#which she never did any medical upkeep for

[fittoniapearcei]

Love how both of my parents are physically disabled, to the point of inability to do many daily tasks, but neither of them will admit it because that would go against their religion. So instead they make it literally everyone else's problem 😒

[sleepingdeath-light]

s/o who moved to the neighbourhood after a car crash ; wally

requested by ; anonymous (07/05/23)

fandom(s) ; welcome home

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; wally darling

outline ; “Could I get Wally x reader where reader moves into the neighborhood after a car accident, and the two become very close. One day Wally learns that reader's family is actually pretty rich but reader didn't want anyone treating them different because of it? Also Wally finds out around Christmas time as reader's parents wanna meet Wally for Christmas”

warning(s) ; references to injuries, references to a car crash, references to hospitalisation, but mostly fluff

you moving to the neighbourhood had been less of an active choice and more of a compromise with some of your more fretful family members

you’d wanted to maintain your independence after your car accident whilst you healed

they wanted you out of the busy city where it happened (and where you lived)

so rather than move back home and be pitied 24/7 by family, friends and staff, you just barely managed to convince them to let you move away to a smaller, more rural town

you had your little bungalow that gave you full freedom to move around with your mobility aids

everything and everyone was a stone’s throw away from everything else, so there weren’t any cars (in fact the only vehicle you’d seen was a unicycle in front of one of your neighbours’ houses)

it was completely isolated from everywhere else aside from a small gravel road which, being your typical country road, was very thin, very rarely used and you only really saw deliveries being dropped off to the local grocers and the post office

so maybe one or two cars a week tops and they never came anywhere near your little home

your family were appeased, you got to keep your independence, and as an added bonus you got to move into the quaintest little neighbourhood ever

everyone was so friendly and keen to get to know you that it threw you for a loop — having come from such a large city to somewhere where everybody knows everybody it was bound to happen

but you couldn’t say that you particularly minded

eddie, the postman, was always happy to stop by and chat as he went about his rounds in the morning — he was also happy to offer any assistance if a delivery happened to be a bit too heavy or large for you to carry in on your own

howdy, the grocer, always made sure that he had what you needed in stock — even preemptively ordering things like your medications and other things you needed for the upkeep of your health (e.g. new wrappings for injuries, oil if you’re using a wheelchair with a squeaky wheel, and so on)

julie, a particularly colourful neighbour, was always happy to stop by and make you feel beautiful even when you were too worn down to even really get out of bed — keeping materials and items on her that best suit your hair texture from the moment she starts randomly dropping by

frank, a neighbour who was particularly fond of butterflies, was someone you came to appreciate because he didn’t dance around your injury and accident — he’d ask you how you were feeling or drop off some books that might apply to your situation, but he never imposed himself on you too much

poppy, a bird who lived just down the street, was always happy to come to your aid during your bad days — stopping by without a peep of complaint and cooking and baking some food for you, always making sure that you’re taken care of even when you don’t have the energy

barnaby and sally, two more neighbours that live for performance and laughter, became the highlights of your days as they would always make a point to stop by and entertain you with whatever jokes or plays they thought of — becoming part of your routine by making you smile

and they did it all without you needing to ask because they all cared so deeply for one another and for you that it was never even a question about them taking care of you

of course they weren’t overbearing, but they did make sure that you were in good spirits and good health as you healed — keeping enough of an eye out to be able to step in when you weren’t able to step up for yourself

by carrying your deliveries inside, by keeping what you need in stock, by keeping your self confidence high, by keeping you well fed, by making you smile so wide your cheeks hurt and by making you laugh so hard you’re crying

but out of all of your neighbours, one stood out the most; a blue haired painter called wally darling

though you usually just called him ‘darling’ — because you could easily get away with the pet name and because you always got a curious look from him when you did it

wally was the first one to greet you when you moved in, offering to help you put your house back together and complimenting the art pieces you’d been gifted by friends and family

he’s a painter and can appreciate the fine arts, you see — and you appreciated how friendly and conversational he was because you very quickly started to feel at home

and by the time the rest of the town had stepped in to help you organise your belongings, everyone was smiling and laughing and joking and talking like old friends — you almost forgot that you’d known them for less than a day because of it all

it really was a team effort and you smile whenever you recall the utter chaos that was your first week in the neighbourhood

howdy with his four arms carrying a pile of boxes so high that he had to shuffle through your front door on his knees — peering around the stack to smile sheepishly and ask you where everything needed to go (which took you a few moments as you needed to pick your jaw up off of the floor)

julie guiding everyone around the bungalow with the precision of an air traffic controller, using two rolls of wallpaper to ensure that everyone could see her through the mess that was your home layout

eddie and frank carefully — carefully — carrying in your sofa and your bed and placing them according to your and julie’s instructions (and dropping them on poor frank’s foot… twice)

barnaby making good use of his height and strength to bring in the remainder of your furnishings, cracking plenty of jokes along the way that had you snorting and eddie making a victim of poor frank every time he laughed

poppy making good on her promise to keep things organised and ensuring that all of your utensils and trinkets and small things ended up in the right place — leaving the home more organised than you’d ever had it

sally helping move any left over boxes from the moving van to the house all the while making a performance of it — including an impromptu recital of a shakespearean monologue whilst holding a snow globe that had cracked during shipping

wally painting and glossing your walls and cabinets throughout this whole mess, occasionally popping his head back into the main room to poke fun at everyone or to ask how everything was going

all of you dipping your hands — or paws, or wing — in paint and slapping them against the wall just above your fireplace before writing your names in your best handwriting just beneath them

a permanent reminder of your hard work and the mess you made

a mess that was definitely preferable to the weeks you spent bedbound in the hospital after being injured, feeling so very isolated and bored in the aftermath of everything you’d been through

that week was also the start of your relationship — well, at least it was when the two of you started dancing around your feelings and finding excuses to spend time with each other

wally would frequently pop by your home with a new painting or sketch that he’d made for you — getting to the point where a good portion of your house was covered with his work

you’d spend hours talking on the phone — he’d be the first one you called whenever you felt particularly low

he was the only one you divulged the full details of your accident to — thankful that he didn’t pity you or question it beyond telling you to reach out if you needed anything

you’re the only one he shares his apples with (and who gets to see his abnormal way of eating)

you’ll go out on small picnics into a nearby field and he’ll help you get up and down from the blanket, not once making a fuss or batting an eye, instead focusing on more important things like eating and watching butterflies

butterflies like the ones you felt whenever he looked at you or touched you or smiled or laughed or —

needless to say you were head over heels — and since wally was as well, it took very little time for the two of you to become an item

(with plenty of encouragement from your neighbours who were, by now, more than done with both of you tiptoeing around the obvious)

it’s safe to say that he thinks you’re the absolute most

and when the holidays come around and your family, who you haven’t really thought about beyond the occasional letter or phone call, want to stop by and visit, wally is happy to play host

he insists on going the full nine yards but compromises with you that you’ll host at your home and you’ll share the duties of decorating, cleaning and cooking

which quickly become more playful than dull because it’s you two so of course they do

and come the day of, you’re both completely prepared — even if your poor boyfriend is quietly sweating bullets and a mixture of excitement and anxiety as they pull up

and then you realise that you forgot to warn wally about your family

but it’s far too late for that as they’re already at the door and you’re already greeting them — and oh god there’s that antique necklace and that designer handbag and she’s giving his colourful outfit a strange look and wally’s noticed and he’s looking at you and oh dear…

thankfully he’s able to hide his surprise well (has his expression ever changed from that smile?) and as your folks fawn over you and your home and they bring in all of the gifts you’re only given enough time to shrug and smile apologetically before you’re both whisked away to play host

thankfully your boyfriend is an excellent public speaker and is able to charm your family enough to keep them entertained and cooperative (and stop them from invading your personal space and infantilising you) as he serves everyone the meal you’d prepared

by the time he’s sat down beside you and you’re all digging in to the feast you’d made, you’re able to relax because your relatives all clearly adore him

they ask him about the neighbourhood and his job and your relationship — all of which he answers tactfully and politely before moving on with questions of his own

and when the time comes to open your presents (including some generic gifts they’d bought wally as a measure of politeness), your fear of being perceived differently has practically faded away

you’re sat on the sofa, he’s holding your hand in his own, and your family are bickering amongst themselves amongst an ocean of wrapping paper and presents worth half a mortgage but it feels like home — and whilst he does give you a bit of a funny look, he assures you quietly that he gets it

he just would have appreciated a bit of fair warning about it — which is understandable

and you don’t know why you ever doubted your silly little blue haired boyfriend for a moment

he really is the absolute most

[solrika]

I wanted to populate the Jedi and Sith AU a little more, so~

On Zeb’s side, we have:

- His master Vokara Che, head of the Halls of Healing. Canon character (for a given value of canon). There’s basically no info for her other than “blue Twi’lek” that I could easily find, so I’m making everything up. Very calm, very steady under pressure. Zeb inherited his caffeine addiction from her.

- Bant Eerin, a master in the Halls of Healing. Canon character, grew up with Obi-wan, not much else info on Wookiepedia. A Mon Calamari! Kinda like an aunt for Zeb. Was the one to introduce him to alcohol. Laughed at him the first time he had a hangover, and then taught him how to cure it. Didn’t teach him how to swim, but did attend the lesson as “life guard.”

- Spindle, former clone trooper who’s studying to be a medical masseuse in the Halls. Non canon, which makes them my first clone OC! Never wants to return to combat. Shaky hands left over from nerve damage in the shoulder.

They fell into medical massage while serving as Zeb’s “babysitter.” Vokara’s too busy to constantly mind her padawan, but it was important that she had someone to keep an eye on him and provide emotional support in the moment. They’re called Spindle because part of their self-soothing tool box is, well, spinning. Now they’re on an electric wheel because that’s what I use! But during deployment, it was on drop spindles.

Spindle has definitely made yarn from Zeb’s spring shed. They also crochet. Zeb has a couple blankets from them.

- As-yet-unnamed Spindle’s batchmate, who’s part of Zeb’s service corp team as a medic. Also a clone OC. Tempted to name them Happy Pills. Zeb’s a little bad about remembering to call home, so Pills’ regular calls back to Spindle usually include something about how “the kid” is doing. The one who taught Zeb how to maintain/disassemble a blaster.

- Kanan is Caleb Dume, still, because Something Bad Happened to Sheev. What was it? I dunno, there are so many fixit fics out there. Pick one. Caleb’s still Zeb’s friend--they were crechemates--and he still finds and falls for Hera. Because love.

- Because Caleb is in Zeb’s life, Depa and Mace are also there sometimes. I dunno how much he interacts with them, but at the very least, they’re kinda like friendly distant relatives.

On Kallus’ side:

- Wulf Yularen, canon character turned Kallus’ Sith master for this AU. Had roughly a dozen apprentices and slowly whittled them down until Kallus was the only one left. Did not intend for Kallus to be the only one left, but, well. We don’t always get what we want.

- Urri Jamiil, noncanon Nautolan. Kallus’ best friend among Yularen’s apprentices. Taught him how to swim. Loved to carve. Died on Onderon. Kallus still has most of their surviving pieces in his bedroom on his flagship.

They and Kallus shared a similar moral compass, and helped keep each others’ consciences intact in their years under Yularen. Urri’s dreams for “after” drive a lot of Kallus’ post-Yularen plans.

- Osa Barill, noncanon character that you might recognize from my vampire AU. Not sure yet if she was hired by Yularen pre-Onderon, or if she was a free agent who rescued Kallus on Onderon. Either way, she’s now the commander of Kallus’ small militia. Fond of Kallus, and the closest thing he has to a parental figure, but not super demonstrative. Suspicious of Zeb, but subtle about it. No shovel talks here.

- There are definitely droids on Kallus’ ships. There’s a protocol-droid-inside-an-assassin-chassis running around somewhere. I kinda like the idea that the housekeeping staff are a bunch of battle droids leftover from the Clone Wars. Kallus’ droids are free any kind of loyalty-ensuring programming--he has very strong ideas about Freedom To Just Fucking Leave. Not sure he pays them (there’s a huge discussion about droids and personhood and “what is slavery” in the SW ‘verse to be had, but I don’t want to get into it tonight). Definitely has budget for their upkeep. Definitely has some budget set aside for self-mods like paint, ornamentation, etc. Definitely has an extra-soft-spot for the MSE droids.

- Not a character per se, but Kallus’ flagship is important to note because it’s what he considers “home.” It’s where he lives between missions, and it houses the majority of his militia. Because he prefers having long-term employees, the living areas have a definite personality to them. The flagship is rarely brought into active combat--they have other, smaller ships for that--but it is a fully operational warship.

It still needs a name.

[in-tua-deep]

Ok I totally want to hear more about this survivors au/Delores is real! How do the siblings handle having this different version of Five? Five may be better adjusted but he still has to heard his family around like a bunch of stray cats. What happens when Hazel and Cha Cha show up? How do they find out that Vanya causes the apocalypse and how does Five handle that revelation?!

here is the thing, i think the survivors au has the potential to be HILARIOUS

no one knows how to handle a well-adjusted five, and this absolutely includes the commission

So you mentioned Hazel and Cha-Cha?? Five in this au was not nearly as absolutely feral as he is in the show bc he knows how to interact with people - he was raised by a competent adult and a weird best friend and they occasionally saw other survivors as well

please picture old Five hanging around the water cooler and chatting with Hazel

the other funny thing is that Five is competent passing - he is well adjusted emotionally but functionally?? Hazel is out there complaining about dental being cut and office parties and budgets and Five is there sipping his drink having never filed taxes in his life. Five doesn't know what the fuck a dental plan is, he was a child soldier and then lived in an apocalypse.

So please picture for me Hazel being like "okay I know corporate wants us to keep what we're being paid to ourselves but fuck that, workers unite, what do you get paid as a legend old timer?"

and five is like "you're getting paid? i get to not get tossed back into the apocalypse, I think"

"but what about expense forms? what about medical care?"

"I'm like 80% sure i'm being experimented on, actually." Five says nonchalantly, "Don't get me wrong, my idea of medical care is fucked by being a child soldier but I'm pretty sure regular people don't have electrodes attached to their heads every time they get a checkup. Could be wrong though! My ex-dad used to monitor my brainwaves while I slept so like, my idea of appropriate shit is fucked, you know?"

This is a Five who was raised by Rick, he is polite to his coworkers. If Dot asked him if he wanted to grab lunch, Five would have gone and grabbed lunch with her or politely said that he couldn't.

Cha Cha only ever talks to Five when she wants to talk shop, so they've had a couple of conversations about weapons but not much else tbh, Hazel just tends to be more personable

So when they're sent after Five, Hazel is much more hesitant to kill who he perceives as a "work friend" and also is definitely thinking about all the times Five casually revealed a way the commission was being highkey shady about him, such as the potential experimentation, no pay, working under duress etc. He's much more easily turned against the commission because he's even more primed to say "fuck the commission" than he is in canon

Hazel out here like "how did Five break his contract when Five wasn't even being paid? I kind of want to read it."

Hazel out here like "I would unionize if I didn't think the commission was anti-union enough to send literal assassins after me if I suggested it :/"

meanwhile with the siblings

Five just. talks over them a lot and makes so much sense that it's actually really hard to argue with him, and he's weirdly considerate of his family's obligations

Like Diego is like "i have to go see Patch" then Five is like "that's great I'm proud of you buddy, it would actually be really handy to have some law enforcement read into the situation if you think she's up to the task. that goes for everyone by the way! If y'all have people you trust, more bodies would be super helpful I think"

the entire family, collectively, who have like zero trusted social links: uhhhhhhhh

Diego, with this weird permission, probably?? Does? Awkwardly attempt to read Patch into the situation? Patch is, obviously, like "what the fuck, Diego" but probably goes with him to the mansion (????????) because she's concerned and then meets his fucking whacko family with their superpowers and suddenly everything is 100% more realistic

Five is just like "yes hello I'm aware I look like a child, i'm actually in my late 50s or early 60s (apocalypse time amiright) because of time travel stuff. Yes I am Five Hargreeves who went missing in like 2002 or whatever. anyway it's lovely to meet you, i'm so glad diego has someone he trusts, and considering my sibling's shifty looks when i told them to invite anyone they trusted this genuinely makes me concerned that Diego is the most socially well-adjusted of them."

"That cannot be possible." Patch says, like someone who has met Diego Hargreeves.

"You haven't met the rest." Five says sympathetically, "In our defense we were raised in isolation as child soldiers."

"That... explains so much." Is all Patch can say to that, "But you seem..."

"I'm adopted." Five waves away.

"We're ALL adopted." Diego grits out, very aggrieved by this and also not sure if he likes the fact that Patch seems friendly with Five, or at least is listening to him?

"I'm double adopted."

However! With the recruitment of Patch, herding Diego becomes like 90% easier.

Honestly the worst to herd are probably Luther and Allison? Luther because he's Number One and resents Five taking charge and also resents Five's casual dismissal of Reginald and also suspects that Five (or at least the commission) has something to do with Reginald's death?

Allison because she is torn between following Luther and helping him and helping Five but also calling Patrick and Claire at every possible moment while ALSO trying to repair her relationship with Vanya. She's flighty - she'd bail on a Five-apocalypse-assignment if Vanya mentioned being hungry or if Luther called or anything like that

Vanya likes to be included and, if asked, would probably drop as many current obligations as she can. Like she would probably cancel her teaching if Five genuinely and sincerely asked her for her help, which he does because he's 100% sure Dolores would manifest in front of him and smack him if he dared even imply someone without powers wouldn't be helpful

Vanya is like "I'm not sure if i'll be helpful - I don't have powers ):" and Patch is like "wtf are you talking about - my superpowers are Gun, Backup, and Reading Comprehension and i am like the most useful member of this team right now"

Vanya gets a confidence boost just from hanging out with Patch honestly, I think they should be friends

Klaus is thrilled to be included are you kidding?? He says he does it for money but he's just happy to be there and also as one of the most emotionally intelligent siblings he is mildly concerned about the fact that Five looks like he's about to cry and also emotes

Five also gives Klaus positive reinforcement, hugs, and Five absolutely weaponizes the I'm not mad, but I believe that you can do better and I'm going to give you more chances because I love you and fully believe that next time you'll be amazing way that Rick used on him.

I feel like Five ends up saying something along the lines of "I understand that x is really important, and we're definitely going to look into it. Is it something that needs to be addressed right now, or is it something that can wait until after April 1st? If it can wait, I can write it down here on this list so we don't forget. If it can't wait then we can figure out a time to address it and help you" a lot

Like Grace malfunctioning and potentially killing Reginald?

"We don't have to make this decision right now." Five says patiently, "Because Grace is a robot, we have some options. Living with a robot who is potentially malfunctioning and homicidal is dangerous, but Luther saying that means admitting that Reginald might have made a mistake or error with Grace's programming or upkeep. I haven't been here for a long time, but I remember Reginald being very precise. Regardless, this isn't a choice between permanently shutting her off or not. We can shut her down temporarily until we can fully address the issue. We can ask and see if there is a 'system reboot' option or some sort of system check that Grace can undergo. We can try find and hire an expert to take a look at her programming to find the issue."

Five gives this speech while like, organizing the weaponry in the house on a table very nonchalantly

Five out here making buzzer noises at his siblings arguments like "yeah no that's a false dichotomy and a strawman's argument, want to try again?"

(Look apocalypse nights were long and they had games that were literally about arguing pointless shit like ranking types of chairs or the best way to break out of a prison without powers and things could get heated)

"Who died and made you boss?" Luther demands.

"Uh, the world? Were you not listening?" Five asks, looking very purposefully confused.

It gets even MORE delightful when Five reads Rick into the situation because a) he promised and b) his siblings really have like, no connections jeeze

Rick fully believes that this is his son from the future, like Five introduced himself, but Five skipped out on a few key details. Such as being adopted.

So Rick spends a solid chunk of time just staring at Five, who looks basically nothing like him, trying to think like, who is his mother ???? if we save the world will Five stop existing? why would I name my child 'Five'? Does everyone have powers in the future? was there like... a radioactive apocalypse? would radiation give future humans superpowers? when did my life turn into a comic book? am i even allowed to ask these questions? will knowledge of the future fuck things up?

and then when Five comes back and is like "what is up everyone this is my dad Rick who will be joining us, he doesn't have any memories of me thanks to time travel but if anyone is mean to him i WILL kneecap them"

"Your DAD?"

Five does kidney punch Klaus for saying that Rick is a DILF but otherwise everyone just is like, warily looking at this Normal Dad Man in confusion because?? This is the dude who raised Five, who they watched take out like an entire commission team by himself yesterday? He looks so. Normal.

Rick is very confused and like, wonders if he's supposed to be the team mascot? But Five keeps involving him and asking his opinion and in return Rick enforces snack breaks and makes everyone sandwiches and has gentle talks with everyone

Every time Five notices someone about to blow he just lovingly makes sure that that person is alone in a room with Rick

Luther ends up crying on the sofa with Rick gently patting his back as Rick calmly states that Luther seems like he's put a lot of time and effort into his family and making his father proud and that since Reginald isn't here to say it, Rick will have to be the one to say that he's proud and that they've been dropped into a difficult and stressful situation - so soon after Reginald's death when they're still grieving! - and he's doing so well

Luther, experiencing unconditional positive paternal regard for the first time in his life: i don't know why i'm crying so much

honestly this is just a comedy of juggling the gang, having impromptu therapy sessions and discussions, investigating the apocalypse and the eye, leonard trying to meet vanya continuously and failing because she's constantly surrounding by family or rick/patch, the commission trying their best to bust up the dream team/isolate Vanya/kill or remove Five, while Hazel lives out his romcom dreams with Agnes and also says "fuck the commission"

[skellebonez]

Because you are a fantastic writer, and because I simply adore what you write, how about a continuation to the "Wukong is once again being an idiot and lying to everyone" prompt? And this is an open prompt! You can take this and go absolutely bonkers with it!

THE POWER YOU HAVE GIVEN ME SHALL NOT GO UNDERUTILIZED. This is a follow up to these two previous fills and I am just going off about what I think would be an interesting way to continue into season 3 at this point.

Warning: UH... Sun Wukong is not doing too great. Mild descriptions of his hidden injuries, Wukong is still immortal but what he hid would be very bad for people who are not.

"He's burning up," Pigsy said with a hiss as he pulled his hand away from Wukong's forehead. "Why is he burning up? What even happened to him!? He didn't look like this an hours ago, ain't he immortal-"

"Yeah, but not invincible," MK interrupted with a shake in his voice, watching as Sandy checked on his mentor's newly revealed injuries. "Not entirely anymore. He-he'll probably be fine! No, he will be fine, but he's-shit." He took in a shaky breath, trying to stand on legs that had long since fallen asleep in their awkward position holding his mentor's head off the hard floor. "I'll explain later, we need to see how bad he is now!"

He jumped, feeling a soft touch against his shoulder. Mei had knelt beside him at some point and it wasn't until she reached over to brush her thumb against his cheek that he realized he had started crying at some point.

The chef looked at him with an odd expression at MK's revelations, almost looking like he wanted to say something in anger before shaking his head and standing instead.

"You're right," he said as he turned to Sandy. He didn't need to ask the largest of the group anything, watching as he carefully scooped the Monkey King into his arms and headed off into what they had designated as "the med bay" with Tang following close by. "But you're gonna tell us exactly what that you mean by 'not entirely invincible' on the way, no more of this waitin to talk business! And we're going to walk there calmly."

MK couldn't find it in himself to argue.

~

"Well, shit," Pigsy sighed after MK rushed through the conversation he had shared with his mentor, pinching the bridge of his snout with a sigh. "That's... bad. That explains a whole lot about a lot of stuff, like how he managed to get himself caught on New Years, at least... You're sure he's still immortal?"

"Yeah," MK nodded, leaning into the grip Mei had on his shoulder as they walked. "Yeah, he made it a point to insist he still couldn't die."

"That's... good, right?" Mei offered with a chuckle, her usual exuberance seeming shaken up after seeing the state of the immortal monkey. "That means he'll get better!"

They paused at the entrance to the med bay, really more a spare bedroom they had stocked all the medical supplies Sandy apparently hoarded into, and MK gulped. He thought over Wukong's words, trying to find any piece he could to pick it apart. See exactly what, if anything, may have been just more half truths... he didn't want to believe he was still hiding things, not after that display of dropping the glamor. But MK himself had claimed he would explain everything to the others before... and lied still... and he was more like Sun Wukong than he first realized.

"I-I think so," he finally settled on an answer as they walked in, Sandy's back being the first sight they were greeted with. He could see the bottom half of Wukong's legs and feet, and Tang standing on the opposite side of the bed, as they were doing... something. "He said I was half invincible so... maybe he's still half himself? But he said they'd 'probably heal eventually' so..."

"Maybe he just meant they wouldn't scar!" Mei offered with a smile, moving to grip MK's hand. "Come on... we can't stop thinking about the good outcomes now..."

He turned, looking at his best friend. Her smile was off, uncertain, dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. None of them had slept well the last two nights. But her eyes, despite the uncertainty they shared with her smile, were as bright and hopeful as ever.

"Yeah..." MK said with a small smile.

"As much as we'd appreciate the help," Tang said suddenly, moving from behind the bed to stand before them. He had removed his scarf and robe, something that looked bizarre and wrong outside of seeing him in his sleep wear, and instead wore a simple tank top and his regular pants. He had gloves on... already spotted in red. "This room is a little cramped with all five of us and a bed."

"I'll go make us food," Pigsy said immediately, laying a hand on MK's back as he addressed Tang. "We don't gotta eat it when it's finished it's just... gonna be ready for when you're done, ok?"

MK couldn't help but smile a bit. Pigsy didn't just make food and let it sit, not normally. The only other time he could ever remember him doing that was after... DBK. After they volunteered to help clean up the city from the damage his possession caused. He'd made pots and pots of noodles and soup and plates of side dishes and buns and just kept them warm for when anyone came by to eat them. He stayed in his shop, waiting and handing out what he could.

He never once complained about the excess from the last batches, offering them for free to the first few customers the next day if they wanted it.

"Thanks, Pigsy," Tang said with a tired smile. "I think everyone is going to appreciate that."

"I'll finish the ship upkeep Sandy and I were doing," Mei offered, smiling at Sandy when he looked over his shoulder. "I've got a pretty good handle on the specifics by now."

"I trust you," Sandy said with a smile, the first thing he had said the entire time he'd joined them in the kitchen, and turned back to what he was doing.

There was an awkward silence as Tang started grabbing supplies from a cabinet to deposit on a nearby table and Pigsy and Mei turned to MK.

"I'm staying," he said firmly, but nothing could hide the shaking in his hands. "Just... I have to know how bad he is."

"OK," Pigsy said, and they made their way out before Mei turned back inside.

"When he wakes up? Give him one of these for me," she said before making a face and leaving in the opposite direction.

There was just enough of a chuckle that escaped him that MK thought he would be able to do that.

"Are you sure you want to see this?" Tang asked, far softer in tone than he had been before. "Sandy and I were already taking stock of his injuries and... MK, they're not good."

"Yeah, I'm sure," he insisted, taking in a calming breath. "I need to know exactly how angry I need to be at him."

His father figure didn't laugh, but there was amusement in his eyes as he returned back to where he was. "Alright, then you're going to need to help by handing me everything I ask for."

They settled into silence after that, and MK watched and Tang and Sandy worked to check on the unconscious immortal in the bed.

They had stripped off his robe, leaving him only in the pants he wore underneath it. He looked... he looked much worse without it on.

