#to say we should throw away an entire field of science

[rubiscodisco]

We don’t actually use bomb calorimeters to directly determine caloric content of food. We test for the content of energy-giving macronutrients in the food (carbs, fats, and proteins), and then look up how much calories correspond to that weight of each macronutrient. 

The calories per gram of each macronutrient was determined by finding the combustible energy of food as it comes in minus the combustible energy of the waste as it is pooped out (this is the part where we use bomb calorimeters). This work was done in the late 19th century. To this day this is how we determine calorie content in food.

I’m not saying this is in any way perfect. Not all macronutrients absorbed by the body are 100% converted into energy. Protein, for example, takes quite a bit more energy than the other two to metabolize. But to misleadingly say scientists are stupid because they use bomb calorimeters on food and think the total combustible energy of like, idk, a celery, is what we put as calories on its nutrition facts label is dumb. That’s not how it’s done.

Like I totally get the motivation to do it, a lot of bad recommendations were and are still given to fat people from doctors and nutrition scientists but I wish I could tell y’all that a whole lot of work in the field of food science and nutrition, especially today, has nothing to do with making prescriptive recommendations on How To Make You Not Fat™. 

We actually need them to answer questions like, for example, how keep impoverished populations healthy given low resources and a rapidly changing environment brought about by climate change. We shouldn’t actually throw this entire field of biomedical science out.

Just found out that the dietary calorie is still measured by burning food in a "bomb calorimeter" and then measuring the heat produced. There's no solid evidence that this method is at all equivalent to how our bodies process food (an entirely different chemical process from combustion), the accuracy of this system has been disputed for as long as it's existed, and there are no available alternatives

There are 4800 calories in a kilogram of dry sawdust even though wood is completely indigestible to humans, because calories don't measure nutritional value, just how well something burns

Nutritional "science" is pure bullshit

[backtothestart02]

In the End, There Was Us - 3/? | westallen fanfiction

A/N: Updated! Some dialogue is straight from the movie. I do not take credit for that.

...

Chapter 3 -

Used to being a stay-at-home mom to her two seven-year-olds, Iris didn’t quite know what to do with herself when both were absent and Eddie to boot. Well, she had some idea. Meandering through the house, she seated herself in Eddie’s office and booted up her old laptop. It didn’t take long at all for the screen to shift into the last page she’d had up a week ago.

The blog she’d created when she was in school to be a journalist. Her true passion. A passion she’d had to give up when her husband at the time, Barry Allen, had announced he’d quit his job to become a full-time writer – him, the CSI, not her, the journalist.

She bristled, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, and gave up, shutting the laptop again and sinking back into the chair.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Two-year-old Bart and Nora sat playing with blocks on the floor, and Iris did her very best not to lose her temper.

“I quit my job!”

He said it so cheerfully, like he was proud of it.

“What about our income? How are we going to pay our bills?”

“I’m going to be a writer.” He beamed.

Her eyes bulged.

“A…a writer?”

“Yeah, but fiction, not non-fiction. That’s your thing. For my first book, I was thinking something apocalyptical-slash-science fiction. Haven’t thought of a title yet, but I have the outline all planned out. In my head.”

She started to smile and nod and bite down on her bottom lip, then she laughed. She laughed so she wouldn’t cry or yell, especially with their two children sitting nearby.

“And when were you going to tell me about this?” she asked.

“I just…did…tell you.” He frowned.

“We’re married,” she said.

“I know we’re married. I remember last night,” he teased, suggestively, but she was not amused. “Don’t you?”

She glared.

“At the moment, I’m drawing a blank and the couch is looking mighty comfy. For you.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair as she walked away from him to do the dishes.

“Oh, come on, Iris. I was gonna tell you, but-”

“But what? Afraid I was gonna say no? Don’t throw away your entire career to write some short stories?”

“Novels, Iris. Not short stories like in college. This is the real deal.”

“And what inspired this? I thought you were happy at the station. You love your CSI work, and you’re the best in the city. Are you having a…mid-life crisis? At 30?”

He pursed his lips.

“Look, I know this feels like it’s coming out of left field.”

Her eyes widened, and she nodded.

“Yeah. It does.”

“But, okay, two weeks ago, the new captain at the station recognized my name. Turns out my grandfather was a professor who also wrote novels, and he knew about him. He asked if I wrote anything, and I dug up my short stories, and he said I have a lot of potential, and what am I doing wasting it as a CSI?”

Iris’ lips thinned.

“Did you tell him you have a wife and two kids to support?”

“So, I’ll support you guys through this! Writing is very lucrative. You should know, you were a writer.”

“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed. “I was, and I loved it, and I quit so I could take care of our children. So, tell me, if we’re both home, who is going to be paying the bills while you wait to finish up your novel and become a billionaire?”

“Well, you can go back to work. Don’t you miss being a journalist?”

“Huh.”

“What?”

She set the dishes down she was working on and propped a hand on her hip.

“So, if I go back to work…and you’re working in your office with the door closed so you can concentrate…who’s watching the kids?”

He licked his lips.

“Don’t your parents live nearby?” He winced, knowing he was reaching.

“And what? They have to babysit eight hours a day, five days a week, so your stubborn ass can write?”

“Hey, now, Iris, this is my passio-”

“For two weeks, Barry! For two weeks it’s been your passion.” She dug her nails into her side. “And tell me, why couldn’t you just write after you get off work?”

He frowned.

“Well, that’s my time with you and the kids.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“And you’re wishing it wasn’t now, aren’t you?”

“Iris-” He reached for her, but she backed away, hands up.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Iri-” He tried again as she circled around him and reached for her coat and headed for the door. “Where are you going?”

“Watch the kids. If it’s not too much of a burden for you, of course.”

“Iris.”

She glared and then closed the door behind her.

“Iris!”

Her eyes opened, as she was brought back to the empty house she now lived in. Eddie’s house, not Barry’s, not the house she thought she’d grow old in.

That had been the first of many fights she’d had with Barry. And for two years she did as he asked and let him write while her parents watched their babies. They both missed so many of their firsts from being gone during the day. She’d never get that back.

She’d experienced a lot more by being a stay-at-home mom after moving out and eventually moving in with Eddie. The divorce had given her a great gift, but it had also torn her family apart. And whenever she saw Barry, she wondered if it had been the right choice.

But quitting his job to become a full-time writer hadn’t been the only thing Barry had done to drive her to divorce. It was the person he had become after publishing his novel.

Was he still the same person?

Bzz. Bzz.

Nearly jumping out of her seat, she pulled her phone out of her pocket.

Love you.

She winced, typing back ditto before shutting off her screen.

She’d always hated when Barry had used ‘ditto’ at the end of their relationship, and now here she was thinking of him and using it on Eddie, the guy she was supposed to be in love with and 100% dedicated to now.

But was she?

Setting her phone on the desk, she got up, grabbed some fresh clothes and a towel and headed for the bathroom. Maybe a shower would get Barry Allen out of her head.

…

“Daddy, where are we going?”

It had been 10 minutes since they’d started what was supposed to be a short hike into Yellowstone, but Barry supposed he could only expect the very least amount of patience and the most amount of curiosity from his son of only seven years.

“We’re going to this really special place that I know.” He licked his lips as past years’ rendezvous flashed before his eyes. “Actually, it’s a place where your mom and I used to hang out a lot.”

“I don’t want to know where you and Mom had sex,” Nora blurted a few paces behind them. “I’m not ready for that, Barry.”

Irritation sparked off him and a modicum of grief.

“Stop calling me that,” he told his daughter. “It’s creeping me out. What’s wrong with Dad?”

Nora gave no response to that. He supposed he couldn’t blame her, but he was really trying to make an effort here. Was it totally pointless because his effort the last three years had been minimal at best?

“Daddy, look at this!”

Barry frowned as he addressed his son again and they came to a border fence with NO TRESPASSING signs plastered to it.

“That wasn’t here before.” He glanced at it, then decided to summon the spirit of adventure that had swept Iris off her feet all those years before. “What do we do?” He flipped his son’s baseball cap up and over his head so it flew over the fence and landed on the ground on the trespassing side.

Bart’s eyes bulged.

“Go get your hat.”

Using the bar in the middle of the fence, Barry heaved himself up and over the fence. Little Bart followed suit, though his climb and jump was a little slower. Nora stood there and watched in disbelief.

“Don’t you see the signs?”

But a look from Barry and Bart on the other side soon had Nora climbing up and over too. Barry extended his hand to help her over the last little jump, but after a moment’s hesitation, she jumped down on her own, pushing his offer aside.

“I got it, Barry. I’m not a baby.”

Barry sighed.

“Stop calling me…Barry,” he said under his breath, but he squelched the deserved hurt to the side and got ahead of his two children, leading them to where he hoped would be a beautiful lake they could hang out by.

Maybe the two little munchkins could swim. Maybe they’d have a picnic. Neither of those things came to fruition though, because as soon as they cleared the trees and got into the opening, all they saw was what had once been a huge lake, now dried up, and several little flags and no-trespassing tape surrounding the perimeter.

“Used to be a lake here.”

“Doesn’t look like much of a lake to me,” Bart muttered, sharing a look with his sister, that Barry thankfully wasn’t any the wiser to.

“I know, the whole thing’s gone.” Barry frowned. “Come on, let’s check it out.”

The kids were reluctant, but they followed. Unfortunately for all three of them, within minutes, trucks came up over the hillside and soon surrounded them.

“What is that?” Bart asked.

“Uh…” Barry tried to remain calm. So much for his adventuring. “That’s the U.S. Army.”

Several army men sprinted onto the dried-up lake, approaching him. One specifically spoke to him, and Barry knew instantly he’d have to be submissive.

“You’re in a restricted area, sir. We need you and your family to come with us.”

“Right.” He glanced down at his kids, holding each of their hands in his grip. Surprisingly, Nora didn’t resist. “Okay, we’re going to go with these guys. That’ll be fun, huh?”

The ride was quick. In fact, it ended just over the hill and into a valley where a completely hidden government base was operating. Once the truck came to a stop, they were escorted out and told to wait.

“It’s a National Park. There’s not supposed to be posted fences, right? What’s going on here?” Barry asked one of the guards standing by. He wouldn’t answer him. In fact, none of them would.

Luckily, someone soon approached that would.

“We’re geologists,” the man said.

Barry smirked.

“You usually go digging with machine guns?”

The man dismissed the army men and gave Barry his full attention.

“What happened to the lake?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Right now all we can conclude is that the whole area there is very, very unstable. I think it’s best if you take yourself and your children and leave, Mr…Allen,” he finished, glancing down at the ID he’d been given on his way over. A light went on.

“What?” Barry asked, dumbfounded for a moment.

“You’re not by any chance the Barry Allen who wrote Goodbye, Central City, are you?”

A hesitant smirk crossed Barry’s face.

“The very same.”

The man burst into a smile and a laugh and started to gush, causing Nora to roll her eyes and Bart to butt in.

“It’s actually dedicated to my mom,” he beamed.

Barry nodded along, answering a few questions and smiling, obviously grateful for the support, though apparently this reader had not bought the book either but had been given it by his father. Another reminder of the failure that was his writing career.

But that wasn’t where his mind was at now. His mind was at…

“Iris…” he hedged, knowing she hadn’t been thrilled to be at his first book signing with him but wanting to show his gratitude anyway.

They were at home now. The kids were asleep. And she was doing her best to not lash out. It had been a big day for him, and she’d acted the supportive wife because he’d asked her to, but inside she was screaming for what their life had become, and he knew it. He knew he’d failed her.

“What is it, Barry?”

“I appreciate you coming today.”

“And acting the dutiful wife?” She sipped at her wine, holding the fragile stem carefully between her fingertips, wondering what would be so bad about her snapping it into pieces.

He sighed.

“I know you didn’t read my book…”

Her jaw clenched.

“And you don’t have to.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But um, just read the front page. Please.”

He got up, set the book beside her on the couch, and retreated into his office.

“Tell me something,” the young man got his attention again. “Do you really believe those people would have acted so selflessly, knowing their own lives were at risk, if it were to really happen?”

Barry thought for a beat, thought how very selfish he’d been for a long time and the world wasn’t even ending.

“I hope so.” He paused. “Well, it was great to have met you, Mr.…?”

“Cisco. Ramon.” He shook his hand. “You as well. The major here will escort you back.”

“Thanks.���

“He was very nice, Daddy,” Bart said, jumping up onto his toes as he clutched his dad’s hand.

Barry smirked.

“You’re just saying that because he liked my book.”

Bart’s eyes sparkled, and Barry came to a stop. Nora kept walking and jumped into the truck, waiting for them.

“You look just like your mother when you look at me like that.” He tousled his hair. “Little slugger.”

“Guys! Come on!” Nora shouted, whining a little.

Barry smiled at her, then tugged down on his son’s hat.

“Let’s go. We’ll set up the tent.”

[aperrywilliams]

Not Alone (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

(Not my gif)

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

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (platonic?)

Summary: Reader‘s life goes smoothly until she discovers about her pregnancy. Spencer is the one with who she confides the news and her thoughts about it. His advice could help her to make a decision.

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings (please, keep in mind this before reading): Unwanted pregnancy. Discussion about continuing or not the pregnancy. If anything about this topic could cause you discomfort, I recommend not to keep reading.

A/N: This could be a very open one-shot or the first part of a mini-series. I don’t know yet. Thoughts?

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

When I was a little girl, my mom always told me that I needed to be an independent woman. She always encouraged me to face whatever challenge life put in front of me. ‘You can do it. You don’t need anyone to help you. You’re enough.’

Maybe it was a biased point of view. But I couldn't blame her.

My dad left when I was six. I have only a few memories of him—nothing else.

My mom took care of me. Working 24/7, she gave me the chance to finish school, and she paid my college fee.

For years our family was the two of us.

And it was enough.

When I told her I wanted to join the FBI after I graduated from Behavioral Sciences, she didn't argue, but I could feel her disappointed look. She thought I would move to the medical field and make a lot of money.

Things were far from that, and in the end, she understood. She knew better the girl she raised, and principles prevailed over success and money.

Three years later, I ended up in Agent Hotchner’s team at the BAU. It was a dream position for me, although everyone said it was a rough and demanding job. I didn't care. I was ready to do it. I knew I could do it.

And I did it.

I had luck that my mom could see me as a grown-up woman before she passed away.

On her death bed, she told me she was proud of me and that I should never forget that I could accomplish whatever I wanted and that I didn't need the help of anyone.

I always followed her advice, even if that made me a bit of a lonely person.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m socially functional. I can interact with others pretty well and do all the things that a person my age would do: have a job, have a place to live, pay my bills, go out for drinks, take vacation time out of the town, hang out with friends, and even date.

Although having dates means only that: things don’t move far from one or two dinners or a casual hookup.

I never had a long romantic relationship. It's not that I needed one, though. My job is demanding enough to have time for something like that.

I’m okay with some dates from time to time. Only not to lose the rhythm, if you know what I mean.

People who have known me for a bit longer say that I’m incapable of having a romantic relationship for more than three months. And they are right. But in my years of existence, I didn't need a partner to survive. I was just fine.

Or maybe I thought I was?

The things about I was so sure since I had six years old started to crumble when I turned twenty-six.

-

It was a long and exhausting case. Not that we never got those, but this time, the outcome was far from good, and the spirit was crushed to the ground. So bad that everyone silently agreed that the mood wasn’t even for a drink to drown the sorrow.

I felt so uneasy that my apartment seemed suffocating for me. That is why I ended up in a bar not far from my place. That's why my hands promptly found comfort in a glass of whisky. And maybe, that's why I flirted with a guy in whose bed I ended that night.

After that, things continued their path as usual. Cases kept coming and that feeling of powerless faded with the weeks.

What didn’t fade was the fetus that I was carrying inside of me and only noticed a month after.

Throwing up my entire being every morning for a week should have be enough to notice the red flags. But it didn't. JJ had to say something so that I could do the math.

“Could it be that you’re pregnant?” She asked cautiously.

And after a moment of thinking about it, I only can mutter a painful ‘Fuck.’

Rushing to the nearby drugstore, I grabbed three different brand tests and ran to my apartment. I secluded in my bathroom, hoping that all of it ended as a false alarm.

It didn't end.

It was the start.

I was pregnant.

My head spun, and I felt dizzy. I looked my reflection in the mirror and I swore that the woman I saw there wasn’t me. This wasn't supposed to happen.

I couldn't remember pretty well what happened next. I guess at some point, I reached my bed, crying my eyes out, and fell asleep.

When I woke up the next morning, the morning sickness hit me hard. I ended curled up on the tile of my bathroom floor, crying again.

When I got to the bullpen my mind was in somewhere else. It was real, and I had to do something. Anything. But I was afraid of going to the doctor because I didn't know what to do.

Why suddenly did I feel the urge to talk to someone about this?

I pushed that thought to the back of my brain all day. JJ saw me, and I knew she wanted to ask, but I didn't give her a chance. I wasn't prepared to say it aloud.

I spent the whole day lost in thinking. Fortunately, we didn't have a case, so it was only paperwork. But I didn't realize when everyone left the bullpen.

“Are you okay?” A worried Spencer asked me.

It was nearly nine pm, and there was only me... and Spencer Reid.

Spencer was a special guy. You could say it was distant at the beginning. I didn't blame him, though. I joined the team when Emily Prentiss ‘died.’ People in the BAU weren’t keen on a new agent taking their friend's place. With time everyone loosened up a bit with me, Spencer too.

Our friendship became stronger after Maeve’s death. The entire BAU treated Spencer as a little boy except for me, and he openly thanked me for that months later after what happened.

I understood more about Reid's behavior at that time, and even I started thinking that we were alike somehow.

Maybe he was the person I needed to confide in.

“I don’t think so,” I replied, sighing deeply.

I turned my chair to face him. My lips quivering told him that it was true.

“What’s wrong? Do you need help?” He rushed to ask.

“I - I don’t know. I mean, I know what’s wrong, but I don't know what to do.”

My confession little did help Spencer to understand.

“O-okay. Maybe if you tell me what happened, I could try to help you figure it out?” Spencer tried again.

I looked at him and, between gritted teeth, blurted out the three words that had haunted me since the past afternoon.

“I am pregnant.”

I shut my eyes after the admission. I said it. It was real. It always was, but now I felt it deep down.

I didn't know what expression Spencer's face showed. I didn't dare to look. Did he expect something like that from me? I don’t know. But when I opened my eyes, I only found full attention and understanding.

“Oh. Okay. I don’t want to push, but for your way of saying it, I could figure that it wasn’t planned?”

I nodded.

“Yeah. You’re right. I was not planning it at all. It was a one-night stand. I didn't even remember the guy’s name,” I sighed. Embarrassment. That's what I felt.

I covered my face with both hands, tears pushing to come out.

If my mom could have seen me, she would have been so disappointed.

“(Y/N). Things like this could happen. It doesn't mean you’re a bad person,” Spencer assured me, tentatively using one hand to squeeze my shoulder.

I let out a bitter laugh, uncovering my face and drying my tears.

“Yeah. Not a bad person but a very irresponsible one, for sure.”

“Hey, don’t go so hard on yourself. Yes, it wasn’t what you wanted, but it's done, and it happens. Now you need to focus on what do you want to do.”

Spencer was right. It was real, and now I needed to think about what I would do.

“I’m not up to bringing unplanned babies to the world,” I answered.

“Okay. So you won’t keep it,” he inferred.

“Yeah. I think it’s what I have to do,” I reaffirmed.

Saying what I wanted to do didn't make me feel better—the opposite. Spencer noticed.

“(Y/N), it's your body. It's your decision.”

“I know. Yeah, I know,” I said - more to myself than Spencer.

“Did you get a doctor's appointment?”

“Non yet. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do,” I confessed.

“You’ll need one. Whatever your decision will be. You need to be checked.”

“I - I should...”

My body started to shake at the thought. Would I be capable of doing this?

Spencer dared to lean down to hug me. I accepted his embrace. At that moment, feeling alone wasn’t bearable for me.

“Hey, everything would be okay. I can go with you if you think it's okay. You don't have to do it alone,” he spoke, stroking the back of my head. I sobbed in his chest.

“Thank you. I would really appreciate it. I don't think I can do this alone,” I acknowledged.

And against my mom's belief, there were things that I couldn't face without help.

And I shouldn’t do it either.

I wasn't alone.

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

Permanent Reid’s Taglist: @dreatine​

[ragingbookdragon]

Finding Love In The Louvre

A Bruce Wayne x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 2.2K Warnings: None

Author's Note: An old story I edited! Enjoy the fluff! -Thorne

The day started as it usually did, her standing by the elevator, waiting for the doors to open so she could hand him his coffee and explain his schedule. Sure enough, the doors opened at eight A.M. on the dot, and he stepped out, briefcase in one hand, phone in the other. He shoved his phone in his pocket, accepting the outstretched coffee she held. He moved quickly, but she kept pace.

“Good morning Mr. Wayne.” He hummed in return, taking a sip of the coffee; she paid no mind, continuing with, “So today you have a board meeting in room one-forty-two,” His mouth opened to complain, but she held up a hand, silencing him, “I can’t put it off any longer, I’ve already tried.” He grumbled in return, causing her to smile lightly as she kept speaking.

“That starts in an hour, and it should end at eleven. I recommend after that you go and check with Lucius about the gala coming up while I order lunch. I should have that ready by twelve-fifteen, then the rest of the day is paperwork and the occasional friendly visit with the office workers.”

By the time she was done, he was taking a seat at his desk, shifting papers around. She stood with her tablet in one hand, the other propped on her hip. “Anything you need me to do before I go sit down?”

He handed her a sheet while he looked at the monitor, waiting for the retina scanner to start. “Fax that to Gotham Academy, if you would.”

She took it, looking it over before asking, “This for Damian’s field trip to the Louvre?” He nodded, and she murmured, “I still can’t believe you managed to talk the headmaster into letting you fly his class to France for a couple days.” She eyed him over the top of the paper. “You know you’re going to have to go, right? You got the trip allowed. It’d look bad on your part if you didn’t go.”

He finally looked over at her, a curious sparkle in his eyes. “Have you ever been to France, (Y/N)?”

She tipped her head side to side. “If you count a plane ride over France while on the way to Holland, then yes. But have I been to France? No.”

Bruce leaned back in his seat, hands curling around the arm rests of his seat. “Do you want to go?”

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow. “And keep an eye on a group of rambunctious teenagers? Uh…no. I already have enough trouble keeping your group in check.” Bruce gave a laugh at her words, but she followed with, “But if you need me to go with Damian, I can work it into the schedule.” He nodded, and she tapped at her screen. “Alright, I’ll fax the paperwork with our information for travel.” She turned, making her way to her desk when his voice reached her.

“Wait! Our inform—I’m going too?”

She simply threw a thumbs up, sitting at her desk.

***

She settled into the cushioned seat, a sigh of relief slipping through her lips.

An amused voice sounded beside her, “Getting comfortable (Y/N)?”

She hummed, pushing the button to recline her seat. “Eight hours in first class? Are you kidding me? Of course, I’m getting comfortable.” Bruce grinned, settling into his seat the same as her. She watched him groan as he lifted his legs, stretching them out.

A knowing tone came up and she said, “I told you not to wear hard-bottomed shoes. You should’ve gone with sneakers.”

“Why do you enjoy torturing me, (Y/N)?”

She laughed at his words, looking over at him. “I tell you not to do things and you do them anyway. It’s not hard to find the chastising humor in it.” Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but it was cut off by a small huff, and they both looked over, seeing his youngest son collapsing into a seat beside them. (Y/N) reached over, gently caressing the top of his head. “Don’t want to hang around with the simpletons anymore, Damian?”

He nodded and closed his eyes, curling up in the seat. “I have never met a group of kids more idiotic than my class.” His eyes flew open, and he leaned across the arm rest, a sneer on his face. “Just last week, that troglodyte Trevor made a comment so ridiculous, even his reasoning was absurd.”

(Y/N) nodded and asked, “What’d he say?”

Damian scoffed and replied, “He said that he wanted to be like Achilles because he looked cool.” She waved a hand for him to continue. “So, I said, ‘Really, you want to be a man that throws a tantrum when he doesn’t get his way?’ And this fool had the audacity to look at me like I had just asked him-”

His rant was cut off by Bruce, who said, “Damian, enough.”

Damian rolled his eyes whispering, “I cannot stand how stupid they are.”

(Y/N) snorted, leaning close and telling him, “Give them a chance, Damian.” The look he gave her made her wish she’d had a camera, and she continued with, “You have to remember, these people haven’t been schooled like you have. You’re more advanced than the average thirteen-year-old. They’re still learning how to switch classes without a teacher escorting them.”

Damian leaned back, a look of thought on his face, then he retorted, “They are still stupid.”

(Y/N) reached over, handing him a book. “Here kiddo. Keep yourself occupied.”

He took the book, flipping it over. “What is this, ‘Hell Divers’ about?” (Y/N) popped a cracker in her mouth, pointing to the back. He read it silently, then made a motion to hand it back. “Doesn’t look interesting.”

(Y/N) swallowed and put another cracker in her mouth, shifting it to the side of her cheek with her tongue as she pushed the book back. “I brought the whole series.” She grinned at him, holding up the set. “I bet you can’t read the entire thing by the time we land.”

Damian scowled, snatching the books from her, and opening the first one. She gave a satisfied smile and turned back to the front when she felt eyes on her. (Y/N) looked over, seeing Bruce staring at her, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

She raised an eyebrow questioning, “What?”

