#i want to shake them in a jar and examine them under a microscope

[shellem15]

Thinking about the Dawnfather. A god of light, a god of harvest, a god of the sun itself. Good but not nice, kind but not soft. Life-giving but also scorching. Protective, warm, and kind, but also stern, harsh, and abrasive. His light can foster growth, can protect and guide, but it can also scorch and burn. The sun is warm and nurturing but don’t stare at it too long, child, it’ll blind you.

Was he always so hard? Did he always hide his face with the harsh light of the sun? Or was there a time when he smiled and laughed, let others see him as he truly was?

Thinking about the Schism. Was the Dawnfather close to the Betrayer Gods before they turned? He must have been, Asmodeus wouldn’t be so hung up on him if he wasn’t. Speaking of Asmodeus, he was once a being of light, like the Dawnfather and the Everlight are now. Were they closer than the others? When the Gods came to Exandria, did they come from the same place or were they scattered, a ragtag group of survivors fleeing from predators seeking to devour them? And if the latter is true, did these three beings of light come from the same place? Siblings, born from the same stuff, forever tied to one another?

If this was the case, then, what was their relationship before the Schism? Did they call each other “Brother” and ��Sister”? Did they hold each other when they were scared, dry each other’s tears, laugh and joke and tease and fight and make up because they were siblings and they’d always be together, and they loved each other with every fiber of their being and they only had each other. When Predathos came, when it devoured two of their newfound siblings, did the Dawnfather hold them both and promise them that everything was going to be okay because he was their brother and he was going to protect them, all of them. The gods, mortals, the world itself, they would not be devoured, they would not be destroyed, because he was there and would fight until his very last breath to keep them safe.

Wondering then, was that the moment when Asmodeus truly grew to hate their creations? Seeing his brother and sister and siblings risk their lives just to protect some mewling mortal wretches when they could just leave it all behind and start somewhere new. Was that the moment when he realized that mortals had done something to them, changed them when they were not supposed to change. Why else would they risk being devoured by Predathos, why else would they suffer through war with the Primordials? Why else would they choose them over him!? Was this the moment when he decided to conspire with the Primordials and the other Betrayer Gods? To destroy this world and the mortals on it so they could finally leave. And they would leave, of course, because the Dawnfather was his brother and the Everlight was his sister and the Gods were a family, and at the end of the day, they would always be together, and once the corrupting influence of those mortals was gone, they would surely all see reason.

And when the Dawnfather discovered this betrayal, when all the Prime Deities did, he must have been furious. How could they!? His kin, his brother, who had always been by his side through everything, how could they turn around and destroy their creations, their children. And so he and the other Primes took up arms and fought against their own family to protect this world they had created, and their children who inhabited it. Those battles must have been brutal, bonds of comradery broken, kin clashing against kin, screaming curses as they tore each other apart.

During those final battles of the Schism, when the Dawnfather clashed against Asmodeus, did they scream at each other in rage? A twisted reflection of previous squabbles, different because this time it was real, this time there is no forgiveness, no making up. When the Dawnfather knocked Asmodeus down, crushed his throat under his foot and banished him to the Hells, was he yelling when he disowned him? Or was he quiet when he did it, his voice going into a low growl, deadly calm as he told him that he was not his brother anymore. And moments previously, when the Dawnfather could have easily killed him, did he look into Asmodeus’s eyes and see his brother? Scared and hurt by his hands, hands that once held him and swore to protect him. In that moment, did the Dawnfather realize he couldn’t kill him? Because that was his brother and despite everything, he still loved him, and hurting him brought him more grief and pain than he could ever imagine. So instead, he banished him, locked him and all the other Betrayers away because he and the other Primes couldn’t bring themselves to kill their family, but they also couldn’t let them free.

Was this when the Dawnfather obscured his face? Hardened his heart because otherwise he would break, and he cannot break, because the other gods need him to be strong, because Exandria needs him to be strong. And so he stayed strong, despite the grief, despite the guilt, despite the pain of heartbreak, of hurting the ones he loved to protect the ones he loved. And this hardening must have continued, running himself ragged during Calamity, beating back Tharizdun, protecting Ioun after she almost died, sheltering the Everlight after Asmodeus once again betrayed her, stabbed her in the back and left her broken and weak when all she wanted was to do was get her brother back, to save him from his own wrath. Failure after failure after failure to protect those he cared about, to protect his siblings and mortals and Exandria itself. The guilt of his failures must be overwhelming, and these are his failures: Predathos devoured his siblings under his watch, his siblings betrayed them under his watch, Calamity ravaged Exandria under his watch, and even now, the threat of Predathos has once again returned under his watch.

