#the idea came to me this morning

[netherzon]

Fichi secchi

Forgive me, I have no idea if this is in character at all. Actually I’m pretty sure it isn’t. It’s based loosely on a story my grandmother told me about my own family when they were immigrating. Supposedly my great-great-grandmother really did try to smuggle a bunch of stuff into the U.S. and did get detained for many hours, and they still didn’t get the figs, and somehow I turned that into a 3000 word Ita-siblings fic

also I did maybe an hour of historical research tops for this please don’t base any of your understanding of the early 1900s immigration process on this, second also I implied the Roman gods actually existed just roll with it

There was excitement all around her as they finally sailed past the famed statue. Ten days of sailing was practically nothing for someone like her, but there were many human families traveling on the boat, and their relief was palpable. She watched mothers and fathers comforting their seasick children, promising that it would be over soon. 

Almost everyone on the boat had come out to see Libertas in her patinaed glory. They ooh-ed and ahh-ed, and told their children how she was a Roman goddess. Felicia was a little less impressed, but she remembered the real thing. Even Francois wasn’t old enough for that. His design felt like a cheap imitation. She would’ve told him so if he’d bothered to ask her, but he also would’ve cried about it. That’s probably why he didn’t.

She smiled fondly when she saw her anyway, if only because she could feel her people around her celebrating in their hearts.

She still hadn’t decided if she wanted to see America (the personification) on this trip. They had been cordial in the past, but they didn’t often have a reason to speak to each other, and some of the things she’d heard in the last couple of decades concerned her. Whether or not he was really trustworthy mattered a lot more now, when she and her brother had only just been united, and suddenly Romano ran off to live with somebody else. Someone only a couple hundred years old. Someone they hardly knew besides the stories other European nations told about him. The ones that made him sound more like a myth. Felicia was too old to fall for the positive ones, and Italy was not powerful enough to ignore the bad ones.

At least she didn’t have to decide yet. She’d made it clear to her brother that she wanted the first night of her visit to be for family. The rumors about America’s appetite she found completely believable. She wouldn’t have a problem with that under any other circumstances, but she didn’t want to share the gifts she was bringing for Romano. They were small enough as it was. There were limits to what she could hide in her skirts.

The size of the items, that is. Not the number of them.

As they pulled into the docks and the inspection officers came aboard she smiled more widely. Her skirts were heavy, as heavy as her whole suitcase. The more she thought about it the more she realized how tired her legs were. Now that the path to land, and her brother who she could cajole into carrying her things for her, was visible, she was as eager to get off the steamer as everyone else. 

While they were being split into different lines she searched along the docks. Romano had a habit of being late. Felicia did too, but she didn’t decide when the boat arrived. If she was forced to be on time, her brother should be too. A little bit, she hoped that he would want to be. That he had also missed her, maybe.

The line moved forward. She kept looking, eyes bouncing more rapidly between people in the crowd that had come to greet their ship, until—

“Papers, miss?”

She turns to the two men in front of her. One of them is young, barely 18 looking. The other is middle-aged, in that hazy portion of a human’s lifespan where nations as old as Italy have a hard time telling their age. They’ve seen too many humans look too different at the same time. After a point, she doesn’t trust anything about their aging to be consistent, “Oh, I’m not here to stay, only to visit my brother.”

Their expectant faces don’t change, “We still need to see your papers, miss, for the record,” one of them holds out a gloved hand.

She doesn’t even bother to hide her eye roll, “I miss the days you could row your boat anywhere, and if anyone was waiting for you on the beach you could just stab them,” she grumbles as she digs through her belongings.

She doesn’t wait to see how the humans react to her words. She misses the look the young one sends the other man, and how the other man shakes his head. Don’t ask, his face says. The younger one accepts this. They both shake their heads, mystified.

Women, the young one thinks to himself.

Catholics, the older one thinks at the same time.

“Aha!” Felicia exclaims, and straightens, clutching the piece of paper her government had given her specifically for this journey. She hands it to them, triumphant. The young one brings out a notebook. 

“And you said you were here to visit your brother?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s his name?”

“Romano Vargas.” (it was last time we spoke)

“Where does he live?”

“Here in New York City.” (More or less)

“Well,” the older man turns to the younger one, “that’s all the questions I can remember. Did we miss anything, Junior?”

Felicia puts on the sweetest face she knows when Junior glances at her. It makes him blush, “I, no, not that I can think of, Mr. Miller sir.”

Mr. Miller seems highly amused by Junior’s embarrassment, which Felicia is thankful for. The less attention on her, the sooner she can leave, and the less likely they’ll be to find the goodies she’s smuggling into the country.

“Alright then,” Mr. Miller turns to Felicia, and she makes sure to smile as brightly as she can, “it seems you’re free to go, miss,” he emphasizes with a pointed look towards Junior and a distracted tip of his hat in her direction. She nods back politely, relieved, I’m so close.

She reaches down to pick up her suitcase—

Clunk

Something shifts in her skirts. She can feel a bottle swing against her knee before knocking against the deck.

There is activity all around them, but absurdly the noise seems to echo. Junior and Mr. Miller look at her questioningly. She makes the mistake of freezing, too. Now there’s no way to pretend the noise didn’t come from her.

She lowers her face again. Curls of her hair partially obscure her eyes. 

“Um,” she says, worrying at her lip, “it's, this is embarrassing,” she can’t meet their eyes, “I have a wooden leg, you see, sirs. There was an accident when I was young,” the noise didn’t sound like a wooden leg on a wooden deck, anyone with enough experience would be able to tell. Hopefully they won’t have that experience. 

She glances up to see them pitying her.

Mr. Miller sighs deeply, “So that’s why a young lady as beautiful as you is still unmarried, the world is so cruel sometimes.” Junior looks heartbroken. 

She nods along. Pretends to hide her face some more in shame. Her mind is made up now. She is going to see America on this trip, and when she does, she’s going to slap him. 

That’s the last thought she has before she straightens up, and the sack of pistachios she had hidden in a false pocket in the third layer of her skirt spills out onto the deck beneath her. It attracts the attention of other officers on the deck, but not enough to draw them over.

Out of all of them only Junior seems genuinely surprised. Mr. Miller just pinches his nose, mutters something about “why is it always the pistachios? I’m allergic to pistachios” before grabbing Felicia’s suitcase and marching down the gangplank, convinced that she has no choice but to follow him now that he has all her belongings.

Junior doesn’t even move. His face is pale. His eyes are painfully wide. Felicia shoves as many of the loose nuts as she can in her pockets, then turns to him with concern.

“What’s the big idea? You look like you just watched me give birth live on deck,” she huffs.

“Did you??” is his incredulous response. 

She’s going to slap America twice.