He tipped his chin towards Damian. “How’d you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get him to read something he didn’t find interesting?”

(Y/N) reached over and condescendingly patted his arm. “The same way I get you to buy new suits every gala.”

Bruce looked at her in confusion. “And that way is?”

(Y/N) reclined in her seat, pulling her blanket up to her chin and pulling the eye mask down her eyes. “I tell you that someone there might be able to out dress you, and that spurs you to make sure you look the best.”

She couldn’t see him, but she could picture his face and arms as he pouted, “So you manipulate me?”

“With all the care and affection you need Mr. Wayne.” And that was all she said before rolling over and curling up and drifting off.

***

“And stay with your guides at all times! Chaperones, if you get lost or separated from your guide, you have Mr. Wayne and my cellphone numbers, please call, do not stay lost!” (Y/N) looked at the chaperones and guides. “Does everyone understand?” Cheers and nods came from all sides, and she waved them off. “Then be free! Curfew is at nine P.M.! Be there before nine, please! And be careful!” Her words fell on deaf ears as the groups dispersed, and she groaned lightly, rubbing her temples.

A hand rested on her lower back and she looked up, seeing Bruce smiling at her. “Don’t worry so much, (Y/N). Everyone will be fine.” She nodded, trusting his words, then he tipped his head to the side. “Damian’s hailed a cab. Let’s go hit the Louvre, then we’ll go to lunch.” She followed him to where Damian was holding the car door and slid inside.

***

The drive didn’t take long, and soon they were walking around the museum. Damian had wandered off, waving his hand, and saying, “I can handle myself.”

She and Bruce simply nodded, watching him go before they set off themselves. They walked around, observing the pieces, until (Y/N) saw a particular one. Her feet sunk into the ground and she stopped, staring at it in admiration.

Bruce glanced between them. “Nike?”

She nodded, telling him, “I remember learning about her in Humanities back in community college, but I never actually imagined ever seeing her.” (Y/N) paused, a calm look coming across her face. “Pictures don’t do her justice. She’s more impressive than I thought. And bigger.”

Bruce listened to her, then asked quietly, “Do you like art, (Y/N)?”

She tipped her head side to side. “Here and there. I like pieces that catch my eye or look interesting.” She glanced at him. “I really enjoy history and science museums.” (Y/N) reached over, nudging him in the side. “Maybe for the next fieldtrip, you can fly us to D.C., and we can hit the Smithsonian.” (Y/N) stepped away and nodded to the next room. “C’mon, let’s go to the next exhibit.”

He fell into step beside her and as they observed the next piece he murmured, “Would you like to go to the Smithsonian, (Y/N)?”

She half focused on his words, absentmindedly replying, “Whenever the next field trip comes up, sure.”

A gentle grip took her hand and she looked over, seeing a serene look in his eyes, and he asked, “No…would you like to go to the Smithsonian…with me?”

(Y/N) blinked, then gestured clumsily between them. “Like…just us?” He nodded and she clarified, “Me and you…together?” He nodded again, a smile accompanying it, and she couldn’t help but ensure, “No one else? Just…us?”

Bruce huffed a laugh, gently squeezing her hand. “Just us.”

(Y/N) felt her cheeks warm, and she looked down, mumbling, “Oh…I…I don’t know if the schedule is clear…”

Another squeeze followed by, “As the boss, I can clear any and all plans made.”

Her heart fluttered at his words, but she pushed it aside, glancing back at him, her eyes firm. “Are you being serious with me right now? You’re not pulling joke?”

Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed and he admitted, “I don’t actually know if I should be offended that you think I’m playing a joke or not, but to answer your question, no, I’m not pulling a joke.” He let go of her hand, trailing his fingers up her forearm, the other arm curling around her. “I’m being one-hundred percent serious.”

He gave her a smile, blue eyes shining. “I would like it if you spent the weekend with me in D.C.” He paused, lips pulling downwards as he added, “Or just spent the weekend with me. We don’t have to go anywhere…if we’re together, that’s all that matters to me. I just really want you—”

(Y/N) cut him off, pressing her lips to his cheek. He grinned at her, watching as she murmured, “I would love to go to D.C. with you, Bruce.” She pulled away, slipping out of his grip, and wandering off towards the next room. He stared at her back, heart thumping in his chest when a voice sounded below him.

“Took you long enough.” His mood soured, and he looked down, seeing Damian standing there, arms crossed over his chest.

“When did you get here?” He asked.

Damian glanced up at him and muttered, “Since the start of your embarrassing courting.” Bruce reached over and ruffled his hair, laughing at how Damian slapped his hand, a glare in his eyes.

“It wasn’t embarrassing.”

“Not to you. But the others were considering throwing up.”

Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Others?”

Damian simply held up his phone, and Bruce looked into the eyes of his other sons who were returning his gaze, albeit smugly.

“So, (Y/N)’s finally gonna join the fray? Cool!”

A hand shoved Dick’s head aside, and Jason looked into the camera. “I’m seriously surprised it took you this long, old man. I mean, how long has she been your secretary? When Dick got there?”

A new voice picked up from the side, and Tim’s head squeezed into view. “Actually, (Y/N) was there before Dick got there. She was there when Bruce started working at W.E.”

Dick’s head shoved Jason’s aside, and his snarky grin appeared. “But the point is, nice going, Bruce! It’s only taken you like seventeen years to get her to go out with you! You must be one weird guy for it to take so long. Maybe it’s because—”

At this point, Bruce had grunted, turning on his heel and marching off after (Y/N). Dick sputtered through the camera, “Damian! Go after him! I haven’t finished explaining his problems!”

“There’s not enough time in the world to explain all the old man’s problems.”

“You’re one to talk, Jason.”

“I dare you to say that to my face replacement.”

Damian rolled his eyes, shutting off the phone and walking after his father, a smug smirk playing at his lips.

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

Training Day

AMHL – Masterlist

WARNINGS: PTSD, domestic violence & abuse, panic attack, anxiety 

“I feel like you’re torturing me now,” Y/N groaned as she put the bar back down on the bench press.

Dick chuckled. “You gotta gain some strength before I teach you, otherwise you’re just going to hurt yourself.”

“You callin’ me fat, Grayson?”

His eyes grew three sizes and his jaw dropped in shock. “No, no, no, no, no. I would never!”

Then he jumped into a tangent about how beautiful he was and he loved her for how she looked and never wanted her to change, unless that’s what she wanted. And it went on and on and on.

Y/N finally took pity on him and started laughing.

“Dick, I’m just fucking with you.”

He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “That was cruel.”

But she only laughed more.

“10 pushups for that,” he demanded.

Her jaw dropped. “Noooo!”

“Yeah. Come on.”

She did as he instructed, knowing she did kind of deserve it.

Afterward, he led her to the training mats. They had done weight training for about 30 minutes or so, and Dick insisted that was going to be a big part of all this. He was right: some of the self-defense moves would only hurt her if she didn’t prep her body.

But when Dick turned to find Y/N standing at the ready on the other side, his tough-love coaching style disappeared.

She looked so small and fragile, clearly nervous for the actual fight training.

Sometimes Dick forgot that Y/N wasn’t like his family or his teammates. She didn’t graduate from field work to sitting behind a computer. Hacking and computer science was her first and only exposure to this life.

“What?” She asked.

“Nothing. You just…look nervous.”

“I am,” she admitted.

With that, Dick walked across the mat and planted a kiss on her lips.

He stepped back with a smile, “Ready?”

She beamed at him and nodded.

For the next half hour or so, Dick taught Y/N all the basics of self defense: how to get out of holds, where to hit an attacker for the most impact, and how to prevent herself from getting injured in the process.

“Things are going to be quicker in real life. You’re going to have to get over the feeling of panic and calm yourself down enough to properly react,” Dick explained.

Y/N nodded with her back to him as she returned to her spot on the other side of the training mats.

But she didn’t reach it before Dick surprised her with a chokehold from behind her.

Before now, Dick had been walking her through moves step by step. But he clearly was trying to prove the point that she would most likely not be expecting these attacks. And he wanted her to get used to reacting to the surprise of it all.

Except…Dick didn’t think this training tactic completely through.

Dick hadn’t taken into account that his student and girlfriend was also a victim of domestic violence.

Since she first escaped from underneath her parents’ roof, Y/N’s had improved a lot when it came to treating and handling her PTSD.

It used to be so much worse.

Loud noises would throw her into panic attacks. People just lightly touching her without her expecting it made her jump feet away. Anytime she got a whiff of alcohol that smelled even a little bit similar to her father’s preferred brand could set her off.

Over the years, it got better.

Therapy helped. Dick helped – his whole family had helped.

But Y/N knew it would always be there, waiting inside her.

And in this moment, it decided to reveal itself once again.

Y/N’s vision blurred. All she could hear was her heartbeat making its way to her ears.

It wasn’t until her entire body was trembling that Dick realized something was wrong.

He let go.

But before he even completely let go, Y/N dodged away so quickly that she almost tripped over her own feet.

She whipped around, eyes so wide. Like a deer facing a hunter, fully aware it was about to be slaughtered.  

And Dick realized how much he just fucked up.  

Without even realizing what she was doing, Y/N slowly lowered herself to the ground, not trusting that her knees to not give out at any moment.

“Y/N,” Dick whispered desperately.

It was hearing how sorry he was already that made Y/N’s eyes fill with tears.

As soon as she was shakily lowered to the ground, she hugged her knees to her chest and hid her face in them.

“Can we stop?” She begged, as if she had no choice and Dick had complete control.

Her voice and sob was muffled by her knees.

“Yes, we’re stopping,” Dick immediately answered with a clear voice. "You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

But Y/N only nodded, not helping to convince Dick that his words comforted her in the slightest. 

Her entire body was trembling as she continued to squeeze her knees as tightly as she could.

Dick kneeled but didn’t move any closer to her.

“Can I…Please…Can I touch you?” He whispered.

But she shook her head.

Not because she didn’t want him to, but because she felt like she had no control over her body right now. And she had no idea how it was going to react to being touched again. 

And she was already mortified and confused and terrified.

“OK,” Dick sighed as he lowered himself to the mat as well. “I’m just going to sit here. OK? I’m not going to get anywhere near you.”

Y/N didn’t respond. But her body was still clearly trembling.

“Can you just breath for me?” Dick asked softly. "Deep breaths in, slow breaths out.”

She still doesn’t respond. But he can hear her trying to do as he asked.

Dick didn’t think he should say any more, worried that his talking was just making the whole situation worse. But then he remembered a tactic Bruce had taught him to console victims who were going into shock or scared of them.

“Can you count backwards from 100 with me?” He then asked.

“What?” She sputtered out, confusedly.

But it was good that she was clearly able to even process that he was talking to her.

“Countdown from 100,” he repeated gently. “100, 99, 98,” he started.

She eventually joined in.

When they reached 1, Y/N went quiet again.

It seemed to have worked. 

After a few minutes, Y/N finally stood up.

“I-I’m s-s-sorry,” she whispered quickly, but it was so quiet that Dick almost didn’t catch it.

The next second, she rushed out of the cave.

Now that her PTSD had calmed down, she was clearly embarrassed.

“Y/N! Wait!” Dick called after her in a panic and jogged after her.

When they got to the main part of the manor and Y/N reached the stairs to go to the second floor, she had flown past a very confused and concerned Bruce Wayne.

Dick paused when Y/N sprinted up the stairs with her eyes blood shot and cheeks tear stained.

“What did you do, Dick?” Bruce grunted, not even considering that it could also possibly be Y/N’s fault.

Dick sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “I was showing her some self-defense…and I…I trigged her PTSD and she had a panic attack.”

“You need to be more careful,” Bruce reprimanded.

“I know, I know. It was stupid.” Dick already knew he messed up.

Bruce remained disappointed by Dick’s mistake.

“I’m going to go check on her,” Dick mumbled and passed Bruce with his head hung.

Dick returned to his childhood room, the one they always stayed in while visiting. 

The shower was already running.

He figured he should give her some time to herself and not rush into the bathroom.

Y/N was most likely crying and wanted to hide it from him. Even though she already realized Dick would know that’s exactly what she was doing.

10 minutes later, Y/N came out of the bathroom with a cloud of steam and a white towel wrapped tightly around her.

Dick’s heart broke even more when he saw her red, bloodshot eyes.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, desperate for her forgiveness.

He should’ve realized that certain things in typical self-defense training could trigger her.

Bruce had taught him to always expect the unexpected. And Y/N’s PTSD should’ve be expected while he put her under such a tense and rigorous circumstance.

Y/N hung her head in shame. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Dick.”

Her voice was so small, so vulnerable. Dick had to hold his breath to hear it.

“Y/N, you have nothing to be embarrassed about,” he insisted and he slowly stood up from the edge of the bed.

Dick wanted to go to her, but he was so scared of making things worse.

“Will you please come here?” He finally asked in a whisper.

She practically tiptoed to her boyfriend, while she held her towel tightly to her body as if it were some kind of armor.

As soon as Y/N was a few inches away, Dick gently tugged her onto his lap.

He was a very tactile man, and not being able to give her physical comfort was slowly killing him. And he felt utterly useless to help her.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed or sorry. I knew better than to surprise you like that. I was an idiot. What happened was my fault, OK?”

She nodded slowly.

Eventually his words would get through to her.

“Can you still train me?”

Y/N finally shocked Dick with her question.

“Of course, Y/N. Let’s just take it slower next time. I promise to be more careful.”

She nodded quickly, fully believing him and trusting him.

Now he put his arms around her, holding her to him tightly.

Dick had always been protective over her. But when she showed signs of being triggered, he went full mama bear on her. But that was also Dick as a person. He was so caring of everyone in his life. He was a big brother, a leader, a stand-in father sometimes even. 

But it often led to Y/N’s guilt when Dick felt the need to treat her like a piece of glass. But sometimes…she was. And that was OK.

“Wanna get to sleep?” He muttered into her hair.

She nodded again.

Dick carefully moved her from his lap and placed her on the bed before he stood.

Y/N watched with love in her eyes as Dick moved around the room and grabbed some of his clothes to give to her to sleep in.

What had she done to deserve him?

“I’ll give you a minute,” Dick told her as he handed the clothes to her. 

Not that he hadn’t seen her naked hundreds of times before. He was just treading carefully now. 

“Want some tea?” He asked as he walked to the door. 

“Sure,” she agreed quietly.

When Dick returned with two cups of tea, Y/N was already underneath the covers of their bed.

Dick watched Y/N as she took her first sip.

“You want to talk about it?” He was ever so careful in his tone, making sure it was obvious that Y/N didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to.

“There’s not much to tell,” she admitted with a shrug.

“That’s alright though.”

Y/N sighed. “As fucked up as it sounds, I sometimes forget about all the things he used to do to me.” 

She chuckled darkly, “Guess that’s repression for ya.”

Dick winced slightly.

“He used to grab me by the throat. Constantly. Because he hated whenever I tried to talk back or fight him with words. So he made sure I couldn’t talk at all. It was all about control.”

Despite being trigged and having a panic attack earlier, Y/N talked about her tragic past without any emotion, and it sounded so casually. She was numb to the memories, but the scars manifested themselves in different ways now – and that was proven today.

Y/N looked up when Dick hadn’t said anything.

She was taken aback by how he looked as if he was going to be sick.

“I’m fine, Dick. Really.” She insisted as she cupped his cheek.

It hurt Dick to hear these things more than it hurt Y/N now. 

“You were dealing with your past all by yourself long before you met me,” Dick answered. “But I just need you to know I’m never going to let anything like that ever happen to you again.”

He took in a shaky breath. “Even if – fuck – even if something happened between us, and we weren’t together…I’d still keep you safe. Do you understand?”

Y/N smiled.

Oh, Dick. His gentleness never stopped amazing her.

“I know that, Dick. I’ve always known that.”

Before he could answer, she added, “Now enough talking. Can you just cuddle me now?”

Dick laughed at her demanding and teasing tone.

“Get over here,” he pulled her into his chest.

Soon his grasp was so soothing to Y/N’s body that she reached the ultimate level of relaxation, especially after being drained from her earlier panic.

Y/N felt Dick kiss the top of her head before she fell asleep in his arms.

–––––––––––––––––––

ALL BONUS CONTENT CAN BE FOUND: HERE

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Steve Rogers, The Man On Fire

Hey y'all, as Pride month draws to a close I would like to post this fic. It's been in my drafts for a month and I finally today found the motivation to finish it. This is special to me for many reasons, one of which being that I'm proudly a part of this community. Some of the anger written in is my own. I think a lot of people will resonate with it. I really hope you all enjoy this and happy Pride Month <3

This was based loosely off a headcannon and once I re-find it I will credit!

Synopsis: Steve is freshly thawed, queer, and pissed | A.k.a. Steve's experience in 21st Century America

Characters: Steve Rogers, Mentions of Bucky Barnes, (loosely a Stucky fic but Steve thinks he's dead here)

Warnings: Angst but not bad, Steve Rogers being volatile and chaotic (we love), poorly written accents (I literally read this with an accent in my head), literally a 2k monologue

Word count: 5.1k

Steve Rogers came out of the ice angry.

No— not angry— Steve Rogers came out of the ice fuckin’ furious.

He came out of the ice with his hands curled into two fists, with his jaw clenched so hard his teeth were liable to snap, and with a bone to pick with every damn reporter and historian and too loud opinion on this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

He came out simmering— no, erupting— like the serum in his blood couldn’t keep his body from hibernation all those years ago but it sure as hell won’t keep him from setting the entirety of New York on fire now. He’ll burn it all down if he has to and rebuild it the way he remembers it— the way Bucky would have remembered it— and at the end of it all no one— not the bigots or deniers or the homophobes that seem to be the only thing that came with him from the forties— will be able to say that Captain America can’t love whoever he wants.

No one will be able to say that Steve Rogers didn’t love James “Bucky” “the man I’ve loved since twelve years old” Barnes with everything he had and then some.

No one.

So he starts with the museums in Washington— because sure it isn’t New York but where else would a relic like himself belong more?

He still has hope when he enters the building. They didn’t make them like this when he was a kid— they had science fairs in the town hall and culture fairs in the backstreets near the docks but never anything this grand. No tall marble pillars or enough stairs to make him wonder if he would have been able to climb to the top when he was half the size he is now. It’s strange. It’s kind of wonderful. Yeah, the Smithsonian museums make Steve Rogers feel small for the first time in a very long time and that gives him hope.

That hope doesn’t last long, though, because soon he’s wandering through the halls, following the signs that say Captain America: The First Avenger— what the hell is an Avenger? Is that what they’re calling soldiers these days? Now he feels small and old.

Turning the corner is like landing on another planet, one devoted entirely to him. His picture is everywhere he looks, his name is in lights, even his damn uniform has been replicated and presented on a little stage and he hates it. The rage is back, sparking at his fingers— he’s a match and lucky for everyone this building is made of stone because if it wasn’t he’s sure it would be reduced to nothing but ash by now.

It only worsens as he begins reading through the plaques and the paragraphs flashing across screens on the walls— he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. The more he reads, though, the more he wonders if the stone is really, truly safe from the fire in his blood. He doesn’t think it is.

He surely isn’t at least— he feels like he’s going to explode. This isn’t him— none of this is him. War hero. Martyr. Golden boy. He has to stop reading that plaque— clearly no one did their research. Clearly no one dug up his medical files— or his police records. Brawls at the pub, disorderly conduct behind Mr. De Luca’s sandwich shop, public nudity at the beach that one time— thank you Bucky for the best night of his god damn life. Golden boy— ha.

Golden nobody with the black eye and broken hand is more like it.

For a moment he thinks he’s fine— he thinks it can’t get worse than this. Then he gets to the early life section and for an even longer moment his tongue tastes like gunpowder.

Steven Grant Rogers grew up in the streets of Brooklyn alongside his friend James Buchanan Barnes—

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence— not when they already got the most important part wrong. Friend. Friend? No, no, no. No! There are a million words in the english language that Steve could use to describe Bucky and ‘friend’ will never be the first one.

How about best friend?

How about partner in crime?

How about soulmate who loved Steve so much that every night for the past forty-eight days since he woke up in an era that Bucky doesn’t exist in he’s cried himself to sleep with the same cherry cola taste of his ‘friend’ on his tongue.

It’s the final straw— Steve loses it.

“Anyone got a marker?”

The museum is quiet before he speaks but when his voice— steadily rising and taking on that New York headiness that his troops used to jazz him about— cuts through the exhibit— his fuckin’ exhibit— it’s silent. It’s dead, almost as dead as Buck— Nobody dares move a muscle as he rips his ball cap off his head and throws it at the statue of himself. Everyone knows who he is— everyone is going to know who he is so help him god.

“I said—” he tries again— “does anyone have a marker?”

It takes a moment for the people around him to pick their jaws up off the floor and he allows them that moment with a smug grin starting to tug on the corners of his lips. Finally— they’re starting to get it.

He’s not a hero; he’s a supernova of every scrawny, queer kid who’s ever gotten beaten to a pulp for kissing who they want.

Maybe then it’s fitting that the marker— when it’s finally produced and placed in his waiting palm— comes from a teenage girl with a shaved head and a blue, pink, and purple denim jacket and a busted lip. She doesn’t say much— only a mumbled here you go— but her eyes say everything that her words don’t. Give em’ hell, Cap. For the first time since waking up he flashes a genuine grin back— yeah, this one’s for you kid.

Steve wastes no time uncapping the sharpie— he’ll look that one up later— and scratching out the error. The blasphemy to his unholy name. It takes him a little longer to decide what to write in its place. There are a million words, sure, but somehow none of them feel right at this moment. None of them are enough. That’s something he’ll have to come to terms with later, though— how much nothing feels like enough anymore without Bucky.

Finally Steve settles on a word and he scribbles it as neatly as he can given the fact that he hasn’t had to write anything in eighty years. When he takes a step back, feeling alive for the first time since waking up, he beckons over the girl with the shaved head and points to the place where he’s taken it upon himself to correct history.

“Hey kid, why don’t you go ahead and read that outloud for everyone here.”

He allows another moment— this time because she deserves the time it takes for her eyes to light up and the smile to stretch across her bruised mouth.

Steve laughs— a rusted, croaky laugh; another first in forever— when her head whips around, facing him as she loudly proclaims: “It says boyfriend. Steve Rogers grew up in the streets of Brooklyn alongside his boyfriend Bucky Barnes!”

“Damn right I did—” he mutters to the kid before taking a step towards the crowd of gaping mouths. “Did you all hear that? Don’t worry if ya’ didn’t— I’ll say it one more time. Boyfriend. Bucky was my boyfriend and if he was here today he would be my husband. If any of you have a problem with that then feel free to take it up with me. I took on half of Brooklyn for that man and I’ll do it again.”

When no one says anything Steve nods, turning to hand the girl back her marker and to thank her— he may be angry but he hasn’t lost all his manners— but when he looks at her she doesn’t look back. Instead she takes the same step forward that he had, one of her hands balled into a tiny, shaking fist at her side and the other wrapped around a cell phone that’s pointed towards the crowd. He doesn’t understand the mechanics but he thinks she’s recording.

“You hear that?” She parrots the super soldier with a wavering but fierce voice. “Captain America likes men! And none of you can deny it!”

This time it’s his mouth that drops, watching as she shakily turns the camera off and spins back around. Before Steve can say anything, though, she’s talking again, this time hastier, and he can’t help but think that she sounds so much like him. All flushed and scrawny and pissed.

“I’m sorry, I’ll delete the recording if you want but, I jus’ know these bigots are gonna’ try and cover everything up and that would be a fuckin’ shame. I don’t know if you know how many kids need to hear this. I did— and I think they should too. Only if you want, of course.”

He doesn’t answer right away— he can’t. It’s like looking at himself at fifteen. Suddenly he’s back again, his feet hanging in the water as his boyfriend paces behind him, asking if he’s ready to have him look at his knuckles yet. He didn’t get that many good punches in— the scrapes are mostly from the pavement— but Buck always worries too much so it doesn’t matter. The protective idiot.

Steve shakes his head, blinking away the sunset lingering behind his eyes. “Bucky woulda’ loved you, kid.”

The next time he loses it— the next time he turns into more flame than man— is after he saves the city he’s been trying to burn down for three months.

It isn’t long after that day in the museum when Nick Fury decides it would be best for everyone if Steve goes back into the field. Of course, no one really asks him what he wants— they pretty much just shove a new suit into his hands and tell him to get training, Captain— but what else is new?

No one really comments on his outburst besides that either. Can you really call it an outburst when you’re just trying to reclaim the parts of you that have been stolen? Sure, the press gets a hold of the story and, true to what the kid had said, tries to twist it into something more digestible, but no one actually addresses it up with Steve. Apparently when someone saves the world as good as he does no one cares that they kiss men.

Or that they don’t wanna’ to actually save the world anymore.

See, in those three months— between the training and training and even more training that Steve Rogers begrudgingly obliges— he has time to catch up on the world. More importantly, he has time to catch up on what the world thinks of him. He scours a plethora of documentaries, scholarly essays, and whole books of information about his time as Captain America. Well— his time as Captain America when it mattered. In all his scouring he learns one thing: everything written about him is wrong.

It’s all so fuckin’ wrong.

Just why the hell would he want to save a world so bent on destroying who he is?

The Smithsonian exhibition was nothing compared to what’s been written in the eighty years he spent in the ice. Better yet, nothing compared to what hasn’t been written about him. They’ve taken an eraser to every part of his life that doesn’t fit with the golden image that they constructed for him. A.k.a. every part that matters. His relationship, his past, every little thing that made him supposedly perfect for the role he was given. Gone. Erskine told him he was a good man— apparently he was the only one who thought so.

