#will post to ao3 later

[starlightvld]

Allowances

For @baohanhanesel - happy holidays! Have a little hurt/comfort, MacTavish family Christmas vibes, and Simon beginning to find his place among them (and a bit of sappy romance at the end).

(Also on AO3!)

---

"Dinnae fash, Simon. They're gonna love ye."

Ghost stands perfectly still beside the car as Johnny rounds the boot to step up beside him. They make a pair, with Johnny in a new bright red cable-knit sweater, jeans, and a navy blue knit cap that brings out the blue in his eyes, while Ghost is dressed down in his usual black shirt, black hoodie, and a black medical mask. His faded blue jeans are the only spark of color, as old and worn as Johnny's are crisp and new.

If he were a better person—a better partner—he would've worn something nicer. As it is, he's a split second away from turning around and disappearing into the Scottish twilight. The only thing keeping him rooted in place is—

A warm hand slips into his hoodie pocket and curls around his balled up fist. Ghost sucks in a deep, slow breath, and as he exhales, he releases the fist to clasp Johnny's hand palm to palm.

It terrifies him, the comfort a single touch can give. He knows how easily comfort can turn into soul-wrecking pain. Yet he clings to Johnny's hand with the kind of desperation Price would no doubt find concerning for a whole host of reasons.

"We dinnae have tae go inside," Johnny murmurs. "I can call mam from here and—"

"'M not gonna melt, Johnny. Just... gimme a minute."

He's already ruined Johnny's Christmas enough by bowing out of the actual holiday. But the aching despair of the anniversary always winnows him down to his basest self. Even three days later, he feels hollowed out and cold, his sole point of warmth the callused palm and strong fingers clinging to his as they huddle closer against the chill winter air.

Johnny doesn't know the sordid details, but he knows enough about special ops life to fill in the blanks. Every operator has their demons. Simon Riley's are just a little more harrowing than most.

At least the MacTavishes like to celebrate the winter season all the way through New Year's. Or so Johnny says. Ghost suspects the post-holiday get-together might be an allowance made specially for him, but he's certainly not going to ask about it. So here they are, standing in front of Johnny's childhood home outside of Glasgow, store-bought biscuits in hand, while a multi-colored glow spills through the frost-edged glass into the rapidly darkening outside world. It beckons them inside with the promise of warmth and joy and all the other things those trite holiday cards claim for the winter season.

Ghost doesn't move.

The blinking Christmas lights taunt him through the front window. Memories loom from the dark corners of his mind and threaten to upend the one thing he desperately wants to give Johnny—time with his family.

He takes another deep breath, taking care not to let the exhale shudder on the way out.

He's only met Emma and Grant MacTavish twice in passing at Johnny's medal ceremonies for Las Almas and then for the Chunnel op. The latter medal, a Victoria Cross, was officially for exceptional heroism in the line of duty and unofficially for assisting in the dismantling of a major bomb threat and taking down Makarov with a well-aimed stab. He and Johnny weren't in a relationship then, and even if they had been, it would've been inappropriate to mention it on base. Even so, he remembers the overflow of unearned gratitude in Emma's blue eyes—exactly like Johnny's—as she wrapped both of her warm hands around his and thanked him for keeping her boy alive.

The words still ring hollow as he thinks about Johnny collapsing on the cold concrete after clipping that final wire with Price.

He almost died in Ghost's arms that day, and Ghost hasn't been the same since. For one, he kissed his subordinate in the hospital the instant he thought Johnny was coherent enough to remember it and hasn't stopped kissing him since.

Completely unprofessional.

And utterly worth it.

With a final deep inhale and slow exhale, he straightens his shoulders. He can do this. Even if it makes his stomach cramp and his palms sweat with anxiety and the Christmas decorations seem to taunt him with memories of a family forever lost to him.

For Johnny, he can do this.

"Alright," Ghost murmurs—more to himself than to Johnny—as he slides their clasped hands from his hoodie pocket and pulls him toward the door.

It opens before they can knock, flinging brilliant light, excited conversation, and upbeat music into the night air. Emma MacTavish greets her son with a wordless exclamation of joy as she throws her arms around him in a tight hug. Somehow, Johnny manages to return the hug and answer rapid-fire questions about their journey all without letting go of Ghost's hand. Cold air pricks at the exposed skin around his medical mask, but Ghost is too focused on processing and cataloging every detail to acknowledge the physical discomfort.

Johnny looks more like Emma than he does Grant, sharing those bright blue eyes, dark hair, and a brilliant smile that could melt a glacier. Peas in a pod and, according to Soap, often partners in pranking crimes. All Ghost can see is warmth and light—pouring from her, from Johnny, from the home that was never riddled with suffering and people whose lives were never cut short by an evil too insidious to anticipate.

When Emma pulls back from Johnny, she keeps her hand curled around his bicep as she turns the full power of her warm gaze on Ghost.

"And Simon—may I call ye Simon?" Emma asks.

"Yeah," Ghost replies before clearing his throat and adding, "Hello, Mrs. MacTavish."

The smile she gives him sends a shock of pain through his chest even as a flood of comfort flows in behind to sooth the ache.

It's kind. Compassionate.

Motherly.

And it's directed at him.

It gets worse—or better?—when she reaches out to gently clasp his bicep too, connecting the three of them in a circle of touch. As if he's somehow a part of this world. As if he deserves a second chance at family despite dooming his own. The connection is both suffocating and freeing, as if he's taking his first breath of fresh air in years all while a boulder crushes his chest.

She squeezes his arm, and her smile widens into something familiar. Maybe a bit teasing, too.

"Call me Emma, love. I'm so glad yer here. Both of ye. Now, come in out of the cold, will ye? My bones are already aching."

