#this isn’t me taking any sort of stance I just think it’s pot and kettle lmao

[nick-close]

Sometimes I think about the jschlatt fan who stopped supporting dndads because the cast was ‘problematic’. I wonder what they’re doing right now.

[thetriggeredhappy]

Was wondering, over here -- what's your favorite type of Scout characterization(s)? I've been in this fandom for almost a decade, and (imo) everyone's got a slightly different spin on him, ranging from "category 5 annoyance, cartoonishly egocentric" to "earnest but afflicted with Early 20s Brain" to anything anywhere in between or beyond that. Got any specific hallmarks you're fond of? Stuff you tend to disregard?

hrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

alright so naturally i’m always the type to drift towards characters who, even as you’re reading them, you can kinda see the lenticular way they can be interpreted. you can tell by the author’s tone how the character interprets themselves, and how they’re interpreted by the viewer, and how they’re interpreted by whoever they’re talking to—three-dimensional, in shortform. with grey areas. sort of taking them outside of their trope and giving them the leeway of, at times, even assuming that the media itself is biased regarding them.

which is how i approach tf2, as well—the medium they exist in is, by virtue of being an absurdist comedy, an unreliable narrator.

so when you posit the stances “scout is like if gaston was wicked annoying and 150 pounds max but didn’t notice” vs “earnest, flawed early 20s dude without a ton of perspective on his life”, as if they’re two ends of the spectrum, my answer is, they don’t have to be.

i’m not a huge stickler on interpretations of characters, to be honest, but i do have a few icks with some interpretations of scout. any interpretation that implies he’s one of those dudes who says things for shock value or for a reaction really irritate me, mostly because there’s nothing in the text of canon that would even remotely imply that. scout wouldn’t say some weird shit about a girl going to make him a sandwich or whatever, he’d draw a picture of spy getting hit by a car and then hand it to spy because they don’t get along. giving scout these weird greasy traits just because at a glance you might characterize him that way in the netflix live-action remake, it just comes across as like. like maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about actually. like, the cheapest easiest possible characterization. the wish dot com characterization.

and i know it might seem a little bit like the pot and kettle on this one since i do take such heavy liberties with the characters, but here’s the thing—my argument isn’t that changing the characters in your fanwork is Bad. that’s all fanwork. that’s all interpretation. my argument is that making tf2 characters weirdly bigoted and filling in weird shock value stuff for no reason is fuckin’ lazy.

it’s much harder, and much more vulnerable, and takes way more time and effort, to try to write these characters with good jokes, or with human personalities, or with actual motivations and thought into their behavior, etc etc. and going “scout says [insert alphabetical list of homophobic slurs], because it’s the 70s lol they hate gay ppl” just tells me you’re not capable of writing well.

that’s not to say i even want scout to necessarily be a good person. i think it’s actually kind of funny that he decided to like, learn manners and etiquette and put on a prom for miss pauling, because having a dude who kills people for money do some cute shit like that is weirdly sweet, in a roundabout way. i think the canon of the text would imply that scout tf2 is kind of a sweet dude. but like, y’know. obviously nobody on the team is mentally or emotionally well. mentally and emotionally sound people don’t die and murder for money. writing scout as particularly egocentric, overly concerned with his own life (either in an anxious way or a narcissistic way), loud mouthed, temperamental, a sore loser, unsportsmanlike, those are all takes i’ve seen that have been really interesting spins of his character.

my favorite traits in him are probably things like him being a hugely impulsive talker, way exaggerative of positive emotions (like whenever he or someone else does some cool shit), maybe a little overdramatic and whiny about the small things, him being dude who will see his friend punch someone across the bar and will sprint over to punch them too, a real ride-or-die guy, kinda stubborn. maybe a little catty sometimes, earnest in a weirdly brave sort of way, clumsy or bad luck or both. dude with a weirdly nonexistent sense of shame or embarrassment except about, like, if he finds out he was wearing his shirt backwards when talking to Miss Pauling or something silly like that. and not even necessarily all of these at once! i just like these characterizations in general, and scout tends to get these ones.

this went on longer than i meant it to, sorry. anyways. scout teamfortress my beloathed

[hansensgirl]

salvatore. | vi.

series summary. | Bucky Barnes doesn’t believe in love anymore. Especially after the tragic, unknown death of his wife, Natasha. He thinks it’s stupid and a waste of time and- oh my. Hello there, you. There you were, with your notebooks and your novels, writing your heart away. He’s hellbent on saving you from this nasty world, his elusive neighbor that has him under the stupid spell of love. You soon find yourself trapped in a tragic love story with Bluebeard, not Prince Charming.

warnings. | NONCON/DUBCON, dark themes, manipulation, gaslighting, arguments, toxic relationships (reader and steve), cheating, nightmares, violent behaviour? (no actual hitting), spying, voyeurism, stalking, use of cameras, angst, fluff, soft!dark!bucky, protectiveness, obsessiveness, creepy bucky, perversion, + more. 18+, MINORS DNI.

word count. | 2.5k

pairings. | Dark!Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Steve Rogers.

a/n. | i know i haven’t updated in a while i’m really sorry!! please enjoy and don’t forget to reblog!

“Doll, please calm down. You’re scaring me,” Steve begged, sitting on the bed. “How can I calm down, Steve? Huh? You only just came back, and now you’re going away again,” you spat, crossing your arms. Your stance was almost adorable, but Steve knew that if he made a comment, he’d just push you further away. He couldn’t let that happen. “Why can’t you ask for a vacation, Stevie? We haven’t done anything romantic since my birthday, and that was six months ago.” You turned your back to Steve, and he sighed.

“I’m sorry, Doll, but I have to go save the world,”  he solemnly told you. His voice carried a faux sadness that shouldn’t even be there in the first place. “Bullshit, you have so many more people to do it. Sam, Wanda, Tony—don’t lie, Steve. Why are you going to Sydney? There’s no way you have to travel to another continent to mess up some sort of drug deal. Isn’t that what the police are for?” you questioned him.

Tears stung your eyes. They were ones of anger, but you couldn’t lie. In the midst of them, were sad ones ready to leak, too. Steve stayed silent. “For fucks sake, Steve, you can’t even give me an answer?” you asked in disbelief. You gasped as the tears began to fall. “I knew it, I knew it the whole time,” you whispered under your breath. “Knew what?” he asked, walking up to you. You backed up into the corner of the room.

“That you’re cheating on me,” you mumbled quietly. “What? Baby– no, listen.” He paused to take a deep breath, meant to calm his nerves down. “I don’t want to hear anything, Steve. I know about you and Natasha. All those trips? Those text messages? God, the only person I feel bad for is myself. How could I be so blind to it all?” you shook your head as you spoke. You walked around Steve’s strong figure and headed towards the door. “Where are you going?” He called out, following you behind.

“For some fresh air, I can’t handle this,” you yelled back, but Steve only sped his steps up. “You’re not leaving me, Doll,” he growled, stepping in front of you. “I never said I was, but now you’re tempting me,” you snapped back. “You’re not leaving me, Doll. You never can.” Steve gripped your shoulders tightly, and you winced in pain. “Even if you did, I’ll go to the ends of the Earth to get you back.”

Your eyes shot open. Gasping, you struggled to catch your breath. Your heart pumped like no tomorrow. Each time your chest raised to the highest point, you felt like you had a heart attack. You fell back onto your pillow, and you couldn't care enough about the slightly painful thud that came with it. Nightmares were never pleasant. Though they give amazing writing inspiration, they still were not nice.

Unfortunately, your nights seemed to be filled with them. Every time you fell asleep for the past week, you’d wake up in a panicky mode. At that point, you were okay with settling for a weird dream that resembled surrealistic art. Who wouldn’t want to have a Dali-inspired dream? You rubbed your eyes roughly and could feel the exhaustion in your every movement.

Your phone rang loudly. The sound made you jump in shock, and you reached to your bedside table for it. The screen read Bucky’s name, and you sighed. You answered the phone and brought it to your ear. “Hey, Bucky,” you croaked tiredly. He laughed, and you could hear the exhaustion in his voice. But the sound of tiredness differed from yours. “Did I wake you up?” he asked, and you moaned. “No, I just woke up,” you told him. “Why would you wake up at one in the morning, Doll?” he asked.

“Nightmare,” you breathlessly told him. You could swear on the daisy that began to bloom two weeks ago that you started to feel a weight being lifted off your shoulders. “Talk to me, Doll. Was it bad?” he questioned. “Yeah, it was worse than the previous ones.” You hadn’t even realized that you just spilled your secret. “You’ve been getting them for the past few nights? Doll– I’m so sorry, but you know you can always talk to me, right?”