She sees her brother for the first time at the end of the gangplank. She greets him from a distance with a huge grin, and he crosses his arms with the usual grumpy pout, no doubt expecting her to run and hug him, and he’ll pretend not to like it. That’s what they usually do. Sometimes she even believes he really isn’t happy to see her.

Moments like these ease her fear, as Mr. Miller blows a sharp whistle to tell her to keep moving. Romano’s grumpy face is replaced with actual confusion as she points, and then turns in the opposite direction from him.

There is a small building down the dock that Mr. Miller is waiting at. It isn’t until they are inside, down the hall, and into a different office that she thinks to throw any of the things in her pockets to her brother, before they get confiscated. She had carried them on her person for a full week, had modified all of her clothes to have hidden pockets for everything that made her homesick when she left Italy, but when it counted the most she let it slip through her fingers. The pile of things they discover grows, and the feeling of failure with it.

It takes two whole hours for them to search her luggage and her clothing. The pistachios they take. The bottle of olive oil and the olives they take. The Marsala wine and marzipan and ceramic pine cone she’d visited Sicily to get, they take. The soppressata they take. 

She’s most distressed when they discover the bottles of sambuca she’d kept in a false compartment in her suitcase. She had to get Ludwig’s help designing it, and to do that she had to find a “not-smuggling” reason why she wanted a hidden compartment. She had to lie to her friend and tell him she was embarrassed about the inspection officers seeing her underwear, and now she didn’t even get to give the sambuca to her brother.

It takes another two hours for them to question her.

She wants to find the indignation to vow to slap America three times, but at this point she’s just tired. 

Romano is sitting, leaning against the building when she finally makes it out. He jumps up when he sees her.

“Felicia! Are you okay?” he asks frantically. His hands clutch her shoulders tightly as he looks her over, “Did they hurt you? I swear if they hurt you—”

She waves a tired arm, heavy carrying the thick coat she brought to protect her during the journey over the ocean. “I’m fine, fratello,” she manages to smile a little too, something she’s proud of, “just take me to wherever you’re staying, I want to put all this stuff down finally.”

Her brother doesn’t look convinced, but it’s useless to argue with her. She holds out her coat in an obvious manner.

“This is when you’re supposed to offer to carry my things for me,” she teases.

Romano narrows his eyes at her, and grabs her suitcase instead. Which is fine. They both know that’s what Felicia was asking for. Romano just likes to be contrary.

“So,” Romano begins on the walk over, “I know you said you wanted tonight to be family only,”

“I don’t like where this is going…,” Felicia warns.

Romano waves a dismissive hand at her, “Don’t worry about that, I didn’t invite Alfredo.” 

Felicia blinks. She hasn’t heard Romano use America’s human name before.

He continues, shrugging sheepishly, oblivious to her surprise, “but I figured we have more family than just the two of us…”

Romano stops suddenly and walks up the steps to a building on their right. It’s plain bricks, with the fire escapes slinking down the side like many of the other buildings she’s seen so far. It doesn’t particularly stand out in the landscape, but then Romano turns to her, and the smile he has on his face is so sweet, and so rare. If this place makes her brother so happy, then she loves it a little already.

“It’s nice to see you again, sis” he says, before he throws open the door.

Inside is warm, and full of life. Felicia immediately smells at least five different things cooking. There must be twenty or more people talking, drinking, moving in and out of the kitchen, as Romano raises his voice to full volume.

“HEY!”

When everyone turns to them Felicia suddenly realizes. The humans all have tears in their eyes, as though she was their sister, too. They couldn’t possibly know why they feel that way about her, but she does. She knows. There are tears in her eyes too.

“I told you my sister was coming!” Romano puffs up proudly, and the room bursts into another flurry of activity. People come up to hug both of them. Everyone is speaking and smiling and laughing.

“You took so long, we thought you got lost!”

“It’s good you’re back, you’re just in time actually!”

“And why didn’t you tell us she was so pretty?”

“I told you she has a boyfriend, Antony,” Romano says.

“Yeah, an I got a wife,” Antony shoots back automatically, “don’t mean your sister ain’t cute.” He spreads his arms wide to demonstrate his innocence.

Small talk continues from there. How’s your wife did that cousin ever find a job my nephew has a new girlfriend “but he’s embarrassed to tell his parents, isn’t that adorable?” Aunt Giana smiles at everyone squeezed in around the too small table.

There’s food from all over Italy, and so much of it there isn’t room for their plates anymore. They have to balance them in their laps as they eat. It is then that Felicia relays the story of her morning. The things she had planned on bringing as gifts. How many pockets she had sown into her clothes to hide things (18). They laugh along at her deception, they boo Mr. Miller and Junior when she is found out.

“Protestants,” cousin Sofia rolls her eyes, her twin sister Claudia nodding along, “whoever heard of a little cured meat hurting anybody?” 

“Wellll, I can think of some meats…,” Claudia pauses significantly, and laughs when her sister swings an elbow at her in retaliation.

Everyone is stuffed by the time dessert rolls around, but the atmosphere is comfortable. This feels like the most she’s ever seen Romano smile. Felicia is usually a happy person. It’s not difficult for her to find things to be grateful for. 

But some kinds of happiness are transcendent. 

While their human companions are distracted by some other in-joke, she leans towards him, voice low to avoid prying ears. There are a million things she thinks about asking. Is this why you left? Were you lonely at home, even with me? Is there any hope you’ll come back soon?

In the end, she decides against all of them.

She wraps an arm around Romano in a half hug, the kind that’s open and affectionate. “We should do this more often,” is all she says.

Romano doesn’t lean away, and she knows he agrees.

They sit like this for a moment, absorbing the atmosphere in the room. The bonds of love they can feel between and for their people. When Felicia does pull away, it is only so she can announce one last surprise.

“Anyway!” she interrupts the room. Romano looks up at her, confused. She grins. It’s not the gift she would’ve picked, if she’d known she could only have one, but it could have been worse too.

“I know I told you all that they confiscated the gifts I wanted to bring you, but” she holds out a hand, and everyone leans in with anticipation, waiting as she roots around in the mess of fabric she’s wearing for her contraband.

“THEY DIDN’T GET ALL OF IT!” She holds up the small bag of dried figs as triumphantly as Libertas holds up her torch. 

Everyone cheers with excitement. It’s not much for all of them to share, but they’ll make due anyway. Someone grabs a plate and a knife to cut them up. Someone else brings out the wine, the kind they save for only the most special occasions. 

It was the best half of a dried fig she’s ever had.

Omake:

"You’re sure you’re okay?” Romano asks again later, while they are sitting out on the fire escape.

“Si si,” she says, “those guys are very bad at their jobs. They didn’t even notice I have a dick.” She turns to her brother, grinning widely.

Romano leans against the fire escape’s railing and raises an eyebrow, “Oh? I’ll tell Alfredo they deserve a raise then.”

Felicia throws her head back and laughs. Nobody passing on the streets below even glances in their direction.

