#primary cell and cell line

[legendaryturtletheorist]

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[kosheeka]

Role of Tissue Culture in the Study of Cancer

For the case of primary cancer cell cultures, fresh surgically resected tissue is used to develop ex vivo cell populations.  While the most widely used culture method for studying cancer, especially in preclinical assays employs the use of immortalized cell lines. However, the process of transformation makes the accuracy of these models questionable, and hence, whether the actual cancer behavior is represented by these models becomes a question.

[thebibliosphere]

Wait, PMDD and GERD are connected to MCAS? Because I have both of those. Would you please talk a little more about that?

They can be connected to MCAS, yes.

If you google it, the current AI answer will tell you that mast cells are present in the esophagus, which is true, but only because mast cells are present in every part of the body.

What would be more helpful to say is that the esophagus is lined with histamine receptors, and when these receptors are activated it leads to chronic inflammation caused by several mast cell mediators which can make you more prone to acid damage.

Mast cells also release chemicals that can cause the stomach to overproduce acid, as well as relax the esophageal sphincter, which makes it easier for the acid to wash back up into the esophagus, causing further damage.

This is why some of the treatment aimed at GERD is actually antihistamines like Famotidine (Pepcid), which are type 2 histamine blockers, though I’ve yet to meet a GERD patient whose doctor has explained to them why this antihistamine works to relieve their GERD. The answer is mast cells.

(Note: MCAS is a multi system spectrum disorder that requires multiple factors to be present. Having some mild form of mast cell instability is actually far more common that is actually realized even by the broader medical community, with mast cell dysfunction now being linked to things like fibromyalgia, IBS, endometriosis, etc and I suspect in the next few decades, research is going to pivot drastically to focusing on mast cell treatment as a form of prevention instead of treating these disorders as things with no known cause and only symptom management.

My point of this whole section is to say: if you have GERD, that doesn’t automatically mean you have MCAS. You might have some form of mast cell instability that is causing issues, but so does a significant chunk of the population. It just isn’t discussed or recognized by current medical literature, though that is thankfully changing. Slowly, but the change is there.)

For PMDD there’s unsurprisingly a limited amount of research but the EDS clinic page on it is fairly comprehensive. Basically, hormonal fluctuations linked to the pre-menstrual stage of the menstrual cycle can prime mast cells to overreact, liberating several mast cell inflammatory chemicals but chief among them histamine which has been shown to have an effect on pain perception but also mood stability. There’s very little official studies related to histamine and PMDD, but looking at other studies such as the effect of histamine on major depressive disorder, you can sort of cobble together a bigger picture of how mast cells affect mental health and how hormonal fluctuations may impact this. Among the mast cell syndrome community you’ll sometimes see people talking about ‘masto rage’ or ‘histo rage’ and that’s because excess histamine in the brain can lead to extreme anger that can seem to come out of nowhere.

For me, this primarily happens with my PMDD and it feels like someone dropped a match into a barrel of napalm. My entire brain becomes a fucking mess that has gotten better with mast cell treatment, but not entirely eradicated.

This may be why some individuals who experience PMDD are self reporting relief from taking a histamine blocker like Famotidine during the luteal phase of their cycle.

Again, having these conditions doesn’t mean you have MCAS, but it can be an indication of some mast cell fuckery, especially if you have multiple things going on at once.

It wasn’t until I got diagnosed by my specialist that all these seemingly random unconnected disorders that I struggled with for nearly my entire life made sense because their primary instigation in my body was my untreated mast cell disorder. Everything from the chronic acid reflux that started as a child right down to my interstitial cystitis which started the moment my menstrual cycle kicked in at age 11.

Honestly it’s all been down hill since then.

Anyway, I hope this was useful.

[starrycloak]

I attended a series of lectures on neuroscience these last few days (well, they were a super basic cliffnotes-esque version of the topic cause medicine/STEM is not my field of work, so apologies for any inaccuracies ahead), and when the lecturer brought up the importance of the frontal lobe, she casually alluded to what happened to Phineas P. Gage and-

wbk but also non-accidental split imagery one more time ^

She also briefly touched upon the 'cuts' of the brain (left and right hemispheres, lobes —and primary functions of each—, gray and white matter) and neural processes like synapsis —communication between neurons by chemical and electrical reactions—, but one of the things that stood out to me the most was the creation and reconfiguration/transformation/plasticity of neural circuits.

A neural circuit is a population of neurons interconnected by synapses to carry out a specific function —i.e. processing specific information and sending signals to other parts of the brain and body — when activated.

definition just for context; the point of bringing this up being what these circuits look like:

^^^this is just a guide alluding to the differences in morphology neurons can have, but they kinda giving-

and-

literally when the lecturer first showed what these cells look like I was like "neat, the tree of life. kinda, sorta. out to deliver trauma to the rest of the nervous system :))"

and (to the right, for comparison: what neuron synapses look like)

and of course, not totally accurate comparison ahead, but I couldn't resist the slight visual graphy coinkidink with the letter-assigned grid:

Additionally, zooming out, multiple neural circuits can interconnect with one another to form large scale brain networks, and the one that stood out to me was the default mode network (DMN):

also known as the medial frontoparietal network, it's a large-scale brain network [...] best known for being active when a person is not focused on the outside world and the brain is at wakeful rest, such as during daydreaming and mind-wandering.

Other times that the DMN is active include when the individual is thinking about others, thinking about themselves, remembering the past, and planning for the future. The DMN creates a coherent "internal narrative" control to the construction of a sense of self.

^ smart people, pls do with this info what you must.

the point I think I was trying to make: what if the blue UD we know has blurred the lines between being a representation of will's subconscious mindscape and also a visual abstraction of the biological/neurological state of his brain —as the two, like irl, are so intrinsically connected?

which, fortunately, means hope for will and the UD too (wbk), because by this line of thought/theory of sorts, the capacity neural circuits have to rearrange themselves, even after years and so much pain, can transform the blue UD, will's mind, as we've come to know it (the plasticity I was reffering to at the beginning of the post). However, it's important to note that to learn something new, you have to unlearn other stuff to make room for it.

I'm far from the first to talk about this topic, so check out the following posts! This one by @erikiara80, along the lines of her loop theory, dives into the implications of will's possible injury or death caused by having been hit on the head, particularly the zone closest to the frontal lobe, by a blunt object.

@conflictofthemind also has a great post about the treeflayer (shoutout and tysm to @threemanoperation for telling me about it and for prompting me to post this) with more tree imagery that evokes similar shapes to those of neurons (and it also links to Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan/Neverland parallels).

edit: everyone, please take a look at the additions other users have written on their reblogs! you won't want to miss them!

[historicity-was-already-taken]

Received this question just now. Posting my response sans askers' username per their request:

Hi, as you are a holocaust historian, and as you mentioned in a recent post, words mean things, I was sort of wondering what you thought about people saying that what’s happening in Palestine isn’t genocide because the holocaust was genocide/6 million Jews was genocide. I’ve seen a couple people saying stuff along the lines of ‘if what’s happening in Palestine is genocide, we need another word for the holocaust’. I’m not worried about you knowing it’s me asking (like asking on anon) because I think you talk to people pretty reasonably but if you could answer it in private or without my name on the ask I would appreciate it, people seeing it could get… unpleasant, talking about this stuff and I try to stay out of the line of fire to the best of my ability. Totally fine if you don’t want to answer, I don’t want you hounded about Palestine either, it just seemed like you might have an interesting take with your studies

Anyone is capable of genocide, of following orders to commit human rights abuses, of attacking civilians, etc. No identity groups’ past—however violent and traumatic—makes them incapable of committing war crimes. Referring to what’s happening in Gaza as genocide doesn’t invalidate Jewish communal thought regarding the Holocaust. Moreover, the fact that the State of Israel has built Holocaust memory into its nation-building doesn’t mean that that country is inherently incapable of crimes against humanity. There is a cohort of primarily 65+ Jews who hold a trauma-induced belief that Israel could never be capable of these crimes because everything Israel does is in the interest of protecting the Jewish people. It’s a pretty thought, and one I used to hold, but it’s not reality. Many as well would argue that, because the October 7 attack was inherently genocidal, Israel was moral and just doing what it needed to do to bring the hostages home and stamp out Hamas cells. Indeed, these hypothetical individuals would continue, the fact that Hamas has built itself into the civilian architecture of Gaza means that Hamas is using Palestinian civilians as human shields; not that Israel is committing genocide. I personally think that’s wishful thinking. Hamas 800% bases itself near structures like hospitals and kindergartens so Israel will look bad when it attacks those places,* thus willfully allowing the people it governs to exist as human shields. HOWEVER, I don’t believe for one minute that the Israeli military doesn’t have the technology needed to seek out evidence of heat, heartbeats, etc, in hidden subterranean areas. Their counter-attack was always going to happen, but the way it’s been fought? Naw man it’s indefensible.

You know I don't do comparisons or Holocaust inversion, but I do have feelings and emotional responses which don't care about my Serious Intellectual Historian views on comparisons and Holocaust inversion. And, there's a very disturbing moment in one of my primary sources for my book where a woman describes a Nazi attack on a hospital in the Warsaw Ghetto. She describes the screaming and the panic and the civilians begging to be euthanized. Similar readings and sources exist for hospitals in Warsaw during the 1944 Warsaw Uprising when the Germans were destroying the city. I suspect similar descriptions exist of any hospital of a densely populated civilian area under siege. And, even if I was still bullheadedly in my Zionist era, I wouldn't have been able to simultaneously do the work I do, watch Israeli soldiers attacking hospitals, and emerge completely fine with everything. All of that doesn’t erase the simultaneous facts that: 1) the Holocaust happened and was a traumatic moment in Jewish History, the memory of which will endure throughout the millennia; and 2) the October 7 attacks were carried out by Hamas with genocidal intent.

What you’re seeing is people within our community dealing with cognitive dissonance. And honestly the experience of watching people lash out is stage 1 of that process (or as I call it, the Cognitive Dissonance Temper Tantrum). It’s no fun to witness, but can be positive if the person doing the temper tantrum chooses to learn from it. 

ETA: When I discuss things I felt/believed in my "Zionist Era," I'm discussing stuff from when I was like, under 21 years old. For reference I am currently 35.

No one has my permission to use my words to silence other Jewish people. You have no obligation to stick around for people having cognitive dissonance freakouts or saying shitty things about Palestinians, but I see part of my...duty as being available to work with Jewish individuals who want to deal productively with their cognitive dissonance once the freakout period dies down, if they want help.

*Here my Unnamed I/P Reader notes that it’s quite a bit more complicated than stated here in part due to Gaza’s pre-Oct. 7 2023 population density.

[flunkyofmalcador]

For @vveltergeist @demikov-dog

This fiction is based on their idea. It is SFW. They speculated that things would have gone very differently if the Inquisition sent Titus with the Red Hunters who found him instead of the Deathwatch.

“Chaplain Leandros is here to see you, Chapter Master.”

“Ah.  I’ve been waiting.”  Marneus Calgar finished his signature on a dataslate and set it aside.  He folded his hands on the desk as the skull-masked Ultramarine came down the deep blue carpet runner that led from the great double doors.

Leandros reached the desk and saluted with the sign of the Aquila.  “Chapter Master.”

“Is Demetrian Titus awake?”

Leandros reached up and undid the seals of his helmet.  He lifted it, revealing a scowl that was different than the one he usually affected.  “There is a problem.”

“Sit”.

Leandros did, accepting one of the chairs that were fashioned to accommodate a Primaris in full armour.  

“What is it?” Calgar asked.  “Did he not recover from the surgery?  Have there been side effects?”

“Chapter Master, he has no idea who he is.  The Red Hunters mind-wiped him completely.”

There was silence in the office for a long while.

“He remembers nothing?”

“As far as he knows, he appeared ex nihilo in their Chapter 57 years ago.  His past is sealed away and he’s going by the name Gaius.  I took off my helmet for him.”  Leandros’ gaze lowered to the skull mask on his lap. “He did not know who I was.”

Calgar focused his augmetic eye on the younger Ultramarine.  He zoomed in to observe his microexpressions, from muscle tension to the dilation of his pupils.  Chaplain Leandros was heartbroken.  He’d been made a Chaplain because of his adherence to the Codex over his own emotions, and his ability to keep those emotions in check in the course of his duties.

“I’ll want to see him, with Librarian Tigurius.”

“You can see him at any time.  He will not be leaving the Apothecarium soon.  But I warn you, Chapter Master…he is not Demetrian Titus anymore.”

“I will go to the Apothecarium this evening.”

“I can accompany you and Chief Librarian Tigurius if you want.”

“Yes.  It would probably be helpful.  Thank you, Chaplain. You’re dismissed.  I will see you tonight.”

“I am filled with dread, Varro,” Calgar admitted as the two Ultramarines made their way towards the Apothecarium.  They were both in armour, with Tigurius’s psychic hood engaged.

“It’s been rolling off you for hours.  I didn’t know Captain Titus well, but he seemed exemplary, if a little too imaginative.”

“I’m already thinking of him as dead.”

“It may be the best thing to do.  I take no joy in saying that.”

“I know you don’t.”

They came to one of the individual cells reserved for Astartes who were convalescing.  It was a dim room with a hospital bed centered against one wall.  Gaius/Titus was sitting up in bed, dressed now in a cobalt medical gown, reading from a dataslate.  Leandros was in the corner, and he gestured for him to stay seated as the two top officers entered the room.

“So.  You’re Sergeant Gaius of the Red Hunters.  I’m Chapter Master Marneus Calgar.  This is Chief Librarian Tigurius.”

“You honour me.”

“Are you aware that you are an Ultramarine?

“I see no reason to doubt that I was.  Many Red Hunters came in from other Chapters.  I only remember 57 years, but I’m clearly much older.”

“What did they tell you about your origin?”

“Only what I needed to know.  I was selected for the Red Hunters by the Inquisition.  I spent the first three years re-learning my warrior’s craft, then I was placed as a line brother in the 9th Company.”

Calgar studied him.  He looked a century older, as would be expected. His nose had been broken at some point.  There were two round scars on his forehead where service studs had once been.

“Your squad was wiped out, and as Chaplain Leandros has stated, we saved your life with the Primaris surgery.”

“Does my Chapter know?” “You’ve been reported as missing in action.  We are trying to decide what to do with you.”

“My place is with the Red Hunters.”

“Are you sure?  The Hunters are Codex compliant, you would likely have no problem fitting back into the Ultramarines.”

Gaius/Titus looked down at his hands.  “I’m sure I would adjust well, but Chapter Master,” he raised his striking blue eyes to gaze at him, “I only have a few years of experience, and none of them with you.  Respectfully, I don’t know if it would be the right thing for me to join you.”

Tigurius spoke for the first time.  “Rest, Sergeant Gaius.  Recovering from the surgery is your only responsibility right now.”

The three Ultramarines looked at each other, then Leandros said, “Feel free to call me if you need anything, Brother.  You are not in any trouble.”

They exited and returned to Calgar’s quarters.  They sat on the sofa around a low central table and a chapter serf brought them recaff.

Once Leandros had removed his helmet and they all had mugs in their hands, Calgar said, “Varro, advise us.”

Varro inhaled deeply.  “In my opinion, we should return Sergeant Gaius to his Chapter.  Keeping him would be theft, and it wouldn’t be good for him, either.”

“Throne.”  Leandros ran his ungauntled hand over his face.  “This is my fault.  His destruction is on my shoulders.”

“You’ve done your penance,” Calgar told him.  It was a century ago.  What’s done is done, and we can only move forward from here.”  He looked up at Tigurius.  “Is there nothing left of Titus?”

Tigurius shook his head sadly.  “He us what he says he is.  The Inquisition mind-wiped him very thoroughly. He knows he must have belonged with another chapter once because his earliest memory is of being a full Astartes re-learning how to be an Astartes.  He has no resentment about being mind-wiped.  He feels that it was necessary for reasons he doesn’t need to know and he’s content as a Red Hunter.”

There was silence in the room again.  Calgar poured himself more recaff.

“I will contact Chapter Master Daemar and let them know we have him.”

“They stole him from us,” Leandros protested.

“What if he asked to be mind-wiped?” Tigurius suggested.

More silence.  Leandros finished his recaff.  “I need to lead Night Prayer.  Excuse me, my lords.”

Night prayer would be delayed, Leandros decided.  He went back to the Apothecarium, to the Red Hunter’s room.  His hearts lifted when he found the new Primaris at prayer, a breviary open on his lap, his lips silently forming the words.

Leandros removed his helmet and said, “Your piety is exemplary.”

Gaius/Titus smiled a little.  “I must praise the Emperor for all He has done for me.  I’m blessed to be be in His holy service.”

“I have a tactical question,” Leandros said.

He looked quizzical.  “Is this a test?”

“For my own benefit, not your detriment.  Consider this scenario.  You are in a Thunderhawk, en route to engage orks.  The most direct way down is to fix jetpacks and jump from it to the site.  What do you do?”

The Astartes didn’t hesitate.  “I wouldn’t.  The Codex Astartes does not support that action.  It would displease the Emperor.”

“A strong answer,” Leandros said.  “I will leave you to your orations.”

“When is morning Mass?”

“0600.  If you are sufficiently recovered.”

“I’d like to hear you preach.”

“You will.  Sleep well, Brother.”

“Sanguinius guard your sleep, Brother Chaplain.”

Leandros closed the door, and Gaius returned to his prayer book.  Leandros replaced his helmet and controlled his breathing until he reached the sacristy.  He removed his helmet again and addressed the junior Brother who was placing ribbons in the pages of a book of sermons.

“Brother Alexis, I need you to lead the prayers tonight.”

Alexis nodded, collected the book, and exited.

Finally in private, Leandros permitted himself the tears that had been burning his eyes since Gaius had awakened.  The Codex Astartes indeed did not support dropping to a site with jump packs.  

Captain Demetrian Titus was dead.

[catboybiologist]

Do you see a future where we can give a trans person a shot and have their body start making the correct sex hormones (eg testes change to make E, or ovaries change to make T)? How far off? What things need to be accomplished to achieve it, and what tools do we already have?

Disclaimer that none of this is gonna be all that scientifically robust, the terms used are gonna be descriptive rather than technical, and that I'm just woke up and these are the ravings of a woman gone mad.

A single shot is ambitious, but I could see a course of several months or a couple years that, after those several months, lasts a lifetime.

How far off? I mean, wildly dependent on funding and focus. Unfortunately, nothing related to trans healthcare is gonna see a serious push I would think. With an actual, serious push, I would give it a few decades of research (if that)(this is blisteringly fast btw) until it's punted over to the FDA. At that point it's outside of my knowledge to know how far things would move forward.

But honestly, it's part politics, part luck of the draw on what people research and push forward. Might happen in our lifetime, but don't hold your breath. Research is grindingly slow.

