#janey thread;

[savingthrcw]

@misfits-of-zaun Cooper & Janey

Now, Janey hated many things. Some of them she could share out loud: Vault Tec, the Enclave, cowards, her many enemies, radiation sickness, roach meat, and more. She also hated things she could not say out loud, not because her raiders would ditch her for it, they were ready to die for her regardless, but because she didn't want to admit it to herself: unfair fights, the way people treated ghouls and synths before even talking to them, punishments that in her opinion went too far. Putting someone in a fucking grave for decades was a punishment that went too far. It was also something Dom Pedro had done, and he was someone she'd share her hate for.

One of the many reasons, besides wanting to get a hold of the scientist to make sure he'd get to Moldaver, why she had Roy and Pat dig the ghoul out that night; she was stronger than the both of them, but she had to keep some distance in case he jumped out of there as a feral one and needed someone to end his misery. Her minigun was hanging from a strap around her shoulder as always, but her hand was close to the gun to do a cleaner job.

And then they opened it for him and stepped back. There was no immediate growling and attempting to pounce out of the coffin to get to her, so she assumed he hadn't gone feral. "Guns down, he's fine," she told her men, who lowered it and returned to her. "Hey. I'm not with Dom Pedro," she warned, so that he wouldn't attack her for the wrong reason - she would in his place, if she thought someone had been sent by her mother, even if it meant getting killed next. "I'm gonna get straight to the point. I'm getting you out of there for two reasons: one, I hate that fucker and I want him to suffer. Two, coffins are for the dead. That said, I've been told you are the best tracker we can find on this side of the Wasteland, so if you are interested I've got a job worth a lot of caps. If you are not interested, good-fucking-bye, good luck and I hope you kill that son of a bitch." Given her pitch, Janey waited for a response; if he wanted to hear more she'd give details, otherwise no point in wasting more breath.

[ghoulphile]

janey's dad | c.h./the ghoul | part 01

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 3.7k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; age gap, hair pulling, teasing, making out, mutual pining, lipstick kink, stockings, frottage, porn w/ feelings, porn w/ plot, mild angst w/ happy ending, divorced!coop, babysitter!reader, pre-war/bomb ➥ summary | “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --” ➥ notes | i'm so sorry this is later than it should be. i am unfortunately a corporate slave and this fic just did not want to cooperate 🫠 there are a lot more things planned and this fic is turning into a bit of a beast (20+ pages and counting rip lmao) so i've decided to split it into two parts to make it more manageable for myself mostly un-beta'd atm a special thanks to @corinthianism for all her lovely help ❤️!!

feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | masterlist

Divorce is hard, but being a divorcé is downright hellish.

One of the ugliest things in the world, if Cooper Howard has any say. At least when he was a Marine, they told him where to point his gun, where to aim; nameless threats vanishing with a quick squeeze of the trigger.

Here, these ‘enemies’ aren’t enemies — not really.

It’d be easier if they were.

Worse still, they have names he holds as dearly as his own. There’s Barb, whip smart and always so clever. Then Janey, the light of his life and so sweet his teeth ache.

Once upon a time, life was sweeter than apple pie on Sundays.

Then came the separation.

Afterwards, he finds it hard to look at what’s left of his family without losing breath like a horse kick to the chest. Their absence rips open a hole inside him ten miles wide, its edges jagged and wrong.

And when he can’t take the silence anymore, fingers of malt liquor help dull the ache, though it’ll never be enough to mend what’s broken.

See, war’s something he understands.

But these domestic battlefields where he sits across from his ex-wife while lawyers barter this weekend and that holiday?

How he struggles to meet his daughter’s eye every time she asks if he’s coming home?

When Barb keeps the house and the money while he keeps the scrapbooks and the dog?

He doesn’t — can't — refuses to comprehend.

Because in what world can you reconcile looking down the barrel of a smoking gun only to find the woman you love staring back, finger on the trigger? Left out to hang as Vault-Tec orchestrates his downfall.

The true depth of their involvement is unknown, but it’s no coincidence his bank accounts dried up faster than the Mojave in June. The ink still wet when the media snapped up the story of his failed marriage.

Thus, his reputation (rather what’s left of it) unraveled faster than a spool of thread.

Knocked on his ass and kept there by a boot heel crushing his windpipe. Whose? He hasn’t got a fucking clue.

But whoever they are, they’re making sure he stays a washed up nobody who struggles to land a call back, much less pay his monthly alimony on time.

See what we can do? You were America’s favorite gunslinger - now look at you. Mind your place.

Hell, millions used to scream his name.

Nowadays people whisper it behind their hands like a dirty secret, “Oh, did you hear? Cooper Howard…” as they dissect pieces of his life into bite-sized Before’s and After’s. “Hah! Serves him right. Y’know, I never liked him much.”

While he grits his teeth and swallows his bitterness with a smile, he hates how he can’t protect Janey from snide reporters and nosy strangers. Juggling actor-father-divorcé with fumbling hands.

It’s only been six months; a heartbeat, a lifetime, and already he’s scraped thin like butter over too much bread.

Something’s gotta give.

After all, he’s only one man.

But just when it's bleakest, the clouds part.

A young woman moves in next door, the first bright thing that’s come his way in a long, long while.

At first, he kept his distance.

Exchanged vague hello’s and how-are-you’s. Then Janey took a shine; always so friendly and eager to talk about her latest books.

Any reservations he might’ve had died when he saw how enamored you are with her.

Only made sense that over time small pleasantries turned into playdates. Then those playdates turned into sleepovers.

Before long, you’re watching her when a gig runs late.

Rustling up grub and tucking her into bed more often than not these days. And when he slinks in through the door, knees aching and stripped to the bone, there you are with a shy smile and a warm meal.

So what if he takes himself in hand after you leave, stroking his cock to the thought of you down on your knees in that pretty little sundress?

Imagines the wide stretch of your ruby lips as you swallow him down, lipstick smeared an awful mess?

Cums hard to the fantasy of your teary eyes and hiccupy breaths as you choke?

What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

After all, he’s a gentleman... he promises to keep his hands to himself.

“All right, Sugar Bomb, it’s bedtime.”

Bundled in navy bedding up to her nose, Janey’s wide brown eyes peer up at you from beneath a riot of frizzy curls. Roosevelt, her ever faithful companion, plasters himself to her side. The tip of his tail swishes once, twice before falling limp.

“Ah, c’mon guys. Don’t look at me like that.” You sigh with a fond shake of the head, hip popping out to rest against the doorframe. “I don’t make the rules, I just follow ‘em.”

A muffled response sounds from the lump of little girl, ��Nmfhm.”

Squinting, you dip your head and tap the side of your ear, "Pardon?"

“Mnhfmmmm.”

“Ye—eah… Didn’t catch that, Mumbler.”

Janey tugs down the blanket, her mouth pursed in a moue of displeasure. “I said,” she crosses her arms with a huff, “not until Dad gets home.”

Shit.

“M’sorry, baby. He’s still gonna be a while.” Walking across the room, you stop beside the bed and motion your hand back and forth. “Scooch over.”

Gangly limbs fumble as Janey wiggles into the middle of the mattress, her feet tangling in the blankets. Roosevelt takes a toe to the nose during the transition, but flops across her knees all the same.

Together they settle with a bounce of springs.

In the open space, you slide in.

The bed sinks under your weight, a plume of rich cologne tickling your nose; mint-spiced citrus. Cooper. Your stomach swoops, and your heart trips.

“I didn’t see him at breakfast — or lunch!” A pout tugs at her mouth. “Not even dinner. I gotta go home tomorrow. So when am I gonna see him?”

“Oh, bug.” You sigh, propping yourself up on your elbow. “Your dad’s been real busy at work. And I know that’s been hard for you, but I promise to make sure he’s here for breakfast tomorrow.”

“D’you mean it?” Her cold nose digs into your skin. “Me and Roosevelt miss him so much.”

Cuddled into your chest, Janey tosses an arm around your back. Her fuzzy head rests in the crook of your arm, springy curls tickling your skin.

You squeeze her tight and trace your fingertips over her forehead.

“I can do you one better,” you say, bopping the tip of her nose just to hear her giggle - a soft sound that sits warm and gooey in your chest. “I pinkie-promise.”

Her finger loops around yours, so small and fragile.

“I’ll even make pancakes. How’s that sound for a promise?”

“Oh, yes, please! I think Dad will like that,” a wide yawn cuts her off mid-sentence. “He’s sad, but he always smiles when you make food.”

Janey’s words — unexpected as they are sudden — cut so deep it steals the breath from your lungs. You flounder, your heart a throbbing bruise in your chest.

“... Then pancakes it is.”

As if nothing happened at all, she asks, “Do I have to go to bed now?”

“Afraid so, little miss.” Your responding chuckle sounds stilted even to your own ears. “Just you wait. When you wake up, Dad’ll be home.”

“Fi—ine, but I want extra pancakes.” Janey pauses, considers you with narrow eyes, then adds, “With syrup!”

“Whatever you want,” you say with an indulgent smile. “Now... time to sleep. It’s really past your bedtime.”

She gives you one last squeeze then lets you tuck her in nice and tight, blankets pulled up to her chin. You drop a kiss on her forehead while Roosevelt re-settles on the pillow beside her after a quick scratch behind the ears. 

Everything in order, you turn to go only for a little hand to stop you.

“Yes?” you reply, glancing at her from over your shoulder.

“... can you put on one of Dad's movies?”

The tremble in her voice - like she’s about to get scolded - breaks your heart clean down the middle. Stitching on a soft smile, you nod and walk to the darkened TV set in the room's corner.

After fiddling with the nobs, static flashes to life.

“The Man from Deadhorse okay?”

The holotape sliding into the track swallows the sound of her tiny “Yeah.” Starting up with a whirl of machinery, the second-hand Radiation King flickers to life in black-and-white.

A vast plain and bright sky stretches across the screen.

Then Sugarfoot creeps into frame with the one and only Cooper Howard sitting astride the noble steed. The sheriff’s badge on his chest glints in the sun.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, already half-way to sleep.

“Anything for you, baby. Sleep tight.”

Flicking off the lights, you leave the door cracked. Walk away pretending like hearing her whisper goodnight to the TV doesn’t lance through you like lightning.

The desire to whisk her into your arms and soothe all of her ails is almost impossible to ignore.

Somehow, you distract yourself by wiping up the table, then by fixing a plate of dinner for whenever Cooper rolls in. Though all the while, how brokenhearted Janey sounded sits in the back of your mind like a leaden weight.

When Cooper stumbles into the living room, it’s half past midnight.

You’d gotten up to greet him, curled as you were in an armchair reading, when something about the stern line of his mouth gave you pause.

Where the usual lighthearted greetings lingered, a pensive stillness trembled to life.

Tension crackles through the air; a held breath of agitation. By the faraway gaze and defeated slump of his broad shoulders, it’s plain to see the night didn’t go as intended. And no matter how much you long to soothe, you can’t.

After all, he’s not yours to touch.

Instead, you offer a sympathetic smile and ask, “Rough night, huh?”

Cooper ignores the prompt, squeezing past with a brief touch to your elbow as he makes a beeline for the dry bar. The heat of his body is there and gone in a flash, his cologne teasing your senses. He says, “Thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Your heart flutters in your throat. “Ah,” you lick your lips, “well, I was going to finish my chapter first.”

Humming, he turns his back to you and fiddles with high balls and decanters. The tink of crystal glassware fills the air as he speculates which alcohol goes best with his mood. 

