#several years ago I could have never predicted they would be calling my house their second home and going thru so much together

[betterbooktitles]

I was standing in Terminal 4 at JFK far away from the impatient scrum of people waiting near my gate for a Delta agent to announce it was their turn to board. As I watched passengers who’d arrived on other flights step around this pool of people buried in their phones, so desperate to be sitting on the plane instead of standing inside the airport, I thought about a review of William Gibson’s 2012 book of essays called Distrust That Particular Flavor, a book I’ve never read.

In “Distrust That Particular Flavor,” Gibson pulls off a dazzling trick. Instead of predicting the future, he finds the future all around him, mashed up with the past, and reveals our own domain to us as a science-fictional marvel… I glanced up from the pages of this book and surveyed the street-side around me, I felt as if I were wearing Gibson-glasses. Cars lumbered past like ponderous elephants of rusty steel, not so different from the cars of 30 years ago, and seemed not to belong in the same world as the tattooed kid punching code into his laptop nearby. Under the spell of this book, I suddenly understood my surroundings not as a discrete contemporary tableau but as a hodgepodge of 1910, 1980, 2011 and 2020. -Pagan Kennedy, NY Times

I am several steps removed: I was remembering reading a review of a book published 12 years ago that was filled with writing previously published in magazines decades earlier. I could have easily downloaded a digital copy of the book on my phone and started reading the source material, but instead, I searched Google for the most pared-down version of what I wanted to remember from Gibson’s writing, that single quote that encapsulated what I was thinking at that moment: 

“The future is already here – it's just not evenly distributed.”

The night before my trip, my phone buzzed and the Delta app offered a tantalizing deal: a few thousand miles to move from the 22nd row of the Main Cabin to Delta Comfort+, one row behind First Class, where I knew there was enough room to cross my legs like I’m on a park bench or extend them as if at home sitting in a recliner. I looked at my phone from my bed and moved my left leg. I felt my knee pop. I hit the button and ordered the nicer seat. “The future is now!” I thought as I rolled over, then checked my 2-3 more times that the alarm on my phone was set correctly before finally falling asleep.

I was flying to visit my family in North Carolina, where I would ride from the Charlotte airport to my parents’ house in a fully-electric SUV, stuck the whole way behind gas-powered lowrider motorcycles and one massive Ford that billowed black smoke from silver exhaust pipes sticking up like goalposts on the back of the truck’s cab. All the while, I’d see how developed the suburbs of Charlotte were becoming, whole blocks of houses and high-rises popping up like dandelions, covering what used to be open fields. I’d watch the Uber app on my phone continually update me on the status of the route, reestimating our ETA every few minutes as we sat in traffic. I would spend the ride glancing from my phone to the map on his dashboard, and wonder how we ever survived before GPS. Between the airport and our destination, we made all but 3 turns.

Before any of that happened, though, before any of the thoughts about watching the future blossom all around me while the past angrily revved its fossil-fueled engines up and down I-77, I had to survive the flight from NYC to Charlotte.

As I scanned the bright open space at JFK, I saw a freckled woman my age sitting alone covered in a yellow blanket. She appeared to be on the verge of tears. Since I was about to take my own emotionally taxing trip, one to see my sick father while his pain was still somewhat manageable, I considered asking simply if she was OK. Then I saw her take out her phone to text someone, and suddenly I couldn’t gauge if she was sad or severely hungover. I remembered that airports (outside the Midwest) aren’t for chatting up strangers. She was in her own little world and didn’t need a man’s halfhearted prying. Everyone in the airport was in sweatpants and pretending they were in their living rooms, pretending to be alone on the couch instead of sitting in a wide room with a hundred other miserable tired people. My attention turned to the black toddler in a green shirt stomping on the bright white linoleum and laughing. He was in a better mood than any adult I could see from my vantage point. His mom called him and said it was time to get on the plane.

We idled at the gate for twenty extra minutes after everyone was in their seats. I read a book on my phone and smiled to myself when I realized the plane door was closed, meaning no one else would be joining me in my row, hence the desperate offer from Delta the night before asking if I wanted a seat for much less than the price when I had originally bought the ticket. This was going to be the most comfortable flight I ever took. The only issue was that several people had left their window covers open, and the Sun was starting to heat up the cabin. A child directly behind me complained to her grandma about her discomfort, a baby cried from the back of the plane, and the toddler I had seen earlier, sitting on his mother’s lap three rows back, was wailing. The mother of the toddler was also traveling with her ailing mother who I’d seen pleasantly thanking the Delta staff earlier for bringing her to the plane in a wheelchair. They were both Southern black women wearing beige sweats from head to toe, and until this moment had spent the holding period at the gate pleading with the kid to “come on and be quiet now” and insisting to passengers around her that he usually doesn’t act this way on planes. I heard people around her say “It’s just fine” and “how old?”

A flight attendant, who I’d recently watched serve booze to everyone in First Class (why not, It’s 10:30 AM somewhere), warned over the loudspeaker that the routine demonstration on plane safety was about to begin. I always feel rude for continuing whatever I’m doing while another human being stands in the aisle showing me how not to die. Remembering to keep my seatbelt fastened during turbulence or to put my oxygen mask on before assisting others could save my life, and yet I sit there, fully ignoring the speech even as a member of the flight crew uses the plastic cover directly above my head to demonstrate how the yellow mask will flop down as we’re all screaming and crying and can’t remember our training. The flight attendant held the mask with both hands inches from my face and I kept reading. This dismissive attitude toward the safety speech is all the stranger when I remember that my biggest fear is dying in a plane crash. 

I was once on a JetBlue flight that hit some rough air. I distracted myself by watching Marvel’s Iron Man 3 on the back of the seat in front of me (this was before I became a professional flyer and brought my own screens with me). There’s a scene in the movie where Tony Stark’s house is destroyed by a helicopter. Right before Stark successfully shoots down the flying assailant, the movie jumped abruptly to the next scene. JetBlue doesn’t edit anything sexy from in-flight entertainment, but they will cut anything that reminds you of your potential fiery death in a plane crash. When I noticed what had happened, I laughed to myself. How silly to think people would be scared by a Marvel movie. Then I thought, “maybe they cut those scenes because crashing is so common and they want you to forget. Why would they cut the scene if it weren’t an actual event that happens all the time?” I worked myself up over not seeing a plane crash in a movie while I was on a plane. I panicked over the absence of a frightening image. That’s how nervous I get on airplanes.Scary stuff.

We were at the step where the flight attendants walked the entire aisle with one hand sliding against the white plastic covers of the overhead compartments to make sure they were secure when the woman holding her crying toddler walked up to my 75%-empty aisle.

“I think if he had a little more room, he’d be fine,” she said to the flight attendant who already had her hands up defensively. “Can we take these empty seats if no one else is coming?”

“It wouldn’t be fair to the people who paid to upgrade.” The flight attendant shook her head as she spoke.

“Well, can I upgrade?” The woman asked.

Sternly, the flight attendant said: “It’s too late for that.”

The woman turned to go back to her seat, and in a huff said “I’m never fucking flying Delta again. Fuck this shit.” As she sat down in her seat, she claimed loudly “if I were a white woman, they’d give me that seat.” 

Her mother sitting in the seat next to her backed her up: “I know that’s right.”

“Excuse me,” I said to the flight attendant, she leaned down, all teeth and painted eyebrows. 

“Yes, sir?” she said.

“I’m happy to switch with her if it makes things easier.”

Before she could answer, the white grandma behind me objected “Yeah, nuh uh! - no, thank you!” Without looking in her direction, I put my hand up to block her face from my peripheral vision and thought “Adults are talking.”

I continued: “I understand not giving her a seat, but if I’m fine with it, it’s OK to swap, right?” 

The flight attendant, with a smugness that reminded me of my Third Grade teacher, said “We don’t reward bad behavior.”

Read the rest here.

[wellpresseddaisy]

That Moment of Reckoning pt 1

Where My Soul Revive is the end of a new AU series, That Moment of Reckoning is the beginning. Because I am incapable of not starting yet another project and also have wanted to do a Scarlet Pimpernel (the musical) themed series for a Very Long Time. Series is probably going to be called Into the Fire because I am predictable and that song is a banger.

The first part was shared as a What If? snippet a few months ago and has been brewing in my brain since.

The title is a line from The Riddle, a truly wonderful song about betrayal and making your way through a dangerous and uncertain world.

He’d never expected to see Severus on his knees in the drawing room. Imagined in some of his more perverted moments (described to Narcissa in the dark of her boudoir, while on his own knees before her) but his imaginings had included quite a bit less weeping.

And certainly not that amount of…mucus.

The fevered excretions of his brain had very much not included himself kneeling with Severus, desperately trying to calm the younger man. At least he’d stopped prostrating himself on the floor. That sort of thing was all well and good in the boudoir, but thoroughly unseemly in the drawing room in the middle of the afternoon. Not that anyone could tell it was even afternoon with the gale outside, beating snow against the windows with every rattling breath. Was there any time in the year so wretched as late January?

“Severus, Severus please tell me what is the matter.” He cradled the back of Severus’ head and rocked as he would with Draco.

Severus wept in response. “I can’t…I can’t,” he gasped.

“You most certainly will, my lad,” he injected what he hoped was just enough menace into his tone. “Or you shall dearly regret it.”

It had always worked on a young, recalcitrant Severus. Perhaps he still held some authority? Severus shuddered in his arms, took several deep, hitching breaths, and finally looked up at him.

“You’ll hate me.”

Uttered in such a hoarse, wrecked voice, it tore at Lucius’ heart.

“I don’t care what you’ve done, my lad. I’ll never have it in me to hate you.”

Severus coughed on a sob. “You should.”

“Just tell me. We’ll fix it.” He hoped.

“I betrayed everything.”

Lucius barely heard the admission.

“Severus, what—”

“He told me he would kill her, her child. I…I went to Dumbledore and warned him. I’ve been spying for him since late August.”

The words tumbled out, as if Severus had been desperate to tell someone. Lucius gaped for a full minute before remembering that Malfoys never gaped.

“Are you telling me,” he began slowly, marshalling his thoughts. “That the Dark Lord told you he would kill Lily Potter. Told you to your face?”

“The child…there’s a prophecy,” Severus whispered.

“Everyone knows she is your one weakness, Severus. Everyone. That includes him. She still lives because the rest of us would also like to live.”

“I don’t…Lucius, I don’t understand.”

“We all know that if any of our crowd hurt one hair on her head we would all be dead at your hand. You’re the potions expert. Avery reckons you could do it so naturally we’d all look like we had dicky hearts.”

“What?” Severus asked faintly.

“It isn’t as if you were ever subtle about her. Now, this is a bit above my line of work.”

Severus pulled back at that, hurt and fear warring in his expressive eyes.

“No, you silly baggage. We’re going to take this to Narcissa. You know she’s the brains of this outfit. Honestly, if you keep on this way you really are going to get the smack you deserve, keeping this from us.” Lucius kept up a constant scold as he hauled Severus up and chivvied him from the room.

He did not miss the surprised shudder from Severus at his threat. Regrettably, experimentation would have to wait. Severus trailed after him, all miserable sniffling and hitched breaths, as he strode up the stairs to Narcissa’s sitting room. Merlin but he missed the coziness of the Dower House at times. Cissa’s rooms were up only one flight there, not two, and were also directly off the landing. But one couldn’t avoid moving into the ancestral pile forever, not without Society talking about it. At least they’d taken the time to renovate and remove a good bit of the Dark Tat Father collected. He considered a stop in the nearest w.c. so Severus could rinse his face, but decided that it would be better for him to confess himself to Narcissa immediately.

Confess himself.

Did they ever truly leave behind the patterns from the past? He’d been thinking about patterns lately as he’d found himself slipping, more and more in recent days, into the prefect he’d been at school. Those old patterns made for an easy path with some, like the men who’d once been in his charge. Without this war…no use in dwelling on that, really. There was a war and he’d chosen a side—or had one chosen for him—a long time ago now. Another pattern there, letting his father choose for him. He wouldn’t do that with Draco. He knew all too well how dangerous that path could be. Imagine if he’d been bonded with Bellatrix? That barely bore consideration. No, he would let Draco choose his own path, even if he wished to do something ridiculous, like topiary performance art.

Could he let Severus loose on his own chosen path? Could Cissa? The mere idea of Severus spying left his blood running cold. He and Cissa rather doted on him, as if he was their first child. From a certain point of view, he was their first. Lucius shuddered to think what Severus would say about being called ‘our boy’ or ‘our lad’ in such sentimental tones. It would very likely end with Severus pitching a pot plant at his head.

He knew better than to throw anything more than a sulk Narcissa’s way.

He felt a bit as if he’d just caught Severus biting someone, yet again, and was dragging him off to Cissa’s judgment after a thundering scold as they went down the corridor to her sitting room. Not that Severus had ever actually cried over a scold as a child. No, it took something stronger to break Severus’ iron grip on his emotions. What he must have gone through to break down like that, to still feel so fragile?

“Narcissa, have you a moment?” he asked, tapping at her door. “Severus has something with which he requires assistance.”

“Of course, my darlings!” Narcissa spoke brightly as her door swung open.

It frightened him, some days, how weak she remained so long after Draco’s birth. She’d had a better day, though, and felt strong enough to be up. He didn’t like to think how her better days came so much more frequently since father’s funeral. His pulse quickened as it always did in her presence, even when she wore a high-necked flannel wrapper against the chill of the day. She still looked pale to him, though her cheeks now held a faint but healthy pink. She reclined on a low divan and Lucius took a moment to admire the way the lamplight played off her hair before he made a long arm and hauled Severus forward.

“You can tell Cissa what you told me,” he ordered, though not too sternly. Severus had been through so much already.

Severus stood for a moment, seemingly poised to flee, and then moved shakily to the divan. He sank down on his knees beside it, burying his face in the cushions, and shivered miserably. Lucius crossed the room and took one of the easy chairs. This, he thought, needed to be between Cissa and Severus.

“I…I betrayed everything…for…for Lily.” The confession came slowly, haltingly.

“What happened, dear heart?” Narcissa stroked a careful hand over his hair.

“There was a prophecy. I heard the first few lines before I was discovered.” Severus coughed, shuddered, and seemed to pull himself together though he never raised his eyes from the cushions. “I brought it to him and…last August he told me that he believed it pointed to…to her child. That he would eradicate the whole family. My boon was that she would left alive for me…if possible. I…I went to the headmaster and…and bartered my service as a spy for their protection. I betrayed all for Lily.” His voice broke at the last and Narcissa ran a gentle hand over his hair.

“And you’ve carried that for months,” she said.

“I couldn’t lie any more. Not to you. Never to you.”

“I know, my darling, I know,” Narcissa soothed.  “He really told you he’d kill Lily Potter?”

“Lucius asked that too. Yes, he did.”

“It’s such an…odd choice for him to make, dear heart. Everyone knows that she has always been your one exception. I have no idea why he would tell you his plan. It makes me wonder how…well, how sane he is.”

“You think…I don’t understand,” Severus sighed.

“Malfoys always look out for their own best interests, Severus, and that includes yours. Lucius and I have had some…concerns lately, and that is all I shall say on that for the moment. The important thing now is to hear what you overheard of the prophecy, please.” She may have said please, but Lucius and Severus recognized it for an order.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him. Born as the seventh month dies…that’s all I heard of it.”

Narcissa sat quietly for a moment, gently stroking Severus’ hair. Lucius admired the picture they made, wreathed in the sitting room’s rosy light. Severus might never be considered pretty, but he certainly had striking features, especially when he was well-rested and had eaten properly. Lucius noted the signs of neglect piling up again—the dull hair, sallow skin, and lost weight all so apparent—and wished Severus would allow them to care for him as they so wanted. What he would give to go back a few years, to shield Severus from the poison dripped into his ears by so many. A pity time turners had such narrow scope. Several people could use a good kick down the stairs.

“I would like to know,” Narcissa began. “Who hears ‘approaches’ and thinks of an unborn baby?”

“That’s what I thought!” Severus finally looked up, vindicated. “It doesn’t make sense! And it could be b-o-r-n-e and not b-o-r-n. And what calendar is it using? I got crucioed for asking that.” The last admission came sulkily.

“I think, Severus, that the time has come for us to form our own front in this…long engagement,” Narcissa said. “First, though, you are going to have something light to eat and a bath. Then you are going to sleep until you no longer look so exhausted. You did well on coming to us. Lucius and I will take this on.”

“But I can help!” Severus protested. “I didn’t tell you so I would be shunted off to the side.”

Lucius hid a smile at that. Sometimes he wondered if Severus would have been better off sorted to a different House. Hufflepuff, perhaps, given that damned tenacious loyalty of his. He’d give his all, and do it well, even as he swayed on his feet from exhaustion. Blessedly, Narcissa always had a knack for managing him.

“You will in the future. Right now you can help most by sleeping and eating while Lucius and I handle the family part of this. We’ll make everything come out right, darling, but there are a few pieces that must be handled delicately. Grandfather will help, I believe, but I must go see him.”

Severus, disgruntled, allowed himself to be packed off to his usual room. Lucius assisted Narcissa in rising from her divan and gave her his arm for the long walk to her dressing room.

“What exactly has Arcturus Black to do with all this?” Lucius asked.

“Where James Potter dwells so to does Sirius Black.” Narcissa leaned against him, a weakness she would never show to any other. “James is also kin to the main Black line. Grandfather would sooner eat his own cane than allow harm to come to his heir or…not to put too fine a point on it, but James Potter may well have sired the next heir after Sirius.”

Lucius took a moment to appreciate that she would trust him with that.

“But our Draco?”

“Unfortunately, our marriage put him out of  eligibility. Malfoy magic is jealous magic, my love, and refuses to share her next Paterfamilias. Now, what color do you think grandfather would enjoy seeing me in most? He’s such a…a selective man that I never quite know what to choose.”

“Why not the rose pink walking suit?” Lucius patted her hand. He knew better than to press when it came to the Black family and their secrets. “You look lovely in it and the embroidery is a work of art. I believe he objects most strongly to those who won’t learn what suits and is suitable, and then look a fright at his dinner table, like your Aunt Walburga, who will wear claret where burgundy would suit better.”

“The wool is gorgeously warm. And I have my white furs…but such a bright pink in January? Do you think grandfather would find it frivolous?”

“You have the cardinal or the sapphire if you think the rose too unseasonal. I think the French tailoring keeps it from frivolity. He does approve of robes from France.” Lucius opened the door to her dressing room and brought her to the vanity. “Shall I leave you?”

“No.” Narcissa caught his hand. “Stay with me. We can decide on an approach together.”

He smiled down at her and then went to fetch the walking suits they’d discussed. No need to call for help when he could play Lady’s Maid just as well.

[alatariel-gildaen]

I am not doing well.

At all.

Yesterday was my birthday. I turned 42. I live at house number 42. As a life-long Hitchhiker's Guide fan, this is a birthday I've looked forward to for years (for my brother's 42nd a couple of years ago, I bought him a bowl of jet-black petunias, with a whale toy nestled amongst them. I was wondering how he would top it) but I cancelled my birthday this year.

Last year, my family drove down to visit us. My side of the family isn't large. Both sets of grandparents are dead, my mum was an only child, my dad's brother - who never had kids of his own - died when I was about 4. My brother is single and doesn't want kids or a partner. So my side of the family is me, my parents, my brother.

And we're close.

So yeah... they drove down to see me for my birthday. They stayed a couple of nights. They were going to leave shortly after breakfast on the morning of March 16th, but I persuaded them to stay just a little longer. To come with us to soft play, and then go after lunch.

They left mine at about 2pm. My little boy gets very distressed when people leave, so they had to sneak out (hence why they were originally going to leave after breakfast, straight from the hotel, so they didn't upset him.) As predicted, he got upset, and I texted mum. She answered straight away.

Anyway. She always gives me updates when she's on the road.

"We've just crossed the bridge. We're stuck in traffic. We've stopped for a coffee." And after an hour and three quarters, when I hadn't heard from her, I sent her a WhatsApp asking how they were getting on, then carried on playing with my 4 year old.

An hour later, I realised she hadn't replied. I checked my phone - the WhatsApp had been delivered but not opened. I didn't think anything of it immediately. Then half an hour after that, I saw that I'd forgotten to give mum her mother's day present, and messaged her again.

About another half hour after that message I realised what the time was, and started to worry. They ahould have been home, and still none of my WhatsApps had been opened. I called her. It rang and rang, with no answer. I tried my brother's phone. The same happened. I called Dad. Same again. I called and called and called, and by now panic was setting in.

So I began looking online for traffic updates. Any reason at all why they may be held up, unable to answer their phones. I saw that there had been an accident on the M25 around the time they were due to get there, and obviously my mind jumped to the worst. But the more I looked into that accident, it didn't seem to fit. Traffic reports said it involved a van and a lorry, and besides, if they were held up in traffic, they'd still be answering their phones, surely?

I looked at google maps, and the a21 looked completely blocked. Dark red for miles. I went on a local "what's happening" facebook group and there were several posts saying the same thing. Avoid the A21. Serious head-on collision. A stolen car being chased by police had ploughed into a white Audi, with three passengers. Two elderly. Judging by the suitcases, they'd been or were going on holiday.

I cannot begin to explain the horror of reading that. We began calling every single hospital we could think of, trying to track them down, and finally found them in Brighton. My mother-in-law raced over to us. The plan was that she would take me, my husband, and my son over to my sister-in-law's (which was on route) drop my son off there, then take me and my husband to hospital.

Just as my MIL arrived, the police turned up to tell me there had been an accident. I think they were very confused that I seemed to know more about it already than they did.

Anyway. The next 2 months were literal hell. My dad was in a coma, and at 80 years old, was walking a knife's edge between life and death. His list of injuries was extensive. From top to bottom, he had a broken shoulder blade, broken collarbone, every single bone in his right arm was broken, his elbow completely shattered, he had 5 broken ribs, his spine was fractured in two places, his pelvis was shatterd, his femur broken. One lung was punctured and collapsed, he had internal bleeding into stomach, his renal artery was damaged.

My mum and brother fared better. My brother had quite severe concussion and extensive bruising, but nothing else, my mum also had bruising and a small tear in her liver, but they were otherwise conscious.

