#that even remotely works but I gotta take like two and half doses over the course of 24hr

[karlyboyyy]

Help it’s a migraine day 😖

[voiceless-terror]

If it’s okay, how about “You always do that. You always warm me up.” and/or “You’ve got a fever. Of course I’m not going anywhere.” with jontim for the soft sentence prompts? your writing is some of my favourite of all time and your jontim especially is just *chefs kiss* mwah. Incredible.

Some soft JonTim for one of my favorite artists! Always happy to have another friend to spread the good word of this pairing, a particular favorite of mine. Hope you enjoy!

“Jon, you look wrecked.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” replied said wreck. “I’ve just got a cold, that’s all.”

Tim fixed him with an incredulous look. Jon stumbled through the doors of the library this morning looking for all the world like the equivalent of ‘hammered shit’ (Sasha’s words). Jon’s usual vibe was tired and harried on a good day, but this was pushing it. He only managed to get about half of his hair into a bun, the rest hanging limply around his face. He’d thrown a chunky cardigan over his clothes to hide that they were the same ones from yesterday. It did not work. Complete with red cheeks and bleary eyes, the man was not fit to be in a workplace.

Jon begged to differ. “I’m fine,” he said, burying a cough in his elbow. “I took medicine. Look.” With that, he dug a crushed box of liquid capsules out of his bag and threw it haphazardly in the direction of Tim, who caught it in startled hands.

“This is expired,” he replied after one look at the box. “It’s also not meant for daytime. When did you take this again?” Jon frowned uncomprehendingly as he attempted to parse out the words and Tim would’ve gathered him up in his arms right then if it wouldn’t embarrass him.

“Hmm.” The question should not be difficult. “‘Bout an hour ago, maybe?” Jon listed dangerously to the side, grabbing at his desk to keep steady and in the process knocking an overflowing cup of pencils to the ground. “Oops.” Jon was occasionally a man of few words, but ‘oops’ was not one of them. Tim immediately got to his feet, rushing over to steady him.

“‘Oops’ is right.” He gently managed to get Jon to his feet, leaning most of his body weight against Tim’s side. “You’re going home.” Jon just slumped further into his arms, barely managing a nod. His sudden compliance worried Tim; usually, Jon would put up way more of a fuss, getting snippy and slapping his hands away. This easy submission, while appreciated, made him more nervous than reassured.

“G’bye, Sasha,” Jon attempted a wave on the way out that looked more like a vague swatting of the air. “Tim’s takin’ me home.” She smiled indulgently, giving the two of them a wave in return.

“Take care of your man, Tim! And that’s an order.”

Tim would’ve saluted if he didn’t have an armful of Jon. “Aye aye, Captain.”

“Your man?” Jon mumbled as they made their way down the hallway, sinking further into his side. He said it as if the words were foreign, confusing. Tim couldn’t help his laughter. 

“Well, yeah.” He nodded in thanks to Rosie, who held the door open on the way out with a pitying look at Jon. The air outside was cold, bracing- Jon’s ridiculously chunky cardigan still wasn’t enough against the wind. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t help you in your hour of need?” In a stroke of luck, he managed to snag a cab as soon as someone exited at the building next door. The less time outside, the better. “In you go!” He managed to gently extract Jon from his side and maneuver him into the back of the car. He rattled off his own address to the cabbie- if all Jon had at home was an expired packet of night-time medicine, he didn’t have much faith in the rest of his medical supplies.

He shut the car door and turned to find Jon staring at him in a sort of wide-eyed, loopy wonder. It would have been amusing if it wasn’t so concerning. “What is it?” he asked, running a comforting hand over his arm. “Are you okay?”

“We’re...boyfriends?” Shit. Tim realized they hadn’t used the term before and here he was, just casually slipping it out. It was not unlike him; Sasha always teased him at how easily he fell in love. But he was trying to take it slowly with Jon, do things right. Jon deserved that.

“I mean...yes?” It came out more nervously than he’d like, Jon was really doing him in with those giant, hopeful eyes. Damn him. He tried for familiar, easy ground. “I’ve been wining and dining you all around town. Do my forehead kisses mean nothing to you?” He put a hand to his chest, dramatic and exaggerated. “I’m wounded.”

“No!” Jon exclaimed, grabbing at the hand on Tim’s chest with an unexpected strength. “I like those. Please don’t stop.” His face was a blazing fever-red and filled with concern, not unlike when he was drunk and oblivious to teasing. “You won’t stop, w-will you?”

Tim’s heart melted without his permission. “Course not.” He took the small hand and squeezed it with his own. Jon sunk into a similarly sappy expression; he had no right being this adorable on expired cold medication. God, he loved him.

Shit.

Jon continued to talk, his brow furrowing in contemplation. “Iz’zat why you got me those Valentine’s chocolates?”

Shit.

“And the bear?”

Love? The big ol’ ‘L’ word? What if he’d sprung that on Jon like this, in the back of a cab when he wouldn’t remember it?

“And the balloon?”

How embarrassing for him. Truly.

“And the card?” Tim had forgotten Jon was still talking.

“Yes!” He choked out against Jon’s interrogation. “God, I didn’t realize how much of a sap I was.” Jon giggled in response, a high, happy sound incongruous with his usual sarcastic snorts.

“Yeah, you are.” He snuggled into Tim’s side; he could feel the heat radiating from the man, even through his jacket. “You gotta tell me these things. Else I won’t know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry.” Jon was a literal man, Tim knew this. But he hadn’t exactly been subtle in his overtures.

“Boyfriends,” Jon sighed dreamily. “I like that.”

Hopefully he would remember this conversation.

__________

“This is not my flat.”

“Got it in one, Sherlock.”

He shuffled Jon through the door, depositing him as gently as possible on the couch and wrapping a fluffy blanket around his shoulders. He looked ridiculous, eyes at half-mast and a confused look on his face. “Gonna wait on the paracetamol, at least until the shit you’re on wears off.”

“Hnnh.” Jon leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes in contentment like a particularly lazy cat. “Kay.” Tim puttered about in the kitchen, getting a glass of water and wetting a rag; he should at least attempt to get the fever under control, Jon’s insistence on layers wasn’t helping. But he couldn’t say no to him, shaking and shivering as he was. Jon deserved a blanket burrito if he wanted one.

Tim pushed the glass of water into Jon’s hands, urging him to take a couple of sips before he set it back down. He plopped himself down on the couch, maneuvering Jon so that he was laying against his chest and placing the damp rag on his forehead, despite his protests. “We’re going to watch some crap telly and you’re going to take a nap. Sound good?” He should’ve probably gotten the remote before he laid down, but now that Jon was snuggled against his chest he was pretty much immovable.

“You’re not going back to work?” Jon asked the question as if Tim staying home was uncalled for and strange. He snorted in response. Typical Jon.

“You’ve got a fever. Of course I’m not going anywhere.”

Jon managed to lift his head a few precious centimeters, though he was straining with the effort. He looked as if he were going to say something very important, but he instead just collapsed back against his chest and buried his face in Tim’s jumper with a lazy purr of contentment. I can’t believe I’m dating a literal cat.

“God, you’re really burning up,” Tim rearranged the towel so it was back on his forehead, having fallen off during Jon’s attempt at conversation.

His next words were muffled against Tim’s chest. “You always do that. You always warm me up.” 

Tim almost audibly cooed at the sentiment before seeing an opportunity for a joke and taking it. Let it never be said that Tim Stoker missed an opening.

“Why Jon,” his voice took on an unbearable, teasing tone as his smile grew. “Are you saying I’m so hot I made you sick?” Jon groaned at the words, as expected.

“No.”

“How does that song go, again? You’re givin’ me fev-aah-”

“Shut up, Tim!” He let out a quiet chuckle, giving Jon a light squeeze in apology.

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you rest.” Jon sighed, curling up in his arms. They stayed like that for some time; Tim rubbing a gentle hand up and down his back. Just when he thought Jon had been lulled to sleep, he spoke up in a quiet tone.

“You...you actually have a nice voice.” The words were slurred and Tim tried not to take offense at the ‘actually’ addendum. “But maybe just a bit quieter. And just a hum. Thanks.”

He snickered. “Will do.”

“Love you.” Tim froze, his hand stilling in its movements. He doesn’t mean it, he told himself firmly. He’s just tired and loopy. He won’t remember this when he wakes up. Still, he responded and the intensity behind the words was surprising even to him.

“Love you, too.”

Jon slept and Tim ran his fingers through his hair, listening to his soft snores. In an hour or two, he’d make him soup and insist on a dose of real meds. And that night, when Jon was curled around him in bed, with clear eyes and a lucid voice he’d repeat the words he mumbled earlier. And he would mean them.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27977733

[viostormcaller]

Stringbound Chapter 3

A/N: I really really hope this works... sorry if it’s formatted a bit weird! EDIT: ohmygod I forgot the fucking taglist I am so sorry XD EDIT 2: I forgot amidst my frustration of trying to post this here that I was supposed to edit in all the italics. So I did that. Whoops!

[TW: nausea/vomiting mention, blood, death mention]

Chapter 2

The first thing Marvin noticed behind the darkness of his eyelids was the headache, its ever-persistent pounding and squeezing against his skull as agonizing as it had been since the fight, if not more so. Next was the stomachache, not enough yet to be nauseating, mostly just sore for the time being. Third was the heat; he could tell blankets had been piled on him again -- the same ones from before, no doubt -- and despite how much he was sweating, he also found himself shivering. It was harder to breathe, as well, though it wasn't because of the blankets. However, he didn't feel the need to worry -- he could feel a mask against his mouth and nose and felt significantly cooler air entering his body when he inhaled. Henrik must have put him on an oxygen machine. He also felt that one of his arms was outside of the blankets, and while he couldn't feel it he could tell by the way his arm was positioned that there was an IV there. He could tell he was on the couch instead of in a hospital bed, and he could hear soft murmuring close by. After he felt like he'd done enough assessing of the situation, Marvin slowly opened his eyes, squinting and letting out a quiet, pained groan as the bright daylight entering the room agitated his headache further.

At the noise he heard, Henrik quickly turned around from the crouched position by the couch that he had placed himself in, eyes wide and curious. "Marvin?" he prompted. "Are you awake?"

"Y-yeah…" Marvin got out. "Yes, I'm awake…"

"How do you feel?"

"Awful," Marvin stated plainly. It had been years since he'd felt this sick.

"What symptoms are you having?" Henrik then asked, grabbing the notepad and pen from off the table.

"Headache, chills… I feel warm and cold at the same time. And it's still a bit hard to breathe."

"Any lightheadedness?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"Thankfully, no."

"Are you having any pains in the chest at all?"

"No. Aside from it feeling a bit tight, of course, but it doesn't hurt."

"Do you feel nauseous?"

"No, not… not yet, anyway. I'm unsure if I'll be feeling sick later, though…"

"Hm, alright… I will keep the eye on it, and the bucket will be close by, just in case." Henrik proceeded to write all of Marvin's answers down on a piece of paper. He would transfer them to a proper document later, but this will do for now. Actually, while they were on the subject…

"Oh, Marvin?" Henrik spoke up, not looking up from his paper quite yet.

"Mmh?"

"I have some more questions for you, about your reaction to the medicine, yes? Would you mind if I asked them now, or do you want to answer them later, when you are feeling a bit better?"

"We can…" Marvin took a moment to think. It didn't take long to come to a decision. "We can answer them now, but… can you dim the light in the room a bit? It's… making my head ache horribly…"

"Oh! Oh, of course! I apologize, I did not even consider that! Jackie, do you think--?"

"Yup, one step ahead of you," cheerfully replied Jackie, who had been standing by this whole time. He pulled all the curtains closed and dimmed the kitchen light some. "How's this? This good?" he called to Marvin.

Marvin fully opened his eyes, finally able to see without painfully squinting. His headache hadn't gone away, but this was definitely an improvement. "Much better," he sighed. "Thank you."

"No problem, just doin' my job."

Henrik just chuckled, shaking his head as a small grin tugged at the corners of his lips. Then he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, refocusing himself. "Right, yes. The symptoms. What did you notice after you had taken that medicine?"

Marvin hummed, thinking for a moment. "I remember feeling… nauseous first. The ironic part about that is, after you injected me, it actually helped to ease the nausea. However, when I was talking with Chase, it… came back. The headache followed."

Henrik nodded, writing this down. "Alright, what else?"

"While I was, er… being sick, I remember looking up and the room was spinning. Everything was blurry -- I couldn't tell you if I was seeing triple or more than that. And then I found it harder and harder to breathe in, and from there I began to experience what I can only describe as delirium…"

"Ah, yes," Henrik interjected, looking up. "I remember you mumbling nonsense at me. Do you remember what it was you were saying? Or, well… trying to say?"

Marvin just shook his head. "My guess would be just as good as yours. I haven't a single idea. Heh, I am at the very least grateful I wasn't mumbling any spells. That could have made things a bit… chaotic."

Henrik hummed in agreement, nodding, before continuing. "The only thing I did understand was when you said you felt as if you were going to pass out."

"Ah. Yes, I remember saying that," Marvin confirmed. "I felt very lightheaded seemingly out of nowhere and I was almost positive that I would pass out. Though in my half-conscious state, I couldn't tell if my warning was in my mind or if I'd spoken it aloud. I'm grateful it was the latter."

"Was that all you felt?" Henrik inquired, looking up from his notes once more.

"No, there is one more thing I remember… every vein in my body seemed to ache not long after those first symptoms appeared. At the time I'd no clue what was happening to me, but looking back it could have only been a side effect of the medicine."

Henrik nodded, continuing his furious scribbling on the paper. Finally he let out a breath and put the pen and notepad down on the coffee table. "I thank you for your help, Marvin. One, for being so cooperative, and two, for being my unintentional test subject. I am glad we did not give this to any patients… I am not sure a higher dose of this would be very safe."

"So… does that mean our original plan is a no-go?" Jackie spoke up, a concerned look in his eye.

"I am afraid so," Henrik replied sadly, turning back towards the hero. "The dose I gave Marvin was small, and you can see what it had done to him. In a higher quantity, it could potentially kill someone, and we are trying to avoid that, yes?"

Jackie muttered a curse under his breath, looking away.

"What are you going to do now?" Marvin asked, glancing between them both.

"When Chase returns, we are going to talk more deeply about this. We need a new plan."

Marvin's eyebrows furrowed. "Chase is out? Where did he go?"

"Oh, just to pick up some supplies. Non-perishable food items, medicine… that sort of thing. Is good to be stocked up, yes? Especially now that we have a new person on board."

Marvin slowly nodded in understanding. Yes, that was a smart move. He then looked up, seeing Jackie nearing closer with a grin on his face. Uh oh.

"Hope you didn't lose one of your "nine lives" while you were fighting the effects of the medicine, because we're gonna need you for this. You think you're up for it?"

Marvin just narrowed his eyes at him. "Are you always this utterly idiotic?"

"Hey, be nice!" Jackie protested, placing a hand on his chest and feigning hurt. "I'm the one who saved your life, remember? You'd probably be dead right now if it weren't for me! You better be grateful I stayed home, too, Sourpuss. Had I gone on patrols, there'd be no one to carry Schneep's medical equipment up to you. So there!"

Marvin rolled his eyes and looked away. He'd cross his arms, but one of them had the IV sticking out of it, so that wouldn't be the best idea. Henrik could only laugh to himself, shaking his head. It was easy to forget how much of a child Jackie still was, until they had moments like this.

"Do you need anything, Marvin?" Henrik asked, pulling himself from his thoughts.

"A… a cloth over my head would be appreciated," Marvin admitted.

"I'll get it!" Jackie announced.

"No, I will get it," Henrik quickly interjected, rising from his spot on the floor. "You have bothered Marvin enough for one day, I feel."

As Henrik turned to stretch, Jackie stuck his tongue out at him when he wasn't looking.

Just then, the door swung open, startling everyone in the room. It was no other than Chase, of course, carrying a few bags of groceries, but… he was covered in splatters of… blood?

"Before you ask, no, the blood isn't mine," Chase spoke up, gently kicking the door shut behind him and setting the plastic grocery bags down on the floor.

"Holy shit, what happened?!" Jackie exclaimed.

"Dude, it's like a war zone out there!" Chase said. "Have you seen the news? God, there's fuckin' people everywhere! All scramblin' around tryin' to stock up. He's got his puppets on the loose. I was fuckin' lucky to get outta there alive…"

Jackie let out a curse, quickly snatching up the remote sitting on the coffee table and turning on the TV, switching it to the news channel. The four of them watched as the woman on the TV explained the scene unfolding downtown, showing an aerial view of what was going on. There weren't that many puppets, but just enough to cause havoc.

"I gotta go," Jackie got out, tossing the remote down and already heading for the door. He was grateful that he was already suited up.

"Jackie, wait," Chase called, reaching a hand out to him.

Jackie paused in his tracks, turning to face Chase with a hum. The determination and urgency in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Are you… sure it's safe to go out there? Like… alone, I mean?"

Jackie just huffed, almost like he'd laughed. "I mean, it's not, but who else is gonna do it, if not me? Marvin's out of commission, and you know as well as I do that the police do fuck-all."

Chase just looked away with a thoughtful hum. Jackie had a point, he couldn't deny that.

"I gotta go. See you in a few hours, alright?"

"Stay safe, Jackie," Henrik said.

"Yeah, man… be careful out there. Shit's a mess." Chase agreed.

Jackie huffed, a smile growing on his face. "No need to worry, guys. I'll be fine, trust me." And with that, he was out the door.

Henrik turned the news off with a sigh, recalling his ever-present fear of watching the news on a late night only to hear that the city's famed vigilante, Jackieboy Man, was dead. Every time he left the house, he mentally prepared himself for that day, and every time he hoped it never came.

"Well…" Chase spoke up, breaking the uneasy silence. "I'm gonna go shower. Gotta get this blood off me."

"Yes, good… good idea," Henrik nodded, clearly preoccupied.

"Um, Chase, if you don't mind my asking, how did you get blood on you in the first place?" Marvin asked.

Chase looked to Marvin with saddened eyes. "Had to witness a puppet killing someone… was too close when it happened. I'm never gonna forget that… the look on their face… the way they screamed…" Chase could only sigh, hugging himself. He shook his head, turning towards the stairs. "I… I need to be alone for a while…" With that, he left to go grab some clean clothes and a towel from his room so he could get cleaned up.

There was a heavy silence lingering in the room after Chase left, thick as the blankets covering Marvin and twice as suffocating. Finally, letting out a breath as if to push away some of the fog-like tension to give himself a little breathing room, Henrik turned away from the TV and headed towards the closet under the stairs. "Marvin, you said you wanted a cloth for the head, yes?"

Marvin perked up at his name, looking towards Henrik. "Er, y-yes, uh… yes, that would… help…"

Henrik nodded, fetching a small washcloth and heading towards the kitchen sink. He turned on the faucet and let the water run over his hand, adjusting the temperature between hot and cold until he was sure that it was cool and not cold. He then grabbed a spare bowl, filled it with the water, and headed back over to the couch. He took great care in dipping the folded washcloth in the water, wringing it out, and placing it over Marvin's forehead, though Marvin expected nothing less from a doctor.

