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onyxbird · 1 year

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I Am the Greatest Date-Planner in This Apartment

Summary: Eliot wins date night after he gets a recommendation of a sci-fi movie his “geeky friend” might enjoy and gets carried away with a movie evening complete with a themed meal. Fortunately, despite all Eliot's fears to the contrary, both of his partners are just the type of people to appreciate those elaborate efforts.

AO3 link here.

...

The first time Eliot Spencer really knocked “date night” out of the park, it wasn't even his idea.

The old army buddy he'd helped out a few weekends before had managed to draw out some (carefully vague) information about Eliot's current colleagues, including his geeky “friend” who was always into a new video game or superhero that Eliot knew nothing about, and he'd left Eliot with a suggestion. It took a few weeks to implement, not because the film was hard to obtain, but mostly because Eliot kept second-guessing his choice.

What if Eliot hated it as much as Hardison's comic-book movies? What if Hardison hated it? What if Parker was bored? What if they thought the themed dinner was stupid?

Eliot restlessly double-checked the array of toppings laid out on the counter against his mental list. Baked potatoes were almost done—they'd be ready by the time Parker and Hardison were scheduled to arrive.

Dessert would feature little pouches of freeze-dried ice cream, because Parker would expect it, alongside the main feature: a tiramisu dusted with red cocoa powder and garnished with carefully spaced upright sprigs of mint. A variety of homemade chocolate truffles, formed in silicone molds that were the one thing Eliot had to order for this project, completed the dessert assortment.

He'd been wrestling with himself about the truffles all week. They were important, because he wasn't sure how much his sugar-loving partners would love the tiramisu, but also terrifying, because they were, by far, the most overt theming of the entire meal.

The loaded baked potatoes could be justified as just a good, hearty, simple meal; the tiramisu was classic; the ice cream was a low-effort token to Parker's quirks. But there was no hand-waving the truffles.

He glanced at the clock again. No more than 90 seconds had passed.

At this rate, he might not survive the wait to die of embarrassment.

…

Parker and Hardison arrived at the appointed time, on the dot.

Eliot didn't mention that he'd seen them park Lucille 17 minutes ago, or that he'd watched them emerge 5 minutes ago for the less than 90-second walk up to his apartment.

In the absence of any information except for “dinner and movie night,” Hardison had hedged his bets on formality: Nice jeans, a dark gray sports coat, and a blue button down featuring a subtle pattern of tiny TARDISes. Parker, on the other hand, had simply topped a typical head-to-toe black ensemble with an unbuttoned royal-blue shirt. A very familiar one.

“…Is that my shirt?”

“Yup!” said Parker, cheerfully.

“Parker, I was looking for that!” (Technically, turning his closet inside-out wondering how the evening was already going wrong.)

“Oh.” She considered, tugging absently at the bottom hem. “Do you want to trade?”

“No, I don't want to—! Why do you have my clothes?!”

“We're having a date. I wanted to look nice.”

“Which you both do,” interjected Hardison firmly, pausing to rake his eyes conspicuously over Eliot's own dark-red button down and jeans and lingering on the larger-than-usual collection of bracelets on his left wrist. “So, uh, can we come in, or are we banned on grounds of clothes-stealing? Which, for the record, I have not participated in. I am wearing all my own clothes, which you can probably tell by the fact that they fit my long-ass body and have TARDISes on them.”

Eliot belatedly stepped back to allow them into the apartment.

“These are for you,” said Parker, shoving a bouquet of a half-dozen red roses and as many stalks of orange and yellow snapdragons into his hands.

Eliot's brain stopped functioning for the second time since he'd opened the door.

“Uh…”

Parker frowned at his lack of response and elbowed Hardison sharply in the ribs, eliciting an “ow!”: “You said adding the snapdragons would be fine. Maybe we should have stuck with traditional.”

“I don't think it's the snapdragons, babe. Give him a minute.”

Eliot figured out how to form words again, blinking rapidly. “Thanks, Parker. These are nice.” He stared at the flowers, aware that there had to be a next step he was blanking on.

“You got a vase or something we can put those in for you?” said Hardison, with the very deliberate sincerity characteristic of him either grifting or trying not to laugh. “Don't want to interrupt…” He gestured vaguely at the apartment. “…whatever it is you're preparing for the evening.”

“Right! I, uh…” Eliot moved towards the kitchen on autopilot, trailed by the others. He didn't think he had an actual vase—that wasn't something that generally came up for him—but a quick rummage in the cupboard produced a weizen glass as a passable substitute.

Parker and Hardison eyed the baked potato fixings as Eliot's brain scraped together the remnants of his thoroughly derailed explanation, acutely aware of the heat crawling up his face. This wasn't how the evening was supposed to go.

“So, we've got, uh, baked potatoes for dinner that you can fix however you like.”

Why had he thought this was a good idea?

“I thought we could eat while we watch the movie. It's all set up in the living room. There's dessert, too, that I was going to put out in the living room when we're ready so you can help yourselves without having to stop the movie…”

Maybe he could cut his losses and just not pull out the ice cream and the truffles? But then he had nothing as backup if Parker or Hardison didn't like the tiramisu, and just baked potatoes and tiramisu was kind of a skimpy as a date-night dinner—

“Sounds great!” said Hardison, as Parker made concurring noises. “What's the movie?”

“Well… we have options. We can watch whatever you guys want! I got one that sounded like you might like it from what I'd heard, but if you don't like it or have already seen it, that's—”

The others exchanged glances.

“OK,” Parker broke in, “but what is the movie you picked?”

“…It's called The Martian.”

Parker's head tilted quizzically without recognition, but Hardison's eyes widened.

“You got us The Martian to watch?! That's—Wait, is that why we're having potatoes? Did you theme dinner? Oh my god.” Hardison's voice caught. “Oh my god, I can't wait to see dessert. I don't even know what that would be for The Martian.”

“Oh, I, uh…” None of Eliot's planning had accounted for an actual enthusiastic reaction. “I'll get it out, then. Why don't y'all fix your potatoes?”

He'd just finished placing the plate of truffles and the packets of “astronaut ice cream” on either side of the tiramisu when Hardison and Parker emerged with their plates. Parker leaned over to study the spread avidly, nimble fingers scooping up an ice cream packet. “Hmm, not a little-green-man Martian, then?”

“That's—” Hardison eyes were fixed on the red-cocoa-covered tiramisu. “That's the Martian potato field.”

Eliot gave a hesitant nod.

“And—” He took a closer look at the truffles. “Are those Mars rover chocolates?”

Eliot shrugged sheepishly.

“And freeze-dried ice cream. Freeze-dried space ice cream! I would not have dared to bring such an item into your kitchen.”

“If we're gonna watch an astronaut movie, then Parker was gonna want—”

Eliot's explanation was cut off by a tight hug.

“This is amazing, man. I can't believe you did all this.”

Eliot slowly sagged into the embrace, still reeling from the fact that this had actually worked.

After a moment, they were interrupted by a gentle poke to each of their ribcages.

“Hey,” said Parker, “Eliot, go get your food. I want to actually watch the movie so I know what all of this food is about.”