This is mostly based around the possibility of inducing transdifferentiation. Tldr:

-stem cells are exciting bc they can become any cell type. They haven't "locked in" their cell fate yet.

-most research on cellular differentiation centers around deprogrammed differentiated cells, reverting them to stem cells, and then reprogramming them into something else. The deprogramming is actually well studied (shoutout Yamanaka factors) but I don't see something like this reaching a medicinal, in vivo use soon.

-in extremely rare and induced cases, however, you can force a fully differentiated cell type to become another fully differentiated cell type *without* that intermediate. This is likely way easier to pull off in vivo, even though the initial molecular triggers are much, much rarer and more difficult to study.

Which brings us to the two theoretical dots that we can use here: prostatic metioplasias as a result of testosterone (for transmascs) and the role of DMRT1 for transfemmes.

Broad tldr of each of these points:

-there was a study that studied vaginal lining of transmascs who had been on T for several years and gotten hysterectomies. They found some prostate tissue intercalating the vagina.

-removal of a particular gene (DMRT1) allowed testes to slowly become ovarian tissue and produce estrogens. This gene is responsible for maintaining testes cell fate- keeping the lock, locked.

Neither of these provides a direct basis for actual medication. They show avenues for what will work, however. What's necessary here is to understand the upstream signals that control the expression of genes like DMRT1, which can then be exploited to force expression or stop expression in vivo, in a human.

Basically, the way transdifferentiation would work here is blasting the appropriate cells with enough of these signals, over enough time to ensure that everything actually undergoes TD, to reprogram everything you want to reprogram.

(yes, I know about the crispr transfemme who targeted DMRT1. No, I don't think that's real. I've posted about that before.)

You don't have to bother reading these, but here's the primary sources I'm talking about for anyone interested:

[my-stories-vault]

Timestamp ~ Hushed.

Pairing: Dean Winchester X FBI!Y/N L/N

Blurb: The monsters find out that Dean Winchester has an undercover wife. So that's gonna go over well . . .

Trigger Warnings/Warnings (18+): violence, gore, angst, mentions of torture, language, keeping secrets (does that count?).

{ Main Masterlist }

Hushed: No More.

The lights felt mundane. You couldn't take your eyes off the blub that hung above the teenage manning the check-out counter; it was swaying above her like a modern halo. It was so bright that you couldn't remember the last time you saw such blinding white. It was the good clean energy that would help you burn the things you've seen from your retinas if you stared long enough.

'Hey, lady!' you heard the distant snap of fingers. You'd been hearing it for a minute now. 'Ma'am!' the voice was coming from above the surface, it couldn't reach you where you were drowning.

'It's your turn, dear,' someone said, a hand patted you on the back, cranking the reality into fast-forward.

You tensed before you realised it was just an old couple behind you. The man frowning impatiently while the woman smiled at you pleasantly, encouraging you to move ahead in line.

Startled, you put your things on the table where the teenager sighed in exasperated boredom, scanning the two meagre objects on your list: cup noodles and water.

'Anything else?' the teen asked, raising a brow as if she was daring you to say "yes".

You shook your head and searched your person for a wallet. You emptied your pockets as you went when you couldn't find it in the usual places: your napkin, phones, pocketknife, badge, and gun piled onto the table one after the other.

You didn't see how the teenager swallowed, horrified, and the older couple shared a wary look.

'I,' you exhaled, 'don't have any money.'

''S alright,' the young girl nearly squeaked. 'On me.'

You searched her eyes for kindness but only found fear. For the first time that day, you looked down. Black glowered at you: jeans, shirt, bullet proof vest, a coat to hide it, a belt to hold up your jeans an extra gun, and shoes. The only color you wore was the simple plain gold wedding ring that you had only slipped back on after your mission. With your primary gun out of the holster, you must look like a terrorist to them. But even your FBI badge was out; it made you realise that the girl might be more scared of the police.

A quick rake-over told you that she was mildly stoned. Least of your concerns, if you were honest. You weren't that kind of an officer anyway - juvie wasn't your area, and if a teen was ruining their life, it was between them and their parents. And you surely weren't the kind of officer that would accept food you hadn't earned.

'Never mind,' you sighed; your stomach growled in protest.

You swept your stuff in your hands and exited the store. You dumped your belongings on the passenger seat once you had settled behind the wheel. You clipped your seatbelt on and screeched out of the parking lot. The streets were empty owing to the relative late hour and the backroads you took. The drive was ten minutes from your appartment and even while your car sat purring in your parking spot, you didn't feel like getting out; there was an empty house and an empty pantry waiting for you.

Glaring at the luminous yellow projecting on the ground beyond from the headlights, you watched your last case play before your eyes. You could almost see the blood on your hands again that were tightly clutching the steering wheel at ten and two.

It would fade in time, you knew, like all the other things you witnessed. But tonight would be restless.

The insistent buzzing of your phone pulled you from your dark thoughts. You let it go to the voicemail. You checked your notifications, watching as an email popped in seconds after the voicemail with an attached file: a new case.

You threw it back down and fished out a more important device.

You refreshed the screen of your other cell a few times with a frown. Unlocking your second phone, you scrolled down your phone list, your finger hovering over your husband's name. With a weary sigh, you swiped the contact.

As predicted, it went to voicemail.

'Hey, Dean,' you rubbed your face as if that could scrub your worry lines away. 'Hi, baby,' you said again, smiling a little more. 'I finished my case. Yay,' you cheered in a hollow voice. 'It was long. I'm starving. In our building right now. About to head up with no groceries because I lost my wallet. But hey, the bad guys are gone, right? We wanted to arrest them,' your face twisted, 'well, let's just say guns got involved.' You paused, 'I'm fine. Thanks for asking. Really, you don't need to worry, but you are such a sweetheart to.' You imagined his annoyed grin and the roll of his eyes. 'You know what would make this all better?' you said in a tone that he knew well, one with your narrowed eyes. 'If I know that you're still alive,' you hinted, your throat tightening with anxiety again. You knew if you kept talking, you might cry, so you whispered at last: 'Call me.' You hung up.

You blinked back the predictable swell of your tears. There hadn't been a word from your husband in over a week. There was a horrible lump in your windpipe, choking you every day you went without any news.

You knew his job was tough. You didn't know what or who he "took care of" exactly. You had a deal with him: you won't discuss your cases with him and he could have the privilege of the same ambiguity; it was an understanding you two shared. The confidentiality protected all the people involved: no drug cartels would come hunting Dean, and no . . . whatever he did, would come get you. It was like a trust fall - if you could be in a long-distance relationship with a key secret on both sides, your relationship would be unbreakable. In three years of marriage, you'd never had a problem with it until the times he went A.W.O.L., like he had now.

Your only grudge with Dean was the lack of calls. At least you were frequent. As the anniversaries were added to your marriage, it also grew hrder for you to let him go. And vice versa (you assumed).

The lift was broken - what else was new? You climbed the five floors, at least you weren't wearing heels. Your stomach was still rumbling in protest, it was threatening to eat itself - your legs shivered, your head was faint. Maybe you would bother your neighbour for some food. Or you could sleep and not think about prospective food until come morrow. That would also save you some more overthinking about Dean.

Deciding to prioritise sleep, you jammed your key into the door. Stepping in, you threw your keys into the bowl that clanged loudly against another set. Before you could even freeze in realisation that there is another set, the light clicked on. Shocked, you whirled to see Dean standing next to the switch.

'Dean!' a happy sound left you, and without thinking, you pounced on him. He was ready for you, stumbling only a step back before he was holding you by your thighs, his arms wrapping possessively around you, his perky ass resting on the armrest of the couch to help him support your weight.

He chuckled, and you were too relieved to recognize the tightness behind it.

'Hi, sweetheart.'

You nuzzled your face tighter into the crook of his neck, breathing his scent in till you reached the point for diziness. His hand came up to comb your bird's nest, to keep your face nestled against his body, his other hand like a steal band binding you to him. He pecked your head, and then your cheek to leave a lingering kiss there, his lips brushing down your jaw to your neck where he sighed.

'I missed you so fucking much,' he said.

You pulled his head up to sealed his lips in a needy kiss, desperate to surround yourself with him. He took it somewhat hesitantly.

When he parted from you, you both were breathing harder. Your legs uncrossed and you set your weight back on your trembling feet; he held you upright. Your heads touched and your eyes were closed, reveling.

Before you found the strength to say something, his hand was shoving your shirt up.

You blinked; you didn't think you had the energy to do much more than walk to your room and sleep. Regretfully, you opened your mouth to reject Dean but you noticed his gaze was stuck.

You followed his eyes to your tattoo - the one he insisted you got. You thought it was quite tacky: a basic design, a circle with some sort of star in the middle with sun rays for a circumference.

When he'd shown you the picture, you'd told him that the tattoo could only be made look good by beautiful people - like the one on his chest was very handsome because it was on him. Until he told you that he wanted you to get it for his job; it would protect you, he'd said. You couldn't argue any more; you had to listen to him, no questions asked. That's how you'd ended up at the tattoo parlour the next day with a sheepish Dean to hold your hand.

Now, he was stroking the symbol with his thumb, some of the tension melting. It was then you noticed how anxious he'd really seemed. He had bags under his eyes, and he had let his scruff grow in ignorance.

'Hey,' you put your palm to his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze. 'Are you okay? Did something happen?'

He swallowed, taking a shaky breath. His eyes darted across your floor, as if chasing words to give you.

Your heartbeat picked up. 'Is Sam okay?'

He nodded mildly. His hands were gripping your waist for stability, his fingers imprinting into your skin and cloth. He seemed to be a thousnad miles away, thinking of things your mind couldn't fathom. It was work, you sensed, but it wasn't your right to ask. You could only give him what he needed from you.

You mustered a teasing smile for him, forcing the sleep-deprived whining of your body to the back of your mind.

'Tell you what,' you said. 'If you want, I'll order us some take-out, we can watch some shows and have a nice night in - only we won't sleep,' you winked suggestively.

It forced a chuckle out of him. 'God, I've missed you,' he repeated, panic in his eyes when he brushed your hair behind your ear.

'Dean?' you implored, holding his hand to your cheek.

His lip quivered. 'We have to leave,' his voice was thick with emotion.

Your lips pursed. 'I'll pack a bag.'

'I did,' he said.

Your eyes trailed to the bag on the couch, buldging with your amenities, no doubt shoved in carelessly. Boys.

'Let's go,' you said instead.

He took your bag for you, and you went right back out the way you came. You made for you car, to drive behind him.

'You're with me,' he said, taking your wrist and pulling you to his Baby.

It was parked a street away, which could only mean that he had been afraid of being followed. He opened your door and made sure you were safely in before jogging to the driver's side. He locked the doors before throwing your bag over his shoulder. Baby revved as he pulled out of park.

You were watching his side-profile carefully: the way his eyes jumped from the rear-view glass to the road, the way his free leg bounced restlessly, the way his hands had whitened on the wheel, the way his shoulders wouldn't relax. Silence reigned for a long time until your stomach made it's presence known, embarrassingly loud.

'You haven't eaten?' Dean's lips pulled down further.

You shrugged.

'Were you going to?'

He would probably scold you if you told him you planned to sleep the hunger off. And then order take-out in the morning.

'I lost my wallet,' you admitted.

'When?' he said, much sharper than you expected.

You had to think hard because your mind couldn't conjure coherency except for food and Dean (reduced to the basic instincts of hunger and worry).

'Um,' you sighed, squinting at the scenary beyond his window. 'Yesterday. I think.'

'Think harder, Y/N,' he gripped.

A spike of irritation made you grit your teeth but you did as he asked of you. The images of the ambush flooded your mind - your team cornering the drug cartel. The gunfire echoed in your head. You remembered keeping your wallet in your car, or so you thought.

'I think I forgot to take my wallet outta my pocket, and it was lost during the case,' you said. It must've been lost at the warehouse.

'You think?' Dean said.

'What do you want from me?' you crossed your arms. It would be easier if he told you, it wasn't like you could guess what he was looking for anyway.

'Was it stolen?' he posed.

You usually kept your belongings in the car. Your "Dean" phone, your wallet, your wedding ring and everything important to you. If you considered Dean's theory a possibility, what would the odds be that the same day that you forgot to empty your wallet, would be the day it decided to jump out of your pocket? Then again, what would be the odds of it getting taken from a locked car?

'I don't think so,' you said. 'It's not possible. It would either have to be in the car, or on my person.'

'Son of a bitch,' he cursed. 'You keep everything in your car; it was stolen!'

He knew that because sometimes he called during your cases, and he couldn't reach you because everything was stowed in your glove compartment.

'The car was locked,' you reasoned. 'Why would a person break into a sixty-thousand dollar car, and leave with a wallet? It had to be on me, and I lost it.'

'They didn't come for the car,' Dean grinded out, face hard.

Your eyes widened a bit - were Dean's enemies looking for you? You'd assumed Dean wanted to go off the grid, which is why he took you with him.

'But the car alarm would've gone off,' you insisted. He was shaking his head before you finshed.

'What was in your wallet?' he urgently asked, then added: 'Take out a phone from the glove compartment and dial Sammy.'

'Oh, um, okay,' you said, speaking while you did as he said.

You knew he had an array of phones, about ten or more. It helped him keep his cover in his illegal world. You only had his number to one - the phone you got him only to talk to you; that way, he could always have contact with you without worrying about someone tracing you through him, or vice versa. When you had got him that phone, you had got one for yourself as well, to help him preserve his anonymity. You both kept your marrital phones on your persons, alongside your work phones - except the times when there was danger of damage to the phone.

'Money,' you said, grabbing the first cell and pressing speed-dial. 'Driver's liscence, a few cards, um, our wedding picture, and—'

His litany of curses cut you off.

Sam hadn't picked up, so you dialled again.

'What?' his anger displaced you.

'They have your face,' he said.

Your shoulders slumped; you wanted to argue again that no one could've broken in, and you sure as hell would've realised if someone was stealing it from your pocket in case someone was brave enough to try.

And why would they want your face? If they had waited a little longer, they could've had the whole person. (You shuddered at that.)

Somehow, Dean's hopeless expression didn't let you contradict him.

'I've got some people on it,' you pipped up, hoping to reassure. 'If someone uses my cards, it'll show up. I'll personally pick it up—'

'No one's gonna use it, Y/N,' he groaned.

You were about to answer when Sam picked up on your third try.

'Dean?' You put it on speaker. 'Dean, is Y/N with you?'

'Hi, Sam,' you said, trying to inject cheer in your tired tone. 'How are—?'

'They know what she looks like,' Dean cut you off again.

You rolled your eyes when Sam cursed on the other end.

'Did you track her?' Dean asked quickly.

'No,' Sam said, regretfully.

'They have Y/N's wallet, Sammy,' he said in a thick voice. 'They must've tracked her car, and the house. The wallet has her photo. They're bidding their time.'

'Fuck,' Sam said. You resisted throwing your hands in the air with exasperation. Sam seemed to carry the same absurd notion that your husband was.

'Why didn't they take her?'

'I don't know,' Dean said, running hand over his mouth.

You recognized his nervous tic. Against your better judgement, you took his free hand in yours and he kissed his knuckles. On reflex, he squeezed your hand and then left it on the seat between you, making you frown.

'Are you sure it's her?'

'Her tattoo is intact,' Dean confirmed.

With a start, you realised they were talking about you. How could Sam doubt if it was you?

'Y/N, can you take me off speaker?'

You blinked in confusion, but did as asked and handed the cell in Dean's waiting palm.

'Yeah?'

'Dude, did you double-check?' hissed Sam.

'Why would I?'

Dean's heart pounded but his other hand left the wheel and produced his flask from his leather jacket, he thrusted it in your direction.

'A demon can make a small incision, possess her and it'll heal,' Sam pointed out. 'Check with holy water.'

'Drink, sweetheart,' he said.

You were taken aback with his abruptness. You nervously took the container from him.

'What's going on?' you asked despite your better judgement.

'Drink,' Dean snapped, his phone hand holding the steering wheel and his free hand brushed the jacket back to show you the gun tucked in his jeans. Your eyes widened at his aggressiveness. You unscrewed the top and took a small gulp of . . . water.

You were so confused.

'It's her,' Dean spoke to Sam.

'Are you going to tell her?'

Dean could imagine your reaction. He could also imagine the divorce bells, if that was a thing, in his future when he told you. His chest constricted with panic again.

'I don't know,' Dean said, face stoic but both you and Sam could detect his pain.

'Dean, she—' Sam paused. 'Cas is calling. I'll let you know if we find something.'

Sam hung up.

'Were you honestly checking if I was me?' you couldn't hide your incredulity, shoving the flask back to him. Dean nailed his gaze to the road guiltily, giving you a half-hearted half-shrug.

You ran a hand through your hair. You knew your husband was a weird cookie; the salting of the doors and windows when he was home, the tattoo on your hip, a similar mark on the rug before the room to your bedroom, the obsessive checking of locks on the doors and windows, the constant reminders on the text for you to take care - you knew his dark past drove him to these insanities - but checking to see if you were you?

That had to be a new level.

You might have not even minded that, to be honest . . . if he hadn't threatened you with a fucking gun.

You were irate with him for that.

'You should call your work, let them know you're taking off.'

You were reminded of the hefty online file lying in your mail, and the job you were supposed to commence from tomorrow. Your boss, the Captain, wouldn't be happy.

Then again, you and Dean had a protocol for situations like these: no questions asked.

You just hadn't realised that rationality would have to be specifically added in the "no questions" clause. Because you were seriously considering having your man tested one of these days . . . 

'How long?'

'Indefinitely,' he replied in a monotone.

You gave him a critical eye but at least this was a fair request. You knew that his job was just as dangerous as yours; sometimes, you felt like it was worse. You knew if you would ask him to go underground with you, he would go, no questions asked.

'What's the cover?'

If he thought that someone would track you down through your office, he'd better suggest a cover. But when Dean shrugged it just made your frown deepen. What kind of a criminal does he chase? It was basic common sense to find someone from where they went to work, everyday. 

Your boss picked up on the third ring.

'Hey, Troy.'

'L/N.' You still went by your maiden name at your office to not blow your cover eventhough on your official papers, you never your changed your name back from Winchester.

You let your emotions overwhelm you for a good act. You let your anxiety about Dean from the last week grip you and it wasn't long before tears were wetting your eyes.

'My sister's been hospitalized,' your voice cracked. What you said was actually code for "Someone's after me".

Dean gave you a concerned side-eye, but he knew what a good actor you were.

'Dear Lord, again?' you rolled your eyes because the weariness in his voice was genuine. You had a penchant of being in pickles. 'Will she make it?'

'I think so,' you whispered, keeping your pretense - your way of telling him that that you are currently uninjured and optimistic of your survival.

The story behind your "sister" was that she had an immunity disorder and was to be frequently hospitalized - this explained your frequent disappearances.

