tristxnxpxyne

[tristxnxpxyne]

Tristan hissed as she lifted his shirt, trying to smother the grunt that escaped. “Yeah, well… ‘bulletproof’ is a generous term,” he muttered. “Felt more like wearing a paper plate.”

Her hands were trembling, and that hurt worse than the rib. When she snapped at him, he flinched—not from fear, but guilt. Deep, biting guilt.

“I said bruises ’cause I didn’t want you pacing a hole in the floor,” he said softly. “Didn’t lie… just… edited.”

Their eyes met, and he exhaled slowly. “Fractured rib, yeah. Maybe a lung bruise. Sprained wrist, shoulder’s dodgy, knee crunches when I walk. So, y’know. The usual.”

He caught her hand gently, pressing it to his chest.

“But I came back, didn’t I? For you. Always for you.”

And with a breathless grin, Tristan couldn't help but ask her, “You gonna yell at me more or kiss me now?”

@etherealxmuses asked:

"You were shot?!" - for Tristan from Charlotte

Looking at her incredulously for a heartbeat, his fingers already trying to coax Charlotte to let go of his shirt, the material fisted in her deceptively delicate hands, Tristan tried not to chuckle, knowing it would just jostle his wounds.

"There is a reason for the vests, darling." Amusement was laced through his tone in an attempt at calming her down. "They are bulletproof, y'know."

In all honesty, 'bulletproof' didn't exactly always mean that pain wouldn't be involved because blimey- he was very, very well aware that underneath the bandages wrapped around his left shoulder and his chest lay a myriad of injuries.

Bruised lung, fractured rib; it would be safe to say that he would be more black and blue than anything else come morning, but there was no reason for her to fret.

"Honestly, luv, I'm a wee bit more focused on how lovely you look all ruffled and rumpled like this. Touched that ya rushed down to the medbay even though it's the middle of the night and all that." He teased her, his eyes filled with mirth as he teased her, knowing the whole time that had it been her going out on a solo mission, Tristan would've been outta his bloody mind with worry.

"Worried for me, are we?"

[tristxnxpxyne]

Huffing out a breath, Tristan’s brows furrowed as his gaze darted around the room he was now enclosed in. Things just… never seemed to work in his favor, did they?

First, he ended up actually going on the mission that he was told he wouldn’t be needed on, not that he minded going. No, that wasn’t what he minded. He minded the fact that he was supposed to be on his vacation. 

The few weeks he had set aside to visit his two girls before their school year started, hopefully giving his twin a break… but no. He was desperately needed so he did what he had to do and, unfortunately cut his vacation short for the time being. 

Second? Well… that’s how he found himself in this predicament. The moment he realized something was amiss, he forcefully shoved his newest recruit out of the door, and just as he was about to follow suit, the damned glass doors shut him in, effectively locking him in a room made entirely of glass that nothing seemed to break. 

Thirdly? And most importantly? There seemed to be some sort of… gas being pumped into the room, causing him to inadvertently inhale each burning, nauseating, and almost blinding translucent gas with each breath. And with each breath, he found himself sinking further and further into his subconscious, something he wasn’t even aware he was doing until he was nothing but a mad dog, head jerking about at the slightest provocation, the slightest noise like nails on a chalkboard. 

Fourthly? No.  No.  NO.  That was NOT who he thought it was. 

It couldn’t be.  She had to have been dead by now, right? But no. 

There she stood.  Angelica Sunflower Payne.  His mum. 

And for the first time in his life, he found himself utterly enraptured by the sight because fir the first time… she wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t high. She wasn’t going after him, yelling, screaming, hitting, blaming… she was simply seated on what looked to be…a hospital bed?

No, this had to be a hallucination. 

“You’re not real.” Tristan mumbled, already backing himself into the corner as his mum approached him with a saccharine sweet smile on her face. “Of course I am, my sunshine lad. My sweet, happy, sunshine boy-” “DON’T CALL ME THAT!” Tristan roared, baring his teeth as he tried to push himself against the wall even more. 

“Now, now, is that any way to treat your loving mum, the woman who dedicated her life-” 

“Ohhhhh, what a load of bollox! You didn’t love me! You didn’t dedicate shite to me, to Remy or Brianna! You used us!” He screamed in response just as Angelica stopped short, giving him a wounded look that all lasted of a few moments before her true nature came forth. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, my sunshine boy. My world revolved around you and your siblings so very-” She tried to keep her calm even as Tristan shot to his feet, unable to stay stable as he wobbled with each step, his pupils dilated to where not even a sliver of his natural blue was seen as he pointed a finger at his mother. 

“YOU’RE WORLD REVOLVED AROUND YOUR NEXT FIX. YOU COULDN’T- you couldn’t even look at me without wanting to dig your greedy nails into my face, spitting at me, demanded where I hid your kits. Your bottles.” He spat back in her face, too far gone to realize that this was just a hallucination. 

No, to him… this was the real thing. This was his mother coming for him after finding out that he had made something of himself, and this was her wanting him to be her sweet, sunshine boy again. The foolish, naïve little boy. 

Only when he was so lost in thought did he realize that his mother had managed to one-up him and wrap her arms around him, gently rocking him back and forth, and that’s what finally broke him. 

“I was nine years old the first time I found you. NINE! What nine-year-old knows what to do when their mum is in the bathtub, a needle still stuck in her arm, while dozens of bottles surround her?” Tristan sobbed, pulling away despite wanting nothing more than to feel his mother’s arms around him, loving for once instead of her usual hatred seeping through. 

“What nine-year-old knew how to sober you up, who to call, how to administer Narcan while the paramedics were on their way? TELL ME?” He screamed as he trembled in her hold.