“Thanks again for watching Janey.” He nods in approval and fixes his whiskey neat. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, Mr. Howard.” You shrug. “She’s a sweetheart.”

He shoots you a dry look from over his shoulder, stirring the dark amber of his drink with a forefinger. When he sucks his skin clean with a soft pop - a flash of a pink tongue taunting, teasing - your stomach swoops.

God, I wonder what else his mouth can do.

Flustered, you clear your throat and stare at a spot on the wall.

“How many times do I gotta tell you to call me Coop?” he says, digging through some drawers until he finds what he’s searching for: a lighter. “It must be a million and one by now.”

Flint sparks as flames jump, eating away at the end of a cigarette. Cooper inhales in short little puffs, pulling on the filter. His cheeks hollow, the shadows enhancing the cut of his jaw before the tip catches alight.

“Well,” he exhales, his gaze catching yours through a plume of smoke as he turns, brow raised. “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” you chuckle.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a lopsided smirk. “I’ll drink to that.” He knocks back the last finger of whiskey before refilling with gin.

Springs groan in protest when he drops to the couch, settling in with an outstretched arm and wide spread thighs.

“It’s been a long fucking day,” he rasps.

Gulping, you try to ignore the space at his feet.

The stirrings of desire provoked by the urge to sink to your knees and fill it with your body, to ease tension from those shoulders with your hands, your mouth, your cunt — if he’d let you.

“You heading home?” Nursing the fresh drink, he swallows a mouthful, only to hiss low through his teeth at the chemical burn. His throat bobs, framed by the open collar of his shirt. “Whew! Goddamn, that’s strong.”

“No, I can stay for a while.” A bird on a wire, you perch on the cushion beside him. “Got nothing else planned for tonight, anyhow.”

Cooper snorts. “I doubt that very much. A sweet young thing like you,” he motions towards you with his glass, “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of fellas calling, especially on a Friday night. Don’t waste your time with me.”

“That’s not why I--” you stop yourself short.

Save for the bustling LA avenue right outside the complex, the apartment itself is stone silent for several heartbeats. Words hover on the back of your tongue, catching in the bend of your throat molasses thick.

Meanwhile, Cooper continues to swirl the alcohol in his glass.

Maybe in a different life, you wouldn’t hesitate to express yourself.

But here — with him — you shouldn’t.

Christ sake, he’s a grieving divorcé, you chastise yourself. The last thing he needs is me trying to lay one on him.

When you speak, his name glides off your lips for the first time, clementine sweet, “... Cooper, I’m not wasting my time. I enjoy spending it with Janey - and you.”

“Well,” he husks, hooded eyes dragging down your visage in a slow once-over, “you’re the first one in a long while to feel that way, sweetheart.”

Dripping like honey whiskey from Cooper’s lips, the simple phrase burns its way down-down-down until it blooms like liquid fire in your belly. Warms you all the way to your toes as your heart pounds against your ribcage.

“I mean it.” Your knuckles twist in the pleats of your sundress, bolts of blue fabric bunched around your knees. “Everything I do is because I want to.”

The flash of red nails plucking at the sheer nylon of your stockings snaps up his attention, his gaze snagging - staying as he chases the curve of your exposed leg, hungry.

He wets his lips, and tenses his jaw when he spots how the soft fat of your thigh dimples in because of your garter. “That’s awful sweet of you to say.”

You tremble beneath the intensity of his attention.

Greedy.

Little kisses of awareness spark bright along the path his eyes carve like the caress of shy fingertips.

However, before you’re able to confront him about his interest, the heat leaches from his expression, grows mute and cold like a muzzled dog. 

Readjusting the waistband of his slacks with a tug, he says, “I know you got better things to do than keep an old man company.”

Irritation sparks. “Cooper--”

“If this is about paying you for tonight,” his lips quirk into a sheepish smile, “I won’t be able to yet.” He scrubs a hand through the stubble peppered along his jaw. “The gig tonight didn’t… Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, that’s not what I --”

He plows on, “Anyway, the one I’ve got tomorrow should be enough. How about I stop by around seven o’clock? I’ll treat you to dinner as an apology.”

Frustration bubbles beneath the surface of your skin, antagonism thrumming through your veins. Your hands shake almost as much as your voice. “Cooper!”

“I… uh, yes?” He blinks.

Your brows furrow. “You don’t get it,” you say. “I mean, you truly don’t know?”

“I’m afraid there’s a lot I don’t get. You’re gonna have to be more particular.”

Maybe not said in so many words (or at all) but actions speak far louder.

Otherwise, why else would you spend most of your time in his apartment, fill every spare moment with Janey, and reserve evenings for his company?

Hell, you even cook and clean!

Almost scream your interest from the rooftops, and it’s obvious to everyone but him, it seems.

Here you are thinking he was preserving your dignity whenever he ignored a passing comment or lingering touch when, in fact, he’d been oblivious to their existence to begin with.

How a man can be so obtuse when you’re throwing yourself at him is beyond you.

If he wasn’t so captivating…

“Are you kidding me,” you ask, mindful of your tone, “how could you not know?” You throw your hands in the air. “I’ve been — for months!”

“Well, I don’t have a goddamn clue what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” he snarks, setting his glass on the table. “Care to enlighten me?”

Fine. If that’s how he wants to play, let’s play.

When he moves to take another drag from his cigarette, you strike, fingers locking around his wrist mid-lift. And although his glassy eyes narrow, he keeps his hand still.

Waiting to see what you'll do.

Tucking your knee under you for balance, you bend forward and watch his face from beneath your lashes. When your lips wrap around the filter, a dark hunger bleeds into his expression, his pulse a steady thud against the pad of your thumb.

Inhaling, the cherry lights up, a flashbang in the dim overhead light.

Cooper’s breath hitches, and then you’re pulling away with a lungful of smoke; the taste of ash heavy on your tongue.

He tracks your movements with greed, gaze flicking for the briefest of moments past your chin before refocusing on the ring of red lipstick staining white paper.

“If you wanted one,” he chokes, gripping the back of the couch with white knuckles, “all you had to do was ask.”

With a coquettish grin, you exhale to the side and stare at him with hooded eyes. “Is that so?” Plucking the cigarette out of his limp hold, you stub it out in the ashtray. “What if I wanted to ask for something else, Mr. Howard?”

The next moment finds you deposited in his lap, his hands shooting out to grab at your waist only to freeze before they make contact.

“Woah! I--”

“Tell me something.”

Your lips caress the shell of his ear, sharing breath - sharing space as you plaster yourself to his front, arms looped over his shoulders. He jolts, body trembling with restraint.

“Would you give me what I wanted if I said please?”

The distance between you snaps taut with anticipation. “C-Coop,” he stutters. “Call me Coop.”

You hum. “Well, Coop, would you?”

“That depends almost entirely on what you’re asking for, sweetheart.”

Red nails skate along the back of his neck, play in the downy soft hair of his nape just to feel him shiver. And then you’re leaning back with your hands braced on his knees, your legs falling open in invitation.

The hem of your dress bunches around your waist, exposing the soft cotton of your underwear, and the darkened patch of slick soaking through.

“I think you know exactly what I want,” you purr. “Because you want it too. Don’t you?”

He bites down on a strangled moan when your hips arch forward, rocking the soft plush of your ass against the heavy weight of his thickening cock. The zipper digs into your skin as he tents the front of his slacks.

Mouth dropping open, his tongue flicks out to wet his lips - a slick circle of temptation that makes you clench. “I, uh, I don’t…”

Reaching between your splayed thighs, you hook a finger beneath your panties and pull the fabric aside. He jerks forward, exhaling hard at the flash of your soaked cunt and twitching clit.

“C’mon, be honest.”

With a sigh, you gather your arousal on the tips of your fingers.

Cooper’s gaze is a heavy weight pinning you in place as you pretend it’s him dragging his knuckles over the top of your mond. Him dragging calloused fingers up along sticky folds to play with your sensitive clit, ripping soft little mewls from your lips.

“Can’t you see what you do to me, Coop?” you say, pulling your hand away to show the webs of slick stretching between your fingers. “I’m so wet. Please, I’ve wanted you for so long…”

His hips rock against your ass in an aborted thrust. “Shit - shit!” Eyes slamming shut, he grits his teeth and digs his fingers into your sides hard enough to bruise. “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --”

“Why not?” Your hand brushes over his groin. “I can feel how hard you are.”

“It isn’t right, that’s why.” He stutters, stumbles over his words, “Besides, Janey…”

“I can be quiet,” you say, lips trembling. “I promise.”

“Goddamnit, you can’t say things like that and expect me not to --” Cutting himself off, strong fingers seize your chin and tilt until you’re met with Cooper’s severe expression, his scorching gaze. “You need to tell me now: are you sure this is what you want?”

There’s no hesitation, “Yes.”

In what world would you refuse?

The words barely pass your lips before Cooper’s bowing his dark head, mouth ravenous as it captures yours in a slick glide of bruising lips and hungry tongues.

He steals your breath, licks into your mouth and traces along the sensitive inside of your lip.

Pulse jump starting, your toes curl over the edge of the cushion and your thighs squeeze the barrel of his chest, kneecaps digging into his ribs.

“Oh,” a moan punches itself out of your throat - a breathy little thing swallowed up by his lips. “That’s--”

Anticipation swells, simmers between you like a band before it snaps. A strong forearm locks around your waist, tugging you into the cradle of his chest until you’re plastered from stem to stern.

Too hungry for tenderness as his free hand slips up to cup the back of your head, fingers catching in the briar of your hair and tugging at the roots.

You claw at his shoulders while sparks of pain ricochet down your neck, sufficing into a prickly flush that heats your blood. “Hnn, Cooper,” you gasp.

He murmurs your name through languid flicks of his tongue and sharp little nips of skin that leave your mouth tender and swollen. When he pulls away to survey his handiwork, his eyes are dark. Fathomless.

"I never thought I'd get the chance to kiss you like this," he says, wicking his thumb over the pillow of your bottom lip. "You taste as good as I imagined."

Dragging your nails across his scalp, you plead, “No more teasing - I can't take it.”

"Well," he grunts, fingers twisting up in your dress, “If that’s how you feel, then you better put those hips to good use and work for it, sweetheart."

part 2 dropping soon

[daddydindjarin]

Chapter 4: The Space Between

Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch  x F!Reader  Rating: 18+ Mature Wordcount: 6288 Summary: A good shift doesn’t always mean an easy one. After a long trauma, Robby stays for a double, slipping into the quiet rhythm he and Scout have built over eight years — steady glances, careful silences, and all the things they don’t say. The space between them has never felt closer. Or further. Warnings: Pining, Medical Trauma, PTSD mention, grief mention, general ER Content, child death A/N: As always, please forgive me if I get something medical wrong — hours of Googling and watching Grey’s Anatomy do not replace a medical degree. This is all written with love, too much research, and two emotionally repressed idiots who refuse to communicate. The dividers are by @firefly-graphics!

The door swings shut behind him, and Robby doesn’t move. He just watches it click back into place, listens to the hum of the breakroom lights and the distant thrum of the ER pulsing like a second heartbeat. He takes another sip of his lukewarm, stale coffee. It tastes like burnt grounds and sleepless nights, but it's better than nothing. 

He’d asked her to dinner. He doesn’t know why he phrased it like that- like it was a question. They’ve eaten together a hundred times before. Takeout, game nights, late shifts that bled into early mornings. It’s always been easy, always been comfortable. 

