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saltsicklover · 6 months

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Title: Not a Cyclone, But a Monsoon

Part 2 of 2 - Completed

Find Part 1 HERE, and my Master List HERE

A request based off of THIS prompt, from the lovely @inkandarsenic

Romantic Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Platonic Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x Fem!Reader

A few uses of Y/N

Word Count: This part: 14k+ Total Fic:20k+

Rating: R

Warnings: Talks of death, minor character deaths, labor, loss of a child in utero, abandonment, drinking, talks of God and destiny, swearing, general military talk and lingo, descriptions of food and eating, coughing fits, talks of violence, actual violence, blood, vomit and throwing up, mention of near death experiences. ANGST

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I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE REPOSTED OR TRANSLATED

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. The weekend before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

A cellphone is tucked between Monsoon's cheek and shoulder, the line trilling. She carries her duffle bags and kit, feeling like a battering ram as she makes her way through the crowd of people. The airport is packed and she can feel just how humid it is form how sticky she feels.

The hallways of the airport wind as she follows the crowd out of the baggage claim. The people around her move just a bit too slowly as they wheel their bags behind them, just begging for someone to trip over them if they dare pass. If there is one thing Monsoon did not miss about being at Top Gun, it's the trip in.

Fuck flying coach.

Fuck PSC Season and all of the families taking all the seats on the military flights.

Fuck the crying lady sitting next to her, who wouldn't stop sobbing at the shitty romcom she was watching, and fuck when she decided to start it over, just to watch it all over again.

But the best thing about coming back has to be seeing her surrogate father, Beau Simpson. Their relationship has only grown stronger since that night at the bar. They have spent countless meals together, drinking at bars when they are in the same place and always sending 'check in' emails. Phone calls have always been a bit dodgy between time zones and deployments.

Neither one knew exactly what they were getting into when the bond between them grew, neither really sure exactly what a parent/child relationship looks like, especially when the child is really an unrelated adult. But as the days went on, and the email chain got longer and longer, things seemed to just make sense.

The pair talked about everything, from work to dating, friendships and recipes. Cyclone opened up about June and their baby, sharing his favorite stories of their marriage. From how they started dating, to the day that June passed, Monsoon heard it all.

Calla lilies were June's favorite, the only flowers that Beau believes should ever be given to a woman, and Monsoon smiles at the memory of her graduation from Top Gun, and the way Cyclone smiled at her with the bouquet of lilies in his lap.

When Monsoon found herself in Vermont she carved out time to visit June and Baby Boy Simpson at the cemetery. She showed up with two bouquets of calla lilies and a speech to give them. Monsoon cleaned their headstones and laid the flowers delicately across their plots, speaking to them the whole time about herself, and Cyclone, and the world they live in.

Cyclone's phone buzzed in his pocket while in a meeting. When he snuck a peak, he was met with a photo of Monsoon, a light smile adorning her face as she sits just in front of the burial plots. The message read "With Mama June and Bubba, thinking of you, Pops". Cyclone had to excuse himself from the table with tears in his eyes.

As the years went on, the surfaces in Cyclone's office slowly began to fill with more photos of the two of them. The collection of frames started out sophisticated, it really did, but as time went on, the frames became more eclectic, more fun.

It's juxtaposes the rest of Cyclones office in a way that is almost comical. As he is shouting at someone for their latest fuck up, there are shelves full of silly frames just a few feet away. Cyclone's favorite just so happens to read "Clown College Class President" while Monsoon's favorite is one of those irregular shaped ones, with an oval opening for the photograph.

There is a photo of the two of them tucked in the cockpit of Monsoon's jet. It catches the mechanics off guard every time, but no one dare says a word about it- mostly out of fear that word would get back to Admiral. The photo depicts the two of them at one of those giant truck stops, posing with the large dinosaur sitting out front. She is sat atop of it, like a cowboy, with Cyclone leaning up against it, his shoulder near her thigh. They both wear larger than life smiles as the sun beats down on them. It was a silly thing, really. Both stuck in at little forgotten Air Base in middle America for a flight test, but the pair managed to make the best of it, remembering to take photographs as they went.

There is a postcard folded up in Cyclone's wallet. Once upon a time, it read the catchy saying "Why Not Minot?" printed across the front of it, with a cute little photo of a town square, a little forgotten town in North Dakota. It's one of those bases that people dread being stationed at, that much has always been true, but the little photo on the front of the post card sold a different tale. It wasn't the cutesy saying or the photo that made him keep it, the edges now worn and fibrous. On the back, written in neat blue ink, underneath a little blurb about how there is absolutely nothing to do in North Dakota, the sentence "I love you, Pops" sits next to a scribbly little heart.

The staticky, tolling, phoneline picks up after a few rings as Monsoon pushes around a family with one too many screaming toddlers. They have on those little backpack leashes and Monsoon almost gets close lined as a little dark haired child bursts in front of her without warning. She dodged, but she catches one of those damn rolling bags with her toe. Monsoon barely notices the glare the lady sent her way, but the lack luster wrath of a stranger isn't going to stop her.

"Hey, Kid," Cyclone greets over the line, the smile on his face evident through the sound of his voice. There is no need for an official "hello" to begin the conversation, both knowing full well that Cyclone had been watching the flight itinerary like a hawk to make sure Monsoon wasn't going to be delayed. The call upon landing is just expected at this point, though neither of them have mastered the cool,casual, its good to see you.

"I just landed," A woman walks right into one of the duffle bags hanging off of Monsoon's shoulders, throwing her completely off balance. She hikes the bag higher up on her shoulder, trying to rebalance the hefty weight she is carrying. Monsoon sways like she is at sea, attempting to get her balance back. There is something so familiar about the way she sways a bit, just like the jet carriers do as the waves bash against the metal of the hull.

"Fuck" she curses under her breath, steadying herself once again. For a Seaman, one might think Monsoon would have better balance. Cyclone rolls his eyes on the other side of the phone. "I'll be over for dinner tonight, if that's still the plan,"

"Sure is, I'm making your favorite,"

"Steak and potatoes are your favorite," Monsoon corrects.

"You can correct me without the side of guilt, you know," Cyclone is chuckling through the phone, earning him a roll of the eyes.

"I only meant to tease," There is a nonchalance to her voice, though she is the furthest thing from cool. Cyclone isn't either. His kid is coming home and they get to sit down for a meal for the first time in months and he is beyond excited.

"I'm going to drop my stuff off at my rental, then I'll be headed your way, you better be ready for me to eat enough for a small village," Monsoon heads right for the exit, ready to look for a taxi. "And Pops, maybe think about adding a-" The word "vegetable" fails to make it's way out of her mouth as Monsoon looks up as the double doors in front of her slide open. Cyclone is standing on the other side, a large sign reading "WELCOME HOME KIDDO" sits loosely in his hand, the other holds his phone up to his ear.

It's like one of those cheesy scenes from a movie, both wearing matching grins and laughing. Cyclone knew the whole thing would be a surprise; he took a leave day to make sure he would bet there to pick her up.

"Pops!" The name still makes Cyclone's heart swell, even if he had been responding to that very name for the past few years. It's funny, really, how easy it was for the pair to adjust to the name, though Monsoon waited for him to acknowledge it first before she actually said it.

The acknowledgement came from a recorded phone message, shortly after her first move after her Top Gun Graduation. Cyclone got stuck in on the highway with a dead car and no cellphone. The call came in from a payphone, an unknown number. Cyclone left a message, "Hey, kid, it's Pops, my car died and I am stranded. I could use an assist. Do you know anyone in Missouri?". That message is still saved on Monsoon's phone to this day.

"Hey, Kiddo!" And then Monsoon is stumbling closer, her bags swinging her center of gravity all over the place. He reaches a hand out to take one, ready to throw it over his shoulder, but instead, each one hits the pavement with a hard thud. Monsoon is quickly wrapping her arms around his body, one over his shoulder, one under his arm, meeting around his back and squeezing him hard.

The hug is returned in kind, both damn near trying to squeeze each other to death. It's playful, as they share "good to see you's" and "I've missed you's" .

"I hope you don't mind, Kid, but I invited another one of the recruits to dinner tonight," He speaks the words into her hair. Monsoon pulls back to look up at her Pops with furrowed brows. She doesn't have to say a thing, he already knows exactly what is going through her mind.

"I know it's unorthodox, but, Kazansky said it might be a good idea, and when the good Admiral says something like that, you set another place at the table,"

"Yeah, unorthodox is definitely a word for it," Monsoon is pulling out of Cyclone's embrace, dipping to grab her discarded bags from the pavement. Cyclone grabs one before she can, which earns him a roll of her eyes.

"Be nice, would you?"

"To you or the mystery guest?" Her words are dripping with sarcasm.

"Preferably both," Cyclone chides, poking her in the side with the welcome home sign. She swats it away with a quick hand, both laughing.

"I'll see what I can do,"

---

The sun is setting over the horizon, painting the sky orange with wisps of pink the lower it sinks behind the curve of the Earth. Monsoon is spread out on one of the lawn chairs, relaxing, well, more like waiting out her Pops' little outburst. She had opened the grill to check on the steak, making sure the edges wouldn't be too crispy, and Cyclone all but snapped the lid shut in the middle of her investigation. He banished her to the other side of the patio to wait for the food to finish cooking. Then, and only then, would she be allowed to touch the grill again.

If there is one thing to be true, Cyclone has a method when it comes to grilling. Monsoon had it all explained to her the first time he grilled for the pair of them. He has it down to a science, all from the temperature and the kind of charcoal to use, to the length of marinating time and spices to make even the worst cut of meat from the Commissary the most perfect dinner.

And Monsoon couldn't exactly tell him he was wrong. After all, every single thing Beau had ever placed in front of her tasted delicious, delectable even. Not only that, but Monsoon really couldn't have done it better if she tried. Her Pops wouldn't let her try, either, but that is beside the point.

Soon, everything is pulled off the grill and the pair are inside, Monsoon tasked with setting the table. All of the windows are open, the evening breeze cooling the inside of the house. As she places another fork down, Monsoon takes in the way the breeze dances across her skin. Goosebumps threaten to crest over her exposed arms at the chill the air carries. In that moment, she is thankful for the California air, the smell of the freshly made sides sitting in the center of the table, and the fact that she is setting the table in her Pops' house.

It has been too long since the pair got to sit together and share a meal. Cups of coffee over video chat were no where near as nice and Monsoon couldn't lie, she missed Cyclone's cooking. As she sets down the last knife, Cyclone is bounding down the stairs. His causal jeans and t-shirt have been replaced by a nice pair of brown slacks and a cream polo shirt, tucked in with a belt. He's even sporting loafers.

"Hey Pops, there is something I want to talk to you about tonight," Monsoon shouts down the hall. She tries to shake the bit of nerves rumbling through her chest like a handful of loan bees.

"Okay, kiddo," Cyclone calls back as he is rounding the corner into the kitchen, "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, promise,"

"Okay," It's a simple response as he walks further into the kitchen. He pats her on the shoulder as he passes, a loving gesture.

"Got a hot date?" Monsoon chides as she looks him up and down. She sets the bundle of flatware down on the table, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No," Cyclone is shaking his head, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at her words. "We are having company tonight, remember?"

"Oh, I remember, but I didn't think some random Lieutenant, that is only coming over because the good Admiral all but ordered him to, was someone worth dressing up for."

There is a shrug of her shoulders as her head sways down nonchalantly. Cyclone crosses his arms, mirroring his kid, with a stern look on his face. It's a look that Monsoon isn't used to seeing out of uniform. Maybe it should worry her, but the vein that would usually protrude from his forehead is nowhere to be seen.

"Remember, kid, you too are just 'some random Lieutenant'" Those words stir a bit of anger within Monsoon, but it dissipates as fast as it came.

"Well then, Admiral Simpson, sir," Monsoon stands up a bit straighter, dropping her hands to her sides, "Let me find something more presentable to wear for the strange man who's crashing out family dinner," She grimaces a bit, but they both laugh. Beau is just laughing, in that way that make's his whole body shake, his eyes scrunched closed while whole hearted giggles escape his lips.

"Go on, kid," He waves in the general direction of the hallway, towards the front of the house where she dropped her bags by the front door.

The zipper of her duffle bag slide open easily, the separation of the teeth vibrating her fingertips. Monsoon fishes out a sun dress and a cropped sweater, something to keep her warmer as the sun sets below the horizon. It's a nice enough combination, something that will surly look like she gives a fuck about her appearance without looking like she planned too much. Monsoon changes out of her sweat shorts and t-shirt in the half bath, emerging looking like a brand new woman, though the feeling of the plane still lingers on her skin.

Just as she is stuffing her travel clothing back into her bag, the doorbell sounds throughout the house, the bells tolling just a bit too loud.

"Jeez, Pops, could that doorbell be any louder?" Monsoon is yelling just as she reaches for the door. She pulls it open with a swift movement, a smile on her face. Then it falls as soon as she sees who is standing on the other side of the threshold.

Clad in a button down shirt, one with a pattern that would rival any rodeo clown, with one too many buttons undone stands Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw; a man she hasn't seen since a deployment five years ago, about six months after she graduated from Top Gun.

There is a gold chain hanging around his neck. It's just long enough to graze over the tops of his collar bones. His shirt is untucked, the bottom a bit wrinkly, like he has tucked and untucked it a couple of times trying to decide which looked better. He made the wrong choice, by Monsoon's calculation, the patterned shirt covering the top of his dark khakis. He looks a bit silly, really, from the chain down to his boat shoes. The thing that catches her the most off guard though, is the fucking mustache he has decorating, no, vandalizing his upper lip.

Her own mouth hangs open just a bit, her hand tightening it's grip on the door handle. Bradley shoots her that mega wat smile, that million dollar, dentist office poster smile- the one that made her swoon all those years ago. But now, now it makes her fucking angry. Or maybe it's resentment that she feels boiling up inside of her, steaming her insides with a sort of sick feeling that she hasn't felt in years.

The last time this strange, queasy feeling flowed through her she was wrapped up in the white sheets of her mattress on an aircraft carrier, somewhere out in the pacific. Her naked body feeding off of the warmth of spot that Rooster once occupied. When she awoke, there was a feeling of contentment that spread over her skin, until she reached over to find the spot next to her cold.

Their deployment relationship ended with a fucking post it note, "Duty Calls" is all it read, scribbled down in a mess of black ink, the pen itself skipping. Hell, the pen couldn't even bother to work long enough to get a complete message through- their relationship simmered down to nothing more than steamy nights together in a twin size bunk while the ocean waves rocked against the carrier.

The contentment drained from Monsoon faster than than the anger could take over, and for a moment there was nothingness in the spaces between her ribs.

And now, Bradley fucking Bradshaw is standing on her Pops' front porch, smiling at her like nothing has ever happened between them, holding a bottle of wine, and somehow she is just supposed to let him in!

"Hello," He scratches at the back of his neck, his brows pinched together just the slightest bit. "Is this Admiral Simpson's house?"

Words are caught in the back of Monsoon's throat, each individual letter sticking her in the esophagus. Monsoon stands there looking at Bradley, each growing a bit more uncomfortable as the seconds go by. But, she is on the inside of the doorjamb, she has the upper hand. Just as she goes to slam the door in his fucking ugly mustache, Cyclone catches the door.

"Mr. Bradshaw!" Beau booms, his tone friendly as he sends Monsoon a what the fuck look. She pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, though it does nothing to relieve the rapidly growing headache that's taking over her skull.

"Come in, come in!" Cyclone practically ushers Bradley into the house. "This is my daughter, Y/N Mitchell, she is in the new Top Gun class as well!"

Beau is doing his best to defuse the tension in the room, between Monsoon's anger, and Bradley's overall discomfort from being in an Admiral's house, the vibes are askew. Bradley crinkles his brows at the information and Beau quickly jumps in with a chuckle, "No relation, but I claim her anyway. Introduce yourself, Son,"

"Brad-"

"We already know each other,"

The pair speak at the same time. Monsoon's tone is full of distain, like the words taste bitter and unforgiving on her tongue. She pushes past Bradley's outstretched hand and past Cyclone. Bradley can't help the fact that his face twists up in confusion as he wracks his brain trying to figure out where exactly he knew her.

The woman's definitely too upset to be a recent fling- hell, Bradley hasn't even managed to bring a girl back to his place in such a long time. Deployment really limited his prospects and she sure wasn't on the mission he just finished.

"Please, this way," Cyclone guides Bradley back to the kitchen, taking the bottle of wine from the younger man. They follow the path Monsoon took, down the hall and back to the large kitchen. She is standing at the sink, her hands braced on the counter top.

"Make yourself at home, Mr. Bradshaw. If you'll excuse me, I have to speak with my daughter for a second." Cyclone is moving before Bradley can acknowledge him. So, Bradley pretends to be very interested in the view just outside the kitchen window.