#leverage ot3 #eliot spencer #alec hardison #parker #date night fic #leverage #onyxbird fanfic

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schrijverr · 2 years

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1, 25, 27 :))

1. favorite fic you wrote this year

Oeh, that's hard one I wrote so much, lmao. But I had a lot of fun while writing Eliot's High School Reunion, so that one certainly, just because it was a delight. And Promises You Made to Me is also very dear, bc the writing style was a challange and bc I cried while writing it lol

25. favorite fic you read this year

simple machines and hold on to me by @coffeesuperhero like if you want to have feels about Eliot and cry and go through the whole spectrum of all the feels with OT3, check these out, because holy fuck they're so good!! Especially simple machines came to me at the right time whe I was going through queer shit TM and I'm really thankful for it <3

27. favorite fanfic author of the year

Well, as you can probably guess by the answer before coffeesuperhero certainly, but I got into Leverage a lot and I have enjoyed a ton of works from @eliot-wolfgirl-spencer @onyxbird @faorism @kerkerian @suddenrundown and practially anyone in the Leverage tag (i props forgot peeps and im so sorry), it was a very Leverage year XP

And if I have to be honest, myself. I'm the person who reads my own fics, because they're specifically catered to me lmao and they hit right every time ;D

#rr ask #thank u holly <3 #also me just being a nerd and fan lmwo #i read a lot of good fics this year #at this point this is a post abt #leverage #but no regrets #it took over my life a lot #literally only one of the answers is not leverage #and thats promises you made to me #which is lotr boromir x aragorn to be specific

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onyxbird · 2 years

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Occupational Hugs and Safety: Keep Exits Clear

It took a while to put it together, but Hardison could connect the dots. Eliot was skittish about physical affection, especially hugs, and on the rare occasions he initiated a hug, reciprocating tended to put a stop to it pretty damn fast.

The first time Hardison deliberately did not reciprocate a hug, he wasn't really sure what to expect. It wasn't much—the same sort of abrupt, wild-eyed death grip he'd gotten from a rattled Eliot in the past. A fleeting, desperate contact before stepping back, eyes skittering away to avoid meeting Hardison's, pretending it had never happened. The only oddity was the slightly puzzled look Eliot shot at him out of the corner of his eye as Hardison pivoted to deal with the next crisis.

The second time was odder. Hardison had anticipated this one. These marks hadn't gotten anywhere close to burying him alive, but Eliot's tolerance for him being kidnapped was exceptionally low. The hug was sudden and crushing, and Hardison deliberately relaxed his arms so he wouldn't even start to raise them.

The pressure of Eliot's bear hug lessened after a second, and Hardison assumed that was that, but after a brief, charged hesitation, it cautiously tightened again. Eliot's forehead sank against Hardison's shoulder. The jittery tension ebbed away with painstaking slowness. Hardison simply waited, letting the moment stretch out without a word, without any action to call attention to it.

Hardison wasn't entirely sure how long they remained there, but he estimated several full minutes before the sound of Sophie's voice approaching made Eliot jump away.

Twice seemed to be enough for Eliot to connect some dots of his own.

The third hug was a complete surprise. They were back from the latest job, most of the equipment put away and Hardison still bemoaning the laptop that had gone to a watery grave during a speedboat chase, when an arm snaked around him from behind and a warm weight settled against his back.

"Oh, hello!" blurted Hardison, and he could have kicked himself. He'd been so careful about not responding to the hugs, and now he'd... Huh... Not ruined anything, apparently, considering Eliot's arm was still wrapped around his chest, and long hair still tickled the back of Hardison's neck. Interesting.

It didn't last long before Eliot disappeared towards the kitchen with some bluster about checking whether they had all the ingredients for dinner. When he did, Hardison found Parker watching inscrutably.

The fourth time, he was only semi-surprised by the vice-like grip that wrapped around his neck and shoulders from above while Eliot was in plain sight across the room. Or by the strong legs that wound around his waist. "Hey, mama. How was the safe?"

"Boring," Parker huffed. Her breath tickled the side of his neck. He chuckled and continued methodically assembling Sophie's—or rather “Eva Rinaldi's”—new Italian passport without otherwise acknowledging the warm body wrapped around his torso.

After that, he frankly lost count. It felt like each was racing to catch up on a lifetime's worth of hugs, stolen in odd moments when Nate and Sophie weren't around.

Hardison had no objections, except a distant ache at not being able to reciprocate and pour his feelings into a gesture that could replace all the words Eliot would refuse to hear and Parker wouldn't quite believe. But that was a trivial consideration—he could imagine dozens of reasons for either of them to be skittish about being grabbed, and one-sided hugs were better than none.

...

Hardison swallowed around the lump suddenly caught in his throat and tried to blink back the moisture welling up in his eyes. "How did you know?" he choked out.

The table was buried under the trappings of Nana's best birthday breakfasts, from the huge pan of homemade cinnamon rolls—an absurd quantity for three people—to the ridiculous birthday hat sitting in front of his chair. He'd been quietly mourning the loss of those old family birthdays for the past week. He knew Eliot and Parker would do something for his birthday. Eliot could be relied on to come through with an absolutely decadent cake despite his grumbles about the sugar content, and Parker loved presents. He knew would love whatever they came up with because it was from them, but... neither of them had a wealth of experience with warm family birthday celebrations, much less the specific ones he craved.

There was no possible way this could be a coincidence. Everything was perfect. "We talked to Nana," said Parker, with satisfaction.

"You talked to—? Oh, god, I love y'all so much." He didn't even realize his hands were moving until they were already half-raised for a hug, and he floundered, wondering if he could pass the gesture off as something else.

Parker gave him a penetrating look, and exchanged only the briefest of glances with Eliot before announcing, "You can hug us if you want."

Hardison blinked. "I—I can?"

She nodded solemnly. "Right, Eliot?"

Eliot's eyes skated away, but he agreed, gruffly, softly, sincerely: "If you want."

Hardison didn't need to be told twice.

He pulled them both close, lightly at first, and then tighter when they willingly leaned into him, one of Eliot's arms looping loosely around his waist while Parker's arms wrapped snugly around his chest. He closed his eyes, breathing in the faint citrusy scent of Eliot's conditioner and feeling Parker's nimble fingers toying aimlessly with the seam of his shirt.

Eliot's low grumble about why he'd bothered to make fresh, piping hot cinnamon rolls if they were just going to stand here and let them get cold vibrated through Hardison's chest as well, the complaint undercut dramatically by the fact that Eliot's face remained willingly tucked into the side of Hardison's neck. (Hardison mumbled back that they could always nuke them to warm them back up, eliciting predictable outraged sputtering but no pulling away from the hug.)

Hardison didn't push his luck, ending the hug before the others could get noticeably antsy. (Also because Eliot's cinnamon rolls were making his mouth water, and he did, in fact, want to stuff his face with them while they were still hot.) He was left with a lingering warmth in his chest and a giddy smile on his face.

One-sided hugs were good, but this? This was the best.

Also on AO3:

#ao3 link at end #alec hardison #eliot spencer #leverage ot3 #leverage #5 times plus 1 fic #onyxbird fanfic

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onyxbird · 5 months

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Burglary of the Soul

Summary: The Leverage crew is extraordinary in many ways, so it shouldn't be surprising that they managed to form a team that included soulmates, something most people never find. Eliot wishes his teammates the best, but wants nothing to do with the whole concept: given his line of work, he really doesn't want to know. Unfortunately, when your soulmate is revealed by something as simple as being able to make direct eye contact, that's more difficult than it sounds... Complete fic (4 chapters) on AO3

Ch. 1: A stolen glance

Eliot balanced a heavy package of imported beer on his hip to fumble for his key and slide it into the lock. He winced as the box shifted, digging its edge into a fresh bruise where a guard's baton had landed a solid hit. One last thing to to grab from HQ, and then he could head home to relax and crack open his long-awaited Slovenian stout.