But this time, the way he asked…it wasn’t routine. It was something else, and she felt it.  

Robby sets his coffee down, the sound of the cup against the counter louder than it should be. He scrubs a hand over his face, feels the rough scratch of his beard against his palm. “Stupid…” he mutters under his breath. He hadn’t meant to make it sound like…like something.

He shouldn’t have asked. She’s always been good at brushing him off gently- soft hands, soft voice, her eyes flicking away like she can’t quite meet his gaze. He knows the steps of her retreat like second nature, the way she ducks and weaves. But this felt different, like maybe he’d reached past something he wasn’t supposed to touch. 

Robby breathes out, leans back against the counter, and stares up at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights blink back at him, steady and unflinching. He wonders if she knows he took three of her muffins yesterday. Slipped them into one of her old Tupperware containers and shoved them into the fridge at home like a goddamn thief. He’d even brought the container back, wiped it clean, but left it on the break room counter instead of handing it to her directly. 

He’s been good at hiding it for eight years. Through the transition from intern to resident, and resident to the fellow she is now, he watched her move through each stage with that steady grace that always made him feel both proud and terrified, as if he said the wrong thing, she’d just fold back into herself and disappear. 

He’s dated other people, and he’s gotten close a few times to people he can’t imagine life without, like Janey and Jake. But somehow, it’s always her. Even when he’s with someone else, there’s this lingering thread, this sense that no one quite fits the way she does. 

He’s watched her date, too, brief flings, short-lived relationships with guys who, in his opinion, never deserved her. He never said it out loud, of course, just watched from the periphery, hands clenched in his coat pockets, biting back the urge to say something he shouldn’t. Always been good at pretending. 

And somehow, despite it all, they both always end up here: single, orbiting each other in the kind of rhythm that feels too deliberate to be accidental.  He wonders if she knows that he keeps one of her sticky notes in his wallet, right behind his license. The one that says You’re my favorite, don’t tell anyone, with a crooked little heart next to it. 

He still remembers that first sticky note, the one she left on a trauma chart during her intern year. Scrawled in her handwriting that still slants slightly to the left, paired with a doodle of a cat. She’d slipped it onto the counter at the nurse’s station like it might catch fire if she held it too long. 

He hadn’t meant to keep it, not really, but he found himself tucking it into his coat pocket after rounds, his fingers brushing over the ink and feeling…lighter. Like maybe all the jagged edges of this place had been smoothed over, just a little. 

He’d responded with his doodle, another cat, but with a stethoscope this time, and a short, blocky answer to her question. He still remembers the look on her face when she saw it: surprised, then soft, then something else. Something he didn’t let himself name. 

She never stopped leaving them. He never stopped responding. 

The door creaks open behind him, and Robby turns just in time to catch Langdon’s head poking through. “Hey, you alive in here?”

Robby yawns, shakes off the haze. “For now.” 

Langdon steps in fully, letting the door swing shut behind him. He leans against the counter, hands shoved into his scrub pockets. “You’re staring at the ceiling like you’re waiting for God to answer back.”

Robby snorts, rubbing his eyes. “I think I’d settle for a nap.” 

“Yeah, well. Don’t we all.” Langdon straightens up, glancing at him sideways. “You alright, man?”

“Yeah.” The answer’s too fast, and Robby feels it catch in his throat, sharp and reflexive. He sees it land on Langdon’s face, the hesitation, a flicker of guilt, maybe. Robby doesn’t blame him for it anymore. Not after everything. 

He can still see them standing in the ambulance bay after the chaos of that night, blood drying on their shoes, adrenaline still burning out through their bones. Langdon, back without permission, asking for another chance like he hadn’t stolen drugs out of the supply cabinets under everyone’s noses. Like he hadn’t thrown his entire career-his entire life-off a cliff and dragged Robby down with him in the fallout. 

Robby had offered him a second chance, but not without conditions- inpatient treatment, randomized drug tests, and NA meetings for years. A roadmap to redemption with no shortcuts. Langdon had pushed back, had thrown the worst parts of Robby’s grief in his face. The breakdown after losing Leah, and the trauma of Adamson’s death, only compounded things as he collapsed on the floor in Peds, too hollowed out to move. 

Robby still feels the heat of it sometimes. The shame. The rage. But Langdon had taken the deal quietly and completely. He did the work, is still doing the work. So, Robby shakes his head and forces a grin. “Just tired. Nothing new.” 

Langdon nods slowly, like he’s not sure he believes him, but he’s not going to call him on it, not now. 

 Robby exhales, letting his gaze drift past the break room door. The noise outside is muted, but all he can hear is that night again. PittFest. The blood. The chaos. The grief that hit too close to home. 

Jake's voice in the hallway, and the look on his face when Robby said Leah’s name. He’d never met the girl before that night. But Jake…Jake loved her. He talked about her like she hung the stars. And Robby had promised he’d look out for him, that he’d always show up for him. But they couldn’t save her. 

She was DOA in everything but name. He tried. He and Scout did everything they could: chest tubes, blood transfusions, compressions. Robby called every shot himself, wouldn’t hand it off to anyone else, and Scout was right there, eyes locked on his, her hands steady, heartbreak in her voice when she whispered, “She’s not coming back, Michael.” 

Telling Jake was the worst thing he’s ever done. Standing there in Peds watching a seventeen-year-old crumple, wailing over a girl he thought he’d marry. And Robby cracked. He shoved Jake out of the room before he saw too much and fell apart on the linoleum after. 

He breathes out through his nose, pinches the bridge of it like he can press the memory out. He hasn’t talked about it, not really. But he thinks about it every day. And when he thinks about who held him together afterward, who sat with him when everything else was shattered? 

It’s always her. 

After that night, Scout stayed close enough to feel it without trying to fix it. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t press. She stayed behind after everything- after the paperwork, the press, the politics, and made sure he ate something. Sat beside him in silence, took over his charts when he couldn’t remember how to spell. Checked in on Jake when Robby couldn’t bear to. 

 She made him dinner without asking what he wanted. Brought over muffins and cookies, and something green he never touched. She sat beside him on his couch and didn’t talk unless he did, letting the silence breathe without letting it drown him. She checked on everyone- nurses, techs, med students- and never mentioned that she’d nearly broken herself in the process. She swallowed her own trauma so he wouldn’t have to carry her’s too. 

Langdon clears his throat, breaking the silence and pulling Robby from his thoughts. “Well, we just got a call. MVC, four-car pile-up on Forbes. They’re routing us three with one critical.” 

Robby straightens, the fatigue slipping away. “What’s the plan so far?”

Langdon lifts a shoulder, watching him. “Princess is setting up in Central, McKay's already handling triage. Scout’s been prepping since the call came in. Figured you’d take the lead.”

Robby nods, already moving for the door. “Yeah. I’ve got it.” It’s instinct, years of it. The kind of rhythm that hums in his bones, the calm before the impact. But Langdon’s voice stops him short. 

“Hey, Robby?”

He turns back, one hand still on the door. “Yeah?”

Langdon’s eyes flicker, something careful in his gaze. “You sure you’re good?”

Robby’s mouth tilts into a smile. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Langdon doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “Alright. See you out there.” 

The door swings shut behind him again, and he straightens, pushing his shoulders back. There’s no time to get bogged down in his feelings. He moves like he always does, efficient and controlled. The call is live, and the pace is picking up, but he still tracks his surroundings. 

Perlah is already at triage, her voice rising above the hallway noise as she checks in the incoming vitals, and Dana’s got eyes on the monitors near Central. He spots McKay in the hallway, arms crossed, already reading a chart with Mel, and Mohan is ducking into a supply room with gloves half on. Langdon’s peeling off toward South, probably covering the laceration from earlier.

And then he sees her. 

Scout, halfway into her gown, gloving up at the head of the bed in Central 3, jaw set, hair pulled back in a way that always means business. She’s focused, steady. Already in it. 

And the ache hits him square in the chest again. 

Not because of anything she says, she doesn’t even see him yet. 

It’s just the way she moves. The way she knows where to be, and how she always seems to find the heartbeat in the chaos before anyone else can. And somehow, all he can think about again is the way she froze yesterday, for a second, when he asked her to dinner. He can still see her smiling too fast, backing away like the air had shifted and she didn’t know to stand in it anymore, and it knocked the breath out of him more than he wants to admit. 

It shouldn’t bother him. He’s her attending. She’s still a fellow. That’s the boundary; that’s the rule. 

But it doesn’t feel like enough anymore. 

He breathes out and starts walking towards Central 3 again and pushes the thought down where it belongs. They've got incoming. 

The trauma doors burst open, slamming back on their hinges with the familiar sound of chaos arriving too fast. A stretcher barrels through, surrounded by paramedics moving with the hind of urgency that means they’ve already done everything they can. One of them is shouting over the noise- “Male, early thirties, restrained driver, GCS eight on scene, BP dropping en route!”- but Robby’s already halfway to the gurney, pulling on a pair of gloves, eyes scanning for blood, bruising, broken lines under the skin.

“Blunt chest trauma,” the paramedic continues, out of breath but still moving. “Left leg deformity, pelvis unstable. Lost consciousness twice in the rig, pressure was 104 over 62 but dropping.” 

Robby’s voice cuts through it. “Scout, take airway. Dana, I need that trauma panel in now. McKay, binder, and chest x-ray. Perlah- two 16s, fast. Let’s go.” 

The words come automatically, the way they always do, but even as he speaks, his attention sharpens, tightens around Scout, already stepping in, adjusting her gloves with the same measured precision he’s seen a hundred times before. She doesn’t ask questions, her jaw is set, and she’s already sliding the oxygen mask down to check the airway before he can finish barking orders. 

There’s blood under the man’s shirt, a spreading bruise across his lower ribs, and a shallow rise and fall of his chest that tells Robby exactly what he’s dealing with even before he lifts his stethoscope. 

“Decreased breath sounds on the left,” Scout says, not even glancing up. She’s bagging already, smooth and steady, her voice calm in a room that’s starting to crowd with noise.

“Prep for needle decompression,” Robby says, pulling back the man’s shirt. “Central line after chest, binder’s priority. Get X-ray in here now.” 

He feels it, that familiar shift as the room begins to move like a single organism: nurses peeling clothing back, someone pushing a tray of instruments into his orbit, techs sliding pads under the patient’s body while McKay fastens the pelvic binder with firm, practiced hands—the rhythm locks in, controlled chaos, predictable in its unpredictability. 

Scout doesn’t waver. She calls for cricoid pressure with a tilt of her chin, her count steady, every number clear and crisp. When she intubates, it’s smooth and practiced, the blade slipping into place like it belongs there. Her hands don’t shake, and her focus doesn’t drift. She checks the monitor even before the tube is fully secured, nods once, and confirms placement aloud without waiting for anyone else to do it. 

And Robby sees it, the flicker of her eyes in his direction. It’s just a glance, barely a second, but it’s there, that quiet check-in she always gives when it matters. It’s not because she needs his approval- she’s well past that in her career. She told him once it’s because she wants him steady with her, wants to know she’s not alone. It settles in his chest- not loud or obvious, but pressing in a way that only she can make him feel. Like trust. Like history. Like something that hurts and helps in equal measure. 

He leans into the pressure at the chest wall, fingers firm as he guides the needle in. A hiss of air and tension escapes, and the patient jerks slightly, sats up by five, but it’s not enough to call him stable. 

“Vitals holding, Dana calls. “BP’s ninety and climbing, good response.” 

