#feels weird to have forgotten so much from one of my flagship fandoms

[cartoonus-maximus]

Actually, going through my tags is helpful, given that my brain retains information about as well as a block of swiss cheese these days. I'm being reminded of a lot of things I'd forgotten - who my favorite fanartists are/were, why I like certain characters and ships, what my favorite fics used to be and who wrote them, what fics I wrote, etc.

#plus retagging and archiving everything is kinda fun #life of max #someday I'll talk about my ailing health... I promise #feels weird to have forgotten so much from one of my flagship fandoms #feels bad bro

[novantinuum]

From Gallifrey, With Love

Fandom: Doctor Who, 11th Doctor era

Rating: K

Words: 3100~

Story Summary: The Doctor genuinely didn't expect to leave Trenzalore alive, that long night. Doctor's POV of the clocktower regeneration + missing scene.

It's hard to find any fics that go into much detail about regeneration and that's a shame really, because I love weird alien biology stuff like that. So I got really indulgent and wrote one myself.

Far above the clock tower, the Dalek flagship hung in the lower atmosphere like a hunter crouching in the brush, waiting for its prey to die.

“Sorry I’m a bit slow,” the Doctor said as he hobbled up the last of the stairs, clinging to the railing like a lifeline. His right knee protested, having not exerted this much effort in a very long while. “I may not be at my best right now.”

Drones identical to those he remembered from the Time War whizzed around the tower in an endless threatening display of might. They fired upon the small town as he watched, powerless to stop them, decimating homes and shops and gardens in a blaze of ash and smoke. Screams cut through the night. They sliced directly into his weakening hearts, already beating slower with every day. His body was shutting down, and he genuinely didn’t know if it was due to age or guilt. He leaned into his cane as he lowered himself onto the chair he’d placed up here years back.

“You are dying, Doctor!” one of the Daleks broadcasting from the flagship proclaimed, as if he didn’t intimately know that fact already.

He grimaced as a dull spike of pain radiated up his thigh from his other knee, from where the rest of his leg had been severed centuries earlier. “Yes, I’m dying. You’ve been trying to kill me for centuries, and here I am,” he declared, voice dripping in cynicism, “dying of old age. If you want something done, do it yourself.”

“You will die, and the Time Lords will never return.”

A younger man might have rolled his eyes at this. Daleks, they never ceased to state the obvious, now did they? He almost felt disappointed that they hadn’t killed him yet. “You still can’t work up the courage to shoot me, can you?” he mumbled, growing louder with every word. “You’re still worried I’ve got something up my sleeve!”

For once, his arch enemies restrained themselves to silence, taunting him by cutting circles around the tower. He huffed, dropping his head in failure.

“Well, you knock yourselves out, boys. I’ve got nothing this time.”

The Doctor sniffled, despite himself, and prepared for the end. Below, children were crying. Wailing. The sound of gunfire split through his ears, a gift from the last remnants of the resistance. Explosions rang in response as the Daleks ruthlessly attacked the populace. He aimed to die, the last time he was caught in a war with an impossible end. Perhaps in some twisted, poetic way, he’d finally gotten what he wanted. At least this time around he wouldn’t die committing double genocide.

He thought of Clara, standing somewhere below. Probably outside, because she was never one to do as he told. He sighed heavily. At least this time, if he had to die, he wouldn’t die alone.

All fell to silence, beyond the Daleks’ fury. The universe beyond their stars, holding her breath. And then… a roaring clamor as loud as thunder split the skies of Christmas in two. His hearts seized as he whirled around to look, to seek out the source of this disruption.

Impossible...

His eyes blew wide. Far above this petty skirmish, the crack in time opened its gaping maw. He squinted in confusion, knowing this was the Time Lords’ doing, but not knowing why. Why would they risk their safety now by revealing themselves after over 900 years of trying to quietly wait this threat out? Stupid, stupid! He didn’t spend all his lives working to save Gallifrey for them to all but commit suicide!

Admittedly his sight was far from adequate these days, but he could swear he saw something emerging from between the milky white light of the crack, something tangible. Something… gold and fine as silk, and gliding straight towards him. He didn’t dare move. His joints locked in place, he watched it advance with a sort of mesmerizing wonder, watched with eyes nearly crossed as it passed between his lips. It settled within him much like the warmth of a satisfying supper, much like— oh. Oh. The Doctor knew then in his hearts exactly what this offering was, even if he still couldn’t explain to himself why.

