#daggers headcanons

[missmouse1223-blog]

Headcannon: Cyclone had a crush on Maverick back when Maverick was an instructor at Top Gun. But he didn’t feel the same and because he was with Ice. So Cyclone’s been holding onto that grudge for thirty years and Maverick finds it hilarious.

Ice, on the other hand, finds it annoying.

[demigods-posts]

headcanon that when estelle is old enough. percy and annabeth take her trick or treating. and estelle dresses up in the loudest colors she can find. and claims she an international super spy. and percy and annabeth accompany her while wearing tuxedos. claiming that their her bodyguards.

[fishfwcker]

headcanoning the daggers rides bc why the hell not

natasha and javy drive a chevy silverado that look EXACTLY alike down to the group friendship bracelets hanging on the mirrors (like i’ve said. they have both gotten so confused over who’s car it is that they have tried forcing open and breaking into each other’s vehicle on more than 10 different occasions)

natasha has accidentally fucked up the handle on javy’s truck bc she doesn’t stop at confusion and j tries brute forcing it — to the point that “time to play chevy roulette” is a regular saying. and they had to put one of those glitter letters for their initials on the windshield. (the group swaps them constantly as a prank)

mickey drives an absolutely fucked up 2003 jeep compass that he swears up and down works even though the engine sounds like a plane slowly being pushed into a wood chipper and the suspensions fucked and it has a whopping 275k miles. the windows don’t work. the air conditioning is mostly loud, hot breathing, and it’s been beat to shit by birds who want to commit suicide and know that this car leaves no survivors.

he has to get a ride from EVERYBODY bc it actually starts 3/10 times, but he refuses to give it up. this car has followed him everywhere. every time one of them has the misfortune to get into it, they shoot a farewell text to their loved ones and genuinely become religious.

reuben drives a fucking prius with a clear back bc of course he does. and he’s insufferable abt his mileage. he even has an EV charger in his garage. he spoils the hell out of his baby. “i care about the environment” then why are you going to get the premium car washes every other week bro. YOU’RE IN A DROUGHT. it’s a car, let’s be so serious. he has read the manual in the glovebox almost as much as he has read the NATOPS manual. the group is convinced he sleeps with it by his bedside.

he has a “no drinks and food allowed” rule that gets thrown out the window bc he religiously vacuums every seat anyway.

bob drives a subaru crosstrek. well, not really, actually. he rides a bike to work most days. a beautiful suzuki that he actually covers with a tarp when not in use like an old piano. natasha’s knees buckle when she realizes that the very animated biker she always manages to be behind while stopped at a red light is actually just bob.

and man is he good. he and mav have actually unknowingly ridden together most work days as bike buddies. he can he keep up like he’s in tron. also, he’s got tassles on the handlebars because why the fuck not.

bradley’s infamous bronco. it has an automatic transmission bc he has fried the clutch on every manual transmission car he has had in highschool. (2 and a half. the 3rd he gave away when he had to park up a hill and nearly rolled back and took out everybody behind him.) apart from that, he drives so well. we’re talking limousine stops, parallel parking god, so spatially aware that, once, on a long drive, he fell asleep behind the wheel and muscle memory kept him in the lanes.

broncos are pieces of shit, and break down constantly, though. so nobody believes he’s a good driver until he drives THEIR cars. downside to being driven by bradley is that he fucks with the seat and mirror settings to the point that vehicles are undriveable unless driven by him.

jake drives a goddamn bmw. a black bmw with a veterans license plate on it. and he actually shouldn’t be allowed on the road. he tailgates, weaves through traffic. he follows police cars for the thrill. he revs his engine to scare children and the elderly. the famous last words to having jake lead through unknown roads are “just follow close behind me.” and then you’ll never see him again. genuinely, all thats left is a road runner, bugs bunny outline of where his car should have been.

i’ve mentioned before, he’s shit at parking. bradley’s blood pressure skyrockets when he’s in the passenger seat. he ages 7 years, and simultaneously gets 15 years removed from his life whenever jake whips his shit into the commissary parking lots. he’s got permanent grimace-lines from being held hostage in jake’s car. but man, is it a comfortable ride when it’s stopped. did you know the seats can recline almost all the way back? isn’t that fun?

[curiouslymyown]

Evan Rosier with his large and off-putting collection of weapons

[ube-cream]

player ube's very first time accidentally calling cruel king "dad"

she definitely knows what she said but player ube's really good at gaslighting gatekeeping and girlbossing~

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Remember Me When I Forget

Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

pt2

warnings: Terminal illness and progressive memory loss, self-neglect, euthanasia, death, emotional distress, caregiving stress.

INT. KITCHEN – MORNING LIGHT – JUNE 4, 7:12AM

You stir the coffee slowly, absentmindedly, like your body knows the rhythm even when your brain is still half-asleep. You’re barefoot, wearing one of his old Navy shirts and socks that don’t match. Sunlight spills across the counter in soft golden slants, glinting off your chipped favorite mug — the one that says “this might be wine” even though you only ever put tea in it.

You hear humming from behind you. Something low and sweet. Fleetwood Mac — he always plays that when he’s in a good mood.

The pan sizzles. Bacon. Eggs. You smile.

He’s dancing behind you — not well, but full of commitment. The ridiculous kind of sway you fell in love with. He slides past with exaggerated moves, opens the fridge like he’s opening a stage curtain, and pulls out orange juice with jazz hands.