“I was…I was only 12 minutes older than Remy, Mum. 12 minutes. Do you think those twelve minutes…they gave me some sort of insight? The ability to answer my younger brother’s question when he finally crawled into bed with me one night and tried not to cry while asking me, Why did our mum not love us? Pleading with me to help him make things right, begging me to show him what to do so that you would love him? 12 minutes older… and I don’t blame him, how could I, but did he not think that I was wondering the same fucking thing? Why our mother couldn’t love us enough to stop destroying herself, to stop hurting her children…” Tristan’s voice at this point was far beyond broken as he finally collapsed, his entire frame trembling. 

“Remy and I… we knew better eventually. We stopped nicking booze from the corner stores for you in hopes that it might grant us a smile, or a deceleration of love, or even perhaps, maybe just that night, you wouldn’t try to abuse one of us…but we knew. The moment you set your eyes on Brianna? We knew.” He said, his breathing coming in faster and deeper as he clenched his eyes shut. 

“You realized what was wrong with your youngest was your own doing, right? Because no matter what you told us… you never stopped using, did you? You were too selfish. So when Brianna was born… she was never to be normal, was she?” He accused her, his glare piercing through the hallucination’s gaze, the hallucination that even had the gall to look ashamed. 

“Oh, no, no, don’t act as though you were innocent in this. I can understand you weren’t willing to stay sober during her pregnancy, fine. I hate it, but I can understand it. What I will NEVER understand is how you treated her after she was born. How immediately, Remy and I, two boys at age 5, almost 6, suddenly had no other choice than to become parents to a sickly infant.” Tristan said softly, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.

“Oh, but even at that age, we did a better job than you ever could have. Especially now that the man you insisted we call father had gone and left the moment he found out you, our lovely mother, were pregnant yet again. And in all honesty, he wasn’t a great loss. All he was to any of us was the man who would lock us in a room for days with no food, no water, and no way of knowing what time of the day it was, while you and you. Got high, drunk, and had the time of your lives. So no, I was GLAD when that bastard left. Made being a father to our sister so much easier.” Holding a hand up when Angelica tried to speak, he scoffed. 

“I will let you speak when I am well and bloody done, mother.” He sneered the word, pushing himself off the wall and into the hallucination’s space, towering above her, despite her not being there. 

“I was the oldest brother, I know. So it was my responsibility, despite Remy’s insistence, that we should share the load…no. I needed to take care of my baby sister and my baby brother. So I was the first to get a job at 12 once we found out that you were stealing Brianna’s pain medication to get high off of, leaving her in a world of agony…. but that little angel… she never said a word against you. She was too enraptured with the idea that maybe if she would let her mother have this from her, then maybe, just maybe, she would earn a sliver of love. A hint of kindness.” Tristan’s voice lost its fervor at the innocence that was his sister. 

“And what did you do? You slapped her, you left bruises and claw marks, and you pulled her IV out, knowing just how painful it was for a child at her age… Because she had the audacity to actually take her pain medication when she needed it and not save it all for you. You tore her down to shreds of shreds. When I came home from work, I didn’t recognize my angel anymore, and it wasn’t until I found out what happened… I wanted to kill you,” He growled, clenching his eyes shut at the hate making its way through his body.

“That was it for me. I would NOT let you ruin Remy and me’s little angel the way you destroyed us. So we started skimming your wallet. Started skimming the till at our own jobs. I stopped going to school in hopes of finding a better job, while Remy, despite his insistence on doing the same, continued attending classes only to stay out until 3 am because the job he managed to get was only hiring for the night shift. We were never going to leave you alone with her again, Angelica.” Tristan said as calmly as he possibly could, his fingers shaking as he finally leaned against the wall and slid down once again, curled up into a ball, his forehead resting against his knees. 

“Do you know how many times we were arrested? For nicking from stores? For simply trying to get enough food to last the week, mostly for Brianna? While we never would have had to if you had just… cared for us.” He said softly, his eyes closing as he took in a shuddering breath. 

“Why didn’t you care? Why didn’t you love us? What about us did you hate so very much that you couldn’t stand to see us happy? See us content? Why did you always need to see us struggling, see us miserable? See us broken? Why didn’t you love me?” Tristan finally uttered the words that had been haunting him for decades, broken words coming out of his bleeding lips as he held back a sob. “What is it about me…that just…is so unlovable?”

It was then that Angelica made her way over to his son, her beautiful, sunshine boy, and sat down next to him, a careful arm set around his shoulders. “I did love you. You, Remy, or Brianna. I just…didn’t care about you. None of you. You were all the children I never wanted. How could I want any of you when I only wanted one thing? Oblivion. You were my obstacle. Do not mistake love for care, Sunshine boy.” She said softly before smirking and shaking her hair. 

“And I know you think that you cut me out when I showed up to Brianna’s funeral high off of Ketamine, flask in hand, yelling nonsense… but that nonsense? That hate I spewed? That’s the hatred that grew in place of love once I figured out that you two, little brothers in arms, started to care more about that worthless child of mine that I should have killed the moment I found out her illness. I knew I wanted nothing to do with you two anymore, and I knew the best way to go about that, and what do you know? I. Got. What. I. Wanted.” Angelica said with a proud note in her voice as she roughly placed her palm against Tristan’s face and shoved him aside.

“And you know what else? For all you know… I’m still out there. I’m still alive. Only… only this time? I’m sober. I’m happy. I have an actual family I adore.” She spat at him with a grin in her sinister tone. “You’re just going to have to face facts. You were never good enough, Tristan. You or Remy. You two were always failures. Always. Will. Be.”

At that moment in time, Tristan had covered his ears and began to rock back and forth as he tried to keep his small whimpers within his chest. “Leave me. Go away.” Was all that he could utter, eyes clenched tight. 

