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yoditorian · 3 years

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a law divine - 1

soulmate au!ezra/reader

this is solely the fault of one single anon who called out something i put in the tags and now it’s a whole universe but you know what?? it’s the love of my life. anon i hope u see this 💛 i also just want to say i know there isn’t A Lot of soulmate talk in this one but it’s important for the narrative okay bear with me

playlist // series masterlist // main masterlist

word count: 7.2k (a Big Boy)

warnings: swearing, my usual allusions to smut bc we keep things neutral in this house, brief food/alcohol mentions, 18+ please no babies

It might be the ugliest ship you’ve ever seen.

Not that you’re really one to judge, the one you charter out when you’re running point on a job is a mismatched patchwork of rusty panels held together with electrical tape and hope. If there’s the slightest possibility you might be a teeny tiny bit disappointed in it, it’s only because agency jobs are usually a little cushier. A little safer for once. You could do with a bit safer.

Your family might prefer a lot safer, but you’d sooner take your chances in open space without a suit than take a job working scrapyards. At least risking your life on digs gets a decent payout.

“You the danger mouse?”

It’s not an accent you hear often on the Pug, the majority of the station’s population is human, but you turn with a smile to meet the bright purple eyes of the Thanne. Armour-strong scales and sharp teeth, but he seems kind and mild mannered despite his clear predatory biology. You nod as you readjust the pack on your shoulders.

“I’m Iras.” He holds his hand out to you. A distinctly human gesture made a little awkward by the sharp edged scales and extra fingers, but you shake it nonetheless. He’s your captain for this job after all. You wonder where a Thanne became so well versed in human custom, the species as a whole tend to keep to themselves instead of branching out into the universe like so many others, until his crew members appear on the boarding ramp.

Iras gestures to each of them in turn. Summer, a blonde woman with dark skin and a kind smile, and Milo, an older man with a swirling tattoo above his left eyebrow that matches the navy blue of his eyes.

“Is it just us?” You ask. You could have sworn there was a fifth name on the manifest you’d been forwarded, but teams are always subject to change. You just hope you’ll have your own room.

“Ezra always leaves things down to the wire, he’ll show up right before we’re due to push out.” Summer laughs fondly, throwing an arm around your shoulders like she’s known you her whole life. You’re usually a little wary with brand new teams but the way she’s already chatting away makes you feel at home. The last agency job you were sent on got dicey, fast, somehow you’re sure the same won’t happen with this lot.

“There he is.” Milo leans out of the ship to point out into the docks.

You turn to see a man sauntering through the throngs of harvesters towards the ship, and it’s odd. The rest of the crowd seems to melt away as he closes the distance, even the weight of Summer’s arm on your shoulders feels not quite there. You take the moment to study him. He looks all business with his dark hair and his charcoal grey shirt and the neat pack slung over his shoulder, but his pants and boots have seen better days and the streak of blonde at his temple makes you smile. It’s nice to finally be with a crew without a single stuffy addition.

“It’s not often I get to congregate with like-minded souls.” He grins when he’s in earshot, a flash of something feline in his eyes. You don’t want to admit that you like it.

“Like-minded?” You tilt your head at him as you follow Summer up the ramp and into the ship. Ezra slips in behind you just as it starts to raise. Just like the others said.

“We’ve all got the same death wish, Sunspot.”

The launch, at least, is smooth despite the beaten up ship and it’s only about twenty minutes before you’re far enough from the Pug to punch a lane to the next system over. At least it isn’t far, there’s only a day between now and making planetfall. Somehow, you’re not surprised to find that it’s more of a barracks and bunk beds situation rather than each having a private quarters. Last time you were hired by the agency, you definitely got your own room. But it gives you a chance to chat with the others as you unpack.

Milo explains the air isn’t breathable, so he’ll need to double check to make sure everyone’s filters are running at capacity. But he reassures you that it’s a comfortable temperature, so it’s good to know you won’t be sweltering in your suits or freezing your asses off.

You pick the bed on the wall beside the door, taking out a few essentials from your pack and tucking the rest safely away in the storage compartment. Just as he did back at the docks, Ezra is the last to find his way to the room. He settles his things on the bunk opposite yours because the universe has it out for you, apparently.

“Did I hear one of them call you the danger mouse?”

You struggle not to roll your eyes at the nickname awarded to anyone stupid enough to do your job, although admittedly he doesn’t sound like he knows why. You offer him your name instead and pretend the way he rolls it around in his mouth doesn’t send a shock right down to your bones. You’re not in the habit of sleeping with colleagues, not until the job’s over at least. But you’d be lying if you said you’re not tempted.

“They call me in when a site’s unstable but too profitable to close.” You answer, tugging your sleeves up as the climate control settles to a comfortable temperature.

Ezra raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue, and you pull off your gloves. They land on your thin mattress as you hold your hands out between you. Not even the slightest twitch.

“Steadiest hands on the Pug.”

“So they are.” There’s a challenge in his voice that threatens to send a shiver up your spine. It’s clear he doesn’t doubt your skill in the field, but the return of that glint in his eye from the docks has you wondering exactly what else he’s thinking about as he studies your hands. It’s not hard to work out.

It’s been so long since you had to travel out of the system, you forgot how much inter-system lanes can fuck with the human brain. You’re half asleep for the thirty minutes you spend sorting your things for the morning, barely enough energy to change into the sweatpants and ratty t-shirt you call pyjamas, before you crawl into bed and settle down almost immediately.

Only you don’t get to sleep for as long as you’d like. The rest of the crew seem to have filtered in after you, the shift of sheets and snores float through the dimmed room. Except, it’s not just that. There’s shuffling and bed creaking from further down the line of bunks. A hushed giggle sounds in the silence and-

Oh god. Oh no.

They’re not. They can’t be, they- they are.

You’re very awake all of a sudden, eyes wide as you keep them firmly on the ceiling and wishing as hard as you can for an alarm to start beeping or something. Anything to get whoever’s banging Summer to stop. A deep voice hushes her when she laughs again. Iras. Knowing is somehow worse. The mechanics- you don’t even want to think about it.

You turn onto your side slowly, but loud enough to hint that maybe they should find somewhere else for their escapades, and fold your pillow around your head as a kind of makeshift set of earmuffs. Whether they’ve quieted down or it muffles the noise, you’re not sure, but it seems to have worked enough. You catch Ezra’s eye in the almost-darkness, much in the same position as he holds his pillow over his own ears.

It’s embarrassing for the both of you, even as you share a conspiratorial look. But somehow, it’s less awkward to have to hear Iras and Summer going at it when you know he’s awake. He winces when a particularly loud squeak echoes through the room, and it takes everything in you not to bust out laughing. You fall asleep again eventually, making faces at Ezra in the dark until neither of you can keep your eyes open anymore.

You’re surprisingly well rested come the morning, when the whole ship jolts as it punches into the system and you’re almost thrown out of bed. So much so that it’s easy to forget that you woke up at all until you shuffle into the main living compartment of the ship. One of the crates by the wall has been cracked open, Milo hands out granola bars for breakfast.

Summer and Iras are sitting in the same chair, feeding each other, and it might be cute if you’d been awake longer and hadn’t been woken up by their activities in the middle of the night. You slump into a free chair, face twisted in disgust for a moment. You’re pretty sure nobody else sees until Ezra laughs and drops into the seat beside you. They’re nice people, from how they took you as a friend immediately, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s just a bit much for your perpetually single heart to take.

“It’s a week-long job, they can’t take a break?” You watch as they finally pry themselves apart to start, you know, actually working. But not without a genuinely gross kiss that definitely toes the line of public decency. Suddenly the half-eaten bar in your hand isn’t all that appealing anymore.

“Soulmates take no breaks, Sunspot. I’m sure yours would be hard pressed to be anywhere but in bed with you whenever they get the chance.” Ezra winks and it takes you a moment to remember where you are. A glance at the pair makes your new knowledge obvious, the way they seem to be touching, even now, on opposite sides of the room.

“I’m not sure I believe in all that red string stuff.”

Once the ship is safely landed a short walk from the site, the days you spend digging pass with ease. The deposit is a decent size, it takes all five of you to cover it completely, and the payout should be enough to keep you all comfortable for a little while even with the agency’s cut. The crew around you fill the time enough that you barely notice the week coming to a close.

Summer sings in the mornings as she cleans her equipment and readies her pack for the day. Miles talks gently to the cells as though they can hear him, shushing them any time he worries a gem might corrupt. Iras seems to have a secret superpower when it comes to the ration packs, they always taste better when he’s the one on lunch duty. And Ezra spends the afternoons regaling you all with tales of ancient beasts, laying eggs that fossilise into the very gems you’re harvesting. Although you’re not sure how true they are.

You almost get through the whole dig without a hitch. Almost. But aurelac is a tricky thing, even a change in the wind can turn a site for the worst. You’re all sitting around at lunch when it happens. The telltale smoke wafts up into the air for no visible reason at all and although you’ve collected enough to cover the quota, you’d still rather not lose viable gems.

“Get to what you came here for.” Iras gestures in your direction and you dive into the pit head first.

You’re not even sure you stop to think as you follow the harvesting steps at lightning speed, salvaging half the corrupted cells before someone tugs you out by the collar of your suit. The rest of the site starts to smoke the moment you’re out of range, spitting and hissing and rendering the rest of the gems worthless.

“Danger mouse indeed.” Ezra chuckles over the comm system, hand still fisted in the fabric of your suit. For once, the nickname makes you smile.

While you all go your separate ways after the ship has docked back on the Pug, Summer makes you all promise to meet later at a club you’ve only heard of in your friends’ messy night out stories. Still, you pinky swear when she holds her hand out to you and try to remember if you have a single item in your wardrobe that’ll pass as club attire. Or at least something that isn’t so worn there are holes in it.

Even if it’s a song he knows, there’s no chance that Ezra could recognise it with the volume cranked so high through the cheap speaker that everything but the beat is distorted. Still, it doesn’t stop people from dancing.

He’s a little late, as usual, but he doesn’t need to worry as Iras appears behind him and claps a hand on his shoulder, pointing to a booth across the room where Milo is looking increasingly uncomfortable.

It doesn’t take long for Ezra to spot you and Summer in the middle of the dance floor, as he follows Iras around the edge of the space to the booth Milo’s claimed. You’re both more jumping than dancing, yelling the unintelligible lyrics of the song into each other's faces. He can’t hear your breathless laughter as Summer spins you in a circle, smile wide and bright, but he can feel it in his ribs. The drums of the song kick in at the same time the swirling lights of the club light you up like some kind of celestial being, just as you catch his eye through the crowd. And everyone else disappears. The rest of the world, rest of the universe, fades into the background. Just like they did the first time he saw you, glaring suspiciously at the ship on the docks.

Summer’s dragging you back to the table when the song comes to a close, the both of you out of breath and laughing, and Ezra has to try desperately to remember how to speak when he watches a little bead of sweat slide down the side of your neck. And stop himself from just licking a line straight up it. His silent suffering only increases when Milo holds out a shot of the most potent alcohol the Pug has to offer and you down it without so much as a flinch, winking at him when you return the glass to the table for good measure.

Milo calls it a night only an hour later, clearly only having braved the crowds of the club to celebrate the job. Summer and Iras are tangled in each other on the dancefloor, or the booth, as they keep the shots coming. You, at least, decide to keep your wits about you, declining every drink after the one Milo had handed you. Nobody’s going to fuck with a Thanne, even in as seedy a club as this, so you don’t worry about Summer as she gets sloppier and sloppier. But there’s no spiky non-human boyfriend looking out for you down here, it’s just you and the knife you keep at your hip.

You pull yourself from the dance floor, eyes tracking the room for the missing member of your party, until you feel a set of eyes on you from above. Ezra’s leaning on the bannister of the stairs, his unflinching gaze set solely on you. And you can’t help but smile. You follow him up to the mezzanine without hesitation when he glances upwards and back to you. The buzz of the shot has mostly faded from your veins, replaced by something much more dangerous by the way he’s looking at you. The way he’s looked at you since you met him.

It’s not hard to spot your friends from up here, leaning over the barrier with Ezra to people watch. He crafts stories about every stranger who catches his eye. The man hunched over the bar in a beaten up jacket, the waitress who fiddles with her necklace any time her hands aren’t occupied, the pair of lovers tucked away in the dark corner on the other side of the mezzanine. You find yourself sliding closer to him the more he talks, wrapped up in the warmth of his voice even in the rundown club. Your shoulder knocks into his as you mindlessly bop to the music and listen to his made up stories. Utterly enchanted. It’s hard to remember a time when you felt this way with anybody, if you ever did at all. To tell the truth, it’s hard to remember anyone before Ezra. And neither of you have even made a move yet.

He's got his arms braced on the barrier, and you find yourself lifting the one closest to you so you can slip in between them. Surrounded on all sides and you couldn’t feel more comfortable. To his credit, he doesn’t falter in his vivid storytelling about the group now settled in the booth your crew had claimed earlier, not even a stutter as you turn in his arms to face him. He’s decided they’re here to celebrate the beginning of a new job, rather than a successful harvest. His eyes flick to you for the barest moment, enough to notice yours are firmly focused on the way his lips move around his words, before searching the club below for another story. Another way to keep his mind and mouth occupied so he doesn’t accidentally admit all the sinful things he wants to do to you when you press your ass up against him like that.

“Ezra.”

He shouldn’t be able to hear you over the music, but you’re nose to nose and he’d be hard pressed to ignore the way you practically purr his name. He’s expecting you to make another flirty comment in that voice that sends his mind reeling into all manner of indecent places the same way you have been all night.

“Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t expect you to just outright ask him.

“Yeah.” Yeah. Hell of a time for his eloquence to fail, not that it matters anyway. You’re on him the moment he stops speaking.

It’s like the sun explodes inside him, the way his stomach bottoms out the second your lips touch his. There’s nothing soft about it, not the way he might have imagined there would be. If he’d been so bold as to let himself imagine what kissing you might be like. You’re all warmth and heat and you still taste a little bit like the shot you’d thrown back earlier, and he finds himself falling. Not that Ezra minds, he hopes his parachute never opens if it means you’ll keep kissing him like this.

You let your fingers roam under his jacket, twist themselves in the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and you sigh into his mouth. God, you knew he’d be good at this. His hands leave a trail of starlight as they trace over your body, never quite choosing a place to rest. They start to settle on your shoulders, only to skim down your arms and squeeze harshly on your waist, to play along the strip of skin he finds just underneath the hem of your shirt, to grip harder than he might mean to onto the meat of your ass through your pants. You gasp, break the kiss for barely a moment, and stop his apology in its tracks.

He doesn’t protest when you walk him backwards, still groping at each other like it’s just the two of you in the whole club. Ezra only groans when his back hits the wall and you push even closer into him, as if there was even any space left for air between your bodies already. He’s not about to complain. He could kiss you for a thousand years and it still wouldn’t be enough. It’’ll never be enough, not for a soul as hungry as his. You pull back too soon, far too soon, and it takes a solid minute for his brain to kick in and break the vice grip he still has a little too low for the public eye.

Oh, that look on your face. He’s in trouble.

“Where are you off to?” Ezra asks, flushed and breathless, a hand stretched halfway out to where you’re backing toward the stairs.

“Home,” You say with a sly smile, “You coming?”

He can’t push off the wall fast enough.

You don’t live far from the club, a ten minute walk at the most, but Ezra manages to make it a solid twenty with the way he keeps pulling you to him. Not that you’re about to complain. You’ve been waiting a week to let him get his hands on you. At the press of his lips on your neck, the shudder it sends down your spine, you wonder if part of you has been waiting even longer than that.

You’re trying, desperately, to type in the keycode to your apartment. If Ezra could calm down with the grabby hands, you might have gotten it right straight away.

“No roommates?” He asks, kissing along your shoulder, and you take the temporary reprieve to kick your brain into gear and remember the fucking numbers.

“Hugo won’t be too upset if I make him sleep on the couch.”

The door slides back into the wall to reveal a dark apartment, a strip of light from the hall falling on a very orange cat. He stares at you for a second, clearly not particularly pleased that he’s been so rudely roused from a nap, before he settles back to sleep stretched out on the couch cushions. Hugo. Ezra is silently relieved that the roommate is just a cat, he’s not sure he’s got the self control to stay quiet tonight. Or to make sure you do.

You waste no time once you gesture for Ezra to walk in ahead of you, flicking the switch on the wall to slide the door shut and pulling him back to your lips. He doesn’t hesitate to crowd you up against the cold metal.

Although you could devour each other until the closest sun explodes and swallows the station whole, Ezra has to break away. To think, to breathe, to tease you a little about the moan he just swallowed from you. But you beat him to it.

“Gotta catch your breath?” The smile on your face threatens to make his knees buckle, and with you pressed up against the closed door the way you are? He might just let them.

“What do you want, Sunspot?”

You left a lamp on in your bedroom, the door cracked just enough to let a little filter through to the main living space. Still, he’s almost completely silhouetted against the warm yellow glow. As if he’s some kind of ethereal being, maybe he is.

“Make me see the stars.” You pull him in as close as you can and let your lips brush over his as you whisper. His next words make you shudder almost as much as the way he drags the zipper of your jacket down, slowly, tooth by tooth.

“As you wish.”

And boy, does he deliver.

You’re expecting things to feel more unfamiliar than they do, as you explore each other for the first time, but it’s like you’ve been here before. Once, twice, a hundred times before. Every move feels oddly choreographed. Ezra knows exactly how to take you apart and put you back together again, the way he pulls every twitch and moan out of you so expertly. You’re no different, as your fingers map the plains of his chest like it’s muscle memory.

You shake it off, put the thoughts to the back of your mind. You’ve been around the block a little in your time on the Pug, it only makes sense that he has the same kind of experience. But shared experience or not, you can’t deny how much having him so close feels like a homecoming of sorts.

It’s the best sleep of your whole fucking life and, honestly, you’re not that surprised. Ezra makes a damn good pillow. Even if you both wake hours later into the day cycle than either of you normally would. Even if he’s more of a morning person than you are. It’s kind of nice, to sit still snuggled in your pile of blankets and watch him potter around your apartment as Hugo winds around his ankles like he’s been there for years.

Your fridge, however, is heartbreakingly empty and renders his offer of making breakfast pointless. Instead, he pulls his shirt on and offers to take you to the best little diner he knows, tucked away in the heart of the marketplace. It’s a hard offer to turn down.

“What kind of gentleman would I be to have so much income at my disposal and not treat such a beauty as yourself to a good meal?” He winks as he flashes his credit chit at you as if you didn’t scan in for your paychecks at the same time. You laugh as you empty a food pouch into Hugo’s bowl, and tell him he better show you all the good breakfast spots. You shrug off his raised eyebrow and mutters of a ‘next time’. As if he didn’t already know.

Still, Ezra takes you by the hand the moment your apartment door secures itself shut behind you, leading you through the hall and out into the street, and you’ve never felt more wanted.

It’s like everything’s brighter, walking leisurely through the bustling market stalls with Ezra. The smells are stronger as spices in the air cling to your nose, the cacophony of vendors calling out almost sounds like music, and you start to laugh. Hand in his, in the middle of the maze of stalls full of food and tools and trinkets. As if it’s just the two of you in the whole universe.

At least Ezra doesn’t look back at you like you’re crazy. He smiles too, just as big, and you feel bathed in warmth the same as when the sun comes out planetside.

You’re both still grinning when he leads you deeper through the market, down an alley and up a flight of stairs to an unassuming door.

“Is this where you murder me?” You joke just as the door opens to reveal a short older woman with an eyepatch, who pulls Ezra down into a tight hug as soon as he’s in arms reach. He introduces her as Merse, the woman who’s run the best diner no one’s ever heard of on the whole station. She slaps his arm for his cheek, but her grin grows twice as wide when she spots your intertwined hands.

Ezra pulls you through the doorway after him as he follows Merse, chatting about how she always keeps the best table open just in case he brings a friend and you try not to smile too wide when she wiggles her eyebrows at you. He says something to you, but you’re too distracted by the view from the big windows.

The far wall is completely glass, overlooking the main docks, lined with booths. A small family sits in one of them, their two children standing up on the seats to watch the ships come and go. You’ve never seen it from this angle before, always down in the masses and scanning the boards for new jobs. It’s kind of beautiful. In a rusty, patchwork sort of way.

Merse points you towards one of the booths with a promise that she’ll bring you the best breakfast you’ll ever have, something tells you she’s not lying.

It’s not long after you slide into the booth that she comes marching out of the kitchen with two plates, wafting steam that makes your mouth water and your stomach rumble. Rice and vegetables and eggs and all sorts of things you’ve never even seen pile high, and you’d worry you wouldn’t be able to finish it all if you weren’t so hungry.

“You know I won’t break, right?” You push your fork around in the remaining rice on your plate as you watch Ezra absorb your words. He thinks about it for a long moment, dark eyes over you before settling on your own.

“What’s this about?” He knows, you know he knows. More importantly, you know he’s going to make you say it. In the middle of the day cycle, in this family friendly diner.

“Just,” You exhale sharply, “Making sure you’re aware.” Your body floods with a shyness that’s alien compared to the confidence you had last night and suddenly, your breakfast is the most interesting thing on the Pug. You can practically feel him smiling at you, but you don’t dare look up to meet it.

He was right though, the food really is some of the best you’ve ever had.

It’s not until you’ve wandered back through the market, still hand in hand, and found your way back to your apartment that Ezra decides to bring it up. He may have been more than a little distracted last night, but he’s sure he spotted a set of old books sitting on a shelf above your couch. You freeze, ready to go on the defensive about how ink and paper will never be obsolete, until you realise he’s genuinely interested. He’s not judging you by any means. Something about the curiosity shining in his eyes makes your heart flutter more than you care to admit.

He could watch you talk about your books all day, every day, for the rest of his life. How your eyes lit up when you recognised his interest, a paperback lover himself. You can’t seem to stop yourself as you dive into the intricate details of your favourite classics, two or three hundred year old texts that make you feel like you’ve lived a thousand different lives at once. He wants so badly for you to keep talking but the more impassioned you become, the more he wants to kiss you.

You trail off at some point, he loses track when you climb into his lap to point out notes you’ve made in margins and the books lie scattered on the couch beside you as you kiss him until neither of you can breathe. You’re still a little achy from last night, deep in your bones, and you hiss when his teeth scrape across your shoulder.

“Won’t break, is that right?” Ezra chuckles darkly and nips at your jaw, “Can I try?”

“Please.”

You wake at the creak of your bedroom door, sometime in the early hours. Hugo noses his way through the narrow gap and hops up onto the bed, curling up on the unclaimed pillow by your head. Ezra sleeps deeply, face buried in your neck, and you let the warmth of him wash over you. It ebbs and flows like a tide, that familiarity. The undeniable fact that something about this just feels right. You’ve known this man a week and yet you’re here wondering, as he rests in your arms, if he might want more than just this with you.

Oh, but you are so afraid. Afraid to put a name to anything about him because what then? Will he tell you that you’re simply a placeholder in his life for something better, or that his heart might bleed through his skin when you’re apart? You’re not sure which is worse. Not that it matters, there is no word in any language that would be able to explain exactly how you feel about the man asleep in your arms. It’s enough, you think, to have him with you at all. In any capacity. Whatever pieces of his soul he bares as your breathing evens and his mind wanders. That is enough, and you will protect it with your life.

You have to part ways at some point, of course. Another week of rolling around in your bed sheets together, on the couch, on your pitiful kitchen counter, up against the wall, and Ezra gets a call from the agency. It’s a last minute job, the crew only need an extra set of hands to fit the safety standards, but it’s several systems out from the Pug. It’ll take him away for at least a month. You trail after him at the docks, with promises of messages in his absence and all manner of unsavoury activities on his return. It’s with a deep kiss and a wolf whistle from a couple of dock workers on their break, that you wish him luck. And ask him to hurry back.

Summer’s message surprises you when it dings through on your tablet. Some gajillionaire on Dallore T53 has found an aurelac deposit on the grounds of his new estate and wants it gone. She’s preoccupied, already out on another dig with Iras and a new crew. But it’s the kindness of her even thinking to offer it to you that makes your heart swell. It’s been a while since you’ve had real, honest to god, friends.

You’d go in alone, normally, for something like this. But now? Now, you’re punching in Ezra’s comm pin before you can even really register what it is that you’re doing. He only got back a week ago, and you made him settle in back home before he could settle in yours. It’s not like the two of you would be doing any resting on his return to your apartment, exactly. The job was a pain, he’d told you, it ran months longer than anyone expected and you’re sure he’s still exhausted. He won’t agree, but you find you have to ask. Just in case.

“Sunspot?” He sounds happy, rested. And you breathe a sigh of relief, at least he can follow your orders when he wants to.

Hugo snakes around your ankles at the familiar voice, the same way he does any time the man himself walks through the door. If you didn’t know that the little orange devil’s alliances lie in who feeds him, you might think he loves him more than you.

You explain about the job, make sure to stress that he doesn’t have to come. That you don’t even really need to take it if he’d rather you stay close by. Okay, you don’t say that out loud, but the smile you hear in his words through the speaker makes it known that he’s heard you. Loud and clear.

It doesn’t matter in the end, not when he accepts before you even have a chance to give him any details. You don’t know why you were so worried he might say no.

“Any excuse to be warmed by your light, Sunspot.” Hugo brushes up against your leg at the same time Ezra’s voice practically drips through the speaker, smooth as honey.

“Is that a euphemism?”

“Do you want it to be?”

You choke on your breath and he laughs like you’ve told the funniest joke in the universe. He’ll kill you one of these days, you’re sure of it.

You charter the ship you usually take on private jobs, the space a little smaller than you remember with another person on board, but it’s not like either of you aren’t used to being in close quarters with each other by now. At least Ezra has the decency not to be mean about the beaten up exterior, she still flies true. He’d grinned at that, told you how a rough outside often means the opposite of the interior mechanics. The glint in his eye is enough to know he’s not just talking about the ship.

At least the planet is in the same system as the Pug, so there’s no need to punch through to a lane. You fly in silence for a few hours, the familiar feel of the controls under your fingers as you guide it through the sky. Ezra’s eyes remain firmly on you although you pretend as though you don’t notice, and it takes him a moment to come back to the present when you ask him to flick a few switches and prepare to enter the atmosphere.

The coordinates the client gave you to land are only a short walk from the house itself, a great stone castle-looking thing. It’s kind of ugly, the way the limestone juts out above the treeline. A big white block among the rich reds and oranges of the leaves. They grow that colour all year round, perpetually stuck in spring and summer. It must be nice to have the kind of money to find somewhere like that and decide you’ll build a house there. The air is breathable, and a quick look at the planet file proves it’s never too hot or too cold. A perfect place to build a house really. Although, if it were you making that kind of decision, you’d maybe go for a design that’s a little less cubist.

The deposit isn’t huge, but it’ll be a good payout nonetheless providing the cells are all in good nick. You and Ezra wade through swathes of long grass and wildflowers until you find a spot to set up camp. At least you’re not stuck in bulky suits and having to lug around your equipment.

You couldn’t have asked for a more perfect dig if you’d tried. Each of the cells sit far enough away from each other that even if one were to fail, it wouldn’t corrupt a whole mess of the others. Although with both of your talents, it doesn’t surprise you when you collect every last crystal without a single misstep.

You’d told Ezra the profit would be split down the middle, equal pay for equal work. But it doesn’t stop him from sliding an extra gem into your pack to cover the ship charter. After all, you’re the one who was offered the job in the first place. He’s just following his heart, the one that walks around outside of his body and throws itself into deposits mid-corruption.

You hold one of the little gems aloft in the sunlight and watch as it sparkles.

“I used to think it was weird how rabid people go for these. But the more I dig the more I get it, isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Ezra tilts his head like he’s studying the rock, but his dark eyes don’t leave yours.

“It’s a close second.”

Sap.

Night falls before either of you realise just how late it is, clearing out the last few cells of the deposit. It’s not worth going back to the Pug now, he reasons, and you find it hard to disagree. The ache of the few days you’ve spent digging has settled deep in your muscles, the thought of having to run through docking procedure when you’re so tired is enough to make you wince.

You let him take you for all you’re worth under the watchful eye of the heavens, and find there’s more stars behind your eyelids than you could ever hope to see in the skies. It’s all you can do to cry out the name of the only god to ever make you feel this holy. Ezra.

He wakes with the sun, the same way he always has on jobs, to find you curled so tightly against him that it bubbles up from his toes all the way to his throat and he finds his eyes threatening to spill over. Everything in the universe seems to slot so perfectly together when you’re like this. Ezra sighs, content to never let the moment end. You are so beautiful.

He shifts up onto his elbow a little, still cradling you against him, and lets his free hand trail softly over your face. Tracing the shell of your ear, the curve of your cheekbone, the bridge of your nose. The dawn’s sunlight breaks over the trees and filters through the fabric of the tent, bathing you in soft green light. He could stay here, holding you, until the universe implodes. Ezra doubts he’d notice such an insignificant thing with you beside him.

But end it must, and he rouses you gently with soft whispers and kisses against your temple. You stretch in his arms, not unlike Hugo, and sigh as your joints pop and settle. Packing up happens slowly, moving around each other so naturally it’s as though you’ve done it a thousand times before. Every time Ezra passes, you drop a kiss wherever you can reach. His shoulder, the arm of his jacket, that little patch on his jaw. He pretends not to blush when you catch his hand and carefully press your lips to the little tattoo between his thumb and index finger, you pretend not to notice when he does.

You’ll be the death of him, he’s sure of it. The way you keep watching him out of the corner of your eye, the way your smile is so bright when he catches you that he can barely stand to look at it. With the tent and equipment packed up, his fingers itch to thread through your own as you start the walk back to the ship, there’s not a word in the universe strong enough to describe just how much he hates that both his and your hands are too full.

It’s odd, thinking about it. How you met by pure chance, hired by the agency just because you were on the same station at the same time. Would he have ever met you if you’d chosen a different career path, if he had? Maybe somewhere, centuries before or after this moment, where you’re meeting again. Different lives, different times, spanning across all of existence. Maybe, right here and now, you’re starting to feel the way he does about you. Just a little. Maybe he’ll get up the courage to ask what you think, how far you want to take things. He’d give himself to you in a heartbeat, without question. In a way, he already has.

Ezra can’t stop himself.

“What do you make of the red string of fate?”

“All you’ve seen of the universe and you still believe in soulmates?”

“Maybe I’m more foolish that I made myself out to be.” He shrugs, trying not to let his eyes fall to the little finger of his right hand. Trying not to clench his fist to show you exactly how much your disbelief affects him down to his bones, as though his soul itself is frowning. You’re smiling. Uncharacteristically quiet, but you seem appropriately pleased by his answer and stray a little further out into the long grass.

Curiosity gets the better of you.

“Can you see yours?” You have to call out across the gap you’ve unintentionally created, yellow stalks swishing in the breeze between you, and for a moment you’re not sure he heard.

Ezra looks at his right hand, at the thin red string tied neatly at the knuckle of his little finger, and follows the line as it threads through the grass to where it’s knotted at your left.

“No.”

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@bee-dameron @keeper0fthestars @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean @gotta-have-faye @freeshavocadoooo @darnitdraco @greeneyedblondie44 @fire-is-catching-always

#oh god here it is i hope it lives up to what i've made it out to be #a law divine #prospect (2019)#ezra (prospect)#ezra x reader #ezra x you #liz does words #soulmate au #smut

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joyrose-fandomer · 3 years

Text

Please, don’t fall for me (Sanders Sides fantasy school AU) Chap 3

Relationships : Future (Prinxiety, Intrological, Mocite, Platonique Moxiety and platonique Analogical)

POV : Virgil

TW : Water, Manipulation

Previous<<

------------------------------------

Virgil couldn't focus on anything after that.

He kept looking at the pamphlet and the folded paper on his laps.

The pamphlet showed a picture of a big white building. It looked like a bad copy of Harvard.

It was named "Pine hills High school and College of art, sport and science" which was long for nothing and boring like literally any school.

But most importantly, it looked pricy. So Virgil looked around the pamphlet but he couldn't find any price anywhere.

Tss, of course, they wouldn't.

It said on the pamphlet that the school had good infrastructure and good results in every sportive, artistic and scientific field. That it had 100% chance for the student to have a diploma and list several students that became important.

Virgil didn't know any of those names and most importantly, never heard of that school.

On the other hand, the folded paper was a lot less fancy. There was no picture only a name and a few commentaries.

It didn't look official in any way. In fact, it was very obvious that Remy had written everything.

But it gave a strange feeling, like the ink and paper weren't normal. Like it could disappear at any moment if Virgil stopped looking at it or if anyone else looked at it.

He knew it didn't make much sense, but he could swear that he saw the words glitter from time to time.

"The Argus school" was the name written on the paper.

"School for young magical creatures to learn how to control their powers in safety."

So, like a school of magic? When did Virgil step into Harry Potter?

It was so cliché and suspicious, Remy was surely messing with him.

What if it was all an elaborate prank?

What if it was a kidnapping technic and Virgil was falling straight for it?

Should he call the police?

Would they believe him?

But what if it was not a joke?