In addition to his eye (which seemed to have been the only hidden injury to have already healed as much as it may have) and the tear in his ear (which seemed to have at least been partly treated by himself already) his torso was littered with little cuts and scrapes. Sandy had rolled up the legs on his pants, one remaining upright and MK could see the slight swell of his knee from some kind of internal injury (probably muscular). His tail and arms were also similarly injured, one nasty gash in particular close to the end of the tail that had gotten almost as much treatment as his ear.

But on his side... there was sloppy bandaging slowly growing redder.

"Sandy, help me get this off him," Tang said, holding out his hand. "Scissors, please."

MK jolted, getting what Tang requested from the pile of stuff, watching as he carefully cut away the wrapping.

Tang winced as he finally lifted the dressing from Wukong's side, but did his model best to look as impassive as possible. There was a sizeable gash on it, large enough that Tang's entire hand barely covered it lengthwise, that had poorly treated with the lopsided gauze and bandages (probably stolen from this very room after he allowed them to treat his visible injuries). Blood had seeped through it, all fresh, and it was most likely reopened upon his fall. It looked... wrong. Not the way it should. The fur around it had been either ripped out or had fallen out and the skin was inflamed and angry.

"... no wonder he's burning up, this is becoming infected," he said evenly, detected, leaning over to look at the supplies he took from the medicine cabinet. "Sandy, I'm going to need your help moving him. MK?" He turned to the young man, face softening as he saw how pale his face had gotten at the revelations before him. "MK, I heard what you were telling Mei and Pigsy earlier. Mei's probably right, he'll be ok. OK?"

MK wanted to believe he had been, he'd been so honest after he told him to stop lying, but... but he still couldn't help but worry his mentor was still hiding more. And he felt so guilty thinking that. But he shook his head, dispelling the thoughts in his head.

"OK... what do you need?"

"Let's start with antiseptic. We need to clean this as quickly as possible."

~

It took longer than MK had hoped. And Sun Wukong had only barely stirred the entire time. Whether it was from the infectious fever or from exhaustion from using his remaining powers while sick he didn't know, but the most of a reaction they got him from was a sharp gasp and a twitch while cleaning the worst of his wounds.

Aside from that... nothing. He remained still, even as Sandy moved him without any effort and guided Tang through the medical stuff he wasn't sure how to handle.

MK knew Tang had some first aid training but this was much more than he expected him to pull off... he supposed he was learning a lot.

After a while Tang didn't need Sandy's help to move him anymore and the massive man shot MK an apologetic look before leaving. MK assumed he had left to wash up, and he did, but he eventually returned completely cleaned up with a hot cup of tea. It was the same flavor as the one he never got to finish during his conversation earlier.

He ruffled MK's hair after the young man gratefully took it, making Wukong more comfortable on Tang's instruction and pulling the covers over everything but one arm before saying something about needing to give Mei some tea as well, before leaving the three of them alone again. MK thought that, maybe, the sight of the Monkey King as he was was somehow making him... uncomfortable. No, not uncomfortable.

Sad.

He didn't say anything.

"He looked... almost fine when he saved me..." MK said after a long sip of his tea and a long silence of watching Tang handle everything else on his own, trying to squeeze his cup. Just like when he had tried before, it stayed firm. "He wasn't hurt then, not by LBD, so... he'd been keeping up those illusions since before he came. How long was he hurt?"

"There isn't really a way for us to know," Tang admitted, wrapping the fresh gauze around the king's arm as carefully as he could manage. It wouldn't have mattered if he wasn't careful, Wukong didn’t stir a bit. "It could have been hours... could have been days. With how quickly his eye healed vs his gash it's hard to tell. But my guess would be hours, given when you... when..." He trailed off, a shudder running through him. "He was actively giving you his powers, yeah? Maybe... he was giving you some of his healing abilities. Or maybe something else hurt his eye long before everything else. We just don't know."

"I think that was from Macaque," MK said with a wince, knowing he was going to have to explain more about who Macaque was eventually. "He said LBD has him under her control and he has the same injury on the opposite eye."

Tang froze for a half a second, the shine of the overhead lights on his glasses keeping Mk from seeing just what kind of expression he had. But he simply nodded, finishing up his work.

"We'll just... have to hope he'll be able to give us some better information when he wakes up," Tang said with a shrug as he removed his gloves. "This is all probably a mystery even to him... I'm going to wash up... will you be alright alone?"

"Yeah."

That was a lie, but he felt at least this one was warranted.

Because even if he wouldn't be fine he didn't want to leave.

~

It was nearly 11 hours before Sun Wukong opened his eyes again, though he didn't realize that at the time.

The morning sunlight was just barely shining through the window to the med bay, and he wondered for a moment why one of his eyes seemed to ache at the light and a tear rolled down his cheek from the strain at trying to see.

Then he remembered that he couldn't see out of it anymore. And the conversation with MK. And... passing out. In the kitchen.

This was definitely not the kitchen floor, which was bad. What he was laying on was soft and had something else laying on top of him. Which meant he had been moved to a bed.

Which meant he had been unconscious for more than a minute, which was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

He tried to move his left arm to cover his eye, but found something... holding it down. And with a little effort he moved his head, looking over to the side.

MK was slouched over on a chair, nearly face down on the blanket that covered him and holding his hand. In his other hand there was a comic book of some kind, horribly bent by his own face.

He had dark circles, much darker than he had the night before, under his eyes and there was a dried wetness on his cheeks that made Wukong's chest hurt at the sight.

He'd messed up... again. He shouldn't have held up the illusion, not for that long. He should have let it fall the moment they hit the drone and been honest instead of insisting that he go on his new Journey to the West on his own. Or at least let it fall the next day, when they questioned why he was so tired. So quiet. Why he was so still and wasn't running around the ship like they expected (the pulled muscle in his knee, which he very much noticed was tightly compressed by either a sleeve or a wrap, being the main culprit along side... that injury).

He sighed, doing his best to remove his hand from his student's carefully before gently resting it on his head and ruffling the hair there.

"...'m sorry, MK," He said tiredly. "No more secrets, I promise."

"You better mean that promise you asshole."

Wukong yelped and jumped, yelping again when it sent a jolt of pain down his side. "YOu're AwAKe!?"

MK sat up, almost smiling at the way his mentor sounded but holding it back. "Yeah... I kinda passed out after a while, but I woke up like... an hour ago? I've just been trying to get as much rest as I can, even if I'm not actually sleeping."

"That's... good," Wukong said with a nod, the way MK described the time frame feeling familiar. "So you saw... everything?"

"Everything."

"Well, shit."

"That's exactly what Pigsy said when I told him what happened," Mk said with a chuckle, reading over to grab a packet of some kind and a glass of water. "Tang gave me very specific instructions to make you take all of this. Or else."

"Or else... what?" Wukong chanced, raising an eyebrow.

"I dunno, I always took the medicine he gives me with that threat so I never got to find out," MK shrugged. "Pigsy says it's not worth finding out."

"I'll take his word for it," Wukong said with a sigh. It was probably best to take whatever it was regardless of threats, he could feel his fever still and he did not want to keep having to fight that off. So he took the medicine, a mixture of pills and some kind of powder MK mixed into his drink that made it taste oddly way too sweet and sour at the same time, and sighed as he closed his eyes again for a moment.

They sat in silence for only a minute before he spoke again.

"Your friends... did all this?" He gestured to himself, reaching up to feel the odd dressing on his ear.

"Tang and Sandy did," MK explained, and went on to tell him what happened. How they treated him. How Pigsy had food waiting for him now that he was awake. How MK stayed by his side just in case.

"Oh, and Mei wanted me to give you this," MK said before pausing, glowering at him in a way that looked odd on his student's face but probably would have looked horrifying on Mei.

"Oh... I made her that mad huh?"

"I think everyone is kinda angry at you to some degree," MK admitted before holding his mentor's hand again. "But... mostly we were worried. You're my mentor, and a part of our little group now. That's what we do. Worry about each other."

Sun Wukong felt another tear slip out of his injured eye, but not from strain.

It had been so long since anyone... worried about him.

He didn't know how much he missed knowing he was cared about like that.

[tcm]

International Women’s Day: Actresses Who Became Activists By Raquel Stecher

International Women’s Day, celebrated annually on March 8th and recognized by the United Nations, raises awareness for women’s rights and celebrates the achievements of women across the globe. Utilizing their fame as a platform to do good, actresses from the golden age of Hollywood and beyond have supported a variety of philanthropic causes. Myrna Loy worked on behalf of UNESCO (The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization). Ida Lupino made NEVER FEAR (’50) to raise awareness about polio. Ruby Dee fought for civil rights. Rita Moreno continues to champion the Latinx community. Martha Raye entertained the troops during three separate wars. Debbie Reynolds was a mental health and AIDS advocate. Tippi Hedren empowered Vietnamese women to become business owners. And, Shirley Temple raised awareness about breast cancer. There are many, many examples of actresses devoting their time, energy and, in many cases, finances for humanitarian, environmental and political causes. Let’s take a look at some of the notable actresses who became activists.

Doris Day

In 1937, Doris Day’s coonhound Tiny was hit by a car and killed. The guilt Day felt for Tiny’s untimely demise would fuel her activism on behalf of animals. Day transitioned from acting in the 1970s to become an animal welfare advocate. She co-founded the non-profit organization Actors and Others for Animals in 1971. In 1978, she started the Doris Day Pet Foundation (later renamed the Doris Day Animal Foundation). This organization advocates for the humane treatment of animals. By the late 1980s, she would allow only a handful of interviews with the sole intention of publicizing her charitable efforts. She even called up President Ronald Reagan, her costar in THE WINNING TEAM (’52), to discuss animal rights legislation. In 1987, she started The Doris Day Animal League, which eventually merged with The Humane Society of the United Sates, and established World Spay Day. In 2011, she started the Doris Day Horse Rescue and Adoption Center, and Day recorded the album “My Heart,” the proceeds of which went to her non-profit. Day was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by George W. Bush in 2004 for her work.

Jane Fonda

Outspoken political activist Jane Fonda has championed many causes over the years. She was a vocal opponent of the Vietnam War, which landed her in some hot water. In 1970, while Fonda was organizing and fundraising a protest with Vietnam War veterans, she was arrested for possession of drugs. The drugs were in fact vitamins and she was eventually cleared of all charges. In a moment of defiance, she held up a fist for her now iconic mugshot. Two years later, Fonda would travel to Vietnam and a photo of her sitting on an anti-aircraft gun in Hanoi would stir up controversy. She was labeled “Hanoi Jane,” a moniker that is still negatively used against her to this day. While she regretted her actions, she did not let this prevent her from continuing her political activism. She’s been a champion for civil rights, feminist causes and has lent her support to Native Americans. In recent years, she’s taken on several environmental causes including protesting the Dakota Access Pipeline and Arctic drilling. As of the publication of this article, Fonda has been arrested five times for her climate change demonstrations (Fire Drill Fridays) in Washington D.C.

Audrey Hepburn

During her childhood, Audrey Hepburn suffered the effects of living through WWII and the Dutch famine of 1944-1945, which would have long lasting effects on her health. In 1946, early ambassadors from the newly created organization UNICEF (United Nations Children’s Fund) offered her assistance. She never forgot their kindness and her own personal experience led to her to become a champion for children in need. Hepburn began working with UNICEF in 1954 and started traveling on field missions in 1988. The following year she was appointed as a Goodwill Ambassador for the organization. She traveled to Turkey, Bangladesh, Vietnam, Thailand, Venezuela, Ecuador, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and elsewhere, assisting with medical treatments, nutrition projects and working directly with children and their mothers. Her last trip was to Somalia in 1992, four months before she died. In 1993, she was posthumously awarded the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Academy Award.

Helen Hayes

Actress Helen Hayes was best known for her theatrical productions, but when her severe asthma put an end to her stage career (the dust on stage proved to be too much), she transitioned to television and film. Hayes used her fame to help raise funds for asthma research. She also donated to the arts, including the Riverside Shakespeare company. She was on the board of her directors for the New York Chapter of the Girl Scouts in the 1970s. Besides being an EGOT (an Emmy, Grammy, Oscar and Tony-winning performer), her greatest claim to fame should be her work with the New York State Rehabilitation and Research Hospital which helps rehabilitate patients with disabilities. Hayes first became involved with the hospital in the 1940s. Throughout the years, she donated, fundraised and hosted events at her mansion, the “Pretty Penny,” and offered support in any way she could. She lobbied for funding to renovate the hospital, a project that cost over $37 million dollars. She served as a member of the board from 1944 until her death in 1993. The hospital was renamed The Helen Hayes Hospital in 1974 and is still going strong today.

Lena Horne

Lena Horne’s activism began at a very young age. In 1919, at the age of two, she appeared on the cover of the NAACP journal The Crisis. Influenced by her grandmother Cora Calhoun Horne, a suffragist and activist who was a political ally of W.E.B. Du Bois, as well as her activist father, Horne championed civil rights before the movement ever began. She joined the NAACP while she was still a high school student. She also leant her support to the Urban League, the Progressive Citizens of America and the SNCC. During WWII, Horne supported the war effort by entertaining black troops. She filed a complaint through the NAACP when she saw that black service members had to sit behind German POWs during her performances at Fort Reilly. When MGM removed her from the tour, she self-financed her trips and continued her efforts. During WWII, she also spoke up on behalf of the mistreatment of Japanese Americans. Horne campaigned for anti-lynching legislation with Eleanor Roosevelt, although that ultimately failed. During the Civil Rights Movement, Horne performed at rallies and was in the March on Washington in 1963. In 1983, the NAACP awarded her the Spingarn Medal for being an “artist humanitarian and living symbol of excellence. Her humanitarian efforts live on and the annual Lena Horne Prize, awarded by Town Hall, honors artists for their social impact.

Marsha Hunt

The name Marsha Hunt should become synonymous with activism. Hunt has been indefatigable in her humanitarian efforts. Influenced by her progressive mother, she became a liberated woman with strong political beliefs. Those beliefs would come under scrutiny during the McCarthy Era witch hunt. She joined the Committee for the First Amendment, a group of Hollywood actors and writers who supported the Hollywood Ten. She was ultimately blacklisted. Over the years, she became an advocate for UNICEF, The March of Dimes, The Red Cross and the United Nations. She was named an Ambassador for Peace in 2007. Hunt has championed many humanitarian causes including homelessness, mental health, world peace, the environment and the plight of refugees. She is a founder of the San Fernando Valley Mayor’s Fund for the Homeless. Hunt helped raise money to buy a motel that was renovated into a homeless shelter for women and children. She supported the shelter throughout the years by donating supplies and helping with the upkeep. Hunt has also been a vocal advocate for the LGBTQ community. Back in the 1970s, she wrote a song about same-sex relationships called “Here’s to All Love,” and it was performed by Glee star Bill A. Jones in 2013. A documentary about her life, career and humanitarian efforts MARSHA HUNT’S SWEET ADVERSITY was released in 2015.

Mary Pickford

Actress, producer, writer and business woman, Mary Pickford was an enterprising woman and instrumental in the formative years of the film industry. In 1921, she conceived of the idea for the Motion Picture Relief Fund, an organization intended to help other members of the film industry who had fallen on hard times. She used the remaining funds from her work selling Liberty Bonds during WWI to help finance the project. Pickford became one of the founding members of what is now called the Motion Picture Television Fund. She also served as the organization’s first vice president. She oversaw various initiatives including the Playroll Pledge Program, which encouraged industry members to donate 0.5% of their paycheck to the fund. She helped raise money to buy walnut and orange groves in Woodland Hills, which would become the home for the fund and its hospital. Pickford was on the board for many years and attended every fundraising event she could. In addition to the MPTF, she established the Mary Pickford Foundation in the 1950s. The foundation focuses on preserving films in partnerships with film archives.

Rosalind Russell

Ever since Rosalind Russell portrayed Sister Elizabeth Kenny, an Australian nurse who took great strides to help children suffering from polio in the film SISTER KENNY (’46), Russell became a tireless advocate for various health causes. Russell, who suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, served on the National Commission on Arthritis and Related Musculoskeletal Diseases starting in the 1970s. The Rosalind Russell Medical Research Center for Arthritis University of California San Francisco was named in her honor. She was a founding member of the United Service Organizations (USO) and the League for Crippled Children. She was a chairman and advocate for The Lighthouse for the Blind, Catholic Charities of New York, The National Arthritis Foundation, Children Services of Connecticut and the MPTF. Russell lent her efforts to senior care centers and in assisting tornado victims. For her numerous philanthropic pursuits, she received a Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Academy Award in 1973.

Elizabeth Taylor

When her good friend and co-star in GIANT (’56), Rock Hudson, died from complications of AIDS, Elizabeth Taylor was devastated. Fueled by the tragedy, she became a tireless advocate for those suffering from HIV/AIDS. She helped raise awareness, fund research and combat ignorance in a time when AIDS was still highly misunderstood. She testified before the House and the Senate for the Ryan White Care Act and helped convince President Ronal Reagan to publicly acknowledge the disease. She also founded the Elizabeth Taylor Medical Center at the Whitman-Walker Clinic in D.C. which offered free HIV/AIDS testing. In 1985, she chaired the AIDS Project Los Angeles’ Commitment to Life fundraising project and co-founded the American Foundation for AIDS Research. The Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation, established in 1991, provides financial and moral support to patients suffering from AIDS. She shifted her focus from acting to her humanitarian efforts and raised millions of dollars for different foundations. After her death in 2011, her estate keeps funding her foundation. Taylor was awarded a Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Academy Award in 1993.

[early20sfailingplenty]

I want some good days // Bo x Lily // PERSONALISED fic ~ 💖

For @imbleedin-out​ (lots of these forehead kisses for you because Bo loves you lots and that’s that!!!!🥺🥺🥺💞💞💞)

Summary: Nick shoots Bo, and you run to your Sinclair like your life depends on it. Bo’s most certainly does. You fought like hell to be with him, to stay with him, and you’d be damned in more than one way if someone dared to take your Bo away from you. You do everything you can to help him, to be there for him, and in this way do you only strengthen the life bond between you. Bo was shot, like a wounded animal was he, but you were there to ground him, to keep him safe, to love him. You wouldn’t stand for anything else, and Bo wouldn’t expect anything less.

TW; Lily is morally grey as FUCK in this (sorry honey, you gotta be to survive in Ambrose!), Bo is injured (CANON TYPICAL VIOLENCE WITH A CROSSBOW, BLOOD, DEPICTIONS OF SEVERE PAIN), swearing, graphic descriptions of the aforementioned triggers, LOTS of swearing (Lily, Bo). If you couldn’t stomach that scene then I’d skip this entire piece, really. THERE IS FLUFF I 100% PROMISE!!! THIS IS A FIX IT FIC!!!💞💞💞💞💞

PLEASE NOTE: Vincent doesn’t verbally communicate, so his dialogue is ASL, indicated with italics to distinguish it from others’ speech.

Word count: 3, 966.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This entire night had gone so wrong in so many ways that even thinking about where it had all started was making you dizzy. Was it when Lester had set his sights on a larger group of people than normal? Was it when he had only sabotaged one fan-belt so there was a higher chance of the tourists being able to get out of the situation they had found themselves in? Was it when Bo had antagonised the group so that they were already on edge and wary of strangers even before they had arrived in Ambrose? Was it when Bo and Vincent’s communication wasn’t as clear cut as it usually was, so they were split up and apart from one another without realising the danger they were placing themselves in? Was it when Bo had underestimated the tourists and vice versa? Maybe the twins had had an off day and it had impacted their entire performance? Maybe you were the one at fault...? 

You never stayed around when the twins were killing people. You loved them, you did, and you had found your forever home with the Sinclairs, but that didn’t mean that you weren’t going to hide away when their fun and games began. You didn’t fear them, the very idea was ridiculous to you; so deeply did you love them. Especially Bo. But even so, you didn’t like being on the hunting grounds. You knew what happened. You knew. You were no stranger to Vincent’s tracking, to his cruelty or to Bo’s brutality. Having seen them up close and personal when they worked, you much preferred to wait in the house, keeping yourself busy with the general upkeep of the house and performing your various other responsibilities and duties. You made things easier on the brothers by keeping yourself safe and out of the way, which gave them less to worry about. Especially Bo; protective almost to the point of possessiveness was he. It was a trait he shared with Vincent, among many others.

They were more alike than they liked to admit to, most especially in the ways which defined who they were as people. They were wild, untamed, as enigmatic as the ocean and just as deep in their complexity. When one thought they knew a Sinclair, something was said or done to completely flip that idea on its head; impossible was it to fully know someone. Most humans barely knew their own selves and spent their lives filling up quiet moments with distractions so that they didn’t have to face their own realities, but the Sinclairs reveled in who they were. They knew who they were, they knew what they were about, and they dedicated their lives to their mother’s vision. It was more than simply paying respect; it was finishing what she started, continuing her legacy in the only way they knew how. And, oh, what fun they had while they did it.

It was already getting dark, the streets quickly becoming more ominous and foreboding. The neon lights which kept the streets alive in the twins’ illusion of a quaint but welcoming town made you wince, so bright were they and so sensitive were your eyes. It seemed as though those wide lanes were closing in on you. You began to feel constricted, anxiety and panic building within you rapidly as your steady paces began to speed up until you were running, your feet pounding the pavement. 

Something was wrong. 

Something was really, really wrong.

This wasn’t your usual level of anxiety and worry. This was bone deep chills, a sense that you had to get to the cinema now because something awful was happening. In one hand was held your phone, Bo’s mobile number already dialled. If this feeling persisted, you would phone him. You had to know that he was all right, that he was safe... that he was alive. Oh, but that was it, wasn’t it? Bo was your everything. He had, in the time you had known him, become your ultimate comfort. He was your safe space, your home, the love of your life. He was so much more than even you knew how to articulate, especially to yourself,  and you didn’t know what you would do if you lost him. If something or someone took him away from you, there wouldn’t be anything left to hold you here. You needed him, you wanted him... you loved him.

The urge to cry out for Bo was almost overwhelming, but you didn’t want to make any more sound than you already were. It would advertise your whereabouts even more than your footsteps did, and it wasn’t something you could risk doing. You knew not where Bo was, but something in you, something truly primal, was telling you to go to the cinema and you willed your legs to get you there faster. Your lungs and legs burned alike, oxygen deprivation making your body burn, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. The burn in your body right now was nothing compared to the physical and emotional agony you would feel later on if something terrible happened to Bo.

Your Bo.

Yeah... he was your Bo. The grip you had on your phone tightened as you tried to clench your fists, and the sudden mental grounding which came from realising that you were holding onto something helped you to somehow push your legs faster, further. You rounded the corner and sped towards the cinema, getting there just as a sickening thwack followed by a pained noise and the sound of a body hitting the carpeted floor greeted your ears. Your every nerve was on fire, your senses overwhelmed and your emotions in overdrive. You were overstimulated and you needed a minute to breathe, a moment to gather your senses, but reality would grant you no such favour.

You knew before you were fully inside the cinema that Bo was the one who was injured, and you wasted no time in running to his side. You whimpered as if his injuries were your own to see that he had one arrow digging into his arm and one in his chest. His injuries were severe, the pain beyond measure, the need for you stronger than it had been in all the time the two of you had known each other, loved each other. A sob ripped from your throat to see him like this, and you dropped to your knees beside him. Tears poured hot and fast down your face and ran down your chin, falling onto his prone form like rain. Oh, but it hurt to see him as he was. Groans and grunts of pain were all that you could get from him, until his head suddenly lolled to the side and Bo moved no more. 

Your heart was in your throat obstructing your every breath as you dialled Vincent’s number with hands that trembled so badly it took you five attempts to get his number right. He picked up on the second ring, a question, no, a demand in his silence. “V-Vincent. B-bo’s... hurt and I don’t know if he’s alive and I - “  A pained whimper came from the other side of the phone and you heard everything that the younger twin was saying. He didn’t interrupt you again, so you just said, “Cinema. Please, Vincent, I - I don’t - Bo!” You broke down into full bodied sobs, almost screaming into the phone. It was too much. It was all too much. The fear, the pain, the uncertainty, the love... Over the roaring of blood in your head could you hear Vincent’s rough rumbling voice; it sounded like he was trying to shush you, mimicking the ‘tch-tch-tch’ noise which Bo always made whenever he was comforting you. How Vincent knew that sound and what it meant to you, you had little idea, but in the grand scheme of things did it work as you then heard the roaring of an engine. 

Vincent was on his way.

Things would be okay.

Right.

Right?

It was fifty-fifty, stood were you three at a crossroads. 

There were no second chances this night. There was only the here and the now, the do or the die. 

You felt sick to your stomach, but you and Vincent stayed on the line with one another; giving and receiving comfort in the other’s presence in equal measures, until a yellow pickup truck came screaming around the corner and screeched to a halt. Vincent was out of the truck in seconds, running over to you and to Bo. You had the presence of mind to end the call while Vincent’s hands fluttered over his brother’s body, fingers wiggling as he tried to determine the extent of his twin’s injuries.

You both knew this was bad.

Your body dropped, slumping forward and down until your forehead was resting against Bo’s stomach. You inhaled deeply, one of your hands coming to squeeze Bo’s own. A hand landed gently on the back of your head as Vincent stroked along your hair in solid, slow movements. He was comforting himself and you at the same time, showing you as best as he could that he was there with you while his critical eye examined his brother. No touching until he had made a diagnosis; he couldn’t - wouldn’t - risk further injuring his brother. You weren’t alone. None of you were. You all had each other. Of the three of you, Vincent was the one with the medical knowledge. He was the one who had always patched Bo up in the past, and this situation would be no different. Between Vincent’s clinical approach to injuries and your own quick thinking, Bo would pull through.

He had to.

You and Vincent wouldn’t allow anything else.

The fingers in your dark hair tapped against your scalp, and you shifted your head just enough to be able to look at Vincent. Once he saw that he had your full attention, he raised his hands and began to sign slowly and clearly. There could be no room for mistakes or miscommunications; not when Bo was so badly injured and the stakes were so damn high.

He’s not dead, Lily. Unconscious. Pain too much.

As if to contradict his brother, such was his character, Bo moved his head and groaned lowly. You and Vincent froze and then sprung into action. You stood up, moving away from Bo so that Vincent could wrap his arms around his brother and bring him home, holding Bo tightly to his chest. Bo moaned at being jolted despite how slow and tenderly Vincent was touching him, and Vincent let out a pained noise of his own.

“It’s gonna be all right, Vincent,” 

One blue eye looked at you with intent, Vincent’s every nerve fixed on you. Were you anyone else, he would have immediately dismissed your words. But you were Lily. You were Bo’s Lily, and as such, Vincent gave you the honour of being listened to. He needed you just as much as you needed him, just as much as Bo needed the both of you. Who would he be to ignore you in a time of great need and impending doom?

He’d be no one, just as he would be without his twin.

“We’ve got him now. He’s safe with us.” Your eyes were rimmed red, the surrounding flesh puffy. You looked so pretty in your pain, matched ounce for ounce was it by Vincent. He wore it better than you did, if only because he internalised everything and did very little to give his distress away. It was only the slight tremor in his hands, the speed of his movements and the reverence with which he touched Bo that told of his true feelings. Vincent was as torn up as you were; the both of you felt Bo’s injuries like they were your own. It was just how you three worked; you shared so much of yourselves, and what happened to one was felt by all. 

No Sinclair was ever left behind or alone.

Not anymore.