You don’t turn around. Not yet.

“I told you not to cook,” you say, teasing.

“I’m not cooking,” he replies, deadpan. “I’m orchestrating.”

You grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Correct.”

You sip your coffee, and for a moment, it’s so perfect you can barely breathe. There’s a contentedness to the silence that follows — the kind that only comes from ten years of loving someone so deeply, so mundanely, that the ordinary feels holy.

And then—

“Don’t turn around yet,” he says, voice softer now. He turns off the burner. “Stay right there.”

You freeze, knowing what’s coming. He does it every year.

Footsteps. Then warm arms wrapping around your waist, his chin dropping to your shoulder.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he whispers.

He sets something on your head. The familiar scratch of glittery cardboard, a little crooked.

The paper crown.

You laugh, instantly. “No way. You kept that thing again?”

“I ironed it this year,” he says with mock pride. “It’s vintage.”

You spin in his arms. He’s grinning like an idiot, eyes creased at the corners, hair still rumpled from sleep. That same stupid dimple in his cheek you used to poke during class when you were both nineteen and annoying.

“You’re such a sap,” you murmur.

“I’m your sap.”

You kiss him, deep and slow, and the pan sizzles in the background like applause.

⸻

INT. DINING ROOM – LATER

There’s cake — not store-bought. A little lopsided, but made with care. Chocolate with raspberry frosting, your favorite since high school. He lights thirty candles, one by one.

You pretend to groan. “That’s a fire hazard.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

You blow them out with both hands clasped like you’re making a wish big enough to reach the sky.

He gives you your gift in a tiny velvet box, and your heart stutters. “If that’s jewelry…”

“It’s not.” He opens it.

It’s a first-edition copy of Matilda. The real one. The cover worn, spine faded, but intact. Your favorite book. The one your mom used to read to you when you couldn’t sleep.

Your hands shake. “How did you find this?”

“I’ve been looking for years,” he says simply.

You don’t cry. Not yet. But you hold it like it’s sacred.

He leans in, forehead pressed to yours. “This is just the beginning, okay?”

You nod.

You believe him.

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

The sheets are tangled around your legs. His hand is splayed across your stomach, rising and falling with every breath. The windows are cracked, letting in the hum of crickets and the occasional dog bark down the street.

You whisper into the dark: “Do you think this is our peak?”

He shifts. “No.”

“Really?”

“I think we’ll look back on this when we’re eighty and think, ‘God, we were just babies.’”

You’re quiet for a second.

“I hope so,” you say.

⸻

EXT. BACKYARD – LATER THAT NIGHT

There’s a string of fairy lights overhead. The two of you are wrapped in a blanket on a lawn chair built for one, staring up at the stars.

You can’t sleep.

He kisses your temple.

“Happy birthday again,” he murmurs. “You made thirty look like magic.”

You sigh. “It was perfect.”

And it was.

You’ll come back to this night in dreams. You’ll cling to it in the coming years like a lighthouse when the storm hits. Like a photograph that keeps getting blurrier, but you can’t stop staring at it anyway.

———

INT. OFFICE – LATE MORNING – SEPTEMBER 15

It’s quiet in the building — the kind of lull that comes after the first fall rush, when summer interns have gone back to college and the air smells faintly like cinnamon-scented hand sanitizer. You’re at your desk, hair piled in a loose bun, blue light glasses sliding down your nose as you squint at your screen.

You’ve been editing a slideshow presentation for nearly two hours. Your coworker, Dana, is laughing across the room about something on her phone.

“I swear to God,” she says, “if I see one more slideshow transition with glitter, I’m quitting this job.”

You chuckle. “Hey, I like the glitter.”

“You would, princess.”

You roll your eyes and click open the next slide. You’re halfway through labeling plant photos for a biodiversity project when you pause.

You frown.

There’s a picture in front of you. A plant you’ve seen a thousand times. You know it. You’ve used it in classes. Taught others about it. Its bright-green leaves with serrated edges. That odd little yellow bud that smells like lemon balm.

Your brain pulls a blank.

You blink. Hard.

The cursor hovers over the space where the name should go.

Come on, come on.

You glance at the file name. It’s just a code.

Your heart thuds a little faster.

Dana notices the shift in your face. “You okay?”

You hesitate. “Yeah, I just—what’s this one called again?” You turn your screen toward her.

She squints. “Golden balm. You always forget that one.”

You laugh. You make it sound natural. “Yeah. Guess I’m getting old.”

She snorts. “Welcome to thirty.”

⸻

INT. HOME – THAT NIGHT – 8:22PM

He’s cooking again. Chicken and roasted sweet potatoes, the kind he knows you love. Music hums from the Bluetooth speaker — Gregory Alan Isakov, your comfort playlist.

You sit on the barstool, sipping wine, flipping through an old paperback without really reading.

“Hey,” you say, as he flips the chicken. “Can I ask you something weird?”

He hums.

You hesitate. Then: “Do you ever forget really obvious stuff? Like, stuff you’ve known forever?”

He turns. His brow lifts, just a little.

“Like what?”

“I dunno. I was at work today, and I was labeling a slide and I couldn’t remember the name of golden balm. I’ve used that plant in like, four projects. I just… blanked. For a minute.”

He sets the spatula down.

“Was it just that?” he asks gently.