It was so unrealistic but it explained so many things...

That day when school ended Virgil didn't directly go home.

He went to the pool.

"Hello, do you have a ticket ?"

The young women at the entrance asked.

Oh. Well, he needed to confirm that too eventually.

The high school boy took a deep breath.

"No, I forgot...sorry"

Her voice was suddenly a lot softer.

"It's ok, I can give you one. It's 7$"

Alright, he won't have to meet her again, he could do it.

He took off his mask and hood

"I'm sorry miss. I forgot to bring money"

She blinked like she was trying to adjusted her eyes after being flashed with a stong light.

"Alright, I will take your name and you can pay later"

"Wait really?" Virgil exclaimed, not expecting the woman to actually let him get away with it so easily.

The woman smiled. "Yes, but don't tell anyone, I'm not supposed to do that. So what's your name ?"

"Virgil Apkallu"

"That's an interesting name could you spell it ?"

Virgil spelled his name like he always did. Before remembering an important fact.

"I don't have my swimsuit!"

She laughed. Virgil couldn't blame her, he really didn't think that through.

"Do you want to go home to pick it up?"

If he got home it would be too late, his father wouldn't let him go back out again.

He looked up at the women. Making eye contact with someone for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

"If I go home I don't know if I would be able to come back..."

She froze and thought for a bit before walking away and coming back with her wallet.

"Here, go to the dispenser and get yourself a swimsuit"

"Wha- but it's your money, I can't"

"It's fine kid, it's just 2$. Now go before we close"

Virgil sighed and bought simple black shorts. He thanked the woman and she let him get in.

He felt guilty. He knew he didn't ask her to do all that and she was the one who insisted. But he couldn't help but feel like he manipulated that woman.

But it's what he was trying to do, didn’t he ?

The pool was empty. It was late and during fall it was too cold to go swimming.

The pool attendants weren't here, probably thinking that no one would come at that hour.

So Virgil had the water for himself.

Time to get it over with.

The good thing with being an anxious mess like Virgil is that you end up collecting techniques to get rid of disillusions.

Often the biggest disillusions were the hardest to get rid of. It's the ones that make the less sense.

Like thinking everyone you meet want to kill you, or that your parents were secretly robots.

But the good thing is. The bigger they are the easier it is to prove your brain wrong.

If you don't turn into a wolf under the full moon, you're not a werewolf.

If you don't have magic powers you're not a witch.

And if you can't breathe underwater you're not a siren.

A normal human can't survive underwater for more than 5 minutes, a trained diver can stay at best 12 minutes.

Virgil only had to stay underwater until he felt the huge to breathe.

If he could stay underwater for longer than that without needing to go out to breathe then... haha no, it was stupid last time he was just confused because he fell into the pool in the middle of a panic attack.

He will be out in a few seconds.

He slowly went down the stairs. The water was colder than he remembered.

It was probably reckless to test that alone but at least no-one was here to stop him.

Once he was in, the cold was a lot more bearable. In fact, it was numbing pleasantly.

The only swimmer went around the pool using the border to hold himself. But he didn't really need it, it was mostly the lack of confidence.

Eventually, he let go of the side of the pool and swam to the center of the water.

He felt free. Like floating in space. Swiming was so easy, it was second nature.

Virgil set the timer at 0.

And go !

He let himself sink.

The echoes of the empty room, the lapping of the water, the far-away cars.

It all dissolved into silence.

The golden hue of the sunset reflected all around, slithering in the water like hundreds of glowing vines.

Virgil was still holding his nose under the water but he didn't feel the need to breathe. Actually, he was already breathing.

He brushed the side of his neck. His skin was taking off but it didn't hurt.

He breathed in.

Water entered the gap in his neck.

He breathed out.

Water went out of the gap.

Gills.

He never had gills. Since when did he had gills?

He let go of all the air he was holding in a string of bubbles.

He watched them float away. Reflecting the sunlight, making them shine the away fairy lights would.

Bright and clear.

When he tried to breathe through the nose, the airway seemed blocked and he ended up breathing by his Gilles again.

He was breathing underwater. He could see underwater.

He could see and breathe better than on land.

His hair fell on his face.

He could see his own eyes reflecting in them like a mirror and his eyes reflected his hair the same way.

This was new. Usually, they were both jet black.

He swam to one of the Hublot around the pool.

His hair reflected the pool around, perfectly merging with the water like they were trying their hardest to disappear. His eyes were hardly any better. They were glossy and blue with gold lights just like the water around.

Usually, his eyes were so dark he could barely see his pupils well now that his eyes were different... He still couldn't. Apparently, his pupils also got this mirror effect.

This one was probably not a new thing. The boy could remember every time someone had the great idea of pointing a flashlight at him only to scream because his pupils were shining like a wild animal.

The confused boy swam around.

It was so simple, like taking a walk around the park.

So peaceful,

So comfortable,

So pretty,

So safe,

It felt like home.

Virgil didn't know how much time he spent here. He didn't want to look at the timer.

He didn't want to walk. He didn't want to choke on air. He didn't want to feel the pressure of the world.

This was where he belonged. He was happy.

He didn't want to go.

He looked up. The golden light turned silver.

It was night. He needed to go home.

With a sigh, the half siren swam out. Posing the timer but not looking at it.

Everything was so heavy out there. Virgil dresses up slowly and difficultly. His clothes stuck to him and made moving even harder.

Taking a deap breath of his inhaler and dragging himself away from the pool.

The woman looked surprised that he was still here but she still waved him goodby with a smile.

The cold autumn wind gave him a headache, the boy hid his wet hair in is hood and walked.

By the time he arrived home, his body was freezing.

His mind bearly felt anything.

"Do you have any idea how late it is?

I was so worried! Where were you ?!"

His father immediately yelled when he opened the door.

Virgil stayed silent. He didn't feel guilty, just, empty.

He walked around mindlessly, working only on muscle memory. His father still yelling behind him but he couldn't hear anything.

When he took off his hood his father went silent and stared at him wearily.

"Virgil, why are you soaked ?"

His son took a deep breath and locked eyes with his parent with a serious expression.

"Dad. Who is my mother ?"

***<>============<>***

Sorry, the story didn’t advence a lot this chapter, I really just wanted to right water again ! (^u^’)

Tag list : @angstysunshine @sander-sides-fics

@moments-of-selves @sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes (I still don’t know if you want me to tag you or not so if you want me to stop just tell me ok ? (^u^))

#sanders sides fanfiction #fanfiction #sanders side au #virgil sanders #sander sides

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wtfgaylittlezooid · 3 years

Text

I’ve lost to temptation so here it is

My interpretation of magolor lets fucking go

So first section: How this bitch works

So Magolor is from Halcandria, a planet who’s core is essentially magic. There’s so much magic on this single planet that it leaked into the life and even some objects that could contain it. Magolor is no exception. Magic energy is essentially stored in a second heart (tho it’s more of a container than a heart), and runs through the body very similar to blood. It’s created and flows through his body, and allows for things like his eye glow, floating, and obviously powers. When he’s asleep, it regenerates. If there’s already enough magic energy while he’s asleep, it disposes of the old magic mostly by floating in sleep or by more severe means like insomnia aka magical overdose (which I’ve gone over before).

Next, is the glowing eyes!! Why he have that, I’ll tell ya. It makes it easier to detect other halcandrians as well as make it easier to detect light such as fire. Which is very useful when you need to look through ashy clouds and make sure a giant rock isn’t about to slam into you from above. It’s also a way to show the health of a halcandrian. Though the eyes glow yellow, they have a brown color very similar to their fur. If they’re sick or very unhealthy, they lose their glow and it slowly reverts to the brown color.

As a side effect of the master crown though, Magolor’s magic energy got boosted by the crown so he didn’t just die instantly by overwhelming power. It sounds like a good thing on paper, having so much energy to the point where he can fight non stop without getting tired magically, but magic overdose due to him not being able to deplete enough of it fast enough is a bitch. He gets sick a lot easier, bad insomnia, as well as occasionally using magic without realizing. So this clears out how he works and shit!! Now onto...

Before RTDL

So before RTDL Magolor had little social skills or experience with interacting with other people that wasnt lying to them to get them to do stuff. It was just how Halcandria worked. People kept to themselves and if you needed help you’d have to twist the truth in order to convince them. Relationships of any kind are very rare in Halcandria as well.

So when he met Marx, it was weird. He originally planned to let him stay until he got better and told him about why he was found in a Nova’s wreckage, so he could hopefully get Marx to lead him to something else he could use to defeat Landia. It didn’t go as planned. Marx was an unpredictable dude who immeadiatly fell for Magolor (but mags didn’t notice cause he’s never experienced someone else crushing or a crush) and due to that Marx spent a lot of time with Magolor during recovery and grew on him. He also ended up showing Magolor what friendship was, and honestly: magolor liked it. He liked having someone around. It was a nice change, and it was nice to have someone around to help (and rarely give him affection). So, Magolor wanted Marx to rule the universe with him once he killed Landia. He didn’t want Marx to leave. Though things started going downhill when an accident happened one time while exploring and Magolor was distracted, leaving to Marx having to use Nova’s power to make sure Magolor was safe.

And Magolor was fascinated, and god he was excited. He pried Marx for questions about his wings, constantly stared at them when they were out, and started talking about if he and Marx used their combined powers they could finally kill Landia and get what they want. But Marx didn’t want to. His want for power by then left, and he knew the consequences. He was happy just hanging out with Mags, and didn’t want to risk his life fighting a dragon with a crown of infinite power. But Magolor, despite liking the change of company, was used to being a loner and believed he could do it again since he’s halcandrian. He said Marx could leave if he didn’t want to, and that was when Marx started to see just how desperate Magolor was for the Master Crown. It was all too similar to his own desperation with Nova, and all words were useless and failed to change Magolor’s mind. So Marx left, and Magolor continued. He felt a little bad (and lonely) but pushed it down and decided no turning back and opted to modifying the Starcutter more like a weapon and attacking Landia that way, but failing.

Though he had a backup plan, thanks to Marx. Which brings me to..

The Betrayal

So this is RTDL time, before the betrayal. His back up plan was going to the pink hero Marx ranted about and using them to get the crown. After all, if they could defeat someone with the gift of Nova’s power, they could defeat a wyvern with a crown. They landed, and Magolor met everyone, but he couldn’t stop thinking about a certain someone. Chilly, who volunteered to stay with him while the others collected the spheres and parts (tho it was because he was suspicious). Mags didn’t know this, and assumed he was being nice. So the second person who (he thought) was being friendly with him enough to stay with him, and fill that hole Marx accdientally left by leaving him. He couldn’t not get attatched. He became REALLY REALLY clingy, and did as much as he could to keep himself focused as well as make sure they were friends. It backfired, making Chilly agitated most of the time, but it also semi worked later on. Most of his time between the betrayal and his crash landing was spent monitoring everyone’s progress, and trying to get Chilly to like him so he could do what he had to do during the betrayal.

Now during the betrayal! The closer he got to achieving the crown again, the more desperate and ooc he got. By the time he was at Halcandria, there’d be no way to talk him out of it, since he was THIS close. But there was still one thing wrong that he assumed the crown would fix: he couldn’t go back to being alone. He assumed he would adjust, since that’s how it’s been for his whole life. But now, that he’s actually had two people really close to him (and one leave) that showed him affection and didn’t only use him like in Halcandria, he didn’t want to go back to being alone. He couldn’t. But he came too far to turn back, and continued anyway (not like he ever changed his mind, but he did have moments of doubt). He told Chilly to stay in the Starcutter, wanting to keep him safe, which obviously didn’t go well for him when Chilly responded with freezing the ship from the inside to stop Magolor from using it in its attacks.

And of course, when Magolor sees this, he has a moment of “oh shit I can’t let him do this. I can’t lose someone else.” And tries to convince Chilly to join him. He talks about the two of them ruling and even giving Chilly Popstar to rule. He means it. He wants someone with him, somebody that he genuinely loves and treats him like a friend. He assumed that if he didn’t force Chilly into working with him like Marx, he would join in the end. And like any person with common sense, Chilly denies, loyal to Kirby and Popstar. THIS was the moment Magolor became truly desperate, he tries to convince Chilly to join him but he can barely get any words other than “but you were only friend” out while crying (in the middle of battle lol). Kirby and everyone take this chance to attack, while Magolor is just kind of broken. He fucked up again.

And he’ll be alone.

He has one thing left now, and that’s the power to rule the universe.

And he’s desperate to have this one thing go right for him, and he uses the remaining power of the Master Crown... which brings me to the next topic!

The Master Crown

Full section for the master crown let’s go. It gets its dark power from a leader/creator of dark matter (think 0), and is sentient. It only knows to shroud the world in darkness, and will do whatever it takes to get it. It’s powers are held at bay by Landia, who is Halcandria’s guardian and can resist its powers due to being a magic guardian. Magolor however, isn’t a magic guardian, and can’t resist. To him, it’s a shiny piece of jewelry that’ll make him strong so things can finally go his way.

The way it works is by drawing people in, like a venus fly trap. It just amplify people’s interest in it, as well as bring out the more negative traits about them that makes them easier to control. The most common traits is desperation, impulsiveness, frustration, and determination. And once the crown is on their head, it locks on and is irremovable and works like a parasite, basically completely erasing whoever put it on and molding them to the perfect puppet. Magolor essentially just sped up the process completely by using the last of its power in a desperate attempt to get what he wanted.

After the Betrayal

Magolor, after the betrayal, is left just floating around Another Dimension. He’s exhausted, in a lot of pain, and completely magically drained. He couldn’t even float if he tried, and that uses the bare minimum of magic. He’s stuck here for a long time, and at first, he’s extremely frustrated and upset. He spends a lot of time replaying the events in his head (not magolor soul, he has no memories of that aside from snippets that come into his dreams that are partially due to the master crown’s lasting effect) and just getting more and more angry at everything. He was so close to having control over EVERYTHING, and he lost it over himself the second he used the rest of the power. He was infuriated that he manged to let that stupid puffball beat him, along with their friends.

He cries, screams, shouts, but it doesn’t matter. Rage can only last so long, and it’s not much before he’s just exhausted and tired. He’s given up on escaping, knowing he can’t. He cant form a dimensional portal strong enough to pull him out of a dimension. He only has the skill to use it for teleportation. After a few days, he’s accepted what happened, that this is his fate. He hates being alone, floating in space with no silly jester to crack a joke or scratch his head, and no snowman who’s bell jingled with an adorable tune whenever he laughed and even gave him hugs. He ends up getting habits of scratching his head (despite the pain because of master crown injuries) and hugging himself as a way to fill that hole the two left when leaving. He misses them, and starts to regret going after the crown in the first place. He comes up with scenarios in his head to pass the time as he basically waits for himself to rot. He imagines apologizing and having his friends back. He imagines Marx somehow finding him similar to how Magolor found him. He imagines not being alone, and being happy. Not plagued by agonizing exhaustion and self fury. He even comes to miss Kirby and their friend one he actually realizes the kindness they showed him, since he was too focused before to realize.

He spends a few days in the hell dimension before he finds something. He ends up finding an energy sphere that floats past that was lost during the battle. He grabs and clings to it, now having only one thing from before. It doesn’t make the loneliness any better, but it does make things a little less bareable. But of course, energy spheres are a sphere doomer’s favorite snack, and it doesn’t take long before one comes along really wanting it.

Magolor at first, pushes it away desperate to keep this one thing he had before, and the sphere doomer keeps coming back desperately wanting its food. Eventually, Magolor and the sphere doomer form a slight bond since this was when Magolor started slowly regaining magic again and tries attacking it with his revolution orbs, but it’s just a treat for the sphere doomer. The sphere doomer keeps coming back for more treats and another attempt at a snack, and Magolor feels a little less lonely. Over time, he actually gains enough of its trust to pet it and even talks to it. He names her Lor II.

Lor II is the reason he gets out of Another Dimension and back to Halcandria, via opening a rift. Lor II basically gives Magolor a second chance to make things right, and he immeadiatly takes it. Of course, he has to steal the Starcutter to do it, but he makes his way to Popstar to apologize, because he REALLY regrets his major fuck up and at the very least, he can make things better (and maybe get a chance at being less lonely).

So that’s all I got lmao hope you enjoyed

#kirby series #my hc #magolor #marxochilly #hope this is coherent

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gamerdamemedia · 3 years

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Test Case

So, for a couple weeks now I made a fatal mistake for all fanfic writers: I watched something different that inspired a story idea, & I haven’t been able to get it out of my head & distracting me from other things. So, as I write to exorcise ideas from my head to make space, I decided to put pen to paper this afternoon... or fingers to keyboard, I guess, & write some of it out. Not sure I’ll actually ever share it, as it might stay just my personal pet project, but I figured I could at least share the start. Even writers needs a little side project just for their own enjoyment. Now that studying is done & I’m back from vacation, hopefully I can get back to some regular schedule. I’ve been out of sorts during this crunch time before the big test.

In the grand scheme of the cosmos, freezing to death while drifting along the Etherium wasn't the worst way to go. She could think of many worse ways to die after being spaced. She could fall into the vacuum of space and suffocate, or stray too close to a star and get pulled in by its gravitational force to burn up, sucked into a black hole, or starve (or more likely die from dehydration). But it seemed fate had seen fit to deal her a slightly kinder hand. A hand that still said she was screwed, but only in the gentlest way. With fancy silk sheets and plenty of lubrication.

She would've laughed, but that would exacerbate the splitting headache she already had, so she settled for a chuff. Clearly the delirium of losing core body heat was setting in.

It seemed a rather appropriate bookend to her story, short though it may be. Fitting that her last memory should be bobbing freely along the Etherium waves to wherever they deigned to take her, as it was also her earliest. Gazing up at the endless, twinkling abyss, she could almost imagine the hard wooden deck of her grandfather's old longboat beneath her back. Or maybe the rough fabric of his overalls, with the button that always seemed to poke her in her shoulder blade as she reclined against his portly torso. She smiled to herself then. That's a nice thought, she said to herself, letting her head drift back, supported by nothing but the lack of gravity. It was almost enough to fight off the creeping chill that raced ahead of the numbness as her limbs stopped receiving vital blood. She'd always ridden the waves as they came, be them Etherium or fate, letting them take her where they willed. Why should the end be any different? "A man's heart devises his way, but fate directs his steps," her grandfather would say. Smart man, for just a farmer.

The irony wasn't lost on her, even as her brain began to sluggishly flit around poorly connected thoughts. The woman who always had an escape plan, always left a way out... Lady Luck had robbed her of her one vice. Not that she hadn't tried. It was getting out that had landed her in this situation in the first place. She'd booked passage on a small transport ship out of the Calyn Abyss to... actually, she didn't remember where the vessel was enroute to. Away, was all that mattered. A deal had turned particularly sour, and she needed to disappear in hurry. With enough money in the right hands and a vessel about to pull out of port, nobody asked questions. She'd stepped onto that dock as Absence, and left as Tammy Righte.

Things had been going well, until a bit of turbulence from a passing comet had caused some sort of electrical malfunction. As the transport rocked and swayed, the occupants had tied their lifelines, hoping to ride out the waves. That was when everything started blowing. Something must've shorted, creating a fire below deck. She remembered people screaming as the deck shook. A particularly violent blast caused the ship to tilt and lurch, bucking like a mad bonzabeast, throwing her from the deck. She remembered feeling weightless as she escaped the protective sphere of the ship's artificial gravity. The last thing she remembered was something metallic from the ship hitting her squarely in the face before blacking out.

When she woke an unknown amount of time later, she found herself adrift in space, far from anything to save herself with. Her face ached something fierce, and she'd touched it to feel blood. Without gravity, it couldn't really pour, but she felt it oozing with each pounding pulse of her heart, trickling along her face whenever she turned her head.

Despite the name, one couldn't swim through Etherium currents like water. You went wherever they took you. The knock from the ship had sent her essentially careening through space, and she'd keep going that way thanks to the lack of friction unless something intervened. Not wanting to die, as any warm-blooded being wouldn't, she'd tried to find some way to stop or change her course. But she wasn't near anything. Eventually, hypothermia started to set in, and her limbs became too leaden to move. At that point, she'd resigned herself to her fate. Why die tired?

She reached up a hand to wipe the blood trickling in the corner of her eye, but her aim was sloppy due to not being able to feel her hands anymore. Don't spend your last moments thinking about such things, she told herself. Shouldn't her last moments be happy?

Relaxing back into the Etherium, she went back to imagining herself on her grandfather's boat, bobbing along. They'd spent many a'night floating aimlessly in the sky, the green plains of her home rolling peacefully below them in the breeze. As a little girl, she would sometimes lean out over the side of the longboat, so far her grandfather would have to pull her back to stop her from falling. She'd giggle as he tickled her, tucking her safely to his chest. "Tryin' to fly away, little bird?" he'd ask. "Ya' too young for that, yet." Some nights, if the weather was clear, he'd teach her about the different stars and planets. He'd tell her tales about his brief stint in the Navy, or some adventure from his wild youth-- sometimes they'd even be true! Other times, they'd fall asleep drifting, only to wake up in some random place and go on an "adventure" to get back home. Basic navigational and map-reading skills were an essential pick up. He liked to pretend he was teaching her, but she knew better. Man couldn't find his way out of room with a single door some days.

Her favorite nights, though, were when he'd pull out his old harmonica and play for her. On particularly clear, cool nights like this, his tune would be slow, the notes dragging on for long periods before warbling, bobbing like the waves. She always felt like she was rising and falling in time with the tune. Her hand came up to rest on her breast pocket. Despite not having feeling in her fingers anymore, she knew the harmonica was still safe within. She felt its outline pressing into her chest. Briefly, she thought to take it out and play one final song on the old instrument in memorial, but with her hands as they were, she wouldn't be able to play. And she didn't want to lose it. So, she settled for letting her hand rest there, taking comfort in its presence over her heart.

Everything felt heavy now, to the point she almost expected to start sinking. The organ beneath her hand was beginning to slow as it lost the fight to keep her warm. Non-vital organs would start shutting down soon.

She forced her mind back to more times with her grandfather, this time on land. "Don't think you're too good to put your hands to hard work, little bird," he'd tell her... usually while making her do something around the farm he didn't want to do. Chasing down some ornery creature that didn't want to be hemmed up, most likely. Or time spent fishing at Mrs. Neelie's pond. She didn't actually like to fish, didn't have the patience for it, but she always went to watch him. She swore, her grandfather could be in the middle of an ocean, miles from anything else, and still manage to get snagged on something. Or there was the time he tripped coming down the hill and nearly knocked old Mrs. Neelie into the pond. She'd had to sit down, she'd laughed so hard. "Go ahead, laugh at the old man," he’d warned her.

Her laughter melded into a sob at the end, lips pulled back in a grimace. The stars around her shined even brighter in the light of her tears stuck to her lashes. She felt her lower lip wobble. No one was around, what was the point? She allowed herself to cry, flailing in impotent rage. "I don't want to die!" she shouted to the heavens. Maybe this close, someone would actually hear her and take pity.

There would be no one to mourn her, no one to even report her missing. Absence would be hunted for a while until her pursuers gave up and cut their losses. Tammy Righte would be listed as death in absentia, another sad statistic. All her other alias would only be missed when a contact tried to reach her for something, but swiftly forgotten as they looked elsewhere for someone to do their dirty work. Her more frequent clients might wonder, but it would be a passing question, like the fate of a childhood schoolmate. She'd ghosted through life, taking different names along the way. She went through names like normal people went through clothes: you pick one as needs demand, it gets a little too dirty, discard it and pick out a new one. So many names and alias and identities. Her real name safely locked away.

There was no one left who knew who she really was.

The brief burst of indignation warmed her a little, but the almost absolute zero temperature of space just as quickly sapped it from her, the cold once again cradling her in its loving embrace. Fear threatened to creep up faster than the cold. She'd never been the religious sort. She didn't know if there was anything after this. But if there was, she was sure she'd be going to same place as her grandfather, and that thought offered some bittersweet comfort. Likely not heaven, but if he was there that would be heaven enough. She wrapped her arms around herself as best she could, imagining it was the warm embrace of her grandfather. Droplets floated up from her lashes as she smiled. She'd held his hand when he died, a smile on his face. She kinda wished she had someone to hold her hand, now. "Meet me at the bar, old man," she whispered. "I'm buying this time." Then she closed her eyes, letting her thoughts drift to happier times as the cold, gentle embrace of death shrouded her.

#writing #side project #pilot #curious if anyone will know what this is even from #fiction #fanfiction

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obwjam · 3 years

Note

also imagine: Obi Wan (or Rex, but i'm in an Obi Wan mood) doing important work, sitting at a computer or something and his tiny is slowly falling asleep next to him. he doesn't know they're asleep until they shiver a bit, and that's when he realizes they're cold, so he just abandons his work and picks them up and holds them very gently and close until he's falling asleep, too <3

“Obi-Wan... are you almost done?”

You could barely keep your eyes open. It had been a long couple of weeks — battle was nonstop, and since you were in the care of Obi-Wan and the 212th, you went where they went. You had to have visited over a dozen planets in such a short span of time. All the travel had distorted your sense of time, and floating around on a ship where sunrise and sunset didn’t exist made for many restless sleeps.

Obi-Wan was finishing up some work for the council. Sitting in front of a computer was his least favorite thing to do, but being a general required its fair share of boring tasks to be completed. Mission reports were one of them.

“Almost, little one,” he mumbled, trying to conceal his own fatigue. Not only did he have clones to protect, but he spent hours worrying about his tiny friend, too.

He glanced down — your eyes were fluttering. You couldn’t help but let out a huge yawn. Obi-Wan smiled warmly and chuckled.

“Tired, are we?”

You stretched, and Obi-Wan’s heart fluttered at the little movements pressing against his arm.

“Yeah... tired.”

Obi-Wan hummed. “It’s been quite the journey for you.”

“Yeah,” you nodded sleepily. “I’ve never...” You yawned again. “I’ve never seen so many worlds. I’m... glad you let me come.”

“Well, I couldn’t just leave you all alone on Coruscant.” He paused to finish typing up a long sentence. “You make good company.”

“And your tunic is... very comfy.”

You squirmed deeper into the folds of his sleeve, trying to pull it over you. One thing you’d never get used to was how cold it was in space.

Obi-Wan battled through his growing tiredness, sniffing as he started to type a little bit faster so he could finish his report and get you both to sleep.

A small shiver snapped his concentration. Surprised, he looked down at you, fast asleep but trembling. You arms were wrapped tightly around your body and you were squeezing your eyes tight. The sleeve of his tunic only came up to your waistline.

You were freezing.

Obi-Wan frowned and let out a small aww of sympathy. He was used to the temperature, but for someone so small who rarely ever left the surface of a planet, it must have been frigid. And those clothes look awfully thin.

The computer whirred, and his eyes darted from you, to the bright blue screen, and back to you. He could still feel your tremors.

“Well,” Obi-Wan sighed. “The mission report can always wait.”

Waving his hand, he shut off the computer and slowly stood up, moving his free arm over and cupping his hand beneath you. Fast asleep, you squirmed a little before settling on your side, arms and legs pulled in close with the rest of your body leaning into the curl of Obi-Wan’s fingers.

Obi-Wan signed with a smile and gently rubbed his thumb across your back. You shivered, but this time in a good way. Pulling his hand close to his chest, Obi-Wan slowly made his way to his quarters. He passed a grumpy Cody on the way, who was coming back from the mess to start writing his own mission report.

“General,” he grumbled in acknowledgement. He stopped walking when he saw what — or who — was curled up in his hand.

“Oh. Sorry,” he said, rubbing his neck. “They asleep?”

“You are quite observational, Cody,” Obi-Wan smirked tiredly. “I suggest you follow their lead and get some rest yourself.”

Cody rubbed his eyes. “Just as long as I can sleep in my own bed, sir.”

Obi-Wan let out a small laugh. “Indeed. Goodnight, Commander.”

“G’night,” Cody yawned, waving his hand in a lazy salute as he dragged himself down the hall. He was so tired he forgot to tack on a customary “general” or “sir” at the end of his parting message. He could wait to file that mission report until morning.

Obi-Wan padded into his quarters. He had subconsciously taken his free hand and cupped it around you in an effort to keep you as warm as possible until he could find you a blanket.

But when Obi-Wan slipped off his boots, sat down on the edge of his bed and let out a yawn of his own, he suddenly became very disinterested at the idea of getting up again. His eyes darted to the foot of the bed, where his own blanket sat, folded neatly.

He hummed, looking down at you when you curled up even tighter in his hand. You weren’t shivering much anymore. He swung his legs onto the bed, leaned back and, using the Force, pulled the blanket up over him. He gently lowered his palm to his chest. In your sleep, you signed in contentment. It was much warmer now.

These were the moments that Obi-Wan allowed his heart to be warm. No longer were you scared and cowering at the mere sight of him — you were asleep in the comfort of his hold. In fact, there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

“Goodnight, little one,” Obi-Wan whispered, settling his head onto his pillow. He swore he heard you murmur something back.

For the first time in forever, he fell asleep with a smile.

#sorry did i go too overboard #i was super cold last night and i was just imagining this.......#obi wan literally radiating heat at all times #warmest mf in the galaxy #obwrites #star wars g/t

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iatethepomegranate · 3 years

Text

We are not alone in the dark with our demons, Chapter 12

In which Caleb buys a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha, becomes a professor, learns how to be a person, and grapples with how to help the other Volstrucker survivors, and his students, in a way he had never been helped.

Content warnings: References to Caleb's backstory, depression, poverty

Chapter summary: Caleb and the Nein meet up in Nicodranas, and he can no longer delay telling them of his failure to protect someone who desperately needed him. But, as it turns out, he was not the only person keeping secrets about that day.

Chapter notes: This is a somewhat chaotic chapter. Enjoy and let chaos reign, I guess! Chapter title is from Three by Sleeping At Last

****

Chapter 12: A mess of a story I'm ashamed to tell but I'm slowly learning how to break this spell

Essek teleported the four of them to the Blooming Grove the following morning to pick up Caduceus, who offered to message Wensforth to save the wizards the spell. They had breakfast in the Grove with the Clays, and got their hands dirty in the garden for a while, until Caleb rolled the aches from his shoulders and began to draw the teleportation circle to Tidepeak Tower.

“I might have to go back earlier than the rest of you,” said Beauregard. “Dairon’s guiding the monks on the Nico hunt for now, but they’re super busy.”

“We can send you back whenever you need,” said Essek.

Caleb’s next few chalk strokes were a bit more aggressive than they needed to be. It was hard not to feel guilty for leaving Rexxentrum while Nico was out on his own and people were searching for him. Essek sat on the floor by his side, knocking their knees together. He felt better, and no one made any mention of his silent outburst.

He completed the final stroke and the five of them rushed through, landing in a familiar tower, where Wensforth waited in the doorway.

“Welcome, welcome.” Wensforth guided them down the stairs. “The master is eager to speak with you.”

Yussa was already arranged on a couch in the sitting area on the ground floor, delicate fingers holding a teacup. Once borderline inscrutable, the man smiled at them as he often did these days. Especially to Caleb, on whom Jester thought Yussa had a crush. Caleb was more of the mind that Yussa saw him as little more than a precocious child, given their respective ages, but his particular fondness was evident all the same.

“Oremid tells me you are teaching at the Soltryce Academy now,” Yussa said. “Sit. We should talk.”

“Hi, Yussa,” Beauregard said, a little pointedly. “How’ve you been?”

“I am well, Beauregard. It is good to see you. All of you.”

They arranged themselves on the soft couches in the space, Caleb sitting across Yussa for ease of conversation, given the man clearly had things to say today. Essek was at Caleb’s side, slightly further than he would be just around the Nein, but close enough to be a comfort whenever Caleb’s anxiety spiked nonetheless.

Essek had been to Yussa’s tower a few times in Caleb’s company before. Given everything the Nein had put Yussa through already, the man had taken the presence of a fugitive of the Kryn Dynasty in his stride.

With a gesture from Yussa, his teapot lifted and poured itself into the other five cups on the little table in the centre of the room. Then, in turn, each cup floated into the hands of his visitors. Caleb accepted his with a soft thanks, slipping into Zemnian out of habit. He had spoken more Zemnian in the last few weeks than he had in years. It was always the little words, the pleases and thank yous, the hellos and goodbyes, that stuck the hardest.

“So…” Yussa honed in on him again. “Teaching. A step down from the original job they offered you, I hear.”

“Teaching is a better use of my time than spying.” There were more things Caleb could say about the Archmage of Civil Influence as a position, and most of them were far less polite. “Astrid always wanted that position more than I did anyway.”

“Good. You might survive to old age after all, for a human.”

Essek flinched a little at the reminder of Caleb’s shorter lifespan. Yussa’s eyes tracked the movement, but he let it pass without comment.

“Are we third-wheeling for you guys again?” Beau asked, but it wasn’t really a question. “Because we can, like, go.”

Caduceus placed a package on Yussa’s table. “Here, I brought that tea you liked last time.”

“Yes, thank you. You are all welcome to stay if you like.”

Beauregard was already standing up. “Nah, I think we’re good. Cool to see you again with your face where it belongs.” She awkwardly finger-gunned in Yussa’s direction, backing towards the door.