Apparently being a good man isn’t good enough.

They only wanted the perfect soldier. Yeah, well, they had one and they fucked him over too. Don’t even get him started on what they did to Bucky— Steve doesn’t want to think about what Winnifred— Winnie for short— Barnes would do if she saw the history books erasing her baby’s Jewish roots. Or his relationship. It wouldn’t be pretty, that’s for damn sure. If ever there was someone more protective than Bucky it would have been his mother. Not that there’s a damn note about her in anything either though.

Maybe that’s the final straw that does him in this time— watching the place that Mrs. Barnes loved more than almost anything else in the world crumble, while also knowing that the world no longer gives a shit about the two people she loved more.

“Mr. Rogers, this is where you grew up, is it not? Is there anything you would like to say about what took place here in your home city today?”

Maybe he pretends not to hear the last part— maybe he really does only hear up until where the reporter asks him if there is anything he wants to say. He’s been around quite his fair share of explosions; it would make sense that his hearing is a little off. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore, though.

Scratch that— he definitely doesn’t care anymore.

And why the fuck should he? He does have something to say and propriety be damned he’s going to say it.

Steve stares into the crowd of faceless reporters and flashing cameras with a scowl on his grimey face. Around him stand the other Avengers— his ‘team’. The last time he had a team the historians screwed up the history for every single member. Dugan, Morita, Falsworth, Jones, Dernier, Sawyer, Juniper, Pinkerton. Barnes. All of them were brave men with families and sacrifices and all of them were treated like jokes by ‘reporters’ just like the ones in front of him now. He really doubts there’s a difference between old and new journalism.

The only difference is that now he’s here and this time he’s not going to let them write anything but the damn truth.

“It is—” Steve muses, brushing the sweaty hair from his forehead— “I’m surprised you know that though.”

The reporter cocks his head, clearly confused, and it makes the super soldier’s blood boil. “Come again, sir?”

“I said I’m surprised you know where I was born, kid.” This time when he says the word— kid— it’s derogatory. “Ya’ know, considering how you all seem to know nothing about me otherwise.”

Steve almost smiles at the way the crowd tenses. He actually would if it weren’t for the white hot rage coursing through his veins, mingling with the last of the adrenaline leftover in his system. It gives him an extra kick— not that he needs it. Even when he was just a runt from the wrong side of the tracks he needed nothing more than an offhand comment to raise his fists. Fighting to Steve Rogers has always been intoxicating— the aftershocks of winning the battle just makes it more thrilling now.

Who knew, right?

“Sir I asked—” The reporter sputters and Steve simply holds a hand up, silencing him before he can start again.

“Yeah I know what you asked, alright. You want me to talk about the battle here in New York today and how I am more than happy to have risked my life to save it. But I can’t do that, kid. Because I didn’t save it for you. I didn’t save it for any of you.”

Steve feels his team tense— maybe were it any other time he would stop talking. He would just leave it, let the issue go, because Bucky would tell him too. They aren’t worth it, bruiser, he would say, they aren’t worth your blood. Maybe he would listen to his boyfriend because usually he was right. Bucky was always right. So yeah, maybe he would list—

Who is he kidding; he knows he wouldn’t.

Not then and certainly not now— not when Bucky isn’t here to defend himself against everything Steve has been reading about. That’s exactly why he doesn’t stop talking. Someone has to defend him and who better of a person than him? So, yeah, he keeps going, even when he hears footsteps behind him.

“You wanna’ know who I did save it for? James Barnes, that’s who I saved it for! You see, just around that corner there is a bookstore. Rickley Books. That was my boyfriend's favourite bookstore. You know, the man who gave his life to stop a train in Austria from reaching the enemies? Yeah that was him. That train was filled with supplies. Had it reached their headquarters, who knows if we’d be standing here today. If there would be a New York at all. Not that you would know that. But who cares about that dead sergeant from the 107th, right? There’s plenty just like him.”

Steve shrugs nonchalantly— a move he picked up from the very man he’s speaking about— but he spits his words at the reporters with enough venom to cancel out any peace that the action brings. That’s his own move.

He keeps going. “You know who else I saved it for? His mother. Yeah, his mother Winnie Barnes. Wonderful lady. She used to run a soup kitchen a couple blocks from here. Kept the rift raft like myself from going hungry most nights— I was a brawler, you know.”

A couple of reporters in the crowd laugh at that and Steve flinches, his vision tinting red as he cranes his neck, seeking them out.

“Oh you think that’s funny, do you? You think I’m joking? I’m not. You ever been backed into a corner, son? Had people hurl slurs at you that I can’t even repeat today? Ever been beaten up for loving your best friend? No, I bet you haven’t. You weren’t a queer kid in the thirties. That’s hard— that’s borderline impossible actually. I only made it because of people like Winnie Barnes. That woman was a saint but nobody talks about her either.”

Steve has to take a deep breath, clearing the rasp in his voice that rises as he dwells on the woman he called his second mother for so long. She wasn’t just a saint, she was an angel. He can’t cry here though, not now. Not even as his throat begins to tighten.

“Winnie was the type of lady who didn’t let anyone walk over the little people. She used to sit me down and say Stevie you gotta’ fight for what you want because ain’t nobody gonna’ give it to you. She told me that I shouldn’t have to but that there were going to be people who would try to tear me down just for being me. And she was right— just like her son— because that was the era, you know? But now, here in the twenty-first century, you’re all still trying to tear us down.”

A hand lands on his shoulder, small fingers tugging at where his suit has begun to tear. Natasha Romanoff. He meets her gaze quickly, neck craning to stare down the red head, and in the few seconds their eyes meet it’s like Bucky is next to him. Somehow the blue in her irises catches the falling sun just like his used to. Steve can hear the gruff of his voice in the depths of his mind. Back down, bruiser. The sentiment is echoed across Nat’s face.

Steve shakes her hand off him, turning back to the reporters— don’t they know that he can’t?

“You all say you care about me, huh? That I’m a hero? You know nothing about me— you don’t want to. Before I was a soldier I was a kid. A queer kid. I said that already but let me repeat it. Queer. Did you write that down? None of you certainly did before. That’s how I know that you don’t care— because in an age where being queer is infinitely more accepted you still don’t bother to write it down.”

He pauses for another breath, shutting his eyes against the blinking red lights of the cameras. They’re like little demons, always watching his every move. Recording. Everything’s always recorded these days. Will he ever be used to that? Bucky was the technology guy, not him. Not then and not now.

When Steve picks up again— eyes open and shoulders freshly straight— it’s on a new note— a clear note.

“You don’t care about me— you certainly don’t care about the real heroes of the war because if you did you wouldn’t erase our history. Do you know how much it would have meant to Bucky to see our relationship accepted? The man who died for you? How much it would’ve meant to his mother? You can’t just pick which of our stories and our sacrifices are worthy and which aren't.”

He hasn’t spoken this much since he’s woken up, not all at once at least. Maybe he should have, though— maybe if he had then he wouldn’t feel like ripping the heads off everyone in front of him right now. Call it fight or flight. Call it revenge. Hell, call it whatever you’d like because it doesn’t really matter. Either way he feels like a kid again— again— backed into a corner behind the deli with his fists up and his teeth bared.

He feels feral again.

“So now you just want me to save the world like I did— like Bucky did— all those years ago— or maybe jus’ New York— as if that’s any better— and you don’t even bother to write a proper article about me? Hell, I never even asked for an article, let alone a whole exhibit! I’m just a soldier— and before that I was just a kid. If there’s never another article written about me I’ll be grateful. But now that I’m here, standing in front of you, I’ll say this—”

Just as Steve’s voice is cresting into a shout that would no doubt be heard regardless of whether or not the microphones were in front of him, Natasha tries one more time, her fingers slipping between his.

Her voice is a dull buzz compared to his, only reaching his ears by sheer will. “C’mon Stevie— we gotta’ go now.”

Like before he’s stunned but this time instead of seeing Buck— instead of hearing him in his head— he hears Winnie.

You fought good, honey. You fought good for us. You can rest now.

It’s jarring and it’s not lost on him the handful of awkward seconds that it takes for him to respond. That’s just the effect Winnie had on people though— still has, apparently. Steve shakes his head— I know, mama. But I gotta’ finish this fight.

“No, Nat— I’ve got to say this.” Steve mumbles— voice just beginning to waver despite how hard he clenches his jaw— before sneering at the crowd one last time.

“If I ever read an article from any of you that discredits Bucky Barnes, our relationship, or myself just know that I’ll come for you. I’ll come for this city. Don’t you ever forget who I saved it for. James Barnes, Winnie Barnes, and every queer kid who’s ever felt erased because of people like you. The bigots in the forties couldn’t stop me. The Nazis couldn’t stop me. Not even the Atlantic Ocean could stop me. So don’t think for a second that any of you could either. Have a good day.”

With that Captain America turns, marching off the impromptu stage and beginning the trek back to his apartment. He doesn’t bother looking at his team as he passes them— he can imagine their stunned faces well enough on his own. No doubt he’ll be getting another assignment from Fury soon enough to make up for this ‘outburst’ too. Still, he feels a little bit better. There’s an ache in his shoulder, and one under his ribs too, but he still smiles as he passes Rickman and Sons Books. That must mean something good.

The last time Steve Rogers burns he doesn’t burn the way he’s expecting to— he doesn’t vandalize his own name or blow up at a reporter. No, the third time— the final time— that Steve Rogers burns it’s with nostalgia— and with a damn good cup of coffee in his hand.

“I had no idea this place was even here.” The girl across from Steve muses, tiny hands shifting the steaming cup back and forth.

Her name is Ellie, he learned that back at the museum after asking for a copy of the video she took. He barely knew how to use his phone back then, let alone his email— hell, both still confuse him more often than not— but she had been patient. A little awestruck and a little riled up too but he took it in stride— easily. It’s not hard being nice to the spitting image of him.

“I’m glad I’m good for something other than making the news.” Steve chuckles and this time he means it— there’s no malice or ill intent, only humor. “O’Malley’s ‘s been here longer than I have. Looked a little different then—” he takes a moment to let his eyes wander the old coffee shop and it’s new appliances— a moment to feel his age catch up to him— “but I guess I did too.”

Ellie’s laughter joins in there and it’s strange— strange that he hasn’t laughed with another person in seven, almost eight, months; strange that her laughs sound so much like Bucky’s when they were younger; strange that Bucky isn’t here to hear. Here to laugh, too. Because he would have.

He would have called Steve an old man, would have wrapped his arm around his shoulders, would have asked— no, demanded— that Ellie try the plum cobbler. They always made the best cobbler. Bucky always had the best laugh. All grit and breath and him. Steve feels warm just thinking about it.

“Well thanks for letting me in on the secret, I’ll make sure to guard it carefully.” She even has Bucky’s warm sarcasm.

Maybe it’s not so much like looking in a mirror as it is looking at what he wishes he and his boyfriend could have been back then.

“And thanks for letting me interview you—” Ellie continues, setting the cup down but not before nodding at it, her eyes wide— “wow. You weren’t kidding about the joe, huh? Anyway— thanks for scheduling this. I know you’re probably super busy— and that there are more well established people you could have gone to.”

Steve sets his own mug down too— if he hadn’t there’s a possibility it would be more puddle than porcelain. “Well established means nothin’, kid. Not when you don’t have heart. They’re parasites, all of ‘em. The press couldn’t care less about me.”

Ellie nods, lifting the lid of her laptop. It’s a little bit dented and slathered in stickers, not quite the newest model— he would know, he has the newest one and it’s still sitting in his apartment in the box. Yet another testament to how little the people around him truly know him.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, can I get you a side of classism with that commercialism?”

Now she sounds like Winnie too.

“Say, has anyone ever told you that you’re funny?”

She shrugs, tilting her head, a lopsided grin glued to her face. “Once or twice— I never know if they mean it or if they just want me to shut up. I never do so I guess we’ll never know.”

Steve sputters out another laugh because; “I guess we’re the same then— never give them a moment, kid. That’s the best advice I can give you.” He pauses— again— he supposes it’s going to be a day of pausing— he supposes it’s about time he pauses— before adding, “Bucky would’ve scolded me for saying that.”

Ellie’s fingers, swift and deft over the machine— Steve hadn’t even seen her begin to type— pause too as her smile softens. “What would he have said instead?”

Her question shouldn’t catch off guard— this is why he asked her to meet him; to finally, properly write his story— their story. Still he pauses— Steve’s empty hands feel hot, his shoulders warm; bare— what would he have said? It doesn’t take long to hear his boyfriend’s voice, not there but somehow loud in his ear all the same.

Just relax— they aren’t worth it. It’s too nice out to care about anything but the water— are you coming in or not? Summer doesn’t last forever, you know?

It’s impossible but Steve can feel the sun on his back and on his ears again, like he’s there— like he’s back, sixteen and on fire. Those were the days where everything made him cold. The days where his skin burned no matter the season but especially in August which was when the ocean was warm enough to swim in. It never stopped him from joining Buck— nothing could have stopped him. His cheeks warm, too, at the thought.

Steve blinks, his own smile— perhaps a little lopsided in it’s own right— shaping over his mouth. “He would have told you to relax— and to try the plum cobbler. It’s fantastic.”

With another giggle— and a reiterated comment— has anyone ever told you you’re funny, Steve?— they fall into a conversation, just a kid and a relic, about life. It’s not an easy conversation— but then again those kinds never are. It’s real, though, and unedited. Unfiltered. Just the way Erskine and Winnie and Bucky would have liked it— the only way Steve wants it. It’s not perfect but, hell, Steve has never been perfect.

He’s never wanted to be.

Maybe Steve doesn’t know everything his boyfriend would say— and maybe he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t blow up once or twice after today— but he can confidently say that he gave Brooklyn a run for her money— twice— and lived to tell the tale. He can say then when it mattered, he burned. That he still burns. That he will until he doesn’t— until he’s extinguished.

But, hey, though Summer doesn’t last forever, not even the Atlantic could extinguish the flame that is Steve Rogers.

That’s what he writes— in Sharpie— on the card he writes to Ellie— the one attached to the computer he knows he’ll never use.

[fallen-gravity]

Soft Hearts and After-Midnight Talks

Ford can’t let go of the past. Mabel can’t stop worrying about the future.

Put together, they’re a melting pot of insomnia and overwhelming emotions.

AO3 Link

Love had never come easy to Ford. 

As a kid, his father always said it wasn’t manly to show affection. It made a man weak to wear his heart on his sleeve, and he was merely doing him a favor by showing him tough love, because out in the real world the men who put their emotions first would get torn to shreds. 

His mother tried her hardest, but she too had times where she was too busy running her psychic hotline or helping Pa run the pawn shop to pay him much attention.

Ford supposes the closest he ever had to unconditional love as a kid came from Stan. Whenever Ma or Pa were too busy, or the kids at school were screaming and running from his deformity, he knew he could always rely on Stan to be there for him. He’d always been the one to throw a punch for him, to talk him through a panic attack, patch up the scrapes and black eyes he’d received from Crampelter, or even assure him that getting a B minus on an exam wasn’t the end of the world, even if his eyes were rolling into the back of his skull the entire time he said it.

 But even that sort of love felt fickle. The night of the science fair, it felt as though something inside of Ford shriveled up and died, and he knew that the rejection from West Coast Tech was only the half the cause of it.

When Stan drove off into the night, it’s as if he took that shriveled up little piece of Ford with him as his grand final fuck you. 

After that, Ford tried everything he could. In college he buried himself into the research he was most passionate for, but that could only get him so far when Fiddleford would drag him to bed and force him to be alone with his thoughts. He’d tried going out drinking to forget said thoughts, but he learned the hard way that he was an emotional drunk and alcohol only made those thoughts worse. 

If there’s anything he did know, it’s that this lack of love in his life could probably explain how he was able to fall for Bill’s cunning tricks so easy.

“Unlovable?” Bill’s words still rang in the back of his head. “By the time this portal’s finished, you’ll have the whole world at your feet! You’ll be a household name! There’ll be thousands cheering the name Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world!” 

What a fool he’d been, blissfully ignoring all of the warning signs for even the slightest chance that a gateway between worlds could earn him love.

What an even bigger fool he’d been to turn away his brother’s love even after ten years of nothing but fear and resentment standing between them.

Ford sighs. He knows, logically, that dwelling on the past will only make things worse. He knows things are okay between him and Stan now. They’re setting off on their first journey on the Stan-O War II next week; things couldn’t get any better between them.

But he also knows that insomnia and intrusive thoughts are a package deal. He’d tried sitting out on the front porch to gaze at the stars and feel the late-summer air on his face to relax, but his inner demons always find their way. 

There’s a tiny knock on the doorframe behind him. He jumps at the noise, and turns to see who else could possibly be awake at nearly three in the morning. He’s half expecting Stan, but to his surprise it’s Mabel, sleepily rubbing at her eyes with one hand and holding a half-empty cup of ice water in the other. 

“Grunkle Ford?” her voice is groggy and strained. “Is that you?” 

“Mabel?” is the only comprehensive response that comes out. “What are you doing up so late?” 

“Dipper cursed me with his insomnia and now I can’t sleep” she pouts, and takes a sip from her cup like it’s a shot glass as he joins him on the couch. “Why are you still up, Grunkle Ford?” she squints. “I feel like I should ask you the same question” 

He chuckles. “Nothing you need to worry about, dear. I’m just doing some thinking”

“Hmmm…” she squints long and hard at him, like she’s trying to read his mind. “Okay, but I’m watching you. I’m the expert at annoying people until they tell me what’s bothering them” 

Ford can’t help but smile. “Noted,” he replies, and shifts his position so he’s facing more towards her. “What about you? I’m the expert in insomnia, so I can’t imagine it’s the only thing keeping you awake"

For the briefest of moments, Mabel’s playful smile drops. She hides the sudden shift by taking another sip of water.

“What? Psshhh…” she dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand. “That’s silly! Everyone knows insomnia means you can’t sleep for no reason. Some expert you are, Grunkle Ford” 

She smiles, but it’s strained, and fake, and nothing like the usual smile she flashes when she’s joking around. 

“Mabel.” Ford says once, in a firm yet soft tone, and she winces. 

“Okay, fine” she mumbles, and drinks the rest of the water from her cup before she continues. “I’ve been having some dumb thoughts too”. 

Ford shakes his head. “There’s no such thing as a dumb thought, Mabel. Even if it’s bothering you, it’s indicative of how you’re really feeling” he pats gently at his lap, inviting her to scoot closer. “Maybe I can help” he smiles, ever so slightly, ever so softly. “Even us experts mess up in our own fields sometimes” 

She moves too quickly into his arms for a hug for him to read her expression properly. 

“Then I feel like a big dumb hypocrite” Mabel murmurs into Ford’s sweater, her voice on the edge of breaking. 

Ford frowns, and places an arm around her to reciprocate the hug. “What for?”

Mabel scrunches up his sweater in her fists. “I...I made this whole big ordeal about Dipper wanting to stay here with you after the summer’s over for the apprenticeship, and I still don’t want us to be apart, but…”  she buries her face into his sweater, like she’s ashamed of herself for even daring to speak them. “...now that summer’s actually over, and Dipper and I are supposed to be leaving in the morning, I’m not sure I even want to leave” 

Her voice finally breaks, and she sniffles into his sweater. “Everyone’s always saying that the real world is so scary, and high school is the worst, and all these things about not knowing what you had until it’s gone, and...I don’t want it to be gone, Grunkle Ford, I love Gravity Falls. But I can’t just tell Dipper that, because then he’ll get all worried, and think that he did something wrong, because he’s already apologized for what he said when we were fighting a thousand times, and-”

Ford gently grips Mabel’s shoulders to cut her off, and pulls her away to make her look him in the eyes. “Mabel, are you going through all of this trouble because you’re worried you’re going to...miss Gravity Falls when you get home?”

“Not just the town!” Mabel exclaims, and rubs at her eyes with her wrist. “I’m gonna miss everything! I’m gonna miss the Shack, I’m gonna miss my friends, I’m gonna miss you and Stan,” she counts off on her fingers and sighs. “I miss everyone at home. I do. But now that I have so many friends here, I don’t want to feel like I’m leaving them behind”

There’s a brief pause, but before Ford can open his mouth to respond, Mabel goes on, murmuring so quietly it’s as if she doesn’t mean to speak out loud at all. 

“Or...I don’t want to feel like they’re leaving me behind.”

...Oh.

The fear of being left behind.

Forgotten.

The fear of becoming….unlovable. 

That….Ford knows better than anybody. 

“Mabel, listen to me,” Ford gently tugs on her chin to force her to make eye contact with him. “Nobody in this town is ever going to forget you. It doesn’t matter if you’re gone for a year, or three, or ten, I can guarantee that the next time you step foot in this town everyone’s going to remember the name Mabel Pines”

“You...really think so?” she blushes. 

“I know so,” he nods. “And it’s got nothing to do with Weirdmageddon, or saving the world, or any of that. It’s because you’re magnetic, Mabel. You’ve got a personality that everyone loves. I bet that pizza delivery man you became pen pals with is just sitting at home eagerly awaiting his first letter from you” 

She giggles. “I don’t know about that…” 

“Still,” Ford continues, “You’ve shown kindness to everyone, Mabel. People don’t forget kindness easily.” he gestures out towards the forest. “Gravity Falls may not be your home, but the people who lived here sure don’t seem to see it that way. You’re not just a tourist, or just some kid visiting her great uncle, you’re one of them.” he beams. “They’re lucky to have had you, Mabel, even just for the one summer” 

Her eyes have pools of tears in them, but the beaming smile on her face outshines them. She hurls herself at him in a tight hug, burying her face deep into his sweater. 

“I’m lucky to have you too, Grunkle Ford” she murmurs. “I love you”

I love you.

Ford hasn’t had those words spoken to him since he was a kid. 

I love you.

It feels like he’s floating on air, and the most grounded he’s felt in decades. It’s freeing, and exhilarating, yet it’s comfortable, and warm. It’s unfamiliar, yet everything he ever lost. 

The words ring in his ears and bounce around in his chest before they settle comfortably into the piece of his heart that had been broken for decades.

I love you. 

Mabel Pines, after everything he’s put her through, loves him. 

A sound escapes him that’s halfway between choking and sobbing. He pulls her even closer into his arms, and silently vows to never let the cruel world dig its pessimistic claws into her for as long as she lives.

“I love you too,” he manages to whisper, and gives her a smooch on the top of her head.

[arcticdementor]

Imagine that the US was competing in a space race with some third world country, say Zambia, for whatever reason. Americans of course would have orders of magnitude more money to throw at the problem, and the most respected aerospace engineers in the world, with degrees from the best universities and publications in the top journals. Zambia would have none of this. What should our reaction be if, after a decade, Zambia had made more progress?

Obviously, it would call into question the entire field of aerospace engineering. What good were all those Google Scholar pages filled with thousands of citations, all the knowledge gained from our labs and universities, if Western science gets outcompeted by the third world?

For all that has been said about Afghanistan, no one has noticed that this is precisely what just happened to political science. The American-led coalition had countless experts with backgrounds pertaining to every part of the mission on their side: people who had done their dissertations on topics like state building, terrorism, military-civilian relations, and gender in the military. General David Petraeus, who helped sell Obama on the troop surge that made everything in Afghanistan worse, earned a PhD from Princeton and was supposedly an expert in “counterinsurgency theory.” Ashraf Ghani, the just deposed president of the country, has a PhD in anthropology from Columbia and is the co-author of a book literally called Fixing Failed States. This was his territory. It’s as if Wernher von Braun had been given all the resources in the world to run a space program and had been beaten to the moon by an African witch doctor.

…

Phil Tetlock’s work on experts is one of those things that gets a lot of attention, but still manages to be underrated. In his 2005 Expert Political Judgment: How Good Is It? How Can We Know?, he found that the forecasting abilities of subject-matter experts were no better than educated laymen when it came to predicting geopolitical events and economic outcomes. As Bryan Caplan points out, we shouldn’t exaggerate the results here and provide too much fodder for populists; the questions asked were chosen for their difficulty, and the experts were being compared to laymen who nonetheless had met some threshold of education and competence.

At the same time, we shouldn’t put too little emphasis on the results either. They show that “expertise” as we understand it is largely fake. Should you listen to epidemiologists or economists when it comes to COVID-19? Conventional wisdom says “trust the experts.” The lesson of Tetlock (and the Afghanistan War), is that while you certainly shouldn’t be getting all your information from your uncle’s Facebook Wall, there is no reason to start with a strong prior that people with medical degrees know more than any intelligent person who honestly looks at the available data.

…

I think one of the most interesting articles of the COVID era was a piece called “Beware of Facts Man” by Annie Lowrey, published in The Atlantic.

…

The reaction to this piece was something along the lines of “ha ha, look at this liberal who hates facts.” But there’s a serious argument under the snark, and it’s that you should trust credentials over Facts Man and his amateurish takes. In recent days, a 2019 paper on “Epistemic Trespassing” has been making the rounds on Twitter. The theory that specialization is important is not on its face absurd, and probably strikes most people as natural. In the hard sciences and other places where social desirability bias and partisanship have less of a role to play, it’s probably a safe assumption. In fact, academia is in many ways premised on the idea, as we have experts in “labor economics,” “state capacity,” “epidemiology,” etc. instead of just having a world where we select the smartest people and tell them to work on the most important questions.

But what Tetlock did was test this hypothesis directly in the social sciences, and he found that subject-matter experts and Facts Man basically tied.

