#we know he self-identifies as gun's dog but to just come out and say it

[vegaseatsass]

Someone tell me why I'm in between catching up on 10 different television series many of them quite excellent, but the only thing I want to post about is Tay saying "Gun's not into gaming, so when New and I play videogames he teases us for attention and we have to include him so OBVIOUSLY we kiss back!!!" and "Gun is like this with Off too but he sees him all the time so he misses us more and when he sees us we HAVE to sniff each other" and Tay and New saying "we were raised differently than Gun [very rich subtext here] but he likes skinship and now that he's part of our gang we've all changed and we all like skinship" and Tay saying "we've been this way for 10 years, fan scolding may stress out a younger group of acting friends and convince them to keep their distance but you're not going to change us, we're like this and we're going to stay like this"

[anjanettexcordonia]

Trust

A/N: mentions of kidnapping, language

Word Count: 956

A/N: I have been MIA for about 6 months or so, so I have decided to start over with tags, so if you would like to be tagged just let me know or shoot me a message.

I woke up today. I woke up and that’s as far as I’ve gotten. I called in sick for my shift tonight. I don’t know if it is due to fear of the weird shit going on in my life or the fact that I have had a solid two hours of sleep. Sleep when you're dead, I think that’s a saying. But nonetheless I’m a realist, remember, I need to get up, push the bullshit to the back of my mind and take Chance to the dog park. Some fresh air would do me some good.

An hour later, Chance & I are on our way to the local dog park. Treats and poop bags in tow, today is a self care day I decide. Maybe the spa, no fuck that, a large pizza and crime documentaries on the couch, is my definition of self care. Real high class Riley. And to that realization, I can’t for the life of me think of why some rich foreign KING would want ANYTHING to do with a regular girl like me.

After a vigorous game of fetch and a jog around the park, I’m sitting at a green metal bench watching Chance tennis balls with another pup friend when.. “Riley Brooks?” My blood froze in my veins. The voice sat down beside me without invitation mind you. “I didn’t get to properly introduce myself last night. I’m Liam.” It’s him. It’s him. Jesus Christ it’s him. “CHANCE.” I grab his leash from the table. “CHANCE LET'S GO BUDDY.” “Riley, please wait.”

“Are you following me?” I interrupt.

“No, I just uh, I need to talk to you.”

“I know who you are. I do not appreciate being followed to my place of business, my home or here. I don’t care what you have to say or what information you think you have. Leave me alone.” I took a step toward Chance to retrieve him, he was still playing.

“You’re home? Riley has someone been to your home?”

“Like you don’t know Mr. King Liam of whatever country you’re from. And judging by your accent it’s a long way from here.” I took another step creating as much distance as possible but I could feel myself being pulled toward him. His eyes were like Caribbean waters, so enticing I just wanted to bathe in them. Naked.

“You’re right I am King but you have to listen, Riley, you’re in danger.” At his words, another man adorning black sunglasses, a suspiciously authoritative black suit and ear piece. Straight out of a damn movie. “I need you to listen to me.”

“What the fuck? Are you trying to kidnap me?” My voice grew louder with each word.

“Shh no Riley, I just need you to trust me. We need you to get you to safety now.” Liam’s tone was hushed. He noticed the eyes around the park land on him and his bodyguard. Bodyguard I assume. A guy like him would have a bodyguard.

“Trust you, I don’t even know you!” My tone not really matching my words. I was intrigued to say the least. Not really sure why but I was. There was a magnetism and a curiosity to Liam I wanted to get to the bottom of. Needed to, a primal need.

“Sit down, please.” He motioned to the bench. I sat reluctantly.

“Riley, your parents.” I put my hands up stopping him.

“My parents are dead. Whoever you’re speaking of are not my parents, so tread carefully.”

He nodded in understanding. His blonde hair sparkled in the sunlight. His chiseled chin with at least two days worth of hair growth tensed.

“There’s a dangerous faction of people in my government, that are after you. The order of the White Dove is what they call themselves. We have been unable to identify any of the exact members but we have suspicions. This group is responsible for the deaths of your biological parentage Elizabeth and Joseph Malcolm of Edinburgh. And we have reason to believe you are a target since your discovery.”

“But how do they know who I am? And how do I know you’re not a part of this order of the dove?” I didn’t want to believe it but I did. For some reason none of the things he had just told me surprised me.

“I am here to protect you, that’s all.” The softness of his smile instantly made me believe him.

“There’s more, but I’ll have to show you. Will you trust me?”

I mulled over his revelation. If he’s lying, he’s probably going to kill you; if he’s telling you the truth someone else is going to kill you.

“Here.” I handed him the business card I shoved in my pocket before I left my apartment this morning. “Chance is coming with me.”

Liam handed the business card to his guard who started talking into his piece.

I scooped up Chance and followed the men out of the park to a suv. “I’ll need to stop by my apartment to grab some things.” I spoke softly.

“No need, my team is there now. Everything you need will be on the jet.”

“The jet? I didn’t agree to that.” I sat up in my seat. “I need to let my roommate know what’s going on.”

Liam brushed his hand against mine. A feeling of security washed over me. I immediately snatched my hand from him.

“Where are we going?”

“Scotland.”

——

“She’s with him. It’s time to go.” Drake stood in Olivia’s bedroom.

“What does she know?” Olivia slipped on her novel black stilettos.

“Nothing yet. Except that her parents were killed and she’s in danger.”

“Did the plan work?”

“Yep.”

“I’ve been undercover way too long.” She slide the gun in its holster on wrapped around her thigh.

“Ready to go home Livvy? The jet is waiting.”

Tags: @txemrn @gkittylove99 @busywoman @kingliam2019 @tessa-liam

[irrlicht-writes]

the path we choose to walk on Pt.2

Part 2 of my Fix-It! Do note that this is NOT THE END. There will be at least one more part (god hope please) @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @insertdeeplyrics @cass-said-i-love-you ALSO SOMEONE WANNA JOIN MY TAG LIST STILL 

READ PART ONE FIRST HERE

Ao3

PART 2: a barn in which we meet

Sam is ecstatic. Eileen just revealed to him that she’s pregnant. Dean has been waiting to see Sam’s reaction and he couldn’t be happier. He’s moved out of their place a month ago and is now living in a rather crappy apartment but he’s always over at their house anyway.

I’m gonna be an uncle, Cas.

It feels weird but Sam is so happy. Sam hugs him and Dean makes sure to tell him that he’s gonna be a great Dad. Of course, Dean is going to be a greater Uncle, no two questions about it. Eileen laughs at them and it feels good to have a family. Miracle barks and Dean laughs to include the dog in the hug.

Cas would be proud of him. Dean has a job. It’s not a great job, but it’s a job outside the life. In time, he’ll make friends, too.

 “He kissed you?” Sam asks three months later and Dean nods.

“What was it like?”

Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t know. David had been flirting with him for about two months now and Dean wants to explore this side of him, it’s just – it’s just difficult. He feels as if he’s done a disservice to Cas.

“It wasn’t Cas,” he says and Sam nods.

“I know, Dean, but – Cas is gone. Don’t you think he’d want you to be happy?”

Of course Cas would want that. Cas would want Dean to get a partner. Cas would want someone in Dean’s life that would do everything the angel had never been able to do – but it still feels wrong. It’s not Cas. Maybe that will be the fault with everyone: they will never be Cas.

“Go on a date with him,” Sam says, “just to see what it’s like. If you don’t like it, then stop it, yeah? But give him a chance, at least. He’s not a creeper, right?”

No, David is nice. Under different circumstances, Dean might’ve even liked him.

“We’ll see,” Dean replies and they both know that nothing will come of it.

It’s not Cas.

 Eileen was eight months pregnant when Sam found a case. “Something’s killing monsters,” he says.

Normally, Dean wouldn’t be too concerned with this – monsters could kill other monsters for all he cared but this – whatever it was, it killed too many too quickly. It would make whole nests mad and then they’d beseech the town.

Dean doesn’t want Sam to go, not so shortly before the birth of his daughter but he can’t go alone, either. So they’re going to go together. If everything goes well, they don’t have to kill something. After all, whatever monster-killer is out there might not be aware of the impact of what they’re doing.

“Let’s go, then,” Dean says.

Eileen is upset about staying behind but she knows it’s better this way. “You look out for him,” she says to Dean and he laughs.

“With my life,” he promises.

 It feels good to take the Impala on a long stretch again. Miracle stayed behind with Eileen and it’s just him and his little brother on the road. It almost feels like the old times. They were rushing in to save the day, heroes once more.

Cas would be proud of them.

“Know anything about that monster-killer?”

“No,” Sam says. “But get this: all the killings happen in the same place, suggesting that it’s not moving around. In fact, it might even be that the other monsters seek it out for whatever reason so maybe it’s acting in self-defense?”

Dean just nods. That might be possible.

A long time ago, he believed that all monsters were evil. But he’d been wrong. They were also just trying to survive. If they were good, they got to live. And if they were bad, they got dead. If one would look at it from this angle, it wouldn’t be that complicated at all.

 It doesn’t take long to arrive at the scene. No humans have come to harm as of yet, so there’s no need to identify as the FBI again. They could just get in and get out.

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with,” Sam warns him and Dean nods. He’s not suicidal. He has his gun and he also has his angel blade. He’d be fine. Castiel’s coat is in the trunk. Dean took it with him wherever he went. He would never be too old for a comfort blanket.

It’s a barn. Somehow, Dean was expecting this. He looks around. There are no monsters than he can hear so he hopes that they’ve come at a good time. The trees though – they look odd. They are all bended outwards as if a bomb had dropped.

“Where are the bodies?”

“Maybe whoever is killing them gets rid of them after?”

Sam shrugs, and Dean mimics him. It doesn’t really matter, either.

“Stay behind me,” Dean says and Sam scoffs. He steps up next to Dean and looks at him.

“Together,” he says and Dean smiles.

 They don’t get attacked when they enter. Maybe they’re not a threat to that thing. The barn has numerous holes in the ceiling so at least a little light is shining through. They cautiously walk further in. Dean is expecting an attack any second and the longer time goes on, the more anxious he gets. He just doesn’t want the monster to jump out of the dark and attack Sam. What would he tell Eileen? Dean is still crap at Sign Language.

There is a loud, and yet muffled sound and Dean points his gun at it. He looks over to Sam who just nods and Dean takes the lead. There. He can see it, nestled against the wall. It’s a blob that looks vaguely human-shaped. Its hand is outstretched but the arm is shaking and the thing looks like it’s covered in goo.

Dean lowers his gun. Whatever it is, it’s afraid. Sam steps up next to him, also putting his gun away.

“Hey,” Sam starts in a soft tone and the thing flinches, “we’re not here to hurt you.”

The hand stays outstretched for a moment but then the arm gets lowered. The poor thing is shaking.

“My name is Sam,” the thing moves a little, “and I’m here with my brother Dean.”

There is a low keening noise and Dean doesn’t know what to make of it.

“We want to help you, if we can.”

The thing falls forward on all fours and drags itself closer to them. Whatever the goo is, it clings tightly to the body and Dean feels sorry for whatever’s underneath. The thing has to stop every few inches, clearly exhausted. Dean feels for whatever it is. It starts punching its hand into the ground and Dean realises that it’s writing something down.

Where, it says.

“You’re in Kansas,” he replies and the thing turns in his direction. It shakes and Dean thinks it’s just about to collapse. How long has it been here, weighed down by this goo? How long has it waited for someone like Sam and Dean to show up?

“Hey,” he says a little softer. “We’re going to get that stuff off of you and then we can talk, like civilised people, yeah?”

The thing’s head droops a little and Dean finds it very endearing. It looks almost like a head tilt. “Okay, so,” he starts but then there are noises outside. Dean realises instantly that more monsters have come.

“Sammy,” he hisses but Sam is already in position. Dean stays close to Goo who’s heaving a little. Dean doesn’t understand why he wants to protect Goo but he finds he simply has to.

Seven guys trot in and Dean guesses that they might be Vampires. Damn, he’s packed the wrong bullets. Still, shooting them would slow them down for a moment so that he could stab them with the knife. It’s easy to slip back into the Killer Dean Winchester and he hates it. What would Cas have to say about all this?

“Ah, the Winchesters! I had believed you had retired. So sad to see I was wrong. But no worry – me and my friends will gladly help you along!”

Damn he hates vampires. They just fucking suck.

“Oh yeah? So how about you eat... this...”

They just exploded. In front of his eyes, they just exploded in a flash of light and Dean looks down at Goo. His hand his outstretched, just like before and something coils in Dean’s stomach. It couldn’t be. No, that’s just ridiculous.

Sam’s looking over at them too but Dean pays him no mind because – because Goo just slumps to the ground and Dean’s heart sinks. No. No no no no no no. Please don’t. He drops his gun and falls to the floor, grabbing Goo and lifting him up. He doesn’t care that he gets the ugly sticky stuff all over himself.

“Cas,” he whispers but Goo doesn’t reply. “Please, please. Cas, please.”

  With Sam’s help, they get Goo into the car. In the back of his head, Dean isn’t looking forward to having to clean Baby from this stuff but he doesn’t really mind. If this is Cas – it has to be, it has to be – he doesn’t care at all. He slides in the backseat and Sam drives towards the nearest motel. Dean shrugs off his jacket and puts it around Goo’s shoulders, hoping to at least fool the majority of people into thinking that this was just another normal person. And if they didn’t – well they are very welcome to lick his boots.

Sam walks into the reception area of this Motel 5 and Dean tries to wake up Goo again but he’s still out like a light.

“Cas,” he says. “Cas, I’ve missed you so much. Please. Please, be real.”

His voice doesn’t sound like his own.

 Together, they drag Goo into their room. Without stopping, they immediately continue on into the bathroom. There’s no tub, sadly – Sam had inquired – so the shower would have to do. They shove Goo inside and turn the warm water on. Dean doesn’t want to use cold water. Cas doesn’t deserve cold water.

“It doesn’t come off,” Dean says and Sam clenches his jaw. Why isn’t it coming off? Dean’s breath starts to pick up until Sam puts his hand on his shoulder.

“Breathe,” he reminds his brother and so Dean takes a deep breath. He nods and Sam turns the water off. The get Goo back out of the shower and haul him into the main room. They lay him upon a bed and Dean sits next to him. Sam gets on his phone, presumably to call Eileen and let her know what’s up.

“Cas,” Dean says quietly. “Please. If it’s you, then please – please give me a sign.”

There is nothing and Dean loses hope. But then he sees a small light flicker in the middle of Goo and Dean’s desperate enough to take it.

“Cas,” he says again and puts his hand on Goo’s face. “I’m here, baby. Tell me how to help you. Please. I need you back, Cas. I can’t – I’ve tried. Cas, I’ve tried to do it without you and I’m fine, y’know but it’s not – it’s not enough, y’know?

There’s this guy. David. He’s nice, yeah? He kissed me a few months ago and – I don’t know. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t – it wasn’t you. But I wanted to try. You’d want me to be happy, to find a partner that’ll love me and – I wanted to try. So I asked him out, Cas. He’s a nice guy. He makes jokes and he likes Baby and he likes Pizza and he even indulges me on my cowboy fetish. Remember when I made you wear that hat? Those were good times, Cas. Anyway, I – we, we had, uh... we had sex. It was just one time, but well, it – I don’t know. It wasn’t bad, I think – I don’t really know, I’ve never done it before, but – it was alright. It was just okay and I’ve told him as much and he looked at me and said you’re still in love with someone else and fuck, Cas, he’s right. I tried to use David as this filler, to try and get over you before I was ready and I –

Fuck, Cas. I love you. I can’t get over you; how do I even start? I think about you every day. Did you hear my prayers? I’ve never stopped. I thought, that maybe, if I pray enough, that you’d hear me someday.”

Dean leans forward and presses his forehead against Goo. It feels gross, but this is Cas.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough last time. I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to bring you back. You deserve more than me and I’ll never understand why your dumb ass fell in love with me. Jack became God, y’know? You were right about him. I’m just – I’m so sad you’ll never get to experience the world now. You should’ve gotten the chance to say good-bye to him and I... I...

Cas, please. Come back to me.

I – I know I can live without you. It’ll be empty and cold and sad, but I could. The point is, Cas, I don’t want to. I don’t want to live somewhere where you do not. Even if we can’t go back to the way things were, I need to know – I need to know that you’re alive.

What’s Heaven without its best angel?

What’s the Righteous Man without his saviour?

...

Cas, please. I don’t... I don’t have any other words.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I want to tell you.

I want to hold your hand and I want to kiss your hair and I want to be gross with you and I...

I just want you.

I just...

Please. Cas. Please...”

His throat hurts, and he cries.

*

At night, Dean lies next to Goo. He’s holding Goo’s hand as much as he can and he sleeps. He’s never got to sleep in the same bed as Cas before. He wishes that they would’ve had more opportunities before but it was too late now.

I’ll watch over you.

Dean wishes he could’ve watched over Castiel at least one time.

 Dean wakes by someone shaking him rapidly. He doesn’t want to wake up. Miracle can walk herself. He’s dreaming about Cas walking in a field. He doesn’t want to leave the dream. But the shaking doesn’t stop. So he rolls on his back and blinks angrily at whoever woke him. Sam.

Of course it’s fucking Sam.

“Dean,” he breathes and he there’s this look in his eyes. He’s looking next to Dean and so Dean turns his head and –

“Cas,” he whispers.

Goo is gone and all that’s left is Cas.

Dean cries.

He can’t stop. He doesn’t even try.

 Cas doesn’t really respond to anything when he wakes up. But Dean doesn’t care. Cas is here. Cas is alive. He’s slapped himself several times just to make sure that he was really awake. It’s hard to pry Dean away from Cas even just for a minute.

Sam is worried that Cas is so unresponsive to anything and on some level, Dean is too, but at the moment, he doesn’t care.

“Cas,” is the only thing Dean is really capable of saying and every time he does, he feels like Cas’ eyes snap in his direction at least a little. That’s good, right? That’s some sort of response and that’s good. They’ll figure it out. They always do. Team Free Will was together again and they could tackle everything.

One day after Goo turned into Cas, they made the drive back home. Dean lets Sam drive so that he can stay in the backseat with Cas. It feels so good to have his angel leaning against him. Dean had detested it, but they’ve done a test: they’ve cut Cas with the angel blade and there had been grace shimmering beneath the surface.

On the way home, Dean murmurs to Cas constantly and he wants to believe that the angel can understand him. And even if he can’t – he just wants to talk to Cas. He can’t even count the days since he’s last been so happy.

“I love you,” he whispers again and again and maybe, just maybe, Cas moves his head every time he says it.

 They decide that Cas would stay at Dean’s apartment. Sam had been debating if Cas shouldn’t maybe stay with him and Eileen – after all they had a whole house. But they’d be having a baby pretty soon. Dean was able to devote himself to Cas entirely. And most importantly, Dean doesn’t want to stay away from Cas for any amount of time. He’s utterly convinced that Cas reacted to his voice in the car. Yes, maybe it had been just a coincidence but Dean needs to believe that there is more to it. Cas loves him. He loves Cas.