He splayed out his hands in front of him. His double heart rate increased as that hauntingly familiar golden glow spread through his varicose veins, excess energy wafting like dust off his skin, the telltale sign of impending regeneration. But this was impossible, absolutely impossible. He was dead, he saw his grave, he was—

“You will die now, Doctor. This is the end of you!” the Daleks above taunted.

—he wasn’t going to die today. The realization hit him with a bit more numbed shock than he anticipated, nearly knocking the breath right out of him. When had he grown so complacent in his supposed destiny that he’d forgotten how to hope? He slowly rotated his wrist in front of his face, feeling the Time Lords’ miraculous gift resurrecting him moment by moment.

“The rules of regeneration are known. You have expended all your lives!”

It was making him more than a little giddy, coursing through his tired body like a maelstrom of lifeblood. Suddenly he could stand without pain radiating in his joints, without his remaining leg weakening under strain of supporting his full body weight. He could think without his mind growing cloudy and distant, lost amongst centuries of stagnant memory.

“Sorry, what did you say?” he said, rising to his feet once more. “Did you mention the rules? Now, listen. Bit of advice! Tell me the truth if you think you know it, lay down the law if you’re feeling brave, but! Daleks never,” he punctuated his words with a tap of his cane, “ever tell me the rules!”

He lifted his closed fist, still grasping the cane, back to the sky, allowing his enemy to see the impossible golden energy brimming under his skin. Below, the clock struck twelve, its bell tolling the first chimes of midnight.

The hoard of insolent metal drones seemed to swell in panic, picking up speed as they buzzed about the town. “Emergency! Emergency! The Doctor is regenerating, the Doctor is regenerating!”

“Oh, look at this! Regeneration number thirteen,” he exclaimed, swinging his cane as he gaily traipsed atop the platform. “We’re breaking some serious science here, boys! I tell you what, it’s gonna be a whopper, ho ho!”

“Exterminate, exterminate the Doctor!”

He paused for breath, for a moment drinking in the scene, drinking in his surroundings. The Dalek force reduced to pleading desperation, pathetic creatures, and not even one brave enough to face one ancient, solitary Time Lord. His body, surging with a fresh-from-Gallifrey cocktail of power he hadn’t felt washing over him in a thousand some odd years. These were impossible circumstances, but the first impossible he’d played company to for over half a lifetime.

“You think you can stop me now, Daleks? If you want my life,” he bellowed, and threw his arms outwards, letting his cane drop from old, weathered hands, hands that glistened mischievously with the light of renewal. “Ha, ha! Come! And! Get it!”

He sucked one final breath between his chapped lips. Digging his feet— both flesh and prosthetic— into the dense concrete of the clock tower’s platform, he willed the dam to burst. This time, however, he wouldn’t allow the explosive mixture of hormones and artron energy running rampant through his veins to progress on automatic, oh, no, no, no. The Daleks were still advancing, faced with the prospect of a regenerating Time Lord in the middle of their battlefield, which— so shoot him, it couldn’t be helped!— one should never do in any circumstances if they valued their continued existence. His one advantage? They still expected a standard regeneration. Instead, he was about to do something far, far worse. He clenched his fists in solid determination.

The Doctor swung his right arm in a fast, wide arc as if fancying himself an air guitarist, mentally willing the energy pooling under his skin to surge towards his extremities. He partially let go, shooting his fingers outwards and allowing the golden light to surge outwards in a dense, fiery fury. His teeth clenched together so hard they ached as he desperately attempted to channel this wayward energy through the ashy sky, directly at an advancing Dalek drone. It didn’t take more than a split second for the strike to hit, instantly reducing the rust-gold drone to burning shrapnel plummeting towards the shingles below. Emboldened laugher bubbled up within his chest despite everything else, despite the mortal danger of this whole scenario.

