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queenie-ofthe-void · 7 days ago

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A Very Hopper Holidays

Hopper POV || wc: 3.7k || tags: smoking, recreational drugs, grouchy old men dealing with their feelings, smart-ass Eddie Munson, meet-cute Steddie, Steve and Max siblings, El thinks Steve is cute (so does Eddie), emotionally available Wayne Munson gives the best advice, holiday fluff, found family

This is a companion piece to my fic The Babysitter Chronicles, but can be read separately!

Brief background: Wayne patched Steve up after his fight with Billy in s2

Hopper’s freezing his goddamn balls off out here, waiting on the front stoop in the dark, banging his fist on the door. There’s no answer, but the lights are all on and it’s dinnertime on Christmas Eve. So someone’s fucking home, and the sooner they answer the sooner he can leave.

“Dammit, Wayne. Open the door so I can give you a damn present, or next time I pick up your nephew maybe I throw him in jail for the night instead of bringing him home.”

Sure enough, the door flies open, but it’s not Wayne on the other side. The kid’s standing there, layered in enough flannel shirts and sweatpants to dress all of El’s shithead friends with some left over. Hopper watches as he drags the sleeve of an oversized black flannel across his red and dripping nose, shifting uncomfortably and eyes darting side to side.

“Munson,” Hopper crosses his arms, “where the hell’s your uncle?”

Even bundled up like a little kid, he still tries to make himself bigger, taller, meaner, like he always does when Hopper picks him up. “Not here.” The tone is flat, devoid of Munson’s usual snark as a particularly intense gust of wind slams the screen door open against the side of the trailer.

“It’s Christmas eve, what do you mean he’s not here?”

“He’s working.”

Hopper scoffs. “You’re telling me your uncle works Christmas eve?”

Munson scoffs back at him, a dramatic mockery of Hopper’s own tone. “We’re Jewish, asshole.”

Well, shit.

He doesn’t have time for the kid’s hardass act. All he wanted to do was drop off a simple thank you and also merry christmas but now probably happy hanukkah gift and be on his way to his own family. He can only hope El spares him a bit of holiday mercy for making her wait.

“Kid, can I just come in?” He takes another step up, only for Munson to block his path.

His eyes grate across Hopper’s jacket, noting the star on the chest. “No cops in the trailer.”

A low grumble forces its way up Hopper’s throat which breaks into a frustrated groan when another gust of wind scrapes the exposed skin on his cheeks. He stamps his feet on the stairs hoping it’ll keep the blood flow going to his toes as they start to tingle. Munson’s wrapped his hands up inside the sleeves of what’s most likely one of Wayne’s old jackets.

“Look,” Eddie starts, sniffling another drip back inside his nose, “if you could just–”

But Hopper cuts him off with a deranged laugh, head thrown back in dismay at this entire situation. “No, you look here. You’re going to listen to exactly what I have to say.”

Eddie’s taken a step back, and yeah, Hopper supposes he’s never seen the Chief of Police actually freak out before. But it’s been a long day of wellness checks and stove fires, and Eddie’s the only thing standing between him and a night of kid’s Christmas movies and spiked eggnog.

So he pushes forward, spurred on by the kid’s once-in-a-lifetime stunned silence. “Now it’s clear that Wayne’s working nights, probably earning holiday hours to pay for the radiator which is pretty obviously busted, given the ten to twenty shirts you’re wearing. Meaning you’re alone, in a tin box with a tiny space heater that’s so old it’s a fire hazard shoved into the corner of your room.” The Chief walks up the stairs, standing on the step just before the door so he’s towering over Eddie, who shrinks in on himself just a bit.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Munson.” Hopper ticks off each gloved finger as his list of demands grows, Eddie’s growing wider in time. “You’re going to let me inside so I can piss and blow my nose, since I’ve been standing out here for too fucking long. You’re going to pack a bag, you’re going to call your uncle, and you’re going to tell him you’re staying with me for the night.”

Eddie stammers, mouth flapping around words he can’t find fast enough. It doesn’t matter, because Hopper’s on a roll now.

“Then,” he steamrolls Eddie again, pushing his way into the trailer, closing the door as Eddie stumbles backwards down onto the couch, “you’re going to eat my food, you’re going to watch our movies, you’re going to smile when we smile and laugh when we laugh because even if you’re Jewish you can still have a damn good fucking Christmas eve!”

He’s sick and tired of stupid teenage boys trying to be something they aren’t, like they’re manly or tough or strong for barely surviving on their own, practically raising themselves. And the best way Hopper can drill that into their thick skulls is to get them to shut the fuck up and feed them.

The silence lingers on the frost coating the inside of the windows and the crust of dried snot on Eddie’s sleeve. The kid’s avoiding eye contact, like Hopper will just leave if he’s ignored. But if Hopper can outlast guards in the POW camp, and a little girl who hates green beans, then he can sure as hell outlast Eddie goddamn Munson. So Hopper waits. And waits.

It pays off, like he knew it would. The kid gets up, storms towards one end of the trailer. Hopper slowly follows down the narrow hallway and sees Eddie viciously shoving rumpled clothes into a backpack, mumbling about pigs and asshole cops.