"What the hell, kid?" Cyclone carefully grabs Monsoon's elbow, leaning in just a little bit closer to fake some sort of privacy. He sets the bottle of wine on the counter. With all the tension blooming in the air around them, Cyclone decides alcohol is the last thing they need.

"It's complicated, Pops, just leave it be, okay?" Monsoon is running a hand through her hair, a shallow attempt to ground herself. "I can play nice for one dinner,"

"What the hell happened between you two? And it's not just one dinner, it's the next��few weeks."

That fact is met with a grumble from Monsoon. It took her only a few seconds to convince herself that she would be able to make it though a dinner, but the idea of having to see Bradley fucking Bradshaw every day for the foreseeable future had a mixture of nausea and frustration swirling through her.

"Pops, trust me, this really isn't something you are going to want to hear about, nor do I feel like discussing it in your kitchen, at a whisper, while the man who doesn't even seem to fucking remember me is only a few feet away! No thank you," Monsoon pushes past Cyclone once more, picking up the bowl of salad from the kitchen island and bringing it over to the table. Cyclone is hot on her tail, speaking lowly after her.

"Y/N" That gets her to stop, Beau never uses her first name, "We are not finished discussing this,"

"After supper then," The words leave her tongue sharp, but they are met with a nod of approval. Then Cyclone is moving, ready for the night to move on as planned.

"Mr. Bradshaw!" Cyclone is turning his attention back to their guest, a makeshift smile plastered to his face, "Please, take a seat, I am just going to grab the food off the grill,"

And then Cyclone is disappearing out the back door, leaving Monsoon and Rooster alone, the room already threatening to burst from the rapidly accumulating tension. Monsoon chances a look at Bradley as she finished setting out the flatware that had been left abandoned earlier, suddenly a little bit glad that her Pops hinted at her to change clothes. She looks good, that much she knows, if only it mattered at this point.

Maybe, if it mattered, Bradley would look at her and realize just how much he walked out on. Maybe he would see the way Cyclone cares for her, and their little family that they've created and know that he threw away his chance to be apart of it. If only he could see just how happy she is now- yet he doesn't even fucking recognize her, and that makes her heart burn like cheap kerosene. It's like gulping down saltwater, the feeling of being forgotten, drowning right out in the open for everyone to see.

As Monsoon is drowning in thoughts of Bradley, he is just trying to remember her.

Bradley takes in the slope of her nose and the freckles that are smattered across her legs. His eyes wander over the frizzy bits of her hair, down the line of her shoulder and ending at the tips of her fingers. The way that she glances at him, her face still turned down as she adjusts the table settings, strikes him as familiar- but in a far off sense of the word. Familiar in the way his own face is reminiscent of his father's.

His father, Goose, and Maverick... Pete Mitchell... Mitchell!

"Mitchell?" Bradley breaks the silence, his gaze a bit wider, still locked on her downturned face. Monsoon's eyes shoot up at the name, locking with his dark brown eyes. They bore into her the same way they always had and a part of her aches.

"Are you-" The breath he sucks into his lungs burns a bit with hazy memory, "Are you Pete Michell's kid?"

An audible, pained groan leaves Monsoon's throat at the question.

"Not anymore," Are the only words she can manage, the flames of anger licking at her legs.

"But you were, once?" There is almost a ribbon of hope laces somewhere in his tone, but Monsoon pays it no mind. She walks away from the table, keeping her back to Bradley as she attempts to calm the heat of rage that's licking at her legs.

Why couldn't Bradley just ask her about normal things? Why aren't they talking about work, their partners, their friends. Hell, he could hit on her at this point and it would go over better.

If he wanted to talk about Maverick- Pete Michell, there were countless times when they were tangled up together in blankets, in the dark save for the crack of light breaking into the room from under the doorway.

He could have asked as they scurried up the stairs of the carrier, their gear smacking against their chests as they ran. Bradley could have asked then, as they bounded out into the early morning, salt soaked air.

Hell, Bradley could have asked over coms, high in the air as the wind whistled past their wings. They were just test flights after all, no enemy to contend with. He could have asked her then.

But he didn't.

"That was a very long time ago," She's turning to the fridge, pulling a pitcher of lemonade out. The sigh that leaves her lips is nothing but tension attempting to escape from the confines of her chest. It doesn't work, and Bradley doesn't catch the hint to just shut the fuck up and leave it be.

"We knew each other, right? When we were kids?" The question catches Monsoon off guard, almost as much as his initial presence did. She wants to laugh, really she does, at the ridiculousness of the situation.

He didn't remember that fact when they met on the carrier five years ago, and Monsoon tried not to let that bother her, especially when he was buried inside of her, moaning filthy things into her ear. But now? Now he remembers. But somewhere, the memory of their torrid love affair escapes the great mind of Bradley Bradshaw.

"Oh, for fucks sake,"

Though the whole thing is laughable; Bradley isn't laughing. He's holding his breath, too caught up in the scene in front of him, in the soreness of his chest and the way his heart thrums against the backside of his ribcage.

Fuck how his chest aches.

There is this part of his past, this piece that he once knew like the back of his hand, that's just in reach now- again, and Monsoon is laughing at him. The memory of her was erased with the sounding of artillery, the three volley's fired into the air. And now, he craves this memory like he craves the memory of his father, the pieces of his innocence having crumbling into his hands like ash.

It still stains his hands that sickly blackish gray, gritty against his skin, though he is the only one that can see it.

The sliding door opens once more and Cyclone is slipping though, holding a large platter of steak in his hand, the meat is grilled to perfection and he looks proud. Bradley looks at Monsoon with furrowed brows, questioning the words that she let slip past her lips. Cyclone steps between them, setting the plate of meat down on to the dinner table, more than enough food to go around.

"Please, Y/N, come and join us," Cyclone is pulling out a seat right next to Bradley, offering it to her. Reluctantly, she pads over, taking a seat next to Bradley who can't seem to take his eyes off of her face. He runs his hands up and down his pant legs, more out of anxiety than anything else. Cyclone takes a seat across from the pair, a tight smile on his face.

In any other world, it may look like a child introducing their significant other to their father, the way the tension hangs in the air between the trio. Cyclone awkwardly dishes himself servings of the food before passing it to Monsoon, who does the same before placing it down next to her, leaving Bradley to fend for himself. It's petty, that's true, but to Monsoon, it's a small act of defiance. A small fuck you for not remembering her, or the nights they spent together.

The Admiral knows something is going on right under his nose, just out of his understanding. He can see it in the way Monsoon shifts awkwardly in her seat while Bradley's gaze gets overly friendly with the plate in front of him. There's a question on the tip of his tongue, "kid, is Bradley your boyfriend?" but he knows better than to ask it. As he observes longer, he takes in the way his daughter tilts her shoulders just a little further away from Bradley, the arm closest to him resting elbow down on the table. The moment Cyclone notices the unpassed dishes sitting between the pair, he just knows.

"So," Cyclone clears his throat, "Are you two excited to be back at Top Gun?"

It's a reasonable question, very middle of the road. Monsoon opens her mouth to answer, but Bradley beats her to it.

"Yes, sir. It's good to be back stateside. Hell, it's good to be back on solid ground. I've been stuck on a carrier for the past nine months and I was beginning to lose my mind!" He's chuckling now, and Beau joins in right along side him, the deep chuckles of the men filling the air. "But you know how it can get on the carriers. It's hard to pass the time, no going to the bar with friends, no dating,"

Then, Monsoon's fork hits her plate with a metallic clank against the glass. No dating, yeah, right. Out of all of the things Monsoon pegged Bradley to be, a liar was not one of them, but then again not much could surprise her after the way he left.

"How about you, kid?"

"To be determined, Pops," The answer is genuine, spoken through grit teeth.

Maybe she shouldn't be so upset with Bradley's lack of remembrance for her. After all, it's not always the wrong time with the right person. Or the wrong place. Sometimes it's wrong, maybe he just didn't like her that much- more a deployment fling to get him through the lonely nights than a future.

"Well, I am excited you're back," Cyclone returns her direction, but Monsoon just shoves a fork full of salad into her mouth.

"Sir, can I ask what exactly they called us back for? And are there more of us?" Bradley asks between bites, his fork and knife busy against his plate.

"I am not obliged to share much, but I can tell you that fifteen of you have been called back, from varying Top Gun classes." The explanation leaves something to be desired, but both recruits are nodding on the other side of the table. Bradley eats another bite of steak, complimenting Cyclone on his grilling; Monsoon is just pushing the food around on her plate with the tines of her fork. It's easier than finding the appetite that was lost somewhere between the front door and the kitchen after Bradley's arrival.

"Are you teaching us this go around, Pops?" Monsoon's question is spoken quietly, in the middle of Bradley's sentence about his own grilling technique- there is no remorse for the interruption.

At her words, Cyclone visibly stiffens, his fork stilling on his plate. Then he's setting it down, eyes still locked with his plate. With a huff and a lick of his lips he looks across the table, met with two pairs of curious eyes. He knew this was going to be hard, but he didn't expect it to be quite like this.

"No, I'm not teaching," Cyclone takes another breathe, unsure who to make eye contact with, knowing the words he's about to say are not going to be received well, by either one of them. "We- Top Gun has decided to bring in-"

The doorbell is ringing loudly through the house, startling Cyclone in his seat. It breaks though the tension like a fucking bullet, the whole thing blasting apart on impact. The trio trade glances that last milliseconds, like someone just knows whos going to be standing on the other side of that door.

"I'll get it, Pops," Monsoon is already pushing out of her seat, placing her napkin next to her plate. She is a bit too eager to get away from the tension surrounding that table, not only from her question but from the way Bradley is basically staring out of the corner of his eye. Though she can't exactly see it happening, she can feel it- the way his eyes are boring into the side of her head, almost burning. She will take anyone being on the other side of that door if it means she doesn't have to sit in Bradley's swimming gaze any longer.

"No, you stay, I'll get it," Cyclone corrects, "You stay and chat,"

Then, Cyclone is pushing away from the table, heading right for the front door. He gives his daughter no time to protest. Cyclone leaves the slowly rebuilding tension behind him, and Monsoon is stuck having to sit back down, next to Bradley, left to simmer in it.

"We did know each other, right?" Bradley is quick to ask the moment Cyclone rounds the corner. It's a speed he's not used to- too used to sitting and waiting for the perfect timing that just doesn't come. But this isn't something he's willing to wait on, it's just something he has to know.

"Yes, Bradley, we knew each other. But that was a long time ago," Monsoon is shrugging, avoiding his eyes. The words should have hit him harder, from the way they all but flew from her lips, but the impact is almost gentle, like the comfort of them bore the brunt of it all.

"Do you remember my father?" The question is so innocent that it almost hurts; and Monsoon knows just how much throbbing pain there is inside Bradley. After one drunken night while on the carrier, he poured his heart out about his father, about how much he missed him and how he wished- hoped that Goose would have been proud of him. Monsoon sat and listened the to the whole thing, through the tears and drunken hiccups, reassuring Bradley that Goose would be proud of him.

After all, she knewhim, even if that was a million years ago- even if Bradley didn't know it.

She knows he would have been, because Goose was a good man.

A trait that seemed to have skipped over Bradley.

Good men remember their lovers. They remember their old friends. They remember the people who showed up to their mother's funeral- and have the decency to show up to their friends' mother's funeral.

Good men don't leave women in the dead of night, a break up message scrawled on a sticky note. They don't leave their friends to grieve alone. They don't forget.

"Yes, I remember him," Monsoon chances a glance at Bradley, unintentionally meeting his eyes. God, he's looking at her like she holds the fucking secrets to the universe and all she can feel is a sort of twisted up sickness, like her sternum is bound together with poisoned ropes. Bradley can see the stars that cling to her fingertips, the secrets to the cosmos, but can't seem to find the words to beg for their translation.

Cyclone is walking back into the room a second later, accompanied by another set of footsteps. Neither Monsoon nor Bradley look up when they walk in, both too busy staring at each other. Bradley looks curious, Monsoon looks hurt.

She looks away first.

A tall blond walks in behind Cyclone, his gaze focused on a set of files in his hand. He's reading over the top file carefully, running his free hand through his cropped hair. There is a toothpick in his mouth, resting between his teeth. Dressed in his tan uniform, his biceps are straining against the cuffs.

He's a Stetson model type, clean cut and masculine. The line of his jaw accentuated by the clean lines of his uniform. His jaw ticks with frustration as his brows furrow at the paperwork. There appears to be a word on the tip of his tongue by the way the toothpick bobs between his plump lips.

"Hey, guys, sorry for that, this is-" Cyclone swings his hand, introduction interrupted by twin gasps.

"Jake?!"

"Hangman?"

Hangman isn't sure who to look at first, but his eyes meet Bradley's form first, his eyebrows knitting together at the familiar face before shooting to his hairline when his eyes land on Monsoon sitting next to Bradley.

"Y/N, Doll! What are you doing here?"

Cyclone is whipping his head around in the way he might flip a jet. And Monsoon is pushing out of her chair again, ready to round the table and throw herself into the arms of the strong, blond man who just walked in, but her eyes meet the bewildered look on Cyclone's face, causing her to halt her movements. Hangman sets the paperwork down on the kitchen island, his eyes still locked on Monsoon, that damn smirk of his playing on his lips. Monsoon can tell he is holding himself back, fully aware of exactly who's house he is standing in, and the relationship between Monsoon and the Admiral.

It's been months since they've seen each other. Their goodbyes were said on the front porch of his little rental outside of Lake Hurst. Neither of them relished being in New Jersey, but they had each other and that's all that had mattered. They fostered a brand new relationship over a year, neither of them brave enough to label the nights spent together in that house.

Then new orders came down the pipeline, on a TS Need-To-Know. The pair were being separated with the flick of a pen. So, they labelled their year long relationship through tears standing on his stoop, the night the orders came down the channel.

They packed Jake's small house, and Monsoon's apartment, neither one knowing just what was to come. In the name of a temporary duty station, they got storage units next to each other, the closest thing to living together they'd be able to swing.

That was six months ago.

Monsoon did a little time in Pensacola while Jake got sent to Oak Harbor. Thousands of miles apart, their dates turned from late night dinners to quick conversations over the phone just to hear the other's voice.

Neither of them expected their reunion to be here, in Admiral Simpson's kitchen, with Bradley Bradshaw and the Admiral watching the whole thing, confused expressions written into their features.

"I got recalled to Top Gun!" Monsoon giggles a bit, her gaze still trapped with Hangman's.

"Me too!" The words leave Jake's lips and the pair are smiling. It's taking everything for them to hold themselves back from embracing each other, after months apart. Then, Cyclone is clearing his throat.

"Pops," Monsoon begins, clasping her hands in front of her, "God, this is weird. Remember earlier this evening when I said I wanted to talk to you about something?"

She had fully been intending on telling her Cyclone about her relationship with Hangman, in fact, she had been working up the courage for the past few weeks. But, Jake comes with a record, a reputation, and a respect problem, things Monsoon knows her Pops won't approve of.

"What's going on? Is everything okay?" The words are leaving Cyclone's lips almost too quick, but Monsoon is quick to reassure him that it is.

"Well, this isn't exactly how I saw this going, but, Pops, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Jake Seresin," Monsoon is gesturing to Jake now, a worried smile on her face. The pair know each other, of course they do. They had met the first time Hangman went through Top Gun. Cyclone was on instructor duty and Hangman didn't take overly well to being instructed; though he did finish top of his class.

Monsoon bobs up and down on the balls of her feet, the nervous energy flowing through her body. If she could push all the energy out of her and into the floor she would. Her soles grounding the electric current flowing through her, unapologetic and lightning hot. Monsoon would stand there in front of the three men who have played such a large roll in her life, back straight and eyes forward like the Navy trained her to do, if only she could coral that fucking energy and send it straight through the floor.

Monsoon bounces instead.

If she had the time, she could have prevented the look that crosses Cyclone's face. That look of you're not good enough for my kid that is so evident on his features. She knows that Jake saw it, clear as day from the way he almost winces. Everyone in that room knows the reputation that Hangman wears like a neon sign. The "voted biggest player" social life with the stellar callsign, the pilot known for leaving his wingman hanging, acting alone- selfish.

So much for putting off telling Cyclone; so much for easing him into the news.

Bradley is watching the whole exchange from his seat with his eyebrows raised, like a fucking soap opera but the whole spectacle's happening in real time. He lets his eyes shift from person to person, taking it all in. Monsoon looks hopeful, though she is waiting with baited breath for her Pops to blow a fucking gasket. Jake, on the other hand, looks absolutely cool. Though he is the reason for the interruption, and for the impromptu introduction, he is impossibly collected. Then, Bradley's eyes shift to Cyclone, who has backed up a few steps. He keeps looking between Monsoon and Hangman, like he is playing some sort of invisible game of connect the dots.

Hangman and his fucking reputation are courting his daughter, and Cyclone really isn't thrilled about the news.

