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greyias · 6 years

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FIC: By the Guidance of Stars - Chapter 4

Title: By the Guidance of Stars Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight Rating: T (this chapter) Genre: Angst, H/C, Romance, Humor Synopsis: The Coalition tries to heal in the aftermath of the Battle of Yavin 4, but not every wound is physical. A series of missing scenes set during the end of Shadow of Revan. Warnings: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Crossposted to AO3

As morning wore on, the drizzle eased into a light mist and the camp began to rouse. The mugs of caf had long since been drained and Theron had reluctantly forced himself to begin tackling the mountain of paperwork waiting for him. That afternoon’s unofficial debrief loomed in the back of his mind, and in an effort to distract himself, he’d thrown himself into filling in as many details of the entire Revanite debacle on his official report, starting all the way back to the initial mission on Korriban.

Well. Most of the details. There were some interpersonal things that would not be making their way into an official report. He was only a kiss-and-tell kind of guy when it was part of the official mission log. And this confusing thing he had with a certain Jedi Master was nobody’s business but their own.

Of course, focusing on his paperwork would have been much easier if he didn’t have to keep trying to stop one Doctor Archiban Kimble from second-guessing the excellent care of sneaky medical droids.

“Can’t you just read whatever the droid wrote and let it go?” Theron grumbled. “I have to finish this report.”

“And I have to make sure that all of my hard work on Rishi wasn’t undone last night.”

“It wasn’t.” Theron glowered at him and then pointedly returned his attention to the datapad. “Now go away.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to work this time.”

“What’s not? Speaking Basic?”

“Your overworked slicer schtick. No datapads during medical examinations. Doctor’s orders.”

“Didn’t stop you last time.”

“Yes, well, I made an exception then because my favorite Jedi was about to be blown to smithereens by your grandpa’s cult.”

“It’s a few more generations than just grandfather.”

“Eh, details.” The datapad was deftly plucked from the spy’s hands and stowed inside of of one of the medic’s inner pockets. “You get this back after we’re done.”

“You’ve got nerves of steel, Doc,” Theron warned. “I’ve shot people for less.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” The medic grinned. “I figure I’m safe. A certain Jedi is very fond of me and my untimely death would make her very sad.”

“And what makes you think that would affect my aim?”

The medic arched one dark brow, as if it was obvious. “You seemed pretty concerned earlier from what I saw. Holding hands and everything.”

Theron wasn’t able to suppress the curse that slipped out. It wasn’t exactly a private area they’d been in, but he had hoped everyone had been too busy with their celebrations to notice that unplanned moment. Of course, unplanned moments seemed to be the norm with her rather than the exception.

Not that he had the greatest track record with sticking to a plan — he tended to fly by the seat of his pants at the best of times. But even if he’d wanted to, he never could have accounted for that ridiculous pirate costume she had picked up from a street vendor for her undercover persona. Nor for the way she got drunk during one of Jakarro’s cantina outings—forcing Theron to figure out how to transport a hopelessly inebriated Jedi back to their hideout without either of them getting shivved in a back alleyway. Or the way her grip on him had lingered before she’d left for that last battle on Rishi, practically shouting the order for Doc to stay behind and take care of him.

And actually if Theron thought about it longer, the one consistent factor in all of that had been the medic currently pulling out his scanner so he could begin to examine the chest of his very reluctant patient. As Doc had been the one to help her pick out that stupid outfit, had left an entire pitcher of fruity alcoholic drinks on the table after leaving their team gathering in a snit, and had been just as annoying at insisting on making sure Theron didn’t have any life-threatening internal injuries just like he was now.

The medic let out a quiet chuckle, apparently mistaking the reasoning for the glare pointed in his direction.

“Don’t worry, I made a lot of loud and rousing toasts over in my area of camp. Your aloof reputation is safe amongst the larger crowd.”

“I get the impression that wasn’t for my benefit,” Theron grumbled.

“No, it wasn’t.” Doc narrowed an eyebrow at the tiny screen in front of him, and started to do some more detailed scans over the previously injured area, as if he needed to double-check something. “But if getting a camp of Imperial and Republic troops inebriated in the early hours of the morning is what it takes to get that woman a small moment of peace, I’ll make that sacrifice for the greater good.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

“It’s a heavy burden sometimes, being such a hero.”

“Are you still drunk?”

“Eh, sober enough to look you over.”

“I think I feel safer with the droid.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are a horrible patient?”

“Probably about as often as you’ve gotten complaints about your bedside manner.”

“You be quiet and let me finish.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll call your mother over here.” Doc grinned.

“I swear I’m changing my last name when I get back to Republic space,” Theron muttered darkly.

“I’ll still know.”

“Two can play at that game, Archiban.”

Doc shot him a dirty look, but returned to fiddling with his scanner. “Look, I know you’ve got your own reasons, but still… thanks for looking out for her.”

Theron indeed had his own reasons, but much to his chagrin, none of them seemed to stem from anything remotely resembling reason. Of course, he hadn’t really ever been accused of being the most logical agent in SIS. However, there was no way he was admitting that aloud. “I get the impression that you and your crew have been through a lot.”

“Some of us more than others,” Doc muttered darkly.

“Yeah.” Theron pursed his lips. “Got that impression too.”

Considering Grey’s reaction earlier, that was putting it mildly. He was regretting not having figured out what had been redacted before they had gotten to this point—and before he’d made a promise to not pry. Of course, that six month gap had nearly put him off selecting her for the Korriban mission completely. If he’d done that, then he wouldn’t currently have to be listening to Doc ramble on. Of course, then he wouldn’t have met her either.

Something inside his chest twisted. It was probably because he’d been an idiot and had drank too much caf this morning instead of having a real breakfast. He probably needed to find something more substantial before the debrief this afternoon. Or maybe he could just choke a ration bar down as he didn’t really have much of an appetite at the moment.

Doc gave him a funny look, almost as if he’d been reading the spy’s inner thoughts. Theron didn’t really want to get a lecture on his poor diet on top of everything else this morning, so he just glared at the ground instead.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask.”

“I might be a spy,” he ground out, “but I can respect boundaries. I’m not going to force her to relive anything just to satisfy my curiosity.”

“While I appreciate the gesture,” Doc said quietly, “I think things are going to come to a head sooner or later, whether or not you ask anything.”

Theron glared at the ground, not sure what to make of the internal war raging inside of his gut. “She’s still got you and the rest of your crew. Should be enough, right?”

