thepetulantpen

[thepetulantpen]

how pissed do you think raylan would be if boyd really did own the dairy queen franchise in harlan?

[thepetulantpen]

Various winava images in honor of the last chapter of @thepetulantpen’s marshal ava au which made me feel like the skin was being deep fried from my bones in a good way. They are girl best friends they are codependent roommates they are bitter exes they are repressed freaks they are a dysfunctional married couple <3

[thepetulantpen]

Sorry for the delay! Reunion Tour is now on ao3. Thanks @sprinklersart for letting me play in the marshal!ava sandbox, it’s been very fun! 

I’m a pretty slow writer, and I’ve got some other projects happening right now, but I do want to write more of this au, eventually. I’ve got a draft that’ll probably go directly after what I have so far, then some ideas around season 1 stuff. I definitely want to jump around, so we can get into more ava/winona centric things. Stay tuned!

(Based on @sprinklersart incredible roleswap au. Here’s the first bit– the rest, mostly following episode 1, will be up on ao3 when I’m done editing! Should be sometime tomorrow.)

The concept of fate has never convinced Ava until now, when the first stop on her reunion tour of Harlan is to see Raylan Givens.

There he is, leaned against the porch railing and smiling the same smile she remembers from school. The Raylan Givens smirk, with all his outlaw charm and his doesn’t-give-a-shit attitude that she thought she’d gotten sick of. It’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to outgrow—but you never do, not until you’ve wound up making some irreversible mistakes.

Arlo’s house feels frozen in time, just as shitty and rickety as she remembers. She’s sure it’s actually worse- after all these years, and the trouble Arlo’s kicked up, there has to be more bullet holes than paint on its walls- but to her eyes, every spot of chipped paint and splintered wood is the same.

Raylan haunts this home like a specter, soul tied to a gravestone he doesn’t have a use for yet. He’s lost a lot of pieces of himself, over the years of hanging on for something better. A baseball career in as many pieces as Dickie’s shattered knee. Clouds of coal dust and collapsing rock weighing down his lungs, pinning him in place. He’ll always end up right back in Arlo’s front yard, in a box or otherwise.

Doesn’t mean he’s stopped trying. Ava knows, from the light reading she’s done in the office, that he’s not here especially often, disappearing to one of the Crowder’s many cabins whenever he can. Today’s an occasion, meeting the marshal and keeping her out of Arlo’s shit.

“Ava,” he calls, in a voice she no longer knows, “Just as pretty as I remember. What’re you doing, all the way out here?”

Keep reading

[thepetulantpen]

(Based on @sprinklersart incredible roleswap au. Here’s the first bit-- the rest, mostly following episode 1, will be up on ao3 when I’m done editing! Should be sometime tomorrow.)

The concept of fate has never convinced Ava until now, when the first stop on her reunion tour of Harlan is to see Raylan Givens.

There he is, leaned against the porch railing and smiling the same smile she remembers from school. The Raylan Givens smirk, with all his outlaw charm and his doesn’t-give-a-shit attitude that she thought she’d gotten sick of. It’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to outgrow—but you never do, not until you’ve wound up making some irreversible mistakes.

Arlo’s house feels frozen in time, just as shitty and rickety as she remembers. She’s sure it’s actually worse- after all these years, and the trouble Arlo’s kicked up, there has to be more bullet holes than paint on its walls- but to her eyes, every spot of chipped paint and splintered wood is the same.

Raylan haunts this home like a specter, soul tied to a gravestone he doesn’t have a use for yet. He’s lost a lot of pieces of himself, over the years of hanging on for something better. A baseball career in as many pieces as Dickie’s shattered knee. Clouds of coal dust and collapsing rock weighing down his lungs, pinning him in place. He’ll always end up right back in Arlo’s front yard, in a box or otherwise.

Doesn’t mean he’s stopped trying. Ava knows, from the light reading she’s done in the office, that he’s not here especially often, disappearing to one of the Crowder’s many cabins whenever he can. Today’s an occasion, meeting the marshal and keeping her out of Arlo’s shit.

“Ava,” he calls, in a voice she no longer knows, “Just as pretty as I remember. What’re you doing, all the way out here?”

She stops at the top of the stairs, at an invisible boundary between the civilized world and whatever Arlo keeps locked up in there. Raylan’s standing just subtly in her way, keeping her from the threshold. It’s not Arlo she’s here for- but it pays to be safe, she supposes.

She shifts, hand drifting to her waist. Not settling on her gun, though with a Givens, that might’ve been recommended. “I imagine the star might’ve given that away.”

“I meant here,” he says, just a touch of annoyance bleeding into his tone, “in Harlan County, on my daddy’s porch.”

“Why, Raylan, I think you know the answer to that, too.”

“It’s not because you were just dying to see me?” That smile again, aimed directly at her like a fucking spotlight. It’s been too long—so sue her, if she finds it charming. She doesn’t flinch, though, and Raylan’s eyes darken ever so slightly, disappointed. “You’re lookin’ for Boyd.”

It says a lot about Raylan’s self-awareness that he knows- of all the criminals he works with, even lives with- she’s here for Boyd. Not in a Crowder’s holler, but the Givens’ doorstep, since it’s the only place she’s guaranteed to find one of them without stepping in a bear trap first.

Harlan’s got the same complications and simplicities it always has. The marshals haven’t been particularly subtle about nosing their way into Boyd’s business— just the amount of subtlety he’s owed, after the stunt with a rocket launcher. And where there is Boyd’s business, there is Raylan’s business, and where there is Raylan’s business, there is a threat to Arlo’s business. Arlo is in the wind, chasing god-knows-what, with god-knows-who— but the Givens home has a guard, as it always must.

“Folks say you two are tied at the hip these days,” Ava says, trying to put it lightly. They may as well have put a billboard up. Not that it’s any news, to the people who grew up with them— one of those awful things you see coming, and can’t stop. Red skies at dawn. A train careening off its tracks. Two boys tangled up in the back of a truck. “Among other things. Not that I’m here to judge.”

“Just to arrest him.”

She inclines her head. Only a nod if you’re a particularly generous observer. “The Marshal Service wants to have a word with him. We were hoping you might help arrange that, you two bein’ so close.”

It’s so far from the realm of possibility, it’s almost embarrassing to suggest— but Ava is the new girl, and she’s stuck with shit like this. Least she can do is make Raylan squirm a bit. Maybe more than a bit; she’s probably owed that, after everything Harlan’s put her through.

“Wish I could help you,” Raylan runs a hand through his hair, jaw working as he considers his next move. He’s holding something back—other than the obvious, “but Boyd’s not interested in hearing from the marshals. Least of all you.”

“Me?” Something about the Crowder clan’s vendetta is funny to her— now that they’re on opposite sides of the law, and still arguing over a divorce. The people of Harlan couldn’t tell you the difference between a feud over a dead man, and a feud over a baseball game. “Why, what could Boyd Crowder have against me?”

Raylan sighs, comically beleaguered— like a tired housewife, covering up for the world’s dumbest mob boss, “Boyd tells me to tell you that he’s giving you 24 hours to get out of Harlan.”

“Is that what he said?” She smiles and tilts her head, innocently, “And what would happen if I didn’t?”

“He didn’t elaborate,” Raylan says, “though I did omit some bullshit remorse for having to hurt a woman. For your sake and mine.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Raylan.” She leans partially around him, looking in the doorway without making any moves forward. “Does Arlo have blocks of cocaine stacked in your living room, or can you invite me in for a drink?”

Raylan shifts, looking off behind her like they’re still in high school, dodging their parents. Like Arlo might be coming up the driveway, shotgun in hand, any minute now. “Suppose that’d be alright. There’s nothing fancy in the fridge, just beer.” He pushes the door open casually, but follows her closely. Doesn’t take chances, not like his old man.

The interior of the house is better than Ava imagined, though it is helped by her having imagined it gutted, an empty front. It’s clear that Helen still lives here occasionally- when she’s not tailing Arlo, or visiting marginally more pleasant relatives- manages to look livable, so long as you’re alright with the cheapest beer available. Raylan hadn’t lied about that, at least.

Ava accepts her drink— it’s not to her taste, and she’s on duty, but she figures she’ll need something if she’s going to spend the day in Harlan, thoughts of Crowders and rocket launchers stuck in her head. She watches Raylan, and his manufactured flippancy as he leans against the counter across from her. “Did you know I’ve had a crush on you since I was twelve years old?”

Raylan raises an eyebrow, not surprised, “Since?”

She hums, crossing the kitchen to stand close to him. A part of her considers throwing caution to the wind and getting her kiss, right here and now. Start taking back everything Harlan never gave her. Another part of herself is still seething at being trapped here, forced to go back on her word. Crowded into another goddamn holler when she’s seen what else the world can offer.

There’s likely room for both of those trains of thought, given the time and opportunity.

“Raylan,” she says, real close to him now— he’s not quite smiling at her, because he’s not as much of a fool as he’d like her to believe, “I need you to understand something. You may be pretty, and you may have something— let’s say special with Boyd, but,” she looks up at him, “I got dragged down here to deal with Boyd, and if I have to do it with a bullet between his eyes, that’s how I’ll do it.”