A decisive nod by way of thanks (for what? You were unsure, but the time for thinking was over. There was only actions. Everything else could wait when the situation was time critical) and then Vincent was gone, rushing towards the truck. He laid Bo across the backseat just as soon as you joined him to wrench the door open, throwing yourself gracelessly over the back of the passenger seat so that you could get there quicker. Vincent was moving just as quickly as you, and he took the roads he knew to be the smoothest until the three of you arrived back at the house. The journey was silent, your nerves alight just as Vincent’s were. The only sounds you could hear were Bo’s strained whimpers and quiet groans, which only made Vincent white-knuckle the steering wheel and caused tears to continually fall down your face. You didn’t think you had cried this much in a long time, and, oh, how a conscious Bo would have hated to be the one to make you cry when the meaning behind it was a negative one.

In what seemed like forever and yet simultaneously was it no time at all did you and Vincent have Bo laid out on the pool table in the living room, the balls thrown carelessly onto the sofa. It was the nearest surface and it would have to do. Bo was time critical and you were both painfully aware of that.

Vincent gestured for your attention and then signed, bathroom, cupboard next to toilet. First aid kit. Hurry. 

You were gone, rushing to get the necessary supplies; you moved quicker than you thought possible and you were back beside Vincent so fast with the first aid kit in hand that you felt physically dizzy as your mind struggled to keep up with your feet. You swiped a hand impatiently over your face and held the same hand which you had clutched on the dirty cinema floor while Vincent injected Bo with a local anaesthesia before pushing the arrow in Bo’s arm all the way through, the feathers sticking to the wood as Vincent made a clean hole. Arrows tore more flesh and caused more damage if they were pulled out the way they entered the body, this Vincent knew, so to push it through to make a clean hole was more pain, yes, but it was less damage and easier healing. He had to be brutal, quick and sure in his movements. He had to be strong for his twin and stronger still for you, who was doing everything she could.

Vincent took strength from you as much as he gave it, and when it came time to surgically remove the arrow in Bo’s chest did the injured man begin to scream. You choked on a sob, panic rising in your chest, your hands shaking and your body aching. Vincent, too, was struggling, but you could see even with the mask on his face that his jaw set, his shoulders straightened and he looked like the last thing most tourists to the town saw as he made his incision and dug the arrowhead out of Bo’s flesh. Bo was screaming, even with the anaesthetic (which hadn’t been given enough time to settle into his bloodstream), and begging. He spoke your name over and over like a prayer, your name Bo’s only grip on reality as Vincent was brutal, clinical. Finally, when the three of you couldn’t take it anymore and desperation, panic and fear was becoming a deadly concoction capable of causing fatal mistakes to one already so severely injured, it was done, and Vincent slammed the knife down and threw his hands up, as if to say, done, it’s done.

Bo was sobbing and you matched him in every aspect of it as you cupped his face in your shaking, trembling hands. Your thumbs dashed away the tears on his cheeks and you bent down to press a tender, lingering kiss to his forehead. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I - “ Who was Bo apologising to? For what? Neither you nor Vincent knew (though there were suspicions, even he couldn’t say for sure), but you assumed your places at either side of Bo’s head. You pressed kisses all over his forehead and cheek, one hand tightly gripping one of Bo’s and the other one in his hair, sticky and matted with sweat and other oils, and Vincent had a hand on his brother’s lower arm, stroking up and down in smoothing motions and making quiet noises to placate the older twin. He still had to bandage the chest wound, but Bo’s comfort and safety was slightly more important to your thinking, and indeed Vincent’s, too.

Vincent got your attention again with a hand gesture and thrust the bandages at you before he signed, take care of Bo. Got some work to do. There won’t be anything left of them. His hands shook with barely suppressed rage and bloodthirstiness and you shuddered to think of what the bodies would look like. Vincent would catch up to them, and the teenagers would rue the moment they stepped into Lester’s pickup truck. Before Vincent left, he signed once more, please take care of Bo. Very special to us. Trust you.

You smiled, the gesture watery and shaky at every possible stage. “I trust you too, Vincent. Please be careful! I’m scared for you - for all of us.” Tears dripped from your beautiful eyes and your voice trembled just like your body as you admitted to arguably the scariest Sinclair just how affected you were. Any of you could still die tonight and you were feeling more fear than you had ever felt in your two decades of life.

We’ll keep you safe. Please keep Bo safe, too.

“What about you, Vin?” You were almost pleading with him to stay, but Vincent’s mind was made up. His blue eye, soft when he looked at you, hardened into ice, and he signed, 

I can take care of me. They won’t see me coming. Won’t be anything left for the animals when I’m done with them.

A cold shiver ran up your back and you nodded at Vincent, accepting him at his word. He was so much like Bo, especially when he was pissed off or insulted somehow. This was the worst slight for the man; he feared nothing more than having Bo taken away from him and he would not say such things unless he meant them. “Give ‘em hell for us, Vin!” The nod Vincent gave you before he turned and left made you feel a sick sense of satisfaction. You knew that the tourists would get what was coming to them. You felt a bit sad that you wouldn’t get to see it, but that was okay; you could just ask Vincent later, or even get Lester to show you the bodies if you really wanted to see what the younger twin had done.

You were ripped out of your silent reverie as you worked on bandaging up his chest by Bo coughing and then groaning low in his throat, his hand weakly patting at your hip. You turned and gave him the full extent of your attention, and Bo smiled. “Ya’ look like an angel w’the light behind ya’ like that.”

Confusion met his words until you realised that the harsh white light overhead made it look like you had a halo. With a shaky smile did you say, “The halo is held up by my invisible horns.”

“Invisible? Don’t’cha mean - “ Bo chuckled but then winced and your hands fluttered over his body much like Vincent’s had earlier that night as you sought to comfort him. Bo’s hands came up and caught your own and he interlaced his fingers with yours, holding them as tight as he could. His grip was strong despite the overwhelming amount of pain he was in, and you took that as a good sign that he was going to be fine. It would be a rocky road to a full recovery, though. “Where’s Vincent?”

“Gone on a well deserved murder spree.”

Bo whistled as best as he could, “That bad, huh?”

“Yes.” Your voice was hard, your jaw aching, your body trembling, your eyes sore, your heart pained, and Bo’s gaze sharpened. His eyes were hazy with pain and with the anaesthetic that was now beginning to absorb into his bloodstream, but he still had it in him to squeeze your hands, tugging you closer to him, and closer still until you felt compelled to climb up on the pool table with him. You were physically uncomfortable but you dared not move around too much, not wanting to jostle Bo even though you were on his uninjured side. You cuddled into him lightly and Bo made a noise of discontent. You heard him, so attuned to him were you, and you allowed your head to rest fully on his broad shoulder, your hair spilling over him like a dark halo. 

You melted into Bo and he allowed it to happen without making any sarcastic comment. He needed the comfort, the touch, the reassurance just as much as you did, and you peppered his face with kisses, leaning over slightly so that you could better reach all of Bo’s face. There was no side of him you didn’t love, no part of him you didn’t know intimately literally and metaphorically, and there was nothing he could say or do which would ever change the way you felt about him. Bo welcomed every touch, every kiss, every sigh of relief, everything you offered him. His good arm wrapped around you and he pulled you down, down, so that you could nuzzle your face in his neck, where again did you bestow hungry kisses to every inch you could find. You wished you could climb atop him, your thighs straddling his hips and your upper body looming over him so that you were all he could see, feel, touch, taste, but with his injuries as they were, you could only do half of what you wanted to. It was better than nothing, for this night could have taken a much worse turn, but it was enough.

It had to be.

Alive, alive, alive, my Bo’s alive. A mantra did you repeat in your mind, trying to come to terms with the night’s trauma, and Bo soaked up your affections, needing them just as much as you did. Every time you pulled away, he would only pull you back, wanting you there with him. He matched you grip for grip, kiss for kiss, as best as he could. The adrenaline crash soon got the better of the both of you, though, and you together drifted into uneasy naps right there on the pool table in each other’s arms, where a blood-soaked Vincent would discover you hours after he had left the house, trusting you to look after his brother. Though he knew his trust in you was never misplaced, he couldn’t help the overwhelming relief to know that you had done as you had promised, Bo’s face creased in pain but very much alive. He would leave you both there, only throwing a blanket over your bodies. It was just too risky to move Bo, and you were exhausted. Vincent crashed on the couch, staying with his family, with Jonesy atop Vincent so that she could get her cuddles. She had missed her human.

Come hell or high water, the Sinclairs stuck together so fiercely that even Death bowed out of the way.

[aggressive-positivity-network]

How do you think the mercs would react to engineer getting really tired and doing something absolutely idiotic? Like Engie don't lick the soap it won't taste good sweetie (totally not inspired by the fact ive done this same thing while exhausted)

Also your hcs are great!! They all seem super thought out and they're a thrill to read! Your writing is... Ok no word seems sufficient to describe it! It just too good!

Askers like you make my day! Thank you so much! Sorry if this is a little short, but I’m still working on the relationship ones, which take forever to write.

Scout:

“Hey, uh, Engie...buddy...you good?”

“Listen, I’m the only merc around here that does stupid stuff like that...you’re one of the smart guys, remember?”

Pretends to yawn so that Engie will feel more tired and go to bed faster.

When that doesn’t work - Engie doesn’t pay much attention to his surroundings when he’s working - he asks Sniper for help.

Sniper:

“Aw, bloody ‘ell, ‘as he gone into one of his fits again?”

‘Fits’ meaning bouts of creative invention that can last anywhere from several hours to a couple weeks.

Sniper waves a hand in front of Engie’s face, but to no avail.

“Nah, mate, he’s outta this world. All off in his own universe. There’s nothin’ that can bring him out now.”

Suddenly Medic walks by, and the pair practically pull him in to help.

Medic:

“Hm...zhere’s only vun thing that can avaken zhis building beauty!”

Medic wraps his arms around Engineer’s neck. No response.

Head on the shoulder. Nothing.

Chin resting on top of head. Nope.

Tugging on his collar. Still nada.

Finally, Medic uses his secret weapon: the cheek peck.

Engie still doesn’t look up - in fact, Medic has to pull his arm away from almost putting his hand on a sparking wire, something that an alert Engie would never do.

“Ach! Engie! Dummkopf! Vhat are you doing?!”

Suddenly, Spy peeks his head in as he walks by, but Medic grabs him by the tie.

“I need zhis vorktable for my experiment, and ve have all tried our luck. Any bright ideas?”

Spy:

“Why must I always find myself in these situations? Surrounded by idiots, waiting for my assistance.”

A murmur of complaints all around, but no one contradicts him. They still need a pair of fresh eyes.

Spy snaps in front of Engie’s face.

“Laborer? Do you mind coming down to earth so the good doctor can commit his nightly atrocities?”

No answer. Not even a look.

Spy thumps Engineer’s hat several times. Then knocks. Then takes it off completely. Still no reaction.

Spy has been getting increasingly more frustrated, as he has been waiting to unwind all week, and this is keeping him from a glass of scotch and a good magazine.

“Did your Texan weed of a mother never teach you manners? Or did she not know any herself? She most likely had yet to learn her alphabet, much less any sort of etiquette.”

Scout cringed, Sniper pulled his hat over his eyes, and even Medic put a hand on his bonesaw. You never talked about Engineer’s mom. Scout almost got a wrench through his forehead when he walked into Engie’s workshop in the middle of a Yo Mama joke.

This happened to be an exception, because Engie still stared blankly at his project. This infuriated Spy, whose sharp tongue usually had a much bigger impact.

“LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU, YOU SLACKJAWED SCREW MONKEY!”

Spy gave Engie a stinging, backhanded slap.

Engie scarcely stumbled.

Spy roared in rage and walked out, using his cloaking device so he wouldn’t have to bear a walk of shame. He was also holding his raw hand, which was hurt from the slap.

Demo walked in right after, rubbing his eyes and looking really hung over.

Demo:

“Mmph...whasall this, then? Aye...onea those, eh?”

Demo, being the night owl that he is, had seen Engie in his zone before - in fact, he was usually the first to snap Engie out of it.

“Comere, I’ll show ya how it’s done.”

Demo took the empty beer bottle he was holding and cracked Engie over the head with it. It shattered on impact.

“Don’tcha worry, lads, that hard hat ‘a his is made for more than a strong drink.”

Demo laughed at his own joke, then slowly got serious as he realized Engie still wasn’t reacting.

“Lad? Are ya...did anybody check for a pulse?”

Medic walked over and put two fingers on his neck. After a few minutes, his eyes went wide.

“No bloody pulse?! How the hell-!”

Pyro suddenly walked in, holding a bag of gummy bears.

Pyro:

He mumbles excitedly, then goes over to Engie.

She takes a red gummy bear, which are Engineer’s favorite, and holds it out to him.

No response.

Pyro laughs good-naturedly, as if he was joking about how silly Engineer was being. He put the gummy bear in Engineer’s mouth.

It fell out, but Pyro giggled and put it back in again.

It tumbled out once more, and Pyro cocked their head.

This whole process went on a few more times before Pyro decided to tap Engie on the shoulder.

When that didn’t work, he walked over in front of the table to look at Engie’s face, and hopefully get his attention.

Pyro took one look, started, then backed away slowly. After they had gotten a good distance, he ran to Medic and hid behind him, starting to cry.

Sniper translated: “He doesn’t look good...he doesn’t look like Engie...he didn’t even look...did I do something wrong?”

There was a rattling from above, and Soldier popped his head out of the vent and looked around.

Soldier:

“Morning, maggots!”

“It’s ten o’clock, mate...”

“You shut your godamn mouth before I write you up for insubordination!”

Soldier leapt down, took one look at Engie, and grunted.

“Gone A.W.O.L, huh?”

Everyone nodded, albeit unsure.

“I’ll show you landlubbers what we did in the army...”

He very slowly crept up to Engineer, grinning. Everybody took a step back, just in case.

Finally, Soldier pounced, taking Engineer’s hat and replacing it with his own, whooping and laughing as he went back up the vent.

Everyone just stared at each other, and while they were all recovering, Heavy walked in, still in his nightgown.

Heavy:

“Team is all here...what is wrong?”

Everyone started talking at once, but Heavy just held up a hand.

“One at time. Doktor. What is wrong?”

“Engineer doesn’t have a pulse, he hasn’t reacted to stimuli, his facial expression doesn’t change...he is a dead man valking!”

Heavy just chuckled. “Engie just sleepy. Here. Heavy will take him to bed.”

Heavy picked Engineer up by the underarms, lifting him over his shoulder.

Before he knew it, Engineer was falling apart. Arms, legs, body. It all crumbled to the floor in a mix of wires and cogs.

Pure. Chaos.

Everyone was either screaming, crying, looking like they were about to vomit, or were trying to salvage the pieces.

Suddenly, they heard a yawn behind them.

“Well, howdy, y’all!”

Engineer:

After everyone had gotten over the shock and had made a huge hug pile, Engineer explained everything.

The Engie at the desk was a robot with a realistic skin suit on. In the dark and dusty workshop, no one had noticed the difference.

He was actually doing an experiment - something that resembled a “straight face” experiment they had done with children. He wanted to see how people reacted when there...wasn’t any reaction. His hypotheses were mostly correct - except for Soldier, put he was a random variable anyway.

Scout was mildly put off, Sniper and Medic came up with a logical solution, Spy was furious because of his job’s emphasis on reaction, Demo joked around until it wasn’t funny anymore and then just froze, Pyro was very upset, and Heavy tried to physically change the situation.

“It was all real interestin’...but it had to be a blind study. Sorry I had to worry y’all. It’ll never happen again.”

He looked down at his broken robot.

“Especially not with my Engiebot in pieces.”

Engineer told everybody goodnight, apologized one more time, said he’d make it up to them, and then went to his room.

Needless to say, everyone followed Engie to bed that night.

And he had a certain Frenchman to apologize to over a cold-shouldered breakfast.

***************

I’m a writer...can’t you tell? No, but seriously, by the time I realized it was spinning out of control, I had written too much to delete. I know it wasn’t exactly a normal response, but I just couldn’t resist! I just felt a really good story in this one!

Anyway, I’m sorry this took so long! I have an ask blog and a lot of requests coming my way, so I may be a little slower on the upkeep. But a lot of the requests are pretty short, so I should be able to knock them out.

@catbunblue302

[katytheinspiredworkaholic]

Correspondence, Chapter 04

Pairing: HotchReid

Summary:  An AU where Reid never joined the FBI, but got roped into consulting for the LA field office while working and teaching at Caltech. Hotch gets his email referred from a fellow agent, and they start to work on cases together -- until they start talking on a regular basis. Regular becomes frequent, frequent becomes constant. They know nothing about each other, but they don't really mind.

Rating: Mature/Explicit (eventually)

Chapter CW/notes: Action-y in that there is offscreen violence and peril, injuries, talk of surgery and symptoms/effects of medical grade narcotics (morphine), more on that big ol’ age difference. Side notes: Agent Anderson of the L.A. field office has no relation to Agent Anderson of Quantico, VA, because Agent Anderson of the BAU is a national treasure. (I’m considering going back and renaming the OC, but as of right now this is the last we hear of him for a while). And I know no one really pays attention to them, but the time stamps on the texts match the time zone of the scene setting. Set in season 6, self beta’d.

Word Count: 8893

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

--

Chapter 04

--

Late September 2010

--

Spencer Reid wakes up to the early grey morning two weeks later, a perpetual haze shrouding his room long before his alarm was supposed to rouse him. He reaches blindly, blearing eyed and checks his phone for what feels like the hundredth time, only to find no messages waiting for him. A terrible, horrid feeling has been clawing at his chest and throat the longer it gets -- the more time that passes -- and he still hasn’t heard from Hotch. 

They’ve been messaging each other near constantly for months now, and it only seemed to get more intense after that fateful talk at the beginning of September. Where Hotch finally revealed he’d thought Spencer was much older than him, and not the other way around. Spencer had set him straight, as much as he could, and even that had been nerve-wracking to say the least. The two men were crossing into a territory neither really wanted to put a label on, and Spencer was both afraid of it and excited by it. Of what it could mean, and how long it could last, but he’d thought he’d had time to figure out a solution to his inadvertent secrecy.

Then, Hotch began working a case in Delaware two days ago. 

It seemed like a textbook unsub; maybe a little aggressive with anti-establishment overtones, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Nothing the BAU hasn’t seen before. They’d been closing in on the suspect, no location yet but some prospects that needed checking out, and the last Spencer had heard from Hotch…

It had been lunchtime for him, and midafternoon for the older man. The exchange hadn’t been anything of consequence, just their usual, easy correspondence. Hotch was going to check out that lead they’d spoken of, Spencer had a budget meeting as soon as he was done eating in the middle of his office hours, and they had a plan to play chess online that night. Hotch is still terrible at it, but he keeps coming back no matter how thoroughly Spencer wipes the floor with him. Now, sometimes they just forget about the game entirely after the first few minutes. It makes him smile each and every time, soft and fond and lighting a warmth inside him Spencer has… never felt before. 

Then Hotch hadn’t messaged him the rest of the night.

Hadn’t shown up online to play chess.

Hadn’t texted him goodnight, or even sent him an update on the case. 

Nothing in their conversations warranted such ostracization, and although Spencer has been ‘ghosted’ before (as his doctoral students would say) he knows Hotch would never do that. Not after everything, the history they’ve built the past months -- leaving nothing but the dread to sink in and spread like a stain.

All night, he imagines the worst.

By morning, he all but expects it.

--

[]9/22, 18:59[] Are you alright? Did something happen with the case?

[]9/22, 19:10[] If you were that scared of losing at chess, I can also beat you at online poker instead.

[]9/22, 19:30[] I’d suggest scrabble but that’s honestly not fair to you.

[]9/22, 21:55[] Hotch? 

[]9/22, 22:30[] I’m assuming that lead panned out, and you caught your unsub and are neck deep in interrogation.

[]9/22, 22:36[] I don’t want to imagine anything else, so that’s what I will picture.

[]9/23, 00:06[] Hotch please answer me. 

[]9/23, 05:32[] Please be okay.

--

Spencer arrives at Caltech looking a little more of a mess than usual. More than most are used to seeing him, at least, and it causes a few second glances from students he passes and other faculty -- but he really can’t find it in himself to care, this morning. His unruly curls, getting longer again, falling into his face and over his ears, are frizzy in their unkemptness. Bags under his eyes, normal, but he’s settled for glasses instead of his contacts. He has a spare pair in his desk, he’ll have to change them before class. His glasses somehow always make him look even younger. A mystery that boggles the mind, because once he had grown into his face a few years ago (around 26 or 27, close enough he had worried he would forever be cursed with a ‘baby face’) Spencer had thought he would finally be getting away from that. 

And yet, square jaw and ‘grandpa’ glasses and thin frame towering just over six feet did nothing in the slightest to aid him. Certainly not stopping a man outside the campus coffee shop from shouting “Watch where you’re going, kid!” as he near barrels over him on the sidewalk. Not his sweater vest or half suits, attire straight out of a 1940’s noir film (he’d even sported a vintage inspired undercut with his waves combed over for a while there, too. Way too much upkeep, as nice as it looked). Nothing makes him any more grown up in the eyes of the unsuspecting world, than he’d been without his five doctorates and board of director’s seat. No matter what he tried, it seems.

This has been a subliminal thing for years, something Spencer always said didn’t bother him in the slightest. And for a long time he didn’t care one way or the other, he just kept getting more degrees. All his life Spencer has been ‘too young’, always been ‘kid’ or ‘sport’ or ‘tiger’, even when running quantum physics equations in his head. And it didn’t matter. Not with his credentials and accomplishments and everything he now has to his name.

Until Hotch.

Now, Spencer cares.

Notices, even through his haze of worry and sleeplessness, how on the street it’s “Watch it, kid!” and fifteen yards later it’s “Good morning, Dr. Reid” as he steps into the Physics building where everyone knows him on sight. Knows him, and what he’s capable of. 

What if when Hotch met him all he saw was… another kid? 

If they ever met.

“Whoa, rough night Dr. Reid?” 

“Yes, you could say that,” he mumbles out as he signs in and scans his ID card, taking the stack of mail that the desk attendant hands him. But stops before he gets too far from the desk, backtracking. “Hey, have you watched the news this morning? Did anything show up about New England or Delaware?”

“Not that I saw, Dr. Reid,” she says in confusion, looking up from where she had been texting on her phone. “Just a whole lot of coverage on the shitshow at capital hill, as usual. Oh, and more depressing reports about the earthquake clean-up in New Zealand.” 

Of course, why would there be a news story about a killer in Delaware here in California. He’d have to look up everything online himself. 

“Thanks anyway, Carla.”

“No problem, Dr. Reid.”

-

Spencer spends way too long online that morning, searching for anything about the case Hotch and his team are working. He usually prefers paper copies of news media, at first barely knowing where to begin, but he falls into a wormhole of news outlets and local Delaware station websites, reading the thousands of webpages faster than he can scroll and click through them. But he can’t find anything pointing to a disturbance related to the case. There's nothing about a raid, or a shooting, or even an arrest -- which could all just be a part of the ongoing media blackout -- but it also does nothing to stop him from panicking. Spencer gives up after an hour, and diverts to other resources. Ones with a direct line to Hotch. 

With a drafted email pulled up to Ms. Penelope Garcia, the BAU's personal tech analyst, he ponders how to... even word this without it sounding too personal. Too much like he and Hotch have more than just a working relationship.

Because they do. They have... something.

Something that gives him fluttering sensations in his stomach, makes him check his phone constantly, and react to even the slightest chime similar to his text tone. Makes him smile when he sees Hotch's name on his notifications, in his email inbox, makes him message the man in the middle of the day at the most random thoughts. Just because he wants to make him laugh.

[]8/21, 15:36[] You're going to get me in trouble.

[]8/21, 15:38[] You didn’t laugh in front of your team, did you? The scandal.

[]8/21, 15:42[] I'm at a crime scene. There's a dead body in front of me.

[]8/21, 15:43[] Then why are you checking your phone?

[]8/21, 15:45[] You know why.

But that’s not something that is shared with the rest of the team, he’s sure. So he should be careful how he words his email, lest Ms. Garcia realize that Spencer isn’t asking purely as a colleague. 

Surely they know he has friends, though?

Chewing his lip, Spencer types out a brief email asking if Agent Hotchner is feeling well since he missed an appointment the night before and hasn’t been returning his calls. It’s a phrase he’s used often, so it comes naturally to Spencer as he types it out, and he realizes… he hasn’t called. He’s sent a dozen text messages, but not a phone call. Never a phone call. That was against the rules, the unspoken ones that always kept this friendship easy and free-flowing and evolving into something more.

But this feels like the closest to an emergency they’ve ever encountered before.  

He looks to his phone beside him on his desk, and tries to fight back the dueling forms of panic clawing at his chest. Listed in bullet points behind his eyes. Panic that Hotch might not answer, panic what that means for the man he’s been… becoming more and more inclined to than any other person he’s met in so long. Panic if he does answer, breaking that barrier of written words to spoken, and the opportunity to hear Hotch’s voice. But he would also hear Spencer’s, and then there would be no hiding just how… how young he really is. He still didn’t have a plan for that, wracking his overworked brain day and night for a way to incorporate the information into a conversation that wouldn’t stop everything in its tracks. 

But his phone is in his hand before he can stop himself, Hotch’s contact pulled up and his thumb hovering over the phone number with baited breath. 

Was he really going to do this?

He presses the touch screen and can hear the line connecting, the dial tone ring even before he gets the phone up to his ear and waits. It rings, and rings, and rings a fourth time -- before clicking over to voicemail. And Spencer’s hyper-fast thought processes fail him as he realizes far too late that he’s going to hear Hotch’s voice for the first time, anyway. Frozen in a panic, unsure if he wants to or if that had been something he wanted them to do together that the seconds slip by like water through his fingers and suddenly it’s too late.

“You’ve reached the voicemail box of -- (703)-567-8790 -- this caller is not available. Please leave a message after the tone--”

It’s an automated, female voice that rattles off the numbers and generic call back message, and Spencer hangs up before it can begin recording him. Exhaling a shaky breath, relief a flash flood on his nerves that nothing had been ruined between him and Hotch thanks to an ill-timed phone call. 

He keeps the momentum going without much thought, and adjusts his email to Ms. Garcia before sending it. 

It feels so understated, and yet over dramatic the more he thinks about it. The more he reads it.

.

Please let me know of his well-being.

.

God, no wonder Hotch thought he was in his 60’s. 

But Spencer has to keep the façade up, for now, not give away anything he doesn’t want to just because the emotional part of his brain is running rampant over the rational one. There are… many explanations as to why Hotch isn’t answering him. His gut feeling aside, he doesn’t need to be panicking like this. The world is still turning, he still has work to do, so Spencer tries to gather himself into some semblance of order and preps to talk to his doctoral students within the hour.

--

His morning routine progresses as usual, as if nothing at all is wrong with the world. Dr. Reid has his mandatory round up with his doctoral candidates going over thesis and dissertation parameters, class lecture schedules, updates, the works. Like morning announcements, but he requires them all to be there and to listen, and they all show up. Everyone knows of Spencer’s eidetic memory. He will certainly not forget a single date or schedule change, and he expects his students to not forget as well. 

But this morning Spencer is fully distracted, his mind elsewhere, somewhere in the state of Delaware with an agent who may or may not be in danger. Because Spencer cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. It almost seems more like a fact than a feeling. The juxtaposition of his daily routine and this unfounded worry throws him entirely off kilter, and all of his students seem to know right away. 

Then, his distraction reaches its peak when his email pings, right in the middle of his department announcements. A response from Ms. Garcia of Quantico, VA flashing across his laptop screen. Spencer’s eyes skim the preview sentence in the pop-up box, and his voice trails off as his mind… whirls. 