No wonder he is so harsh now, so controlling now: because every time he has failed in his vigilance the world has suffered for it. He can’t fail again; he can’t lose any more siblings. And so, he continues hardening his heart, continues fighting, because the sun must always rise again in the morning, no matter what.

[suzukiblu]

Tim/match anon… it’s been six hours but maybe if you see this you would join me in my desire to examine Tim’s attachment to Kon through a lens of a clone of a clone… aka Tim/match…they fascinate me, I want to put them under a microscope or shake them in a jar…

“If you idiots say one more stupid line to each other, my meaningless ‘social construct’ and I are going to go take care of ourselves,” Match says witheringly, just eyeing them both. 

“Oh, that’d be unfortunate,” Tim says, but also can’t help giving him a mild little smile. “So that’s an all-clear to say stupid lines to you, got it. Do you want to be the test group or the control?” 

“I want to go back to being a supervillain,” Match mutters as his face flushes just red enough to show. Which admittedly isn’t particularly hard, given how pale he is, but Tim’s still gonna count it as a victory. 

“I know they say crazy fucks better but trust me, man, good-guy crazy is way better in bed than bad-guy crazy,” Kon informs him. “Good-guy crazy makes you eggs in the morning and almost never tries to stab you.” 

“I’m stabproof,” Match reminds him dubiously. 

“Yeah, I thought that too, once upon a time,” Kon mutters under his breath. “Then I took a Batarang to the knee.” 

“. . . I don’t want to know,” Tim decides. He really just doesn’t need to figure out which other Bats Kon has been in the sack with. Just–really doesn’t, no. Ideally ever. 

“I mean, it’s not really like it’s a secret or–” Kon starts. 

“I don’t want to know.” Tim emphasizes, narrowing his eyes at him. 

“. . . gotcha, buddy.”

[whiskeyworen]

Aspect II : Of Humor and Family

One week later(after the events of Aspect I: Alternative Thinking)

"Aspect, can you run some calculations for me?" Tenna asked, examining the internals of her rifle under a microscope. It was time for a thorough maintenance of her Arcane Marksman rifle, which meant carefully disassembling it and recalibrating every gear, cog, and lattice energy array inside in sequence. There were watches out there with less moving parts than an Arcane Marksman.

"Certainly, Tenna. What is it you need?"

Tenna rattled off a few program code lines from the script editor she had connected to the rifle, as well the measurements for a few physical adjustments. "...now, if I run this code through the rifle's calibrators, will it provide the focus and stabilization I want? I don't have a spare screen to keep the original coding on to compare so..."

"I understand. Based on the parameters you've given me, the weapon's recoil will drop by 13%, but its range accuracy will drop by 10%. There's an errant code which temporarily resets the scope zoom with each trigger pull." Aspect then recited the specific code, before offering an alternative code. "... Using the suggested code, recoil will only drop 10%, but range will not drop. I am sorry your original programming would not work for what you desired."

"It's okay, Aspect. I'm glad you found that bit of scrapcode. It probably would have taken me a week to find it." Tenna pursed her lips, editing the code on screen before continuing with physical calibrations. "Sometimes having two heads is better than one."

"Would the Ettin agree to that as well?"  Aspect asked innocently.

Tenna barked a laugh, shaking her head. "Depends which head you ask I think. Humor personality node?"

"Yes. My Fa-- Cyrus suggested trying tamer jokes, ones that were not risque, until I understood people more."

The words Aspect had nearly used caught Tenna's interest for a moment. But she didn't know what to make of it yet. "Probably a good idea. Some people can't appreciate a good, dirty joke."

"Do you mean jokes like 'There once was a man from Divinity's Reach; everyone said his wife was a Peach'..." Aspect began reciting.

Tenna jumped away from the table and covered up the intercom speaker. "Don't! Please don't finish that poem!"

Aspect's golem eye tilted, the light in it winking on and off. "...Why not? I understand it is a popular poem among teenagers. I have even heard it recited by dockworkers."

The asura uncovered the speaker and returned to the desk, shaking her head. "Oh, I imagine it is. Heh. It's just, there's dirty, and then there's diiiiiirrrtty." She dragged the word out, making a lemon-eating face. "For future reference, limericks and poems, though sometimes funny, aren't the same as jokes. It's a perspective and timing thing."

"Noted. Thank you Tenna."

Tenna returned to her repairs, pulling on a set of goggles with a variety of magnifying lenses, flicking through them as she worked. The sizzling sound of arc welding and soldering filled the room as she worked. Aspect watched her from three eyes around the room, one right beside the desk, keeping track of her repairs.

