#Auto Clean Freak

[yank-a-ton]

[littlelioncub43]

Come On, Come On, Darling

Summary: A late night out with friends, and an uncomfortably deep talk has Eddie thinking about you. He just hopes you're thinking about him the same way.

Pairing: Mechanic!Eddie Munson x Female!Reader

Warning: fluff, slow burn, mutual pining, idiots in love, best friends to lovers, drinking, Eddie being an absolute angel and a gentleman, reader does Eddie's make up (you're welcome), pet names ( I overuse "princess," sue me), the rest of the ST gang all being happy, season 4 never happened here, Wayne being oddly insightful and a good uncle, more plot than anything, but smut will happen in part 3, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Word Count: 4,039

A/N: I started this a while ago, hated it, took a break from it, came back and finished it — bon appetit. Bahaha! No, the break from it was much needed. I think I was tired when I said it was awful, because upon review it wasn't that bad. I love this one, you guys. I'm jealous of them. I'm jealous of the fictional couple that I created. I hope you guys like this one! Part 3 will have ze smut, so you have to be patient and polite as you wait for it hehe. Let me know what you think! Reblog, comment, send an ask, a carrier pigeon, a singing telegram— really anything. Ok! I love you!

Kisses 💋

—K

Part I. Series Masterlist Part III

The sound of random tinkering and a distant radio at the end of Mack’s Auto Garage welcomed you with a familiar warmth. Cars and trucks littered the parking lot and garage, random parts and pieces that made absolutely no sense to you sprawled out over the work benches. Eddie had a morning shift today, much to his dismay, but when money calls— he answers. Parking next to his decrepit van, you fiddle with the strap of your bag as you meander through the concrete workspace looking for him. You hear him long before you see him.

“Where did I put it? Son of a—“

“Missing something, Munson?” You interrupted Eddie’s nearly frantic search of his locker, his head snapping up in surprise. His normally untamed hair was pulled back into a low bun (with a scrunchie that looks suspiciously like the one you misplaced two weeks ago) with his favorite bandana tied around his brow to keep the sweat off. The dark blue coveralls with his name etched in red thread on his left chest were unzipped at his waist, a plain white t-shirt adorning his chest, oil and dirt smeared into the fabric were he wiped his hands clean on his thighs. 

“Yeah, my freaking lighter. That thing must have finally grown legs and ran off or some shit,” he rambles and resumes to pat down the pockets of his leather jacket. “What are you doing here?”

“You left this in my car,” you slip the silver flip lighter from the back pocket of your black jeans and wiggle it between your thumb and index finger, “figured you’d need it sooner than later.”

“Oh, you’re a beautiful, gracious, and kind woman,” he groans dramatically with relief, happily taking the lighter from you. You chuckle and lean against the hood of the car at his bench, Eddie following suit. He pops a cigarette into his mouth and lights it swiftly, taking a long drag, his eyes shut as he holds it in at the top, and slowly blowing out a wispy cloud of smoke. 

“Jesus Christ, you have no idea how badly I needed that,” he grumbles before bringing it back to his lips, “you’re a lifesaver.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Oh. Yeah, you, too, Sweets, thanks,” he teases with a coy smile. You playfully shove his shoulder, making him laugh around the cigarette. “We still on for drinks later with Steve and them?”

“7, right?” He hums an affirmative, “yeah, that sounds good,” you glance at the clock on the wall, “Shit, I gotta go, my shift starts soon.”

“Okay,” he nods, crushing out the partially spent cigarette in the ashtray on his bench as you fish your keys out of your jacket pocket. “Wear that cute top, the black one that hangs off your shoulders,” he calls out after you as you walk away.

“Why?” You chuckle and turn to look at him while you walk backwards, the move alone made Eddie think you were the coolest fucking chick that ever graced this floating space rock. 

“It’s pretty,” he shrugged casually as he slung the arms of his coveralls back on, but you noticed the soft dusting of color along his cheeks. 

“Fine, but only if you tuck your shirt into your pants,” you bargain and point at him from your spot at the mouth of the garage. He groans, making you laugh. 

“I’m going to look like a loser!” He whines, failing to hide his smile at your giggling. 

“That’s the point! I’ll see you then, Gomer,” you tease and finally get to your car, if you stayed any longer you’d definitely be late for your shift at the record shop. 

You heard his van pull into your driveway just as you were finishing the last bit of your eye makeup. You always went light with the mascara and eyeliner for the sake of being comfortable, and it made washing your face a lot easier at the end of the night. The sound of Eddie’s keys jingling was followed by his bright voice calling your name. When you came out of your room, you found him sitting on your counter, munching on a bag of chips. 

“Oo, look at you all prettied up,” he coos around a mouthful of Doritos. You feel your face heat up ever so slightly at his words, you did feel pretty. The knit, long sleeve black top that Eddie had requested clung to your shape deliciously, precisely the reason he loved it so much. The neckline was low enough to show off your collarbones and bits of your shoulder, and gave you the perfect opportunity to show off the pendant necklace that Eddie got for your graduation present years ago. Tight ripped black jeans matched Eddie’s own pair down to the black studded belt, except you swapped out your comfortable pair of converses for a chunky black boot. Eddie was positive: you were the coolest chick to ever live. 

“I was going to say the same thing about you, Munson,” you chuckle and take him in, he does a little twirl. He wore his classic black jeans and handcuff belt, a staple in Eddie’s uniform. A black AC/DC t shirt hugged his sturdy torso and was neatly tucked into his jeans, just like you asked. You gotta admit: he did not look like a loser. He never did. 

“Ya think so? I was worried that my jacket didn’t match my purse,” he jokes. 