You shrug. “Probably. Just felt strange.”

He comes over, presses a kiss to your forehead. “Everyone has off days.”

You nod. You want to believe him.

But later that night, after you’ve fallen asleep on the couch during your rewatch of The Office, he googles “early memory loss symptoms” with a hand resting on your ankle like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll vanish.

⸻

INT. PRIMARY CARE CLINIC – ANNUAL CHECKUP – NOVEMBER 3

The room is too white. The paper on the exam table crinkles under you like it’s protesting.

Dr. Calloway is cheerful. Friendly. You like her. She’s been your doctor for years.

“Everything looks good,” she says, tapping her iPad. “Blood pressure’s perfect, vitamin levels are strong…”

You clear your throat.

“Actually, I was wondering—there’s been something a little weird going on.”

She looks up.

“I’ve been forgetting stuff. Nothing major. Just small things. Plant names, why I went into a room, where I put things. I thought it was just stress at first, but it keeps happening.”

Her smile fades into something more neutral. Careful.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “How long has this been happening?”

“Couple months. Since September, maybe.”

“Anything else? Trouble concentrating, changes in sleep, mood swings?”

You pause. “I’ve been a little more tired than usual. But that could just be turning thirty.”

She doesn’t laugh. She taps a note into her tablet.

“Let’s run a few tests.”

⸻

INT. CAR – LATER THAT DAY

You sit in silence while he drives.

He doesn’t say I’m sure it’s nothing.

He doesn’t say Don’t worry.

He reaches over and takes your hand.

You grip his like it’s the only thing you’re still sure of.

⸻

INT. HOUSE – THAT NIGHT

You forget where the forks go.

You’re unloading the dishwasher, humming to yourself, and you pause with a handful of silver in your palm.

You open the cabinet over the sink.

Then the one to the left.

Then the drawer with the wine corks.

He watches you from the hallway, silent.

Then he comes over, gently takes the forks, and slides them into the correct drawer.

You smile, embarrassed.

“Just tired,” you mutter.

He kisses your forehead.

He doesn’t say anything.

———

INT. HOSPITAL – RADIOLOGY WING – DECEMBER 12, 10:47AM

The elevator dings.

You step into the radiology wing and everything smells like bleach and winter air — too cold, too sterile. There’s a wreath taped to the check-in window, lopsided and shedding glitter. The receptionist wears reindeer antlers.

She smiles like this is just another Wednesday.

But your fingers are shaking.

⸻

INT. WAITING ROOM – MOMENTS LATER

He’s next to you. Reading an old copy of Time. Not actually reading it — just flipping pages, trying not to fidget.

You watch the second hand on the wall clock tick its way toward forever.

They call your name.

He stands with you. You squeeze his hand once, hard.

You don’t say I’m scared out loud. You don’t have to.

⸻

INT. CHANGING ROOM – RADIOLOGY – 11:08AM

The gown is paper-thin. Your feet are cold on the tile.

You fold your clothes neatly even though your hands won’t stop trembling. You think, absurdly, about how your mom always told you to wear nice underwear in case you ended up in a hospital. You want to laugh. You want to cry.

You do neither.

⸻

INT. SCAN ROOM – 11:16AM

The MRI tech is a woman named Elaine. She’s kind. She tells you what every button does. Explains how long the scan will take. Makes small talk about the holidays while fitting you with earplugs and positioning your head.

She asks you to stay still.

You lie down on the narrow table.

The machine begins to move.

The ceiling is blank. The light too bright. The air too still.

You close your eyes.

And it hits you — for the first time, truly — that something might be wrong.

Not tiredness. Not stress. Not a bad week or a birthday funk.

You swallow hard. You think of golden balm. The forks.

You think of him — how he looked this morning while brushing his teeth, sleep-mussed and humming under his breath, like the world wasn’t about to change.

The machine hums to life.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Each pulse of the MRI sounds like a hammer inside your skull.

You want to scream. You want to get up and leave. But you stay still.

You stay still.

⸻

INT. WAITING ROOM – 12:42PM

You sit beside him again. He has his hand on your knee. You’re not sure when he put it there.

They told you the results won’t be back today. Maybe not for a few days.

He offers to take you to lunch. You say no.

You’re not hungry. You feel like you’re being hollowed out from the inside.

⸻

INT. HOME – THAT EVENING

The house is too quiet.

You both try to pretend it’s normal. He watches TV, but he’s not laughing. You cook dinner, but you burn the pasta. You leave the stove on again. He turns it off without a word.

At 9:53PM, while you’re brushing your teeth, you open the wrong drawer and just stare at the cotton balls and first-aid cream like they’re foreign objects.

You sit on the bathroom floor.

You stay there until he finds you.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He just sits beside you and pulls your head to his chest.

You both sit there until the tile feels like part of your skin.

———

INT. KITCHEN – TUESDAY – 8:46AM

You are buttering toast.

That’s all. Just buttering toast.

The sunlight is perfect. The countertop gleams. A playlist hums softly in the background — Norah Jones, something wistful and smooth. You’re wearing his hoodie, oversized and warm, sleeves pushed up to your elbows.

Your phone buzzes once on the counter. Then again. Then again.

Unknown number.

You stare at it.

You nearly don’t answer.

But your gut twists. Something old and primal, warning you in a voice that doesn’t use words.

You answer.

⸻

INT. KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Hi, may I speak with Y/N L/N?”