His words were more reassuring than anything Steve ever said. “I know, it’s just… The nightmares—they’re very personal. You might not understand how scary they are. Plus, I don’t want to bother you,” you sheepishly admitted to him. He sighed heavily. “I understand, Doll, but you can never bother me, okay? I’m the one who’s supposed to feel that way, not you,” he chuckled, just to ease the tension.

“Now, I’m gonna be there in the next twenty minutes. Do you think you can sort yourself out by then?” he asked, and you started to stutter. “Uhm, sure, yeah, sure,” you agreed obediently. “Good girl, I’ll be there in a few.” And with that, he hung up. Your eyeballs bulged out of their sockets at those two words he uttered. Steve never said anything like that. He’d always just nod, even if you couldn't see it.  You simply wrapped yourself in one of your most favourite blankets because changing seemed pointless to you.

There was no way he was not in pyjamas… right?

You turned the lamp on next to you before you could convince yourself that your chair was a monster. Your back was cold but also covered in sweat. You hated that feeling, and your mother always had the best way to describe it. “It’s like heating something in the microwave but failing nonetheless. The outside of it is warm, but the inside is still cold.” She’d tell you as she’d wipe down your back with a towel.

That was before everything went downhill. Before you turned thirteen and before she married him.

You sighed and got out of bed, willing yourself to put the kettle on. Maybe you’ll make some hot chocolate, or perhaps some tea… In your mind, twenty minutes always seemed like a long time. It sounded as though you could get quite a lot done in a third of an hour. The reality always felt like getting ice water poured on you as a method for waking up.

Unless your life was significantly put together, those one thousand and two hundred seconds are equivalent to five minutes. The ceramic lid for the jar clinked as you set it down on the counter. You grabbed two chamomile tea bags and closed the pot with a ‘ping!’. You grabbed two cups from the cupboard and then groaned loudly when you realized that you hadn’t turned the kettle on.

With a flick of your finger, you turned it on and leaned onto the counter. You sighed pretty loudly. Your head fell into the cup that your hands made, and you closed your eyes. You didn’t have a headache, and your eyes didn’t hurt either; you were just exhausted. You sighed once again, and the kettle clicked, telling you the water was done boiling.

Timing was everything, as always. And sometimes “timing” is just a coincidence, just like how Bucky rang the doorbell as soon as the water stopped boiling. You rubbed your eyes and walked to the door slowly, not caring that he may have been standing out there for thirty seconds too long. You opened it—not all the way—but wide enough for him to catch a glimpse of your tired form. “Hi,” he greeted, letting himself in.

Bucky looked around your home as if he was waiting for someone to round the corner with a knife and shotgun. “Nice place,” he said with an awkward smile on his face. “Thanks, even though our homes are formatted the same way,” you chuckled. He nodded, and then a few seconds after, he let out a forced laugh. You looked up at him and gave him a meek grin, and then went back to making the tea.

“I’m so glad I have two bags of chamomile left. It’s like the universe has decided to bless me again,” you breathlessly said. “What was the blessing before?” he curiously asked. “You.” You poured the hot water inside the cups, and then the bags of tea followed. “Honey or sugar?” you asked, and he pointed at the sugar. You passed it to him wordlessly, and the only sounds that filled the room were from your lungs and cups of tea.

“So… Do you want to talk about it?” he asked after a few more wordless moments. “S- sure, thank you once again! You’re so kind,” you sighed as you brought the cup of tea to your mouth. Bucky copied your movements, but just a bit slower. “It was about my ex,” you admitted once you set your cup down. Bucky struggled to keep his eyes from popping out of their sockets at your mention of him.

“It was so similar to an argument we had a few months before I broke up with him… The only difference was that he wasn’t as… terrifying. And yet he still scared me,” you solemnly spoke. Bucky stretched a hand across the counter and placed it on your shoulder. He pleasantly squeezed it a bit, and you were tempted to lean into his touch.

But you just can’t, because Steve is in the back of your mind, taunting you.

“What really happened in the dream?” he asked, and you took another sip of tea. “Well… We were fighting. He had to go away for a while, even though he just came back. He’d always do that; it’s what helped destroy our relationship. He valued his job over me, and also, someone else,” you sadly recounted. Bucky listened in carefully, because he wanted to help out his best girl in any way possible.

“I caught him in his lies because his excuses became so… Inexplicable. I always had that nagging feeling that he was cheating on me with his friend, his coworker. That argument confirmed everything. I couldn’t handle it all being true, so I tried to leave for a walk,” you paused to take a shaky breath. “He got angry and stopped me, and then he threatened me,” you bluntly finished.

Bucky was so glad that his hand was no longer resting on your shoulder because Goddamn was his fist clenched tightly. You brought the cup of tea up to your mouth, and Bucky just watched you as you diverted your eyes away from him. Once you set the cup down, Bucky grabbed your hands. In contrast, his were extremely hot, and yet the flesh one was dry. Yours were a bit cold, but they were soft and a bit dewy. You looked up at him, only to lock eyes.

“It’s just a dream, doll, okay? And it’s in the past, it won’t happen again, our minds can be crazy sometimes, so try not to worry about it,” he whispered lowly, bringing both of your hands up to his mouth. He pressed a kiss on both sets of your knuckles. You nodded softly, and you leaned down to press a kiss on his flesh knuckles in return. You smiled against his skin, even though it was bruised and slightly red. You wanted to ignore the weird feeling of his metal arm against your sweaty skin, but you couldn’t help it.

“Can- Can I do the thing to your metal hand?” you asked him, hopeful that he would say yes. Bucky nodded, with a slight smile on his face, of course. You closed your eyes and puckered your lips just a bit, pecking the metal. His breathing hitched, unbearably so. It was something he would always catch himself doing whenever he’d think about you or whenever he was simply just in your presence. You opened up eyes and looked back up at him, and you could see the way his eyes glazed over.

He let go of your hands abruptly, allowing them to fall onto the marble countertop. His fingers slotted themselves against your cheeks, and he grabbed your face gently. Bucky pulled you close to him, and he smashed his lips against yours. The kiss was messy, but it was full of passion. You kept your lips locked against his, and your fingers carded through his long hair. There was no other movement apart from the way Bucky kept trying to pull you closer and closer.

It was almost like he wanted to merge bodies, minds, and souls with you.

A few more seconds passed, and Bucky eventually pulled away. He rested his forehead against yours, and you exhaled a shaky breath. “Steve… His name is Steve, and I hate him,” you admitted to him, and Bucky kissed your nose. “And I hate him too, doll,” Bucky said before parting ways from you. There was a bit of tea left in his cup, but you had finished all of yours. “Get some rest, okay? Or just close your eyes for a bit. You need it,” he advised, and you nodded. “Thank you, Bucky. I really appreciate you being there for me,” you expressed to him.

“Anything for you, doll, now go tuck yourself in,” he urged once again before walking past you to the door. You placed the cups in the sink, and neither of you looked back at each other. You heard the door shut with a loud echo, and you sighed heavily. Maybe you were going to listen to him. Sleeping in isn’t that bad after all.

Bucky always believed that being vulnerable was stupid. He also believed that opening up was stupid. But, to be fair, he believed that anything involving emotions was stupid. But when it comes to you, he felt the opposite. Maybe vulnerability was good. Perhaps it was exactly where you needed to be for him to finally be able to love you.

And it was then when he realized that he hadn’t been loving you properly. He hadn’t been loving you the way he wanted to love Natasha, and that just ended up with her six feet deep with flowers growing above her body. He needed you, but you clearly needed him more than anything else. Bucky was desperate for you at times, of course, but you matter more to him than anything else.

Bucky looked down at his desk, staring at the single plane ticket that would take him all the way across the state of New York. He hadn’t been there in over a year, and that was when he first learned of Natasha’s promiscuity. Philandering around with his best friend, fucking said best friend in the most memorable locations he had taken her.

He honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if he found out that the reason why Natasha showed up to the wedding venue late was that she was too busy lifting up that poofy white gown for Steve. He thought that by emptying out Pandora’s box when she passed, everything would be okay. That he’d be able to move on without a care, and he wouldn’t have to shed any more tears for her. Bucky won’t. He promised himself he wouldn't.

He just had a few loose ends to wrap up before he made you his. That was all.

[itsclydebitches]

Re the BTD recap: "the prose is still incredibly messy in places" "To be frank, it’s not that I think this is all particularly good… just not particularly bad either." If it's not too much trouble, can I get some concrete examples for why? I feel like I often don't notice this sort of thing, so I want to know what I'm missing. Might help me to be a better writer.

Challenging request, anon! :D I feel like I need a few disclaimers here: 

The book is serviceable. It’s just not going to be winning any awards. Talking about how the prose and dialogue can be better isn’t meant to translate to, “This is the worst thing ever written.” Because it’s not. 

This is very much a pot calling the kettle black situation. Anyone here has the capability of hopping onto AO3, finding a horribly written passage of my own, and shaking it in my virtual face. So this is likewise not intended to be me standing atop a pedestal going, “Anyone - myself included - could do better.” I often can’t do better because writing is hard. 