Behind the door, Hardison's muffled voice vibrated with excitement. Don't set the box down; don't get pulled into conversation, or you'll never get out of here. Hopefully whoever Hardison was currently gushing to would continue to hold his attention and let Eliot slip in and out with little notice.

Instead, Eliot's heart nearly stopped as Parker's shout of “What is wrong with you?” rang through the hallway.

The door slammed open under his shoulder, hard enough to hit the wall and bounce off. Parker and Hardison, alone in the room, whirled towards him. A split-second later, Parker was wrapped around his right arm, shoving him towards Hardison and babbling something about possession and making Hardison be normal again.

Eliot scanned rapidly over a stunned-looking Hardison and his surroundings, looking for the threat. Not physical, surely—even if Hardison would, Parker's speed and wariness were more than enough for her to keep out of reach. Still, he let the box slide down his leg to the floor and kicked it aside, freeing his hands and footing. His brain filed the accompanying clank of glass as a problem for later.

“What the hell did you do, Hardison?” Eliot demanded, glowering.

Hardison's mouth flapped helplessly for a moment. “I don't—We just—” Two fingers waved vaguely around his upper face. “Eyes, you know?”

“He's being weird,” said Parker, still huddled halfway behind Eliot's shoulder with her arms wrapped around herself. “He was normal until a few minutes ago, and then we looked right at each other when he was telling me about his game, and now he won't stop.”

Eliot glanced from one to the other, slowly, fitting the garbled explanations together in the only way that made sense. Eye contact.

His teammates were also soulmates.

“Knock it off, Hardison,” Eliot snapped, with more venom than he'd intended, his own eyes skittering down the line of Hardison's jaw to focus on the corner of his mouth. “'Soulmates' or not, there's no call to be staring people in the eyes when they don't like it.”

Eliot had avoided even the possibility of eye contact with anyone since he was in high school. (Not that he'd been trying to lock eyes with people before that, but, well, he and Aimee tried once, back when they were young and naive and thought maybe they were meant to be. They weren't.) In his recent lines of work, whether you really believed in soulmates or not, it was better not to know. All well and good for people who were into that sort of thing, but for a hitter, there was just no way for that to end well.

Eliot didn't need to look at Hardison's eyes, not even obliquely, to see the expression of absolute horror settle across his features before belatedly averting his gaze from Parker's face. “Parker, I am so, so sorry! I was just so excited, you know, and—” His nervous energy rerouted into pacing and expansive gesticulation.

Hardison's apology in one ear collided with Parker's loud “Ha! 'Soulmates'!” in the other, and Eliot could already feel the resulting headache forming.

Her mirth faded as she took in their expressions. “You're kidding, right? That's not real. You don't actually believe in that, do you?”

“...Yeah?” said Hardison.

“Seriously?”

“What? Not being able to look other people in the eyes is a demonstrable fact. Like, the actual compatibility side is technically anecdotal, I guess, but the eye contact bit isn't, and if it weren't a thing, wouldn't you hear a lot of counterexamples of people who found their 'soulmate' and hated them?”

Parker's face screwed up skeptically. “Uh, have you been trying to look in people's eyes? Ew.”

“Well, not actively, but when you look at people it comes up! Come on, man, back me up here!”

“It doesn't 'come up' unless you're being a weirdo. Right, Eliot?”

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don't—don't pull me into this. Yeah, fine, lots of people try to make eye contact, most of 'em can't, and lots of people believe in soulmates. Y'all need to sort this out yourselves—I'm just here for my jacket.”

Adrenaline ebbing away, Eliot glanced down at his box on the floor. A small puddle of liquid already pooled on the floor beneath a slowly spreading damp patch on the cardboard, indicating at least one casualty from the rough handling. He scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly feeling every ache and bruise from the job and wishing he'd just forgotten about his jacket until the next briefing.

It shouldn't have been that big a deal. It wasn't that big a deal. He had other beer at home. There were probably still unbroken bottles. He honestly didn't even know for sure if it was good, just that an old military pal had recommended it.

His teammates were in the middle of a legitimately life-altering discovery, and he was crying over spilt beer.

“Goddammit,” he muttered, “I've been waiting for this to come in for weeks, and I didn't even get to open the damn box.”

Hardison loomed suddenly in front of him, peering down at the box. “Oh, man, I'm so sorry; that's on me. I didn't mean to—apparently there's a lot of things I didn't mean to do today that're making trouble for my people anyway.” Hardison's phone was already in his hand. “I'm sorry, I will replace your beer. Just tell me what kind it is.”

Parker leaned around Eliot, practically draped over his shoulder, to read off the name of the brewery for Hardison.

“It's fine, Hardison. Y'all have…” Eliot waved a hand vaguely, trying to subtly untangle himself from Parker's octopus-like cling. “…stuff to deal with.”

“Yeah, and your stuff got broken 'cause you ended up playing mediator for our 'stuff', so it's only fair I order you some more.”

“Yeah, you said you were waiting for it. If anyone can figure out how to get it shipped faster, it's Hardison,” agreed Parker.

Ch. 2 on AO3.

#soulmate au #leverage ot3 #eliot spencer #leverage #soulmate au bargain bin #onyxbird fanfic

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onyxbird · 1 year

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Weed 'Em and Reap

Ficlet in my Mr. Quinn Is the Grim Reaper AU, prompted by a post about different games you could challenge the grim reaper to. (Warning for Hardison being in a technically fatal situation, but he'll be OK because Death is his buddy.)

Alec tried to breathe evenly. This wasn't the first life-threatening situation he'd been in, and his team had always come through before. Even when he'd been buried alive, they'd gotten to him in time. (Shoot. Really should not think about that when sealed inside a rich dude's airtight vault. At least this place is roomier and better lit, although he shouldn't pace. It'll use up the air fast--)

He shook his head, as if he could physically derail that train of thought, trying to tamp down the panic and stop thinking about his calculations of the oxygen in here.

He gave into the urge to pace... and nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to find another person at his elbow.

"Hey! Don't freak out. It's just me," said Quinn.

Alec tried to get his breathing back under control. "How the hell did you get in? Is Parker here?!"

"No, not yet."

"Then how--?" Alec froze. If Quinn wasn't here with Leverage, then... please not his other job. "But they're coming, right?"

"Yes, they're on their way," said Quinn, a little too carefully.

"Oh, man." Alec sagged against the wall. "If you're here... They're too late, aren't they?"

Quinn rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "They're... running a bit behind. I think the oxygen level in here wasn't great to start with."

Alec buried his face in his hands for a moment, before stabbing an accusing finger at Quinn. "You are not going to let them blame themselves for this--you hear me?! I don't care if you have to lie through your teeth; you make sure they know this is something they couldn't have stopped and that it didn't hurt, you understand me?!"

"Whoa, pal, slow down. I am authorized to allow one challenge in the form of a game."

"...You what? You mean, like--? You cannot possibly expect me to play a game of chess with you right now."