'Do you need someone for moral support? Pick up your laundary or somethin'?'

Translation: did you need extra hands on the deck? Pick up a dead body or somethin'?

'My husband's here today,' you told him, simultaneously letting him know that it wasn't your enemies after you this time. You added an artificial sniffle.

'Ah,' Aaron said. He was the only one who knew about Dean, and he was the only one who helped you keep your cover in times like these. But he also didn't like your husband, mostly because of all the hush-hush nature of your relationship with him. After all, Aaron Troy had raised you after your parents had died, he was a father figure to you, and treated you like his daughter. Another fact that no one at your office knew.

'Give him my regards,' Troy said, sounding annoyed. 'I'll transfer your assignments.' 

Aaron hung up, making a smile of amusement twitch on your face. You wiped your fake/real tears and sighed.

'I'm sleeping,' you announced.

'There's a blanket back there,' Dean immediately responded. 'And some food.'

'I'm not hungry, Dean,' you sighed again, turning over the back of the frontseat to reach the quilts.

Dean shot you a look of annoyed apprehension. 'I thought you were.'

'Lost my appetite,' you grunted, pulling the upper blanket. Your abdomen felt knotted with Dean's attitude. You were in such disbelief with him that it made you mad.

He caught onto the edge in your voice.

'Look, I'm sorry,' he pled.

'It's fine,' you said unconvincingly. You wrapped the cloth around you and curled into a ball against the passenger side door.

'Don't be like that,' he accused. 'I thought you trusted me with this.'

You scowled at him. 'With what?'

'This,' he waved his hand at the dashboard. 'Me grabbing you and hauling ass.'

'That's fine,' you really meant it this time. 'I'm mad at you because you didn't call me back!'

You could see when the information clicked in his head.

'Oh.' Like it hadn't even occurred to him.

'Do you know how worried I've been about you?' you got emotional again. 'I've been calling you every day!'

'They took my phone, Y/N,' he sighed, happy to explain something that wouldn't make you hate him. 'They had me for a week.' In fact, they only let him go when they unearthed his phone.

A gasp escaped you; your eyes searched him for injuries but there were none. 

'Cas healed me,' he waived your unspoken worry away. 

Castiel. Dean's best friend who had an angelic nature apparently, but you'd never personally met anyone from Dean's life except Sam, and Jody with her family. You didn't know a lot about the man though, not even Cas' last name. You were grateful to him, however. 

You laced your fingers with Dean's. 

'Does it still hurt?' you asked. 

'No,' Dean said, clearing his throat. 'Cas, uh, did a good job. It's like I was never hurt.'

You smiled small, before, 'Why did they take your phone?'

'They want revenge,' he said, his lips thinning. 'That's all I know. They . . . ' he shook his head, 'I didn't say it, I swear. They found out about you on their own.' There was an desperation in his voice, it was cutting him deeply - as if this was his fault.

You made a face at him, scooching closer. You put his hand in both of yours then put them between your curled body, encasing his entire arm before laying your head on his shoulder. That relaxed him, and you felt his rigidity deflating.

'I know that you protect me, Dean,' you whispered, 'I know you wouldn't out me yourself.'

'Even under torture,' he insisted.

'I know.' He loved you too much for it.

His lips brushed your hair in response, and he released a tumultuous breath while placing his head on yours. 

'Why didn't you call me when you were driving over?' you questioned after a beat.

He remembered your number. Losing the phone compromised you, but it wasn't his fault. Failure to contact you while he was captured wasn't his fault either. But . . . .

'I was . . .' he trailed off. He didn't have an answer that didn't make him sound like a total jackass.

If he were being honest, after being tortured for half a dozen days and waking up from his unconsciousness to Sam and Cas' worried faces hadn't helped make him smart decisions. He'd panicked straight into his car and stepped on his gas while his imagination gave him fuel in the form of harm befalling you. It had barely occurred to him to call you, and when it had, he was scared that you won't be the one picking up.

It was very stupid but he chanced it. It wasn't like you could've protected yourself against the monsters anyway. He hadn't taught you how . . .

His heart stuttered when he thought of how close the demon came to you. It didn't make sense for them to leave you

Unless . . . Unless they wanted Dean to get to you first.

He tensed at the thought.

'Dean,' the sweet dulcet of your voice made him shake his fear off. He realised that he had shifted his hand in a way that was acting like a makeshift seatbelt on you now, you were still holding it to your frame; and his heart was pleased with your safety.

'I don't know,' he chose to say. 'I guess I was . . . I'm really sorry. I just wanted to be with you as soon as possible - I forgot . . . .'

You didn't have it in you to scold him when he seemed so distraught and frayed. You sensed with your tingling "Dean-sense" that he wasn't being a hundred percent forthcoming but his agony was true.

You pressed your lips to his scruffy cheek, making him glance down at you. You pressed a quick light kiss to his lips at an opportune moment before he had to look back at the road again. You let your head fall on his strong shoulder again.

Just like that, he knew he was forgiven.

'Wake me up when it's my turn to drive, okay?'

You never got that turn because Dean drove for six hours straight. It was a good thing that you were too tired to use a restroom, and he was too tensed for one because Dean didn't move his feet from the accelerator a lot.

He hurried to the shotgun side when he got out, as if you couldn't open a door. Which you did, just to be a bit annoying. He was there to wrench it apart the rest of the way. He put his hand around your waist protectively but his eyes were sweeping across the dead parking lot of a rundown motel you probably wouldn't step in on your good days.

Dean made two rounds to the car because he wouldn't let you help him carry anything after he dropped you into the "safe" confines of the motel room. You didn't know what his logic behind it all was until you flipped a light and saw weirdly figured symbols painted all around. It seemed like he had prepped this room beforehand, or your brother-in-law must've.

Dean dumped your bags on the couch, and shut the door behind himself.

'Okay,' he breathed out, seemingly relieved. 'I'm going to go help Sam, okay? He's at the Bunker. You'll be alright on your own, right?'

You were disheartened. It must've shown on your face.

You wished you could go with him to this Bunker you'd heard so much about. But he said it would be a dead giveaway of his profession. You wanted to help him more, but besides self-preservation, you didn't see yourself of being any use to him.

'What? What is it?' he asked, anxiously.

You walked the three steps and took his hands in yours, letting your palms progress over his shoulders and across his back so that you were embracing him.

'Do you have to leave?' you frowned.

He nodded with a sad understanding smile. 'Yeah, baby. I promise, we'll try to be quick.'

'I believe you,' you said.

'And then I'll make it up to you,' he smirked for the first time. He gripped your hips to bring you closer.

'I'll hold you to that,' you chuckled. 'And you'll take care?'

He pressed his lips to your forehead, hugging you tightly.

'I love you,' he said.

He didn't often say it out loud, mostly through his actions. It further made you realise the depths of his disturbed emotions.

'Love you, too,' you kissed his neck, squeezing him with all your might before you had to let go.

He cupped your jaw. 'Don't leave, okay?' he ordered. 'Not even for ice, not even if there's an earthquake.'

'Seriously?'

'Yeah,' he said, no trace of humour in his voice or face. 'Not even for a zombie apocalypse,' he warned.

You couldn't supress your smile even if you tried to be sincere for his sake.

'Anything else?'

'Not even if I call,' he thought out loud. 'I'll come in person, okay? And when I do, I want you to throw this on me,' he handed you his flask.

'Water?' you quirked a brow.

He gave you half a smile. 'Do you trust me?'

You rolled your eyes. But, 'With my life.'

'Good,' he approved. He also gave you his gun.

'You pulled this on me,' you said with a tinge of upset. You looked up in time for you to see him flinch in guilt.

'I'm sorry,' he sighed through his nose. 'I had my reason, I promise.'

'If you promise . . . ,' you mumbled childishly. 'Are you going to threaten me again?'

He smiled boyishly that time. 'No, you are. I'm giving you the chance to get even - anyone, even me, if it's weird when you throw water at anyone, you shoot. Go for the heart or head, okay?'

'Dean, I have a gun,' you protested. On a side-thought, it had to say something about your mental health that that was the part you protested on. It prompted you to add, 'And I'm not shooting you.'

'You will be if the water reacts, okay?' he swallowed as a dark look crossed his face; he was, after all, asking you to technically kill him - but your safety was more important, so he moved on,  'And this gun is special, only shoot with that. It has a full round in it, okay? No other gun.'

You tried not to be ired by being told what to do. He cupped your other cheek, locking your gaze with his. There was that desperation again that seemed to be tormenting him.

'Capiché?'

For his sake, 'Okay!'

'Thank you,' he murmured, lowering his head to place an urgent kiss to your lips. It was long, passionate, and afriad. His tongue invaded your mouth, demanding and begging at the same time. He was memorising the taste of your lips, as if nothing would be the same after that day.

When he let you go, you felt the sting of his departure.

'Don't let anyone in. Not even the maid,' he said, walking back to the door. 'Here, take this,' he said, pausing and giving you a silver rounded dagger.

'Well, what will you take?' you frowned.

'I have more,' he assured you. 'You shouldn't need it anyway - I don't think they would come close enough for a hand-to-hand.' He bit his lip, 'I hope.'

You smoothed his worry lines with a thumb, offering him a smile. 'I will be fine. Okay? Not my first rodeo. I deal with mafia for a living, you realise that, right?'

He chuckled humourlessly on that. 'Yeah, don't even get me started on that.'

And that was that.

You watched from a slit in your curtain as your husband pulled away in his beloved car, and your heart yearned for him again. You hoped he would return to you safe and sound; your hand reached to the cross around your neck and you prayed to God for him. Dean might not believe in those prayers, but you would believe in Him enough for the two of you.

Silence reigned the library. It was probably the most silent library on the planet that day.

Dean's mind was splitting focus between his laptop and his wife; he wished he could split body as well and leave a part of him with you back at the motel, fifteen minutes away from the Bunker.

He had a tremendous migraine from not consuming anything besides alcohol and coffee, staring at a screen didn't help him either. Not for lack of trying on Sam's part: he offered Dean a sandwich, a few take-out options, even a pie; Dean refused everything. But, like a hypocrite, he kept wondering if you'd eaten anything back at your room, Sam had left enough food packets there when he'd been warding the room before your arrival.

In three hours, neither brother had spoken a word. When Sam stood up to refill his coffee cup and get himself some gronala bar and fruit, there had been a scrape of chair. Otherwise, their scrolling was noiseless on their laptops.

When Sam came back, he noticed Dean was on the same line that he had left him on. Just to break pattern, he thudded his coffee mug on the table. It didn't pry Dean away from his work.

Sam cleared his throat then.

It earned Dean's fleeting glance.

'Dean,' Sam outright called.

It got a raise from Dean's brows and the turn of his face to see his younger brother towering above his chair.

'So, how'd Y/N take it?'

No prelude or anything.

'It's Y/N,' Dean shrugged, progressing to the next line at last.

Sam sighed, resuming his seat parallel the elder Winchester's. He placed the coffee mug a bit loudly again. This time, Dean gave him a nettled look over his device screen.

'What?' Dean knew that expression only too well on the taller man.

Sam had a nice bitch-face going, underlying was his concern for his family. He was a little too familiar with this situation; a boyfriend who didn't tell his girlfriend how to protect herself and so she ended up dead.

The situation had it's varying points, of course. For one, you weren't a hunter, but you weren't a damsel in distress either. For another, Dean and you were married, and you might not know what the secret was but you knew there existed one. Lastly, this demon seemed to want revenge for ulterior motives and not Dean himself.

The demon had had Sam and Dean for just under a week where she tortured them, but didn't kill them. She waited until she found out about you to erase the sigils that kept Castiel from finding them. The demon apparently found you and stole your belonging, almost like she was taunting Dean, but then she let you go. It didn't posses you either.

There was a superior plan in play, a long con, and it was infinitely uneasy for both brothers to not know what it was.

Sam and Castiel had motioned to bring you back to the Bunker, where you would be the safest. But Dean was sure that he could maintain his secrecy while also keeping you out of the harm's way at the motel.

Sam had learned from his mistakes, but it didn't seem like Dean was inclined to.

'Did you talk to her?' Sam broached.

'No,' Dean grunted. Face hard yet hardly concentrating. 'She understands, Sam.'

'Exactly, Dean. If anyone, she'll understand.'

'We're not having this conversation again,' Dean said, sharply. But that tone had mostly lost effect on Sam after so many years of companionship.

'Look,' Sam persisted, 'I respect whatever your pact with her is, but that was okay when she wasn't exposed.'

Dean shook his head, 'I can protect her.'

'From this demon,' Sam had no doubt. 'But can you protect her from all?'

Dean's glare was frightening. Sam cautioned himself.

'Think about it,' he said softly, 'a demon finds out that one of us has a wife of three years - that's too good to let go. She'll probably have announced it to the entire world.'

Dean imagined it, his fist clenching and nails digging into his palm under the table. He could envision a horde of monsters swarming and clamouring before your motel room right now. He could see them banging on your door while you shifted the room furniture in front of the door to keep them out. He could see the resigned fear in your eyes, and he could hear your overwhelmed sobs.

He didn't realise when his heart started battling it's cage or when he held his breath. Suddenly, he didn't regret any decision of his life as much as he regretted leaving you alone.

Sam gave him a reality check: 'Hell, maybe the demon figured you wanna hide her, and maybe that's why she is waiting, so she could take Y/N from under your nose!' A thought that made both the brothers' guts churn.

'I should call her,' he said, getting up after seven or so long research-filled hours. The blood rushed to his legs and he had to grab the edge of his table for balance.

'You need to tell her,' Sam emphasised. 'Give her the "talk".'

Dean answered him by giving him his back. He had been with you for alomst seven years now, he'd be damned if he let anyone but you tell him how to run this relationship. Not even his brother would interfere.

His worry mounted and his paces grew wider when you wouldn't pick up. He tried three times and you hadn't recieved the call. His hard limit would be five before he took off running for the garage. Luckily, the phone clicked in answer on the eight ring of the fourth call.

'Hello?' came your beautiful gorggy voice. It made Dean's heart flutter with more than just relief.

'Hey,' he said, trying to underplay his galloping heart. 'Did I wake you, sweetheart?'

You hummed, ''S alright. Where are you?'

'Bunker,' he said.

He had stopped calling this place a home, long time ago. His home was the apartment where he'd snucked you from. Better yet, his home was wherever you were. And it pained him to know that his enemies were, metaphorically, trying to inavde his home.

'Did you eat?'

'Yeah. You?'

'I thought, maybe, you would be up for a second, very late, dinner if I come over in a while?' he tried to make it sound casual.

He could hear the smile in your voice when you invited him over.

Neither of you wanted to hang up so while Dean prepared sandwhiches and shoved pie into a basket, you told him about a few channels and reruns you'd been watching to pass the time. It felt like it was back to normal for a while.

'No way,' Dean scoffed. 'She's ugly.'

'I'm telling you, Dr. Sexy has no standard,' you teased him.

'Hey lady, Dr. Sexy is a whole standard on his own,' Dean grumbled, shutting the car door behind him, about forty-five minutes into the call. He had also carried out his duffel to stay with you overnight, finally catch up on some sleep after the exhausting blur of days he'd had.

'Is it Baby I hear?' you enquired, suddenly excited.

Dean grinned to blueing sky as he pulled out of his garage. 'Yeah, I'm fifteen minutes out.'

'Ah,' you sighed, satisfied with his answer. 'Good. I was getting bored. Even lit up a buncha candles.'

'Candlelight dinner, huh?' he grinned widely. Leave it to you to make the best out of crappy things . . . Like she makes the best of me, he thought.

'Wanted to do something nice for my husband. He's a very busy person, you know?'

He laughed. 'Well, he appreciates it.'

'Oh, yeah.'

Dean put the phone on speaker and kept it down on the seat.

'Are you ready to talk yet?'

'What d'you mean?' he wondered, distracted.

'Who are these people, Dean? What do they want?'

'I thought you didn't wanna know,' Dean tensed.

Several times in his longest relationship, he worried that you had run out of patience for him, and that you would demand that he spill his guts or that you would leave him for his "nonsensical" antics. He couldn't see having a conversation with you about his family business without an ultimatum being thrown in his face.

And he didn't know how to choose between his two lives.

One was where there was blood and gore and a broken family that he would never give up on. And the other life was you, something that had come so close to his heart that he couldn't imagine any happiness without it. He lived in two worlds, and it was a weight off his shoulders when he could go from his hunter's world into the world he'd created with you - where he could just shrug off his other life and simply be a normal human. In a safe cocoon. With the love of his life.

It came under his top three fears that his worlds would collide. And he would be destroyed.

'I don't. I'm not asking you for names, I mean.'

'Well, then what?' he let out a breath of relief.

'They just seem to be going to lotsa lengths to get their grubby mitts on me. Crime of passion, it seems. What'd you do to them?'

Dean was looking for the exact answer. This demon was really specific and it didn't make sense that in spite of all the ways it could've ended the Winchesters a thousand times by now, why she was evading. Waiting, like a predator for the right prey. Like she wanted to hurt the Winchesters in very specific way. Perhaps, Sam's theory wasn't too far-off.

Thus, their research was mainly based on all the cases they'd ever solved.

'We're looking into it,' Dean said, voice clipped.

You snorted. 'You don't know who your enemy is, but you know how to dice them?'

All demons die the same way. To find them, you have to know them.

How could he tell you that?

'She was wearing a mask,' Dean framed. Or he, he added in his mind.

This demon had just asked one thing, over and over to them: Remember me?

Classically, the Winchesters didn't remember.

They were only assuming that she was a she because the meatsuit was a female's and the demons usually preferred to infiltrate the same gender.

'Right. Do you need some help tracking her down? I could ask Aaron for a favor.'

'No,' Dean said a little too quickly. This wasn't the kind of research your people would/could/should do. 'We got this.'

'Okay,' you let it go.

You often gave Dean a lease that most sane humans wouldn't. Then again, Dean was also quite crazy. When it's meant to be . . . .

You groaned on the other end. 'Argh, it's so hot in here.'

'Sure, you're in there,' Dean flirted.

Your voice set into a tinkling laughter that always had his heart going. 'So cheesy, geez. But no, babe, the lights are out.'

The smile was snatched from his face. 'Wait, what?'

You chuckled nervously. 'Okay, fine. The candlelight wasn't my brilliant idea, alright? I think the entire motel lost lights or something—'

'Since when?!'

'Three, four hours? I dunno, I was asleep.'

'Fuck!' It could not be a coincidence. 'Do you smell something like rotten eggs?'

You paused, catching onto his panic. '. . . Yeah. Quite strong. Is that their M.O.?'

'Sulfer. Yeah,' Dean gritted his teeth. 'I need to call Sam. Don't leave the room!'

Dean was totally about to head in without back-up. The chances that he would be taken by surprise were next to nil, but if, and that's a huge if, he weren't able to tackle the demons alone, he knew you would charge out, guns blazing, to save him. He would need extra hands to protect you.