“Good,” Robby says, more to himself than anyone else. “Let’s get trauma labs running and prep for CT.” 

Scout’s hands are already on the tube, steadying it as she hands it off to respiratory. Her gloves are streaked with blood, and he knows she’s been here since 7 am- maybe longer- running on caffeine and a stubborn streak that doesn’t let her leave until he’s rung herself dry. 

She doesn’t look tired. She looks alive. God help him, she looks like she was built for this storm. The memory of her freezing yesterday slams back into him. He doesn’t let it show, doesn’t let it touch his hands, but it’s still there. 

The vitals stabilize, but just barely. Numbers inch upwards like they’re negotiating, and he doesn’t like the deep bruising curling over the patient's lower abdomen, thinking it’s too dark, too fast. McKay mutters something about guarding and a rigid belly, and Robby doesn’t wait. 

“Get CT ready, we’re not waiting on labs. Trauma alert them we’re on the way.” 

Perlah peels off, already on the call, while Dana adjusts the line and McKay shifts for transport. Scout is still at his side, standing just behind his shoulder now, hands steady and breath even. He doesn’t have to look; he knows her rhythm like he knows his own. 

“You good?” he asks, low and just for her to hear.

She nods once, barely turning. “Yeah. You?”

“Getting there.” 

She doesn’t ask for more, and he knows that she won’t, not here. She hasn’t noticed, but there’s blood drying on her forearm, a smear across her scrub collar where she brushed her sleeve too fast. He wants to reach out and wipe it away, and the thought of that, of touching her when he doesn’t have to, hits him harder than it should. 

The stretcher rattles as the wheel the patient out, and it feels like they can exhale for a moment. The tech calls vitals again, and they’re better now. Not great, but better. Robby gives Scout one last glance before they roll the patient out, just enough to register the way she squares her shoulders, the way she follows just far enough to make sure they’ve got it handled. The way she always, always stays. 

She turns to him once it’s done, hands at her hips, gloves peeled halfway off, and he knows the words are on her tongue, because they’re on his too. Something about dinner, about last night, about how she looked at him like she didn’t know how to answer.

But she doesn’t say it, and neither does he. 

Because now’s not the time. Because they’re still in scrubs and bleeding adrenaline out through their pores. Because that line- she’s still a fellow, still 19 years younger- wraps around his throat every time he thinks about crossing it. 

Instead, he nods towards the sinks. “Go clean up. I’ll write it up.” 

She gives him a look that says she doesn’t need a break, but she’ll take one if only because he asked. “Thanks,” she says, and her voice is quieter than usual, like she’s holding onto something unfinished. And then she’s gone. 

Robby watches the spot where she stood for just a second longer than he should. Then he turns back into the ER, towards where Mohan and Santos are working on other people from the crash, breathing through the tightness still curling under his ribs. 

The shift doesn’t stop, not for trauma, not for blood, not for a breath. He moves through the department with the quiet precision that’s become second nature, less a man than a pressure system, keeping everything just below boiling point.  This is how he always is- shoulders squared, sleeves pushed up, gloves snapped on tight enough to bite at his wrists. From trauma to triage, back to trauma, every hallway echo and vitals call routes through him. 

He checks on McKay in South 7, glancing over the older woman’s shoulder as she jots down notes with her usual clipped efficiency, then swings through North 4, where Mohan’s trying to calm down a tearful mother whose toddler spiked a fever and a febrile seizure on daycare pickup. Robby crouches next to the kid, murmurs something warm and slow, and lets his steadiness do the talking. On paper, he’s not the one treating the child. In practice, he always is. 

He loops past Langdon, who’s working Central 2 with more focus than Robby’s seen in a while, and just raises an eyebrow in silent approval. Langdon nods back, almost sheepish, and turns back to show Javadi a new technique that she’s watching with wide eyes. There’s trust rebuilding there, brick by careful brick. 

And Scout is somewhere in his periphery. 

He doesn’t have to look for her; he just knows. In the same way you know your own pulse. That instinctive tug of attention when she walks by with her tablet tucked under one arm and a banana from the nurses’ station half-eaten in her hand. The way she smiles at patients, passes out stickers to kids, like that’s her sole purpose in life. The way she melts into corners when she’s not actively needed, but lights up like floodlights the second someone calls her name. 

He sees her now, through the glass of North 6, kneeling to comfort a little boy with a dislocated shoulder. She’s got the kind of voice for this- low and calm and textured like soft flannel. The boy’s crying eases while she talks. She’s explaining the sedation meds to his dad without condescension, letting him hold his son’s other hand the whole time. It’s grace in motion. It’s competence so innate that she doesn’t even know she’s commanding the room. Robby watches, his heart tight. Of course, she doesn’t know. Of course, she wouldn’t believe it if he told her.

He keeps walking, but slower now. 

Dana finds him eventually- she usually does. Leans on the edge of the nurse’s station like she’s just resting, like her eagle-eyed scan of the floor isn’t strategic, like she hasn’t been watching him watch Scout for ten goddamn minutes. 

“You know what’s going on with her?” she asks, low enough not to carry. 

Robby lifts a brow. “Scout?”

“Who else?” Dana’s voice isn’t sharp. It’s something much gentler, a mother’s tone. A woman who’s been working this job since beepers were cutting-edge technology. “She’s been on doubles for two weeks straight. I asked her why. Said she was fine. You buying that?”

Robby’s jaw shifts. “She said she was okay.” 

Dana tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “You know she still sends money to that sister of hers, right? Lily. Pretty sure that’s what all these extra shifts are about.” 

That lands heavy and familiar. 

He sighs. “Yeah, I know.” 

"She’s not gonna say it,” Dana continues, watching Whitaker fumble with a supply cart. “But it’s wearing on her. She’s tired, Robby. Not just from the hours. From…carrying everything. Everyone. I just thought maybe you-” 

Robby cuts her off with a shake of his head. Not like a no, but like a not yet.

“I’ll check in.”

Dana snorts. “You mean you’ll just stare at her across the ER until she catches you and then lie about how you were just passing by?” 

He huffs something like a laugh. “Maybe.” 

“Sad boy,” Dana mutters, already walking away.

He doesn’t argue, because she’s not wrong. Not about Scout. And not about him either. 

He moves again, rounding the corner, but his rhythm’s off now. His heart is tripping over the fact that Dana noticed. That other people are noticing. That this thing inside him isn’t as invisible as he thought. And worse, maybe Scout noticed it too. That maybe it’s the reason she ducked his dinner question like it had expectations. 

He breathes out slow, schooling his features back into neutral, and dives into the next hallway, already scanning the boards for incoming updates. The shift isn’t over yet. He can still find her before it ends, even if he doesn’t say what he wants to. Even if all he can do is be there, just close enough to catch her if she stumbles, but just far enough not to make her run. 

The breakroom hums with the low mechanical whir of the refrigerator as Robby steps in to escape for just a second. The lights in here are always a touch too bright, buzzing faintly overhead like they’re as overtired as the rest of them. He flips the switch on the coffee machine and lets the hiss and drip fill the silence, reaching blindly for a paper cup. His fingers drum against the counter, restless, and the moment the coffee starts to pour, so does the memory. 

She was an intern, barely a week into her rotation, and it was chaos- blood and glass and a small boy who came in blue and never came back. She didn’t speak the entire code, just followed orders, eyes wide, face pale, hands moving on instinct. He remembers thinking she wasn’t going to last. But after they called it, after the room emptied and the mother collapsed screaming into Dana’s arms- Scout didn’t leave. 

He found her in Trauma 2, sleeves rolled up, hair falling out of her bun, gently cleaning the boy’s body. She didn’t cry, didn’t shake, she just moved with the slow, reverent precision of someone who hadn’t figured out how to grieve out loud. She was scrubbing the child’s hands when Robby stepped in, her own hands raw beneath the gloves, her breath catching in the back of her throat. 

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, even when he said her name. So, he didn’t ask her to. He just walked to the sink beside her, grabbed another pair of gloves, and started cleaning alongside her. Afterward, she stayed. Folded a blanket over the child’s chest, brushed the hair back from his face. When she turned to leave, he followed her to the staff sink where she scrubbed her hands over and over and over. Water too hot, soap too harsh, skin turning pink and then red. 

“You stayed,” he said, quietly, just above the sound of water and grief. “That matters.” 

She didn’t answer, not right away. But she nodded once, and that was enough. 

Robby swallows against the lump in his throat as the coffee finishes dripping. He presses the cup to his lips, burns his tongue, and breathes out through his nose. 

It was the first time he really saw her, not just another intern in a black scrub top, not just a name on the board. But someone who would carry a grief that wasn’t hers just to make it a little easier on someone else. Someone who hurt quietly, who held everything inside until it bled through her fingers in kindness. Since then, she’s been the one he looks for in the chaos. The one who sees what he doesn’t say. Who shows up, not loudly, but completely. 

And he thinks about that night every time he catches her hands shaking after a hard case. Every time she tucks a sticky note into his locker with a doodle or a quiet joke, like she’s still trying to make sure he stays. Like they’ve been holding each other up ever since and never said it out loud. 

He stares into his coffee now, letting the bitterness settle. Wonders, not for the first time, if she knows he’s still holding that moment. If she realizes how often he thinks about it. If she remembers the way he stood behind her, aching to reach out, but didn’t, because even back then, she was his intern. Because even now, she’s still his fellow. 

Because even after eight years, he still hasn’t figured out how to tell her that she’s not just someone he looks out for. She’s the reason he still looks- for steadiness in the chaos, for the heartbeat in the noise, for a reason to stay grounded when everything else is slipping. She’s the thing he’s always searching for in the static. 

He tosses the rest of his coffee and pulls open the door. The pit floods back in, sharper, louder, alive. Somewhere out here, Scout is already moving through it, steady and brave and pretending she’s fine. He knows better. And maybe tonight, maybe after the next call, maybe after everything settles…maybe he’ll stay a little longer. Just to be sure she knows she’s not alone either. 

The afternoon bleeds into evening without the usual screech of chaos, and Robby’s not sure whether to be grateful or suspicious. They’ve all been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the last trauma came in, but the board’s finally cleared, the department isn’t on fire, and the buzz in the pit is low, content. Like a held breath finally let go. 

He should have signed out. Should’ve handed the board to Jack, walked out into the Pittsburgh night, and let someone else take it for a while. But Scout’s name was still sitting under active, scheduled for a double, and somewhere between the trauma bay and the nurses’ station, Robby made the decision without fully acknowledging it: he wasn’t leaving. 

He doesn’t announce that he’s staying; he just doesn’t clock out. Technically, he doesn’t need a reason. He’s the Senior Attending, the lead, the final stop before anything burns too long. But tonight, he watches the board blink from day to night shift, watches Jack’s name hover in gray beside his own, and doesn’t sign off. 

He taps into the group message Dana insists on maintaining for “night shift morale” and fires off a simple text: 

Ordering food. Usual?

Ten seconds later, Dana replies: 

Pizza. And Breadsticks. Don’t cheap out on us.

So, he orders enough pizza to feed everyone twice over. He tells himself it's for morale- he’s done it before, after long shifts, holidays, brutal codes- but this time, it’s also about her. She hadn’t said yes to dinner, hadn’t said no, either, but he knows her silences well. So, he ordered for everyone. No pressure. No spotlight. Just space. A way to sit across from her for a few minutes, maybe hear her laugh. 