After a week, both my mum and brother were discharged from hospital. We found a 2nd hand mattress that we set up in our living room, so that me, my husband, and my son could sleep in there, my brother taking my son's room, and my mum taking ours until dad could come home.

And he seemed to be miraculously improving.

But after a week, we received a phone call at around 3am. Dad had taken a turn for the worse. His heart had stopped twice, and they had made the decision to not resuscitate should it happen again. We should get to the hospital to say goodbye. We were told it wasn't a matter of 'if' but 'when.'

We stayed by his side for 36 hours, telling him stories. Remembering happy memories. And after those 36 hours, I remember the doctor's exact words. "I don't understand what miracle has happened here, but I think you are safe to go home."

My dad is a miracle. He improved. He woke up. 6 weeks later, he was well enough to be moved to a hospital closer to home.

But the trauma of those two months will always stay with me. I can no longer celebrate my birthday because the association and guilt that I was the one who made them stay later, and it was because of me that they were there in the first place, are too intertwined. I have been officially diagnosed with suffering from PTSD as a result of it. Yesterday was awful, but I know tomorrow will be even worse.

Tell your loved ones that you love them. I am fortunate to still be able to do so, but that can be taken away from us in a heartbeat

[originalleftist]

Why I Support Joe Biden:

Well, there are a lot of reasons. Like his infrastructure bill. Or support for marriage rights. Or the strong economy. Or his support for Ukraine. But there's one that really (pun not intended). trumps all the others.

In May of 2020, during the height of the election, Donald Trump retweeted "The only good Democrat is a dead Democrat". He used his platform as President to call for the murder of tens of millions of his fellow citizens who's rights he'd sworn an oath to uphold. I will never forget the moment of realization that the President of my country had declared a war of extermination against me and my family, along with millions of other people. Nor will I forget that over 70 million people voted for him afterwards.

And then, on January 6th, they put that violent philosophy into practice in the most horrific possible way, when Trump incited and enabled an armed mob to invade the US Capitol and attempt to lynch members of Congress and his own Vice President. Several people died. Hundreds were injured. And it could have been so, so much worse. If they'd broken in a little faster, if the Congress had evacuated a little slower. I can imagine what might have been, if the timeline had been just a minute or two different. Members of Congress held hostage on live streaming, or lynched on the Capitol lawn. Congresswomen and their female staffers r*ped by the mob. The God Damn nuclear football, which the VP carries with him, in the hands of the Proud Boys or the Oath Keepers. Any of which could have given Trump, the instigator, ample pretext to do what he really wanted, and invoke the Insurrection Act and deploy the military to remain in power.

I don't believe everyone would have gone along with that. But the likely outcome would then have been a civil war.

Look at images from Syria, or Sudan, or any other country in the middle of a civil war. Imagine those are your streets. Your home. Imagine a civil war in a nuclear power, something the world has never really experienced. We came so close to the brink. Just a minute, maybe.

"But Biden is old"- So what? He was fit enough to take a secret train ride into Ukraine. And if something happens to him, if he dies or falls ill or has to step down, that's literally what the VP is for. It's a possibility with every President. Or are you suddenly scared of the prospect of the VP taking over because she's a non-white woman (even that doesn't really make sense, because America already voted for her as VP in 2020, knowing it was possible she'd have to step in).

"I want someone younger"- Fair enough, but if you vote for Biden now, you can vote for someone younger in four years. Or you can let literal fascists win, and never vote again.

"I don't think Biden can win, his poll numbers are really bad"-Fuck the polls. Polls are, even at their best, just what a small number of voters thinks at that time. They are not prophecy. Polls predicted a red wave in the Midterms. They were wrong. Polls predicted Democrats would do badly a week ago. They were wrong. Democrats, led by Biden, have been excelling in every election cycle and special election since he took office.

The only poll that really counts is the one on Election Day.

Also, who exactly is the more electable alternative to Biden? If you want to believe polls, his three primary opponents COMBINED are currently polling at 16%.

"Biden/the Democrats don't get enough done."-The President is not a dictator. He cannot unilaterally do whatever he wants by decree. If you want Democrats to pass a strong progressive platform into legislation, give them clear majorities in the House and Senate to do so.

"Biden supports Israel's genocide of Gaza"-In fact, while expressing support for Israel following Hamas's brutal attack (which literally any president would have done, and rightly so), Biden has worked to avoid escalation, sought to delay the ground invasion of Gaza, pressured the Netanyahu regime for humanitarian aid and pauses, negotiated to get hostages released, opposed a long-term Israeli occupation of Gaza, and maintained support for a Palestinian state. Republicans, meanwhile, have been calling for a Muslim ban (one of Trump's signature policies), censuring the only Palestinian-American in Congress (a few Democrats voted with them, but the large majority did not), and even calling for the extermination of all Palestinians (in the case of one Florida legislator). Trump was strongly supported by Netanyahu.

"We made it through one Trump term." Well, one, a lot of people didn't (Covid deaths alone, Jesus). And two, just because you survived your first round of Russian roulette doesn't mean it's safe to go again.

"Both parties are the same"- Simply false, a narrative based on appeals to public cynicism and frustration and careful cherry picking of which issues to focus on. One party wants to violently overthrow the Constitution. The other does not. Also see abortion rights, gun violence, and a whole host of other issues.

"Democrats have to earn my vote"- What about the millions of people, in America and around the world, who will be stripped of their rights and even their lives if Republicans win? What do they have to do to earn your votes?

"I voted Democrat in 2020 and it didn't solve all these problems."-Frustration is fair, but systemic change does not happen overnight. It takes time, and hard work. It took America over a decade, and a world war, to get out of the Great Depression. It took most of a decade to win the Second World War. And that was with one party, one president, in the White House for most of that time. Even at the best of times, flipping back and forth between parties every four years because you're frustrated at the slow pace of progress is counterproductive. It's catastrophic when one of the parties is fascist, and has no intention of ever allowing the pendulum to swing back.

"I refuse to vote for the lesser of two evils"- Okay, so leaving aside the fact that we all know a third party candidate is not going to win, who do you think is the better alternative? The corporate front that is No Labels? The Kremlin-sympathizing Cornell West? The literal Steve Bannon plant RFK Jr? Just being a third party candidate doesn't automatically make you a better option than the major parties. If Biden is the lesser evil, he is the least of many, not the lesser of two.

And, again, and I cannot stress this enough:

HE DOESN'T OPENLY PLAN TO MURDER HIS OPPONENTS.

"My one vote won't make a difference."- Nearly every major human achievement is a collaboration of many people. That does not make each individual contribution worthless. The Presidential election may not be decided by one vote (though local elections very well can be), but if enough people decide their one vote won't make a difference, boy, does it make a difference.

Them's the facts, America. And there's your mission. Don't fuck it up.

[linseedlings]

More fan stands?????? Yes. I’m having a lot of fun!

These are characters for my fanpart, Starliner Express. It takes place on a one-way singles cruise from Miami to Rome. There are no stops. People start developing stands, getting into fights, and breaking things, but for some reason the captain refuses to turn the boat around!

——————————————

「Anger Management」

Stand Abilities: A stand that feeds on other peoples’ hatred for its user. The more hate it consumes, the faster and sharper its claws will become. It uses its USB tail to scrub through the internet for mean comments, but it can also plug into a person and feed off of them if they dislike Issey enough.

「Anger Management」 can also use its tail to diagnose a target’s weak points. If it plugs into a person, object, weapon, etc, its vulnerabilities will be announced by the mouth on its head. It will also make fun of its target, and is known to be quite rude.

Issey can use this ability on himself and his allies to help them identify their own weak points and areas they could improve in. He also uses 「Anger Management」 when he’s practicing singing and dancing to help him perfect his performances. It only critiques though - it can’t offer suggestions or encouragement.

User: Issey Dellavedova

Backstory: An up and coming pop star. Issey loves every aspect of his job - except the fame. As an asexual aromantic he finds the attention from his fans to be incredibly overwhelming, and has been the victim of several stalkers over the course of his short career. When he released his debut album over a year ago, he was a much friendlier person; he would spend hours after a show to talk with his fans, and was well known for being one of the kindest celebrities on the scene. Unfortunately due to the incidents mentioned above, he was forced to become colder and meaner in order to protect himself. His reputation has plummeted as a result, and people now describe him as rude, stuck-up, and dismissive.

He is on the Starliner Express because his agent forced him into a marketing deal with the Cruise Line. He’s being paid an absurd amount of money but is incredibly annoyed by the whole experience. It reminds him of his past trauma. He’s incredibly on edge. His sexuality hasn’t been made public, so despite his poor public image, his PR team has rebranded him as the industry’s bad boy bachelor. Much like Diesel, 「Anger Management」 developed after he took a glitter bomb shot handed to him by a crew member.

Issey has a true love of music. He puts everything into his creative process, and while he hates the attention he gets, he would rather die than stop performing. Despite everything, his music is still well loved.

User Namesake: Issey Miyake is a Japanese luxury fashion house. Matthew Dellavedova was a player for the Cleveland Cavaliers.

Stand Namesake: Anger Management is an album by Rico Nasty: “Treat you like gum spit you out if I ain’t feeling you. I just wanna know why all these bitches so predictable. I can never be typical. Don’t come out the house unless I’m wearin’ something whimsical // From where I made it out, they lookin’ at me like a miracle. Don’t say shit you don’t mean, cause I’m literal.”

——————————

「Rapp Snitch Knishes」

Stand Abilities: It tells the target a secret - something the target really wants to know. If the target tells anyone about the secret, or even hints at it, Rapp Snitch Knishes will beat them senseless as soon as they enter an enclosed room. This room will become soundproof and inescapable from the inside. The target will not be able to leave or call for help during this period.

The stand will deactivate if anyone enters the room, Dior chooses to cancel the attack, or if the target dies. The secret it tells the target doesn’t have to be true.

User: Dr. Dior Gibson

Backstory: The ship’s head doctor. Dior’s allegiances are shrouded in mystery. Her targets include both crew and passengers, and anyone who causes too much trouble on the ship. Her emergency room is full of guests who need immediate medical attention - her small staff can’t get more than two hours of sleep at a time because people keep shuffling in. She will do anything to get the fighting to stop.

Dior is an efficient and professional woman. She only speaks to convey critical information, and uses her words extremely carefully. She is a recent veteran, and used to serve as a surgeon in the Navy’s Medical Corps. Her new job was supposed to be easy money and fun in the sun. Now there’s a bunch of super powered co-eds running around beating the shit out of each other.

Like Diesel and Issey, Dior’s stand 「Rapp Snitch Knishes」 developed after she drank a glass of glittery champagne handed to her by a crew member.

User Namesake: y’all know what Dior is. Gibson is an American Guitar Manufacturer.

Stand Namesake: Rap Snitch Knishes is a song by MF DOOM featuring Mr. Fantastic: “True, there's rules to this shit, fools dare care. Everybody wanna rule the world with tears for fear. Yeah, yeah, tell 'em tell it on the mountain hill. Running up they mouth bill, everybody doubting still // Informer, keep it up and get tested.”

[kananjarus]

I think at some point in the last year my mom has realized I might not give her grandchildren so instead she’s taken to pseudo-adopting every single one of my friends who are all misfit 20 somethings, who basically now camp in my backyard for fun and are apparently coming for thanksgiving (my mom texted them all individually for the invite it was actually very cute). 

as an only child I’ve suddenly found myself with five other siblings in the span of months right before I turn 30. what is my life right now

[tsukihimeyfan]

Undertale Headcanons (mostly about Sans)

6 years have passed since the release of Undertale, and there’s still so much we don’t know, especially in regards to Sans. I didn’t write much for Undertale’s anniversary last year, mostly just reblogged other people’s gorgeous fanart, but I’ve been mulling everything over and I wanted to write a bit about everything we know, everything we don’t, and my takes on how those threads connect, in honor of Undertale’s 6th anniversary and the release of Deltarune Chapter 2. Here we go!

What we know:

1) Sans was most likely some kind of scientist, as evidenced by his workshop, his quantum physics books, and this statement:

Key word “our”,  meaning he was most likely involved in obtaining those reports somehow.

2) Sans was somehow involved with Gaster, the previous Royal Scientist who built the Core and who “shattered across time and space”. The biggest evidence to support this is of course his use of the infamous “gaster blasters”

Most likely, he worked alongside Gaster while studying the timelines, and he is the other person Sans is referring to when he said “our reports”. The only other possibility would be Alphys but she, unlike Sans, never once insinuates that she has any knowledge of alternate timelines or the power to RESET. She also mentions that you seem familiar if you RESET after befriending her,

Unlike Sans, who keeps whether or not he experienced any déjà-vu hidden (probably out of a sense of self preservation)

3) Sans has dealt with Flowey’s RESET BS before, and probably remembers enough to know he’s dangerous. If you reset enough times after battling Asgore, eventually Flowey will tell you this little gem:

so Sans has confronted and killed Flowey for his timeline shenanigans several times. Also, during a normal playthrough Sans tries to warn you about Flowey

I know he later says that “someone must be using an echo flower to play a trick on [Papyrus]��, but am I supposed to believe that while telling his brother about the flower giving him “encouragement, advice, predictions”, Papyrus never once mentioned that this flower was golden?? No, Papyrus being Papyrus he probably told Sans ALL about his little golden flower friend. So why be so cryptic about it? Why warn you at all? I believe Sans remembers or has figured out enough to know that the flower is dangerous, that it has hurt Papyrus before, so he tells you to keep an eye out for it, and he does so in such a way that, were Flowey to overhear your conversation (which little Mr follows-you-everywhere-you-go totally could), he’d be unlikely to suspect that Sans knows anything.

4) Sans dealt with RESET shenanigans for far, FAR too long - I made a post a while ago about exactly this, but the TL;DR of the matter is that Sans has had to deal with at the BARE MINIMUM around 70 years worth of RESETs. And that’s being extremely generous, with the more likely number being over 130 years. 

5) As a result of the aforementioned exposure to time hijinks, he’s most likely struggling with at the very least dysthymia, if not actual Major Depressive Disorder - It’s never explicitly stated, but the signs are all there, some better hidden than others. If you call Undyne at the Snowed Inn she tells you that she usually doesn’t sleep over at Papyrus’ house because Sans gets up constantly during the night, repeatedly waking her up.

This could of course have been done on purpose as a prank to make her lose sleep, but it seems a little too mean-spirited for him. Usually his pranks are completely harmless, like whoopee cushions or leaving a red ring around your eye or telling you he’s selling fried snow (without ever actually letting you waste money by buying it). Taking the fact that he naps constantly during the day into account, as well as this statement by Papyrus:

then we already have 2 of 5 criteria from the DSM-5 (the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders created by the American Psychiatric Association) required to diagnose Major Depressive Disorder: fatigue/loss of energy and insomnia. Other criteria exhibited by Sans include:

Constant hopelessness

Not feeling interest or joy from things he normally would (aka anhedonia)

and Altered appetite (if we take what he says at face value, it seems like he is eating more than ever, since he says goes to Grillby’s to eat every 30min or something like that, but we never see him actually eat anything even after ordering, and some conversations with Grillby’s patrons seem to indicate maybe he actually has a decreased appetite, and is hiding it by feeding his meals to the Dogi when no one is looking)

There’s also this dialogue for the Ugly Fish, which directly contradicts what Sans said previously about his eating habits.

The game doesn’t give us direct proof for any of the rest of the symptoms, like thoughts of death or excessive feelings of guilt/worthlessness, but it is quite possible that someone in his position would struggle with those things as well, and in any case what we do have evidence for is enough to make me fairly certain that he’s dealing with a disorder on the depressive spectrum. Also, we may not have a time frame for his symptoms but as stated before he’s been facing Flowey’s bs for literal decades, so he’s probably had these issues for quite a while, and it’s undoubtedly affecting his life since he can’t bring himself to put more than the least possible effort into anything.

6) Even with everything I’ve already explained, despite finding life so pointless that he’s pretty much given up on finding happiness or in doing his best at anything for himself, the poor guy still does his best to provide and care for Papyrus. He’s basically his hype-man, he defends him from anyone who insults him, he supports him in every endeavor (both emotionally and financially), he makes sure that he has every luxury they can afford (even if he doesn’t buy any for himself), he does his best to spare him from harsh truths, and so much more. It’s part of why I love him so much; despite the world continuously trying to stomp out his empathy, he still cares deeply about his loved ones and will go to great lengths to help them.

This includes Toriel (besides making and keeping his infamous promise to her for as long as he could, he also supports her however he can in every neutral ending)

(and some of you still wonder why Soriel is a thing)

Also Alphys (he seemingly helps feed the amalgamates and he supports her wholeheartedly during the Queen Alphys neutral ending)

That’s pretty much everything we know with any degree of certainty about Sans. Time to head into...

Headcanon territory (continued under the cut)

1) How much does he remember? - I’d say Sans must remember SOMETHING of the previous timelines. Many people argue that because Sans always seems to talk about his knowledge of your actions in relation to things he can observe, like your expression, he remembers nothing. Others argue that his level of intuition is so uncanny that he MUST remember everything. However, I believe that the actual truth is somewhere in the middle. We know that other monsters have at least a sense of deja-vu, 

so Sans must likewise remember at least that much. Perhaps his knowledge of timelines, LOADs and RESETs or his experiments with Gaster allow him to dig up more memories than others could (or at least actually pay attention to what those feelings of deja-vu are telling him without dismissing them as most of the others do), which would explain how he’s able to tell exactly how many times in a row he’s killed you and give you a warning when you’ve killed Papyrus in a previous timeline.

2) So why keep quiet about his deja-vu? Why not be like his brother and make it clear that he has vague memories of you? It’s as I said at the beginning of this post - self preservation.

We’ve established that Sans is most likely aware of the threat Flowey poses, that he knows of timeline shenanigans, that he can keep track of events between LOADs/RESETs and that he’s very smart (and even used to be a scientist of some sort). A person like that could probably infer that the reason Flowey&Frisk RESET so much is because they “have to see what happens”. So what can he do, with his very limited power, to reduce the amount of RESETs as much as possible?

Simple - he gives them as little variation as possible so that they’d have no reason to RESET anymore. He hides his knowledge so that the anomaly can’t go “oh look! this dude remembers, so he could have a different reaction every single time! How fun! =)”

We know Flowey at least found great joy in the changes brought about by the presence of someone who actually remembered. So much so that he was willing to do nearly anything to stop you from leaving

In light of that, of course Sans would keep anything he knows as under wraps as possible. This is why I’m very reluctant to believe he only “figures out stuff from your expression”.

3) How much of a threat is Sans to a Pacifist Frisk? - many people speculate that Sans would be useless in a fight against an opponent with no EXP, since they believe his KARMA will not work at all against such an enemy, leaving him with only his natural 1ATK to work with. I, however, don’t think that’s true.

Sans’ KR can do a maximum of 40HP of poison/drain-damage, plus 30HP of damage per second of contact with his attacks (due to his invincibility cancel) at LV19, so clearly the HP lost is not exactly equal to your LV. If we say that KARMA is a form of retribution for your crimes, as it appears to be,

then we can assume that KR does more and more damage the more EXP/LV you’ve earned, yes. However, I don’t think KR would do NO damage at LV1, and I don’t believe that Sans’ most powerful weapon, the invincibility frame cancellation, would disappear.

After all, LV is a quantification of your capacity to hurt others. You start at LV1, not LV0, since even at LV1 you’re perfectly capable of killing people. You can even be LV1 after having killed a monster (specifically a whimsun). And that’s not even taking into account how complicated and hard to dodge his attack patterns are.

Therefore, little LV1 Frisk with their miserable 20HP would near dead after only half a second of contact with his attacks (which would deal 15HP of damage), AND I bet they’d have to deal with at least 1-2HP of extra drain/poison damage every turn.

So yeah, if he chose to fight Frisk as soon as they came out of the Ruins, Sans would most likely still be one of the hardest battles in the game.

4) Does Sans care for Frisk? - I’ve seen a lot of debate about whether Sans ultimately feels anything for Frisk or not (in Pacifist timelines of course, he undoubtedly hates you if you kill Papyrus and he judges you harshly if you’ve killed people),

particularly because even if you’ve got 0 EXP, even if you’ve gone to Grillby’s with him and bought his hotdogs and had fun together, this still happens

So he realizes you’re the anomaly, and therefore a threat, no matter the run. However, I think he says this because, at this point, even if you’re LV1, you could still turn around and kill people. You could even completely decimate the population of Hotland and the Core, Genocide style. So this is most likely both a warning and a *cough* “kind” suggestion to behave. 

However, I think Sans does eventually change his mind, and it’s probably at this moment:

at this point, you’ve gone through the entire underground without killing anyone. There’s literally no reason to kill anyone anymore, since there are no encounters in New Home (unless you go back and hunt the few monsters remaining in the Core, though I’m not sure if spawns still happen there after Mettaton. I couldn’t find anything clear) so he’s probably pretty confident that you’re a pacifist. I believe at this point he allows himself to trust you

Look at that: he tells you you’re loved, and that he believes what’s in your heart will most likely be the right thing for everyone. It’s actually very sweet of him...which makes going back to kill people at this point even more screwed up and heartbreaking imo.

Then there’s this little tidbit from Asriel while he’s holding everyone’s souls, which I feel is the biggest piece of evidence:

After all, Asriel doesn’t strike me as a very good liar. Even as Flowey the whole “friendliness pellets” thing was sus af in hindsight. And what reason could he have to lie at this point? If Sans didn’t love Frisk, all Asriel had to do was not mention him by name, just like he didn’t mention Asgore. In my opinion, this is proof positive that Sans must have at least some positive feelings for Frisk (this makes the soulless pacifist endings even more horrifying now that I think about it omg Toby why must you hurt me in this way)

5) Why doesn’t Sans stop you from killing Papyrus during a Genocide run? - I’ve seen people call Sans cold or uncaring because he only ever intervenes in the worst case scenario, but we’ve already established that Papyrus is one of the few things Sans can still bring himself to care deeply about. So, why doesn’t he stop at least Papyrus from confronting a blood(or dust in this case)-thirsty psychopath?

I have 2 theories about this (though they are non-exclusive, in fact they most likely both impacted equally on his choices). The first is that Sans, who canonically can teleport together with other people, helped warn the Snowdin residents of the incoming threat, and he was assisting in the evacuation efforts when Papyrus backtracked to confront the human, leaving him alone for long enough to kill him.