“Hey, do you think he’d be able to get that stuff back?”

“Maybe?” Romano holds out his hands, “If they haven’t thrown it away. But even then he’d have to go get it himself, and by the time he comes back he’ll have sampled all of it.” In the dark its hard to read his expression, but Felicia doesn’t hear the bitterness she would expect from him in those words.

She’s feeling warm enough from wine and figs that her own response is fonder than she intends it too, “Will you let him know if he eats any of it on the way over, I’ll slap him three times instead of two?”

Romano doesn’t miss a beat hearing that his sister already has two reasons to slap his new boss-friend-roommate-possiblylover-thing, “I will, but he’ll just say—” Romano imitates America by standing up straighter and smiling with all his teeth “—‘seems fair, I accept your terms’ and do it anyway.”

Felicia stands up straighter herself. The wide smile is less unnatural on her face, “Seems fair, I accept these terms,” she gets a snort from Romano in return.

“You just want your salami back,” he says before he really thinks about the words coming out of his mouth. It’s a struggle, but Felicia holds out on laughing until she sees the realization appear on her brother’s face.

“The soppressata! I mean the soppressata!” he backpedals, as Felicia bursts into uncontrollable laughter.

[nounaarts]

When you’re in a costume competition and these two pull up

[afewproblems]

Give me Steve, Eddie, and Robin at a bar on a Friday night.

They've had a few drinks, and a shot or two when a song comes on, and Steve immediately jumps to his feet with an, "Oh shit!!"

It's Madonna's Get Into the Groove and for a moment Robin and Eddie think Steve is in pain, that he hates the song as is going to ask the DJ to change it.

Except Steve waltzes onto the dance floor, right into the center.

There aren't too many others dancing, it's early still, barely nine in the evening but the spot lights are on and the DJ flicks on the multicolor strobe as Steve parks himself on the dance floor.

Robin laughs and wishes she had brought the disposable camera instead of leaving it in her junk drawer at home.

Eddie meanwhile rolls his eyes, and pretends not to notice the tightness of Steve's jeans or how the light catches the flecks of gold in his hair and eyes.

He's been attempting to hide his pathetic little crush for awhile now, complaining to Robin every chance he gets when Steve does something particularly charming or handsome.

She tells him, as sagely as she can muster, to grow a pair and do something about it already.

But how can he, Steve was, well, Steve...lovely caring, hot as hell, Steve.

What chance did Eddie have?

So he sits there, miserable, nursing his beer, letting his eyes trail after Steve while Robin giggles beside him.

They've never seen him dance, it's bar, they're drunk, the worst that could happen is he makes an ass out of himself and they all go home with a great new story to tell the party later.

God Robin really wishes she brought her camera with her.

But then Steve is moving and he's fluid, never missing a beat. It's some kind of choreography, intentional and practiced movements that wouldn't be out of place in a music video. Eddie and Robin look at each other because, what the fuck, where did this come from??

And people are cheering and whooping, strangers scattered here and there sitting off of the dance floor. There's a sense of comradery, like they're all witness to something and being allowed to share and indulge in this little impromptu performance, but all too soon the song is over and Steve heads back to his seat with a small round of applause and a blinding smile pulling at his flushed cheeks.

"Steve, what the fuck was that??" Robin blurts out before Steve can even sit. Eddie nods, a little dazed, beside her and tears at the paper label on his beer bottle, maybe if he can keep his hands occupied he can keep them to himself.

"What was what?" Steve breathes out as he hops onto the stool beside them, Robin in the middle.

Robin's mouth falls open as her face scrunches into something exasperated but fond, "What was--that! The dancing!"

"Oh, that," Steve huffs with a lazy smile, he leans his elbow on the sticky wood bar and waves at the bartender to signal for another gin and tonic, "I used to help Carol with her choreography for cheer".

Eddie pinches his thigh below the bartop and chews the inside of his cheek as the image of Steve in the Hawkins High cheer uniform begins to solidify in his minds eye, fuck.

Robin elbows Eddie without looking, somehow reading his mind, and throws her hands out, beckoning Steve to continue because that isn't nearly enough information.

"Yeah, she'd come up with routines and you know, they are meant to be done with more than one person, and I mean she and I were friends before Tommy so," he shrugs and smiles at the bartender as they pass him the drink, "I dunno, it was fun, and I remember that one the most".

"Plus," he says with a smirk, "Carol always said the best thing about dance is that you can tell who appreciates the performance and who appreciates the person doing it," he winks as Robin scoffs and calls him gross, but Steve isn't looking at Robin.

Eddie swallows as molten heat creeps up his neck and over his ears, the urge to hide his face, run for the door, melt into the floor, is immense.

But Steve doesn't move his gaze, he smiles softly at Eddie and winks again over Robin's head which she promptly drops into her hands.

"I'm surrounded by horny idiots," she grumbles but the words are muffled in the din of the bar and her own hands as Steve tips his head back to the dance floor and holds out his hand for Eddie to take.

[duskerot]

i disappear inside myself / my friends don't know it can't be helped

[Pure You - Nothing But Thieves]

[hetalian-veteran]

*wakes up in a cold sweat at 2am*

Okay but a Hetalia/Da Vinci Code crossover with aph Prussia as Silas.

[piratekane]

(post-3x05 kacy scene)

Warm fingertips press down against the thin skin on the inside of her wrist, a melody she knows that she knows but can’t quite place in the early grey of the morning, the sun rising, muted, through the low clouds outside the window. She was asleep a minute ago and there’s a dream quickly fading away as her eyes open slowly and the room shifts into focus.

“Morning,” Kate whispers, still sunken in her pillow.

“G’morning.” Lucy pulls the words from the back of her throat like she’s pulling cotton from a cattail. “Time s’it?”

Kate doesn’t roll over to check her phone. “Early,” she guesses. “Too early for our day off.”

A day off. A present for her jungle excursion, courtesy of Tennant. A whole day to let her body come down from the high of being chased through thick vegetation with a life hanging delicately in her hands. Lucy lets her eyes close again and sinks back into her pillow. She goes back to focusing on Kate’s fingers looped carefully around the wrist between them. Tap, tap, taptap. Tap, tap. A song, then. One that she knows but can’t quite place.

“Is that Boot Scootin Boogie?”

Kate exhales a short laugh. “Taylor Swift.”

“Who else would it be?” Lucy feels the bed shift as Kate slides a little closer. She can feel the soft heat coming off Kate’s bare arms and wants to reach for it, pull it back over her, close her eyes and slip back into sleep for just a little bit longer.

It was a long day yesterday, her nerves pulled to their breaking point. When she stepped over the threshold to their apartment, the weight she had been working so hard to push off came crashing down on her. She doesn’t remember tasting the pizza Kate ordered, doesn’t remember picking Love is Blind on the TV or queuing up where they left off. She doesn’t remember brushing her teeth or turning out the light.