He’d seen other Time Lords carry out this sort of weaponized regeneration before, of course. On the front lines of the Time War, in the heat of battle, there was often no alternative but to regenerate out in the open, under fire. In such a scenario, one could theoretically push their regeneration to become dangerously explosive, and in doing so neutralize advancing enemies while healing oneself. It was a risk, though, oh golly was it a risk. A very grave one. He himself had never needed to take it, always lucky enough to drag himself to the TARDIS or another safe place before finally succumbing to death. Stubborn, stubborn man he was. But even a thousand years past the War, memories of young Time Lords regenerating in the open only to be gunned down dead by Dalek fire in the middle of it still haunted him. Only luck would keep him from facing the same fate. Well, luck and the fact that this was no ordinary regeneration in the first place.

Hearing the whiny approach of another small Dalek craft to his left, he threw his other arm to the wind, using his fingertips as a sight as he willed the energy buzzing with an almost electric tang in his veins to burst forth. It flowed off of him in violent waves, dense droplets of gold spilling from his hands almost like liquid. Another direct hit. His eye tracked the descent of the burning Dalek shell to the square of the war ravaged town below. Time seemed to creep at a maudlin pace as he drank in the scene one last time. One last time, with these old eyes. The townsfolk were screaming in panic, advancing to any shelter they could find amidst the chaos. And amongst the faces, dozens upon dozens of faces he knew he’d seen every day for decades but had failed to remember in his advanced age, there was one he knew he could never forget. One woman who would always keep a tight hold on his hearts, for all the sacrifices she’d sewn through the threads of his time stream. Her hair pooled around her face in smooth ribbons as she yelled for the others to take shelter. His focus jittered at the sight of her, regeneration almost tussling conscious control from him.

Clara.

He— his breath hitched, and his nerves tingled as he wrestled to retain restraint— he couldn’t, no, no, no, not yet. He had to give her a few more seconds. A few more seconds to lead the rest of the children inside, before he let go completely. Wise, clever Clara, of course she’d understand what he was about to do. Daleks whizzed in circles in an endless gamble, none daring to cross too close in the wake of the power threatening them should they edge just a few meters more towards the clock tower. Once more, giddiness over the sheer impossibility of this scenario hit him with a vengeance, teasing his mouth into a devilish grin. He laughed without abandon, arms spread wide in the fires of renewal.

Echoing far above the roar of regeneration and the chaos of the Dalek hoard he head the front door of the church slam shut. Time enough to let go.

“Love from Gallifrey, boys!” the Doctor proclaimed at his lifelong foes, voice steeped in contempt. He swung his arms and hands inwards, folding into himself, and then gave up his last shred of conscious control.

From there, caught in the throes of biological process, his memory of what happened was a bit sketchy. He recalled surrendering himself to regeneration, feeling every cell in his body flooded with the explosive mix of hormones and artron energy all at once. A peculiar tingle ran from his left knee down, as he regrew a limb he’d learned to live without for centuries now. Somewhere along the line, he must have gnashed his teeth together.

The burning intensified. The Doctor could feel new hair follicles growing from atop his scalp, muscles tightening and regaining strength. And then, as unexpectedly quick as this limit breaking regeneration had emerged from the crack, the energy bathing him in an ethereal glow of gold and orange grew thin and dissipated into the night. He stumbled backwards, nearly blacking out from the repressed shock of all that had just happened.

When he finally came back to himself, to the world at large, he was met by smoke, and rubble, and… confusion. His ears rang, a high pitched whine that threatened to snap the last threads of cognitive thought currently cartwheeling through his mind in free fall. But no matter to that, no matter to the state of his own physical condition— somehow he’d blown the entire roof of the bell tower to smithereens with the sheer destructive force of his regeneration! A small part of him— the part not currently fussing over the shrapnel from the Dalek craft that was still plummeting from the sky, impaling roofs and making a disastrous mess of the streets— silently thanked the stars that he hadn’t regenerated inside the TARDIS for once. She’d likely never forgive him.

Speaking of the TARDIS…

His hearts seized as he nervously eyed the wreckage of the buildings around him and desperately tried not to imagine his old girl in the same state. Tough as she is, even she wasn’t fully immune to shocks as rife as that. Far past thinking first and acting later at this point in his life, he climbed over what was left of the stone balcony and lowered himself to the roof. He needed to check on his ship, to ensure she was all right. He slid down the shingles, as delicately as one could. When he reached the lowest point of the eave, he ground his heels to slow himself down, and then slung himself over the edge, dangling only a measly few meters in the air.

