#yet....... i need a highlight reel of his worst moments

[xxplastic-cubexx]

ppl who are “charles fans” but are ashamed of comic charles are just scared of liking morally dubious characters like i promise you’ll live it’s alright❤️ your fav can suck and you can still like them whilst not defending their every action!

six decades of different stories and different writers your fave making cringe decisions will be inevitable you just gotta have fun with it

[brunchable]

Conflict Resolution Chapter 2 — Reprimanded || Surgeon!S.S. × Asian!Reader.

Warnings: Coarse Language, Sexual Elements, Medical elements

Pairings: Stephen Strange x Asian!Reader (OC)

Summary: After the incident at the Examination room, you and Stephen vent your frustrations to your mutual friends.

A/N: I have no ownership of this story, all credits go to Kate Canterbary for her book, The Worst Guy.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Ainsley

No one could keep a good bitch down…but that didn't mean she wouldn't end up on the floor. The two-hundred-odd pounds of man on top of her, well, that was not part of the plan. The code green lockdown of the emergency department wasn't on the list for today either. Neither was the formal reprimand that was handed down by the Chief of Surgery, nor was the disproportionately severe and pointless consequence that he imposed. 

Sometimes, bitches overshot the mark. Sometimes, they made a mess. The problem with being a savage-hearted bitch who was also a recovering people-pleaser was that you still had the "pleasure to have in class" good girl wandering around inside your head. On days like today when she couldn't decide whether to sit in the corner and panic or drown you in a highlight reel of your all-time worst moments until you were forced to admit you were a giant fucking fuckup, it was tough to find the truth. 

You did not have to deal with any reprimands or consequences because of your actions before. Nobody who is truly a compulsive people-pleaser and strives for perfection has ever gotten herself into the kind of trouble that involves wagging fingers and frowning deeply with disappointment.

People like you, you'd sooner condense ourselves down into smaller and smaller particles and disappear altogether than land in a situation where you're straight up told to your fragile little faces you weren't good or right or enough. 

And yet you were furious. You were break shit and scream furious. 

"It would be great if you could sit down for a second," Christine Palmer said, holding up her surgical-glove-clad hands to stop your pacing. The women's changing room inside the attending surgeon's lounge wasn't big enough for any real pacing, though it was adequate for some abrupt marching. 

"Just sit down, babe, and we'll clean up those cuts and make sure you don't have any chunks of glass in your arm. I think it would also help"—she motioned up and down her chest—"to breathe a little." 

The general surgeon—and your upstairs neighbour—gestured to the sofa beside her. You didn't want to, but you sat. It was that or pace your way into a panic attack and you really didn't need to call more attention to yourself today. 

"I'm fine," you said to her as she lifted your arm for inspection. "It's nothing. All superficial. Nothing worth noticing." You winced at the dried blood streaked from your bicep to your wrist, "It looks worse than it is. You should see the other guy." 

She brought a gauze pad to your upper arm. It was the one spot that hadn't been covered by Stephen's considerable mass. 

He was obviously a big guy—tall, broad, all those fun things—but he'd felt like a slab of solid muscle over you. It was excessive, really. He had enough. A full head of dark, thick hair—no receding hairline, dignified dusting of grays on both temples. A very slight, tan complexion that seemed impossible considering he spent most of his waking hours in cold, windowless rooms. A jaw that managed to be both smooth and sharp. Worst of all, he'd been gifted an outrageously gorgeous  cheekbones and eyes as blue as the ocean in Maldives. He was merely the recipient of heaps upon heaps of physical gifts. It was excessive and you knew what excessive looked like. Your father was the top plastic surgeon in California. Excess put you through medical school.

"I did see the other guy," Christine said. "He's the one who sent me up here." 

"Why?" You wailed, so much louder than necessary. 

"Because he's busy digging glass out of his own arm," she replied. 

"But I need help doing it?" You blew out an aggravated breath and frowned down at your scrub top. It was ripped in a few places, bloodied in others. You wouldn't be able to wear it again. Not to work. "Sorry. Ignore me." 

Christine was the last person you needed to yell at today. You didn't need to yell at her at all—you were friends. You weren't besties who lived in each other's back pockets, although not for any lack of pocketing attempts on Christine's part. 

You were excellent when it came to having a small crew of close friends who you knew well enough to be selected as a bridesmaid in their weddings though never close enough to be the maid of honour. You were terrible at the bestie thing. You just didn't understand how to let anyone into that much of your life. 

"Believe me, I am," she said. "I have some residents who want to learn compassionate holds. I'll page them up here if I need to restrain you." 

See? This was why you were friends. She could joke about these things and you could laugh in response because you shared a humour that was as dark as dirt. You watched as she discarded another gauze pad into a metal basin. It sparkled with tiny, tiny flecks of glass. 

"I still don't understand why Strange tackled me like that back in the exam room." 

"Because that's what he does," she said with a laugh. 

You glanced at her. "Throw people across rooms? The bruise forming on my ass is no joke." 

"He takes care of people." She said this as if you were extremely dense. "He's probably furious he missed this spot on your arm." 

"We're talking about Stephen Strange? The one who lives in the apartment above you?" 

"One and the same," she murmured. "You'd have a better feel for him if you spent more time with the group." 

Another reason you weren't on the best friend tier: Christine's social batteries far outlasted yours. She loved meeting up for drinks after work, brunches, dinners, farmers market visits, all of it. She wanted to go places and see people, and you needed a week to recover from a single outing. Most days, she ate lunch with Strange, Lincoln Campbell, the cardiothoracic surgeon who lived in your apartment before you did, and Anthony Druid, the neurosurgeon who'd lived in the building a few years ago. If you did that much peopling every day, you'd be catatonic within two weeks. It wasn't an exaggeration, it was your nervous system. 

"I don't make a habit of hanging out with people who condescend all over my specialty," you said. 

"Sorry, honey, but you do now." She dropped a shard of glass into the basin. "At least for the next eight weeks."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ 

Stephen 

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. "This isn't even my fault." 

"Are you sure about that?" Anthony asked as he distributed sandwiches from the delivery bag. After the shitshow in emergency—and the fallout in the Chief's office—he'd dragged Stephen to the park across from the hospital complex with the promise of lunch. 

"On this specific occasion, I am one hundred percent positive I didn't create this problem," Stephen said, "I'm just picking up the tab for it."

"What did the Chief say?" Lincoln asked. 

"Yeah," Anthony said. "I can't imagine he came down on you at all in this situation. Accidents happen. You got into it with Park but you're his boy, so—" 

"I am no one's boy, Druid," Stephen snapped from behind his hands. "I'm an accomplice in trashing an exam room; I get the same slap on the wrist as anyone else who's too stupid to get out before the ceiling comes down." 

"Yeah, except you don't get the same slap," Anthony said with a laugh. "I realize you're unaware of the privilege afforded to you from being the guy the Chief of Surgery trusts to save the day—" 

Stephen reached over and stole his apple. "Shut your mouth with that nonsense." 

"—but you are still the guy who coordinated the largest and longest all-hands response to a crisis situation this hospital has ever experienced." Anthony flattened his hands on the picnic table. "You are the guy who stepped out of his practice to lead pandemic operations for six months and—" 

"It wasn't like I had anyone getting hit by cars or fucking themselves up on trampolines and ladders when the world shut down." And if he hadn't done it, he would've lost his mind from standing by and doing nothing. 

Lincoln shook his head. "Hate to break it to you, Strange, but you're the guy. You're definitely the Chief's guy. You're also our guy because you got all of us through it too. So, you need to deal with the fact that you play on a different level now. You're on the soon-to-be Chief of Emergency Surgery level. You're not on the level where you get penalised for a loud disagreement with a colleague." 

"Funny you mention that," Stephen said with a bitter approximation of a laugh. "Seems I won't be chief of anything until I can make it through a conflict resolution course with Park."

Anthony shrugged. "No sweat. That should be easy." 

At the same time, Lincoln hissed out a heavy "Fuuuuuck." 

"Yeah. There it is. Somewhere between no sweat and fuuuuuck." Another bitter laugh broke free from his chest. "It would be one thing if I had to do a program on my own. But with Park? Kill me." 

"Wait a second with that," Anthony argued. "She flies way under the radar but she's the best reconstructive person we have. I go to her skills lab sessions whenever I can and learn something new every time. Same with Campbell. He sends all his residents to those sessions too." 

Stephen glared at him as hard as his exhausted eyes could. "She's a little high octane, wouldn't you say? Pulled down half the ceiling with one hand." 

"You are literally the only person who doesn't like her," Lincoln said. "Something to think about." 

"It's handy that I have eight weeks of therapy with her to think about it, then," Stephen grumbled. The memory of your clenched knuckles and the curtain balled in your fist pushed itself forward. You must have yanked the hell out of that thing. Nothing else could've set off that chain of events. It was impressive in an alarming, give the lady a wide berth sort of way. 

Beside him, Lincoln crumpled the butcher paper from his sandwich and held the ball between his hands. "If I had to guess, I'd say this conflict res thing is some kind of human resources requirement following any incident between staff, but you have to know this is a mild response. No administrative leave, no suspension of privileges. All that said, Stephen, I want to make it clear to you that she's the one taking the penalty here." 

"And yet I'm still the one in therapy with her," Stephen argued. "For two fucking months."

"You remember what it was like to be the problem-child surgeon," Lincoln said. Stephen shook his head as a gust of bone-chilling air cut across the park. 

"Please don't remind me of my fool-ass days. You know I'm sensitive about that, Campbell." 

"I'm just saying," he continued, "Park is probably feeling like a problem child right now. You have nothing to worry about. Your contract will get renewed. You'll sail through this and get the chief gig. You'll have your pick of the best candidates for fellowships. You'll get to research whatever the hell you want. You'll get to take sabbaticals whenever you feel like it. Nothing on the road ahead of you will be altered by this incident. Park, on the other hand, will have to work this out of her reputation. She hasn't even been on staff that long, right? I lose track of time these days." 

"About two years," Anthony said. 

"She has a lot more to lose than you do," Lincoln said. Not wanting to concede this point, Stephen yanked up the collar of his jacket against the wind. 

"Just so you know, it's too damn cold to be out here." 

"It's fifty-one degrees and sunny, Strange," Lincoln said. "This isn't cold." 

Essex, the neuro fellow he'd lost earlier in the day, jogged toward the table. "If you want to talk about cold, let me tell you about Minnesota and—" 

"Does it look to you like I need another Minnesota story right now?" Stephen asked him. "And why the fuck haven't you answered a page in the past six hours?" 

"I don't enjoy it," he said simply. "I really don't." 

Stephen pointed toward the hospital. "Go away. Go ignore pages to the nurses' faces and see how well that turns out for you." 

"But food. Lunch," he complained. 

Lincoln bobbed his head, saying to Essex, "You have your orders." 

"Boy has a death wish," Anthony murmured. 

"There are days when he's less mature than some of the worst first-year residents I've met," Stephen said. "Then there are days when he's, like, fucking gifted." 

"I don't even know how to teach to that," Anthony replied.

"Me neither." Lincoln gestured to Stephen’s forehead, asking, "Is that your blood?" 

"Probably," he replied, reaching for the other half of Anthony's sandwich. He didn't care what it was, he just needed to eat some more before he fell over and died from the horror show of this day. "Between physically shielding Park from the consequences of her actions and getting an earful about professional conduct from the Chief, I haven't really had time to deal with my own problems." 

"Why are you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself?" Lincoln asked. "It's just couples therapy. It's not the end of the world." 

"He always feels sorry for himself," Anthony said under his breath. 

"You did not just call it couples therapy," Stephen groaned. "And I don't feel sorry for myself. I just hate the idea of an hour a week spent with Park and a PsychD talking about feelings and shit. I have other things to do. She has other things to do. And it's not like anything is going to come of it. Nothing's going to change. She's still going to screech at people about staples and I'm—" 

"Stop whining," Lincoln said. "And if you think you're getting assigned a psychology doctoral student for these sessions, you're forgetting, once again, that you're the guy. You're getting top brass for your couples counselling." 

Stephen stole his apple too. "Fuck my life."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Ainsley

"I'm shocked that Stephen hasn't glared his way out of this," Christine said. "He's so good at it. He just beams that hairy eyeball at people and they fall in line real quick. I do it and I look like I'm having a stroke." 

"Mmhmm." If Strange did anything with precision, it was glaring. The man did not smile. He was a human storm system. His shoulders were a mountain range that could block out the sun, and turning his scowls into a full-body statement. 

"I bet there are a ton of politics at play," Christine continued. 

You studied her as she opened another packet of gauze. You hated the politics game. You sucked up to no one, kissed zero asses. That worked for you because you were in the beautifully fortunate position of being only one of a few surgeons at this hospital specialising in reconstructive surgery for burns and other complex wounds, and that position came with enough built-in authority to save you from needing to get down in the trenches of any political. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, you know," she started, "Stephen's in line for a chief job." 

"That might be unofficial information," Christine continued. "You didn't hear it from me." 

You gave her a quick smile. "Of course not." 

"Anyway, it's not like a formal reprimand is that bad," she said. 

She was lying and you could tell but it was kind of her to try. "I'd like to believe that."

"I'm sure everyone gets a note in their file at one point or another," she went on. "Trust me, it won't matter in a year. You'll forget about this and it will drop from the collective memory soon enough. I went through some hell when I was a resident. I had a relationship with another surgeon, it went bad, I was branded with the scarlet letter. Everyone said all the worst things about me. All in the past and I hardly ever think about it, but believe me when I say I've ridden that roller coaster and puked when I got off. It's going to be okay. We're getting through this, babe." 

Since you had nothing left to lose today, you said, "The Chief knows my father. Same intern class, or something." 

"Oh, shit." Christine knew enough about your father to understand the significance. Nearly everyone in surgery knew of him but Christine was one of the few who knew it was an emotional sinkhole for you. 

"Thought I'd cleared all the possible connections here but I missed that one." 

She packed up the used gauze, shooting yoy a concerned glance, "How did this come up for the first time today? That sounds like some first-rate horseshit to not mention it until now and—" 

"Doesn't matter," you said with a resigned shrug. "He expected me to be a carbon copy of my father and was disappointed to discover I am nothing of the sort and, well"—You sucked in a breath because you were not going to cry or break things—"he doesn't want me making a habit of destructive tantrums." 

Christine whipped off her gloves. "What the hell?" 

"It was so wonderful to be lectured about my conduct and sentenced to eight weeks of counselling and reminded to be a good little girl all in one afternoon. It's really fun to get the disappointed daddy treatment when you're twenty-seven years old. And it's coming from your boss, who thinks it's okay to invoke your father in conversation. Kinda thought I'd passed that phase of my life but nope. Here the fuck I am."

She stared at you, nodding slowly. "That really sucks. I'm sorry." 

"Thanks." 

"What did you say? Please tell me you told him where to shove that." 

"I didn't. I just kind of shut down." That was the most mortifying part. The shame of failing to stand up for yourself when it was most essential slapped hard. You'd love to say this was unusual for you, yet this messy little pattern was uncomfortably familiar. 

"I'm sorry that happened," Christine said. "But eight weeks isn't that long. And it's with Strange. You'll have fun." 

You stared at her, unamused. "Hardly. He's the worst. He's the most arrogant surgeon in the hospital. No, wait. He's one of the most arrogant surgeons I've ever met, and that is an accomplishment considering my dad's ego needs its own area code." 

Christine gave an impatient sniff that said she very much disagreed with you. You allowed her to sniff at you because she was the absolute best at letting people vent and then giving top-notch advice. She didn't take any of her own advice but that was an issue for a different day. 

"He isn't that bad. He likes to pretend he is but he's not."

You were treated to this man-sized cloud of arrogance at least twice a day as your schedules often aligned to guarantee you'd leave both the Columbus Square you called home and the attending surgeons' lounge at the same times. It would be tolerable if he wasn't so busy being drunk on his own exaggerated sense of self-importance that he fully ignored your attempts at polite conversation. 

You didn't understand why everyone liked him so much and willingly spent time with him outside work. You had to constantly remind yourself that figuring him out wasn't worth your energy or attention, and you didn't have to keep going out of your way to connect with him as a colleague or neighbour when he couldn't manage complete sentences for you.

You reminded yourself, but you hadn't broken the habit of doing it yet. "Christine, the guy growls at people. We see each other almost every day and the only form of greeting he can manage is an irritable-looking jerk of his chin or a grumble of word-shaped sounds." 

"Yeah, he's a little rough around the edges," she conceded. "But it's all bark, no bite." 

"Maybe he shouldn't bark! Why can't we ask that of people? Don't bark. Don't treat female staff like children. Don't slut-shame anyone." You sent her an apologetic frown. "I'm not calling you a slut." 

"Yeah, I know, I know," she muttered. "You psychotic bitch." 

You shared a bitter laugh, the kind that cleansed wounds and taught scars how to stretch beyond their limits. You had it good but that didn't mean the good was easy. 

"I should've ignored the whole thing," you said, mostly to yourself. "Should've let it go and spared myself all of"—you gestured to the barely there cuts on my arm—"these brand-new problems." 

"Would you have actually let it go?" Christine shrugged. "Or would you have resented the decision to make your professional expertise less important than avoiding a difficult conversation?" 

"I would've moved on," you said, and that was at least forty percent true. "Eventually." 

"But what does that really mean?" she asked. "Would you have written off the stapling issue as 'neurosurgeons gonna neurosurgeon'? Or would you have planted that seed in your field of fucks and let it grow?" 

"Field of fucks. For sure. I'd bring up that issue to Strange every time I saw him and I'd drive him insane with it, nice and slow. Only way to farm a field of fucks, Christine. You gotta long-game that shit."

Christine hummed as she pushed to her feet. "Eight weeks of counselling will be fun for you two," she drawled. 

"Don't remind me," you said with a groan.

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[imaginethebeautifulworld]

Please please please, may i please request a prussia/reader drabble (oneshot?? what ever is easier for you honestly) for the prompt: “Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.”?? thank you so much and i love your writings <3

Hello, Lovely~ Wanted to thank you for your patience. Couldn't quite get the perfect scene in mind till about 1:14 am this morning. Hope you enjoy, and thank you for the request!

In a world that never seemed to rest, tranquility had become an elusive mistress, an antiquated ideal that was valuable for its rarity alone. There were many who would never find such a thing, or would be cursed with just a brief glimpse before it slipped away once more, never to return.

Tranquility was a gift, and you had been blessed in multitudes.

A light breeze was rustling the pines towering above you, scents of the nearby stream, forget-me-nots, and the wisps of smoke from the campfire dancing with it.

So tucked away from everything, you couldn't hear any engines, noisy neighbors, or- most fortunately- the impatient pings from your cell demanding your attention. 

It was quiet, as quiet as Nature could be when one is sitting near a babbling brook, their swing squeaking on hinges decades older than themselves, birds of all ages serenading the small patches of sunlight reaching the forest floor.

Your foot trailed along the ground beneath you, a path carving in the soil from the steady back-and-forth of the old wooden swing, your head resting comfortably against Gil's chest.

He had one arm loosely draped on the back of the swing, the other extended as he read his paperback, folded over itself to spare himself a little freedom.

You shifted slightly, just a little, and he instinctively followed, adjusting the blanket across your legs and shifting his own to accommodate your new position, all without once removing his attention from the page.

It was approaching midday, and while you had both agreed on a short hike to visit some waterfall or other, you were finding you had no desire to leave just yet, perfectly content and cozy as you were.

You let yourself relax further, eyes closing as you rested your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady refrain of his heartbeat. 

The familiar, unconscious dance of fingers against your upper arm made you smile, his decision to shift his free arm almost as reflexive as your decision to open your palm and rest it directly over his heart.

In a time not so long ago, the very thought of being alone in the same room as him would have been laughable, and now you were alone together in some ancient hunting cabin, leagues away from civilization, and completely at peace.

It struck you in that moment just how ingrained he was into your life, your sphere, your thoughts. You never could have anticipated this level of intimacy, and the unexpected epiphany of just how vulnerable that made you left you reeling.

"It kind of scares me sometimes," the words slipped out in a sigh, a wisp of a murmur that faded as easily as woodsmoke. They hadn't even been loud enough to disturb a trio of hares near the truck, and when several moments passed, you were beginning to hope Gil hadn't heard them at all.

It was more a rumbling than a fully coherent query that finally answered you, his eyes still firmly affixed to the Greek text before him. "What's that?"

Without fully lifting your head, you shifted your angle, giving you the chance to study his features- the small indents on his nose from wearing his glasses so much the past week, the single, nearly invisible freckle just by his left eye, the patch of chapped skin on his lower lip, the intoxicating and inexplicable gradients of indigoes and crimsons in his irises.

He hid nothing from you, every perceived flaw and weakness completely at your mercy. And to know that he could see through all of your own barriers, knew you in-and-out more than you perhaps knew yourself-

But there was trust there, and something so strong that- even years after first naming it, after first defining it, exploring it, embracing it- still left you breathless, still rendered you speechless.

For a moment, it did exactly that, overwhelming you in a wave of emotion so strong that you could scarcely think in the face of it. 

But it was a familiar feeling, one so commonplace that you simply sighed again, letting it settle over you like an additional blanket, warmth settling in your veins as you relaxed once more.

"It scares me sometimes how in love I am with you." You traced a pattern with your finger against his shirt, eyes focused on the lupine family enjoying vegetable scraps from the night before. "It scares me how vulnerable you make me feel."

But no. Scared wouldn't be quite the right word for how this vulnerability made you feel. Intimidated, perhaps? 

Irregardless, it was such a good feeling, so freeing to be so fully exposed to someone, to know they saw the worst of you and still-

He was resting his head against your own, silence patiently resting between you, the quiet of the forest yet again remaining undisturbed. He had even ceased powering the swing, apart from a small movement with his toes that was likely from his muscle spasms than anything else. You let yourself relax fully, because no matter how suddenly and aggressively this wave of realization had swept you away in its riptide, he would always keep you safe, always anchor you in the face of whatever storms may come.

"You know it's a two-way street, right?"

As if further testament to his knowing you, the words went straight to the core of it all, exposing his own vulnerability to you, proving just how much he had placed his faith in you.

What a perilous place to be, putting so much faith and trust and hope and care and control in someone else's hands, wholeheartedly believing that they will never bring you any harm, that-

"You're not going to leave me, right?"

The question was so sudden, so unexpected, that you took yourself by surprise, not accounting for the deep, tired exhale of the man so gently holding you. "How could you even ask that?"

You started to try taking it back, wishing for all the world you could keep your thoughts more thoroughly reined in, but he was plowing ahead, the arm that had been resting on the swing coming around you, fingers slipping in between your own. "Do you really think I could leave you?"

By all accounts, yes. Yes he could. 

His claim to immortality was shaky at best, and there was no guarantee that he wouldn't get bored of you, that someone pushing near 1,000 would wake up one morning and realise that-

"Where the Hell is all of this coming from anyway?"

You gave it a half a moment of thought, and soon found yourself melting in defeat. "I wish I had an answer, but I honestly have no idea."

He resumed his earlier motion, putting the swing back into a steady glide. When he spoke again, it was as if he were reaching across centuries, finding just the right words out of billions to try to comfort you. "To quote some book I read in some teahouse somewhere quite a long ass time ago: 'Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own.'" Here he paused, a good six seconds of silence as he rooted himself once more to the present, voice lowering to a whisper. "Leaving you? Losing you? It would be like losing a part of myself, like losing the best parts of myself."

He paused again, a seriousness that was only just familiar to you making an appearance, a depth to his words that made your toes curl. "I was lost for centuries, Schatz, never realizing or accepting just how alone I was, how fucked up I was. I waited for you for ages, and didn't even know how badly I needed you until I finally met you. It was like everything I had done, everything I had gone through, suddenly made sense. You were- are- the very thing I was fighting so hard for."

For claiming to have not a hint of romance in him, he still always seemed to have the perfect strategy for disarming you, for charming you, for leaving you even more infatuated with him than you were mere minutes before.

But this pedestal that he had carved for you, these expectations- 

"I'm only human, Gil."

"I know," he murmured.

"I could still get sick-"

"I know," he sighed.

"Or hurt-"

"I know," he growled.

"Or di-"

"I know!"

His exasperation was so unexpected that you swore the whole world had frozen around you, as if the tranquility of the forest had finally been disturbed. 

But no- 

Everything was still exactly as should be; it was only your surprise that had affected your perception. 

In actuality, his interjection had been scarcely more than a rasp, so damaging to you alone as it cut straight through to your soul, piercing through what little armor you still had against him.

He squeezed your hand, an apology conveyed simply through touch, an armistice accepted and strengthened through reciprocation. "'Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own,'" came the quiet refrain, each syllable accented through the dance of his thumb against your palm, each syllable a soft breath that tickled your scalp. You expected him to stop there, his point well made, but soon enough he was murmuring again, words nearly a hum. "'In pain and sickness they would still be dear.'"

You couldn't place the words- who knew if a copy of that book even existed anymore- but it didn't matter. They were exactly what you had needed, the balm for a restiveness that you hadn't even known was plaguing you till a few moments ago. And what's more, you never knew Gilbert to exaggerate, not when it came to matters of the heart. He knew no other option than complete sincerity, maddening some days, endearing most others.

Thoughts shifting, comfort once more reestablished, you shifted slightly, turning your attention to the few clouds you could see through the canopy. "Every atom, huh?"

There was a huff of a laugh, an accentuated exhale that highlighted his exasperation, but the amusement in his reply was tempered by fondness, highlighted with a small kiss above your ear. "Every proton, neutron, electron... Every single quark, if you need me to get technical," he finished in a whisper, slowly, gently, reassuringly, practically an embrace on its own.

You melted against him, giving his hand a small squeeze of gratitude, thoroughly reminded now of exactly why it was okay to share your vulnerabilities, how lucky you were to have found him, to be found, to trust and fall and grow together.

Tranquility eventually, quietly, made her reappearance, bringing with her the blessing of the midday sun.

Thanks for reading!

[allthebooksandcrannies]

Life With You Makes Perfect Sense (You're My Best Friend)

TimKon Fanfic

Read on AO3 or Read my other works here

For context: this takes place during the time when Stephanie Brown was Robin after Tim's dad figured out his identity and made him retire. In the comics, Conner finds this out by coming to Gotham to look for Tim when he fails to show up at Titan's Tower and bumping into Robin Steph. Batman refuses to give Conner Tim's address but tells him that he has all the same skills Superman has to find him himself. Conner tracks down Tim's voice and confronts him in his bedroom. In the comics, he ends up leaving and doesn't appear to hear from Tim again until he comes back to the Robin role. This fic takes place as a sort of "what-if" to fill in that missing time.

I took the dialogue in italics from the first and last scenes directly from my copy of the TPB Teen Titans: Beast Boys & Girls (2005), though the body language that goes with the dialogue and everything else in the fic is mine.

Title comes from Tim McGraw's "My Best Friend"

Tim woke up clinging to the whisps of a dream that fled from the screeching of his alarm. As he blinked himself back to consciousness, he grasped vainly for the subject of the dream and was left feeling inexplicably wistful.

His fumbling fingers managed to silence the alarm, but there was still the unfortunate matter of having to heave himself out of bed, his limbs feeling heavier and more uncooperative than they had in weeks. Apparently, all the extra sleep he’d been getting since he retired still wasn’t enough to make Monday mornings suck any less.

He pushed away the traitorous voice in the back of his head that suggested that maybe his exhaustion had something to do with his conversation with Conner the other night.

Conner had shown up unannounced and asking questions Tim hadn’t expected to have to answer again. “Why didn’t you show at the tower yesterday? And what’s with this new Robin? The girl?”

“Last week…” Tim paused, trying to decide how best to make Conner understand. “My dad found my costume. He found out I was Robin, and he went a little—” Tim paused, unsure, “—overboard. I’ve been wanting to tell him for months anyway.”

Conner turned his head towards where he could hear Jack moving around, easily locking onto his vitals. “He seems totally relaxed now. His heart rate is normal and—”

Tim glanced back at Conner nervously, but still refused to look at him head on. “I quit.”

“You what?” Conner exclaimed.

“I’m not Robin anymore. I gave it up.”

“Why?” Conner couldn’t wrap his mind around what he was hearing.

Tim tried to explain, needing Conner to understand. His approval felt vital in that moment. “I never liked living two lives. I never planned on doing it for this long. And I never wanted to lie to my dad. Now I don’t have to anymore.”

Conner shook his head in denial. “Come on. You can’t do this to the Titans. That girl isn’t… She’s not Robin.”

Tim wanted to stop thinking about that night, but no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t. The look on Conner’s face when Tim told him he wasn’t coming back to the Titans, how Conner refused to meet Tim’s eyes when he talked about how much he and the other Titans needed Tim, not just Robin. All of it. After all, what right did Conner have to come in and tell Tim how to live his life? Conner was born into this, he didn’t have a Before to compare the hero life to. He didn’t understand what it was like to be torn between two halves of himself.

At that thought, Tim paused about halfway through pulling on a shirt, and immediately felt guilty for even thinking it. Conner had just found out he was half Lex Luthor after all. He was probably the only person Tim knew who would understand exactly how Tim felt being stuck between his Dad and Bruce since the truth came out.

Tim pulled the shirt on the rest of the way with a mental sigh. He wasn’t really mad at Conner. Things had changed really quickly, and the other boy had made a lot of good points. As he ran through the rest of his morning routine, Tim’s mind continued its highlight reel.

“Let it go.”

“You’re my best friend, Tim. How can I? The Titans aren’t the Titans without Robin. They just aren’t.”

“Just because I’m not wearing a cape doesn’t mean we can’t hang.”

For the first time since Tim had explained his motivation, Conner finally met his eyes again. The resignation there made Tim’s throat tighten. “It won’t be the same. I’ve heard that from too many friends. Friends I never talk to anymore.”

And Conner wasn’t wrong. When was the last time he had talked to Cissie? Sure, he still got the occasional update on what she was up to from Cassie on Titans weekends, but that wasn’t the same. It was so easy to lose touch with people who left the hero game. Hell, he hadn’t even spoken to Dick since he quit, and they had supposedly been brothers.

Conner had every right to be worried. But what else was he supposed to do? There was nothing else he could have done to protect everyone’s identities, and it wasn’t like his Dad was about to let him go to group hangouts with a bunch of superteens.

Tim mulled it over as he mechanically choked down a bowl of cereal. His dad had been pretty adamant about the no contact thing, and Tim was trying to be the respectful son his dad deserved. But Conner wasn’t something Tim was willing to sacrifice for his new mission. Besides, what was the harm in just staying touch, it’s not like he was putting himself in danger.

Still, it was probably better safe than sorry. If he got his hands on a computer at school, it wouldn’t be hard to track down the Kents’ phone number. Then it was just a matter of waiting for Dad and Dana to be out long enough for him to have sole access to the landline.

Yeah, Tim thought as he threw his bowl and the sink and headed out to catch his bus, that would work. It would be enough. It had to. Tim just wished he didn’t feel like he was betraying his dad all over again.

-0-

If anyone could read his mind right now, they would be impressed by the amount of self-restraint Conner was exercising to control his strength as well as he was despite how frustrated he was. Unfortunately, poor Lottie the Cow could not read his mind, and, unlike Krypto, she wasn’t hiding any secret Kryptonian powers of her own.

After the third time he used just a tad too much pressure in his attempts to milk her and she shied away from him yet again, he had to concede defeat. As he swapped out with Pa (who was all too willing to pass off the stall mucking), Conner let himself feel the indignation he hadn’t been able to get out of his head since he spoke to Tim.

It just wasn’t right! Anyone with eyes could see how much Tim loved being Robin. Conner knew how much pride he took in being able to hold his own against some of the most powerful people on the planet. How Tim’s heartrate still sped up with excitement every time he swung off a building or when he flew with Conner.

His dad wanted him to be normal so bad? What was more normal than a teen managing to sneak out without their guardian knowing or taking their dad’s car out for a joyride with their friends. So what if the car was a Batmobile or if the adult he was sneaking past was a Tamaranean princess?

And the worst part was that he wasn’t even mad at Tim, not really. Sure, he had been pissed in the moment, but mostly he was just hurt. They had all finally gotten back to normal, and now Tim was leavingagain. It just wasn’t fair. Conner just wanted his best friend back, but every time they got over one hurdle another one showed up. And this was something Conner couldn’t punch.