…

Interestingly, one of the best defenses of “Facts Man” during the COVID era was written by Annie Lowrey’s husband, Ezra Klein. His April 2021 piece in The New York Times showed how economist Alex Tabarrok had consistently disagreed with the medical establishment throughout the pandemic, and was always right. You have the “Credentials vs. Facts Man” debate within one elite media couple. If this was a movie they would’ve switched the genders, but since this is real life, stereotypes are confirmed and the husband and wife take the positions you would expect.

…

In the end, I don’t think my dissertation contributed much to human knowledge, making it no different than the vast majority of dissertations that have been written throughout history. The main reason is that most of the time public opinion doesn’t really matter in foreign policy. People generally aren’t paying attention, and the vast majority of decisions are made out of public sight. How many Americans know or care that North Macedonia and Montenegro joined NATO in the last few years? Most of the time, elites do what they want, influenced by their own ideological commitments and powerful lobby groups. In times of crisis, when people do pay attention, they can be manipulated pretty easily by the media or other partisan sources.

If public opinion doesn’t matter in foreign policy, why is there so much study of public opinion and foreign policy? There’s a saying in academia that “instead of measuring what we value, we value what we can measure.” It’s easy to do public opinion polls and survey experiments, as you can derive a hypothesis, get an answer, and make it look sciency in charts and graphs. To show that your results have relevance to the real world, you cite some papers that supposedly find that public opinion matters, maybe including one based on a regression showing that under very specific conditions foreign policy determined the results of an election, and maybe it’s well done and maybe not, but again, as long as you put the words together and the citations in the right format nobody has time to check any of this. The people conducting peer review on your work will be those who have already decided to study the topic, so you couldn’t find a more biased referee if you tried.

Thus, to be an IR scholar, the two main options are you can either use statistical methods that don’t work, or actually find answers to questions, but those questions are so narrow that they have no real world impact or relevance. A smaller portion of academics in the field just produce postmodern-generator style garbage, hence “feminist theories of IR.” You can also build game theoretic models that, like the statistical work in the field, are based on a thousand assumptions that are probably false and no one will ever check. The older tradition of Kennan and Mearsheimer is better and more accessible than what has come lately, but the field is moving away from that and, like a lot of things, towards scientism and identity politics.

…

At some point, I decided that if I wanted to study and understand important questions, and do so in a way that was accessible to others, I’d have a better chance outside of the academy. Sometimes people thinking about an academic career reach out to me, and ask for advice. For people who want to go into the social sciences, I always tell them not to do it. If you have something to say, take it to Substack, or CSPI, or whatever. If it’s actually important and interesting enough to get anyone’s attention, you’ll be able to find funding.

If you think your topic of interest is too esoteric to find an audience, know that my friend Razib Khan, who writes about the Mongol empire, Y-chromosomes and haplotypes and such, makes a living doing this. If you want to be an experimental physicist, this advice probably doesn’t apply, and you need lab mates, major funding sources, etc. If you just want to collect and analyze data in a way that can be done without institutional support, run away from the university system.

The main problem with academia is not just the political bias, although that’s another reason to do something else with your life. It’s the entire concept of specialization, which holds that you need some secret tools or methods to understand what we call “political science” or “sociology,” and that these fields have boundaries between them that should be respected in the first place. Quantitative methods are helpful and can be applied widely, but in learning stats there are steep diminishing returns.

…

Outside of political science, are there other fields that have their own equivalents of “African witch doctor beats von Braun to the moon” or “the Taliban beats the State Department and the Pentagon” facts to explain? Yes, and here are just a few examples.

Consider criminology. More people are studying how to keep us safe from other humans than at any other point in history. But here’s the US murder rate between 1960 and 2018, not including the large uptick since then.

So basically, after a rough couple of decades, we’re back to where we were in 1960. But we’re actually much worse, because improvements in medical technology are keeping a lot of people that would’ve died 60 years ago alive. One paper from 2002 says that the murder rate would be 5 times higher if not for medical developments since 1960. I don’t know how much to trust this, but it’s surely true that we’ve made some medical progress since that time, and doctors have been getting a lot of experience from all the shooting victims they have treated over the decades. Moreover, we’re much richer than we were in 1960, and I’m sure spending on public safety has increased. With all that, we are now about tied with where we were almost three-quarters of a century ago, a massive failure.

What about psychology? As of 2016, there were 106,000 licensed psychologists in the US. I wish I could find data to compare to previous eras, but I don’t think anyone will argue against the idea that we have more mental health professionals and research psychologists than ever before. Are we getting mentally healthier? Here’s suicides in the US from 1981 to 2016

…

What about education? I’ll just defer to Freddie deBoer’s recent post on the topic, and Scott Alexander on how absurd the whole thing is.

Maybe there have been larger cultural and economic forces that it would be unfair to blame criminology, psychology, and education for. Despite no evidence we’re getting better at fighting crime, curing mental problems, or educating children, maybe other things have happened that have outweighed our gains in knowledge. Perhaps the experts are holding up the world on their shoulders, and if we hadn’t produced so many specialists over the years, thrown so much money at them, and gotten them to produce so many peer reviews papers, we’d see Middle Ages-levels of violence all across the country and no longer even be able to teach children to read. Like an Ayn Rand novel, if you just replaced the business tycoons with those whose work has withstood peer review.

Or you can just assume that expertise in these fields is fake. Even if there are some people doing good work, either they are outnumbered by those adding nothing or even subtracting from what we know, or our newly gained understanding is not being translated into better policies. Considering the extent to which government relies on experts, if the experts with power are doing things that are not defensible given the consensus in their fields, the larger community should make this known and shun those who are getting the policy questions so wrong. As in the case of the Afghanistan War, this has not happened, and those who fail in the policy world are still well regarded in their larger intellectual community.

…

Those opposed to cancel culture have taken up the mantle of “intellectual diversity” as a heuristic, but there’s nothing valuable about the concept itself. When I look at the people I’ve come to trust, they are diverse on some measures, but extremely homogenous on others. IQ and sensitivity to cost-benefit considerations seem to me to be unambiguous goods in figuring out what is true or what should be done in a policy area. You don’t add much to your understanding of the world by finding those with low IQs who can’t do cost-benefit analysis and adding them to the conversation.

One of the clearest examples of bias in academia and how intellectual diversity can make the conversation better is the work of Lee Jussim on stereotypes. Basically, a bunch of liberal academics went around saying “Conservatives believe in differences between groups, isn’t that terrible!” Lee Jussim, as someone who is relatively moderate, came along and said “Hey, let’s check to see whether they’re true!” This story is now used to make the case for intellectual diversity in the social sciences.

Yet it seems to me that isn’t the real lesson here. Imagine if, instead of Jussim coming forward and asking whether stereotypes are accurate, Osama bin Laden had decided to become a psychologist. He’d say “The problem with your research on stereotypes is that you do not praise Allah the all merciful at the beginning of all your papers.” If you added more feminist voices, they’d say something like “This research is problematic because it’s all done by men.” Neither of these perspectives contributes all that much. You’ve made the conversation more diverse, but dumber. The problem with psychology was a very specific one, in that liberals are particularly bad at recognizing obvious facts about race and sex. So yes, in that case the field could use more conservatives, not “more intellectual diversity,” which could just as easily make the field worse as make it better. And just because political psychology could use more conservative representation when discussing stereotypes doesn’t mean those on the right always add to the discussion rather than subtract from it. As many religious Republicans oppose the idea of evolution, we don’t need the “conservative” position to come and help add a new perspective to biology.

The upshot is intellectual diversity is a red herring, usually a thinly-veiled plea for more conservatives. Nobody is arguing for more Islamists, Nazis, or flat earthers in academia, and for good reason. People should just be honest about the ways in which liberals are wrong and leave it at that.

…

The failure in Afghanistan was mind-boggling. Perhaps never in the history of warfare had there been such a resource disparity between two sides, and the US-backed government couldn’t even last through the end of the American withdrawal. One can choose to understand this failure through a broad or narrow lens. Does it only tell us something about one particular war or is it a larger indictment of American foreign policy?

The main argument of this essay is we’re not thinking big enough. The American loss should be seen as a complete discrediting of the academic understanding of “expertise,” with its reliance on narrowly focused peer reviewed publications and subject matter knowledge as the way to understand the world. Although I don’t develop the argument here, I think I could make the case that expertise isn’t just fake, it actually makes you worse off because it gives you a higher level of certainty in your own wishful thinking. The Taliban probably did better by focusing their intellectual energies on interpreting the Holy Quran and taking a pragmatic approach to how they fought the war rather than proceeding with a prepackaged theory of how to engage in nation building, which for the West conveniently involved importing its own institutions.

A discussion of the practical implications of all this, or how we move from a world of specialization to one with better elites, is also for another day. For now, I’ll just emphasize that for those thinking of choosing an academic career to make universities or the peer review system function better, my advice is don’t. The conversation is much more interesting, meaningful, and oriented towards finding truth here on the outside.

[the-magnificent-otaku-draws]

On Our Own - The Hey Ho Whoa Car

Summary: Grace decides to finally come clean and let go

A/N: Might make a whole ask blog/AU out of this. What do you think?

Chapter: 1/?

Word Count: 2.8k

Warning: Slight gore (Accidental scratches/cuts via rocks)

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

That scream

She had only heard it once yet it was enough to make her blood run cold. 

   The girl quickly turned,eyes growing wide. All that time she spent trying to hide the truth,all the lies she had let slip to her dear friend,all the questions that bubbled in her mind the longer she spent protecting her,it was all for nothing. 

     On the rocky floor was a six year old girl,a shell on her back and beak on her face. Tears fell down her scaly cheeks,soft whimpers escaping her as she looked to the one person who had known all along with a fearful gaze. 

     Grace caught a glance of her friend,his jaw close to dropping to the floor. He quickly turned to her,his expression begging for some sort of answer. She could only guess what he was thinking,a rare panic written on every feature of his face. 

"I...I can't believe it"

    That was what she instinctively thought of the second she met his eyes. Lie again,just as she had been doing this whole trip. She could keep up the charade a bit longer,right?

....

No

Neither of them deserved that. They never did. 

    She let out a deep breath before walking to the child and crouching down to meet her terrified gaze. "Hey, Hazel, its okay"

 "I-I'm sorry" Hazel sobbed,chest heaving with each shaky breath. "I-I didn't m-mean to"

"It's okay Hazel" Grace repeated for her sake. "Don't worry about it"

"But I promised to control it" She forced herself to say through sniffles. 

"You couldn't help it," The woman said softly. "Its my fault for making you hold it for so long"

"Are...Are you mad at me?" Hazel asked,each possibly answer concocted by her mind scarier than the last. 

"No,I'm not"

"You…You aren’t leaving me,are you?"

"Of course not" She opened her arms,a kind smile on her face. "You're still Hazel and that’s all that matters"

     Tears turned to waterfalls,the girl throwing herself into the other's embrace. Grace held her close,a hand running through her messy blonde hair. The only remnant of her past form,still just as tangled and fluffy as before. A finger landed on the hard shell that rest on her back,smile falling.

"We just won't tell Simon”

   Why did she ever think she could get away with this? It was only a matter of time before everything fell apart. Still,the possibility of what could have been was enough to keep her lips shut. The image of the baby faced girl hanging off the train's edge,fingers slipping off one by one until she vanished into the darkness below the bridge and into the deadly wheels...it was far more horrifying than any death she could have imagined for herself. 

"Grace,what is this?"

   She cringed at the familiar mix of confusion and anger. Hearing his tone she would normally play into their once shared fantasy,but this time was different. She couldn't afford to fall back now just for his sake.

   She looked back to the boy,voice stern. "Simon,we...I've been hiding something"

"Obviously!" He motioned towards the child,a sneer on his face. "What the Hell is this?!"

   The eldest woman grew wide eyed at the realization. “Of course,the turtles!”  She ran a hand through her hair,memories flooding back to her like a broken dam. "It was just a stupid hankerchief"

    She turned her attention back towards the child,Hazel quick to bury her face in Grace’s chest. Her eyebrows furrowed before she got to her knees to examine closer. In every other car her attempts led to nothing but failure,a turtle that could hold a conversation while on a long stroll at the most. It was no easy feat but it was all child's play compared to this,an almost entirely human being. “I’ve gotten closer than I could ever imagine”

“What are you talking about?!” Simon asked yet again,frustration dripping through his words. 

“The child,she’s not a passenger. She's one of my failed attempts at making Alrick" Amelia explained,surprised by her own words. “She’s the anomaly I’ve been tracking”

“So...Hazel is a clone of your dead boyfriend?” In all her eighteen years Grace had seen many strange things but this...this was something even she couldn't imagine.

“No,not a clone” The woman clarified,arms crossed. “Something...Something else…”

"I'm Hazel!" The child cried through a cracked voice.

"Debatable" She thought for a moment,mind buzzing with a million thoughts and questions. There had to be some reason this little experiment took such a wildly different detour,so close to a want she had attempted to smother long ago. This time it wouldn't be for her own self interest,this time it would be for science or whatever justification she could come up with that didn't send her back to step one. 

"I’ll take things from here on" She finally decided. "The girl will need to be quarantined before the pulse returns"

     She reached out to grab a frail arm,Grace immediately turning to shield the trembling child. "I don't know why you think Hazel will make your boyfriend come back but I’m not letting you take her"

"I don't have time to argue with you" Amelia reached once more,the other jumping to her feet with Hazel in her arms. 

"You are not taking her with you"

"If the pulse passes through any car with her inside it will be ejected" The woman said,agitated by her defiance. “If you take her every car you go through will have to be dismantled from the ground up!”

"I'm not letting you take her," Grace repeated, stepping back. “Make new cars or just-just ignore her like you did before!”

“I wasn’t ignoring her” Amelia snapped “ I didn’t even know she existed”

“Then keep ignoring her!” The girl yelled out,her hold on the child tight. “You’ve done it for six years and you only want her now when you think she’s useful?”

“I don’t need her for anything! She is a danger to this train and everyone on it!” Amelia shouted,hands curled into fists. 

    The feeling of tears on her shirt returned,Grace looking back down to Hazel. “Don’t listen to her Hazel”

"Grace,let her go"

The girl looked to Simon,eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

“Just leave her with the old woman,we’ll go around the outside and get home” He said,as if they weren't in the middle of a heated spat. 

Her shoulders slumped,heart dropping to her stomach. “Simon…”

"It’s just a null," He said bluntly. "Why do you care about it so much?”

“Because…” What answer could she come up with to satisfy him? Nothing she could think of made sense,even to her.

   A sudden realization hit,the boy pointing to Hazel. “That's why your number's going down "

   She raised an eyebrow at the idea. "What are you talking about?"

"Think about it,your number has been going down ever since we met it" His tone grew more bitter with each word. "You've been changing ever since this whole mess started!"

"You know what..." She hesitated for a moment,mind clearing once she heard a soft whimper from her side. "Maybe I should change"

He tensed,anger morphing to confusion. "W...What?"

"Simon,she's still a kid," Grace said firmly. "She's just like any of the Apex. You would never wheel one of our kids because they did something you didn't like"

"She isn't one of our kids!" Simon shouted. "She's just some mistake made by the train,we don't need her and she doesn't need us!"

"We said she was part of the Apex,just like any of the other kids we rescued" She could still remember the excited smile that graced her face when the red,now meaningless, squiggle was drawn across the bridge of her nose. She had done it a thousand times before with pride yet now the memory left a sour taste in her mouth. 

"That was before I found out she was like this!"

"So you lied to her"

       The boy froze,breathing coming to a halt. No...N-No,he wasn't a liar. He told Hazel - no - the null, everything when they first met. She was going to be part of the Apex as long as she was brave and the human Hazel was brave in her own way. That was the one reason he kept pushing and pushing for them to hurry up this seemingly never ending journey,to get them all to the Apex. But they wheeled nulls and Hazel was a null but he promised she would join their little group. No,no,none of this made any sense. His mind kept running in endless circles,looking for something that proved her wrong. He would take something, ANYTHING, just please don't make everything he lived through in all his ten years on this stupid train mean nothing. 

   An annoyed sigh finally broke the silence. "I'm tired of this,I'm taking the child and that is final"

"I...I'm not going with you"

    Amelia looked to Hazel with disdain. "Don't be difficult,this is for the good of the passengers"

"I'm not going with you!" Hazel cried,tears now frustrated as she clung to Grace. 

"Simon,do something!" The girl begged,the other trying to catch his breath. Imagined claws tore at his lungs and through his insides,mind clouded with so many questions he was too terrified to answer. 

"You have until I count to three" 

   Grace looked to Amelia,her expression enough to send a shiver down her spine. 

"One..."

    Hazel attempted to calm herself,breathing harshly into Grace's shoulder. Relax,Grace would protect her,she promised and she wouldn't break her promises anymore...right?

"Two..."

    Grace's eyes darted back to Simon,the boy's stance unstable as his fingers dug into his arms. The straps of his grappling pack hung off his shoulders, only his elbows keeping them from hitting the ground. Did she truly have to do this? After so long and so many past promises...

"Three"

   She bit her lip,eyes shut tight as she dashed towards the woman. She ducked under her arm,hair barely missing the grip of her callused hands. A field of green pushed her forwards,the girl bouncing off and onto a heavy weight as they both skid across the ground. 

    The thump of his bag echoed through the car, Simon taking the full force as the cloth of his hoodie ripped at the shoulder. 

    Heavy pants escaped her,a tight grip on her sleeve keeping her conscious. "Y...You okay?"

     Hazel nodded,catching a glimpse of the bag. She attempted to stand,a rough hand grabbing her arm as she let out a shriek. 

"Simon!" Grace grabbed his own arm,free hand attempting to pry his fingers off the other's wrist. 

"Just let her go!" He demanded between grunts. 

"You don't have to do this!" She shouted over him. "I-I'll tell you everything!"

"LIAR!"

   A sharp beak clamped around his wrist,the boy letting out a scream. With contempt he reached for her face,Grace quick to knee his stomach. All air was knocked from his lungs,the boy folding over to clutch the soon to be torso sized bruise.  

     The girl scrambled to her feet,grabbing Hazel before making a mad dash to the bag. Its straps were hastily thrown over her shoulder,hands fumbling to find a good grasp on the dirtied rod. 

"GET BACK HERE!"

     Shit,no time to overcomplicate something like this. She looked over to Hazel,grip on her near deathly. "Hang on tight"

      With no thought she took her finger off the small button,watching nervously as the hook flew towards the other side of the cavern. 

      The elder grew closer by the second,Grace giving her one last fearful glance before running off of the cliff's edge and into the pit below.

      The first thing she felt was the wind in her face,body pushing past the whooping stones that fell from the car's roof. The occasional rock scratched her skin,the girl only able to wince as each edge dug deeper and deeper into her arms. Yet the entire time she heard the screams of the two she had left behind,one of anger and another close to a sob. No,forget Simon,he made his choice. Still,that cry...she had only heard it once before yet it still managed to drown her in guilt. 

"Grace!"

      A panicked voice yanked her from her thoughts,a gasp escaping her as she roughly landed onto the cavern's side. Knees aching she climbed up the hook's rope,finally collapsing onto the ground. 

"Grace...are you...?"

"I...I'm okay" She said through tired pants. She looked back to the girl,fighting back the urge to give into the fatigue that wracked her body. "W...What about you?"

"I'm okay," Hazel answered. 

"Good..."

"Um..." She pulled her knees to her chest,looking away in shame. "I'm sorry I bit Simon"

Grace let out a soft chuckle. "I can't believe you actually did that"

"I'm sorry..."

"It's fine Hazel" She reassured her. "You were pretty brave"

"But Tuba said we don't bite"

     Grace froze,slowly turning her attention back to her hand. Her gaze trailed from her palm,down her number ridden knuckles and dressing her arm until it finally stopped at her elbow. Two numbers had disappeared. It wasn't much yet looking at it,she couldn't help the melancholy that creeped upon her back. "You're right...but...this is an exception"

     Hazel reluctantly looked up,the other two barely visible from a distance. All she could see were their blurring silhouettes,one pacing as obscenities were spit from her mouth while another lay limp by the edge. "Is he dead?"

"No..." The Simon she knew could and had taken much worse.

"So...what now?"

     The girl thought for a moment,trying to process all that had happened in just a few short seconds. It seemed almost like a dream,the only thing disproving that being the still bleeding wounds on her limbs. Not enough to kill her but enough to leave behind a slight sting. "I don't know"

    Hazel looked to her own hand,number barely visible under her green scales. She couldn’t help the growing guilt that clung to her back. Did Tuba know? If so,why didn’t she tell her? If not...if they were somehow ever meet again,would Tuba still want her? 

     The sound of a far off clunk caught her attention,prying her away from her old thoughts and to the two on the other side. Her eyes grew wide,immediately jumping to shake the other awake. "Grace! Wake up!"

She let out a sigh,sitting up on her elbows. "What is it?"

       The noise grew louder before she could answer,Grace turning to find its source. Her pulse quickened,fatigue quickly turning to horror. 

       A few feet away were the two,Amelia and Simon,some sort of contraption now being used as a makeshift bridge. 

"No..." She sat up,body shaking violently. "No,no,no,no,no!"

     A small hand grasped at her arm,struggling to pull her up. Grace took hold of the other's hand,coming to her feet. Or at least attempting to. An agonizing pain rocked through her body,each wound feeling as if it was being split open. She let out a pained hiss,falling back onto the red wood. 

    Heavy pants escaped her,the girl struggling to look up. Though blurry vision she could see the child having pulled away. Hazel took a defensive stance,rocks in her arms as she aimed for the two. With frustrated grunts she threw them as far as her tiny body could,each hit barely making a dent. 

"H-Hazel,stop"

"They're gonna get us!" She reached into her pile,hoping that at least one rock could leave a dent or buy the other some time to heal.

     A dizzy gaze drifted past the door frame and into the small space between them and the next car over. From the crack she could see the rail rumble,a strip of white light inching across the other car's roof. It looked like...

'A pulse'

    An idea came to mind,one that seemed crazy even to her. Still,it was either that or be forever torn from the child she swore to protect. 

     Grace pressed a hand on her last open wound,hoping the pressure was enough to stop the bleeding. "Hazel,can you give me a hand?"

   Hazel gave her a nod before setting down her remaining ammunition. With a hard shove she opened the door,the elder stumbling through the exit. She could do this,just think of what could happen if she messed this all up. 

    With a deep breath she pulled the child up and into her arms,the sound of footprints growing close making her brow sweat.  The bridge began to shake,the girl stepping back and watching it split down the middle. This was insane,even for the leader of the Apex. One wrong move,just one slip up and they would both be dead. Still,the single glimmer of hope was enough to push her no matter how foolish it all seemed. 

     She began to run,adrenaline drowning out the shocks of pain in her arms and leg. Dirtied tiles of the bridge began to flip towards them,the car disconnecting from the other and rolling itself into the air. Holding the child close she jumped,hand keeping the other's head pressed against her shoulder. Time seemed to slow,the only sound she could hear being her racing heart. The grip on her body tightened,tiny fingers digging into her sides for dear life.

"I'll leave when I want null!"

    If the Grace that could say something so cruel with only minor regrets saw this she would be outraged. Disgusted at how weak she was,angry at how easily she had destroyed the life she had made of this train and enraged that she had abandoned her one true friend. But if that was the Grace she could have become just to keep people by her side,a Grace that put others down for her own satisfaction,that was the Grace she wanted dead.

    It was then she felt something unexpected. Something that made her finally open her eyes. The dark green floors that lead into one of the train's many cars. She was here. She made it. She was alive. No,they were alive. 

    She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry,the excited rush running through her every bone. She did know one thing,the realization bringing a smile to her face. 

"Are...Are we okay?"

     Grace let out a happy sigh,holding her close. "We're okay Hazel,we're okay"

"GRACE!"

Well...almost okay.

     She turned to see the train car thousands of feet above her. A body rushed to the edge meeting her gaze for a split second. It slowly stepped back before running towards the edge,attempting to copy her daring escape. Only a tight grip kept him from the leap of faith,a hand grabbing his already scuffed up hood. A woman yanked him to her side,surely scolding him for even thinking someone could succeed at something so dangerous twice. 

    The boy pulled away,falling to his knees as he leaned over the edge. Even from far away she could see his face bright red,never ending globby tears falling from his down his cheeks until they landed on his fists. His eyes were filled with so many emotions,pain,anger,sadness,yet only one seemed to smother them all under its cloak. Agony. Pure,unfiltered agony. 

    He reached out for her,thousands of feet apart as he held back sobs through grit teeth. Guilt tugged at her heart,a part of her wanting to use the janky pack one last time. She instead raised her arm,giving him a weak wave. 

    Brown eyes grew wide,the clanging of the gears below meaning only one thing. He let out one last strangled scream,words barely breaking through his cries it faded off with the car. 

"GRAAAAAAAAAACE!"

In a flash they were gone,the train still chugging on without them.

    The girl slowly turned,opening the door in silence. Tired eyes looked around,catching sight of dotted paper folded into what resembled a tree. She made her way to it before setting down the child in her arms. She let herself collapse against the trunk,purple slips of paper falling off and to the ground. A heavy sigh escaped her,eyes focused on the sky. It was a mix of warm reds and oranges,the gold of the origami sun peaking through the swirls of dawn. If she squinted hard enough she could pretend it was yet another comforting sunset from her old home off the train. Few things in the train made her want to return to such an awful place,yet she couldn't help but wonder if the sunsets that now only her family could see looked the same. 'Simon would have liked this'

    She turned,expecting to find her friend staring off into the distance with a rare calm smile on his face. Instead she was greeted by Hazel looking to her with a nervous expression. 