Ghost flounders as the onslaught of pain and comfort slices straight through the layers of armor he's built up through the years, exposing his soft insides.

He wants to fall into the touch.

He wants to run away.

He meets Johnny's gaze, and the softness and understanding he finds there is a balm to his spiraling emotions. Despite everything inside screaming at him to shut down, to not let anyone else into that secret part of him that Johnny breached with the ease of a demolitions expert, Ghost is helpless to do anything but follow Emma inside.

For the first time since he lost his family, he dares to let himself hope.

-

Hours later, Johnny pulls Ghost into bed with a gentle hum, guiding his head to rest on his chest. The heavy thud under Ghost's ear is like scissors to a puppet's strings, snipping the tension away and leaving him boneless and overwhelmed.

"Alright?" Johnny murmurs in his ear before pressing a gentle kiss to the side of his head.

"Not made of glass," Ghost grumbles.

Johnny knows him too well to take him seriously, even now. "Nae, yer made of sterner stuff. Gunpowder, madness, and pure spite."

"Spite can be motivatin'. Just ask any of the rookies who've had me for drills."

Johnny hums a laugh, and Ghost presses his ear harder into Johnny's chest to catch every vibration. Fingers trail through his hair, and he sighs.

"How shite was that, scale of one to ten?"

"What?" Johnny mumbles, his lips once again pressed to the side of Ghost's head.

"How bad an impression did I make?"

A hand grasps his hair to gently tip his head up. Their eyes meet, and the genuine confusion in Johnny's expression gives Ghost hope.

That he didn't fuck everything up. That Johnny's family won't try to convince him to stay away from Ghost.

"Mam was absolutely charmed, Ghost. I think she'd adopt ye on the spot if she could."

Ghost blinks. He replays the evening in his head—from the homemade dinner to the impromptu after-dinner sing-along between Johnny and his niblings to the softer conversation between the adults once the children had crashed. He can't think of anything he did to warrant such a reaction. In fact he barely talked at all, content to let Johnny answer questions for both of them and only interjecting when someone spoke to him directly, which happened rarely enough that Ghost was positive Johnny had asked them to make allowances for him. He both hated and loved it—hated that it made him feel weak, like he couldn't handle himself or his emotions, but loved that Johnny was clearly thinking about him and ensuring he would be as comfortable as possible.

He doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve Johnny at all if he's being honest with himself. The man is too good—all righteous fire and burning passion. But with that honesty comes the acknowledgment that he's far too selfish to ever give Johnny up.

At this thought, a faint memory surfaces of Emma's soft look when Ghost wrapped his arm around Johnny's shoulders as they settled on the couch. It's how they always sit when on leave because they can't risk it on base. Ghost loves the feeling of their bodies melding together, a line of heat at his side and Johnny close enough for Ghost to mumble inappropriate comments, bad jokes, and blush-inducing innuendo into Johnny's ear.

Apparently Emma MacTavish thinks it's a good thing, too.

"Well. Good then?"

Johnny hums another laugh, making Ghost's cheek buzz. "It is good, love. Very good." He tightens his arm around Ghost's shoulders. "Thank ye for coming with me."

Ghost swallows. Despite their solid relationship status, they haven't exchanged more than joking admissions of their mutual attraction. He feels the lack all the more as the worst of his holiday malaise falls away in the face of so much care and affection. Something wiggles loose in his chest, a sensation of free falling as his lips form words he hasn't said since before Roba took his family from him.

"Thought you woulda figured out by now that you've got me wrapped around that trigger finger of yours." He swallows. Takes a shaking breath. "You're the only thing alive in this world that I love."

Johnny stills under him. Even his chest is unmoving, breaths locked up with a quick inhale.

And then it all comes out in a rush.

"Simon... d'ye mean tha'?"

And though it means losing the comforting thud of Johnny's heart in his ear, Ghost answers by leaning up, gripping Johnny's chin with his fingers, and pressing a soft kiss to slack lips. When he pulls back, Johnny is staring at him, tears welling in his blue eyes and a wide grin replacing his shocked expression.

"Love ye, too, ye big bastart," Johnny whispers before diving in for another kiss.

And maybe it's not perfect in an objective sense. Maybe he still misses his family and what could have been. But in this moment—with this man and his gracious family who went out of their way to make him feel welcome—it's the closest to perfection he's ever been.

[kimboo-york]

The Orphans of Yunmeng

It happened so fast, so unbelievably fast, that even as they stumbled through the streets of Yiling, Jiang Yanli was not sure how they got there.

“This way, this way, here…come on!” Wei Ying was pushing and pulling them forward until they were in a dank, old alleyway. A’Cheng recoiled, but she grabbed his wrist and yanked him along. Even being older and (just barely) taller than he was, she should not have been able to maneuver him so easily, but she was certain he was going into shock.

Wei Ying was banging on a door half sunk in the ground, as if it had once been the entry to a basement to a part of a house that wasn’t there anymore.

“Open up, Lao Wang!”

“What the fuck do you want?” An ancient man in a twisted body pulled the door open. Jiang Yanli was not certain he actually had any teeth. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Wei Ying!”

“The fuck?”

Wei Ying groaned in frustration and shoved the old man backwards into the room, pulling on Jiang Yanli who in turn dragged A’Cheng along.

“Hey!”

“It’s me! Wei Ying!” Wei Ying said loudly, slamming the door shut behind him.

“You brat! Where the hell have you been?”

“I told you I got picked up by the Yunmeng Jiang sect, like, ten times already.”

The man looked more like a human yao than a person, wrinkled and bent with watery, clouded eyes. While he bickered with Wei Ying, Yanli stood very still next to A’Cheng, who still did not appear to be entirely present. He had not been entirely present since the panic attack back at Lotus Pier.