She, Yasha and Caduceus left the tower.

Yussa watched them go with amusement. “It seems my social graces are rather rusty.”

“They don’t mind,” said Caleb. “They have met too many wizards to be offended.” Essek snickered into his hand, finally relaxing a bit. “So, you were saying?”

“Teaching is good work, if you can tolerate the children,” said Yussa. “I did it myself for a time. For one to turn down an archmage position… you must have a goal.”

“Leave the Empire better than I found it,” Caleb said. That encompassed all his knotted up feelings about it.

Yussa raised a single well-kept eyebrow. “Interesting. What is your definition of ‘better’, if I may ask?”

Caleb did have a vision for this, and the situation with Felix and Nico had thrown into sharp, painful relief how far there was to go, and how much pain he would never be able to prevent. “No more children thrown on the pyre. No more stolen childhoods. No more abuse. A government and its mages who choose to consider simple human cost, before they consider their own selfish ambitions.” Caleb was typically more reserved with Yussa, but the more he spoke of this, the harder it became to restrain his emotions. “No more wizards with a god complex who think themselves above basic compassion and ethics. No more butchering the innocent to grease the wheels of war. Just… no more.”

“A lofty goal,” Yussa said, quiet. “One that would take the remainder of my lifetime, or even young Essek’s lifetime, let alone yours.”

“I know. Hence the importance of teaching these things to those who will come after me.”

Yussa hummed thoughtfully. “I wish you luck. More powerful men than yourself have tried, and been consumed.”

“Been there, done that. Have the trauma.” Caleb wasn’t sure where he found the capacity to joke, even flatly, about all of this. Sometimes it was easier to get the point across if he allowed for a bit of sarcasm. “In my experience, the children put at the mercy of these people may need the most help. And that is something I can do.”

“I will watch your progress.” Yussa finished his tea, setting the cup aside. “Now, enough of mundane matters. I have been tinkering with Willi some more. Would you like to see the results?”

“Always.” Caleb missed that golem terribly.

They lost a few hours discussing the golems of the Happy Fun Ball, and comparing notes about the pre-Calamity Aeormatons the Nein had encountered. Caleb and Essek had run across Devexian a few times in their travels since. It was a good use of time, and it settled Caleb’s nerves. He felt better.

***

Once they left Tidepeak Tower, Essek disguised as a blonde half-elf, they headed over to Veth’s place. Caleb was somewhat nervous about this, because he knew she would see through any of his bullshit and know he was going through something. And then he would have to explain everything to the rest of the Nein. And, of course, Jester already had an inkling thanks to Astrid.

There was no getting out of this. And it wasn’t that Caleb didn’t want them to know, exactly. He had just grown tired of explaining it. And he knew what little equilibrium he had managed to find would fall away as soon as Veth said or did anything in response, and he would break all over again.

Nevertheless, he messaged Veth as soon as they stepped out of the tower. “Hallo, Veth. Essek and I are on our way to your place. Be there soon.” Then, for old time’s sake: “You can reply to this message.”

The first sound that came through was Veth’s trademark screech. “Caleb! We made lunch. Get over here!” A split-second’s pause. “Good shot! Oh, sorry Lebby. Luc shot Beau in the ass. Like mother, like son.”

Luc was going to be a menace as a teenager. Caleb intended to be around to see it. And probably try to save a little bit of Yeza’s sanity if possible.

Caleb and Essek took their time wandering through Nicodranas. The streets were filled with people out for lunch, enticing scents curling through the air. Caleb and Essek stopped by a bakery to grab some pastries for the group (mostly Jester)--there had evidently been some Zemnian influence on Nicodranas, or the other way around, as treats such as bee stings could be found in both areas. Nicodranas made them a touch sweeter and stickier.

Caleb also grabbed a fresh loaf of bread, though he did not shove his hands into it this time. He hadn’t known that was a poverty thing until Beau and Jester had reacted so strongly to him doing it that one time. He still thought it was a useful trick, but it apparently unnerved people. Bread mittens had kept him warm many times in the freezing cold when he had no one to look out for him, and had to choose between food and something as simple as mittens.

Anyway, bread was wonderful.

They wound through the streets until they reached Veth’s place. There was an unpleasant feeling in the pit of Caleb’s stomach that he couldn’t quite describe. Unease or dread felt too uncharitable, but the feeling was somewhere in that neighbourhood. Essek slipped his hand into Caleb’s, gently leading him to the door. Essek knocked, and it was thrown open in seconds and Veth had already thrown herself at Caleb’s abdomen, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist.

Caleb almost broke then and there. He carefully rested a hand on the top of her head, sliding his fingers through her hair, looking ahead but not really seeing anything. Veth gave him a final squeeze and stepped back, grabbing his hand on the way. It took Caleb a second too long to lock eyes with her, by which time whatever joy had been on her face had been replaced with worry.

“Hi, Lebby,” she said, in a careful soft tone she used whenever he was teetering on the brink of crashing down. “What’s the matter?”

Caleb took a careful breath, and spoke in a measured tone. “I will tell you, but we should eat first. I may not be able to later.”

Veth tugged him inside, Essek taking care of the door and following them through the house. The rest of the Nein were already crammed into the kitchen, stuffing their faces with a simple stew that smelled delightful. It must have been one of the recipes Veth remembered from Felderwin.

Jester leapt upon him with a hug, dragging Essek in with her. “You’re here! It’s so good to see you! We got chased by a dragon turtle again and I turned it into a sea slug like last time, and we got away!”

“This happened at sea, I assume?” asked Caleb, who knew enough about Jester to take nothing at face value.

“Of course, Caleb. Don’t be silly!” Jester let him go, and booped his nose. He managed not to flinch.

Caleb wordlessly held out the pastries and bread. Jester squealed and grabbed them off him, shoving them into the centre of the table. Veth grabbed an enormous knife and began to cut the bread while the rest of the Nein shuffled around to make room for two more chairs. It was a tight fit, and Caleb was firmly sandwiched between Essek and Beauregard, but it felt somewhat akin to Essek’s nighttime pressure on his back and sometimes chest that crushed his soul back into his body. Their thighs were jammed together now, and it was easy to hook his ankle around Essek’s and keep himself grounded. For now.

A bowl was shoved in his direction and he ate mechanically, dimly aware of the chatter around him. Luc’s voice was among the loudest, and it was good to hear his voice. After everything the boy had been through, on Caleb’s account no less. No matter what anyone else said.

Caleb was going to spiral if he didn’t get a hold of himself. And he wanted to have a good time in Nicodranas; he didn’t know when he would be back here. Not to mention he would prefer not to retraumatise the already traumatised toddler by having a breakdown in the middle of lunch.

So he ate. Slowly. Methodically. He silently counted each mouthful, because he needed to count something. And when he had finished the stew, he felt more present in his surroundings. Veth distributed slices of bread with little pots of spiced olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and the Nein continued to chatter away as they tore off pieces of bread, dunked them into the oil, and finished off the loaf. Caleb was glad they liked it. And that Veth had been here long enough to have picked up a local bread tradition to share with them all.

“This is good bread, Caleb,” said Jester.

“I went to the bakery you recommended,” Caleb replied.

“That was months ago! You remembered!”

Caleb tapped his temple.

“Caleb has a very good memory,” Veth said warmly, as if everyone at the table wasn’t already keenly aware.

“I’m a bit curious about that,” said Kingsley, his tail smacking Beauregard in the arm, ignoring her as she slapped it off her. “Have you always been like that?”

“My memory was always good, ja,” said Caleb. It was rare for Kingsley to ask about someone’s past; very Molly-esque, not that Caleb would ever tell him that. “I could count things very well, especially time, and naturally had good recall. I did develop it further at school, but it was always there.”

Most people who found out about Caleb’s memory either saw it as an interesting party trick, or a useful tool if they were more like Trent. He did not speak of the downsides of having a near-infallible memory very often.

But Kingsley was looking at him with sharpness in his eyes behind the easy smile. “Maybe I’m biased since I barely remember anything that this body did before a few months ago, but that sounds feckin’ awful.” He said it lightly, but Caleb could hear the edge in his voice. Kingsley had been around when Caleb had told his story to Beauregard in the Grove; he had the context, and his own experiences, to put things together.

“A blessing and a curse, ja.”

The mood at the table threatened to darken, but Luc was thankfully oblivious to it, and instead started babbling about a huge bug the Brenattos had found in the garden yesterday. And that his father had screamed very loudly. Caleb sat back from the conversation, but was pleased when the tension broke.

“It really was adorable,” Veth was saying.

Yeza rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Yes, and you were my valiant saviour once again.”

But lunch was just about wrapping up at this point, and Veth would soon turn her focus back onto Caleb and his problems. Caleb’s lunch sat like a stone in his stomach, and maybe he shouldn’t have eaten quite that much. But it was hard to say no to a home-cooked meal surrounded by the people he loved most in this world. Those who were still alive, anyway.

Veth, charitably, let Caleb have a few extra minutes while she and Yeza cleared the table before she sat back down with a sigh, and turned her eyes to him. “All right. What’s the matter?”

Yeza picked Luc up. “I think we’ll go for a walk.” He didn’t know every little thing about Caleb’s shit, but he knew enough to understand whatever they were about to discuss was not something Luc needed to hear. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

As soon as they were gone, Jester spoke up. “Astrid said some stuff happened, but she wouldn’t tell me what.”

Caleb sighed deeply. “All right. I will tell you. Some of you already know what happened. I would appreciate your assistance.”

Beauregard knocked her knee against his. “We’ll help. But you should start.”

So he did. Caleb told the Nein that Astrid had been reaching out to the Volstrucker, and that two boys had been unaccounted for. He led most of the explanation of how they had come to understand what this probably meant, and to make plans for it. Beauregard began to speak up a bit when he spoke of finding Felix and convincing him to speak to them, of bringing in Caduceus to lift the modified memory. Caduceus began to add pieces where relevant, of the things he saw. Of scrying on Nico, and learning where he was.

Beauregard led the discussion of rushing after him and finding the house ablaze, and Caleb very briefly spoke of his experience on the upper floor, and finding the bodies of Nico’s parents. The memories were too vivid, and choked him up a bit, so Beauregard took over once again, and then Caduceus after they had traded places to help Caleb try to save the Baumanns.

“I do have a confession to make,” said Caduceus.

“Oh?” said Caleb, who couldn’t say much else at the moment.

“I was still scrying when Nico lit the fire,” Caduceus admitted. “I saw how he reacted to it. I chose not to inform you, because I feared leaving the scry before your arrival, in case something else happened. I… in the moment, I did not think telling you would have helped, but I wanted to apologise. I wanted to explain all this earlier, but...” Caduceus didn’t finish--maybe he had realised that would be jumping a bit ahead in the story. But Caleb understood.

There had been a small shred of curiosity in the back of Caleb’s mind, but he had been too preoccupied to give it much thought. But Caduceus’s explanation made sense; he had weighed up the benefits of both options and chosen the one he thought best in the moment. Leaving the scry to tell Caleb the house was already ablaze probably wouldn’t have made much difference. The Baumanns had already been long dead by the time he reached them. So Caleb harboured no ill will towards Caduceus for the difficult choice he had made, nor did he resent Caduceus for not telling him sooner, when Caleb had been far too unwell.

“There is no need to apologise,” Caleb told him. “You made a hard decision. Thank you for telling me now, when I am better able to handle it. Are you all right?”

Caduceus smiled sadly at him. “I understand you better now. Not in the way either of us wanted, but I’m all right now that I’ve told you.” He straightened, clearing his throat. “Anyway, where were we?”

They briefly talked about the night they had Nico, and that it had been a bad one for Caleb, and then Essek chipped in to describe the Greater Restoration spell the following morning. And the chaos that had ensued. Caleb spoke briefly about the chase on his side of things, with Beau and Yasha contributing theirs.

“We didn’t find him,” said Beauregard. “Monks and Volstrucker are still on the lookout. Caleb thinks the kid probably ran for the woods to get some cover. He taught Felix the Sending spell and took him back home to his parents.”

“Felix and I message Nico regularly,” said Caleb. “No responses yet.” And, because he was with the Nein, and because they loved him, he said, “I… feel a bit useless, at the moment.”

Jester reached across the table, tears in her eyes, and squeezed his hand. “You’re not useless, Caleb. You’re really smart, and really cool.”

“You’ve done a lot for those kids,” said Fjord. “I’m sure they both appreciate it, even if Nico isn’t talking to you. He’ll find you when he’s ready.”

“Maybe,” Caleb murmured. He was tired.

Veth was watching him, mouth downturned at the corners. “Caleb. Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve come over.”

Caleb didn’t know what to say to her. An apology wasn’t enough. And he didn’t know if he could explain it right now. He looked away from her, down at the table, and tried not to crack apart with guilt. He was not doing a very good job.

A flash of movement, and Veth had launched herself across the table and into his lap. “Oh, Cay Cay, honey. No. Shh.” She squished his cheeks, which he only now realised were wet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. Caleb buried his face in her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m not angry, and I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk about it. It’s okay.”

That only made him feel worse. Breathing was hard. Two hands, belonging to two different people, found their way to his back, rubbing slow circles. The more delicate hand--Essek’s--applied a little more pressure than the other. Probably Beauregard. She was next to him.

“You’re all right, Caleb,” said Caduceus. “We’ve got you.”

Caleb laughed wetly, remembering those exact words from Fjord as they had guided him home after a panic attack behind the coffee shop. Maybe this was a thing now. Or at least a thing from the Wildmother devotees of the Nein.

The rest of the day was quiet. Caleb composed himself after a while, and set up his lesson plans and speech notes on the floor of the Brenattos’ living room. A cup of dead people tea at his side. Surrounded by the chatter of his friends, and Essek’s head on his shoulder as he worked through a book written in Undercommon.

Yeza and Luc returned after a while, and Luc napped on the couch at Caleb’s back. Breathing loudly into his ear. It should have been annoying, but really wasn’t. The boy woke up some time later and wriggled his way onto the floor, peppering Caleb with questions about what he was doing. Caleb was more than happy to answer, hoping he had simplified it enough for the boy. Luc was very clever, but he was also very young.

Most of the Nein drifted away once Caleb seemed more stable. Jester, Fjord and Kingsley went off to check on their crew (including Vandran), and hang out with Marion. Caleb expected he would see her at the Chateau in the evening for dinner. Beau and Yasha had wandered off to the fish market.

Caduceus was still around, and Caleb suspected he actually felt much worse than he was letting on. But he seemed content to chat with Yeza and Veth over tea in the kitchen. Caleb caught snatches of the conversation; it seemed they were trying to explain some alchemical concepts to him. There was a good chance that Caduceus did have some knowledge in the area, but not in the same scientific way. Which made such a conversation all the more entertaining, as fragments of it drifted into the living room as the Brenattos and Caduceus tried to reconcile their wildly different experiences of very similar things.

Luc had just finished asking Caleb what a cantrip was, drawn from his lesson notes for Beginner’s Transmutation. The boy climbed into his lap, resting his head against Caleb’s collarbone. At first, Caleb thought he was still groggy from his nap. Then:

“Uncle Caleb?”

“Ja?”

“Are you having a bad day?”

That was a far cry from most of Caleb’s interactions with Luc, where he was mostly playing the part of the fun uncle with cool magic tricks. Essek hadn’t spent as much time with Luc, and was still phenomenally awkward around both him and Yeza, and even he seemed to notice the shift. Essek froze, his eyes glued to the one spot on the page.

“What do you mean?” Caleb asked Luc.

Luc shrugged. “Your eyes are puffy.”

Caleb chuckled at that; trust a small child to have no filter. “Ja, okay. I cried a bit earlier. Your mother and our friends took good care of me, though.” He thought back to Luc’s question. “We all have bad days, ja?”

Luc nodded, face pressed against Caleb’s shirt. “I had a bad day yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“I was remembering something that hurt a lot. And sometimes when I remember it, I get really sad and can’t think about anything else.”

Caleb, unfortunately, knew exactly what Luc was remembering. Veth didn’t bring it up often, but she had occasionally mentioned that Luc would have entire days after waking from nightmares of fire where he was just… out of sorts. Not wanting to play. Or even shoot his crossbow. Caleb could relate to the feeling.

So he set his pen aside and wrapped his arms around Luc. “Ja, that happens to me, too. Shall we stick together for today? We can cheer each other up.”

Luc just nodded, and Caleb rocked him side-to-side. The boy was probably still recovering, both from his disturbed sleep and the depressive episode.

“You’re good with him,” Essek said later, when Luc had fallen asleep against his chest.

Yeza ducked his head out of the kitchen, probably concerned that Luc was up to mischief in his silence, but his expression cleared when he saw the boy was sleeping. “Thank you, Caleb.”

Luc was not only a child, but also a halfling child, so it was a simple matter for even Caleb to hold him throughout the day. He felt better having someone else to care for, and Luc seemed to find comfort in Caleb’s attention.

***

That evening, they all visited the Lavish Chateau for dinner. Essek was in his blonde half-elf disguise again while the group ate on the ground floor. Luc was still clingy with Caleb, but he genuinely didn’t mind. He balanced the boy in his lap while they ate dinner. The chef had prepared a mildly spiced rice dish for the table that was easy for both of them to eat in this situation.

Marion joined them, graceful and lovely as ever. Like Yeza, she had not held ill will for what had befallen her during Trent’s pursuit. In fact, on more than one occasion, she had joked that she should thank “that horrible man” for forcing her to spend time with Babenon while in hiding. The situation was still complicated between the pair, and Caleb understood those kinds of complications better than most of the Nein. But she seemed happier than she had been in a long time.

Jester had apparently updated Marion with every shred of information she had gleaned from the Nein, so Marion was already aware of Caleb’s new job, and that he and the lesbians had a house together in Rexxentrum.

“It’s quite the change, I imagine,” she said.

“Oh, ja. I still wake up sometimes and have to pinch myself.”

“If you ever find yourself in Rexxentrum,” said Beauregard, “we’d love to have you.” She even managed not to look constipated or aggressive while saying it, which was a far cry from the prickly woman Caleb had met in Trostenwald all that time ago.

Marion smiled warmly. “Unlikely, but I will be sure to take you up on the offer if the need arises. How is your work, Beauregard?”

She glanced at Caleb, and sighed. “Complicated. But Caleb’s ex is the new archmage in the Assembly, and she’s actually not a shitty person most of the time. So that helps.”

Marion looked to Caleb, amused. “How does she feel about your new partner?”

Gods, Caleb had never gotten to have this kind of conversation with his own mother. So, even though the reminder hurt a bit, he indulged her. “Oh. Uh. Well, you see…”

“Caleb’s had a threesome,” Jester supplied helpfully.

“I see.” Now Marion looked very entertained. “We all have hidden depths. The two people who came to warn us about your teacher?”

“Ja.” Caleb’s face was hot, and probably as red as his hair. “They are… respectful of us. But they also told me they would, ah…” He remembered there was a small child on his lap who absolutely did not need to go around telling people he would cut off their balls. “They would cut off an important part of his anatomy if he ever hurt me. So, I think they approve.”

Essek made a choked sound. “You did not tell me this.”

“I was preoccupied.” Caleb didn’t need to elaborate; Essek would figure out what he meant.

Essek relaxed marginally, and knocked their knees together. “Right.” He wasn’t the type for public displays of affection, even if he didn’t have to worry about drawing attention to himself.

Marion looked to Essek. “Good luck.”

He laughed nervously. “Thank you. I will need it.”

“You’ll be fine,” Caleb said. Astrid and Wulf cared too much for Caleb to hurt him, now that they were no longer in a situation where it was required of them.

“Moral of the story,” Beauregard said, already three cups in. “Caleb’s got game.”

“I really do not,” Caleb said flatly.

“Real recognises real, Caleb, and you’re lookin’ real familiar.”

Caleb sighed, relieved that Luc was preoccupied with a puzzle cube he had brought the Brenattos last time he was in town. “We have talked about this before.”

“Yeah, but it’s different in front of Marion. She knows what I’m talking about.”

Marion chuckled softly behind her hand. “Indeed I do.”

“Caleb’s a loving guy, if you know what I mean,” said Jester, and her eyebrow waggle was too much for him to bear. Caleb did not stop loving people, and while it was easier to deal with his feelings for Jester now they were both in stable, happy relationships, there would always be an edge for Caleb. A point where he had to step back.

Kingsley, also quite drunk at this point, was biting his lip while he watched Caleb. “Oh, really?” The flirting from Kingsley was far easier to handle, even if the ghost of Molly made any joy bittersweet.

“That’s quite enough, I think,” said Essek. Gods, Caleb was both relieved and terrified by how well the man could read him these days.

Kingsley and Jester both pouted, and Caleb pounded back his glass of wine so he didn’t have to look at them.

Later, as Caleb carried Luc through the nighttime streets alongside Essek, Veth and Yeza, Essek tugged gently on his sleeve.

“Maybe this is a bad time,” Essek said quietly, tilting his head to check that Luc was asleep. He was. “And I do not expect answers you do not wish to give. But, may I ask you something?”

Caleb glanced ahead, where Veth had grabbed Yeza’s ass; they weren’t listening to this conversation. “All right.”

“I know the nature of our circumstances means we cannot be together all the time,” Essek said quietly. “I had a… proposal, I suppose. I don’t know how to word it, or if you will be insulted. But I notice you are very…” He cleared his throat. “What the fuck am I saying? You are a sexual person, and I enjoy that very much about you. And while we are together, I am happy for us both to fulfill our needs with each other.”

“But?” Caleb had not fully recovered from Jester and Kingsley at the Chateau.

“Well, I was wondering. You know I do not experience attraction as often as you do. That I need to be close to someone, and I am close to very few people. You are the first in many years to have caught my interest in this way. But I know it’s not the same for you.”

“Essek, I love you, but please get to the point.”

“Right.” Essek chuckled, and it was out of sheer discomfort. “I just wanted to say, that if you choose to scratch that, ah, itch while I am not around, I would be okay with that.”

Caleb didn’t know what he had expected from Essek, but certainly not that. “Oh. Um. Good to know.”

Essek glanced around in the dark, evidently found nothing of concern, and kissed Caleb’s cheek. “You are still my priority in that department. And I want to remain yours as well.”

“You are.”

“Good. There will be times when we are apart for a long time. You are still mine, through all of it, but I don’t mind if you, ah, take your pleasures as you need them.”

“That is… generous.” Caleb’s mind was not coping with this conversation at all. “I will… think about it.”

The Brenatto home came into view at that point, and Caleb was relieved that it effectively ended this discussion. Caleb had never really talked about it, but he had also never hidden from Essek the fact he had a lot of feelings for many people going at any one time. Essek came first. Always. And he wasn’t sure if he would ever take Essek up on the offer to invite someone else into his bed in Essek’s absence. But it was good of him to say.

He felt seen, in a strange way. Even though Essek was firmly monogamous, and extremely demisexual, he understood Caleb better than most.

So, as long as Essek wasn’t being self-sacrificing by offering this, Caleb was grateful for it. Even if he never acted on it. He couldn’t think about it right now. Probably wouldn’t for a long time. And if he did think about it, he certainly would not be doing that while Essek was very much within his reach, rendering the offer irrelevant.

They stepped inside the house after Veth and Yeza, and offered to watch Luc for a while. Though no one said anything explicitly for fear of Luc waking and hearing the conversation, it had evidently been some time since Veth and Yeza had been intimate together.

So Caleb and Essek sat in the sitting room for a while, quietly working on their respective studies, with Luc napping in Caleb’s arms.

#caleb widogast #essek thelyss #shadowgast #critical role #cr2 #fanfiction #my fics #the pomegranate's professor widogast fic

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trade-baby-blues · 4 years

Text

Blink

Pairing: Jim x Reader

Word Count: 2052

Warnings: angsty!! major injury, mentions of death, depression etc

A/N: Requested by an anon. Definitely more inspired by the song Andria by La Dispute than the song you sent me but...I hope it still satisfies you! Will also post it on AO3 later and update with a link to that as well!

“I promise I’m fine,” Jim said, flashing his best smile. He even squinted his eyes a little, hoping it would make it more realistic, but there was no fooling Teresa Ruiz. She regarded him the way one would a work of modern art at a museum. She looked at the lines on his face and tried to parse a meaning from them, tried to study every rise and valley in his skin as if it would reveal some great truth. She looked at him like he was infinite. It made Jim realize just how small he was.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He began to drum his fingers against the arm of the chair until he heard the scratch of pen on paper. “What are you writing now,” Jim asked, desperate to fill the silence.

“My grocery list,” Teresa said nonchalantly. “At least one of us should get something out of this session.”

“Look,” Jim said, leaning forward again, “we don’t have to keep doing this. You could just sign my release forms, and then I’ll be cleared for duty and out of your hair.”

“I could.” Teresa kept writing. Jim watched her, listened to the scratching of the pen as it grew louder and louder until it seemed to be coming from inside his own skull.

“You could, but?”

“But I don’t believe you’re fine.”

“God, how would you even know how I am when you’re writing your grocery list?” Jim threw himself back against the chair, allowing his hands to clench around the arms and shutting his eyes against the office and the world and her.

Teresa sighed and dropped the notepad onto Jim’s lap. His eyes opened as his hands found the pages. “Oh,” he said softly.

It wasn’t a grocery list. Of course it wasn’t a grocery list.

Lack of interests. Refusal to open up. Fear of loss. Fear of silence.

"Fear of airports," Jim quirked his eyebrow up. "How do you figure that one, doc?"

Teresa leaned forward to grab her pad back. "Because your jaw clenches every time you mention it."

"I'm not scared of flying," Jim said, trying his best to relax his jaw. He hadn't noticed how tense it was until Teresa mentioned it.

"I didn't say you were."

"And I'm not scared of silence either. That's all there is in space."

"Prove it."

Jim snapped his jaw shut and crossed his arms, fully aware that he was acting like a child. His eyes bounced wildly around the room from the clipboard in Teresa's hand to the clock on the wall which refused to go faster. Was it even moving at all? After an eternity, the secondhand dragged itself forward once. Twice. Three times.

"Why would I be scared of airports?"

"Because of what they represent."

Jim scoffed. Still, his eyes bounced around the room. "And what's that?"

"You tell me."

"This is so stupid. They don't mean anything, and I've got better things to do that wax poetic about the 'deeper meaning'," Jim punctuated his outburst with finger quotes as he stood to leave the office. His hand was on the door handle when Teresa spoke again, freezing him in his tracks:

"Loss," she said. "They're full of goodbyes."

"Yeah, so is this office. Goodbye," Jim said as he pulled the door open. His mouth was curled in a smirk yet he couldn't help feeling like he'd lost this round.

She doesn't know what she's talking about. Jim tried to comfort himself. This is pointless. I'm not scared of airports. They don't mean anything.

Jim kept these reassurances up all the way back to your apartment - his apartment. It was just his now, he had to remind himself. He fought back a wince as he hit the light switch, half expecting you to be fast asleep on the couch as he often found you: hair loose around your chin, a thin spot of drool creeping from the corner of your mouth, and, if he really strained his ears, Jim could hear the softest snores drifting from your mouth to his ears.

Instead, the silence roared at him until Jim turned on whatever was queued up on the music player. He turned the volume up until he could feel it in his teeth. He could hear Teresa’s voice in his head saying “scared of silence” and turned the music up more until even that became a distant whisper under the heavy bass.

Jim could feel your hand on his, your fingers brushing his wrist. He held onto you like his life depended on it, like he would float away if you let go of him. You brushed your knuckles against his cheek and his eyes fluttered up to you. He couldn’t remember ever being this nervous. His heart beat faster than it ever had - faster than when he stole his step-dad’s car, faster than his first lift-off in the Enterprise. He felt dizzy on you.

You giggled, trailing your fingers down his cheek to his lips as you leaned in. Your lips ghosted over his and Jim melted into you.

His eyes opened, hands fisted into the sheets below him, and sighed. Jim rolled onto his back to stare at his ceiling. He could feel your lips on his still. His hands shook as much as they had the first time you kissed him.

He was running now. Vines bit at Jim’s ankles, branches brushing his cheeks. He had to go faster. Had to catch up. Jim could hear you up ahead. Your shrieks floating to his ears, catching in his throat as he finally burst into the clearing, launching off the bank into the water.

“Christ,” he yelled once his head was above water again. “You didn’t tell me the water was so cold.”

Your laugh was like windchimes. “I thought the shrieking would be a hint.”

“Oh, that was you? Thought maybe a velociraptor escaped.” You laughed again, splashing Jim with water as he swam closer.

He reached out to touch your hair, but his hand went through you. A branch breaking to his left caught Jim’s attention. When he looked back, you were gone entirely.

Jim’s eyes shot open, greeted once more by the blank ceiling. He spared a glance at his alarm clock. 3 a.m. With a groan, Jim turned onto his side, curling himself around a spare pillow and willing sleep to take him just to see you again.

People were talking. Jim could hear them talking but couldn’t make out what they were saying. All he could focus on was your fingers on his wrist, your thumb brushing the skin where his palm and wrist met. His hands were shaking again. Why were they always shaking?

“I’ll be back before you know it.” You slipped your hand under Jim’s chin, forcing him to look at you through those infuriatingly long lashes of his.

“Do you have to go?” Jim’s voice was softer than he wanted and he winced, trying to shove away the image of a little boy scared of losing the person he loves most all over again.

“That’s my line.” You stepped closer to Jim. The image of you clinging to his shirt as he left on mission after mission flew through Jim’s head. He felt a pang of guilt before you kissed it away. “It’s two days, babe. You’ll blink and it’ll be over.”

And it was.

Jim blinked and then his phone rang. A voice on the other end asked him to confirm his name. To confirm yours. Asked about your relationship. Jim excused himself from the mission briefing as his heart climbed higher and higher in his throat until it stopped entirely.

“Yes, this is Jim Kirk. Yes, she’s my girlfriend. Yes, she was on a flight to New York. What do you mean the shuttle crashed?”

The operator on the other line continued to talk, but Jim couldn’t hear it. “Wait, wait, start again,” Jim begged, hoping he could make it out this time. Surely, he’d misheard. There was a mistake. There had to be.

Bones peeked his head out of the meeting room, eyeing his friend warily. Jim handed him the phone, still unable to process the words. Unable to process anything but the screeching in his ears and the sobs threatening to rip from his throat. Bones took the phone, calling after Jim as he sprinted away.

The airport felt bigger now as he ran in. Why did he come here? What could they do? Jim couldn’t stop himself from running ahead to the gate, half expecting you to be waiting there for him. The sobs came freely now as he tried to push past the security checkpoint. Jim pleaded with the officer, not entirely sure what he was saying between shouting your name as if it could bring you back.

A sob wracked Jim’s body as his eyes snapped back open. He took a breath. Ran a hand down his face. Maybe Teresa was right. Maybe he did hate airports.

Jim hated hospitals too, but he was here. He was here for you. His hand shook as he pressed the elevator call button. The crinkling of cellophane filled the air as he tightened his grip on the flowers in his left hand.

Jim blinked and the elevator came. He blinked and the doors opened again, letting him off. He blinked and he was at the door, hands clamped around the cool metal of the doorknob as he tried to remember how to breathe.

You looked as angelic as ever, despite the monitors and IVs hooked up to your body. Jim swallowed against the growing lump in his throat. He placed the flowers on the bedside table as the beeping of the heart monitor filled the room, reminding his own heart to beat.

“Hey,” he croaked out, reaching for your hand. It was limp in his. Clammy. “Good to see you.”

Bones said talking to you would help, but what could he say? How could he talk about the minutiae of his day when you were in a coma? How could he say anything when he spent every second fighting against the guilt threatening to swallow him whole? Hell, Jim should’ve died. He should’ve died and Bones saved him, but he couldn’t save you. He couldn’t do anything but ensure you were ‘comfortable.’

How could this be comfortable? The starchy hospital sheets scraping against your skin. A tube down your throat helping you breath. Jim wanted to help you, but for the first time in his life he didn’t know what to do. He felt frozen.

“I saw Teresa again yesterday. I hate to admit it, but I think she’s helping.” Jim laughed. “You’d really like her. She doesn’t put up with my shit either.” Jim closed his eyes, imagining your laugh. The smile made his muscles ache, too used to disuse. He could almost hear what you’d say. How your eyes would crinkle at the corners and your fingers would slip around his wrist again. The pressure was almost palpable.

His eyes opened, focusing on the fingers brushing the skin where his palm met his wrist. A gentle squeeze which may as well have been around his throat as the breath left his lungs. His eyes shot to your face, still bruised in places Jim couldn’t wait to kiss. The pressure on his wrist came again just as he began to think he imagined it, and he watched your eyelids flutter open.

Jim called for the nurses, never taking his eyes off you in case you disappeared again. The nurses worked quickly, not bothering to try and dislodge Jim. He’d been glued to your side since you were brought in.

Your throat felt raw, voice cracking as you tried to speak. “It’s okay,” Jim said, pressing his forehead to yours, kissing the tip of your nose. Kissing your eyes, your cheek. Every inch of skin he could reach. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Guess it was a little more than two days, huh,” you croaked weakly.