"Chess? No, it can be any game. For instance, I'm having difficulty getting past the volcano dungeon in Stardew Valley. Help me get past that, and we'll call it even."

Alec stared at him dumbfounded as the panic slowly ebbed. Quinn seemed serious. "OK? Is this like a one-attempt-only-or-you're-dead deal?"

"Oh, no. I've tried it so many times so far. If you could do it within a few weeks so I can clear the books before anyone starts asking questions, that'd be great, but technically there have been challenge games that lasted longer than that, so I can stall if I have to."

"...People have spent weeks playing a game against Death for their lives?"

Quinn heaved a heavy sigh. "I thought you of all people would understand how long games like Dungeons and Dragons can drag on. Letting them pick that was a mistake."

"You've played Dungeons and Dragons?!"

"I don't want to talk about it."

#grim reaper au #alec hardison #mr. quinn #onyxbird fanfic #leverage aus

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onyxbird · 11 months

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Mr. Sandman, Ring Me a Dream

Summary: Death decides that a phone will help her little brother stay more connected to human friends. (Or “friend,” singular, for the moment.) Not to worry, she's taken care of all of the setup, right down to the ringtone. Just give this number to Hob and put it in your pocket. Please, little brother. For me.

Dream should have known to ask more questions…

Read on AO3

Ch. 1: “Turn on Your Magic Beam”

“Just try it for a bit,” said his sister. “You don't have to do anything but put it in your pocket and answer it if it rings.”

“I have no need for a telephone, mobile or otherwise,” said Dream. “Hob and I have remained in contact for centuries without any such thing.”

Death raised an eyebrow. “You see one another once a century by appointment, and you missed the last one. I'm just saying the humans have invented all sorts of communication devices, and you should try being a little more reachable. You might like it.”

Dream refrained from actually rolling his eyes, but Death seemed to get the point.

“Look, I've completely set it up for you. It's got Hob's number in it.” She punched the green phone handset button, “Contacts,” and the solitary entry labeled “Hob Gadling” with exaggerated slowness, the phone flourished in front of his withering gaze so that he couldn't avoid seeing the process. “I even set a ringtone for you! All you have to do is give him this string of numbers. He'll know what to do.”

Dream did not dignify that with a response.

“Come on, little brother. Give it a fair chance. For me.” She paused until his disdainful expression cracked, and she smirked in victory. “If you hate it, you can always go back to your once-a-century meeting and no harm done, right?”

Dream begrudgingly slid the glossy black rectangle into his pocket. Human innovations were often far from “no harm done” in his opinion, but fine, if his sister believed this one was harmless, he supposed he could humor her.

He dropped by to find Hob, crossly shoved the piece of paper with numbers at him, muttering that his sister had insisted on getting him a phone, and promptly forgot about it.

…

James' back hit the wall behind him, starting to question whether buying the tiny ziploc baggie of allegedly “magical” powder had been a mistake.

He'd mostly bought it as a joke, anyway. The seller had put on a surprisingly convincing song and dance to “prove” that the sand was magical rather than just gray sand, but really. Magic sand? Besides, if it were as special as he claimed, the price would surely have been higher.

Still, if the sand was fake, the salesman was an excellent illusionist, and the entertainment value alone had been worth the small price being charged.

…At least it had been until this goth beanstalk showed up, trailed by a raven, of all things. James had initially brushed that off, too. When you hung around in circles where someone was likely to sell you “magic dream sand,” you encountered a lot of odd people.

This one was persistent—James couldn't seem shake him—and his initial blunt pushiness had edged over into scary.

James tried to tune back into what he was saying. Maybe he should just—

An incongruously cheerful tune derailed his train of thought.

“Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom. “Bom bom bom bom bom.”

The apparition did not react or change expression as the a capella harmony continued.

“Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream! Make him the cutest that I've ever seen.”

The apparition's eyebrows knitted together. He glanced around, as if looking for the source of the sound. He pivoted slowly in a complete circle, peering in all directions, as the song continued to play.

The raven cocked its head quizzically. “That coming from you, boss?”

(Great. A talking bird, as if this wasn't weird enough.)

“What do you mean 'is it coming from me?' Why would it?”

Words spilled out of James' mouth before he could think better of it. “…Is it your phone?”

He regretted speaking as soon as the apparition's attention snapped back onto him.

“I do not have a phone.”

“Uhh… actually…” said the raven.

The pale brow furrowed. “Oh. That's right.” He started patting his sides as if trying to locate something in his pockets. He fished out a black rectangle just as the music abruptly cut off, midway through the “Mr. Sandman” leading into the second verse.

He stared blankly at the it.

“I think you missed the call?” offered James.

There was silence for a moment. “It says 'Missed Call,'” the apparition confirmed. “'Hob.' There's a little picture of his face.”

“Yeah, you missed it, then. Maybe they'll leave a voicemail?”

The apparition scrutinized him. “A… 'voicemail'?”

James floundered. “Yeah. You know, record a message for you?”

Based on the apparition's expression, he did not know.

“Or you could just call 'em back?”

The apparition frowned at the phone again. “I… do not know how to do that.”

“There's—There should be a button.” He reached towards the phone automatically, starting to feel like he was talking to his Gran rather than a seemingly supernatural entity trying to mug him for dubiously magical sand. “Can I see? Yeah, right there—if you click on that, it should call them back.”

A long pale finger carefully poked at the spot James had indicated, before raising the phone to his ear.

There was a pause.

“Ah, this one rings like a bell, not music. That's what I thought they were supposed to do.”

“Uh… Well, that's what it does on your end while it's waiting for the other person to pick up. Might be music on their end, though.”

“Oh.”

“Hob,” declared the apparition. He paused. “Yes. I retrieved my phone, but you were no longer there.” He frowned. “Yes, I was busy. I still am. …This human said that otherwise you might send me mail, and I do not receive letters in the Dreaming. …I am not certain I know how to do that. …Very well. Thirty minutes hence.”

He frowned at the phone for another long moment, before looking back at James. “Do I have to turn it off?”

“Uh… I think the other guy probably hung up on his end, so…” He craned for a glimpse at the screen. “No, you don't have to do anything. The call already disconnected.”

The apparition carefully slid the phone back into a pocket, and clasped his hands behind his back. “I thank you for your assistance,” he said solemnly. “Now, there is still the issue of the dream sand, which you may not keep.”

Ch. 2 on AO3

#dream of the endless #death of the endless #rose walker #the sandman #mr. sandman #death loves her ridiculous little brother and wants him to be happy #(but also thinks some sibling pranks will do him good)#tech support to friends pipeline #onyxbird fanfic

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onyxbird · 8 months

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Iterative Solution

Summary: Some time after the end of Season 1, Fitz finds his dreams replaying his and Simmons' capture by Ward over and over. He has a chance to change the outcome if he can just bring himself to take it—Ward's offering him a chance to change the outcome—but none of the options sit right with Fitz. There has to be a better way. (Also on AO3.)

"If you want to change things, someone needs to die."

Ward's tone was oddly gentle. His hand was warm where it gently pressed Ward's own pistol—the real one, not a Night-Night gun—into Fitz's hand, barrel pointed at Ward's chest.

Fitz jolted awake.

…

The next night, the same dream.

"Why?" said Fitz, voice cracking. "Why can't you just let us go?"