“This is her.”

The voice is soft. Gentle. That carefully trained tone — the kind they use in hospitals, in nurseries, in breakups.

“This is Dr. Calloway’s office. We received your imaging results from last week. The doctor would like to go over them with you… in person.”

Silence.

It lands like thunder.

“In person?” you echo.

“Yes,” the nurse says. “Is there a time today that works for you?”

Your throat closes.

You look down at your hand. You’ve crushed the toast in your grip. Butter smeared across your palm like paint.

“I can come in now,” you whisper.

The nurse hesitates. Then: “Okay. We’ll see you soon.”

She hangs up first.

You stand in the kitchen, frozen, the dial tone humming softly from your hand like it’s trying to fill the silence.

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – MOMENTS LATER

He’s just pulling a shirt over his head when you walk in. Your face must give it away instantly, because his smile falters.

“Hey. What is it?”

You don’t speak. You sit on the edge of the bed, phone clutched in your hand like it’s something that could hurt you if you let go.

He crosses the room in two steps, kneels in front of you. “Y/N.”

“They called,” you whisper. “The scans. They want to talk to me. In person.”

His mouth parts, but no sound comes.

You look up at him.

There is terror in your eyes. Real, true terror. The kind that comes from your bones.

He reaches for your hands. They’re cold.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. I’m coming with you.”

You nod.

You are both already mourning something you don’t even have a name for yet.

⸻

INT. DOCTOR’S OFFICE – 9:32AM

The room is quiet.

Not sterile like the hospital — this one’s been softened. Calming artwork on the walls. A fern in the corner. A warm diffuser that smells like lavender. They want you to feel safe before they break you open.

Dr. Calloway walks in. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

You know.

You already know.

She sits. Opens her folder.

And with a voice so gentle it almost makes it worse, she begins.

⸻

DR. CALLOWAY

“There are changes in your scans. In the hippocampus region — the area responsible for memory consolidation and spatial navigation.”

She shows you the images. Side-by-side MRIs. A before and an after.

You can’t tell what you’re looking at.

He can. His jaw clenches.

⸻

DR. CALLOWAY (CONT’D)

“We’ve consulted with neurology. Based on the pattern and progression, it matches a profile of a rare condition — it’s called Progressive Memory Degenerative Syndrome. There’s also evidence of early episodic amnesia, which explains the blackouts and disorientation.”

You swallow.

“Is it curable?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

She shakes her head slowly.

“I’m so sorry.”

⸻

INT. CAR – LATER THAT DAY

Neither of you speaks on the drive home.

Your hand is in his lap. His is covering it. Both still. Like a photograph.

The only sound is the soft click of the turn signal.

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

He gets into bed beside you.

You are silent, staring at the ceiling, eyes dry and wide open.

He whispers, “You’re still you.”

You turn to face him. “Not for long.”

He pulls you against him. Tighter than ever before. As if he could memorize the shape of you by holding on hard enough.

⸻

INT. BATHROOM – LATER

You brush your teeth.

You spit.

You open the drawer to grab floss.

You pause.

You stare at it.

There’s floss. There’s toothpaste. Tweezers. A thermometer.

You forget what you came here for.

———

INT. LIVING ROOM – EVENING – DECEMBER 14

The laptop sits on the coffee table like a bomb waiting to go off.

You’re curled on the couch under your favorite blanket — the one with the frayed corner you always rub between your fingers. There’s a half-drunk cup of tea going cold beside you, untouched for hours.

The room is silent, but the screen isn’t.

Medical articles. Research journals. Neurology forum threads filled with strangers grasping at hope.

You scroll.

And scroll.

And scroll.

Your eyes blur, but you won’t stop.

Behind you, he’s in the kitchen. You can hear the clink of a spoon against a mug. He’s making hot chocolate again — your comfort drink. He knows you haven’t eaten since breakfast. He’s trying.

You’re barely breathing when you whisper: “They said it’s progressive.”

He sets the mug down, walks around the couch, and sinks beside you.

“I know.”

“It’s going to get worse.”

“I know.”

You finally look at him. Your voice is a thread. “What if I forget your face?”

He doesn’t speak.

He pulls you to him instead. Presses your hand to his chest.

“Then I’ll find a way to remind you. Every time.”

⸻

INT. STUDY – LATER THAT NIGHT

You take out a new journal.

You run your fingers over the first blank page. Then you pick up the pen.

You start slow.

NAME: Y/N L/N

AGE: 31

BIRTHDAY: June 4

PARTNER: [His name.]

ADDRESS: [Your full home address.]

OCCUPATION: Photojournalist.

FAVORITE COLOR: Marigold yellow.

FAVORITE BOOK: Matilda by Roald Dahl.

FAVORITE SONG: “Songbird” by Fleetwood Mac.

LOVES: Long showers. Rainy windows. The smell of his T-shirt.

FEARS: Forgetting any of this.

You underline the last line three times.

⸻

INT. HALLWAY – NEXT DAY

Post-it notes begin to appear.

FRIDGE

SHOES

PHONE CHARGER – LEFT DRAWER

THIS IS THE BATHROOM.

YOU’RE HOME.

He prints out a label maker from his office. Offers to help.

You let him.

At first, it feels absurd. Like playing a game.

But by that evening, it’s not.

Because when you open the pantry looking for your laptop — and he finds you standing there frozen — you say nothing.