“I will, my sweet summer boy. Maybe I’ll even give my two grandchildren a visit. You never know.” Her smug, pointed whisper was directed at him just as she disappeared. 

What he didn’t know, however, was that despite him being the only one who was administered that dose, any agent observing would have seen the whole thing. That was the beauty of HYDRA’s psychological torture. They always aimed to torture anyone and everyone. 

Finally, after he could form two thoughts together, all he could think about was getting in touch with his brother. He had to make sure his nieces were safe.

That was when the second wave of gas started to seep into the room… and he started to see things that he hoped couldn’t be true. 

He wasn’t able to hold back his whimpers when, instead of his mother, Brianna appeared, only this time… it wasn’t the sister he loved. This time, it was his mind creating an image of his sister and the awful things that he thought she must have thought about him never being able to actually keep her safe. 

After hours of that torture came the images that led him to actual tears, the sight of Esmerelda and Ariana both lying there, so still, so broken even as they looked right at him and said in tandem, “This is your fault Uncle Tristan. You’re the reason we’re dead." 

All the while, Remy lay a mere foot away, blood pooled around his body as he had tried to save his children, presumably from the monster that was his twin. 

[tristxnxpxyne]

@etherealxmuses asked:

"You were shot?!" - for Tristan from Charlotte

Looking at her incredulously for a heartbeat, his fingers already trying to coax Charlotte to let go of his shirt, the material fisted in her deceptively delicate hands, Tristan tried not to chuckle, knowing it would just jostle his wounds.

"There is a reason for the vests, darling." Amusement was laced through his tone in an attempt at calming her down. "They are bulletproof, y'know."

In all honesty, 'bulletproof' didn't exactly always mean that pain wouldn't be involved because blimey- he was very, very well aware that underneath the bandages wrapped around his left shoulder and his chest lay a myriad of injuries.

Bruised lung, fractured rib; it would be safe to say that he would be more black and blue than anything else come morning, but there was no reason for her to fret.

"Honestly, luv, I'm a wee bit more focused on how lovely you look all ruffled and rumpled like this. Touched that ya rushed down to the medbay even though it's the middle of the night and all that." He teased her, his eyes filled with mirth as he teased her, knowing the whole time that had it been her going out on a solo mission, Tristan would've been outta his bloody mind with worry.

"Worried for me, are we?"

[tristxnxpxyne]

His mouth was still slightly parted when she pulled away, her breath brushing against his lips as she whispered that last tease—Romeo—and disappeared like a breeze wrapped in sunshine.

Tristan didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink, really.

Just stood there in the middle of the bloody SHIELD mess hall, one hand halfway to the waffle tongs, staring after her like a man who’d just been hit by a goddamn truck. Or a kiss. Same difference, apparently.

“Right…” he muttered to himself, running a hand over his mouth like it’d erase the lingering warmth. “Okay. That happened.”

Because it did. And it shouldn’t’ve felt like that. Like something electric humming under his skin, charging him from the inside out. Like it meant something.

Too much, actually.

He glanced around, half expecting someone to have clocked it—maybe that rookie with the too-tight ponytail and eyes that followed him around like a shadow. But no. The only one who saw was her.

And bloody hell, did she see him.

The way she tugged him down by the collar like he was hers to grab.

The way she said she was gonna kiss him and then—just did.

Like it wasn’t a question. Like it wasn’t some little joke anymore.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t the kiss that rattled him.

It was the way she walked away.

All calm and grinning, like she didn’t just turn him inside out with one look and a mouthful of soft fire.

He swallowed, shook his head once, and muttered, “Fuckin’ hell…” under his breath again—though it sounded softer this time. Less panicked. More reverent. Like a prayer. Like a problem.

Because now all he could think about was that she smiled when she kissed him.

That little laugh after. The way she looked at him like he was more than some walking headline or a glorified bodyguard with a file full of classified scars. Like she was actually seeing him.

And he’d kissed a lot of people.

But that—

That was the kind of kiss that cracked something open.

So when he finally made it back to the table, waffles forgotten, coffee cold, he sat down slowly and stared ahead like he wasn’t entirely sure what the hell just happened. One hand came up to tug absently at his collar where her fingers had curled.

She called him Romeo.

But all he could think was:

“How in the hell am I supposed to sit through a briefing next to her now?”

He let out a low groan, leaned forward, and dropped his forehead to the table.

“I am in so much trouble.”

Continued from here: X @etherealxmuses

He hadn't even opened his mouth before she spoke up, and her words just made the man pout slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully. "No? Really, luv? What makes you think that I wasn't just going to ask if there were any waffles today, huh, chit?" Eyes crinkling as he tried to hold back the smile that was fighting its way onto his lips, yet failing at such a simple task.

"Nuh uh. You keep wounding my fragile heart and then expect me to give it a go right then and there?" Tristan teased her, a soft laugh escaping his mouth as he shook his head, not even knowing that he was grinning at her. What she said gave him a moment's pause, though, because all he could think of was: 'Not as smooth as you thought, huh, Payne?'.

Why did that bother him as much as it did?

Shoving the lingering, not to mention surprising, thought away, Tristan set the cuppa down at the table that Charlotte was sitting at and slowly tugged his lower lip in between his teeth, the smile there yet not as bright because for some daft reason he wasn't able to get the curiously disappointing idea out of his mind.

It bothered him that she could see right through him. Not many people had that ability anymore.

Raising a brow, he gently pushed away from the table so that he could go check out the waffle situation himself. "It has to be organic, poppet. Remember that, hm?" His tongue slipped out to wet his lips as he started to walk towards where the food was, backwards no less, before the words came to him.

