gonna take you home now. Might be a bit of a rough drive over the dirt, road’s not paved.” He didn’t know if he was talking to himself or to the pet. He didn’t know if the pet could even understand him, or if his voice was possibly freaking it out even more. He drove with the radio off, not wanting to spook the pet.

The drive home felt like it stretched on for ages, but Adrien was eventually greeted by the metal of the gate that surrounded his house, rising up like a series of spears from the earth, glinting in the sunlight that cut through the tree canopy. The worker wasn’t wrong when she assumed he must have some pretty extreme security around his house. He’d had an issue with a stalker before, and with the help of some heavy fencing, a handful of cameras, and some other measures, he intended not to repeat that experience.

The truck came to a stop in front of the house, having cleared the long driveway. Adrien shut off the car, hopped out, unlocked and propped open the front door of the home. He once again brought in the pet’s duffle bag first, then returning for the massive- but light- plastic crate. As he moved it, he could feel the pet trembling so hard that it rattled the cage.

“Shh, shh, you’re okay. I’m just taking you inside. It’s nice and warm in there.”

The cage was put down with a soft thud, Adrien leaving it in the entrance hallway, just before the hall opened out to the kitchen and living room. He undid the latch on the cage’s door, swinging it open.

“You can come out now. You’re safe.” He said in a soft voice. The pet simply trembled, eyes squeezing shut and backing up more against the back of the cage. Adrien took a few steps back, sitting cross legged a little ways away from the pet’s cage. The creature inside it shivered, keeping itself as far into the kennel as it could. Adrien couldn’t even get a good look at it.

“You must be hungry.” He sighed, standing up and taking the few steps he needed to to get into the kitchen. “I’ve got something, here.” He pulled out a box of colorful, fruity, sugary cereal, pouring some out into a bowl and sticking a spoon in it. Next, he went to the fridge,

“Do you drink m- ah.” He quickly came to realize that the pet probably wasn’t going to speak. Rather than risk it, he shut the fridge and set the bowl of dry cereal down in front of the cage, backing up again. A few minutes of frustrating stillness later, Adrien chose to give the pet some space, standing and moving out of the foyer and going into the living room.

“You can come out. That cereal is for you, I hope you like it.” He sat himself down on the sofa. ‘Would it- they? Would they be more comfortable with some background noise?’ Adrien wondered. He took up the television remote from the coffee table and put on a random channel, some kind of reality show. The volume was low, but it was enough for a soft chatting to fill the quiet. Adrien tried to keep himself busy with his phone, scrolling through social media, but he couldn’t stop himself from glancing back at the cage every now and again.

Slowly, gradually, Adrien managed to keep his attention focused on his little device, knowing that if the pet finally did decide to look out of the cage and caught him looking back, it would most certainly panic and retreat again. The room was relatively quiet, save for the sound of the television.

The pair of people on the show were speaking to one another. One man and one woman, and at their feet was a black dog. Adrien wasn’t really listening to what they were saying, but the dog barked. The only reason that that sound suddenly caught Adrien’s attention is because he heard it be repeated.

From behind him.

A dog’s bark came from behind him in the house, from the direction of the foyer. It was almost identical to the one on the television, and as soon as Adrien heard it, the very next thing he heard was a thunk and a rattling from the cage as he assumed that the pet must have moved too quickly or lurched back and hit its back or its head on the ceiling of the crate. Adrien spun around, throwing an arm over the back of the sofa to look back at the crate.

Back in the foyer, Adrien tried to not look too obvious as he stared as the pet inched out of the crate. It kept it’s head low, ever so slowly creeping out of the crate. He watched as he saw pale skin littered with marks and bruises, and light brown eyes, and long, matted brown hair that’d gone too long without care. Around its neck was a bright red collar with a golden tag. The pet’s skin was stretched tight over his body, the raised ridges of bones showing easily.

The pet was dirty, old mud caked on its body, smears of something all over its body, Adrien didn’t know if it was blood or more dirt. Despite that, there was something strange. Sat atop its head in pristine condition was a pair of fake dog ears on a hairband. They looked awfully realistic, but Adrien could see the black band that they were attached to. As the pet fully left the cage to investigate the food, Adrien could see something else, too. Its shorts were filthy and ill fitting, but around its waist through the beltloops of the shorts was a long piece of string. Hanging from it, over the pet’s rear, was a short, fake dog tail, again in perfectly clean condition.

Looking down to the pet’s hands, he saw that they were balled up. Over the small fists was layer after layer of duct tape, dirty and loose from sweat. If the pet wanted them off, Adrien’s certain it could easily pull them off with its teeth, but it makes no move to do so.

The pet lowered its- his, Adrien could see that now- head to the small ceramic bowl filled with colorful cereal. He sniffed it, then quickly pulled away, making a repulsed face. Immediately after his rejection of the food, his eyes went wide and he looked at Adrien, then instantly looked down, trembling.

“Hey, hey,” Adrien lowered the volume on the television and got up, going to the pet and kneeling down. The pet drew back, lowering his head down to the floor, forehead pressing against the wood. “You’re, ah, do you speak?”

“Wruf!” The pet let out another eerily realistic dog bark, though he kept his head on the floor.

“No, no, like… Words? English?” Adrien was kind of at the end of his rope, not quite sure what he should do. “And uh, you can sit up.”

The pet sat back on his legs. Adrien caught sight of the golden tag hanging from the red collar. ‘Sawdust’, it read.

“Sawdust? Is that your name?” Adrien asked. He wanted to reach out and hold the dangling tag so he could make sure he read that right, but he was certain that if he tried that, the pet would get even more scared. The pet glanced over to the side, nodding its head. “Okay, you understand me at least. Can you speak with words?”

--

“Y- Saw- Uh…” Sawdust stammered out, voice rough and looking as though he was on the verge of tears. “Sawd- dust can speak, sir.” He wanted to know why his new master would want his pet speaking to him, but he knew better than to question his owner.

“Okay, good, good. That’s good.” Master sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Is there something wrong with the food?”

What little color was in Sawdust’s face immediately drained as he went pale. He couldn’t let his master think that he was ungrateful, lest he took away the food altogether. Sawdust looked down at the bowl of rainbow colored cereal.

“N-no, no, Master, thank you for the food.” Sawdust dropped back down onto his paws and knees, lowering his head and chest to the floor. He sniffed at the bowl again. It smelled sickly sweet, sugary unlike any dog food he’d been given, but the sound it made when it was poured and moved did sound like dog food. Hard. Crunchy. That was familiar at least. Maybe it was dog food after all?

“There’s a spoon in there,” Master spoke, his deep voice rattling Sawdust’s bones. “You can use that if you want.”

Sawdust’s breath caught in his throat. Was Master mocking him? Pets can’t use things like that, especially Sawdust with his paws. Was Master testing him? Sawdust hiccupped and swallowed down a whine, not wanting Master to see how upset he was. Instead, he buried his face in the bowl of dry, colorful dog food. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore how fruity it smelled, it smelled like things dogs weren’t allowed to have. He took some into his mouth. It crunched, but it was far easier to eat than dog food. It wasn’t as hard, it didn’t hurt his wounded mouth to chew.

Sawdust trembled. Did Master want him to be sick? That must be it. He hiccupped, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks as his stomach turned. He chewed and swallowed as quickly as he could, resorting to panting and breathing through his mouth to try to not taste the cereal as much. He took another bite.

He gagged.

“Buddy? Sawdust?” Master called. Master’s voice was soft, but Sawdust knew that he was faking it. Sawdust swallowed the bite in his mouth. This wasn’t dog food. He couldn’t eat this. Dogs can’t eat people food. His mouth was filling with saliva that he tried to swallow down, but his body wouldn’t let him. He panted, drool dripping down onto the floor as he pulled away from his Master. Goosebumps erupted across his body and he shivered, body rejecting the people food. With a heavy heave, he turned away from his master and threw up onto the hardwood floor.

[winterscaptain]

no deal.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: and thus begins the 100 arc! i am so excited to share this with all of you. these are going to include more canon episode moments than my other episode-attached fics because everything builds on itself and the details are key. i promise we’ll still get a lot of added scenes and little changes! 

an ajf fic arc that happily stands on its own!  one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven

words: 8.4k warnings: canon-typical violence and discussion of violence, language

summary: a case comes back to haunt Aaron in more ways than you can imagine. you’re there to be his shadow, to catch him when he falls. 

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | requests closed!

“Hotch?” You poke your head around the door, and you find him at his desk, in a surprising ensemble of khakis and an earthy quarter zip.

Almost whimsical, for him. 

He looks up, his eyes softening for a moment before his brows pull in confusion. “You’re still here?”

You gesture to his desk lamp, the only light on in the entire office. “You are, so I figured…” You shrug. “I dunno. Is everything okay?” He looks exhausted, but it’s bone-deep - nothing sleep can fix. 

He shakes his head and sighs. 

That’s his tell.

But he says, “Yeah, everything’s fine.” 

You don’t believe him. 

“Are you sure?” You cross the room and lean on his side of the desk, quickly scanning over the documents you find there. He doesn’t mind your nosiness. He's mostly accustomed to it by now. 

Most of it is pretty normal - after-action reports, performance evaluations (it looks like you’re doing well), and task force meeting agendas - but there’s one file that sticks out. 

Your brow furrows. “The Boston Reaper?”

He shakes his head again. “I’m just reviewing it for an academy lecture about dormant or otherwise inactive serial killers.” 

“Ah, I see.” You know he’s still lying. “Anything I can help with?”

A little half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No, thank you.” He looks up at you and you offer him a small smile. There are many things at work behind his brown eyes. 

He never keeps things from you without reason, so the lying doesn’t bother you so much as the unease radiating off him in waves. 

For now, you decide to let it go and pat his shoulder as you stand. “Alright. Walk me out?” It’s a pointed question - you know he won’t leave if left to his own devices. 

He’s about to throw you a denial, but the look on your face leaves no room for it. “Yeah. I’ll just be a minute.” He starts packing up, sorting the files into neat little stacks that will be there waiting for him when he gets back tomorrow. The Reaper case, you notice, goes into his briefcase, decisively snapped shut and taken into his hand before you can process much else. 

The walk down to the garage is a quiet one. You take the stairs, happy for the excuse to stretch your legs. 

You snag the sleeve of his (very soft) quarter zip before he turns toward his car. “Aaron?”

His eyes snap to yours at the use of his first name. 

“Just…” you aren’t sure where you’re going with this, but he’s probably used to that by now, too. “Just, erm...Drive safe, please? Get some sleep when you get home?”

He takes a little breath and nods, his gaze softening. He’s quiet as you release his arm, quiet on the walk to his car, quiet (you imagine) as he drives out of the garage.

You watch him until the echo of his tail lights fall out of your sight.  

+++

The next morning, JJ trots up the stairs to Hotch’s office and exchanges a few words with him before he flies out of his office and down the stairs. 

“Shouldn’t we wait for the official request? We haven’t been invited.” JJ does her best to keep up with him, trotting down the stairs behind him with a file in her hand. 

“We will be.” 

You look at her with questions in your eyes and she shrugs. Derek, too, looks at her with confusion. Hotch continues toward the doors. 

Is he already headed toward the plane? 

She throws her hands up. “Well, it looks like we’re going to Boston.” 

+++

When all your things are packed and ready, you settle in beside Aaron in your usual place, on the arm of the couch across from the table. 

He walks you all through his work from a decade ago as you all review the files in your hands.  "The Reaper is driven by a need to dominate, control, and manipulate."

Emily’s the first to speak up. “So then why would he offer a deal that would stop him from doing that?”

“Well, killing gave him power, but after so many, the payoff began to diminish. So he decided to switch tactics. Offering the deal gave him the ultimate power, better even than killing. He manipulated the police into voluntarily surrendering.”

“He even got it in writing,” Reid adds. He’s looking closely at the letter, likely starting the structure of what would become a linguistic profile. 

JJ looks up, a little confused. ”He won. Why start killing again?” 

“Because the only person who knew he'd won, the person he made the deal with, just died.” Morgan says, closing the file and tossing it on the table in front of him. 

That’s an easy train of thought to jump on. “Narcissistic killers need other people to recognize their power.” With a little smile, you remind her, “That's why they contact the media.”

Emily’s next. “So how did he stop for 10 years? 

“In Night of the Reaper, the author suggests he had been arrested for an unrelated crime or died.” Reid pulls the book in question from his bag, placing it on the table. “Perhaps he's trying to correct that misconception.”

“Like BTK,” you offer. 

You can see Aaron's eyebrows rise for just a moment in your peripheral vision. Good one. 

You purposefully bump his shoulder on your way to steal one of Morgan’s snacks. Thanks. 

JJ takes the book, thumbing through. “What has he been doing all this time? 

“Well,” you say, “I would imagine he was planning what he would do if he started killing again.” You look at Aaron, who nods with his mouth in a thin, grim line. 

Morgan opens the file again, running his finger down the metrics as he speaks. “So, from '95 to '98, he shoots, stabs, and bludgeons twenty-one victims - men, women, all ages, all types, no specific victimology or MO.” He looks up at Hotch. “How did you build a profile from that?”

“We didn't. Shaunessy sent us home before we had a chance.” Aaron takes a breath before his next thought. “BTK, the Zodiac, and the Reaper all have similarities. They're all highly intelligent, disciplined, sadistic killers who name themselves in the press.”

“Highly intelligent may be a bit of an understatement,” Reid says. “The Reaper and The Zodiac Killer have never been arrested. And the BTK killer was only caught after twenty-five years because he went to the press to counter a book that said he'd died, moved away, or been locked up, just like this one.”

“Speaking of the media,” JJ notes, “when this gets out, it's going to be a frenzy. If they get wind of this, they're going to be all over the Boston Police.” 

Aaron agrees with a brisk nod. “The longer we can float the copycat story, the better chance we'll have of catching him.” 

You sit up straighter. “Meaning, if we keep pushing at his ego, he might take another risk?” 

“Exactly,” he says. “Rossi, Prentiss, and Morgan, go to the field office, set up shop, go through everything there.” He assigns himself, you, JJ, and Reid to the crime scene.

You’re happy for the chance to keep an eye on him. There’s still something off about this whole thing, and the fingers on his left hand worrying his pen is only the most obvious clue. You reach out for his sleeve across the aisle when the team breaks, tugging a little, just like you did last night. 

He looks over at you, almost startled. “Yeah?”

You don’t say anything. Tell me what you need. 

“I’m fine. Just want to get on the ground and get to work.” 

Bullshit. Your squint says it all. 

He sighs and you release his arm. He’ll talk to you when he’s ready. 

He always does. 

+++

You and JJ stand off Aaron's shoulder as he introduces the three of you to the local police authorities. Hotch is already on edge. 

An odd exchange between Hotch and one of the veteran cops leaves you with the entire department at your disposal. How he manages to do that every time is beyond you. 

Reid, the case file in his hand, walks you all through the preliminary findings. “Nina Hale, ninteen, and Evan Harvey, twenty-three. Nina's throat was slashed, she was stabbed forty-six times. Evan was bludgeoned and then shot. No shell casings were found.” 

“A revolver, maybe?” You ask, in-step with Aaron, whose gears are turning as he examines the inside and outside of the car. 

“He preferred revolvers, .44 magnum.” If he weren’t so focused, you were sure he’d be impressed by your observation. “The younger the female victim, the more time he spends with them, usually with a knife.”

You point at one of the photos of the female victim. “Tan line on her wrist. Probably wearing a watch of some sort.”

Aaron’s on the other side of the car now, leaning close to the driver’s side window, looking at a photo of the male victim. “Do we have his wallet?” At your questioning glance, he adds, “The Reaper took items from each victim and placed them on the next, so as to make sure we knew it was him.” 

“That’s quite the signature,” you muse, straightening. 

One of the crime scene techs hands him the wallet in question. After a quick examination: “No corrective lens requirement.”

Your brow furrows and you look over at him. “The glasses aren't his?”

“He only took glasses from one victim--the ninth.” He looks increasingly agitated as he speaks and the crease in your brow deepens to match his. “We should have found them on the tenth, and we didn't. They were never found.”

How does he know which victim was the ninth? How does he remember? 

“What was so special about the ninth victim?” 

Aaron levels you with a look that sends cold wriggling up your spine. “He survived.”

Oh. 

+++

JJ and Dave take the second car back, intending to make a few stops on their way back to the precinct. You sit shotgun, staring out the window, while Aaron drives. His fingers tap arrythmically on the steering wheel. 

He’s restless. Fidgety. It’s weird. 

“What are you thinking about over there?” You ask. 

He shakes his head, just a little. “It’s not a copycat.” 

Your brow furrows. “We knew that, though.”

“Right.” 

Oh.

It must be surreal to have a case come back to life like this. “Wasn’t this one of your first cases? You joined the BAU in ‘98, right?”

When I was a sophomore in high school…

Oh, shut up. 

You snap back to the audible conversation as he nods. “It was my first case as lead profiler, so I’d been on the team a couple of months. Gideon thought, well...I don’t know what he thought. He gave me point on this one for some reason or another.” 

“Look at you, hotshot.” You reach out and shove lightly against his shoulder and you’re rewarded with a huff. “Only on the team a few months and you get assigned your very own case.” 

He rolls his eyes. “I did it with you.” 

It’s true - he did. Spencer may have saved the day in the end, but you polished, delivered, and implemented the profile throughout the investigation. As scared as you were for the professional leap (and the personal one, given the nature of your teams’ closeness), it paid off. 

“That doesn’t count.” 

He glances at you before returning his eyes to the road. “Why not?”

You shrug. “We’re kind of…” You clam up, for some reason, a little embarrassed. 

Don’t be stupid. 

“...I don’t know? Friends?”

You get a real smile from him this time and you match it. “Well, ‘kind-of-I-don’t-know friends’ seems like a stretch, don’t you think?” He looks over at you and holds your gaze a little longer than he should, considering he’s driving a little more than eighty miles per hour. 

You’re an idiot, your eyes say, an amused chuff leaving your nose.

His eyebrows bounce before he looks out at the road again. And?

+++

“George Foyet, 28, was the ninth victim and the only one to survive The Reaper.” Aaron passes you files as he speaks, clearly not needing any notes or other aids to regurgitate the details of the case, verbatim. 

Dave snorts. “Not for lack of trying.”

Hotch walks you all through the Foyet attack, outlining the oddities and patterns that collectively create The Reaper’s signature. His good mood from the car has either entirely evaporated or been smothered by his focus on the case, leaving him with his normal operational stoicism. “The Reaper always uses some sort of ruse to get close to and spend time with his victims.”

“So, how did Foyet survive?” You ask. 

It’s weird he’s not summarizing it for you all, but then again, this case is odd in its obvious, meticulous execution. It’s probably best to let it speak for itself. 

Hotch wordlessly starts the recording. 

“911. What's your emergency?”

“I just murdered two more.” The voice is distorted, ominous. 

“Excuse me, sir, did you say you murdered someone?”

“Victims eight and nine, by a silver Toyota on Riverton past the Tyson Quarry.”

Reid fills you in. “That call was made from a payphone about a mile from the crime scene. EMTs arrived fifteen minutes later. Bertrand was DOA, Foyet barely breathing.”

“So,” you ask, looking over the case. “The Reaper made one of these calls after each of his killings telling the police where to find the bodies?”

Aaron nods. “Until this one, the ninth. If he hadn't made this call, Foyet wouldn't have been found in time. The call saved him.”

You look up from the file. “Can I guess that the Reaper didn't make any 911 calls after this one?”

Aaron’s brows raise for a moment. Exactly. 

“There's a reason he left Foyet's glasses at the last crime scene.” Aaron looks grim as he presents the glasses again. 

Morgan pulls his phone out of his pocket, likely for access to Penelope. “Foyet could be in danger.”

“Uh, Hotch,” JJ pops her head into the room, looking more than a little confused. “There's a reporter outside insisting on speaking with you.” At Aaron's questioning look, she adds, “Roy Colson. He says he knows you.”

You watch him leave and exchange words with the reporter, your lower lip planted firmly between your teeth. JJ hangs at your side while Derek comes up behind you, putting his hands on your shoulders. 

“Is Hotch okay?” He asks. Spencer, Dave, Emily, and JJ also look to you for an answer. 

You shake your head the barest amount and when you speak, it’s almost a whisper. “I don’t know.” You clear your throat and try again. “I don’t know.” 

+++

Dave peers into the car. “Another couple. Much older this time. One shot and one stabbed.” 

“No reason to stop out here.” You’re just off Aaron's shoulder, following the line of his flashlight. 

Dave sounds resigned, tired. “His license and registration are out of his wallet.” 

You squint. “Looks like he used a cop ruse."

“Good spot, isolated, few drivers.” 

Hotch sighs, coming in close to something with his flashlight. “He left Nina Hale's watch."

"Okay," Dave says. "So what'd he take?"

“His wedding ring.” You note the tan line on the man’s fourth finger - a dead giveaway. 

Pardon the pun...

A local officer is quick to give you the victim information, approaching Aaron with a file. “Arthur and Diane Lanessa. Weymouth. Married 32 years. They were coming home from the Elks, where they played bingo twice a week.” He looks over at the press, rapidly arriving at the perimeter. “I gotta go make notification.”

You refocus on the crime scene, anticipating Aaron's wandering eyes and shining the light where he needs it most. 

“Looks like he went through her purse,” he says. 

You hover over his shoulder again. “Any idea what he was looking for?”

Hotch shakes his head, moving on. 

A photo falls out of the drop-down mirror during Hotch’s cursory check. It depicts the victims and who you assume are members of their family. In blood, FATE? is scrawled across the front of the photo. Aaron straightens, leaving the car and crossing to Dave. You, of course, follow. 

When you both reach Dave, you finally have an opportunity to take a look at the photo. “The question mark is new.”

“It's for us.” Aaron doesn’t need further examination for his assessment. “He's saying it's not fate. He's saying we had ten years to save them and that these latest ones are on us.”

“You got all that from one question mark. That's impressive.” Dave’s compliment is only a little undercut by his sarcasm. You can’t help but agree with the implication. 

Aaron sighs, copping to it. “I may know him better than I've let on.”

“What does that mean?” You step closer to him, your brow furrowed. 

He levels you with a somewhat guilty look. “It means that there is a profile on The Reaper.”

Dave frowns. “I thought we were called off before we had one.”

“We were. I had just started the profile, and then he stopped killing, so officially we were done. But this case…”

“It stuck with you,” you finish for him. Your brows drop lower over your eyes, finally understanding the stakes at play. 

“I kept coming back to it over the years, and I worked on it alone.”

The exhaustion in his voice, gravelly and low, worries you more than you’d like to let on. “So you never shared it with anyone.”

“I know I'm always preaching that profiling is a collaborative effort, but this one wasn't. I don't know, maybe if -” he sighs. “If I was wrong, I was gonna head us in the wrong direction.” The doubt in Aaron's voice breaks your heart a little. 

“Now you think you're right.” Dave, of course, has the brief words to coax the thought out of Aaron. You’re thankful he’s here. Between the two of you, you’ll get more out of your unit chief in twenty minutes than anyone else would get in three days. 

“The more I see, the more accurate I think it may be.”

“Okay,” you say, “then we need to hear it.”

+++

It’s decided that Aaron will deliver the profile solo, with only a little input from Dave. It’s odd to see him up there all by himself while the rest of you stand off to the side. You’re students just as much as the local police, this time. 

You tune into Aaron, whose eyes are bouncing all over the room, from person to person, holding and keeping their attention. His eyes meet yours and you hope the respect and pride overflowing in your chest is visible on your face. 

“The Reaper fits a profile we refer to as an omnivore. Unlike most serial killers, an omnivore doesn't target a specific victim type. Although he tends to focus on his younger female victims with his knife, he essentially is a predator who will kill anyone.”

One of the local cops has a decent question (for once). “Why is he so democratic?”

“Because his kills aren't just about his victims. He needs recognition. He needs us to know.”

Dave chimes in. “The symbols, the placement of prior victims' possessions on subsequent victims--it's all for us.”

“Why?” 

“Power,” Aaron answers simply. “The Shaunessy letter is the clearest example of this. He manipulated Tom Shaunessy into literally surrendering to him.”

It reminds you of the first time you saw him - alone, in front of a room of people focused only on him. It was one of your first lectures at the academy, your favorite, and the one that inspired you to ask for a placement with the BAU when Jenny told you to take a running leap. 

How far you’ve come. 

Without permission, your mind wanders to a few things that haven’t changed in the last year and a half. Aaron is still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen - capable, worthy of deep admiration and respect. His voice is the same - demanding respect and carrying the weight of the world in it. 

Anything that won’t condemn you to a life of unrealistic expectations of men? 

No. Maybe you’re a better shot?

Great. That’s useful. 

“Like BTK killer Dennis Rader,” Aaron continues, “The Reaper is extremely disciplined. In his everyday life, this will very likely make him so inflexible, he can't keep close relationships or work closely with others. 

“I believe our killer has another interest that may give us the best opportunity to catch him.” You’re glad Dave is there to help, his seasoned expertise coming in handy once again. “The Reaper's last victim was an older woman. He killed her quickly, with a single shot. The prior, younger victim, he spent more time with and stabbed forty-six times.”

Yet another “Why?” from one of the local officers. 

Curious group, it seems. 

Aaron answers. “He pays special attention to his younger female victims, and his weapon of choice with them is the knife, a substitute instrument for bodily penetration.”

Dave, again, has something else for you all. “The younger the victim, the more time and effort he spends. I think our guy is a hebephile.”

“Hebephile?” Naturally, that particular proclivity is not a familiar one to the layman. 

Reid lends an assist. “A hebephile is someone who's attracted to adolescent post-pubescent children. Teenagers.” 

“Look for men with access and authority -” Aaron assumes command again, “- high school teachers, counselors, coaches--and anyone who's been charged with sex crimes against teenage girls in the last ten years.” He checks in with you, and you nod. “That's all for now. Thank you.”

+++

You look up as Aaron walks into the room, Derek ready with bad news. “Garcia can’t find George Foyet.” You stand and resume your post as his shadow, beside Emily. 

Morgan holds the phone toward Hotch. “I’ve got nothing, sir,” comes Garcia’s voice from the speaker. 

“What do you mean? 

“I mean, he’s gone. He’s completely off the grid. He’s gone.” 

“How is that possible?” You tap Aaron's shoulder with the back of your hand as his tone grows sharper with Penelope. 

Be nice. 

He shakes you off and you clench your jaw, looking over at Derek as Aaron tries to wiggle more information out of Penelope. It doesn’t work. “Garcia, we don’t have much time.” 

“I know, sir.” 

You huff. “I mean, how would you even drop off the grid like that? There has to be someone he talked to.”

Aaron wordlessly dials a number, shooting you a somewhat grateful, if not a little rueful, look. “Roy, Aaron Hotchner. I need a favor.” 

+++

“That’s him.”

Aaron shuts the back door of the car behind you and out of habit, you take quick stock of him while he does the same for you. 

You spot the man you’re looking for skittering across the street and toward the apartment. “George Foyet?” He’s visibly skeptical, and Aaron pulls his credentials. “It’s okay. We're FBI.” He introduces you and Rossi while you flash your credentials for good measure. “I'm Agent Hotchner. We met once before. Do you remember?”

"Yeah, I remember.” He’s agitated, his eyes jumping to every moving person on the near-empty street. “Would you mind if we get off the street, please?

You follow Dave and Aaron into the cramped apartment, noting the clutter and general feeling of paranoia permeating the space. Everything looks rushed - half-lived in and half-finished. 

When you reach the kitchen, Foyet collapses into a coughing fit and Dave immediately supplies him with a glass of water. 