“If you shovel any harder, you’re going to snap the end off again.”

Conner whirled around, barely managing not to break the poor tool in his surprise. Martha just raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him, a full basket of chicken eggs resting on her hip. “You want to tell me what’s eating you?”

Conner didn’t meet her eyes, just grabbed the now full bucket of manure to take it to the compost. “It’s nothing, Aunt Martha.”

Her brow wrinkled in concern, which was not what Conner had wanted at all. She took another moment, clearly choosing her words carefully. “Well… I know you don’t owe me your thoughts son, and I don’t pretend to know what it’s like to do what you and Clark do.” She started walking alongside Conner before continuing. “But I have raised one Kryptonian and I can listen with the best of them. So, if you need to get something off your chest…”

Dumping the bucket into the compost, Conner almost refused out of habit. Instead, he hesitated, casting his eyes to the side as he grasped for an answer. The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon. “It’s kinda a long story…” the note of disappointment in his voice seemed to surprise both of them. Martha didn’t miss a step as she steered them back towards the house. She too glanced at the rising sun and then sent Conner an appraising look. “hmmm… School is important. It would be a shame if you had woken up ill this morning and couldn’t attend.”

Conner felt himself gaping like a fish as he followed her inside.

-0-

Tim was pretending not to notice Dana hovering when the doorbell rang.

And wasn’t that a fun situation. Tim wasn’t quite sure how much Dana knew. He knew his dad hadn’t told her about Robin, as per the arrangement. But he wasn’t sure what story she’d been given instead, or, more likely, if she’d just been left to draw her own conclusions.

Regardless, she clearly knew Tim had been hiding something because she had been acting strangely ever since. Making excuses to keep him in view, asking much more probing questions about his day and who he was spending it with, checking out parenting books on “troubled teens.”

She hadn’t said anything to Tim about whatever it was she thought was going on, but she had always been over-protective of Tim. Sure it could occasionally cross over into infantilizing, but, after a lifetime of people only worrying about Tim’s wellbeing when it affected them, it was kinda nice to have a parent care so openly.

Still, this was starting to get ridiculous. It wasn’t like he was running a drug empire from the kitchen table, and writing an English essay while someone keeps sneaking glances at you while cleaning the stovetop wasn’t exactly easy.

So, the doorbell was a welcome distraction.

While Dana rose to answer the door, Tim tried to focus back on his paper, as if he could make it write itself with the force of his glare. However, there was no amount of effort that would ever keep him from recognizing that voice.

He was at the door before he even realized he’d made the decision.

“—don’t know why he didn’t mention it, ma’am, we made these plans last week.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’m really comfortable with letting you boys go without clearing it with Jack fir—"

Tim peeked around Dana’s shoulder to see Conner Kent, glasses and all, staring up at his stepmom with an almost comically earnest expression. “Dana?”

She glanced back at Tim, not letting go of the half-open door. “Your friend—”

“Conner,” the boy in question supplied helpfully.

“Right,” she said with a forced smile, “Your friend, Conner, was just telling me that you two made plans to get together to study tonight? Tim, honey, you know your Dad wants you to let him know before you make plans to go out with people we don’t know.”

Tim did know. It was one of many new rules that his dad had decided to implement after he found his Robin gear. The restrictions chafed, but, as his dad pointed out, he definitely deserved the lack of trust at this point.

But when he caught the cocky “play along” grin over Dana’s shoulder, Tim stomach filled with warmth at the familiarity. He quickly schooled his expression into an appropriately sheepish smile. “Sorry Dana, I guess it just slipped my mind.”

Dana softened, her grip on the door slackening just a tad.

“If it helps, Mrs. Drake,” Conner broke in, “we can just study here.”

Tim wondered if Conner had learned the earnest and polite young man routine from watching Clark or if it was just natural talent. Either way it was enough for Dana, leading her to relax and open the door completely.

“Oh, that would be perfect! Tim, honey, why don’t you get you and your friend set up at the table? Will you be staying for dinner, Conner? We’re having Chinese tonight, and it’d be no problem to order an extra serving.”

“That would be great, Mrs. Drake!”

Dana headed back towards the kitchen, presumably looking for the takeout menus, leaving Tim and Conner in awkward silence. Tim decided to break the tension first.

“I’m sorry, Conner, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I know you were just trying to help.”

“Wait, that’s supposed to be my line! I’m sorry, Tim. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I didn’t think you could make your own decisions.”

“So, still friends?”

“Please! You didn’t think I’d come all the way to Gotham to ditch you now, did you?”

“Why did you come? If that was it, why not just come in the window?”

Conner shifted his weight, hand tightening minutely around the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Well, I was talking to Ma earlier, and she helped me realize that even if Robin can’t hang out with Superboy, that doesn’t mean Conner Kent can’t spend time with Tim Drake.” He looked up from his shoes, his blue eyes putting the Gotham sky to shame. “That is… if it’s okay with you?”

If you had asked Conner, Tim’s answering grin could have lit up even the darkest Gotham alley.

-0-

Fifteen minutes later found Tim and Conner side by side at the kitchen table, various homework from various subjects strewn out about. Leaning over under the guise of checking Conner’s math, Tim murmured under his breath for only Conner to hear: “So Conner Kent wears flannel now?”

Conner snorted. “I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing they sell in Smallville,” he whispered back. “Why? You a fan?”

“To be honest… I miss the leather,” he replied thoughtlessly.

“Is that so?” Tim realized what he’d said out loud a moment too late. “I guess I’ll have to keep that in mind,” he smirked.

“Oh, shut up,” Tim replied with a little shove that did absolutely nothing but prompt Conner to break out into full body laughter so loud it drew Dana in from the living room to see what was going on.

When she found a blushing Tim whispering back furiously and sending her embarrassed looks, she let out a chuckle of her own before leaving them to it. She had a good feeling about this kid.

-0

It quickly became routine for Conner to come by after school to do homework a few days a week. Tim had worried that it might have been getting Conner in trouble, but Conner had assured him that he had worked things out with ‘Ma so that he still got all his chores done in spite of the extra hours he was putting in Gotham. And as for Batman, well, if he didn’t want him coming to Gotham to see Tim, he shouldn’t have told him how to find him.

And at least he wasn’t dangling the latest Robin in mid-air anymore.

Whether by fate or weird coincidence, however, he still hadn’t managed to run into Jack Drake while he was monopolizing his son’s time yet. The first night Conner stayed for dinner had ended with them all waiting for half an hour after the food arrived before Jack remembered to call and let Dana know he would be working late. It wasn’t the last time either. And the nights he did come home for dinner were the nights where Conner had already planned to head home early to have dinner with his own family.

Not to say Conner minded. He had some thoughtsabout Jack Drake and the way he treated his son. It was probably better for everyone that Conner spent as little time with the man as possible.

But there was only so long that could last, especially since Tim was practically dying to get out of the house for more than just school or Jack’s father-son excursions.

Unfortunately, as time went on Jack had only gotten more paranoid about where Tim was going and what he was doing, not less. Lately, Tim was practically on lockdown since it was such a pain to get permission to go anywhere without his dad or Dana. The last time he had gone out to the diner with Bernard and Darla his Dad had “just happened” to stop by for a to-go coffee. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he had been making sure Tim really was where he said he was.

His only saving grace was Dana. While she still enforced his dad’s rules (apparently not wanting to undermine his parenting), Tim had overheard her arguing on his behalf with his dad on multiple occasions, insisting that Tim was a good kid who had earned a little bit of freedom. Granted, these conversations rarely accomplished much besides getting Jack to dismiss her concerns as a lack of understanding due to not having children of her own. Still, Tim appreciated the support. Particularly since Dana had clearly decided that she liked Conner and essentially left them to their own devices while they were “studying.”

Now in addition to actually doing their homework, they were able to spend time talking about the rest of their lives, especially the normal civilian stuff they never seemed to have time for during Titans weekends. Everything from friendships, to TV shows, to their relationships with their parents was fair game. Tim had felt like he knew Conner before, but this was a whole new level. And the more he learned, the more he wanted to know.

And that’s why he had recruited Dana.

It hadn’t been hard. For once in his life, being completely honest with an authority figure about what he wanted was enough. It probably shouldn’t have felt as weird as it did.

Dana had given him a strange look when he mentioned he wanted to hang out with Conner outside of studying, but she had agreed that she didn’t see a problem with it. After all, if his father was alright with him spending time with Bernard (who Dana knew firsthand was not exactly the best of influences) then surely he would be okay with Tim spending more time with “a nice young man” like Conner. He just needed to meet him first.

It would be fine. Probably.

And that was how the two of them had ended up setting the dining table while Dana put the finishing touches on what she assured Tim was Jack’s favorite meal.

“Dude, you’ve got to take a breath,” Conner whispered as he reached around Tim. “I’ve heard your heart beat slower going up against literal mercenaries.”

Tim snorted. “I’ll take Deathstroke over this any day.”

“Hey now,” he shot back with a scandalized hand to his chest, “I’ll have you know I am delightful company!”

Tim’s futile attempts at a mock glare were interrupted when he could no longer hold back the urge to giggle at the absurdity of the situation. He could go up against the worst the world had to offer without thinking twice, but the idea of his dad and his best friend in the same room had him on the verge of a panic attack.

He shot Conner a grateful smile. “I just really need this to go well.”

Conner slung a careless arm around Tim’s shoulder but spoke with a level of seriousness he rarely let people see. “And it will, I promise. We make a good team, remember? We can handle this.”

Tim nodded and drew in some deep breaths to calm his racing pulse. Conner didn’t say anything else, just let him take the minute he needed. Just as Tim had gotten a hold of himself and was about to gently shrug off Conner’s arm, Conner pulled away of his own accord with a parting squeeze of Tim’s shoulder.

“He’s here,” he explained, gesturing to the front door with his chin as he finished off the last place setting.

Sure enough, a moment later Tim heard the telltale click of a key in a lock. There was a very slight possibility that his breathing may have quickened again just a bit if the bemused look Conner sent him was any indication.

Tim most definitely did not stick his tongue out at his friend before heading to the entryway to take his dad’s coat.

Conner and his snicker followed a beat behind Tim. When Jack’s gaze finally landed on Conner, Conner felt his spine straighten involuntarily. Jack didn’t say anything at first, and in the stretching silence Conner felt himself trying to channel every bit of the big blue boy scout he had in him.

Jack’s eyes cast over every bit of Conner’s appearance, from his glasses to his button up to his clean but scuffed sneakers. Conner was uncomfortably reminded of being a literal lab specimen under observation.

Suddenly, Jack’s expression morphed into a charming smile Conner didn’t trust for an instant. He stuck out a hand, and Conner was so caught off guard by the sudden transition that he almost forgot to shake it.

“You must be Tim’s friend. Carter, right?”

“Er—”

“It’s Conner, Dad.”

Jack waved Tim’s correction away. “Right, right, Conner then.” He started walking off to the living room, clearly expecting them to follow. “Dana tells me that you’ve been coming over to study quite a bit lately. I hope your grades have seen a better uptick than Tim’s have.”

Conner sent a questioning glance Tim’s way but didn’t get a response other than the visible tension in the other boy’s jaw.

“Not really sure what the point of a study group is if it doesn’t actually raise your grades any,” Jack continued.

Assuming that the biting comment was rhetorical and feeling supremely awkward, Conner didn’t respond right away. But as the three of them each pulled up a chair, Jack’s impatient expression clued Conner in on the fact that he was actually supposed to answer.

“Er…yes sir. I’ve been really lucky to have Tim’s help getting caught up.”

Jack was saved from responding beyond a noncommittal hmm by Dana’s arrival with the food. As she placed the casserole dish of what looked like enchiladas on the table, Dana gave them all a forced smile.

“And it’s been so nice getting to know one of Tim’s friends, Conner.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Drake.”

“So how did you and Tim start hanging out?” Jack questioned absently.

They had prepped for this question. Conner used the opportunity to launch into an overdramatic retelling of a group project they had worked on together and how they realized that they worked well together. Like all the best lies, it included just enough details not to be suspicious while still having a kernel of truth.

His story succeeded in breaking the ice enough to get conversation started, and Conner felt himself relaxing. He had meant what he said to Tim earlier, but he didn’t exactly meet that many new civilians. But Tim had prepared him well, and this wasn’t his first undercover op. He skillfully navigated around dangerous truths and gave the performance of his life as the perfect All-American teen.

Maybe he should have felt guilty about lying to these people who had opened their home to him. Clark probably would have had something to say about it. After all, on paper Jack had every right to be upset. His son had literally been throwing himself in front of bullets for strangers for years behind his back. Not only that, but he’d been doing it alongside another adult he had trusted to have his son’s best interests at heart. Surely any good parent would have been just as upset, right?

But Conner was very aware that Jack Drake was not the parent he believed himself to be.

Good parents didn’t ship their kid off to boarding schools from the minute he was old enough to attend, and then never show up for the few weeks their kid is home.

Good parents don’t look at everything that makes you you and try to sand it away so that you’ll fit some perfect ideal they have in their head of what you should be.

Good parents don’t look at the emotional scars and bruises they’ve given to their child and tell them that its their own fault for making them do this, for not being enough or for being too much.

Jack Drake may not have laid a hand on his son, but he’d still done plenty of damage, and Conner was forced to watch Tim thank him for it.

So, no. Conner didn’t feel an ounce of guilt for lying to the man who constantly left his favorite person more confused and conflicted than any mystery Batman had ever handed to him.

Tim may not realize that he deserved better yet, but that was alright. Conner would flatter and charm and play meek and responsible without feeling a single thing if it made Tim’s life easier.

As the conversation shifted to what was new with Dana’s sister and her kids, Conner met Tim’s eyes again. Tim subtly tipped his glass approvingly toward Conner, and Conner sent back an answering wink.

Well, he corrected internally, maybe he’d feel one thing after all.

-0

Gotham wasn’t exactly known for its tourist attractions. It was kind of a risky financial decision to try to open anything that encouraged a lot of people to congregate in a city where crowds drew Rogues like killer moths to a flamethrower. And that went double for anything that could be construed as children’s entertainment.

Luckily, Gothamites were both stubborn and spiteful, so there were a few places, like the traveling carnival currently set up near the harbor, that popped up every now and then with that brilliant fuck you energy that so clearly defined the city.

After last week’s dinner got off to its admittedly awkward start, Conner had hit his stride. Seamlessly switching between the perfect “aw shucks, me?” smile when asked a question about himself and then an earnest “tell me more about…” to turn the conversation back to Jack’s interests, Conner would have earned even the Batman’s reluctant approval.

By the end of the night, Jack was riding the high of getting to speak about himself to a willing audience for so long. It was all too easy to get Jack’s permission for Tim to hang out with Conner outside the house… as long as he still made sure to call and check in on the hour, of course.

Tim hadn’t hesitated to get them tickets for the second night the carnival was in town (not wanting to tempt a Rogue’s attack on the first), and the night had finally arrived.

Now, sharing a seat on the ferris wheel with the other teen, Tim couldn’t understand why he’d been so worried. He’d always been the first to insist that there was so much more to Conner than people gave him credit for.

Tim found himself glancing at Conner out of the corner of his eye. Luckily, the other boy was too busy leaning over the railing to watch the sun set behind the city skyline.

Most people looked at Superboy and saw a brash, arrogant, and (if he was lucky) comical teenager. They dismissed him as the brawn to other Titans’ brains. They couldn’t understand how he could be so different from Superman.

Tim knew better than that. Sure, he could be all those things, but what teenager wasn’t? Especially considering all the shit the authority figures in his life had put him through. And yeah, he was funny too.

But Conner was also a damn good friend. He was loyal and brave and empathetic and fiercely protective of the people who had earned his respect. He paid attention to people, and he cared so deeply, even though he tried to cover it up with nonchalance and a confident façade. He might be bulletproof, but Tim would protect that vulnerability he saw until the day he died.

“Alright. Where’d you go?”

Pulled back into the moment rather suddenly, Tim was startled, but he didn’t have to worry about coming up with a suitably mysterious response here. “What?”

Conner snorted and raised one hand to slide his sunglasses just far enough down the bridge of his nose that he could meet Tim’s eyes.

“You’re looking at me weird. What’s up?”

As Tim tried to decide how to answer in a way that wasn’t completely cheesy, the ferris wheel paused again, this time with the two of them at the very top.

“I just—I’m just really glad you’re here. Thanks for coming to Gotham.” He didn’t just mean today either. He meant all of it. The first time he came to find out why Robin wasn’t at the tower, the time he showed up at Tim’s door even what would have chased anyone else away, and every other time they had hung out since.

He didn’t have to specify that though. The blinding smile that broke out over Conner’s face made it clear the message was received.

Conner took a moment, trying to school his expression into something a little smoother, but it was a lost cause. Eventually he just settled for clearing his throat. “You don’t have to thank me, Tim. There’s no place I’d rather be. Besides,” he continued as he casually threw an arm across the back of Tim’s seat, “everyone knows Gotham has the best sunsets.”

His heart pounding, Tim took a deep breath and let himself sink into Conner’s side. For a second, Conner stiffened and Tim worried that he’d made a horrible mistake, that he’d ruined everything.

It was only when he felt the comforting weight of Conner’s arm move from the seat to wrap around Tim’s shoulders, pulling him closer, that Tim let himself believe that this could be okay. They could have this.

The leather of Conner’s jacket was cool against the side of Tim’s face. The sky was a brilliant mess of golds and reds and purples. And Tim was with the person who made him feel safer and more himself than anyone else on the planet.

“Yeah, I suppose we do, don’t we?”

-0

That evening, Tim sat down on his bed, pulling his camera out of his bag. He was looking forward to developing them. Maybe he’d give Conner a few of the shots if they were any good.

knock knock

Tim looked up to see Dana leaning up against the doorframe she had knocked on.

“Hey, Honey. Did y’all have a good time?”

Tim couldn’t have held back the smile if he’d tried. “Oh yeah, it was awesome!”

Dana smiled back just as warmly. “Oh, I’m so glad!” Tim believed her. That was the best thing about Dana, she was one of the most genuine people he knew, and for some reason Tim couldn’t fathom, she had always seemed to care so much about Tim.

“Do you mind if I come in, sweetheart? There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about…”

-0

“I swear to god I used to be good at keeping secrets,” Tim groaned as he allowed his head to thunk dramatically against the diner table.

Conner didn’t look up from his menu, but he did use his TTK to save their waters from tipping over. “Sure you were,” he deadpanned.

“I was literally trained in deception and resistance to interrogation by one of the best detectives in the world.”

“Yup.”

“She still doesn’t know I was Robin. Neither of them have made the very obvious connections between you and a certain Boy of Steel for some reason.

“It’s the glasses.”

“It is not the glasses.”

“It is,” he said. “Conner Kent wears glasses, and Superboy doesn’t. Therefore, obviously different people.” His forehead crinkled. “Do you think a sweet potato milkshake would be any good?”

“It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve ever eaten.” Tim squinted back up suspiciously from where he was still sprawled on the table. “Also, I feel like you are not being nearly sympathetic enough to my plight.”

Conner finally gave up the pretense of looking at the menu and dropped his chin to rest on his hands on the tabletop, so his face was only a few inches from Tim’s long-suffering expression.

Unfortunately for Tim’s dignity, Conner’s crooked grin was infectious. “How long did it take her to figure it out?”

“Ugh, she apparently she knew the minute she saw me, but at least she promised not to tell Dad.”

Conner snickered.

“Don’t laugh! She tried to give me the talk, Conner!”

That just sent Conner into full-body cackles. Tim watched him throw his head back and couldn’t help but feel proud. He did that. But he wasn’t done pouting yet either. It was the principle of the thing, after all.

“Sorry—” Conner gasped, “Sorry babe!” He leaned forward to place a kiss to Tim’s forehead, reveling in the way his boyfriend blushed so immediately. “You can hide just about anything else, sure, but you’ve got absolutely no poker face when you’re happy.”

Tim grumbled good naturedly like the absolute gremlin he was before finally deciding to sit up when a rather unimpressed waitress stopped by to take their order.

When she walked off, Conner turned back to Tim, casually taking one of Tim’s hands in his as though they weren’t both still completely in awe of this new development.

“So…” Conner started. “You were supposed to get together with your Wizards & Warlocks friends over the weekend, right? How’d that go?”

Tim’s eyes lit up as he started telling Conner about the most recent developments to their current campaign. Conner did his best to make sense of all of the characters and jargon he had no reference for, since it clearly meant a lot to Tim. Though that was made a little trickier by how much fun he was having just watching Tim.

He rarely got to see him so animated, due to the expectations constantly heaped on Robin and Tim Drake alike. When talking about something he enjoyed, however, Tim came alive. So, Conner listened, asking real questions that sparked off another tangent every time he started running out of steam.

Conner wondered if Tim’s eyes had always sparkled that much when they were hidden behind a mask. He didn’t think so, but either way he was just grateful Tim trusted him enough to let him see.

-0

“So then Ives—oh, Dana, can you pass the bread? thanks—Ives ended up rolling a Nat 20 on persuasion, which completely messed with my pla—”

“Alright, alright, I’m about tapped out on Witches & Wizards—” Jack interrupted, his hands raised in a timeout gesture.

“Jack!” Dana admonished.

“It’s actually Wizards & Warlocks, Dad.”

“Whatever it’s called! There’s only so much of this I can hear before my brain rots.”

Tim forced an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Dad.”

Jack waved away the apology with his buttered roll. “Forget about it. Hey, how’s your school’s basketball team this year? I was thinking we would go to the game this Friday, just the two of us.”

“Oh,” Tim said, “I don’t really know. Umm… what time is the game? Because I already made plans to go see a movie with Conner on Friday before he has to go away for the weekend for some family stuff.”

Jack frowned and Tim found himself straightening up involuntarily. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with that Conner kid. What’s up with that?” he asked accusatorily.

Wary of stumbling into a trap he couldn’t see, Tim tried to feign a casualness he didn’t feel. “I don’t know, I guess I just realized we have a lot in common, but I hang out with a lot of people. Why do you ask?”

This apparently wasn’t enough for Jack because he didn’t let it go, even putting his fork down so he could make sure his full attention was on Tim. “You don’t though! You almost never talk about Bernard anymore, or that Darla girl! The wizards thing was weird enough, but now if it’s not that then it’s Conner this or Conner that! If you’re not careful, you’re gonna give people the wrong idea about the two of you.”

The tightening in Tim’s throat would have been painful if it weren’t for the numbness he felt sinking into his bones.

“And now you’re suddenly too good to hang out with your dad anymore? I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I’m concerned about the person you’re becoming lately.”

“No! No, Dad it’s not like that—”

Tim looked at a wide-eyed Dana desperately for help. Ever ready to defend Tim when he needed, Dana didn’t disappoint.

“Oh, Jack, honey,” she laughed a little too loudly, “leave the poor boy be. He’s a good kid, and it’s healthy for a teenage boy to want to spend more time with his friends! I don’t see the harm in it. Honestly, shouldn’t we be proud of him for honoring his commitments?”

Jack’s glare was as hard as steel and just as cold. “Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t be proud of. I think I know how to parent my son.”

Dana broke eye-contact first, and Jack seemed to be the only one immune to the rising tension. Eventually he paused his meal consideringly. “Though I suppose you do have a point, Dana. Tim and I will just have to go to the next game, hmm?”

Grateful for the out, Tim nodded quickly. “Sounds great, Dad.”

-0

Tim had been looking forward to seeing this movie since he’d seen the first preview, but he hadn’t been paying attention at all for the last ten minutes. Oh well, he could come back and watch it again later, maybe with the guys in his W&W group.

In the meantime, it was definitely worth the sacrifice. Kissing Conner in the back row of the theatre, Tim had never felt more like a normal teenager in his life. This might be just as fun as running over rooftops.

-0

Conner swung Tim’s hand back and forth between them as they walked, feeling a bit like a little kid. Most people probably would have been on edge walking through the streets of Gotham right after sunset, but most people weren’t literally bulletproof.

As it was, Conner would have been content to stay out there all night if it meant he got to keep holding Tim’s hand while he chattered about the photos he had taken on their last outing to the botanical gardens and how they had turned out. Conner had learned more about camera lenses in the last ten minutes than he had in his life, and he was loving it.

Unfortunately, the Titans would be expecting him in an hour or so, and Tim’s dad would probably take exception to his son being out all night under mysterious circumstances. So, it was with a heavy sigh that Conner finally arrived at the Drake’s brownstone.

The boys came to a stop before reaching the front steps, neither ready for the night to end. Conner leaned forward to press his forehead to rest against Tim’s.

“You know,” he whispered, “I know I said I wanted Robin to come back to the Titans —and don’t get me wrong, I would still love that— but I’m also kinda loving having you all to myself.”

Tim chuckled and when that laugh turned into a crooked grin that made Conner’s stomach flutter, he couldn’t resist kissing it back off.

WHAM

Tim and Conner jumped apart as the door to the brownstone slammed open. Jack glared down at them.

“Tim. Get in this house, right now.” When Tim hesitated to move, Jack’s tone only grew even more demanding. “I said get in this house Timothy Jackson Drake.”

The sound of his full name seemed to spark Tim back to life, as he scrambled back towards the house. Conner gently caught one of Tim’s hands just before he was out of reach, and the other boy looked at him like a started deer.

“Do you want me to…” Conner trailed off with a meaningful hand wave at the side of his head. Do you want me to listen in, he was asking.

Tim thought about it for a second before shaking his head. “But maybe don’t go far?”

Conner nodded decisively before meeting Jack’s hateful gaze defiantly for just a moment. He shoved his fists into his jacket pockets before storming off to the corner. As soon as he was out of view, however, he took advantage of Gotham’s perpetual lighting problem to fly up to the roof of the house next to Tim’s, ready to be there the minute Tim needed him.

He settled in to wait, trying to focus on anything but the shouting coming from the Drake residence.

It was probably took longer than it should have for Conner to realize he wasn’t alone, but, hey, he was distracted. Sue him.

“You can come out. I can hear your heartbeat.”

Black Bat unfurled from where she had blended perfectly into the shadows cast by the air-conditioning unit.

“What are you doing here?” Conner asked.

Cass joined him in sitting on the edge of the roof to watch the brownstone. “A while ago…there was a killer…hunting the last robin. I still check in.”

“Every night?”

“No…but most nights.”

Conner considered that for a moment. “So, I’m guessing you saw…?”

“Yes.” Conner thought he could detect a playful edge to her voice. “You are not very subtle.” Okay, no, he was definitely being teased.

trying to play along, he bumped her shoulder with his own. “Well, we can’t all be bat-level sneaky. The universe couldn’t take it. Some of us have to be showy enough to balance the rest of you out.”

Cass hummed consideringly. “That’s fine. Batman will… train it out of you.”

Conner let himself fall back dramatically in mock horror, and Cass giggled. The sound did not match the mask at all, but somehow the juxtaposition seemed fitting for a member of the bat family.

“It’s how he shows his love, promise.”

Conner smiled, the tension of the moment briefly eclipsed by the mental image of the Batman trying to mother-hen a super. Clark would never let him live it down.

Suddenly, movement drew his eye, and Conner saw Tim. Ready to hear the verdict, Conner rose to fly back down.

“Thanks,” he turned to say, only to find himself met with an empty roof.

Bats, man.

-0

Tim followed Jack into the house, his heart pounding so hard Clark could probably hear it in Metropolis. His lips and fingers felt weirdly tingly before going slightly numb. His brain was going a million miles an hour but his body just felt slightly distant.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen at all. He wasn’t ready for this, it was supposed to be on his terms. But it was happening and it was happening now.

Jack stormed into the living room where Dana was half-risen in concern. She froze at the thunderous expression on his face as Jack being to pace the room like a caged lion. Meanwhile, Tim was a stone statue standing just in the room’s entrance. He felt a little bit like one of the artifacts his parents had brought back as souvenirs from their travels, just another relic meant to show off to friends that just ended up cluttering an empty house. And were Tim’s ears ringing?

“What the fuck did I just see, Tim?!” Jack burst out.

“Dad, I—”

“Don’t you fucking dare try to talk yourself out of this. Do you think I’m some kind of idiot?!”

“No! Of cour—”

“Jack, honey, whatever this is about, maybe we—”

Dana’s attempts to calm Jack only seemed to enrage him more, and she was cut off by the CRASH that came from Jack pitching one of her vases across the room. She froze, her eyes darting between Tim and Jack.

“Do you want to tell her what you’ve been doing behind our backs, Tim, or should I?”

“I—Conner and I--We” Tim sputtered unintelligibly, but Dana got the gist. She closed her eyes for a moment too long in sympathy, and Jack’s fury turned on her in an instant.

“You knew? You knew what was happening, and you didn’t put a stop to it?”

“Jack! There’s nothing wro…”

Her voice trailed off as Jack stalked closer and closer to her chair until he towered over her. She shrunk down. Jack leaned down over her and braced himself on the arms of the chair, effectively trapping his wife.

“Do you even care about what this could do to us?” His voice had gone low and picked up a dangerous quality that reminded Tim of the way Batman spoke to criminals he interrogated. But Tim had never been afraid of Batman.

He went on, his head tilted mockingly. “Or, are you just too stupid and selfish to realize how this reflects back on me?”

And, as he watched Dana start to shake, something in Tim snapped.

He was across the room in an instant, wrenching Jack’s arm behind his back so that he was forced to step back and turn around to keep it from breaking. The second Jack let go of Dana’s chair, Tim shoved him stumbling in the opposite direction.

“Leave her alone.”

Jack spun back around. “Did you just shove me?” he asked in pure outrage.

Tim’s chin raised defiantly. “I told you I could, didn’t I?”

At the reminder of the night Jack found out about Robin, Jack’s face twisted back into something ugly.

“So what?! I risk my life to save you from those freaks the first time, and this is the thanks I get? How the hell is anyone supposed to take me seriously when my son is—”

“I didn’t ASK you to save me, Dad!” Tim shouted. Years and years of bottling his resentment and frustration had led to an inevitable explosion, and Tim didn’t care who got burned. “I loved being Robin, I loved getting to help people, and getting to show what I can do. I worked so hard to earn Robin, and I gave it up to make you happy and I still can’t do anything right for you. I am so sick of pretending to be someone I’m not in the hopes that maybe someday it’ll finally be enough for you.”

“Tim—”

“No! It’s my turn now!” Tim’s words were acid. If he didn’t get them out now, they would burn him from the inside out. “I will never be the perfect kid you and Mom thought you deserved. I get that now. But I am enough. Bruce thinks so. Dick thinks so. And Conner thinks so too. I am more me with him than I am with anyone else. You already took Robin from me. I won’t let you take this from me too.”

Jack puffed up in rage. Seemingly having forgotten his lesson, he stormed into Tim’s space. Tim took a few steps back on instinct before he came back to himself and planted his feet, forcing Jack to stop to avoid a collision. Their faces were only a few inches apart as they glared at each other.

Tim realized he was almost as tall as his father.

Stubbornly trying to regain the control he could feel slipping through his fingers like water, Jack summoned every bit of authority he had in his body into his tone. “You aren’t seeing him again. This never happens again. Do I make myself clear?”

It was a good effort, but Tim had fought the Justice League. He regularly stared down the worst Gotham had to offer and said not here, not today. There was a lot he was willing to do to keep the peace. But Tim was fed up, and this was one thing he refusedto compromise on.

“No.”

There was nothing as immovable as a Bat who had made up their mind.

Maybe Jack finally recognized that because, for just a moment, Tim thought he saw something like sadness in his father’s eyes before they hardened like steel.

“Then get out.”

Tim blinked, his confusion enough to break through the bubble of anger that had been clouding out all else. “What?”

“I said get out of my house. And don’t come back.”

“Dad—”

“I don’t know who you are anymore. But you aren’t my son. I guess Batman ended up killing him after all.”

Tim’s eyes widened. He wasn’t sure whether it was the grief or betrayal that cut worse, but he kinda wished the numbness would come back. He drew in a deep breath, pulling what was left of his anger around him like a shield. Or maybe a cloak.

He spun around on his heel and marched back toward the front door.

The movement seemed to break the trance of confused horror that had held Dana like a vice as she watched the argument unfold like a demented tennis match.