After all’s said and done, they’re pulling up to the cabin about twenty minutes later. The front door opens with a bang in greeting, causing Eddie to jump out of his skin. But when they step through the now open door into the warmth of the living room, there’s no one there to greet them.

Ah, so she’s a little upset.

El’s door is closed, like it’s not supposed to be. Light shines out from underneath, and he can hear soft voices inside. The whispers are abruptly hushed when he knocks on her door. “El, honey, I need you to open the door. Six inches, remember?” Hopper tries turning the handle but it doesn’t budge. Honestly he can’t help but wonder why he bothered to install a door with no lock when she’s got superpowers– that’s on him, he supposes.

He turns around to find Munson standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room. “Take your jacket off, put your shit down, and stay a while, will ya?” Hopper laughs at Eddie’s incredulous expression, eyebrows scrunched together and lips pursed tight.

“Ok,” Eddie drags the sound out in question as he sets his pack next to the couch, “who opened the fucking door?”

“Hey, language!" Hopper calls, Max’s voice echoing his own.

Eddie startles, head whipping between Hopper’s no-doubt exasperated expression and El’s still-closed bedroom door. He drags his hands down his face and sighs as her mimicry sends the girls into a fit of giggles. He hasn’t decided yet if Max is a good influence on El, even if Hopper knows it’s not himself she’s mocking.

He hears the creak of the bathroom door opening as Steve walks back into the living room. Hopper can’t help but turn to watch the show, the two boys coming face to face.

Munson’s oversized black and red flannel covers the ripped sleeves of whatever tattered, black band t-shirt he’s wearing. Which would be on par with what he normally looks like, except it’s contrasted against bright blue, wool pajama pants with little white snowflakes on them. When Hopper first spotted them at the trailer, a teasing smirk on his face, Munson only rolled his eyes and argued they were the warmest clean pair he had.

Harrington, on the other hand, has lived his entire life in locker rooms and an empty house. Which means that he once again forgot to bring a shirt to change into after his shower. It's not normally a problem-- except when El catches him, a blush lighting up her face like a goddamn Christmas tree, accompanied by incessant giggles that make Hopper want to drown himself.

What is a problem is Munson’s shameless gawking, mouth wide enough to catch a whole swarm of flies. His blush puts El's to shame, red blotches burst across his neck like hives. Hopper can practically see the steam rolling out of the guy’s ears, hearts popping out of his eyes as he just stares and stares his fill, completely unaware that Hopper’s still standing less than five feet from him.

Thankfully, so far Steve is none the wiser. He’s got a cotton swab in his ear, head tipped down as he double-knots his Tigersharks swim team sweatpants. Hopper notices they hang baggy and loose around his hips. Another shitty reminder of how much weight the kid’s lost since getting kicked off the team because of his ‘incident’ with Hargrove. He wonders about the last time the kid ate a decent meal, and pushes down the rising anger at the most realistic answer, which is not recent enough for his liking. Hopper has the same gnawing concern when he looks back at Munson, dark circles under his eyes, skinny as a bean-pole.

He’s got to stop taking in strays.

“Harrington, we’ve talked about this.” Hop tries to keep the frustration out of his voice, but if he has to watch El swoon over the kid’s wet hair and bare chest again he’s gonna blow a gasket. “Put a damn shirt on.”

“Oh, yeah sorry, Hop.” Which is the exact moment Steve decides to turn his head. They both catch Munson giving Steve a once over, who then chokes on his own spit when he notices Steve looking back at him. Hopper knows Harrington’s trying to turn over a new leaf, but he also knows the kind of people Richard and Helen Harrington are. So he’s a little surprised when, instead of having to stop a potential hate crime, he notices a similar blush bloom across Steve’s chest– or maybe it’s the heat from the shower.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Muson’s screech is so high it could set dogs howling. Steve flinches at the outburst, and Hopper hopes this little interaction doesn’t trigger another migraine for the kid. He was barely pushing through when Hop picked him up yesterday, but seems to be feeling better today.

“Munson, I need you to tone it down,” Hopper argues. It goes unnoticed.

Steve’s sputtering. He runs a nervous hand through his hair and of-fucking-course Munson gasps, swoons just like El. Harrington’s free hand fumbles for a shirt hem that isn’t there. He realizes he’s half naked and turns into a deer in headlights, hands frantically moving over his chest like he doesn’t know how to hide himself. Unfortunately the unintentional groping sends Munson into a coughing fit.

“Me? What the hell are you doing here, Munson?”

Munson scoffs, crossing his arms as he backs himself into the wall behind him. “The high and mighty Chief of Police here basically kidnapped me. Forced me to pack a bag and tossed me into his truck.” Ah, there’s the Munson he expected. Except if it wasn’t for how many times Hopper’s hauled the kid in, he might not have noticed the nervous energy in Eddie’s twitchy fingers and shifty eyes. “He failed to mention–” he waves around at everything until Munson’s wild gesturing lands on a half-naked, sweats hung low, hair slicked back, barefoot Steve Harrington.

The squeal of El’s door opening behind him propels Hopper full-speed into the living room towards Steve’s duffle. He pulls out the first shirt he manages to find. It hits Steve in the face, and they both breathe a sigh of relief when he pulls it on.