“You know that little smirk you just did? Yeah, dangerous.” Giving her a cheeky wink along with a smile, he turned around and continued onwards. "Don't know what you do to a man's heart with that smirk, do you, love?" Tristan called out over his shoulder, mentally smacking himself in the head at how it sounded. He meant it. But she wouldn't believe him, would she?

'Bugger me...' He thought, a little fumble in his stride, now that the realization was glaringly apparent to him. It bothered him that she thought of him that way because... it actually mattered to him.

What she thought of him. Which was something very rare for him to feel. It would've felt wrong to give her a line. It would have felt wrong because she deserved better than a cheesy quip.

He couldn't bloody flirt with Charlotte because he liked her. How did he turn back into a fucking school boy with a crush?

Turns out that there was someone who got under his skin, and the only thing that he could think of as he made his way back to her was:

'Oh, fuckin' hell.'

He couldn't berate himself that much, however, because he caught sight of her talking to one of the other agents, the sunshine that she brought visible in her smile.

'How can I make her smile like that at me?'

[tristxnxpxyne]

As soon as her explanation sank in, Tristan paused mid-step, turning slightly to the side with a slow, deliberate arch of his brow as he regarded her with incredulous amusement.

“Firstly, darling, you are aware she’s the rookie I’m escorting to the Ashura gala, yes? And whatever gave you the impression she’d be kissing me?”

There was that unmistakable flicker of smugness curling on his lips — a smirk drenched in the kind of self-satisfaction that only grew worse when he caught the sharp glint in her eye. A slight narrowing. A subtle blush.

Ah. There it was.

Tristan, ever the opportunist when it came to teasing his beloved Lottie, very nearly purred with delight. Now the only question that remained: should he stoke the flames or behave?

…Well. He never did claim to be the wisest boy in the academy, did he?

Feigning confusion — badly — he cast a furtive glance about, as if sharing state secrets, and tugged her in a touch closer. His voice dropped, silk-smooth and mock-worried.

“She’s not quite right for me, you say? You don’t like her? But she’s ever so lovely, isn’t she? Witty, kind… What is it you know about her that I don’t, hmm?”

@etherealxmuses asked:

Charlotte sprays Tristan with her perfume, "You smelled like onion girl."

"Wha- ey! 'Lottie, right in the bleedin' face, really?" Tristan bemoaned, rapidly blinking his eyes to try to get rid of the sting, trying to look serious while giving her a narrowed look.

"And you can't keep callin' her that, you know that, right? I just got back from recon with her and she wasn't a problem... why don't you like her, luv?" Finally rubbing his eyes clear, he peered down at her in curiosity, head tilted.

[tristxnxpxyne]

@etherealxmuses asked:

Charlotte sprays Tristan with her perfume, "You smelled like onion girl."

"Wha- ey! 'Lottie, right in the bleedin' face, really?" Tristan bemoaned, rapidly blinking his eyes to try to get rid of the sting, trying to look serious while giving her a narrowed look.

"And you can't keep callin' her that, you know that, right? I just got back from recon with her and she wasn't a problem... why don't you like her, luv?" Finally rubbing his eyes clear, he peered down at her in curiosity, head tilted.

[tristxnxpxyne]

Continued from here: X @etherealxmuses

He hadn't even opened his mouth before she spoke up, and her words just made the man pout slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully. "No? Really, luv? What makes you think that I wasn't just going to ask if there were any waffles today, huh, chit?" Eyes crinkling as he tried to hold back the smile that was fighting its way onto his lips, yet failing at such a simple task.

"Nuh uh. You keep wounding my fragile heart and then expect me to give it a go right then and there?" Tristan teased her, a soft laugh escaping his mouth as he shook his head, not even knowing that he was grinning at her. What she said gave him a moment's pause, though, because all he could think of was: 'Not as smooth as you thought, huh, Payne?'.

Why did that bother him as much as it did?

Shoving the lingering, not to mention surprising, thought away, Tristan set the cuppa down at the table that Charlotte was sitting at and slowly tugged his lower lip in between his teeth, the smile there yet not as bright because for some daft reason he wasn't able to get the curiously disappointing idea out of his mind.

It bothered him that she could see right through him. Not many people had that ability anymore.

Raising a brow, he gently pushed away from the table so that he could go check out the waffle situation himself. "It has to be organic, poppet. Remember that, hm?" His tongue slipped out to wet his lips as he started to walk towards where the food was, backwards no less, before the words came to him.

“You know that little smirk you just did? Yeah, dangerous.” Giving her a cheeky wink along with a smile, he turned around and continued onwards. "Don't know what you do to a man's heart with that smirk, do you, love?" Tristan called out over his shoulder, mentally smacking himself in the head at how it sounded. He meant it. But she wouldn't believe him, would she?

'Bugger me...' He thought, a little fumble in his stride, now that the realization was glaringly apparent to him. It bothered him that she thought of him that way because... it actually mattered to him.

What she thought of him. Which was something very rare for him to feel. It would've felt wrong to give her a line. It would have felt wrong because she deserved better than a cheesy quip.

He couldn't bloody flirt with Charlotte because he liked her. How did he turn back into a fucking school boy with a crush?

Turns out that there was someone who got under his skin, and the only thing that he could think of as he made his way back to her was:

'Oh, fuckin' hell.'

He couldn't berate himself that much, however, because he caught sight of her talking to one of the other agents, the sunshine that she brought visible in her smile.

'How can I make her smile like that at me?'

[tristxnxpxyne]

The house had gone quiet again.

The air felt heavier now, like it had exhaled after holding its breath for far too long. The kitchen still smelled like sweat, cigarette smoke, and blood—but now, layered faintly over it, was something gentler.

Padding softly in mismatched socks, Ariana peeked into the kitchen from the hallway. A small hand clutched hers—Esmerelda, wide-eyed and quiet, trailing behind her with her stuffed fox tucked to her chest.