“Thank you.” He takes another decent gulp. “How'd you guys find me?”

“Roy Colson,” Aaron says. He’s focused on Foyet, but you can tell he’s keyed into the peripherals, just in case. 

“Oh.” He seems disappointed, though in what you’re not sure. “Well, is this gonna take long? 'Cause I really can't be late for work.”

“What do you do?” You ask. 

“I'm a freelance computer specialist with the city.”

Dave steps forward. “We're sorry to bother you. We'll make it as quick as possible.”

Aaron pulls the evidence bag containing the glasses out of his breast pocket. “This yours?”

“I knew it wasn't a copycat.” 

You pull a chair for Foyet as he coughs again, feeling only a little odd about taking care of this man in his own house. 

“Thank you.” He takes another sip of water. “I'm sorry.” He pauses, remembering. “I was gonna propose to her that night...At the restaurant, but I got cold feet. The ring was still in my pocket when he approached us. He said he was lost. He had one of those sightseeing booklets. I was looking at it when he stabbed me. Yeah...Perfect timi-”

You interrupt him, attempting to stem his agitation. “Mr. Foyet, you don't need to go through this again.” Nevertheless, he continues, increasingly distraught. 

“I couldn't move. I just sat there, bleeding. I watched him kill Mandy. He stabbed her sixty-seven times. Do you know how long it takes to stab somebody sixty-seven times? ...I never found the ring.”

For some reason, your mind drifts to the man beside you, the horrifying thought of seeing him stabbed, the life leaving his body. You shake it off with a little shudder. 

Why, brain? Why? That’s a fucking awful thought. 

And yet the image sticks with you, forcing you to manually lock it away. Aaron looks at you, almost like he can read your mind. 

That’s nightmare fodder.

The smallest flex of his brow asks, Are you okay? 

Fine. You offer him a tight twitch of your lips. It’s not a smile, but you’d be thankful for at least a mockery of one right now. 

With a little bit of a squint, Aaron turns back to Foyet. “He should have left your glasses on his next victim, but he didn't. He held on to them all this time.”

“What, you think he's got some special interest in me?” He almost laughs. “I've been living with that possibility for the past eleven years.”

“Have you received any strange letters or calls? Hang-ups?” Dave asks. 

“I keep residences under different names. I move between them randomly. He likes to get you in the car, so I take the bus. Believe me, I've gone through great lengths to make sure that none of the things you've just mentioned ever happened.”

What a terrifying, sad existence. 

Dave offers George his notebook and a pen. “We'll need your other names and residences so we can reach you.” 

“We can take you someplace safe until this is over.” Aaron’s brow is knit in concern - it’s a look you’ve seen many times, but it never fails to inspire a little flicker of warmth in your chest. 

Quit, would you?

“No. Boston is my home. It's the one thing I promised I would never let him take from me.”

Aaron insists, pushing. “Then we'll protect you here.”

“You can't protect me. Nobody can.” He frantically writes in the notebook for a moment before handing it back to Dave. “Please be careful with this. Please.”

Dave assures him, “It's safe with us.”

“He's just a man, nothing more.” You hope it’s the right thing to say. You feel Aaron take a breath, and you almost feel bad. It’s a line he’s said before, one you borrow when necessary.

Don’t mean to steal his thunder. 

Instead of looking at you, he looks at Aaron. “Then why can't you catch him?”

“We will.”

+++

You’re both sitting in Aaron's hotel room, the photos from each of the crime scenes spread out all around you. It’s far later than you’d like, but the time spent is worth it if it gets you one step closer to this sick, scary bastard. 

“What was it like? The original case?”

Aaron sighs, pulling a hand down his face. “Frustrating. Exhausting. Like this.” He shakes his head. “Every day was another dead end, and then another pair of bodies every few weeks. Then…they just stopped.” He holds up the note. “Now I know why.” 

You tip your head to the side, studying him. “What would you do?”

“What, you mean about the deal?” 

“Yeah. What if -”

The phone rings, cutting you off, and you rise to answer. You’re stopped by a hand on your wrist as Aaron passes you and picks it up. “Hotchner.” 

You plant yourself back on the bed, legs folded underneath you. It’s probably one of the team, given the hour and -

“Who is this?” His voice is low, almost angry. 

You scramble to the edge of the bed, giving Aaron space while remaining completely keyed into him. 

“...You think I’d take that?...I’ve misjudged you. I thought you were smarter than this...Then you’ve misjudged me...I don’t make deals.”

Oh my god. It’s The Reaper. 

No. It can't be.

You pull out your cell and fire off a text as quickly as you can to Penelope. 

3:42am trace call to ah’s room stat

She doesn’t disappoint. 

3:42am on it. 

“I’m the guy who hunts guys like you..." Aaron laughs, dark and humorless. "You all think that...I’ll see you soon.” He slams the phone down and starts to pace, his hand over his mouth. 

“What’s going on?” You stand, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “Hotch. Who was that?”

He stares down the phone like it’s a living thing, but doesn’t breathe a word. After a moment, he jumps back into action, sitting heavily on the bed and going over everything with a renewed, almost frantic, focus. 

You watch him for a moment before you pull out your phone. A text message from six hours ago blinks up at you. 

Haley Brooks-Hotchner

9:13pm when you get a chance, can you have aaron give me a call? no rush. just school paperwork for j. he’s not picking up his phone. thanks xx

You answer her, praying she didn’t leave her ringer on. The hour alone will reveal the extent of the team’s attention on this case and you can only hope she understands. 

3:48am can do. this one’s bad. might be a minute. 

Aaron looks up at you, a question in his eyes.

You shake your head with a little smile. It’s nothing. 

+++

“Six bodies, not including the driver. He put 'em down with the gun--or more likely guns--and finished them off with his knife.” Dave looks around while Aaron stands stock still near the driver, slumped over the wheel. 

The scene inside the bus is macabre - bodies and blood everywhere. The numbers on the window send shivers up your spine. 

“There;s Arthur Lanessa's wedding ring.” You peer over Aaron's shoulder. “What'd he take?” 

He scoffs. “Does it matter?” 

He straightens quickly, shoving past you and getting off the bus. You get out of his way, letting him go with a frown. Dave meets your eyes and tips his head. You follow him out as he goes after Aaron, giving them just a little bit of distance 

Dave catches up to him. “Hey. What's goin' on with you?”

Aaron stops in the alley a little ways away from the bus. “He called me tonight and offered me the deal.”

So that’s what happened. 

You thought as much, but the thought alone was too much to consider. It’s never been less satisfying to be right. 

“What did you say?”

“I hung up on him, and then he does this.” Aaron gestures to the crime scene, NO DEAL staring you all in the face, along with all those numbers. 

The idea of The Reaper torturing Aaron like this is horrifying. Plenty of unsubs have made your skin crawl in the past, but this is a new kind of awful. You’ve never seen him like this. 

“So, you think this is your fault?”

“It is,” he insists. You’re shocked to see tears in his eyes when he looks back up at Dave. There’s a part of you that wants to reach out, but something keeps you back. 

Dave pulls his gun and releases the safety, turning the grip toward Aaron. 

What the fuck? 

“Well, here, use mine. You convinced me.” 

Aaron waves him off with one hand while he pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. 

Of all the things you would have thought of at this moment, pulling a gun on SSA Aaron Hotchner wouldn’t have made the list. You watch, ready to jump between them at a moment’s notice. They’ve never gone after each other before, but you’ve seen more worrisome behavior from Aaron in the last forty-eight hours than in the preceding eighteen months. 

Even at the height of the divorce proceedings, he was steadier than this. 

“No, no, you hung up on him.” Dave pushes the gun at him, trying to wrangle it into Aaron's hand. “You practically killed them yourself. Go ahead, get it over with. Don't worry about us.” He gestures to you and Aaron's eyes flicker to yours. You have no idea what you look like right now. “We'll get this guy without you.”

Dave is a genius. 

He blinks, tears wetting his cheeks. It’s certainly one of the more alarming things you’ve ever seen. He’s audibly frustrated, his hand flexing at his side as he talks. “Dave, I had 10 years to do something about it.”

That’s not fair. 

When has Aaron ever been fair, or even kind, to himself? 

Well, shit. 

That’s why you’re here. Do your job.

You step forward, keeping your voice down. Approaching him like a cornered animal seemed the best tactic at the moment. “Shaunessy made the deal. The killing stopped, as promised. He closed the case and sent you away, Hotch.” Your eyes beg for his as you continue. “You moved on. You worked on other cases, active cases. You saved lives in that time. It wasn’t wasted.”

Aaron huffs, clearly frustrated. “But I kept coming back to this one. I kept coming back to this profile.” There’s something desperate in his voice and you know he’s trying to get you to understand something he can’t articulate. 

Dave takes over again. “Hey. I was retired. Should I blame myself for every victim who got killed while I was on my book tour? Look, if you want to end up like Shaunessy, like Gideon, blaming yourself for everything, you go ahead.” 

Damn. Good point. 

Aaron’s eyes meet yours for just a moment before looking away again. You keep your face soft, neutral. 

Safe. 

“But that voice in your head,” Dave says, “it's not your conscience. It's your ego. This isn't about us, Aaron. It's about the bad guys. That's why we profile them. It's their fault. We're just guys doing a job. And when we stop doing it, someone else will. Trust me. I know.” 

Aaron checks in with you for a moment and you nod. It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay. 

He wipes at his eyes before leveling Dave with something that looks almost like his classic glare, gesturing to the offered gun at his chest. “You can put that away.”

With a cheeky smile, Dave says, “You sure?”

“It's a little dramatic, don't you think?” You ask, stepping up and clapping Dave on the shoulder. 

“My wife always said I had a flair for the dramatic.” Dave’s deeply chuffed pleased that he was able to bring Aaron back to his senses. He holsters his weapon, throwing the safety back on. 

“Which one?” Aaron asks. You’re relieved to hear a little bit of humor in his voice. 

“All of 'em.”

The three of you share a little smile before you walk back to the crime scene. 

Aaron’s thanks is so quiet you’re almost certain you made it up. 

You’re only sure it happened at all when Dave replies, “Anytime.” 

+++

“He knows where Foyet lives. We’ll split up and cover each address. Go.” 

You rise and somehow end up with Derek. Though not your intention, it’s probably for the best. For good measure, you take Jameson, a seasoned SWAT agent. The three of you had the biggest of Foyet’s properties on lock. 

Derek speeds to the house, flooring it with sirens blaring. 

“I’ll take front,” Derek says, nearly shouting over the siren. 

You’re locked and loaded, ready to go in your vest as soon as the car stops. “I’ll take the back.” You twist in your seat to look in the back. “Jameson, you good on my six?”

“I’ve gotcha.” 

You’re clearing the house, kicking in the back door. There’s a thump behind you and you turn. Before you can do anything, something makes contact with the back of your head, sending you straight to the ground. You hit something else on your way down, and you’re done. 

Fuck. 

You’re knocked out cold, but come to only a few minutes later. You stumble to your feet as lights and sirens round the corner. Bringing a hand to your head, you feel the blood on your forehead. There’s probably a decent cut near your hairline and when you look down, you find an alarming amount of blood on your vest. 

Head wounds bleed. You’re fine. 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

Derek. 

You brace yourself on the wall as you rise, checking your service weapon. It’s not in your holster, but you find it nearby on the floor. 

Why didn’t he take it? 

Kicking it under the table, you draw your secondary weapon. The thought of leaning down to reach for the gun on the floor is too much and your only aim is to get to Derek, then Jameson.

Blinking blood out of your eyes, you do your best to clear the rest of the house before finding the mess in the living room and front yard. Without much of a thought, you haul yourself over the broken window sill, getting a nice slice in your arm for your trouble, and land hard at Derek's side. With a groan, you roll over onto your knees, crawling toward your prone teammate. 

You look up as headlights hit you, shading your eyes with one of your hands. The other rests on Derek's chest. To your relief, you can feel his breath under his vest. He’s alive. He’s okay. 

With the intensity of the lights shining on you, you can’t see Hotch as he lifts you to your feet by your upper arms. He shields you from the light with his body, his brows drawn and concerned. You’re dizzy in the extreme, your right eye almost unable to open with all the blood caked down the side of your face. 

He takes you under his arm and brings you to one of the ambulances posted on the street. The paramedic takes your vitals, but Aaron keeps a hold on your other hand. You’re not sure he realizes he’s still got you, but you’re not about to let go. 

“What happened?” He asks, quiet and tense. 

You shake your head even though it only increases your dizziness. Blinking a couple of times, you answer, “I don’t know. He came out of nowhere. I had the side of the house, Jameson had the back, Morgan the front. We were clearing room by room and he just…” your eyes float to the front of the house, where Emily has Derek with a paramedic. “He appeared and I didn’t have time before he hit me with...Something. I was out before I could blink. I think I hit the table on the way down.” 

Hotch sighs and to your dismay, you see the coroner approaching the back of the house with a gurney. Jameson’s dead. 

Why aren’t you?

“He didn’t take my service weapon. It’s under the table in the kitchen now, but it was next to me when I came to. I don’t -” you swallow, still dazed. “I don’t know why he left us alive.” 

You can see Aaron's teeth grinding as he collects himself. “He’s trying to get in your head. Don’t let him.” 

“What, like you?” You know your functioning isn’t at one hundred percent - you’d never make a jab at him like that, even weak as it was, at a moment like this if you were clear-headed. 

He sighs as your eyes flutter shut, leaning on the inside of the ambulance. You hear the paramedic tell him you’re concussed and need to be kept awake for the next ten hours. Hotch gets the details on your other injuries before squeezing your hand once and leaving you. 

After another few minutes, EMS releases you with a packet of concussion information (which you immediately crumple and shove into a passing crime scene tech’s jacket pocket). Far too quickly, you make your way across the yard and into the house, avoiding Jameson's body and the coroner’s staff. 

You find Derek and Emily sitting together on the back of the couch as he, too, is patched up. 

“You okay, kid?” He asks. 

You nod. “Just concussed, a couple of lacerations. I’m fine. Are you okay?” There’s a compulsion to fuss over him, but you resist. 

He nods, bringing a pristine .44 caliber bullet into your eye line. “He left this.” 

A shiver runs down your spine. “Sadistic bastard.” 

Emily raises her eyebrows and cants her head, agreeing with your brief assessment. 

You look outside to where Hotch stands in the middle of the yard, with his arms crossed, looking over the damage to both the house and his team. 

Eventually, he returns to the house with Spencer in tow. You follow them, moving slow. 

Reid points to evidence as he talks. “Jameson was clearly killed outside. This is someone else. There are signs of a struggle and a lot of blood."

"But no body,” you note. 

What the hell happened here? 

Reid nods. "Just the drag marks. The human body holds 5 quarts of blood. I'd say there's a little more than half that here. Whoever the bleeder was, they lost too much to survive."

It begs the question, so you ask. "Foyet?” 

“It was his worst fear, that the Reaper would come back and finish the job,” Dave says, appearing out of nowhere and leaning on the door jamb to the kitchen. 

With a firm conviction, Aaron says, “We offered him protection. He refused. It was his choice.”

+++

JJ’s brow crumples as she looks over the files again. "Why is he so focused on Foyet? What's so special about him?"

Aaron, of course, answers her. "He was his only surviving victim, the only one he couldn't defeat."

“But he's not a threat. Defeating him would be no great accomplishment. There's something there that we're missing.” You thumb through the case again, certain the answers are there for you to find. 

JJ’s persistent. “What about the girlfriend, Amanda Bertrand? Wh-what do we know about her?”

“Nineteen. A freshman. She came here from Michigan to go to school. Foyet was a teacher's assistant in one of Amanda's courses.”

“Michigan. Where The Reaper had Shaunessy post the personal ad.”

“That can't be a coincidence.”

“He told us she was the love of his life, that he was gonna propose. But she just got here from Michigan. They only met when the class started.”

“How long had she been in the class?” You ask

There’s an incredulous laugh in Emily’s voice. “Four weeks.”

“So it was either love at first sight or what?”

Derek picks up JJ’s thought. “Foyet was lying?”

“He's a 28-year-old teacher's assistant in freshman classes.” Hotch immediately starts dialing a number, and you’re sure you know which one. As you suspected, he gets Penelope on the phone. 

“What are Foyet's aliases?” Quickly, you hand him Dave’s notebook, the rest of your body coiled for action. He bows his body over the phone, rattling off instructions. “I want you to look up in Boston city records Kevin Baskin, Miles Holden, and William Parker. Try the Department of Education.”

“Well played, sir.” You hear her keyboard in the background. “They all work for the Department of Education, they're all substitute teachers, and they all teach computer science.” She pauses. “Oops. Scratch that. They're not all working for the Department of Education.”

“They're not?” Aaron’s head tilts, listening. 

“No. William Parker was fired for alleged inappropriate behavior with his female students.”

Something clicks. You watch the gears turn and turn and turn, Aaron’s eyes flickering over the photos, the file, back and forth as he puts pieces together. 

“Hotch?” Your hand hovers over his shoulder, but he pays you no mind. 

“Roy Colson went to see Foyet.” He begins to stand, his voice rising as he gets farther from the phone. “Garcia, I need you to trace Roy Colson's cell phone. George Foyet is The Reaper.”

Garcia gives you the address and the rest of you chase Aaron out to the car. The headache pushing behind your eyes is the least of your worries. “What? What do you mean George Foyet is the Reaper?” It’s almost comical, the efforts you take to keep pace with him down the stairs and to the car. 

Aaron communicates all the details he put together in the conference room, taking you step-by-step through his process. “He stabbed Amanda Bertrand to death, he drove a mile, he called 911, he went back, and he inflicted those wounds on himself.”

You’ve already caught up, the pieces clicking in before he can repeat them. “He knew EMS would get there in time to save him.” 

“And between the phone call and the severity of his wounds, we never considered him as a suspect.” There’s frustration in his tone, but you know it goes deeper than that. It’s his pride. 

“Hotch, you couldn’t have -” 

Derek cuts you off. “Why would he do it?”

“It put him at the core of the investigation. Everything we had came from him.”

Talk about inserting yourself... 

Derek is right there with him. “He left his own glasses at the crime scene, he pointed us right back in his direction, and still, we didn't see it.”

Aaron nods, his jaw tighter than you’ve ever seen it. 

Don’t blame yourself. 

Hotch rolls up to the house, no lights or sirens, and you surround the house, on his six. You quietly breach the back door, clearing the kitchen and the hallway. 

“It's over.” Aaron’s tone leaves no room for argument as he levels his gun at Foyet’s head. 

There’s a strange smile on Foyet’s face as he speaks. “I'll kill him.”

“You need him to write your story.”

“I'm taking him with me. I'll let him go as soon as I'm safe.”

You step to the side, trying to get a better shot, but Aaron stops you with the smallest turn of his head as Foyet redirects his attention to you.

“I said I'll kill him.”

Aaron pulls his focus again. “You kill him, I kill you.”

“You think I'm afraid to die?”

“You're not afraid.” Aaron sneers. He’s aiming to hurt and it’s a good idea. “You're greedy and narcissistic. You want the recognition that's gonna come from the book that he's gonna write. You want the fame that's gonna come from the media. It's gonna be like Bundy.”

“I'm gonna be bigger than Bundy.”

“Well, you can't enjoy it if you're dead.”

You’ve got him there, Aaron. 

“If you know me so well, how come some many had to die to bring you here?”

You can almost feel the lance of shame and guilt that shoots through Aaron. He almost flinches. Between you and Emily, if looks could kill, Foyet would be long dead. 

You fucking asshole. 

It takes everything in you not to leap on him and pummel him into the floorboards. You’d love nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off his face. 

“That's your choice, not mine. You're the serial killer.” To your ears, it sounds like Aaron's convincing himself as much as telling Foyet. 

“That's right.” He turns, smirking. "Hello, Derek.” 

He drops his gun and Derek pounces on him, restraining him. "Where's my badge?” He jerks Foyet’s head back by the hair. “Where is it, you son of a bitch?”

He doesn’t answer Derek's question, but shifts his icy gaze to you. “How’s your head?” He gives you an imitation of a pout, and anger sears through your chest. “You took quite a spill last night, Agent. Probably had your unit chief very worried.”

You squint at him, but don’t respond. Aaron steps a little to the side and you’re not even sure he realizes it, but he’s made himself a barrier between you and Foyet. 

The bastard notices, though, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “I'm gonna be more famous than you even realize.”

The look he gives Hotch makes you shudder. 

+++

Only an hour or so after you land back at Quantico, JJ jogs from her office to Hotch’s. Your heart sinks. 

That’s never good. 

“Foyet escaped.”

You grab the remote and stand from your desk, turning the volume up on the TV. 

She chases Hotch down the stairs as he joins the rest of you, surrounding Derek's desk. “Guards found him in his cell vomiting blood and convulsing. They rushed him to the prison hospital.”

“Get me the U.S. Marshals office.” He turns, but she stops him. 

“I already called Don Reilly. I offered our assistance. He said they'd call us if they needed it.”

Aaron doesn’t stop moving until he’s at your side. Your search for his eyes and he meets your gaze after a moment. 

What do we do? 

His jaw clenches. I don’t know. Then, a huff. Fuck. 

You shake your head a little. It makes you feel a little dizzy. Fuck, indeed. 

“How’s your head?” He asks. 

Of all the things to worry about…

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

Just then, Emily returns, a file in her hand. “The Boston field office just identified documents from Foyet's house. They're schematics for the electrical, heating, and water ducts of the East Woburn Correctional Facility.” 

You take it from her, looking it over before looking at Hotch. “He had the schematics. And not just for Woburn. For every jail, prison, and courthouse in Massachusetts.”

“And 10 years to plan,” Dave adds. 

"They're gonna find him, right?" Penelope’s voice is small, and you can’t blame her for it. Derek’s at her side, staring at the news footage with a grim look on his face. 

Aaron’s eyes are trained on the television when he answers. “No, they're not.”

Derek turns to you before looking at every member of the team individually. “He said he'd be more famous than we knew, and he was right.”

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @wandaswitxh @hurricanejjareau @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @good-heavens-chris-evans @davidrossi-ismydad @angelsbabey @gublergirls @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @hotchsflower @ogmilkis @marvels-agents100 @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @whoreforhotch @pinkdiamond1016 @pan-pride-12 @lee-rin-ah @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @sageellsworth05 @nohalohoseok @giveusbackourbucky @writerxinthedark @bauslut @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @buckybau @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @violentvulgarvolatile  @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @lcvischmitt @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @garcia-reid-lovechild  @cevanswhre @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @infinity1321 @zizzlekwum @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @this-broken-band-girl @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @winqhster

[elareine]

JayTim + 42 from the Dialogue Prompts + SPACE AU, pretty please?

I… hope this counts? Technically, it’s not IN space. Though Tim would like to be. 

“You’re mad, Tim,” they said. “Stop trying to speak to aliens,” they said. “You’re wasting your life.” 

Hah. 

Tim has a… set-up. 

What’s the point, he figures, in sending waves out to space where they might be heard in a hundred years, when you could just try to contact the aliens already on Earth? After all, if intelligent life is out there and capable of interstellar travel, and if humans haven’t noticed them yet, then said life must be hiding itself. 

It stands to reason that these aliens must then be communicating among themselves in a form that’s inaccessible to humans. So Tim sat down and build every stupid crazy thing he could think off—unusual wave frequencies, smell transmitters (bad idea), hormone secretors… anything. There are forty devices stashed in his room, and he’s not crazy. 

Because one day, space talks back. 

“Koriand’r, what’s the name again for the thing—the strip around our waists that helps people not be naked? And why do I need it?” 

Tim whirls around. It’s one of his Hail Mary machine—a radio frequency so fucking impractical, no one would ever use it. 

Apart from an alien, apparently. Cause that question cannot have come from a human. Right? 

“I’m not Kori-whatstheirname,” Tim says, trying to sound chill. “But it’s called a belt. We need it because our clothing is factory-made and not tailored to fit; and also because it’s not acceptable to be naked anywhere but some beaches in Germany.”

A long pause, then the voice replies: “You’re human.” 

“Yes. Please don’t hang up. My name’s Tim Drake. Are you an alien?” 

“Uh.” There’s another pause. “I… guess? I’m not from Earth.” 

“Oh, awesome!” Tim is out of his seat and leaning forward, he’s that excited. “Wait, you speak English?” 

“I have a—a device that can mimic your languages.” 

Tim nods. “So like what Google Translate wants to be in another five years.” 

“…I suppose.” A pause. “Actually… can you tell me���who or what is a ‘google,’ exactly? I figured out it’s one of your gods, but what do they do, exactly?” 

“Oh boy, you just opened a whole new avenue of philosophy. I guess it could count as a god? Not in the religious sense, though.” 

“I’m not a boy,” he’s immediately corrected. “I’m a Hzewf.” 

“Okay. Okay.” Tim bounces back on his heels. “How about this? I explain Google to you—I’ll even throw in social media, if you want, but please don’t ask about Reddit, nothing can explain Reddit—and you tell me about the Hsev.” 

“Hzewf. Okay.” 

They talk. When the alien has to leave, Tim’s reluctant to agree—but the next day, the line crackles to life again. 

“You’re a good source,” the alien says. “We… can keep talking. If you don’t mind.” 

The alien’s name is something like j—more guttural sounding than Tim is used to, and with a long pause after—ay—or rather a pause i/j. Tim looks up various phonetic alphabets and dubs him J-a’i. 

The Hzewf have a different variety of gender expression, so the two debate pronouns, and J-a’i decides that ‘he’ will do just fine. He’s addressed as that on a daily basis, anyway, and has never minded. He draws the line at being called a man, though. 

What he is, though, is a total anthropology nerd. He wants to know everything about humans—that’s why he’s here, after all. Koriand’r, it turns out, is another alien from another planet he just met by accident. Apparently, she’s settled down and found love, so J-a’i tries not to bother her too much. The belt thing was a total emergency question. 

And now, he has Tim. 

It’s fun. Tim likes having a secret, a good one, for once. Every night, they talk. No matter how shitty his day is—and most of them are—at the end of it, he can speak with J-a’i and feel like somewhere out there, someone understands. 

And then, one day, there’s a knock on the door. Tim briefly entertains fantasies about the men in black before checking the surveillance camera and seeing an alien instead. 

Oh well. Alright then. 

He opens the door and ushers the visitor in. “J-a’i, I presume?” 

The other being looks relieved when he hears his voice. “Tim.” 

“The very one.” 

Okay. Tim kinda thought J-a’i would be smaller. Tim’s used to short jokes, but having to crane his head back like this feels ridiculous. 

“I need to hide,” J-a’i says, looking very serious. Tim would like to return the expression in kind—this is probably a very stressful and dangerous situation for an alien in hiding, and he should give it the proper gravitas—but he’s so happy. 

“So you came here?” 

“My masking device broke,” J-a’i explains. Ah. That’s why he’s so… uh… colorful. Tim’s really digging the red stripes, though. “I… I had nowhere else to go.” 

“Come with me.” Tim leads them to a cupboard, and then opens the secret door leading down. “You never know when you need a bunker.” 

“You—“ 

“Well, do you need to use it or or don’t you?” 

“I have finally found a being whose paranoia matches my own,” J-a’i says. He does get into the bunker, though. 

“So what now?” Tim asks when they’ve settled down. 

J-a’i shrugs. “I’ll probably have to leave.” 

“Go to another country?” Tim asks, already mentally mapping out his visa applications. 

“Another planet. Home, I think, at least for a while.” 