The second is that Sans knows from experience that there’s just... no point.

(look at his anguished expression in that last image, jeez)

As we’ve said, Sans has been dealing with this time problem for a very long time. Since we know for sure Sans can tell when Papyrus has been killed in an alternate timeline, I’m certain that at first he did try to protect him, before deciding that it’s both hopeless and too painful.

I imagine it went a little like this: near the beginning of Flowey’s loops, Sans did his absolute best to protect him without Flowey realizing what he was doing, and likely succeeded. Sadly, the only thing Flowey would’ve had to do was to LOAD his save file and find a way to circumvent Sans’ interference. Then do that again. And again. And again, for every one of the hundreds of times Papyrus was killed. Eventually, Sans must have realized that not only was there absolutely nothing he could do to stop it, but that trying would just lead to him probably witnessing Papyrus’ death himself, helpless to save him, making it doubly painful.

He probably tried to tell people a few times, to ask for help, but that likely stopped pretty quick. Telling anyone would just cause them mental and emotional pain without being able to change anything, so he probably decided to spare them from the knowledge and just...bear with it.

After a while, broken, beaten, and terribly alone, he likely just... gave up on trying to change anything or even putting more than the bare minimum amount of effort into anything. After all if it all was gonna reset without warning, why bother?

Why do his best at his job(s)?

Why bother trying to build anything?

Before a Determined being, nothing lasts and nothing matters.

6) If all that is true, why does he try to stop you at the end during Genocide? - I’ve seen people argue that Sans fights you for revenge or to save himself from dying once the world ends, but I have to strongly disagree. If it was petty revenge, he would just kill you every single time you kill Papyrus after all. It’s also very unlikely to be self-preservation, since as we’ve said he’s most likely suffering from depression: he has no hopes for his own future, no ambitions, no will to accomplish anything except maybe see Papyrus happy. Why would he suddenly sprout a desperate desire to survive out of nowhere, enough to drive him to fight a literally unwinnable battle, possibly hundreds of times? I find that hard to believe.

The most likely answer is that, if you destroy the world... Papyrus would never come back, and neither would any of his friends. Every time you kill them, he at least has the dubious comfort of knowing you’ll probably bring them back during your next run, but not this time. If you win this time, you’ll take the timeline with you, and he’ll never see them again (huh... that sounds a bit familiar:)

So he fights.

Despite knowing he can’t beat you.

Despite realizing his only hope is that you get tired and give up

Despite coming to the fight with the knowledge of every single previous failed attempt

Despite having to exert himself to the bone

He fights, and clings desperately to the slim chance that you’ll try to be better

He doesn’t mean not to come back to the Underground at all. After all, that’d mean that Sans would be stuck in a world where his brother and most of his friends are dead forever. Most likely, he wants you to not come back to this Sans, to this timeline. He wants you to RESET, and to make better choices next time. He wants another chance for Papyrus to be happy, even if it’s for a short while.

I feel like his very last words, revealing the only thing at the forefront of his mind during his last moments, is what’s most telling of the truth:

As with everything else he does, it’s all for Papyrus

In conclusion (TL;DR), Sans might not be an epic hero fighting for the good of the entire world like Undyne, but he’s a deeply hurt individual struggling basically alone to survive a horrifyingly bleak situation, who despite simultaneously coping with a serious mental disorder as a result is STILL a fundamentally kind person, who does his best to spare his loved ones from the worst outcome, is always willing to help his friends and family to the best of his ability, and who, despite his best efforts to the contrary, still cares so much, to the point of even giving the benefit of the doubt and coming to care for the same anomaly that might doom him.

That’s the core of who Sans is, and that’s why I love him so, so much. It makes me hope that the True Pacifist ending really is the “True Ending”, and that somewhere, he has finally found peace, relief, and a future free of suffering together with his loved ones.

(*Note: this art was made by greenbudbowl on Deviantart)

[bluejayblueskies]

Jonmartin with 20 or 76 for the kiss prompts!

kiss prompt list!

20 - surprised kiss | 76 - top of head kisses

this is both! ft. domestic married jmart in a no-supernatural au

.

A small mmrp! is the only warning Martin gets before something very fluffy and very orange jumps onto the kitchen counter beside him.

 “Hey, no,” Martin chides, scooping the as-yet-unnamed cat into his arms and lowering him gently to the ground. He points a stern finger at the small, curious face staring up at him and says, “I know you’re new here, but you’ll have to learn the house rules eventually. And I know I’ll have to be the one to enforce them, because the moment Jon sees your cute little face he’s going to just- just let you do whatever you please.”

 The cat lets out another mmrp before rubbing his face affectionately against Martin’s leg.

 “Right,” Martin says with a soft smile, crouching down and scratching underneath the cat’s chin. “You haven’t met him yet, but Jon’s going to love you. You’re just going to have to- to look at him and he’ll love you.” Quieter, to himself, Martin mumbles, “I hope he’ll love you.”

 A cat isn’t a typical anniversary gift, sure, but it’s not like they hadn’t been talking about it. They’d looked into a few shelters, made a list of the things they’d need to buy in order to make their flat pet-friendly, but Jon’s workload had increased drastically a few weeks ago and discussions had fallen to the wayside. Martin had spent a frankly ridiculous amount of time scanning through Jon’s meticulous notes about preferred breeds, ages, and dispositions before spending an even more ridiculous amount of time visiting every shelter within a 50-kilometer radius of them.

 He may also have two cardboard boxes full of cat toys, food, litter, and other items stowed away in the back of the linens closet. He’s nothing if not prepared.

The quiet thump of paws on marble drags Martin out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see the cat stood atop the counter again, tail swishing back and forth with excitement.

 “No,” Martin says, standing and lifting the cat carefully up so he can look him firmly in the eyes. “We do not jump on the counter. The counter is where we cook, and Jon stress-cleans enough as it is—we don’t need to give him the extra incentive.”

 The cat’s mouth stretches open in a wide yawn, revealing rows of sharp teeth, before blinking passively at him.

 “Right,” Martin says again with a resigned nod. He tucks the cat against his chest experimentally, feeling the rumbling purr against his skin, and presses his nose into the soft orange fur on the nape of the cat’s neck. “Did you know that Jon and I got married a year ago today? Oh, of course not, you're a cat. Well, we did. Honestly, though, it- it feels like yesterday. Things since then have just been… nice. Christ, so nice, and- and I love him, you know? You’re going to love him too—he’s got this, like, this thing where cats just adore him on sight. Tim likes to call him the ‘cat whisperer,’ and Jon pretends like it annoys him because, heh, you know, otherwise it would go right to Tim’s head, but Jon adores you guys. With your- your little paws, and your little ears, and your- ow, ow, your claws—"

 Martin gently, yet gracelessly, lets the cat spill free from his arms and onto the lino. He rubs at his arm, gives the cat a stern look, and says, “Is that any way to treat your father?”

 The cat looks up at him and meows loudly.

 “Don’t talk back,” Martin says with faux disappointment, crossing his arms across his chest. After a moment, his resolve breaks, and he bends down to scratch between the cat’s ears gently, a fond smile spreading across his face.

 Martin’s halfway back to standing when the doorknob rattles. His first thought is oh, Jon’s home early. Then: wait, Christ, nothing’s ready yet. Then: shit, the cat!

 Martin’s reflexes are, predictably, less acute than the fluffy apex predator who’s currently making his way to the front door at breakneck speed, meowing loudly enough that Martin’s sure Jon can already hear it through the still-closed door. Martin has just enough time to take a few, anxious steps toward the door before it swings open and Jon shoulders his way through, arms laden with stacks of folders and books and papers. Martin decides that he'll chide Jon for bringing work home on their anniversary later and instead prioritizes coming up with a speech he thought he still had several hours to prepare in approximately five seconds.

 “Oh, hello,” Jon says, kicking the door shut behind him and rearranging the pile of work in his hands so it doesn’t slip. “Elias let me go early—albeit with a mountain of paperwork, good Lord—so I thought I’d…”

 He trails off as a small, insistent mmrp! cuts through the air. Martin squeezes his eyes shut and says, quietly, “Ah, right. That’s… that’s nice of him?”

 “I… I suppose,” Jon says, sounding a bit lost. There’s a shuffling noise, and Martin opens his eyes a crack to see Jon depositing the stack of papers on the side table by the couch before turning, slowly, back to the cat. “Is… sorry, I- I’m not… is there meant to be a cat in our flat?”

 The cat meows, and Martin says weakly, “Happy anniversary?”

 “Oh,” Jon says. Then, after a moment, his mouth curves into a small smile, and he repeats, softly, “Oh.”

 Jon crouches down and shifts so he’s kneeling on the ground, sitting back on his heels that way Martin’s never been flexible enough to do. “Hello,” he says quietly, holding out a hand for the cat to sniff. “And who might you be?”

 “He doesn’t have a name yet,” Martin says, still reeling from the abruptness of the last thirty seconds. “I- I thought… you might like to name him?”

 Jon hums in thought, letting the cat push his head into his hand before beginning to scratch gently underneath his chin. “I… I don’t really know,” he says. “Georgie was always the one who was good at naming, I- I just sort of went along with it for the Admiral.”

 “Could always go generic,” Martin suggests, feeling his heart swell with affection as the cat yawns again and Jon’s face lights up. “You know, like- like Whiskers, or…”

 Jon gives Martin an unimpressed look. “Certainly not. That would be like naming our child… Leg, or something equally ridiculous.”

 Martin tries to ignore the way his heart stutters at the words our child and says, in a small voice, “Yeah, that… that would be silly.”

 Jon’s expression folds into something soft and fond, and he says, “I’ve… I’ve always been partial to Clarence, if… if that’s all right with you, I suppose.”

 Something must show on Martin’s face, because Jon quickly clarifies, “For- for the cat, that is, not, er- not for a… an actual child—”

 “Yeah, yeah, of course,” Martin says quickly, his cheeks growing hot.

 “—because- because Clarence isn’t really- well, it’s, it’s not bad, it’s just, I don’t—”

 “—absolutely, yes, I- I agree, one-hundred percent—”

 “—just, just for… for the cat.”

 “Mm-hmm,” Martin says in a high-pitched voice, fully giving up on pretending like his face isn’t flushed a bright red. His mouth twitches up into a smile, almost against his will, and he says, “For the cat. Of course.”

 “Of course,” Jon echoes. The moment of silence between them is broken by an accusatory meow, and Jon’s laugh at that is something that Martin wants to bottle up and treasure forever. “My apologies, Clarence,” he says, scooping the cat up in his arms and pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “I wasn’t giving you nearly enough attention. A grievous error on my part.”

 “You’re going to spoil him,” Martin says teasingly. “He’ll be insufferable.”

 Clarence lets out a happy chirp of agreement.

 Carefully, Jon stands, Clarence still tucked securely in his arms, and steps closer so he can press a soft, lingering kiss to Martin’s lips. “Thank you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough that he can rest his forehead against Martin’s. “I love you.”

 “I love you too,” Martin says.

 There’s a disgruntled mmrp, and Jon’s mouth curves into an amused smile. “I love you as well,” he says, giving Clarence another kiss on the top of his head. Then, teasingly: “Maybe even a bit more than your father.”

 Martin lets out a long, exaggerated groan. “I can’t believe this. Less than five minutes in our home and you’re already stealing my husband from me.” He reaches over and scratches Clarence’s belly fondly. “Disrespectful. Utterly abhorrent.”

 Clarence makes a pleased little noise before starting to purr audibly.

 “We’ll need food,” Jon says absently, one hand scratching underneath Clarence’s chin. “Litter, bowls, toys…”

 Martin grins, a bit giddily. “Oh, way ahead of you.”

[caretaker-au]

CHAPTER 10

Bright light spilled into Chara’s vision as the world manifested around them. Their body—heavy and fragile—struggled and dropped them to their knees.

As they fell forward Chara caught themselves with their hands. They stared out at their small, feeble fingers that were splayed on the lavender colored floor, each digit tipped with a dull, flat fingernail. Where were they? And what was that awful pounding sensation? They pulled a hand to their chest. That’s right. Their heart. No longer made from monster magic, Chara’s human flesh felt comparatively sluggish and dense. The body they were never supposed to return to. Chara crossed their arms and gripped themself tight. Fierce emotion flooded through their body: a touch of grief for their own death, relief for their survival, and most of all, rage.

“Asriel…” they breathed, their voice a shaking whisper, “How could you?”

After everything they had done, after all that they sacrificed for him, Asriel had betrayed them. Again. As he always had. It didn’t matter how hard Chara worked or how many timelines they chased, their wretched partner threw away everything they had to protect accursed humans. This time was the worst, however. Asriel’s betrayal ended in orchestrating a shared execution.

“You really hate me that much?” Chara’s voice was little more than a shaking growl. They wanted to scream, to declare that they wouldn’t allow it, that they would find someone else who would respect them and carry out their plan. But they didn’t believe it.

“Chara?”

A small voice broke through the fury. Chara looked up and saw them. A child hesitating in a stone doorway just ahead of them: Frisk.

The child’s expression relaxed into a smile, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Anger flashed across Chara’s face. They pulled themselves to their feet, wavering slightly. They staggered towards Frisk with heavy steps, increasing their speed into a run. Frisk’s eyes widened for a moment before they scowled. The child braced themself and held out their arms, “Chara, stop!”

The caretaker grabbed Frisk by the collar and wrenched them up against the doorframe. The kid’s teeth chattered as their skull thudded against the stone behind them.

“Why?!” Chara barked, hatred seeping from their every pore, “You took everything from us! Our lives, our future, the salvation of all monsters!” Frisk turned their head away, clenching their eyes tight as Chara berated them. “Nothing was stopping you from leaving. So why?” Chara demanded, “Why did you return? To mock me? To torment me?”

“No…” Frisk answered quietly, “To save you.”

Their answer didn’t make any sense. Chara stared back, unable to even articulate a response. Instead, they slammed Frisk against the wall again. “Liar!” Chara cried out, “You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth!” Frisk squirmed and pulled on Chara’s hands to no avail, “Escape isn’t worth anyone’s life. Not even yours, Chara!”

Chara’s fists clenched tighter around the slack of Frisk’s sweater. With a heave, they tossed the child to the side. Frisk splayed across the floor with a grunt.

“You are wrong,” Chara huffed, “And you… are a fool. Did you not learn the first time? I don’t care about your mercy.”

Frisk pulled themself to their feet. They straightened and returned Chara’s frenzied glare with a quiet gaze.

Chara continued, “I will not stop. This time I’ll take the souls, ignore you, and escape to the Surface. There, Asriel and I… we’ll…” Chara trailed off as Asriel’s face crossed their mind again. They sank to the floor, the air feeling heavier and heavier. “That traitor… he will never… he will never cooperate.”

The realization was like a knife twisting in their gut. Even with his betrayal, Asriel was always the most devoted. No one would be able to replace him. Despair crept into their heart as Chara realized they needed him more than Asriel needed them back. Chara had considered Frisk their greatest opponent, but it was Asriel who truly stood in their way.

Chara’s vision swam, so they turned their head away from Frisk, their hair falling in front of their face. Knowing the human was seeing them like this made their skin crawl, and they wished the ground would swallow them up. As Chara spoke, they held their breath to keep their voice from shaking. “Leave.”

Frisk hesitated, surely coming up with a response. Mockery? Pity? Chara wouldn’t bear it.

“Out of my sight! Now!” Chara shouted; their roar made the air tremble. Frisk didn’t wait to be told again. The sound of scuffling footsteps faded from earshot, and soon Chara was alone in the silence once more.

Finally, Chara let the tears fall from their eyes. They were disgusted with the way their breath hitched and sobbed no matter how much they tried to stifle it. Asriel did this to them. Asriel would have to pay.

Chara indulged in several minutes of sickening self pity before they finally wiped their face. Looking around, it took Chara a moment before they registered just where they were. They were deep within the Ruins, just outside the chamber Frisk had fallen into. But that didn’t make sense. From Chara’s experience, time could only be turned back to the most recently fixed point. Frisk should have been returned to just before their battle, perhaps in the jail. Instead, here they were, back to the moment they first met. Was Frisk not confined to the same limits of time travel?

Chara shook their head. They couldn't think about this now. Only one thing mattered: Asriel’s punishment. Drawing the will to stand, Chara pushed themselves upright to follow the child.

In one way or another, Frisk had made it past all the traps, through the house, and—presumably—out the exit. It was for the best; Chara couldn’t stand to cross paths with the child again. Inside the house, they paused to collect a large padlock they had stored in a table drawer. It was heavy and nearly the size of a text book with ornate designs engraved across it. The lock was imbued with abjuration magic, made specifically to lock the Ruins after Asriel was nearly killed by the human years ago. The lock would render any door unbreachable by human or monster, and Chara held the only key.

Chara carried the device with them into the basement, down the hall, and to the large exterior doors that lead to the snow draped forests beyond. The doors were slightly ajar, revealing a set of footprints that dotted the snow off into the distance.

Chara sighed, taking one last look at the snowy view, before pulling the doors shut. For decades, the lock had only been placed on the outside, removed only when Chara came through to patrol the ruins or escort monsters between Home and Snowdin. Today, for the first time, the doors would be locked from the inside with Chara within. They looped the padlock through the handles of the door, and when they snapped it into place, the doors shuddered and clamped together with a jolt. Chara traced a fingernail down the seam of the two doors. No one would be passing through without their permission.

Confronting Asriel directly was not an option. After all, any progress made with Asriel could be undone by Frisk. Not to mention they weren’t even sure what they could tell him. Asriel’s traitorous inclinations were buried deep into his core, waiting until Chara was at their most desperate to stab them in the back.

But there was one tactic that Frisk would be unable to interfere with. Silence. If Chara withdrew to the Ruins without a word, Asriel would surely blame himself for Chara’s sudden absence. Chara knew Asriel well: he’d beg for Chara’s return and apologize for things he didn’t do, all the while ignorant of his traitorous compulsions. Cruel, perhaps, but nothing was as cruel as what he had done in those erased timelines.

Chara checked their phone. They already had one message from Asriel inquiring as to when they’d return home. The caretaker marked it as read before slipping it back into their pocket.

---

As predicted, Asriel came to the door and stayed all night long. Knocking, calling, pleading-- Chara relished each pathetic attempt at reconciliation. He deserved to be confused, heartbroken, and alone, just as Chara was. Over the course of the day Chara received messages from Asgore, Toriel, and many other monsters. They all asked the same thing: Are you okay? Do you want to talk? We found this human named Frisk, do you know them? Even Muffet demanded an explanation. Chara would have to deal with her later.

Leaving everyone wondering and begging for answers was the only power Chara had left. Word was getting to the monsters in Home as well, evidenced by the additional messages piling up on their phone. Chara ignored them too. Eventually they would realize they were trapped on this side of the door as well, unwilling hostages in Chara’s scheme.

No matter. The monsters deserved to be trapped. Every one of them was just like Asriel: eager to please and sentimental to a fault. Chara had devoted their entire life to serving them and in return they never offered to help collect the souls that would free them. In fact, Chara had to resort to time travel to push them in the right direction for just an ounce of support. They all deserve to rot in this dark, claustrophobic hell.

---

“So you just let a human walk on by?” Muffet inquired in a sing-song voice, “That doesn’t seem much like the great caretaker at all!”

The two of them were sitting in her parlor, each on a lavish chair. A full tea set complete with baked goods sat on a low table between them, though Chara knew better than to partake in it. Spider legs stuck out of the scones like coarse hairs, and they couldn’t even imagine what the tea had been steeped with.

“Yes. Well.” Chara said, looking down at their lap, “There is not much I can do about it now.”

“Oh yes, I imagine the sweet thing is the new royal favorite, aren’t they?” Muffet’s fanged smile turned up in a mocking grin, “The queen has always had a soft spot for filthy little strays. You know that better than anyone, right, dearie?”

Chara bit back a retort. With time no longer under their control, they had to be careful while inside of her lair. It had been a week since they sealed the Ruins, and Muffet was the only person they had spoken to since. The crime lord wasn’t their first choice of confidant, of course, but she had been insisting on meeting and they knew better than to reject her invitation.

“I suppose so,” they responded softly.

Muffet giggled to herself, then suddenly reached for the plate of cookies between them. It was only after she grabbed a couple treats that Chara realized they had flinched when she moved. They tried to relax but the attempt only made them more tense.

“So, is that why you locked the exit? Had a bit of a falling out with the in-laws?”

“Something like that.” Chara frowned, “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Oh of course, a lady like me wouldn’t dream of indulging in distasteful gossip! Instead, I have a business proposition~”

Chara straightened. In their current circumstance, they didn’t have much in the way of influence or leverage.

“How can I be of service?” they asked.

“I want to relocate,” Muffet paused to bite into one of her cookies. It sounded... crunchy. “You see, the Ruins are awfully drafty, and the cold isn’t good for my constitution. I was thinking about moving in the next year or so, but now that you’ve so... graciously sealed us all in here, I predict the traffic in my shop will be slowing down considerably.”

“Understood.” Chara nodded, “I will make an exception for you and open the d—”

“I wasn’t finished, Chara.” Muffet said, her voice lowering. There was a tense pause before she smiled again, “I want a limousine~”

“A—A what?” Chara asked, incredulous.

“A heated limousine that will chauffer my employees and I all the way to Hotland,” she gestured to the spiders that skittered between the tea cups, “A necessary luxury to ensure we make it safely through the biting cold of Snowdin. Should be a simple task for a monarch, correct?”

“Of course. Leave it to me.” Chara smiled, “Is that all?”

“Not much for business, are you, Chara?” Muffet smirked, “This is where you negotiate the terms of the agreement~”

“No need. I am happy to do this as a gesture of goodwill.” Chara outstretched their hand—it wasn’t trembling anymore, thankfully—and Muffet gave it a dainty shake.

Once Chara was safely out of Muffet’s lair, they heaved a sigh of relief. Somehow they had managed to leave in one piece despite Muffet’s attempts to bait them. Now they just had to figure out how to serve her outrageous demands. Chara fished their phone out of their pocket, dismissed several dozen missed calls and text notifications, and opened their address book. They were going to need to call in some discreet favors.

