#wisp as in a small stream or puff of smoke/steam

[bb-fennelposting]

im probably gonna change my warrior sona's name from mosswhisker to mosswisp

in clanmew, this would be "Pafumsaisi" (i think?)

[celosiaa]

steady, love (chapter 3)

Summary:

Martin is not doing well.

Jon is there with him through every step.

(because I became obsessed (tm) with the idea of Martin dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath of leaving the Lonely)

WARNINGS: a bit of dysphoria and depersonalization, nothing too graphic

Chapters 1-5 are up on ao3 under the same username!

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

Oh, Martin.

The pitiful sight that greets Jon at the bottom of the stairs tugs at his heart strings.  Martin is seated on the small couch, shrouded as much as possible in a large crocheted blanket, rubbing his swollen eyes beneath his glasses.  Jon watches for a moment as Martin leans forward, elbows on his knees, and gives a miserable sniff.

Jon intentionally steps heavier as he enters the living room, doing his best to give Martin some warning of his approach.

Best not to startle him.

With the softest voice he can muster, Jon gently calls out.

“Martin?”

His attempts not to startle him are in vain, as Martin jumps bodily at the sound.  His head whips around, glasses falling askew over watery eyes, full alertness on his face.  Finding that the culprit had been Jon, he relaxes into an easy smile, pushing his glasses to their proper position.

Something warm pools in Jon’s stomach, and he cannot resist smiling in return.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.  How long have you been awake?”

Martin opens his mouth to answer, but snaps it shut after a moment before shrugging and turning away, gazing at the floor.  Jon stares at his back, frowning in confusion.  He then walks around in front of the coffee table, directly in front of him.  Martin’s eyes remain rooted to the ground.

“Are you…upset with me?”

At this, Martin looks up quickly and shakes his head with vigor.

“Then why won’t you talk to me?”  Jon says, a bit of frustration unintentionally creeping into his tone.

Martin’s eyebrows shoot up, and he shakes his head hastily again.  Taking a moment to swallow, he then opens his mouth with determination and croaks.

“I—”

Martin cannot manage any more has he breaks off into a fit of sharp, painful-sounding coughs.  He doubles over immediately, hands covering his face.

Shit.

Jon—guilt now flooding him—hurriedly sits down beside him, placing a gentle hand on his back.  After a few moments, Martin sits back up, with eyes streaming and one hand clasped at his throat.  Jon’s own eyes begin to tear with sympathy at the sight, and he begins rubbing slow circles onto Martin’s upper back.

“Oh, dear. Are you alright?”

Martin nods, not meeting his eyes.  Jon doesn’t need the powers of the Eye to know that he’s lying.

“What can I do?  Can I get you some water?  Tea, perhaps?”

Martin nods again, sniffling and lifting the collar of his t-shirt to wipe at his eyes.  Frowning at him for a moment, Jon stands and begins puttering around the kitchen for tea.

Black tea, steeped for three minutes, replace the sugar with honey…

Behind him, Martin sounds as if he’s fighting for control over his lungs, if the muffled sputtering is anything to go by.

God, he sounds awful.

Jon unscrews the cap on the jar and pours an unholy amount of honey into Martin’s tea.

Handing it to him, their hands brush briefly, and Martin meets his gaze—giving Jon the sunniest smile he has seen in a long time, watery eyes and all.  Jon can feel his face flushing, the corners of his mouth turning up involuntarily.  Martin huffs out a silent chuckle before closing his eyes and inhaling the steam rising from the tea.  His contented expression quickly falls, however, when something audibly bubbles in his chest upon exhaling.

Eyes snapping open, he gags and pitches forward, tea splashing over the rim of his mug.  Alarmed, Jon hastens to take it from his hands.

“Martin?” he inquires anxiously.

He holds his position for a few seconds, not daring to breathe, before it seems he can no longer avoid it.  He begins to expel deep, rattling hacks—and thick tendrils of smoke pour out of him in waves.  In shock, the mug Jon holds shatters on the ground, forgotten.

“MARTIN? What…oh god, here here—” Jon puts a hand on Martin’s shoulder before turning and looking wildly about the room, bracing to meet whatever threat may come through the fog.  His heart pounds loudly in his ears as he issues a single, repeated thought into the growing gloom of their cottage:

You can’t have him you can’t have him you can’t have him you can’t—

Desperately, Jon attempts to Know the threat, to understand it—but is knocked back with an overwhelming dizziness, every cursed Mark on his body lighting up with pain.  With a gasping cry, he falls to the floor, slamming onto his hands and knees.