. . . Or this all could just be a coincidence, Dean futilely hoped as he dialled his brother.

You were changing clothes.

There was a good chance that this would turn into a car chase and you wanted to be ready to jump into Dean's car, shall the occasion provide itself. You did grimace at the thought of Baby being in the line of open fire, but you knew that there wasn't a car your husband couldn't fix. It was actually the lie he'd told you when you'd first met him; he introduced himself as a mechanic. Come to think about it, there had been a car chase that night, too.

It made you smile as you quickly collected the stuff around the room and dumped it in your bag. You were blowing out the candles when you heard a horrible gunshot echo through the early night.

Without thinking, you grabbed your Glock and swung the door wide-open.

In the middle of the parking lot, between parallel lines of the motel rooms, you noticed a cowering woman on the floor and another woman, a blonde whose straight cornsilk-like hair glinted in the moonlight, towering above the redhead with a gun aimed for a headshot.

You crossed the threshold, forgetting Dean's adviced Colt and knife in the room. Your mindset slipping into your job set-up, transforming you from the victim you were to a protector.

'FBI!' you yelled. 'Drop your weapon!'

The girl turned to you with a Cheshire cat smile that sent a lance of fear down your spine.

On second thought, maybe you should turn back.

The woman on the ground started laughing, and to your asbolute disbelief, she vanished the next second.

'What?' you gasped, paralysed with fear and shock.

'For a Winchester, you're not so smart,' goaded the other woman, pointing her own gun at you. 'Didn't think it'd be so easy to pick you - and right in time for your husband to see us, too!'

And as it all had been perfectly and painstakingly timed, headlights flodded the lane, and Baby's rubber shrieked against the gravel road. A hand came in a chokehold around you, as if out of nowhere, and you could only see the face of your captor in your periphery - the girl from the ground.

'We're going to have so much fun, dearie,' the voice whispered in your ear. 'Won't you bid goodbye to your protector?' it was a mock.

Beffudlement incapacitated your actions.

The last thing you heard before apparently disappearing into thin air was Dean's scream of your name.

Blackout.

249 times 4.15 is 86403 seconds.

That's three seconds more than how many seconds make a day. You played the song 249 times in your head, the guitar strings included. The same song over and over to keep you anchored. It was especially sung in Dean's voice, your comfort song ever since you'd loved him.

. . . The sounds of someday, maybe home . . .

You could hear conversing in your background, but your centre focus was was the voice in your head. Heck, it was what your world revolved on right now, the axis on which you were able to exist.

'Do you think she's dead?' one voice asked, hopefully.

'We're not killing her,' the second, the authoratative one, the blonde woman, said. 'Yet.'

And though . . .

'Why isn't she responding?' whined the first. 'Did you cut her tongue out?'

The lead didn't answer. Two fingers curled under your chin and your unfocused eyes met your captor's.

'No. Maybe she bit it,' hypothesised she.

Her head tilted and her eyes were covered by an onyx sheet. Your concentration didn't waver, but your heart rate accelerated.

'She's alive,' she dropped your head. 'And she can hear us alright,' she huffed.

All gone is here today . . .

'Do you know what your husband did to her?' huffed the redhead, crossing her arms.

The blonde lead introspectively gazed at you. You continued singing in the safe confines of your mind.

'He sold my soul to the Hellhounds,' mused the "victim", apprently. 'Or, well, he collected. And he wasn't very nice about it.'

Even the fires on the road . . .

'My husband was caught in the crossfire,' she continued. 'Imagine what he did.'

. . . Trying to get away . . .

'He killed him,' the dramatic redhead spit. 'In front of her. Even though she sold her soul for her husband! He was only trying to protect her, you know?'

For your silence, you got a backhand. The blonde grasped your hair and ripped your head backwards to inspect your now split lip. It was certainly astonishing how a petite woman with no visible muscles could pack such a mean slap - you could attribute it to her demonness, perhaps.

Demons were real: what a rude awakening it was for you into Dean's other world.

'That's what we're going to do to you! I'm going to kill you! And there's nothing your fucking husband can do to save you! And I will drag him down to Hell myself!' the blonde's enraged spittle sprinkled your face.

Out of control today . . .

You lifted your shoulder in a casual shrug to wipe your face, your outfit came away with blood and sweat as well.

The girls shrieked in indignance and the redhead landed a kick to your shoulder that must have at least bruised your collarbone.

It was a day and three-forth, approximately. You forced yourself to sleep around ten last night to maintain a pattern. Like a clock was ringing, your body roused after it's four hours' worth of very superficial sleep. You started singing again then. You had also been forcing your body to tolerate the pain instead of losing consciousness; God knows you had enough practice. Your adrenaline kept you from going into shock and your focus on the song helped you divert from the evilness of it all. Your mind was concentrating on the one good thing you had. The one ray of light: his voice.

Until your sun found you, you would have to make do with the piece of sunshine in your mind.

As far as your awareness to the reality went, you knew the girls had gone out for a break; they had a job or a shift or something that they couldn't leave for another day, they would be back by evening. Who knew Hell had rules and productivity?

Probably Dean.

You kept singing well into the evening. Mostly to keep track of time now. Your eyes also traced the patterns on the walls: sigils, to keep angels out, they'd said. They talked a lot.

Monsters are real! your mind tried to panic. You wouldn't have that, Go on beyond your way . . .

A door above opened; you braced yourself by letting the humming in your mind intensify.

About a hundred and seventy seconds passed and then a familiar gentle hand lifted your head by supporting your jaw, cupping your face with the other as well.

'Sweetheart, can you hear me?' came a begging voice. 'Y/N, hey, hey . . .'

His deep timbre put a shame to your memory of his voice. You took a deeper breath, as if he was enlivening you once more.

Your eyes were closed, you hadn't opened them in a while. You were reluctant to admit the fear in your heart, because what if this voice was a mirage . . .

Wouldn't be the first time, a nasty voice snickered.

'. . . pulse is weak,' whispered the gravel, his voice coming from from the left. 'Sammy, her hands,' demanded it.

You felt warmth radiating off another presence to your right. When fingers delicately harrased the rope on your skin, you moved faster than thought.

Your singing abruptly ended.

Your bloodshot eyes glowered at Sam whose neck you had in one air-tightening hand. He grasped your wrist and could've easily pried your strangling hand off, but he waited for you to trust him.

'It's just us!' Dean explained, pulling his shirt down to show his untouched tattoo. 'Our tattoos protect us from possession. Holy water makes their skin sizzle,' he told you. He used his flask to pour some water on his hand and then on Sam's that was trying to hold your wrist at bay.

You had no choice but to believe them. Even if demons had infested them, it wasn't like you could do anything to them or fight the demons. You would have to take their word for it. Whatever happens . . .

Your grip loosened and Sam swallowing convulsively. Your fingerprints were already reddening against his muscled skin.

'Good chokehold,' he complimented, running his hand on his neck soothingly.

'Sorry,' you muttered.

You'd only attacked because you were afraid that he would discover that your hands had been free. You had broken the thumbone and freed your hands from your rope long ago, but you hadn't known how to rescue yourself withoit necessary weapons. And you hadn't wanted to run away either because that would have continued this goose chase. In your indecision, you'd stayed, bidding your time.

'We're going to get you out of here,' Dean promised.

His hand brushed away strands that clouded your face from him. His lips came to brush up against yours in relief, you could only respond a second before he was pulling away to work on your leg binds.

'I believe you,' you smirked weakly. 'But now that you're here, I think I have a plan.'

The Winchesters exchanged a surprised look.

So far, it felt like they were your family. They hadn't attacked you so that was a very positive sign. Obediently, the Winchesters were hiding in the kitchen upstairs, per your plan - which was the sanest one, Sam agreed even if Dean hadn't liked it.

Without your song, everything was quite acute to you: the cracked tiles of the basement you were in, the creaks and groans of the abandoned house in the middle of nowhere, the staleness of the air, and no sunlight the whole time you'd been trapped here - it all made sense.

Sam filled you in about everything you needed to know about demons. Throughout, he was very professional about it, but Dean had watched you through it was like he was expecting you to slap him or something.

Your husband also carefully relocated your left hand bone while you'd cried out closed-mouthed in pain; his fingers had lingered on your wedding ring for too long there, his brows creased in careful non-chalance.

He had been the most hesitant to leave you alone. But you assured him that this wouldn't be your first time. He wasn't happy with that either, but at least he had more confidence in you.

You loosened the muscles in your neck and closed your eyes, you rearranged your hands into the rope. You had told Dean not to cut your legs one, only to loosen them. And you had an angel blade in your right hand, behind your back.

Let's show them what Mrs Winchester can do.

You weren't listening to their words anymore: there was no information to be gained.

You waited until you felt one of the demons near you: the blonde had been mostly handling the bloody parts, it satiated the masochist in her. The redhead was more like a cheerleader in the background.

When you felt a warm breath ruffle your hair, your legs shot up and slung around her neck with the help of your roped ankles and then brought her jaw down against the seat of your chair with all your might; you heard a distinct crunch.

Who bit her tongue now? you were a tad bit smug.

The redhead spluttered in horror and rushed towards you. It was the last thing she did because you plunged the silver blade into her neck. You only paused for a second because her skull glowed up orange from the inside out.

Unfortunately, the second was enough time for the blonde to strike back.

The blonde, already somehow healing from a severed tongue (there was enough blood to make an educated guess), flipped your chair, and you fell backwards with it. Your head cracked against the cold floor, but you didn't have the time to gauge your pain because she rained down punches on you by straddling you within the split-second. She was so busy scratching, punching and slapping your bruising face that she didn't hear the Winchesters race down the stairs.

Dean shot her in the head and she fell sideways from your body.

The light on the ceiling was woozy to you. There was a single bulb in the centre that hung from a wire a few feet down from the ceiling. In your disorientation, you could see four of those bulbs.

And then four Deans came to your aide. The Winchesters' mouths were moving but there was a dintinct whinning in your ears. Then Sam swam into your vision too. Something wet spread from your head and trickled down your back like a warm shower.

Someone lifted your sore head, and you groaned loudly, though it sounded to you like your were underwater, drowning slowly into your subconscious.

Sam hurriedly removed his shirt to hand to Dean who used it as a cushion for your head.

Then it was lights out.

Your first sensation was the cozy butter-like energy smoothing down your nervous system. Your body hummed in appreciation when your eyes opened, and followed the two fingers leaving your forehead to the face of an unknown man with striking blue eyes and a baby face.

'Hello, Y/N,' he greeted, deep voice that contrasted his childlike look.

He was pushed aside by a much too familair a face then, the beauty of which was marred by aggravation.

'Dean,' your voice was clear. Not like you had sung under your breath for hours, not like you had lost a ton of blood, not at all like it should sound after a good session of torture.

In fact, there was no trace of pain. Your bones felt fine, the lacerations on your thighs, chest, and arms were gone. Beside the slight buzzing faintness behind your eyes, you felt like you'd drunken God's elixir.

Castiel, it clicked in your head. Of course, the healer, your husband's best friend.

The new man smiled as if he could read your mind.

'What are you?' you blurted out.

'I'm an angel of the Lord,' Castiel introduced. 'Castiel. They call me Cas, it's a nickname.'

'Alright, that's enough,' Dean interjected. 'Cas, thanks for your help, but can I be with my wife now?'

'It was nice to officially meet you,' Castiel beamed.

'Glad to see you awake, Y/N/N,' said the younger Winchester. Sam, who had been leaning against a desk chair also straightened, and walked out with Castiel.

'Angel . . . ,' you murmured. 'Huh.'

You took your surroundings in.

There were guns hooked on the colour-coded wall. You were sat on a memory foam mattress, in a room with simple and sweet decor. There was a sink to one side, drawers next to it. There was a desk with a chair, and on them photo frames; one in particular caught your eye, the one with your face looking up at Dean like he was your whole goddamn world and with him smirking at the camera as if the bastard knew it; it was placed next to a blonde woman's picture that ressembled Dean's gorgeousness, Mary.

Your eyes trailed around across more furnitures, noting the overflowing hamper, the tray with tangled chargers, a few books on the nightstand. You almost had an inkling that if you bent over right then, you would find a more "private" collection of Dean's under his bed, the thought almost made you smile.

'Bunker,' you said. And Dean's room, too, you understood.

Dean slowly nodded, drinking your expression in, watching you watch the room. Your eyes came downward to clash with his.

His eyes were gaurded again.

You pressed back against the headboard and scuttled to one side, your hand patting the other, inviting him. He didn't seem too pro that, but he swallowed whatever rational reply he had and crawled the distance between you two. His shoulder rubbed against yours, but one of his feet was still grazing the ground like he would run if he had to.

It made fear spring into your heart. You had been fine getting to know his past, but suddenly, you were realising that he may not have been.

'What happened?' you prodded, curling against his side. But it caused your heart to lurch when he didn't gather you in his arms like he usually would.

His face didn't betray anything, but his eyes were burning.

'We, uh, took you to the nearest hospital to stabalize you,' he recounted. 'Castiel came in a while and healed you, but because you'd lost a lot of blood which he couldn't replenish, you didn't wake up. We brought you here. Your body was in shock, so Cas tried to use his mojo for three days - today, you woke up.'

You gaped at him. 'I've been out for three days?'

His jaw clenched.

'That must've been terrible for you,' you gently side-hugged him but he stiffened up further.

'Me?' his voice was gruff. 'Are you kidding? You're in this mess because of me.'

He detached, turning over to face you better.

'You were tortured, Y/N,' he informed you. 'By monsters!'

You nodded slowly. 'Scary,' you played along.

'Aren't you mad at me?' he asked, quitely exasperated.

You frowned. 'Will you be mad at me if, God forbid, one of the mafias I tango with, kidnaps you and tortures you?' you flinched at that, but you stared at him intently. 'It's risk of the job . . . I don't want it for you. It just . . . happened.' You should probably be less callous with words, but to be fair, you weren't the safest person to be around either.

'It's not the same,' he gritted out.

'How come?' you posed.

'I would've kicked their asses,' Dean stated.

You bit your amused smile. 'FYI, I kicked ass.'

He rolled his eyes. 'You're not taking this seriously!'

'What do you want me to do?' you couldn't help but laugh. 'So, your enemies are crazier than you. But at least, my wackadoodle is one wackadoodle for a reason! I mean, I don't have to worry I'm married to a mad man now; phew!' you wiped off the non-existent sweat from your forehead.

His face was incredulous. 'Why aren't you reacting to this? I've lied to you about monsters!'

It was almsot like he wanted you to be adverse and obtuse.

'One,' you held up a finger. 'You have never lied to me. Second, we both agreed to omit truths. I have government confidentiality, and you have . . . reasons. Why again?'

He went defensive on that question.

Worlds colliding. One of his lives burning down.

Except it wasn't much of the implosion he thought it would be.

He knew how emotional you were. How come he wasn't facing any heat right now?

'What are you doing?' he asked, crossing his arms.

'What do you mean?'

'This is not how you would react!'

You blinked, but sighed. 'You're right.'

Dean almost expected you to jump on him and attack, suddenly. She's possessed, an inner voice told him - but Castiel would've seen it.

And you remained seated quite comfortably.

'I'm responding to you,' you calmly told him.

'What?' he was stumped.

'I don't have to feel anything until I've understood you,' you explained.

It struck him, that method of yours. He recalled that this wasn't the first time you'd done it to him. He remembered why he had felt that this version was so unlike you - because this was how you dealt with your criminals.

This was how you'd once dealt with him. When you had been on his case, years ago.

His chest ached when he recognised the cold, collected familiarity in you.

He deflated in disappointing defeat. You deserve it.

'What?' you searched his face apprehensively.

'Don't do that,' he muttered. 'I'm not some fucking colleague or-or a delinquent. Don't treat me like that,' his voice wavered.

Your face fell, and eyes widened at your mistake. Despite sitting one feet from each other, it was as if a cavern of distance had grown between the two of you out of nowhere. You let your mask collapse, letting the feelings catch up to you.

It took you several minutes before you fully allowed yourself to feel the brunt of having emotions. You started crying for what happened to you, you were afraid that every semblance of your reality was crumbling under the knowledge that monsters existed, and your throat constricted when you imagined Dean running into God-knows-what places to save strange people, risking his life more than you could ever imagine.

'I'm sorry,' came his whisper. He still wouldn't touch you.

You eyed him with a new fascination. The man you loved and married: he was raised by his father after his mother was murdered, he child-reared his kid-brother and sacrificed his own childhood. Now, he was sacrificing a safe life, running around saving people, hunting things, continuing the family business for people who didn't even believe in it.

People like you, who criminalised him and hunted him for being a fucking hero.

A hero who was sorry because . . . ?

'Why?' you couldn't fathom.

He judged you with disbelief. 'I ruined your life, didn't I?' his words cracked at the end.

You pursed your lips, considering his statement. 'What, the monsters only savour people who are "aware"? What are you talking about? I mean, c'mon, would I have been spared by a vampire if I hadn't known?'

He winced at the mental image. But you fixated on something else, your hand grasping his sleeve. 'My God, vampires exist, don't they!?'

Dean laughed darkly, taking your hand in his. 'Exactly my point. The fear, the constant paranoia that this comes with - it's not worth it!'

'Maybe not,' you concedded. 'But awareness is one thing, choosing to be a . . . What are you?'

'A hunter,' he admitted, for the first time.

'Hmm,' you smiled. Yeah, it suited him. 'Well, whether you want to be a hunter or not is secondary. Right now, I'm glad I finally know . . . That is, if you wanted me to.'

'I never wanted this for you, Y/N!' he excalimed. 'That God you pray to so much - news flash, He's a dick!'

Your eyes buldged. 'You've met Him!?'

He ran a hand through his hair. 'More than I wanted to,' you thought you heard him say.

But you were too busy stewing in that new idea. It came with a sense of dislodgement - as if a large chunk of your life had fallen out of place and left a void behind. More tears slugged down your cheeks.

It made your heart go out to him more. How did he deal with this all alone?

Or was he distracting himself? came a worse idea.

'Were you . . . Did you marry me because I'm normal?'

'What?' he didn't seem to understand your question. 'Where'd you get that idea?'

'Just seems that this . . . discovery of mine is ruining it more for you than me,' you observed. 'I mean, did you not want to tell me because of our deal of confidentiality, or because you never wanted me to know?'

'The only reason I ever agreed to that supid deal is because I never wanted you to know,' he clarified.

'Oh,' it stung worse than you thought it might.

'Don't you see it? I have a fucking bulls-eye on my back!' he tugged his hair in frustration.

Your shoulders slumped in resignation. 'It's understandable,' you nodded even as more tears cascaded down, 'you just wanted an emotional hatch where you don't want to think about the monsters. You've never had that before.'