Though Bradley isn't exactly thrilled to see Hangman here either, he's taking the whole thing in stride, as opposed to Cyclone, but the younger man can't exactly blame him. If it were Bradley getting this major bomb dropped on him, he wouldn't be sitting pretty, either. Bradley is bringing his glass up to his lips, his eyes still flashing between the trio.

"Monsoon-" Cyclone starts, but the sound of coughing interrupts. Bradley is coughing, choking on his water. He attempts to wave a hand, letting everyone know he's okay, but in reality, he's far from it.

Monsoon. The woman he left asleep in her bunk five years ago stands next to him now, and not only that, they fucking grew up together, at least for a little while. And she remembers his Dad, and she's Maverick's kid. And fuck, she's dating Hangman!

Things are moving just a bit too fast, and Bradley can't quite catch his breath between coughing fits.

The glass is quickly set back onto the kitchen table, but is sent over the edge as Bradley reaches for a napkin. The glass falls in faux slow motion, the liquid flowing from the cup as it hits the hardwood, shattering like a pinprick galaxy upon the floor. Bradley, still coughing, searches the new formation of cosmos on the floor for the answer to all the mixed up bullshit he has found himself in.

"Rooster?" Monsoon pats him harshly on the back, right between his shoulder blades. Then, she is rubbing his back, her hand full of warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt. His skin burns under her touch as he struggles to return his breathing to normal. There's still a knot in the back of his throat made of unsaid words and new revelations that he can't seem to swallow down.

"Rooster, are you okay?"

Hangman and Cyclone are quick to circle around the table, Hangman taking a knee next to Monsoon, his hand quickly finding her lower back. Cyclone is on the other side of Bradley, the glass crunching under his expensive leather loafers. Bradley is red from all the coughing, but an embarrassed blush still floods his skin from all the attention.

"Mons?" The nickname comes out all scratchy as Rooster wipes a newly formed tears from his eyes. The concerned expression morphs to hold a bit of shock before settling on some sort of mix of frustration and downright sadness. Monsoon tries to school her expression but her eyes still swim with emotion as they are locked with Bradley's.

"Yeah, Roos," Monsoon shoots his nickname right back, a confirmation that all but shakes the world around Bradley. She brings a tender hand up to squeeze his shoulder before pulling back, subconsciously leaning closer to Hangman, into the warmth of his hand on her back. She finds safety in her boyfriend's touch, the warmth of his skin pooling against her through the fabric of her dress.

The lack of contact makes Rooster feel cold, but the feeling is short lived as Cyclone is grasping at his other shoulder. A swivel of his head and Bradley is met with the furrowed brows of the Admiral.

"Are you okay, Mr. Bradshaw?"

"Yes, sir," Bradley responds, adjusting the collar of his shirt. "I'm so sorry about the glass, please, let me clean it up,"

As Rooster stands, he is pushed back down gently by Cyclone, his hand still on the younger man's shoulder.

"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it, please," And so Bradley is sitting again, in the center of the standing trio, feeling completely out of place. "As for the two of you, take a seat, we have some things to discuss,"

The sound of chairs being pulled out against the hard wood floor is accompanied by the intense ringing of the doorbell once again. The group look from person to person, once again looking for any clue as to who could be at the front door this time. Cyclone is padding over to the door, the crunching of glass less evident the further away her gets.

Bradley attempts to clear the lump in his throat, now without the luxury of his glass of water. Monsoon takes her untouched glass and slides it closer to Bradley, a barely there smile on her face. Her expression holds more sympathy than anything. Bradley takes the glass with both hands, a little too careful as he brings it up to his lips.

"Let me get you a plate, okay?" Monsoon speaks to Hangman, her smile clearly wider, brighter, more full of life when it's directed his way. "Pops will give me so much grief if he comes back and that spot isn't set,"

So, Monsoon excuses herself from the table, leaving the men sitting in apprehensive silence.

With a strong tug from Cyclone, door swings open and there is no time for a 'hello' as the man on the other side is pushing in, a wild look in his eye, a vein on his forehead bulging with frustration.

"We need to talk Simpson," The tone holds misplaced authority. Beau runs cold at the sight of Pete "Maverick" fucking Michell standing in his entryway, looking pissed off enough to catch a charge.

"That's Admiral Simpson to you Captain," Cyclone's teeth are grit so hard they might crack under the pressure of his jaw. "You cannot be here right now,"

The raised hand does nothing to stop Maverick from pushing further into the house. There's a folder in his hand, wrinkling under the closing of his fist. Sweat clings to the Admiral's brow, a vision of the crown of thorns, droplets running down the side of his face. It might as well have been blood from the way his stomach twists as Maverick steps closer to him, pushing the paperwork, right against the center of his chest.

"Do you know who got recruited for this mission, huh?" The words are dripping with venom, "Do you realize who you've chosen for this fucking death wish of a goddamn mission?"

Captain Michell's tone is all accusatory and full fury. He's pushing into Cyclone's chest harder, his knuckles white under the pressure. Cyclone grabs at the older man's wrist, his own knuckles paling as he squeezes.

"Captain, I will not repeat myself, you cannot be here,"

"Who is it, Pops?" Monsoon is calling from around the corner, her voice full of curiosity. Cyclone isn't a praying man, especially after what happened with June and their sweet baby boy, but now Cyclone is praying to every god, every deity that crosses his mind, even those who's names he cannot recall, that his daughter will not walk around the corner to see Pete Mitchell standing in his entry way.

"Nobody, kid, I'll be there in just a moment," He calls before turning his attention back to the man in front of him. He tightens his grip on Pete's wrist before he's wrenching it away from his chest. He pushes it back into Pete's own chest, leaning in close, "My daughter is not to see you here, leave. Now."

One might think Maverick would get the hint, since he pulls his hand from Cyclones grip. But then, Maverick is throwing open the file, pointing at the first page's photo. There is so much frustration in the action, it bounces between the two men like they're sounding boards, building and building.

"See this? Jake "Hangman" Seresin? You really want to send somebody in the sky who has a pension for leaving their wingman? You want to send someone into the air with a guy like him when the mission is already guaranteeing a loss of life?"

That catches the attention of the trio in the other room. All motion stills as they strain to hear more.

Wide mouthed, pointed tongue, Maverick is yelling without a care in the world. It doesn't matter who hears as long as Cyclone is hearing it too.

"And how about this," The paper tears as Maverick turns the page, "Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw. You know about his father. You damn well know about Goose and you want to send his son to an early grave too?"

Jaws tick, fists tighten. Cyclone breathes deeply, thinking- choosing his words carefully as the older man continues to scream. It's not beautiful or noble like books would describe. There is no gift from God, no blessing, no one anointed with the ability to see into the future, to see just how this is going to play out. Instead, it's just words exchanged between mortal men, both too damn stubborn to back down with knives to each other's throats.

"And check out these two," Maverick is laughing now, leaning in closer to Cyclone, his breathe reeking of whiskey. Cyclone can see the way Maverick's eyes are bloodshot and weepy as he pushes him back. Sweat coats his skin leaving him clammy to the touch.

"Natasha "Phoenix" Trace and Robert "Bob" Floyd," Another strangled laugh escapes Captain Mitchell, "You really think this scrawny kid and a woman are up to the task at hand? Really? I can think of at least five better pilots and Wizzos who are better qualified than these two. And look! She's the pilot! Hell, I don't even know how they made it through Top Gun the first time around! The fucking Navy is getting soft."

"It's time for you to go, Captain Mitchell. Sober up. We will discuss this on Monday," Cyclone puts a hand to the older man's shoulder, attempting to usher him out without too much force. Cyclone can't risk Maverick being in his house any longer. He has already been gone too long and his guests are likely getting curious. "Time to go, Pete,"

"But, Cyclone, you haven't even heard the best part," Maverick can barely get the words out through drunken laughter. He's turning the page with clumsy fingers, the paper tearing under his touch.

The trio, Rooster, Monsoon, and Hangman round the corner as Cyclone is attempting to usher Maverick out the front door. They watch as the Maverick stumbles out of Cyclone's grip and further into the house.

"Pops?" Monsoon speaks as the strange man hits the floor, laughing as he does. The file has fallen open, scattering pictures of the newest Top Gun brain child called The Dagger Squad. They sit scattered all over the entry way like freshly fallen snow. Her eyes go to the paper that falls near her feet.

"Well if it isn't the prodigal child," Maverick speaks, pushing himself further off the floor. "How many strings did you have to pull to get your own daughter onto the squad? Are you trying to send this kid to an early grave like the last one?"

The three Daggers stand speechless. Monsoon is quickly folded under Hangman's arm, her face pressed into his chest. Rooster stands just off to the side of them, his eyes flashing to Monsoon.

The arguing doesn't stop.

"Shut your mouth," Cyclone spits, "You don't know a goddamn thing,"

Maverick stumbles to his feet, standing up at straight as possible to get into Cyclone's face, just to taunt the younger man.

"See, Admiral, that's not true, now is it? You and I both know that she isn't actually yours and this would be an easy way to get rid of her, right? Send her back to-"

His words are met with a swift punch to the face, the cartilage of his nose crunching under Cyclone's knuckles. The punch feels good, like it had been coming for a long, long time. Like it had been building within Beau Simpson for years, every single time Maverick missed out on a celebration of the amazing life Monsoon is leading. For every birthday, every graduation, every reenlistment and promotion ceremony, Maverick missed it all, and the rage built inside Cyclone. Now, it finally came out, popped like a Champaign cork, blood instead of the fizzy alcohol dotting itself over Cyclone's entryway.

A warm hand slips into Monsoon's; Bradley stepped closer, clutching onto her. He recognized Pete Mitchell the moment he got a clear view, both his anger and anxiety flaring. Bradley squeezed her hand once, nice and strong, before dropping it once more, stepping in front of her and Hangman.

"Captain Mitchell," Bradley begins, his voice firm, full of hurt.

The words make Monsoon's head spin. She leans away from her boyfriend's chest to get a better look at the bloody faced man and it sends a chill down her spine. Her Dad who she hasn't seen in years is now standing in a room full of people who can't fucking stand his existence. It's a fucking miracle that all he has is a bloody nose.

"Bradley," Pete spits a little bit of blood as he speaks, looking up at the younger man. He reaches a hand out, but it's dodged. "It's good to see you, son,"

"I'm not your son. It's time for you to go," Bradley is ready to grab Pete Mitchell by the collar and haul him out of the house. He's ready to throw him onto the lawn and leave him there to spit blood and sober up enough until he can walk himself home. Bradley has his own selfish reasons, his own grudge against the Captain, and now would be as good a time as any to feed into that frustration that he's been stewing in for years.

"I'm calling Admiral Kazansky," Cyclone declares to the room, then he's spinning on his heel the moment Bradley takes a step closer, clearly putting himself between Maverick and Monsoon.

The Admiral is ordering Hangman to move, to take his daughter anywhere else so that she doesn't have to see any more of the disaster that the night has turned out to be. He doesn't want her to see him throw Maverick out- hell, he didn't want her to see him punch the older man, but there's no going back in time.

As much as Cyclone wishes he could have protected her from this, he couldn't. One can't stop a speeding bullet, as they say, and the shot had already been fired the moment he pulled open the front door. And as much as he doesn't want to, Cyclone has to trust Hangman with his daughter, he just has to, now.

So, Hangman is all but carrying Monsoon away as she fights to stay put. She misses the order from her Pops, her blood thrumming too loudly through her ears. Hangman takes her through the house, dodging the pile of glass still glittering on the hardwood in the kitchen, hauling her out the backdoor and right to his truck. Monsoon flights the whole time, though it's unclear as to her reason to want to say behind.

The pair are pulling away from the house as Bradley and Beau are hauling Maverick out to the front lawn, his nose still pouring blood.

Jake drives in the direction of his apartment, holding onto her hand the whole time. He squeezes it reassuringly though there isn't much he can assure her of at the moment. Neither of them know what's going to come of Maverick, or of Cyclone's heated action against him. They don't know if Bradley is going to get caught in the crossfire, or if they are going to get called into the MP's office sometime in the middle of the night.

There is no clear answer, so, Hangman squeezes her hand and drives.

And drives.

As far away as he can get from that house, that situation, the feeling in his chest spurred on by the broken look in Monsoon's eyes.

He drives until the sun crests over the horizon. Pulling off onto the side of the highway, Hangman kills the headlights, the world around them just beginning to come to life. That's when the tears come, falling fast and hard from the pools of Monsoon's eyes. Hangman just holds her there, inside of the truck.

The world around them awakens as Monsoon's falls apart, crumbling like unquenched Earth between her fingers. Maybe that's what the whole situation is, after all, how many times have the great authors related relationships to gardens, to plants, to life. Without nurture, without care and tending, the soil dries out, the plants die. The whole garden becoming a wasteland for the decaying plant matter; the soil turning to clay as the days roll on.

But isn't decay an unescapable fact of life?

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. Two weeks after the organization of the Dagger Squad.

Hangman had completely expected to pretend like the whole fight at the Admiral's house didn't happen when he met up with the other recruits at the bar, save for Monsoon. He took a little too much joy ordering drinks for the team on Maverick's tab- the older man not seeming to remember him from the incident, even after Hangman sent him a wink and a "thanks, Pops,".

When Bradley strutted in like the world was full of golden promise, Hangman took it upon himself to act like it was the first time they had seen each other in years. Bradshaw was quick to get the memo: last week didn't happen.

There's no surprise that Maverick got thrown out of the Hard Deck that night, either. Hangman sure as hell wasn't expecting to be the one to throw Maverick out of the bar, but that part gave him a sense of pride that he can't quite put words to.

The feeling bloomed in his chest as he watched Maverick hit the sand. A wide smile spread across his face as he yelled for him to "come back anytime," if that meant getting more free alcohol and the chance to throw him out again. Then, as Hangman closed the doors behind him while Rooster began one hell of a rendition of "Great Balls of Fire", everything felt like it was going to be okay.

Oh boy, how wrong he was.

Tensions are high now, Hangman and Rooster's rivalry is back and stronger than ever. They have been at each other's throats since that night at the Hard Deck, though the reason wasn't the mission or the usual dick measuring contest, even if the other recruits would say that it is.

They have been battling it out over a woman. Monsoon, specifically. The team doesn't know about her involvement with Hangman, and the pair try and keep it that way. So, she sits in the back of the classroom, right behind Yale and does her best to pay attention. The mission seems more impossible by the minute, the deadline has been moved up, and nobody has been successful.

Rooster and Maverick argue about the plane vs the pilot and how he had been the only one to make it to the target, though it was a minute late.

Then, Hangman opens his fucking mouth, living up to that reputation of his. "It's no time to be thinking about the past,"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rooster's expression is unreadable, though his brows twitch.

"I can't be the only one that knows Maverick flew with his old man!" Hangman continues through Maverick's pleas, "Or that he was the one flying when-"

Rooster is out of his seat in a matter of seconds, launching himself at his fellow Lieutenant. Hangman took it too far this time. Rooster gets one good push in before the rest of the squad are separating the two hot headed men from each other, everyone yelling for the fighting to stop.

Everyone but Monsoon, who sits in the back staring at the fight in front of her and can't seem to make herself move.

"You son of a bitch!"

"Hey, hey, I'm cool, I'm cool," Hangman reassures, pulling out of the arms of his teammates.

"He's not cut out for this mission, you know it... You know I'm right." He gets up into Bradley's face, a fucking smirk on his lips. The others are still holding Bradley back as he calms down, but it's that fucking smirk that spurs him on.

Bob's hands slip from Rooster's shoulders as he gets into Hangman's face. "You think you can talk shit about my family when it's your girl that's got the most fucked up situation of all," Bradley keeps his eyes trained on Hangman, but the blonde's eyes tick to the side, in the direction of Monsoon, who is still in her seat. It's Bob who notices the way Hangman's eyes shift, and he's the first person to look in Monsoon's direction. Then, Bob's nudging Phoenix.

They watch as Monsoon tenses in her seat, her jaw ticking. Her hands grip the arms of her chair, knuckles white. Then, Bob and Phoenix turn their attention back to the men as the screaming match continues.

"I'm not the one who broke up with her on a goddamn post-it note, Rooster," Hangman points out with a raise of his brows, that stupid little smirk still evident on his lips. Rooster is bringing his hands up to his temples, his expression scrunched.

"You son of a bitch," Rooster is cursing at him through grit teeth, his voice low.

The crowd of Aviators are still gathered around the two men watching them fight, Maverick's eyes flicking between them as words are exchanged. His mind flashes back to two weeks ago, when he broke down the Admiral's door and saw them standing there with Cyclone. He suddenly flashes his eyes back to Monsoon, only to be met with her piercing glare.

"What? Was taking her father for yourself not good enough for you? Did you have to break her heart too?" Hangman questions, watching as Bradley's face contorts, "You're just pissed because not only could you not keep your shit Rio of a father around, you couldn't keep the girl, either,"

"That's enough!" Monsoon shouts, her eyes finally leaving Maverick. The Daggers' eyes are locked on Monsoon at the back of the makeshift classroom, anger evident on her features. Then, with her hands firmly planted on the table in front of her, she is pushing up from her seat.