I’m not a creative writing instructor, thus it’s often difficult for me to articulate why I think a piece of literature doesn’t read well. If you’ve ever, say, come out of a movie with a strong sense of it not being “good” but can’t easily explain why it failed? It’s similar to that. By consuming lots of media we get a sense of “quality” over “badly written” that then informs our reactions to new texts, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to boil that response down to, “See here on page 3? They shouldn’t have done this. Fix that and it’s ‘good’ now.” 

Nevertheless, let’s try. I’ll take a passage from the prologue where Sun is facing off against these “goons” 

Two glowing clones of Sun flared into existence, one facing Pink and the second squaring off against Green. That left Brown—whom he figured was both the leader of the group and the most dangerous. Why? Because he was hiding the most.

Brown slashed a hand toward Sun. “Take him.”

“Which one?” Green asked.

“The real one,” Pink said. “These are just flashy illusions.”

Sun directed one of his clones to punch Pink in the face.

She blinked and looked more annoyed than hurt.

“That’s no illusion!” Green reached for clone Two.

Sun’s clones were physical manifestations of his Aura, every bit as capable of inflicting damage as he was. But it could be difficult to control them, especially while he was fighting. They were better suited to giving him the element of surprise, extra pairs of hands, or emergency backup when he needed it.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t sustain them long, and they couldn’t take much damage, as they drew Aura from Sun himself. If he kept them going too long, or tried to create too many clones, it usually weakened the Aura shield protecting him. But he’d improved a lot with training, and his Semblance was a lot stronger than it used to be.

Sun whipped out his gunchucks, Ruyi Bang and Jingu Bang, spinning them as he and Brown circled each other slowly. At the same time, Sun was fighting Pink and Green through his clones. Pink was some kind of boxer, dancing around and jabbing with her fists, which One was managing to block. Meanwhile, Green was trying to grab Two and wrestle him to the ground.

Brown had some kind of martial arts training similar to Sun’s—but he wasn’t nearly as good. Sun leaned back as Brown did a high roundhouse kick; he felt a breeze as his opponent’s booted foot swept past his nose with a lot of power behind it. Sun flicked his right gunchuck to loop it around Brown’s ankle and pulled him out of his stance, hitting him with the closed gunchuck in his left hand. The man took the full blow, but it didn’t even faze him.

Now let’s break down some of the reasons why this passage doesn’t work for me. I’ll work chronologically. 

As mentioned in the recap, it’s rather awkward for a PoV character to ask and answer their own questions. Especially when they’re not presented as literal thoughts. The “Why? Because...” takes me right out of the story. It suddenly sounds like I’m attending a lecture or reading an article. Sun believes X. Why does he believe this? Because of Y evidence. 

The dialogue is clunky. This problem is admittedly more obvious at other points, but there are a lot of moments where it doesn’t feel like this is a natural thing someone would think or say. Which again, is really hard to write. How people speak is quite different from how we think they speak and finding a balance between that (eliminating most pauses like “um” or “like” that would be too frustrating to read, giving characters more flowery language to serve the story’s goals even if it’s not realistic, etc.) is hard to nail. Here, Sun is often thinking things that don’t sound l like an actual thought in a panicked teen’s head.

Oh crap, Sun thought. I’m losing. How am I actually losing?

It just sounds like exposition. The reader needs to know that Sun is losing! So Sun will tell them that. 

The villains, so far, are a bit too cartoony for me. 

“You got lucky, monkeyboy,” Green said as he walked off, his companions following him through the cloud of foul vapor. “This time.”

Which is admittedly a matter of taste and does have some justification given RWBY’s early writing (think Roman). Still, it’s hard to take lines like this seriously, especially when we just had the group making fun of Velvet for cheesy quips. But the villain’s quips are supposed to read as daunting? 

Connected to Sun’s thought above, there is a lot of telling rather than showing throughout. For example: “She blinked and looked more annoyed than hurt.” There are ways of showing the reader that Pink is annoyed (indeed, just leaving it at “She blinked” would have gotten the point across) rather than resorting to, “She looked ___”. Another good example would be “ Sun leaned back as Brown did a high roundhouse kick; he felt a breeze as his opponent’s booted foot swept past his nose with a lot of power behind it.” You don’t need to reassure the reader that there was “a lot of power behind it.” The action itself - feeling a breeze, his boot passing close to his nose - conveys that on its own. 

To be clear, telling isn’t something you can’t ever do (break those writing rules!!) especially when sometimes you just want to be clear/convey something succinctly, but it is something to keep in mind. It’s another balancing act. Too much telling and the reader feels like they’re just being told a list of things to believe. Too much showing and it feels like the writer is trying too hard to make everything detailed, exciting, etc. Still, a good writer is going to be able to convey everything (Sun losing a fight, annoyance, a powerful kick) without feeling the need to remind the reader of things every few lines, “This is what’s happening. Don’t get confused!” 

After the fight starts we immediately get a two paragraph info-dump about Sun’s semblance. How it works, what his limitations are, and what that means for this fight. Again, show that! We’ve just started an action sequence. The fight is underway. The reader doesn’t want to get pulled out of the action for another lecture. Rather than hitting pause on the fun stuff to explain things, create scenarios where these details become relevant and can be shown to the reader. Right now we don’t care what Sun’s limitations are unless those limitations become important.  

We get another announcement in the form of “[Brown] wasn’t nearly as good [as Sun]” instead of (again) showing us that. Indeed, as I mention in the recap all the action that comes next contradicts this. So where did this assertion come from? If Sun knows that Brown uses a martial arts style similar to his then theoretically they’ve been fighting for at least a few seconds... but the reader doesn’t get to see that. Meyers was too busy telling us about Sun’s semblance. 

Finally, there are pockets of Meyer’s writing that are all roughly the same. Meaning, sentences have little variety to them. This isn’t a consistent problem (and it’s certainly not the worst example I’ve seen of this) but on the whole he could use a more engaging flow to his work, both in terms of sentence length and balance among actions, dialogue, descriptions, and thoughts. Otherwise you get prose that reads, “This happened. Then this happened. This happened next. See the length? It’s all the same. Very little changes. And the reader gets bored.” Again, not a consistent problem, but one he should keep working on. 

There are a number of other, smaller issues that are beginning to pop up. Such as the in parentheses pronunciation of the teams’ names, or the overuse of “he sent” whenever Fox communicates telepathically. In contrast, there are things about the writing that I’ve enjoyed. There are moments of dialogue - such as Fox’s joke in Chapter One, or how Sun’s instructions to “find Shade” literally refer to the school but also remind the reader that shade, in such a hot environment, is crucial - that I think are worth pointing to and going, “Yeah. That was a nice touch.” Overall though? It’s that, “I just came out of a bad movie” feeling. There’s too much clunkiness throughout. The writing often lacks variety or feels absurd. I’m taken out of the story more often than I fall into it. Is it the worst thing I’ve ever read? Far from it, but fans aren’t wrong when they say things like, “I’ve read better fic than this professional story.” 

[vegetacide]

Whump●tober - Embracing Recovery

Veg-notables: Well it was a month in coming but i have finally drawn this whole thing to a close. It’s been quite the trip and the learning experience to boot. Somehow it all wrapped up in a nice tidy package encompassing several story lines into one world completely by accident by there you have it.  Something just happen that way.  

Many thanks to all those that jumped on this month long whump ride with me and many, many thanks to  @gumnut-logic for putting up with me none stop pretty much for the whole duration.  Your guidance and support has been very, very much appreciated.. And the mountain loads of candied ammo that was lobbed in my direction.  I think I might have a cavity now… 

Obligatory whumptober stuff: @whumptober2019 @la-vie-en-whump

Blanket warning:  Revelations, hurt, comfort and a resolution of sorts. 

Characters: Virgil, Scott, with a dash of Kayo, Gordon and Alan.  V/K

Whumptober - TaG’verse

Part 1 Unconscious | Part 2 Shaky Hands | Part 3 Stitches | Part 4 “Don’t move”

30. Recovery & 31. Embrace

Enjoy…

oOo

The moment Virgil stepped foot into the lounge he could feel Scott’s eyes on him and he resisted the urge to roll his own.  

“I’m fine, Scott.”  He said on reflex as he crossed the space on his way to the stairs.  He needed coffee stat and nothing was going to distract him from his goal. 

Scott came around the desk,  eyes narrowing on Virgil’s face as he headed towards him.  

Virgil was well aware of what he looked like and how he felt, thank you very much.  He was fresh from a shower, clean shaven and feeling for the first time in a while, well rested. The fact he required coffee to function on any given morning was nothing new and something that decidedly didn’t warranted the frown that was brewing on his brother’s face. 

“You’re squinting.” 