The medic let out a sad sigh and shook his head, but didn’t say anything else on the subject. There wasn’t much to say, Theron had already made a promise not to pry, and he wasn’t about to go back on that. Keeping promises wasn’t exactly something most people in his line of work did. Although this wasn’t work. This was… it was…

It was none of his damn business is what it was.

And he knew that. Despite his chosen profession, there were some lessons from his childhood he’d had a hard time shaking off. A lot of adjustments—sacrifices even—had to be made in order to get the mission done, because that served a higher purpose in a way he couldn’t with his natural born talents, or lack thereof. It was often a struggle to be the person that Ngani Zho had raised him to be, and beyond just that, he wanted to be a man of his word. At least with the important people.

And she was... yeah. She was one of them.

It took a lot to get under his skin, but that little Jedi had managed it quite effectively. And despite his best efforts, he was just along for the ride at this point, that much was clear.

“Well,” Doc said, barely managing to keep irritation from bleeding into his tone, “looks like between my wonderful skills as a medic, a little help from the Grand Master, and that barely adequate droid, you’re going to be just fine.”

“I already told you that,” Theron said, his own frustration mounting. “If you had just believed me then we could have avoided this whole awkward conversation.”

“Yeah, well,” Doc said lightly, stowing his medical scanner, “I had to be sure. It would be irresponsible of me if I didn’t ensure that you were in peak physical condition before taking on any… strenuous activity.”

The insinuation on what the medic thought of Theron’s intentions was all too clear, and he couldn’t help but snarl. “That is none of your damn business.”

“I’m just looking out for your welfare,” Doc grinned. “You wouldn’t want to sprain anything. That would definitely kill the mood.”

“I am not having this conversation with you.”

“I assume you know all about using protection—“

“Give me my datapad!”

“And I expect you to behave like a proper gentleman.”

Theron’s hand curled into a fist, and it took all of his effort to keep it down at his side. “Now.”

Doc sighed dramatically, but pulled out the requested device with dramatic flair. “Fine, fine.”

The spy snatched the device and started to move away from the medic with a quickness.

“Oh, and Theron?”

“What?” he tossed over his shoulder, not bothering to hide his frustration and not slowing his hasty retreat in the slightest.

“I meant what I said back on Rishi.” The joviality had faded from Doc’s tone, leaving behind a steel certainty. “I know every way to cleanly break any bone in the body. I would keep that in mind if I were you.”

“You threatening me?”

“Only if you hurt her.”

“You and Scourge should form a club.”

“Not my first choice, but I’ll consider it. If it comes to that.”

Theron beat a quick retreat to the safety of one of the private tents before he could be pulled back into anything resembling conversation with the medic. He had no desire to hear any more advice on his love life. Or hear about the ways in which he would be maimed if things didn’t somehow go according to Doc’s outdated notions of romance. For possibly the first time in his career, Theron couldn’t wait to get lost in the minutiae of the Republic’s endless trail of paperwork.

Next Chapter

#swtor fanfiction #theron shan x jedi knight #Theron Shan #Female Jedi Knight/Hero of Tython #archiban frodrick kimble #otp: adorkable #oc: greyias highwind #SoR Fic O Doom #a short one this time #we have to get in some more antics from Doc before the inevitable family melodrama #swtor #fanfic #greyfic

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garratymcvries · 5 years

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Buckley stole something every time he was at the supermarket. It was always something very small, as to not raise a huge fuss should he be caught. He never had been. Today though, as he stood frozen in the bulk food section and stared into space, the thought of the culmination of all the shitty things in his life unbelievably weaving together this week convinced him that he was going to walk out of this place with that motherfucking barrel of sour gummy worms. He lifted his head at the thought and looked around with instant guilt, as if he had already put the giant receptacle in his cargo pants. The sharp feeling of guilt was soon overridden by an adrenaline shot of excitement. A grin beat its way through the corners of his mouth, as he found himself the only patron in the bulk foods section of the Baltimore SuperSave on this lonely, overcast Tuesday afternoon.

He strode slowly amongst the giant barrels filled with raw almonds and multiple varieties of trail mix, and whistled softly. A spring in his step that hadn’t been there a moment before evolved into a nonchalant skip as he passed a mound of yogurt-covered peanuts big enough to bury a large dog or prepubescent human, should they run out of yogurt-covered peanuts in the wild, and die of starvation. His target was a few feet in front of him now as he jubilantly bobbed down the aisle. He could see the strips of neon reflecting off of the hinged plastic door atop the barrel that sealed their freshness. The sight of it produced an involuntary chuckle, and a funny sound he couldn’t remember ever making before. That, of course, almost led to an outburst of laughter. He turned around, stifling a display of joy he hadn’t performed in years to a respectable display of quiet snorts and a few tears quickly wiped away. A couple of deep breaths later, he looked up, and surveyed the room. Buckley noticed how many of the barrels had their plastic lids left open, and pictured the fucking savages scavenging their pilfer, then moving on, leaving other victims of life’s unfreshness in the wake of their selfish and careless destinies. The further thought of giant locusts descending upon all of the chocolate-covered mini-pretzels momentarily killed the vibe he had going. He quickly spun around, and the sight of his colorful bounty sparked awake a feeling of terrible excitement.

“This must be what bank robbers feel like right before,” he thought. He approached the barrel right beside the sour gummy worms, and appeared to only have an interest in the unpopped popcorn kernels within, as a criminal mastermind assuredly would so do. Wait a minute. How was he going to do this? Was he going to just roll the giant cask right out the front door? The back? He’d be caught by someone of some authority before he even reached the sanitary napkin aisle. It was a place he’d experienced embarrassment before in another life. His serious girlfriend of a decade before would conveniently forget to purchase such things, whisking Buckley away during busy public hours to retrieve them for her, only to learn after the relationship had danced its death rattle, that she took regular masochistic pleasure by taking him from his comfort zone, and throwing him into bonfires of embarrassment. Wouldn’t it be such a fitting ending for him to be apprehended for grand theft children’s candy amongst rows and rows of tampons and maxi-pads he no longer had any use for? He pictured the witch reading the headline and throwing back her beautiful curly black hair, cackling wildly with her wicked new family.