---

One month had passed since they sealed the Ruins. It wasn’t easy, but Chara managed to arrange for Muffet’s departure without alerting the Dreemurrs. Eventually, the royals found out the Ruins door had been briefly opened which led to a fresh barrage of calls, messages, and knocking on the resealed door, all of which Chara ignored, of course.

Chara walked the streets of Home late at night, the crystals in the ceiling sparkling above. They could feel the eyes of the monsters on them, but after weeks of Chara ignoring and scowling in return, the monsters had given up on approaching them. Wordlessly, they did their weekly shopping at the local market. As a member of the royal family, Chara had never needed to pay for any necessities, and it seemed the benefits even extended here. It was only fair compensation, of course. After all, Chara was still serving the undeserving monsters by patrolling the Ruins every day for human threats.

---

“Ugh, really?” Chara muttered. They were nearly done with their patrol, having reached the large trap of spikes that was circled with a moat. Chara pushed down on the edge of the spike panel’s pressure plate with their foot, but the spikes failed to retract completely, the deadly points standing out by a few inches. It wasn’t a good sign: the springs inside were starting to give out. And if the springs snapped while Chara was standing above it…

Chara shuddered. They had witnessed that messy result and they didn’t care to experience it first hand. Typically, Chara would order replacement parts and perform maintenance themself, but the machinist that created the pieces was in New Home. Unsealing the door again was out of the question.

“Of course this would happen now,” Chara grumbled. They moved their foot off the plate and the spikes shot back into place. How many more compressions would it tolerate before it broke? Before Frisk came to the Underground, Chara could risk it and undo any unpleasant accidents, but if the past five months were any indication, Frisk was not nearly as eager to manipulate time. In fact, time had been rolled back only two times since Chara let the child go.

It was inconceivable. How could Frisk resist the urge to erase the inevitable little mistakes that ruined every day? Embarrassing moments, broken tea cups, scraped knees… all could be fixed in an instant with the right application of their power. To have such power and yet choose to carry the weight of their failures—it defied reason.

More importantly, if Chara suffered a tragic accident while isolated here, no one would come to their rescue… whether through time manipulation or otherwise.

“Unfortunate.” Chara said to themself with a resigned sigh, “I will have to dismantle them. All of them.” They turned around and headed back home. While they didn’t have access to their machinist anymore, they did have a few hand tools and plenty of time.

---

Eight months had passed since Chara had let Frisk go. As they walked the path of the now defanged Ruins, they revised and repeated their old plan over and over. If they could just get one more soul to replace Frisk, they would have the seven required to break the barrier and purify the Surface. The only thing missing, of course, was a willing monster to absorb them.

They reached the end of their patrol: the entrance to the Underground for lost, unlucky humans. The chamber was empty, as it had been every day since Frisk fell in. Chara walked into the center of the room and stared up into the vacant darkness looming above. One hundred years had passed on the Surface and only eight humans had fallen in that time. How long would it take for another to arrive? Ten years? Thirty? Without the help of their powers Chara could very well die before seeing the next human soul.

Chara turned to leave, but did a double take as they glimpsed a glimmer of gold on the ground. They kneeled and pushed the grass aside to reveal a small yellow bud, barely beginning to open.

“It cannot be…” Chara breathed, “A Golden Flower?”

Golden Flowers were common on the Surface, but had no presence in the Underground. Chara was so sure of this that they had incorporated them into their original plan over 20 years ago. By requesting to see the wild flowers on their deathbed, Chara could ensure Asriel would cross the barrier with their corpse in tow.

Or at least, that was what should have happened.

Chara clenched their teeth at the bitter memory. It was the first of many perfect plans ruined by Asriel’s cowardice. The caretaker grasped the plant and ripped it out of the ground by the root.

Immediately, Chara felt a pang of regret. They stared down at the pathetic thing. Their favorite flower, somehow growing in this dark, sunless prison. When had it taken root? Did some seeds blow in from the Surface? Or were they brought in by a... passenger?

Chara shook their head. Regardless of how it was introduced to the Underground, it was now a part of the Ruins—their Ruins. It didn’t deserve to suffer for Asriel’s mistakes. Reflexively, Chara attempted to turn back time, but nothing happened.

With a sigh, they returned the flower to where it was and buried its roots back into the soil. The stem was bent and it wouldn’t stay upright, but weeds were resilient. With a little help, it might still make it.

---

Chara hesitated before their latest masterpiece, knife in hand. Resting on a serving plate was a beautiful, hand crafted chocolate ganache cake. Strawberries perched on top of the silky dark topping, and the intoxicating aroma filled the house. Somehow, even without their powers, it had turned out almost too perfect to eat.

Emphasis on "almost". Carefully, Chara slid the knife through the decadent construction and placed a slice on their plate. They paused to admire the moist cross section before sliding a fork through the end and taking a bite.

Absolute bliss.

"Not bad for a humble birthday cake," Chara said to themself. They were thirty-seven today. Chara looked across the dining table into the empty living room. The only sound was the fire crackling in the hearth, emitting heat for a one person abode. They wished this house wasn’t nearly identical to the one in New Home; the similarities made it too easy to imagine Toriel in her chair, Asgore in the kitchen, and Asriel leaning on the table with his elbows, big goofy grin on his face. The Dreemurrs loved birthdays, always spending weeks preparing for a large and lavish party.

This was the first birthday they had spent alone since they were thirteen. They had forgotten how miserable it could be.

Chara checked their phone. They had over one hundred notifications that had come in just today. They scrolled through to find the only contact that mattered: Asriel.

“Happy birthday, Chara!!” the message read, “Mom and Dad and I are thinking about you lots! We even got you a gift, so I hope we can give it to you one day! Wherever you are, take good care of yourself, okay?” A line of party and heart related emojis followed.

Chara read the message over and over. Asriel’s texts would always fill them with disgust and hatred, but not today. Instead Chara just felt… lonely. It was a pathetic, shameful feeling, but a true feeling nonetheless. Despite all the ways Asriel had disrespected them, Chara couldn’t hide from the fact that they missed him.

The caretaker allowed themself to vocalize a thought they had been pushing out of their mind for months. “Maybe…” Chara spoke, their soft voice breaking the quiet, “Maybe it is time to go home.”

They sighed, resigning themself. The eternal silent treatment was never a realistic plan, and while Asriel was the intended subject of the punishment, it was unpleasant to Chara, too. Scrolling up through his messages, Asriel had sent hundreds upon hundreds over the past year begging them to “just talk”. All had gone unanswered. The confusion and desperation in those messages were clear; he was perfectly primed for a reconciliation.

But Chara wanted more than reconciliation. More important than companionship was freedom. Freedom not just for undeserving monsters, but most importantly, freedom for themself.

“There is still a way,” Chara muttered to themself, “I simply… pushed Asriel too quickly. Asriel always responded better to a softer approach.” Chara stood, pacing.

“We will delay soul fusion until the end of my natural life. Nothing barbaric or tragic. My dying wish will be to live on within him. He cannot turn down my final request.”

Chara nodded, they could see it now. After a few decades, Chara would peacefully pass from their old, frail body into Asriel’s strong, youthful one, a benefit of his species’ long life span.

“Then we gather the rest of the souls. But not right away. Asriel will need some time to adjust to sharing a vessel with me. But he will with time. Perhaps even the child can be convinced to willingly donate their soul to the cause.” Even though Frisk wouldn’t be a child anymore, it was hard to imagine Frisk as anything but a meddling brat. Honestly, they’d probably still be a brat in thirty years.

“If not, that is... fine. The child can be suffered to live.” The decision was a reluctant one, but giving mercy to such an undeserving creature gave Chara a pleasant feeling of self-righteousness. After all, it didn’t really matter if Frisk lived or died. The important thing was purifying the Surface and breaking the barrier. One human would not make a difference.

“Yes. This will work.” A smile crept onto Chara’s face and their heart thrummed with excitement. They would return to Asriel, who would embrace them with utmost relief and joy. After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and Asriel had shown no signs of giving up on them.

Chara would enjoy a long life in the company of their loved ones until the day they would embrace their prophesied purpose as the Underground’s savior.

It would require patience, but their splendid utopia was once again within reach. They began planning their grand return.

chapter 10 // end

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[ladyartemesia]

ঌ⊙ fic preview ⊙ঌ

Once Upon a Bracelet

Pairing: Prince Jungkook x Sorceress Reader

(Featuring Platonic Jin x Reader Friendship)

Genre: Fantasy • Soulmates • Enemies to Lovers

Predicted Word Count: 7K (Teaser is 1K)

Rating: Explicit (18+) (Teaser is PG-13)

Summary: You were born to nothing, but your powerful craft caught the eye of a charming prince.

However, his distinctly un-charming younger brother challenged your betrothal and is routinely challenging you.

Jeon Jungkook is (probably) a former necromancer and (definitely) the wrong prince...

But the bracelets tell a different story.

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Prologue: Blood Magic

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Blood magic was the oldest and most powerful of the ancient crafts.

The best and strongest blood crafters hailed from Dionysia, where the heart of all blood magic, the Sanguine Well, rose up from the earth. The people of Dionysia served as caretakers and protectors of the Well and, in time, reverence of the blood craft wove into the fabric of their souls.

Their culture thrived around it. Their beliefs embodied it.

Even love bowed before it.

Bonding bracelets were born of blood magic.

The ritual creation of a bonding bracelet pair marked the transition from childhood into maturity. When a man or woman reached their 20th birthday, they and their family traveled to the Sanguine Well.

Four cuts were made on the right hand. Six drops of blood offered to the water...

Then the Well would churn and rise with violence, swelling till the overflow swept over the youth who fed their blood to the currents.

When the water receded, the bracelet pair remained.

One bracelet for the man or woman who sought the well.

One for their soulmate.

Only the first of any soulmate pair (the first seeker) to perform the ritual received the bracelets. Many who traveled to the Sanguine Well left empty handed because their soulmate had offered blood first.

The first seeker’s bracelet formed fully clasped around their wrist. The second bracelet remained open and would only close for the first seeker’s destined mate.

When an unclaimed bracelet united with its true host, the open ends stretched and intertwined to form a rune.

From that moment on, the first seeker and their mate were blood bonded; their powers and abilities joined in a sacred union that was – to all known craft – unbreakable.

The strength of a blood bound pair could be quite formidable and, over the centuries, powerful soulmates rose to become great warriors, crafters, and leaders of their people…

For this reason, Dionysia did not take the gift of bonded soulmates lightly.

All proposed matches were registered and approved by the Ruling Council before an open bracelet could even be tried on by a potential partner. Both parties were required to present evidence of their commitment to one another. If the alliance was approved, the betrothed pair participated in a public ceremony where the first seeker’s intended mate would activate the bond by finally placing the open bracelet around their wrist.

The Royal Council believed this care and reverence honored the craft and the gods, thereby allowing the sacred tradition to continue.

In 900 years of recorded history, only five bonding ceremonies ended with a bracelet that did not close.

Now there were six…

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Once Upon a Time...

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“Jin!”

Your voice echoed dismally down the dusty corridor of Silent Truth Hall. “I’m sorry…I—”

Jin whirled on you, shaking his head vehemently.

“None of this is your fault.”

“There are many reasons why this could’ve happened,” you offered breathlessly.

“There’s only one reason why this happens.”

He sighed in defeat as you rubbed your temples in frustration.

“I don’t understand. The Council gave permission!”

The Ruling Council was a sovereign governing body of three kings and three queens, one monarch from each of Dionysia’s six royal bloodlines.

“The Council isn’t all knowing… ” Jin collapsed against a nearby wall. “This is a disaster,” he whispered.

And it was.

You had no family, but all of your friends from the Academy were there.

Jin was technically an orphan as well, but his adopted family, the Jeons, were there.

Jeon Alaya was high queen of the Ruling Council, so half the kingdom was there to see her (adopted) son bond with a craft prodigy from The Wastes.

Half the kingdom, but not her blood. Not her youngest son, you thought bitterly.

The two of you were silent for several moments while your minds struggled to process the shock.

“Do you think the rumors—what they say about me—is true?” you asked solemnly.

Jin’s head shot up in an instant.

“No,” he swore, “they’re absolutely not true.”

“But it didn’t close—”

“It didn’t close because we aren’t soulmates—not because you aren’t one of us.” His expression softened. “We were a good idea… just not the right one.”

Tears begin to burn at the corner of your eyes.

On some level you were not surprised. You cared for Jin but–

Yours was not an overly romantic attachment.

It was a strong friendship—one that spanned several years. When you decided to apply to the Royal Council for bonding, it seemed…

Logical.

Friendship was an excellent basis for blood bonding. More than one bonded pair applied as friends.

You believed in the wisdom of the Royal Council—everyone did. If you and Jin were not meant for each other, then surely the Council would see it. They would turn down the application. Someone would object…

Someone did object, your mind taunted.

But you were approved.

The date was set. Announcements made. Invitations sent out. The bracelet was placed on your wrist and…

Nothing.

Nothing happened.

Jin’s bracelet remained stubbornly un-closed.

And you had never felt so mortified, so exposed… so profoundly alone in your entire life.

It was a scandal of epic proportions, one which potentially called into question the judgement of the entire Ruling Council.

“Listen,” Jin said at last, “I need… I need to clear my head and think about the next steps. I know an expert on bonding bracelets. Maybe I can convince her to help. There might be another explanation.”

His hands slid up to grasp your shoulders in a familiar comforting gesture.

“Head to my house outside the city for a while. No one will bother you there, and I’ll be back tomorrow.” He gave your arms a brotherly squeeze. “We’ll work through this.”

You nodded, extremely grateful for the opportunity to be alone for a few hours.

Jin helped you slip out the back corridor to avoid the insanity still unfolding in the Hall (where the failed ceremony took place), then you parted with a final hug and quietly walked the few miles to his beautiful manor near the lake.

Technically, Golden Starlight House was one of many homes owned by the Jeon family. This one, however, Jin shared with his younger brother…

Jungkook

Jeon Jungkook was a sore subject for you. In fact, you preferred not to think about him at all if possible—and you certainly would never agree to hide at his house if you thought he would be there.

But Jungkook left weeks ago… right after the betrothal was announced.

“I cannot stand by and watch my brother make a mistake like this.”

His horrible words echoed in your mind as you unlocked the door, prepared to simply collapse fully clothed on the chaise when—

“Shouldn’t you be off playing bride-to-be literally anywhere else?”

You turned, already knowing who you would see.

“Jeon Jungkook. Of course.” A mirthless laugh bubbled up before you could stop it.

Just what I needed right now.

Full story should be posting very soon! Please let me know what you thought of the teaser! 🥺I would really appreciate it and it really fuels my creative process! I promise I treasure every word!

Let me know in the comments if you would like to be tagged for this story!

Tagging: @lemonjoonah @xjoonchildx @ppersonna @hobi-gif @untaemedqueen @underthejoon because you ladies are my heart and I always want to show you what I did right away 🥺

Important Note: I previously published a version of this story for a different fandom (Star Wars). So if you see it elsewhere (though I have made considerable changes) I promise it’s me and I can prove it. Tagging @wwilloww because she read the original way back when 😂🤣

[immaturityofthomasastruc]

IOTA Reviews: Sole Crusher

Well... It's finally here... the episode introducing the new bee hero. And what do you know? It looks like I was right about how the new character would be portrayed.

It's kind of funny how I made predictions exaggerating what could happen, and they were surprisingly accurate. Isn't that funny?

Let's just get into the seventh (chronologically the seventh and the seventh episode in the season to air after “Mr. Pigeon 72”) episode of Miraculous Ladybug's fourth season: Sole Crusher. Damn, I hate that a pun this clever was used for the title.

We get to the point pretty quickly with the first scene being Zoe arriving in Paris and getting a tour of the city. She asks to stop at the Dupain-Cheng bakery, where she meets Marinette through some brief Unfunny Marinette Slapstick. The two quickly strike up a conversation.

I mean, it's not like Zoe is the sister of the absolute worst human being in existence, right?

Marinette compliments Zoe's shoes, and she points out that she designed them herself, and wrote every good thing anyone has ever said to her on them. But because she only has one friend, there's only a standard “I <3 U” on the left shoe.

So Zoe leaves the bakery and heads to Le Grand Paris where she meets her mother, Audrey. Unlike how she talked with Marinette, Zoe pretends to be just as snobby as Audrey in order to fit in. She then meets up with Chloe, who criticizes her for having poor person things like a phone without any diamonds embedded in it. And then she sees Zoe's shoes.

Look, that meme was already dated when it was referenced in Black Panther three years ago. Please don't try to reference memes in 2021, Miraculous Ladybug.

Chloe offers some golden heels while saying that those kind of shoes are for winners to wear and crush the losers underneath. This is the only episode to mention this kind of ideology, and believe me, it gets worse when Chloe decides to teach Zoe how to be like her.

Get used to this. This episode is all about demolishing any semblance of likability in Chloe's character. Now that Astruc doesn't have to bother with writing Chloe with decency since she's not Queen Bee, watch as he turns her into an absolute caricature of her former self.

Yes, Chloe has ordered her father to give her a lot of frivolous things in the past, but she has been shown to care about him, like immediately rushing to hug him after she was safe in “Origins” and showing concern for when he was akumatized into Malediktator while apologizing for causing it. For the love of God, one of the first things she did when she allied with Hawkmoth at the end of Season 3 was to have him unto her parents' akumatization. I guess she only cared about her rich parents for their status and not because she actually loved them right?

Next up on the list of Chloe's positive qualities to ruin is her friendship with Sabrina.

🎶It's seven o'clock in the morning🎶 🎶I can't believe they made this scene🎶 🎶With the writing Astruc's enforcing🎶 🎶It's like he's trying to piss off me🎶

Yep, Chloe doesn't view Sabrina in a twisted view of friendship anymore. Now she's a slave. I'm not exaggerating by the way, he actually said that in a tweet.

THIS IS WHAT THOMAS ASTRUC ACTUALLY BELIEVES

Okay, so I guess all those times we saw Chloe playing superheroes with Sabrina in “Antibug” and “Miraculer” were just a slave driver playing with their property. Actually apologizing to Sabrina for getting her akumatized in those episodes? Protecting her from the Scarlet Akumas in “Ladybug”? She was just interested in keeping her slave around. I think Astruc may have slept through the slavery unit in his history class. Yes, Sabrina was mostly used as a joke to show how controlling Chloe could be, but there were still semblances of an actual friendship between the two.

Chloe arrives at school and introduces Zoe as her half-sister, despite being the same age and having the same mother. Because I guess we can add basic biology to the list of things the writers don't understand. Now that we're at school, Chloe's friendship with Adrien is next up on the chopping block.

Yep, despite being Adrien's only friend and making a big deal about valuing his friendship to the point where she threw a big party just to make sure he wouldn't leave her and risked cooperating with an Akuma to save him, now Chloe just sees Adrien as a rich meal ticket. Two of the earliest episodes to show Chloe had a more compassionate side to her, and they just undid them. Even as much as I hated the episode, “Felix” showed Chloe was willing to cooperate with Marinette and her friends just to find a way to cheer Adrien up on the anniversary of his mother's not-death.

For the love of God, Astruc, 1984 was supposed to warn people about what could happen if they rewrote the past, not encourage people to rewrite the past. He probably finished Animal Farm thinking Snowball really did work alongside the humans, didn't he?

Marinette comes up and Zoe pretends to hate her, leading Marinette to wonder why she did that. She texts Zoe (she gave her number to her earlier) and invites her to a concert on the Liberty, but Chloe finds out. Zoe thinks fast and pretends it's just so she can torment her more. Chloe then takes out a book listing all the ways she can torture Marinette. I wonder if this is a metaphor for the writing process behind most of the episodes last season.

Zoe decides to go outside for some fresh air, and Andre comforts her. Funny how Andre bends over backwards to give Chloe whatever she wants, yet he's willing to actually talk to Zoe like an actual parent. Andre tries to cheer Zoe up, but she talks about her past where she had to put on an act so she would be liked, but (bet you've never heard this before) she just wants to be accepted for who she truly is. The surge of emotions is enough for Shadowmoth to akumatize her into Sole Crusher.

In addition to having one of the most clever puns for an Akuma name, I actually like Sole Crusher's design. Not only is it a good excuse to reuse Chloe's character design, it makes sense thematically, as Chloe was trying to mold Zoe into a copy of herself. The gold and diamonds also make sense given Chloe's love for shiny things. Her powers tie into the bizarre belief Chloe has about stepping on the winners. Whenever Sole Crusher kicks or steps on someone, she absorbs them and gets progressively bigger, making it easier to do so. While it's not cracking my top ten anytime soon, it's still an interesting character design.

Sole Crusher heads to the hotel to get Chloe, and she manages to get away pretty quickly. Maybe in an alternate universe, she's a track star? For some reason, she runs to the Dupain-Cheng bakery and then... Oh my God... pushes Marinette's parents so they get absorbed by Sole Crusher, before trying to do the same with Marinette.

When has Chloe ever done something like that? Whenever she endangered someone during an Akuma attack, it was unintentional or a result of her naivety. She was only trapped in Pixelator's dimension because Adrien tried diving to save her, she only alerted Rogercop to Ladybug's presence because she eagerly called out for her, and during “Zombizou” she only tried to throw Sabrina towards the horde of kissing zombies once, and that was meant to highlight her growth. The only person to actually do stuff like this consistently is Lila, but I guess she got vaporized by Big Brother offscreen.

This episode is determined to make the audience hate Chloe by retconning everything about her character while portraying her as a complete monster. As bad as Chloe could get, she was never selfish enough to use anyone as a human shield. This kind of behavior honestly could be explained by saying Chloe was lashing out as a result of losing the Bee Miraculous permanently, but the events of the Season 3 finale aren't mentioned ONCE, not even in the next episode that introduces Queen Bee's replacement! How the hell can you set up the next Bee hero without explaining why the original needs to be replaced in the first place?! And trust me, I'm going to talk about Zoe replacing Chloe later.

Sole Crusher grabs Marinette in her hand, so the Horse Kwami, Kaalki, uses her power to teleport over to Adrien's house and inform him Ladybug needs help, meaning once again Adrien did nothing in this episode before becoming Cat Noir.