"...Tenna, may I ask you a question?"

"Sure thing. I'm glad to see you're using your interrogative programs more, by the way." Tenna replied, reaching out without looking and plucking a screwdriver with a head mere millimeters across out of a jar. "What's the issue?"

"I am unsure as how to approach this topic, so I will state it plainly: Do you have family?" Aspect asked, blinking its golem eye at her.

Tenna's hands froze, and she just sat there, staring at the disassembled gun, hand hovering with its screwdriver, for almost a minute. Finally, she took a deep breath, lowered her head, and returned the tool to its jar. She made no move to remove the goggles though. "... Yeah, I do. Two older sisters. What about them?"

"I wish to ask if you care about them. The pattern-analysis of your tone suggests I have perhaps erred in asking you. I apologize."

Tenna shook her head, her long garnet-colored hair shifting around. "No...no. Don't apologize. You're still learning body language and tonal shifts. You... caught me offguard."

She sat back in her chair, pulling the goggles off and pinching the bridge of her nose. "It's just... me and my sisters have had our issues. I'm mad at them, angry and upset at them for a variety of reasons. But, and this is important; I don't hate them or anything. They're still my sisters. Does that make sense?"

"I think I understand. It is possible for families to have personal issues. Arguements. Disagreements. Correct?"

"Yeah. Definitely."

"But in spite of any arguement, any 'bad blood', my understanding is that you are still family with them, and so they hold a special place with you?"

"Very good, Aspect. I'm proud you came to such a mature, well-thought conclusion." Tenna smiled a bit ruefully. "And they do. There's just the three of us. I might not get along with them, and we all kinda want to bap each other upside the head most of the time.. heh... but they're my sisters. I do love them in spite of it all."

"I believe that my response should be something akin to 'that's what family would say', but my understanding of family is somewhat limited." Aspect admitted. "Would that have been correct?"

Tenna nodded, and turned back to her gun. "That it would, Aspect. Now, if you could, I'd like to run some more calculations by you..."

[botanicallyinclinednerd]

mm i see why you dislike captain flint -he's indeed a very punchable bastard. manipulative whore. i want put him through severe torture just because.

i've been rotating james in my mind lately, so here's what's been brewing, fresh out of the brain:

this show really puts meaning to the whole "i want to study him like a bug" thing and i admire it for that.

i want to study this man (james. james, all of him, all of his masks with him too) under a microscope. he fascinates me by simply being layered like a fucking onion and the deeper you go the worse it gets. i wonder what would happen if i put this guy in situations. putting him inside a glass jar then shaking it violently. then leaving milk and cookies by his bedside.

though i do feel sorry for james mcgraw if i'm honest -no one should be left to feel that much shame and internal conflict (the whole closeted experience of james & his "What Will People Think?" is something worth noting imo). and yet he is intelligent enough to craft this elaborate (and well-done) mask for his survival among other pirates. and he actually put up with it for years, the guilt only driving him to destruction, whether that be his own or others. and i now understand why his desire to fuck off to the middle of nowhere was that strong. (the fucking foreshadowing <3) god someone get him to therapy already. does his fucked up onion-layered trauma explain his actions? yes. does it justify them? no. for now, i want him to suffer more.

i was. so wrong about the miranda/james/thomas separation... apologies, and rip to thomas & miranda.

lord ashe had the NERVE to ask james to out himself to the whole of parliament? to go even further and ask him to then repent --in front of those to which he outed himself??

nice to have billy back tho.

fucking hell.

the plotline in this season took turn after turn, loved it. and very much enjoyed the s2 finale.

-🏴‍☠️

Oh my gosh YEAH. Flint is fascinating as all hell and there's so much there to examine and I very much get that instinct lmao, though I tend to get it more for my favs. James McGraw is the version of Flint I'm most sympathetic for and I like the most. And like you said, it explains his actions but it certainly doesn't excuse them. Agreed on the therapy, he and just about everyone else on the show needs it 😂 A solid rip to Thomas and Miranda. I hate Peter and he got what was coming to him, the slimy bastard. He was simultaneously such a coward and had the absolute audacity to claim superiority. Billy! I enjoy him very much lol. The end of season 2 is so good, episode 10 is probably my favorite episode 😅

I'm so glad you enjoyed season 2!!!!