No. He needed a plan. He decided to stop being the bulk-food-creeper, and continued with his daily shopping in the guise of a man simply shopping. Simply shopping and not creating numerous devious schemes. But why not devise? It was no crime, just thinking thoughts. No acts yet were committed. He turned into the soda and water aisle, and saw an elderly woman leaned up against a cart with an indifferent look on her face as she stared at the endless varieties of sparkling water. What underhanded thoughts swarmed under that rose colored bandanna and white hair? What crimes was she guilty of in this life? Maybe she was a master thief too. Maybe she’d murdered. Killed multiply maybe, Buckley thought as he put three 2-liters of generic diet cola into his cart. Maybe she’d been one of those insane mothers that rolled her station wagon full of 3 loved, yet unwanted children into the lake. Maybe she’d done such a thing, and spent the bulk of her life in prison, only to be released 40 years later because of overcrowding and good behavior. And now here she was, facing another decision amongst a body of water. Maybe this decision was easier. Maybe not.

She struggled as she attempted to put a case of lemon-flavored sparkling water into her cart, and Buckley rushed over to assist. They managed to seat the water into the cart, when the old woman thanked him quickly and without a smile. She seemed annoyed that she had been assisted by such a petty thief and disgraced tampon buyer of old, and the look she gave him as she moved on as briskly as she could shook Buckley to his core. Those murderous eyes. Was that the look she gave her children as they pounded on the rear window of a sinking car? Oh yes, he thought. It was surely the look she gave other inmates as she shivved them to death in the yard. Buckley tried to shake off the guilt of his act of kindness as he walked back to the comfort of his shopping cart. He closed his eyes and imagined the tart and fruity taste of sour gummy worms as he threw up handfuls of them in his bathtub, and was once again on to the task at hand. His quest was a crime, yes, but an innocent one. He couldn’t allow himself to be caught up with the real villains and cutthroats his criminal actions would assuredly attract. Buckley made a mental note to be wary to avoid such dangerous child killers and shivvers in the future, and made his way to the dairy section.

Oh, cottage cheese. I love you ever so, Buckley thought as he parked his cart in front of the brightly lit white containers. He scorned for a second at the columns of sour cream. How dare they share similar receptacles to wonderful wonderful cottage cheese. IMPOSTERS! BLAND YET TART DECIEVERS! Nasty assed sour cream should be in the nacho aisle. Then, Buckley had a thought of glorious cottage cheese atop a giant mound of cheesy nachos, and made a mental note to try such a thing in the future. A sour gummy worm future, hopefully. Buckley shoved aside a few containers of sour cream as to not sully his cottage cheese shopping experience. He finally decided on a tub of 2% small curd, and one of fat free large curd. Later, he would make two tubs of half and half, and smiled at the prospect of the naked chore. Maybe he’d drop a naughty dollop down below. His giggle continued until he turned into the dreaded soup aisle. It was a place Buckley hated so. How many unfortunate soup instances has he had in his lifetime. Too many to count. There was the Cleveland Bisque Episode. Then there was the Future to Fictional In-Laws Cream of Broccoli Disaster that ultimately was the catalyst of his breakup with Whatshername Succubus Tampon Pressurer.

Buckley had to always buy 3 cans of soup. All he needed during the week was two, but there had to be a safe extra; just in case. The emergency soups had been stored in the only cupboard in his house that required a lock. He’d unlock the door, and carefully place the worry-free can with hundreds of its brothers and sisters. A precious cache of safe, non-disaster soup. Thankfully, he hadn’t needed to dip into his reserves that often, but recently the Great Tomato Boilover was traumatic enough to almost break the lock when he frantically couldn’t find his key. Thankfully he did, yet he had still not cleaned up the mess of that disaster. It looked like a tiny murder had occurred on Buckley’s stovetop. He would one day, but he kept it as penance to himself that he shouldn’t live so recklessly.

At this thought, he thought about his new life as a master thief, and thought twice about a life of crime. He had never been one to life dangerously. Was a barrel of sour gummy worms worth a life of incarceration? He then thought of prison. How would it change him? Would he be what they called, “a bitch”? Perhaps. He had a long documented history of “bitchery” that sullied his past. Then Buckley looked up at the dreaded soup aisle. This sight usually brought forth a most undiluted tincture of fear from his bitchery depths. Dreaded soup, so hateful and deviously delicious. But now, on this red-letter day of masterminding the perfect crime, Buckley felt no fear. No, he would not be “The Bitch”. He would be revered. A kingpin amongst murderers and rapists and child abductors. Buckley then had a vision of himself playing Uno in the common area. Convicted yes-men were bringing him things, such as drinks and chips. Two large henchmen towered behind him, arms akimbo. A rival inmate from another cell block entered the room, and Buckley simply had to motion his head towards the villain, and the yes-men swarmed him, creating a cartoon-like pile of limbs and dust and blood. Buckley smiled in the center of the soup aisle, eyes closed, dreaming of The Kingpin of Crime with a tattoo of sour gummy worms on his neck.

“Pardon me,” a rickety voice interrupted the daydream. It was The Child Killer. She had snuck up behind Buckley. She even was so brazen as to touch his shoulder as she did so. All he could reply with was a tiny gasp, and he dragged himself and his cart flush against a wall of soup. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, as fear began trickling into the cracks of his dam of self-confidence. Buckley quickly grabbed the first three cans of soup he could find, and whipped his cart away from this terrible place. The Witch. The Vile Haggard Woman probably lived in the stupid soup aisle. Of course, he thought. That’s where the child-killers of the world were the strongest, in the goddamned soup aisles of the world. Buckley pushed his cart all of the way to the end of the large room and tried to catch his breath amongst the frozen foods. It was nice and cool here. He looked up at towers boxes with amazing pictures of different varieties of pizza on them, and started to feel normal again. He looked down into his cart, and saw three cans of split pea, the worst, most terrible soup of them all. Buckley dropped to his knees and started to cry.

“Sir, are you okay?”

Buckley opened his tearful eyes and kept sobbing. His eyes burned and tears fell into the opened hands on his lap.

“Sir?”

Another hand dropped onto his shoulder, and Buckley fell to his backside in fear.

“Oh my goodness! Sir, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have startled you! Are you okay?” The woman wearing a SuperSave apron had kind eyes. Buckley was immediately embarrassed, yet still instinctively cowered against the frozen pizzas like a wounded raccoon.