.

Dr. Reid, I’m sorry to tell you I don’t know when Hotch will be available again. There was an incident, and he’s still in surg-

.

Surgery.

Surgery.

That vice-like grip of worry that has taken hold of him since last night tightens further, to the point Spencer can’t breathe. Hotch is in surgery, Hotch is hurt, and if he hasn’t been answering his phone since last night -- or even late yesterday afternoon -- it was not a minor thing.

Hotch is hurt. 

She doesn’t know when he will be--

If he will be --

“Dr. Reid? Are you okay?”

“I--” he’s still looking at the email pop-up box, and is clicking on it before he can stop himself. Immediately disconnecting his laptop from the projector as his email loads there. It takes him a fraction of a second to read the email. “I’m sorry, an emergency just came up. Kimmy, finish reading off the schedule for me?” He doesn’t even wait until she answers him, just picks up his laptop and retreats to his office as fast as his long legs will carry him.

.

--surgery and we’re still waiting on word. I know you 2 talk on the reg so I’ll keep you posted. 

Fret not, genius professor, our fearless leader has been through much worse than this.

.

She’s using informal speech patterns, which she has never done before. It bleeds her nervousness, and worries Spencer even more. Teetering on the edge of panic. Ms. Garcia also revealed she knows he and Hotch talk, but surprisingly that doesn’t have the effect he thought it would on his already rattled nerves. Instead, any and all reservations fall away as he types out a response much in the same way he and Hotch had started their friendship all those months ago.

.

Please, is there anything you are allowed to tell me about the case or his condition? We --

.

Spencer pauses, bites his lip as he considers crossing this boundary into the uncomfortable unknown, and then thinks about Hotch on a hospital operating table three thousand miles away.

“Screw it,” he mutters and continues to type.

.

--We’ve become good friends and I’m very worried.

.

The reply is almost immediate.

.

That makes 2 of us, boy wonder, but I’m already hacked into the hospital records database and Prentiss is in the waiting room for any immediate actions.

I’m sending you the case files and the incident report from last night. Maybe you can see some shiz we can’t b/c the bossman is tough but he’s been in surgery a long time. 

.

Of course, whatever he can do to help. Spencer’s heavy heart-beat triples in his chest as pulls up the files and immediately prints them out so he can read through them faster. Utilizing anything and everything he can do to aid the BAU team, and whatever Hotch has gotten himself into. But then, his mind sticks on something from the email. Boy Wonder. It stalls his hands mid-movement.

Ms. Garcia knows how young he is.

She must have done a background check on him, that would make sense since he’s been consulting so much lately. But why would Garcia know his age, and not Hotch? Wouldn’t she send the files to him directly? Had Hotch really known, all along?

Or did she do it on her own, and not tell him? Assuming her boss already knew everything about him. It’s too many questions and possibilities and they are interfering with what’s most important right now. Best to get it out of the way, no time to be indirect about it.

.

Ms. Garcia, did you update my dossier with the bureau after you ran my background check?

.

If you’re referring to why Hotch seems to think you’re rocking the senior discount at restaurants and not still getting carded for beer, then no I didn’t update it. I’m very anti-gov files having every detail of our lives in them, that’s what   I’m for, and I figured there was a reason he didn’t know. Your secret is safe with me, sugar bean.

.

Spencer hadn’t meant for it to be a secret at all, it just happened that way. 

The real reason is Agent Anderson of the LA field office is a dick, with a bully streak he never outgrew after high school, and didn’t bother filling out a full file on him the first time Spencer consulted for the FBI. Then, he couldn’t be bothered to update it when his consultations became more than a one time thing.

But that was all in the past now, and Spencer can’t even be upset about it. Because now he has Hotch.

.

Thank you, Ms. Garcia. I’ll let you know my findings soon.

.

He skims the file quickly, pulling information out at lightning speed. It appears a very straight-forward case. As straight-forward as a murderous sociopath can be, anyway. Very anti-establishment, like he and Hotch had discussed the previous day, aiming for specified targets that devolved to anyone in a uniform. Anyone who appears too official, or labels as official. 

It’s easy to see, now, why the unsub attacked Hotch instead of running from him. He practically served himself up on a silver platter. But there’s something about the kills that’s bothering Spencer. The knife wounds, bludgeoning, even the gunshots during the first murders when the unsub still hesitated -- it’s all overkill. Rage. Every single target has died from massive internal bleeding, M.E. reports all label the knife wounds and beatings as the cause. But the amount of blood left over, measured during autopsy, doesn’t add up. They bled too much. No wounds indicating intentional bleeding occurred, and the tox screens are all clean. 

Except, every victim’s hospital records show elevated potassium rates. Spencer’s hands, skimming down each and every page quick as they can, stop on a dime as his gaze zero in on the information. 

“Oh, God,” Spencer whispers, quiet and horrified. “--Hotch.”

There’s no time for email.

He picks up his phone, goes to an older email that has full contact details in the footer, and dials Ms. Garcia’s direct line in Quantico.

“Speak, and behold greatness.”

“Ms. Garcia, it’s Dr. Reid,” Spencer says, and his tone and quickened speech patterns gives way to his panic.

“Dr-- Dr.  Reid?” 

“Yes, quick there’s no time. Do you have Hotch’s hospital records in front of you still?” 

“Yes,” Garcia says, her voice a musical thing even in it’s breathless reaction to his heightened state of haste. “Updated every two minutes.”

“Is his potassium elevated?”

Some quick typing of keys that move faster than even he could ever hope to type. “...Yes.”

God. “Okay, okay I need you to call the hospital right now,” Spencer says in a spiel that all sounds like one word. “Whatever you have to do, he needs Sodium Polystyrene Sulfonate as soon as possible, to counteract the chemical imbalance or he’s going to go into kidney failure and bleed out.” 

There’s more typing going on and Ms. Garcia’s breathing has gone a little labored.

“Alright, alright I’m getting patched through. What else can you tell me?”

“I think he’s been dosed with something called an XG Compound, either Eastman or Zhao I have to look up the specific components and chemist. But they are a series of banned, experimental military-grade drugs that suffer effects of thinning the blood, that’s why they can’t stop the bleeding around his stab wounds and old scar tissue.” Hotch’s old wounds from Foyet would only exacerbate the condition, once it reached the kidney failure stage, but up until then the intrusions of hardened tissue is the only reason his abdominal cavity hasn’t been flooded with blood and drowned out his other organs. 

“Okay, okay I’m through, I’m keeping you on the line. Stand by-- ” then she clicks over and he’s left with a pulsating silence. Nothing remaining but continuing his work, and hoping he’d called in time. Hoping that Hotch will be alright.

--

Spencer is digging through his floor to ceiling bookshelves for the biology book on airborne pathogens given to him by a visiting Professor two years ago and he is hating himself for never cracking it in that moment. It’s nearly the last book he gets a hand on, because of course it is, and he makes it a third of the way through the book before Garcia is back on the line. The phone on the floor beside him and just barely within reach. 

“You literal genius, I could kiss you,” Garcia tells him in what can only be overstated relief, and Spencer snatches up his phone with a very undignified scramble. “They’ve had to do two transfusions on him and are prepping a third, but you were right he’s been dosed with that XG compound.”

“He’s going to be okay?” Spencer asks, still cross-legged on his office floor surrounded by books and holding his phone to his ear like a lifeline.

“Yes, yes my dear he’s going to be alright. They think. He’s not out of the woods yet and the surgery is still going on, but he -- he would have died within the next hour if you hadn’t found out what was wrong.”

Spencer’s heart is in his throat, her words doing the exact opposite of reassuring him. Hotch had been that close to dying, to being forever out of reach, because Spencer had been too scared to pick up the phone. 

“I should have called sooner,” he says, so quiet even someone in the room wouldn’t have heard him correctly. “I knew something was wrong.”

“Oh no, sugar don’t think like that. You just saved his life,” she pauses, like she wants to say something else, but diverts to an adjacent topic. “How did you know?”

“Autopsy reports. There wasn’t enough blood left in the bodies, they bled out too quickly. Then I saw the elevated Potassium,” he murmurs it all, rattled off without really thinking about it.

“And you just… knew all of that, without looking anything up?”

“That’s basically what I do. The only reason anyone calls me,” Spencer laughs but it holds no humor. “I know too much, make connections, and drink too much coffee.” 

“You drink and know things, oh God I hope you get that reference because you’re getting a coffee mug.”

Spencer laughs a little, despite the situation, and feels… lighter, somehow, even with the worry still plaguing him. Caught up in his chest like a bad cold. 

“I’m reading this textbook on airborne pathogens, I have a hunch, and I’ll send you anything I find that can help with the case,” Spencer continues, his voice not so heavy for a moment. “Just… tell me when he’s out of surgery? Keep me posted?”

“Of course, honey, you’ll be my first message,” Ms. Garcia assures him, but then she pauses again -- and he almost hangs up because it feels too anticipatory. “You should tell him, B.T.Dubs.”

Spencer hesitates more than is probably necessary.

“... I don’t know what good that will do,” he admits, quiet and unsure. “I’m not -- I’m not ready for this to be over.”

“You’re not that young, honey. Does he know you like him?”

“Mmhmm,” Spencer makes a nervous, affirmative sound. “And… he likes me, or who he thinks I am.”

“Don’t write him off just yet, Doc, let him speak for himself when he wakes up,”  Ms. Garcia all but scolds him, in as gentle a way as possible and Spencer appreciates that, at least. 

“--I’ll think about it.” 

--

Not long after Spencer finds what he’s looking for: military grade poisons that were banned for causing adverse effects, listed and categorized by chemist and agency. It is the Eastman compound, originated during the first invasion of Afghanistan. Their unsub has prolonged exposure, Spencer is sure, and that will narrow down the suspect pool immensely.

After he sends the information to Ms. Garcia, Spencer looks to his phone once more, where there is a block of text all from him himself in his correspondence with Hotch. Begging him to be alright, to answer him, and now that he knows that the man has a fighting chance -- or as much of one as he will be able to have, with where advanced medicine resides in the current conjecture of time -- there really isn’t much he can do now. But hope. And wait. And pray.

Except Spencer doesn’t believe in prayer, or God, or anything that might hear him. The only thing he really believes in is science, and facts, and none of that is very helpful to him right now. Except maybe the coincidental balance of the universe, in a theoretical physics sense, and unexplained phenomenon that have an equal and spatial balance to it. Anything with the descriptor ‘unexplained’ always draws him in like a moth to flame, and he knows he can typically find a semblance of comfort in the way his brain constantly connects dots and far off specks of information that not everyone can see at first glance. Constellations in the sky. But only when he has someone to tell it to, that even pretends to listen for a moment, and for a long while now… Hotch has been that someone. Hotch always listens to him.

Before he knows it, he’s typing into the text box once more --

[]9/23, 11:10[] You’re in surgery still, but Ms. Garcia has confirmed the treatments are working and they are able to actually repair the damage instead of treading water like they have been the past ten hours. I’ve had her personally in contact with the doctors and surgical staff, and all they’ve been able to tell us is to let them work and just pray for you.

[]9/23, 11:13[] Which is such an odd thing; men of science telling people to pray like the outcome of a surgery isn’t in their hands, but some theoretical astronomical entity. I know it’s probably just a ‘bedside-manner’ tactic, but it doesn’t help me in the slightest so it just irks me instead.

[]9/23, 11:15[] I don’t believe in prayer -- a shock, I’m sure -- but I do believe in the phenomenon of universal affirmation. It’s an interesting trend in history and spans cultures where if someone has something awaiting them, to live for, even if they are unaware of it… they will fight harder to cling to life. 

[]9/23, 11:18[] But I also know you will fight tooth and nail for Jack, and for your team that you treat like family, and maybe even me. I’d like to hope I’m included in that, and no amount of books or IQ points can make me think of something to contribute to help you keep fighting.

[]9/23, 11:19[] Just please keep fighting. Come back. And if I come up with something to entice you… I’ll let you know.

It eases a lot of the tension in his chest, talking to Hotch like this -- even if he’s just talking at him, in a place where he might never know what Spencer has had to say. But he can hope. Hope that Hotch will wake up and have thirty missed messages and see they are all from Spencer and it will make him smile. 

Spencer would give anything to see him smile, and he allows himself to hope that one day... he might get to. 

He might as well, while he’s sitting there hopelessly hoping for things beyond his control. 

Come back to me.

Spencer almost types it out, can see it in the text window though he hasn’t pressed a single letter, and closes his phone before he can. Pressing it to his mouth and closing his eyes and just… 

Hoping.

--

The hours roll over into the afternoon, and there’s still no word. 

Spencer has spent the majority of the day messaging Ms. Garcia, who has had no information beyond trivial updates here and there and Spencer has read more about surgical procedures and practices than he has in his entire life. Even raided the biology department’s library, surrounding himself with the comfort of books and files and filled his head with the soothing monotony of medical terms and safety protocols. 

But once noon has come and gone he finds himself staring into the bookshelves across from where he sits on the floor, among stacks of textbooks, with an epiphany trying to make itself known to him. Despite his every attempt to ignore it. 

His phone is back in his hand, there’s an email correspondence from Ms. Garcia that only briefly says Still nothing. And that makes up Spencer’s mind. 

[]9/23, 12:49[] I’ve thought of something.

What he types next makes it hard to breathe, his heart lodged in his throat, and it all comes flowing out of him much like before. His fingers keep moving, his emotional part of his brain steam-rolls over the rational one, and then he’s done and he’s tacked on six extra messages and Spencer has to put his phone away before he rereads it beyond what is deemed healthy or sane. 

Because he’s done what he could, and all he can do is believe that will be enough to… subliminally keep Hotch fighting. The day is only half over, and Spencer feels like he hasn’t slept in a week. 

It would be hours before he got the message that would send relief through his spine like a shot of Novocain. Just three words from Ms. Garcia, sent in haste in a text instead of an email.

{}9/23, 14:58{} He’s in recovery.

--

Hotch wakes up just barely the first time, the room spinning and hit with that familiar smell of anesthesia he can always taste as it fills his senses, before he slips back under. 

The second time is to a small pencil light being flashed in his eyes, staccato movements meant to test his pupil reactions, and an older woman in nurse’s scrubs saying his name and calling to him. He hums an affirmative, even though he isn’t fully returned to a working state of mind. Instinct, more than clarity.

“Welcome back, Agent Hotchner.”

“About damn time,” he hears Prentiss say from somewhere across the room. Probably leaning the wall, if that faux drone is anything to go by. The nurse gives her a look but his agent isn’t even fazed by it, as far as Hotch can see. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust that far. But he knows the look well enough he doesn’t actually have to see it. 

“Where is everyone? Is anyone else hurt?” Hotch can feel the words form on his tongue, droned out in a haze, his mind slowly coming back to him. 

“Good to see you, too, boss,” Prentiss says in mild exacerbation, coming up to the side of his bed but not taking a seat. She must have been waiting a long time, her whole stance jittery just like after long flights on cases. “Everyone is fine, you’re the only one that got into a knife fight with an unsub who’s into biological warfare.” Hotch blinks at her, trying to make her words make sense without asking it of her. He remembers going to a warehouse to follow a lead, but not much else after that. It’s coming back too slowly to keep up with her. Prentiss just sighs, and repeats herself. “Everyone is fine.” 

She regales him with a play by play, his own memories appearing like raindrops on a windshield to accompany her commentary. Slowly beginning to form a picture of what had happened. He’d been stabbed before, more than he cares to think about, and he’s been dosed with military-grade drugs before as well -- but never both at the same time. No wonder he feels like he’s been hit by a truck.

“You’re lucky to be alive, honestly,” she points out, hip resting against the plastic side panels of his hospital bed. 

“Yeah, I’m gathering that.”

“And your phone has been blowing up like crazy.” 

Hotch is finally able to sit up enough and see straight without his vision swimming, to find that his agent does indeed have his cell phone in her hands. 

“What?”

“Yeah, eight missed calls and three voicemails, and--” she squints at the screen before looking at him in astonished confusion, “eighty-seven missed text messages, from a whole bunch of people. I’m not reading through all of them. I didn’t know you were that popular.” 

“I’m the Unit Chief, popularity has nothing to do with it,” Hotch deadpans, more himself. Wanting to reach for his phone but his arms are still dealing with pins and needles sensations, sluggish to lift and his fingers uncooperative. “Who called me eight times?”

“Let’s see,” she unlocks his phone -- somehow, god damn it Prentiss -- and scrolls through his notifications. “Two calls from Jessica, one from me, three from Strauss (Jesus), one from Dr. Reid, and one from Garcia. It doesn’t say who the voicemails are from.”

Hotch suddenly feels much more alert, his heart rate monitor picking up but he does his best not to draw attention to it, instead looking up at Prentiss as carefully guarded as he ever is. 

“Dr. Reid called?” he tries to keep his voice even, and unaffected, but the aftereffects of the drugs in his system leave a little more hitch in his voice than he would have liked. 

“Yeah, he’s been talking to Garcia,” Prentiss says without much comment, still scrolling through his phone and making Hotch a little more than nervous. “Busted the case wide open, and saved your life while he was at it. We never would have known you were dosed with something if he hadn’t figured it out. Think you owe that old man a fruit basket.”

“Can I have my phone back?” 

“Don’t think you’re supposed to have it,” she says without looking up, still scrolling through his notifications. “Lots of junk e-mail…”

“One of those voicemails is probably Jack, I should call and let them know I’m alright,” Hotch tries to reason with her.

“He and Jess are already on their way up, they’ll land in an hour,” Prentiss tells him, but looks over her shoulder for that nurse as she makes to hand Hotch his phone anyway. Still hesitant despite her predilections to breaking every rule she can get away with.

“I still want it back,” Hotch insists, regretting saying it as soon as he does.

It catches Prentiss’ attention a little too sharply. “...why?” But at Hotch’s steady stare and solid silence, unwavering like he hadn’t just been in surgery for hours on end, she finally relents and hands it over, still giving him a suspicious look. 

“It’s important,” he finally admits, when she doesn’t stop staring for a good couple of minutes. Those perfectly shaped eyebrows raise near to her hairline, the profiler in her connecting more dots than should be humanly possible. 

A small smile teases her lips, though not fully forming there. “Now I wish I’d read them.” 

Hotch just gives her a reprimanding look of his own, but it’s short lived.

“Thank you, for staying.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Prentiss assures him, her smile going softer. “I’ll leave you to your mystery woman.” A beat, another raised eyebrow. “Person.” A knowing look, but then she exits and Hotch is able to look at his phone at his own discretion. 

- 

Hotch goes through the text messages with a brief glance; there’s so many of them. Other agents and agencies, his team in a group chat Garcia had started, Jessica left fifteen before someone got a hold of her, and Jack’s school sending reminders about soccer and parent teacher conferences. 

But 39 are from Spencer, and his heart constricts in his chest at the worry he must have caused the man. Aches next to the scars on his chest and the blood that doesn’t belong to him in his veins. And somewhere in the recesses of his mind, it’s coupled with a torturous feeling of longing. Even subtle jealousy, because even half drugged out of his mind Hotch hadn’t missed the precise word choices Prentiss used. Garcia has been talking to Spencer -- talking. 

Garcia got to hear him.

She talked to Spencer, when he still hadn’t, because of some unspoken rule Hotch isn’t even sure when they decided upon. He still knew so little about the man, and Spencer’s voice could tell him so much with just a few words. He could fill volumes with what he would learn from just a single message --

Without much further thought, Hotch pulls up his voice mail. Listens to the automated voices and the three messages there. None are from Spencer, although his heart had beat a little harder in anticipation -- enough his heart monitor beeped audibly next to him. Embarrassing as that was, like a lovestruck teenager. He’d glared at it and centered his breathing until his heart rate slowed back down, not wanting to alert the nurses station. Two of the voicemails are from Jessica’s phone, one of her worried out of her mind, and the other of Jack telling him they are coming to see him and he hopes he feels better soon. Just listening to his son speak more strongly than his aunt had or anyone else should in his situation, telling his daddy he loves him while the sounds of a commercial airline filter through the background, makes Hotch want to smile and sob all at once.

The last voicemail is from Garcia, telling him a similar story to what Prentiss had earlier, but with a bit more detail on her end. How ‘Dr. Reid’ called her out of the blue, because there had been no time for his usual emails, and gave them the information that saved his life. He’d been working the case diligently, ever since, and was checking up on him a lot. More than a lot. ‘Let him know you’re okay, when you wake up and get this. The poor guy is worried sick, and my updates only give him so much comfort.’

Spencer had actually called Garcia, when he hasn’t physically spoken to anyone in Quantico the entire time he’s consulted for them, just to save a few precious seconds to relay what he’d found. He’d even broken their rule, probably before hand, and called Hotch -- just to make sure he was okay. Hadn’t stopped working to help, the moment he found out he wasn’t.

It’s a strange thought, that if not for Spencer -- Hotch would be dead. That Jack would be flying up here for a very different reason. 

Hotch switches over to the text messages with a lump in his throat. Not at all prepared, emotionally, but needing to know.

The 39 messages start from the night before, when they were supposed to have had their usual online chess date. They range from playful banter, teasing edged in worry, and escalate to panic as the night wears on. Anxious worry bleeding through the single sentences, building and building until that lump in his throat feels like it might block off all air soon. 

Please be okay.

God, that alone starts to set a tone -- and reveals something Hotch hadn’t expected to find. Those three words give way to his speech pathology training, and all indicate that Spencer is… very likely younger than he’d originally thought. Some of Hotch’s assumptions might be close, even the teasing ones he’d only said because he’d been sure they were wrong. The other man is obviously beyond worried about him, as well. Petrified, despite knowing the risks of his job. They had become so close the past few months, were most definitely past the flirting stage and into something so tentative and wonderful Hotch can barely believe it some days. But they had never talked about this, about the possibility that Hotch might walk into a situation one day and not walk back out of it. 

Spencer’s messages soon give way to him just… talking at Hotch. Relaying what was happening, philosophical rants meant to ease his own mind and Hotch finds himself smiling softly at the man’s constant stream of thought, lectures at genius levels that he still feels so compelled to share with Hotch. Because they are that close. They really, truly, are -- and it brightens the fluttering feeling in his chest all the more. How Spencer is trying, subliminally, to draw Hotch back to the light. Three thousand miles away.

Please come back.

Hotch hears it loud and clear, the come back to me. Even unwritten. And it makes his heart skip a beat, aching as it does.

Then…

[]9/23, 15:49[] I’ve thought of something.

[]9/23, 15:52[] I’m 29.

Hotch doesn’t understand, at first. But then it hits him.

Years.  

29 years. 

Spencer is 29 years old. Proven, further, by the following messages sent after that.

[]9/23, 15:56[] I’m a certified child prodigy, on a registry and everything. I graduated high school at just twelve years old, and had my first Ph.D. by 15. Youngest in CalTech history.

29.

Jesus Christ, no wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell Hotch his age. 29 is… far younger than he expected. 

When Spencer was born, Hotch was getting his driver’s license. 16 years difference in age…

He keeps reading, despite the numb aftermath of a bomb going off inside his head, trying to process it and also hear the younger man out.

Younger. Spencer is 16 years younger than Hotch, and he finds himself scrubbing at his face to try and wake himself up further as he reads what Spencer sent.

[]9/23, 15:57[] I turn 30 at the end of October, and I was trying to wait until then to tell you. 

[]9/23, 16:00[] I’ve noticed a prominent dynamic shift in perception, between listing my age as in my 20’s and ‘almost 30’. It’s a numerical allusion our brains can’t help. You hear 29, you think 21. It happens with decades, too, once someone is outside the familial range of 10 years. +/- either side.

[]9/23, 16:02[] An age gap doesn’t sound as bad when I’m 30. That’s why I wanted to wait, just a little while longer, but if that universal affirmation phenomenon actually works for us -- I don’t mind dealing with the consequences.

[]9/23, 16:03[] Just please come back. 

[]9/23, 16:07[] Please be okay.

[]9/23, 16:10[] I miss you.

His heart is about to be ripped to shreds. 

Hotch feels terrible, because Spencer is right. 29 sounds so young, and it keeps repeating in his head over and over. But 29 isn’t the same as 21, he isn’t some college student still stumbling around trying to figure out his life. He has five Ph.D.’s, runs three departments at one of the best universities in the country, is consulted by the FBI and Homeland Security and very obviously has a reputation he upholds to the highest regard. Hotch had guessed Spencer was 32 not so long ago, what was the big difference between that and his actual age? From what little Spencer just shared of his life story, he’s never gotten to be a kid, so who was Hotch to consider him one? What gave him the right to be floored by this, did it actually change what he thought of Spencer? How he felt about him only moments prior to reading that?

I miss you.   Come back.   Please be okay.

I’m 29.

It could be the recent flirtation with death, the anesthesia or the morphine, even the gratitude that Hotch will get to see his son again and not leave him without both his parents -- there’s so many reasons for him to take pause as he considers the messages in front of him. 

But it feels a lot like the months of talking, and the countless late nights spent together, that pile up and up in his chest. A rising pressure that reminds Hotch that he and Spencer have something, and it’s not a normal, regular situation for either of them. Something that precedent, and everything Hotch has ever been told to hold to standard, doesn’t seem to fit. He and Spencer don’t seem to fit, when looked at afar or even on paper -- but they do. They really do. It was never supposed to be something that could be this easy, or normal in any capacity.

But what about their lives ever was?

[]9/23, 18:26[] I’m so sorry I worried you.

[]9/23, 18:26[] I miss you, too.

[]9/23, 18:27[] If I stop answering you, the nurse took my phone away. I hate hospitals.

[]9/23, 18:29[] Hotch, you scared me to death.

[]9/23, 18:30[] I know, I’m sorry.

[]9/23, 18:31[] From what I heard, you saved my life.

[]9/23, 18:33[] I don’t even know how to begin thanking you for that.

[]9/23, 18:36[] Just get better.

[]9/23, 18:38[] Which means resting, don’t glare at your nurses too much. They’re there to help you.

There’s a long stretch of a pause in their correspondence, which picks up so smooth and easy it’s as if they had never stopped. Like the last few days hadn’t happened at all. But they had, they were both looking at the messages to prove that. He does take pause, maybe more than he should, and Hotch knows miles away Spencer is just as nervous. Staring at his phone.

-

Hotch isn’t wrong. Spencer let out such an exclamation of relief at Hotch’s name on his notifications he about sobbed with it. He never cries, hasn’t in years -- but his eyes sting with relief and worry and… an emotion he doesn’t want to name.

[]9/23, 18:44[] What day is your birthday?

[]9/23, 18:45[] October 28th.

[]9/23, 18:45[] Same week as mine. November 2nd.

Hotch pauses, again, considers his next response… and 3,000 miles away Spencer can barely blink as he stares at his phone with mounting dread. 

[]9/23, 18:49[] I understand why you didn’t want to tell me. It’s alright.

[]9/23, 18:51[] Am I correct in assuming you’ve never been in a relationship with this much of an age gap?

It takes Hotch a moment to even gather the courage to type that out and send it. Knows it sounds almost too formal, for them, but Hotch also knows that he and Spencer are balanced on the edge of a knife, here, and… no matter what the outcome, everything is about to change between them.

Spencer licks his lips in nervousness, reading the line over and over although he has no need to. It feels like a tipping point, and he’s still… terrified this will be his last conversation with Hotch outside of case work. Ever. 

[]9/23, 18:55[] Never. 

[]9/23, 18:57[] I haven’t had many relationships at all. My peer groups have always been older than me, and people my own age never understood me enough to be interested. So it’s just something I was used to, going without.