Jim couldn’t help but laugh as he blinked away tears. Nothing would interrupt his vision of you. He stroked your hair, half expecting to wake up alone in his own bed again. “That’s okay. I’ll always wait for you.”

Tag List: (i stole this taglist of an earlier fic I posted so if you do/don’t want to be tagged let me know!)

@outside-the-government @martinawalker @thevalesofanduin @goingknowherewastaken @thefanficfaerie @brooke-taylor0323 @slither-in-a-half @cuddlememerrick @reading-in-moonlight

#i continue to suck at endings lmao #star trek imagine #jim kirk imagine #jim kirk x reader #james t kirk imagine #james t kirk x reader

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ilonga · 4 years

Text

Buried Alive

summary:

Sometimes Anakin gets flashes of what’s going on. There are times were he can almost push through the fog and darkness and take control, if only for a second.

The first time it happened, he was terrified out of his mind.

He had no limbs. No limbs.

And there’s a. . . suit? And an Empire?

What had happened?

(au where Anakin is sorta trapped in his own mind as Vader, but can sometimes break free)

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25634890

When he was younger, he used to think that the Chancellor’s office was a bit . . . suffocating, almost. Like the walls were pressing in on him, from time to time, or like he couldn’t breathe consistently, let alone think clearly. As the years passed and his visits with the Chancellor became more and more frequent, he thought about it less and less, and the strange feeling that seemed to accompany the office faded away entirely.

Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it hadn’t, and Anakin had just pushed it aside, pretending it was nothing. Gotten used to it. Learned to ignore it. Because these were the Chancellor’s offices, and how could anything associated with this kindly old mentor be so cold? Surely, surely Anakin must be mistaken.

Now, twenty two years old with his thoughts echoing messily around him, he remembers what he’d said to Obi-wan the first time he visited the Chancellor.

It’s so cold in here, he’d said, and Obi-wan had given him a strange look because the Chancellor had already adjusted the temperature before their visit had begun, making the offices far warmer than usual to help the Tatooine child fit in (wasn’t that so thoughtful of him, why wasn’t Anakin more grateful? ).

It’s cold in here, yes, as the Chancellor reveals himself to be the Sith Lord who’d orchestrated the entire war and Anakin’s whole world implodes. But then the temperature drops to freezing. The world blurs before him and seems muffled, almost. He can’t think clearly, his thoughts are so slow. . . why can’t he think? Where is all of this darkness coming from, why can’t he breathe--he’s drowning, he’s being buried alive, he’s drowning, he’s drowning--

He doesn’t remember how he got out of there, stumbling his way to the Council Chambers--it’s all so hazy. He just knows one moment he was at the Chancellor’s, the next, warning Master Windu (who seems so far away, like he’s looking at him from the other end of his battlefield specs), and then he’s somehow. . . back? Again? In Palpatine’s offices? Why is he here? How did he get here?

There’s a sharp burst of pain (but it isn’t his pain, no--what happened to Master Windu?) and suddenly every thought he’s ever had about the stifling, smothering atmosphere of the Chancellor’s office (he can’t think--) comes rushing back to him all at once, but maybe it’s not the offices, maybe it’s never been the offices. Maybe it was just the Chancellor, the Sith Lord, all along.

“What have I done?” is the last thing he manages to choke out (what have I done in every sense of the question) (what is happening to me?), the last words that are his own for years and years to come.

The darkness in the Chancellor’s office buries him alive.

(Are those eyes yellow?)

* * * * *

Anakin doesn’t know where he is. There are seconds where he even forgets who he is. He’s floating in a vast expanse of space that’s also stifling and claustrophobic at the same time. He can’t understand it, can’t manage to wrap his head around what the hell is going on.

Where is Obi-wan? Where is Padme? Oh, force, what’s going to happen to Padme? What will happen to their child?

He’s alone, floating in darkness. He must have been trapped in here somehow, but the last thing he remembered were the Chancellor’s offices and Master Windu (and dead Jedi? Were there other Jedi there too?) .

And then suddenly there are screams, echoing around him all at once. Anakin doesn’t know who’s screaming. It could be him, for all he knows. But they sound. . . young. Young like Ahsoka was, when he first met her on Christophis.

Oh, force, Ahsoka! Is she alright? She was (where was she?) on. . . Mandalore (why?). . . fighting someone (who?), someone important. Is she safe? Or not? Is she dying as he’s trapped here, helpless? Is Padme dying too, alone and scared, in this very moment?

The screams stop. But it seems like barely seconds have passed before new ones take their place. (Who are they? Where are they coming from?)

There’s a voice, all of a sudden, one that sounds achingly familiar. He reaches for it blindly, hoping--

Padme’s face flashes before him, anguished and choking (no!), and Obi-wan’s there and his face is twisted in an expression of fierce, hopeless grief Anakin’s never seen before, not even when Qui-gon died and Obi-wan barely spoke for weeks. What’s happening? he almost manages to get his lips to form the words. What’s going on, where is everybody?

He almost gets the words out. Almost. But then the darkness comes flooding back and he’s buried again, their faces disappearing from view as rapidly as they came.

What is happening to him?

Was it Palpatine who did this to him?

His mind rebels almost instinctively at the thought. Palpatine, who cared about him? Who listened to him? Who was kind to him, since he was nine years old and afraid, a former slave in a world so foreign? Palpatine, who is. . . a Sith Lord. Palpatine, who’s been orchestrating a sham war for years. Palpatine, who’s responsible for every death in this wretched war, for the loss of every man in the 501st who’d died fighting. Palpatine, who’s indirectly responsible for what happened to Ahsoka, to everything Obi-wan has been through for the sake of the war, who’s responsible for all the pain and loss the Jedi faced as a whole for these past three years. Palpatine, who--

Who used him.

Who’s been using him since he was nine years old.

All of a sudden Anakin feels sick. Or as sick as he can, as a disembodied jumble of thoughts floating in an indecipherable crushing darkness.

So that’s why Palpatine showed interest in a nine year old former slave from a backwater desert planet. Not out of the kindness of his heart, not because he saw Anakin as worthwhile, special.

No. Because he wanted to use him all along.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on that, however, because now there’s pain. Incredible pain, the likes of which he could have never imagined before, not when he was a slave and faced beatings day by day, not when Dooku cut his arm off on Geonosis, not when he was being electrocuted, tortured, for the millionth time throughout the war. This pain is worse than all of that combined. It’s how he imagined Maul must have felt, when he was cut in half, if he was also set on fire by a vengeful custodian upon arriving at the bottom of the reactor pit. The pain builds, and builds, and builds.

He needs it to stop, he needs it stop, he can’t take it, he’d rather die than keep feeling this pain, let him die--

And then there is nothing.

* * * * *

When he wakes up (in a manner of speaking), he knows something is different. He can feel it. If he found his way back to his body somehow, he’s impossibly sure that it would be nothing like the one he left behind.

Well, there’s only one way to find out.

He pushes. He fights the darkness, tries to wade through the inky blackness surrounding him, tries to find his way out of this madness and regain control.

It doesn’t work.

He keeps pushing.

Every day (are there even days anymore? He certainly wouldn’t know) he pushes until he’s exhausted beyond belief and sinks into blessed nothingness. Sometimes he feels like he’s getting closer to an escape; other times, it feels like he could go on and on forever in this maze (this prison) and end up right where he started.

Years must be passing by, he thinks, as he tries to reach a new equilibrium. Sometimes, Anakin gets flashes of what’s going on. There are times were he can almost push through the fog and darkness and take control, if only for a second.

The first time it happened, he was terrified out of his mind.

He had no limbs. He had no limbs.

And there’s a suit? And an Empire? What happened?

He’s buried again.

The second time, he realizes two crucial things.

Number one, he can’t feel the Jedi anymore.

Number two, his lightsaber is red.

He realizes with frightening clarity what must have happened. What Sidious must have made him do.

Is that what I am? he thinks bitterly. A puppet?

A slave? He tries not to think.

It seems that’s exactly what he is. Sidious’s puppet, with all his personality buried under mounds of Sith power to make for easy control.

He’s buried again.

Sidious must have noticed something that time, because it becomes all the more difficult to fight his way out. And he’s tired. He doesn’t know how many more years pass with him floating there, with no sense of direction, no sense of time, no sense of anything really.

He’s lonely. He wishes Obi-wan were here, or Padme, or Ahsoka. Hell, what he wouldn’t give for even one of Master Windu’s unimpressed glares.

No doubt any one of them would be doing so much better in this situation than he was. Obi-wan would have figured out what was happening to him in minutes, and broken free of it in even less. Padme would have never let Palpatine (Sidious) get to her in the first place. Ahsoka would have powered through the darkness and wrenched back control, permanently.

But it’s just him, and he’s weak. Too weak to protect himself, too weak to protect the ones he loved. Weak like the desert boy he thought he’d left behind with a detonator buried deep under his skin.

There’s no use in these kinds of thoughts, he knows. Don’t waste your water, his mother would say, Or your despair. They are precious, and you must save them for when you have finished the work you set out to do.

Work.

Next time he breaks free, he will get to work. He’ll do whatever he can to sabotage Palpatine’s (Sidious’s) rule.

The third time he breaks free, he wastes no time. He’s in his (Vader’s) chambers, luckily, and he has access to a datapad and to what he needs for slicing. He has access to coordinates, numbers, and all sorts of sensitive military information. And a list of who survived the transition from the Republic to the Empire.

. . . Padme’s dead.

. . . Ahsoka’s dead.

No. No.

He can’t let himself get distracted, not when he could sink back under any second. Don’t waste your water, or your despair. Despair. Despair is for later.

Alright. he thinks. Which of these survivors is most likely to be involved in an illicit rebellion?

Because of course there’s a rebellion against Palpatine; there was a rebellion against him even back when he was Chancellor and Anakin was blind to his true nature. They may have called themselves a Delegation, but they had seen what was coming, and they had been prepared to fight--

Oh. The Delegation of 2000.

Senator Organa.

He had always been a friend to the Jedi, even as public opinion and support declined. And he was a dear friend of Padme’s--she trusted him with her life.

In the span of two minutes, each feeling like more and more of a struggle, he manages to set up an untraceable, anonymous communication line straight to the Senator. Vader being unofficially near the top of the Imperial hierarchy does have its benefits.

The information is sent. The comm line is deleted. No trace of the communication is left from Anakin’s end. And the Senator will never know where the information came from. He imagines he’ll assume it came from an imperial defector.

Which he is, in a manner of speaking. Until he’s swallowed up again by the prison that is his own mind.

He managed it in three minutes total.

Now that his task is complete, the incessant pushing and stifling darkness is nigh unbearable. But he also realizes, for the first time, how much he truly hates this suit. The prosthetics are shoddy and clumsy at best, ridiculously heavy and difficult to maneuver. The life support is bulky and he can still feel age old burns, all over his body, that seem as though they’d never been treated at all. And worst of all is the respirator. Does the breathing sound it makes have to be so obnoxious?

How did all of this happen to him, anyway? He remembers the pain from what felt like forever ago--it’s no duller as a memory than it was a sensation. Clearly his limbs had been chopped off from what seemed to be a lightsaber (was it Palpatine, maybe? A punishment of some sort?) but what of the burns? Had he really been set on fire, or had he imagined the sensation? Had it been lava or something of the sort? (he swears he can remember the scent of Mustafar, even if he can’t recall actually being there; had something happened to him there?)

His flow of thoughts is interrupted by a steadily rising pressure in the back of his mind. It feels like-- Palpatine. He knows.

There’s a crushing, devastating weight on his mind, the phantom pull of a heavy anger he can nearly taste, then an almost audible snap.

Then nothing.

* * * * *

When he wakes up, it’s almost worse than the pain he had felt from being burned alive. He had been building up a resistance, able to fight through the darkness faster and faster each time, but now all of that is gone. He feels chained.

Before, he had felt lost and sluggish, buried and drowning. It was a terrible sensation. But now, he’s chained.

He fights back an instinctive bout of panic (never again, never again!) but it changes nothing.

Palpatine’s slave.

Nevertheless, he starts over.

He tries to build back up, bit by bit (it’s so much harder than before) , and he’s certain years are passing again (again, and again, Padme, my love, I’m so sorry).

Sometimes he’s vaguely aware of what’s happening outside. In his weaker moments, he wishes he wasn’t. (He’s doing a lot of killing)

He comes to a realization one day (or night, or week) about the deaths he’s been feeling (the deaths he’s been causing). They don’t feel like ordinary deaths. Not like those of any normal sentient being across the galaxy (hasn’t he felt enough of those, during the war).

They’re a bit. . . louder-- oh, force, he’s hunting down Jedi.

No. No.

How could he-how could he-use me against my own people like this-use me to kill my own people, my own people--like I’m some sort of trophy, like I’m a broken attack dog-I’m not his toy, I’m not his toy--

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to claw his way out of the downward spiral. Maybe days. (his own people, he’s hunting down and slaughtering his own people--it’s despicable--his own people)

So.

That’s why Palpatine was really interested in him. So he could have the pleasure of using the Jedi’s Chosen One against them, turning him into some kind of attack dog.

He’s never been so disgusted in his life.

Don’t waste your water.

Don’t waste your despair.

Save them for when you have finished your work.

He finally manages to break through again, weeks or months or maybe years later. He moves more quickly this time, compiling coordinates and military plans, setting up the anonymous, untraceable comm line, and sending it all straight to Senator Organa once again.

It only takes him a minute this time.

He slumps back, and the darkness consumes him.

* * * * *

The next time he wakes, it’s to a voice.

I was beginning to believe I knew who you were behind that mask. But it’s impossible. My master could never be as vile as you.

Is that. . . Ahsoka?

Then I will avenge his death.

Ahsoka, it is Ahsoka! (but how? She had died, the reports had confirmed it. Unless she had faked her death? Had she faked her death? Hardeens ran in the lineage, it seemed. How had she faked her death?).

For a moment there’s joy, unbridled, wild joy, shooting through him, but then he realizes.

No. No!

No, he can’t hurt Ahsoka, he can’t, he won’t (you can’t make me do this). He won’t. He shoves with everything he has, every last ounce of strength within him. He shoves forwards and pushes the darkness aside, trying to draw from a well of power within him just as he had on Mortis.

Ahsoka? Ahsoka!

There she is, standing right before him--so he was right, years had passed, maybe fifteen years from the looks of it? She’s gotten so tall now, and her lightsabers, they’re white. A brilliant, blinding white. She’s all grown up now, his Snips, all grown up and protecting the rebels. Is it even possible to feel this much pride? They’re almost the same height--he’s been so lonely, for so long. Can she help him, maybe? The two of them could handle anything together, back in the Clone Wars. Maybe she can help him figure out exactly what’s happened to him, help him fight it off. Maybe. . .

I won’t leave y--she’s saying something but it’s drowned out suddenly, with a rushing in his ears and a wave rising from within to drown him. Ahsoka? Ahsoka! No!

Ahsoka?

She’s gone.

Don’t waste your water--don’t waste your water--don’t waste your despair, don’t--

He. . .

He despairs.

* * * * *

He doesn’t know how long it takes to pull himself back together this time (Ahsoka, no, Ahsoka. He promised her he’d never let anything hurt her, he promised her he could never let her die, and now she’s dead. At his own hands.) but it’s almost certainly been years.

He’s beginning to doubt he’ll ever break free. Not permanently.

He considers, briefly, trying to rid the galaxy of Vader in a. . . different manner. It’s not like his deprived half life is one particularly enjoyable or worth living anyway. The only thing keeping him going had been the hope that he’d wrench back control for good one day, but now. . .

It seems like it’ll never happen. And while he’s waiting, trapped, for the next couple of minutes he’s able to snatch, Vader is out there, hurting people (hurting his people), killing people, tearing planets and families apart.

Enslaving people.

That sends him down another spiral of deep loathing and disgust, though whether it’s directed at himself or Palpatine, he’s not sure.

Maybe he could rid the galaxy of Vader, permanently. It would be so easy (his lightsaber ignited at the wrong angle, a push of the wrong buttons for his life support, light damage to his respirator).

The next time he breaks free, he tries. But he realizes, then, that Palpatine must have foreseen this, because somehow the suit and prosthetics won’t let him. As soon as the intent crosses his mind, the prosthetics won’t move the way he wants them to, the buttons won’t respond, and the respirator will stubbornly force air in and out of his lungs at a desperate pace.

It seems they’ve been built to keep him alive at any cost. To protect him (ha, protect) against even himself.

His abhorrent red lightsaber isn’t even useful for this one thing.

He feels sick again. So even the choice of whether to live or die has been stripped away from him?

Slave, slave, slave. Palpatine’s slave.

With a tremendous effort, Anakin wrenches himself away from the thoughts.

Don’t waste your water.

Don’t waste your despair.

So.

It seems the only way forward is to keep going as he’s been going. Break free for a few minutes, compile sensitive information, and send as much of it to the rebellion and Senator Organa as he can.

He’s hit by another wave of deep loathing. This time, it’s definitely directed at Palpatine.

Life continues (this is his life now. He hates it). More information is sent, in staggering intervals. For the most part, Palpatine doesn’t seem to sense his duplicity. Maybe he thinks that after what happened with Ahsoka, Anakin is no longer someone (something) he needs to worry about. The information does, however, seem to be making some difference for the rebels. Every time he wakes up, there are more reports of sabotage, failed battles on the Empire’s part, people gone missing (liberated) , places fighting back (protecting themselves) against imperial rule. Most likely, the schematics have been the most useful information the rebels have acquired. He knows enemy schematics were definitely the most useful resource to have access to back in the Clone Wars.

He feels a bit of pride at the thought. It’s easier to manage his reality when he has tangible proof of making a difference. The pride is always accompanied by guilt, of course, his constant companion, but it’s there.

He is helping. He is making a difference. A little. At the very least, the rebels now know how to fight back. The Empire is developing new weapons every day, but with their schematics, the rebels have a chance at defending against them, and exploiting their weaknesses. At protecting the planets that would otherwise be terrorized.

He should have known not to get too comfortable.

* * * * *

The Death Star. DS-1 orbital station. Death Star. Star of Death?

The name sounds inappropriately comical, as if it had been named by a Temple youngling with an overdramatic flair.

Death Star? What kind of a silly name was that? Certainly not one that embodied the sheer horror, the sheer monstrosity, the almost sacrilegious nature of this terrifying, depraved creation.

Built to destroy planets.

Sometimes Anakin thinks he’s reached a limit for how horrified he can be, by his reality, by Palpatine’s actions, by this new Empire and the evil it inflicts on his people.

He’s wrong, every time.

A weapon to destroy planets?

Yes, he’d fought in the Clone Wars. Yes, he’d been one of the more ruthless generals. Yes, he understands the value of might and power and displays of strength.

And, yes, he’s been guilty of slaughter in cold blood before.

But this?

This horrifies him straight to his core. Forget everything he was as a Jedi, this goes against everything he’s ever believed in as a person . Yes, this horrifies the Jedi in him. But it also horrifies the nine-year-old slave in him (the masters blow us up if we’re disobedient), the Clone Wars General in him (our objective is to protect the people), the Senator’s husband in him (democracy isn’t perfect, but it protects us from tyranny), the Negotiator’s padawan in him (compassion is central to the heart of a Jedi), the master to Ahsoka in him (I want to help my people), the parts of him that are and will always be Shmi’s son (the biggest problem in this galaxy is that no one helps each other. Remember that, my son). It’s unjustifiable, in every sense of the word. It’s everything he ever thought he was fighting against in the Clone Wars, as a Jedi.

They’re building a battle station that destroys planets. That could kill millions, billions, with the press of a button.

How can anyone involved in this project live with themselves? Are the people of the Empire so drunk on power that they’d do anything for another taste of it? Kill billions of innocents?

(After murdering the Sandpeople, he couldn’t sleep for weeks in horror at what he’d done. How can these Moffs condone this with satisfied smiles and a prideful shrug of their shoulders? How?)

It’s revolting.

He has to get information to the Rebellion, somehow. There has to be a weakness, there has to be something they can do.

There has to be some way they can fight this.

Otherwise. . .

He doesn’t want to think about it. The next time he wakes up, he’ll find the schematics, find a way to get them to the Rebellion, or, if not the Rebellion, Senator Organa and other planetary leaders. He’ll try to find a weakness.

* * * * *

Slipping the Death Star schematics to the rebels (he couldn’t even send it to the Senator, this time) ends up being much more difficult than he had expected. In the end, all he manages to do is make sure a copy is available somewhere, and less guarded than it should be. He doesn’t even manage to take a look at the plans himself.

Oh, force, there better be a weakness in this Sith-damned monstrosity.

Usually he won’t be pushing so hard right after breaking free for a time, but he’s desperate to find out what happened to the plans and whether they were successful. So he pushes and fights in a way that would have probably had Obi-wan shaking his head and heaving a long-suffering sigh, but it does pay off. To an extent.

There’s a young woman with dark hair and eyes holding herself in a way that sharply reminds him of Padme. He can’t hear what she’s saying, but the pure disdain on her face is clear enough to read, and he feels an unexpected sense of kinship and satisfaction at her courage. Her posture might mimic Padme’s I’m-a-Galactic-Senator-and-I’m-smarter-than-you stance, but something in her face abruptly reminds him of himself. Her brows are raised, lips twisted in a darkly amused scowl, eyes darkened with copious amounts of both scorn and determination. Contempt practically radiates off her set shoulders. He imagines that was how he looked facing down Grievous for the first time, snapping out a disdainful “shorter than I expected” at the notorious Jedi-killer.

She fades away abruptly, but the image stays with him.

She feels. . . important somehow. He wracks his brain and tries to remember who she is, if he’s met her before--no doubt Vader has, but it seems he’s never been able to push through when in her presence.

She looked about twenty some years old, and now that he’s not focused on how suddenly she had dredged up memories of Padme (that pain is never going to go away, is it?) he realizes her hair and dress were done in an Alderaanian style. Something niggles at the back of his mind--

Oh. The third time he had broken free, he had spent most of those precious minutes perusing the Holonet to find out what had happened to his friends. One of those headlines, that he had spared but a passing glance, had to do with Senator Bail Organa and Queen Breha’s newly adopted daughter.

The young woman had been Leia Organa. Princess of Alderaan. And she had a spine of steel to match Bail’s, it seemed, although she certainly didn’t seem to favor his subtlety (a decision Anakin of all people could definitely respect). Another pang of sorrow shoots through him; Leia had been one of the names he and Padme had considered for their child (though Padme had been insistent it was a boy while he was convinced it was going to be a girl). That name had been one of the few things on Tatooine one could consider beautiful, and even then, it was a name meaning mighty, fierce. Everything he would have wanted his daughter to be.

Everything, it seems, that Princess Leia of Alderaan is, although the name no doubt means something different on Alderaan.

He can respect that, even as he’s hit by another wave of sorrow for his unborn child. According to the funeral reports he had read, Padme had died still pregnant, due to complications from a “traitorous Jedi attack”. It’s so blatantly a lie he has to wonder if anyone believed it at all. Of course, this means that either Palpatine had his still-pregnant wife killed. . . or he had Vader do it.

He clings to the idea that this Princess is carrying on Padme’s legacy somehow, as far fetched as it is. It brings him a small measure of comfort.

The next flash he gets is. . . far less comforting.

There’s a sudden aggressive explosion in his mind and suddenly he’s lost himself, trying to block himself off from so much pain, so much death, so much suffering, but none of it’s his own. He’s feeling the pain of thousands, millions, maybe billions all at once. Amongst the echoes of pain and pure terror, he notes rather deliriously that, for once, he’s glad not to be in control of his own body. Had he been in control, Vader would have dropped to his knees right then and there in front of the viewport, and not even the respirator could have made him keep breathing (or maybe that would have been a good thing). It’s like a rising wave on Kamino, ready to drown him in a way not even the darkness in his own mind can, and then suddenly there’s an intangible tearing and they’re all ripped out of existence and silenced, leaving excruciating, gaping holes in his awareness.

It’s so overwhelming that a physical reaction somehow gets through to Vader even though he’s not pushing for it; his whole body tenses, his legs nearly buckle despite being mechanical, his respirator slows as it tries to accommodate the changes in breathing and heart rate, and his hand digs into Leia’s shoulder where it’s resting--

Wait. Leia.

Alderaan.

He looks to the viewport and--

Alderaan’s. . . gone?

No. No. It can’t be.

A whole planet, gone just like that?

Impossible. The Death Star may have been built for this but surely the Moffs would never--how could anyone actually go through with it? They could never, no sane person could see this through, it’s--impossible, he must be seeing things wrong. His vision is unreliable, has been unreliable for the past twenty years, at the best of times, so why should it be showing him the truth now? Just because they viewport is filled with debris--it means nothing, they could never--

All those people. . .

Their pain, their terror. . .

No. No. It can’t be, it would never--a planet? Gone? A whole planet? A peaceful one, no less? All those people--the people--

No, no, no, no, no--Bail! What about Bail, what about Breha, what about--Leia, what about Leia?

How could they?

It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real.

A planet can’t have been destroyed.

Millions can’t have been slaughtered with the simple press of a button.

Bail--Senator Organa can’t be dead (but you felt his death, didn’t you?). Queen Breha, she can’t be dead (Padme had always felt close to her; two monarchs of pivotal planets).

Leia.

Leia can’t be orphaned, twice over.

Oh, Leia.

I’m so sorry, he thinks, almost as dead to the world as he had been twenty years ago, I failed, I should have been able to stop them. I should have tried harder.

All he’s ever done is fail, it seems.

Some Chosen One.

He wishes suddenly that he’d never been born. Never given Palpatine the opportunity for such an effective attack dog, never given him the opportunity to tear the Jedi apart from the inside and build the Empire from his ashes. Maybe without Vader at his side, none of this would have happened. Palpatine would have been found out sooner with no Jedi listening to his honeyed lies, the Jedi would have defeated him without Vader’s interference, so many wouldn’t have died.

His mother wouldn’t have had to raise a child she’d never asked for, a child who she then never heard from again until she died and he was too late to save her. Obi-wan would have never been burdened with him so young, Ahsoka would have never died trusting that he’d never hurt her, Padme wouldn’t have died without an unborn child to look after.

Your water, he suddenly hears the lilting cadence of his mother’s voice, you’re wasting your water.

Ani, my son, you must save your water, and your despair, for when your work is finished.

How, he wants to ask, how can I go on? Every time I try to fix things, it just gets worse and worse. How can I continue my work when it seems like my work is doing nothing?

You continue your work, his mother’s voice says, firmer this time, until you’ve finished your work, or until you can work no longer.

Until you’re dead, she doesn’t say.

I miss you, he’d say to her, if she was truly real, I miss you. I need you.

Shhh, my son. I am always with you.

It could be entirely a product of his imagination, but his spirit feels lighter all the same.

Alderaan will be avenged, he vows Leia, knowing there’s no way she can possibly hear him, Your father will be avenged. Your mother will be avenged.

If it comes down to it, I’ll find a way to tear this station apart myself.

Somehow.

* * * * *

There’s something big going on, he can feel it, (that presence feel so familiar) and he’s trying to push through out of the darkness (I can’t take another Ahsoka, please, no) and then the darkness multiplies (there’s something Palpatine doesn’t want him to see--) and he’s being buried, he’s being suffocated, he can’t breathe (not that he usually can anyways), but he can’t and the moment passes, and he’s left floating aimlessly in the blank infinity slowly consuming him.

The next time he wakes up, it’s to Obi-wan Kenobi’s lightsaber lying in his chambers.

He feels sick to his stomach.

Or at least what’s left of it.

Oh, Anakin, says Obi-wan’s crisply accented voice from somewhere lightyears away, you’ll be the death of me someday.

I didn’t want you to be right, master. Anakin thinks blankly, But you always did like being right.

He’s numb.

So numb.

When his mother died, he had raged. Raged and raged and raged at the world around him until he had very nearly torn it apart. He’d felt such anger he was sure he would never feel anything else again.

When Padme had died, he had felt sorrow. Deep, bone-crushing sorrow, for her, for their unborn child, for everything she fought for and the legacy she’d never be able to leave behind.

When Ahsoka had died, he had felt guilt. So much guilt it was unbearable, the sharp edges of broken promises and words never said, the jagged pain of so much that he should have done for her but would never be able to.

But Obi-wan’s death seems to have taken away his ability to feel anything at all, ever again.

What is the galaxy, without Obi-wan Kenobi?

Who am I, Anakin Skywalker, without Obi-wan Kenobi?

Nothing. They were nothing, there was nothing left in this galaxy, nothing--

Why didn’t you kill me, Master? he thinks blankly, an edge of hysteria creeping in on his thoughts, Why didn’t you kill me--you were my Master, you taught me how to fight, you knew me better than anyone in this galaxy--why couldn’t you kill me?

How could you let me kill you?

Distantly, he realizes Obi-wan would have probably been his last hope for an escape from this misery. If there was anyone in the galaxy who could have defeated Vader (who could have beaten Anakin), it was him. But it seems he was wrong. He’s still alive, and Obi-wan is dead.

How can he be alive when Obi-wan is dead? It seems fundamentally against the laws of this universe; hadn’t they agreed without words that when they went out, they’d go out together?

Once, he would have been thrilled to finally be able to beat his master (mentor, friend, best friend, brother?) in a duel.

Once, Obi-wan would have said that it was every master’s wish for their student to grow to be better than him.

Somewhere, buried in some remote, faraway corner of his mind, a part of him is laughing at the irony. For the first time, Anakin Skywalker well and truly feels as empty as the darkness surrounding him.

He descends into apathy.

* * * * *

He feels it when the Death Star is destroyed, but he can’t find it in him to be triumphant. There’s a passing sense of relief, but nothing more. Was this the price? Obi-wan’s life for the destruction of this mechanical monstrosity? (he doesn’t even know what Obi-wan looked like when he died; he’ll always be immortalised in his memory as he had looked in those final days of the Clone Wars)

It doesn’t seem worth it.

Rationally, he knows he shouldn’t be thinking like this. To trade one life for millions would be a heinous act in every sense of the word. If he had made a trade right here and now, to bring Obi-wan back in exchange for the Death Star, Obi-wan would have murdered Anakin himself (or let one of his disappointed stares do the trick; those always made Anakin want to crawl under a rock and never see the light of day again), and not even Vader’s apparently ridiculously overpowered combat skills could have stopped him.

Rationally, he knows this. But he doesn’t much care.

He would have made the trade anyways.

He can’t bring himself to be horrified at his train of thought anymore either; he just notes them as impassionately as he programmed C3PO to do, back when he was still building him on Tatooine. So some hotshot pilot managed to destroy the station; wonderful. Allegedly the Princess was able to escape too, which is also good, he supposes.

The sense of relief is faint and somewhat dispassionate. He would say he’s happy she’s alive, but it seems like the ability to be happy on any level has been completely sucked out of him.

The darkness around him ebbs and flows, pushing and pulling at the pieces left of his consciousness as if it realizes it could probably pull him apart for good and he’d offer little resistance. He imagines he can feel the threads of Palpatine’s presence woven through it, delighting in the fact that after so many years, his perfect little puppet is finally broken.

He can’t even summon the usual loathing at the thought of the man’s name.

Perfect little puppet.

Finally broken.

* * * * *

He subsists on spite now.

It’s the only thing that keeps him halfheartedly pushing and hoping to break through. He hasn’t managed it yet, and he doesn’t quite know what he’ll do when (if) he does. Senator Organa is dead. Clearly the Rebellion lives on--the destruction of the Death Star proves that--but who would he even send the information to? Leia, maybe? Surely her father has taught her a thing or two. Maybe she’ll know what to do with it.

Before Obi-wan’s . . . death, (and for a moment there he had almost convinced himself Obi-wan had somehow managed to pull another Hardeen, but the absence of the man’s presence of the force, which he hadn’t realized was there until he lost it, had forced him to face the truth rather painfully) he had been fueled by spite, to an extent. But he had also been fueled by hope, of a better future for the others out there if not for him, and fueled by love too, for the people still out there that he was fighting for.

Now it’s just spite. And halfhearted spite, at that.

(he didn’t realize it before, but he had never known how it felt to be completely devoid of hope until now)

But he keeps fighting nevertheless. And every time he feels the threads of Palpatine’s presence try to constrain him, he pushes harder.

Go to hell, he thinks at them as loudly as he can whenever he encounters them.

Always so mature, my young padawan, his internal Obi-wan voice says in response.

There is no response from whatever force powers Palpatine has set on monitoring him.

He keeps clawing forward. It’s a strange half reality he lives in; he’s never been able to get used to it, no matter how many years have passed. His thoughts are almost permanently hazy and difficult to hold on to, and his senses are partially there and partially deadened. Sometimes he can convince himself that he’s physically there, mechno arm (well, arms. and legs.) and all, in some metaphysical dimension where all he can see is darkness and all he can hear is silence. Other times, it just feels as if he’s asleep (asleep but will never wake up). This makes trying to push his way out. . . an interesting experience to say the least.

(Obi-wan would have been fascinated.)

(Obi-wan would have also never found himself in this situation to begin with.)