Fitz couldn't drag his eyes away from Ward's. "If they realize I let you go, they'll interrogate me to try to figure out your next move. I know too much about the team. It'll be better for both of us if they think you just got lucky and got the drop on me. Once you pull the trigger, take Simmons and run like hell—don't look back for anything, you understand?"

Fitz's hand shook. He couldn't.

History repeated, as he had the nagging feeling it had done time and time again. Staring at Ward through the window of the medical pod, chest heaving, Simmons panicking behind him, Fitz felt paralyzed. He knew what came next.

He would still give Simmons the oxygen. He had to. But the thought of drowning again…

Another brief respite with no other Hydra agents, just him and Ward. Surely, surely, there was another way out of this.

“Can you make it float?” Ward asked urgently. His fingertips brushed the glass with a barely perceptible tremble, as if the right—or wrong—touch could either fix everything or shatter it into pieces.

“…What?”

“The pod. Is there anything you can do to make it float when it hits the water?”

Fitz shook his head helplessly and tried to tamp down the panic climbing up his esophagus. When. His brain was too full of static to think about anything, and he was pretty sure the answer was no, anyway. He and Simmons had wracked their brains when they sank, and Fitz had worried at the question obsessively as he recovered. There were ways to make future pods float, and there were ways this one probably could have been modified—from the outside and with tools and time. But when they were already locked in, in those few desperate moments of shelter before Ward dropped them? No.

Ward glanced warily over his shoulder for Hydra agents. His hand crept reluctantly towards the release button.

“Wait!” said Fitz, desperately. “Don't—! What if you don't drop us? You know what's going to happen; you know it's going to sink.”

Ward's eyes squeezed shut. “I know. I've tried that. If you stay on the plane—Garrett's just going to call someone with a blowtorch to cut it open when we land. You—You don't want that to happen. I promise, it's worse.”

Ward's head came up a fraction of a second before Fitz registered the sound he was reacting to: Three more Hydra agents coming around the corner.

Then there was nothing but the lurch of his stomach as the ground dropped out from beneath him.

Again.

He awoke in the dark with his stomach roiling, thankful not to have to relive those moments underwater.

It was early, a little past 5 am. He got up anyway, hoping a couple hours of puttering in the lab alone would help to drive the nightmare out of his head.

If only he could shake the comment that kept reverberating through his head: “I've tried that.”

…

Fitz was disappointed but not surprised to find himself back again the next night, Ward again pressing the gun on him and urging him to flee.

“How many times have you done this?”

Ward rocked back on his heels, eyes widening slightly. He didn't answer.

“You said you tried not dropping the pod.” Fitz kept his voice low, but he couldn't stop the torrent. “You've been repeating this longer than I have, haven't you? How many times? Do you know why? What have you tried? Have—”

“Fitz, if we keep talking, you're going to end up on the plane and going into the ocean. We don't have time.”

Fitz swallowed. “But it's going to loop, right? We're going to be back here again.”

“…I think so.”

“How many times?”

“I'm not sure. A lot. You've been…” Ward gestured vaguely to Simmons. “…like her up until the last few.”

Fitz glanced back as well. It was obvious what Ward meant. Simmons was there, of course, just as she had been the first time, but she was just going through the motions, like a recording, with no recognition of the fact that this wasn't happening for the first time. She displayed no comprehension, or even awareness, of Fitz and Ward's “off-script” discussion.

Fitz could hear footsteps approaching. They were out of time to talk—about to be pulled into another inexorable loop of being trapped on the Bus.

“You said to take her and run—would she go?” hissed Fitz.

Ward shrugged helplessly, a sharp contrast to the gun he was already raising towards the scientists. “I think so. When I changed stuff before, people—”

A Hydra agent appeared around the corner, eyes narrowing. Not the one whose footsteps Fitz had heard. He shouted for the others without taking his eyes off Ward, or his hand off his sidearm.

Ward had been right. Staying on the Bus was not a good option, and neither was Ward being suspected of helping them.

…

“Are you sure I have to shoot you?” Fitz's thumb wavered over the safety. “I get why we need to not end up on the Bus in the first place, but—”

“It's a distraction; it gives them a reason to be wary of you, and it keeps them from trying to get information out of me to figure out where you might go.” Ward's hand wrapped gently over the top of the barrel, aiming it and steadying it against Fitz's trembling. “It's OK. None of this is your fault.”

Fitz got the impression Ward had planned this option long before Fitz “woke up” to be convinced.

“Your hand is going to get burned.”

“If you aim where I'm telling you, it won't matter. If you miss, I'll have bigger problems.”

Fitz wished he didn't understand how true that was. Ward's crooked smile only made it worse.

“If you want to save Simmons, you need to go now.”

The race away from the scene was like a dream—more specifically, a nightmare. Dragging Simmons by the hand, shouts and gunshots ringing out behind them, heart hammering, panting for air like his chest was trapped in a vice, forcing burning legs to move while waiting for an inevitable bullet to bury itself between his shoulder blades.

All he could hear was the echos of the gunshot, the jerk of the gun in his hands, Ward collapsing like a broken puppet as the blood began to spread.

He lurched over the side of his bed, barely managing to grab his wastebasket before vomiting up everything in his stomach.

…

He didn't want to go to sleep.

The team thought he had a stomach bug. He'd spent most of the day curled up in a cocoon of blankets, rebuffing offers of company with a wan smile and trying to distract himself with books and movies and research articles.

He'd worried that Simmons would see through his excuses and demand he come clean, but she seemed distracted herself. She'd fussed over him with anti-nausea meds, lots of fluids, and bland snacks to settle his stomach, but otherwise accepted his insistence that he just wanted to rest.

Ward—dream Ward, who was surely just a figment of Fitz's imagination and trauma dreams—had been sure this was the solution. He and Jemma had gotten away clean before the dream faded, their real-life captor left dead behind them by Fitz's own hand. By the standards of all the Hollywood “Groundhog Day” loops, this should be over. It was a logical progression of the loop to a nice, tidy resolution. Justice served. Catharsis achieved. Or should have been achieved? Fitz couldn't really say he was feeling the release.

Fitz wished he was convinced.

The clock ticked towards midnight. Exhaustion dragged his eyelids down, and if he got up to try to stay awake, someone would notice and become more concerned.

They were back.

Ward looked as distraught as Fitz felt. “You didn't make it?”

“Oh, god, it really is a loop.”

They both whipped around to look at Simmons.

“It is a loop, isn't it?” she said, wide-eyed. “I had this dream last night, and you were talking like you had a plan. You shot him and we got away.”

“If it worked why are you back?”

“I don't know.”

Ward swiped a hand over his face, looking utterly exhausted. “Well,” he said, in a defeated tone, “at least we know this version works.” He unholstered his pistol, flipping it around to offer to Fitz and Simmons grip-first, as he had countless times before.

Fitz stared at it. He knew it was the only sure way to save himself and Simmons. He also knew he couldn't stomach shooting Ward again.

“Fitz…”

“Come with us,” he blurted.

“What?”

“Come with us. We'll be safer with you, and they can't interrogate you if you're not there.”

“You can't—”

“Just come! There's no time!”

“We'll sort it out later,” said Simmons. Her arms wrapped nervously around her stomach, not fully ready to trust Ward. “They're coming, aren't they? There's no time. Let's go, and we'll sort it out later.”

