#the implications i was trying to pull off here is probably incomprehensible
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Satoru Gojo and the Infinity That Sets Him Apart
Throught the flashback arc that opens JJK'S second season, the story goes to great lengths to make us sympathize with Geto. We are privy to the inner workings of his mind when he faces personal catastrophes of his youth, and it grants us a profound insight into how his mental/emotional state deteriorates in response to a painful realization that later comes to define his entire life. Gege found a way to turn Geto's tendency to internalize his experiences into a narrative tool, the mechanics of his Cursed Technique becoming an apt metaphor for it, and that's one truly astonishing writing.
But what about Gojo? After all, it's his memories that play out before our eye as he daydreams, and Geto is no longer an active force in the narrative, so the arc should be introduced in the first place to shed some light on Satoru's character and highlight certain aspects of it. However, while the narrative goes out of its way to humanize Geto by exposing his interiority to the audience, it seems to bit by bit deny readers access to Gojo's mind until Satoru is entirely closed off emotionally at the end of Hidden Inventory Arc. From that point on, any reading of his words and actions can be as good as the other since personal interpretation is all that is left to us to try and understand what lies behind the appearances (I guess that's precisely why there are so many widely different, conflicting interpretations of Gojo out there). What process Gojo's character undergoes throughout his past arc is, essentially, dehumanization.
Let's take a look at Gojo as he is in the main, present timeline. Pretty much as any other person in Gojo's vicinity, the audience can only observe him from the outside, always held at an arm's length away from his interior thoughts and emotions. Whenever we do get an insight into his mind, it's mostly for a solely practical purpose of keeping the readers informed about the direction which the fight is about to take, with Satoru's internal monologues consisting almost completely of him dryly strategizing against his opponents.
Even Gojo's design is set to dehumanize him, teasing the audience with how much it conceals and how little it allows us to derive from what we see. Plain black clothes, long sleeves, long trousers, high collar. Barely any skin exposed, scarce detail, completely colourless expression. To crown it all, his blindfold -- we do not get to see his eyes. Eyes mirror the soul, they communicate emotion which our words fail to. Eye contact is a primal tool of non-verbal communication because of how much our eyes alone can give away about our feelings. With Gojo's eyes perpetually hidden under his ever-present blindfold, there's an additional layer of protection, another hindrance to our understanding of his state of mind. A simple piece of cloth adds to the distance preventing access to Gojo's direct perspective, as impenetrable as trying to look through a blindfold would be for anyone but Gojo himself. The same could be applied even to his height: people around him are required to reach up with their gaze in order to look him in the face. Once again, this choice in his design strives to communicate one thing: you cannot meet him at his level, there is a palpable distance between where he stands and where you are. Everything about Gojo feels almost impersonal, evasive, further increasing the extent of his alienation.
There's an interesting connection found between Gojo's technique, his need to cover his eyes and the narrative distance that does not allow us to get any closer to his character. It's precisely when Gojo puts his mind to perfecting his usage of the Limitless that an unbreachable impediment settles between him and the people around, resulting in him and Geto from that point on being forever unable to get through to each other. With his technique taking a toll on his body by becoming more overwhelming to use after such a rapid increase in power, it's also when Gojo starts to wear his shades all the time. And whereas before we were allowed to look past the tanned spectacles and see his eyes, read the emotion in them, now we're denied even that much. It's probably a short after Geto's defection when Satoru switches to a blindfold, indicating how he completely shuts off emotionally. Just as Geto's Curse Manipulation stands as a metaphor for him repressing his feelings till the breaking point, Gojo's mental state is reflected through the physical appearance, too. Him physically distancing himself from everything within the world around him with his Limitless technique sustaining an uncrossable invisible barrier around him and his blindfold hiding his eyes from the viewer is also how his emotional detachment is established on the meta level of the narrative.
Since Geto's defection, Gojo's defenses are breached in the main timeline just once, and that is during Shibuya Incident Arc. It's barely a coincidence that, as the Limitless falls short and the ever-present physical distance is crossed sharply with the Prison Realm reaching Gojo, the emotional distance is immeadiately eliminated, too.
All defenses down and the memories of his youth flooding through the cracks, Gojo suddenly isn't numb to all the hurt of his past mistakes and what it cost him and the people around him; all the ache of losing his best friend not once but twice and being utterly unable to do anything about it still weighs on him. Neither is numb to all of it the reader, not anymore. The narrative 'catches up' to Gojo at this moment. It was an alienating, almost inhumane experience to never get a sight of Gojo's emotions when it mattered the most, at the pivotal events of his life which come to shape him as a character and as a person. We were simply denied that intimacy. But with Satoru's physical body made within reach and his mind suddenly transparent, laid bare, the delayed heartbreak is alive and present as ever. The weakness of his human heart is exposed, but it required crossing the Infinity to get to his heart.
The physical distance is only breached because the emotional one is eliminated beforehand. However, we finally get to catch a glimpse of Gojo's true feelings because something within the world was able to reach him physically, penetrating through his Limitless technique. The two are the sides of the one coin, they go hand in hand within the narrative, ultimately rendered inseperable by it. At the end of the day, the body is the soul and the soul is the body.
I've started writing all this well before the spoilers for the last chapter came out, but what we see in it, at least how I personally take it, speaks in favour of pretty much everything I've been talking about above. It's somewhat notorious how little emotional impact Gojo's fight against Sukuna lands. Until now. Until Gojo's Infinity utterly fails to prevent his body from taking the damage. Once again we gain insight into his interiority the instance he's physically exposed to the world. With Gojo's invulnerability ultimately overcome, the narrative grants us access to his inner feelings and thoughts one last time. Satoru's heart is an aching wound split open one last time.
#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#jjk analysis#jjk meta#gojo satoru#geto suguru#jujutsu kaisen spoilers#jjk manga spoilers#alright i'm posting it just to get it over with#i'm so exhausted and overwhelmed with what we saw in the spoilers this week#emotionally stunted head in my hands you know the drill#god i wish i never got into this manga#not when something like this makes so much sense narrative-wise#it's unbearable#the implications i was trying to pull off here is probably incomprehensible#but i don't have it in me right now to care
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Enchanted
Chapter 2
Pairing: NishinoyaXReader
Words: 3K
Summary: When your best friend enters a relationship with a prince your life changes in ways you never thought possible. You gain new friendships, learn dangerous secrets, and discover that maybe love might exist for you after all...
A/N: I liked this one a lot. I’m having a lot of fun with the cocky/teasing Nishinoya flirting style for this story in the beginning chapters lol especially when the reader is just over it. It’s a fun dynamic for me
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Your eyes scoured the massive ballroom filled with upscale strangers and fancy decor. From the intricate chandeliers that cost more than you could imagine to the food display that held things you couldn’t pronounce, you knew one thing for sure-you were incredibly out of place. As couples danced in the center of the room, their expensive attire far outdoing what you found last minute, you squeezed your arm tighter around Hinata for comfort.
“I still don’t understand why I’m here,” you mumbled, giving a pointed glare to a guy eyeing you with a sleazy smirk.
“Well, it’s not like I’ve ever been invited to a castle party either,” Hinata patted your arm nervously while scanning the crowd.
“You’re with the prince now. Obviously you would get invited.”
“And you’re my friend,” Hinata cocked a brow. “It’s probably a plus one situation.”
“They’re usually so strict with invites though…” You supposed your family had some reputation, so maybe that helped? You still didn’t believe it was enough to allow you to spend time around the castle…
“Let’s not worry about it,” Hinata squeezed your forearm reassuringly. “You get to come to the party and I don’t have to stand around awkwardly. Win-win.”
You rolled your eyes, gaze landing on the guy still eyeing you up. “My father said this would be a great opportunity to meet a man from a good family.”
“At least he’s consistent.”
“Never let’s me down.”
Hinata snorted, “I mean, technically he’s not wrong.”
“I know,” you sighed, taking another sweep around the room. This was probably one of the best opportunities you would get. “I should probably mingle, huh?”
Hinata hummed, furrowing his brow at the idea. “If that’s what you want.”
“Who knows anymore.”
Hinata looked crestfallen, but before he could respond his eyes locked on something over your shoulder. You followed his gaze confused and your expression dropped when you discovered Nishinoya’s bright smile.
“Hey, Hinata. I’m glad you were able to make it,” he looked puzzled when he locked eyes with you. “How did you get in?”
“An invitation.” You sneered with clenched fists when he cocked his head to the side, mischief dancing in his eyes.
“How’d you get one of those?”
“It was sent to me.”
“Weird,” he drawled out, looking up thoughtfully and trying to force down a smile. You took a long shuddering breath to not let him get to you.
“You guys are friends?” Hinata looked between you both skeptically and Nishinoya nodded in delight.
“Oh yeah. She flirted with me the other day and-”
“I did not flirt with you.” Warmth began creeping up your cheeks when Hinata turned to you wide eyed.
“Maybe not…” Nishinoya tapped his chin. “I guess she did say I was terrible at my job.”
“You what?” Hinata had an amused smirk and if looks could kill you would be infamous for murdering the Guardian Deity.
“He was being bad at his job!” You gestured at Nishinoya wildly. “Besides, he called me rude and undeserving of my family’s status.”
“You what?” Hinata’s jaw went slack and Nishinoya stiffened.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Might as well have,” you smirked. He deadpanned, glancing toward the center of the ballroom before giving you an apologetic smile that set off multiple red flags.
“Sorry about that. How about I make it up to you?” He pointed toward the dance floor and raised a brow. “Would you like to dance?”
You blinked several times. “Excuse me?”
“Dance?” His nose crinkled as he thought, “uh… moving around with music?”
“I know what dancing is.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing guard stuff or something?”
“Doing guard stuff…” He muttered under his breath with a small smirk. “I thought you already knew I was bad at my job?”
You rolled your eyes, glancing uncertainly around the ballroom. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to have to-”
“She’d love to,” Hinata nudged you forward.
You looked back betrayed, “what do you mean I’d-”
“That’s great,” Nishinoya hooked his arm around yours and started pulling you forward. You stared back at Hinata flabbergasted as Nishinoya dragged you further away.
“But he-I didn’t-this isn’t great at all!”
“Have fun,” Hinata waved after you and you gave him a heated glare. When you got back from this short-lived adventure he was getting an earful.
Nishinoya guided you through several groups of people before releasing your arm and turning in front of you. He held his arms in position, but waited for you to initiate further. You hadn’t expected him to give you an actual out once you were out there. You glanced around at the other partygoers nervously before grabbing Nishinoya’s hand, resting your other on his shoulder.
“You get one,” you mumbled as you began moving.
He hummed, eyes scanning your face before he smiled. “I can live with that.”
“You really aren’t going to get in trouble for this?”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “I have everything under control.”
You weren’t sure if you believed him, but it wasn’t your job to care. “So, why are we dancing exactly?”
“It seemed like the best way to charm someone.”
“Ah,” a playful smirk rested on your lips. “Maybe it would be if you knew how to dance.”
“Huh? I can dance.”
“Considering I’ve been leading and you haven’t noticed… I’d say you aren’t the best.”
His stare snapped to your feet before looking up flustered. “Stop that. Let me lead.”
“No, you’ll embarrass me.”
“I will not,” he pouted. “I have three sisters that forced me to dance with them. I know what I’m doing.”
“You have sisters?” You latched onto the slip up quickly as his eyes widened.
“No,” his eyes flickered around you to those too wrapped up in their own conversations to worry about your bickering. You stored the tidbit of information on Nishinoya in a new area you created for him, ignoring those implications and how your stomach fluttered from excitement.
“I don’t like the look on your face,” he added with a suspicious gaze.
“I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Now I’m more worried,” he mumbled, glancing at a spot over your shoulder with a confident smirk. You raised a brow, following his gaze before your stomach knotted. The spot where Hinata had been waiting was completely empty. You searched around the room for his bright locks, but he was nowhere to be found.
You turned back to Nishinoya in betrayal, “where’s Shoyo?”
“Prince Kageyama wanted to spend some time with him.”
“So you…” You stared down at your feet before whipping back up at Nishinoya’s eyes that held a hint of regret. “You were distracting me?”
“He needed a way to get Hinata alone.” He looked upward thoughtfully, “and I didn’t mind talking to you again so...”
“I’m so dumb…” you grumbled. You didn’t even care that Hinata was hanging out with Prince Kageyama, but you wished it hadn’t involved you getting tricked to do so. “Now I’ll have to mingle without Shoyo as an out.”
“Mingle?” Nishinoya cocked his head to the side.
You waved a hand around the room exhausted. “Meet people. See if any of them are decent enough that I won’t completely hate my life if I try dating them.”
Nishinoya grimaced at your description, scanning the room slowly while tapping his fingers on your hip. He looked between you and the many people surrounding before hesitantly suggesting, “we could leave?”
You stared in a stunned silence before sputtering out, “what?”
“I know this place we could go so you don’t have to worry until Hinata’s back?” He cringed as the words came out.
“This sounds really sketchy.”
“I know. I don’t know how to make it not.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek, debating if you should stay with the strangers who would bore you to death or trust the guy who just deceived you. You sighed, giving Nishinoya a quick once-over.
“Alright, lead the way.”
He promptly began shouldering through the sea of people, checking back every so often that he hadn’t lost you amongst the crowd. When you finally broke away from the groupings he led you to the back of the room, doing a quick sweep before opening a door that had been strategically hidden behind a curtain. Seconds thoughts crept into your mind as he ushered you through the door, eyes locked behind you to ensure no one was on your tail.
“Why do I get the idea we aren’t supposed to be back here?” you whispered as you reluctantly followed him down an empty corridor. Your footsteps echoed against the tiles while you stared at the incomprehensibly tall ceilings.
“Probably because we aren’t supposed to be back here.” Nishinoya navigated the maze of a castle without hesitation, checking each hall before hastily waving you behind him. You again wondered how nobody would notice his absence, but were unwilling to voice the concern in fear of being teased.
Eventually he stops before a set of glass doors, pausing with his hand on the handle before pulling one open and gesturing you inside. You were in awe as you stepped out the door, Nishinoya had led you to the castle gardens. An expanse of green overtook you. You saw speckles of color amongst it while a babbling told you of a stream somewhere in the vast room.
“It’s off limits for the night, so there’s no one for you to worry about.” He said, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes. It made a weird pang strike your chest, so you turned back toward the extensive garden.
“I mean, you’re still here,” you quipped in an attempt to bring back the familiar atmosphere.
He snorted, “yeah, I guess that’s true.”
You walked languidly down the cobblestone path with Nishinoya beside you-his hands lazily shoved in his pockets. The gardens were as beautiful up close as they were at a distance. You trailed your fingers across petals as you moved, Nishinoya never breaking the comfortable silence even when you stopped at a small pond, koi fish swirling around each other in the clear water.
You hated to admit it, but you didn’t hate being in his company. You actually kind of liked it.
“Oh,” you perked up when your eyes met his in the water’s reflection. “My friend wanted to know about your hair.”
Nishinoya’s eyebrows furrowed while his hand slowly rose to his head. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head and pointing to your own forehead. “He wanted to know why part of it is blonde.”
Nishinoya went cross-eyed to look at the blonde streak he had, twirling it between his fingers. “I don’t know I was born that way. Why’d he want to know that?”
The image of Yamaguchi flailing his arms around while reciting a grand tale of Nishinoya being struck by lightning as you walked home together after the festival replayed in your mind. You swiftly shook it away and waved Nishinoya off. “Not sure, he’s a weird guy.”
Nishinoya looked skeptical, but didn’t press you further. You let out a relieving sigh and added scolding Yamaguchi for all the stupid rumors onto your list of things to do when the night was over.
“There’s a clearing up ahead that has a bunch of shaped bushes,” Nishinoya said, pointing further down your path. “They’re pretty funny.”
“You would think bushes are funny.”
“It’s not the bushes,” he said pouting. “It’s the shapes they get trimmed into. There’s one that looks like a cat mixed with a lizard. I swear they do it on purpose because-”
Nishinoya froze when he reached the entrance to the clearing and when you peeked past the bushes you nearly audibly gasped before Nishinoya put a hand over your mouth. He started dragging you back down the pathway, but it was too late. You had already seen them.
“Tanaka you fucking idiot. You’re supposed to tell me when you fucking sneak off you absolute shithead I can’t believe you just….” Nishinoya continued to curse out whoever Tanaka was under his breath while his hold on your hand he’d grabbed remained tight. You stared down at your conjoined hands and if the situation wasn’t so serious you would probably be more embarrassed by it.
When Nishinoya deemed you were a great enough distance from the scene he pulled you to the side between a few trees, checking down the path to be sure you weren’t followed. He clasped his hands together and took a deep breath before giving you a serious look.
“What did you see?”
You nibbled on your bottom lip, avoiding his eyes. “I saw Lady Kiyoko with a guard in a rather… compromising situation.”
Nishinoya narrowed eyes, “define compromising.”
“Romantic.” You mumbled. Which was an understatement because they’d been beside each other holding hands with foreheads pressed together and whispering low, which was very clearly more meaningful than just romantic.
“Fuck,” Nishinoya dragged his hands down his face and began pacing a small circle. “Tanaka’s going to kill me. I mean, he should’ve warned me, but why would he expect me to actually bring someone here? I’m not usually like that. Besides, his situation is actually serious and I just... Oh god, I’m so dead.”
You blinked a few times before pointing a finger at him. “What was that part about him not expecting you to bring someone here?”
“Huh?” Nishinoya looked at you puzzled, as if he’d forgotten you were still with him.
“Yeah, how you’re not like that?” You crossed your arms. “What did you mean by-”
“Look you can’t tell anyone you saw this,” Nishinoya said, looking desperate. “Her family would kill him. They’re really strict about that stuff.”
You nodded and looked back down the path sadly, “but what are they going to do?”
“They don’t know.” Nishinoya looked at the ground annoyed. “They were hoping the whole Kageyama and Hinata thing would make her family more open-minded, but if anything it made them worse.”
You chewed your cheek as you thought. It had caused a bit of an uproar when Hinata started a relationship with Prince Kageyama since Hinata isn’t from a high end family. A lot of people were upset with the outcome and you guessed Kiyoko’s family was one of them.
“They looked so happy,” you whispered.
“They are,” Nishinoya leaned back. “It’s all so stupid, but at least they have each other, you know?”
Your lips quirked into a small smile. “I didn’t think that was possible,” you said, glancing up at his confused expression. “To end up that happy.”
It never felt like an option. To be able to look at someone the way Kiyoko looked at… Tanaka was it? You always imagined it feeling fake, but that looked so real.
“Maybe you just gave up before they could find you.” Nishinoya said, barely above a whisper with eyes uncharacteristically soft.
“Or maybe they’re just lazy and taking too long.” You countered, unsure of the way your heart rate increased when an amused smile crossed his face.
“Or maybe he saw how rude you were and decided they’d rather be alone,” he said, lacing his hands behind his head and turning to continue down the path back toward the castle.
You scoffed, jogging after him. “I’m sure someone would put up with me before they’d deal with you.” You glared and he stuck his tongue out at you with crossed eyes. “See? You’re a child.”
“I’m a delight to be around and you’re lucky to know me.”
“And now you’re a liar,” you shook your head. “No wonder you’re single.”
He chuckled, kicking a small stone laying in your path. “We should probably head back. Hinata should be done by now.”
“Oh yeah,” you observed the lit windows on the second-story where silhouettes stood close mimicking laughter. “He’s probably getting worried.”
Nishinoya nodded, guiding you back to the castle with more harmless bickering and the closer you got to the doors the more you fought the disappointment that ached in your chest. You hoped it was for the gardens, but you weren’t that foolish.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about missing me for long,” Nishinoya stated and fear struck you that he could read your mind. “I called it last time, so I’ll call it again. We’ll see each other soon.”
You had the quip on the tip of your tongue-that you wanted him to be wrong, hoped you wouldn’t see him again-instead what came out was just, “okay.”
He seemed thrown off, like that was the last thing he expected, so he just looked back toward his feet and mumbled out a soft, “okay.”
The rest of the walk was a comfortable silence as you settled with the fact that you probably wouldn’t mind seeing him again. Which was a first regarding you meeting new people. What that meant you weren’t sure, but it might not feel terrible figuring it out.
#nishinoya yu x reader#nishinoya yuu#nishinoya x reader#nishinoya yu#hinata shouyou#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader#haikyu!!#haikyuu#nishinoya imagine#kagehina
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Slower Than Words Ch. 5
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
I legitimately feel sorry about this chapter! It wasn’t meant to be this intense, just lightly angsty. Virgil really threw himself under the angst bus for this one so buckle up y’all
cw: gagging, unethical eye operations (not in great detail), panic attack, kidnapping, by a cult specifically, character being restrained (both on a table and not), brief mention of blood, fever, intense pain, vomit, that’s a lot of warnings, passing mention of drugs, singular mention of an IV, surgical implications
~
Everything was decidedly not going to be okay, Virgil realized several days later when he was rudely awoken by rough hands pulling him out of bed and out the door before he could say a word. He opened his mouth to scream and had a rag stuffed in it, which was also rude.
While being dragged down a hallway, Virgil took the moment to reflect on his current mental state, which was scarily calm considering what was happening. Shock, probably. Even more likely was the overwhelming gratitude he was feeling that it was him leaving the safety of the room, not Patton. That gratitude gave way to fear (finally) as he was brought into another room, one with a distinctly medical smell.
The room. Not the room, please, not the place where his eyes burned and he could hear himself screaming but was fairly detached, watching from the side as the men and women in white coats leaned over him and measured his reaction. The place where he was left alone, for weeks, as his eyes slowly healed but never saw again. The place where they had strapped him down, hadn't drugged him even as he struggled and sobbed with pain—
They were doing that now, Virgil realized with a start, and he began to fight, trying to force them away and roll off the table, but they already had his ankles secured.
“Get that out of his mouth, we're not monsters.”
Virgil would have cried at hearing words that didn't come from his own mouth if he weren't already crying. The rag was pulled from between his teeth, and he gasped out incomplete sentences of pleas and desperation.
“Virgil, is it?” a woman said.
“My name, that's my name,” Virgil sobbed, almost incoherently. No one had said it in so long, he almost wanted them to say it again.
“Well Virgil, we're here to help. All we need you to do is lie still.”
Virgil would have promised anything, but he was suddenly aware of the fact that they had finished strapping him down. He didn't have a choice here. He tried to calm his hitching sobs, aware that he definitely looked not only like a fool, but weak.
“Wh-what are you going to do?” he asked pitifully. There were several long moments of silence. Then the same woman before spoke, saying eerily familiar words.
“We're going to fix you, in the name of the Prophets.”
Virgil screamed.
-
Virgil had been in the back of this van for far too long. His mind was still in overdrive with fear, but now he could wonder—why had he been kidnapped? There was nothing special about him. He was just like any other college kid, trying to make his way in life with money in the negative and relationships even lower. The only person who might care about him was his roommate Roman, but he also had no money and therefore would never be able to pay a ransom. Not to mention, Roman was promising. He was only failing geology, he'd just gotten a role in a production at the high end theater across town, and he had a boyfriend who definitely didn't care about Virgil.
There was nothing he could do to escape whatever awful fate these strangers had for him. They didn't look too dangerous, all four men wearing square-looking jeans and plain t-shirts, but none of them had very built figures. Only one looked like he worked out, which was a testament to the fact that Virgil was a pathetic weakling. He should've splurged and bought that gym membership.
The van stopped for hours at one point, Virgil assumed in a hotel parking lot or something. He would've liked to get out of the cramped space, but it was clear that wasn't happening any time soon. His hands were tied to his ankles (a fact that had sent him into more than one panic attack) and both were pulled behind his back in a hog tie, and a bandana was bundled up in his mouth and tied around the back of his head. He could tell it was night; some of the light from the part of the van with seats filtered in during the day. It was nice to have a little light. Darkness scared him—he always slept with the blinds on the window turned to let some moonlight in, now that he was far too old for a nightlight. Now, however, there was zero light and Virgil was barely keeping himself from freaking out. He just had to survive the night, then nothing would ever be dark again.
They were back on the road. The men chatted loudly, but so many of the words seemed to have a different context for them than they did for him. Haven? Blessings? Liberating? It sounded like a cult, and Virgil once again attempted to free himself of the ropes. The only thing he gained was rope burn.
When the door opened and Virgil blinked at the sudden light and wave of heat, he had to assume they'd arrived. Instead of moving (or shooting) him, two people stared. A man and a woman, the man in a simple suit, the woman in an even simpler dress. Sweat trickled down Virgil's temple as he stared back at them, his jaw aching and limbs strained.
“This one will do,” the woman said eventually. The man nodded agreement, and then the ones that had kidnapped him in the first place were dragging him out of the van. Virgil maintained eye contact with the two as he passed. What did that mean? What did they need him for?
The sun beat down on them as the four men carried Virgil across a dirt road. There were small, one-story houses lining the street, but nobody outside. Virgil only had a moment to wonder why before he was being ushered into a large building. It was cooler inside than out, but still stuffy, like the air conditioning was one of those old window units.
He was carried into a room that smelled like a hospital—and looked like one. The counters were laden with different tools that he had no idea what they were to be used for, but looked vaguely like they belonged in a horror movie. The four men rolled him onto the operating table in the center of the room, then set to work untying him. Virgil lay still, hoping to trick them into thinking he would be compliant. He'd wait until his legs were free, then start fighting back.
That was a no-go, as it turned out. The men easily grabbed his legs and pulled a strap over them, securing him into place. He managed to flail his fist into one person's nose, and felt a deep satisfaction when the man doubled over, bleeding. It was quickly snuffed out as the other three got a hold of his arms and strapped them down as well. Then they all left, even the man Virgil had hit, shutting the door and leaving him alone.
Virgil's eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. The only sound was his heavy breathing. He flexed his fingers and toes a few times, trying to get feeling back into them. He groaned deep in his throat as they began to tingle, then ache. He shifted a little, the sweat pooling under his shirt and hoodie making him supremely uncomfortable.
The door opened with a bang, startling Virgil enough that he jumped. Quite a few—seven, maybe—people in white lab coats entered, the last man wearing plain clothes and looking less like a nerd than the others and more like a bodyguard. Virgil swallowed. What were they going to do to him?
“Hello, Virgil,” an older man with a scar on his chin said, smiling too wide. He leaned over the table, and Virgil tried to lean away. The man tsked, his smile dimming slightly.
“Now, that won't do. Don't be scared, Virgil. We aren't going to hurt you.” The man frowned for a split second, then chuckled. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to lie. This will likely be very painful, Virgil.”
Virgil couldn't force his eyes away from the man's, cold brown eyes boring into his soul. He felt the fear rise, bubbling out of his throat in a muffled cry, even as a tear slipped out of his eye and rolled toward his temple.
“We're going to break you, in the name of the Prophets.”
Then they were holding his head still, and—no—no—not his eyes, please, anything else—
Virgil screamed.
-
Virgil didn't know how long he feverishly drifted, but it was certainly hours. His eyes—it was more than burning, somehow. It was the fire of a thousand suns, concentrated in his eye sockets and pounding through his head. All he could feel was the pain, not knowing where he was or aware of any outside stimulus.
The moment Virgil recognized that it was terrifying was the moment that he could feel his fingers. Suddenly, he was no longer a miasma of pain, but a human being (engulfed by pain) again. That was also when he realized there was something pressed up to his lips. He opened his mouth—water, warm and stale but still water—flooded his dry mouth and and he choked as it hit the back of his throat. The bottle was pulled away, and Virgil spluttered for a few moments before all the water was clear of his airway. Exhausted by the fight and debilitated from the pain, Virgil let his eyes slip closed and drifted again.
When he next woke, it was to incomprehensible pain and the sensation of moving, as if whatever he was laying on was being moved. Barely letting himself wonder where he was headed, Virgil drifted again.
The cycle repeated for a while before Virgil found himself fully conscious. It hurt to turn his head, so he laid still, despite all the noises around him. He was shaking constantly, and he was pretty certain he was strapped down. The room wasn't cold, exactly, but Virgil longed for a blanket, something to perhaps weigh down his legs and ease the quaking.
“Can you hear me?”
Virgil wasn't sure if the person was talking to him or not, so he didn't respond. The other noises around the room—a sink running? A quiet conversation?—continued as if nothing happened.
“Can you hear me?”
This time, the voice was louder, and distantly familiar. Virgil nodded slightly, cut short as he grimaced in pain. Moving his head made the pain spike, inducing nausea. Now he felt he was going to throw up, as well as shiver to death. Great.
“Tell me your name.”
“Virgil,” he rasped. He'd never given these people his last name—how they'd found out his first was a mystery to him—but it didn't quite count as an act of defiance when just saying his first name had sapped all of his energy. He tasted copper in the back of his mouth and wondered vaguely if he'd screamed so much that his throat had bled.
“He's conscious enough. Try to get him to stand up.”
Virgil was trying to figure out how to respond to this when he registered the sound of Velcro tearing, then hands grabbed his arms and pulled him off of the surface. Immediately his headache spiked, and he cried out, barely aware of his knees buckling and hitting the floor.