"How does that feel? Good?"

"Yes, thank you. I appreciate it," Marvin answered with a nod.

"Is there anything else you need?"

"No, not at all. Thank you, though." His answer was honest, but even if he did need something, he wouldn't dare ask. Not right now.

With a simple nod, Henrik rose, heading for the basement. He wasn't gone for very long, but when he came back up, Marvin noticed that he was now wearing gloves. He watched with intrigue as Henrik went about setting down some paper towels on the kitchen floor. Then, Henrik began to set the grocery bags on the paper towels, carrying as many over as he could at one time until all the bags were moved. It was only then that Marvin was able to see the blood splattered on some of the plastic bags. He'd been previously confused, but now what Henrik was doing made sense. He continued to silently watch as Henrik took off the gloves and set them aside, grabbed a new pair from his pocket, and put them on. He began to sort the groceries, putting away the food items and setting aside the medicines and Band-Aids and the like to be stored downstairs with the first-aid supplies.

Once the food was put away and the medicine separated, Henrik grabbed as many medicines as he could in his arms and headed for the basement stairs. It took him two trips to get everything down, though when he came back up he brought with him a biohazard bin. All the plastic bags, paper towels, and the first pair of gloves were tossed in. He then grabbed some more paper towels and a bottle of some sort of cleanser Marvin didn't recognize right away and began to spray and wipe down the area by the door where Chase had dropped the bags. Once everything was clean and put away, he headed back downstairs with the bin, and when he came up he was empty-handed and no longer wearing his gloves. He settled himself into the armchair with a sigh, letting himself get lost in his thoughts. Not a word was spoken between him and Marvin. Eventually the pair heard Chase come out of the bathroom, the opening and closing of one door, and then the opening and closing of another. Chase didn't come back downstairs after that. Eventually Henrik, too, excused himself, mentioning he was going back downstairs to check on Jack for a bit, leaving Marvin alone in the living room.

That thick duvet of silence never truly left, but as the number of people within the room dwindled, it grew ever heavier, threatening to swallow everything that remained there, Marvin included. With a heavy, tired sigh, however, he decided he wouldn't let it, instead allowing his mind to wander, to silently fill the space with his own muted noise. And he simply waited, waited for Henrik to return, for Chase to come back downstairs. For Jackie to come home.

Taglist:  @jade-orade @taizu-lazure @bupine @innocent-angel3 @immabethehero @wowowgoodurl @n-anon @g-rexthedino @scarletender @coconutpillow05 @friezzzboiii (Ask if you would like to be tagged!!)

[macgyvermedical]

Hi! I'm sure you have many prompts already, but on the slight chance you don't, I've been wanting to read a fic from Matty's perspective of a couple of times Mac has been in danger and how much it affected her emotionally. I feel like she is a very soft person inside and would have mini panic attacks when Mac takes too long to answer comms or when she is told he is injured but has no idea how bad. ^_^

So technically this was prompt number 6, but as soon as I read it I knew it was the one. I love long-distance worry. The scene from Casino Royale where M is alerted that Bond’s been poisoned? The very archetype of my jam. I can’t honestly believe that I never thought about writing something similar for Matty. So thanks for that.

This is try #3 of a missing scene from “CD + Hoagie Foil”

Close Call + Background Noise

“Uuuh, Matty, we’ve got a problem.” Jack’s voice burst back through the comms. Matty had been waiting uneasily, knowing any radio-mediated communication could potentially tip off Chandra’s goons that something was afoot. She nearly jumped when she finally heard his voice after the nearly half hour of silence.

“Do you have the gas?” She asked immediately, urgently. Already she was thinking about routes between the water treatment plant and Grand Central, where she could cut off Chandra’s route to inciting a mass casualty incident. She motioned for Jill to look up the emergency number for the NYC transit authority.

“Not exactly according to plan, but yeah, the gas has been neutralized.” Matty let out a barely audible sigh of relief.

“So what’s the issue, Jack?”

“Chandra’s plan changed. Instead of Grand Central, she decided to dump both canisters into the NYC water supply.” Jack said. Matty picked up a little effort in his voice that put her on edge. If the situation was truly over, he should be as relieved as she was. Something wasn’t right. “Mac had to improvise. He managed to stop that from happening, and the NYC SWAT team is securing the area and taking all of Chandra’s people into custody as we speak.”

“Okay… and?”

“And in the process… Matty, Mac’s been exposed.”

“How bad?” She asked immediately. There was still a level of relief, that the lives of potentially thousands of New Yorkers would be spared, but the dread in Jack’s voice told her she should very much still be worried.

“There was a lot of it, Matty, it filled up the room he was in.” Matty policed her face, motioning Jill over.

“How fast can we get an ambulance to them?” She asked Jill in a whisper.

“I’ll find out.” Jill’s fingers wizzed across her tablet screen and she tapped her headset.  

“How’s Mac doing?” Matty asked. It had been a while since she’d had to use any information on nerve agents besides ‘they’re deadly’ but they were always something she kept a foundational knowledge of in the back of her mind. They scared her more than just about any other substance her agents could come into contact with. Even before Jack could answer, she could hear someone coughing forcefully in the background.

“Mac, how you doing, buddy?” She heard Jack ask. There was a pause, more coughing, turning to a kind of pained croaking. “Mac!” The sound of gravel being pushed out of the way and someone falling against Jack. A pained intake of breath. “Matty, he’s breathing real bad.”

“Jill! Do you have that ambulance yet?” Matty asked urgently.

“There was supposed to be one there, but a SWAT officer was badly wounded in the firefight before they knew about Mac. Another ambulance is en-route but they’re pretty remote- its going to be 20 minutes before they’re on scene.”

“Make it half that. Mac’s not going to last that long.” Matty said.

“The hell you mean Mac’s not going to last that long?” Jack asked over the comms. “He said he had 18 hours!”

Matty looked quizzically at Jill, trying to contain her hope that she was wrong. “Does he have that long?”

“VX? Dermal exposure only, maybe he’d have that long.” Jill explained quickly. “But aerosolized in a confined space? If he breathed it in, he could suffocate in 10 minutes.”

“Shit, Mac.” Matty heard Jack say. “Okay, okay…What do we do? How do we save him?” Matty took a breath. “There’s gotta be something we can do, Mats, c’mon.” She could only imagine the panicked look on Mac’s face, and that was if he was still conscious. Really, the only thing going through her head was get the ambulance there faster. But no matter how much pressure she put on Jill she knew she couldn’t change the laws of physics. She looked at Riley.

“I’m trying to line up the traffic signals, but I don’t know how much time that’s actually going to buy us.” Riley chimed in.

“Do you still have the kit I put in Sam’s car?” Jill asked.

“No” Sam responded; her voice worried. “When I was captured earlier we lost the car.”

“What about Jack- do you still have your tac vest?”

“Yeah, why?” Jack asked hopefully.

“There’s a pouch on the front lower right panel. Is it still there?” Matty listened to the crunch of Velcro.

“Yeah.”

“Open it. There should be three auto-injectors inside.”

“Jill I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t.”

“Hello? Someone want to fill me in?” Matty asked urgently.

“When I found out this mission was going to involve VX I had oc health put together some antidote kits. We should have done a training on them before they left, but there wasn’t a lot of time.” A wave of relief washed over Matty. There was a chance. There was hope.

“Jack, were you ever trained on DuoDote?” Jill asked.

“A long time ago.”  

“Okay, they’re easy, just take the auto-injector out of the tube, take the safety plug off and slam the green end into Mac’s thigh. Count to 5, then remove it.” In the background, there was the sound of someone fiddling with plastic. The sound of gravel moving under a knee pad. A click.

“One, two, three, four, five…” The silence was palpable. “Now what?” Jack’s voice asked.

“Is he breathing?” Matty asked.

“Barely, Matty, I don’t think it worked.” Jack was keeping his voice together but Matty could tell he was panicking. She let out her own slow breath.

“Give it a minute or so. The atropine needs to open his airway and that’s not always immediate. If it doesn’t happen in 5 minutes, give him a second dose.”

“Can he go that long without air?”

“I know what you’re thinking, Jack, but don’t give him rescue breaths unless you have a barrier.” Matty looked at Jill incredulously.

“We only have the 3 doses.” Jill explained. “If Jack gives Mac rescue breaths, that could expose him, and we don’t have enough antidote for both of them.”

“You know I don’t care about that.” Jack said.

“…Besides, Jack, until the atropine works, Mac’s airway is too narrow for the breaths to do much good.” Matty looked wary at this advice, but said nothing else about it.

“I…”

“Trust me, Jack.” There was a disappointed grunt on the end of the line, followed by long minutes of tense silence.

“I think it’s working.” Sam was the first to report. Matty let out a breath. In the background, the familiar but much more reassuring sound of coughing and choking filled the background noise. It was a lovely sound. “I’m putting him in recovery position, yeah?”

“Do that. EMS should be there in about 5 minutes. They have the hospital alerted and they’ll be able to provide decontamination when he arrives.” Jill reported.

“Jack and Sam, were either of you exposed? Did you touch Mac with bare skin or come into contact with the nerve agent in any way?” Matty asked.

“Yes.” Sam said hesitantly. “Both of us, when we helped him out of the building.” Matty went back on alert.

“Are either of you showing any symptoms? Nausea, blurred vision, eye pain, sweating, coughing, runny nose, anything like that?” There was a pause.

“Nope, neither of us.” Jack reported.

“Okay, I’m going to have the two of you go to the hospital with Mac. They’ll decon you there and you’ll stay for however long they want to watch you for, understood?”

“C’mon, Matty.”  

“You heard me, Jack. I can’t have all three of you out of work. Keep me updated on any developments.”

She let the line go dead as the sound of sirens filled the background noise. It wasn’t always her fault, but it was never easy to make calls like that from a distance. She would have put her head down for a moment to try and clear it, but Riley and Jill were still in the room working, and it would look weird to kick them out now, before the situation was well and truly resolved. Instead, she allowed herself a long breath and a sip of coffee that had long since gone cold.

[mikkock]

Uhm??????? Unacceptable?? Please tell me more about your OCs in that last art? I demand it? I want a full report on my desk before morning? Cite your sources please?

Oh no,, you’re asking,,, about my own faves,,, sorry to everyone, but I guess im never going to shut up ever now. (i already don’t shut up ever, what have u done, im now going to speak so much that society will collapse AT LEAST)

But for real. I enjoy pretending I don’t have faves, I love all my kids the same, buT WE ALL KNO THAT’S A LIE, those two my fave bitches (they snatched that title from the last two faves, rip to them, and they also snatched, n I must really make that clear, the title of “the bitches with the most AUs from the previous previous faves. Their power.)

SO. Get ready for a ride, table of content: them, their respective character, their story, and the pLETHORA OF ALTERNATE STORIES I GAVE THEM because i must yell about all the versions of my kids i have (non-exhaustive cause its that serious bro, but ill take extra time for the universe depicted in that art just for u bby). (tbh if clamp is allowed to sprinkle their fave gays in all their universes so am i, except they aint secondary characters there, every story is just theirs. love that concept.)(itll be so long you’re getting a whole novel even if i have to post it in two posts)

So~ Em twos. Dari n Wei-wei as I call em, or Dumbass n Egg if you wanna get friendly.

They’re my proudest instance of “oops i made a squad of characters, and two of them just accidentally were so perfectly compatible and complementary oh no I guess they’re in love now.” And then they became my favourite. Cause I guess their potential was too much (jk its bc they hot)

cuties.

I spent ten minutes wondering which to introduce first cause dang son, I want to talk bout them both so much shefjgfdg

First, as I technically designed him first (like ten minutes before the other), my man weiwei. if u ever saw my art its impossible that you havent seen him at least once. cause i’m legit always drawing him. cause im in love bro.

Demonstration : here are my computer scribbled weiweis of 2020 so far (with a few daris there n there they’re a package deal), that i could find, and they do not include all the paper sketches that i’m too lazy to take pics of. (i just been drawing him with so much hair these days that’s illegal, his brand is baldness)

But anyway, he’s CHEN Chia-Wei, he’s 21, he’s Taiwanese n I love him. Two very important facets of his character when you meet him: he doesn’t talk, and is absolutely, in every single dimension, built to make you fall head over heels for him.

He’s (in the “canon” storyline if i may call it that since it’s def not my most developed one but oh well) an art student, mostly paints but is also great at photography and videography (his vibe is busy hectic pieces with strong bold colours, lots of harsh edges, and very people focused).

Aside from that, he’s also super into fashion, and because he’s part of the rich boy squad (the “im broke so im giving half my characters wealth in compensation) he Can and Does exhibit some quite funky fits when he feels like it. (maybe a reason I draw him a lot, since my fave thing is pretty boys in weird ass clothes)(and then i also draw him in just casual shit cuz tittiful men in plain white tees you know. there’s just something about it.)

Small compilation of outfits. ft me and my band handwriting roasting outfits that id also kill to own but ok u know.

He digs music. (i make playlists for my OCs and i gotta say, his is the best one, i spent so many hours researching it, “arranging” it etc n its still a work in progress but dude. she got many moods my fave part is when it suddenly turns into so many cheesy ballads also she’s enormous cause im as wordy in playlists as I am in writing.) listens to a lot, n also he can play piano n guitar. cause you know. heartthrobs got to win your heart with a song (and if he’s alone he can even mumble some songs, who knows maybe even sing em softly, definitly a sight to stumble on accidentally). Big main artists that have his vibes are Hello Nico, No Party for Cao Dong, n Circa Waves’s “what’s it like over there” album.

He does a lot of sports. He ain’t fit through magic, rip to him. He’s got a serious routine, and it’s a time he likes to use alone, cause nothing like running at the break of dawn, alone with your thoughts, which you can just easily forget through the exhaustion of a workout session afterwards.

he also eats. A lot. Food is just good, bro. (the canon story is def happening some place europe aka his biggest struggle is how expensive food is here. outrageous.)

He secretly loves super cheesy movies. the dramatic romcoms??? the cute shows that are just so cute and worriless?? anything involving soulmates??? yeh dude. he watches it, he reads it, he listens to it, and he may cry about it, but no one will know. That’s the one true guilty pleasure. (and he definitly has a collection of romance dvds, books n manhuas in his old room back at the family home. where no one can see it. perks of studying abroad. no one can see ur hoarding of material that clashes your image. “yes i watch edgy experimental things haha yes i love those smart people movies of course wow the philosophy…” and then immediatly goes to watch the trashiest predictable but oh so sweet dramas all night)

While he doesn’t speak (as in with the mouth) he can communicate in a bunch of language, due to having moved around quite a bit. On top of his native mandarin and hokkien, he’s fluent in English, so he can use those to write, and is also fluent in TSL, and pretty good in HKSL (and from that, other close-in-syntax sign languages). So he doesn’t have trouble getting around, but then he is also overall quiet in public (with close friends and over text though, that’s another story, that’s where he gets chattier, and also where you may get more of his true personality). Also, he can speak with his sister. That’s pretty cool bro.

I was going to say he’s a very “hides his true colours under a shell” type of character but you know, for an egg character, that’s pretty ironic. We love poetic cinema.

He presents himself as a very laid back, chill detached dude, going with the flow and all that great stuff, and masterfully mixes just the right doses of mysterious, flirty and calm to just go around vibing. But ain’t that jUST THE MILLENIAL’S ILLNESS, those dANG KIDS, going around, gettin relationships but never intimacy 👏😢 (there’s more to it dont leave)

First of all, before you see the Drama, the Turmoil, the first thing you notice when you really do befriend him is that he’s c h i l d i s h, he gets sulky when things dont go following the plan, he gets whiny n jealous for not getting attention , he gets competitive over stupid challenges, and way too playful if you start teasing, and when he gets flustered too…you think you get cool stoic dude but actually you get a dude who’s reacting to things with way too much intensity, and boi i thought u were gon be mature what’s that why have you been pouting for three days over losing a bet come on- That’s mostly coming up when he interacts with his sister, but the closest you are to him to more of it you get to see.

He’s also an affectionate dude actually. Like physically. As in you’ll get spontaneous hugs. He’s come nap on your shoulder. That’s a perk of befriending him if you ask me.

Also he tries to look so cool, so tough haha. He’s actually a lil sensitiv boi. he gets fluffy, he gets flustered, he heart eyes. you turn around and he’s gazing at ya as if you were the whole universe. he gets a mini crisis for holding hands with his crush. ya know. he’s secretly a softie.

nerd.

Then in the “what he doesn’t show” (my fave part), where you stock all the anxieties, all the trauma… Obviously there’s a lot of anxiety here (selective muteness being a symptom of it, he hides the other ones very well) mostly fear of inadequacy, of abandonement and of loneliness. mmmmmmmaybe that’s why he was v reticent to continue pursuing that one guy he was into when he realised he was just a tad too into him oh no is that some,, like?? some lovey-love?? cant have that im afraid of gettin heartbroken bro. Aint that sad for a someone who’s one true goal is just findin someone to love and to be with forever, the struggles of yearnin for a soulmate when there’s nothing you fear more than getting attached to a person and letting them see you and your flaws.., delicious.

Now tho (because its so alone speaking about a character on their own and i just wanna get to the part where i can speak bout em together and how they bring out bits of each others ya kno, the good kush….), Dari…

He’s pretty, i must say, and got the funniest hair to draw, and comes from the most opposite background to weiwei’s.

Darian Andriev PARVANOV, also 21, comes from the remote Bulgarian countryside, but i still love him (this makes it sound as if i wouldnt normally love someone from the bulgarian countryside. its not what i meant. by default ud remind me of my son so you’d start being liked if u came from the bulgarian countryside) Now for the first instance of “wow, the complementarity”. The first thing i thought making Dari was that he looked too cool, and that he obviously was a dumbass, and mostly that he was physically unable to shut up. (o fuck he’s me)

best picture i could find of him. He’s got the dilemma of “wow he looked so pretty n cool until he opened his mouth” 

He’s ALSO an art student (cause they were initially created for the purpose of filling the gap of “i have ocs in every field except the one i sorta know that’s so stupid”), painting major (def vibes differently than weiwei though, he’s doing those soft pretty landscapes n flowers, everything real pretty and peaceful, we got some impressionism nerd in here folks). 