Fitz grabbed her hand and squeezed it in gratitude for the backup. He turned, pulling Simmons with him with one hand and reaching for Ward's sleeve with the other. “Come on. If you want to save us, you have to do it now.”

It was the first morning in more than a week that Fitz had woken up gently. Their escape had been a closer one than in Ward's plan—he'd had to drop back several times to pick off pursuing Hydra agents—but in the end they'd made it. With Ward.

They hadn't had time to really sort anything out, as Simmons had put it, but it had worked. That was the important part. If they had to keep doing this, Fitz could live with that.

When Fitz cautiously ventured out to find breakfast, Simmons had just beaten him to the kitchen. One glance at her face confirmed that it hadn't been an ordinary dream.

“Feeling better?” said Coulson, cheerfully, from behind him.

Fitz started. “Er, yeah. Feeling a lot better, actually.” He exchanged a glance with Simmons. “…But there's something I think we might need to talk to you about, sir.”

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “OK?”

Simmons broke in before Fitz could speak. “We need to talk to Ward.”

#agents of shield #leo fitz #grant ward #time loop #onyxbird fanfic

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onyxbird · 9 months

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I both love and hate writing parts of a dark fic from Parker's perspective. On the one hand, it lends itself to some delightfully weird turns of thought/phrase that hint at the darkness without having to go into graphic detail. On the other hand, I just followed a metaphor to what I think is its logical Parkerish conclusion, and ended up with an apropos but gruesome metaphor based on the shear-thinning properties of blood.

(I think it fits the story, so I guess I'm just gonna eventually have to decide how best to tag for no "on-screen" gore but many implications and some very unpleasant metaphors.)

#parker #leverage #onyxbird fanfic

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onyxbird · 1 year

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Leverage questions I never needed to ponder outside of fic-writing: What is the most vase-like vessel Eliot Spencer is likely to have in his home to accommodate surprise flowers?

(The answer I settled on is a weizen glass/wheat beer glass.)

#eliot spencer #leverage #onyxbird fanfic

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onyxbird · 1 year

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Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Leverage Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer Characters: Alec Hardison, Eliot Spencer (Leverage), Parker (Leverage) Additional Tags: Sleeping Beauty - Freeform, fairy tale references, naps, Forehead Kisses, First Kiss, canon-typical Parker pushiness Summary:

“You told him to what?”

“Go be Sleeping Beauty.”

Parker invests in a new piece of furniture and a creative new approach to making sure Eliot gets adequate rest after on-the-job injuries. Hardison is a little surprised, but beauty sleep is important, and who is he to argue that kissing isn't a necessary part of the process…

#leverage ot3 #leverage #eliot spencer #fairy tale references #onyxbird fanfic

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onyxbird · 2 years

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There's No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (But Sometimes It's My Treat)

Summary: It was clearly labeled as his, and it probably wasn't poison. …Eh, Martin had better things to do than worry about the provenance of free food.

Someone has started leaving packed lunches for Martin, and he's not sure who or why. The food is certainly good, though. Five times the mysterious lunches appear, and one time he actually talks to his benefactor. (Lethal Weapon (2016), AO3 link for fic)

1. Monday

When the first brown paper bag appeared on Martin's desk, he was a little puzzled. Still, they'd been running flat-out on this case since 9 am, so unless it was literally a bomb or a severed hand or something, he really did not have the energy to care.

It was a sandwich.

Two sandwiches, actually, and a little bag of dried apricots.

He stared blankly at the ziploc bag in his hand for a long moment. He picked up the paper bag again to check for any indication of who it belonged to: “Martin.”

…The bag definitely hadn't been there when he stopped at his desk this morning, so it wasn't that he'd dissociated so hard over the weekend that he'd grocery shopped and packed a lunch without remembering. Besides, that wasn't his handwriting.

“Finally decided to upgrade from vending machine fare?” Cahill's voice sounded amused, but she wore a decidedly pleased smile. Hmm. She was surprised, so this wasn't some weirdly direct new therapy strategy, then. She didn't need to know he had no idea what was going on.

He considered the sandwich again as Cahill walked on.

It was clearly labeled as his, and it probably wasn't poison. …Eh, he had better things to do than worry about the provenance of free food.

The sandwiches were peanut butter and jelly, and Martin did not die.

2. Tuesday

Another bag was sitting on his desk when he arrived the next morning.

It contained almonds, grapes, a container of cheese, pepperoni, and crackers, and a brownie.

Martin glanced around the room, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. His name was clearly written on this one, too.

He ate the brownie and saved the rest for lunch.

3. Wednesday

He was vaguely disappointed when there was no bag on his desk the next morning.

Tracking down leads for the latest case took the entire morning and more. By the time they made it back to the station, it was almost 2 pm, and Roger had been moaning about how hungry he was for over an hour.

There was still no bag on his desk.

He wasn't really even sure why he was so disappointed. The lunch-bag fairy was apparently a two-day only deal, but that was better than he had any reason to expect.

He grabbed a few items from the vending machine, as per usual, and tried to forget about yesterday's brownie.

…

The station was nearly deserted when he ducked into the breakroom one last time before leaving, but Martin wasn't quite the last hold-out plugging away at the case—Scorsese was sitting at the table, his head propped on one hand and an energy-drink can in the other, looking like a zombie.

He frowned blearily as Martin plugged his coins into the vending machine and tried to decide between cheese puffs and M&Ms. Or both. This was his dinner, after all.

“…Did you forget you left your lunch in the fridge?”

Martin's nearly-made decision evaporated from his brain. “Huh?”

“Your lunch,” said Scorsese. “It's still in the fridge.”

The fact that Martin hadn't brought a lunch was on the tip of his tongue, but…

He opened the fridge. Sure enough, a brown bag labeled “Martin” sat on the middle shelf. A peek inside revealed another two sandwiches and bag of carrot sticks.

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“No problem,” said Scorsese. He chugged the remainder of his energy drink.

Martin headed towards the door.

“Your money's still in the vending machine,” noted Scorsese.

Martin flashed him a crooked smile. “Right.” He punched the buttons for the M&Ms, and snagged them out of the dispenser. “Guess I'd better get out of here before I forget where I left my head.”

Scorsese snorted. “Yeah. Me, too.”

4. Thursday

There was, again, no bag on Martin's desk the next morning, but there was one in the fridge.

He delved into it eagerly while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

Turkey sandwiches today, with tomato, avocado, and plenty of mustard. More carrot sticks, and a lemon bar.

The case sucked, but a bad day with a lemon bar was certainly an improvement over a bad day without one.

5. Friday

The bag was on his desk again, and the first thing he pulled out was a thermos.

Martin pondered it with some concern. All of the wrappings previously had been disposable.

He supposed if the lunch-bag fairy was able to access his desk to leave lunches, they must also be able to get in and retrieve stuff (which, in hindsight, he probably should have reported to Avery by now), but… was he intended to wash it? And when did they come? It was almost the weekend.

He set the thermos down and continued his exploration. Crackers, some cherry tomatoes, another lemon bar, and a note.

“Since my husband is clearly not going to remember to ask you: Please come join me for coffee [a note scribbled in the margin added 'and coffee cake'] tomorrow (Saturday) morning. Recently got a 'Texas chili' recipe that I'd like to pick your brain about. Anytime after 9am is fine. –Trish (P.S. Bring the thermos with you.)”