“Sir, should I call someone?” the concerned employee asked. “What?” Buckley soon realized his current position, and how he must have looked to the SuperSave Angel that held her hand out before him. “Oh, dear me,” he responded. He attempted to rise, but his hand slipped upon the condensation of the freezer door, and fell with a thump once again to his backside. “Oh no! Here, let me help you,” the Angel said. He couldn’t help but notice her touch was kind, yet firm enough to help Buckley get to his feet. He dusted himself off and rubbed the wet from his face. “Here,” she said. She magically produced a tissue from her apron pocket and offered it to him. It may as well had been a slice of bread offered to a starving leper, and Buckley took the offering as such. He cradled it in his hand, and blew his nose into the soft aloe-plied treasure. He attempted to offer it back, and she rightfully shied away. He realized what he had done, and another wave of embarrassment washed over him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. He put the tissue into his pocket and hung his head in shame. “Thank you very much.” “Are you alright?” “Oh, yes. I am now. It’s just been a very…trying time today. Actually more than just today, but it seemed to hit me all at once. That sounds stupid.” “Oh, no no. That doesn’t sound stupid at all. It sounds…” She searched for the right word. A moment of brief silence, and Buckley looked up into hazel eyes that seemed to search for something deep within what was assuredly an extensive lexicon of unsurmountable genius. “…normal.” She finished. She cocked her head to the side, and Buckley sighed relief. “I’ve never been accused of THAT before,” he replied. It seemed the right thing to say, as she responded with a genuine chuckle that made Buckley weak in the knees. His eyes threatened to well up again at the sound of a seraph’s glee, and turned away towards his cart before he became a blubbering mess again.

“Wait,” her voice stopping every bit of him dead. She knew. About everything. About the sour gummy worms. About his past with women’s sanitary applicators. About the security of a closet filled with emergency soup. Oh no! The split pea! She saw the 3 cans of split pea, and knew him for the wretch that he wa-

“Here,” she said. She handed him a small thick book of coupons. “Some of these you can’t use all at once, but it really adds up in the long run, y’know?” Buckley looked at the small flip-book in his hand and managed a small “thank you”. He stared at the heavenly savings too good for him, and she touched the side of his arm. “Well…I’m glad to help. Just let me know I can do anything else to help you with your SuperSave experience.” She started to walk away. Buckley put his hand to the place on his arm where she touched him, and now it was his turn to say-

“Wait.” She stopped and turned towards him with a smile. “Do you-“ he started. He stood for a bit and thought. This is what he needed! An ally! A collaborator in his quest, on the inside! He had to be careful, though. She already assuredly saw him as an emotional maniacal sex-fiend. He would win her confidence-

“Do I what?” she asked hesitantly. “I do apologize,” Buckley started, “My mind seems to wander off sometimes and drags me along.” She chuckled again. It was the best sound Buckley thinks he’d ever heard. He glanced at her nametag. “Amy. It seems to me, at this moment, in your act of kindness, that I should treat myself more kindly that I have been doing so in recent times. I think I deserve a treat. I have a question about an item in this store that you might be able to help me with.” “Shoot!” She replied with genuine glee. “Would you accompany me to the bulk food section?” “Sure!” Glee once again.

“Know where glee leads, yeah?” A whisper within Buckley asked. “Oh, you shut up now,” he responded. “Pardon?”

Buckley quickly dismissed what the girl had overheard, and picked up the pace a step. She seemed to say something, but alas, he did not hear. OH NO! Would such a Venus de Milo grant him a boon of repeating herself to one such as low as he? He must dare. HE MUS-

“I’m sorry, what was that you were saying?” Buckley had done an about-face to give her his full and undivided attention, still keeping up his pace in a backwards jaunt. “ “LOOK OUT!”

OH NO! HE’D ANGERED HER! WHY WAS SHE YELLING? HE WAS SURE SHE WASN’T YELLING JUST A MOMEN-

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Darkness

It was comfortably brisk on the water that day. There was a slight breeze that nibbled crisply on exposed flesh. Buckley closed his eyes and breathed in the cool fresh air. He opened his eyes and looked at the shoreline. His pace was slow, but steady, as he drifted down river. He must have dozed for a bit, because now he was facing stern-side. That was good, he thought. He needed to conserve his strength, as it was a long journey to…

to…

Oh, it didn’t matter where. Not right now. Right now the journey was the thing. He looked down to see himself waist deep in sour gummy worms. He grabbed onto the sides of the barrel that floated downstream and could hardly contain his excitement. MY BOOTY! HOW COULD I FORGET IT?! Buckley put his hands into the sweet fluff and brought handfuls up to rub them lovingly on his face. He could practically taste the tart sweetness from the artificial fruity sugar aroma as the worms stuck to his face for a moment before peeling off and dropping back into the barrel. One particularly orange and green one stuck to his forehead, and Buckley wore it proudly.

Okay, back to work. Buckley rocked back and forth and around and managed to get himself facing bow. All he could see ahead of him was more river. Things were good. Clear skies overhead and beyond. His pace was good. “Moving right along,” he said to himself. He looked down at his soft neon treasure and let the excitement take hold of him for a moment. “Moving right the fuck along!” He threw a red and purple worm into the air, and caught the red side in his mouth. He let the rest dangle out as he savored the wonderful strawberry sourness for a moment. Then he slurped in the purple and let the grape sail him all the way to Jubilation.

He slammed his right hand into the worms and rummaged around until he felt something paperish. He got a nice grip onto it, and ripped it from the gummy unknown. His map was an extremely well detailed straight blue line that led to a giant red X. He figured he was about ¾ to the X now. How he figured that, he couldn’t be sure, but for some reason he felt quite sure. He slammed the map back down into the worms, and rummaged even deeper for something else. Buckley instinctually stuck out his tongue as he searched frantically for… for……..THERE! He jerked his hands from the pile with a motion that sent quite a few sour worms overboard. He dusted sugar from his pirate hat and smiled at the skull and crossworms on its front. He dipped the hat into the worms at the front of his waist and slammed it onto his head. The heaviness of the hat was empowering. Sour gummy worms hung from its brim, and Buckley’s line of sight above the horizon was a stringy neon rainbow.

“Yarr!”

Wait. Something was missing. Oh yes! Buckley shoved his hands even deeper into the foam candy deep, and came up with an eye-patch. He filled that as well, and put it on his left eye, worms protruding out from its edges. Now, he was complete. He drifted along, Buckbeard the Worm, in his grand frigate to his ultimate destiny.

“Garrrr!”

After quite a bit of garbled mouthful pirate calls later, something familiar about his surroundings put him on full alert. He quickly chewed on the candy in his mouth, dropping wet pieces back into the barrel. Something there in the distance. Something big, and grey. Buckley rummaged around in the wormily depths once more and came up with a giant telescopic spyglass. He polished the sugar from both ends of it with his sleeve, and extended the spyglass as far as it would go. He leaned his elbows on the rim of the barrel, and took a look.

The grey was concrete. A giant open expanse of concrete, with a railing on its edge. A group of people stood behind the railing and pointed at things.