He was/is a real country boy, farm family, he helped tend the fields, he worked in plantations for pocket money, he knows how to take care of cattle and chicken and goats and all the cool babies you can take care of, he can tell whether the soil is good or not, he can drive a tractor, and doesnt fear dirt.

but then also he’s kind of a neat freak, he hates getting paint on himself, so the duality of man, dirt ok but paint? disgostin. his spaces are real neat and spotless, he likes cleaning (its relaxing) and does it nearly too often.

his dumbassery comes from lack of common sense and impulsiveness, aside from that he’s actually what you’d call “mad smart”, dude had em good grades, he can memorise pages upon pages of the most trivial information, he has an accumulation of knowledge beyond limits, and is good at problem solving. so he can recite all the words of the F letter of the dictionnary, but would also put a curling iron in his mouth to see if it would curl his tongue. (side note, he does have a problem with heat n fire, most his “oopsie how i wound up hurting myself on acccident” story involve burning -that stove was just too tempting…)

while he doesnt feel very attached to his home country, he does feel strongly for his family. he’d do anything for his mum (and actually does everything to make her proud already, that’s his one main goal), and he’s ready to sacrifice a lot for her (as in, spend years working non-stop a really uncomfortable job so his mother wouldnt have to pay a cent of his expenses even though she said she could by doing some sacrifices herself,and then being ready to come back as soon as needed if anything happened, and potentially drop his career and dream n go back to the farm life to provide for mama)(also he still does hold onto some parts of his home country’s traditions, and does sometimes feel homesick but more in a ‘i left the most beautiful landscapes n the city feels cramped and claustrophobic and i dont know people and i dont feel in the right place cuz im a forreigner with a thicc accent who doesnt master the language of this place and straight up have different body language communicators due to cultural difference oh lord i wanna be home where a nod means no and a head shake is yes i keep misunderstanding everything”)

if you want background noise he’s the perfect pal to call over, he’s just so chatty, he got hours and hours of non stop speech ready for you. you can shut him up once you’re done listening with the offering of food. works everytime.

he’s definitly not shy. neither in terms of talking to people, nor when it comes to making decisions. he’s quite bold, and rarely hesitates to go towards something he wants. he’s direct in his approach to most everything.

he likes partying. mostly the socialising part, talkin to people is just fun ya feel. and being in the crowd, doing whatever, pressure free? ya can dance n enjoy yourself, and people wont notice? yeah that’s nice. but doesnt do it super often cause broke bitches aint got the party time n budget. 

he likes arm. (just an excuse for me to drop this thing here cuz i like it)

While he’s an overall bubbly looking character, with a cheery loud personnality, he does carry some youth trauma that has him more reticent to engage in happiness, he comes from what you could call “not the wokest background” and he may have fallen victim of it : he’s kind of a flashy noticeable character, both physically and in his personnality, and doesnt exactly matches the expectations of dudes in the area he comes from (delicate, emotional and sweet guy? that doesnt exist bro). He went through it, and it has definitly had some impact on his confidence in many aspects. But he’s 100% the type of guy to put on the fake happy front because if feeling bad is sad, making the people you care about sad for you too is Unacceptable Right??? relying on friends?? what???

But then what are we supposed to be doing with such charming characters huh,,, 

Make them fall in love obviously.

Their story obviously has to do with falling in love and workin a relationship cause if I dont write romance i literally die, but I make the center pivot of all of it communication, and barriers in communications. Most obvious being them coming from wildly different cultures, having different native languages, and also the ways you adapt to muteness (what i love most bout that part is even then they fucked up given the easiest quickest small body language things to communicate are head nods n then i managed to make one come from the one country that reverses those like iconic how do they even understand each other -through a lot of work and love bro) but also on more “introspective” points, how to say things that you are even afraid to think about, how to open up and share your burdens and trauma with someone, how to say words you’ve been convinced you weren’t allowed to, the inner turmoil of communication in short. And then also communication through art, and through alternative unusual ways. If i were snobbish i could call it something like “a thinkpieces on how humans overcome obstacles in communication, and adapt, all for the sake of pursuing love” but fact is its mostly boys being in love n learning how to speak, figuratively and also quite literally. And also its me having fun with making characters evolve from each other, be able to influence each other for the better, helping each other be more comfortable with themselves and express the true things of their personnality, and discover new aspects. I just wanna write intense and soulful love bro.

So in less concept and more facts, weiwei meets dari, dari being his puppy self just immediatly strikes a conversation and weiwei gets interested cause “oho nice pretty boy? very good. i want some of that”. they get closer because you cant fight off the Power of friendship (and also the power of “what your friend is bestie with my friend?? guess we hanging out”) and then friendship and interest turns into pining, held back by respective dread of what romance with the other would mean (as in “romance?? cant have that we cant feel” and “with him?? cant do that, convince yourself he’s just a friend immediatly what would the family think”) but eventually they do have to just crash into one another cause that’s just the gravitational pull bro, its physics bro. and from then on its all unlearning destructive behaviours, bettering oneself with the help of the other, and getting over trauma to finally live ur best life. and gettin fckin married bro they’re both cheeseballs theyll wanna wed

BUT MAKING EM FALL IN LOVE ONCE ISNT ENOUGH time to make 3894853 alternate universes about em.

Lets speak bout my fave of those for a hot second.

First of all, the one of the art that brought this ask, guess i could call it “Pretty Tribes” AU, bunch of tribes live and do their things, having nature and energy powers. Dari n Weiwei’s tribes are bros, the latter’s powers needing them to move around to get energy from different places, enabling them different abilities. So basically they get to hang at the other’s place while the regenerate energy from there, and in exchange they help them out with various tasks (dari’s tribe is a rly farmer oriented one, with plant magic, while weiwei’s got more poyvalent powers, and have very good healers notably, so it comes in handy). The two boys were born a few months apart in their respective tribes, so naturally, anything the two clans meet, they’re put together to play and all, and from that they became besties, and each time they meet, after the gaps of time separating the two groups, they feel more and more of a little something else~ story is themed round growing up, friendship between clans, their traditions and cultures, and pretty boys in pretty clothes in pretty landscapes interacting with nature.

The superpower AU, i fuckin love it bro. Its an old one, made for other characters, but i just love it so much that i had to inject my faves in it. Its got a grimy ugly setting, bad government, propaganda, and fights between super-people (heavily mediatised for entertainment and reinforcing the idea that “look at these evil villains thank god us the good government protects you from them”), with a side of bad ethics in science. In all that, those two have the role of “those two young enemy warrior and villain, they were so powerful and fought so hard”, public figures, legendary and admired by both sides, everyone followed their fights, til one day they presumably died in one of their showdowns. (haha sike they actually found themselves talking for 5 seconds and realised they lived in a society, n built a plan to run away). The main characters get to find they’re alive because one of em had history with super-warrior-golden-boy and go to seek their help to overthrow the Big Bads. (stealing them from their nice gay cottage hermit life smh so rude)

Mermaids. I like those. Sailor weiwei sees merman dari, they both save each other in different occasions, they grow fascinated with each other, they’re at sea, water romance. Amazing. AU made half cuz i just like water n fish. and shirtless sailors.

(i couldnt find art of it in five minutes so have a link to that lil animatic piece i made of it once)

Indie band AU, where i was listening to songs that vibe so well with those two in general n then my brain was like “what if they’re the ones playing”. They’re (along with the rest of the art squad) a nice little alternative rock band, doing their thing, then one of their songs blows up, and they get quite the attention, to the dismay of dari who wrote that song in a moment of “oh no im so in love with my bandmate but i cant tell him what if i ruin everything we have going on ill just have to love from afar and deal with that” and now has way too many people interested in who he wrote it about and theorising from his every move when performing it (a mix of music, secret crushes and social media) (ft a picture of neither of them but its the least ugly art i found of this AU cuz its old and instruments are the bane of my existence)(also kelana is so pretty i gotta flaunt her around)

in kind of the same vibe, as in we’re in a music world overexposed to social media, i also integrated em to an AU i did for fun, “boyband AU” as its called aka idol based band system cuz you kno, i got a hobby, lets apply it. Band boy Dari and bodyguard Weiwei got a thing going on, but can’t really act on it in any way, because they’d just destroy the whole band if it ever came public. Featuring annoying bandmates, catchy pop songs and people making fanaccounts of that one hot Mr.Bodyguard cause dang he hot.

(all the art of this one so ugly im sorry)

SPY AU, one of my fave brand. They spies, they get assigned on the same mission, they work real nice with each other. spies hot. fights. strategy. i just like the concept. Gays taking down the worst traffics imaginable??? I love that song.(i actually have so much on this cause s p i e s are fuckin great)

Fashion. U kNOW i have an AU for fashion. Supermodel and his private stylist, trying to maintain the line of professionalism. And failing to do so. Lets make out in unpractical designer clothes.

Have an highschool AU for a bunch of characters, injected them as “spinoff”, start chatting online being art buddies, fall in love without meeting (ft. all the iconics of internet friendship like knowing tiny details of their personnalities but not the fact that they have a sister or “waIT ur a GUY i thought u were a girl wow wild good news for my gay ass”)

n those are my faves as far as i remember, i got a fuckton of small other ones that arent fleshed out enough, or some that are more of a guilty pleasure universe, and some that are more like “projects that i can expend on as soon as i run out of daydream material” (like u kno those hospital drama shows with super innacurate medicine n shit like idk scrubs or whatever, yeh i want some of that but im keeping it for later)

[ohblackdiamond]

the end of the world tour (kiss/endgame crossover, r) (part 2/5)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

In this chapter: KISS begins its training regimen. Unfortunately, there's no Rocky montage.

Or,  four washed-up former rockstar superheroes don the spandex of old in a last-ditch effort to save an already half-gone world. They just need a little support from a billionaire who’s not too keen on KISS interrupting his private life. Somewhat Endgame compliant. 

The old wooden box looked just the same as it always had. Just as ordinary as ever. Not the barest smear of dust. Gene cracked it open almost casually, setting it down on the living room table, the talismans of Khyscz glowing too brightly in the dim room. Better preserved than any of the four of them. Of course they were. Peter took a deep breath, just staring at the talismans, hand hovering over the box.

“They’re not gonna eat you,” Ace said dryly.

“I know that,” Peter snapped. “Just give me a second.”

Aside from the glow, the talismans never had looked too special, anyway. Crude little carvings of a cat head, a star, a dragon, and a lightning bolt. Like an elementary school kid’s art project. They didn’t look as though they’d give any more powers than the Superman curtain they’d obsessively hung by their dressing room for decades. But they had. But they did.

Peter could swear he felt electricity start to course through his fingers. Should’ve been exhilarating. Instead, it was frankly terrifying. He could feel three sets of eyes right on him, expectant. And why shouldn’t they be? He’d been the one to push it, insist that they put their powers to decent use. If he got cold feet now—if he couldn’t even take hold of his own talisman, well—

“Okay, we’ll do it on three,” Paul said from behind him. He was breathing hard right up against Peter’s ear. Nerves as shot as always. Peter had never been quite so grateful for someone else’s terminal case of anxiety. Paul stuck his hand out to the box, Gene and Ace following suit. “One, two, three—”

Peter’s fingers closed around the cat talisman and the world went white around him.

Briefly. Just briefly.

Then he opened his eyes.

He was back in his Destroyer outfit. Every last rhinestone on the jumpsuit intact. The layered, crystal-studded choker, the huge cross necklace, the six-inch platforms. The dry, cloying feel of greasepaint and talcum powder spread across his face, a face that barely had any crevices or wrinkles for the makeup to sink into.

He dropped the talisman back into the box, where it managed a few more pulsating twinkles before the light faded. Then he yanked off his gloves, surprised at his own shock at what he saw. Not the knobby, swollen fingers he was used to. No arthritis or carpal tunnel or tendonitis. Nothing. He felt like he could play a twenty-song setlist the next five nights in a row. He felt like he could do anything, any fucking thing he wanted, bounce back without even the remote fear of injury. Each movement felt crisp and painless. That underlying ache that’d plagued him so much longer than he’d ever confessed to any of the guys was gone.

Peter’s palms were starting to sweat. He shoved the gloves back on, insanely, trying to force an evenness to his breaths that he couldn’t manage.

“Holy shit,” he said, shaking his head. Nothing else really encompassed it. Shit, he could almost, almost understand why the other three had misused the talismans now. So much pent-up energy, he felt like he was high off his own breathing. The urge to laugh, to cry, something, was digging a furrow within him.

Behind him, he could hear Ace cracking up. Peter turned around, slowly, almost as if he was afraid of what was behind him. Which was ridiculous. He’d seen the guys before. He’d seen Gene and Paul the way they used to be just yesterday. He knew all three of their costumes and faces and makeup nearly as well as he knew his own. There was just this weird feeling somewhere in his gut that as soon as he took a glance, the deal was on. Like when they’d signed their first contract. Like when they’d first closed their hands around the talismans in ’73. No turning back.

He faced Paul and Gene first. Unsurprisingly, they both looked remarkably better when they weren’t in the middle of fucking random girls. He stared from Paul’s asymmetrically-painted face, the black star over his right eye, to the nearly-batwing swoops of black paint that spread from Gene’s forehead down almost to the tip of his nose. Then there was Ace, behind both of them, the silver starbursts making his face practically gleam.

He didn’t know how to describe it. Seeing the guys like that. It took him back—it took them all back, decades upon decades. The nostalgia trip of the Reunion Tour hadn’t been like this. Nothing could compare to this.

“You look great, Cat,” Ace said, offering his standard thumbs-up. But there was a warmth, a sincerity to his expression. Those brown eyes held some fondness, maybe. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that look cross Ace’s face for longer than a few seconds. “You ready?”

Peter nodded. Ace kept his hand extended, fist out, hovering in the air. It took a moment or two for Peter to catch on and reach out his fist to meet Ace’s, then Gene and Paul immediately following suit. It took a few tries before all four of them managed to connect for the fistbump simultaneously, but they managed, amid a few headshakes and snorts. Then the room just went dead silent, the four of them just staring deflatedly at each other. The same stupid hesitation that had kept Peter from grabbing the talisman straight off was paralyzing them all again. No, it wasn’t just that. Sure, the talismans could dredge up the true selves of the holders, something Peter was slowly starting to realize was insulting to each of them, but they couldn’t make it ’73 again. They couldn’t put KISS in that old team mindset. That wasn’t part of their magic.

“Is anybody going to say anything? C’mon, somebody pump us up,” Peter said finally.

“I forgot all our catchphrases,” Paul confessed.

--

KISS’ last intense experiences with personal trainers had been over twenty years prior, getting in shape for the Reunion Tour. They’d been expensive, and the overall effect had left a lot to be desired—probably because the routines had been more about avoiding fat Elvis comparisons than strength training. But this time was different. A haphazard blend of Tae-Bo workout videos and P90X DVDs, protein shakes and energy bars, Nordic Tracks and barbells soon littered the entirety of the basement, crowding out the KISS memorabilia that had crept into the corners. Paul and Gene had cancelled out indefinitely on FER, despite being hounded on a near-daily basis by both the girls and the program.

The workouts were the easy part, really. The superpowers were hazardous.

As it turned out, after forty years of disuse, Gene’s firebreathing abilities weren’t much more than enough to light a menorah. Ace’s teleportation had fared a little better—but he wasn’t getting any farther than the city limits of New Haven without an extreme amount of effort. Paul’s eye beam still had great accuracy… and a range of about three feet.

“Can you still do that other eye thing?”

“What other eye thing?”

“Seeing the future.”

Paul just rolled both eyes.

“Ace, I hate to tell you, but most of those premonitions were vague to begin with.”

“I’m pretty sure you used them to bet on Secretariat in ’73. I only remember ’cause you made us all put in for it.”

“Yeah, but that was so we could afford to rent out that ballroom. And the odds were 3 to 2, so we had to put up a lot to get the benefits.” A pause. “See, Peter, we’ve definitely abused the talismans way before the FER thing…”

Peter grimaced but let it go. His powers weren’t in good shape, either. Catlike reflexes, sure, if the cat had been dosed up on morphine prior. The claws were… just okay. Ace had joked about getting a scratching post for him at some point, when a lot of practice was probably the only thing that could improve them. Any of them.

“It doesn’t make sense. We never had to work on them before. The powers were just there.” Peter was staring dismally at his target—a pink rubber head and torso, mounted on a heavy stand—and absently slashing its face up as he spoke. “One day we were at band practice and the next day we were—what was that Superman shit, Gene…”

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

“No, we did better than that, we could fucking fly.” Peter glanced at the other three. “Has anyone even tried that one yet?”

“I’m too depressed with what we have tried,” Paul said dryly. “And I really don’t want to break a leg.”

Ace shrugged.

“I think we just gotta be patient with it, y’know? Maybe it’s a mental block. Maybe we’re putting limits on ourselves.”

“Since when have any of us ever done that? Look, man, we want this. All of us want this.”

“Could be the problem. We’re too anxious, I dunno.”

Not the most satisfying explanation. Gene started digging through his VHS collection for news clips of their crimefighting activities, and they added reviewing the tapes onto their training activities. They were even slowing the tapes down to get the hand movements and gestures exactly right—it was weird; all of it was weird. Copying poses they’d done forty years prior. Even, occasionally, copying catchphrases in an effort to get the proper intensity. It felt kind of stupid. Paul seemed like the only one who’d really get into the catchphrase bit—then again, he’d done the same stage raps for decades without losing an ounce of enthusiasm. Maybe to him it felt like he was pumping up an invisible crowd. Gene, unsurprisingly, seemed to enjoy imitating the poses.

But the only things that always felt entirely right to Peter were the outfits and makeup. Sure, it wasn’t bad, staring at a mostly-lineless face in the mirror before starting the day’s training, just like it wasn’t bad, diving into a punching bag without worrying about arthritis, but honestly, a couple stolen hours of youth were secondary to actually feeling like part of KISS again.

It just hadn’t felt the same over the last five years. Living together, being together—without performing together or crimefighting together. It had been like playing house in a morgue. Not always. Not every day. But the difference was palpable. The occasional jam sessions they’d do in the basement couldn’t compare to how it felt to really be working together again.

Peter was doing a few more chinups out back when he heard the familiar, giddy sounds of Ace’s laughter from further out in the backyard. Gene and Paul had already gone back inside, Gene exhausted after managing to spit about a two-foot column of fire, his best effort yet, and Paul taking the opportunity to volunteer to make dinner. Just as well.

“Pete, Pete!” Ace was bounding over, looking as apt to trip in his boots as ever. Peter immediately let go of the bar. “I got it, I got it.”

“You’ve got what?”

“I’ve got it unlocked.” And a big, goofy grin. “I had to let you know first. You’ll never believe this.”

“You’ve got your teleporting under control?”

Ace laughed.

“Even better. Trust me.”

“You got the shooting lightning with your hands thing back.”

“Better.”

“Jesus, Ace, just tell me, would you?”

“You know how we keep ending up in the Destroyer outfits, right?”

“Yeah?”

They weren’t bad outfits, exactly. They’d been famous enough to be reprised for the Reunion tour. Peter hadn’t ever minded his any, at least, even if the jumpsuit did feature a gigantic bedazzled arrow pointing straight to his crotch.

“I figured out how to change costumes.”

Peter couldn’t bite back a groan.

“That’s what you’ve got unlocked?”

“Hey, it’s great! You haven’t even seen yet! Look, look, which one do you want? C’mon, I’ll let you pick. Love Gun? Dynasty?”

“KISS’ first tour.”

“You’re no fun, man,” Ace retorted, but he nodded, idly cracking his knuckles. For a second, nothing happened. Then there was a flash of blue smoke, and Ace was standing there in the comparatively plainer black leotard, v-shaped chestpiece, corseted belt, and lightning-bolt boots from their first tour, looking intensely pleased with himself. “What do you think? Pretty good, right?”