"Grace?"

"Yeah?"

"Your sleeve ripped off"

     She looked to her shoulder,the orange sleeve ripped off leaving only thin strings behind. "Oh...I didn't notice"

 "And your arms..."

      Her eyes drifted towards her arm,a scar running from her shoulder,down the limb and leaking through the last row of numbers. The last digit was left flickering like a broken light,the girl pressing a thumb on it as if to keep it still. She let out a pained hiss,holding her arm out to avoid any more injuries. 

    The sound of ripping caught her attention,Grace finding Hazel tugging at a stray strip that hung from the paper tree's branch. Before she could question her the strip snapped,the child then handing it to her. "Here,it's so you don't bleed to death and die"

"Right" She took the strip from her tiny hands,starting from her elbow with a tired grin. "What would I do without you?"

"You'd be with Simon"

     Grace stopped,eyes full of worry as she looked to the child. She clutched the hem of her sweater vest,shifting from heel to heel. "You...You can go back if you want to"

"Hazel..."

"It's okay" She lied. "I-I can take care of myself. You can look for him and I'll go to the Apex. I promise I'll be safe and find it fast"

     The Apex. In this whole mess she had nearly forgotten about the rag tag group of children no older than sixteen at most. She glanced to her number,then to the child. In her eyes she was the same Hazel she had known since the jungle car,but to Simon with just one word she became an enemy. All it took was one moment to change everything. "Hazel...we can't go back to the Apex now"

"But what about the other kids?"

"Simon...Me and Simon taught them a lot of bad things" She finally admitted. "If we go there now..." In all truth she didn't know what would happen,children were unpredictable after all. What she did know was that if they went now,their second leader gone with a denizen in his place,it would end badly for both of them. 

    Hazel thought for a moment,returning to her seat by her side. She looked back to Grace,eyes focused on the few numbers she could see peeking out from her makeshift bandage. She did the same,her own number a dull grey. Permanent and unchanging. Even in the few similarities they had there was always something keeping her miles away from being one as close to her as she was before. Back when she thought she was human. "Do you miss Simon?"

    The girl traced the top row of her numbers with a thumb,imaging the other's sure to have grown exponentially by the time they met again. Was there even a chance of them meeting again on a train that seemed to go on for infinity? "I don't know yet"

"Its okay if you want to cry"

She looked to the child,eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

    Hazel pulled her knees to her chest,chin rested on them. "Simon was bad...really bad"

"That's a nice way to put it" In all honesty she expected a lot more animosity on her end. If she had to describe someone that killed her mother and hated her very existence something as simple as 'bad' would be the farthest word from her mind. 

"But he was still your friend," Hazel reminded her. "Even when he was bad you wanted him to come with you"

"I..." 

    She could still feel her feet planted to the rocky ground,close to frustrated tears as he stood what felt like miles away. 'JUST ANSWER ME!' Was what she wanted to scream or better yet just grab him by the hood and swing across the pit and onto the other side. They probably could have settled the whole denizen issue if they just had a moment to talk,right? Surely he could understand what she did if he just took the time to listen. But then again,if it wasn't what he wanted to hear,would he listen at all? "I guess I did..."

"Simon was like your Tuba"

     Grace froze at the sentiment. Tuba was someone so kind,so motherly,so generous, and Simon was so...well,he was a lot of things. Stubborn,clueless at times and yet far too blunt at others but at the same time he wasn't all bad. He wrote fantasy novels that were nothing short of comedic in their sincerity but she dare not ruin his dreams. He spent his heart and soul on miniatures and creating worlds he could never see out of junk collected from their many raids and he always found some excuse to be by her side at every other free moment. He was a dork plain and simple but a dork she had spent her most of her life on this train with. 

    Her eyes widened at the realization. Ten years. Ten years of spending cold nights on the train together,ten years of doing the dumbest things to get a laugh out of the other,ten years of being each other's shoulder to cry on each time they thought of their life before the train,and ten years sure that they would spend the rest of their lives on this stupid train together. 

     Tears pricked at the corner of their eyes,the girl quick to wipe them away. No,don't think about the past. It'll hurt less if you just ignore it and move on. Just move on from their mess and onto the next car as they had done before. 

      A pair of small arms wrapped around her waist,a now beakless face pressed against her side. Tears slowly fell down her cheeks,soaking the paper leaves that had collected around the two. For the first time in what felt like years she sobbed,cries loud and pained. She could already imagine her mother hovering over her,scolding her for grieving with no grace. "You're embarrassing yourself" 'You're embarrassing me' is what she truly meant,at least that's what she assumed for so long. Yet this time she didn't feel the shame that had once been forced upon her. Instead a new feeling slowly began to fill her. 

Relief

   Relieved to have escaped what was sure to be Hell if she hadn't taken Hazel in her arms and away from the remaining two passengers,relieved to be free from the shackles of holding so many secrets,and relieved that she could finally start over. No more Grace Monroe,leader of the Apex who tormented denizens for their own amusement. Now she was a new Grace,not one entirely figured out but one she was willing to find. She would figure out how to rescue the remaining children later,for now she lay in the origami car watching the sky turn to a gorgeous dark blue with sparkling paper stars.

"Grace?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

   A soft smile returned to her face,a gentle hand resting on the other's head. "Yeah,I'm okay"

"You're being honest,right?"

She let out a weak chuckle. "Yeah,no more lying"

"Okay...but what are we gonna do now?"

Grace thought for a moment,looking to the sky. "I don't know...but we'll find out together"

Hazel nodded in agreement before letting out a yawn. 

"You tired?"

Another nod from the young girl. 

"You can take a nap,you deserve a break" She released her from her hold,Hazel immediately flopping onto her lap. She couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle. 

     Hazel hesitated for a moment before looking to her. "Are you gonna be gone when I wake up?"

"Of course not" Grace assured her. "I'm not leaving you,ever"

     Hazel hummed before turning back to rest on her thigh. Eyes shut tight she slowly drifted off until she was fast asleep. 

      Grace let out a sigh,her own eyes close to drooping shut. Where to next? The question lingered in her mind,not an answer in sight. Maybe they could focus on her number,try to get it to glow and drop to zero so they could both escape this nightmare. Or maybe she could reform the Apex,make it better and tell each and every child the truth or maybe...maybe she just needed to get some sleep. 

    Head leaning back against the trunk she finally shut her eyes,each muscle slowly relaxing until she placed a protective arm over the sleeping child. Before she could fall asleep a soft song fell past her lips,ease settling over the two once they both sat fast asleep under the origami tree. 

"Don't be a worry baby

No need to hurry, baby

When you're with me"

[cellard0ors]

Fic: Into The Night

This was SUPPOSED to be posted around @nekoaimy BD and Halloween, but then LIFE happened.

With my OWN BD coming up, I felt this was still good to post. Might write more to this one day. For now just a one off. Inspired by artwork aimy did, but with the added twist of Halloween costumes - lol.

Ford stands by the punch bowl grousing and feeling like an idiot. The first is because he's being forced to attend a Halloween party he doesn't want to. The second is because he's dressed like a cat.

Okay, not a complete cat. There's no tail, thank god - but a black headband with felt black ears was slapped on to his head and painted black whiskers were slanted on his cheeks - a little black dot on the tip of his nose.

The culprit? One Stanley Pines, worst twin (EVER) extraordinaire. Maybe a bit overdramatic, true, but this is all Stan's fault.

Ford had been minding his own business in their shared room when he'd been ambushed. What started off as a normal wrestling match between brothers resulted in Stan pinning him down, painting Ford up with their Mom's eyeliner and him begging Ford to join him at Rachel McCarthy's party.

Mainly because Stan is now eyeing Rachel after the whole Carla fiasco and why Stan wants to date anyone is beyond him.

...alright, this is not entirely true either. Ford gets why dating might be fun, but considering who he'd like to date, well...

Ford can easily say having six fingers on each hand is the least freakish thing about him. Not that Stan will ever, ever, ever, EVER know that. Nor will anyone else. Ford will take his secret shame to the grave.

Grave. Halloween. How fitting.

Regardless, Stan tossed the cat get-up on him, begged him to go to this thing, and now here Ford stands, everything full circle.

Stan, for his part, seems to be having a grand old time. Their mother's green eyeshadow is powdered all over his face and his hair has been lightly slicked down. Screw bolts have been tacked to either side of his neck to complete the monster ensemble and frankly, Ford worries about what kind of adhesive his twin used to accomplish this.

It wouldn't be the first time Stan got something almost permanently stuck to him. Ford keeps hoping for a last, but knows that will probably never happen...lovable, infuriating fool...

Ford really does need to start thinking seriously about looking into colleges. He's been playing Stan, saying he'll join him on their ship, but he knows that's a recipe for disaster.

Stuck alone on a ship with the object of his forbidden desires? Yeah, thanks but no thanks. Sure, Stan will be sour about the whole thing, but better they part then Ford potentially do something unforgivable.

Like kiss the breath out of the big, handsome, stupid-!

"Bro, what are you doing?"

Ford snaps out of his thoughts as Stan approaches him. He blinks and tries to be normal, "Nothing "

"Exactly. Nothing," Stan throws an arm around him, shakes him amiably, "Come on, join the party! You're next to the punch bowl - grab a drink, mingle, have fun!"

Ford carefully extracts himself from his brother's grip, frowning, "I agreed to come with you, Stanley. Not engage in the festivities. The punch is heavily spiked, there's no one here I wish to talk to, and this is miles from what I would constitute as 'fun'."

“Aw, don’t be like that, Sixer! Loosen up!” Stan pulls a face, bottom jaw jutting out, eyes rolling upwards as he growls, “Frankenstein say party gooood.”

“...you know you’re not Frankenstein right?”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Stan tugs at one of the bolts, “Think I did a pretty good with the costume last minute an’ all...”

“Frankenstein is the name of the main protagonist in the novel, Stanley. The doctor. The creature he creates is not, in point of fact, named Frankenstein.”

Ford once again questions how he can love someone who can give him such a blank face only to follow it up with a raspberry and an eye roll, “Yeah, like anyone past nerds’ll think of that.”

“Are you calling me a nerd?”

“I’ll call you whatever you want if, you know,” he wiggles his eyebrows, “You play it a lil’ cooler.”

Ford scoffs, “And why on earth should I do that?”

“Because you’re bringing people down, man,” Stan whispers this to him as if it’s a terrible secret, “Missy Caldwell told me that Rachel was thinkin’ about busting out some kissin’ games! You know, like Spin the Bottle and Seven Minutes in Heaven and the like. but then she saw you over here, looking like the kid picked last for dodgeball and it kinda killed the mood!”

Ford looks over to see that Rachel is, indeed, standing with Missy and a large group of girls. They are whispering to one another and looking in his direction. Rachel, in particular, is wearing a sort of judging expression. The fact that Stan would take her concerns over his...

And why shouldn’t he? His thoughts whisper. You’re his brother. You’re supposed to have his back. Be there for him as much as he’s there for you. He wants to kiss Rachel. It’s normal for him to want to kiss Rachel. He can’t know that you want to kiss him. He should NEVER know that. Should never even consider it.

Ford knows his thoughts are correct. They are smart. Logical. Everything he has always vowed himself to be. And yet...

...and yet.

“Look, just...” Stan waves at his face, “Give ‘em a smile. A little sign that you’re fine.”

Ford doesn’t feel much like smiling, but he gives it his best shot. It must be pretty bad, because Stan winces, “Yeesh.”

His lips drop, “No good?”

“You look like you just chugged the kool-aid at a cult meetin’.”

That actually gets a genuine smile, a laugh, and Stan beams, pointing at him, “See? That’s much better!”

Ford shakes his head, “What can I say? You always manage to get a rise out of me.”

The words leave and he feels a whiplash of heat wash over him. Shoot! Was that too suggestive? Apparently not, because Stan’s grin just grows, “That’s my job, bro! Keepin’ you from being too stuck in the mud! Now come on...”

He puts a big arm around Ford’s shoulders and drags him over to the group of girls. Rachel appears much mollified now, as do Missy and the others. They’re all girlish giggles and coquettish smirks and Rachel sends some of the gals to collect the other boys, to set everything in order for a game of Spin the Bottle.

While she does this, Stan drags Ford to one side again, hissing, “Alright, Sixer - now’s the time I need your big brains.”

“Wh-? How-? Why?” Ford stumbles over the questions, because as far as he can tell, they’re all intrinsically linked together. Stan explains, “You can like, tell me the best way to spin the bottle. Use maths and wind velocity and science to tell me how best ta make sure it lands on Rachel.”

“I...” Ford starts, but then someone walks up to them. It’s Becky Gilmore, another girl from Rachel’s pack, and she bats her eyelashes at them as she plays with a strand of her dark hair, “Hi! Hey, uh, can-can I talk to Stanford for a sec?”

“He’s Stanford,” Stan points to him even as Ford says, “I’m Stanford.” Both sound surprised as they give this information, but Becky is unfazed, “Um, yeah - I know. Look, can I just-?”

She sneaks out one slim hand to grab at one of Ford’s wrists, dragging him away from Stan who - clearly thinking this is a good thing - gives his brother a big smile and two thumbs up. Once out of Stan’s earshot, Becky says brightly, “’Key, so, Rachel’s like, all about your brother. Like, he has acne and whatever, but she totally wants to kiss him.”

Ford does his best to parse her words, separating the good from the bad, and doing his oh, so best not to comment on the bad, because it really gets his goat, teeth on edge at the acne remark. But Becky, clueless, just continues on, “I think maybe she’s trying to make Joey jealous, ‘cause I know they broke up about three weeks ago and she’s pretty sure he’s running around with Cheryl Manchino and we all know about Cheryl Manchino-”

(Actually, Ford knows nothing about Cheryl Manchino.)

“-but my point is, we definitely need to get your brother to lock lips with Rachel, but with the way the circle’s looking that might be problematic with you there, not to mention I mean, you’re - I mean, you’re cute and all and totally smart but like, I mean, I would never want to offend you or anything, but, okay - you get what I’m saying, right?”

Ford, amazingly, does get what Becky is saying.

His face colors and he hides his hands behind his back and feels like complete trash. Becky, seeming to pick up on this somewhat, lightly taps one of his shoulders, “Aw! There, there, kitty kitty! You wouldn’t’ve enjoyed this game anyway, right?”

“...no.” his voice is so soft as to be near silent, “I suppose not.”

“Great!” Becky returns with the same amount of sparkle she uses on the cheerleading field, “Then how’s about you set your brother riiiiiight-” she drags the word out as she looks around the circle, before pointing to a certain spot, “-there! Rachel and us girls are going to make sure the bottle picks him for sure. And you can stand on the sidelines in case we need an assist, ‘kay?”

Ford nods numbly and Becky bounces off. When he returns to Stan, he does his best to play stoic.

He fails miserably.

“Whoa,” Stan breathes, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“That ain’t ‘nothing’,” Stan says pointing at his face, “That’s ‘Crampelter gave me shit’ face and he ain’t here. So? What is it?”

“I told you,” Ford hisses, “Nothing.”

“What did Becky say to you?” Stan asks and there’s such heat in the question. Anger and accusation and Ford pushes up his glasses and pours on the ice, “It’s not important. You’re going to miss out on the game, Stanley. Now, you asked for my help and considering the curvature of the bottle and the state of the floor I would suggest sitting-!”

“I suggest you tell me what she said before I make a scene,” the words sizzle out of Stan’s mouth and close to Ford’s ear, nearly scalding it and Ford can feel the barely leashed fury rolling off his brother in waves and he starts shaking his head, “You know, maybe I just don’t want to talk about it, Stanley! Did you ever think of that?”

Stan actually stands up straighter, looking startled, “Holy shit...what did she say?”

Ford lets out an aggravated breath and points to the exact spot Becky indicated, “You want your kiss? You want Rachel? SIT. DOWN. THERE. I’ll be outside!”

With that said, Ford exits the house. He starts walking down the neighborhood street, but he doesn’t get far before he’s being yanked back, Stanley’s hand turning him around roughly, “Just where the hell do you think you’re-?!”

“DO YOU WANT TO KISS HER OR NOT?!” the shout escapes Ford before he can leash it and it seems to echo in the empty streets. Thankfully Rachel’s neighbors seem to be tucked in for the night and no one left her house to follow them. 

Stan, regardless, shushes him even as he seethes, “Not more than I want to know whatever the hell is up with you! You’ve been sulking all night, Sixer - hell, you been sulking the past couple of weeks if we’re gonna be honest about it!”

Ford looks down at his feet, kicks at the pavement even as Stan charges on, “Then Becky pulls you aside and whatever she says seems to be the last straw and I don’t get-!”

“She said I shouldn’t play, alright!” Ford snaps, “She said I should-should sit the game out and that Rachel wants to kiss you and-and...” he falters, drops off, because he doesn’t want to hurt Stan’s feelings. 

He doesn’t want to tell him about the comments on his acne or how he might just be a ploy in some plot to make someone jealous because he does want his brother to have something nice - even if it’s fleeting, “And you should go back in there and get what you want!”

“...Becky said you shouldn’t play?”

“She-she figured I-I wouldn’t enjoy it anyway and she’s...she’s not wrong...”

“No,” Stan breathes in loudly through his nostrils, his hands curling into fists, “She’s wrong. She’s very wrong and if she wasn’t a girl, I’d pound her right in the face!”

“Stanley,” Ford sighs, suddenly very, very tired, “You shouldn’t want to pound anyone in the face. Boy or girl. And certainly not for my sake.”

“Whose sake would it be for then?” Stan returns, “I’ve told you time and time again, I’m here for you. I’ll protect you, I’ll-!”

“You won’t always be there for me, Stanley.”

This remark stops Stan short. Makes his eyes widen in alarm, “What-? What does that mean?”

“...I think you know.”

“I sure as fuck don’t!”

“Language, Stanley.”

“Fuck your language!” Stan growls and comes closer. He gets in Ford’s personal space and Ford can feel the heat radiating off him. He’s very much the monster he’s dressed as - exuding power and force and deadly seriousness as he looks at him, “I will always be there for you. Always.”

Ford lets out a sad, watery sound. He looks away and there’s a restless wind that seems to rise up, to play with his hair and suddenly Stan touches his chin, directs his face back to him, “Look at me.”

The touch is clearly just meant to direct his eyes, but Ford feels it zip throughout his entire central nervous system, feels it shoot out his toes as he looks into Stan’s eyes and his twin says, “Stanford, you ain’t never got to keep anything from me. Alright? You ain’t gotta hide or-or keep to yourself. Thinkin’...thinkin’ maybe now this is why you’ve been poutin’ so much lately, huh? You think we’re going to be apart?”

“Stanley...”

“That I’m not going to be there for you? Because I will be, Sixer. Always and forever. You should know that.”

Another sigh, “Rachel...”

“She’s just some broad,” Stan promises, and then, with a chuckle, “A cute one, but just the same. She’s not as important as you are. Never will be.”

“You-” Ford swallows around a big lump in his throat, his heart aching, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not? You’re family.”

And it’s that, that last word, that helps Ford grab a hold of his senses. He gulps and lets out a shaky laugh, “Uh, yeah - yeah. I am. And, uh, as your family - I...I think you should go back in there. Get your big kiss.”

Stan seems to thinking it over, but more for show than anything, as he cracks with a laugh, “Nah, forget it. Plenty of fish in the sea.”

The breath that leaves Ford sounds as if he’s pushing off a sob. Which makes sense. Ford feels like sobbing. He feels strangely vulnerable and exposed. More so when Stan just. Keeps. Pushing. “’Sides, if they’re not going to let you play...”

“I told you,” Ford manages weakly, pathetically, “Becky wasn’t wrong. I don’t want to play.”

Stan doesn’t say anything for awhile and it’s good. It’s great. Ford can feel his lungs filling with air, can feel his sanity returning, can feel himself pushing away from the ledge of tears. Stan didn’t mean for the things he said to sound so-so romantic. So much what Ford wants to hear.

He was being a good brother.

Ford wants to do the same - needs to do the same.

But then.

“Stanford, any...any of those girls would be lucky to kiss you...”

And that’s it. 

It’s the funniest thing.

That’s the thing that breaks Ford. That’s the thing that pushes him over that ledge. That’s the thing that leads him to cry out, “I don’t WANT to kiss THEM, Stanley! I WANT-! I want-!”

And Stan’s looking at him as if he’s never seen him before. As if Ford is some stranger - raving and demonic and he is - he truly is. Because with an anguished whimper, he grabs Stan and forcibly tugs him over. He seals his lips over Stan’s.

He kisses him.

He kisses him.

Ford kisses Stanley.

The sound of pure shock that leaves Stan sears Ford’s soul and Ford catches a glimpse of Stan’s eyes - big and round and white. Startled. Stunned. Maybe even terrified. So he closes his own as he brushes his tongue against his twin’s inert mouth, as he eases just so between the seam of them to get the taste he’s always feverishly dreamed of and then-!

Ford pushes him away as hard as he can, as hard as he tugged him over to begin with. He pushes him away and with a choked ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ he runs. He runs and runs. He runs off into the dark Halloween night and prays that Stan will forget what happened. 

[sunlightdances]

Through Lines (40′s!Bucky x Reader)

Pairing: 40s!Bucky x Nurse!Reader Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for war-typical violence and descriptions of PTSD. Summary: WW2 canon-divergent AU - Bucky lives. One of the things Bucky thinks about when he’s trapped in a foxhole and trying to stay alive is the pretty nurse from the Red Cross. Author’s Note: I re-watched Band of Brothers recently, so this popped into my head. Please excuse any inaccuracies/suspend your belief briefly - I did my best with a bit of research, but obviously some of this is OOC/not canon. I don’t own Bucky or Marvel (or the character cameo who is clearly from HBO War). Please don’t re-post anywhere without my permission!

You meet James Barnes for the first time while you’re packing a Red Cross truck in England, hair neatly curled and pinned, lips painted a fiery shade of red.

It’s easy, then, for you to flash him a smile as he removes his garrison cap, tucking it neatly into his waistband as he approaches you.

“Ma’am,” he greets, and even though you think he’s about the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, you still bristle a bit.

“It’s Lieutenant.” You say, returning to your work. You know he likely didn’t mean anything by it, but ever since you shipped out, you’ve found yourself defending your rank and training more than once.

He clears his throat. “Lieutenant,” he corrects himself, and even salutes you. It surprises you. You return his gesture. “Just wanted to see if you needed a hand.”

You falter, and smile gently at him. “I’m sorry for snapping. It’s been a long day.”

“Moving out tomorrow?”

You nod. “To France, to one of the field hospitals.” You can see the concern in his eyes, and it makes you roll yours. “We’re trained just as you are, Sergeant. The men need help.”

He puts his hands in his pockets. “They’ll be happy to see you, no doubt.” He rocks on his feet. You realize how young he is, how young you both are.

The next time the two of you see each other, it’s nowhere near as formal, or casual.

The sunshine of that day in England is a distant memory compared to this. It’s raining and the sound of shelling not far off has you gritting your teeth.

The flap of the tent flies open with a rush of noise — a familiar voice and steel blue eyes that you both hoped you’d see again, and prayed you never would. He’s with a medic, a stretcher between them.

“Here—“ you say before he even opens his mouth. “Put him here.”

The medic is rattling off information - shrapnel to the stomach and leg, given morphine.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you bark, snapping him out of his daze. “If you’re not going to help, then you need to get out of the way.”

He moves so you can get to work, but stays close, and you notice with a jolt when he takes the hand of the man you’re working on, squeezing gently.

He doesn’t make it.

You’re so frustrated you can barely speak. Every time you lose someone, it’s a burning ache that settles deep in your heart. No matter how bad off they are when they come to the hospital, you feel the guilt of not being able to do your job.

“You did everything you could.” He says next to you, outside the tent, cigarette dangling from his lips.

You don’t reply. There’s nothing to say. You won’t cry - you can’t allow yourself to cry. If you break down now, you might never get your composure back.

The shelling begins again, and a jeep pulls up nearby, someone shouting for Sergeant Barnes. You try not to notice the way his hand starts to shake as he pulls the cigarette from his mouth, throwing it to the ground and stamping it out before he goes.

“Take care of yourself,” he murmurs, and then with a weak salute, he’s gone.

.

.

Bucky Barnes is a romantic at heart. He pictured seeing you again back at some pub in England on leave, in his dress uniform, you in a red dress. When he was at his darkest point, he pictured it, and that’s why it’s so unfair that he’s seeing you again now, like this.

It’s been six months. France, and then Belgium, and then Italy, and whatever hell came after that. He’s grateful he doesn’t remember the entire thing. Azzano was like nothing he ever thought could happen to him - something from a science fiction novel.

His unit is completely gone. Every one of the men he trained with, fought with, shared a foxhole with… they’re all gone.

Steve is here now, something that should make him relieved, but all it does is add to his never-ending bad mood. His best friend, his brother, literally charging into harm’s way every chance he gets. Except now it’s not just back alley fist fights. There are bullets and fire and mortars, and Bucky doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

It’s bad enough that they’re hot on Hydra’s trail - a shiver ripples up his spine every time he sees the insignia - but the original Nazis are still everywhere. The German army is tough, and everywhere he goes it’s pure destruction.

They’ve been called in to support another Division, and Bucky is relieved for the tasks of a new squad to take his mind off everything. Being a platoon sergeant comes natural to him, and he looks after the replacements like he did his last group. It gives him something to keep busy.