"Seresin," Monsoon begins, turning her eyes to him, "First, you will not speak about my uncle that way. Goose was a good man and a damn good Rio. Uncle Nicky would have moved the fucking Earth for Bradley, or for Maverick, or for me and my Mama, don't you dare think anything different."

Monsoon is moving closer to the group now, taking each step slowly, methodical as her words. There is a large, yellow envelope tucked under her arm as she approaches. She had been sitting with that envelope since their first class, no one having even the slightest idea what's tucked inside.

"Secondly, Rooster, my relationship with Jake is not your business, not now, not ever. What we had was over the moment you wrote that post-it and walked out the door. You didn't even remember the fact that we grew up together, for fucks sake. I get it, I was your little deployment fling, and that's all. Now, you get to live with the fact that's all I'll ever be. Hangman put you in your place, now say in it."

The crowd is too stunned to speak, but there is a rumble of laughter that escapes Maverick. He doesn't even try to hide it, thinking the tension in the air would be enough to cover it. But then, Monsoon is turning her pointed gaze to him.

"Finally, Captain Mitchell," There is a sick little smirk on her lips as she says his name, "I wouldn't be laughing if I were you. After all, Bradley had to get his pension for forgetting women from somebody."

Monsoon is standing toe to toe with Maverick now, eyes locked in on his, "After all, I've been in this class for what, two weeks, and I know you have had the roster for longer than that, considering that little stunt you pulled at my Pop's house. You think it's funny to forget someone when your own flesh and blood is standing right in front of you?"

Maverick furrows his brow, head cocking to the side. Monsoon can practically see the gears turning in his head with the way his eyes move across her features. She breathes deeply a couple of times, letting his mind piece the puzzle together.

"I asked you a question, but go ahead, take your time," Monsoon leans in just a fraction further, "After all, I'm told I look more like my mother, anyway," Wide eyes from the man in front of her stir out a strangled giggle from her chest.

"Wha- bu-" Maverick flounders, his mouth opening and closing, no words forming on his lips.

"Hi, Dad," The name is said with so much venom as she pushes the envelope against his chest with enough force to make him stumble. Monsoon doesn't wait for him to recover before she is turning to walk down the aisle of the makeshift classroom, paying no attention to the stares, the eyes burning holes into the back of her head. Instead she focuses on the momentary feeling of lightness that washes over her as she leaves the hanger.

It isn't until Monsoon rounds the corner that the tears begin pricking at her eyes. She takes off running as soon as the first one hits her cheek, the only thing she can hear over the rushing of blood in her ears is the thunking of her heavy boots on the pavement.

The Daggers stand looking at Maverick. He's holding the envelope to his chest, unsure of the emotions wracking though his body. Then, with a quick hand, he's crudely tearing at the envelope. The contents pour out over the floor of the hanger, looking just like that night at Admiral Simpson's house. Maverick tries to push that thought from his mind as his eyes focus in on the papers covering the floor.

Birthday Cards. Children's birthday cards.

The same ones he wrote to her for her first ten birthdays. He can't even get himself to bend down to pick one up, his neck aching from the way he stares down at them. He notices the little circles of wrinkled paper from long dried tears and his heart fucking breaks.

The image of Monsoon at four, at seven, that he can see clearly in his mind, but there's a gap missing. Still, Maverick imagines her sitting and rereading the cards at seventeen, at twenty-two, crying over them and the father she could barely remember. Tears prick at Mavericks eyes and he lets them, making no attempt to wipe them away.

It doesn't take long for the Daggers to figure out that the pile of cards is noticeably small, no more than nine or ten cards on the ground, though no one is near brave enough to say anything.

Moments like this remind Maverick he's still just a mere man. No matter how many records he breaks, aircrafts he tests, or brushes with death he encounters, Maverick is nothing more than a man with a skill set. He has flaws. He makes mistakes.

That fact is almost too much for him to take.

The memory of Goose flashes through his mind, the moments leading up to the failed ejection birth the feeling of ocean water weighing down his flight suit, soaking into the padding of his helmet as the water washes over them. So much blood where there should be none. And then Maverick is thinking about cleaning the scraped knees of his daughter, the blood bubbling up through the road rash. The tears, then, were hers as she begged, "Daddy, not the ouch-y cleaner, I don't like it,". But Maverick cleaned her wounds with the alcohol anyway, only to end up holding her against his chest in the same way he would hold Goose in less than a year.

Maverick's mind is a patchwork quilt of shit memories; stuck reliving them all, fragment by fragment.

"Class dismissed," Maverick manages, his eyes still glued to the floor. The sounds of fourteen pairs of boots, first loud then quieter as they go, leave the hanger, leaving him standing there, looking at the past he threw away illustrated simply in faded and forgotten birthday cards.

The hands of the clock circle once before Maverick moves. He walks right over the pile, his boots leaving angry, dark tread marks across the colorful paper. He doesn't look back once, not at the pile of cards, not at the hanger, not at the base.

He drives straight for the Hard Deck. It's the only thing he can think to do, and after all, maybe Penny has some sort of advice. She's the only person he actually knows with a kid- a daughter.

Maverick only makes it half way before he has to pull over. Quickly, he throws himself off his bike, his knees hitting the dirt as he empties the contents of his stomach. As a pilot, he should have a stronger stomach than this, but a choice he made almost eighteen years ago is coming back to haunt him.

He can still see Monsoon's eyes in the forefront of his mind. They haven't changed a bit from when she was a kid, Maverick realizes, as he's sat back on his haunches trying not to puke again. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing at the feeling of his swirling stomach.

Maybe he should have stuck around, or at least circled back when he wasn't on deployment. After all, Maria left messages on his machine for almost two years after he up and left. It started with her begging to call which slowly turned into begging him to at least send a fucking birthday card. So he did.

Then, she stopped calling, and he stopped writing. Monsoon grew up.

It would be so easy to blame Maria. When she stopped calling, he stopped remembering. Between deployments and missions, flight tests and ceremonies, Maverick could pretend that it all got lost in the shuffle. But then, he remembers Maria and the way she always seemed to flawlessly manage her Naval carrier with raising their daughter, how she could juggle it all without his help when he was deployed and it was all okay. At least that's what he told himself.

So, he thought if she could do it alone already, no harm could come from putting in for extra duty. That turned into extra deployments, more time away from home. He knew it was all a lie, but he had to tell himself something to justify it.

It did get easier after a while, as his daughter slowly slipped to the back of his mind. It wasn't until one day, six years after he left that the realization hit him. Maverick hadn't thought of his daughter in months. He should have felt more guilty; he drank himself sick at the thought.

Two years later Maverick didn't even realize he missed her eighteenth birthday.

Or her twenty-first.

Over the years he convinced himself he did the right thing. That part of his past became a distant memory that he told himself he didn't miss. Maverick would be lying to himself if he still believed that to be true in this moment, sat on the side of the road after having been faced with the consequences of his long forgotten actions.

Maverick kept one constant reminder playing on repeat in his mind all those years, You can't be a bad father if you aren't there to be one at all.

And for the first time since he walked out, Maverick thinks he may have been wrong.

He sits on the side of the road until the sun sets, stewing in his misery. When he manages to pull himself back up onto his bike, he heads for home, knowing that if Penny knew the whole story he would be on the outs with her, too. And so, he drives slowly, back to an empty house, wishing for the first time in years that it wouldn't be empty when he got there.

---

When Monsoon finally reached Cyclone's office, eight blocks from the hanger, she almost collapsed in the entryway of the building. But, she pushed through the crowd, ignoring the calls of his assistant who insisted that Cyclone could not be interrupted while he was in a meeting. Monsoon couldn't find it in herself to care.

When she pushes the door to his office open, she is met with three pairs of eyes. Iceman, Warlock, and Cyclone's eyes meet her frame. She is breathing heavy from the mix of running and sobbing, though it's unclear as to which is causing the redness in her cheeks.

"Excuse me, recruit, but you can't-" Warlock starts, closing the file sitting in his lap. There is an edge to his tone, not taking too kindly to being interrupted.

"Hey, kid, what's wrong?" Cyclone is cutting off Warlock without a second thought. The moment he moves out from behind his desk, Monsoon is throwing herself into his arms, her barely contained tears now overflowing. Without a second thought, Cyclone is folding her into his arms, doing his best to hold her shaking form.

"I'm sorry, sir, I tried to stop her," Cyclone's assistant huffs, running a hand through his hair. Cyclone waves the younger man off, the door closing behind him with a click. Then, Cyclone is wrapping his daughter tighter in his arms, one hand coming up to rub between her shoulders while the other is wrapped securely around her waist.

"I'm sorry, gentleman, but the meeting will have to be continued another time," Cyclone speaks, his tone clear, unwavering. Warlock shakes his head but gets up to leave anyway. Iceman follows after him, nodding a sort of good luck to his fellow Admiral before closing the door behind him.

"Tell me what's wrong, kid," Cyclone is pulling back, his hands squeezing at her shoulders. Monsoon is rubbing at her cheeks, smearing her tears over the expanse of her face. It's the same ugly cry she had when they first met, and the connection make's Cyclone's heart twist.

"I-" She starts, sentence interrupted by a hiccupping gasp, "Everything is falling apart,"

Monsoon tries to wipe at her face again with her hands, but Cyclone plunges a hand into his pocket only to offer her a green pocket hanky a second later. She takes it with unsteady fingers, her heart still thrumming a mile a minute.

"Hangman and Rooster got in a fight in class. Jake said a shitty thing about my uncle Nicky, Goose, you know?"

"Bradley shoved Jake, which isn't exactly a surprise, but then he told everyone that my family situation is all kinds of fucked up, which it is, but it's nobody else's business. God, Pops, I know now that I made a mistake when I started seeing Rooster while we were on deployment together, but God, that was five years ago! It's in the past!"

Cyclone nods at her, listening intently while trying to keep calm. So much new information is being thrown at him with each sentence that leaves her lips and it makes him angry.

"Worst of all, though," Monsoon wipes at her nose with the hanky, "Maverick knows,"

"He knows?"

"I told him," She confirms with a whimper and a nod, not daring to meet Cyclone's eyes. If she managed to meet them, she would have been met with nothing but rage boiling behind his irises, red hot flames behind the dark brown of his eyes.

"I had to, everything was already coming out anyway," She laments.

"What did he have to say for himself?" The question is asked through grit teeth as he pulls her body tighter against his, a move meant to feel protective but does nothing to quell the flames burning Cyclone from the inside out. All Monsoon can do is shake her head "no" as she sobs against the denseness of his chest.

"I'm gonna kill him" is all Cyclone can think as he rests his chin against her hair. His jaw ticks as the flaming feeling overtakes his body. If he could, he would strip Maverick of every single one of his achievements, his medals, his rank. He would cut the older man down so far that he was nothing more than a civilian with a dishonorable discharge.

But he can't.

So instead, he holds his daughter as she cries. He lets her tears soak the tan fabric of his uniform top, the buttons scraping against her skin. He rubs her back and whispers into her hair, promises that everything will be okay.

---

Somewhere in the Pacific. The Uranium Mission. Three weeks after the organization of the Dagger Squad.

Moments after the Uranium mission is completed, the team piled on the aircraft carrier, all grateful to be alive. Monsoon and Hangman got sent up to shoot down the enemy aircraft, saving Maverick and Rooster. The whole thing left nothing but swirls of confusion and gratitude in Monsoon's heart.

On one hand, she is so thankful that everyone made it back home. There will be no funerals, no folded flags and no Taps to be played. Instead there will be celebrations, beer and cheering and one too many speeches for a job well done. The whole thing should be liberating as their impending doom has been starved off for the time being, however there is still a feeling of anxiety sitting heaving in her chest.

Now, Monsoon is stuck watching the pair climb out of the museum piece that they managed to land on the carrier. The wind is whipping past them as she watches the team embrace the two men. Her strangled feelings clog her chest as she makes her way into the fray, first approaching Bradley.

"Glad to have you back on the ground," Monsoon shouts over the crowd.

"It's good to be back, even if it's not quite the ground," Bradley attempts to joke, "But seriously, we owe everything to you and Hangman,"

"Nobody left behind," Monsoon holds her hand out to Bradley, a gesture of good will.

"Nobody left behind," Rooster echoes, taking her hand in his own.

As they shake hands, a sort of understanding forms between them. They share a look, one that reads no hard feelings and Bradley almost tears up. Then, they are pulling back from each other, sharing one last smile.

Monsoon watches Bradley disappear into the crowd, his tall frame quickly swallowed up by the sea of uniforms. She catches him shake hands with Hangman a moment later, the scene bringing a small smile to her lips.

Then, Maverick catches her eye, standing a few yards away. There are tears shining in his eyes, but he makes no effort to move forward. They share eye contact for a moment as people move between them. Monsoon offers him a half smile, her brows lifted just slightly. Before Maverick can return it, she nods at him. He nods back, then it's his turn to watch her disappear into the crowd.

It's not quite an understanding, but maybe it's a truce.

At the risk of breaking her own heart, Monsoon chances a look over her shoulder. She watches as Maverick pulls Bradley into a hug, or maybe it's the other way around, it's hard to tell with the swarming of bodies. Either way, the pair wear bright smiles as they embrace and Monsoon doesn't even try to fight off the tears that make their way to her eyes. They aren't tears of anger, no, they are tears of gratitude. Grateful that they all get to live another day, grateful that Maverick and Bradley are giving each other a second chance, and grateful that there isn't a looming cloud hanging over her head anymore.

She no longer has to wonder about her father, because now she knows he's exactly where he is supposed to be, and both of their lives are better for it. Instead, she has Cyclone, the best father she could have ever asked for, and that is more than enough.

Cyclone breaks through the crowd, pulling his daughter into his arms, more than thankful for her safe return. He shouts at her, over the crowd, about how well she did and how happy he is that she made it back. The pair hold each other tight for another few moments, neither ready to let go.

Maverick takes one more look at Monsoon, who's now folded into Cyclone's arms. It's an unfamiliar sight but not an unwelcomed one, for Maverick. One thing's for sure, she is exactly like her Pops- disciplined and talented in the cockpit of a jet. Even more, though, beyond being a good aviator, she is a good person and that's something that Maverick can't regret.

---

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. One year after the completion of the Uranium Mission and the organization of the Dagger Squad.

A year later, Cyclone and Monsoon find themselves sitting in The Flight Line Bar, her hand thrust out in front of her, ring glittering under the amber lights.

"You're going to give me away at my wedding, right?" There is a sort of apprehension to her voice as she sips on her beer.

"It would be my honor, kid," Cyclone slings an arm around her shoulders, pulling her sideways into him. He holds her there for a second before letting her sit back upright, a large smile on her lips.

"Y/N Seresin has a good ring to it," Cyclone adds, bringing his beer up to his lips.

"About that," Monsoon starts, causing the Admiral to set his beer down, "Jake and I had a conversation, and we thought that having two Aviators in the same squad with the same last name would get confusing, so it's going to be Y/N Simpson, if that's okay with you,"

The Admiral's eyes flood with tears before he can say a single word. They quickly spill down his cheeks and all he can do is look at his daughter, tears of her own overtaking her eyes.

"I take that as a "yes"?" Monsoon chuckles, wiping her eyes with a shitty bar napkin.

"Of course it's a yes, kid," Cyclone grabs her hand, holding it on top of the bar.

The pair sit, hand in hand , tears still wet on their faces and all Cyclone can think about is how fucking lucky he got, how blessed his life is. He finally has a daughter who is happy and in love, a daughter that he will get to walk down the aisle on the most important day of her life.

When he chances a glance over to her, Cyclone can see the frizz of her hair highlighted by the neon sign buzzing behind her, her cheeks bright red. For a moment, he can see June in the roundness of her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes. Cyclone thinks back to all those years ago, when he and Monsoon first met sitting in this same bar, but he doesn't entertain the memory very long, after all, he has so much to look forward to. So instead, he squeezed her hand.

"I love you, kid," Beau tells her earnestly, smiling though a few stray tears.

"I love you too, Pops," Monsoon returns, leaning her head on his shoulder, "Now and always,"

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mynamesaplant · 8 months

Text

Love is a Cold Bowl of Soup (Part One)

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I've been working on this one for a bit. I hope you enjoy!! Thanks to Monsoon-of-Art for the beta! Don't want to read it on Tumblr? I have it on AO3!

Summary: Akari's been tasked to find some ingredients for soup and learns to ask for help from the people in her life.

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-Sootfoot root -Medicinal leeks -Vegetable broth -Moomoo milk -Wild garlic -Crunchy Salt -Pep-Up plant

Akari didn’t know exactly that the professor had in mind when he asked her and Rei to go find these things, but it seemed to be some sort of recipe. She followed in the wake of the man clad in Security Corp red, dividing her attention between the list and the path they trekked.