“Tim!” she called after him. She reached out vainly as if that would be enough to close the distance that had opened up between them like a chasm. “Tim, sweetheart!”

Tim couldn’t turn around, but that didn’t make Dana’s heartbroken tone any less painful to hear.

He didn’t stop once he was out of the door until he was halfway down the street. And then, it was only because Conner landed right in front of him.

“Hey, what happened?”

Tim couldn’t answer. He couldn’t make eye contact right now either. But Conner didn’t press him.

“Okay,” he reassured, “that’s okay.” He raised one hand for Tim to take if he wanted. “Can I give you a lift then?”

Tim took the hand.

-0

Tim directed Conner to touch down at the Manor’s front door, not wanting to risk the possibility of Bruce having changed the security codes by now. Even still, he was certain they had tripped some sort of alarm when they flew over the property.

He was proven correct when Alfred pulled open the door before he’d had the chance to knock. If he noticed that Tim still hadn’t let go of Conner’s hand, the butler didn’t say anything.

“Master Timothy! What an excellent surprise!”

Despite everything, Tim found his mouth pulling into a fond smile at the old man. “Hi Alfred. Is Bruce home? I need to talk to him.”

“Right this way, sir!” Alfred said, already pulling the door open, and Conner allowed himself to be pulled along with nothing but a supportive hand squeeze.

Tim felt his heart pounding as he followed Alfred towards what he quickly realized was Bruce’s study. Suddenly unable to bear the silence anymore, Tim burst out: “Alfred, have you met Conner?”

Alfred’s face twitched into what only the bats would recognize as the butler suppressing a fond smile of his own. “I have not, sir. Though I must admit I had guessed.” Addressing Conner directly this time, Alfred continued, “My name is Alfred Pennyworth. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kent.”

“Oh, uh…” Conner stammered before Martha Kent’s training kicked in. “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Alfred hmmd approvingly but left it there. Luckily, Tim was saved from further attempts at small talk by their arrival at the study doors. Alfred bid them goodbye before slipping away with a subtlety Conner had only thought attainable by bats.

Tim drew in a deep breath before knocking hesitatingly on the ornate doors. The “come in!’ came barely a moment later, and Tim pushed them open with the resignation of a convict approaching the gallows.

On any other day, Conner would have been looking around at anything and everything in the office appreciatively. But today he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Tim who had gone ramrod straight, his own gaze locked onto the man standing up from his desk at the other end of the room.

Bruce Wayne rose from his desk, in that moment somehow managing to look twice as intimidating in a tailored suit as he ever did as Batman. His eyes roved over both boys, taking in everything from their still intertwined hands to Conner’s civilian garb to the way Tim looked like he might be on the verge of passing out. His face was inscrutable the whole time.

Eventually, Bruce’s gaze met Conner’s own defiant glare. “So…” he drawled in perfect deadpan, “are the glasses genetic, or is the entire caped community conspiring to drive me prematurely gray.”

Tim let out a sudden laugh so strangled Conner was mildly concerned he was choking. Conner could empathize.

Apparently amused by their reaction, the Batman smirked,and Conner’s soul left his body for a moment.

When it became clear that they weren’t going to say anything on their own, Bruce continued. “Well, Conner, something tells me that Tim and I need to have a conversation. Will you be joining us, or do you have somewhere to be,” he asked mildly.

Conner gave Tim a sideways glance, under no delusions about who’s comfort Bruce was really concerned with here. Tim squeezed Conner’s hand one more time before finally letting go, and Conner took that as the dismissal it was.

“Actually, sir, I think better head to San Francisco before Victor starts to wonder where I am.”

Bruce nodded turned his attention to Tim. Conner made sure to supportively squeeze Tim’s shoulder back on his way out. He tried to ignore the part of himself that made him feel like he was abandoning Tim to the lions.

-0

Once Conner had pulled the door shut behind him, Bruce let go of the bit of Batman that had made its appearance the minute the proximity alarms had let him know that someone had flown over the property boundaries.

“Tim.”

Tim still wasn’t making eye contact, his gaze getting no closer than Bruce’s mouth. Bruce resisted the instinct to drop into the Batman voice. While it would be a sure-fire way to get Tim to look at him, it also would do nothing to actually make the kid more comfortable. Tim would assume that it meant he’d done something wrong, and that would just make everything ten times worse.

Instead, Bruce fought to keep his tone as even and gentle as possible. “How about we sit down,” he asked with a gesture toward the twin armchairs by the fire.

Tim nodded stiffly but still wouldn’t speak. Bruce held in his sigh. Just as he reached his own chair, there was another knock on the door, and Alfred pushed his way in without waiting for a response.

“Forgive me for interrupting, Master Bruce, but I thought some soothing tea might be helpful.”

Bruce smiled at the older man. “Thank you, Alfred. That would be great.”

Alfred nodded and brought his tray over to the side table before pouring each of them a cup. As he turned to leave, Tim’s quiet “thanks” was almost inaudible, but Alfred caught it anyway.

“You are most welcome, young man” he replied, making sure to send Bruce a pointed don’t screw this up glance on his way out.

Bruce settled down into the chair next to Tim, their knees almost close enough to touch. Tim’s hands were wrapped so tightly around his teacup that Bruce worried he might shatter it, but he didn’t take so much as a sip.

“Tim. Can you tell me what’s going on, son?”

Tim finally looked up from his cup again, his gaze settling on Bruce’s mouth again.

“I’m not really sure where to start.”

Okay, Bruce could work with that. “Does your Dad know where you are right now?”

Tim snorted humorlessly. “I really don’t think he gives a shit where I am or what I do at this point. He—” Tim broke off to clear his throat before trying again. “He kicked me out.”

There was pure defeat in Tim’s voice, as if he’d always known it was a matter of time, but he still managed to be disappointed anyway. That more than anything filled Bruce with a level of rage rare even for him while simultaneously breaking his heart.

Not trusting himself to speak at first, Bruce instead gently pulled the poor teacup out of Tim’s grasp and took his hands in his own. Tim’s fingers were trembling.

“Because he found out about you and Conner?” he clarified softly, not wanting to risk a faulty assumption when everything was so fragile.

Tim nodded again anyway. “We fought about some other stuff too, but… yeah, it was mostly about that. He saw us together, and—”

Again, Bruce really wanted to shake Jack Drake senseless. It was bad enough he always seemed to take this wonderful kid for granted, but to see a father intentionally hurt his child over something so inconsequential? It was unforgiveable.

“I’m so sorry, Tim. I know how much you wanted this to work out.”

Tim’s eyes filled with tears, and Bruce was pulling him against his chest even before he consciously recognized what he was seeing. As his son fell apart in his arms, Bruce found tears coming to his own eyes as well.

It had always been obvious how desperate Tim was for his father’s affection and approval after being starved for it for so many years. This was the final deathblow to the hope that one day it would be enough.

So, Bruce held his son, running his fingers through his hair. Eventually, Tim had cried himself out and pulled away, his embarrassment clear on his face. Bruce pulled a clean handkerchief (courtesy of Alfred, of course) from his pocket and handed it to a grateful Tim. Once he had pulled himself together, Tim looked back at Bruce, finally meeting his eyes.

“Does this…Does this mean I can come back to the Manor?”

“Oh, chum…” Bruce reached out to cradle one side of Tim’s face in his hand, his thumb reaching out to brush away another rogue tear. “I promise, you will always have a place in my home. Got it?”

“But what about Stephanie? You already have a Robin…”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Well, first of all, your place in this family is not contingent on whether you’re wearing a mask or not. And I’m so sorry if I’ve made you think otherwise. You are just as welcome here if you never put a mask on again as you would be if you went out tomorrow.

And secondly,” here he grimaced, “I may or may not have fired her for putting herself in danger after I told her to stay put. So… Robin’s yours if you still want it.”

“And you’re really okay with me dating a guy?”

Bruce chuckled. “Tim, I’ve taken in three boys by now. You think I never considered the possibility that at least one of you might bring home a boy someday? Granted, I would have put money on Dick being the first, but the point still stands. It makes absolutely no difference to me if you’re gay, buddy.”

“Umm… I think I’m bi actually.”

“Alright then, but my point still stands. I trust your judgment, and I don’t care who you date, as long as they make you happy.”

Tim gave a watery smile. “Thanks, Bruce.”

“Anytime, kiddo.” Then fully out of emotion points, Bruce cleared his suddenly tight throat. “Now, mind coming with me to the cave?”

Confused, Tim cocked his head, but rose accommodatingly. “Sure, what do you need?”

Bruce shook his head as he spun the clock hands and opened the secret passage. “It’s not what I need, but what you need.” He beckoned Tim to follow him down the steps, which he did obligingly. “I need to grab some more Kryptonite.”

“Bruce!” Tim squawked in shock and indignation. His brain immediately went into panic mode, thinking about all the ways Bruce trying to shovel-talk Conner might go horribly wrong, or at least be horribly embarrassing.

Bruce turned back, completely baffled by how adamant and unexpected the refusal was. “Tim,” he started. And oh no, that was his I don’t know why you’re arguing with this perfectly reasonable request voice that always managed to piss Dick off.

“If the two of you are going to be spending time together in Gotham as civilians, you need to be prepared in case the two of you get caught up in one a Rogue attack.” He turned back around and continued on over to the vault where he kept the Kryptonite. “Oh, and don’t let me forget to give him one of these new rebreathers I’ve been working on next time he comes over. The last thing Gotham needs is a Kryptonian getting dosed with Fear Toxin or Joker Gas.”

Kryptonite in hand, Bruce spun and nearly walked into a frozen Tim who was looking at him with a dumbfounded expression. “What?” he asked, the smallest bit of defensiveness bleeding into his voice.

Tim’s voice turned slightly skeptical. “And that’s the only thing you want the Kryptonite for?”

Now it was Bruce’s turn to be confused. “Yes???” he asked, mind whirling to figure out what he was missing.

Tim realized he had definitely misread where this was going and felt torn between laughing at Bruce’s complete confusion and the urge to hug him.

He decided to go with the second one, and if Bruce still had no idea what was going on when he hugged Tim back, well, that just made it better.

-0

Conner was happy enough to take the call that saved him from having to help seed the backfield. He was twice as happy to hear it was from Tim, who he hadn’t heard from since Conner left him at Wayne Manor three days ago.

“Tim?”

“Conner…”

“Tim, is that���you?”

“It’s me.”

“What’s up? What’s going on? I hear gunshots.”

“Tell the Titans not to give up my room. Tell them I’m back.”

Conner grinned. “I knew it.”

[sirowsky]

The Flowers Always Know

Description: When a mad scientist uses you as an experiment while you’re on holiday, the Heroics only just manage to save you. And in your recovery you become very close to the leader of the group. (Slow burn)

Warnings: Language

Link to Masterlist

Comment: Hint to what the title is all about, and plenty of Máma Moreno.

Chapter 6

  The house was a mess, to say the least. You had left in a hurry that evening, after things had taken a very sharp turn towards very bad, shortly after your dinner. You’d been glad that you had only eaten a light pea soup, when it came back up again some ten minutes later. You’d only just made it to the bathroom, but after the food had been coughed up, a large amount of fresh blood had followed, and you knew you were in trouble.   Why you hadn’t called for that ambulance was anyone’s guess, but then, you had never liked being a bother, and you had been perfectly capable of walking out to the cab.    It was just that, in the twenty minutes that the drive had taken, you’d gotten significantly worse. Your whole body had started hurting, you’d begun bleeding from the nose and ears, and just as you got to the hospital, you had begun to get spasms and cramps in your spine and legs.   When you staggered into that emergency-room, you did it truly convinced that you’d leave it in a coffin.

  You shuddered slightly with the memory, as you walked through the house, opening all the blinds and pulling all of the curtains back again. It was already late, and thus dark outside, but you wanted to wake up to a house that bathed in sunlight in the morning.   The kitchen was probably the worst, in terms of the amount of cleaning that would need to be done. The remnants of your cooking that evening where still on the counter and in the dishes, and the amount of mold that was growing in there was somewhat disturbing.   You couldn’t leave that for the morning, you’d lose every ounce of appetite waking up to that crap. So, you set about throwing away everything that had been left out on the counters and in the sink, and quickly scrubbed all the open surfaces clean, before handwashing some of the glasses, plates, mugs and cutlery, that had gotten dusty even sitting in the cabinets, in the four months you’d been gone.   Once the kitchen felt usable again, you went to the bathroom to check what state that was in. It wasn’t too bad. You flushed all the pipes and let the water run in the sink and the shower for a good half-hour to clean them out, and begin to work away the smell of stagnated water. The toilet needed a decent scrub too, but it could wait until morning.   It was after midnight when you’d finally changed the sheaths in the bed and settled in for the night.

  A sharp rapping on your door woke you after what seemed like mere seconds. But the sun was up, so you looked at your wrist-watch – 06:15 – and sighed. Who the fuck would be there at that hour?   Grumbling into your pillow, you turned over and decided that whoever it was would have to come back at a more decent hour.

  “Come on now, mujer, I don’t have all day.”

  You physically jumped at the sound of Anita Moreno raising her voice behind your front door. She wasn’t shouting, just applying a good amount of force to her voice. Just enough to make you feel a size smaller than usual.   You scrambled out of bed and grabbed a robe which you put on whilst walking towards the door. You had no idea what you looked like, but you hoped there was an air of scarecrow to you. You’d found her intriguing when you first met her the day before, but she was little more than a damned annoyance right now. You were not a morning person, and especially not today when your body was tired and sore from the tests.

  “I’m not gonna ask if you know what time it is, because you obviously do, and you obviously don’t care, so don’t beat around the bush and just tell me what the hell you want so I can go back to bed and finish waking up.”

  “You always this cheerful in the morning?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll be sure to let Marcus know.”

  “What does my morning mood have to do with Marcus?”

  “Nothing. Yet…”

  What? No, no, don’t let her distract you, idiot.

  “What do you want, Mrs. Moreno?”

  “Tell me, what kind of flowers do you like?”

  Nope. You’re not doing this, whatever it is, you’re not doing it at 6 fucking 15 in the morning.

  “Have a nice day, Mrs. Moreno.”

  As you went to close the door, she simply barged right in, straight past you, and completely unbothered walked into your kitchen while you scrambled after her, shocked and abruptly furious.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

  “Don’t you cuss at me, mujer.”

  “If you want me to treat you politely, then don’t fucking barge into my house uninvited.”

  “Calm down, I’m not staying for breakfast. I just want you to answer a few questions.”

  Unbelievable.

  “You’ve got some nerve.”

  “I’m old, mujer, I don’t have time for intermissions. Now, tell me, what kind of flowers do you like?”

  You were fuming, but this woman was a super. She wasn’t leaving until she decided to leave. So, you took a breath.

  “Dahlias.”

  “Interesting choice. Why?”

  “What does it matter? What do you want from me?”

  “Do you know the origin of Dahlias?”

  “Why? Am I to expect a pop-quiz banging on my door tomorrow?”

  “The Dahlia came from my ancestors, the Aztecs, they called it The War Flower. Nowadays, it’s known as the King of summer flowers, because of its wide range of shapes, sizes and colours. It has something of a demanding presence, you never walk past a Dahlia without seeing it. And yet, it doesn’t ask you for much.”

  “Do you have a point, or is this becoming a lecture on the mythology of flora? Because I will go back to bed and ignore you until you leave.”

  “It’s an observation. What’s your opinion on supers?”

  “Are you serious? Ugh, forget it, of course you are. Fine. I have nothing against them, but I don’t adore or idolize them. They’re flawed just like the rest of us.”

  “What’s Marcus’ flaws?”

  “He’s… too kind for his own good sometimes. He let’s people walk all over him if he thinks that it’ll keep the peace. And he… tries to carry the whole world by himself if you let him.”

  She smiled.

  “Good. You’re hired. I expect you at Heroics HQ at 7 am tomorrow morning.”

  …what THE FUCK…?!

  She walked back towards the door, while you stood dumbstruck just staring after her. She had reached the door by the time you unfroze and ran out to the hallway.

  “Wait, what the hell are you talking about? Hired for what? I didn’t ask you for a job.”

  “No, you didn’t. But you need one, and I’ve got one. Take it or leave it, if you’re not there by 7, I’ll know what you chose.”

  You stood in the door, watching her disappear into a black SUV, and drive off.

  Did that actually just happen? It must have, there was no way in hell you’d ever even dream something like that. You shook your head, and decided that there was no point in going back to bed now, your head was buzzing, so you might as well have breakfast and get the cleaning going.   As you went to the bathroom you caught your reflection in the mirror, and smiled to yourself. There was definitely an air of scarecrow.   You turned the TV on while you made tea, and tried not to think about what had just transpired in your kitchen.   You had always loved coffee before, never started the day without it ever since you were 16. But your body seemed to have become oversensitive to it after your cellular breakdown. You’d had your first cup about a month ago, and it had really done a number on you. You’d been hyperactive for hours with uncontrollable twitches and insistent trembling in your hands.   You’d given it a second try a week later, but even just half of a small cup had resulted in the same outcome, so you had accepted that your coffee-days were over. You were actually really starting to like tea, especially the spicier types.

  The news showed a highlight reel from the Heroics latest outing, and you found yourself glancing at the footage, looking for a glimpse of Marcus. You saw him flash by as he fought someone, or something, you weren’t sure, and then again when the fighting was over. He looked confident and strong when he was out there. When he had an enemy in front of him, and a clear task.   It was enticing to watch. Oh, who were you kidding – it was fucking hot!   You shook your head and turned the TV off as you finished your breakfast. There was a lot to do to get the house in order, and you had a plan to get it all done. The problem was that a certain uninvited guest kept popping into your head, distracting you with thoughts about flowers and what the hell that job was all about?   So, by lunchtime, you weren’t anywhere close to where you’d hoped to be. You’d managed to wipe down all the surfaces where dust accumulated, and the vacuuming was done. But you’d hoped to have washed the floors and beaten the carpets and cleaned the refrigerator and freezer by then. 

  Oh, well. Rome and all that. 

  You decided to have pizza for lunch and called in an order.   But later, as you were eating said pizza, you had something of a lightning moment. You didn’t need to sit there and just fidget and wonder and worry about what you were gonna do tomorrow. You could just go back to HQ and talk to Marcus. He’d only be happy to see you, he’d said as much when you went to find him to say goodbye.   It hadn’t been a very long exchange, since you’d been eager to get going, knowing there’d be things you’d have to do before going to bed. But he had said that he’d miss you and that you’d always be welcome to visit them.   So, why not? If anyone could tell you what Máma Moreno was up to, it’d be her son.

Authors’ Note: I love criticism, don’t be shy to let me know if there’s anything you like/don’t like/have questions about.

@blueeyesatnight​ 

@farfromjustordinary​

[tempesrature]

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” [END]

Pairing: Ride or Die | Colt x Ellie Summary: A highlight reel of the most important moments of their life. A/N: Highly suggest reading this in order (all even numbers for Colt). @lovehugsandcandy @dancingboba @choicesarehard

#49 Giving them a tight hug that makes them lose their breath.

Colt reminds himself to breathe, that oxygen is needed for the human body to function and live. 

But how can he?

When he looks down at the bundle cradled in his arms, all brain function is delegated to committing to memory the image of his son, Kai Kaneko. 

Colt has never had intrusive thoughts, always having a control on every aspect of his body and mind but when Ellie was holding his hand in a vice grip as she gave birth to their son—he was suddenly filled with thoughts he couldn’t control, ranging from the worst case scenario of her dying during childbirth to the terrible case scenario of her and his son both dying during childbirth, which sent his emotions and his head into a dark place he’d only ever experienced when he saw his father’s car go up in flames. 

But the first breath of air their son took followed by the strong wails (which he got from Colt) and annoying cries (which Colt knows he got from Ellie) he let out and Ellie’s happy sobs wiped his brain instantly. Relief so painful and instant it almost brought him to his knees. 

And now, as Ellie lays asleep on the bed exhausted and worn, his brain and his heart is filled with nothing but love.

“Hey…” 

Colt turns to Ellie with a big smile, her eyes blinking lazily as she looks up at the both of them. He sits next to her and pushes back the hair sticking to her forehead before he gently lays their son in her arms.

“You were great El,” Colt says, his heart expanding at the image in front of his wife cradling their son in her arms. “You also nearly tore my hand off.”

Ellie chuckles weakly, the little bundle fussing quietly in her arms. “You’re lucky it would’ve been only your hand.”

Colt grins, unbothered by her teasing threat of castrating him as he carefully lays down next to her. They let the comforting silence settle as the gentle coos of Kai fills the spaces between them. 

Colt never imagined—never really bothered to imagine—that an image like this would be a reality for him. That he would be a husband to a woman he adores and a father to a son he loves. Shit like that just doesn’t happen to guys like him. 

And yet it has and he’s desperate to keep it, to hold it tight in his hands and make sure it never slips away.

“My dad’s coming tomorrow,” Ellie comments, breaking through the silence as she gently rocks Kai in her arms. “Which means you’ll need to leave.”

Colt scoffs, a sliver of anger bubbling inside him. Turns out Detective Wheeler really wasn’t lying about his deal and his intentions. That all he wants is to reconnect with his daughter, which both baffled and relieved Colt. But ever since Ellie has met up with him once a week, she has become a lot happier and lighter so Colt has learned to put up with it (even though he still has someone tail Ellie during their meetings just in case something happens). 

“Fine,” Colt relents, reaching forward to lightly poke Kai’s chubby cheeks. “But I’m not leaving the hospital. As long as we don’t meet then the deal’s still valid.”

Ellie chuckles softly, glancing at him lovingly. “What rules are you willing to follow?”

Colt grins brilliantly. “You know I’ve never been good at that.”

Ellie hums in agreement, her eyes settling back on the sleeping Kai. Her heart flutters with something so heavy, it feels a little suffocating. The kind of feeling where she’ll do anything for her son. Which gives her a brief moment to reflect, a little guiltily too, that this must be what her dad felt towards her. If she looks back at herself and imagines Kai in her position—well, no wonder her father reacted the way he did.

“Ellie I...” Colt starts and Ellie looks up at him, her eyes suddenly shining with tears at the expression on his face. She reaches up and gently cups his cheek, smoothing her thumb over a stray tear that escaped his eyes. 

“The feeling’s amazing huh?” Ellie finishes for him and Colt lets out a choked laugh in agreement.

“I love you Ellie,” Colt starts, turning to her with misty eyes and a loving smile. “I love this kid too and I’ll do anything, everything, to keep you both safe and happy.”

“I know,” Ellie smiles brilliantly. 

“No, you don’t,” Colt lays his hand on top of her hand, gripping lightly. His gaze is sure, his heart is set and his face is at peace. 

“I’m leaving the crew, the shop, all of it.”

Ellie’s eyes widen suddenly, a wild panic thumping hard against her chest but Colt holds tight and signals with his eyes to listen—to understand.

“Not immediately, not until everything is safe for me to do so and after I make sure no one will even dare to come after us. I’ve also stashed away enough money for us to live off of for the rest of our lives,” Colt reassures, his brown eyes resolute. “It’ll take awhile but hey, it gives me the opportunity to stay home and help take care of Kai more.”

“Colt…” Ellie says, her eyes filling with tears as the weight of his decision finally dawns on her. That he’s willing to leave his crew, his shop, his legacy and walk away from all of it—for her and for their son. 

“Are you sure?” Ellie asks playfully, her chest seemingly expanding from a weight that seems to have suddenly been lifted. “I don’t want you to regret it in the future. I don’t want you to end up hating me.”

She tries to make it come out as a tease, as their usual banter, but the fear latches on to her words without her permission. Because she is scared that he’ll regret her—regret them—and that as the years go by, the fiery love that they possess between them fizzles out into nothing but hate and apathy. 

Colt smiles, picking up on the fear in her voice, as he grips her hand reassuringly. “I’ve told you Ellie. I never regret anything with you. Not then,” He looks at her pointedly, his eyes shining with mischief. “Not now,” His eyes flit down to Kai in her arms, his voice soft, before he raises her right hand and kisses the brilliant glint of gold on her finger. “And not in the future.”

Ellie lets out a choked laugh as she blinks back her tears. “You’re terrible, you know? Making a pregnant woman cry like this.”

“Oh no, you can’t use that on me El. You’re not pregnant anymore,” Colt pauses, a wicked smirk pulling on his lips as he looks at her suggestively. “Unless…?”

“You’re so annoying,” Ellie laughs, leaning her head on his shoulder as Colt immediately wraps her shoulders in a tight side-hug as his breath leaves him and he buries his face into her hair. 

“Colt?”

“Hmm?” 

“I love you,” Ellie says, her voice coming out shaky as she sniffs a little and her eyes flit back to their son in her arms. “Thank you for making this decision for me—for us.”

“Mm,” Colt acknowledges as he looks down at Kai, his head leaning against Ellie’s. “I’ll be a regular old boring dad now. Running a legit shop, beer with the guys, talking shit about sports. Looking forward to it El?”

Ellie chuckles, turning her head a little to kiss his cheek. “There’s nothing regular or boring about you Colt Kaneko,” Her eyes twinkle, her lips pulling into a teasing smile. “Old on the other hand…”

Colt grins, ready to retort with his own banter when Kai starts to fuss and cry loudly. Colt immediately takes him from Ellie’s arms as he stands up and bounces him around in his arms, his cries already starting to soften little in his father’s arms. 

“I’ll take care of him, you’ve done enough for today.”

Ellie smiles in gratitude and relief, the exhaustion pulling at the edges of her consciousness again as she settles back on to the bed. 

Her eyes start to flutter close but she tries to keep the image of Colt, cooing and bouncing Kai in his arms, in the forefront of her memories. So she can try to manipulate her dreams, in the hopes that the happiness, love and content she feels in this moment can be carried over into the depths of her soul and her consciousness will be filled with just Colt, the boy she has loved since her past and her present, and Kai, the child she will love until her future.

[sambergscott]

i'll promise that i'll love you for the rest of my life

one giving the other flowers, as requested by @rosalitadiazz AGES ago, also dedicated to @397bartonstreet for the initial idea of amy sleeping in/just being the best and @nine-niall for helping with the marriage highlight reel.... and for making me listen to heartbreak weather on repeat for the last few days and coming up with this title

happy anniversary to jake and amy!!! (also since the ep aired 2 years ago today i'm not *technically* late thank u very much)

One million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes after marrying Amy Santiago (or, two years), every moment is as wonderful as day one. He still feels the same rush of excitement when he sees her waiting by their car at the end of a shift, the same swell of pride when she introduces him to someone as her husband, the same “oh my god we’re actually married” moment when he catches her rings glinting in the sunlight. It’s been the best one million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes of his life. And while he appreciates every single second they have together, knowing how in their line of work things can change all too easy, their second anniversary presents the perfect opportunity to remind her that everyday he gets to be with someone as amazing as her is crazy to him.

He has flowers, a handmade card, he even hoovered and she’s still asleep.

She never sleeps this late.

Everyone knows she’s the morning person in their relationship and he’s the Get Out Of Bed After Snoozing The Alarm Seventeen Times person. They live together, share a car, and yet most mornings he ends up riding the Subway, squashed between an old woman and a nerdy looking guy who smells like he hasn’t showered in a week, Amy rolling her eyes when he gets to work mid-briefing. The rare days she can get him out of bed early usually involve some kind of bribery using food and/or sex.

The point is, he’s supposed to be the one sleeping in past 11 AM, but ever since their doctor prescribed Clomid to help stimulate ovulation and boost their chances of making a baby, their roles have been totally reversed like Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis in Freaky Friday.

Pregnant Amy falls asleep anywhere and everywhere. The couch, the car, the cleaning cupboard at work when she was trying to find some Nuclear-strength cleaner to remove the stench of Charles’ lunch from the air before she hurled again.

She could sleep all day if he let her and he quite easily could. She looks so peaceful and cute and free from the stresses of her family asking why they waited so long (well, long for Santiago standards) to start a family. Plus, the messy hair and tiny bit of drool on her chin are impossibly endearing in the way only she can be.

He smiles and wraps his arms around her, resting his head on his shoulder, his hands - like his thoughts - drifting to her growing bump as they inevitably always do.

This time next year they’ll be celebrating with their little boy or girl, telling them all about the insane, magical day that was May 15th 2018. Of course, it might be some time before they can fully grasp the TV-worthy drama of the creepy phone call, the bomb in the vent, the ex-boyfriend proposing - twice! - and the wall of Amy photos, but they will sure as dammit know how beautiful their mom looked in her dress and how happy their dad was when Grandpa Holt finally announced them as husband and wife.

“Can’t breathe,” his wife squeaks, finally awake. “Arms too tight.”

“Oops. Sorry, babe.” He kisses her by way of apology; sometimes when he gets to thinking about that day, about seeing her walk down the shredded paper aisle under the glow of fairy lights, surrounded by the very people who watched them fall in love, he kind of forgets where he is and what he’s doing.

She’s always had that intoxicating effect on him. That’s never gonna change.

“Time is it?” She yawns, stretching her arms above her head.

“Twenty five to,” he pauses to brace himself for her reaction, “...twelve.”

“Twelve?” Horrified, she moves to get out of bed and yeah, he knows her so well. “Let me go,” she huffs in frustration when he forms a barrier to keep her from leaving.

“No can do, Santiago,” he says authoritatively. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone and you’re pregnant. You need to rest. We’ve both got the day off, our dinner reservations aren’t until 8. Just let your husband take care of you for a couple of hours.”

She chews on her lower lip, making her contemplative face that he recognises from sitting opposite her for so many years, preferring watching her piece together the leads in a case rather than work on his own. “Fine,” she eventually concedes. “Happy anniversary, by the way.”

“Happy anniversary,” he returns the sentiment, kissing her again because, well, he can, one of the perks of marrying Amy Santiago (alongside a perfectly organised sock drawer and getting to hang out with the best person in the world 24 sevs). “I got you these,” he adds, procuring the daffodil bouquet he found online.

“Jake,” she sighs dreamily, placing the flowers on her nightstand. “They’re beautiful. And my favourites.”

“I know,” he smirks. He may not be Santiago level smart, but he’s smart when it comes to all things Santiago. “Also made you this.” He hands over the card.

She opens it, instantly tearing up at his sweet message inside, the dam bursting when she notices the scrawled message written with his wrong hand from their unborn baby. “Mine sucks in comparison,” she laments, passing him his card before locking her eyes back on the words ‘happy anniversary to the world’s best mama’.

“It does not suck,” he reassures her, clutching it to his chest. “I’m going to savour it for all times. I want to be buried with it.”

She rolls her eyes, drying her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I thought you wanted to be buried with your original copy of Die Hard.”

“OK, Die Hard and your card. Rhymes for a reason, Ames.”

“You’re such a dork,” she responds, stifling her laughter. “Can’t believe I’ve been married to you for two full years.”

“I know.” He grins. “What was your favourite part?”

Her eyes glimmer with excitement and love and memories of their first anniversary before things turned upside down. “Are you suggesting we do a marriage highlight reel à la NBA inside stuff?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. I’ll go first. NUMBER FIVE,” he yells in his spot on Ahmad Rashad impression, earning a giggle from his wife. “Number five is that dress you wore on my birthday. Your butt looked the bomb in it.”

“Thanks, babe.” Two years in, she’s used to the constant “your butt is the bomb” comments, often uttered at the most inappropriate of times like when she stands up to brief the squad or play soccer with her brothers, much to her chagrin and their delight.

“Number four,” she quickly moves on. “The time you taught me to play Mario Party and I beat Wario on the first try.”

“That was my worst moment,” he groans.

“And that’s why it’s my best.”

He sighs, considers debating it, engaging in the classic back-and-forth that is the very foundation of their relationship, but it’s moot. She was way better than him. Santiago’s learn fast. It’s in their genes or something. And despite the crushing disappointment when she beat Wario with ease and dork danced her way to the kitchen to grab them both an orange soda, it was still a very fun night and a worthy moment in the highlight reel.

“Number Three. The York murder.”

Immediate understanding spreads across Amy’s face, but he explains anyway.

“I spent three days working that case and you just came in, saw the board and solved it right away.”

“I’m very smart,” she jokes lightheartedly.