“Just be careful, Dean,” Sam had said while Dean clutched Cas to his chest. “If anything happens, call me.”

Dean had nodded and ascended the stairs.

Castiel is lying on his couch for most of the day. Dean wants to believe that Cas watches him. He enjoys this – being watched by Cas. It had been too long. He couldn’t stop smiling because he’s happy.

Cas is alive. Cas is here.

It’s like a dream come true.

At night, Cas lies in bed next to him and Dean presses soft kisses against his temple. He doesn’t dare do more and he’s content like this. He holds Castiel’s hand the entire night and if he wishes hard enough he can imagine that Castiel squeezes his hand back.

 “Dean,” Castiel says and Dean cries.

Castiel doesn’t speak again but Dean can’t stop crying.

 “Sam just called,” Dean informs Cas who is lying on the couch. Cas’ eyes flicker to him, half-understanding. “Eileen just went into labour. I wanna go there, Cas, I wanna meet my niece. Do you... do you want to come?”

He’s not expecting a response. He always wants one, but he never expects it.

“I,” Castiel says and his voice is terribly hoarse but Dean drops the phone nonetheless.

��Want,” Castiel keeps on saying before he hacks up an ugly cough. Dean cries and rushes over to him.

Cas looks at him with tired eyes, but he sees him, he looks at him, he’s here –

“Anything you want, baby,” Dean whispers. “Anything you want.”

 The nurses tell Dean that Sam and Eileen are inside but that he’s not allowed to go in. They were nice enough to give him a wheelchair for Cas – as much as Dean loves to pretend he’s a strong macho man, Cas is still six feet tall and really fucking heavy.

“They’re just inside there,” Dean says to Cas who’s looking at the floor. “Sam’s gonna be a dad.”

He can scarcely believe it himself. Sammy’s going to be a dad.

“Father,” Castiel says and Dean smiles. This is good. This is so good. Castiel can hear him and he can even respond.

“I’m so proud of you, Cas.”

Castiel looks at him with his big, blue, unblinking eyes. He frowns. Fuck, Dean had missed him so much.

“Jack,” he says and tries to look around.

“He’s God now, Cas. It’s like you always said – he’s destined for great things.”

Cas looks a bit upset.

“Goodbye,” he rasps and his eyes become frantic. “Where,” he says and starts coughing.

Oh god, no no no no. Cas is coughing up the same black goo he had been covered with.

“Cas, Cas, baby, please,” Dean whines.

Cas’ whole body shakes and Dean can tell that he’s trying to reign the coughs in. His good, pure, strong angel. Cas looks up at Dean, heaving heavily with tears in his eyes.

Dean presses kisses on his face – his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his chin.

“So good. You’re so good. We’ll fix this. I promise. We’ll fix this, together. I’m not letting you go. I’m never letting you go again, Cas.”

“Dean,” Cas says quietly and slumps against him. Dean can feel him breathing and he wraps his arms around him.

“I love you,” Dean says and Cas presses his forehead against Dean’s neck.

*

It takes ten hours, but then Dean officially becomes an uncle. Castiel had been asleep for a good amount of time, but at least he hasn’t coughed again. Of course, Dean is a bit worried about the sleeping but he’ll figure that out. All that matters is that he’s got Cas by his side and that he’s now got a little baby girl to spoil.

Once he gets the clear, he rolls Cas into the room and Sam and Eileen both look tired but also so, so happy. They light up even more when they see Cas.

“Cas,” Sam says and smiles at him. Cas looks up at Sam and blinks slowly.

“Sam,” he replies hoarsely.

Sam looks to Dean in utter disbelief and Dean can just smile. “Show us the baby, yeah?”

Eileen moves the blanket aside a bit so that they can take a look at the little bundle of joy. Her face is all scrunched up and she’s just adorable.

“Sammy, are you sure she’s really your daughter?”

Sam shoves him playfully. “You’re such a dick.”

“Baby,” Cas says and Eileen smiles at him.

“Do you want to hold her?”

It doesn’t seem like Cas understands at first, but then he nods. He raises his arms and Eileen places her daughter in them without a second thought. Both Sam and Dean are ready to interfere in case Cas’ arms would not be steady enough to hold the baby but it turns out they needn’t have worried.

“Hello,” Cas says to the child who wiggles a bit in his arms.

“Her name’s Maria,” Sam supplies and Castiel slowly nods.

“Maria,” he says. He slowly puts a finger on her tiny nose. His finger glows and Dean worries. What’s going on?

Cas looks at Eileen but he doesn’t move to give the baby back. Eileen just looks at him, then she slowly nods and smiles. She signs something and Cas turns his head to Sam.

“Fix,” he says. “Heart.”

“She... she has a heart problem?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Not... not anymore. I. I fix. I. Take. I...,” he closes his eyes in strain. “It’s gone now. They. Would. They would not have. Noticed. It’s small. But I. I took it.” His voice sounds like it pains him greatly. He slumps in his chair a bit but holds Maria tight.

“Dean,” he says and Dean’s by his side in a flash. “I want. I want to see Jack.”

 *

 When they are back at home, Dean prays to Jack. Cas fell asleep in the car as soon as they started driving back home and he hasn’t woken up since. But he also hasn’t coughed again which is probably a good sign.

“Hey, Jack,” Dean says, looking out the window. He’s put Cas into bed and is sitting next to him. The soft breathing behind him calms Dean and he wouldn’t move away from it for the world.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but we got Cas back. I don’t know how, if you were involved or not and if you can even hear me, but – he’s back, Jack. Cas is back.”

It still sounds like a dream.

“And he – Jack, he wants to see you. He didn’t get to say good-bye, y’know? He really misses you and, Jack, he’s – he’s sick or something. We found him covered in some black goo – you know, it kinda looked the Empty Goo thing, but I don’t – the goo is gone now, but he’s weak and he was coughing that stuff up earlier today and – I just... Jack, please come here. Fix him? He deserves it, yeah? So... just please, when you have a moment off from being God, could you... just pop in?”

Dean isn’t expecting Jack to instantly appear in the room, but – he somehow is. He sighs and turns around to Castiel fully. He’s sleeping peacefully and Dean smiles. He takes Cas’ hand and softly strokes the skin.

Miracle miracles herself into the bedroom and sniffs at Cas extensively. Cas doesn’t react to her but Dean smiles at the dog. He isn’t even sure if Cas knows that there’s a dog here. Miracle clearly doesn’t know what to make of the strange new man yet and Dean can’t blame her.

“I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you, girl,” he says and Miracle huffs. She looks at him expectantly. Dean laughs.

“But this is Cas, yeah? They guy I told you about. The guy that died? I’m sorry, girl. I’ll make it up to you when he’s better. And he’s getting better, he just needs a little more time, yeah? So... how about you help? If we both shower him with love, then he’ll get back on his feet even quicker, yeah? And then all three of us can go on a walk together.”

At the word “walk”, Miracle perked up and started wagging her tail. She then proceeds to climb up on the bed and snuggle up to Cas as if she had actually understood Dean. And he has a pretty good feeling that she actually had. Dean laughed and lays down himself, intertwining his fingers with Cas. His niece had just been born, Cas had been incredibly responsive today and everything would work out.

They just need a little more time.

A little more time, and then all of them could sit a table together, enjoying a family dinner.

[falcqns]

an apostles redemption

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Grace Walker)

Chapter Summary:

Warnings: fluff, swearing, family angst, mention of nuclear weapons and firearms, facial injury

A/N: This is a story I’ve started on Wattpad, but Know there are many more August Walker fans on here so I thought I’d post it here too! Hope you enjoy!

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three |

Maleficent Scars 

"There cannot be peace without first great suffering. The greater the suffering, the greater the peace. As mankind is drawn to his self-destruction like a moth to the candle, the so-called defenders of peace – the church, the government, the law – work tirelessly to save humanity from itself. But, by averting disaster, they serve to delay a peace that can only come through an inevitable baptism of fire.

The suffering I bring you is not the beginning of the end. It is the beginning of a greater mutual understanding through common suffering. It is the first step towards the ultimate brotherhood of man. The suffering I bring you is the bridge to ultimate peace.

Today, mankind has been handed the opportunity to escape his destiny, an otherwise inevitable conclusion to a thousand years of intolerance and fear.

I call all rationalists who can stand and join in the struggle against the radical theists, all of which fall beneath a common umbrella of ideology. If we were to continue any further we would reach mythology and Aesop's fables. When do we stop?

Any belief in a spirituality with no other proof, other than the cravings to project one's self over the rational thinking of the others must be eradicated as it does not only halt progression and development of the human mind and reach, but also hinders it.

Here I will emphasize clearly that the judgment upheld against us will be one of human hands, not of a god or other worldly being. Part of the absurd rational is what leads to the obscure justifications, the believers place upon their own disgraceful and belligerent behavior.

Here I will emphasize clearly that the judgment upheld against us will be one of human hands, not of a god or other worldly being. Part of the absurd rational is what leads to the obscure justifications, the believers place upon their own disgraceful and belligerent behavior.

No. The loss of human life cannot and will not be justified. For this is not the taking of human lives. They are merely puppets, hollow shells that were once human beings. Brainwashed by stories and tales of old, their weak minds have been overpowered by the pressure placed on them by other lifeless puppets. And so, the cycle continues."

Those words were all that have echoed through 20 year old Grace Walker's mind as she attempted to fall asleep in the large bed. Less than 24 hours earlier, she had found out that her husband and CIA agent, August Walker, had attempted to eradicate 1/3 of the worlds population, using two nuclear bombs.

To say that she was shocked would be an understatement. Everything that her sister Julia and her ex husband Ethan Hunt had told her was right, he was a completely different person. He was not the person she fell in love with.

To her, Auggie was her whole world. He was warm, loving, comforting. He always spoke to her softly, with pure love in his voice. He did everything in his power to ensure her happiness and safety. He had bought them a house in Washington, which had the best security systems he could find. He had taught and trained her in hand to hand combat, and how to use a gun in self defence.  He had built her a vanity in their bathroom, a breakfast booth, and a floor - to - ceiling bookshelf in their living room. He had proposed to her on her birthday, in France, in front of the Eiffel Tower. They had adopted the sweetest dog ever, and American Akita named Kal, together.

To her, that was not the same man who the world was talking about. That was not the man who used the CIA, killed Hunley, and attempted to kill Ethan and her sister Julia.  She felt tears prick her eyes, as Kal cuddled closer to her in the bed. Grace rolled over, and wrapped an arm around him, and finally drifted off to sleep, Kal's hair tickling her cheek.

She was awoken at 3:42 am by the television across the room from her pinging, which alerted her that the front gates had been opened.  She shot up from bed, barely disturbing the large sleeping dog. She raced over to the closet and grabbed the gun that laid in a shoebox, in the locked safe.

' Back to the wall. Finger on the trigger. Small footsteps. Identify your target. Point and shoot.' August's voice echoed in her head. She descended the large staircase that lead into the kitchen. She heard the front door open, and slipped quickly from the kitchen, through the living room, and pressed her back to the wall next to the doorway that led to the entry way of the house.

The door to the living room opened, and Grace immediately cocked her gun, and pointed it at the tall, dark intruder.

"Who are you, and what do you want." Grace said, as she attempted to hide the fear in her voice.

The figure turned around, with their hands in the air. "Angel, it's just me." Grace was shocked to hear Augusts low voice.

She flicked on the light switch next to her head, and stumbled backwards. August was alive, but injured. He had burn tissue on his right side of his face. He also had a average sized scar on his forehead, that was stitched up, but still looked red and angry, like it had been done badly.

Grace dropped the gun, and jumped into his arms, as all thoughts about what he had done barely 48 hours ago left her mind.

"What the hell happened, Auggie?" She whispered into his shoulder. His hand came under her butt, and he lifted her up to wrap her legs around his waist. He walked over to the couch, and sat them down. He ran his fingers up and down her spine to calm her down. A few moments later, Grace lifted her head to look at August.

"Why did you do that, August?" August cringed inwardly at the use of his full name, which Grace only used when he was in trouble.

"I thought I was doing the right thing, baby. I realized as I was laying in a cave, hiding from Sloane, that I was on the wrong side. I realized nothing is worth leaving you alone. I realize if you can never forgive me for what I did, but I want to be better. I hope you can at least help me." he said in a truly sorrowful voice.

Grace stood up. "I don't think I can forgive you, at least not right now." She said, standing in front of him. August sat up straighter, and placed a shaking hand on the back of her thigh.

"I understand, baby, I do. I want to be better, but I need your help. Please," He said, a tear streaking down his face, and hitting the burn tissue. He cried out in pain, and Grace immediately looked down.

"Auggie, what is it?" She said, as he tried to wipe the tear, but just causing himself more pain. She noticed his pain, and helped him stand up. She led him into the kitchen and sat him on a bar stool.

Her sister Julia had taught her how to stitch up her own wounds when she was younger, a few months before she married Ethan. Both her sisters Julia and Melissa, as well as their mother wanted her to be a nurse like Julia, but Grace wanted to be an Early Childhood Educator . She had just finished college and was working in a daycare that she loved. But, she knew quite a bit about the medical field.

She brought out the professional first aid kit that bother her and Julia had received from their brother Rick a few years prior, and she always kept it stocked. She fished through it until she found burn ointment, and her stitching equipment. She sterilized her hands and put her gloves on, before turning to August. She put the burn ointment on his burn, and began to take out his badly sewn stitches.

"Jesus, Auggie, who stitched you up?" She asked, as he yelped while she pulled them out.

"I did," He said. "I tried to remember how you do it, but I couldn't remember clearly because of the pain. Are they bad?" He asked.

"I mean, they kept your face together so they're not horrible, but they could be better. I'll have to teach you how to do it properly." She whispered. "How much pain is the right side of your face in, on a scale of one to ten?" She asked, as she attempted to determine wether or not he needed professional burn treatment.

"It only hurts when liquid touches it. I managed to get out of the stream quick, and cleaned the remaining fuel off my face as soon as I could. Do you think it will scar?" He asked, as he gripped his leg.

"It probably will, a little. I don't think it will be bad though. You're still incredibly handsome to me," Grace whispered, attempting to make him smile. As much as she was angry with him, she still loved him, and wanted to protect him. He smiled up at her as she finished off the stitched, and bandaged his forehead.

She looked down at him, and pressed a small kiss to his lips, before she lowered her head to his shoulder. His arms came to rest around her waist.

"I know you're mad at me, but I love you with my whole heart, and will do anything to be better."

Grace lifted her head up, and looked in his eyes. "I know, and I love you too. I'm not as mad I would have been if you had gone through with it, but I'm still mad. I am willing to help you get better, because I know you are capable of getting better. Let's go to bed for now though, I'm sure Kal misses you too."

August stood up and followed her to their shared bedroom, not removing his hand from her waist.

As he laid in bed, with Grace in his arms, and Kal curled up at his feet, he knew he'd do anything to get better.

[basilone]

We travel from one sandbox to another and meet, well, somewhere in the middle? The very lovely @mercurygray has been kind enough to let me spend a little time with her creations, and I dearly hope I haven’t fucked things up now. ;) The following was born of my response to her question about which members of her Girl Gang would be god-chosen in my universe, as the thought of a scene between Billie and Ron Speirs would not exactly leave my head afterward. This is self-indulgent to a fault, but we did agree these two would be great in a fight.. 

the divine knife’s edge

The worst part of war is waiting. Waiting for orders, waiting for permission, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for command to start making sense, waiting for the day officers stop panicking and start fighting, waiting for anything and everything. It’s enough to make anyone wonder if death, once invited to roam among them, would make them wait too.

Billie Mitchell huffs out an impatient breath. Stomps her boots on the ground once, twice, in a rather vain attempt to sort out that feeling of her socks not sitting quite right on her feet. England’s early morning air kisses her cheeks with a bite of ice still lodged in its touch. She smiles a moment. Calls up the feeling of the Philly air in early spring, just as frosty as this.

Walking around camp at this hour is often a treat. There’s no need to swerve around, jump over, or otherwise expertly avoid items and people. They’re on a week’s mission in the countryside, somehow, with boredom and the need for purpose both vying for the Army’s attention. It’s been an utter drag so far, and for once she cannot place the whole of the blame on captain Sobel. Mornings like these are the lone moment when the world still feels right.

Or, well, they used to be.

She stops dead in her tracks as she rounds the corner of one of the larger tents and comes face to face with a dance like nothing she’s ever been taught.

It’s the lieutenant from Dog Company. Speirs, her brain supplies helpfully. His name’s Speirs. She shakes her head as she remembers the straight-backed, coiled-too-tight lieutenant who beat Sobel in the Olympics games without ever breaking a sweat. There’d been something of a fever in his eyes then, though, one that had made Joan frown and Marjorie worry, and watching him now makes her insides lurch.

He’s not alone.

Weaving, darting, bending around him are shadows. Shadows that meet the flash of blades in his hands, moving so quickly that the glint of steel becomes flashes of lightning against the overwhelming dark. Shadows that cling to another person, who might very well not be called a person at all. Shadows that strike him, fling him aside carelessly, wait for him to get back to his feet only to punch him straight onto his back again.

She watches, mesmerized, as the lieutenant locks his blades with the woman’s arms and draws blood that is gone as quickly as it came. Watches, with the heat of terror stuck between her shoulders, as the sharp edges keep finding the woman’s body to draw death and destruction upon it. Speirs draws a map of hurt onto immortal skin and is met with languid, encouraging laughter.

“Again, honey,” she hears, sing-song keyed into that strange woman’s voice, “but lower and sharper. The blade must twist on entry.”

A gasp escapes her as Speirs’s blade swivels, turns, twists its way into the woman’s belly.

Speirs, all glittering eyes and with a snarl twisting his features, turns to look at her. The woman, flashing a smile his way for reasons Billie cannot possibly fathom, turns her head moments after.

“Well, shit,” she groans. Sighs when the lieutenant withdraws his blade and doesn’t look like he’s going to stop focusing on her. “Fuck.”

Billie recoils involuntarily as she locks eyes with the woman. Too-dark eyes look her up and down a moment, weighing something Billie doesn’t want to dare identify, before another smile quirks upward on that pale face. Something akin to recognition flashes across beautiful, too-perfect features. The smile turns sharp, pointed, amused in a way that makes Billie’s belly hurt.

The smile is all teeth and hunger.

“I’m sorry,” says Billie, mentally cataloging all the different paths with which she can wriggle her way out of danger, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” When in doubt, stay unflinchingly polite. She’s learned that lesson at her mother’s knee, even when the rest of those lessons are lost to stubbornness and resentment. But Billie is still Billie, and desire pours forth from her mouth before she has a chance to bite it back. “It’s just.. It looked so good. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Took Ron years to learn,” says the woman, and it’s only the slight nod she directs at lieutenant Speirs that lets Billie know Speirs and ‘Ron’ are one and the same. Her voice is more melodic than Billie expected. Dark, low tones mingle with a lilt that almost sounds like song. “Blades are easier than guns, sometimes. Good to carry.”