Oh. Right. What do Hzewf visa applications look like? “So we need to get to your ship.” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay. You left it in Lake Michigan, right? That’s about twelve hours by car. Oh, but,” Tim looks at J-a’i and his very much not human appearance, “should probably only travel in the dark. Luckily, there’s a lot of that in winter. We’ll give your pursuers a few hours, and then I’ll go pack. If the coast is clear, we can leave tomorrow night. What’s the weather like on your planet? Should I bring shorts?”  

Instead of an answer, though, he gets a surprised stare. “You’ll come with me?” 

“Well, duh.” Tim snorts. 

…wait. Uh. Maybe this is too much? J-a’i is self-admittedly desperate to show up here. Just because he didn’t have an alternative, doesn’t mean he wants Tim to invite himself along. None of this stuff is as exciting for him as it is for Tim, and with the bad experience the other creature has recently made with humans—

There’s an expression happening on J-a’i’s face that stops his panic attack in its tracks. Hope. Hope that’s painful because you’re sure that whatever it is you’re being offered will get snatched away from you. 

Tim recognizes the emotion for what it is, because he knows it so well. 

“Are you sure?” J-a’i asks. “We’d be going to space—“

“J-a’i,” Tim interrupts, “I’ve been waiting to hear these words all my life. Literally. All that’s missing is a kiss and we’d be in the final scene of the Hollywood movie of my dreams.” 

“Kissing is that thing you humans do, right? To express affection and/or lust?” 

“Yes.” And because Tim’s a fucking sap who has spent too many hours listening to the voice on the other end of a radio: “When we love each other, too.” 

J’a-i considers that. “Well. I… wouldn’t be opposed, either. Though I don’t understand how it relates to space travel.” 

Tim nudges his shoulder and grins. “Hey, we can work up to that. Tell me some more about your spaceship?” 

J’a-i’s whole face lights up when he talks about his ship. Tim’s heard it in his voice before, but it’s pretty awesome to see it in person. Also? He’s sitting next to an alien, talking about spaceships.

Hell yeah. Space, here Tim comes. 

(I’m taking prompts until the end of the year.) 

[batfam-rewrites]

Batfam During Quarantine: 27 Minutes

Dick: Good morning adopted dad!

Bruce: *grunts*

Tim: Bruce is so stressed out. Yesterday I watched him stare at a page load for 1 second and he screamed his head off. He almost destroyed the computer.

Jason: I literally saw him counting grey hairs the other day. Whatever it is it must be Tim’s fault.

Tim: Don’t you blame this on me....

Dick: *speaks over Tim* Okay so anyway, here’s the challenge, *speaks a bit lower* first person to make Bruce smile gets to drive the Batmobile on their next patrol.

Cassandra: Awesome, how do we decide who.......

Jason: *walks over to Bruce*

Cassandra: Never mind.

Jason: Hey Bruuuuuce.

Bruce: *glares at Jason while slurping coffee*

Jason: Want some breakfast? *turns on stove* How about some eggs!

Bruce: What do you want?

Jason: Nothing! Just to see my *pauses a bit* old man smile.

Bruce: I will shank you.

Jason: Loving this new color on you? You should be pissed off all the time.

Bruce: Go away.

Jason: Okay......d.....d...da...

Alfred: Don’t burst a blood vessel Jason.

Jason: No, I can do this. Da......d.a....dad *sighs and puts his hand on the stove* AHHH, FUCKER!

Bruce: Jason, are you okay!

Jason: GET AWAY FROM ME, I CAN DO THIS BY MYSELF BRUCE! *quickly runs to the bathroom to run cold water over his hand*

Duke: Well that was entertaining!

Cassandra: *lays head on Bruce’s shoulder and hugs him*

Bruce: *hugs Cassandra back but no smile*

Damian: Father, I brought you a gift. *pulls out a picture of the entire batfamily together*

Bruce: *Bruce smiles* Thanks Damian, that’s really thoughtful of you.

Damian: *turns towards everyone and points* YES SUCK IT LOSERS!

Daily Briefing

Dick: Okay, so we have reached a low point of criminal activity for Gotham City which is a good thing.

Cassandra: A bit funny how it took a pandemic to make Gotham a bit peaceful.

Dick: Exactly my point. Now, with that said, we will still be doing patrols starting at 11. Tim, this is your week on sanitation duty. Throughout the day we will train a bit harder than normal. There will be scheduled times and you will each have partners. Try to train no less than two and a half hours a day. Training should include sparing, cardio, strength, and tumbling. Try to spar with someone new every week.

Dick: Also Jason, you remember when you said you wish you could fall like me.

Jason: I was being sarcastic.

Dick: I will finally be teaching you how to do pommel horse 1 hour a week like you asked.

Jason: I will kill you.

Duke: Being honest, I’d like to try high bar and floor. I feel it will be very beneficial for me in the long run.

Dick: Awesome! You got it. Now everyone has until tomorrow to pick their partner, I know my partner will be Jason. 

Jason: Fuck you.

Dick: Also, last thing before I make the training schedules and routines, I need to address something. There are quite a lot of people in Gotham City still refusing to wear mask. During the day lets try to hand out mask with our own designs on them to everyone who we come across during the day. I already ordered them and they should be here by Saturday, so that is something we will be doing starting next week. 

*alarm sounds off in the batcave*

Alfred: It would seem there is a fire at Wayne Tower on the thirty-second floor.

Dick: Alright, Duke, Jason, and I will go to check it out. Everyone else do what you would normally do.

Tim and Bruce

Tim: Hey Bruce, I brought you some coffee!

Bruce: How many cups have you had?

Tim: Three large cups.

Bruce: After......

Tim: *mumbles* The five cups I had with breakfast.

Bruce: There we go.

Tim: Okay so what are we doing?

Bruce: Someone is trying to hack into my server. If they do so they will have unlimited knowledge of the companies upcoming projects, along with the identities of our persona’s.

Tim: How long do we have?

Bruce: 27 minutes. Try to locate the hackers location.

Nightwing, Red Hood, and The Signal

They all rushed to the thirtieth floor to help out and find that the firemen are ready to head to the floor. The three heroes turned on their oxygen tanks and they charged in with the firefighters. Half of the entire floor was covered in flames. They noticed a conference room with a few people inside and Jason rushed to the door, pulling out his guns. He shot the door several times before kicking it down and escorting the people out. After that there wasn’t much left for them to do so they went back down. 

Fire Officer: Nightbird, that is the dumbest thing I have ever seen anyone do.

Jason: *laughs*

Dick: Thanks.

Fire Officer: Lets get you all checked.

Jason: The mask stay on though.

Alfred and Julia

Alfred: What are we watching

Julia: Well, I thought that with both of us being former spies, I thought we could watch an American film franchise called Mission Impossible.

Alfred: And tear it apart by it’s inaccuracies!

Julia: Yes!

Alfred: Sounds wonderful!

Nightwing, Red Hood, and The Signal

Time- 19:37

Medic: They seem fine, no way of telling for sure though without their mask off.

Duke: So we’re good to go, awesome!

Fire Officer: The fire upstairs has been put out.

Dick: Good.

Tim: Dick, are you still at Wayne Tower?

Dick: Yes, what’s up?

Tim: We’re dealing with a hacker trying to get into the server at Wayne Inc. The hacker is inside the building. We have 16 minutes and 55 seconds......

Dick: Say no more! We’re on it!

Fire Officer: There’s been another fire across town. Lets move out!

Dick: Duke, investigate the fire upstairs. If I’m not mistaken, it should be arson.

Duke: Got it.

Dick: Jason, stay here there is a hacker inside the building, You have 16 minutes to find the person or else Batman is doomed.

Jason: I guess I’ll look. 

Dick: GO! NOW!

Jason: Got it Nightbird!

Nightwing

Dick follows the fire fighters down to the floor and tells the guard to let no one in or out of the building. He rides his motor cycle, tailing the fire trucks to the scene of the next fire. He runs into the apartment complex, turning the oxygen tank on. He notices the first floor is clear so he rushes up the stairs to notice the flames stretched out across it. He dives through them and hears pounding on one of the doors. He sees the other residents and grabs two children, takes out his grappling hook, and shoots it towards the ceiling. He leads them down and has them run out of the building. He gets back up to the scond floor and takes the parents and lets them run out as well. When he saw them leave, he jumped back up to the second floor and ran into the door 3 times before finally breaking it down. The flames were now getting closer. He get back up and saw Barbara giving him a hand up.

Barbara: Need some help?

The Signal

Duke: What do you smell?

Fire Marshall: Alcohol.

Duke: Exactly.

Fire Marshall: So.... why did you ask?

Duke: Just wanted to check. Red Hood, Red Robin, Nightwing. Our hunch was right. We have an arsonist inside the building. Some witnesses have said they saw a maintenance worker carrying bottles of vodka in his cart. If I had to assume, both fires are a distraction from finding the hacker meaning there is an accomplice to whoever is in the building.

Jason: Good, now I’m pretty sure I speak for Nightbird when I say this, start helping me search for this bastard.

Duke: On it.

Tim and Bruce

Time- 10:17

Harper: I came as fast as I could.

Bruce: Good, set up your computer.

Harper: Why isn’t Alfred helping?

Bruce: Shut up and get to work.

Harper and Bruce try to fight off the hacker as well as they could. 

Harper: Awesome!

Bruce: Not good enough though.

Tim: What’s up?

Harper: We bought ourselves a few extra minutes.

Tim: Nice.

Time- 13:38

Nightwing and Batgirl

Dick: Damn, you’re a sight for sore eyes!

Barbara: Come on! We have one more floor!

The two rush to get the last residents out of the building. The flames were starting to be extinguished by the fire fighters outside of the building. Parts of the ceiling began to collapse as they made it to the top floor. Grabbing the residents they set them down on the floor and rushed to the exit, only to find it blocked by parts of the ceiling.

Dick: Stand back! Batgirl, help me clear the exit.

The two move the rubble out of the way and the residents flee the building. Both ask the authorities if they needed help, but were turned down. When the fire was put out, both walked in, and under the heavy smell of smoke, was also the scent of alcohol.

Red Hood and The Signal

Time- 8:47

Jason was on the twentieth floor, searching, when he got the announcement.

Tim: THE HACKER IS ON THE FORTY-FOURTH FLOOR!!!

Jason: Signal, where are you?

Duke: Fortieth!

Jason: I’ll see you on the forty-four! 

Jason rushed up the stairway and ran up to the forty-fourth floor to see Duke there taking on three men. Jason then pulled out his pistols and shot all three with non-lethal rounds. 

Duke: Had to take away my fun, didn’t you?

Jason: Yes! 

Tim: Did you guys get them?

Duke: All hostiles are taken down.

Tim: Awesome!

Alfred, Julia, Stephanie, Cassandra, and Selina

Alfred: Why would he choose the safe house. If this were reality Ethan would have already been arrested.

Stephanie: Alfred, we love you to death, but your ruining an amazing movie.

Julia: The movie ruined itself by it’s inaccuracies. Plus this is our bonding time, you guys weren’t even invited!

Selina: Yeah, but you guys took the only copy and once we saw you watching it, we just really wanted to watch it, too.

Harper: Oh, cool! Mind if I join?

Alfred: *sighs* The more the merrier.

Nightwing and Batgirl

Dick: Alright, our guy lives in apartment 22 on 1807 Zics Street. Let’s head there now and see if we can find him.

Barbara: Lets head there. Want to get something to eat after?

Dick: Definitely.

Dick and Barbara get on their motorcycles and drove to the apartment where they found the arsonist. They tied him to a lamppost and Barbara informed the GCPD the location of the arsonist.

 Dick: So, how has your dad been doing?

Barbara: Not too bad. He’s been a bit under pressure but he’s doing fine. How is it being a dad at the mansion?

Dick: Ohhh god. I had the thought once and decided to leave that duty to Alfred. 

Barbara: *Barbara laughs*

Dick: I help him a bit. It’s been so difficult acting like a grown up. I had to seriously step in when Alfred called Jason “Master Todd”

Barbara: Please explain further?

Dick: Well, because Jason is, well, Jason, he lost his shit because he’s “not a snooty ass rich motherfucker, Alfred!”

Barbara: Damn, I could so see that.

Dick: Yeah, and it doesn’t help that Bruce totally lost the ability to interact with other people. The other day Damian was acting up and Bruce picked him up and shouted “WHERE’S THE OFF BUTTON!”

Barbara: *laughs harder*

Dick: *laughs himself* You should have been there, it was funnier in person.

The two stare at the sky for a bit as they watch the sun set. Barbara leans her head on Dick’s shoulder and they both relax. 

Dick: I love you Babs.

Barbara: I love you too, Dick.

Dick

They both left the rooftop they were sitting on at around 8:30. Dick had missed Barbara so much and was glad to have been able to see her. He didn’t care he broke one of Bruce’s rules. It wasn’t like Bruce was going to remember anything from the first week anyway. He got into the batcave and began creating workouts for everyone. He then went to the bathroom and took a shower in the batcave, and then went upstairs. He walked into the media room to see Alfred and Julia spending time as a family.

Dick: Aw, isn’t this sweet!

Julia: Get the fuck out Dick!

Dick: Damn, okay.

Dick then walked into the kitchen to see everyone in there.

Tim: Someone took long getting back to the mansion.

Stephanie: What happened.

Dick: I met up with Babs.

Everyone: WHAT!!!!

Damian: No fair. If I knew I could have been with Jon this entire time I would have!

Selina: You’re not able to Damian, and you knew you weren’t suppose to interact with anyone outside of the mansion.

Dick: Chill. Everything is fine. We’re more likely to get sick on patrol then by hanging out with each other. What’s up with Alfred and Julia?

Jason: They got tired of everyone ruining their family bonding time so they kicked us out.

Dick: That makes sense.

There was a knock at the door, so Dick goes to open it.

Dick: Helloooo...............

Helena: Hey Dick, you look great!

Dick slams the door shut and covers the door.

Jason: *shoves Dick to the side and opens the door* Hey, Helena! It is so awesome to see you! What are you doing here?

Helena: I’m here to stay and help. Where should I put my bags?

Jason: You could put them in Dick’s room for right now! You remember where that is, right?

Helena: Yep!

Dick: coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool. *starts falling to the floor*

[watching-movies-alone]

Wonder Woman 1984 (2020) - Review & Reactions

🚨🚨SPOILERS!(duh)🚨🚨

Wonder Woman 1984, directed by Patty Jenkins, written by Jenkins along with Geoff Johns, and Dave Callaham, is the sequel-not-sequel to the pretty successful 2017 Wonder Woman (IMDb gave it a 7.4/10). While directed by the same person, this one just didn’t quite hit the mark. 

ONCE AGAIN! Spoilers. 

We open on Themyscira, the land of the Amazons, and the birth place of protagonist Diana. In this, Diana is a child, and competing alongside fully-grown and trained Amazons in an extremely cool obstacle course. 

One of many shots of feet in the movie... was I the only one uncomfortable in these scenes? What is the purpose?

Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybeleen--Maybelline-- fuck it, you know where I’m getting at.

From an intensely riveting opening giving way to an almost cringe-inducing fight scene, I was a bit concerned as to where Wonder Woman 1984 would go. 

We get to see some awesome new characters, with Pedro Pascal taking on the role of Max Lord, and Kristen Wiig as Barbara Minerva. I’m very pleased to say that all of the actors involved did magnificently, and the costuming and makeup departments were superb. 

A lot of backstory was explained with just a few shots, this one included of Diana Prince visiting Trevor Ranch (love-interest Steve Trevor’s family) some time after the War, his watch in front of it.

For all of it’s missteps, Wonder Woman 1984 is overall a pretty okay movie. However! There are quite a few missteps. 

There are a lot of really beautiful shots, and well-executed scenes. Yet, out of the nearly two and a half hours, I’d say maybe two hours are decent. I have a lot of respect for the commentary the movie makes on women in society, and the prevalence of harassment that extends to the present day, but sometimes, this got preachy. 

(Spoilers, again.)

In the movie, we see Kristen Wiig’s character Barbara go from the socially awkward, yet charming, girl to a badass without independent personality. This in and of itself is quite the fall, and the movie was written for this to happen in the way that it did, so there is no reason to knock Wiig for the excellent job she did at working with the script she was given, even if said script could pass for the writings of a semi-coked-up person getting a bit carried away.

I’d like to point out that the incidents of harassment that both Diana and Barbara face are by no means rarities: I’ve noticed more movies addressing this, even briefly, such as in Birds of Prey (2019). This is a good step going forwards, as Hollywood is no stranger to harassment incidents, and this needs to be remedied.

Now back to the movie: Wiig’s character is harassed while walking alone at night, and Diana comes to the rescue. This is a pivotal point in the film, as it makes Barbara even more awestruck by Diana, and she wishes to be ‘like Diana’ when she holds the Wishing Stone thing. Of course, she had no idea that the Diana Prince she knew was also the Wonder Woman saving civilians in shopping malls. She has her ‘glow up’ -- handled quite well -- incrementally, rather than a Spider-Man-esque “I woke up absolutely shredded” moment. 

A few things I really liked about Barbara’s transformation: it was explained why she didn’t need her glasses anymore (something along the lines of “I’ve been reading so much I’ve fixed my eyesight!”), the sense of style is absolutely killer, and seeing Barbara open up socially was fantastic. 

The stuff that wasn’t too great: her personality went totally into the ground, her morals were lost, and she forgot who she was before, desperately clinging onto her newfound powers and status.

Now let’s talk about Max Lord, the other new character and main(?) antagonist of the film.

First thing’s first: I adore Pedro Pascal. 

Secondly, the character he plays is disgustingly familiar. While staying true to the Comics, he also was heavily influenced by 80s pop culture and figures such as Nicholas Cage, as cited by the cast, as well as having an eerily-Trumpian vibe to him. From the hair to the self-absorbed, one-track minded personality, to the estrangement from morals, it’s pretty fair to draw the comparisons. 

Yet, the main drive for Lord was to set up his son, Alistair, for a good future, not wanting him to think his father was a “loser,” and wanting his son to be proud that he was his son. 

This is refreshing because Lord really, really did care about his son, although he did get lost off of the deep end in trying to make himself ‘Great’ (yikes) Enough to take care of them both.

His ‘redemption’ at the end is nice, but good god that scene was uncomfortable to watch. Not in a ‘this is really upsetting because it’s upsetting material’-type uncomfortable, but in a ‘wow this is preachy and soppy as hell, am I being shown Be A Good Person propaganda?’-type uncomfortable. 

My main issues come from the monologues. Not gonna lie. 

I love a good monologue, they’re pretty hard to write, and harder to bring to life. And while I love Gal Gadot’s voice, I hate the words. Off of the top of my head, I can remember at least three monologues: the opening one, the one she gives as Max Lord is Doing His Thing, and I’m pretty sure there was one as she runs away from her meatsack-possessing dead boyfriend. 

La La Land, anyone?

Also a side note, just because you have a lot of material to use, does not mean that you have to use as much as you can fit in. A lot of scenes could have been cut short, and some shots could have been removed entirely and the movie would have conveyed the same messages with less of a door-to-door religion recruiter vibe. 

It was a fun watch, but I wouldn’t pay ticket prices for it, and I sure as hell wouldn’t go to a theatre in the middle of a pandemic to watch any movie, least of all this one. 

Had this been thirty to forty five minutes shorter, it would’ve gotten a whole letter grade higher. 

Cinematography: 70

Screenplay: 40 (had a few gems)

Delivery: 80

Average: 63.33% D-

IMDb gave it a 5.7/10, Rotten Tomatoes gave it a 62%, and Metacritic gave it an outstanding 59%

Stay safe kiddos.

For those who have experienced sexual assault: you are not alone, the hotline is +1(800)656-4673 

[mysweetestcreature]

Tomorrow Never Knows (President!Harry) Chapter 7: Two Princes

(Banner by the wonderful noblewomankat!)

***

Masterlist

***

Monday, November 10, 2008

Y/n doesn’t know what it is, but the dreams about the bench atop the flowery hill continue to evade her dreams night after night. Every morning she wakes up, a new detail having just been discovered and needing to be added to the initial sketch that she had started two months ago. Although, there was a period of about two or three weeks where she hadn’t dreamt of the scene at all. She might have even forgotten about it all together had it not been one of the first pages in her book. 

She stands at her locker, grazing her fingers over the indents of the heavier lines as though they were the actual real-life thing. 

“That’s a nice drawing.” 

A smile arises at the scratchy notes of his vocal cords. 

“Why, thank you,” she chirps before closing the sketchbook and placing with precision on the second shelf. (She’ll be sure to work on it again later.) “Good morning!” 

Harry raises his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn. “Morning,” he barely rasps out. Slowly, he works his combination into the lock. As soon as it opens up, he tosses a bike helmet onto the locker floor. 

“Did you bike all the way here?” Y/n gapes in surprise.

“It’s not that far. Mum’s away on business and Gem’s staying over at her boyfriend’s until she gets back.” After Gemma had dropped Anne off at John F. Kennedy Airport last night, she had texted Harry saying that she would be staying at Michal’s house for the rest of the week (they’re very serious, as his sister puts it). It’s not like he minds it all that much though, he quite likes having the house to himself as long as it doesn’t last more than a week. 

***

Maybe he’d been a complete and utter arse in his past life, it’s the only explanation as to why he hasn’t been able to maintain appropriate stress levels for more than a few days. He really can’t help but wonder what he did to piss off the people upstairs because as soon as he had finally cleared the air between him and Y/n, this just had to happen. 

Harry doesn’t like –– no, no, more like he hates –– Jasper Daniels with every ounce of his being, in fact.

And Harry doesn’t hate anyone! He’s always been pretty accepting of others, even when they’ve been jerks to him at times, but there’s just something about him that makes him want to take a football and aim it directly at the guy’s gut. What really gets his blood pressure going is how everyone, and really, he just means Y/n, thinks he’s the coolest person in the entire world. Sure, Jasper writes poetry and reads it to the elderly down at the senior center twice a week, and maybe he does play the violin like a professional out of the philharmonic orchestra. Other than that, there’s really nothing that special about him.

“He’s super hot, if you ask me,” Cici says, eyes as hazy as a dream while she admires the back of his head. “Like he’s totally got that Abercrombie model vibe going on.”

“I don’t know, that beanie makes him look dumb. Don’t you think it’s weird how he never takes it off?” Harry presses, glaring down as he shreds the remains of his chicken fingers, collecting them in a large pile on a nearby napkin. Even at lunch, where all he wants is to sit down and enjoy a meal, he can’t escape.

Cici looks at him knowingly, an almost evil smirk forming across her lips as she turns to her best friend. Maxxie kicks her under the table, desperately shaking his head as to tell her to stop, but she pushes forward anyway. “What do you think, Y/n? You know him better than I do.” 

“Hm?” she hums, brows rising high before she can tear herself away from her sketchbook. “Jasper?” she asks when she looks up, Cici nods. “He’s really nice! When I went with him to his mom’s birthday, he–”

“Wait, what?” Harry drops the last bit of chicken. “Like-like as his date?” Who brings someone they’ve just met to a parent’s birthday party!? He’s known her for about three months now, and he has yet to introduce her to Anne and Gemma! 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she giggles, stealing a fry from Harry’s tray. “His mom knew I was making her cake, so she told Jasper to bring me along.” She takes a bite out of the fry, face contorting in displeasure as she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. 

Harry slides her a packet of ketchup. “Here,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Thank you!” she cheers happily, squeezing the entire thing onto the rest of his fries. “His parents are really nice! His mom is Filipino, so the food was so good! Have you guys ever had pancit? There’s a Fil-Am restaurant just off Main Street, we should totally check it out!” 

“We should!” Cici agrees. “And maybe we should invite Jasper, just so we know what to get.” 

Maxxie bites harshly on his bottom lip, daring to look at Harry, who he’s afraid might explode with any further provocation. “You know,” he starts, “I was actually hoping we could get ice cream!”

“It’s like forty degrees outside,” Cici deadpans.

“And is ice cream in forty-degree weather a crime or something?” Maxxie chuckles nervously. “Or what about sushi! If we leave right after bell, we can order in time to get the lunch special prices! Seven dollars for two different rolls? I mean, how do you beat that?” 

***

“What are you doing?” Maxxie asks her as soon as he arrives at her table in the library. After being dismissed from Drawing, he had shouted a rushed goodbye to Y/n before running through Abbott Hall (even getting a demerit from Mrs. Murphy because he had slammed into her cart, causing all of her hydrogen chloride to spill onto the floor).

Cici doesn’t even look up from her homework. “Geometry,” she answers evenly.  

He sighs, dropping his messenger bag by the foot of the table. He falls into the chair across from her, crossing his arms and pouting at her like an upset child who has just been refused dessert. “I meant, what the hell was that at lunch? I thought you liked Harry?”

“I do,” Cici says, but sighs immediately afterwards. She places her pencil gently down into the crease of her notebook. It’s not like she called him after midnight just to chat. Of course, she had every intent of helping the guy out. Their talk was so inspiring (she should really get an award for world’s best motivational speaker) that he went all the way to Y/n’s house not even twelve hours later. “But you didn’t see her after he kissed Zoey.”

“And you didn’t see him when she wouldn’t talk to him. I’ve never seen someone so miserable in his life,” he counters. 

“Look...” She leans back in her seat and pulls on her ponytail and runs her fingers through all the knots. “I want them together as much as you do, but until then, let him suffer just a little bit. No one makes my best friend cry and not have to pay some consequence for it. 

Maxxie blows raspberries into the air. “Hasn’t he agonized enough, though? He texted me like an hour ago and I could practically feel the tears in his text.”

“That’s–”

“Heartbreaking?”

“I was going to say ‘dramatic,” Cici snorts, returning her attention back to her assignment. 

Rolling his eyes, Maxxie gets up. “Well you’re–”

“A stellar friend?”

“I was going to say, ‘slightly sadistic.’”

***

“I definitely would recommend the chicken adobo and lumpiang shanghai for first-timers,” Jasper says over Y/n’s shoulder as they all look at the food selections. Instead of choosing what he wants, however, Harry can’t help the scowl on his face as he looks at the two of them. Although, he’ll admit that everything behind the glass screen looks absolutely mouthwatering, or maybe it’s just that he hadn’t eaten much of his lunch earlier. 

“Oh! Do they have pancit?” Y/n asks excitedly. 

Jasper signals towards the woman behind the counter. “Ate, may pancit pa ba kayo?” (“Do you guys have any pancit left?”)

“Wait lang! Tingnan ko sa kusina.” (“Just wait! I’ll check in the kitchen.”)

Harry squeezes between Y/n and Cici, earning him a whack in the arm from the latter when she stumbles into Maxxie’s side. “So, you’re bilingual?” he muses. 

“Tri, actually,” Jasper shrugs as though he isn’t impressing everyone around him. “My grandma was a high school German teacher, so I’m pretty good at conversational talk.” 

The smile that lands itself on Harry’s mouth couldn’t be any more strained, the muscles in his cheeks slowly starting to ache. “That’s...that’s great!” he exclaims through gritted teeth. Of course, how could he expect anything less? Turning to Maxxie, his expression falters. “Isn’t that just great?”

The blonde boy nods all too cautiously. “Yeah,” he draws out, switching places with Cici. He leans in just enough to whisper in his ear. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave? My mom’s just at the Shop Rite right around the corner.” 

Harry can sense the panic in his tone, just as Maxxie can feel how the air that surrounds him might just be a little too stuffy for the five of them. However, he chooses to brush off the suggestion. There’s no way he’s leaving, only to give rise to an opportunity for Jasper to make a move in his absence. “Is that chocolate?” he asks, pointing to a dark, almost black dish with lumps of unknown floating at the top. 

The woman behind the counter laughs loudly, bending over backwards and clapping her hands repeatedly. “Tsokolate daw!” (“Chocolate!”) she blurts out with a giggle, wiping a tear from along her lash line. “This is dinuguan. It’s like a pork blood stew. Very delicious!”