“Ying’er,” Yanli said softly, which brought Lao Wang and Wei Ying up short. “Where are we?”

“And who are you?” Lao Wang added, poking a long crooked finger at Wei Ying’s chest.

“I’m Wei Ying!” Wei Ying threw his arms up in the air in frustration.

“I know that! I mean them! Dressed too nice to street rats. I can’t use ‘em.” He banged his cane on the ground and sat down with a loud thump.

Yanli did not like the sound of that.

“That’s not why I brought them here, you wicked old man,” Wei Ying said, rolling his eyes. He turned to Yanli. “ShiJie, this is Lao Wang, pickpocket master of Yiling. I knew him when I was…when I used to live here.” He ended up looking down at the dirt floor and shuffling his feet.

“Oh.” She did not know what else to say.

“Been gone too long, you’re out of practice. Can’t use you either.”

“I’m not stealing for you!” He glanced over at Yanli. “Uh, not that I ever did. Because I didn’t! That would be wrong.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?” Lao Wang banged his cane on the floor again.

Yanli let go of A’Cheng and stepped forward, not too close, but certainly far closer to a grown man than her mother would have approved.

Her mother.

She bowed. “Lao Wang, I apologize for my brother bringing us to your home. We are in a desperate situation and need a place to hide.”

“ShiJie,” Wei Ying whined softly.

“No, Ying’er, there is no point in lying. Everyone…everyone will know soon anyway.” She held back a sob.

“No!” A’Cheng shouted and broke for the door. Wei Ying, obviously acting on instinct, tackled him to the floor before he could even grab the handle. The boys wrestled on the ground, shouting incomprehensibly at each other. Yanli knew who would win—who always won, and why that had really been such a burn to her mother’s pride. She stood there and sobbed while her brothers bloodied each other, unable to do anything to stop them.

“Ah, shit.” Lao Wang got up, waddled over and casually as tossing kittens around threw the boys apart with his cane and a martial arts move she had never seen before. There was a moment of quiet before A’Cheng broke down in heaving sobs, and Wei Ying scrambled over to hold him tight.

Yanli knew she should do the same thing. She should be strong for them. She should hold them and tell them everything would be all right. All she could do was stand there and cry.

“What happened, child?” Lao Wang asked softly, squinting at the tangle of her brothers. His hands were firmly set on his cane, but there was something soothing about his presence in that moment.

“Father…Sect Leader Jiang found out that my brother and I are not his children. Our mother was an adulteress.” She took a deep breath, wrapping her arms around herself, starting to shake. “He…he kicked us out.”

[cypreus-and-willow]

Broken Promises

Summary: Ryo makes Saki a promise. So does Shuuji. Neither are able to keep it.

In the bleak silence of afternoon, the girl wanders alone. Floramon waiting impatiently back home for her to return. But she needs this. Time. Time to think. Time to grieve.

How fundamentally changed they are. That nothing will ever be the same again. She has real friends now. That's a good thing. Ryo is gone and so is Shuuji. Ryo will never complain about being nagged by him ever again. Shuuji will never have to worry about him running off and causing trouble again. That's a good thing.

Still, she can't get the images out of her mind. Ryo, her constant companion and temporary friend, running towards the hands, pleading and crying for the safety of his mother.

Shuuji, her cowardly protector and one time partner, running away from friends, begging and crying to stop the danger of his father.

Ryo won’t have to be sad anymore. And Shuuji’s dad can’t hurt him again. That's-

Eyes close, breathe in deep. Shakily.

That's a good thing. Right?

Do the others care? Did they even know them?

"I was close to them both," said her fake. Her copy.

Those things, those monsters. They'd taken from her memories. Close? Those two weren't close to anyone. Saki might’ve been the closest they ever got to having a friend.

“What's your favourite ice cream flavour?” She’d asked, out of the blue. Testing the waters of her new found companionship. Ryo frowned in annoyance.

“Don't have one.”

“Everybody has one.”

“I dunno… vanilla.” Liar.

“Vanilla has no flavour. That's so boring.”

“Don't ask then!”

A plain, simple, uncomplicated flavour. He was a little bit like that. His attitude towards everything was simple. He either liked it or he didn't. The notes of his sadness were subtle. The uncomplicated ice cream flavour tucked away in the corner, largely ignored but always there.

“Oi, Ryo. Today’s the last day of camp. Buy me some ice cream when this is over.”

“Alright, alright. I'll get you your ice cream, brat."

The loud ring of the shop bell brings her back to the present. A person smiling at her behind the counter; his grin wide and his cap, pink. "Welcome! What can I get for you?"

"Um…" she swallows the numbness in her throat. "One scoop. Vanilla. Cone please."

Gold and pink hues sparkle over the river, sun setting in beautiful silence. The pink glow of spring, welcoming. Entreating her to remember. Never forget.

The ice cream numbs her lips.

“Shuuji-san, I don't know if I can make it.”

The sun was rising blood red over the water. The two children so unprepared for chaos as to wear plain oxfords and ballet flats. Caked in mud as they crawled their way by the river.

"You will. We're all going back."

Then Shuuji ran and left her behind. She laughs. Typical, he was actually really good at running. Always running, moving ahead, pushing her past her limits, dragging her forward until she couldn't breathe. Dragging her upriver when they should've drowned or been eaten.

So their trail would be broken. So they wouldn't be scented by the wolf thing that hunted them. So they could buy just a little more time.

And they only bought time until sunset.

He never quite shone as bright as the sun but he tried his best to light their way. Even in the dark where light couldn't reach and he needed them more than they needed him.

She looks at her surroundings, vanilla ice cream quietly melting in her hand. Subtle flavours quietly meeting their subtle end.

I'll get you your ice cream brat.

The pink river loosing its hue, now a dull grey. The sun that lights her way home is leaving and she has to go.