Now he did roll his eyes and he didn’t care if Scott saw it or not.  Turning he trotted down the stairs, Scott hot on his heels.

“Scott,  I’m okay. Stop worrying.”  Virgil b-lined it for the coffee pot, one though in mind.  Most obtain caffeine…

His brother’s hand landed on his shoulder, preventing him from reaching his target just feet from his destination. 

“This is really getting a bit much, Scott.”  He grumbled and cursed at himself internally for not taking the elevator all the way down the kitchen.  Why oh why had he thought that stopping at the lounge on the way was a good idea?  Hind sight and all that jazz was bullshit. 

“Are you sure?”  His brother’s voice sounded worried. 

“Yes,  it’s just the usual aftermath.  Nothing new there,  I am always a bit light sensitive for a few days after a migraine,  you know this.”  Virgil slipped out from under his brother’s grasp, stepped past him and snagged his favourite mug out of the cupboard.  

“Any double vision? Blurriness?” Came the expected rapid fire questions as he stalked after him to the coffee pot.  

Virgil sighed and didn’t answer right away and concentrated on pouring the aromatic brew.  Let his brother stew for a moment,  served him right for the mother hen and interrogation routine.   

After their lovely discussion the previous morning, Virgil had retreated to his room again, only venturing out around sunset in order to obtain some much needed sustenance and to watch Kayo do her ninja thing on the pool deck.  

Thankfully he’d managed to avoid Scott as he had been called away from the island and he’d only had to deal with his very perceptive Grandmother.  

That had been an interesting exchange and not one he wished to repeat any time soon. He needed time to wrap his head around things, sort out his emotions and if that meant doing everything in his power to be on the opposite side of the island from everyone else.. So be it. 

Except there was his very real need for coffee and due to that vice he had risked the trip down from his room.   It was apparently evident that Lady Luck was so not in his corner this fine morning.

Satisfied that his cup had reached its maximum capacity,  he lifted it to his lips and took his first sip of the day.   

Scolding, hot and deliciously rich, the flavour flowed over his taste buds and sung the song of the caffeine addicted.  A thrum of ecstasy fired up his neurons and the pleasure centre of his brain lit up like a Christmas tree.  Oh sweet Baby Jeebus, he bit back on the joyful moan as his need was finally sated. 

Then his brother’s tapping foot finally registered.    

Drawing in a breathe to anchor is growing antipathy,  he finally graced his overly anxious sibling with an answer.  “No double vision or blurriness.  Like I said, I’m fine. Let it go, Scott.” 

His brother’s arms crossed over his chest, eyes still inspecting.  Searching for any sign of deceit in his answer.  

The trust they shared had been rocked and Virgil was well aware that this was the price of his actions.  Something he was going to have to learn to deal with but right now… there was coffee..

Sipping away quietly for a few minutes, he let his brother continue staring at him, assessing the minutia of his movements and facial expression with a bored air of one well used to an over protective big brother filling in the very large shoes of their Father.  

His patience lasted a lot longer than he thought it would.

“You look tired still, you get enough sleep? “  

That did it,  patience quota reached. Completely maxed out.  

“Jesus… Scott. Stop it. I’m fine.” Putting his mug down with a little more force than he intended he marked off points on his fingers.  “I have slept, done pretty much nothing but since I crashed out in Two.   I have eaten enough food to satiate a small army.   I am more hydrated than even the Fish right now and that is saying something considering he basically lives in the pool.  There is no pain and my vision is fine. “

His brother looked like he was about to say something but Virgil put up a hand to stop him.  

“No.” He sighed, hands on his hips as his head dropped down.  Closing his eyes, he counted to ten to reign in his ire.   

“Look,  Scott…”  He started,  stalled out. Gave his doubt the middle finger and plowed on.  “Globalmax was over a year ago and you can stop hovering now, I’m not going to break. Sure I get the odd migraine but that’s it. Pack it in, let it go

Scott’s face shifted,  darkened.  Eyes narrowed, he poked a finger into Virgil’s face.   “That’s rich coming from you.”

“What…?” Confused all to hell at the change in his brother, Virgil’s brow furrowed. 

“Kind of the pot calling the kettle black isn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” 

“Bullshit,”  Scott’s temper flared and it had Virgil adjusting his stance to square off against the gale force that had surged into the kitchen. “You telling me to let it go when you can’t do the same.  You act like I haven’t clued into what you’ve been doing the last few weeks ever since I put Gordon back on active duty.”

Virgil’s face blanched, his defenses suddenly evaporating in the face of Scott’s accusation and he stood dumbfounded.

“I…”

“You what?” Scott stepped up to him,  all righteous anger and indignation but Virgil didn’t know how to respond.  Caught off guard by his brother’s fury and being found out so easily, words completely abandoned him.  

Scott seemed to catch himself and forced himself to step off, to back up.  Temper radiated out of him in waves but he clamped his control down hard on it and closed off as he reeled himself in.  

“Ya, just like I thought.  You can preach to me about letting things go but I sent you in to that plant. I was the one that put you in harm’s way and we came damn close to losing you.  Almost did had it not been for a fleet of stubborn ass doctors set on keeping your heart going.”

His voice hitched at the end and he had to put some physical distance between them,  long legs taking him across the kitchen around the table and back again. 

He paced a few more steps and stopped,  the counter between them.  “Just like you did sending Gordon in after Braman at the Calypso crash site. 

The words hung like a stinking carcass in the air and Virgil’s chest heaved, breathing in the hot, foul stench of it. 

Pulse kicking he tried to come up with excuses, tried to think around what Scott had tossed to callously in front of him but he couldn’t see a way around it.  There was no avoiding it when it was strung up with flashing lights right in front of your face like some damn garish marquee sign at a theatre.  

“You..you don’t understand.”

"Try it,  make me understand.”  Scott’s voice grew soft though his posture still screamed unrestrained agitation. 

Virgil drew in a breath, thought a moment,   blew back out again as his mind tossed out and rejected several responses. Finally he settled on one. “He’s my co-pilot.”  As if that should be answer enough.   

Like those three words could explain the whole of it.  That Gordon was more than a passenger along for a ride in Two.  He was his partner on missions,   his back up when he was unable to take the controls himself,  his goofy baby brother,  his responsibility… 

Virgil had been well aware of the dangers out here,  all those feet below the ocean surface under all that atmospheric pressure of millions and millions of gallons of water but he’d still let him go.  Even with the nagging feeling in the back of his head that something didn’t feel right but they were International Rescue so they did what their Father’s legacy dictated.  

Even if just for a machine,  an automaton that had been broadcasting on all their frequencies for hours on end.  He let his baby brother go,  and he’d nearly ended up dead. 

Left to die at the bottom of the ocean, crushed beneath a mountain of a crumbled volcanic stack like his life meant nothing. Like he was just an irritant that needed to be swatted away and was done so carelessly and with such disregard for everything their family stood for.  Everything they had spent the better part of their adult lives striving to achieve.   

Hovering above the ocean waiting for some news, seeing the broken body sprawled unmoving across a med-bay gurney had torn a hole through Virgil that he hadn’t been able to fill in all the time since.   An aching pit of guilt and despair that he had thought he could handle,  hide away in some dark corner of his mind.

It had only grown and festered, like an untreated wound.  Kept him up at night with visions of alternate outcomes. Of vaguely remember funerals,  caskets draped in white flowers and the somber words. 

Kayo had clicked into the fact that something was wrong months ago maybe Scott had too. The concerned etched on his face now mirrored her own every time he looked at her but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to burden them with this.  So to throw Kayo off the trail he’d tossed something else at her feet. Hoping that it would be enough to waylay her.

The message from Bramen about their Father being alive. He hadn’t lied to her about his feelings but he hadn’t supplied her with the whole of it. The omission hadn’t been easy and the guilt of that had compounded all the rest, but he had stood firm in visage even though he was crumbling just like that stack on the inside. 

As for Scott,   he’d just closed himself off.  Withdrawn and buried himself in work and good intentions   

The stim-tabs had come in handy and as he looked down at his trembling hand he knew, he’d gone way too far with it.  All Scott had to do was look back through all of Two’s records to see how far he’d fallen. 

Scott had a right to be concerned and Kayo had a right to her tears.  

Clenching his fist, he forced himself to answer no matter how painful it was. “He should never have been down there on his own.  I should have gone with him.” 

“So you could do what exactly?”  Scott moved, settled on a stool at the counter, in for the long haul if that was what it was going to take. “Gordon knows what he’s doing better than any of us.  He was WASP.  He has more qualification for underwater rescue than all of us combined.  He is always aware of the dangers every time he heads out there but he accepts it.

Scoot looked to the counter,  his fingers playing through the cooling puddle of coffee left there by Virgil’s careless handling.   “You can’t stop him from going out there, Virg... “  His words stopped short as the sounds of voices and stomping feet came thundering down the stairs.