A sigh was heard. Virgil sniffed back tears, despite the little voice in the back of his head telling him he had literally zero dignity left. He didn't want to cry, especially not at just standing up.
Then suddenly, they were moving. Virgil struggled to get his feet underneath him, but failed and resigned himself to being dragged. He was certain he was about to pass out. His head grew fuzzy, limbs filled with pins and needles. The sound of himself being pulled on the concrete was even louder than anything that had just been going on in the room; it filled his ears and pounded along to his heartbeat.
He distantly heard a laugh, then gasped as someone let go and his head cracked against the floor. It wasn't too bad, he wasn't very far from the floor anyway, but the pain of the impact still caused him to lose the battle against his stomach, vomiting all over himself and the floor. Some commotion followed that; Virgil's head was spinning and splitting and his eyes burned and put simply, he couldn't keep track.
He drifted again, laying on the floor in his own sick, not sure what was real and what wasn't. Too soon, though, he was brought back to the waking world by a jet of water hitting him square in the stomach. He jerked, then spluttered as the water hit his face. Somehow, while shocking, it was more pleasant than the pain, a nice distraction. That didn't last, though. Soon enough, Virgil was shivering and numb as the water kept spraying, a sob tearing from his throat as more and more went up his nose.
Finally it stopped, the only sounds being the water dripping from his soaked clothing and his shuddering sobs. Virgil couldn't stop crying and shaking, and there was only one thought in his head, playing over and over: I want Patton. Please I want Patton. Please Patton please I want Patton please—
After what felt like hours of just laying there, hands grabbed his wrists again and began dragging. Virgil didn't even try to stand, or stop crying. He was so cold. So, so, cold, and he just wanted Patton, just wanted to be safe. . . .
More noise—so loud—and a little more strain on his arms before he was dropped, palms bouncing lightly off the floor. Virgil wanted to curl up on his side, hoard what little body heat he had, but he couldn't move. He couldn't move, and they were coming closer. His sobs ratcheted up as he just knew they were right above him, holding those tools and moving closer and—
Someone touched him, and Virgil whimpered loud. He couldn't—not again—please no, please please please no—
They took his hand and touched his wrist—an IV, they were just putting drugs in him—with warm fingers, tracing something—
Tracing . . . something. . . .
P-a-t-t-o-n.
“Patton,” Virgil croaked. Patton was here. Patton was safe, Patton would make everything all right. With that knowledge, Virgil finally fell into a comfortable sleep.
~
Taglist (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222 @basiic-emo @patt0n-sanders @rosiepupper @fangirlgeekandfreak @dn-fan21 @that2000skid @remy-the-lemon-berry @itsadastraperaspera @xionbean @sanderssides-angst @hell-yea-we-gay-tonight @maybedefinitely404
#slower than words#thomas sanders#sanders sides#ts#ts sides#fanfiction#sanders sides fic#sanders sides angst#angst#virgil sanders#ts virgil#patton sanders#ts patton#...wow#torture#panic attack#i'm so sorry virgil#this was a stressful chapter for him#the next chapter will be better for him right?#right???#:)#ask to tag#y'all: please stop hurting our boy#me: strong argument but what if i didn't#reminder that none of the sides are unsymp in this!#all members of the cult (minus pat and his dad)#are ocs!#cults#sanders sides fanfiction#ts fanfic
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Violent Delights: Chapter 6
Pairing: First Order!Poe x reader
Author’s note: This is different to the other chapters, but I hope you like it! I’ll probably fix typos tomorrow. I’m impatient.
Summary: This definitely answers that KEY QUESTION I left hanging at the end of Chapter 5! If you’re new to this story, there are MAJOR SPOILERS under the cut, so please do read the other chapters first (series masterlist here). Even if you’ve been following, you may want to recap Chapter 5 first!
Song inspo: Oh, in my ears / My blood is just roaring / When he's the only one I've ever wanted / I suppose that's just the way it is / Just to think this could be / The last time I hold you, hold you / Ever again / Oh, I don't think I'll ever sleep till / Morning. (Nicole Aitken, The Way It Is)
Warnings: 18+ only, dark fic. This is nowhere near as dark as the preceding chapters but still some warnings: OOC!Poe, FO!Poe, Violence inc: injuries! shooting! Explicit language. Mentions of: torture / sex / death / poison! Let me know if I missed any others.
Taglist: @aussiefangirlwolfy, @localashe, @fictionalcharactersownme, @a-somehow-functioning-dumbass, @itsamedeemoney, @woakiees @tintinwrites@jyn-z-solo @spaghetti-666 @kittyofalltrades @planetpoes (TAGLIST OPEN- let me know if you wish to be added / removed)
Word Count: 6K. Yikes.
GIF by @solorenskywalker
It hurts you. Somehow, it hurts you.
And yet, you are solidified in place, no wound observable.
The moment slows almost to a halt as you register the shot.
Dameron is hit.
The blast hits first. Then, shock, pain, and anger strike all at once, eddying between you and the Commander like the swell of a vicious storm, the air charged and practically humming. At first, his rage at this insulting wound sunk into his flesh is so vital that an immediate hope blooms in your chest; how can he be fatally hurt if he seems so alive? Then; something alien surfaces in his eyes. Something which looks a lot like fear. He delivers an agonised moan, already sounding hollowed out, and your fleeting hope wanes with him.
He unfists his hands from your clothing as he moves to clutch his shoulder in agony. He is cleaved from you and you are split in two, in every figurative way possible. You are ruptured by the blast like a fault line snaking beneath an ocean. This boiling rage is subdued only by the heavy, cooling sea of grief with threatens to depress you down on to your knees. You are torn, the desire to erupt in retaliation on behalf of your “enemy” in stark opposition to your need to sink with your lover. You want to fall to the floor with him. To your knees. To hold him. No question. But if you try and help him, Barret might shoot you too.
The indecision burns you.
It hurts you, this shot.
But it hurts Dameron more.
The commander groans, creaks beneath the weight of this pain. It presses down on him and his body curls in on itself as he creeps further towards a colourless exit, the knives in his eyes blunted. There is no vivid, crimson tide of blood to warn you of death incoming. Not this time. This is death pouncing from the long grass like a whip crack. The predator no-one saw coming.
The commander’s face contorts in a rendition of agony, his face almost beautiful with it. But this is not the kind of pain he has made his friend. This is pain without pleasure. And, since you can’t reach out to him, pain without comfort.
The cruellest pain of all.
“No. No. No.” you repeat -almost inaudibly- as Dameron sinks to his knees. You feel like he’s sinking into the depths of a cold, dark sea. Sinking out of reach.
His dark, tempestuous eyes are directed up at you, teeth gritted, lips sucked thin as agony grips him. On his knees like this, he could easily appear like a beast defeated; defanged and declawed. But there is some fight left in his eyes yet. Enough for him to try and spur you into action. “Time to go, Rebel. You fly, he guns, understand?”
You don’t understand. How can you comprehend leaving him like this?
His voice is shot with gravel, full of holes, but it still speaks its way into the depths of you. “Now. Go!, he insists, his voice winding its way around your bones and pulling you into motion, as if he holds the reins in the palm of his hand. As if he can bend you to his will, even now.
He has been dragging you to him all this time and now he urges you to leave, as if he’s unaware of the strength it will take to release yourself from his orbit; from his gravity. But staying isn’t helping him. In fact, it’s worse than that, you’re a danger to him every second you’re still on this ship. You know too much. He needs you gone from his sky.
You obey reluctantly, giving him the smallest of nods, letting your trembling fingertips drag ever so gently, subtly along his jaw as you turn towards the TIE. You move with strings still on you, dragging you back to him and making each step feel like you are wading through mud.
Progressing towards the craft, you are vaguely aware of Barret barking at you, calling you in to the interior of the fighter. You clamber up the ladder and into the tight cockpit just as Troopers swarm into the hangar, the blaster shots bouncing off the ship’s exterior. Your shaking hands hover above the ignition controls, ready to punch it. Instead, you wait. You wait until you are assured that the Troopers have made their way over to the vicinity of the Commander. You wait until the last possible second.
With a final glance through the transparisteel windshield, you look down at his now stilled form on the ground below you. His crown of pitch-dark curls and his uniform-clad body splayed out -helpless- over the cold floor. You don’t know if it was a killing shot. Without a crimson tide of blood, you can’t tell if Dameron’s still alive. But you do know that you have to go, regardless. With a sharp growl of regret, of anguish, you boost the ship out of the swiftly closing gap in the hangar doors. Just in the nick of time.
And so, you fly.
You fly with a pounding heart, blood raging in your ears. You fly, so enraged with your passenger that you are tempted to crash the ship just to make him pay. But there is nothing around you. No ground, no sky. Nothing to cling on to. Just a loss. An emptiness. Just space. You fly away from him, like a satellite released from its orbit. Equally lost and purposeless in the endless dark.
From out of the darkness, the thought of the Resistance base should be calling out to you right now like a beacon. A beacon inviting you home, now that you are finally free. But you’ve never before had to escape somewhere you wanted to be and return to somewhere you were no longer sure you belonged. The thought of retuning to base with Barret suddenly seems incomprehensible. And so, when you’re clear of the fleet, you don’t know what else to do except keep flying. No destination in mind, except away.
Flying. Simply flying away, is all you try to focus on. But all you can think about is turning the blasted ship back around. Flying toward him. Following those strings the commander has tied on to you which extend across space, drawing you back to him.
But you know that’s untenable. You fly, and it’s likely a good thing that the Order is in chaos, that the chain of command is interrupted. Otherwise, you’re not sure how -or if- you’d manage to lose the pursuing fleet. Not in your current state of fury. Not with Barret’s meagre attempt at gunning, through intermittent groans of pain.
Somehow, you shake them regardless. As the remaining TIEs abandon pursuit, you hear Barret breathe a sigh of relief from the gunner position behind you. The reminder of Barret’s presence is enough to make your hands tighten so hard on the controls that your fingernails dig crescents into your palms. To make your chest tighten.
Then: “They track these things. Did you disable the tracker?” he asks you.
You are loathe to acknowledge him. Even so, you fiddle with the dash until you’re satisfied that the Order can no longer trace you. You cut the strings leading back to him and you feel that you’ve just cut a lifeline. That suddenly you’re lost to liminal space, in-between anywhere and anyone you’ve ever considered home. Still ruptured in two. The feeling sets a hollowness in the pit of you, like you are a ripe fruit which has been scooped out by a cool spoon.
“Affirmative. Plotting a course to base.” You confirm in monotone, all emotion scrubbed from your voice.
“I can’t believe I got such a lucky shot at that bastard.” Barret continues, his voice sickeningly jovial and full of relief.
You feel like you might throw-up.
“Don’t speak. Save your strength.” You say curtly, inordinately thankful that you are back-to-back in the TIE. At least you don’t have to look at him. At least he can’t look at you – can’t get a read on the emotions you would be incapable of obscuring right now.
Still, as you programme your course you feel like his eyes are roving over you, all the same. You feel like he’s poking around inside you, wondering what’s wrong with you. You can imagine the gears in his brain working in an attempt to figure out why your reactions seem off, to unearth whatever happened to you on that ship. Whatever tortures you may have been subjected to. You can imagine him retrospectively register the bite marks on your neck, the cuts to your hands. The blood on your face and clothing. You practically feel his thought process creep over you in the cockpit like a cold chill.
“What happened to you?” Barret asks then, ever so softly, his voice heavy with the implication of imagined atrocities.
“It’s not my blood. It’s Hux’s. I killed him.” You say, hoping to deflect from exactly what happened to you on that ship.
Barret hoots with laughter, and the sound jarrs you. You hear his hand slapping against his thigh in celebration. “Wow, we really fucked the Order over today, partner. Hux and Dameron dead!” Barret reaches behind him to squeeze your shoulder and you flinch away as if you are afraid of his touch; as if you don’t deserve it; as if he disgusts you. Perhaps all of those things.
“You don’t know that Dameron’s dead.” You bite off without thinking, molten tears of rage threatening at the corner of your eyes. The break in your voice is giving too much away. Emotion floods the cracks in your words like tributaries joining the churn of an unstoppable river. You can’t choke back the sob which follows.
Barret’s voice softens so much that you want to wring his neck to choke the pity out of it. “Did Dameron... hurt you?”. That’s why he thinks you’re crying, then? Because you can’t be certain that the commander’s dead, and surely you must want him dead for the terrible, unspeakable things he enacted upon you?
The truth might be even more unspeakable. The truth that you’re a traitor. The truth that you’d sell your soul to have the commander do those things to you all over again. To have him fuck you and hurt you and hold you. The truth that, yes, he did hurt you, buy you liked it. Barret doesn’t understand that you’re wretched with a crushing and unexpected grief at the thought that it may never happen again. Not since Barret did what you should have had the sense to do all that time ago. Not since Barret shot the commander.
You hope Barret doesn’t notice the course of the ship waver as your hands slip on the controls. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
The close air of the TIE is suddenly thick with a loaded silence as the ship shudders back along its trajectory. As you regain control of yourself and the craft.
Barret, however, does not relent for long. “Do you think when we get back to base we’ll be welcomed as heroes?” The question simply makes your stomach turn. You refuse to pluck at the question while it hangs there, ripe, and so it becomes a rotten thing in the air between you. You feel that chill creep over you again, as if Barret is reaching inside of you, panning for your secrets. No escape within the confines of this ship.
You think back to the last time you were confined with Barret. It seems so long ago that you hunkered in that stakeout room, tracking that shipment and thirsting hard for the commander. The commander who had consumed you with just one bite. Now, mere days later, your partner seems like a stranger and your enemy seems like your lover. You indulged your appetite for that tempting, delicious darkness; you were willingly suckered into Dameron’s honeyed trap. And now that you have been given a taste, you should feel sated. But the truth is you would gladly open your mouth and drink more of that darkness down. You’d drink it until you were spoiled and loathsome with it.
The most disconcerting aspect of these tumultuous events is how little you know yourself. What you are capable of. What you crave and how far you will wade in to the darkness to get it. You know these are your mistakes, your weaknesses to atone for. You know that despite what you’re feeling now, Barret doesn’t deserve your hate. A part of you still knows that. Knows that, objectively, he’s simply a good guy who shot a bad man. That objectively, you should still be on his side. You know you owe it to him to take him home. At the very least.
An older, softer part of you resurfaces as you hear Barret grunting behind you with a fresh wave of pain. It’s likely that the initial burst of adrenaline is wearing off and he is beginning to suffer.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’ll be ok. My stomach is hurting like a bitch, though.”
In all the chaos, you’d given little thought to the extent of his injuries, until now. So, next, you ask a question you’re not sure you truly want an answer to. “What happened to you, Barret?”
There is a beat. He replies in a small voice. “The kinda stuff our training tried to prepare us to resist.” His answer is vague but loaded. That’s enough. That’s enough to understand what they’d subjected him to. Guilt flares in the pit of you, knowing that while he was being tortured, you were indulging your darker whims. Knowing how much you were enjoying yourself while he suffered. Enjoying yourself at his expense, when you could have been trying to get him out of there.
So, you still can feel guilt, then? You still know that, on some level, it was wrong. Maybe there is something of the Rebel left in you, somewhere. Buried under the landslide of darkness. But you know there is little chance of that part of you clawing itself out when your next thought is of the commander. When your whole body clenches around the memory of him, clings on to it. You think of how he can torture you in an entirely different way, until you’re begging for mercy. A part of you feels you’d raze everything you ever loved to the ground for a chance to beg him again.
Still, you’re curious. You’re curious whether your commander was involved in Barret’s torture. Perhaps so that you can weigh precisely how much you should loathe yourself. “Troopers, or one of the higher-ups?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level, void of feeling.
“Troopers mainly. Some droids, doctors…” Barret trails off, remembering. “Though, it’s funny, really. Dameron came to my room this morning. Told me -don’t worry- it would all be over for me today. Guess the joke’s on him. The bastard.” Barret’s voice sounds darker, more malicious than you’ve ever heard it.
“He came to your room? This morning?” Something about that doesn’t sit quite right with you, leaves you uneasy. Dameron doesn’t do anything much unless there’s something in it for him, you’re learning. Maybe the games he has been playing aren’t quite over yet. Is it wrong to relish that thought?
“He visited a couple of times. To mindfuck me, from what I can gather. Yesterday he tried to make me swallow some horrible lies about you. To make me think I was alone, I guess- to get some intel out of me. Today… well, he brought me my daily rations and told me it was all over. Well, fuck him, he’s dead.”
Panic flutters in your stomach. You try to remain steady on the flight controls, to calm your breathing. You know Barret doesn’t fully appreciate the implications of his words. Of the commander’s actions. But you might.
You have two burning questions you need answers to.
The first: How much did Dameron tell Barret?
The second: What did he feed him?
Your mind pores over any detail of Barret you can remember from the escape to establish which question is most pressing. You hark back to the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the glassiness of his infuriatingly concerned eyes. The way he was clutching at his stomach. More than being injured; Barret looked ill.
Realisation strikes you, and if you didn’t feel guilty before, you sure as hell do now. You can’t be sure, of course. But somehow you know. You’d bet that the commander had fed Barret some juicy, ripe, red fruit.
Bile rises in your throat, but you force yourself to gloss over your voice with a kind tone. To paint your face with a soft, reassuring smile. “Why don’t you try and get some rest, huh? You’ve been through it.” Your passenger hums, considering your proposition. “If I divert the power from the interior electrics into the thrusters, I can get us back to base a little faster than expected. If you don’t mind flying in the dark?”
Flying in the dark is all you’ve been doing ever since the commander hit your life and turned it upside down, like a hurricane. Ans it turns out you’re still caught in his wake. You can’t tell if you’re soaring or if you’re about to crash and burn.
“Yeah.” Barret reaches a hand around to squeeze your arm again and it is like a hand rising out of a grave. His hand is cold. You resist the urge to flinch away, despite the chill it sends down your spine. “Oh, and, partner? Thank you for rescuing me.”
You bite your lips between your teeth. You’re not sure if that statement could possibly be further from the truth of what happened. Hadn’t you doomed him, right from the start? From that first bite the commander took of you? A throwaway “You don’t need to thank me.” is all you can muster.
Barret curls himself in his chair and you are grateful to fly on in silence. Now that the affront of him is over, you suddenly realise how tense you are, how the emotions wracking you are beginning to take their toll. You can’t explain how it was more comforting to be in the arms of your enemy than trapped in the confines of this ship with someone you’d let down so badly. You owe it to Barret to try and make part of this right.
Don’t you?
An alternative option niggles at you, hiding somewhere beyond protocol, beyond the rules and conventions and obligations. Then you think that, perhaps, it’s a good thing for Barret that you can’t be sure if Dameron’s dead, after all. Because if you knew that he was, you don’t think you could find the compassion or strength to try to bring your partner home. You think you might seek retribution, in the end.
Regardless, you fly. You try and allow the darkness of the cockpit to swallow you. As if Barret is not sitting there, as if Dameron never marked you. You try and push it all down, but the commander did mark you. He’s branded you as his. He’d told you “don’t forget you’re mine”, and now his words are wrapped around your bones. His words will be buried with you. And every time you try and escape, your thoughts orbit back to him. His mouth swallowing your hot core, his hands delivering delicious tortures, his cock pumping into you. Most of all: those dark eyes, like shadowed planets you would kill to be marooned on again.
Left to the dark and the dark alone, your thoughts are consumed by him. That is, until you reach your destination, and swing your craft around in the air to bring her in for touch down. Until you approach base and spot that something isn’t right. Until you see the thick pillars of smoke billowing into the air.
“No. No. No.” You plead to no-one in particular, your protestations and erratic flying drawing Barret abruptly from his sleep.
You land harshly on the runway, avoiding blast holes and charred ground, and scramble hurriedly from the ship. Your feet relentlessly pound the tarmac until you’re in the centre of it all, scanning the scene around you with eyes wide.
No-one comes running to greet you or shoot at you. No-one is left. You look around you, surveying for damages. Surveying for bodies, you realise. That the X-wings and larger crafts are gone from the hangar provides some immediate comfort. Signs of a likely evacuation. Then, your eyes pick out the remains of familiar munitions, the tell-tale shell of a downed and lightly smoking TIE fighter.
The strike was committed by the Order. While you were taken. You shake your head in disbelief. It can’t possibly be a coincidence -not after everything that has happened. That means the Order somehow found out the location of the base while you were captive… but you hadn’t…
Oh. Oh.
You put the pieces together and turn back to Barret in disbelief. He has now come to stand several paces from you on the runway. Laughably, you know you must look betrayed when your eyes meet his. In one hand he grips a blaster and the other hand waves around defensively. No, he doesn’t look well. Now that you’re truly seeing him, he doesn’t look well at all. A sheen of sweat covers Barret’s face, his eyes red-rimmed, tears seeding at the corners. He instantly recognises the accusation in your eyes, in your stance.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” he professes, voice trembling. “I wasn’t strong enough. I hoped we’d make it back before the Order could put the intel to use. Or that we’d disrupted their plans. That maybe no-one would need to know.”.
“You sold the base out?” you spit with utter disgust, looking Barret over like he’s scum.
Apparently, neither of you were returning to base as heroes after all.
He meets your question with silence, which says it all.
“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” You are yelling now. “You let the Resistance down! You betrayed them!”
You’re so angry that it feels like your blood is boiling beneath your skin. Your breath is ragged, your thoughts swirling. You feel darkness crowding at the edges of you. You feel like you are sucking it up through your fingertips, draining your surroundings of it. Feeling it course through you, like the hum of static before a storm. Barret betrayed the Resistance. He did this. And you’re so angry that you can’t see straight.
You are devoid of any sympathy or empathy for him. You’re so angry at him, of course, because you’re angry at yourself. If you can berate him for being a traitor you will take it, if it makes what you did seem to pale into insignificance.
Instinctually, although you are stood some distance away, you lift your arm as if you could simply reach out and choke Barret. Make him pay for his weakness. Your arm extended towards him, you have the desperate urge to just close your grip and crush. “I wish I could just…”
You are as shocked as Barret when he physically clasps his throat and starts wheezing, his eyes wide and afraid. It shocks you enough for you to drop your arm and physically step back from him. You shrink back from the look he’s giving you as he processes what just happened, raising his blaster arm unsteadily toward you. He looks at you questioningly. He looks at you as if he’s looking at a stranger.
All you can do is look back at him. You look Barret dead in the eyes, and you must reveal just too much. Because, if it’s possible, Barret pales even further, his eyes swimming with disbelief.
“It’s true, isn’t it? I’m not the only one who let down the Resistance, am I?” His voice is so thick with disgust that you can’t bring yourself to keep looking at him. To keep facing what you did.
“The things Dameron told me yesterday. They’re true.”
“What?” you say weakly, a pitiful attempt to backtrack, but you already know it’s futile. You’ve been found out. And you might be a traitor but you’re not a liar.
“You fucked the enemy.” Barret spits. “While I was being tortured in that cell. You could have stopped this.” He yells, gesturing around to the scene of devastation which envelops you. And, in his anger he overdoes it - ends up clutching his stomach in evident pain.
There is nothing you can say. No protestation you can muster. You had been angry and ashamed at yourself, but when confronted with it, you find a small, absurd part of you which is proud of it. Which has no desire to deny it. To apologise for it. Barret may have caved in to weakness, but you found power on that ship. Whilst he may dish out judgement, with the commander you had found understanding. Affinity.
Barret’s blaster wavered with the fresh burst of pain but now he has it pointed back at you, trained intently on you. “I didn’t want to believe Dameron. I didn’t at first.”, he bites off, chewing on his words. “But I promised him that if it was true, I’d kill you both myself. I picked your bastard boyfriend off earlier- so I guess I just need to make good on the other half of my promise, eh, traitor?”
You’re getting sick of this righteous bastard already. Hadn’t he been weak? Hadn’t he caved too? Maybe all rebels were simply hypocrites.Maybe the Order were on to something.
Then, of all the things you should say or ask right now, the next question out of your mouth is entirely self-indulgent. “What did he say?” you ask slowly, stringing out your words. In no rush. You have all the time in the world. Unlike your partner.
“What?!” Barret replies in utter confusion.
“What did he say when you promised to kill me? Because given that he poisoned you I don’t think he was too happy with you about something.” You know it’s wrong, that it’s too cruel, but you can’t help that your eyes flash with a perverse kind of satisfaction as you watch the realisation play over Barret’s face.
Is that why? Is that why the commander has poisoned your fellow rebel? To protect you? Because he threatened you? Oh, how a part of you hopes that’s true.
His blaster arm wavers again, and Barret is so weak of body and wrapped up in turmoil that you are able to walk towards him and take the blaster easily, gently from his hand. You look into his eyes, your voice steely, suddenly not feeling worthless or ashamed at all. Not anymore. Maybe you were cut out for these games, after all. “You don’t look so hot, Barret. So maybe we agree that we both made some mistakes on that ship, yes?” Barret considers your words carefully and then nods, and it acts as a meanwhile truce of sorts. You keep your tone impartial. “I’d suggest that if you want me to help you, you should take a seat. Before you drop. I’ll see if there’s anything left of the med bay.”
“You’re going to help me?” Barret looks at you in confusion.
“Yes, I’m going to help you. I’m not a monster.”
The way he looks at you in response signals that he thinks otherwise. You huff out a breath, perturbed by the condemnation. And so, for the second time that day, you aren’t able to offer comfort to someone in need. Instead, you sling Barret’s blaster on to your belt and jog towards the med bay. Barret’s only hope is that there are some shots left which haven’t been blown-up or cleared-out.
You move as fast as you’re able, gathering whatever supplies you can, but by the time you return, Barret is lying still on the runway.
You are too late.
Barret is the third body you’ve had lying at your feet that day. Three enemies, in the end. One of whom was a lover, and one of whom was a friend.
Despite what Barret had done, you feel no satisfaction in his fate. You sigh deeply and turn your head into your shoulder. You don’t look. You try not to look. All you can do is drag him into the hangar and cover him over, paying final respects to the fallen Resistance member.
Now, you are truly alone.
Feeling somewhat numb, you wander around base, confirming there are no signs of life left at all. Passing collapsed buildings, smoking craters, and remnants of devastation. You act on autopilot, and before you know where you’re walking to, you’ve reached the canteen, picking up some remaining rations and stuffing your face. Then, before you realise it, you’ve meandered across base and stand at the spot where your quarters should be.
All that’s left is a shell.
Suddenly, it’s as if you dropped the bombs yourself. As if you’ve intentionally obliterated everything you used to know and used to be beyond all recognition. You pick through the rubble, try to leaf through the ashes, but nothing at all remains. Still nothing to cling on to.
In your wandering, your quest for solace of some kind, the next place you find yourself is General Leia’s room. Hers remains intact. You find it empty, but her presence is there in all the tiny details. The uniform hanging up by the small closet, the table covered in datapads and holo equipment. Her comb and tumbler of water on the nightstand.
You dearly hope that she’s safe.
Being as quiet as possible, as if she’s sleeping there and you might disturb her, you perch yourself on the edge of her bed, grabbing her blanket and tugging it around your shoulders. You let yourself dwell on all the ways you’ve let her down, the ways you may yet break her heart, and you will the grief to hit you. But it doesn’t. You feel like you should be primed to lie down and cry, letting sobs wrack you. But there’s nothing. Only numbness. Perhaps, deep down, you feel you don’t deserve Leia’s comfort. Perhaps, deep down, you’re not truly sorry. Perhaps you are still too ruptured to start healing. Perhaps all of these things.
At least, sitting still allows the exhaustion to hit you. Still, you don’t feel like you could sleep. You feel restless. A lost celestial object with no course and no orbit. A dark, unlit moon. So, you continue your wandering, digging out some fresh clothes and taking a shower, the cool water sluicing Hux’s blood away. It circles down the drain in a crimson vortex. You redress and rewrap Leia’s blanket around your shoulders.
Without knowing where exactly you’re headed next, you find your feet gravitating towards the TIE fighter, which you half-landed and half-crashed into the tarmac.
Of course.
It’s the closest you can be to him right now.
You clamber inside, the snug cockpit encasing you. And then, finally, the rush of feelings hits you. You remember the Troopers swarming around his still form and it’s as if a vice clamps down on your chest. You imagine the chaos on the ship, the discovery of General Hux, washed up on that crimson tide of blood. You remember how it felt to kill him, and then to have the commander exalt you and kiss you and rail into you. You picture how it should have gone; General Dameron sitting coolly, smugly on the bridge. Taking Hux’s place, knowing exactly what he’d done. What you’d done. Sitting there as calm and devastating as the eye of a storm.
You screw your eyes shut tight against the thought you know will follow.
Is he alive?
And, as you close your eyes, various thoughts and faces eddy through the blackness, coming and receding like waves. As you focus in on each of them, in turn, it is as if you are slipping into a current, or a hyper stream; as if you can follow the tide which might lead you to them. One thought begins to jump out at you, tugging at you like a riptide, causing your mind to drift towards it.
Leia?
You reach out with your mind, searching for her energy. You can’t explain it, but you feel that maybe you can establish where they’ve evacuated to.
At least you think that’s where your heart is reaching out to. But wait; it’s not Leia. It’s something connected, but something darker.