“No, no, they do, don’t worry,” you soothe and try to hide your smile. Suddenly, you speak before your mind can catch up with what you’re saying. “Do you want some eyeliner?”

“What?” Eddie chuckles, licking the Dorito dust from his fingers. You swallow and decide, fuck it, you already asked.

“Do you want some eyeliner? I think it would… look nice,” you stutter out as smoothly as you can. He thinks it over for a brief second before he nods casually. 

“Yeah, sure, why not,” Eddie manages to sound calm, much to his surprise. His heart may have skipped a few beats at your small compliment. 

The next thing he knows you have him sat at your vanity, facing you as you stand in between his legs. One hand gently cups his jaw while the other wields a stick of your favorite black eyeliner. You try your best not to get lost in the feeling of his stubble scratching at your palm or the warmth of his hands on your outer thighs, and focus on drawing in the darkness around his eyes. Eddie sits as still as he can, the last thing he wants is to lose an eye. He trusts you completely, it’s his fidgeting that he doesn’t trust. 

“Ok, close your eyes for me,” you say softly, the closeness brought your voice to a hushed whisper. Eddie shut his eyes without a second thought, he listened to the steady inhale and exhale as you stood in front of him. Eddie was unfairly gorgeous, his sweeping eyelashes, the placid expression that soothed his face coupled with the calm trust that surrounded you both made your heart flutter and your knees buckle. Steeling your nerves, you carefully applied the makeup along his upper lashes. “Alright, open. Look up, please.”

Eddie stared up at the ceiling, trying his best not to flinch as you brought the product under his lashes. He wished so badly to be able to watch you, you were so cute when you concentrated on things. Your eyebrows furrowed, drawn together in concentration, and your face set in an oddly serious expression. With one last smudge of eyeliner, you pulled back with a smile. 

“All done. What d’ya think?” You ask and put your makeup away as he turns to look in the mirror. 

“Not bad, not bad. What do you think?” He quirks an eyebrow. If you were honest, he was the hottest man you’ve ever seen, and that was without the makeup on. With the dark circles rimming his gorgeous brown eyes, he was deadly. But you couldn’t exactly say that. 

“I think you look super cool,” you say honestly and grab your purse. 

“Metal?” He stood up, following you out of your room.

“Very metal, but if we don’t get going soon, we’re going to be very late,” you chuckle and hand him his leather jacket and keys. Eddie nods and slips one his jacket with ease, the full ensemble complete, and, fuck, did he look hot. He locked the front door after you, skipping quickly ahead to open the passenger seat door for you. 

“M’lady,” he bows, grinning like an idiot when you curtsey back and hop in. 

It was going to be a fun night. 

And it was. 

Steve, Robin, Jonathan, and Nancy were sat comfortably at the table when you and Eddie arrived. Jokes were told, laughs were shared, and drinks were poured. Lots and lots of drinks. By midnight, the whole table was on the heavier side of tipsy, if not drunk. Steve and Robin were neck deep in a debate on whether or not Michael Myers was human or not, with Jonathan acting as moderator while Nancy fought through the spins. At some point, you ended up in Eddie’s lap, your arm slung around his shoulders with his own circled around your waist while you both listened and weighed in on what you have dubbed “The Great Halloween Dispute of 1987.” 

Eddie had slipped his jacket off after his second beer, revealing his toned arms (all those shifts at the garage were paying off in more ways than one), the short sleeves of his t shirt rolled up ever so slightly. You toyed with a strand of Eddie’s hair like always and sipped on a glass of water, one that Eddie was quick to swipe from your hand. He took a good gulp without much thought and set it on the table. 

“Well, Princess, what do you think? Should we call it a night?” He slurs his words as he rubs the length of your outer thigh absentmindedly. 

“Yeeaah,” you drawl, your head was starting to spin even from the safety of Eddie’s lap. Looking down at him, you were struck again with the overwhelming feeling flooding your heart. Even in the low light of the seedy bar, he looks like the perfect man that God, or whoever is up there, made just for you. You bring one hand to rest on his forearm, your thumb stroking the bat tattoos you love gently. Eddie tightens his grip on you before giving you that million dollar smile, one that you can’t help but return with drunken ease. He pats your leg, signaling for you to stand, and you do, much to your objection (you were quite comfortable in his lap). 

“Alright, gang, as fun as it’s been, the missus and I gotta head out,” Eddie announces as you slip away to pay for your drinks before he can. A chorus of slurred but friendly goodbyes send Eddie on his way to the bar just as you finish forking over the money for both his and your drinks. “Noooo, you don’ pay for drinks,” he scolds as you put your wallet away, his face scrunched in a pout. 

“Yeah? Who said?” You playfully tease as he slides his leather coat over your shoulders, one glance outside and he knew that you’d be chilly on the way to the van. You subtly breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne, the same one you got for his birthday 2 years ago.

“Pretty girls don’ pay for drinks, everyone knows that,” he casually answers, he was much bolder with about 4 glasses of liquid courage warming his blood. You laugh, not bothering to hide the bashfulness in your voice and he smiles at the sound, leading you out to the van at the far end of the parking lot. He saw the way you shivered and pulled the oversized jacket around you tighter. Fishing his keys from his pocket, he opens the back doors and quickly starts setting up the blankets he had stored in the back. You must have made a face because Eddie’s soon laughing and shaking his head. “M’not drivin’ you home drunk, Princess. Could get ya hurt, s’too dangerous. Now, com’on.”