Peter managed a few mildly begrudging claps, eyes locked on Ace’s waist. Fuck, he’d forgotten how skinny the guy used to be. The corset belt just accentuated it. If Ace noticed where he was looking, though, he didn’t acknowledge it, breathing out a low sigh.

“You’re not excited.”

“Look, Ace, changing outfits is not gonna help us fight—”

“I think it is gonna help us fight.” Ace’s face was scrunched up slightly. “See, I thought about it. Why Destroyer? We didn’t completely quit the crimefighting gig until, well.”

“Until I left.”

“Yeah. And that was in ’80. Destroyer was ’76.” Rocking back and forth on his heels like a Sunday School kid, clearly unused to this costume’s boots, Ace grabbed his arm. “Think about it. What happened in ’76?”

“You got married.”

“Well, yeah, but—nah, c’mon, Peter, I thought you’d get it right off. ’76 was when we came out with ‘Beth.’ When we started getting really huge.”

Peter nodded, still baffled.

“It was the last hurrah before things fell apart, y’know? It was the last time we were really all cool with each other, all four of us. That’s why Destroyer’s what we got stuck with. And I’ll bet that’s at least part of why all our powers aren’t doing so hot.” Ace squeezed Peter’s arm. “We’re in stasis.”

“You think that’s really it?”

“I think we gotta… okay, lemme put it this way. I think we all gotta trust each other more.”

“Ace, we trust each other plenty. You and me, we—”

“Yeah, see, that’s the problem. ’S not just you and me. It’s Gene and Paul, too.” Ace paused briefly, letting go of Peter’s arm. “We always kinda acted like we were on one side of the fence and they were on the other, and—”

“Aren’t we?”

“Uh-uh. Can’t work like that anymore. Four who are one, Pete.”

“What, do you want us all to have some stupid heart-to-heart bullshit sessions?”

Another puff of blue smoke. Another costume change. This one to the loose silver dress he’d worn during the Hotter than Hell photoshoot. Peter stared, shaking his head, but Ace shrugged amicably. “Nah. We’re just gonna swap room assignments. Lemme go tell Gene.”

--

Peter hadn’t shared a bed with Paul since 1974, and every moment spent lying two feet from him now only reminded him of why.

It wasn’t that Paul drooled or snored or anything like that. He even kept his hands and his hard-ons to himself. Peter couldn’t recall ever waking up to Paul sleepily attempting to spoon him. No, Paul just…

Given too much proximity, Paul just got on his nerves. And the feeling was mutual. And the feeling had been mutual, off and on, since about 1980.

It hadn’t always been that way. They used to go on vacations together back in the seventies. Hawaii, France, all sorts of shit like that. Used to spend hours talking on the phone when they weren’t on tour, like high school girls. Paul had almost been some kind of needy but semi-sweet little brother to him, until Peter’s cocaine habit had turned into an obsession, Peter’s song had turned into their biggest hit, and Paul’s fragile ego couldn’t take any of it. That was Peter’s opinion, at least.

KISS’ downward spiral turning into an outright crash landing after Peter’s firing probably had a lot to do with it, too, at least on Paul’s part. Gave him someone concrete to point to as the beginning of the end. Peter hadn’t exactly watched with relish as KISS sunk under the weight of its own leather heels without him, at least not for those first few years—he’d been too busy watching his own would-be solo career implode. At least KISS was still able to release albums, even if their sales were depressing as hell. Half of Peter’s records couldn’t even get a U.S. release.

He and Paul didn’t really talk to each other much the whole rest of that decade. Instead, they’d sniped at each other through the press over everything from drug use to (lack of) musical talent starting in the late eighties, made vague amends just in time for the Reunion Tour, and then… well, then, they’d unleashed their autobiographies on each other and the world like a plague of mosquitos. Committed to print every single instance either of them could think of that made the other one look like a hack, a degenerate (not overly difficult), or worse. Peter liked to think Paul had given him plenty of material with each pre-concert pants-stuffing and his tendency to doodle disembodied, veiny dicks while on tour. Unfortunately, Paul had shot right back with more tales of Peter threatening to quit the band and sabotaging concerts than Peter could count.

The too-accurate-to-be character assassinations didn’t make things tense in the house anymore, but to say they weren’t something they were both still sore about would’ve been a lie.

Of course, it didn’t help that Paul currently had a large, framed poster of himself mounted on his bedroom ceiling. It also didn’t help that the whole room smelled faintly of cologne. Or that there was a clear dent in the wall from those stupid FER extracurriculars of his.

Peter had turned in early, or tried to. Paul had actually seemed amicable, at first, moving a bunch of sketches out of the bedroom and dusting off the nightstand. Confirmation of what Peter already long since knew. Paul still didn’t actually sleep in his own room.

He wondered how Ace and Gene were doing. Ace had always really hated sharing hotel rooms with Gene because of how much of a slob he was, but most of Ace’s animosity towards the guy had been a front at best. Honestly, Ace had always kind of dug Gene, though why, Peter didn’t know. Probably because Gene wasn’t neurotic like Paul or hotheaded like Peter himself was. Probably because Gene was as close to well-adjusted as a rockstar could manage. Gene saving Ace from drowning twice on tour probably hadn’t hurt.

Now here Peter was, lying in bed with just the lamplight on, not sure whether to be looking at Paul-on-the-ceiling or the actual Paul next to him. Ceiling Paul was in full Starchild makeup, of course—with his cheek resting against a blood-streaked guitar, looking doe-eyed and winsome for the camera. Actual Paul was decidedly worse for wear and tear and smelled like toothpaste.

“Why is that even here?” Peter had to point. Unnecessarily.

“Pretty beautiful guy, right?” Paul grinned. “I used to have a mirror on the ceiling back in California.”

“Used to? What, did you start scaring yourself?”

Paul bristled.

“Erin said it was a little embarrassing.”

“A little?” Peter shook his head. “I think the poster’s worse. I got two pairs of eyes staring at me from different directions.”

“Just pretend it’s a threesome. I’ll even do the vocals.”

“Fuck, no. Take that thing down.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I put it there myself—”

“I don’t care. I’m not sleeping with both of you.”

Paul started laughing, and got up, digging around under the bed and yanking out a sketchbook. He tore part of a page out, then wandered off, returning a minute or two later with a roll of tape.

“Cheer up, I’m about to fix it.” Peter watched as Paul stood up on the bed and started taping the piece of paper to his own face on the wall. Peter exhaled, vaguely relieved, until Paul climbed back into bed properly and he realized—

“You left the eyes!”

“Well, yeah, I always thought they were the best part—”

“Paul, you fucking egomaniac! Cover up the whole thing!”

“If you don’t wanna see it, then turn off the lamp.”

Peter had been about to do it, but Paul’s stare on him was so amused that he kept the lamp on out of spite. Paul kind of shrugged and stretched, eyes moving back to the poster on the ceiling before long.

“We’re getting a lot done, I think. I’m proud of us.”

“You’re proud of Gene.”

“I’m proud of you, too, Peter.” He paused. “I am. I’m proud of all of us.”

“Forget it. Every time you force out a compliment, it still sounds as canned as Fancy Feast.”

“Pete, I’m trying here.” Paul shifted. God, he was directing every single comment up at the ceiling. Frustrating as all hell. It just made Peter stare at him all the harder as Paul continued. “I think Ace is right. I think we won’t be able to do any real superhero shit until we fix our relationships.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They’ve been better. You remember when we first talked about moving to Connecticut during that one board meeting?”

“Yeah, ’cause we’d save so much a year on taxes if we were living there instead of in New York.” Despite himself, Peter couldn’t help but laugh.

“We were gonna go all in and buy one house together. But the board shot us down. They said that was too obvious an abuse of a loophole and we’d just pop in like it was a vacation home. Said it wouldn’t fly for state taxes. Thing is, we probably would’ve done it, back then. We would’ve actually lived together, at least sometimes.”

“We’re living together now, Paul, I dunno if you noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Paul was still looking away. At the bookcase now, instead of the ceiling. His voice was softer. “I’m real grateful.”

“You are?”

“Well, yeah.” Paul shifted. “Look, I… I was a mess. After. Shit, I’m still not doing great. If Gene hadn’t come over that night five years ago, I…”

“You wouldn’t have.” Peter swallowed. “Hell, no. You’d never deprive the world of your own face like that. Much less yourself.”

Paul laughed softly.

“Whole lot of good a face does without a family. I was thinking about it. I was thinking, I finally had my life together and now I don’t. Now it’s gone. Now it’s all gone.” An exhale. “Thank God I couldn’t shut my mind off long enough to get out of bed. Much less do anything serious. I just—lay there. Then there’s Gene pulling up to my place and pretty soon I hear him running up the stairs, yelling because I haven’t answered the phone. Says he knows I haven’t disappeared. He throws the bedroom door open, right, and tells me to get my ass out of bed and—”

“And?”

“And get in the car, because we were going to your place.” Paul took another breath. “I ask him, how do you even know Peter’s alive, and he says Ace just updated his twitter and he’s over there with you now. Then he throws me his phone and tells me to text both of you right now and say we’re coming.”

“I barely remember when you showed up.” Paul flinched, and Peter added, quickly, “It’s like you said. I was pretty fucked-up, too.”

“You sure were. When I walked in, you were wrapped up in a blanket next to the fridge.”

“Paul, you wandered around in that stupid blue bathrobe for two weeks. Ace was trying to attach car fresheners to your neck.”

Without turning to look at him, Paul flipped him off. Peter returned the gesture.

“Shit, forget me trying to tell you something important, then.”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to being fucked-up after—”

“Okay, okay, fine. You got me. Anyway, that whole drive over… it was… God, it was horrible. Gene’s not that great at driving and… all those cars everywhere, just crashed alongside. I don’t know how we made it. At first, I kept trying to grab the wheel, can you believe that? I was so sick of seeing everything because every empty car made me think of—”

“I know. I know, Paul.” Peter swallowed. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I do have to tell you. I haven’t told you anything in nearly forty years.” Paul shook his head. His dark eyes were watering up. “Gene had to pull over at one point. He looked like he wanted to smack me. He told me my parents hadn’t fled Nazi Germany and his mother hadn’t survived the Holocaust just for me to try and kill us both. I told him he was a fucking asshole. But after that, I stopped trying to take the wheel.”

Peter didn’t know how to answer, or even if he should try. Part of him wanted Paul to just shut up, not bring any memories of five years ago back. Not to dare. Every time he thought about it for too long, every time he thought about Gigi, watching her fade out in front of him, calling Jennilee, calling Lydia, getting nothing—nothing—he wanted to vomit, even now. He wanted to smash up everything, everything, in a desperate, stupid bid to bring them back, or bring him to them.

He probably would’ve by now. Would’ve been another of those cracked-up hellraisers that’d committed suicide by cop or by mob by the millions, if it wasn’t for Ace coming up to his door, and Paul and Gene following suit only a day later. He could still conjure up Ace rapping at the door, yelling his name. Deep down, he’d known all along that Ace hadn’t disappeared, the same as Gene had known Paul hadn’t. A connection that went past living together on the road for over a decade. A connection that went past friendship and supernatural talismans and into something else. Peter’s throat felt heavy and hot, each swallow harder to manage.

“He saved you.”

Peter heard a sharp inhale of breath from Paul, and then, finally, quietly—

“Gene’s been saving me for fifty years. He still doesn’t realize it.”

“You saved him, too.” Peter shook his head. “You never really give yourself credit for anything that isn’t KISS.”

“I dunno about that.” Paul pointed dryly to the poster on the ceiling.

“Still KISS. Have you ever taken a picture of yourself out of the makeup that you actually liked?”

“Don’t change the subject, Pete—”

“I’m just curious—”

“Don’t be. Look, what I’m trying to say is, I owe Gene a lot. I… I owe you and Ace a lot, too.” He shifted. “I want you to know that.”

“Just the last couple years. I know we’re not in Gene’s category.”

“Now you’re the one not giving himself enough credit.” Paul closed his eyes. “You know, after you guys were gone, I got the same question every damn interview for years. ‘Do you miss Ace and Peter in the band? Do you miss KISS being on top? Do you miss crimefighting?’ And every time, I’d have to say no. And every time, I’d be lying through my teeth.”

“That was always a stupid question. We all missed KISS being on top.”

“That wasn’t all I missed.” Paul hesitated. “I had a better time when it was the four of us than I did with anybody else. Here or onstage.”

“I did, too."

Paul was back to looking at him again, tongue just slightly past his lips for a brief moment, a nervous gesture Peter hadn’t seen out of him in years.

“I’m sorry about calling you a miserable asshole in my book,” Paul said quietly.

“I’m sorry I called you a bisexual pants-stuffer in mine.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Neither were you.”

---

They talked a long time after that. Long enough that Peter forgot to turn off the lamp before falling asleep, and by the time they both woke up and slogged down the stairs, it was past ten and Ace had—actually made breakfast. Gene was at the table scarfing down a stack of omelets three deep. He’d added maple syrup like a heathen, turning the omelets into islands soaking in the sticky gunk.

“Curly,” Ace drawled out, waving with his spatula. “Didja have fun last night?”

Peter had come down in nothing but pajama bottoms. Paul had just tied his bathrobe around his waist. Neither of them had shaven. Both of them looked like they were ten seconds from passing out in their chairs. Peter managed a noncommittal noise that wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy Ace.

“C’mon, I gotta have details, man. Paulie, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Don’t call me Paulie before noon,” Paul mumbled, reaching for his glass of orange juice. “Just give me an omelet.”

“Was it that bad?” Gene, through a mouthful of food. “Ace and I had a good time.”

“I haven’t stayed up past four in probably twenty-five years, unless I was on tour,” Peter managed.

“That’s only because you were smart enough to stop having kids in the eighties,” Paul said with a grimace. “Ace, you’re about to burn—”

“I got it, I got it,” Ace said, flipping the two omelets over, smushing them both briefly with the spatula before dropping one each on Peter and Paul’s plates with a wink. “We’re getting somewhere. I can feel it.”

Peter nodded, then dug into his omelet. Not too bad, surprisingly. Fluffy enough, and mixed in with enough bacon and cheese that the near-burnt exterior was forgivable.

“Costumes and powers and press releases. That’s where we’re headed,” Gene intoned dreamily, gulping down a glass of apple juice.

“We’re going to do a press release?” Peter asked. Immediately, he glanced accusingly at Paul, except Paul looked as bewildered as Peter felt.

“Gene, seriously? That’s a terrible idea. Let’s just approach Stark directly like we’ve been saying all along.”

“Since when does KISS do anything without fanfare?” Gene reached over the table, grabbing the maple syrup, thoroughly drowning what little was left of his omelets. “I’ve been in contact with a couple of journalists. We might get that second Rolling Stone cover.”

“I don’t care about the cover—”

“C’mon, Gene’s right.” Ace was flipping another few omelets as he spoke. One was dribbling and burning onto the stovetop. “We could use the attention here. Make us seem legit.”

“You want to do a tell-all? Demonstrations?” Paul shook his head. “Nobody would believe that stuff out of us anymore. They’d say it was just theatrics.”

“Exactly. They’ll think we’re being tasteless. Or trying to figure out if anyone wants to see us tour,” Peter said, eating another bite of his omelet. Beside him, Paul winced.

“We’re always tasteless,” Gene retorted. “It’s our trademark.”

“No, our trademark is being shills. Well, yours and Paul’s, anyway—”

“Pete—” Gene started again, then shook his head. “Listen. I’m not saying we have to do it now. And I’m not saying it has to be a big deal. But we need to let the public know we’re back, and we better do it soon.”

Soon turned out to be two weeks later. Not even the Rolling Stone cover they’d coveted years ago, either. Instead, all they’d ended up with was a short blurb of an online article. Up top was a vintage photo of them in full costume, posing around New York. Beneath the text was a picture taken just for the article—out of costume, standing with their arms around each other. The peace sign Ace was flashing with his free hand didn’t make the disparity any less depressing.

KISS Makes Up (Once More, With Feeling)

The acrimonious quartet of sometimes-superheroes, mostly-rockstars has been out of the public eye for the bulk of the decade. Best known for their outlandish costumes, Kabuki-style makeup and bombastic shows, KISS’ latest exposure leaves much to be desired. The glam-rocker baby boomers met with Associated Press—customary platform heels of yesteryear swapped for crocs and loafers—right in their backyard.

“Oh, we’re prepping for a final tour right now,” bassist and proverbial face of the band, Gene Simmons, 70, insists with a smile. “KISS is here. No stage needed.”

KISS’ most successful tenure, from ’73-’80, saw an unheralded intermingling of crimefighting and commercialism. “We’d put ourselves on anything,” frontman Paul Stanley, 67, admits. “Lunchboxes, thermoses… I can’t tell you I’m ashamed of it, because the demand was there. And in many cases, it continues to be.” While Stanley’s coy on the numbers, KISS remains profitable enough that the four original members enjoy a luxurious New Haven estate spanning eight acres. Much of their backyard space, however, is reserved for esoteric training. The lawn is covered in holes and debris, and the band refuses to offer a proper explanation.

“Let’s just say we’re getting our game faces on,” is almost all Ace Frehley, lead guitarist, 68, will admit to. “This isn’t just for the fans anymore. It’s for everybody.” Drummer Peter Criss, 73, barely elaborates, “We spent the last five years the same way everyone else did. Then we woke up.”

He isn’t clear on what waking up entails. KISS’ stint as superheroes has long been overshadowed by their rockstar antics and market oversaturation. Poor ticket sales and IRS run-ins forced a return to the makeup and spandex in the late ’90’s and the readmittance of Frehley and Criss to the group, only for the original KISS to fracture again a few years later amid infighting and contract negotiations. But if the destroyed state of their backyard is any indication, KISS is planning something—even if they’re only manufacturing their own smoke bombs.

“What the hell kind of article is this?”

“Luxurious New Haven estate, my ass, Gene. We’re here because of the taxes.”

“I know you didn’t want a big reveal, but shit, now we just look like a bunch of lunatics! Blowing up our own yard… throwing in our ages like we’ve gone senile…”

“They didn’t even mention my spaceship,” Ace muttered.

“They did, that’s the ‘debris.’” Paul closed his eyes. “We spent a whole hour with the guy and he yanks one quote from each of us. This isn’t going to make anyone take us seriously.”

“It’s not supposed to,” said Gene. “It’s just supposed to make them talk.”

“They’re not going to talk! This isn’t like the seventies, Gene! We’re not getting a follow-up interview to explain ourselves! Not unless this really blows up—”

“It doesn’t have to blow up. All we need is the right people reading it.”

Over the next few weeks, there was talk. There were snickers, at least. Peter got the groceries on his assigned day, as usual, with Ace in tow, cheerfully piling twelve-packs of soda into the cart amid the protein powders and energy bars. Ordinary enough, until the teenage girl at the check-out counter a few feet away looked at both of them smugly.

It wasn’t that Peter wasn’t used to being recognized. Despite how defeated the world had become, he’d still occasionally get asked for a selfie, even while doing the shopping. Especially when one of the others was with him. He’d oblige. They’d always oblige. Gene, Paul, and Ace hadn’t toured in five years, and for Peter, it had been even longer. Funny how being as thoroughly away from the spotlight as they’d been made them all way more receptive to what fan reaction they received.