“Oh, that’s um...” Harry turns his head to the side, both Y/n and Jasper’s eyes trained on him. It’s like the next words to come out of his mouth are being anticipated by the masses, and one wrong move may lead to the ultimate humiliation in front of her.

“Hey, man,” Jasper starts, “it’s okay if you’re not up for it. Some Filipino food can be a little daunting for first-timers.”  His hand lands itself around Y/n’s shoulders when he squeezes in the already tight space that lingers between them. “This one saw the lechon at my mom’s party and almost fainted. She wouldn’t even go near it!”

“Excuse me!” she gasps. “But that was a whole pig on the dining table!” She cups her face, shaking her head as she relives the vivid memory over again. 

None of this amuses Harry. Not one bit. The more he thinks about how close these two have become in just a short amount of time –– probably even less than when he and Y/n had first met –– feels like his insides are being wrung like a wet towel. “You know what, give me the blood stew.”

***

Thursday, November 13, 2008

During Algebra, Harry can’t stop himself from glancing her way every couple of minutes. There’s nothing in particular that he wants –– besides for Jasper Daniels to disappear off the face of the earth –– that is going to have to wait, unfortunately. She just has this thing about her, like the way she crinkles her nose when she’s in full-mode concentration, to the way she bites on her tongue when Mr. Daughtry calls on another student when she’s had the answer solved in a fraction of the time, that constantly reels him in. He doesn’t think he’s ever met someone both adorable and attractive bundled into one body. 

“Do I have something on my face?” she cocks a brow up. She’s tried to ignore the feeling of his eyes boring into her skull, but she lost the battle with herself that had restrained the desire to gaze back into the emeralds he has for eyes. 

“No,” he’s quick to answer back, quietly though (he doesn’t want Mr. Daughtry to have him go up to the board). “It’s just...” 

Y/n quirks her head. “Just?”

“It’s nothing,” he gulps, tugging lightly on the knot of his tie. He faces the front of the room and jots down the newest equation on the board, his jaw muscles tense under his skin. 

The silence that suddenly arises on his end makes her weary of his thoughts. She gives him one last narrowed look before deciding it would be wiser to let it go. Sometimes letting it go can save an overly curious mind, even one as active as hers. Just this morning, Jeremy had berated her for being too nosey when he had dragged a large box in from the garage. “Don’t you have to be in school or something? Sheesh! Can’t a guy live peacefully without his daughter hounding him? What is this? ‘Ask Dad a million questions’ day?” And all she had asked was if he wanted some help (her dad isn’t much of a lifter).

Pretending to be completely taken with solving for ‘x,’ Harry finally breathes out a softly spoken answer, one barely above a faint murmur. “You’re just really pretty, is all.” 

Y/n’s pencil scrapes across the entire page just as she’s about to put a dash across the stem of her seven. 

“What did you just say?” Had her ears heard that right? There’s no way she could have mistaken it! Does he really think that? She can practically feel a fire spread across her cheeks and internalize all the way to her erratic heartbeat. 

“Fifty! I said the answer might really be fifty.”  

Disappointment settles on her features. “Oh.” 

***

Things might have taken a turn for the worse for her today. First and foremost, she thinks she might have to get her hearing checked. Second, she received a text from her dad during cheer practice saying that he wouldn’t be able to pick her up on time because Mason’s parent-teacher conference is running behind schedule, and that she should get a ride home with Cici. Well, she wishes she could’ve read his message before Cici had driven off with her brother. She could always wait for her mom to come fetch her, but Olivia’s office doesn’t close until seven today since so many of her patients are coming in with broken brackets (the few weeks after Halloween are always the busiest, apparently).

Y/n sighs, looking down at the time on her phone screen, 5:09 PM, great. 

She stands just outside the main entrance, carefully thinking through what she should do now. The school grounds are completely abandoned. With the cold weather comes darker skies earlier in the day, and there’s no way she’ll be able to walk home by herself now that the sun is barely visible above the horizon. 

Maybe she will just wait for her mom. The library is open until eight, after all.  

“What are you still doing here?” 

She nearly jumps out of her skin. “Where the heck did you come from?” she screeches, hand flying over her heart. 

“Sorry,” Harry apologizes. “I just got out of the locker room. Coach kept me and a few others to talk strats for the championships next week.” 

“My mom can’t pick me up till after seven, so I was just going to head to the library,” she replies sadly. 

Harry looks back towards the building, a crease forming above the bridge of his nose. “It’s a bit late for you to be here by yourself,” he notices. 

“There are probably still people insi–”

“I can bring you home.” 

Her lips purse together at his suggestion. A strong gust of wind hits her behind her, her hair blowing around the perimeters of her face. “Is your sister back home?” she wonders while she attempts tame the loose strands. 

“Well, no,” he says, a slight hint of embarrassment dripping off the last syllable. “But my bike can hold us both. C’mere.” Taking her hand in his, he leads her towards the bike rack, where his bike stands alone. “See, you can sit right here!” He points to the long top tube just in front of the seat. 

“Is it safe?” she can’t hide the apprehension of her tone. Her other hand slides over the cool metal, and her fingers curl around the tube as though to test its durability. 

“Completely. And besides...” He takes the helmet tucked under his arm, then places it gently on top of her head. “I would never let anything happen to you.” He sheepishly grins when he realizes how cute she looks. 

She touches the top of her head, unable to keep her lips from turning upwards. A soft giggle escapes her as she buckles the chin strap tightly. Harry’s smile only grows wider, and he eagerly swings a leg over the other side and kicks the stand up. 

“Take a seat then, milady,” he says with a wink. 

Thank god she hadn’t needed to bring so many things in her bag home. She fixes the skirt of her cheer uniform before sliding her bottom over the side of the tube. When she’s finally able to settle on a comfortable position (her choices are limited) she looks to her side. What she hadn’t expected was for his face to be so close hers, the tips of their noses brushing against each other. His eyes stare into her briefly, before shifting a few inches lower, lips parting on their own accord. 

Y/n quickly turns her head the other way and swallows. “So, are we leaving now or what?” 

His arms envelop either side of her as they grasp tightly on the handlebars. If her cheeks hadn’t already been slightly flushed from the cold air, she’s sure they would be a forbidden shade of pink from the way the inside of her chest refuses to calm itself. 

***

As they stroll along Main Street, she soon realizes that maybe –– and just maybe –– she really likes being this close to him, especially when she can feel the puffs of each of his warm breaths on her cheek and on the back of her neck. The tingles reach all the way down to her toes, and she has to remind herself that she can’t fidget too much, or else they might topple over. 

“Do you want to stop by Hidden Grounds?” he asks her, slowing down at the store’s front. “I could go for a rose chai.”

“I love Hidden Grounds!” she exclaims, ardently nodding. “But it’s my turn to pay, okay?” 

Harry chuckles, shrugging his shoulders as he cuts across the sidewalk and parks next to the building. She hops off and waits patiently as he fishes his chain from inside his backpack. “Just a sec,” he mumbles, eyes brightening when the back of his hand grazes over it. 

“No problem,” she muses. After he secures his bike to the railings, he turns to her, dimples set in as he signals to the front. 

They’re shocked to see the coffee house being as packed as it is. Almost all of the tables are occupied, and by students from Ashwood, nonetheless! Y/n tenses when she sees Zoey sitting in the far corner with her minions. The redhead spots them, her face contorting as she whispers to the girl on her left. “Hey, Harry!” she yells over the combination of loud voices and music. “Want to join us?” But Harry rolls his eyes, choosing to ignore her. And he thought he had managed to shake her off him. He and Y/n try their best to swerve around the crowds of people to get to the register. Hopefully, they’ll be able to be in and out for a to-go order in less than ten minutes. 

As a chair loudly screeches across the floor, Harry swiftly pulls Y/n against him before a particularly rambunctious individual (Mark Jeffries from the wrestling team) can back into them. “Watch it, man,” Harry chides, still holding her close. Both her hands fall just below his bent elbows, her cheek pressed up against his chest. Her eyes are wide when Mark stands up, towering over both of them like a skyscraper. Yet, Harry is completely unfazed. “You nearly knocked her over.”

Mark glowers at him, but leaves it be when he sees the manager come up behind them. “Sorry,” he mutters to her, then signs to his friends to follow him out the door. 

Y/n touches Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s go order?” She looks up at him with a soft expression. The harshness in his eyes immediately dissolves and he nods. She turns in his hold, her hands landing atop of his that are on her hips, so not to lose him in the tight spaces. Harry doesn’t bother to hide his elation as they move in sync to the front counter.  

***

It’s a quarter before six when they finally make it to her house. Y/n invites him inside to drink their beverages before the tea fully cools down, and he’s more than happy to accept her offer. The ride from the coffee house to her home had been uneventful, but it still managed to make Harry’s heart skip a beat whenever she’d turn to look at him when she had something to say. He thinks he’ll offer to take her home more often. 

They find Mason in the living room, Mulan playing on the TV. He’s just at the part where all of China bows down to the heroine. “Mason...” Y/n sings, putting her finger up to her lips when she briefly glances at Harry from over her shoulder. “I have a surprise for you!” 

When the little boy cranes his head back to his sister, he’s instantly filled with glee when he sees his new best friend right beside her. “Harry!” He jumps up and runs to him with lightning speed into Harry’s ready arms. “You’re here again?” he gasps when Harry picks him up.

“Of course!” Harry says firmly. “I told your sister that you and I still had to watch Lilo & Stitch together.” He reaches into the takeaway bag in Y/n’s hand and pulls out a smaller bag. “And I even got you a movie snack.” Mason bounces excitedly when he peeks inside. “Brownies!” he cheers. “Thanks, Harry!”

Just as they take a seat on the island stools, Jeremy frantically rushes in. His face full of surprise when he sees his daughter home so soon (he had been upstairs and thought someone might have broken into the house).

“How’d you get here so fast?” he questions.

“Harry gave me a ride,” she answers, taking a sip from her cup. “Yes! It’s still hot!” 

Jeremy looks to the boy next to her. “You drive?” 

“No, sir,” Harry shakes his head. He seats Mason in the chair on the other side of him “I do have a bike, though.” 

“A bike...” the older man repeats. He walks around the island to stand closer to Harry. “What kind of bike?”

Harry licks along his top lip as he places his cup down. “Um...” he thinks. “Just a regular bike, I guess.”

“Describe it.” 

“It’s silver!” Y/n offers after she swallows another mouthful of chai.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “I’ve had it for like a year now. I think it’s a cyclocross, maybe a hybrid.”

“What else?”

“Well, I put this Packers sticker on the–”

Jeremy slams his hand down on the table, causing both teens to jump in their seats (Mason is too taken with his brownie to notice). “Did you just say Packers?” He closes his eyes, and a curled fist rises solemnly to his lips. When what sounds like a sniffle erupts from him, Harry and Y/n look at each. 

“Dad?” Y/n asks, almost pleading. “Are you okay?” 

Her father nods his head, suddenly turning to face away from them. “Harry,” he croaks. “Would you...” 

Another sniffle sounds from him. Mason looks at his sister, confusion written all over his face. “What’s wrong with Daddy?” But she honestly can’t say she knows what’s going on. Meanwhile, Harry isn’t sure if he should leave. Was it something he said?

“Would you...” he starts up again. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” 

Harry’s jaw drops. 

“Uh...” But he’s completely out of words at the moment, mostly because he truly thought he was about to get thrown out. It’s no question, he’s getting a little fed up with the prepped meals that Anne had left him, and the look on both Y/n’s and Mason’s faces only encourages him further. 

With his pause, it’s quiet enough to hear the television in the next room. “Would you like to stay forever?”

“Yeah,” he smiles, “I’d love to.” 

***

[wallsinner]

Training Wheels | 1 | Jean x F!Reader

Title: Training Wheels Pairing: Jean Kirschtein x Female Reader Warnings: Swearing, Discussions of Virginity, Eventual Smut, Chapter Summary: Your friend Jean has a lot to complain about. Words: 2k Notes: I first started writing this in 2016(!!) and you can find this first chapter in it's first draft on ao3 if you're that way inclined, but I rewrote it, replanned it and I'm *so* excited to be rewriting it. The first chapter of Tear in my Heart -- aka the story from Jean's POV -- will be up on Monday at around 10PM GMT.

If there is one mystery you want solved, one question you want answered, it was why are you genetically predisposed to being the laziest of assholes. You’ve been so since you were a kid and personally, you blame your father because it’s a habit you’ve picked up from him at the very least. And you always suffer for it.

Like, right now, you are suffering because you’re more than well aware that if you’d gotten out of your pit of a bed when your alarm had rung this morning, then you would have had plenty of time to get your butt into the kitchen and produce yourself a tasty sandwich -- or maybe even a salad -- from what you’ve salvaged from the fridge, but oh no, what had you done?

You’d snoozed the alarm, twice. And then when you were finally ready to be awake, you’d lay in bed for forty-five minutes needlessly scrolling through your phone, checking your notes on Tumblr, your Snapchat and your Instagram stories. Hell… you’d even gone on Facebook even though nobody even uses Facebook in this day and age. Then you’d clicked over to Buzzfeed, done a couple of quizzes to find out which Disney Princess you were and played a couple of rounds of solitaire. And then you’d realized the time and jumped in and out of the shower, choosing instead of washing your hair, to slip the head of the shower beneath your legs, which had led you to not even having time to dry off and to just toss some clothes on, grab your bag and get out the door.

You had good intentions every morning, but… you just didn’t act on them. And this was why you used your shower head every morning because you were such a flake that no dude wanted to come near you. Well, that and the company you kept.

And so you’d had no breakfast and two long lectures had basically put you into starvation mode and so you’d had no choice but to drag yourself to the caf and get the special of the day -- which claimed to be shepherds pie, but should have been renamed ‘brown sludge with white bits and the odd pea’ -- which you were like… a thousand percent sure you were going to get food poisoning from, but hey, at least your stomach wouldn’t be eating itself.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you will be better. You will get out of bed when your alarm goes off, you will go downstairs and get some breakfast and then you’ll have a long shower -- but you won’t masturbate, trying to get the shower head on that one spot is far too time consuming -- and put together something that is fit for human consumption to bring for lunch. Hell, when you get back home tonight maybe you’ll even take the time to sniff everything that’s on the floordrobe and maybe put it in the washing,

Maybe you’ll even fully clean your room while you’re waiting for the spin cycle to complete.

Actually, nah, maybe you’ll just watch the new episode of Catfish and eat a fat bowl of pasta.

You shudder as you look down at the ‘food’ again and with disdain, put the plastic fork (sidenote -- you know that Trost Community College ain’t exactly Oxbridge, but would it kill them to dish out the cash for one of those industrial dishwashers instead of trying to kill the planet you have to raise your children on -- near your mouth. You’re real tempted to hold your nose while you gulp it down, but you don’t really want to give Hitch Dreyse and her crew more ammunition for thinking you’re weird, so you just brace yourself and shove it in.

Well.

At least it doesn’t taste as bad as it looks. Definitely nothing gourmet, but if you distract yourself, then you’re probably gonna be able to finish it. You shove another forkful in and whip your phone out of your pocket, loading up Lovestruck and deciding to reread a few chapters of Ash Winters to distract yourself.

You’re about to come to one of the best sex scenes in the whole ‘book’, ignoring the world around you when a loud thump pulls you away from your Gangster bae. Peering over the top of your phone, you catch a glimpse of a thick, Art History book -- the cause of the thump, you’re sure -- as Jean slides into the seat opposite you.

You’ve known Jean forever. He’s basically the Boy Next Door, except he’s less Boy Next Door and more Boy Down the Road and on the Right Hand Side. He’s the only one of your little group of friends -- The Raspberry Crew, as you’d decided to name yourselves when you were five -- who still lives there. And like you, he’s also dumb as a bunch of rocks so he’s at community college too, so you spend a lot of time together.

“Hi.” You say.

He doesn’t reply, just looks at you and narrows his eyes as he pulls his own lunch out. It’s in a brown paper bag and of course it was handmade lovingly by the wonderful Mrs. Kirschtein, who was the nicest woman you knew and adored her son so much. Whereas your own mother liked to yell at you all the time to get out of bed and stop being a fuck up. Rude. Is it too late for her to adopt you?

“Okay,” you tell him. “I’ll bite. What’s going on?”

He looks up at you and the expression on his face changes from someone who wants to commit a murder, to someone who just watched their puppy get kicked into the sun. “It’s… nothing, really. It’s just…” he gives a big dramatic sigh. “Finally official.”

“What,” you ask him. “In all of the seven hells are you talking about?”

He looks around in an over dramatic gesture, to make sure that nobody is looking at the two of you and them just as over dramatically he leans in to you. “It is official.” His voice is a stage whisper, so that nobody can hear the two of you, like he’s in fucking Hamlet or some shit. “I’m the last virgin in Trost.”

And in hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea to take a bite of your food as he was speaking because you splutter, covering his face in little bits of half-chewed mince and reach for your water. When he’s wiped his face and your choking has subsided, you look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me,” he snarls. “I know you did and I’m not repeating myself again.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I, uh, I definitely heard you, I’m just wondering if I heard you right. And if I did infact hear you right, I’m wondering when exactly between your Mom coddling you, your lectures, moping after Mikasa Ackerman and your homework did you manage to go around canvassing Trost to come to this conclusion. Cuz uh, if you did Kirsch then you’ve screwed your numbers up because you’re probably not the only one with your V-Plates still on this room, let alone in Trost.” You are technically a virgin, you’ve fooled around with a few people, sure and you’re pretty sure Jean just assumes you lost it to Marcel Galliard because he did walk in on you at a party with his dick in your mouth that one time, but are you going to admit that nothing but the streams from your shower head have penetrated you? Fuck no, you know he’s got a big mouth. “Also… there are children in Trost.” Jean is seemingly as disgusted by you that your brain went there judging by the fact he balls up his brown bag and throws it at your head.

“Sometimes I think there is something very wrong with you.” Shucks, you’re flattered, but hey at least it distracted him from his misery for all of five seconds. “But okay fine, all of the people in Trost who are of age,” he tells you through gritted together.

“Again,” you ask. “When was this survey conducted?” You push your plate away because honestly this conversation had made your appetite much, much less raging.

“I didn’t do a fucking survey,” he tells you a little more aggressive than is necessary in your opinion. “I just know and do you want to know how I know?”

Honestly, you didn’t really because you never know what the hell is going to come out of his mouth, but you know that if you say you don’t want to know then he is just going to ignore your wishes and come out with it anyway so you just keep quite and say nothing and barely five seconds pass, before he opens his mouth again.

“Marco.”

“Oh,” you can’t help but laugh because Marco Bodt is the nicest human being and at one point you had the hugest crush on him and you honestly can’t picture him bullying Jean by taunting him, it’s too surreal. “So Marco did the survey? Or die he come up to you and say…” you put on your best Marco voice. “Oh hey Jean, did you know you’re the last…” and the look on Jean’s face is another for you to shut your fucking mouth and not finish that sentence.

“There was no survey,” he’s talking to you through gritted teeth again and you can see the tips of his ears are a fiery red, a sure sign he is about to loose his temper. “Forget about the fucking survey. I came by to see if you were getting the bus this morning and your Mom said your ass was still in bed, so I walked over to his instead,” he takes a deep breathe. “His Mom sent me straight up to his room because he was still getting ready, which I thought was really weird because when is Marco ever late to anything and well… he and that brunette from his Psychology class were in bed together.”

Well, your appetite is definitely gone now, former crush or not, it’s never nice to hear something like that about someone you once liked. “…That doesn’t mean they’ve slept together, we’ve slept in the same bed together and has your dick been inside me? No, not it has not.”

“Trust me,” Jean shudders. “I left them too it and when I spoke to him earlier, well, he turned into a human tomato at the mention of her name.” He pauses. “Plus her tits were out.” Ugh, you can feel the brown sludge on the move and you know the brunette he’s talking about and you really, really hope that Mina Carolina took her pigtails out when she got smashed and oh your God, you cannot believe you just thought of sweet angel Marco and smashing, where did that brown bag go, you may need it. “And the last time we slept in a bed together we were both six.”

“Nah, it was last April when you got fucked at Reiner Braun’s party and I had to bring you home with me so your mother wouldn’t see you in that state.” You wave your hand, indicating that you want to change the subject. “Did I really need to know about Marco? I’m sure he’d prefer you kept that one quiet.”

“You’re the one who made me prove my life is over.”

“Oh puh-lease, your life is not over. You are just an overdramatic fuck. It will happen.”

“Oh yeah? When?”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Oh let me just consult my crystal ball! Look, Jean, it will happen when you meet the right…”

“I swear to God, if you say when I meet the right person… I already did remember?” He sends a longing look across the caf and you don’t even have to follow his eyeline to know where he’s looking. At Mikasa Ackerman of course, a girl he met at the beginning of your time here, she’s Eren, a sort of frenemy of sorts of Jean’s foster sister. You’d thought it was kind of cute at first, until she’d gotten a girlfriend and he’d stayed as deluded as ever.

“Remember that time when ‘Kasa told you that even if she wasn’t with Annie she wouldn’t give you the time of day?” He doesn’t look away from her, so you’re guessing he didn’t hear you. Or he’s choosing to pretend he didn’t hear you. “Jean!”

“What?”

“Look, I promise you that it’ll happen. You’ve just got to wait it out.”

He pulls a face and starts gathering his things up. “Whatever. You don’t know that.”

You grin at him mischievously. “Oh it will, because if it hasn’t happened by your thirty-fifth birthday, I’ll buy you a hooker.”

“Fuck you.” He tells you, but there’s no actual malice in his words. You just smirk at him.

And the two of you go your separate ways for the rest of the day.

[bumblekscript]

from Eduardo Q.: For characters based on video game properties, specially long-running ones, how do you balance which abilities are they able to use in a story? I imagine this was much easier for Mega Man, as the aspect of temporarily copying weapons is pretty much already defined in the series itself, but I'm wondering how you do it for someone like Sonic, who in his almost 30-year long run has had all types of abilities: from double-jump, to creating tornados.

Questions answered by Ian Flynn and Kyle Crouse

Episode link

Ian: Yeah, it’s a tricky balancing act

Kyle: Yeah

Ian: typically you gotta look at what is kind of the standard for the series, stuff that is synonymous with the character, stuff that has become so ingrained that when it’s missing from it, you go “Wait, when did that change?” like, we’ve had the homing attack since 1999, that’s, that’s a given, Sonic can do that, we’ve had the boost mechanic since, oh shoot, when did Unleashed come out? 2000...

Kyle: 2006, I think?

Ian: 2006 yeah

Kyle: No, it was like, 2008 there we go, yeah, Sonic ‘06 was 2006, yeah yeah

Ian: Yeah, derp

Kyle: [laughs]

Ian: So, 2008, that’s 12 years, that’s pretty established, when was the last time he used Sonic wind? when was the last time he used blue tornado?

Kyle: That’s Heroes

Ian: Yeah, the one-off abilities you can kind of ignore, or trot them out on occasion to say “Hey! Here is my nerd cred, you remember this?”

Kyle: Yeah

Ian: You also have to take into effect, what is going to break the narrative, I mean, Silver by all rights should be just obscenely overpowered by what he can do in the cutscene, that’s another thing, what do you do compared to in-game gameplay and what’s shown off in the cutscenes, because, some of the stuff that they do, especially Silver is just nuts, and you can’t do it in game, so there is no good single answer to that, it’s, you just kinda play it by ear, and get a feel for the characters themselves and how would it best work for the story, and hope to high heaven you don’t forget something that would be an easy out for them

Kyle: [laughs] Well, boost predated Unleashed, because it was in Sonic Rush originally

Ian: Yeah, okay, okay

Kyle: Which was 2005 so, yeah boost has been around for a long time, and I mean, if you want to go back even further you can say “Oh, you’ve had the spin dash since 1992

Both: [laugh]

Kyle: So things like that, there’s some things that are, there’s certain moves in Sonic’s repertoire that are pretty well established that you can pull from, but I mean, there are things like one-off games where he had a certain move that he like, never really uses again, so

Ian: I mean, he swims in Sonic Jam, do you want to count that? No, because that’s one of the defining about him is that he can’t swim

Kyle: Yeah, I know that’s one of the most fun aspects of his character, it’s like, this is his, like, what seemingly one weakness is water

Ian: And then you know, the figure eight peel out was a big deal in Sonic CD, and then come Lost World it’s just him running super fast, it’s a state of being, so

Kyle: Yeah, but I mean that’s also, two different Sonics, apparently also, so

Ian: Oh, yeah... Ok... Yeah, sure...

Kyle: Yeah [laughs] so

Ian: Aaaarghh

Kyle: It’s funny, the super peel out is weird because it like, doesn’t actually do anything?

Ian: It looks sick dude

Kyle: It looks cool, it looks awesome, but it doesn’t actually do anything, it’s actually worse because you’re not spinning when you use, so you can just run right into an enemy or some spike or something and, like you can’t, you have zero protection, but it look cool, yeah, it looks cool

Ian: Kind of a tangent but it reminds me of something that I kinda miss, is the old whirling legs shorthand

Kyle: Yeah

Ian: You don’t really do that with modern Sonic, unfortunately, and I’m glad I was able to get this to happen at least once in the book back with the A.D.A.M. Tommy multi Chaos Emerald story, there is just this one scene where Sonic comes around a corner and I described it as him, you know, banking around the corner like a motorcycle so that those whirling legs kinda look like a wheel, tilting at forty five degrees, and Tracy rendered it perfectly and it looked so cool, and it was everything i wanted, so at least we got that once

Kyle: [laughs]

Ian: We can’t really do that anymore because we don’t have that visual shorthand anymore and wehh

Kyle: Yeah [sighs] oh well

questions can be asked at: bumblekast@yahoo.com; On Twitter @BumbleKast; Comments section on any YouTube video; Through Ko-fi support; Patrons can post on Patreon page and the Q&A channel in the Patreon-exclusive Discord

[softeddiek]

and it’s peaceful in the deep

reddie fic post ch. 2

i ended up writing about this post i made, because i apparently like hurting myself. just richie grieving aka me grieving 

3.8k words | read on ao3

He waits until everyone else has left town before he goes. (In the days leading up, he tries not to think too hard about how one of them isn’t leaving. One of them will never leave. He must repress that thought pretty damn hard for him to end up doing what he does.)

Bill leaves first. He’s stuttering out about his wife and needing to go see her—there’s a small part about a movie tacked onto the end, so small that, if he’d actually been paying attention to Bill when he said it, he would realize Bill almost gave less of a shit about the movie than Richie did. Almost.

Next is Bev and Ben. They don’t leave at the same time, though he knows they have plans to meet up together. (They would have left together, they would have, he just knows it. He wouldn’t have let Eddie leave Derry alone, not this time.)

Ben leaves before her, surprisingly. Derry had held bad memories for all of them, what with being terrorized by a fucking alien being or some shit guised as a clown not once, but twice. Bev especially though. But Ben leaves first. Something about getting his place ready. About taking their time, getting in contact with his lawyer, about her not going to her home just yet, not until Ben can fix things. Or that’s the gist of what Richie catches them murmuring about as they all eat dinner above the library in Mike’s cramped living quarters (They eat, but Richie finds he can’t. Not until he wakes up from a long fitful sleep, the ache in his stomach—the one caused by hunger—too much to ignore.), obviously not wanting the other three to hear too much.

(Richie does still hear some of it. They try to keep it quiet, they really do, but it’s just like the kiss in the quarry—he’d still seen it, even though it had been underwater. Still grits his teeth as he thinks about the plans he won’t get to make, the first kiss he won’t get to experience.)