Until they get to the Ardennes.

It’s hell on earth. The trees are sawed in half by shelling every night, the shrapnel alone enough to kill someone who isn’t hit directly.

It’s colder than anything he’s ever felt, and they lose more and more of the line between them and the enemy every day.

The field hospital is barely a field hospital. It’s in a partially bombed out church, and Bucky spares a thought that he hopes to hell you aren’t here, because he can’t stomach it. Of course his instincts prove to be right.

He drives one of the medics to try to scrounge up some supplies, and when he steps inside, your voice is the first one he hears. It’s chaos in there, and he’s surprised by the number of soldiers in beds, on chairs, or just laying on the floor.

His eyes fall on you and it’s like he can finally breathe again, though his relief is replaced by worry when you meet his eyes. He barely recognizes the look on your face. He sees the recognition when you first spot him, the barely there softening of your gaze, but he doesn’t recognize the rest.

You’ve lost weight. Everyone has, but it’s stark in the way your cheekbones jut out slightly, and the way your uniform hangs on you.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you say, your voice lacking it’s usual enthusiasm. He understands. Nothing seems important anymore, nothing seems worth getting excited for. All there is, is survival.

“Lieutenant,” he says softly, giving a brief salute.

“Nurse!” A call is coming from the other side of the church, and you glance away from Bucky briefly. He wants to grab your hand, your arm, anything to keep you from heading back into the fray.

“Are you hurt?” You ask him, looking him over. He finds he’s not sure how to answer. Physically, no. But in his head? The nightmares are atrocious. The headaches-- and on top of all that, he has no idea what that Hydra scientist actually did to him.

“No,” he replies carefully. “Came to beg for any bandages and plasma you have for our medic.”

You frown. “There isn’t much. I have to see this patient, but wait here.”

He watches you go, watches the slight limp to your gait, and he finds himself clenching his fist when he hears a doctor order you around.

A few minutes later you’re back with a small box. “This is all we can spare.”

“It’ll do us good. Thank you.” He doesn’t want to leave. “What a pair we make, hey?”

You meet his eyes, untrusting. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You need to get some rest,” he counters.

“There’s too much to do.”

He knows he has to leave. He needs to get back to his unit. He wishes this were another time, another place… that he could have met you back in Brooklyn.

“Be safe.” His voice is rough, and he hates himself for it, because he barely knows you. He doesn’t know why he feels so connected to you. You’re beautiful, of course you are, but for all he knows, you have someone back home, wherever that is.

“You too, James.”

The use of his first name floors him, not just because it’s so personal, but because he can’t remember the last time someone called him by his name.

“Barnes!” A shout from the door from an agitated soldier and another shout for you by the doctor, and you’re both pulled in separate directions.

The jeep is halfway back to the line when he hears the first shell. He forces his eyes shut and takes a deep breath to try to steady himself.

It’s not until he’s shoulder to shoulder with Steve again that he allows himself to think of you briefly before he’s forced to fight again.

Always fighting.

.

.

.

They move out two days later.

He’s never been so happy to get out of the woods. The high spirits of the rest of the men are contagious, and he finds himself nearly grinning ear to ear as they make their way slowly down the road, the hellish cold of the night before long forgotten in the new day’s sun.

The jeeps roll to a stop and there’s a long while before they get moving again. At some point, Steve had climbed out and headed up the line to see what the hold up was.

When he gets back, he hauls himself inside, and Bucky eyes the spot where he grips the door, the spot slightly dented by his strength. He’ll never get used to it, but in the moment he’s less worried about that, and more worried about the thing he does recognize - the crease in between Steve’s brows.

“What’s wrong.”

Steve waits. When he speaks, his voice is low. “The field hospital was bombed during the shelling.”

Bucky’s entire body goes cold. Steve seems to understand, and the two of them make their way to the front of the unit on foot. When they get to the hospital, there’s a few members of the 101st Airborne milling around, the medic from Easy picking through the rubble.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. His knees feel weak. He wants to demand answers, wants to ask what happened, but it’s a stupid question.

He feels sick. They bombed a hospital.

“Did anyone--” Bucky starts, pausing to clear his throat, “Casualties?”

The medic meets his eyes. “A few nurses and a couple patients made it out. They’re being sent back to England.”

“Buck, we have to go.” Steve says somberly, apologetically.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He can’t breathe.

It’ll be months before he finds out what happened to you.

.

.

.

You don’t sleep much, anymore.

The War is over, but in so many ways, you feel like you’re still in it. Your dreams are filled with explosions and screams, and during the day, you’re forced to pretend that everything is normal, when in reality, nothing will ever be the same.

There’s a large scar on your right arm. The limp you picked up in Bastogne lingers, and is worse when the weather is cold.

You’re trying to be “normal” but can’t understand what your purpose is. After everything you’ve seen, you can’t stand to just be content to go to parties and luncheons and listen to your mother talk about marriage. It feels so trivial.

The only person you’ve talked about the War with is your father. You don’t allow yourself to get emotional, but you make it clear to him how close you came to dying. How close to the front lines you were for months.

Your friends talk about the Red Cross nurses like the whole thing was one big party - dressing up and flirting with soldiers, bringing them coffee and enjoying a European vacation. Maybe it was that way for some, but for you and the women you served closely with, it was a nightmare.

Still, you don’t regret it. You wanted to do your part, and you did more than that.

On your way to your office job, a car backfires on the street, and you jump, stumbling slightly as instinct takes over. You feel embarrassed when you remember where you are, but then there’s a hand at your elbow and gentle eyes assessing you.

“Are you okay, miss?” He looks familiar, but you can’t place him.

“Fine, fine. Sorry, I--”

“It’s okay. It startled me too.” He says, and when you meet his gaze evenly, you recognize the look there. After a moment, you recognize the face, too.

Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your heart starts to speed up, not because you’re starstruck, but because of the possibility that he’s here too. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t thought of James Barnes since you’ve been home, wondering about him.

You’ve seen the newsreels enough to know he and the Commandos made it home, thanks to Steve saving James’ life on one of their final missions.

“Steve, we haven’t got all day, we have to--” His voice interrupts your thoughts, and when you finally see him, he’s gone pale, eyes as sharp as you remember, though there’s more shadows under his eyes than you’d like to see.

He says your name on a low exhale, but it’s a question, like he can’t believe you’re here.

“Sergeant,” you reply, a smile growing on your face, and before you can object, Steve is making some excuse about ducking into the shop you’re in front of, and then James is right in front of you.

“It’s Bucky,” he corrects you gently. “My friends call me Bucky.”

“Is that what we are?”

He’s so close you can see the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “I thought you were dead.”

You’re used to lying to everyone about what happened to you; trying to make it more palatable for those who thought you just handed out coffee and raised soldiers’ spirits. It’s refreshing to be able to tell him the truth.

“I almost was. We were almost evacuated when the bomb hit. There were still patients and nurses in the church--” You stop yourself, feeling short of breath.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

You look down at your feet, feeling awkward. You don’t know what else to say. It’s suddenly dawning on you that you don’t really know him at all. Except when you look back up at him - you can see the kindness and understanding in his eyes. The connection is there too; the one that kept you thinking of each other and seeing each other again again against all odds.

“I’m glad to see you.” You tell him honestly.

The smile that slowly grows on his face is so charming. “I’m very glad to see you too, Lieutenant.”

Despite yourself, you roll your eyes, a smile of your own on your lips. “I think we can drop the formalities.”

His eyes are intense as he takes a step closer, “Let me take you to dinner.” He takes a deep breath, “This is probably too much, but you were one of the only things to get me through the last two years. I saw you once, and I was done for, sweetheart...” He trails off, shrugging.

“You think you’re pretty cute, don’t you, Sergeant?”

“He does, so please take pity on him and go to dinner with him,” Steve’s voice interrupts, “He hasn’t stopped talking about you since I met up with him in Italy.”

You look back at the dark-haired man fidgeting next to you, rolling his eyes at his friend, and for the first time since you came home, you feel like there might be something to look forward to.

[ganymedesclock]

So... What do you think about revisiting Danny phantom in general? Revisiting the fandom I've noticed a lot of fanfic that have Danny's parents finding out his deal rather violently, or generally having more violence/angst than the original show..

I’m assuming you’re sending me this ask because of my recent burst of Danny Phantom art, so, it’s probably not a surprise to say I’m doing a certain amount of revisiting myself, and certainly not about to shame anyone else for it. It was a very dear cartoon to me in many ways and left some enduring hallmarks on my own writing, and I can absolutely understand people feeling the same way.

That said, as someone who’s been in this fandom for a while, albeit quietly- there certainly is a thread of macabre interest in fandom spaces, one I don’t always know that I agree with, especially when it comes to the Fentons.

My personal verdict on the Fenton parents specifically is I think they are not handled fairly by canon. This is a problem that Danny Phantom as a show shares with Fairly Odd Parents, though I would argue the Turner parents in FOP are quite a bit worse at this.

Roughly, I think how the Fenton parents are canonically depicted suffers from a phenomenon that affects many parts of the show: DP, as a series, has a bit of a sense of confused priorities between comedy and drama, and as a result, what’s 'real’ in-universe and what’s “just supposed to be a joke”. The kind of humor that DP tends to spring for is exaggerated or shocking behavior- it also tends to be a humor that hinges on the idea that other people are generally inconvenient to the main character. So humor-characterization is inconsistent here- Jack is negligent until it’s more inconvenient to depict him as overbearing (see: Girl’s Night Out and other cases he desperately wants to bond with Danny) he’s a recluse only loved by his wife until it’s more inconvenient to depict him as having an active social life (Masters Of All Time and that he and Maddie are going to a themed party so they’re dressed ‘weirdly’ in public)

A big victim of this is Jack’s sense that ghosts aren’t people and his desire to dissect them. Because here is the thing: it’s all talk, in the worst way. It hinges on the idea Jack- someone who knows enough of what he’s doing that along with Maddie and, in the past, Vlad- ripped two different holes in reality hard enough to permanently alter someone’s relation to undeath- has never seen a ghost before the series as he says in Mystery Meat.

The series has a big problem where it hinges on the Fentons’ inventions and expertise but also wants to treat them like idiots constantly. And if you notice how much I’m talking exclusively about Jack- that’s part of the problem. Maddie, in many ways, outside of episodes that throw her a bone, despite constantly being told by people she’s too good for Jack, is really treated as an extension of Jack. Masters Of All Time even suggests that her choosing Jack in the first place was just a path of least resistance between her two college friends, and she’d have married whichever one stuck around. 

The Fentons are not respected as experts, so Jack is given his ignorant line about dissecting a ghost. The Fentons need to remain exaggerated, ridiculous, an inconvenience to Danny- so they threaten his alter ego and point guns at him, but this is funny and not serious and not a reason to be worried about them as parents, because they are not on Danny’s level. Nobody is ever on Danny’s level. There is literally an episode called The Ultimate Enemy. The antagonist is an evil future Danny. The only person who could ever be Danny’s ultimate nemesis is Danny himself. 

And when the series stops milking the Fentons for jokes about how they’re so stupid and how Jack is an idiot and Maddie married that idiot but even she doesn’t respect him even though she loves him and dutifully follows him everywhere and god how can these people care about ghosts they’re so ignorant and out of their league- 

-then it kinda shuffles its feet awkwardly and goes, yeah. the Fentons love each other, and love their kids.

Yeah, Jack has framed photographs of Maddie, Jazz, and Danny on his personal workstation.

Yeah, in Mystery Meat Jack was seriously debating walking away from his lifework because it upset one of his kids. 

Yeah, every time in canon the Fentons find out Danny’s secret they’re immediately all in supporting him.

Yeah, even not knowing it’s Danny, Jack has an amiable conversation with him in Million Dollar Ghost and the ghost containment units designed by the Fentons get some jokes about that they’re a little cramped but they aren’t horrifying prisons of inhumanity- and as soon as Danny Phantom the ghost boy has a good point, Jack lets him go on purpose. 

Yeah, Jack is a competent ghost hunter who can take on Skulker and win as well as beat down the giant lake monster Skulker brought with him in Girls’ Night Out and would do this in a heartbeat, no jokes and no sidetracks, because that monster just chewed on his baby boy and nobody does that to his baby boy.

Yeah, Maternal Instinct is an entire episode of Maddie throwing hands with (or deceiving and manipulating) literally anything she thinks was responsible for getting Danny in this dangerous situation.

...And then the series says “but that’s not funny! Here, have jokes about the Fenton Stockades, that exist and have spikes and Jack wants to put his kids in them for time out, when the spikes apparently don’t hurt given Jack is not injured for being put in there. Here, have a joke about Jack attacking Jazz with a vacuum cleaner because he gets hellbent on the idea she’s possessed for no good reason. Here, have an uncomfortable joke about how badly Jack Fenton wants to vivisect a ghost while it screams. Funny funny funny. Why- why are you flinching?”

It basically creates a comedic situation where the show is constantly winding up like it’s gonna punch you- with the idea that the Fentons are bad parents and this has consequences for Danny and Jazz personally- and then laughs in your face if you flinch. It’ll never actually punch you- but it will sure keep swinging its hand really close to your face and laughing at your reactions.

This is, I’m just gonna say- one of the worst elements of the series, this weird relationship it has with “hahaha are we depicting an abusive family or not? ;)” where its actual point is that Jack Fenton is a person who should be shamed for being overzealous, for caring about this niche field, because nobody cares about ghosts! (unless the entire premise of the show does) Nobody wants to think about ghost science! That’s LAME! (unless Vlad does it)

So I think ultimately this creates a polarizing experience in the fandom. What part of this information do you take?

Do you take, say, my personal approach, which is: 

“Hey, so it’s pretty clear and consistent that the Fentons love their kids and wouldn’t hurt them. The Fentons are nice people. They can be obsessive or headstrong but there’s nuanced and salient ways to examine this in the basic framework that they care, both about their family specifically, and in general- and while I think they can have flaws or conflicts with their kids, and with ambient ghosts in the world, I really don’t think they’re in danger of torturing a sapient entity in their basement and it frustrates and annoys me that canon ‘makes a joke’ of them doing these things because it thinks they’re so incompetent that these things are not really malicious actions, when- whether or not you successfully shoot them, it takes a certain kind of person to point a weapon you know is dangerous at something that looks, and talks, like a fourteen-year-old, especially when you’re a parent who has probably at least once in your life worried about something happening to your kids, and the ghost of a teenager means something happened to someone’s kid, in a general sense.

So my end conclusion on the Fentons is I think they are being depicted in a kind of metatextual bad faith, that they are not cruel or malicious people, and in my personal take or understanding on the series, I’d massively dial down those elements, and if any remain, take them seriously as problems they have in their relationships with other people.”

Or do you take an approach more rooted in,

“If the Fentons are shown to be negligent parents they are negligent parents, I’m going to examine and depict them as that, and I find this very hard to forgive, so it’s going to have real and nasty consequences.”

Both are basically valid. The place where I tend to get a little uncomfortable is twofold:

First, I think sometimes people just really want some fictional tragedy to either create or consume, and to that end, you aren’t going to get much juicy drama out of the Fentons being reasonable people. This isn’t evil or unforgivable, but for me, it’s definitely my least favorite fannish content to create or consume. I’m no fan of angst for angst’s sake, and I feel like there’s enough misery and heartbreak in the world that I’m not interested in wallowing in it unless it’s got something interesting to say.

Second- and this is a point I’m gonna be saltier: A lot of abusive Fenton fics that refuse to forgive them for the poorer-taste jokes the series makes, simultaneously give Vlad a blank check, when he has done targetedly malicious things to Danny. 

Now- do I also have a more sympathetic read on Vlad, and feel like canon also gives him a bad rap? Yeah! But you can’t have it both ways. You can’t say, “I can’t forgive the Fentons for stuff that was tagged onto them because canon thought it was funny, but I’m gonna editorialize Vlad’s depiction to lionize him as the ideal parent figure for Danny to run into the arms of.”

And the main reason I get so worked up in this, is I feel like Jack in particular (when Maddie is characterized as subordinate to Jack, following his cues, etc., and that’s its own demon) is... characterized as kind of a mocking caricature of traits that I personally recognize as an autistic and ADHD person.

Because the reality is? In many practical ways, I am Jack Fenton.

I like a bunch of weird stuff people find unacceptable or gross, like bugs

I’m hyperlexic (that means I talk, a lot)

Scatterbrained, forget words or where I left something or, sometimes, to do something important

Passionate and excitable including and especially in situations where it’s not normal, or expected, to have this much energy

I absolutely can forget birthdays, even for people I love dearly that mean the world to me! It’s horrible! There’s almost nothing I can do about it! My brain refuses to hold onto this information reliably and no amount of caring fixes it.

And being this way, living like this? My worst nightmare has always been that people think I either don’t care or that I’m just too much of a stupid, flippant buffoon to get right.

The thing about Jack is he’s “a person like me” and he’s “a person like me” who was designed to be a joke. We’re clearly expected to view him as untrustworthy, stupid, just like a big dumb dog of a man who barks in the wrong directions, who sometimes, when it counts, fetches a stick like he’s supposed to. Good job, Lassie. You got little Timmy out of the well.

And I am going to say with certainty and confidence that feeling like this is how people see me is the most unbelievably crushing feeling I have ever experienced in my life. That my excitement and passion means I’m unprofessional, stupid, don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s nearly painful for me, as an adult, to watch Danny Phantom because the show can never get off Jack’s case. And the few times it does, he hauls overtime arduously to make a difference, to help, to build something that will protect others, to put his own life on the line to stop hostile ghosts.

And immediately, then he goes back to being stupid stupid dog man. ha ha. why does his wife love him? no wonder his kids don’t ever want to be seen with him. no wonder his best friend is trying to kill him and he doesn’t even know, the big idiot.

(never mind that we see a scenario where he does know. and admits he would’ve forgiven Vlad anyway. but he can’t forgive Vlad hurting Danny.)

So to rein in this wild tangent: I’m not saying all must love Jack Fenton and despair. I’m not even telling people to hide their angst. If I have a sincere request, it’s this:

If you’re inclined to thinking of Vlad as a cool, troubled, complex person (as I do!) and are haunted by the implications of The Ultimate Enemy specifically for Vlad, that when Danny lost everyone else in his life that Vlad really genuinely tried to help, and was not gloating and happy and victorious to have Danny as his protege, and when that went badly, he was haunted to the end of his days by not having been able to help-

-but immediately turn around and think Jack is just a rotten awful person who’d absolutely hurt his own kid in spite of canon to the contrary (when there’s just as much, if not more, canon of Vlad being willfully hostile)

It might be good to examine why you’re feeling this way, and if this might not come down to the fact that even when canon has people call Vlad a desperately lonely fruit loop, it has a lot more respect for him than it does for Jack, and this isn’t because it’s actually taking a stance against any of the qualities it gave Jack that someone might find disagreeable- it’s because Jack’s just “a big old fat idiot nobody likes, right?”

and that’s... not something comfy to buy into.

[zims-left-shoe]

Hi, omg I love your stuff. Could I please request a tallest red x human female? I dont really have a specific idea. Just some fluff or headcannons is fine. Thank you so much. ILY😘

Yeah, of course! There’s a lot of dialogue, but I promise there’s fluff in the end!

Everything had been going so well. Until it didn’t.

A quiet moan of pain slipped out of your mouth as you continued to stay curled in fetal position on some hard surface, most likely a floor. Experimentally, you attempted to open your eyes, only to have your vision swamped by flashing saturated colors. You screwed your eyes shut again, drowning in the disorientation. There were probably voices around you, but they reached your ears as incoherent mumblings. Apparently, humans weren’t meant for instant intergalactic teleportation across schmillions of light years.

You were unsure of how long you had been laying wherever you were, nor did you suppose it mattered. Ever since you had been mildly conscious, you had been trying to recall what exactly had happened, without much luck. However, the second you had stopped caring about the preceding events, they all hit you with the force of twenty one bullet trains.

-

"Behold! Doesn't it amaze you?!" A very short alien gestured wildly to a glowing portal, grinning madly as if he couldn't believe his own genius. 

"Yes, Zim. It's very nice." Smiling uneasily, you nodded, your palms becoming slick with sweat. Over the years, you had learned to just agree with whatever Zim said, things went over much smoother that way. However, that didn't mean you weren't worried. Whatever Zim created tended to backfire...violently. Or explode. Or not work as intended. Or all of the above.

"Okay? But what does it even do?" The other human in the room spoke, more openly skeptic than you were. Purple light reflected off of his glasses as he shuffled through papers of calculations, which he couldn't read anyway, considering they were written in Irken. "Or, more accurately, what is it supposed to do?" 

"You imply that Zim's inventions never work as they should, Dib-stink!" Zim crossed his arms and turned away from Dib, clearly less than pleased with his lack of enthusiasm.

"That's because they don't!"

"Name one time!"

"Shall we take a look in The Cabinet?" The man decked out in black and blue thrusted an arm out towards a cabinet threatening to explode with close to ten years' worth of records of failed plans. Zim growled, lunging at Dib who was bent over in laughter. Before he could get very far, you grabbed the Irken's ankle, yanking him back. 

"That's enough, you two. Honestly. Act your age." The two disgruntled men grumbled complaints under their breath, but ceased their childish antics. If you hadn't known them for years, you wouldn't have believed that these two were now adults. "Now, Zim, could you kindly tell us what this thing does?" Your voice was soft and patient, hoping to set him back on track. He tended to become distracted quite often. 

"Yes! It's a portal that will allow the instant transportation of anything, the range being the entire universe!" He spread his arms wide, a laugh already bubbling up in his throat. Dib groaned and rolled his eyes.

"I thought you were working on the Irken conversions so I could finish my part on the ship." You couldn't help but crack a smile. Their ship was never going to be finished at this rate. 

"Yes, but this is much more important! I have an ingenious plan for it!"

"Enlighten us." Dib spoke flatly, still not convinced.

Zim pulled out a box wrapped up like a gift, complete with a neat little pink bow. "Zim will send this to my Tallest using the portal! Trust me, they'll love what's in here." Light from the portal glinted menacingly off of his teeth. The box made hushed mewling noises and began to ooze green goo.

"Is...is it alive?" Your voice was cautious. You took a step back when the box began to shake in his hands, bumping your back against one of the many machines in his lab.

"Zim, we've talked about this. The Tallest don't care, Irk has abandoned you, let it go. You know as well as I do that your mission isn't real, and that it's over." Dib sighed, not with frustration, more so pity. A few years ago when Zim had finally got it through his thick skull that his mission was a trick, it had devastated him to a point that no one had ever seen. You saw how much he needed a job, and Dib did as well. Dib had an issue with it in the beginning, but you both took him in, using his science skills to aid in Dib's personal projects. The last plan you were aware of was that the two were working on a ship of their own that would let them travel space together, something about Dib getting presentable proof of alien life while at the same time giving Zim a purpose. Zim seemed to have forgotten about Irk. Until now, at least.

"Don't worry about it! It's...a parting gift." The look in Zim's eyes brought you great discomfort. "Only a symbol of the termination of my service to the empire. That is all." His voice was pleasant enough, but you sensed some dark undertones. His fingers danced away on the controls, a dull hum echoing through the base as the portal fired up it's key functions. 'The Massive' and some coordinates became displayed on the screen above the portal, the destination locked in. 

"Zim…" Dib took a step forward, as did you. "You've had plenty of bad ideas, but I think this one is going to take the cake. So just shut the thing off." Zim shrugged his concerns off, stepping closer to the portal with the box that was becoming more aggressive the closer it came. Red light emitted from a lens at the top of the portal as it scanned the box in Zim's hand.

"Scan complete. Item composition: deadly. If transported, item will cause half of the universe to implode." The voice of the computer drawled. Your eyes widened as you looked to Zim, who acted as if he didn't hear the warning. More likely, he didn't care. When did he ever? He brought his arm back as he stood in front of the portal, preparing to throw the box.

Although it happened in the course of only a split second, it all was in slow motion for you. Without thinking, you took off, sprinting across the small room and leaping at Zim, harshly shoving him and the box out of the way of the portal. You had managed to prevent the tragedy of space implosion, but unfortunately, your forward motion continued, sending you through the portal. You had heard Dib's scream, but it sounded a million miles away. Your brain couldn't comprehend what had happened during the course of the teleportation, so it put you out of your misery, allowing you to pass out. 

-

"Ugh...Zim. Of course." You forced yourself to sit up, rubbing your eyes with closed fists. You were slouched over, and once the static finally cleared from your vision, you blinked several times until your eyes adjusted to the new light. The panicked whispers from before continued, but you could now make out what they were saying.

"Did she say 'Zim'?"

"What creature is it?"

"Is it a weapon?"

Your brain finally jumpstarted, and you whipped your head around, eyes darting from one face to another. Several Irkens surrounded you, to where you couldn't see anything but a sea of green. You scooted backwards to create more room between you and the crowd, bumping into something behind you. You jerked yourself around, facing two of the tallest creatures you had ever seen. Instantly you recognized them as Zim's Almighty Tallest. They were much taller in real life than you imagined them to be. Even as an adult female standing at your full height, you knew they would tower over you. Hell, they would overtake Dib by a landslide, who now stood well over six feet. They bent over you to get a better look. After a second of silent observation, the one in purple straightened up and groaned loudly, throwing his arms in the air.

"Oh god, it's one of those creatures that inhabits Zim's planet!" The purple one resumed wailing madly. The one dressed in red straightened up as well, but said nothing. His red bug eyes rested on you quizzically, intrigued by your mere existence. "You! How did you get here?" The purple one pointed a long and slender finger at you, his face filled with pure terror.