They’d heard everything.

The shouting. The breaking. The heartbreak.

They shouldn’t have been listening—but the walls were thin, and their hearts were big.

Ariana’s bottom lip wobbled when she saw her papa curled up against Uncle Tristan, his chest still hitching even in sleep. His face looked softer now, but his knuckles were torn and bruised, and there was a kind of sorrow still clinging to the air around him.

They crept forward—silent as shadows—and stood over the brothers. Two war-worn men who fought monsters for a living and were losing battles with their own ghosts.

Ariana knelt first, brushing Tristan’s hair back gently from his forehead, her tiny brow furrowed like she was older than she had any right to be. Esmerelda followed, pressing a soft kiss to her papa’s temple like she’d seen Auntie Bri do in the old photos.

Then, carefully, they each fetched the fluffy throw blankets from the couch and, with small arms struggling under too much weight, laid them over the brothers.

And then—they crawled into the tangle of limbs and sorrow. Ariana curled herself against Tristan’s side, and Esme climbed into the crook of Remy’s arm like she belonged there.

The world was quieter now. The monsters had been named. And sleep came slowly but willingly.

But just before Ariana’s eyes closed, she caught Tristan’s blue gaze—half-lidded, barely awake, but there. Watching. Knowing.

She whispered.

“Uncle Tris… is it my fault Papa’s always sad?”

The question was so soft, so fragile, that it broke something in him that hadn’t even healed yet.

He blinked. “What? No—sweetheart, no.”

“I can be better,” she whispered. “If I stop cryin’ so much and be real good, maybe he won’t be sad all the time.”

Tristan’s chest squeezed painfully. He sat up enough to pull her close, arms folding around her like armor.

“Listen to me, love,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Your papa ain’t sad because of you. Not even a little. He’s just... he’s got a heavy heart. One that’s carried a lot more than it should’ve. But you—you and your sister—you’re the lightest part of his whole life.”

Ariana blinked up at him, cheeks already damp.

“I think,” Tristan continued softly, brushing her curls back, “if you want to help… the best thing you two can do is go out of your way to remind him how much he’s loved. How lucky he is to have such clever little girls in his life.”

Esme’s sleepy voice piped up from Remy’s arm. “Like a mission?”

Ariana wiped her nose. “A secret one?”

Tristan smiled, voice cracking. “Exactly that.”

A beat.

And then the girls nodded—serious as soldiers—and curled back up, whispering plans to each other in the way only five-year-olds could. Something about glitter. And breakfast. And hiding love notes in Remy’s boots.

Tristan lay back down beside them, his hand brushing through Ariana’s hair as she finally drifted off.

And beside them, Remy snored loudly, completely unaware of the two tiny agents planning Operation: Make Papa Smile Again.

For the first time in a long time, the house didn’t feel like it was falling apart.

It felt like it was healing.

Closed Thread - 6/1/25*

The flat was quiet—too quiet for the kind of failure that had just taken place.

The back door slammed, shaking the chipped walls. Remy’s boots tracked blood, soot, and shame across the kitchen floor as he stormed in, fists still trembling, knuckles raw and red. The mission had gone sideways. Again. And this time—people got hurt.

Tristan followed a moment later, slower, jaw tight, hands on his hips. The look on his face wasn’t anger. It was disappointment—and that made it worse.

Remy whipped around before his brother could speak.

“Don’t say it,” he snapped. “Don’t you fuckin’ say it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Tristan replied calmly, but his voice was tired, fraying. “But maybe you should.”

Remy’s laugh was bitter. "Oh yeah? And what would I say, then? 'Sorry for bein’ a bloody curse?' 'Sorry for bein’ the reason it all goes to shit every single time?' Which one you want first?"

He slammed his palm into the counter. The crash echoed.

“Remy, for Christ’s sake—”

“I know I fucked it!” Remy shouted, pacing like a man possessed. “You don’t have to do your whole ‘I’m disappointed but I still love ya’ speech. Spare me that fuckin’ lecture. I ain’t a kid no more, Tris. I know what I am!”

Tristan stepped forward, voice sharpening. “Then what are you, Remy? Hm? What exactly do you think you are?”

Remy’s breath caught. His voice cracked on the way up. “I’m a liability, mate. I’m the weak link. I always have been. You—you were always the good one. You knew how to keep it together, even when Mum was losin’ her bloody mind. I was the one she broke.”

Tristan’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”

Remy laughed, manic. “Why not? Scared it’s true?”

“No,” Tristan snapped, stepping right into his space now. “I’m scared you believe it.”

Silence cracked between them. Remy’s nostrils flared. He looked away, jaw shaking.

“I do.”

It was barely a whisper.

“I believe it, Tris. I’ve believed it since the night Bri died and I weren’t there to hold her hand. Since I came back home and found you with blood on your shirt and not a fuckin’ word for me. You looked right through me, remember? Like I didn’t deserve to breathe the same air she did.”

Tristan’s voice broke. “That’s not what I thought.”

“You didn’t have to say it!” Remy screamed, suddenly shoving him—hard. “You didn’t have to say a damn thing! You looked at me like I was nothin’. And I felt it, Tristan. I felt it. That I should’ve been the one in that hospital bed.”

Tristan stumbled back but didn’t retaliate. He just stood there, letting the weight of those words sink in.

“I’ve been carryin’ it ever since,” Remy gasped, chest heaving. “All this rage—all this hate—I don’t even know where to put it anymore. I punch and I bleed and I drink and it still don’t go away. It don’t go anywhere.”

He collapsed into a chair, shaking now. “I dunno who I am anymore. I ain’t a soldier. I ain’t a good man. I’m just a fuck-up with blood on his hands and no one left to blame.”

Tristan was quiet. Then, carefully, softly: “You’ve got me.”