Kylo.
Your eyes shoot open in fright and you startle in your seat. For a moment, it’s as if you have linked to him, as if his face is blinking in front of you. He looks just as surprised as you feel. You recoil in terror. For a good while, you sit motionless in the cold shell of the TIE, as if Kylo is a creature hunting you and any small movement might allow him to pounce. You don’t know how long you sit there, heart racing, and your fingernails digging into your knees threatening to draw blood.
You just touched something so deeply dark. Something frightening. Something you are not quite ready to face.
You don’t know how much time passes, but you sit there, practically frozen, until a blue light begins to blink on the dashboard of the TIE. Your curiosity overriding your fear, you press the button. It’s a holo, patching through.
A cool, rich voice resounds through the cockpit of the TIE.
“It’s General Dameron here.”
Your relief is palpable – a fluttering in your chest. A smile which begins in the pit of you and blooms through your whole body. You hold your breath until you’re sure you can believe what you’re seeing. Your eyes pore over the holo, trying to establish where he is, how he is. He looks as though he may be patched up and lying in a med bay.
“Maybe you thought you could run or hide from me, Rebel, but Kylo -the space bloodhound- tells me he found you.” He looks off to the side of him. “You don’t mind if I call you that, do you, Supreme Leader?”
His voice is still full of holes, shot through with gravel. But he’s alive. You’re sure you can see the hint of a shark smile spread over his features. He dips his head slightly towards the camera droid at that moment, lowering his voice just a touch, his eyes narrowing. Unconsciously you lean in toward the transmission. “So, Killer. As you know, Hux is dead, and you’re responsible.” He leans in even further and even through the holo his intense eyes bore into you. “But I’m very much alive. So, I just needed you to know...” he exhales a breath and bites his bottom lip as if his next thought amuses him. “...that I’m gonna be coming for you.”
Whether his statement is a threat or a promise, you can’t be sure. However, you know that the games are far from over. Whilst tomorrow you may need to figure out your next move, for now, you finally feel like you could cry and you could sleep.
You lean back in the pilot’s chair and allow yourself a deep, relieving breath. And yet again, you can’t hold back your own resplendent shark smile.
You press the button to reverse the transmission before sending a message back to General Dameron.
“Bring it on, General Dameron. I’m ready for you.”
He’s alive.
It’s not over yet.
As much as you would like to run back to him, you know now, more than ever, that you have to return home to the Resistance - to see if it’s still where your heart is. Or whether you have any heart left at all. Then, if you happen to discover that your heart does belong to the darkness after all, at least you know the darkness is coming for you. And at least then, you will truly know that you are ready for it.
You lean back in the seat and close your eyes, allowing your relief to wrap around you -like a blanket- as the darkness holds you and rocks you to sleep.
To be continued (Chapter SEVEN coming soon!)
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All in the Family
Chapter 31: The Very Secret Diary
Remus felt a deep pull on his core, one he instantly recognized that had nothing to do with once again blinking into new surroundings they had not been in moments ago. Moonlight glinted in through the arched windows of the Gryffindor dormitory, but he cared not what or who he stumbled over as he lurched to the ledge and peered out helplessly beyond. The clouds were wispy, the moon bright and high in the sky, but not full. Two, perhaps one day tops.
He pressed his sweating brow to the glass with gratitude, already sensing the others getting much more slowly to their feet and recognizing Sirius placing his hand on his shoulder before he even looked over to check.
"You have got to be kidding me!" James began loudly causing a distraction. "We get blocked from entering the Slytherin's dorms, but we just get plopped into ours! Who's controlling this mess, I demand a refund!"
"I wasn't aware you were paying for this ride," Peter huffed as he rubbed his forehead against the offending trunk it had crashed against. "Mind if I get my share back?"
"Urgh, I don't know how on Earth we're going to find the book in this mess," Alice scowled about the place as she brushed a sock from her head.
"Charming little place," Frank agreed, having half landed under a bed and getting the joy of a toad leaping away from his face in surprise. Trevor, if he recalled correctly.
"Don't know what you lot are complaining about, we've finally got some beds!" Black cheered, pulling his friend away from the window and collapsing on the nearest one with an exhausted look in place that, to be fair, likely was not faked.
"How long have we been at this?" Potter agreed, flouncing on the floor and yanking the blankets off of the perch his friends had claimed. "I say we don't even bother looking for the next part of this mess until morning and get some shut eye!"
"Well I'm glad you lot can get comfortable," Lily sighed, staying where she'd landed at the foot of the available mattresses, eyeing it as if fearing it was going to consume her in her sleep. Even in the familiarity of being back up in her tower, if not the girls portion, she could not shake the feeling this castle seemed to be clutching even without the mass of students present. There was something going on she'd never had to fear even in her own time.
Regulus watched silently as, to his surprise, Potter actually ignored her and kept chatting up his three friends in their one space. Alice and Frank blushed scarlet at the sudden implications before them and went to separate beds, Regulus stayed where his was nearest the door, and Evans realized after a moment she was going to be ignored and tentatively began trying to organize the blankets into a more suitable position. Regulus found it quite clever. The last thing Potter could have done to force Evans to sleep in a bed was going all chivalrous and making a space for her. Now she was settling into one with orange drapings all along it silently while just as thoroughly ignoring him.
He decided to take the suggestion himself and stretched out on the last one, the canopy of which had shamrocks dancing along the perimeter and a few pictures of a sandy haired bloke and a tall black kid laughing. He didn't know which was the beds owner, and he didn't care as he closed his eyes and rolled over, trying to get comfortable. It took quite some time to fall off to sleep, though he was surprised Sirius still whispering incomprehensibly was helping. It reminded him of home, where he could often hear Kreacher going about the place at all hours, and the portraits whispering, the wind ripping through the old house.
It didn't take that long before Peter decided to risk it, transforming into Wormtail and creeping along to each bed and checking carefully to see all others asleep. He went so far as to give their noses little licks, but the worst reaction was Longbottom tossing violently over in his sleep and muttering, his snores nearly knocking Wormtail off the bed. Then Peter popped back over to his friends, who all had heavy lidded eyes themselves, but were grateful to stop whispering about Quidditch statistics for once upon his nod.
"This is getting too close guys!" Remus managed hoarsely. He couldn't even pretend to not be holding painfully tight to Sirius' arm, he desperately needed some anchor to those around him instead of the death threat hanging just outside this window in the night.
"Relax Moony, I told you I had a plan," James promised, the others having to almost read his lips in the poor light. They wished they'd had this conversation back out in the zoo where no one had been around, but they'd been too afraid of risking their conversation being carried through magic. Regulus hadn't once questioned what all had transpired when they'd been out of sight, so they'd just have to run on the assumption they'd have to watch every word they said no matter the location. They may not get another chance like this for awhile.
"And what, pray tell, would you lot have done in such a confined area if I'd transformed and began trying to kill everything in sight?!" Remus' voice only restrained from screaming by doing the opposite, the words horribly jumbled together and barely intelligible to those around him.
"Easy, we pin you down, Peter would get through the chapter like all our lives depended on it. Then, when we flashed out of here, we'd just have to erase their memories of what happened, reread the chapter they all missed, and poof, problem solved!"
Remus wondered how long his friend had been certifiable without him noticing. Possibly back when they'd decided to keep hanging around after learning his secret and he'd ignored it.
"That is the stupidest thing I've heard in my life." Peter thankfully agreed with him.
"I'm not hearing you two come up with any better ideas," Sirius snipped, but the uneasy frown on his face told enough, he was no more sold on this.
"Prongs, remember when you got electrocuted at the Dursleys?" Remus tried to remind him, straining not to inflect in his voice how idiotic his friend was.
James clearly did as he flexed the digits uncomfortably. His hand still hadn't seemed to fully heal from the event, even if he did seem to have it back in working order. It was mending, slowly.
"The words from the book vanished until you came back around. Merlin knows what would happen to it if one of us died, we'd probably be stuck in that spot forever! I don't think erasing knowledge of the book will help anything!"
"We wouldn't be erasing knowledge from the book, I told you we'd reread the chapter and give it back, just not certain unavoidable events that happened," James insisted with confidence.
Remus licked his lips and again looked nervously out the window.
"Thankfully, time still seems to be on our side and it hasn't been a problem yet," Sirius said with just a touch more confidence. "At least we have a starting point for a plan. Let's get some shut-eye while we can."
Remus slumped against the headboard, knowing even as exhausted as he was he wasn't going to sleep a wink. He felt colder every second, helped nothing by Sirius sliding off the bed and joining the other two in a sort of pile along the floor.
His stomach kept twisting into painful knots, and every single time he managed to unravel just a bit by the reminder his friends wouldn't let anything happen to the innocent people around him, it only went even more taught at the idea he'd kill one of them in the process. He curled into himself and kept looking blearily out the window, the reflective surface tormenting him as it grew brighter every second.
"Moony?"
It had to have been hours later, he'd watched the slow process as it trickled across the sky in his mind's eye, but he couldn't so much as let one finger free of the cramped position he'd set himself in. Sirius slid up on the bed beside him again, wriggling his fingers in until he'd unfastened both his hands and then finally pulled those apart. Remus finally rolled his head around to see the dark silver of his eyes. They were nothing like the bright color he so feared.
"I decided to take Prongs' advice and have a chat with you while we could," Sirius crawled up and laid along his back, so that he was whispering in his ear, one hand still gripping his to make sure he couldn't pull himself back away. "Don't worry, they're both asleep. I'd say I'd know after nearly five years." He added on when Remus didn't respond.
"What did you want to talk about?" He muttered back, his own voice sounding like a strangers it dragged so badly.
"Don't know," he admitted. "Just couldn't sleep."
Well that was a lie, otherwise he wouldn't have 'wanted a chat' when the other two were out. Remus kept himself quiet and let Sirius build up whatever was on his mind. When he finally got it, it wasn't quite what he was expecting.
"I think Peter knows."
"Eh?"
"Hmm," was his only mutter for a moment, before he kept going in a soft whisper right into his ear, "he's been watching us. Course, he watches everything, but still."
"If this is your idea of pillow talk, it's lacking," was all he could think to say.
"Remus, I mean it," Sirius muttered, trying to draw his legs up to him but instead just knocking them into Remus' knees. He kept them there instead, Sirius now entirely along his back as much as he could.
"You want to tell them?" He finally asked. If Sirius had been trying to give him something else to think about, it had worked.
"I don't like keeping things from either of them. I get the feeling they're going to know sooner rather than later, and we should tell them before that."
"We haven't even told each other what we've been doing." He huffed as a get around. He flashed back to the moment he'd started this by kissing Sirius back. He'd justified it to himself at the time as a way to draw Sirius back to him and find some way to stop the fighting, the panicked look across his mates face when he'd first done it clearly meaning he hadn't any more to go on. Now he was worried he'd jumped the gun on the right way to do that, even if he couldn't regret it as he finally started to relax along the warm body. "Can't we at least wait until we get out of this crazy mess?" He asked more quietly still, worried Sirius had nodded off in the silence as he went through his mind for an answer.
"Yeah, yeah that's fair. This has got to stop eventually. As much as I'm not enjoying living through Prongs' sons crazy life and all."
Remus snorted quietly in agreement to that. "Think there's really some monster running around this castle?"
"I'm thinking it more likely with every passing event in this kids life. I just can't put my finger on what."
Remus hadn't let himself think on it himself, so invested in everything else going on. He finally let himself fall into a fit of uneasy sleep as the silvery moon finally faded behind his heavy eyes. Sirius smiled, and slowly as he was capable of, inched himself away from Remus until he slid back between James and Peter on the floor. Remus still slept on.
Alice had suffered quite a few abrupt awakenings. One when her cousin came over for the summer and thrown her things all over Alice's bed in welcoming, another as her dorm-mates cat pissed on her, but none quite so memorable as Frank kissing her good morning. She smiled up at him and curled tighter into her warm bed as he brushed at her hair before some part of conciseness returned and she murmured, "what are you doing in here?"
"I'm pretty sure we've yet been able to fully answer that," Frank reminded her kindly. She blinked the haze away and finally realized she was not in her own dorm, but still up in Gryffindor tower. There was water running somewhere in the background, she realized as she sat up slowly. She found the Marauders all awake and moving about, much quieter than she would have given them credit for, though still being their usual selves and going through all the available school trunks. Pettigrew was at the foot of hers and tossing things around, a football of all things bouncing against the opposite wall.* It was noticeable they all had slightly damp hair, and their clothes looked just a bit less worn.
She looked properly around her own setting for the first time, some glimmers of unease still present she'd slept in a stranger's bed. This boy was either a muggle-born or had a clear love for them, as he had a poster of one of their sports up that wasn't even moving, though a few pictures scattered around of a tall, dark skinned lad and a sandy-haired boy in someone's backyard messing around with the same football that had just been tossed around.
"They claim to be looking for that," Frank stage whispered as he gestured to the book that was sitting clearly on the bedside table of the bed Frank had been sleeping in.
She stretched as she got out from under the covers and went over to it, sitting down there instead as they'd clearly already been through this place, in far too much detail. There was a pair of pants with all the pockets turned inside out right near the foot of the bed. Frank followed and put another easy arm around her, gesturing before she could grab the book, "had you been wondering what Neville looked like?"
She had, admittedly, and was just as pleased as she was shocked when Frank reached into the bedside cabinet and pulled out a moving picture. It was a family portrait. Frank began pointing out people clearly from his side of the family, but she couldn't spare a glance for any of them, even her future mother in law with a vulture for a hat. Her son, the youngest by far, was standing half behind her in the photo, his little face only peaking out every few seconds the brightest spot.
At first she thought her son had inherited all of his fathers looks along with just his family, with that light blond hair and kind brown eyes. It wasn't until he peaked out again she could spot her own face inlaid with her child's, the kindness she felt pouring from him.
Smiling with pride and very carefully keeping the picture in her grasp as she moved to take the book, she vowed to keep this with her as long as she could get away with. First she couldn't help but stop and look around herself once more with an uneasy feeling. This bed then, her sons, was the only one without any sort of defining marker. She locked eyes with Frank, the worry passing between them as real as Potter flinging textbooks about with abound.
"Aren't all diary's very secret?" The elder Black laughed as he strolled by, checking carefully under each bed for something that was beyond both of them.
"Shouldn't you wait for Regulus to get out?" Pettigrew called over.
In answer, the water stopped, and the younger Black stepped out, toweling his hair and straightening his shirt.
Alice and Frank looked relieved, and Lily reluctant, but they all took turns in the second years boys bathroom. It was simple enough, everything done up in silver and gold of course, with lions embroidered into all the linen. Thankfully the plumbing was working just fine, the settings for the taps were the same in their respective bathrooms, and the laundry shoot still magicked their clean clothes back to them by the time they were all freshened up.
"I'm not surprised the school would think Hermione got attacked," Evans said as she came over to sit beside them on the edge of the bed, taking a brush to her long locks, finally. It was amazing how relaxed they all felt after a little hot water, and the schools magic still somehow managed to know what products each of them used.
"I'm just hoping it makes all those kids realize how stupid it is to think Harry's the one doing this, attacking his friend." Potter seemed to agree with her, stopping his shenanigans of tossing bed sheets around to smile winningly over at her.
She turned away, not taking notice of the water dripping upon the bed, but her nose didn't go quite as high in the air as usual when he talked to her.
"I still don't find it a particularly brilliant idea for Harry to be back around that bathroom," Remus muttered as he sorted through the third trunk.
"Hasn't done anyone any harm," Sirius shrugged as he passed by, tapping his chin as he eyed a pair of trainers. He held one up to his foot, then tossed it away without satisfaction.
"It can't be coincidence this place now has two random events like this," Remus insisted, abandoning a magazine over Great Locations of Kenmare.
"Myrtle floods her bathroom a dozen times a year," Sirius continued trying to ignore him. "Just because Harry found a ruddy book in there some broad wanted to flush away shouldn't mean anything- Oi, Wormtail! Stop sniffing the damn Fudge Flies and come here!"
Peter left Ron's bedside and came over with a harassed expression in place. "Whatever you want to try out on me this time Sirius, the answer's no."
"Why do you always assume it's that?" Sirius asked innocently, then kept going before he could retaliate. "Nah, Moony thinks something's up with this book Harry found, and I want someone else over here laughing at him with me. Cause more of an impact."
"You two are horrible to each other," Peter told him pleasantly. "That wouldn't work anyways, because I'm on his side, listen," he insisted when the background noise of Harry's Valentines settled down and he realized something was odd about it.
James was still snickering about the Valentine his poor son had received, while Evans was looking mortified about the same and desperately wishing that book wasn't giving Potter ideas. Regulus had been spending the whole time in the windowsill, admittedly enjoying the high view. Everyone froze as Alice went on to describe the sentient book.
"Do you think it's in here? Now?" Alice hissed as if she feared it would hear her.
"No," Potter said at once with confidence, taking a cautious step away from Harry's part of the room anyways. "No, we've been looking through this stuff all morning, haven't seen a trace of it."
An awkward silence still hung as Smith forced herself to continue, which only grew worse when Harry was sucked right into the pages.
Everyone remained frozen until it became clear Harry was in no immediate danger, as no one in this odd memory from the diary could see him. Potter, clearly trying to act as always as if this were all casual news, went back over to his sons things and began looking around with even more vigor.
The rest of the Marauders seemed to decide this same tactic, while the three still on the bed drew closer to each other. Alice's voice only shook a bit at reading of something like this, and it only grew more confusing as she reached the end and this Riddle seemed on the verge of finding the true culprit.
"Aha!"
Alice looked over in surprise as Potter quickly stowed something out of sight with a sheepish expression, clearly regretting his outburst. He'd been spending an inordinate amount of time at Harry's trunk and around his bed, and she found it almost sweet if a little obnoxious that's how he was trying to learn about his kid instead of paying attention to the book about him.
"What was that?" Frank asked as politely as he could manage.
"I, ah, found one of Lockhart's signature books Harry got! Bet that's going to be worth a fortune, I'm going to nick it!"
She and Frank exchanged a look of how much they believed that, but Alice hoped this creepy memory was almost done with already and ignored them.
Sirius wasn't listening, he'd finally found a pair he was sure would fit.
"Here Reg, put these on," Sirius said while tossing a pair of boots at his head. Regulus caught one, the other landed on top of his bare foot. A pair of socks quickly followed the same pattern.
"I don't need your help," Regulus snapped as he pushed both away. "I could get some on my own if I wanted to."
Sirius scowled down at him. "You want to wind up back in the Forest or some nonsense barefoot, fine."
Peter watched Sirius strut away, as much as he could in such a small space, back over to James. The two started up a whispered conversation while James kept patting his pocket, and Peter rolled his eyes. He instead turned his attention to Regulus with a sympathetic smile. "He means well."
"I'm not going to bother responding to you if you're just going to defend your mate over there," he huffed.
"I'm just saying," Peter put his hands up defensively. "He bosses me around all the time to. Think that's how he shows he cares."
"And he claims he's nothing like our parents," Regulus rolled his eyes and looked back out the window without further comment.
Sirius had watched the whole thing, and blew a frustrated breath when Peter joined them. "Little idiots going to get a toe cut off or something and I'm just going to laugh at him."
"Souvenir?" Remus offered, before all four burst out laughing just as they were transported away again, none having the chance to realize just what exactly Alice had said before it was too late.
#Harry Potter#fanfiction#Reading the books#Marauders#Wolfstar#Jilly#CoS#Alice Smith#Frank Longbottom#Regulus Black#Remus Lupin#Sirius Black#James Potter#Peter Pettigrew
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I’ve Got You - Floyd
Whumptober: Day 7
Day 7 is late, but day 7 is here! The prompt isn’t outright said in the piece, but I think the implications an use of the other aspects of the day’s prompt are plenty enough.
This piece takes place about 2-3 months before the events of Persistence! It was supposed to happen quite a bit differently, but Percival is... persuasive. Enjoy! (Half of this is basically unedited, so please forgive any typos!)
Content warnings: creepy whumper, noncon (nonsexual) touching, hand gagging, frequent mentions and descriptions of blood (I might even say mild gore), bleeding out, hallucinations (not actually, but it seems to be), head injury
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Put pressure on the wound. Stop the bleeding.
Floyd knew those words better than he knew himself. After years of remembering and repeating them to others, they were ingrained deep in his mind. They sounded so simple. Find the source of bleeding and press down on it so that the blood flow stops.
So why was it so difficult to remember now that he was the victim?
Floyd stumbled on the uneven gravel street, nearly falling to his knees. He couldn’t stop now. He didn’t even remember how he’d been separated from his crew during the fight, how he’d ended up in this empty alleyway, but if he just kept going he’d make it to the dock eventually, back to their ship.
Warm blood poured down his midsection in a steady stream, the pain from the stab wound there shifting and intensifying with each step. Right. The bleeding. Stop the bleeding.
He reached a shaking hand under his shirt, trailing cold fingers across the unnaturally hot surface until they brushed against the torn skin. A shiver ran through him at the foreign feeling. Floyd took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and pressed down softly on the wound. The pain flared and he had to fight instinctive reflexes to keep his hand pressed down. He was so weak that it probably wouldn’t do anything no matter how hard he tried, he knew that, but...
Floyd panted desperately. He had no other choice if he wanted to survive this. With each step he pushed harder, squeezed his eyes shut, and pressed his lips together, as if he could block out each of his senses one by one. He couldn’t hold back the pained noises crawling their way up his throat, couldn’t keep his mouth closed against the desperate, near-incomprehensible cries for help.
As he trudged on, blazing eyes stared from the shadows, enamored by his struggle. The quiet footfalls of invisible feet escaped his notice. Floyd wasn’t even conscious enough to be uneasy at the strange, instinctive feeling that he was being watched.
His vision went dark at the edges and he loosened the grip in turn, but the dizziness and pain refused to subside. He couldn’t see where he was going, couldn’t tell if his eyes were still open… Inevitably, Floyd stumbled and crashed to his hands and knees, scraping them against rough stones as he cried out.
The ringing in his ears was too loud, rendering him unable to hear the approaching steps and folding fabric, and he hardly registered the pressure of a chest against his back and the arm around his waist until strong hands pressed against his own, forcing it back against the steadily bleeding injury. Floyd cried out, the intoxicating fog of unconsciousness retreating and being replaced with the sluggish trickle of cold panic down his spine.
He lurched forward, but the arm held him in place while another came up to clamp over his mouth. It held tightly, not even allowing him to move his jaw, and desperate, strangled whimpers whistling through his nose were the only call for help he could manage.
“Shhhhh, stay still.” Heavy breaths brushed against his ear. Stubble scraped lightly across the back of his neck. “You can’t go and bleed out, now.”
Floyd tried to stand back up, free his arms, move his head, anything, but he was far too weak… helpless to resist as the man pulled him back, gravity weighing on trembling muscles to lay him down, his head cradled in the man’s lap. His eyes fluttered as he looked up, expecting to see the face of whoever was keeping him here, but… he couldn’t see a thing.
Was he imagining things? Was anyone really here with him? Was he-
The surface under him shifted and moved away, losing all contact with him for a second.
“Wh-what’s there?! Who are you?! H-how-!” The same pressure closed on his mouth again, but it was slick, sticky as it dried against his skin, clinged to his lips, his face, his nose where he took short, panicked breaths and inhaled the unmistakable tang of iron. Floyd went stiff. That was his blood. His blood from his side, now on his face, overwhelming in sensation and scent.
Individual fingers and nails dug into his skin, perched on the sides of his nose and threatening to cut off airflow there, too, and yet he saw nothing. The air was clear, wobbling with the weight of his tears and the dark void of unconsciousness closing in, but it was clear. There was nothing there.
A weight settled on his thighs, pushed his arms against his sides, placed its hand against his wound again, leaned forward, and any attempt to scream only smeared the sickening taste of his own blood across his mouth.
“Don’t scream, that would make this far too easy for them,” he said, too close but never close enough to see. Floyd knew he’d heard his voice somewhere before, he definitely had, but his head hurt and it was hard to think and he just couldn’t place it-
“Oh come on, darling, I said don’t scream not don’t breathe. I won’t let you die as long as you can stay awake for me.” The fingers around his nose tightened when he tried to breathe in and he nearly choked on the small breath he’d managed. A huff of laughter came from above him and the grip loosened. “It’s just a matter of time to see whether you’ll be going back home with your crew or… finding a new place to stay if you’re not worth their trouble.”
He writhed under the pain and unsettling words sinking into him, and as much as he wanted to crawl away, he found that he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Heathered grey nothingness flashed across his vision, swirling with the dark, and time slipped out of his grasp. Whatever presence that held him here was helping, was keeping him alive through every second that he kept the pressure on, through every gasp of dizzying metallic air, through every stuttered heartbeat.
Floyd prayed desperately into the empty recesses of his mind that his crewmates would find him and drive this cruel presence away, bring him back to the ship where he’d finally learned to feel safe. Whatever alternative he was being offered, threatened with… he couldn’t fathom.
He got weaker the longer he laid there, feeling the life drain from his body. Maybe he was imagining it, but the blood flow seemed to have slowed to a sluggish drip, at least as long as the pressure remained on it. Everything was silent for a while, aside from his uneven breathing and muffled groans.
“You would have died by now if I hadn’t found you,” the invisible man mused. “A beautiful thing like yourself, left to rot in the street just like that. It’s really a wonder nobody’s interrupted us yet.”
The hand on his side eased up, finally letting go. The bleeding increased without anything to hold it back, but the pressure of a knee came down on it as the man shifted his weight, and suddenly Floyd felt another hand against his face.
A finger trailing down his cheekbone left a line of blood that dripped slowly into his hair. The hand followed, running wet fingers through burnt orange locks, rusting them with hints of deep red drying into brown. He shivered but couldn’t pull away as it traced his hairline, his forehead...
“I would have taken you already if I’d known they don’t really care,” he sighed, and Floyd could’ve sworn it sounded strangely fond. “...well then. I can trust you not to try anything if I let you speak, can’t I?”
He nodded quickly. Anything to get that bloody hand away from him. His skin stuck slightly when he finally pulled it off, and the man lifted himself as well, presumably standing. Floyd couldn’t tell now that they weren’t touching. He didn’t see or hear anything for a few more seconds until the man muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.
“...huh?” Floyd asked, squinting up like that would do anything to spot the invisible presence.
“Someone decided to cut our little rendezvous short,” he said, and the eyeroll that came next was nearly audible. “I’ll see you again soon, and if all goes well then maybe you’ll see me too,” he laughed. “Goodnight, dear.”
A swift kick to the side of his head knocked him senseless before he could protest.
Floyd didn’t hear the invisible man walk away or another person run up, their panicked voice muffled behind a thick wall. Something shook him and he peeled his eyes open, focusing slowly on a familiar face.
“Mmnh… Mabel?” he slurred. She looked shaken and glanced over him, speaking in a low voice he couldn’t decipher. Someone else spoke back. He knew him too. Floyd tried to push himself off the ground so he could see better, but a hand pushed on his shoulder, keeping him against the ground. He flinched.
“Yes, it’s us, me and Ray, I’m sorry,” Mabel said too quickly and he could hardly grasp the words, “but you’re- I- holy shit, don’t move, alright?”
He nodded breathlessly, trying to keep his eyes open as hands pushed his shirt up, inspecting the wound. Phantom touches roamed all across his body and if his eyes were closed he couldn’t know which were real anymore and which were… he couldn’t remember. Everything before that moment was a blur. He remembered a voice, a hand, blood, pain, pain.
“...someone had to have… who did this?” It was Ray, he was speaking to Floyd, asking him a question and it took too long to register around the fog in his mind.
He shook his head. The wound was never there, but now it was and he only knew it by what it was doing to him, and nothing of what caused it. There were more words after that, words he couldn’t pick out from one another to decipher any meaning from.
He felt the ground fall out from under him, and it took a moment to realize he wasn’t falling, but rising in someone’s arms. Floyd blinked blearily at Ray’s face above him, then tucked his face against the folds of his jacket, breathing deep at the light, sandy scent of safety, and closed his eyes. He was too weak to open them again after that.
————————————
Tag list, ask to be added or removed!
@whump-tr0pes, @burtlederp, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @doitforthewhump, @shameless-whumper, @endless-whump, @theycomeinthrees, @faewhump, @lonesome--hunter, @insanitywishes, @ohmywhump, @deluxewhump, @galaxywhump, @liliability
#whumptober2020#no.7#carrying#i've got you#oh damn this technically fits#enemy to caretaker#as well#percival literally did just save floyd's life#OC#oc whump#writing#fic#whump#magic whump#invisible whumper#creepy whumper#stabbed#bleeding out#hand gagging#brain please what else to i have to tag#noncon touching#noncon touching tw#blood#blood tw#mild gore#hallucination#not actually! just has those vibes!#head injury#so! here's something floyd never remembers but percival sure does!#darn mabel and ray actually finding them so percival can't just kidnap floyd
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Nesting (Good Omens) 6/?
Chapter One I Chapter Two I Chapter Three I Chapter Four I Chapter Five I Chapter Six I Chapter Seven
I can only apologise for the time it’s taken me to get this out.