“They don’t teach us how to use them much, here. It’s mostly guns.”

The woman hums. Her eyes are sharp, like the blades her chosen carries. “Would you like to learn, sweetheart?”

“I’m not fighting you.” Billie shuts that down right quick, or so she thinks. She might be brave and a little careless, quick to fight and quick to rebel, but she’s not stupid. “You’re a god. I’m not even chosen. That’s not happening.”

“Not chosen?” Lieutenant Speirs’s eyebrow raises just like his god’s does. “Could’ve sworn.. No matter. It’s Mitchell, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Billie,” she supplies helpfully, knowing full well the man’s not likely to use that. “Non-chosen, unless there’s something a god’s not telling me.”

“There’s a great many things they don’t tell.”

“Hey,” says the woman, nudging his side, “I tell you plenty.”

Billie blinks as Speirs actually rolls his eyes skyward. There’s something entirely irreverent about the way they interact, all familiarity in their glances and touches, that she hasn’t even seen between Nixon and his god. Even Molly’s god, though tightly woven around her speech, doesn’t seem as indulgent toward their charge as the god that stands before her now. There is a bit of a wordless debate at play before her that’s even more impressive than her mother’s judgmental looks.

“Would you like to learn, Mitchell?” asks Speirs, then, as the argument silently resolves. “From me, not her.”

“What, that?” She very nearly smiles. Very nearly becomes all teeth and hunt just like the god Speirs so clearly adores, as if she cannot wait to plunge into the depth of such mayhem herself. “What’s the use, sir?”

“Come here. You know how to work with needles, yes?”

“Sewing or stitching someone up? Never cared for the former,” she says, a little too breezily as she remembers too many stone-faced silences thrown her way, “but I can do the latter.”

“The blade’s a lot like that.” Speirs’s voice is calm as he holds out one of his own knives. “A needle’s always attached to a string. With knives like these, the string is your body.” His hand locks around hers. Presses the hilt into her palm, adjusts her fingers, keeps speaking in that matter-of-fact voice she’s never heard from anyone in her own company bar Chuck Grant. “Your body, in battle, is never a statue. Always moving. The blade moves with you. If you let it loose, you must catch it.”

“And if I don’t catch it?”

“Then you’re thinking too much, feeling too little.” Speirs’s god leans against the stacked crates and shrugs. “Battle’s about the feeling.”

“That’s not what captain Sobel tells us,” mutters Billie, loud enough for both to hear.

“Trust the tactics. Trust your instincts more. Move when you need to. Use your head, but don’t get stuck in it.”

“I’m never stuck in my head,” says Billie, using the blade to weave a pattern against the rising sun’s rays. She shrugs as she meets the lieutenant’s eyes. “I’m never stuck, period. Always moving.”

Away from home. Away from duty that isn’t mine. Away from expectations.

“Then you’ll learn,” he says, and slashes his own blade upward against hers.

He’s slowed down on purpose. Allows her to find her feet as she stumbles and then recovers with her borrowed blade jabbing out sharply. Indulges her as she eyes him, picking out any chinks in his carefully drawn-up armor. He favors his right ever so slightly, so she lunges toward the left. Isn’t surprised to hear the laughter of his god as he narrowly side-steps her.

“Putain,” she winces, English momentarily forgotten, when he retaliates in arches and jabs that see her driven backward.

“Language, Mitchell,” smirks Speirs.

She grits her teeth. Oh, she’s going to knock him on his ass or die trying all right. She weighs the knife experimentally. Tosses it into her left hand, lashes out at him with her right fist, lunges for him with an outstretched foot and a snarl. Left, right, left, easy as breathing, easy as running Currahee, easy as those damn waltzing lessons she tries to forget every day of her life.

Billie winds up on the floor half a dozen times before she manages to land a smack of the knife’s hilt against his chest and twists the blade toward him before he can pull away. She finds herself picking up the pace, picking up on the spaces he leaves for her in this fight, picking her moments even as he teaches by delivering bruises to her arms and legs. He narrowly avoids having his lip split by one of her crazier ideas, while she is left bemoaning her life choices as the air is knocked from her lungs again.

She knows he indulges her. Knows that this fight would be over in less than a minute if he was really trying to hurt her. Knows she’d be dead if she was an enemy, but somehow Speirs has decided to side with her in this war. She’s glad for it, now, even when he teaches in half-sentences and invites his god to comment with observations that don’t mean anything to Billie yet. She’s glad to know there’s someone whose fight makes sense to her body, whose movements are logic and feeling wrapped up as one, who doesn’t see her as anything other than a potential weapon to win a fight with.

When she laughs, finally, now that the sun dances through his god’s midnight-toned hair and the camp begins to awaken around them, he withdraws the blade and the battle as quickly as it came. He nods at her as they stand and breathe in the English cold.

“Same time tomorrow, Mitchell.”

“Is that an order, sir?” she asks reflexively, too trained and too polite by far. She bites her tongue. Deliberates. Shifts back and forth on her feet when his unblinking eyes remain unreadable to her. “I mean, you must have better things to do.”

“Better than teaching you to dance, Mitchell?” The tone is light. Too light. Too careful, too, and she recognizes the firm hand of his god in what he says and omits. “I can think of nothing better with which to spend this waiting game. Don’t be late.”

Billie, much later in the war, will swear up and down that Speirs is at his most dangerous when he smiles. Today, she merely stares after his retreating form. His god follows in his wake. All the shadows in the land move with them.

She shivers.

[queerfables]

Supernatural Liveblog (1x09 - 1x11)

Nothing in 1x09, but some mild wincest references in 1x10 and 1x11. Also at least one reference to me being thirsty for Dean in kinky situations. 

1x09 - Home

While the lady goes down to the basement, N speculates on what it would be like to find a horse down there living on rats. This leads to a heated discussion about whether or not anything can digest rocks. N & I are distracted and miss the significance of the house - P has to tell us it's the Winchesters' old place. Thank goodness one of us wasn't thinking about horses.

Dean freaking out about not wanting to go home. P: I'm so proud of him, he's having a whole emotion Me: admittedly, the emotion is, “I’d like to repress everything please.” N: you have to start somewhere

Sam and Dean are both really clearly messed up over the fact that it's their old house involved and they're not really thinking clearly. N, P & I agree it's a solid story concept, we're impressed.

A plumber reaches into the garbage disposal and all three of us start screaming. For a moment it looks like he's going to keep his arm, he takes it out, but then he goes back in for round two and we’re yelling again and then it's all over. 

P says xe are not into the mystical black woman vibes that are going on with Missouri, but xe thrilled that she’s dragging Dean so viciously

I totally called it that the on fire spirit was their mom

I'm interested in Sam's witchy psychic power story

N, on John Winchester: "Ooh, I'm macho and needlessly vague. My emotional manipulation is really self sacrifice". 

N, still on John Winchester: First impressions are I hate him. P: Put that in your liveblog.

1x10 - Asylum

Between the episode title and the cold open set in an abandoned ~asylum, we're not off to a very good start. N keeps making snarky comments about ableism, and though they’re vaguely apologetic, they’re not actually sorry. "I'm just going to be incredibly scathing through this whole episode". P& I are on board

N: Why is there a biohazard symbol on that door. This is the WRONG TYPE OF HOSPITAL FOR THAT.

The police officer who went into the abandoned asylum goes home and shoots his wife. P: Well so he’s possessed then. Me: IDK, seems like pretty standard cop behaviour to me N: Supernatural said "Fuck cops" and it was right.

I wish Dean would listen to Sam and stop chasing his shitty dad. I feel bad for both of them, they deserve better ;_;

Sam poses as a patient to get info from a psychiatrist. He keeps asking questions instead of talking about himself until the psych calls him on it, and tells him to stop avoiding the question and say something real. "Like, say, this brother you're road tripping with. How do you feel about him?" Sam just stares at him. All of us burst out laughing. Me: That's a loaded question P: That's a loaded look!!

Back in the haunted asylum, the ghosts are getting way too close for comfort and Dean shoots them. P & N are very offended. “Maybe they just wanted a hug!” “Yeah, Dean, don’t be mean! Give the ghosts a hug.”

You wouldn’t believe it but that actually turns out to be a plot point.

They actually kind of subvert the evil mentally ill patients thing? I mean, it’s still pretty ableist but at least it framed the unethical doctor as the ultimate bad guy rather than the ~crazy people~

I love that the girl who was dragged on a ghost hunting expedition by her shitty boyfriend knows how to handle a gun and says that if they make it out alive they're so breaking up

The way the conflict between Sam and Dean plays out in this episode is really fun. I love when the monster of the week brings their actual interpersonal issues to the surface, like, this is literally the entire point of genre fiction as far as I’m concerned. Wacky situations and real emotions, sign me the fuck up. 

1x11 - Scarecrow

Oh no, Sam and Dean are fighting, and Sam is like “Fuck this, I’m gonna hitchhike.” Boys no!!

Excuse me, the blonde girl who’s hitchhiking alongside Sam is just gonna get into that car? I am ENRAGED that whoever wrote this thinks ANY WOMAN would get into a car with a guy who says "No, just her" when faced with a dude and a lady trying to hitch a ride. NOT A CHANCE. I’m going to find the man who wrote this and fight him. 

P wants everyone to know that Dean's car is very nice and xe are very glad it got to heaven

N & P are over identifying with the monsters. "He's just minding his own business, these guys are the ones trespassing!"

We're all yelling at Dean not to insult the scarecrow. We’re feeding him positive supportive lines he could use like, “Hey, Mr Scarecrow, what a good and important job you are doing here, you look very distinguished today” and the thing that comes out of his mouth is "Dude, you fugly." We are VERY UNIMPRESSED.

Dean talking about how much he misses Sam's puppy dog eyes sure is A Thing.

The phone call between Sam and Dean was very soft and good. Dean admits Sam is right to stand up to their dad!!! And says he admires him for it!!!

Me: Oh, I was really worried we wouldn't get to see Dean tied to a tree so I'm glad they delivered on that.

Oh hey she's THAT Meg. I guess I'd get into a car with a creepy dude too, if I knew I was gonna be the scariest thing in the vehicle. Okay, Supernatural, you win this round. 

[thethoughtsfromthreeam]

California

Pairing: Agent Whiskey/Jack Daniels x OC

Warnings: None

A/N:  Parts 11 and 12/13 run concurrently but from different points of view, so when you see Several Days Later, it’s all happening on the same day.  And at last murder answers!

Also, shout out to @mandoandyodito cause their reaction gifs have been killing me over the last week.

Reminder: I haven’t seen Kingsman: The Golden Circle, so I’m just using the Wikia, IMDB.com, some gifs, and my own weird ass brain to make up this whole ass story.

Tag List:  @zeldasayer , @romanticgumchewer, @tarrevizslas , @coolmaybelateruniverse , @the-feckless-wonder, @lavenderl3mons , @pascalisthepunkest , @mandoandyodito​ , @randomness501 [please message me to be added or subtracted]

[PART 1]  [PART 2]  [PART 3]  [PART 4]  [PART 5] [PART 6]  [PART 7]  [PART 8]  [PART 9]  [PART 10]

Chapter 11 

Final Pieces

She stayed like that until she watched the life fade from his eyes and his body stilled.  He was dead and it was done.  When she was sure of it, she got up and turned back to Jack.  He was staring at her with a dazed look in his eyes.  Dropping the gun, she hurried over to him, falling to her knees between his legs. Her hands came up and gripped his face.

“Jack.” She whispered it so low that only he could hear it, fearing that he may not love her anymore.  Not after he watched her kill a man in cold blood.  She didn’t know if she could live without him in her world.  The elation that her pain was at an end abruptly left her at the idea of having nothing for her on the other side of it all.

“Marigold.”

She nearly missed it, but when the sound reached her ears, her eyes flew up and looked into his.  Behind the dazed look was love and admiration.  He didn’t hate her or fear her or whatever else her brain conjured up in those few moments.  No. 

 Jack loved her and he was proud as hell that this woman he loved so much saved her own self from the nightmare that nipped at her heels for five years.  He reached up and grasped her face before slamming his lips against hers.  Their kiss was a heady mix of desperation, admiration, and love.

In those moments, when Port was strangling him, Jack didn’t feel fear at his situation.  Instead, he felt deep despair that he’d may never see his Marigold again and that he was leaving her alone without him.  But now, all that dissipated as he felt his love for her coursing through his veins.

When they broke apart, both had tears in their eyes and wide smiles. She grabbed his wrists and held them. Their small moment was interrupted as Champ unleashed the agents.  Ginger and Tequila rushed over and dropped to their knees, wrapping their arms around the duo, and they collapsed into a laughing heap of limbs.  Ginger kissed Shirley on the cheek and cried.  Tequila grabbed her and held her close.

“Darling, I told you that you could shoot the pitcher.  Didn’t me and Whiskey train you right?”  His joking tone was roughed by his tears.  The four sat there for long moments holding onto each other as other agents came in and cleared the scene.  Champ turned to Merlin, who was standing next to him.

“Can you stay a little longer?  I’m going to need help with the West Coast crew when they get here and I’m a little ashamed to say, I don’t want to break up that party.”  He pointed at the crew with his thumb.  Merlin smiled while he nodded and walked out with Champ to debrief some HQ agents and prep for West Coast.

Snuggled in the arms of her friends, Shirley looked up and caught Jack staring at her, grinning stupidly.  Certainly, one that matched her own.  She mouthed something at him, and his smile got impossibly bigger.  He mouthed back to her.

“You and me and marigolds.  Always.”

---***---

Several Days Later

“The report came back, Ginger.  I think we got a hit on who Agent Port really was.”  Merlin walked over with the paper he printed off. Statesman Austin had sent over a file on a missing agent who went by code name Kirsch.  Ginger took the paper from him and looked at the picture.  She grimly looked up at Merlin, who nodded back.

When they read the report, much of it was redacted.  Ginger realized they needed the whole thing in order to tie up this case and close it once and for all.  She grabbed the phone on her desk and hit the button for Champ’s office.

“Champ, I need you to call Austin and tell them to send me the unredacted files for an Agent Kirsch.”  Ginger told him the picture looked exactly like the dead man in the morgue.  He put her on hold before dialing down to his Texas brethren.  After giving them a verbal beat down, he got back on the line with Ginger.

“Check in five minutes, it should be all there.  I swear to god, I’m going to fire that whole ass office myself once of these days.  I never liked Agent Rum, too damned arrogant for my liking.  And now his staff is starting to act that way.  I swear God is challenging me every time I gotta call them.” Champ ended his rant with a swig of bourbon.  “If it didn’t make me look like a complete asshole, I’d make ‘em put Mezcal in charge. Now that’s a damn agent worth something.” 

“Yes, Champ.”  Ginger smiled into the phone.  Something about this conversation felt like old times, before California.  To be happy a man is dead may seem crass, but she was elated.  The invisible cloud that hung over their little group was finally dissipating.   She hung up when Merlin signaled the arrival of the case file.

As the two skimmed the contents, Merlin whistled low under his breath. The unredacted files told the story of a man who loved pain.  Reports of him hurting fellow recruits in training, of causing physical harm in exercises, and plenty of them indicated that he was extremely violent towards suspects and even witnesses.  His entire history was a red flag and Austin ignored the whole thing.

Champ was right.  These guys were assholes.

---***---

Merlin threw the files up on the screen and together the two specialists worked to rethink their timeline.  At least thirty victims had been identified by Ginger, Tequila, and Chai over the years and ever since the microdrive came back into play a few months ago, over forty other possible names were given to HQ by other Statesmen offices.  Most of these were missing recruits, agents, and even retirees.

Ginger and Tequila took over the California case weeks after they returned to Kentucky.  With the limited information that Shirley had sent in, they slowly rebuilt the file load as best they could.  West Coast and Jackson Hole cooperated, but the work was slow.  It seemed that the killer could wait months between murders, and they were certain there were more victims out there.  

For over four years they pecked at the case when they could and when information came in, but it mostly stagnated until Shirley revealed the location of the microdrive.  That kicked the event into high gear, but they didn’t realize their dogged pursuit would bring the killer so close.

That drive also gave Ginger a personal win – she had suspected since the night they rescued Shirley that the person they were looking for was a Statesman and that he was keeping an eye on the case.  All the notes in Shirley’s internal report log drew the same conclusions, but she was stumped at how he was able to go undetected for so long given how wide his killing area seemed to be – all of California, Oregon, and Washington, as well as parts of Wyoming.  As active as a killer as he was, Statesmen were still bound by their jobs and would be tracked in the field.  But questions always have answers and they will come eventually.

---***---

“Oh my god. . .”  Chai sucked in her breath and looked up at Tequila.  “T, you need to look at this.”  He leaned over at the two files she was looking at and read them.  One was the death report of an agent from their Chicago office that went by the code name Pilsner.  The other was a report filed by Pilsner at the Jackson Hole office.  He looked at her – that first report was dated three months before the field report in her hands.

“Ging, I think we got something.” Chai called out.  Ginger looked over at her co-worker. “Pull every missing or dead agent, I need the list, I think I found how he was going undetected.”

With the tap of her fingers, fifteen faces popped up on the screen, including Pilsner and Port.  Neither looked like the man killed just days before.  Chai ran a search on the names and on her screens pulled up their field reports.  Tequila pointed out seven names besides the two they had found that filed field reports after they were reported dead.

Merlin moved back to his computer and pulled up the personnel files for every Statesman office.  Given the rather narrow naming scheme the offices use, it is not uncommon for several agents to take on the same code name in succession.  If the office was doing the work correctly, there will be a timeline of when the code name was in use.  He pulled the names he was looking for and the dates were cross referenced to the time frame they now built.

“Look at this.” Said Merlin.  “He was taking on the dead agents’ names after he killed them, but only if they were declared dead, but not in the line of duty, which would then alert other Statesman offices of the change.  If the name wasn’t put back into use right away, then he could modify his credentials within the system.  You have so many offices that its likely no one was paying attention to an Agent Port or Pilsner showing up to work a case. It’s how he could still access everything in Statesman and not get caught.”

“I bet you’re right, Merlin,” Said Tequila.  “I know all the front desk does is scan our cards when we arrive at an office, but beyond that, nothing else.  He clearly has the tech smarts to hide most of his tracks, but it sounds like he was relying on holes in the operating system to cover the rest.”

“Yeah, well it worked.  The Pilsner reports are from three years ago and it seems like we’re the only ones just catching all of this.”  Replied Chai. She shifted the files onto the main screen and let the computer put them in the timeline.   The four of them looked at each other and then back to the wall. Their timeline just got a lot easier as more pieces fell into place.  Ginger walked over to the phone and called Champ back.

“This case will be closed today, want to come watch?”

“I’ll be right down.”