And he just hugs you. Wordlessly.

⸻

INT. BOOKSTORE – DECEMBER 16

You buy every book you can find on memory, neurology, rare brain diseases. The cashier eyes the stack. You say nothing.

That night, you highlight words like “deterioration”, “localized degeneration”, “temporal lobe atrophy.”

He watches you from the doorway, arms folded, eyes shining.

“You know what I realized?” you say softly, not looking up.

“What?��

“If it were you… if it were your brain eating itself… I wouldn’t stop either.”

He walks over. Kneels beside your chair.

“It is my brain. You’re half of it.”

You close the book and finally cry into his chest.

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – 2:08AM

He wakes to find you pacing.

You’re muttering something under your breath. Repeating it.

He listens.

It’s the address.

Your address.

You keep saying it like a prayer. Like maybe if you say it enough, it’ll burn itself into your bones.

He gets up, guides you back into bed.

Whispers it with you.

Together

Until you fall asleep against his chest.

⸻

INT. KITCHEN – DAY

He finds a sticky note on the fridge.

You wrote it in your own handwriting.

“You are still you.

Even when you forget.”

———

INT. KITCHEN – MORNING – JANUARY 8, 7:13AM

The kitchen is bright.

A new year. New month. Same mug. Same soft robe. Same playlist humming in the background.

Except—

You’re staring at the coffee maker.

Frozen.

Your hand is hovering over the grounds. The measuring scoop is in your palm.

And you have no idea what comes next.

Not like in a where’s-the-filter-again way.

No. You don’t remember how coffee works.

You blink.

Your heart skips.

You look around like someone might prompt you.

Nobody does.

He’s still upstairs. Still asleep.

You drop the scoop into the sink. Slowly. Carefully. Like it might explode.

⸻

INT. BATHROOM – 7:19AM

You lock the door.

You sit on the closed toilet lid, shaking.

You whisper aloud:

“Step one… fill the water. Step two… scoop grounds. Step three…”

Your voice cracks.

“Step three…”

You cover your mouth with both hands.

⸻

INT. LIVING ROOM – LATER

You bring it up like a confession.

You whisper it into his collarbone like you’re ashamed of it.

“I forgot how to make coffee.”

He doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t say, That’s okay, or It happens to everyone.

He just says, “We’ll label it.”

He buys a mini dry-erase board and sticks it above the coffee maker.

He writes the steps in clear black marker.

Step 1.

Step 2.

Step 3.

You stand and stare at it.

He puts the marker in your hand.

You write Step 4: Cry if necessary.

He laughs. You do too.

But only for a second.

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – LATER THAT WEEK – 3:47PM

You try to unlock your phone.

It’s the same password you’ve had for five years. The one that’s his birthday, flipped. You chose it because it made you feel safe.

You type it in.

Wrong.

You try again.

Wrong.

Again.

Wrong.

Your hands start shaking.

You try to breathe, try to remember.

You can’t.

You put the phone down. You curl onto the bed and don’t move.

⸻

INT. ENTRYWAY – EVENING

He finds your phone later.

On the floor.

He enters the password on the first try.

Sets it down. Quietly.

Then walks into the bedroom, finds you curled like a comma.

He climbs in beside you.

You say, “It’s getting faster.”

He nods.

“I don’t want it to.”

He kisses your temple.

“You’re still here,” he whispers. “Even if the pieces scatter.”

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – LATE NIGHT – JANUARY 12

He’s sleeping.

You are not.

You get up. Quiet.

Walk the halls.

Your hand glides across the walls like you’re blindfolded.

You pause at a door.

The bathroom?

No.

Bedroom?

No.

You open it.

It’s the hall closet.

Coats.

You stand there. Shaking.

You whisper: “This isn’t the bathroom.”

You turn.

And you don’t know which way to go.

He finds you minutes later.

Shivering. Silent. Lost in your own home.

He doesn’t panic.

He doesn’t speak.

He just takes your hand, and guides you back to bed.

———

INT. KITCHEN – SUNDAY MORNING – JANUARY 19

You finish your eggs. Sip your coffee. Your movements are slower now — careful, deliberate. But still yours.

You glance at the fridge. There’s a list he wrote for you, in clean block letters.

Groceries:

• Almond milk

• Honey

• Pasta

• Lemons

• Earl Grey

• Your favorite cookies (orange bag)

You pick it up. Fold it. Slip it into your pocket.

“I’ll go,” you say lightly.

He freezes mid-sip. “Go where?”

You raise your brows. “The store.”

He hesitates. “I can do it—”

“I want to.”

The way you say it, it’s not a request.

You’re already grabbing your keys.

He doesn’t argue. Not out loud.

But when he follows you out to the driveway, when he lingers beside the door as you buckle in—

you know.

He’s afraid.

⸻

EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD STREETS – 11:27AM

You drive with both hands on the wheel. Music off. Window cracked.

You whisper the directions like a mantra.

“Left at the light. Right at the Shell. Down past the school.”

It feels fine. Normal. Like muscle memory.

Until—

You miss the turn.

Just a little.

No big deal.

You laugh. “Okay. No problem.”

You circle around.

You miss it again.

And suddenly—

You don’t know where you are.

Not even a little.

⸻

INT. CAR – MOMENTS LATER

Your hands grip the steering wheel tight enough to hurt.