Remy slammed a fist into the table. “Don’t say that like it fixes it!”

“It doesn’t,” Tristan said, stepping closer. “But it’s real.”

Remy’s voice went hoarse. “I don’t want to ruin them. The girls. You. I’m terrified that one day I’m gonna wake up and see Ariana look at me like I’m nothin’. That Esme’s gonna ask why her uncle’s always angry. And I won’t know what to fuckin’ say.”

Tears were welling now—full, raw tears that he couldn’t blink away. “I already lost Bri. I lost Mum years before that. If I lose them… if I lose you...”

His voice cracked so hard it collapsed into sobs.

“I won’t survive it, Tris. I swear I fuckin’ won’t.”

And then the dam broke.

Remy fell forward into his brother, sobbing into his chest like he was ten years old again and the world was ending. And maybe it was. Maybe it had been ending slowly for decades and this was just the final collapse.

Tristan wrapped both arms around him and held tight. Not a brother’s hug—a lifeline.

“You’re not gonna lose us,” he murmured into his brother’s hair. “You’re not. I won’t let you.”

Remy’s whole body shook. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to,” Tristan said. “We’ll fix it together. One step at a time.”

“I don’t know how to breathe without hurting someone.”

Tristan’s voice cracked then. “Then let me teach you. Let me carry it with you. Please, Rem.”

Another sob tore from Remy’s chest. “I’m so fuckin’ tired…”

“I know,” Tristan whispered. “I know.”

They stayed there—on the kitchen floor, two grown men bound by blood and sorrow. One breaking, the other holding the pieces like they were holy. And maybe, for a moment, that was enough.

@tristxnxpxyne

[tristxnxpxyne]

Tristan Laughton Payne's Biography

Alias: Agent 42 Face Claim: Charlie Hunnam Gender/Pronouns: Male / He, Him Age: November 13th, 1984 / 37 years old Nationality: British Birthplace: London, UK Sexuality: Bisexual

Early Life and Childhood:

Tristan Payne was born into the grit and smoke of South London in the early 1980s, an era plagued by economic hardship and rising crime. From the very start, life demanded too much from him. His mother, a volatile and mentally unstable woman, veered between religious mania and neglectful dissociation. Their flat was more battlefield than home — a place where silence could mean temporary safety, and a raised voice might end in violence.

The Payne household was devoid of warmth. Meals were irregular. School attendance was spotty. The television was often the only source of light and noise in the house. Their mother alternated between phases of zealous cleanliness and total disrepair, her moods shifting violently with little provocation. No father figure ever appeared — only the echo of one in slurred stories or half-told lies. 

As twins, Tristan and Remy developed a preternatural bond. They became each other’s shadows and shields, communicating with just a look or a twitch of a brow. But even as tight as they were, they both knew that Tristan had stepped into a role neither child should have to play: protector.

Everything changed the moment Briana was born. She came five years after the twins — a frail, wide-eyed child whose arrival only increased the mother’s instability. Tristan, already weathered by the years of tiptoeing around their mother’s moods, instinctively understood what had to be done. From the moment he first held Briana in his arms, still swaddled in the hospital blanket, she became his reason.

Personality:

Tristan is quiet intensity incarnate. He is emotionally complex, deeply loyal, and relentless when it comes to protecting the people he loves. Beneath his calm and often gruff exterior lies a wounded heart that never healed — only scarred over. He isn’t one for small talk or sentimentality, but every action, every decision he makes is driven by fierce emotional undercurrents.

He possesses a soldier's pragmatism but not the detachment. He remembers every child he couldn’t save, every bruise Briana bore before he got her out, and every silence that followed after Remy ran away. These memories fuel his decisions.

Trust is not given lightly, and forgiveness even less so. He can be cold and even cruel when cornered — a defense mechanism born from a lifetime of never feeling safe. Yet, those rare moments when he allows himself to be vulnerable show a man still desperate for meaning, for redemption, for family.

Devotion to Briana:

Tristan’s world revolves around his sister. He fought every day to shield her from their mother’s rage, often taking the brunt of the abuse himself. He learned to cook basic meals by age 10 just to keep her fed, stole formula when money ran out, and even slept on the floor outside her bedroom to be a barrier against their mother’s nighttime terrors.

He told Briana stories — long, winding tales about magical forests and sky-sailing ships — to distract her from the screaming. He made her promise, again and again, to never give up. “We’re gonna get out,” he’d whisper. “I swear, I’ll get you out.”

The guilt of never being able to get her out of their house of horrors alive... It’s something he carries like a second skin. She was taken from the world, and every mission he undertook with S.H.I.E.L.D. that involved rescuing children or disrupting trafficking rings was a mission for Briana. Every life he saved was an apology to her.

The Foster System and Teenage Years:

Tristan entered the foster system at age 13 after their mother’s final breakdown — a violent outburst that ended with a neighbor calling the police. By then, Remy had run away, vanishing into London’s underbelly. Tristan was left to fend for both himself and Briana, until the system pulled them apart.

The foster care experience was brutal. He bounced from home to home, many of them only marginally better than the one he left. He learned to fight. He learned to read people fast — the real way, through body language and micro-expressions, not the way school tried to teach. A few mentors saw potential in him, particularly a retired ex-military man who taught him discipline, marksmanship, and how to stay invisible.

He aged out of the system at 18 with a chip on his shoulder and a list of names he never forgot — people who hurt kids and got away with it.

SHIELD and Beyond:

Recruitment into S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t come easy. He had to fight for it, lie to get in front of the right people, and bleed to prove his worth. But what others lacked in fire, he had in spades. His psychological profile was flagged as high-risk but high-potential. He was assigned to black ops — the dirty work, the shadows. It suited him. No spotlight. No red tape. Just action and mission clarity.