“You are,” he agrees, his voice coming out softer and sincerer than even he imagined. “I love that about you. I love your brain. I love how good you are at your job, at figuring out puzzles. I love that you listen to NPR and know so much about the font Helvetica and have read, like, a million books. I love that you do a crossword every night and I love how proud you look when you give me a sports clue and I actually get it right. I love cheering you on at Trivia Nights even when Kylie can’t stop glaring at me. How lucky am I to have the smartest wife in the world?”

Touched, she can barely compile her thoughts to reveal her Number Two.

“The night at Shaw’s, at Hitchcock’s second divorce party, your speech, the way you kissed me, the way you were so gentle when we got home,” she sniffles. “It was special and made me feel so loved and if I say anymore I’m going to cry again, so you go.”

He chuckles knowingly. The pregnancy hormones have been making her extra emotional lately, they can’t even watch commercials anymore without her fully weeping. And while last year Pam and her twisted bowels interrupted before they could get to Number One, this year Number One is obvious. Clear as day. And there’s no one to interrupt.

He pretends to think about it for a minute (because he will always love teasing her, married or not). Only when she grabs his arm and digs her nails into his skin does he put both their hands on her bump and smiles. “Obviously this little guy or gal is Number One.”

She smiles back at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

His own face falls. “Ames?”

“It’s been a hard year, hasn’t it?” She sighs, thinking back to calendars and fertility appointments and the strict no nacho policy.

“Yeah,” he says, “it has. But this next year is gonna be the best one yet.”

“I mean... We’re probably not going to sleep a lot.”

“You might not sleep a lot but I sure will,” he teases, his words falling flat. “Just kidding, babe. Obviously I’m going to get up for all the feeds and diaper changes and whatever else this kid throws at us. Gonna be there for you both. No matter what.”

The pregnancy hormones strike again and she starts crying and, honestly, he can’t wait for this baby to get out, for more reasons than one.

“BRB, I’ll go make your favourite breakfast to make you feel better, don’t grow anymore body parts while I’m gone.”

He returns seven minutes later with pancakes, a ton of fruit, decaf coffee and another kiss. He climbs back into bed, devours his own Nutella pancakes and posts his favourite blurry, drunk on Champagne and love selfie from their makeshift wedding reception at Shaw’s, on Insta with a caption about how he promises he’s gonna love her for the rest of his life.

And he keeps that promise.

[fuckit-hero-of-trains]

Alone Together Ch 6

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311754/chapters/57276685

Chapter Summary:

There is hell to pay for messing with his family. And he intends to collect.

Or: A series of fics centered on Four and his interactions, inside and out.

Pounding.

The pounding of hooves on tightly packed dirt and stones. The pounding as the weight of two bodies jostle in a leather saddle, as the muscles of the horse below coil and release, slingshotting them forward through the dark.

The pounding of blood in his ears. The pounding of his heart in his chest.

Pounding.

They are pounding through the canyon, the oranges and blues of Wild’s divine device casting lights and dancing shadows against the walls of the rock face as they ride. As they race to find their friend

Behind him, Twilight feels as Legend adjusts his hold on his pelt, the other’s breath heavy and fast against his neck, anger and anticipation making the veteran twitchy in his seat. Below, Wild’s face is set in steel, the lights of his machine illuminating his features in licks of blue and orange fire.

Twilight doesn't need a mirror to know what his own face looks like. He knows he must look absolutely incensed, his eyes flashing like a beast’s in the dark, lips peeled back in a snarl.

He finds he doesn't care. Doesn't care if he is letting the wolf a little too close to the surface. Doesn't care if his eyes are glinting unnaturally in the light of the moon. Doesn't care that his teeth itch in his mouth, begging to sink into something and rend.

He. Doesn't. Care.

There is hell to pay for messing with his family. And he intends to collect.

With a flick of his wrists and a growling encouragement, Epona somehow picks up her pace from the dead sprint she was racing through before, her hooves now flying over the dirt as they finally burst from the canyon like Keese out of hell.

In front of them lay the expanse of East Hyrule field, illuminated in the light of the full moon.

High visibility tonight, Twilight notes distantly as the rolling hills, ponds, and small, crumbling sections of cobblestone wall come into view, shining with little icecaps of moonlit highlights.

Good, he thinks vindictively. It makes finding their prey all the easier.

Though, as the farmhand pulls on Epona’s reins, her pounding hooves and the humming whir of Wild’s machine slowing to a stop before they can enter the field proper, he hesitates to call the raiding party prey at all.

They are, after all, waiting for the heroes to arrive.

Though it had taken mere minutes for them to mount up and race out in pursuit of the marauders, it had apparently given the Bulblins ample time to prepare themselves.

Enough time to add another Bullbo with two riders to their raiding party, the archer already prepped, fire arrow lit and pointed at the heroes. Enough time for the lot of them to organize themselves for battle, arranged with their leader in the middle, flanked by four minions on each side. Enough time for their bastard of a leader to don a helm eerily reminiscent of King Bulblin’s, its roughly-hewn metal gleaming like a star in the night.

“Shit, Smithy…” Legend breathes against Twilight’s neck, voice a whisper but words heavy. They are full of wrath and dripping with a sort of guilty, yet boiling anger. The veteran’s eyes are no doubt drawn up up up, cemented to the spectacle their enemy has made of their friend, their brother, just like Twilight’s own.

Because those few minutes of preparation, of damned inaction on Twilight's part, had given the bastard enough time to string the smithy up to a massive pike sticking up from the end of his saddle.

Because there, hanging ten feet above their enemies and the beasts they ride, is Four.

A war trophy, limp and broken.

It makes Twilight feel sick, his head reeling, his stomach flipping, his heart dropping. He can taste bile in his mouth, acidic and so terribly, terribly familiar.

Familiar, like the sight of a blond head flopped forward, unmoving against a chest restrained by coil after coil of rope. Familiar like the streak of red ribbon tied to the top of the pike, waving tauntingly in the wind.  

It is all so, so terribly familiar. So familiar that Twilight can feel the sun on his back even in the dead of night. Can see King Bulblin in the saddle, even when he is not there. Can feel the same growling, howling anger he had then.

However, the worst parts of the tableau, the parts that slam the farmhand back into the present moment– night, full moon overhead, Legend straining against his back, Wild growling under his breath–are the things that are different, stark in contrast to his memories.

Because unlike so many years ago, it is night right now.

It is night and Four looks so horribly pale, the moonlight turning his already ashen face practically translucent. And the teen’s ghostly complexion only serves to highlight the next horrible difference: the blood.

Colin did not fight back against his captor, the Ordonian boy falling limp after his act of bravery. No violence was necessary to make him the perfect hostage.

Four was not the perfect hostage.

The testament to that slowly cascades down from the smithy’s hairline in thick, scarlet lines. Half of the smithy’s face is painted with the gruesome crimson, several drops of red slicing lower, over Four’s cheeks and down his jaw, dripping onto his restraints.

The only thing staunching the rivulets of blood is the boy’s headband. Though not in a way that is of any help, Twilight thinks as anger once again takes hold of him, burning a frantic blaze through his blood.

Because the strip of green ribbon is no longer tied against Four’s forehead. Instead, his signature accessory has been dragged down lower, knotted tight over the boy’s eyes, further blinding the already unconscious teen.

It’s unnecessary.

It’s cruel.

It makes Twilight want to fly from his saddle, claws extended, teeth bared.

With a horribly conspicuous cough, the leader of the Bulblins drags Twilight’s attention back down from the sight of their friend. He smiles when he sees the pelt wearing hero's eyes on him, grin all vitriol and yellowed teeth. The bastard flips up the visor of his helmet, pupiless red eyes coming back into view, bright with sick vindication as he takes in the outraged expressions on their faces.

Twilight glares back into their depths with as much hatred as he can muster, steel-gray stabbing into red, a sword versus fire.

The leader leans back in his saddle and laughs at the expression, his squealing snorts soon joined by his flunkies, a round of pig-like laughs erupting into the night.

“Thank you for following,” the beastly man says, once his cruel laughs have subsided, the words oddly shaped and spat out of the hismouth. Like they don't quite fit right on his tongue. “This makes things much easier.”

“If you wanted a fight,” Twilight replies, words all teeth, fangs, a growl, “all you had to do was ask. You didn't need to attack the town. You didn’t need to drag anyone else into this.”

Green lips peel back into an even broader grin as the Bulblin’s brow ridges raise in amusement. With a swift movement, the leader leans back farther in his seat and delivers a kick to the wooden pole on the end of his saddle, sending Four’s head flopping limply, more blood dropping down, decorating the ropes in rubies.

And to Twilight’s absolute horror, Four’s head lifts from his chest.

His head lifts and though his eyes are shrouded, Twilight can see the pained confusion easily on the boy’s face. Can see how his brows are pulled low, almost brushing the blood blackened fabric of his headband turned blindfold. Can see how the smithy’s mouth opens and closes but no words escape, like he doesn't quite know how to get his vocal cords to work. Can see how his head shifts slowly back and forth, left and right, searching endlessly in the dark.

And with a sickening jolt, Twilight realises that for the first time, Four is easy to read.

He is easy to read and Twilight can see clear as day that the smithy is hurt and confused and scared.  

“W-where…?” tumbles weak and slurred from the teen’s lips. “I- we –ed-Vi-?...W–are?”

“Four!” Twilight shouts, the nickname bursting unbidden from his throat as he strains forward in his saddle. He needs to tell the kid that he’s not alone in the dark. That the farmhand, that someone is there.

“-our?” The smithy mumbles in confusion. And then, with a little bit more clarity than before, as he angles his blind eyes in the direction of the farmhand’s voice, “Twi?”

Before Twilight can respond that yes, he’s here! He’s here! The Bulblin slams another kick into the pike, the blow jolting through Four’s body, rattling the teen’s head back and forth quickly. Too quickly for someone with as devastating a head injury as the small hero has clearly sustained.

With a startled groan of pain and twisted grimace, the teen falls limp in his restraints once more, chin coming back to rest on his chest.

For a second, Twilight feels almost numb, the concern for his friend, his little brother , so all consuming he can feel nothing else as he stares at the now unmoving teen.

And in the next moment, the concern that was bubbling up from within the farmhand’s chest flares into rage, hot like lava, filling his stomach and lungs and veins with heat. Again, the pelted hero becomes acutely aware of the teeth in his mouth and how they tingle with the need to sink into something and rip .

Preferably, that something being the bastard’s throat.

The leader of the Bulblins has the audacity to smile at Twilight’s rage, spreading his arms wide, as though his point has been proven

“I needed assurance that you would come,” he says, voice airy with sick glee. “And I needed you at your most angry, your most powerful,” the Bulblin replies with a shrug and an unrepentant sneer. “I think this will do nicely.”

He sends another kick into the pike and Twilight almost snarls as Four lets out a soft groan of distress in his unconsciousness. Behind him, he feels Legend’s muscles tighten, a cord ready to snap. Below, Wild’s fingers twitch on his boomerang.

“I want to defeat you when you are at your best.” The Bulblin says. And then, he directs his eyes purposefully over Twilight’s shoulder and then down toward Wild, smile sharpening into a dagger. “That you brought allies will make this all the more sweet.”

“But why?” Twilight asks, the words erupting from him, anger and confusion and protective instinct searing at the back of his throat. “Why are you doing this? I thought we had an agreement with King Bul–”

“King Bulblin is dead!” The leader howls, jolting forward, lungs heaving in rage as that damned smile is finally whipped from his face. Scarlet eyes glare balefully at Twilight, glowing with hate in the night.

“King Bulblin is dead,” the Bulblin repeats, slowly composing himself once more.

“Long live King Bulblin,” he finishes, slamming a gauntleted fist into the armor of his chest.

At the monstrous man’s gesture, the Bulblins flanking him immediately raise their arms and their voices, warbling screeches flying up into the night air.

And as their calls caterwaul higher and higher, an odd mixture of a war call and scream of triumph Twilight realises that the armor… the armor that the leader is wearing is familiar.

He's seen that armor before. Many times before. He has seen that armor in his memories; seen it at the height of day, white with noonday sun. He's seen it at sunset, burning orange with the dying sky. He's seen it at night, in the dark of an enclosed room, a trap.

The armor this bastard wears looks different on his smaller body, the panels not quite pulled taught, not as filled out, but it is undoubtedly the same armor.

This Bulblin, this Prince Bulblin, is wearing the King’s armor.

“I don't understand,” Twilight replies, having to shout over the caterwauls. “What happened to the old King Bulblin?”

The leader– Prince Bulblin– turns his head cocking it to one side in mock thought. After a moment, he bares his crooked, yellowing teeth in the facsimile of a grin.

“A shade came to the desert,” he says simply.

The words send off alarm bells in Twilight's head. Legend shifts in the saddle. Wild’s twitching fingers halt in shock.

“It is not common to find darkness in the heat of the sun and yet,” the Bulblin continues, his grin growing as he takes in the unsettled nature of the heroes before him. “It persisted.”

“It was strong,” Prince Bulblin says with a definitive nod. “It was strong, and it offered some of its power to King Bulblin.”

His sneer goes from mocking to venomous in seconds.

“King Bulblin refused.”

The Prince slams his fist into his chest again, the metal clunking heavily under the weight of the blow.

“We have one law. We answer to the strongest under the light of the sun, the most powerful under the shade of the moon. King Bulblin broke this law.”

“He was weak,” the leader spits, no remorse in the venom of his words. “The shade disposed of him. Gave me power. Gave us power.”

Suddenly, Prince Bulblin whips around and pulls something from a side saddlebag.

A knife, Twilight realizes as the short blade glints in the moonlight.

At the sight of the weapon, Twilight tenses in his seat, hand flying to the hilt of the Master Sword. Beside him, Legend leans to the left, tilting just far enough in the saddle to give himself a clean shot from around Twilight’s body. Wild, meanwhile, raises his arm, poised to let his boomerang fly.

Across from the heroes, eight archers draw into ready position, flame arrows only restrained when the Prince lifts a hand to still them.

Everything is silent for a moment, only the sound of a faint breeze heard as the two groups stare each other down.

The quiet is broken as the Prince lets out a chuckle.

At their leader’s signal, the archers let their bodies lose their tension, though Twilight notes that none of them move to set their bows aside, arrows still primed. Ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.

With slow, deliberate, almost performative motions, Prince Bulblin brings the knife up and lays it against the hand he had been using to direct his lackies. And then slowly, reverently, he drags it across the skin of his palm.

Black ichor bubbles to the surface along the line of the cut, a void that even the light of the moon cannot brighten.

“King Bulblin is dead,” he says again, placing his bleeding hand on the chest plate of his armor. When he pulls his palm away from the metal, a black handprint stands out in stark relief against the gleaming metal.

“Long live King Bulblin!” his companions screech, once again descending into rancorous cheers.

“Can we please just kill him and get Four back already?” Wild whispers angrily, voice almost lost amongst the ruckus.

Part of Twilight– the part that wants to run ahead, to shred and rip and tear apart anything that stands between him and Four– begs to agree. Another part– one that can see how outnumbered they are, that can see the amount of bows trained on them, a part that sounds suspiciously like the Old Man, damn him – knows they need to stall.

They need information.

They need a plan.

Most importantly, they need backup if they’re going to rescue Four safely.

“Got anything for those arrows?” Twilight hisses over his shoulder, keeping his eyes locked on the mob before them.

“You even need to ask?” the veteran whispers back, words sassy but voice deadly serious. “Buy me a minute.”

Twilight nods as subtly as possible and nudges his heel lightly into Epona’s side. In response, she carefully maneuvers to the right. Her movements are jerky and meandering, akin to a horse spooked by the noise of their enemies, drifting out of position as her inexperienced rider fails to notice.

But she is not meandering aimlessly. And Twilight is not an inexperienced rider.

No. They are in sync.

But Prince Bulblin doesnt know this.

Next to him, Wild follows his lead, no words needing to be exchanged between the two as the scarred teen angles the head of his machine in the same direction Epona moves. Behind him, Legend hunkers down more fully into Twilight’s spine, playing the scared companion while he subtly rummages through his bottomless pack.

“Did the shade put you up to this?” Twilight calls to their adversaries as their screams fade back into nothing, bringing red eyes back on him.

“No,” Prince Bulblin replies, too full of himself and his tirade to notice the movements of the heroes. “The shade is gone. I do this for none but myself.”

With practiced motions, the Prince seats himself more properly in his saddle, one hand coming back to the reins while the other takes hold of his weapon.

It’s the same club he used to bludgeon Four.

Blood, red and crusty, still paints the side of the wood and bone.

“King Bulblin was too weak for the shade,” he snorts derisively, raising his club to the moon. Around him, his fellow Bulblins raise their bows.

Twilight shifts in his saddle, raising himself slightly in the seat, ready to push Epona into a sprint. Legend presses in closer to his back, a weapon– not his bow but some kind of rod Twilight has never seen before– peaking from where the Veteran has it hidden in his tunic. Wild tenses on his bike one hand on the handle bars, arm poised to throw his weapon.

“He was too weak to kill you,” Prince Bulblin says simply. And then, with a smile, eyes wide and bottomless: “I will prove I am stronger than he ever was.”

Prince Bulblin lets his club fall and the field explodes into motion.

A rain of arrows, flaming and otherwise, sings through the air. Epona bursts into motion at the snap of leather reins, sprinting to the right of the firing squad. Wild’s machine growls to life, the front wheel coming off the ground as the device kicks into motion, the curved metal of his weapon glinting in the moonlight as it flies.

And as all this happens, a cacophony of noise and movement, illuminated in shades of white and grey, Legend jolts up in the saddle, one hand caught in Twilight’s pelt for balance as he raises a twin headed, dual propeller rod toward the onslaught and–

Twilight is damn near slammed into Epona’s neck, Legend’s weight adding to the problem as the pink haired hero is flattened against the farmhand’s spine by the force of the wind.

Behind them, the howl of the cyclone drowns out everything, the gale screaming across the field, blasting into their enemies as Twilight and Wild ride forward, away from the imminent danger with the wind at their backs.

Another beat and the wind finally lets up, the heavy chop chop chop of the propellers dying to a whisper as Legend eases off of Twilight’s back and slumps back into the saddle with a disbelieving little laugh.

Next to them,Twilight sees Wild look over his shoulder out of the corner of his eyes, catching the way the champion's face splits into a vicious grin as the teen lets out a whoop of victory.

Twilight risks a look back as well and, despite himself, feels a laugh punch up from his lungs at the sight laying behind them.

Because where there was once a line of enemies, organized, positioned perfectly, and poised to kill, there is now total and absolute chaos.

A massive dust cloud kicked up by the gale force winds swirls and eddies in shades of black, brown, and grey as pained and confused shouts break through the air.

Bullbos dart in and out of the mini dust storm, their riders desperately hanging from their saddles, trying to claw themselves back into their seats. Some are successful, pulling their squealing beasts into submission with massive yanks of the reigns. Others are less fortunate, bucked completely, disappearing back into the dust, or in some cases, under sharp, pounding hooves.

Dragging his eyes from the sight of their disorganized enemies, Twilight guides Epona into a turn, hopping over one of the short, shattered cobblestone walls before wheeling back around toward the now lawless riders. He urges Epona faster.

Disorganized and distracted. The perfect time to strike-

Thunder.

The sound of that terrible, familiar, damned rolling thunder has Twilight pulling up short, sending  his brain, his eyes back to sunsets and warmth and water, water in his nose water in his lungs dark dark dark. He drags Epona to a whinnying stop, Wild slowing to a halt next to him as that low, resonant note breaks through the night, deep and all encompassing.

So all encompassing that the confused screams and shouts and squeals are consumed by it, cut off, drowned out by the sheer power of the horn.

Behind the veil of brown, the shadows of bodies, massive, hulking and small, wirey, all stop moving.

And then the dust, quite literally, settles.

The dust settles, and despite the apparent chaos of earlier, only a few Bulblins have been reduced to smoke. The dust settles, and Twilight can see the remaining marauders scrambling to their mounts, readying clubs and bows as they swing themselves into their saddles.

The dust settles, revealing an unscathed Prince Bulblin, ivory horn pressed to his lips, eyes burning red and hateful.

“Fuck,” Legend says, voice flat, an odd mix of awed distress and resignation.

In the next second, Prince Bulblin slams the reins down on Lord Bullbo’s back and the beast kicks into motion, rearing back on its hind legs. The movement sends Four’s swinging in the air, a pendulum in the night sky that Twilight can't help but wince at, thinking of the boy's head injury.

And then the beast dives forward pounding toward them at a break-neck pace, a silver arrow in the night. A massive silver arrow with gleaming white tusks and with seven slightly smaller brown arrows racing after it.

So yeah, Twilight thinks distantly as he urges Epona into a run, the pounding of hooves behind them grumbling louder and louder even as she sprints, fuck just about sums it up.

A flash of aqua and tangerine and Wild wheels up next to Epona’s coiling and releasing muscles, the sleek machine humming away as it keeps time with the horse.

“What now?!” Wild shouts over the roar of rushing air and the slam of hooves.

“We need to split up the mob!” Twilight shouts back, leaning against his girl’s neck and practically willing her to speed up. “If they surround us we’re sitting ducks!”

“Oh yeah?” Legend snorts meanly, shuffling  through his bag to pull out his bow again. “And how exactly do you plan on getting them to do that? If you forgot, they kinda want to skin you alive. ”

“If it's any consolation, they want to skin you alive by association,” Twilight bites back, painfully aware that the sound of their pursuers is getting even closer, if the snorts and war cries are any indication.

Behind him, Legend shifts around in the saddle, no doubt lining up a shot. His entire body is tense along Twilight’s back as he pulls the string of his bow taut.

“Gee thanks, what a comforting thou–”

Legend cuts himself off with a shout of pain right as something–an arrow– wizzes past Twilight’s ear.

“Shit, Vet, are you alright?” Twilight shouts, desperately wanting to turn, to check, to comfort. Instead, he keeps his eyes glued on the field in front of them, pulling Epona into quick back and forth motions, serpentine, to make sure the pink haired hero isn't hit again.

“I’m fine,” the other grits out from between clenched teeth. “They got my calf. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Another heartbeat, and more arrows sing past them, some missing by miles, others by inches at best.

Legend answers their shots with his own, a quick flurry of twang twang twang thrumming in quick succession. Although, based on the lack of screams, Twilight guesses that the same zig-zag that is keeping them from getting hit again is also impeding the Veterans aim.

Beside them, Wild glides back and forth on his machine, dodging volleys of arrows like he was born to do so. With the flick of the wrist, his machine swings right once more and with his open hand the Champion reaches for his slate and…

“No bombs, Cub!” Twilight all but screams, starling the teen beside him. Scarred fingers fly from the slate slam and back up to the handle bars, steadying the device as wide blue eyes flash to the farmhand questioningly.

“We can’t risk the big one going down!” Twilight shouts by way of explanation.

Even without tearing his eyes from the field in front of them, the farmhand can see the moment  the realization dawns on Wild.

Because yes, while they want to get rid of Prince Bulblin and his lackeys, there is another obstacle in their way.

That obstacle being a small teen whose entire body is being jolted by the motions of the chase, the back and forth slamming probably worsening his already terrible condition.

Because if Lord Bullbo were to fall wrong… Four would be the one to pay for it. Probably with his life.

“Fuck,” Legend hisses again, the curse somehow coming out more vehiment this time.

“Then what should we–!”

Another scream of pain, this one yanked from Wild’s throat.

Twilight’s head whips to the side at the harrowing sound, catching the moment the teen is thrown forward in his seat. Beneath the champion, his machine swerves dangerously as his weight slams into the handle bars. An arrow blossoms from his shoulder like a sick imitation of a flower and almost immediately, blood begins to stain the bright blue of Wild’s tunic black.

And for the briefest of seconds, as Wild swerves, face pulled in a grimace, as Legend stifiles another hiss of pain, Twilight wishes he had left both of them behind. Wishes he hadn't had his second of indecision. Wishes he hadn't caved.

Wishes desperately that he could take their injuries for himself.

And then Wild rights himself and steadies his machine, snarl still on his face but eyes fire bright with determination. Behind them, there is a slam, a squealing scream, and against his spine, Twilight feels as Legend lets out a vindictive, poison filled laugh.

A quick zig-zag of blue and orange, sunset and ocean, and Wild pulls in tight to Epona’s side, the metal of his divine device almost touching her heaving flanks.

And the teen looks up at him, grimace turning to a too wide smile, too many teeth to be anything nice.

“I’ve got an idea,” Wild hisses from between his bared canines.

A statement. An intention. Something he can do, but not enough time to explain exactly what that something is.

A warning.

No.

An extended hand, the invitation to jump.

But only if Twilight takes it.

And though the farmhand still wishes they hadn't gotten hurt, wishes that he had taken both arrows for himself, he feels something inside him settle. Dripping concern and clawing guilt hardens into steely resolve.

Because they chose to come with him. Because they knew what they were getting into.

Because they are heroes just like him.

And so, Twilight nods

No need for Wild to explain. The teen can handle himself and Twilight trusts him to know what to do.

The vicious smile slashing across the younger’s face becomes more genuine for a second, less vitriol and more exhilaration.

And then with a whooping, wrathful, excited war cry, Wild grabs the handlebars of his machine and yanks, peeling away from Twilight’s side. In seconds, he is nothing but a meteorite of blue and orange fire speeding off into the night.

“They let him go,” Legend reports, losing another arrow. And then, grimly: “They’re gaining on us.”

Twilight could have guessed that by the sound of the Bullbos’ heavy breathing and the slamming of hooves practically upon them, but gives a grunt of acknowledgement anyway.

With experienced hands, the pelt wearing hero leads Epona through a feint to the left, and then a sharp dodge to the right.

He feels a sneer pull at his lips as the sound of warbling curses and the noise of hooves scrambling to catch in dirt grows fainter as they pull away once more.

These beasts may be faster than his trusty steed, he thinks vindictively. But they were dim witted and had the turning capability of Fyrus. Which was to say, practically none.

The moment of reprieve, however, is short lived. As soon as Twilight pulls Epona into a straight-away, the cacophony of grunts and hooves pounding on hard packed dirt is back.

With a glance over his shoulder Twilight can see how rabid the pack behind them is becoming.

Prince Bulbin’s eyes are twin blood moons in the dark, full of malice and hatred and dripping of a sick eagerness. Beneath him, Lord Bullbo is a heaving mass of grey and silver, metal armored body clunking heavily with every lurch forward. The beast's snout is open, panting and dribbling slobber everywhere, tusks jutted forward, ready to peirce, to gore.

Behind the leader, the posse is in a similar frenzied state, voices whooping, clubs swinging, reigns whipping to get their mounts to move faster.

All eyes, the red and yellow pinpricks of color flashing in the night, are locked on Twilight, Legend, and Epona. Like the world has narrowed to just the chase, the hunt, the prey, the kill.

Which is why none of the Bulblins see the equine machine painted in shades of ethereal aquamarine and burning, sunset orange racing toward them until it is too late.

No. They don't see Wild until the teen has launched himself into the air, until he is flying above their heads, his ride fading into nothing but streams of light on the ground behind him. They do not see him until the champion levels three ice arrows at them, the projectiles barely restrained by his knuckles as they sit knocked in his bowstring.

“Eat shit, you ugly, overgrown cabbages!”

And then the arrows are no longer restrained at all, the three white tipped projectiles twanging through the night air and finding their targets: the front hooves of the three Bullbos directly behind Prince Bulblin.

With a crash, most of  the pack becomes a tangled swarm of limbs, hooves, brown hide, green skin, and squeals of pain, leaving only the Prince and two other riders unscathed as they continue to race unimpeded after Epona

Wild, meanwhile, whips out his paraglider to cushion his fall, lands with a roll, and immediately summons his device again with a swift click of his slate.

Then with a: “Come get some, fuckers!” The Champion kicks his machine into gear and streaks off toward the entrance of the canyon. The Bulblins who are somehow still alive quickly give chase, the orders of their new King all but forgotten.

And for a second, even with his own pursuers galloping closer, Twilight can’t help but focus on Wild. On his Cub.

Because even though Twilight knows the champion can handle himself, as he watches four shadows race after Wild baying for blood, the farm hand can’t help but wonder if the teen has bitten off more than he can chew.

Because Wild, for all his showmanship, for all his goading, for all his success, is still injured after all.

But then, a distant war cry sounds through the night.

A distant war cry sounds and five shadows burst from the canyon, racing forward to meet Wild. And not for the first time that night, Twilight thanks his night vision. Because despite the darkness and the distance, the farmhand can see that the figure leading the shadows is clothed in light green and white.

They’re here, he thinks numbly. The others are finally here.

All at once, a breath Twilight didn't know he was holding leaves him. A feeling, a swooping sort of calm–no– determination replaces the bubbling concern.

He focuses his eyes back onto the field before him, feels Epona’s muscles heaving and feels like he can breathe again. He can breathe again and he can focus on getting Four back.

Wild would be fine. It was one of his other little brothers he had to worry about now.  

“How many we got left?” Twilight yells over his shoulder.

“Three!” Legend shouts back. “The King plus a couple of stragglers.”

Twilight risks another glance back, confirming what Legend reported.

The pelt wearing hero doesnt think Prince Bulblin could look more rabid if he tried. The beastly man's entire face is split into a nasty snarl as he screams snorting wordless curses into the wind. Above his head, he swings his bone and wood club in little circles, ready to bludgeon as soon as he gets close enough.

And he's getting close enough. A handful more seconds and Lord Bullbo’s nose will be level with the right side of Epona’s hindquarters.

Twilight whips back forward, eyes scanning the field in front of him, analyzing

Slight hill on the right. A few lingering puddles at his two o’clock. On his left, the bridge, Eldin Bridge, is rapidly approaching from the dark. Dead ahead, a few of those destroyed walls stand out bright as bones in the moonlight.

Another glance back. The Prince is even closer, but now vering to the right. Avoiding the wall. Not an experienced enough rider.

Twilight snaps his head forward once more.

He runs some lightning quick calculations. Runs them past his years of experience.

Outlook: not great.

But if Twilight has learned anything tonight, it's to trust the ones he loves. To trust himself.

So Twilight leans forward and presses his forehead to Epona’s neck. He can feel the way her neck jolts back and forth as she continues to lunge through the field. Her skin radiates heat, smells of hay and sweat. He can hear her heavy breathing, sharp breaths punching in and out.

“Just a little longer, girl,” he says as he straightens. “One more trick and you’ll be done.”

He thinks he sees her ears flick, though with how hard she's running, it's hard to tell.

And yet somehow, the pelt wearing hero knows she heard him.

“You’re gonna want to hold on for this!” Twilight shouts,only waiting long enough to feel Legend wrap his arms around his middle before the farmhand leans forward and urges Epona faster with his heels.

And Twilight locks his eyes forward and rides.

They reach the first of the partially crumbled walls as fast as the wind, hooves pounding on the ground one moment and weightless in the next as Epona leaps over it.

It feels like they’re flying. It feels like being shot through the air from a cannon, up up up into the sky. It feels like they hang in the air for eternity together when, in reality, Twilight knows it must be only a fraction of a second.

And then that second ends. Gravity catches up with them and sends them hurtling back towards the ground.

Epona’s hooves connect with the dirt hard, the weight of two extra bodies slamming down adding increased poundage to the collision. Twilight uses that extra weight, that extra oomph , and throws his body to the left, almost sitting perpendicular to the ground in the saddle.

For a split millisecond, he can see dirt and grass rushing past his nose in a blur. Can feel Legend’s nails dig into his sternum in shock and fear.

And then he can feel the moment the weight of their jump evens out, his stomach jumping from his feet back up into position in his belly, and with that second of weightlessness, Twilight pulls hard on the reins and drags Epona into the sharpest turn they’ve ever attempted.

And by Hylia, Epona turns like she’s spinning on a dime, her head down low, and then flying back up as she snaps her entire body through the turn.

Their inertia slams into them as Epona’s hooves drag through the dirt, slowing enough to dive around the left side of the debilitated wall; The weight of it throwing Twilight and a now screaming Legend forward and too far to the left in the saddle.

Twilight uses that weight, the moment of slowness, and hooks his ankle around the stirrup on the right side, clenches his legs and core, and heaves both himself and the pink haired hero until they’re sitting right side up in the leather seat once more.

Sitting right side up and, due to their fancy riding and sharp turn, now riding right behind the trio of riders that had been tailing them.

“If you do that again, I will throw up on you ,” Legend hisses in the farmhand’s ear, hands still fisted in Twilight's tunic like his life depends on it.