Mike is last. Mike who had never left Derry, off to Florida, of all fucking places. It’s Mike that proves the trickiest to convince that he’s okay.

The Losers had still been somewhat in tune with each other even after nearly three decades, but Richie had always been good at fooling people. (He hears “fairy” being spit after him in his head, thinks of Pennywise floating above him, taunting him, and knows he hadn’t been able to fool everyone, not about everything—that had been his big fear after all, hadn’t it?)

So when he tells Bill and Bev and Ben that he had to get a later flight out—a mix up by his agent and no, really guys, he’s fine, he’s leaving this shithole as soon as he can, and yes, he’ll still call, and hey, why don’t you guys all come to his next show (you know, when he’s not too fucking traumatized and grieving to do one)—they believe him. They still send him wary looks, squeeze him a little longer than they ever did as kids when they hug him, but they leave all the same, doing their damn hardest to not look back, to move on from this place, again. Only with their memories intact and promises to see each other anywhere that isn’t here. They may have defeated It for good this time, but that could never erase the painful memories that this place holds. They didn’t need It to bring them forth for them. (He’s sure he’ll become all too familiar with those memories even when he’s far away from Derry again. A repeat of the nightmare that he’s just lived down in that well; the one scene from that night that’s been on a loop in his head—behind his eyelids when they close--since it happened.)

But Mike…Mike knows the look of someone reluctant to leave. He’d spent his whole life here after all, digging into the past, the only one to really remember them all, never leaving. Seeing each Loser leave Derry one by one, onto bigger things, forgetting each other and him.

He’s as jokey as he can be when trying to convince him he’ll be fine, but Mike doesn’t bite. He asks if he wants him to postpone his trip, to spend some time here in Derry with him helping him recover or, hell, even rerouting his plans and seeing California first (“They’re both sunny places, aren’t they?”). And Richie feels a pang in his chest over his friend worrying about him. Richie hasn’t had anyone to worry about him in a long time—not anyone that wasn’t paid to at least. (Not since the Losers but especially not since Eddie. Eddie’s worry had always felt so different, something nobody has been able to match even now. Not for Richie.)

But eventually something works. Whether it’s the fiftieth joke or the hundredth sigh, something he does makes Mike relent. A part of him screams at that, at the last of them finally leaving him alone in Derry. They all deserve to forget about It, he knows that, knows that he wants to as well. But why do they all just get to move on as if Eddie isn’t stuck here? Stuck beneath piles of rubble, down in the dark depths of the earth where It had lived and fed? Why do they get to go back to their wives, to each other, to new places and adventures, when Eddie will never get to? Why do they get to move on from Eddie—one of their best friends—just like that, and he doesn’t? (He knows why.)

A small part of him feels bad for not being this distraught over hearing about Stan. He tells himself it’s different—he didn’t see Stan murdered in front of his very eyes. Stan didn’t die trying to save him. He hadn’t gotten the chance to reconnect with Stan. He wasn’t in--.

It was different, but it didn’t mean he cared any less about Stan. Still, the part of him that’s actually able to process other things—the part of his brain that hasn’t found itself dedicated to dissecting that moment over and over again—still feels a little bad that his grief for Stan had found itself pushed to the side so easily.  

When Mike has left, texting their new group chat to let them all know he had safely boarded the plane (Richie responding with a few complaints about what a bummer it is his flight had to be so late, but not enough to overdo it) he goes.

Everyone in Derry knows the way to the Neibolt house. It wouldn’t have mattered if Richie had never stepped foot inside of the place—if It had never happened to them—everyone just knew about the dilapidated old house. Even so, he knew he’d never forget the way there, even if he came back to Derry a hundred times with his memory wiped clean of It. It had become engrained in there.

He drives there now, alone for the first time. When he gets there, he parks the car on the side of the street, across from what is left of the house. The city had been informed about the collapse, chalked it up to old infrastructure, and promptly left it alone. Glad to have wiped their hands of it finally; the eyesore that really must have been fucking with all of Derry’s small-town charm.

Flashes of the house go through his mind, in three different states, all progressively worse. In one second, he’s standing in front of it as a kid with his friends, bikes in a pile in front of the gate. Eddie with his fanny pack, right before his arm had ended up in a cast. Bev with her hair chopped short. Stan and Mike with nervous expressions. Ben, short and stocky, eyes flitting to Beverly every now and again, something that hasn’t changed. And Bill. Always the leader. Bill ready to charge in and take on It; wanting to save the many at the risk of the few.

He knows he’s bitter. It’s not Bill’s fault Eddie was dead. Not really. They all knew the dangers going into that house, every time. (Only why had it always been Eddie?) But the darkest parts of him that are still grieving can’t help but wonder what might have happened if Bill hadn’t rushed them into it the other night. If they had had more time to prepare or, fuck, to get Eddie’s face looked at. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been there at least, sitting in some emergency room getting his face stitched up instead, and it would have just been the five of them.

The younger Bill in his mind suddenly morphs into the older one, how he looks now. In his forties and still ready to charge in, leading the Losers. They’re missing one, and soon to be missing another.

Just as quickly as they came, those images disappear, and all he’s left looking at is that fucking pile of rubble. He clenches his jaw and turns to his rental car, grabbing a flashlight he’d lifted from Mike’s place out of the passenger seat. It’s evening now, the sun beginning to set beneath the trees, the chirping of crickets thrumming in the air.

Realistically, Richie can tell he’s going through some form of disassociation. Has been since the drive over, his detachment worsening upon seeing where the house stood. (Had it looked this bad in the dark that night?) He feels his feet moving as if on autopilot, stumbling against the pavement and into what’s left of the yard, with no care for whether or not the ground is stable.

His legs give out, knees buckling beneath him until they hit the ground, the impact reverberating throughout his body. The flashlight falls to the earth with a soft thump.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, tears pricking at his eyes. It all comes rushing out. “I’m so sorry, I tried to come sooner, I tried Eds, I really did, they wouldn’t let me.” He wipes harshly at the now falling tears on his face. “I’m gonna get you out man, I promise. Okay? You won’t have to stay in the dark. I know you hate the dark.”

He’s suddenly crawling forward to close the short distance between himself and the start of the pile, hands and jean-clad knees dragging through the dirt. When he reaches it, still kneeling, he doesn’t stop to come up with a plan, just dives headfirst into it, yanking haphazardly at wood and twisted metal, throwing pieces into a pile behind him.

(Years later, when he’s grown used to reliving that night in his nightmares, he will realize just how very far down they had been, how deep It’s lair had gone. He would know then how absolutely futile that trying to dig down there—by hand no less—was. But now all he can think of is being ten and having a sleepover at Bill’s with Stan and Eddie—a rare thing on account of Eddie’s mom. Bill and Stan had long fallen asleep and Richie himself was just on the brink of it when he realized that, beside him, Eddie was still tense and awake. He’d stayed up talking with him for another hour until Eddie had managed to fall asleep, not mentioning it the next day and keeping it to himself even a few months later when he spotted a nightlight in Eddie’s room.)

(There are a lot of things he didn’t mention to Eddie, he thinks bitterly.)

He keeps going, dirt shifting as he drags unwilling pieces of that house away. Part of his mind is flitting through tools that will be needed—something for digging, something big, something that can go deep—but the most prominent voice in his head, the one pushing him through this impossible task, just whispers, Eddie, Eddie Eddie. It’s that voice that makes him ignore the sweat dripping down his forehead, stinging his eyes, mixing with the dried tears that have left his face feeling tight; the voice ignoring his quickly burning arms.

He jerks upright to his feet, tripping toward the progress he’s made to yank at a larger piece of wood in the pile—like cleaning up the pieces of a rotted corpse, he thinks, letting out a shaky breath. He grabs onto the board, tugging to dislodge it, his motions jerky and uncoordinated with fatigue, when he stumbles backwards. The board comes with him, landing on his stomach and knocking the wind from him, while his right hand reaches out behind him to stop his fall, instead connecting with the end of a nail jutting out from a nearby piece of wood he’d already put to the side.

“Motherfucker,” he yells out, the nail cleanly piercing through his palm upon impact, the most he’s been able to feel all night.

He can feel his breath coming out in short pants, eyes wide, adrenaline rushing through him alongside shock as he quickly jerks his hand back up, the nail exiting the same way it entered. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard, drawing the metallic tang of blood.

He lifts the now shaking hand to his face, seeing blood oozing from the wound through the thick lenses of his glasses.

All of a sudden, he can hear Eddie’s frantic voice, clear as day. “What the fuck man, wrap your hand up, quick! You need to go to the emergency room before you get tetanus. If you wait too long, you’ll get a fever and, and your muscles will start twitching and shit, and you’ll die.”

His lips begin turning upward into a smile, quickly overtaken by a grimace, while his eyes close, focusing on Eddie’s admonishing tone of voice. A voice he’ll never hear again.

He’d always thought that when one part of your body was hurting, that if you hurt another, you would no longer be able to focus on the original pain. Well, that was fucking wrong, because it’s like putting that nail through his hand heightened the rest of his senses, and he can feel the wound in his hand on top of his aching arms and the pounding headache he apparently has.

He lifts his left hand away from where it’s putting pressure on the right, struggling to lift it up enough and tear off a strip of his shirt. When he’s managed a poor attempt at wrapping up his palm, he just sits, unable to make himself get up and leave for the hospital.

(He had fucking waited. He waited for them all to leave. He was the only one willing to go back for Eddie, he’d promised. He can’t leave him down there.)

He doesn’t know how long he actually sits there, hand on fire, arms weighed down like lead. It had been dark when he’d stabbed himself. His flashlight still sits a few feet away, unused, his eyes having grown adjusted to the dark and dim lighting from the moon as the sun had set. It feels like it’s only been a few minutes but, in reality, it must have been hours. The air is cooler, and he can hear the chirping of birds, as if heralding the sun and, with it, a new day. He shakes his head, astounded at how he’s managed to completely zone out, sitting through the pain of his hand. He had thought about nothing--it’s like an entire night has been stolen from him. Had he fallen asleep; eyes open? No. He couldn’t have. No way would he have had a dreamless sleep, especially not here.

It’s the longest he’s gone without thinking of Eddie since that night, he realizes. He can’t help but laugh. How fucking ironic that he’d finally be able to escape from the thoughts haunting him when he’s literally sitting atop Eddie’s grave.

His eyes roam back over the pile of rubble that was once a house. He swallows heavily, eyes closing as his mind finally catches up with his actions. Impossible, it whispers. Literally fucking impossible.

He feels more tears springing free now, amazed that he has any left in him, and presses his palms hard into both eyes, relishing in the pain he feels from the pressure on them and the fire radiating from his hand. He can feel something sticky on his cheek, blood most likely.

Such an idiot, he thinks. He wonders what might have happened if only he’d stopped trying to cling to Eddie’s body, instead using his energy to get the others to carry him. To bring him back up then. The rational part of him knows that wouldn’t have been possible—they didn’t have the time or the energy. (That darker, worse part of him wonders what would have happened if he’d have been able to resist his friends pulling him away from Eddie—to stop himself from following them out as the rocks rained down. Would they have come back for their bodies if it was two of them? Was two the magic number that Bill thought was worth risking it for?)

He shakes his head, telling himself to stop redirecting his anger at his friends. The thing he should really be angry at is dead, destroyed forever.

And Eddie is below, forever. There’s no way of getting him, Richie. That’s where he has to stay.

“It’s just a body. It’s just a body. It’s just a body,” he chants lowly to himself, over and over again.

It’s fucked up, ultimately. Eddie will have to stay buried there. There’s nothing Richie can do about it. Even if the other Losers were with him, digging, there’s nothing they could do about it either. And, everyone ends up in the dark eventually, right? Whether in a casket or in a furnace; in a shallow grave or deep down in the lair of some demented space clown. It’s not like Eddie could literally see himself sitting in the dark. What mattered was how Richie was viewing it. He’d been projecting his own thoughts—how he thought his Eddie would feel stuck down there. And yeah, it’s super fucked up. Eddie would agree if he could. But he would just have to try to get over it—to try his hardest to stop remembering Eddie’s lifeless body, all alone as those rocks came down, and instead remembering him how he knew him best—things about Eddie that his mind had slowly been reminding him of since they had returned to Derry.

With a cast on his arm. With his fanny pack. His polo shirts and too short shorts. A sneaky grin on his face. His mouth downturned when he was pouting. His hands, dragging his inhaler up to his mouth, panic settling on his face over some minor incident. His laughter as he jumped into the quarry with his friends, splashing each other on a hot summer day. His calm smile as he looked back at Richie, pedaling down the road on their bikes with their friends.

The older Eddie. His face more weathered, his spirit more beaten, but still the same Eddie. Those same wide eyes filled with laughter. That same bossy tone and sarcastic attitude that would come out when Richie would say something dumb.

(Later, he will think of an even older Eddie. The one he might have had. But for now, his mind spares him that thought.)

He looks a few yards to his left, spotting a familiar patch of wildflowers. He has a faint memory of there being more around the overgrown yard than there are now. He stumbles to his feet, weak from all of the physical exertion and lack of food over the past few days yet, somehow, he manages to reach them. He yanks a few out of the ground with his good hand, roots and all.

He stands in front of what was once Neibolt house, not daring to kneel again lest he be unable to get back up. Setting the flowers down gently, he closes his eyes, taking in the gentle rays of the sun beginning to peak past the horizon.

“I love you Eds. Always have,” he lets out on a sigh. “I’m not sure when loving you turned into being in love with you but…I just know I’ve felt that way for a very long time. Even if I forgot. And maybe if I had told you, you wouldn’t have cared. Or maybe you would have. Or maybe you would have been grossed out, fuck, I don’t know.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “I like to think you would have felt the same but…. I’m just sorry I never got the chance to tell you before everything happened. So, I’m telling you now. My agent always did tell me to work on my timing,” he lets out a weak grin. “You’ll be okay here.” He shakes his head up and down slowly, as if reassuring himself. “Your body might be here, but you’ll always be with me Eds, promise.”

He clenches his jaw and allows himself to stand there for one last moment. Tears in his eyes, he swallows down the lump in his throat and hurries away, back toward his car. He yanks open the door, and plops into the seat, letting out a strangled cry before starting the engine, ready to get away from this house once and for all.

--

It’s only a day and a half later when he finds himself finally making his way out of town, right hand bandaged up, arm still sore from the tetanus shot he’d received at the hospital. When he pulls to a slow stop on the bridge, it’s with that hand that he puts the car into park. Leaving the engine on, he gets out and makes his way toward the side of the bridge; a spot he hasn’t stood in in decades.

The letters are still there, well faded into the wood with time, but still legible. He would’ve been able to find the spot with his eyes closed. As he crouches in front of the wooden planks, he feels it all rushing back to him. The guilt, the shame. The fear. He thinks about Stanley’s letter that his agent had had forwarded to him. He thinks about being brave.

As he presses his knife back into the carved R and E, separated only by a plus sign, he doesn’t think of Eddie’s body. He doesn’t think of his final resting place. He thinks about Eddie and all of the time they did have. He thinks of Eddie, his best friend. Eddie, the first boy he ever loved. He just thinks of Eddie.

He lets out a shaky breath, looks at that R+E one last time, searing it into his memory once again, and turns back toward his car, deciding to be brave.

[realm-sweet-realm]

Infinity: chapter 3- A way out.

Time to start the “where did this character end up?” game.

---

To Allison Pendle, immortality has been a blessing, but also a curse. In the past century since her transformation, she’d seen the downfall of Joey Drew Studios, joined a gang in which she worked under Lacie Benton and Shawn Flynn, gone through rehab, seen a multitude a countries, been a singer, an actress, a missionary, a mother, and a drug dealer, rubbed shoulders with Wally as a performing circus freak, gone to rehab, been rich, been homeless, tried almost every hobby imaginable, read more books, met more people, done more drugs, and had generally lived life to the fullest. The past little bit, though, she was bored with it. She’d begun to envy older people, who were able to slow down with age, and eventually die. And so, she eventually returned to Brightdale.

Brightdale as Allison remembered it, was a small and mostly unnotable little town, but it was a very significant place to Allison. It was where, in her time randomly traveling the country in her early twenties, she’d first discovered that witchcraft was real.

In present, the place had been deserted entirely. As Allison walked the empty streets lined with overgrowth, a delightfully haunted feeling came over her. She’d have to explore these dusty houses when she was finished with her mission. It was on the edge of town that she found the house of the witch she had stayed with and stolen from. Its windows and doors were thoroughly grown over with vines roots at this point. Thankfully, Allison had half-way expected the place would be patroled by some sort of guardian creature and had thus come prepared with a shotgun and a machete. There was nothing special about the foliage and it gave way fairly easily, allowing Allison in.

Within it, Allison found the place nearly untouched- nicely lit, no dust, nothing. Was the witch still here? Allison raised her gun and listened as creaking wooden steps gave away the old woman's presence. "I have a reversal shield on me. Don't try anything," Allison asserted. It was a lie, but not one to be taken lightly- casting a spell, especially an offensive one, on a reversal shield could very easily prove deadly.

"Allison?" the witch growled. "Very well, you fucking thief. What do want from me?"

"Ingredient number 30."

The old woman went to her spice cabinet, took out the ingredient, and threw it at Allison. "Anything else?"

"Well, there is something I'd like to ask you. You don't actually look like that, do you?"

The witch smiled wryly. "No... I actually look quite a bit like you. But you see, if I looked like you, then boys would be following me home all the time, getting to learn my secrets because they're after the one between my legs. It's protective to look like this."

Allison nodded. "That's what I thought. So," she pulled a recipe of sorts out of her pocket, "do you think this could kill you?"

The witch stared on in fear.

"Not that I want to kill you. I just think we should have the option."

---

It was the middle of the day when Henry received that very important letter (not the first Very Important Letter he'd received from someone in that bygone studio!). He had been in his office at the official headquarters of Disney, and the letter had been brought to him by his wife, Elaine. It read:

Dear Henry Stein,

This is  one of the immortals. I have found a potion that can cure our immortality. If you'd like it, or just like to see the rest of us again, me in Brightdale, Ohio at seven at night exactly one week from today.

See you soon (oops, that sounds ominous),

-Allison Pendle

"What is it, honey?" Elaine asked. Elaine knew that Henry was immortal, along with with pretty much everything else about him. They'd been married for fifteen years now, from her late twenties to her early forties, and had fostered many children together. Henry loved her, and certainly didn't think of her as some mayfly pet. But he wouldn't have wanted to talk about this with anyone.

"Nothing," Henry responded, perfectly calm.

"Okay," Elaine said, leaving with a look on her face that suggested that she suspected things maybe weren't.

Henry immediately tossed the letter in the trash and attempted to focus on the paperwork on his desk- fourums on the theme park he was planning on building with the help of Bertrum Piedmont. Finding he couldn't, Henry turned over the sheet and turned to his oldest coping mechanism- drawing. He was good now- all that time loop stuff was forgotten. But he was never in a million, billion, trillion years going to risk seeing Joey Drew's face again. Infinity didn't scare him much nowadays, and it scared him infinitely less than that.

---

The next house that the letter found its way to was a big, but run-down. Not many knew it, but it was where a pair of extremely well-established drug lords operated. As of right now, there were several people passed out on the crack-dusted leather couches, one of them being Lacie Benton, who was hungover from having used more substances than she could name the night before. "Hey Lacie. Letter from your old lover is here," Shawn called.

"Which one?" Lacie returned.

"The Raven."

Lacie rolled her eyes. "It was one kiss. She wanted to try it. Are you going to tease me about that until the very ends of time?"

"Probably," Shawn replied, gathering up some crack from the end table and snorting it. He couldn't wait until their next shipment would arrive, later in the afternoon.

Groggy, she got up and took the letter from Shawn's hands.

"Oh my God."

"What? Is she coming back to us?"

"No, it's better than that. She wants to give us a suicide drug!"

Shawn shared her excitement. At this point, they were both due for life-sentences, and for them, that would mean jail for centuries or millennia. Not anymore. Not with these. They were going to that meeting.

---

"So, Samuel Lawrence, explain to us why we should allow you, a man currently on parole and with many, many felonies in your past however distant, become a priest."

Sammy took a deep breath. In a similar courtroom to the one he now stood in, he'd answered the same question five years ago when he'd argued why he should be allowed in a seminary. now he had to argue it again in order to be licensed. At very least, the church where he'd done his practicum had agreed to hire him if he got through this, so he wouldn't have to make this same speech a third time.

"Your honour. I do not deny my crimes. However, as you said, they took place now nearly a century ago. I led unofficial church groups in prison which turned many people to better behaviour. I has released from my sentence- 7 charges of attempted murder at eight years each and seven charges of first degree murder at twenty years each- literal centuries early for my good behaviour, an absolutely unprecedented decision. And as one of my letters of recommendation will tell you, I stayed in prison an extra year to support the people I'd met there. What's more, and I know this is old news to you, I am immortal. The amount of life experience I could gain is immense, and I want to climb my way up through the catholic church system so that I can pass it on. Even now, I am 133 years old. Through prison and in my music career before it, I heard the stories of more people than I can count. I have experience in dealing with the worst sinners, and as we all know, a church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints. There are few people with as much life experience as me and fewer whose minds are still sharp. In short, I have made a positive impact on people's lives, and I want to get myself in a position where I'll be able to do that for as many people as possible. Thank you."

Sammy was breathing heavily from emotion as he finished his speech and sat back down. The judge said some words that Sammy barely registered about letting the jury decide. Sammy's stomach knotted up and he felt like either screaming or disappearing.

Half an hour later, he emerged from the courthouse elated, as a licensed priest. The letter was in his mailbox once he got home. Sammy laughed, then ripped it up. Today was the first step on the path to his destiny. Why would he in a million years want to die?

---

A copy of the letter came to Bickmore Insane asylum. The receptionist opened it and saw that it was addressed to one of the patients, Joseph "Joey" Drew. The receptionist did not feel badly for reading the patient's mail. For one thing, Joseph couldn't have read it anyhow. For another, Joseph honestly deserved it.

Rumour had it that decades ago- and it was decades, since Joseph was one of the immortals- Joseph had been given l a sentence spanning centuries for seven charges of attempted murder, twenty-something charges of murder, and innumerable charges of unlawful imprisonment. One of his victims had been the murder of a seventeen-year-old boy, and as a result, prison was not at all kind to Joseph. The other prisoners would beat the life out of him regularly, doing things to him that would kill most people, including giving him severe brain damage and forcing him to stumble around for hours on end as his brain repaired itself. As a result, Joseph was quickly moved to protective custody, and then to solitary confinement.

After the trauma of his treatment by the other prisoners and the solitary confinement had left him far too anxious and aggressive to be kept with the others, he was sent to Bickmore, where he at first seemed to make a quick recovery. There was, after all, a physical component to trauma, and Joseph's brain was just as resilient as the rest of him. But every time he seemed nearly ready to be transferred back to prison, he would cause a scene with panic visible in his eyes. He would begin to scream nonsense about beetles in his veins, throw objects, and attack faculty members and fellow patients. It didn't matter how many times it was explained to Joseph that he would be transferred right back to protective custody this time and the other prisoners would not be able to hurt him. Joseph did not want to go back to prison, and would do anything to buy himself more time.

As time went on, Joseph's apparent breaks from reality became more and more realistic. He would question faculty members about whether he was going back to prison, and attack them out of suspicion. The final straw, however, was when, on the first day he'd been allowed near other patients unsupervised since his last outburst, stabbed a 60-year-old schizophrenia patient with a butter knife and then a fork because he was convinced she was a spy for "the prison system." Joseph was pulled off of her, put into permanent solitary confinement, and sedated. Even now, he was in solitary, treated with the extreme care one would use for a dangerous beast, and kept heavily sedated.

Of course, the secretary didn't know any of that. Unless one had access to his files, that was all rumour- myth. She passed the letter onto her superior, who called Allison to ask that she send the drug. It was about time that someone put Joseph Drew out of his misery.

---

Thomas Connor had been making pancakes for his family when Boris brought him the mail in his mouth. Thomas smiled and took it with no word but a pat on Boris' head. The mail that day consisted of two letters and a newspaper. The first letter was just a bill, but the second one was from Allison Pendle.

What could that crazy bitch want from him? Thomas didn't know. A while ago he would have been mad, but now it had been so long that he honestly didn't feel anything. At least he had Alice to talk to if it was romantic. "Boris, could you take over for me?" he asked, moving over to the kitchen table to open the letter. Once he'd read it over, he crumpled it up, then uncrumpled it and found a fresh sheet of paper on which to write a reply.

Dear Allison

Thomas paused. He supposed he ought to keep this formal, at least at first, and wrote down her last name before continuing.

What are you up to? I don’t think I’ve seen you in person since that one time with the New York City Police.

Me, I’m still an engineer. Not for GENT- they went out of business a while after I left them. I’d worked for a few different places, but most recently (ha- “recently.” It was decades ago!) I’ve been  hired by an elite team of researchers who were looking into the ink machine. We eventually figured out how to save the people within these ink shells. You see, some of them have a human soul and a toon presence, and some get a third, demonic presence mixed in. We just had to separate them and give them separate bodies. Or cubes, in the case of the demons and toons. Don’t want them running away on us, do we? Anyhow, the humans took first priority. I saved that Buddy kid that we met and kept him at my house for a few years so that he could finish his schooling. After we were done with the people though, some bleeding heart thought we should give proper bodies to the cartoons because they “had over two decades of life experience, could feel pain and emotion,” you see where this is going. I thought it was stupid, but I was being paid to be an engineer, and if this was to be my project, so be it.

Thomas stopped and looked up. An Edgar (yes, an. Thomas had two) was playing Snakes and Ladders with Bendy and Alice on the floor. Dog, who was one one of his three Borises and the only one who walked on four legs like, well, a dog, was currently getting confronted by two sets of Charleys and Barleys for making his other Edgar cry. The Boris lowered himself to the ground in a doglike show of submission and apology, which the butcher gang members seemed to accept.

I guess they were right. Bringing them all back was a gradual process, and we could adopt some of them out. You’d be surprised how few people want to adopt a bunch of living cartoons with a truckload of trauma and no knowledge of the real world, though. I ended up with eleven of them. And it was supposed to be temporary, but now there’s a whole bunch of em’ I don’t want to separate (butcher gang trios especially) and, well, I guess I’m stuck with them. Not that I don’t like them, but I kind of wish I weren’t so tied down. I feel like I could do great things as an engineer, and while I love my kids, I kind of don’t want them to be my eternity, you know?

So that’s all to say, no. I can’t die. Can’t abandon my kids. But I’d love to see you again. Maybe I could come into town and meet up?

-Your fellow immortal, Thomas Connor

[thanksjro]

Eugenesis, Part Five Scene Three: Kup Atones For His Crimes I GUESS

I don’t know that I’ve quite recovered from the last post, but the show must go on, as they say.

We’re back at Delphi, and it looks like Swerve and Pincher are hard at work trying to figure out how to deal with this aqua fortis stuff. Neither of them seem to be able to figure out what it is exactly.

Both of these guys have been to Earth, so its honestly a little surprising that they don’t know what nitric acid is, or at least have access to a database where it would be listed. Then again, these two have already more or less proven that they have no business being in a lab, so maybe it isn’t very surprising at all, actually.

Pincher’s spent the last little while trying to find equipment that won’t just straight-up melt on contact with this stuff, and is currently being super-duper careful with a pipette when Galvatron crashes in through the door and startles him into pouring the stuff all over himself. Of course, after seeing what happened to Swerve’s hand, everyone starts breaking out the first aid kits and screaming, only to find Pincher completely unharmed by the event.

You see, Pincher is a Pretender, and his shell seems to be completely unaffected by the acidic qualities of aqua fortis.