“Aww,” El complains, before her eyes grow ten sizes too big when she catches Hopper glaring back at her.

“Who the hell is this guy?” Max asks. She makes her way toward the kitchen, dragging El with her to help pull out dishes and cups.

“Apparently another kidnapping victim.” Steve huffs, annoyed, before making his way over to the girls. “Munson, get over here and help me set the food out.”

Steve doesn’t even look up from where he’s pulling a large cast iron out of the oven, so he misses the absolutely priceless distress scrawled into Eddie’s bulging eyes and flapping hands. Looking back and forth between Harrington and Hopper, Eddie points to himself in confusion as if Steve hadn’t asked him by name. Hopper can only chuckle at the kid’s antics. He rolls his eyes and tilts his head toward the kitchen so Munson finally gets the jist, moving across the cabin in double-time.

It’s a more intense Christmas dinner than Hopper was hoping for, but after introductions and a full stomach, everyone’s relaxed a bit. El and Max curl up on the couch next to him, snuggled under the same blanket surrounded by bowls of popcorn and half eaten bags of candy. The boys, finally over whatever awkward tension laced between them earlier, are sitting rather comfortably next to each other, poking fun at the cliche holiday movies that Hopper secretly enjoys.

Well after the girls are tucked in and the boys have set up a mess of sleeping bags and blankets on the living room floor, Hopper moves quiet as a mouse across the trailer to Eddie’s duffle. After a quick search, he pulls a joint from a hidden zipper pocket hand-sewn inside the lining.

Kid must think he’s so smart, like he’s the first guy to ever sell drugs.

Hopper deserves a little treat after all the shit he’s been through this year. It’s been ages since he’s smoked, and with the boys here to help watch over the kids, he thinks he can allow himself time to relax for just a little bit. He’s earned it. Plus, it’s not his fault the damned kid decided to try to sneak his stash here. Hop’s not an idiot, even though the boys clearly thought so when they went out for some ‘fresh air’ earlier and came back looking a little less fresh than when they left.

So he brushes the snow off of his favorite lawn chair, wraps himself up in a tattered old blanket, and lights up in the cold, winter air.

Hop loved smoking in high school, so he takes a long inhale, reveling in the burn heating his chest. Unfortunately, Hopper hasn’t been a teenager in a long, long time. His coughing fit is loud enough to wake his non-existent neighbors. But when he can finally breathe fresh air again, there’s no noise to be heard from inside.

He goes slower this time, tugging on little puffs as he watches the snow fall between the pine trees. It’s quiet, a good quiet, filled with the rustling of rabbits in the brush and bugs singing in the night. Even the joint is absolute shit, like most of Munson’s wares. It’s still enough for him to relax, to appreciate what unfortunate circumstances have gifted him, and keep him from dwelling on what he’s lost.

Less than an hour’s passed when a pair of headlights shine down the drive. Wayne steps out of his beat-up truck, in only slightly better condition than Eddie’s van, and makes his way over. Without a word, Hopper gets up and grabs another folding chair propped against the end-railing and sets it next to his own.

The joint’s gone by now, but Hopper pulls out a pack of smokes and offers one to Wayne, who silently takes it with just a slight nod of his head in thanks. Out of the corner of his eye, Hopper notices Wayne’s worn-down work boots have a gash at the front, exposing the hard steel underneath the suede. He’s wearing a large, thick flannel that looks exactly like the one Eddie was wearing when Hopper found him, and it’s just as oversized on the old man.

There’s almost nothing similar between Wayne and his nephew. Wayne’s always been a quiet one. A guy who’d make his way to the back of a crowded room, who kept his head down when he knew what was good for him. And Eddie is– is really just something else. Loud, obnoxious, brash, a kid with a well-crafted personality faker than government coverup. Almost one of a kind, if Hopper didn’t happen to know another boy just like him.

Wayne clears his throat, stubs out the bud with his boot in a little pile of snow. “Got a note from my foreman saying you kidnapped my boy.” His tone is gruff, but Hopper catches the small uptick to the man’s chapped lips.

He doesn’t say anything when Hopper heads inside. It takes him a minute to find the wrapped bottle and two glasses. While he meanders around, he checks that the boys are still both snoring away and the girls are sound asleep amidst a pile of stuffed animals.

When he closes the front door behind him, Jim hands the bottle to Wayne and sets the two glasses into the snow between them. Wayne hums in thought, turning the bottle over in his hand. “Macallen single?”

Jim actually croaks, chest light and filled with laughter when he clocks the mirth in Wayne’s teasing eyes. Maybe him and Eddie aren’t so different after all, both having a shithead sense of humor.

“Just Johnny.” Jim wipes a hand down his face like that’ll hide the sincerity in his smile. “You helped patch up my kid, Wayne. You didn’t save the goddamn world.”

The light in Wayne’s eyes dims only slightly. Instead of unwrapping the bottle, he unscrews the lid off the top, ripping the paper off with it, and pours them both half a glass. They silently cheers, even though the air between them has shifted slightly.

“Thought that boy was a Harrington, not a Hopper.” It should sting, but it doesn’t, because Wayne’s not that type of man. It’s a genuine question, one that Jim’s not sure how to answer. So he keeps silent, hoping Wayne will cave and move on like his kid does when things stay too quiet. But Wayne sits, and sits, and his own gut finally starts to roil. Ah, so that's what it feels like.