She does remember Kate’s body warm behind her on the couch, her own body pressed to Kate’s front as they sat wrapped up in each other. She remembers Kate’s arms and how they wrapped low around her waist in bed and held her tightly. She remembers soft lips to her bare shoulder and I love you against her skin as she let the exhaustion take over.

She remembers the Kate of it all, the steady and warm and loving presence she’s come to need like oxygen in her lungs. She remembers the overwhelming feeling of love—one she thought she’d never find in a million years.

“I could sleep another hundred hours,” she admits, eyes still closed.

She feels Kate’s smile against the back of her hand. “You can. We have nothing planned today.”

The thought is so tempting. She could pull Kate’s arms around her, drape them over her like the light comforter they’re sharing, and let herself sink back into sleep. It’s not too far off; she could reach for it and be asleep in moments.

But Kate is awake and tapping out a Taylor Swift song against her pulse point and that usually means banana pancakes and a Golden Girls marathon and pressing Kate against the counter edge and kissing her until either their lungs start to burn or the pancakes start to smoke. Lucy loves those mornings and the way Kate tastes like the bites of bananas she snuck before mixing them into the batter.

“Did I dream yesterday?”

“Only if we were having the same nightmare.” Kate’s free hand pushes back some of Lucy’s hair. “Otherwise, it was real.”

Lucy slides her foot forward, curling her ankle around Kate’s calf. “I thought so.” She opens one eye, studying Kate’s profile. She’s committed it to memory by now. “I feel like a truck ran me over.”

“It did,” Kate murmurs. “That very much happened.”

Lucy sighs. Yesterday wasn’t a dream. She can see it vividly in her mind and she closes her eyes against it again, trying to fill it with Kate—Kate so close and so warm.

“I’m not ready to talk yet,” she admits. She isn’t. She can’t. She’s still working through her family in her own mind; she can’t possibly put into words what they’re like and what they’ve done to her and to each other.

“We don’t have to talk.” Kate’s voice is soft and genuine and Lucy thinks again—again and again—how lucky she is. “We can just lay here. We don’t have to do anything at all.”

Lucy knows Kate isn’t lying. She knows Kate won’t push and she won’t prod and she’ll let Lucy set the pace for when and where and how. And it sounds perfect—a whole day in bed with Kate and their bodies pressed close together, hidden away from the world.

But someone told her to live her life yesterday. Someone who had the courage to throw theirs to the wind and start over from scratch. Someone who proved that there are still good people in the world who want to do what’s right for the sake of doing the right thing. And even if she can’t talk about it yet, even if she’s not ready to unlock the ugly parts of her past and lay them out on the table, she’s not going to lay in bed all day and let the world just pass her by.

“No.” She opens both eyes, staring deeply into Kate’s brown ones. “Let’s get up. We can make pancakes.”

“Banana or blueberry?”

“Both,” she says, feeling greedy and not caring. “And bacon. And toast. And—“

Kate laughs. “Okay. Remember we can only eat so much.”

“I can eat so much. I’m from—“

“Texas, yes.” Kate laughs again and leans in, kissing Lucy softly and pulling away too soon.

Lucy thinks about chasing her, pressing her deep into the mattress and not stopping until she has to come up for air. But she settles on letting Kate pull away and slide out of bed, pulling her hair up into a ponytail that exposes the long line of her neck. In her thin tank top and her soft shorts, no one has ever looked more beautiful than Kate does right now.

Lucy may be holding some things back, may be keeping some things close to the vest, but this? This she wants to scream from the rooftops. This she wants everyone to know. This she wants to tell Kate.

“I love you.”

Kate looks back over her shoulder, a smile on her face that threatens to break through the grey clouds outside their window. “I love you too.”

Live your life, Lucy Tara.

Lucy smiles as she gets up and stretches her arms above her head, feeling the tension break in her shoulders. She is going to live her life. She’s going to take every moment and hold it tightly in her hands. She’s going to love Kate with every part of her that’s capable of it and when she’s ready she’ll tell Kate everything she wants to know.

“Lucy?”

Lucy looks up. “Hmm?”

“I said, we can make toast too. If you want.”

She thinks about it for a moment before she smiles. “Life is too short to skip the toast.”

Kate rolls her eyes, pulling the sheet back up on the bed. “Where did you read that?”

“That’s a Lucy Tara quote, free of charge.” She winks when Kate laughs and scrubs her hair back off her neck into a bun. “There’s more where those came from, by the way.”

“Lucky me,” Kate grumbles, still smiling.

“Yeah,” Lucy says softly. “Lucky you.” She holds Kate’s eyes for a moment. “Lucky us.”

Kate’s smile slips into shy before she clears her throat and gives the neatly-made bed one last pat. “Lucky us,” she echoes. She slips out of the bedroom and heads towards the kitchen, humming something under her breath.

Lucy watches her walk away and thinks: this is a good life. This is a life worth living.

She follows Kate.

[neztune]

Halloween Pranks

(I was trying to make a cuter doodle for a Halloween post, but the crack brain cells ate my brain)

[jimjamjomjum]

Goku and Gohan (with inspiration from Naseer Pasha’s design for flavor)

[ndostairlyrium]

I think I'm less disappointed with the finale than others because I was there for the me3 finale debacle lol

The bad part is that me3 finale made sense. It was just um, straight up one of the worst ideas they could ever think of, but it made- sigh.

Here you have like, the perfect build up, the stakes are me2 level of "if I fucked up during the pt my friends are gonna pay the price", and closure with your companions. However it's contradictory asf, it forces you to break immersion and, in the wrongest moment for a rational thought makes you say "wait, why are we back to step 1? what about the bli- aw the lost elf theme ;; hold on, why aren't you bringing up the things that has been repeated nonstop via super long expositions throughout the game?? MR. MORRIS COME BACK, CONFUSE ME AGAIN"

It's gorgeous, but it doesn't make sense, and then it does, and then it doesn't again. I am confusion

Back in my days (lmaooo) we got an apology and a 2gb free dlc called "extended cut" that was like this meme

but it did patch only a few things. The finale stayed there. Immutable

and we only had to presume what went wrong during development, but then we all saw the artbook and agreed that maybe there were interferences from above and that the real treasure was the friends we made along the way and that would die horribly if you had 50% or less of reactivity that you could raise only by playing the multiplayer and those who were playing the game on a console had to spend money to gain access to it

Yeah, I don't think they're good at finales. "But at least"

[que3rduckling]

NICHE CROSSOVER TIME!!!

What if William Wisp (JRWI) somehow got transported into Gotham City? This Black-Haired, Blue eyed, detective, superhero, came-back-from-the-dead-and-is-sorta-still-dead kid. How fast do you think Batman would adopt him? I give the kid about a week tops

Please consider this:

William, in his Whisper Outfit, doing some detective work out in Gotham so he can figure out how to get home

Batman watching him from on of the rooftops in Gotham: Hm

Nightwing, who is beside him on the roof top: Bruce no.