Sometimes, it feels like he’s swimming for a surface he rarely reaches. Other times, like he’s trying to claw his way out of a muddy grave. The last time he broke free, it felt like a shadowy maze churning and twisting until he finally stumbled his way towards an exit.

Every now and then, he hears echoes of what he assumes are the voices of people around him. They can last anywhere from seconds to hours. If he’s lucky, he’ll even see flashes or visions of his surroundings to accompany them. (An icy planet, a dilapidated rust-bucket of a ship speeding into hyperspace, a helmeted bounty hunter with a significant resemblance to Jango Fett)

Sometimes they’re interesting, but most of the time it’s just the voices of egoistical Moffs, Admirals, and Captains, who seem, rather rationally, to be frightened of him. He swears he’s heard the name Skywalker recently though, which is strange. He’s the only Skywalker of enough renown to be discussed by the Empire (Padme had never taken his name in any capacity, so it couldn’t be her), but in the Empire, talk of Jedi seems to be looked on unfavorably, to say the least. Officially speaking, Anakin Skywalker is dead, and Imperial personnel don’t seem like the types to reminisce about the past on the job. (he’s also positive that, with the exception of Palpatine, few if any are aware of the fact that Darth Vader and Anakin Skywalker share the same body)

A voice filters in, then, interrupting his flow of thoughts. He recognizes Vader’s mechanical tones (and isn’t it strange to hear “himself” speak without feeling his mouth move), and a youthful voice that responds with increasing anger.

You murdered my father!

Ah, he thinks with a touch of sympathy, I’m afraid Vader does a lot of that sort of thing.

He misses what Vader says next, but it’s no doubt some kind of taunt. He wonders who this kid is, and finds himself hoping he makes it out of here alive (not many who face down Vader do).

The kid’s face suddenly flashes before him-- blond hair like Anakin used to have, back when the sun was constantly bleaching it on Tatooine, and blue eyes that do, come to think of it, also match Anakin’s own shade, to an extent. Something in the kid’s face reminds of Leia, however. He doesn’t know what. Maybe this kid is a Tatooine native? If so, he feels even more sympathy for him--to grow up in the most desolate corner of the galaxy, lose his father, and now face Vader? He can’t be more than twenty from the looks of it, with a bright and shining presence in the force, and--

Oh. Oh, that smarts.

The kid’s had his right hand cut off at the wrist, and his face looks to have taken a beating as well. He’s barely hanging off the air shaft Vader has cornered him on to. If Anakin could feel his own limbs at all, he’s sure they’d be throbbing in sympathy. He’d lost his first limb to Dooku at around this kid’s age.

Now the kid’s yelling something about impossibility and lies, and Vader says something that Anakin again doesn’t catch in return. The kid’s face screws up and--No, wait!

He’s gone. The kid jumped.

Congratulations, Anakin thinks bitterly at the presence controlling his body. You’ve added another twenty-something year old to your kill list. Are you proud?

He wonders vaguely what Vader had told him that had been so terrible that had the kid jumping off the air shaft to commit suicide---no, wait. He doesn’t know the kid, doesn’t even know his name, but he can still feel that presence (that’s strange. Why?).

He doesn’t know how he managed it, but the kid survived.

Well. That’s something, at least.

* * * * *

He manages to break free for the first time in what must have been a few years, for a couple of minutes, after the strange encounter on Bespin.

He’s. . .

Well.

He’s solved the Skywalker mystery.

Luke Skywalker. Native Tatooinian. Prodigiously talented pilot, made the shot that blew the Death Star into pieces. Poster boy of the rebellion. There are whispers of him being a Jedi. And he has a bounty on his head, for a number of credits so high Anakin can barely believe his eyes. A bounty. . . placed by Darth Vader himself.

“Yes, yes,” Padme says, laughing and swatting at him playfully, “Leia is a lovely name for a girl. But if it’s a boy--and my motherly intuition says it’s a boy--”

“I’m telling you, it’s a girl,” Anakin says, unable to keep the joy out of his voice. He’s almost deliriously happy; there might be a war going on, the Republic and the Jedi might be falling apart day by day, but he and Padme are going to have a child. A child! “My mystical Jedi senses say so.”

“Your mystical Jedi senses--”

“And I’m telling you right now, she’s going to have lovely brown hair and eyes just like her mother, I can see it now.”

“Flatterer.” She takes a deep breath. “If it’s a boy, I like the name Luke.”

“Luke,” he says, turning the name over on his tongue. It’s a beautiful name; light and airy. It reminds him of his mother’s singing in the evenings, when he was young and her lullabies were the only thing that would soothe him. “Is it a Naboo name?”

Padme nods, biting her lip and looking off to the side. It seems she’s thought a lot about this. “Yes. It means light.” she looks up at him almost shyly. Clearly the name has wormed its way into her heart. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.” he says truthfully, “Luke.” He smirks up at her again. “It’s going to be a girl, though.”

“Oh, shut it, you.” Her gaze turns distant. “I want him to be a Skywalker.”

“A. . . Skywalker? You want her to take my name?” He’s genuinely baffled. His name? A Tatooine slave’s name? He would love for his mother’s name to be carried on, sure, but Padme’s last names, both of them, carry so much more prestige.

“Amidala is the last name of a persona. A politician. It’s not real. And Naberrie is a name I haven’t called my own for years. But Skywalker. . . Well. We can honor your mother. And it’s a beautiful name. Wouldn’t you want your child to walk the stars?”

He can feel tears building, somewhere in the corner of his eyes. Padme might be the one that’s pregnant, but it seems that he’s the one who’s been getting emotional these past few days. He chokes out a laugh. “In the running to become a poet, Senator Amidala?”

She lets out an uncharacteristic snort at that. “If only pretty words worked as well on my fellow Senators as well as they did on you.”

They’re slowly heading towards the door; neither wants to let the other go but they both know he has to head back to the Temple soon. This is one of the softer, quieter moments that they’ve shared, that they’ve gotten so few of throughout the war. He turns to look at her.

“Luke Skywalker.” he says. “It’s beautiful.”

Luke Skywalker. . . is the boy who confronted Vader just a few weeks ago.

Luke Skywalker. . . is his son.

He has a son.

For at least a few minutes, blank shock is all he feels. He barely notices himself sinking back under into oblivion and losing control of his body once more; it pales in significance.

A son. A son.

Oddly enough, the first thought that makes it past his shell shocked state is that Padme had been right.

Motherly intuition. . . And I had been so sure it was going to be a girl. he thinks, rather joyfully. Guess you were right. You were right.

You were right.

The next thoughts that worm their way past him are of a more confused variety. He had been so sure Padme had died--no, he knows Padme is dead. He can feel it (it’ll never stop hurting). But the child had somehow survived? How? Palpatine would have never let the child live; he would have seen Luke as too much of a threat. And Padme had died just days after Palpatine had started puppeting him.

So she had died in childbirth, then? Just like in his dreams?

And she must have kept Luke a secret. Protecting her family till her very last breath.

Her bravery had been passed down to their son, it seemed. (He had clung to the idea of Princess Leia carrying on Padme’s legacy somehow, but it seems that had been unnecessary. She had Luke, they had Luke, their son, their actual son, to carry on her legacy, to keep bits and pieces of Padme alive in a universe that would be so lacking without them. He wonders if perhaps Luke and the Princess know each other, in the rebellion. He imagines they’d be good friends)

Facing Vader. . .

Or maybe Luke just sported Anakin’s own reckless streak.

He wonders, vaguely, if Obi-wan had known before he died. Obi-wan had certainly known about him and Padme. Maybe he had known about Luke as well? Maybe he had even been the one to teach Luke, the reason Luke had been able to hold off Vader as long as he did.

On second thought, he realizes how cuttingly painful that would have been for Obi-wan to go through. The son of his dead close friend and other close friend turned supposedly-mass-murdering traitor? That. . . would have hurt. As much as he wishes the two could have met, he also hopes Obi-wan was spared from such pain.

His son. His son.

And twice the pilot he ever was already, it seemed.

“You know,” he had once said to Padme, “some would say my piloting skills are dashing.”

His internal Obi-wan voice and Padme’s own response had been eerily in sync for once, replying, “Anyone who’s ever gotten in a ship before with you would know otherwise.”

Ha. Ha! Take that, “Emperor”. he thinks loudly at those threads of Palpatine’s presence, as maturely as he usually does, My son blew up your Death Star. My son. My son blew up your Death Star. Ha!

He doesn’t deserve to be proud of Luke, he knows it, but he’s proud anyways. So ridiculously proud.

And he was brave. So brave. To take on Vader and not blink an eye? To lose a hand (and, oh, that just got so much worse), and push himself off an air shaft without blinking? To survive that fall?

That’s a Skywalker move if anything.

To take on Vader. . .

Oh. Oh. Oh.

“You murdered my father.”

“No, that’s impossible!”

Oh.

So Luke had also. . . been under the impression that Vader and Anakin Skywalker. . were two entirely separate entities (he had thought Vader had murdered Anakin? Well, he supposes that’s true, from a certain point of view.).

Vader hadn’t been taunting him, like Anakin had originally assumed.

Vader had told him the truth.

Well. Force damn it.

I’m sorry, Luke.

To whatever force-damned twisted powers were controlling him, he thinks, You couldn’t have at least name dropped his mother into the conversation? He should know he has at least one parent he can be proud of.

That. . . that must have been painful for him.

The wild, uninhibited joyfulness that had overtaken him ebbs away, bit by bit. He’s still happy, happier than he’s been in a long time, and in complete and utter awe (of his son. His son), but reality is slowly setting back in .

Luke--his son-- had just faced down Vader. Which meant Palpatine inevitably knew about him by now, if he hadn’t before.

He was a target. For Palpatine.

Suddenly Anakin’s horrified beyond belief. An involuntary shudder overtakes him, almost reaches Vader. He cannot allow Palpatine to get his hands on Luke. Never.

Look what Palpatine had done to Anakin. What despicable things did he have in mind for Luke, given the chance?

Would he bury Luke, too? Suffocate him until he had none of his personality left? No control over his own body? Would he cripple Luke and murder his loved ones until he had no one left?

Turn him into his slave?

No. Never. Never. Luke was born free, and he’ll stay that way. Anakin will make sure of it.

Palpatine’s presence has been growing stronger, in the back of his mind. Either it’s a precaution due to the discovery of Luke, or (more likely) he’s been spending more time in closer proximity to Palpatine recently (that’s worrying) .

He hopes Luke will do the smart thing and stay away.

*****

Luke’s a Skywalker.

And it shows.

Why did he have to inherit my recklessness and sheer stupidity, Padme? he thinks half-hysterically, hyper aware of Palpatine’s suffocating nearby presence. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears his mother’s tinkling laughter. He has a newfound appreciation for how difficult it must have been to deal with a child as reckless as him, the sheer terror she must have felt when he threw himself into life-threatening situations. What is he doing here? Why is he here? What is he doing?

Is he out of his mind?

Despite his overwhelming terror for Luke, his son’s (his son!) presence can’t help but be reassuring, unfailingly bright and steady and pulsing at the edge of his awareness. It’s a powerful, powerful presence; he can finally understand why Obi-wan so often complained about Anakin’s own presence being so loud. His son seems to have inherited it.

The presence also feels incredibly close; could Luke be right next to him, right now?

Oh, please no. The last time Luke had been in close proximity to Vader had. . . not gone well. Oh, force, please let Luke keep his remaining limbs.

Palpatine’s presence is growing heavier and heavier in his mind when he begins to hear the echoes.

I know there is good in you. The Emperor hasn’t driven it from you fully.

That’s Luke, he realizes resignedly. Luke’s next to him, to Vader, because of course he is. Of course he doesn’t think about the danger, about what Palpatine would give to get his hands on him, about what Palpatine would do to him, given the chance. Of course Luke’s going on a fool crusade to try and reach Vader’s conscience, not realizing that he has none. Vader’s not real! he wishes he could shout. He’s a puppet, he’s a parasite, there’s no ‘good’ in him, there’s nothing in him to begin with! Just the Emperor’s shadowy powers strung together with chains.

He starts trying to shove his way out, now, (and couldn’t Luke have tried this damnable crusade when Vader was further away from Palpatine, doesn't he know how much more difficult it is to break free when Palpatine’s so close), and the darkness around him convulses and writhes, wrapping around him and trying to pull him under.

Come with me.

You don’t know, he thinks, wishing Luke could hear him, You don’t know his powers, you have no idea what he’s capable of--get out of here while you still can, before he forces you to call him your master too, before he forces you to obey his every command--

I will not turn. . . and you’ll be forced to kill me.

The world around him coalesces into chains and jagged edges, digging into the cracks of what’s left of his mind. He can see it now, ending this way. Him forced to kill his own son, Palpatine deriving his twisted satisfaction from watching Anakin break completely and utterly. Or, worse, Palpatine twisting Luke’s mind until there’s nothing of him left, then forcing one of them to kill the other.

You won’t do this. I feel the conflict within you.

You feel me, not conflict in Vader. Me! he again tries to shout, struggling against the increasing constraints and heavy pressure of Palpatine in his mind. And if I couldn’t escape to stop Obi-wan’s fate, or Ahsoka’s, or Padme’s, why would you believe I could do it for you? It’s too late for me, go, go--

My father is truly dead.

Yes, he thinks with relief, yes, you finally understand, now run, escape while you still can, but Luke’s presence isn’t dimming, or vanishing, it’s remaining constant and steady while Palpatine’s only grows. Luke’s still there. He’s not leaving. Which means that they’re heading towards Palpatine after all.

Welcome, young Skywalker, he hears, in the drawling tone of the Chancellor’s voice (no, no, the Sith Lord, Sidious. The Emperor, Palpatine.) and he blanks out in sheer terror. The voice brings back with it flashes of things both horrible and wonderful, of better times and of the reminder that all along, Palpatine had been manipulating him, playing him, grooming him to become the perfect puppet--

Vader twitches.

He’s barely pulled himself back together when he hears the harsh, grating voice speak again.

It is unavoidable. It is your destiny. You, like your father, are now mine!

No, he thinks desperately, bile rising in the back of where his throat would be, if he could still feel it, no, he’s not yours, he’ll never be yours, he doesn’t belong to anybody, I don’t belong to you!

He’s shoving and tearing at the edges of his mind, trying to find a way out, he has to help Luke somehow, force damn it, he can’t let this happen--

The hum of lightsabers echoes around him as he tries to claw his way out. His surroundings are an endless maze, then a crushing tide, then the thousands of chains of the slaves of Tatooine. A dirt-filled grave one second, the haze and fog of endless blaster fire the next, then he’s dragging his way towards a trickle of light shining through the cracks above an endless system of caverns. The sound of the sabers grows deafening, or maybe it’s just his fear of where they’ll hit next that has them feeling so loud. The echoes grow louder too, and now he’s seeing flashes to accompany them.

I will not fight you, father, Luke says, standing proud and tall at the edge of his vision. An exchange of blows, then he’s performed a flip reminiscent of Anakin’s own fighting style, back in the Clone Wars, landing neatly on a catwalk overhead.

The flash dissipates as a low buzz of anger from Palpatine floods into his awareness, but the echoes continue.

I can feel the good in you, the conflict.

Not this again, Luke, he’d groan if he could, You’re putting far too much faith in me, you know.

You couldn’t bring yourself to kill me before, and I don’t believe you’ll destroy me now.

Why is he taunting him? Anakin thinks desperately at an imaginary Obi-wan in his head, who would sigh and mouth ‘karma’ if he was real. Is he out of his mind?

He continues pushing forward, catching another flash of Luke ducking numbly out of the way of an attack and disappearing from sight. Well, he’s certainly gotten better.

I will not fight you.

Vader must have responded with an exceptionally cruel taunt here, because there’s a sudden drastic change in Luke’s emotions. A faint worry shifts to frenzied anger and terror, so strong that Anakin actually catches snippets of thoughts.

Sister?

He. . . what?

What?

A . . . sister? Luke has a sister?

“Leia,” says Padme, somewhere far away, “it’s a beautiful name for a girl. It’s Tatooinian?”

“Yes,” he says, slowly, imagining a clever, sharp-tongued girl with Padme’s hair and eyes, “probably about the only beautiful thing Tatooine can call its own. It means fierce.”

“If we ever have a daughter, that’s exactly what I’d want her to be. Fierce and mighty like her father. But,” she says, grinning mischievously once more, “it’s going to be a boy.”

We. . . were both right, Padme, he thinks, in deep shock for the second time this year, There were two.

He suddenly knows, inexplicably, deep in his bones, that Leia Organa, Princess of Alderaan, General of the Rebellion, is his daughter.

Oh. That makes so much sense.

There’s a sharp, sudden pain around the area his wrist would be, but he can barely acknowledge it, so lost in his haze.

Leia, Leia, Leia. She’s our daughter, she’s our daughter, Padme, she’s our daughter. . . He’s mentally reviewing all he knows about Leia (admittedly not much, not enough, he should know so much more), going back over the memories of their meeting (so she is carrying on your legacy after all, Padme, your brilliance lives on in her), comparing all the bits and pieces of Leia to the bits and pieces he’s learned about Luke, to all he knows about Padme, even, a little, to what he knows of himself.

She does have your hair and eyes, and your sharp tongue, and your boundless drive to hold the galaxy together by the skin of your teeth. . . she has my temper, though, I think. And--oh, she’s a General, isn’t she? And that attack on the Death Star. . . that was her plan, wasn’t it? That--that definitely seems like something I would do.

Honestly, Anakin, his internal Obi-wan voice starts again, with a fond exasperation, wasn’t two Skywalkers in the galaxy bad enough? Now there are three of you, and all three have inherited your penchant for recklessness. The galaxy won’t survive this.

He wonders if Obi-wan knew about Leia. He doesn’t know whether he’d want him to. (knowing about Luke would have been painful enough--add in Leia, who wears Padme’s face? It would have been heartbreaking).

Luke and Leia. . . so they knew they were twins, then. Had it been kept secret from them, too? Had Bail and Breha known when they adopted Leia--

His train of thoughts is interrupted by the sound of pained screams.

Luke’s screams.

No, no, no, Luke! he wrenches himself back to awareness, trying hard to break free, push, push, push--

Only now, at the end, do you understand.

Luke is at the foot of the stairs, writhing in pain as Palpatine’s lightning courses through him, each of his screams shrill and shuddering and a dagger through Anakin’s heart. Vader’s standing next to the Emperor, and--oh. Look at that. He’s lost another hand. This is getting ridiculous, honestly. What is it with Skywalkers and losing limbs? Palpatine is cackling as the lightning increases, but Anakin can feel the rage underneath--whatever Luke had said or done had considerably derailed Palpatine’s plans.

You have paid the price for your lack of vision, Palpatine says, furiously increasing the intensity of the lightning. Luke’s screams are hoarse and raspy; he’s just barely keeping from falling down the shaft in the room’s center.

Help me, father, he mouths, and Anakin continues his desperate crusade against Palpatine’s control, please, help me--

He fights, he fights, he fights, and it hurts so much more than he could have imagined to try and break free with Palpatine right next to him--he’s buried, again and again, but scrabbles his way back out, Luke’s presence beside him acting as the anchor he never had before--

It’s as if a veil has lifted. He’s done it, he’s broken free, he’s broken free.

He rushes forward, as quickly as he can, fighting a dual battle against Palpatine’s presence trying to drag him back under and against the constraints of his own body (his robotic limbs haven’t gotten any more maneuverable, and now he’s lacking a hand on top of that). He doesn’t have time to pull out a lightsaber, to try and access the force after so many years, to pull off any maneuver well-planned or strategic, he has only seconds and he has to act, now--

He grabs Palpatine from behind, hefting him over his head as the force lightning is redirected into his own body. It’s pain, pain, pain, every step is pain--

He blacks out.

When Anakin comes back to himself, Palpatine is sailing down the abyss (there’s an explosion as he hits the bottom), he’s collapsing at the edge of the shaft, and every molecule in what’s left of his husk of a body feels like it’s on fire, the tremors from the electricity still running through him (he always forgets how much being electrocuted hurts). He can barely feel Luke dragging him away from the edge; he’s too caught up in his physical pain and the absolutely incredible rush of being free, he’s free, he’s free--

Palpatine is dead.

He’s dead.

The Empire is finished.

Anakin is free.

He lets out a euphoric laugh, weak and rasping but thrilled to the bone all the same. It comes out as a burst of static through his respirator, and he feels Luke’s concern. His connection to the force hasn’t been so uninhibited, so unfiltered in years--he feels alive even as he feels his life slipping away with every shudder of his life support suit slowly shutting down.

Palpatine’s presence, for the first time in decades, is gone. He has control over his own body again, over his mind, over his mouth and his words--

“Luke,” he says, the words flowing from his mouth like honey even as they come out as feeble gasps through the vocoder, “help me take off this mask,”

Luke looks shocked at his words (he can look at Luke, his son, his son, without having to spend all of his energy fighting for fragile glimpses), and so, so exhausted from the ordeal (he’s alive, he’s alive, Luke’s alive, and free, and will never have to call anyone, least of all Palpatine, his master) he just went through. It doesn’t stop Luke’s mouth from being set in a thin, determined line, even as his frame shakes. “But. . . you’ll die.”

Anakin huffs another weak laugh. He’ll die anyways; he can feel it. The life is draining from him breath by excruciating breath. But, at the very least, he’ll be able to die as free as he possibly can (he’s free, he’s free). He says as much to Luke, who hesitates for a long moment before reluctantly complying with his request.

The mask lifts.

(he’s free)

He’s looking at the world with his own eyes for the first time in over twenty years (without the red tinge of his mask there are so many colors, even in the unending Imperial gray of whatever shuttle they’re in). He’s looking into the face of his son with his own eyes for the first time (Luke has Anakin’s eyes and Padme’s smile, but his nose and jaw are all Shmi’s). With the respirator gone, each one his breaths are shallow gasps sending sharp spikes of pain through his chest. He can still feel the life support shutting down, quicker now that the mask is off, until he can’t move at all.

He’s never been in more pain.

He’s never been happier.

His vision won’t quite focus but he manages to turn to Luke anyways, trying for a smile that ends up rather watery. “Now, go, my son. . .” (his son, his son) “Leave me.”

He knows he’ll die here, alone, but he’ll be alright. He’s free of Palpatine’s chains for good, able to think and feel and look and hear for the first time in decades. These are some of his most joyful moments. He’ll be alright.

But Luke. . . Luke should go. Anakin’s getting that discordant feeling he gets under his skin whenever something’s about to blow; this station won’t be safe for long. And Luke shouldn’t have to witness him die, after all the pain he’s put Luke through. He should go.

He’s not leaving.

His mouth is moving, his face desperate and distressed--Anakin, with a tremendous effort, manages to focus on his voice. He isn’t even looking Luke in the eyes, anymore. He tries to lift them but finds that he can’t (he’s so tired). “I can’t leave you here.” Luke is saying, and Anakin wants to laugh, again, but he can’t anymore, “I’ve got to save you.”

Save him?

Oh, Luke.

How can he not see it?

“You already have,” he says, fighting to drag out of each of his words. You already did save me, you saved me, you saved the galaxy--I’m free, the galaxy is free, you saved us-- “You were right about me.” Luke had been right, all along. There really had been enough of him in there to break free. He had thought the only way for it to end would have been with Palpatine still holding the strings, one or both of them dead, but Luke had been right. He had been able to break free. Luke had helped him break free.

Obi-wan laughs, somewhere far away. Anakin Skywalker, admitting someone else was right?

“Tell your sister--” Oh, Leia, “you were right.”

You were right.

He’ll never get to speak to Leia as himself, but it’s alright. Luke is there, Luke will get to be with her for the rest of his life, he can tell her for him. He hopes she knows, deep in her bones, that all her parents love her.

Luke’s saying something again (Father, he thinks he hears), but focusing is. . . difficult. He tries to project his love, his joy, his pride, towards him now. Maybe he’s successful. The world around him fades to a blur of colors and buzz of noise.

Anakin’s free (free), his children are free, the galaxy is free.

He’s free.

He dies free.

* * * * *

“Hello, Anakin. I’ve missed you.”

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invaderdoom78 · 4 years

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Eros part 1

Originally Trunks had intended to head back to his time immediately after Cell's defeat but, unbeknownst to him, the time machine had sustained some damage so he wasn’t able to return home until the Bulma of this timeline fixed it, which she did within a month's time. So, now that she had time to plan a proper send-off for her future son Bulma had organized a beach day for him and their friends at Kame House, though only Gohan, Chi-Chi, Piccalo (probably only at Gohans request) Krillin, Vegeta, and apparently his Uncie Nappa were able to make it. It was nice watching everyone have fun and relax especially after they’d spent so much time on edge as Gohan and Krillin played in the water, Piccolo watching from the shoreline, Chi-Chi and his mom talking to each other about Chi-Chi’s pregnancy while his father sulked behind them, and Nappa played with baby him, lifting him in the air like he was flying.

When he got home he’d have to remember to ask his mom if she knew if the Nappa in their time was still alive, though he doubted that the Saiyan would be interested in being his honorary uncle, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to have someone around they could reach out to if they needed to know something about Saiyan culture. Letting out a contented sigh Trunks closed his eyes feeling the waves as they flowed onto the shore, gently moving against his legs as laid back into the sand. He’d just barely gotten comfortable when he suddenly felt an energy that shouldn’t have existed anymore one that should’ve been left in the cold recesses of space.

“No,” Piccolo said as everyone who could sense energy looked up to the sky “it can’t be. Goku killed him!”

“What’s going on?” Bulma asked looking at where everyone else was

“Mom” Gohan said running towards his mother “you need to get inside now”

“What’s wrong Gohan?” Chi-Chi asked as the sky darkened above them

“There’s no time to...” Gohan didn’t get to finish his sentence because the next thing any of them knew Broly came floating down from the darkened sky, a twisted smile on his face.

“What do you want you monster?” Piccolo demanded “Goku’s not here”

“Broly not come for Kakarot,” Broly said shocking everyone “Broly come for Broly’s wife”

Trunks felt his heart-stopping dead in his chest as he felt Broly’s pupil-less eyes roaming over his half-naked body and, without thinking, he took off flying as fast as he could in the opposite direction just hoping that he’d be able to lose the other Saiyan, though he knew that would be next to impossible; especially once he saw the looming shadow of an enormous figure consume his body. Thankfully he felt the energy of his friends rapidly catching up to them along with several ki blasts aimed in their direction. Letting gravity take hold of him Trunks plummeted towards the ocean, both to put some distance between him and Broly and also to avoid the ki blasts.

He didn’t even bother waiting to see if the attacks had done anything because; one he knew they didn’t and two because he saw a crevice covered landmass that he knew he could hide in as long as Broly didn’t know how to sense energy. Finding the first opening he could Trunks squeezed himself into it as far back as he could before lowering his power level. Even from his hiding place Trunks could hear his friends and Broly's fight, it sounded even more intense than the one back on New Vegeta but they all knew that unless their last battle had left the legendary severely handicapped they didn’t have a chance of winning without Goku. The only moment of reprieve that seemed to come was when the fight grew quiet, that was until...

“Princess Trunks” Broly’s voice called out, sounding sickeningly sweet from right outside Trunks hiding spot

Covering his mouth with both of his hands in a near crushing grip, Trunks tried to make himself as small as possible hoping that Broly was only trying to scare him out of his hiding place and didn’t actually know where he was. Unfortunately, like always, luck wasn’t on his side and the mountain around him was destroyed and he was left floating mid-air looking up at the overpowered Saiyan in horror as Broly looking down at him in complete satisfaction before grabbing Trunks and punching him hard enough in the gut to make him lose consciousness.

——————————————————————————————————

“That was even worse then the fight on New Vegeta” Gohan panted after Piccolo pulled him out of the ocean, coughing up a bit of water

“What I want to know is how he survived Goku’s attack,” Piccolo said as Krillin handed them both a senzu bean “we watched him explode”

“Where’s Vegeta?” Krillin asked looking around

“That absolute bastard!”

They heard Vegeta screaming from where Trunks had been hiding and flew over to the prince.

“I’ll fucking kill him when we find him”

“What’s wrong Vegeta?” Gohan asked as they flew over to the prince

“Trunks is gone” Vegeta growled

“Did Broly kill him?” Krillin asked looking at the damage that had been done to the island

“I doubt it,” Gohan said surveying the ocean below them for any sign of the time traveler “he may be insane but I don’t think Broly would go through all this trouble only to kill Trunks”

“I can’t sense his energy anywhere on the planet,” Kami said

“An energy like that doesn’t just vanish” Nail added “they can’t be on Earth anymore”

“Agreed,” Piccolo said, “I think they must have gone off-planet”

“Do you think Broly has a spaceship then?”

“He must. We left that bastard out in space when we fought him last” Piccolo said as they started their flight back to Kame house

“Where’s Trunks?” Bulma asked looking around when they landed in the sand

“Broly must’ve taken him” Piccolo sighed

“Why would he do that?” Bulma asked confused as a million scenarios ran through her head

“Yeah, Vegeta” Piccolo asked, crossing his arms across his chest “why would he do that?”

“How was I supposed to know that when I gave him permission to bed Trunks that this is how it would turn out!” Vegeta demanded

“I’m sorry” Bulma interjected, “you did what?”

“It was for the sake of the Saiyan race!”

“Wow,” Nappa said

“Like you have any room to talk Mr. stab the baby or you’ll have to cancel your 6 o’clock!”

“Fair point” Nappa shrugged

“How would that be beneficial for the Saiyan race?” Gohan asked more to himself “they’d still need an egg donor in order to conceive a child”

“Not necessarily” Nappa chimed in “though it’s rare it is possible for male Saiyans to become pregnant and it is a trait that's most commonly found in the royal bloodline. Which is partially why they were considered the elite”

“Do humans not lay eggs?” Nail asked

“Shut up Nail” Piccolo almost growled under his breath

“Here,” Bulma said calmly, handing baby Trunks over to his uncle Nappa. Thankfully for Vegeta, he’d been wearing his casual clothing instead of a swimsuit because otherwise, Bulma would’ve grabbed him by the neck instead of his shirt collar. “Listen to me very carefully” her voice was dangerously low “if you don’t get your ass in gear and get out there looking for my baby then I will make sure that not only will you regret the day you were born but every day until you die”

“How?” Vegeta asked, managing to break out of the iron grip “we don’t even have a space ship!”

“What about Kami’s old ship?” Krillin asked “wasn’t it brought to Earth when Little Green wished everyone off of Old Namik”

“Yes it was,” Bulma said eyeing the prince out of the corner of her eye “we need Goku you realize that right”

“Yeah,” Vegeta said Broly being the only enemy they’ve faced that he would willingly admit he had no chance against

“ROSHI” Bulma screamed into the house “call your sister right now!”

——————————————————————————————————

Trunks wasn’t sure how long he’d been out for or even what had happened after he’d hidden from... Broly. Shit! Did the Legendary murder his friends, did they manage to defeat them? Wait? Trunks' thoughts were interrupted when he realized that a pair of arms were wrapped tightly around him. Once again he felt his heart freezing in his chest and he was afraid to open his eyes but he knew he had to in order to get some idea of what his surroundings were like. Cracking open an eye just wide enough for him to see, Trunks saw that he was in a room he’d never seen before, it was large, but the walls kinda looked like they were made out of clouds instead of stone as they looked soft to the touch. Looking around a bit more, Trunks could see that the room looked to have been decorated for royalty and that he was also laying in a rather large bed, that was when he finally noticed who it was that was holding him. It was Broly, who’d apparently slipped back into his base form in his sleep. Trunks couldn’t tell if this was a good thing or not as the young half-Saiyan was pretty sure he could beat the other in this form if given the opportunity but he also knew better than to assume the strength of his opponent. It was weird, the more he observed the unstable Saiyan Trunks couldn’t help but take notice of the almost innocent appearance Broly took on as he slept. It was unnerving. Despite his best efforts to stay as still as possible his subtle movements of looking around the room seemed to be enough to rouse the larger Saiyan from his slumber. Freezing Trunks watched as Broly slowly blinked open his eyes, seemingly also taken aback by the strange surroundings, that was until he looked down at the young half-Saiyan, his eyes going wide in shock as a blush spread across his cheeks.

“P-princess?” Broly stammered out, releasing his hold on the other “wha?”

Taking the opportunity Trunks pushed himself away from the other, landing a few feet away from the bed. It was then that he realized that he was still only wearing his swimwear and this was something Broly had noticed as well as his entire face became beet red. There was a long, long stretch of silence; Trunks trying to figure out what exactly the larger Saiyans plan was as Broly lay on the bed looking more and more embarrassed and confused about what was going on.

“Your hair is shorter,” Broly said suddenly, sitting up hoping that this would break up the awkwardness of the situation

“What?” Trunks asked, getting agitated at the other's ignorance of his actions

“Your hair,” Broly said pointing at Trunks' head “it’s shorter. It’s, cute”

Looking the other in the eyes Trunks could tell that he was being genuine with his compliment and the fact that he didn’t quite understand what was happening. Letting out a frustrated sigh Trunks walked over to one of the dressers he’d spotted earlier hoping that he could find something that he could at least cover himself with. The dressers weren’t made out of wood, they’d been chiseled out of a large slab of sapphire, the one next to him being made of ruby. Pulling open the doors Trunks let out a frustrated groan when he saw that it was filled with nothing but different kinds of dresses, all of varying length and style, and half jackets. He went over the ruby one and opened it, this one being full of clothing that was obviously Broly’s judging by the size. Slamming the door shut he reluctantly went back to the first dresser again and grabbed the first dress and half jacket he saw.