“Apparently I’m good at picking up strays.” Jim’s attempt at a joke falls flat between them. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Although, I think I got to Harrington a little too late.”

Wayne takes a decent sip from his glass, smacking his lips together. He peers out into the dark, just beyond the porch railing. But Jim can tell he’s not looking at the woods in front of them or the starry sky overhead. Wayne’s looking at something that’s long behind him.

“Ya know, Harrington didn’t look much different than my boy did when he showed up lookin’ like a dropped sack of peaches. Just a little thing he was; no hair, clothes that didn’t fit. Hell, I’d almost been able to see his ribs if it weren't for the bruises.” Wayne’s looking down at his feet now, scuffing the snow off the bottom of his boots. He downs his glass in one go before pouring himself another.

“I beat myself up for too long for not doing something sooner. My own nephew, my own brother, livin’ only two towns over, and I had no idea it was that bad. Told m’self over and over that I should’ve known, should’ve helped sooner.” Wayne heaves a heavy sigh before looking up at Jim again. There’s guilt in the crinkles around his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced with resolve. “You might not’ve always been there for the Harrington kid, but that don’t mean he don’t need you now. Maybe more than ever, by the look of him. And if he’s got you watchin’ out for him, maybe he’ll turn out more Hopper than Harrington afterall.”

Jim can’t take the intense eye contact anymore and firmly looks away, finishing his glass and extending it out to Wayne for a refill. It’s quiet, Wayne’s patience sitting on his shoulders like the world’s most uncomfortable blanket. But even blankets that are scratchy as hell can still be warm.

After a while, the silence releases enough tension that he can sit back again, and the two men slowly sip their whiskey and watch dawn break through the trees. Wayne grabs the bottle as he moves to stand and pats Jim’s shoulder a little too hard. The man’s stronger than he looks.

“Why don’t you bring Eddie back yourself a little bit later, give me a chance to fix that radiator. Plus, being around Harrington might be good for him,” he chuckles to himself, hopping into his truck. “Maybe show the boy not every kid who don’t wear all black ain’t a damn conformist suburban yuppie.” Jim laughs, Wayne’s mockery a spot on impression.

All’s still quiet in the cabin, each kid right where he left them. He’s not sure if it’s the joint, the two whiskeys, Wayne’s advice, or just a combination of everything, but there’s a heat behind his eyes he hasn’t had to deal with in a long time. He’s not typically a crier– happy or sad. The only time he’s cried since Sarah was in the elevator shaft, El collapsed in his arms just after closing the gate. And even then, it was only a few stray tears.

Now he’s unspooling wads of toilet paper to blow his damn nose in, crying like a kid who got coal in their stocking. Except this isn’t like when he thought he’d lost El, or when he’d held Sarah’s hand when she took her last breath. Jim Hopper’s happier than he’s been in a long, long time. And after the shit awful year he’s had– that they’ve all had– he lets himself revel in the joy of having a family again.

Gorgeous graphics provided by @steddiecameraroll-graphics

And as always, thank you to @carolperkinsexgirlfriend for telling me "I think your calling might be writing well-meaning, grumpy old men" and also, "you just understand the spirit of The Old Man", but mostly just thank you for being an amazing beta reader <3

#I loved writing this!!!!! So much fun to channel Grouchy Old Man energy #This is full of excessive holiday fluff #Couldn't wait until the 24th to post this I got WAY to excited to share it #please believe me when I say this can be read separate from the fic itself. don't let that deprive you of Hopper having Feelings #jim hopper #hopper pov #steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #max mayfield #el hopper #steddie #holiday fic #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things s2

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xxplastic-cubexx · 2 months ago

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if i said i picked up this issue for anything but drunk erik i fear i'd be lying

(Wolverine (2020) #3)

#xmen #xmen comics #krakoa #magneto #ok fine logan can get a tag too. this IS his story after all ja/lkLAJVEAVKLJ #wolverine #snap scans #i should read the rest of this run but its like 47 issues i think so. gonna take some time with that #spliced up the panels so its easier to look at everything. and so i can frame drunk passed out erik on my wall #someone uploaded some of the first page some time ago but 1.) i forgot to rb it 2.) it didnt include the rest of the scene #it ESP didnt include erik fallin face first on the table and his lil sleepin face on the next page like please im gettin cuteness aggressio #im so miffed that these are printed on the same page cause i woulda framed this spread otherwise like PLEASE #this shit got me GIGGLING SO BAD i cant. 'dare i say it .......' he's so unnecessary i love him so much #he's so silly ..... also someone said it best in that whenever erik's drawn like a bug it's the best thing #like look at him. that's a beetle. that's my little beetle and i love him i need to put him in a terrarium and watch him #honestly theres a LOT of things i have scanned and wanna share however i have to do it. Reasonably so to speak #in that i dont want to accidentally drown out all my doodling with comic scans jvEALKVJEAKL #maybe i'll do it sandwich style ... art -> scan -> art -> scan etc etc #that does remind me i have a doodle i wanted to do today. so maybe ill do that and share another thing i got scanned ....#unfortunately i do very much love reading the comics. a troublesome thing cause theres so much i wanna share and talk about #like from this issue too i love how hank describes what charles' mutation feels like #its not a grand thing but i love it whenever charles' telepathy is described and how it effects him physiologically #maybe hank was just Theorizing what it feels like but still ... i love that insight so much .....#i'll share that quote another time- i prob won't scan the page cause it's just a text log but i will say it was from here dont worry #ok ive rambled long enough BYE im gonna go draw charles