“See, now I’m getting mixed messages,” he brushes her hair away from her face, implying he is absolutely not confused about what messages he’s supposed to be receiving, “First, you tell me you have a crush on me. Then, you tell me you’re fixing to shoot my closest friend.”

“Closest friend? Is that what we’re calling Boyd?”

Raylan smiles, almost sheepish, and hums. “Sure. Just like we’re calling Winona your best friend. Ex best friend, excuse me.” His eyes are sharper, serious. The sheepishness disappears.

It gives her pause. She doesn’t pull back—that’d be just as good as blood in the water, in this home. Her hand finds his arm, and his hand finds her waist. Slow, like he’s still not sure if she’s going to shoot him. She hasn’t quite made up her mind.

“Least Winona hasn’t blown up any banks.”

“That you know of,” Raylan grins, and it’s empty, doesn’t reach his eyes, “Say, isn’t shooting a man how you got into this trouble in the first place? The old countdown trick seems like something that’s only cute once.”

Not even a blink at his own hypocrisy. Maybe it’s because he’s washed his hands of Boyd’s half-cocked efforts to be an outlaw. Maybe it’s because he knows Boyd won’t put his money where his mouth is.

Maybe he has lost all the brains he used to have.

She tilts her head, but stays otherwise still. The hand on her waist stays where it is. “Are you going to pitch me on why I should let Boyd Crowder go, or were you hoping that sleeping with me would do the trick?”

“Would it?”

She sighs, having been all too sure he’d say that. “No, Raylan, it wouldn’t.”

“In that case, I do have a few things I could tell you. Like, for example,” he leans in, conspiratorial and not nearly serious enough for fraternization that could get him shot, “between the two of us, I’d say you need to worry more about Bowman.”

If they weren’t so close, if Raylan’s hand wasn’t on her, she’d freeze. As it is, she pretends they’re talking about any old criminal—someone she hasn’t shared an altar or a bed with. She’s good at this, at pretending. “That what Boyd told you to tell me?”

“Accusing me of conspiring with alleged criminals, now.” Raylan smirks, “Actually, I think he would be rather displeased to learn I told you that Bowman’s the one pushing the whole ‘get out of Harlan’ shtick.”

Ava leans back, and Raylan lets her go. His expression is perfectly still, calm and cold. None of the warmth she remembers from their school days. They’re having a different conversation now, one he was always planning on having. “And why wouldn’t he want me to know that? Seems to me he’s got the perfect out, with Bowman’s coercion.”

“Boyd wants to be the big, bad criminal that drove a marshal out of Harlan.” Raylan’s mouth twists, in some kind of distaste- hard to tell what for. She’d think it wouldn’t be for Boyd, but with the two of them, it’s not entirely out of the question. “Not some sucker stuck under Bowman’s thumb.”

“And what do you want, Raylan?”

“I just don’t want Boyd to end up shooting, or getting shot by, a federal. That’s the kind of stupid shit our daddies would do.”

It’s the first thing he’s said that Ava’s fully believed, the closest he’ll get to admitting anything near concern. Because Raylan, he’s not like Arlo, he knows when to cut his losses. It’s just a shame he couldn’t have gotten out of Harlan before he landed in bed with one of them.

This is all Harlan is, boys doing the same stupid shit their daddies would be doing if they weren’t in jail or shot or worse. Boyd and Raylan are the same as everyone else, taking after the fathers they hate, except — except their daddies would’ve taken up with some young pretty thing they could control, something they could choke and bleed the life out of. Raylan and Boyd have uniquely decided to be each other’s poison.

“If that’s really what you want,” she says, feels like she has to, even if she knows how this goes, “I suggest you get into a different line of work.”

Raylan laughs, really laughs. It’s only a little more mean than she remembers. “Thanks for the suggestion. I suppose it really would be better to see Boyd choke to death on coal dust, or have his head blown off in a desert.”

She wonders what he’s trying to do here, if he really thinks any of this will make a difference. As if Ava, of all people, could stop Boyd from doing what he wants to do. Especially where Raylan’s already failed. “Prison would kill him slower.”

“You need work on your persuasive arguments.” Raylan pulls away from her completely, turns to the fridge to get another drink. He doesn’t offer her one. “Maybe you should stick to the countdown thing.”

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, some message from the office she’s probably going to ignore. Raylan’s shoulders are hunched, annoyed now that he’s said everything he’s wanted to say and she’s still here. He keeps glancing at the door, waiting for someone, and Ava’s not sure she wants to stick around to find out who.

“Do you have any other sage advice for me?”

“Yeah,” Raylan doesn’t look up at her, feigning preoccupation with the fridge, “Keep an eye on your girl. Bowman’s still driving that shitty red pickup.”

[thepetulantpen]

More Ava and Raylan roleswap au/ava+winona for @praycambrian and also bc I cannot help myself. lore under the cut

So in my imagining Ava leaves Kentucky at 19 and becomes a marshal. She meets winona but a few years later they have an absolutely devastating friend break up. Ava is sent to Kentucky in 2010 and is met with her ex-husband and ex in-laws running crazy. She also finds winona again and they restart their friendship and... realize some things. Most of the s1 plot is pretty much the same (boyd becomes religious, ava and raylan hookup although maybe with some new motivations) and with the added bonus of boyd and raylan as toxic high school sweethearts with matching rap sheets, and bowman replacing arlo in the narrative.

[thepetulantpen]

Here’s the full fic: Favors In Kind.

I am aware that none of you follow me for this, but if you happen to like Sneaky Pete, I have a humble offering for this tiny fandom. If you don’t like Sneaky Pete, go watch Sneaky Pete!

Here’s chapter 1, the rest is being uploaded to my ao3 page:

The next time Marius pulls onto the farm’s long driveway, he hesitates before opening the car door.

If Marius is anything, it’s a fast learner- he bounces back quickly from mistakes and never forgets them, making every job just a little better than the last. It’s unfortunate that the rate at which he learns is often outpaced by his exponentially growing ambition, and increasing lack of resistance to temptation. He likes a challenge and when he keeps getting better- well, the challenges have to rise to meet him.

Returning to the farm might be one of his greatest challenges yet.

Mostly, he’s thinking about what he’ll do if Julia tries to ram his car again. He’s not expecting it- he was invited, after all, and even Julia isn’t deranged enough to drag him out here, only to run him over- but he can’t help the muscle memory that has him bracing for it.

As far as he knows, Julia’s the only one here today. She could’ve lied, of course, but given that there are no other cars beside her beat up truck, he doubts it. Stashing the cars just to ambush him seems like a bridge too far; though, with this family, it’s not out of the question.

He rubs a hand over his face, mildly curious why this feels worse than having a gun to his head. It’s depressing to think that he might just be more used to the guns.

Keep reading

[thepetulantpen]

I am aware that none of you follow me for this, but if you happen to like Sneaky Pete, I have a humble offering for this tiny fandom. If you don’t like Sneaky Pete, go watch Sneaky Pete!!

Here’s chapter 1, the rest is being uploaded to my ao3 page:

The next time Marius pulls onto the farm’s long driveway, he hesitates before opening the car door.

If Marius is anything, it’s a fast learner- he bounces back quickly from mistakes and never forgets them, making every job just a little better than the last. It’s unfortunate that the rate at which he learns is often outpaced by his exponentially growing ambition, and increasing lack of resistance to temptation. He likes a challenge and when he keeps getting better- well, the challenges have to rise to meet him.

Returning to the farm might be one of his greatest challenges yet.

Mostly, he’s thinking about what he’ll do if Julia tries to ram his car again. He’s not expecting it- he was invited, after all, and even Julia isn’t deranged enough to drag him out here, only to run him over- but he can’t help the muscle memory that has him bracing for it.

As far as he knows, Julia’s the only one here today. She could’ve lied, of course, but given that there are no other cars beside her beat up truck, he doubts it. Stashing the cars just to ambush him seems like a bridge too far; though, with this family, it’s not out of the question.

He rubs a hand over his face, mildly curious why this feels worse than having a gun to his head. It’s depressing to think that he might just be more used to the guns.

The door to the house creaks loudly as he pulls it open, and he makes no effort to stifle it. It’s almost irritating to see it unlocked- after everything in the last month, they still don’t take any precautions- but it summons Julia, as he hoped, and she leans around the entryway to wave him in.

She looks stressed, if marginally less so than she was after being pulled out of a crate. “You’re late. Would it kill you to set an alarm? It’s not like you’re busy, you could at least—"

“What am I here for, Julia?”

The lack of purpose makes him anxious. When one spends a lot of time predicting other people, the rare gaps in perception become all the more off-putting. Being anxious is a good way to get killed, in his experience. So is being cocky- but that lesson isn’t as easy to stick to.

“To clean, I guess?” She waves the spray bottle she’s holding, by way of explanation, “I need an extra hand and I figured you owe me one.”

“You’re going to spend that favor on cleaning?”

Julia gets that expression- flat, her annoyance hidden just under the surface- the kind he’s started to associate with selling him out to high profile investigators or asking him to convince her kids to eat their waffles. “I just wanted you back at the house, alright? Cryptic bullshit about favors was the only way I could think to get you out here.”