“Do you mind!” Trunks snapped, turning to face Broly who’d just been watching him from the bed the whole time

Jumping slightly Broly scrambled off the bed and out the room. Waiting for a minute or two Trunks listened carefully for any signs of the other attempting to re-enter the room. Once he was certain that the other wasn’t going to burst in, Trunks reached into the secret pocket he’d sewn into the inner lining of his swim pants and grabbed the capsules of emergency supplies he’d stuck in there. So now he at least knew that he had some emergency rations and fresh drinking water on him. The dress he’d chosen wasn’t anything flashy; it was a simple sleeveless rectangle of fabric that had an over-fold at the waist, that was just long enough to reach past the edge of his swimwear. Sticking the capsules back into his trunk pockets the young half-Saiyan slipped on the dress and dark blue half jacket before giving the room one final glance, trying to see if there were any shoes he could wear, but there weren’t any, so he realized he’d have to go barefoot for now. Opening the bedroom door Trunks stepped out and almost walked straight into Broly, who was standing out in the hall waiting for him.

Shoving past the other Trunks decided that it would be best to explore the castle so he had some idea of what his surroundings were like so he could more easily plan his escape. He wasn’t sure how successful it would be since Broly was following a few feet behind him, shuffling his feet and staring down at the floor as he bumped his knuckles together nervously. At least he was giving Trunks some space unlike back on New Vegeta where he’d been right on top of the young half-Saiyan the entire time he explored the hastily made castle. Trunks wanted to say something to get Broly to go away, but he was afraid that if he did it would trigger Broly's temper, realizing that he’d already been pushing it when he snapped at and shoved past him earlier. The halls were full of columns that had all been made out of different types of crystals and the walls were decorated with what seemed like portraits that had been directly carved and painted into the walls depicting very human-like beings but some with pointed ears, extra limbs, horns, tails, fins, ect. Eventually, they came across a double glass door that Trunks just happened to look out of as they passed.

“Crap baskets!” Trunks exclaimed, his shoulders slumping in defeat once he realized they weren’t on Earth

He was barely able to register the sound of heavy footsteps rushing towards him.

“What’s wrong, princess?” Broly asked, the concern obvious in his voice

Trunks ignored him as he nearly ripped the glass door open as he ran out onto the balcony. The foliage around them looked to be tropical in nature even though the temperature was too cool to be considered a tropical environment and the colors of the foliage were complementary to what they should’ve been, so instead of green leaves they were varying shades of red, and instead of an azure blue sky, it was a light purple.

“Where the hell are we?” Trunks asked feeling any hope he had of escaping fleeing his body, gripping the stone railing tight enough to crack it under his grip

Wanting to get a better look at the planet itself and search for any signs of life, since none were visible from the castle even though it appeared to have been built on top of a mountain, hoping that he could find out if maybe, just maybe, New Namek happened to be nearby, but when he tried to fly into the air he found that he couldn’t.

“No!” Trunks exclaimed jumping a few times in the hope of making it work “no! No. Why can’t I fly?”

Trunks suddenly felt everything finally crashing down around him, all he wanted to do was get back home to his own timeline and make sure his mother was alright and finally take down the androids that had been terrorizing them for so long and avenge Mr. Gohan and his friend's deaths. Dropping to his knees, Trunks began pulling at his hair, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall, so caught up in his emotional turmoil that he almost missed the feather-light touch that was placed on his shoulder. Jumping a bit he yanked his shoulder away from the touch and whipped around to look at Broly, who was obviously out of his depths judging by the panicked look in his wide eyes. After a brief stare down the larger Saiyan hesitantly placed his hands on the young princes’ shoulders and pulled him close until Trunks was flush against his chest in an attempt at a hug, but at this point, Trunks didn’t care. He didn’t care that Broly was the one that was attempting to comfort him, he was just desperate for any type of physical contact, so he wrapped his arms around the larger Saiyan as tightly as he could manage, which Broly took as a sign of encouragement so he copied the other's actions and wrapped his arms around Trunks as well, feeling his chest starting to become wet as tears finally began spilling, not stopping until the young prince felt numb.

——————————————————————————————————

After getting changed out of their swimwear everyone at Kame House flew off for the Look-Out, Chi-Chi being carried by Nappa as Vegeta carried Bulma who was holding their infant son. When they got there Krillin dropped down to Korin and Yanjarobe’s so he could grab some senzu beans that they would absolutely need, as Vegeta stood at the edge of the platform glaring out in the direction of where they had fought Broly, and Dende ran up to them looking a bit panicked having sensed Broly’s immense energy.

“What the fuck was that!” Dende borderline screamed

“That was Broly” Gohan sighed

“WHAT!” Dende shrieked “you told me he was dead!”

“Somehow he survived being exploded” Piccolo growled as Krillin flew back up lugging a literal sack of senzu beans behind him

“Where’s Kami’s old ship, Dende?” Bulma asked since it was being kept on the Look-Out just in case the young Nemekian ever wanted to visit back home

“It’s by the Hyperbolic Time Chamber,” Dende said pointing the direction of the room Bulma running off in the direction to run a check of the ship's systems “How the hell are you gonna fight that monster if Goku’s dead?”

“We asked Fortuneteller Baba to bring him back,” Gohan said

“When is he getting here?”

“Hopefully soon,” Piccolo said

“Hey, guys!” Goku’s voice called out from not to far off

“Goku!

“Dad!”

Gohan and Chi-Chi exclaimed as they ran up to the Saiyan, almost tackling him to the ground as they hugged him after he’d landed.

“Now all we need to do is find Broly,” Krillin said, cheerfully

“I searched for their energy while I was on King Kai's planet so I could Instant Transmit us there,” Goku said raising a hand to his forehead “that’s weird” he lowered his appendage “why’s it not working?”

“Where is the planet?” Dende asked

“It’s a few hundred kilometers to the left of where Old Namek was”

“I know that planet,” Dende said gripping his staff “it is a bit of an oddity that either has some type of supernatural protection around it or has such an odd gravity field around it that it’s near impossible to fly there much less instant transit”

“It’s a good thing we have a spaceship readily available then,” Krillin said as they all walked towards where Bulma had run off to

It took a couple of days but Bulma was able to give the ship's engines a boost to make them more powerful as well as install a way for them to communicate with everyone back on Earth.

“My mom and dad are going to be out of town for the next few weeks but you can reach them at this number and...”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Bulms” Nappa said, placing his hands on her shoulder, the Saiyan staying behind as his producer job leaving him in a position where he was unable to leave the planet “I’ve got everything under control. Everything will be fine”

“Ok,” Bulma said taking a calming breath

Handing her baby over to his uncle Bulma kissed the infant Trunks on the top of his head before getting on the ship, Nappa waving them off.

#team four star #dbz abridged #Dragon Ball Z #dbz #trunks/broly #broly/trunks #future trunks #princess trunks #abridged broly #bulma briefs #vegeta #son gohan #piccolo #krillin #son goku #super kami dende #nappa #chi-chi

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dinosaurtsukki · 4 years

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drops of jupiter | an oikawa x gn!reader one-shot

pairing: oikawa x gn!reader

word count: 2.2k words

contains: slight angst, lots of space imagery, some song references, oikawa can go to space and this isn’t Fully Explained

summary: oikawa had always dreamed of going to space until one day, he floated up to the night sky. ever since then, he’d travel up to space, spending more and more time there while you were left behind on earth.

a/n: i’ve always liked how whimsical this song was and i wanted to make a fic about it. also i’m in love with space nerd!oikawa so much. if you can, listen to the song while reading!

inspired by the song ‘drops of jupiter’ by train (although i love the taylor swift cover)

you’ve known oikawa tooru loved space ever since you were still kids. it wasn’t strange for kids to stare at the sky and wonder about the great outer space. but the look on oikawa’s face was always wistful, as if he was remembering a home that he had never been to.

you’ve loved oikawa ever since you realized what it meant to love. he was synonymous to the feeling of waking up to a new day and the excitement of a friday night. unlike him, you never searched for anything beyond the small town where you lived. you were left wanting for even less when oikawa told you he loved you. you knew he meant what he said. you could tell by how his eyes shone when you laugh and how he held you close every night. but you’d always find him looking to the sky, the same wistful look in his face.

and then one day, he did go to space.

it happened on a warm summer night. you were sitting on the doorstep and watched as oikawa, who was lying on the ground and staring at the sky, began to float. both of you gazed in shock as his body lifted off the ground to hover in the air for a few inches. and then, the few inches grew to a few feet. you ran just in time to take his hand only, to let go as oikawa floated farther and farther up into the sky. his ecstatic voice rang through the night as he realized that he was going to achieve his dream of going to space.

and you were left alone, searching the night sky.

…

“y/n!”

you turned around instantly at the familiar voice calling your name to find oikawa floating down from the sky. it took a while for you to realize that he was real and not a vision. with a gasp, you dropped the sheet you were hanging up on a clothesline and ran straight into his arms. oikawa laughed as the force sent the two of you sprawling on the grass with you on top of him, feeling his warmth and breathing in the smell of his shirt.

“did you miss me?” he grinned up at you. he looked no different from the day he left for space again a year ago. after oikawa’s first time going to space, he came back a week later only to leave again. the length of time when he’d been gone became a few weeks to a few months, to now, a year. every time he returned felt much sweeter especially with how you worried each day that oikawa would no longer come back.

“i missed you,” you nodded, placing his hands on your face as you bit back the question you had always wanted to ask. oikawa grinned, his eyes on you and not anywhere else, and that was enough for now.

…

even before he went to space, oikawa had always been the center of attention at any social gathering. his natural charisma drew people to him and he could talk to anyone about anything. watching him now at the small ‘welcome home’ party you set up for him and his friends, you could see the gravitational pull that caused everyone to almost orbit oikawa. and how couldn’t they? even the neon lights overhead in the town bar seemed to center on him.

“saturn was absolutely amazing! i practically spent weeks gliding across its rings. and don’t get me started on the sunsets mercury,” you heard oikawa tell his one of many stories. even in regular clothes, your boyfriend looked ethereal and bright with the colored lights blooming like nebulas on his skin.

“y/n! there you are!” oikawa grinned, catching your eye from across the bar. you smiled and excused yourself from a conversation with one of your friends and walked to him. he circled a hand around your waist and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“how are you liking your party?” you smiled at him, relishing in the warmth of his arm around you.

“well, i sure miss seeing the human faces,” oikawa joked. everyone around him laughed. “although, not as much as watching the last moments of a dying star. there was this one time i…”

you found yourself tuning out, eyes only on oikawa as you watched him tell his story. anyone could easily say that oikawa was a wonder to behold, a man who had been and seen what lay beyond and was unafraid of anything. but to you, oikawa had always been a wonder: back in high school when you watched him train day in and day out until his serve shot across the court like a comet, back when he dragged you outside to dance in the middle of a storm, back when he’d wake you up with pancakes for breakfast.

iwaizumi, one of oikawa’s best friend, was the one who made you tune back in. “so, when are you going back up there?” he asked, sharing a look with you. just like you, he waited every night for his friend to return.

“hmm, i think in about a week?” oikawa hummed.

“a week?” you turned to him, startled. “but… you just got here two days ago.”

“i know, i know but there’s this astral event that’s supposed to happen just once every few years! it’s a black hole swallowing a star!” oikawa chattered excitedly. “i was only able to get a glimpse of it last time but…” his eyes softened at the look on your face. “you understand, right y/n?”

once again, you bit back the question you’ve been wanting to ask. “sure, tooru,” you nodded.

“thanks, y/n,” he smiled, his hand on your waist rising to rest on your shoulder. oikawa was just like a star: bright, beautiful, but so, so far away.

…

you’ve known oikawa tooru loved space ever since you first met him back when you were still kids. that’s why you also knew that nothing was going to stop him from going back to space whenever he could. and so, the most you could do was to have fun during your last night out with him.

“ahh, this brings back memories,” you sighed, resting your chin in your hands as you gazed around the diner.

“sure does,” oikawa grinned. “remember when we decided to eat that 12-scoop banana split?”

“i do! we had severe brain freezes,” you laughed.

“and our stomachs ached for weeks! i couldn’t look at another ice cream scoop the same way ever again,” oikawa shook his head. you smiled as you noticed that tonight, oikawa easily melded into his surroundings. he wasn’t a star. for now, he was your tooru.

“two slices of apple pie and one vanilla milkshake. with two straws,” the waitress, a kind old woman who had been working at the diner ever since you two were kids, winked at you both as she placed the straws on the place.

“thanks auntie,” oikawa smiled gratefully at her.

“space may be great, but the best apple pie in the galaxy is still served here,” you said, eating a forkful of pie.

“well, not to discredit the fact that this apple pie is amazing, i think there are a whole lot more other exciting things out there,” oikawa shrugged a shoulder.

“an apple pie is exciting in its own way,” you disagreed. “i mean, it’s a recipe that’s been passed down for ages. imagine auntie’s great-great-great grandmother in the kitchen creating this recipe but with none of the kitchen equipment we have now. imagine all the apple pies she created until she decided ‘hey, this is absolutely perfect’. imagine how she’d scrounge up money just to have the ingredients. imagine her daughter or something spending all those hours to learn her mother’s recipe. imagine the sheer multitude of people who have eaten this same pie, how generations of families in our town are united by the very opinion that this apple pie is the best in the galaxy.”

you stopped when you realized that you had been ranting, only to find oikawa staring at you, almost starry-eyed. it made your chest ache to have that look on his face directed at you this time. “w-what?” you stammered.

“i just… remembered one of the many things i like so much about you,” oikawa said softly. just hearing him say that gave you the courage to ask the question you’ve been wanting to bring up.

“did you miss me while you were out there?”

“y/n…” oikawa reached his hand across the table. “of course i missed you.”

“enough for you to stay? just a bit longer?” you asked the question softly. oikawa looked down and bit his lip. you sighed, knowing that you weren’t going to get the answer that you want. quickly, you forked a piece of your apple pie and held it out towards him.

“your pie is getting cold,” you said. oikawa blinked at you, surprised no doubt from the change in topic, before leaning forward and eating the piece of pie. you watched him chew thoughtfully for a few seconds before breaking out into a small smile.

“that is the best pie in the galaxy.”

…

every single time, before he went to back to space, oikawa would feel a knot of unease in his stomach, especially when he heard the sad way you’d say goodbye. oikawa could go to space dozens of times, but would you still be there when he came back? that’s the question he always asked himself.

but, it was so wonderful to be in space. to hop from planet to planet, to streak across the inky blackness hanging on the tail of a comet, to lose himself among the multi-colored clouds of space dust, to float on his back and simply watch the revolutions of planets around the sun and think about how amazing it was to be a part of this cosmos.

oikawa knew that everything on earth should be dull compared to outer space, but with you, there was a slight shine to everything. you could go on for hours about everything from apple pie to the history of the only bowling alley in your town. and everything about you was so real. your smile was as warm as the sunlight that entered through the windows to land on his face in the morning. your laugh as soothing and comforting as the sound of rain hitting the rooftops and windows during a gentle storm. and the way you said his name: so full of love that it made oikawa’s chest ache.

surely, nothing else could compare. except…

“wait, is that what i think it is?” oikawa exclaimed, letting go of your hand and skipping forward to see a streak of light shoot across the sky. and another, and another. enough for him to know that he wasn’t just seeing things. “it’s a meteor shower!” he laughed.

“it is!” you said excitedly beside him. oikawa took your hand and the two of you sprinted off in the direction of the house. it was such a sight to see that both of you ran into a few things while you were busy staring up at the sky, before finally reaching your house. oikawa stood, mesmerized at the meteor shower above that rivaled any fireworks display he saw on earth. once again, he felt that pull, similar to that night when he first went to space, and knew that it would only take a matter of seconds for his feet to float over the ground.

and then, he heard you speak.

“are you leaving already?” you spoke softly. oikawa turned around to find you staring, not at him, but at the sky with a longing, wistful expression on your face. it was an expression he was all-too familiar with and it brought oikawa back to those nights he spent staring at the sky, wondering whether he would be able to see the stars and planets and moons and galaxies for himself. oikawa remembered that longing that made his chest ache every night, and realized that you must have been feeling it too all along.

your arms were wrapped around your shoulders, hugging yourself in anticipation because you knew oikawa was going to leave again. ‘they’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,’ oikawa realized. and outer space was vast and wonderful and unexplored, but it was also cold and soundless.

to your surprise, oikawa didn’t leave. he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you and planting a kiss on your forehead.

“tooru..?”

“maybe… maybe i’ll stay a little longer,” oikawa smiled down at you, his hands cupping your cheeks. you swallowed, feeling tears stream down your face from relief and pure joy. oikawa was staying.

“thank you. thank you, tooru,” you sniffed, burying your face in his shirt, arms wrapped around and clinging to him. oikawa held you just as tightly, feeling his feet firmly rooted on the ground. he would miss going to space, but everything out there had existed ever since the dawn of time and would continue to exist for far longer. it could wait. but this moment: the two of you embracing under a meteor shower, could only last now.

omg i forgot to add my taglist again 👁👄👁

taglist (still open to anyone who wants in!): @montys-chaos @miyumtwins @strawberriimilkshake @pocubo @sugawara-sweetheart@akaashisbabydoll @laure-chan@therainroguefanfiction@atetiffdoesart@stephdaninja@oikaw-ugh@charliefredb@dramaqueenweeb1469@tremblinghearts@applepienation@doodleniella

#haikyuu!!#oikawa tooru #hq x reader #oikawa x reader #haikyuu!! fanfic #haikyuu!! fanfiction #haikyuu!! one-shot #drops of jupiter #haikyuu!! songfic #hq one-shot #hq fanfiction #hq songfic

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the-bluniverse · 3 years

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Character Info

Hydra Blue (14-15, he/they, bisexual)

Winter Blue (14, he/it, bisexual poly)

Damned Blue (22, she/her, bisexual)

Name: Blue [Hydra]

Age: 14-15

Pronouns: He/They

Sexuality: Bisexual

AU: Element Four. In which a error in the Four Sword's magic intertwines with the souls of the Links' with the elements infused into the blade, the four can control the power of the element that matches the color of their tunic. Blue's element is water.

Personality: Sort of standoffish at first. Once you get to know him he'll open up a bit more. He's slightly hotheaded but can often be reasonable about things. He enjoys jokes and is sort of protective over people he likes. Wont hesitate to kill if necessary, however. Can either be a delight or a moldy bread crumb depending on who you are.

Description: Blonde boy standing at 5'4", with eyes that quite literally look like the ocean. If you stare hard enough, you might see waves lightly crashing in the reflection. His hair is the usual Four Swords style, though it appears to be slightly longer and droops down more. Can usually be seen with a stray piece of hair that looks like a tear/raindrop. Wears a pretty, white lily behind his left ear, as well as a cape that doubles at a hood that looks like a Links' iconic hat, though is layered to look like a waterfall. It’s undefinable whether its made out of fabric or water at times. The cape part of the hood goes down to just above his ankles, and has two layers that also are designed to look like a waterfall. On the middle back of the cape, a design of the water element can be seen. His sleeves are longer than usual, are end layered to look like waterfalls, similar to the theme of his hood and cape. The rest of his attire seems normal, though his belt buckle is designed after the water element, as well as his tunic being a bit longer and split down the sides.

Bonus/Trivia:

He can do a LOT with water. Bubbles, small waterfalls, even being able to make it rain to a degree [no he cant straight up control the weather lmao].

On mornings it rains before anyone is awake, he'll go outside and sit on the room of his house until it stops raining or he sees the sunrise.

He has a mild fear of ice, even certain cold temperatures making him feel uneasy.

This also plays into his slight fear of is own gift, knowing that ice is just cold, solid water.

Depending on the day, he might feel a little uneasy to use his abilities.

There’s more stuff but I’m running out of space again lmao I hope ya'll like him

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Name: Blue AKA Winter

Age: 14

Pronouns: He/him, it/its (since seasons are a concept)

Sexuality: Bisexual, poly

AU: Seasons AU. In which the Links all rule over a season, Blue takes over Winter. (Vio is Autumn, Green is Spring, and Red is Summer. Shadow is the in-between)

Personality: is very cold (HA) and distant. Has quite the temper, but has learned to keep it under wraps. It's important to have a more controlled personality when you're as important as a Season.

Description: Hair white and spiky, floats behind him, eyes glowing blue with black sclera. Skin also blank white. Blue tunic more of an overcoat and lines with cucco feathers to keep warm. Has horns/antlers made of ice growing out of his head. Floats and does not walk. Wears gloves, but fingers are covered in ice. Boots have spikes on the bottom for traction in snow in case he does decide to walk.

History: After the final battle in the manga, Hylia granted a wish to bring Shadow back and, as thanks for saving Hyrule, gave the Links immortality through the gift of the seasons... Though it seems more like a curse, now.

Bonus/Trivia:

loves flowers

cannot come in contact with any living thing, or said thing will freeze to death.

when upset, small snowstorms form around him and he glows.

Can only be where the season Winter is, can only exist in this AU due to magic shenanigans despite it not being Winter here.

Is dating Spring (his Green).

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Name: Blue (Damned)

Age: 22

Pronouns: She/her, will use he/him when not sure that someone is trustworthy

Sexuality: Bisexual

AU: Dance of the Damned

Personality: Insecure, but loyal to those she is close to or considers family. When upset, will either walk away from the situation or use sign language (keeps her from throwing punches blindly)

Description: Blonde, cerulean blue eyes, 5'9", slightly tanned skin. Lean build from trying to keep a male appearance, chest binds for the purpose of image and out of comfort due to habit. Wears multiple layers, constantly cold unless in forge.

History: Comes from a timeline where none of the heroes, from the Hero of Men onwards, succeeded in their quests; other forces typically sealed away the evil force, making people knowledgeable of the kingdom's history believing in a "heroic curse." As the second weilders of the Four Sword, they were the first to not die during their quest. Blue ended up being female once the Four Sword was pulled and worked on keeping it a secret: Vio mentioned knowing about it after they left the Blue Maiden's Village and promised to keep her secret until she was ready to acknowledge it. After the adventure, the Four Sword failed to merge them back together and shattered the pedestal, Zelda and the maidens barely containing the darkness sealed within. The colors decided to learn to live afterwards.

Bonus/Trivia:

Red's partner, but struggled to reveal her gender to him for the longest time out of fear of rejection

Despite the colors deciding they aren't related, Blue accidentally adopted Vio as her younger brother minutes later; inadvertently adopts people often

Only person who didn't object to Vio reviving Shadow, but made sure to tell him he was insane

Built a forge at their shared home for a hobby (and warm place to dwell in) and found a career in making weapons

Claymore became her preferred weapon

Can't maintain body warmth due to mishaps in adventure (being frozen solid is basically hardcore hypothermia and fucks with your body long term)

Would be happy to never go on another adventure, but fate is funny like that

Irrationally afraid of feathers (horse feathers are fine) (Still actively writing fic, so things have yet to be revealed)

#four swords #bluniverse #character info #Important #blue link #Hydra Blue #Winter Blue #Damned Blue #mod angel

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humanmoodring-retired · 3 years

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Where’d You Ghost? || Nadia & Sammy

TIMING: Before the Exorcism PARTIES: @humanmoodring and Sammy (the fantastic @chloeinbetween) SUMMARY: Two ghost play pranks and have a heart to heart. Or, as much of one as can be had without a heartbeat. CONTENT: It’s kinda soft, actually

Sammy wondered, as him and Nadia walked into the cafe, if there was going to be a point when he just forgot what walls were. Like sure, they stopped you seeing things, but walking through them was just like walking through air. Someday, he’d probably ask Blanche to follow him somewhere, and lead her straight into a dead end without even realising. But this was nice. It was early afternoon but the sun was setting so early at the moment that the everything had a cool pink hue to it, and when they floated inside the cafe, everything became warm and orange. While he preferred spending his time around Ariana even when she couldn’t see him, Nadia had been right, they needed some space, and Blanche needed some space for her poor ghost spidey-senses. “Is that her on the left?” he whispered, even though there was no way anyone could hear him, being dead and all.

Even though they said they didn’t mind, Nadia knew that she couldn’t spend all of her time `bothering Blanche and Regan, and, after the whole thing with Luce and the mirror, Nadia just wanted to be around someone who understood, who wasn’t going to suddenly stop seeing her, and who wasn’t going to get overwhelmed by her presence. Of the other two ghost frequently occupying… not space but time in Blanche’s apartment, Sammy was certainly the more approachable. He was easy to talk to and he wanted to have fun in ways that she’d never really been able to, even as a kid. “That’s her,” she murmured back, matching, looking over at the barista with a small frown. Not only had the girl judged her for the amount of caffeine she’d been drinking and the odd hours she kept (she was aware, Bethany, okay? No need to point it out), she’d also been really rude when Nadia had fallen asleep at one of the tables on accident. She’d never targeted any of the other patrons like that, and Nadia hadn’t really been able to understand it. She’d been bullied out of getting her coffee, dammit. So what if she wanted just a little payback and fun?

“Cool, cool cool cool. Let’s uh… Let’s show her. Without, like, compromising anyone else’s health or anything.” Pranks had limits, after all, and although Sammy felt an increasing urge to act out to get any kind of attention, he didn’t actually want to injure anyone. But pranking someone to help Nadia feel better, that was right up his alley. At first, Sammy began to sneak up to the till, before remembering that… there was no point in sneaking. He straightened up sheepishly, passing right through the counter. What should he do? After freezing in indecision for a moment, Sammy knocked the milk jug, hard enough for some to splash onto the counter. Bethany spun and sighed, telling the customer to just give her a moment.

Laughing at Sammy’s antics, Nadia followed along behind him, no longer even pausing as she phased through the counter. This was going to be a problem if… when she got her body back. Because she was getting it back. She was. She smirked a bit as the milk spilled, and the frustration was clear enough on Bethany’s face that even a non-empath could see it. “Smooth, Sammy,” she told the younger ghost. As Bethany set back to work, Nadia managed to tug hard enough on the strings of the girl’s apron that it came undone, causing it to fly open and disrupt her work. Cursing and holding a cup in her hand, Bethany struggled to try and tie it with only one hand, failing spectacularly in the process. Nadia didn’t consider herself a cruel person, and she didn’t like causing people problems but this… was kind of funny, and there was a certain sense of satisfaction that came along with it. She smiled at Sammy, glad to be able to spend time with someone that understood.

“Hey! I’m impressed I even managed to move it at all.” Sammy protested, but it was with a lopsided grin on his face. A few weeks ago even that had been hard. For someone who had been so physical in life, always shaping things with his hands, he’d found doing the same thing as a ghost impossibly hard. It was easier when Nadia was around, like there was some secret trick for him to figure out just by watching and feeling her doing it. Bethany tied back the ribbons of her apron, and set about making the small coffee she’d just been requested. When she turned her back, Sammy jabbed at the large button until it clicked… and then it jammed. “Shit,” he whispered, watching the coffee begin to overflow.

“Honestly?” Nadia asked, offering the young man a small smile, “I’m pretty impressed, too. You’re getting a lot better.” They both were, though Nadia didn’t take nearly as much pleasure in it. Sure, it was nice to be able to move things, to be validated in her existence, but it was also… hard. The better she got at it, the more comfortable she was with being like this, the harder readjusting would come, if she ever got to that point. The more she thought about the exorcism, the more she learned about it reading over Regan’s shoulder, the more she wondered about her own survival. She’d already been exorcised from her own body. What if she was exorcised from this plane, too? What if the wrong soul was destroyed? She was jerked out of such melancholic thoughts by the sounds of machinery breaking and Sammy cursing. “Fuck,” she said, attempting to fix the button but jamming her arm into the machine instead, causing lights to blink and noises to go off. “Fuck.” Nadia looked at Sammy with wide, panicked eyes. “We should, uh, leave. We should go. Right now.”

“Oh shit,” Sammy breathed as Nadia made more sparks fly. “I didn’t mean to jam it,” he whispered urgently, as if the woman standing half through him might hear him. “I just wanted to make her overfill one drink.” His panic made a nearby light flicker, and, wide eyed, he hurried out of the store, until he was outside and all his jittery energy did was make the snow around him melt. He looked at Nadia once, twice, and then fell through the floor in nervous laughter. “She definitely noticed that,” he commented drolly. “You okay?”

“It’s all good. This is all good. It’s totally fine,” Nadia tried to reassure the younger ghost, but she followed him out the door all the same, leaving chaos in their wake as they went. Well, their little prank might have gone a bit overboard, but… it had been kind of fun. And they’d both proven that they were getting better with their ghostly abilities, for what that was worth. If Nadia did end up stuck like this, at least she was proving she wouldn’t be an invalid. “What? Nah, I don’t think she did,” she teased Sammy, a smirk on her face as he fell into the ground while she just barely hovered above. “On the bright side, I don’t think she’ll get fired for a bunch of random techno mishaps.” She moved to sit, legs pulled up and arms resting over her knees as snow fell through her. “I’m fine. Really. Thanks for this. It was,” she paused, laughing, “something.”

“No I think she’s fine. Just pissed off, which serves her right if what you’ve been saying is true.“ Sammy ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing as he remembered exactly why he shouldn’t do that. Even Dad, he could feel the texture of his injuries. Quickly dropping his hand he laughed again, smiling up at Nadia. “It really was,” Sammy agreed with a chuckle. A man in a bright burgundy work suit strolled through the two of them before going into the cafe. As the door swung open,Sammy heard the manager apologising to customers for the technical difficulties. “Come, let’s sit somewhere else,” he said, leveraging himself out of the ground and wandering aimlessly to look for a quieter area. Not knowing where one might be. “Blanche would’ve liked to see that, if she weren’t, you know.”

“Honestly, I think she’s deserves a bad day or two at work.” Nadia frowned at the coffee shop as the man walked through the door, but at least the mess was getting cleaned. Looking back at Sammy, she felt a bit of an ache, as close to pain as she could get like this, as she watched him struggle with his injuries. She didn’t anything discernable, just the same stained clothes and muddied boots she’d been wearing for months, and she knew that he didn’t hurt, but, God, it looked painful. But she got up and followed after Sammy, the two of them strolling through town companionably, no one paying them any mind because, well, why would they? They were just two ghosts. She looked over at him sadly. “I know she would have, but…” She didn’t know what to say. She hated seeing the younger girl like this, sad and heartbroken, especially when Nadia didn’t even have to be an empath to get it. She would have had to be blind to not see the way Blanche looked at Constance. Of course it was gonna end bad, but, hell, she wished it hadn’t been like that. “I don’t really know what to do to help, you know? She’s just-- Fuck, this just sucks.”

“It really fucking does,” Sammy agreed quietly. “I feel like I shouldn’t even be around her, because it’s a lot for her when we’re even nearby. I mean, Constance freaked me the fuck out, and she always felt like she was on the edge, like some kind of livewire, but she… she had her moments.” He couldn’t even say anything like I can’t believe she poltered, because he could believe it. Constance had always been… casually terrifying, but she’d also been nice at times. She looked like she belonged on a long stroll on an episode of Pride and Prejudice, but maybe also on the set of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, because of the many knives he imagined she’d have hiding in her stockings if her stockings had been… real. “I’ve always been a hugger, and now I can’t even offer Blanche that.”

“I know,” Nadia said. “i’m worried about her after all of this. I… tended to stay away from Constance.” She gave him a wry smile. “Real bad experiences with redheads, you know, especially ghosts.” The whole reason, she believed, that Cordelia had been able to get Nadia in her ghostly grasp was because Nadia kept thinking she was seeing someone that she wasn’t. “I was scared something like this would happen, but I’d hoped, I’d hoped, it wouldn’t, you know?” But she’d lived with Cordelia in her head for months, and she’d felt her poltergeist. When Sammy said that Constance felt like a livewire, he wasn’t joking, and Nadia knew all too well what happened to livewire ghosts. She wished it hadn’t come to this, though. Not for Blanche. She sighed. “Ghost, right? Good for pulling great pranks, not so much for comforting people. God, what I wouldn’t give to actually just be able to touch someone, something, right now.” She attempted to scuff her boot against the ground and only succeeded watching her foot disappear.

He matched her wry smile. “We talked a couple times, but her whole magic tree house, narnia way of speaking and my rambling and tiktok slang didn’t really match up all that well,” Sammy said ruefully. “I hoped… I think… I think Blanche was too optimistic. I’m not sure Constance would have ever moved on, you know? She had a pinterest of horrible ways to murder people. I just… didn’t think it would be this fast.” He rubbed the spot where his eyes might be. “I tried to warn her, before. Because even in the best outcome, Blanche would be alone. And…… this is the worst case situation.” Instinctively again, he reached for Nadia’s hand, but they could affect each other as much as they could affect anyone else in this world, which was to say, not at all. “But maybe you will soon, right?” He asked softly.