+1 Saturday

Martin sheepishly knocked on the Murtaughs' door at 9 am, thermos in hand. Trish welcomed him in with a smile, reclaiming the thermos and pointing him to a seat. Roger and the teens were out for the day, she explained.

It took Martin no more than halfway through his first, generous slice of rich cinnamon coffee cake to dissect all the ways in which the purported “Texas” chili recipe was anything but. (“Barely even qualifies as 'chili,'” he grumbled, eliciting a snort of laughter from Trish.)

It took a few more bites to finally dredge up the will to broach the other topic on his mind. His eyes stayed on the surface of the coffee in his mug, as if it were likely to do something dangerous if left unsupervised. “So you're the one who's been leaving lunch for me all week?”

There was a pause.

“Well, I sent it in with Roger. …What did he say when he gave it to you?”

Martin hesitated.

“Martin.” Trish's face brooked no argument.

“Well… he didn't exactly say anything. I just found it on my desk. Or in the fridge.”

Trish dropped her face into her hand. “I swear I am going to kill that man someday.” She pointed a finger at Martin. “That is a figure of speech, and not an admission of guilt.”

By the time Martin left in mid-afternoon, he'd been drafted as a prep cook to assist with multiple batches of meals to stock the freezer, fueled by helping to polish off several of the remaining lemon bars.

He also had another coffee date with Trish scheduled for the next week.

As price for a week's worth of lunches went, he was definitely coming out ahead.

#martin riggs #trish murtaugh #lethal weapon (2016)#because martin riggs desperately needs to eat better.#onyxbird fanfic

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onyxbird · 2 years

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Would You Cuddle On the Couch? Would You Cuddle Me, You Grouch?

Green Eggs and Ham parody inspired by @wolves-in-the-world's "idiots to cuddlers." Five times Mr. Quinn tried to get Eliot to cuddle (events from the inspiration fic). (AO3 link.)

Would you cuddle on the couch? Would you cuddle me, you grouch?

I would not cuddle on the couch. I would not (and I'm not a grouch). I would not cuddle here or there. I would not cuddle anywhere. I do not like to hug and spoon. I do not like it, Quinn, you loon.

Would you cuddle in the van? After hours spent to con that man?

I would not cuddle in the van. Not even once we've conned that man. With Alec in the front to see, I would not cuddle. Seriously! I do not like to hug and spoon. I do not like it, Quinn, you loon.

Would you spoon with just one bed? Would you when we're not half dead?

I would not spoon with just one bed. (Though I'd prefer we're not half dead.) I know you planned this, Quinn, you loon! I do not like to hug and spoon!

Would you cuddle while you sew? (I lost a button, too, you know. ;-))

I would not cuddle while I sew. (And mend your own! That's not my woe.) I'm using that space in my lap. And not for you to take a nap! I do not like to hug and spoon. I do not like it, Quinn, you loon.

Would you cuddle 'neath a desk? Would you cuddle, statuesque?

I would not cuddle 'neath a desk. I would not cuddle, statuesque. Dammit, Quinn, you've poked a bruise. Please watch where you park your shoes! I do not like to hug and spoon. I do not like it, Quinn, you loon.

You do not like it. So you say. Try it! Try it! And you may.

Quinn, If you will let me be, Then I will try it. You will see.

I do like to hug and spoon! I do like it, Quinn, you loon! I will cuddle on the couch. ('Though I maintain I am no grouch.) I will cuddle in the van, After hours spent to con that man. I'll spoon you when there's just one bed, Even when we're not half dead. I'll cuddle with you while I sew. (Still not mending your shirt, though.) I'll cuddle you beneath a desk, Hidden, silent, statuesque.

I do so like to hug and spoon! You had a point, oh Quinn, you loon. I really thought this would be hell, but man, oh man, I slept so well!

#green eggs and ham parody #leverage #mr. quinn #eliot spencer #hugs and cuddles #hitter romance novella #poetry #onyxbird fanfic

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onyxbird · 2 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Lethal Weapon (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Trish Murtaugh & Martin Riggs Characters: Martin Riggs, Trish Murtaugh, Harper Murtaugh Additional Tags: Fluff and Humor, University visits, Episode: s01e07 Fashion Police, Single-episode canon divergence Summary:

A tug on Martin's shirt drew his attention down to the curly-haired baby strapped to his chest.

“Remind me again why Roger isn't here?”

“Have you met my husband, Martin?”

“A few times, yes.”

Alternate course of events for season 1, episode 7 “Fashion Police”: Instead of Trish, RJ, and Raina doing college visits while Harper stays home with Roger, Roger stays home alone, while Martin tags along with the rest of the Murtaughs to provide an extra set of hands for the baby… and ask plenty of 'helpful' questions on the campus tour.

#lethal weapon (2016)#martin riggs #trish murtaugh #onyxbird fanfic #Because Martin deserves a nice relaxing weekend of being a goofball with people who appreciate that.

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onyxbird · 8 months

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...Just rediscovered this WIP in my files, and I don't foresee it getting fleshed out anytime soon, but I do love the ridiculous scenes I've got, so I might as well release them into the wild. 😉

A Tree Grew on Yavin

Summary: Poe's friends in the Resistance are baffled/skeptical when he describes the animate "Force tree" he grew up with on Yavin IV, but they soon get to see for themselves when Groot, his partner Rocket, and their team of "morons" make contact.

“You know, Poe,” said Rey, as they rehashed the attack run, “that almost sounds like the Force.”

“Wait, is that how the Force works?” said Finn. “Because I've gotten some conflicting reports on that.”

“Nah. I don't have the Force, Rey. I grew up with this tree… It's kind of complicated to explain. But if I had it, I think I'd know.”

“Of course you have the Force, Poe.” Leia entered from the hall. “We all do. It's life's music. The song we make.”

Poe didn't argue, but he shrugged. Fine. Terminology. He wasn't Force-sensitive.

It wasn't until days later, during a lull from the work of settling the remnants of the Resistance in on Ajan Kloss, that the subject came up again.

“We want to know more about that tree,” said Rey, apropos of nothing.

Poe stared blankly at her, and then at the jungle surrounding their new base.

“Which one? And why would I know any more about it than you do? I've never been to Ajan Kloss before, either.”

“Not these trees,” said Finn. “On the Falcon, you said you grew up with a tree, and that's why you're confident you're not Force-sensitive. Why? Rey's been studying the Jedi texts and we asked around a bit, but no one has ever heard of tests for Force-sensitivity involving trees.”

Poe raised an eyebrow. “You've been—who would you even ask about that? Besides the General, of course. She would have been able to tell you.” He frowned. “You also could have just asked me to begin with, you know.”

Rey and Finn eyed him with identical expressions of skepticism.

“You mean, in the cumulative 5 spare seconds since we got here that you haven't been busy setting up landing fields—”

“Building hangars.”

“Organizing patrols.”

“Flying patrols.”

“Eating.”

“Or sleeping?”

“...OK, fair. It's been a little hectic.”

Rey smirked in victory. “So, the tree?”

Poe sighed and settled in for a story. “I warned you it's complicated to explain.”

Both listeners nodded.

“All right, then. So my mother, Shara Bey, flew for the Rebellion—both my parents fought in the Rebellion, but Mom was the pilot.”