Thank you @top-crowley-central for the rec, that was...wow! <3 <3 Andthank you for everyone’s feedback.
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His breath caught in his throat the moment he’d said it, painfully, waiting for the verdict, for the confirmation. The personal doom.
Aziraphale looked at him with an expression of sheer incomprehension.
“You mean you…you don’t know?” he asked, his voice mirroring his expression, though it also held a stronger version of the previously displayed hope.
“No, of course I don’t, or I wouldn’t be asking, would I?” It was meant to come out snappish but instead it came out sort of quiet and just a little bit shaky. “It’s not Gabriel, is it?”
He forgot that he’d previously discounted him, the name simply being the first angel that came into his mind.
“Ga – Gabriel?” Aziraphale spluttered, gaping. “No, of course – why, of all angels, would it be him? He’s terrifying!”
It didn’t register with Crowley at the time that this was the first time he’d heard Aziraphale say something outright negative about another angel. He hadn’t even cushioned it with something pleasant or deflective.
He opened his mouth to say something but Aziraphale beat him to it.
“It’s not Gabriel. Nor anyone else up there. I promise you.”
“But who else could it be?” Crowley said, mostly addressing himself. Could it be…?
Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, looking everywhere but the demon. Then, lifting his eyes back up, seemingly with some effort, he said, “You…Crowley, you have to promise me.” He sounded earnest, insistent.
“Promise you what?” His heart leapt up to say ‘anything, I’ll promise you anything you could possibly want’, but he pushed it down, so it didn’t make it past his lips.
“That you’re genuinely asking these questions and not just trying to, to, to spare me.”
“Spare you? What from?”
“Promise me.”
“Yeah. Course.” Probably not the way to go word choice-wise, all things considered. “Yes. I promise. I’m genuinely asking you these questions. So…who is it?” Satan, his heart was creeping into his throat again.
In response, Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand tighter. That only got him a frown.
“It’s…I’ve built it for…” He faltered but didn’t look away from the other as he spoke.
“Yes?” the demon prompted, as gently as he could. He could do gentle, however much his heart was in his throat, burning and freezing him simultaneously.
The angel swallowed, hard, inhaled deeply and sharply then began speaking.
“I built it for you, Crowley – but it’s okay if you don’t, I mean, you don’t have, it doesn’t, we don’t have – if you’d rather pretend I didn’t then we can do that, without any problem, I of course understand that you’ve probably never had a single thought in that direction but I kept thinking about it, ever since…and I thought that I might just start clearing up but when I realised what I was doing, then – well.”
It came out as a torrent, a rush of words that was barely distinguishable from one another but nevertheless, the ginger did catch most of it. Though, to be honest, his mind caught somewhat on the very first part of that whole ramble.
I built it for you, Crowley.
He’d built it for…for…no, he couldn’t have. He must’ve misheard. That was the proper explanation. Only, that didn’t tally with the rest of what he was saying, so…he must assume that what he’d heard was true. But what he’d heard was that…he’d built the nest for him.
For him. Not for a human. Not for an angel birdbrain who’d suddenly turned his head something fierce. For him, Anthony J. Crowley, and nobody else. To – but perhaps, Crowley’s mind tried to supply in an unreasonable effort to find any weak points in the idea that would come back to harm him, he’d built it as a token of their friendship?
But nests weren’t friendship bracelets. No feather placed somewhere about the nest ever signalled a wish to be ‘BFF’ to another angel. It was for a romantic, dedicated pursuit and for that alone.
Even so…built it for him. Aziraphale had…
Waiting for such a thing for so long, millennia, really, knowing that it would never happen and resigning himself to the fact while simultaneously hoping desperately, with every fibre of his being, to be proved wrong and have Aziraphale return his feelings, that had been hard enough.
To now have it within his grasp, as real and tangible as it had ever been for him, though, he found that he was hesitating. Backing off from what he should’ve leapt for joy for.
Because this didn’t happen. Not to him, not without some sort of twist or renege on the whole thing. God sure had an odd, and unpleasant, sense of humour. The joke tended to be on everyone else playing.
“Crowley?” The warm voice that was so familiar cut through the jumbled discord of Crowley’s mind. “Please. Say something? Anything, really. Even a curse, just…something. Please!”
“Why the Heaven would I curse you?”
“Why? Because…because I just admitted to having made an advance that you have no interest in, with no consideration for how that might – “
“Who said I have no interest in it?” Crowley interrupted.
“You…you’ve been sitting there, completely immobile since I started speaking, which seems pretty clear indication that you’re…you’re not on board with the idea, not to mention the fact that you’ve not responded at all to how I’ve decorated or….or any of the rest of it, either. Which is quite alright, really, I wouldn’t have expected you to – “
“You nested. For me.” He needed to reiterate that out loud, just to make sure that it had actually happened rather than it being merely a figment of his imagination that had finally bloomed and poisoned everything in there.
“Ehm, yes, I, I did.” Now Aziraphale was actively fidgeting, evidently struggling not to look away. “But like I said, if you – “
For the first time in this entire debacle, Crowley’s heart began to feel a little lighter, the roots of hope gently being scooped up and replanted into their soil.
At the time, he didn’t clock all the clues he’d scooted past or misinterpreted as he’d investigated the bookshop and the resulting faulty conclusions he’d come to. His brain was caught on the revelation that –
“You made a nest,” he repeated, interrupting the angel. “For me. Not for someone else. For me. In the proper sense of a nest.”
Aziraphale bit his lip, looking embarrassed, dejected and rather hurt. “Really, Crowley, must you keep on mentioning it? I know I’m in the wrong and I should never have started, but I would have hoped – “
“But angel, you built a nest for me!” He couldn’t have kept the wonder out of his voice if he tried.
However, it seemed as though the other didn’t hear that part, focusing instead on just the words.
“Yes, I bloody well did!” Aziraphale burst out, surprising himself as much as the demon. “I meant, I did, and it was intentional but that’s not to say that if – “
Crowley, feeling hopeful and happy in a way that he couldn’t remember feeling, took a tremendous chance, or so it felt like, and leaned forward, far enough to kiss Aziraphale. For a moment, he debated going for the cheek or the forehead but recognised that that would be chickening out. It might do for Aziraphale and he’d be overjoyed to receive any of those touches but for him, no. Especially not at a time like this.
It would be the mouth or nothing at all. And nothing at all wasn’t an option. Not now.
This is going to be a mistake, the voice in his mind whispered. You’re going to tip your hand all the way and even if he’s amenable to it now, it’s because he doesn’t know any better and you’re going to be the first nesting pair to ever have a divorce that early.
The thought made him swallow but he didn’t stop. He wasn’t going to stop now, he promised himself. Hell for leather, eh? Or something.
Luckily for him, Aziraphale remained still so he could actually reach him without toppling off the sofa.
If Crowley had had the presence of mind to register it over his own nerves and fears and hopes, he might have noticed Aziraphale’s eyes flicking all over his face, shock, worry and hope warring for dominance on his own. He would’ve spotted the hitch of breath from the angel and the way he leaned forward himself.
As it was, all the demon was aware of over the cacophony of his mind was the lips straight in front of him and the implications of what he was about to do, not to mention the reality of it and how utterly it would alter everything, either for the better or for the absolute worse.
When he made contact, it was soft, both in terms of the pressure exerted and the texture of the lips beneath his. It was oh so wonderfully, amazingly soft and exquisite. It shouldn’t have been, probably, but it was.
More than that, though, more than the touch of soft skin to his own, no matter how wonderful it felt, was the knowledge that this was Aziraphale. He was actually, genuinely kissing his angel, on the lips, however chase it might be – and this wasn’t a daydream, a fantasy or otherwise a construct of his mind. He knew…no, he was almost certain of that.
Please don’t let me wake up back in my flat, either having been already kicked out or about to go in here.
Would he go in at all if this was the dream he had? Yeah, truthfully, he probably would.
He hadn’t even gotten to the realisation that Aziraphale wasn’t responding in any way yet, never mind to the fear and worry that realisation would cause, when the angel let out a small, nasal gasp and pressed back. It wasn’t forceful or demanding, rather it was sweet and hesitant, but it was unquestionably a response.
However, it wasn’t long before he pulled back. In fact, it may only have been a few seconds and Crowley’s heart ached the moment they started to. No, not yet. He wasn’t ready to…not yet!
Only, when he tried to protest or plead his case, he felt lips crash into his again and he realised that it hadn’t been the angel who’d been pulling back but him.
It was still soft and sweet but there was a bit more force behind it. Or perhaps it was better to call it intentionality. And maybe a bit of force.
When they pulled apart this time, it was more of a mutual decision. Even so, Crowley was rather reluctant. He felt certain that the moment they did, reality would crash back in on him and deliver him some sort of twist to what seemed such a positive, wonderful thing.
He opened eyes he hadn’t realised he’d closed, to find Aziraphale looking at him from a much shorter distance than he had expected. He was, in fact, less than half a foot away.
And he was smiling. Crowley couldn’t see his lips, not this close, but the smile was reflected in those gorgeous eyes, even if it was small and wobbly in its uncertainty, it was also warm and, well, there.
“So, you…you weren’t building a nest for anybody else, then?” he asked. It managed to come out lightly joking, which he’d intended, but it masked a need to be sure.
The smile widened a little as the blond shook his head. “No. I’ve only ever wanted to build for – but are you sure? You’re not lying to me?” he asked, the light dwindling just a bit.
“Why would I lie, angel? After everything, why would I lie to you on something like this?”
“But you’ve – you’ve never ever said anything. Is this a recent development?” He squeezed their still entangled hands for unneeded emphasis.
Bloody – no, he might not have outright said anything, but he’d left plenty of hints and indications, hadn’t he? Perhaps he only thought he had, or they hadn’t been all that clear.
Then again, to be completely fair, hadn’t he also been very scared of the angel finding out and had acted accordingly?
Not to mention the glass houses once again.
“Does the day we met count as recent?” the ginger asked.
He watched Aziraphale’s eyes widen to an almost comedic level as he pulled his head back somewhat. Crowley would’ve protested but didn’t; he was still close enough that it was easy to close the distance.
“I – but, that was – but my dear, that was so long ago.” His eyes, if possible, widened further and an edge of guilt crept into his voice. “Have I…oh, my good Heaven, have I been – “
“Leave Heaven out of this,” Crowley interrupted and there was just the hint of a growl in his voice. He did not need to be reminded of those smug white peacocks up there, especially not at a time like this.
“But all this time and you’ve never…at least, not as far as I know, but perhaps…” Aziraphale hesitated and momentarily bit at is lip again. “Crowley, are you absolutely sure you don’t mind?”
“That the one you’ve nested for has been me the whole time? Yeah, I’m sure, in fact, I’m positive. It – it has been, hasn’t it?”
“Always,” Aziraphale confirmed, the smile returning, if only briefly.
“Then why have you been trying to keep me out? And you haven’t said anything that might – “
“I haven’t been trying to keep you out!” the blond exclaimed, frowning in puzzlement and slight indignation. “You’ve been the one who’s turned around and refused to go into the shop. Well, perhaps you…perhaps I wasn’t quite ready to show you yet but when you seemed so adamant that you didn’t want to be here – “
I never said that! Crowley wanted to say that, but he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t, at least in deed if not in word. Because he hadn’t wanted to be there, had he? He hadn’t wanted to ever leave his angel’s side but at the same time, the thought of him nesting for someone else had been too much to bear.
“I thought you were nesting for someone else. Well, you’ve probably already sussed that,” was what he ended up saying out loud and in an odd way, it was cathartic, even though he’d said something similar earlier. Maybe it was the next part that made the difference. “I thought that it couldn’t possibly be me you were nesting for. No, I knew it. I mean, why would it be?”
An expression of both concern and love, guilt and adoration settled itself on the angel’s features. He brought the hand he wasn’t still grasping Crowley’s with up and, with only the briefest hesitation, settled it carefully on one somewhat hollow cheek.
The demon immediately leaned into the contact.
“Oh, dearest, I am sorry. It was never my intention to…I thought you knew it was for you. I couldn’t ever imagine it not being for you.”
“But you…you said that you weren’t aware of doing it,” the demon pointed out. “You were being cryptic earlier about who it was you were nesting for!”
“Ehm, ah, yes. Well, you see…” Aziraphale stopped, swallowed and gave a smile that was more of a tight, nervous little grimace. Then his shoulders slumped ever so slightly.
“I’m a coward,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I was afraid of telling you even as I told you - and perhaps I thought that if I wasn’t being direct, then it would be more up to you whether or not you…well, you could, what is it you call it? Take or leave it be?”
“Something like that, yeah. But angel, did you – you really did all of that when you thought I wouldn’t be interested?”
Not like you, eh? The one who has remnants of his own nest attempts scattered all over his flat – the plants, for instance, making them perfect even though they were part of your very first nest for Aziraphale, the one you were stupid enough to almost show him?
He felt his heart clench somewhat at that, but it was true.
Then his attention was caught by something else entirely; there was a faint but nevertheless distinguishable colour rising in those soft cheeks. To be blushing again, for the second time in this conversation and also only the second time he’d ever seen it, that was…well, actually, it was incredibly endearing, even if it was because he was embarrassed about something and not in a good way.
“I did hope,” the angel admitted, as quietly as before. “Ever since I realised…And I found that even once I knew what I was doing, I still couldn’t stop it – nor did I want to, really.”
He gave another tight, almost self-deprecating little smile. “I told myself that if you didn’t want it, it was okay, I’d at least have had the joy of imagining it while I built it.”
“I – “
What could you say to something like that? But he had to try because the expression on the blond’s face was quickly passing from adorable to heart-aching.
“Angel, I do. I do want it. So fucking much. I never thought you would do that for me, but I’ve never wanted anything else. I was just so scared to lose you and I’m sorry.”
Aziraphale blinked, a little thrown. “Why wouldn’t I do it for you?”
“Why? Because – “
Because I’m a demon and you’re an angel! Because I’m a failure now as a demon as I was as an angel. I can’t even manage one or the other or take care of you the way you should be. I screw things up constantly and my head is a mess. I don’t deserve your love and kindness and certainly not for you to risk the wrath of Heaven for becoming the nestmate of a demon.
The words, so often repeated in his head when he was starting in on a black mood, sprang easily to his lips but there they stayed. He couldn’t make them go past and become sound, so they lodged, painful, in his mouth and throat.
He swallowed, but in that action, something slipped past.
“Because I’m not…not good enough for you,” he whispered. “You deserve so much better.”
Even with everything here, just before him, apparently for his taking, it seemed he was determined to sabotage himself. Though it was an indisputable fact that Aziraphale deserved better.
The hand, which had fallen away from his cheek at some point without his conscious knowledge, returned to gently cup the cheek, its thumb smoothing over his cheekbone once then again and again. He leaned into the contact, savouring it.
“Now please listen very carefully,” the angel started, careful and determined to keep eye contact and keep his voice warm, it seemed. “I cannot imagine how I could possibly deserve more than you, my dearest. You are brave and kind and charming and just lovely and perfect in every possible way that I can think of. I know you probably don’t want to hear that but nevertheless, it’s true. You know me and I know you and I could not imagine spending eternity with any other person than you. My nest is yours, if you’ll have it, and even if you don’t, then it and my heart is still yours.”
He closed the distance between them to kiss the demon as softly as a feather landing on snow for one long, wonderful moment before he pulled away.
“I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot about all of this – “
“Hang on, no. If anyone has been an idiot, then it’s me,” Crowley interrupted, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have – “
Oh, the list was ever so long on that score.
But Aziraphale interrupted in turn before he could get further. He did cheat somewhat, by giving another kiss, more of a peck than anything, to the ginger’s lips as well.
“Perhaps we can summarise and say that we have both managed to be idiots about all of this, yes?” he said.
He removed his hand from Crowley’s cheek and instead grabbed the hand he was still grasping in both of his own, well-manicured ones.
Possibly he meant to say something then but if he had, he must’ve changed his mind because what he did was bring the hand up to kiss it.
The gesture, while in itself perfectly innocent and chaste, innocuous even, once upon a time a relatively casual introduction – oh, the etiquette humans put around even the smallest of gestures, it was endlessly pointless and amusing – was done with such reverence, such naked adoration that it took Crowley’s breath away.
There was a noise that was more the sensation of noise than actual noise. Said sensation was of a whole murder of crows taking off at once or perhaps one enormous bird beating its wings downwards.
Though there realistically wasn’t actually enough space for them where they sat, Crowley’s wings spread out behind him, far more gracefully than they probably would have if he’d done it consciously. The feathers, groomed to perfection, almost glistened in the light of the bookshop as they stretched out.
Aziraphale watched the unintended display keenly, it seemed, and when Crowley became aware of what had happened and coloured, he smiled the softest smile possible, his eyes sparkling.
“They’re just as beautiful as I remember,” the angel said. He reached out with one hand only to stop himself almost immediately, fingers curling back as though to illustrate the decision to curb their desire.
That wouldn’t do. Crowley was tempted to reach out himself and drag the plump hand over so he could touch them if that was what he wanted. It would be sensitive, as wings always were, and the demon couldn’t remember the last time his wings had been touched by someone other than himself, if they ever had, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Aziraphale was willing to touch them, even if he felt hesitant to do so.
Before he could carry out that idea, however, another thought struck him. One which was far superior to the previous one, as well as much more appropriate given the circumstances.
He still reached but it was behind him and to the side rather than towards the angel. At the same time, he curled one wing closer to his body so that he could easily reach.
Long hours of practice while grooming them meant that he could do it with ease and without having to watch what he was doing. Which in turn meant that he could look at Aziraphale while he did it.
Aziraphale, who was watching his hand quite intently.
Even so, when Crowley’s hand reached the feathers and ran softly across them, he could feel not only a shudder run through him at their sensitivity, possibly heightened by the tension in the room and what had gone before, but also that his hand was shaking somewhat.
Was he really going to do this? There would be no going back after this. Or, well, there would, technically speaking, but he couldn’t see how. At least, he couldn’t at all see how he’d ever be able to cope with it should Aziraphale choose to back out of this. He knew he himself would never renege on it.
But the thought of doing this monumental, irreversible decision after waiting and pining for six millennia without ever thinking he’d get more was terrifying, and that was putting it mildly.
Then he answered his own question; of course, he was. He was in the best possible position he could be, given what other possibilities there were, and however terrifying it was, it was also beyond exhilarating and breath-taking and he was feeling lighter and more hopeful than he had for decades, possibly longer.
This might be a precipice that he would topple off by doing it but even though he would, he knew that he wouldn’t fall, as he had someone to catch him. Not just someone, either; Aziraphale.
He could do this. He was not alone.
#good omens fic#go fic#good omens#aziraphale/crowley#Ineffable Husbands#hurt Aziraphale#hurt crowley#patient aziraphale#miscommunication#misunderstandings#soft aziraphale#soft crowley#pining crowley#crowley angst#jealous crowley#insecurities#nesting fic#Nesting behaviour#nesting#crowley being an idiot#aziraphale being an idiot#idiots in love#feather exchange#importance of feathers#love confessions
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Some very long Rambly TROS thoughts
Holy fuck there is so much wrong with this movie.
Let's start at the beginning. Kylo tracks down the wayfinder/holocron crystal thing that will lead him to the sith homeworld. We learn that Palpatine was behind both the Snoke and Vader voices in Kylo’s head-basically the dude has been manipulating him for 30 years. Kylo states very clearly he's gonna kill this motherfucker. This is very in line with the Last Jedi- Kylo wants to destroy everything- the Sith the Jedi the Resistance- because he’s tired of the constant push-pull of rejection and manipulation. BUT THEN HE DOESNT KILL PALPATINE???? At first the film argues that he doesn't kill Palps because Palps promises him the big FINAL ORDER fleet? Okay...but I don’t think Kylo really gives a shit about a big fleet of ships when it's offered by the fucker who has been scrabbling his brains for shits and giggles. Once the ‘Rey Palpatine’ thing comes to light, we are lead to believe Kylo went along with the whole final order plan because he wanted to kill Palpatine together with REY???? Ahh okay?
So now we switch back to Rey. She's basically a jedi, cool. And I guess the Skywalker saber just fixed itself, with literally no scars or anything. A great visual representation about how this film feels about character development that happened in The Last Jedi. So Rey breaks concentration and fails the courses. According to the film, this happens because sheisapalpatine. If you had two brain cells you would realize Rey could be upset for normal reasons ...like that in order to the Resistance to win she’s going to have to put Kylo down like a dog. Its kinda cool that Leia is her teacher (more on that later).
Soo then we spend the next hour on a pointless adventure with the Trio™. Which would be fun, if they were ever established as a Trio. Arguably the real trio might be Rose-Finn-Poe. More on Rose later. Here is a list of incomprehensible things that happen here:
Kylo reforges his mask. Because Reasons? The knights of Ren. Because Reasons?
A handful of force bond scenes. The first one actually isn’t half bad. By wearing the mask, Kylo is rejecting the intimacy inherent to the connection because he is about to defile it. Grabbing Rey’s necklace is a physical and emotional violation. It's the first time he has ever used the connection for personal gain. The other connection scenes mostly just play around with the two of them being able to pass each other stuff. They lack the careful editing of TLJ connection scenes. Disclaimer: I’m a pretty hard core Reylo and these scenes really lacked the magic they previously had.This might be un-purpose Kylo is clearly pretty lost as this point. Dull, lacking in heart like so much of this film.
Kylo becomes a cartoon power ranger villian spouting Palpatine exposition and attempting to create suspense by almost catching the trio a couple times. Some of the dialogue is almost Revenge of the Sith Anakin level awkward. It lacks both the unstable angry energy of FA or the sad tired boi energy of TLJ.
Rey makes force lighting because I guess she was upset and it's a genetic ability now???
Poe gets a female love interest, becuase hes heterosexual. HeTeroSeXUal.
Poe and Finn flirt for a whole hour while Poe checks out some new chick and Finn now has a harem thing kinda.
Poe is now a spice trader. BECAUSE YOU KNOW HE'S THE HAN SOLO OF THE TRILOGY. Let's just forget that TLJ establishes that Poe is his own character, probably loyal to the resistance since birth. His parents are rebellion alumni.
Two death fake outs. I don’t know why they had to give 3PO his memories back. He lost them at the end of the Prequels and R2 loved him anyway. Chewbacca capture was a missed opportunity to get some resolution to him shooting Kylo in the gut.
Hux is the spy. Lovely. He is the ultimate weak bitch. Tbh the most consistent character development. Arguably my favorite detail on the entire film. Perfect execution. Domhnall Gleason is a gift.
Now onto Endor. Endor has so much potential and squanders most of it.
Finn meets other people who left the stormtrooper program. Cool. Weird how it's tied to force sensitivity. I like the idea of the force putting Poe and Finn in the right place at the right time, but I think to imply people’s ability to escape slavery is tied to force sensitivity brings us to the problematic terrority of the sequels. Also the only one who talks to Finn is also black. And Clearly has a romantic vibe. Okay…..
The Rey Palpatine thing is made explicit. Even though anyone will half a brain figured it out 90 minutes ago. More wierd implications…..who would agree to fuck an old man Palpatine? So Rape i guess. Rey’s parents were normal...is this some kinda side material hook to read more about them or some shit??? Kylo refers to Rey’s parents as ‘filthy junk traders’. He's right. THEY SOLD HER INTO FUCKING SLAVERY. However Rey’s parents are good people??? WTF THIS IS THE JEDI COUNCIL ALL OVER AGAIN.
Soo Kylo destroys the wayfinder to force Rey to work with him. Anti-Reylos will often get their panties in a twist about how it’s an ‘abusive relationship’. This is the only scene that really comes off as manipulative- in a way it never did in TLJ. Partly because they play up this idea of power-hungry Kylo (which has little basis in reality. In FA he just wanted to make Snoke his daddy. And TLJ Kylo is just soo fucking lonely) rather than sad boi Kylo trying to hold onto someone. Damn the TLJ throne scene is soo careful with getting that energy right, balancing the heartbreak with a little gaslighting (sorry off topic). Then They Fight. Kylo doesn’t even pull out a saber at first because he literally has no intention of killing her. Rey fights because she's mad. Leia decides to intervene at this time, which is weird because Kylo still has no intention of hurting Rey. Apparently Leia sending Kylo a text is enough to freak him out. THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN THE TIME FOR FLASHBACKS, MAYBE A ‘YOU’RE MY ONLY HOPE’ TO TIE HIM BACK TO HIS NAMESAKE.
Instead Rey gets him in the gut. She then heals him, something that should have been really intimate. This would have been time to kiss him in that wistful ‘ I wanted to know what it would be like before I exile myself forever way’. This is one of the scenes that desperately needed more breathing room AND GIVE KYLO SOME FUCKING DIALOGUE YOU COWARDS. Healing him combined with Leia stuff should have reduced Kylo to a pile of tears. I think he would find it completely overwhelming that someone thinks he is worth it, worth a part of their life source, worth their final breathes.
Oh woah surprise Han Solo. This kinda works for me because unlike robot Leia and fairy godmother Luke, Han looks alive. Plus Han is only a memory so Kylo has to save himself, make his own choice. Aww fuck this got me the closest to tears becuase he looks so fucking sad about the fact that he can’t go home. Damn you Adam Driver and you’re big weepy eyes. His mother is dead and I don’t think he ever truly realized that she wanted him back. I guess with the way things went with Luke, he just assumed he was unwanted. Even now, Han is the only one of the 3 Ben can really imagine taking him back. Who knew Han was such a softie. At the same time there is something so unintentionally sad about the fact that Ben’s whole family can become force ghosts and not a single one gives enough of a shit about him to show up at the turning point of his life.
Also the implication that Ben turns to protect Leia’s lifework is strange. Leia’s legacy is the Rebellion, a democratic senate, a planet wiped off the map, NOT SKYWALKER JEDI #2 JJ!!!!! Ben doesn’t even interact with any of the larger powers at work, he just saves Rey.
Also while Ben’s guilt and shame about killing Han (his true sin) keep him on the dark side, this doesn’t address the 8 million other reasons he left the light. Also why do Leia and Rey never discuss this???? His own fucking family repeatedly rejected him because of his ‘Vadar-ness’ which is ironic considering…….
Then we cut to Rey’s fairy godmother-esque trip to Ahch-To where she arms herself with all of the Skywalker’s personal effects:
Mad that Rian Johnson denied you that ESB fanservice call-back of Luke being able to pull his x-wing out of water?? Don’t worry JJ has got you covered.
Mad that Leia didn’t have lightsaber? Don’t worry JJ has got you covered, Leia was always prepared to be a back up to Luke because she doesn’t have her own perspective or anything or like a whole fucking political system to run. Also she stopped training because apparently completing her journey would end in Ben’s death...ooo SmArT foreshadowing that Rey using her lightsaber will end in one dead Ben boi.
Leia and Luke ALWAYS knew about Rey Palps. Which is funny because they threw their own flesh and blood in the trash because he seemed kinda Vader-y. I guess it's wrong to judge people by their bloodlines unless its your own bloodline. I can’t even.
There is no mention of Ben at all- even though Leia and Luke both died for him and Rey put her whole heart into saving him.
Now to Exeger or whatever again. Almost two hours in and we’re back at the planet we were on in the first 5 minutes.
Spaceship stuff happens. Take out your checklist to get those pilot and ship cameos. Ooo look its The Ghost! OG trilogy pilot! Lando is there! WOOO! Poe’s girlfriend lived somehow!
Ben’s last words are ‘Ow’.
Palps wants Rey to kill him because I guess that will make her evil? Since when does killing people make you evil? I don’t think killing Palps to save the world in the same as ‘striking your enemies down in hatred’ or whatever.
Oh Hey Ben is here. Palps doesn’t care much I guess even though trolling Skywalkers is his whole life’s passion.
Palps drains the life out of Ben/Rey. They don’t die. Ben goes flying into a pit. Rey has to face Palps alone because I guess even though Ben/Rey are stronger together and are cosmically linked the lone jedi thing will happen anyway?? Is feminism about doing everything on your own rather than building meaningful connections with your equal partner. Honestly only Men would think a women has to do everything alone to prove her worth, Rey has been wanting allies and family her whole life LET HER HAVE IT.
Also okay sooo Palps did technically kill Rey’s parents and she had about a whole 5 minutes to think about that. Multiple generations of Ben’s family have been tortured by this guy, so I think it would be rather cathartic to see him play a bigger role in the end of Palp.
Rey enters the Avatar State. Cue more fanservice cameos (I love you Ahsoka, but you said it yourself, you ain’t a jedi). In another backhanded slap to TLJ were back on the TheJediDidNothingWrong line of thinking. Anakin is present ...I wonder if anyone else is interested in talking to him…...
Rey dies. I’m not sure why. Palps legit sucked the life of her and she lived, but the Avatar State killed her.
Ben crawls out of pit. Damn Adam Driver has legs for days. He heals Rey, its kinda sweet but it's also really really weird that he hasn’t said anything. Not saying we need an over the top love declaration but even his emotionally constipated parents managed to get an ‘I love you’ out.