The streets blur. The houses all look the same.

You turn. Another turn. You try to find a landmark. A sign.

Nothing.

You pull into a grocery store.

Not yours.

You don’t know where yours is anymore.

You park. Hard. Throw the car in park. Your breath is shaking.

Your phone is in your lap.

But for a full minute—

You don’t remember how to unlock it.

You cry.

Not because you’re lost.

Because you feel like you don’t exist.

⸻

INT. LIVING ROOM – 12:12PM

He’s pacing.

The phone rings. He picks up instantly.

“Y/N? Where are you? Are you okay—”

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

You’re sitting on the curb outside the store, hood up, shoulders shaking.

You sound like a child.

His voice cracks.

“I’m coming. Stay right there.”

⸻

INT. CAR – TWENTY MINUTES LATER

You see his car pull into the lot.

You don’t move.

He doesn’t say a word when he gets out. Just walks over, kneels, pulls you into his chest.

You sob into his hoodie like you’re six years old.

“I couldn’t find the way back,” you choke. “I couldn’t even find me.”

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – LATER

The drive home is silent.

You get into bed. Fully clothed. You turn your back to him.

He stands in the doorway like he’s debating something.

Finally, he speaks.

“I’m taking the keys.”

Silence.

You sit up. Slowly. “What?”

“You can’t drive anymore.”

“You’re treating me like a child.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“I’m treating you like someone I can’t lose.”

“Then stop watching me like I’m already gone,” you snap.

Silence.

Then:

“I’m not watching you because you’re gone,” he says quietly. “I’m watching you because I want to remember everything about you while you’re still here.”

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – MIDNIGHT

You’re asleep.

He’s beside you, phone face down on the nightstand.

He stares at the ceiling.

Then rolls away from you, curling into himself.

And quietly — so quietly — he cries.

Because you’re forgetting everything.

And he’s the only one left you still know.

———

INT. LIVING ROOM – MORNING – FEBRUARY 10, 8:02AM

You wake on the couch.

Sunlight spills across the hardwood like a spotlight. A book is open beside you — one you’ve read four times this week. Every time feels like the first.

You look around the room, confused.

Not panicked. Just… off.

You stand. The floor creaks.

You move through the house like it’s a stranger’s.

⸻

INT. HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS

You stop in front of a door.

You hesitate.

“Bathroom?” you murmur aloud.

No one answers.

You try the handle.

It’s the linen closet.

You blink at the shelves.

Towels. Sheets. A candle. A stack of folded pillowcases.

You don’t remember buying any of them.

⸻

INT. KITCHEN – LATER

He finds you sitting at the kitchen table with a notepad in your lap.

You’re writing something down, over and over.

His name.

Bob. Bob. Bob.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just pours two cups of tea.

Sets one in front of you.

You stare at it.

“Did I already eat?” you ask.

He hesitates. “No, not yet.”

You nod. Then whisper: “I didn’t remember your name when I woke up.”

You don’t look at him.

“I remembered a face. Warm. Gentle. I just… didn’t know what to call it.”

He swallows. Hard.

“Well,” he says softly. “It’s Bob.”

You nod again, smaller this time.

“I’ll try to remember.”

He kisses your knuckles. “I’ll keep reminding you.”

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT – FEBRUARY 12

You sit cross-legged on the floor in a pile of old photo albums.

Your fingers skim over faces you can’t place.

“Were these my parents?”

“Yes.”

“This one?”

“Your brother.”

“And this?”

He pauses.

“…That’s you. In college.”

You blink.

You nod.

He watches your lips move silently as you try to hold onto names.

⸻

INT. JOURNAL – SAME NIGHT

THINGS I KNOW:

1. My name is Y/N.

2. I live in this house.

3. The man is Bob.

4. He loves me.

5. I love him.

6. I had a dog once.

7. I think I liked rain.

8. I used to be someone else.

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – LATER THAT NIGHT

You’re asleep.

He’s not.

He lies on his back, arm under your head, your breath soft against his neck.

He stays still.

Like if he moves, you’ll disappear entirely.

Then, quietly—

He shifts, pulls away gently, gets out of bed.

⸻

INT. BATHROOM – 2:03AM

The door closes with a click.

He turns on the sink to drown the sound.

And sobs into his hands.

Not loud.

Not desperate.

Just devastated.

Because you looked at him tonight like he was a stranger in his own home.

And he smiled anyway.

Because someone has to remember.

———

INT. HALLWAY – EARLY MORNING – FEBRUARY 21

The wall is covered.

Photos in cheap plastic frames. Post-its in neat rows.

Everything labeled in block letters — things she used to love. Things she’s afraid to lose.

There’s a photo of them at the lake. A recipe card in her handwriting.

A note:

“This man is Bob. You love him.”

“Your name is Y/N.”

“You are 34.”

“This is home.”

Bob stands in front of it all now, pressing a new Polaroid into place.

He smooths the tape. Adjusts the angle. Steps back.

He doesn’t cry.

But his hands shake.

⸻

INT. KITCHEN – LATER

She walks in.

She pauses.

“Morning,” he says softly.

She blinks at him. Offers a half-smile.

“You’re the guy from the wall.”

His heart drops.

“Yes,” he nods. “I’m the guy from the wall.”

She frowns. “What’s your name again?”

“…Bob.”

She repeats it quietly.

“Bob.”