We're all going back.

In the end, she can only remember the good.

“Ryo, Shuuji-san. I’m home.”

[okgal21]

I can’t figure out how to do a read more on mobile, sorry! But some speculation right before the episode airs:

***

Buck was still panicking.

They had gotten Eddie out of the van, Hen out of the ambulance, Chim and their first victim into a different ambulance and on their way to the hospital, and Ravi had been fine to begin with, but they still hadn’t found Bobby.

They had even been able to get the driver that caused the collapse in the first place out, but they hadn’t found Bobby.

So suffice to say, Buck was still panicking.

Buck was working with some of the other firefighters and Athena to figure out the best plan to get everyone out, and off the rest of the bridge, when Hen called him over to where she and Eddie were, where she was trying to determine if Eddie needed to be sent to the hospital as well.

“What’s the verdict, Hen?” Buck asked.

“I’m fine, tell him I’m fine.” Eddie, who was definitely was not who Buck was talking too, replied.

Hen scoffed at him, turning to Buck and saying, “Nothing seems to be broken, but he definitely needs to be seen by a hospital. We’ll send him with the next ambulance that’s going out.”

Ignoring Eddie’s indignant face, Buck opened his mouth to reply, before he was cut off by someone yelling.

“DAD!”

All three firefighters whipped around to look at the bridge, and to Buck’s horror, spotted Chris.

“What is he doing there?” Eddie whispered in horror. “He should be home by now, shouldn’t he?”

Buck nodded “Yeah, Carla or the bus should’ve gotten him, since we’re both on shift— Wait,” he turned to Eddie in horror, “Carla is sick and the bus was cancelled today, remember? His friend’s mom was going to pick him after school.”

“And he had practice, so they would have just made it here.” Eddie finished.

Hen broke into the conversation, saying ���Guys, it’ll be alright, the bridge looks stable, we just need to get him down.”

As if to spite her, they heard a rumble, and turned back to see the part of the bridge that Chris was standing on with his friend start to collapse.

Buck barely heard Eddie scream, he was sprinting away so quickly. He could make it. He could get there in time. He would brace the bridge with his body if he had to.

He didn’t make it.

He watched in horror as the bridge fell, and Chris with it. He saw Chris’s friend able to leap onto a stable part, but Chris was too far. He disappeared into the smoke near where the ambulance had crashed, so Buck changed course and started heading that way.

He barely registered anyone else around him as he made his way to the rubble. He didn’t see Chris immediately, and didn’t know whether to feel relief that he wasn’t dead on top or terror that the didn’t know where he was. He settled settled on terror.

He started moving rubble and rocks away, finding debris and survivors amongst it. He passed the survivors on to the other personnel around him, and kept digging.

After what felt like seconds and eternity, he found who he was looking for. Both of them.

“Bobby, Chris, oh thank God.” Buck said in relief.

Chris had somehow managed to get tucked under Bobby, and when Buck looked closer, he saw the evidence of Bobby’s fall, and then subsequent dragging himself over to Chris to cover him when he fell.

Chris looked a little out of it, but Bobby seemed lucid enough, if not worse for wear.

“Come on, let’s get you guys out of there, Bobby can you walk? If not, that’s fine, I can carry both of you I’m sure.” Buck started to ramble, when Bobby stopped him.

“Buck, get Chris.”

Buck looked at Bobby in confusion, he could get both of them he knew it. Bobby met his eyes and moved his head back a little to gesture towards his legs. When Buck looked at his legs he had to hold in a gasp.

They were covered in blood.

He looked at Bobby’s face again, and before he could even open his mouth to ask, Bobby answered.

“I fell wrong,” he chuckled sadly. “It looks worse than it is, don’t worry. But get Chris out of here first.”

Buck opened his mouth to protest, but Bobby beat him to it again.

“Buck no, you can get both of us with how I am, get Chris first.”

“But I can get both of you! I know I can, Cap please-“

“Buck-“

“No! I can get both of you, don’t make me leave you, I can’t, please Dad-“

This time Buck cut himself off, not wanting to continue, but not correcting himself.

Bobby softened, saying quietly “Evan, I’ll be okay. Get your kid and get out of here.”

Buck looked down at Chris, looked back at Bobby, and nodded. Leaning down, he gently grabbed Chris by his underarms, and with a warning, he pulled him out from under Bobby and into his arms.

He adjusted his grip, to hold Chris more securely, and looked back at Bobby.

“I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

Bobby just smiled at him.

“I know you will.”

Buck nodded again, and turned away from his captain, his dad and all the ways that mattered, and began to make his way back out of the rubble.

He adjusted his hold on Chris to bring his hand to his radio.

“I need medical personnel to the location of the first collapse! I have located Captain Nash, and he needs medical attention. There is a path to him. I also need medical personnel to my location, I have an injured civilian.”

Buck could do it all. He would get Chris back to Eddie safely, and he would go back and get Bobby. He could do it. He could save everyone. He ignored his heart rate, his racing thoughts, his cold sweat. He ignored the one thing that was clear:

Buck was still panicking.

[miss-americanbi]

was chatting with my brother about gravity falls (again) and i said something like “man, can you believe stan waited and worked for 30 years just for the chance to try and bring his brother back?” to which my brother responded, “yeah, it’s nuts when you think about it. i wonder if stan got trapped in the multiverse instead, if ford would do the same.” HELLO???

[livwritesstuff]

i went on a deep dive of the Steve & Hopper ao3 tag yesterday and and it got me thinking about what would happen if Chief of Police Hopper ran into Steve and Eddie while he was on patrol after pseudo-adopting Steve, and it’s been long enough that Hopper is sort of a safe-person for Steve so Steve goes into full-fledged bitch mode when Hopper tries to pull cop stuff on them, and Eddie (who knew about none of this because Steve is a chronic under-sharer) is so totally baffled.