Batman: ….

Nightwing: Bruce.

Batman: ….

Robin, who been with Batman the whole time hee been monitoring this boy this he arrived in Gotham: Father please. There are far too many imbeciles in our family we do not need more.

Batman: ….

Nightwing, sighing: we can’t deal with his adoption addiction alone. I’m calling for back up *starts to text the batfam gc*

—-

William, glancing around: Why do I feel like there is someone watching me with the intent of adoption?

(I’m aware everyone’s problay ooc I just needed to let my idea out)

[wexhappyxfew]

what about feral bucky for the prompt: “If you even THINK about touching him/her/them, I’ll kill you.”? there's no way he isn't crazy protective like that

HI FRIEND!!!!!! thank you SO MUCH for sending this prompt in because i in fact couldn't help myself with protective/feral bucky who is heavily prevalent throughout the entire piece. protective bucky gives me OXYGEN and it seems to do a little something to kennedy, too. i definitely took an angstier route with this, but i had fun crafting this and molding some of the deeper discussions, so PLEASE ENJOY!!!!!! kennedy x bucky enjoyers -- please enjoy this treat!!! :D

you worrying about me?

(a/n): hi friends!! we have a kennedy-focused prompt with hints of kennedy x bucky and our good navigator friend, bessie carlisle :) we get into some darker themes here but nothing is talked about in detail. mostly just for in terms of writing the actual prompt. AND -- we have the symbolism of upside down roses here and i found out they can mean 'rebellion' and no doubt, they are referenced here. so please enjoy!! :D

"'Morning."

Kennedy looked up, her eyes flashing to the pair that was sitting down across from her, sleepy and half-awake.

Bucky Egan had never seemed like much of a morning person to her but it was her second morning here (to which she was waking at 0500 at this point from fear and nightmares) and he was yet again sitting across from her as the sun rose outside, the pinks, blues and oranges beginning to careen across the cold horizon and black silhouetted trees.

"Hey." Kennedy whispered, curling the blanket further around her body on the bench, "Sleep well?" Bucky settled and leaned up against the table, ruffling a hand up in his hair that was in 10 different directions from sleep, and he let out a sigh.

"Okay." he said with a nod, looking to her gaze and clenching his jaw, "Yourself?"

"Okay." she told him with a shrug and he quirked his head sideways at her and lifted the corner of his lip, "What's that look for?"

"Okay?"

"I mean, half of you snore and being alone in the middle of Germany for a week isn't exactly the most comforting thing to put you to sleep. So." Kennedy said quietly, "Okay. Not the best." Bucky watched her in the stillness of the dark morning and slowly nodded.

"What happened out there?" he asked her, voice low.

"Where?" She was almost defensive in her question, building up her walls, locking the doors, hiding away. She always did this. Her brain couldn't do. Get her thoughts out. In front of him.

"Germany. Few days ago." Bucky asked her, voice low, nodding at her, "Something happened."

"Nothing happened." Kennedy shot back, suddenly feeling guilty at the defensive stance she'd taken.

This was Bucky.

Bucky Egan.

He was just looking out for her safety.

All the guys were.

As the only one of the Silver Bullets girls to have shown out of the four that had bailed-out, they took on the protective forefront stance almost immediately.

"Sorry."

Bucky waved her off, clearly not perturbed by her small moment of bitterness.

"Can't blame you," he said, leaning forward again against the table and looking over at her with a small smile, "had a German breathing down my neck, pulling me outta some river. Walked through a town, attacked by civilians. Thrown on the back of a truck like dead meat." Bucky stared at her. "It's fucking sick." Kennedy watched him and clenched her jaw, a sudden yearn to hold him overtaking her.

"You got attacked?" she managed out, the thought of Bucky, a Major in the USAAF, being led by Germans through a town and freely attacked because he was now a prisoner. And they just let it happen; and he no doubt fought back helplessly. The thought tore at her heart a bit.

"With knives and pitchforks." he said with a grimace of a grin, "Real medieval, huh?"

"Were you okay?" she asked him, eyeing that bruise underneath his eye, that scar along his brow, that look in his eye, her cheeks flushing, "I mean, obviously, you're sitting here but…"

"You worrying about me, Farley?" he asked her quietly, but not in a really sarcastic or teasing way.

No. He was looking at her desperately; achingly. No, he was genuinely asking her, staring at her in such a purposeful way that she was sure if she hadn't just woken up she'd be much more aware of the way he was looking at her and what he was saying.

"Uh, yeah." she answered, staring at him, "I was your waist gunner. I'm not a stiff exactly. I have some level of emotional awareness about myself." The corner of Bucky's lip grew upward as he watched her. "What?"

"It's just me, Farley." he said quietly, regarding her with a look that seemed far from what it meant to just look at someone normally, "What happened out there?"

Kennedy watched him that morning in the darkness of the dawn, swallowing uncomfortably as her palms slick with sweat, her forehead dotted with perspiration suddenly. She looked to Bucky.

"Just….stuff I don't really want to think about, to be quite honest." she said quietly with a nod, before stiffening up, "Did they interrogate you, too?" Bucky seemed to grow still at her words, his eyes glazing over in a way that made her brain stutter and her mouth part the slightest bit. Evidently, they had.

"Yeah." Bucky said - quick and short, "They did." She grew quiet.

"What'd they ask you?" Bucky asked her next, seeming to fill in the question in her mind that she wanted to ask him. She pulled the blanket up more around her shoulders and sighed a bit, looking down at the table where her half-empty canteen was sat. She needed to do something with her hands, she couldn't just sit here and let what was going on in her mind takeover. She grabbed the canteen and took a shaky sip and looked towards Bucky again. He was looking at her suddenly more worried than he had been previously, his brow furrowed and narrowed all at once, leaning more across the table, watching her like she had just mentioned something that had upset her.

"Shit I didn't feel like talking about." Kennedy said quietly this time, "About Captain Faulkner. Lieutenant Bradshaw. Silver Bullets." Kennedy clenched her jaw, and felt the grip on the canteen tighten, hand growing numb as she reached up to swipe her ginger hair behind each of her eyes with her free hand. Bucky watched her with that persistent look.

"I didn't say a goddamn word though." Kennedy said, her voice dripping cold, "You should've seen the way they were looking at me. Like I was a fucking pile of clothes on the ground. It was pathetic." Bucky clenched his jaw, unflinchingly watching her gaze still.