He let out a shallow huff as he dropped to the ground, distantly acknowledging with a jolt of surprise that the timbre of his voice was the same, that his hands were smooth but his body was the same— centuries younger, but the same. Absolutely identical. What was up with that, hmm? Why hadn’t he changed? He carded his fingers through thick locks of hair, no longer scarce and paper thin. Was it because this was the start of a brand new cycle? Whole new set of regenerations, a whole new set of silly Doctors? Set… A reset. Brow creasing, he brought his hands in front his face, flexing his digits as gold dusted his skin. He swallowed hard, trying his best not to feel a rush of disappointment over this revelation. So that’s what it was, what all this must be. Not a get out of jail free card. Not a bargain. A good old fashioned factory reset.

The Doctor skirted to a stop in front of his TARDIS, reaching out with a shaky hand. He inhaled, deep. Pressed his palm to the blue stained wood. She thrummed under his touch, reassuring him. Not damaged. A tough girl, see, exactly like he said. Well, like he thought. But then, he’s always getting those two mixed up.

“How ‘bout it?” he whispered, gently stroking her outer shell, affectionately, reverently. “Time for our last hurrah, eh?”

He reached for the cord strung around his neck and pulled it free, slotting its key into his ship’s lock. The door swung open. Her engines hummed in a baleful sigh as he crossed the threshold, recognizing the presence of artron energy within his system. He felt her presence brush against his mind. A delicate whisper. What might she say if she could talk, he wondered? They’d talked once before, hadn’t they? Long time ago...

Both feet inside the TARDIS. A gasp for breath, as if awakening from an impossible dream. Over nine hundred years, taking the slow path on the same demure planet, growing old, growing frail. God, how he’d missed this— the promise of tomorrow, a doorway to all of time and space. He glanced back once, only once, at the ruin he’d brought to the town called Christmas. He never looked back. Almost never. The Doctor, weary warrior, let the image of this place burn itself into his mind so that he’d never forget it. Not ever. Not for a second. His parting burden was that he would always remember those days, each battle, the full weight of his struggle. The reason he did it, the reason he stayed for years and years and never gave in, not even if it killed him… the trusting smiles of the children he failed to save, the keening sobs of villagers who’d suffered losses far beyond what any of them deserved...

Because sometimes, on his very good days…

Everyone lived their lives, and they were all happy. And after what he’d done today, they’d be able to live those silly little lives for as long as they pleased.

His fingers trailed across the inner door frame, twitching to slam shut the doors and whisk himself into the greater cosmos. A soft hum from his old girl reminded him of why he had to wait, just this once.

“Clara,” he breathed, peering at the church the townsfolk hadn’t dared emerge from yet. She’d be the first to dash into the square, to search for him. His impossible girl, still looking out for him centuries later. “My Clara…”

Suddenly he gasped, clenching his teeth to ride off a wave of discomfort rippling through his body. His hands flared with gold, the shimmering energy wafting off his skin.

“One last bow,” he murmured, exhaustion catching up with him again. Didn’t have long. Not long, before—

He opened the cabinet housing the phone on the TARDIS’ exterior and dialed her mobile. If he could only hear her voice, one last time with these ears, then-

The Doctor pulled the corded phone through the doors, shut his eyes as it rang through, and waited.

#doctor who #eleventh doctor #doctor who fanfiction #doctor who fanfic #dw #dw fanfiction #dw fanfic #gawddd i don't know the tags to use for doctor who i haven't posted much for this fandom here #doctor who spoilers #<-- for ill- dear god please don't even look at this it's so full of spoilers fhjsdnfjkcsengh #XD #my writing stuff #this is me actually churning out 3K for fucking once take a look at this #holy hell

[fortress-of-iserlohn]

so like. i got into logh fandom and my otp by haunting chn fics (eng ones are so RARE like what guys i’m so sad) and i swear i started out in the reinhard/yang camp but somewhere along the lines i accidentally tripped and fell into reuenthal/yang and NOW I CAN’T GET OUT - don’t help me i’m happily gone.