Getting back to the raging dumpster fire we’d left at the end of the last post, the Quintessons have decided that the best way to get at the Transformers inside the Institute is to pick up the entire building and shake them out like the last few errant crumbs in a bag of chips.

Learned that move from Wheeljack, he did.

Delphi is ready to receive the robots at the Institute through the teleport. Red Alert and Soundwave run through the halls grabbing folks and telling them to get their asses in gear while Chromedome goes to help Perceptor man the teleport. At this point, all faction-based prejudices and other such nonsense have flown off with the wind. It’s all about survival now.  

Or, uh, it will be about survival, once the damn teleport gets up and running.

Kup put Hot Rod in there, didn’t he? Like week-old leftovers in a Tupperware container. Just can’t let the poor guy go.

The teleport roars to life, much to everyone’s relief, including my own, and then everything gets deathly quiet. Ground troops are moving in from the outside. Good thing the boys are ready to go now.  

Razorclaw is an idiot, and Soundwave, as well as Perceptor make sure to tell him that.

Coordinates are set.

Back at Delphi, Siren’s ready to receive a whole mess of people, when Swerve and Pincher run in to share the good news about the Pretender shells.

Siren, this was like the only reason you were in this room. Pay attention!

As Delphi’s finest discuss the pros and cons of building more flesh-suits, Red Alert, Dirge, and Throwback burst through the portal.

On the other side of the teleport, Perceptor is shooing in the next batch of robots, while Soundwave is trying to convince him that they should be doing things fairly, with a 2:1 ratio of ‘Cons and ‘Bots per trip. Now really isn’t the best time for this, and Chromedome seems to agree with me, seeing as he just starts shoving as many robots as he can, as fast as he can, into this portal while the two argue.

Swindle was at Darkmount when shit went down. How the fuck did he evade capture? The guy isn’t exactly built for speed. Shit, the Decepticons left from Sixshot’s place, how did he get there?

Soon, it’s only Perceptor, Soundwave, Chromedome, and Kup left. Small problem: someone’s got to stay behind to destroy the teleport tech, otherwise the Quintessons are going to find Delphi and this whole thing will have been for nothing. Perceptor’s pretty set on being the one to do it, but then Kup pulls out his gun and says that he’s the one who’s staying. Chromedome, not wanting to argue with the suicidal old man waving a weapon in his face, peaces out through that teleport without much of a fight.

Perceptor asks for any last requests on Kup’s part. He just wants Hot Rod buried in a nice little plot, and for Prowl to be told… he doesn’t say, but after the last couple Parts, I’m going to assume it’s a tossup between a hearty “fuck you” and just giving him the bird.

Perceptor goes through the portal and Kup destroys it immediately after, ready to fight the Quintessons for the last time. He thinks back on all the things he’s done, all the things he hasn’t done. He realizes that he doesn’t want to die, not really, but at this point there’s nothing else left for him to do.

Oh, now that’s interesting. An old, grumpy man on the brink of his twilight years, trying to go out with a little dignity as his body fails him. MTMTE’s Ratchet seems to pull a lot from Eugenesis.

Over at Delphi, Perceptor’s made it safe and sound.

Percy, a man just committed suicide via heroic sacrifice, at least give it a couple minutes before you go and start being cheeky. Is everyone here just so shell-shocked at this point they’re unable to process the horrors unfolding around them? Or are we just not doing upset anymore?

Nightbeat pulls Siren aside to ask if he’s okay. Siren’s not really enjoying having his super-secret base filled with Decepticons. Get with the times, Siren. There’s bigger things than the multi-million year war going on right now.

Yeah, Nightbeat, quit being such a bummer about this ongoing genocide of our people.

You’re not one to talk, mister.

Perceptor catches up with Nightbeat and pulls him off into another room to chat. Seems that Percy wants to hear about the wormhole. Not too interested in Nightbeat’s lost team members, but the worm hole- now THAT’S some hot shit right there.

Well, it’s hot until Nightbeat actually describes the thing. Then Perceptor’s not so into it. Sounds like the wormhole’s dying off.

Perceptor, please.

Perceptor wants someone to go guard the wormhole, that way the Quintessons don’t get ahold of it. That would be a very bad thing, after all.

Nightbeat’s calling you out, Percy.

So, if the wormhole’s on its way out, they should get Optimus back to the 80’s before it’s too late, right?

No, actually.

Perceptor doesn’t think anyone but Optimus can handle the nightmare situation they’re currently grappling with, and spouts the science-bullshit that surely he makes it back to his own time before the wormhole collapses in on itself, because they wouldn’t be here otherwise. Nightbeat calls this science-bullshit out as being bullshit-science, despite the fact that he had been using this same train of logic back during his fugue state episode.

Meanwhile, in the Hall of Villainy, Quantax is pissed. He was so proud of that little ploy he pulled with Rev-Tone, and what do the Sharkticons bring back?

Well, at least he doesn’t have to worry about his hands anymo- no, that’s tasteless, I shouldn’t.

Quantax had been expecting a bit more, especially since he’d sent out so many troops and ships to the coordinates they’d gotten.

He slaps Inhibitor Claws on the troops who failed to bring him the Autobots, not listening to their excuse of there being a teleport. These poor bastards are going to Kledji to be prisoners.

Quintessons need to unionize. Overthrow the ruling class, eat the rich. It’s time, boys, get on it.

Quantax takes a whole lot of pleasure in punishing his subordinates, and he revels in the feeling of just being a complete dick as he calls up Xenon to ask when all those shiny new recruits are coming in. Xenon says that that’s not what the Seedlings are for- they’re going to be a force of enlightenment, not brute strength.

Of course, Quantax isn’t terribly happy with this news, but why should Xenon care? He’s already gotten what he wanted.

Y’know, that sentence can have multiple interpretations.

Xenon is under the impression that once they’re done retrofitting Cybertron to their tastes, the Quintessons will be a peaceful, trade-centric race.

And with dialogue like that, who can argue with such a vision for the future?

Something tells me Quantax might throw a wrench into Xenon’s plan.

[bluepenguinstories]

Happiness Overload Chapter Forty-Five

It was an unnamed restaurant in an unnamed city where we sat across from each other. Sure, the restaurant had a name, same with the city we resided in, but neither of those seemed to matter as of late. If they ever did at all.

What mattered was our candlelit dinner, dim lighting, and exquisite dining. Something we both deserved for quite some time.

“What did you order, by the way?” I asked the rascal across from me with the flat-brim baseball cap and the blue hair in a pixie cut.

“Escargot and garlic bread. You?”

She was slumped down on the table, her elbow planted firm. The way she always seemed to scowl was always such a sight to behold.

“Mm...Crepes and spaghetti.”

“Wait. Spaghetti? I thought this was a French restaurant.”

“Maybe it's a combination French-Italian restaurant. You know the kind.”

“What does it matter, anyway?” She turned her head and grumbled. “I'm only here because you're paying.”

I shrugged. “Fair enough.”

At that point, it was my turned to slouch. I leaned my head forward and rested it on the table, then reached my hand out and poked her on my nose. She, of course, growled and swiped my hand away.

“Hey! Get your grubby mitts away from me! I bet you didn't even wash your hands!”

“Aw, come on! You know it's romantic!”

“As if! You and I both know the only reason why we're here.”

She was right, of course. It wasn't because we wanted some kind of date night or some kind of romantic night out (not that it was night, anyway. It was the middle of the afternoon, still a few hours before sunset). No, if you wanted to call it a getaway...you wouldn't be wrong. Not completely, anyway.

Rather than dwell further on why we were there, I looked up and the opportunity for distraction presented itself.

“Look! Our food!”

The server set the plates down. I thanked the waiter and when I saw the waiter's face, I was filled with shock: a rather-dead and tired looking face but with a mouth so full of life, opened wide:

“THE MANAGER MADE THE RESTAURANT OPEN 24/7! I HAVEN'T GOTTEN ANY SLEEP IN DAYS AND I LOVE SERVING CUSTOMERS!”

This isn't good.

I gulped. He went off to attend to someone else. I really hoped she didn't pay any mind to that.

All around me, the other folks seemed more or less normal (whatever that meant). Nothing too out of the ordinary. So, after a sigh of relief, I turned back to her and saw her poking at the dead snails, chomping away with a serious and resolute expression. As for mine, I thought my face was about to turn green.

“How can you stand to eat any of that?” I pointed to her dish with my fork in hand.

“We had to eat all sorts of weird things in the military. Builds character,” she replied, a mouthful of, if you would call it such, food.

“Oh yeah. I forgot Area 51 is part of the military...”

“What are you, some kind of baby?”

“No!” I protested. “I just know what I like, okay?”

Great. Girl had me on the defensive. I had to find a way to retaliate.

“Say, I've got spaghetti...wanna re-enact that one scene from Lady and the Tramp?”

She took a gulp as she swallowed another...ugh. Don't even wanna say.

“I don't know who would be who.”

“We set our own roles, baby,” I gave one of my signature smirks.

“No thank you. I'd rather just eat.”

Bluh. No fun. No fun at all. I would've thought that us getting out of the house and somewhere nice would've put both of us in good moods. Or at least...a non-destructive kind of good mood.

“Shouldn't there be more people here?” She asked.

“Hun, this is a high-class restaurant. I bet it's too bougie for most folks.”

“You know what I mean.”

Oof. I was trying to be evasive.

“Yeah...” I sighed.

“The only reason we're able to be here, not here at this restaurant specifically, but here as in outside of the apartment, outside of the ship, is because the ones who would have otherwise pursued us probably already succumbed to the global pandemic.”

“You know, I was really hoping you wouldn't bring that up.”

She grunted, and pointed her fork at me. “I know you pretty well by now. Even more than when I thought I knew you. I know you use humor to cope, but you can't just ignore the situation and go on like it's all fun and games.”

“Hey!”

I really just wanted to enjoy my meal; she sure loved playing the antagonist, huh? I watched her push her plate back and brought out a package of beef jerky out from her pocket and started munching.

“At least I know you're having a good time eating,” I conceded. It was some wonder how she could eat so much and still be so serious. Half of my plate of spaghetti had yet to be eaten and I was already having my doubts that I would be able to finish it all.

Jeez, what happened to the Velvet who could eat a whole thing of pizza all by herself?

“Not really,” was her response. “Eating just makes me ha--” She took a couple of deep breaths. “Full. Eating makes me full.”

I smiled and twirled the noodles on my plate as if they were ballerinas in a play. I must have been just as tired as the waiter, or in some kind of daze.

“That's the goal,” my voice carried a softer tone than usual.

“Heh. I guess so.”

I took a sip from my glass. Wine? Water? Soda? I couldn't even recall anymore. It tasted a little sour, a little fizzy. It could have been anything.

“It's just messed up what's become of everything.”

I nodded. What else could I have said to that?

“I mean, what kind of world do we live in where it's so dangerous to be ha...ha...” I could hear her breaths grow shorter. “Happy? It's really not fair.”

“I know. I want to do something about it just as much as you do.”

“Do you? Do you really? Because I don't see you doing anything. I don't see either of us doing anything. We're both just sitting here. Maybe you think we should, huh? I mean, we escaped with our lives and been through hell together, so it only makes sense, right? Don't we deserve to be happy? Don't I deserve to be happy?”

“Of course you do...” I mouthed the words.

“So then why? Why are you happy when I'm not? What is wrong with me? WHAT?” Her fists shook. Part of me feared something like this might happen, but I thought that it wouldn't. “WHY CAN'T I BE HAPPY?”

She began to laugh and all at once, she knocked all the stuff off the table. Our plates, the candles, they shattered. I glanced down and noticed a fire forming. She reached across the table and fork held firm in her grasp, swung down. Either my own hand, or my throat, seemed to be the target.

On cue, I grabbed her wrist and stopped her.

“I DESERVE TO BE HAPPY! I WILL BE!”

My grip tightened and the fork fell from her hand. I managed to fold my palms over her fists and hold her hands tight.

“I know it's not fair! I agree! You deserve to be happy! And you will be! I'll make sure of it!”

She took deep breaths. While it could have been risky letting go, I did just that and watched as her fists uncurled. That was when I seized the moment and interlaced my fingers in hers.

Her breathing slowed and she looked to be calming down. I saw her eyes widen.

“...Why are we holding hands?”

“I thought it would calm you down!”

Such a response made her face turn red and she looked away, though she didn't let go of my hands.

“That...that doesn't mean I gave you permission.”

“Oh, you're so stubborn!”

Before we had a chance to salvage our day, I smelled the smoke next to us and was reminded of the fire spreading. If that wasn't bad enough, I watched as everyone around us got up from their seats. Not in a panic, no, but each carrying that ominous grin.

“DID SOMEBODY SAY 'HAPPY'?” One said in a tone that reminded me all too well of Chuck E. Cheese's.

“I SURE AM HAPPY!”

“FIRE BURNING ON THE DANCE FLOOR!”

We looked back at each other and that time I knew we were on the same page.

“Run.”

We got up, hands still locked together, and bolted toward the door. I could hear the manager yell out “no one leaves until they pay!” but we ignored and pressed on. We were just about to leave when a steel wall came crashing down in front of the door.

“IT MAKES THE DOOR HAPPY TO KEEP CUSTOMERS INSIDE!” The restaurant manager's exclamations echoed.

Again, we gave each other a look, nodded, and took to the window. Luckily there was no barrier of any sort to keep us from jumping out. We landed on the sidewalk, not on our feet, but with a crash, and scrapes against our elbows and knees.

“Next time,” she groaned. “Let's just order take-out.” I watched as she let go of my hands.

If only I could have savored the hand-holding just a little longer...maybe back at the apartment. Yeah! We could do all sorts of intimate things back at the apartment!

As much as I wanted to think of and list all the sexy things we could (and would) do, my gaze shifted back to the restaurant. If it were just an empty building, I would have opted for the two of us to keep running, but oh, my stupid conscience.

Yeah, I know I'm not great or nothin', but who would I be if I didn't at least try to save them?

“Hey!” I yelled to a guy across the street. “Call 9-1-1! Tell them there's a fire!”

Maybe it was the tone of my voice that made him do as I said, or maybe he was just clear enough in the head to not be affected by the syndrome spreading. Wishful thinking on my part, maybe, but it seemed like he could at least put two and two together, and I watched him make the call.

I hope they can put out the fire. I hope there's any way for at least a few people to be saved. If they even want to be saved. Oh no...what if I end up endangering the fire fighters and then the 'happy' thing spreads and I just made anything worse.

I shook my head and stopped myself from continuing such thoughts. There had to be a way, and even if there wasn't, I still tried something. There was still some semblance of a world left.

“Okay, Butch, let's get out of here!”

“Hey! You used my name!”

Deep down I was still used to Mavis, but I myself have gone through many names, so I could respect that. What was wrong with a little name change, anyway?

We bolted out of there and continued running until we reached our apartment.

Although we had spent a bit of time in Paris, we didn't stay long, and we stayed in the ship the whole way through. I mean, I could've stretched or something. Not like I thought it would kill me to leave the ship. Velvet sure left the ship in spite of the danger she knew she faced.

It was still early into the outbreak, and although both of us were aware time was of the essence, much of the world was yet to be affected. Our concern then was more the worry that those in authority (CIA? Interpol? The Flashbulb?) would try to kill us both.

“Hey Mavis, I'm gonna go out for some snacks! Be back in a few!”

I was just laying back in the bed and trying to write schematics for building a robot, or some death ray. Just like the good ol' days. I really didn't like that she used that name, and she knew how I didn't like being interrupted when I was busy.

“Fuck you! It's Butch! And do you mind? I'm trying to make some new technology here! How are we going to take on an evil organization if we don't have anything to defend ourselves with?!”

She paused. “Right! Sorry! Butch! I promise I'll get it down, so just sit tight and I'll bring back munchies!”

“You better! And you better not die out there, ya hear me? If you don't make it back tonight, I'm gonna kill you!”

Velvet knew by now that I didn't want anyone besides me killing her and even then, I didn't even want to kill her. Anymore. That was the old me. Literally.

As soon as she waved and I knew she was gone, I went back to penciling in some blueprints.

“Stupid good-for-nothing shipmate,” I grumbled. “The world could end in a few months and what was she doing? Getting snacks, that's what.”

Although in a much worse state, the world would still be around a few months later. Deep down, I believed there really was nothing we, or anyone else, could do about it. At least I could take comfort knowing that when I died, she'd die as well?

I shook my head. That wasn't as much as a comfort as I thought it would be. I still wanted to live, I still wanted to know and define myself before I died. Like it or not, it was hard not to see myself as that 'thing' created with the mindset of wanting to be someone else. Not just anyone else, but the person I once thought I was better than. Or was it that I thought that person was better than me? Regardless, I didn't want to be that person who I felt so compelled to compare myself to. Not if I could help it.

Back at the apartment, I sat back on the couch and pulled up the foot rest to recline. It was the best I could think to do to calm myself. Whatever you wanted to call me, I'll be the first to admit to having quite the scare back there.

“I'm sorry.”

I heard her voice from behind me. I turned to see her in a chair, looking down at the floor.

“Don't worry about it,” I reassured her.

“I thought I was over that. I thought that wouldn't happen.”

So that was it, huh? She scared herself, too. The chivalrous me should have comforted her with a big hug or something, but the me on the couch was too tense to get up and do anything.

“Sorry,” she repeated.

“So what? You relapsed. It happens. I don't blame you.”

I said that. I meant it. So why did it come out in such a huff?

“Sorry.”

“Stop saying you're sorry. It's fine.”

“Sorry.”

“I said it's fine!” I snapped.

My heart jumped. That was the wrong move. I knew it. If it were any other friendship, I would have acted better, I knew I would. If we were lovers, I would have acted a hell of a lot better. But we were neither. We weren't enemies (not anymore, anyway), but...we weren't really anything else.

Even still, I felt bad about snapping.

“I'm sorry,” I got up and faced her. “I didn't mean for it to come out like that.”

She looked up, her eyes looked a bit misty. I hope that didn't mean what I thought it meant.

“I understand why it did.”

“Look,” I gave a toothy grin and pressed both of my index fingers to my cheeks. “I feel great! So let's dance! Everything's fine!” I did a little dance in place, leaning from one end to the other, keeping my smile going.

“Just admit you think I'm a burden,” even with her usual under-the-breath growl, it was still clear how sullen she was.

“I don't think you're a burden. I swear.”

I really am no good at this, am I?

“Don't lie to me. That's the LAST thing I need.”

I stamped my foot. There must have still been an ounce of adrenaline left in me.

“Listen: I think I'm a burden!” I pointed to myself. I must have looked like the greatest asshole in all of existence. Oh phooey. “The world could end any day now and I still haven't figured out how to do anything about it! I'm such a procrastinator that the world is literally ending and I'm still waiting until the last minute! I need a concrete deadline to even function! If Conrad was here, he could tell me to go and do the impossible and stop the world from ending before the day is over, and maybe I'd stress myself bald, but damn it, I'd find a way to do it!”

“You still can, you idiot!” She barked back. Oh, she was angry, wasn't she? While I wouldn't want us to fight, I preferred her being angry over depressed. “You broke into Area 51 and lived! Twice! You stole a ship, you stole precious data, and you stole a girl!”

“I...what?”

“Never mind that last part!”

Oh, no. I was going to mind it, all right. I knew I was. I burst into laughter and fell to the floor. My sides ached as I couldn't stop myself from laughing.

“No take backs!”

“Oh, fuck you!” I couldn't tell if she was angry or flustered. “It was the heat of the moment!”

I sat up and wiped my face. Looked like I had a bit of tears as well. What were they from? Laughter? Stress? Who could say?

“You don't want me to lie to you? Sure. I'll be honest. It's not easy. I didn't want anyone with me. I wanted to go this alone and I would have considered anyone who came along to be more responsibility than I would have liked. But...I'm glad to have this responsibility. You're important to me. I want to do all that I can to keep you alive.”

“Please,” she scoffed. “I don't need you to be responsible for me just because you feel guilty over your friends dying.”

Oof. That should have struck a nerve, but I was used to it. Not like she was wrong, anyway, but still, oof.

“Hey! Low blow!”

“Yeah, you're right.” She must've realized what she had said was hurtful. “Sure, I like to provoke you, but that was much, even for me.”

“Heh. That's okay. I'm oddly into it.”

“Don't know why you would. Weirdo.”

“Hey, speaking of being provocative... “

“No! You shut up right now!”

“Make me.”

Butch leaped down from the chair and landed on top of me. I found my arms pinned down and I was on my back; in other words, I had become her prey.

“What are you going to do?” I egged on. “Going to try to steal my face? Going to try to kill me?”

“Even worse,” she whispered.

Ah, that was how my fate would be sealed, huh? Helpless at her mercy. Very well, I was going to accept whatever she had in store for me.

I closed my eyes and felt her breath against mine. Next thing I felt were her lips against mine. When I felt her pull back, I opened my eyes.

“Again,” I told her.

She kissed me again.

There were some perks to the apocalypse on the horizon. First off, we found an empty apartment, all furnished and everything. Just up a flight of stairs above a convenience store, no less. Best part was, there were no landlords to deal with. They must have been one of the earliest ones to go. All the better for us.

After we had staked our claim, Velvet landed the ship in a nearby vacant lot, and we got to work setting up our new pad.

Oh yeah. That was the other perk about the whole “end of the world” thing: it was quite easy for us to nab ourselves some furniture and electronics. There were a few shops left abandoned and fair amount of merchandise left unlooted.

“We really lucked out, huh?” She grinned.

“Yeah, yeah. This is only temporary, y'know? At least until we figure out how we're going to infiltrate The Flashbulb HQ and reverse the damage already done.”

If we can manage to do that at all.

“Lemme 'yeah, yeah' you back! We're golden, baby! We got the world in our hands!”

“People are dying.”

“Well, this IS only temporary.”

“THAT'S WHAT I JUST SAID!”

Honestly, I shouldn't have been surprised. We've been with each other for...at least a month? And that's not counting the few days spent underground back in the desert.

Neither of us bothered to learn the name of the city we had set up camp in. You'd think that would be easy enough to do, like the name of the city would be plastered around in enough places that there'd be no way we didn't know where we were at. Or hell, the ship's GPS could have told us. Anything.

But the reality was that we knew the name of the city, but neither of us thought of it by name, especially considering the world's condition. Rather, we just called it a city and carried on.

Both of us did our best to gather intel. I had already told her just where The Flashbulb's HQ was, but knowing where it was wasn't the same as knowing how to get there.

“It's in space, sort of,” I told her back then.

“What do you mean 'sort of'?”

“Well, it's like...in a space outside of space.”

“That makes even less sense!”

“I know! Look, I don't know how it works, either. But it's like, the station, craft, whatever. It's a giant...”

“Is it like the starship enterprise?”

“Uh...yeah. I guess so.”

“So we got a Star Trek thing in space, but it's...not in space?”

“It's in a place where time doesn't flow. But time flows inside.”

Velvet was getting irritated. For as smart as she could be, it seemed even she was having trouble wrapping her head around it.

“Each time you try to explain, it makes less sense! Like, if they're some time-traveling illuminati, and there's, like, an unlimited amount of universe, or some kind of bullshit like that, then wouldn't that mean that there's an unlimited amount of Flashbulb headquarters? At least, potentially, anyway? So how does time not flow outside, but it does inside?”

“Look, maybe all I know is bullshit. I mean, I only know these things because of what I learned in Area 51, which itself is red herring among red herrings. But if I had to guess, and for the sake of making another pointless reference, maybe it's like a Doctor Who thing?”

“Fuck it. What's that mean?”

“You know, one of those time-traveling phone booths? Like, maybe there's an unlimited amount of Flashbulb headquarters inside of the one, but there's only one on the outside.”

“But if we tore it apart from the inside, wouldn't it show on the outside? And, say they're overseeing this mess on Earth right now, but in a different universe, they never even come in contact with the entity that they used to infuse so much stuff with? Then what?”

“I don't know! It's not like I've even been there!”

She paced, obviously not satisfied with my answer.

“So we know they're behind this. We know they exist. We know they have a main headquarters. We may or may not know where that headquarters is. What we don't know is how to get there nor how to stop them.”

“I can one-up you.”

“Oh?”

Even saying such a thing made me feel just a little bit triumphant.

“We know the ETNA Corporation is a subsidiary of The Flashbulb. More specifically, the ETNA Corporation is the Morale Department.”

“Oh, right. I think I knew that, actually.”

“That's why I said 'we', you dingus!”

“Know anything I don't?”

I did, I knew plenty she didn't know. Just as she probably knew plenty I didn't. I had to have some secrets, too, didn't I? Then again, with the way she can get me to talk, there was always that chance of them spilling out at any moment.

“So what if I do?”

“Well, what do you know?”

Maybe I could've told her something small. What I told her instead was something I should've known better to do.

“You know when you lived in that one city with your partners Conrad and Kelly Roger?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Well, I did some research...”

“And?”

C'mon, I told her how the old man she gave a home to had been killed like it was no big deal. So why should I feel bad about telling her about her friends?

“No. I don't feel like telling you.”

“Come on!”

“Screw you! I can choose what to and not to tell you!”

“Please? I can take it!”

Hm...maybe she could. She was notorious for being tough.

“Well, I found out that both of them died.”

“What?! Did they do it?”

I shook my head.

“I don't know. It seems not even The Flashbulb knows how they died, just that they did. Conrad went through one of those elevators in an act of desperation and both Conrad and Kelly Roger's body were later found in the wreckage of what used to be that base under your group occupied.”

“I can't believe this...I should've been there. I shouldn't have ever left them behind. It was the same for Blanc. Why does this happen with everyone I meet?”

“God damn it! This is why I didn't want to tell you!”

“I should have been there...”

I could see her start to get agitated. Hm. What's something she would have said about anyone else in her shoes? 'That's not a good look for you'? Hm. Maybe that's not what I want to say.

“There's nothing you could have done, you idiot!”

“I could have protected them. I could have prevented it. Somehow, anyway. I'm sure of it.”

“You want to prevent more deaths? Then let's figure out how to put a stop to this!”

Oh, sure. I sounded so confident when I said that. As if there was really anything we could do to put a stop to what's already begun.

“If it was Kelly Roger, they'd be able to find all the info on The Flashbulb without having to put themselves in any danger. Maybe that kid didn't know much else, but I couldn't have figured out all I did the same way Kelly Roger could've.”

Oh, bother.

“Yeah, but if anyone but you were to do what you did back at Area 51, would they have survived?”

There. That should've gotten through to her.

“You're right. But I shouldn't have survived. I wouldn't have, too, if it weren't for several miracles.”

“YOU'RE GONNA DRIVE ME MAD!”

“Madly in love with me?”

I scoffed. “Ha. At least you retained your sense of humor.”

“Okay, but really, you think I could ever get you to like me?”

What was this? Was she some kind of puppy? No. That couldn't be it. She must have been employing one of her tricks. That, or she really was in such a place of weakness. I knew I needed to treat carefully, so I shook my head.

“I don't even trust you.”

“Aw, come on! Would I ever lie to you?”

Yep. There it was.

“Yes. You do it all the time!”

She sat down. “What if I told you something I've never told anyone else?”

“Like what? And how would I know you haven't told anyone else.”

“I'm 28 years old.”

“...What?”

“I've never told anyone my age. Not Conrad, not Kelly Roger, not Blanc. Not any random asshole on the street. I've just never felt the need to tell anyone.”

“So three years ago, when you were in that city...”

“25.”

“But how is that even possible? You were in the CIA at what?”

“21. I infiltrated Area 51 and took off with the ship when I was 23.”

“That doesn't add up, but then again, I'm not surprised. Nothing you say ever adds up.”