[]9/23, 18:59[] This has been… the closest thing to what I’ve been told is normal that I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never had the chance to have something like this with someone, or connect in this way. I gave up, for a long while there.

[]9/23, 19:01[] I’ve been in a similar situation before, on an intellectual spectrum.

[]9/23, 19:03[] I’ve never--

Hotch pauses, again, putting his thoughts in order. Weighing it all, before taking that final leap. Spencer waiting with baited breath, all the more. 

But Hotch doesn’t regret what he sends. Not one bit.

[]9/23, 19:03[] I’ve never dated anyone younger than me like this, before, so we’ll both be on a learning curve.

[]9/23, 19:03[] But we will figure it out. Together.

Spencer’s breath catches, and he can’t seem to release it again. He can’t believe what he’s reading. What Hotch has sent him. 

He said ‘dated’.

He thought they were dating. Spencer isn’t quite sure he can trust his own eyes, despite the words being there in stark black and white on his phone screen.

[]9/23, 19:06[] Dating?

Hotch smiles, because he just knows -- from that single word text -- that Spencer has sent it not in admonishment or anything negative of the sort. But in hope. Confident that he recognizes the nuance in Spencer's voice even without ever having heard it, Hotch just knows, and it makes warmth blossom anew in his chest. Sends his heart rate monitor skittering across the machine all over again.

[]9/23, 19:08[] Hate to be the one to tell you, but all of those late nights where we talked for hours instead of playing chess? Those were dates.

Spencer has his hand over his mouth, still in disbelief that he hadn’t… fucked this up beyond repair. That his age hadn’t been the deal breaker he’d feared so vehemently for months now. That everything is still as it was, age difference and life-threatening situation, aside.

They were dating. All this time.

[]9/23, 19:10[] I should have worn nicer clothes.

Hotch laughs at his phone at the same time Spencer laughs at his own, having reread what he’d sent. 

3,000 miles away, and their quiet laughter coincides perfectly. 

[]9/23, 19:11[] Our next one I’m sure I’ll be in a hospital gown, so I think you’re in the clear.

[]9/23, 19:12[] Sounds like you’re making plans, already. 

[]9/23, 19:12[] You still need rest.

[]9/23, 19:14[] Well, I have to thank you somehow. And, I saw something about poker instead of chess? I’m actually not bad at poker.

[]9/23, 19:15[] … you remember I’m from Vegas, right?

[]9/23, 19:16[] We’ll play for fake money.

[]9/23, 19:18[] No such thing.

[]9/23, 19:19[] I do play for favors, though.

[]9/23, 19:19[] Oh? 

Hotch feels a wild, youthful thing unfurl in his chest as he types away. Mischievous, almost, in a way he only gets when he and Spencer are hours deep into conversations in the middle of the night. But it’s broad daylight, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too wide. Getting lost in the thrill of it all. In the officiality of it, now, and another curtain unveiled between them.

[]9/23, 19:20[] Did you have something in mind?

Spencer has to be blushing seven shades of red, right about now, and he hides his face from his phone for a moment before he realizes how ridiculous that is -- Hotch can’t see him. He can stop messaging the man any time he wants to.

Except he doesn’t want to.

[]9/23, 19:24[] I’ll get back to you.

Hotch can’t help it as he grins at his phone. A wry, suggestive thing, but he manages to school it before a passing nurse can see him -- how his eyes are alight with possibility. With elation, just from talking to the younger man that had seemed to capture a part of him he thought wasn’t available to anyone any more, and types out one last -- slightly more flirtatious subtext to put a cap on their conversation. To indicate he’s awaiting more, always wanting a little more of Dr. Spencer Reid.

He can blame it on the morphine, later. 

[]9/23, 19:25[] Looking forward to it.

--

(tbc...)

--

Tagged List:  @spencehotchner @ssa-sarahsunshine @gothamapologist @reidology @marsjareau @dragon-snaps-fandom​ @emmyraebird @just-an-emo-rat​​​ @aaron-hotchner187 @dk18077 @more-heid-pls @fakin-it-til-i-make-it @merpancake

[inkdrawndreamer]

I haven't posted much about my own version of Jon here, so I figured I would jot down a few things. I actually based his design is a little on the Venezuelan legend of el Silbón (the whistler). I don't plan on doing a full alternate batman 'verse, though I do have specific versions of a few characters that I consistently use.

I'll put his backstory info below (trigger warning for child abuse, medical abuse, death, and attempted suicide):

I mostly base this guy off of Masters of Fear, Year One, and Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale's versions. He is still raised by great-grandmother Keeny prior to becoming the Scarecrow, but not from birth. Instead, he is brought to a nearby orphanage by his grandmother Olivia, where he stays until he is five or six years old. The orphanage in question had ties to Arkham, but was run by a local church. The conditions of the place were poor and abuse of power was rampant. A series of experiments were conducted on the children there, injecting them with various diseases and cures to see what the effects were. Jon was intentionally given measles as a child to see how he would be affected by potential medication, and he was very ill by the time his great grandmother decided to seek him out again. Her daughter and granddaughter had already left by that point, and she was running out of money to pay farmhands with, so she figured she could take him back and get some free child labor in the coming years.

When she eventually decided to pick him up, Jon had already learned how to read and write a bit. He was a bright kid if not a bit easy to startle. Soon after moving in with his great grandmother, he got very sick to the point that she was forced to actually take him to a hospital. He developed chronic pancreatitis as a result of the measles, and despite the warnings of doctors, she never took him back there to help get it under control once he was stable.

Jon's childhood was fraught with hard labor and bouts of illness, which his grandmother usually attributed to God punishing him for some sin or another. As he got older, they stopped being able to pay for any outside help, so most of the upkeep of the property became his responsibility. His grandmother was hard to please and easy to anger. She had an easy time pushing her fanatical views on him at a young age between siccing crows on him in the chapel and citing the doctors who experimented on him as being messengers of the devil. He was scared of falling out of line a kid, but also came to see it as inevitable. As a teenager, he even tried to commit suicide by throwing himself from the church steeple during a storm, but some damaged trees nearby broke his fall.

By comparison, school was a safe haven. Even though he was bullied a lot, Jon found refuge in academics early on. The school librarians adored him, and most were more than happy to stash his books away for safekeeping so his grandmother wouldn't find them when going through his stuff at home. Even regular church wasn't as bad compared with what he had to deal with at home. He did eventually manage to kill his great-grandmother, and a group home run by the local church took him in after. He helped out with the sunday school to keep his room and board while he finished high school, and had a brief stint in the choir as well. He was still bullied by Bo Griggs and Sherry Squires, and got revenge by causing them to crash their car, but it meant he had to leave town pretty soon after to keep from being found out.

College took Jon to Gotham City, where he worked various odd jobs while getting his degrees (among other things, he was an Arkham orderly on two separate occasions, a teacher's aid at a high school ,and a custodian). I'm still working out the beginning of his scarecrow career onward, but it will mostly follow Masters of Fear and Year One. The only major difference is that my Jon does eventually meet and have regular contact with his step-siblings years after he tries to abduct and kill his parents.

That's all for now. If you actually read to the end of this mess, thank you <3

[mwolf0epsilon]

“Eps’s Notes on The Illusion of Living”

It's taken me nearly three months to get this done due to writer’s block kicking my sorry butt. But, as promised, here are my notes on the "Illusion of Living". Good god has this been painful… But I did have a lot of stuff I initially thought of Joey somewhat confirmed for me, and got a few extra interesting tidbits of info that I feel are very curious...

--{Key}--

Italics are my opinion

--{Key}--

--{Quick retelling of the book’s contents}--

    The Drews were among the more impoverished families in New Jersey, and Joey's father briefly worked in the silk industry to make end's meet before opening his own shoe store (that his mother oversaw profits for as the accountant). As such there were obvious limitations to a lot of Joey’s upbringing (like a lack of toys to entertain him with, and very few family vacations/trips that were memorable).

According to Joey, the shoes sold at his family’s store were primarily designed for people in the working class (clunky shoes and boots that would endure wear and tear rather than be flashy or comfortable to wear, which Joey complained never really fit him right), and had one singular design that was simply improved upon rather than any variety (I suppose the saying here would be “don’t fix it if it ain’t broke” but Joey really seemed to have some sort of issue with this, as he disliked his father’s works).

    Joey's mother was a hardworking housewife and the primary parent when it came to rearing her child. She educated and played with him more than his father, so Joey was much fonder and emotionally close to her than to him and, while Joey’s father wasn’t an absent parent by any means, he was definitely more engrossed in working to sustain the family.

This family dynamic definitely had some impact on Joey, especially since his mother got him interested in the art of storytelling in general, and he seemed to have a lot more respect for her than for his father. In fact he even had a few reservations regarding his father’s mental integrity when he discovered his talent for making voices in a rather odd manner.

It should be noted here that, while Joey's father was strong, he looked deceptively frail and wasn't considered a particularly brave man by any means. He was however regarded as a bit of an entrepreneur, and Joey was very concerned that he may not be sane (which was a bit of taboo at the time, considering treatment for mental health issues hadn’t advanced past lobotomies and other disturbing medical malpractices) because he talked and sang to himself in curious little voices while he worked. Curiously enough, while a patient and loving man, Joey's father wasn't aversed to cursing around his young son (although Joey himself doesn't seem to use crass language, even if it was normalized in the household). Another curious thing to note is that Joey greatly dislikes mud, and especially hated it as a child (alluding to his later obsessive cleanliness as an adult).

    Because of the financial issues his family suffered through, Joey didn't have a radio or many books growing up, and was thus more fond of Vaudevilles (specifically theatrical comedy, tragedy, and bizarre/surreal acts) which were pretty common in his city of birth. This interest for theatrics and third person story perspectives mixed terribly with later events in his life, like how at age 10 he witnessed a potential murder/suicide (Jesus christ...). Through this event he realized that there were different kinds of people in specific situations, especially when faced with the finality of death. Joey goes so far as to describe how theatrical the death was (Almost sounding disconnected from the reality of the situation as he noted that the crowd and even his own father seemed more like characters to him than real people). However, since Joey's neighborhood was ripe with strange people, he wasn't unfamiliar with bizarre events happening around him. Seeing a motorized ambulance was more amazing to a 10 year old him than actually caring for the death of a stranger at the front of his father's store.

    At age 12, Joey went to Coney Island for the first time, and the journey excited him greatly since he didn't get to leave home very often. The trip to Coney Island was magical in a sense, and later in life he hoped to replicate it in Bendyland to a more permanent degree (the trip back home ruptured the magical effect, which he didn't want to happen with Bendyland).

Joey has his own set of rules he plays by which he considers his life’s philosophy that he calls "The Illusion of Living". This was inspired by several events in his life, including his father passing the time by playing make believe (the Shoemaker and the Elves). This unique perception of what illusion and reality are (“the same thing”), seems to point to Joey having developed a dissociative personality disorder from a young age, which got progressively worse as he grew older. This in addition with the ADHD patterns he displays in his confusing rambling writing (and Joey rambles a LOT), and the almost OCD behaviour in regards to cleaning up after himself, indicates Joey lacked impulse control and was more prone to listening to intrusive thoughts.

Joey's view of reality was often confusing to others and he greatly enjoyed poking fun out of slowly getting them to his point of view. Conversations with Joey were thus quite frustrating to some, but no less curious to others that actually tried to understand what the “Illusion of Living” was about (Like Nathan). According to Joey, only a few people ever got close to understanding it.

    Joey enlisted to fight in the first war after he lied about his age (He was 15 years old, a year younger than the required age to enlist at the time). Out of all the positions in the army, he seemed most interested in comms, and considered himself more decent in communicating than actually fighting in the front lines.

It seems like Joey greatly enjoyed how he looked in uniform, and was also particularly finicky about his looks in general despite being in boot camp.

He made friends in the army, Private Donaldson and Private Eckhart, which Nathan (who worked at the tech lab that Joey later worked for) attests to being accurately described in the book. They were slightly older than Joey and were also interested in communication tech and shared his sense of humor. They also influenced Joey's social life, and tried to get him to date some gals that he wasn’t remotely interested in (the first indication that he may not be straight).

    Another close friend Joey had in the army was Lottie (a communications officer) and he used to "chaperone" her whenever the four went out to party. He seemed to have a considerable amount of respect for her (which is likely a result of growing up observing his mother, thus understanding that women were competent in positions where other men would scoff at the idea of them working at all). As such he was quite supportive of the War's “Hello Girls” (comms female officers). Interestingly enough this contradicts Joey's sexist persona that he seems to take on in Dream Come to Life (a mask that seems to be among many others he employs to fit in with the rest of society).

Lottie was his special gal pal in the platonic sense and, while he often ate alone to be left with his thoughts, she usually sought him out to talk to.

Joey only ever empathized with people he was close to, often reserving telling stories to comfort his friends specifically. It was the only way he could brighten their day (which later supposedly helped a disillusioned Lottie when she was sent to serve in London). What one could take away from Joey’s days as a soldier was that he was incredibly perceptive in terms of studying people. He easily recognized people’s handwriting, and was greatly fascinated by others’s personalities.

He could also easily charm people just from reading into what they might be interested in, and liked the thought of subliminally impressing others (which he later incorporated into his cartoons). It’s never mentioned, but Joey was likely honorably discharged since the war ended in 1918 and didn’t need to return to the service of the military when the second world war hit (keeping in mind Joey appears to have mobility issues later in life, he might have not been fit for field duty).

    At age 19 Joey ended up involved in investigating the murder case of Walter Richmond, a signal corps soldier Joey met briefly in his service days. The victim in question was responsible for documenting the war efforts, not being necessarily that great of a photographer, but taking a certain amount of pleasure in capturing the most viscerally gruesome pictures possible for shock value. How Joey got involved was a curious thing in of itself, since he didn’t know the victim all that well, nor cared to get to know him. Detective Adam Sinclair (a tall hulking man wearing the typical trenchcoat and fedora combo, who’s most noticeable features were his aged face and unshaven 5’o’clock shadow) tracked him down to his little minimalistic (and obsessively clean and tidy) apartment to question him. Joey was initially unsurprised that an ex-soldier ended up dead (not from the war, but likely ptsd), and was instead surprised that it was a murder case. He ended up inserting himself into the case as Sinclair’s shadow to help solve it. The reason was mostly out of self-interest, but his perspective did seem useful to the detective in the end. Throughout the investigation Joey displayed a few particular traits that indicate his attentive and peculiar nature, such as the way he reads others (their way of dressing and upkeep of posture), the manner of which he judges a good handshake, his distaste for smoking (which was taught to him via the idea that if something smells bad it’s usually bad for you) and drinking (he tries to be careful with alcohol intake in general, as he’s more accustomed to beer than drinks like champagne which one could over-indulge recklessly without noticing). Joey’s fascination for taboo subjects (war, violence, and death specifically) is also noted when he observes the victim’s photographic works.

This is a prevalent theme in an art gallery event where these particular subjects seemed to linger strongly in his mind, to the point where he noticed when one of the photos he recalls having seen before during his brief meeting with Richmond, appeared to be missing from the display. A detail that appeared to be dismissed by others, but of great interest to Sinclair.

    During this same gallery event, there was an incident set up by the murderer that involved a firecracker and a crowbar that set off a lot of panic. Joey’s work at the signal corps labs saved him from the brutality of the trenches, but he's apparently familiar with the effects of severe PTSD (And ironically notes that reliving the same painful event over and over again is his definition of true horror/personal hell).

It became very apparent to both Joey and Sinclair that the murderer was amongst them, and that this onslaught of panic was a message: That the murder of the frontline photographer was personal.

They did in fact come into contact with the perpetrator and, after a while of radio silence between Joey and Sinclair, the case was solved with...Minimal success. While Sinclair knew who killed Walter Richmond, he unfortunatelly did not have enough proof to convict her (the sister of a casualty of war that could have easily been saved, had Richmond not left him for dead because it fit his narrative of the war just fine), thus allowing her to get away with literal murder. Worse yet, the resolution of the case seemed to further disconnect Joey from reality and consequence. He gained a disdain for Adam Sinclair where once he’d respected him as an authority figure of sorts, finding that he’d accomplished his role and still failed miserably. In the end, the only thing to come out of teaming up with Sinclair was learning a social skill that Joey employed later on, by mirroring back certain aspects of a person so they’d be more comfortable around him. Otherwise the detective became nothing more than a distant memory. Unimportant in Joey’s later narrative.

    Two years later, Joey started working for a bookstore where he began satiating his vast hunger for knowledge, now that he had access to all sorts of books he could never afford as a child. Joey is fairly well read with an interest in various genres, although it was previously noted that during his army service people made fun of him for especially liking fictional novels. Joey being Joey however, wasn’t overly fussed about others’s opinions on what he sought enjoyment from, especially when it came to storytelling. Aside from getting his reading quota filled out, his bookstore job also helped him develop his salesperson skills through reading his customers. Through his experiences with his father’s shop and shadowing Sinclair, he had by now understood that people were highly superficial, and that he could apply whatever knowledge he gathered from them into how he sold his pitch to them. His charisma seemed to lure in customers.

    While working at the store he met Abby Lambert who he immediately noticed had an eye for art. Joey quickly became friends with her and seemed to greatly appreciate her no-nonsense attitude towards life in general, going so far as to respect her capabilities as a working lady where other men would be disdained with her difficult attitude. In fact, he wondered why anyone wouldn’t hire her to do a job she could clearly handle, just because she was a woman (again contradicting his sexist persona). As a connoisseur of the arts, Abby was the one to fully introduce Joey to her favourite craft. He especially took an interest in Impressionism and its influences.

Abby also supposedly introduced Henry to Joey, which the latter insists wasn’t really that remarkable of an event since Henry was “unimaginative” and “lacking in talent” due to his specialty in cartoon caricatures, and not the richer awe inspiring paintings Joey seemed to prefer (basically Joey spends any given time in the book trying to make Henry seem as insignificant as possible out of pure unadulterated pettiness, which physically pains me).

Ironically, in terms of entertainment, Joey later favoured cartoons as the more appealing form of films since most other mediums didn’t really spark his interest, even if the genres were ones he found fascinating (I suppose that despite films being works of fiction most times, Joey likely thought real life actors were far too limited in their acts due to the natural limitations of the human body).

Returning to Abby, her friendship seemed to be more impactful to Joey than most others. Like with how he preferred his mother’s company to his father’s, Abby seemed to be one of few people he actually felt comfortable around, to the point where her criticism didn’t bother him. She was also mindful of him, where she could recognize Joey’s “preferences” and made it a point to clarify to him that their outings were purely platonic so he wouldn’t get uncomfortable in those situations.

    Three years after meeting Abby and Henry, Joey became a manager at the bookstore and Henry began working there as well (by Joey’s suggestion it seems), and only then did they sort of start developing a meek little friendship of sorts (although Joey seems very dismissive about it and focuses primarily on Abby).

During that time, the idea to start his own business came about from two different events that happened that year. The first being his first ever theatrical script that he wrote and performed with Abby at a gallery event. During the performance of this little play (the theme of which was an angel and a demon discussing their role in influencing a mortal’s life), Joey discovered that he greatly enjoyed controlling situations and got way too into it (even considers what he could get away with in the name of entertainment, such as if he could act out actual violent or scandalous behaviours if he proclaimed it a part of the show).

The second event was his father sending him shoes once a year (which, because Joey disliked the make of his father’s shoes, he tried to get him to stop by pretending they weren’t arriving at his address or that they were getting stolen). As a means to ensure he got them, Joey's father started sending the packages to the bookstore. A doodle and writing on the package ended up inspiring Joey to create his own studio as he wanted to take flight in the entertainment industry.

    Having thus decided that he wanted to open up a film studio of some kind, Joey immediately set off to get himself a memorable mascot. He had a vague idea of what he needed and what might be appealing to an audience, but he wasn’t particularly skilled in character design and openly admitted to this. Abby, who was also not particularly good at drawing cartoons, understood that her more realistic style wouldn’t really help (or appeal to) Joey, so she enlisted Henry’s help. Knowing that Joey was a bit picky in regards to how he evaluated art, she thought perhaps she could persuade him to take a liking to Henry’s works (which he wasn’t particularly fond of, due to Henry mostly working with pen-drawings of cartoon characters and caricatures that looked very unremarkable to him) if he could only see him actually work his “magic”. Joey was reluctant to bring Henry into his business plan, but upon actually reaching a design within a few minutes (that took a few tries experimenting with animal and human features in more detailed and then simplified ways) of Joey giving some directions, he seemed to be sold on bringing Henry on board.

Henry designing the company mascot was thus the final push to open up Joey Drew Studios.

The two began their partnership not too long after, and from then on out things got interesting very quickly.

    The history behind the studio is...Not an easy one to validate in terms of whether or not Joey is sincere or even really knows certain dates (the more I look into the beginning of the book and the later exposition of information, the more I realized either Joey was starting to trip himself up on dates or his memory was visibly failing him). There are a lot of discrepancies in the dates provided, with some going back on how long Henry remained in the studio (even claiming to have at some point surrounded him with other animators and even a lead artist a year prior to his departure), when Sammy and Jack were hired (He says he hired Sammy in 1929 during the Wallstreet Crash, but later says he hired both him and Jack after the Wallstreet Crash), among other things... Joey Drew Studios was primarily funded by Mrs. Richmond (the mother of Walter Richmond), as Joey had forged friendships with the people involved in the case he’d helped Sinclair investigate (including the murderer whom he had grown to respect).

While other investors aren’t really brought up, it’s implied Nathan also had a hand in helping the studio taking off, as Joey often met up with him at the Russian Tearoom whenever he could. During these private meetings, Nathan would impart advice on Joey. Advice which he seemed to not care for, as he already had his own concerns at the time.

It seemed that his main plan was to acquire a talented and capable team to achieve his dream. A team Joey thought he wouldn’t need to "baby-sit", as he specifically wanted to hire individuals that were as studious and capable as he saw himself (curiously Joey mentions that Henry’s work ethic was exactly what he wanted, as Henry had never held work back or needed to be checked up on, which to Joey was an invaluable attribute).

For at least two years, the Bendy Cartoons were nothing but silence and sound effects (something we actually see in-game in BatIM Chapter One when the projector suddenly turns on and we hear nothing but the clicking of the projector and Joey’s whistling), which put them at a bit of a disadvantage when it came to competing with other animation studios.

This soon changed when Joey came across Sammy Lawrence and Jack Fain at a party he was attending on his 30th birthday (which he wasn’t celebrating, the party was a completely different event so supposedly Joey doesn’t care much for his own birthday).

He was already familiar with Sammy’s musical skills (mostly playing the piano quite masterfully), as he’d seen him perform at the theater when Sammy was still a teenager. Noticing him and Jack at the party was entirely accidental and was mostly due to the fact that, while Sammy was trying to keep out of the spotlight as he played, Jack’s showmanship shone through and caught Joey’s eye with how boisterous he was in their musical performance.

Joey approached them once their act was done and managed to convince them to work for him. Jack seemed to be immediately on board, while Sammy was a little more guarded in his agreement and immediately set up his stipulations for the job. This seemed to lean Joey’s interest towards Sammy (who Joey was unhealthily fascinated with because he was clearly not an easy man to control) more than Jack (who he likely considered too easy a read in terms of character, thus not much of a challenge to sway or condition).

     By 1933 Joey officially bought the entire building the studio was set up in (which up until then was occupied by other people seeking their own ventures). Expansion and new hires likely started a year or so later and continued on despite financial instability, and between 1941 and 1942 Joey was already starting to work out how he’d get Bendyland to be just as perfect and spectacular as he had always envisioned (which was difficult because he never really got it to feel just right in his eyes, and something felt off to him).

In between listing several different projects, vaguely describing an innovative techniques (Sillyvision which seems to be linked with the Golden Ink?), and even setting up his own 7 rules on how to animate to help set up a guide for aspiring animators, Joey slowly drifts away from the studio topic and finalizes his book rather abruptly.

He insinuates there’s a lot more for him to tell but little to no connection with the “Illusion of Living” philosophy and he’d rather focus on his actual physical work with the Studio than sit down and write further, so he finishes off on a rather...Vague note.

--{On Joey Drew}--

Year of Birth - 1901 (Day and month are never mentioned, but it's possible that his favouring of the autumnal season alludes to a fall month) Year of Death - ??? (Supposedly he's died, hence why Nathan claimed the Bendy IP) Birth City: Born and raised in Paterson "Silk City", New Jersey (Joey doesn't seem to have an accent, so he likely masks it, or made an effort to lose it). Physical Characteristics: As a child he used to have curly hair (Considering the era’s general fashion and style, it’s very likely that Joey either cut his hair too short to see the curls, or simply uses too much gel to seem more presentable) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Homosexual with Demiromantic subtones (Joey seems to be closed off in general, but more appreciative of the male figure. Could be interpreted as demisexual however, since Joey himself doesn't seem to like wasting time around people he doesn't have much of a bond with) Notes: Here are several notes I’ve compiled about Joey and his opinions on certain things and people. There’s a lot to look at as this man rambles like an old lady at a friday night bingo event, and thus I had a lot to take in!

Laughter is important to him.

Seems to be a dog person.

Likes Cheerios (yes this was a super necessary detail I had to jot down).

Considers having his ideas disclosed without permission to be disloyal.

Seems to have some sort of dissociative personality disorder (likely brought on by trauma or another undiagnosed mental disorder).

People-Watcher by nature.

Was taught by his father that the shoe makes the man (aka the art of studying people through their shoes).

Joey believes in the saying "The Truth is in the Pudding", a saying his mother often employed.

Never had enough money to own a pair of nice fitting shoes until he was 26.

Is narcissistically vain. Easily takes insult if people assume he can't look presentable.

His service in the army gave him experience with "experimental tech".

Enjoys music a lot, and he was considered a great dancer.

Finds modern feminine fashion standards appealing.

Disliked the way those with money romanticized lacking material gains. Found it personally disrespectful in a way, since he himself came from a poor family.

Seems appalled by too much color on one's wear (Joey is the goddamn fashion police).

Very picky about the arts.

Apparently disliked Henry's art style(???).

Lets people believe Henry is the creator of the toons, in an act of being holier than thou. (You lying son of a gun, stop lying to everyone and yourself whaddahell).

Joey's analogy of Henry starting a journey but Joey being the one to reap the benefits, is likely the truest thing he's said in this nightmare of a novel (boastful bastard...).

Thinks of Bendy as his firstborn, muse and messenger.

Took an art class with Abby (likely not a full art course, just a simple class to get the gist of it?).

Considers art the doorway to immortality.

Doesn't like post-mortem success (it frightens him, even). He'd rather be successful in his lifetime.

Admits to making mistakes, but not many. He also thinks mistakes don't need to be permanent.

Doesn't know what true rest is like, and is unsure if he'll ever be content enough to rest. On that same note he seems to really hate sitting still and his mind tends to wander, which he notes Nathan recognized with ease, even reserving a specific look for him (It’s the ADHD baby).

His friend Kyle was a lazy person and a gossip, which were traits Joey found annoying.

On their first meeting, Joey described having a desire to shove Sammy off a roof to see a more human reaction from him.

Assumes Jack is jealous of the attention he gives Sammy, or that the duo's relationship is strained, despite him barging into their lives out of the blue and making him feel like a third wheel.

Seems to think of himself as some sort of a messenger (going so far as to akin himself to the god, Mercury). His life’s mission is to help those who don't know they need to be helped (mostly through spreading happiness and laughter in such a dark and dreary era of human history). Bendyland is essentially Joey's means to fulfil this desire, as well as to chase his own need for a properly realized mixture of immersion and illusion.