Something about the veteran’s words, the exhilaration of the pulling off the maneuver, and the dumbfounded, angry faces of the Bulblins now in front of them causes Twilight to bark a laugh despite the circumstances.

“After we take down these assholes, maybe?” Twilight offers, taking the reins in one hand as he raises the other to once again unsheathe the Master Sword from his back.

“Yeah, yeah,” is Legend’s witty response as he finally loosens his grip enough to pull out his bow and knock an arrow in the string.

A couple of heartbeats later, and Epona pulls up beside the lackie’s Bullbo on the far right. Twilight dispatches the Bulblin with a swift stab through the chest, black blood hissing off the divine blade. On the far left, the other Bulblin slumps in his saddle, an arrow in his throat bubbling inky ichor.

With their riders dead, the Bullbos veer off to the side, disappearing into the night.

Leaving just the Lord and the Prince.

The Prince who snarls and screams at the sight of his dead posse. The Prince who then turns gnashing teeth and shining eyes on them, hatred and malice radiating off of him in heaving waves.

The Prince whose face suddenly seems to regain some icy composure. The Prince who squares his shoulders forward and with a snap of  leather reins, orders Lord Bullbo to go faster even as he yanks the leather to the left.

To the left. Toward the bridge, just like Twilight always knew he would.

“Shit, is the bastard making a break for it?” Legend hisses as their target clatters onto the cobblestone of the structure, hooves and metal armor making a ruckus as they move

“Not running away,” Twilight replies, not even needing to guide Epona to follow. She already knows what must happen. Has done it enough times to know.

Soon enough, the dull thump thump thump of her gait turns to ringing clacks as she too slams her hooves down against the white, carved rock of the Bridge of Eldin.

Twilight pulls Epona to a stop and behind him, the farmhand can feel as Legend cranes his neck to see what's going on.

At the other end of the bridge, the Prince heaves his own mount around to face them, the silver haired beast pawing at the rock  

“Not running away,” Twilight reiterates, resolutely. Grimly. “He’s led us to the final arena.”

Legend’s head whips from their quarry to the slim stretch of bridge– barely wide enough for the two mounts– in front of them, down to the yawning void beneath the cobblestone.

Twilight tightens his grip on the Master Sword, the leather of his gloves creaking against the pommel. Across the way, The Prince hefts up his club, ready to strike.

“No fucking way,” the veteran breathes, putting it all together.

“Don't worry,” Twilight reassures as he holds the reins at the ready, prepared to charge the moment his opponent makes the first move. “I’ve done this before.”

“Done this bef–?” Legend cuts himself off with hiss and a groan. “By the Wind Fish, Wild gets it from you,” he finishes, resigned.

Twilight ignores the comment, eyes locked on the Prince. The Prince stares back. A stand off.

“Aim for him, not the beast,” Twilight says, words coming out quiet, as though speaking too loudly will shatter the moment. Will shatter the moment and send them into the fight. “If the Bullbo falls…”

He doesn't finish the thought, eyes trailing up from his enemy.

Up to Four.

If possible, there is more blood on the kid’s face now than there was before. Nearly his entire face is now covered in crimson, the red cascading over his forehead, onto his blindfold, and down to his chin.

And yet despite the blood, despite the massive head injury at the source of the scarlet, and despite the rough motions of the ride they had just run through, Twilight can also distinctly see that the boy’s head is up. His head is lifted from his chest. In fact, it is thrown back as Four thrashes in his binding, feet kicking, shoulders shaking, back arching.

Twilight can also see that Four’s mouth is opening, closing, opening, closing in time with his struggles. Is he talking to himself? Is he asking for Twilight, the others, anyone in the dark? Bargaining with the Prince below him? Mumbling nonsense?

Twilight can’t tell. Even with his advanced hearing abilities, he cannot catch a scrape of the smithy’s voice.

No. He cannot hear the teen’s words.

But he can see their effect.

He can see the way the Prince snarls, the anger from his ‘perfect plan’ going awry rising up through the monstrous being like a wave. Can see when he leans back and delivers three harsh smashes of his feet to the pole, taking out all his rage on the hero he has at his disposal. Can see the way Four’s face contorts in pain.

But the smithy doesn't slump in his bindings. Not this time.

Four grimaces and grits his teeth and he keeps his bleeding head held high, up to the moon. He keeps his head held high and continues to thrash against the ropes,  still fighting despite it all. Still fighting.

They need to get him down, Twilight thinks. They need to get him medical attention. They need to help him. They need to help him now.  

So Twilight doesn't wait for The Prince to make the first move.

The farmhand nudges Epona forward and she takes off down the straight-away of the bridge at a thundering sprint.

Across from them, The Prince lets out a giddy sounding war cry and mirrors them, Lord Bullbo’s metal armor gleaming white in the moonlight as it streaks closer and closer and closer…

Twilight raises the Master Sword to the sky. Legend tenses behind him, body nearly as taut as his bow string. Prince Bulblin heaves up his bone club.

Closer, closer, closer, closer closer, closercloserclosercloserclosercl–!

They meet in the middle of the bridge, two arrows flying, one holy blade swinging down, a club of bone and blood thrown in a wide arc.

One arrow, two, clang harmlessly off of the front of Prince Bulbin’s armor–

Twilight's hand is wracked with discomfort.

Jolts of vibrating pain rocket up Twilight’s sword wielding arm, jerking up his shoulder and causing his muscles to involuntarily seize.

He must have hit the armor with too much force he thinks distantly.

And then he doesnt think at all. Only feels.

Feels an explosion of agony surge up his body, a bolt of lightning starting from his leg, crackling across every nerve ending of his foot, ankle, knee, thigh, hip, until it reaches his body. Like lightning arcing across the sky, the pain spreads in searing bolts, the echoes of thunderous pain causing him to curl up against Epona’s neck, forcing the air out of his lungs in a scream.

Broken. Broken. Something is shattered. Broken.

And every jolt of Epona’s hooves against the stone as she runs, every shift of the saddle, every movement of anything sends a terrible, pounding agony up from his leg, aftershocks shifting his diaphragm up, making it impossible to get enough air in his lungs.

“Twi! Twi! Damn it, Twilight! Answer me!” Legend shouts, momentarily pulling the farmhand from his pain through sheer force of angered and panicked voice alone.

Back in the present moment, Twilight can feel it  in his injury when Epona slows. The end of the bridge, he muses. Then, with careful, light steps, he feels as she spins around, facing the middle of the bridge once more, prepared for the next pass.

Good Girl, Twilight thinks distantly, forcing himself up from his folded over position, straightening his spine despite the searing agony shooting from his leg. Behind him, the veteran shifts in the saddle, eliciting another groan of pain from the pelt wearing hero’s lips as the younger leans over to examine Twilight’s leg.

“Shit,” Legend hisses.

And though the other’s voice is flat, Twilight can’t help but think well that can’t be a good sign.  

Because Legend has seen everything. Getting a reaction as devoid of emotion as possible, as purposefully not telling as possible, is telling in its own way. And what it is telling Twilight is that things are decidedly not good.

Not that he couldn't have told you that himself. He is the one with the probably shattered left leg, afterall.

But he can’t focus on that. Can’t focus on the way the other hero begins to shuffle through his bag, hands fast, too fast for his seemingly blase response. Can’t focus on the way Twilight can feel whatever is left of his bones click and shift under his skin, biting into muscle.

Can’t let the pain or panic consume him.

Because in front of them, Prince Bulblin wheels around, a triumphant sneer on his lips. Below the monster, Lord Bullbo paws the ground and shakes his tusks, ready for another go.

“Legend,” Twilight grits out, interrupting the other midway through a muttered curse, a second run through of his bag.

With a bit of effort, the pelt wearing hero turns in the saddle enough to catch the other's eyes over his shoulder. Electric blue meets steely gray, the sky against an oncoming storm.

He looks Legend in the eye and though the other's face is straight, a mask of control, a shield of blankness, Twilight can see the faintest spark of energy–panic– in the way the other's eyes flicker. The way his eyes dart back to his bag, not done searching, not done trying to find some other solution.

Twilight sees desperation in the others eyes if not in his face and Twilight paints a smile, strained and shaking, over his own lips.

“I’m fine,” Twilight says, lying through gritted teeth, through his ugly facsimile of a smile “We’ll be fine.”

Stretched truth , that giggly, familiar, nostalgic voice whispers in his ear. And despite the pain the voice brings, a nebulous ache in his chest rather than the raw, pounding agony of his leg, Twilight can't help it when his false smile turns a little more genuine.

A stretched truth , he agrees.

Because he is not lying if it will be true eventually.

And it will be true. They will be fine. They will be fine, even if he has to drag himself and his brothers from the jaws of Hylia herself.

He has spit in the faces of those who would call themselves gods before. He has no qualms with doing it again.

“We can do this,” Twilight says firmly, no room for argument.

Then the man with the soul of a wolf feels his gritted grin turn vicious, lips pulling up wider.  Hungry, the flash of fangs before the kill.

“Now focus and shoot the motherfucker in the head.”

Legend’s eyes widen, the mask of control slipping out of place for the briefest of seconds, letting shock shine through.

And then Legend has no need for the mask. Life comes back to his face, the flickering, uncertain light in his eyes shifting to lightning, decisive, powerful, unshaken. His eyebrows pull lower, anrgy. His mouth sets in a hard line, his jaw locked.

Legend nods his head at Twilight’s words, entire face set in steely, unforgiving stone. No longer a mask, purposefully controlled and emotionless, but strong, expressive, and unflinching.

Another war cry sends both heroes’ eyes forward and just like that, the moment is broken. Epona slams back into motion and the night is racing past the two once more.

Arm raising the Master Sword despite the pain. Body held tense, ready to release arrows.

A terrible smile ready for more spilt blood. More shattered bodies getting closer and closer.

Closer, closer, closer, closer closer, closercloserclosercloserclosercl–!

Two arrows fly by Twilight’s ear in quick succession. Neither strike Prince Bulblin in the helm, but they serve their purpose: one lodges in between two chinks of armor on the beast’s left side, the other clanging against a shoulder plate. The impacts, one no doubt painful, the other merely disorienting, allow both Twilight and Legend to lean out of the way of a blind swing.

Seeing the opening as if in slow motion, Twilight plunges the Master Sword into the meat of the bastard’s arm.

The speed of their mounts rips them away from one another, dragging the sword of evil's bane up up up as they move past, cleaving skin and armor alike until it finally pulls free with a sickening sound.

In seconds, Epona delivers them to the end of the bridge once more and then swings around, ready for another go.

At the other end, Twilight feels a burning, wrathful giddiness in seeing that the victorious smirk has been ripped from the Prince’s face, replaced with a grimace of pain. Pain and a need to deal that pain back twelve fold.

Twilight is also glad to see that he had cleaved more than just skin with the last attack. Pieces of hewn armor on the bastard’s left side have been shorn, exposing green skin and a river of inky black where the Master Sword had connected.

It figures that the armor would be easier to shred now than ever before.

It had been made for the King, the leather and cobbled together metal pulled taut over the monstrous man’s massive body.

It was not made for  small, insignificant usurper Princes playing at being a leader.

A furious scream and they’re off to the races again.

Closer, closer, closer, closer close–!

An arrow fires off, flies true, and sinks into Prince Bulblin’s exposed side with a thunk. He screams curling forward in the saddle to protect the injury, to further protect his exposed side.

A second arrow sings from behind Twilight and slams intself directly between the Prince’s eyes, throwing the monster’s head back as his helm rattles at the force.

The green skinned beast hangs limp in his saddle for a moment.

And that moment is all Twilight needs to plunge the Master Sword into his exposed stomach, letting the Epona’s speed shove the blade all the way through, letting her pounding steps away drag the sword out through the Prince’s body, cutting clean through skin and muscle.

They reach the other end of the bridge, and as Epona turns, Twilight hopes against hope that the Prince is down.

He is not. Bleeding profusely, black blood pouring from his mouth and side, The Prince still sits in his saddle, defiant. He sits, and though his arm is a veritable waterfall of ink, he still hauls his club up. He still glares at them with an undying hatred. Still snarls and bares his crooked yellow teeth, as though he wants to taste blood other than his own on his tongue.

“Bastard wants a fight to the death,” Legend mutters, readying two more arrows.

Another flurry of movement draws Twilight’s eyes back up.

Four is still struggling. His mouth is still opening closing opening closing. Blood still runs down his face. But in his thrashing, his blindfold has come loose. Twilight cannot see the teens eyes, but he can tell they are free. Wide and free.

“If that's what he wants,” Twilight replies grimly, bringing his eyes back down. Back to the only thing standing in their way from saving their brother, “then that's what we’ll give him. Let's get our smithy back.”

They move as one, Epona and Lord Bullbo springing forward toward one another, brown and silver blurs on a collision course in the center of the bridge. Getting closer and closer...

Closer, closer, closer, closer close–!

Before Legend can loose an arrow, before Twilight can deliver a mortal blow, before they can even begin to reach their enemy, the Prince’s grim expression, his dead set determination, his vicious snarl, all of it, melts off of his face.

It melts off his face, only to be replaced with a smile. A sneer of yellow teeth, joyful, terrifying.

The Prince smiles, and drops his club into the darkness below.

And then with a full body motion, he yanks Lord Bullbo’s head to the left.

Left left left left too far left.  A shout is ripped from Twilight's throat as he watches the beast struggle against its master, small, sharp hooves dragging dragging dragging against the cobblestone. Its massive head lashes back and forth at the incessant pulling, tusks flashing dangerous white, trying to reach around and skewer its rider.

It's a refusal. A refusal to die.

But they’re going too fast. Too much momentum.

They’re going to fall.

They’re going to fall off the bridge, master and beast together in one screaming mass, into the yawning void beneath them, with Four still tied to the saddle.

...

But both Twilight and the Prince had miscalculated.

They had miscalculated Lord Bullbo’s desperation to live. The silver haired beast locks his front legs, the edges of his hooves catching on some unseen groove, slowing him down enough to avoid the plummet.

The Prince had also miscalculated how far away Epona was, the horse gliding to a stop mere inches from him, sword and arrows trained on his shocked face.

But perhaps most of all, the miscalculation that cost Prince Bulblin his vengeance, his shitty, desperate  last ditch effort to hurt the Hero of Twilight by any means necessary, was one he had made almost half an hour ago.

Because Prince Bulbin had underestimated the teen he had tied to his saddle. Had figured the kid would never be able to reach the dagger strapped to his belt with his arms tied down.

Colin never would have been able to.

But Four is not Colin.

So when several distinct snaps cut through the night, when a small body falls through the air with a knife pointed downward ready to kill, Prince Bulblin has no one to blame but himself.

Twilight wonders if Prince Bulblin has the chance to regret it, or if the blade plunging through his helm, into his skull kills him before he has the chance to.

With a kick, a leap off of green shoulders, Four sends the limpPrince out of his saddle, off of Lord Bullbo’s back and down into the endless dark below with the knife still lodged in his head.

The smithy lands less than gracefully, a roll turned sprawling of limbs.

Almost immediately, he sits up, head swinging and swaying, like he can’t keep it steady. Like he's lost all sense of what steady is.  

He looks up at Twilight with his swaying head, his blood covered face, and his free eyes… his free eyes that were twitching, flicking every which way, blinking too fast. His eyes that swirled and swirled and swirled with color, disorienting and too bright as the rainbow of shades whirl at breakneck speeds in the moonlight

“Fuck,” Four mumbles, the word coming out garbled and slurred, the ‘f’ too long, like his jaw is stuck in place.

“Th’was m-our favorite knife.”

And then the smithy’s eyes roll back in his head and he collapses back against the cobblestone.

…

It takes three days for Four to wake up.

The first night of those three days is a blur to Twilight.

He remembers cradling Four to his chest as he rode frantically through the dark. He remembers making it to the village, remembers seeing the broken remains of the stalls still sputtering clouds of smoke. He remembers bursting into Renado’s house, yelling for help. He remembers someone–Luda? Legend?–telling him to let the smithy go. He remembers fighting them for a second, they were trying to take Four from him .  But then he remembers coming back to himself, allowing the shamins to rush the teen into the clinic.

Twilight sort of remembers collapsing, the screaming in his leg finally taking its toll. Sort of remembers shouts and then arms dragging him– dammit, work with me country boy!– pulling him into the clinic as well.

He thinks he remembers being laid on a bed. He thinks he remembers clawing at white sheets as someone put  pressure on his leg. Pressure followed by the terrible feeling of something clawing, crawling, shifting beneath his skin. He thinks he remembers screaming.

He doesn't remember blacking out. But then again, no one ever remembers the lack of consciousness.

What he does remember is waking up the next morning, leg immobilized, body tucked into a neat infirmary bed, and several pairs of eyes staring at him in relief.

The same relief Twilight felt when he jolted up and looked around, searching, searching, searching until his eyes  finally landed on Four.

Four, who was tucked into the bed next to his own. Four whose small stature almost appeared to be swallowed up by the white sheets of his cot. Four whose head was wrapped in a clean bandage, a stand in for his headband. Four who’s eyes were closed, but whose breaths were gentle and rhythmic, whose face had regained some color.  

Four, who was safe.

The rest of that whole first day was characterized by that same rush of relief, everyone sort of riding on the high of not losing anyone. Riding on the high of everyone coming back in mostly one piece.

After settling back into his bed after seeing the smithy, Twilight soon learned that, other than himself and Four, no-one else had needed to take up residence in the infirmary, the others only sustaining a few bruises; a couple of nicks here and there. Even Wild and Legend’s arrow wounds were deemed a-okay, a  careful procedure to remove the projectiles and a red potion later, and both young men were right as rain.

Twilight’s leg meanwhile, had needed a bit more attention.

Apparently, having most of the bones of your leg shattered by a massive club moving at breakneck speeds and then continuing to ride a horse after said shattering incident was not the best of ideas.

Not that Twilight had much choice in the matter. They had needed to save Four.

Unfortunately, necessity does not grant invincibility. Nor mercy.

It had taken quite a bit of Hyrule’s magic and several hours to knit Twilight’s bones back together. Lots of sugar sweet, gladiolus colored magic channeled very precisely to carefully pick fragments of bone from his muscles, from his skin, and realign them into their correct configurations.

A blue potion dripped into Twilight’s unconscious mouth had sealed Hyrule’s tedious work together, smoothing over marred skin, sealing shredded muscle tissue, mending bones

“You are lucky to have such a talented and well trained healer, my friend,” Renado had told him after he woke up, the shaman's dark eyes flicking over to where the traveling hero sat at Four’s bedside. “An injury like this could have easily taken your ability to walk.”

“Oh it was nothing, really,” Hyrule had responded, eyes trained on Four’s limp hand, an embarrassed but pleased smile pulling at his face. “I had to do something pretty similar a couple of times on my own adventures. This really wasn't anything special.”

Which was just about the most worrying answer Hyrule could have given. Behind his eyes Twilight saw too big ears, amber eyes, heard screeching laughs, and tasted that horribly numbing bitterness in his mouth.

Sometimes, the farmhand really wondered how Hyrule was still so bright despite the harrowing nature of his world.

Unfortunately, despite the amount of magic Hyrule had funneled into his leg, Twilight was still consigned to bed rest for the next few days.

Which left the farmhand front and center as the generally relieved feelings of Day One slipped into the building worry of DayTwo of Four’s continued unconsciousness.

Even though none of the others were ordered to stay in the clinic, at least two of them were in the infirmary at every hour of the day.

In the morning, it was Wild and Time.

For the duration of the early hours, the champion sat at Twilight’ side, flicking through the photos on his Slate, showing them to the farmhand and regalling the older hero with tales of each pictured place, every story more ridiculous than the last.

Yet, despite the smile, despite the little self-deprecating chuckles, Twilight caught the way Wild’s eyes wandered to the small figure in the bed only a few feet to the right.

Time, on the other hand, was much less subtle about his worry.

The Old Man sat rigidly next to the smithy, clad in his full armor with his sword sheathed but ready in his lap as he stared at the gentle rise and fall of Four’s chest.

He was no doubt feeling guilty for letting them go off to the shops alone. Feeling guilty for not anticipating the attack, for not being there to protect them.  And so he sat in the clinic, body tense and eye remorseful, as he stood watch. Making sure it would not happen again.

In the afternoon, it was Legend, Warriors, and Wind.

Wind fulfilled the role Wild had in the morning: that of story teller. And yet, even in taking up the mantle of Twilight Distracter, the sailor’s stories were totally different from Wild’s own. Where the champion had funny anecdotes, little stories of him doing this or that dumb thing on the way from one place to another, Wind had epics.

Wind had stories of ancient yet lazy dragons, of whirlpools and mountainous octorocks. Stories of Phantom Ships and a cowardly second mate with a heart of gold. Each tale was accompanied by voices, hand motions, sound effects, the whole nine yards.

But for how different his storytelling style was from Wild’s, just like the champion, the sailor couldn't quite keep his eyes from straying to the silent smithy.

Warriors and Legend, meanwhile, occupied their time in the infirmary in the same way they occupied their time anywhere: bantering.

From their position near the front of the room, they circled through their usual affair of topics: making fun of each other’s clothes, voices, item choice, everything they could think of to belittle.

Yet Twilight could tell it was subdued.Their jabs weren’t quite as barbed, weren't quite as sharp. It was as if both heroes were worried that they would hit too close to home, worried they would puncture each other with their words when they both already felt too full of holes.

Twilight also couldn't help but notice that all three had their swords with them. Whether Time had urged them to do so or if it was of their own volition, the pelt wearing hero couldn't tell.

Finally, at night it was Sky and Hyrule.

Neither of them had even tried to hide their concern. No. As soon as they had entered, both heroes had sat on either side of Four’s bed, Sky taking up wood carving silently on the right while Hyrule took up residence on the left, holding onto the smithy’s limp hand.

For a long time, the only sound in the clinic was the rhythmic shck shck shck shck of Sky peeling away layers of wood.

Eventually, however, it was overtaken by the sound of mumbling.

At a glance, Twilight could see that the sound was coming from Hyrule, the boy's mouth moving slightly, one hand holding Four’s while the other was raised and glowing chrysanthemum pink beside the smithy’s head.

The soft sounds of the traveling hero’s voice continued for a few minutes, but eventually they and the pink light faded back into nothing. Slowly, Hyrule drew back into himself an exhausted look painted over his face as he stared at Four, eyes searching

“I don't understand,” Hyrule said, voice quiet. He took Four’s hand back between both of his own, rubbing a thumb over the smaller teen’s knuckles. “There's nothing left to heal. So why? Why won't he wake up?”

Twilight had no answer for him.

By the third day, everyone is in the clinic starting at dawn, concern, guilt, and anxiety making the air heavy as they shuffle in to begin their vigil.

And it only gets worse as the day drags on, the air getting thicker and thicker with emotion until it is almost unbreathable.

Beside Twilight, Wild looks through his album but never turns it around to show. Time sits at the foot of Four’s bed, more rigidly than ever, sword at the ready. Wind has positioned himself next to the oldest hero, more silent and still than Twilight could ever remember seeing the normally energetic sailor. Hyruel and Sky have reclaimed their spots on their side of Four’s bed, two guardians, unmoving and vigilant.

Warriors and Legend’s banter, meanwhile, has taken a drastic turn for the worse. Where the day before their words had been too soft, now they are honed to razor points. The two circle each other with their words, mouths in sneers, eyes looking for weak points to dig their nails into.

Time looks one step from physically separating the two when Renado sweeps into the room, his quiet grace and poise a focal point in a room filled with ansy heroes.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you all to step outside for a few minutes,” the shaman says, looking not at all apologetic despite his words, face instead completely calm as he stares down eight pairs of eyes. “It would be best if I could complete my examination without distractions.”

For a second Time looks like he wants to disagree but thankfully, the shaman's calm yet insistant aura wins out.

“Let’s go boys,” the Old Man says, his armor clinking slightly as he stands. “Lets let the man work.”

Slowly, one by one, the heroes file out of the infirmary, some striding away through the door quickly, a need to get away from the suffocating atmosphere. A few others send fleeting glances back as they leave, as though the minute they turn away will be the minute Four awakens. As though if they take their eyes off him, they will miss it.

Soon enough, all of the other heroes have left.

All except for the Hero of Legend.

Legend stands at the door, hand outreached to take the handle but frozen for some reason.

Before Renado or Twilight can ask, the young man whirls around, an indescribable expression on his face. It is a face of pursed lips and low eyebrows, the pink haired hero’s jaw working, chewing on unspoken words.

“Would you mind if I tried something?” he says eventually, eyes flashing from Renado to Four meaningfully.

After a moment of consideration, the shaman inclines his head.

Legend silently nods his thanks and takes a step more fully back into the room. Then, with practiced movements,  he slides his satchel forward and begins to rummage through it.

For a second, Twilight hopes that Legend will search through his endless bag of infinite possibilities and pull out some never before seen potion. A golden elixir made from the tears of a mermaid mixed with the feather of a fish. Some sort of cure-all  that they can drip down Four’s throat to make him magically awaken.

What the veteran instead pulls from his bag is a simple, tan ocarina.

Then, with halting fingers, Legend closes his eyes, brings the instrument up to his lips, and plays.

The song starts off somber. Three ascending notes sounding clear yet tentative in the silence of the room. The notes repeat, this time dipping lower, into ocean waves, before returning back to where it started. Those three notes, those same three notes–no–different notes, going higher, a seagull soaring up on a sea breeze.

Legend plays his song, beautiful and somber and sad but also hopeful, gaining strength with each note that rings through the room.

Legend plays his song with his eyes closed, and Twilight wonders what the veteran hero sees behind his eyelids.

Legend plays his song, and Twilight can hear the magic in it. Can hear a wave rolling in, rolling out, lulling him to sleep yet forcing him awake. Legend plays his song and Twilight knows there can be magic in a melody. The farmhand wonders what this one’s intended effect is.

The song ends almost too soon, the last note left hanging in the air, trembling yet strong. Resonant.

It only fades when Legend runs out of air.

The pink haired hero’s eyes remain sealed shut a moment longer before he seems to come back to himself, snapping out of his dream, turning his eyes on Four.

For a second silence reigns over the clinic, as all three men watch the smithy.

Four doesn't so much as twitch, his breath as slow and steady as ever.

In the next moment, Legend stowes the ocarina back in his bag, and quickly turns back to the door.

“I’m sorry,” he says, head shaking, voice thick with… something. ”I’m sorry, that was a stupid idea. I don't know why I thought… I’ll just…”

And then Legend is gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

After a moment and a somewhat heavy sigh, Renado goes about his examination, the room quiet once more.

However, soon enough, the shaman straightens and begins to sweep back out of  the door.

“Renado,” Twilight says, getting the other’s attention right before he walks through the threshold. The older man turns and looks at him, a single eyebrow raised.

And Twilight thinks of the others. Of Wild and Wind’s silence. Of Time’s suffocating, guilty rigidity. Of Sky and Hyrule’s desperation. Of Warrior’s anger. Of Legends resignation.

Of his own...

He thinks of the others and though the pelt wearing hero knows it all comes from a place of compassion, of love, he also thinks that they need a break from seeing the smithy like this. They need a break from the teen’s unchanging, sleeping face.

They need a break from the sadness and pain and each other , if only for a little while.

“Don’t you think,” Twilight says choosing his words carefully, “That maybe it would be better for Four if it were a bit quieter in here?”

“Hmmm.” the man hums. And then, with the faintest of smiles: “I shall let your friends know my prescription, then. Call for me if anything changes.”

A flutter of robes, and he is gone, leaving the two bed ridden heroes alone in silence for the first time in three days.

“Looks like it's just you and me now, Smithy” Twilight says, pushing his arms under himself in order to sit up a bit more fully, minding his leg. With careful movements, the farm hand shoves a pillow behind himself and then lowers slowly onto it, at least a bit more vertical before.

Comfortable again, Twilight sets his eyes to the unmoving face next to him, settling in for his own watch.

“Had enough beauty rest yet, Four?”

….

The silence of the afternoon must lull Twilight to sleep at some point because suddenly, the farmhand finds himself slamming awake, a gasp followed by a  groan shattering the silence.

But not his own gasp and groan.

No. They come from beside him. They come from the smithy who is now sitting up in his bed, the palms of his hands pressed into his eyes, shutting out the brilliant orange light of sunset filtering into the room from the nearby window.

“Four!” Twilight gasps, nearly falling out of his bed in his haste to move closer to the small hero. The teen makes a groan at his voice, shifting one hand to lay over both his eyes while the other comes up and covers one of his ears.

“Shit,” Twilight says more quietly. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll just go get Renado and…”

Twilight leans around the other side of the bed, intent on grabbing the crutch the shaman had left for him, but is stopped by movement out of the corner of his eye.

It’s Four, using the hand that was covering his ear to make a ‘cut it out’ motion: hand raised but palm down, shaking back and forth.

“You don't want the healer to come in?” Twilight asks, reiterating but making sure to keep his voice quiet.

A thumbs up.

And then a single raised finger. A ‘give me a moment.’

So reluctantly, Twilight sits back against his pillows and does just that. He gives Four a moment.

Slowly, Four brings his other hand back up to its twin, pressing both palms back into his eye sockets once more. For a second, the smithy just sits there, hunched over, elbows flexing as he rhythmically increases and decreases the pressure on his hands, pushing at his eyes, kneading at his skull.

Eventually, one hand shifts to cover both eyes again  while the other reaches down and begins to absently rub at the sheets below, no doubt feeling the starchy texture of the clinic’s blankets. Soon enough, the hand leaves the sheets, running up Four’s other arm, pressing against  his skin, before finishing it’s journey up to his golden hair.

Twilight almost reaches out to stop the hand, afraid that it will tangle with the corn-yellow locks and rip but it doesn't. Instead the hand merely pets the hair in gentle motions, never pressing down or grabbing. Just… feeling.

After one more pass through the strands of gold, the hand slumps, dropping down to grip at Four’s shoulder and collarbone– a mini self hug– and Twilight watches as the Smithy just breathes. Slow, deep, deliberate breaths that force the teen’s chest to fill and empty.

One more big breath in and Four straightens, places both hands palm down on the sheets, turns toward Twilight, and opens his eyes.

They are no longer the whirl of color they were those three long days ago and yet… Twilight can tell there is something still off about them. Something… unsettled. They are murky, a cup of water an artist would use to clean their brush. Mixed but still swirling. Still moving.

“Are… how are you feeling?” Twilight asks tentatively.

The dull swirl of color shifts, blue bubbling to the surface, a whirlpool.

“Like someone bashed our skull open with a club, how do you think we’re feeling?!” the smithy hisses, mouth pulled in a snarl, voice rough.

And then almost immediately, Four’s eyes fly shut once more as he curls into himself, groaning. His hands are back up to his face in seconds, now pressing at his brow ridge, massaging.

As the other takes another moment to steady himself, to control his breaths, Twilight finally pulls his crutch closer, setting it against the side of the bed as he swings one leg, then the other over the side of the cot.

This isn’t the first time he has had to stand up in these few days. Renado and Luda insisted that he stretch the mended muscles lest they atrophy, but his leg is still tender when he moves it. It still twinges even when he leverages most of his weight on the crutch tucked under his shoulder.

WIth careful, shuffling steps, Twilight walks to the night stand between their beds and fills one of the cups there with some water from the waiting carafe. Then, careful not to spill the water, Twilight seats himself on the end of Four’s bed.

The other must feel the shift of sheet, the added weight causing the mattress to slump, because with a final breath Four straightens once more, eyes flicking open to look at Twilight,

Twilight offers the glass. Four grabs it instantly, taking a couple of big swallows before he seems to think better of it, switching to sips.

“Thank you,” he says after finishing the drink. He does not move to put the glass down, instead cradling the cup between both hands, worrying the lip with a thumb.

“And sorry. We… I’m not feeling especially great at the moment.” Four makes a vague motion toward his head. And then with a grimace, “I am, unfortunately, rather susceptible to head injuries.”

Twilight nods sympathetically, mind flashing back to green eyes, warmth, pain pain pain dark, water. The back of his head throbs with the phantom hurt.

“Yeah, I get that,” the farmhand says, rubbing absently at the back of his skull. “Do you have a history of concussions?”

Four snorts.