Jon loses time for a moment, breathing through the pain as it slowly begins to recede.  When he drifts back to the present, all is quiet, and he senses a warm presence at his side.  Looking up, he finds that Martin has knelt in front of him, his hands hanging in mid-air, as if afraid to touch him.  Jon meets his gaze, and relief immediately floods Martin’s face.  He reaches out a hand to cover Jon’s as Jon shifts his weight back to sit on curled toes.

“Okay?” Martin mouths worriedly, no sound leaving him.

“Wha—”

Jon regards Martin’s concern with a look of bewilderment for a moment.

“I-I’m fine now, just…what was that?  What happened?”

Martin clears his throat and swallows.

“I think it’s the Lonely leaving me,” he whispers with difficulty.  He turns away to cough sharply, his hand returning to clutch his throat and tears welling in his eyes.

“What do you—"

Jon trails off as Martin wipes his eyes with his shirtsleeve, giving a wet sniff.  Jon sighs and squeezes Martin’s hand.

“Hang on, I’m going to grab you some paper and a pen, alright?”

Martin nods, leaning back against the couch from where he’s still sat on the floor.  Jon stands slowly, his abused knees aching in protest, before stepping into the kitchen to retrieve a notebook from his backpack.  He begins to head back, but stops abruptly, turning on his heel and retrieving a glass of water for Martin as well.

When he returns, Martin has sat himself back on the sofa.  Jon hands him the notebook and pen before sitting next to him, placing the glass on the coffee table. Leaning over his shoulder, he watches as Martin bends over the table to write in neat, slanting cursive:

I think it’s the Lonely leaving me.  Not sure though.

“How many times has this happened?

Just once this morning.  Gave me scare

Jon huffs a humorless laugh.

“Gave me a scare too.  But how—how do you know it’s leaving you?  That it’s not…I don’t know, making some sort of reappearance?”

I’m not sure, but when it happened this morning, I was thinking about—

Martin pauses his writing for a moment, blushing and twiddling the pen between his fingers.

—how nice everything was last night.  I felt really happy, and the smoke was there when I breathed out, like it was escaping

Martin underlines the word “nice” twice.

Jon blushes to the tips of his ears.

Get a hold of yourself Jon, for Christ’s sake.

Finished, Martin regards Jon’s flustered expression before letting out a chuckle that turns into a quick cough.  As he does so, a small wisp of smoke puffs from his mouth.

Jon clears his throat in an attempt to do so.

“It…looks like you might be right.”  They watch as the smoke curls and disappears as quickly as it appeared.

They hold the silence for a moment, both lost in thought.

Jon eventually looks back at him.  “Is this why you’re ill?”

Martin raises his eyebrows at this before leaning down to write.

I don’t know.  Maybe not though.  I think I’ve been a bit—

He twiddles the pen again.

—run down for a while.

Jon’s chest aches.

“…yeah.”

Martin turns toward him at this, regarding him thoughtfully.  After a moment, he taps Jon’s knee to get his attention before continuing to write.

What happened with you?  Did you to try to use your eye thing?

“Yes, yes—I-I thought something might be trying to attack us, so I tried to see what it was, but…it was a bit overwhelming.  I’m sorry if I scared you.”

Martin reaches out a hand to cup Jon’s face, before moving his lips soundlessly.

“Are you okay?”

Jon covers his hand with his own, giving him a lopsided smile.

“Yes, I swear Martin.  I’m alright now.”

Martin returns his smile and rubs a thumb over Jon’s cheekbone before dropping his hand.  He takes the glass of water from the table before leaning back against the couch, drinking it down gratefully.

After Jon recovers his ability to think something other than the constant stream of MartinMartinMartinMartin running unhelpfully through his mind, he notices that the flush on Martin’s cheeks seems a bit more permanent than his own.  His forehead is gleaming with sweat again, the bit of fringe that hangs over his face appearing damp.  Frowning, Jon places a hand on Martin’s brow, and Martin’s eyes flutter closed.

3͓̄͗8̩̝̃̾̚.̹͓̌ͯ̓1̜̓̔̾.̙

Jon Knows this without even trying.  He drops his hand and Martin opens his eyes, looking vaguely disappointed.

“Well, you’ve definitely got a fever,” Jon says softly.  “And I need to get us some food.”

Martin nods, his gaze dropping.  Jon carefully monitors his foggy expression as he continues.

“Will you be alright here if I go find the shop?”