“An observation deck,” Buckley said without thinking. He lowered the spyglass, and the colors of the people’s clothing made them look like sour gummy worms in the distance. He picked up two worms from his waist, and wiggled them in front of his view, as if they were the people on the giant concrete deck.

“OOH! Looky there!” he mimicked with a pretend people-worm. “Oh yes, I see! That’s a good observation!” the other gummy-person said. “We’re good observers!” “Oh yes, the best! We’re the best observers on the observation deck!” Buckley mushed the two together and made kissy, then fart noises and popped the two good observers into his mouth.

“YUM YUM YUM!” A few moments passed, and Buckley looked again into the viewer. He was closer this time and could make out the deck in more detail. Something super familiar about all of this (and an incredible sugar high) raised the hairs on the back of his neck. A sudden crisp breeze put his gooseflesh on high alert, as a feeling of absolute dread followed.

“Oh no,” he muttered. There was a couple on the deck arguing. He waited a few moments to catch his breath, and to get a better look at the couple, but he knew deep down in his large bucket of foamy candy happiness that there was no treasure to be found at a giant red X scrawled on a crumpled map somewhere near his knees. He looked into the glass again, and found the couple. The woman was attractive, and angry. He always kind of liked when she was angry. She was so sexy when she was angry, and he had come to terms early in their relationship that he would set forth the anger sometimes to please himself, despite the consequences. This time, though, was different. It was the worst argument they ever had. Buckley remembered now.

“Niagra fucking falls,” Buckley said with ire. Now he wished his vessel had a full arsenal of cannons and greek fire to take down the deck and be done with it forever, but all he had was his spyglass, and his worms. He shoved a handful of them into his mouth, and looked again. There she was, emptying both barrels into him, and him standing there with his hands in his pockets, shamed like a beaten dog. Buckley remembered he had simply mentioned his annoyance at her picking the honeymoon capitol of the universe as a vacation destination, after his two already failed attempts at proposal. He saw her mouth “As if I’d marry a piece of shit loser like you,” and heard the voice in his head.

But now, it was different. It wasn’t quite her voice, was it? That distinct shrill Cry of the Succubus that he would remember even after he was waist deep in real worms was not the voice he heard. He squinted into the spyglass as if it would help him focus, and it indeed showed him that the woman he was arguing with in the distance was not the masochistic queen of the forced tampon purchase twice-removed pseudo-fiancée sexy angry b-word that would haunt him for eternity. It was someone else. Someone nice. Someone he hadn’t heard talk to him in a way that would have him contemplate jumping off a bridge as he stood in his pajama pants and trenchcoat at an ungodly hour waiting to pay for tampons and a bag of dill-flavored potato chips. This woman yelling and pointing at him wore a green SuperSave apron. Buckley squinted even harder. The nametag on the apron read “Angel”, quotation marks and all. He lowered the spyglass.

“You’re no angel,” he said, “you’re all the same.” Buckley threw the spyglass with all his might at the observation deck, and it splashed ahead of him, far from the intended target. The sound of rushing water filled his senses now. The falls. Of course. OF COURSE! This was his Giant Red X! This was the treasure that he so desperately sought. It would be different now! The falls would change everything! He gathered speed as he gained closer to the edge, and saw the vast wilderness that sprawled beyond the swirling mist. He grabbed two great handfuls of candy and shoved them into his mouth and yelled “GARRRR!” as the falls took hi-

---

LIGHT

“Garr!” Buckley yelled. His vision slowly refocused as the fluorescent lights poured painfully into the back of his eyes. He was on his back, and a group of people were looking remorsefully down at him, like a thirsty village looking into a dead well. The polite girl that he thought he knew as pure and good knelt by his side, showing what seemed to be genuine concern. Buckley’s vision sharpened a bit more, and saw that her nametag read “BECCA”, and his stomach plummeted down the falls. What an atrocity. He should have known a name as repulsive as “short for Rebecca” would bring forth the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Her close friends probably even call her Reba. Gag.

The crowd reeled as Buckley gagged, thinking communally that a geyser of vomit was sure to follow. Reba leaned back as well. Then Buckley sat up. The crowd dispersed a bit, and the few rubberneckers left looked quite bored of the situation. The Devil in Angel’s apron got to her feet, and extended a hand to help Buckley up. He refused this helpful boon, and sprung to his feet with surprising agility.

“Are you alright? That was quite a fall you too-“ “Yes, thank you. I’m just peachy keen fine. Thank you for all of your help.” He started to walk away. “But, wait. Are you sure? Didn’t you need my help with something?” Buckley continued to walk away. “No, thank you, you’ve done quite enough for me already,” his pace gaining like a waterfall’s current. “You’re all the same,” he said defiantly beyond Reba’s earshot, and continued like a man possessed to the bakery.

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writtenatthebarr · 5 years

Text

“Sir, are you okay?”

Buckley opened his tearful eyes and kept sobbing. His eyes burned and tears fell into the opened hands on his lap.

“Sir?”

Another hand dropped onto his shoulder, and Buckley fell to his backside in fear.

“Know where glee leads, yeah?” A whisper within Buckley asked. “Oh, you shut up now,” he responded. “Pardon?”

“I’m sorry, what was that you were saying?” Buckley had done an about-face to give her his full and undivided attention, still keeping up his pace in a backwards jaunt. “ “LOOK OUT!”

OH NO! HE’D ANGERED HER! WHY WAS SHE YELLING? HE WAS SURE SHE WASN’T YELLING JUST A MOMEN-

---

Darkness

to…

“Yarr!”

“Garrrr!”

The grey was concrete. A giant open expanse of concrete, with a railing on its edge. A group of people stood behind the railing and pointed at things.

---

Light

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hungry4apples · 7 years

Text

Just a Chemical Reaction

Is there any truth to Rick’s scathing words? A peek into Rick’s past life with Beth’s mother. (fluff/angst; mostly pre-canon)

Ch 2: You

I thought of you. I haven’t for years. Or maybe I have, drowning any memory of you with the click of a beer can tab. Always at the back of my mind. Stupid, arrogant, stick-up-your-ass, cold-hearted bitch, you.

FF.net / Ao3

Words: ~1K

Rating; T+

I had long-since relinquished any romantic notions of a prison cell, a clichéd hum of a harmonica, a tally chart engraved into the walls, a shiv made of a sharpened spoon. Instead of orange I wore green, instead of a cell I’d been graced with an agonizing lack of circulation in my limbs from being strapped to the wall, like an action figure in a box. They woke me at odd hours for their interrogation sessions, stabbing their probes into my brain, getting freaky with my hippocampus.