He’d known that. He’d known that she didn’t really want anything, that she would’ve been more specific if she did, but he answered the text anyway. Out obligation, or some other sentimentality that’s going to run him into the ground someday. “I thought you wanted me far away. My car door is still fucked, so I’m getting mixed messages here.”

She throws up her hands, which looks ridiculous with the spray bottle, and marches into the next room. It’s hard to tell whether he’s meant to follow, but it’s not like he can just drive away now. He tells himself it’d be a waste of gas.

She’s started rubbing at a spot on the kitchen counter with a rag, looking very much like someone who’s returned to this exact spot several times and determined, in no uncertain terms, that it isn’t going anywhere. She doesn’t look up at him for a long moment, before her aggression, aimed at the counter, seems to dissipate.

With her back still turned, she mutters, “My kids are- they keep asking me about card tricks. I don’t know how to do any fucking card tricks.”

“You want me to teach you card tricks?” Marius, in the business of solving problems, doesn’t understand this one. There’s no hook, no angle. It’s too simple. “Don’t you have a smartphone—”

“It’s not that, you idiot, it’s— you’re a part of this now,” at this she gestures between them, then to the room, “My kids are asking about you. There’s a place for you set at Sunday dinner.”

“That’s only because they don’t know who I am.”

“They do know. I told them.”

He shouldn’t be surprised by that, but it stings. It’s just as well that Julia told them- probably better, honestly, that he wasn’t around for the immediate fallout- though he thinks, somewhere deep down, he wanted to do it himself. Maybe it’s the regret that he didn’t follow through on the beach, maybe it’s some misplaced impulse to make this right, maybe he needs to get his shit together and get over it.

He doesn’t know where they stand now that he is himself. He had imagined, even planned for, being chased off the property if it ever came to that.

Julia’s watching him, obviously waiting for a reaction, and when she doesn’t get one, she scoffs, “You made a mistake getting yourself involved in this fucked up family.” There’s a stack of dishes on the counter that she’d clearly been meaning to dry and she sends them a glare now, as if they’re the problem in this conversation. “You’re stuck with us now. These are the kind of people that drive across the country or hold smugglers at gunpoint to go after you.”

“I didn’t have a lot of options at the time,” he gives her a sidelong glance, conceding her point, “Maybe I should’ve shopped around for the other inmates’ families and found something a little less crazy.”

Julia snorts at his joke and shakes her head, disappointed that it made her laugh. “Guess you didn’t have that kind of time.”

“I was busy with my own family.” He frowns, at himself. It’s not a slipup, necessarily. He’s tired and he doesn’t have a good reason to hide anything from her- so what if Julia, a bondwoman from Bridgeport, knows who he is? “Brothers and crime lords- you know how it is.”

She pauses, not sure how to take that. “Was— was the story you told me about your brother true?”

He doesn’t say anything. He’s been told that sometimes silence is the best answer. It’s a suggestion he rarely follows- except, apparently, when he’s speaking with his fake cousin about his very real brother.

“So that’s what the money was for the first time,” she looks down, piecing together the timeline, “Was it his trouble or your trouble?”

“Both. Mostly mine. He lost a toe.” It hurts to remember, to hear it out loud. He’s reminded that the reason Eddie is in Vegas is not entirely a selfless one.

“Jesus. Why didn’t you tell us? Wouldn’t that have—I don’t know, made us more sympathetic?”

“I’m sure you would’ve been much more receptive to me showing up at your door with a price on my head. Even Audrey would’ve preferred Pete.” He shakes his head, trying not to imagine how he’d play that. It isn’t often that honesty comes into the equation. “The risk outweighed the reward.”

“The risk of what?”

Putting aside the assumption that they’d believe him, and that they’d care about a complete stranger, and that they could even help. “You getting involved. Knowingly.”

“Little late to worry about us being accessories to a crime.”

There’s no use in telling her that he thought they would get in the way. Inexperienced people are difficult to control- even if he can admit they did pretty well with Johnson and Kilbane. Better than expected. Hunting skips could be more effective training than he thought.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Julia crosses her arms, good-naturedly exasperated- a look he doesn’t receive often, in this line of work. “Make the rest of us wait while you figure out what piece of the truth you’re going to give us.”

“I’ll try to make it faster, next time,” he can’t help smiling at her scowl, but adds, before she can protest, “I was just thinking I’ll consider that dinner. If the offer’s still on the table.”

“Wow,” she says, “I didn’t think you’d actually—"

“I don’t have to come.”

“No, no,” she’s smiling. It’s nice- he forgot how much he missed this. “Carly might finally stop bugging me about it.”

He tries not to look tense, telling himself that it cannot be more stressful than the dinner with Pete- real Pete. At least he’ll be able to use his real name, and drop the grandmas and grandpas.

The cleaning supplies sit forlorn on the counter, abandoned and unlikely to regain their attention. He can think of a dozen things he’d rather do than clean Audrey’s kitchen.

“Here,” he says, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs. He waits for her to tentatively take the seat he offers, then takes the one opposite her. “I’ll show you a trick before I have to go.”

As he pulls out a deck of cards, conveniently stashed in one of his many coat pockets, she laughs. It catches both of them a little off-guard. “You just keep those on you?”

“You never know when you’ll need them.”

“Name one situation where you’d need a deck of cards.”

“Bored at an airport. Unexpected babysitting duty. An elaborate distraction involving a magic show.” He interrupts, before she can ask, “I’ll tell you the story next time. The cards will take long enough.”

“Next time?”

He deals out the cards, just shy of the finesse Eddie manages, to distract himself from what he’s agreed to. It’s as close to a genuine promise as he ever gives.

“Next time.”

[thepetulantpen]

girl help i’m having creation ideas above my skill level

[thepetulantpen]

you COMMENT on fic? you comment on the story like it's worth something? oh! oh! love for reader! love for reader for One Thousand Years!!!!

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[thepetulantpen]

Two Librarians in Armageddon

(Day 5 of @shadowgastweek! Only had time for one fic this week, but after I read this prompt my brain said Pacific Rim AU and would not leave me alone until I wrote this. It’s pretty long, so here’s the ao3 link.)

(Pacific Rim AU, featuring the wizards as scientists!)

Caleb would not say he’s fond of working with others, let alone sharing his lab.

Solitary work is more in his nature, but after years of sharing close-quarters with Veth- and after getting adjusted to Jester, in general- he’s learned to tolerate, even enjoy, having company while he’s working. His friends have more than prepared him for anyone else he’ll have to work with; they’ve ensured that he’ll be hanging onto his habits of keeping anything important secured, in the event of an unexpected explosion, and of guarding his coffee with his life, in the event of poorly-timed pranks.

He does not think his new lab partner will be bringing any unstable explosives, or sugary abominations to replace his coffee with.

From what he’s been told, the new addition to their little pre-apocalypse team is a physicist working on tech for a competing company, someone far outside Caleb’s scope. The fact that they still have competing companies of mech-developers while there are aliens bursting from the sea to eat them is a nightmare all its own, but the writhing horrors of capitalism are a beast that science, and the Kaiju guts strewn across the table before him, has proved ineffective against.

The truce between them, in the interest of allowing powerful Jaegers to work together, is an uneasy and temporary one. Caleb, personally, doesn’t think it’ll last beyond one or two failures. He just hopes they won’t fall back into the slew of sabotages that plagued them at the beginning of their downward spiral, before everyone realized the world may actually be ending.  

The rather small detail of imminent Armageddon has made his preference, or lack thereof, for company inconsequential. In the long run- or short, if they don’t manage a major breakthrough soon- his opinions as an introvert are insignificant.

It’s not all bad- as an innately curious person, the opportunity to meet someone just as experienced as him in the field of Kaiju is fascinating. Particularly considering that their specialization is so different; he’s almost looking forward to the new insight. He’d even be excited if it wasn’t for the subject matter.

It can be challenging to be enthusiastic about the driving force of the apocalypse.

He digs deeper into the partially collapsed chunk of Kaiju ribcage in front of him, no longer bothered by his poor choice of distraction. It’s a misnomer to call it a ribcage, given that the Kaiju do not have bones in the classical sense, but it’s close enough in location to approximate. He’d rather have a brain to work with, though he’ll settle for what he can get. Storing Kaiju is difficult, with their accelerated rate of rot once exposed to the air- if he’s not careful, his work could be reduced to ash in an hour.

He needs to catalogue the differences between this corpse and the last, pinpointing patterns in organ placement. The work is dull, while still requiring his full concentration to avoid puncturing any of the many, many inexplicably acidic organs. If he wasn’t already good friends with the base’s medics, he would’ve been taken off this job long ago.

Once he’s elbow-deep in a Kaiju, he stops paying attention to the door. He does not notice the knocking, nor the quiet greeting, nor the faint whir of machinery as his new colleague hovers through the doorway.

“Should you be touching that? It looks toxic.”

Caleb jumps at the voice beside him and the scalpel in his hand jerks, cutting into the mystery organ he’d been considering removing. Something vaguely liquid hits his wrist above the glove and he waits two seconds to see if it’ll burn, before deciding he probably doesn’t need to run screaming to the nearest med station.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, partially in response and partially to himself. “I know what I’m doing.”

He looks down, towards his new colleague, who, at first glance, is thoroughly unimpressed at that lie.