Martin doesn’t look up, staring down into the empty water glass and running a thumb along the rim for a moment.  He then sits up, picking up the pen and bending over the coffee table once again.

Can I come and wait in the car?

Immediately as he finishes writing, Martin begins shaking his head, trying to cross out what he’s just written.

Jon places a gentle hand on his arm.

“No, no—stop, stop—”

Martin does, putting down the pen and sighing.

“Of course—of course you can come, alright?  It’s fine, Martin, really.”

He glances up at Jon for a brief moment before giving a small smile and nodding.

With a deep exhale, Jon stands from the sofa, knees objecting to the movement once again.

“Let’s run up and get ready then,” he says, offering Martin a hand, which Martin accepts.

Ten minutes later finds Jon peering into the small mirror hung on the wall, arranging his hair into a half-decent top knot.

This is not your face.

The thought hits Jon like a train, as pictures of himself from uni, from his first day of work, from his first day as head archivist flood his consciousness.  His old face…full, healthy, not covered in scars, his eyes still a deep brown rather than this aberrant green—

Let it go.  Just breathe it in and let it go.

What’s done is done.

Jon does not look back up at the mirror.

A few minutes later, Martin returns from the bathroom and begins rummaging through his bag while Jon sits on the bed, pulling on his shoes.  Jon turns from fiddling with his laces when he hears a distressed-sounding exhale coming from where Martin is kneeling.

“What is it?”

Looking over, Jon can see that Martin is holding his binder with both hands, staring down at it.  His brow furrowing, Jon walks over to him with a lopsided gait, as only one shoe has made it onto his foot.

“What’s wrong?” Jon repeats softly.

Martin lets out a damp-sounding huff before whispering a reply.

“Shouldn’t wear it when you’re ill,” he says, eyes brimming, and looks down.

Oh, darling.

“I…I’m so sorry,” Jon murmurs as he kneels down with him.  Unsure of what to say, he begins rubbing circles on Martin’s back as he takes measured, grounding breaths.

After a few moments of this, Martin exhales determinedly before placing his binder aside and pulling out a loose-fitting jumper instead.

“Thank you,” he whispers, patting the hand on his shoulder.

“Anytime.”

He gives Martin’s shoulder a final squeeze, and leaves him to it, grabbing his other shoe on the way out.

Jon waits anxiously on the sofa for a few minutes, wanting desperately to Know if Martin is alright, if he was okay to be left alone, but not wanting to invade his privacy.

Surely he’s fine.  He just needed a moment, and he’s fine.

His leg begins to bounce with worry.

Relief washes over him when he hears Martin descending the stairs.  Jon stands quickly as he enters the room.

Ignoring his red-rimmed eyes, ever-present sniffling, and unnatural flush, he looks…almost normal.  Almost Martin.  Jon gives him a lopsided grin, which Martin mirrors, and Jon thinks he sees his face grow just a shade more pink.  Martin then jerks his head toward the door, one eyebrow raised in questioning.

Jon barks out a laugh at this, before replying.

“Yes alright then.  Bossy.”

Martin chuckles a bit in response, before it morphs into chesty coughs muffed in his sleeve, thin tendrils curling gently from his lips.  When he turns back to Jon, he is grinning widely enough to show his teeth.

“Rude, making me laugh in this state,” he whispers.

Jon dissolves into laughter again, flicking out the light as they walk out the front door.

[capsized-heart]

Warbirds

Pairing: Carol Danvers x Reader

Summary: Ships and planes and weapons of war named after women and dubbed she, her. Powerful, deadly. Yet, the real thing, the real body is demeaned and made less than man. When you and Carol are up in the sky and screaming through the air in your metal birds, they will see just how fragile you are.

Following Carol and Reader throughout their training in the Air Force. 

Word count: 4.6k+

Warnings: smut, mild violence 

A/N: It feels so good to post again! I’m so sorry I haven’t written anything in a bit, my finals this semester have been c r a z y, I’ve written 20 pages worth of papers and I still have one more left before I’m fully on winter break :’) but almost there! 

I’ve had this idea for a while and....I honestly had too much fun with this. I did a lot of research and watched some documentaries on what trainees experience through basic training and I find military uniforms more attractive than I should so I didn’t hold back on this one. 

Please enjoy my girl Carol!!!

“Wake up! Wake up! Open that day room door! Lights on! PT uniform of the day, PT shorts and shirt!”

The piercing voice of Dorm Chief Williams shatters the air. Fluorescent white blinds you, pulse thundering as you’re jerked from sleep, kicking off your covers. Your muscles scream, vision blurred and swimming and you stagger to your feet. 