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hellsquills · 3 months ago

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Disclaimer: I know about the duffle bag Filbrick threw at him, but you can ignore that if you want

My thoughts below the cut! (this turned into a whole ass fic lmao)

My personal headcanon is that Filbrick is as much of a coward as he is of an asshole. Therefore, he wouldn't have kicked Stan when he did in canon. Probably not for a while after that.

However, he does try to send him to military school. He keeps talking about how this kid needs to learn discipline and respect, and if he's not gonna bring money to the house, then he should at least bring some honor to his family.

Stan obviously does NOT want to go. Not only because it's a pointless war ("what've the vietnamese done to us anyways?") but because he remembers his mother's face when Shermie got drafted and he will NOT make her go through that hell again. Also, he doesn't wanna die!!!! Hello?????

He talks it out over the phone with Ford, who's obviously just as against it as he is. He tells Stan that, if he gets into a PhD program, he could skip military. Stan laughs in his face. It'd be easier to jump off the plane without a parachute.

And so, he comes up with a plan. When he goes to take his physical, he tries his best to botch it. If he is bad enough, if it looks like he can't do it, maybe he won't have to. Unfortunately, the recruiters are far too used to this by now, and they don't buy it. Stan goes home with a recruitment letter hidden in his jacket.

Everything goes downhill after that. He runs away from home, changes his name several times, does some crime here and there... The military is after him, and it doesn't take rejection kindly.

Stan stays out of contact with his family for a few years. He can't risk getting them involved in this mess. They don't deserve it. So he just leaves, without saying a word, in the middle of the night. No phone calls, no notes, nothing. Not even he knows where he's going. But if it just looks like he abandoned them, maybe they'll hate him. That will make them sound more believable with the police. They aren't covering for him, because they genuinely have no idea where he is. It's the best way to keep them safe.

In that time, Ford doesn't stop looking for him. He finds him every once in a while, but only his phone number, and he knows that could give away his brother's location and get the family in trouble. So, against his deepest instincts, he doesn't call.

One, three, five, seven years pass. Stan has been around almost all the country, and is genuinely considering leaving it. Maybe going to Mexico, or Colombia. Those sound nice. Maybe they'll be nicer to him.

He's passing his time and thinking about this in a small town restaurant in wherever he's in (somewhere he's not banned from, yet), when a family enters. He doesn't make eye contact, but he can't help but stare at them: a man and a woman, probably in their 50s, with 7 kids; one must be older than him, the second one around his age, the third one a little younger, the fourth one a teenager, and the last three between 10 and 15, no more. Except for the last three, they're all taller than him, even the mother, and they have various degrees of blond hair. Their clothes (overalls and plastic boots) suggest they must work in one of the farms he's seen around the state. They don't wear any accessories, except for the glasses that the father and four of the kids have. They're talking loudly and laughing. They look exhausted from a morning of hard work. They seem happy. They... look nothing like his family, and yet, he can't help but think about it.

He can't help the sob that comes to his throat. It's loud and messy from trying to suppress it, which obviously makes it worse. He covers his mouth immediately, and at that point he notices the tears that have run down his cheeks. "Great", he thinks, "that will make it easier to hide, for sure".

He doesn't move. He wants to escape, but that will draw even more attention to him, and he hasn't even paid for the food yet (normally he'd leave without paying, but the old waitress was kind enough to give him some extra food when she saw how little he ordered). He settles for not moving, lowering his head and covering his face, hoping that no one heard (unlikely) or cared (very likely).

"Ya'lright, son?"

The voice startles him. I wasn't very deep, but it was close enough to send his body into immediate danger mode. He looks up at the man towering over him, who's standing in front of him at a prudential distance.

"Y-Yeah, yeah, no worries."

He hates how broken his voice sounds. He's spent more than enough time sweet-talking his way out of trouble, he should be better at this by now. The man looks about as convinced by it as he is himself.

" 'lright then. Can I help ya?"

Damn villagers and their welcoming demeanor. If he wasn't a wanted man, he would appreciate it. But right now, it couldn't be worse timing.

"Come get ya food, kids!" The waitress' yell yanks him out of his thoughts.

"No", he blurts out, and he turns to the man. Least he can do is show him some respect and look him in the eyes. "I'm fine, thank you."

The man smiles lightly and nods. "Okay. Welcome to the town."

Stan watches as the man goes back to his table. He wishes he had been more polite, the guy was just worrying about him, but he can't afford it. They already know his face, he can't risk anyone else recognizing him-

"Sweet Mother of God almighty."

Stan turns to his right. One of the kids, the one about his age, is looking at him like he just grew a second head. He's frozen in place, his eyes wide as plates behind thick glasses. He doesn't say a word, and it's getting increasingly unnerving. Was the bruising on his face still visible? Maybe it's more apparent in broad daylight than in the shitty light that last motel had in the bathroom.