Like tasting a word for the first time.

⸻

INT. HALLWAY – 3:13PM

He hears it from the kitchen.

The ripping.

The tearing.

The crash of picture frames hitting the ground.

He runs.

She’s standing in the hallway, tearing everything down.

Sticky notes flutter around her like feathers in a storm.

Photos lie crumpled under her bare feet.

“STOP PUTTING ME IN BOXES!” she screams. “STOP WRITING ME DOWN!”

He tries to reach her.

She backs away.

“I AM NOT THIS! I AM NOT THESE SENTENCES ON A WALL!”

He whispers, “You asked me to help you remember—”

“I DON’T WANT TO REMEMBER LIKE THAT!”

And then—

She crumbles.

Sinks to the floor.

And sobs into her hands.

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

She’s asleep again.

Exhausted.

He sits beside her with a box.

Gently folds every sticky note.

Stacks every photo.

Tapes them into her journal like pages of an old scrapbook.

And on the final page, he writes:

You are still here.

Even when you don’t believe it.

I will remember for both of us.

Then closes the book.

And cries into his hands.

Again.

[screwpinecaprice]

When your boyrfren is a morning person.

(Idk if Connie's not a morning person, but it'd be funny if she isn't.)

Connie doodles (and a Steven!)

[carmenell]

niche(ish) hobbies I think the daggers would have

hangman: writing movie reviews on letterboxd and getting into fights over ratings

rooster: guitar hero championships

phoenix: nail art, mostly on herself and occasionally bob (and hangman)

bob: pen paling, he even decorates the envelopes

fanboy: karaoke BEAST

payback: ice hockey (in a hobby league)

coyote: couponing ... and lowkey prepping/bunkering, listen he just likes to be ready for when the apocalypse hits

bonus:

maverick: ice baths. he needs them

[aviator-at-heart]

unfortunately we were robbed of character backstories in top gun maverick >:(

fortunately it does open the door for many headcanons >:)

[reallilystuff]

KYOKOOOOOOOO 🗣❗❗❗❗❗❗

ref below cut

[redrobinsrobbingrobin]

How they got their callsigns: dagger edition

Rooster: horrendous bed head in the mornings. All his hair, sticking right up. I got This from a fic but I can’t remember which one, so if anyone knows, please tell me lmao. He also wakes up at the crack of dawn, every single day. No alarms set. He just. Does that.

Hangman: the same as in the movie- hangs you out to dry, etc. BUT! He got his callsign on the same day he lost his wingman- he built up a reputation of being reckless and leaving people behind, and so. He lost his wingman cause he left him out to dry. He hates it.

Phoenix: had to eject once, came out mostly unscathed, plane was burned to a CRISP, hence, phoenix, born out of the flames

Bob: on a family day, his parents showed a photo of him when he was young, and he had the WORST haircut (Phoenix and Bradley have that photo saved as blackmail)

Coyote: once got into a drunken argument with a CO (who was reallly chill) about wanting to be reincarnated as a wolf or a coyote. He was VEHEMENTLY on team coyote, and their CO gave him the callsign because he would call him coyote every time they crossed paths (yes, the CO was Wolfman)

Halo: once saved a teammate and when they got back on the ground, all they could say was ‘I saw a halo hovering above her’, called her my saviour and other such names until Halo stuck

Omaha: Grew up in Omaha, nebraska, and would tell anecdotes about his childhood by starting with ‘back in Omaha’

Payback: made it a point to ALWAYS pay someone back for anything. You do him a favour? He’s got your back. You piss him off, next dogfight, you better watch out

Fanboy: has INCREDIBLY niche knowledge about any fandom EVER. Marvel, DC, Star Wars, Star Trek, heck, even My Little Pony and shit. Someone once mentioned a really obscure anime around him and he was chatting about it for a good hour or two.

Harvard: went to Yale

Yale: went to Harvard

Fritz: obsessively checks his plane before going up in the sky, when asked, smiles cryptically and says ‘to make sure nothing’s on the fritz

[luxu1230]

In which everyone learns Hangman is much more like Maverick than they thought trauma responses too.

So one day after the suicide mission and the daggers are now a permanent squadron due to Ice Mav decides to do a plane swap so the single seaters get the opportunity to feel what it's like to have someone behind them.

However Hangman refuses to, even going as far to sit on the floor. The others make fun of him (except Coyote and Mav) but Mav is the first to realise how pale and short of breath Hangman seems to be and is even sure he sees him trembling slightly.

So to get him out he tells Hangman how he needs him to drop off some paperwork to his husband and how he can stay with Ice Incase he needs any help.

It isn't until he ran out the door the others realised something was truly wrong. It's not until later that Coyote tell them why.

(It took Hangman nearly two minutes in Ice office before he broke down and Ice realises that this kid acts like Maverick when he was younger and his heart breaks when he realises that this comes from a trauma shared between them. Though why was this never in his file).

Coyote later explains to them the reason Hangman won't fly with a backseater and it explains the relationship between those two.

It turns out Coyote knew Hangman from before he joined top gun. That it turned out that Coyote's older brother was Hangman's backseater and how a flying exercise turned into the death of one person and the mental trauma of another.

How hangman has sworn off having a backseater and tries to do everything solo.

It leaves everyone in shock and questioning if the rumours about hangman were ever true.

One knew he needed to apologise asap and another knew he was going to keep a tighter eye on hangman.