But this wasn’t a typical fan reaction. Those, he could deal with. A guy coming up to him, telling him he’d been sober for five years now, or saying he’d gotten checked for breast cancer because of him, or a girl telling him she was named after “Beth”… all that was fine, even good. Stuff he was grateful to hear. But this girl was different. It was the sneer that threw him, the way she suddenly pointed a finger at them and waved her coworker from the other counter over. She hurried to her, they mumbled something Peter couldn’t quite get at, and then, walking up to them, said—

“We wanna see the holes in your yard.”

“The holes—”

“Yeah.”

Peter looked the girls up and down. He hadn’t been heckled since he’d done his club tours. He never had quite figured out how to take it on the chin.

“Sure. We’ll bring you up there, right, Petey?” There was Ace, abandoning the cart to get a little closer, smiling. Peter shot him an aggrieved look.

“You will? What, in your spaceship?” The first girl snorted.

“Nah, nah, it’s still out of commission. You wanna take my hand, though? Yeah, there you go, you hold hers—”

“Ace, the hell?”

“You too, Pete. Yeah, right, okay—”

Peter realized what Ace was about to do about a second before he saw an abbreviated flash of Ace’s old Destroyer costume and felt his guts try to lurch past his skin. Then all he saw was their backyard—Paul and Gene nowhere in sight, thank God. Peter let go of Ace’s hand as soon as the lingering, nauseous feeling from the teleport passed, indignation spreading like butter across his face.

“What the fuck? Ace, you can’t teleport a couple of kids just because they made fun of us!”

“Oh, my God, oh, my God!” one of the girls screamed, grabbing the other one, who looked as if she was seconds from puking. “Where are we? We’re not on break! We’ve gotta get back to the store!”

“Didn’t you wanna see the holes in the yard first?” Ace sounded as lazily amiable as ever, already pointing at the nearest lawn damage. “I think that one was Gene’s, I dunno how, but—”

“Where’d the other fat, old guy go?”

Ace started cackling and waved his fingers as the girls stared.

“Holy shit,” one of them whispered, stumbling backwards. “Holy shit!”

“Ace, put them back!” Peter yelled.

“Okay, okay…” Ace reached over, offering his hand back to the girls. “I’ll getcha back, just—"

Two cut-off yelps and the three of them vanished. A few minutes later, Ace popped back into the yard alone, bags in hand.

“I got the groceries, Petey.”

“What about the car, idiot?”

 Ace winced.

“I can’t teleport a car, man. That’s a couple thousand pounds, y’know? It was kinda hard just lugging you and the girls, if I’m gonna be honest…”

“Then drive it.” Irritably, Peter dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Ace, who barely managed to catch them. So much for all the training. Ace sighed.

“Pete, sometimes you’re really no fun.” Fifteen minutes later, Peter watched from the window as Ace pulled back into the driveway. He was back in the house before long, out of costume, stepping right into the kitchen where Peter was waiting, plastic bags full of groceries still on the table.

“Why did you do that, Ace?”

“They were pissing you off.” Ace shrugged, then noticed the table. “Hey, you didn’t put up the groceries.”

“I brought them in. Figured you could handle them after that stunt.”

Ace looked as if he were about to argue, but then he just shook his head.

“All right, Cat, I’ll get ’em.” He stretched absently, yanking out a pack of Pepsi. “That shit takes a lot out of you, a couple times in a row like that… I needed the practice.”

“You could’ve practiced with us anytime! Hell, you have!” Granted, the last few times had gotten a bit more involved than Peter might have liked. About a week prior, Ace had teleported himself and Peter both to the dim destination of “as far as he could go.” That destination had turned out to be an apple orchard in Pennsylvania. Whatever else was going on, Ace’s powers were definitely getting stronger.

Peter’s were, too. He’d never had as much to show for them, nothing too flashy about most of what he’d been granted, but he had managed to slice the last several rubber dummies to shreds without much effort. Gene was about to cause infernos now. Paul’s eye beam had mostly gotten its old range back. Peter didn’t honestly know if all that was enough, if it could make them formidable enough for the likes of Stark and whatever was left of the Avengers to take notice, but he hoped it could be.

“I know. Guess it was kinda mean, but… I wanted to try it on someone who wasn’t expecting it, y’know? In case we had to fight somebody and I had to take them out of the area or whatever.”

“Is that why you made us all hold hands?” He’d never needed to before. Proximity was enough for Ace to catch someone else in a teleport.

“Nah. I just wanted them to feel like they had something to do with it.” Ace grinned. “And maybe I wanted to cop a feel off of you.”

“All you did was hold my hand, asshole.”

“Aw, Petey. I had to keep it classy.” And a wink. “… There’s another reason, too.”

“For the hand-holding?”

“Nah, for borrowing the girls.” Ace stuffed a box of protein powders into a cabinet with a wince. “Gene was right about the article bit. But it never was the press that got us started in the first place. ’S always been word of mouth. ’S always been us doing stupid shit like wander around Manhattan in full fucking costume before people even knew who we were. You really think those chicks are gonna stay quiet about what they just saw?”

“Ace, if we end up with a bunch of assholes stopping by the yard—”

“Hey, hey. We gotta play the game. We said KISS was back. Now we just have to prove it.”

[theflashfics]

Steps To Get Over Heartbreak // Ralph Dibny

Pairing: Ralph Dibny x reader

Summary: After four years, your boyfriend has skipped town, and you’re devastated. Who better to take care of you then Ralph Dibny accompanied with icecream and Titanic on DVD?

Warnings: Just fluff, a cute kiss

Word Count: 2286

Requests: Open!

Four years. Four whole years of your life thrown into the wind on the whims of a simple text message. Your dick of an ex had skipped town – no doubt with someone new – and had alerted you so discreetly with a text message that read: Hey Y/N! It’s Jake. I’m leaving Central City. Stay cool. God, you hated that bastard. The text arrived that morning and you couldn’t bear going to STAR Labs where you worked with Team Flash. It would just be painful for everyone, as the team had spent tedious amounts of time warning you against Jake, saying he had a ‘bad energy’, which you dismissed as his demeanour around new people. Ralph, who had joined the team a month or so ago and who you’d become particularly close with, had found him aggravating and, in his words, a ‘massive twat’. Which was absolutely correct, if even you hadn’t seen it then. Which is why you couldn’t turn up to work for him to say, ‘I told you so’. So, in true post-breakup fashion, you were moping in your apartment. There was something poetic about crying and eating copious amounts of icecream. Not. You’d ran out of icecream and tears an hour ago so now you were just an angry puddle on your couch. 

You picked up the tv remote, flipped it in your hands, and ditched it at the wall. You could see why Harry did it – it was rather satisfying. As you picked up a dangerously fragile vase and prepared to throw it when you heard a knock at the door. “Hello? Y/N?” You whipped your head around and put the vase back down. “Who is it?” You asked flatly, trudging to the door and looking through the peephole. It was Ralph, struggling to contain a plethora of icecream and movies in his arms. You rolled your eyes fondly and opened the door. “You know your arms stretch, right?” You remarked, quirking an eyebrow. “This is why you’re the smart one in this friendship,” Ralph groused, stretching his arms to comprise the content he was holding. He walked past you, into your apartment and dumped the icecream and movies onto your marble bench, then turned around to face you. “You look-” he struggled to find the word. “Gross, I know,” you grumbled. You donned a oversized hoodie and sweatpants, and your face was tearstained. “No,” Ralph frowned, “You look sad.” You shot him a dirty look. “No shit, Sherlock. That dickwad of a boyfriend ran off over the rainbow, no doubt with someone else,” You sighed, “And I suppose that’s why you’re here.” 

Ralph gave a sheepish shrug. “I kept tabs on Jake because I knew he was a candle in the wind. A dumbass candle in the wind.” You gave a weak laugh. “And I found out he skipped town, so here I am. I don’t want you to be upset over some twat who doesn’t deserve you,” he said sweetly. You opened your mouth to say something, then closed it again. “Where’s the suit?” You joked, walking up to him and attempting a grin. Ralph was wearing sweatpants and a casual t-shirt, which was a stark contrast to the usual clean cut suit and blazer. “Well, this is all the comfy clothes I have, since someone-“ he looked you up and down playfully –“is wearing my favourite hoodie and sweatpants.” You pouted cutely, “I like them. Plus, that asshole didn’t give me back the clothes that I left at his house. So his ass probably has them in the back of his stupid car. In fact, I bet someone some blondie is wearing my hoodie and sweats! That lying, thieving little-“ “Hey, hey, calm down,” Ralph said, pulling you into a hug. He felt warm and comfortable and smelt of the cologne you liked. “Thanks, Ralphy,” you mumbled against his chest. He pulled away from you and snatched a movie off the bench. 

“I got your favourite,” he grinned, holding up a DVD with Titanic written on it. You groaned in appreciation and seized it off him, gazing at the cover. “Nothing like lusting over young Leonardo to get me over a breakup,” you kissed the plastic case, holding it close to your chest. Ralph frowned. “I thought I was your best man,” he whinged. You looked up at him and smiled. “Leo’s got nothing on you,” you poked his chest, and shuffled over to the couch with the DVD, slipping it into the television and diving back onto the couch, snuggling into the collection of blankets and cushions you had arranged. From the kitchen, you heard Ralph yell out. “What flavour of icecream?” Without a thought, you replied, “Just bring all of them!” You heard Ralph chuckle fondly and bring a selection of icecream tubs and unusually large spoons. He dipped his head down above you and handed you a tub of cookie dough icecream. “You know me so well, Ralphy,” you said approvingly, peeling off the lid as he walked to the television. When he reached the console, he frowned and looked at around the room. 

“Uh, Y/N, why is the remote over there?” He asked confusedly. You just mumbled in response and shovelled in another spoonful of icecream. “Accompanied by the hole in the wall?” He persisted, pointing at the crumbling drywall. You looked over and cringed. “I must have thrown it harder than expected,” you looked at your feet. Feelings began washing over you again and the tears returned. Ralph picked up the remote from the floor and chucked it onto the couch, then taking you by the shoulders and tipping your chin up to look at him. “You really liked this guy, huh,” he said softly. You nodded, bottom lip trembling. A single tear fell down your face, but you wiped it away quickly. “Whatever, he was a dick anyway,” you sighed, “I’ve just gotta get over it.” “Well, luckily,” Ralph said teasingly, running his hand down your arm, “I’ve compiled you your very own Steps To Get Over Heartbreak List.” You dashed into his arms and gave him a quick squeeze, then pulled away. “So, this list. Do tell me the steps,” you smiled warmly. 

Without a warning, Ralph picked you up in his strong arms and threw you onto the couch like a rag doll. You squealed in mid-air but was luckily cushioned by the masses of comfy items you’d piled onto the couch. “Ralph!” You said hysterically, but you didn’t mind at all. “Step one: get comfy.” He grinned at you and threw a fluffy blanket over you. “Step two: movie. Which is Titanic, obviously.” He started the movie, and the familiar beginning of the movie began. “Obviously,” you echoed, snuggling into the cushions, “Even men can appreciate the fact that a large dose of Leonardo DiCaprio is good for any healthy person.” “Step three,” he continued, returning to the couch with you, “Icecream.” You picked your tub off the floor and held it up, showing him. “Check,” you said, eating another chunk off your massive spoon, “And I’ve already got through quite a bit.” “That’s my girl,” Ralph grinned. You felt your heart jolt, which was strange. But you didn’t mind Ralph taking care of you so sweetly. He made you feel… safe. But also confused. What were these feelings? 

“And the next step?” You interrupted your inner dilemma. Ralph cocked his head. “Well, me of course. Your charming, dashing, gorgeous, ruggedly handsome best friend.” He put his hands on his hips and attempted a smouldering gaze. “How modest of you,” you said flatly, but you smiled anyway. He grinned cheekily and jumped onto the side of other couch when the screen displayed Jack boarding the ship. Just as he was making himself comfortable, you pouted and said, “No.” Ralph froze, propping himself up on his elbows. “No?” He quirked an eyebrow. You sat up and patted the space where your head just was. “Come here, Ralphy,” you whined, and he complied. “You’re such a baby,” he grumbled. You held up a finger at him and waggled it. “Be careful, boy. You don’t want to upset the baby,” you said airily. Ralph rolled his eyes, albeit fondly, and flicked his hand at you. You moved over for him and he lay down where you once were. “Better?” He asked, holding his arms out. You nodded in response and yelped when Ralph pulled you down onto him. 

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” you told him begrudgingly. “Oh, be quiet. You love it.” He winked at you. You snorted, then saw the way he was looking at you pointedly. “Shut up,” you stammered, poking his shoulder angrily. “You’re cute,” he stated, poking you back. Your cheeks flushed unexpectedly, and you hid your face in his shirt. “Maybe I am,” you shrugged, narrowing your eyes at him, but snuggled down onto his chest anyway. You felt comfy and safe and warm in his arms and as the movie played on, you put your arms around him. When it arrived at the sex scene, you buried your face in his chest and said, “Leo is so hot.” Ralph laughed and shook his head. The screen showed Rose’s hand slap against the foggy glass of the car and your face heated up. “Damn, that hand always gets me,” said Ralph, engrossed in the movie. “Don’t get a boner,” you grumbled. Ralph snorted. “That won’t be a problem.” You were suddenly acutely aware of how much you were blushing and sat up off his chest, seizing the tub of half melted icecream off the ground. You grinned at the sugary concoction and dug your spoon into it, then shovelling it into your mouth. “Icecream can cure everything, I swear,” you moaned and chewed on a chunk of cookie you found in your spoonful. 

You stole a glance at Ralph and noticed he was staring at you and the icecream. You raised your eyebrows. “Lusting over my icecream, Dibny?” You teased, flicking your tongue on another scoop. “Not just the icecream,” he murmured, putting his hands behind his head. You gazed involuntarily at the way his muscles rippled, and your face grew hot once again. In an attempt to play it off, you took another scoop of the delicious icecream and positioned it over to his face. “Want some?” You said innocently, and as he moved his head towards the spoon you snatched it away and slurped it up with obscene sounds. “You hostile bitch!” Ralph said with mock affront, sitting up and twisting himself around you so you were sitting between his legs. He grasped the spoon off you and took his own scoop of the icecream, moaning at the taste. You scowled, then snatched both the spoon and icecream off Ralph, putting them on a nearby table. “Focus on me, not the icecream!” You complained, pushing on Ralphs chest and pushing him back into his previous position. “You’re insatiable,” he mumbled, pulling you down onto him. You shrugged, then put your head back down onto Ralphs chest, and closed your eyes to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. 

His hand began stroking your head absentmindedly and playing with your hair, and you hummed appreciatively. On the television screen, Jack and Rose dived off the boat. You looked up at Ralph and caught him gazing at you. To him, you looked stunning; raw and tired but gorgeous. You raised an eyebrow at him and he winked, eliciting an eye roll from you. “What’s up, handsome?” You teased, propping yourself up by putting your elbows on either side of his torso. “For someone who was just broken up with, you seem pretty happy,” he remarked. “He was a dick anyway. And maybe it’s because I have my extra special super awesome ruggedly handsome best friend with me,” you said softly, smiling at Ralph from above him. “Don’t fall in love with me,” he joked lightly. Seconds passed, and you found your eyes flicking back and forth from his eyes to his lips. You were just broken up with! You chided yourself, but another sneaky thought popped into your head: Well, getting under somebody else is always the best way to get over a breakup. And Ralph is freakin under me. 

“Y’know, Y/N, I never told you the last step on the list,” said Ralph, trailing his finger lazily up your arm. You took a sharp intake of air and flicked your hair out of your eyes. “And what’s that, Ralphy?” You asked, licking your lips. His eyes were drawn to your lips with that simple action, lingered for a hot second, and travelled back up to your eyes. “Well,” he shrugged, not talking his eyes off you, “I’ve heard that the best way to get over a breakup is to move on fast and… onto someone else.” You laughed breathily, hyper aware of his long fingers making their way up and down your arm, creating goosebumps. “Anyone you might recommend?” You inquired teasingly. “Funny you ask,” Ralph chuckled, “I brought my resumé.” Your hand found his cheek and you leaned into him, pressing your lips against his. His reaction was immediate, and he reciprocated softly. You melted into the kiss and put your other hand at the nape of his neck. You could feel him smiling against your lips. His hand snaked into your hair and gave a light tug. You moaned softly, then pulled away, Ralph lingering on your lips but reluctantly pulling back. “That was… awesome,” you breathed out. He placed one last chaste kiss on your lips and looked up at you, grinning. “If I didn’t have a boner then-“ “Ralph!”

[thesoftdumbass]

Together

McKirk

Tia’s Birthday Challenge

A/N: This ended up differently than I expected when I started out, but I’m still pretty proud of it. It’s got sort of a Princess Diaries 2: The Royal Engagement vibe to it, which I didn’t realize until I was already halfway through writing it haha.

A big Happy Birthday to the amazing, the wonderful, @captainsbabysitter-blog who is hosting this challenge. You’re fantastic and we’re all lucky to have you on our blogs and in our lives 💜💜💜

Word Count: 3.1K

Characters: Jim Kirk, Leonard McCoy, Winona Kirk, Nyota Uhura, mentions of: Spock, John Harrison (Khan), Marla McGivers

Summary: Jim Kirk is a prince, ready to ascend the throne, but before he does so he has to choose a spouse and get married, too bad he’s not interested in any of the people chosen for him. When Jim gets sick and a handsome doctor, Leonard, makes a house call, he thinks his luck may have changed.

masterlist 

Winona Kirk looks across the breakfast table at her son James. He refused to meet her eyes or even speak, other than exchange pleasantries with the staff. The blonde woman lets out a long sigh, putting down her cup of coffee. “Will you please talk to me, son?”

Blue eyes flash up with a hardness in them. “What would you like me to say, Mother? I think I’ve expressed my feelings enough on the matter.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, James. It is the law that you have to be married before you can take over the throne.”

“Can’t you change the law? You are the Queen, after all,” James huffs.

“It takes the votes of all of parliament to change, believe me, I tried, but those old men are too set in their ways. They won’t change unless they believe there is a logical reason for it.”

“What about my happiness? What about the fact that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life ruling beside somebody that I barely know? Or how about setting a bad example for our people by settling for less, doing something that I don’t believe in, and lying about my personal feelings? Are those logical reasons enough?” James’ voice getting quieter by the end of his small tirade, emotion thick in his throat at the thought of being stuck with a stranger for the rest of his life.

Winona’s eyes soften and she speaks gently, but loud enough for him to hear. “I know, Jimmy. I’m sorry about that. I know what it feels like to marry a person that you barely know, just to keep your rightful position.”

Jim looks up from where he’s picking at his eggs, confusion on his face as he recalls the few memories he has of his parents together. “I thought you loved Dad?”

“Yes, eventually. At first we didn’t know what we were doing. We got along well enough, and that turned into a friendship, and from there…” Winona trails off as she thinks back on her relationship with George, her eyes glossy.