"I told them I was a Lieutenant, you know?" Kennedy said quietly, "They never addressed me as such, just my name." Kennedy shivered. She remembered the aching of her body as she was led inside that room, sat in that chair, with two Germans on either side of her, gripping her biceps until her skin was screaming. The interrogator staring her down, watching her like she was nothing, tilting his head and smiling stiffly. 'Tell me about your time with the USAAF.' As if they thought she was letting them kill her here, like this was the end of the road for her. Were they sorely mistaken. 'Might I inquire about a certain Captain B. Faulkner - KIA? And a current Lieutenant A. Bradshaw? MIA?' Kennedy shut her eyes.

"Kennedy Farley. Lieutenant. O-499716." Kennedy said quietly, "Over and over." Kennedy's eyes looked to his.

"They knew where I was born, where I lived. My parents' names." Kennedy said, her voice shallow, as she stared at him, willing that in some way he would just shut her up so she could stop thinking about this.

"Kenny-"

"Boston, Massachusetts. Born to Belinda and Andrew Farley. Only daughter-"

"Kennedy." Kennedy snapped her mouth shut, her eyes meeting his again. Someone was shifting in their bunk, there was more orange infiltrating the sky behind Bucky's head outside of the windowpane and there was a distance ringing somewhere past the building.

"You hear that?" Bucky asked her. Kennedy slowly nodded, feeling catapulted back to when she had first entered the camp - stumbling in, limping, her bum leg somewhere behind her, as she frantically, in silent prayer, willed for someone from the 100th to step in front of her and tell her it was going to be okay. She remembered that ringing - almost like the bell in the B-17 to bail - she remembered the ringing of the entrance alarm that went off when new POWs were brought in. It rung around in her head like a free bird, instead trapped in a cage, with every touch a reminder of the sound of that bell.

"New POWs?" Kennedy said, her voice distant, "At 0530 in the morning?" Bucky stared at her.

"I'm going." she said, standing to her feet, pulling the blanket off, being careful to step past some of the creaky floorboards that littered the place (and no doubt by now, between the two of them, others would no doubt be waking up), but she tried her best to stay quiet.

"I'm coming with you." Bucky said and she heard him stand up from the table and come up behind her, "No way you're going alone." Kennedy looked over her shoulder in the threshold of the room and watched Bucky in the illuminated darkness and caught his gaze.

There was something about this morning that felt different about the Bucky Egan that was standing here now - with the way he was looking at her, the way he was standing so close to her side that she was sure if she tripped he'd be there to reach out and hold her up. If she reached out, she could nearly brush her finger across the palm of his hand. Kennedy blinked.

"Thanks." she said, a little breathless, then managed a small smile, "My knight in shining armor." Bucky grinned almost immediately at that, like a dog who had just been tossed a bone. He chuckled.

"Highest honors from Lieutenant Farley herself." he said, and her heart skipped a beat.

Even if it was just the littlest things - hearing Lieutenant Farley from his lips showed her one thing.

Even in her ramblings, he'd been listening.

And Bucky Egan hardly seemed to be a listener - he talked.

A lot.

But knowing he listened to what she had said?

Kennedy's heart pounded inside her chest as they stepped into the hallway, that ringing alarm still going outside, Bucky shutting the door behind them. They walked side by side, Bucky's presence something she would always feel comforted by. He was so…..large. In more ways than one. In height, his broad shoulders - God, what she'd give to hug him and bury her face away in his being.

Kennedy realized she was in fact standing there, thinking about his bare, broad shoulders was something she would've apologized to God about back home. But in a shit hole like this, small mercies were all they had. And the idea of Bucky was one of those.

Stepping outside, the alarm bell was much louder and so was the cold. It was in her ears on the wind, all over her face and nose, making her shiver just at the contact and for a moment, she considered turning around and going inside.

But then, her heart stepped in. Annie, Margie or Bessie could be coming in at this very moment, terrified out of their minds. And Kennedy had felt that. And she didn't one a single one of them to have to feel what she felt.

Kennedy wanted to be right there to pull them out of the turmoil and the fear and the salty sea. She wanted to tell them that for now, they'd be okay.

Her and Bucky began trekking across the open area of dusty land towards the gates, side by side, their arms brushing each other with intermingled bits of warmth gathering between them as they did so, hands shoved deep in pockets, chins tucked down in A2 jackets, hair waving in the wind, noses red and eyes watery.

It was quite a miserable sight, along with Bucky's slightly bruised eye and the cut on her cheek. In a way, she felt better knowing she was going forward right now with Bucky right there beside her though.

"Hey….Kenny." Bucky said quietly from beside her, causing her to look upwards and catch his eyes in the early dawn, the colors reflecting in his dark brown orbs, the darkness of the night behind him, the morning in his hair and on his chapped lips, "They didn't try anything did they?" She could've guessed that the question was coming - it was war time and she was both a woman and the enemy. Kennedy watched him right back.

"No." she said quickly, "I would've broken their fucking finger if they tried, you know that."

"Good." Bucky said quietly, his voice tight and firm all at once - he seemed evidently pissed off as well. Not at her, but at the current unfolding changes of the time. Which she didn't entirely blame him for.

They both grew quiet as they neared the gates in the early morning, a few bits of sun rays peaking over the edge of the treetops now, reflecting off windowpanes, MP40s in German hands and barbed wire.

Everything was dull and dreary as they watched the new group of POWs enter inside. Aimlessly looking around, staggering on two things they called legs, uniforms scruffy, dirtied and covered in a mix of blood and mud, scars and bruises littering the exposed bits of skin, and their eyes soulless - long gone to what their current state of life was.

"You think they made it?" Bucky asked from beside her as Kennedy watched a few guys struggle by, holding up someone between them, groaning and grunting with exhaustion to keep him leveled and awake.

"They had to." Kennedy said quietly, "And I know that Annie Bradshaw. She wouldn't go down without a fight." She didn't have to look over at Bucky to know he was grinning. She heard him give a chuckle before her eyes caught on something in the midst of the group, her entire body stiffening, all her senses quickly growing alert. She couldn't control it - not even at 0530 in the morning, not even when she felt like death herself, not even with the level of exhaustion, fear and depletion she felt.

"Bessie!" Kennedy was yelling, shoving past Bucky suddenly at the sight of Silver Bullets' navigator, her heart soring in a way she hadn't felt in over a week - the sight of one of her own, of someone she'd been through everything with. Someone who had always been there.

"Bessie Carlisle!" Kennedy came tearing around the edge of the second set of gates, standing at the edge, cupping her hands around her mouth, "Bessie!"

There in the midst of the group, staggering and alone, was Lieutenant Bessie Carlisle - a horrendous split lip, a black and blue eye, scraps on her cheeks, her body wilting away, her form hunched, arms crossed in front of her chest in an attempt to hold herself up and her body barely moving properly as it was, it seemed.

Her pants were covered in dried blood, her boots caked in mud and her top was torn in various areas exposing bloody welts and skin underneath and no doubt her freezing body.