At the Liberty, Chloe offers more victims to Sole Crusher in the form of the band Kitty Section (consisting of Luka, Juleka, Rose, Ivan, and Mylene) and theatens the giant golden supervillain she can send her back to Paris, even though she's really not in a position to bargain right now. And she STILL continues to insult her. Do you hate Chloe yet? Come on, do you? The writers won't stop until you do.

After we see Sole Crusher's conflicted emotions, Marinette is set free by Cat Noir and transforms into Ladybug, immediately summoning her Lucky Charm, a shoehorn. They only learn Zoe's sneakers were where she were akumatized thanks to Chloe's ranting, so the episode unintentionally made Chloe save the day. Ladybug breaks into Le Grand Paris and breaks the sneakers where Zoe hid them, using the shoehorn to open a door. So Sole Crusher is de-evilized, Ladybug fixes the damage, and gives yet another charm to Zoe.

Afterwards, Zoe goes to the Liberty, apologizes for the act she put on, all while divulging to the audience her “tragic backstory”.

Of course, everyone welcomes her with open arms.

And right here is where the biggest problem I have with Zoe as a character. I normally hesitate to use this term given how often it gets thrown around when criticizing characters these days, but I really can't say anything else.

Zoe... is a Mary Sue.

For those who don't know, the term Mary Sue originated in a Star Trek fanfiction from 1973 satirizing several self-insert stories at the time. Most of these stories showed a beautiful young woman joining the crew of the Enterprise and immediately gaining the attention of the crew. Mary Sue parodied this character archetype by showing how much she was appreciated by Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, the latter being driven to tears at her funeral despite his species being emotionless normally.

What does this have to do with Zoe? She has the exact same storyline as Mary Sue in the parody fanfiction. Her mere presence is enough to make Chloe act extremely out of character in an attempt to make her look better, and as soon as she apologizes while giving a frankly vague backstory, everyone just accepts her as their friend, and I mean everyone in the entire class. I'm sorry, but it just doesn't feel earned. Why was she bullied at her old school? What did her bullies have against her? What caused her to stop going along with her peers, and why did everyone turn against her? How the hell did the bullies who put cockroaches in another student's locker get no punishment while the victim was forced to transfer schools? It's an intentionally unclear backstory designed to make the audience feel sympathetic towards Zoe without actually doing anything else.

I want to ask anyone reading this who watched the episode a question: Outside of her backstory, what do we actually know about Zoe?

What is her personality like? She's nice? Socially awkward? We've never had a character like that in Miraculous Ladybug before! Sorry Marinette, Adrien, Juleka, Nathaniel, Mylene, and Marc, there's a new character with more personality than all of you combined!

What are her goals? She wants to be an actress? Great, but why? Even though there's no clear answer for why Marinette loves fashion, or why Alya loves journalism, or why Nino loves DJing, you can still see the passion in their lives when they do something related to their goals. Zoe only says she wants to be an actress, connecting it to her people pleaser backstory (and given how it ended, she must be a terrible actress), and in the next episode, she immediately gets the lead role in a student film.

When Mylene got the starring role in the movie in “Horrificator”, we at least got snippets of her acting skills in the same episode that established her desire to be an actress, which is also implied to be because she was inspired by her father in “The Mime”. She didn't just say she wanted to be an actress and got the leading role. She still had problems to overcome like her cowardice, which threw her own self-confidence into doubt. Here, Zoe just says she wants to be an actress, and is rewarded for no reason the very next episode.

Zoe basically exists only to be a foil to Chloe, and the writers had no idea what to do in terms of a personality, so they just dumped a bunch of extremely likable character traits onto her without thinking of how her character could come off. And like I said, she's a Mary Sue.

I'm not the only one who thinks this. I've seen a handful of posts on this very site calling Zoe a Mary Sue. In fact, I even asked another Tumblr user @anxresi​ to quote their take on Zoe being a Mary Sue, which I couldn't even top in terms of accuracy. They basically listed off five things that made Zoe a Mary Sue.

She has to have a ‘tragic backstory’ so all the other characters will fall in love with her. Usually within minutes, in the very first episode they’re introduced.

She has to have a supercute design so that the audience at home will fall in love with her. And if they don’t, they’re automatically dismissed as ‘haterz’ even if their objections are purely from a writing POV.

Her only flaw will be thinking too little of herself. “What, lil ol’ me as the Bee Miraculous holder? With my shyness, colorful shoes, chic beret and personalized pink strip in my hair? Gosh, who’d have thought it?”

The contrast to her half-sister will be a constant plot point, with Chloe always getting dumped on. “You see, kids? Bad things happen to bad people. But you see this super-sweet girl over here? She gets a free DAD. Instant FRIENDS. To star in her own MOVIE. The chance to be a SUPERHERO, even though she only arrived last week. Who cares if she has no depth, no personality and barely any reason for being in the show, apart from being a massive ‘Up Yours’ to all the Chloe fans out there?”

What about character development, Mr Generic Zag Guy? “Development? What’s that?! Zoe is already perfect as she is. The only ‘development’ she’ll receive is having her hair done in the first episode she’s introduced. Besides, That‘d’ word is banned here at Zag studios. Why do you think we abandoned Chloe’s stillborn arc so quickly? This is a KIDS show, why bother trying to create a complex character with more than one dimension?”

This is essentially who Zoe is. She's perfect, has no character flaws, has a cute design so the audience will love her already, and was designed only to replace Chloe as Queen Bee. That's all she is.

So the episode ends with Zoe feeling happy at all the new friends she made while we get one of the most blatant attempts of symbolism in the ending card I've ever seen.

See, look. While Marinette is happily talking with Zoe with the image of Ladybug next to them, Chloe is to the far left with an EVIL purple aura, showing how bad she is compared to how great Zoe is. Only a braindead moron would actually like Chloe over the super awesome and pretty Zoe!

I'll give my final thoughts on the episode in the next part where I analyze this plotline as a whole.

LINK TO “QUEEN BANANA” REVIEW

[fantasmalresplendent]

Dean died at the ripe old age of 85.

In his lucid moments during the days leading up to his passing, in which Dean was just as sharp and as bright as he was fifty years ago, he remarked that people must think he’d robbed the cradle with a “hot piece” such as Castiel hanging around him. 

“You don’t mind that I’m a wrinkly, senile, crotchety old bastard?” Dean had asked, more than once, but he had always said it with a smile. And Castiel would smile back, replying with the same answer the answer many times, in many ways:

“You’re not senile.”

“Old, but not a bastard.”

“I thought I was the crotchety one.”

“I don’t mind.”

Then Dean would smile, and it would light up the room, and Castiel would wonder again how he came to deserve the focus, let alone the affection, of such a man.

“It’s not about deserving, Cas,” Dean had said, half-whispered in the middle of the night a few short months after they had begun to share the bed they laid in. “It’s… fuck, well I don’t know what it’s about. But people don’t get what they deserve, not most of the time.”

Castiel frowned, furrowing his brows. “They should,” he grumbled.

“Well if people got what they deserved, they’d… I don’t know, Sam would’ve actually become a lawyer, stayed in school. Jo, Ellen, Bobby, they’d all still be here. I’d get mauled by a werewolf or something, go out with a bang, and Baby,” Dean said sternly, as though chastising the universe itself for such an injustice, “Would never get so much as a scratch on her.”

“You think that’s what you deserve?” Castiel’s voice was soft, not wanting to disturb the still of the night, but steely as he considered even the possibility of Dean’s violent end. 

Dean registered that, swallowing, “I don’t know. I guess I just never thought I’d even make it this far. Hunters have the shortest lifespans of any human subspecies,” Dean cracked a smile, but his heart wasn’t in the joke. Castiel knew Dean was doing the math in his head. He knew Dean was mentally recalling how long it had been since Bobby left for heaven. Tallying up the number of people who were gone because of self-sacrifice, mistakes, pure dumb luck. Counting exactly how many years he had outlived his own mother. 

Castiel had wrapped his arms around Dean then, embracing him, surrounding him, and they curled into each other completely. Burying himself in Castiel’s neck, Dean had never felt so close to him, and yet so far away. “You don’t have to follow the same patterns if you don’t want to, Dean,” Castiel stated, as if it were that easy. “Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Get mauled by a werewolf?”

Dean sniffed in laughter, and that was answer enough.

Castiel found himself stroking Dean’s hair, an action he felt suited him. He thought for a moment in the stillness and in the space between their breaths. “Maybe it’s idealistic of me, but I still think people should get what they deserve. Even- no, especially you.”

Dean took his time answering, opening his mouth several times before actually saying, “Sometimes I don’t think I know what I deserve.”

“I guess we’ll just have to figure that out together then. We have time,” Castiel kissed Dean’s forehead and he sighed at the touch. “We have plenty of time. Heaven will wait for you, no matter how long.”

Dean looked up at him then with a pout, “You sound pretty confident in that statement for a dude who hasn’t shown up to heavenly chorus practice in a few years.” 

Castiel smiled, “I’d rather be here with you. Always have.”

The man blushed. “Well, if I go… I mean, wherever I go… Where will you end up?”

“I could go with you.”

“Where?”

Castiel closed the distance between them fully, thumbing across Dean’s cheek as they kissed. “Anywhere. If you want me there, I will be there, whether it’s here or heaven. I’ll be there.”

“For how long?”

“For however long you want me to be.”

Dean kissed back, his fingers tangling in Castiel’s hair. “Yeah. Okay.”

  Sam went not long after Dean. It wasn’t a surprise; it was his time as well. His children were grown, his grandchildren almost grown, Castiel knew they’d miss him but that they’d be all right. And they knew to call on “Uncle Cas” if they weren’t, even the little ones who didn’t understand exactly how they were related, or why Great Uncle Dean's husband was only about as old as their parents.

“I mean I love the little gremlins,” Dean had said, cracking open a beer after a long few days of babysitting Sam and Eileen's girls while the expecting parents were in the hospital. He was exhausted, they both were, but beaming from meeting the newest member of the Winchester clan: a healthy baby boy named Robert. “But have you seen Sam’s house? Goddamn mess in there.”

“You… don’t want to have some of your own?” Castiel had asked carefully, taking the beer Dean held out for him.

“You’re making them sound like trading cards. I don’t know, I- I guess I never thought too hard about it.” Castiel could tell this was a lie by the way Dean didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Wouldn’t know what to do with a kid if I had one.”

“Do you think you’d be a good father?”

Castiel had met John Winchester, in Hell. Well, he hadn’t exactly met him. He had really only passed by John’s cell, stole a glance at the infamous hunter on his way to retrieve Dean’s soul. He’d never told Dean what he saw, they were not close enough at the time. He wasn’t sure if Dean would even want to know. Castiel had almost spoken about it many times, but whenever Dean talked about John, “Dad,” a look crossed over his face, sometimes for only a second. A furrowing of brows, a tight smile, a quick transition to happier subjects.

The same look crossed over Dean’s face as soon as Castiel had asked the question.

“Wow. Um, loaded question there, Cas.”

He waited for Dean to meet his eyes before continuing, “I think you would be.”

“Do- wait,” Dean shook his head, trying to understand where Castiel was going with all of this, “Do you want kids?”

“I want you to live a normal life, Dean. I want to be able to give you what you want.”

“Okay, lots of stuff to unpack here. First of all, a normal life isn’t and never was an option,” Dean leaned back against the counter, “I think we can agree on that. Second of all, you didn’t answer my question.”

“...And third of all?” Castiel prompted.

“No, second of all first. Do you want kids?”

Castiel sighed, taking a swig of his beer, considering his words. “I’m an angel, Dean-”

“Is that so!” Dean raised his eyebrows, then squinted as if in deep thought, “Weird, somehow I never noticed.”

That deserved a well-placed eyeroll, but Castiel still had a point to make. “We don’t- I’m just trying to…” he set his beer down. “I don’t know. But that doesn’t matter, what matters is that I would love and care for a child, if it were ours. If we decided that was something we wanted, I would be so happy to raise them, with you. I’d be terrified,” Castiel admitted, “At the enormous and important responsibility, but I would love doing it, if… if it was with you. I just want you to know that, I guess,” Castiel shrugged, “I don’t want you to think it’s not an option for us, if you want it to be.”

“Okay…” Dean was thinking, swirling the beer around his glass. He pointed the mouth at Castiel, “You’re still avoiding my question,” Castiel really rolled his eyes this time, “But I don’t really think it’s for me, all that white picket fence stuff. If you really wanted a kid, I would definitely hit the library and read all those, I don’t know, fucking parenting guides, and take the Mommy and Me classes, whatever. And I think you’d be a good father, better than me, I’d just let them eat gummy worms and shoot slingshots.”

“Children love gummy worms. They listen and will behave better when offered gummy worms,” Castiel knew this for a fact from very recent personal experience, “I don’t see how gummy worms could pose an issue. Slingshots, however-”

“Okay so maybe I’m overestimating your abilities a little,” Dean held up a hand, “But still, I… I like this,” he gestured to the space between them and around them, “I like us. I like waking up to a clean kitchen and sleeping in on weekends. I like not having to ask more than one person whether or not I can take a drive by myself or crank my music really loud at midnight. And I fucking hate Paw Patrol.”

Castiel smiled.

“Sam and Eileen always need babysitters. That’s good enough for me right now.”

“You’ll tell me though, if this is something you really want,” Castiel insisted, “If you think about it and decide something else.”

“Sure.”

“Promise.”

“Okay, fine, I promise,” Dean took a step forward and leaned in for a kiss then. Castiel could taste the beer on Dean’s tongue and sighed. Dean smiled against Castiel’s lips, lowering his voice to a comical level, “We could, uh, you know, try and make some babies,” Dean waggled his eyebrows and Castiel pushed Dean’s laughing face away, but grabbed his hand, turning towards their room.

They hadn’t spoken about it again, not seriously anyway. They got a dog. Dean opened a vintage car garage. Castiel learned how to bake. They took long road trips to the beaches in California, wandered through roadside attractions like Carhenge in Nebraska and Cadillac Ranch in Texas. They bought decidedly way too much merchandise at Oklahoma’s National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum. And maybe they killed the occasional vampire, the wayward poltergeist, but the occasions became less and less. There were younger, more spry hunters on the road now, always welcome at the bunker to look through their library or ask advice on a particularly troublesome spirit. Sam even coerced Dean into holding what became a yearly “conference,” “What are we, a tech startup?” for the next generation of hunters to learn from the legendary brothers.

So maybe they spent more time at home than on the road, but home suited them. Routine suited them like Castiel never could have predicted it would. It wasn’t a white picket fence, but it wasn’t a lonely highway either. Dean would joke about how “boring” they’d become, but Castiel reveled in the repetition. The three hundredth time Dean brought Castiel coffee in bed was just as lovely as the third. The five hundredth time Castiel cooked dinner passed without fanfare, though Dean hugging him from behind, chin hooked over Castiel’s shoulder as he whisked, felt like fanfare enough. The one thousandth kiss they shared was in their bed, lazily breathing each other in as the first beams of sunlight shone through the window after a week of straight rain. Home, a thing he and Dean had never known in their youth, held the majority of their most precious, most banal memories. But still, Castiel always looked forward to those moments speeding down a desert highway when Dean would reach for his hand, turn his head to meet Castiel’s eyes, and smile.

Time took its time with them.

It seemed the opposite with Sam’s children, who grew up faster than Castiel could keep track of. And as they grew from waddling toddlers to full-fledged human beings, Castiel was fascinated, enamored, but Dean was simply proud. He attended their tournaments, their decathlons. He went to their graduations, weddings, barbecues, and Castiel went with him. They took the kids to concerts and movies, parks and shooting ranges, and Castiel never got tired of the smile on Dean’s face when they threw their small arms around Dean’s neck and called him their “Cool Uncle.” “Hear that, Cas? That means you’re the No Fun Uncle. The No-Funcle.”

And as the crowned Cool Uncle, he teased Sam mercilessly about his minivan and his “#1 Dad” mugs, but Castiel knew how proud Dean was of him too. How glad he was that Sam got the future he wanted, and how grateful he was that that future included him.

The brothers still fought. They still bickered, pranked, and glowered. Sam complained that Dean let his kids use power tools too young when they visited, and Dean complained that Sam’s kids were too old to have never heard “Stairway to Heaven.” The usual, the routine, many times over. But they never lied to each other, at least not about the important things, not anymore. And Castiel was welcome in Sam and Eileen’s house and lives, an honor he felt he didn’t deserve, but as Dean said, maybe it wasn’t about deserving.

It was Eileen who noticed Castiel first as he entered the hospital room the day he'd been informed that Sam Winchester was finally coming home. He didn't have to tell Eileen; she saw it on Castiel's face. They’d already spoken, he’d prepared her for the eventuality a few days prior. Eileen smiled, looking back at her husband, teasing him lightly, but Castiel knew she was holding back on her usual snark because Sam looked, well, tired. Turning away from Sam, Eileen signed, “Are you here for him?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, but someone will be here soon.” 

“You mean they haven’t given you reaper duty yet?” Sam joked from his horizontal position, speaking and signing with his usual quick wit, but not with his usual articulation. Castiel had seen him argue with Dean for fifty years like it was his job, he was accustomed to the precision with which Sam had always wielded his words. Not today.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it,” Castiel stepped closer so that Sam wouldn’t have to crane his head, “I’m not very persuasive.”

“No kidding,” Sam shakily clasped Castiel’s hand and grinned. “I’m surprised Dean even went with you.”

“It took less persuading than you’d think.”

“How is he?” Eileen asked, but she was smiling, so she knew the answer.

“He’s good,” Castiel smiled back, “Getting what he deserves.”

Sam smirked, but his head sunk back into his pillow as if relieved. “And I bet he’s complaining about it non-stop. Asshole never knew how to take a vacation.”

“Neither do you,” Eileen levelled her husband with a fond look.

“We’ve taken vacations!”

“You always wanted to go somewhere exotic and then you’d just end up in the library. Remember Berlin?”

“They had… well I wasn’t going to find those editions in America, and-”

Sam and Eileen bickered for a bit, and Castiel did end up backing Eileen’s points more often than not, so eventually Sam recognized that he was outnumbered on this particular case.

Castiel bid his goodbyes just in time as the nurse entered the room to check Sam’s vitals. Her tone was cheerful, but Castiel could tell that she too knew what was coming. 

“Well… I’ll see you soon, buddy, huh?” Sam smiled at Castiel as confidently as he could muster for Eileen’s sake, but Castiel knew behind those laugh lines Sam wasn’t so sure of himself. Castiel supposed that worry wasn’t to be unexpected from a chosen one of Hell, Lucifer's vessel, the boy Castiel had once called an “abomination.”

But Castiel smiled, giving Sam’s shoulder one last firm squeeze. “You will.”

  When Dean died, at the ripe old age of 85, he knew what to expect.

He’d visited heaven before. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Not an exciting place, but exciting wasn’t necessarily good. Hell had been exciting, and he was in no hurry to return there. Purgatory had been exciting in a different way, years later he swore the stench still lingered on his skin. Sometimes, when he would lose himself in his “senior moments,” he thought he was back in that bloody in between. Or back in hell. Or had gone to heaven. “Times and places are difficult to navigate when your brain’s turning into gummy worms,” he told Cas once. He didn’t remember saying this a few hours later, but that didn’t make it any less true.

His brain was sure full of them gummy worms now as he clung to his body and to his life. He wasn’t completely sure where he was. Bobby’s? The bunker? His childhood home? Sammy had come to see him earlier, at least the kid had looked like Sammy… No, fuck, that was his grand-nephew, Cas had reminded him of that. Sam, his brother Sam, was in the next room. That's right, he’d told the asshole to give him some space, stop smothering him. He sort of wished he was here now though. And Cas, Cas was here, he knew that, but only because the angel was right in front of him. Cas, his friend, was holding Dean’s hand, talking about what their grand-nieces and nephews were doing in school. Dean could swear he already knew these things, but they still sounded new when Cas said them.

Dean looked over at him, and Cas was smiling.

He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. Cas helped him swallow some cool water. Dean cleared his throat, “Bet you’ve been waiting for this for a while.”

Castiel cocked his head, the smile fading. Fifty some odd years and he still had that same confused look. “Waiting for what?”

“Me to beef it, finally. I know this hasn’t been easy, watching me… seeing me like…” Dean took a shallow breath. “No matter where I go next, at least I won’t be a senile senior citizen.”

“Dean,” Cas said, rubbing the back of Dean’s liver spot-covered hand, “Please listen to me very carefully.”

“Got my hearing aids in, go ahead,” Dean joked.

Cas smiled softly again. “It has been the greatest privilege of my life, my existence, to watch you grow old. I feel honored that you allowed me to experience that. Time’s different for me too,” Cas kissed Dean’s hand, “Space and time were never precious to me, not in the stretch of infinity. Not until you. Not until I was able to see you live your life and live it well.”

Tears welled in the corners of Dean’s eyes. He furiously tried to blink them away, but Cas was already there, dabbing carefully with a handkerchief. “I’m… I’m scared, Cas. I know I shouldn’t be, I’ve seen it all. I’ve beefed it a few times already. But maybe that’s why I’m scared? Because… I know what comes next. What could come next. And this is it, right? No more resets?”

Cas nodded.

Dean took a deep, shuddering breath. “If I don’t end up in heaven-”

“You will.”

“If I don’t, that’s fine, maybe it’s what I deserve, and that’s fair. But… will I see you again?”

“Dean,” Cas said sadly, but with his trademarked firmness, “You are going to paradise. And if for some reason, a completely incorrect and insane reason, you don’t? I dragged your soul out of the flames once, I will do it again. I would do it as many times as I needed to.”

Dean shook his head slightly, “Not fair.”

“It’s not about fair. It’s about the truth. Whether you believe it or not, ET goes home.”

Dean chuckled weakly. He was tired. He didn’t want to let go. He wanted to let go so badly.

He felt the bed move as Cas climbed under the covers with him. The angel curled around him, enveloping him. Dean could swear he felt the brush of feathers cradling him and pulling him closer, but he couldn’t muster the ability to reach for them, stroke them like he used to. “Sleep, Dean. I’ll be here when you wake up. Wherever, whenever here is. That’s where I’ll be. Wherever you go, I’ll go with you.”

“Swear?”

Castiel kissed his forehead. “I swear.”

  Dean opened his eyes.