Your heart does a summersault at his words, but that’s just who he was. Caring, sweet, understanding, reliable, trustworthy. That’s Eddie Munson. He sees the fondness in your smile again, his stomach erupting in butterflies. If he wasn’t such a chicken shit, this is where he would tell you how gorgeous you are and kiss you, if you’d let him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he hops out of the van and holds out his hand to help you inside. 

The old mattress he keeps tucked away in the back is draped in blankets, folded as neatly as a drunk Eddie could get them. You sit at the end of the makeshift bed, your legs hanging out the doors to take off your boots. Without a word, Eddie starts untying your laces, carefully undoing the knots, slipping the shoes off your feet and setting them neatly next to the mattress. 

“Thank you,” you meekly reply, the sweet gesture having stolen your voice.

“You’re welcome, Sweets,” he pats your leg, “scoot over.”

He hops in, shutting the doors behind him before double checking that all the doors are locked. You hide a yawn behind your hand as he settles down on the other side of the bed, kicking off his shoes unceremoniously. You slip off your belt and other jewelry, opting to stay in your jeans for the night. Eddie does the same, slinging his belt into the pile with his shoes before crawling under the questionably clean blanket. He sighs and settles in with a groan, his eyes shutting for only a moment before he’s watching you tuck your earrings into the pocket of his leather jacket. You turn around to find Eddie making grabby hands at you, smiling, you crawl in next to him, letting him pull you into his chest and tuck the blanket around you both snugly. The chill of the van made cuddling a necessity, even under the blanket you could feel the stagnant bite of cold of the coming winter. Letting out a content sigh, you relaxed into the comfortable silence, the world around you only slightly spinning now as sleep began to descend on you. Eddie stares up at the metal roof, his eyes slowly getting heavier and heavier as the moments tick by. 

“I like when you tuck your shirts in,” you sleepily confess, your voice was hushed as you whispered your little secret to your best friend. He can’t help but chuckle tiredly at your words, the sound more akin to a deep rumble as opposed to his normally bright laughter. 

“Yeah?” Is all he can think to say, his face burning even in the chilly van. 

“Yeah,” you shyly confirm, tracing the bats on his forearm once more, the action sends Eddie into a tizzy.

“Y’like when I look like a dweeb?” He jokes with a yawn, sleep fast approaching. 

“You never look like a dweeb,” you mumble just before you drift off, your fingers slowing to a stop on his skin, If he wasn’t tired, he would have teased you to hell and back about it, but all he can do it chuckle lowly in his chest and hold you a little tighter. Why do you have to be so cute?

“I like when we sleep like this,” he rested his cheek on the top of your head, letting one hand stroke your arm tenderly, the action only pushing you quicker towards sleep. He hears you hum in acknowledgement and agreement. 

“Me too, Eds.”  

There’s a few moments of silence before Eddie realizes you’re asleep.

“Goodnight, Princess,” Eddie whispers with a smile and kisses the crown of your head, the sound of your even breaths fill the van and lull him into his own peaceful slumber. 

Eddie wakes up to the sound of your soft snores and the growl of a stray truck chugging down the street. Your back is pressed to his front as you both lay on your sides, his arm under your head like a pillow and out stretched, his other arm was strung across your waist. The warmth of your body pressed against his had fought off the cold of the night exceptionally well, it drew him in for more, so he buried his face into the crook of your neck. The smell of your perfume mixing with the scent of his own cologne had Eddie groaning softly, this was the life. Nothing could bring him down, not even the soft thudding in his head or the dryness of his mouth. 

You stirred next to him, your eyes still shut as you reached out for Eddie’s hand on instinct. When your smaller hand found his, you immediately laced your fingers together. Eddie looked at where your hands were joined and gave a small incredulous scoff and smile, his arm around your midsection squeezed you into him hard enough to force the air out of you. 

“Why are you so damn cute? Huh? Who said you could be this fucking adorable?” He rambled on in a groggy whisper, his morning voice was just as glorious as you remember it being. You giggle as consciousness fills you. 

“It’s a curse, really. Doctors have been studying me for years, it’s a medical mystery,” you joke and carefully rub your eyes with your free hand. You were surprised to find that you felt well rested for having slept in the back of your best friend’s van after a night of drinking with no pillow, in a pair of tight jeans, and no fan. You peek over your shoulder to find Eddie’s puppy eyes already staring back at you. The smudges of eyeliner looked even better in the morning sunshine. You could only imagine how you look right now. “Wanna get breakfast?”

“God, yes,” he mumbles with a smile. He was starving, plus he wanted to pay you back for covering his drinks last night. Reluctantly, he peels his hand from yours to reach for his shoes and keys. You hum and stretch out a little, cracking your back before getting your shoes back on as well. You’re both quick to fold the blankets and get into your seats, the pits in your stomach rumbled and demanded to be satisfied. The drive to the nearest diner was thankfully short. 

Before long, you and Eddie find yourselves tucked into a booth with plates of hot food and even hotter coffee in front of you. The looks you receive from the other patrons did nothing but amuse you both. And what a sight you both were: strolling in at 9am reeking of the drink that Nancy accidentally spilled, last night’s makeup smeared across your eyes, bed hair, both dressed to the nines in black. Compared to the lovely elderly couple on their weekly Sunday morning date, you both looked like bats out of Hell. When you offered the old woman a polite smile, she was quick to return it, her husband was busy staring Eddie down, clearly not a fan of his tattoos or makeup. Soon, the plates were cleared and the cups were emptied, and you both meandered your way back to the van. 

“Alright, Sweetheart, back home, it is?” He asks as he backs out of the parking lot, you scroll through the radio stations, hoping to find something good on.

“Yes, please, I need to shower,” you groan, the longer you stayed in your makeup the more grimy you felt. A hot shower would solve all your problems. 