Kennedy didn't care if the Germans would lose it, if she was going against it all - roses upside down were for the thrill of it all. She pushed forward through the mobs of POWs entering the camp, moving around people, avoiding the zombie-like bodies that shuffled by.

And finally when she was in Bessie's line of sight, she stopped and watched as Bessie met her gaze, frozen there in the midst of the group.

"Kenny?" Bessie managed to whisper out, her voice hoarse - it sounded like she'd been crying and screaming, "Kenny is that you?" Kennedy's eyes welled with fresh tears, as she felt her face scrunch uncontrollably like a small child again.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Cry. Cry. Cry.

And Kennedy stepped forward, delicately pulling Bessie right into her arms. To be quite honest - they were both sobbing. Something about the fact that in all this world, the waist gunner and the navigator of Silver Bullets had found each other - because no doubt they had thought the others were dead. Long gone to the earth.

Holding Bessie there, who was always so strong, pleasant and happy to seeing her broken in Kennedy's arms made a swirl of anger, guilt and grief fill her insides and she couldn't do anything else but let the tears drip down her face as they held each other and cried.

"Move! Move! On!" a voice hollered from somewhere behind Bessie and suddenly, Kennedy felt herself falling backwards, the wind knocked out of her as she landed, back flat on the ground, Bessie curled on top of her and a German pilot officer standing over them, the muzzle of his MP40 hanging over them, his eyes dark, lifeless, his lips a thin frown, his cheeks entirely gaunt.

Kennedy watched in earnest as the German pilot officer nudged as Bessie's body - to which she flinched and it made Kennedy want to scream.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Kennedy snapped, immediately regretting it when the German turned his eyes onto her, sneering down at her with a look that made her want to dig 6 feet under. Kennedy had to look away from him - this wasn't happening, this wasn't happening. Get Bessie up. Get her moving. MOVE.

"Okay, Bes, we're gonna slowly stand, okay?" Kennedy said, sitting herself up and helping Bessie get to her feet, keeping the German in her peripheral, "Just try to keep yourself steady."

"Move! On!" the German snapped at her, shoving the muzzle against her back as Kennedy wrapped an arm around Bessie's back. Kennedy glanced back over her shoulder at the German and watched his eyes - he'd pull the trigger whenever he pleased. No matter who it was - his eyes told her plenty.

"GO." the German said, knocking the muzzle roughly against her back again and this time, before she could even open her mouth, another voice beat her to it.

"If you even THINK about touching them, I'll kill you." Kennedy looked over to see Bucky standing there, his hand batting down the MP40, "We're fucking moving." And before the German could get a word out, before Kennedy could focus on what was going on, Bucky had gone and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, fingers brushing Bessie's frail, bony ones, and began leading them away through the crowd.

Anger. Fear. Pain. Grief. Horror.

The only words to describe the numbness that flooded Kennedy as she willingly dragged along Bessie beside the frantic Bucky who looked close to losing his mind any minute. He moved at a pace that she could barely hold, neither could the voiceless Bessie and as they got out of the crowd, Kennedy had to pull at the lose flap of his A2.

"Bucky, you gotta slow down." she said, causing him to stop and look at her, anger simmering at every bit of him, his fists clenched, his eyes staring her down like he was almost still looking at the German, "Bessie can't walk that fast. She can barely walk."

Bucky's eyes flicked to Bessie, who was still achingly quiet beside her and then back to Kennedy. He was inches from her face - she could see the sweat dripping down his lightly stubbled cheek. Up close, you could see the anger rolling off him; she could almost see past it all though, through his eyes and into his very being. Beyond anything, he was tired - tired of war, tired of this, all of this.

"I'll take her other side," Bucky said quietly, his eyes bouncing off her lips and to her eyes again this time before he stepped past her, "c'mere, Bes."

Kennedy watched as Bucky lowered himself a bit to wrap Bessie's arm around his shoulder and they began walking. It was a slow amble to the barracks, Bessie making pained noises like a wounded animal the whole time, enough to skyrocket Kennedy's worry to an all-time high.

And by the time they had shuffled her inside the bunk room, a few people were awake, the lantern lights on and were swarming them like flies. Buck was there, helping Bessie to a cot with a blanket, Benny tumbling out of bed to get some water going, Hambone sitting beside her, rubbing his hands up and down her sides, Brady on her other side, a hand on her back, moving up and down in a slow, comforting motion.

Kennedy stood there beside a wordless Bucky, watching Bessie get the help she needed. Slowly, she turned to look up at Bucky, suddenly wanting nothing more than to find comfort in a place as nice as his eyes. And to see him already watching her in that way he always did, made her suck in a breath that felt choked and tight.

She flinched when she felt his fingers make contact with her own, goosebumps spanning the width of her arm and across her upper body as warmth filled the pit in her stomach. His fingers danced across her exposed wrist, before sliding down into her own fingers, his palm pressing into hers, his large hand encapsulating her own. All while watching her - slow and deliberate and meaningful.

Kennedy released that shaky breath, staring back at Bucky who refused to look away. For all the horror, all he could do was stare at her. And hold her hand. And all she could do was stare right back.

But then Bucky quirked up the corner of his lips and a sense of calm washed over her gently. Like things were okay. Like this was okay.

"You looked like you needed a hand." Bucky whispered, briefly leaning towards her, "Literally." He squeezed her hand, brushing his thumb across her calloused skin. Kennedy watched him and let a small grin pop onto her face.

"You know me better than myself sometimes." she whispered back. Bucky continued watching her, smiling that smile, staring at her with those eyes. She swore she saw a hint of heat on his cheeks, but shook her head with a laugh. She was half-focused on his face and half-focused on the brushing of his thumb, slow and sensual on her skin of the top of her hand.

"Hey Kennedy? You got a minute?" Buck asked, popping his head back from the bunk, "She's got a nasty cut on her leg. Figured it's best if you help her there." Kennedy looked at Buck, immediately stepping forward and dropping Bucky's hand, that ball of warmth faded to ice as she nodded - Bessie needed her.

"Of course." Kennedy said, before glancing back at Bucky, who was watching her with that look again. Bucky nodded to her.

And so when she turned to crouch in front of Bessie, feeling his eyes on her was like the moon watching the sun.

[reanimationstation]

sammy's innocent idk what ur talking about thomas. he's so hinged and fine. /j

[schumachersnightmare]

All I can think of right now is DBF!Mark

Like it's a cookout and everyone is together laughing and talking away from the BBQ and your dad asks Mark to watch the grill while he steps inside. You take this as your chance to go flirt with him.

His eyes had been wandering over to you since he arrived at the house. Those short shorts you've got on, barely covering your ass.