He makes his rounds first. Checks on Shen and Parker as they arrive, handing off a few lingering patients. Parker’s got her usual no-nonsense stride, which is completely overwrought by her easy smile as she has Santos fill her in on a patient’s plan of care. Shen jokes with Jesse at the nurses’ station, sipping from a giant thermos that smells like melted licorice and regret. 

Jack’s already in Central when Robby finds him, flipping through a chart with his brow furrowed like it owes him money. He looks up, registers Robby with a tired smirk. 

“You bringing peace offerings or checking my homework?”

“Both,” Robby says, tossing a wrapped breadstick his way. “Don’t say I never give you anything.”

Jack snorts but catches it one-handed. “You trying to bribe me before Gloria finds you?”

“Gloria can find me in hell,” Robby mutters, and Jack hums his agreement as they share a look, the kind of wordless exchange built on years of shared shifts, rough cases, and the kind of quiet loyalty neither of them ever names. 

From there, the pattern clicks in. He checks in on Mel, who’s finishing up a difficult IV on a combative toddler with Whitaker hovering nearby, worried and awkward and trying not to knock anything over. Mateo is managing triage, and Donnie is reorganizing the incoming labs like he’s running air traffic control. Dana’s floating like a ghost, somehow present in every corner without ever standing still, and he makes a point to tell her to go home, to which she smirks, saying, “You first.” 

He finally finds Scout again leaning against the nurses’ station, balancing a plate with two slices of Hawaiian pizza and a breadstick hanging precariously off the side. Her hair is slipping loose from where she tied it back too fast between calls. There’s a smudge of pen ink on her knuckle. She’s laughing at something Parker says, head tilted, eyes warm. 

He smiles to himself, watching her laugh, watching her let go of some of the tension he knows is still burning just under the surface. She doesn’t let it drop often, not fully. But tonight, for now, she does. 

And suddenly, it’s a good shift. 

The lull holds longer than it should. The pit hums around them, monitors beeping soft and steady, the occasional page overhead, but nothing urgent or life-threatening. Just bodies moving through a department that, for once, doesn’t feel like it’s seconds from cracking open. 

Scout is at the far corner of the breakroom, back half-curled into her chair beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights, her tablet propped against a half-empty plate of cold pizza. She’s scrolling through charts, fingers tapping the screen in practiced ease. He watches for a second before easing down across from her, dropping his own tablet onto the table with a quiet thud. 

“You’re supposed to pretend you’re caught up when the board’s this clean,” he says, reaching automatically for her abandoned breadstick.

She glances up, narrowing her eyes as he takes a bite like it was always his. “That was mine.” 

“You snooze, you lose.” 

“I was reviewing labs.” 

“Semantics.” 

Her mouth tilts up, just barely, but it’s enough. That small, effortless tug of her lips that always feels like it lands heavier than she means it to. 

“Whitaker got his first central line in tonight solo,” she offers, leaning back against her chair. “Didn’t throw up. Almost passed out, but not quite.” 

“Progress.” Robby grins, chewing. “And Santos?”

“Still believes she knows more than God. But at least she’s not saying it out loud as much.” 

He snorts, shaking his head. “Small victories.” 

He watches her carefully, the way she speaks about the residents, interns, and medical students- the ones he’s heard her call ‘baby birds’- like pieces of a machine she was always adjusting, protecting, fine-tuning. 

An errant thought crosses his mind. Adamson saw it in her even back when she was new blood under the bright lights of the ER. The way she shouldered things that she never needed to, the way she looked after everyone but herself. He had told Robby to keep an eye on her, and Robby feels his throat tighten just a bit at the thought that even now, even after everything, Adamson is still finding ways to be right. 

They settle into the kind of quiet that only comes after enough years of standing shoulder to shoulder in every version of hell this department has to offer. It’s easy with her like this, when the adrenaline is gone, when the air isn’t electric, when they can just sit here and pretend for a few minutes that they aren’t walking a line neither one of them knows how to cross. 

Scout shifts slightly, tucking a leg underneath her, curling into herself. Exhaustion creeps into her face, but she’s still sharp. She’s run herself into the ground before letting it show fully. 

“You could’ve gone home, you know,” she says after a moment. It’s quiet, not accusing or demanding of an explanation. Just…there. 

“Could’ve,” he agrees, watching her. He didn’t have anyone waiting at home tonight anyway. He rarely did. Nights like this- the ER, the noise, the people- these were the closest thing to company he kept, unless Scout was on his couch, but even then, she never stayed long enough to pretend it was anything but takeout and hockey. 

“You didn’t have to stay.” 

He smiles, something small and automatic. “Didn’t feel like leaving.” 

She doesn’t answer that, just lowers her gaze back to the tablet, but he sees it. The faint flush at her cheeks, the way her throat works as she swallows whatever instinct tells her to respond. 

“Dana left you in charge of me again?” she tries, her voice light and teasing. 

“I gotta do some work around here.” 

Her eyes flick up again, a spark of challenge behind them. “I’m not that bad.”

“You’re worse than Abbott some nights.”

“That’s slander.” 

He chuckles under his breath and lets his head tip back against the wall for a moment, breathing into the rare quiet. She mirrors him without thinking, both of them sitting there for a beat longer than necessary, like neither of them really wants to break the spell. 

“I’m glad you stayed,” she says softly, barely audible. 

He doesn’t answer right away, afraid that if he does, it’ll come out wrong, or worse, come out honest. Instead, he just meets her eyes and nods.

“You know I always do.” 

There’s a moment of quiet that should feel heavy, but it doesn’t. Not with her. He lets his gaze drift down to her tablet, scanning the labs she’s reviewing even though he doesn’t need to. “You’ve been picking up a lot of doubles lately.”

Scout’s hands pause for half a second over the screen, then keep scrolling nonchalantly. “Just covering the gaps.”

“Scout.” 

Her eyes lift, a soft warning in them- don’t push.

He softens his voice. “Are you taking care of yourself at all?”

“I’m fine,” she says gently, almost sounding rehearsed. “You know me.” 

He does, which is why he doesn’t believe her. But he also knows the limits of the conversation she’s willing to have right now. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching her for a long moment. “Lily’s okay?” he asks lightly, like it’s casual, like it doesn’t mean anything deeper.

Her smile twitches at the corner, something too tight to be real. “Yeah. She’s…you know. Figuring things out. Always dramatic, never dull.” 

It’s the kind of line she tosses out when she doesn’t want to go deeper. He knows the shape of it by now, the quick humor, the misdirection. She glances down at her tablet like it’s something pressing. 

“She still behind on rent?” he asks gently, not pushing, just asking.

She doesn’t look up. “I sent some money. She didn’t ask, but…she never really has to.”

And that’s all she says. That’s all she’ll say. He doesn’t press, just nods and reaches for her crust, stealing the last bite. 

“Again, that was mine,” she says, but there’s no heat behind it. 

“Hazard pay.” 

She huffs softly, head tilting in mock annoyance. “You always do that.” 

He grins, lets the easy feeling settle between them again. Whatever that moment was, when she let everything she carries slip just long enough for him to glimpse it- the exhaustion, the pressure, the way she keeps trying to hold everyone else together while never asking for help herself- it’s gone now. Folded away like it always is. 

She buried it fast, but not before he felt the weight of it. And even if she won’t ask for help, he’ll keep staying right where she can find him, because she’s always been worth staying for.

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[savingthrcw]

"Good," Janey murmured when told she also had a photo, feeling her mouth suddenly dry. Shit, she hated this. She hated not knowing how to help, she hated wanting to help, she hated that Lucy had to go through a loss so similar to hers, because she had gotten to know her enough to see that she was a genuinely good person, not just whatever the Vault wanted her to be. If only she could turn to anger like she had, go after Hank the way she planned to do with her mother, maybe she'd feel better. But no, nothing could take away the void left by the parents they had lost.

"Yeah..." her lips nearly pulled into a smile at the sight of that picture. "She was such a mom. Hell, she made me those pancakes..." The closest thing to a mother she had had back at the Vault, while Moldaver had become a mother figure in the Wasteland, even if she had never been able to tell her so. "I see her in you. Your mom. I don't mean in your looks or... the fact that you are good. That too, but..." She wasn't sure of how to explain herself, and damn it, it was important. "It's like you did get to know her, the way I see you. She's in... all the stuff you've got that the Vault didn't give you. The Vault wants you to be a nice wife and mother. But you are... you are a fighter. You came out of the Vault 'cause you wanted to, fought your way here. If she hadn't left a mark, you'd be... back there trying to make babies, right?"

        Lucy closed her eyes, trying to focus on the only real memory she still had of her mother. That day in the cornfield, under the sun. Rose smiling and calling her name, reaching her arms out as Lucy rushed towards her. The memory always cut out just before she reached her mother's embrace.

        So she tried to imagine the Rose that Coop described. A woman who would make pancakes with faces on them and sing while she did it. A woman Norm must've taken after, if the computer hacking part was true. A woman who'd existed and had a whole life outside that one faded memory. A woman Lucy would...never truly get to know. Because Rose was gone a long time before Lucy had pulled that trigger.

        She swallowed thickly and exhaled a shaky sigh. “I—do have one photo...” She reached into the inside pocket of the jacket Coop had found for her, back when they'd first met and Lucy'd needed to change out of her old vault suit. “I took it with me when I left my Vault, along with one of my dad...” She'd stashed the one of her father away in her pack, but kept the image of Rose close to her heart.

        She looked down at the black-and-white photo, swiping away a few rogue tears that had fallen onto it. Rose smiled brightly up at her with a baby Norman in her arms. “See?” Lucy moved over to Coop's side so the woman could get a look at it too. “It must've been taken right after Norm was born.” She smiled slightly. “I just—I wish I could've known her for real. Y'know?”

[findher-ogg]

I have seen so many people fangirling and worrying about New Vegas and its endings in relation to the TV show (which you shouldn't be, you can simply ignore it! Your canon is cooler!) that I've been saddened to see almost nobody discuss my two favourite possibilities for season two: the fact that it may be paying homage to the first game and Tactics.

Lucy is obviously the Lone Wanderer -- she's looking for her dad and is happy go lucky and naive, etc, like many of us first playing Fallout 3. Over the course of the season, she becomes hardened, gaining more resolve after intimately discovering the horrors of war and the role her own father plays in them.

The Ghoul is, as close as you could argue, much the same except for the Sole Survivor. He is an angry, grieving parent who just wants to get his daughter back. Except, unlike the Sole Survivor, he's allowed to do some genuinely abhorrent things. He commits a bit of casual mass murder and cannibalism, but it's all good. Standard for your wonderfully contrasted evil karma character, and why he's so interesting in comparison to how he was before the war. Many people roleplay their Sole Survivor much the same.

But Maximus hasn't been obviously assigned a protagonist he clearly pays homage to, due to how original his own plotline is and how he is just generally disliked or ignored by the fandom simply because he is socially awkward and black. Max is my favourite, and I'm not going to be shy about this -- I love that awkward young man with every fibre of my being. He's funny! But, as much as I'd like to be, I am not here to defend Maximus from a certain subset of fans in the same way I do with Preston. I am instead here to propose which protagonist he is equivalent to: the Warrior, from Fallout Tactics.

I've yet to play Tactics personally, but I am familiar with the plot and how it's essentially schrodinger's canon. Aspects of it are canon, like the Brotherhood's usage of airships or their presence in Chicago fending off super mutants. Others, less so. Like Vault 0.