Ben saves Rey. The thing Anakin thought the dark side would give him the power to do. Interesting bookend. Sad that my boy has such low self preservation, he gives her his life without hesitation. Why do we have to die for other people? It’s much harder to have to live for other people. To move and grow beyond the past. To try and be our best everyday, even when its hard. Isn’t that real redemption?
Ben kisses Rey. Awww. Its missing some of the elements of a big romantic drama kiss, which I would be okay with ...if it was followed up with a big romantic kiss with a sunset on a new planet before the credits roll. Alas this does not happen. The audience is somewhat befuddled since their had been almost no dialogue referencing their emotional connections. The ‘no one knows me./I do.’ dialogue from the trailer did not appear in film.
Ben smiles. It has all the boyish charm and innocence Anakin wished he had in the prequels. Aww he really has never kissed anyone. I wonder when the last time he smiled was. HAS THIS MAN EVER HAD A GOOD DAY HIS ENTIRE LIFE. I am emotionally moved until approximately 2 seconds later….
Ben dies. There is no funeral. No mention. Rey doesn’t shed a single tear. This dude literally gave you his life without hesitation. Is Reylo one-sided? Or at least not equally felt? Ow. U The Resistance doesn’t wonder what happened to the Supreme leader. We know at the end of TLJ Luke became a legend, I do not think this happens to Ben.
The Resistance parties. Cue Return of the Jedi film reel. Poe and Finn are heterosexual. No resolution to the stupid ReyFinn force sensitve thing. Two women kiss. It will be cut out of the Chinese release.
Rey buries the lightsabers on Tatooine because you know Luke lived there and Leia once wore a metal bikini there. Rey choose the name Rey Skywalker. Which is interesting because she didn’t get along that well with Luke. She finished her training with Leia Organa Solo, Princess of Alderaan who just happens to have been a result of a sperm donation from Anakin Skywalker. She found a father figure in Han Solo. She loved a guy named Ben Solo. I’m not saying she should name herself Rey Solo, but it certainly is better than Rey Skywalker. I mean it's almost like a person's worth and ability aren’t dependent on either a bloodline or acceptance into the galaxies most powerful family. Rey nobody would have been fine. I’m not going to get into the feminist angle of a self made women tying herself to the legacy of a man. Cue theaterwide groaning.
Twin suns. Cool. I liked them better in The Last Jedi.
Rey has a yellow-ish lightsaber and maybe made out of her staff. Wonder where she got the crystals from and why they didn’t introduce it earlier. Possible implication she's going the way of the ‘grey’ jedi? idk some Jedi have yellow actually. Ahsoka had a yellow one. Not sure since this film is back on the JediwayisBest bullshit.
We see Luke and Leia's force ghosts. Ben’s last word was ‘ow’.
In Summary, some odd implications:
Rey Palpatine is quite possibly the worst idea of all time. Worse than midichlorians. The highest level of fanboy pandering and Rian Johnson erasure. Rey has a lot of very real things to be angry about - her rough childhood, the deaths of her mentors, loving someone as dense as Ben Solo, having to come to terms with the fact that her parents didn’t love her.
Return to prequel-esque thinking on slavery. Apparently it is not that bad if you sell someone as long as you do it with LOVE.
Making Finn force sensitive is not character development. Its just half assed pandering and additional exposition in a film filled with exposition.
There is some truly awful dialogue in this film. Its shot composition and editing is so sloppy compared to FA or TLJ.
The force in balance means killing everyone on the darkside.
Rose is completely sidelined. She is the only Asian character on screen. She is seemingly replaced with a black woman who has a similar background to Finn and is a scavenger like Rey. Yikes. Why does this feel like an anti-interacial relationship thing.
Said Black women Jarrah talks to Lando, another black character in a bizarre dialogue that vaguely implies all black people are related. I might be really misreading this, but its weird. I would have liked her to talk to Rose instead because female solidarity.
FinnPoe is played up a LOT. But we are also repeatedly reminded they are attracted to women. This does not feel like woke Bisexual culture. This is pandering without making a commitment.
Rey’s worth as a character is related to her connection to powerful people in the Star Wars mythos, not her own traits.
Ben’s character resonates really strongly with abuse victims and outsiders. His lack of dialogue strips him of a lot of his agency. His estrangement from his family is not resolved. Vader, who arguably did a lot worse things gets a whole dying monologue and force ghost thing.
Oh hey C3PO said the festival is every 42 year old….OG came out 42 years ago. heh.
In Summary:
Watch the Clone Wars animated series
Fall in love with Ahsoka
Watch Star Wars Rebels or at least all the episodes with Ahsoka and also the series finale, it's got some cool force stuff in it.
Think about the cool force stuff in Star Wars Rebels and the cool force stuff in The Last Jedi. Woah.
Apply all this cool force stuff to your own personal version of the Rise of Skywalker
Wait for clone wars finale Feb 2020
Rinse and Repeat
Peg Kylo Ren
Oscar Isaac is the Captain on the FinnPoe Ship.
The Last Jedi was the Best One. Fight Me.
Find the fanfiction where Rey tells him what a good boi he is which reduces him to a puddle. Find the fanfiction where he cries during sex the first time, the second time, every time. Find the fanfiction where his force ghost gets a hug, where his family welcomes his back.
Read Fanfiction:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/21852886
What I would do instead:
Delete Rey Palpatine
Ditch the mask. You have a fucking Oscar nomiated actor hiding under it.
After the Endor part, have Kylo join either Rey or the Resistance. Personally I think him hitching a ride on the Falcon would have been wonderfully awkward. And maybe give some closure the calling Finn a ‘traitor’ thing. This is fanservice-y, but no more fanservice-y than the rest of the film. And maybe finally answer the question of who does/doesnt know who Kylo Ren is. Would like a verbal declaration that he identifies as Ben Solo or least Ben or something.
Ben can still die I guess but maybe give him some kinda funeral. Or reuse the golden dice symbolism.
Slow everything done. Let the audience feel sad, feel happy. Oh and cut out those fucking death fake outs.
#tros#rambling#reylo#spoilers#rey#Rey of Jakku no last name given#why did i write this#catharthis#ben solo
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Dragon Ball Z Movie 12: Fusion Reborn (4/6)
The problem: An accident at King Yemma’s has mutated one of his ogres into Janemba, a creature with incomprehensible power. Janemba has sealed Yemma’s domain within a spiritual barrier, which has disrupted the boundary between the living and the dead. On Earth, Gohan tried using the Dragon Balls to fix things, but not even Shenron has the power to undo Janemba’s mischief.
Neither can Pikkon, since the barrier seems to resist even his most powerful attacks.
Goku has lured Janemba away so that Pikkon could rescue Yemma without distraction, but so far that hasn’t done any good. Frustrated, Pikkon shouts at the obstacle.
And a bit of it breaks away.
This is never explained, but I’m not sure an explanation is really needed here. Scolding the barrier and calling it names seems to damage it. Maybe that says something about the nature of Janemba and his power. Big J is basically rebelling against the most fundamental rules of creation, like an impudent child. The spiritual waste that made Janemba represents all the bad things done by a bunch of bad people who got sent to hell by Yemma. My working theory is that Janemba represents their collective outrage at being held accountable for their bad behavior. So maybe when Pikkon yells at the barrier, it reminds that evil ki that it really is bad and all this Janemba business doesn’t change that fact.
All that matters to Pikkon is that it works, so he tries screaming more verbal abuse at the barrier.
The trouble is that he’s only chipping away about a quarter-inch off the surface each time. He’s gonna be at this for a while.
Down in hell, Goku is trying to fight Janemba, but he’s having some trouble figuring the guy out. Earlier, he sent an army of mini-clones to dogpile Goku, and he managed to get rid of them fairly easily. This time, Janemba waves his hand, and causes a bunch of these jellybean looking things to fall down on Goku’s head.
Then he charges into the pile like a bowling ball hitting a bunch of pins.
You’d think Janemba would have a hard time hitting Goku, since he’s such a small and quick target, but Janemba’s quicker than he looks.
He also has this ability, where he can make portals. He sticks his fist through and it comes out on the other side, right next to wherever Goku is.
Also, he can kick really high. I guess when your body is roughly spherical your center of gravity makes things like this pretty easy to do.
I almost wonder if the portal thing was devised as a way to cope with Janemba’s design. Someone looked at this absolute unit and asked how he’s supposed to reach Goku with those stubby arms.
Worse, Janemba seems to know exactly what Goku is going to do before he does it. I’m not sure why this is presented like some sort of mysterious ability. If Janemba can sense ki like most of the characters in this franchise, then he can track Goku’s movements and offensives pretty well. But it would make a lot of sense if Janemba had some sort of precognitive power on top of all his other weird abilities.
But it’s a two way street. After Janemba uses the portal trick enough times, Goku has it scouted, and managess to fire a ki blast at Janemba’s fist, and sending it back through the portal to hit the rest of him.
Then he goes for a Kamehameha while Janemba’s guard is down...
... and then Janemba does whatever this is. Is that an illusion of Goku, or some sort of time warp of Goku’s actions from a second earlier?
All Goku knows is that it’s weird, wild stuff.
Janemba doesn’t seem to know what he just did either, and he finds this very amusing.
So Goku decides that he’s going to have to settle this quickly. He turns Super Saiyan 2, probably thinking that would be enough, but then Janemba fires big ki blasts out of the four holes in his belly, like some sort of anti-aircraft gun.
And here Goku wanted to wrap this up quickly. Turns out he’s still on the defensive. Even at Super Saiyan 2, it’s all he can do to stay ahead of the blasts.
And Janemba can fire at any angle, because he can just roll around to point his, uh... holes any which way.
From above, Pikkon can sense Goku’s struggle, and he probably wishes he could join in.
Or maybe he doesn’t, because Janemba’s a lot stronger than he and Goku realized. So Goku’s decided to pull out all the stops.
Hell yeah! See, this is the sort of stuff that Movies 9, 10, and 11 were sorely missing. Those films all had to contend with the fact that Goku was dead and unable to participate in the story directly, and none of them really found a good solution to that problem. Movies 9 and 10 just gave up and had Goku show up to help at the end, which is incredibly dumb, because if you’re going to do that anyway then why not have him be there from the start? Movie 11 teased the idea that Goku would be off having another, much cooler adventure off-screen.
What makes Movie 12 so great is that they finally figured out the Gordian Knot of Goku staying dead. If we can’t bring Goku to the fight, let’s just bring the fight to Goku. They should have just done that from the beginning. Just have Bojack attack Goku on the Grand Kai Planet. Have Broly cause trouble in hell, just like Movie 11 suggested. They went to a lot of trouble to have Broly miraculously survive his death scene in Movie 8, just so he could appear in Movie 10, and it wasn’t even worth it. They could have just kept him dead and let Goku fight him for two movies in a row.
But we all know Broly ‘93 would be no match for Goku ‘95. That’s why you send in Janemba, because he’s the big gun we need.
Look at how bad ass this is. Goku to everybody: Come get this work.
Grimly, Goku praises Janemba for being only the second person to push him this far. So I guess that proves the Buu Saga happened in this movie, even though Goku’s still dead afterward.
Then he just looks at Janemba, and in the fansub from when I first saw this movie, he says “It’s a fight from here on.” That’s my favorite line, right there.
Then it’s go time. No more tricks, no more games, Janemba’s in Goku Town now, and he’s about to get taken to the city dump.
Janemba can’t do shit against Super Saiyan 3 Goku. He just starts clubberin’ him and Janemba has to take it.
Then he flies really high up and Janemba wonders what he’s going to do....
... and Goku just dives fist-first into Janemba, just driving his ki right into the dude. Brutal!
It’s not really clear what all of this is doing to the guy, but all of these explosions can’t be good.
Goku flies clear of him, and it sure looks like he’s won. Janemba convulses a few times, but he seems to be getting weaker...
But then his flesh begins to reassemble itself somehow...
Goku isn’t sure what that means, but he can sense that something is terribly wrong.
Uh-oh...
Uh-oh....!
Uh-ohhhhhh! Yeah, that’s not good.
So Janemba’s alive, and he’s taken on a new form. This never goes well for the other guy when this happens, so Goku’s probably in trouble now.
Back on Earth, we don’t really see what Gohan and Videl are up to, but we do follow Goten and Trunks, who have gone back to confront Hitler’s tanks.
For some reason, Goten seems discouraged by these odds, even though they can punch tanks into other tanks very easily. The boys haven’t even turned Super Saiyan yet...
Oh, well now they have. What was Goten so worried about?
I mean, I guess the soldiers can’t really be beaten, since they can just come back to life indefinitely, but you’d think that if Trunks breaks a tank, it stays broken. Where did Hitler get all these tanks anyway?
Never mind that shit, because now Janemba’s gonna fight Super Saiyan 3 Goku. Team Four Star did a countdown of the best fights in 2018, and this was the only fight from the classic movies to make the cut. Funny how Goku vs. Wheelo didn’t make the list, even though they ranked Movie 2 ahead of this one on their 2015 movie countdown. Don’t mind me, I’m still bitter.
I can’t do this fight justice with screencaps, and it’s tough to gif a lot of these shots, too. Both guys are moving around so much and the action is so fluid and skillfully choreographed. One of my favoirte bits is when Goku rolls away and plants his hand on the ground, then pushes off....
... to kick Janemba right in the mush. Cool!
But this new red Jameba is tougher than the previous version, and he still has all the powers he used before, like the portals thing. Goku tries to shoot a ki blast at him...
And he has to dodge his own attack as it’s directed back at him.
Goku seems to be able to hurt Janemba, though, so it’s not a total mismatch...
... Until Janemba starts disassembling his entire body to avoid Goku’s attacks.
I’m not sure why this is more effective than simply moving at super-speed, but it seems to really have Goku stymied.
Also, he can shoot enormous ki blasts out of his mouth. So maybe this is a mismatch after all.
Back at Yemma’s Pikkon’s made some respectable progress on the barrier, but he’s not even close to finished, and he’s got Yemma griping him out the whole time, and Goku’s having all the fun. At least he can take out his frustrations on the barrier.
Here’s one of my favorite shots from the movie. Goku looks trashed here, but he’s not beaten yet. Remember, when he used Super Saiyan 3 before, in the Majin Buu Saga, he explained that it used up a lot of his stamina in the living world. The implication being that it was much more effective in Otherworld, where he couldn’t tire out as easily. So in theory, we’re seeing SSJ3 applied to its fullest potential, and Goku’s still losing. Well, uh, he can still use Super Saiyan 4, right? No, this is Movie 12, we don’t serve that GT crap here.
As Janemba stalks towards Goku he notices an ogre club on the ground and scoops it up. I don’t know why it’s so small, but I assume it belonged to one of the ogres who run things in Hell, like Goz and Mez.
But Janemba can transform the club into an awesome sword. I get the sense that Janemba can do way, way more with his powers than what we actually see, but he just hasn’t figured out what he’s capable of yet. He just figured out the sword thing on impulse.
Goku keeps trying to hang in there, but he’s outgunned now. Every time Janemba slashes the sword, it shoots out a thin wave of ki along the arc of the swing, which cuts anything in its path. So Goku has to dodge the blade as if it’s got an infinite length.
And his best shots aren’t hurting Janemba at all.
Goku tries taking cover behind those jellybean things, but Janemba can just cut through those as well.
The attack is just relentless, and it’s all Goku can do to run away now.
And this leads him in the direction of the blood pond, which is one of the key features in DBZ hell. Somehow, all the blood is now floating in midair in a cone shape. I have to assume that’s another side-effect of Janemba’s powers.
But it’s still fluid, as Goku demonstrates when he falls in.
As he does, he reverts back to his base form, and he doesn’t seem to be able to move or escape. I can’t find any information on the mythology surrounding the bloody pond, but I kind of got the sense that in DBZ, it might act as some sort of means to incapacitate unruly spirits. When the Ginyu Force tries to escape Hell in the Frieza saga, they fall into the pond, and that’s pretty much the end of that. When Cell leads a revolt in Episode 195, Pikkon tosses them all in the pond, then uses Hyper Tornado to pull them back out so he can fling them into the needle mountain. So I got the impression that falling into the pond saps your strength. Of course, Goku could just as easily be worn out from fighting Janemba, so this may be a coincidence. But I sort of wonder if Janemba didn’t herd Goku into this spot just so he could take advantage of the pond.
With Goku apparently helpless, Janemba starts slicing off bits of the cone, which then splash away as normal liquid. I really did this scene, because we can’t see where Goku is inside the pond, so it’s impossible to tell if Janemba has hit him on each stroke.
Finally, Janemba has whittled the cone of blood down to a Goku-sized piece, so the next swing of his sword will surely cut him in two.
I’m not sure whyu Janemba is dragging it out like this, but he is comprised of evil spirit waste, so it’s not like he’s above this sort of sadism.
But then, as Janemba’s ki slice approaches Goku, a ki blast comes from out of nowhere and disrupts the whole thing!
And Goku tumbles out of the blood somehow, which is a lucky break.
But who saved him just now? Who could have saved him?
Who indeed?
#dragon ball#2019dbliveblog#dbmovieliveblog#fusion reborn#the return of fusion!! goku and vegeta#goku#pikkon#king yemma#janemba#vegeta#trunks#goten#adolf hilter#grand kai
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Pieces of April [5/?]
AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530
Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.
Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)
Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who, not either of our boys!), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.
Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro.
Author’s Note: And now, for a change in POV!
First Chapter
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Of course, right after Jason leaves, the baby wakes up.
And starts to wail.
Tim freezes, all of his reflexes seemingly dissolved by the unyielding sound that such a tiny creature should not be able to produce.
Whatever Jason said about him being calm, in actuality, he’s completely freaked out over this whole baby thing.
Over the whole Jason’s baby thing.
This whole situation is just not in his area of expertise, nor does it require any of his previous training. And he can’t really see a situation where, on the infinitesimal chance Jason decides to give up vigilantism and become a stay-at-home-dad, he’d ever ask Tim of all people to babysit.
But then, right now, Jason’s not here.
The nurse from earlier returns, offering him a sympathetic look.
“It’s about time for her next feeding,” she tells him. “Do you want us to take her, or would you like to do it?”
Take her, please, Tim wants to say but bites his tongue.
He wasn’t talking out of his ass when he acknowledged that babies needed to be held. Human contact is good (even if that wasn’t basic medical knowledge, his own semi-neglected childhood can attest to that) and he all but volunteered himself for this to help Jason. He should at least do what he can.
Holding down the fort apparently includes holding down the baby…
“If you could just show me…?” he suggests, a sheepish smile pasted on and hopefully hiding his inner unease.
As expected, the woman’s expression turns into a mixture of amused and charmed. She chatters, motioning for him to take the chair Jason was sitting in before; Tim sits and lets her arrange the baby in his arms, showing him a light, gentle rocking motion to try to calm her.
“I’ll be right back with her formula,” the nurse says, though Tim barely hears her over the furious wailing.
He squints down at the scrunched-up face, trying to figure out how he ended up in this situation. Also, what exactly possessed him to call Jason his partner?
Because it’s the first believable thing to come to mind that didn’t involve spontaneous resurrections?
And technically, it’s even true. Sometimes.
And he was worried about Jason.
They may not be brothers, but they are family, and with that comes a certain awareness of each other. He knew the minute he saw Jason outside the dive bar that he was freaked out. He decided he would help him then, and he’s not about to back out now even if things have become way more complicated than anticipated.
The nurse returns with the bottle of formula, and as soon as she’s explained how to properly position and feed the baby—apparently there’s more to it than just sticking a synthetic nipple in her mouth and waiting for her to chug—and prevent gas, she vanishes again.
To allow them “bonding” time.
Not what I thought I’d be doing when I got up this morning…
Tim’s done the baby thing before—sort of. But Steph’s daughter was bigger when she was born. Jason’s is tiny, and Tim is half expecting her to break into pieces before his eyes. Whatever manufactured confidence he had before, had been in the moment—and mostly for Jason’s benefit.
It had been imperative to get the infant out of the other man’s arms while he was clearly on the verge of a panic attack. Especially since no one ever knows how a cornered Jason Todd might react.
Not that I think he’d ever hurt an infant, but he doesn’t exactly process shock the way normal people do. It never hurts to have contingencies.
As he watches the baby guzzle her formula with surprising gusto, Tim finds himself going over a mental list of things that have to be dealt with if they’re going to get through life’s latest curveball more or less intact.
Paperwork for the baby. Arrangements for the mother’s body.
Isabel Ardila.
He knows her name only from the files as the woman Jason was seeing prior to the Joker’s last assault on the bats. She was caught in the crossfire, forcibly dosed with heroin to play on Jason’s past traumas, and following her recovery, ended things with Jason.
Or Jason ended things with her, Tim’s not sure. He never asked and he doesn’t intend to.
However it ended, clearly there was enough estrangement that she didn’t bother to tell Jason he was a father. It’s a decision he can, unfortunately, imagine the reasons for, even if he’s not sure he agrees with them.
Not like we can do anything about that decision now, though.
The baby slowly goes limp in his arms, and Tim has a brief moment of irrational, paranoid panic—has she been drugged?—before realizing she’s just fallen back asleep.
“Right. Because that’s a normal thing that babies do,” he murmurs to himself, and carefully maneuvers himself over to her crib to put her down on her stomach, like he’s seen in countless television commercials.
Then, uncertain, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and does a quick internet search, balking at the sheer amount of SIDS related articles, and scoops her up again to reposition her on her back.
Should probably tell Jason about that when he gets back…
Assuming Jason comes back.
Or even wants his help.
Which, Tim decides, he’ll offer anyway. Though that may mean playing to his strengths more than anything, preparing for every eventuality and having a series of back-up plans.
He highly doubts Jason’s thinking of any of that right now.
Phone in hand Tim begins typing quickly, pulling up tabs in his search engines for whatever concern pops into his head as he reads.
He suspects Jason is too uneasy about the whole situation to want to keep the baby, so Tim’s going to have to research adoption agencies through official and unofficial channels.
Open or closed, not sure what option he’d go with.
And then, there’s always the small chance he will keep his child. It’s a possibility that seems as likely as Bruce’s sudden predilection for joining the Russian ballet, but stranger things have happened in the family.
He skims through several forums and advice blogs for how to care for a newborn, makes a list of important supplies they might need in the immediate future and forwards it to Tam.
It’s several minutes later that his phone chimes, notifying him of her list of replies.
- Why the hell did you send me a list with diapers?
- Is this for a baby?
- Omg, did you kidnap a baby?
- Is that a thing that happens?
-First ninjas, now baby-napping?
Tim sighs and rolls his eyes. Normally he’d find her bemused and slightly-panicked responses a little amusing, but he doesn’t have the energy to go into details, even if Jason hadn’t sworn him to secrecy.
-A friend of mine has an emergency. Drop everything off at my apartment, please.
There’s a beat, another chime, but Tim doesn’t get a chance to read the message as his screen suddenly switches. The air is filled with a generic ringtone that Tim hastily mutes, eyes flicking to the baby and back to his screen. The number flashes ‘Unknown’, but Tim recognizes the number from earlier that day.
He stands, wanders away from the crib to answer quietly. “What is it, Harper?”
“Jay called me,” the older man says without preamble. “Told me everything. About the kid, about Isabel.”
“Yeah,” Tim agrees quietly. “I’d say shock is an understatement.”
“No shit.” He sighs. “Listen, I talked him down as much as I could, but the rest is on you.”
“What? Why?”
“He says you’ve been helping him.”
“For now, until someone more qualified comes along,” Tim retorts, implication heavy in his voice.
Roy catches it because he lets out a bitter laugh. “Sorry to burst your bubble, bird boy, but that ain’t gonna be me.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve been in literally the same situation.”
“And I can’t right now. So I need you to be there for him.”
“He needs his friend,” Tim argues. “And he’s made very clear I’m not one of those.”
“Then you'd better become one fast, because I can’t.”
“Why the—” Tim’s eyes flick to the infant, and he can’t help giving in to the impulse to censor himself, lowering his voice, “—heck not?”
“Because I’m in a bad place right now,” Roy snaps. “I’m not in a good way for being around a kid, okay? I…” He pauses, like he’s weighing something, and then exhales. “I…fell off the wagon again.”
Tim's stomach sinks.
“Roy…”
“Don’t tell Jaybird,” Roy orders. “I just…I need to sort myself out before I can be any kind of help for him. I show up there now, I’ll just add to his problems.”
“But—”
“This is you being tagged in, okay? Don’t fuck it up.”
There’s a harsh click in Tim’s ear, leaving him listening incomprehensively to the dial tone for several seconds.
“Are you…are you kidding me?!” he hisses after a moment, only just refraining from throwing his phone across the room in frustration.
He didn’t realize before Roy’s call just how much he was counting on someone else to step in and take over in the emotional support department.
I’m not cut out for this. This sort of thing…it should be Dick. Or Alfred.
He spends the next hour once again reviewing what he did to get roped into all this.
When Jason comes back—and something inside Tim unknots in relief that he did come back—he’s as ashen-faced as before. This time, though, there’s a determined set to his shoulders.
They stand and stare at each other in silence for a good five minutes before Tim realizes Jason’s waiting for him to speak first.
Right. Tagged in. Let’s do this. Ease into it.
“So, what are you going to do?”
Tim winces.
Yeah, that wasn’t exactly subtle.
Jason doesn’t seem to notice the awkward, though.
“No idea,” he replies heavily, leaning against the doorjamb and letting his head thunk lightly against it.
“Social Services is obviously an option.”
“No way in hell,” Jason snaps, straightening up and looking fierce. “I don’t trust them. And you can’t tell me with all the Wayne resources you’ve got access to, we can’t find something better.”
Tim expected that. He might not have had the exact same harrowing experiences with foster care as Jason did, but his very brief stint left him with a hint of that same disillusion with the system.
It’s not something I’d wish on any kid, least of all Jason’s.
“We can look into it. Organize the best possible adoption scenario without dealing with Social Services. There are actually a lot of couples in the community who would be willing to adopt.”
“No. This kid isn’t growing up anywhere near capes or masks or stuff like that.”
Okay, that’s understandable. It also makes it less likely he intends to keep her.
“Whatever we do, it will take some time,” Tim cautions. “Placing a child with a family isn’t going to be as easy as sticking someone in Witness Protection.”
Jason snorts and shakes his head. “Only you would think that’s easy.”
“So, now that that’s figured out—what are you going to do once the tests are finished?” Tim asks, focussing on the practical. “I don’t find a family within the next day or so, you’re going to need to bring her somewhere. Assuming you’re adamant about keeping the rest of the Family out of this?” That receives only narrowed eyes in response. “Stupid question, sorry. But she’s going to have to stay somewhere until then. I wouldn’t recommend leaving her here at the hospital, for a number of reasons.”
Jasons frowns, thoughtful. Then,
“I’ll keep her for now,” he decides with a heaviness that Tim suspects is caused more by fear than dislike of children. “Until we find a better place for her. Some family that won’t mind doing this in private.”
“Okay,” Tim nods. “On that note—where exactly will you take her?”
Jason falters, looking like he’s not entirely sure what to say to that.
“I…my safehouses aren’t exactly babyproofed.”
“I don’t think that’s an issue until they start crawling,” Tim replies, trying for humor but the very idea sparks another flash of panic in Jason’s eyes. He’s looking at Tim now with something dangerously close to expectance, and a realization hits Tim.
He doesn’t want to be alone with this.
And it’s the fact he’s never seen Jason look so vulnerable that sparks a truly terrible idea.
I’m so going to regret this.
“I have a spare bedroom,” he offers, earning a sharp glance from Jason. “Just until you wrap your head around this and figure out the next move.”
He half expects Jason to scoff, or laugh in his face or say something insulting.
It’s decidedly worrying when the only thing that happens is Jason’s shoulders slump and he nods.
Jason’s shoulders slump, and he nods.
“Yeah. Yeah, that would be…good. Thanks, Drake.” He pauses, considering something, and then adds, “Tim.”
Next Chapter
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#jaytim#jaytim fanfiction#babyfic#accidental baby acquisition#enemies to lovers#Tim Drake#Jason Todd#Baby!Todd#coping with big news#eventual slash
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A Mental Dump Post on Spiderman Stuff
My head starts spinning whenever I try to really parse out exactly what it could mean for the next Spiderman movie to not be a joint with Marvel, just because I don't think there's any way of knowing for sure without seeing contracts or talking to someone who's seen them, so I mostly just sit here and think, "Well, I guess we've just got to be patient, because the next Spidey film wasn't even on the schedule for the next two years, so chances are negotiations are going to go on for a while, and things could change entirely from this incomprehensible mess it seems to be now."
But my brain still wants to try to do damage control by tempering expectations, so I can't help but wonder how bad this could actually be (a task not made easier by the fact that I haven't seen Far From Home yet, because chronic diseases suck). Disney/Marvel has rights to all the other MCU characters, but Sony has rights to all the Spiderman characters. So:
Peter Parker and Aunt May and all his friends should still be available
Spiderman has an insanely huge rogues gallery, so he doesn't need a villain from elsewhere
Tony is dead, so his absence doesn't have to be weird...