He’d spent years watching Steve sweet-talk his way out of trouble. Even before they started hooking up it used to drive Eddie goddamn insane, because if (when) Eddie pulled any of this shit Steve gets away with, he’d be totally screwed, but all Steve has to do is flash a sheepish grin and run a hand through his hair once or twice and say, all baleful, “I really didn’t mean any trouble,” and he’s home free.

It has its perks though, or so he's learned during his last few months of hanging around with Steve, so when Steve and Eddie’s make-out session is interrupted by the tell-tale red and blue lights of a cop car pulling up behind where Steve parked the Beemer a few hundred yards down a maintenance road, Eddie’s not all that worried. In fact, he’s got a pretty good amount of faith in Steve’s ability to spin up some story to keep them out of any real trouble, and as Chief Hopper ambles over to them, Eddie prepares himself for a whole show of, “Yes Chief, sorry Chief, it won’t happen again Chief.”

So imagine Eddie's complete and utter surprise when Hopper barks, “Hey, morons! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” and Steve only rolls his eyes and says, “What’s it to you?”

Eddie feels his jaw drop.

“Steve,” he mutters through gritted teeth. He tries to elbow Steve into shutting the hell up, but he misses because Steve has already taken several steps forward to meet Hopper, his face turned up in a kind of defiance Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen on him before.

“What’s it to me?” Hopper repeats, glowering at Steve, “It’s midnight. I’m on patrol. You’ve got one of the most recognizable cars in this entire damn town parked in a restricted-access zone with this idiot–” Hopper gestures at Eddie (Eddie didn’t think the pointing or the idiot were necessary, but clearly, clearly, he’s missing something here), “–who’s been dragged into my station more times than I could count.”

“The town line, Hop, is over there,” Steve says, pointing at an indiscriminate spot over Hop’s shoulder that may or may not be part of the Hawkins town line, “We’re not even in Hawkins anymore. You’re totally out of your jurisdiction.”

“You wanna know something about jurisdiction, smart-ass?” Hopper asks, “If my report says shit happened in my jurisdiction, it happened in my jurisdiction.”

“Wow,” Steve deadpans, “Way to not sound totally corrupt. Nice work, Chief.”

Hopper’s jaw twitches for a second, and he’s clearly debating if he wants to keep arguing with Steve who, to Steve’s credit, looks like he’s got debate in him for days. Ultimately though, Hopper decides against it and stalks back over to his squad car.

“If you’re not home by one there’s gonna be hell to pay. You hear me, Harrington?” Hopper yells, “One AM. Hell to pay.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve rolls his eyes, “Totally hear you. One AM. Loud and clear or whatever.”

Steve flips the cruiser both birds as it peels away, which Hopper only flashes his high beams at a couple times before he’s gone, kicking up a bunch of dirt and mulch and leaves in his wake, and Steve is wearing an exasperated expression as he turns to face Eddie again.

“God, he’s so annoying. Let’s just go to my house.”

Eddie gapes at him.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Huh?”

“What the fuck was that?” Eddie repeated, gesturing wildly towards where Hopper’s car had just been.

“Wha– you mean with Hop?”

“Uh, yeah?!?”

Steve just brushed him off, “Whatever, just ignore him. He’s basically my dad.”

“What?”

EDIT: read the expanded fic on AO3 :)

[paintedcrows]

Some Fords! (and Martin K Blackwood is also there)

[umblrspectrum]

"smaller mass" you say

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[leet911]

It starts off small, and simple enough. Pleng writes little notes — practical ones.

I left you dinner in the fridge.

We're out of eggs.

I packed you some lunch. Enjoy your day!

She signs them “Pleng”, of course, maybe with a little smiley face for punctuation, and she doesn't think about it at first. It seems natural to her, familiar, they've done this all before. And they have phones too, so Pleng could send text messages, but this feels more personal, more private, like it's just for the two of them — a little square of paper they can both run their fingers over in turn, feeling the grooves left by the pen.

And Pleng isn't around when Wan gets those notes. That's the thing with leaving notes. So Pleng doesn't see how Wan’s heart almost stops each time she finds one. She doesn't see how Wan glances at the door each time, how she opens a dresser after reading them, just to be sure Pleng’s clothes are still there.

One time, Pleng finds the drawer where Wan keeps all the notes, and she almost cries. Every single one she had written since moving in, no matter how mundane it had been, all those little scraps of paper with her scribblings on them. And at the very bottom of that drawer, is an envelope that Pleng remembers all too well. The envelope has yellowed over the years, the stain patterns on it expanded, and Pleng knows that those are from tears.

She does not open the envelope. That would feel too much like snooping. Besides, she can still recite all the words from that letter.

But Pleng understands that day the importance of her notes, and they take on a different character.

Just stepped out to pick up dinner, I'll be right back.

I work tonight, so I won't be there when you get home.

I work late tonight, don't wait up. I'll see you in the morning.

She makes it a point to say that she'll be back, that she'll be here, that she's not leaving. And maybe it's a small thing, but it feels right to her. Sometimes, she signs them with a little heart next to her name. And maybe it's in her mind, but Wan seems to smile more after that too. Sometimes Pleng comes home to find Wan asleep on the couch with those little notes still in hand.

Pleng watches the desk drawer fill up over time. More notes get added to the pile, then the pile gets rearranged, then stacks are formed with paper clips, then envelopes and folders appear to hold the stacks. But that one yellowed envelope from thirteen years ago remains. More than once, Pleng thinks about taking it and just throwing it away, hiding her shame, seeing if Wan would notice. That letter isn't them anymore. It was so long ago.