For those not in the know, Vault 0 is, to my understanding, a vault located in Colorado that hosts a device known as the Calculator. Calculator is an incredibly advanced supercomputer that manages all of Vault-Tec's vaults. The computer is powered by the cryogenically suspended brains of pre-war geniuses. Do you see where I'm going with this?

In Tactics, the Brotherhood move in to secure Vault 0 and take Calculator out of the picture. There's even a character named Maximus (who is a Paladin!) who aids the player's squad in the final battle against it.

I think that Maximus' mission in S2 is going to be a retelling and recanonisation of Tactics' plot, shifting its place in the timeline to post FO4. I mean, it makes sense given standards and precedence set by S1. Vault-Tec cryogenically suspended their best managers to selectively breed the best customer service people in existence, which obviously backfires as both Lucy and Norman unravel the truth in different ways. Vault 31 is even taken care of by a brain on a roomba!

So I'm not saying it's out of the question for Max's B-plot in season 2 to take us on Tactics' plot, and to potentially show us that that is where Barb and Janey have been the whole time. It'd get a bit dark depending on how deep they get into the territory, but Barbara Howard is so high up at Vault-Tec that she knows their most closely guarded secrets and speaks at investors meetings. She could likely have surrendered her brain to power whatever equivalent to Calculator they end up using.

I think they may end up dropping the Colorado plot thread, though, depending on how things play out. Even if Colorado is frequently referenced by various NPCs (especially Ulysses) in New Vegas, there's a chance they may move Vault 0 to California or Nevada. Maybe have it sub in for Area 51, who knows? I'm not a fly on the wall in that writer's room.

The Brotherhood's story in this show in general just seems to be full of homages or references to classics; I'm fully convinced that Knight Titus (you know, the guy who lost to a level 10 yao guai?) was named after Titus Interactive, the studio that bought out Interplay and subsequently bankrupted them. As a tongue in cheek reference, but one I can't ignore.

And what about Fallout 1? Well. I don't know if anyone noticed because it's a ten second gag that never gets brought up again, but Vault 33's water chip is broken! And even if they've relocated half of the Vault to 32 by this point, that still doesn't actually solve the problem. Hell, 32 may also have a broken water chip! My slightly more crackpot theory is that Chet's going to have a C plot where he ventures out to find a replacement water chip, a la the Vault Dweller. The director of the show seems to be a fan of the Interplay trilogy, after all.

I'm sorry if this sucks, I've had this rattling around since seeing the set leaks and it's 1am. Not proofreading this. Hope it makes sense, I may revise certain points in the future because I've not watched the show since it came out and thus spurred me into playing the games in the first place. But still! That's my theory! I'm moreso banking on Maximus Tactics than the latter, but still.

[littlemiss101]

i've got this sentimental heart that beats (but i don't really mind that it's starting to get to me)

It doesn’t take long to pick up on just how spitting mad the Vault Dweller is, being on the road together. 

She’s always been angry, since the first time they had the misfortune of running into each other, an undercurrent of righteous rage threading through each of her words to him. Before the observatory, all the anger had been directed at him or Moldaver, but now there’s a jaded tilt to everything she does, a building fury at the wasteland around them. 

And hell, why wouldn’t she be? Cooper certainly is, vengeful in a way that just about eats through the drugs he keeps himself loaded on. Janey and Barb keep him that way, a pot just on the brink of boiling over, carefully kept tucked away until he needs to use it. Most people are angry, these days, between the Brotherhood and Fiends, whether they’re trapped inside of a Vault or stuck outside of them. 

Little killer, he’d called her, back in the earliest days of their acquaintanceship. How right he’d been, he muses now, watching the heel of her boot cave in the thorax of an unlucky radroach that had scuttled into their path. She grunts as she kicks the creature, a frustrated little exhale from between her gritted teeth. 

read the rest on ao3 (major show spoilers)

[savingthrcw]

"It's mine!" Janey answered hugging the large weapon, "Oh, you meant originally? Dunno, I've been robbin' my entire life, who knows where this came from. Been years." That felt weird to tell her dad, though, and she made a face. "Sorry?"

It was a fine line between easiness and awkwardness, one she kept tripping on when it came to being too honest with him. Even swearing felt wrong. The scratch was nothing to worry about, not when there were so many goods to pick up, "If I ever say no to that, shoot me." Too bad most people didn't carry weapons that required that much physical strength to carry, and so it was hard to find bullets for her favorites. "I have a fat boy at camp. Can blow a bunch of mutants to pieces in one go. Always have to buy the damn ammo, though. It's disappointing as f... hell."

"Who'd you steal that off of?" He asked, he wasn't really interested in getting one for himself, since he had his little guns and well was more proficient in them than the bigger guns, but more interested in who had them so he knew who to look out for.

"None taken." He wasn't offended by what she said, because she had a point.

He reached up to touch the spot where her shirt had been ripped by a bullet. "Yeah, it's just a graze." He confirmed, lowering his hand to rest by his side. "Wanna loot the bodies?"

[savingthrcw]

@wandercr

After a no small amount of complaining and swearing and feeling horribly sick, between the exhaustion from the radiation poisoning and the gin, Janey betrays herself. "I just can't get used to the wasteland water, either I stay tipsy or I stay poisoned." It's half complaint, again, half explanation, because no one gets sick that often, but she was out of alcohol - and then Janey realizes she just told Water Vaultie she can't get used to Wasteland-water. She holds her breath, because Eliana is, unfortunately, not as dumb as half of her raiders and she should've never stuck together with her, but damn it if she didn't miss a normal woman around.

[panelshowsource]

hello cutie <3 first, i've been trying to find this ep for you but haven't come up with it yet 🥺 i posted in some request threads and sent some dms, so i'm still holding out hope! if i find it i'll def share it here

as for your question about stage door — yes! completely normal and often encouraged by the comedians themselves! i was just listening to the sam campbell episode of what did you do yesterday?, and he was talking about how happy he is to meet fans after the shows (he even went up to some in a pub? hahaha). i've personally met most comedians after gigs and they're more than happy to not only sign things but even stop for a brief chat; some comedians are pretty famous for this, namely jimmy carr! a few times the comedian has announced the bar they'll be in after the show so people can come hang out hahaha i think the only person i've ever seen or even heard of rejecting a stage door dynamic is james acaster. edinburgh can be somewhat of a mad house for the bigger acts, so i can't guarantee rhod will exit the gig in a way that will allow fans to meet him, but they usually do!

it's really exciting that you're going!!! i would love to though i'm meant to be in venice in october so i may need to wait for 2026 ;; but i hope you have a wonderful time!

hihi anon 💕 the unbelievable truth (coming back soon!!), heresy, the news quiz, and alex horne presents the horne section are my reliable favourites — especiallyyy if one is not up to speed on the style and experience of a british radio show, i think TUB is the best place to start!

basics aside, i have some really random shows on my drive that are there specifically because i enjoy them, including...

women talking about cars — victoria coren mitchell presents an interview series in which famous women look at their lives from the perspective of the cars they have known

two episodes of mash — surrealist sketch comedy by joe wilkinson and diane morgan

in and out of the kitchen — charming little scripted sitcom written and starring miles jupp about the life of a food writer and his husband (comes with accompanying tv adaptation and book!)

cabin pressure — beloved scripted sitcom about an eccentric airline crew, starring john finnemore, stephanie cole, roger allam and benedict cumberbatch

i've also uploaded a few new series that you guys may find interesting; these aren't on the masterpost (yet? i'm struggling for room) but i'll link them here!

james acaster's findings — james presents in-depth research on a variety of subjects

josie long's all the planet's wonders — an edinburgh show josie adapted to radio in which she consults proper reference books to learn more about our planet, astronomy, and more (you can find tons of josie's radio work free on her site!)

janey godley: the c bomb — a radio adaptation of janey's standup show looking back on her unusual life in the midst of battling late-stage cancer

hope that's fun for now! i could come up w so many more recs so if these don't work for you or you're looking for something more specific (genre, comedian, etc) lmk!

hmm idk has anyone? her books seem kind of inspirational and motivational in nature, so those usually don't have as big of an audience here as some other genres of even autobiographical stuff

you're my marek larwood anon i just know it hehe

i'm sorry so far of these requests i've only uploaded fast and loose ;; i'm really keeping my eye out for these and definitely asking around, but this one is a particularly deep cut! fingers crossed x

[twosides--samecoin]

After watching the fallout tv show, I wish there were an au where Barb was the ghoul instead of Cooper.

She did everything to protect her family, her daughter, and (maybe?) failed. She set the world on fire and had 200+ years to live with the consequences. She knows vault tec intimately, knows the experiments, the secrets, all the ugly parts.

Barb smiling at Lucy's 33 vault suit and conving her to help, because she knows 33's purpose and knows how to use it to her advantage. She knows Lucy was born and bred to be a good little colonizer, and she knows the flaws in Bud's designs.

Just imagine the drama once we got the reveal. Everyone guessing how she became a ghoul if she supposedly had been accepted into a "safe" vault, guessing as to why she joined the hunt for the cold fusion. Loyalty to vault tec? To gain power to herself? Maybe she believes in some faction or another?

The season finale with Lucy following Barb because she is curious (just like her mother) and wants to know more about vault tec and, by extension, her father and, hey, Barb could use a new assistant since Henry--sorry, Hank--is no longer filling the position.

I like Cooper, but damn, I'd love to see how Ghoul!Barb would play out.

Hey gamer, thanks for the ask. Cool idea and you should write it, hit me up if you ever do!

Personally I have so many questions about Barb and her motivations and life before the bombs. She's one a handful of characters who remains a mystery by the end of the first season.

Barb's perspective is worthy of exploration. Her fate is unknown, aside from being on a roundtable of capitalists trying to ensure their survival, with the thin veneer of doing it for humanity (let's be honest, House, Vault-Tec, RobCo, Big MT and West Tek all have a vested interest in their own survival and getting ahead of the game after the war). Sure, she's doing it for her family, but a mention of Janey is also a bargaining chip for her to negotiate. Was she a lawyer before Vault-Tec, or in another career where one is required to form arguments with an awareness of what people respond to?

There's a blurring of lines; mother trying to protect her family, but also political and business savvy. She looked up at someone while seated at the roundtable and adjusted her Pip-Boy, perhaps listening to a radio frequency. What's her position at Vault-Tec, anyway, aside from being an executive? She's speaking on behalf of the people who pull the strings, but where are her hands on that thread? What relationship did she have with Moldaver, if the latter found the selling of her life's work personal enough to insinuate Coop didn't know his wife as well as he thought he did?

What was her life like as a Black woman in the pre-bomb Fallout society? Did Vault-Tec really set off nukes on the day her daughter was at a birthday party with Coop, or were they and Los Angeles caught off guard? What is the fate of their daughter - did she get into "one of the good vaults", or not? What if just Janey and Barb got into a vault together, but not Coop? What if Janey got into a vault, but Barb and Coop are both ghouls, walking the Wasteland? What if Barb is in Vault 31, or in a pod next to Mr. House?

[ghoulphile]

I am RATTLING THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE WITH EXCITEMENT!!!! do you have an idea of when the chapter will be up???

this is me rn:

and.... bc i love you, here's a treat ❤️~

Then broad palms slide beneath the rucked up hem.

The calloused fingers of one hand chart a path up the line of your stocking, Cooper’s blunt nails skipping across nylon until sheer fabric blends into a delicate dusting of lace covered elastic. The other cups your thigh, his thumb tucking under the garter strap to caress an angry indent.

You tremble.