[chickensarentcheap]

I Found (chapter 14)

Warnings: fluffy but angsty Tyler

Tagging: @alievans007 (even though she asked where her chapter was and knew this was coming ;) ) @c-a-v-a-l-r-y  @hemmyworthy

He watches her as she sits on a bench  in the hotel courtyard,  the hood of the sweater pulled over her head, eyes riveted on the cellphone in her hand as her fingers composed a text message.  Tyler has his work cut out for him; recognizing his own faults and his own mistakes has always been a struggle, never mind actually apologizing for them. He had learned a lot over the past year. Specifically the last eight months; having to get used to domestic bliss and worrying about someone other than himself. It had been a long time since he'd had to take someone else's feelings into consideration, and even now he struggled with. Easily reverting back to old adults and an old life where he only had himself, a dog, and a chicken to take care of.

In his mind, he had made the right decision for his family. The most feasible and logical option. The safest. Lure the bad guys away from Ovi and effectively Esme and the baby. He hadn't stopped to take into consideration that she needed him. That he was the only who who has ever made her feel safe. Secure. Protected.

He moves towards the door, only to have Jason step through it and effectively block his way. There's something he doesn't like about the kid. Something he just can't quite put a finger on. Normally he could read others feel; able to easily see through their bullshit, identify their weakness, exploit them if he had to. But this kid remains an enigma. A puzzle to crack. Something more sinister and untrustworthy hiding under those boy next door looks and his polite, almost naive down south persona.

“Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?” Tyler asks. He isn't a man that plays games. And this kid was well on his way to playing a very dangerous one.

“She said she needed some fresh air. A chance to be alone. Think.”

“Are you honestly trying to stop me from going to see my own wife?  You need to take about two steps back. Before I drop you on your ass.”

The younger man moves to block his way once again. Using those wide shoulders to effectively bar Tyler's entrance into the courtyard.

“I just think it's best if you leave her alone,” he suggests. “Let her catch her breath. Clear her head a little.”

A smirk tugs at the corners of Tyler's mouth and his eyes narrow and his voice drops.  The way it always did when the bad guys tried to play their mind games and pull their bullshit.  When they didn't know just exactly who he was, what he did, and how dangerous he could be. Like that day back in Dhaka, when he gone into that squalid apartment, surrounded by hostiles, and laid eyes on Ovi Mahajan Junior for the first time.

“You've been here for what? Two days? Forty eight hours and suddenly you're an expert on what is best for her? For my wife?”

“Well someone has to think what's best for her,” he bravely retorts.

Tyler gives a derisive snort. Fists clenching. Jaw tightening. “I think you better take those steps back, mate. I've dealt with bigger and better than you. I won't hesitate when it comes to putting a foot up your ass.”

“I just think that everyone needs to calm down. Look at this all rationally. Take a breath and...”

Before he can finish, Tyler has his forearm in a vice like grip; twisting it painfully behind his back and then propelling him forward, slamming him face first into the plate glass window.

“I don't know exactly who you are or who the hell you think you are or what games you're playing. But if you ever get in my way again. I will fuck you up so badly your own mother won't be able to recognize you. If you so as much look at me the wrong way, if you so as much even think of trying to get between me and my wife, if you so as much as even go near my daughter, I promise you that I will make what guys like Asif to do people look tame. You understand me?”

A brisk tap on the glass next to them captures Tyler's attention. Nik stands behind it, watching the altercation through the window.  And when she and Tyler make eye contact, her gaze hardens and her brow furrows and she shakes her head with the utmost disdain.

He relents. Giving the kid one last shove before stepping backwards, hands held up in surrender.

The kid shows no emotion. Not a hint of fear playing on his face or glittering in his eyes.  Whether it was an act or he truly was cold as ice, Tyler didn't know, but it was unsettling. Troubling. Like the moments before an ally turns out to be an enemy and they strike.  The only outward sign of uneasiness is the sweat that beads across his forehead and the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallows noisily. His eyes never leaving Tyler's as he simply straightens his suit jacket and his tie.

“Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe it's you that needs to worry?” he speaks, no shakiness or trepidation in his voice. “That maybe you're the one that needs to step back and watch yourself?”

It's a threat. Tyler knows it is.  And now he is the one that's feeling uneasy.  Uncharacteristically frazzled by the tone in the younger man's voice and that icy cool demeanour.  “I don't want to see you around her again,” he warns. “Unless I'm the one that tells you to be. You hear me? Now walk away.”

Jason takes a step forward, then hesitates when he notices the fiery in Tyler's eyes and the way his arms are tense as they hang by his side, hands clenched tightly into fists.  He'd heard the stories. He'd seen the numbers. The aftermath of what one single man...this man...could do.  Tyler Rake was fearless. Savage. Merciless.

“Walk...away...” Tyler's voice is low, menacing. Nostrils flaring as he fights to control his temper.  He had promised he wouldn't be that man again. The one that could smile at someone one minute and rip them apart the next.   But old habits do truly die hard.

Jason finally cracks.  With nothing more than a simple nod as he turns on his heel. His gait slow. Unhurried.  Purposeful. The message he is sending loud and clear.

****

Esme looks up briefly as he approaches.  She's been crying; eyes rimmed with red, swollen and puffy. That sad, heartbreaking glitter  that he hates seeing. And hates himself for causing.

“Very smooth, Tyler,” she looks back down at her phone  “Beating up the help.”

“Nothing's more hurt than his pride. You know, there's something about that kid I don't like. He's too eager. Too willing. Especially when it comes to you.”

“That's called jealousy, Tyler. I know you're usually incapable of feeling other emotions outside of intense anger and astonishing self loathing, but I'm actually quite flattered that you feel that strongly about something. About someone. All over little old me.”

“I deserved that,” he says in response, and she gives a little snort, refusing to make eye contact with him.

For what seems like an eternity, neither of them speak. The kind of silence that hangs so thick in the air, you can hear the rushing of the blood through your body or a pin drop in a room on the other side of the house, on an entirely different level.  One that is so deafening that you would do anything to quell the agony.

He stands in front of her, hands on his hips, watching her.  The gun seeming impossibly heavy as it sits in its holster, clipped to the waist band of his pants.  It's a weight that he had hoped to never bear again.  A life that he had hoped was well and truly behind him. Naive, he supposed. As once you were in the game, you never were truly out of it.

Unless you were dead.  

He's the first to break.   “What are you doing?”

“Texting.”

The one word answer aggravates him.  “Who?”

“My other husband,” she huffs, and heaves a sigh of exasperation. “My mother. I've been trying to get a hold of her since last night. I don't know if my texts aren't going through or if there might be something wrong or if she's just given up on me and is just completely ignoring me...”

“I'm sure she's just busy. I doubt she's given up on you. She's your mom. Moms don't give up on their kids.”  He'd only had a short time with his own mother. But in the time that they had had together, he discovered that it was true.  No matter the distance or the issues between them, a mothers love for their child never stops.  Nor does their desire to nurture them. Or protect them at all costs.

“I just wanted to let her know that we had to go away for a while.  Not to bother calling the apartment because we wouldn't be there. And not to panic or worry if she can't get a hold for me for a little bit. I just wanted to...I don't know...”  another sigh. This one shaky and sad. “...I just wanted her to know that I love her. That I miss her. She needs to hear that.”

He nods. “I think she deserves to hear that.”

“Just in case,” Esme says, and flips the phone case closed. “Just in case.”

He drops to his knees in front of her, grimacing at the pain that shoots through his right leg. Gently pushing the hood off of her head.  His hands rest on her thighs. The weight of them heavy. Familiar. The familiarity that comes with the things that you love the most.  The smell that lingers on the belongings of the person you love,  the sound of their voice over the phone when it's the dead of the night and they can't sleep and need to call you,  the feeling of their body alongside of you.  The little things that you take for granted but would miss if one day you woke up and they were no longer there.

“Everything's going to be okay,” he assures her. “We're going to be okay.”

She shakes her head. Wanting to believe him. Needing to believe him. But not knowing where to start.  “What if all goes wrong? What if shit just hits the fan and things end up worse than before. What if...”

“Stop,” he implores. “Just stop.  This isn't like before. This is nothing like that. What happened in Dhaka was almost a year ago. Almost twelve whole months. You need to let it go. You need to put it behind you. Leave it in the past.”

The tears that escape are hot, unrelenting. Huge droplets that linger on the tips of her eyelashes before rolling down her cheeks.  He hates seeing her like this. Struggling with her own demons and the things she'd seen and heard. While his life had nearly ended on that bridge, her new one had just begun.  A life that only two short weeks before hadn't involved him.  Neither of them had even known that the other existed. Two people on the same planet, at the same time, oblivious to the wheels that were already turning. Completely unaware that fate would soon drop them in one anothers paths.  

And he wonders...not for the first time...just what would have happened if he had have just walked away. If he hadn't let her rile him up and get the best of them  that day in their motel room. If he'd just fought that unbridled lust and the overwhelming need and want to feel alive again. The desperate hunger of needing to feel as  if he mattered to someone and had something to live for.

“I can't,” she whispers. “I don't know why. I just can't.  I was the one that was there, Tyler. With you. Not just on that bridge. But in all those moments afterwards. In that hospital. In a country on the other side of the world, thousands of miles from my home. In a life that I never asked for. That I definitely wasn't prepared for. A person that I didn't even recognize any more. I gave up everything for you, only to have you completely betray me. To turn on me the very second you got a chance.”

He feels like an asshole. A complete and utter fucking asshole. And he thinks of how he should have just walked away. That he never should have given into that temptation. No matter how hard she tested him. And he can see her. Standing there in front of him in that dark, filthy motel room. Looking up at him with those huge dark eyes full of desperation.

The ghost of a lost little girl lingering under the shell of a grown woman.

She had needed to feel something. Anything. And she had  wanted him to be the one that helped her feel it.  Two people damaged beyond all repair. Finding a way to escape from their pasts. Needing to silence the tortured voices inside of their heads. Needing to feel something other than emptiness and the bitter sting of loss and bad decisions.

“That wasn't my intention. I didn't betray you. I didn't do it to hurt you. I did it because I thought it was for the best.  I did it to protect you. To protect our daughter. Not to hurt you. I would never hurt you. I told you that a year ago. When you said that you were scared. Not of me but what you were feeling towards me. And I asked you what you were scared of. Do you remember?”

She nods. And she finally touches him. Those small hands resting atop of his.

“You told me that you were afraid of being hurt. That I'd hurt you. And do you remember what I told you? Do you?”

Another nod.

“I said I would never hurt you. And I meant that. I meant that right to my very soul.  Even then.”

“But you did.  Hurt me. Whether you meant to or not. Why would you do that? Why would you make all those promises to me about never leaving unless you had to? Unless you had no other choice? You have  a choice, Tyler. And you decide to just leave me there.  Why? Why would you do that? We're stronger together than we are apart. We always have been. I've put everything I have into you. Right from day one. All my love and all my trust and you turn around and make a decision like that.”

“I didn't do it to hurt you. Or betray you. I did it to keep you safe. To protect you.”

“The only time I've ever felt safe and protected is when I'm with you. I didn't even know that was something I wanted. Or a hole that needed to be filled. Until you came along and did it.”

He reaches up to take her face in his hands. Thumbs gentle as they brush away her tears.

“Don't leave me,” she begs. A far cry from the girl she was a year ago. The one that took no shit, who never let her guard down, who refused to let anyone past the walls that she'd built around her heart. Years of being let down by the men that she had let into her life. Trusting them and giving them her all, only to be left broken and battered when it all fell apart.  She's a shell of that former woman. And he blames himself.

  “Please. Don't leave me there. Don't run off on some goddamn suicide mission. Promise me. Promise me you won't do that.”

“Esme...”

“Promise me, Tyler. Promise me that I won't wake up one morning and find you gone. You don't have to fight this battle alone. This isn't just yours to fight.”

“But it should be.”

“But it doesn't have to be. Please don't do this.  Don't drop me there and then just disappear. Don't walk away from me. From our daughter. From us.”

“I'm not walking away from anything. Not from you Not from us. Not from our baby.  I made the decision that I thought was best for both of you. To protect my family.”

“I'm scared,” she admits. “I'm scared that you're going to just disappear on us in the middle of the night. That you'll just take off and that I'll never see you again. Promise me you'll stay.  Promise me you won't do that.”

She cradles his face in her hands. Thumbs brushing against his beard, the pads grazing over his lips.  Those tortured and desperate eyes never leaving his.

“I promise,” he says. “No running off in the middle of the night. No walking away.”

“Tell me we're in this together. That you're all in.”

“We're in this together,  I'm all in. I've been all in from the start. Wasn't that obvious? When I let you seduce me in that hotel room?”

She manages a laugh, sniffling through the remnants of her break down. “You and I remember that day very differently.”

“I remember what you what you were wearing.  A black tank top and jean shorts. The ones with the hole in the left leg and a tear in the ass. I remember that your hair was damp  and you had it had it up in a ponytail. And I remember that I could taste strawberries when I kissed you.”

There was more. So much more. The little things from that day. From that moment.  The sound of the traffic on the street outside; the clamouring of cars and the blaring of horns and the chattering and shouting of pedestrians. Loud music coming from the room upstairs. The sickly heat and humidity that hung in that little room and coated their bodies in a thin a sheen of sweat. The way his blood rushed through his veins and his heart hammered in his chest and his throat tightened.  The way she stood there looking up at him, challenging him to do something. Anything.  Looking impossibly small; desperation, want, need, all visible in those eyes. There was no fear in them. Even with his hand wrapped tightly around her throat.

And when she'd touched him, the brief brush of her chest against him, every nerve felt as if it were on fire.

Things that he'd hadn't felt in a long time. Things he'd never felt that intensely.

And he could remember...clear as day...how they lay in that in that mess of rumpled sheets and sweaty, tangled limbs, utterly spent from the intensity of the sex. How his hand was in her hair as she rested with her face against his chest, her breath warm and soft against his chest.  And that he'd thought how he didn't want it to end. That he didn't want her to walk away when the job ended. That he'd hoped she saw him  as more than just some conquest and a way of filling an empty bed and an empty heart.  And how he'd worried he wouldn't be the man that she needed.

That she deserved.

No. He wasn't brave. Regardless of what she thought. Or what Ovi said. He wasn't immortal. He was just a man that tried very hard not to show the world that he was human.

“I remember being scared,” she confesses.

“Of me?”

“No. Not of you.  I was scared of what was happening. How quick it was happening.  The things I was feeling. How screwed up it seemed that it was happening where it was happening. I mean, it wasn't exactly the ideal place. Or the time.”

He agreed with that.  But even when his brain had been telling him how just how wrong it was, his heart had been telling him the exact opposite. And for once he'd followed the latter.

“But no. I wasn't scared of you. Never of you.”

He smiles, turning his face into her hand as it rests on his cheek, pressing his lips to her palm.

“I can't lose you, Tyler. I already came close. Way too close. I don't want it crossing that line this time.”

“It won't,” he promises, and places a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I have something for you,” he says, and digs a hand into the pocket of his hoodie. “I found it. In that little box you keep in the table by your side of the bed.”

By traditional standards, it isn't much. A simple leather bracelet. Intricately braided, with one small lapis stone in the middle. She'd spied it at the market that fateful day in Dhaka; when they allowed themselves to cross over that line. And it had been what driven him to loose his temper in the the first place: the fact that she had wandered off alone when he had distinctly told her to stay by his side at all times.  And when suddenly she wasn't beside him any longer and he couldn't spy here in the sea of people, he'd become frantic. The first time in his life that he'd felt genuine panic. Nik had entrusted him with the job of keeping Esme safe. And he'd failed.

He'd lost it on her. Practically dragging her back to the hotel and then just unloading on her once the door closed behind them. The next day...while she was still sleeping and recovering from a late night of numerous rounds of incredible sex...he'd went back to the market. Searching for that same vendor so he could find out just what had captured her attention.  It was the first thing he'd ever given. Aside from a baby in her belly.  And she'd looked at that inexpensive and simple bracelet as it if were the most priceless piece of jewellery in the entire world.

It had broken on that bridge. Where he'd nearly lost his life. And she'd still hung on to it; cleaning it the best she could and tucking it away into that little box that held various other mementos of her life that she'd squirrelled away.  He didn't have much to give her. And that had never mattered to her.  But that bracelet held more value than anything else in the world.

She smiles as she sees it. Resting there in the palm of his hand.

“I fixed it for you.  And I cleaned it. The best I could.”  There are still remnants of blood.  His blood. Clinging to leather, discolouring it in places. But she still doing it.  Sidelong glances he'd give when she was feeding or cuddling their daughter. Or when she'd be sitting on the couch with her legs tucked under her, top teeth resting on her bottom lip as she immersed herself in a novel.  Or when she'd laugh at one of his stupid jokes or she played along with his teasing, the way her eyes sparkled and the corners crinkled.

His fingers are gentle against the inside of her inside of her wrist as he secures the newly repaired clasp, and she places that hand on the side of his face and leans into him. Covering his mouth with hers in a kiss that ,while soft and so sweet, still manages to take his breath away.

[kinetic-elaboration]

December 14: 1x28 The City on the Edge of Forever (Also I’m 32)

For my birthday, I watched an ep of Star Trek, because I can. It was very good and I enjoyed watching but now I’m starting to get some pretty bad evening anxiety, so!! I’m going to try to ignore that.

Here are some thoughts:

I love this wavy camera work. Space turbulence.

I recognize that this intro really doesn’t have anything to do with anything but it’s still really, like, sudden--weird time things are happening and the ship keeps shaking!

Sulu’s looking damn good today. (I say this in every ep with a closeup of Sulu.)

That was a real rookie mistake on McCoy’s part there, stabbing himself with the hypo. (Harlan Ellison voice lol.) (Still better than the original script.)

“They’ll never catch me!”

Sulu and Spock have been trading eye shadow secrets obviously. It’s a real shame that the AOS movies didn’t give people awesome makeup. I mean heck if you couldn’t force yourself to give men obvious makeup (the horror!) you could have at least done something cool with Token Girl Uhura.

Kirk sounds very formal today. Idk why, but his tone is just slightly different--calling Scotty “Engineer” and something about his log... Probably just me being weird or an effect of there being so many writers on this thing.

Damn, McCoy was almost as good as Spock, the way he knocked that guy out so efficiently.

I’m pretty sure this is Uhura’s first landing party. And she barely gets to do anything because this is the Kirk and Spock Show today.

“Unbelievable.” / “That’s funny.” Is it though?

Legit laughed out loud when Bones popped up from behind that rock, right after Uhura said he wasn’t there.

I don’t think Spock likes the Guardian. “Primitive science knowledge? Excuse you, Sir.”

The Guardian really is just like hand-wave-y sci fi lol. Uh it’s really old and really advanced so it can’t really explain itself, the point is, time travel!!!! I mean I don’t hate it but still.

Kirk is very quick to want to play with time. A little vacation away from his usual work. Getting to satisfy his curiosity and be his nerdy self and learn things. Can you even imagine TOS Kirk in AOS???

Love the dramatic moments: Kirk looking very suddenly when the Guardian says “Behold.” Jumping into the sand as he fails to catch McCoy.