'No, no, that's not it,' he said, coming to sit in front of you, suddenly panicking. You wouldn't look at him so he had to brace your shoulders and pull your face up to search your eyes. His heart took a hit when your tear-stained face stared back at him, with betrayal shining bright in your eyes.

'That's not what I meant,' he hoped that you could see the depths of his sincerity. 'Sweetheart, if something happened to you because the monsters knew who you were - it'd kill me,' his eyes corraled some tears of his own. 'I love you, you know that.'

'Really?' your voice wouldn't go above a whisper.

'How can you doubt that?' he rolled his eyes, as if you were being silly.

You sobbed, shaking your head in relief - he scared the bejesus out of you more than monsters had right then.

He gathered you in an embrace and pulled you on his lap, encouraging to bury your head in his shirt till you were cried out.

It was only when your tears were tapering and your sniffles were subsiding that he thought of using a joke you had on him - he barely got your humour, but it sure made you laugh.

'I told you: you shouldn't have married someone so much hotter than you,' he teased.

Your laughed predicably, slapping his chest. He tightened his arms around you reflexively, he'd been unconciously rocking you back and forth.

'It always comes at a price,' you said hoarsely.

He snorted, pressing a tight kiss to your forehead. Though you tipped your head back to bring him in for a lasting one on your lips.

Dean broke apart after a beat, 'Wait, wait. Doesn't it bother you?'

'Kissing you?' you quipped, 'I won't lie to you. I like it.'

Dean bit his lip. 'You love it,' he corrected.

You smirked in agreement. Then, he forced his concentration.

'I meant,' he struggled, 'I'm the Job, you know? Doesn't it bother you that I'm so . . . fucked-up?'

His question made you remember the demons.

Usually, you were so tuned out of our own head while captured, all the talks and plans would brew in the back of your mind while you concentrated on something to keep you sane, something like a voice-over sugarcoating your traumas. It would fortify your mind. But one thing from your most recent torture stuck with you.

Their conversation about Dean's "reality" surfaced.

'Can I ask you something?' you side-eyed him.

He nodded slowly.

'Did you . . . really kill an innocent human? And her wife?'

Dean's jaw clenched. He knew exactly what you were asking. The abandoned house had been the demon's when she was still alive.

'I, uh, yeah.' No denial. He's the monster there.

'Why?'

There wasn't any judgement in your eyes. Which disturbed Dean. He should be punished for his actions, you're too good to him.

So he spilled his truth. About the Mark of Cain, and his mindset during that time. He narrated then, years of crap before, and then years of misery after. He narrated things that happened even while he was with you.

You listened in utter silence, silently matching his bodily scars and late-night tears to his stories.

Outside the Bunker, the sun climbed the sky and then descended from it. The moon strutted to it's peak glory. 

You both took a dinner break before returning to continue the stories Dean had hid from you.

By the time it was three in the morning, you had a headache from information overload.

In your tiredness, you took Dean's arm around your waist and slept. Dean stared at the ceiling most of the night, falling into a fitful sleep around late morning.

You woke up first, in the afternoon.

Dean had curled around you during his sleep. Possessively, as he often was, he had thrown an arm and a leg around your bodice so that you didn't have an escape.

He didn't want you to go, you knew. What you came to know last night was that he thought you should nevertheless. It was clear Dean expected you to break his heart; he thought it would be the right kind of punishment for him, for how many people he thought he had harmed.

But then, so had you. Indirectly, like he had.

It reminded you of a similar predicament he'd put you in a few years back - when he had warned you about his job for the first time, about himself. Your answer to him would still be the same as it had been then.

Determined to show him, you woke him up with peppering kisses across his face.

'No,' he groaned, garbled.

You snickered a bit and he popped one eye open to glower at you with it.

'I want to talk,' you said.

His forming smile sobered.

'Oh,' he braced himself.

'It doesn't bother me,' you said quietly, honestly, eyes locked on his. He took his due time to gauge if you were lying for his sake.

'You don't have to do this for me,' he whispered. You knew his voice would've cracked if he's spoken in a normal decible.

You caressed a thumb across his light scruff. 'I'm not,' you said, pleased to find that you meant it with your whole heart. 'I married you knowing you had a secret, Dean. I knew the secret was about your job. This isn't a dealbreaker.'

'Are you sure?' he pulled your closer by the hips so that your faces were inches apart, with little to no space between your bodies.

You grinned, 'As I'll ever be. You're a good man, and,' you took a faltering breath, 'I believe in you like always. I trust you like always. Nothing has changed except that I know you better now. And I still love you fo—'

He swallowed the rest of your words in a bruising, albeit mouthwatering kiss. The heat reminded you of the day you two had read your marriage vows, but the vulnerability was second to none. Dean had given up a hidden part of him, probably what he thought was the uggliest, and you were determined to show him that it was just as beautiful as the rest of him.

Screw self-depreciation, your husband was a freaking myth come true and he'd better know it. So you spent the rest of the morning showing him that.

A/N: I love bad-ass female protagonists who can keep up with Dean - don't you? Lemme know what you thought of the chapter 🥰!

Tag List.

@aylacavebear @hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @emma1998sblog @globetrotter28 @jollyhunter

[covid-safer-hotties]

The Push for Off-Label Rx to Treat Long Covid

Also preserved in our archive

By Tinker Ready

Charlie McCone, a San Francisco marketing specialist, developed long COVID in 2020. Before he recovered, he developed another acute case of COVID, and in 2021 his long COVID worsened. He’s been sick with fatigue and shortness of breath since then, spending many hours of every day in bed.

Only one drug helped his shortness of breath, he said. But doctor after doctor refused to prescribe that drug, Plavix, approved by the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA) to prevent blood clots.

McCone began asking for it after doing his own research and learning it showed promise. When he finally found a doctor to authorize a prescription, McCone said, he began to breathe easier again.

McCone, now an advocate for long COVID sufferers as part of the Patient-Led Research Collaborative, a group of researchers and patients with long COVID, felt he had to take alternative steps. With no federally approved treatments for the millions of Americans who have experienced long COVID, some patients and doctors are turning to off-label drugs to manage the condition . But patients say it is not always easy to get a doctor to prescribe them. And in some cases, insurance will not cover the drugs, ruling them experimental.

In the case of Plavix, Stellenbosch University researchers in South Africa have published results of a blood plasma analysis that found patients with long COVID had microclots — and Plavix may help relieve them.

McCone and others are asking doctors to learn about and use off-label drugs that show evidence of helping long COVID symptoms. Among them: Low-dose naltrexone for fatigue Nicotine patches for fatigue Rapamycin for immune function Triptans for headaches Beta-blockers for postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, dizziness Paxlovid for viral persistence Plavix and other blood thinners for blood clots

“We don't believe any of these drugs are going to cure patients, but [using them off-label] can be the difference between a patient holding onto their job,” McCone said. “There could be a patient going from being stuck in a dark room to being able to socialize and enjoy their day. This can be difference of a parent being able to take care of their children.”

Not every doctor is going to be comfortable prescribing Plavix, McCone said. But there is some solid evidence to support the idea that low-risk drugs like it can bring long COVID patients a lot of relief, he said.

The Argument for More Aggressive Off-Label Prescribing Julia Moore Vogel, PhD, senior program director at the Scripps Research in La Jolla, California, was co-author on a paper published last month in Cell calling for a stronger push for long COVID treatments. The paper noted that “as patients await evidence-based care, many engage in self-experimentation on the edges of medical science.”

Moore Vogel and others say people don’t need to experiment. They can use safe, existing treatments if they know about them and a doctor agrees a prescription is warranted. She would like to see more professional medical groups do more continuing education on long COVID so doctors can learn about the best off-label options.

Groups like the American Academy of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation have come up with a guideline on how to treat cardiac, respiratory, and other symptoms in patients with long COVID. But Moore Vogel thinks primary care doctors should take the lead.

“Part of what we're saying is a lot of it falls on the primary care physicians at this point because people are waiting so long to get into those subspecialties,” she said.

She would like to see recommendations for the primary care providers boiled down in simple terms about what is known about first-line, off-label therapies that have emerged.

Sterling Ransone, MD, a family physician in coastal Virginia, agrees that primary care specialists need to be educated on how to detect and treat long COVID.

He says he sees about one long COVID case a week, and sometimes his patients don’t know they have it. Patients will come in a month after symptoms, and he will ask them if they were sick and have tested for COVID.

“I literally had a patient tell me, ‘Is that still a thing?’” he said.

He suggests doctors add long COVID to the list of conditions they rule out when presented with confounding symptoms.

“What we need to do is make sure we always ask about the potential for long COVID with this myriad of symptoms,” Ransone said.

He prescribes off-label medication after doing research, if a patient asks for it, he said.

“If it's somebody I know well and they've got questions about something, I'll absolutely sit down and talk with them and tell them the research that I've done,” he said. “I mean, you know, from a physician standpoint, above all, do no harm, right?”

Once patients and doctors decide to try something, they need to get insurance approval. Some of the medicines are denied insurance coverage and are expensive, Ransone said.

“We have to go through prior authorization processes, and that's just another hurdle these folks unfortunately have to jump over,” he said.

One reason patient advocates say off-label medications are key is that clinical trials take too long, McCone said. Many trials of long COVID treatments are underway, but none have led to conclusive findings that have identified effective standardized treatments for the condition. As a result, the FDA has not approved any standard long COVID treatments in the same way treatments for other viral conditions and diseases have received approval and are widely used.

Patient Advocacy by Patients McCone is a patient representative to the National Institutes of Health’s RECOVER-TLC research program, which met this summer to launch a series of clinical trials. He said the organization is making progress, but results from the clinical trials aren’t expected until 2028 — a long time for patients with long COVID to wait.

He noted the upcoming trial of low-dose rapamycin, which researchers hope will address some of the immune or infection-related dysfunction that drives long COVID.

After McCone spent hours in bed for more than a year, he can now work at the computer for about 2 hours a day. His shortness of breath improved after he started taking Plavix.

“That's up from about 30 minutes. I can leave the house occasionally, once to twice a week, depending on the week,” he said.

McCone and others are calling for better continuing education for doctors about long COVID for doctors and more publicly available information to help patients know what drugs are already out there and might benefit them.

“Read the research, provide some low-risk treatment options to your patients, and let your patient decide,” he advised doctors. “I don't think this is asking you too much. This is a health crisis that's impacting every aspect of society.”

[impossiblycolorfulpanda]

The way Bryke treats Zutara shippers in general is just slightly disgusting. Making fun of them whenever the opportunity arises and using the ship as the butt of jokes too many times like… that’s a solid 70% of your fanbse you’re making fun of. They’re the reason you’re even on the map. Shut up Bryke. I don’t know about 70% of the fanbase, but even if it were only a small portion it’s still just…rude and unprofessional to mock your fans? I think about this a lot because I was 16 when the show ended and I know a lot of other Zutara shippers were also teenage girls, and Mike and Bryan were adults. Two grown men making fun of teenage girls who liked the show and the characters they had created. I don’t care how “obnoxious” some of the fans might have been to them - and I’m sure there were fans who were also out of line - but Mike and Bryan were the adults and they chose to act like children, and mean, spiteful children at that.

Ya telling me, and you know what else? They are a big reason why Zutara is so popular in the first place. Bryke are the primary showrunners, what they say goes, they are in charge of approving/allowing what scene goes in the series.

They didn't have to make Zuko say "I'll save you from the pirates" right before trying to uncharacteristically bargain with Katara with an uncharacteristically clam demeaner while unintentionally proposing to her, since the necklace reveals to be a betrothal necklace.

They didn't have to let Zuko and Katara be locked in a cave together with crystals that almost look similar to the crystals from the cave of two lovers. They could've been locked in two jail cells far away from each other.

Speaking of which, Oma and Shu didn't have to be colored red and and blue respectively in one of the flashback scenes (the red one even looked like Ozai) and have their respective nations be at war against each other. You could tell they really, really wanted that story to parallel to Kataang but did a piss poor job of it. For one, Aang and Katara's nations never fought each other, not like how the Fire Nation and Water Tribes were going at it.

Zuko didn't have to be vulnerable with Katara in that cave and briefly explain his banishment and still act calm around her. She didn't have to offer to heal her scar with the only spirit water she had. Jet's ghost be like. "Are you kidding me?! Thanks a lot!" Katara didn't have to be the very first person to touch his scar before bringing the water out and Zuko didn't have to let her touch it and neither of them had to stand their for 5 seconds as the music amps up.

Katara understandably threatened to waste Zuko if he looks even slightly suspicious, and yet she pays no mind with Zuko bringing both Aang and Sokka to life threatening side-quests beyond Katara's supervision, both of which end with Aang getting over his pyrophobia and Katara and Sokka being reunited with their father and Sokka reunited with his girlfriend. Bryke let all of this happen.

Zuko didn't have to be the one to give Katara the means to find emotional closure and finally overcome her trauma. Katara didn't have to open up to him about the much more grisly details about her mother's death and have Zuko compliment her mother's bravery, all before Katara finally decides to forgive Zuko.

They didn't have to have June tease about Katara and Zuko dating multiple times. They didn't have to allow Zuko and Katara share the "parental figure for the gaang" mantle. They didn't have to spend the last scene Aang and Katara have before making out with them having another heated argument while Zuko and Katara spent their time working together to usurp Zuko's way to the throne.

They also didn't have show parallels/symbolism, after parallels/symbolism, after parallels/symbolism.

It's Bryke's fault that Zutara caught so many people's attention and they have the nerve to mock and ridicule them for disagreeing with their personal self-insert fantasy that does not matter to the narrative. The whole thing with basing Kataang off of a little boy having it down bad for an older big-sister-like figure who doesn't feel the same way doesn't help Bryke's case at all either.

[ghost-proofbaby]

AND I KNOW IT'S LONG GONE AND THERE WAS NOTHING ELSE I COULD DO, AND I FORGET ABOUT YOU LONG ENOUGH TO FORGET WHY I NEEDED TO.

summary: the ghost of eddie becomes tangible once more, and you become determined to keep things professional.

warnings: strong language, angst, description of panic attack, minors dni

wc: 5.7k+

a/n: it'll be a short fic, i said. short and sweet and simple, i lied to myself.

☆ prev chapter | masterlist | next chapter ☆

The moment your name leaves his lips, you swear the world halts on its rotation. 

This was real. Every fear and every anxiety you had wrestled with over the last twenty four hours wasn’t for naught – he was here, sitting before you, breathing your name out like a sigh of relief when all you felt was pain. Stabbing, radiating pain. It’s even worse than looking at pictures and headlines of a stranger on a phone screen. Something about him suddenly being tangible, suddenly being real, sends you reeling. 

Lydia looks wildly between your showdown with the ghost of a man before you, “I’m sorry… Do you two- do you know each other?”

Not anymore.

“I-” you choke on your stutter. You’re frozen under his stare, going ashen as your head spins. Leave the room. Think of an excuse, get out of this room, run away. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

It’s the world’s most pathetic excuse, but the only thing you can spit out before you’re turning heel and running, just as your body had so desperately craved. You nearly bump into one of the security guards you’d just bravely had a confrontation with. 

They’d demanded your phone, you had put up a fight. You had stood your ground. Had held your chin high, dared them to push further even once they had your cell phone in their grasp, and displayed all that self-assuredness you had curated in the last two years. Only to end up scampering past them like a wounded animal mere seconds later.

Pathetic.

Lydia calls out something after you, but it reaches deaf ears as you blaze down the hallway. Your chest is squeezing, as if someone had wrapped it in shrink-wrap and sucked all of the air right out of it, swathed so tightly you could feel every pounding beat of your pulse racing. Your eyesight completely blurs, not quite from tears but rather a mere loss of focus. You nearly knock over one of the god forsaken fake plants Lydia insists as a primary form of decor, hardly being within the right mind to reach out and right the oversized bush of green plastic. 

But you don’t have to. Right as your back collides with the wall off to the side of the plant, breathing only coming in short and miserable pants, a different hand reaches out to catch the plant. A ringed hand. 

When Eddie says your name again, it’s not a sigh. It’s laced with panic as you support your full weight against white plaster and stare at where knuckles wrap around faux wooden stems. 

“Hey,” he stresses, hand leaving your line of sight as he puts a large palm on each of your shoulders. You can’t look at him, not yet, “Hey, can you breathe for me? C’mon, big breaths.” 

This close, you can smell the cologne. It’s not even the same woodsy drugstore scent that had lingered on the pillowcases he’d left you to cling to while on tour. Even that, something so miniscule as what cologne he now wore, had changed. And the new and unfamiliar scent chokes you, turns your desperate gasps for air even more futile. 

You had walked out of that apartment two years ago, without any intention of ever being this close to him again. You’d sworn to yourself you’d never be this close again. 

“You’re having a panic attack,” he squeezes your shoulders within his hold ever so slightly, as if attempting to ground you, “You need to breathe.” 

Your eyes nervously find his brown ones. For a second, you recall summer days when the sun would hit them just right, turning them into molten honey for your tasting. Soft and glowing, warming you from the inside out so effortlessly. 

But there’s not a single shred of sunlight in this hallway. The dark brown falls flat against your vision. 

“I’m fine,” you very clearly aren’t, struggling to even get the words out into the air between you two, “I’m- I’m fine.”

He doesn’t fight you when you reach up to swat away his hands. He lets you, hands falling away with ease, touch retracting as if it had never burned you. You take the chance to look over the metal now settled on his fingers, and you realize he still wears all the same ones you remember so vividly. A cross, a pig’s face, an animalistic skull. But there are new ones added to his collection, adorned on his right hand rather than the left. Unfamiliar and odd, the bulky metallic additions are more plentiful. A silver snake wrapped around his pinky, a large spider with the body of a Magic 8 ball on his pointer, a bat spread eagle on his middle. There’s a chunkier one on his thumb, thinner ones added above a few of his second knuckles, but you can’t clear the haze of your vision long enough to pick up on the designs. You choose to focus back on the familiar ones instead, old and comforting even in your panic. 

New rings, new cologne, new habits – the Eddie before you is not the Eddie you once knew. 

“Okay,” he’s whispering now. You’re not even sure what excuse he used to follow you out here without causing a scene. Maybe he did cause a scene, surely a grander one than you. He had that privilege now; he was an untouchable rockstar, he could afford to raise a ruckus. “I… Are you sure?” 

It’s hard to believe there was a time he was a familiar comfort when all that remains now is the awkward distance between the two of you.

But when he takes a step back from you, the new cologne leaves your stratosphere and the new rings leave your field of vision, and the breaths finally come just a tiny bit easier. Still not enough to satiate your lungs, but enough that the headrush begins to pass. 

“I’m sure.” 