“Soft and pretty; how the hell’d an old fella like me get so goddamn lucky?”

At the drag of roughened skin, your clit twitches. Meanwhile, goosebumps prickle down your bare arms, baby hairs standing on end as axons fizz and pop. You sigh. “Cooper — oh, I need you — please.”

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Keep talking to me, sugar.”

The unexpected drag of a forefinger over the front of your panties catches you off guard, sends you reeling as a bitten off mewl tears itself from your throat. Your hands shake as you struggle to restrain yourself, hyperaware of the tranquil silence of the apartment interrupted only by an occasional murmur of the TV from down the hall.

“Don’t! I - I can’t--”

Even though the fabric keeps Cooper from touching bare skin, the grind of his knuckles along your pussy feels like a punch to the gut. Your toes curl and your hands yank at the roots of his hair. “Hhn!”

“Thought you said you could keep quiet. Did you lie to me, sweetheart?”

“No, I promise I can. Just not when you d-do things like that…”

His brow quirks. “Why don’t we put that to the test then?”

“Cooper, what’re you — hng! S-Shit, I--!”

He circles the swollen nub of your clit with his thumb, humming in approval when it twitches against the pad of his finger before inching down to the damp seat of your panties. “Fuck, you’re soaked. I can’t believe you’re letting me touch you like this.”

As he plays with the sticky evidence of your arousal, tracing your folds and teasing at your entrance, shame burns quick and bright. Coils behind your navel, a viper in the shade, as little sparks of black thread through blooming passion.

Bastard.

You sniffle, glaring at him through teary eyes. “You said you wouldn’t tease.”

Tiny aftershocks rock through your frame as your legs clamp around his flexing wrist; nerve endings raw and exposed. The languid strokes of his fingers are tantamount to torture.

You’re going to burn up, supernova bright, if he doesn’t stop.

Who knew being silent was so hard?

You’d never struggled before (then again, maybe that says something about the sex you’ve been having) but Janey’s a room away. There’s no other choice, and you’ve wanted this for too long to stop now.

“Well, now, I don’t recall making any promises.”

Cooper smiles, pulling back the hood of your clit through the thin layer of ruined fabric with startling accuracy. His palms stop the squirm of your hips as you try to arch away, electric shocks lancing through you at the rough friction against exposed nerves.

“Guess I can’t seem to help myself. It’s your fault for looking so pretty.”

He’s the furthest from apologetic.

In fact, his voice is low and whiskey rough — full of grit and gravel.

It scrapes down your spine, sinks into your bones. Makes your eyes squeeze shut as you chew on the fat of your lip. A fever creeps up the sides of your neck, settles into the apples of your cheeks; the skin swollen and tight like a sunburn.

A shaky noise of disbelief tumbles from your mouth.

“Don’t lie,” you mumble, your hands flying up to cover your face. His chest vibrates with a snicker and your shoulders tuck towards your ears, elbows drawn into your ribs. “I know you’re loving this, Mr. Howard.”

Cooper groans.

When you peek through splayed fingers, your breath catches.

White lightning. Silken heat.

His dark gaze rests past your chin, caressing the compressed swell of your breasts with avarice. Your arms pushed them up past the neckline of your sundress, the dainty trim of lace mere inches away from exposing your nipples.

“Well, well, well. Looks like I’m not the only one, sweetheart.”

A hand extricates itself from the skirt, snaking up your torso to palm over a curve of exposed skin, fingertips testing the plush weight of your chest with a gentle squeeze. “How long were you planning on this happening, huh?”

“I--”

“Ah,” Cooper tsks, dragging his thumb over where your nipple is, “None of that now. An honest question deserves a proper answer, don’t you think?”

Your hands press on the back of his to strengthen his touch. White static dances along your nerve endings, your nipple pulling into a tight peak as a fluttery sensation roosts in the valley between your hips.

“Since,” your lips tremble on an exhale, and when you swallow, it feels like shards of glass, “since the beginning… Was waiting for the day you’d look at me — see me. Nothing worked, and I almost gave up. But then I caught you staring, and I — Coop, please.”

[atomiqueen]

the more i (re)watch, the more i generally lean towards the idea that barb is not, in fact, in Vault 31, but some other Vault for management of ALL the Vaults (not just 31-33). i think that 31-33 were specifically built for the bud's buds experiment that bud askins was in charge of, and which middle-managers became the prime overseers within.

barb was higher up on the vault-tec food chain than hank maclean ever was. he was literally her assistant before the first bombs fell. so i don't feel like she would've ended up one of the overseers in Vault 31, forced to be included in bud's personal experiment.

i will, however, happily rp/continue rping with my beloved mutuals who have barb (and/or janey) in 31 as their headcanon! at this point we're all just theorizing, and i don't mind setting my own ideas aside for the sake of some fun threads.

[my-lost-darling]

To Be Continued (The Darlings}

The Darlings say goodbye.

Set: August 16

@the-dashing-darling @among-the-lostboys @lost-girl-at-sea @darling-lost-boy

Prior Reading:

The Next Adventure (Jane, Danny & Wendy} Truly all the goodbye threads

WENDY:

Wendy couldn’t pull her eyes away from her brothers. Drinking in every second of their presence, sure she had the photos that she would look at all the time but that would never make up for the time she would lose with them.

Even now she didn’t want to let go of Michael’s hand because she was holding onto him like she was the younger sister.

She didn’t want to say goodbye, she didn’t want the day to end, though the setting sun was telling her their time was running short anyway.

But she looked at Jane and Danny, one of them needed to start. Wendy couldn’t say goodbye, not yet she needed as much time as possible.

MICHAEL: 

He couldn’t believe it was really time. It was a bit like when he was a kid, y’know, and you’d been waiting for a trip to the beach for so long that each and every day went excruciatingly slow, and then suddenly all at once– it was here, the day. Not that Michael had looked forward to Elfhame. But maybe, through his will alone, through his blessing, he’d slowed down time enough to enjoy almost all of summer. And now here it was, all blistering and sunset, summer almost all done. And it was time to go.

It was so surreal. It couldn’t be true. But there was the gate, and here was his family. Everyone looked so somber - so nervous. Michael felt that worry in his own heart too.

But Michael didn’t wanna be just another frowning face. And so he was the first to smile gently, giving Wendy’s hand a squeeze as he let it go so he could turn to everyone else.

“Well, looks like the train’s here,” Michael joked, not really sure what else to say. “So ah– well–” his eyes circled round. “I guess we ought to go, sooner rather than later. Right, John?”

John nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Michael nodded, firmer. “Okay then. Well–” and he spread his arms wide. “Let’s get the hugs in then, hm? Janey, you first,” he teased Jane and went straight for her.

JANE:  

Jane didn’t say anything. She just hugged Michael, meeting him halfway. She wrapped her arms around his torso and squeezed him tight. She was glad that her face was basically in the square of his chest, because she didn’t want him to see her cry. 

Jane was not a teary person. Her sadness usually solidified in her chest and hardened into anger, or some other easier emotion.

But now she couldn’t think of anyone to be angry at, except for herself, and she was too old and too tired and had lost too much to feel that.

So sadness it was. She let it.

Michael, though, was smiling. He was making jokes, like he was just about to go on some big press tour or off to another race. He was trying to make them all feel better, one last parting gift. And Jane did her best to accept it. She knew what it was like, after all; she’d just never been as good at making people feel better as Michael. 

She pulled away, looking up at him and did her best to smile too. Michael wasn’t the little boy she remembered, following her and John around the park. He was going to be alright. Jane knew it. She had to believe it, at least. 

“You’ll be a marvelous king. Prince. Whatever it is,” said Jane. She gave him a pat on the shoulder. 

MICHAEL: 

Michael smiled right back.

He wasn’t really sure if he believed Jane. He didn’t know what being a king, or prince, or whatever it was, really entailed. He was going to a foreign land with customs and traditions and a culture he knew nothing about. Mostly, he was going to spend a lot of time asking questions and feeling a fool, he was certain.

But then, he’d always admired Jane for her confidence and determination. Right now, he believed that maybe she’d be right. No– she was going to be right. Because Jane wouldn’t just say somethin’ like that to say it, y’know? That wasn’t the way that she was. He’d think about this moment then, later, when he needed to feel a little of that confidence and determination. That’s what Jane could give him. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m gonna do my best, that’s for sure. And hey– you have fun out there, eh? Exploring the world. Take care of Wendy,” he said, in a quieter voice, though his smile didn’t falter.

Then, after one last hug, he pulled away and turned to… ah. 

Danny. His smile faltered here, if only because he felt that he was failing his cousin, in some ways. Leaving him behind. But then, Dan was lucky to be escaping all this, wasn’t he? 

“Hey, mate,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “You ah– excited for your trip? You’re gonna have to take lots of pictures and send me drawings and all kinds of things like that.” 

DANNY:Unlike many other times when Danny stood around his family, watching them cry or fight or plot, he didn’t feel…out of place this time. He didn’t feel like he was intruding on something that wasn’t his. This was his family and this was his life. It was magical, not because of the fae, but because his family was brilliant and wonderful and unique. For so long, he had wanted so desperately to be a part of it, only to get to Swynlake and realize that he already was. 

That was what made it hard to say goodbye. He had defined himself by these relationships. He was a Darling, before he was anything else. But who was Danny Darling without Wendy Darling? Without John Darling? Jane Darling? Michael Darling? 

He didn’t know anymore. That person didn’t exist. 

That Danny was going to have to be created. Woven from new strands. Not without John and Michael but in their absence, at least. He didn’t want to have to change without John and Michael, but that wasn’t a choice when you loved someone. 

Despite this newfound sense of belonging, Danny still watched everything quietly, uncertain about how to feel. He was angry and sad and nervous. And he certainly wasn’t good at goodbyes. He’d never, really, had to say them. His father had died far away. Jane had left. Wendy was kidnapped before Danny was born. John had vanished before Danny even really knew him. 

Look at Michael now, his face was already a blur with Danny’s tears. He felt like a little kid, suddenly so young and small, even though he and Michael were basically the same height. Michael was taking all of this on the cuff and Danny just wanted to cry. 

All he could do was nod. And wish he was braver. The kind of brave that let you say goodbye without blubbering and making the person who left feel bad. 

Stepping forwards, he wrapped his arms around Michael, squeezing him tight. Danny had never really thought about what it might be like to have a brother, he was used to the solitude, even with a sister, but now–he thought he kind of knew what it was like and he didn’t want to let it go. 

Eventually, he forced himself to sniffle and step back. “We’ll take care of each other,” he finally managed. “You take care of each other too. And–and we’ll see each other soon.” 

JOHN: 

John was of two minds: make this evening last a lifetime, or rip it off, and disappear. The funny thing was John had gotten used to good-byes. George was always off on this or that business trip. He’d lost Wendy when he was eight. And he’d sent Michael away as soon as he could, turning their relationship into one of phone tag and texts and constant good-byes as Michael skipped from one timezone to the next. At some point, he’d grown rather numb to good-byes then. Good-byes were just part of life’s punctuation, as if to say, well, onto the next thing. 

But here he was, standing, gritting his teeth, feeling insanely guilty and on the verge of tears himself. The good-byes he’d yet to say burned inside him. He did not want to. It felt easier to simply say he was sorry instead. 

But no one wanted to hear John’s apologies, least of all John himself. 