Kirk’s biggest fantasy--a vacation that’s also exploration--turns into his greatest nightmare--loneliness.

“No star date” Can you even imagine Starfleet HQ getting this? “Whoops we just destroyed literally everything. Don’t worry, we’ve probably fixed it if you’re reading this.”

History nerd Kirk. Correctly identifying the Great Depression. If Spock thinks THIS is barbaric, what would he think about today?

“I’m going to be difficult to explain in any case.” Truly, only Kirk, and his love goggles, would choose the ONE alien in his crew to take with him on the first expedition into the past. This was completely foreseeable guys.

Spock’s like “That’s a cool car. Let me examine it now. In the middle of the street. While people yell at me.”

This ep starts out so dramatic and now all of a sudden it’s a comedy, right down to the music. (Again, a sign of how many writers had their hands in this.)

“I’m going to like this century. Simpler, easier to manage.” LOL.

“You’re a police officer. I recognize the traditional accoutrements.” Spock is having such a good time watching this.

Really relying on American racism to explain the alien, huh? “I know you don’t know what Asians look like so.... he’s Chinese.”

“I double dog dare you to put together a computer, Mr. Spock.” Effective.

Put on the hat, the hat!!!!

Starfleet’s greatest Captain couldn’t come up with a fast fake name for Spock.

Kirk looks good in this outfit. Actually the outfits in general are great.

Honestly what does Edith think of these weirdos?

Kirk hears trash talk: “Shut up. SHUT UP.” No talking badly about women in THIS house.

She should have been living in our time. I wonder if she always thought space was cool or if Kirk (and uh literal actual alien Spock) inspired her.

Spock’s eye roll at “I find her most uncommon.”

Kirk definitely did manual labor in high school.

Spock really is building a whole-ass computer.

“I’ve brought you vegetables? What else do you want??” Is this the first reference to him being a vegetarian?

And there was only one bed...

Edith’s reaction to Spock’s sass is hilarious. She’s really not confused by him at all.

When Spock’s straightforward, honest answers about why he stole the tools don’t work, Kirk steps in with the charm offensive.

“By his side, as if you’ve always been there and always will” is basically the toast at their wedding.

Favorite thing about Edith remains that she meets an actual alien and says eh, not so weird, and then looks at the Iowa Farm Boy and is like ????????? does not compute.

“Why don’t you want to talk about the war? Are you a war criminal?”

I feel like Kirk gets a weird kick out of saying he and Spock “served together.” And like it’s literally the truth? But he has this little smile like he’s getting away with a cool lie.

Only about 10 years until we get the cool alien book about love!

Spock bringing out the big guns with today’s requisite “Jim.”

Imagine meeting McCoy like this: weird-ass uniform, rambling and paranoid. Thinks he’s met a humanoid alien. Getting so upset about 20th century hospitals he starts crying and rolling on the ground. He’s so empathetic. I love him.

What a way to go, killing yourself accidentally with a future weapon you steal from a 23rd century time traveler you mistake for a drunk.

Bones is so good at not being seen. That’s straight up comedy how he just passes by behind Spock. There are really weird, random comedy elements in this.

“She was right but at the wrong time.”

Kirk’s in love with Edith... I mean he’s not lol but that IS what a romantic such as him would say.

“I’m a surgeon, not a psychiatrist,” says the man who testified as a psychiatrist at a court martial in a previous episode.

How convenient that U.S.S. is an abbreviation she’d recognize.

“I don’t believe in YOU.”

I know this isn’t actually true, but it feels like Spock literally just came out of the room to be jealous while Kirk and Edith kiss.

Spock’s lesson “do[ing] as your heart tells you to do” is wrong.

So McCoy just got over it, I guess. Kirk was all ready to manipulate time to stop the accident but all they needed to do was find him, catch him, and sedate him a while I guess.

“My young man.” So cute.

The reunion hug with McCoy is adorable. I watched it 4 times.

Yet another Kirk vacation fantasy foiled.

No final talk on the bridge... Very dramatic and sad.

This IS a really good episode but I just still can’t get behind calling it the BEST Star Trek episode. To me, it doesn’t feel enough like Star Trek to be the best. It’s a really great story, and it’s entertaining to watch, but it’s not representative. Too few of the crew--not even really that sci-fi-ish at the end of the day. Like I said, the Guardian is really generic and ill-explained, just a prop for the main story. And while that main story is obviously all about time travel and the effects of time travel, even THAT is incidental to the real point, which is the moral question: save one or save many? But it’s not even a conundrum, like in TWOK/TSFS,because there is no real choice. Obviously Kirk is going to let Edith die. To do otherwise wouldn’t just damn many more people in the 20th century to death, it would damn his crew and his ship and, in a way, himself. So it’s more like, well, inevitably, she will die, and he will let her, but it will be really sad. So the point is just this tragic, doomed love story. Which is not a bad story in any sense, but it’s not what one generally primarily associates with TOS.

I’m not sure this is making sense because I’m just working out my thoughts as I type.

I do think there’s some interesting stuff here: I think one could do a lot with what this ep does for Spock’s development, since we don’t hear too much from him but he’s pretty intimately involved in all this. And the lessons it’s teaching him about feelings and vulnerability are...not great.

Also Uhura saying “at least be happy” in the beginning ties in interestingly to the rest of the narrative--he could have chosen his happiness, in a way, at least fleetingly. Perhaps it would have been more interesting if Kirk had ever really considered letting Edith live--but then, would he be Kirk if he ever considered it, seriously, out loud? Am I being dense by thinking the narrative should have said this in so many words, when it’s obvious enough as is?

I’m also not totally sure about the... message. I’d prefer to say there isn’t one, honestly, because of the way the conundrum is set up: as a non-conundrum. Because, obviously America should have entered WWII; if ever there was a war that was worth fighting, this would be it. Hence there’s no need to really interrogate whether or not Edith’s death was right. There’s no way it was not right. There’s no complication there, allowing the story to focus on the tragedy of Kirk’s inevitable decision instead. It could have been a different story, about weighing the pros and cons. And then possibly also a story with a moral lesson attached to the decision Kirk makes: about the many versus the few, for example, or about war specifically, since obviously this is airing with Vietnam as a background.

It could also have been a story about fate. Obviously, McCoy can and does change time. But you have all 3 of them ending up at the same place/time, right near this Big Event. You have the almost-fall on the stairs, implying death is out for Edith. You have the total set of circumstances around her death: as it actually plays out, she’s only there BECAUSE of Kirk and Spock. Were they always there? Does she get killed in a slightly different circumstance in timelines without them? The way the story plays out, all of these details seem so beside the point--again, the story uses time travel but isn’t really ABOUT time travel; it uses sci fi tools but is not telling a sci fi story--so it’s not even really worth interrogating.

(Other than just now, when I did.)

I think it’s pretty obvious that a lot of people had their hands in this story: Kirk’s very IC romantic nature is first and foremost and I like seeing this part of him, but the Command part is kind of hidden; there are moments of tragedy, in the traditional sense of the word, but also other parts that feel like Tomorrow Is Yesterday in terms of the style of comedy; the sci fi stuff is really random.

None of this is really criticism, just thoughts. It’s definitely a really interesting episode.

Next is the FINAL EPISODE of S1, which is RIDICULOUS imo. I’m fairly sure Operation Annihilate was one of the first TOS episodes I saw. I have a real soft spot for it so I’m looking forward to watching.

[yfere]

Shipping Calculus! Live Updates from C2E55

“What about shipping calculus? Isn’t the shipping calculus going to be interesting?” people have been asking, and boy oh boy have we wanted to deliver this quickly, but three things happened: 1) Three quarters of our staff took sick days after the episode aired because the anxiety made them physically ill, 2) the Angst Points statistical program we use was overloaded and we had to recalibrate it to handle larger loads of data, and 3) one asshole decided to write fanfiction on company time instead of doing their job.

+10 to Caleb/Cat-Shaped Creatures or in this case, cat-shaped spells. Caleb may have a big heart, but if you want a place in it you’ll have a tight squeeze beside his massive love for massive pointy-eared, bewhiskered, four-legged folk. Bonus points because Caleb’s cat-love apparently gives him game with the rest of the party, between Fjord’s MeeeOOOW and thinking Caleb’s spells are super sexy, Jester going right for Caleb’s goopy center with the “big heart” comment, and Caduceus Clay Grinning Like A Fool.

+10 to Caleb/Fjord/Jester between Jester’s “Caleb is going to kill me, and Fjord is going to finish me off!” belief of the two Charmed and Charming Men (alas, Jester, you could have been charmed with them!), and then Fjord and Jester both standing over Caleb’s unconscious body, desperately trying to keep him and each other alive. For the record, Caleb tried his best to help them too. Mostly he managed it by accidentally tanking and absorbing damage with his multiple KOs.

-2 to Jester/Succubus While Jester was open to the flirting and pursuing the relationship, the succubus decided Jester wasn’t her type after all.

-30 to Beau/Incubus Neither Beau nor the Incubus were each other’s types. What the nine hells was he thinking? If he’d only checked in with Caleb before trying, Caleb would have let him know he should spare himself the effort.

+15 to Fjord/Detective Work Fjord is definitely out to oust the Detective Agency as Wildemount’s #1 Detective, between discovering the beginnings of anchor glyphs being sketched in the tunnels (identified and destroyed by partner Caleb Widogast, rubbings taken by Beauregard), and then discovering the Big Bad Abyssal Anchor that had been causing all of their trouble in the first place (alongside partner Caduceus Clay, identified by partner Caleb Widogast). The Agency needs to work on defending their reputation! Perhaps those documents Nott located on the Succubus will help them gain some ground next week.

-10 to Caleb/Uk’otoa and Fjord/Uk’otoa as for the second time Caleb puts up his middle finger at Uk’otoa’s Super Special Powers and Anyone Fucking with the Wall of Fire. Fjord was sadly robbed of the chance to admire Caleb’s guns as he was knocked himself against some stalagmites by the bidet he summoned. He and Caleb are equally stinky now though, which seems….symbolic.

+15 to Caleb/Fjord as besides being the most compatible Detective Duo outside of the Agency, how Fjord shows Absolute Implicit Trust in everything Caleb says and does. Destroying the glyphs perhaps not a good idea? Absolutely shouldn’t destroy them. We should destroy the glyphs? What a wonderful idea! The only person to support Caleb’s Abyssal Riftmaker in the Bag of Holding idea before Caleb himself thinks better of it. Stays put for as long as Caleb asks in the tunnel, literally saying they’re staying put because Caleb said so, and coming forward again because he said so as well. Sure, he and everyone else got blasted to smithereens for it, but though Caleb/Leadership got -10 points, Fjord was probably mostly just impressed by Caleb’s ability to totally murder him and shoot down all his magical abilities. Concerned and hurting, yeah, bruised in body and ego, but a little turned on, all the same.

-5 Fjord/Self Confidence as Fjord attempts self affirmation exercises to build himself back up after Caleb Fucked Him Up, screaming “I’m not useless!” as he just barely manages to kill a quasit.

-50 Nott/Being a Team Player between healing the mildly-injured wizard in preference to all her other friends he brought to the precipice of death, and forgetting for the second time (third time?) that making things explode while her friends are around causes collateral damage. She’s picking up some bad habits from Caleb in the explosion department.

-3 Caleb/Humor No spell will ever make him laugh. Points mitigated because the joke was a bit questionable.

+8 to Beau/Tough Love. Tries the Diplomatic Friend approach with Caleb, nearly gets set on fire. But beating some sense into Yasha proves effective! Experiments show that fists are the only way to solve problems, guys. And she can do it from a distance now, hey!

+20 to Beau/Yasha. Did not know it was possible to gain so many points while the player for the character is absent! Nonetheless, Yasha continues to carry on the M9 shipping tradition from Fjord, not of having a crit of love, but having crit fails of love. It’s almost as if a part of Yasha was resisting hitting Beau in particular, but once Beau cottoned onto the fact that Yasha wasn’t on her ass in exactly the way she was hoping, Beau too carried on the M9 shipping tradition from Molly of beating your partner back into awareness. Yasha had to scamper off to murder a demon before she could get a kiss, though. Damn.

+4 to Jester/Beau as Jester begs for the enemy to come after her instead, and not Beau. Does the plea make logical, strategic sense, what with Beau’s higher AC, higher HP, and reaction punches? No, but love is rarely logical and strategic. Love is just love. Beau and Jester also bond once more over their love of chopping up dead demon bodies. Compatibility! Keeping the huge demon heart is probably symbolic of something.

+2 to Fjord/Jester as Fjord makes sure to choose Jester’s side of the flanking formation, just to make sure she doesn’t end up alone again.

+2 to Caleb/Jester Another rollercoaster week for a Jester ship! We should be glad we aren’t in negatives with these two! Peak Widojest with the “big heart” comment, with Jester telling Caleb to catch up, with Jester as always standing over Caleb’s unconscious body (whether faking or otherwise!), spending all her time healing him even before Fjord came to help, and dragging him away from the fray. #ItPaysToBeADamselInDistress. How even casting spells against Caleb, Jester chooses the one that will make him less dangerous without hurting him. Points taken away because Jester chopping up bodies brings up supes unpleasant memories, and Caleb came terribly, terribly close to murdering Nugget. The dog is off limits. I guess we could mention Caleb nearly murdering Jester, too. There is that.

+2 to Caleb/Caduceus “I can definitely see you,” Caduceus says with delight as Caleb attempts to stealth. Alas, Caleb is concentrating on Srs Bussniss and does not respond to Caduceus’ poking (Question: Are all Cads ships fundamentally based on banter???) Caduceus trying very hard to heal Caleb in battle despite being in Lots Of Danger, and Caleb’s gift finally coming to use as Caduceus is knocked out for the crime of focusing too much on healing people besides himself. Caduceus making sure to give Caleb resistance while he tries to identify the Abyssal Anchor. I mean, gods forbid he should die, right???

+15 to Caduceus/Death “That was invigorating,” he said. Dying, but getting that sweet confirmation you are on the right path to your personal quest in the process? That’s great. That’s so cool. Can’t wait to do it again.

-20 Taliesin/Periapt of Wound Closure. That item is cursed for you, my guy. That’s 2/2 times you’ve used it and your characters have died. It’s dangerous!

-500 The CR Cast/Sam’s Terrible Beauregard Puns. Stop!!!!!!!!!!

+1000 yfere/Stress ..........................................................................this episode.................

[mons1erprom]

The main casts reaction to their s/o having depression/self harming?

Before we begin, I’d like to provide to you the suicide hotline, the self harm hotline, the depression hotline, as well as the crisis textline if you are having such thoughts. (US only for now. If anyone wishes to add crisis hotlines from anywhere else in the world, you’re more than welcome.)

Suicide Hotline: 1 (800) 273-8255

Self Harm Hotline: 1 (877) 455-0628

Depression Hotline: 1 (888) 640-5174

Crisis Textline: Text “CONNECT” to 741741

And as a note, let’s make this the last angsty headcanon set for now, please? Hopefully when asks are open again and we’ve cleaned out our inboxes and drafts, we’ll get some more uplifting ones. Thank you.

We now return to your regularly scheduled headcanons.

~ Magic Mod & (temp)Frosty

Oz: Oz makes you promise. Promise not to hurt yourself any more. He begs you. He just can’t stand seeing those injuries on your body. Blood already terrifies him to no end, but seeing the one he loves in pain is even worse. He’s scared too. He just wants to help so badly… He loves you.

Amira Rashid: Amira’s more angry than anything. She tries her best to not let her temper get the better of her as she tries to figure out… why? Why this? She’s a genie, so she could try to have you wish these thoughts away. However, it’s not that easy. Still, she’ll do all she can to help. She loves you.

Brian Yu: He hesitates. Something is familiar about this, but he can’t put his finger on it. He grows protective. He says he just wants you to be safe, but wants you to be happy. He’ll blame himself if this happens again, knowing he wasn’t there for you. He needs to be there for you. For your sake and his. He loves you.

Vicky Schmidt: Vicky… despite her bubbly exterior, she’s been there. She goes to sit down with you and tells her about her depression and self harm. Won’t go into detail here to avoid triggering those suffering from depression. She’ll recommend you her own therapist, or even help search for others with you to find the right one to suit your needs. She loves you.

Damien LaVey: Damien thinks you’re trying to give yourself a body mod like he did when he broke off his horn or tried to give himself guns for hands. But… this is different. He stops you to ask what you’re doing. You tell him and he offers to beat up whoever made you feel like this. Thankfully, that won’t be necessary. What he does do is make sure you feel loved! He loves you.

Liam de Lioncourt: Liam… Liam wouldn’t know what to say. Without trying to cause you harm any further he just… holds you in silence. He’s lost too many in his life to count, but if this is the one loss he can prevent, he’s gonna take that opportunity and not waste it. For someone as immortal as him, he knows life is not something to take for granted… and he wants you to realize that. He loves you.

Miranda Vanderbilt: Miranda just can’t understand. Why would anyone do such a thing to themselves? Her first instinct is to order you to stop, but she’s never been more afraid. She looks for something she can easily identify as the problem, like some awful curse, but her search is in vain. She doesn’t know how to fix everything… but that won’t stop her from trying to be the light in your life… your lifeline. She loves you.

Polly Geist: One would think that Polly approaches this very simplistically: if you’re sad, then you need to party more, right? Wrong. As soon as she catches wind of even suggesting self-harm, her attitude totally changes. She’s like a whole different monster. Instead of following the same sex-and-drugs routine, she invites you to more… fulfilling activities. Watching the sunrise, a nice dinner, even devoting an hour or so to just cuddling. Life is full of pleasures and joys… she wants to remind you of that. She loves you.

Scott Howl: Scott panics almost immediately and tries to intervene. Seeing you like this hurts him as much as it hurts you. He starts to wondering if there was anything he did that made you feel this way. He offers to be your therapy dog because he doesn’t want to see you like this ever again. He loves you.

Vera Oberlin: Depression is one thing. Self-harm is another. And neither sits well with Vera. She knows she can come off as cold, harsh, even downright despicable at times. That’s the last thing you need right now. Vera becomes more affectionate around you. She holds your hands, kisses you, hugs you more often… but she doesn’t let you see her tears. She loves you.

Calculester Hewlett-Packard: All living beings have an instinct for self-preservation. But its more than that. People want to live on, long after their gone, by making a mark on the world. At least, that’s how Calculester understands it. To harm one’s self, to try and end it early… it bewilders him. He still has a lot to learn about love and life. He needs his teacher. He needs you. He loves you.

Zoe: She introduces you for healthy ways to vent about your issues. Her? She writes, draws, anything to keep herself from thinking these dark thoughts. Until you’re able to get help, she’ll do all she can to make sure you’re fighting your demons productively. She loves you.

From all of us here, no matter what happens, you are loved. Don’t forget that.

[violetsmoak]

Pieces of April [3/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who, not either of our boys!), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro.

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

A nurse leads them to an empty waiting room with chairs and a table, seemingly unfazed by the situation that has reduced Jason to as mindless as shell as he was before taking a dip in the Lazarus Pit.