You try to insert such finality in those two words. As if whatever had just happened would fade and never exist, as if you could walk back into that conference room and take yourself off this project. You can’t. Eddie has a sense of control, a grip on his reality and the reigns of his choices, but you don’t. If you were to demand Lydia remove you from the project, you’d be risking termination. You’d be risking everything – and it may not be much, but you’d built it brick by broken brick these last few years. You’d salvaged what you had been able to out of the ashes of what had been, but it hadn’t been enough. It had hardly been enough for a foundation. You’d built up the person that now stood before him from practical scratch.

The weight of just how much you had to lose hits suddenly – the realization that this was happening and you had no control of it. 

But Eddie did. He had to. 

“You need to go back in there,” you start, voice still shaking and eyes still averted, “And you need to demand that they reassign you guys. You… You need-” you begin to stutter and fumble to find the right words. You could have lashed out, could have tried to pour salt in a wound you weren’t even sure still existed so that Eddie made the choice on his own. But your mind is muddled and you’re desperate, “Someone else can take on the project. You need to go and demand that someone else takes on the project.” 

“What?” Not the response you wanted. Not the response you needed, “I- No.” 

Two years later, and he still found a way to do significant damage. 

Your eyes snap up, “What do you mean no?” 

“I mean no.”

“I haven’t asked anything of you. Not back then, not after everything happened, I-”

He cuts you off with a scoff. “Can’t ask for anything if you just fall off the face of the fucking earth.” 

You hadn’t noticed before, but as his walls begin to build, you realize that the prior interaction had been something vulnerable. Something where neither of you were on the defense quite yet like you’d always imagined a reunion would go. All that had mattered ten seconds ago was you being okay, him coming after you, making sure you were fine. He’d allotted you all the care and attention you had craved so terribly two years ago, nearly begged for until your knees had bled for. 

“Eddie,” you whisper, getting too distressed to think straight, “Please, for the love of God, just make them reassign the project-”

“I can’t,” he interrupts, shaking his head, “Do you think I’d put myself through this if I could help it? I fucking can’t. I have absolutely no control in there. I didn’t even-” he cuts off his sentence, looking you in your eyes, leaving more to be said. 

He didn’t even what?

“I can’t do anything about it,” he says instead of whatever had been on the tip of his tongue, “Trust me – if I could, I would. But I can’t. So why don’t you say something?” 

It’s your turn for scoffing and disbelief, “I can’t. I’m not the one with all the power and glory-”

“Is that what you think I have?”

“That’s what I know you have.” 

You both go quiet as a battlefield fills the distance between you. All anger, all regret. None of the love or care that had once existed between you two exists here in this quantum plane of sharp words and deadly jabs. 

“Just- please ask for a reassignment,” you try with one final plea, eyes hard on him, “Say that that first impression left you unimpressed, I don’t care. She won’t fire me for that.”

“Once again, no. As it turns out,” his voice is low, dangerous, unfamiliar. A tone he had never used before with you, “Even the one with all the power and all the glory can’t make miracles happen. Sorry, doll.” 

He doesn’t await your response, leaving you on your own as you stay pressed against the wall and he’s walking away. 

What is the saying? ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’? 

You were certainly feeling scorned.

You felt ripped wide open, beaten and bruised and damn scorned as he leaves a conversation you weren’t finished with. You can’t tell which limb aches the most – the shoulder where his now strange hands had held onto you, your fingers that had curled into pained fists at your side to show you were prepared for a fight, your rib cage that still struggled to expand and accommodate the air now vacant of his cologne that you needed after your panic attack, or the legs that had once carried you away from Eddie Munson only to lead you right back to him. 

There’s nothing you can do, though, beyond composing yourself. You take the same big, deep breaths that Eddie had tried to coax out of you moments before. Your fists slowly unfurl and your palms rake against the side of your jeans in an attempt to wipe away the sweat of the interaction. 

Fine. If he wouldn’t help you, you could handle this. You could manage this project, plan a goddamn party for your ex-boyfriend’s new single. You would treat it just as you did every other previous project you had excelled at, and you would avoid all unnecessary contact with him just as you had with previous clients. 

As a matter of fact, you could probably get away with avoiding all contact. 

He hadn’t hired you. His management had. And, according to him, he had no real power in this situation. If he had no say in the matters, then there would be no reason to reach out to him.

You could do this. You could handle this. 

It’s a mantra of salvation that you repeat to yourself internally as you take confident strides back to that conference room, not even stopping for the guards this time before you burst back into the room when your imminent doom awaits. 

The repetition falters a bit when all eyes land on you as you take your first steps into the room. 

Your name comes out of Lydia’s mouth like a hiss, her teeth locked into a smile that would better pass into a grimace as she asks, “How nice of you to join us again. Please, take a seat.” 

“Of course,” you can’t look her in her eyes for very long, immediately rushing to sit at the chair she’d motioned towards. You haven’t spared Eddie a single glance – you haven’t spared any of the boys you’d once known a look. Instead, you look up to direct an apology at the only face you don’t recognize before you, “I’m truly sorry.” 

The older gentleman, wrapped in a certain kindness and warmth below his professional attire, smiles. And in an instant, his face isn’t quite as unfamiliar, “No worries. When Nature calls, right? Regardless, I’m Matt. Nice to meet you.” 

You can guess which hole in Eddie’s life he’s attempting to smother, which shoes this man serves to fill. He has more hair than his predecessor, but the grin is the same. 

If you picture the man he reminds you of back in Hawkins, you’ll surely begin to ache. 

When you reply with your name, you can hear a fragment of your youth in your voice. Better days spent in Forest Hills trailer park, loitering about a trailer as Wayne Munson asks you how well of an eye you’ve been keeping on his nephew. You’d always lie, say you were keeping him in line when you knew you’d spent the day following him right into trouble, like some sort of lost puppy. Like some sort of loyal soldier. It occurs to you that that’s who you had always been; a fierce soldier over the shoulder of Eddie, ever the brave commander. You would have followed him into battle without a second of consideration, you did follow him all the way to New York without ever taking a final glance at your hometown. 

You wondered if he had tried to replace you as well. You imagine it; the new and fresh face that replaced yours in picture frames, that laid beside him at the end of each night he returned home, that heard a whisper of I love you over the line to the backtrack of a sound rehearsal. 

Were there ever any bloody wars between him and his new lovers that could compare to the battles never fought between you two? Did anyone else in this world know the wounds of his gun never fired? 

The smoke clears. You still don’t look at Eddie, afraid to only see the commander you once knew. You force a smile, putting on a soldier's bravado that doesn’t fit quite right anymore. 

Bullets never fired, triggers never pulled, but the blood stained the same.

“So, where shall we begin?”

—

Matt does most of the talking for the next hour. Sheet after sheet of paperwork is laid down in front of you, your hand beginning to cramp from signing your name so many times, and the details are discussed.

A new single, set to release in three months. A release party that needed to be grandeur and garner the type of attention that Matt feared had been waning from the band due to radio silence on their music front. The outlines of the project were clear cut, simple enough, and you had yourself fooled just well enough that this would be easy.

You kept your eyes set on the prize and never once noticed the tomfoolery occurring between the band members. The words on the tip of their tongues that Eddie keeps quiet through quick kicks to their shins beneath the table, the individual hurt reflected in each of their eyes as you treat them no better than strangers. That treatment of Eddie, they understood. But them?

They could never understand. 

“What’s the name of the single, if I may ask?” you question as you look over one of your copies of the paperwork. Lydia had been eerily silent, allowing you to take the lead. 

Despite the rough start, it was paying off. Having a switch for your emotions can be a good thing, as it turns out. 

“You may,” Matt nods before turning to the boys. It’s the first time he's looked to them for answers during the entire meeting, “Shall I do the honors, or would you boys rather do it yourselves?” 

It’s a chance for all the members of Corroded Coffin to open their mouths without silent reprimanding from Eddie beneath the table, but he beats them to it.

“Dial Tone.”

You freeze your reading. 

There’s something in the way he says it that forces you to look up. As if he’s only speaking to you, and the rest of the room is a faded mirage for him to send away for these private moments. Still a commander, even when his bravest soldier has left him. 

“Sounds… interesting,” you murmur, taking a few seconds too long to meet his gaze, unsure of what to say, “Rolls off the tongue easily.” 

“It certainly does. Which, ironic, given the situation that inspired the song.” 

“And what would that be?”

You’re both wearing masks in front of an audience half made up of people painfully aware of your history, and the rest being painfully oblivious. 

Does Matt know about you? Lydia certainly doesn’t know about Eddie. 

“Words never said. Answers never given. Phone calls missed and never… returned.”

You’re not stupid, but you wish you were. It feels a bit selfish, a bit self absorbed, to so quickly assume you’re the inspiration. 

But how could you believe anything else when Eddie is looking at you like that?

Hollow eyes, devoid of all the honey you once reveled in. Not so much of a stain of sweetness you swear you still taste on the back of your tongue. He’s looking at you with blame, well-deserved anger, and yet not an ounce of the guilt that should exist somewhere in those depths. 

“How riveting,” you play along, trying to swallow down the waves of emotions, “Sounds like it’ll really draw in your audience. Might even be relatable to a few.”

Answers never given. Like how someone could stop saying they loved someone they’d spent years planning their life with, like how he could stop calling so easily, how he could leave so easily. 

“Fingers crossed,” his forced smile in return is almost sinister, and you know it was the right choice to avoid speaking to each other until this moment.

There will be no contact. You know now that if you take on this project, which you technically have through law-binding contracts, that you won’t be able to be civil with Eddie. There is a history that can never be erased, mistakes made and wounds inflicted by both sides. Two worlds of hurt caused by opposing sets of hands that can only clash when they try to meet in the middle. 

But then Matt, sweet Matt that you had come to actually like during this meeting, has to burst your bubble.

“Right, well, the good news is the boys aren’t on tour for the time being, meaning there will be plenty of time to talk about the small details and how the single will come into play during planning,” he explains, happily and still so unaware, “As a matter of fact, I would like to emphasize just how much I would appreciate you including the boys, especially Eddie, in this ordeal. His participation would be very helpful.” 

Some silent form of communication happens between Matt and Eddie, glinting eyes and sudden frowns meeting raised eyebrows and fake smiles, but it’s not your concern. 

The last thing you want during this project is Eddie’s involvement. 

“Of course!” You need to think of an excuse, push for a way to keep him out, “But if Eddie is too busy, I’ll completely understand. I know that a single usually means an album, and that can be very time consum-”

“He won’t be too busy,” Matt interrupts, still staring at Eddie as if he’s daring him, not even questioning you singling him out as he does the exact same.

You recall what Eddie had insisted in the hallway, that his reach of control wasn’t as far as you had been assuming. 

Swallowing hard, you see another relic of Wayne Munson in this man – he wasn’t someone to argue with, “Right, of course. Eddie will be involved. Absolutely.” 

All the power and all the glory – but did it really rest in Eddie’s palms like you assumed?

“She has a point,” Eddie finally finds his voice, leaning back in his chair, trying to relax the tension from his shoulders, “I do have the album to work on.” 

“And now you have this. I’m sure you can find a way to multi-task.” 

Your comparison was accurate. It had been a while since you had seen another grown man capable of shutting Eddie down so quickly, tearing down his walls of affinity for challenging authority and reducing him to nothing more than a shell of his younger self. Matt and Wayne would have gotten along well. You doubt that they’ve met, but you know a bond would have formed between the common denominator of being able to subdue the once-rambunctious boy before you. 

Eddie pouts nearly the complete remainder of the meeting. And those foolish, bitter shards within you become determined to be the bigger person. To smile and nod along, even when you disagreed with certain terms discussed. To be agreeable, to be good, to be better. This new version of you has something to prove; that you’ve done better without Eddie, that you’ve changed into something that no longer aligns with who he is. 

It’s all for show, but you tell yourself no one can see through the cellophane disguise. 

The only remaining signatures aren’t required from you but the rest of the boys. A single contract is passed down the line, and each of them sign themselves away to the agreement. Line after line of swooping black ink locks the five of you into an entrapment, a crowded dance of newly made strangers who have no choice but to play pretend. 

Eddie makes it a deliberate point that he’s the last one to sign. Forces Grant to slide the prettily detailed paper right in front of him until it’s clear he’s making no move to pick up his pen, and the poor guy has to stretch a bit further and let Gareth take it rather than the stubborn rockstar. Only once Jeff’s own night-shade of ink has looped over one of the many lines does it return back to Eddie.

He looks you in the eyes for several seconds too long, pen crooked beside the paper on the table. You can’t take a single breath as you register how lifeless his eyes remain. 

He’s not the person you once knew, but you are no longer the girl that once saw the world in him. 

You will not drop to your knees before him, you will not worship the ground he walks on, you will not break. Certainly not first. Certainly not at all. 

There’s no final words before hands donning unfamiliar rings pick up a pen amongst the silence. Just the click of bringing the ink to life, and the soft scratch of promises that will not be kept. It’s nothing new amongst the two of you.

As a matter of fact, if the scratch of the pen could echo, it might just resemble the sound of the door on that haunted and vacant apartment closing for the final time behind you two years ago. 

—

“Do you two know each other?” 

You had been waiting for this moment. Once Matt had called for a quick break so that he could organize and make copies of all paperwork, you knew Lydia would be chasing you down. 

“What do you mean?” you question airily, topping off the small paper cup of water you had used as an excuse to dismiss yourself into the corner of the room, “Me and Matt? No, I’ve never-”

“Not you and Matt,” she moves to stand in front of you, your back to the room and the band, as she continues in an authoritative whisper, “You and the band – you and Eddie.”

“Why do you think we know each other?” 

Please don’t catch on. Please don’t notice. Please don’t make me admit it. 

Please don’t fire me. 

She retrieves her own water, moving as if she wasn’t having such an intense conversation with you at this moment. All a show for the clients, no doubt. You weren’t the only skilled actress in this room, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the way you ran out of this room when you saw him, maybe the way he ran after you without a word. Maybe the way the two of you spent a good ten minutes alone in that hallway, and how the rest of that band has been looking at you like you’re a ghost. Please don’t tell me you had a fling with Eddie before this. I really need my best person on this project, but I can’t have personal relationships interferin-”

“No, we don’t know each other,” you cut her off, ignoring the compliment and taking a sip to give your chance to formulate a better addition to the lie. It wasn’t really a lie, though, was it? “I promise it’s nothing, and it won’t interfere. I just…” I just hate him. I just miss the version of him I used to know. I just need you to take me off this project as quickly as possible for a reason that won’t make you think less of me or affect my future career here. “I don’t like the band, you know this.” 

“I knew you weren’t a fan of them, but…” she trails off and looks over your shoulder, no doubt surveying the band. When you stood up from the table, they’d all been feigning boredom as if they hadn’t been taking turns staring you down so intensely. You felt like an animal under observation. “I thought it would be a good thing. To have a neutral party take this on. Why, exactly, don’t you like them?” 

“ I don’t think he’s a good person.”

He as in Eddie. It goes as unspoken knowledge. And, technically, it isn’t a lie. Based on the headlines, based on his coolness this entire interaction, you don’t think he’s a good person. Not anymore. 

You can feel the four sets of eyes on you even now. Your exchange with Lydia has been too quiet for them to hear, but you know you’re still being watched carefully.

“You don’t have to think he’s a good person, but you do need to play nice,” Lydia reminds you. You open your mouth, prepared to argue that you had been playing nice when Lydia waves her free hand to stop you, “I know, I know. I’m not saying you haven’t been perfectly professional. You have been, aside from your… bathroom break at the beginning, but please just remember that.” 

You nod, stiff as ever. She was giving you more grace than you deserved if you tried to look at it from an outsider’s point of view. 

“Of course,” that tone of professionalism, that mask to hide the whirlwind of emotions. You could do this.

You had to do this.  

Choice is an illusion when Matt returns with the copies of paperwork, dividing the files up between himself and Lydia. Choice is an illusion as fake smiles are exchanged and pleasant goodbyes are offered. Choice is nothing but smoke and mirrors when all is said and done, and the entire group of you all stand outside the conference room, ready to part ways with a promise of next time, meaning the next meeting.

You never had a choice in any of this. Eddie did, somewhere along the line, but you didn’t. 

Lydia and you both hand over business cards to Matt’s waiting hands, a deliberate move on your part. You bypass Eddie’s expectant glare entirely. The quicker this is over with, the faster he’s exiting the building and no longer occupying the same room as you, the better. 

“We’ll be in contact,” Matt promises as he tucks the cards away carefully. 

“I look forward to it,” you assure him, as if you weren’t dreading every second of what those contracts had detailed.

Three months. You had just signed on to guarantee Eddie Munson being back in your life for three months. The thought makes you nauseous. 

Matt, ever the normal person, takes it as his queue to leave. Lydia has nodded, turned and began her short trek to her office as the band’s manager starts his journey to the elevator. Most of Corroded Coffin scampers after him, gazes on the floor as they retreat to a private space that will certainly be filled with questions. You almost wish there was a way for you to hear what will be said. The topic of conversation, undoubtedly, will be you. You and Eddie, Eddie and you. A pair of intertwined souls that had taken a sharp knife to your connection only to end up with Fate cruelly retying it on this dreadful day. 

Fate, and Eddie, it seems. 

His hand reaches out and catches your upper arm before you can escape the exchange properly. 

“Can we talk?” You stare at him blankly to hide the racing of your heart and pounding in your mind. Those hands on you, skin on skin, leaving an inevitable mark. An inevitable stain. “Go for coffee, go for lunch, just-”

“No.”

You don’t have to think about your answer. Your pause was only born out of shock. 

His eyebrows furrow, “No? What do you mean no?” 

It feels like a pathetic repeat of your interaction in the hallway, when you had begged him to save you from this doomed union. Except now, you hold the cards in your hand. The first sense of control you’ve been offered this entire time. 

“I mean no,” you repeat yourself clearly. Matt is halfway down the hall, and the boys trailing right behind him seem to fumble over their steps for a second. Jeff even goes as far as to look over his shoulder at the brewing storm appearing behind them, but clearly thinks better of intruding, “I don’t want to talk. I don’t want coffee, and I don’t want lunch.” 

End of story. 

Except, it isn’t, because Eddie’s face only twists further in pain, “We have to talk at some point-”

“Actually, we don’t. I’d prefer we didn’t. I think we can both agree it’ll be better, easier, for both of us to keep this strictly professional until we can go our separate ways again.”

He looks as if you had physically reached out and struck him. The force of your words nearly makes him rock backwards, face falling and mouth agape as he tries to grapple with the determination in your words. 

If you were a fool, you’d mistake it for a flash of disappointment. But it’s not possible – it couldn’t be disappointment, only arrogance. He had obviously been assuming you would just give in. Your change just hadn’t become clear enough to him yet. It would, in time. 

And now, the two of you seemingly had too much of it to endure. 

“Actually, I think we can both agree that’s a load of bullshit,” he crassly argues back once he’s regained composure, “You know that’s not possible.”