[cagedbirdsong]

hello everyone! happy new year! i hope you all had a safe, happy holiday season and (if applicable) you are currently staying warm with family and friends! 

so, we haven’t seen to build a home since this past summer, but lately i’ve received a lot of asks regarding if i am still working on it and when it will return. the short answer is yes, i am still working on it, i just have to iron out some issues and develop the plot a bit more. but this was my first official fic and will always hold a special place in my heart. and, since so many of you seemed to enjoy it, i wanted to give it back to you all as well. 

so, finally, here is part five of to build a home. i love you all dearly, and thank each and every one of you for the continued support. you make this all worthwhile. 

find part four here, and if you need to catch up, find part one here. 

ps / for my dear @marlosbooknook because she is sick, and for @internallydeceased because she’s also been on my tail about this. i love you both! and thank you @kaitrionabalfe - couponers can go to hell. 

Part Five

Castle Leoch, Summer 1744

“Jamie?”

He blinked hard, coming back to reality, and cleared his throat in an interrogative gesture of acknowledgment. “Mm?”

“Be a dear and pass me that jar, would you?” Claire murmured, extending one delicate hand, palm up, without taking her eyes off the item she was examining. She had a small dish set up beneath a rather large magnifying glass; a makeshift microscope, she had called it. Good for viewing big things, but none of the wee germs she often talked about.

Obediently, he reached to pick up the jar she had gestured towards and made a disgusted noise of revulsion as he came face to face with its contents. “Jesus Christ, Sassenach, what in seven hells is that?” He wrinkled his nose and passed her the jar hastily, wanting it out of his hands.

“Worms!” She chirped cheerfully, with, GOD, was that pride? “I found some parasitic maggots on a squirrel carcass the other day, which is what you have in that jar there, and I’ve found just the sort here now-” she inclined her head to the microscope as she unscrewed the jar and neatly deposited her new additions “-so they’re going to need a place to stay.”

He gagged. “Ye dinna- what I mean is- well, Claire, ye canna be meaning ta keep the filthy buggers?” He shuddered again, casting a dirty look towards the jar, where a series of long, stringy worms and fat little maggots writhed around on a chunk of browning meat.

“Why, of course I do.” Claire sat back, wiped her hands on her apron, and blew out the candle she had lit beneath the platform of the small microscope she had made. “The worms themselves are rather useless, medicinally, but their larvae can be used to treat necrotic wounds. They’re excellent at removing the dead flesh.” She lifted her face with a smile in time to see Jamie pull one of horror, and she grimaced. “Right, sorry,” she offered, though he caught her hiding a chuckle as he turned and gagged into his fist, and vaguely thought he heard her whisper ‘drama queen.’

After a moment, he steeled himself and sat back down on the table he had been perched on, feeling a little green, but thoroughly restored as she moved the container of insects onto a dark shelf in the corner. He watched her as she went, a small smile on his lips. Her hair was perched in a pile of messy curls and flyaway hairs on the top of her head, and her smock had been dirtied with whatever she had been working with all day; smears of juice from different plants, dirt, the odd small spatter of blood here and there. He leaned back on his hands and sighed.

She no longer bore the gentle curves of motherhood, but her hips sat differently now, and her breasts were a new kind of full. It made his heart ache momentarily, still not accustomed to the loss of their child. It hit him sometimes, swift and hard and merciless, and his throat momentarily closed up.

Their stay at Castle Leoch had been good for them. They had been welcomed with open arms and open hearts and had settled nicely into their respective tasks around the castle, but the wounds that Brigid had left in their souls were still gaping and empty, with the distraction of the Mackenzie Clan as little more than a superficial bandage. They generally avoided talk of their daughter when at all possible, but sometimes the reminders were inevitable.

Like the day a young woman had come seeking Claire’s help with late-term bleeding, or the constant patter of children’s feet in the yard. But the worst, by far, had been the day that one of the older women had narrowly eyed Claire’s waistline, nodded her approval, and asked in an oh so charming voice when they planned on continuing the next branch of the Fraser family tree.

“Oh, ye’ve been marrit nigh on a year now, have ye no?” She had asked, heedless of Jamie’s cold warning look or the frantic shake of his head. “Have ye been trying? Surely a woman such as you would have something to, umph, aid with the process, no?” She had leaned conspiratorially forward and then arched her eyebrows. “Or is one of ye, mmph, incapable?”

Claire had broken into sobs, hurled the small pestle she had been grinding willow bark with against the wall, and crumpled in a mess on the floor of her own surgery. Jamie had promptly, aggressively, sent the naive old woman on her way and tended to his wife, who took days to recover from the incident, like a bandage ripped off too fast once the wound’s begun to heal around it, fibers stuck in the newly formed scab.

After that, everyone around the castle had keenly avoided the topic of children and motherhood when around the pair.