Cadets around you are already making their beds and changing into their gear. You reach for your own combat uniform, pull on the deep navy tracksuit with the reflective insignia of the U.S. Air Force glowing over your left breast. 

You turn and see your bunkmate starting to stir. You feel your heart hammer in your throat and push at her shoulder.

“Carol. Get up. Hey, let’s go, Warbird.”

Williams, a tall and intimidating woman personifying dread itself, marches over to your bunk.

“Danvers, am I keeping you from your beauty sleep?” Williams barks with the most intensity you’ve ever heard from her at 0600. “Should I call the canteen and have them bring you breakfast since you’re so busy slowing down my whole squadron?”

Carol jolts to attention. “No, ma’am!”

“Then get the hell away from me and into gear. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Williams scowls, watching Carol fly to her post to dress before she turns on her heel and makes her rounds through the rest of the dorm. Finished with your own tasks, you help with Carol’s bed, smooth out her uniform, secure her hair in a tight bun. She gives you a tired smile. 

“Fall out!” Williams calls.

You’re out the door in a minute flat. The short, sharp blasts of Reveille drive motion around you as you fall in line with the male recruits. 

The morning is brisk, stimulating, turning your breath into puffs of steam as sweeps of indigo crack open the sky like the pearly, iridescent insides of seashells. It’s pretty, the color reminding you of waves and ocean.

Maybe you should have joined the Navy instead, Carol would say, a quick quip about how you would make such a charming sailor girl bobbing away on a ship. She always likes to tease you for your love of beautiful, superficial things. 

From the moment you shed your civilian status, the Academy taught you to appreciate the little things in life; the glow of morning that tints the clouds with amber and cream as you watch the world from your cockpit. Chirping birdsong, a sort of secret you like to think that exists only between birds and Airmen, the few humans capable of sharing the sky. 

You loathe how much Carol affects you, since day zero, the very start of BMT. How you can hear her voice in your mind this goddamn early.

Your MTI picks up a cadence and you match your step to the young men and women beside you, your wingmen. You feel unity, harmony beating through your bloodstream as you jog in time with your sergeant’s calls, the crisp air making you feel well rested and energized despite getting your usual four hours of sleep.

Moments like these that give you purpose, the indescribable excitement of being a part of something bigger than yourself. Of belonging. 

“Lookin’ good and feelin’ good! Who are we?” Your drill instructor booms. 

“USAF! Aim high! Fly, fight, win!” The squadron sounds off in unison.

**

You’re three weeks into BMT. Twenty-one days of primal shock, verbal abuse, blood, sweat, tears. Four weeks, twenty-eight more days until you graduate from the ranks of cadet, four weeks until your MTI awards you your dog tags and the title of Airman. The start of your career as a fighter pilot. 

But until then, you’ll have to survive the next twenty-eight days.

You’ve learned more about yourself in these three weeks than you have in your entire life, your mind and body hardened with discipline. Broken down psychologically and physically and molded into the young woman your squadron needs you to be.

You and Carol are reminded of your womanhood every day. You and the others have to push yourselves harder, faster just to prove you can keep up. O’Neill, a petite little firecracker of a girl and fresh out of school, had gotten her period last week. You’d watched her wretch up bile after morning drill, the exertion and stress and cramps too much for her body to handle. The MTI had screamed at her, blue in the face, ordered her to drop on her stomach right there and crank fifteen pushups. 

You cannot separate your femininity from your body, even in a military unit that declares that all are treated equal as soldiers. You are not an equal by default.

It’s belittling. Exhausting. 

But you’ve shown that you can hold your own against the boys. You’ve learned how to shoot clean and fight with your bare hands, how to assemble, disassemble, and repair your M-16. You could do it in your sleep, the sharp click-click of a reloading magazine heard in your dreams.

This week, along with your usual physical conditioning, you have CBRNE training, MOPP training. You’ll be exposed to CS gas and simulations of biological warfare, your leadership skills put to the test. 

You can do this. With Carol by your side, you feel like you can do anything. Little fledglings earning your wings, pushed from the nest, learning to fly when the ground is rushing up to meet you. Make or break.

Twenty-eight more days. 

**

The gas is meant to simulate suffocation, they tell you.

“Masks off! Break the seal! Break, break, break!”

You’re already dizzy, head spinning from the chamber exercises when you stick your fingers in between the small space of your mask and pull hard.

The seal breaks with a sharp hiss. 