Inane chatter about some video game or another bounced around the lofty ceiling and abruptly came to a halt when the aquanaut in question came up short at the end of the flight, Alan nearly running into the back of him.

“The fuck, Gordon?  Why’d you sto….?”  Alan’s inquiry drifted off as he took in the open air kitchen and instantly picked up on the heaviness that clogged the space.

“What’s up?”  Gordon asked as two pair of serious eyes turned his way.  One carrying more worry and guilt then it appeared  Gordon cared for and the other, frustration at whatever was going on being interrupted.  His own gaze darted back and forth between his older siblings with some trepidation.  “Who died?” 

Virgil turned away,  walked over to the  large, open patio and leaned his bulk against the thick clear blast door where it nested by its stationary counterpart. 

Scott sighed,  and Virgil pictured him standing with his hands braced on his hips and his head shaking back and forth is annoyance"Gordon.."

"What?"He asked completely oblivious to what his words had invoked. 

Virgil listened to the exchange behind him with only half an ear and watched the play of light across the rippling water of the pool.  

Gordon's oblivion question had been more  poignant they he knew his brother had meant.  It had struck the chord of the conversation and the image of his still, unresponsive body in Two echoed through his mind with a clarity that made Virgil shudder. 

It was early in the day still so the oppressive heat this time of year usually drummed up hadn't yet settled over the island yet.  

There was a breeze whispering through the fronds of the palms and rustling the long strands of ornamental grasses that boarded the patio in quaint little arrangements that Virgil knew his Father had installed as homage to the woman who so loved to garden when they were little.  

The cadence of the conversation behind changed and his pushed his focus back inside to the room as Gordon's voice rose.  

"Oh well..it looks like the adults are talking so we better run off and play like good little boys." 

"Gordon,. That's not what I meant.". 

"Than what did you mean?" He demanded facing off with Scott glare for glare.  

When Scott failed to answer, the currently land bound human-fish bristled and turned his sights on Virgil.  

Virgil’s mouth gaped a moment as he floundered but he didn't get a chance to respond as Kayo appeared at his elbow, her hand resting a moment on the base of his spine in a gesture of support before she slipped around him and over to Gordon.  

Her voice was pitched in such a way that they could all hear her words.  "I just got word that Lady P in inbound. Should be here soon."

Gordon’s attention was instantaneously redirected. “Penny’s coming here?”

Kay nodded, “About ten minutes out. Sad something about a reef project she is working on.”

“Ya,  she mentioned that to me last week.  I didn’t think they would move so fast on it..”  

The distraction work and in short order Gordon was back up the stairs and out of the room. 

Alan remained behind, gaze ping ponging between all those gathered in the familiar space.  A little lost as to what to do and where to go now that Gordon was off chasing after her Ladyship.   “Sooooooo…?”  He ventured.  

Kayo took pity on him,  grabbed a bag of oatmeal cookies from the pantry and gave the pair of them a look,  her eyes lingering on Virgil as she turned and walked back over to Alan.  “Hey, why don’t you show me that new Zombie game you’ve been going on about?”

Alan blinked,  shifted awkwardly on his feet as he absorbed the rising tension in the room again and was unsure what to do about it.  It was obvious from his pinched expression that he was well aware that things were far from alright between his two biggest brothers. 

“Everything okay?”  He asked instead as Kayo came up to him.  

She glanced back at Virgil as if she was interested in the answer to the question as well.  

Virgil’s large chest expanded on an inhalation before he took the reins.  “It’s cool, Alan.  Don’t worry about it.” 

Alan didn’t look convinced and neither did Kayo but she nodded in return.  

There would be words later, Virgil knew but for now she would back off and leave them to sort themselves out.  

“If you say so…” And the pair of them disappeared up the stairs. 

The kitchen grew quiet with their absence, the only sound that of the wind through the palms and a few wild birds that called the island home. 

“Listen,”  Scott was the first to break the stillness and Virgil peered back over his shoulder so Scott knew he was doing just that. “All I am saying is that I understand where you are coming from.  I’ve been there.  Am there, every day.  Every time a call comes in and I have to send one of you out there to do the impossible because it seems like no one else can, I’m right there where you are now.  I have to live with that. Remind myself that not only did I pick this life but you all did too.  You know the risks,  just trust that they know the risks too and remember that you are not alone.  

He came up to Virgil bumped his shoulder against his companionably.  “And if things ever get too hard, too much there are those on this island that are more than willing to help and if not here,”  His head inclined towards the ocean, towards the world at large,  “There are plenty of people out there that owe us a few things and would jump at the chance to return the favour.“

Virgil absorbed what was being offered and finally for the first time in days, months really the weight on his shoulders lifted.   

He chuckled slightly as a thought came to mind and just like that the tension was gone,  the animosity and outrage and all the negative crap that went along with it up and left.

“What?”  Scott asked a quizzical look popping his brow up in confusion,

“How in the hell do you put up with all of this?  All of us?” 

Scott grinned back, the devil in his smile.  “Dad’s private stash of Scotch… lots of Scotch.”

The sun was shifting outside as it made its way across the sky and a spear of light bounced off the pool which made Virgil blink, that fact that nothing speared into his brain with the flash of light didn’t go unnoticed by him.  Time took care of all things and it seemed the worst of everything had come to pass.  

The band-aid holding everything back had been torn off, the wound free to breathe and hopefully to heal now that all those party to it existence had lanced it of the festering poison that was rotting away at its core. 

The disinfectant that family supplied, was to be applied liberally and eventually all that would be left was a fading scar and life would go on.

His smile widened and grew broader as the future finally started to look brighter and he slung an arm over Scott’s shoulder, pulling him in for an unexpected hug which his brother reciprocated wholeheartedly.  

“It might be early but somewhere in the world it’s not.  Let’s go find that scotch.”  

oOo

The End.

The Master List of prompts can be found HERE

[sidhewrites]

Excerpt. I wanted to share a deleted part of Coriander’s story where Jasper was visiting her home while her mother was around. It’s fun, but ultimately slowed down the pace to the point where I took it out. Approx 2100 words.

“Tea?”

Coriander started. “Yes, sorry! Yes, Ma, I’ll, um…” She bowed her head, and hurried to the kitchen, Jasper in tow.

It was a fair sized room, but most of the floorspace had been taken up by the worktable which always had something upon it. Herbs that needed preparing, bread rising, mead or wine fermenting. There were herbs tied to the walls as well, drying and serving as decorations, and Coriander moved around them deftly to the smaller of the two hearths in the corner opposite them. Bestina needed bitter teas most hours of the day, and they’d long since added a smaller one that took less fuel and needed less attention than the larger, which was reserved for cooking instead. Jasper stopped to inspect a few of the bundled herbs, mulling over his words as Coriander pulled a kettle from the shelves to fill it.

She hesitated before speaking, unsure if he regretted coming here in the first place. Surely there were more interesting hosts in Knittelnau. She could name five off the top of her head. Still...he was here, wasn’t he? “Do you have a favorite tea?”

“A what?”

“A favorite tea.”

Jasper stroked a beard that wasn’t there, considering the question. “Not a one. How about you, Miss Tippit? I might borrow that one as my favorite, too.”

She frowned and looked away. If she had a favorite one, she didn’t know it. Bestina’s mixtures were often bitter and unpleasant, but necessary to help with her headaches, and the ones she served while entertaining were far too sweet. But she knew better than to complain.

After enough silence, Jasper sighed just quietly enough that he thought he couldn’t be heard. “Builder’s tea, perhaps? Something simple is just perfect for me.” She heard the smile in his voice, but doubted it was genuine.

Builders tea it was, then, though that hardly specified what went into it. Only that it was strong and had milk added in. Easy enough. If they were particularly well off, she’d put sugar in as well, but Knittelnau had little in the ways of such luxuries. “Do you like honey?” Most people did.

“More than I like my own name.” That did sound genuine, and his smile was bright and warm when she glanced over.

Something of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but she looked away before he could see it and start getting ideas. With the kettle filled, Coriander moved to set the kettle on its hook over the hearth, but hesitated at the prospect of kneeling down to light the fire.

“Would you like any help?”

“I, um…” Well. Really, she should accept, shouldn’t she? Her mother was always telling her just how clumsy she was, and how likely it was she’d set something on fire. But he was a guest in their home, and he ought to be in the sitting room comfortably, chatting with her mother about whatever people chatted about. “

“Miss Tippit, you’re doing plenty of work. Why don’t I at least help with the fire? You don’t have to use the flint at all with me around.”

She looked up again, smile fading in an instant, and shook her head. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I, um...That is you’re the guest. You, um. Shouldn’t be doing any work.”

“But I did come without invitation,” Jasper announced with a hint of martyrdom, and more than a hint of humor. He knelt beside her grinning. “Besides. I’m a pilgrim. What pilgrim doesn’t know how to light his own fire?”