The phrase, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore” popped into his head, but he suspected, greatly, that he was, in fact, in Kansas. The blowing fields of wheat tipped him off to that.

No, wait. That wasn’t a field, it was a… sandy beach. It looked kind of like that beach he and Cas had stumbled upon driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, what was it called? The one where they’d had to hike down from the lookout point? The one where after they’d trudged back up the trail, they’d sat in the car and looked out over the sea as the sun set? The one where Castiel had smiled at him and the light glinted in his blue eyes and Dean had kissed Cas for the first time ever because he just couldn’t stop himself?

Muir Beach, Dean remembered, blushing at the memory. 

But just as soon as he’d reached the end of that thought, it wasn’t the ocean anymore. It was a lake. On the lake was a pier. He’d seen that pier before, couldn’t remember exactly where though.

Then without warning, but without alarm, Dean saw someone standing on the end of the dock. A young man with light brown hair and a sweet smile Dean would recognize anywhere.

Jack waved, walking up casually, “Hey, Dean.”

Dean grinned and pulled him into a solid hug. “Jack. I missed you buddy, how have you been? Where, uh… are we in…”

Jack chucked, “I think you know where we are.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know know, this could… I could be dreaming or some shit, and I guess even in a dream you could say whatever I wanted you to say, so-”

“Dean,” Jack stopped him, “This is heaven. You are in heaven.”

A relieved but small smile spread over Dean’s face. “Cool…” 

“I’m not usually here to meet people who pass on, but we weren’t going to miss your arrival.”

“We?”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean turned around. There was Cas, beaming at him.

“Cas…” Dean reached to embrace him too, only now noticing that the hands that reached out were not as wrinkled as they’d been when he last saw them. He hugged Cas tightly, relieved more than he wanted to admit. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Cas’s hand went to Dean’s cheek, holding him in a kiss. They separated, foreheads resting against each other. Cas’s eyes twinkled, “We had an appointment.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean took a step back, seeing Jack grinning out of the corner of his eye. “Is, uh… is anyone else coming? Or is this the welcoming party?”

“They’re all waiting for you,” Cas put his hand down, and as he did, it was stopped mid-air, as if resting on something solid. Dean blinked, and there was Baby, new as the day she was made, parked on a long, long road that stretched far out of sight. “Any time you’re ready,” Cas tossed something in Dean’s direction, “we can go.”

Dean caught the keys on instinct, they jingled on the simple ring. 

Any time you’re ready, we can go.

He twirled them around the end of his finger a couple times, a thought itching at his brain. Or a couple dozen thoughts.

Cas gave him a look, then turned to Jack, “Could you give us a moment?”

“Yeah, I’ll go get everything ready,” Jack blipped out. 

“Get what ready?” Dean asked.

“Dean,” he turned around to face Cas whose brows were knit in worry, bright blue eyes narrowed, “Are you okay?” Dean realized he hadn’t seen Cas clearly for a few years, not since before the cataracts. He’d never gotten completely used to that piercing gaze. 

Dean blinked. “Yeah, I… I just… I’m here. Really here.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“And… you’re here.”

Cas gave him that look like he was being patient on purpose, “Yes, Dean.”

“And… fuck,” Dean stood at sudden attention, “I left Sam down there, is he okay?”

Catching Dean's hands in his own, Cas rubbed comforting circles into Dean's skin. "Sam is fine. He was there when you left. That's why I was a little late, Eileen had only just gotten home and I didn't want to leave before she could be there beside him.

"Okay," Dean took a deep breath, concentrating on the physical contact, grounding himself in Cas’s movements, "Okay. I mean I know he's gonna be fine, he was always fine without me," Dean said, almost to himself.

"And you'll see him soon."

The abrupt return of Dean’s panicked look made Cas smile a little, shake his head, "Not that soon, Dean. Don't worry." 

"Right. Of course, yeah,” Dean looked around, down the road, the back to his car, out past the waving grain that had returned inexplicably. “Well,” Dean flashed what he thought was a very convincing smile, letting Cas’s hands go as he tossed the keys once and caught them, heading towards the car, “Time to hit the road, huh?”

"Wait,” the suspicious squint was back as Cas caught Dean’s arm, “Something else is bothering you."

Dean turned around, and the ocean was back. The ocean he’d taken a trip to see, had selfishly insisted Cas come along for the ride for.

He sighed. "I just…” Dean ran a hand through his hair, “I don't know, I guess it just don't sit right that I’m… I'm gonna see Mom and Bobby and Jo and Charlie and… everyone. How am I going to look them in the face and not feel guilty that I got decades that they’ll never have? And what did I do with that time, sit on my ass? Judge local car shows? Go to freaking baseball games?"

Cas nodded slowly, simply listening. He then hopped up and sat on the hood of the Impala, shoes and all. Dean shot him an offended look.

“She’s a memory of a car, Dean,” Cas rolled his eyes, “She isn’t going to dent.” He patted the spot next to him.

Dean hesitated, but under Cas’s stare, relented. When he was settled, Castiel laced their fingers together.

“I’ve been trying to convince you for all the time I’ve known you that you’re worthy. That you deserved to be saved. That you deserved to rest.” Cas looked down at their entwined hands, “I don’t think I ever really succeeded.”

“Sorry,” Dean muttered.

“You don’t have to apologize. I know you’ve been doing a thankless job ever since you carried Sam out of your burning home. Shit, even before that,” Dean cocked his head, Cas hardly ever cursed, “you were always trying to be the hero for your mother. Some people are at fault for that,” Cas’s eyebrows furrowed briefly, “but it’s human nature to be hard on ourselves and praiseworthy of others. You, in your limited experience, could not possibly know all of the things that you’ve done that have made a difference. But we’re-”

Jack suddenly blipped into existence, giving Castiel two big thumbs up, then blipped out again.

Dean turned, looking from the space Jack had stood back to Cas then back again, “What-”

Cas shook his head with a smile, “I could never tell you exactly what you’ve meant to the world. But we had a, uh, few volunteers that wanted to show you.”

“Cas, could you quit monologuing for a second and-”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw movement. The endless sea became endless plains which became endless trees, the landscape changing at a rapid rate.

Dean looked back to Cas in confusion, but he didn’t look alarmed. He gave Dean a timid smile, kissed him behind his ear, and whispered, “Just watch.”

Dean watched. For a moment, the scenery couldn’t seem to decide what it wanted to be. Then, it decided not to decide. Grains of sand took the form of towering trees, a picnic table, a bench. Green lake water formed the shape of a small boy, hunched over and scribbling on the table. Lastly the wheat twirled and spun and became an all-too-familiar-looking young man wearing a jacket too big for his frame, walking over to the bench and sitting down across from the kid.

Lucas. The name came to Dean from deep in his memory, he was that quiet kid who drew Dean pictures of the ghost in the lake. The grain animated Dean’s smile as he talked, the figure of Lucas showed Dean his sketches. Their forms dissolved as the scene changed and Dean's form was pulling Lucas out of the water, the sheriff having paid his due.

The figure of Dean left, but Lucas stayed and was joined by his mother, Dean remembered her too. They embraced, and the figure of Lucas grew, changed into a young man, a husband, a father. Soon a half dozen figures were standing there, waving to Dean, and then they disappeared, melting back into water. Lucas was the last to go as he was the first to arrive. He signed a phrase to Dean, and Dean knew the words: Thank you, Dean Winchester.

Then the sand reformed into a schoolgirl, the shapes in the green water plaguing her with images of mirrors and Bloody Marys until Dean stepped in front of her, holding a mirror of grain in front of the cruel, refracted specter. It dissolved, and Dean’s form bade goodbye, but the girl remained. She grew too just like the boy did, becoming a professor, graduating with honors, writing dozens of books, and changing dozens of lives. She smiled, and waved, and dissolved as well.

The shapeshifters appeared next, the sand in the form of Sam’s friend Zach, his sister Becky, and even Dean’s false shifter form, but the true form in the too-large jacket blew them all away, leaving Becky waving goodbye. She too welcomed a family that appeared by her side, and they all looked so happy and grateful to have each other.

Again and again the scenes changed. Green waters showed the cities he had passed through, the homes that were kept from destruction, entire communities that were healed. The water formed and reformed into smiling faces and waving hands. Some of the people, Dean had known on Earth. Many of the places, Dean had remembered driving through. Most of the people and places, however, were foreign to Dean. He lost count of the number of strangers who appeared, the cities he’d never been to. He struggled to keep track as they cycled faster and faster, as numerous as the grains of sand and droplets of water they were made of. It seemed that a whole generation of people, all over the world, would-be victims of an apocalypse they never even knew was happening, knew him. Through words and cheers and song, they retold the tales of Dean and Sam Winchester, the tales they had only learned once they had passed on. 

Throughout all of this, Cas pressed his shoulder to Dean’s, his presence grounding but not distracting. Dean’s grip on Cas’s hand grew tighter and tighter. Cas did not let go. 

Eventually, the images and figures departed. The sand blew away, the waters swirled and dispersed, and the landscape made its final decision. Only a simple field of golden wheat remained, waving and rippling in the wind.

Only in that newfound silence did Dean notice he was crying. He shook his head, wiping the tears away furiously.

“Dean,” Cas whispered, and Dean turned to face him, vision blurred, Cas looking at him pleadingly. “You sacrificed so much for so many for so long. You don’t have to be strong right now. You don’t have to be strong ever again if you don’t want to. You have done enough.”

Castiel wiped an errant tear from Dean’s cheek, holding his face between his hands firmly, tenderly.

“You are, and always were, enough. Your job is done. Let. Go.”

Dean did.

Cas silently pulled Dean into his shoulder as he sobbed. Dean didn’t even know why he was crying, didn’t know what for. Maybe he was happy. Maybe he was grieving. Maybe he just felt… relief. He wasn’t sure the last time he felt such relief. He wasn’t sure he ever had truly felt it.

After some time, longer than he’d like to admit, Dean sniffed, wiped one hand over his face, and raised his head. Cas was waiting for him, looking at him with care. With love.

“I, uh… I don’t gotta sign any autographs, do I?”

Cas smiled, and pulled Dean in for a kiss. They stayed like that for a bit on the hood of the car, feeling the breeze, breathing in the fresh air. Dean thought he could hear music coming from somewhere, realizing that it was the car’s radio playing softly from the cab. He knew that any time he wanted, he could hop down from the hood of his car, slide into the driver’s seat with the love of his life on the passenger’s side, and carry on his wayward way. Down the road, through the endless fields, towards the ones he had loved and lost. But not yet, not quite yet, because he had time. Maybe in the end, time was all he had ever really wanted, even if he could never allow himself to ask for it. 

Infinity stretched out in front of him like the fields of grain. It wasn’t an exciting infinity, but it was his. It was a long road, a family that waited for him, a shoulder to lean on. It was, at long last, a place to lay his weary head to rest.

[libermachinae]

Night Shift

Also on AO3! Summary: Prowl and Jetfire analyze leads on a Decepticon smuggling operation, working together late into the night trying to find the missing connections. A sleep deprived slip of the tongue leads Prowl to revisiting old choices. Word Count: 2146

---

Prowl didn’t keep track of his chronometer this late in the night. Morning was inevitable, and he knew he could rely on a burst of messages from Orion to let him know when it had arrived. As such, he had no idea what hour it was when Jetfire broke through the productive silence.

“How did you come up with these predictions?” Jetfire asked. Worst of all, he was speaking with his mouth full, apparently too incensed by Prowl’s logic train to be bothered with common decency. “Every gun you’ve pulled in has been running on fumes; I’ve had to scrape the insides of the barrels just to figure out what they’re fueled on.”

The impressive thing about Jetfire was that even as a voice over the comms, he sounded like the biggest bot in the room. It wasn’t just that his voice was deep; Orion, who wasn’t that much taller than Prowl, had a voice you could feel through the floor panels. It was something about the way Jetfire talked, deliberate and straightforward, rarely stuttering even when caught off-guard. It was refreshing.

“I’ve outlined the logic process in my report. I won’t be repeating it,” Prowl said, scrolling back through his files.

“What are they teaching in the enforcer academy that reports don’t need to communicate anything?” Jetfire grumbled

It would be a reasonable estimate to say they spent 50% of these near nightly calls complaining about their targets, their coworkers, and the administration, and another 40% about each other. Prowl sat through them strictly as a matter of convenience, being a faster mode of communication than the intermittent data bursts preferred by the sanctioned enforcer agencies.

Having someone at the other end of the line also assisted the rust sticks and nucleon microcubes in staving off recharge protocols.

“It’s as I explained to Tumbler: it communicates everything I intended it to.” Ideally, very little to anyone who couldn’t have worked it out themselves. That way, the important information stayed with those who could actually use it, and the rest—

“Who’s Tumbler?”

Prowl lost his train of thought as the rest of his processor caught up to what the .5% he reserved for conversation had said. He froze, rust stick halfway to his mouth.

“No one,” he said.

“Okay.” Jetfire drew out the word. “Did he buy that line?”

No, of course not. Tumbler was always relentless about that sort of thing. His curiosity and drive could have lent to the makings of a detective or captain if he’d dedicated them more often to investigations and less on critiquing Prowl.

“He was young and failed to grasp the necessity of efficiency in our line of work.” Prowl had tried to be patient, but he’d been young too, and Tumbler was the first partner he’d had who would listen to him. Even if it was just to argue that Prowl’s opaque writing was the cause of their inefficiency.

“Hmph.”

Jetfire liked to intersperse their conversations with meaningless noises, and although Prowl needed more samples before he was certain of his explanation, he believed they meant Jetfire didn’t agree with something he’d said but was ending the discussion prematurely. It was illogical, leaving a matter unsettled for which a solution existed, but normally Prowl’s priority queues were ordered such that work came before ideological disagreements.

“What?” he asked, finally setting down the rust stick.

“You’re normally terrible with names,” Jetfire said without hesitation. “I’m just trying to imagine what a bot would have to be like to leave that much of an impression on you.”

“He was talented,” Prowl admitted.

“Do you keep in touch?”

“No.” Prowl straightened his back and flared his sensory panels, ready to move on. “It was not a practical partnership. Being together diminished our respective abilities and prevented us from fulfilling our responsibilities. It was for the betterment—”

“Hey, hold on, Prowl,” Jetfire said, his rolling voice enough to draw Prowl up short. “I know that you—but, you know what that sounds like, right?”

Prowl frowned, immediately recognizing Jetfire’s social theory tone.

“Pragmatism,” he said. “We can’t have everything we want in an ordered society. I—we did what Cybertron needed of us.”

“By disposing of a part of yourself?”

Tumbler hadn’t liked that explanation either.

“We weren’t conjunx.” And for very good reason. There were more important things in life than feelings or fleeting commitments, and it was idealists like Jetfire who—

“Just because it didn’t have a name doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.”

Prowl’s thoughts stumbled. He hadn’t expected Jetfire to say that, not because it was out of character but because he was right. That was the exact sentiment Prowl had tried to put to words maybe half a dozen times and now it was being turned on him like a spotlight.

“There are things that should never be sacrificed,” Jetfire went on. Prowl felt his silhouette thrown into sharp relief. “Things we’re worse off for letting go of.” He paused. “A while ago, I was made an offer: instant entry to the academies. No exams, no fees. Everything I’d ever wanted. In return, though, I would’ve had to give up my wings. My… sponsor, I guess, knew I had the processor for science, just not the frame. They asked for me to give up one part of myself to let the rest go free.”

Prowl shook his helm, leaning away from the speaker. Jetfire’s tone was the same one he occasionally used with Bumblebee. With Prowl, he was hard edges and warning lights. They weren’t this for each other. They didn’t do this.

“You were nearly the victim of a scam,” he said, searching blindly for familiar ground.

“I’m sure it seems that way,” Jetfire said, unperturbed. “Do you get it, though? Giving up any one piece would’ve meant tacit agreement with the Functionists, that I wasn’t fit to do my work in any form but what they prescribed. Even if I’d told myself it was for Cybertron, it really would’ve been a sacrifice in their honor, and nothing would ever be worth that.”

Prowl wasn’t entirely obtuse. He understood what Jetfire was saying, but he couldn’t afford to hear it, not with everything he had already done and the plans he had yet to set in motion. Maybe Jetfire had found a way to live that allowed him to maintain his idealistic commitments, but most mechanisms weren’t so lucky. Everyone had to give up something.

“And now you’re here, working on behalf of the Senate,” Prowl said, just to prove that point.

Jetfire made his noise again.

“Right, I forgot,” he said. Annoyed or frustrated: the usual feelings they brought out in each other. “Waste of time. Forget I said anything.”

Prowl wouldn’t, but he also wasn’t going to give Jetfire an excuse to keep pontificating.

It would have been a waste of their time, anyhow, because however sincere Jetfire was in his admission, Prowl had never understood the hypocrisy of bots who would claim to reject Functionism while maintaining an almost fanatical devotion to their frames. In some intangible sense, maybe he did enjoy the opportunity to go for a long drive, but he couldn’t imagine himself grieving his tires for their own sake. He tried to compare it to what he had felt when Tumbler had said going to Kaon was a selfish, pretentious idea and immediately recoiled.

“Results are exactly what I told you,” Jetfire said. Prowl realized he hadn’t gotten any work done in the last several kliks. “Not nearly the concentration of materials to support your theory the Decepticons have contacts in Uraya, and a few that will probably trace back to Kaon, like everything else.”

“I’d like to see for myself,” Prowl said, standing. He didn’t often get this badly distracted, and it was easy to pin it on the state of his desk: used energon cubes and wrappers from the cheap snacks he kept fueled on littered the spaces he should have been using for case notes and displays. When was the last time he’d cleaned?

“Really?” Jetfire asked. “The data’s pretty clear.”

“Humor me.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

Neither said goodbye before they hung up: another of their customs.

Prowl cleared the mess into the trash. Exhaustion was nibbling at his processor like a corrosive. Another couple shots would get him through his morning meetings, and then a regular midday fueling would carry him over until he could recharge properly in the evening. Before that, though, the day had to begin, an event he discovered was closer than he’d expected when he stepped outside and saw the horizon just tilting toward the pale blue of an oncoming dawn.

The air was gentle, the pleasant cool that foreshadowed a blistering day. Jetfire was a dot over the Rodion skyline. Prowl glanced up at the few stars that could punch through the light pollution and was reminded, suddenly, of the time he and Tumbler had discussed getting a little patch of metal out on the Tungsten Moors. The barren sparkfields had felt nonetheless fertile with possibilities, and they had gotten hung up on whether it would be more practical to live in a house with two stories or just one. It had been a fantasy, nothing more; even on their joint income, it would have taken millions of years to save up. But there had been something, if not fulfilling, thrilling about it, making plans that didn’t hinge on work or promotions.

He wondered if Tumbler remembered that conversation.

Jetfire’s slow approach gave Prowl time to dwell while keeping an idle optic on his teammate. There was nothing spectacular about Jetfire’s flying: Prowl had worked with and chased down fliers who were faster, more maneuverable, and flashier in every way. But there was something resolute and sure about the way Jetfire coasted, a steadiness that Prowl would have appreciated sooner if he’d noticed it, his thoughts of Tumbler and past mistakes and pointless sacrifice sliding away as he watched Jetfire’s flight.

Jetfire’s flying was beautiful, in its own way. Its understatement reminded Prowl of his own assembly line colors, but with an underlying confidence that left Prowl feeling inadequate. Though technically strong, his power was limited to what he could siphon off Orion and their other high-level contacts. He’d experienced a taste of the real thing under Sentinel, but that had been an especially tenuous connection, liable to snap had he ever tugged too hard. Jetfire’s power was all his own. Not overwhelming, not enough to make the changes Cybertron needed. Incomparable, really, to what Prowl had wielded. But it radiated from the tips of his wings to the burn of his thrusters, self-realized, without reservation or concession.

Prowl’s tac net pinged him with the results for a problem he hadn’t realized he’d plugged in: 50% Prowl should have been strong enough to find another way, 50% choosing Tumbler would have made him stronger.

A perfect 50-50 meant his systems were badly in need of defrag. He cleared the cache and set his tac net to reboot, shaking his helm to dispel the resulting vertigo as Jetfire landed on the steps below him. Prowl waited patiently for him to complete his mode switch, taking two steps back so they would be at optic level with each other.

“Pleasant flight?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Jetfire said with a smugness that allowed Prowl to scoff as he motioned for the datapad.

Jetfire handed it over. Prowl knew he was being watched as he powered it on and reviewed its contents, but he took his time, using Jetfire’s results to run through a few warm up calculations as his tac net came back online.

“You didn’t check for copper fluoride,” he commented.

“No,” Jetfire said slowly, “because it wasn’t one of the compounds we were investigating.”

“Run the tests again.” Prowl tried to return the datapad, but Jetfire refused to take it. “The chances we would find evidence of materials native to the Urayan region were always slim to none. However, the old blackmarket pipeline between Kaon and Yuss ran directly underneath the city. Does that make more sense?”

Prowl saw the moment Jetfire finally saw the case as he did, a knotted web of deceptions meant to dissuade even the most seasoned detective from untangling its core. Jetfire took the datapad from Prowl and stowed it, though the hard look in his optics did not waver.

“Could’ve said that from the beginning,” Jetfire griped.

Prowl didn’t bother to respond. What was done was done. Talking so much about the past was a waste of time neither of them could afford, because for all that it might have mattered, nothing they said could change any of it. All they had was the future, and the possibility of starting each day stronger than they had the one before.

[rax-writes]

Family Man

Fandom:  MCU Pairing:  Baron Helmut Zemo x OC  [basically a reader insert, because the OC’s physical description isn’t addressed or anything, she just has a name] Warnings:  None Notes:  A Sokovian woman named Irina Molnár was born with the ability to teleport, and in time, she encounters the only man to gain her trust enough to show him. It just so happens that the man in question is the criminal mastermind Helmut Zemo. // So, as I said, it’s an OC but still basically a reader insert; don’t let the OC part deter you if you prefer x reader fics. It just worked better for me on the writing end to use a name, and I have an aversion to using “Y/N,” so I just threw in a pretty name. // TL;DR: Zemo as a dad just kills me & I wanted him to get a second chance at a family.

“I will assist you to the utmost of my ability, on one condition.”