But Pleng isn't brave enough for that. Besides that would be too much like those old times, when it seemed like Pleng made the decisions for Wan, and Pleng doesn't think that would be fair to Wan.

So she redoubles her efforts to leave more notes and bury old wounds. She writes grocery lists and song lyrics; she makes movie and TV recommendations; she writes little diary entries that she leaves lying around for Wan on the days where their schedules just don't line up and they're in and out at different times.

She writes Wan pages and pages over the months, until one day the desk drawer is emptied, and everything is gone.

“Did you throw away all the papers?” Pleng asks that evening.

Wan shakes her head. “I put them in a box. It was getting too much for the desk.”

Pleng avoids meeting her eyes. “Even the envelope?”

“Yes, I haven't opened it in a long time.”

Pleng nods. But Wan moves, sitting very close to Pleng and staring until they finally lock gazes. Wan’s eyes are intense, but they soften almost right away. There's a whirlwind of emotions that swirl through in an instant, and when she speaks, her voice is small. “Don't leave,” Wan whispers, and suddenly all her usual confidence is gone. And Pleng knows they’re not talking about today, about right now. Instead, it's like they’re seventeen again, and Wan might be dying inside, but she would never tell Pleng. She wouldn't want Pleng to worry.

“I won't.” I never wanted to leave you, but Pleng doesn't say that. She doesn't even know if that's strictly true. But they were teenagers back then, and they both did stupid things, so Pleng hopes that none of that matters anymore. “I won't run away again, not from you.” She takes Wan’s face in her hands, kisses her upper lip. It's slow, and gentle, and they have done much much more in recent months, but this is different. This is I love you and Please love me all wrapped into one. This is everything Pleng has never managed to say to Wan, every song she thought about writing but never did. This is an apology thirteen years in the making.

A lone tear rolls down Wan’s face and she goes to rub it away, but Pleng catches her hand. “I won't leave, I promise. You don't have to be perfect for me. You don't have to be strong all the time. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

And for the first time in a long time, Wan finally lets herself cry. But Pleng holds her, wraps Wan in a tight hug, and Pleng tells herself that this time, she will never let go.

Wan is going to develop some sort of PTSD about Pleng leaving notes before disappearing. Years in the future she sees a slip of paper with Pleng's handwriting and almost has a heart attack just for it to be their grocery list or something

[greatunironic]

eddie wakes up in a strange room. this was not particularly unusual for him, historically: he’d spent most of his twenties waking up in new and interesting places (including a handful of jail cells). but after eddie, the label, and the los angeles superior court system decided it would be best if he stopped drinking and doing blow, it stopped being such a regular occurrence.

so it’s almost alarming to him, now, to be blinking up at an unfamiliar cement ceiling with the raging bitch of all headaches and generally feeling like he got hit by a truck, got whiplash in a crash with the way his neck aches. he’d think he was hungover like all those times before except for how sharp the pain is, bright.

he worries, briefly, he’s relapsed, or someone’s slipped him something. but he remembers what him and the boys had been up to, before this, and he thinks it’d’ve been a strange night indeed if someone roofied a c-list (b-list if he’s feeling charitable) musician at a fucking frozen four game.

because yeah, eddie remembers: they’d been third row, watching the wisconsin ladies clean up and cheering for jeff’s kid sister like she was about to get olympic gold. (she probably would, someday. her and that mayfield girl who played defense were looking down the barrel at a 2026 run apparently.

eddie’s been to a handful of games over the years, when touring and recording allows them to go. he’s resolutely never been a sports guy but he’ll admit, when pressed, that live hockey is pretty dope. to say nothing, of course, of how jeff would probably murder them all in their sleep if they didn’t rep the red and white for lottie.

(and also — and this is between eddie and his god alright — but lottie’s coach? standing back there in his suit, hair styled and dialed, snapping his gum, yelling at the refs? kind of doing it for him, okay. worth the price of admission, even if the tickets weren’t free.)

when he thinks harder — which hurts too — the last thing he clearly remembers was someone from the beavers scoring, bringing their lead to 5-1, and a slapshot from the other team getting out over the boards and nearly taking out some lady’s popcorn. someone behind them in the seats said, “jesus they’re getting desperate, eh?”

then shit goes dark on him, not even a fade to black, but a full on smash cut, roll credits black, and the post-credits scene is where ever the fuck eddie is at the moment. it smells like human and cold and icy hot, so obviously, he thinks, he died and went to hell like all the church ladies said he would back in hawkins, or probably just a locker room. what the fuck?

he blinks at the ceiling, at an interesting water stain on the cement texturing. he’s in the middle of wondering where the rest of his band has gone if he’s here alone, fucking abandoners, when a sweaty redhead with the bitchiest expression he’s maybe ever seen enters his field of vision.

“you’re alive,” she says.

eddie blinks again. “why do you sound so disappointed?”

“yo coach!” she shouts, already on the move away from him. “he’s alive!”

he tries to sit up, but that makes the pain in his head worse, and also draws attention to the fact that his back also hurts. he squeezes his eyes shut and makes a truly embarrassing noise of pain — if pressed, he’d call it a whimper — and a pair of big hands land on his shoulders.

“out, out ladies i got this! hey!, hey, man, don’t move just yet,” says big hands.

“yeah, no problem, i don’t want to anymore,” eddie says. he stirs up the will to open his eyes again and very nearly slams them back shut. because of course the person staring down at him is fucking coach hottie snackycakes himself. he’s even better looking in person, too, big droopy eyes, lips as pink as his bubblegum, and shiny, jesus christ. he’s still got eddie by the shoulders, hands warm through the thin cotton of his flannel and tee — because eddie’s always been more fashion than sense, wayne always said, and it’s even worse now that the paps are on him—

“oh, fuck this is gonna be all over tiktok later, isn’t it?” he moans.