“Normally we do visits with the mother and family in the hospital room, but in this case…” she trails off, sympathetic. “I’m very sorry.”

“Yeah,” Jason thinks he says, looking around the spartan décor.

“I’ll be back with your daughter,” she tells him, and leaves.

Jason opens his mouth to protest that word, but it dies on his lips. Somehow it seems dickish to proclaim it’s not his daughter. He’s not sure he could form the sentence right now, anyway. It means acknowledging the existence of a tiny human who may or may not be his—

“It’s transference.”

Jason blinks, looking over at Drake.

“The nurse,” the younger man says. “Calling the baby your daughter. She’s worried and hoping you’ll form an emotional attachment whether the child’s yours or not. You have no obligation to do that just now.”

Jason grits his teeth. “And you’re telling me this why?”

“Because I know what self-flagellation looks like. You can freak out, you know. I won’t tell anyone.”

“And you can be less of a weirdo! How the hell are you so…” Jason fumbles the word, and then furiously gestures up and down. “This.”

“It’s a tense situation and you’re panicked enough for the two of us.”

“I’m not panicked.”

“Jason, you’re completely tense right now, I can almost see how fast your pulse is going and you can barely think straight enough to give answers to simple questions,” Drake tells him. “Obviously you’re suffering from some sort of emotional shock.”

“Shock my ass,” Jason replies automatically. “I’ve been in literal warzones. I don’t do shock.”

“Have you ever learned you might possibly be a father in those warzones?” Jason’s stomach lurches at the word, blood draining from his face; Drake obviously sees it, because he nods as if satisfied. “There you go. Completely different situation. Look, just take a deep breath and—”

“I know how to calm down!” Jason growls. “Now stop managing me and—”

“Here we are!”

They both whirl around as the nurse from earlier reappears, this time wheeling a see-through plastic crib into the room. Inside is a vaguely wriggling lump in pink blankets and cap. There’s a label at the edge of the crib, with the words Baby Ardila neatly printed.

A rushing noise, starting like the hiss of static and turning into the dull road of a waterfall fills Jason’s head.

That’s a baby, right there. Possibly his baby. Isabel’s gone. Dead. Dead in childbirth. Which means if this is his kid, he’s responsible for Isabel’s death. And if that’s the case…what the hell is he supposed to do? He’s not supposed to have this—was never supposed to have anything like this—he’s going to ruin all of this, every second and minute he’s in this room around this kid, it’s like radiation, growing worse the longer exposed—

“Mr. Ardila?”

Jason blinks, looks up, notices the nurse is addressing him—has probably been doing so for a while, judging by the uncertainty in her eyes. She’s holding the baby, and he didn’t even notice her reach into the crib.

“He’s still processing,” Drake says, explaining and covering for him at the same time. Jason swallows, shaking off the lingering invasive thoughts. “She asked if you want to hold her.”

Not really.

He wonders if his thoughts show on his face, because the nurse hesitates, looking a bit uneasy about handing over the swaddled infant. Compared to the tiny bundle, Jason is a giant—over six feet, nothing but muscle and scars, clad in faded leather that may or may not have dried blood on it somewhere and no doubt smelling like a bar’s back alley.

His eyes shoot to Drake who, for the first time tonight—looks just as much at a loss as him. All confidence and strategizing is gone, and he’s looking at the pink-wrapped bundle with the same apprehension as a bomb.

He’s just as out of his element holding a baby as I am.

Maybe more so.

Jason at least has distant memories of doing so. As a kid in Crime Alley, neighbors were forced to rely on each other. If one of the women doing laundry or selling themselves on the corner told you to mind a baby, you minded the baby or you got a slap upside the head.

But that was a long, long time ago. Not as long as for Drake, who likely never had to do that, but long enough that Jason

“Maybe I shouldn’t...” he trails off. “Since she might not be…you know…”

“Yours?” the nurse says, and then turns red, as if she didn’t mean to say that. “It, uh…it wouldn’t hurt, you know. She…her mother didn’t get to hold her at all. So even if she’s not yours, you knew her mother. That’s still more of a connection than anyone else has to her.”

It sounds like spurious logic. Still—

“Okay,” he hears himself say, possibly damning himself with just the one word.

The nurse motions for him to take the chair beside the crib—it’s comically small beneath his frame and he expects the cheap plastic to give, but it never does. Instantly he wants to get back up—eyes flit to the door, the windows, ceiling panels, cataloging possible exits.

Then, the nurse settles the baby into his arms, gently coaching him how to hold her head properly and support the rest of her on his arms.

Jason swallows thickly, trying to become accustomed to the sensation of the slight weight—hell, he’s held guns that weighed more—and immediately has the irrational fear that he’s going to drop or break her.

The baby is red and wrinkled, and hardly even looks like a baby. He’s seen them that small before, sure—as Robin and as Red Hood, he’s been thrown into situations where he had to get pregnant civilians or young mothers to safety. Hell, he’s had to help pregnant women with an emergency delivery.

(Not sure which was more nerve-wracking, when he was a gawky teenaged boy that still fumbled shaving, or the heavy-handed vigilante more suited to holding an AK-47 in his hands than an infant body.)

She’s also very, very small.

“Are they supposed to be that small?” Drake asks, voicing Jason’s question as he peeks over his shoulder. His eyes are wide and a little awed, and Jason can’t recall ever seeing that particular expression on the kid’s face.

“Five pound, fourteen ounces—she’s just within the right weight percentile for her gestational age,” the nurse replies.

She says something else after that, but Jason mostly tunes her out. He probably couldn’t even process it even if he was firing on all cylinders.

He finds his eyes roving over the tiny face, trying to figure out if she looks like him or not. He wants to cite the fact he can’t recognize any of himself in her features as proof she can’t be his, but the fact is…she barely has any identifying features.

Nudging the tiny pink cap she’s wearing upward, he finds feathery strands of indistinct color—could be strawberry blond, like Isabel. Could be red, like his natural color when he isn’t dying it.

Fifty-fifty chance, really.

Her eyes are scrunched shut in sleep, tiny eyebrows—does she even have eyebrows? —drawn together and pink mouth puckered in a frown. Overall, she looks completely uncomfortable.

He waits to feel any kind of affection or connection to the infant, some sort of primal magnetism that he should feel if this is his kid, but there’s nothing.

Only the persistent instinct to make a run for it.

“I’ll give you some time,” she says with a small smile. “There may be a social worker by in the next hour or so. Since we won’t know anything until the tests come back, nothing will be decided tonight, but it wouldn’t hurt to familiarize yourself with whoever is handling the case, even if it is just for the short-term.”

“Thank you,” Drake says politely.

“And if you need anything, the call button to the nurse’s station is right there.”

And she departs.

Jason and Drake stare at each other without speaking for a while. The noise is broken only when the pink bundle in Jason’s arms begins to wriggle and his back goes rigid.

He looks back down at the tiny human in his hands and abruptly realizes he has never been more terrified in his life.

Even in that warehouse, being savagely beaten—he knew what was going to happen. Either he was going to be saved by Batman at the last minute, or he would die. Either way, the pain would end.

It occurs to him that the infant he’s holding has the potential to cause a whole other kind of pain.

“How do I put her down?” he asks through a dry mouth. “She didn’t…she didn’t show how to put her down—”

His hands feel too clumsy, his arms too big and—god, he could crush her.

“Why are you asking me?” Tim asks, an octave higher than normal.

“Because you—”

He cuts off since he has no idea how he was going to answer that.

“Okay,” Drake says after a deep breath. “Okay, let’s try…” And he approaches slowly, eyeing Jason like he’s approaching a wild dog. Jason normally wouldn’t blame him, considering their not-so-great past together, but at the moment, his replacement’s the only one in his corner.  

Somehow, thin but strong fingers slide between the space of leather jacket and blanket, maneuvering so that the baby’s head is supported, and between the two of them they get the infant back in the crib.

She only scrunches up her face and mewls in distaste.

Which is good.

Not crying is good.

He thinks.

Unless it’s a sign that something’s wrong.

Aren’t healthy babies supposed to cry? She doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong with her, but how would he know the difference?

I'm not qualified for this.

For a long time, he and Drake stand on either side of the crib, tense and neither really knowing how to break the oppressive silence. Staring down at the little pink creature like it might suddenly rear up and attack.

It would be funny if it all weren’t so terrifying.

Jason hasn’t smoked in almost five years, but just then all he wants it a cigarette. Or a pack.

More time must pass than he expected, because there’s a staccato beeping from Drake’s wrist, and they both look up. Jason watches the other man covertly pull up a holographic screen above his wrist, frowning at the numbers and data blinking at him.

His eyes widen. They’re very blue, Jason notices dimly, in the abstract and tired way you notice strange details in the moments before your life irrevocably changes.

When their gazes connect, Tim Drake’s face says it all.

Jason’s lungs constrict.

“Holy shit,” he croaks, because what the hell else is he going to say?

“Holy shit,” Drake echoes. “This is…not the result I was expecting.”

Jason barks out a bitter laugh and begins to pace, running his fingers through his hair. His throat feels like it’s closing over because up until that moment, he really didn’t think it was real.

Isabel dead, he could believe. Her leaving behind a baby, also believable.

But that the baby is his?

That Jason Todd—the clan fuck-up who never entertained the idea of ever being a father except for maybe a lifetime ago when he also dreamed impossible things like growing up to become Batman—has a kid?

“No!” he rasps, whirling around to face Drake. “No, this is not fair! I’m careful—I’ve always been careful! This is the sort of thing that happens to Bruce. Or maybe Dick, because who knows where he’s been—hell, even Alfred had a kid he didn’t know about.”

“This sort of thing happens more than you think,” Drake tries. “Statistically speaking—"

“It doesn’t happen to me!” Jason hisses back.

Especially since he’s always made it a point to only sleep with people he knew were species incompatible, didn’t have the body parts necessary to get pregnant or on birth control. The few times he’d been with Isabel, she’s even laughed at him because of how intent he was to stop and put on a condom.

“This is…” Jason begins, fighting down the mounting urge to throw up. “It’s too much, I need to—”

“Take a walk,” Drake tells him, a commanding note in his voice that is eerily reminiscent of Bruce. “An hour or two somewhere else to clear your head. Or longer, if you need to. I can keep an eye on things here—especially since she’s here for a few days anyway while we wait for the blood tests.”

The unnecessary blood tests, the ones that will tell them the same thing the Bat tech has already figured out.

“And arrangements will need to be made for Isabel,” he continues, then pauses. “If you want me to.”

Jason should say no.

He should tell Drake to back off, to let Jason figure this out the way he always figures things out—on his own. That he doesn’t trust him or anyone enough to deal with this situation properly.

But the lure of escape is too strong just then, and the hospital room feels like it’s closing in on him like a coffin.

He throws one last panicked look at the baby in the crib and then flees the maternity ward.

Jason is not entirely sure he’s going to come back.

________________________________________________________________

But we all know he's going to come back...

So, I'm really hoping I've portrayed Jason's reactions in a believable way. I just figure finding out he's had a kid would hit him a lot harder and he'd be way more surprised about it than Bruce was when he found out about Damian. I figure he would need time to process. And as for Tim, I always see him as the one who steps in and tries to fix everything even when it's beyond his wheelhouse. He's probably panicking as much as Jason right now...

Your feedback matters! I want to know what you think of my story, so feel free to leave kudos, a comment or as many of these emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels

Next Chapter

[demonsonthemoon]

Despite The Odds (We Keep On Breathing)

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairings: Sam/Bucky (platonic, there’s kissing though) Word Count: 3793 Summary: Sam didn't really know why Bucky stayed with him, after. Turned out he was pretty okay when he wasn't brainwashed and hellbent on killing him. Turned out Sam trusted him. Turned out maybe they could help each other. Note: This was written for Aggressively Arospec Week 2019. Basically I wanted to explore what trauma can mean for your sense of self/how you identify. I'm not in any way a specialist on anything relating to mental health, so take this with a pinch of salt I guess. Also it's my first time writing from Sam's POV! Woop! Featuring caedromantic!Bucky

Also available on AO3.

Sam didn't really know why Bucky stayed with him, after.

Maybe he thought that making sarcastic remarks at each other for months on end because they might be on the run together but they didn't have to like it was a form of bonding.

Maybe he thought they could help each other through the shared trauma of being left behind by their best friend right after having been brought back to life.

Maybe he didn't have anywhere else to go.

Maybe he didn't have anyone else to be other than Captain America's shadow.

Whatever the reason, the fact of the matter was that Bucky Barnes was following him around a whole lot. And, at this point, Sam felt like it was probably too late to ask why.

The thing was, it wasn't bad. Taking up the mantle/shield of Captain America meant that his life was on the line even more often than it used to be, and having someone watching out for him was invaluable. And the fact that it was Bucky Barnes doing the watching... Well, it turned out that that wasn't so bad either. Turned out the guy was pretty okay when he wasn't brainwashed and hellbent on killing him.

Sam didn't know everything that had happened to him, but he knew enough. And he knew it was a lot. And despite all of that, Bucky had turned into a mostly quiet man, one who got too sarcastic when he was either in a great or a terrible mood. He had been used as a weapon and killed dozens of people, and know he had a small smile he reserved for flowers peeking through concrete and dogs who tried to sniff him. It seemed to Sam that something had settled into him during his time in Wakanda. It was a fragile equilibrium, he knew that. That's always what it was. But he also thought it was probably much more than Bucky had let himself hope for.

Maybe Sam was projecting onto Bucky a little bit. Or maybe a lot. Sam was an adult, he could admit it to himself. Inhale, exhale, there you go. He was glad that Bucky was there with him. Because his own equilibrium was not so much fragile as holding on through duct tape and prayers. It was just... superheroing was lonely work. It didn't come with an adjustment period, and it was definitely not the kind of job where you could call in sick on bad mental health days. Sam wasn't living the kind of life where he had time to mourn. He also wasn't living the kind of life that could help him forget.

So, yeah. He was glad Bucky was there with him. He was glad someone was there to remember. Even when the guy was being an asshole.

“For fuck's sake! I told you to stop doing that!” Sam groaned, pushing aside the man he had just punched in the face and stepping over the one who had been shot by a bullet which had flown exactly a handspan away from Sam's cheek.

“I told you not to move,” Bucky said over their comm system, sounding totally unrepentant.

“Yeah, while a guy was trying to kick my knee in. It's not like I had much of a choice.”

He kept moving as he talked, shield held up in front of him in case of gunfire. There was always gunfire. Except when it was magic. Sam much prefered the gunfire to magic.

He kept moving, knocking a few more people unconscious and shooting one in the leg. It wasn't because he had picked up Steve's shield that he had to pick up his stupid habit of never carrying a gun.

He had finally reached the room where hostages were being held, and from what he could hear, the people inside had noticed something was wrong. That wasn't good. It meant they would be prepared for him, which usually meant a lot of gunfire.

“Gonna need some help here,” Sam said into his comms, voice low.

“You always do,” came Bucky's reply. Sam rolled his eyes. He had no idea why Bucky was in such a good mood when they were fighting terrorists. The guy was weird.

He also hadn't given him any information on what form his backup would take, but the sound of a window breaking was as good a sign as any that Sam should kick in the door and punch anything that looked like it wanted to kill him.

By the time he went to untie the hostages, his hands were shaking from the adrenaline. He could feel a dozen bruises starting to form all over his body, but right now the pain was an easily ignored buzz. He did his best to smile in a non-threatening way and reassure everyone that they were safe.

As usual, Bucky hung back for this part. By now, most civilians recognized Sam's uniform immediately, although there had been a transition period where a lot of people had awkward questions about Captain America turning black and sprouting wings. But Bucky was much less of a public figure, and his dark-coloured tac gear didn't exactly made him inviting. That, and Bucky was always on high alert after a fight. There was a stillness to him that was all concentration and held-back power. Sam used to be afraid of it too, so he knew what those civilians were feeling. Although, nowadays, he had to admit it was one of the few things that made him feel safe.

Going on missions together all across the world meant staying in hotels with very thin walls, and Bucky had a supersoldier's hearing, so it really was no surprise to hear a knock on the door after Sam had woken up from a nightmare that had launched him right into a panic attack.

“You can come in,” Sam struggled to say over his ragged breathing. Fuck, he hated nightmares. He nearly never got panic attacks during the day anymore, knew a dozen tricks to force himself to relax before they fully developed. But his sleeping self never remembered any of them, not when he was faced with conflated images of Steve stepping back in time and Riley falling from the sky and himself always helpless and left behind.

Bucky stepped into the room. The cold efficiency of his fighting mode – Sam did his best not to call it the Winter Soldier mode, not even jokingly – had disappeared. Instead, Sam was faced by a man in a soft white shirt and sweatpants, mussed hair falling over his face. The first time this had happened he had held himself small, light on his feet. Ready to bolt, but still making the effort to offer his help. Sam had been more touched by that than he had ever been able to express.

That night he was less tense. He knew this was allowed now. He knew this was welcome. Needed, maybe, though Sam had yet to admit that.

“Do you want to talk?” Bucky asked softly. “Or should I just keep watch?”

Sam didn't like being alone after nightmares. It didn't help that the new ones had abandonment trauma spelled out all over them. Sometimes just having Bucky stay in the room was enough for him to fall back asleep, knowing he wasn't alone, knowing he was safe. Bucky didn't sleep a lot. Didn't need to.

“Have to calm down first,” Sam replied. His breathing was beginning to deepen, a little, but it still wasn't comfortable. He could feel a headache starting. Panic attacks were the worst, because they made him even more tired than he already was from lack of sleep. Fuck.

Bucky pulled the chair out from under the desk in a corner of the room and sat down. It should have been weird, Sam sitting in bed, knees drawn up, head resting on his crossed arms, struggling to breathe, and Bucky watching him. But there was no judgment in Bucky's gaze. No pity, no overbearing concern. Just a quiet acknowledgment of Sam's presence and of his struggle, and Sam didn't know how he had managed without it all this time.

Slowly, Sam got his breathing back under control. He could still feel his heart beating fast and his head pounding in the same rhythm. He looked up.

Bucky was still there, watching him with the same soft and neutral expression. Sam felt something twist in his chest.

“You'd figured it out, hadn't you?” he let out, too tired to filter his thoughts.

Bucky twitched slightly, which was his equivalent of jumping in surprise, Sam figured. He probably hadn't expected the accusatory tone in Sam's voice. The accusation wasn't directed at him though. Not at all.

Sam ran a hand across his face. He'd started this, and he needed to see it through. Seeing from his nightmares, this unresolved business wasn't going to let go of him any time soon if he kept ignoring it.

“When Steve...” he hated the way his voice still caught on the name. Like he had died a death too horrible to speak of. (Like Riley.) But he hadn't. He had made his choice. He had lived his life. A good one. (Maybe better for them not being in it.) “... left. When he left, you said... You said 'I'll miss you.'”

Bucky's face was still neutral, but it had lost some of its softness.

“He was supposed to be gone for seconds. Only seconds. And when he came back... You weren't surprised, were you?”