“Sure it does. I was young, but I can tell people I'm a few years older than I am and they never question it. I actually graduated college at 20.”

“How do I know you're telling the truth?”

She smiled her sly smile. “You don't. There's no way to prove I am or am not 28. Any records of me have been erased long ago.”

“Great. So I still can't trust you.”

“Sure you can! When I met you just a couple months ago, you were 20 and I was 27. Hm...now that I think about it, that's quite a gap for a relationship.”

“You were 27? So you had your birthday recently?”

She shrugged. “Probably. I can't remember when my birthday is. Head's too jumbled by all these other identities I've taken on in the past.”

“Also,” I pointed out. “I never told you I was 20. I was 22.”

“Ah, I thought I recalled you saying you were 20. I could've sworn. Well, I guess 22 and 28 isn't as bad.”

Maybe I did. Not all of my memories of previous incarnations of me were intact.

“And another thing! We're not in a relationship!”

“You mean we're not in a romantic relationship. We've definitely got some kinda dynamic going on here.”

“Bleh! And for your information, I'm not even 22!”

“Oh? Did you have your birthday recently too? So you're 23.”

“In a sense I had my birthday recently. But I'd still be 22 in a sense as well.”

“Explain.”

I really didn't want to. Why did I have to run my flap? That was supposed to be one of my strengths over her. She couldn't go without talking at all times, but me? I could keep quiet if I needed to. So why am I letting things slip while she's still got her secrets intact?

“I didn't survive Area 51.”

“Holy shit. Am I speaking to a ghost or something?”

I shook my head. “I really wanted to keep this from you...maybe I'm just a little different from my past self...”

“Your past self!”

Yes. She was already catching on.

“Etna appeared sometime after you ran off. The leader of the ETNA Corporation. She gave me a choice, a sadistic one, but those are the only kind of choices she provides. I took her offer. I stepped through one of the elevators. She made one appear, as if through magic. I wanted to go right to you.”

“So...”

“In a manner of speaking I've only been alive for a couple months.”

I watched as she clutched her head and shook it. “Ew. Ew. Ew. Why did you have to make this weird? You make it sound like I'm dating a baby!”

“WE'RE NOT DATING!” Deep breaths, Butch. “Er...I only went to you because I didn't know where else to go, only that I wanted out of that facility. We just share a ship together.”

“Ugh! If this was any other sci-fi or fantasy or whatever involving clones, something like that would never even come up! You're mentally and physically in your 20s, right?”

I shrugged. “Sure. And I've only been alive for a couple months.”

“So the one I spent time with underground who hated me, you're not her?”

“Correct. Then again, I am her. Just not the same her.”

Huh. It seemed I was taking things rather well. Velvet started grinning real wide. I hoped she hadn't caught that thing going around.

“So the one I've been with these past couple months doesn't hate me, huh?”

“Sure I do. Just not enough to kill you. I just put up with you.”

Velvet huffed and crossed her arms. Heh...whether or not I wanted her dead, I still loved the thought of pushing her buttons.

“Well, nice to meet'cha. Mavis, Butch, whoever you wanna be.”

I scoffed. “I wanna be me.” That's right. I didn't even want to be her, I just wanted to be me.

I woke up to a pitch black apartment. The clock on the wall said it was 3:33 AM. Cool. Witching hour time. That was when the magic happened, right?

I leaned my head up and saw Mav...Butch over me, resting her head on my chest. My...unclothed chest? I lifted my left hand and ran it down her back; it glided against her skin and that's when I realized: she wasn't wearing anything either.

Oh right. That. You see, one thing led to another, we got up on the couch, and...clothes were on the floor. Or somewhere. I couldn't quite recall. One of those heat in the...things.

I began to shiver. Fuck. Speaking of heat, the least we could've done was put a blanket over us! I tried reaching up to the top of the couch, but it was no use. No blanket.

You know, we have a bedroom! There are blankets there!

What was also no use was my continued shivering. Now that I remembered what led to all that, I felt wide away and could not stop from shivering. I shivered so hard that the kawaii gremlin herself fell onto the floor.

“Ow!” She rubbed her eyes. “What was that for?”

“I'm fucking freezing!” I got up and took a snuggie out from the closet. Poor thing must've been gathering dust. Well, mama decided it was finally time to bring you out.

“I was plenty warm...” She muttered.

“Oh, good for you! I could have died from pneumonia!”

“If you did, I would have laughed. Out of all the things to kill you.”

“At least you weren't suckin' on my tits in your sleep!”

“Do you have to say it like that? It sounds weird coming from you.”

“Or grabbin' my butt! Jeez!”

“Is sex all you think about?”

“It is when that's what led us to being passed out and naked on the couch!”

She didn't have a response to that. I saw her looking down at the floor, which either meant one of two things: flustered, or depressed. Lucky for me, it wasn't hard to figure out which. For as rude as she liked to act, she sure did fluster easily and when she got embarrassed, she'd just look away or look down at the floor and not say anything.

“I'm going to bed. Our actual bed.”

“Can you carry me there?” She whined. Whined? Begged? I don't know. She must've been so tired that she wasn't even aware of how she sounded at the moment.

“You can walk.”

“I'm still sleepy.”

“Do I look like I can carry you?” I crossed my arms, snuggie sleeves sliding over my hands. Damn, that thing was comfy.

“No. But I know you can.”

Rude and with 'tude. At least she was predictable.

“Fine.”

I went over and hunched down. She climbed up on my back and wrapped her arms over my shoulders, her legs spread out and also wrapped around...okay. I didn't want to think such thoughts. It was already past 3 AM. Both of us just wanted some sleep, I was sure.

“You're furry...” She murmured.

“I'm wearing a snuggie.”

“Share.”

“It's a one person snuggie.”

“No fair.”

“You have no room to talk. You got my body heat.”

I set her on the bed. Where there were blankets. As there should be.

Ah, then it was my turn. I crashed on my end, face down against a pillow. My, how I was glad there was so much space on our bed. Queen sized, because of course.

“I'm going to crawl in your snuggie while you sleep,” her tired impish voice threatened me.

“You can't...there's not enough room.” That was probably a lie. But she knew what blankets were. I needed that snuggie all to myself, dammit!

“Then I'll steal it from you when you're asleep.”

“Ah, so that's how you finally do me in. How dastardly.”

Face met pillow. Pillow invited face into her warm embrace. Pillow was the only lover face needed.

“Now that I'm in bed I can't sleep.”

I turned over. Ah, if she couldn't sleep, I wouldn't be able to sleep, either.

“So what do you want to do?”

“Stare up at the ceiling.”

“Yeah. That sounds like fun.”

“Would be nice if there were some glow in the dark constellation magnets on the ceiling.”

“Hell yeah, dude.”

“Hey,” she turned her head my way. I did as well. Even apart, we were still so close to each other. “I was thinking about earlier. At the restaurant.”

“I know. You're sorry.”

“I don't want to be like that.”

“I know.”

“It scares me.”

I gulped. Yikes. What could I say to that? That it scared me too?

“You aren't the only one who gets like that. I've seen folks on the street fuck each other in broad daylight until their skin rips off or their hearts give out. I saw a few folks chasing traffic, or folks in cars running into other cars in a sort of high-stakes game of bumper cars. There were firefighters setting buildings on fire so they had more to put out. People who can't swim going down waterslides. The list goes on.”

“I've seen some things, too. It's not just people.”

“Mhm. It's like logic has gone out the window. Some of the actions are more...in the realm of reality, but in other cases, it's like Wonderland. Either way, everything's affected. But I think it just affects the ones who have been cloned more.”

“Is that why you aren't affected?”

“Who says I'm not?”

“It doesn't seem like you are.”

“It affects everyone differently. I don't even know how to describe it. It's like one of those highs you get when you've been laughing with friends, but the high doesn't stop until you're all gone. It brings out those intense desires in people – It doesn't have to be sexual, mind you. Just anything that makes you feel good. From there, it's heightened to such levels where you're all but sure to burst.”

“It doesn't make me ha...” She started to hyperventilate. “Ha...ha...”

“Slow breaths. You got this.” I placed my hand on her cheek.

“It doesn't make me feel very good.”

“That's because you've managed to come down from it. When you're aware of how destructive it can get, sure, it probably wouldn't feel very good.”

“I've only managed to come down from it because of you. Why?”

That wasn't something I could say, was it? I didn't know the answer. Not in specific terms, anyway. I knew the gist: conversing with the source behind it all. But how could I explain that? I didn't know why the...thing...let her get back to normal, even if temporarily. Because I asked them nicely?

“Because I have the magic touch.”

“Okay.”

“Wait. You're just gonna buy that?”

She didn't say anything at first, then spoke again:

“What is it that makes you ha...feel good?”

“You already know the answer to that,” I teased.

She glared at me.

“Oh fine,” I relented. “Right now, it's helping you get to where you want to be.”

“What is this, a Hallmark movie? You're such a sap.”

“Hey, I answered! What about...at risk of saying something that could trigger you...”

“Nothing triggers me.”

“...What would make you happy?”

Her eyes widened. I thought I had really done it that time. Well, I did say 'at risk'.

“Being in control,” she answered. “Of myself. Knowing myself. Being myself. Being who I want to be, whoever that may be. As long as it's me.”

“I'd like to help you with that.”

Her eyes closed. So did mine. We both went back to sleep.

Just a few days prior to the incident at the restaurant, I had finally completed work on some of my personal projects while Velvet was away. Earlier that morning, she said she was out “shopping”, but of course it had to be something else. Nothing was ever just “shopping” with her. She was scheming something, I just knew it.

“Okay, computer, show me what Velvet's up to.” I spoke into the mic.

“Velvet is coming up the stairs.”

“What? Fuck! Fuck! Abort!”

No wait. That was perfect, actually. She could be my test subject...

“Computer, employ reinforced wall.”

I watched as steel plates slid out from the walls and pressed themselves against the door frame. With it, she was in for a surprise.

“Heh...heh...heh...”

Sure enough, I heard the sound of her footsteps click-clack as she approached the door. Then, there was the shimmy of the knob. First slow, then vigorous. The sign of frustration. Then...

“HEY MAVIS! WHY IS THE DOOR LOCKED?!”

Her shouts of despair was music to my ears. I couldn't help but burst into a cackle. But, there was just one problem.

“That's not my name!” I called back.

I wonder if she could actually hear my reply or if my voice was too muffled by the steel plating.

“OH! SORRY! BUTCH! WHY IS THE DOOR LOCKED?! WE NEVER LOCK THE DOOR!”

“Hm. Well maybe we should...” I grumbled. She of all people should've known how dangerous the world could be.

“WHAT'S THE PASSWORD?” I shouted back, making sure she could hear me.

“WHAT? JUST OPEN THE DOOR!”

“THE PASSWORD. WHAT'S THE PASSWORD?”

“SWORDFISH.”

“NO!”

“WHAT? IT'S ALWAYS SWORDFISH! ALSO, WHY ARE WE SHOUTING? I CAN HEAR YOU JUST FINE!”

Oh. Well then. That changed everything.

“Why would it be swordfish? I don't know how your mind operates!”

“Neither do I! Just let me in!”

I sighed. At least I knew it worked.

“Computer, disengage the reinforced wall and open the front door.”

“As you wish.”

The door slid open and Velvet fell through. But it wasn't as slapstick as I would have it to be. She didn't fall to the floor, not one bit. Just a little wobble, then she regained her balance.

“Jeez! What was that? Oh, never mind! Look!”

Wow. Was she really not that impressed? I turned to see what she was so excited about. In her hands was a package of dry noodles. That was all. Nothing else.

“We're eating good tonight!” She beamed. “I got us some gourmet top ramen! You can tell it's good because it's got 'top' in the name!”

I glared at her. “Is that some kind of sexual joke?”

She continued to beam and just pointed at the name of the product on the package. Our eyes locked, but no response was given to me right away.

“Well...?”

“No, silly! 'Top' as in 'the best'! It's the best ramen there is!”

“I can never tell with you.”

I went back to my computer, working out some formulas and testing out various things. In the background, I could hear her hum as she strolled to the kitchen. If cheap ramen was her idea of gourmet, I didn't want to know what her idea of a simple dish was.

“Now that you mention it, you could be my top ramen,” she snickered.

I turned around in my chair. “Oh, come on!”

She walked over, hands on her hips. “We're both lesbians, nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I like girls, yes. I don't like you.”

“Ouch,” she made a wincing face. I could tell she was still in her silly mood.

Sometimes you had to be harsh to have your peace and quiet. At least, that's how it ought to work. That kinda stuff just didn't seem to faze her, rather, she may have relished in it. I watched her grab a chair that was lying in the middle of the floor and sat next to me.

Maybe if I made myself more clear, she would leave me alone and I could get back to work. I could only hope, right?

“I don't think I could ever like you even if I wanted to.”

She turned her head and pursed her lips. “That bad, huh?”

Why did she have to dig it out of me? Sheesh. I really didn't want to deal with any sort of emotions. All I wanted to do was focus on my work.

“It's not like that,” the words came out absentmindedly. “It's just that I was programmed not to like you.”

“Programmed? Like you're some sort of robot?”

“You know what I mean. Like my personality was cultivated a certain way, tailored to however they wanted me to think and behave.” It really got under my skin when I thought about such a thing. How unaware I was for so long. “Everyone back there was like that.”

“Mhm. Yeah. Sgt. Michaels certainly wasn't so mustache obsessed when I came across him the first time around.”

That guy. Right. He was a thing.

“That's why it gets to me. I don't know what kind of person my original self was like. Maybe someone who admired or looked up to you. Or just someone at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I know. We've been over this.”

I slammed my fist on the desk. “Yes, but this is important to me! I'm still someone, aren't I?”

“Of course! So in that case, why does that mean you aren't able to like me?”

“You're really fixated on that?” I shook my head. “I was programmed to resent you, or consider myself better than you, or want to replace you. With so many times being recreated without my knowledge, it probably took its toll on my mind. I imagine I may have had some connection to you in the past, or thought of you in some capacity, but the way they engineered me, it turned into a hateful obsession.”

I inhaled the sterile air and drew a deep breath, then exhaled.

“Now, if you excuse me, I would like to focus my thoughts on something more productive.”

Those noodles were going to be overcooked, I was sure of it. But the thought of “gourmet top ramen” must have escaped her mind, as she didn't leave her seat at all.

“Like what?”

“My pet project.”

She snorted. “Your 'pet' project.”

“I don't like the way you phrased that.”

I clicked a button on my keyboard and bionic laser pointers descended from the ceiling and focused themselves on the annoyance next to me.

“Set scopes on Velvet.”

“Hey! You tryin' to kill me?”

“They're harmless. For now. There isn't any material for them to blast anything. They're just infrared rays.”

From the corner of my eye, I watched her get up.

“So that thing with the door? And these laser things? You've been working on all this?”

“I've also got cameras which track your whereabouts.”

“What?! Creepy!”

“I've only just used them today. Though I am curious what it is you do all day, considering what kind of person you are and all.”

“You still don't trust me?” She pouted. Bleh. What a terrible actor.

“Could I ever? You probably have some great plan that I'm unaware of.”

“Okay, ignoring that for now...” She looked away, as if embarrassed.

Yeah. I'd probably get rid of that. That just confirmed it: she had nothing. Still no progress after all this time.

“Anything else?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. I duplicated the remote to your ship. So now I can get in and out whenever I want.”

She was taken aback. “What are you trying to do? Kill me and run off?”

“What's it to you if I am?” I grunted. “Though I'm not. I told you before, I don't have anywhere else to go.

“So what's all this for, then?”

“Working with tech's what I know how to do, even if such knowledge feels inherited, or false, it's still knowledge, nonetheless. We ought to be prepared for when we face off against The Flashbulb.”

“That may not be for a while.”

“How long is a while? In case you're forgetting, 'all the time in the world' isn't very much time, here.”

“I haven't forgotten! I just need to know for sure where this place is and how to get there! I can't just go off of hunches!”

“Push comes to shove, hunches may be all we got! If there's anyone I hate, truly hate, it's them!”

“Yeah, I get that, but it's not like you can take all this stuff with you.”

“I'm working on that. I'd like to have a laser-backpack of sorts.”

“Wild.”

There was a smell of super salty spices in the air. It was a rather permeating aroma.

“The ramen must be done!”

I'd pass and just opt for making pizza rolls. Seemed like the safer option.

Ah, the morning after. Still in the snuggie and everything. Yet I noticed when I woke up that Butch had wrapped her arms around me while I was asleep and was pressed against me.

“She claims to hate me, but she always seems to cling to me...” I groaned. I needed coffee. Or orange juice. Or coffee flavored orange juice.

That groggy feeling persisted, even after I pried her loose (I managed not to wake her up, some kinda miracle right there) and got up to fix myself a cup of coffee. Even two cups in, I was still dead tired.

“Yeah...not getting out of this snuggie. Too comfy.”

Another lazy Sunday was upon me. Or Wednesday. I checked my laptop just to confirm the date, then I closed it back up.

For a moment, I thought of curling up on the couch, a little velvety snuggie burrito, but instead, I did the noble thing and did the zombie stroll to the shower. Half an hour later, I was dressed and refreshed.

When the bathroom door opened, the steam that aired out seemed to signal my arrival back to the rest of the apartment, just like I was someone important. Like I was the main event, and I took center stage. The crowd would go wild and...

Butch was slumped over on the couch, bags under her eyes, wearing a navy blue hoodie and grey sweatpants. In her hands was a Nintendo Switch.

“Really? You get on my case about not doing anything but here you are, playing Animal Crossing?”

“Go away, grandma. Busy.”

“Excuse me? Grandma?! I'm not much older than you!”

“Can you keep it down,” she turned her head and looked like death. Eye crusties and messy hair. “I'm trying to bankrupt Tom Nook.”

“You should be proud of me! I'm in my important clothes and all! I've decided to take this more seriously!”

“You say that, and then...”

“I'm giving myself five days! We'll leave in five days, I'll find a way!”

“Make it four.”

Before I could argue further, the doorbell rang.

“Oh yeah. I ordered pizza while you were in the shower. Could you get that?”

I grumbled, but it wasn't like I was going to say no. While marching to the door, I fired one shot at her.

“I swear, you're the only person in the world who likes anchovies!”

“That's only because there's few people left in the world.”

Yes. Less than a week. Self-imposed deadlines never worked in the past. It was either impulse decisions or short deadlines set by others. But things were different. Things were different because I was getting bored.

I opened the door and faced the one at the other end. That same second, I wondered if the person I saw outside the door appeared specifically because I had made my decision.

[themuffinbee]

Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast

Additional Tags: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Scars, Touching, Caleb is touch-starved, He also has a crush on Jester, He does not know either of these things, Touch-Starved, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Widojest 

Summary:

What if a certain inquisitive cleric and a certain scruffy wizard had taken watch together in that crystalline cave on the way to Xhorhas? And what if she wanted to get a better look at what he’s been hiding under those bandages?

A little missing scene that could have happened in episode 50.

A/N:  Many, many thanks to Jadesabre301 ( a.k.a. Jade_Sabre on Ao3) for beta-ing this fic. She’s an amazing beta AND a fantastic writer, go read her sweet, fluffy Widojest stuff!

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

A stream of droplets trickled down the side of the bubble, no doubt from one of the jagged crystals gleaming up above. On the other side of the magical hut, the Mighty Nein slumbered away under the cover of Caduceus’s stone shell, the air punctuated with an occasional snore from Beauregard.

Caleb scratched at his arms.

Try as he might, he just couldn’t help but dig under his bandages to get at an itch that wasn’t actually there. Their current surroundings were stunning, true, but the glittering shards covering every visible surface only served to stoke unpleasant memories. Some much more recent than others.

“Hey, Caaay-leb, whatcha thinking about?” his companion whispered to him in a singsong melody.

Five minutes and forty-six seconds. Jester had lasted longer in the silence than he had expected.

“Oh, nothing much. You?”

“Just trying figure out if there’s a way to hollow out a cake, like, a small one, and fill it with the jelly they put inside doughnuts,” she replied, plopping her head onto her hand and tapping her chin, “The problem is, it would glop all over the place when you cut into it, and maybe make the cake all soggy.”

He pondered this for a moment, more than happy to escape his own thoughts, “I don’t know much about baking, but what if you made it thicker with some kind of starch? Or gelatin? Would that work?”

Her eyes brightened. “Maybe! I don’t know too much about baking either, but it would be delicious, wouldn’t it?”

He nodded. “That it would.”

“Thank you!” She paused, brows beginning to furrow. “I was also trying to make sense of the last few days. Things have gotten pretty crazy.”

Caleb stiffened and made a vague noise of affirmation, gaze drifting off to the side. His mind flashed to all of the things he had said, and left unsaid, two days ago. A subtle sense of panic began buzzing along his nerves, years of practiced self-preservation taking hold in an instant.

Change the subject, you don’t want to open the door to this conversation.

He could ask about her mother, but that might make her sad…Maybe her art? Better yet, asking her about the Traveler might–

“You know, that’s actually why I wanted to keep watch with you tonight.” She scooted closer to him. “I have a question for you…”

Scheiße. Too slow.

Thinking back, he should have turned her down the moment she volunteered for second watch right after he did. She had been far too eager, raising her hand with such force that she practically jumped off the ground. Why hadn’t he suspected anything then?

“…And you don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to.” She waved her hands in front of her. “It’s totally fine if you don’t.”

He cleared his throat. “Jester, I don’t think I–”

“Oh, and I wanted to thank you,” she cut in.

“Thank me?” He frowned. He had done nothing worthy of special thanks.“Whatever for?”

“I wanted to thank you….” she plunked her words out one by one, like a child practicing an instrument “…For trusting us. I know that must have been pretty difficult.”

She beamed at him, and he felt something loosen and tighten in his chest all at the same time. That had been happening a lot as of late. Far too often, actually.

That needs to stop.

He swallowed and cast his eyes to the ground, “Ja.”

Why was she looking at him like that? With those violet eyes filled with sincerity and a smile so warm it could melt winter itself within half a second? He had revealed that he had been lying to the Nein for months, using them as a shield, a front, and she thanked him for it?

She would never look at him like that if she knew what he was, everything he had done. His general allusions of being trained to torture were the least of his sins in his past life.

She doesn’t have to know any more than she already does. It’s not too late, change the subject.

Gluing his eyes to a pebble by his foot like it was the most fascinating thing in the world, he asked, “So, what was your question?”

It was a rare thing for him to ignore his instincts. After all, his abundance of caution had kept him safe for years, kept him from getting caught, from getting killed. Tonight, however, he found himself rebelling against his better judgment. Whether it was out of curiosity or masochism, he had no idea. Maybe he was just tired of hiding, of peddling in secrets and lies, of fearing what she thought of him.

“Well, you see, I was wondering if it would be all right,” she leaned in and whispered, “if I could take a closer look at your arms.”

Caleb blinked. “You what?”

“Your arms,” she motioned to his threadbare bandages, “I’d like to look at them. I just wanted to check them out, healing being my thing and all.”

Well, that made perfect sense, now didn’t it? It wasn’t the worst thing she could ask of him, not by a long shot. He had expected the ever-inquisitive cleric to dig straight into the sizable holes he had left in his story. But still…

“I’d really rather not, they’re a bit of a…uh…a bad memory.”

“Oh.” Jester’s face fell a tad, then brightened once again. “That’s okay. Just let me know if you change your mind.”

He frowned. “Why do you want to look at them anyway? They’re far beyond healing, there’s nothing you could do.”

“Well…” she began rummaging around in her component pouches, “I figured, now that we may be coming up against some big bad magic guys, it might be a good idea to know if they have a little extra somethin’–somethin’ up their sleeve, and maybe how it works, you know?

“Aha! There you are!” she whispered in triumph as she pulled out a tiny striped lollipop, a miniature version of her confectionary Spiritual Weapon. She held it out to him. “You want one too?”

“No, but danke.”

“You sure? They’re reeeally good,” she half-sang in that cadence of hers. “I got a bunch of them in Nicodranas right before we left, so they’re still pretty fresh.”

He shook his head with a wan smile and a small chuff of air through his nose that might be construed as a chuckle.

This seemed to appease her. Jester nodded happily and popped the sweet in her mouth, speaking around the candy. “Could I ask you another question instead?”

No.

He sighed, watching his fingers fiddle with the hem of his coat to keep them from tugging at his bandages. “You can ask, but you may not get an answer.”

This is a bad idea.

“Yeah, of course.” She nodded and thought for a second, “Do you think there are more people out there like you?”

Caleb looked up, “Do I think what now?”

“You know, others. People that ran away from the Assembly or the Academy?”

“I…I don’t know. I hadn’t ever considered it.”

He hadn’t. Not really, anyways. When he had first been thrown into the institution, he had near-feverish fantasies of Astrid or Eodwulf getting thrown in with him, of them being together once again and escaping far from the reaches of the Empire.

But it had never happened.

There had been no rescue party. His hope has been crushed into dust long before the end of those eleven hellacious years.

“Well,” Jester continued, “if there are others, maybe we could help them. That’s why I was wondering about your arms. If, like, they still had magic stuff in theirs and wanted to get it out. Who knows? Maybe even Yeza has some, since he was working for the Cerberus Assembly.”

“I see.” This conversation hadn’t gone the way he was expecting at all.

Then again, nothing ever seemed to go the way he expected if Jester was involved.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before the cleric fished her sketchbook and pencils out of her haversack.

“I’m going to make some drawings for the Traveler for a little while, is that cool?”

He nodded but said nothing, staring off into darkness as a flurry of thoughts whirled between his ears.

In his five years on the run, he hadn’t even dared to hope that there may be someone else like himself out there. The power of Trent Ikithon and the Assembly had grown to near omnipotence in his mind, their controlling influence in every realm of the Empire being an insurmountable barrier against other dissenters.

Hell, even someone like Pumat Sol was a member of the Assembly. The genial firbolg may have spoken well of the organization, but that brief flash of fear in Pumat’s eyes when he talked about Headmaster Oremid Haas spoke louder.

No, it was doubtful there was anyone else.

Caleb turned his attention back to Jester as she flipped through the pages of her sketchbook, catching glimpses of the Nein’s various exploits recorded in ink and graphite. Every once in a while, he would spot sketches of Kiri, Nila, Shakaste, and so many others. Though he may not entirely understand it, Caleb knew the cleric’s drawings were more than doodlings for her metaphysical best friend; they were prayers to her god. It was staggering, really, the number of portraits she had etched into those pages, the number of people she managed to care for all at once.

Consternation gave way to uncertainty, and perhaps the most minuscule bit of guilt, as he thought about what she had said, that the scars of his past could aid someone in the future. Granted, the chances of that were slim to none. Even still, he had told her not seventy-two hours ago that he believed in her, that he trusted her…What was the harm in testing that faith out a little?

You’ll ruin everything. Don’t taint your friendship more than you already have.

But she already knew what his arms looked like, didn’t she? There was nothing to hide. At least, not on this front.

“…All right,” he whispered, his voice almost inaudible to his own ears.

“Hm?” She looked up from her drawing. “What was that?”

“I said all right, you can look at my arms.”

Her face split into a smile, “Really?”

“Really really,” he responded, shrugging out of his coat and unwrapping the bandages at his elbows before he lost whatever speck of courage he had managed to gather.

Idiot. You’re as big a sucker as that candy she has in between her teeth.

Jester scrambled back over to him until they were sitting knee to knee, watching with an intensity and focus normally reserved for her sketches. With an absent-minded crunch, she bit into the lollipop and placed the stick back in its wrapper.

Fighting off a small wave of nausea, Caleb held his arm before her.

She gently took hold of it, “Now, just tell me if you change your mind and I’ll stop, okay?”