“What are you thinking about?” Claire’s voice broke into his train of thought, and he looked up at her, blinking to clear his mind. “And don’t try to say nothing, because I can see the look on your face and I can practically smell the smoke.” She smiled a bit, but then frowned at what must have been the expression on his face. “Are you feeling alright, love?” She asked softly, stepping across the room to step between his legs and press her lips to his forehead. “You don’t look very well.”

He sighed, reaching out one hand to wrap his fingers lightly around her wrist, and forcing a smile. “Aye, just tired is all, my Sassenach. Are ye almost done here?”

Claire pursed her lips and nodded slightly, brushing her hands idly on her apron as she turned to tinker with some things in her cabinet. “Yes,” she breathed, and the room lapsed into silence. Then, after a moment, she turned to look at him, leaning against her exam bench. “It’s her you’re thinking about, isn’t it?” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and her honey eyes wavered.

Jamie let his breath out in a rush and hung his head. “Aye,” he breathed. “It’s always her.” He looked down at his hands, calloused and cracked and lying limp in his lap, and curled them into fists, wiping a spot of dried blood with a corner of his plaid. When he looked up next, Claire was standing with her back to him, holding something in front of her. She sighed and he thought he saw the tension go out of her. Gently, she set the small jar she had been holding down on the counter and turned to look at him. Her eyes were shining, but for the first time, she hadn’t broken down crying at the mere mention of their stillborn daughter.

Slowly, she crossed the room to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, drawing his head down into the crook of her neck. Neither one said a word, and his arms came up to wrap loosely around her waist, both of them just breathing. One of Claire’s hands came up to smooth over Jamie’s hair after a moment, and he half nodded against her shoulder, a sigh running through him.

That night, they lay quietly in bed watching the moonlight dance across the floorboards. A small fire had been smoored in the hearth and the room was pleasantly warm and smokey, one of the shutters cracked to let in a little cool air, which Jamie always liked. He tended to always burn up like a furnace, and Claire would wake some nights to find him having flung all the covers off, or standing by the window letting the cool air prickle across his heated skin. After their marriage, sleeping next to another warm body had always made his temperature spike, and so they had settled on an arrangement: as long as the room was warm when they went to bed he could crack the window, that way, he wouldn’t swelter and Claire wouldn’t be cold.

As it was, Jamie had been drifting in and out of sleep for somewhere around an hour, one arm draped lazily over Claire’s waist as he held her, his hand tucked up under her shift and against the warm skin of her belly. She covered his hand with her own, threading their fingers together and listening to the quiet changes in his breathing.

After a bit, when she could feel he was awake again, she turned in his arms, surprised to find his eyes open and shiny in the dark of the night, so dark a blue as to nearly be black. She reached out one hand to touch her fingertips to his cheek and sighed softly, tucking herself more comfortably against his chest. The hand that had been resting on her stomach slid down to grasp her ass familiarly, anchoring the two of them.

“Jamie?” she asked softly, tucking her face against his collarbone, breathing in the smell of him. She could never quite place her finger on what he smelled like. Some days it was obvious, of course, horses or the woods or even blood, but beneath what his day was like, there was an underlying smell that was always just Jamie. It was, if she had to try and describe it, like wet heather and musk and sunshine, and just a touch of steel. It was intimately comforting, and she took a deep breath now, one hand splayed on his chest, feeling his pectoralis major ripple as he adjusted his arm around her.

“Mmph? Are ye alright?” His voice was rough with sleep and he peered at her out of the corner of lidded eyes, his long lashes brushing his cheeks.

She nodded a bit and drew back to look up at him, one hand cupping his cheek, thumb rasping over the day’s stubble. “Yes, yes I’m fine,” she said softly, biting her lip for a moment as she thought. “I want to ask you something, or - I don’t know if it’s a question, really, it’s just that I want you to be honest with me-” she pressed her hand harder against his chest, feeling his heart speed up against her palm “-and with yourself.” She looked up at him and he wore the most peculiar expression, face calm and eyes wild with thought. “Could you do that?”

“Aye.”

Claire took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and moved away from him ever so slightly, her legs still twined with his but her head resting on her own pillow so she could see his face. A moment of silence stretched between them, impossibly long, and she reached out to grasp his hand. “After, when Brigid-” her voice cracked and she saw his pulse throb in his throat, but steeled herself and continued, clearing her throat softly, “-when Brigid died, you spent so long looking after me, Jamie, and you were so, so good,” she moved her hand once more to lovingly cup his cheek, his eyes dry and locked on hers, “but I never saw you mourn her.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and she swallowed, licking her suddenly dry lips. “I just, it’s only I wonder sometimes if you feel like you were so busy taking care of me you never got to say goodbye to her.” Her voice cracked and she took a moment, screwing her eyes shut to hold back tears and placing her fingertips against Jamie’s lips to stop him from speaking. His breath came warm against her fingers, and steady, and when her eyes were finally dry and she opened them, his were wet. “Do you need to cry for her?” She whispered.