Bucky turned his head to the side. His hair partly hid him from Sam's view. Bucky didn't let himself show negative emotions.

“Fuck, Bucky, I'm sorry, I didn't...” Sam hesitated before pushing his duvet to the side and moving forward so he could sit on the edge of the bed, facing the other man.

Bucky always asked him what he needed, but Sam had never offered the same. Bucky always looked like he would refuse. Now Sam hesitated, wanting to reach out a hand and not daring to. Staying within arm's length was his best bet, giving Bucky the opportunity to cross the gap if he wanted to.

The other man took a deep breath and turned back towards him. “Nothing to apologize for,” he said, voice flat. “You didn't do anything.

“Yeah, but I shouldn't have...” Sam started. Shouldn't have what? Hadn't he admitted just a minute ago that he needed to stop repressing all this? “Shouldn't have said it like that.”

Bucky shrugged. “You weren't wrong.”

His shoulders were hunched forward, a habit Bucky had caught to make himself look smaller, less threatening. It made him lean slightly into Sam's space. Sam tried not to read anything into that, but he had hopes.

“I... suspected. I didn't want to be right, but well.” He looked up into Sam's eyes. His gaze was intense. Focused. Dangerous.

It was the gaze of a hurt animal waiting for its chance to run.

“He wasn't the same anymore.”

There's so much that's left unsaid behind those words. How they're not the same either. How Steve hadn't been the Brooklyn kid Bucky remembered in a long time. How much it hurt that despite all of their effort none of them could go back to the way things used to be.

Steve had gone back in time, sure, but it had just been to a different future. Sam wondered, a bit cruelly, if he'd ever missed the past that Sam and Bucky had become to him.

“You should sleep,” Sam said. He stood up and put a hand forward, waiting for Bucky to carefully take it before he pulled him to his feet. Bucky didn't hesitate when Sam tugged him towards his own bed.

Sam didn't let himself think about it long enough to hesitate either.

When he woke up, Sam found Bucky's arm flung across his waist and one of his legs tangled in between Sam's. When he turned his head, Bucky's eyes were still closed, although Sam felt him move just the tiniest bit, as if trying not to let it show that he was already awake.

Sam found he was okay with that. If it meant they could stay like this a while longer, he was fine with letting Bucky pretend as long as he wanted to.

It was human, after all. Most people needed physical contact, preferably some that didn't come from punches and chokeholds.

Sam was only human himself. He felt warmth spread through his body and tension fade away as he let himself melt back into a half-doze.

He knew he and Bucky trusted each other. They had to, to fight together like they did. They had to, if Bucky was going to stand watch over Sam on the days he got nightmares. But this felt like another sort of trust. This was skin on skin, but without the sweat and the blood. Vulnerability without open wounds.

This felt too damn good, and for once Sam could tell himself he wanted it enough not to listen to the voice saying it was something he didn't deserve.

So, after a minute, he opened his eyes and said “Good morning.”

Bucky opened his eyes as well, looking back at him. “Good morning.” He immediately started untangling his legs from Sam's. The movement had a controlled languor to it. It was trying too hard not to draw attention to itself.

Sam caught Bucky's right hand between his, and brought it to his lips. “Don't,” he whispered against the fingers.

Bucky froze at that. Sam had gotten pretty good at reacting quickly, what with all the getting shot at he was doing this day, so it only took that half second for panic to settle throughout his body and for him to let go of his grip.

But Bucky didn't move away. He didn't punch Sam in the face nor broke his wrist, which was a relief. Instead, he drew in a breath, and then carefully ran his thumb along the length of Sam's lower lip.

That was... a thing. A thing that... did things. To Sam.

In that moment, he realized how long it had been since he'd dated anyone or even had a casual hook-up. The constant traveling and self-endangerment that formed the core of superheroing weren't conclusive to long-term relationships, and the chance to be recognized in a club and either kidnapped or assaulted by fans was high enough to make him stay away from them.

But right then, someone was touching his lips, and that someone was safe. That someone knew who he was, knew a big part of what he'd gone through, had gone through worse, and was still here and touching him like he was a tiny bird about to fly away.

Sam opened his mouth. Bucky did the same thing, surprise on his face, his finger still resting against Sam's lip.

Sam's entire body was one tense line, thrumming with too many emotions at once. The one that ended up resonating the loudest was very simple.

He didn't want this moment to leave him behind.

Sam would have very dramatically smashed his mouth against Bucky's if he could have, but the fact that they were both still lying on their side made the manoeuvring a little more difficult than that. In the end, they met in a soft press of lips that seemed to surprise Bucky even has he leaned forward to welcome it. His hand settled carefully on the back of Sam's neck.

Sam closed his eyes.

If he'd been asked, Sam wouldn't have thought kissing Bucky Barnes would be this way. Not that he had ever considered it. … Or at least not seriously.

But this was nice, if unexpected. Slow and careful movements, warm with the edge of sleep, too soft for Sam to hold back a sigh.

Bucky pulled away first. Then Sam opened his eyes once more.

He didn't know what he had expected the look on Bucky's face to be, but this wasn't it. This was much too neutral to his taste.

“I'm sorry,” Bucky said.

Those words were enough to make cold run through Sam's body, extinguishing everything else he'd been feeling until then. How could Bucky have misunderstood the situation enough to be apologizing to Sam?

“You've got nothing to be sorry for,” he replied, imitating the other man and sitting up. There was now a gap between the two of them, some sort of security distance that Sam felt like a tear in his own chest. Fuck, he hadn't known how badly he had been craving this kind of contact.

Bucky pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around it. His face wasn't as much neutral anymore as tired. The kind of exhaustion that went much beyond the physical. After all, he didn't need much sleep anymore.

“I can't do this,” Bucky said, looking away.

Sam concentrated on taking long and deep breaths. He couldn't panic now. He had maybe fucked things up with the only person he trusted, he couldn't afford to panic. This wasn't about him, and he was not going to make things worse.

“What? What can't you do?”

“I don't know. Relationships. Stuff. Flirting. Fucking. Anything. I can't do anything, I just...”

“Hey,” Sam started, trying to find that perfect balance between forceful and soft. He waited for Bucky to look up before he continued. “Don't say you can't do anything. You save my life on a weekly basis, that has to be worth something.”

He had hoped for a weak chuckle from that, would have settled for a sigh, but was only met with silence. Tough crowd. Sam had had some of those before.

“Why do you mean when you say you can't do those things? That you're not allowed or that you're not able to? Or something else?”

“I don't know. It doesn't feel the same way. I don't want it the same way. I don't want it.”

Another jolt of pure cold. Bucky hadn't wanted it.

Despite everything Sam told himself about needing not to panic, something must have shown in his eyes. Sam actually felt pretty good that his poker face wasn't yet good enough to hide the horror he felt at having been well on his way to raping someone.

“Fuck, no. I didn't mean it like that. I did want that. I liked it. You must have felt that I liked it, right?”

“It's not that easy, man. Sometimes you're put in a situation, and the way your body reacts doesn't have anything to do with how you actually feel about it.”

“It wasn't like that! Fuck, sweetheart, it wasn't like that, I swear...”

Sam was feeling very confused right then. Also, relieved. But mostly confused, because Bucky had called him sweetheart before but only through at least five layers of irony. Never so... earnestly. And that had felt a lot like flirting. Which Sam was not going to think about because it was very inappropriate even if he probably hadn't physically violated his superheroing partner.

“Okay, good,” Sam replied, holding up his hands to show he believed Bucky. They were still sitting side by side on a bed. For some reason this made the conversation seem even weirder than it was. “That's good. What did you mean by not wanting it then?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “It's weird. It's just... it's messed up. I'm messed up. I used to... I used to flirt with people all the time. I liked that. You feel that spark of attraction and you fan it, or something. It felt good. But I don't feel that anymore.”

“That's no reason to feel like you're messed up, you know. Loads of people don't like flirting or don't want to date. And kissing...” There Sam floundered a little, embarrassed. “Kissing doesn't have to be about sex. Sometimes you just need to touch someone. Sometimes it just feels nice.”

Bucky shook his head. “But I used to like it,” he insisted. There was something almost childish to his voice. Or maybe not childish. Maybe it was just innocent.

“I'm supposed to be... I know that's not how it works, but I'm supposed to be... fixed. Why can't I just...”

Bucky closed the fist of his prosthetic arm tightly. With his other hand, he covered half of his face. That was Bucky for you. Always showing you calm and control, despite the blizzard that must constantly be raging inside him.

“Hey,” Sam said softly. “Can I touch you?” He waited until Bucky nodded before slowly unfolding his prosthetic hand and sliding their fingers together. “You're right. That's not how it works. You went through a shitload of trauma, man. And the mental programming T'Challa's people took out of you was only the tip of the iceberg, right? But that's nothing to be ashamed of. Being a different person now than you were in the past is not something that has to be fixed. It's how humans work.”

“It was... It was so much easier to get better when I knew what I was supposed to be aiming for. When I was just gathering memories, trying to be someone...”

To be someone Steve knew, was the sentence Sam guessed hung between them. But Steve didn't need Bucky to be his old self anymore. Steve had enough memories to fill twice what Bucky had ever lost.

Steve had never managed to forget Peggy. Would Sam and Bucky ever forget him?

“Your past self isn't necessarily better, you know? I didn't know him, but I know you now. And I would say you're a pretty okay guy.”

Sam actually earned his chuckle this time, and he squeezed Bucky's hand in response.

“What you want or don't want... It's a big deal to some people. I get that. But it doesn't have to be. And sometime it changes. And that's okay. Sometimes it changes because of stuff that happens to you. And sometimes the stuff isn't okay. But the change is. Sometimes things change back to the way they were and sometimes they don't. There's no telling whether one or the other is any kind of recovery. And all of this doesn't have to be anything you define yourself by. But it can.”

Bucky sighed, letting himself fall back against the bed's headboard. “I guess I'm lucky the new Captain America has a degree in psychology.”

Sam let out a quick laugh. “Nah. This isn't anything I learned in class. You're just lucky I care about you.”

“Yeah, actually. I am.”

Bucky squeezed his hand, ever so softly, with fingers that could tear a door off its hinges in a second, and Sam thought:

I am too.

[deviant-hunter-rk800]

Break — [X] SAVE HER

IF YOU HAVE NOT READ BREAK, DO SO BEFORE READNG THIS!

Officers sweep past, but Connor doesn’t move with the tide. People are shouting, flashlights moving back and forth, flooding the space. Someone calls his name and the android is finally ripped from his dilemma.

“Where’d he go?!” Came Reed’s voice, upset and rightfully so.

“He went towards the southwest corner,” Connor answers loud enough for the entire room to hear. “He’s injured. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

More orders are given, leaving Gavin, Connor, and two medics tending to Hank.

“Detective,” the android says, earning a half-interested grunt, “we need to leave.”

Gavin’s head whips towards him. “Oh really?” he laughs humorlessly. He takes a step forward, jabbing Connor in his chest with his finger. “You just let our best lead get away. And you wanna go on a fuckin road trip?”

“Something came up-“

His nose twitches. “What? An update from CyberHell finally came through?”

“Your partner,” Connor snaps, matching Gavin’s low growl. The man’s harsh glare falters. “She called while I was trying to apprehend the suspect. Two men broke in. I believe she may be in serious danger if not-“

“Don’t,” he cuts off quietly, his face pale. The venom returns to his voice but it’s strained. “Don’t fuckin say it.”

Gavin moves towards the door from which they came, Connor matching his stride. Red and blue lights cascade over them both, basking them in their colors. Reed gestures at the nearest patrol car and Connor walks around its front to get in.

“Adam!” Reed shouts, gaining the attention of the young officer by the door. “Make sure the lieutenant is taken care of! Shit hits the fan, you call me, got it?”

“Yes, sir!”

With one last nod, Gavin slides into the driver's seat, turning the key until the engine roars to life. The car’s rear end slips on the loose gravel, tires spinning wildly at the press of the accelerator. Grip on the wheel tight, Gavin doesn’t look away from the windshield.

“Where is she?”

“Y/N?!”

Caution was thrown to the wind as Connor barrels through the front door, biocomponents seizing at the mess inside. Books littered the floor, blood splattered here or there on the carpet and walls. Gavin follows closely behind, gun drawn. The RK800 quickly follows the trail to your borrowed room.

You sit against the far wall, snow drifting through the broken window and onto your head, the white specks striking against the drying blood. Your heartbeat is steady. Connor steps – nearly tripping – over the chair that upside down and in pieces. His hands cup your face and your breath hitches, weakly moving your arms to push him away. With blood in your right eye and your left swollen shut, you could barely see his silhouette.

“No,” you murmur hoarsely, “no more.”

The truth of your pain is self evident in your voice. “It’s me, Y/N. It’s Connor.”

Taking hold of your wrists, he holds them gingerly in his hands, hating the way you tremble. A choked sob escapes your lips, the sudden push of air making your body jolt with pain. Connor’s fingers move deftly over your skin, assessing your wounds, your blood staining his fingertips.

Whining from within the bathroom has Gavin opening the door slowly. Sumo lays on the tile, shrinking back with his ears lying flat. Reed holsters his weapon, extending a hand carefully. The Saint Bernard sniffs before licking him. Gavin chuckles, the sound nothing more than a couple puffs of air from his nose. The dog pushes itself to a stand, legs shaking as he limps into the bedroom.

Gavin follows, lips pressing into a hard line. “House is clear.”

Connor nods. It’s all his over-processing, anxiety muddled brain can manage. He wants to shove those feelings in some distant corner of his thoughts, jamming it in his wiring so it can’t reach his heart. Your good eye flutters, head settling against the cold wall once more.

“We need to get her out of here,” Gavin mutters, a shiver wracking through him. “Get her and the dog some help.”

Again comes that stupid, mindless nod. The Detective’s brows pinch together, surprised at the android’s lack of further movement. Stepping around him, Gavin finally gets a look at Connor’s face, recognizing the guilt swarming his features. Reed crouches next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” for once, there’s no hostility in the man’s voice. The RK800 forces his gaze away from your beaten frame. “We can still help her.”

A cold wind blows over them, Sumo nuzzling into your thigh. You make no effort to pet him, your hand limp in Connor’s hold. Delicately, as if you were made of glass – the next snowflake to land upon your skin would cause you to shatter – Connor picks you up bridal style, cradling you against his chest. You were unconscious by now. Feeling your weight in his arms, he suddenly understood Atlas’s pain.

“C’mon,” Gavin calls to the dog, patting his thigh. Sumo tilts his head but follows regardless. He frowns at the busted window, but realizes there’s nothing he can do. Closing the front door as best he can, Gavin hurries to help Connor into the backseat.

“You sit with her,” he utters, throat tight at the sight of your blood freezing in the fresh snow. “Big guy’ll sit up front with me.”

Hands shaking, Gavin gets Sumo into the passenger seat, the dog happily jumping inside the car. He keeps telling himself that you were going to be alright and that there was nothing to worry about, but he always was a bad liar. He drops into the driver's seat, eyes focused on the glow of red from the  android’s LED is the rear view mirror as he starts the vehicle. He could be an ass, yes, (he couldn’t deny that no matter how badly he might want to), but you were still his partner – his friend. Lord knows he doesn’t have many of those. The thought of God flits through his mind as he turns on the lights, turning towards the hospital.

I don’t do this enough, Reed prays, almost surprising himself, but please. Don’t take her away just yet.

If it weren’t so quiet – if that calm aura of the room didn’t offer to coax you back to sleep – you wouldn’t have heard him.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You turn, finding Connor standing in the doorway to your hospital room. He wants to say more, you can see it in the way his jaw hangs slack, but no words come out. With glassy eyes and sagging shoulders, he looks like a puppy after being scolded, left out on the porch for the night.

“C’mere.”

Setting your tea down, you sit up, clenching your teeth at the spike of pain as you do so. He gives a weak shake of his head. The light of the rising sun peeks through the blinds, catching your hair so you glow; a halo of light feathering across your face the way his fingers long to. Unable to deny your soft request, he moves forward.

You take his hand in yours, feeling how warm his skin is. “Connor.”

Why did you have to say his name like that? Like you still had faith in him?

“This isn’t your fault.”

“I should’ve acknowledged your call properly. I was-“

“In the middle of a fight,” you finish for him. You smile tiredly, adding, “If I heard it right.”

That quiet comes back, enveloping you both as Connor finally sits down on the edge of the bed. His hand trembles as he frees it from yours, hovering just by your cheek. Offering another weak smile, you press your face into his hand, relaxing at the touch.

His thumb moves swollen over the swollen arch of your cheekbone, his nail catching the butterfly bandage there ever so lightly. You let your eyes fall shut. Nestling further into his warmth, a shaky breath passes your lips.  You bring your hand to the back of his wrist, a silent plea to keep it there.

“I would’ve done it again,” you murmur suddenly.

His thumb stops its movement, your lashes brushing it as your eyes open. He searches for his voice, finding it cracked and worn, “Why?”

His earlier thought of having never seen you cry is rectified, and he can’t remember when he last hated something so much. The tear falls heavily, rolling down your face without invitation.

“They wanted to kill you, Connor,” you whisper. “They wanted to tear you apart.”

His lips part, the whisper of dying words escaping him. His brain housing group catches up, the sudden urge to rip himself from you overwhelming. Guilt threatens to drown him, flooding his lungs with something he can’t quite identify. He tries to pull away, but your grip tightens, giving him no choice but to stay; whether you were holding him under or pulling him free, he couldn’t tell.

“Why would you do that, Y/N?” His brows pinch together, voice small and brittle. “Why would you put yourself in harm’s way for me?”

“Because I was it.”

You watch his LED flicker yellow, matching the golden hue of sunlight resting on his skin. You shake your head in his hold, eyes darting to his then the floor and back again. Drawing in a heavy breath, your eyes sting with the strain on your rib cage, but nevertheless, you hold the air in your lungs, finding a strange form of comfort in its ache.

“If they would’ve left, they would’ve left to find you. And if something happened to you, I-“

Connor tips his head, screwing his eyes shut, the pressure forcing those tears previously resting on his lashes to fall. He can feel your breath across his skin; a gentle hum of wind before a storm.

“I wouldn’t have come back from that.”

Forehead touching yours, his free hand cups your face, artificial lungs clawing for a breath. How he got here, he wasn’t sure. He could recall the warehouse, Detective Reed going well over the speed limit, Hank’s house torn apart by the intruders, but at what point did his thirium pump start hammering in his chest? When did your presence cause his sensors to go haywire? Surely it wasn’t a glitch in his system — CyberLife ensured he had been the best android model to date — so maybe, just maybe, it was when he realized-

“You could’ve died,” he whispers dejectedly, voice sharpening at the end.

A weak smile pulls at your lips. “Annoying isn’t it? How scary the thought is?”

He laughs; strangled and unfamiliar, but the sound is unmistakable. Both of his thumbs swipe away your tears. There’s a scuffle at the door, and you slowly part, Connor choosing to face the window.