He never spoke of his past to his team. But when he broke protocol to save a trafficked child rather than complete the original mission, Nick Fury took notice. From then on, he was the guy they sent in when things got ugly — when a child’s life hung in the balance and collateral damage wasn’t an option.

Now, older and grizzled by years of war and compromise, Tristan still carries a photo of Briana in his wallet — taken when she was five, smiling with missing front teeth. She wouldn't be happy with who he had become. But nothing erases what was lost.

The Girls: Ariana and Esmerelda

Now eight years old, Ariana and Esmerelda Payne are radiant—symbols of everything pure and good in the world. They are identical twins, but wildly different in energy. Ariana is inquisitive, quiet, observant—watching everything and internalizing it. Esmerelda is bold, imaginative, and chaos with a bow in her hair.

They have both Tristan and Remy wrapped around their little fingers. They know it. They weaponize their cuteness and charm effortlessly. They are joy incarnate—dancing in the living room, hiding in kitchen cupboards, and demanding bedtime stories even on Tristan's worst days. They call him "Uncle T", though his role is far deeper than that.

But beneath their playfulness, both girls carry a subtle fear of abandonment. The absence of their mother—though only vaguely remembered—has left a quiet scar. Ariana checks in multiple times a day to make sure no one is leaving. Esmerelda acts out sometimes just to test if love is conditional.

Tristan sees it all. And he never blames them.

He works overtime to make sure they never feel what he felt: the aching silence of being forgotten. He attends school meetings, braids their hair (badly), does tea parties, patches scraped knees, and tucks them in each night. He makes sure they know he will never walk away.

Tristan never meant to be a parent. He never thought he deserved to be. But Ariana and Esmerelda changed that. In their eyes, he’s not a burden, not a monster, not too broken. He’s just Uncle Tris—warm arms, safe voice, unwavering presence.

They love him without fear.

And in them, he learned to love without walls.

He’s the one who remembers every medication dose, every parent-teacher night, every hidden fear they’re too scared to say aloud. He walks Ariana through panic spirals and lets Esmerelda sit in silence beside him for hours. He’s the family’s spine—quiet, unbreakable.

And he would burn the world for those girls.

Relationship with Remy

Despite being twins, their relationship is more like father and son—or older brother and younger brother. Remy is warm, impulsive, and often emotionally driven, which creates a fascinating contrast to Tristan’s measured intensity. Remy struggles with responsibility at times, but it isn’t due to lack of love—it’s because he was never prepared for the world the way Tristan was.

Tristan doesn't fault him. In fact, he’s proud of it.

He deliberately kept Remy soft. If he could protect him from the pain of their childhood, he would. Remy is a good father in all the ways that matter—present, affectionate, involved. He just leans on Tristan more than he’d like to admit. And Tristan never says no.

But that dynamic comes at a cost. Sometimes Tristan is overwhelmed. Sometimes he resents how easy Remy can be with love and laughter. Sometimes he wishes he could be the one held, just once.

Yet still—they are each other’s safe place. The only people who truly understand what the other survived.

Current Day

Now, Tristan balances a dangerous job with a full-time family life. He still works for SHIELD, though he takes far fewer field assignments now. He refuses any mission that takes him away from the girls too long, and the agency has learned to respect that boundary.

He’s never married. He rarely dates. His romantic life has been one of fleeting connections, all burned out by guilt or timing. But he doesn’t feel alone. Not with Ariana and Esmerelda sleeping down the hall and Remy falling asleep in the recliner with a comic book in his lap.

For a boy who grew up wondering if anyone would love him—Tristan Payne became the man who built a home from nothing.

And he’s never letting it fall apart.

Physical Description

Tristan is striking in both strength and stature. His dirty blonde hair is usually kept short for practicality, but he's been known to let it grow to his shoulders during quieter chapters of his life, especially during recovery periods. His blue eyes shift in shade depending on his emotional state—icy when guarded, stormy when furious, and bright when around those he loves.

His skin is tanned, a mix of genetics and time spent training or out on missions. It’s marked with a handful of battle scars, souvenirs from SHIELD assignments and a childhood he rarely speaks of. Some are clean cuts; others are jagged, violent reminders. Tattoos—minimalist and meaningful—dot his arms and ribcage: coordinates, initials, and symbolic imagery related to his past, each one sacred.

Tristan has a powerfully built frame, a result of a rigid training regimen. He’s obsessed with maintaining his body—not out of vanity, but necessity. To him, strength equates to safety. Strength is what stands between those he loves and the chaos of the world. His voice, a smooth British accent, carries calm authority. It can be soothing or terrifying depending on the moment, though those close to him often describe it as "honeyed"—especially when speaking to Ariana and Esmerelda.

🖤 LIKES

Dogs Dogs were the only living creatures Tristan could trust growing up. His mother’s erratic behavior, the drug dealers filtering in and out of their lives, and the complete lack of stability made trust a scarce thing. A stray mutt named Bruno became his first taste of unconditional love—loyal, protective, and quiet, Bruno taught him the meaning of devotion without expectations. That connection rooted a lifelong love of dogs.

His Motorcycle Freedom has always been a distant dream. His childhood home was more a prison than a place of safety. Owning a motorcycle gave him something he never had growing up—control and escape. The roar of the engine beneath him is the sound of autonomy, and the wind in his face reminds him he’s not chained to that house anymore.

Rugby Rugby was the first outlet that let him let loose the pent-up rage and adrenaline in a way that wasn’t self-destructive. The physicality, the teamwork, the bruises—it all made sense to him. It was a fight, but one with rules, and for once, he didn’t feel like the violence owned him.

Horror Movies In his words, “Real life is scarier.” He watches horror movies not because they terrify him, but because they don’t. They’re predictable. Safe. They help him feel in control, even while everyone else jumps at shadows.