“You’re in no position to be making demands, Zemo.”

“This is both for my own benefit, and yours, I assure you.”

If someone had asked Irina ten years ago where she thought she’d be at this point in life, her answer would have been incredibly far from accurate, for nothing could have predicted the path her life took.

Not that her life had been normal to begin with, being that she was born with the ability to teleport. Sokovia was not exactly a progressive country in the late 1980’s, so her parents had endlessly instructed her to conceal her ability, warning her of the countless dangers of her power being known to others. Her parents were so protective of her that when she teleported as a reflex at age thirteen, after walking along the sidewalk of main street in Novi Grad and a driver fell asleep at the wheel and headed straight for her, they packed up and moved to Russia in the middle of the night. Yet again, the same thing happened at age eighteen, when she was caught up in a hostage situation in a bank and the perpetrator caught her calling the police. Just as he aimed his gun at her and pulled the trigger, she disappeared. Irina and her parents fled to Germany in the dead of night less than twenty-four hours later, and she knew then that she needed to suppress her powers no matter what, being that her father was elderly, and her mother was too ill for them to ever travel again.

So, Irina settled into a normal life in Munich. She worked various odd jobs over the years to support her parents, made and lost a few friends, dated here and there. Her father passed when she was twenty-two, and two years later, her mother joined him. When living in the house where both her parents passed in their sleep became too unbearable, she packed up and moved to Berlin, getting a job at a high-security prison there. Less than a year after she began working there, a newcomer arrived: an inmate by the name of Helmut Zemo.

Being that he knew so much about HYDRA, from his extensive research on them, the American organization SHIELD wished to know more about them. A few psychiatrists and some professional interrogators tried for the first couple months, but they got nothing – quite literally, as he refused to utter a single word to any of them. Irina’s boss knew that she was Sokovian just like Zemo, so she was asked to extract any and all valuable information she could from the new prisoner.

Zemo was an intimidating man; calm, cool, and collected at all times, with eyes like a hawk that bore into Irina’s very soul each time he looked at her. She spent two months talking with him every other day, trying anything and everything she could to get him to talk, but he remained silent. At first, she tried asking him questions outright, but he wouldn’t ever say a word – just stare at her with those cold, calculating eyes. So, Irina changed her approach; they would chat idly in Sokovian to build rapport via their shared mother tongue, or she would ramble about her day, what book she was currently reading, her favorite movies, dates she went on. Those topics got him talking, chatting with her about the miscellaneous subjects she brought up, and both she and her supervisors took it as a good sign. She found that they shared similarities in terms of the loss of their families, and how the destruction of Sokovia hurt them both. Despite how frequently they spoke, he still never revealed anything of importance. After two months, her boss had a few interrogation experts give her some training, so she tried their tactics for another month, but she still got nowhere with him.

Three months after Irina began trying to get intel from Zemo, she sat down in the chair outside his cell, and huffed out a sigh.

“I’m afraid this will be my last visit, Zemo.”

“Why?” His voice held surprise, and a tinge of sadness.

“As you know, they assigned me to visit you for the sake of getting information from you. I’ve been consistently empty-handed over the past four months, so they’re giving up, assigning me back to regular patrol duty.”

“Will I still see you?”

“No. They’re moving me to the women’s side of the prison next week.”

Zemo simply stared at the ground in silence, hands clasped in his lap. Irina allowed the silence to linger for several minutes, then pulled something from her bag, unlocked the small opening on the side of his cell where guards gave him meals, slid the item through, and locked it shut again. He eyed it for a moment before standing and retrieving it, sitting back down on the bed as he looked at it.

“It’s that book I told you about last month, the one you said sounded interesting. Consider it a parting gift.”

He still said nothing, gaze locked on the book cover. Irina cleared her throat and stood, putting her bag on her shoulder as she looked to Zemo one last time.

“It has been nice getting to know you, Zemo. Take care of yourself.”

As Irina pulled open the door to leave, Zemo’s voice called out, “Wait!” She turned to face him and found that he was standing, clenching and unclenching his jaw as if he were thinking, before stating, “Tell your superiors that I will give them one piece of information on HYDRA every two months if you will have lunch with me twice each week.”

Irina’s brows raised in surprise, but she nodded in understanding. “I’ll pass the message along, Zemo.”

“Please… call me Helmut.”

The higher-ups were more than happy to agree to his terms, as long as Irina was okay with them as well, since it involved her. But she wasn't stupid. She told them that it felt like quite an undertaking to agree to such a thing, she had been considering looking for another job in the near future, etcetera. Naturally, they offered to double her pay to persuade her to commit to the arrangement, and it was then that she agreed. In truth, it was no skin off Irina’s nose to do it in the first place. As deranged as it was, Zemo had become her friend, her only friend, and she quite enjoyed talking with him. And even more deranged – bordering psychotic, really – she had developed a bit of a crush on him, finding him to be dangerously handsome and intelligent, so she certainly had no quarrels with agreeing to spend time with him.

Time seemed to fly when Irina began her twice weekly visits to Zemo. She found herself eagerly awaiting their lunches, and she always stayed longer than necessary. She would have rather eaten glass than admit it, but she frequently put a bit more effort into her hair and makeup on the days she would be seeing him.

God, I’m fucking pathetic, Irina thought to herself at least once a week, and yet it never stopped her.

It was another few months later when he said something that made her stomach drop to the pits of hell, and a cold sweat to break out on her skin.

“I know who you are, you know. I have since you first introduced yourself. Irina Molnár, the disappearing girl – at least, that’s what the headlines called you. I remember reading about it when I was a teenager, but the story was forgotten within a week.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Irina replied, but Zemo could hear the quiver in her voice.

“My apologies, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I have no intention of mentioning it to anyone besides you. I have simply been wondering… were the rumors true? Can you really just disappear into thin air?”

When Irina hesitated, he added, “Irina, no one would believe me if I told them, and even if they did, they would have no way to prove it. Besides, we have been acquainted for nearly a year now. You are my only solace in this living hell. I would have gone mad had you not came into my life. I would never do anything to risk you harm.”

She exhaled slowly, and looked at the ground when she said, “It’s not ‘disappearing.’ It’s teleporting.”

Zemo leaned forward in his seat, visibly invested in her confession.

“I’ve been able to do it since I was four. Scared my parents half to death when I suddenly appeared before their eyes, having been across the house mere seconds before. I learned to control it pretty quickly, but that day in Sokovia… I was only ten years old, and a car was coming right at me, full speed, so I panicked. I teleported home right before it crushed me, and it would have been a non-issue if my classmate hadn’t been a few feet away and saw the whole thing. He ran his mouth to the press about my identity, so we had to leave.”

“That was why you moved to Russia, not because your father got a job there,” Zemo realized, remembering when you initially told him about your move and falsified the reasoning.

“Yes. It happened again there, when someone shot at me. No one who was around at the time knew my name, so it never made it to the press, but my parents were overly cautious, so we fled to Germany. I’ve not done it since, besides in the comfort of my own home.”

“Show me.”

“You say stupid things for such a brilliant man, Helmut,” Irina said, nodding toward the camera in the corner of the room.

“After you get home tonight, teleport into my cell.”

“Did you miss what I said about the camera, or…?”

“The camera does not have a view of my bed. It only reaches the middle of my cell, not the very back of it where the bed is,” Zemo pointed out, and Irina realized that he was right. She had been in the camera room several times; the camera there did indeed only show the room and half of his cell, never the bed.

“I’ll think about it.”

Zemo smiled brightly, looking excited, like a little kid about to see a magic trick. That alone was enough to motivate Irina to do it, just for the opportunity to see that smile again. So, when she got home that night, she changed into a flowy, deep green sundress, touched up her makeup and hair, strapped on a nice pair of sandals, and then stood in her living room, hyping herself up to take such a risk.

There was a chance that she would get caught. Teleporting in front of anyone was always a risk, no matter what, her parents had always told her. But then that damned, dashing smile crossed Irina's mind, and before she had time to second-guess herself, she was standing at the foot of Zemo’s bed.

The book he’d been reading flew out of his hands as he practically jumped out of his skin, falling to the ground with a loud whack, and he pressed a palm to his chest as he tried to calm his erratic breathing.

“We really should have scheduled a specific time for your arrival,” he muttered, and Irina laughed softly. Thankfully, the cameras had no sound, but if a guard were passing by outside, they may have heard her. When he caught his breath a moment later, Zemo sat up in the bed, letting his legs hang off the edge as he patted the spot beside him. Irina took a seat, crossing her legs and leaning back on her hands.

“So, you were telling the truth. You can actually teleport,” Zemo observed, eyeing her with amusement and interest before he bombarded her with questions. “Can you teleport anywhere in the world? Are there parameters for your distance or location? How long does it take you to travel from one place to another? What does it feel like?”

“I can teleport anywhere I’ve been to or seen photographs of. I cannot do it blindly. The distance nor location does not matter, as long as I have seen my destination before. And it feels like… a slight tingling sensation, all over my body, but it only lasts until I arrive, which takes about a half second.”

“Fascinating,” Zemo whispered. He licked his lips before asking, “Are you capable of teleporting another individual along with you?”

Irina frowned at him. “I’m not breaking you out of prison, Helmut.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

“No, but you were alluding to it,” she countered, and he shrugged. “I can teleport another individual, but only over small distances. Each time I’ve tried, the most distance I’ve gotten with another person has been about ten yards.”

“Perhaps with practice, you could go further.”

“I practiced for years, and ten yards seems to be the true limit. Besides, the only others who have ever known about my ability were my parents, and since they’re gone, I have no test subjects.”

Zemo nodded solemnly, then asked, “What about teleporting repeatedly, in ten yard increments?”

“Tried that. Can only do it about three times before I’m too drained to do it again. Teleporting back-to-back with another person takes a lot of energy,” Irina answered, then added, “And again, even if I could, I am not breaking you out.”

“I am merely interested in your mutation, that is all,” Zemo retorted. Irina shot him a look that said ‘Really?’ so he relented with, “Perhaps also because I wanted to know if you could break me out, but that’s neither here nor there.”

"That's what I thought."

It was another month before either party made a move. They were sitting on Zemo’s bed, side by side, as Irina told him about her day at work, and the man who'd tried hitting on her in the grocery store earlier that evening.

"He thought he was very Rico Suave, but his execution was a nightmare."

"How so?"

"Well, for starters, he followed me around for nearly ten minutes while he worked up the courage to say something. He waited until I walked past him and greeted me with 'Hey, sexy lady.'"

"Oh no," Zemo said, grinning as he looked genuinely amused at this man's poor tactics, although his amusement was contingent upon whether or not Irina was actually interested in him. The way she poked fun at the man indicated a lack of interest, therefore, he was enjoying her tale.

"Oh yes. He then asked if it hurt when I fell from heaven, which is the most overused line in the book, yet he said it with such confidence. And then – get this – he leaned onto what he thought was a shelf, but it was actually a stacked display of cans, which toppled over and sent a hundred soup cans flying down the aisle."

Zemo chuckled, prompting Irina to continue.

"He played it off by saying that my beauty is just so distracting that he didn't even realize what he was doing, and then asked for my phone number."

"Did you give it to him?"

"Absolutely not," Irina said, laughing softly and shaking her head. Zemo was momentarily entranced by the way her beautiful hair fell around her face, and the sound of her laugh.

"Why not?"

"Not my type."

"What is your ‘type’?"

Irina leaned back on the wall behind her, looking up at the ceiling as she thought carefully. "Confidence, but not cockiness. Intelligence. Wit. Sarcastic senses of humor. Men with a sense of passion to them; some kind of fire and gusto about something, whether it be their work, art, music." She looked over at Zemo then, and allowed her gaze to travel slowly up and down his form. "Currently, my type seems to be men I can't have."

Zemo eyed her carefully, allowing himself to absorb her words fully for several moments. She was describing him – he just knew it. Or, he was too blinded by hopefulness and desire to realize that she wasn’t, but he figured there was only one way to find out. So, he leaned forward, closing the gap between them, and pressed his lips to hers.

Irina hesitated for half a second, surprised by his actions, but she recovered quickly and kissed him back. It was gentle, sweet, and explorative, both parties simply enjoying it while it lasts. Neither had any idea how long it lasted, as time stood still. Zemo was the first to pull away, eyes scanning Irina’s face as he looked at her with sheer adoration, as well as a touch of nervousness.

"I understand if you wish for me to never do that again, and I understand if you'd prefer to never see me again. But please know that I did not do that out of blind lust, or anything other fleeting emotion. I did it because my heart has yearned for you every day since first meeting you, and finally having you here next to me, where I can touch you… it was genuinely unbearable to hold myself back from kissing you. I have not felt anything like this since losing my wife, and I did not think my heart was capable of ever feeling it again. But you proved me wrong. I know I am risking an end to the only true human contact I have while trapped inside this cell, which truly frightens me, but the unyielding desire to tell you that I love you overpowers that fear."

Irina stared at him in shock for a few moments, before leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes. She exhaled slowly as she collected her thoughts before speaking. "Helmut… I love you, too, but I don't know how this would even work. You're never getting out of here. How can we have any kind of relationship when you're locked in a cell for the rest of your days?"

"We will make it work, my darling," Zemo said, sitting up straighter and turning to face her. "I will ensure that we mimic a true relationship as much as possible. I cannot wine and dine you as I would like to do, but I can easily bribe the guards to have lavish meals brought here for us to share on evenings such as these. I cannot take you out for birthdays or anniversaries, but I will ensure that you are showered with gifts on those days. My angel, I cannot give you a normal life, but I can promise to endlessly strive to make you happy."

Irina stared deeply into his eyes for what felt like an eternity, and she saw nothing but genuity, longing, and adoration there. She could feel the sincerity in his words, feel how desperately he wished for her to agree to his proposal. She was no fool; she knew that their relationship would be a struggle, and she knew that it would never be any resemblance of normal. But she also knew that he made her heart soar in a way no other man ever had, and that she would die feeling like she missed out on something incredible if she walked away from Zemo now.

“Okay,” Irina whispered, mostly to herself, before repeating it in a stronger, more self-assured voice. “Okay.”

For a man who always knew what to say, Zemo was at a loss for words, overcome with joy. He simply cupped her cheek and kissed her, far more passionately than before, allowing his triumphant and ecstatic feeling to flow through the kiss. Irina gripped the front of his sweatshirt in her fists, melting into him, before wrapping her arms around his neck as his free hand moved to rest on the curve of her waist.

Ages had passed by the time they broke apart, foreheads resting against each other as they fought to catch their breaths. Irina was the first to break the comfortable silence they created, laughing quietly in disbelief at the events that had just transpired. Zemo followed suit, a deep, velvety chuckle bubbling up from his chest. He pressed another kiss to her lips before leaning back and looking at her. They gazed at each other in sheer contented bliss for a few moments more, before Irina became the first to speak.

“I love you, Helmut.”

“And I love you, darling.”

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

The sound of the front door opening caused Irina to immediately look up from the book she'd been reading. She frowned, then stood and headed for the door as quickly as possible, calling out, "Nikolai! You know better than to open that door, young man!" When she reached the entryway, she stopped dead in her tracks.

There stood Helmut, wearing the softest, sweetest smile she'd ever seen as he opened his arms to her. She hesitated a moment, unsure whether or not it was real, before he murmured, "Hello, my love." His voice – that alluring raspy undertone, and the gentleness it took on as he spoke to her – broke Irina from her trance, and she ran to him and into his arms, careful of her rounded belly.

Zemo stroked her hair and held her, and her arms around his neck gripped him like a vice, to the point that it hurt a little, but he'd never tell her that. A small sob fell from Irina's lips before she even realized she'd started crying, and he whispered sweet nothings in her ear in Sokovian to soothe her, about how much he loved her and how happy he was to see her. When her crying quieted down a bit, he pulled away to kiss her, a kiss full of love and longing. When he broke the kiss a few moments later, she stroked his cheek lovingly, and he wiped the stray tears from her eyes.

"How are you here? What happened?" Irina asked, and only then did she notice the two men standing awkwardly by the doorway, their faces a mixture of suspicion and surprise. "Who are they?"

"They are the men who helped me escape. James was previously known as the Winter Soldier, and Sam is currently known as the Falcon, an Avenger."

Irina raised an eyebrow at him. "But… you… the Avengers… the Winter Soldier…."

"I know, I know. I am just as surprised as you are, but they need me for something, something very important."

"The Flag Smashers? I saw them on the news. They have Super Soldiers somehow."

"Yes, darling, exactly right. We'll find them, defeat them, and I'll be back before you know it."

Irina understood the implication of his words. He'd be back, but whether that would be in her home or in his cell was yet to be determined. But she knew him. She knew that he would not take his newfound freedom as a one-time opportunity. A storm of thoughts about what that would mean for them flashed through her mind, but Zemo’s hands on her stomach snapped her out of it.

"How is our daughter?" he asked, gently rubbing Irina’s baby bump, a bright smile blooming when the child inside kicked at his hands, as she always did. She had only been in existence for seven months, and she wasn't even born yet, but she already favored him over her mother.

"She's good, she's been moving around a lot today, as if she knew her Daddy was coming," Irina replied, earning a grin from Zemo. "The doctors told me this morning that her heartbeat is strong and she appears to be the picture of health."

"Good, good. And what about –"

"DADDY!" a tiny voice bellowed from down the hall, and they turned to see a small boy running full speed toward Zemo. Irina stepped back to allow him a clear passageway, smiling as Helmut crouched down to meet him, enveloping the boy in an embrace as he collided with his father's chest.

"Nikolai, I've missed you," Zemo stated, rubbing the boy's back as he stood, still holding his son. Irina caught the way her husband's voice wavered when he said that, and she laid a comforting hand on his back.

"I've missed you too, Daddy. Are you living with me and Mommy now?" Nikolai asked, leaning back in his father's arms to gaze at him with excitement plain on his face. Zemo gave him a smile, but Irina could see the sadness in it, knowing the future was uncertain.

"Not quite, buddy. Just here for a visit," Zemo replied, and Irina rubbed his back comfortingly before pressing a kiss to their son's temple.

Their family time was interrupted by Sam clearing his throat loudly, and when Zemo turned to face him, his smile faded.

"Sorry to interrupt, but Zemo, you've got some explaining to do, and not much time to do it. Don't forget we're on borrowed time here."

"Right," Zemo confirmed, then exhaled slowly. "James, Sam, this is my wife Irina and our son Nikolai…. He is five, and Irina is seven months along."

Confusion washed over both men's faces, and they exchanged a glance before the other, James, was the first to speak.

"But… you've been in prison for eight years. Have you been escaping every few years and no one's noticed?"

"I have not left my cell in eight years, consecutively. But my wife is capable of getting into my cell as often as we wish."

"So, what? You've just been having conjugal visits all the damn time? And the prison staff green-lit that?" Sam asked.

"No, not exactly," Zemo answered, then glanced at Irina. They shared a look before she explained further.

"I can teleport. I met Helmut when I was tasked with extrapolating information about HYDRA from him, and he refused to share anything unless the prison staff agreed to let him meet with me twice a week, just to chat, in which case he'd give them tidbits of information bi-monthly. They agreed, and before long, I revealed my ability to him. I'd visit him in his cell occasionally, because the cameras only show half of it. Over time, well… we fell in love. Nikolai came a few years later, and now…" Irina trailed off, then rubbed a hand over her pregnant belly.

"Why didn't you ever bust him out?" James asked.

"I can only teleport small distances with another person, and I can only do it twice at the most, so we'd have never made it off the grounds."

James and Sam were silent for a moment, absorbing the information they'd been given. Sam was the first to break the silence.

"Zemo, you said this little pitstop would benefit me and Bucky. But it's not like she can go with us," he said, sounding a bit irritated as he gestured towards Irina’s stomach. "So what the hell was the point?"

"It does benefit you. You now possess the knowledge that a teleporter exists. Congratulations," Zemo said dryly, then looked at his wife and son for a moment, before returning his attention to the men. "Sam, the point was that I lost my family when Sokovia was destroyed, and the family I have now has only ever seen me inside a prison cell. I wanted my son to have at least one memory of his father in his home with him."

James – no, Bucky, apparently – and Sam exchanged a look, before Bucky sighed and looked to Zemo.

"You have one hour. Sam and I will be guarding the exits, so don't try to escape. If you do…." He trailed off after glancing at Nikolai. "Let's just say it won't be pretty."

True to their word, Sam and Bucky remained stationed outside the home, one out front and one out back. Zemo milked that hour as much as possible, spending most of it in his son’s room with him and Irina, listening intently to Nikolai tell him all about what’s been going on at school, his favorite shows, the trip he took to the zoo the day before with Irina, etc.. He even told Zemo about each and every one of his toys, simply enjoying talking to his dad, and although Zemo was the one to send almost every one to him, therefore he already knew about them, he didn’t mention that. He simply listened intently as his son spoke, enjoying the quality time with him, exchanging smiles and occasional kisses with Irina. She showed him the nursery she’d been working on for their daughter, and he finished putting together the crib she’d started, Nikolai happily handing him parts and screws as needed. Zemo also moved the dresser and changing table to where she’d wanted them but couldn’t move them herself, then they settled into the living room shortly before the hour was up.

Sam and Bucky reentered the house to find the family sitting around the coffee table, playing a game of Jenga. They stood silently in the doorway to the living room, watching as Nikolai carefully drew a block from the tower before placing it back on the top with a triumphant look on his little face. Zemo commended his concentration, then drew a block himself, although he intentionally wiggled it a little so that the tower came toppling down.

“I won! Daddy, I won!”

“Yes, you did, my son. Excellent job,” Zemo said warmly, then glanced at Sam and Bucky before scooping the boy up into a tight hug. “Daddy has to go now, but I will see you again soon.”

“Do you have to go?”

“I’m afraid so. But I need you to promise me something before I leave. Take care of your mom for me, will you?”

“I will, I promise.”

“Good boy,” Zemo said with a smile, then kissed Nikolai’s forehead and set him down. Zemo stood and helped Irina stand up, hugging her tightly as he buried his face into her neck. Quietly, so that no one but her could hear, he said, “I will not be going back to prison unless there is no other way, but know that yours and our children’s safety is my utmost concern.”