Gavin stands there awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck, feeling guilty for intruding.

“Hey, Gav,” you say gently.

His head turns fast. “Hey,” he replies, cautiously entering the room. “It’s, uh, good to see you awake.”

Your smile slips, finding the thin, knitted blanket thrown over you much more interesting than either of them. Your broken fingernails pick at a stray thread.

“Thank you.” Their gazes fall heavy on you, and you squirm under the scrutiny. “Both of you.”

“For what?”

Which one asked, you’re not sure. You shrug, wanting to laugh but finding yourself unable to do so. A hint of sarcasm easily takes its place.

“For saving my pathetic ass.”

“Y/N-“

“I lost my head last night and it almost cost me,” you continue, not letting the other finish. “It’s just-“ you look up, eyes dancing between Connor and Gavin. “It’s good to know you’ve got my back.”

Gavin gives a curt nod, lips pulling into a thin smile. “That’s what partners are for, right?”

“Yeah.” Connor’s fingers tangle with your own. “I guess it is.”

[inveesible]

sorry it took so long @derelict-blade , and sorry if it's not what you expected >///<

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- the date on this thing says "October, 13, 2287", and all the clues lead me to believe that... the prototype 0078-yh...

- one of the functions of this thing is a journal on which I can write and save in a flash drive similar to a mini-disk (who uses mini-disks anymore?).I've decided to take note of everything that may help me understand what happened and to sort things out; if it's true that it's been 270 years since the day of my test on myself... no, I don't want to think about "that" question, now it's of no use to me.

- I managed to get out of this "vault", finally, only to come back with my tail between my legs. The scenery presented to me outside makes me believe that, at some point, during my hibernation, that atomic war finally happened.The state of the surrounding vegetation suggests that at least 50 years have passed.

- I think I killed all the giant cockroaches that infested the vault and I was able to make some terminals work, at least those are still intact... The hacking was so outdated that it was literally the last card I played. I found the diary of one of the scientists who worked here, and with it the confirmation of a nuclear strike occurred in date October 23, 2077; so they brought me here with the prototype between 2017 and 2077 and they used us to develop other cryopods, in which they locked twelve people against their will... those people survived the bombs just to be imprisoned here, maybe forever… or at least until the reactor stops working.

- I've had enough for today, I'll try to sleep and continue tomorrow. It's so cold here, but it could be me...

- 10/16: I decided to try to explore the surroundings once more, at the first giant spider that I meet I'll shoot myself straight in the head. I brought with me the gun I found, 22 bullets, no, 21... I’ll keep one for myself.

- before I left I checked the vital signs of the twelve hibernates, they are fine, as long as you can feel fine in a cryogenic induced coma... I promised (to who?) that every once in a while I'll be back to check on their conditions. now let's see how I handle this shit…

- I stopped almost immediately, at a gas station (?) a few steps from the vault. From the hillside you could see a hamlet, very small, maybe ten houses, but for now I prefer to avoid - I was going to write "population centres". I… I'm too scared of who or what I could find there, but here I was lucky, I met a dog, an healthy and friendly-looking German Shepherd... REGULAR SIZE. Good boy.

- from here you can see what looks like a water supply, and if it’s telling the truth, we are (meaning the dog and I) near Concord, meaning, we are not too far from Cambridge... I wonder if it wouldn't be better to… all I had was there... I need to see with my own eyes that... now...

- a few hours after leaving the gas station (??) it started raining, the dog and I (yes, he’s following me, and I must admit that I feel safer now), we found a shelter in an abandoned tool shed. I set up a bed and I locked myself in, now I want to take advantage of this time available to learn how to use this... wrist-computer (?); "pip-boy 3000" is says here, yeah there's no way I'm saying that...

- 10/17: I fell asleep while "playing" with this minicomputer, I were fooled by the puppy's body heat, or maybe it was his smell… but if it keeps away the beasts then it's worth it. I had breakfast with some canned water, I found old boxes of processed food that I don't trust to eat, I keep them aside for when I have no other choice... that could be a matter of hours, since I have not eaten in four days... oh right, 269 years, 10 months and 6 days, thanks a lot brain.

- the dog (I wonder if I should give him a name) hunted down a couple of birds to feed himself, I got a good look at them, he's so lucky he’s not a fussy.

- The dog is much smarter than many people I've met, he helped me find some medicines and A RIFLE! 38 caliber, telescopic sight, silencer, and 34 cartridges in a hip bag. Now I'm less afraid of meeting a giant spider... or nearly... He also brought me a can of Cram, regardless of the expiration date, I never liked it, but if I want to keep going with this experiment I'll have to come to terms with it, sooner or later.

- 10/18: I had to stop my entries because, like an idiot, I attracted a dogs pack with that goddamned Cram and... I had to... I've never shot anything alive before yesterday... I had never killed voluntarily... but those dogs were... I've never seen them so aggressive, they looked like those birds with which the dog (the friendly one) feeds occasionally, spot baldness, purulent sores, I managed not to get bit by the skin of your teeth. Who knows from what kind of bacterial mutant disease they were infected... they were five and... I shot three of them in the head after the dog (the friendly one) broke the first two's necks... then we had to run, I feared that the shots could have attracted something, or someone, even worse. Now we are safely locked in a wrecked bus, I cried for an hour and slept for another.

- it's an oddly beautiful full moon night, I can see the silhouettes of the buildings in Cambridge, if I leave at the first lights I could get to my old apartment by nightfall, if it works for everyone…

- in order to get my shit together I made an inventory of my "equipment": the clothes I'm currently wearing - a scarf (now in the bag) - my glasses - other sunglasses (now in the bag) - my pager (broken) - wallet - money ($ 518 in cash, $ 11 and 57 cents in change) - my I.D. did not survive the freezing, the data is illegible - 10mm gun - 17 ammo of the abovementioned gun - caliber 38 sniper rifle - 34 cartridges of the abovementioned rifle - 6 units of canned water - 1 unit of half eaten Cram (it sucks, but edible) - 2 units of Pork n’ Beans – 2 units of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes – a blue jumpsuit, new, too big for me (now in the bag).

- the food preservation industry has made tremendous strides while I was sleeping ... bah, America.

- inside the vault it didn't work properly, but I noticed that the radio of this minicomputer has intercepted some frequencies; as soon as I find a shelter I'll try to tune in. It's surely an indication of post-apocalyptic civilization, I don't know yet whether to rejoice or not.

-oh, this minicomputer also has a built-in thermometer, according to it I've a bit of fever and I'm almost dehydrated.

- I would give my left arm for a hot bath...

- … and the right one for some not 300-year-old cigarettes.

- I can't get those dogs out of my head... among all that happened to me, those dogs...

- it becomes increasingly difficult to avoid thinking of "that question"...

- 10/19 part 2: while I was having breakfast with the leftover of that Cram (ugh) I saw a person pass by, a woman, along the way nearby: she was alone, if we don't count the naked cow loaded with stuff (it had two heads?? Perhaps my dehydration is more severe than I expected), and she was armed, if we can consider weapon a gun made out of twigs and scrap metal (???), the dog was not alarmed, I was about to go and talk to her, but I'm a coward and I missed my chance...

- I waited to see her disappear behind a distant corner, then I waited another twenty minutes to not hear gunshots, at that point I followed her steps, we are pretty close to Cambridge, and more houses can mean more people, people who could be hostile, that's why I took the safe off.

- I wonder if it's not the case to go to the police station... I'm not stupid enough to hope to find Edward there, but maybe there’s some stock that could turn useful, weapons, ammunition, ESPECIALLY ammunition, better yet body armour, anti-aggression equipment... yes, it's DEFINITELY the case to go to the police station.

- Edward… when the war broke out he should have been 95... who knows if no fuck no, I can't think of this now, I don't want to do the same calculation for those assholes, they are dead, they are dead they are dead they are all dead I’m sorry Edward

- 10/19 part 3: I have two hours of light, I'm wasting time on this fire escape, it wasn't easy to get the dog up, he didn't want to hear of it, but I thought it was safer to try to get in from the roof, I didn't even see the main entrance... if there were people inside... if those people were armed and hostile... if that woman, that of the two-headed cow, went around armed there must be a reason... if those people were trying to kill me, how much further could I claim self-defense? Would I be able to defend myself? Would I be able to ... kill them before they kill me? This is going to be the most difficult experiment that I must ever conduct.

-OK that’s new: there are signs of recent activity, someone tried to set up a shelter in here, there’s ammo but no weapon, makeshift mattresses, FOOD, but I didn't touch anything; whoever did this could come back and I need to be ready, perhaps to fight, perhaps for a peaceful dialogue... I hope for the latter.

-10/21 I'm absolutely the most idiotic and lucky person in the world: after my last entry two days ago, due to the dog's body heat and to my belly full of 200 year old treats, I fell asleep AGAIN... I'm such a dumb shit…! The first unregistered voice that I heard in eight days woke me up, under threat and pointing to me what I later realized was a weapon, who highly invited me to identify myself and to declare my intentions. I've never been so close to wet my pants, but luckily that man was open to dialogue, maybe I'll write something about him and his group later, they are four, they know what they’re doing, and they don't want to hurt me... apparently.

- and now the bad news: when I was woken up the dog was gone. Danse, I mean Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel (?), said there was no dog with me when he found me, I looked for him a bit nearby the others warned me not to go too far because Cambridge is Ghoul infested (???)... that dog can take care of himself, he'll be fine... please let him be fine...

-Haylen wait, Scribe Haylen (oh my fucking god), is teaching me how to use the latest technology, hardware and stuff, she was nothing short of enthusiastic about my minicomputer, and advised me not to keep it inside my duffle bag, but always on my wrist (shit, it's as comfortable as a wooden underwear). She also told me to wear the jumpsuit I found in the vault, the one that was too big for me, because the fabric is made of a radiation-resistant material, has the ability to regulate body heat according as necessary and, lo and behold, it's not too big, the suit fits your size, you wear it, you wiggle in it a little bit, and it fits perfectly. I'm wearing it under my clothes, it's definitely TOO tight for my liking.

- speaking of radiations, Haylen says that the medicines I found are safe, in small doses even that pre-war food, although fresh food would be better (fresh food here???).

- I like Haylen, we share very much and I can talk to her pretty quietly, she asks a lot of questions, but can't say I wouldn't have done the same myself. Paladin Danse is doing his best to make me feel comfortable, he doesn’t always succeed, however I appreciate the effort, and his "power armor" is the coolest thing I've ever seen! Sometimes I find Knight Keane looking away from me, he hasn’t spoke to me in two days, almost makes me think he hates me, he would not be the first. Knight Rhys is dickhe

- Paladin Danse called a meeting in ten minutes, this time my presence is requested, and now that I'm writing it, I'm afraid it's because they've finally decided what to do with me...

[candyclan]

Coming out letter to my mom. (FTM) At the start of my transition, I wanted to go by a name that started with an “A”because my birthname did. All the rest of it is basically the same.

THE TRUTH:

I didn’t scream “I am a boy” at my parents. Honestly, my mother (specifically) controlled a lot of what I did, who I hung out with, and what I wore as a child. I believe she has/had an idea about what she wanted out of a daughter since I was born, and really just lived through me. I think she eventually had to give me room to make my own decisions, later in life. I didn’t come out until I was 16, although I had spent 6 months prior to even coming out thinking about my gender identity. I was extremely sheltered. I want you guys to know that I didn’t know what being transgender was until I was a freshman in high school and met my best friend (who is STILL MY BEST FRIEND TODAY) who identified as Non-binary gender fluid. I had never really met someone AFAB that lived to be anything other than female. With that came the knowledge that sometimes, men don’t necessarily have to have penises and I can wear whatever I’m comfortable with. I used to be religious in middle school (raised Christian) but I never found god. It never made sense to me how so many people can put their faith in other people’s ideas of what god is (the Bible) but not listen when their real CHILD comes to them and tells them that they feel uncomfortable in their gender identity. I also came out as bisexual in middle school, after meeting a girl I had a fancy for. To which my mother sobbed and cried and asked how she had failed as a parent. I remember loving pink, it was my favorite color. Pink, purple, blue. My top 3. Now it’s blue, pink, purple but basically the same. I had a pink room, loved hello kitty, let my mom curl my hair with little curlers at night so I could wake up and be somebody different the next day. My brother played with carebears and my Barbie dolls more than I did as a child. I remember a toy gun and handcuffs. I was fairly experimental as a child, I did: Girl Scouts, swimming, piano, soccer, ballet, cheerleading, and more honestly. I always got “boy” toys at McDonald’s (I mean cmon they’re cooler) I just was kinda everywhere. I feel like that’s easier for someone AFAB to be. My brother was harassed by my family for liking girly things but I was never shown that I couldn’t like stereotypical “boy things” by extended family. My mother however in the line at McDonalds I could never forget, turned and looked at me (baseball cap backwards tank top and shorts)and said “So, what?” “Are you batting for the other team” implying that because of the clothes I liked to wear I would be a lesbian. My mother (like I said, kinda controlling and extremely narcissistic) when I was allowed to cut my hair super short for the first time I was 16. Afterwards she has said things like: “but you’re so pretty how could you have cut your hair” “you looked so nice with long hair” I never felt akin to femininity. I was actually VERY uncomfortable with it. I hated being the “weaker” gender. I never wanted my nails painted. It was torture. I acted like makeup and and nail polish was torture, the hairbrush was my enemy. I used to just put my hair up in a low ponytail every day as I got older. I knew she’d never let me cut it all off. Basically, other than wanting to grow up strong and tough and not liking to be treated like a female, I was female. There were parts of being female I didn’t really have a problem with, and honestly that’s why I didn’t come out for so long. I wasn’t in a house or raised by people I knew would accept anything other than me being their “little girl” I was a daddies girl. So between my lack of understanding of where my feelings towards my gender roles were coming from, being encouraged by my family to be girly, not being exposed to gender diversity (or anything queer), and my controlling mother, I remained in the dark about who I was.

TRIGGER WARNING:::(abuse)::::: I was never close with my mother, and actually hated her growing up. To this day she is the most judge mental, self-centered woman I know. My father was funny, charismatic, and lost his shit sometimes. I like to say, 90% of the time he was amazing. We made jokes and could literally finish each other’s sentences. But honestly my father, 10% of the time was abusive. Most of my abuse in my life was covert (narcissistic abuse from my mother) and verbal/emotional/barely physical abuse from my father. He’s 6”3’ 350 lbs and very loud and scary, especially to a young child. He punched a hole in my wall, he threw a remote at a wall and shattered it to pieces, he threatened to kill my dog with a baseball bat in front of me. Which I swear to god he would have done if I wasn’t holding my dog, protecting him. These moments were few and far between, but they were riddled with insults and almost always left me with less than I started with. My father did spank my brother and I, and one time he clapped my brother so well that he left a purple hand mark on his butt. My mother told my father she’d take us away if that happened again. My father never left marks. He never had to, he was so big and would just get up in my face and scream at me. He made me feel helpless. Because he was invading my space I felt physically threatened, and he never actually had to touch me and leave bruises because that threat was already implied by invading my space. I was so young, but I always knew my family wasn’t right. Finally at 16, I stood up to my father for the first time. I didn’t care if he was bigger than me, I didn’t care if I would lose, I was willing to fight for me. Anyway, long story short the police were called because we were screaming at each other in front of his apartment building. I’m not going to say I didn’t fuck up as a teenager, but I never deserved the pressure and the abuse he was dishing out and had dished out my whole life. I knew that. I cut him out of my life just after turning 16, by then I had been questioning my identity. It became easier after leaving my father to fall into who I was. My father is FAIRLY religious and my mother claims to be but she never talks about god, she never prays, and now that my father and her are divorced I don’t think she’s been inside a church since. Losing my father was a lot, despite his abuse he and I were really close and had really similar personalities. The reality of abuse isn’t “well, now I see them as an abuser so now none of that good stuff is left it’s all tainted” I had to struggle with losing someone very important in my life at a young age, for myself.

Arguments against me being trans:

My family has been a bit divided in responding to me coming out. By now, it’s been about 4 years.

My mother and her side of the family are in denial. They don’t understand how I can’t be a “lesbian that just likes boy things”. They don’t use my name or pronouns.

My father, what little communication I have with him now, is bewildered. He and I had a discussion this past Christmas where I brought up what his abuse did to me mentally and he apologized but then tried to say “well what about your part in all of this” and said that I was hanging out with crazy depressed people, cutting myself, doing drugs, (I was smoking weed and I’ve tried acid like once piss off) and was sneaking out. Yeah. I did do all of that BUT GUESS WHAT. IM 20. I go where I wanna go. I fuck who I wanna fuck. I smoke what I want and guess what? It’s not any different from when I was 16 except now I don’t have parents up my ass telling me what to do. His argument basically was that I need to own up to what I did too and that fucking angered me. You don’t apologize and then go “well what about you” that’s not an apology. That’s deflection and honestly I don’t think I need to apologize because my parents were super controlling. I was just trying to do what I wanted and they didn’t like it. He and I have talked about me being trans and he pretty much thinks I’m certifiable. Doesn’t use my name or pronouns.

My brother: Ethan, my brother and I have always been close. He’s 17 now, and he had a different reaction to me being trans. Of all of my family he was the most receptive to my pleas of gender dysphoria and he suffers with anxiety so he gets stuff. But alas, after asking him if he’d call me by my name and pronouns (after 4 years of being out) he thinks that I am the one that has an issue with society. I told him I was starting T soon and he said: “Hrt won’t lessen all the things that come with being transgender. If you feel like doing hormones is the best for you then do it, but from a logical standpoint I think there just needs to be more thickening of skin” he claimes that if I try hard enough I could be fine living as female. Doesn’t use my name or pronouns.

None of my family supports me. None of my family understands. And none of them ever will. I have been out for four fucking years. I can’t tell you how frustrating family rejection can be. I have cried so much at the idea of not having a supportive family. I feel like I was ripped away from a beautiful life somewhere and thrust into this mess.

Honestly though, it doesn’t matter, the world keeps spinning and I keep finding people who love and accept me for who I truly am. I have made peace with my family’s lack of acceptance. It’s made me stronger and more compassionate towards others. Made me want to be better than them. I am actually going to start hormones soon, and on top of other fears I have, will be cutting my family out of my life. I can’t be 25 with a full beard and getting misgendered by my family. I can’t do it. They may feel like I’m going too far, that I don’t have to do this, but I do. I’m not doing this because I didn’t get too much attention as a kid or my mom favored my brother over me, I’m not doing this because it’s cool, I’m not doing this because I’m bored, I’m not doing this because I hate myself or anyone else. This is AFFIRMATION. Sometimes, cutting people who can’t see you for who your really are out of your life is affirming too.

Guys, girls, people, keep your head up. Things get better, I know. I thought life was never going to get better so I know that’s what it can feel like. But it does. Never ever let someone control your life or who you are. You’re beautiful/handsome/amazing! You deserve to be comfortable in your own skin and to love who you are. I am getting there, we all are.

Love,

Tanner M.