“Yeah,” he says, with a self-deprecating grin. “Something like that.”

Twilight finds a sigh pushed past his lips, something like irritation, relief, and fond exasperation mixing together in his gut

Fondness and relief that Four is feeling well enough to joke. Irritated and exasperated that the joke is about his own health. A joking non answer. An obfuscation.

A way to avoid the fact that there is something that caused him to remain unconscious for so long.

And Four knows what this something is. Is comfortable enough to joke about it.

“Four, if it’s medically relevant–”

“It’s not,” Four interrupts before Twilight can even finish the thought, the smaller hero’s eyes flashing from the glass in his hand back up to Twilight’s face. “I promise, it's not.”

They stare each other down, grey blue vs murky paint water.

“Look,” Twilight says when it becomes clear that Four isnt going to fall victim to his Concerned Older Brother Look, “None of this was your fault. You saved Luda and unfortunately paid the price for it. I know you didn't ask for any of this. You didn’t ask to get hurt in the way you did.”

“But please,” the farmhand continues, leaning forward, letting all the fear and concern and uncertainty of the last few days show on his face, exhausted and sad, “Please tell me what's going on. You can’t just brush this off like it's nothing, Four. You can’t just sweep this under a rug and forget about it.”

“We were all so afraid for you, Smithy. Do you know how long you’ve been out?” Twilight doesn't wait for a response. “You’ve been asleep for almost three days, Four. Everyone’s been worried sick. Time’s hardly slept. Sky and Hyrule damn near refused to leave your side. Legend tried to play you a song on his ocarina, for Hylia’s sake.”

Twilight reaches forward and pulls one of Four’s hands from the glass that still sits in his lap. He takes the smaller boy’s hand and squeezes it, rubbing his thumb over the smaller, calloused fingers.

“Four,” the pelt wearing hero says, voice a little pleading and shit his eyes are wet.

He keeps his gaze locked on their hands.

“Four, I thought I was too late. I thought I had left you up there too long. I–” his words catch in his throat and Twilight has to swallow a few times to get his voice to sound past the weight of all the grief and fear that had built up inside him these last few days. It's all coming to the surface now, the flood gates open, leaving him feeling overwhelmed and too full and too empty at once

“I thought you were never going to wake up,” Twilight says. “I thought I was going to lose you too.”

And finally, finally, Twilight manages to drag his eyes from their hands, looking up to Four’s face.

“So please. Tell me what's going on.”

And for the second time in almost as many days, Twilight finds that Four is easy to read.

Four’s eyes are wide with shock and whirling with color once more, cartwheeling over and over and over through red, blue, green, and purple. His brows are pulled low, pain and guilt of all things written in the ridges of his face. The smithy’s mouth can’t seem to decide if it wants to frown or remain as neutral as possible, his lips twitching minutely.

Yes, Four is easy to read and Twilight can see that he looks shocked and sad and a little scared

“I-” the smithy starts. He closes his mouth. Openes it. Closes it again

“I’m sorry that I scared you like that,” Four says eventually, eyes falling down to stare at their hands, like Twilight’s own were a few minutes earlier. His jaw is working, his throat shifting, like he's going through the motions of speaking, but continually stopping himself at the last minute. Keeping his words inside.

The smithy gives a minute shake of the head and his entire face winces in pain and shit this was probably too emotionally taxing a conversation to have with Four when he's just woken up from a three day long coma after a very serious concussion.

A very serious concussion that the teen is clearly still suffering from.

The pain on his face is reflected in the smithy’s words, each one coming out halting and a little bit muffled, his tongue not quite forming the words right

“I’m sorry that… that you felt like it was your fault,” he mumbles, and oh Hylia his whole head is shaking now, one eye shut with pain, the other staring wetly at Twilight, a warm amber breaking through the swirl. His mouth is caught between a snarl and a sob, showing teeth and yet ready to cry.

“It wasn’t–” he mumbles insistently, ripping his hand out of Twilight's own. It joins its brother in wrapping around Four’s shoulders as he slumps into himself, entire body deflating into the pillows behind him

“It wasn’t– wasn’t your fault,” Four repeats, his words now jumping around in tone and cadence, slurred and not slurred. “It was–Our fault! our Fault! Our faul–”

Before the other can get much further,Twilight shifts his position on the bed and leans back to be sitting beside the panicking smithy. Then, with gentle hands, he pulls the other into his side, careful not to put any pressure on Four’s head as he runs soothing lines down the smaller heroes' back.

This seems to stun the small hero for a moment, his entire body going rigid, not even his lungs working.

And then Four unfreezes, leans his entire body into Twilight’s, and sags , boneless against the other hero's side  as he chokes on words and breaths alike.

It takes several minutes for whatever just happened to run its course, the words slowing to a hault, the breaths becoming more even. And through it all, Twilight rubs a hand down the teens spine in slow controlled motions, a rhythm the kid could follow, could depend on.

Eventually, Four shifts, not exactly leaning away, but instead adjusting his position so his side was pressed against Twilight’s while the rest of him leaned against the pillows. He looks out the slated shade window, shadows catching at his face.

“I’m sorry,” Four says, voice quiet, “I shouldn't have freaked out like that.”

Before Twilight can interrupt, and can apologize for getting the smithy started down that path, the teen turns his head and gives Twilight a little glare, a challenge to interrupt.

“I’m sorry,” he says a little bit stronger, glare shifting to a soft, meaningful look as he holds Twilight’s eyes. “I’m sorry you got hurt saving me. I’m sorry I made you guys worry like that.”

The smithy takes a breath.

“And I’m sorry Twilight but I…” Four’s eyes flicker for a second, reading something in the air. He gives himself a small nod, like he’s come to some sort of agreement and looks away from the window, the orange glow of the sunset catching in his irises, a burning flame.

“I need a bit more time before I can tell you about this,” he says. And then with a sad smile. “I just...can’t risk it yet. I just got used to not feeling alone all the time.”

He gives a weak little laugh and his eyes fall to look at where his palms lay relaxed in his lap. He flexes them, runs fingertips over his calluses and then threads his fingers together, giving his own hand a squeeze.

“Alone,” he mutters with that wry grin of his. It is not a happy grin.

Four looks back up from his hands and turns that not happy grin on Twilight. And miraculously, it turns a little more genuine. A little more lopsided and real.

“I- I can’t risk losing you guys too.”

And Twilight, despite the need to know why this had happened, despite the concern in his gut bubbling over the fear of it happening again… When he looks into Four’s warm, sad, hopeful eyes, he understands.

Obviously he has his own secrets he would rather keep to himself. Four already knows one of them, just like Twilight knows one of Four’s own.

But just because some people know his secret doesn't mean Twilight doesn't worry about how others will react to learning the truth.

He still hasn't worked up the courage to tell Rusl about The Wolf, even though he knows the other would still welcome him with open arms. Even though he knows the older man’s eyes would not lose any of their fondness.

And yet even  though he knows it is an irrational fear, he cannot dispel the image of normally warm green eyes pierced with hatred, a burning torch held to his smoking fur as the sword he was supposed to deliver to Castle Town bites through his spine.

Four’s fear is irrational too.

Nothing Four could tell Twilight would make him think differently about the smithy. The teen was his little brother now, whether he wanted to be or not. He wasn't going to give the farmhand the slip that easily.

Twilight resists the urge to give Four a fond noogie, if only because the kid still has a head injury.

So instead, he wraps an arm around the boy's shoulder and pulls him closer.

He’s here. Even when Four feels alone, when he feels like he's drowning in unsaid words,  Twilight will be here.

And for his part, Four seems to accept this, leaning back in and settling, part of his back pressed to Twilight’s chest.

They lapse into silence, just sitting and enjoying one another’s company as they look out the window and watch the day die.

“Have you ever noticed,” Four says eventually, thin strips of orange light illuminating the smithy’s face as he gazes out the shaded window, “that it's only when one turns their back to the sun that their shadow gets to lead?”

Twilight angles his head down questioningly, but Four does not look up. There is a slight tension to his face despite his relaxed position and for some reason, Twilight gets a feeling that this is some kind of compromise.

If Four cannot tell Twilight his secret, at least he can tell him this.

“Sunrise and sunset,” Four continues, “ dawn and–well,” and here his eyes slant towards the farmhand, a small smile on his face.

Twilight returns it. This is a joke that he has grown weary of when coming from the others. But here and now, the Ordonian hero will allow it. If only because Four is still injured.

Soon enough, though, the teen’s eyes drift back to the window, smile slowly fading from his face as he gazes out into the orange light of a dying day.

“Dawn and twilight. Those are the only times–the border between night and day– that the sun is low enough to walk directly away from,” Four continues.

“How do you think your shadow feels then?” Four asks quietly. “To walk and have you follow behind?”

And behind Twilight’s eyes, he sees orange. Orange like the light slowly filtering into the room. Orange like the sunset. Orange like her hair. He sees a flashing, fanged smirk, sharp and clever. An ember eye, bright with mischief. He sees black and white and glowing blue.

“Light and dark can never mix. But… Never forget there’s another world bound to this one.”

He sees her. And the tear dripping from her eyes as she says goodbye.

No. Not goodbye. Not exactly.

“Link… See you later. ”

“I think,” Twilight says, eventually, a small smile on his face even as something bittersweet and undeniably sad sits on his tongue. “Your shadow would feel seen.”

Four’s eyes turn back on him, bright and indescribable in colors. He smiles as bright as the sun.

“I think so too.”

They lapse into a comfortable quiet.

And together, they watch as twilight falls across the land, as shadows elongate and dance, free once more.

Words, familial and warm–Rusl’s– come to Twilight's mind. And he smiles.

“Hey, Four. Tell me, do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?”

[mittensmorgul]

Hm. I love Rowena and I think her and Sam's relationship is a delight, but I have to say I haven't noticed any particular /romantic/ cues for them? I don't hate the idea, I'm just... apparently not seeing what some other people are seeing, in canon. I'd be curious to see what specific moments are giving you that vibe as opposed to the enemies-to-friends/found family vibe I've been getting -- do you know if there are any S/R metas around, that would lay that out clearly?

Hi! I’ve heard this from a lot of people, and I’m just baffled? I mean, there’s at least as much of what I’d consider the beginnings of romantic interest as there was between Dean and Cas in s4-5-6 even… via a lot of the same tropes.

I don’t know if there’s been a proper meta on it, on the evolution of their relationship, but I guess I’m adding that to the unbearably long list of things I need to write in detail.

From their first meeting in 10.07, I wondered if there was some potential there. Rowena was a natural witch, and the history of the notion of “witch!Sam” has been floating around since he first demonstrated his demon blood powers back in s1. Here was a witch that was clearly being set up for a bigger antagonistic role in a season where she would clearly not be the Big Bad. I think a lot of people pulled the plug on that idea the minute it was discovered she was Crowley’s mother… and they just were never able to think of her in that kind of role again.

But she has a very long history with Sam, going back to the antagonistic allies-turned-whatever-the-heck-that-was at the end of s10, to her own self-discovery arc through s11 and s12, where she gradually (but almost exclusively with Sam) began to bond with the Winchesters.

Their conversation about Lucifer in 13.12 and their shared trauma over that, which Sam said he’d never even talked to Dean about… That… is groundbreaking for Sam. Considering every woman he’d ever had a relationship with in canon didn’t even know about ANY of the hunting, and yet he opened up to Rowena about something so deeply personal he’d never told another living soul? That was probably the spark for me in seeing the potential here. Literally in an episode where another pair of witches repeatedly used love spells to manipulate men to do their bidding, Rowena had this moment of naked honesty with Sam.

At the end of that episode, when Dean discovers that Sam gave Rowena the page of the grimoire that she’d wanted, Dean’s angry. Sam… trusted her, believed in her, despite saying if that decision went sideways, he’d “take care of it.” Because of what we learned in 13.19, that every single one of Billie’s books about Rowena end with Sam Winchester killing her… I mean… it’s kinda… a profound… sort of bond… they share…

She was heartbroken in that scene in the alley, when she realized that yes, Sam really could shoot her. And that moment was literally when everything changed. Sam… saw that look on her face.

You can see him feeling regret here, despite already knowing that he is “destined” to kill her. I mean… by the end of the episode (yes, Dean is there participating in the conversation, too, but this was so much between Sam and Rowena), they’re talking about changing their fates. And Rowena is now officially Team Sam.

This is also the episode where she has several opportunities to kill Sam, and yet doesn’t. She could’ve very easily rewritten her own destiny by killing him, but instead let go of one pain of her past (her guilt over Crowley). And in that moment she chose to move forward in a new way.

And since then she’s been in multiple episodes where she and Sam have paralleled Dean and Cas. I just don’t know why people refuse to see the same exact parallels they used to set up Sam’s two episode relationship with Eileen are being used between Sam and Rowena (and have been, on a much slower course than with Eileen).

She was brought in by Sam in 14.07 to help heal Jack, and Dean literally “fuzzed out” during some of those conversations. Sam was her primary contact there, despite the family feel of the episode. And then we have 14.14 where Rowena’s literally paired with Sam having some sort of heart to heart study session while Cas and Dean have their own… through the whole episode…

She stands up to Michael, terrified, and laughs at him anyway because Sam Winchester will be the one to kill her, not him. SAM WINCHESTER has effectively become her mantra that allows her to laugh in the face of her own death. I mean, that’s a freaking powerful thing. Not “oh the Winchesters” but SAM.

(this is starting to feel like attempting to explain destiel to someone who doesn’t see it… and I’m afraid I’m not doing a very good job of it)

She also fits every single one of Sam’s criteria for a relationship. She’s someone in the life. She understands his worst trauma and his struggle with magical powers. She understands his desire for security and stability. And even though she’s a witch, she’s a hunter by every definition they’ve ever given… she’s even died and come back to life (multiple times).

I need someone to tell me how this– and what I’ve shared here is literally off the top of my head and by no means the full meta I could write on this– doesn’t measure up to Sam’s relationship with Eileen. Sure, he doesn’t have a history of the “cuter” stuff they gave him with Eileen in 12.17, but that, to me, gives his relationship with Rowena even more weight in comparison.

I’ve read a lot of meta comparing Saileen to Destiel, trope for trope, the direct parallels. But that’s… small scale. Sam and Rowena, to me, parallels the bigger picture of Destiel. Maybe not point for point, but that wouldn’t really be fair to Sam, would it? Doesn’t he deserve his own unique thing, and not just a speed run through the destiel highlight reel? But the overarching, big picture evolution of their relationship is just as profound as what Dean and Cas have, and honestly that is the LEAST that Sam deserves, you know?

This is obviously not to say that I definitely think the show is going there, just as I wouldn’t say they’re definitely going there with Destiel. This is just how I see things now, and the potential I see for the future if they chose to take it there.

eta: a couple of links mel found to more structural meta on samwitch that may be of interest in addition to the added checklist item that they’ve both been possessed by an archangel now, as well (they have REALLY been pushing Rowena into being more of a hunter):

https://neven-ebrez.tumblr.com/post/183371417718/so-youre-right-about-michael-killing-the-au

and

https://neven-ebrez.tumblr.com/post/184229815703/i-really-liked-how-mary-was-portrayed-this-season

[twopedalpushers]

Travel update #5

Ecuador

A lot of events have transpired since I last posted a blog update! I signed off my last post at the border between Colombia and Ecuador. There is a lot to get through and so without further ado, welcome to the fourth country of our travels so far - Ecuador. 

Normally at a border crossing the scenery subtly merged from one country to the next but upon arriving into El Ángel National Park at the Ecuadorian border, we were transported into another world. I don’t know how to describe El Ángel National Park as even the photos that I took are pale in comparison to the experience of being there. We were travelling through the park on a dirt track and there were frailjones (a specific type of Latin American sunflower) as far as the eye could see in every direction. We were the only souls along the entirety of this track and the only sounds were those of our tyres on the dirt. It was surreal. It felt like we were the only people on this strange, desolate new planet. 

We passed through a few different towns before we reached the famous Ottavalo Market. The market is known throughout South America for being the best place to buy alpaca wool goods handcrafted by the indigenous people of Ottavalo. The market was vast, bursting with piles of rugs, jumpers, gloves, hats, toys (to name a few) being sold by charming Ottovaleños. We both bought a jumper each and I’ve pretty much been living in it ever since. 

Probably the nicest thing about Ecuador is the amount of indigenous people wearing traditional dress. In Ecuador, 25% of people define themselves as indigenous - 22% more than in Colombia. More often than not in Ecuador, entire villages will be wearing their own cultural variation of the traditional dress. It was interesting to see how this changed as we crossed the country. Women in the North tended to wear long blue dresses, handmade blue sandals, a white blouse with an ornately embroidered belt. Men wore a blue poncho or shirt and a fedora. Once we travelled South, the women of the highlands now wore extremely bright coloured felt shawls held together with a brooch. They wore knee length bright skirts -usually in a contrasting colour to their shawl, wellington boots and a fedora. The men of the highlands wore striped ponchos and wellingtons. This was the first time I had ever seen so many people dressed traditionally throughout the entirely of a country and it was inspiring to see a culture so rich. 

The capital of Ecuador is in the North, so we reached Quito fairly early into our journey. Out of all of the Latin American capitals we had visited, Quito felt the most European. It had a really relaxed yet quiet and private vibe. People ran in the parks and took their dogs out for walks in the evening. It was extremely civilised but it seemed to lack the intensity, drama and disinhibition of cities in its neighbouring countries. 

The roads after Quito were beautiful. We were cycling through Ecuador’s Volcanic corridor, which took us around Cotopaxi Volcano and ended with the vast and breathtaking Quilatoa Lake. 

The scenery was spectacular but the cycling was becoming extremely difficult. The small roads that we usually cycled on were now cobbled instead of paved or dirt. We had to bump along up hills of extreme gradients. It was rainy season in Ecuador so we frequently found ourselves cycling in dense fog or rain all day. The dampness made cycling uphill on cobbles extremely slippery and dangerous to do, especially on a bike that weighed the same amount as I did! I found myself having to get off the saddle and push my bike up steep hill after steep hill, most of which only 4x4’s were able to drive up.

Ecuadorians seemed to prefer to build roads straight up the mountain rather than having the road switch back a few times to gradually take you up. Because of this, our progress became infuriatingly slow - down from 80km per day in Colombia to 40-50km in good weather. 

Ecuador took us to new heights. Most days we were at an altitude of 3000-4000m. Although thankfully neither of us got altitude sickness, doing such intense physical activity so far above sea level left me incredibly out of puff to the point that I would struggle to catch my breath. 

The picture painted of cycling through Ecuador online and on social media contrasted immensely with the reality of doing so. Cycle-touring blogs and Instagram accounts that I’ve been following whilst on the trip are endlessly positive highlight reels of what it’s like cycling on the best days. Nobody tells you that you will be woken up in the middle of the night with searing pain in your legs from the build up of lactic acid. Nobody tells you that on the worst day of your period you will be biking 2000m of elevation instead of running yourself a hot bath and stuffing your face with chocolate. 

After a while in Ecuador, I started to expect every day to be another bad day, which kickstarted a dangerous spiral of negativity. I would look at Max cycling ahead of me in the distance, conquering each hill much more easily and happily than I could, and I would wonder why I was not able to do the same. I was asking myself why on earth I was putting my mind and body through this every day. It was the first time on the trip that I truly missed home.

Ecuador uses the dollar and is much more expensive than Colombia. Because of this to save money we did a lot more camping than we usually would. However because of the persistent rain we found ourselves needing to camp under shelter, once taking refuge on a volleyball pitch next to the side of the road, other times in hostel courtyards. Not splashing out on a bed in a hostel very often meant that we were tackling the Andes on very little sleep for as long as ten days in a row without a break. 

This has been a pretty negative account (sorry!). However it was not totally miserable in Ecuador. On dry days, we got to camp in some of the most amazing, wild spots that have been better than anywhere else on the trip thus far. We spent time camping next to waterfalls and at the base of volcanoes. Between villages while cycling on dirt roads we were very often the only the people around. We saw lots of llamas and alpacas for the first time on the trip! 

However no amount of cute, fluffy llamas could make up for the difficulty of the cycling and unfortunately my morale was low. The strain of undertaking such an intense physical challenge and spending every minute of the day together began to take a toll on mine and Max’s relationship. We were exhausted and bickering with each other at every opportunity. I was falling out of love with the cycling and in the end we decided that it would be good to take a break from biking and spend some time apart. 

Max and his family were heading to visit him in the Galapagos for ten days, and although I was invited along too I decided to fly to Brazil instead. We were 5 months into the trip and halfway through our time on the continent so it felt like a good moment to rest our bodies and treat ourselves a little bit. 

Our cycle route down the Western side of South America doesn’t take us through Brazil and it has always been a country that I have wanted to visit. I booked my flights to Rio de Janeiro and found out a couple of days later that I was going to be there while it’s Carnival! I really needed to blow off some steam and now had the perfect opportunity to do so - it felt like the stars were aligning! 

So about a week ago, we both left our bikes behind and flew to completely different places. We are going to return to our bikes refreshed, rested and ready to take on the Peruvian section of the Andes! Other cyclists that we have met on this trip rave about Peru being one of the most beautiful countries to cycle through, so I’m pretty excited. More importantly others have said that Peru is far less steep than Ecuador because they thankfully build long, winding hairpins up the mountain at a gradual gradient when possible. Obviously, there will still be hills to climb but after a good rest I’ll be able to take them on with fresh legs and a positive attitude.

I landed in Rio de Janeiro a few days ago and Carnival is every bit as exciting, intense, raucous and dynamic as you would imagine it to be - just times by one hundred. I’ve been at some of the street parties (that seemingly have no start or end) for a few days now. I will save writing about my time in Brazil for my next update. 

Below I’ve posted the full video of our time cycling through Colombia. I’m in the process of putting together the Ecuador video and will upload it in a few days.

Here is the link to track our progress (although we won’t be cycling for a while so you won’t see a lot of progression!) 

http://share.garmin.com/DMB7R

Similarly to my previous post about reaching the end of Colombia, I thought I would write a list of all the interesting things that I noticed while travelling through Ecuador. Again, it’s lifted from my journal so it informally written.

Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream! For a country so cold it’s crazy to see how into ice cream the locals are. On every street there is an ice cream shop. In the North they cover ice cream in cheese (crazy combination I know...) I was intrigued by this but in the end I was too grossed out to give it a try. 

The possibility of taking a hot shower is back- for the first time on the entire trip! Ecuadorians mostly have warm showers, which is nice. They don’t have central heating in their buildings so they use propane tanks to heat their water. Every morning a truck selling gas canisters trawls around every neighbourhood, blaring a song sung by children with shrill voices. It’s the same song in every town we have visited. 

Ecuador has a strangely large amount of Chinese restaurants called “Chifas.”

They’re mad about topiary gardens. In the North every town square had shrubs with peoples faces and animals cut into them. 

Ecuadorians are very quiet, reserved, friendly and humble people.

A very large amount of people drive old school classic VW Beetles. It’s definitely the most common type of classic car you will see in Ecuador. 

[a1kitkat]

Roswell New Mexico - Episodes Ranked

In celebration of Alex Manes Appreciation Week, I have decided to rank every episode of season one of Roswell New Mexico. Now these are my thoughts and may include some unpopular opinions but my criteria is quite simple... episode enjoyment, script, pacing, character development and Alex screen time. That last one is the most important (of course) as my overall episode enjoyment is directly linked to Alex screen time.

But other factors are key too. For example, episode 4 was quite entertaining but there’s no Alex in it. Episode 7 was possibly one of my least favorite yet it was our first glimpse of happy, sassy Alex so I’m not sure where to rate that one...

Let’s get going, starting with WORST TO BEST!!!

13 - Champagne Supernova (Episode 11)

No Alex, OOC behavior from literally every character and the oh so obvious reveal of the fourth alien! And let’s not get into the beginning of the show’s “love triangle”

12 - I Saw The Sign (Episode 7)

Okay yeah, this ranked low despite how super adorable Alex was in this one... It was also the beginning of the show erasing his disability. Max was a major d**k here and just an all around big fat No!!!

11 - Where Have All The Cowboys Gone? (Episode 4)

A solid enough episode but No Alex so my biased opinion is that it wasn’t good... but it was for the plot and they managed to squeeze a lot of plot into this one. This ep gets major props for making us love Michael (like we didn’t already!!!)

10 - Recovering the Satellites (Episode 13)

Season finales usually rank high on my lists but not this time. I wasn’t impressed by any of this episode, the 1.5 Alex scenes just hurt and don’t even think of mentioning the scene in the Wild Pony to me or I will cut you!!! Michael scores & loses points for this episode, winning for his goofy confession to Isobel but loses majorly for what he does after (again, DO NOT SPEAK TO ME about this!!!)

9 - I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing (Episode 10)

So many feels in so few scenes but I love any episode that gives us quality Malex AND Kylex scenes :)

8 - Don’t Speak (Episode 5)

Kylex! Kylex! Kylex!

Adorable cinnamon roll Alex was his adorable self while repairing an old friendship and damn Kyle shows major growth here. He acknowledges his dickiness and apologizes so he scores brownie points.

7 - Pilot (Episode 1)

I wanted to rank the pilot higher for the reunion kiss alone but I tend to find pilot episodes a little slow as they have to create and set the entire tone of a series in just one episode and this was a solid intro (but I’m a huge OG series fan). I had very mixed feelings watching this but the Malexness alone completely won me over.

6 - Tearin’ Up My Heart (Episode 3)

Again, this episode could be higher since it essentially gives us the best & worst Malex scenes of the series (excluding episode 6). As we get to see them at their best (happy, gentle, relaxed) until they’re rudely interrupted (I’m never eating bagels again in protest!! Not). Then we see some of Alex’s daddy issues and the fandom swiftly moved to the edge of their seats to see where this would take them (and us).

This episode also made me fall in love with Nobel.

5 - Barely Breathing (Episode 8)

I love sassy, gay Alex & he truly shines in this episode... and he said ‘Michael’ sure not to his face but he said it! I also loved the plot with the serum and Isobel. Liz & Michael teaming up is still a series highlight. I’ve watched this episode A LOT & it’s a solid episode from start to finish.

4 - Songs About Texas (Episode 9)

This is going to be controversial but as I said above, I’m an OG series fan & this episode was a great throwback to the OG while still feeling like its own show. Kylex were on fire, their friendship makes me smile. Liz calling Michael ‘Mikey’, Max & Liz we’re just adorable.... So yeah, I definitely became team Echo with this episode!

Even Michael & Maria hooking up didn’t bother me so much, in the context of the episode it was fine (and it should’ve just stayed limited to that one episode).

We also got the whole ‘That I Loved You’ scene, the ‘I’m tired of walking away’ moment so I really like this episode.

3 - So Much For The Afterglow (Episode 2)

This one speaks for itself. We got follow on from the pilot, Max acknowledging something is wrong with him and him going all dark, nearly killing someone before Michael stopped him. We had a glimpse of Maria/Liz/Alex friendship that we desperately need to see more of. And Isobel defending Max to Michael, her ‘Is there really nobody in this world you wouldn’t risk everything to save?’ Still managed to move the Malex storyline along.

And do I even need to mention the ‘I Never Look Away. Not Really’ scene? Yes, I do because it’s f**king Important!!!

2 - Creep (Episode 12)

I was terrified gong into this episode but DAMN it was near perfect! We have the fallout of episode 11 with Max/Liz/Isobel/Noah playing out while Mylex work on the Caulfield mystery. We meet Flint and learn just how evil Project Shepherd really is.... and Michael.... Gah, Michael! The most painful scene of the series (made even more painful by Tyler’s song playing over the top)... Highlighted by Alex’s “I Don’t Look Away” line (told you Michael’s line was f**king important!)

1 - Smells Like Teen Spirit (Episode 6)

This episode killed me... I watched it twelve times in a week. I have reeled in the watching of said episode since but I loved every minute!

They all looked adorable (Alex in his UFO Emporium outfit!). Michael & Max’s friendship, Isobel!!! (I fell in love with her in this episode). Michael’s bi-awakening! Echo dancing in the desert! Malex’s first kiss! Malex’s first time! Rosa’s death explained! This is, without a doubt, my fave episode!!!

[kutemouse]

Caught (Prologue)

Disclaimers: All “Save Me” webtoon and BTS MV/highlight reel/film references and plots belong to BTS and BigHit. Not sure who edited it or made it, but the “I’m Fine/Save Me” ambigram pic I used came from here. All pictures of Kim Taehyung belong to BTS and BigHit, I just edited them for my header. The picture of BTS came from Vogue Japan, I just edited it for my header. I got the Kim Taehyung Wings Film Gif from DannyBriz on Wattpad.

A Note from Kutemouse: Awwww, thank you for reading my stuff, @chocolatewolfuniversitytrash!

So, this sweet little mini series is inspired by several things… The movie 365 DNI, the Save Me webtoon, the BTS MV universe, and ideas I’ve come up with waaaaaay too late at night 😂 Honestly, I’m OBSESSED with the whole MV/highlight reel/wings films arc that started with The Most Beautiful Moment in Life Pt. 1, and I’ve ALWAYS wanted to write a story inspired by it. So, kutie pie @chocolatewolfuniversitytrash, thank you for allowing this dream to come to light.

About the non-con request, I was all like, “EEEERRRRRRMMMMMMMM idk,” because I’ve never written non-con and therefore don’t… know… if I’m comfortable with it…? I will attempt to do my best. Either way, I hope you like what has come out of my brain 😅

Also, thank you to @btssmutheaven for revealing my drafts (NOT REALLY, ILY) to @taemaknae for reading my shit and loving it, and to @kpopyandere for being the best unnie account and helping me realize I can write all the yandere ideas I want.

Age Recommendation: 21+ (this is NOT one for youngsters, kuties, and is MOST DEFINITELY NSFW)

Genre: Mafia!AU w/ BTS, Jailbird!AU w/ Taehyung, Yandere!BTS

Warnings: ALL THE WARNINGS. Just kidding, uh… Swears. There are minors in this section but they do NOT do anything sexual. I ain’t about that kinda life, y’all. F*ckboy Taehyung. Fluffy friendship. Angsty jealousy. Mentions of drug use and alcohol consumption (NOT by minors tho). Yandere themes including unhealthy obsession and possessiveness. Making out. No smut in this part, but it’s heavy af.

🚨TRIGGER WARNING. DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE ISSUES WITH THE FOLLOWING.🚨

Mentions of abusive relationships, mentions of a parent abusing their child, mentions of sexual abuse, mentions of schoolyard bullying, mentions of a violent murder.

These are not fleshed out or detailed scenarios. When I say “mention,” I mean briefly discussed after it happened, not during, and definitely not in any detail whatsoever. You DO NOT have to read my work. You decide what you are comfortable with. All I want is for you kuties to be happy.

Word Count: 6.1k (WTF is this even allowed?!)

Summary: Kim Taehyung was the absolute love of your life… until he became a murderer. With him serving a life sentence in prison, you were finally free to live out the rest of your life however you wanted. Just when you thought you were at the top of your game, ready to take on the world, Taehyung reappears like a monster not even your worst nightmares could dream up. He gives you a year to fall in love with him, but now the question is, can monsters even be loved?

Master List

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Caught (Taehyung Series, Yandere, Smut, Angst) Prologue

I remember the first time I saw Kim Taehyung. We were both fifteen, just starting out in high school. Back then, I remember the way he lazily leaned against a locker with his arms crossed, seemingly waiting for someone. His hair was bleached a ridiculous bright blonde on the top and left brunette everywhere else. He had on dramatic, black eyeliner that served to accentuate his inky eyes, and he wore a studded leather jacket with his shirt and tie rather than the traditional uniform. Intrigued, I opened my locker and picked out my books for my next class, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

I saw him zero in on his target and take brisk, wide strides towards her as she twirled the combo to her locker. She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes as he caged her in by leaning down to whisper something in her ear. Suddenly, the hallway was filled with flirtatious giggles and I turned away, rolling my eyes. So he was one of those assholes.

I watched him do this with every single girl in our class. I swear, he had his routine down to a science. Chat her up, openly flirt, flirt some more until she caved in to whatever he desired, then drop her like a hot frying pan. It took a couple months for his interest to finally land on me.

“Hey.”

I didn’t bother to look up as I twirled the combination to my locker and popped it open.

“Hey,” he said louder.