“Oo, no chance you’ll let me join, would you?” Eddie half jokes, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. You roll your eyes with a smile and shake your head. “Damn, next time, then.”

Quicker than he’d like, he parks in front of your trailer. You gather your things, double checking that you have everything before hopping out of the passenger side. With a quick goodbye, you’re bounding indoors, making a beeline for the shower. Eddie watches until you’re inside then makes his own way home. He’s surprised to find Wayne’s car parked in its spot in the yard. 

“You just getting in?” Wayne asks as soon as the door opens, Wayne sat at the kitchen table, eating whatever leftovers were in the fridge before heading to bed. Eddie sets his keys aside on the table and nods. “Out with that girl, again?” Eddie gives him a look as he sought out a glass of water, Wayne knew your name but he just liked giving Eddie a hard time, especially when he stays out all night. 

“Yeah, we had some drinks with some friends, it ran a little later than planned.”

“Did you and her…” Wayne trails off, tilting his head to finish his sentence. 

“Oh God,” Eddie sighs and hangs his head. Wayne would ask from time to time, and it never ceased to be awkward as balls. 

“I’m just askin’. If you are, I’d rather you be safe about i—“ he defends calmly. 

“I know how to be safe about—“ Eddie cuts himself off with another sigh, rubbing his face with both his hands. “I know how to be safe, but no. We did not… do things.”

“Ok,” Wayne nods, throwing his hands up in surrender to show that he dropped it. Eddie relaxes and finishes his water, happy to escape the awkward conversation. Or so he thought. “It’s obvious you like her, so I thought it would have happened by now.” 

Eddie sputters a few words, each sentence of denial dying on his tongue. Wayne gives him a look and Eddie just knows that denying it isn’t any good. He flops into the chair on the other side of the table, looking up to his uncle through his lashes. 

“How obvious is it?” Eddie asks softly. In that moment, Wayne sees the years fall away from Eddie and what’s left behind is what Wayne saw all those years ago: his kid nephew, lost and needing guidance. He smiles warmly, a rare sight, and scratches his head. 

“Well, it’s not super obvious,” Wayne grumbles gently, resting his forearms on the table, “but I’m sure some of your friends notice it too.”

Eddie curses under his breath, his face hot with embarrassment. If other people could see how bad he has it for you, then that means you might see it too. 

“Do… Do you think she knows?” He asks shyly, fiddling with the rings on his fingers for comfort. Wayne leans back in his chair, giving a small shrug. 

“She might,” that answer weighs heavily on Eddie but Wayne is quick to try fix it, “but, would that be a bad thing?”

“Yes! No! I-I don’t know,” Eddie rambles, bouncing his leg as he does the mental gymnastics of trying to figure out if you knew. 

“Personally, kid, I don’t think it would be. Knowin’ that you love her, how could that be bad?” His words knock around in Eddie’s head for a few moments before he speaks in a small voice. 

“It could ruin everything,” Wayne couldn’t help but laugh at those words. 

“Kid, lovin’ someone doesn’t ruin a damn thing,” he smiles and crosses his arms. “If it’s right, then it’s right. If not, then it’s not. But that doesn’t mean that it’s wrong.”

Eddie took in his words again, chewing his lip nervously. He hated when Wayne was like this, all insightful and wise. It was unnerving, but at the same time, he always knew exactly what Eddie needed to hear. 

“You do what you think is best, Eddie. I’m gonna go to bed now, I’ll see ya tonight,” he stands and pats Eddie’s back as he makes his way towards the pull out sofa. Eddie mumbles his goodnights and makes his way to his own room, Wayne’s alarmingly wise words knocking around his head as he gets ready for a shower. 

Would it be so bad if you knew? He was going to find out. 

Part I. Part III

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[gallawitchxx]

29 for the kisses, please!

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send me a number & i'll write you a smoocheroo 😚

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#29: ...as a promise

The digital clock on the wall is a goddamn tease.

How is it only three-thirty?

It’s not the worst job in the world, working the reception desk at an auto repair shop. It’s mostly just answering phones and handing out intake forms. Running credit cards upon drop-off and pick-up, and using what little knowledge he has about cars to field basic questions. Ian’s a little surprised that his parole officer had stuck him in a place that was clearly running some kind of illegal chop shop after hours, but whatever.

Southside is as Southside does.

But today has been fucking dragging. A shipping delay had pushed a ton of work back a week or two, so there was only one pick-up on the books, and it had already happened. At nine a.m., right at the beginning of his eight-hour shift. One can only clean a desk so many times before starting to feel a little buzzed off cleaning spray fumes, so for the past couple of hours, Ian’s been supremely bored, his mind bouncing from one topic to another, trying to keep him occupied, but away from the mechanical sounds coming from the belly of the shop.

The ones coming from the only mechanic on duty today—Mickey.

Jesus, Ian’s got it bad for the guy.

Between Mickey’s filthy fucking mouth, greased-up knuckle tattoos, and the way his ass looks in a pair of coveralls, Ian never really stood a chance. But then he had to go and be funny and smart and secretly sweet with the kids who come in with their parents, and in no time at all, Ian was halfway to being fully in love.

The way Mickey looks at him doesn’t help the situation either, nor does the coffee and Kind bar combo he drops at Ian’s desk every shift, which means Mickey heard and remembered an off-the-cuff comment Ian made one morning when discussing break room snacks with the shop owner.