"I'm sorry, I- Can I ask your name?"

The fuck?

"No", answers Stan. Considering how nice his dad was, this guy is pretty rude.

"Son, leave him alone." The mother seems to have manners too, good to know.

The guy does pretty much the opposite. He comes closer to him, until he's right in his path, blocking his exit. That can't be good. Stan feels trapped.

"Are you Stanley Pines?"

Well, that's about it.

Stan tries his best to stay still. This guy doesn't look like a cop, not even an undercover one. But he knows his real name, so maybe someone in his family or friends works in the police; or worse, in the military.

"Listen man, I don't know who you're talking about, but that isn't my name. See?" He reaches for his wallet. He pulls out an ID, with a very clear Jackson Cage on it. He makes a mental note to change it soon, just in case his hunch is right and this guy has connections. "Now, if you excuse me, I'd like to pay for my food and leave. Move."

Stan is already on his feet, but the guy hasn't moved. Stan looks him up and down, trying to appear threatening despite his face probably still being a little red from before. He also gauges how feasible it'd be to escape if things turned bad; the dude is taller than him, sure, but he's also as thin as a toothpick, and by the anxious look on his face, he doesn't seem eager for a fight. The real problem would be evading the restaurant's staff and the other costumers, which include eight carbon copies of the guy in front of him. Probably better to try to de-escalate the situation.

"I- I can't let you leave. Please. I know who you are."

This man is making it really difficult to believe he's not a cop.

"No, you don't. I'm new in town. Move."

"Listen, I-"

"Move out of my way."

"I know your brother."

The words are like a bullet between his eyebrows.

"You look just like him-"

Against his better judgement, he quickly grabs he guy and pins him to the wood in between the booth benches, arm to his throat. If he knows Ford, he knows too much. God he just wanted to have lunch.

The commotion is immediate. He doesn't break eye contact with the guy who's grabbing his arm, whose strength is frankly surprising. He can hear, however, the screams from the dad and the siblings, as well as a couple of gasps from the other costumers. This is not going to go well, but fuck that. He's escaped worse.

"Stop!", the guy shouts as he keeps Stan's forearm from blocking his airway. "Don't hurt him! Don't get closer!"

It takes Stan a second to process what he said. The first part, sure, who wouldn't shout 'stop' when you're being attacked? But the second half doesn't make sense. Is he protecting him? The attacker?

Whatever it is, it works. The family stops in their tracks, still very ready to attack if needed. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the three younger kids moving closer to their mother. For a split second, he feels a pang of remorse for the scene he just caused.

"Hang up the phone, Clarisse, it's okay. Please."

Stan looks in the direction the guy was talking to. Right behind him, the waitress reluctantly puts the phone down.

He looks back at the guy. He looks a little shaken up, probably from the impact his back (and his head?) made with the wooden plank, but he doesn't look scared. He almost looks... sympathetic? Stan is confused as hell.

"I know who you are", the guy whispers, low enough for Stan to hear alone. "You're Stanley Pines, and you have a brother named Stanford. I know him, okay? He's my friend. I met him a few years ago in a quantum physics congress and we've been talking ever since. He told me about his family in New Jersey, and about you. About how he hasn't seen you in years, and how he was trying to find you, to no avail."

Stan is gradually loosening his grip on the guy's neck, who takes a deep breath. He should know better, but- shit, hearing that Ford was looking for him was not what he expected. Even if he doesn't know yet if this guy is lying out of his ass, it's enough to make him doubt.

"I know you were called to Vietnam. He told me. I spent a week with him in his place when he found out, he was unconsollable. When you ran away, he called me. He knew what it meant for you and he thought he'd never see you again, whether you got caught or not. All because of that stupid war." Stan is now trembling a little, he knows it. This guy must know it too, with how close they are. If he stays here any longer he'll break down, but he can't move. Anything to hear his brother's name a little longer. "I know what it's like. Three of my cousins were drafted last year, and I know at least one of them won't be coming back home. Please... let me help you."

Stan meets his eyes. They're green and brown-ish, not unlike the immense fields he's seen in his last journey, the one that led him to this town. With the years, he's learned not to trust beautiful eyes, because they are better at hiding. These ones, however, seem serene and honest, just like his words, and he can't help but believing them. This guy, whoever the fuck he is, knows just about enough.

Stan lowers his right arm. The guy still has his hand on it, but this time is much less defensive and much more comforting. He doesn't complain.

"My name's Fiddleford McGucket, and I'm gonna help you find your brother."

______________________________

Essentially, after this Fidds calls Ford as if nothing happened (per Stan's request, since he's still paranoid about the police tracking his calls) and asks him to come to Tennessee. Ford argues that he's very busy and all, but Fidds convinces him in the end.

Obviously the twins have a dual breakdown and cry their heart out. In this AU they're much less emotionally constipated lol

Ford tells Stan that he's gonna build a house in a small town in Oregon as a part of his research, and asks him to move in with him once it's finished. Stan, of course, accepts.