Routine A broken home meant unpredictability—drunken rages, police sirens, dealers slamming the front door at 2 AM. As an adult, routine became his armor. Early workouts, same meals, same paths to work. If he could control everything in his orbit, then nothing would blindside him again.

Going for Runs Running was his first form of escape—sprinting through alleys or down long, quiet streets, trying to get away from the noise at home. Now, running isn’t about fleeing; it’s about clarity. It’s when his mind goes quiet. The repetition, the discipline—it soothes him.

💔 DISLIKES

Sushi Growing up with barely any food in the house left him with a strong preference for hearty, cooked meals. Sushi feels too raw, too delicate, too posh. It reminds him of people who’ve never had to scrape mold off bread.

Manipulation His mother was a master manipulator—coaxing, begging, lying through her teeth to get what she needed. Tristan developed a sixth sense for when people are playing games, and it brings out the coldest, most ruthless parts of him.

Foxes Foxes were a bad omen in his old neighborhood, especially in the colder months. He associates them with scavenging and sickness—the eerie cry of a fox in the distance became a sign something worse was coming. To this day, they make his skin crawl.

Hearing His Loved Ones Cry His sister Briana’s sobs echo in his memory like a haunting. He couldn’t stop the pain back then, and every tear he hears now—especially from his nieces—feels like failure.

Being Seen as ‘Less Than’ He was treated like trash his entire childhood. Whether it was teachers who thought he was stupid, neighbors who whispered about "that Payne boy," or officers who expected the worst from him. He’s worked too hard, climbed too far, to ever be dismissed again.

🔧 HOBBIES

Cooking Cooking came from survival. Feeding his siblings when their mum was too strung out became his job. Now, it’s an act of love. He cooks big, warm, hearty meals because he remembers what it felt like to go without.

Weapons Training He’s trained in nearly every kind of weapon—but more than a career necessity, it’s his meditation. Knowing how to kill is one thing. Mastery, control, precision—that's what keeps him grounded.

Working Out Every rep is a promise: he will never be helpless again. Strength is currency in his world—it’s how he protects the people who need him.

Reading Books were his only escape as a kid. He’d hide in the library or sit on the roof and get lost in stories far from his own. Now, he reads philosophy, strategy, and mystery novels—always sharpening his mind.

Solving Mind Puzzles Whether it’s chess, riddles, or codes, his mind is always hungry. He likes puzzles because they have answers—unlike the questions he grew up with.

Playing With His Nieces It’s the purest part of his day. When Ariana and Esmerelda grab his hand or tackle him in a fit of giggles, it reminds him why he fights so hard. They’re the light he never had.

🛠 STRENGTHS

Protective: Built from trauma. Anyone he loves, he shields—completely and instinctively.

Loyal: Once you're in his circle, you're family. Betrayal is foreign to him.

Sharpshooter: Cold precision was learned out of necessity—he had to be perfect, or someone died.

Family-Oriented: The bonds he’s built—especially with Remy and the girls—are everything.

Possessive: He doesn’t share those he loves easily. They’ve been taken from him before.

Very Precise: Mistakes weren’t an option growing up. He learned to measure twice, cut once.

Loving: Under all the grit and scars is a heart that loves harder than anyone suspects.

❌ FLAWS

Selfish: He’ll always choose his family, even if it means hurting others.

Cunning: Knows how to lie, manipulate, and use people—learned from watching it done to him.

Dangerous: He doesn’t hesitate. He can kill without blinking if needed.

Defensive: His walls are ironclad. Even those close to him can’t always reach inside.

Prideful: He hates asking for help, even when he desperately needs it.

Mischievous: Loves getting under people’s skin—especially if it makes them honest.

Overprotective: He smothers the people he loves trying to keep them safe.

🔁 HABITS

Smoker: Picked it up young. It quiets the storm in his mind.

Skimps on Sleep: Too many nightmares, too much to do.

Distrustful of Most People: He’s seen what people are really capable of.

Gambler: Not with money—he gambles with outcomes, with risk. It’s a thrill and a release.

Taking Care of His Nieces: Daily breakfast, bedtime stories, homework help—he does it all.

Punctual: Always early. Being late is weakness.

Thinks Three Steps Ahead: Survival taught him to plan contingencies within contingencies.

🎭 PERSONALITY

Intense: Every word he speaks and move he makes is deliberate.

Charming: When he wants to be, he can turn it on with ease.

Dedicated: If he commits, he follows through—no matter the cost.

Overthinking: He turns every detail over in his head until it gleams.

Funny: Dry wit, sharp tongue. Humor is his pressure valve.

Stubborn: He doesn’t back down—ever.

Fierce: In every way—loyalty, anger, love.

Playful: Especially with the twins—tickles, pranks, silly voices.

Firm: Doesn’t sugarcoat. He’s truthful, even when it hurts.

😨 FEARS

Failing His Family: His greatest sin would be not protecting them.

Losing Someone He Loves: He still blames himself for Briana.

Heights: Something about being up high makes him feel powerless.

Not Being Enough: For his brother, his girls, his legacy.

Ending Up Like His Mother: Her darkness still whispers in the back of his mind.

📌 FACTS

Is a Secret Softie: He hides it well, but his heart is enormous.

Has Raised His Nieces With His Brother, Remy: Since day one. Bottle feeds, school runs, nightmares—they’ve handled it together.

Can Hit His Target Miles Away Without a Doubt: His skills are elite.

Very Skilled at Hand-to-Hand Combat: Muscle memory built over years.

Still Worries He’ll Become His Mother: Every time he loses his temper, it scares him.

Is the Only Parental Figure His Nieces Truly Trust: And he wears that responsibility like armor.