But what’s really making things hard—literally—is what happened the last time he saw Mickey…

A few nights back, a freak downpour had collided with a blocked drainpipe and flooded the shop’s main floor. They’d had to shut the whole place down so that the mechanics could instead work on pumping rainwater back outside where it belonged. When the worst of it was over, Mickey promised to take care of the rest, shooing the other guys out the door and home to their families. Ian, who didn’t have anywhere to be, and was a bit distracted by the way Mickey’s wet tank top was clinging to his cut chest, offered to stay and help finish the job.

Help Mickey out with another job, too...

But that was days ago, and even though Ian’s knees still ache from where he’d knelt on damp concrete, they haven’t talked since. Not even when Mickey had dropped off his breakfast! Ian had been on the phone, the timing of which felt suspect.

By the time four-o-clock crawls around, Ian’s worked up the nerve to go say something. But then the chime on the door alerts him to someone coming in, and before he can even say hello, some asshole is screaming at him about promised timelines and demanding a refund.

Ian puts on his best customer service smile and tries to smooth things out, but it doesn’t work. More yelling ensues.

“Ey, there a problem up here?” Mickey’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Yeah, there is,” spits the douchebag. “My car was supposed to be ready a fucking week ago, and this idiot here can’t seem to make that happen.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Mickey says, taking a step forward. “Imma stop you right there.” He looks at Ian for the first time (since he came down his throat). “Gallagher, can you head to the back and grab me the project file? Should be somewhere on my station.”

Ian blinks. “But the files aren’t—“

“Now, Ian,” Mickey commands, his blue eyes blazing. “Go.”

“Sure thing,” he says, rising from his chair.

The rage-red moron has the nerve to fucking smirk at him, and fuck, Ian doesn’t fight anymore—swore to his court-ordered therapist he was done with that shit—but this asshole just might get him back in the ring. His hands itch as he passes, clenching and un-clenching as his jaw clicks.

Mickey avoids his gaze, which pisses him off even further.

Ian forces himself onto the shop floor, closing the door behind him.

A few minutes later, Mickey joins him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Ian scans him for signs of a struggle, but he looks good. Great, even, his cheeks pinked. “You?”

“Course. Forget that dick. Caved quick and left. It’s a fuckin’ shipping issue, ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.”

Ian nods, unsure what to do or how to proceed. After a beat, he mutters a weak thanks.

Fuck, it’s awkward.

Then,

“Didn’t know—”

“Listen, man, I—”

They both stop talking, laughing nervously, the tension breaking just enough for some of their natural chemistry to seep back into the situation. Ian’s hands now itch with a wholly new desire to touch and caress instead of maim.

“I coulda handled him, you know,” Ian mutters.

Mickey chuckles. “Don’t doubt that for a second. Thought you were gonna fuckin’ deck that dude.”

“I was—I would have…” Ian shrugs. “But if I went back to prison, we couldn’t finish what we started the other night.”

And well, that gets Mickey’s attention.

“Guess that makes me a hero or somethin’ then, huh?” His voice is like gravel as he steps into Ian’s space.

Ian stares at his mouth. “Or something.”

“Tell ya what…” Mickey stares back. “He comes back, we’ll kick his ass together. Can pin it on me if the pigs show up.”

“Promise?”

Mickey answers with his lips, his teeth, and his sinful fucking tongue.

By the time they leave for the night, their knees have matching bruises.

[nico-di-genova]

Trans Jaime Headcanons:

Wears hoodies and baggy clothes out of habit now. But he spent like the entirety of high school wearing hoodies, even when it was 90+ degrees outside because dysphoria is a bitch.

He got top surgery during college. It was paid for by the schools LGBTQ club using a fund that Bruce Wayne created (one of his adopted kids, Dick Grayson, is trans, so it’s a cause he’s super passionate about).

Also started T in college, but he has to ask someone to do the shot for him because he’s scared of needles. Usually it’s Bart.

When Khaji finally figures out what the conflicting data they’re receiving from his body means they offer to alter his body so it produces testosterone naturally. It’s one of the few changes he’s cool with.

First time he cut his hair was in elementary school. He did it himself, standing in front of the mirror with safety scissors and hacked at it until there were chunks in the sink. His dad was the first person to see him afterword and simply took him to the barbershop to get it cleaned up.

The second someone at church tried to say something, his mom shut that shit down. “This is mi’ hijo, Jaime. He has always been Jaime.”

The first person he tells is Uncle Rudy. This trend continues when Milagro comes out to Rudy first and he’s just like “do I give a queer vibe?”

He lets Rudy paint his nails sometimes, black on every other finger. He figures if Rudy can do it, then he can too.

They all expect nana to be a little confused at first, but surprisingly she’s the quickest to adapt to his new pronouns. She also makes him his first binder.

Jaime’s got the trans flag in his room along with the Mexican flag.

He’s so excited when he gets to shop in the boys section for the first time. Back to school shopping actually becomes fun, and he begs his mom for light-up dinosaur sketchers until she finally caves. They don’t really have the money, but Jaime had looked so freaking happy running around the store with them on, so obviously she couldn’t say no.

Alberto deadnames him exactly One time, because he’s been at the auto shop all day and he’s tired and not thinking. Jaime’s playing Pokémon in the living room and it’s just bordering on too loud so he tells him to turn it down before he’s realized the wrong name has slipped out. The hurt look on Jaime’s face is enough to ensure he never does it again.

Milagro was young enough when he first started going by Jaime that she doesn’t even remember his deadname. Someone at church asks her how (deadname) is doing one time and Milagro is like ??? Who tf???? I do not know them.

His family tries to be so supportive at first that it becomes kind of comedic. They buy him every blue thing they come across. Bed sheets? Blue. Socks? Blue. Folders for school? Blue. Snacks for his lunch? Blue packaging. Jaime feels like the Mexican Percy Jackson sometimes.