He wanted Bendyland to be perfect, even the plot of land it might be built in needed to be perfect, so he inspected it himself with Nathan once he bought the deed.

Appears to refuse to call Bertrum by his proper name once he’s corrected the first time. Referring to him instead as either Bertie or Bert (toying with him perhaps? Testing boundaries?)

Doesn't drive. He instead hired a personal driver, Simmons.

For a little while he was living the American Dream, but thought of how he lived as less of a shared goal and more of a personal one (again setting himself apart from others).

His days were quite flexible and he seemed to despise set routines. He also doesn't like sleeping in. He liked to take a walk in central park early in the morning.

Joey used to make his rounds around the studio but the installation of the Ink Machine changed that habit a bit.

Nonchalantly notes that Shawn Flynn got a little defensive if he needed to be corrected on his work (OCD much, Joey? He was painting a lot of dolls by hand, slipups happen...).

He had priority meetings with Sammy, "meetings" with Jack (Sir what are these quotation marks for, are you snogging Jack while no one’s watching???), then met with the art department preceding the writing department, and finally he met with Grant Cohen in accounting to discuss finances and budget.

He had the final say in ALL paperwork regarding studio affairs.

Upon reading about it, found the concept of bringing in real animals to produce Disney's Bambi as funny, and joked about how trying to do so with Bendy and Boris would be chaotic.

Noted that Abby and Sammy were likely the only two people who closely understand the philosophy of the illusion of living, but not quite…

Was terrified of being misunderstood. Joey didn’t want to only be able to show half-truths, like a mirror reflecting the world darkly. Rather ironic considering he was quite deceitful in his adult life.

His desire for the world to love Bendy seems to be a projection of wanting to feel loved himself (quite honestly if one were to apply the theory of the id, ego and superego, it seems to me that Bendy is essentially Joey’s id, while Joey himself could be considered the Superego. The chameleonic social mask he wears is thus the ego. At the end of the day Bendy and Joey are and aren’t the same entity...).

Originally he didn't want to make a memoir (likely because he can't be direct and needs to work around the truth to fit him). It could also be that Joey didn’t want to linger on the past nor in death. He wasn't sure where it fit with his philosophy and thus tried not to explore too deep into it (existential dread?).

He wore custom tailored suits, and as of beginning writing TioL he had recently taken to wearing cravats (ever the vain man I suppose…).

Despite considering revisiting the past unnecessary, he couldn’t deny doing so if the time called for it. In fact, the Archives are Joey's memories of the past and he's sentimental enough to collect mementos of bygone eras.

Joey has trophies at home, the deeply personal things he couldn’t bare part with. Like the first sketch of Bendy, a napkin with the design of Bendyland, a letter from Henry, a ticket from a Vaudeville show, and his set of shoes he wore when he was surveying the plot of land where he planned to build Bendyland.

--{On Bendy}--

Notes: Here are a few notes I’ve compiled about the Little Devil Darling himself, and a few curiosities about his creation and the inspiration behind his character.

Bendy was officially created in 1928. According to Joey he was born of a dream, supposedly out of necessity, and he always had this idea of a little devil character doing mischief.

Bendy started off as a realistic little boy with a tail and horns (Abby’s attempt to bring to life Joey’s vague idea). Then, when Henry got involved, he became a cartoonish goat creature. The concepts were quickly worked out from a toony clothed amalgamation of both previous concepts, to a more intermediate design more closely resembling Bendy, and then finally, after Joey requested a simpler more shapely and less detailed toon, Bendy became the iconic  little imp clad in only gloves and bowtie.

Joey named him upon seeing the completed design. There are two origins for his name: That of Walter Benjamin Richmond, who’s nickname in life was “Bendy” (a rather morbid homage considering what happened to him), and the mere fact that in Joey’s eyes, his little cartoon imp “bent all the rules”. Henry seemed to appreciate the name.

Bendy is meant to be the devil on one’s shoulders, much like the devil in Joey’s first theatrical play. He is however, a lot more like a little kid playing pranks on people. He is also a sort of embodiment of both the population and human morality (society at its most flawed point, but also quite relatable).

Buster Keaton was an inspiration for Bendy’s many shenanigans and movements, which were always meant to be fluid and a bit bouncy.

--{On Henry Stein}--

Year of Birth - ??? (It’s never mentioned how old Henry is, but I assume he’s around the same age group as Abby, since they were friends and likely went to the same art course. It’s likely that he’s younger than Joey, but not likely by much.) Year of Death - 1963 (It’s not really confirmed if Henry died when he was put into the Cycle, as he doesn’t seem to notice anything odd about himself, but it’s safe to assume the process very likely involves human sacrifice). Birth City: ??? (Unknown, it could be that he was born and raised in New York but Henry lacks a noticeable accent) Physical Characteristics: Average looking? (Irrelevant, he could honestly look like anyone really...) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Presumably Heterosexual (He’s a married man in the 1930s-1960s, he’s either straight or hiding his sexuality, he seems to really like Linda however so could go either way really...) Notes: Here the few notes I could gather of the Henry info we got from TioL. It’s not much but its at least something to work with!

Henry is unremarkable appearance wise (to the point Joey forgot his face easily at first).

The way Henry dressed (mismatched and ill-fitted) indicates he likely grew up in poverty and likely only had hand-me-downs.

He mostly worked with pen-drawn cartoon character designs that were unremarkable but distinctly caricature-like (the Butcher Gang concepts were likely displayed in the gallery Joey attended, as noted by a comment he makes about them). Even if Joey apparently didn’t particularly like his style, Henry’s artwork was one of the final inspirations for the creation of Joey Drew Studios.

He is described as able to draw quite fast, great at taking directions, and as being a good animator. Overall Henry never really had any real need for someone to keep an eye on him which made him an exemplary worker.

According to Joey, Henry used to give pep-talks before he left the studio. This seemed to annoy Joey considerably for some reason (perhaps he was envious that Henry was generally a more likeable person).

Henry is remembered as forgettable, whereas Joey is flashier and more memorable.

Interestingly enough, Henry never claimed to own the design of Bendy, and was more interested in being business partners with Joey than starting a fuss about who owned the rights to Bendy’s creation (It’s very likely that he willingly gave Joey the design because Bendy was his character, and that instead the designs Joey did steal were that of Boris the Wolf, Alice Angel, and the Butcher Gang, the five other more notorious characters in the Bendy franchise).

--{On Abby Lambert}--

Year of Birth - ??? (It’s never mentioned how old Abby is, but I assume she’s around the same age group as Henry, since they were friends and likely went to the same art course. It’s likely that she’s younger than Joey, but not likely by much.) Year of Death - Possibly 1946 (Upon finally losing himself to the ink, Sammy seemed to have been actively hunting the Art Department and any stragglers that he encountered in the studio, so it can be assumed she died in the chaos) Birth City: ??? (Unknown but more likely to be born and raised in New York than Henry) Physical Characteristics: Frizzy hair, even when bobbed. Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Potentially Bisexual (She seemed to be acutely aware of Joey’s “peculiarities” so it’s possible she’s either a member of the LGBTQ community or perhaps an ally. Whatever the case it’s up for debate and interpretation.) Notes: Here are several notes I’ve compiled about Abby and some of her traits and mannerisms. There was surprisingly a lot more to work with than I expected.

She wasn’t really into the typical female fashion of the time. In fact, Abby wasn’t exactly fond of the typical mannerisms associated with women and was both notoriously rude and dressed herself in a “scandalously” modern manner (which is basically code for more practical less femenine clothing).

According to Joey, Abby is a very focused and determined person, which is why he admired her greatly. She didn’t know when to quit, however, and sometimes took things too far or involved others in situations or projects they didn’t want to be involved in.

She wasn’t very good at drawing original cartoon characters, and Joey was apparently not overly fond of her attempts at putting his ideas to paper due to her more realistic art style.

Abby was very insistent on Joey looking at Henry's works, even if he wasn't particularly interested in them (While it’s never said if she enjoys his art herself, it can be assumed she appreciates it enough that she’d want their mutual friend to see the potential Henry had).

She didn’t join the studio as the replacement Director of the Art Department until 1931, as during its founding she was still finishing art school. She and Henry never worked together. Despite this, she and Henry remained in touch even after he left for Pasadena.

--{On Sammy Lawrence}--

Year of Birth - ??? (From how Joey describes him, it can be assume Sammy was a teenager around either Joey’s early or late 20s before they officially met on Joey’s 30th birthday) Year of Death - 1946? (Sammy is one of few people who was turned without being killed first so it’s hard to tell if he’s really dead even within the Cycle since it’s a time loop...) Birth City: ??? (Sammy lacks a noticeable accent so it’s hard to tell where he’s from). Physical Characteristics: Has been described as bird-like and insect-like, with either brown or blond hair that’s kept longer than the typical fashion of the time (Not much more is known about his actual appearance but it can be assumed he’s either average sized or on the tall side considering his in-game height and build) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Potentially Biromantic with a lot of Demiromantic subtones. Possibly Asexual? (Again this is pure speculation on my part because he did seem interested in Susie but isn’t really a people person in general. Does seem to know how to reign in people tho, so ???) Notes: Here are a few curious notes I’ve compiled about Sammy, the circumstances behind his hiring, and how much control he actually had as the music director.

He has an unusual appearance that, while not necessarily described as ugly, was clearly outstanding enough that some people were put off (Buddy) and others thought him handsome (Susie). His hair is also described as messy.

Sammy is an avid smoker.

He was among a few other musicians employed by the theater to drown out projector sounds and match the mood in silent films. Because he was good at improvising music on the spot, Sammy was excellent at carrying the story presented on screen through his melodies, which was what caught Joey’s eye when he first saw Sammy perform.

Sammy also recognized Joey and didn’t believe his dismissal that he was a “town person”. In fact, Sammy pinpointed the recognition to the fact Joey was that one loner that sat in the front row of the theater he played at.

It becomes very apparent that Sammy is suspicious of people in general. The way he observes others indicates he’s had some sort of struggle growing up. As such, he’s not big on sustaining conversations and he managed to aggravate Joey slightly by the way he addressed him on their first proper meeting.

Sammy had a songbook he shared with Jack, meaning they had a strong trust bond, which is why he only agrees to work for Joey based on Jack’s willingness to also be hired. Even so, he immediately set up professional boundaries for his position. He hired his own people without Joey’s interference, and he only ever indulged him if Joey was being particularly exasperating.

It’s very likely that since Sammy was the one hiring who worked for the music department, that he was the one who hired Norman Polk. This theory is made stronger by the fact he immediately demanded a projector and projectionist booth so he could better do his job.

Despite his surly disposition, Sammy is a no nonsense sort who wants things done and over with, rather than sit around and stall. As such Joey considered him one of the best decisions he made in terms of career.

Funnily enough, because the band seemed to be skittish around Joey, Sammy specifically prohibited his presence in the music department unless they had a scheduled meeting. This likely meant Joey was scarcely ever seen in the music department so as to not aggravate Sammy in person.

Alice Angel’s bigger (and failed) presence in the franchise is likely a consequence of another one of Sammy’s stipulations upon being hired. He had immediately noted that if the studio wanted to go anywhere, they’d need a female character (Perhaps Sammy really believed what he told Susie due to despising Bendy and actually favouring Alice as a character).

--{On Jack Fain}--

Year of Birth - ??? (Possibly around the same age as Sammy or a little older?) Year of Death - ??? (He was gone long before a few other people in the studio, likely in the first few experiments Joey performed) Birth City: ??? (Hard to tell, he doesn’t have an easily identifiable accent). Physical Characteristics: Has been described as an atrocious dresser (This man likes wearing bright colors!) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Potentially Homosexual subtones (Not enough information provided to tell) Notes: Sadly lacking in the information department for Jack.

Jack is incredibly sociable and trusts easily. He's described as making bad jokes but laughing genuinely at them. His smiles are contagious.

Jack is an optimist sort who sees the good in any situation (even when being led around in a dark creepy room by a peculiar stranger).

--{On Bertrum Piedmont}--

Year of Birth - ??? (He was retired, so it’s likely he was around his 60s or early 70s when Joey first met him) Year of Death - ??? (It’s unknown when exactly he ended up in the Ink Machine but it’s very possible he was killed when all hell broke loose in the studio) Birth City: ??? (No clue). Physical Characteristics: Joey describes him (rather rudely) as a very portly man. Sexual/Romantic Preferences: ??? (No idea, chief...) Notes: Lacking in the information department like Jack, but what we get is a lot more substantial.

Bertrum was actually retired when Joey managed to get a hold of him. It took a bit of detective work on Mrs. Rodriguez's (Joey's secretary) part to actually find him as well, so he was not an easy man to get an appointment with.

His creative vision impressed Joey enough that the latter he ignored his apparent dislike for reminiscing so as to get him on board of the Bendyland project.

While discussing the Bendyland Project, Bertrum confidently jokes about it being quite the catch. He agrees to joining forces with Joey as long as he gets full creative control of the entire project. Although Joey agreed to this, he still managed to fight Bertrum on a few ideas, which annoyed him greatly.

It’s very likely that it didn’t take long for their initially friendly relationship to sour into open hostility on Bertrum’s part.

--{On Wally Franks}--

Year of Birth - ??? (No clue, but he was very likely in his late teens or early adult years when he was first hired as the studio Janitor) Year of Death - Supposedly still alive (I really do hope he got outta there like the letter insinuates...) Birth City: Brooklyn, New York. Physical Characteristics: ??? (All we know is he likely wears overalls and a sport’s cap) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Possibly Heterosexual (Unless the letter is a forgery, he apparently has a wife, kids and grandkids) Notes: I’ll admit I didn’t expect to get Wally lore, but here we are!

Wally's actually quite skilled with maintenance. He can tinker with the projectors, other machinery and even plumbing. His schedule is a little off however, but Joey turns a blind eye to it because he gets the job done without question.

--{On Allison Pendle}--

Year of Birth - ??? (No idea! But she was relatively well known when she was hired!) Year of Death - ??? (She was likely lured back to the studio after everything went down but before Henry) Birth City: ??? Physical Characteristics: She’s a beautiful tall blonde according to DCTL Sexual/Romantic Preferences: ??? (She and Thomas are married but I honestly have no clue how to feel about her, she’s a mystery to me.) Notes: Extra minimal Allison lore for your Allison Pendle lore needs.

She was a famous Broadway actress before joining the studio. Interestingly enough, Joey was the one to hire her to replace Susie, not only breaking Sammy’s stipulation on the matter but also stirring Susie into becoming resentful towards Sammy and actually trying to recover her former role at all costs (even her own life).

--{On Nathan Arch}--

Year of Birth - ??? (He was likely a little older than Joey since they were in the army at the same time but Joey lied about his age to enlist earlier) Year of Death - N/A (Still alive and kicking) Birth City: ??? Physical Characteristics: ??? (I guess Boswell Lotsabucks is sorta modeled after him so go off on that???) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Heterosexual (He has a wife and son and doesn’t give me any other vibes besides and overall instinctual distrust) Notes: Oh boy...I do NOT trust this man...

Immediately upon beginning reading TioL you get the impression that Nathan is not only trying to appear friendly and trustworthy by referring to himself as Nate A, but also that he’s trying to cover for Joey and make him appear more personable to the reader. But to what gain exactly?

Nathan is, like Joey, very narcissistically vain, and is also writing a book of his own (an autobiography maybe?)

He’s a smoker and prefers cigars.

When Joey discusses his childhood, Nathan is unable to contradict or confirm anything as he noted that Joey was always very private about his origins.

Nathan seemed truly surprised and impressed with Joey’s ability to make up uncannily believable stories, even suspecting that his accounts of “Lottie” might have been false as he couldn’t find any of the supposed letters Joey sent her when he started working on republishing TioL (it’s likely he could see that Joey often lied to himself just as much as he lied to others).

It seemed to Nathan that Joey was rather oblivious of subtle compliments.

By the manner of which Nathan phrases it, he seems to think of Joey as a professional and kind man, capable of seeing the good in others. That said, Nathan remarks that Henry's departure was a great betrayal for his friend, and that the latter shouldn't have been so "gracious" and "forgiving" towards him…

When the studio began to struggle financially, Nathan worried that Joey might not be aware of the issue at all, or that perhaps he was lying to himself to cope. He also later notes that Joey’s memories seemed to have deteriorated in his old age. He was often mixing up information and seemed rather guilty, which Nathan considering to be very unbecoming of the man he knew Joey to be.

A lot of the deeply philosophical Joey and Nathan interactions seen in the book might actually have occured between Joey and Henry (the "I think therefore I am" conversation is an especially telling one for me), hence why Nathan doesn't recall them. It also seems more likely because they contradict the way Joey portrays Nathan, but seem to fit his portrayal of Henry better.

[fallin-4-ya]

The Follies and Vices of You

cedric diggory x reader- part iv of series 

based off the novel and film ‘Pride and Prejudice’ by Jane Austen

summary: Being the beloved sister of the incredibly wealthy Mr. Potter, you felt no need to rush into marriage. But one day, when you come to meet a new acquaintance, the proud Mr. Diggory, your views of love and follies change.

warnings: a bit of angst & tension! (gif is not mine, credit to owner!)

part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v

‘Maybe it’s that I find it hard to forgive the follies and vices of others, or their offenses against me. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.’ -Jane Austen 

The month of January passed dreadfully slow, as you waited for something interesting to happen. As the snow fell softly onto the ground, thoughts wondered through your head rapidly, most of them involving Mr. Diggory. In fact, he occupied your mind most days. How dreadfully awkward that poor man is, you pondered, and yet how confident. His character never made sense to you, as awfully as he appeared on the outside, you could tell there was much beneath his many layers. But your thoughts were soon interrupted by a knock on the door, it was the post.

‘From Miss Ginerva, Miss Y/N.’ You smiled and nodded thankfully. Excited, you ripped the letter open and the inside read,

My Dearest Miss Y/N, I hope my letter find you very well. How dreadful these past few days have been, for all of this snow has made me think of nothing besides summer time. I was invited to stay at my brother Bill’s until the end February; Miss Hermione Granger will be attending alongside me, to encourage sisterly bonding. I am sorry to hear that Mr. Malfoy has resided back to his home up north, but I do hope that he continues to write you such pretty verses. I shall be home before the flowers bloom. Be well.

Much love, Ginerva

You sighed thinking of how even more boring the next few months would be without the company of a most dear friend. 

Now that Mr. Malfoy was sent back home, the house was quieter than ever. Between Harry managing the estate, Sirius writing business proposals and Mr. Lupin locked up in the library; you felt most unentertained and gittery. Letters began being sent to you the day after he left, expressing a fondness for you, which kept your boredom to a minimum. You thought long about the letters exchanged between you and Mr. Malfoy; Ginny was certainly right in saying the verses were beautiful. She also urged you that there would soon be a proposal on the line if he kept with the letters, though you secretly hoped it wouldn't be anytime soon.

The next evening, to much of your excitement, you were joined by Mr. Fred and George Weasley for dinner, who were in the company of nobody other than Mr. Diggory. Reaching a hand out for each of the Weasley men, they took it graciously planting a kiss upon it. Extending out to Mr. Diggory as well, he ignored your gesture and simply bowed in your direction. After the questionable gesture from the latter of the men, you lead them to the dining room, where the rest of your family awaited.

The evening was going splendidly, much laughter and wide smiles reigned. That was, until a letter arrived addressed to you from Mr. Malfoy. You excused yourself from the table, to retire to the parlor to read it.

Blushing profusely and smiling at the beautiful verses addressed to you, unaware of the floorboards that creaked viciously behind; you sat on the armchair nearest the window of the parlor. You heard a throat clear at the doorway and shot your head up.

 ‘Mr. Diggory! I am so sorry, I mustn’t have heard of your following.’ Humming to yourself, you gazed out the window, ‘I do love this time of the year, Mr. Diggory. The snow is nothing short of lovely.’

‘Yes, Miss Potter, I do agree that the snow is very beautiful but I must interject and beckon you about some-‘

‘He’s thought to propose, you know. Mr. Malfoy that is. Quite strange, isn’t it; how young girls go to young women with only a proposal.’ You unknowingly interrupted in your dream state.

‘Miss Potter, I truly cannot help but to interject; however, there is a matter of urgency I’d like to discuss.’ Mr. Diggory huffed. Being pulled out of your trance, patience grew thin, you turned your head and snapped, ‘What is it, Mr. Diggory, that you feel so inclined to interrupt me for?’

‘Its addressing Mr. Malfoy. You see I am afraid I must interject on a most sensitive discussion topic.’

‘If you have anything negative to say about Mr. Malfoy, I must urge you that I'm the last person who would be inclined to hear it! And if you have some here to ruin my evening, I am afraid I won’t allow it.’ 

With that you grabbed your coat and trekked out into the falling snow. Footsteps not far behind you, you sped up; unwilling, or rather unwanting of hearing what anybody had to say. The crunching of snow only following you farther, as you followed the angelic pathway to the stone pavilion in the graden. You threw your back against the wall, sighing out deeply. Without a moment of peace Mr. Diggory entered your presence.

‘You cannot marry him’

You were taken aback by his sudden bluntness. Exasperated by his cultivated occurrence of strange actions you cocked your head at him.

‘May I ask you why, Mr. Diggory?’

‘The Malfoy family is least cordial, completely unattached and deranged from society. They are completely unsuitable for a family such as yours.’

‘A family such as mine?! Have you come here to separate an engagement or to insult my family, Mr. Diggory? Or rather, does your sudden interest in my affairs have anything to do with your dislike towards Mr. Malfoy; because believe me, Mr. Diggory, I know well of your disputes with the poor gentleman and will not stop an engagement from happening due to your pride and arrogance.’

‘No, Miss Potter! You know perfectly well that I find your family most respectable. I just find their family uncommony stiff for your reckless behavior.’

‘Reckless behavior! How dare you insult not only my upkeeping but a personality of another. Have you forgotten the follies and vices of you, Mr. Diggory? For who are you to judge another?’

‘Miss Y/N, has it ever occurred to you that you may be too harsh on me or perhaps my light on you may have been caused by the misjudgment of one’s character? I beg of you to enlighten me on why you find me the most disagreeable man.’

‘Well then, I beg you, Mr. Diggory, why you wish to separate a young couple who have grown quite fond of each other?’

‘Because I love you.’

There was a lull and Mr. Diggory halted. ‘I love you most ardently and I could not have you go another day more without you knowing of the likeness I have for you.’

You stood in silence, snow falling ever so godly on you both, speechless. Words clouded your mind, and you wanted to scream, and cry, and love, and erupt all at the same time. But rather than doing any of them, you looked back on him with a haze in your eyes.

‘I would not marry you if you were the last man in the world.’ You said walking away, allowing a tear slip silently from your face.

The next day there was a knock on your bedroom door early in the morning. Mr. Diggory walked in humbled and shy, ‘Miss Y/N, I’ve come to leave this for you. I hope you do me the honor to read it. Thank you much for your time.’

You had not even reached his gaze, for he spoke for too quickly and you were far too angry. Staring at the enveloped with a tear stained face for nearly an hour, you decided to open it.

Dear Miss Potter,

I hope my letter finds you in good health. I do not wish to impose on you again what I have said last night; for I am writing to you today not to remind you of said words, but rather converse upon the accusations you have brought upon me. I urge you that everything in this letter is the truth and have many to testify upon it.

Mr. Draco Malfoy and I had been connected since infancy, for his father, Lucius, and mine worked exceptionally close together. However, as Mr. Malfoy grew he became reckless; he gambled a large portion of his father’s money away and took no responsibilities seriously. Soon thereafter, his father wrote him out of his will, leaving nothing to his son. Mr. Malfoy became desperate for an inheritance; my father later offered him a job which he begrudgingly took. However, not more than seven months of work, he confessed a most passionate love to my sister. It did not take long for us to realize that he was only after her fortune for she was to inherit seven thousand pound a year. She was thirteen at the time and utterly heartbroken.

When my sister had gotten sick mere months later, my mother and I moved to London alongside her to get the best medical help. Unable to access our money without my father present, Mr. Lucius graciously lent us the sum of the bills. Unfortunately, my sister passed with just two months of treatment; she was truly a remarkable young woman. After the mourning, we paid what was due back to the Malfoy family; but for Mr. Draco Malfoy it was not enough. He hounded me for more money; knowing his dispositions I had given him the sum of his ask in hopes that he would become something of himself. He gambled the money away in two weeks. After that, I refused to give him anymore money, cutting him off for good.

Miss Y/N, I am terribly sorry to force the burden of the truth onto you, but I just felt that you ought to know. Please do keep the affairs containing my sister private, as I believe it be a disgrace to her memory to attach her name to one like his. Thank you for the time we have shared.

Yours, Mr. Cedric Diggory

(author’s note: oh my goodness! end of part 4!!! ending on a bit of a cliff hanger... i can't wait for you all to read the final chapter, which will be out soon! as always, let me know if you’d like to be part of this tag list! thank you as always for reading!)

tag list: @freddieweasleyswife @truly-insatiable @annasdani @mullthingsoverinthehotwater

[aliendes]

Natural Borns - Prologue

ahhh finally posting this fic that I’ve had a bare-bones outline for, for over a year. I absolutely adore the idea behind this fic and the world that I am creating for it. If you like what you read here, please follow my blog for updates. My goal is to update this series at least once every two weeks, but I will likely post the first few chapters in the next couple of weeks. I look forward to growing this au, reblog if you enjoy! 

dystopian!au / futuristic!au 

Series info/genre: Angset, fluff, (possible) smut NSFW due to darker themes Pairings: ot7 x fem reader (eventual) Warnings: this series will have different trigger warnings listed for each chapter (if there are any), but as a whole, this series will include violence, mentions of depression & other mental illnesses, cursing, abuse, drugs/alcohol, some shitty medical descriptions because i am NOT a doctor, self-esteem issues, fluff, and possible smut in future chapters (but that’s undecided). i will add more warnings/tags in the future if there are any. Description: In the year 2613, over half of the world’s population are what scientists consider ‘designer babies’. YN is a small town girl who is a true natural born, someone born naturally without he help of a lab or gene splicing. Her DNA is greatly sought after, but what is she willing to do to protect it? Word count: 1569 (future chapters will be longer, this is just a prologue!)

In a world where social status is determined by looks, it’s beneficial to have the label ‘designer baby’. 

In the year 2613, over half of the world’s population are now what society considers a ‘designer baby’. This term designer baby, coined in 2051 when scientists in Sweden successfully incubated a baby to term by splicing different genes together, is what people call babies born in a lab. It is commonplace now for people to walk into a lab, go through a catalog of traits, pick out their favorites, pay a high price tag, and wait about 9 months for their baby to fully incubate. Then they can take their new bundle of joy home without all the pain (and sometimes heartbreak) of a pregnancy and labor. Most expecting mothers never go through pregnancy anymore, and labor and delivery wards have become nearly obsolete in the richer areas of the world. In their place, companies began to spring up on nearly every street corner that allowed hopeful parents to pick out their future offspring. 

The process was actually incredibly simple. Scientists are able to take the DNA of both prospective parents, and splice their genes with other genes of their choosing by removing certain markers for things like eye color while not compromising the parents original DNA structure, and create a zygote in a lab. After about 9-10 months of incubation, this zygote will eventually become the perfect baby, or at least, those parents' version of the perfect baby. The only reason the practice took so long to take off was because of the many protests and movements that took place in the late 2000’s. After the first designer baby was successfully ‘born’, people began to protest the process, saying that it was ‘messing with fate’ and that people shouldn’t have that much power over other humans. After decades of fighting and protests, the first designer baby company launched in 2108, in Seoul, South Korea. Since then, there have been smaller groups and nonprofit organizations that try to fight against gene splicing, but it is mostly accepted worldwide. 