It took him what seemed like a very long time to answer, the column of his throat moving slowly. “I do,” he rasped, “cry for her, I mean. Nearly every day since.” And the conviction in his voice was strong enough to break Claire’s heart. She nodded, tight-lipped, and sniffled.

“It’s only, Jamie, do you need to cry here, with me? Do you need me to take care of you? She’s your daughter too.”

The change happened slowly, barely noticeable in the dark of the bedroom, but Claire saw his full lower lip tremble and caught the glistening of moonlight off tears on his cheek. He didn’t make any move to be closer to her, and his chest began to rise and fall more rapidly as his breathing picked up, becoming shallow. “Oh, my darling,” Claire whispered, and drew him to her. His arms came shaking up around her back and he pressed his face into her shoulder.

And for the second time in his life, James Fraser went thoroughly and completely to pieces.

[missixo]

St Balderich Slays the Dragon [12/19]

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 |(on tumblr)

This fic (on AO3)

Pairing: Balderich/Mondatta

Summary:  The humans are right to fear omnics and what they can do. What he can and will do to humanity. He is Jörmungandr, and he will see humanity fall.

St Balderich Slays the Dragon

Chapter 12

Over the next few months, every Crusader on base is deployed to some part of Europe or other to assist in a push back against omnic incursions. Jörmungandr isn’t overly worried, he’s heard them talking about how they’re still nowhere near destroying an omnium.

Halfway through the first month, Ozzie does indeed make it on base, thankfully with a matching foot, and into the communications center. Well, all of his regular patients are going to be in and out for at least a few weeks, now is as good a time as any to catch up. It doesn’t take much to convince her to let him on the fifth floor with her so they can continue talking while she’s on shift.

“Just don’t tell anyone I did this, ok? Your voice is different than what I remember.”

“My synth is locked. And I got punched in the head about a month ago, quite the story...”

The communications center is mostly staffed by omnics with one or two human supervisors, and he learns it’s kept on a completely separate network from the rest of the base. Explains his inability to remote hack it.

“Everyone has some access to it, but it’s all level one, or level two, which is the bigwigs.”

The ‘work stations’ are microscopic desks with stools all huddled in an empty area by the door, each with a port that allows direct access to the digital entry into the system. Jörmungandr quietly ports into the station next to Ozzie’s and starts scanning the firewalls he needs to get through. It’s a nightmare. The best he can do for now is leave a scrap of code that can slowly drill a small hole for him to use later. It’s going to take months. He wants to throw something out a window. Preferably whoever designed this, possibly after shaking their hand.

After Ozzie shoos him out citing a supervisor coming on shift, he heads for the service stairs and, for old time’s sake, sets off at least one fire alarm per floor. Petty, but it feels so good to inconvenience these humans a little bit after the news he got today.

***

A week later, MD is just back from bullying Ferdinand into going to his physical therapy appointment - the happy idiot can come back unscathed from a battle with bastions and OR-13s, but manages to pull a muscle in his hand opening a pickle jar of all things - when Balderich, Reinhardt, and Henri get back from their latest deployment almost three days late.

“... Lieutenant, would you like a razor for that thing on your face?”

He doesn’t know what’s so funny but Balderich and Henri break down laughing while Reinhardt looks wounded by his question.

“I’m trying to grow it out!”

***

Jörmungandr spends the months of back-to-back deployments taking shifts at the base hospital again, clipping loops of security footage - empty stairwells and hallways - and chatting with Ozzie and Broom when their breaks line up. He trades meaningless gossip back and forth, carefully nudging Ozzie for information on how the communications system works, porting in to a station each time they meet up in there and nudging his drill code that hundredth of a percent ahead of schedule.

During the occasional week that the colonel is on base, he focuses on this new bond the man seems to have formed for him. The flirting is strange, but he feels like he's improving as he goes.

***

Balderich levers himself slowly out of his bed, groaning the whole way. He's on two weeks mandatory rest after pulling something in his leg, and he has check-ups that need doing. Three months of these in-and-out deployments are taking a toll on him and his men, and he can only see more of the same when he thinks of the weeks and months to come. He rubs at a sore muscle in his neck and suddenly remembers his physical later this morning, a small point of pleasure in this mess the world is becoming.

MD still doesn't go easy on him when he's between missions, even with this budding... thing between them. He'd like to call it attraction, maybe a relationship on his more confident days, but some days he's not entirely sure; on those days it almost feels like an acting role the omnic is still figuring out how to play convincingly.