A bad one, she supposed. Coriander didn’t know how to react with him so close, and let herself be bustled out of the way while Jasper lit the kindling.

“Sometimes, Miss Tippit, I wish I had control over illusions, rather than air, you know. I’d love to be able to turn the flames green. Wouldn’t you?”

She avoided his gaze, and offered no answer.

“Your mother is lovely, you know. I can see the resemblance, clear as day, but right down to the way you hold your hands when you’re not sure what to say.”

She shot her hands down stiffly at her side, then glanced down at them. Coriander looked down, trying to see something he didn’t. Her hands were there, pale and a bit dirty, but they didn’t look special to her.

“You hold them up slightly, like you want to do something with them, but you don’t know what. It’s cute.”

She flushed again, hands curling into weak fists, and turned fully away, trying to look busy with something on the countertop.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Jasper insisted, stepping closer behind her, though he kept a safe distance just in case. “You know what I do when I don’t know what to say? I talk about everything and nothing, and I babble on until half the world looks past my ruggedly handsome features and sees the royal fool I deserve to be.”

Like now? She thought, but did not say.

“There is nothing better in this world than making someone smile. A real smile, maybe with a bit of laughter added in. I’d trade all the honey in the world if I knew the best way to make everyone happy.”

She wasn’t sure if she imagined that hint of wistfulness in his voice, but it only tugged at her guilt further.

He had said she was a serious girl, didn’t he? Well -- she was. Coriander knew it. She was too shy to reach out and make friends herself, and too serious for anyone to want to approach her. What had she done to warrant his attention so? Did he just make a habit of saving helpless damsels from trees, or was there something about her?

Of course not, she reminded herself. He was just being kind. Still is, and nothing more.

“I think that’s what I really want, you know. Not air or illusions or even healing, though with my luck I dare say it might come in handy. I tripped over my own foot just this morning on my way out of bed. No, I would want to know the best way to make someone happy, even if it wasn’t something I could give them myself. What about you, Miss Tippit? Say you were a Wright. What sort of magic would you want?”

She would want to disappear. Or she would have courage. Either way, she wanted something to overcome her crippling shyness and shame, one way or another. But now that she thought of it, she felt so selfish, wanting something for herself when Jasper was going on and on about helping other people out. She looked up, starting to speak. “Maybe --” Words failed her again.

Jasper was only inches away once more, leaning against the countertop. She flushed, and turned away, suddenly remembering -- “The flowers! I forgot to put them in a water, um…”

She ran from the kitchen into the front room again, where her mother sat scowling. Bestina looked up with a start, and schooled her features into a serene smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and held her hands out. Coriander took them without thinking, forgetting the flowers once more. “My dear, is the tea anywhere near ready yet?”

“I’m sorry, Ma. It’s hardly been a minute.”

Bestina’s smile faltered at the corners. “You know, if that young man hadn’t said so explicitly that he cares little for women, I’d be wondering what use he had for you in the kitchen.”

Coriander flushed but shook her head adamantly. “No! No, no, he, ah … He’s very … he’s only friendly, that’s all.”

Bestina regarded her for a moment and nodded, bringing Coriander’s hands up to kiss one. “I know, dear, but I worry about you. He seems like a dashing young man, the sort a young, foolish girl might lose her head over. And he smiles too much.”

Coriander hesitated. Bestina had only known Jasper for a few minutes. Surely she was just put off by such an unexpected visitor. It couldn’t be good for her health.

“Coriander?”

“Sorry, Ma, sorry, I was just thinking.”

“Of course you were,” she said in that one sweet voice she used so often, the one that somehow made Coriander feel ashamed all the same. “You’re so clever, always thinking, and so kind and selfless. He could be so distracting and lure you away from home. Promise me you won’t lose your head around him.”

“I promise.”

Bestina smiled, and squeezed Coriander’s hands again. “That’s my good girl. Now, why did you come out here? Isn’t there tea to be seen to in the kitchen?”

She faltered and looked away in shame -- and saw the basket still sitting in the middle of the table. “Oh -- the flowers. I was going to put them in water.”

“That’s my good girl. Here, let me help.” Bestina stood and reached for the basket. “I don’t do nearly enough to help out around here.”

“You do plenty, Ma. You’re sick. You shouldn’t be working too hard anyway.”

Bestina chuckled, but waved her off. “Always taking such good care of me. I don’t know how I would ever survive without you.” A sour shadow passed over her features, seeing that Jasper was inevitably still in her kitchen, but recovered her smile quickly enough.

She started. Coriander had forgotten entirely, and she looked away in shame. “Oh --” The basket on the table remained mostly untouched. “I was going to put the flowers in a vase…”

“What a lovely idea. Here -- help me up so I can help.” She took Coriander’s arm and pushed herself from the chair.

 They went together to the kitchen, Bestina walking far more easily than she had been that morning, to find Jasper still tending to the tea. He looked serious, Coriander thought. Almost tense, with shoulders drawn in and brow furrowed, until he saw Coriander had returned, and his stance relaxed instantly. She was sure there was still a shadow in his eyes, but told herself it was nothing. She hardly knew Jasper enough to say.

“Are you keeping an eye on the tea for my girl? She shouldn’t have made you work like that.” Bestina released Coriander’s arm and began searching the cupboards for a vase. Coriander set the flowers on the table and went back to the hearth. The water was just starting to steam, and she pulled the pot from the hook.

“It’s not tea yet, I’m afraid, Missus Tippit. But I thought it might be best to keep it safe, just in case an errant dragon made its way in.”

“A dragon?” Bestina echoed, kneeling down to reach another shelf. “What fanciful ideas you have. If you’re coming from Berall, I can’t imagine you’ve seen a dragon. Don’t they all live in the northwest?”

Coriander saw it this time -- the muscles in his neck tensed, and he flexed his hands. But Jasper’s smile remained easy and his eyes remained glittering with mirth as he laughed. “I’m proud to say I have, Missus Tippit, but nothing up close. There was this beautiful pearly blue waterdrake by a beach in Ninoom when last I visited, splashing about on the horizon. He glittered so beautifully, and I --”

“Coriander, dear,” Bestina interrupted, a hand on the counter as she seemed to struggle to stand. Coriander rushed over to offer an arm for support, but was waved off quickly. “Where’s that yellow vase we had put the daisies in last month? You remember the yellow vase?”

Her face colored.

“Coriander?”

“I remember it, Ma.” Her gaze fell.

“Well? Where is it?”

She was silent for a moment. The sound of its shattering played through her memory. Bestina had dropped it in a fit of anger and fallen faint with the stress of it all. Coriander had helped her into a chair afterwards, right before fetching her some bitter tea. The guilt had never quite gone away.

Jasper stepped forward, “What about that pitcher in the window, ma’am?” His hands flexed and clenched at his sides despite the smile he wore, bright as day. “It looks perfectly suited for the beautiful flowers your daughter picked for you.”

He didn’t miss the anger flash in her eyes, but her voice was sweet as ever. “It’s perfect, Jasper, thank you.” Bestina pulled the pitcher from the windowsill, before passing it over to Coriander. “Go fill this up would you, dear sweet?”

“Oh -- yes, I’ll be back in a moment.” She nodded, and left, making her way out the back door into the spice garden. A small pump stood besides the small stone pathway, leading through the garden and out the back wall. The goats grazed in their pen without a thought, and the chickens bickered over what looked to be a fallen leaf.

Tag List: @madammuffins @aurisadventure @purpleshadows1989 @fearlings-lament

[cosmicmordecai]

This is a case of pot calling the kettle black considering you could follow your own advice;

You can definitely take the time and trouble to read other people’s perspective yourself. I’ve seen enough notes about you , posts about you, & have people message me about you to know you come off very problematic to others.

You could definitely take the time to understand that my argument is that when perpetrators take the time to craft themselves as trustworthy people, it’s to take advantage of people’s trust in them. They would use that trust and power they have to get what they want while still maintaining that facade. Palpatine isn’t just some normal shmuck; he is a Sith Lord. A master deceiver. Contrary to what you believe, red flags isn’t always obvious when you don’t have hindsight/superior author perspective to play on and I doubt the intent in canon was to ever portray the Jedi as negligent in regards to children, as we see examples of them uplifting them AND literally dying to protect them. To me, the Jedi didn’t have the knowledge of what he was doing or the power to properly stop Palpatine without drastic action considering he secretly made EVERYTHING harder for the Jedi.

The real life correlation here is that I’m wanting to argue that we’re human; we don’t always recognize red flags and blaming others for not recognizing it when it can be reasonable they really had no way of knowing is simply unfair & ultimately, it doesn’t actually help. It’s also much easier to do that with hindsight. I believe it’s an unfortunate reality because child grooming isn’t a measure that can be easily prevented; it requires constant vigilance and nobody can’t be that forever.