[kata-sans]

Raising Stripe

Chapter 11

“STRIPE! Sit still.” Tweek cried out as he stopped the baby from hitting his head on the floor for the hundredth time that afternoon. Craig had gone back to work and Tweek had stayed behind to watch the baby. Since becoming the new owner of his family's coffee shop, Tweek had decided to perform his administrative duties at home and only visit the shop when needed. Normally Tweek was able to run errands and follow Craig occasionally to the auto shop. Now that meant, he was in charge of watching Stripe on his own until Craig came home.

Tweek took his role of caregiver very seriously. When Stripe was a guinea pig, Tweek only needed to clean his enclosure and ensure he was well fed. Now in his current predicament, Tweek took the time to read through the book Butter's had provided on child care. He became concerned when he began to read about different milestones babies need to develop healthily.

According to the book six month olds should be able to grab items, hold their heads up, and sit without being held up. Tweek decided to test the baby for these cues. He held up a bright red teether in front of Stripe. Thinking it looked like a tomato , the baby reached out and grabbed the toy before stuffing it in his mouth.

Satisfied with the first trial, Tweek grabbed the baby and proceeded to lay him down on his stomach. Stripe squeaked in surprise at his new placement. He squirmed for a moment before deciding to retry his first attempt at lifting himself. Tweek had placed a pillow under his chest, and Stripe was happy to see he could lift his head without pushing too hard with his hands.

Just as Stripe was taking in his surroundings, Tweek decided it was time to perform the last test. He rearranged the baby into a sitting position on the floor. Stripe was a little disoriented from the sudden movement. Slowly Tweek loosened his grip on the baby and almost had a heart attack when Stripe flopped to his right side. Seeing Tweek freak out, Stripe let out a giggle.

Tweek decided to try again, this time he paid close attention to make sure the baby's body was completely centered. As soon as his grip loosened, the baby flopped to the left followed by a giggle. Tweek was hysterical, the baby was missing a crucial milestone. He needed to rectify it immediately. So that began a long afternoon of attempting to coach the baby into sitting still on his own.

Stripe continued to flop left and right enjoying the new game his caretaker was playing with him. After ten minutes, he grew tired and decided to fall backwards a few times to keep the game interesting. Tweek tried adding a pillow behind Stripe to avoid accidentally dropping his head on the floor.

Tweek started to panic. What if something was wrong with the baby? The book said babies needed to reach these milestones to be healthy. Does this mean Stripe is unhealthy? Is he sick? Does he need to go to the hospital? Tweek unconsciously began to pull on his hair in frustration.

Suddenly Tweek felt a hand firmly grab his fists. “Tweek! Honey, let go.” He slowly complied with his husband's command. “Good. Now deep breaths…one…two…three.”

Slowly Tweek calmed down and became aware of his surroundings. His husband Craig was sitting in front of him holding tightly to his hands. He heard Stripe making confused noises wondering why the game ended. “I'm okay now, thank you Craig.”

“Honey what happened. You've been handling your anxiety so well. What triggered you today?” Craig asked softly.

“I-i was scared. Stripe can't sit up on his own. The book says babies should be sitting on their own at six months. I-i tried to help him, but he keeps falling over. What if s-something’s wrong? I-i…” Tweek felt his husband hand rub a tear on his face.

“Shh… Honey, nothing's wrong with Stripe. He was a guinea pig. They don't normally sit up on their own. Besides you know Stripe, he’s a lazybones and only works if you give him a treat.” Craig comforted his husband. Tweek giggled at his husband's description of their ex-fur baby.

Stripe cried out, tired of the lack of attention his caretakers were giving him. The couple laughed at the baby's pouty face. “Aww, don't make that face. I heard you giggling when I walked through the door. Was that my happy baby? Where's my happy baby?” Craig cooed.

Stripe was excited to have his caretakers’ attention again. He wanted to show the dark haired caretaker the new game his blonde caretaker had shown him. He rolled to his side and began to push his body up. He struggled for a moment to arrange his legs as his caretaker had shown him but slowly figured it out. His caretakers watched with shocked faces. Once he was sitting upright, he let his body flop to the left in a fit of giggles.

Craig quickly grabbed him before he could hit his head. “You little sh**. I bet you're so proud of yourself. You little rascal.” Craig tried to admonish him but couldn't hide his pride.

“You mean he was able to sit up this entire time!” Tweek cried out in shock. He was relieved but flustered with the infant's ability to pull one over him.

Ch10

Ch12

[firehousefreak911]

Buried

This gave me like 100000000000 ideas!!!

So the beginning was easy and the kitchen scene came easy. The inbetween got me though.

hey! i know you said youve had trouble drawing inspiration and i was wondering if maybe you could do an eddie diaz x reader with inspiration from the earthquake episode or eddie begins when he gets buried? just some good ol hurt to comfort with the best firefighter 🫶

You were sitting on the couch folding laundry when you looked up and saw the news was showing a live report from a search and rescue of a little boy. You then spotted the familiar 118 truck.

You turned it up just in time to hear them say, “ it seems they have lost contact with the firefighter that went in after the boy.”

You zoned after that. You suddenly felt sick. You searched the screen for a glimpse of your husband, Eddie.

You went on auto pilot, you reached your phone and called the one person you knew could help.

“Hey baby girl, what can I do for you?” You heard Athena ask.

“Is-is-is it Eddie?” You ask shakily.

“Y/n listen you know nothing is going to prevent that man from coming home to you and that sweet boy of his, they will get him out” Athena said searching for her words.