“maybe not.”

“don’t lie.”

“listen, eddie — it is eddie, right?” asks coach hottie. “i’m steve. coach harrington. faughnsie — lottie, i mean — she said you’re eddie. her brother’s guitarist? what do you remember?”

“more like he’s my singer,” he says, “but sure. and not much.”

“well, you’re gonna be okay,” says coach hottie — steve. “it really wasn’t that bad, and it was probably too fast for anyone to get it, unless they already had a camera on you. you took a puck to the head when one popped up. i’d apologize but it wasn’t one of my girls who did it, so. anyway — you weren’t out for long, which robbie says is good — she’ll get a look at you in a second — but you got your bell rung pretty good. and you’re gonna have quite the shiner, trust me.”

“speaking from experience?”

“oh, yeah. closer and faster too.” he gently raps his head with his knuckles. “too many concussions too early ended my nhl days, in fact.”

“oh. oh shit, sorry, i—“

“don’t worry about it, man, it happens,” he says. “and if it hadn’t, i wouldn’t be here.”

“at the frozen four.”

“yeah, sure, that too.”

“what?”

“what?” steve waves him off. “anyway, i’m just glad to see you up, ish, and talking. looked pretty scary, from the bench.”

“i really don’t remember,” says eddie. “but i’m sure i’ll see it on tiktok later, like i said — at least, my unconscious, bleeding form.”

“i got up there pretty fast, so i doubt it,” says steve.

eddie blinks, twice. “you—?”

“you were behind my bench, and you. well,” he says with a shrug, but he’s clearly a little embarrassed, finally putting those hands away — weapons of eddie destruction, he thinks — and shoving them into his pockets of his tight slacks. “i should be getting back out there.”

“do you? you’re murdering them pretty good, unless i black out and missed them getting four more goals,” eddie says.

the corners of steve’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. eddie thinks he might just pass out again. “no, we’re still gonna cinch it, i think. looks bad, though — first time coach missing the final period so’s he can hit on the cute musician who got his clock cleaned by the biscuit.”

“oh,” he says. swallows. “uh.”

steve’s crinkly, smiley eyes go wide. “unless—“

“no less!” eddie shouts and then immediately winces. at a better, less damaging to his more than slightly concussed noggin, volume, he says, “more, actually. because pretty sure i shouldn’t be left unsupervised, and i’ve clearly been abandoned by the band, so—“

“so,” says steve.

“coach, two minutes!” someone calls.

“so, i was hoping maybe i could keep hitting on the hot hockey coach back at his?”

“i’m at the ramada inn,” he says, “and i got tape to watch for the finals.”

“i live for room service,” eddie tells him seriously. “and i’m suddenly very into wisconsin sports teams.”

“coach! go time!”

“yeah?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“COACH!”

he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “i gotta ��� but, uh, later?”

“pick me up in twenty?”

“probably more like half an hour, with stoppage,” he says.

someone bangs on the door. “COACH!! let’s boogie!!”

with one last look, wide eyed and smiling, steve leaves. eddie watches him go. he’d heard hockey players were caked up but lord — eddie is about to convert to a new religion, or maybe found one, over the stretch of those slacks.

“damn,” he says quietly.

“gross,” a woman says. eddie startles and looks to the side, where a lanky brunette with a bob and an undercut is staring at him, unimpressed. she’s in some get up that screams athletic trainer, and there’s a white board in her hand.

“how long have you been there?” he asks.

she raises an eyebrow. “long enough, and honestly, i don’t know if that counts as a you rule for him, or a you suck for you,” she says and does not elaborate when he asks. “also don’t look at him like that. it’s steve. he’s basically my sister.”

“yeah? any tips then?” asks eddie. “i promise i’ll only use them for good. well. mostly.”

“god,” she says with an expansive eye roll. “you’re gonna be a nightmare, aren’t you?”

a cheer goes up outside the room as the teams, presumably, take the ice again. eddie, head throbbing, concussed, embarrassed, grins. “sure hope so,” he says.

[strawbubbysugar]

The base Y/N design for my soulmate AU!!

[sunnymainecoonx]

I know damn well I misunderstood the assignment but we roll, I'll understand it some day

It's killer and dust btw. If you couldn't tell. Which you probably couldn't.. forgor to say but shhh 🤫 Killers having a convo with himself..

..I kinda wanna change my url but idk to what

[idliketobeatree]

to Charles, an Edwin Payne poem.

[mooshkat]

crash that jeep and knock up that pilot !!!!

Blood drips onto the windshield.

Which is weird, until Buck realizes where he is. He'd just finished his hike, something to get out of the house and away from the baking supplies because there's only so many loaves of bread he can fit in his fridge after giving so much away.

The signal is bad in this specific trail too, so he knew he wouldn't be tempted to call Tommy.

Behind the blood on his cracked windshield, Buck can see further down the edge of the mountain he'd been driving on. Someone had been coming up the hill way too fast and he'd swerved and pulled over, but then...he thinks the ground crumbled underneath his back right tire and pulled his Jeep down with it.

Had he rolled? He can't remember. It's a blur. There's a tree blocking him from going further down the side of the mountain, and it's what had busted his windshield. One of the tree limbs is piercing through the passenger seat, and he's suddenly glad that he hadn't brought anyone with him for his mope hike.

He wants to call Tommy.

First, though, he needs to get out of the Jeep and onto solid ground. The ominous creaking that the tree makes only solidifies that thinking. Buck tries the seatbelt, but it's jammed and won't come undone. He keeps a tool in his glove box that should cut through it, but as he tries to reach over and grab it, he's stopped by a piercing pain in his gut.

Buck looks down. "Oh."