He sits in a wheelchair- minus the wheels, as it hovers gently off the ground, coming to about the same height the wheels would give it. Clearly a new model- hovering technology aside- it’s a sleek, minimalist white, matching his equally sleek, swept back white hair. The high turtleneck and overly formal coat allow Caleb to immediately peg him as somewhat uptight. Near-apocalypse has made formality rare.

Caleb hurries to wash his hands, finding the nearby sink labelled for nasty, potentially lethal chemical disposal. “I was told you’d arrive today, but,” he glances up at the dingy lab clock, the glass cracked from Veth’s last visit, “I didn’t imagine it’d be so soon. It’s, uh, a bit of a mess.”

“I’ve seen worse,” he says, unconvincingly, and changes track, “That desk is mine, yes?”

There’s only one other desk in the room, moved there sometime yesterday after Caleb, under threat from his superiors, managed to shift away some of the boxes that line the walls. It’s only a small space, but it’s the cleanest part of the room.

The question, he reasons, is rhetorical, but Caleb nods anyway. He considers that answer enough- though the other man doesn’t move, staring at him expectantly. He’s oddly expressive, his attempts to keep a completely straight face only making any slipups, like the annoyed twitch of his eyebrow, more obvious.

It makes it easy to see the exact moment his patience runs out.

“I’m sure you were informed, but,” here, he looks to the side, dodging Caleb’s returning attention, “for the sake of introductions, I am Essek Thelyss.”

Ah, so that’s what he’d forgotten. Caleb thinks it’s unfair that he had to fail miserably at one of the last introductions he will have made before the end of the world- surely, he could’ve had just one go smoothly.

“Oh- I’m Caleb,” he reaches out a hand, meeting Essek’s already extended one for a brief shake- his hands may be clean now, but Essek doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect of touching Kaiju guts, even  indirectly, “Caleb Widogast.”

Something unidentifiable passes over Essek’s expression- disappointment or judgement, perhaps, at not recognizing the name. Widogast is not printed on any books, nor is it associated with anything high-profile like Thelyss; strictly, it doesn’t exist at all.

That, or the smell of the rotting Kaiju getting to him.

As he watches Essek pause halfway across the room to clear his path, and again to widen the space around his desk, Caleb is hit with the vivid realization that this isn’t going to be an enlightening, academic experience, nor an uncomfortable few days of socialization. It’s going to be more than a bump in the alien-fueled crisis that is his current existence.

This is going to be a disaster.

…

“Widogast, do you have any idea where my notebook’s gone?”

It has only taken Caleb three days to be able to identify the various tones for annoyed in Essek’s voice. There’s this is a minor inconvenience and this is a major inconvenience and this is one of many annoying things I haven’t pointed out yet today, including, but not limited to, the ever-present stench of Kaiju flesh.

He can say, with relative confidence, that this falls into the latest category.

“Have you tried all your desk drawers?” he calls over his shoulder, knowing the question is unnecessary but stalling for time as he heaves the last of the Kaiju parts- partially burned and fragmented limbs, today- onto his work table.

Essek, unlike Caleb, is meticulously organized, never misplaces anything and files according to system that escapes Caleb, no matter how many times he tries to decode it. From Essek’s perspective, the rest of the lab is a dangerous no man’s land of abject chaos- though Caleb has never lost anything. He knows, precisely, where everything is, no piece of preserved alien fading from his memory. An organization system is pointless, when one has a photographic memory.

That is, until one has to share a lab with someone who bothers to keep track of their belongings.

He doesn’t wait for a response, already able to picture Essek behind him, sitting with his arms crossed and looking deeply disappointed by Caleb’s suggestion, which amounts to did you turn it on and off again? Leaving the still sealed Kaiju parts where they are, he turns back to his own desk.

After exonerating himself and Essek, the list of suspects for meddling with their desks is very short. The base, these days, is not the hub of activity it used to be, back when there were far more Jaeger pilots alive and far better morale. Their lab is typically empty, aside from Caleb and Essek, as few people are inclined towards the smell of dead Kaiju. Even the corporals, some of the rare higher-ups with clearance, can’t be bothered to visit more frequently than their mandatory check-ins.

He can only think of two people who clearance would not be an issue for.

“Is he handsome, Caleb?”

“I don’t think it would be professional—”

“He definitely is, Jessie.”

Before today, he’d thought that Jester and Veth hadn’t gotten around to the visit they’d been threatening; clearly, they’d taken the liberty while he wasn’t in. Veth knows better than to steal notebooks- she wouldn’t be interested in them, anyway- and Jester isn’t in the habit of taking things, only misplacing them.

Caleb hardly ever uses his own desk, preferring to leave his notebooks scattered over the lab tables, in easier reach. Only the older ones are still perched on his desk, in a precariously tall pile- but one notebook stands out from the rest, not quite as ratty and overstuffed as his own.

“Ah, here it is,” he holds it up, gesturing Essek over and trying not to look too sheepish- it is not, after all, his fault. As he hands it over, and quickly turns back to his work, he can only hope that Jester hasn’t doodled anything too embarrassing inside. “Jester must have misplaced it, while exploring the lab.”

“Jester?” Essek asks, eyebrows furrowing in something that would be irritation, if his expression wasn’t trained to be so stoic, “Is she supposed to have clearance here?”

“The medical staff have free reign, in case of incidents with hazardous material.” He glances back at Essek, who still looks confused, and remembers that not everyone is on a first-name basis with the medics. “Jester Lavorre. You might know Caduceus- that is, Mr. Clay- better. He’s the more… healing inclined, of the two.”

“Jester Lavorre,” Essek starts, slowly as he unpacks his own question, “regularly comes here to… explore? What, she just, rifles through your things?”

He is not sure how to explain the idea of Jester to someone who doesn’t know her.

Essek already looks delightfully confounded- a considerable a departure from his typical stern concentration. Caleb almost wants to thank Jester for pulling Essek away from the handheld chalkboards he spends his days bent over, lines of nearly indecipherable equations appearing and disappearing with only the smudge of chalk on Essek’s hands as evidence of their existence. Distracting Essek has proved to be a challenge- even the sounds of saws and the number of other unpleasant devices involved in Kaiju dissection don’t get Caleb so much as a glance.

He does not try to explain Jester, opting to shrug, instead. “She knows she can find me here, so she stays until I show up. Sometimes she gets bored.” It occurs to him that other people haven’t been prepped for company in the same way he has. It occurs to him that it is abnormal to brace for a scavenger hunt every time he enters the lab. “I suggest you leave your important documents in a locked drawer.”

He refrains from telling Essek that Veth can pick locks and that Jester has broken open desk drawers before (there was an incident involving a prank war, smuggling, and increasingly desperate hiding places). None of it seems particularly reassuring.

Essek gives him a strange look, but nods. “I will keep that in mind.”

“You might also find things that aren’t yours by your desk.” Caleb looks over his shoulder to see Essek still watching him. “Consider them gifts.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Caleb pauses, realizing that none of the things he was about to list are work-appropriate, “Well, it could be anything.”

Caleb’s starting to worry that he might end up causing the rift between companies that leads to the end of the world- with his terrible first impression, and equally bad secondary impressions- but when a parasol shows up at Essek’s desk a day later, he does not ask Caleb where it came from.

He does, however, quietly ask Caleb to send along his thanks to Jester.

…

“I am not imagining that it smells particularly bad today, yes?”

Caleb has acquired, in part thanks to Veth, partial halves of two Kaiju hearts. Partial is the best they could manage, on account of the massive holes blown in the beasts’ chests. Nonetheless, he’s ecstatic- an opportunity like this, for a direct comparison, is rare.

Kaiju barbecue, as it turns out, does not smell very appetizing. It is what he would think a bucket of cleaning supplies set on fire would smell like, though it leaves the air with the unpleasant aftertaste of cheap fruit snacks.

“They’re a little charred,” he says, hiding a smile- they are far more than a little charred, “Veth’s testing out different chemical combinations for the Jaeger ammunition. I don’t think she’s quite nailed it yet.”

Essek scoffs, cautiously approaching the table with one hand over his nose and mouth, the other resting on the chair’s controls. “How many people of wildly different departments are you on a first-name basis with?”

“Just a few.” Thoroughly distracted with cutting away the burnt pieces, Caleb doesn’t look up. “There’s also, uh, Fjord. He captains one of the boats, works on deployment.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.” A soft whir, as Essek hovers a few inches higher, putting him at a better height to peer over the table with Caleb. “Do you need any help?”

Caleb blinks, surprised, and almost drops the scalpel he was sanitizing. “Aren’t you busy?”

Essek, with his old-fashioned chalkboards in the place of far more convenient holograms, never leaves his desk, never so much as turns around to bounce a theory off of Caleb. It seems like there’s a new pack of chalk and fresh notebook on his desk every other day- clearly he’s making progress, but the bubble of focus around Essek is too intimidating for Caleb to investigate.

“I’ve reached a stopping point,” Essek frowns when Caleb looks at him, waiting for him to elaborate, and sighs, “I’m stuck on the particle displacement we’ve detected at the mouth of the rifts, which only seems to effect the Kaiju, not the pilots. It’s- I don’t think you’d be interested. I need something else to do, while I brainstorm.”