He stepped forward then, putting a hand on Michael’s shoulder briefly when he pulled away from his younger cousin. John met Danny’s eyes as well, and felt shy, and regretful, knowing that he’d never gotten to know Danny as well as he should’ve. In a way, he felt like he was being very selfish, like Danny needed Michael more, and yet here John was, exercising his big brother rights. 

“We will,” he agreed. “And um– I– I do promise… that I’ll take good care of him. And I’ll write often, all about the Fenlands, and how things are going. Maybe– maybe you could even use some of it for your art. If you wanted,” he said to Danny. 

DANNY:Danny’s eyes flicked to John—half hidden behind his shirt sleeve as he wiped at his cheeks, feeling silly and young, looking at his older cousin. Who was still a mystery to him, but who also felt the most like him in some ways. Quiet and scholarly.

He nodded at John, his eyes welling up with tears again, but he pushed them down and away with a swallow. 

“Yeah,” Danny said. “Hey, maybe one day we can even co-publish. The first Elfhame-English picture book.”

It was a joke, more than anything, he figured his cousins would be too busy and too important to waste time on something like that. But, if that was the case, Danny would just do it for the both of them. 

He smiled, and then, before he lost his courage, he stepped up and hugged John briefly. Just one tight, quick squeeze before letting him go and stepping back. 

JOHN: 

It was a joke, but it was a very kind and sweet one. When John laughed lightly, it was not because the idea was ridiculous, but because he liked it very much. He never thought himself very creative, really. His talents were all in the esoteric realm of critical theory– very silly and embarrassing in the grand scheme of things, because nothing John ever wrote would touch someone the way that a comic or picturebook could. He had long envied his cousin for his skill in art because of that.

And so it was a wonderful thing to think, that maybe, with a little help from his family, John might actually make something worth reading– just for fun. “I’d like that, eh? I’ll need something to work on over there,” said John, his voice still light, but he could hope that this joke might become something more– a dream, perhaps. A dream that could come true.

Then he stepped away from his youngest cousin and his eyes found Jane. Ah, Jane. His gaze softened. He had no idea what to say to her. He was going to miss his first mate so much. 

“Well,” he said. “Off to see the world then, are we?” 

JANE:  

Jane had been dreading this moment

The whole thing, really, but this specific moment the most of it all. She looked up at John and she didn't know what to tell him.

It was John she’d known the best in the end, yeah? No use sugarcoating it. Wendy had been a stranger, not even her real cousin till recently. Michael and Danny too young. But John? John was barely a year older than her. She clung to him when they were younger, since they both preferred their books to people, both wanted to stomp in the yard and play pretend every summer. 

The whole reason she'd come to Swynlake was because John had been here first. It had started with Jane and John. 

And it was ending, here, with them. 

These past five years they'd learned to be friends, not just cousins. They'd learned to live with each other's infuriating habits. They bickered about tea. They fought over bigger things, too, but usually about tea. Jane lost him once. She tore through everything to bring him back. And here he was, stepping back into Elfhame, away from her. Well, away from everyone, but also her.

“It'll be a grand adventure,” she said, trying to keep things light. But her voice wobbled, and even though she told herself she was going to be strong about this and she was going to keep it together for Danny and for Michael and for Wendy, for everyone who needed her to be the brave, stalwart, and resilient Jane Darling, she felt something n the back of her throat crack. She felt something in her eye. She felt her heart pinch and squeeze, and then she surged forward and gave John a hug. 

It was quick, but tight, and she squeezed him around the middle.

“If you ever need us,” she said. “We’ll come. Don't be a stubborn prick and not ask for help, okay? If I find out from Michael that you're trying to do something big and impossible all alone, I'll come right back to the Fenlands and whack you.” And then in  a small voice, she added, “Remember, you’re not alone.” 

JOHN: 

This was one goodbye John just did not want to give. Much like Ting-Ting– John just could not bear it.

But he had to. And as they looked at each other for just a second or so of silence, John almost broke too. He wouldn’t have cried. He would have apologized pathetically and then asked Jane to come along too, like he almost had with Ting-Ting, though this ask would be for a completely different reason. It was because of all those past adventures. It was because of their romps through the park. It was because of Captain John and Captain Jane. It was because of their makeshift forts in the Darlings’ nursery, made out of pillows and spare cardboard boxes. It was because of their silly labeled tea system they’d created when they’d lived together. It was because of Napoleon, the dog. 

It won’t be the same without you. There’s no one else I want to explore this new world with more than you. 

He couldn’t say this because he had a feeling if he did, Jane might actually come with him. And that wasn’t fair. They’d had enough adventures, just the two of them. It was time to board different ships. And then Jane smacked into him, squeezing him tight– squeezing all those words right out of his chest so he didn’t have to say them at all. John was grateful. He put his arms around her and squeezed her back, nodded short and tight to her demand. Then the hug was over, everything left unsaid, but that was better. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be very boring, I think. I’m going to be sorting through old records and helping Michael work out some maths when it comes to tariffs and things like that,” said John, mouth twitching. “It’s all the tedium of helping a kingdom and none of the fun. Promise. I’d not dare have any of that without you.” 

And now there was only one good-bye left, the hardest good-bye of all, a good-bye so great and heavy that John wanted to turn all the way around and walk into the gate, pretend that he didn’t have to do it at all.

But Michael’s hand touched John’s shoulder, and that was right– he wasn’t doing this alone, just like Jane said.

The two Darling boys turned to their elder sister. 

“Hey, Wendy,” Michael said softly. “Looks like it’s almost time to go.” 

WENDY:

Wendy had never said a lot of goodbyes, her life with her brothers had been moments of passing one another. Michael and John as they left Elfhame the first time, John into the Mara tree as she was tossed out. She had never said a proper goodbye to her family.

She didn’t want to start now.

And yet as they both looked down at her she wanted to protect them one last time, and she could, but she had to be brave. Reaching out Wendy set a hand on both their cheeks, her thumb running gently against their skin.

So many words she wanted to say, and despite her wanting to be brave she didn’t know how to find those words. Michael, her sweetest baby brother, grown in what felt like an instant, and he would continue to, becoming a great ruler of a place that did not deserve him. He would excel as he always did and Wendy would miss out on it once again.

John, her headstrong little brother, stubborn and smart, the glue that would hold and support Michael, and in turn draw strength from him. Wendy had always known how smart he was, but even now she could see it in volumes in his eyes.

They would be fine.

So she smiled at them, she smiled with all the pride and love she had for them, because her heart, though broken in ways that couldn’t heal easily, was so full of love for her brothers.

“Take care of one another.” Wendy whispered her voice betraying her as it wobbled. “We’ll see each other again, and until then I want to hear all your stories, no matter how small or how boring you might think they are. I’ll come running if you ever need me to.” Wendy added pulling them in for a hug as tight as she could, hiding her tears into their chest.

“I love you John, I love you Teddy.”

THE DARLING BOYS: 

John and Michael embraced their sister, and it felt like a happy ending, for just one moment– like this was the place where the story should end. But it wasn’t going to. The hug would end and John and Michael would have to wave goodbye, and the Darlings were once again going to be separated. For how long this time? Both brothers wondered this. Would it be a year, or would it be ten years? Would the Fenlands be so kind to the brothers that when they finally stepped back through this door and find Wendy much, much older than them, happily married, with children of her own? 

It would not be so bad, if that was what might happen. Perhaps there was not a happily ever after for all three of them, but John and Michael were in agreement that Wendy deserved one. A happily ever after for Wendy Darling – it was a story that they’d both read over and over.

They did pull away, after a moment. Tears ran down both of their cheeks. John cupped Wendy’s face briefly. “Enjoy it all,” said John. “Everything they took from you.” 

And Michael leaned forward and kissed Wendy’s cheek. “You’re going to be wonderful, Wendy. I’ll miss you lots and lots.”

“We’ll write all the time,” John reassured for what was probably the umpteenth time, but if you repeat things enough, they become spells, brimming with magic– capable of achieving impossible things. 

“We will! And oh, take care of Mum,” said Michael. “Make sure ol’ George gets out some, touches some grass.”

John laughed wetly. “Yes, give them our love. Tell Nana hi.”

“Oh! And when you go to Italy–” Michael assumed his sister would make it to Italy “--make sure to visit Maranello! There’s the best pasta place in the world– I told you about it, remember?” 

John chuckled again and his hand rested on Michael’s shoulder. “We should let you get started,” John said. “We’ve all got a train to catch.” 

And with that, the brothers did step toward the gate that beckoned them into the next world. Before each stepped through though, they looked back over their shoulder at their family. Michael lifted a hand in another wave. 

“Be seeing you,” said Michael. He grinned. He winked, along with the first stars beginning to wake up here in the twilight.. “To be continued.” 

[savingthrcw]

"Daddy..." she whispers, suddenly a scared little kid again; it's too soon to part ways, it's too soon, she's just found him, but she's also not sure whether she's the one who's about to keel over or him. That'd be on pair with the rest of their lives, having her father, who had lived more than two hundred years, watch her die now, before she could even reach thirty-five. "I am," she lies, touching his face gently. She sees him, she sees Cooper Howard, the dad, the actor, in his eyes. "Are you? You gotta be. You are not allowed to ditch me now." How does someone heal a ghoul? She's never had to take care of the ones at camp, they know how deal with their problems, and she doesn't know if a stimpack is cure or poison, if radiation is better and now to get her hands on that if she throws up from a glass of water. Water. "Do you think... irradiated water would do you good?"

@savingthrcw asked: [INJURY]: after having been badly wounded themselves, the sender tries to reassure the frantic receiver by cupping their face and comforting them. [Janey for Coop? Had to]

REASONS TO CUP A FACE. ( A PROMPT LIST. ) | Accepting

Cooper can feel his chest tightening as he lays on the ground, head lifted so he can watch Janey. He lets his head fall back to the ground as he tries to take in a breath of air. He lifts his hand a bit when he sees his daughter come into view. He leans into her hands that are cupping his face while she comforts him. He puts a hand on one of her hands, swallowing a bit as his other hand comes up to touch her cheek. "You.. You okay?"

[janeyslater]

VENT // RANT // THEORY // I think I get it now

Kiwi Farms is just one big faux site that is being run by the government

Null has stated being in contact with the government in his old stream and later said that he got paid in the same stream

And What if all the lolcows are just a big fake? made by the bots on the site, especially the “people” replying to the thread. And that the lolcows are just paid actors.

And what if this whole keffals stuff was just a stunt? Keffals has also stated being in contact with the government, basically the same thing like I listed earlier

What if this whole site is monitoring me and are pretending to not talk about me because I know whats going on.

In conclusion

The site needs to be shut down or I should be the one acquiring the site. I could make the site better, a more tolerant site, a site where it’s not being run by the government, a site with better privacy, a site without racism and transphobia, a site that treats you with kindness, a site with ACTUAL lolcows like Null, a site without horrible moderation. Everything you ever wanted will be yours in Kiwi Farms once I gain leadership of the site.

I

Must

Stop

NULL

I am genuinely desperate to gain leadership to satisfy your needs by the end of this year

- Love, Janey Slater

April 17 2025

[savingthrcw]

@atomiqueen getting some Janey!

"Well, this is one hell of a place you chose to wander in, wearing something like that." Janey's submachine gun is pointed at the girl with the big eyes, and she's just lucky she found the one raider who doesn't shoot before asking questions. That, and Janey has some very personal issues with Vaulties, and if this isn't an idiot who bought the jumpsuit at a sale thinking it will actually protect her from radiation, there will be questions, and maybe a new Vault nearby to break into. "Where are you from?"