(but no pls come talk to me i’m so lonely why is no one else i know in this fandom SCREM ;A;)

mind you, all i have canon knowledge of is like. 47 chapters of the fujisaki manga + 3 episodes of DNT & 50 pages of the first translated novel. so uh. i apologise very sincerely to everyone else in this fandom. (but i friggen love DNT yang with his not-so-subtle shade and school boy pout, lemme love you sweetheart. also reuenthal in the manga is A+++++++++ FINE. and mittermeyer is a giant puppy and their hysterical interactions GIVE ME LIFE. i’m all over that like cats on expensive kibble man)

anyway, so there’s me. and my tiny one person raft and i wished so hard that i could draw because like. ARTISTS ARE AMAZING. but i can’t so here have some dodgy ass writing.

i have like. 9k of backstory but i got tired of writing it ??????? slice of life aint my thing bro.

spoilers for the original series below but you probably don’t care LMAO so in reality i’m just cutting it to save your dash.

basic premise is that it’s brain ship AU fic (i’m trash leave me to my can pls) where some of the empire cast (well just reuenthal + mittermeyer ok, the TWIN PILLARS AW YIS) live approx 200 years after the alliance cast did (yang and reinhard still got into their super epic fights as per original time line etc). but as per canon when the THING happens and them creepy earthy church people try to assassinate yang, schonkoff (I HATE SPELLING THEIR NAMES OKAY) finds him in time and tries to rush him to the hospital. but however, because the alliance superiors are dickwads, instead of trying to y’know, save his life, they decided to take the opportunity to upload yang’s consciousness into his ship so that he can continue to fight the war (INDEFINITELY NOW) and then when it WORKS like a motherfreaking miracle, yang wakes up, is silent for about 5 minutes taking everything in and then is kinda like ‘yeah nah’ and promptly runs away into space to chug through history files and drink virtual tea until like. 200 years later, when reunethal picks him up randomly (on the side of a space highway LOL) when yang’s taking whatever a brainship’s equivalent of a nap is but reuenthal obvs doesn’t know that the hyperion is a brainship so \o/ (yang, also a giant troll, decides to let him do whatever. it’s been a long 200 years ok).

it was going to be a long 20k epic where they play chess, overthrow the empire in favour of some form of XXcracy and ~fall in love~ along the way, all that GOOD shit. but i have zero patience and probably am never going to finish it so.

this is literally the first thing i’ve written in about 1.5 years (since i saw star wars oh my god) because my attention span for fandoms and everything else in general TBH is about zero ohoho. 

It was late, but Oskar couldn’t sleep, something restless buzzing at the back of his mind. Whether it was from a combination of the uneasy atmosphere from the crew currently on board, or his irritation at their willingness to jump at a mere ghost story, he wasn’t clear. His chronometer told him that he was due on bridge in about four hours, which was when he decided to give up on sleep entirely and perhaps take a quick walk around the still unfamiliar vessel.

He pushed his arms through his overcoat and exited his temporary quarters. He assumed it had belonged to the long dead fleet admiral of this craft, but there was a scarcity of personal effects that implied that he either hadn’t much down time at all, or wasn’t the type to care much about his decor.

Beyond the physical chess set carved from what looked like real ivory and the few volumes of rare paper books scattered about, there was not much to do in there at any given time.

He strode down the hallway, boot heels clicking gently against the metal floor. He wandered without much of a real purpose, distracted by random bits and pieces and by organising his thoughts from the day, so he could probably be forgiven for finally looking up when he arrived at a dead end and having absolutely no idea where he was.

To call it a dead end wasn’t actually completely true. There was a glimmer of light beneath the wall just to his right, a little bit of feeling about put his hand on a metal door, exactly the same colour and built to close at exactly the same depth as the wall.

The rebels sure were weird in some aspects, Oskar thought, tapping at the side of the wall where he expected the control panel to be. He wasn’t disappointed when the door hissed open quietly to allow him entry.

He only managed a couple of steps forwards before his feet just stopped. This room was nothing but a giant observatory, monitors bigger than any he had ever seen on a ship that did nothing but reflect outside back in. The galaxy and stars spun in a kaleidoscope of colours, whirling around him as the massive flagship flew through space, cutting through the darkness with ease.

He stared, lifting his gaze up, just to watch the splendor of space. It was completely different to his favourite spot on the Tristan, and definitely, the view from there couldn’t hold a light to this. He doubted any ship’s could.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” an unfamiliar voice said from somewhere to his left.