For all this attempt to denounce me, I can accuse you of playing the same logical fallacies. My post has been given the interpretation that based on my argument, the Jedi Order chose self interest over Anakin, which isn’t the case because they didn’t know Palpatine was subtly grooming him so there wasn’t any choice in that matter yet you have argued that being my point. Strawman.

I’m not really resorting to ad hominem because truth be told, I’m not afraid to insult you blatantly and go to my argument after. Don’t get it twisted; this post is not a part of my argument or me saving face. I genuinely have the next reply typed in drafts up but i didn’t finish it yet (I still gotta work & do college school work). I really think you’re a strange case because for some reason, you mistaken me for the same Jedi apologists you’ve encountered and you’ve treated me like you’ve treated them.

And again, you’re assuming things: I’ve read her stuff GRANTED it was a long time ago and yes, I didn’t like her stuff then. Also, what’s with the Jedi/Nazi factoid? I never even said she said anything of the sort. Look, just because I thought some people you considered Jedi apologist made a good point or put my sentiments into words and i used them doesn’t mean I identified with all stances their. I don’t know them well enough for that.

Take this for what you want but the original post is just me not taking lightly to the fact that because I adopted a pro-Jedi stance and agreed with a point made by who you see as a “Jedi apologist” you, specifically, went from reasonably debating my points with empathy to attempting to trash my argument from what I can only assume is because you think I’m on that side now and it’s high-key irritating & stupid.

Guess this blog is part Jedi-apologist now. 🤷🏾

If by Jedi apologist, you mean I don’t literally excuse Sidious of his crimes to find some irrational reason to hate them, then sure. I mean, with the nonsense i’ve been given, y’all would make Karen Travis blush.

[bgtea]

Cellular Memory - Interlude

Undecided if I should lump this in the last chapter or if I should just post it as a separate chapter. Either way, here’s a brief interlude between Chapters 5 and 6. 

XIV. The Calm Before the Storm

They decide to set sail to the Arctic in the upcoming summer, which gives them a good amount of time to prepare and to recover.  

“In the meantime, I want you to take care of yourself,” Ford warned after they have decided on their travel date. “Especially if you’re experiencing pain from recovering more memories. Let me know.”

“Yeesh, talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” Stanley scoffed. He wasn’t the one who had come out of that deathbot escapade all black and blue. “I’ll be fine, my memories haven’t been giving me too much grief aside from the slight headaches. I think they’re starting to slow down.”

Stanley likes to think that for the most part, he’s pieced together a near full picture of Stan Pines’ life, whether it includes the good, the bad, or the ugly. This may explain why he hasn’t gotten any new major flashbacks in a while, what with the well about to run dry. Hell, aside for remembering his love for old men gold chains, which has the hilarious effect of mildly horrifying Ford, things have been quiet. Blissfully so.

He’s not complaining at all especially when it means he’s being left alone to enjoy his days in relative peace. Peace and quiet are rare things in Gravity Falls that should be coveted. His time spent with his brother and the children has more than taught him that.

(There’s a part of him that can’t shake off the fear that there are only a small handful of memories left for him to discover, and with those exposed, Stan Pines will become whole again.)

(He has no idea what will happen to Stanley with Stan Pines back at the helm. Maybe he’ll simply…cease to exist in a blink of an eye. One second, he’s Stanley and the next, he’s not. Or maybe, he’ll fade away bit by bit into the background until he’s gone, sort of like an old photograph that’s slowly being bleached by the sun.)

(However he dies, he hopes it’ll be painless.)

“Just one more push, Stanley,” he utters to himself one night when his dark thoughts are threatening to choke the air from his lungs. He just needs to focus on pushing through the next hour, day, week, month, however long this will last.

Because if he knows his days are numbered, then he might as well make it his personal mission to squeeze out every last bit of living he has left. It’ll be his last defiant stance against the shit cards life has dealt him. It’ll be Stanley Pines’ version of waving two middle fingers in the air.

He has a feeling that Stan Pines can get behind that.

He breathes. “Just one more push. Everything is going to be okay.”

His days are spent keeping the shack in running order, making sure their sailing preparations are on schedule, and, most importantly, keeping tabs on what his brother is doing in the lab. That last task is a new add-on but Stanley feels it’s warranted given Ford’s injury, which he refuses to go to the doctors for, and Ford’s tendency to straddle the line between brilliant genius and mad scientist when it comes to his inventions.

Also, his brother does not do bed rest well. At all.

“Screwdriver please, Stanley.”

Stanley sighs and obediently reaches into the tool kit on the ground beside his chair, snags the required tool, and hands it to Ford. Despite Ford’s promise to take things easy, Stanley walked into the lab earlier that day to his brother at his desk, elbows deep in what looks like an unfinished miniature replica of the murderbot, except sans claws.

Stanley promptly threw a shit fit. As one does, really.  

“Why are you building another one?! Are you a glutton for punishment or something?”

Ford jolted from his desk and whipped his head towards the entrance. “Stanley,” he said, his hands out in a placating motion. “I know what this looks like, but I think I know where I went wrong with my last design.”  

“The whole design is wrong. It’s a robot that murders people via laser beam.” Stanley crossed his arms with a scowl and leaned against the door frame. “And what happened to taking it easy? You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I am taking it easy,” grumbled Ford. “I’m sitting down, aren’t I? And for the record, I did not design it with laser beams. Or for murder.”

Stanley scoffed. Semantics. “And how many hours have you been working on that thing straight? Five hours? Six?”

“I do take the occasional breaks.” Ford sighed in exasperation at Stanley’s raised brow and judging silence. “Look, if it makes you feel better, you can pull up a seat and help me with this. Besides, the sooner I’m done, the sooner I can get back to bed. How does that sound?”

Which brings Stanley to the present, slouching in his chair by the work station beside his brother and bored to tears. So far, his duties entail handing random things to Ford so that he doesn’t have to get up and jostle his injuries, and reigning Ford back from trekking into mad scientist territory.  

Stanley yawns and scratches his stomach. “I still don’t know why you’re so eager to make that robot work. What’s so great about it?”

“It has a lot of potential to be useful for our travels,” Ford mutters from his desk without turning around. The components of the robot are splayed before him in an explosion of nuts, bolts and other doodads, and Ford is seemingly plucking random bits to screw back into the machine. “I originally designed it to collect data on the water sprites for us so that we don’t have to be there to do it ourselves, but I redesigned it as a scouter instead. Spanner, please.”  

Stanley blinks as he fishes out the spanner. “Wait. You mean, we didn’t have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn when this thing could’ve done all the data collecting for us? Why the heck didn’t you invent this sooner?”

“I only thought it necessary when you drove the boat like a madman.” Ford snorts and grabs the spanner. “But yes, it could’ve done the work for us and then some. The original design was also waterproof, heatproof, shockproof and it ran on solar power. Self-sufficient and nigh indestructible!”

He pauses and breathes a little “huh” in revelation. “In hindsight, I see how the AI is a bad idea,” he says, a touch contrite. “Ah well, you live and learn!”

With that, he sets the robot upright, pulls a set of exposed wires from its back and hooks them up to the large battery beside it with a level of gusto that Stanley will never understand.

The metal egg starts vibrating violently. Stanley scoots back with a perfectly manly yelp as the dotted light bulbs lining its circumference begin to flare to life. One by one, the spindly legs twitch, initially slow, almost lethargic little movements that grow more rapid and violent with every passing second.

“It’s alive!” Ford all but gushes like a proud father. The robot has barely managed to lift itself to standing with the way its legs are shaking like a newborn fawn. Stanley leans a little closer and is torn between being impressed at Ford for making his design work so quickly, feeling horribly curious at what the robot can do, and feeling marginally terrified at what the robot can do.

“See?” his brother laughs. “Nothing to be afraid of at all! What the – ”

The robot shudders violently with an electric crackle and all at once, its lights wink out with several faint popping noises. The legs immediately turn motionless, buckling under the egg’s weight, and the whole thing collapses on the table with a thump that rattles the remaining bolts and nuts on the desk. A stream of dark smoke starts pouring out from the machine.  

Ford’s face turns crestfallen. “I don’t understand! What happened?”

“Don’t know and you’re not about to find out either.” Stanley bats Ford’s hands away from his pet project while breathing a mental sigh of relief. “That’s enough freaky science for today. You can finish this tomorrow after you’ve rested. Come on, it’s bed time.”

Tomorrow becomes the day after that, then one week, then two. Although the initial problem with the robot is resolved quickly, fresh ones keep cropping up with every new feature added to the machine’s design.

Stanley is a bit surprised that Ford, now fully healed and as energetic as ever, keeps asking him to join in on every single robot-building session.

He’s accepted every time despite having no idea why Ford even bothers. It’s not like Stanley contributes anything meaningful to the project, even when he’s helping to assemble bits and pieces of the bot.