“I know, Helmut,” Irina whispered back, and he pressed a long, lingering kiss to her lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, my angel,” Zemo murmured against her lips, then stooped down to hug his son again. “And I love you, Nikolai.”

“I love you, too, Daddy,” the boy responded, and the way his voice quivered as he choked back tears broke his parents’ hearts into a million pieces. Reluctantly, Zemo let him go and he wrapped his arms around his mother’s leg, resting his head against her as he sniffled and she rubbed his back.

“Be safe, sweetheart,” Irina commanded.

Zemo nodded to her before walking over to join Sam and Bucky. With one last heartbroken look at his family, he left, closing the door behind him as he let out a shaky breath. He didn’t meet the other men’s eyes as he walked over to the car, and after they all piled in, they drove in silence to the airport, off to their next stop in Madripoor.

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

@henrysmorgan​ @clints-lucky-arrow​ @therenlover​

[madamewriterofwrongs]

Sending you all my hugs 🥰🥰🥰😍 How about...Buddie having the time of their lives being absolute shit at arcade games.

I remember I asked for fluffy prompts the night my boss passed away. That was months ago but I did not forget. Thank you everyone who sent me prompts while I was processing some tough emotions.

911/Buddie 

1v1 Co-op Matchmaking

Read on Ao3

“Are you sure this is the place?” Eddie tried to peer through one of the windows with the scratched off signage but the tinted glass made it impossible to see anything beyond vague shapes in evenly marked spaces.

“Absolutely.” Buck joined him in looking through the glass but seemed to be satisfied with what he saw there. “I found this place my first year in L.A.” He went on to explain as Eddie followed him to the blacked out double doors. “I promise you’re going to love it.”

As with most things in Eddie’s life, he had no choice but to follow his partner. He entered first, a blast of cool air hitting his face, bringing with it the scent of French fries and old pennies. Beyond the sound of whirs and buzzes was quiet chatter and the occasional exclamation of excitement or disappointment (usually accompanied by a string of barely recognizable curses – no doubt, due to the ‘No Swearing’ sign hanging on the cash register in the corner). All around him were a collection of game machines in nearly straight aisles reaching several rows down and across. Interspersed between the machines were tables and chairs with folded signs informing guests that food and drinks were not to be taken to the game machines.

“It’s an arcade.” Eddie dumbly informed his friend.

Buck stood beside him, chest puffed with pride as he examined the terrain. “One of the last in the city that hasn’t been overrun by hipsters.”

“So you’re saying you found this place before it was cool?” Eddie strolled towards the register knowing Buck would be glaring at him all the way. As predicted, Buck paid for both of them and converted twenty dollars into quarters for the two of them two split.

“Oh, this place is old school.” Eddie, once again, exclaimed the obvious while pocketing his share of the coins. “How did you find this place?” he asked as they wandered the aisles looking for their first game. “I didn’t think you would be old enough to remember ‘Ms. Pacman’.”

Buck bumped his shoulder with a playful gasp. “You are being so mean to me today.” He chided before falling more somber. “When I first moved here and started training, I needed a place to study. I had, like, six roommates so there was no way I could concentrate there. So, I wandered around looking for something a little less chaotic and I found this place.”

“And this place was quieter than your house?” Eddie hadn’t lived with roommates in a few years – not since his army days – but he couldn’t imagine one house being that overwhelming.

“No.” Buck rolled his eyes at Eddie’s internal monologue. “I ended up at the library a few blocks away. But I came here once or twice when I needed to get out of the house. Obviously, work keeps me pretty busy, but I like coming here from time to time.”

All of it made sense, but Eddie heard the softness in his friend’s tone, the way he spoke about this place as though it were something precious. He was being handed a gift and he would not turn it down.

“Thank you for sharing it with me.” When Buck looked up at his partner through long eyelashes (when did he start noticing Buck’s eyelashes?), Eddie felt goosebumps rise and wash down his body. Like awakening from a long nap, his limbs tingled and he felt every step as they continued their journey to find the perfect game.

It wasn’t the first time he felt that flash of lightning through his veins at the sight of his friend – he was a single man and his partner was very attractive – but it had been happening more often than he cared to admit. Noticing the little details of Buck’s appearance (his eyelashes, for example) was new. Feeling his heart beat faster and his skin burn with a desire he hadn’t felt in a long time…was less new. In fact, Eddie was nearly ready to put a label on the feelings stirring in his chest.

Last winter, when his sisters were visiting and the three siblings got to have a big family dinner with all the cousins and aunts and uncles, he’d spent a little too long talking about Buck. Or, maybe, Christopher had. Either way, Sophia managed to corner him in the kitchen after dessert had knocked out the majority of the children, and asked Eddie how long he’d been with Buck. Romantically. It was sometime after midnight (and a bottle of wine between the three of them) that Eddie finally admitted to both of his sisters that he had feelings for his best friend. Adriana had cooed and asked if Buck felt the same and, on some tipsy instinct, he’d answered “Yes.”

Of course, he didn’t know for certain – he’d never come out and said “Hey, Buck, I want to bend you over the railing and then grow old with you. What do you say?” – but he knew Buck. He knew Buck better than anyone (Maddie might give him a run for his money, but he’s fairly certain there’s a few stories Buck hasn’t told his sister about his time travelling the country). When that man loved, he loved with all his heart, and Eddie figured out a long time ago that Buck had given at least part of himself to the Diaz boys. Why not his heart?

So, yes, Eddie had a pretty good idea of how he felt, and was nearly certain that Buck felt the same way. And now, they were standing in an arcade – the location of which Buck hadn’t shared with anyone else in his life – occasionally making extended eye contact through the aisles. It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’. It was a matter of ‘when’.

So now, when not staring longingly into his friend’s eyes, Eddie scanned the names listed above each game. Some of the names were ones he recognized (‘Frogger’, ‘Pacman’, the aforementioned ‘Ms. Pacman’, ‘Centipede’). Others, were less familiar (‘Inferno’, ‘Dig Dug’, ‘1942’) and looked…confusing. His eye caught on a ‘Space Invaders’-looking game and he called his partner to his side.

“Want to be a member of the ‘Moon Patrol’?” He bumped Buck’s shoulder with the smile he reserved just for his friend, and dug for a quarter.

“Nope!” Buck declared as he retrieved his own quarter and inserted it into the appropriate slot, bumping Eddie out of the way so he could stand centered at the controls. “I call first game!”

Though he rolled his eyes in annoyance, Eddie took the loss as an opportunity to watch his partner work. He loved watching Buck work (nearly as much as he enjoyed working beside him). There were times when the man’s focus was hypnotizing. The firm set of his jaw, the piercing eyes that seemed unblinking, the way every part of his body tensed in concentration. He’d seen Buck excited, anxious, worried, panicked, even numb – when it came to the uncontrollable dangers of their job, they had been through a lot together. Every emotion showed Eddie how much his friend cared about his work.

This expression, however, was one he doubted many other members of the Los Angeles Fire Department had seen on the young firefighter. It was one Eddie had been privy to on more than one occasion when Christopher had brought over a particularly difficult puzzle or science question. He wasn’t sure he was ever meant to see it but he happened to be standing in the doorway after putting away leftovers from dinner and he’d seen it: the desire to win, the earnest focus, the eagerness and seriousness of his intent. The first time he saw, it was an accident.  Every other time he rushed to finish his chores whenever he thought that face might emerge… that was less of an accident.

He was pulled from his fond musings by a minor key jingle and light-hearted groan of disappointment.

“Only got to Point Q on the Champion Course.” Buck exclaimed, throwing his hands in defeat.

Eddie couldn’t help himself – or at least, that’s what he told himself. His partner was too genuine. But that was one of his favourite things about the man. Where Eddie could usually keep his outward appearance neutral in the face of adversity (a skill he’d used nearly every day since joining the LAFD), Buck never shied away from letting his face show just exactly what was on his mind – even if he never said anything.

And so, Eddie laughed. Only a small chuckle, but his heart never felt so light as when he was with Buck. It was easy to see, however, that his laugh could be misconstrued as mocking. Perhaps it was both.

“Think you can do better?” The newly-defeated champion bowed and offered the center position to his friend and Eddie stepped into place with another fond eyeroll (he made a mental note to ask his optometrist if too many eyerolls could cause nerve damage).

All right, Eddie thought as he tried to get a handle on the controls, so it wasn’t as easy as he thought. The joystick was rigid and the control pad was sticky and the graphics were definitely from an era long-passed. If he hadn’t been raised with an infinite amount of patience (according to his aunt), he might have given up. As it was, he died before reaching the first checkpoint.

Buck’s laughter could not be interpreted as anything other than mocking, and he didn’t bother to hide it. “You are truly terrible.” He informed Eddie with a slap on the shoulder.

Though he knew he didn’t need an excuse, it was too easy to play when Buck was around. “I’m used to the console at home. Unlike some people, I don’t spend my time playing with technology from the Reagan-era.”

“Well then let me show you.” Before Eddie could properly interpret Buck’s offer, the man had come to stand behind him, chin hovering over his shoulder, arms palming his elbows and guiding him back towards the console. “One more round.” Buck declared, enthusiastically. At his prompting, Eddie gripped the joystick and placed his hands just above the cluster of buttons on his left side. The now-familiar starting music began and Eddie focused all of his energy into game before him. Every few moments, he heard Buck mutter a command or offer advice and he took it without question. The joystick was still rigid and the buttons were still sticky but together, they made it to the second checkpoint. And then the third. By the fourth, Eddie had all but forgotten the world around them. The only things that existed were Eddie, the game, and Buck’s voice in his ear. It was soothing, almost, to fall into that rhythm. So long as he navigated the bumpy terrain and dodged the alien invasion, nothing else mattered.

Until he missed jumping over a landmine and was blown to smithereens.

“Damn!” Buck’s voice was suddenly too close. The air around him electrified on an exhale and the heat of his chest warmed Eddie to his core. As quickly as the world had fallen away in Buck’s arms, it came rushing back, more vibrant and alive than before. Every sound of electronics whirring, Buck’s steady breathing, and people shouting – even the rumble of the cars outside the arcade – was amplified. Every smell of old metal, sweat, and smoke hidden under Buck’s aftershave was overwhelming. Every touch of his scratchy jeans, the clammy plastic in his hand, and the warm presence at his back, made Eddie close his eyes to shut out one of his senses. The only one left was taste.

Buck and Eddie had held each other plenty of times over the years. They were partners and friends who worked in close contact with one another. At the end of a hard day, in the middle of a daring rescue, at the beginning of a heated glance as they stood in front of a game machine. They had shaken hands, hugged tightly, gripped for dear life at the edge of a cliff, even bumped shoulders often enough that he had a Buck-shaped indent near his heart. But standing in this loose hold – the other man’s arms barely brushing his, his back pressed against the other’s front – Eddie had never felt the overwhelming urge to taste more fervently than he did in that moment.

He knew that Buck was an attractive man – he was repressed, he wasn’t dead – and though he’d been contemplating thinking about maybe working up to taking some next step, he hadn’t counted on standing in Buck’s arms and feeling his heart flutter like a school girl with a crush.

Upon slowly dragging his eyes to meet his friend’s Eddie found himself breathlessly overtaken by the sensation of hope. Buck’s eyes were bright and round (earnest, just as he’d known them to be) His eyelashes closed and opened slowly, seemingly disbelieving of his circumstance. If Eddie knew Buck as well as he hoped he did, then there was a question in his friend’s eyes that was begging to be asked. A question Eddie was more than happy to answer.

“We make a pretty good team.” He felt his own breath reverberate off of Buck’s cheek and it stuttered in time with his heart.

“I’ve always thought so.” Buck’s lips twitched with suppressing a smile.

Then, came the moment of truth. Eddie felt a brief flicker of panic as he took one last breath before diving in.

“What should we do about it?”

In reality, Buck only contemplated his response for a few seconds but for Eddie, the silence stretched for years – three years, in fact. He felt the world move in slow motion and within it, he watched as Buck’s face flicked with a thousand emotions: fear, anxiety, excitement, contentment, desire, hope, doubt; finally, he settled on quiet happiness.

“I think we need to find a game we can play together. As partners. What do you say?”

As if there were any other response, Eddie smiled at Buck. “Partners.”

The rest of their time at the arcade was locked away, inaccessible to even Eddie, who recalled nothing more than laughter and flirtatious eye contact as they made their way through the aisles of games. At the end of the night, Eddie would get down the block before turning back to Buck’s door. He would run a nervous hand through his hair while he knocked with the other, and waited for the answer. And then, he would blush as he asked if Buck wanted to go on a date with him tomorrow. Buck would blush harder and assure Eddie that he would happily attend, but warn that he no longer kissed on the first date.

But maybe on their second date tomorrow, he’d get lucky.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Hey! Sicktember ask . . . 4 Headache/Migraine. I kinda want to give brains a migraine! But if you'd rather do one of the boys, judging by my main migraine triggers being stress and lack of sleep, I would throw this one in Scott's direction!

Out Of Action

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Friendship/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Scott, MAX, Brains

Brains wasn't in the lab... or the hangars... or even the den. Nor was MAX. Where were they? @sicktember prompt 4: Headache/Migraine

Oh, you tempted me with Scott. You really did. But I barely ever write Brains so that felt like a fun challenge to play with - and it was, once I found an angle of attack to use!

Sicktember 2021 Prompts - Somehow we’re most of the way through the month and I still have one or two in my inbox. I’ve added a list of what’s been done already and what’s sitting as a not-yet written request to the original prompt post if anyone wants to pick any of the remaining prompts, and yes, the alt. prompts are also fair game!

Brains hadn’t been seen for several hours. That in itself wasn’t particularly unusual – Scott had gone actual days without seeing the man when he really got going in the lab and refused to surface for anything. That was MAX or Virgil’s domain at that point; Scott didn’t understand the jargon Brains spouted, and never seemed to be able to get him to take a break.

Even the fact that he was supposed to be in Thunderbird One’s hangar to discuss upgrades to her engines with him didn’t necessarily mean anything. Brains lived outside of the timestream more than he did in it, and couldn’t be counted on to remember mundane things like what time it was.

No, the concern was that when Scott traipsed down to his lab to gently poke him about said upgrade discussion – a common enough occurrence that prompted nothing but fondness at this point, exasperation banished years ago when it became clear it was just another one of the engineer’s quirks – Brains wasn’t there.

Holographic displays overlapped dizzyingly, numbers and equations far beyond Scott’s comprehension permeating the air, and there were several coffee mugs in varying stages of emptiness laying about the cluttered workspaces, but no engineer.

No MAX, either.

“Hello?” he called, just in case one of them was just out of his eyeline. Brains’ lab was a no-touch area, a lesson Scott had learnt the hard way as a teenager, poking around curiously at plans for what would eventually become the TV-21 and accidentally erasing a bunch of calculations.

Brains had been too timid to tell him off, new to the Tracys and more acquaintance than family back then, but it was the worst scolding Scott ever remembered getting from Dad.

He’d never touched anything in Brains’ labs since, Dad’s rebukes ringing in his ears whenever he so much as got close to a hologram.

There was no answer to his call and he carefully picked his way into the room, avoiding contact with anything Brains might have been working on just in case Brains was out of sight and deep enough in whatever he was doing to not hear him.

Still no sign of him. Cold coffee showed that there had been no recent check-ups by Grandma or Kayo bearing fresh nourishment for at least an hour, which meant he could have left the lab at any point. Scott had checked all the hangars first, and neither Brains nor MAX had been visible in any of those, and likewise there had been no sign of the duo in the den for the past several hours – which Scott knew because he’d been stuck at the desk doing paperwork the entire time.

Not in the hangars, not in the lab, and apparently not in the house, either. That was unusual enough just for Brains, let alone MAX as well. Scott frowned as he padded out of the room again, letting the door fall closed behind him. At this point it was more than just wanting the update about Thunderbird One’s engine upgrade – Brains was as predictable as they came, and could always be reliably found in one of those places. The fact that he was not was concerning.

The logical thing would probably be to call him directly, or get John to track his location, but before resorting to that, Scott had one more place to try, as unlikely as it seemed.

Even Brains had to sleep sometimes, and although he’d been known to more often than not crash in the lab or hangars, he was a member of the family and therefore did have his own bedroom. Located down near the lab at his own request, rather than up with the rest of them on the top two floors of the villa, it was used less frequently than it should be.

A half-jog down the hallway and up the single flight of stairs found him outside a plain door decorated only with a caricature of MAX waving. Scott remembered Virgil painting that – the little robot had been all too pleased to pose, although he’d been terrible at staying still long enough.

The door was closed, as always, and Scott stepped up to it, reaching out and knocking on the wood. “Brains?” he called. “Are you in there?”

If he wasn’t, then he really would need to go the technological route.

The door nudged open, slowly and much like Scott remembered doing himself as a kid when he didn’t want to disturb a sleeping-in John – or get caught by a parent – which was more than enough information to tell him who was opening it.

MAX’s bulk meant that he had to push the door all the way open before he could exit, no matter how quietly he did it, which gave Scott plenty of time to see into the room. Well, what could be seen.

The lights were all off, and it seemed like blackout blinds had been deployed as well, because the rest of the villa was well-lit, and while Scott very rarely had cause to go near Brains’ bedroom, he knew it got more natural light than was currently spilling across the floor and illuminating the occupied bed.

There were no defining features visible; a raised lump completely concealed by a blanket, and what looked like a pillow thrown over the head as well, indicated that someone was laying there, but in the poor lighting Scott could do little more than assume it was Brains.

MAX shut the door again before he could note anything else, but that was more than enough information to put the facts together into a coherent conclusion. The robot’s quiet chirp and flailing of one grabber-hand near what functioned as his head was unnecessary confirmation.

Scott had had his own share of migraines over the years. They were ruthless things that hit without much warning and certainly no regard for anything else he needed to be doing right then – worst of all had been one that had hit him on the way home from a rescue, where Thunderbird Five had had to save him from crashing. Thankfully, there had not yet been a repeat occurrence of that, but he’d been laid low by them a few times while at the desk as well.

He wasn’t the only one, either. John had been plagued with them reasonably frequently when they were younger, although being in space, of all things, seemed to have rescued him from that, and more than once Scott had had to tuck in Virgil with painkillers and blackout blinds engaged when the world got too much. Gordon and Alan had, to his knowledge, so far escaped.

It really wasn’t surprising to find that Brains was also a victim of migraines, although Scott felt a flash of guilt that he hadn’t known that before – how many times when Brains had vanished into what he had assumed was work in the lab had he actually spent the time in his room, trying to sleep off a mental assault?

As if reading his thoughts, MAX chirped again lightly, and produced a familiar box of medication briefly before swallowing it back up into his storage. It was a clear reminder that Brains wasn’t alone, and Scott gently patted his shell.

“Thanks for looking after him,” he murmured, and got a whistle in response. Scott couldn’t translate MAX’s communications like Brains could, or even John, but he was pretty sure that was an of course!

Still, robot nanny or not, Scott couldn’t in good conscious just walk away and leave Brains without doing something to help. MAX had medication under control, and he wasn’t going to mess with that, but from his brief look into the room, he hadn’t seen any water in reach.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he told the robot, who chirped at him in what he assumed was some form of acknowledgement, before jogging to the kitchen and praying it was empty. He didn’t need to be waylaid by a sibling – or worse, Grandma – on the errand, otherwise he’d have to explain himself (or dodge taste-testing requests).

His luck held, although that meant his family were scattered who-knew-where across the island, because barring John they were all supposedly home and he hadn’t seen any of them in some time, and a couple of minutes later he was back outside Brains’ door, glass of fresh water in hand.

MAX had vanished, presumably back inside the room, and Scott tapped lightly twice to alert him – and Brains, if Brains was awake and aware of anything except the migraine – before opening the door. Unlike the robot, Scott didn’t need the door to open fully to enter, and slipped through as soon as the crack widened enough to take him sidling sideways.

The lump on the bed hadn’t moved at all, and the room was still dark enough that Scott picked his way across the floor carefully. Brains tended to keep the clutter to the labs, but that didn’t guarantee there was nothing laying in wait on his bedroom floor and Scott had no intentions of tripping over and disturbing him. MAX scurried along in front of him, appearing from somewhere off to one side to lead the way to the table, and Scott obligingly followed the route he took. If a robot on wheels could get through, there was nothing for him to catch his foot on, after all.

Familiar chunky blue frames sat on the bedside table, one arm folded and the other still extended as though they’d been discarded in a hurry. Scott placed the water down beside them before folding the other arm in as well and leaving them neatly beside the glass, in easy reach of the bed. Standing right next to him, it was easier to see that Brains had, in fact, pulled the pillow over his head, one arm slung over it in order to keep it pinned. The blanket was neatly tucked around him in contrast to the haphazard placement of the glasses, and Scott could only assume that was MAX’s doing.

Were it one of his brothers, he would have coaxed the pillow away and found something else to help block out the light, but if MAX hadn’t already done that, there was no doubt a reason. Scott did lean over to check that Brains wasn’t suffocating himself, and was relieved to see that his head was turned ever so slightly to the side, leaving his mouth clear from both sheets and pillow. Reassured, and also aware that there was nothing else he could do for Brains except leave him to rest, he patted MAX on the shell again and picked his way back through the gloom of the room to the doorway. The robot followed him.

“Look after him,” Scott instructed, quietly, as though MAX needed the order. “Come get me if he needs anything.”

Another series of chirps and whistles implied that MAX considered himself perfectly capable of looking after Brains alone, and Scott was guiltily aware that he’d likely done exactly that on multiple occasions in the past.

“I know, I know,” he sighed, patting the shell again. “Thank you for staying with him.”

With one last chirp, MAX shut the door, leaving Scott back out alone in the hallway and feeling a little like he’d just been kicked out.

Thunderbird One clearly wasn’t getting her engine upgrades today, and with MAX playing nurse and guard, Scott wasn’t going to be able to spend any meaningful time with the engineer, either.

There was, however, always more paperwork to do.

With a quiet groan, and a muttered feel better soon directed at the shut door, Scott turned away and made the trudge back to the desk, where other responsibilities beckoned insistently.

He also needed to work out where the rest of his family had slunk off to. It was never innocent when the villa was so apparently-deserted, and Scott half expected a headache of his own to spring into life just thinking about the chaos that was likely brewing. It wouldn’t be the first time.