A grimace came to her face as she recalled the last time the professor had tried to be adventurous with foreign recipes and native ingredients. The poor captain had been sick for almost two days. Akari hadn’t fared too well herself, but she powered through like always.

Now the professor was on this new kick, and he was gleefully cryptic about it - needless to say, it worried everyone. They all knew Laventon meant well, but nobody wanted to be decommissioned by some toxic concoction.

Akari herself was already constructing her excuses. She was nervous about battling Ingo on the Path of Solitude (battling Ingo usually scared the daylights out of her- he was so tough!) and couldn’t stomach anything or Wanda had mysteriously disappeared again (Akari knew she would perform a vanishing act the second the noxious smell of whatever the professor was cooking wafted down the hall). It couldn’t be directly Pokémon related, because then the professor would be inclined to accompany the Survey Corps’ top member.

Akari’s breath began to pick up with a sharp incline that preceded that pass to the highlands basecamp. She was caked in mud from trudging through the marshes in search of some halfway decent Sootfoot. The professor said he needed about thirty or so.

“About this big.”

He had said, holding out his fist so she could get a sense of what he needed. The leeks had been easy. The fieldlands were teaming with them. Akari had also gathered the vegetables that Beni needed to make the professor’s broth. She had sent those back with some of the Security Corp as they were headed back to town, that way Beni could get started right away. With all his hemming and hawing, Akari was surprised he agreed at all, she had definitely heard him mumble something about how a new spate of food poisoning would affect business at the Wall Flower.

She couldn’t blame the old man, the influx of customers who were too terrified of any of the food served in Galaxy Hall usually meant they were streaming into his restaurant, which was good for business but bad for his back.

Akari’s eyes quickly flicked to the peak of Mount Coronet when they reached basecamp. She couldn’t help it. It was so strange to see the sky above it so empty. Not that she wasn’t glad that all she saw was blue sky, but it still made her chest tighten to think of all that happened up there.

Dialga and Palkia, Volo and Giratina - suddenly she was very conscious of the Arc phone resting heavily on her hip and its sudden weight made her shiver. Her invitation from the being who put her here was still fresh in her mind. Ever since she completed Cogita’s request to catch Enamorus, she had felt a draw toward the peak as her curiosity ate at her.

Why?

Why was she here? Why her? These questions still took up a corner of her mind, solid and unbearable to contemplate. Akari would lie very still at night and just stare above her without seeing. Not so much in Jubilife with a roof over her head. When she found herself under a blanket of stars, bathed in moonlight with a cool breeze rustling her unbound hair, she asked herself why and she could feel tears sting her eyes.

She asked an uncaring cosmos why she was here, and she was met with silence. A silent, dark phone. A dreamless, restless sleep. The silence spoke volumes, so Akari learned to stop asking… But not completely.

Her hands curled into fists as she refitted her pack and exchanged her Pokémon for ones that would be more suited to battles in the highlands. Akari’s selection included Samurott, Yanmega, Roserade, Froslass, Alakazam, and Arcanine. Samurott looked over her shoulder while Akari rummaged through the trunk containing her possessions, grabbing some extra balls and potions.

She was still trying to find some Cherrim to jump out at her from the trees and she might as well try to find as many shaking trees as possible while she was here. Last time she had come to the highland, she had spent over a month there trying to get Nosepass to jump out from ore deposits and had almost given up on multiple occasions.

Her Pokémon nudged her side carefully, doing his best not to gore her and his diligence earned him an affectionate scratch on the cheek. He grumbled his approval, offering her a playful nip which made her sour expression disappear. She thanked the Security Corp, returned her Samurott to the confines of his ball, and withdrew her flute from her belt.

The instrument had undergone a drastic change not too long ago. Although her fellow Galaxy Team members didn’t seem to notice anything strange in her flute, Akari brought it hesitantly to her lips and just as quickly lowered it.

Adaman had taught her how to use the Celestica flute, the wardens had guided her through the familiar melodies that all the Nobles seemed to respond to, but nobody taught her about this instrument. It still sounded like the original, the music still possessed its haunting and echoey tone, but this blue flute held no resemblance to the one she had been gifted.

Akari hadn’t shown a soul this new flute. She was afraid how any of them would react. She exhaled and brought the flute to her lips, playing Lord Wyrdeer’s song. Despite her hand placement feeling weird and the notes quivering with uncertainty, the lord of the field still answered her call. She could see him trotting up the pass, appearing out of the mist with a small bob of his great head, acknowledging Akari as she clambered up onto his back and patting his neck in reply. Without prompting, the noble took off in the direction of Wayward Cave.

The lady of the cliffs snickered, exchanging a few unintelligible words with Lord Wyrdeer right before he took his leave. Lady Sneasler tousled the girl’s hair and then summarily dumped Akari into her basket so she could haul the surveyor up and down the cliffs to collect salt. Akari really only needed a few chunks of salt, but she found the rocking motion soothing as Sneasler scrambled around the rock face with ease. She gave no direction after collecting all she needed and Sneasler chirped with delight when Akari gave her free reign to go where she wanted.

What was the professor going to make? It seemed to be some kind of soup, but no kind of soup she had ever heard of. Maybe it was Galarian or something? They had some very strange ideas about food and flavors sometimes… At the bottom of Clamberclaw Cliffs, she saw herself out of the basket and turned to thank the Pokémon, but the noble was already taking her leave. She did at least turn to acknowledge Akari’s announcement of thanks, dangling by one paw and snorted before hauling herself over the lip of the cliff.

On her own once again and suddenly not really in the mood to head back to any of the basecamps, Akari started wandering.

She wanted to keep her mind clear, forcing her eyes in front of her rather than on the looming peak above her. Looming was the right word, wasn’t it? It felt overbearing, like unseen eyes were burning into her and invisible hands were grabbing at her.

Come find me. Face me.

No.

Not yet.

She wasn’t ready.

Her work wasn’t done. The Pokédex was unfinished. So many people still needed her help. She folded her arms and half hunched, trudging along. She had fallen from the sky almost two years ago. She had almost resigned herself to the fact that Hisui was her home now.

Ingo had been here for seven years and still held a glimmer of hope that he might someday at least remember home. He held no delusions about returning. He had built his life, he cemented himself in his community, but he never quite gave up on the life he couldn’t quite recall.

Akari had done likewise.

She grew roots. People liked her. People relied on her. She couldn’t let them down… She sniffled, feeling her legs wobble because the weight of the world hadn’t been quite removed from her shoulders. It was a terrible burden.

“Why did you do this to me?”

She asked, voice trembling as badly as her shoulders with how hard she tried to hold in her sobs.

Akari tried so hard not to cry in front of others. Only a few people had caught her - she did her best to hide herself away when she got weepy - and they had tried to offer her comfort, tried to be supportive, but nobody really understood. Not the full extent of it. Akari couldn’t explain. She barely understood herself. An enigmatic force took her from her room in her pajamas and told her to complete a task. She was trying while more and more got piled on to her shoulders. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right!

Laventon had clucked sympathetically when she had burst into tears after learning she was tasked with dealing with Lord Kleavor. He wrapped an arm around her, offering her a clean handkerchief from his pocket that Akari took with shaking hands.

His presence at her side felt warm and comforting, like when she had a tough day and her mother wrapped up in her arms, kissing the top of her head while she murmured that it was okay. He still didn’t know this teenager well enough to provide her the comfort she really needed, but he tried. He was one of the few she actually sought out when things really started to weigh on her, but not recently.

Not with this.

Rei had nervously shifted on his feet when he found Akari crying in her bed, still in her sleepwear and hair a tangled mess. She had been up half the night tossing and turning, suffocating under the weight of her responsibility. He didn’t know what to say, but quickly obeyed when she barked out at him to get out, especially with her then team at the time (Dewott, Lopunny, Stunky, Staravia, Drifblim, and Tangela) bullying him out the door.

He waited outside and awkwardly slapped her on the shoulder, his encouraging smile more of a grimace than anything else. She had resolved at the time not to cry in front of anyone else, no matter how much it hurt. Not too long after that resolution, the sky began to bleed.

Mai had seen her cry when she had been banished and she tucked a strand of hair behind Akari’s ear while she tried to stave her own tears. She held the gasping girl tight and apologized over and over again.

The warden’s heart went out to this poor girl, but there was nothing she could do with her. Not directly. Mai was the first person to tell Akari she was sorry. Not a soul in Hisui had said it as earnestly as Mai had, and it only served to make her sob harder.

She just wanted someone to treat her like the kid she was for one damn second. Not a savior. Not an outsider. Just a teenager.

Akari had buried her face in Mai’s shoulder and just stayed with the warden until not a drop remained. There was nothing the clans could do for her. Akari took her leave. Volo found her not a few hours later.

Cogita knew the most about Akari’s situation, even without her telling the woman much. Akari got the impression that Cogita knew a lot more than she let on, just like Volo, and she was as transparent as she could be with the mysterious woman.

She had spoken to her gently, calling her ‘lost one’ but not unkindly. She offered Akari a cup of tea, just like the professor did on bad days, which only made her tears grow hotter in her anguish. The life she was trying to build for herself as she tried to make the best of her situation was so abruptly and harshly torn from her that she didn’t know what to do but cry in front of this perfect stranger.

Cogita had been sensible enough to give her some space but nudged the warm cup closer to her hands in a silent encouragement to drink.

When she had been granted permission to return to Jubilife and she was able to convince herself that she could come back in relative safety, Akari started battling at the dojo more often. She didn’t want to be caught off guard again and she reasoned that by having a strong body like Captain Zisu’s and strong Pokémon like Warden Ingo’s then she wouldn’t fear being banished again.

Not without a fight at least.

She found herself battling Ingo as often as she trained with Zisu. Akari wasn’t always victorious, but the warden was always aiming her towards victory.

After one particularly grueling battle, one that had seen the change from an orange dusk to a blue-black evening, Ingo had ended up as the victor.

Gliscor had made a beeline for his trainer, screeching happily with the outcome and Ingo chuckled, scrubbing the Pokémon’s cheeks before turning to Akari. Her face had been cast down, her Abomasnow lay a few feet away, but she made no move to return her or aid her Pokémon in any fashion. It was very unlike Akari.

Ingo had already launched into a rousing speech, but his words faltered as the number of inconsistencies started to add up in his mind. The girl’s hands were curled into shaking fists at her sides. Her shoulders were quivering. She bowed her head lower, trying in vain to scramble for a ball that her trembling fingers couldn’t manage to grip, only just managing to flip the lock on the ball to have her Pokémon return to her.

“Miss Akari?”

She cringed, jerking away like she was burned. Was she crying? Because she lost? She had never cried before, but this seemed different somehow.

Ingo did not consider himself a warm and fuzzy kind of guy, but something stirred in his mind when he saw young Akari crying and trying to hide that fact from him. She rubbed at her obscured eyes with her sleeve, trying to sniffle quietly - the sight felt oddly familiar.

He was frozen for a moment, a not so clear memory coming to him because he had done this. He had comforted someone else -someone very close to him- many times before his arrival to Hisui. He returned his Pokémon and reached Akari in two strides, he started to reach for her but hesitated.

“Come this way, Akari.”

Ingo coaxed her gently, hand extended. He didn’t want to grab her, despite the ghost of an impulse to hug her tightly seizing him, he knew not to infringe on other’s space like that. Not without permission. Akari looked up at him through tear flecked lashes, her mouth drawn into a tight grimace as she attempted not to burst into tears. She took his hand easily.

Zisu was on her break with the other dojo regulars at the Wallflower, so he ushered her inside the empty building and sat her on a bench. He resisted the urge to interrogate her, she would only rebuff him until she stormed away to seek the safety and privacy of her quarters.

She hid her face in her hands, body heaving with silent sobs with her shoulders tensed up by her ears. He asked her if it was okay to hold her and she jerked her head, making a small noise of assent. Tears dribbled from the cracks between Akari’s fingers - she didn’t even know what had brought on the sudden waterworks.

She felt a sudden weight being draped over her shoulders, it startled Akari enough to look up as the warden took a seat beside her.

His coat was sun bleached and torn, but still retained heat and deflected all sorts of precipitation well and she was grateful for it on this cool autumn evening. She drew the lapels in tighter and remained huddled there for a moment, keeping her eyes firmly on the ground. Ingo didn’t ask why.

He just let her cry and occasionally rubbed her back between shoulder blades in an encouraging sort of way, like he was silently telling her it was okay to cry.

It was okay to feel sad or overwhelmed or scared or whatever she was feeling. She was safe and he was there if she wanted to talk about it. Although, that thought hadn’t quite clicked for Akari yet as she hiccuped an apology.

“I’m sorry. I… I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“We don’t always have to know exactly why we feel a certain way. Just that we feel it and that we be allowed to express ourselves. You don’t have to apologize for it.”

The words had a soothing effect, she leaned against his side and Ingo didn’t budge. There was an old ache in his heart because he knew he shared a similar sentiment before.

The warden only left her side to light a few lanterns in the dark interior of the dojo and to brew some tea, otherwise Ingo remained steadfast at her side. The sound of brook running through Jubilife and the distant chirps of Kricketots harmonizing soothed the girl, eventually her breathing evened out and tear tracks down her cheeks had dried.

She thanked him.

She didn’t explain, but she thanked him for just being there for her.

There were no prying eyes this time, no one to bear witness to these tears. Nobody to console the girl that fell from the sky. They were kind, but it had taken so long to get there.

It had taken so long to feel safe when she was thrown into this situation. She had performed every painstaking task - she had the scars to prove each and every one. She endured and she had been thanked, but it didn’t feel like enough.

Did that make her selfish?

Did that make her petty?

Why should a seventeen-year-old have to consider such things?

A long snout nudged into her cheek. Her Samourott insisted for her attention, rumbling out his concern as he nosed her again. She felt something cool snuggling into one side and something thorny jabbing her other side, Froslass and Roserade offering their comfort.

Arcanine’s warm muzzle nudged her other cheek, whimpering and gently nipping at her hands to lick at her face.

Yanmega’s bristly, twig-like legs rested on her shoulders, his thorax running the length of her back, with every buzz of his wings making her vision blur.

Alakazam sat in front of her, the Pokémon’s hands extended Akari could see between her fingers, holding out for her to take hold of them. Samarott also started trying to nip at her hands, trying to pry her hands away, and finally Akari relented.

Her Pokémon surrounded her, and she felt a knot in her chest loosen. Air suddenly found its way into her lungs. The tightness in her throat eased. She was loved. Even so far away from her home, her true home, Akari was loved.

Her Pokémon loved her. They stuck by her through and through on this whole journey. They had their own scars to prove it. She was loved.

Irida and Adaman loved her. They risked everything to help her. They were like the older siblings she never had.

The captain loved her… In her own special way. When she got banished, the captain gave her the tools and encouragement necessary to save them all because she believed in Akari. She told the girl that she expected her back in one piece, which was probably the closest Akari would ever get to hearing motherly concern from her captain.

Professor Laventon loved her. He watched every moment of her progress with beaming pride.

Yes, it had hurt. It hurt that nobody seemed to trust her. It hurt that nobody seemed to have any sympathy for the teenager. It hurt that Arceus didn’t answer when she asked why.

It hurt to think that she would never see her mom again. Her best friend who she had made plans to go to lunch with next week. Her dad was going to visit from overseas next month. Her little Glameow she named Glitter.

Akari was allowed to mourn and cry and be upset about the injustice of it all, but she shouldn’t have to hide that pain.

When she resolved not to cry, to keep her pain to herself, she isolated herself from those around her.

How could they possibly understand?

Well, how could they understand unless she opened up and explained it to them? She had only ever done that with Cogita and the woman hadn’t overstepped her boundaries but she was wholly sympathetic to Akari’s case. How could she expect these people to understand if she didn’t give them the whole story?

Akari thanked all her Pokémon and returned them to their balls. She pushed the heels over her hands into her burning eyes and stood very still for a moment.

She had been wrong.

Trust is a two-way street, and she didn’t trust the Galaxy Team or the clans to understand her plight. She had never given them a chance.

“Still…”

Like all people who were trying to be emotionally vulnerable, Akari was hesitant to do so. She knew who to talk to first and she just so happened to have to make a delivery to him.

|| First || Next>>

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thestudentfarmer · 9 months

Text

Hello everyone!

With monsoon in swing (well not really, we're I'm at we've had exactly 3, 5 minute rainfalls. Far more dust storms than anything) and it being August now im looking towards what I'll be growing for fall/winter this yr.

So far ive cleaned out the garden and plan on picking up new manure to top off the established beds soon.

Started doing checks and fixes on temp fence as well as checking my lines. (One busted, pictured below)

Selected some plant varieties, For this upcoming season.

As well I'm looking into how many I need per person, some use/storage methods and planning adjustments to future recipes to accomodate for what's grown.

Started cleaning out the floral bed to toss herbs and edible/medicinal flowers and pollinater attractors in since the heat killed off much flowers this year and the frass took over. Debating on if I will dig up all the tubers, roots and corms to redistribute along the bed differently or just leave them.