Memories flickered by. Old ones that lay dormant for years—and should’ve stayed that way—coming back to life only now in this space-age torture chamber, sober and suffering from withdrawal symptoms. The old house, generic and humourless, standing there at the curb of the cul-de-sac and reminding me too much of the place I grew up in. Running past the car decorated in streamers, cans on strings and JUST MARRIED spray paint and climbing into the UFO parked next to it instead. The past became closer, almost tangible, while the present stretched far into the distance.

I thought of you.

I haven’t for years. Or maybe I have, drowning any memory of you with the click of a beer can tab. Always at the back of my mind.

Stupid, arrogant, stick-up-your-ass, cold-hearted bitch, you.

In the end, you and I barely spoke. If at all, it was through Beth.

By the counter, you’d dip your teabag into your mug with a precise tedium that had become a nuisance to me. The mind-boggling exactitude of everything you did, your words, your movements. Once exciting when we were teenagers, ping-ponging come-backs as we played hooky, had evolved into a minefield, one misstep away from divorce at any moment.

‘Beth’s mathletes tournament is today,’ you said by the sink without moving your gaze from the driveway.

It was breakfast, for me at least, lunch for you. I shuffled around to get my cereal. Wordlessly, you moved to get out of my way, but I could still feel the weight in the air, the expectation of an answer. I opened the fridge, sniffed the orange juice carton and grimaced.

‘This’s gone bad.’

‘She’s worked really hard for this, you know.’ Your grip tightened around the mug.

‘Mmmhmm.’ I slurped on my spoonfuls of Cherrios, singling out the ones that haven’t gone soggy yet.

Your mug slammed against the countertop tile. The door shut. You left me alone with my cereal.

I never relished being Beth’s idol as much as you thought I did. The pressure, frankly, I could’ve done without.

Beth never asked me to attend her mathletes game, her soccer games, her dumb kiddy theatre productions when all she did was stand at the back with a crayon tree taped over her shoulders. And the thing about me is: if you never ask, I never answer. Simple. People should know better.

These days it was rare that we ever crossed paths before she left for school. One day she did, sporting a Walkman at her hip, obnoxiously neon spongy headphones wrapped around her hair. If she did this every morning, I’d have no idea. I knew, though, that this was the kind of thing that would normally trigger a lecture in you, but when you saw Beth, you were silent. So, this was normal.

‘You have drool on your lip,’ was all she greeted me with as she passed me by for her Pop Tart. Meanwhile, you stood off to the side, leaning against the counter in your work clothes, cradling a coffee mug. Looking down at me from afar.

You had turned her against me. That’s the mantra of every divorced-father-to-be, isn’t it? Though if I’m being honest, I don’t know who turned who against who. I watched as Beth sat across from me, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else, not talking to either of us. I remembered how she used to run into my arms at every chance she got, the sight of me so rare and precious to her. Here, over a decade later, she picked at her Pop Tart, reluctantly eating it crumb by crumb. Every now and then she’d steal a glance up at me, a distant look in her eyes as she took me in. Her father, she probably thought. What a bizarre loser he was. Her father who would soon abandon her twice more than he already had. She looked away.

I cleared my throat. ‘H-hey Beth.’ She didn’t look up. ‘Wanna hear a j-o-oke?’

She stayed silent, unmoving, but I took the fact that she didn’t make to get up or leave as encouragement. ‘When you go to the bathroom, you’re American. When you leave the bathroom, you’re American.’ She didn’t say anything but seemed attentive. ‘What are you when you’re in the bathroom?’

‘What?’ I ignored the bored scepticism in her voice.

‘EUROPEAN!’

Beth frowned but after a moment, as if mulling it over in her head, let out a loud, clumsy guffaw. Her gangly adolescent limbs moved about as she laughed, putting a hand to her mouth as she tried to cover the mess of crumbs.

Maybe it was just nervous laughter, releasing some pent-up tension, maybe she was humouring me. Faking it. It wasn’t my best, really. I’d heard it from some robot on G-87, left the bar thinking it was hilarious, but it was probably meagre at best to sober ears. But I’d made Beth happy. For whatever reason, she was happy again. I didn’t want overthink it, so I didn’t and I went on, ‘Y’see because, you’re peeing… and European…’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Beth still chuckling, but slowly catching her breath.

‘Yeah, it’s-it’s a play on words, see—’

‘Yes, Dad. I got it.’

You did your best to stand still, stay quiet but when I dared sneak a glance in your direction, I noticed your lips curled, small wrinkles formed around your eyes. I had almost forgotten your smile. But it had vanished as soon as it came. You looked down at your watch. Laughter had ground to a halt. Weighed down by silence. Beth swallowed, then looked down at her wrist, picking at some scab I’d never noticed. The memories returned, the ones that reminded us why this was, why it didn’t happen anymore.

‘Beth, we should get going,’ you said ushering our daughter away from me like I was a wild zoo animal. Beth, for her part, acknowledged me even less, replacing the headphones to her ears and pressing the volume button until I could faintly hear the Smashing Pumpkins from where I still sat with my sunny side ups. The two of you walked out the door, off to school, to work. I was left alone again.

Our little trio, each sequestered to their own heads.

It was the middle of the night for you, early evening for me. I’d come to a decision.

This was as lucid as I’d felt in years and yet I could already feel you deriding me for being tipsy. Funny how I was preparing for an argument, though if my plan were to follow through, there wouldn’t be one.

‘Watcha doing?’ Your tone was deceptively chipper. Your silhouette in the doorway made me jump, though I was quick to hide it. I must not have been quiet enough, haphazardly stuffing the UFO to the brim, the clanks of metal on metal echoing up to your bedroom where you practised a conventional circadian rhythm.

‘Was just about to head out for some ice cream.’ I couldn’t tell whether my unoriginality was a deliberate irony; an inside joke so pretentious even the insiders didn’t understand, or a sincere ineptitude when it came to lying to you.

You cocked your head, ‘It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?’ I shrugged. The ruse was pointless. ‘I have something else in mind.’ I acquiesced to trail behind you, still planning to carry on once you’d fallen asleep.

You were quiet as you led me to our rooftop, decorated with two lawn chairs and a cooler. This isn’t what I’d expected. With Beth off to camp, I knew this would’ve been the perfect occasion to get it out of your system, a few scathing remarks there, a scream here, but you were calm, in a way that almost felt genuine were it not tinged with weariness.