A mixed group of mechanics and pilots passing by their table chuckled affectionately. “Everyone knows, Dameron!”

“Er, I didn't, actually,” said Rey.

“Yeah, same,” said Finn.

“Thank you!” He mock-glared at the passing group. “You may think you know all of my stories, especially after hanging around with L'ulo too much, but this context is actually relevant.”

“Someone has to heckle you with the rest of Black Squadron still out on mission!” teased a tech.

“Your mother was a Rebellion pilot, and?” prompted Rey.

“And right at the end of the war, after the second Death Star blew up, when the dregs of the Empire were still coming down, she got pulled onto an undercover mission that Luke Skywalker was running. He needed to get something out of an Imperial research lab. Apparently, the Jedi temple in the Old Republic was built around this massive Force-sensitive tree. The Empire destroyed it, but they kept a few live pieces. For research, I guess.”

Rey's forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “The Jedi texts on Ahch-To were in a tree. I wonder if it was the same type.”

Poe blinked. “Uhhh… maybe? …You couldn't put books in our Force Tree, but I don't know. Can't rule it out, really.”

Rey shook her head. “Sorry! I'm side-tracking your story. Go on.”

Poe smiled. “So when they got there and tricked their way into the lab, they found these two little Force trees. Skywalker was only expecting to there to be one. At the time, my parents were just about to muster out and go settle down somewhere, so Skywalker gave them second one to take with them and plant. He said he wanted it to be safe somewhere.

“Point is, according to Skywalker, that tree just radiates Force energy and is obviously not an ordinary tree. So it seems highly unlikely that I would never have sensed that growing up if I were Force-sensitive.”

Finn looked vaguely let down. “So… it's this amazingly cool thing, but without the Force—or, without being sensitive to the Force—it's just like a regular tree?” He frowned. “You don't think Skywalker was just pulling your mother's leg, do you? Rey said he's kinda sarcastic…”

“Well, not just like a regular tree. I mean, regular trees don't walk around. Or talk.”

“What?!”

“I said, regular trees don't—”

Finn waved for him to stop. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Got that. Completely true. You're saying this Force tree does walk and talk? Like a person?”

“Yeah. His name's Groot.” He glanced around at the jungle again, with more satisfaction this time. “He would like it here.”

...

“Commander Dameron! Commander Dameron!”

Poe stifled a groan and rose from his crouch under the X-wing he was working on. “Yes, Threepio?”

“We have just received a communication for you, sir!”

Poe frowned as he ran through the mental list of who might be calling him. Black Squadron was all here. Finn and Rey were here (in fact, Rey was heading towards them now, apparently on her way back from another obstacle course run). If it were his father, C3PO would have led with that. Any of his old navy contacts who hadn't died on Hosnian Prime had mostly found their way to the Resistance by now…

“OK, who is it?”

“He called himself 'Rocket,' sir. He refused to be any more specific and insisted you would know who he was. If fact, he was quite—”

“Rude?” said Poe.

“Indeed!”

“Yeah, I know who he is. Thanks, Threepio. It's not personal. He's rude to everyone.”

Poe replaced the open panel and grabbed his jacket.

“Wait…” He stopped in his tracks. “What codes did he use to call us?”

“I believe it is one of the communication codes we use with our suppliers, sir! I was intending to ask you with whom you had shared it.”

Poe shook his head and sighed. “He didn't get it from me, pal. But Rocket turns up all kinds of things he's not supposed to have. Might be time to start cycling in some new codes.”

He fell into step beside Rey as they both headed for the base's central complex. “Done already?” she asked curiously. “I figured that sort of repair would take all afternoon.”

“It will, but apparently not today. Threepio said a communication came through for me.”

The curious stares started as soon as they stepped through the door. Rey wasn't that much of a curiosity anymore, and Poe certainly wasn't, which meant Rocket must be in fine form today. Rey gave him a sidelong glance—she'd clearly noticed, too.

“Poe!” Finn waved from the command room and jogged towards them, flashing Rey a quick smile before getting back to the business at hand. “There's someone on the line for you, named—”

“Rocket. Yeah, Threepio told me. That's why I'm up here.” He continued his brisk stride towards the command room, running a hand restlessly through his hair. “Who did he insult besides Threepio?”

“What?”

“What did Rocket say? Threepio was in a huff; everyone's giving me weird looks, and I know Rocket—civility is not his strong suit.”

Finn hesitated. “I'm not sure he insulted anyone exactly. He's just… kind of… glowering at everyone.”

Finn wasn't wrong about the glowering. The holo showed Rocket's diminutive arms folded belligerently over his chest, his pointed face twisted into a familiar sullen scowl, and the tip of his bushy, ringed tail swishing impatiently over the ground.

Of course, most of that was just Rocket's default appearance. The gigantic blaster over his shoulder, almost as large as his entire body, was new since Poe had last seen him, however.

“Rocket! Good to see you! You still working with Groot?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Finn and Rey straighten sharply, suddenly laser-focused on the conversation.

Behind Rocket, a much taller being leaned into the shot. The long wooden face split into a broad smile as he boomed out a cheerful “I am Groot!”

Force, it was good to see him again. Poe grinned up at the hologram that now towered over him to capture both of the beings on the other end.

“Beep! Bee-weeoooo!” BB-8 piped up cheerfully from by Poe's feet.

“I am Groot,” agreed Groot.

“Yeah, yeah,” groused Rocket. “Everyone's happy to see everyone. Great. Now that we've established that, can we get back to business?”

“What are you calling about? And how did you get this access code?”

Rocket loftily waved off the latter question. “Oh, you know. Sometimes you just stumble across these sorts of things.”

“Actually, no, I think there are quite a few people working to make sure you don't just 'stumble across' that code.”

“Well, maybe not just lying around, but once you're already in the right computer system…”

Poe sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Threepio wasn't going to be thrilled, but knowing Rocket, he could guess the rest. Apparently at least one of the Resistance's suppliers wasn't Raccoon-proofed. Probably not a huge security risk—just Rocket being dangerously skilled and a compulsive thief, as usual.

“OK. I'm assuming you weren't just calling to make sure it works.”

“No. Quill came across an interesting piece of merchandise that we thought you or your… friends” (Rocket somehow made it sound derogatory.) “might be interested in.”

Poe glanced around the command center, wondering if General Organa was around by any stroke of luck. He blinked. Every one of the unusually large number of people currently in the room was watching the conversation play out in more-or-less open fascination. You could have heard a pin drop.

He glanced back at Rocket, as his full sentence sank in. “Who's Quill?”

Rocket frowned at him, one ear cocking quizzically. Then his expression cleared. “Riiight. You haven't met the morons yet.” He turned towards someone out of sight and shouted “Quill! Poe's on the line! Where's the thing?”

“I told you it's in the aft compartment.” A human man entered the hologram. He glanced towards Poe and frowned. "It's—Wait, that's Poe?” He peered at him for a second. “Weird. I expected you to be a tree."

Rocket stared at him. "Why would he be a tree, you moron?!"

"You said Groot knew him when they were kids! I made an assumption! A wrong assumption, clearly!"

#poe dameron #groot #star wars sequel trilogy #star wars #guardians of the galaxy #Initial lines of dialog are from the Poe Dameron 27 comic #onyxbird fanfic #incomplete fic

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