I flicked a glance his way. “Do you need something?”

His eyes narrowed. “Do I look like I need anything?”

I huffed out a sigh. “What do you want, Kim Taehyung?”

He let out a snort, leaning against the locker next to mine the same way he’d done a thousand times with a thousand other girls. “So you know my name, but I don’t know yours. You’re new, right?”

“I transferred in at the beginning of the year,” I said impatiently. “And we’re in the same class, so you should know who I am.”

Taehyung’s lips curled up into a playful smirk. “Really? No, that can’t be right. I definitely would’ve remembered you.”

I rolled my eyes and slammed my locker shut, walking quickly away. Taehyung jogged to keep up. “Just tell me your name,” he insisted.

“Why?”

“C’mon, I’m just trying to make friends.”

I whirled around, stopping both of us in our tracks. “Friends? Is that what you’ve been doing with every other girl here? Just making friends?”

Taehyung smirked once more and took a step towards me. I don’t know why, but I took a step back. I should’ve held my ground, should’ve told him to fuck off right then and there. Instead, I let him back me up against the wall and entrap me within his darkened gaze, the same way he would for the next three years of our lives.

He leaned down to whisper in my ear, his breath tickling the skin of my cheek. “We can be more than friends… but first, you have to tell me your name.”

I shoved him off me and practically sprinted down the hall, cheeks aflame with embarrassment. My peers and classmates who saw the exchange teased me for weeks afterward, no matter how much I kept my head down and avoided Taehyung like my life depended on it. It wasn’t until I heard him telling off some of the more tenacious gossipers I decided to give him another chance.

I tapped him on his shoulder as he stood in front of his locker. His eyes widened when he turned to see me standing there. “I’m L/n Y/n,” I said meekly. “And I wanted to thank you for what you said to those people.”

“You heard that?” he asked, the skin of his neck flushing pink.

I nodded.

“You’re welcome,” he said, tossing me a boxy grin.

That day, a seed was planted that eventually grew into a steady, beautiful friendship. A year later, I had come out of my shell quite a bit thanks to Taehyung, and I had a solid group of mates that I adored and relied on. Tae was my best friend, and I was his. Of course, we still got teased quite a bit about being a couple, but I figured we were both long past that.

Taehyung matured alongside our friendship. He stopped wearing thick eyeliner and sporting ridiculous hair colors, instead opting for a softer, more natural look with caramel brown locks and the unblemished glow of his slightly-tan skin. Gone were his dramatic, attention-seeking ways. His voice also deepened, dropping almost an entire octave. Yet despite all of his changes, he still stayed an absolute fuck-boy, shagging a new girl every other week. I came to realize it was all part of his personality, though, and I loved him no matter what.

The summer before our senior year was when I realized that love ran way deeper than friendship. We were at my best girlfriend Chaeyoung’s house when Taehyung stumbled in with yet another girl, his hair freshly dyed a bright cerulean blue. “Hey everyone!” he called out, slinging his arm around the girl’s shoulders. My smile faded as I looked over and noticed she was beyond gorgeous, with waist-length black locks that seemed to flow down the perfect curve of her back. I shuddered as a green monster reared its ugly head deep within me.

Taehyung was with that girl for a few months, which by his standards, was practically a lifetime. The entire time they were together, I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff about to swan-dive into devastating heartbreak. Each time I saw him kiss her, each time I saw him smile at her, each time I saw him lean over and whisper something in her ear, a piece of my soul shriveled up and died. I did my best to put my feelings aside, knowing I already had my chance and he would probably never look at me that way again. Even after they broke up, I kept my love for him tamped down and tucked away deep in the recesses of my heart, scared of ruining our friendship.

His break-up only served to draw us closer together, and slowly, without me realizing it, our friendship began to bloom into something more. Taehyung and I started to tell each other everything, including the messed-up secrets our home lives made us keep. One day, we were sitting in an empty classroom after school. I was trying to study, but kept getting distracted by Tae staring longingly out the window. “What’re you looking at?” I finally asked, putting my pencil down.

“Nothing,” he said simply. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About when we’ll finally get out of here.”

I smiled, my heart thumping a little faster. “We?”

He turned and tossed me his signature boxy grin. “Yeah. We. We’ll make it out of here someday, Y/n. I’ll get away from my bastard of a dad, you’ll get away from your selfish mother, and we’ll have a house in the country with big, open fields and plenty of space to finally fucking breathe.”

I smiled and stored those words away, using them to comfort myself whenever my mother and her asshole of a boyfriend wouldn’t stop yelling at each other, or worse, when they’d pass out on the couch, too drunk or high to stay coherent.

One night around three in the morning, my phone began to buzz and didn’t stop until I finally popped an eye open, fumbled around for it in the dark, and pressed it to my ear. “Hello?” I mumbled.

“H-Hey.”

I sat up. “Taehyung?”

“Y/n, I n-need your help,” he said shakily. It sounded like he was… crying?

I immediately got out of bed and pulled some jeans on. “Tae, it’s okay,” I said soothingly, trying to hide the panic I was feeling. I knew Taehyung’s home life was extremely hard. In fact, most of our home lives were terrible. The only two in our friend group who even came close to “privileged” were Chaeyoung and Jin, and that was because their parents had more money, not less problems.

I myself had plenty of issues. The reason my mother and I moved here when I was fifteen was to escape her abusive boyfriend, and even then, we still lived in constant fear of him finding us again. I guess that fear drove her into the arms of the first strong-looking man who looked twice at her, because her new boyfriend, Manseok, seemed to fit the same abusive pattern. At least he didn’t hit her when he was sober.

I wasn’t exactly sure how terrible Taehyung’s life was until the night he called me. At his request, I stole a few bills from my mom’s purse as well as her ID and put us up in a cheap motel room for the night. Jumping up when I finally heard his knock, I quickly pulled the door open to reveal Taehyung, his blue hair stringy from the rain outside. He was panting like he ran all the way there. I covered my mouth with my hands as the dim lighting revealed his left eye swollen shut, covered in nasty shades of scarlet and purple. His lip was split and bleeding, and his right cheek had another bruise and cut creeping down to his jawbone. The worst part, though, were the red finger-shaped marks that covered his neck.

“Y/n,” he croaked out. I held open my arms and he fell into them, not leaving their safety until well into the morning. I iced his black eye and bruises as much as I could, and bandaged the cuts that covered his face. Taehyung’s face was pressed into my chest, his breathing deep and even as he finally slept.

I decided then and there I’d never let him go.

Thankfully, Taehyung felt the same way. Within a week, he brushed off every other girl he was chatting up and focused all of his attention on me. We spent hours with each other after school, either in person or on the phone, and it became a common occurrence for him to intertwine his fingers with mine or peck me sweetly on the cheek.

I quickly grew dissatisfied, sick of the friendship barrier preventing us from taking things further. We spent an entire day together one weekend, talking, laughing, walking the streets, and trying different foods from vendor carts. As the sun started to go down, Taehyung wrapped his arms around me from behind, pressing his chest into my back. He was teasing me, I forget about what, and he leaned down to kiss my cheek when I turned at the last second and let him peck my lips instead. I laughed as his dark eyes grew wide with shock.

That was all it took, though. One kiss, and he was mine. Or rather, I was his. Afterwards, he pulled me into a deserted alleyway and we kissed until the sun completely disappeared. As the stars appeared in the sky above, Taehyung asked me to be his girlfriend, murmuring in my ear about how much he loved me and how he had never stopped loving me, even after I turned him down. With my heart practically bursting, I readily agreed.

Back then, Taehyung had a knack for getting in trouble, and me being his new girlfriend did nothing to hinder that side of him. He was definitely the “bad boy” of our school, constantly rebelling against the system by swapping his uniform for street clothes and ditching classes. His favorite form of rebellion, however, was street graffiti. He loved spray-painting words and drawings all over the walls of our neighborhood alongside his best friend, Namjoon. Tae was nearly caught by the cops a couple of times, but thanks to his quick instincts, he managed to give them the slip.

Still, a boy with bright, blue hair was bound to stand out, so after a couple nights of close calls, Taehyung finally dyed his hair back to that soft, caramel brown that I loved running my fingers through. We sat together at a bus stop, watching cars and people go by with fingers intertwined, when Tae stood and pulled a paint can out of his jacket pocket.

“Again?” I asked. Despite my teasing tone, I smiled up at him.

Taehyung tucked his bottom lip between his teeth with a grin as he sprayed something onto the panel beside us. “Look,” he said once he was finished, tilting his head to admire his work.

I stood up to see the words “I’m fine” sprayed in green. The font was the most interesting part, though, too curly in comparison to Taehyung’s usual writing. “Now look at it from upside-down,” Tae said.

I threw him a skeptical look before obediently curving my neck and scoping out the piece of art as best I could. “Save me,” I read out loud.

Taehyung nodded. “It’s for us,” he murmured.

I looked up at him, emotions surging through me like a waterfall surging down a cliff. “It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice cracking.

Taehyung looked at me, concern filling his features. “Baby girl, what’s wrong?”

“I-I have s-something to tell you,” I stammered.

With many tears and a shaky voice, I began to explain to Taehyung the events that had transpired only a few nights before. How my mom’s boyfriend had quietly snuck into my room while she remained passed out on the couch. How he had told me to be quiet as his hand started stroking my arm. How he had held his hand over my mouth and yelped when I bit him. How I had screamed so loud our neighbors called the cops. How he was carted away by the police with my mother shrieking the entire time about how I was a brat and a dramatic liar.

Taehyung’s gaze grew darker with each word. “That bastard,” he spat, clenching his fists. “I will end that motherfucker.”

“Taehyung, stop,” I sighed. “It’s over. For now, at least. I’ll stay at Chaeyoung’s until graduation.”

“What do you mean? He’s not going to jail?”

I hung my head. “My mom left to pay his bail an hour ago.”

Taehyung slammed his fist into the same panel he just graffitied. “So that jerk is going to walk free?!”

I stood up and ran my hands soothingly over his shoulders. “For now. I’m going to press charges, but in the end, it’s my word against his. Who knows how the system will treat him.”

Taehyung let out a feral growl, turning away from me. “I’m sick of this shit,” he snapped. “My dad, your mom’s boyfriend… neither of them should be walking free after everything they’ve done.”

Not knowing what else to do, I hugged him tightly from behind. “Just another few months,” I said quietly. “And then we’ll be out of here. A house in the country, just like you said.”

“That’s not good enough,” Tae snapped, turning back towards me. My mouth parted in surprise as I looked into his eyes and saw something there I’d never seen before. It was like a slow-burning flame, one that hadn’t yet risen into a raging wildfire, but threatened to if it wasn’t quickly put out.

Taehyung suddenly grabbed my hand and tugged me down the street. “I’m dropping you off at Chae’s,” he said. “And then I want you to stay there for the next twenty-four hours. I don’t want you going out for any reason, you understand me?”

“Taehyung, what are you saying? You’re scaring me.”

He stopped walking, turning so we were facing each other once more. The flame I saw earlier began blazing, turning rapidly into something uncontrollable and destructive I didn’t know how to stop. “This ends tonight,” he growled.

True to his word, he dropped me off at Chaeyoung’s, not leaving until he made me promise I wouldn’t go out until he said so. After a week, with Tae’s permission, I went home to get some clothes and personal items only to find my mom sitting on the couch, strung out of her mind. “Is he here?” I asked tentatively.

She raised her red-rimmed eyes to meet mine. “Who?”

“Manseok. Your jerk of a boyfriend.”

My mom shrugged and scoffed. “Haven’t seen that bastard for a couple days now,” she said, her words slurring together. “He upped and left us. Stole some money from me to do it, too.”

The feeling of relief that I felt was short-lived once I remembered that asshole would probably be back for more, just like the others. I quickly gathered my things and left, stopping only to make sure my mom had enough food for the next few days.

Ever since that night, Taehyung withdrew into himself. He still held my hand and kissed me, but it was distant, emotionless, like he didn’t know how to feel his feelings for me anymore. He weirdly became somewhat possessive of me, keeping me practically glued to his side whenever he was with me, and constantly texting me when we weren’t together. Whenever other boys looked my way, Taehyung shot them down with harsh words and incessant bullying our friends joined in on. I insisted they stop that kind of behavior, and for a while, I thought Tae and his friends complied. It wasn’t until much later in life when I realized they never truly stopped. They just got better at hiding it.

One night, I was at Namjoon’s place waiting for Tae when Joon’s phone rang. “Taehyung?�� he said, turning away from me when I looked up. “Hey, calm down. You did what?!”

He stood up quickly. I motioned for him to put it on speaker, but he waved me off. “Okay, stop. I’m coming over right now. Just stay put, dammit.”

Joon grabbed his jacket and rushed towards the door. “Wait!” I cried. “What happened?!”

“Nothing that concerns you,” he snapped. “Stay here. I’ll bring Taehyung to you, alright?”

Neither of them came back. Before the sun even thought of rising, I determinedly ran all the way to Taehyung’s apartment, desperate to see him and make sure he was alright. As my sneakers pounded against the pavement and my breath started coming out in ragged gasps, I suddenly felt a hand grasp my forearm and yank me into a side alley.

“What are you doing here?” a voice growled as I yelped in surprise. I looked up to see Jungkook standing there, glaring at me.

“I want to see Taehyung,” I retorted, ripping my arm from his grasp.

He crossed his arms. “Not gonna happen.”

“Like hell it’s not!” I snapped. “Where is he?”

Jungkook grabbed the front of my jacket, preventing me from pushing past him. “Go home, Y/n.”

“Absolutely the fuck not!”

Sick of my shit, Jungkook picked me up, threw me over his broad shoulder, and carried me out of the alleyway. I kicked and screamed the entire way. He set me down once we were on the main street. “Taehyung will call you when he can,” he said firmly. “I won’t say it again, Y/n. Go home.”

“No!” Tears welled up, and I furiously swiped them away. “I’m his girlfriend! Tell me where he is right now or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Jungkook snapped. “Y/n, you don’t even know where he is. Fucking leave, or I’ll carry you all the way back to Chae’s myself.”

It didn’t take much longer for me to realize Jungkook wouldn’t relent. Eventually, I went back to Chaeyoung’s and spent the day staring at the wall beside my bed. What did Taehyung do? What were his friends protecting him from? When had things gotten so fucked up?

My questions were never answered. After a full week of silence, complete with him missing school, Taehyung showed up at Chae’s place asking for me. “She doesn’t want to see you,” Chae snapped, closing the door as I meandered into the entry hall.

Taehyung stopped her by slamming his palm against the wood. “Please, Chae,” he begged.

Recognizing his deep tenor, I walked up and put my hand on my bestie’s shoulder. “I’ve got this, Chae,” I murmured. She left with a huff.

Taehyung looked terrible. Dark circles ran under both eyes like he’d spent multiple nights without sleep, his hair was unkempt, and his skin was much too pale. Without another word, I immediately took him inside and dragged him up to my room. He took a shower in my en suite bathroom while I washed his clothes. After he dressed, we sat on my bed, still not speaking. “What happened?” I finally asked.

He tossed me a weak smile. “Life happened.”

I shook my head in disgust. “You leave me for an entire week with no explanation, and that’s all you have to say?”

“Baby girl, please,” Taehyung said, clasping my hands in between his large, rough ones. “I’m sorry I left you alone. I asked the guys to keep an eye on you, and they said you’ve been doing fine.”

“Fine is an overstatement,” I snorted, tearing my hands from his grasp.

He didn’t relent, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into his broad chest. “Let go,” I ordered, trying and failing to push him away.

“No,” he said simply, tightening his hold. “I love you, Y/n. Everything that happened this past week happened for us. For our dream.”

I managed to pull back enough to look up into his eyes. The spark of mischief that normally resided there was gone, replaced by a dull sombreness that made me ache inside. Whatever had happened that week completely changed Taehyung for good. He was no longer quick to smile or joke, and I began to yearn for the blue-haired boy of the past. I couldn’t tell him that, though. Despite everything, I still loved him.

A month passed, and as our graduation approached, Taehyung talked more and more about moving out to the country. I responded enthusiastically outwardly, but on the inside, I didn’t know if moving out was such a good idea. It wasn’t just the way he had changed. It was having issues with my mom as well. Since Manseok never came back around, her behavior grew more erratic each day. I moved back in to take care of her, and she depended heavily on me. I was afraid if I left, she would fall off the deep end again and never be able to make it back to the surface.

The last day I saw Taehyung dawned bright and filled with hope. “I’m feeling good today,” he announced, slinging an arm around my shoulders as we walked to class.

I smiled up at him, glee spreading through my limbs when I saw a trace of that mischievous spark back in his eyes. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He tossed me a grin. “I haven’t been able to go out and tag anything lately… but I kind of want to tonight. You in?”

“Of course.”

As night approached, we walked hand-in-hand down the street until Taehyung led us back to that bus stop where he painted the “I’m fine/Save me” ambigram. I sat on the bench and watched as he began to create something new. I don’t think he had a set plan. The painting started off in meaningless loops, the jet-black color standing out in stark contrast to the white behind it.

Suddenly, bright lights filled our vision flashing a blinding blue and red. “Freeze!” a loud voice yelled.

I remember Taehyung’s wide, dark eyes finding mine, filled with panic. I remember the rough skin of his palm sliding into mine and yanking me upright. I remember how we sprinted down the street, the fear of being caught pumping adrenaline through us. How he ran faster than me, tugging me along to keep up.

Taehyung looked back and pulled me into an alleyway to try and lose them. We turned a corner and met a dead end. With our backs pressed against the wall, I looked at Tae. “Dammit,” he panted, the corners of his mouth turning upwards despite our situation.

I began to run out the way we came, intending on dragging Taehyung with me, but he yanked me back, slamming me against the wall that entrapped us. He kissed me, feverishly pressing his tongue inside my mouth before I could stop him. He yanked my wrists upwards, pinning them almost painfully against the brick above us as his mouth continued exploring mine and his hands roamed up and down my body.

He pulled back, allowing me to finally suck in some oxygen, and even as I coughed, he continued pressing kisses from my cheek to my jaw to my neck. Tae finally stopped as loud voices and beams of flashlights got closer. “I love you, baby girl,” he murmured. “Don’t forget that.”

“Tae, what—?”

He stepped out from behind the corner, raising his hands in the air. I ducked down into the shadows the alley provided, scooting backwards and pressing my hands over my mouth.

“Get over here, punk,” a gruff voice commanded. I heard the grinding click of handcuffs closing over wrists as another voice began to read Tae his rights.

I scrambled to my feet, realizing too late what was happening. No, no, no, no, no. He couldn’t take the fall for both of us. Not like this. Still, even as I moved to step out into the light and reveal myself, something stopped me. I don’t remember exactly what it was. Possibly the thought of my mother, my friends, how close I was to graduation. Like I said, I don’t remember. All I remember was the panic I felt when I realized the love of my life had just been arrested.

I showed up late to class the next day, not wanting to answer questions from my friends about what had happened and why I looked like absolute shit. I realized my efforts weren’t needed when two detectives pulled me out of class and escorted me to the police station, causing my classmates to start buzzing with gossip like the annoying wasps they were.

“So… L/n Y/n,” the cop, Detective Kwak, said. I looked up at her, nervously twisting my hands in my lap. “You are dating Kim Taehyung, correct?”

I nodded slowly. She had brought me here for “routine questioning,” yet I began to suspect more when they put me in an interrogation room. “For how long?” the detective asked.

“About a year and a half,” I muttered.

“So your relationship was serious?”

“You could say that.”

“How serious?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “What do you mean?”

“I  mean, how serious were you? Did you have plans for after graduation?”

“I guess. We were going to move in together.”

“Here in the city?”

“No,” I replied, shaking my head. “Somewhere far away.”

“Because of your troubles at home?”

It was then I got defensive. “What do you know about that?” I snapped.

Detective Kwak stared me down, an amused smile playing around the corners of her lips. “I know enough. I was promoted to detective only a month or so ago. Back in my street days, I was one of the cops called to your house.”

My mouth parted in surprise at her words.

“I remember that night pretty clearly,” she continued. “Your mom’s boyfriend attacked you, right?”

I swallowed hard and sank down in my seat, rubbing my arms with my palms in an effort to keep myself contained. “And she did nothing to defend you, correct?” the detective prodded.

“Stop,” I whispered.

“What about Taehyung? Did he do anything to defend you?”

“What the fuck is this about?” I burst out. “I thought you brought me here because… because…”

“Because of the graffiti?” she asked pointedly.

I nodded.

Detective Kwak leaned forward over the table. “Look, Y/n, I don’t give a damn about the fact you were his tagging partner in crime or whatever. This is much bigger than that.”

“What do you mean?”

She sat back and stared at me, her eyes like cold, dark tunnels. “Kim Taehyung has been charged with murder. His prints match a partial we lifted off of a crime scene.”

My mouth dropped open. “W-What?”

“That’s right,” she said. “We only identified the body yesterday. Does the name Lee Manseok mean anything to you?”

I froze as the syllables of my mother’s boyfriend’s name rolled off the detective’s tongue. She nodded at my reaction. “I thought it would. He was found in an abandoned warehouse about a week after he was killed. He’d been beaten to death.”

My blood ran cold, causing goosebumps to raise on the flesh of my arms. I shook my head fiercely. “No, that can’t be right,” I said. “The guy was a dick, anyone could’ve done that to him.”

“That’s what we thought at first. We first suspected his wife.”

“He… He has a wife?”

“And two kids,” the detective scoffed. “Your mom picked a real winner. But then we finally got Taehyung in custody thanks to your shenanigans last night and what do you know? His prints match the one we found at the crime scene.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” I said firmly. “Taehyung wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t he?” she asked, folding her arms over the table. “Sounds like he really loved you and would do anything to protect you.”

“No, there has to be a mistake. Even if Taehyung did kill him, it had to be out of self-defense or something.”

“Maybe so. But if you knock a guy out and then continue beating him until he dies, is it really self-defense?”

“It is if that guy could come back and hurt someone you love for revenge,” I retorted.

The detective’s face remained expressionless. “Unfortunately, the law says differently.”

“The law can go to hell for all I care.”

She chuckled. “Whatever you say, kid. Look, the crime scene revealed that more than one person beat the literal life out of Manseok. If Taehyung did this, he didn’t do it alone. Do you happen to know who else would have helped him commit murder?”

I stayed silent as I thought for a moment. Any of our friends could’ve helped him, with maybe the exception of Chaeyoung. I thought of Jin, Hoseok, Jungkook, Jimin, Yoongi and Joon. I thought of the way they moved around school like a unified group, making fun of anyone who wasn’t them and bullying people who got in their way, especially any other guy who dared look my way. Still, they wouldn’t have helped Tae commit flat-out murder, would they?

“Anyone at all?”

The detective’s voice brought me out of my thoughts. I shook my head. “No. No one.”

She sighed. “There’s something else. We’ve been trying to get ahold of Taehyung’s father, but he seems to be missing.”

“Missing?”

“Yes. He hasn’t shown up at his job at all in the past month and a half. His credit cards haven’t been used, either.”

“So?” I snapped. “The guy was an alcoholic, he could be holed up somewhere drinking himself to death.”

“Maybe so, but my guess is we’re going to find him in some abandoned building or maybe at the bottom of the ocean one day. Your boy, Taehyung? I’ll bet he’s the one who put him there.”

I slammed my palms on the table. “LIES!” I yelled. “He wouldn’t do that!”

“Wouldn’t he?!” Detective Kwak shouted, rising to her feet. “Tell me something right now, Y/n. Have you noticed him acting differently? Have you noticed any changes in his behavior?”

I immediately looked down at the ground. “No,” I muttered.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said, NO!”

“Enough with the lies!”

“I’m not lying! You are!”

The detective opened her mouth to retort, then thought better of it and sat down instead. “The evidence doesn’t lie, Y/n,” she said.

“Look,” I said. “If you want someone to put in jail, put me in jail. Taehyung’s gone through enough in his life. Please don’t put him through this.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

Tears welled up in my eyes and I put my hands over my face and began to sob. Detective Kwak stood up and came around to my side of the table before placing a hand on my shoulder. Once my sobs began to cease, she offered me a tissue. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. “Thanks,” I muttered.

“Listen,” she said gently. “I’ve made arrangements for your aunt to come pick you up.”

I looked up at the detective in surprise. “My aunt?”

“Yes. Your mom’s sister. She’s filed to gain custody of you, and in light of recent events, a judge granted it to her.”

“Wait, my mom’s sister? I thought she lived in America.”

Detective Kwak’s mouth visibly tightened. “No, actually, she lives in Busan. Seems your mom kept that from you as well. Your aunt’s been trying to get in contact with you, Y/n. She says she sent letters.”

I stared at the wall across from me. Every limb, every nerve ending, every cell in my body was starting to go numb. It was all too much. My boyfriend was a murderer, my mom’s ex-boyfriend was dead, Taehyung’s dad was missing, and now all of a sudden I had a long-lost aunt who was now my sole guardian?”

“She’s very well off,” the detective continued. “She’s even offered to pay for your mom to get treatment in a rehabilitation facility. Whatever future you have with her is sure to be a bright one.”

“If you say so.”

“I know so. I’ve met her, only briefly, but she seems very nice.”

I let the silence grow between us, not bothering to give a response. The detective finally sighed and sat back down in her chair across from me. “Y/n, Taehyung is going to jail for a very long time. Maybe even for the rest of his life. I suggest you move on with your life. Move to Busan. You’ll attend a great school there, and probably university as well. You can start down an entirely new path.”

The memory of Taehyung’s handsome face swam before my eyes, his bright, boxy smile lighting my insides on fire the way it had for the past year and a half. “What if I don’t want to?” I whispered.

“Well… That’s up to you. But the sooner you move on, the sooner you’ll stop feeling this pain.”

Detective Kwak stood up, motioning for me to stand up as well. “Come on. Your aunt’s waiting.”

We exited the interrogation room, the skin on my face itchy and dry from crying. I knew I probably looked like a mess, but I didn’t care.

“Y/n!” a deep, familiar voice shouted. I froze in my tracks, slowly raising my eyes to his inky ones. He struggled in the grip of two cops, his hands handcuffed behind his back.

“Hey baby girl,” he said, smirking. “Nice of you to come visit me.”

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Detective Kwak hissed.

“You said to move him into the interrogation room.”

“While it’s still occupied?!”

“Don’t worry,” Taehyung quipped. “We can share, right baby?”

“Get him out of here!” Detective Kwak snapped. “Now!”

The cops shoved Taehyung towards the interrogation room. I turned to look at him, desperation clenching at my heart. I realized this might be the last time I saw him, the last time I would get to tell him something. Anything. My mouth opened but no words came out.

“Don’t worry, baby girl!” Taehyung shouted, lurching towards me. “I’ll get out someday! And I’ll come for you! I will always come for you!”

I shook my head and felt tears prick at my eyes once more as the police wrestled with him. “I love you, Y/n!” he shouted just before they shut the door on him.

“Sorry about that,” Detective Kim said, holding a hand to her heaving chest. “You weren’t supposed to cross paths.”

“It’s okay,” I murmured, and to my own surprise, I meant it. I was glad I saw him one last time. I realized, in that moment, that the blue-haired boy I once knew and fell in love with was completely gone. His eyes, which once held a spark of playfulness and mischief, now held nothing but misery and woe. He let his anger for the world overtake him, allowing it to blaze a path of self-destruction that I could no longer follow.

Maybe the detective was right. Despite the fact that Kim Taehyung was the love of my life, maybe, just maybe, it was time to move on.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Part One is HEEEEEEERE! 😉

[nothingunrealistic]

👀 okay I'm starting to get into billions (bc of will). Can you recommend some essential episodes or something to get an understanding for what's happening? (And also I really like Asia Kate Dillon so like important episodes with them too)

the tricky thing about billions is that those of us who are into it aren’t, for the most part, actually watching the episodes in full or trying to understand all the plotlines. so if you want to know what’s happening with Everyone on the show (which is a dizzying number of characters), i can’t really pare it down to what’s important because i refuse to care about like half of them. but if, as it seems, you’re primarily here for winston and taylor (will’s and asia’s characters respectively), then good news - that’s almost all we care about too

the essential episodes for understanding winston are easy enough because he’s only shown up in five so far (3x03, 3x09, 3x11, 4x03, 4x08, and 4x11) for a couple minutes each, and all footage of him has been lovingly collated and posted on here. his first several appearances, and the context for them, are collected here; his moments from the most recent episode, which we were yelling about all day on sunday, are here. (he’ll be in this coming sunday’s episode too, which is also the season finale, so expect even more yelling about that.)

narrowing down the Essential Taylor is a little trickier because they’ve been in nearly every episode of seasons 2 3 and 4, of which i have watched exactly one episode. if billions had a decent fan wiki or anything similar, i would direct you to that, but they don’t, because they suck. the main way i keep up with the episodes/figure out what happened in previous seasons is via fan-run sites (which are superior to the recaps on Professional Media Websites usually), as follows:

fanfunwithdamianlewis has multiple recaps of every episode (including some from people who actually understand and can explain the financial stuff going on), as well as lists of all the locations shown, transcripts of cast interviews, and other fun stuff, all thoroughly tagged with actor and character names

gingesbecray has a recap of every episode as well (including gifs), always very detailed and entertainingly opinionated in ways we generally agree with

the billions companion collects and explains all the references that characters make (which is half the dialogue), sorted by episode, character, and keyword, as well as listing a wide array of other helpful sites

from these sites, the decent number of clips floating around youtube, and a collection of all taylor’s dialogue in seasons 2 & 3, we’ve pieced together the basic arc taylor’s had in the show so far. here’s my best approach at a season-by-season highlights reel (with links to relevant clips in bold) under the cut  because it’s ridiculously long

season 2: taylor arrives at axe capital as an intern. axe recognizes their talent and convinces them to stay, and they gain experience, status, and respect at axe cap over the course of the season, becoming the chief investment officer by season’s end.

2x01: taylor is an intern working for mafee (an executing trader at axe cap), and mafee wants them to stay once their internship is over.

2x02: taylor meets axe and impresses him with their insight. though taylor knows they don’t fit in at axe cap and plans to leave for grad school, axe later convinces them to stay, with a salary of a million dollars for a year.

2x03: taylor gets invited to play at a charity poker tournament (a real thing!), to the chagrin of others at axe cap. taylor has reservations but ultimately agrees to play; they win the tournament by outthinking their opponent, but are reminded of how out of place they are in hedge fund culture.

2x07: taylor is involved in figuring out what to do about a struggling small town that axe cap is heavily invested in.

2x08: taylor notices that mafee has been struggling at his job ever since he introduced them to axe, and asks wendy (who’s married to chuck [one of the main Legal Side characters], the performance coach at axe cap, and one of axe’s closest friends) if they should do anything about it. (ultimately taylor decides to assuage the guilt by giving mafee a signed wrestling poster. that’s the world of finance for you!)

2x09: axe’s birthday party, which everyone is expected to attend, is in conflict with taylor’s personal life, so they talk to him about what they should do and why they’re conflicted.

2x10: taylor is questioned by connerty (another of the characters on the legal side of things, who we don’t care about otherwise) about what happens at axe cap.

2x11: taylor is warned by connerty that this line of work might endanger their soul. they’re also given the responsibility of assessing all the analysts at axe cap and firing one - and told that it can’t be based solely on the numbers - and decide not to fire rudy, who is the worst performing analyst but is dedicated to succeeding.

2x12: axe is arrested/indicted/somehow penalized for insider trading and other hedge fund shenanigans, and he puts taylor in charge of axe cap’s investments.

season 3: taylor keeps axe capital running and thriving in axe’s absence, but once he returns, he overrules their decisions and undercuts their trust, leading them to start their own hedge fund (taylor mason capital, or tmc) by season’s end.

3x01: taylor calls a meeting at axe cap and tasks everyone with preparing for an Idea Dinner where they’ll impress other hedge funds with a new and exciting plan for making money. ultimately taylor comes up with a plan that involves reverse engineering microchips, and it goes over well.

3x02: taylor struggles with making the right choices of investments after a tsunami hits brazil, confronts axe when he shows up at the office despite being banned from trading, and talks with him later about how the day has gone and how to move forward.