He scratches his jaw and makes a face at the heavy stubble he finds, effectively distracting himself from his contemplations. A quick pass over his scalp leaves the same prickling sensation over his palm.

'Get over it or get it over with...'

In the end, he can't get over it, so he hobbles into the bathroom, sits on the toilet lid, and blesses his long arms that can reach the sink so he can shave sitting down. His scalp is nearly clear when Reinhardt disregards proper decorum - it's becoming an 'as usual' thing, and it's becoming annoying - and enters his quarters.

"Can I help you, Lieutenant?"

"MD wanted me to let you know he'll be making housecalls today because, I quote, 'I've seen geriatrics more mobile than you lot.'"

Charming as always. "Thank you, Reinhardt. Do the others know?"

"Mhm, you were my last stop." His desk chair squeaks as his former squire makes himself comfortable. Must be bored if he's willing to sit with Balderich on his off day. The younger man is recovering from a nasty concussion because he refuses to wear his helmet now unless Balderich shoves it on his head for him and a cracked clavicle. The sling pinning his arm looks a little worn, like MD had to scrounge around to find one the right size.

He finishes making himself feel human again and slowly makes his way back to bed. Reinhardt is badly suppressing a grin. "You look too happy, what's going on?"

"I can't wait to see your face when he stops by, that's all."

One eyebrow rises to his newly-removed hairline. What the hell does that mean?

***

Reinhardt ropes him into watching some awful American 1980's TV show because David Jackenoff - "Hasselhoff!" whatever - is in it. They're three episodes and one and a half hours of regret into it when MD comes to the rescue.

The lieutenant does indeed burst out laughing at Balderich's face when the omnic walks in wearing nothing but his plates, not even his ugly flipflops. MD notices and pokes his shoulder.

"Everything alright, Colonel? I didn't realize American TV was truly so effective at brain rot."

"I-- Where are your clothes?" Genius response there.

"I didn't feel like wearing them today, and as I'm only 'government property,' there's no dress code I'm required to observe." The loathing and disgust reassures him it is indeed MD standing nude in front of him. And about to examine the pulled muscle in his leg.

'Someone somewhere hates me.' Talk about look but don’t touch.

The presence of an entirely unwelcome audience keeps any swelling down, at least, and the exam goes smoothly. The pair of them share a look and Balderich envies MD his unemotive face as he forces down laughter.

"You're recovering well, which is good news. I'd be disappointed if a pulled muscle was all it took to remove you from the picture."

"It'll take more than this to keep me pinned. How much do you weigh, again?" He curls his hands a little to keep them to himself. MD's been allowing him liberties with touch the last month or two, but he gets a feeling he'd be pushing it right now with Reinhardt in the room.

Reinhardt's face nearly breaks his veneer of calm. He's getting old, but he's not dead yet.

"Not enough to keep you on your back unless you wanted." MD drops a reusable cold pack next to him. "Until the next time you can't keep out of trouble, then. Honestly, this is the only way you can think of to get me in your quarters?"

"It's certainly the easiest, give me credit for that much."

"I won't because it just makes more work for me, which is hardly my idea of a good time. Lieutenant, I'll see you later to check on that break."

Reinhardt nods dumbly as MD gathers his things. His jaw drops when Balderich blatantly watches the omnic's silicone padded ass as he leaves. Once the door clicks shut, he finds his voice again.

"You're a cruel, dirty old man."

Balderich laughs so hard his face almost hurts enough to match his leg.

***

Jörmungandr can't help a quiet laugh as he slips into the safety of the med bay.

'His face! Maker, that was priceless.'

Circuits buzz pleasantly under his chassis, a fairly normal occurrence since he decided to pursue this distraction with the colonel. It settles down enough after an hour that he can ignore it and check on his little scrap of hacking code.

It moves at a glacial pace, but it makes progress all the same. It's so close now, the buzzing in his circuits returns with a slightly different feeling, no less pleasant for that extra edge to it. He has months invested already, he can wait a few more days...

***

MD isn’t sure how, but one night almost six months after he first gained access to the communications room, he gets roped into playing ‘referee’ - glorified audience - for a few rounds of competitive drinking between the men - all on base at once for the first time in four months - while he nurses a bottle of oil. At least he gets to claim one of the couches in the rec room to himself while they get hammered. Balderich opts out early on, something about the whiskey affecting his plans for later? They’ve slowly been getting more physical lately, when Balderich asked him to his quarters later this evening.