The sweet potato vine has gone mad-lad recently. Soon I will pick leaves and vines and try a few recipes out :) I'm hoping they will be as delicious as a sweet potatoes. If so they'll be a perma grow item on my journey of sustainability as I have literally planted, set up a sprinkler and just let it go all on its own.

With the storms going on one of the long term tarps peeled back, for those who saw what I started with this is what it looks like beneath now!

Unfortunatly, I'm not likely to be rid of this grass forever anytime soon as even just tiny bits of it can cause infestation. Part of why for the beds we dug down, tarped/paper/cardboard lined the beds and refilled with entirely new soil material. With cool weather in the future I want to attempt to dig up a few more beds for both household eating and hopefully to trade with a few of the neighbours for some of their produce :)

I'm also going to try my hand at making curtains for around the house this week. The ones at store don't have anything cotton, hemp or otherwise not full of plastic or cute patterns :( plus I've some fabrics I bout for quilting/attempt at clothes making on discount that I've since realised I won't get to using for some reason or another so for now, curtains they will become :)

Short update this week~ I hope everyone is able to get into their garden/farm this week, or able to work on their sustainable, low waste or eco journeys!

🌱☘️Happy homesteading and a great week to all! ☘️🌱

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waywardstation · 2 years

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Heart Full, Bowl Empty

Chapter 4 - Breakfast

Ingo and Akari stop at the Icepeak Base Camp for a quick breakfast, and to talk some things out

Ingo and Akari finally get to slow down and have something proper to eat!! A shorter chapter, but if I added it to chapter 3 as intended, it would have been massive. Huge thanks to @/monsoon-of-art and @/ingo-ingoing-ingone for beta reading this and helping out! Again it really helped pull this chapter together! :)

OR read on AO3!

Enjoy!

Previous Chapter

————

The Galaxy Team banners waved gently in the weak wind, and undisturbed snow crunched under Akari’s boots as she reached the base camp nestled at the edge of the Icelands’ river, between groups of powdered trees and a steep cliff face.

The camp was completely vacant, and a cold blanket of snow was draped over everything, from the tents, to the storage container, to the crafting box. Akari couldn’t even see the campfire, which was now a pathetic hill of snow in the center of the area.

She couldn’t blame the Galaxy Team member usually stationed out here for leaving his post to head back to Jubilife; the conditions last night would have been unbearable to stay in, even in one of the insulating tents.

Though their absence had resulted in the camp’s supply box lid being locked down; with no one around to stand guard, wild Pokémon would have otherwise wandered into camp and looted out of the crate. Akari took a moment to unlock the box, working as fast as she could on it; the frozen metal lock was so cold, it felt like it burned her fingers when they lingered on the surface for too long.

Finally, the lock clicked, and she cracked the supply box open, dumping the accumulated snow layer off the back. Looking inside the large storage container, Akari could see that some of the meager supplies had been taken since then.

This was expected however, seeing as survey corps members had a shared system going with the base camps’ supply boxes. It was normal for members to use items that others had stored away within certain boxes, as long as they repaid them with replacements at a later date. Two lists in the box would keep track of that, one listing each member and which belongings they wrote they had stored in the box, and another where one could write what items they borrowed from who.

This was done mostly to ensure that the survey corps would almost always have access to any needed items out in the field, as well as exercise a sense of trust and responsibility between members.

Among some of the items Akari chose to store in this box (which wasn’t much), she noticed immediately that her medicinal leeks and pecha berries had been taken. Glancing at the inside of the box’s lid, she could see that Rei and Professor Laventon had scrawled down on the “used items” list that they had taken a few, and would replace them next time their survey work brought them out to the Icelands…which could be a while, seeing as barely anyone came out here.

But that was fine! What Akari was planning to prepare didn’t require any of these items anyways.

With the hand not holding the supply box open, Akari reached back into her satchel and pulled out her Pokedex, setting it beside her to flip through to the back pages and pull out a certain scrap of writing.

The Pokedex was for thoroughly documenting Pokémon, sure, but Akari found it was also useful to store scraps and papers containing recipes, either written herself, or handed to her by various folks.

“Have you found what you’re searching for?” Ingo’s voice was heard as another set of footsteps crunched in the snow behind her; the warden finally made it to camp at his own pace.

“Yes! And I’m making us both breakfast with them!” Akari kept her back to him as she continued to root through the box, fishing out all of the required ingredients jotted down on the particular scrap paper.”...Uh, you like muffins, right? Is this ok?”

She paused for a moment to hand her Pokedex to Ingo, and he made his way further into the camp to receive it and view the recipe.

“These sounds excellent right now,” Ingo approved, glancing at the page. He set the Pokedex back down for Akari to refer to and kept himself stationed near her, should she need help while continuing to grab ingredients.

She collected the cake lure base, hearty grains, and razz berries, but also grabbed up a handful of oran berries, and the largest hollowed-out apricorn shells she had stored away. Thankfully, she had stocked all of these ingredients here herself, so she wouldn’t have to borrow from anyone, and she had just enough.

“It um, takes a few minutes to make, though. Do we have time for that?” Akari half-expected Ingo to ask her to instead settle for just grabbing some berries, so that they could get back on the road quickly. But either out of patience to let her do her own thing, or his own exhaustion asking him to take a break and rest, he didn’t.

“Our schedule can accommodate it,” He reassured her instead. He watched her dump the pile of ingredients bundled in her arms next to the snow-covered crafting box, which she quickly began to brush off. “Would you like some assistance?”

“It’s ok, I got this! It’s really easy to put together.” She popped the crafting box open, grabbing one of the small knives from the crafting box’s set of tools with one hand, and reaching for one of the berries with the other. “I make them all the time!”

“Then if you’ll excuse me, I might take a brief rest stop in the tent. Though, do not hesitate to let me know if you require assistance with anything; I will help.” Akari heard the snow crunch behind her as Ingo moved, before noticing him sit down in one of the camp’s open tents with a grunt, out of the corner of her eye.

He sounded very tired.

A part of Akari was relieved he was taking the chance to just slow down and rest, as that was rare for him. The other part was saddened that it had gotten to that rare point.

Just let him rest for now, and return to work.

Going about cutting the berries and preparing the ingredients to mix with the cake lure base just as the recipe said, Akari grabbed one of the apricorn shells and filled it with the resulting cake lure batter. She set it aside to repeat the process several times over, until she had filled about nine of them, enough to pack the base’s cooking container that sat over the campfire.

Ingo said nothing, silent in the tent as Akari went on with her process. He was thankfully patient enough, resting his head against crossed arms supported against his knees, but overhearing his rumbling stomach still prompted her to rush, even if Ingo was trying to ignore it. And while she couldn’t see it with her back to him, the tremors in his hands occupied her thoughts…when she wasn’t considering his coincidental headache, at least.

She swore that if it wasn’t for his body’s varied reminders, she would have a much harder time even knowing if he was hungry; he never once protested or said a word about it himself, unprompted. At least, not to her.

Thinking on this resumed a train of thought that had been halted earlier.

“...Um, Ingo?” Akari cleared her throat as she turned her attention to the small hill that was the buried campfire. She pulled out the dampened wood logs, shivering at how cold they were to the touch, and returned to the storage box to retrieve dry wood to use for the fire instead.

“Hmm?” the warden hummed as he rubbed at closed eyes from under a tipped cap, like he had let himself doze off.

“Is…” Akari paused for a moment, trying to decide how to go about this. She popped open the lid of the container and placed the batter-filled shells inside, making sure they all sat upright as she contemplated her next words.

Rip the bandaid off.

“Is…everything alright? With the Pearl Clan? And food?”

A short moment of heavy silence made Akari bite her cheek, still keeping her back to the Warden.

“Was that what Volo was discussing with you before my arrival?” Ingo lethargically lifted his head to gaze at her from under the brim of his cap, suddenly seeming more awake. “What did he say to you?”

“He’s just…worried,” Akari defended him, initially sparking a weak flame against the dry wood of the campfire, but the cold snuffed it out quickly. “And it just made me a little worried too. He said, um, something about how the Icelands aren’t producing any food, and how Gaeric’s always ordering stuff now. And something about no one telling him what it’s all for.”

Ingo felt something sharp bristle against the inside of his ribcage.

He had overheard Irida address concerns regarding this with Gaeric at the end of their last clan meeting, about how maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to use his sword cap supplier as a means of keeping stock up. He was much more…curious, than Irida had thought he’d be, which lined up quite well with Ingo’s own present suspicions of him.

And while curiosity was one thing, being nosy was another. Wasn’t it enough that the Pearl clan was trading almost double the value in ice at his request, just so he’d have to do less work but still meet his sales goal? Ingo knew it was because Volo wanted more time to do…whatever it was he did when he wasn’t working.

And besides the fact that they couldn’t afford to trade much else besides their near-endless supply of ice, the clan complied only because it was supposed to keep him from taking on more deliveries for others and swapping rumors with them about what he thought was going on. The Ginkgo Guild’s merchants seemed notorious for doing that, just to bring something interesting to their mundane jobs, and it seemed Volo was especially prone to the habit.

But then to turn around and spout about it to an uninvolved kid who actually seemed to look up to him (to Ingo’s disfavor)…

He wanted something, didn’t he?

A flare of irritation momentarily dwarfed the discomfort of his dull headache.

“Volo does not have to worry,” Ingo stared at the campfire as Akari sparked a small flame against the wood for a second time. Once again, it flickered only for a moment before dying out. Frustrated, she once again attempted to get the logs to spark. “He seems to be searching for a track to take that isn’t there. Winter is always a little harsher for everyone, I believe. But like every winter, the Pearl Clan is making due preparations for it.”

These words of assurance did not come from personal experience, but they were words Ingo believed in; his arrival in Hisui had come before Akari’s, but it had not quite been a year - he had appeared at the tail end of last winter. He had yet to really experience a Hisuian winter and its normalities, just like Akari.

However, he knew enough to know that indeed, current events were threatening to repeat a vicious cycle that once plagued the Pearl Clan around a decade back, according to Irida. A famine. The thought of it repeating sometimes caused Irida to worry quite openly behind closed doors, and request no one speak about what was going on to others outside the clan, even if she was reassuring enough that everything would be taken care of during their public meetings.

Yes, there was a shortage of food. And yes, there were a web of complications that came with it, affecting everything living in the Icelands. By the looks of things, he believed the hardships would persist through this winter. But he also believed in Irida’s guidance and preparation, as their leader.

The cycle would not repeat. They would be fine as long as things don’t start regressing, which they won’t. And especially with Irida insisting they not discuss anything regardless, there was no use in worrying Akari over it.

And another, more careful part of him did not want to relay this to Akari, and end up admitting at least Volo’s observations were astute. Correct information did not always lead to correct conclusions, and Ingo didn’t want to teach her to put any more of her faith into the prying merchant than she already had.

Ingo watched Akari as she gave up trying to start a flame herself, tossing her tools aside with a huff. He was about to offer his own assistance, until she pulled out Ember’s pokeball, opening it with a click. The gentle creature effortlessly huffed a warm spark against the wood, and it flared to life, spreading across the logs. Akari pet Ember on the head with gratitude and situated herself close to the fire to continue tending to it, her warm companion curling up close to her.

She was a good kid, Ingo thought, determined and kind-hearted. She did her best to be independent and take care of things herself, but she still needed help once in a while, as well as guidance. Like all kids did.

It was just that Volo didn’t seem like the best choice to turn to for guidance.

“But what about all of the crop starts that the Pearl Clan’s ordering? And why are they opening the fields back up? Do they need more food?” Akari pressed further, more curious than accusatory or contradictory as she poked at the fire with a nearby stick. As she went on, though, it began to take on a quality of panic. “Was this why you had to skip dinner last night? And why you told me we couldn’t waste anything? …Is that why I made Irida so uncomfortable being there?”

Every question really hit the nail right on the head, but Ingo thought better of answering those directly. And it wasn’t just because of the blunt throbbing in his skull distracting his thoughts and possibly misstating his answers.

Akari was already getting herself worked up on the questions. How would she handle the answers right now?

“Miss Akari! Please, it’s alright. I can assure you that everything is alright,” He reiterated, making sure to hold eye contact with her as he leaned forward to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “The Pearl Clan orders crop starts monthly for consistent harvests year-round. This is just another cycle. And…last night’s events were simply a product of unpreparedness.”

Both were half-true; Pearl Clan’s orders were just increasing in size and now entirely consisting of cheap sand radishes, as opposed to a more varied selection. And the previous night’s events wouldn’t have had to hinge on preparedness if there was simply enough to go around.

“However I do advise, perhaps, to consider Volo’s words with caution.” Ingo finally broke eye contact to lean back and gaze at the fire, now allowing himself his nervous habit of readjusting his cap by the brim. “As he admitted himself, he does not know all of the situation…and I am aware that the Ginkgo Guild likes to speculate on rumors, especially if it benefits their business. I…would not be surprised if he was simply attempting to glean possible information from you.”

Akari’s features tightened a little at his concluding remarks about Volo, reflexively doubting them as Ingo sadly expected. But he offered her a tired, yet encouraging smile, once again being sure to make eye contact with her to hit the message home.

“Everything is alright.”

Akari, however, didn’t seem entirely convinced with Ingo’s reassurance. Her gaze drifted to stare at the fire, warm steam rose into the frozen air from the top of the cooking container. One hand reaching for Ember to pet in a self-soothing manner, and the pensive look in her eyes gave away that she was still a little troubled.

She dearly wanted to believe Ingo, but she wasn’t sure if he was just protecting her from something. He had a habit of doing this in the past, even with small, unimportant things, like when his back was bothering him, or when he was feeling a little under the weather. She often had to pester things out of him.

On the other hand, Volo had always been quite open about things to her, like with the conversation they just had. And he did say this could just simply be a passing struggle, just like what Ingo was telling her now.

But Volo also said it could be severe. Like something from almighty Sinnoh. And she could barely even begin to comprehend that notion.

Ingo was acting very certain that things were fine. But Volo said no one could say for sure what was going on, and she was inclined to believe that; it made more sense. How could anyone be certain of this? Ingo was always one to consider the possibilities before moving forward, so why was he discrediting Volo for doing that?

Embers from the aggravated flames jumped into the surrounding snow and fizzled out as Akari poked it with a stick again.

Why did nothing about this feel concrete? Why did Ingo seem so guarded about everything? Why was he discouraging her from considering Volo’s thoughts? What wasn’t he telling her?

She didn’t like questioning Ingo like this. It rarely ever happened, but it was upsetting to her when it did.

A bout of particularly upset growling yanked Akari from her thoughts. She turned to the source, glancing back over her shoulder at Ingo, surprised.

“Ugh, please excuse that,” The warden sighed irritably as he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and clenching a handful of his tunic with the other. He seemed thoroughly irked with himself for drawing her concerned attention. “It’s just that, well, what you are preparing smells rather good.”

“Oh!” Akari’s own stomach turned at the sudden realization that the camp smelled prominently of baking; the contents of the container had been heating over the campfire for several minutes now. Switching her focus to the task at hand, she grabbed a thick patterned cloth from the crafting box to protect her fingers, and lifted the lid off of the container carefully to check. The sweet scent saturated the air further as warm steam puffed out, but the contents themselves didn’t seem quite firm yet. Ember lifted her head into the air and sniffed at the enticing smell.

“They’re almost done!” She reported, closing the container back down to trap any more sweet-smelling steam from escaping. “Just a few more minutes.”

Restlessly turning the bundled cloth over in her hands as she waited by the fire, Akari resigned to silence, deciding it would be best not to return to the previous conversation. Instead, she stole subtle glances at Ingo when she thought he wouldn’t notice. His head had dipped forward as his (still shaking) hand carefully massaged the back of his neck. He still had the headache. He always did that when his head hurt.

Akari’s attention drifted back to the patterned cloth in her hands, now crumpled into a ball. She reminded herself that they were both just hungry and tired, and Ingo was still dealing with that headache.

Maybe that’s why everything felt so frustrating and didn’t make any sense. They just needed to eat first. And then, maybe, things would seem better.

Standing up from the campfire, Akari returned to the supply box once again and moved to root through the contents, grabbing up a handful of large, thick caster fern leaves. One of the few things in the storage box that weren’t hers, she quickly scrawled down on the inside of the lid for Rei and the professor that a few of their caster ferns was a good enough repayment for the leeks and berries that they had borrowed from her.

“Ok, I think they’re done,” Akari said as she popped the lid off of the container once again, quickly sticking one of the crafting box’s smaller knives into one of the muffins to ensure it was thoroughly baked. It pulled out clean of batter, as she had hoped. “And hey, not burned this time, or underdone!”

“I thought you said they were easy to put together?”A smile tugged at Ingo’s mouth as he huffed with amusement, leaning forward as Akari plucked one of the hot apricorn shells out of the container and plopped its contents into a caster fern leaf, wrapping it tight. He was admittedly eager at the prospect of finally eating.