A deep sigh escapes Jim’s mouth, “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve been acting like a spoiled child and that isn’t fair to you.”

“It’s alright, son. I haven’t talked about it much, how could you have known?”

The rest of breakfast passed quietly, the subject of conversation staying far from the subject of the argument. The peaceful morning couldn’t last forever though, as today several prospective spouses were arriving. James would have to get to know them, spending hours upon hours with them doing mindless activities, all the while wishing he were far away.

The candidates seemed elegant, nothing too disagreeable about them at first impressions, but Jim wasn’t immediately interested. Maybe the three women and two men were too many to meet at once, maybe they just weren’t that engaging, or maybe Jim was just avoiding making a connection with one of them subconsciously out of pettiness. After all, if he couldn’t find a spouse, he wouldn’t have to get married, right?

Luncheon followed behind an afternoon of walking the gardens outside the palace and taking a tour to view the artwork in the corridors, and after that James was finally given a few moments of peace to read to himself. Sitting in a large chair in a corner of the library, Jim was skimming through an old book that he’s read a half dozen times when he started feeling unwell. Thinking that it may just be exhaustion from a stressful day, Jim made his way to his room and laid down for a nap.

Hours later there is a knocking on his chamber door that goes completely ignored. It takes energy to get out of bed and answer the door, and Jim just does not have any. A few moments later there is a hand on his forehead, Jim barely opening his eyes to find Queen Winona gazing at him with concern.

“When you said you weren’t feeling well I just thought you were trying to get out of this evening’s dinner, but it seems you’re coming down with something.” Jim erupts into a bout of coughs and looks up at his mother pitifully, his throat too sore to speak. “Oh sweetie, it’s okay. I’ll get a doctor to come and see you.”

“Thank you, mom,” is barely croaked out before Winona leaves the room, going to make a call to a physician.

Jim is still asleep a couple hours later when somebody else enters his room, the light clicking on and disturbing his sleep. When a hand checks his forehead he expects it to be his mom again, but the hand is much larger and warmer than Winona’s, making Jim open his eyes in curiosity. Who he finds looking back at him is not his mother as expected, but a man sitting on the edge of his bed.

It’s not somebody that he’s seen before, James can be certain of that. He would have remembered the dark hair, tan skin, and wide shoulders. Not to mention the dimple that shows on the side of his face when one corner of his mouth lifts in a smile.

“Hi,” Jim croaks when he feels he’s observed this man enough to be slightly creepy.

“Hello Prince James, my name is Leonard McCoy. I’m a doctor, I’m here to help you.”

Coughs make their way from Jim’s chest and Leonard opens up his bag, taking out a stethoscope and putting the headset where it belongs. “Can I check that out for you?” A nod is all he gets in return before he’s helping Jim sit up in bed and listening to his lungs.

Doctor McCoy does an examination and asks a lot of questions before finally reaching a conclusion. “It looks like you’ve got the flu, kid. I can give you something to help with the symptoms, but you’ve basically just gotta let the infection run its course.” Leonard gives a dose of medication and makes sure that Jim is comfortable.

“Thank you, doctor,” Jim was able to get out, his voice cooperating with him a little better now.

“You’re welcome. I’m going to update your mom on the situation, I’ll check back in on you after a while.”

When Jim wakes back up a little while later he feels about the same, the medication starting to work. He is able to sit up in bed, the body aches easing off slightly. Jim pushes his back against the headboard of his bed and looks around his room, trying to discern what time, or even day it is. Judging by the darkness outside the window it is late, and Jim has slept since late afternoon but he feels exhaustion in the way he can barely keep his eyes open.

Still studying his surroundings, Jim’s eyes land on the large armchair in the corner of his room that seems to be inhabited. Sitting in the reading chair is Leonard, the handsome doctor from earlier. If he knows that Jim is awake he hasn’t said anything about it, simply reading through what looks like a medical journal under the light of a lamp.

“Hey,” Jim says, getting his attention.

Leonard looks up, slight surprise showing in his eyes when he finds Jim attentive and sitting up in bed. “Hey. How are you feeling, Prince James?”

“I’m alright, and call me Jim. Everybody around here does.”

He got a smile and nod in return before Leonard started to check his temperature, among other things, making sure that he wasn’t getting any worse. Len is writing some numbers down in a notebook when Jim speaks again, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over the room.

“This probably sounds dumb, but this flu couldn’t have come at a better time.”

He gets a confused smile in return. “I won’t pretend to know what you’re talking about, kid.”

“Long story short; I have to get married before I can be coronated. There are five candidates staying here at the palace. I’m supposed to choose one of them to marry so my mother can retire, only none of them are even remotely interesting to me. Honestly I wouldn’t care about being King, it’s just that Mom is tired of ruling, and my brother Sam refuses to lead.” Jim shakes his head and sighs when he realizes that he’s just unloaded too much onto a man that is practically a stranger. “Sorry about that, sometimes I talk too much.”

“Don’t sweat it, Jim, I can understand how that would be frustrating.” A few moments pass as Leonard sits on the edge of the bed. “So can you only get married to one of these five people,” he asks curiously.

“No, it can be anybody I guess, as long as they don’t have anything brought against them. Warrants for arrest, incredible debt, things like that,” Jim shrugs.

“So, student debt from medical school that’s almost paid off, would that count against someone?”

Is he flirting with me? Jim thinks to himself when Leonard smiles and shows his dimples off. And then, he is flirting with me when a beautiful hazel eye winks at him from just a foot away. Jim’s face warms and his cheeks are pink before he can help it.

Before Jim can think up a clever response to that, his bedroom door is opening and his mother is walking in.

“Mom! Hey, what are you doing in here,” Jim yelps just a little too quickly, his blush getting that much darker.

“Can’t I come check on my son?” She chuckles. “You were asleep last time I was in here, I’m glad to see that you’re looking better. Although you do look a little flushed, does he have a fever?” Her question is aimed at Leonard and he shakes his head, a small amused smile on his face.

“No fever, I just checked his temperature. The medicine is doing its job and helping to reduce his symptoms.”

“That’s perfect! That means you’ll be able to continue with your scheduled events for tomorrow. The Duke, John Harrison was asking over you at dinner, you know.”

An image of the man’s cold eyes and pompous smirk flashed through Jim’s mind and he shivered at the man’s stony attitude. Leonard picked up on this and decided to drop him a line.

“Actually, Your Majesty, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Jim may seem better but he’s not yet, the virus is still in his system. It will take at least four days for him to get better altogether.”

The queen huffed not so subtly and bid goodnight to her son before leaving the room, an unhappy expression apparent on her face.

It was hard for him to hold in his laughs at the look on his mother’s face but he managed, at least until the door closed behind her. Leonard chuckled along, his voice deep and sunny at the same time. His amusement doesn’t last long however, as soon Jim is groaning in pain.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Leonard is already checking him over for what could be wrong, concern evident in his voice.

“Nothing, my head just hurts.” Jim groans, putting a hand on his head and rubbing his temples.

Leonard immediately goes to his bag and grabs some aspirin for the pain, giving it to Jim to take along with a glass of water. “Maybe you should go back to sleep, you’ll need all the energy you can get to fight this off.”

Jim just nods, settling back into bed and covering up with his heavy duvet. Leonard picks up his journals and notebooks, placing them in his medical bag before closing it and making his way to the door. “You leavin’?”

Jim’s voice is low, the sound barely reaching Leonard’s ears. “I’m gonna let you get some sleep and I’ll come back in just a little while. Goodnight, Jim.”

“Goodnight, Len,” Jim mumbles, and then he’s out like a light.

The next few days are not as bad for Jim as one would expect, what with having the flu and all. Of course, having Leonard staying in the next room and coming multiple times a day to check on him and keep him entertained is what actually made being sick tolerable.

Their conversations and banter only got more flirty with each passing comment, making Jim feel amazing and terrible at the same time. He was starting to really like Leonard, learning so much about each other and getting along perfectly, but in the back of his mind was always the lingering thought that he is supposed to get married, and soon, to somebody he hasn’t even spoken a dozen words to personally.

That brings them to today. Winona had convinced all of the visitors to stay until the prince got better, and now that he was, Jim was being forced to sit down at a banquet table with all of the guests, as well as several members of the government. One good thing though is that his mother let him invite some friends, including Leonard.

Sitting in the center of the table, so he can get to know the guests, as his mother had urged, Jim was eating quietly and listening to the chatter around him when he felt someone’s eyes on him. Looking up, Jim’s eyes landed on John Harrison who was attempting to ignore the affections of one of the other guests, Marla McGivers, and was staring straight at him.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Jim turns his attention to his friends next to him, Spock and Nyota, who are having a conversation with Leonard. About what, he’s not sure, but he just knows he has to focus his attention somewhere other than the man in front of him that makes him uncomfortable.

Nyota, noticing how quiet Jim is being, decides to ask about it. “How are you feeling, James?”

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and responds. “I’m fine Ny, why do you ask?”

Nyota sends a pointed glance across the table to the man still unabashedly watching her friend. “You don’t look very well, I just thought that maybe you’re still recovering from your illness.”

“I think she’s right, kid. You’ve probably over-extended yourself so soon after being sick. I can walk you back to your room if you want,” Leonard cuts in, picking up on the tension at the table.

Jim nods and excuses himself, telling a short lie to his mom as an explanation. Jim and Leonard walk out of the dining hall beside each other in companionable silence. When Jim starts to turn a corridor in the direction of his room, Len grabs his hand to keep him walking straight and doesn’t let go once Jim has corrected his path.

Jim is satisfied to say the least that Leonard is still holding his hand, although he is a little confused at where they are going. He did say he would walk Jim back to his room, didn’t he? Jim cocks an eyebrow and looks over at Len, his head tilted slightly in question.

Leonard smiles, his dimples once again making an appearance. God, Jim was starting to really love his dimples. “I figured you wanted to get away from the table, but I didn’t want you to be stuck in your room again. You’ve been confined there for almost a week,” Leonard says in explanation.

“Thank you, Len. Not just for tonight but for taking care of me and keeping me company. It’s really easy to be me around you. I can’t do that with just anyone.” Jim smiles at the man next to him and feels his heart skip a beat when he feels Leonard’s hand tighten around his own.

Not knowing or caring where they were going as he was sneaking glances at Leonard, Jim looks up when he feels wind on his face and finds himself in the gardens. Len and Jim walk through the beautiful flowers and budding trees, just enjoying each other’s company and the improving weather. The two of them stop when they reach the center of the walled garden, sitting down on the ivy-covered sides of a large fountain.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Jim just shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t really know what to say. I feel like I’ve already about myself enough for the time being...”

“Well I’m here for you if you decide you want to talk. Anything you need.” Leonard’s’ voice is filled with warmth and Jim can feel himself gravitating towards him, laying his head on one of Len’s broad shoulders.

“Anything, huh?” Jim looks up at Leonard, his electric blue eyes almost glowing in the coming darkness.

“Of course, Jim. I hope I’ve made that clear.”

“I don’t…” Jim searches his words, sitting up straight. “I am not going to marry any of those people. I am going to challenge the ruling that says I have to be married to become King. I don’t want my life to be ruled by somebody other than me. What I want to know is… will you stay with me when I do?”

Leonard doesn’t answer right away, letting his mind think about what Jim is saying. Does he really want Leonard to stay around? Leonard hadn’t let himself think that something like this could happen, instead choosing to remain a realist, but now that him and Jim could be together without having to rush, it sounds perfect.

In the few seconds it has taken for Leonard to think this, his mind coming back with an emphatic /yes,/ Jim’s head has lowered, thinking that the silence was a rejection. Leonard put a hand under Jim’s chin, lifting his head gently to look into his eyes.

“I did say anything, didn’t I?”

A large smile takes over Jim’s face, and it’s one of the most beautiful things that Leonard has ever seen. A matching grin comes over his own face and before he knows it he’s smiling into an affectionate kiss, letting himself melt into it.

The kiss breaks off sooner than expected and Leonard places his forehead on Jim’s, breathing deeply, when he hears something he wasn’t really expecting. A laugh is bubbling out of Jim’s mouth, bright and so full of warmth. Leonard raises an eyebrow in silent question and Jim stops to take a breath.

“You do realize that now I have to tell everyone to go home, right? Mom is going to be so pissed.”

This time Len joins in, chuckling a little when he thinks of what Winona’s anger will look like. The corners of Leonard’s mouth lift up and his eyes gleam with adoration. He leans in and places another, chaste kiss on Jim’s lips. “We’ll do it together, then.”

Post-A/N: So there it is, I hope y’all liked it! If you wouldn’t mind, maybe leave a like and a comment if you’d like to see more from me! And if you’d like to be added to one of my tag lists, please leave your URL on my list HERE 

Permanent tags: @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester @mad-girl-without-a-box @cd1242 @space-helen

Star Trek tags: @bookcaseninja @musikat18 @kickingitwithkirk @shealwaysreads 

[ruffsficstuffplace]

And The AWRD Goes To... (Part 29)

Note: Extra long chapter, before I take a short break to assess other writing projects before the year ends.

An hour earlier, at a house that looked like a combination between a hunting lodge, a field laboratory, and a remote storage facility for old records and equipment, situated high up on the side of a mountain by the town of Hoshiko…

Inside of a large closet turned bedroom, its walls decorated with several Rune Rangers posters; calendars and planners covered in multi-coloured ink and childish doodles; and collectible figurines and manga on shelves, an alarm clock started beeping.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Laying sprawled out on her stomach in her bed, Silsa “Snowie” Schnee groaned, and put her pillow over her head. The alarm gradually kept on getting louder and louder, till no matter how many of her many pillows she packed over her ears, there was no blocking out the sound.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Snowie just groaned, resigning herself to an unpleasant, sleepless morning, laying in the comfort of her own bed. The beeping switched to a pre-recorded message in Nick’s voice, spoken in Vox:

“Snowie, sweetheart, come on: get up. There’s shit to do, love to give and get, and a brand new day to meet, kiddo.”

Underneath her pillow reinforcements, Snowie smiled, but still stayed in her bed in the silence that followed. Her alarm switched to a different pre-recorded message, this time in Freya’s voice, but also spoken in Vox:

“Silsa! Get up, right this instant! You have chores and duties to attend to, and you better be sick, bedridden, or dying for you to be ignoring this!”

Snowie groaned, and started slowly pulling her pillows off her head, throwing them into space on her wall painted in black and yellow hazard lines. When all of them were piled up or otherwise out of the way, Snowie slowly rolled over onto her side, off the bed and onto the waiting carpet below.

Thump.

Sprawled out on her back, she stared up at the Solitan saying on her ceiling, painted a bright, gaudy pink, contrasting with the earthy browns of Mistralian hardwood:

“Good day or terrible day, you will see it to the end.”

She smiled, before she punched the pressure plate just above her head, shutting off her alarm. That done, she rolled over to her stomach, pulled out the items underneath. First, she took out her pill organizer and a water bottle, took her three daily doses. Then, she pulled out a notebook covered in incredibly tough, worn leather binding, opened it and pulled out the pen inside.

She marked three X’s on the boxes next to that day’s date, started slowly going down the list of things she’d written down the night before, before she flipped to the inside of the cover. Among other things, there was a small sliding chart with pictures of her family, and a free space with silhouettes adorned with question marks.

Snowie sighed—red bars for everyone but Whitley. She forced herself to get up, walked over to her door, and reviewed the laminated pictures on it:

Her three prescription bottles.

A journal covered with bullets, of the “firearms” variety.

Clothes, a shirt and a pair of pants, with a plus sign between them furiously scribbled in black marker.

Satisfied she’d assessed all of them, she stepped out of her door, and headed to the kitchen. Whitley was already seated at the table, eating a bowl of Starlight Crusader Crunchies, and reading something on his scroll at the same time.

“Good morning, Whitley!” Snowie said as she stepped up behind Whitley’s chair, hugged him and kissed the top of his head. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Extremely glad it’s the weekend, and I have a two days reprieve from being tossed around in the Thunderdome that is Sanctum!” Whitley replied, looking up from his scroll long enough to smile at her. “How are you feeling, mother?”

“Like complete and absolute shit, as usual!” Snowie chirped happily as she stepped to the fridge, got herself a bottle of ginger ale. “I’m hungover, definitely had too much Steinbier last night, and overindulged in fanfiction shortly thereafter, but hey: at least it’s the weekend for me, too!” she said as she started taking slow, careful sips.

“Any plans for when Akko, Diana, and Ruby come over?”

“Already way ahead of you!” Snowie said, smiling and shooting Whitley a finger gun. “Got the perfect recipes already in mind, just gotta bike to Hoshiko later, get all the prep work done, put most of it in the fridge, then remember to toss the rest of the shit in the slow cooker before I pass out tonight!

“Then, come morning, I only need to toss it in the oven for like half-an-hour or unplug the crockpot, it’s gonna be delicious, and more importantly, it requires the least amount of active input from me possible, which minimizes the chances of me screwing it up!

“Unless Ruby and Diana have serious food allergies or aversions to literally everything I can buy at Hoshiko, there’s no way this can go wrong!”

Whitley put his spoon back into his bowl, and looked up from his scroll once more.

Snowie calmly took one more drink of her ginger ale, and carefully put it back down on the counter. “I fucked up and wrote ‘Sunday’ instead of ‘Saturday,’ didn’t I?”

Whitley nodded. “Yes. Yes you did, mother.”

Snowie began to make a long, continuous noise, starting as a quiet whine, gradually growing louder and louder to a wail of pure anguish, occasionally broken by hysterical sobbing.

Whitley sighed as he put his scroll down. “Mom, you’re going to be fine, we’re going to be fine.”

“No, no we’re not!” Snowie wailed as she started pacing about in the tiny kitchen, her hands gesturing wildly as she spoke. “Ruby and Diana are going to go in through that door, see how much of a fucking disaster this house is, and because we’re the only ones around to handle them, they’ll probably silently promise never to come back here again, and just stay at the inn at Hoshiko if circumstance ever drives them back here!”

Whitley turned around in his seat to look at her, Snowie held up both her palms, before she made the time-out sign. Whitley shut his mouth, Snowie gripped the counter as she took long, deep breaths, in-and-out, in-and-out.

“…We need to clean this place up…” Snowie said as she let go of the counter, noticeably calmer. “Cook breakfast… a socially acceptable one you can offer guests… and I need to bathe, because I smell like beer, ugly crying, and nervous sweating!”

“Okay, that last one certainly is a priority, and the second would be nice, but is the first really necessary?” Whitley asked. “I mean, we’re both exhausted from school starting up again—your struggling to be here all alone all day on weekdays, Weiss’ clearly less-than-ideal first week in Haven, and my being back in Sanctum.

“Not to mention, the limited square footage of this house hasn’t made it physically impossible to get that dirty—our crap’s just more densely packed and space-efficient,” he said, gesturing to one of the shelves and containers close to the ceiling and crammed into the nooks and crannies of the house, all overflowing with random crap.