“I know but I saw the news report and I just couldn’t help but be afraid” you said

“I get it, it’s natural but you have to remember who he is with, the best firefighters in the world. They will bring him home” she says

“I know, Thank you Athena”

“Anytime baby” she says hanging up.

Christopher comes into the room and plops on the couch next to you. You quickly change the channel.

“Whats wrongs, mom?” He ask.

“Nothing just a sad movie” you lie. You wipe your tears and scoot next to him wrapping him in a hug. He giggles.

“You are weird” he says. You kiss his head and stand up.

“How about some pizza?” You ask, trying to get everything off your mind.

-

You were cleaned up dinner and put Christopher to bed, well put him in his room he refused to be tucked in until his dad got home. It had been about 4 hours since you found out.

You peaked in a saw Christopher was asleep. You heard your phone ringing so you ran and answered it.

“We’ve got him” Bobby said as you answered the phone.

“Let me talk to her” you heard Eddie say weakly.

“Eddie?” You asked when you heard him take the phone.

“Hey beautiful” he said.

“Eddie baby are you ok?” You asked finally relieved.

“I will be. They are forcing me to go to the hospital to get checked out” you heard him say.

“Your welcome” you heard Chimney say in the background

“Well Thats probably for the best honey” you said.

“I need to see you and Christopher” he said, wincing in pain, “you two are what kept me fighting to get out”

“Well I’m so happy you did, I was so worried, I saw the news and freaked out a little, just listen to Hen and Chimney and let them help you”

“You heard the woman” Hen said

“Yes, ma’am” he said trying to laugh.

-

They released Eddie the next day around noon. The 3 of you spent the day relaxing as a family and preparing Christopher presentation for show and tell at school, which Eddie will be apart of.

You all had went to bed fairly early. You were woke up by the sound of screaming. You flipped on your lamp and saw Eddie sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Eddie, whats wrong?” You asked worried. He was panting and sweating.

“It was just a nightmare, I’m ok,” he said, looking over his shoulder “I’m sorry I woke you, go back to sleep”

You crawl over to him. You run your hand over his back. You feel his breathing ease up a little. You get on your knees and start massaging his shoulders.

“I’m here if you need to talk” you said, wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him. He leans back and relaxes in your arms. Yall get back adjusted in bed and fall asleep with you holding him.

-

It was midnight when you noticed Eddie wasn’t in bed with you. You got up and went to look for him. You saw the glow of the light above the sink.

Eddie was sitting at the kitchen table staring into space, holding a cup of coffee. You touch his shoulder and he jumps a little.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you” you said giving him a worried look, sitting down next to him.

“I know that look, Y/n, I’m fine just a lot on my mind” he says. You can see how tired he is. You reach over and grab his hand.

“You know you can talk to me right? I’m your wife, you don’t have to hide anything from me” you said.

I’m okay, I promise, if something is wrong, you’ll be the first to know” he stands up and puts his coffee cups in the sink. He places his hands on the edge and leans against the counter, “can we just drop it?”

“Damn it, Eddie, I am the one who wake up next to you screaming in your sleep,” You say, “you can hide it from Bobby and Buck and the rest of the 118 but not from me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just worried about you” you defend yourself, clearly getting upset.

He runs his hand through his dark hair, a look of guilt and frustration on his face. He sits back down in the kitchen chair.

“I know, look I’m sorry, but there is nothing to worry about” he said taking your hand into his and brushing hair out of your face with the other. You kiss his hand as his runs down your face

“I love you” you whisper

“I love you too, you and Christopher is what saved me in that well”he said, grabbing your hands“ I fought to come home to you, I will always fight to come home to the two of you”

The two of you sat holding hands in silence for a while. It would take a while but the two if you would heal together.

[theadventurek9]

Another ASCA trial day.

Unfortunately we had an incident with our smoke alarm at 3:30a this morning. It would beep about every 2-10 minutes, sometimes several times. The noise freaked Aayla out quite a bit. I tried everything to get it to stop but couldn't. She was pretty anxious but was happy to get out of the house so I didn't scratch her today.

For rally she was out of it and I really had to baby sit her which isn't normal. We still got decent scores but I had to repeat a sign and she wasn't as sharp and clean as she normally it.

Rally Masters 196/200, I had to repeat a sign when Aayla didn't sit when asked for a 90* pivot with sits.

Rally Excellent 197/200, some out of position points for her wandering away from heel.

Then for utility she was doing fine, but just flat and reluctant to sit. (Stress or insecurity issue) She didn't sit for one halt during signals and also auto finished again. Then she NQed on the second article. She is really starting to have some confidence issues. Spitting out the correct article halfway through and searching the pile again. For the second article she went back to the correct one but wouldn't pick it up to bring it to me. I decided to opt for a second cue and encourage her to bring it, which was an NQ. But she did fine for her gloves and her go outs, which previously have been our issues. I got one no sit on a go out but it was expected with her flatness for the day.

Open B was a lot better. She had a slow sit during heeling (kept looking away when right as the judge cued the halt and she didn't notice me stopping) but otherwise had a nice run and got a score of 197.5. which also got her HIT.

Hoping tomorrow will be better, normally she is better on the second day of a trial. We also figured out how to dismantle the smoke alarm.

[yellowocaballero]

Jake Plays Minecraft, Marc's a Wine Mom, and Frenchie & Layla Meet a Serial Killer

The first thing Jake registered was the helicopter.

He had noticed the bodies. Hard not to. But he registered the helicopter first. The air smelled awful, an acrid tinge of gunpowder blowing in on the hot desert air, and the rifle in his hands was still warm. He looked it over carefully before slinging it over his back, looking up and shading his eyes as the helicopter circled overhead. Did it notice him? Did he want it to notice him?