“Jubilife muffins are easy to put together! It’s baking them that’s the hard part!” Akari explained, holding her hard work up to show the warden. In her hands was a steaming hot pastry, wrapped in an insulating caster fern to allow it to be held. “…Well, a version of them. They’re much harder to make over a campfire. But I think they still turned out ok! And…”

Her other hand disappeared for a moment back into her satchel to search for something else, before pulling out the jar of honey Volo had given her earlier.

“…You can’t have one of these without honey!”

Before Ingo could even protest against the idea of her using such a valuable thing on him, she popped the lid off (with a bit of trouble, having one free hand) and poured a perfect amount of the sweet-smelling honey onto the warm muffin. Enough to saturate the pastry, but not enough to overdo it and make everything irritatingly sticky.

“Ah, I do not want you to use up your…gift, on me,” Ingo was hesitant for a moment, even though the muffin looked even more appetizing with it. “You were rather excited to receive it.”

“Only because I knew I could share it with you! It’s not like we’ll use it all, and it makes the muffin much better! I swear! …Except, Rei likes these better without honey. He says it makes the whole thing ‘too sweet’.” Akari went on in a playfully mocking tone, closing the lid of the jar. “I’d like to see how he’d handle some of our candy from back home!”

She laughed at the thought before she held the muffin out for Ingo to take. “But, hopefully you like it with honey!”

Ingo accepted the muffin with unsteady hands as she turned back to the cooking container. He turned it around in his fingers as he felt the inviting warmth of it, insulated by the caster fern. The pastry had cooled down enough, but the freshly-baked scent of the muffin wafted up, crossed with the sweet smell of berries.

Akari did say she had trouble with baking them, but to him, these seemed like Wallflower-quality. Maybe she should consider working something out with Beni to get these on the menu there.

“Thank you, Miss Akari,” Ingo thanked the girl as she moved to sit next to him in the base’s tent with the cooling container set on her other side, finally relenting as he began to unwrap the caster fern. Ember followed her into the tent, eager for a treat of her own as Akari prepared one for her as well.

Biting into his muffin, Ingo instantly took note of the sweet flavor of the cake lure base and the berries. Despite just baking over a campfire, the chilled honey cooled it down enough to enjoy without burning his mouth. The lure base had also helped it lock in moisture and keep a soft consistency; the sweet honey and juicy berries assisted this even further. Texture-wise, it was very much like a bite of fluffy cake.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t had a proper meal in over twenty-four hours, but Ingo couldn’t remember the last time he enjoyed something so much.

“Bravo!” Ingo complimented Akari on her work, swallowing quickly to express his admiration. ”Very good job with these!”

“It’s not too sweet with the honey?” Akari mumbled over a mouthful of her own honey-soaked muffin as she brushed crumbs off her uniform, leaving a bit of a mess around her. Beside her, Ember was slowly nibbling on her own pastry, stopping frequently to lick the honey off of her paws.

“Not at all! It’s rather complimentary, just as you suggested.”

“I knew you’d have better sense than Rei!” Akari smiled wide, absolutely elated that Ingo enjoyed the final product, and that she had done well for him, after he had done so much for her.

Finally, the thorn of guilt buried into her side, deep from the previous day’s events, began to loosen itself.

Ingo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he finished the muffin, discarding the caster leaf wrapper into the snow - he almost didn’t notice Akari holding out a second muffin to him from his side.

“They’re smaller, so I made a lot,” she mumbled through a mouthful. Crumbs decorated her face, having already finished her own muffin, as she began pouring more honey straight from the jar onto his next one.

The corner of Ingo’s mouth twitched, as if reflexively ready to decline out of politeness before he could even think on it for himself, but Akari practically pushed it into his hands.

“Don’t say no! I made these expecting us to eat all of them!” Akari almost read his mind as she pulled out a second muffin for herself from the container beside her. “And I can’t have all of these myself!”

She knew she didn’t even have to bring up his low blood sugar symptoms as points.

Ingo gave her a thin, but genuine smile as he accepted the second offering, and began peeling it. “Alright. Thank you.”

And the two sat in comfortable silence as they worked their way through the muffins, Akari plucking one for herself and handing another to Ingo every time either of them finished one. She would occasionally glance over at the warden as she ate, whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. His hands still seemed shaky, and he still seemed rather fatigued after a sleepless night, chewing with closed eyes and a dipped head, but they seemed to be signs of relaxation as well. On her other side, Ember was still working her way through her first muffin, more chunks of pastry that had been torn apart at this point.

Letting them enjoy the quiet, she took the time to appreciate her surroundings.

The brisk morning sun was rising higher, brightening the expanse of sky that stretched over the Icelands, and reflecting warmer tones off of the overnight snow that clung to the surrounding trees. More wild Pokémon were beginning to wake up with the later morning, and distant sounds of aipom and snover were beginning to join in with the far-off cries of the rufflet. Across the river, wisps of smoke began to rise from the Pearl Clan settlement nestled against the incline, signaling the rest of the village was starting to wake up.

It was a very relaxing view, and momentarily quelled any worries that had followed Akari into camp earlier.

Maybe the day wouldn’t be so bad after all, she hoped as she grasped for another muffin after noticing Ingo had stopped chewing. She gently elbowed him to get him to open his eyes, and notice the pastry.

“Ah, this is sufficient,” Ingo broke the silence as he took the muffin that Akari held out with one hand, waving his other to indicate this was his last. This was his fifth, and they were small enough as Akari had said, but rather filling. “Thank you.”

Thankfully, it was the last one she had made anyways, Akari thought as Ingo began to eat it. She wondered if he would have accepted it if he knew that. She was glad he did not know - she wanted him to have it.

“Jubilife muffins,” Ingo cleared his throat after a moment, pausing halfway through the last muffin. “I don’t recall oran berries being a part of the recipe when I read it. Is that exclusive to your, ah, ‘campfire version’?”

“Oh! No, I like to add those because my mom would always make things with oran berries,” Akari explained, dusting herself off of stray crumbs. “And, it just kind of reminds me of her baking, is all. Why? Would you like it better without them?”

“Not at all! I’d say it’s an improvement.” Ingo mused. “And, it also seems to resurface something for me as well.”

“Really?” Akari’s attention quickly snapped back to Ingo. The warden had taken to openly sharing with Akari when he recalled something from before Hisui, but lately these occurrences had seemed to slow down. So when he did appear to remember something new, it excited Akari, no matter how big or small it was.

“It’s been nagging me since we started eating.” Ingo closed his eyes to try and focus better through the fading headache.

(Holes) (in) His memory made it hard. (to)(remember,)(though.)

In the mornings (before) the (Battle Subway) opened, he would like to pick up an oran (berry) muffin with his (coffee)(order) at (Gear) Station’s (coffee shop). (Emmet) would prefer the (salted)(protein) bars with his own (coffee).

( )( )( )( )( )

…In the mornings, before opening, he would like to pick up an oran muffin at one of his previous stations. The other preferred the bars with his own.

…Well, that was a frustratingly little amount to glean after running it through the hole-puncher.

Ingo rubbed at a dull aching that pushed against the back of his skull, but it was not as sharp as the hunger-induced headache from earlier, thankfully.

“I can only seem to recall having something similar in the mornings, before…well, whatever it was I committed to as a job, exactly.” Ingo stopped trying to grasp for any more information, satisfied enough with what he had.

“You got to have muffins every morning?” Akari gaped at him, amused. “Lucky! Mom never let me have things like that for breakfast!”

“I don’t think I could go back to having them in the mornings, though,” A smile tugged at Ingo’s mouth, feeling a little more light-hearted. “Not after having your version; it’s much better than what I remember having. You set the bar way too high. Might even ruin the modern muffin industry if you brought that recipe back with you.”

“Hey!” Akari bumped against Ingo’s side with a laugh, the humorously-worded complement catching her off guard as she leaned against his shoulder. “If you think mine are good, you’ve gotta try the way my mom makes them! Next time she bakes any, I’m making you try them!”

The stark impossibility of that happening in their present situation was lost on them both as Ingo huffed a laugh himself at the offer. Ember even stopped licking up the crumbs left around them to join in and jump up on them, eager to understand the excitement.

Things were better.

“Careful now, I’ll be holding you to that promise then! But until I get that opportunity, I’d say yours are the best.” Ingo wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, his straighter posture showing he was feeling more invigorated as he moved to stand up. “So thank you again very much, Miss Akari. The refuel was…very much needed. My cab is admittedly much better equipped for travel now.”

And truly, he was. As he stretched, Ingo took note of the comfortable weight that had finally settled under his ribs, evicting the aching, irritating hollow that had previously resided there since the day before. It was the first time in several days where anything he had eaten had been able to drive it out completely, instead of sedating it for a bit, he recalled. No more blunt teeth grinding on his sore rib cage, for now. A clearer head and steadier hands were sure to follow.

“And see, we didn’t use it all! I still have some honey left!” Akari said triumphantly as she held up the jar, showing there was still a fair amount of the sweet liquid pooled around the untouched honeycombs, before packing it back into her satchel.

Ingo and Akari made quick work of cleaning up the camp, and packing away the tools of the crafting box. It only took a couple minutes to set everything away, and let Ember back into her pokeball; she would not enjoy the long journey with them on such short legs.

“Now, let us press onward to our next stop,” Ingo moved to the edge of the vacant base camp, waiting for Akari to follow after. “The detour was required, but we can still make up for some lost time if we hurry.”

“I would call Lord Wyrdeer if he could carry us both at the same time,” Akari doused the dying flames with a few handfuls of snow, leaving it looking much like the snowpile it had been when they first arrived. “Then we could get there much faster. Or Lord Braviary, if he didn’t have so much trouble just flying with me.”

Lord Wyrdeer’s big bulky saddle would clearly be unaccommodating to more than one person, already a bit of a snug seat. And Lord Braviary was still quite young, just like his warden. In his adolescence, his still-developing body couldn’t do much more than glide with anything heavier than Sabi. And with Lady Sneasler’s smaller size (and duties to her kits) and Lord Basculegion’s limitations, truly the only available ride pokemon big enough to carry them both was Lord Ursaluna. Unfortunately, his pace was comparable to their own walking speed, more built for digging, and only being able to run in short bursts. It would take him half an hour to even reach Akari’s calls with the flute.

“It is alright,” Ingo reassured her, waiting patiently as she made sure the campfire was thoroughly doused. “Traveling by foot will do just fine.”

Akari took one last look around the vacant base camp - as a survey corps member, it’s important to make sure one leaves the camps more tidy than when they enter them.

Satisfied with the condition of things, she turned to join up with Ingo and head out, ready to traverse along the edge of the highlands. Already missing the heat from the fire, she rubbed her hands together, her fingers chilled pink from throwing snow onto the campfire, to try and retain some warmth.

With luck and a brisk pace, they would make it to Jubilife within the next few hours. And while occasional conversation with Ingo would help things along, that still left a lot of open time for Akari to silently mull over the morning’s events.

Her tense conversation with Ingo may have ended, having been left behind at the basecamp, but Volo’s words clung to the back of her mind as they went on, growing more prominent like a seed that had taken root.

#submas #ingo #warden ingo #akari #Pokemon akari #Pokémon legends arceus #pokemon legends arceus #Pokémon legends #pokemon legends #Pokemon #Pokemon fanfic #pokemon fanfiction #waywardstationfanfic

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diamondabyss · 2 years

Text

Monsoon, reading a recipe: Beat three eggs?

Sam: It means like in hand-to-hand combat.

Monsoon: Ooooooooooohhh-

Raiden: Both of you get out of this kitchen.

#metal gear raiden #metal gear rising #mgr #raiden #raiden mgr #jetstream sam #mgr sam #mgr monsoon #monsoon #incorrect quotes

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master-sass-blast · 2 years

Text

Better (Even Just a Little).

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five: Chapter One, Part Five: Chapter Two, Part Five: Chapter Three, Part Six: Chapter One, Part Six: Chapter Two, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve

Summary: "You can still remember the first time you saw a rainstorm –you’d just moved to Republic City to study at the city’s university. There’d been heavy, angry gray clouds blanketing the sky. The air had been thick with humidity, like a polar bear dog’s undercoat. And then the calm before the storm had shattered, and the sky had wept onto the Earth below.

So, when you step out of a bookshop while on a Saturday afternoon date with your girlfriend and see rain pattering down against the pavement, you smile. You stop under the shop’s awning and inhale, relishing the freshened air.

And then you look over at Lin and realize she’s gone whiter than a sheet."

aka the Reader finally learns about Lin's capture by Amon and helps her cope with the lingering trauma therein.

Pairing(s): Lin Beifong x Reader.

Rating: G, but this is an emotional hurt/comfort fic so be advised.

Word count: 4.4k.

The recipe I reference in the fic.

You’ve always loved the end of summer in Republic City. There’s still enough daylight during the day proper to enjoy time outside after work, but the nights are cool enough that sleeping isn’t a sweaty, suffering mess.

And then there’s the rain.

You can still remember the first time you saw a rainstorm –you’d just moved to Republic City to study at the city’s university. There’d been heavy, angry gray clouds blanketing the sky. The air had been thick with humidity, like a polar bear dog’s undercoat. And then the calm before the storm had shattered, and the sky had wept onto the Earth below.

It’s different from the North Pole. You’re surrounded by water there, yes, but it is either still or is contained to the ocean basin. And blizzards don’t hold a candle to monsoons. There isn’t the same thickness in the air –the same heat. There isn’t the same aggression in a snowstorm as there is with feeling tons of water bucket down against the Earth.

And then you look over at Lin and realize she’s gone whiter than a sheet.

“Lin?” You put one hand on her back to steady her, just in case she stumbles or faints. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She’s clenching her teeth, jaw locked so tight you’re surprised it hasn’t seized. She swallows hard, staring out at the rain like it’s going to burn her. “I just don’t like rain. That’s all.”

You know Lin well enough to know she’s lying; she doesn’t exactly have the best poker face. And, more importantly, you’ve worked with enough trauma victims to know what a trauma trigger response looks like. We need to get her somewhere she feels safe. You put one hand on her upper arm. “Do we need to get you inside?”

She scoffs weakly. “We can’t just hang around the store like a couple of hooligans.”

“I’m pretty sure we could. They have a cafe section,” you reason, but you don’t try to press the issue further. She probably doesn’t want to deal with this in public. “My place isn’t too far from here. We could hole up there until the storm passes.”

Lin’s jaw works, and she nods jerkily. “Sure. Fine.”

You curl your hand around her upper arm, then hold up your other hand to catch the falling rain with your bending before ushering her onto the sidewalk.

***

The walk back to your apartment only takes about fifteen minutes –but it’s still enough for the light sprinkle to turn into a bucketing storm. By the time you reach the front step of your apartment building, wind is whipping rain across the street in sheets.

You toss the water accumulated over your and Lin’s heads down a storm drain, then follow her into the main floor vestibule of the building. You put your hand on the small of her back and hit the button to call the elevator.

She’s keyed up the entire ride up to your floor. You’re genuinely worried she’ll crack a tooth with how tightly she’s holding her jaw. She keeps her eyes fixed forward, but her gaze is distant. Glazed over.

You nudge her forward when the elevator rumbles to a stop. You escort her down the hall, then fumble in your purse with your keys. You look up when Lin flinches next to you as the sound of the rain gets louder. “Okay. It’s okay.” You get your apartment door unlocked, then usher her inside. “Go sit down.” Your heart wrenches when she flinches from another gust of wind sends rain pelting against the windows. “We could turn on the radio, if you want.”

“Yeah.” She drops down onto your couch, expression still pinched. She swallows hard, then nods. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

“Of course.” You flip your radio on, adjust the dial until the sound of jazz music floats out of the speaker, then turn up the volume so it helps cover the sound of the rain. You look over at Lin –who’s at least relaxed a little now that she can’t hear the rain as clearly–then head over to the couch and crouch in front of her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You expect her to shake her head. To shut you out in some way. You wouldn’t be offended. Trauma is a deeply emotional, personal thing; Lin’s a deeply private person. All you want to do right now is support her and help her feel better –whatever that means to her.

She’s quiet for a long moment. She’s staring downwards, at where she has her forearms braced against her thighs. She glances towards the window, out at the falling rain, and the scars on her cheek twitch as she quickly looks away again. “It was raining. When Amon got to me.”

Your heart drops. Your eyes go wide with shock. I never knew Amon got to her. You swallow hard, then put one hand on her knee. “Lin –I’m so sorry.”

She grimaces. “The Equalists stormed Air Temple Island. We got out, but a sky bison’s not faster than airships.” Her gaze goes distant with recollection. Her jaw tightens, and some of the color drains from her face. She takes a deep breath, then gives a tight, minute shrug. “I stopped the airships and was captured.” She looks down at her hands. “Amon wanted to know where Korra was. I said no.”