Fire floods your eyes, your sinuses, down your throat, constricting tight like smoke and flames and hellfire. You taste fireworks, poison. Your eyes instinctively shut, blurry with tears and you cough hard, sputter, hear the echoes of other cadets hacking and gasping.

The simulation is meant to put trust in your equipment, to make you vividly remember that your mask and gear will save your life. And as you stand there with your lungs struggling to expand and the MTIs rounding on each of you in the hazy, cloying smoke, you believe it.

“Airman Recruit Danvers, Division 164!” You hear Carol pant somewhere in the fumes, along the walls of the chamber where you’re all lined up. You keep your mask raised above your head as instructed, waiting, suffocating in silence until it is your turn to state your name and division number. The MTIs move down the line with their masks still fixed. Haunting, weaving through the gas and toxins like plague doctors. The image of death. Vultures tearing fledglings apart with pointed beaks and white bone as you watch cadets choke on their own breath.

The primal impulse of fear trickles from your hypothalamus as the minutes tick on, until your lips and tongue buzz like fire ants, until you can no longer feel the tips of your fingers. You’re sweat-slicked and gasping when an MTI turns to you, screams for your identification.

You sound off. Your entire body is shaking, fevered. You are the last in your row. 

You burst through the doors and out into the afternoon air with a stream of cadets behind you, taking flight as you thunder on the asphalt to the open courtyard. 

You all cough, spit, clear out your lungs with curses and muted laughter as your squadron stands together beneath cotton clouds and blue sky. 

Carol finds you in the mix, the few precious seconds where you’re not forced to fall in line. Seconds to catch your breath. Her skin is flushed and wisps of hair fall to frame her face, her bun messy. She grins and the two of you bump fists, playful.

Your cheeks redden, lungs tight with something other than CS gas. It’s strange seeing Carol disheveled when you’ve been so hardwired with self-control, down to how you’re expected to wear your hair, present yourself.

You like seeing her like this.

“Do we have confidence in that gear?” MTI Galloway emerges from the chambers and asks of you all. 

“Yes, Chief!” You roar. 

**

Carol calls you Phoenix after that, running so fast out the chamber and looking like a fire had been lit up your ass.

The nickname is fitting for a duo like you. Raptors, birds of prey, fierce and skilled and yet simultaneously embracing and shielding your femininity with unfurled wings. 

Have women not been compared to birds in art and literature throughout history as a means to show fragility? Fleeting beauty?

Why not strength? Why ever not for sleeker attributes, or as hunters?

It’s curious. Ships and planes and weapons of war named after women and dubbed she, her. Powerful, deadly. Yet, the real thing, the real body is demeaned and made less than man. 

When you and Carol are up in the sky and screaming through the air in your metal birds, they will see just how fragile you are.

**

You hit the ground so hard that the air rushes out your lungs in a loud wheeze. You can’t breathe. Your face burns, ears ringing. You can hear the screams of your MTI. You’d rather die of embarrassment right here.

The rope dangles in front of you, fifteen feet straight up, still swaying from where you’d fallen, taunting. Physical conditioning for your Basic Expeditionary Airman Skills Training examination next week, fittingly dubbed the BEAST. Rope climbing and complicated field obstacle courses after you’ve crawled through miles of sand and dirt, navigated through tactical drills with your full pack of gear.

Your arms tremble, your entire upper body drained of all strength, skin biting from the sand. Weak, exhausted. Your palms raw from the rope. Tears of frustration sting at your eyes as your MTI screams out your surname in another bloodcurdling roar to get your ass up out of that dirt.

Yet, the low scoff of a nearby cadet is what piques your attention.

Dalquist. A boy a few years older than yourself with an ugly, crooked grin and sandy hair. A show-off, a boy who thinks himself a man. He smirks again with crossed arms, tuts his tongue as his eyes flicker over you.

“They’ll never let you fly.” He snickers.

Then, Carol is there beside you. She grips your waist strongly, shifting your weight and the two of you slowly rise together amidst the swirling dust. You draw in a shuddering breath.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe they’re all right. Maybe you don’t belong here.

You feel Carol’s muscles tense and manage to squeeze her arm in a silent warning. The entire squadron watches the three of you. The last thing you need is falling to Dalquist’s level and getting punished for it.

So she hits him with a reply quite enough only for the three of you to hear.

“You better hope not.” She rasps.

**

Your time in the classroom is a welcome break from the stresses of field training. You meet Dr. Wendy Lawson, an incredibly gifted and terrifying brilliant quantum physics scientist when she’s brought in to give you post-deployment training. She teaches you flight mechanics, squadron resources and financial management. You learn about her research on quantum energy.