He nodded, then held his breath.

Jester closed her eyes and whispered something he couldn’t quite make out, a prayer on playfully reverent lips. Her eyes opened, and a quick flash of green light filled her irises before it burned away like verdant embers.

Smart girl, casting magical detection like that. Caleb knew she wouldn’t find anything; he hadn’t felt the sting of magic under his skin for years, but it was a good thought nonetheless.

He was mostly fine for the first few minutes, surprisingly so, as he watched her turn his arm this way and that. But as the process went on, he noticed the look of focus on Jester’s features sink into an expression of uncomfortable concern. Her lips pursed together as she took in the numerous faint scars spidering across his skin, the corners of her mouth dipping as her eyes and fingers met with each wound.

Soon, she asked to see his other arm, to which he obliged without protest. However, a sick feeling had begun to eat away at the insides his stomach, like he was watching her search through a pile of filth and rotted garbage.

Then it happened.

Memory and present merged into a single vision, as they so often did for him. This time there were no screams of anguish rending the air as ash and the smell of burning flesh gagged him from the inside out. No, this was much quieter, but just as sinister.

Instead of her fingers sliding over the faded remnants of his past sins, Caleb saw Jester inspecting a crystalline rainbow consuming his flesh one inch at a time. He nearly cried out and pushed her away – he couldn’t let them take hold of her too, encasing her fingers in a prismatic prison that would eat its way up her arms, her chest, mouth, eyes. Hollow laughter rang out from somewhere in the depths of the cave, a sound he wished he could forget.

It’s not real. He’s not here. Götter verdammt noch mal, es ist nicht real.

Willing his arm to keep from shaking, Caleb took a deep breath and hoped she didn’t notice how it shuddered in his lungs. He trained his gaze on his boots, knowing that closing his eyes would only make the vision worse. How long had it lasted? Ten seconds? Three? Less? It was hard to tell.

“Caleb, are you sure you’re okay?”

Damn. He looked up to find her staring at him, concern etched into every inch of her face.

“Caleb, we can stop. You don’t have to do this.” She looked back down at his arm. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not, it’s not you…It’s…It’s a bad memory, like I said.” His words were a halting mess, but even the simple act of speaking them helped ground him to reality.

A memory, yes, that’s right. Only a memory. She was safe, he was safe, there was nothing to fear. Only a series of faint scars on skin as white as bones.

“That doesn’t make much of a difference if I’m the one bringing back the memory, and it looks like it’s worse than just ‘bad.’ It’s okay, I’ll stop now.”

Her grip slackened on his arm, and a whole new kind of panic took him. He knew only one thing, and that was he did not want her to let go. If she let go, then he had failed her, broken his word, lied to her. Not too long ago, he wouldn’t have cared a wit if someone were disappointed in him. Why did he care now?

“Wait, hold on. You’re almost done, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but–”

“Go ahead and finish. It’s no good to leave the job half done.”

“Are you sure?”

Her fingers were barely touching him now, like birds perched on a branch, ready to fly off at any moment. She needed a sign that he was actually okay, not paltry words that could be guilty lies as easily as earnest truths. With a slow, deliberate motion, he relaxed into her hand until his arm was flush with her palm.

He held her gaze with his. “Yes.”

She looked at him for a moment or two, trying to find any sign of uncertainty. Then, one of the corners of her mouth rose into a half-smile. “You know, recently, you look different, Caleb.”

He frowned, more than a little confused by this assertion. “I look exactly the same as the day I met you.”

“No, not physically. Well, maybe a little, in a way.”

“Jester, you are not making very much sense.”

She cocked her head to the side. “You seem… lighter, less heavy. I don’t know…You’re different, but a good different.”

“If you say so.” He didn’t feel any lighter. If anything, he felt tired from carrying around too many secrets for too long, but maybe that was her point.

“I can see it. ” She gave him another appraising look and nodded. “Yup, definitely a good different.”

He shook his head, knowing he was more pleased than he should be at that nonsensical assessment, “You are a very silly tiefling.”

Her teeth flashed in the low light. “Good.”

Now more grounded in the present, Caleb felt his heartbeat slow in his chest, the wave of panic and nausea subsiding. As he watched her resume the study of his scars, he could see faint specks of light in her hair and on her skin, reflected from the glittering walls of the cave, mixing in with the myriad of freckles on her face. The tip of her tail curled and uncurled idly at her side, a behavior he found rather reminiscent of Frumpkin. Her face wore the same look she had while painting, with one pointed incisor peeking out as she bit down on a cerulean lip. It was as though every fiber of her being was directed only to what was in front of her, like nothing else mattered or even existed.

And then there were her hands, inkstained and delicate, but also strong and steady. Cool fingertips trailed against his skin, more soothing than any healing balm. Each gentle touch was a ripple of sensation, leaving tingling goosebumps in her wake while relaxing the muscles beneath. It was almost too much for him, and yet still somehow not enough.

It had been…what? At least sixteen years since he’d had real physical contact with anybody else? No sleeves, bandages, or gloves acting as a barrier? He had forgotten how nice it was to feel another person’s touch in the most basic of ways, especially when said person exerted such care with every movement.

“You know, you…” The words were out of his mouth before he realized he was speaking.

“Hm?” She looked up, eyes glowing amethyst in the dim light. “What did you say?”

That was a good question, what was he saying? He felt his voice wither away, somehow forgetting how vocal cords were supposed to work.

“You…ah…” He fumbled, unable to transform the half-thought, half-feeling into any kind of verbal sense. He was fluent in four languages, gods damn it, yet words escaped him. It didn’t help that she kept staring at him with those eyes, neither did the sudden realization that their faces were much closer together than he had thought. “Um…Du bist ein guter Kleriker.”

That was definitely not Common.

She wrinkled her nose with a grin. “What?”

“What I meant was…” He backtracked, trying to find the right term.

“Yes?” She wiggled her shoulders back and forth in a little expectant dance.

“Just that…You’re good at being a cleric, at healing.” That still wasn’t quite right. “ You have…I think they call it a nice bedside manner.”

“Well, of course!” She waggled her eyebrows with a wicked grin. “I grew up at the Lavish Chateau, after all, so I know a lot about bedside manners.”

An inexplicable heat rushed into his cheeks and his mind went as blank as unused parchment. He could hear the echo of her words from two days ago bounce around in his brain: “Are you secretly in love with me?”

No. Of course not. That would be…

Caleb coughed into his free hand. “I don’t think those are quite the same thing.”

“You never know, there are some preeetty crazy religions out there.” She gave him one of those mischievous little smiles, the kind that always made the corners of his mouth want to tug upwards as well, then her eyes softened. “And thanks, that means a lot.”

He nodded, hoping she couldn’t see the furious flush across his face.

“Now, Ha-err Widogast.” She settled back and raised a finger in the air. “I’d like to ask some post-examination questions. You’ve been really good about everything, so I’ll try to keep this quick, I promise.”

He sighed. “We really need to work on your Zemninan.”

“Is that a yes?” She pressed her hands together in playful supplication with imploring eyes, leaving his arm cradled in her lap. “Please?”

Gods, how was he supposed to say no to that face?

He blew out a long breath, somehow feeling amused despite himself. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. You would make as decent an Expositor as our monkish friend over there.”

She grinned. “I’d be pretty good at it, wouldn’t I? Too bad those Cobalt guys aren’t anywhere near as cool as the Traveler.”

“It is most certainly their loss.”

“So…That’s a yes?”

“Ja.”

“Ja. Okay, good.” Her hand slid under own and up his arm, her fingers grazing a scar on his wrist. Another small shiver shot across his skin. “Do you know how many you have on each side? Scars, I mean.”

He cleared his throat. “Thirty-three on the left, thirty-five on the right.”

“Mhmm, that’s what I counted.” She nodded. “Do you have more anywhere else?”

“There are four more on each upper arm,” he answered, then added, “There’s also one on each calf.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Oh? Why just one on each?”

“Ah, well, they, uh, they made it harder to walk.” He hoped she’d be satisfied with that vague of an answer, he didn’t want her to know the more gory details.

She looked as though she might press him further, then paused. She thought for a moment before asking, “What kind of crystals were they?”

His vision from a few minutes before flashed to the front of his mind. “It was hard to tell…They came in an array of colors, but most of the ones I saw weren’t cut, or even polished.”

“Rubies? Emeralds?”

“Sure, rubies and emeralds seem likely.”

She paused for a second. “What about aquamarine, or maybe fire opal?

That was…oddly specific.

“Perhaps? I’m no geologist or jeweler. Like I said, the few I saw were all sorts of shapes and colors, and all in their rough forms. We were never told what they were, or what they were supposed to do. It might have skewed the experiment otherwise.”

“Okay,” she responded, but said no more.

After several seconds of silence, he looked up to find her staring at his upraised palm with her mouth scrunched up to one side, as if she were trying to remember something.

“Jester?”

She blinked a few times. “Oh! Sorry, I was just…thinking.” She set her shoulders and flashed him a smile, but it was tighter than usual.

“What about?” It was a rare thing for the talkative tiefling to drop out of a conversation like that. “You went pretty far into your head for a moment there.”

“Well,” she began, “you remember how Orly told me about those magical tattoos?”

“Ja, you were pretty excited about those for a while.”

“And I still am, they’re really cool! But it just hit me…” she trailed off, one of her fingers absently tracing small, rather distracting circles on his forearm. “It just hit me that they’re basically the same thing as what you had, the only difference is that the crystals are ground down and inside the skin, instead of under it.”

“There are…definite similarities, yes.”

“Isn’t that kinda a weird coincidence?” Her finger stilled its movement, and he told himself he did not feel disappointed.

“I’m sure that the practice of tattooing with gem dust had been around long before I ever went to Rexentrum. The Assembly most likely took something perfectly harmless and…changed it to suit their purposes. It’s sort of what they do.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” She nodded, but still looked a tad uneasy. Which, in turn, made Caleb feel uneasy.

“Or,” he continued, leaning forward with a conspiratorial whisper, “are you worried that our trusted navigator might actually be a spy for the Empire?”

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Yes, that’s it exactly! It’s a perfect cover!”

He raised his eyebrows. “We cracked the case?”

“We cracked the case!” She grinned up at him and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear before glancing back down at his arm. “So, um, where did they go?”

“The crystals?”

“Yeah, like, did you learn how to shoot them out like a superpowered porcupine, or did you absorb them and that’s why you’re so good at magic?”

“No, they, uh, they were removed.”

“Like, a surgery? And they were put in the same way?”

“Ja. They knocked us out with a potion, inserted or removed the crystals, then a cleric healed the cuts over afterward, just enough to close the wounds.” Then he hesitated before saying, “If we ever did meet anyone with something similar, it most would most likely require certain tools and training to extract the crystals.”

“Oh.” She deflated a little.

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“No, no, it’s good to know.” She contemplated his arm for a few moments more. “There was something you said…about the crystals themselves.”

“Yes?”

“How did you know what they looked like if you were asleep during the surgery and the cuts were healed up?”

“Ah…Ja, uh, the crystals were supposed to stay under the skin. But that’s the thing about experiments.” He rubbed the back of his head with his hand, tugging at his hair. “They don’t always go as planned, especially when you add magic to the mix.”

Her hands, the ones that had been so gentle and sure as they inspected his scars, stiffened around his wrist. “Supposed to stay under…?”

Realizing just what he had said, Caleb bit the inside of his cheek.

Scheiße.

Her eyes widened and a slow, unsettled look crept across her face as she began to pick apart his statement. Though she may play the fool, Jester was far from stupid. There were only so many ways to interpret what he had said, and none of them were pleasant.

Scheiße, Scheiße, Scheiße.

Caleb could have kicked himself. Jester had such an abundance of natural charm, it was like she cast a Friends spell every time she spoke. He never should have forgotten that, never let his guard down so easily. He had always had a soft spot for the cleric, but when did he allow her to have so much power over him?

With an almost excruciating slowness, Jester ran her thumb over his palm. His breath stuck to the inside of his lungs.

She opened her mouth once, twice. Finally, she asked in a voice almost too soft to hear, “Did it hurt?”

Never had he thought a single question could make his insides ache like they did right now. Sadness rang through her voice and struck him straight to the core. “Oh, Jester.”

This was a mistake.

He cleared his throat, trying and failing to swallow back an emotion he did not care to name. “I think that’s all the questions that need to be answered tonight.”

She raised her eyes to meet his. “That’s a yes, isn’t it?”

Looking at her small form, shoulders drawn in and tail now tucked underneath her, Caleb wanted to lie. He never should have agreed to be truthful with these people, and especially not with her. Instinct begged him to go back to the way things had been, all protective lies and secrets to spare their feelings, as well as his.

It was too late for that now, though. He had tasted the briefest bit of honesty, and bitter though it was, it was also warm and reassuring. These stupid, crazy people had woken him from the half-life he had been living and sustained his tenuous existence with a kind of security he had long forgotten. They had come to embrace his dirty, intentionally unpleasant self and placed their trust in his singed hands.

If Jester, who always wore a clown’s mask for the sake of others, could reveal to him an honest sliver of her own pain and worry like she had that night in Darktow, then he could pay her the same respect now.

“Ja.” His whisper sounded more like a rusty hinge than a voice. “Ja, it hurt. It hurt like hell.”

Before she could formulate a response, he moved his hand down to wrap around hers and looked her dead in the eye, “But you know what? They don’t anymore. It’s in the past now, they’re healed. You don’t need to worry over them.”

A half-truth was better than none at all, he supposed. His arms were indeed as healed as they were ever going to be. As for his past…Well, he would cross that bridge when he got there.

Or burn it forever.

She nodded and smiled, and he hoped to whatever gods there might be that those weren’t unshed tears lining her eyes. “Sorry I asked so many questions, I know it sucked. I just – I worry about you, Caleb.”

“I know.” He squeezed her hand, only now realizing that he was still holding it. Then he heard himself say something he would definitely regret later. “I’ll tell you the rest someday.”

The next thing he knew, Jester had leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, seeming to not at all mind his mud-smeared coat. “Thank you.”

Caleb did not move to embrace her back, but felt a smile curl at his lips as he took in her warmth. “You’re welcome.”

A few moments passed before she gave him one last squeeze and leaned back, a happy smile in place and not a tear to be seen. “Okay, I really am going to make a few sketches now.”

He nodded and grabbed at one of the bandages he had shed onto the ground, now somehow rough and heavy in his hands.

As he began to wrap his arm up from palm to elbow, Caleb realized it was so much more difficult than it had been before, his own fingers seeming to protest by fumbling and bunching up the fabric. With every turn around his arm, Caleb found himself wishing he never had to put the confining wrappings back on again, or that he had never taken them off for her in the first place.

His scars now hidden away under neat, suffocating rows of weathered gauze, Caleb glanced over to where Jester sat curled up once again with her sketchbook, drawing away with joyous fervor.

A fading warmth lingered from her embrace, and he never wanted to forget the feeling of it. He committed to memory the way the air had felt on his secluded skin, the full movement of his wrist and fingers after being freed from their bindings, the goosebumps that had formed under her cool fingertips.

Maybe next time he removed his bandages, he would leave them off for good.

[a-splash-of-stucky]

no one left behind

Pairings: None

Summary: Steve becomes a cat-dad.

Warnings: None! (ok,,,maybe a bit of language)

WC: 2.6k

Notes: I love Steve and I love cats, so this fic was kinda meant-to-be. The kittens and their names are all based off cats that I’ve had at some point in my life. Written for @happystevebingo, for the fill “Kittens”

My Masterlist | Happy Steve Bingo Masterlist

Steve expertly guides his bike into his garage before putting down the kickstand and killing the engine. He pulls off his helmet and gloves, then rakes his fingers through his sweaty hair as he sighs in relief, grateful to finally be home.

‘Home’ for Steve refers to a refurbished warehouse about forty minutes away from Avengers Tower. It’s in a derelict industrial area, complete with sagging chain-link fences and crude graffiti adorning nearly every surface. There’re a lot of immigrants in the place, which makes for some pretty delicious takeout shops.

The Tower’s nice enough, and his floor has all the gadgets and gizmos that he could ever need (and then some), but there’s just something about this place that fills him with a sense of peace.

Steve’s spent the better part of the last three years working on this warehouse, tearing the walls down, only to build them back up. It had been his project, something that he worked on in between missions.

The warehouse is large and spacious, as warehouses tend to be. It’s got two floors and all the conveniences of the modern world, without any of the frivolous stuff. He’s opted for an open floor-plan, so all the rooms are connected to basically everything else, which makes the place seem even bigger than it is.

His garage is in a small outhouse located to the east of the warehouse itself. Once he’s stowed his helmet and gloves, Steve locks the garage, then heads out onto the short gravel path that takes him from his garage to his front door.

He’s itching to get inside and soak in a nice long bath, preferably with some Netflix and a tub of ice cream. This week’s mission had been particularly gruelling, and though he doesn’t have any severe injuries, his muscles are still sore from making the arduous trek across the Swiss Alps.

The Alps are just as bad now as they were back in the war.

Steve fishes his keys out of his back pocket as he comes up to his door. He pauses abruptly, immediately on edge when he notices that the shoe cupboard beside his front door is slightly ajar.

He’s sure that he closed it up properly when he left.

Tentatively, he wedges the toe of his boot into the gap and, after a deep breath, whips the door open, internally bracing himself to see a bomb or something.

What he sees instead is quite the opposite.

There, nestled amongst his Uggs and loafers, is a grey tabby, curled protectively around four tiny balls of fur. She blinks up at him, mildly dazed by the sudden burst of sunlight. Her mouth opens on a little meow.

Steve blinks, stunned.

Well then. This isn’t what he was expecting.

“Hey there,” he says quietly, as he slowly sinks into a squat, resting his elbows on his thighs. The mama tracks him with her intelligent green eyes, but makes no move to attack him. This close, he realises that the kittens are suckling on her.

“Wow,” Steve breathes, as he gets a proper look at them.

He’d thought there were four kittens, but as it turns out, there are five; one of the kittens is currently being squashed by all their siblings. One kitten is an orange tabby and one kitten looks like a miniature replica of its mother. The biggest kitten has fur as white as snow and is currently trampling a kitten that’s black all over, except for its paws, which are white — it looks like it’s got socks on. The kitten that’s being squashed by its siblings is white with black spots on it.

Steve watches them for a few seconds, a smile on his face; there’s something so serene about the scene.

It’s clear that they’ve been here for some time — maybe the mama even gave birth in his shoe cupboard. The strong odour of cat piss fills Steve’s nostrils, and a couple of bones on the floor indicate that mama has been out hunting for food at least once. Steve doesn’t know a lot about kittens, but judging by their size, these ones look to be a few weeks old, possibly.

Hesitantly, Steve stretches out his right hand, offering his fingers to the mama, for her to sniff. She recoils in suspicion at first, but after regarding him with baleful eyes for a few seconds, she leans forward and gives him a curious sniff. Mama cat doesn’t flinch away when Steve brushes his fingers over her head, so he takes that as a good sign.

Her fur is softer than he expected it to be — it’s silky, like the fur throws he’s got on his couch. When she tips her head up and back, he notices for the first time a dark grey collar wrapped around her neck. The fabric is dirty and fraying at the edges, and it’s digging into her fur like it’s uncomfortably tight. The place where a tag should be hanging is empty and the metal slightly deformed, as if the tag has been ripped off.

Steve presumes that this cat has been abandoned, possibly because she got pregnant.

People can be pretty damn cruel, sometimes.

He can’t leave her to be choking on her own collar, so Steve snaps into action. Hastily, he unlocks his front door, keys in his passcodes to turn off the alarm systems, then dashes into the kitchen, in search of a box. He finds a large delivery box in his recycling pile which he opts to use.

Steve stops by his laundry room to retrieve some old clothes that he’d been planning to donate at the local charity store. A few of t-shirts will make for some nice, soft bedding.

Once he’s back outside, Steve sets the box down by the shoe cupboard. Mama cat blinks her green eyes at him curiously.

“I’m gonna move you guys in here,” Steve tells her, as if she’s intelligent enough to talk back to him.

Then again, who knows. Cats are strange creatures — perhaps she does understand English.

Steve hopes that mama cat doesn’t mind being picked up. Gingerly, he reaches into the shoe cupboard and gets his hands around her; luckily, she doesn’t twist away or try to scratch him. Steve winces when the kittens begin mewling in distress as soon as he lifts her up, their sharp, pitiful cries piercing the air.

Mama cat wriggles in his grip and tries to get away, so Steve quickly dumps her into the box, then hastily scoops the kittens up in his big hands and places them inside, next to her.

Steve takes a step back and gives them all a minute to settle down. He watches as the mama licks at her kittens to make sure that they’re safe, purring loudly all the while to soothe them. The orange and white kittens are nuzzling insistently at her tummy, so she plops back down onto her side, allowing all five kittens to latch on again. Once they’re suckling happily, mama cat glances up at Steve and flicks her tail lazily, as if to say we’re in here — what’s next?

“I’m gonna carry you inside, okay?” he says, in response to her silent question. Whether by coincidental timing or because she understands and actually agrees to his suggestion, at that moment, she flops her head down and closes her eyes.

Confident that they’re not going to put up too much of a fuss, Steve gets to his feet and picks up the box, taking care not to jostle the inhabitants around too much. He sees mama cat tense up in alarm, but she makes no move to leap out of the box, which he is thankful for. Steve carries them into his house, kicking the front door shut with his foot. For lack of a better place to put the box, he sets it down on the kitchen floor, beside the island, before hunting through his drawers for a pair of kitchen shears to cut off that collar.

“Aha!” he says triumphantly, when he finds them in his cutlery drawer.

(Why they were in his cutlery drawer he’s not entirely sure. He thinks Sam might’ve had something to do with that.)

Shears in hand, Steve kneels beside the box and waves them at the mama.

“I’m gonna cut that off you,” he says, gesturing towards the collar. “You’re gonna feel better after that.”

For a brief moment, Steve wonders why he’s narrating everything that he’s doing to the cat. He finds that he’s got no answer for himself other than ‘it feels appropriate’.

After adjusting his grip on the handle, Steve reaches into the box, moving slowly so as to not startle anyone. Mama cat tenses like she’s going to scurry away when he grabs her collar between his finger and thumb, but relaxes again when she realises that he means her no harm. Her tail is curled protectively over her kittens — and isn’t that just the sweetest thing he’s ever seen?

With one quick snip, the fabric collar has been cut. Steve backs away fast, so that he doesn’t stress the mama out any further. She shakes her head and moves it around, like she’s relieved to have finally regained full range of movement in her neck. He fishes the offending collar out of the box and dumps it into the trash, before heading to the sink to wash his hands.

Steve leans against the island as he observes the mama and her kittens, who have now had their fill of milk and are eagerly exploring the box that Steve’s put them in. Since she’s no longer being crushed by her offspring, mama cat pushes herself up onto her legs, eyes the edge of the box, before elegantly leaping out of it. Once outside, she sits down beside it, then turns to look up at Steve.

They stare each other down for a few long seconds, before she finally lets out a quiet meow.

Steve tilts his head to the side. “What?”

In response, she gets up and starts sniffing the corners of the box. Her kittens are still playing inside it, curiously examining his old t-shirts.

“You want me to take ‘em out?” he asks her.

She turns to him and lets out another meow — somehow, she sounds more insistent this time.

“Okay, sure — I can do that,” Steve says easily.

He picks the kittens up one by one, depositing them on the kitchen floor, beside their mama. They’re so — tiny. He can feel the rapid flutter of their heartbeats against his fingers when he picks them up. They wriggle and mewl, unaccustomed to being lifted so high, but once he’s put them back on solid ground, they calm down again.

Upon further inspection, Steve realises that these kittens must be a couple of months’ old, at least. They’ve moved past the ‘drowned-rat’ stage of their life, and now resemble fluffy balls of fur with legs. They’re toddling around, barely able to stay on their feet as they pad across the kitchen tiles, still not quite able to properly coordinate their limbs. It’s clear that they have a while to go before they develop the quiet grace that is so typical of felines.

Mama cat is busy licking herself clean, but from the way her ears are constantly twitching, Steve knows that she’s keeping an eye on her little ones.

Slowly, Steve sinks to the floor and folds his legs underneath himself, so that he can watch the kittens better. They’re extremely alert, looking around his place with their wide, inquisitive eyes. He watches as the white one with black spots playfully leaps onto a couple of its siblings, which results in a brief tussle amongst all three of them.

The black one with white paws toddles over to him. Steve watches with bated breath as it sniffs curiously at his kneecap.

Apparently, he smells okay, because a second later, the kitten digs its claws into his trousers and clumsily climbs onto his thigh. It sits down and looks up at Steve with its big blue eyes, before letting out the tiniest of squeaks.

A funny feeling blooms in Steve’s chest. It’s as if his heart is rapidly expanding, growing so large that it’s pressing up against his ribcage and squashing his lungs, making it harder to breathe.

He realises that the kitten looks like a cat that he had back when he was a kid.

Or, well.

He didn’t have a cat, so much as the cat had a human. He and Bucky had called her Misty, and she used to come to his fire-escape every now and then. She’d been a scrap of a thing, always peering at the world through suspicious, beady eyes, but for whatever strange reason, she had a soft spot for Steve. He used to leave bits of food out for her, if ever he had any to spare.

Steve takes one look at mama cat, gives a cursory glance over her balls of fluff and decides then and there that there is no way he’s kicking any of them out.

“We need to give you all names,” he decides.

“I’m calling you Stripey,” says Steve, addressing the mama cat. Yeah, maybe it’s a tad unoriginal, but she’s got black stripes on the bottom half of her long tail — it’s a sensible name for a cat.

Steve settles on Snowball for the white kitten and Junior for the kitten who looks like a miniature version of Stripey. The white one with black spots is called Spotty (again: super original) and the orange tabby he names Sam, because Sam’s more of a dog person, and Steve’s got a twisted sense of humour.

“And you,” he says, talking to the kitten still perched on his thigh. He boops its nose with the tip of his finger. “I’m calling you Mittens.”

The kitten meows in response. Steve takes that as a seal of approval.

It is at this moment that Steve realises that his house is sorely under-equipped to take care of a cat and five kittens; he hasn’t even got any milk in the fridge, for fuck's sake.  

“JARVIS?” he calls.

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” JARVIS replies.

Tony had insisted that he integrated the AI’s system into his warehouse, so that Steve would still be able to receive news from the Tower (in case of emergencies). JARVIS also handles his state-of-the-art security system, which is an added bonus.

“I’m gonna need everything you’d need to look after a cat,” says Steve. “Uh — cat food, kitty litter, a litter box. Maybe some catnip — is that even a thing? Oh, and a cat tree.”

Stripey perks up at the words ‘cat tree’ and turns to look at him, her eyes narrowed accusingly.

“Make that two cat trees.”

“That’s all been ordered, Captain, as well as some cat treats and nutritional supplements you might consider useful,” JARVIS says smoothly, “They’re due to arrive at your warehouse by the end of the day.”

———

Sam pays Steve a visit two weeks later.

He opens the front door using his spare key, only to trip over a cat toy that had been left on the floor. Just as he opens his mouth to ask Steve why the hell he has a cat toy, a ball of orange fur skitters across the floor, towards the kitchen.

Two seconds later, four other balls of fluff appear out of nowhere, racing off in the same direction.

“You got kittens?” he asks incredulously.

“Yeah!” Steve calls, from the kitchen. “The orange one’s named Sam.”

“Aw, you named your cat after me?” says Sam, sounding pleased. He pauses for a moment, a slight furrow developing between his brows.

“Steve, you know I hate cats.”

“I know you do. That’s why I called him Sam.”

“Goddammit Rogers,” Sam mutters.