Caleb manages to bite back his disappointment at not getting to hear the rest and points towards the sink- the one safe for normal use, that doesn’t currently have corrosion scars from caustic acids. “I can definitely give you that.”

Essek, unsurprisingly, is incredibly helpful. He might not fully understand the process, but he’s precise in following Caleb’s instructions and doesn’t complain when he has to touch the gross, slimy parts. He generously interprets Caleb’s just put them over there to mean place them very carefully in straight lines. It only takes him a few minutes to get the hang of it, effortlessly following Caleb’s lead as they work in parallel on their respective halves of the hearts.

“I can’t say I understand the appeal,” Essek starts, after many minutes of silence, “but there’s certainly something to working with the actual thing, rather than theory.”

Caleb is working at a particularly tough piece- the Kaiju are, if nothing else, heavily armored, inside and out- the exposure to oxygen making everything harder to pull apart, to cut up and catalogue. He doesn’t look up at Essek’s words, but finds his attention easily split.

“It’s all about,” Caleb pushes down, again, and the muscles finally give, “manipulating the body, finding what makes it tick. From there, we can change it.”

“Like,” Essek pauses, hesitating, “change it from living to dead, you mean.”

Caleb huffs, almost under his breath, “In this circumstance, perhaps.”

To his side, he sees Essek’s hands still, briefly, and feels eyes on him as Essek looks up. Essek has this way of looking at him, like he’s waiting for something, until an invisible tell gives him away. He feels both studied and seen through.

Caleb can’t say he hates it.

“You don’t sound as happy about that as I’d expect. Normally, people are thrilled at the thought of dead Kaiju,” Essek gestures, with one gloved hand, over the table, “More for you.”

Caleb looks firmly down at the heart, imagining the many cross-sections and pieces still unmapped, in the burned away absence. “I just think that more can be done.”

“I suppose that’s one thing we can agree on.” Essek is already looking at him when Caleb looks up, so their eyes meet, “The other side of the rifts are far more interesting. There’s no telling what we could find, how we could progress- but we need those doors closed, if we’re going to be alive to enjoy that progress.”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as leaving them open or closed.”

Essek leans back over the heart, having found what he was looking for in Caleb’s expression, and mutters, almost to himself, “You might be right about that.”

Caleb doesn’t say anything else, just watches as Essek finishes with his portion of the heart. Essek’s hands, even with the borrowed plastic gloves, do not look like they belong amongst the controlled carnage of the lab table. Made for spinning chalk between fingers, and gliding across the holograms.

He lines up the scalpel again, just a bit off-target, just a bit too close to the arteries. “Ah, don’t—”

Caleb grabs Essek’s hand, stopping him before he pierces something he shouldn’t- the faint burns on his own hands are proof of this lesson learned. Essek freezes, startled by the contact, and grips the scalpel a little tighter before he catches up to what’s happened and pulls back.

Caleb lets him go, with some reluctance. “The blood is, uh, acidic. You have to cut around carefully, or it– you get the picture.”

“It’s good that you were watching, then,” Essek doesn’t smile, but his face suggests that he might have, if he possessed less self-control, “I owe you one, Widogast.”

Caleb does not possess that same control- he’s not sure what Essek hears in his voice as he says, “It’s no trouble.”

He thinks, in the end, he may have been more successful in distracting himself from his work, than he was in distracting Essek.

…

Caleb has reached the point where the crick in his neck from leaning over his work, the pages and pages of pieced together neural pathways and conflicting experiments, is threatening to make the hunch of his shoulders permanent. Essek cannot be in a much better place- Caleb glances over to catch him with his head in his hands, again, a half-filled chalkboard laying forlornly on his desk.

Caleb stands with no warning, letting his pen clatter on the table and pushing his chair away with more force than necessary. Essek looks up, alarmed and- unless Caleb’s imagining it- intrigued.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Which is how they’ve found themselves on the steel catwalk above the Jaegers, high up in the hanger and out of sight of people who know they shouldn’t be here. Neither of them are stealthy enough to pull this off for long- the equivalent of two librarians, tiny amongst the massive machines that represent their only hope against Armageddon.

“It’s always weird to see them from up here.” The giant, unpiloted mechs seem to stare back at Caleb as they’re shifted into place. Empty eyes, visors with no life behind them. “Feels like we shouldn’t be looking at them eye-to-eye.”

Essek hums, and leans forward slightly, as close to the rails as he dares. “I’m more used to seeing them in diagrams.”

Caleb had known, in theory, that there must be a tangled web of physics behind the engineering of the Jaegers, but it’s different to know that Essek holds those secrets. He’d love nothing more than to pick his brain about it, even if it’s far outside his field. It’s a shame the hanger feels like an inappropriate place to host a high-detail physics lecture.

“It must be interesting, working with us. Thelyss has been, uh,” he hesitates, unsure if this is rude to point out, “forgive me for saying, rather at odds with Dwendalian interests.”

Essek is quiet for a moment, almost long enough for Caleb to pull the ripcord and apologize, before responding, “It has been interesting. It is… an opportunity, for me, to work for something greater than I have in the past.”

“In the past?”

“We have not been as,” he pauses, searching for the word, “kind as we should have, in sharing our designs. Many have failed to consider the state of the world in our quest for progress.”

Corporate sabotage in the race for mechs is something of a well-known secret. The extent of it is hidden, mostly, behind the veil of the destruction that it coincided with. Trading the right secrets to the wrong person could take you far- it just might mean leaving burning cities in your wake.

Essek, overlooking the last of the Jaegers, the vestiges of hope for the world, suddenly looks so tired, older than Caleb had seen him before now. It reminds of Caleb of his own reflection, at night when the manic layer of end of the world is wiped away to reveal exhaustion. Essek’s formality, the organized face he presents, functions as just another mask.

“I have made many mistakes. I am hoping-” Essek shakes his head, correcting himself, “All I can do is try again. To be better.”

Caleb cannot absolve him, cannot lift the weight of things unsaid, guilt anchored deeply. He can only stand there, at Essek’s side, and carry his own guilt.

“Leave it to the end of the world to show us that we can only move forward, until we run out of road.” Caleb tries for a smile, one Essek doesn’t match. “Sometimes, I’m not sure there’s still road. Feel like I’m drifting over the dirt, these days.”

Essek’s response, agreement or disagreement, is drowned out as they start shifting another of the Jaegers, the dragging of metal and old supports strained to their limits forming a din that has passerby covering their ears. Caleb watches its pilots stare up at it, unflinching in the noise.

He finds himself talking as the noise stops, filling the vacuum of silence, “I was almost one of them, you know.”

After he says it, he immediately regrets it. In one moment, it feels like the thing to do- share something personal, after Essek had taken the first step- and in the next, it feels like an entirely unnecessary can of worms. Because, of course, the next question is-

“Under who?”

Caleb swallows and considers lying. He could do it. He could keep it vague- he should, it should stay buried like his name. He’s not entirely sure why he doesn’t want to.

“Ikithon.”

He sees it, the second he says it. He sees the recognition, the surprise, the fear. Essek knows that name, more than anyone in passing knows that name. To Essek, he is not simply an unpleasant teacher.

He doesn’t want to see Essek as someone who worked with Ikithon- he doesn’t want to know what it means that he would forgive Essek, in a heartbeat, but can’t do same for himself.

“I wasn’t able to drift,” Caleb continues, and almost believes that’s the whole truth, the entire, uncomplicated reason, “Dropped out of the Academy.” Not before the damage was done.

Essek looks down, studying the grimy floor beneath them. “Probably for the best.”

“I’m starting to think we should’ve put our funding into time machines, instead of Jaegers.” Caleb sighs, and feels a part of himself leave with his breath. He looks to his side, where Essek remains silent. “Should’ve gone into physics, I guess.”

People rush around below them, preparing for another Jaeger to enter. The gate is cleared, the runway lights up, and various maintenance teams stand at the ready. Caleb wonders how they can stand this, how they can keep going through the motions every day, even as less and less pilots return.

He supposes he could say the same about himself, about anyone still coming to work on this base. For the first time in a long time, they’re all working towards the same thing. They’re all looking to the pilots, spending what’s left of their lives to stack the deck in their favor.

“I know a few of them,” Caleb pauses, and clarifies, “The pilots, I mean.”

“You failed to mention that, in your list of people you know.” Essek tries to laugh, though it doesn’t quite come out right, and looks back up at Caleb, “Which ones?”

“I’m not sure you know them.” People in their position don’t generally interact with the pilots, directly. Caleb would say it’s strange for him to have friends in the Academy, but it’s not the weirdest connection he’s made recently. “Yasha and Beau on the Cobalt line. They’re only just out of the Academy.”

Only just out and making a formidable reputation for themselves. He’s only skimmed the statistics, but if there was a leaderboard, he’d say they’re pulling ahead. Knowing Beau, that’s greater motivation than the potential for saving the world.

Essek’s façade falls away completely, showing his surprise. “The two terrifying women in the Expositor?”

“Those are the ones,” Caleb leans against the railing, out of the shadows. A little more bold, now that most of the people below are distracted. A massive Jaeger, with chipping blue paint and massive jets affixed to its back, steps in through the gate, tracking in water around its heels. “Speak of the devil.”