Snowie scowled. “Look here, you little shit: Ruby and Diana are going to be stuck with Weiss and Akko for the next four years, and we need to—hmnnnn…!” she balled her shaking hands, and took in some more deep, calming breaths, before she uncurled her fists. “… Sit down, like reasonable, responsible adults, and we are going to discuss our response, or lack thereof, to Weiss’ and Akko’s team coming here today.”

Whitley put his spoon back into his cereal, shut off his scroll, and set them both to the side. “You have my attention, mother. Would you like to start?” he asked, spreading his hands open in front of him.

“Yes, yes I would, actually, Whitley, thank you,” Snowie said as she sat in the seat opposite his, pulling out the chair with one hand before she summarily parked her butt on it. “I would really like you to please help me clean up the house and cook a decent breakfast for three, because as you know, I’m pretty usele—“ she winced “--unconfident in my abilities and competence…!”

Whitley nodded. “I understand why you would want my help with this, and I also understand the motivation and the reasoning behind making a good first impression for Weiss and Akko’s teammates, but I will counter with this:

“Mother, throughout all my years of living in this house, I have come to the conclusion that we as a family are totally incapable of keeping any sense of normality, order, or decency for any prolonged periods of time.

“However well we can clean up this house and whatever we can whip up on short notice to give the impression that life here is generally at this level of ‘Nice,’ I am absolutely certain that within the hour of AWRD sans Weiss arriving, all of our hard work will be undone, and whatever positive assumptions or beliefs they had from said first impression will swiftly be totally, brutally erased and readjusted to fit the reality that they will be exposed to later today, and indeed, however many times her other two teammates return here afterward, if they ever do.

“In short: I believe that the effort and the stress of cleaning up and pretending we are even the slightest bit normal is not worth the very, very temporary, possibly even counter-intuitive rewards. Why should we even bother…?”

“Because, Whitley, we need to at least look like we give a shit.”

“An excellent point!” Whitley said, pointing at Snowie. “However, I remain unconvinced, and I am still not yet even partially recovered from the hellish events of this week, and thus will be returning to my cereal and fictional lesbians now,” he said as he pulled his scroll and breakfast back to him.

Snowie scowled and slammed both her hands on the table. “Okay, you know what? Forget it!” she knocked her chair back as she shot up from her seat, caught it and threw it back down to all four legs as she walked away. “I’ll just do this all by myself!”

“I wish you the best of luck, mother, really I do!” Whitley called out, idly shoveling some cereal into his mouth as he returned to his reading.

Snowie ignored him as she went to her “Instructions To My Future Self” file cabinet in the living room, situated just by the stairs leading upwards. She pulled out the master list from the top drawer, found the one for “First Visit By AWRD,” and proceeded to unfold a gigantic flowchart decorated with stickers, symbols, cryptic code, and a system of arrows and nodes that seemed to go every which way.

Snowie flipped it over from the “If Drunk” side on the front to the “If Sober” side at the back, read the slightly more legible and better organized version of the flowchart, then got to work.

She began with the cleaning, picking up empty beer bottles, random junk, and discarded clothes scattered wherever there was space; crusty plates and utensils that had been left abandoned over the week; and all manner of takeout napkins, butcher paper, and obsolete print-outs that were adorned with Snowie’s doodles, writing, and random, sometimes illegible scribbling.

When all of that was shoved into her bedroom, and the door securely braced to prevent any sort of mortifying avalanche if it all spilled out, she went back to the kitchen, pulling out Freya’s homemade cleaning supplies. After strapping on a mask, gloves, safety goggles, and an apron loaded with pockets akin to a military vest, she wielded two modified combat-grade chemical sprayers in both hands, their revolvers gleaming in the light.

“Seal the kitchen, Whitley, mommy’s going on a germicidal war!” Snowie cried as she ran out, putting the safeties off.

“Way ahead of you!” Whitley said, using his scroll to activate the emergency air-vents, doors coming down from the ceiling and sealing off the entrances.

Snowie slid out into the living room on her knees, guns akimbo and firing cleaning solutions loaded with acetic and citric acids, specially engineered and cultivated bacteria and enzymes, her mother’s dirt-and-dust-eating concoctions, and water to make sure the various mixtures weren’t too concentrated.

She got back up on her feet, still firing like mad, spraying thick clouds of disinfectant everywhere, switching firing modes to suit the job: pressurized bullets to shoot up into the ceiling and hard to reach nooks; explosive, short-range gobs to dislodge stubborn stains; and continuous streams to wear down some of the most egregious splatters and spots from who-knew-what from however long ago.

No surface remained uncovered, Snowie’s hands flying every which way and whatever angle she needed to, twisting, spinning, and even bending backwards to eradicate every last stain.

Those that still refused to disappear were quickly set upon with much more dedicated, close-range physical assault with brushes, sponges, and cleaning cloths, Snowie scrubbing as vigorously as it took to eradicate them, the sturdy furniture and materials her parents’ preferred for everything barely affected.

She ran up to their bathroom, pulled out a grenade from her apron pocket. She opened the door, pulled the pin, tossed the bomb in, then shut the door.

Slam.

Shortly after:

Boom.

Snowie waited a few moments, before she opened the door, bluish mist pouring out the crack. She peered in, and satisfied that the bathroom-bomb had done its job well, scrambled up the stairs to the second floor. She was happy that she didn’t need to clean her parents’ room or their indoor workshops/laboratories, but there was still one more massive, difficult job waiting for her:

Her kids’ room.

It used to be a rather spacious guest room for cramming all the people Nick and/or Freya needed to absolutely have in their remote, intentionally isolated home, but now it was cramped with four bunk beds, and an excess of storage and shelving that made it possible to store more items than should have probably been physically possible in that space.

Weiss and Akko’s things were for the most part gone, moved to Haven or back to the latter’s home in Hoshiko, but there were still all the belongings they had had chosen to leave behind, not to mention Whitley and Winter’s possessions.

Snowie calmly sucked in a breath as she flipped open both her sprayers revolvers, tilted the almost-to-completely spent cartridges into her apron, before loading them with fresh ammo using two speedloaders.

She snapped the revolvers back into place. “Let’s fucking do this,” she said, spinning the sprayers in her hands before she holstered them.

Sheets were pulled off. Pillows were thrown out to the hall. Dirty clothing was thrown into the Starlight Crusaders hampers in the corner. Physically printed doujin and manga (Winter’s especially) were put back into their respective bookshelves, and their owner’s preferred method of discrete storage, such as trap doors underneath the beds, camouflaged shelves, or hidden nooks in the ceiling.

Every moisture-sensitive item back into its place, or otherwise sheltered and shielded from potential harm, Snowie whipped out her sprayers, and started fumigating once more.

A minute later, she staggered out of the room, heaving and sweating as she felt her mask’s filters finally begin to reach their limits. She took a brief reprieve by an open window to feel the rays of the rising sun on her face, breath in fresh air, wipe the sweat off her skin, and switch out the air-filters for fresh ones.

She was tempted to look at her scroll, before she stayed the hand reaching into the pocket containing it. “No, Snowie, no...” she whispered in-between pants. “… As soon as you open decantr… it’s all over.” She reached instead to the one with a bottle of water, chugged it, before she shoved it back into her apron, then bolted for the fireman’s pole that was in the center of their winding staircase.

She leaped towards it with a proud grin on her face!

Her outstretched hand missed it, Snowie hit the bar full-force, her aura preventing any physical damage, but not the uniquely unpleasant sensation of accidentally throwing yourself into a solid metal pole.

Tung…!

The pole vibrated slightly from the impact, Snowie’s other hand reflexively gripped it, slowing her descent back down to the living room, still holding onto it as she carefully lowered herself down to her butt, before she let go, fell backwards, and let out a quiet, agonized gasp of pain.

A glyph appeared underneath her, glowing the same shade as Whitley’s eyes, before it exploded in a flash, Snowie’s body now glowing with the slate blue of her Aura. She sighed as she felt the pain disappear and strength flood back into her body.

“Thanks, Whitley!” Snowie called out, still on the floor.

“Don’t thank me yet!” Whitley yelled back from the kitchen. “Akko and the others managed to hitch a ride with Owaka’s airship—he’s dropping them off somewhere down the road, and they’re going to be here any minute!”

Snowie scrambled back up to her feet, spewing the vilest curses she knew in Vox, rapid-fire. “… rat-dicked motherfucker!” she finished as she began to stagger to the kitchen. “I have to get cooking—Whitley, please, just distract them until I can--” she stopped, and sniffed the air. “Wait, are you cooking something…?”

“Quiche, two of them!” Whitley replied. “Better pray neither Ruby nor Diana hate or have severe allergies to eggs, milk, spinach, bacon, and/or nuts, because otherwise we don’t have anything else in the fridge right now!”

Snowie blinked, before her eyes watered. “Whitley: have I ever told you that I love you...?”

“Yes, mother, very many times...” Whitley replied. “Mostly whilst drunk and/or sobbing hysterically, and as always: I love you too.”

Snowie sniffed, before she wiped the tears from her eyes. “I’ll just be sneaking out the back entrance and taking a bath in the river, Whitley!” she called out. “But first, I’m going to have myself a celebratory beer for being fucking awesome,” she said to herself as she reached into a small drawer right by the front door, the empty and full Mantle Steinbier bottles inside clinking noisily.

Snowie picked one up and popped the lid off with a smooth, almost uninterrupted motion; she took a swig of freezing cold beer, shivered in pleasure as she pulled it away from her lips.

Their door rang, a series of different sized bells chiming in a melody. Snowie nearly jumped, shut her front door beer drawer, fixed her appearance in the mirror on the wall opposite it, before she peered out the peephole.

Akko’s smiling face took up the entire view, standing right in front of the door as usual.

Snowie smiled too, and didn’t hesitate to pull open the door. “Hi Akko!” she greeted warmly. Her smile remained plastered on her face as her eyes grew wide. “… Akko’s teammates! Ruby and Diana, right…?”

The two of them were about to smile and greet her back, before all three of them noticed the freshly opened beer in Snowie’s hand, frost still pouring out the mouth of it. Still smiling, Snowie slowly reached for the beer drawer again, pulled it open, put her bottle back in, and closed it, its contents clinking noisily the whole time.

Just then, the short-range communicator by the door activated. “Air-Med to Snowfall, Air-Med to Snowfall: come in, Snowfall, over.”

All of them looked at it in confusion, before Snowie held up her hand to Akko and co, and quietly picked up the receiver with the other. “Snowfall to Air-Med, Snowfall to Air-Med: we read you, but where are you from, and what the hell are you doing here, over?”

“Ōkuninushi Medical, bringing a patient plus guardian back home, Snowfall. Over.”

“Wait, Weiss...? I thought they said she’d be at the hospital for a week, at the minimum…? Ah, over!”

“Doctor’s changed their mind, Snowfall; guardian wanted the early discharge it to be a surprise. Anyway, requesting clearance for landing, over.”

Snowie looked at the others, a mix of expressions on their faces, cast a glance at Whitley looking in from the kitchen with a spatula in hand, before she returned to the receiver. “Circle for five minutes, Air-Med; it’s been a while since we had a landing, getting it ready might be a while. Over and out.”

“Roger willco, Snowfall, over and out.”

Five minutes later, the roof of the house was transformed into a landing pad, sections of it becoming part of the runway or giving way to the sturdy materials that had been folded up inside. The gears, motors, and assorted machinery groaned and churned from lack of use and maintenance, but it was still enough for the airbus to land safely.

“Mom! Whitley!” Weiss cried as she was rolled out to the runway, Freya trailing beside her. The smiles on both their faces stayed as they noticed the three other faces carefully peering out from the trap door that lead out to the landing pad-roof. “… Akko, Ruby, Diana…!

“… What are you three doing here…?” Freya continued, a tremour of nervousness in her voice.

“We ran into an issue with Akko’s studying back at Haven,” Diana replied as she and the others sheepishly climbed out. “We thought we should go back here and study Akko’s old reviewers, try and recreate it once we get back to Haven...”

There was a moment of silence as all of Team AWRD, the other Schnees present, and the paramedics in the airbus all looked at each other.

“Well, this is horribly awkward!” Whitley said, breaking it. “Who wants to have breakfast before we all talk about this later, in private groups, or all at once? I made quiche—bacon or spinach, both with eggs and milk so apologies for intolerance to any of those!

“We can even use Blubbermouth.”

“Blubbermouth…?” Diana asked.

“It’s a plushie we all use when we need to talk about difficult things to each other...” Weiss said as a paramedic continued to wheel her in. “Very useful for things like a conversation we should have had about a certain condition of mine...”

Akko’s eyes widened. “Ah, yeah about that… sorry Weiss, but I kinda… told Ruby and Akko after we met up at the hospital. Just them, though, and we all promise we haven’t leaked to anyone else!”

Weiss’ eyes widened, before she sighed, resigned. “It’s okay, Akko… I would have done the same then if I could.” She sucked in a breath, and looked at Ruby and Diana. “Look, I know Akko probably told you everything you needed to know about it and then some, but I trust you still have questions she couldn’t answer, and, well, I kinda need to explain it myself, too.”

“So… Team AWRD to breakfast, then my room to talk about my Depression...?” she asked, smiling hopefully as she carefully raised her hand into the air.

“To breakfast, then your room!” Akko said, striking a pose.

“To breakfast, then your room!” Ruby said as she did the same.

Diana looked at the three of them, before she sighed, imitated the pose, and then said, “To breakfast, then your room...”

Whitley smiled and teared up. “I’ll moderate,” he said as he wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “It’s the least I can do for that reference.”

The airbus took back off to Mistral, team AWRD and the Schnees headed back down inside for breakfast, then a much-needed talk in Weiss’ room afterward.

Note: There’s the big reveal. Did you guys not notice that the answer was in the AO3 tags the entire time…?

[esrescuer]

And other tales from the intersection of science and airport security Martin J Cohn / University of Florida ED YONG MAY 23, 2017 When Martin Cohn passed through airport security at Ronald Reagan Airport, he figured that he’d probably get some questions about the 3-D-printed model of a mouse penis in his bag. The model is 15 centimeters long, made of clear translucent plastic, and indisputably phallic— like the dismembered member of some monstrous, transparent, 11-foot rodent. One of Cohn’s colleagues had already been questioned about it when she carried it on an outward flight from Gainesville to Washington D.C. She put it through the security scanner, and the bag got pulled. A TSA official looked inside, winked at her, and let her go. She was amused but embarrassed, so Cohn offered to take the model home on the return flight. Once again, the bag was pulled. A TSA officer asked if Cohn had anything sharp or fragile inside. Yes, he said, some 3-D-printed anatomical models. They’re pretty fragile. The officer pulled out two models of mouse embryos, nodded to herself, and moved on. “And then,” Cohn recalls, “she pulled out this mouse penis by its base, like it was Excalibur.” What is this? “Do you need to know or do youwant to know?” said Cohn. I’m curious, she replied. “It’s a 3-D print-out of an adult mouse penis.” A what? “A 3-D print-out of an adult mouse penis.” Oh no it isn’t. “It is.” The officer called over three of her colleagues and asked them to guess what it is. No one said anything, so Cohn told them. They fell apart laughing. In previous years, Cohn has flown with the shin bone of a giant ground sloth and a cooler full of turtle embryos. Just last month, Diane Kelly from the University of Massachusetts, who studies the evolution of animal genitals, was stopped by the TSA because she was carrying what is roughly the opposite of Cohn’s item: a 3-D-printed mold of a dolphin vagina. “Technically it’s not even my dolphin vagina mold,” she says. “I was carrying it for someone.” Other scientists who responded to a call for stories on Twitter have flown with bottles of monkey pee,chameleon and skate embryos,5,000 year old human bones, remotely operated vehicles, and, well, a bunch of rocks. (“I’m a geologist. I study rocks.”) Astrophysicist Brian Schimdt was once stopped by airport officials on his way to North Dakota because he was carrying his Nobel Prize—a half-pound gold disk that showed up as completely black on the security scanners. “Uhhhh. Who gave this to you?” they said. “The King of Sweden,” he replied. “Why did he give this to you?,” they probed. “Because I helped discover the expansion rate of the universe was accelerating.” Anthropologist Donald Johanson has flown with probably the most precious—and the most famous—of these cargos: the bones of the Lucythe Australopithecus, who Johanson himself discovered. In a memoir, he recalls having to show her bones to a customs official in Paris. The man was an anthropology buff, and when Johanson told him that the fossils were from Ethiopia, he said, “You mean Lucy?” “A large crowd gathered and watched as Lucy’s bones were displayed, one by one, on the Customs counter. I got my first inkling of the enormous pull that Lucy would generate from then on, everywhere she went.” Several people have stories about more animate luggage. Jonathan Klassen from the University of Connecticut studies leafcutter ants, and the permits that allow him to collect wild colonies stipulate that he must hand-carry them onto planes. “Inevitably, some poor security officer gets a duffle bag full of 10,000 ants and gets really confused,” he says. Indeed, many animals have to be hand-carried onto planes because they don’t fare well in the cold of cargo holds, (and often can’t be shipped for similar reasons). That’s certainly the case for the amblypygids—docile relatives of spiders with utterly nightmarish appearances—that Alexander Vaughan once tried to carry onto a domestic flight. “My strategy was to pretend that everything I was doing was perfectly normal,” he tells me. Cohn, who’s based at the University of Florida, studies genitals and urinary tracts, and how they develop in embryos. Around 1 in 250 people are born with birth defects affecting these organs, and although such changes are becoming more common, their causes are largely unclear. By studying how genitals normally develop, Cohn’s hoping to understand what happens when they take a different path. And like many scientists, he is working with mice. He recently analysed a mouse’s genitals with a high-resolution medical scanner. To show his colleagues how incredibly detailed the scans can be, he used them to print a scaled-up model, which he took with him to the conference in DC. And because the conference was just a two-day affair, Cohn didn’t bring any checked luggage. Hence: the penis in his carry-on. Scientists, as it happens, are full of tales like this because as a group, they’re likely to (a) travel frequently, and (b) carry really weird shit in their bags. Others were more upfront about their unorthodox cargo. Ondine Cleaver from UT Southwestern Medical Center once tried carrying tupperware containers full of frogs from New York to Austin. At security, she realized that she couldn’t possibly subject the animals to harmful doses of X-rays, so she explained the contents of her bag to a TSA agent. “She totally freaked out, but had to peek in the container,” says Cleaver. “We opened it just a slit, and there were 12-14 eyes staring at her. She screamed. She did this 3 times. A few other agents came by to see, and none could deal with the container being opened more than a bit. But they had to make sure there was nothing nefarious inside, so we went through cycles of opening the container, screaming, closing it laughing, and again.” They eventually let her through.Many scientists have had tougher experiences because their equipment looks suspicious. The bio-logging collars that Luca Borger uses to track cattle in the Alps look a lot like explosive belts. And the Petterson D500x bat detector, which Daniella Rabaiotti uses to record bat calls, is a “big, black box with blinking lights on the front.” She had one in her backpack on a flight going into Houston. “The security people said, ‘Take your laptop out,” and I did that. But they don’t really say, ‘Take your bat detector out,’ and I forgot about it.When the scanner went off, she had to explain her research to a suspicious and stand-offish TSA official, who wasn’t clear how anyone could manage to record bat calls, let alone why anyone would want to do that. So Rabaiotti showed him some sonograms, pulled out her laptop, and played him some calls—all while other passengers were going about their more mundane checks. “By the end of it, he said: Oh, I never knew bats were so interesting,” she says. Many of the stories I heard had similar endings. The TSA once stopped Michael Polito, an Antarctic researcher from Louisiana State University, because his bag contained 50 vials of white powder. When he explained that the powder was freeze-dried Antarctic fur seal milk, he got a mixed reaction. “Some officers just wanted to just wave me on,” he says. “Others wanted me to stay and answer their questions, like:How do you milk a fur seal? I was almost late for my flight.” Airport security lines, it turns out, are a fantastic venue for scientists to try their hand at outreach. Various scientists are said to have claimed that you don’t really understand something if you can’t explain it to your grandmother, a barmaid, a six-year-old, and other such sexist or ageist variants. But how about this: can you successfully explain it to an TSA official—someone who not only might have no background in science, but also strongly suspects that you might be a national security threat? Can you justify your research in the face of questions like “What are you doing?” or “Why are you doing it?” or “Why are you taking that onto a plane?” Cohn did pretty well to the four assembled TSA agents who started quizzing him about his mouse penis. They noticed that the translucent object had a white tube inside it, and asked if it was a bone. It was indeed—the baculum. “I explained to them that most other mammals have a bone in the penis and humans have lost them,” says Cohn. “I do outreach at the drop of a hat, and I’m ready to teach a bit of evolution to the TSA if they’re interested. And they were freaking out.” Eventually, Cohn asked if he was free to go. You are, said the agent who first looked inside his bag. And then: “I gotta go on break, my mind is blown.”