You shake your head, suck in a bit of the skin of your inner cheek between your molars as an internal encouragement to stand your ground, “It is. It’s not only possible, but is exactly what’s going to happen.”

“You heard Matt. We have to talk at some point, even if it’s just about this and not us.”

“And we will. We can talk about this project all you want, Eddie. But not over lunch, and not over coffee,” you swear you draw blood from your cheek as you take back on that tone of professionalism, ice cold and completely disconnected, “My preferred form of contact is email. I usually respond in a timely manner, even after hours-”

“Don’t do that,” he stops you.

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m just another one of your clients.” 

The metallic flavor floods the deepest corners of your mouth, overtaking the aftertaste of a honey you once knew on the back of your tongue, “That’s exactly what you are. One of my clients.” 

Just a client, and nothing more. A boundary must be drawn, or else there will be more blood spilled than a mere drop from biting your inner cheek. And you aren’t prepared to bleed for him – not again. Never again. 

He opens his mouth, as if he has more to dig out of the grave of this conversation, when Matt’s voice calls from down the hallway, “Eddie! C’mon! There’ll be time to talk later, we’ve got a meeting with the producer across town now.” 

His stance goes rigid, annoyance rolling off him in waves, eyes still focused on you. 

Maybe the reminder of time, the three month timeline, hurts him just as much as it hurts you. Maybe, just possibly, his arm has also been twisted in carving out a space for you in his life once more, whether strictly professional or not. 

He deeply exhales through his nose, “I don’t even have your email.” 

“Matt does. He has my card.”

“Yeah, he does. I don’t. How am I supposed to reach you through your preferred form of contact without it?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.” 

You mean to smile at him just as you would the owner of the bakery opening on Third Street, or the mother of a bride trying to share the weight of responsibilities for a wedding. It doesn’t come off that way, though – you can feel the sadness of it tickle the corners of your mouth before he’s even slowly turning from you.

You watch the figure of Eddie Munson walk away from you, and you begin to wish he were walking out of your life rather than only out of the building for the time being.

☆ prev chapter | masterlist | next chapter ☆

[whencyclopedia]

Aristippus of Cyrene

Aristippus of Cyrene (l. c. 435-356 BCE) was a hedonistic Greek philosopher who was one of Socrates' students and founder of the Cyrenaic School of philosophy which taught that pleasure and the pursuit of pleasure was the highest good and noblest path one could dedicate one's self to.

He studied under Socrates (l. c. 470/469 - 399 BCE) along with other pupils such as Plato (l. c. 424/423 - 348/347 BCE), Xenophon (l. 430 - c. 354 BCE), Antisthenes of Athens (l. c. 445 - 365 BCE), and Phaedo of Elis (l. c. 4th century BCE). Aristippus was the first of Socrates' students to charge a fee for teaching and, since Socrates had charged nothing, this, and the accusation he had betrayed Socrates' philosophy, created a life-long friction between Aristippus and Socrates' other disciples.

Since he believed and taught that the meaning of life was pleasure, and this was at odds with the focus of the other schools (especially Plato's) he appears to have been something of an outcast among them. It is hard to understand, at first, how Aristippus could have been a student of Socrates, so different seem their philosophies. However, Aristippus' most famous phrase, “I possess, I am not possessed”, is quite in line with Socrates' own view of life as presented by Plato and Xenophon, the two primary sources on Socrates' life. Like Aristippus, Socrates had no problems with enjoying a feast or a party or drinking session but was just as comfortable doing without any of these.

Aristippus' Philosophy

Plato presents Socrates as a man who often enjoyed drinking wine but who never got drunk, who attended parties but never had the money to host one himself, and who seems to have lived primarily - in his later years at least - on monetary gifts from friends and admirers. Xenophon does not contradict Plato on any of the above points. Although Socrates could in no way be considered a hedonist, it is fairly easy to see how a young disciple of his could come to the conclusion that enjoying those things money can buy, without becoming a slave to the money with which to buy such things, would seem a worthwhile philosophy. Further, Socrates' habit of drinking heavily, but never appearing drunk or trying to acquire more wine, would be in line with Aristippus' philosophy of possessing, or enjoying, something without being possessed by that thing.

While Socrates pursued truth and sought understanding, Aristippus simplified the teaching of his master by claiming the highest truth one could attain was the recognition that pleasure was the purpose of human existence and the pursuit of pleasure was the meaning of life. In this, and in his scorn for those who complicated matters by thinking too precisely on them, he would be a kindred spirit of the Chinese hedonist philosopher Yang Zhu (440-360 BCE) who claimed that concerns about "right" and "wrong" were a waste of time because there is no god, no afterlife, and no reward for suffering needlessly by denying oneself when one could as easily, and more sensibly, enjoy life in the present.

Plato's dialogue of the Phaedo describes the last day of Socrates' life when his disciples came to visit him in his prison cell in Athens and they had their final philosophical discussion. The dialogue begins with the Pythagorean philosopher Echecrates meeting Socrates' student Phaedo (who was there at the prison and present at Socrates' death) and asking him to tell of the experience in the jail on the last day. Phaedo lists those who were present and Echecrates asks, “But Aristippus and Cleombrotus, were they present?” To which Phaedo replies, “No. they were not. They were said to be in Aegina” (59c). As the island of Aegina was known as a pleasure resort, Plato certainly knew what he was doing in placing the hedonistic philosopher there instead of in attendance in Socrates' last hours.

Whether the Cleombrotus mentioned in Phaedo is the same man whom Callimachus says leaped to his death after reading Plato's description of the afterlife and the journey of the soul in the dialogue of the Phaedo is not known, but if Cleombrotus was with Aristippus on Aegina, it may safely be assumed they were not there engaged in philosophical discourse, as Plato would have defined it, but would have been pursuing pleasure.

As Plato did not approve of Aristippus (as, it seems, he did not approve of most of Socrates' other disciples nor they of him) the line referencing Aristippus' preference of pleasure on Aegina to philosophical conversation in an Athenian jail cell would have been intended by Plato to show how shallow Aristippus and his philosophy was. The ancient writer Diogenes Laertius (3rd century CE) mentions Plato's jab against Aristippus in Plato's Book on the Soul, as the Phaedo was called.

Even so, Aristippus, like Socrates, focused his attention on practical ethics; the question "What is the Good?" was in the forefront of his belief system. The values humans term "good" or "evil" are reducible to pleasure and pain; self-gratification, then, is a great good while self-restraint, in the face of certain pleasure, would be bad. Still, Aristippus maintained that one should not allow oneself to be possessed by those things which bring pleasure.

According to Diogenes Laertius, when Aristippus was criticized for keeping a very expensive mistress named Lais, he replied, “I have Lais, not she me.” There was nothing at all wrong, then, with enjoying whatever it was one wanted to enjoy, as long as one knew the ultimate value of that thing or person and did not confuse that value with one's own personal freedom. In Aristippus' view, one should never trade one's freedom for anything. Self-restraint and self-gratification, then, were of equal value in maintaining one's personal liberty while pursuing the Good in life: pleasure.

Continue reading...

[kosheeka]

Immortal Cell Line

Although cell lines are easy to work with, the physiological relevance of those studies might not be high. They do not show resemblance to human body metabolism and physiology, or even morphology. The immortalization and serial passaging cause several variations in genotype and phenotype of these cells. Due to the lack of morphological or functional features, cell lines might not be able to induce relevant biomarkers. Therefore, it is always better to validate cell lines before use to make sure they are not misidentified or contaminated.

For more info on advantages and disadvantages of primary cells in culture, read here.

[riliane-but-in-a-different-font]

You know the time… ITS TIME TO ASSIGN RANDOM BACTERIA (and archea) !!!

Let’s seeee…..

Mabel as Deinococcus radiodurans

Look at this beauty oh my… It’s pinkk 😫 (due to carotenoids)

— Species of Deinococcales have the unusual property of being extremely radiation resistant, and Deinococcus radiodurans is the best-studied species in this regard. They can survive exposure to 15,000 grays of ionizing radiation. Like holy shit! Humans can be killed by exposure to less than 10 grays!!

And of course this is a metaphor for Transcendence duh. The radiation here stands for magic and weirdness. It shows how resistant Mabel is to all the things that have happened to her.

— They are also resistant to the effects of many mutagenic agents. The only chemical mutagens that seem to work on them are agents such as nitrosoguanidine, which induces deletions in DNA.

Which also means no matter how strong you are, your very soul might shatter, your pieces might get deleted oof 😔

— Studies have shown us that D. radiodurans is highly efficient in repairing damaged DNA. Several different DNA repair enzymes exist in D. radiodurans. In addition to the DNA repair enzyme RecA, several RecA-independent DNA systems exist in D. radiodurans that can repair breaks in single or double stranted DNA, and excise and repair misincorporated bases. In fact, repair processes are so effective that the chromosome can even be reassembled from a fragment state.

This resembles Mabel’s and Dipper’s relationship. Dipper is the damaged DNA (poetic ik) and she is the one repairing him.

In addition, cells of D. radiodurans always exist as pair or tetrads! See! twins.

They can’t exist without each other in every universe :<

Lucy Ann as Borrelia burgdorferii

—The majority of species of Borrelia are animals or human pathogens. Borrelia burgdorferi is the causative agent of the tickborne disease called Lyme disease, which infects humans and animals.

Vampires -> bats -> ticks -> lyme🤔 everything is connected. Also vampires should be associated with ticks. I stand by that.

—Also they are as yet one of the few known bacteria that has a linear (as opposed to a circular) chromosome.

This.. my friends is a metaphor of her life. Every other person in her life die and reincarnate. That is the cycle of life… a circular chromosome. But she has a linear one, she lives and lives and lives.. through a non-ending line UGHH 😮‍💨

—Lastly, they have very small genomes (approximately 1.44 mbp)

Cause she is so small aww

Willow as Pyrolobus fumarii

— Pyrolobus fumarii is one of the most thermophilic of the hyperthermophiles. It’s growth temperature maximum is 113 °C. They live in the walls of “black smoker” hydrothermal vent chimneys.

Yes. I’ve chosen this archea because of Willow’s ability to use fire. But we have to go deeper and become insane.

— Below 200 metres, levels of ambient lights from the sun are too low for photosynthesis to occur. So, chemosynthesis it is. The process of chemosynthesis is similar to photosynthesis. Both can be defined as the creation of organic matter from the fixation of inorganic carbon using energy. But what differs is the source of that energy. In parts of the deep sea, primary production is fuelled by chemical energy, rather than energy from the sun. But this can only take place at certain sea-floor environments where the required chemicals are released into the water. The two main examples of such environments are hydrothermal vents, and cold seeps.

I say, this symbolises her birth. The deep sea is an allegory of a woman’s womb 🧐 and.. hydrothermal vents are an analogy of Alcor. If Alcor had not interfered Willow wouldn’t live. He provided the environment where the womb was not enough.

— One major site of high vent abundance is the East Pacific Rise, where the fast spreadingrates have created vent fields dotted along the ridge, 10s of kilometres apart. In contrast, the vent fields of the much slower spreading Mid-Atlantic Ridge may be 100s of kilometres apart. They form here because the rifting of tectonic plates creates fissures in the crust, and allows hot magma from deep within the Earth to rise closer to the seabed. Upper parts of the sea floor are very permeable. Cold seawater enters, and percolates down through the crust where it becomes superheated and takes up minerals from the surrounding rocks. This mineral-rich fluid then jets back into the ocean at extremely high velocities, and temperatures exceeding 400°C. As the fluids mix with cold seawater, the dissolved minerals precipitate out in smoke-like billows, and build towering chimney structures on the sea floor.

Cold seawater represents humanity and mortality🤧 whereas hot magma stands for magic. Alcor shared his power with Willow to save her. She became superheated🤓.

But as you can see these vents produce smokes not fire. That’s because Willow herself is still a fragile human. She can’t handle using demonic fire all the time. Therefore her fire becomes smoke… like coughing from asthma 🥶. I would also suggest taking minerals from surrounding rocks is a metaphor for her other power but enough delusion for today.

— There are a few varieties of hydrothermal vents, characterised by the specific mineral content of the vent fluid. Black smokers emit the hottest, darkest plumes, forming chimneys over 50 meters tall (180 feet) with high levels of sulphides that precipitate on contact with the cold ocean to form the black smoke. In contrast, white smokers contain barium, calcium and silicon. Other vents are characterised by the shimmering streams of water content of the fluid.

my god, this confirms my Alcor is a hydrothermal vent hc. Literally the beast and the star cycle.

Alcor as Cyanobacterium

Okay, hear me out on this one. I could not think of a specific species sorry. It is all in the details of the endosymbiotic theory.🥰

— The endosymbiotic theory states that some of the organelles in today's eukaryotic cells were once prokaryotic microbes. In this theory, the first eukaryotic cell was probably an amoeba-like cell that got nutrients by phagocytosis and contained a nucleus that formed when a piece of the cytoplasmic membrane pinched off around the chromosomes. Some of these amoeba-like organisms ingested prokaryotic cells that then survived within the organism and developed a symbiotic relationship. Mitochondria formed when bacteria capable of aerobic respiration were ingested; chloroplasts formed when photosynthetic bacteria were ingested.

The photosynthetic bacteria is an ancestral cyanobacterium. (Not identical to modern species, my professor said chloroplasts might have evolved from prochlorophytas due to the presence of chlorophyll b. It is a bit confusing)

It is probably more accurate to say the cyanobacteria is Dipper and the mitochondria is Bill.

They fuse-ish together to become something else. Also Bill being the powerhouse of the cell is funny byee.

Honorable mention —Stella⭐️

[historicalbookimages]

🌴 On the germination, development, and fructification of the higher Cryptogamia London: Published for the Ray Society, by Robert Hardwicke ..., 1862. Original source Image description: Historical scientific illustration plate showing detailed cellular and structural drawings of Pteridophyta reproductive organs and development stages. Nine primary diagrams depict various elongated and rounded plant structures with distinct cell patterns and internal compartments, likely representing sporangia and gametophyte development phases. Smaller insets highlight early cell division stages and spores. The intricate cellular outlines emphasize germination and fructification processes in higher Cryptogamia, focusing on tissue differentiation and reproductive cell arrangement. The plate is labeled "PLATE XII" and features fine line work, typical of 19th-century botanical micrographic studies.

[quillneriine]

For Whom the Wedding Bells Toll

With so many universes, Optimus Prime and Megatron will always find each other. This may or may not be good for the SG Megatrons of the multiverse. Otherwise known as, me writing about the marriages of five different OPMegs because I can.

"I will use my free time to write that Primes fic" I said, but I lied because I didn't have a single free time this entire April and now that I do… I was craving OPMeg lmaooo. So y'all can have this instead. I should really write for baseline but I love Shattered Glass so much, and like honestly I feel most baseline Megatrons would rather die than let these scenarios happen to them lmao. But yeah, hope y'all enjoy this, I mostly did this for myself lmao.

There will be some explanations at the end (though in the Ao3 not on this Tumblr post).

Ao3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64957660

TF:One - Denial

The conjunxing ceremony was to be broadcasted to all of Iacon. A promise that there would be no war. That all was forgiven. The High Guard were allowed back in the city that had been their home. The Iaconians tried to adjust to their new lives, the reintegration of newly-cogged mechs and the demolition of the mines being the primary objective now that peace had been restored. Even the dissenters, the ones still lived, were released from their jail cells - barely escaping execution. An ordinary citizen could not be faulted for thinking about how blessed by Primus this day was.

Perhaps it was, but not for Megatron. He stood by a window, his servos pressed against the glass as he stared out - not at Iacon - but rather towards the open sky of the surface above. His wings felt heavy against his back, though he knew very well that he would never feel the wind against his wing panels ever again. Yet as he considered the High Guard, his mentors who had taken him in and loved him, he knew he could not feel too much regret. After all, he was the one who proposed this ceremony in the first place.

“Sweetspark~” He felt arms wrap around his neck cables, a heavy frame pressing against his back. The Prime loomed behind him, a grin spread across his face. Megatron noted the lack of battlemask… a shame, he would have preferred to see it over the scorch marks that the Prime sported - ones that he had caused. “The staff were looking all over the Tower for you. I nearly offlined a mech when they told me you were missing. Not getting cold pedes, are you?”

There was an underlying threat underneath the joking tone, a dark glint in Optimus’ red optics.

“No. I only needed some venting room.” Megatron grumbled out, gritting his dentae as he forced a smile on his face. “Why would I want to run from my Prime?”

“Oh, Dee, why would you run from me indeed?” The Prime leaned his intake closer to Megatron’s audials, his voice soft. Their past still lingered in the air between them. “We both know what will happen if you do.”

The problem with ensuring the High Guard’s place back in Iacon was that they both knew that the Prime could easily kill them if Megatron were to step out of line. 

For them, Megatron would endure this ceremony… and being the Prime’s for the rest of their lives. He offlined his optics, letting the Prime press against him closer. He felt a helm nuzzle against his back and his future conjunx began to purr, content to hold him tightly in his arms. Megatron could pretend to be happy. He’s endured life underneath Sentinel’s reign before, he could endure this new life underneath a new tyrant’s reign.

And well… if Megatron could shut off his processor for a bit, he could almost pretend the arms that held him - that loved him - were Pax’s.

—

The conjunxing ceremony was utterly perfect. Optimus had ensured that. He didn’t want his special day with his beloved to be ruined because some incompetent bot couldn’t do their job. Call him obsessive but he had wanted nothing to go wrong. Everything had to be perfect, he finally got Dee back and he wanted to show the other mech just how wonderful their new lives could be now that he was Prime. Dee had smiled the entire time, so everything must have been done right. Now though, they were both in their shared berth together, basking in each other’s warmth.

Dee had quickly fallen into recharge, exhausted after everything that happened. Optimus didn’t mind, he liked being able to hold his conjunx - and the thought of that made him smile - in his arms. He used to dream about this when they were still cogless miners. They’d had nothing but each other then. Optimus leaned closer, resting Dee’s helm against his chassis as he listened to the soft rumbling of his engine and the soft thrumming of Dee’s spark close to his. For a good while, he thought he had lost Dee, that he would never get to hold him again.

“I’m happy you’re back, Dee.” He pressed a kiss to the top of his conjunx’s helm, gently stroking at his wing panels. When Dee had left with the High Guard, Optimus had thought his spark would die out for a second time. He had been desperate to get him back, enough so he could hardly run Iacon that he had to rely on Elita and Bee - which stung considering that he was the Prime and Primus would have been disappointed in him. Who knew that threatening to start a war against the High Guard would bring Dee back to him?

He hadn’t even wanted to keep the High Guard alive when Dee proposed the conjunxing ceremony. Optimus wanted to rip them all into pieces like he had Sentinel. He wanted them all offlined for being traitors to the Primacy and for stealing Dee from him… but Dee had cried so sweetly for him that Optimus couldn’t help but cave to his commands. He’d like to believe that it was because his conjunx was such a softspark that he wanted his own captors to be spared, even if Optimus still worried that the High Guard had twisted Dee’s perception of him.