He can imagine Beau and Yasha working in tandem, seamlessly, to bring the mech into the hanger, ducking its head slightly to make it under the doorway. One hand is occupied, clenched around a scaly leg, metal fingers dug into the fallen Kaiju’s flesh. It’s oddly small, not the fully grown beasts Caleb is used to seeing them drag through.

“Is that-“ Essek doesn’t finish his question, perhaps because he can see the answer in Caleb’s expression.

The Kaiju’s head is entirely intact, its skull spared at the expense of a hole in its chest. A full brain, no shrapnel or missing pieces. Exactly what Caleb has been waiting for, exactly what he’s been trying to piece together.

Essek follows at his heels as Caleb dashes for the stairs, stealth forgotten altogether.

…

The whirring of saws and grim, grinding sounds of bone being cut come to an end, at long last. There’s a tube prepped, filled with foul-smelling chemicals intended to preserve and suspend alien flesh. The sound, as the brain is deposited, is somehow worse than the grinding noise.

Essek looks at him, watching silently for a long moment. It is difficult, to feel his eyes on him and not look back, but Caleb manages it, keeping his gaze focused on the mass of nerves before him.

“I understand the temptation.”

Caleb laughs, with no humor. “Do you?”

The headset is light, almost flimsy, in his hands. He passes it between them, running his hands over the familiar metal and wires. It looks like it might fall apart any second now, not at all like it’s made of expensive, stolen equipment. Not all like Caleb’s been thinking about it for months, like it could save them all- if he can pull this off.

The Kaiju’s brain floats in the container in front of him, wires trailing off of it. Essek sits beside it, the filtered green light through the tube casting harsh shadows over his face. He’s not supposed to be here, but Caleb should’ve known that Essek wouldn’t stick to his scheduled breaks.

“I know more about temptation than you, Caleb.”

It’s rare to hear Essek angry- figures that he chooses a time like this to finally call Caleb by his first name.

“Then you should know that I can’t pass up this opportunity.” Caleb clicks the final pieces into place, watching the lights on the headset start to glow. He loses the fight against another temptation and glances over to Essek, who looks to be fighting fiercely not for a neutral expression, but to keep back tears. “I will not have more lives on my conscience. If this could win us the fight, I have to do it.”

He reaches for the control panel, lifting the headset with his other hand. He has to get this over with before he loses his nerve, before Essek decides to find someone who might actually be able to stop him, before Jester or Veth or anyone else stumble upon him

Essek grabs his wrist, stopping him. His eyes are wide, a little surprised at himself, but he meets Caleb’s stare dead-on.

“I don’t want to lose you to this,” he clears his throat, and looks down, away, “We all still need you.”

Even now, they can’t help but lie to themselves.

“I have to do this.”

Essek looks back at him and for once, seems frustrated to be unable to peer behind Caleb’s eyes, to get the answers he always does. He looks to the side with a heavy sigh, and Caleb thinks for a moment that he’s given up, that he’s going to agree, when Essek lets go of his hand to reach behind them, to the lab table still covered in wires and abandoned tech.

Many drafts of the headset sit amongst the wreckage, the results of late nights spent working with a collection born of Veth’s sticky fingers and Caleb’s hoarding. Essek grabs one, easily picking out the most functional of the bunch, and presses it into Caleb’s free hand.

“Fine,” his face sets, not in the neutral that Caleb’s come to expect, but in a determination that feels almost dangerous, “Then I’m coming with you.”

Essek’s eyes are a dare, waiting for Caleb to find a reason to deny him. He knows, as well as Caleb, that two of them would increase their chances of surviving this. He also knows, maybe better than Caleb, that none of that matters. Caleb would always rather take the brunt of it, than allow his friends to hurt.

This feels, distinctly, like an argument Caleb can’t win. Essek looks a few seconds away from hooking it up himself.

Caleb sighs, a faint smile escaping him. “Didn’t think you’d be repaying that favor so soon.”

Essek only pushes the headset more firmly into his hands, though it’s hard to tell whether he’s safe-guarding against Caleb losing his nerve, or losing his own nerve.

Caleb puts Essek’s headset on first, taking longer than necessary to adjust its fit, before putting on his own. They sit across from each other, in the distorted shadow of the brain. Essek’s gaze, fixed on Caleb, doesn’t waver and just before Caleb hits the switch, he holds out his hand.

Caleb takes it and turns on the machine.

The drift hits him immediately, like a weight falling on his brain as something too big climbs into his skull and pushes his mind out to the edges, pressed against bone. Everything else, outside of his mind and Essek’s mind and this new intrusion, disappears entirely. Sensation, apart from a terrible, sourceless pain, leaves him.

Essek’s mind bursts into focus like a searing light in the abyss, a star far above him. Caleb reaches for it, as the mind of the Kaiju, oppressive and all-consuming, threatens to swallow him up.

He feels their connection like entwined hands, before they collapse into each other, blurring into one. Warm and cool colors mix together in threads that wind and wind around until they are one inseparable string. Shared pain is conducted through it, a wire of strange electricity.

He is hearing a city on fire, screaming, and imagines he can pick out familiar voices in the chaos.

He is shaking a hand like a corpse, bony and terrible as its fingernails dig into his skin.

He is on a cold tile floor, aware that he is alone, alone, alone—

Somewhere, outside of himself, he squeezes Essek’s hand.

The Kaiju bears down on both of them and he finds himself standing beside Essek on a destroyed city street, its features a mashed together version of Caleb and Essek’s childhoods. It is too much for either of them, even standing together, but when he looks down at Essek, he sees only his smile, sharp and confident.

Everything begins to dissolve as the mind- the many minds- of the Kaiju falls over them.

…

Waking up is not fun.

Once, in grad school, Caleb stayed up for 52 hours, subsisting on diabolical combinations of energy drinks and pure spite for his professors. After turning in his last assignments, including a paper that served as a major breakthrough in his field but was so manic it was incomprehensible to anyone except Caleb, he crashed hard and did not wake for another day, when Veth checked to see if he was still alive.

He could’ve sworn, at the time, that the headache he felt upon seeing light for the first time that day was the worst he’d ever experience.

This headache easily doubles it.

The lights are, mercifully, left completely off, with only the dim sunlight leaking out from under the blinds turning the infirmary room a dull grey. He’s sat, partially upright, on the thin mattress of the hospital bed, a place he knows well. Outside the room, he can just make out the quiet, constant noise of their busy med station, conversation and machines overlapping.

To his right, similarly propped up, is Essek.

He wakes at the same moment as Caleb and they both turn, surprise mirrored in their faces. At seeing each other, at being alive at all- it’s anybody’s guess.

Objectively, Caleb is sure they both look absolutely terrible, but he can only see the light in Essek’s eyes and his tired smile. There’s a drowsy kind of comfort between the two of them, relief of tension being let go. They lived- they both lived.

“This is not the warm welcome to the land of the living I was hoping for.”

Caleb laughs, even if it hurts, a little. “This feels less like a welcome party, and more like breaking a window and climbing back in.”

There’s no connection between them anymore, no wires or drifts, but he still feels it faintly, a buzzing at the back of his head. Essek’s pain feels like an echo of his own, and his warmth is still there, as if he’s still holding his hand. It’s stable, an anchor to new wakefulness.

“They should’ve known better than to put two of us in the same lab.” Essek shakes his head, and winces at the movement. “It could only ever have ended in disaster.”

Caleb grins and is pleased to see Essek do the same, just as unguarded as he was in the drift.

They only have a few minutes before Jester comes in to yell at him for being stupid- possibly, the whole crew is lined up somewhere outside, lists of grievances in hand. Shortly following that, he assumes there will be a small battalion of military personnel waiting to hear what they’ve discovered.

Until then, he has time to do more stupid things, mostly unsupervised.

He drags himself out of the bed, pretending that he doesn’t nearly collapse as soon as his feet hit the floor, and wheels the bed closer to Essek’s, carefully maneuvering the wires still attached to his chest and arms. Once they’re an arm’s length away, Caleb stops and climbs back in.

This time, he holds his hand out first and knows, without a doubt, that Essek will take it.

[thepetulantpen]

I hope they never explain anything about Jaskier in the Netflix show.

Why doesn’t he age? Where is Lettenhove exactly? He never travels with a pack, why? He doesn’t have a weapon despite walking through dangerous areas. Is it because he knows that whatever is walking those streets could never be more dangerous than he is? We’ll never know.

Jokes aside, at this point all the headcanons are more entertaining and satisfying than any fix it Netflix could provide.

[thepetulantpen]

Here’s you were raised by wolves and voices and the sequel, born of kaer morhen!

I’m finally uploading a sequel to you were raised by wolves and voices (my witcher!jaskier fic)! If you’d like to read some witcher!jaskier (specifically wolf witcher, if that makes a difference) you should give it a read! Links in the reblog. 

[thepetulantpen]

I’m finally uploading a sequel to you were raised by wolves and voices (my witcher!jaskier fic)! If you’d like to read some witcher!jaskier (specifically wolf witcher, if that makes a difference) you should give it a read! Links in the reblog. 

[thepetulantpen]

Now on ao3!