In the meantime, Stan stays in the McGucket farm and helps them out as a way of laying low. He has a great relationship with his family, and they're very proud of him for what he did (i believe that the McGuckets are hippies at heart, and they're VERY anti-war, especially when it already took three of them)

I don't know how much of the canon storyline would this AU follow, but it's pretty much your average Mystery Trio AU with some different backstory

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wankadoodles · 1 year ago

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I created a small graphic novel to present my research and self ethnography about gender identity and MMORPGs! This was 2 years of research in the making, and I poured my whole heart into it

#FFXIV #final fantasy xiv #ethnography #please give it a read and share if you can!! i poured so much of my love and life into this project for the past 2 years #and i aint even done yet!! I'm continuing this research going into the next few months!

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anteroom-of-death · 1 year ago

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I need to find more people who wanna fuck the 2003 Captain Hook and not the Once Upon a Time one, or I will start eating fiberglass.

#personal #captain hook #please im so desperate #i have read every hook x reader fic there is for him #jason isaacs #is a mensch #peter pan #peter pan 2003 #captain hook x reader #and im too lazy to put the content out into the world #best i can do is shitposts #lol #i wanna share two cigars at once with him #its Freudian

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funnierasafictive · 5 months ago

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Palestinian Campaigns Compilation

Hello everyone, we've gotten a lot of asks over the past week, and since there's been a lot of them, I decided to put them all in one post, which will include previous campaigns. I've done my best to pay attention to the ones that have been vetted.

All numbers are as of August 5, 2024

The Alanqar Family - €44,710 / €49,000

Mohammed Hijazi - €5,947 / €20,000

Jad Al-Haq's Family - $6,295 / $40,000

Doaa Jadalhaq's Family - kr68,784 / kr300,000

Safaa's Family - $5,120 / $75,000 goal

Mahmoud Alkhaldi's Family - $5,680 / $50,000 goal

Wafaa's Family - €13,340 / €100,000 goal

Youssef Al-Habeel's Family - £7,527 / £20,000 goal

Ghazi Younis's Family - $1,880 / $50,000 goal

Sohaip and Mohammed's Family - £202 / £6,000 goal

Abdul's Family / Paypal - $23,975 / $78,000

Please read their stories, all of which are written in their campaign pages as well as images and some videos. I will be linking this post to our pinned in case anyone wants to use this as a reference.

#I'm sorry. I wish I could do more.#For those reading‚ please keep talking about Palestine. No one is just a number.#It is also more than just Palestine.#Warning for graphic imagery in some of these campaign pages. But they are important stories if you will open them to read.#If not‚ remember that you can always just donate or share campaign posts.#I do not own a credit card‚ so online donations are difficult on my end.#Therefore I have been focusing more on local efforts for Palestine in my country instead that involve other mode of payment.#From Kurapika #Also please watch out for scams. We recently got sent a scam campaign and it was incredibly disheartening.#Just never ever let it make you lose hope. I hope it just fills you with determination instead.#Palestine #Free Palestine #Campaigns #Not Funnier As a Fictive

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catkin-morgs-kookaburralover · 3 months ago

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This story, for which there are seven parts, is dedicated to everyone affected by Hurricane Helene. It was not written because of that, but a water-based natural disaster is part of the plot. It does not focus on it, but is a story of hope. The text of section one is under the cut. I hope to post all sections before the end of the Inklings Challenge. Despite this being my third year, this is the first I've actually posted anything other than snippets, so I hope I'm doing this right. I haven't yet written more than this, but I do have an outline for the other six parts, so hopefully that will work. @inklings-challenge

One: Admonish the Sinner

First of all it must be understood that every world is connected, as every village is. Some are just further away.

This is not a story of Earth; this is a story of a world nobody bothered to name, in a village nobody called anything other than the village. But that does not make it any less beloved—by people or by God. Sometime, a long time before this story is set, someone from Earth came to this nameless world and gave them the greatest gift of all, truth: but that is another tale entirely.

The night sky of this world is strikingly different from ours. Most prominently, two moons watch the world below, and every forty-seven years or so, flooding hits the island. They call it Big Tide, for it is the pull of the two moons combined that does this. It is regular enough, and has enough warning signs, that everyone should be perfectly ready for it.

As is common in humans (and these are humans like us, though the world is different), not everyone believes the evidence laid out in the world.

This is a story of Big Tide, specifically the one of the year three thousand, two hundred and twenty by their reckoning. This is a story of Paula McArthur.

%%%%%%%

The wattles were flowering, and it was Paula’s favourite time of year. There were several different wattles, but this was the deep gold ones she loved the best, the ones she gathered by the armful and adorned her home with. Now she only held a single sprig and enjoyed it to the full. It was too close to Big Tide to unnecessarily damage the wattle trees; they could be badly damaged by the rushing waters, and might need everything they had to survive. But one twig wasn’t going to hurt it.

The sky was a clear pale blue shot with fine clouds, a mass of them shining near the horizon with the sun gentle on them. Paula raised her face to the sunlight and closed her eyes, smiling. It was spring, and she never felt more alive than in springtime.