Oskar’s hand instinctively went to his hip, where his firearm would usually sit. However, having thrown his clothes on absently in the middle of the night, he had forgotten to slide it into its holster before heading out.

He braced himself grimly. He knew every single person who was currently on this ship, and this voice was not one he recognised at all. He cursed himself for being too distracted by a pretty view instead of securing the room first.

Oskar let his cool gaze sweep the room in a casual sort of manner for a second before he finally spotted the figure standing right up against a massive screen to his left hand side.

The person, a man from his voice and figure, was turned towards him, hands held up as if surrendering. “Sorry, sorry. It’s been so long since -” He cut himself off and slowly walked towards Oskar, hands tucked in his pockets. “Anyway, I don’t mean you any harm, Rear Admiral Reuenthal.”

Oskar kept his weight balanced on the balls of his feet in case of a sudden fight. “You know who I am,” he commented, keeping his voice calm and disinterested.

The man was close enough for Oskar to pick out some details now - tousled dark hair, a double breasted blue coat. His eyes caught on the gleaming gold pin on the man’s lapel, lit for one brilliant moment by a passing star, showing the clear detail of a single line bisecting the pin from left to right, and a solitary gold pentagram sitting proudly in the middle.

An uncomfortable prickle slowly crawled up Oskar’s spine as he remembered his crew whispering about disembodied footsteps and glimpses of shadows turning in hallways.

“Well,” the Rebel Fleet Admiral said, taking a hand out from his left pocket to slide through his already messy hair. “I do tend to make it a habit to know who’s on my ship.”

He seemed to notice Oskar’s unease and stopped, still several steps away. Oskar could tell now that the other man was a head or so shorter and his bearing was very clearly not military, even if his uniform and rank insignia said otherwise.

“Oh,” he seemed to realise something, rubbing the back of his head in a sheepish manner. “Sorry, that’s very rude of me. Julian used to always go on about how I should make it a habit to introduce myself first.”

He smiled then, a warm curve of his lips, and his dark eyes lit up, glittering with stars just like the galaxy behind him. “My name is Yang Wenli. Welcome aboard my ship, the Hyperion.”

#logh dnt #legend of galactic heroes #my writing #yang wenli #oskar von reuenthal #logh #forgive me for i have sinned #i'm hyped af about the new episode coming out this week #i'm pro-yang 5eva #reuyang

[xadoheandterra]

Title: Won’t Say You’re Sorry Chapter: I (II / III) Fandom: Red vs Blue Character: Lavernius Tucker, Vice Admiral Christina Odan | Tucker’s Mom, Captain Arlene Volt Summary: This had to be the present day version of dropping your kid off on the steps of high school, calling them 'buga-boo-boo,' and giving kissey faces in front of their peers much to their eternal embarrassment--expect the stricter, navy version, a giant space ship, a planet, and none of your kids' actual peers.

God if Tucker didn't miss his mom, though, embarrassment aside.

Don’t Write Me A Postscript (I / II / III / IV / V / VI / VII / VIII / IX / X / XI / XII / XII)

Do You Even Feel Compassion? (I / II)

It started not with a whimper, but a bang. Tucker stared up at the sky, pale and ashen and sick to his stomach, and watched the pelican explode with his son on it. He’d only just gotten used to the fact that shit he was a father—and sure his kid was born out of a strange mix of alien impregnation and rape—but he was a father. No matter who much he’d joked with his sisters and his dad back home about the number of bastards he’d probably sired, he never actually had a kid before. He’d never been responsible for one before.

Now—now Church’s fucking girlfriend took his kid—took his kid and then—then Sarge placed Andy—fucking Andy—on that same ship and just—Tucker felt sick to his stomach. He felt weak in the knees. He didn’t know what to do or what he needed to do. A part of him wanted to just burst the sword into being and stab it straight through Sarge’s fucking face.

(his lower back throbbed)

(he refused to think on that)

With a snarl Tucker pushed past Caboose, pushed away from the moved grip—almost shoved Sister—and stormed back into the base without a word. He could hear Church whisper, “Tex?” and all Tucker wanted to do was scream.

It wasn’t just your damn girlfriend, Church!

What about my kid?!

What about my kid?!