(More danganronpa stuff! I meant to post this like two weeks ago, but school’s been rough. Another Kazuichi/Hajime fic based on something that’s been in my ideas folder for ages: Kazuichi makes Komaeda’s hand, post dr2. Enjoy!)

“I’m only doing this for you.”

Kazuichi glares, hoping it’ll make him look more serious, but Hajime only looks relieved. It hurts to know Hajime had been expecting him to say no, but he can’t blame him, given the circumstances. 

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“You’ll owe me one.” This seems to have no effect, so Kazuichi adds, “I’m serious! I should be compensated for going anywhere near that creep.”

Hajime fidgets, hand coming up to fuss with hair that’s no longer there. It’s cut even shorter than it was in the simulation; apparently, he was a little hasty in getting rid of Izuru’s style. It was one of the first things he did when they woke up- Kazuichi remembers watching him, and seeing a bit of himself in the impulsivity.

These days, Hajime looks like he’s always towing the line, wanting to be supportive but afraid to be too defensive. Kazuichi knows he’s starting to feel like something of a stranger, seeing their simulated friendships as inferior to the history the rest of them share. Not to mention the guilt at his role in… everything, but that’s not exactly exclusive to Hajime.

His expression wavers, before Hajime visibly settles on, “He’s not so bad.”

It’s somehow both an understatement and overstatement- Nagito just is, a person difficult to quantify. Beyond crazy, that is. 

Keep reading

[thepetulantpen]

(More danganronpa stuff! I meant to post this like two weeks ago, but school’s been rough. Another Kazuichi/Hajime fic based on something that’s been in my ideas folder for ages: Kazuichi makes Komaeda’s hand, post dr2. Enjoy!)

“I’m only doing this for you.”

Kazuichi glares, hoping it’ll make him look more serious, but Hajime only looks relieved. It hurts to know Hajime had been expecting him to say no, but he can’t blame him, given the circumstances. 

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“You’ll owe me one.” This seems to have no effect, so Kazuichi adds, “I’m serious! I should be compensated for going anywhere near that creep.”

Hajime fidgets, hand coming up to fuss with hair that’s no longer there. It’s cut even shorter than it was in the simulation; apparently, he was a little hasty in getting rid of Izuru’s style. It was one of the first things he did when they woke up- Kazuichi remembers watching him, and seeing a bit of himself in the impulsivity.

These days, Hajime looks like he’s always towing the line, wanting to be supportive but afraid to be too defensive. Kazuichi knows he's starting to feel like something of a stranger, seeing their simulated friendships as inferior to the history the rest of them share. Not to mention the guilt at his role in… everything, but that's not exactly exclusive to Hajime.

His expression wavers, before Hajime visibly settles on, “He’s not so bad.”

It’s somehow both an understatement and overstatement- Nagito just is, a person difficult to quantify. Beyond crazy, that is. 

Memory is unreliable nowadays, a jumbled mess of school friends, fellow supervillains, and bits of code on a computer simulated island. The lines feel blurred, relief at seeing his close friends alive bleeding into horror at what they’ve done. Their killing game, too, feels fresh. He can’t help but see Nagito’s body when he closes his eyes, or feel the flash of heat from the bomb. The anger, and the sadness, is irrational- which only makes it harder to process.

Kazuichi doesn’t comment on any of that, distracting himself by turning to his work table. It’s newly set up by the Foundation, not quite lived in yet. Not as messy as he likes it.

“I’ll need some measurements, but I can get started.” He grimaces at the thought, having not even considered it when he agreed to this. “You’ll get that, right?”

Hajime smiles, almost laughs at Kazuichi’s expression, but nods. “Yeah, I got it.”

The thought of Hajime holding Nagito’s hand, carefully measuring, crosses his mind and he has to shake his head to clear it. It’s a stupid thing to be jealous of- Nagito is missing a damn hand. Of all the gruesome truths they’ve uncovered, of course there’s one that’ll give Nagito and Hajime an opportunity to hold hands.

Hajime is still hovering in the doorway, something obviously on his mind aside from Nagito. Normally, this is Kazuichi’s place to prompt him, get him to spill whatever it is. As competent as Hajime likes to pretend he is- freaky Izuru powers or otherwise- he’s always been better at getting other people to talk. 

It’s different now- they’ve got a lot on their plates, more than some repressed childhood trauma that’s appropriate to share on a beach. He’s drawing up schematics for his friend’s hand, and he’s not sure he can handle anything heavy on top of that.  

He turns to Hajime, anyway. If something’s bothering him, it’s better if they can both share that weight. “What’s up? You in the market for more shoddy prosthetics?”

“I don’t think you could make anything shoddy if you tried.” He says it offhandedly, without thinking. The confidence in his voice is enough to make Kazuichi pause, but he’s spared having to react as Hajime continues, “Thank you, really. You’re… a good friend, Kazuichi.” 

The unwitting rejection stings, but he raises his hand for a fist bump. “Of course, man. Whatever you need, alright?”

Hajime nods, a mirthless smirk on his face. It’s stretched too thin, like him. Kazuichi doesn’t know if he’s seen him sit down in the last week- always between righting one wrong and another. Chasing down the shadows of a person he never chose to be.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

It’s disproportionately serious, betraying Hajime’s exhaustion. Kazuichi gestures, silently, for him to sit in one of the extra chairs, an excuse and invitation to rest until someone comes to find him. He takes it, grateful, and scoots it to sit right beside Kazuichi.

Their shoulders brush and Hajime doesn’t flinch away.

Kazuichi tries to keep his eyes on the parts, tries not move too much as Hajime leans against him. He tries not to let it mean anything when Hajime starts reaching for tools before he can, passing him exactly what he needs. Certainly doesn’t think about what it means when Hajime starts to doze off- and focuses muttering his response, never mind that Hajime stopped talking an hour ago.

“Without my brilliance? I guess you’d be collectively short of one hand.”

…

A hand, compared to everything else he’s made, is not a complicated ask. It barely takes a week, and that’s only because he tries to make it perfect. He must spend hours in testing, fine-tuning movement and searching for flaws long after he knows there aren’t any.

Not because he cares or anything- only so he doesn’t have to deal with it again if it breaks. 

The procedure to attach it is surprisingly simple; Mikan takes care of it, leaving Kazuichi to wait outside the room. Hajime’s supposed to be here, too, but he’s late- called away for a Foundation summons, which manages to be less appealing than what Kazuichi is doing now.

When it’s done, Mikan leaves, scurrying out with her head ducked down. She doesn’t address Kazuichi, which isn’t particularly abnormal. They’re all dealing with... this in different ways. 

Inside, Nagito is sitting in a chair, watching, nearly transfixed, as the hand responds to him, twisting and flexing. Kazuichi is tempted to just leave now- skip this interaction that he’s been dreading for days- but he doesn’t. Weirdo or not, Nagito doesn’t deserve to be walked out on.

He settles in the chair beside Nagito, gesturing to the hand. “I’ve got to show you how to take care of it. Maintenance, or whatever.”

“Ah,” Nagito smiles- a normal smile, by his standards, “I’m honored.”

Good to see coming out of the simulation didn’t fuck him up too much- this is about par for the course. Kazuichi just nods and gets to work, glancing up to make sure Nagito understands what he’s saying, more or less. Nagito still apologizes too much, which becomes an obstacle every time Kazuichi has to correct him. It turns explaining the mechanics of the hand, which parts need adjusting and which need regular replacements, into a grueling process.

He really is an air-head, when you get right down to it. Past all of the hope stuff, past all of the luck, he’s a regular guy. He’s not even so painfully insecure, in his best moments. 

It’s almost easy to see why Hajime likes him so much. 

At times like this, it feels like it did in school, simple friendships with no despair-laced strings attached. Hajime not being a part of that equation is a strange inconsistency. The thought that he never properly met Hajime- just Hajime, not Izuru or a computer’s impression of him- makes his head hurt.

“It’s good to see you and Hajime are still getting along,” Nagito says, apropos of nothing, “You spent a lot of time together, on the island. I know he enjoys your company.”

He sounds oddly deliberate, not like the steady stream of nonsense that Kazuichi tends to filter out. It cuts through the haze of his half-concentration on the conversation. “Huh? Yeah, I mean, of course.”

Nagito stares at him, dull grey eyes unyielding, before he smiles, again. “This hand was a favor for Hajime, wasn’t it? I’m sure he appreciated that.”

He sounds almost nagging this time, like he’s trying to get at something in particular, but it’s the words that catch Kazuichi’s attention. Kazuichi looks up sharply from where he’d been checking the spare parts, now labeled and boxed up.

 “It wasn’t just for Hajime, you know.” Kazuichi rubs the back of his neck, trying not to cringe. “I wouldn’t leave you without a hand.”

“I wasn’t doubting your goodwill.” He waves his hand- the real one- dismissively. “Truly, I look up to you. Your devotion to Hajime-”

“It’s not that,” Kazuichi talks quickly, as Nagito’s face starts to fall, “We’re friends. After everything we’ve been through- you think I wouldn’t help?”

Kazuichi bites his lip, half to keep himself from saying anything else. He’s not a perfect conversationalist, but he never imagined he’d outpace Nagito in making a conversation awkward. He shouldn’t have stuck around. Nagito could’ve figured out how to adjust the grip himself, couldn’t he? 