Laughing, Nadia said, “She did sound like a Jane Austen novel, didn’t she? Though, I gotta tell you, I’m still not sure what tiktok is.” But she was fond of Sammy’s ramblings and weird phrases. It was enjoyable, and it made her feel younger. It had been awhile since she’d felt, like, actually young. “She was but�� I didn’t want to talk her out of it, and I know you didn’t want to talk her out of it. She felt so guilty about what happened with me and-- and Cordelia. Of course she didn’t want to see it happening to Constance, especially not Constance.” Hell, Nadia hadn’t wanted it to happen to Constance. She sighed. “I know you did. And this… I know. God, I fucking know.” She gave Sammy a sad smile, wishing that she could take the boy’s hand. She swallowed, tightly. “Yeah, soon.” She bit her lip, wishing she could feel it. “If-- If it goes well, I want you to still come see me, okay? I can see and hear ghosts, somewhat, in my body. And if it doesn’t… I’ll still be around, right?” She didn’t dare mention the third option: if they destroyed the wrong spirit, then she wouldn’t be around at all.

“Especially not Constance,” Sammy agreed. They turned the corner into one of the town’s smaller green squares. Not that it was very green. Snowfall had been reduced to lumps of brown slush by the drains, the grass had been trodden down to mud. “It’s shitty all around. Just got to wait for Blanche to figure out if she wants to talk with us, and do our best in the meantime.” His mood lifted when she explained that she’d still be able to see him. If everything worked. If it was possible to put her back in her body at all. All the unsaid ifs they’d avoided these past few months. “You can?” Sammy asked, embarrassed at the slightly pleased tone in his voice, a little too full of hope. He swallowed. “It’ll work. It has to work. You’re getting out all the big guns. And I’ll come see you afterwards.”

Nadia felt so much heavier, her boots sinking into the ground a bit more. “So fucking shitty. But you’re right. And, when she does, we be there for her, however we can.” She smiled at Sammy. “Of course. It’s not, like the best, and I’m a little out of practice.” She ran a hand through her hair, a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t interact with a lot of ghosts, you know, before.” She leaned into him a bit, brushing their shoulders even if they couldn’t touch. “But that was before I met you and knew that ghosts could be cool. So of course I can. And of course I want you to come around.” She stopped, looking down before looking back up at up at him, her face serious. “It will. Of course it will. But… But if it doesn’t-- Make sure Blanche doesn’t blame herself? Is something goes-- she shouldn’t blame herself for anything that happens to me, okay?” She gave him a shaky smile. “But it’s gonna go great. I’m gonna see you as soon as it’s done.” It wasn’t going to go wrong. She had to believe that.

#where'd you ghost?#chatzy: sammy #wickedscontent #//just a lil ghostie feels after yesterday #mostly lighthearted and fun #immo is a blessing and a delight

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lonestarbabe · 3 years

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Grief is a Lantern

The 126 deals with their grief. (AO3)

Glimmers in the Night

Debris hangs in the air in Austin, and the volcanic matter looks like snowflakes, falling through the apocalyptic sky. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. With tragedy, there always seems to be corresponding beauty that feels like a cruel taunt more than a way of balancing the awfulness. T.K. wants to be somewhere else because it hurts to exist in his own brain. His body is heavy with the weight of what he has seen— the melting flesh, the smell of burning skin, and the horror of losing someone so close. The thought of snow creates a pang of yearning for New York and her white winters. New York isn’t his home any longer, but it’s his history, and whenever grief creeps into his life, T.K. can’t help but grieve the simpler times in New York before everything became so hard. He longs for real snow, not the bastardized disaster-snow that has fallen upon Austin. He wants to be six years old again, making snow angels in the park before the snow turned to ash and before the pollution started to clog his mind. His brain remains congested no matter how far he runs from the chaos that dawns the minute innocence and ignorance are lost. With all that hangs in the sky, T.K. can’t see the stars, so the night feels lonelier.

Within every great natural disaster, there are the little disasters that go unknown to the wider universe— the human tragedies that are just blips compared to the broader chaos that mother nature has inflicted. Faces become blurred as casualty numbers scroll across news banners and names are shoved behind the fear-inducing title of whatever “once in a lifetime” event has just happened. Losses are sensationalized, and rubberneckers wear you down with their stares. It is hard to have a tragedy so personal be the world’s because the grief becomes even more inescapable. It’s there when you flip on the TV; it’s there when a friend from long ago calls to see if you’re okay; it’s there when you go to the grocery store to get midnight salty snacks and the cashier cannot stop talking about it, even as you are moments away from breaking down and crying. The grief comes at you from all angles. You feel so many feelings that you aren’t sure which are yours. Your pain feels exposed, and you don’t know how to tuck it back inside of you, back into its cage until you’re ready to face it.

T.K. isn’t ready to face what happened. It’s only been a few hours, and he is still running on adrenaline and whatever chemicals are lingering in his body to keep him going. He’s not let himself think too much because he knows that the emotional crash that he’s going to face isn’t one that he can handle alone. T.K. knows enough about himself that he knows that he doesn’t handle feelings well. He’s been working on coping skills in therapy, but in times like these, when unexpected things happen, his brain always wants to revert to old patterns, the ones that are a quick fix for so problems that have not so quick solutions. He knows that he needs to be careful with himself for a while, and he’s not going to take shortcuts to feel better.

The highs and the lows of life get to T.K. the most. He loves the high and is debilitated by the lows, and too often, he seeks the gray middle. The levelness that allows him to robotically function. One moment he was celebrating his dad’s life and not too many later, someone’s life had been taken, and it’s like every time things start to be good, something sours the sweetness. In times like these, T.K. defaults to feeling numbness, and he knows that when the numbness hits, he’ll want to feel something— anything— because anything’s better than trying to process emotions he cannot access. Numbness helps him cope, but it also deprives him of the light. The joy becomes enshrouded by the darkness that prevents him from engaging with himself.

Going home doesn’t feel right after everything that has happened, and T.K. knows he can’t sleep in his own bed tonight. Unable to think too hard, he follows his gut and goes to be with the person he most wants to hold. Carlos had told him to come over if he needed to, and T.K. doesn’t care if he was just saying that to be nice. He needs to see Carlos. To know that he’s still there, to feel his skin, and to prove that this horrible night is real. Until he sees Carlos, he’ll worry, so he drives the eight miles to Carlos. It’s late, so there’s little traffic, and T.K. thanks whatever’s up there for little blessings because he doesn’t have the patience to sit and wait for other people to get moving when his life already feels like it has hit a standstill.

He feels unsettled in a way that makes his head light with the desire to escape the truth because he doesn’t want to accept what has happened. It would be easier to deny the facts just a little longer. To let himself sleep one last sleep without the burden of tragedy. Tomorrow, he’ll wake up with a piece of lead in his brain, pressing his head against the pillow with an unwillingness to get up and face everything that has happened, but today, he’s unfocused and his world is a haze with a gray filter. He can see the pixels in the air as his eyes try to find any stray beam of light. He grips the key in hand, pressing the cool ridges into the palm of his hand and letting the feel of the cut metal remind him that he’s not floating in outer space alone. He’s here, on earth, seconds away from seeing the man he loves. He’ll be okay if he can just push his body a little further.

The adrenaline is starting to crash, and his energy is waning, but he has to go just a little further. It is that distance, the small but profound one, that keeps his legs holding him up. A few steps more and he will be by Carlos’ side. T.K. drags his feet to the door of Carlos’ house. He slips into the apartment, being as quiet as he can because it’s late and Carlos is probably asleep. He doesn’t mind if Carlos isn’t awake, and it might be easier for him to be asleep. T.K.’s tempted to turn back and isolate himself. He thinks it might be less painful if he doesn’t have to meet Carlos’ eyes, but he shakes that thought away. Knowing that Carlos is there and safe is what matters. T.K. doesn’t need to talk or anything like that. He just needs to see that Carlos is there because loneliness magnifies pain.

As much as he doesn’t need Carlos’ consoling, relief strikes him when he sees that Carlos is waiting on the stairs. Carlos’ face nearly makes T.K. lose it, those brown eyes that say all the things T.K. has tried to ignore. Even with the sadness between them, Carlos is still so inviting. He feels like safety. T.K. takes a breath, exhaling the air that’s been lodged in his chest. He uses whatever remaining energy he has to make it to the stairs, and he can’t take them with much gusto, but pulls his feet up, and he goes to where Carlos is waiting. He feels his heart flutter at the thought that Carlos had not gone to sleep. On a day when sleep is so tempting an escape, it means so much to wait up and choose to endure the slow-motion hours when you can fast forward through the longest minutes, the time when there’s nothing left you can do.

Carlos reaches out to T.K. to take his hand, and guide them to bed, but T.K. can’t do it. He can’t lift his arm. He can’t reach out. He can’t move his legs any more than he already has. It’s all too much, and all he can do is drop his body against Carlos’. He collapses against his boyfriend— oh, how he loves that word— and he lets his airy head find the solidness of Carlos’ arm.

T.K. can’t move his head from Carlos’ shoulder as he starts to feel a hot bubbling in his stomach. Tim didn’t deserve to die. It’s unfair and aggravating. 2100 degrees of anger makes its way through T.K.’s body, and he wants to scream as he clutches onto Carlos to keep him grounded, but the truth is that as hot as the anger is, it freezes as soon as it hits his chest. So, he sobs because he’s so sad. He thinks he’s sad, at least. Feelings are confusing. They shift quickly and blend. They camouflage as one another, and T.K. doesn’t have the energy to know how he feels other than “not okay.”

The day wasn’t supposed to go like this. T.K. should still be at work, attending to calls from people doing things that they should have known better than to do. No one had predicted the disaster that had unfolded. Even when they knew they were dealing with something so dangerous, T.K. had focused on saving people. It hadn’t occurred to him that they would fail to save one of their own.

T.K. can’t find words, so he doesn’t try. He lets Carlos hold him, and he sits on the stares feeling no comfort but feeling as at peace as he possibly could. The tears fall from T.K.’s eyes as Carlos presses kisses against T.K.’s head and pulls T.K. closer with a firm arm; they are quiet tears, the ones that give none of the release of a sob. There are only a few of them, but they are more than T.K. usually lets another person see. They stream down his face, warm and salty. They make his face itchy, but the knotted ball of energy in his chest remains strong. As the tears slow, T.K. hides his face in the wet splotch he’s left on Carlos’ shirt. Carlos rubs his back, and T.K. wonders what he did to deserve a man like this, one who will sit on the stairs as a sad soundtrack plays mournfully in T.K.’s mind.

T.K. doesn’t know how long they sit there, but eventually, Carlos shares the first words between them, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Without having to think about it, T.K. shakes his head. “I just want to sleep.” So, they sleep, letting the awful day become part of the past. It’s a step forward, but it doesn’t feel much like one.

When T.K. wakes up a little after four, Carlos is just waking up. His eyes are bleary and his head is heavy. He doesn’t want to move. Even the act of moving his lips feels like too much, but he musters the strength to speak. “You’re still here,” T.K. says to himself more than Carlos. He rolls over to the other side of the bed, turning so he can pull his arms around Carlos, “I thought I would miss you.” T.K. brushes his hands over Carlos’ face to make sure he’s real and this isn’t just a mirage. “But you’re still here.”

“I’m here,” Carlos confirms. Carlos takes the hand on his face and wraps it in his own. T.K. stretches his neck to kiss Carlos. “I’ve got work.”

“You were just at work,” T.K. says with a sigh. He doesn’t want Carlos to leave just yet, but he also isn’t going to ask Carlos to stay because he knows that if he did, Carlos would.

“I know, but they need me there. I won’t be too long.” Carlos looks T.K. over. “You’ll be okay?” He’ll be okay. He’s been through enough trauma in his life that he knows he can handle this one. He knows how to stay away from the edge and keep his head screwed on. Therapy hasn’t been a useless pursuit as much as he would like to say that he didn’t need it.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” T.K. puts on a brave face. “Meet up after your shift?”

Carlos nods, giving T.K. another kiss. “But for now, go back to sleep. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I need it,” T.K. replies, but he knows that he won’t go back to sleep. T.K. doesn’t want to sound clingy. He doesn’t want those old fears of someone he loves leaving and then not coming back to come back full force, but he can’t help the panic he feels as he watches Carlos get ready for work. He knows Carlos is good at his job, and he knows how to take as few chances as he can, but dangers always lurk for first responders, and the light starting to fill the sky reminds T.K. that the night is never far away.

The Trap of the Rising Sun

Owen is the leader of the 126, so he knows that he has to keep a strong front whenever possible. People look at him to know what to do. When bad circumstances start to fragment a team, it’s always a good idea for someone to act like they’ve got it all under control— to use an authoritative voice and assure them that somehow they can survive the storm that has hit them. Owen wants to be that person for his team, but the truth is that he doesn’t have it under control. His head is spinning with memories of the past, and that never does any good. He’s being pulled back to the darkest time of his life. Loss of life is never easy, but losing someone that you know well and that you should be looking out for is even more heartbreaking. Owen doesn’t want to let his mind linger too long on what has happened because it won’t do him much good. He’s got to push forward. For better or for worse, he’s always been the type of man to push through tragedy, and he’s not going to stop now.

Owen hasn’t slept much; he’s sure that none of them really have, but he’s up bright and early because with so much on his mind, sleep seems like a waste of time. He hopes the morning will give him some sense of clarity, some cosmic meaning to something that mostly seems meaningless. He’s not much of a believer, but with the yesterday that he had, he’s willing to believe just long enough to give himself some peace. The sun is just starting to poke its head over the horizon, and Owen’s got coffee brewing because he knows that there’s no way he’s getting back to sleep. He’s got to find the courage to face the day. He’s been spared death. His cancer didn’t kill him, and now, he owes it to the people he loves to be strong, and if he can’t be strong, he’ll settle for breaking down when he’s alone.

Austin was a new opportunity for Owen. He’s good at those. When things go wrong, he’s a firm believer in creating something new. Ditch the past, and move forward. When T.K. had overdosed, he decided it was time to start something new yet again. In the time since, he’s created the nicest station in all of Texas, but it is not architectural inspiration that gets the job done. It’s the people. He’s always said that the firehouse has always been his family, and now more than ever, that’s still true. He came to Austin not knowing anyone, so the 126 has become the center of not just his work life but his social circle as well. They are the people he wants to celebrate his victories with, and they’re also the people he worries about when the chips are down. He’s got so much love around him now, and it’s a wonderful feeling, but it also means that he has so much more to lose than he ever has before.

Owen worries about what will happen to the station after this loss. They’ve become like a well-oiled machine, and they’ve learned to function as smoothly as they can with each person’s strong suits. They lessen each other’s weak areas and pull each other when they’re feeling down. They’re still getting used to Tommy, but everything was going well. The 126 was adjusting, and they were bouncing back after Michelle left to follow her passions. It seemed that every time they started to get settled that chaos would strike again and send them into a whole new tailspin. Owen doesn’t know how many high-stress, high-heartbreak situations they can take. He hopes they don’t bottle up the hard feelings they will face in the coming days and months.

When he gets up, before the sun has pulled itself fully into the sky, he sends T.K. a text. He trusts his son, but he’s still a father. He still stays up late at night fretting over his kid and praying that he’ll make it through the week unscathed. Maybe this hasn’t always been true in the past, but T.K. is his first priority, and Owen knows that something like the death of Tim can shake anyone to their core, especially someone who has always been raw and sensitive like an exposed nerve. T.K.’s been better lately. He’s been happier, and he hasn’t had to see his therapist as often, but no matter how good someone feels, one crisis can cause them to go spiraling backward, and Owen cannot let that happen, but he also knows that he can’t be too pushy or overbearing, so he keeps his text simple, Are you okay? I’m here if you need to talk. And he hopes that if T.K. isn’t okay that he’ll reach out for help. Owen doesn’t care if T.K. talks to him, but he has to talk to someone when life gets too overwhelming.

Owen isn’t sure how the rest of his team is going to cope with this crippling blow. Many of them have already been through a lot. They each have traumas and hurts that shape how they see the world and react to calls. They’ve learned to come together over their hardships. They’ve become so close over the past few months, and when you’re that close, it makes it hard to go bravely into the danger. You start to second guess your instincts, and when that happens, you may make deadly mistakes. When you’re a first responder, you can’t psych yourself out. You’ve got to maintain your focus even in the face of fear. The minute you freeze up, you put yourself in a bad situation, and it’s Owen’s job to make sure that no one freezes up. He has to keep the team’s confidence up and remind them that they are still capable. Somehow, he has to convince them that while losing Tim was tragic, it wasn’t something that they could have changed. It just was, and while there are always more solutions in retrospect, they trusted themselves at that moment, and they worked to the best of their ability.

Will Judd be thrown back, thinking about the devastating loss of his crew? Judd’s made a lot of process with his PTSD, but Owen knows better than anyone that PTSD doesn’t just go away, even with a lot of work. Usually, it lingers for quite some time, even as the symptoms mostly dissipate. Owen doesn’t feel his own symptoms much anymore, but they’re still there, sometimes, and there’s no rhyme or reason to when they appear, but traumatic situations certainly never help. Owen knows that Judd has a good support system. Grace would go to the ends of the Earth to make sure that her husband is okay, but there are times when it doesn’t matter how good the people around you are. You have to fight yourself, and you have to learn to face the fears and hurts that you’d rather shove aside. Owen admires the progress Judd has made because he knows how hard it is to wake up with your whole life changed. He knows how hard it is to move forward and find a new purpose when your old one is suddenly gone.

Will Marjan think twice before trusting her instincts? Marjan’s best quality when on duty is her ability to trust her instincts. She’s not a rule-follower, but she’s also not reckless. She knows what she can handle, and her confidence allows her to complete insane feats. She makes what she does seem superhuman, but the real skill she has is to know her limits because when you know your limits, you can dive into a situation without overthinking it. Marjan is savvy, strong, and morally-driven. She knows who she is, and as long as she remembers to keep her pride by her side, she doesn’t have issues. Owen worries that she’ll have more doubts. She’ll think twice when she only needs to think once. Owen doesn’t want anyone on his team to be reckless, but he needs them to listen to their gut, especially Marjan because she knows what she has to do in an emergency without having to fret too much about it.

Will Mateo feel secure about his place on the team? Mateo always had his doubts that he belonged on the team. He feels stupid, Owen knows that, and no matter how much anyone tries to tell him differently, Mateo always feels like the kid-probie, who is trying to fill firefighter shoes that are perpetually too big for his feet. Mateo still has a lot to learn, but he does things that others think are unimportant. His contributions don’t always go noticed, but that doesn’t make them unimportant. He may never have viral videos of himself saving people as Marjan does. He might not be able to deduce with pinpoint accuracy like Paul, or he might not be able to look like a force of authority like Judd, but he is important to them. That’s what is so great about the 126— no one is replaceable. They can throw more bodies into roles, but they’ll have their own unique contributions.

Will Paul’s wall of reassurance crack? Paul can read people from across the firehouse, but he is hard to read. He’s self-contained, and he doesn’t often let it show when he’s hurt or angry. He’s an emotional stabilizer in a firehouse filled with passionate and lively people, and he is a great listener, but Owen worries that Paul keeps too much to himself. With so much that Paul doesn’t show others that he’s bound to break down eventually. Paul knows how to handle his emotions, but a person can only take so much, especially a highly empathetic person like Paul. He takes on other people’s pain, and Owen wants him to know that the crew is willing to take on some of his pain as well.

Will Tommy forgive herself? She had been tough on Tim, which was just how she operated. Owen knew that you had to be tough sometimes to keep everyone safe and make sure that they could live up to their potential. Still, it was never easy having to be the bad guy, even when it was warranted. It was even harder when you didn’t have a chance to show the other part of you that wasn’t strict and severe. Tommy was a good person, that was for sure, and Owen had no doubt that given time, she and Tim would have developed a better bond. Unfortunately, time was never a guarantee.

And then there’s Nancy, who was without a doubt the closest to Tim. She’ll take the loss the hardest, and Owen knows enough about her that he knows she’ll have trouble adjusting to working without Tim by her side. They’ve been through a lot together. Nancy had just lost Michelle, and now she was losing Tim too. At least Michelle was still around, even if she didn’t check in as much as she promised she would. Tim was gone forever, and that would be a hard reality for Nancy to swallow.

Owen considers his own feelings on the loss, and he can’t shake the idea that he yet again escaped death when it should have been him. When he got cancer, the universe seemed to be righting itself, but then he had survived that, and it felt off-balance again. He was overstaying his welcome, and somehow, he kept surviving even though he was sure that he’d used up his fair share of lives.

The firehouse isn’t going to recover from this loss for a while, Owen knows. It doesn’t matter if you lose your whole crew or you lose just one of those people, any loss still strikes a firehouse to its core. A firehouse is only as great as the people in it. It doesn’t matter how fancy it looks, a firehouse without good firefighters and good paramedics will never have the heart it needs to survive. They’ll feel Tim in those halls long after their grief has faded and things have gone back to “normal”— whatever normal means. For now, they’ll have to do the best they can. They’ll have to learn to lean on each other and seek help when they need it, but they didn’t get where they are without resilience.

Mornings Always Come Too Soon

When the morning comes, Mateo isn’t ready for it. Everything seems more real in the light, and he doesn’t think he can face the brightness. He wants to roll down his blinds and hide in his apartment until someone drags him away, but he knows that’s not an option. He’s got to be normal, or as normal as he can be under circumstances like these. Inaction is only going to make him feel worse, reminding me of all the actions he could’ve done and didn’t do when Tim was in danger. Mateo has made it through the night, but his mind is still dense with the feelings that don’t seem to abate, so he goes for a run, and he hopes that moving his body will shake off the fizzy feelings loose from the pit of his stomach.

What-ifs loop in Mateo’s head to the rhythm of his feet against the pavement. There’s nothing I could have done, Mateo tries to remind himself, but it does nothing to break the wonders that will perpetually be in his head. There’s always another option in life. Mateo believes for everything that goes wrong, there’s something that he could have done better. He has the unshakable feeling that if he were somehow better that the results would be better. He feels so small and so limited. He’s finally made it to be a firefighter; yet, he still doesn’t feel like he belongs. He feels like an imposter, and he keeps waiting to fit in and feel like he’s finally got what it takes, but no matter how long he does the job, he still keeps thinking that one day the 126 is going to see that he never belonged and that he never had what it takes to be a firefighter. He worries that he’s too dumb. He fears he’s incompetent. He knows none of them would say that those things were true, but that doesn’t mean he believes it.

Mateo’s still exhausted. It’s only just become day, and he’s barely gotten any sleep, but his body needs to get going. Doing something will make him feel less powerless. When he was a kid, loss used to be so much easier. He’d pray to God, and even if things still hurt, at least they made sense. Now, it’s not like he doesn’t believe, but his faith is less of a sure thing. He mostly has it in moments of desperation when belief is the only thing that can give him any comfort. It’s easier to believe in God when you are alone. In those lonely, pained moments, Mateo thinks it would be easy to believe in anything. But it is the God he was raised with that always pulls him in and provides nostalgic comfort. As much he is filled with uncertainty, Mateo wants to believe, so sometimes he can brush away his doubts for the safe cocoon of ignorance.

With all the doubts and sorrows that threaten to fill him to the brim, Mateo’s running. Running is what he does when he needs to clear his head and shake the jumble of words that have gone unspoken. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but going somewhere is not the point, so he lets his feet move in whatever way feels right. He doesn’t want to have to think too hard right now, so he lets his instincts take over and focuses on his breathing. In that way, running is like meditation. Mateo has never been one who has the disposition to sit down and meditate, but he can do this. He can push against the air and center his thoughts through movement. As much as he tries not to think, he can’t stop. The thoughts bombard him, and he knows that trying to censor them only creates toxicity in his body, so he lets the thoughts exist, and he doesn’t try to push them away just because they’re uncomfortable, but running distracts him enough that he doesn’t have to give his full mental energy to the looming thoughts.

Above all, Mateo feels so stupid. It’s his default feeling when things go wrong, and he knows why, but knowing why has never changed how incompetent he always feels. He’s a troublemaker. He doesn’t mean to mess things up, but somehow, he always seems to mess them up. He gets confused or he is focusing on the wrong thing. Whatever goes wrong, Mateo is never doing what he should be where he should be doing it. He imagines being there to warn Tim. If he’d just been several feet closer, maybe he could have done something, but he was so far away, and he doesn’t even remember what he was doing when it happened, so chances are that it was nothing that important. He should have known better— they all should have— but Mateo especially. He’s the probie, which means that he has the least important things to do— right? – so if anyone could have dropped what they were doing to be near Tim, it should have been him. He failed, and he wonders how long it will be until people call him out for his constant failures.

He wonders if things would be different if he was somehow better. If he was better. He’s always been towards the bottom of the pack in everything he does, and on the 126, it’s exactly the same. He isn’t the biggest. He isn’t the bravest. He isn’t the smartest. He does his work, but he can’t help but feel like he doesn’t do it quite up to par. He’s wanted to be a firefighter for so long, and in the face of this tragedy, he can’t help but worry that he was never meant to be one. He wonders if the truth is that he’s never been good enough and he never will be. It pains him to think, but he has to be realistic with himself. The way he sees it, he’s just not the type of guy who excels at anything.

Mateo knows that he should have been there for Tim. He’s made it a priority to attend to details that no one else did because he wanted to show that despite what people kept telling him, he wasn’t stupid. He doesn’t have the observational skills of Paul, but he goes to extreme lengths to do the job right, and maybe he goes to extreme lengths to overcompensate for all the deficiencies that he feels make him trouble.

There’s a part of him that knows that what happened wasn’t his fault, but that part of him is buried under the louder part of him that tells him he can do nothing right. He is just a troublemaker. He’s always been a troublemaker, and wherever he goes, disaster follows.

Mateo runs until he’s out of breath, and he continues to run long past the point of exhaustion. He can’t seem to stop his feet. He’s been training for a marathon, so he normally wouldn’t be so exhausted so early in a run, but with so little sleep and pushing himself rather than pacing himself, it’s no wonder that Mateo’s run isn’t normal. The grief has knocked him out of step, and now, he’s gone from being an adept runner to trying not to trip over his feet.

Mateo’s experienced loss before, and it never gets easier. You learn coping techniques and the pain lessens over time, but it doesn’t become something you’re ever prepared for. It’s not like running. No amount of practice makes grief any less strenuous. It is surprising, rage-inducing, and plain sad every time it happens. Mateo’s best friend’s brother had died when they were sixteen. He had known that Rex was going to die— they’d known for months that the cancer was terminal— but that hadn’t mitigated any of the shock Mateo felt when he got the news that Rex had actually died. He’d prayed for weeks, hoping for a miracle. He’d sustained himself with that hope, thinking that somehow it would be okay. It felt like a blow to everything Mateo believed in when Rex died anyway. Mateo has learned that humans can’t stop having that little blip of hope. Even cynics, somewhere deep aside, are desperately wanting to believe that the unlikely good may happen.

He runs up, and he feels himself still in front of the church. The steeple is foreboding, and the cross on the front is so big. It used to fill him with sheer awe, but now, it fills him with so much more: confusion, fear, hope, dread, anger, joy. And yeah, it still fills him with awe because there will always be a part of him that loves the church and God. Even as he doubts the meaning of life and the cosmic forces behind it, he still takes comfort in the idea that some greater than all someones is looking down on him. He likes the idea of heaven and life after death because the idea of there being nothingness when you die terrifies him because losing your sense of self is the worst fate for any person. He never wants to stop being himself, and he wants to believe Tim has not stopped being himself either.

Tim Rosewater is gone, and Mateo wants there to be a reason for such a tragic loss. He wants it to make sense, but his thoughts are jumbled, and he wonders if this is a side-effect of his dyslexia or if everyone feels this way in the face of grief.

Late Mourning

Michelle doesn't find out that Tim has died until two days after it has happened. She’d been swamped with work to the point that she’d barely paid attention to the news, let alone her text messages. She knew about the volcano, of course— she wasn’t that detached— but she hadn’t let herself think that someone she knew had been injured. She’d shoved away any worry because it didn’t serve her, and she pushed herself further into work. Maybe that attitude made her selfish, she wasn’t sure, but it’s how she’s always been. When things go wrong, focus on just one issue and pretend away the rest.

When she gets the news, Nancy calls her, sounding a lot sad and a little mad. Nancy doesn’t wait to break the news. In fact, she sounds like she expects Michelle to somehow already know, but it’s not like Michelle has been talking to many of her ex-workers. She hasn’t even had much time to talk to Carlos. It wasn’t for a lack of want, but with the pandemic and so many changes in her life, it was the perfect storm for growing distant from the people she cared about. With how packed her schedule has been, she barely makes time for her mom! She wants to be the kind of person who will fight for friendships and who always answers her messages, but that’s just not Michelle.

She becomes obsessed with something, and then, she cannot stop thinking about it. It takes up all the time and it robs her of all the attention she should commit to other things. Her mind lags behind what Nancy has been saying. Finally, Michelle says, “Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?”

She can hear Nancy scoff, “You know we love you, Michelle, but you haven’t exactly been here. And you aren’t great about answering calls.”

“Yeah,” Michelle agrees. “I’m sorry.” She’s sorry for a lot of things that have happened in her life, even the ones that are not her fault. She’s sorry for not spending more time with people before she lost them. She’s sorry for all the times she’s focused on all the wrong things. She’s sorry for the misses calls and texts. She’s sorry for the missed opportunities of reaching out. She’s not sorry for knowing Tim, though, even though it aches that he is gone. She’s not sorry about all the good times they shared.

“About not answering or Tim?” Michelle can’t tell if the question is hypothetical, but she answers it.

“Both,” Michelle confirms.

Nancy’s voice sounds choked, “We needed you. Tim was really upset when you left. He took it the hardest.”

“I know, but I had to do this.” She’s explained why she left. She couldn’t have stayed when her passion changed.

“We get that. We’re not mad at you for leaving. We’re mad at you for not being there for us,” Nancy’s voice is angry and accusatory. Michelle knows she’d never speak this way if she wasn’t dealing with a broken heart.

“I’m sorry,” Michelle tries again, but that won’t absolve the sorrow she feels or the guilt that is starting to eat at her. She can apologize all that she wants, but there’s no way to make the situation better for anyone.

“You’ve said that. I don’t want your apologies. I just thought you should know what happened. Even if you’ve got a whole new life away from us.”

“Is there anything I can do? Did someone take in Buster?” She sounds like she’s offering to take him in, and she regrets the words. She doe not have time for a cat right now.

“Tommy took him,” Nancy says with relief in her voice. Michelle feels as relieved as Nancy sounds. “He’s doing well. Dogs get all the credit for being loyal, but cats can be pretty loyal too.”

“I trust Tommy,” Michelle says. “I wouldn’t have left if I didn’t, but she’s had a hell of a start.”

“Yeah,” Nancy says without much life in her voice. She and Tim were an unbreakable duo. Ever since they’d both been on the team, they’d gotten along. They were so distinct from one another, but they somehow fit. They made each other feel better when calls got bad and they understood the rigors of the job in ways that other people couldn’t.

“How are you, Nance? Are you okay?” Of course she’s not okay, Michelle scolds herself.

There’s a long pause between them. “Listen, Michelle, I’m not really in the mood for talking this all through right now. I just wanted to make sure that you knew about Tim. I know you cared about him.”

“I do,” Michelle adds before saying goodbye and hanging up the phone. When the line is silent, Michelle feels the weight of the truth landing straight on her. Her eyes water, and she’s not a crier, but it’s been a stressful time. This has all happened during a pandemic. Lots of bad things have happened to people, but she was fortunate that no one close to her had lost their life. The tragedy had not been hers, but this one is.

She doesn’t regret following her passion, but she wishes she’d kept in contact better. She’s never been good at maintaining relationships. She’s always been mission-oriented, focusing on what she can do for the world and forgetting all the parts of her life that give her joy. Michelle tries to remember the last time she talked to Tim, and she can’t quite place when that was. They’d never been chat on the phone after work pals, but they’d hung out at the same places, and they’d talked when the moment arose, so he was still someone important to her. She still hated the idea that someone she spent so much time with was gone because when you go through long shifts with someone, that is bound to bond you.

Michelle has never been one for long goodbyes, but it would have been nice to give Tim a final goodbye. They can’t even have a normal funeral because the pandemic makes even that last goodbye dangerous. She can’t see Tim again. He is gone, and she doesn’t get the chance of closure, so questions rally through her mind. She wonders if she could have changed things. If she was there, Michelle doesn’t think that anything would be different, but she still can’t help but wonder. Has she let down people she cares about yet again?

But the truth is that the questions she asks aren’t ones that will ever have answers. She doesn’t have time to battle her thoughts. She’s always coped best by throwing herself into work. Michelle takes a breath. She gets to work again. She can grieve later, when it is dark and her tears can hide in the night, but it is only late morning, and she is going to get through the day.