"I went through Zim's portal, it was an accident-" Your voice was panicky. Almost all of the Irkens around you were riddled with anxiety, which you absorbed like a sponge.

"So, Zim sent you!" The purple one just loved to shout, didn't he? You wondered if this was a common trait among Irkens.

"No! It-"

"He sent you for malicious purposes! Like, to, uh...to annoy us into oblivion! Yeah!" So, the purple one was a moron. Good to know. Nevertheless, the crowd of Irkens began mumbling, as if you were trapped in a high energy court room.

"This is all a big misunderstanding, now maybe you could just...drop me off at home, or maybe send me with an escape pod or something-"

"To the dungeons with her!" The purple one screeched, yet again pointing a finger at you. 

"Yes, My Tallest!" Two guards came up to you with taser spears, and you concluded it would be best not to fight. You had been electrocuted with high voltage electricity in Zim's lab once on accident, and it did not feel pleasant. A sigh fell from your lips as each guard took an arm, dragging you to the dungeons of The Massive while cheers rose from the Irken crowd. 

-

"I swear, I will kill Zim when I get my hands on him." You muttered, tossing a coin you had in your pocket against the wall for the four thousandth time. You sat on the floor of your cell, the cold concrete making you shiver. The wall that pressed against your back was the same. There wasn't even a cot in there. Iron bars with buzzing electricity fields between them blocked your exit.

"That's not the first time I've heard that in here." A voice floated toward your ears, however it was muffled by the surrounding concrete.

"Who are you?" You had assumed you were alone in there. After all, how often could you possibly use a dungeon on an armada flagship?

"I'm Deek. I think. Honestly, I've been here so long I can't even remember." The voice, which sounded male, giggled. "Anyway, what are you in here for?"

"Not sure. Trespassing, maybe? The more accurate term would be a kneejerk reaction. What about you?"

"Being annoying. I guess."

"Shit, really? I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's better than being tossed out the airlock." You ceased throwing the coin. Decidedly, Irken society seemed to be hell in space. "In fact, they just threw Jix out last week. Poor gal." Deek's voice held a tinge of sadness. Images flashed through your mind of your body being launched into space. That wasn't how you had envisioned dying. You shuddered. 

The sound of a door opening and steps approaching your cell caused every muscle in your body to tense. You vaguely wondered if it was your turn for death by airlock. You squeezed your eyes shut, curling yourself into a ball with your face between your knees, not wanting to see who had stopped in front of your cell.

"So..." The voice was level and calm, a stark contrast to the chaos of before. Cautiously, you lifted your head, opening your eyes. At your level, you could only see a long crimson skirt. Pushing yourself up to a standing position, you still had to crane your neck to see his face. The red Tallest stood before you, a bored expression plastered on his face. 

"Are you here to kill me?"

"Uh..." He almost seemed surprised that you had asked that. Even still, you wouldn't take any chances. 

"You shouldn't kill me! Just, you know, reverse engineer the phenomena or something and teleport me back! Or even send me in an escape pod! Humans, uhm, we cause massive explosions when killed! Yeah! So you'd destroy yourself in the process." If he had sensed you were lying, he didn't care. However, he did look puzzled by your desperate reaction.

"What? No, I'm not here to kill you." He let out a massive sigh, bending over to look you in the eye. "I'm just bored. There's only so much of Purple's antics I can take at a time." Your shoulders relaxed in immediate relief. 

"Wait, his name is Purple? Let me guess, your name is Red?" That was such a strange notion to you. Every other Irken you had heard of all had such bizarre names, and apparently these two just went by Red and Purple.

"Yeah? So? Also, it's Tallest to you." The threatening tone inserted into his words was half-hearted at best.

"Can't I call you Red? I'm not Irken."

"I don't think so, short-thing."

"Why not? And I'm not short! You're just tall. Plus, my name is Y/n. Not short-thing." You huffed, unconsciously shifting to stand on your toes, increasing your height by maybe an inch at the most. He seemed to appreciate his height being acknowledged, so he relented.

"Fine, do what you want." Red continued to stare at you, almost as if he couldn't quite understand what you were. You didn't blame him, the circumstance had been kind of sudden. Plus, he hadn't heard from Zim in years. Most likely, everyone had assumed him to be dead. 

"You said you were bored? I'll have you know, I can be quite entertaining! So maybe you could, I dunno, get me out of here?" Your lips lifted in a sweet smile, hoping Irkens could be swayed by charm. There was a second of silence as he mulled the idea over. On one hand, it would give him something to do besides eat and blow things up. On the other, if anyone saw, many questions would arise. Despite his concerns, curiosity won out. With his two thin fingers, he tapped a code into a keypad on the wall. There was a dying buzz as the electricity stopped flowing and the iron bars were lifted. There was a part of you that was amazed that he actually let you out. You stepped out, watching his face to make sure he wasn't bluffing about sparing your life. Not a muscle in his body so much as twitched, hell, you weren't even sure if he was breathing. You didn't know how he could with a waist like that. "So, what now?" 

"I thought you said you were the master of fun?"

"I said I was entertaining, not the master of fun. But, I dunno, we could start by getting out of here. Space prison kind of kills the vibe."

"Fine." Red began walking, well, hovering down the hall. He did not look back to see if you were following, and you had to jog to catch up. "Oh, and this isn't space prison, that's Moo-Ping 10. This is more like space holding." 

"There's a difference?"

"Oh yeah." You were sure you were both still in the belly of the ship, considering you never once went up a flight of stairs. However, you had exited the dungeon area, and emerged into a more open room. There were some tables and chairs, and the room was lit by white florescent lights. Everything else within the room was some shade of pink. Occasionally, he would take a quick glance around, as if to make sure no one was watching. Was he supposed to be down here? If he was a supreme leader of society, you weren't sure why it mattered where he was or who he was with.

"What is this place?" You finally asked as he took a seat in a chair, chin resting in his hand. His glances in your direction were fleeting and infrequient, almost as if he were embarrassed to be intrigued by something so short. 

"Not sure. An unused dining hall maybe?" Satisfied with his answer, you took a seat next to him. Taking the opportunity to look him up and down, youwere confused by his anatomy. He was built differently than every Irken you had ever seen. You pointed to his impossibly skinny waist. 

"How?" You opted for that phrasing, as you were unsure if 'is that natural?' would have been rude. 

"Hm? Oh. Corset." His answers to everything were quick and simple. Even still, you couldn't help but stare in wonder. 

"Doesn't it hurt?" You assumed having a corset tightened to such an extreme would be incredibly painful, but he only shrugged without a care.

"You get used to it. It's all part of being Tallest, just as is losing your thumbs." A smirk etched its way onto his face at your horrfied expression as his wiggled his two fingers through the gauntlet on his arm. Subconsciously you rubbed your thumbs, lips pursed in a tight line. "You're a curious little thing."

"You act like I'm a child! I'm a grown woman, thank you very much." You may still have been young by human standards, but you had still made it over the age of 18, so technically, you were an adult. Red chuckled at your pouting, as you had just proven his point unintentionally. A ghost of a smile was present on his face. Was he actually enjoying himself? You decided to switch gears. "The whole dynamic of Irk is strange."

"Oh yeah? How so?" 

"It's like one big military." Red snickered, unable to stop the chuckle that rose from his chest.

"Of course it is. That's kind of our whole thing." He lifted a hand, trying to gesture to the armada as a whole. 

"Oh, yeah. Right." Another silence fell between you two. It was rather difficult for you as a human to comprehend Irken society. It all just seemed so...foreign. So static and stiff. 

Red was the first to speak again. "Tell me then. What's Earth like?" Excitedly, you sat up in your chair, eyes shining. 

"Well, people still respect each other, sometimes anyway, but everyone is less stiff with each other. There's more kindness. Now, don't get me wrong, there are many who are full of hate and lots of people fight all the time, but it's still less so than Irk. Plus, height isn't such a huge deal. And there's relationships." Your words came out quickly, hands moving to accentuate your thoughts.

"Relationships?" If Red had eyebrows, they would be raised in questioning. His voice was laced with suspicion, as if he didn't trust the concept.

"Yeah! All different kinds. Familial, platonic, romantic, etc. You know, parents, siblings, friends, that kind of thing...usually, they're all based on love. And, no offense, but there seems to be an absence of that here." You had heard it from Zim many times before. Irkens can't feel love, they trust no one and all that. On some level, you doubted that to be true, rather it was more of a choice, that maybe they were told that love is a sign of weakness so they chose not to feel anything at all.

"Love...?" Red spit out the word as if it burned his tongue. Clearly, love was not a well thought of concept in Irken culture. After a moment, he appeared to recall something. "I think I remember something that happened years ago...Zim called about some romantic experiment he was running on some girl. Said it was very pain-based. This is something humans find...pleasant?" Waving your hands you shook your head in a clear 'no'. No wonder Red was concerned by the idea of love.

"No! Not unless you're a masochist anyway. I don't know what the hell he was doing, but that's not what love is."

His tone showed that he was still mildly disgusted with the topic, but nevertheless, he proceeded to ask for further clarification. "Then what is it?" Red was never very interested when Zim had been reporting ten-ish years ago, but now that he had a subject sitting right in front of him, the idea became somewhat exciting.

"Like, romantic love?" You asked, a small part of you hoping he was asking about platonic love instead. You weren't entirely sure how to explain romance to a species who understood nothing but pain and hierarchy. Red nodded, asking you to go on. You breathed out a relenting sigh, struggling for the right words to explain it. "Romance is...uhm…it's when..." Red peered at you expectantly, crimson eyes wide and inquisitive. Finally, you came up with something. "It's when you like someone very much, and you would do almost anything for them." He nodded slowly, looking as if he was beginning to grasp it.

"Like pledging your loyalty?" Loyalty was a thing Irkens could understand thoroughly.

"Yeah, like that! And you want to do lots of stuff together! Spend time together and all that. There's also physical affection." His head cocked to the side, similar to a puppy. 

"Physical affection?"

"Ye...Yeah...!" Your feet shifted on the floor as you clutched the hem of your shirt between your fingers. You couldn't help but feel nervous under his gaze. Your face flushed as he stared out at you through half-lidded eyes, overly fixated on the topic of physical affection. 

"What's that?" Once again, his voice was as even as could be. The corners of his mouth turned upwards in a grin, enjoying the way you were acting. It was quite amusing to him. You suddenly regretted bringing up the subject of romance.

"Like, examples?" Swallowing hard, your fingers began to drum on the table. How were you possibly supposed to describe it to him? He certainly wouldn't know what a hug or a kiss was. "I don't think I can exactly describe it to you..." You hoped he would leave it at that and move on.

Of course that wasn't the case. That was the problem with Irkens. Once they found a way to make you squirm, they would push until it was no longer fun. "Then show it to me." His response was quick, zero hesitation. He looked completely satisfied, for once not feeling that familiar dull, almost constant ache of boredom. You weren't sure about it at first, but the longer he looked at you with that smug expression, the more determined you became to wipe that smirk off his face. 

"Fine." Irkens are touch-starved creatures. It wouldn't take anything too extreme to accomplish what you wanted. You stood up, moving over to plant yourself right in his lap. Taking his hand, you intertwined your fingers with his two, pressing your face into his chest. "Humans do things like cuddle and hold hands." His heartbeat was similar to a human's, the rhythym just slightly different. This close, you could hear the soft hum of his PAK. With your free hand, you traced indescribable shapes into his chest. If you were to look up, you would have seen his antennae twitching. Already, you had accomplished what you had set out to. He was no longer teasing or overconfident. Although he would never admit it, he was content with the attention. As you continued to draw random nothingness, Red let out what sounded like a low purr, the sound sending a pleasant rumble through his chest and against your skin. A series of quiet chirps followed, and you had to assume he was satisfied. You couldn't help but giggle, and at the time, the uncertainty of how you would get home was the furthest thing from your mind.

"Do humans do anything else?" Red attempted to suppress the spark in his voice, but was wildly unsuccessful. His tone was the farthest thing from passive. You let go of his hand, sitting up to face him. 

"Of course we do." You experimentally raised a hand to his face, seeing if he would shy away. That was not the case, rather the opposite. He seemed to almost lean into your touch. You weren't sure why he was so okay with this; you supposed that each Irken had different policies and tolerances when it came to physical contact. Red seemed to be anxiously awaiting whatever was coming next, his expression eager. "Sometimes we give each other kisses." You didn't bother fighting the smile that played at your lips as you peppered several kisses all over his face. There was barely an inch of his cheeks and forehead that went untouched. Red's face felt hot beneath your lips, and if Irkens could blush, you were sure he would be completely flushed. His fingers had drifted to your sides, lightly resting there. 

Hmm...Irkens are quite interesting... You thought as you held eye contact with Red. He was clearly embarrassed to be engaging in this, but more so at the fact that he was enjoying it. And yet, he held your gaze, unwilling to back down. You wondered what would happen if someone found him like this. What would even happen?

"The rest of human physical affection is rather intimate, so the lesson will have to end here." Before he could protest, you leaned in one last time, pressing your lips to where his should be. His fingers dug into your sides, antennae shooting straight up in the air. You had never dreamed that you would be kissing an alien leader on a warship in space, but you wouldn't say you were disappointed. Pulling away, Red's grip on you loosened, and something bright caught your eye. Small sparks were being thrown from his PAK, which concerned you slightly. "Uh, Red...?" Pointing a finger to his PAK, he shook his head wildly, and after a moment, everything seemed to be alright again.

"It's fine!" He spoke abruptly, voice loud and awkward. His voice drew in some company, as Purple stuck his head in the room.

"There you are! Zim keeps sending transmissions through and he's going crazy-" Red yelped, practically throwing you off of him and into the nearest chair he could find.

"So, do I go home now?" You asked, and for the first time, Purple seemed to notice you.

"Ack! How did you get out of the dungeons?!" Purple jumped back, despite already being across the room from you.

"I have super powers." You snickered at his frightened appearance. Red rolled his eyes, waving his counterpart off.

"Just go, I'll deal with Zim." Purple nodded, zipping out of the room. You weren't sure if your senses were playing tricks on you, or if Red really was disappointed to see you leave. "C'mon, Y/n. Let's go figure out how to reverse engineer a transport portal."

[thanksjro]

Dark Cybertron Chapter 2: Going from Zero to Antichrist Real Quick

Bumblebee and his camp buddies are trying to figure out what to do with the Titan who just popped out of the ground like a prairie dog, as the sky looks like a Lisa Frank notebook thanks to the portal to the Dead Universe. It’s honestly very nice, we should should get more pretty apocalypses like this.

Bumblebee starts throwing out orders at everyone, much to Slag’s chagrin. When Slag brings up the point that they probably can’t do much of anything to a guy roughly a hundred times bigger than they are, Bumblebee tells him to shut up and do as he’s told.

Yeah, I had about the same reaction, Slag.

So the Dinobots do their thing. Swoop, who I think is the only guy here who can fly, goes up to see what the Titan’s doing. It’s not much, other than looking really upset. Oh no, what if he’s afraid of heights? Poor guy.

Even if the Titan isn’t moving, the mere presence of the thing is jamming signals, which is kind of an issue. Ironhide’s ready to shoot it in the foot, and Arcee will help, because she’s a team player now. Bumblebee has a minor crisis over whether this is the same Titan that told Starscream he was a prophesied son of a gun, but Prowl doesn’t seem to think that it is.

Prowl, who has been suffering from short-term memory lapses over the last several months or so because a bug-man was controlling his mind.

Yeah, let’s maybe take his opinion on the matter with a grain of salt, even if he is right.

Over at the Lost Light, Orion Pax is visiting Brainstorm’s workshop, where everyone’s favorite science man is admitting to having studied the Dead Universe’s effects on the living and interviewing people who had been to the area.

Man, I sure hope that guy signed a waiver, otherwise Brainstorm’s going to be in a spot of trouble.

Then we get a quick rundown of what the Dead Universe is: an omnicognizant parallel universe that functions on fundamental principles that differ from our own and wants you to die. So, obviously not a place you would want to go to. Still, we gotta, because that’s where the plot is the Dead Universe is gonna vore Cybertron if we don’t.

Brainstorm agrees to cook something up to make the trip through the Gorlam Prime portal easier.

Back on Cybertron, the Titan looms in the distance as we check in on an oddly pristine-looking Iacon. Rattrap tells Starscream to come out of the closet, because the Titan still hasn’t moved and doesn’t seem like it’s going to anytime soon. Starscream does come out, but it’s with his arms full of weapons of Autobot design that he appropriated from the ruins of Kimia, because he doesn’t trust that Titan to not start some shit. Rattrap suggests that they maybe get a second opinion before they start murdering people for standing in a barren field.

Back on the Lost Light, there’s a little shindig going down at Swerve’s, everyone staring down the table where Optimus, Rodimus, and Ultra Magnus are seated. Swerve takes the opportunity to do what everyone else is probably really wanting to, and snaps a few photos of them for his scrapbook. As soon as he’s done, we get to the Emotions portion of our issue.

Rodimus is letting himself be vulnerable in front of the man he idolizes, and I think that’s very brave of him.

Nobody’s feeling super great about the situation they’ve been presented with, but there isn’t a lot that can be done about it now. Just gotta work with what they got. Rodimus asks Optimus how he feels about Starscream being elected leader of Cybertron.

But I thought that freedom was the right of all sentient beings? You know, like the freedom of choice in our government officials, even if they aren’t the best option we could possibly have, because at least they’re better than the guy who had bombs planted in people’s heads for crowd control purposes? Are you saying that it only counted when the concept of freedom could be manipulated so you could go kick Megatron’s ass, and that actual freedom of choice doesn’t jive with your personal sensibilities as much as you’d like everyone to think it does? No wonder you’re going to try to overthrow the entire Earth’s government system to get humanity annexed into Cybertron’s bullshit in a few years’ time.

But perhaps this Starscream thing is actually the work of Megatron! What will Orion do then?

…I mean, do I even have to say it?

ORION, THAT’S GAY.

And I thought we’d already figured out what to do with Megatron back in “Chaos Theory”, where you spent three issues waffling on the subject until the man himself told you to execute him, because even he was sick of your crisis of self. The only reason you didn’t get to act on it was because Megatron disappeared after Vector Sigma blew up and then you fucked off into space without even bothering to check if he was actually dead.

But enough of Orion promising to kill/kiss Megatron, it’s time to see what Brainstorm’s cooked up. It’s not much, but to be fair, he’s only had a few hours to pull something together- our ship’s genius has made a few forcefield generators, using nothing more than some forcefield generators and juice he squeezed out of a bug. Science truly is amazing.

And I bet Trailcutter hates this invention too, for multiple reasons this time!

Cyclonus, who is looking especially purple today, agrees to join the excursion to the Dead Universe, even though it’s pretty clear he really, really doesn’t want to. Hardhead seems in better spirits than our resident space jet, though maybe that’s just bravado macho-man bullshitting on his part.

With our team put together, it’s time to jump out of the spaceship and into a place that quite literally wants them dead. But first Rodimus has a little chat with Ultra Magnus about his feelings. A lot of sharing this issue.

Magnus doesn’t feel fit to be in charge while Rodimus goes off to save the day and maybe die, because he doesn’t have that special something that makes a leader a leader. Charisma? The ability to think on your feet? The ability to see people as people and not numbers? Not having people know you’re actually a much smaller man running around in an Ultra Magnus suit? Whatever it is, Rodimus seems to think that it’s trumped by a mysterious something in his hand, and that Magnus will do just fine.

While Team -Imus goes into the murder reality, Magnus and the Lost Light will be going off to find Jhiaxus, because they need something to do while our protagonist and his absentee father go on their own adventure.

Back on Cybertron, Starscream’s visiting prison, and wants to talk to a very good boy without the guards overhearing. Jazz makes a very vague threat about what will happen if any harm comes to the prisoner, then steps away.

Let’s talk about how to sell toys for a second.

This issue of “Dark Cybertron” had a cover featuring Scoop, the very good boy I’ve mentioned before, because it was paired off with his Generations toy. We know from reading RID that Scoop is the leader of a group called the Construction Patrol, and he likes to help simply for the sake of helping. Sounds like a nice, if generic, character. How is this issue going to introduce people to him? Will he bust out of prison to save the day? Fight evil through heroic sacrifice? Do anything besides talk?

No, he’s going to tell Starscream he’s a herald of death that was foretold in the robot bible.

Yeah, that’ll move some fucking product!

This isn’t even the most batshit thing Scoop’s going to pull in this event, but it is what they decided to put in the issue that “features” him.

Over with Shockwave, we’re treated to some renewed friendships, as Nova Prime and Galvatron reveal that they don’t hate each other after all, but have a mutual respect based in subjugating those weaker than them.

I’m guessing this is a contrast to their previous relationship dynamic in older publications, but I’m not going back to comb through the likes of Heart of Darkness to check, because it really doesn’t matter.

There’s a bit of a snag in Shockwave’s plan to bring Galvatron and Nova Prime back to the Not-Dead Universe, as the space bridge in the Titan burnt up when it got there. Gee, that sucks. I guess all those “Prelude” issues about getting the Titan from Gorlam Prime were sort of a waste of time, weren’t they? Love it when I’m told I wasted my time reading motherfucking Ramondelli issues.

Speaking of Ramondelli, it’s Dead Universe time.

Sigh. Hello, public domain pictures of space on the overlay layer option in Photoshop. It’s nice to see you.

No, it isn’t. I lied.

I’m sorry, public domain pictures of space on the overlay layer option in Photoshop, this isn’t your fault.

So we’re here in the Dead Universe, and it’s looking pretty wild and crazy, though the characters are likely thinking this for a completely different reason than we are as readers. It turns out, the Dead Universe… is dying.

…MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM THAT’S SOME GOOD WRITIN’ RIGHT THERE

Also, Cyclonus has disappeared, not that anyone actually gives a shit, because they’re too busy dealing with the giant space leeches that just showed the hell up. Dang, why’s that happening?

…That only happens as a form of population control, or if the young in question are sickly and have a low chance of survival, not just because the mama rabbit got a bit peckish between lunch and dinner, you stupid fucking robot.

Half of this writing team won awards a couple years after this was published, I want you to remember that.

They fight the cyberwraiths for a bit, things look like they’re getting dicey, then suddenly they fuck off as Cyclonus shows up, probably fresh off the end of a goddamned panic attack because he’s back in the Dead Universe. Then he proceeds to vomit up some black energon. That’s a fun thing, glad you made me look at that.

Rodimus is concerned that one of their team members has got the Hollywood Tuberculosis cough, but Cyclonus doesn’t want his fucking pity. The fellas decide it’s time to get a move on, seeing as they’ve been here a grand total of 20 seconds and been attacked, so they need to get this over with ASAP.

As Team -Imus flies off in a ship I don’t remember them bringing along, someone decides that they’re going to stick their finger in that puddle of vomit.

Nightbeat you fucking idiot, there aren’t any sinks in the Dead Universe! Now your hand’s gonna be all gross for the entirety of this event! He’s not even analyzing it, it’s just on his hand! Why is Nightbeat having zero concept of personal hygiene a running theme in the things I read? Fuck!

You may be wondering what Nightbeat’s doing in the Dead Universe, or even where he’s been for a good chunk of IDW. We’ve seen him in flashbacks from before the war, but not during or after, least not within anything I’ve covered. So, what’s be been up to?

Fuck you, you’ll have to wait for a later issue to be told what Phase One bullshit you’ll have had to read to understand why this dumbass is here.

Back on Cybertron, Prowl is telling Bumblebee that he sucks because he’s not acting. I’m not exactly sure what he expects Bumblebee to do about the Titan who’s just standing there. It’s not like issuing a loitering ticket is going to do anything. Then the Decepticons attack them, among their ranks being the scariest fucking Ravage I’ve ever seen.

Why do you look like that? Rojo’s supposed to have the cutesy style on this team, why the fuck did he turn the kitty cat into one of the terror dogs from Ghostbusters? 

Anyway, that’s the end of the issue. Sure hope you’re invested enough in trying to figure out what the fuck Nightbeat’s deal is to snag Robots in Disguise #23.

[imanativeofswlondondahling]

Becoming A Stark? (13) Peter Parker x Stark! femReader

Word Count: 2881

Warning: Swearing, because it’s me lol 

Author’s Note: Let me know if you want to be tagged on future chapters of this:) Enjoy!

Chapter One || Previous Chapter || Master List

Pepper promised not to show your dad the permission slip. You didn’t want him to appear out of nowhere during the field trip and ruin everything. The fact that your name on the building wasn’t enough of a permission slip alone apparently, so that was where Pepper came into everything. You had her sign the slip and then turned it into Mr. Shah. 

“So the Avengers won’t be there when we visit?” Betty asks you as you and Astrid walk towards the bus with her. 

“If you’re asking if Bruce will be there, the answer is no. I haven’t seen him since basically you guys came over for dinner that first time. He’s off world or something.” You file into the back of the bus, before you see that it’s not only your class getting on the bus. “Who’s the other class that’s joining us?”

“Mr. Harrington- Teaches junior sciences and decathlon. I think it’s the decathlon team that’s coming with though. Yeah, has to be. Look there’s Liz!” Betty waves to Liz through the window. Decathlon, that means…

“Fancy meeting you here Y/N.” Peter’s voice comes from the seat in front of you. “Stark Industries? Didn’t think you would even be interested in visiting.”

“I thought it would be an enrichment opportunity. See what the public sees Parker.” You smirk at him. “What about you? You going to give the tour?” Before he can respond, a voice from a few seats in front of him calls towards him.