... Because we managed to skip over Spiderman's origin story completely, and never mentioned Uncle Ben by name, but we can still safely assume both were things just by clever implication
Happy being absent - could be a continuity problem? I don't know, I haven't seen FFH
Steve is...well, we don't talk about what happened to Steve, but needless to say that no more cameos from Captain PSA don't have to be a huge deal, even if they were funny
A Spiderman movie without any cameos from Avengers could be sad, or it could just be a perfectly good Spiderman movie
Kevin Feige didn't singlehandedly make the first two movies, so presumably the third one won't fall apart without him
Spidey could still be an Avenger by the time they make another Avengers movie, if Disney & Sony can figure out their shit by then. Nothing wrong with having a solo adventure before duty calls again in Phase 6 (or whenever - it's not even announced yet)
... Is all that right? As far as anyone can tell? It sounds like Spidey could be fine, right?
The thing I have more trouble figuring out is how much the MCU needs Spiderman. They didn't have him for all ten years, but an article pointed out that he was in five of the six best films (can't remember if that was in terms of money or critical acclaim, but the money is the only part that matters in business dealings), and he's the only character people cheered for when he came back in Endgame in my theater. It's hard to picture the MCU without him: he's like the only member of their next generation that we know right now. There's something wistful and sweet about having a little baby superhero learning the ropes and gaining his feet among this roster of older, tired, battle-weary heroes. He's adorable and snarky and fun. But...we don't know what shape the MCU roster is doing to take in the next few years anyways, so who can say that he'd be the only such character? That's more my personal concern, honestly, after Infinity War and Endgame - that it took a dark & gritty turn and it won't be able to shift back out of that level of darkness. I doubt Marvel movies are suddenly going to pull less money in for them on average after Endgame made a record-breaking amount of money for them. Which means they're going to keep coming. They aren't going anywhere.
So I guess that's really what it comes down to: I'm worried about the MCU bringing me less joy now that Steve is gone, Nat's down to her last outing, and Peter Parker might be gone, too, off in his own separate universe. Infinity War and Endgame broke my trust, ended my faves, I don't trust them with the faves I have left, and now stupid business dealings have separated another favorite - the one I was least worried about losing! - from the universe that gave him to us, and put him solely in the hands of a studio that hasn't been trustworthy in the past with his character. Potentially. And honestly those other movies were ages ago, so they probably aren't even the same people anymore. It feels like the (MC)Universe is ending, but it's just Endgame grief being aggravated.
#mcu#current events#Spiderman#Disney#marvel#Sony#Spiderman universe#movie business#filmmaking#character rights#avengers: infinity war#avengers: Endgame#audience trust#tone#cast balance#fandom#grieving#peter Parker#Tony Stark#happy Hogan#Steve rogers#Natasha Romanoff#avengers#mcu phase 6#mcu rumors#mental Dump#welcome to my personal pensieve#but please feel free to chat or comment#we're all trying to process
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HS Epilogues, Meat p26 reaction
Well, we unexpectedly went on a little hiatus there, in our liveblogging.
It's just one of those things you got to find time for doing, you know?
So, last time in Homestuck Epilogues, Dirk was present for Rose's ascension into omniscience.
Although he did state he still had a manner of control over her, and was going to do something to anchor her to her living body.
So, you know, they're not on equal footing just yet, in part because Dirk hasn't relinquished control of the narration to her.
I hope the POV switches to John again, but since we just had a page from his perspective, it might be going back to Kanaya?
Or Roxy, but Dirk might not want to spent more time around her "unfathomable" mind than is necessary for the plot to advance.
It's not something you'd relish, as a supposedly omniscient narrator.
---
"Jade kicks her shoeless feet behind her slowly, as if she’s swimming with the current of the gravitational waves pulling her ever closer to their source."
Oh! I didn't think we'd see her again, at least in the Furthest Ring. Thought the Black Hole had already swallowed her up.
Though maybe as a Space player, and one with a connection to a seven-year-more-experienced version of herself located outside of canon and thus with more guaranteed conditional immortality than normal, she might be able to... resist getting thorn to pieces, as she crosses the event horizon?
Unlike, presumably, every other being sucked into this thing.
"the ruby slippers are gone. She kicked them off hours ago, as if to jettison all hope of returning anywhere resembling a place she used to call home. The fond remembrance of such a place no longer has any pull on her.
Now, something else entirely is pulling her."
Welp, guess the Black Hole is kind of hypnotic, ain't it? Or maybe it's Alt Calliope's strong personality.
"Believe me, I’m sympathetic to the temptation. It’s always just there, isn’t it?"
To jump into the void? I don't think it's ALWAYS there for everyone Dirk, but thanks for the unique perspective into how your mind functions.
"There’s something about being alone for so long, it makes time feel like it doesn’t exist. She knows this almost better than I do."
... Yes, well, Lonely Jade did, and it seems as if she might have taken over, or melded with, Reload Jade? So yeah, her three years of isolation would indeed have given her some inkling of the feeling of loneliness that Dirk and the cherubs must have experienced, being physically alone all their life. ... Right, of course her childhood on Hellmurder Island would have also done that regardless.
"Jade also knows well enough by now that time doesn’t actually exist in a literal sense, the way we generally understand it. It’s just one aspect of many, and the complement of her own, Space. It therefore can be neutralized by the introduction of her essence. Reduced to white noise or soft light. The continuum of time is therefore demonstrably an illusion. The field of sequential moments and physical conditions that stretch on and on, resulting in the mirage of loneliness, is pure projection from disproportionate attention given to a single side of one cosmic, polar pair of ideas: time."
Ah yes, aspect exposition time!
To quote the swamp bender: "Time is an illusion", huh? We're going that route? Well, sure, but for most people a rather convincing one, no matter what your Aspect is.
Though it would be interesting to see what "disproportionate attention" given to Space would result in... Despite a ravenous Black Hole consuming an entire realm, I guess.
"It’s my way of saying, and thereby alerting her mind to what she already knows, that this feeling of all-consuming solitude and despair haunting her since childhood—it’s in her head."
Like, I can only root for Dirk in trying to save Jade from whatever Calliope has cooked up, but he's still manipulating her for his own purposes.
"The ticking of time is a little contrivance in her mind as a byproduct of imbalance, of the vast disparity between her limited self and her Ultimate Self."
So, what, his past is as real to Dirk right now as his present and future?
"It lives rent free there the way Dave once did, and for this version of Jade, probably still does."
Funny how that points to this still being Reload Jade more than post-canon Jade.
"Maybe Dave broke her heart a little, and he keeps doing it too, no matter how many different timelines they try out."
Okay, see? This applies to post-canon Jade!
It seems to swing around from moment to moment, the direction the narration points into.
Though, I guess post-canon Jade might really benefit from absorbing her pre-retcon selves memories regarding her relationship with Davesprite, to assess how to go about handling Dave on Earth C.
"She slips closer to the event horizon, still making no effort to impede her descent. My persuasion skills are admittedly a little rusty. Bear with me here."
So very rusty, so very unused recently. :P
But yeah, she's different from Rose AND John, so he'll need a different approach.
"In my experience, there’s something about being alone that can take a person’s limited meat-engine and make it imagine that it can see beyond the confines of its own electrical processes. Make it believe that it is ascending to a place where it can see the four dimensions spread out beneath it like a set of windows."
Is he... paraphrasing Jade's current mindset? Or his own, isolated on B2 Earth?
Sounds also as if he's describing a medidative monk, kind of.
"Like sheet music. Like a garden, where Jade used to spend so much of her time with her hands in the earth and her head in the clouds, dreaming about flowers that bloomed in six colors and grew when she played them a song. Was that real? It’s hard to tell. But it made her happy, didn’t it?
Isn’t that what she needs now?"
Ooh, so he's trying to persuade her to turn around by getting inside her head and trying to figure out what made her most happy.
Being omniscient, he might just have a hard time distinguishing the important bits from the trash?
He seemed to describe it in such a way, as if Jade might sometimes have been daydreaming in a way it overlapped with dreaming on Prospit!
And so, she might have created a space for her dreamself that didn't stick to the confines of the dreamroom.
"Isn’t it reasonable to presume that’s the only thing capable of persuading her to slow her descent—to being invited to imagine, fake or otherwise, that which once made her happy? That which could still make her happy, if only she’d slow down, think about it, and do whatever is necessary to place herself in those surroundings again?"
So, he's trying to shake her out of it by thinking happy thoughts. :P
"It’s possible that manning the other end of a suicide hotline, transmitted through pure thought in a metatextual format, may not actually be my true calling."
(He actually kind of sucks at this.)
"I’m doing my goddamned best here. She just isn’t slowing down, for some incomprehensible reason."
So, uh, what's stopping you from pulling a John and just, like forcefully move her thoughts to where you want them?
"Perhaps my touch is too soft. It wouldn’t be the first time."
Said no one ever that ever knew you. :P
"Perhaps the limits of persuasion itself are being tested by the most powerful gravitational force to ever exist?"
Now that'd be something! That a pure manifestation of an Aspect could overcome narrators of omniscient inclination.
"Or perhaps it’s true that insistence is just the more effective half of persuasion.
So I’m insisting now."
Took him long enough.
"Jade Harley will not go into that hole. She does NOT want us to all to see what happens when she unsettles the spirit residing there."
So Dirk also seems to be convinced she's survive?
Or maybe he thinks that, adding her to the matter inside the Black Hole, would upset some kind of balance.
Basically, he's like: "No, Alice, don't go into the rabbit hole!" and "No, Dorothy, don't look behind the green curtain at the wizard residing there!"
"she does, though."
OOOOOOoooooohhhhhh!!!!
Battle of the narrators!
Guess Alt Calliope's eon-long isolation, coupled with her Spacey thing, gave her the same powers as Dirk's.
So that answers the question whether ghosts can grow into an Ultimate Self!
It has interesting implications regarding Aranea and (Vriska), for one!
"Fucking yikes.
Jade throws on the brakes. I say she does. But by now, the gravity is overwhelming. Is she even trying to resist, or is it just that it’s useless to try? I’m not... I’m not sure I can tell?"
Wow, yeah, so here we see what happens when Dirk encounters another narrative force of equal or greater power.
He loses the ability to discern everything.
But Alt Calliope remains eerily silent, only 2 comments from her so far.
"Jade realizes, preferably before it’s too late, that this is fucking serious. She needs to turn this around. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want to die.
she wants to return to me."
...? Eh? Does Alt Calliope see herself as THE Self now, devouring all other beings into some sort of hivemind gestalt?
Or does she refer to the time Jade (either version) spent with Calliope (either version)? Seems a bit stupid if she'd mean that.
On the other hand, it might be a childish response, a desire for affection so deeply rooted into the main Calliope, that Alt Calliope during her ascension absorbed it.
"All right, I’m done messing around.
YOUR name is Jade Harley. YOU decide, right now, that you do not want to die. You resist the pull of the black hole with all your might. What would killing yourself accomplish? Sure, most of your friends are dead. But John is still looking for you. Do you want to let him down? Do you want to crush his soul? Do you have any appreciation for what he’s going through, Jade? He can take you home. To your new home, Earth C. The home I made for you, Jade. Your friends are all there, alive and well. Rose, Dave, Karkat, slutty adult Jade, Jane, Jake, Roxy, me. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you, Jade?"
Well then!! Pffff, I didn't think a Strider could ever evocate "Stern Fatherly Disapproval" like Dad Egbert/Crocker can, but here we are.
Let's just skim the implications of taking a teen Jade back to Earth C to live with adult versions of her friends, as well as Dirk's less than gentle tone here, and agree that her survival is definitely desirable, just cuz IT'S ABOUT HER, SURVIVING.
Still, you have to wonder what Dirk's ultimate plans for her are.
I'm starting to doubt he'll be successful, though.
"You’re close now, to the ceiling of the cancerous deformity. Too close. Just skimming the edge of this thing’s vicious horizon."
It's like he's describing the event horizon as a quantum vacuum decay, which for all we know in science, it just might be.
"You dip your toes through the place where the singularity is snapping everything apart at the seams. It’s so loud that it’s completely silent. You can already feel yourself stretched thin, distorted, pulled out with your descent elongated for all eternity."
I suppose there's no one suited for pulling her out at the last second, is there?
No chance for Davepeta to make a last-moment re-entry into the epilogues.
Blaperile points out something significant to me: Dirk has attributed Jade the "you"-ness factor!
It would be cool to have Jade come on par with John in the epilogues, but I doubt it'll last past this page.
"When you look down, the stripes of your witchy tights go on and on for miles. Please, Jade. Don’t ever say I didn’t try to stop this.
she closes her eyes and lets go."
Is... Alt Calliope going to take over the narration for a bit here, on the next page?
We have three potential candidates for taking up narration at this point - and no sight of Andrew Hussie, the author avatar, who could have been a fourth.
Welp. Now Jade's really gone.
I have to wonder what this means for post-canon Jade, who fell unconscious with the sight of the Black Hole seared into her eyes.
It can't have been a pleasant thing that happened to her, there.
I just hope Alt Calliope hasn't taken over her body like a true puppeteer, giving Dirk a run for his money.
#homestuck#homestuck epilogues#homestuck liveblog#upd8#reaction#spoiler alert#jade harley#dirk strider#alternate calliope
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from the start, i was in too deep
Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Female Reader
Rating: M (18+ only, please!)
Summary: While you’re apartment-sitting for Sebastian, he comes home early and dream prompts a late night conversation that leads to a confession.
Author’s Note: Hi, I’ve been staring at that gif for entirely too long to be normal. There’s a text message conversation inset. Hopefully it isn’t too difficult to read on mobile, but let me know if it is and I can edit it to just type it out instead. The title comes from “Heart of Me” by Green River Ordinance.
You wake suddenly, aware that someone is in the room with you, watching you. For a horrifying moment, you freeze, until he moves, and the moonlight spilling in the room illuminates his face, and you relax, sighing.
“You scared me,” you tell him, voice raspy from lack of use.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “Surprise?”
You prop yourself up on one elbow and he comes closer, sitting on the edge of the couch next to you. “You’re back early.”
He’s quiet. “Felt like getting back sooner rather than later.”
Are you imagining it because it’s dark, or are his eyes a little more intense? Is he looking at you differently, or are you just tired and seeing what you want to?
He clears his throat and looks away, the moment gone. “You’re not supposed to be out here, you know.” He says, frowning. “I told you to sleep in my room--”
“I didn’t want to...” You squirm a little, “That’s your space. Felt weird to be there without you.” You blurt it out without thinking, and his eyes snap to yours, eyebrows raising. “That’s not--” you sigh, “That’s not what I meant.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Do you--” He stops, swallowing hard, “How did you mean it?” His eyes are wide, imploring. “Have I just been reading too much into everything, or tonight, did you--”
“I did.” You say quickly, interrupting him. “I do.” Your heart is racing, and as he stares at you, even though you’re practically speaking in incomprehensible sentences, things are suddenly so, so clear.
Earlier that night...
You’re scrolling through Instagram when you see it - a video of Sebastian and Allison Janney on the red carpet at a film festival. You make a noise when you see his all-black suit, and the new haircut he got.
You immediately go to your text messages.
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it. You and Sebastian are... what are you? You’re not really sure. Friends, definitely. He trusted you enough to house-sit for him while he’s out of town, anyway.
But what are you supposed to do? Not flirt with him when he looks like that? Fat chance.
Your phone buzzes.
You snort and start typing.
You laugh to yourself and stand up from the couch, folding the blanket you’ve been under before heading into the kitchen to try to figure out what you could have for a snack before bed.
You feel your phone go off in three quick successions in your pocket.
You do laugh out loud this time, because how did he know? A warm feeling settles in your chest as you think about how well he really does know you.
You don’t say anything back to him, knowing by know he’s already being dragged to some after party where he’ll probably drink too much and leave his phone in his jacket pocket. He told you once that he tries not to have his phone on him when he’s drunk - too worried that he’ll say something stupid.
After another hour or so of watching TV, you decide to turn in for the night. You’ve been sleeping on Sebastian’s couch while he’s out of town, even though before he left he threatened you with bodily harm if you slept on the couch.
You can’t help it - it feels... intimate, in a way that you’re not used to with him. It’s just sleeping in an empty bed, but it’s his empty bed. You feel dumb, but whatever.
You’re just starting to settle into sleep when you feel your phone go off again. This time, it’s ringing, and you frown as you look at the screen, the light bright in the otherwise dark room.
“Aren’t you busy?” You say as way of greeting.
“Hello to you too.” He says, and there’s a noise in the background like he’s shuffling around, a murmur of conversation, and then the click of a door before it all goes quiet. “Were you asleep?”
“Not really. Are you four beers in by now?” You tease him, and he makes an affronted noise that makes you smile.
“I’ve had one drink, thank you very much.” There’s more noise on his end, a rustling, and you can picture him loosening his tie and the top button of his shirt. It’s hardly an erotic image, but picturing it still leaves you blushing and a little breathless. “Just wanted to check in. Heard it’s fucking freezing in New York.”
“This isn’t the Old West,” you laugh, “You have central heating.”
“Will you let me be worried for two seconds, please?” He asks, exasperated, but there’s a fond undercurrent in his voice.
“I’m fine, Seb.” You say softly, the just missing you, going unsaid, but the implication is somehow there, the silence between you saying more than you intended it to. You don’t know why you suddenly feel like this is such an important moment.
“I, uh... I miss you.” He says, and your eyes flutter shut at the tone of his voice. “I know it hasn’t been that long since I left, but still.”
“Miss you too.” You tell him.
“I’ll be back soon. We’ll hang out for a few days before I have to travel again,” he promises, and you nod even though he can’t see you.
“Be safe.” Those three words are this close to coming out, and the air seems thick.
“You too. Good night.”
You hang up, and it takes you a full hour to fall back asleep.
Now...
Your heart is racing, and as he stares at you, even though you’re practically speaking in incomprehensible sentences, things are suddenly so, so clear.
He leans a little closer, his hands hovering over your shoulder. When he finally touches you, his skin feels hot, and you shiver, watching as his eyes go darker, his eyes sweeping over your figure.
“Come to bed.” He says, and his eyes widen a half second later as he rushes to clarify, “To sleep!”
You chastise yourself for making this weird, and start to sit up, watching him as he stands, waiting for you. You fold up the blanket you’d been using, and start to follow him to the bedroom. You still have butterflies in your stomach, and they really start swirling when he stops, and reaches behind him with his arm outstretched, fingers wiggling invitingly at you.
You bite your lip, thinking for a half second before you reach for him, lacing your fingers with his. He squeezes your hand twice before he starts walking again, tugging you along behind him as he opens the door to his bedroom.
“I’ll be right back.” He says, disappearing into the en suite bathroom.
Feeling a chill, you pull back the covers on the bed and slide between the sheets, sighing at how soft and warm they are. You still feel nervous, but less so when he pokes his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush dangling from his mouth. He says something to you, and you roll your eyes.
“Rinse first, talk later.” You say, and he narrows his eyes, but he’s smiling.
“I said, take whichever side you want.”
“Way ahead of you,” you say cheekily, but he just smiles at you, coming out of the bathroom and going into the closet, where you hear him rummaging around in his drawers for pajamas. He comes back out with flannel pajama bottoms and a worn t-shirt, and you’re momentarily drawn to the way the fabric pulls snugly across his chest.
He walks around the bed and gets in on the other side, sinking into his pillows with a relieved sigh. “Shit, it’s good to be back in my own bed.” He turns to you, “You’re a bonus.” He winks. Actually winks.
“You’re a little shit, you know that?” You say, and he throws his head back and laughs.
“Go to sleep,” He says.
You want to keep talking to him, want to stay awake, but you’re fighting a losing battle as your eyelids get heavy. The last thing you remember before you fall asleep are his fingers finding yours under the heavy quilt, linking your hands together gently before your eyes finally close.
A few hours later, you’re dreaming. You dream that he’s pulled you close, every hard line of his body matching up with your curves as he presses his front against your back.
A sigh slips out from your mouth and he’s quick to echo it, his lips attaching themselves to your neck before you can say anything. His hot breath sends a shudder through you, and you rub your legs together to quell the sudden ache there.
He says your name quietly, a deep rumble that has your eyes fluttering and your head lolling back against his chest. His hips rock forward once, then twice, and your hand grips the arm that’s wrapped around your waist keeping you pulled tight against him.
You’re just about to roll over and do something about it when you become aware of a noise, and you know you’re dreaming. You frown, not wanting to wake up, not wanting to realize it’s all been a figment of your imagination.
Against your will, your eyes open.
A bleary-eyed glance at the clock reveals it’s not even four in the morning, and you look around for the reason you woke up. Sebastian is on his side next to you, arm outstretched in your direction. His face is smoothed out, and he looks so young like this.
Your phone is going off on the nightstand next to you, and you squint at it, seeing a bunch of messages from your best friend, who apparently just had the best night of her life and met her future husband. You groan quietly, dropping your head back to the pillow.
Your movements wake up Sebastian, and he looks at you, rubbing at his eyes. “What time is it?” Good lord, his voice. You’re immediately drawn back into your dream and the way he said your name.
You’re glad it’s dark in the room so he can’t see the way you blush. “It’s early. Go back to sleep.”
“Why’re you up?” He slurs, and you want nothing more than to push closer to him, to absorb his warmth and have his hands on you. You clench your fist to keep from reaching for him.
“My phone. It’s no big deal.”
He’s more awake now, and he looks at you, looking like he’s trying to decide if he wants to say something. Then, softly, “I dreamed about you.”
Your entire body flushes.
“I dreamed about you and then I woke up and you’re here, and I’m scared to fuck this all up but if I don’t say it now then I never will--”
You’re kissing him before he can finish his sentence. He freezes momentarily before his big hands reach up to frame your face and he guides you back into a second kiss, and then a third, and a fourth.
You melt into him, the space between the two of you gone in a flash, your legs intertwining and arms wrapped tight around each other. His kiss is deep and ravenous, and you wonder if you won’t burst into flames.
“Always wanted to do that,” He breathes when you finally break apart for air.
“I dreamed about you, too.” You say, feeling your face heat up. “I--”
“We had the same sex dream?” He asks, grinning at you, and you smack his chest lightly.
“Shut up!”
He laughs, tugging you closer, “No, no. I think you should tell me more about this.” He bites his bottom lip. “You know, compare notes.”
“I hate you.”
His eyes are so, so dark. “No you don’t.” His hand slowly creeps between your bodies, knuckles skimming along your stomach until he reaches the drawstring of your pants. Your face is on fire, but you know its nothing compared to what he can feel with his hand. “I dreamed about this.” He whispers, and your mouth falls open on a silent moan. His eyes lock onto yours, silently asking permission, and you nod, his own mouth falling open when his hands dip inside your pajamas, finding you warm and wet for him.
“Oh, god.” You whisper.
“You’re so... hot.” As his hand works you, he kisses you again, and you almost lose your damn mind at the white-hot pleasure working its way through your body. It’s been awhile since you’ve been touched like this, and even then, with someone else, it never felt like this. “Fuck.” He says, and when you open your eyes, his are glued to your face, watching you intently.
Feeling bold, you shove at his shoulder until he rolls to his back, eyes immediately rolling back in his head when he realizes what you’re after. “Shit, shit...” he curses, hand falling over his eyes almost like he can’t look at you at all. You grin and begin to kiss your way down his chest, taking care to caress every inch of him. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“What a way to go, though.” You say, and he snorts.
“You’re amazing. Jesus, fuck.”
He falls quiet as you get closer to your destination, and when your hand closes around him, his entire body locks up before melting into the mattress as your mouth touches him, a deep groan coming from his throat.
You work him for a few minutes before he’s practically begging you to stop, and pulls you back up on top of him, his mouth attacking yours with renewed vigor. When he rolls you over onto your back, he stops, and his brow furrows.
“I-- I’m clean, was tested not too long ago, but I’ll get a--”
“Don’t go anywhere.” You say, tugging him back in between your legs. “I’m on the pill, and I’m clean too. I trust you.”
His eyes are filled with something that thrills you and scares you in equal measure as he reaches between you and slowly enters you, his mouth falling open again as he feels the stretch of you. He groans, and you echo the noise. You’re both moving pretty slowly, but all it does is amp up the fire between you, and every single slow movement has you seeing stars.
“You feel so good.” He breathes.
“You’re perfect,” you tell him, and his head droops until it’s resting on your collarbone, is harsh breaths fanning out across your skin.
Soon you’re both cresting that peak, and he says your name in this tone that you swear you’ll never get out of your head as long as you live. You think you say his name, or some variation of it, as fireworks explode behind your closed eyelids.
After, he drags you to the shower with him, the hot water feeling amazing on your muscles. He helps you clean up and stand on shaky legs, pressing chaste kisses to your shoulder and the top of your head every so often, taking care to keep your long hair out of the water.
You practically collapse back in bed afterwards, the clock reading five in the morning. “Let’s sleep for like ten more hours, okay?” You tell him, and he chuckles.
“Sounds good to me, as long as you can keep your dreams to yourself.”
You roll your eyes. “Idiot.” You say, but you’re laughing as he tugs you closer to his side.
“It was the suit, right?”
“Oh, definitely.”
“Knew it,” he says, and then you’re both asleep.
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When Worlds Collide
Pairing: Mayor Attorney (DA/Damien)
Description: In which Damien introduces his closest college friend to his childhood friend, a.k.a. his brother-in-law, and someone’s inner darkness is foreshadowed.
References to the installments where my DA and Damien first met (Proposals) and to Damien’s last fight (An untitled installment as of now) if you guys want to check those out. You don’t need them to necessarily understand the fic, but it might help! I don’t know if anyone is triggered by spiked alcohol and the implications surrounding it, but here’s your warning nonetheless. It’s not a joke in this story, and it never will be, so keep that in mind as you progress forward and if I have done something problematic without knowing it, please let me know privately so I can fix it. Enjoy!
Oo00oO
Up until the moment the visit began, Damien had been looking forward to introducing his dear friend to Mark.
His friend had expressed some concerns about meeting Mark, such as the obvious fact of them not being “out,” so to say, and also because they tend not to warm up to others very quickly.
The latter had surprised Damien. He hadn’t noticed until several weeks into their friendship but with anyone else, they were reserved and curt. Most often with those they did not like, but even with strangers, they tended to keep on the quiet side. Not a shy sort of quiet but rather…a cautious one. A testing-the-waters kind of silence.
Damien had attempted to introduce them to various other acquaintances he has made since University, but thus far, not only have his acquaintances found his friend lacking in entertainment, but his friend has in turn not felt comfortable around his acquaintances. There are probably a total of three outside pals that his friend is most at ease with and even then, they do not speak nearly as freely as they do when it’s just he and them together.
It took months for Damien to realize that he is the exception.
Whereas he looks at his friend and sees a reserved but vibrant person slow to trust, others saw a prickly and unsociable outsider. From what he can tell, and from what his friend has confessed both directly and not, he’s the first real friend they’ve ever had, and the longest lasting one. Damien doesn’t know exactly what they saw in him to lead to their rapidly developed friendship, but he does know it is the greatest gift he will ever receive.
All of this being said, Damien is willing to admit to himself that he would be devastated if Mark and his friend do not get along, and as excited as he is for his two worlds to meet (hopefully a far better meeting than the one with his parents), he is also very aware that Mark could come across as the very sort of person his friend abhors.
Which brings him to the current situation.
Mark is in town shooting a small film (part of Damien is disappointed Celine isn’t here too), and of course the man insisted on meeting the aspiring law student Damien can’t shut up about in his letters, so Mark insisted that the three of them meet at Freddy’s Pub.
After the initial introductions (in which Mark looked over Damien’s friend and then sent a wink of all things in his direction and Damien rather wished the earth would swallow him whole), and the drink orders, the discussions began.
“So, if I recall correctly,” Mark begins with that characteristic smug grin of his, “you two met during a prank you were pulling on Damien’s parents, correct?”
Damien’s friend looks at Mark with a lifted brow. “Technically we met at orientation, then again on his first day at University, but yeah, that’s how we became friends.”
“Oh, I imagine your folks loved that whole situation,” Mark drawls as he leans back in his chair. “Marrying someone you just met from University? They still haven’t called us since our wedding, and they’ve known me since our elementary days.”
“They were ecstatic,” they respond, and there’s a sudden edge in their voice which worries Damien. “Shame you and Damien’s sister weren’t there to witness it.”
As soon as the words leave their mouth, Damien cringes.. Judging by the stiffness in Mark’s posture, Damien knows he understands exactly what they mean. Damien is surprised they remembered his sadness about Celine and Mark attending his fake wedding, but he really shouldn’t be. They care and recall far more than they let on.
“You’re right,” Mark finally acknowledges with an apologetic look towards Damien. “Celine and I should’ve been at your wedding.”
“Mark, it’s fine, the wedding was fake—”
“But we didn’t know that,” Mark interrupts. “And we should have gone to support you. We just thought…” He sighs. “Celine didn’t think you’d want her and your parents in the same room—”
“It’s fine, Mark,” Damien insists, ignoring the disbelieving look his friend sends him (they’ve always said they find him too forgiving for his own good). “How are you and Celine, by the way?”
Mark’s grin grows into something natural and beautiful, the kind of smile only the giddiness of love can bring, and Damien relaxes further. He catches a minute change in his friend’s shoulders as well, at the sight.