Pressing the other mech closer to himself, Optimus let out a soft vent. At least they were together now. Glancing down at his conjunx, he couldn’t help but coo as he noticed tear tracks against Dee’s cheekplates. He reached out a servo, wiping at the cleaning agent that leaked from Dee’s optics. He must be having bad dreams in his recharge. Was he worried that he would wake back up on the surface and Optimus wouldn’t be there?

“It’s okay, Dee. We’re together again.” He murmured softly, “I’m right here… you’re safe… and I am never letting you go again.”

================================================

TF: Bayverse - Anger

Optimus did not require a Lord High Protector. He knew not why it was an insisted upon tradition in the Primacy, another custom he will have to rectify once he fully took control from Sentinel. However, the tradition did have its merits and he would not have met the love of his life if it were not for this particular custom. As was meant to be, Sentinel had arranged for candidates to present themselves before him, and he would choose which one of them was to become his Lord High Protector. Truthfully, he had not been paying attention to any.

Until Megatron. His attention had wavered, focused instead on his goals for the future when the other mech had entered the room. Unlike the others who had immediately knelt at his feet, pledging their lives for their future Prime - a vow that all Cybertronians ought to consider coded within themselves already and so it hardly impressed him - Megatron had strode up to him without fear. He had stood there silently, an imposing presence that Optimus had finally deigned the other mech his gaze. Blue optics stared cooly into his own before Megatron lifted his chinplate high, a picture of confidence.

“My Prime.” Despite his large frame, the other mech’s voice was so soft that Optimus had to strain to hear it. Megatron had not uttered another word, turning away so he could begin the combat simulation. The sheer rudeness and audacity of the other mech caused Optimus to put all his attention on him. At the beginning, he thought of the many ways he could have the other punished for his insolence. Yet the longer he watched the other mech fight gracefully, his anger had begun to subside as he found himself enthralled by the fluidity of the other mech.

Megatron had not even introduced himself after it was over. Optimus had to lower himself and ask Sentinel for the mech’s designation - which delighted the older mech for he had taken it as Optimus showing interest in a potential Lord High Protector. He had endured Sentinel’s cheerfulness, if it helped convey his want for the other mech, then so be it. Optimus did want Megatron. He had to admit that while he had watched the other mech spar, he had not paid attention if he was a good fighter. No, he had focused on how it nearly looked like dancing.

He had no interest in a Lord High Protector. Yet Megatron had caught his optic. His moves had been graceful, and despite his rough stature, he clearly held a gentleness underneath. It disgusted him to think that such a sweet spark would ruin themselves with fighting. He thought Megatron would have been better off as a civilian mech. He would have thrived there instead of becoming a soldier. Still, at least him being a soldier had led him straight into Optimus’ arms.

No, Optimus did not want a Lord High Protector.

But a queen?

He wouldn’t be opposed to that.

—

Megatron pressed a servo against the open gash on his frame, growling and cursing at the damned Prime for leading him to this point in his life. He could hear the loud blaring from the console as the ship continued to alert him that crashdown was imminent. As if he needed anymore reminders that he was doomed. Letting out a hiss, he wrenched himself from the ground as he left the main control room. He needed to ensure that the Allspark was safely secured before the ship crashed. Primus help him, he hoped it didn’t land on a populated planet.

Nearly tearing the door panels open, Megatron stalked into the room, letting out a quiet vent as the Allspark remained where it was - unmoved even as the ship continued to plummet. Leaning against the wall, he allowed himself to rest even as his anger tore through his HUD. If he had been younger, he may have ripped the remains of the ship to pieces. It wouldn’t have mattered since there was nothing to be done about repairing it. However, years of being a docile “queen” had rewired his programming that his anger was not as destructive as it had been.

Offlining his optics, he let out a tired whirr as he slid to the ground. He could feel the rage thrumming in his spark… but it wasn’t his own. His Prime must have realized what he had done by now, though Megatron could not bring himself to care. This needed to be done for the sake of their entire species. Cybertron had already been lost, the Allspark cannot be destroyed too. Even if it meant going against his Prime, Megatron had to do this. He could only hope that his loyal mechs would be able to escape the Prime’s wrath. 

He should have known something was wrong with the Prime when he had first disregarded the old Cybertronian traditions. Megatron had not necessarily wanted to be the Lord High Protector, though it would have been an honor. Although that was his official title to the people, behind closed doors, the Prime insisted that Megatron wasn’t his Lord High Protector - but rather his queen. Megatron had gritted his teeth and took it in stride… that was before Optimus had killed Sentinel and began to introduce new laws to Cybetron. Megatron truly snapped once Optimus had led their planet to its destruction.

He had said that he thought Cybertronians should not be confined to one planet, that they had the capacity to rule over large planetary systems, entire universes even. Optimus had dared to even decide to destroy the Allspark to prove his point. Which has led Megatron to this point, running away from his Prime with the Allspark. He would crash on some backwater planet, far from his home… and perhaps would even die at the impact. But it did not matter.

He was the Lord High Protector.

And he’d be damned if he let Optimus lead their people into extinction.

================================================

TF: Earthspark - Bargaining

“Me for the Decepticons.” His words were hollow as they rang out in the open air between them. Megatron stared resolutely at the other mech in front of him, not daring to let a single emotion appear on his face. He would not give the Prime that satisfaction. Red optics peered down at him, as if the other could not believe what he was hearing. Unable to contain himself, Megatron let out an annoyed vent, “Did you hear me, Optimus Prime? This is an offer. You will release the Decepticons, let them return to Cybertron, and I will be yours.”

“While the offer is tempting…” He felt the other mech draw closer, clawed servos reaching behind him to grasp at his wings. Megatron bit the tip of his glossa, pushing down the urge to shudder as Optimus began to run his digits through sensitive panels. The Prime had wasted no time to press close to him, their EM fields intermingling as their frames were close enough to share warmth. Megatron was grateful that he was spared the indignity of having his Decepticons watch himself be so debased. “How do I know you won’t fly away as soon as they’re free?”

“Unlike you, Optimus, I am a mech of my word.” They both knew this was merely the Prime’s attempt at banter. Megatron would never dare compromise his Decepticon’s lives. Letting out a tired vent, he reached out his servo, gripping at the Prime’s arm. “You can install an inhibitor chip on my wings, if you must. Rip them out, if you so please. Let my mechs go and you can do what you want with me.”

As he laid down his offer once again, a flicker of confusion crossed the Prime’s optics, a frown appearing on his face. To his surprise, the other mech withdrew his hold from his wings, taking a few pedesteps away as if… he was disgusted, though Megatron did not know what had caused such a reaction. The Prime had always commented on his wings before, so he had assumed that the other was obsessed with ensuring his conjunx-to-be (for Megatron was well aware of what the mech wanted from him) couldn’t ever fly away.

“What do you say, Prime?” He stepped closer, stopping only when the Prime jolted away.

What was his problem?

“You…” Red optics regarded him carefully, glancing up and down his frame. “You really would let me do that to you?”

Megatron frowned, somehow unsure now. If he didn’t know any better, he could swear it was Optimus who was being held at gunpoint with this offer. He didn’t know why the Prime was resisting unless…

Rolling his optics, Megatron bit the tip of his glossa once more before gritting out. “I will let you conjunx me. Just let my Decepticons go home.”

For a moment, he was answered with silence.

Then, the Prime did what Megatron had expected he would do.

Though, Optimus Prime didn’t look happy to accept the deal.

—

“You’re free.”

He watched Megatron reset his optics, his intake opening as if in disbelief. The other mech had been trapped within the Autobot base ever since he had exchanged himself for his Decepticons’ freedom. Yet now, in the dead of the lunar cycle, Optimus had led him towards the front entrance and had opened the door  - gesturing for him to go. Megatron stood at the opening, the silver of the moonlight glinting off his frame as he tried to see what trickery Optimus was planning. But there wasn’t any… because Optimus wanted him to leave. He wanted him free.

“I love you, you know… I… I really do.”

Optimus lowered his gaze, his dermas almost quivering as tears threatened to escape him. He knew must look pathetic to the other mech, yet he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t bring himself to feel more shame as he let his emotions show. He was already full of regret and disgust at himself, at having agreed to this deal in the first place. He should have said no when Megatron had proposed it, but how could he have when Megatron had offered him his spark… though that was never truly the case.

“I have longed for you all these centuries, all these millennia… When you offered yourself, how could I have resisted? I want you so much… but now I see I cannot have you this way. I want your happiness more than I want you. I love you too much to force you to stay with me.”

He thought he could force himself to live with it, but the longer Megatron had stayed confined in his quarters, the more Optimus felt terrible. He hated how miserable the other mech looked, how he forced himself to smile around Optimus each time he tried to hold the other in his embrace. How could he possibly conjunx Megatron when he knew the other mech did not want him? He could not live with the sparkbreak of that.

“You’re free to go. I won’t chase after you. I won’t have the Autobots follow you.”

He turned to leave, yet Optimus couldn’t bring himself to continue walking. He looked over his shoulder, noticing that Megatron’s shadow still loomed over him - as if the mech hadn’t left yet. Unsure, he voiced out the question that has been haunting him all these lunar cycles.

“I love you, but you don’t love me… Do you ever think… you could?”

There was a long stretch of silence, and he thought the other had left, but then he heard Megatron’s soft voice.

“If you change… not for me, but for your own sake… then maybe.”

He heard the tell-tale noise of the other entering his flight form, the loud whirr of a jet, and he knew the other was gone.

Optimus didn’t know how long he stood in the shadows of that hallway, Megatron’s words lingering in his mind.

Change…?

Was that possible for someone like him?

… Should he try?

================================================

TF: Prime - Depression

He mourns the dead. 

He mourns for Orion Pax.

Megatron spends a lot of time alone on the Nemesis, though he knew he couldn’t afford to let his sadness consume him for too long. The Decepticons needed him, and he had a war to win. They had lost far too much for him to lose himself in his despair. Besides, he knew if Unicron had it his way, Megatron could not spend far too long in his mourning. The god already willingly assists them by providing Purple Energon, he wouldn’t want his efforts at helping Megatron be put to waste.

Yet after… everything, he felt he could be afforded this moment of peace for a little longer. Megatron let out another vent, pressing his helm against the cool metal table as the memories of what had happened rewound in his processor. For so long, he had deluded himself to believe that when Orion Pax had taken in the Matrix all those cycles ago, he was still in there somewhere, because the mech that returned had not been the conjunx he loved. No longer was he the sweet, though sometimes clingy and possessive, archivist that Megatronus had fallen in love with.

When the Prime had lost his memories and returned as Orion Pax, Megatron had thought that somehow he had gotten his conjunx back… but it was a cruel trick. The mech that had stayed aboard, that Megatron had willingly to stay, was not Orion Pax. He couldn’t have been. Another trick from Primus to get Megatron to put down his guard. At least he had not had to personally deal with the Prime himself, even though he knew it was a cowardly move. He had wanted to observe “Orion” first before he revealed himself as the leader of the Decepticons.

Yet the longer “Orion” had stayed on the Nemesis, the more angry he got. This wasn’t the archivist he knew. “Orion” had been so furious when he had heard about the war from Soundwave, and had demanded to know where Megatronus was, where his conjunx was. Megatron had not revealed himself then, even though he knew the other mech must have been grieving for his “missing” conjunx. Megatron had only shown himself once it all came to a destructive end, with “Orion” nearly attacking poor Starscream who was trying to calm him down from leaving the Nemesis and scouring Earth.

“Orion” had visibly calmed down when he saw Megatron, though he had been “horrified” to find out that Megatron was one of the leaders of the war. He had tried to convince Megatron to leave with him, to run away together. That was when Megatron decided to cast him out of the Nemesis and back to Earth. It was nothing but a trick, a deception, from Primus to get Megatron to surrender - and once he did, there would be no stopping the Autobots.

Megatron tried to shake the memories away, but he couldn’t help but cry as they replayed again.

—

He mourns the living.

He mourns for Megatronus.

A millennia of a life gone, Optimus should feel anger, yet he was honored that he had been chosen by Primus - and that this time, he was allowed to remember. Still, he could not help but grieve the cycles he had lost underneath the Matrix’s influence, though really Primus hadn’t meant to use his frame as a puppet since he too had no say in who would become Prime. It was the Senate and Alpha Trion with their ambitions… Optimus wishes he could kill them again for what they did to him.

He knew he couldn’t let himself continue on this way. It was bad enough that the Autobots were beginning to question leadership, claiming he may have been misled or influenced by his brief time with the Decepticons on the Nemesis. He understood why they were hesitant to follow him now. After all, Optimus was a different mech to Orion, though they were now one and the same. He had changed a lot from the cold leader they had known. Optimus had been stoic and empty, a mere shell piloted by the Matrix. Orion had his own dreams he still wanted.

He had not enjoyed his time on the Nemesis, but at least now he was whole. The Matrix and Optimus now working together in symbiosis. He had a lot to change if he wanted to finish this war. It may have been a terrible situation, but being on the Nemesis had granted him - and thus the Autobots - a few leverages. For instance, he now knew the identity of the Decepticon leader. For millennia, it had plagued Primus who was opposing his Prime, but now they knew it was merely Orion’s poor grieving conjunx - still fighting for freedom and civil rights.

In the past, Orion had been by his conjunx’s side through it all, but now he sees a different path. He could grant his conjunx’s wish. A world of peace and freedom… but to achieve that, one needed someone to ensure order, and that was his promise as his conjunx’s Prime. It pained him to see Megatronus lost in this war. It hurt him to know that he was so far gone that he had refused his offer to run away together. Optimus, now completely whole with Orion’s memories, didn’t know why his conjunx was being so difficult about this.

His poor darling poet… though he had been a gladiator, they both knew he had never enjoyed the senseless fighting. Yet this war had changed them both. Optimus let out a soft vent, replaying the memories of his time in the Nemesis. He could almost see the tear tracks that had left their permanent marks on his conjunx’s face, and Optimus felt his spark break at the thought his Megatronus had been suffering for all these millennia without him. 

Fine, he will finish this war.

For his poor conjunx, he’ll ensure a world where he’ll never have to fight again.

================================================

TF: IDW - Acceptance

Optimus had kept a recording of the trial, no matter how disastrous it had been. He should have known that Megatron would have taken the opportunity to reassure his Decepticons that their fight was not over, that for as long as there was a bot alive that believed in their cause, then tyranny would never win. It had taken an embarrassingly long time for someone to disrupt the broadcast, and whoever was responsible for that had been quickly dealt with. Optimus did not have the patience for bots who could not do their work correctly, especially during that crucial moment.

Only after he had Ratchet silence Megatron’s voice box did Optimus allow the trial to begin again. Everyone knew it was a farce from the beginning, while Megatron had committed many war crimes against his fellow Cybertronians… who hadn’t, really? And the Autobots had done far worse. He had done worse - though Optimus was only really assuring Primus’ will. If it meant some bots had to die to ensure order, then Optimus would gladly take on the role of executioner. Still, with the trial, Optimus had never intended Megatron’s final sentence to be death. Why waste such a precious spark?

“To atone for your crimes against Cybertronians and the Primacy…” He heard his own voice on the recording, yet Optimus only half-listened as he continued on with his work. Megatron’s frame shook underneath him, the warmth of his energon coating Optimus’ servos as he continued to rip through the other mech’s wings. He had envisioned this scene a long time ago, ever since Megatron had chosen to leave his side. Really, Optimus had been patient, they both knew this was how it was all going to end. As if Optimus would have ever let his conjunx-to-be go without a fight.

“You are being granted amnesty… As Primus wills it, I, Optimus Prime, sentence you to the fate of becoming my conjunx. May you find peace in this new role that I have mercifully granted you…” The Decepticons would undoubtedly know that the trial was rigged, but it wasn’t about actual justice. It was about embarrassing their leader, it was about demoralization, and it was a reminder that Megatron was his. Always has been. Always will be. He may have refused Optimus in the past, but he had only delayed the inevitable. Optimus always gets what he wants in the end.

Tearing through another wing panel, Optimus couldn’t help but grin as Megatron’s intake opened in a silent scream. The recording of the trial had ended, so now he could put all his focus on attending to his conjunx-to-be. The conjunxing ceremony was approaching soon and Optimus had to help Megatron prepare. His voice box had already been silenced. The veil he was meant to wear had already been chosen. All that was really left was to tear Megatron’s pretty blue wings right off his frame.

He couldn’t risk Megatron flying off. Optimus would gladly help him accept his new reality.

—

Megatron could feel the weight of the Prime’s arm over his frame, and though he knew the other was deep into recharge, he could not help but keep his venting to a minimum. He did not dare to move, though he could not tell if his frame was shaking. He was exhausted, really, yet he worried what may happen if he allowed himself to relax around the Prime. Still, from the warning in his HUD, he knew that a shutdown was imminent and from the way his frame was overheating, it was inevitable that he would be forced into recharge.

The conjunxing ceremony had surprisingly not been broadcasted like the trial. Aside from a few Autobots and captured Decepticons, it had been a private affair. After all these millennia, it appeared that the Prime still did not like to share. It sickened Megatron to know that despite everything, he could still predict the other’s move. It had not surprised him at all in the trial that Optimus would pull a stunt like this. It did not even surprise him that Optimus had ripped off his wings, though they were now repaired and installed with an inhibitor chip. He expected this.

“You’re thinking too hard, sweetspark.” A voice murmured into his audials. He let himself be pulled onto his back, red optics gazing down at him as the Prime moved to loom over him. Megatron wanted nothing more than to shout at him, yet his voice box had not yet been restored. “Even when silenced, you still have a lot on your processor. Well, I didn’t fall for a stupid mech after all. Once you’re more agreeable, I’ll let Ratchet fix your voice box. I miss our debates.”

With that admission, Megatron bared his dentae, which only elicited laughter from the Prime who leaned over him. He felt a servo rest against his chassis, pressing him deeper into the berth.

“Or maybe I’ll keep you like this. I will miss your voice but I would rather my conjunx not scream delusional accusations at me for the rest of my life.” Optimus vented wistfully, as if reminiscing old memories that Megatron wanted nothing more than to forget. “Well either way…”

Megatron tried to turn his helm, his spark running cold as Optimus leaned a little closer, their dermas nearly touching. He could feel the other’s weight and heat bearing down on him, crushing him in the intensity. His HUD began to flash red, signalling that his exhaustion had caught up to him.

As his systems began to shut down, he felt the Prime lean down and kiss him softly - as though they truly were conjunxes. Before he could completely go offline, Optimus let go and leaned towards his audials. “Either way… so long as I have you with me, it doesn’t matter if you can speak or not. I have you, and you’re never leaving me again.”

As he was forced into recharge, Megatron thought death would have been preferable to this.