Lawson is especially kind to you and Carol upon hearing your aspirations to take to the skies as fighter flyers. Her standards are higher for you and she encourages you to speak out when you’ve been too timid to respond to the whole class, the twinkle in her eye giving you courage, a voice for the first time in your life. 

Together, Lawson and Carol work to coax you out of your shell. 

**

The days trudge on. You throw Dalquist’s remark behind every new simulation you’re given, every mile, every pushup of your physical conditioning.

And it shows. 

Your endurance and stamina have nearly doubled, bringing out new muscles in your back, your arms. You’re stronger than you’ve ever been, strong enough to grapple an unsuspecting Dalquist to the ground during field training. He stares up at you in humiliation and horror and you push him harder into the dirt, until your MTI snorts and tells you to let him up. 

The mile and a half lap you take known as the Airman’s Run the week of your graduation is a breeze. Your body is familiar with the motion and exertion, the rest of the cadets who’ve made it through BMT with you dressed in new uniforms of pressed blue shirts and the trademark navy garrison cap.

Family and friends watch as your squadron marches in a parade of waving flag and timed step. Your heart swells with pride, with unparalleled accomplishment.

You’re finally presented with the Airman’s Coin and your dog tags. You’ve completed Basic Training. You are no longer a cadet, a trainee, but an oath-sworn member of the Air Force. Next weekend, you’ll be moved into dorms and officially begin your pilot training. 

And then you’re free. For the first time in seven weeks, you are dismissed after the ceremony and to spend the rest of the weekend however you please. 

Free time. Privacy. Privileges you took for granted as a civilian. You feel giddy, excited.

“We did it, birdie.” Carol’s voice sounds from behind you. You turn, her smile radiant as ever and mirroring yours. 

She looks like she was born to wear the uniform, her shirt crisp and cap perfectly straightened atop her pinned back hair. Your pulse stutters, you find it difficult to swallow. 

“We did it.” You laugh, a little too breathless with the way she’s looking down at you with that mischievous glint in her eyes. Her gaze catches your lips, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

God, so self-assured. So confident. 

Honestly, you could use a little of that confidence. 

“What do you say we get out of here? Go see what this city has to offer aside from base?” She says.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have a feeling that you know what will happen off base, at least, what you hope will happen. 

Technically, you wouldn’t be breaking protocol. 

And with the two of you buzzing with adrenaline and boosted egos, how can you even think of saying no? You deserve to celebrate. 

You leave Lackland Base and head to downtown San Antonio for the rest of the weekend, for two whole days all to yourselves. 

**

You visit the River Walk and explore as much of the fifteen-mile long city park as you can, strolling along the banks and gorging yourselves on street food and local cuisine. No curfew, no officers screaming orders, just the two of you leisurely enjoying a Friday night beneath a soft sunset and twinkling fairy lights.

You have dinner and drinks at a quaint little steakhouse with a live band and music, the musicians donning cowboy hats, boots, chaps and all. It’s corny. It’s absolutely perfect. 

The lime juice is sharp and bitter on your tongue as you throw back your third shot of tequila, lap up the salt you’ve sprinkled over your knuckles. Carol isn’t far behind you. Pretty soon, the tavern lanterns swim pleasantly before you and you sway gently to the music in your seat, blissed out, flushed, content. 

Carol’s fingers fondly brush your cheek and she laughs, her eyes crinkling and you think it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. You grin back, a bit too eager and lopsided, lean across the wooden table to grasp her hand. 

You drag her to the attached karaoke bar next door and slide a few quarters into the jukebox before she can stop you. The two of you belt out your renditions of Nirvana, Heart, Elastica. Your blood is warm and Carol dances beside you with wired microphone in hand, laughing so hard you’re both crying, pulse pounding behind your temples until finally the jukebox clicks with the last of your change and the next requested song is queued up. 

The hotel you check into is just down the street and you practically fall through the doorway trying to get each other out of your uniforms. It’s jumbled and chaotic as you slip out of your combat gear, tripping over boots and pants as you finally touch overheated skin, giggling like children.

Disorderly when your lips meet, her hands coming to cradle your face, holding you still with a low groan, a grip that surprises you. It heightens the flush of alcohol sitting in the pool of your lower belly as you kiss her back, wind your arms around her.

You gasp when she tightens a hand in your hair and pulls, mouth ravaging the skin of your neck with tongue and teeth. She walks you blindly until you’re flush against the wall, turns you around with her frame pressing hard against your back.