The setting was more romantic than either of us had dared to venture since high school. The cooler full of beer was a surprise, you’d long-since stopped drinking with me when it became obvious I couldn’t hold my liquor. As we sat down on those ungodly uncomfortable chairs, I felt a wave of nostalgia for when we first moved here. Sipping on Coke on the lawn, running through the sprinklers, getting kicked out of the theatre because our sarcasm was too loud, when you’d still humour an escapade through intergalactic customs, when we still joked about whether Gear Heads called them doctors or engineers. Life was lighter then.

You leaned into the cooler to fetch two beers, offering one to me. Facing the moon, you pulled the tab and tipped the can to your lips. You swallowed. We sat as the cicadas chirped, until finally you spoke.

‘We aren’t enough for you.’ “We” was you and Beth, I remember when it was you and me. You left no room for disagreement, you didn’t need to. It wasn’t like you to shatter the bubble of illusion we’d created, tended to lovingly like a second child. Not even a trace of performative anger. Just resignation. Sadness. I could only stare, unopened can in my hands. You turned to me with a pained look. ‘Why?’

You were uncharacteristically candid, and so I returned the favour. ‘I dunno.’

‘What’s out there that you won’t give up on, too?’

‘I don’t know.’ I said it a little quicker, impatient. Irritated that my motives were so transparent to you. But you were right.

We stayed there for hours, enjoying the novelty of getting drunk together again, though we both knew it was also the last time. And for a while, I didn’t think of returning to the garage.

When next we spoke, it wasn’t so light-hearted. Tension thickened the air. I looked up to find you standing a good few feet away from me, at arms’ length. Your devil-may-care smirk, your annoyed “Oh what’s Rick done this time” sigh of frustration were gone. Brows furrowed, pupils small as pins, you were holding your breath, scared. I sat there and wondered, if for once, I should take something seriously. But there was no point.

We were strangers. You’d found out one thing too many about what I did without you. You had morals and I didn’t. You were good and I wasn’t.

It was only a few million. A civilisation so far from here most humans didn’t have a concept of what they looked like. Not like you knew them personally enough to mourn. Your lips tightened. You looked like you wanted to run away from me and I turned my back to you. It wasn’t about what we did say anymore, all about what we didn’t.

Screw that shit.

The second time, I told myself, I’d be quiet. But it didn’t matter. You weren’t home to hear me back out of the driveway. I’d awoken one afternoon to an empty house. A vindictive part of me wanted to wait, wanted to see the hesitation in your posture. Wanted the chance to hear you call after me.

But you’d made your decision, and I mine.

#rick and morty #ram #rick sanchez #rick and morty season 3 #ram season 3 #rm #rick and morty fanfic #beth smith #diane #rick/diane #my fic #u #diane/rick

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undefinable-like-fire-archive · 7 years

Note

Alternate ending + mick couldn't save len his first day of juvie

Send ‘Alternate ending’ for a drabble on how my Muse would be different if something in their past was altered.

Feel free to add ‘+ a suggestion’ for something specific – i.e. ‘+ if their mother hadn’t died or ‘+ if they were both in a different country’ or ‘+ if they pursued another career’

To anyone reading this: Major Trigger Warning for the following story; read the tags before you read it.

He had been in Juvie for about three weeks now. Right from the start, he had hated both being locked up and the rest of the kids here. Stupid kids who had been playing at being tough and ended up getting caught, or druggies who didn’t know when to quit, or psychopaths plain and simple who were here because they were crazy enough to kill but hadn’t gone far enough to be tried as adults.

A few kids - mostly the ones who had made mistakes or been framed, and weren’t really the sorts who needed to be here at all - tried to make friends. Mick avoided them. A part of him had wanted the company. But the rest of him knew that he wasn’t on their level - he wasn’t sure what level he was on, but ‘guilty by association’ wasn’t his. He figured he was somewhere just below the psychopaths.

But then, what did he know?

So he kept to himself, ignoring shouts - most meant to annoy or sting - from others in the yard during their allotted outdoors time. There were a bunch of new kids now; a group had been shipped in the day before.

It was one of the new kids he saw being dragged toward the space between the guard tower and the shed where tools for labor were kept; out of sight, away from prying eyes.

Something didn’t sit right. Especially knowing that the band of boys he had seen were known for being the more sadistic ones.

Normally, Mick wouldn’t meddle. Normally, he’d mind his own damn business. It was why he hesitated at all, looking toward the guard tower, toward some of the security details wandering around, wondering if they would do anything. No one seemed to notice.

So Mick rose to his feet, slipping in between two chatting inmates and made his way to where he had last seen the other boys vanish.

They had a shiv. There was blood. He couldn’t tell whose it was, but he knew it belonged to the boy they had cornered; a slim thing with short dark hair, silent even despite the attack, though struggling to get away.

Mick jumped in without thinking. He wasn’t sure how he managed to hold his own until the guards heard the racket and came to drag everyone apart, but he managed to escape with only a few lacerations.

He turned to make sure the new kid was okay, but he was already being carried away by guards. He didn’t have a chance to ask before he was pushed away.

The new kid wasn’t there in the yard the next day, or the next, or the next. Mick finally managed to get a hold of one of the guards he had seen that day, to ask him what had happened.

“Who? Oh, Leonard Snart? Yeah, I’m sorry, kid, he didn’t make it.”

Mick didn’t know why it hurt so much to hear that a kid he had never even known the name of was dead. But it did.

It hurt a lot.

Mick scratched at the back of his neck, tuning out the rest of the crew. They were on about something or another, their next mission or their last mission or maybe what was for dinner that evening. He didn’t care.

He paused, brow furrowing as he felt a strange tingling sensation that started inside his head and spread slowly down his spine and through his arms. He glanced around, looking to see if they had started to time jump without warning - no, the rest of the crew stood around rambling.

Mick shook his head slightly, setting his jaw and rubbing at the side of his face, trying to chase away the sensation. He hadn’t had a drink that night, so he wasn’t buzzed, but this felt similar… and familiar, somehow. Like some sort of sense of deja vu.

The sensation began to grow worse, and Mick tried to form coherent thoughts; tried to figure out what was happening. He didn’t manage.

He had been out of juvie for a year now. Then in prison for a few more. None of it had changed anything about life.

Mick still set things on fire. Still stole. Still wandered the streets of one city, then another, then another. Whenever the police went after him, he fought them off or hid and ran when he could, leaving and going to another place.

All he ever had on him was a thick drab-green coat, a bottle of lighter fluid, and matchboxes stuffed into every single pocket. He owned nothing else, and didn’t bother finding a place to live - he didn’t need to settle down when the police would only catch him eventually.