She had been working all morning to prepare for Big Tide, largely transport. Her hands were tired of the precise positions needed to be held in order to hover exactly enough to transfer items in mid-air between hoverboards rather than landing to do it, which would waste time. Tide waited on no man, but Paula was skilled enough to know when she could be sloppy about hoverboarding, and enjoyed hoverboarding in a more slapdash manner than most people she knew. She had graduated earlier than most of her classmates from a controller to haptics. Tomorrow, though, she might use the controller again to make sure she was fresh enough to hover efficiently overnight during Big Tide itself.

Presently she took out her lunch, and ate it while walking. In the distance a kookaburra laughed; Paula came to an abrupt halt as a green-blue iridescent flash clued her into the presence of a river dragon nearby. It turned and looked at her, bright blue eyes wise and calm. After a moment of silence and mutual respect, the dragon moved properly into her view and arched its sinuous back, raising its crest. Paula lifted her chin and brushed back the dark fringe to look more intimidating. The only sign the dragon gave of seeing any change was to raise its scales in a largely vain attempt to inflate its size. Abruptly it put down its scales and ran in a blaze of colour, uttering a high keening cry that faded as it retreated.

Paula turned to see who had disturbed her, smiling as she recognised the intruder. “What brings you here, Martha?”

Her friend grinned in response, lighting up her tanned sombre face. “You, actually. I came in search of you.”

Paula half gestured to herself, merrily. “Why trouble yourself?”

Martha grew serious at once. “I care about you. Aren't I allowed to?”

“Certainly, as I do.”

Martha smiled a little incredulously. “Anyway, surely it's time to go back now?”

Paula raised a single eyebrow, then tilted her head back and assessed the position of the sun. “I guess. Why did you come to find me, Mar?”

“Oh, you know, I hardly see you now.” Her manner was evasive, which baffled Paula. “You're always out walking.”

“It's spring.” Paula waved the sprig of wattle at her. “The best time of the year. What's your favourite season?”

“Winter,” said Martha definitively. “Cold and empty and bleak.”

“Why do you like it that way?” she asked in surprise. Last time they'd talked about the seasons, she thought Martha had waxed poetic about the dying fire of autumn.

“It's silent,” was Martha's quiet response. “Nobody bothers you.”

Paula paused to assess the time, decided they had to go back and led the way; Martha trailed her. “I thought you liked people.”

There was a short silence. “People don't tend to like me.”

“That's nonsense,” she responded immediately. Martha smiled, sad and sarcastic.

“I don't tend to like me.”

Her calmness bothered Paula, and she sped up slightly. “Well, I do. You're fun, conversational and well read.”

“Which is why you disappear alone for hours.” She caught up and shot Paula a sidelong look, as if to say, I know your secrets. Except there were no secrets to know.

“I like spring. It feels so alive and fresh, like all the past year's mistakes are washed away and there's new growth instead.”

“Very poetic.” Instead of amusement, Martha's tone was sour. She dodged past Paula and trotted quickstep the whole way back.

%%%%%%%

“I don't know what I did wrong,” finished Paula, twisting her hands nervously. “She got mad and I don't know why.”

Her mother glanced hurriedly across to check the next load wasn't ready, then turned to Paula again. “When people aren't happy it can be a temptation to take it out on others, especially those who are.”

“She said she was worried, and then she just changed and didn't want to talk to me.”

“Rebecca!” The shout made her mother focus on her own work; Paula moved her hoverboard closer to her father so he could load it up. This one was three bags of flour, heavy on the back and requiring stabilisation, which Paula remained still for while her father adjusted the controls. When it was done, he gave her a thumbs up and she gestured with her gloves, rising away from the site and on the journey to higher ground. It wasn't as easy to handle the unbalanced board; she would have done a lot more, and easier, with a transport hoverboard rather than the jury-rigged family board, but it was more economical and the decree had been that fuel, not time, was of the essence, since they'd planned well in advance. Indeed, today being the day before Big Tide, they had expected to have no more transport to do apart from the people, but someone had been digging too enthusiastically in their garden and cracked an underground storage container, so all of that had to be moved.

She was most of the way there, wind in her face, when a fast personal hoverboard raced up beside her, village elder crouched to stave off the wind. He matched her speed, then unwound and said, “I'll take over from here. Take my board and go back—we need you to persuade people to go.”

“What?” She was already moving, assessing how to swap boards without any risk of either of them tumbling into the trees below while stepping across. “Why?”

He grimaced. “Turns out there are people who haven't prepared and don't want elders coming to help. Your dad suggested you could try and help instead.”

She started to shuck the gloves, then changed her mind and pressed buttons, keying them to the elder's hoverboard instead. As ownership switched, both boards lurched violently, and Paula barely held her position. The elder was wearing magnetic boots and so didn't run the risk of falling. Once she had stabilised it, she said, “So where do I start?”

“Ask your dad when you get back.” His expression was calm and focused as he adjusted the settings to accommodate for his weight. “For now, just get going. Time is of the essence. Big Tide waits for no man.”

#inklings24 #please i want feedback #inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #theme: admonish #story: unfinished #my writing #if you prefer to read it in google doc form I can provide that also #talk to me about it i beg. i am not good at speed writing #also i do not have a title. thought about one for a while and just didn't like it #so for now it is continuing to be untitled #i am. oddly scared about the idea of sharing this i don't know why

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