Her fingers are sure and true when they cup, caress your heated flesh, not an ounce of hesitation in her. You keen, circle your hips hard into her as she works at unraveling you, forearm circling your neck, leaning to put her lips at your ear, breath hot.

“So pretty. My birdie is so pretty.”

It’s been so long since you’ve last been intimate. The military discipline over your physique has made you forget what it’s like to treat your body with love, to feel pleasure, to be touched by a young woman you’d do anything for.

“Let’s see you fly high, hmm?” She breathes. “You want it faster? I wanna see my little birdie soar. Can you do that for me?”

 It’s so easy to let go.

Your flesh clenches around her and you sigh, your entire being quivering. Carol braces you, holds you close as you tremble with aftershocks, burning and burning. 

Your world is hazy, melting when Carol leads you to the bed and hoists you on top of her, thighs straddling her lap. The liquid courage returns, coy when you grasp the cool metal of the dogtags between her breasts and yank her forward for another breathless kiss. 

Her arms are strong, hard with muscle and hands splayed against the naked skin of your back as she coaxes you to earth shattering heights again and again. Until the grey light of day.

Sunday morning, you sleep in until ten o’clock, roused by streaming sunlight and birdsong. Peaceful quiet, a treat in itself with Carol’s arms lazily draped around you. 

**

Your stomach drops when the sergeant cracks open the C-17 door and the atmosphere shrieks into the aircraft. Your gear is heavy, you’re sweating hard, and your Airborne Division is about to jump. You find it hard to breathe and try not to lock your knees, try not to faint. Gut wrenching, everything inside you screaming that this is suicide. Leaping from a roaring aircraft with nothing but a kevlar sac to break your fall. 

You see the Airman in front of you subtly cross himself, pretending to scratch his chin.

You feel like you’re going to be sick. 

Fingers grip your waist. Carol stands beside you.

It’s too loud for conversation, the air and engine pressing down on your eardrums with tight pressure, but she gives you a nod, another squeeze of your hip. Her lips mouth a single word. 

Fly. 

Then, the men in front of you are rushing towards the yawning mouth of the plane and you and Carol are running together, side by side, fearless. And then you jump, spreading your arms, dive like hawks. 

The sky is a dome of robin’s egg blue, sun shining and tipping the edge of your gloved fingers with liquid gold. You fall fast, hard. Wind rips through and around you, weightless as gravity pulls you to earth.  

Pulse ramming, pure adrenaline, ten agonizing seconds of freefall. You pull the pin and your parachute deploys, rocking you backwards as the fabric unfurls and catches the air. You grip your harness tight, float through the heavens and watch as dozens of parachutes dot the horizon around you. 

You whoop, shoot Carol a “hang loose”, smiling wide, goofy and vibrating with excitement. 

Her laughter carries across the sky. 

**

You’re there beside her when the two of you are promoted to officer rank. First in your class, looking out over a sea of grim, bored looking faces that stare back at you with quiet hostility. 

Your officer uniforms are sharp, handsome. Crisp navy suits decorated with shining medals and visible proof that you have fought tooth and nail to be on the stage where you stand now. You wouldn’t want anyone else here with you but Carol. Your wingman. Your everything.

Your names are called and you rise together in unison as Senior Airman Dalquist pins your new patches to your uniforms. 

**

Weeks later, you learn that Dr. Lawson’s plane has gone down. It punches a hole straight through your chest, wrenches up your insides when the news is broken to you.

After BMT, you’d lost contact with her. You wish you could have told Lawson that you’ve done it, that you and Carol are dominating the skies. 

And now she’s missing. 

You’re in the hangar and up in the air before anyone can stop you. 

**

The crash site is still smoldering when you touch down at a hidden lake surrounded by a halo of pine and sand. You and Carol rip off your helmets, jump out of the cockpit as soon as your wheels are on solid ground, racing towards the wreckage of an eerily familiar F-16 Fighting Falcon.

Lawson lies slumped forward, still strapped into her seat. The glass of the cockpit has exploded all around her, leaving her open and exposed. It looks grim.

“Doc?” You say. Your voice shakes a bit, but you quickly will all fear out of your mind, take a deep breath and allow your body, your muscle memory to take over. Let your training come back to you. 

You push back at her helmet visor, sit her upright. Press three fingers against the artery of her neck.

Cold. No pulse. 

Then, you see the smoking hole in her chest, where plasma energy has burned through her jacket and blood drips bold and blue onto her lap. 