Then their drinks appear at the table, and the mood lightens further as Mark recites the adventures in domesticity he and Celine are taking part in before he tackles his acting career in full.
“What kind of roles are you looking for?” his friend asks.
“Oh, I like to dabble in everything: drama, comedy, etc. I’d even enjoy voicing all of these animated films Disney and Fleischer have been producing lately—”
Mark cuts off as some tall brunette man suddenly bumps into their table, nearly spilling the drinks and falling on top of Damien’s friend.
“Oh, my apologies, Gorgeous!” the stranger says, with a bright grin. He makes no move to step away from them, and Damien considers stepping in when he catches the apprehensive look in his friend’s eyes.
“No harm done,” they mutter as they gently but firmly push the stranger away. But he doesn’t leave, and Damien starts to get suspicious of the supposedly innocence smile directed as his friend.
“Hey, hold on, let me make it up to you, darling. I’ll buy your next drink—”
“No, I’m fine,” they insist and make a concentrated effort to avoid his eyes by looking at Mark again. “Which company would you prefer to do voices for, Disney or Fleischer?”
Mark, to his credit, picks up on their discomfort. “It looks as though Disney is on the golden road to success, so I doubt they would hire an amateur like me. I would be so happy to work on Popeye with Fleischer though.”
“Popeye is fantastic, but Disney has been fairly prolific with their animated masterpieces lately,” they offer, and the conversation goes back and forth like that until the stranger takes the hint and leaves for the bar.
They sigh in relief. “Thank you,” they say to Mark.
“No problem.”
“Is everything alright?” Damien asks them. “You seem tense. Well, more tense than normal.”
Damien is fully aware that they deal with men who don’t respect boundaries on a regular basis, but that’s usually when it comes to verbal sparring and the occasional brawl. How often do they deal with someone of this nature?
They shrug. “Just…he gave me a bad feeling. It’s nothing.” They sip their beer a few times before setting it down.
Damien senses they wish to drop the subject, so he crosses his arms and looks at them in mock accusation. “Since when are you a fan of cartoons? Are you telling me we could have been watching Disney animations at the drive-ins together and we haven’t yet?”
This finally pulls a laugh out of them, and Damien feels his chest warm at the sound.
“Do the two of you often go see films together?” Mark questions with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, and Damien feels his blood rush to his face at the implication in Mark’s tone.
“Are you kidding?” they scoff. “Between studying and homework, we can barely muster enough energy to go outside.”
Mark looks as though he’d like to keep teasing the two of them, but Damien rapidly changes the discussion back to Mark’s aspiring career. As the evening progresses for the next hour or so and everyone’s drinks are slowly depleted, Damien notices something strange.
“My friend, are you feeling well?”
For the past few minutes, their words have slurred together into almost incomprehensible gibberish and they keep shaking their head as if to keep awake.
They blink several times and rub their hand over their face. “I…I can’t keep my eyes open…I think I’ll go splash some water on my face…”
Mark chuckles good-naturedly as they stand up from their chair and make a slow attempt at walking, unaware of Damien’s concern. “A little too much to drink, perhaps?”
Damien shakes his head, and the serious look in his face makes Mark sober up. “Mark, their limit is at least five drinks; their glass isn’t even empty, it shouldn’t be affecting them like this—”
They stumble against the edge of the table, all of a sudden, staring at a faraway spot. “Damien…” they slur. “Something…something’s wrong…”
“Perhaps I can be of assistance?”
Mark and Damien turn to see the stranger approaching once more. He starts pulling them to their feet and away from the table. “I can take this lightweight home if you two want to stay here and catch up. It would be my pleasure!”
The stranger is already turning away from the group, with Damien’s friend shaking and feebly trying to push away from his arms, and it’s not until Damien sees Mark sniff their glass that the pieces fall into place.
Damien will look back on this moment in years to come and recall nothing but a haze of anger like he’s never felt before and a film of red overtaking his vision.
When Mark tells the story in later times, he will talk about how Damien leapt from the table and punched the stranger right in the nose with a loud crunch, pulling his friend back into their chair as the man howled in pain, tossing out curses before Damien tackled him to the ground and continued pummeling him. But Damien doesn’t recall any of this, despite the proof of bruises on his knuckles and the trembling in his shoulders.
Damien only recalls Mark pulling him away, leaving the man bleeding and swearing on the ground.
“Damien, we need to go!”
His vision clears, and Damien can see the entire pub looking at him in utter fear, but this means nothing to him when he lays eyes on his friend and sees they’re struggling to get out of their chair. He rushes forward to catch them before they fall to the ground.
They wrap their arms around his neck, breathing heavily and whimpering. “I don’t like this, I can’t think, I can’t see, what’s happening, Damien, why…?”
He can barely make out the words as they repeat them over and over, but he pats their back and whispers back, “I’ve got you, my friend, it’s okay, we’re taking you home, alright?” Damien looks over at Mark who nods and they start to depart, but not before Damien kicks the bastard who drugged his friend one last time for good measure.
“So where are we going?” Mark asks, uncharacteristically solemn.
Damien adjusts his hold on his mumbling friend. “We walked here from their house. We’ll just carry them there, it’s not too far.”
“If you say so.”
Oo00oO
Partway to his friend’s home, his friend falls asleep, so Damien finally carries them on his own power the rest of the way. When they arrive, he places them gently on the couch and covers them up with the quilt resting at the foot.
The tension knotting in Damien’s chest doesn’t go away, however, despite seeing them safe in their home. He still can’t believe someone tried to…his friend could have been…
“So,” Mark suddenly begins, after being silent the entire trip here (not that Damien had been in the mood to talk anyway), “I’ve never seen you that angry before.”
Damien flexes his sore knuckles and wonders at the lack of regret over his actions. He’s not a violent man, never has been. He’s rough-housed with Mark and William growing up, and that’s about it, aside from…
Aside from the time that bastard called his friend by a disgusting epithet.
But he didn’t regret that fight either, even if he retreated after one bad punch. He learned after that, from his friend, how to throw a proper hit.
“If you think I overreacted—”
“I think you showed remarkable restraint,” Mark interrupts, and the conversational lilt in his voice makes Damien finally take his gaze off his sleeping friend. “I probably would have gone too far, to be honest, if I were in your position, and that was Celine on the couch now. Or even William, or you.”
Damien blinks at the...rather worrying stillness in Mark’s face, the ease coming with the concession. “I…I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Then don’t say anything.”
“But I want you to understand,” Damien admits. “For as long as I’ve known them, they have always been in control of their faculties. Never drinking too much unless they were here at home, and always keeping their guard up around everyone else. I’m the only real friend…” Damien pinches the bridge of his nose. “Seeing them so unsettled, so unsteady and scared…and what if I wasn’t there? They could have been…”
A hand lands on his shoulder and he tries to take comfort from Mark’s gesture.
“Damien,” Mark begins, “take comfort in the fact that your, erm, ‘friend’ is well. You were there, and that’s what matters.”
Damien’s eyes narrow as he pulls his hand away from his face. “Why that strange inflection on ‘friend’?”
Mark chuckles and shakes his head. “Damien, I’ve known you for a long time now, and while you’ve always been a very intimate friend, I know how you look when you’re in love.”
Good God, not this. He doesn’t need Mark’s teasing right now, especially with how out of sorts he feels.
“Mark—”
“You don’t need to say anything, Damien,” Mark declares as he holds up a defensive hand. “But I thought you’d like to know, I think you two are well-suited for each other. A rather gentle meeting of opposites, if you may.”
“Mark, we’re just friends—”
“Obviously you’re not together,” he dismisses. “I doubt you would have kept such a thing from me, but I thought you may as well know I approve. Not that you need my approval, but nonetheless, you have it!”
Damien is saved from responding when his friend stirs on the couch with a whimper. He drops to the edge of the coffee table and places a gentle hand on their head. “Don’t worry, my friend, I’m here…” He whispers to them, stroking the curls from their face. “You’re safe.”
Their eyes flutter open briefly, a hint of panic flickering through their features. “Damien, where am I, what happened—”
“We’ve taken you home. Don’t worry, nothing happened to you,” Damien reassures them. “We…we took care of it.”
“I think you mean you took care of it.”
Damien ignores Mark as his friend shifts again on the couch. They place their hand over his as the relief smooths the wrinkles from their forehead.
“Thank you…for looking out for me…”
“My pleasure,” Damien says with a smile.
As their breathing evens back out, Damien keeps his hand on their face until he’s positive they’re fully asleep once more.
“Ah yes, I can see what great friends you are—”
“Mark,” Damien interrupts with a roll of his eyes and a small, shy smile, “shut up.”
Fin
Oo00oO
@cosmic--frappucino , @dontworryaboutanything , @beereblogsstuff , @musical-jim
Reblog and comment please!
#wkm#mayor attorney#mayor damien#y/n district attorney#actor!mark#wkm!mark#kat writes#let me know what you guys think!
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GAGEGN ch2
[index/summary]
REPORT: Regarding T.Coolatta and his involvement with the Nihilanth Project (pt.2)
Tommy ended up getting transferred to the Lambda lab officially after his HR responsibilities were passed on to someone else and Sunkist was old and well-behaved enough to be left in his dorm. He did, however, agree to bring her in only once as a demonstration of what he’d accomplished. One of the scientists took the time to explain what the Lambda lab was doing, to an extent—and that only left more questions.
Tommy knew some of Black Mesa’s goals based on his work in anomalous materials—using mysteriously acquired samples, they were trying to find a way to instantaneously travel to and from another planet confirmed to have life. That made sense to Tommy as something they would want to accomplish; but what he was shown inside the Lambda lab changed his perspective on things significantly. They had aliens in here. Honest to god, literal aliens. Tommy had thought they’d only been transporting inanimate objects—rock samples, rovers, etc—but these were actual aliens being kept in containment in the depths of Black Mesa. He only saw one type; little round things that almost looked like uncooked chickens with legs that ended in sharp claws—they seemed to have about the intelligence of chickens, too, but he still felt pretty bad, seeing them being contained in small cages so far from home.
“So...what is that, in the big lab, then?” Tommy asked the scientist who had been showing him around.
The scientist frowned, nodding for Tommy to follow him to the massive lab. When stood before the incomprehensible creature again, they stared at it in a long silence before the scientist spoke again.
“We call it the Nihilanth.” He explained. “While we were transporting subjects here to Earth for testing, we received...this, as well. One of our contacts who helps provide us samples suggested the name, I believe, but told us to keep our testing with it to a minimum, as in this state, it’s...unpredictable.”
Tommy stuffed his hands in his lab coat pockets. “So...is it not supposed to look like that?”
The scientist shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like it. Our contact sure was surprised when he got a good look at it, and I’ve never seen him react to anything weird we’ve shown him. We have no idea what it’s supposed to be, but apparently—as proven by your dog—we can pull almost anything from it at random when trying to collect samples. The regenerating tissue wasn’t necessarily a new development, but we never dared to try and clone anything out of it. Your dog hasn’t shown any strange...shapeshifting abilities, has it?”
Tommy frowned and shook his head, looking back at the Nihilanth.
The scientist patted Tommy on the shoulder, physically turning him around to lead him back out of the lab. “Try not to look at it for too long, if you can help it. Many report migraines after observing it for a while.”
As they were stepping out of the lab, Tommy stopped as he heard singing. He turned back around, looking into the chamber as orbs of light in beautiful gradients floated up towards the ceiling. Tommy looked at the scientist quizzically.
“Oh, that.” The scientist nodded. “Yeah, it does that sometimes. That’s what we had you testing every now and then—a guard called it the ‘sweet voice’ once as a joke, and I guess it caught on.”
“You don’t even know what it is?” Tommy asked.
The scientist shrugged.
“Sunkist does that, too.” Tommy said thoughtfully, stepping back inside the lab to stare at the orbs slowly floating towards the ceiling, getting sucked into a hose built into the top. “You know...I’ve been starting to, um, wonder something.”
“What’s that?”
Tommy turned back to the scientist. “The colors change depending on the mood she’s in. And—and based on the way the sweet voice has certain chemicals in it, do you think...do you think it’s trying to communicate?”
The scientist crossed his arms, looking into the chamber. “Yes, we thought about that a little bit. That’s why we had you running so many tests on the sweet voice. Ultimately, though, it doesn’t seem like there’s any rhyme or reason to what it’s attempting to say. We think in the state it’s in, whatever cognizant thought it may have been capable of before just isn’t possible, now.”
Tommy frowned deeply. “Well, how can you be sure about that?”
“Listen, Tommy, if you want to stare at colors all day, be my guest.” The scientist said with a shrug. “Before that, though, I could actually use your help with some other samples we’ve collected.”
Tommy followed the scientist back, and was thrust into intensive work. Now that he was an official part of this small section of the Lambda team, he was given a great deal of responsibilities—though he managed to receive sweet voice study as one of those responsibilities after insisting it was vital to know what the Nihilanth was trying to say. Honestly, he wasn’t thrilled that this point had even needed convincing—the Lambda team didn’t seem to be too concerned about the ethical implications of their work. All the more reason for Tommy to stay, try and collect evidence that the Nihilanth was capable of communication so they could move from there and potentially send it—and all the other aliens—back.
The Lambda team required at least one scientist to be present in the Nihilanth’s chamber at all times to monitor its activity. During the daytime, many other scientists would be milling around doing minimal observations and testing—after the main hours of operation, though, that just left observation duties, and typically only one scientist and one guard would be posted inside the lab to watch over it. The nighttime observation shifts were only four hours, meaning each night, they needed four volunteers. Everyone had settled into an unofficial volunteer schedule, but Tommy gladly took over other people’s shifts for them several times a week so he could have some relative peace while he studied the Nihilanth’s sweet voice.
It didn’t sing often, but Tommy collected as many samples as he could when it did. Just as the others had tried to convince him, it didn’t seem like there was much of a pattern that he could work off of—but Tommy was determined to figure something out. He was in the chamber one night, taking the second shift and hunched over a little shitty desk, head rested in his hands as he watched the Nihilanth patiently when the door opened unexpectedly. Tommy stared through the glass towards the door, watching one of the Coomers approach—the way he walked in confidently, he didn’t seem like the Coomer clone Tommy normally worked with.
“Hello, Tommy!” Dr. Coomer greeted with a smile. “It’s me! The original Dr. Coomer.”
“Oh! Hi.” Tommy greeted back awkwardly. “Ummm...are you like, supposed to be in here? You’re not the Dr. Coomer who works down here.”
“Well, probably not, but I know plenty about the Lambda team’s operations already.” Dr. Coomer admitted. “And I know you’ve been overworking yourself a little.”
Tommy stared up at Dr. Coomer in surprise. “Well, you know the Nihilanth needs—it needs to be watched 24/7.”
“Of course! But my clone has noted you’ve been taking quite a lot of shifts.” Dr. Coomer said, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside Tommy. “I think it would be in your best interest to go get some sleep, Tommy. You can’t expect to be making scientific breakthroughs with such little rest.”
“But I have to do this.” Tommy argued, nodding back to the Nihilanth. “It’s—it’s trying to communicate. And nobody else on this team is listening! It’s trapped here, and—and—nobody cares that it’s trying to tell us something. Wouldn’t that be horrible? To be taken to some...some alien planet and contained, and written off like you’re not—like you’re not even capable of...of...basic thought, just because you can’t speak their language?”
Dr. Coomer frowned, placing a comforting hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “...That would be terrible, Tommy. You’re right. What we’re doing here, it’s...it’s dreadful.”
Tommy let out a deep sigh, enjoying Dr. Coomer’s friendly presence beside him as he looked back at the Nihilanth.
“It would be unfair of me to—not to put in my best effort.” Tommy went on. “If it’s trying to tell us something, I—as someone part of this...this fucked up project, I have a responsibility to try and fix this whole mess.”
Dr. Coomer nodded in understanding. They sat in silence there for a little while, Tommy watching the Nihilanth with growing exhaustion. Maybe Dr. Coomer was right on some level, he started to think—running himself ragged like this might slow down his progress. Tommy rubbed his eyes, picking up one of the vials filled with a liquefied sample of the sweet voice, swirling with a combination of purple and green.
“I have ideas for what the colors mean.” Tommy said, setting down the vial. “They’re mostly just based on Sunkist’s behavior, though, and I don’t—I don’t know if, like, it’s gonna be the same, if I tried to apply my...my idea for their meanings on the Nihilanth’s intent. Most likely, Sunkist would have created her own...like...language with it, since she didn’t have any other sweet voice users around her. You know how, like, cats learn to meow at us because—because they learn that it gets a response from humans? That’s sort of what I’m thinking must have happened with her.”
Dr. Coomer put a hand to his chin thoughtfully. “Tommy, have you ever tried bringing Sunkist in here?”
Tommy looked at Dr. Coomer, hoping he would elaborate.
“If Sunkist can use the sweet voice, it might be worthwhile to see the Nihilanth’s reaction to her speaking.” Dr. Coomer explained. “You may be able to parse patterns when something using its own language attempts speaking to it.”
A massive, excited grin spread across Tommy’s face. He slapped the desk enthusiastically several times with his open palm, gripping Dr. Coomer’s sleeve with his other hand. “That’s—that’s a great idea, Dr. Coomer!” Tommy reached into his pocket, taking out his keys and placing them in Dr. Coomer’s hand. “Would you go get Sunkist for me, please?”
“Well, I was sort of thinking this ought to be something you attempt later, after getting some s—”
“Please, Dr. Coomer?” Tommy begged. “I won’t be able to sleep at all if I don’t do this now!”
Dr. Coomer smiled back in defeat. “...Oh, alright. I’ll be right back. What dorm do you live in?”
Tommy told Dr. Coomer the location of his dorm, pacing in circles anxiously around the chamber as he waited impatiently for him to return. Finally, Dr. Coomer arrived back in the lab with a sleepy looking Sunkist, who greeted Tommy with a few licks on his hand. Tommy smiled fondly down at her, stroking her head gently.
“Sorry to wake you, Sunkist.” Tommy apologized. “Thanks, Dr. Coomer.”
“Of course!” Dr. Coomer replied. “I greatly admire your dedication, Tommy. More scientists here could use your conviction.”
Tommy couldn’t help but smile back at him. “Th-thanks, Dr. Coomer.” Turning back to Sunkist, Tommy gave her one more friendly pat before getting to work. “Sunkist, would you mind barking for me?”
Sunkist complied, barking several blue orbs enthusiastically. Tommy turned eagerly to the Nihilanth, waiting for a response. It took a moment, but just as Dr. Coomer had predicted, it began to sing a gradient of green to red. Tommy slapped Dr. Coomer’s shoulder several times excitedly with both hands.
“It replied! It replied!!” Tommy gasped. “Sunkist, can you do it again?”
Tommy eagerly scooped up a clipboard, scribbling down notes as Sunkist and the Nihilanth began—apparently—speaking to one another. Tommy could glean from Sunkist’s behavior that she was excited about this development, and the Nihilanth...well, it was difficult to tell. It wasn’t like he could see any body language from it, and even if he could, it was an alien—the body language of a dog was much easier to read than an alien’s. Tommy got some definite patterns from Sunkist, but none from the Nihilanth—he saw dozens of different color combinations before Sunkist eventually grew bored, leaving them in silence.
“If only I could...I had more control over this.” Tommy said thoughtfully around the end of the pen he was chewing on. “Sunkist is smart, but I don’t know if I could, umm...dictate to her what colors to use.”
“Either way, Tommy, you just made an incredible breakthrough.” Dr. Coomer said with a proud grin. “Perhaps more will come to you once you get some sleep, hmm?”
“I can’t sleep now! I just got more—more information than I’ve gotten in months!” Tommy complained.
“That’s exactly why you should get some sleep.” Dr. Coomer said firmly. “Go along, I’ll take over the rest of your shift.”
“But—”
“I’m not taking no for an answer this time, Tommy.” Dr. Coomer insisted. “I’m certain all the information you’ve gathered will make far more sense once you’ve slept.”
Tommy sighed in defeat. “...Okay. Thank you, Dr. Coomer.”
****
Dr. Coomer had been right that Tommy desperately needed more sleep than he was getting, but to Tommy’s great disappointment, his notes didn’t make any more sense the following morning. It was, at least, a major breakthrough to prove that the Nihilanth responded to its own language, but he got the feeling it wasn’t going to be enough.
Tommy took a tangent from trying to find patterns in sweet voice usage to return to studying the sweet voice itself. If he could find a way to control it himself in order to communicate specific colors of his choosing at the Nihilanth, that could be massively helpful to his research—but even with a deeper knowledge of the sweet voice than anyone else on the Lambda team, he felt out of his depth trying to figure out how to recreate it. When Tommy felt as though his brain was on the verge of exploding, he stood from the desk in the Nihilanth’s lab, deciding he might feel a little better after a lunch break.
Tommy took an empty seat in the cafeteria closest to his lab, resting his aching head in one hand as he sipped at a soda. Think about something else, he told himself. He closed his eyes, trying instead to focus on the sounds around him.
“Tommy!”
Tommy jumped in surprise, turning to face Dr. Coomer, followed by Bubby. They seemed like the Dr. Coomer and Bubby, Tommy thought—he normally didn’t see them eating lunch together in this section of the facility. Dr. Coomer took a seat beside Tommy with a bagged lunch, though, followed by Bubby with a tray of shitty cafeteria food.
“How is your research going?” Dr. Coomer asked curiously.
Tommy let out a deep, exhausted sigh, resting his forehead on the table.
“That bad?” Bubby asked flatly.
“I understand more about the sweet voice, now, but...” Tommy paused, sitting up to rest his chin in his hands. “I just...don’t know how I can get enough control of it to try to talk to it myself.”
“‘Sweet voice’?” Bubby questioned. “What the hell are you doing down there in the Lambda lab?”
“Oh, yeah, I—I sort of forgot you’re not...the Bubby I work with.” Tommy muttered sheepishly.
“I get that a lot.” Bubby scoffed.
Tommy took a brief moment to explain his dilemma to Bubby.
“I don’t know, communicating with some incomprehensible Eldritch alien monster doesn’t sound like a great idea.” Bubby commented. “Besides, even if you’re able to convince the Lambda team to send it back, based on what I’m hearing about it, that could take a massive amount of power that we may not be able to save up again. Taking things from Xen is one thing, sending them there is another—I’m sure it’s a wonder we even managed to get it here.”
“Exactly! We managed to get it here, so we should be able to send it back!” Tommy argued. “We—we have a responsibility to set things right, Dr. Bubby.”
“Hey, I’m sure you’re right.” Bubby said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “But our technology is unpredictable. We’ve had hiccups before. It’s entirely possible we dragged something here that we’re not going to be able to send back.”
“Perhaps we ought to take this one step at a time.” Dr. Coomer suggested gently. “Tommy, if you paired with somebody from the cybernetics department, then perhaps they could help you create a device to utilize the sweet voice.”
“Oh!” Tommy exclaimed. “That’s a great idea!”
“Always the cybernetics with you.” Bubby muttered.
“I’m always happy to help a good friend.” Dr. Coomer replied with a smile. “I’ll connect you with one of my friends in the cybernetics department, I’m certain she’ll be eager to help you.”
Tommy grinned. Dr. Coomer considered Tommy a good friend? “Thank you so much, Dr. Coomer.”
Dr. Coomer followed up on his promise, and Tommy worked closely with a very enthusiastic employee of the cybernetics department by the name of Beatrice, giving her as much information as he could about the sweet voice and what he needed it for. After several weeks, Beatrice finally got back to Tommy, informing him she had a concept for how to utilize the sweet voice.
It was a little more intrusive than what Tommy had been picturing. He’d thought she might make some sort of handheld device—what she presented to him was a cybernetic enhancement to his vocal cords. While she babbled on about the usage of the body’s naturally produced chemicals as a fully controllable source, rather than having to constantly collect the ingredients needed to feed into a device, it made perfect sense to Tommy, but damn. It wasn’t a possibility he had been mentally prepared for when he woke up that morning. He took a little bit to think about it; it was the best method of using the sweet voice, but that sure was a permanent change to his body, wasn’t it? After sleeping on it, Tommy made his decision. As long as it had a chance at furthering his research, it was for the best—plus, it would be cool to be able to do himself, even after he no longer needed it. He put in his volunteer request and was processed and scheduled within the day.
Dr. Coomer and Bubby showed up before Tommy’s surgery as emotional support, easing his anxiety about the procedure immensely before he was wheeled into the lab. Beatrice wasn’t shy about telling Tommy exactly how excited she was about this project as she strapped a mask over his face to deliver the anesthetic—and Tommy wasn’t sure whether the excitement was comforting or not, but if nothing else, at least he didn’t have too much time left to be nervous before he was out cold.
Tommy didn’t know immediately how well the surgery went when he woke. He had been directed to try and avoid speaking at all costs for the next two weeks, and not to use the sweet voice for the next five weeks—so he spent the first two weeks of his recovery in his dorm, visited several times by Dr. Coomer and Bubby. Despite Tommy’s extreme eagerness to get back to work, it was nice to have some time where he quietly showed his interests to these two old men who had verbally confirmed to him that they were his friends. Dr. Coomer and Bubby weren’t too excited by the video games Tommy tried to introduce them to at first, but Tommy tried a different approach, dragging out his SNES and showing them a game he was certain might catch at least Dr. Coomer’s attention.
“Super Punch Out?” Dr. Coomer read off the cartridge. “Oh, I do love punching.”
Tommy nodded enthusiastically before starting up the game for him. Dr. Coomer got way into it—before Tommy knew it, it was two in the morning, and Dr. Coomer still showed no signs of exhaustion while Bubby snored on the couch. Tommy smiled, stroking Sunkist’s head gently as he nodded off himself.
****
The day finally came when Tommy could attempt using the sweet voice. Beatrice had requested to be there when he tested it out—he couldn’t allow her into the Lambda lab, so he headed down to the cybernetics department that morning to show it off. Tommy cleared his throat, averting his gaze nervously as Beatrice stared at him with an expectant, excited smile.
Tommy took a deep breath and made a long, strained “aaaahhh” sound—with no sweet voice to show for it. Tommy’s face flushed in embarrassment.
“Ummm...I’m not...sure how to use it.” He muttered.
“C’mon, you gotta sing.” Beatrice encouraged.
Tommy cleared his throat again and sang a single note. This time, Tommy’s eyes widened as pink orbs shot out of his mouth, floating up towards the ceiling, just like Sunkist and the Nihilanth. Beatrice pumped her fists enthusiastically.
“Yesss! First try!” Beatrice exclaimed in excitement. “How’s it feel?”
“Weird.” Tommy replied with a small laugh. “It...it has a taste, too. It tastes like...like, ummm...pink.”
“Fuck, dude, it sure is pink.” Beatrice said with a nod. “Try some other colors! Remember, it’s based on pitch.”
Tommy complied, singing a long rainbow of sweet voice. Normally, Tommy despised singing in front of others, but the reward of colorful orbs coming out of his mouth from it was enough to get him excited about showing it off. After Beatrice announced she had another surgery to get to, Tommy rushed back to the Lambda lab, bursting into the Nihilanth’s room and practically pressing himself up against the glass, ignoring his coworkers who stared at him curiously.
“Nihilanth! I can use it now!” Tommy shouted. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and sang a few blue orbs at the glass.
The Nihilanth almost immediately sang back, green to red—just like when Sunkist had been introduced. It could be a coincidence, sure, but that was the first and strongest lead to a pattern Tommy had gotten in all his time studying the sweet voice.
“Holy shit, what? ” One of the scientists questioned as Tommy scooped up a clipboard to begin taking notes. “Is that what your voluntary surgery was for?”
Tommy nodded with a grin before turning back to the Nihilanth, repeating green to red back at it. They did this for a long time, repeating gradients back at each other as Tommy took extensive notes. After the day was over, Tommy gripped his clipboard tightly in his hands, rushing straight to the administrator’s office. He didn’t even bother knocking—in his extreme excitement to finally be so close to his goal, Tommy threw the door open, standing in front of Dr. Breen’s desk and bouncing on his heels. Dr. Breen stared up at him wordlessly in shock.
“Dr. Breen!” Tommy exclaimed, holding out the clipboard for him to look at. It wasn’t presentable at all, but Tommy figured this would require more of an in-person demonstration than a beautiful looking report. “I’ve been studying the—the sweet voice extensively ever since—the Lambda lab, I’m—the Nihilanth...”
“Mr. Coolatta, would you at least take a second to collect yourself before you try telling me what this is about?” Dr. Breen interrupted impatiently.
Tommy paused, took a deep breath, and did his best to clear his head. “Ever since joining the Lambda team, I’ve studied—I’ve been studying the sweet voice. I believe it’s been trying to communicate. I tried telling the...the head of the Lambda team, but he said it wasn’t—there wasn’t enough evidence. So I gathered evidence. I found patterns in the color gradients—the sweet voice, it uses specific colors for specific, ummm, specific reasons. I think it’s intelligent, and it’s—it’s unethical to keep it here in Black Mesa. We should send it back to Xen.”
Dr. Breen’s expression didn’t change. All he did was raise an eyebrow, fingers laced together as he stared at Tommy.