Always at the forefront of technology, it was no surprise that the first designer baby company was in Seoul. Hundreds of years later, the largest population of designer babies and companies still reside in Seoul. Over 75% of the population of South Korea is made up of people who were created in labs and have the perfect balance of genes. Some call the country the most beautiful place on Earth. 600 years ago, people would say that because of its rich culture, and scenic countrysides. Now, it’s because the citizens are nice to ogle at. 

Designer babies are so common in South Korea, that schools, office buildings, and even entire apartment complexes were built for them. In today’s society, your job, your relationships, and your status is determined by how beautiful you are. It’s easy to tell who is a designer baby and who isn’t. Most people born in labs have distinct features, mostly from the same pool of genes. You see, after a while, scientists started running out of natural DNA to use that people still thought was unique enough. Now, most designer babies have features that stem from the same catalogs, as they are the most popular. Sure, they’re pretty, but they’re beginning to look a lot alike. 

Part of the reason natural DNA is so hard to find now, is because a lot of designer babies end up procreating with what scientists dubbed ‘natural borns’, or people with 100% natural DNA, and so most people's DNA is muddled throughout generations. These people are not good candidates for gene splicing as the outcome is not easily controlled. Coming across a true natural born is extremely rare these days and the ones you do find are almost always average looking in society's eyes, so labs don’t bother trying to splice them. It’s not that there are NO natural borns willing to give up their DNA. Companies have applicants all the time, what with the hefty sum they pay their donors, but most do not make it past the application stage once said companies determine their genes unusable for various reasons.

Another problem laboratories run into is the willingness of participants in donating their DNA. The process isn’t as simple as a cheek swab. Once applicants learn about the often painful procedures involved in donating, they tend to back out before signing a contract. These contracts, depending on the company, usually requires the donors to live on company property until they have successfully spliced their DNA. This process involves the donor to take different cocktails of drugs, be put under anesthetic, and be poked and prodded by scientists for weeks at a time. It isn’t the most comfortable thing to go through, but they’re often offered substantial compensation, especially now with the shortage of true natural borns. Some larger companies have been accused in the past of abusing their donors, locking them in prison-like cells and depriving them of food and water, treating them as nothing more than a business transaction, which has also caused natural borns to stray away from donating.

Finding natural borns, or at least partial natural borns isn’t all that hard, though, as most natural borns live in smaller communities outside of larger cities. Because the population of designer babies only continues to grow, most employers no longer hire average looking people. There are even separate schools and hospitals that cater specifically to natural borns, often run by natural borns, since there are a significant portion of designer babies who do not socialize with naturals. Naturals are often considered low-class, and are looked down upon by those in high society. The crime rates against natural borns is becoming increasingly high, which has unfortunately pushed a lot of them outside of metropolitan areas. This resulted in a new social hierarchy where natural borns are at the bottom of the food chain, often poor or even homeless, struggling to find jobs. 

In recent years there have been more protests and rallies ran by both designer babies and natural borns who believe in rights for everyone, they are humans after all,  to try and fight against the discrimination that is heavily ingrained in today’s culture, but not much headway has been made yet. Currently, all world leaders and politicians are designer babies, so going up against them hasn’t been the easiest. 

Because protests are happening more often, companies are having to be even more discreet when it comes to ‘scouting’ potential candidates for donating DNA. They’ve become more desperate to find the new and innovating genes, something unique and different that will drive business in time where labs are a dime a dozen and new genes are hard to come by. 

You would know all about that, though. You are living in a small rural town outside of Seoul with your mother and father, both natural borns. Your family has owned a peach farm for the last few decades and makes enough money to upkeep the small orchard by selling to local markets and restaurants. You’ve been approached multiple times by companies, offering enticing amounts of money to you and your parents, promising things like apartments in the city, college tuition, and fancy cars, if you sold them your DNA. You were a true natural born, a rarity, especially in Korea. Not only did you have pure DNA, but you were unique. You weren’t average looking, no you were ethereal, gorgeous, spectacular in many people's eyes. Not for the reasons that you would’ve liked, though.

People only wanted you for your DNA. Whether it be companies who wanted to splice your genes, or other natural borns who wanted to court you and keep you for themselves, breed you and sell their children off to make a quick buck. It was sick, and that’s why your family kept you close. After you graduated high school, you didn’t attend university and didn’t get a job. You stayed on the farm and helped out your father in the orchard. You knew the dangers of the big companies and citizens alike who only wanted to use you. It made you wary of people, shy, and sometimes insecure about your own person. Your parents did their best to keep you safe, shield you from the horrors of the world, and make sure you felt loved. But oftentimes, you felt lonely, left out, especially when you didn’t have many friends. You felt like an outsider, and even though you were considered incredibly beautiful, you didn’t feel like it.

Growing up wasn’t the easiest for you, having gone to a poor, all natural born school from preschool until you graduated. You didn’t have many friends, most of your classmates bullied you, telling you that you didn’t belong there, that there was no way you weren’t one of those designer babies from the big city and that your parents were lying to you, or you were adopted and didn’t know. These comments were hard to hear, but in the end, you know the truth. You are a pure natural born, and your parents loved you and would do anything to protect you.

But when a mysterious company won’t leave you alone about donating your DNA, you start to question your parents protectiveness over you. Among other things, your biggest question was; what made you so special? 

To be continued...

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, (20)77: Caught Up in the Moment

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter 8. Go to Previous. Go to Next. TWs: Food/meat, implied digestive trouble, unapologetic medical fetishization, brief grievous memory association, smoking. Seventy-seven is a sentimental number for me.

“...[C]lothes do not merely make the man, the clothes are the man; that without them he is a cipher, a vacancy, a nobody, a nothing.” -- Mark Twain’s “Czar’s Soliloquy”

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‘Choly and Angel walked next door to rejoin Sticks in the junk vendor’s stall. He found it peculiar, that trash did not comprise a majority of the dealer’s wares, despite the store’s categorization as a junk vendor. Much of it had been restored or repaired in some capacity, if not marginally more presentable polished or cleaned up some. A distant, crooked smile tugged at him, delighted by his ability to identify the most mundane of ancient things which had not graced his sight in some time. Ceramic figurine egg timer. Cake breaker. Dusting bellows. Pewter powder box. No, perhaps the entire mall could be called a large scale antiques dealer of sorts--with a healthy mix of contemporary crafts for sale as well, of course.

While ‘Choly had taken Liam’s suggestion to try some local fashion choices for something more compatible with the cervical collar, Sticks had decided to test his suggestion this type of merchant might yield their hunt better results. Sticks hadn’t wanted to wait around while ‘Choly clothing shopped, no matter how brief the errand with their appointment at the Gate City Clinic at eleven. When he found him, Sticks had just given up digging in a bin of various sacks.

The ghoul eyed him with pleasant surprise, hands stiff in his pockets.

“Didn’t expect you to be done first. Take it from your good spirits you found stuff you’re happy with.” He squinted at the new garments ‘Choly wore. “...I know you wear it well, but Ant lace? I thought we were pinching caps here.”

‘Choly smiled. First the cervical collar and a genuine direction to procuring the rest, and now brand new clothing. He now wore a collarless mesh chemisette, over his corset but tucked under the edge of the cervical collar, with a ribbon tie in the back and to either side. The corset still peeked out under the cropped hem. Atop this he’d put his cardigan back on. Draped around his neck was the article with which Sticks had exception: a long Irish lace shawl, with its tails drawn into a loose knot in the front. Several hundred dollars lighter for it, his heart felt even lighter still. In his day went the phrase, the clothes make the man, but it persisted even now that new clothes could do wonders.

“Up until now,” he finally replied, “all my clothes have either been prewar salvage or military issue. But now, I own some clothes handmade this year. I need to stop feeling like the relic I am. To stop feeling like I’m still stuck in 2077. I’d imagine it’s well enough time to finally celebrate something.”

“I figured last night was a to-do, but I guess you’ve earned something fancy. Appearances sure matter a lot to you.”

“Have to make up for my personality somehow, don’t I?” He shrugged off his own glib self-deprecation. “Before we get going, did you want to try something new, too? The apparel clerk was incredibly helpful.”

Sticks’s attention fell elsewhere as they walked out of the junk vendor’s stall.

“Mm, no offense, but I prefer the way duds used to be made.”

“That’s fair. The display windows of the boutiques that specialize in prewar fashion have caught my attention every time we pass them. Right now, though, I feel more like trying to blend in a bit. To feel present.”

Something about yesterday’s conversation with Liam had ‘Choly’s mind abuzz with a confusion he nearly welcomed. His interaction with the apparel clerk repeated in his mind. With the utter unisex nature of garments, he couldn’t not ask her, with some trepidation, And how might a man go about wearing this one? And this? She’d let him into the fitting room stall so she could show him, making adjustments once he reemerged with the new clothes on his person. He smiled into himself as he mounted Angel.

“The clerk showed me how Laners wear things. I thought I could tell at a glance that wealth and status were demonstrated with wearing as many individual garments as possible, with wearing as much of a given fabric as possible, with the greatest intricacy to a fabric possible. But it���s more complicated than that? Really, it shocks me that you wouldn’t take a shine to this kind of place. She lamented that my orthotic corset has no detail work, and is made from such an uninteresting fabric. All function, with none of the form, she says. Clothing here is designed to show off the undergarments! Socks included, for example--hence all the golf trousers.” His eyes wilded, focused on nothing, as he reared up on his grip on Angel’s car-door handles. “I can’t imagine literally airing my unmentionables to the whole neighborhood, no matter what I paid for them.”

“...What’s that supposed to mean? Me not taking a shine to Ant.”

“Your... interest in corsets,” fumbled from him.

“Tch! Believe it or not, I don’t blow my top every time I see one.” He twisted taking exception to it into flirtation, and smirked up at ‘Choly. “Depends a lot on who’s wearing it.”

‘Choly crinkled his nose to hide his flustering.

“--Well! Hopefully we’ll find more to outfit me with. I know you didn’t find anything at the one merchant, but there’s dozens of vendors here with junk for sale. Which, speaking of leather scraps... You know, I’ve been noticing lots of leather and fur here, too. I know the Clark sisters dress the Laners’ kills, but I haven’t noticed anyplace that’s been permitted leather tools. It’s been driving my curiosity wild. Everyplace with clothes has had sturdy fur-lined leather overcoats for sale.” He waved a declaration through the air one-handed, before returning to an even grip. “A must-have for any body with business out-doors. Sufficient winterized rad-resistant gear and all that.”

“You really must be feeling better, to be so chatty. God bless that neck thing.” Sticks chuckled, warmed. “By curiosity, I’m assuming you’re asking where they get it all. You’re right, if you think the Furriers had anything to do with it. Well, had. No idea how Ant will react to the Unfolded. They used to caravan up here every so often, with the Riverhawk. They’d trade leather, fur, salvaged prewar fabric bolts, dressed meat. The Laners never much liked them, but the commerce was too good to turn ‘em shy. I traveled with them up here a few times, but even the times I’ve come up here on my own I’ve never really taken a shine to living here.”

“Fuck-me-in-the-mouth, I hope they don’t show up here.”

The last thing any of them needed was a continuation of what had transpired in Lowell. Surely, they hadn’t been followed.

“Gen’s got all their hands too full to bother with trade route upkeep, I imagine.”

“...You don’t suppose my coat lining came from here, do you?”

It took some time to grasp what ‘Choly was on about.

“That Franken-monster of a thing Bones gave you? I guess so, maybe. Both cities had a lot of textiles. There’s no telling where she got it.”

They entered the Gate City Clinic and sat in the mostly empty waiting area. One of the other medics noticed them and approached.

“Do you need help with something?”

“We’re waiting for Liam,” ‘Choly said.

“He’s about to take his lunch soon. You’ll be waiting at least an hour, if you’re intent to see him and not one of the other staff. What brings you in?”

“Just on time.” Sticks winked. “We’re waiting for his lunch hour. We’re here on business. Not doctor stuff.”

The medic shrugged and walked off to a desk to contend with some papers.

Liam walked up shortly after, this time in a velvet-trimmed sheer mesh shirt, and golf pants again. His deep eyes brightened in an otherwise indifferent face.

“You’re awfully stuffed up. You know that right?” His cigarette bobbed limply as he spoke. “But this, it’s an improvement. Really, I don’t get the preoccupation with salvaged prewar clothes. Most of it’s garbage these days. Deteriorating, stained, doesn’t breathe...”

“It only wears out if not properly cared for,” Angel said.

They couldn’t tell if Liam’s silence came more on account of his consideration of the Mister Handy’s comment, or more of their speechlessness that it had sassed a prospective business partner they’d only met the night before.

“Anyway.” Liam lipped at his smoke, then walked away. He wagged his head for them to follow him to the back. “I’m taking lunch now. Allow me to give you a tour of the place.”

The Gate City Clinic, the best ‘Choly could tell, utilized the original shop’s two offices for an office and storage space. He presumed the stock room at one end of the hall made up Liam and Orqueida’s living quarters, though Liam didn’t show them. He took them finally to the kitchen at the opposite end of the hall, once a break room. The makings of a rudimentary chemistry setup occupied a small kitchen hutch.

“Neither of us cooks,” Liam said, “but we also prefer to eat in privacy. Orqueida got us food before she headed to the Inn for the day. Have you eaten?”

“We haven’t!” Sticks eyed the sizable sack on the table. “You shouldn’t have. Thank you.”

“Orqueida insisted. You’re welcome, though.”

‘Choly’s mouth watered at the lingering aroma of hot pickled meat. He swallowed and did his best not to frown.

“...I appreciate it, but no thanks.”

“Oh,” Angel worried, “breakfast must be disagreeing with you already.”

“You’re out of your smoothies.” Sticks gave him an assertive glare. “Eat with us.”

Sooner than argue, ‘Choly took it upon himself to scrutinize the hot plate and various glassware Liam had collected.

Liam smushed his cigarette in the ashtray on the kitchen table, then produced from the oiled canvas sack beside it a series of lidded tins, ranging from bread box to tea tin, but mostly an average of them. Much like the sewing kits of yesteryear, ‘Choly knew better than to think Liam intended to serve them two hundred year old butter cookies.

“I thought the food court didn’t include the dishes,” ‘Choly said.

“They charge you for not having your own. But we can sell back the tins.” Liam shrugged. He opened the tin in his hand then, to demonstrate some shredded juicy pale stuff, only to glance down with a disappointed frown and replace the lid. “Ugh, sauerkraut. ...Breaks even if we clean it before returning it. You have tins, you find tins, you sell them to the food court.”

Sticks helped him remove the lids to reveal shaved corned brahmin, toasted bread slices, sauerkraut, thin fragments of a rindy cheese, a pepper tin of some sort of sauce, and what resembled pickled garlic cloves or mozzarella balls. The not-gold lighting blanched any visual appeal the foods may have had, but the savory piquant aromas more than made up for it. Liam produced utensils from a counter drawer and set them down on a clean dishrag.

“At least she didn’t forget the morsels.” Liam sighed as he popped one of the globules in his mouth, then one more. He held the tin out to the two of them. Sticks took two. ‘Choly picked up a fork to take just the one, almost uncertain they could be stabbed without breaking. “Digestive issues? Really, we should make time to sit and discuss all this. Maybe I could help.”

‘Choly watched the two men cobbling together sandwiches to either side of the table. He stuck the morsel in his mouth. Coated in a tart oil, its flesh had a firm bite but still a tenderness. Chewing on it for some time, it dawned on him these were some sort of mushroom.

“What would help... is more... Stimpaks.” As ‘Choly said it, his voice garbled into a self-conscious hush. “I’ve got everything else.”

Liam sat to dig in, his befuddlement on his sunken brow.

“I don’t figure you’ll be able to get started today. We’re just talking things over. Knowing the equipment you’ve got at your disposal should help draft what to send your ‘acquisition expert’ on errands for.” He unfolded a piece of paper from his shirt pocket one-handed and gave it to Sticks, who was much more nettled by the whole thing than he let on. “I’ve got a few things I’ll pay you for as well. Provided it wasn’t some fancy way of saying you’re a scavver, it should be a cakewalk.”

“The hell do you need so much-- You know what. Don’t worry about it, and I won’t, either.”

“You deal with him, so I don’t have to. I pay very well for it.”

Stress snagged up in ‘Choly’s throat.

“You mentioned last night that you’re looking for first aid basics. You traded a cervical brace for my handful of Addictol and Med-X.” His voice cracked. “What-- about Stimpaks?”

Liam sat up, and set down his hand on the table, still holding his sandwich in it. He scowled at his food instead of his guests.

“Stimpaks aren’t the end all for first aid. I really don’t have much use for them. A medic once had to know how to work without them, in the chance they ran out on the battlefield. I got my training in similar circumstances. I do rarely have them, but as far as I know, making them is a lost prewar science--”

“--But why not use advanced tools, where available?” ‘Choly reeled back the accidental sarcastic shock, clasping his chin. “Do you not see many severe injuries here?”

“We’re a cautious bunch. Most of what I oversee is illness, not injury. While I can handle injuries when they happen, I’m definitely grateful it’s not my job. It means the Lane’s safe.”

‘Choly steadied himself a bit by beginning to craft his own serving.

“What... if I told you that I knew how to make them?”

“I’d tell you not to bother.”

The chemist’s ears rang. He dropped it for now.

Over the next few days, ‘Choly got to work on chems, Sticks went on Liam and ‘Choly’s errands, and Angel assisted Liam in the clinic where he’d permit. He disliked that a majority of his trouble amounted to isolating the alkaloid salts from pounds of dried Hubflower petals, but he reminded himself that he was synthesizing Med-X with it. At least it came easily for him. He even got plucky and decided he’d throw something together with his stash of dried melon blossoms, to test his theory its compounds could steady one’s alertness. For the time being, he stifled the compulsion to up the level of difficulty and complexity, and did not propose anything off Liam’s work order more grandiose than an herbal remedy. They all had to prove their reliability to Liam, and sprawling out his efforts when his lab equipment was one step above kitchenware was the opposite of a sound idea. Besides, the man had requested medicine and nothing more.

One afternoon, Sticks burst into the kitchen. He flung down a mess of something in the tile floor with a semi-muffled clatter, only to dash back out with a huge grin. ‘Choly eyed the pile breathlessly from where he sat at work. Recognizing the same canvas and leather he had around his neck, he did his best to make sure the soaking pale purple-blue petals didn’t over-process.

Sticks stomped back in some time later, dragging along an exhausted Liam.

“These are the legs right?” He had the catalogue open, pointing at it eagerly. “Right???”

“It appears so. But I can’t tell from this jumbled mess, if it’s complete.”

“Then let’s see! ‘Choly! Stop messing with that smelly junk and let us at your legs.”

“You’re lucky the start you gave me didn’t make me break something. I was handling acid. ...I don’t have to remove my pants, do I?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Amending the snark, Liam added, “We can see how they fit over the trousers first.”

Sticks chuckled, wringing his hands.

With some effort, Liam pieced together the components, eyeing the catalogue for reference. Each segment was reinforced with metal boning and fastened shut on the outer parts with busks and fan lacing for ease. Sticks had the luck that the waistband which secured each hip hinge had come attached to one of the legs. Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have known the piece was necessary.

“Aren’t you glad you turned me loose to go hunting on my own?” the ghoul delighted. “It’s funny. I remember fewer merchants being okay with anything less than cold hard cash. I’ve been getting run ragged obtaining the right stuff for the right people. But it’s all a drop in the bucket for you, Mindy.”

“Two pieces in one week. Three, if you count each separate leg. In tact. Yes, of course I’m amazed.“

Having followed Liam and Sticks back in, Angel entered to supervise.

Liam lowered himself into the floor and chewed at his cigarette filter while he worked at getting one of ‘Choly’s legs slipped into the thing. ‘Choly did his best to balance, and let out an anxious laugh when Sticks all to eagerly joined Liam in the floor to mirror the effort with ‘Choly’s other leg.

“Gotta practice,” Sticks insisted with a crooked grin, despite meeting no protest.

The two helped ‘Choly stand, so he could fasten the waistband. Liam gestured where the circular hinges needed to align, and the two steadied the leg pieces at the height needed to achieve this, so that the padded belt could be adjusted accordingly. Once they got him into the device, he took a few testing steps. His heart fluttered. Unsurprisingly, they gave a great deal of protest with each step.

“I brought a tool kit with me,” Sticks offered. “We can adjust how tight the hinges are, to stop all that squeaking and creaking. I’m sure I can find some oil, too.”

“Forget how they sound.” Liam put out his cigarette. “Do they help?”

‘Choly kept testing them out, pacing slowly and deliberately from one end of the kitchen to the other. He couldn’t help but snivel and smile with awe.

“I feel like a toy soldier... but that isn’t necessarily a negative. My hips are lined up to where I don’t have to think so hard about the steps I take. I do think they could stand a little tightening up, but the alignment’s still good despite being as old and beat up as I am.”

“The oldest thing in this room is probably the ghoul--” Liam elbowed Sticks beside him, “--but the braces come in a close second.”

‘Choly turned, deadpan.

“I’m older than he is.”

“By seven years or so, if memory serves,” Angel said. “Twenty-eighth of November, 2034.”

Liam’s humor didn’t falter, though he stood with a vague discerning squint. ‘Choly ambled over to the table to sit with a grunt.

“If I can bum a smoke and sit back down, I’ll explain why I might be one of your weirder patients.”

He himself sat backward in the metal diner chair wordlessly. He produced his pack of Clipper Ships from his rolled sleeve, tapped out two cigarettes to place in his lips, and lit them. And he offered one across the kitchen table between genteel thumb and forefinger, his eyes bright with eager skepticism.

____________

Fun facts: Russian dressing (often substituted with Thousand Island) is credited to have been created in Nashua, NH, by one James E. Colburn.

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[goldenlionimagines]

Can I pwease have some Dimitri content 🥺

If you insist,,, I guess I can write you some baby boy Dimitri content.  -Mod Bunny

Months 

Word Count: 2,441

“What are you doing here?” It was a female voice. Had he fallen asleep? Where was his weapon? Open your eye, dammit. 

 Oh, she’s holding it. “Who are you? Give me my lance.” He stood up quickly. His voice was gruff, and the girl was smaller than him. Still, she held the lance away from him. “I said, give it. Unless you wish for your life to be forfeit.”

 “You’re Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, from the Kingdom, is that right?” She asked. “You’re eye, it’s hurt. How long has it been like that, and how come you haven’t wrapped it?” She was right. His eye wasn’t even covered, but it wasn’t like it mattered. This was the first person he had spoken to in a time, and it was because she had the weapon he needed to kill her.

 “What are you? An imperial spy meant to kill me?” He asked.

 “No. I’m Y/N, a mercenary. I was in the town near here, and they said someone was killing all the imperial troops. They paid me to take a look. I have medical supplies, so let me help you. You look like a skeleton, My Lord.” She smiled. “And also, please don’t kill me. I don’t think I’m ready to die quite yet.” She held out his lance to him.

 He took it immediately, before slumping to the ground in a surprising surrender. He had figured that if this girl had wanted him dead, she wouldn’t have woken him up in the first place. She seemed annoying, but he wasn’t sure if killing her was the right move quite yet.

 She sat down, taking a tie and putting his hair back. “Why are you doing that?” He asked watching as she went through a bag she had brought with her. 

 “Because you have a lot of hair, and if I’m going to help you, it can’t be in front of your eye.” She took a look. “It’s infected. Hold still.” She took something from a jar, and began rubbing it where he had been injured. He took a sharp breath. She then pulled out an eyepatch, which she put on his face. “There. I’ll check it again in a few days.”

 “Great. So do you just assume you get to stay here? I have killed everyone who has come here in the past two years, either that or they have escaped. What makes you think you are going to be any different?” He asked. Leave. Just go.

 “Well, I think I’m going to live because you need me. Also, there’s a full kitchen here, and a place to catch fish. And, since we’re the only ones here, no one will charge me. So, do you want to come eat with me?” She asked. This girl was either brave, or stupid. Or a mix of both. Either way, she was too happy for him. 

 Still, he accompanied her. And, thus began something that neither of them thought was coming.

-

It started by having dinner together. Then, one night, he asked if she could start making breakfast, so she did. He would tell her stories from the academy, and she would tell him about her life before living in the monastery.

 She was from the Empire, but not from a Noble Family. She had actually grown up in an orphanage, before training to become a mercenary and leaving the Empire. She had told him about missions, some where she even fought against the Knights of Seiros when the price was right.

 Soon enough, he would sit with her while she fished. Or, maybe he would spar in the arena to upkeep his training. Maybe they would go out and take out some nearby bandits. All at once, there was this smiling person at Dimitri’s side who would help him with whatever he needed.

 On an especially cold night, Dimitri found her in what had been the Knight’s hall. She was by the fire, reading a book she had gotten from the library. She was wrapped in some kind of blanket, sleepy and worn out.

 “Why haven’t you left yet? You could be out making money, but instead you’ve stayed with me? Why,  Y/N?” He asked. She set down her book. She looked over at him.

 “Well, I guess half of me knows I can’t go home if I haven’t completed my job. The other half hopes you can forgive me.”  She said.  He crossed his arms,  and she couldn’t face him. “I was sent by the Empire to end your life. I was an Orphan, but I was trained as an assassin. But, when I saw you, looking like a corpse just lying there… I couldn’t be the one to kill you. So instead, I’ve been helping you. And that’s made me happier than any mission could, for some weird reason.”

 He didn’t say anything. He just sat down next to her, looking into the fire. He took a moment, before giving a small laugh. “So, you really were an Imperial spy sent to kill me. You really didn’t have to tell me that, you know.” 

 “Are you mad at me?” She asked, looking at him.

 “A bit, but I figure that if you haven’t killed me by now, you probably won’t. Plus, you’ve come to be the only person I really have, and I feel I owe you something for all you’ve done. So, your life makes us even.” He said. “But, don’t go thinking I won’t kill you if you do something that would indicate your loyalty isn’t to me.”

 She yawned. “Okay fine. I know it’s because you actually care about me, though. I’m sure  if you killed me, you’d be all torn up about it.” She was smirking.

 “It would make no difference to me.” He said. He then shifted a bit, his face going red as she leaned on him.

 “Oh, come on, you would be all upset. ‘What have I done, killing the only person who puts up with me’. That would’ve been you.” She said. She was teasing him, but Dimitri knew that at this point… He didn’t have the guts to kill Y/N anymore. It had to have been two months since she had started staying with him by now. 

 For two months, she had helped him maintain good health. He didn’t go out searching for bodies to pile for the dead. Instead it was just-

 Five months. He had woken up screaming, his nightmares having been terrible that night. The Tragedy of Duscur… It still haunted him.

 “Dimitri?” Her voice was drowsy, but he could clearly hear her in the doorway. The moonlight was on her face and figure, and the white light that surrounded her made her look to him like… “Dimitri, is everything alright?”

 “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” She walked closer to him. She then lifted the covers next to him. “What are you doing?”

 “Whenever you say that I should go back to sleep, you never do. You always come to breakfast with large bags under your eyes, and you’re gumpy, so…” She got into bed next to him, looking at him with eyes that held… Sadness? He couldn’t tell. He just felt her grab on to him, and rest her face in his chest. “I’m not going anywhere until you’re asleep again, I’ll stay the night if I have to.”

 “Something tells me you’d prefer to stay the night, Y/N.”

 “Well, it is a little cold.”