Tucker’s footsteps grew faster until he practically ran through the base, ripped his helmet off, and bent over double in front of the toilet. He heaved; he collapsed to his knees and, alone, let the tears fall as he heaved. After years in this godforsaken army not once had Tucker felt like this. He felt carved out and desperate and his chest hurt. Tucker heaved and threw up and cried messily in the bathroom for what felt like hours.

When he cleaned himself up, and for the days after, everyone moved as if they were on auto-pilot. Tucker didn’t speak to Church, and Church didn’t speak to Tucker. That, in the end, was just the way Tucker wanted things to go. It was all Church’s fault, anyway. Church’s fucking weird mess with Freelancer and his girlfriend and all the crazy, insane bullshit they were forced to go through. All for goddamn Church.

Tucker hated that fucking asshole. The bastard didn’t even have the gall to say sorry.

When the pelican ship arrived to pick him up and take him off to his new assignment, Tucker left in silence. Normally he would’ve had his usual banter with Church, a while means of communication they’d come to create between themselves and their time at Blood Gulch, but now? With how infuriated Tucker was, with how dismissive Church was—with Sister and the bullshit and their goddamn relationship like Tex hadn’t even been a thing to Church; like the mess hadn’t even happened—Tucker kept quiet. Even though Church stood and watched him off, Tucker kept quiet.

The asshole didn’t deserve his words. Not anymore.

The doors to the pelican finally slid shut, and Tucker could feel the engines rumble beneath him as they took to the air; finally he relaxed. One hand slipped down to the hilt of his Sangheili blade—

(mine)

—and then he breathed out explosively when yet again he realized that it was gone.

Tucker’s lower back twinged and he closed his eyes and slapped his head back against the wall of the pelican. One of the soldiers manning the pelican glanced over to him and Tucker noted that she wasn’t in power armor. He thought for a minute to crack a joke, throw a pickup line, but ever since Junior had been kidnapped and killed he just didn’t have the heart in it.

“Sir?” Tucker tilted his head toward the soldier to let her know he was listening, even as he mouthed ‘sir’ in surprise. “I have been instructed to inform you that the Captain orders for helmets at the very least to be off outside of live fire situations.”

From behind his helmet Tucker frowned. “That sounds like I’ll be ship bound,” he said slowly.

The soldier nodded her head. “Yes sir.” She had pretty eyes, Tucker noted. His back twinged again and he sighed explosively.

“Fine.”

The helmet released with a hiss and the subtle lick against his neck from the neural implants faded back into obscurity. Tucker shook his head to rid his ears of the ringing and then pulled off the armor over his hands to properly dig his fingers into the back of his neck just above where the implants ended.

“Does your Captain want me to completely undress too?” Tucker drawled. His lips quirked up as he spoke, especially when he caught the way her cheeks reddened slightly. Damn he had to be looking good for that, not that Tucker doubted for a moment.

“No sir,” the soldier said, evenly.

Guess I’ll just have to try harder to ruffle her feathers then, Tucker mused. He tugged off his other glove and massaged around his neck, careful to brush at the edge of circuitry and skin. While it hadn’t been too long since he’d been out of armor—just a mere hour or so, in fact—Tucker wasn’t above playing up how pleasurable the action felt. He let out soft, faint groans because why the fuck not? He might not have the heart for flirting, maybe even hooking up, but damn that blush didn’t signal some primal part of his mind.

Bow chicka bow wow, Tucker thought. His lower back burned and he had to pull his hands away with a faint grimace. He shook his head, tried to get rid of the thoughts that bounced around in it, and instead tugged his gloves back on. The helmet Tucker settled into the seat next to himself and glanced over at the beautiful, pale-eyed creature who, dare Tucker say it—nay, think it?—looked disappointed. He shuffled, let his legs slip open as he settled his arms across the seat and watched her with ‘bedroom’ eyes. He watched how her eyes dipped down toward his codpiece and smirked.

Ah, there we go.

“Sir,” she said, slowly. “I feel I must warn you.”

“What about?” Tucker drawled casually.

“Well…” the soldier started slowly, and she drew out the word enough that Tucker felt his grin grow from ear to ear and a thrill of something for a moment forgotten raced through his veins.