“Sure, it’s intelligent.” Dr. Breen finally said. “The thought crossed my mind. That’s no reason to spend time and resources on sending it all the way back though, Mr. Coolatta. A thing like that, we’d have to put everything on hold for—what, a year? A year and a half, at best?—just to eventually save up the resources and power to barely send it back in one piece. I’m not going to bring everything to a halt just for whatever that thing is. We have deadlines to meet.”
Tommy frowned deeply, gripping the clipboard tight in his hands.
“Besides, don’t you have the Nihilanth to thank for your dog?” Dr. Breen questioned, leaning back in his chair. “Think of all the scientific marvels that could come from having it to test on! Would you really be so eager to send something like that back?”
“...Of course I would.”
Dr. Breen shook his head. “Mr. Coolatta, I appreciate you’re concerned for the Nihilanth’s wellbeing and whatnot, but you have to think of the bigger picture here—”
Tommy felt that click in his head again as he leaned forward, pressing palms on Dr. Breen’s desk. Dr. Breen leaned back, shoulders growing tense as he glanced around himself in surprise—though Tommy didn’t care what for.
“I’ve put too much work into this!” Tommy said through gritted teeth. “We brought it here! We can’t be—we can’t just keep it here because you don’t want to fix what you caused. I don’t care how long it takes, I don’t care how many projects we have to—we have to put on pause, the right thing to do is send it back to its home.”
“Tommy.” Dr. Breen practically hissed. “You have no idea what it is.”
“Neither do you!”
“Is it even going to survive back on Xen?” Dr. Breen demanded. “When we transported it here, something happened along the way. It’s unstable. If you want to send it back, you’re going to have to figure all this out for yourself—exactly what it’s supposed to be, how we can fix it after whatever happened during transport, how much it would cost us to fix it, how much it would cost on top of that to send it back—everything. Are you really willing to take that responsibility?”
“Yes!” Tommy answered whole-heartedly. “If nobody else in this fucking facility will do it, then I will.”
“Fine then. If you can give me a completely comprehensive report on all of that, I’ll consider it.”
Tommy didn’t move, staring at Dr. Breen with a deep scowl.
“Fine! If it’s satisfactory, I’ll accept your request!” Dr. Breen caved, sweat beading up on his forehead. “I’ll do what you want, just—just stop whatever this is, okay?”
Tommy took his clipboard back and stepped away from Dr. Breen’s desk, relaxing a little as he started to feel more normal. He wasn’t quite sure what Dr. Breen meant, but he’d gotten what he wanted, sort of. It was a step in the right direction. He nodded, exhaustion creeping up in his muscles as Dr. Breen sighed in relief.
“I’ll give you partial to full clearance to whatever department you need to get your report done.” Dr. Breen said, pressing his fingers to his temples. “However much time you need, take it—just...don’t do that again.”
Dr. Breen really didn’t like confrontation, Tommy noted as he nodded again.
“Can I ask you something, Mr. Coolatta?” Dr. Breen asked, exhaustion in his tone as he looked up at Tommy.
“Hm?”
“Why do you care so much about that thing?”
Tommy fiddled with the clip on his clipboard as he thought his answer over. “Well...I mean, it’s just the right thing to do. Do I—do I need a big answer for that? It’s just...morality. I don’t need a reason to have a strong moral code, Dr. Breen.”
Dr. Breen let out a tired chuckle. “When you’ve been in this business for a while, I think you’ll understand my position a little more. Science and morality don’t necessarily get along.”
“What? No.” Tommy shook his head. “Just because you’re a scientist doesn’t mean—you can’t just excuse your actions like that. I think you’re probably just a bad person.”
Dr. Breen stared at Tommy in surprise.
“Thanks for ok’ing my project, Dr. Breen.” Tommy said politely, turning to leave the office. “I’m gonna go get started.”
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by the skin of your teeth (part 2)
(part 1)
wow! I did not expect to get that much of a response to this. thanks everyone! this part is a lot longer than part 1 so uh...buckle up, I guess.
(I had to guesstimate a bunch of stuff here about the layout of the house and also about how Bill works. where the frick is Ford’s room anyway?)
Stan had carried his brother before. When they were teens, and he was starting to get some muscle and heft from boxing while Ford steadfastly remained as weedy as ever, Stan had delighted in picking his twin up and running around the house with him, to win arguments or make Ford take a break from studying or just because he could. Ford had always protested, but rarely as vehemently as he could have. Then there were times that Stan had carried him because Ford had needed help: when he'd twisted his ankle in gym class, or when he had come down with the flu and tried to go to school anyway only to pass out halfway through math class.
Carrying Ford had been a regular part of life, once upon a time. But, like so many things, it was no longer as easy as it had been.
Stan was hardly in boxing shape anymore, and he had been running on nothing but caffeine and nerves for too long, and Ford might still have been skinny and sickly but he was heavy enough to knock Stan down, which meant he was heavy enough to be a real pain to get up off the floor. For a moment, feeling his knees shake as he lifted his twin, Stan wasn’t sure they would be going anywhere.
But once he had Ford mostly upright with an arm over Stan’s shoulder, things got easier. Ford didn't seem to wake up entirely, but he shuffled his feet along and took a bit of the weight off Stan. And at least there was an elevator, so they didn't have to walk all the way up. (Which, who had an elevator in their basement, anyway? Then again, who had a giant scary doomsday portal thing in their basement?)
Ford muttered and mumbled occasionally as they walked, and once, when Stan bent down awkwardly to pick up that stupid book, Ford jerked his head up and cried, “No, no, can't, I can't-” But Stan never found out what it was Ford couldn't; he subsided and slumped back down again, his head lolling against Stan’s shoulder.
Once they finally made it out of the basement, Stan was faced with a new dilemma: where exactly to put Ford. The house was an absolute wreck, and he had no idea where to find a bed or couch or anything under all the mess. He tried asking Ford, but only got a faint “hnnnngh” sound in response.
Thankfully, there turned out to be a bedroom near the top of the stairs that seemed to have escaped most of the carnage. It was the barest spot in the house that Stan had seen so far, with a low couch, a desk, and little else. He lowered Ford onto the couch carefully and stood there for a moment, massaging his back and looking down at his brother.
He'd thought Ford had looked bad as soon as he'd opened the door-well, alright, as soon as he'd put the crossbow down, that had been fairly distracting- but in this first still, quiet moment, he could see that Ford was in even worse shape than he’d thought. His face was pale and ashen and too thin, and he had the heaviest shadows under his eyes that Stan had ever seen. His hair was in disarray, there was untidy stubble across his jaw, and he looked like he hadn't changed his clothes in several days at least. Not that Stan could really comment on hygiene much, but it wasn't like Ford to let things go like that.
Then again, it had been ten years. Did he really know what Ford was like anymore? What had happened to his brother since then?
Hell, what had happened to him?
Stan sighed and, not knowing what else to do, pulled off Ford’s shoes and laid them by the bed. As an afterthought he also took off his tie (why was Ford wearing a tie while he was alone in his own house anyway?) and put it on the bedside table with his glasses. He didn’t even bother trying to remove the trenchcoat, which Ford was still clutching around him like a security blanket.
Not that Stan could blame him. It was cold in the house. Did Ford not have the heat on? No wonder he’d gotten sick. And if Stan was cold, Ford had to be feeling even worse with that fever. There was one small, inadequate-looking blanket on the back of the couch, and nothing else useful in the room. It was getting dark outside, and the snow was falling even heavier than it was when Stan arrived. He’d had a difficult enough time getting to Ford’s house at all; he’d even parked the Stanleymobile back at the main road and walked the rest of the way, not trusting the look of that winding, uncleared drive. Getting away from Ford’s house was currently looking more or less impossible, but that was, apparently, exactly what his brother wanted.
“You just gotta make everything difficult, don’t you,” Stan muttered, throwing the lone blanket on top of Ford. After a moment’s thought, he shucked off his own jacket and added it over the top, then went off to see if he could find anything else.
Ford’s house was weird. Every surface was covered in clutter, most of which looked like it should be in a museum: strange scientific instruments, specimen jars with unsettling things floating in them, skulls and bones that didn’t belong to any animals he knew of, weird artifacts right out of a pulp adventure comic, and everywhere there were piles of paper like snowdrifts covering the furniture. Stan shifted through a few of them, hoping to find some clue to whatever strange situation Ford had gotten himself into, but none of them made the slightest bit of sense. Some were covered in equations or diagrams that made his head spin, some seemed to be written in some kind of code, and a disturbing few were just maddened scribbles, incomprehensible rants smeared with ink and graphite and occasionally...blood?
“Right,” Stan said out loud to the looming silence, putting down a paper that just had HE’S WATCHING written all over it in uneven letters. “I see what’s happened here. You’ve gone and landed yourself in the middle of a horror movie. Why am I not surprised?”
In one room-some kind of study, probably, judging by the way it seemed to be the eye of the paper hurricane-he found a space heater sitting in a corner. It was an innocuous enough object in the midst of all the craziness, aside from being a bit too close to an awful lot of very flammable paper, but Stan found himself stopping to consider it. How could his brother afford this house and all that expensive-looking equipment, but not afford to turn the heat on? Maybe it was just some strange quirk of frugality, but it struck him as odd all the same. He unplugged it and put it aside to pick up later; at least he could make Ford’s room a little warmer.
He also found a surprising amount of weapons-along with the crossbow Ford had greeted him with, there were some knives scattered across a desk, another one that was actually buried in the wall, a sword, some kind of sci-fi blaster looking thing, and, staring coldly up at him from an opened drawer, a pistol.
Stan stared at it for a long moment. It wasn’t like he was exactly unfamiliar with firearms, but this one, laying there unloaded and harmless, somehow felt more ominous and threatening than any other gun he had ever seen, including the ones that had been pointed directly at him. The other weapons he could maybe write off as being some nerd thing, for decoration or study rather than use, but this... What did Ford need with a gun? What did his shy, anxious, nerdy brother, who would let himself get punched and picked on and taunted to tears rather than ever throwing a blow himself, who would prefer doing a detailed drawing of a bug to swatting it, who had always needed Stan around to look after him and protect him...what was he doing with this?
He’s living out here in the sticks, Stan told himself, shoving the drawer closed. It’s probably just for protection. In case of...bears, or...hillbillies, or...whatever. Who knows what’s out there. He probably barely even knows how to use it.
Sure.
He did finally find a bedroom, or at least a room that contained a bed, albeit not one that looked like it had been used in some time, judging by the pile of books all over it. Deciding it would be easier to make Ford comfortable in the downstairs room than to move him again, he extricated the blankets and pillows and headed back downstairs. On the way, he saw from the corner of his eye something that looked like it might be a bathroom behind a barely cracked-open door and stopped. Maybe he could find some medicine. Not that he really knew what medicine he should even be using-hell, he didn’t even know what Ford was sick with-but it was worth a shot. You took aspirin for fevers, right? That couldn’t hurt him, at least.
He dropped the blankets and space heater in the hallway, pushed open the door, and froze.
There were sticky red smears all over the sink, along the edges of the cracked mirror, even on the wall and floor. Some were drawn-out splotches arranged in patterns of six; in other places there were little pools and splatters freely dribbled about. The little trash can was overfull of used bandages. A nearly empty roll of them sat on the sink alongside a bottle of hydrogen peroxide covered in red fingerprints.
Stan swallowed hard several times, trying to get the sudden awful taste out of his mouth. It shouldn’t have bothered him. He’d never been squeamish. Anyway, he’d seen more blood than this, and under worse circumstances...there wasn’t even that much, he told himself firmly, it was just all...spread around. It shouldn’t have bothered him.
But there was something eerie about it all. Something about the stark, half-told story in front of him, something about all the questions and implications he couldn’t quite pin down, something that was just wrong. The sick feeling that had been building in his stomach all evening was becoming too much to bear.
He shut the door, firmly, without bothering to look for any medicine, picked up his bundle, and hurried away.
He was almost back to the room when he heard a panicked shout that had him instantly breaking into a run. He shoved his way through the door with no idea what to expect and found Ford flailing around blindly; somehow he had gotten tangled up in Stan’s jacket and was trying to simultaneously extricate himself, find his glasses, and get off the couch.
“Stan!” he yelped, squinting desperately at the door. “Is that you? Are you alright? What happened? Oh, God-”
“Uh,” Stan said, coming forward slowly and setting the heater down on the floor. “I just went to see if I could find you some blankets, ‘cause it’s freezing in here. Do you not have heating in this place-”
“But what happened?” Ford demanded, shaking his head frantically. “How did I get up here?”
“You...passed out,” Stan said. “I carried you up here.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Nothing...nothing happened…?”
“No, nothing happened.” Ford had a wild, frightened look in his eyes, and he kept glancing back and forth between Stan and his own hands, as if expecting to see evidence of some terrible sin. “Everything’s fine, Sixer-”
Ford jumped as if Stan had swung a fist at him. “Don’t call me that!”
There was a moment of awful silence.
Stan set the bedding down on the couch with slow exaggerated movements. “Okay. Ford, what’s going on?”
“I...I can’t...it’s complicated,” Ford mumbled. “Stan, will you please-will you just take my journal and go?”
Stan sighed and sat down on the end of the couch. The anger was still there, like a heavy stone in his chest, almost too heavy to breathe around; but he was so damn tired and all his stupid tangled-up emotions felt dull and slow and far away, less like fresh reopened wounds and more like crooked old broken bones that had never been set right.
“I’m not going anywhere, Ford,” he said.
“Stanley, please-”
“Ford-”
“You don’t understand the stakes here-”
“Ford.”
“This isn’t just about me and you-I’m not trying to be cruel but you have to understand-”
“Ford.”
“I’ve made some terrible mistakes and the potential consequences-”
It was clear that Ford was on a roll now and not about to stop, a familiar enough circumstance, so Stan just patiently kept repeating, “Ford. Ford. Ford. Ford. Ford,” while his brother ambled on at length, making, as usual, exactly no sense.
“What, Stanley?” Ford finally snapped. “I’m trying to tell you something here-”
“And I’m trying to tell you something. Look outside.”
Ford whipped his head around to the little window above the couch, like he expected something terrible to be looming there. After a moment he finally pushed his glasses on and frowned. “I don’t see anything.”
“Exactly. You don’t see anything because you can’t see anything because there is a blizzard going on outside and night is falling and also, for your information, I have enough gas left to make it maybe five miles and the Stanleymobile has been making a weird noise since I crossed the state line. So you see, Ford, I will not be leaving tonight, unless you want me to either wrap my car around a tree because I can’t see anything, or freeze to death after breaking down before I even get out of the county.”
Ford opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, and said, “You’re still driving that thing?”
Stan rolled his eyes. “She’s a good car, and way to miss the point.”
Ford bit his lip and absent-mindedly huddled under Stan’s jacket. Then he realized what he was doing and pushed the stained jacket away with a look of distaste that Stan, having seen what Ford’s house currently looked like, felt was rather hypocritical.
“Town is only a mile away,” Ford said, rallying somewhat. “You can get gas, and there’s a mechanic there-I think-”
“No,” Stan said.
“No? What do you mean, no-”
“I mean no, I can’t get gas, or see a mechanic, because I have no money, Ford.” Which hadn’t exactly stopped him more often than not, but Ford didn’t necessarily need to know that right now. “It took all I had to get here in the first place. I didn’t expect to be sent away again within half an hour. Although maybe I should have,” he added, half to himself.
Ford was staring at him like a sleep-deprived owl. Stan couldn’t bear it; he got up and began looking for somewhere to plug the space heater in.
“Were you in my office?” Ford asked, sounding peeved.
“I was looking for blankets. Your house is a wreck, by the way.” He cranked the heater up all the way and turned to find Ford still frowning at him.
“What?” he said.
“Why were you looking for blankets?”
Stan gave him a long look, just to make sure Ford had actually said what Stan thought he’d said. “You’re sick,” he said, slowly, like he was talking to a child. “And it’s way too cold in here.”
“I’m not sick,” Ford muttered.
Stan groaned. And to think Ford was supposed to be the smart one. “Did you miss the part where you passed out on me and I had to carry your ass all the way up the stairs? Or the part where you’re running a fever and shaking like a leaf? Or the-”
He very nearly said or the fact that your bathroom is covered in blood, but pulled up at the last moment. He wanted to ask about that-or, well, in a way he wanted to ask about that, and in another way he very much did not want to ask about it at all-but that was a discussion he wasn’t sure either of them were up to just now.
“I’m fine,” Ford said, apparently not noticing Stan’s stumble.
Stan rubbed at his eyes. He was very tired. “Look, Ford, can we just-can we just wait until morning? Can we talk about this then? Because I can’t go anywhere right now anyway, and you need to sleep-”
“I can’t sleep,” Ford snapped, and then immediately put the lie to his own words by letting out a jaw-cracking yawn. He looked horrified and struggled to sit up. “I can’t sleep. And you can’t stay here.”
It shouldn’t have hurt, not after everything else, not when Ford was just repeating the same thing he’d already said a million times. But it did.
Stan looked away. Snow was still falling thick and fast outside in swirls that caught the light for brief moments before disappearing into the dark. “You really want me gone that badly, huh.”
“It’s not like that,” Ford mumbled. His voice was thick with fatigue and his eyes were drooping behind his glasses. The valiant efforts of the plucky little space heater were clearly having an effect on him. “It’s not-it’s just-it’s not safe for you here.”
And that had to be just about the funniest damn thing Stan had heard in ten years, because he started laughing and couldn’t seem to stop. It just kept coming and coming and Ford was looking at him like he was crazy, which was even funnier because Ford was the one who had a house full of skulls and weird paranoid scribbling and blood in places blood should not have been, and it had been a very long day, no, a very long decade, and…
“Not safe?” he finally managed to croak out. “Not safe here? Oh my goodness me, whatever will I do? I’ve never been somewhere that wasn’t safe before.”
Ford’s only response was a light snore.
Stan blinked and looked over at him. Despite his protestations, Ford had apparently been unable to hold on to wakefulness; he was sound asleep, slumped back down with his face mushed against the couch and one arm hanging off.
“Right,” Stan said. “In the morning, then.”
He pushed the pillow under Ford’s head and spread the blankets out on top of it, and left his brother alone.
Stan, himself, would have quite liked to sleep, but there didn’t seem to be any clear surfaces in Ford’s house that would work well for that, and anyway he didn’t think he would have been able to fall asleep any time soon. He was tired, yes, god he was tired, but his head was too full, buzzing with more thoughts and questions and worries than he could keep track of, all blurring and tripping over each other in one big confusing mess. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep just yet, even if he could find anything to sleep on. Instead he paced around the house for a while, shivering, trying to figure out what to do, trying to at least stop thinking, and eventually found himself in the kitchen.
Even compared to the rest of the house the kitchen was a disaster area. It didn’t look like Ford had washed a dish in weeks. The sink was overflowing, and the mess spilled over onto the table and the stove and any other available surface. Some of them seemed to have things growing on them.
Stan paused in the doorway, chewing on his lower lip and thinking. There were a few strange odds and ends scattered about-a shrunken head, a throwing star, something’s spine-but, aside from the mess, this was easily the most normal looking room in the house. There didn’t seem to be any important experiments in progress that he might be interrupting, unless Ford was attempting to see if food gunk could become sentient.
Washing dishes was easy enough. He’d done it more often than he could count to earn meals; even he had a hard time screwing that up. And he had to do something, or he’d go crazy walking around his brother’s demented funhouse and worrying at himself.
Besides, he thought wryly as he started consolidating the dish piles, now at least Ford won’t be able to say I haven’t done anything worthwhile.
It went well enough, at first. He let himself sink into the work, concentrating on the motions: scrub, rinse, repeat, not thinking about what was wrong with Ford, or about the fight, or about what he was going to do next, or about whether he really had a chance of making things up, no, none of that, just scrub, rinse, repeat…
He didn’t know how long he’d been there, only that it was full dark outside and he had made a respectable enough dent in the dish pile, when he heard the crash.
He paused in the middle of scrubbing a particularly tough stain off a plate. Had something fallen over? There were certainly enough precarious piles scattered throughout the house…
“Oh man, this body is a mess! What’ve ya been doin’ to yerself, Sixer?”
Stan froze.
It was Ford’s voice, but it…
...wasn’t Ford’s voice.
He heard a door creaking open, footsteps, and another crash, like something-or someone- slamming into a wall.
“See, I can barely keep myself upright! Everything just keeps spinning around-whoops, here we go again!”
A painful-sounding thud. Stan winced instinctively, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. He knew that was Ford, it had to be Ford, there was no one else in the house-but somehow he did not want to get any closer to the source of that voice.
Not that he had much choice, because by the sound of it the voice was coming closer to him.
“You’ve only got yourself to blame, you know!” Crash. Something rattled and fell over. “I didn’t put you in this state. That was aaaaaaaalll you, buddy.” Bang. It almost sounded as if Ford was deliberately throwing himself into the walls. “Things would really go a lot easier for you if you would just play along already! Not that I’m complaining. It’s pretty funny to watch you try to resist!”
Stan found himself looking around the room for a weapon of some kind, swearing quietly as he realized he’d left his knuckledusters in his jacket pocket, then pulled up short as he realized what he was doing. It was only Ford. He didn’t need to defend himself against Ford.
Did he-
“Wellllllwellwellwellwell, look who we have here!”
Stan turned slowly.
Ford was standing in the kitchen doorway, hands gripping either side of the frame, a wide, wide grin on his face.
Stan swallowed hard. “Ford, I-I think you should go back to bed.”
“You think? I don’t recall anyone asking you what you thought!” That grin was too wide. It almost looked painful. “Last I checked, I was the one who did the thinking and you were the one who ruined things for everybody! But who’s keeping track, eh?”
Ford had never talked to him like that. Ford could be exasperating and arrogant and self-centered, but Stan had never heard anything like that gleeful malice in his voice, never seen anything like that grin.
“Ford-” he began weakly.
Ford cocked his head to one side. “Ya know, I didn’t actually expect you to make it here. I mean, any sensible person woulda given up on ol’ Fordsy a long time ago. Then again, sensibility doesn’t exactly run in the Pines genepool, huh?”
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. There was something wrong with those eyes, but Stan couldn’t pin it down-maybe Ford just looked odd without his glasses. Maybe.
“Now that you are here, though…” Ford took a step forward. He was wobbling at the knees, but he didn’t seem to notice. “What say we make a deal?”
Stan found himself backing up against the sink. Soapy water was soaking into his t-shirt. “What are you talking about?”
“A deal, smart guy! You know all about deals, right? Bit of a deal-maker yourself, aren’tcha? Bit of a hustler? A conman? Lovable rogue-well, bit short on the lovable, but we’ll work with what we have.”
Ford kept walking towards him, step by staggering step, and with every step the voice in Stan’s head insisting that this was wrong wrong WRONG got louder and louder.
“What deal?” he said, trying to back up, but there was nowhere else to go.
“It’s simple! I have something you want, and you-well, you can do a few things for me.” Step. Step.
“Ford, I-I didn’t come here to beg,” Stan said. “I don’t-I don’t want-”
“Really? You don’t want? But there’s so much I have that you don’t! A cozy house, a college degree, a dream job-you name it! Don’t you ever get jealous of that? Doesn’t it make you wish your brother could spread the wealth around a little?”
Stan squirmed, his own words ringing in his ears.
Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods, selfishly hoarding your college money because you only care about yourself!
“I can offer you a lot, Stanley.” Ford was real close now, and it must have been a trick of the light that made his eyes seem so wrong. Must have been, even though there was hardly any light in the room to begin with. “Money. Power. Or...ooooh, no. Better than even that. I know what you really want.”
“And what is that,” Stan muttered, scooting along the edge of the sink.
“Why, the love of your brother, of course!” Ford threw his arms wide. Stan flinched. “That’s all you’ve ever really wanted, isn’t it? To be loved. To be wanted. Why else would you come crawling back after ten years just because of two words on a postcard? Why would you even still be here when you came all this way just to get sent off again? You truly are desperate, aren’t you?”
He was close. He was too close.
“I can give you that. You want to be back in your brother’s good graces? Want to be forgiven for all your sins? Want to be pals again just like the good ol’ days? Just say the word, buddy!”
Stan tried to speak, to say...something, he didn’t know what, but his mouth was suddenly too dry. Of course he wanted that. He wanted nothing else more than that, and only a few hours ago he had briefly thought that he would get it, just like that.
You remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?
But it hadn’t been that simple.
Things were never that simple.
Ford was watching him, and in the dim light Stan could almost tell what was wrong with his eyes, but not quite. His own eyes had never been much good, but Ford was the one who wore glasses, because that was how it worked. Ford was the brains and he was the brawn. Ford was the smart one and he was the one who wasn’t much of anything.
“And what’s my end of this deal supposed to be?” he asked, suddenly feeling far too tired for all this. Was this how Ford thought he worked? That he wouldn’t understand anything unless it was put in terms of a transaction? “Let me guess. You want me to take your book and go far away.”
“Go far away? Absolutely not!” Ford slammed his hand down on the edge of the sink, so hard it made Stan wince, but Ford didn’t even register it. “I want you to stay, Stanley. I want you here so you can help me with this project of mine. It’s almost done. Just needs a few more touches. Nothing complex. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough. I’m wearing out. You were always the strong one. So whaddya say, Stanley? Stay here and be my muscle? The brawn to my brains? And when it’s all over we’ll have a graaaaaand old time. There’ll be adventures like you wouldn’t believe…”
Ford extended his hand.
Stan looked at it.
Ford had been right about one thing. Stan was a conman and a hustler and, in general, a rogue, though he knew he wasn’t exactly a lovable one. For ten years his livelihood-such as it was-depended on reading people. Reading body language, studying tics, listening for the subtle inflections in a voice that told him what someone was feeling. It wasn’t even something he needed to think about anymore. It had become instinct, an automatic background process.
Which was good, because right now he wasn’t thinking much of anything. Right now his head seemed to be cavernously empty, washed out by that sick sideways grin and that intense stare boring right into him, but somewhere far away all that instinct and intuition still clicked along, and it was telling him, no, it was screaming at him that this person staring him down in the dark kitchen might have looked like his brother and sounded like his brother but it was not his brother.
“No,” he said.
Ford blinked, slowly and deliberately. “No?”
“No, I’m not making any damn deals with you,” Stan said. “You...I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Ford, but I think you’re sick and you need to go back to bed and...and...we’ll figure something out, okay?”
“Figure something out? But we already have! Didn’t you hear me? What could be easier? Just shake on it, and everything will be alright.”
“You really think it works like that?” Stan snapped. “You really...it’s been ten years. Yeah, I want to make up, I want everything to be better, but it’s not as easy as just...just making a deal, okay? Christ, Ford, I woulda thought even you would know better than that.”
Ford stared at him for a long moment. Stan braced himself, waiting for the explosion, waiting for the fight to begin again.
“Hm. Pity,” Ford said causally. “I could have used the extra hands. Oh well! If you’re not going to help, I’ll just have to get rid of you.”
Stan boggled at him. “You...what-”
There was, very suddenly, a knife in Ford’s hand, and it was coming straight for his face. Stan yelped and jumped backward, almost falling on the wet floor.
“Nothing personal, you understand,” Ford said cheerfully, still grinning, swinging the knife wildly. “But I can’t have you around here getting in the way if you’re not going to cooperate, and I can’t have you going away and being a loose end either! Especially not with that journal! It’s just so much easier if I take care of you right here and now!”
“What the-Ford!” He jerked back just barely in time to avoid being sliced across the face. “What are you doing-”
“I’m murdering you! Wow, you really are the dumb one, aren’t you?” Ford was moving fast, too fast for Stan to find an opening in the flashing steel. He tried to edge away around the table, but Ford had him pinned in the corner.
“You know, you oughta hear some of the things Fordsy thinks of you,” Ford said casually. Slice. Slice. Slice. He was wavering, shaking all over, but it only made the swings wilder, harder to dodge. “It’s delicious, really! Let me tell you, you really oughta have taken my deal, ‘cause you didn’t have a chance of making up with him on your own. He hates you!”
Slice. Stan felt the metal, felt the wetness starting to run down his face, but there wasn’t any pain. There should have been pain, shouldn’t there?
“Ford…” He could taste the salt and metal on his lips. “You...you don’t…”
“Oh, but he does.” Ford paused, grinning terribly, blood running down the knife and smearing across his hand. “He does. You think he woulda called you here if he didn’t think he could get some use outta you? But you couldn’t even get that right! Between you and me, pal, he thinks it woulda been better for everyone if you’d just done yourself in a long time ago! Taken a nice, dignified swan dive off the pier and ended a life of ruining everything you touch before it could get started-”
Stan punched him.
Ford went down like a sack of bricks.
Stan stood there for a moment, breathing hard, blood running down his face, staring at his brother lying crumpled on the kitchen floor and feeling the world go distant and strange.
#gravity falls#gravity falls fanfic#fanfic#scribulations#by the skin of your teeth#the stangst intensifies#I don't know if this merits any trigger warnings#but if anyone thinks it does#just say the word and I'll put them on#also I was born in 1994 I feel like I shouldn't be trusted to write fanfic set in the 80s
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