Reinhardt gets knocked out in round three and collapses on the couch next to MD so heavily the omnic bounces a few inches and almost spills his oil. He barks a rebuke at the inebriated lieutenant, who drunkenly laughs through an apology. MD is reminded of Balderich’s complaints that Reinhardt is getting cocky on deployments recently. And he still wishes Reinhardt would shave the beard he’s slowly trying to grow out from its original goatee.

“How any of you still have your liver is beyond me.”

“It would take more than a few pints of beer to finish off a mighty Crusader!”

“Perhaps, but those few pints could make you an easier target for a bastion if you get deployed tomorrow.”

Reinhardt laughs, “You have a good heart, my friend! Always concerned about us.”

“I have a core, lieutenant.”

“Hey hey hey, we’re past this lieutenant nonsense. It’s Reinhardt, remember? And ok, yes, but a core is like… like a tech heart, ah?” The German’s speech was so slurred from drink, the last words almost sounded like one long one, and it took the omnic a minute to parse out what he said.

“You clearly need sleep, my friend. I think I’ll let you have the couch for the night.” He carefully but firmly takes the stein of beer the man is still holding and dumps it in the sink before heading to Balderich’s quarters. He has an idea of what the man meant, though he’s not sure how it’s going to play out.

The man greets him at the door with a kiss, answered with a spark of omnic energy he only recently figured out.

“You took your time getting here.”

“Your men are very distracting.”

“Not too distracting, I hope?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That you are.” Balderich startles a squeak out of the omnic when he picks him up, MD’s arms wrapping snug around his neck.

“I should kick you for that.”

“Ah, but you won’t.”

[smallplaceinthecosmos]

Ok I was just gonna reblog this and leave it there but I have Thoughts actually. Bc I wasn't the biggest fan of Chip at first? I thought he was funny but kind of an asshole (or a bastard, so to speak, gotta keep it on brand lol), and I was looking forward to seeing him get some character development but I was absolutely blown away by how complex his character is actually.

It's enticing enough to have a character who lost their family and is scared of finding a new one for fear of losing someone else. But even MORE so a character who never had a family, made one on their own, and then lost it, and is now scared of finding a new one for fear of losing them in the same way they lost the old one

He's just such an interesting character bc he had that before the events of the campaign. And he lost it before he really knew how a found family worked (bc he was a kid and that does require a lot of emotional maturity) and he's grown a lot over the course of the campaign so far learning how to trust and care about people again.

And there's so much there to examine regarding his desire for belonging every step of the way, up to and including the fact that he ended up being a part of an actual gang whose initiation involved killing someone, and he was so desperate for belonging that he went through with it - and then immediately after felt so horrible he turned on everyone who he'd tried to belong with for nearly a decade, and burned their home down because he knew they weren't good people. And that's such a good illustration of how Chip may be a self-described bastard but he's not evil, and that's such an interesting sort of character to mess around with.

Bonus points for having some batshit wild unhealthy coping mechanisms (like in 66, which Bizly mentioned in the Just Rolled With It was him not knowing how to process his emotions, which is a lot more and a lot angstier of an explanation than i was expecting for that bit), not to mention being ADHD coded as well, ex. this bit from the ep. 61 Just Rolled With It:

"At least how I try to play him is not that he does stupid things just because he doesn't know better, he just makes the emotional decision before he has time to think anything through. It's less about an actual lack of intelligence and more a [unintelligible]."

(Overlapping)"I didn't know you had such strong opinions about how soft that man's backwards hands were."

"It's an impulse! He just impulsively really wanted to touch it because he thought it would be funny."

And the best part is all this culminates in the fact that he got very attached to Gillion and Jay (the other PCs) very quickly, and even when he sometimes struggled (and struggles, present tense) with being open emotionally with them he does care about them a lot, and has gone to great lengths to keep them safe, probably would a dozen more times over. It's less that he struggles with expressing how he cares about people at all and more about the fact that he struggles to do it in a healthy way (see: openly and plainly). He's a very obviously flawed but not-so-secretly genuinely caring person and it's so fun to examine him as a character

I've never truly understood the meaning of the word "blorbo" until this moment. I want to put him under a microscope and study him. Put him in a little jar and shake it. Like that urge people get to squeeze something when it's really cute. I love him

Hey this is the only JRWI blog I follow right now so. I recently subscribed to their patreon and just now found out that Chip's background on his Actual Physical Character Sheet is "Haunted One" and I am Going To Sob what the fuck /pos

YEAHHHHHHHHHH YEAH MY LITTLE TRAGEDY BOY!!!! MY LITTLE HAUNTED SON!!!!!!!!!!

also the funny (tragic) part is literally arguably this description could be about a few DIFFERENT parts of his backstory HDKSBDN