“Well…” Tucker drawled back out, and then opened his mouth to shoot of something more when the sudden rock of turbulence caught him completely off balance. He let out a yelp as he practically flew from his seat onto the metal of the deck with a shrieked, “Fuck!” to the laughter of the lone soldier.

“Well we’re about to hit atmo,” she twittered, and Tucker groaned.

“So. Not. Cool,” he said, face still pressed down into the metal of the ship. He pushed himself up and pinched at his nose. “Is it broken?” he whined, and she shook her head.

“Buckle up, buttercup,” the soldier laughed. “It won’t be long before we’re docked aboard the Viper’s Nest.”

Tucker flopped back into his seat and frowned; he winced when his nose throbbed and glanced at his gloved fingers distastefully in search of any bleeding, before he looked back over at the soldier. “The UNSC Viper’s Nest?” Tucker asked. He let his hands fall into his lap. “Flagship for the tenth fleet?” The resulting grin from the soldier placed lead in his stomach. “Sonnovabitch.”

(he knew this had been too good to be true)

Ship Captain Arlene Volt looked over the readouts aboard the bridge stiff backed and lips pressed together. She waited for the word to come through that their package had safely made it aboard, gaze focused steadily on the rotating planet they settled into orbit around. She tried rather hard not to think about the person at her back, the intimidating presence and sole reason why the Viper’s Nest even was at this backwater outpost of a planet.

“Captain, dropship is finishing up docking procedures,” one of the technicians chimed up, and Arlene relaxed minutely. She glanced over at the Vice Admiral.

“And our package?” Arlene questioned.

“Safely onboard,” the technician said.

The Vice Admiral let out a huff, the only sign she’d even heard the technician, as she turned sharply on heel.

“Ma’am?” Arlene quickly fell into step with the older woman.

“Send word to route Lavernius to my office,” the Vice Admiral said stiffly. “Then, once docking procedures are finished, continue with our headway.”

“Ma’am,” Arlene nodded and branched away. She shared a quick glance with the ships AI who watched the Vice Admiral leave the bridge, before Arlene made a quick gesture for him to relay the Vice Admiral’s commands.

“Frightening woman,” Deckard said carefully as he manipulated the ships systems.

“At least you rarely talk to her,” Arlene said tiredly. “I don’t even want to fathom what a Project Freelancer Private did to get on her list.”

“I’d imagine being born would suffice plenty,” Deckard mused, and then vanished just in time for Arlene’s hand to swipe through his hologram. “Really, Captain Volt? I am nothing more than a hologram projection, you know.”

Arlene grumbled. “Makes me fucking feel better.” Arlene settled in front of the large map that took up a good portion of the bridge. “This is our last unexpected stop, right?”

“Correct,” Deckard reappeared in front of the map. “After this we should have a fairly straightforward trip back into Earth’s space.”

“We won’t need to anticipate some sort of reaction from Project Freelancer for poaching one of their military fodder?” Arlene questioned. Deckard shrugged his shoulders.

“It seemed rather like Project Freelancer was all too happy to hand over Private Tucker,” Deckard said. “No projected issues on that front.”

“That…is not a ringing endorsement,” Arlene sighed. “Suddenly I’m far more worried about this Private then I was five minutes ago.”

Deckard flickered out of view and reappeared in view a second later. “I ran through the records. Private Tucker is a flirt, but relatively harmless. Surprisingly bright. With these tests scores he could’ve easily received an officer rank within the UNSC Navy, maybe even fast-tracked to FLEETCOM. Hm, wonder why he got relegated to Freelancer military?”

“Who knows?” Arlene shrugged. “Maybe he has a cognitive defect.”

“That would be in his medical file,” Deckard pointed out.

“Whatever the reason,” Arlene turned around and stared back out into space with a frown, “this Private is nothing but trouble. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Deckard flickered away. “So you say, Captain.” A soft alarm rang throughout the entire ship for all of a hot second, followed by the announcement that the ship would be entering slip space within five minutes.

Arlene pressed her lips together. “Definitely trouble,” she grumbled. Arlene did not look forward to Private Lavernius Tucker being aboard the Viper’s Nest—not one bit.

#rvb #red vs blue #lavernius tucker #tucker rvb #fanfic #fic: don't write me a postscript #fic: won't say you're sorry #tucker family drama #this idea wouldn't leave me alone #sorry but not sorry