He spent most nights wondering what his parents would think of him now. Knowing that they would be disappointed, horrified that their ‘angel child’ had become something so much more akin to the fires of Hell.

After years of it - of aimless drinking, of wandering the city to sleep under overpasses or to break into buildings on the rainier nights to sleep there, of avoiding human contact at all times if he could…

The fire could only bring him so much comfort. After years of nothing but the fire giving him solace, and nothing to chase away the shadows of guilt and the weight on his heart…

It wasn’t hard to knock one of the local dealers out and take his stash. It was even easier to find a place where no one would find him, an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. No one would get there in time.

Covering the two-floor house in a trail of lighter fluid served to go without a hitch. Setting a match andn watching bright flames roar to life, snaking throughout the house until the darkness had been lit up with a golden-red glow felt right. It wouldn’t burn down for an hour or two yet; he had been careful with where he poured the lighter fluid. It gave him time to finish the rest of the thoughts hissing through his head.

And going through with his plans, leaving empty plastic bags and the needles strewn around, was possibly the easiest thing he had ever done.

Mick didn’t have much time to think, let alone speak, before his muscles seized up and he lost his balance, toppling to the floor and landing on his hands and knees. He could hardly hear the rest of the crew’s panic over the racing of too-quick heartbeats in his ears.

Hands clenched into tight fists as his heart rate spiked to a dangerous level. He could very faintly hear someone - Ray - trying to ask him what was wrong.

What was wrong… what was wrong? What was happening… he didn’t know… didn’t understand…

Mick curled in on himself, his body working in overdrive to pump blood through his veins and his head a muddled tangle of broken thoughts and frantic words that never made it to his lips. Hands were on him, trying to turn him over, trying to find some sort of injury, but every touch felt like burning coals.

Somehow, he knew he was dying. He just didn’t know why or how.

“Rory? Rory!” Jax was the first to speak when they all turned to see Mick fall to the floor, convulsing as though his body was no longer his own. He ran over, followed closely by Ray and Stein - the scientists, the ones most likely to know what was happening.

They didn’t. Searching hands found no injuries. It was difficult to get Mick to stop thrashing, and terrifying to see him, gasping for breath, eyes shut tight, hands grasping blindly - for help, for something they couldn’t see, they didn’t know.

Red marks were starting to spread along his wrists and his forearms. Ray, panicked, ghosted his hands across the marks, almost like bruises but redder. “What’s happening?” He turned to look to the captain, whose face had gone pale as a sheet. “Rip?”

Mick lay down on his back when it had all been done. Flames were engulfing the house now. He could hardly breathe through the smoke and the pain and the chemicals rushing through his system.

That was okay. On the surface, he was panicked. Deeper down, he wasn’t sure he felt anything but peace.

Everything would be over soon.

Mick couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t do much of anything. The pain was nearly unbearable, and he knew what it was now. He didn’t know how it had happened, didn’t know why, didn’t know what had been done.

But he recognised the sharp pain in his wrists, and he recognised the burning sensation against his skin, and the cloudy haze overtaking his mind like a buzz but something many times worse.

He tried to speak, but no sound came out.

And he realised that he was afraid. A name wanted to fall from his lips, the same name he had spoken many times before the few times he was this afraid.

The fear grew more intense when he realised he couldn’t remember that name.

“Gideon?” Rip looked up toward the ceiling. “Gideon, what is happening?”

“Mr. Rory is dying, captain. Someone has altered his timeline, and he is suffering the effects.”

A beat of heavy silence. And then Ray called out, his voice shaky as he kept trying to calm the man convulsing in front of him, hands pushing down on his shoulders, brushing against his forehead, trying to think of something, anything that could help. “What can we do, Gideon?”

“I’m afraid that unless you go back and alter the timeline again - perhaps causing even worse aberrations - that there is nothing you can do.”

Everything was fading now. Flames were spreading.

The pain had either gone away or made it so that he was too numb to feel it. Mick lay surrounded by a ring of fire. And despite wanting to take comfort in the glow until he could no longer see it, he couldn’t seem to stop thinking…

Why was he thinking of the boy from juvie…?

Mick went still, finally, his body numb or too exhausted to keep moving except for the faint twitching of his limbs.

He couldn’t think. Except for one thought that he couldn’t seem to keep from clinging to. A slim boy, with short dark hair and bright blue eyes… who was he? Mick felt he should know. Felt that it was important to know.

But he couldn’t remember.

“What’s happening to him in the past that’s causing this, Gideon?” Rip’s voice was tight as he paced tight circles, hands clenched into fists at his side. Jax came running back from the medbay, carrying an armful ofo things Stein had asked for.

“According to the timeline altered, in 1991, Mick Rory robbed a drug dealer of his ware, and retreated to a farmhouse, where he set fire to it before overdosing and using a ra–”

“What can we do about it?” Stein snapped, even as he sorted through the medkit, trying to find something to undo the effects of whatever was happening.

“Nothing, unless we alter the timeline.”

Mick wasn’t moving much at all now, save for faint tremors as his breathing grew slower and more irregular.

“What caused this, we can go back and try to change it!” Jax protested, standing anxiously nearby, hands wringing.

“Judging by the rest of the timeline, in 1986, Mick Rory was sent to ‘Juvie’. Three weeks after ending up there, he tried to save a young boy who had just arrived from an attack by the other inmates–”

The flames were close enough to bring heat to his skin now, the smoke thick enough to drift overhead.

Mick could feel himself fading, and he was never more grateful for the darkness that swept in and shut out all his thoughts.

He clung to the image of dark hair and blue eyes - why? - until the last beat of his heart and the last breath he took.

Mick couldn’t hear anything through the fog in his head andn the slowing heartbeats in his ears. The panic had ceased to exist now, replaced with no will or energy or life to do much of anything but lie there, hands clenched into fists.

The darkness began to rush through, washing over him in waves.

And still the image of dark hair and blue eyes… and then someone older; the same eyes, but years later… who… why…

“–the boy was Mr. Snart, and because Mr. Rory failed to save him, they never escaped together. Without Mr. Snart to keep him grounded, he lost control of his faculties and the taking of his own life was the result. It seems that without Leonard Snart, Mr. Rory does not live long.”

Gideon fell silent. Before anyone could speak, Ray let out a frantic sound.

From ashes the soul of the fiery boy was born. To ashes it returned.

“… without Leonard Snart…”

Darkness… the blue eyes vanished…

Who was Leonard…?

……….

“Guys. Guys… he–he stopped breathing…”

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