“Penis Parker, you harassing Y/N Stark? Just wait until we get to the SI and her dad sees that you follow her around like a lost puppy. He won’t want trash near her. He’ll want people of his own caliber near her.”

“Just ignore him.” Peter pleads softly. He should have guessed that a Stark doesn’t walk away from a problem though.

“Eugine right?” You ignore the fact that everyone calls him Flash. He looks up at being addressed by a Stark. “I don’t think my dad would appreciate you calling his personal intern Penis. But I can check with him. In the meanwhile, I’d like to keep garbage away from me. And by that, I mean you.” Flash goes quiet and turns around in his seat.

“That probably will just make him worse.” Peter says, looking over his seat as he talks to you. 

“And if it does, I’ll call a few Avengers to deal with him. Maybe I’ll get Dad to call Spider-Man. I hear Eugine is a huge fan. Wouldn’t it be great to see him get a talking to from him?”

“Sure, but I don’t think Spider-Man does that kind of thing.” The kid sitting next to Peter glances at him, trying to get an answer from him that you don’t understand.

“I’m Y/N.” You offer a hand to him, trying to figure out who this other kid is.

“Ned. I know who you are. You’re like all Peter talks about. Well like besides Mr. Stark and like-” Peter’s hand goes over Ned’s mouth.

“That’s not at all true. And I think you’ve said enough Ned.”

“I’d love to hear more.” You say with a smirk. Peter talks about you? “What else does he say?” Peter shakes his head at Ned.

“Is it true that you know the Avengers?” Ned changes the subject.

“Yeah? They lived at the tower with us for a while. Then they didn’t. Now we don’t live at the tower.” You explain with a shrug. 

“So who’s the best Avenger?” 

“Don’t I have to say Iron Man by default?” 

“No. You could say anyone. Like Black Widow, or Spider-Man, or even Falcon.”

“Spider-Man isn’t an Avenger. He works on his own?” You say, the question in your voice.

“Really? I thought he joined the Avengers from time to time, but maybe I heard wrong. You know news can be made up. Who’s to say what’s true and what’s not these days?” Peter elbows Ned to try and get him to shut up.

“I haven’t heard anything from the Avengers about him joining. I teased my dad that Spider-Man would yeet him off a building. Spider-Man is probably too cool to be an Avenger anyway.”

“I think Spider-Man would join the Avengers if given the chance.” Peter throws out quickly. 

“I’ll tell my dad you think so.”

“Is your dad going to join the tour?” Astrid asks from across the aisle.

“God I hope not. I had Pepper sign the permission slip so that I wouldn’t have to tell him I was coming.”

“Why would him knowing you’re coming to the tower be a bad thing?” Betty asks.

“Because, you know how bad he can be when you guys just come over for dinner? Well imagine him doing that in front of our entire class plus the decathlon team. It would be awful.” You turn to look Peter in the eyes. “If you text him and tell him we’re coming I swear I will end our Snapchat streak.”

Peter throws his hands up. “I didn’t mention it. I honestly was more worried about him embarrassing me if he knew I was coming and I’m not even his kid.” 

“Good.” Your bus pulls up in front of the building you had called home until you had moved into the brownstone in Queens. As you file off the bus, a very familiar voice gives instructions.

“Everyone will need to wear their visitor badges at all times. At the end of the tour you will return them. So do not lose them. Also you will go through the scanners before you are able to enter the upper floors.” Happy hasn’t spotted you or Peter near the back of the group after getting off the bus in front of the tower.

“Do you think I get a visitor badge?” You whisper to Peter.

“I hope so. Or else Happy might have to kick you from the building.” Peter whispers back. 

“That would be the best thing for the paparazzi to see. Head of Security kicks Tony Stark’s child out of SI.” You say with a laugh. “Pepper would never get home tonight having to deal with that press.”

“Ok, who are our two trouble makers in the back who aren’t paying attention?” Happy’s voice raises and you and Peter are suddenly the center of attention. “Should have guessed it. You two better have your badges, I only have visitor badges for non staff and family.”

“Damn Happy I thought I’d get to be a visitor.”

“Your name is on the building kid. You don’t get to be a visitor.” Happy kids with a smile then returns to his no nonsense face. “Just like airport security. Bags and anything in your pockets go through the scanners. Then you pass through the metal detectors. Peter, Y/N- go through your normal entrance.” There is a separate scanner for those who have special clearance, limited to the Avengers, Pepper, Happy, you, and a few others that you don’t know of off the top of your head. It’s a quick body scanner done by FRIDAY as you enter through a door. Just to appease Happy you clip the badge that you never really need to wear since you are never really at the tower onto the bottom of your forest green cardigan. Peter has pulled his out too and clips it to his decathlon blazer.

“Y/N, Peter. Shouldn’t you be at school?” FRIDAY’s voice speaks as you both walk through the scanner.

“Field trip FRI.” You use your dad’s nickname for FRIDAY, not even realizing you did. You walk over to meet back with the group, hoping that this field trip goes off without a hitch.

Up on the sixty seventh floor, Tony is jamming out to Shoot to Thrill by AC/DC as it plays off of your playlist that he’s grown to just ignore the name of it. He’s learned that Tony Stark Can Rot is your upbeat playlist while I Hate My Life is your more slow music. But both have good music on them, ignoring the couple of Taylor Swift songs that shuffle on every now and then. And it makes him feel closer to you, so he’s grown used to playing one of the two while he works, especially when you’re at school. On his datapad, he’s running the numbers for a new attempt at the closed loop system. He wants to nail this for you. But a couple of the components just aren’t working.

“Boss, Y/N is 75 and dropping.”

“Text her and see if she’s correcting.” When you’re at school, there’s not too much he can do but wait for a response.

“She’s on the 34th floor. Should I have someone take her a snack?”

“Y/N is here? At the tower? But it’s a school day?”

“She and Peter are on a field trip.” Both his kids are here and no one told him? Well, maybe a break would be better right now.

“I’ll take her a snack.”

“Here we have…” You can’t fully focus on the voice speaking in front of you. You know you should check your blood sugar. The lack of focus usually means you’re either dropping low or running really high. With all the walking around the tower, your bet is dropping.

“You ok?” Peter asks from next to you. Though he can’t tell anyone, his spider sense is on high alert. And you’re not looking too good. Your face is pale and your eyes don’t seem to be focusing. Plus your hands seem to be shaking ever so slightly. You almost seem to be shifting in your spot and he wants to reach out and grab you.

“I got this one kid.” A very familiar voice speaks from behind the two of you, but you don’t even react to it. 

“Mr. Stark I think she’s low.” Peter starts to say but Tony wraps an arm around you and starts to lead you to a chair.

“I know. FRIDAY told me.” Betty hears Tony’s voice from the middle of the group and pulls Astrid towards it.

“Is Y/N ok?”

“‘M fine.” You slur ever so slight. Tony screws the cap off the apple juice he grabbed from the kitchen on his way down here.

“She’s just low. She’ll be fine as soon as she has some sugar.” He offers you the open juice. Your hand reaches to take it, but he even notices the shaking as you try to take it. “Bambina, you’re ok. You just need to drink.” You take a couple hesitant sips. “Why didn’t you treat already?”

“Didn’t feel it.”

“I know you don’t feel your lows. That's why you have Wallace.” Your hypo-unawareness was nothing of a secret. 

“Didn’t feel Wallace.” You shrug as you drink some more juice.

“Is that Tony Stark?” A voice from the other side of the room says. Peter notes that it’s Flash, but says nothing, more worried about you. Tony and you don’t even hear it. However, Mr. Shah notices you sitting in the chair with Tony basically holding you.

“Is everything alright Y/N?” He asks, trying to not act like being around Tony Stark is as big of a deal as it is.

“‘M low.” You say.

“Drink some more. You’ll feel better if you do bambina.” Tony doesn’t even look up at Mr. Shah. He’s too focused in on you.

“Don’t want it.” Your stubbornness with your lows sneaks in.

“I know, but it’s either this or we head over to the medbay and Dr. Cho can give you an IV.”

“Fineeeeeeeee.” You draw out the last syllable as you force some more juice down. 

“Mr. Stark, I’m Flash Thompson-”

“If you don’t get out of my face, Happy will escort you out of the tower before you can say Avengers.” Tony snaps, not caring who this kid is. Right now his only thought is getting your numbers high enough for you to be back to his normally sarcastic but loving kid. “FRI what’s Y/N’s number?”

“68 and dropping still.”

“Pete, run down the hall and grab something with carbs. Cookies, chips, soda, candy. Anything.”

“Of course M-Tony.” Peter would normally just call him Mr. Stark, but since Flash was just shut down, he wants to show him how close they are. Then he remembers what he was just asked and basically sprints down the hall to where SI keeps a bunch of snacks on hand. He grabs the first things he sees that are high carb- some chocolate chip cookies and a packet of Skittles. He also grabs a soda at the last second to be safe. Making his way back to where you sit, leaning against Tony’s shoulder he offers the snacks to you. “Which sounds better, cookies, skittles, or soda?”

“Death.” You mumble.

“Not an option on the table kiddo. So how about you take one of the three Pete offered?” You fling a hand out and snatch one of the three not really caring. “Mr. Shah, I’ll keep Peter here in case I need him to grab more things for Y/N, but I don’t want the rest of the group to lose out on their tour. We can catch up with you when Y/N is back up in range.”

“If you’re sure Mr. Stark.”

“It’s not the first time we’ve had to deal with stubborn blood sugars.” Tony says before turning his attention to the group as you munch on the cookies you don’t really want to eat. “Lilly, keep going with the tour. I’ll keep Peter and Y/N. They’ll catch up.”

“Sure Mr. Stark. Let’s continue on this way.” The actual intern leads the group on as Mr. Harrington, Mr. Shah and the rest of the students follow. Astrid and Betty’s eyes trail behind, watching Y/N, but they know your dad won’t let anything happen to you. After the group is out of the room, Tony’s attention stays on you, but his question turns to Peter.

“So I’m Tony now?”

“Uh not if you don’t want to be Mr. Stark.”

“No take backs. I heard it. The group heard it. Happy probably heard it down on the first floor. I just was wondering what changed.”

“Eugine.” You mumble over a mouthful of cookies. 

“Who’s Eugine?” Tony asks you.

“Flash. Thompson. That kid that tried to introduce himself while Y/N was crashing.” Peter clarifies as you open the soda that your dad doesn’t allow in the house. Will he buy it if you’re in the city and crashing, sure. But will he stock it in the house? Never. However, after growing up around the sticky drink, you’ve missed the taste. “He doesn’t want to believe that I actually intern with you.”

“So calling me Tony?”

“You called me Pete. It felt right.”

“Well if it feels right, keep doing it.” Tony’s attention goes back to you. “How you feeling kiddo?” 

“Like death microwaved over.”

“FRI what’s her number?”

“68 and stable.”

“Well that’s better than dropping still.” Tony says. He looks at the soda in your hand. “I think that’s probably not needed.” You hold it away from his outstretched hand.

“I’m still low.”

“That is full of crap. Let me get you a green juice or something?” You scrunch your face.

“I’ll pass. You already make me drink one at breakfast. I only get these when I’m low.” You say before taking another sip. Peter should be surprised, but the part of him that pays attention isn’t that surprised. He’s never seen soda around the Tower when you lived there or at the brownstone when he’s at the labs. “Do I really have to catch back up with the tour group? It’s actually kind of boring.” You ask.

“I can see if you can sit in with Pep. It would make more sense for you than going on the public tour anyway.”

“Why with Pepper? Can’t I just go chill out upstairs or something?”

“You’re supposed to take over the company one day. If I’m pulling you from the field trip, I’m going to make sure you’re still getting an educational day. At least if I leave you with Pepper, you’re still learning stuff.” You’re hesitant. Sure it’s years away from the day you have to make an actual decision, but you have no real plans to take over the company. But a day spent with Pepper sounds more fun than going on a tour that’s 100% science based anyway. “Or,” Your dad adds sensing some hesitation, “You can come work with me on some stuff.”

“Like in the lab?” You and Peter ask at the same time.

“That is where I work on stuff.”

“I would mess everything up.” You reply honestly.

“Can I come work?” Peter asks, hoping to get out of the tour he doesn’t need either.

“And take you away from learning about what SI is working on? No. Kid, I want to see what you think of what we’re working on. So let’s get you back with the group. Y/N, I’ll let Mr. what’s his name-”

“Mr. Shah.”

“Mr. Shah, know that I’m pulling you for official Stark business and then take you to Pep.”

Becoming A Stark Tag list: @persephonehemingway  @iamaunicorn4704  @furiouspockettoad  @daughter-of-stark  @eternalharry  @huntective-kyeo @riiis-stuff @sunnyoongles @cosmicqueenieb @sovereignparker @bbarnestan @teenwishes08 @iamthescarlettwitch

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[rokutouxei]

the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop's most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo's pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go?

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 1 OF 22

“Hey Theo, your girlfriend’s here.”

Just as she always is: 2:00pm every Wednesday and Sunday, carrying a maroon Kånken bag slung over one shoulder, dark brown hair up in an (adorably) messy half-bun. Today, she’s wearing a black turtleneck under a plaid coat, because it’s early fall now, and every day is a little colder than the last. Mustard-colored shorts over leggings, high-cut Doc Martens. She’s looking at the books on display through the window, hand pressed lightly on the glass.

Theo looks up just long enough to confirm that it is her, their favorite customer, before he disinterestedly returns his gaze to his book. “She isn’t my girlfriend.”

Working in the most reliable, well-known bookstore in a university town means a lot of university students come and go regularly, whether it’s for books needed for class or idle reading. There are a lot of familiar faces, but hers is arguably the most recognizable, considering she’s there twice every week.

Like on clockwork.

Arthur, Theo’s only other co-worker, has just finished shelving the new stock of books by the register when she finally decides to enter. The little bell hanging by the door rings as she does. Theo doesn’t even bother. Arthur makes up for it with his enthusiasm. “Welcome to Dragon’s Hoard Bookstore—oh, it’s you, little bird!” He walks up to her and they do a little high five.

She smiles; it crinkles the corner of her eyes ever so gently. “Hey, Arthur! Nice to see you.”

“How’s your class with The Professor Everyone Hates?”

“Oh, please, don’t get me started,” she sighs. “Considered shifting to lit yet? I could use the company.”

Arthur smiles conspiratorially. “Only for you, luv.”

Theo flips a page on his book. Ah, of course Arthur’s become friends with her. Arthur hits up anything that vaguely resembles the shape of a woman—a couch, a shelf, name it. He’s not really interested in his co-worker’s woman-hunting pursuits.

Arthur, however, seems to be a little more up to it. Theo doesn’t quite know if it’s because he’s interested in the girl he keeps insisting is Theo’s girlfriend, or just because both of them are friends. That makes her a bigger weirdo. Who wants to be friends with Arthur? “So, how can we help you today?”

“I actually came in to pick up my book! I got the message that it’s in—and I need it for class. I ordered it last week.”

Theo feels the stare directed at him all the way across the store—not that it’s that large to begin with. He doesn’t need to look up to know that Arthur is throwing him that glance he has become so familiar with—but he raises his head anyway just to glare back at him, a silent Please don’t.

But when did Arthur ever listen to him anyway? “If it’s a special order then it should be at the register,” the playboy sing-songs, ignoring the death stare he’d received. “How about go over and ask Theo, hmm?”

A tick of a vein on his forehead. Don’t get him wrong—working retail in a small quiet town isn’t anywhere as bad as, say, being employed in a big fancy spot downtown, but when Arthur is regularly like this to him… it’s rather easy to work up a temper. Calm down, Theo says to himself, as he puts his feet down from the chair to sit a little more appropriately for work. The girl takes a pause—gauging, measuring, making sure?—before answering with a half-hesitant, but still lively “Thanks Arthur!”.

The store is just small enough that in five steps, she is in front of him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He steels his face to a practiced, charming customer-service smile that makes Arthur snicker from across the store. One day Theo’s definitely going to get that idiot fired, or mangled, and no one will know it was him. “A special order? I need an ID for that.”

“Yeah, sure!” she pulls out a student ID from her pocket, places it on the counter, and wrings her hands like she’s nervous. Why, though. It’s just a book. Theo takes the ID, looks at her name, gives it back to her, and coolly looks through the stacks of books underneath the desk.

Theo doesn’t know where she gets this curiosity and her fidgety hands, but by the time he’s pulled out her book—a book of literary criticism on 20th century poets (that just makes sense, doesn’t it. a literature major in the bookstore, he thinks to himself)—she’s already flipping through the book he was just reading, chewing on her lower lip. She near-jolts when she realizes her book is already on the counter, lost in between the pages of his book.

Ah, the thought pings in Theo’s mind. Arthur’s a trying-hard literature major. That’s probably where they’ve met.

“Any particular poet you’re interested in?” he asks once he’s gone up, dusting the book off gently with his hands. He doesn’t really like small talk, but it’s bookshop etiquette at this point.

“Cummings, maybe?” she answers, and it makes Arthur stifle a laugh from the other end of the store; it’s audible to everyone no matter how hard he tries.

“A world of made is not a world of born,” Theo recites, to which she beams.

“Yes, pity poor flesh and trees, poor stars and stones,” she finishes. She looks entirely too visibly pleased by their exchange: Theo isn’t too thrilled about it. “I suppose you’ll find it cheesy that I like his love poems.”

“They’re great, hard to not like,” he says, following up with another poem: “kisses are a better fate than wisdom, lady i swear by all flowers.”

“You are whatever a moon has always meant, and whatever a sun will always sing is you,” she offers, as well. Grinning awkwardly as she puts Theo’s book back on the counter—a Camus, not really her jam—she says, “I really didn’t take you to be a poetry kind of guy.”

“Not only literature majors read poetry,” Theo answers.

She flushes and pouts a little, making Theo chuckle under his breath. “Well, I don’t really know what major you’re taking,” she says, recomposing herself. Theo has an inkling why she’s so nervous now, but he’s not really interested in it. “No way to find out.”

Theo shakes his head and pushes the order-claims log and a pen in her direction. “How about give it a guess.”

She presses the cap of the pen to just below her pink lip and thinks. “Hmm… political science?”

“Wrong.” Theo slips her book into a paper bag with the bookstore’s logo stamped on it.

She pouts, but a little less seriously than earlier. She signs the log and pushes it back to him. “Aww, dammit. You looked like a crook, too.”

It takes a few seconds for it to sink in, Theo busy sorting the files into their proper boxes. “What?”

“I’m kidding!” she says with a grin. She doesn’t move to take her book, just rests her elbows on the counter and her chin on her palms. She’s here every week at this hour, she knows when business is slow; she can go and pester the employees, sure. And with Arthur enabling her, there is no escape for Theo. He’s really going to strangle Four-Eyes soon. “History?”

Theo doesn’t want to indulge her, but he’s a good employee. “What stereotypes are you going on, here?”

“Well, literature isn’t really a favored field as it is, and you’re reading Camus, so…” she trails off. “Figured poetry was just your little nerd thing, and you’re some serious dude elsewhere.”

He’s not usually the confrontational type, in fact, he’d rather get this conversation over with, but somehow he can’t stop. He’ll never hear the end of this from Arthur later. “A nerd, says the one who is always at the bookstore, peering over the window looking at books. Can almost see your tail wagging excitedly like a little hondje.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t know what that last word means but it sounds like an insult.”

Theo shrugs, trying to freeze the smirk out of his face. “Guess you’ll never know.”

At that exact moment, a trio of what looked like exhausted seniors enters the store, the bell at the doorway announcing their entrance. Theo half-heartedly calls out a Welcome to Dragon’s Hoard! because Arthur is in the back room.

“Times up for me,” their—no, Arthur’s—favorite customer finally says in defeat, after what seems like ten years. She picks up her book from the counter. “One day I’ll figure out your major and find an even worse insult to tell you, Theo,” she teases, grinning as she turns away.

“Try,” Theo only drily answers, to which she puts out her tongue, and finally leaves the bookshop with a spring in her step.

Like any regular devil, Arthur’s timing is impeccable, as right at this moment he emerges from where he’s sorting books some shelves away, swinging by the register with a grin. He turns to check that their other customers are far from earshot, but then it’s his turn to torment Theo. Of course. Theo doesn’t get paid enough for this.

“Aww, didn’t want to get caught flirting with an employee. What a sweetheart.”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Theo asks. “If that was flirting then she wasn’t trying at all. Had no effect on me whatsoever.”

Arthur pulls a face of mock disbelief. “Sure, sure. She was making such a cute face, too. But if ever you change your mind, she left her number in the order log, so you might want to—"

“Leave me alone, Arthur,” Theo sighs, and Arthur laughs like he’s won.

--

Was that worth it? Was that actually worth it? Holy shit.

She walks two blocks away from the bookshop before turning into a random street corner to breathe. She presses the paper bag against her chest, feeling her heart trying to keep up with the demand for blood, mostly to her face. No, it wasn’t, her brain almost answers for her, but did she actually expect anything else? He’s mighty fine—easily one of the more tolerable face in this drab university town, and with a stare like that that could easily throw people off, push admirers away… he couldn’t, in this lifetime, have been someone who would go down without a fight.

And what a fight it was, if she could call that one! She didn’t expect him to answer back, much less tolerate that much conversation from her, and yet! Her head was spinning so fast, trying to process the information.

“What the hell man, relax,” she says to herself, leaning against the brick wall behind her with a thump. Why the hell did you do that? What the hell is wrong with you? Oh my god.

Even with her heart pounding angrily inside her chest, so loudly she can barely hear anything, she doesn’t find the strength, the will, or the desire to get the grin out of her face. Oh, boy, was that worth it. Kind of fun, really.

She wouldn’t call herself a heartbreaker in any way—she’s close to Arthur, being in the same club and such, but she is no way near his level. All she really wants is to be done with this and get out of this goddamn town that’s been keeping her hostage for years. But god, why did she had to have slipped and told Arthur she thinks his co-worker is kind of hot?

Arthur knowing about her crush and Arthur knowing about her little penchant for doing things she’s either been told not to do or told she would not be able to do—really was her undoing. One little you know, Theo’s the last person you want to befriend if you want a hint of romance; he probably won’t even spare you five seconds, and they both know from that very moment that she would go for the kill.

She does.

She does and it is glorious.

She could feel Arthur grinning at her from across the bookstore the entire time.

It’s taken her weeks to gather the courage, but—who knew it would be this thrilling? It wasn’t like she was looking for a relationship, she just “wants to join in on the fun,” as Arthur likes to say. Oh, is this why the man’s so addicted to doing this? It sure is adrenalizing. Kind of fun.

When her breathing is a little more stable and her legs a little steadier, she resumes her walk to her favorite café with a little spring on her step. She hasn’t felt this determined to get on with reading in a long time.

“Welcome!” the familiar baristas call out when she arrives, and she waves at them as she piles her stuff on her typical spot. When she approaches the counter, the barista with sunflower-yellow hair and a smile like summer recognizes her, beaming. “Hey! The usual?”

She smiles back. “Yep, thank you!”

Ah, why does this feel so good?

--

“Are you opening shop tomorrow, or am I?”

Arthur is sweeping off the dust by the register and Theo is closing down the windows—it’s 5:00 in the afternoon and the shop closes early on weekends. It’s phrased as a question, but Theo’s voice is resolute: Arthur is opening the shop tomorrow.

It’s the least he can do for all the chaos with bringing that girl from the literary club.

Arthur isn’t even a literature major. Yet. This is ridiculous.

“I will, I will,” Arthur pledges, shaking off the dust into the bin. “I really don’t understand though, when you’ll still be here 10 minutes earlier than I will be,”

Theo doesn’t even blink. “It’s called being on time, Arthur.”

“No timecards in this bookstore, are there?” Arthur answers, but he’ll still be here right on time tomorrow anyway. Not early, just on time. Just like most of him, Theo supposes—isn’t that why he’s on a gap year in the middle of his medical degree? Dabbling in electives in the literature department of all things. Arthur seems to catch onto this train of thought and adds—“Pardon good sir, but you, too are only taking one class this semester.”

And that’s true—Theo only has one class, on Saturday mornings, when his day off is scheduled. He could have taken his thesis course already this semester, but… “I have other priorities right now,” he says, just as he always does, and then quips, for good measure, “but you are just loitering. Don’t make comparisons.”

Arthur laughs at that only because he’s so used to Theo already, saying, “Oh, you wound me.” He puts away the broom to its compartment at the back and goes to the door to leave. Not before he looks back at the register where Theo has just finished packing his bag. “If you need the miss’ number—”

“Go home, Arthur.”

—which is answered by boisterous laughter, the chimes at the doorway ringing.

--

Late that night, hair still damp from the shower, she suddenly remembers to look up the word that’s been stuck in the inside of her head all afternoon, disrupting her thought processes, letting her lose her train of thought. Hell, she doesn’t even know how to spell it—she has to wrangle with letters being added and removed to get the translator to recognize the language.

Hawje.

Hanje.

Howche.

Honje.

Hondje, the app finally offers, pinging with recognition as it shows her the translation.

She takes a moment to stare at the screen, taking it in.

“What?”

She presses the flip button. English turning to Dutch. Same results. Presses it again, Dutch to English. Same results. She looks up, stares at the blank wall, remembers what he told her.

“…Can almost see your tail wagging excitedly like a little hondje.”

Her mouth falls open in offense, eyes darting back to her phone.

“DID HE CALL ME A DOG?”

Ah, the beginnings of a twisted, cruel love.