 “Hmph.” He wrapped an arm around her, resting his head on top of hers. “I won’t stop you.”

  12 months. A year since she had come to stay at the Monastery. Nights together were commonplace now. Of course, the two found that it isn’t hard to get along when your concerns, other than internal ones, seem to disappear. Neither of them knew much about the outside world. The war. The Kingdom. All were concepts that seem to disappear while in isolation.

 Of course, until a quiet night by the lake.

 “Dimitri, shouldn’t you go home? Don’t you think there’s a chance your people need you? All the stories you’ve told me about Felix, or Ingrid, or Sylvain. They’re your people.” She said. “You should at least think about going home. For their sake.”

 “I can’t…” He trailed. “No, I won’t have people die for me again.” He looked away. “Plus, if I start killing again, I won’t be able to stop.”

 “So that’s the big plan? Hide from death because you figured out how to stop killing, and never go back? That’s it?”

 “The dead command their tribute. They always have, and I fear that as soon as I leave, they will want it again.” Dimitri wasn’t looking at the girl who had been sitting next to him. The key being had been, as he heard a big splash behind him. When he looked down, he saw Y/N wasn’t swimming- she was sinking.

 He rushed in after her without thinking. His body was moving on instinct, and faster than his brain. He grabbed her, and rushed her to the surface. The worst part was that she was laughing when he threw her to the shore. “Are you insane? Do you want to die? Because next time, I’m going to let you sink.”

 “Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? If you run from death, he will only come for you faster. Death is a part of life, and actually it’s the most important.” She said. “Make sense? So you can stay here as long as you want. Just know that death comes here too, and you can’t hide forever.”

 “… You just can’t die before me, or by doing something stupid, understand?” He asked her. “Because if you come to haunt me, I will never forgive you.”

“Haunt you? Are you kidding?” She asked. She looked a little worried. “No reason to. If I die it’s because I was living my life the way I wanted to. Even if I die, my regrets aren’t yours to hold. Besides, I don’t like the idea of being a ghost.”

 He gave a sigh, like something big had just been lifted off his chest. Knowing she had sworn not to haunt him was… Liberating in a way. “Good, but now I’m cold, we should find somewhere to hang our clothes.”

 14 months. She was cooking, and Dimitri kissed her for the first. He had her against the wall, and that was the moment he wished he could taste. She smelled like roses, somehow. “Is this okay? Am I allowed to love you, Y/N?”

 She put a hand on his face, stroking his cheek. “Sure, but only if I get to say I love you too.”

At that moment, some part of him wanted to take her then and there.

 He wouldn’t take her until their 18th month together.

-

23 Months. Almost two years. It had been so fast. 

  As he finished putting on his armor, he heard her screaming his name. He ran down, and there were imperial soldiers in the monastery.

 Death had come. 

 He took his lance. He could barely see them taking her. She was unarmed. Had they become too comfortable? He started slashing those that fought him with his lance. He couldn’t hear her screaming anymore.

 Where were the ones that were taking her? Where was she?

 Fight harder, kill them all. Mercy and happiness. He had forgotten he wasn’t allowed to be happy. Just pile up bodies. That was his purpose. And to kill Edelgard, a woman who had now taken even more from him.

 The soldiers were dead, all except those who deserved an  even worse death. She’s…. Gone. There are no words. Only the voices of the dead. She wasn’t even in his head, just as she had promised. All traces of her gone in an instant. He almost wished she had haunted him.

 Then, he would have gotten to hear her voice when he sat all alone with his lance once more.

 A month later, the professor, along with his old friends who Y/N told him were worth something returned to the Monastery. He never told her story.

-

Would she be proud of him? He had brought down Edelgard, the woman that had taken her from him. He shouldn’t think of that…  But it would have been a better moment if she was here.

 “Your Highness, would you and Byleth please accompany me to the dungeon. Rhea is still down there, and I do not know how she has fared.”  Seteth said. He was obviously concerned for the Archbishop.

 “Yes, we’ll head down at once.” Dimitri said. 

 As they headed down, Dimitri realized how cold and wet it had been. Rhea must have been freezing. He saw her and bowed. “Lady Rhea, are you alright?” He asked.

 “I am okay, Your Highness. I thank you for your concern.” She smiled lightly. “Ah, I see you have brought Seteth and the professor. It is  good to see the both of you are well.”

 “Yes Lady Rhea, we are fine. Dimitri’s shoulder will need more care than what Mercedes could provide, but we are all alright.” Seteth explained.

 First Dimitri heard a cough. “Is that Dimitri? If it is, I know you can’t taste, but can you bring me some good food? All they have here is the crap Hubert brings us, and I can’t deal with it anymore.”

 It couldn’t be, could it? There was no way she was alive. He ran up to the cell he had heard her voice from.  

 She was shivering, and almost thinner than Rhea, but… alive. Was she crying? “I thought you died that day, I thought they killed you.” He was teary eyed too.  Seeing her in such a state was terrible. He took the key from the nearby wall and unlocked her cell, stepping inside. 

 “Kill me? Nah. Hubert was trying for information I didn’t have about you. Turns out saying ‘Me’ to the question, ‘What are Dimitri’s weaknesses?’ Just makes him throw coffee at you.” She got up from the cot she had been shivering on, running up to hug him, before spotting Seteth. “Sorry, your whatever, I know her Archbishop-ness is more important than me. I just-” She took his fluffy cape off his armor, wrapping herself in it. “Needed a blanket. The King of the Kingdom of Faerghus is all yours.” 

 She went to walk away, but he put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you walk back with us?”

 Dimitri, from that day on, always had Y/N at his side.

[redrobinhoods]

illicit affairs | Chapter 2, Crossfire

AO3 Link | 4,800 words (approx) | Chapter 1, Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: Fox nurses his injuries as he continues to protect Riyo from harm.

He wasn’t dead. The lights above him were bright, even through closed eyes, and he turned his head to the side to escape their glare. When he finally opened them, it was to a blue-skinned woman with golden eyes. “Senator Chuchi.” He mumbled.

“Commander Fox. You’re awake.”

“How long…?”

“Two days. They kept you under while they were assessing the damage. They were deciding if they should retire you or not. I thought that clones didn’t retire.”

“Retire may be the wrong word then. Perhaps decommissioned or ‘put to sleep’ would be a better way to put it.” He watched her eyes widen in horror. “It’s okay, Senator. It doesn’t hurt, not really. One shot and you just fall asleep.”

“Are they going to kill you then, Commander?”

“No, they would’ve done it already.” He moved to sit up, and Senator Chuchi reached over to help. His back burned, but the pain was localized. The blasts didn’t get far into his body. Maybe the assassin thought that the bolts would penetrate through his armor and reach the senator. They would’ve been wrong. Unlike the rest of the GAR, the Coruscant Guard’s armor was made so that they could act as a human shield. As hard as it was for shot to penetrate, it was impossible for it to get back out.

Senator Chuchi didn’t draw back after Fox was upright, keeping her hand on Fox’s shoulder. “That’s no way to thank my hero.”

“I was just doing my job, Senator.”

“Riyo, Commander. Please call me Riyo.” He wasn’t supposed to. The Guard was supposed to stay away from knowing senators on a first-name basis or run the risk of being accused of corruption. And yet, it felt right.

“Then call me Fox. Or CC-1010, if you want to be really personal. But that’s only when I’m in trouble.”

Riyo laughed and let her hand fall from Fox’s shoulder to his forearm. “Are you in trouble often, Fox?”

“What do you think, Riyo?” He savored the way her name rolled off his lips.

She winked in response. “Would you be in trouble if I brought some lunch by your office when you’re healed?”

“No, ma’am. As long as you don’t bring your assassins with you. Have they found out who wants you dead?”

“Not yet, but they will soon. Commander Thire brought the bounty hunter in yesterday. I believe they’re being questioned as we speak.”

“She’s given us nothing yet.” Commander Stone walked into the room with a paper cup of caf in one hand and his helmet in the other and took the seat next to Riyo’s. “But we’ve had plenty on our hands in the meantime. The Senate Guards in charge of the Natural Formations room said that they were dismissed over the official comm channel. Apparently, they didn’t consider the fact that there were still beings in the museum, let alone in the room, and just left without securing the area.”

A beep sounded, and the three beings turned to the machines next to Fox. One monitor was flashing an ‘Elevated Heartrate’ warning.

“That’s what I thought too, Commander. I figured you’d like to chew them out yourself.”

“As a matter of fact, I would. Have the Captain of the Guard in my office tomorrow at 0800.”

Stone nodded. “Sir.”

“You’re going back so soon?” Riyo lightly squeezed his arm.

“Never a day off, Senator.” Fox gave her a weak smile.

“Then I’ll stop by around noon tomorrow.” She turned to Commander Stone. “Can I bring you men anything? I have quite a refreshments budget that I’ve barely dipped into.”

“I couldn’t ask anything of you, Senator Chuchi. But our men did enjoy the sweets that you brought us last time.” Stone was underexaggerating how much they had been appreciated. In a world of ration bars, it was good to see his brothers attempting to split something four to six ways so that everyone could try it.

“Traditional Pantoran delicacies. I’ll bring more if that’s to your liking.”

“That would be very kind of you, Senator.” Fox attempted another small pained smile.

“It would be my pleasure, Commander. I don’t know how I could ever begin to repay you.”

Just looking into those golden eyes was enough. “I don’t suppose you could stay out of trouble.”

“That’s actually why I’m here.” Stone cut back into the conversation. “The senator still needs a security detail so that she can return to her residence. We’ve kept her in a safehouse for the past two nights, but I’m afraid she’s going cage-crazy.”

The pale green on Riyo’s cheeks darkened in what Fox assumed was a Pantoran blush.

“How large a detail?” It was back to business then.

“I was thinking one man inside, two outside the door, one on the roof, and one man on stand-by in a speeder. Do you still have the sensors that Commander Thorn installed, Senator Chuchi?”

“Haven’t touched them, Commander Stone.”

“You’re amazing.” He turned back to Fox. “Thire suggested that you be the one to stay inside the residence. He thought that the arrangement would be more comfortable for both yourself and the senator. You can take some time away from the office, and the senator has a capable bodyguard at all times. Would that be acceptable to you, Senator Chuchi?”

“It would be, thank you.” She said without giving the idea much thought. They’d obviously gone over this as a possibility before. Fox thanked his training for the control he’d taken over his heartrate. No need for them to know how close he was to strangling Thire. He hoped that Riyo hadn’t noticed the sudden tension in his arm.

“Excellent. We’ll put Jek and Impulse on the detail since you know them. Have you met Rys? He and Jek go way back. I’ll put him on there too. I’ll get some more volunteers to swap out when I go back to the office. If you leave your residence, Senator, you must always have at least two men accompanying you. We’ll keep you in the safehouse tonight while we secure your apartment, but after that you are free to go about your duties if accompanied. Otherwise, I think you know the drill by now. And you will have Commander Fox at your beck and call.”

“Thank you, Commander Stone. I’m certain that if the Coruscant Guard is as competent at finding criminals as you are securing buildings this should be over in no time.” She didn’t sound excited at the prospect of returning to normal, and Fox wondered, perhaps hoped, if he had something to do with it.

“If only, Senator. Variables. Come, we should be leaving.” Stone stood, following shortly by Riyo, who looked hesitant to leave.

“Stone, are they planning on running any hypertests this time?” Fox gestured to the datapad that the last medical droid had left on the small table underneath the monitor rack. Stone set down his cup of caf and picked the tablet up, tapping through it familiarly. Riyo moved closer to look over his arm at the screen.

“Don’t see any, sir. From the look of things, you’re close enough to your last physical to be mostly cleared. They’re going to test for any numbing sensations, that’ll probably be conducted through touch, and apparently your ‘vertebral cavity’ was untouched so you should be all good. No lasting impairment, topical senoti cream treatment, clone upkeep records suggest immediate dismissal of ‘CC-1010’.”

Fox nodded, lowering himself back into the pillows of the medical bed. “Thank you, Stone.”

“Commander Stone, could I have a moment alone with Commander Fox?”

“Of course, Senator.” Stone reached over and clapped Fox on the shoulder, giving him a small squeeze of comfort, then stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Riyo turned back to Fox, sitting down once more on the stool and taking his hand. She pulled it into her lap and ran her fingers over the rough callouses that lined his palms. He didn’t dare speak. After a few moments she brought his hand to her lips and planted a kiss across his knuckles before returning the hand to his side.

“Thank you for saving my life.” She said.

“Riyo-.” She placed a finger across his lips as she rose.

“I look forward to seeing you again, Fox.” Then with a swish of her skirt she was gone.

---

“Those golden ones were very nice, Senator.” Riyo stood with Jek and Rys practically pressed against her in the crowded market as they peered down at the selection of sweets before them. Jek and Rys had been assigned as her daytime guard, with two other men whose names she had yet to learn relieving them at night.

"How many men are in the Guard?” She asked, looking to the available tins on display.

“Too many, ma’am. But about fifty usually come through the Senate offices in a day. Ten on staff, probably around forty for meetings or breaks.” Rys answered.

“Thank you. We’re ready to order now!” Riyo flagged down the elderly Pantoran woman who ran the stand and was very familiar with the senator. They ended up with three tins, each of which officially carried thirty sweets, though Riyo was sure that there was more in actuality. One contained solely the golden sweets that Jek had spoken of.

“Thank you, Senator Chuchi.” Jek said as they walked back to the waiting speeder. “It’s not often we get to eat anything besides ration bars and caf.”

“You’re welcome, Jek. But it is really the least I could do after you saved my life.”

“Commander Fox really did all the hard work, ma’am.”

"But the assassin wouldn’t have stopped if it weren’t for the rest of you stepping in.” She glanced around to make sure that no one was listening to their conversation. “How is the commander? He had the meeting with the Captain of the Guard this morning did he not?”

“He did, ma’am.” Rys looked around before continuing. “Ripped the captain a new one. I was in Commander Stone’s office with Jek and we could hear him.”

Jek nodded his agreement. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that angry before. He must have a soft spot for you, Senator.”

“Does he?” Riyo tightened her grip on the tin she was carrying.

"Oh yeah.” Rys nodded. “Don’t worry, you have our blessing if you two want to, well.”

Riyo felt the lines on her cheeks darkening, though the tension in her shoulders began to ease. “Want to what, Rys?”

“To be blunt, ma’am, to pursue some recreational activity. I don’t know, get him to loosen up and live a little. We used to be able to get him down to Seventy-Nine’s with us, but the job is getting to him. Commander Stone has been threatening to drug him to get him to sleep anywhere outside of his office. He’s been in a bad shape ever since the mishandling of the Jedi Temple bombing.” Their arrival at the speeder ended the conversation. Reaching the speeder first, Rys jumped up to help the senator in. By now she was becoming accustomed to the Coruscant Guard’s speeders, but appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

“Where to?” The driver asked. She couldn’t remember who was on shift right now, and she didn’t recognize the back of the driver’s armor. she’d have to check her datapad later.

“The Senate, please.”

---

Riyo watched as every bare eye in the room widened upon her entrance, flitting back and forth between her and the tins she and her company carried. There was at least one exclamation whose meaning she didn’t catch.

“I heard that there wasn’t enough last time.” Her smile widened when her statement was greeted by more than a few nods.

“I think you need to throw yourself in front of more guns, Commander.” A guardsman said, his gaze fixed behind Riyo. She turned to see Fox and Thire entering the room behind her, both fully armored.

“It’s Thire’s turn. But I don’t think that the Chancellor will buy you lot anything.”

“The Chancellor has the Red Guard for dramatics.” Thire dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “We’re just there to actually protect him.” The comment brought a wave of chuckles as the men returned to their duties, though their eyes still flickered in Riyo’s direction.

“Come, Senator Chuchi.” Fox waved her into his office as he dismissed Jek and Rys in the same motion. She passed Rys the tin she was carrying for him to place with the others and followed Fox inside, shutting the door behind her.

“No salutes?” She asked.

“If they stood to attention every time Stone, Thire, or I walked into the room we’d get nothing done around here.” He connected the datapad he had been carrying to the computer terminal that sat on the edge of his desk then turned to face her.

“How are you doing, Fox?”

He took a moment to respond. Riyo could only imagine the expression he was wearing underneath the helmet. “I’m… fine. Thank you, Riyo.”

“No.” She shook her head wryly. “How’s your back?”

There was another pause. “It’s fine.”

She shook her head again. “There’s no way, I saw how drugged up you were in the hospital. It must be bothering you.”

“Perhaps a little.” He gave up. “I am still more than capable of carrying out my duties.”

She stepped towards him and placed a hand on his bicep, drumming her fingers against the plastoid that greeted her. She could imagine the tired man from the hospital under the red armor. Despite Fox being taller and a trained soldier she wanted desperately to protect him. “All the same, your body needs to rest so it can heal.”

“With respect, Riyo, it’s not my body. It’s the Republic’s.”

“Is it? I thought that the great Commander Fox was to protect me, not the Republic.” She let her hand fall from his shoulder, sliding down his arm as she raised her head to look at him.

His helmet turned ever to slightly to his left in a minuscule nod, which she was beginning to recognize as his gesture denoting humor. “Point taken. We should depart for your apartment soon. I want to go over security with you.”

“If you can get Jek and Rys back out the door that would be fine by me.” Her comment drew a shallow laugh from Fox before he unplugged the datapad and escorted her back into the mild delicacy-caused chaos of the main office space.

---

“What would you boys like for dinner?”

Fox looked up from the datapad to where Riyo was reclined in the oversized chair. “We don’t eat on shift.”

“Then what do you want for dinner? They have shifts, you don’t.”

“I’ll eat a ration bar.” He’d put a few in the small pack he’d brought from the barracks. She shook her head. Fox wasn’t used to being refuted and here she’d challenged him more in the past two days than he had ever been in his life. Sure, Stone and Thire would defy him from time to time, but that was between brothers of equal military rank. This was a civilian, a senator but still a civilian. He rather liked it.

“That’s not dinner, Fox. I’ll make a stir fry.” She set the datapad she had been writing on onto the arm of the chair and walked across the room to the small kitchen. Once she’d begun to heat a pan she turned back to Fox. “Do you know what stir fry is?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then come help me chop the vegetables if you have a moment. I’ll show you. I learned this recipe from one of my representatives.”

Fox rose from the couch, biting back a groan of pain as the movement rippled down his back. He’d never realized how many actions travel through the spine before now. But he couldn’t let Riyo know how much pain he was still in. She’d have a hard time forgiving herself for being the cause of it.

She pushed a knife and what he assumed was a ‘vegetable’ into his hands and showed him how she wanted him to cut it. It was much easier than he assumed, and almost fun when Riyo was whisking around him in the tiny kitchen. He’d never cooked before, nor watched any being cook, and he was a little suspicious when she dumped everything into the single pan.

“There’s no way it’s that easy.” He said when she declared dinner to be ready.

“It’s that easy.” She grinned, presenting him with a bowl. He took it from her hesitantly. “Don’t look so nervous. It’s good food.” She chided, leading him over to the bar separating the living spaces from the kitchen. He felt her eyes on him as he hesitantly took a bite.

“That’s weird.” He said finally.

“What do you mean, weird?” He was worried that he’d offended her, but her eyes were still playful as she watched him take another bite.

“I’ve never tasted anything like this. Any of it.”

“How about the meat?”

“Not in this form. I guess ours is more ground up and we don’t put anything on it.” Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure it was meat anymore by the time it arrived in the mess hall.

"The sauce is the best part!” Her gaze was still playful, but also sad. He still wasn’t sure if he liked the food, there was almost too much flavor, but he didn’t dislike it either, so he tried to match the pace at which Riyo was eating. Eating for pleasure was a foreign concept, but something about this brought her joy so he would play along. He was good at improvising.

They didn’t speak much after dinner. Riyo went back to her notes and Fox went back to the files Thire had sent him. The bounty hunter had started talking and the Guard had already brought up a variety of beings who could be responsible for the attack. There had been threats made the week before the gala, that had been the reason for Chairman Papanoida’s security request, but any motives were still unknown.

Fox had been pouring over Riyo’s file and what she had recently supported or not supported when a chronometer chimed 2200. He closed the file with a sigh and closed his eyes for a moment. He’d need to put more of the senoti cream on his wounds. Despite his initial reservations about the Endorian tree sap, it appeared to be working. While the bacta treatment he received had healed most of the wounds, the senoti cream was supposed to help prevent excessive scarring, which may have restricted his movement. Or so he was told. He set the datapad aside and stood up from the couch. “Is there a place I could lay my armor out of the way?”

Riyo glanced up from her datapad. “Anywhere you like. The top of my dresser is clean if you would like to store it off of the ground.”

He nodded and grabbed his helmet off of the side table where it had passed the evening. In her bathroom he stripped off the upper half of his armor and pulled his blacks down to his hips. He had left his pack by the bathroom door earlier, and he pulled out the jar that he’d been given upon being discharged from the medical facility.

“Let me help you with that.” He turned to see Riyo standing in the doorway.

“Riyo, I can’t-.” She reached out and took the container from Fox.

“Yes, you can.” She ran her hand over his bare shoulder and turned him so that he was facing the mirror. Fox watched her reflection as she dipped her fingers in the jar then reached towards his waist. He let out a groan as her fingers rubbed against his skin. “Your back is so tight.” She muttered, massaging the cream into the damaged tissue. “Have you ever considered a massage?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

"Come here." Riyo stepped back, then walked into her bedroom. He grabbed his armor from the counter and followed her. "Lie down on the bed.” Hesitantly, he lay his armor on the dresser and crossed the room to her bed, where she pushed him into the soft blankets. “Close your eyes, that’s an order.” He did as he was told as she brought the senoti cream onto the wound between his shoulders. This one was less painful, had been less severe, but he allowed himself to sigh as she worked the cream into his skin. Then her hands moved back down to his hips, her fingers trailing across his skin, and pressed down into his lower back. He let out another groan as she kneaded her hands against his skin. Maybe his muscles were tight. “Who knew that the great Commander Fox, leader of the Coruscant Guard and my own personal savior, would be such a sap for back rubs.” She whispered down to him. He tried to think of a clever response, but she’d moved her hands up to his midback and he let out the first sound that he would’ve labelled a moan. It felt like his ribs were shifting under her touch, maybe they were.

“Don’t tell the boys.” He hummed into the blanket.

“Never.” He could feel her hair draping down against his back now. It felt so nice to be enveloped in her. He pushed away the mental image of her holding him in her arms. It wasn’t right. They would be ruined. The image came back anyways once she reached his shoulders. “Sit up, I need a better angle.”

He pushed himself off of the blankets and realized that his face must be flushed from the shock of cold air. If it was, Riyo paid it no mind, moving Fox to sit on the edge of her bed as she sat down cross-legged behind him. Now she started from the top of his neck, moving down in slow circular motions. Once she’d reached the base of his neck Riyo uncrossed her legs and wrapped them around him, scooting her body closer to his. He didn’t say a thing, and neither did she as she worked her way across and back down to his shoulder blades. Her hands came to rest with her right hand on his shoulder, and her left hand on his side. Then he was being pulled backwards, coming to rest with his head against her chest. He took her right hand in his, holding it to his chest, and hesitantly stretched his left arm back so that his hand lay beside her head, enveloped in soft purple curls. He felt her head turn from the movement of her hair, then felt a kiss being planted on the inside of his wrist.

“Senator Chuchi, I believe that I would like to see you again.”

“And what makes you say that, Commander Fox?” Her voice hummed against the back of his head. He turned his head to the side, laying his ear against her sternum and listening to her heartbeat.

“I don’t think I know the words to express that desire, Senator.” Her hand moved from his side to his head and she ran her fingers through his curly hair.

“Then try your best.”

“I think that I would like to die here, in your arms. A shot to the chest or gut and fading away in your embrace.”

“And what other death would that be preferable to?” Her voice came out with a slight quiver, but her touch didn’t falter as she continued to run her fingers through Fox’s hair.

“Bleeding out on the concrete platform of some landing strip because of a speeder-bomb. Aspirating blood for some senator voting against being’s rights. Gutted by some bounty hunters trying to cash in on a senatorial bounty.” He suddenly fell silent, biting back the deaths of his brothers.

“Then I guess you’ll have to become my personal bodyguard, so I can always be there.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry, Fox. I can only imagine the things you’ve seen.”

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to sink further into her embrace even as guilt gnawed at him. “I don’t deserve this. You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Then tell me.”

He couldn’t have stopped himself from speaking if he tried.

“I killed one of my brothers.” He felt her chest stutter against his head, but then her breathing deepened once more and he continued. “I don’t remember firing the shot. I was in the Chancellor’s office, then I was watching him fall to the ground. It’s like someone else took over. It should’ve been set to stun; it’s always set to stun.” His voice broke and he stopped. Riyo’s hand continued to stroke his hair as he felt a tear slide down his cheek.

“You’re a good solider, Fox. You were following orders.”

“Following orders, when you know they’re wrong?”

“They never raised you to question authority.” Her hand stopped to rest in his hair. “Maybe I’m overstepping my bounds as a senator right now.”

“Riyo, you’re not forcing me to do anything. I’m supposed to obey my authority figures, but I still know how I want to react.”

“And right now?”

“I want to follow your orders, Senator. I want this.” The last bit came out breathier and more desperate than he had intended. Riyo didn’t respond, but she drew her arms away and moved to sit up. Fox obliged, sliding himself off the bed to stand before her.

“Could you stay in my bed with me tonight, Commander?” Her eyes were wide and cautious, and so gold.

“I’d love to.” If she’d asked a day earlier when he was hooked up to the monitors the machine would’ve read ‘Irregular Heartbeat’.

She rose off the bed to stand before him. “Let me change into bedclothes then.” Then she pattered back towards the bathroom. She turned back to him when she got to the doorframe. “Make yourself comfortable, however you would sleep in the barracks.” She looked him up and down. “Or, stay how you are.” Then she was out of his sight.

Normally, in the barracks Fox would sleep in his blacks with his armor half assembled on his body so that he could rush when called for. He didn’t think that the senator would like to sleep next to a pile of plastoid. He pulled his blacks back over his torso and began to disassemble his armor from the hips down, laying it in a neat pile with the rest of the armor on the dresser. He placed his comm on top. Riyo hadn’t returned, so he took a seat on the edge of her bed to wait, not wanting to overstep his bounds. He ran his hands over the soft blanket beneath him, still wrestling with the implications of what he and the senator were doing, and was almost startled when Riyo reentered the room, wearing a purple satin jumpsuit that fell loosely over her frame. She had pulled her hair down, and it hung around her face in a soft puff. Everything in her room was soft. She walked over to him and lowered herself onto his lap, straddling his legs and pulling his arms around her hips before wrapping her arms around his neck. “I would love for you to hold me, Fox. If it fancies you.” She brought one hand back from his neck and gently ran her thumb across his lips, and he felt her other fingers brush against the scars that crossed his throat.

“It does.” He muttered against her thumb. He reached up from her waist and pulled her down into the pillows beside him. She squirmed for a moment to pull the blankets up over them before burrowing her head into his chest. He wrapped one arm around her, as he had when he’d taken the blasts meant for her, and pulled her closer to himself, turning slightly onto his back so that she was pillowed in his chest.

“Commander Fox, I believe that I would like to see you again.” She mumbled.

“And what makes you say that, Senator Chuchi?”

“I don’t think I know the words to express that desire, Fox.”

He was so screwed if one of his men walked in. He decided that it was worth it though. He could feel his execution already, but if he was going to die for the Republic it was going to be on his terms. Of all the things he could be die for, loving a senator felt like the best option.