3x03: taylor interviews quantitative analysts (”quants”) for axe cap, much to the chagrin of analysts who are worried about losing their jobs and traders who don’t trust computers. ultimately none are hired because wags (the COO of axe cap and the epitome of everything absolutely wild about billions), who conducted the interview with taylor, doesn’t trust quants either and sabotaged the process. (this is also where winston first appears! hi winston!)

3x04: taylor expects a space mission led by weird off brand elon musk to fail and invests accordingly. they’re rooting for him anyway and are horrified when he dies in an explosion after launch. they also deal with attempts to get them to invest in a charitable organization brought to axe’s attention by oscar langstraat, a venture philanthropist, and wind up with significant distaste for oscar.

3x05: taylor encounters oscar again in silicon valley where they’re hearing pitches, and though they’re hostile to him at first, a conversation about star wars makes taylor regret that they made other plans for dinner, and playing an obscure board game is enough for them to sleep with him. (like i said: enemies to lovers speedrun!)

3x06: taylor is “rattled” (their word) by something related to axe’s legal troubles in this episode. oscar flies in from silicon valley unannounced to keep taylor company while they’re working on their quant project because he’s That invested. no clips of any of this online though

3x07: axe and wendy are planning to convince mafee to take the blame for some shady investing they did at the end of last season, and taylor inadvertently enables them to do it by giving them information about how mafee thinks and what he believes in.

3x08: axe returns to axe cap free to trade again, and immediately undoes all of taylor’s work (including the quant project), though he also invites them to join the team that will raise money for axe cap. taylor wants a fund of their own to manage (still affiliated with axe cap but separate), but axe won’t give them as much money for it as he’s promising.

3x09: axe needs money and tries to take some from grigor andolov, a russian oil oligarch, which taylor thinks is a terrible idea. they also restart the quant project again, in secret, which means winston’s back! winston & taylor’s meeting in a room with a chalkboard and taylor’s introduction of the quants to the quant headquarters are both from this episode.

3x10: taylor and oscar are celebrating a deal that oscar’s about to make, but when taylor mentions it to axe in asking for his help with getting a dinner reservation, axe, who’s searching for more sources of money, makes the deal before oscar can, which crushes taylor and ends their relationship. 

3x11: taylor discovers that winston has driven off the other quants, but asks him to work on The Algorithm instead of firing him. it’s also comp time - axe won’t give taylor as much of a bonus as they want and also removes them from the capital raise team; this decision is later reversed when taylor talks to wendy and wendy talks to axe. winston completes The Algorithm, and taylor emerges from the quant basement into the offices of taylor mason capital to talk to grigor.

3x12: taylor meets with grigor and convinces him to invest in tmc, arrives (late) to the capital raise event and impresses the investors there, swipes a good portion of that capital for tmc, and leaves axe cap for good, having successfully convinced mafee (and failing to convince ben kim) to join them. axe and taylor argue about taylor’s betrayal and what comes next. taylor also tries and fails to bring wendy to tmc.

season 4: taylor strives to keep tmc successful while fending off axe’s repeated attacks and dealing with their own interpersonal relationships interfering with business. how will it end? we don’t yet know [UPDATE: it ends with taylor making deals with both axe and chuck, but truly being on no one’s side except their own.]

4x01: taylor, mafee, and sara (taylor’s COO) struggle to hire employees due to axe paying off tmc’s headhunter (though they don’t initially know that’s the case). taylor disguises themself as a cis woman to get money from a sovereign wealth fund that axe cap is also seeking money from. (the full episode is available on youtube.)

4x02: taylor can’t get funding because axe has persuaded all the banks to cut them off. grigor brings in a pair of shady brothers to invest in tmc; taylor would really rather not depend on the brothers’ money, so they trick the banker the brothers are using into cutting off their credit lines and ask grigor to use his influence to get independent funding for tmc.

4x03: axe cap has managed to get a hold of tmc’s trading patterns, and they start front running tmc (making trades based on what they expect tmc to do) to throw taylor off. (this is where winston comes in again! and declares himself cassandra!) taylor’s dad, douglas, shows up and spends nearly all of his screentime either persistently misgendering taylor or helping them create a mathematical equation, which includes a mistake added by taylor as a message to axe (who of course is watching) for a meeting. when they meet, taylor asks axe for a truce, and he declines.

4x04: grigor brings down axe cap’s whole computer system, allowing tmc to profit off a natural gas crisis that axe cap was hoping to benefit from. taylor also agrees to support douglas’s aerospace project, a “lattice grid fin,” now that he’s actually respecting them as a person. but the climax of this episode is chuck talking about his and wendy’s sex life in front of the press, and taylor calls wendy afterward to offer sympathy. (and chuck, who subsequently wins his election, gets grigor deported and his money frozen.)

4x05: taylor is #Stressed about the loss of grigor’s money, which endangers tmc overall and douglas’s project especially. sara brings in lauren, an investor relations expert, to help out; lauren gets taylor a meeting with the new york firefighters’ fund, who used to invest only with axe but are looking elsewhere, and taylor gains their support.

4x06: taylor is working with douglas and a couple other companies on getting his lattice fin project off the ground, while trying to avoid axe cap’s spying (not that successfully), and douglas is mad that he isn’t being treated like the smartest person in the room. taylor and wendy also meet up repeatedly, in a seemingly friendly way, but wendy mines their conversations and her patient files on taylor to figure out how to force taylor to destroy douglas’s project. 

4x07: rebecca, axe’s girlfriend (though tmc doesn’t know that) and a business mogul herself, offers to buy douglas’s project (as a way for axe to access and destroy it), which taylor turns down. taylor has also enlisted wendy’s help to furnish a new apartment for their parents. then taylor gets the news that douglas’s project has been found to be a threat to national security (thanks to axe) - and though they initially choose to hold onto his project despite the ensuing loss of funds, wendy comes over to commiserate and inadvertently gives away that she’s been playing taylor this whole time. taylor sells the project to the government to save tmc, at the cost of their relationship with douglas.

4x08: taylor wants financial revenge for being manipulated, and first taunts, then argues with axe on live television. at mafee and dollar bill’s charity boxing match, taylor first is confronted by wendy about reporting her for malpractice (which sara did without taylor’s knowledge), then reveals that they tricked axe into getting fracking legalized so they could profit from buying water rights where fracking happens.

4x09: taylor is going to great lengths to destroy rebecca’s new position as ceo of a department store (saler’s), including buying out three of the largest shareholders and planning to meet up with a fourth who already hates axe. the plan doesn’t work in the end, but taylor finds out that axe will make huge sacrifices for rebecca - and starts a relationship with lauren, who helped them get a meeting with the fourth shareholder’s son.

4x10: taylor is preparing for wendy’s malpractice hearing, buying an appliance manufacturer closely tied to saler’s in order to have power over rebecca, and doing a terrible job of hiding their relationship with lauren. wendy comes to see them at tmc, and taylor claims they won’t go to the hearing, for wendy’s benefit.

4x11: taylor indeed doesn’t go to the hearing, and wendy fesses up to her wrongdoing. it’s comp time at tmc (winston’s most recent appearance! we’ve only just recently stopped shouting about it!), and everyone defers their bonus except lauren, who says she’d be too heartbroken to stick around if she and taylor broke up. rebecca, who’s tired of taylor making her life difficult, offers taylor a business deal related to saler’s, and taylor, who’s tired of being at war, accepts.

4x12: here is imdb’s summary of this episode: “Axe makes a big decision. Connerty gets closer to the truth. Tensions rise, and dynamics shift.” real specific. [UPDATE: taylor apologizes to their employees and promises to focus on running tmc The Right Way. and then axe sinks tmc by effectively killing saler’s, and sends a former axe cap employee who tried to get a job at tmc to try and bait taylor into engaging in insider trading; he hopes that chuck will then arrest them and blackmail them to work for axe again. taylor doesn’t take the bait, but chuck arrests them anyway, and makes a deal with them to work together to take axe down. secretly taylor plans to set up chuck and axe to destroy each other, and then get out of the way. the episode ends with taylor and their tmc team walking into axe cap and being “welcomed home.”]

[thesportssoundoff]

“A bittersweet ESPN Fight Night” UFC Rozenstruik vs Overeem Preview

Joey

December 1st

It's been an "interesting" experience on ESPN, one with plenty of ups and downs and roundabouts but we come to an end on December 7th withwith a finale card for ESPN from DC. It's a good card on paper but one that a) has been besieged by injuries and b) overshadowed by some truly heartbreaking circumstances. It's headlined by a heavyweight fight pitting Alistair Overeem in the midst of his 3rd (fourth?) renaissance run taking on rising HW Jair Rozenstruik. Underneath that we have a bevy of solid women's fights that have also been somewhat shaken by injuries as Cynthia Calvillo faces solid Brazilian striker Marina Rodriguez in the co-main event with Aspen Ladd vs Yana Kunitskaya settled in underneath that. After that we've got some  great fights at bantamweight, a few fights at HW and MW and then some action filler. It's not the worst card in the world and it's got some merit especially if you're in the midst of this rather gross MMA drought we got goin' on.

Fights: 12

Debuts: Billy Quarantillo, Jacob Kilburn, Joe Solecki

Fight Changes/Injury Cancellations: (Claudia Gadelha OUT, Mariana Rodriguez IN vs Cynthia Calvillo/Walt Harris OUT, Jair Rozenstruik IN vs Alistair Overeem/Courtney Casey OUT, Mallory Martin IN vs Virna Jandiroba/Carlos Condit vs Mickey Gall CANCELLED/Chris Fishgold OUT, Jacob Kilburn IN vs Billy Quarantillo/Alonzo Menifield OUT, Makhmud Muradov IN vs Trevor Smith)

Headliners (fighters who have either main evented or co-main evented shows in the UFC): 8 (Alistair Overeem, Cynthia Calvillo, Ben Rothwell, Aspen Ladd, Yana Kunitskaya, Stefan Struve, Ricky Simon, Thiago Alves)

Fighters On Losing Streaks in the UFC:  Ben Rothwell, Trevor Smith

Fighters On Winning Streaks in the UFC: Alistair Overeem, Cynthia Calvillo, Marina Rodriguez,Yana Kunitskaya, Song Yadong, Bryce Mitchell, Jair Rozenstruik

Main Card Record Since Jan 1st 2017 (in the UFC): 34-15-1

Alistair Overeem- 4-2 Jair Rozenstruik- 3-0 Cynthia Calvillo- 5-1 Marina Rodriguez- 2-0-1 Aspen Ladd- 3-1 Yana Kunitskaya- 2-1 Stefan Struve- 1-3 Ben Rothwell- 0-2 Rob Font- 3-2 Ricky Simon- 3-1 Cody Stamman- 4-1 Song Yadong- 4-0

Fights By Weight Class (yearly number here):

Women’s Strawweight- 2 (30) Heavyweight-  2 (39) Bantamweight- 2 (57) Featherweight- 2 (59) Women’s Bantamweight-  1 (21) Middleweight- 1 (47) Welterweight-  1 (73) Lightweight- 1 (75)

Light Heavyweight- (44) Women’s Flyweight-  (33) Flyweight-  (15) Women’s Featherweight- (8)

2019 Number Tracker

Debuting Fighters (40-62-1)-  Billy Quarantillo, Jacob Kilburn, Joe Solecki

Short Notice Fighters (32-41-1)- Marina Rodriguez, Jair Rozenstruik, Mallory Martin, Jacob Kilburn, Makhmud Muradov, Virna Jandiroba

Second Fight (56-40)- Makhmud Muradov, Virna Jandiroba

Cage Corrosion (Fighters who have not fought within a year of the date of the fight) (23-40-1)-

Undefeated Fighters (42-40-2)- Bryce Mitchell, Marina Rodriguez, Jair Rozenstruik

Fighters with at least four fights in the UFC with 0 wins over competition still in the organization (12-9)- Tim Means, Matt Wiman, Trevor Smith

Weight Class Jumpers (Fighters competing outside of the weight class of their last fight even if they’re returning BACK to their “normal weight class”) (33-26)-

Twelve Precious Ponderings

1- First and foremost, this is the saddest main event in UFC history. Jair Rozenstruik is fighting in place of Walt Harris who right at the peak of his UFC run was forced to step away and endure a situation you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. As much fun as we may poke at Walt Harris the fighter for some of the sillier moments in MMA that are attached to his name (a six fight non fight series with Mark Godbeer, fighting Werdum on two hours notice, his first UFC run), professionally speaking he had finally begun to put everything together and was on a 5-1 run that really should've been a 5-0 streak if you remove a fight vs Fabricio Werdum that he took on a days notice to help save the card. That doesn't even account for his other loss being a silly DQ loss where he clearly fouled Mark Godbeer during a break in rather controversial fashion. It's sad on a professional level but heartbreaking on a personal one as Harris pulled out of this fight due to the then disappearance (now confirmed murder) of his stepdaughter. What Walt Harris and his family are going through currently pales in comparison to anything fight related and is truly one of the worst things a human being has to endure. Walt Harris put his fighting career on hold as his personal life crumbled around him through no fault of his own and that is tragic. As intrigued as I am by this main event, it's the epitome of "With a heavy heart" because in a just, fair and loving world this is Walt Harris going for the biggest win of his career. Rest in peace Aniah Blanchard and may the Harris family find the strength to get through this trying time.

2- Is Alistair Overeem essentially blocked off from the title picture? Let's say Overeem beats Jair Rozenstruik and does it impressively. That's now three wins in a row. Normally three wins in a row at HW gets you a title fight but ahead of him in terms of contenders you have Curtis Blaydes (beat Overeem), Ngannou (almost killed Overeem), Volkov (likely fighting Ngannou) and DC (this would've been a hell of a fight 2-3 years ago).  Derrick Lewis is about to be tied up in an utterly meaningless fight and OVereem probably beats or HAS beaten everybody behind him. As such---what's really his place in the division? Is he the official Keith Jardine/Kenny Florian/Mark Munoz gatekeeper to the title shot who never gets the title shot?

3- Had this discussion a few weeks ago but is Alistair Overeem a top 5 HW of all time?

4- Why are allowing Aspen Ladd to fight at 135 lbs? It just feels needless.

5- A lot has been made about the lack of contenders for Amanda Nunes but I think we can have a genuine conversation about Yana Kunitskaya taking none of those spots if she can beat Aspen Ladd. Kunitskaya with three straight wins over the likes of Lina Lansberg, Marion Reneau and Aspen Ladd would probably at worst put her in a #1 contender fight if not directly into being Nunes' next opponent. With Amanda Nunes basically being a better Mighty Mouse in terms of name value, it's not like you need to be a big name to get a fight.

6- Tim Means vs Thiago Alves in 2019, eh? Fine. You guys do you.

7- The same should be said for this rather blegh Ben Rothwell vs Stefan Struve fight. Rothwell has not been the same guy since coming back from his USADA suspension and Stefan Struve really should've gone through with his retirement.

8- Is this too much too soon for Song Yadong? To this point, Yadong's fought guys ranging from fun but limited (Bharat Kandare) to established quality veterans lacking a defining trait (Felipe Arantes and Alejandro Perez). Alejandro Perez was a fine but safe step up since Perez's defining traits (consistent workrate, a solid kicking game at range) weren't going to do much against Yadong unless we were all wrong about him. Outside of a blip here or there, Yadong has passed every test but Stamman is IMO a genuine top 10 bantamweight who brings high level strength with him. We've seen that Yadong does some of his best work in tight but we've never seen him have to wrestle with a strong compact wrestler type. Stamman is also probably the most polished fighter Yadong has ever faced in his time in the UFC with experience against elite dudes like Aljamain Sterling. This is a really good fight and perhaps a bridge too far for China's best male fighter in the UFC.

9- Matt Wiman's long awaited return to the UFC was about what you'd expect for a dude who basically missed out on the rise of the athlete/real sports era of the UFC. Wiman looked woefully out of his depth vs Luis Pena and while he didn't humiliate himself in terms of heart, it was certainly not one of the highlight reels. Wiman is back and taking on debuting fighter Joe Salecki in yet another "old school UFC LW vs DWCS guy" fight. Perhaps Wiman can get some good vibes after Joe Lauzon boxed up Jonathan Pearce and had one of the cooler moments of 2019 in his out of nowhere win. Remember debuting fighters have bad numbers in 2019!

10- Cynthia Calvillo vs Claudia Gadelha was on paper a tremendous fight with plenty to discuss but Marina Rodriguez vs Cynthia Calvillo feels like one of those weird throwback style clashes. Rodriguez is a fantastic muay thai striker with good movement who cuts a frenetic pace. On the other hand, Cynthia Calvillo eats up this kind of fighter with her grappling and quick takedowns. Rodriguez allowed Randa Markos to spend 10 minutes taking her down at will. As such, I get the feeling things are about to go real bad for Rodriguez unless her takedown defense has grown overnight.

11- Ricky Simon is subjecting us to more Urijah Faber fights so let's just say that I hope he has a great performance to make up for that.

12- Should there be a limit to the number of DWCS guys on one sole card?

[disgraced-doctor-junkenstein]

Title: Bottles Doc knows how to deal with his feelings. He just bottles them up.

This was a lot to take in. Doc accepted the concept of alternative realities and dimensions when it had all been a proposed theory in the past but now. Now it was undeniable and while it confirmed many things it was still just a lot to take in when the reality of it hit. There were different varieties of himself. Worse yet, maybe he was just a variant of someone else. Nothing original about him. Nothing special. Not one in six billion from his own world but one of a possibly limitless amount of the same person. There was some hope in his distress though. Of all the Rats he had come across he was the only one strikingly different but they spoke of others. There were movies of his story, granted who was to say they were not based off another variant of himself from another universe? A foil of himself but more successful. What if he was the worst of them all? Someone had to be, right? It was maddening really. Facing all this now not so long after having lost everything. His home, his revenge, his Hog, his sense of direction... One would think that when they hit rock bottom there would be no place to go but up. No. Unfortunately it seemed Doc had brought with him a pickax and was going to dig into the earth’s core at this rate. Maybe then he would finally stop being such a screw up. His actions might finally hold a consequence that would burn him alive and make him suffer in a way he knew he could recover from. Physical pain was nothing compared to mental or emotional in his experience. And right now he felt feverish with how alight his thoughts were. All of them overlapping like waves of gasoline and all it took was one more misstep to cause a spark to ignite it all. All the other Rats he met so far were strange. They could fake a smile much like himself but they lashed out far more than he did. They were feral in nature thanks to their world being blown apart at a young age. Sense of family far different from his own or just simply did not have one. In that instance Doc was lucky. He was not sure he would have the resolve they had to make it though that particular hell and back. His parents were such a integral part of his life that losing them at such a young age would have changed him. Perhaps then he would have been more like the others. Doc ran his hands down his face. Fingers unable to leave marks though the goggles he had pulled down in his frustration had snapped back, pegging him in his nose. In a rage he yanked them off and hurled them from himself. A small plume of dust rising from the impact in the distance but the wind carried it away. God. How he wish his thoughts could just come and go as easily. But even as he wished for that guilt was starting to edge its way back in like shadows. Throwing tantrums was not acceptable in polite society. It was taboo. As was many things Junkenstein found himself fascinated by but those things were encouraged by his parents. Lashing out, however, was not. Sinking his face back into his palms, Junkenstein sniffled loudly trying to reel himself back in. Talking was the recommended way of venting one’s thoughts and feelings but his peers found him unsettling, his appearance strange, and his general outlook on life to be backwards. He could never really tell them anything without it getting warped into something awful that the town would eventually hear and believe. His parents would offer to listen, such kind souls they were, but somethings one just simply could not tell their folks. So Junkenstein coped by pushing it all down. The girl he once liked when he was but a youth? Oh how he wrote silly little love notes on the way the light hit her shoulders and highlighted he face like reflections off a glassy wave. He thought he had truly liked her but when she reacted poorly to his confession his pride had taken a blow. Childish, sure. But he wanted to explain but it was soon apparent that when others teased her about the disgusting boy that fancied her nothing he could say would matter. He had torn all his letters up. Tears drying on the torn pieces as the wind carried them off over the cliff-side he had sat at back then. Another thing to bottle up. When Junkenstein found himself attracted to boys as well a few years later he felt shame. His parents would have understood but the town was religious in the way that was sickening. They spoke of acceptance and loving one another but the next week there would be chatter and disgust for anyone rumored to have looked at someone else of the same sex for too long or even dare to touch hands. So he bottled it up. A choking whimper was lodged in his throat now as Junkenstein couldn’t help thinking about it all. The girl, the town, the King he would later fancy, the acquisitions, the lashings, everyone talking- he could practically hear them now and see the look of repugnance on the multitude of faces. His bottle had been full for some time now. He felt it crack before but tried to fix it with tape in the form of booze. A bottle to drown out another bottle. It held then but the pressure never let up. Doc’s throat burned and he wasn’t sure if he was even breathing in the moment. His world just becoming a steady blur of colors in between the darkness of when he rubbed at his eyes. Tears wetting his palms and no matter how much he tried to dab them away he knew he was breaking. His metaphorical bottle was so splintered with spiderweb cracks that the lightest touch was sure to have it all come crumbling down and no amount of tape could keep it from leaking. He was beyond his limits and becoming a seeping mess. “I can,” Junkenstein wheezed for breath. “Fix it.” A glove hand soon pulled at his own hair for a hopeful detraction. Nothing like physical pain to mask the real threat the bubbled just underneath the surface. “I can-” he hiccuped. He was a doctor and a scientist. He could fix anything if he tried hard enough. So...Why was he breaking? Maybe he just needed to push it all down harder. He was raised in a polite society. Emotions had no place to be seen if they were anything but happy. But this was not his home. The rules did not apply here and he could not seem to grasp that. All he knew was how to push it all down until he would break and once his madness would pass, he would be hollow again. He could start over with a new bottle. It would be plain and numb, devoid of color and crushing feelings. And Junkenstein would do what he knew best. He could start to fill it up again and not let anyone see. For he was a polite man. That was all anyone needed to know...

[vagrantblvrd]

Burn the Stars (1/1)

Summary: Trevor meets Alfredo when he’s having one of those pesky out of mech experiences. (The kind preceded by being dropped into a combat zone as support for a Federation Militia squad who is just incompetent enough to lead them into ambush.)

Notes: This video gave me Ideas. I also borrowed elements from Titanfall 2 in this because I love that universe a lot. /o\

(Read on AO3)

Trevor meets Alfredo when he’s having one of those pesky out of mech experiences.

The kind preceded by being dropped into a combat zone as support for a Federation Militia squad who is just incompetent enough to lead them into ambush.

========

While Trevor does love a good I told you so, protecting the squishy humans under his protection comes first. He covers the squad as they retreat into the underbrush and engages in good old-fashioned fisticuffs with the other pilot who has the gall to cheat by using missiles. (Uncouth.)

The Consortium's mech he goes up against is all shiny and new, most likely just off the supply ship that  arrived a few days ago.

And that’s another I told you so right there, since the Militia commander in charge on this planet hasn’t been taking their warnings seriously. Seems to think a bunch of low-life mercenaries know fuck all about war. (Ironic, really, when you think about it.)

“Well now,” Trevor says, information about the mech he’s facing flashing up on a screen for him thanks to the onboard AI. Vanquisher-class combat mech, its key weak points highlighted in red. There’s...not a lot red to speak of really, which is far from ideal.  “This ought to be fun.”

========

Trevor wins, on a technicality.

The Consortium mech goes down, but his own is so badly damaged he has to abandon it. Pulls the AI datacore, and tucks it away all nice and safe in a handy pocket in his pilot suit. Waits until he’s at a safe distance before setting the self-destruct to make sure its chassis doesn’t fall into enemy hands.

From there -

Well.

They were dropped far behind enemy lines and Trevor’s armed with a pistol and a survival knife.

Also, he’s bleeding. (Just a little, because believe it or not, mech battles are brutal things.)

Still, he’s got all his limbs and while they’re a bit battered and bruised, they work well enough to get him started o his way back to base.

If he’s lucky, he’ll run into the militia squad. If not -

Well.

========

Trevor is not lucky.

Not lucky at all.

========

No, Trevor runs into a Consortium patrol instead.

Couple of ground troops perched on the shoulders of a Strider-class mech.

Lightly armored, it’s mostly used by civilian law enforcement agencies since they’re perfect for navigating city streets. The Consortium’s adapted them to support patrols on heavily forested planets like this one.

Nimble little things, really.

Terrifying when one’s coming after you, and you become so very aware of how soft and squishy you are in comparison.

Back to a cliff and the Strider looming over you with all it’s shiny weapons primed to fire, when you suddenly remember you never quite got our affairs in order. (Whoever will take care of your precious collection of leftover condiment packets from all those scrumptious MREs now?)

Trevor’s hands are in the air. He’s considering taking his chances with the drop behind him when his earpiece crackles and a voice he doesn’t know reels off a set of numbers.

Coordinates.

He has no idea what he’s supposed to do with that, when a gunshot rings out – and the Strider’s canopy spider-webs around a neat little hole just about the height where its pilot’s head should be.

There’s a moment where the Consortium troops don’t seem to know what just happened, looking around for the source of the gunshot. Haven’t realized the mech pilot is dead, that their major advantage has been taken out of the equation.

And then the sniper fires again, taking out the patrol commander and scattering the others giving Trevor the chance to escape into the forest.

========

The coordinates takes Trevor to a nice little cave where by a gently babbling brook where a group of mercenaries hold him at gunpoint until the sniper makes an appearance.

The mercenaries lose interest in Trevor when the sniper ambles over with a wide grin on his face as Trevor gives him a betrayed look.

“Yeah,” he says, looking Trevor over. “I probably should have given them a head’s up about you.”

It would have been nice, yes, but -

“I mean,” Trevor says. “You did save my life. It would make me seem ungrateful if I held that against you.”

========

Alfredo’s friends are more hospitable when they recognize the patch on Trevor’s shoulder, realize what he was doing out there. (Which squad he must have been with, what with chatter about it being all over their comms.)

“Your squad made it back to base safely,” Alfredo tells him, a little too casual and nonchalant. “No casualties.”

Booked it straight back to base, didn’t bother looking back, which is part and parcel with this whole war thing.

Stings a little bit more sometimes, though, when you’ve got your militia soldiers on one side of things and mercenaries like them on the other.

People fighting for their homes, their loved ones, all nice and noble. Honorable sorts, not like those dirty mercenaries. Cutthroat bastards with no loyalties to speak of to hear some people talk.

Come in with their guns and mechs. Their fancy little ships, and help the militia with their war out here.  Thrown into the thick of things and expected to give their all, and treated like they have no stake in the outcome.

Like most of them are from colony worlds the Consortium has a stranglehold on, like their families aren’t involved. Like they don’t give a damn if the resistance falls, how many friends they lose, because at the end of the day they’re just chasing a paycheck.

“That’s good,” Trevor says, light and carefree. “I’d be annoyed if they hadn’t.”

Alfredo hums, and Trevor nudges him with his elbow as he pulls out his lucky coin and rolls it across his knuckles.

“Want to see a neat trick?”

========

Alfredo’s group gets pulled out a week later, and Trevor goes with them. Hitches a ride here and there until he gets back to his base and Geoff yells at him for being a goddamned idiot for ten minute straight. (Trevor times it.)

He’s put on medical leave – something about injuries and parasites and tap dancing all over Geoff’s last nerve.

Gets drafted to deal with Geoff’s paperwork that piled up in Trevor’s absence because Geoff was too busy trying to get answers out of the militia about his whereabouts. (Very secret, hush-hush, mission that needed a mech to them take out a weapons depot before they walked right into an ambush.)

“Trevor,” Gavin says, sidling up to him with this gleam in his eye that means trouble. “What do you thing would happen if we - “

And Trevor, who’s been eye-deep in paperwork and red tape for days now, turns to him and grabs him by the shoulders.

“I have no idea, Gavin,” he says, very much aware he sounds a bit unhinged. “But whatever it is, let’s do it.”

Gavin blinks, clearly expecting more of a fight to get Trevor to agree.

“Are you sure? You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

There is absolutely no doubt in Trevor’s mind that whatever Gavin is up to is a terrible idea.

The worst.

And yet -

“Yes!” Trevor is going to lose his mind if he has to deal with the mind-numbing tedium any longer. “Yes I am.”

“Okay then,” Gavin says, and pulls out a datapad. “We’re going to need - “

========

There’s a fire.

A tiny, one really.

Certainly not something that necessitates another bout of yelling from Geoff, but he provides it anyway because he’s a generous soul when it comes down to it.

========

Trevor gets a shiny new mech off the assembly line, and decides it looks like a Billy.

“’Billy’,” Ryan says, like he’s not sure he heard Trevor correctly, which is fair as the hangar’s always noisy the day before a mission. “You’re going to name him Billy.”

Trevor grins, sitting pretty in the cockpit of a forty-something ton Titan-class mech. Missile pods on its  shoulders and sweet chainguns mounted on its forearms.

It’s not really a done thing to go around naming a mech chassis when they’ve got AI partners, but Trevor thinks it’s a little rude not to.

“Billy the Murder Robot, yeah.”

The basic AI from his previous mech has been loaded up and it’s getting a feel for the new chassis.

Running diagnostics and poking around like the new tenant it is. Smoothing all the rough edges in the coding and unnecessary redundancies. Making room pretty little bits of code and protocols the engineers back home still haven’t caught on to. (Don’t realize how vital they are no matter how many times Trevor sends a data packet back detailing the reasons why they’re so important.)

A window pops up on the screens in front of Trevor with an ASCII thumbs up.

“See? Hector approves.”

Ryan sighs, but there’s a faint smile on his face as he moves back to the catwalk and to watch Trevor finish running initial checks on Billy with Hector’s help.

========

Geoff worries, Trevor knows.

In charge of a bunch of assholes he sends into combat and wondering when one of them won’t make it back.

A hell of a position to be in, but there’s no one else any of them would trust with it.

“Geoff - “

“Look, asshole,” Geoff says, rubbing his temples and looking a hell of a lot like he'd wants to kick Trevor out of his office on his ass. “The last time I sent you on a mission, you blew your mech up. You think those things grow on trees?”

Well that’s just ridiculous.

Everyone knows that when a mommy mech loves a daddy mech very much -

“Trevor.”

Trevor looks at Geoff, who is using his Serious Voice.

“Geoff.”

Trevor is an asshole.

Geoff scowls at him, because he is very much aware of that.

“I’m cleared for duty,” Trevor says, and does a little spin to demonstrate how uninjured he is. “And you can’t keep sidelining me when you need everyone out there.”

“I know that!” Geoff snaps, but it’s less anger at Trevor and more at the entire situation, this ugly little war.

Trevor waits, because this is Geoff, and after a few moments, he sighs.

“Talk to Ryan, he’s leading the next mission.”

========

It’s a retreat, plain and simple, and Trevor and the others have been called in to back up the Militia’s forces. Protect the dropships as they ferry troops back to the forward base and various outposts.

It’s loud and chaotic, Billy’s filters and scrubbers working overtime to pump clean air into the cockpit, Trevor can still smell the smoke, taste it.

Hector sends up a warning trill before a new voice comes over the cockpit speakers.

It’s Alfredo, and he’s in trouble. Squad pinned down and there’s not much a heavy sniper can do up against the armor plating on a Harbinger-class heavy, but there he is anyway.

Trevor reaches up to tap the pair of fuzzy dice Lindsay gave him for luck, and goes to help. (He’s got a debt to repay after all.)

========

“You know,” Trevor says, when everyone is back at base. “It takes a tank to bring a Harbinger down.”

Or a Titan-class combat mech, not to toot his own horn.

Alfredo gives him a look.

“Hey, you just stick with your mech, and I’ll stick with my sniper,” he says, but there’s laughter in his voice and an easy smile on his face he does.

And to be fair, he has a point.

In a fight everyone’s focus is on the mechs in play. Tend to forget about the squishy human running around with their heavy sniper. Powerful enough to punch through the plasteel canopy of most mechs, and a small enough to go unnoticed in the thick of battle. Slip behind enemy lines unnoticed to take care of enemy commanders and high-value targets.

The base is still in a bit of an uproar, mechanics running around barking order as they race to get damaged mechs back up to fighting speed. Militia soldiers waiting to be ferried back to their own bases, and the odd displaced mercenary like Alfredo just loitering about.

“Alright,” Trevor says, and pulls out that lucky coin of his again, because they’ve got time to kill and everyone loves a good magic trick.