[ozsaill]

Guests on a boat: how our friends nailed it

“Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” When Benjamin Franklin said this, he wasn’t thinking about fitting two families – a total of nine adult-sized humans  – into a 47’ boat that technically sleeps six, for ten days. So why did things go so well when our friends visited Totem in Panama a few months ago? Partly because we already knew how well we clicked, individually and as a group. But also because the Waters family (or to fellow boaters, the Calypso family, because you are known by your boat name) groks sharing small spaces. They’ve cruised on a 28’ Bristol Channel Cutter. They GET it. (pictured above at a historic fort in Panama: our two families plus the crew of Utopia.)

Disclaimer: I’m not going to provide a packing list here. Yes, we do have a standard document for guests coming aboard Totem. It’s partly a checklist directing prospective guests as to how to pack what they’ll need, what to leave behind. It also previews what to anticipate about boat life for everyone to be comfortable on board. (Spoiler: never ever turn on the faucet unless you are using every drop that comes out! THE HORROR of water wasted stuns us all into speechlessness.) Because the packing directions vary based on where we are, what season it is, and what kind of sailing (or not sailing) is expected – the content is customized every time. As I edited our Totem Guest Prep file for the Waters family I kept cracking up while deleting whole sections about life aboard, because thanks to their prior years of experience living aboard and cruising there was very little orientation needed. So, sorry, no checklist: this is about how to be a good guest on a boat.

So, what makes a good guest on a boat?

Mindful of scarce resources

Utilities and the basics of everyday life readily taken for granted on shore (power, water, internet, the ability to refill the snack bin) are constrained resources on Totem. Space, too, is in limited supply. Constrained resources are a big deal on a boat and can be a big challenge for non-boaty visitors. Orientation to what we have (and what we don’t) is in an advance letter to help them prepare for those divergences from everyday life, like the Navy Shower.

I may have thwacked down a faucet turned on to full flow once, which frankly I have to do with my own teens too. But that’s about it. The Calypsos integrated easily because they had awareness, respect, and the needed dose of flexibility to keep things smooth.

Me, Karen (Utopia) and Nica (Calypso)… photobomb by Nica’s son Julian, Niall wondering what the heck we are doing…

Courier service!

Isn’t it amazing how you can have a need, order what you need online, and have it at your door in lickety-split time? I guess it is, but that’s NOT our reality! We may go (many) months. It’s one of the ways in which cruising is good for practicing gratitude and minimalism: when you have to wait six months for that Shiny Thing, you are either VERY appreciative of it when it arrives, or find it wasn’t necessary and skip ordering it altogether.

When visitors come aboard, the understood quid pro quo is that they’re bringing things for us. Possibly a lot of things. I’m pretty sure we told our crew Ty that it was one duffle bag for him, and one for the boat when he last flew to meet Totem in Namibia! Nica and family arrived four months since our last access to “stuff” and the shopping list included everything from quality sketch pads to books to shampoo (one lone bottle thwarted their goal of traveling all carry-on but they didn’t flinch).

Minimizing our cost

We live on a thin budget. When we invite guests, we take care of them, but that’s within the limits of our very frugal life. Gotta go somewhere? Hoofing it or public transport. Eating in a restaurant? An extravagance not to anticipate. We expect to take care of our guests, and we expect them to be OK with the way we live. If we make plans to do anything on shore, we assume we’re doing Dutch and everyone pays their way.

Nica and family went one better. We walked together to find a grocery store near where they met us in Puerto Lindo, Panama, that would cover us during their stay. It was a good leg stretch, with good company, and helping hands to carry provisions back to the boat – and, it turned out, a friend who didn’t let me pay for any of it. Chipping in to cover your part is welcome. Subsidizing the whole grocery stock-up is awesome! Later in San Blas it was lobster from passing dugouts, produce from a visiting boat. They didn’t just cover their share, they lightened the whole burden. This gets you invited back!

Nica in Totem’s cockpit, underway in Guna Yala

Remembering who is on holiday

Our visitors understood that while they’re on vacation, we’re not. (Because cruising looks good, but we still have things to keep up with: beyond everyday maintenance, Jamie’s advising customers about new sails, we have coaching clients to connect and respond to, etc.). Our choice of destination some days had to be Where The Cell Tower Was, not necessarily where the most awesome beach or snorkeling reef or interesting village was.

Nica, Jeremy and family didn’t expect us to be cruise directors with a planned social schedule. We definitely had a more relaxed everyday routine, which was great all around. Their presence ensured seeking out experiences we might have passed on were they not on board. And much of the time they’d figure out a bunch of their own entertainment, whether it was going for a swim, working out on the bow, or reading a book in the cockpit. They had some of their own keeping up to do as well: Nica filmed for her Tasty Thursday YouTube channel I got to peek over her shoulder to learn about the video editing process.

Bee takes time out to paint on Totem’s bow in Portobelo, Panama.

Getting involved

Being an active participant instead of a cockpit potato is a corollary of remembering we’re not on holiday. When there’s something to be done, good guests pitch in. The Waters family helped prepare meals. They did a lot of dishes. They kept our (snug) berth spaces tidy. We shared the everyday load more like one big family than two families stuffed together. When our neighbor had trouble with the watermaker on board, Jeremy went with Jamie to help troubleshoot. They hung swimsuits on the lifelines, kept shoes out of the way (who am I kidding that was easy, we barely wore shoes the whole 10 days!), and were always ready to lend a hand.

Jamie and Jeremy checking sail trim as we sail west from Guna Yala

Being flexible

Our cruising mentors would tell their hopeful visitors: “you can choose the date, or the place, but not both.” This actually isn’t too far from the truth, especially for any longer-range planning. We can hone in pretty well as a date approaches, but often it’s just hard to know where we can be: weather plays with our ability to control planning. Our mentors’ guide is a truism ameliorated with a mix of planning, flexibility, and the weather gods.

Nica and Jeremy’s ideal was to transit the Panama Canal on Totem, a preview for their intentions to bring Calypso through to the Pacific in the future. But as their arrival date approached, it was peak season at the canal and the lag to confirm a transit spot did not match well with the dates on their plane tickets.

We called them with our Iridium GO (yes, you can make calls with it) from a remote corner of San Blas with the news, and some options. They took it in stride, and plans were revised. They weren’t able to go through the canal, but we had a great time cruising around the idyllic San Blas islands instead.

Flexibility is an everyday need, too. Nica sent me a beautiful thank you note after they got back to Virginia. She felt what I did: that despite the fact we believed our odds were good, there was always some chance that packing us all in a small space for a week and a half would eventually create some strain…yet didn’t. She catches the vibe perfectly:

I keep trying to put a finger on what made it so incredible, and it comes back to a couple of things. First of all was the pace. The way we went through the week felt like just the way we like to cruise. Hang out a while, move on when we want to. No need to race somewhere else just because we’d already seen where we are. Need internet? Stay where we are an extra day or two. Want a better anchorage? Pick up and move. Want to see a village, or get onions, or get to access to town? Move. Check weather, make sure we’re not in for horrendousness, and go accordingly.

Kids… going accordingly, off a picture-postcard island in Guna Yala (San Blas)

Lasting reminders

The Calypso crew surprised us with some excellent treats, picked out with thoughtfulness and care for what our crew would appreciate. First, understand that outside North America, maple syrup might as well be liquid gold (I saw 250 ml in the grocery store here – a surprise itself – for $10. That’s not even one breakfast for this crew!). They know we love it and have Vermont hookups. They brought so much we have it in quantity that doesn’t require RATIONING! That’s been YEARS! And chocolate… oh, the chocolate. Many bags of chocolate chips. Nica, I confess to you here, I might have hidden some of the really good stuff for midnight treats while standing watch between Panama and Baja. We have one bag of chocolate chips left (with less than two weeks until haulout time, when the food stores must be depleted before we leave Totem). PERFECT.

We’ve lacked good music on board Totem for a while, and I might have complained about how Hamilton sounds through laptop speakers (not good). They brought (and left) and AWESOME bluetooth speaker which has been a great way to bring music and cockpit movie nights back to Totem. Just about every day I use or benefit from something that they brought and smile remembering their visit.

Totem + Calypso teens digging the April’s Maple… excellent Vermont maple syrup! Photo: Nica Waters

We hope the Calypso family comes back. But even more I think we hope they SAIL CALYPSO this way, and come share an anchorage with us. South Pacific plans may be brewing, and that’s all I’m going to say on that.

You can also read about the Calypso’s experience aboard Totem on Nica’s blog, Fit2Sail!

from Sailing Totem https://ift.tt/2sWE1yr via IFTTT

[type2diabetestreatments-blog]

Ask D'Mine: No Insulin Needed?, Alternative Medicine's Bad Rap

New Post has been published on http://type2diabetestreatment.net/diabetes-mellitus/ask-dmine-no-insulin-needed-alternative-medicines-bad-rap/

Ask D'Mine: No Insulin Needed?, Alternative Medicine's Bad Rap

Need help navigating life with diabetes? Email us at AskDMine@diabetesmine.com

Yup, you guessed it: it's another edition of our new diabetes advice column, Ask D'Mine, hosted by veteran type 1, diabetes author and community educator Wil Dubois.

Alex from Canada, type 1, writes: I was diagnosed roughly 9 months ago. Since then, my insulin requirements have increased every now and then. Last week, I needed 16u of basal insulin in the morning, and from that I work on a sliding scale of rapid on a 15:1 ratio. But in the past two days, I have had so many lows that I didn't take insulin with any meals. Now I've spent the last 48 hours without any basal or rapid insulin. My question is: why?

Wil@Ask D'Mine answers: As I read your email my head starting literally brimming with possibilities. I just love, love, love medical mysteries—this kind of stuff makes my job fun! The top three things that came to my mind were: Custer's Last Stand, prairie dogs, and lazy stock boys.

Bear with me.

Custer first. So, as you're somewhat new to the D-family, this could be a garden-variety case of honeymoon phase. We covered what that's all about in our October edition here; just scroll down to the picture of the syringe and start reading at that point for a refresher on what type 1 diabetes and Col. George Armstrong Custer have in common.

Second, prairie dogs. There's always a remote chance you were a glucose-toxic type 2 misdiagnosed as a type 1. We covered what that's all about in November here; just scroll down to the second question to learn what the pancreas, eagles, high blood sugar, and prairie dogs have in common.

As to the third possibility, it's time to break out a new analogy. Everyone, please meet the lazy stock boy. Lazy stock boy, meet everyone.

We all know what a stock boy is supposed to do, right? His job (or her job, I wasn't dissin' lazy stock girls) is to replenish the stock of goods for sale in retail stores. Done right, the job is much more than just putting boxes of Post-Toasties on the shelf at Safeway, because most grocery items have a limited shelf life. Milk goes sour. Bread gets moldy. Chips get stale. Even beer has a "best used by" date stamped on the can. Or so I'm told.

So a properly trained and motivated stock boy not only re-stocks the shelves, but rotates the stock—placing the newer stock in the back and pulling the older, but still sellable, stock to the front. Oh yes. And the stock boy is also supposed to pull stock off the shelf that's past its expiration date.

That's actually a pretty complicated job for one that pays minimum wage. At night. Which is why it's so easy to get home with your groceries and find you just bought sour milk, moldy bread, stale chips, and un-drinkable beer. Milk, bread, chips, and beer, of course, make up the now-retired My Food Square Nutrition System. (Wink).

And this has, what, exactly, to do with diabetes?

OK. Now all of you. Get up. Go to the bathroom. Look in the mirror. Be honest with yourselves. Are you lazy stock boys and girls?

That's right. All your diabetes meds and diabetes stuff are like milk, bread, chips, and beer. It's only good for so long, and you and you alone are responsible for rotating the stock.

Alex, I see that you take 16u of basal insulin per day. Well, more correctly, you said last week you needed 16 and you had been titrating up. That tells me that a few weeks ago you were probably using even less.

So I gotta ask, when did you start using your current vial of insulin? 'Cause at 16u a day, a vial would last you sixty-two and one-half days. The problem being, of course, that once you pop the top it's only good for thirty days. You might have been injecting sour milk for thirty-two and one-half days.

Now, of course, insulin's useful life can be stretched. It's really not like milk, good one day, vomit-worthy the next. But it can lose its potency pretty quickly. If you were titrating up insulin that was spooling down, and then popped open a fresh one, you might have effectively over-dosed yourself, leading to the chain of lows. Maybe I could be clearer: if you're increasing doses of insulin that is getting weaker every day, then you aren't really titrating to your body's needs; you are titrating to the reduced action of the aging insulin. When you open a fresh one, WHAM! You have a boat-load more insulin than you need, and, to make matters worse, it's a 24-hour-action insulin.

My advice to everyone who uses little enough insulin that a vial or pen won't be empty in thirty days: get a sharpie out and write your own expiration date on the bottle or cartridge.

Then no more lazy stocking!

Jay from Nevada, type 2, asks: Why are medical associations against "alternative" medicine? My current doctor seems to think it's all snake oil.

Wil@Ask D'Mine answers: Fish oil has been absolutely proven by Western Medicine to lower cholesterol. I'm sure it's only a matter of time before the benefits of snake oil will be scientifically demonstrated as well.

But seriously, there's an interesting history behind the attitude of many modern docs towards the universe of alternative medicine. And that history isn't very old because, frankly, modern medicine isn't very old either.

Here's the story: Many of the practitioners of modern medicine would have you believe that Western Medicine traces its roots directly back to Hippocrates in ancient Greece. Nothing could be further from the truth. Our current tradition of Western Medicine, commonly called scientific medicine on the inside, really only goes back about 200 years to the early 1800s. At that time, in fact, scientific medicine was just one of a large pack of competing medicine systems to choose from that also included homeopathy and chiropractic medicine. Hard to believe now, but back then, the medical system we all take for granted today was a barely respectable trade, not well-regarded by much of anyone, and frankly, as likely to kill you as help you.

Then, in 1846, a rag-tag medical rabble formed the forerunner of the American Medical Association. This organization became the enforcer of scientific medicine over the years, using both fair means and foul. Don't get me wrong, the AMA's done plenty of good, and continues to up to this day; but its early mission was to simply put everyone else out of the medicine businesses.

They came damn close to doing it, too.

To their credit, however, they also cleaned their own house while trying to evict everyone else from it. Don't forget that in the mid-1800s anyone could call himself a doctor; there was no accredited system of education or government licensure in place. Dentists had better training than doctors at the time. But by the end of the 1800s the AMA had successfully lead the charge to require a license to practice medicine in every state in the Union. In the early 1900s they took on initiatives that effectively overhauled medical schools, bringing them, literally, out of the dark ages.

But the AMA was also focused on the survival of the fittest, and went to great lengths to stamp out the competition: alternative medicine. Remember that at the time, alternative medicine included just about all the other guys in the field of medicine. You can read more details about the battles between the different "camps" of medicine in Jon Queijo's entertaining book Breakthrough.

To this day, there are many bone-headed died-in-the-wool white coats that're suspicious of everything that doesn't smell like science, a legacy of the AMA's work. In fact, most medical schools today teach the latest incarnation of Western Medicine, called Evidence-Based Medicine, that requires any therapy to be validated by clinical studies before being used in the health care trenches. That said, many modern docs are taking a longer view. A more open view. The sum total of what we do not know overwhelms the sum total of what we do know. A few medical schools are now teaching something called integrated medicine; and I've even seen doctor's referrals for acupuncture. So the times are changing. I don't think that would have happened in 1950. Or 1960. Or 1970. Probably not even in 1980, either.

Doctors, once banned from even associating with chiropractors by the AMA, now will send patients to them. Medical massage is widely recognized. Diet and exercise remains a valid therapy for type 2 diabetes—that's a pretty non-medicine approach, if you think about it.

Scientific medicine has a great many strengths, but it does tend to micro-manage illnesses. It tends to single out symptoms and attack them. It sometimes ignores the person in purist of the illness.

Alternative medicines, on the other hand, while ranging from blatant quackery to highly effective treatments, tends to be better about viewing the person as a whole. And I mean that in the widest possible way: not a whole collection of cells, and organs, and systems; but rather body, mind, and soul. And that's why alternative medicine is rapidly regaining popularity after two centuries out in the cold.

Personally, I don't think alternative medicine has all the answers, but I know that scientific medicine doesn't either. I believe that we can intelligently blend various approaches. But we can't be kooks about it either. If you want to drink cactus juice to lower your blood sugar, be my guest. Just don't stop taking your prescription medications in the meantime.

As to your doc, you're not married to him or her (well, you could be, but I'm assuming you're not); if you think your doctor is closed-minded, go shopping for a new one. Just be sure to check the expiration date to make sure his/her attitudes aren't sour, moldy, or stale. Those damn lazy sock boys are everywhere!

This is not a medical advice column. We are PWDs freely and openly sharing the wisdom of our collected experiences — our been-there-done-that knowledge from the trenches. But we are not MDs, RNs, NPs, PAs, CDEs, or partridges in pear trees. Bottom line: we are only a small part of your total prescription. You still need the professional advice, treatment, and care of a licensed medical professional.

Disclaimer: Content created by the Diabetes Mine team. For more details click here.

Disclaimer

This content is created for Diabetes Mine, a consumer health blog focused on the diabetes community. The content is not medically reviewed and doesn't adhere to Healthline's editorial guidelines. For more information about Healthline's partnership with Diabetes Mine, please click here.

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