"Who are you all dolled up for, hun?" He asks as he looks back at the crowd sitting at the table. It's your parents' friends, no one close to your age and mostly married couples. He's almost certain you looked like this for him. Still casual enough for nobody else to notice, but Mark knew that you picked out that top that's just a little bit too low cut and those almost too small for you. Everyone else would just think it was because of the heat outside, except Mark.

"oh you know..." You brush off as your eyes wander up and down his body. His hand lightly smacks your ass causing you to let out squeak in response. He takes his eyes off the grill and shoots you a smirk before returning to the duties at hand. "I'm hungry, how much longer?" You playfully whine.

"least another 40, what are you hungry for?" You just wink at him. You walk past him, hand brushing across his back. Your hips swaying more as you enter the house as your dad exits heading back to Mark.

"I'm going to get a nother beer" he tells your Dad as he follows you into the house. He's completely ignored the more than half full bottle.

[robthegoodfellow]

May I Find You One December RENAMED Here I Go Again

1: Don't Know Where I'm Going, Sure Know Where I've Been

for @fizzigigsimmer

(caligator, referenced past harringrove, age difference, referenced character death, references to neofascism/evangelicalism)

.

Billy’d been warned against stopping in Stark County, but when you had to go, you had to go—and anyway, he was running low on gas. And snacks. 

And, since he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, it’d be wise to get out, work the rust from his joints a bit. 

Glancing around as he filled the tank, the town looked normal enough; your average main drag in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota. Couple sleepy shops, general store, dinky diner—one of those blue lives matter flags hanging limp by the door, vivid polyester garish against all the beige. 

Basic shit. 

No obvious signs of a place under the iron thumb of a white nationalist evangelical militia, and he was just about to roll the dice on that diner, maybe snag a coffee and a slice of pie, when a police cruiser ambled into view, pulled into the fueling station opposite.

Just his fucking luck.

Billy studied the pump, face schooled a pleasant bland. Marveled at how, even after all these years, his days of tussling with fascist pigs long behind him, the same wolves were stirring in his head. One baring its teeth on a low growl, ready and willing to tear the fucker to shreds, the other poised, still as stone, itching to turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble.

At fifty years old—fifty plus, but who was counting—he preferred neither option. The meter clicked off, and he watched his hands replace the nozzle, screw on the gas cap.

Even his hands were fucking old. Thicker—blocky knuckles. Veins starting to bulge. Grandpa hands. 

Sense memory flashed, suppressed so quick and smooth it left barely a ripple. Wouldn’t do to indulge in fond longing for those gay glory days, for the hands he still missed like phantom limbs, some nights, this aching absence. Not within spitting distance of a patrol car. 

Because why test the thought police, right? He could reminisce on youthful love lost when he was back on the highway, heading west.

Good boy, he heard, like Billy had a tin can cupped to his ear, the string trailing off into the fog of time. 

So strange what stayed sharp, he mused, rounding the hood, gripping his keys. Behind him, the cruiser door swung open with a creak. Like—despite the photos, it was hard to really conjure the face, hold it steady in his mind. A face through a window in the rain, and more so as the years slid by. But that voice still whispered clear as day���sometimes a Jiminy Cricket, keeping Billy out of trouble, sometimes a little prankster demon, pure trickster. 

And the hands. The feel of those hands had never left him, touch embedded in the skin.

He sniffed, ducking his chin, scolding himself. So much for smothering his inner queer.

The door was open, sanctuary of the driver’s seat calling his name, when something drew his attention across the way—some movement, maybe, or shift in the air. Pulling his gaze, against his better judgment, to meet the bored stare of the emerging cop.

His chest—seized, breath caught in tight lungs by a tighter throat. Distantly wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like—crushed in a cold fist.

Because the eyes staring back at him were Steve’s. The furrowed brow above lips pinched in a frown. The lines of his jaw, his nose. Like the rain had stopped and he could see him clear through the pane. Then the lips twisted, a sudden sneer, straight out of senior year.

“Got a problem, pal?” 

Billy blinked rapid, took in the flak jacket and badge announcing him as the Sheriff’s stooge, the douchey camo hoodie layered underneath, dark hair slicked back, sides shaved like he’d stepped off the cover of Nazi Vogue.

What the fuck.

“Asked you a question, old man.”

Billy coughed, half a laugh, half choke, and shook his head. Same voice—his voice. Steve’s. Only the tone was all wrong—mean and self-important—more like… like Billy, once upon a time.

Like if his old bratty attitude and Steve’s voice had a baby. That’s what he was hearing right now. Like—

Wrenching his brain back on track, Billy rebooted. Cut him off before the brat could launch another volley.

“Sorry, officer,” he said, and couldn’t help it—the amusement thrumming beneath the words, or more accurately, the unhinged hysteria. “Must be going senile.”

The eyes narrowed—assuming that if he wasn’t in on the joke, he must be the butt of it.

“In fact,” Billy went on, blindly following some instinct, he knew not where. “Think I might be having some heart trouble.”

The cop did not spring to the aid of a needy citizen, but eyed him skeptically. “You smell burnt toast?”

“That’s for a stroke,” Billy corrected, and he’d gone and done it again—only this time a fondness threading the wry mockery. “Heart attack is pain in your arm and whatnot.”

The brat didn’t shoot him dead for perceived disrespect, which was something. Really he just seemed—confused. Baffled. And boy, Billy was right there with him.

This wasn’t Steve, he reminded himself. Wasn’t him. Just a random dead ringer in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota, a likely foot soldier in the brutal local militia.

And Billy should just leave him to it, obviously. Because this wasn’t Steve.

So—bid the doppelganger adieu, get the hell out of dodge. Billy cleared his throat.

“Don’t suppose protect and serve extends to helping some geezer find a place to eat while he rests awhile?”

Now the perplexed indignation was out in force, head tilted so far to the side it was liable to roll off his neck.

Hand to God, Billy thought he’d kicked the death wish long ago—his Y2K resolution—and yet here he was. Still talking, coaxing the neofascist to come closer, chucking all caution to the wind for a pair of pretty, over-familiar eyes.

“C’mon,” he said, and made the smirk self-deprecating. “I make it across the street without keeling over, I’ll buy ya a coffee.”

The brat straightened, something like tolerant intrigue settled in the quirk of his brow. “All right, then, old timer.” As they stepped off the sidewalk: “Don’t expect me to hold your elbow or nothing.”

“Oh, nah,” Billy replied, waving him off. “Dignity won’t allow it.” And then—he winked. Winked at the boogaloo boy. He’d lost his mind. Farewell, sanity.  “Name’s Billy.”

No response from the boy in blue until they reached the diner steps. “I’m Gator,” he said, hauling the door open, gruffness at odds with the tinkling bell.

To his credit, Billy didn’t break down into gibbering laughter.

Gator. This asshat wearing Steve’s face, this Duck Dynasty heir apparent—was named Gator.

Way off in Indiana, Steve must’ve been rolling in his grave.

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