Still, he’s glad to be included in one of his brother’s nerdy projects. Working on the robot is growing on him along with the realization that lab time with Ford is becoming another activity they do together, like D, D, & More D, or their nightly Airing of Grievances, where they get to spend time side-by-side, cracking jokes and ribbing on each other.

Something small ricochets off the back of his head and hits the ground with a soft clinging sound. “Oy, knucklehead! Have you finished screwing everything together yet? You’ve been hogging the screwdriver for the last hour.”

Stanley glances up from his portion of the robot and rolls his eyes at a smirking Ford who’s standing a few paces away from his workstation.

“No, your Highness.” Stanley drops the screwdriver and idly rubs the spot where he’s been hit probably with a stray nut or something. “Putting these bits together doesn’t magically happen in a blink of an eye. Although we could’ve built this deathbot faster if we just duck-taped everything together like how I wanted, but some people vetoed that idea and called it, ‘utterly ridiculous.’”

“You keep your uncouth ways away from my robots,” Ford sniffs with such an air of faux offence that Stanley can’t help grinning his shit-eating grin. Ford doesn’t last for more than a second before his composure breaks and he chuckles. He strides next to Stanley and claps his brother on the shoulders. “It’s coming along nicely though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. How long do you think we’ll need before we test this baby out in the wild?”

“Maybe a few more days, we’ll see.” Ford fishes something out of his pocket and places it on the table. “I got you a snack in case you’re hungry. There’s more upstairs if you want.”

The bag of toffee peanuts stares back at Stanley.

A wave of vertigo hits Stanley like a freight train and his mind spins and his stomach lurches - Can you explain what this was doing next to my broken project?!

This was no accident, Stan; you did this!

You ignoramus! Your brother was gonna be our ticket out of this dump! All you ever do is lie and cheat right on your brother's coattails. Well this time you cost our family potential millions!

He jerks himself back with a sharp inhale of breath as awareness swims back into focus. He can feel the pinpricks of sweat dotting his forehead, and the wild hammering of his heart, like he had just run a marathon.

The bag remains sitting there, untouched and unblemished.

What in the holy hell was that?

“Stanley? Is everything alright?” he hears Ford ask, and it grounds him to the present like a rock.  

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he winces at the croakiness of his voice and clears his throat. “Just got a bit dizzy from sitting too long. No big deal.” Stanley pushes the packet away from him, making sure not to look at it this time. Whatever that was, he most certainly does not want to deal with it with Ford nearby. “I’m good with the snack, thanks. I think I’ll take a breather upstairs instead. Do you want to come up with me?”  

Ford shrugs and thank goodness, it looks like he buys Stanley’s explanation. “Sure, I’ll join you. I could use a break myself.”

As they make their way to the elevator, Ford adds quietly, almost shyly, “I’m glad we’re working on this together. We haven’t done a project like this since the Stan O’ War.”

Stanley nudges his brother with an answering quiet grin of his own. The sappy dork. “Me too, Pointdexter. Me too.”

(The persistent nagging feeling that something is missing follows Stanley all the way up their elevator ride like an ill omen. Stanley shivers.)

“Hey Ford.” Stanley says once they’ve settled in for their nightly chats in Ford’s parlour. A pot of mint tea sits on the low coffee table in front of them and its warm, spicy scent fills the small, cozy room. “You said the murderbot is the second project we worked on together. Did we ever finish our first project?”

Ford pauses, and something like apprehension flits through his eyes. “No, Stanley, we never finished the Stan O’ War.”

“Huh. That’s a shame. Why’s that?”

“Well, we didn’t get to the finishing touches because of the fight.”

“The fight?” It takes a few seconds before it clicks. “Oh, you mean the one where we went our separate ways afterwards?”

(Once upon a time, Ford had explained to Stanley why they parted ways: “We had a fight shortly before high school ended. There was an incident that exacerbated everything.” His brother had looked away at that point and cleared his throat. “I…got mad, but Pops got even angrier. He took matters into his own hand, and well, you ended up striking out on your own. I went to college. We lost contact for a while.”)

(It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Stan had gotten kicked out of his home for screwing up. Just what did he do to warrant said kicking out, well, he’d rather not know.)

(He was happy with leaving some memories buried under the sands of time.)

“That’s the one,” Ford hums in agreement. A longer pause fills the room this time. “Stanley,” Ford starts with more hesitation, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you want to hear about what happened in detail?”

Stanley chuckles nervously. “Eh, I think what you told me is enough.”

Unlike Ford, he’s not a glutton for punishment.

He dreams of an abandoned beach under a desolate sky of grey-blue. A set of old swings sits on the sand yards away from the churning ocean water, its metal frame twisted, bent and rusted, ravaged by age and the elements. One of the two wooden seats is broken in half with a part of it lost to decay while the other piece hangs perilously from the frame by fraying, rotting rope. The other seat is intact but the wood is warped and stained dark from dirt and mildew. The swings sway quietly in the wind off-tandem, one always lagging behind the other.  

He wakes up in the morning, eyes wet and with a heavy heart. From his bed, he takes a deep breath and exhales. He repeats this a few times.

“Everything is going to be okay,” he says out loud to the seven little holes in the wooden beam above his head. The Big Dipper mark stares back at him.

They don’t.

In fact, after three mini flashbacks – At least you'll have one son here in New Jersey forever. I guess you better come visit me on the other side of the country. This is all your fault, ya dumb machine! –  Stanley is ready to concede that things are getting worse.

The only saving grace is that those flashbacks weren’t anything of substance, each of them darting through his mind before dissipating into the nether. They aren’t strong enough to knock him out, but they do give Stanley a pounding, excruciating migraine that has him curling into his bed with his covers thrown over his head and the blinds to his room drawn tightly shut to plunge everything into soothing, blessed darkness.

He jolts awake when he feels something warm on his forehead. “Hmm. Ford?”

“Hey, sorry for waking you up. I wanted to see how you’re doing,” a blurry Ford-shaped creature whispers back. Stanley’s mind helpfully reminds him that he isn’t wearing his glasses.

“Surviving,” he croaks out, squinting up at the blob that’s probably his brother. “What time is it?”

“Noon. I haven’t heard from you all morning so I thought I’d come up and check on you. I miss seeing you at the lab.”

“Crap, sorry.” Stanley winces. “I missed our robot building session.”

He moves to get up, but is gently pushed back down by Ford. “Don’t worry about it, you need your rest. From the looks of it, it’s pretty bad, huh?”

A fresh, throbbing pain floods through his head. Stanley squeezes his eyes shut and grunts.

“Is there anything I can do to help? I can bring you some chamomile.”

Another grunt.

“Alright, I’ll be right back.”

He manages to crack open his eyes and catch the sight of his brother’s retreating back and –

They were sitting by the swings on the beach. It was a calm evening, the clear sky above them bleached a mix of orange and yellow from the setting sun. From their seats, they have a perfect view of the gentle lapping waves of the ocean as they slosh lazily against the golden sands of the shore.

Stan was younger then, barely at the cusp of manhood at seventeen years old but excited to see both his and his brother’s future opening up before them, at the possibilities of taking the world by storm as the dynamic duo.

After all, it was them against the world. It has always been that way. No stupid college from across the country was going to change that.

“Hey. Joke’s on them if they think you wanna go to some stuffy college on the other side of the country,” Stan said. “Once we get the Stan O' War complete, it's gonna be beaches, babes, and international treasure hunting for us.”

There was no way his brother would give up their dream, not when they worked so hard on it.

His brother sighed and looked wistfully at the school pamphlet in his hand. Stan hated that pamphlet already. “Look, Stan, I can't pass up a chance like this. This school has cutting edge programs and multi-dimensional paradigm theory.”

He hasn’t seen Ford’s eyes glow like that since they first discovered the remains of the ship as children. Hasn’t seen Ford look that genuinely excited about anything in a long while in fact. Instead, he has gotten used to Ford looking like he was…

Like he was…

Bored. Resigned. Tired even.

Stan swallowed the growing lump in his throat. “Beep boop. I am a nerd robot. That's you. That's what you sound like,” he said irritably.

There was no way Ford would leave Stanley behind.

Right?

Ford gave a good-natured laugh. “Ah, well, if the college board isn't impressed with my experiment tomorrow, then okay, I'll do the treasure-hunting thing.”

“And if they are?”

Ford punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Well then, I guess you better come visit me on the other side of the country.” With a last little chuckle, Ford got up, brushed the sand off his pants, and walked away.

Stan made sure to keep smiling until his brother’s retreating back was out of sight even when his cheeks hurt.  

Stanley slams back to the present as awareness floods his senses. He gulps in a few breaths, and takes in the darkness of his room, the weight of his blankets over his body, and the lumpy feel of his worn mattress against his back.

“Shit,” he utters with feeling.