“Oh,” Nagito pauses, genuinely surprised, and stops short of whatever else he was going to say, “in that case, I’m lucky to have such incredible friends.”

The word sounds strange coming from Nagito- too hesitant, like he’s only trying it out. It’s not the first time they’ve called each other friends, but it’s the first time after the world ended; which, even for Nagito, makes a significant difference.

“We’re all here for you. For each other.”

Kazuichi winces, but it has the desired effect of making Nagito smile. Though it doesn’t look like he entirely believes Kazuichi, the expression a little forced, he figures it’s the best they can hope for. 

“Right,” Kazuichi stands, abruptly, and makes for the door, “I’d better get going.”

“Wait, Kazuichi-“

He yanks it open before Nagito can finish and finds, standing in the doorway with his hand half-raised to knock, Hajime. He’s got a knowing look on his face, barely concealing a smile.

“Making friends?”

Kazuichi scowls, trying to look as threatening as he can- which is to say, not very. “Not a word.”

Hajime brushes it off easily, switching places with Kazuichi to sit with Nagito. He relaxes when he does, tension disappearing from his shoulders as Nagito waves to him with his new hand, metal creaking softly.

“Sorry I was late. Makoto is finalizing some of the details and- it doesn’t matter. How are you feeling?”

“I’m great.” Nagito looks like he means it, lighting up at the sight of Hajime. “Kazuichi’s been great company. I see why you like him so much.”

Kazuichi steps back, getting the impression he’s no longer a part of this conversation. He keeps his head down and pretends not to notice as Hajime laughs at something Nagito says- too quiet to hear from the doorway. Hajime looks up as he leaves, but Kazuichi only gives a brief wave, leaving them to their own devices.

It feels vaguely like being left behind, even if he’s the one walking out.

…

It’s a few days later, on the beach, when he dares see either of them again. 

He refuses to admit that he’s avoiding anyone- he only happens to not run into them. It just so happens that he spends the majority of his days locked in his lab, with a Do Not Disturb sign up, listening to the sound of disappointed footsteps approaching, pausing, and leaving. 

And, just once, the click of Nagito’s heeled shoes and an extended moment of hesitation- the shadow remaining at his door for a minute, at least- before it, too, leaves. 

It’s not jealously. It’s just... weird, being around people he calls friend. Even after all this time, he feels like he can’t quite get it right. 

Especially with Hajime. For multiple reasons. 

He’s here now, despite that, because if he doesn’t leave the lab, he thinks Hajime might send in rescue parties after him. It should be embarrassing that he’s partially hidden behind a palm tree, creepily watching Hajime and Nagito from a distance, but it’s not the weirdest thing he’s done, even excluding his time corrupted by despair- hell, even excluding all of their time in the killing game.

Kazuichi smiles softly as he watches them, Hajime’s grin bright and Nagito looking less miserable than usual. The shadows they all carry dissipate in the steady sunlight, the rock of waves suspending them in a limbo on this island, far from where the rest of the world can reach them. 

Nagito says something Kazuichi doesn’t catch that makes Hajime frown, and he waves his hand- the new, metal one- in Hajime’s face, clearly teasing. “I know you do.”

“Nagito,” Hajime is laughing as he tries to catch Nagito’s hand, “Nagito, come on.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m an expert, but,” Nagito lowers his voice, so Kazuichi has to take a few steps closer to hear him, “subtlety isn’t one of your many talents.”

Hajime opens his mouth, like he’s going to argue, just as Kazuichi steps forward, intentionally scuffing his shoe against a rock- feeling, for the first time, guilty for eavesdropping. At his footsteps, Hajime whips around, something suspiciously like a blush on his face. 

Hajime glares at Nagito, who pays him no mind in favor of greeting Kazuichi, cheerfully, with, “What great luck. Hajime was just looking for you.”

The beanie, a few minutes ago, had felt silly while on the beach, under the constant sun. Now, he’s grateful to have something to fidget with. He pulls it lower, as if that’ll hide him.

“You always know where to find me.”

Hajime raises his eyebrows, glancing once at Nagito- who, judging from his shrug, isn’t much help. “I wasn’t sure you wanted visitors.”

“I never mind seeing you.” It’s as if flashing neon signs reading AWKWARD blind him for a moment as he backpedals, “Uh, whenever you want to hang out, man. Never too busy for you.”

“We should,” Hajime interrupts, before Kazuichi can spiral deeper. “Hang out, I mean. Just me and you. If you have time.”

Kazuichi looks over to Nagito- or, the empty spot where Nagito was. There’s a footprint in the sand and, in the distance, he spots the flash of a coat as Nagito trips over rocks on his way to beat a hasty retreat. It’s hard to tell whether Nagito has been taking lessons from Peko, or if Kazuichi’s skills in observation are worse than he thought. He’s not sure whether he wants to thank him or curse him for leaving them- maybe he’ll decide based on how much a disaster this ends up being.

Hajime is watching him expectantly, not as surprised by Nagito’s escape act. 

“Not a lot going on right now. Besides, you know, the apocalypse.”  It’s hard not to be nervous, even if Kazuichi can’t pinpoint exactly why. He can feel a tangent coming on, forces himself to stop before he says something he’ll regret. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

Hajime shuffles a step closer and looks down, not meeting Kazuichi’s eyes. “I’ve missed you. I know that’s stupid, since we’re both on the same island, but-“

“I know what you mean,” he says, quietly, cutting him a break, “I think.” He hopes he knows what he means- hopes it means what it means to him.

Hajime looks up, mismatched eyes studying him. It’s not as disconcerting as he imagined it might be.

After a moment, Hajime glances away again, breaking eye contact. “Do you want to go now? There’s food in the kitchen. It’s nothing glamorous, but,” he shakes his head, smile a little sheepish, “I guess I’m not very good at this, even now.”

He’s clearly doing something right, but if Kazuichi could figure that out, he would have a lot easier time responding. He’d probably even say something more eloquent than, “Sounds great! Lead the way?”

It doesn’t make a difference. Hajime looks delighted, like Kazuichi had said anything else. It’s a warm feeling, to see Hajime smile even when he’s barely done anything to deserve it.

Hesitating just a step, Hajime turns back to Kazuichi and holds his hand out, offering an unsure smile and no words to the silent gesture. Kazuichi takes it before he can change his mind and lets himself be pulled along, nothing on his mind but this moment, the sun, the waves and Hajime.

They can make something new here- hands and hope and a life no longer broken into half-remembered pieces. It’s a new start, after the world and their lives have been burned away a few times over. A second or third chance. Best to stop counting, at this point.

It’s only fitting that they begin again on a beach. This time, he’ll be aiming a little higher than “soul friends”.

[thepetulantpen]

It’s now up on ao3, for anyone who’s interested!

(Happy Valentine’s Day! Here’s my annual Saimota fic. As usual, keep an eye out for saimota fanart by @fancy-kryptonite​)

The anticipation leading up to Valentine’s Day is persistent, all-consuming, and, above all, irrational. It builds and builds past the point of overthinking and well into sleepless nights.

Holidays are always like this- a sort of performance anxiety to be happy, to make a day special. In a sense, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. He knows it can’t possibly be perfect, so he ruins it for himself before he starts.

It reaches a breaking point in the form of him mentally throwing up his hands, tired of debating with himself. There have been enough grand, somewhat ridiculous gestures over the last few years. No one is expecting him to do anything elaborate, least of all Kaito- who Shuichi finds sprawled out on the grass, a pile of books abandoned at his side. Unconcerned with the holiday a few days away.

“I was thinking we could try something normal this year.”

Kaito raises his head, not confused by the non-sequitur, but mildly offended- insofar as any of Kaito’s expressions can be called mild.  “I thought our other dates were normal?”

“Simple. I meant simple.” Shuichi can’t help smiling- only Kaito would consider scavenger hunts and secret love letters normal. He sits down beside Kaito, trying not to crush any of the books, borrowed far past their return date. “Easier to plan.”

Kaito looks relieved, and ecstatic- the latter of which is not particularly comforting. “Right, right. I’ve got the perfect thing.”

That’s fast, even for Kaito. Shuichi tries not to let it get to him- he hasn’t thought of anything specific yet. “Well, I figured we could each pick something- you take the morning, and I’ll take the afternoon?” Hopefully, that’ll give him enough time. “If you don’t mind. I mean, I could go first, if you’d rather.”

“Nah, I’ve got it covered.” He pats Shuichi on the back, with his usual lack of awareness of his own strength. “I won’t disappoint you, sidekick.”

I’ve really got to talk him into a new title.

He certainly sounds confident, but Shuichi has never known Kaito to not sound confident. He’d been thinking coffee or movies, but if Kaito has something perfect, then Shuichi has to step up his game. There’s only a day or two left- what could he do in that time?

“Shuichi? Did you hear me?” Kaito leans into his line of sight, waving his hand in front of Shuichi’s face. There’s no telling how long he’s been doing that for. He must take Shuichi’s expression for an apology, as he repeats himself, “I’ll text you the details. It’s a surprise, so don’t try to detect it, alright?”

Oh, good. Another thing for me to obsessively think about it. 

“I won’t, I promise.”

Kaito doesn’t look convinced. Shuichi can’t say he is, either.

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