He's been hurt in many different ways, from having an entire fire engine on his leg to getting struck by lightning, but he's never been stabbed before. Part of the tree limb coming through his windshield had broken off and lodged itself into his stomach. It hurts, now that he knows it's there.

He wants to call Tommy.

Tommy has taken care of him before, Buck wants soothing hands and soft words to reassure him that he'll be okay from this. He doesn't know how he can be okay from this. He's on the side of a mountain, who knows how far down, and he never usually gets signal up here.

He pats down his pockets and sighs in relief when he feels his phone. The screen has a crack in it and there's blood smeared on it from where it'd soaked into his clothes already, but it's working.

There's one small, blinking bar of signal in the top right corner. It should be enough. It has to be enough.

Buck knows he should call 911, but he needs to talk to Tommy and say all the things he should've said before it's too late. He can call them after.

He holds the phone in one hand and presses against his side with the other, grimacing when he feels more blood spilling out over his fingers.

The phone rings and rings and rings, and he thinks it's going to go to voicemail, but it picks up at the last second. There's silence on the other side.

"T-Tommy? You there?" he asks, pulling his phone away to check the signal again. That little bar is holding on strong. "I need to-to talk to you."

A sigh. "I'm at work right now, Buck. Can it wait?"

Even though it hurts to hear Tommy call him that, just hearing his voice makes him feel a little bit better. Buck relaxes back into his seat and breathes through the pain that moving causes, feeling more blood spill.

"I'll be...I'll be quick." There's so many things to say, but ultimately it comes down to, "I'm sorry, Tommy. I shouldn't have asked you to move in with me that night. I-I jumped the gun, like I always do with my relationships and I get further ahead than my partner, especially when we hadn't even said 'I love you' yet. A-And I do, you know? Love you, I mean."

He has to stop and cough after speaking for so long, which jostles the branch in his gut, and he chokes on the sudden taste of iron in the back of his throat. Buck spits out a mouthful of saliva onto his lap and tries not to panic when it comes out of his mouth red.

"-ck? Buck!" Tommy calls for him through the phone, but he can't answer yet. He sucks in a wheezing breath and squeezes his eyes shut tight. He needs to finish this. "Evan!"

"Sorry," he apologizes, again. "Sorry, I'm..." He's not okay, and he doesn't want to lie to Tommy. "I'm scared, Tommy. You scare me, just like I think I scared you. You make me feel things I haven't felt in a long time, and I saw a future with you, Tommy. N-Not just moving in together, but a life. Marriage, and kids, and white picket fence. Maybe a dog. The whole nine yards. I wanted that with you. Still do, but I think I-I'm too late now."

There's a lot of movement on Tommy's side of the call, and he can hear the bell toll as they get called out. Buck is ready to hang up and let Tommy go to work, but Tommy stops him before he can.

"Stay on the line with me, okay, Evan? We're on the way. Eddie got the notification about your crash on Life 360 and we're on the way. And I'm sorry too. I've been burned in the past by someone when I was their first gay relationship, and it spooked me, I guess. But you–we can still have those things. We need to sit down and actually talk first, but if you're willing to forgive me for leaving like I did and give me a second chance, I want those things with you too."

Buck smiles. He almost wonders if the blood loss is finally getting to him, because this is what he's been wanting for over two months now. A chance to talk and fix it. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"And–and we can have the kids, Evan. I didn't think they were ever in the cards for me like this, but I'm..." Tommy takes a deep breath and Buck waits. "I'm pregnant, Evan."

Those two words would have scared Buck 1.0 shitless back in the day, but now all he can feel is awe and love. And, okay, a little bit of fear. "Pregnant? I didn't know that was...was still possible for you."

Tommy had told him before that he'd been on testosterone for...for...he can't remember how long now, but a while. He'd never had the surgery to remove his ovaries, though, telling Buck that he was about to hit the age that it didn't matter anymore.

"Yeah, me neither. Until Lucy forced me to go to the clinic the other day because I couldn't stop puking and they told me. A-And it's a girl. We're having a daughter, Evan."

It sounds like Tommy is underwater now. Buck's eyes feel so heavy, it shouldn't hurt to close them for just a second. He gasps, a shuddering, wheezy thing when he processes what Tommy said.

"A girl?" he asks, voice faint. "I've always wanted a daughter..."

It sucks he'll never get to meet her. His phone slips out of his hand and drops onto his lap.

Faintly, he can hear Tommy calling for him, but he doesn't have the energy anymore to open his mouth and answer him.

————

When Buck comes to, the first thing he feels is a hand wrapped around his. The second is pain, even through the amount of drugs no doubtedly pumping through his system.

He grunts and squeezes the hand in his, prying his eyes open to squint at the lights. He turns his head and sees Tommy beside him, this impossibly large man curled up in such a small chair. "Ow," he whines, and Tommy's head jerks up to look at him.

Before Buck can say anything else, Tommy's lip starts wobbling and tears spill from his eyes. "You are such an asshole for doing that to me." He wipes his eyes and sniffles. "Kid's not even born yet and you're trying to skip out on diaper changing duty. What the fuck, Buckley?"

Buck laughs, then winces and groans. "Ow. Don't make me laugh." Tommy grimaces and he rubs his thumb over the top of Buck's hand. "So...a daughter, huh?" It doesn't feel real.

"Yeah," Tommy smiles. "You want to see the ultrasound pictures?" He's already reaching into his pocket for his phone before Buck can answer.

The pictures mostly look like a blob with toes to Buck, but that's their blob. Their daughter. He loves her already.

He looks at Tommy and sees the same love reflected in his eyes as he stares at the pictures. "I love you," he says, making Tommy look at him.

Tommy's eyes crinkle in the corners as he gives Buck his Evan smile. "I love you too."

They still need to talk about everything, but Buck feels more sure than ever now that the future he wanted with Tommy can be their reality.

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.