Harsh Daylight

It doesn’t take long for Paul to notice all the ways the firehouse has changed since Tim had died. You can feel the difference as soon as you walk into eh building, and it continues to percolate as the firefighters try to adjust to the new order that doesn’t include Tim. Paul knew that it wasn’t going to be easy, but he may have underestimated how hard it would be to function as a firehouse. He’s never been part of a firehouse quite like the 126 before, though. Stations were commonly tight-knit, but his had always been cliquey, and they’d never quite made him feel as at home.

He’s always been good at observation, but it doesn’t take his skills to notice how profoundly things have changed in just a short time. Everything has been thrown in a new direction. They were just starting to get used to Tommy’s role at their station, and just as soon as things were starting to even out, mother nature came in and wrecked their order. They have to learn to get back into a new swing of things, and it hasn’t been easy for anyone. They’re still mourning, but they are back at work, trying to make the best of things.

Everyone has been quiet. It feels like they’re in a ghost town, and it’s unnerving to see such vibrant with so little to say. Paul doesn’t usually say much. He’s always been the type to sit back and read a book as the others played games, but he still likes to chime in and throw in a quip every once in a while. Without Tim, the dynamic has been shifted, so no one bothers saying much. They greet each and they use pleasantries, but it’s like no one can figure out how to break the silence. Paul doesn’t push them to speak, but he observes that they are not.

He sees the way Nancy’s eyes glisten when she thinks no one is looking. She keeps to herself when she can, hiding in the corners of the firehouse when she’s not needed elsewhere. She does her job, but she doesn’t look at people the way she used to, and she mumbles when she speaks. She’s forlorn, and Paul can see when her thoughts shift to Tim because there’s a light in her eyes that dims when her attention is pulled back into the present.

Paul feels how hard Marjan punches when they spar. She’s got so much anger, and he wants to be there for whenever he can. He’d felt that same kind of all-encompassing anger when he had lost his dad, so he knows how important it is to find healthy outlets and to know that other people are willing to help if you need it. He knows how hard that anger is to combat because it is the most combative feeling, so he suggests they go for a round of boxing whenever he sees Marjan start to tense as the anger becomes more intense.

T.K. and Judd, he notices, are more alike than either would admit. They both run hot and cold. They go from quiet moodiness to snapping at anyone who looks at them the wrong way. They’ve always tended to anger, but not the same kind of anger as Marjan has. Theirs is more animalistic, and it’s more unpredictable. Marjan handles her anger well, but Paul worries about how the anger impacts T.K. and Judd.

Mateo seems okay, but Paul sees him praying more than he ever did before. Paul isn’t even sure that Mateo is that religious, but he knows that Mateo was searching for higher meaning. Paul can understand the draw to a higher power, but he doesn’t have one for himself. He sees the guilt in Mateo’s face, and he wonders if that’s connected to Mateo’s newly revived faith.

Tommy, meanwhile, is trying to deal with some guilt of her own. Paul can tell that she feels bad about what she said to Tim, but he doesn’t know much about her to understand her thought process more fully. She tries to put on a strong face when she comes to work, but he can sense the cracks of insecurity. She has a lot to adjust to, and her starting moments were less than ideal, but Paul has a feeling she’ll get better with time and learn that they’re a welcoming bunch.

Owen is nearly unreadable, but he’s more cautious with the team. He takes more risks himself while not letting his crew do things that he deems, “too high risk.” Paul knows that Owen wouldn’t think twice before running into danger to save any one of them or even a stranger. It doesn’t seem healthy, but Owen doesn’t seem open to the idea that his issues may be more alive than he thought.

While the people are downtrodden, Buttercup has been extra lively. He scurries around the firehouse, trying to cheer anyone up who looks like they’re in a sad mood. Everyone smiles when they see Buttercup.

The team dynamic no longer runs smoothly. It’s bumpy and they all feel a little clumsy on calls. The paramedics are the most affected, but even the firefighters seem out of sync. They aren’t communicating as clearly and it feels like they’re back to the days when they just met each other and had to know how each person operated. It’s stranger now because they aren’t strangers and they know each other well that it shouldn’t be hard to adjust, but it has been hard, and sometimes, it feels like they’ll always have a bumpy dynamic.

With all the quiet and feelings, Paul spends most of his time with his nose in a book, and reading seems to calm his nerves enough that he can breathe through any grief that pops up. Paul wonders when the appropriate time is to start laughing and joking again.

There’s nothing predictable about grief, but Paul thinks he’s handling it fine. He’s not yelling. He’s not crying. He’s moving forward. Paul is going through the process swiftly and easily. It’s not that he’s not upset. It’s just that he isn’t reacting in extremes like the rest of his team. His response has been more demure, and he wants to keep balanced for his team because he knows that’s what they need of him. He’s not grieving in the normal way. But what’s the right way to grieve? He’s grieving the way he knows how, and he’s not sure it’s the best way, but it gets him through his shifts and through evenings alone.

Paul looks in the mirror, taking in his reflection, and he notices that maybe he’s not okay as he thought. He looks sullen and quiet. His eyes look tired and his clothes look just a bit more unkempt than normal. Looking into the mirror, he can’t fool himself. He can’t pretend that he’s perfectly normal, even though the wrong things are so subtle that any normal person couldn’t notice them. He’s grieving. He’s grieving just as much as anyone else. Paul’s learned to process hurt efficiently to save himself from the prolonged pain. The trick is that he doesn’t try to push what he’s feeling away. He’s learned to accept his feelings or at least deal with them as they come. He’s not perfect at it— no human is— but he is doing his best, and he’s trying to get through the pain without anyone noticing that he is hurt.

The Hottest Noon

Tim has been dead for a week, and Marjan is still angry. It still feels like it has just happened, and Marjan knows that a week isn’t long, but it’s much too long for her to still be angry. The rage has not yet become embers. It is hot and she struggles to control the intensity. Marjan is not an angry person. She usually can let problems and hardships roll off her shoulders. She doesn’t believe in anger. She thinks it does more harm than good, and she knows that it doesn’t fix anything; it only prolongs her own suffering. Even so, she can’t seem to get rid of the anger. It keeps bubbling up when she least expects it, and it makes her feel like a frenzied mess of a person. She doesn’t like to look herself in the mirror when she is angry because that is not who she is. It is someone she doesn’t recognize, and it is someone she needs to escape. She doesn’t know how to stop the rage, though. How does she move on from the anger to whatever comes next?

She’s been good at keeping her feelings within. She’s cried a little, but she has hides the part of her that wants to destroy everything she sees because she doesn’t know how to express that without bringing down the people around her. She calls her mom when she can, because her mom is the calmest person on earth, but even those calls have limited impacts on Marjan’s state of mind. She can’t help but wonder if something about Tim’s death broke something inside her.

The rage isn’t stagnant, but it’s always there, waiting to come out and poke at her. The rage is dull when it isn’t so sharp that she feels like she has to lash out just to ease her nerves. It is in the back in her, aching but far enough away that she can take some calming breaths and feign normalcy. The rage is too bright, most times, like noon sun. It is bright in her eyes, so bright that it’s hard to discern the rage from any other feeling. They all muddle together under the brightness of the anger. She knows other feelings are blossoming, but they all fail to shine as brightly as her anger.

She’s been doing a lot of boxing with Paul, and he doesn’t say a word when she asks him to lend a hand. When she’s alone, she spends time with a punching bag. She thinks it’s better to share the rage with a friend, but sometimes, she is too ashamed of how angry she still is even after time has passed. Marjan hasn’t talked about it. She’s not one to keep her feelings bottled up, but with all the grief everyone is feeling, she doesn’t want to say too much. She doesn’t know how to put anger into words, and the more time passes, the more abstract the anger becomes.

The boxing doesn’t quite cut it. It helps her blow off steam but not enough steam, so she joins the Austin Annihilators. It feels good to be back on her wheels. The physicality of roller derby helps Marjan let out some of the tension she has been holding. It lets her let the anger out without having red knuckles. She gets more bruises, but that’s just part of the sport, and the ache in her body after playing feels good. It gives her an escape and a purpose. In roller derby, her anger is a tool.

Derby girls have a reputation for being tough and aggressive, but the truth is that while they’re badasses on the track, they’re a family. They don’t push Marjan to talk about anything, but she knows they have her back. They’ll point it out if she seems distracted, and Marjan feels more comfortable expressing her grief to them because they didn’t know Tim. She can get some perspectives that aren’t so close. It’s refreshing to have some new faces, ones who can keep an open mind and keep her from getting too lost in her feelings. Most people wouldn’t understand how rewarding roller derby is. They think it’s just violent— because they’re girls playing a contact sport— but it’s a sport just like any other, and for many of the girls, it’s the best emotional outlet that they can find.

It’s hard to sustain rage, but Marjan wants to. She wants to hold on because letting it go means she’ll have to face the other feelings that the anger has been covering up. But ultimately, she can’t keep the anger burning in her heart. The more she tries to hold that rage close to her heart, the more the sadness settles in her core. She doesn’t want the anger to become a part of her more than it already has. She wants to relinquish its claim on her and learn to move on from the pain her anger has caused. She wants to feel the sorrow if she must because grief is not just anger, and she must explore all parts of her grief before she can heal.

The Other Side of the Dome

It’s late afternoon, and they’ve just gotten back to the firehouse, and the morning had gone easily, but things had changed when a big fire broke out in the afternoon. Judd can feel his heart hammering in his chest. His mind has been on the edge. It’s been preoccupied with fear and burning with the repetitive thought that it’s only a matter of time before he loses someone again. Tim dying has brought up old memories, and they make jittery and anxious. He’s been snappish and everyone can tell that he’s not his normal self. He’s had to schedule more appointments with his therapist, and that’s fine, but it shows that he’s not fine. He feels like he should be over this by now, but his PTSD has been stronger in the past few weeks than it has been since just a few months after he started his therapy. While it’s been nearly two years since his last crew died, the wound is still fairly fresh, but Judd just wants it to go away.

Marjan nearly got trapped in a burning building and the fear of losing someone else had hung over them all as they waited to see if she made it out alive. Judd had almost lost it when she was in there. He heard explosions in his head and he struggled to keep his head in the present. Owen had noticed and let Judd take a step back, but it hadn’t done much to help. Judd didn’t want to step back. He wanted to help, but there is nothing he could do but wait. The seconds dragged as he stared at the building, trying to get his head back where it should be so he could actually do his job rather than feeling like he’s losing his mind.

She’d come out of the building with a grin, an ashy one but a grin nonetheless. Her voice had shaken, but she’d reassured them that she was okay. Even now that he knows that Marjan is fine, he doesn’t feel any better. Marjan’s back to being her usual daredevil self, but Judd feels shaky. He’s already lost enough, and he struggles throughout the shift. Anytime a situation gest vaguely dangerous, he has to fight the temptation to pull his team members and try to shield them from what his brain keeps telling him is dangerous. He wants to protect the ones he loves, but when they’re on the job, he can’t let his protective urges get in the way of them doing their jobs.

He goes home that evening, and he feels a constant throb of anxiety. “What’s wrong?” Grace asks her husband, immediately seeing through his façade. He should have known that he couldn’t hide this from her, and to be honest, he doesn’t even want to try. He’s learned that it doesn’t serve him to keep silent. He and Grace have been stronger since they learned to communicate in more productive ways.

“Marjan’s gonna get herself killed one of these days,” Judd grumbles, “Or T.K., or the Captain. Even Mateo seems more reckless these days.” The more he thinks about it, the more likely it seems that someone is going to get hurt, but certain members concern him more because they dive into danger without thinking their actions through.

“Do you think you might just be extra worried?” Grace asks, face gentle. He feels her hand on his face, and it makes him feel at peace. He thanks the heavens that Grace is a part of his life. He never deserved someone so perfect. He was honored to call her his wife.

Judd fights the temptation to yell. He used to be the guy who couldn’t talk about what he was feeling without shutting down, so at least he’s still got his communication. Therapy has helped him deal with tough conversations better. “Of course, I’m extra worried. I just don’t want to lose anyone.”

Grace pulls Judd into her arms, and she wraps her smaller body around his. “It’s normal to worry. I worry too,” she admits. “I was so scared when I got the call the day of the explosion.”

“I thought I lost everything that day, but yet again, I’m in a position where I have so much to lose.” No one could replace his old crew, but he’d created bonds that were just as special with the new 126. They were still building his relationships, but at the end of the day, they were there for one another.

“And isn’t it the best feeling in the world to have so much to lose?” Before, he would have grumbled and shut down when the conversation got too “mushy,” but he didn’t mind it so much anymore.

Judd nods, “It sure is.” He hates the thought of losing another person from his family, but he knows that it’s a whole lot better to have them than to push them away so that he doesn’t get hurt.

You Can’t Escape the Sunset

It’s only been a couple of weeks since Tim has died, so they’ve all begun to heal, but the wound still feels fresh. Austin is still recovering from the damage that Mother Nature had brought down on them, so all around, people were more demure, but the sadness was lifting, and for those who didn’t lose loved ones, they could go back to being their regular, happy selves. Not everyone is so lucky. Grief is still heavy upon Austin. In some ways, it is a comfort not to move on. Grief feels incomplete when it is rushed, so when it doesn’t feel like a stabbing pain or a dull ache, it is like a weighted blanket, heavy but somehow comforting. Grief is a weight on your chest, but you need that weight to push out the pent up feelings that result from the complexity of loss.

Grief can impact you even when you’re at a distance from it. It ripples and touches people you wouldn’t expect it to touch. Carlos didn’t know Tim well, but he’s been around the station enough that Tim’s absence is tangible. He can feel the empty space in their lives, and it makes him anxious and plain old sad. Because he’s used to seeing his favorite firehouse being lively and joking with each other non-stop when they’re not on a call. The whole 126 is quieter. Their wounds are too fresh to make jokes, and they’re just trying to get back to functioning because they all know that there are still lives to save. There are always more lives to save, no matter how many they lose, and that’s one of the hardest parts of being a first responder, you’re fighting a neverending battle, and for all the grief you’re forced to carry, the potential for loss never ends. It may be someone close to you, or it may be someone you’ve only just met, but first responders constantly deal with loss. That loss is worth all the lives they save. Even Buttercup understands that something dreadful has happened, and he’s been extra attentive to the firefighters, making sure that they get attention whenever they need them. They’re not back to normal, but they’re staying together and that’s what is most important.

Michelle’s been calling more. With the pandemic and her new vocation keeping her busy, Michelle hasn’t had a lot of time to talk to Carlos, but she’s been calling him every other day now, which for Michelle, is unheard of. It’s nice to hear her voice, but there’s so much distance between them. The more time they spend apart, the harder it is to talk like they used to. Carlos can’t help but think that once the grief has worn off that Michelle will go back to being spacey. He’s always known that she needed her space, but he still misses her. She’s still around, but it’s not the same. Still, he’ll hold onto the friendship as much as it can, and maybe with a little luck, it will survive the changes that threaten to tear them apart. Changes just might bring them together, though, if they’re lucky.

There’s one person that Carlos worries about the most. T.K.’s been on edge. He hasn’t been pushing Carlos away in the same way that he used to, but the lightheartedness he’s gained during his time in Austin has started to backtrack. T.K. barely talks about how he’s feeling. He tries to put on a brave face. He says that work has been keeping his mind off things, but Carlos knows better. He knows that T.K. is not as okay as he says he is. He’s not on the ledge, but he could get there if he keeps pushing himself without confiding any of his feelings. The tension in T.K.’s shoulders is deeper, and Carlos knows that there’s not much he can do other than being there, and he will be there. He’ll wait for T.K. to come home as many late nights as he needs to. If Carlos is being honest with himself, he’s not okay either. He needs to hold T.K. just as much as T.K. needs to hold him. They’ve been through so much already, and Carlos desperately wants life to be easy if only for a little while.

With all that has happened, Carlos feels more anxious. He was just starting to get over the fear he had after T.K. had been shot, but now all the worries that he had worked through are peeping out at him again. What happened to Tim could have happened to any member of the 126. There was no rhyme or reason to it; at the end of the day, it was a bad situation that got worse. It was the apathetic hand of nature throwing a wrench in their plans. That was scary to think about because it just shows that no matter how safe someone tries to stay, sometimes, there’s nothing you can do. No one could have anticipated that T.K. was going to shot or that there would be volcanic activity in Austin. Any day, something bad could happen to one of them. Carlos could lose someone important to him before they got to build their relationship in all the ways that Carlos would like to build it. He’s already started to imagine a future with T.K., and while their relationship is still new, something feels so right, and he can’t stand never getting the chance to know what might become of them, not as individuals but as a team.

He knows that his job is dangerous too, but he isn’t concerned about himself. It’s not that he has a disregard for his life, but his own fate isn’t something he wants to try to control. It’s harder to know that you have no power over what happens to the people you love because they’re the ones that Carlos wants to protect the most, but he’s learned on the job that you don’t get to choose who makes it through a hard situation. All you can do is do what you think is best in a given scenario and hope that it turns out as well as it possibly can. Tim’s death reminds Carlos just how fragile life is. In an instant, it can be ripped from a person before they can tighten their hold on it.

Tim had so much more life to live. That’s what everyone who didn’t really know him says as a consolation, but it’s such a generic comment that fails to captivate all the things that made Tim a real human and not a facsimile of one. They know that he was young and healthy. They don’t know enough to specify more than that, but if they knew Tim, they’d know that he had so much planned for the future. He had people to reconnect with, and he had a cat to take care of. He had friends and he had a whole big family. He wanted to continue to help people.

Dusk

The loss of Tim has eaten at Tommy. Her family has been supportive. The girls had made her sympathy cards and Charles had made her their favorite meal with remnants from their freezer, but as understanding as her family was, there was still an unease that she couldn’t communicate with them. It was a feeling that you could only truly know if you had been there that day.

She hasn’t been sleeping well, and she figures that’s probably the same boat the 126 is in. She’s at home, but she’s getting done some work that she has yet to address— application files. She hasn’t been able to open the materials. She knows that there’s a lot of good people in the folder, but it’s still too soon. Hiring a new team member doesn’t feel right. Still, it’s something Tommy needs to bite the bullet and do, not just because it’s required but because delaying the inevitable doesn’t help anyone, but she doesn’t want it to seem like she’s moving on too fast, which is why she’s starting her hunt for a new paramedic in the safety of her own home so that no one catches sight of her moving things along when the wound is still fairly fresh. Buster is curled up beside her as Charles gets the twins ready for bed. It’s been hard to relinquish that duty, but she’s promised to read them an extra story before they sleep.

Tim Rosewater isn’t replaceable, but they need someone to stand where he stood. The empty space that he should be taking up is a cutting reminder of their grief, and while Tommy doesn’t want to rush their grief, she knows that they can’t move on until they have a permanent replacement for Tim and they can start to rebuild their team dynamics. No one will ever be like Tim Rosewater, so she needs to find someone who is distinct but still just as highly qualified as Tim was. It’s not an easy spot to fill, but given that the 126 is the most luxurious fire station in Austin, Tommy gets to pick from the best, all who want to be part of her team. She doesn’t deserve all this prestige!

With work being busy and family life being busier, Tommy hasn’t had a whole lot of time to herself to process what has happened to Tim. She didn’t think she needed the time because she didn’t even know him that well, but as she sits with the closed folder, she feels her shoulders tense with the weight of the decision. She’s not normally one to have a hard time making decisions. Even when the restaurant had gone out of business and Tommy had decided to go back to work, she had not labored over the decision much. She didn’t like the idea, and she struggled with not being home to look after her kids, but at the same time, she had never doubted that going back was what she needed to do. Her family needed her to work, and even if she didn’t like it, she was going to step up for them.

When she got to the job, she felt out of her element. She’d doubted then, but deep down she always knew that she had wound up exactly where she needed to be. She didn’t have a choice, but it still made her nervous to go back after all those years. She was a leader, and she felt pressure to do everything perfectly. In the process, she sometimes had to upset people. She had to be firm, but she was doing it so her paramedics could function properly. Then, Tim had died, and she started to wondered yet again if she made a mistake. Grief had shaken in her confidence when it was already dwindling.

Maybe Tommy didn’t know Tim well, but she wanted to. She didn’t just want to be the tough boss. She wanted to know what he was like as a person, and she wanted him to like her and not just respect her. She’d seen glimpses of him. She knew he had a sense of humor, and she’d witnessed him treating patients with a gentle hand. When she was picking up Buster, she’d also seen how many toys that Tim had given his cat. He didn’t seem to have many people close by, so he had doted on his cat, and the thought tugged on Tommy’s heart.

Tommy opens the folder, she looks it over once, but as she hears little pitter-patters of feet in the hall, she closes it again. She cannot make decisions tonight, no matter how much she knows she needs to. Her girls giggle as they enter the room, and they bounce to their mother, surrounding her on the couch. The new hire can wait a day. She puts the folder back on the coffee table, and Tommy focuses on her family. They decide to watch a movie, and Tommy makes herself comfortable on her couch. Buster curls up next to her. He’s become the girls’ new little friend, and even though Tommy never really got to talk to Tim as more than a boss, Buster makes her feel a little closer to the man she wishes she got to know.

She looks at her family and then at Buster. She can’t help but smile at the thought that they have grown. It may take her a while to get used to the idea, but the 126 is so much more than coworkers. They are a family, and she is part of that family. It never hurts to have more family, Tommy thinks. She knows that her daughters will grow up with even more love, and isn’t that what any parent wants for their kids?

Freckles of Light

It’s been over a month since Tim has died, and Nancy is mostly okay. That’s what she tells anyone who asks, anyway, and it’s mostly right. She can do all the things that being a normal human requires. She can get out of bed without wanting to sob. She can make herself a meal and have an appetite to eat it. She doesn’t feel like curling up and blocking out the whole world just to get some escape from the emptiness that loss has left in her core. So, yeah, she’s doing okay. She’s surviving and with a little more time, the wound will heal, only leaving a scar. She knows these things take time, but she’s sick of the part of herself that still isn’t fully okay. She worries that she’ll never be fully okay. It scares her that missing Tim might be her new normal, and how does someone move on if they can never make peace with a loss?

She’s learned to go to work without feeling dread. It was hard at first to show up. The first shift she took after Tim died made her want to go back home and ignore the world forever. It had felt like everyone was watching her and asking her how she was. She didn’t know how she was. She was still working through all the feelings that were still so raw. She didn’t want to lie to them, but she also didn’t want them to think that she was too messed up to work. Maybe she couldn’t have saved Tim, but there were still plenty of people out there who needed her help, and she wasn’t going to give up on them. The reasons she had become a paramedic hadn’t changed. She still wanted to help people, and the calling even more urgent to her. Maybe being a paramedic had just been Michelle’s occupation, but it is Nancy’s vocation, and she refuses to give it up. So, she’s taught herself to shut down her feelings enough to get through the day while allowing enough to remain so that she can be compassionate.

For a while, she felt broken. She’d felt like she’d fallen from a skyscraper into a volcanic pit— a pile of shattered, melty parts. She had wondered if anyone could back from that. Was there any fixing the way she felt? It felt like a part of her had died with Tim, and as much as she wanted to fill the void, she knew that there was no way to replace the spot that Tim had left in her life. That hole smarted and itched, and there was no way to alleviate that feeling other than trying to wait it out.

She feels protective of Tim’s memory. He wasn’t close to his family, and he didn’t have anyone to go home to other than his cat. She hoped that he hadn’t died feeling lonely. She wished she knew if she had been enough for him. Had she supported him enough? Had their friendship eased any of the loneliness he might have felt? Had she been enough of a family? She couldn’t be sure, but she wanted to believe that he hadn’t secretly lived a miserable life because no one deserves to die feeling miserable. It was probably just her fears deepening their roots. She was projecting her own loneliness, maybe. But she hated the potential that what she feels in the absence of Tim was what he felt all the time.

Tim had been such a good guy, not perfect by any means, but he’d been brave and funny. There had always been a brightness in his eyes, even when his face sagged with fatigue. He’d always been ready for a joke and wanted to make the world a better place. Maybe he’d been a little whiny and Nancy knows she’s made so many jokes at his expense, but they’d all been tender-hearted. It was just how they showed affection, and they’d been like brother and sister in that way. They fought sometimes, but they were each other’s family. It would be so much easier if they were just coworkers, but when you work as closely as they did, there’s no such thing as just coworkers. You talk to them, you eat with them, you keep each other safe, and it sometimes feels like you’re the only people in the world who understand the rigors of the job. They’d shared a little bubble of knowing how the other one felt, and now, that bubble has popped, and Nancy didn’t know what to do.

There’s a part of Nancy that wants to hold onto the grief. She wants to mope in her upset and keep it burning her insides. The self-destructive nature of trying to tame her grief has allure. It’s addictive, and the more she lets it rage, the farther she is pulled from herself. She feels it melting her insides, and she thinks that maybe that feeling is retribution for all the mistakes she’s made, but no amount of penance makes her feel better. She can punish herself all she wants, but self-flagellation only drives her away from Tim’s memory. It puts her into a dark cave, alone and cold despite the fire in her core. She can’t engage. She can’t function. All she can do is feel bad about what her life has become. So, she’s learning that she can’t hold grief because it’s not something she’s got any power over. It’s time to let it go to be whatever it will be.

Nancy still takes each day one at a time. She’s tried to get back to normal the fast way before, and she’s found that by the end of the day, it only makes her feel worse, so she’s got to take it as slow as she needs. She’s got to be okay with taking one step forward and then two steps back. Progress is slow, but she still makes it, even with the setbacks and the bad days. The more time that passes, the fewer bad days she has. She can’t let herself get discouraged on those bad days. She has to remember that bad days don’t last forever just as that deep feeling of yearning to see Tim won’t last forever. She will smile again. She reminds herself how many smiles she has left to smile— so many if all goes well. The past is haunted, the future is haunting, but the present is a chance. She can make the most of the moment, or she can lose herself in it.

Nancy has started to appreciate the people in her life more. She longs to hear their voice, even when it’s just been a day or two since she has spoken to them. She’s constantly worrying that the conversations she has will be the last. She calls her parents more, her brother too, and they are concerned when she does, but they talk to her in cheery voices, trying to balance out the sadness they know she feels. She appreciates their efforts, but she’s not sure they help. It’s still comforting to hear the voices of the people who have been there through it all.

When she’s at work, she feels out of synch. She’s gotten used to having Tim there at every turn. The whole rhythm of the team has been thrown off, and the routines they’ve created to make their jobs easier have a missing link. She can’t remember a time when she felt so off-kilter. It’s like she’s got a hundred-pound weight on one half of her body. It’s hard to stay on her feet, but she learns how to center the weight so she’s not falling over all the time.

Each life she saves is still a reminder of the one she failed to save. There’s a loop of self-doubt that repeats in her head. It tells her that she will never be a good enough paramedic. It convinces her that it is her fault that Tim is dead. Sometimes, it tells her that she should have been the one to die instead. None of these thoughts are logical are consistent, but they are there, making her worry that there’s something deeply wrong with her.

It feels scary for things to go back to normal. It feels too much like they’re forgetting Tim. They’ve put a picture of him on the wall, but that’s just a two-dimensional token of him. It can’t possibly capture all that Tim was, and Nancy is afraid that moving on means letting Tim become nothing more than an old picture as the sheen of the frame starts to wear down and the shiny new firehouse grows old. Moving on feels traitorous, even though Nancy knows that it is what Tim would have wanted. She’s always hated when people say that, “It’s what Tim would have wanted,” because maybe it’s true, but it feels wrong to speak for someone who can never speak back.

She’s pieced herself back together, but no matter how much she pushes forward, Nancy still struggles. Because grief isn’t neat. It doesn’t stack up like the carefully cut layers of a five-tiered cake. It isn’t linear either. You may be angry one moment, depressed the next, and back to be angry by the time the next day rolls around. The five stages of grief are not stages at all because you don’t advance to one when you have completed the last. The stages of grief are like playing roulette. You tumble around, and it’s up to chance where you will land.

She wakes up feeling something new all the time, and she hasn’t yet landed on acceptance, not really. She knows logically what has happened. She’s not denying that he’s gone, not as she had when it had first happened, but her brain still hasn’t caught up with the reality yet. There’s still a part of her that thinks he’s there. She feels him like a phantom limb. At times, she feels him so strongly that the word dead feels far too strong. It’s hard to believe that something so tragic has happened to someone so close to her. She’s gotten used to witnesses other people’s tragedies, but that hasn’t prepared her to accept her own.

The grief comes back without warning. Even a month later, she thinks about all the things she’d like to tell Tim, forgetting for a while that she won’t be able to tell him them when she goes to work. Sometimes, it’s a light tickle while other times it’s like a hammer in her skull. One day, she had seen a stray cat crawling into the plant she had on her porch, and she’d snapped a picture, automatically thinking about how cute Tim would find it, and as the cat scurried away, the realization that Tim wouldn’t be there to see it during their next shift, hammered her, sending the air out of lungs. She still expected him to be there, and the fact that he isn’t doesn’t change her automatic thoughts of him. She’s gotten into the habit of knowing he’ll be there, and it takes time to get out of habits. She’s read that it takes twenty-one days to break a habit, but she’s starting to realize that it can take much longer.

Grief hides in the corners. Nancy sees Tim in places she never expected to see him— old movies, the smiles of strangers joking on the street, chocolate truffles that Tim loved to inhale. She still has his number in her phone. She’s kept the last thread they had. She looks at it periodically, and some days, it makes her cry. Other days, it makes her laugh. Some days, she can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying.

Nancy knows that she will always miss Tim. His mark in her life isn’t going to go away, and she wouldn’t change how he’s transformed her life. She wouldn’t take back any of the time spent with him, and for the most part, she doesn’t have regrets. She’s stopped agonizing over what she could have done better because those kinds of thoughts aren’t going to help anyone. They certainly aren’t going to bring Tim back. The most they can give her is an insight into how to do better in the future. She’s mostly learned that the best medicine for her grief is to be more compassionate and to put the love and brightness that Tim gave her back into the world because there’s something so healing about finding little ways to share someone who is physically gone.

No matter how old she gets, she’ll keep the memory of him bright in her heart. She’ll talk to her kids about him, and she won’t forget the role that he had in her life and the role he will continue to have. She might not think about him every day. There might be a time when his memory waxes and wanes in her consciousness, but he’ll always be there on some level. When she’s on a call, tending to a moron, she’ll think of him. When she cracks a joke like the ones he used to tell, she’ll think of him. She won’t censor his memory. She’ll remember the way he got frustrated with change and the times they disagreed about how to proceed. Nancy will take the time to preserve as much of him as possible in her mind.

The grief will linger, but she’ll learn to live with it, as every other person must do when they lose someone who meant something to them. She’s already started to learn. She knows how to keep afloat, even as the negative feelings pull her down. Nancy knows that she’s a work in progress. The hurt is still so sharp sometimes. She gets frustrated and tells herself just to get over it, but she’s trying to be more merciful with herself. She’s always been a forgiving person. Her compassion allows her to accept apologies and understand why other people hurt her, but that compassion hasn’t been something that she’s applied to herself lately. For a while, she didn’t think she deserved it, but now, she’s committed to bringing the spark back into her life. She’s been hiding from the light far too long.

Grief is the deepest yearning, a pit of desire deep in your soul. It is wanting what has been taken, and it looking for a way forward when the world has become dim, so grief is not the night; it is the stars. It is the light you carry that was given to you by the people who have most touched your soul. Grief hurts, but it is not the darkness. It is a lantern that reminds you of the brightness you saw in the eyes of another person. It is the luster of memory and joy. It is the sun shining like an alarm in the morning when you have gotten too little sleep, a starling chance at a new day. The grief stings your eyes, but you adjust to it. You learn to see in new ways. Grief is letting yourself remember all the times that another person has pulled you from the darkness. It is the glow of the past pointing you to the future because grief isn’t a trap. It is a beacon when the trauma urges you to remain in the dark.

As you heal, the piercing pain of the light starts to fade, drowned out with light pollution. The streetlamps are so bright that you cannot see the stars of the people who were once so close but are now so far away. The light, the great lantern of grief, never vanishes. When it’s run its initial course, grief doesn’t just pack up and leave. It continues to burn. The light is hot inside of you, but you learn to temper it. Some nights, it still shines so brightly that your eyes burn and tear, but the light does not defeat you, and you cannot defeat it without defeating yourself, so you must learn to balance the light. You must point it in the right direction, and you must allow it to be part of yourself.

It’s late. The night is firmly upon Austin, but the stars freckle the sky, and they make Nancy feel less alone. Her heart feels less cold as she reconnects with the brightness of the world. She likes to think that Tim is out there somewhere. She’s not religious, but she likes to believe there’s something bigger out there— bigger than her, bigger than her grief, bigger than the grief of the whole world. They don’t seem it, but the stars are brighter than a flashlight, a lamp, or even a giant spotlight. They’re far away, but that doesn’t take away their brightness. Even as your memory changes and you grow old and forget, all the lanterns of grief are still part of you, your emotional DNA, that make you who you are, even if you cannot consciously access those parts of yourself. The pinpricks of light in the sky remind Nancy that grieving means looking at the light. It is learning how to hold something you cannot touch. It is a reminder that you can only lose what you expected from the future, but you cannot lose the past and all that past meant to you.

#text #911 lone star #fics #911 lone star fics #my writing #my works #my fics #elise writes #long reads #15000 words

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