No one was surprised the next morning when they walked into the base only to see hangman stuck in between Mav and Rooster hugging him with the most confused look on his face.

[fishfwcker]

j need more of the daggers being an insufferable military friend group like what i grew up around. too many barbecues. everyone has their matching set of star spangled swim trunks. sunglasses fucking EVERYWHERE.

both natasha and javy drive a chevy silverado and both of them have accidentally tried to force open the other on more than one occasion. absolutely fucking crowding public spaces also

at each other’s house, mickey keeps playing country on the aux and bob’s weakly convincing everybody to hop on his steak marinade (it’s just mustard, worcestershire, and mayonnaise). singing songs that are absolute lyrical nonsense. javy tries to play lo-fi once and he’s harassed so hard that he gets banished outside

they have a choreo for timber by pit and kesha. their gc is 5% planning and 95% of bradley trying to stop the bbqs and game nights and sports nights from happening at his house again bc at some point the party’s gonna migrate in his room and they’re all gonna put on his extensive collection of hawaiian shirts

no one has been to natasha’s. rumors are she lives in a mansion. it’s just onbase housing. bob is very quiet about it.

if its on base. the moment it hits 5:00pm everyone runs inside so that they dont have to stand at parade rest/attention for the national anthem. reuben and mickey arent fast enough and they try to keep their star spangled hoola hoops from falling to the floor while paying some semi respect to the flag

bradley and jake have already entered a massive pissing contest on whether charcoal or pellets are the better bbq fuel. jake’s a charcoal puritan and bradley is (in jakes words) ‘a bougie trendhopping consumerist’ - but when they’re lounging at the pool with too many beers they keep finding excuses to touch hands and drown each other. their first kiss was with bradley crowding jake into the kitchen while they were the designated drink couriers. and after a sufficient amount of time tasting mouths or whatever gay shit, jake smugly tells him “yea charcoal is better”

javy’s looking at them when they come back but he doesn’t gaf necessarily because he’s voting belligerently drunk group cannonballs on a pool float.

jake has entered the “you guys are like…. my best friends” stage of being drunk. natasha is frat flicking and shamelessly hyping up bob’s grilling to the point that he’s got his head in his hands.

the karaoke is on shuffle but nobody has even gone up to sing at all, so it’s just a bunch of vocal-less songs playing and once in a while one of them will go “who put this shit on the aux.” nobody can find their keys and again, there are sunglasses everywhere

[bri-cheeses]

Rosekiller ice skating date in which Evan isn’t the worst at skating but will fall if distracted, and Barty who cannot skate to save his life and falls every minute, therefore distracting Evan and causing him to fall as well. Meanwhile Pandora is skating circles around them because one, she’s there at the rink for like… no reason, and two, she’s scarily good at ice skating for again, no reason

[pepperangers]

been distracted by them lately but i’m obsessed with the permanent dagger squad so here’s a very rough draft of some of my (overlapping) hcs for them

(someone please talk to me about them pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease)

[yikesy]

okay so apollo vs python round one time!!

bear with me because this got really long

so the thing I've long wondered about this event is just Why The Fuck did he do this. at four days old. alone.

because it makes no sense right??

even if he wants to take revenge and protect his mom, at this time he's a duo with artemis and isn't she by all means more qualified for this than him?? she's the more martially inclined of the two and represents lawlessness and wildness, I don't know if she is yet but still, when she comes into her divinity (only a few days later!!!) she'll literally be known as the huntress of wild beasts

so that is one point. the other is just what possessed him to think he could do this?? python is a child of gaia who has been openly tormenting a well connected titanness and has taken over delphi the center of the world and dictator of fate and hasn't been defeated yet

apollo is, again, four days old and not the martial one of the pair, in either powers or disposition, he doesn't have any experience using his powers in general, let alone offensively what made him think he could do this??

why him, why now

well my answer is that I think it makes perfect sense if we take into account two things 1) that he is the four day old embodiment of Light as a concept and 2) the reason python was chasing leto around in the first place

right, what started this in the first place, python received a prophecy that the unborn son of leto would be his murderer, that's why he was trying to kill her before she could give birth

and again apollo is four days old meaning his nature has not been,, "tainted" by much of anything yet, be it humanity, belief, other domains or even social interaction. let us remember what he developed into in the future when he's more of a person and not only a pure concept, an avatar of relentless seeking and revelation and knowledge and truth. light is not restrained or subtle at all and this was the time when that was all he was

so basically I think apollo knew there was a prophecy that said he would kill python and just fucking went for it, the winning condition was already met just by being him so why wait right? did he think he was in any way qualified otherwise? no, did he have a plan or any idea of how he would manage? not at all, but it literally did not matter since his victory was already written in fate and confirmed by python, it must have looked like a bright point a to point b to him

and I think that's how he beat him, by leveraging prophecy and using it as a weapon, he was by all means no match at all but it was fated by a prophecy that scared python enough to confirm it's validity and they were at delphi that he usurped from his grandmother so he had the right of inheritance on his side and with his faith and steadfastness on this one thing, apollo won by literally muscling the domain of prophecy away from python

you know the fate string apollo uses on his bow in canon? my headcanon is that this is where it came from, that deep in the fight, he physically took the string of the prophecy and literally used it as the arrow that killed python and later used it to string his bow and now all his shots have literal reality piercing power