You can gather that she got her bending back –well, obviously, but you also read the articles about Avatar Korra restoring the bending of Amon’s victims in Republic City after the defeat of the Equalists. But that doesn’t necessarily change anything. You’ve worked with enough trauma patients –car accidents, work injuries, abuse survivors–to know that the mind and body holds onto that pain for a long, long time (sometimes forever).

You grimace, heart aching for her. You study Lin for a moment, then squeeze her knee gently. When she looks at you, you ask, “Can I give you a hug?”

Lin swallows hard, then nods minutely before leaning into you.

You wrap your arms around her. You stroke her back with one hand, while the other reaches up to hold the back of her head.

Lin buries her face in your shoulder. She’s stiff for a moment, silent –then, she lets out a juddering sigh and relaxes into you. Just a little.

You take it for the victory it is.

***

You’re not certain how long the two of you stay like that. Frankly, you’d stay like this for an eternity if it’s what Lin needed to feel safe.

But, as it turns out, Lin doesn’t see things the same way.

“Spirits, how long have you been like this?”

You blink when Lin pulls away abruptly –you’d honestly gone into a peaceful, almost meditative state while holding her–then shrug. “It’s fine.” You consider for a moment, then grin and wink at her. “I don’t mind being on my knees.”

Lin scoffs and rolls her eyes –but a ghost of a smile appears on her lips, just for a moment. “Just –come here.”

You accept her invitation and let her tug you into her lap. You shift your weight so you’re not pinning her bad hip down, then wrap your arms around her shoulders. You incline your chin to give her more space when she lays her head in the crook of your neck, then settle back into holding her.

Lin doesn’t tolerate it for much longer, though. She only lasts a few more minutes before patting your thigh. “Go on. I don’t want to take up your time.”

“It’s not like I had massive plans for the day, Lin,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “You’re not derailing anything.”

“I’m glad I’m not,” she says. “I’d just like to read.”

“Ah.” You offer her a small smile, then peck her on her unscarred cheek before standing. “In that case, I suppose I can be agreeable.”

She smirks, bemused, and rolls her eyes while reaching for the bag she’d brought from the book shop. “I’m so glad.”

You amble into your kitchen, but you watch her surreptitiously for a bit, just to make sure she’s settling in alright. She’s still tense –no surprise there–but eventually she seems to settle into her book enough to tune out the rainstorm. You smile softly to yourself, then set about deciding what to do.

You weren’t lying earlier. You didn’t have any grand plans for today. Aside from going out with Lin, you’d kept today clear to relax. I’m kind of hungry… You peruse through your cabinets to see if there’s anything that sounds good, then spy a recipe card you’d left on the counter; you’d found it in a newspaper and cut it out to try later. Spiced apple cookies… You scan the card, then nod to yourself. I actually have what I need to make these. Sweet.

Unbeknownst to you, Lin looks up from her book when you start rummaging in your kitchen and pulling ingredients out. She watches you for a few moments, then asks, “What are you doing?”

You jump, startled. You set your jar of flour on the counter –a massive, thick jar with a locking lid that’s nearly the size of your torso–then turn to face her. “Baking. I’ve got a cookie recipe I’ve been meaning to try.”

Lin arches one eyebrow –but her teasing smirk belies her disbelief. “You bake?”

“What, is it that hard to believe?”

The smirk grows. “And here I thought all you knew how to do was devour the take out I bought for you.”

You stick your tongue out at her –which elicits a chuckle from Lin–the resume rummaging through your cabinet for ingredients. “I like food, Lin. Do you really think I wouldn’t know how to make it for myself?”

“Fair enough. What’s the recipe for?”

“Spiced apple cookies.” Lin makes a hum of approval as you finish lining up the dry ingredients on your counter. You step towards the fridge, then stop and grin at her over your shoulder. “If you’re nice, I might just share them with you.”

She chuckles again, then returns her gaze to her book.

***

Your oven finishes preheating by the time you’re done making the cookie dough. Once two trays of the cookies are in the oven, you tidy your kitchen up, wash the bowl you used to make the dough, then start mixing together the icing called for in the recipe.

“What are you making now?” Lin pipes up when she realizes you’re doing more prep work instead of cleaning.

“Making the icing.” You add some more powdered sugar, stir it in, then set the bowl on the counter once you’re satisfied with the thickness of the icing. “Hey.” You wait until Lin looks up, then hold up the spoon you used and waggle your eyebrows. “Want to lick the spoon?”

She scoffs, smirks, and goes back to reading her book. “Pass.”

You shrug, then say, “Your loss,” as you go about licking the spoon clean.

Once you’re done enjoying the fruits of your frosting labor, you toss the spoon in your kitchen sink and put away the ingredients for the frosting. You cast an eye to the little clock you keep in your kitchen, do the math of how much time the cookies have left in the oven, then turn the clock to face your living room before you go and join Lin on the couch. You sit next to her, close enough that your thighs are touching, and rest your chin on her shoulder. “How is it?”

“Not bad,” she answers as she shifts closer to you. She taps one of the pages of her book –a whodunit thriller you’d managed to talk her into picking up. “Some of the dialogue is a little stiff; it reads like the author wasn’t confident in writing the character interactions. But the plot pacing thus far is solid. And the process they’re using in the investigation work is actually decent.”

You chuckle, then turn your head and kiss her scarred cheek. “You sure you didn’t miss your calling as a literary critic?”

“Right,” she snorts. “I’ll pass.”

“Really? I always took you as the opinionated type.”

She arches one eyebrow at you, then smirks when you start giggling. “Doesn’t mean I like sharing them with everybody.”

“You’re sharing them with me.”

She adjusts her hold on the book so she can hold it open with one hand, then takes one of your hands with her free hand and interlocks your fingers. “You’re the exception.”

You beam. You feel like a firecat in a sunbeam, practically warmed from the inside out. You lay your cheek against her shoulder –then blink when you feel how much tension Lin’s holding in her body. Damn.

Lin remains silent, gaze still trained on her book, as you start gently prodding at her neck and shoulders. When you graduated to full blown palpating, however, she chuckles softly and glances over at you. “Something wrong?”

You state the obvious. “You’re super tense.” You continue gently squeezing and prodding at her, then note how she tenses further when a gust of wind blows more rain against your windows. “You can’t feel too comfortable right now.”

Lin grunts, apathetic. “It is what it is.”

You frown softly as you gently rub the back of her neck with your thumb. “Do you want me to rub your shoulders and neck?”

“You don’t have to take care of me,” Lin grumbles. “You’re not on the clock; I’m not your patient.”

“We’re girlfriends. We’re supposed to take care of each other.” When her jaw tightens, you take your hand off her neck. “If you don’t want–”

“No, no.” Lin sighs, then lets the book fold shut with a muted thump. She closes her eyes, then pinches the bridge of her nose. “No –sorry. I’m just…”

“It’s alright,” you murmur when her voice trails off.

“I don’t… I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“You’re not, Lin. I offered.” You brush some of her hair away from her face and tuck it behind her ear (which makes her flush adorably, and if this was a different situation you’d stop just to appreciate the warmth in her cheeks). “If you don’t want me to, I won’t –and you won’t hurt my feelings if that’s the case. But, if you think it’d help you feel better, I’m happy to do it.”

She doesn’t answer for a few long moments. But, eventually, she sighs and sets her book on your coffee table. “I think it would, yeah. Thank you.”

“Alright.” You gently kiss her scarred cheek –and your heart warms when she smiles and softens ever so slightly–then stand. “Let me get some massage oil.”

“You keep some here?”

“Well, yeah,” you call over your shoulder as you head to your bathroom. “You keep your armor in your apartment, yeah? You bring home paperwork, reports, that kind of stuff.”

“Just seems different.”

You let out an understanding chuckle as you emerge from your bathroom with a bottle of unscented massage oil in hand. “Well, I keep some on hand for my own use. The rest of it is for on-call work.”

Lin’s brows furrow –but then her expression clears and her eyes widen with recollection. “The hospital work. You mentioned working on surgery teams.”

“Exactly.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d need massage oil for that.”

“You’re right; I don’t,” you laugh. “But I work on-call for recovery teams, too. Post op and inpatient care and recovery, that sort of thing.” You gently shake the bottle in your hand. “Massage oil does tend to make that easier.” You grin when she smirks, then motion for her to shift forward on the couch so you can sit behind her. Before you sit, though, you cock your head to the side and regard her for a moment. “You might want to take your shirt off. I don’t want it to get stained from the oil.”

Lin smirks and begins unbuttoning the front of her shirt. “Right. That’s your only reason.”

You wink at her. “Plead the fifth.”

Once her shirt’s off, you get settled behind her, with one leg on either side of her. You pour a little of the massage oil on your fingertips, then tuck the bottle between the couch cushion and the arm of the couch before rubbing your hands together. “Alright, just lean back. Don’t worry about crushing me. Just relax as best as you can.”

Lin stays still as you start rubbing her shoulders. The room goes quiet, save for the music humming from your radio, the barely audible din of the storm outside, and the slight, slick noises of your oiled hands on her skin.

You’re so focused on tending to her tense muscles –on trying to get her to relax, dammit–that you nearly jump when she speaks again.

“I’m not good at this.”

Your hands still against the back of her neck. You blink a few times, trying to get your brain to shift out of “work mode” and onto what she’s saying. “You’re doing just fine.”

“No.” Lin sighs, heavy and ragged. She raises one hand, then lets it drop back against the couch. “No, I mean… this.” She swallows, neck flexing minutely under your touch. “Letting… letting someone else help.”

You hum in acknowledgement and resume massaging her tense muscles. “Believe it or not, I see that a lot. It’s…” You let your voice trail off, mulling over your countless experiences with clients, then let out a soft laugh. “It’s almost like we’ve got this ingrained instinct, as a species, to not ask too much of others. It’s like… it’s like this collective fear of being a burden.”

Lin gives a small nod, then lets out a breath when you hit a good spot by her shoulder blades. “Maybe.” She softens against you incrementally, relaxing into your touch, then lets out a dry, sardonic huff. “I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of entitled people in my day.”

“Outside of politics, then,” you agree, grinning, which gets another chuckle from her. “But I think, with things like this –with healing–we get shy about letting others help. I had one patient tell me that she’d avoided seeking treatment for years because she didn’t want me to hurt myself taking care of her. It was like she was projecting her experience with her pain onto others. That she thought if they helped her, they’d experience her pain and discomfort just as intensely as she did.”

“Yeah,” Lin agrees, voice barely above a whisper. She swallows again, then curls her hands into fists, flexing her knuckles. She cracks her knuckles, then says, louder, “But it’s not like this” –she gestures vaguely to you– “makes any of it stop. No offense.”

“None taken,” you assure her quietly. You watch her for a moment, then put your hands on her shoulders. “Take a deep breath for me. Nice and slow, in through the nose, and out through the mouth.” You breathe with her, then start massaging her neck when her body relaxes again. “Good job.” You stay quiet for a few moments, just so that she keeps relaxing, then murmur, “I understand what you’re saying… but I’m not entirely sure you’re looking at this the right way.”

It takes a few moments before she responds. “How so?”

“Not all healing is about making the ‘whatever it is’ go away, y’know?” You dig your thumbs into the muscles by her shoulder blades, then let out a little laugh when she groans in the back of your throat. “Is that good?” You smile when she nods, then keep going. “Some of my patients, I’m not treating them to make their condition go away. I’m treating them to manage their pain and give them a better quality of life. Some of them have life long conditions that they’ve been dealing with for years, and some of them have sustained injuries or illness and they’re just starting to learn how to accommodate those changes. It sucks, and it’s hard–”

“I think I get what you’re aiming at,” Lin interjects, voice warm with humor.

You chuckle. “But it’s worth it,” you finish. “It’s okay to feel good, even if everything doesn’t go completely away.”

“Thanks, Doc,” she quips dryly.

You roll your eyes, bemused, then lean forward and kiss the spot behind her ear. “And I’m glad I can help, even if it’s just a little bit.”

Lin goes still. Then, she shifts forward, turns, and kisses you softly. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” you murmur against her lips before kissing her again.

She kisses you a little longer, even reaching up to cup the back of your neck, but eventually pulls away. “Do you need to check the oven?”

“I should, yeah,” you say after glancing at the clock. You stand when Lin moves out of your way, then say, “Let me get a towel for you, first.”

Once you’ve supplied her with a towel so she can wipe the oil off her skin, you wash and dry your hands at the kitchen sink before checking the oven. “Looks like the cookies are done.”

“They smell good,” Lin says as you set your baking trays on the stovetop. “Are you going to ice them?”

“They need to cool first. Otherwise, the icing runs right off.”

Lin “hmms” as she pulls her shirt back on –then pauses when she notices what you’re setting up on the counter. “What are those?”

“Oh, these?” You hold up a pair of delicate wooden cooling racks; the criss-crossing, spindly beams form a lattice-like structure in the center of the racks and slot neatly into the frame. “They’re cooling racks. My dad made them for me.”

Lin frowns and stands as she finishes buttoning her shirt. “Those look like they’re made out of wood. How’d he get them to stay together?”

“I think it’s all one piece.” You hand one off to her so she can inspect it, while you prop the other up on your counter and start placing cookies on the racks. “Obviously, in the North, cooling things off isn’t an issue–”

“I can imagine.”

You grin, then use the tips of your fingers to slide another cookie onto the cooling rack. “He was worried when I came here that I wouldn’t be able to get my baking to cool properly, since it’s so much warmer here. He sent these six months after I moved.”

“That was sweet of him.” Lin hands the other cooling rack back to you. “And it’s excellent craftsmanship.”

“He does some carpentry work,” you explain. “Once import trade opened to the water tribes again, he left in his twenties to study woodworking. He does a lot of work with luxury wooden items. A lot of bone inlay work, too.”

Lin’s eyebrows pitch upwards. “I wouldn’t think of wood as a luxury item.”

You flash her a crooked grin. “It is if you live somewhere where trees don’t grow.” You finish placing the cookies on the cooling racks, then set the bowl of icing next to the wooden racks. “We’ll give these a few minutes to cool, first.” You look up at Lin –who’s eyeing the cookies with mild curiosity–then surreptitiously reach out to the icing bowl and dip the tip of your index finger in.

Lin, of course, catches you before you can really do anything. She dodges when you try to swipe your icing-covered finger across her face, then catches your hand and traps you between the counter and herself. She narrows her eyes at you –but she’s smirking all the same. “Really?”

“Sorry,” you say without feeling sorry at all. You offer her a bright, impish smile. “Would you like a taste?”

“I don’t taste through my skin,” she fires back, tone sarcastic.

“Hey! For all you know, I was aiming for your mouth.”

Lin gives you a flat, unconvinced look. The corner of her mouth turns up when you giggle –and then she lifts your hand towards her mouth.

You suck in a soft breath. You can feel your heart thudding in your chest. You lick your lips as anticipation coils in your body–

And then Lin shoves your hand towards your face, forcing you to smear the frosting over your nose.

“Hey!” You let out a startled squawk, then laugh and wrench yourself free of her grasp. “You bitch! No fair!”

Lin smirks and shrugs. “Seemed fair to me.” She wipes her thumb along the edge of the icing bowl, then licks it clean. “Tastes good.”

You feign hurt, huffing as she returns to the couch, then reach for a towel so you can wipe your face clean. “I’m going to get you for that, Beifong.”

“I’m quaking in utter terror,” she quips back flatly.

By the time you’ve licked your “wounded” ego, the cookies have cooled off. You frost all of them, then put six on a plate and carry it into the living room, along with two cups of tea.

“They’re good,” Lin decides after taking a bite and swallowing. “They’re not so sickly sweet.”

“Eh, I like a good sugar-y cookie.” You grin when she rolls her eyes and mutters something to the effect of “of course you do,” then nod in agreement. “But these are good. Very appropriate for fall.”

She nods along, then sets her cookie on the edge of the plate. She takes your hand and squeezes gently. “I should thank you,” she says once you’ve looked over at her. “For everything you’ve done today.”

You blink, then wave your free hand dismissively. “Lin, you don’t–”

“I want to,” she insists, voice quiet but firm. She spares a glance at the window –it’s still raining, but not as hard as earlier–then swallows hard and looks back at you. “You made today easier. Thank you.”

You smile, soft and sweet, then lift your joined hands and kiss her knuckles. “Anytime, Lin. All you have to do is ask.”

She stares at you for a long moment, expression intense but otherwise inscrutable. Then, she drops your gaze and returns the gesture by placing a soft, lingering kiss against your knuckles.

It keeps raining. A news update around four informs you that the city shouldn’t expect the weather front to pass until later tonight, around ten.

So the two of you stay indoors. You sit on the couch, eat the cookies you made, read the books you got earlier, and listen to music on the radio.

#sass writes #lin beifong x reader #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #which seems to be the theme for today #the reader finds out about lin's run in with amon #and helps her cope #but otherwise it's p tame #just v loving and fluffy #hands that heal

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