You exhale hard, ignore the strangeness of the latter to check Lawson’s dashboard for any working electrical machinery. No luck. All fried, all scrambled from the crash.

“Carol, we need pararescue stat. Get them here.” You order. 

Carol nods wordlessly, composed, turns on her heel to radio them from your own plane. 

You brace yourself against the frame of the cockpit, hang your head in shock. You can’t bear to look at Lawson like this. You don’t want to remember her like this. 

In those tense moments of silence, a soft, strange humming reaches your ears, seeming to emulate from the F-16 itself. You take a step back to fully survey the wreckage. 

The crash has exposed most of the plane’s wiring and paneling, including the engine. Though, this is no engine like you’ve ever seen. 

Monstrous, pulsing with blue light and an aura that draws you closer, pulling at your curiosity. It distracts you long enough for you to almost miss the approaching silhouette of a man from behind the suffocating smoke. 

He’s dressed in a bizarre emerald jumpsuit with a blazing yellow star in the center of his chest. His step is charismatic, unfaltering. 

And what scares you most is the unholstered gun in his hand.

Carol calls your name in a frantic shout. 

You put two and two together. Lawson’s killer.

“We have no interest in hurting you.” He tells you, finally pausing at the crest of the crash site. His voice is surprisingly charming and it sends a chill straight down your spine.

We?

You’re afraid. Your old commanding officer, one of the strongest women you’ve ever known, lies shot and killed with blood the color of toxic waste. Her engine looks foreign, otherworldly. Your mind begins to race. 

“The energy core. Where is it?” The man asks and brandishes his gun. You force your breathing to steady, to find a sense of calm. You have to focus. Questioning will make him irritable, panicking will get you killed. 

Intuition is enough to tell you that the core is not to leave in this man’s hands by any means.

You catch sight of the glinting handle of a pistol resting between Lawson’s knees. You flicker your gaze away and to the proximity of the engine. Then, you look to Carol.

Her eyes shine with tears in the shimmering heat. Her body is tense, drawn tight like a bow, fight-or-flight. You fear she’ll run to you, that she’ll get herself killed trying to protect you. If the roles were switched, you know you would do just that. 

So you act before she has the chance to. In one fluid motion, you draw Lawson’s gun and fire a single shot at the exposed engine. 

It explodes like heat and magma. Azure energy engulfs you in a millisecond. Like lightning striking your bones, fire that scorches through your entire being and condemning a blazing death of unbearable, burning power, collapsing like a supernova reborn. 

Your nerve-endings detonate, a fusion of flesh and skin and pyro that incinerates you to your very core, destroys you from the inside. 

You scream, high and horrible. You’ve never felt such pain. 

Your eyes ignite in crimson, red hot, flaring with light. Everything inside you rushing upwards and expanding until your mortal frame can no longer contain this threshold and you burst, combust with starfire. 

The blast hits Carol next, lifting her up and dissipating, coiling like mist through her skin in synergy. She glows like an iridescent comet, blue light rolling off of her like water and waves, her own eyes flaring turquoise, then white. 

When the two of you hit the ground, trees and sand bend and blow around you, knocking the man unconscious as the inertia from your combined energy throws him backwards.

You cry out as you try and hold yourself, crumpled. You are charred, your body humming with poison, radiation and flame, eager to crackle out of you at your slightest impulse, eyes still flaring powerfully.

“I-It hurts..” you gasp weakly. 

A true phoenix. Broken and born from ashes.  

Carol is there cradling you as tears leak down your face. Wisps of magenta and teal ripple around her with every movement, glittering with cosmic potential, like she contains her very own galaxy. Achingly beautiful.

“I know, birdie.” Carol murmurs as you choke, sputter from the pain. “Fight it. Give it to me.” She says and reaches for your hands. 

Carol yelps softly when you push a bit of your glowing gold into her, as she trades starpower for fire and you watch the cage of her chest bloom like a lantern, veins and eyes rimming with ember. She does the same, giving you the moon and stars and the gleaming, lavender milky way.

You let go and Carol gasps as she absorbs a new piece of you. Your mind clears, the pain nothing more than a dull ache. 

Exhaustion and shot nerves finally set in as the two of you lie there, quiet enough to hear the wind whistling through pine. You throw your arms around her, your kiss tasting like tears and sand and flushed sunlight. 

Carol braces you against her, hoists your arm around her shoulders and lifts you upright. Side by side until the very end. 

Then, you take to the skies, blazing like comet streaks and crimson hawks.