Jake decided that he definitely wanted it to notice him. It didn’t look like an attack helicopter, and best case scenario he had a ride out of this desert. Worst case scenario, he got to gank a guy and steal his helicopter. No losses. Just like in Grand Theft Auto!

Don't want to spoil the premise of this one too much. It's one of those weird pieces where it's a comedy from the POV and a horror from everybody else's. Check it out.

Long time readers are gonna make fun of me for this one.

Short 15k thing under the cut.

The first thing Jake registered was the helicopter.

He had noticed the bodies. Hard not to. But he registered the helicopter first. The air smelled awful, an acrid tinge of gunpowder blowing in on the hot desert air, and the rifle in his hands was still warm. He looked it over carefully before slinging it over his back, looking up and shading his eyes as the helicopter circled overhead. Did it notice him? Did he want it to notice him?

Jake decided that he definitely wanted it to notice him. It didn’t look like an attack helicopter, and best case scenario he had a ride out of this desert. Worst case scenario, he got to gank a guy and steal his helicopter. No losses. Just like in Grand Theft Auto! 

He waved helpfully at the helicopter, realizing too late that he still had a combat knife clenched in his fist. It stank of blood. The helicopter began descending weirdly quickly, but Jake ignored it and looked at his knife. He could have sworn he was holding a different combat knife the last time he fronted. Boy, Marc just went through those combat knives. Come to think of it, he had banged that knife against a lot of rocks and guns…had he trashed it? Ugh. More ammunition for Marc’s nagging about cleaning up after himself.

The helicopter’s beating rattle set Jake’s teeth on edge, and he only barely remembered to re-holster his knife before clapping his hands over his ears. He backed up a few steps, sacrificing his precious hearing to hold an elbow over his mouth to keep the awful sand out, and squinted through the pain as a door of the helicopter opened. The pilot had clearly made an effort not to land on any of the corpses, but he hadn’t been quite successful - one of the runners had hit a leg, half-bisecting it. Gross and cool. Like a lot of Jake’s life.

The pilot mouthed a word, gesturing Jake into the helicopter. He was some gringo, so Jake had to assume they were basically on the same side. That was super lucky - he would have hated to walk home all by himself. Stealing a helicopter would have been fun, but he didn’t strictly know how to pilot one, so the gringo was probably for the best. He waved back, grinning brightly, and picked his way across the field of bodies until he dived into the helicopter. The gringo pushed him into the passenger seat, yelling something over the roar of the helicopter, and Jake ignored him as he scrambled into the seat. The pilot pulled back in, closing the door and looking a little green, and Jake craned his head around the helicopter with interest as they immediately took off. 

The inside of the helicopter was so cool. Jake wanted to press every button. He knew he shouldn’t - Marc had been super clear about even distracting him when he was driving or operating military equipment - but he wanted to press the buttons so bad. 

The only thing cooler was the scenery. The sight of the bodies quickly disappeared behind them as the helicopter craned upwards, and Jake got to look around at the freaking beautiful sight of the sand rising and falling away into rolling seas of gold, the sky reaching down to scoop them up towards safety. 

“Sit down!” The pilot called, and Jake guilty settled back down in his seat. “Christ’s sake, Marc, do your seatbelt!”

Uh. Right, seatbelt. Jake scanned his perimeter, looking desperately for that seatbelt thing. He was rattling around a bit, probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. 

Jake found a likely suspect and managed to pull a few straps over his torso, figuring it good enough for now. The pilot reached over and flipped a few mystery switches, and the helicopter stopped climbing. Jake poked at the seat belt, convinced he had done this wrong. 

“Do you need medical treatment?” The pilot asked. The noise had died down, the helicopter muffling the cacophony outside, but he still seemed really tense. He kept turning to look at Jake, before clearly forcing his attention back to the front. “Do you have a concussion? Marc, answer me.”

Jake didn’t talk to people a lot. Or really ever. He didn’t like fronting, which was one of the rare points of agreement between him and Marc. Jake only fronted when he had to square up and beat off whoever was hassling Marc, which made Marc pissy enough, and shooting goons wasn’t exactly a great way to meet people you weren’t killing in the next five seconds. 

He’d had conversations! Plenty of conversations. He talked to people in Minecraft. The other guys in Basic had teased Marc for his Minecraft thing, which made Marc kick their asses. That had been kind of nice. He still felt a little bad for embarrassing Marc, though. Marc told him not to worry about it. 

Talking to military pilots in a search and rescue helicopter in the Afghanistan desert…was like Minecraft, right?

“Uh,” Jake said, pretending this was Minecraft. “It’s chill. Hey, you got a great helicopter.”

“I picked it out special for you,” the pilot said, aiming for a light joke and falling like a stone. “I thought I’d have to rescue you from the cell. I can’t believe you’re alive. You’re the only confirmed survivor of your squadron.”

“Whoah, really?” That sucked. Marc was going to be upset. Maybe. Guy had never learned the name of a squadmate in his life. He was kind of face blind, which didn’t help. “Thanks for grabbing me. How’d you know I was here?”

“Your GPS tracking.” Now that Jake took a second look, he could see that the pilot was pretty freaked out. Maybe Jake was face-blind too. He looked pretty familiar. He racked his brain. There was a guy who hung out with Marc a lot…this could be him. Marc didn’t exactly hang out with a lot of people. He was kind of a nerd. “Was that all you? Was all of that you?”

“All of what?” Jake asked blankly.

The pilot waved a hand, the line of his shoulders tight and tense. “All of that.”

Oh, right. That was how Marc looked when he talked about what Jake did. “The dead dudes? Yeah. They, were, like, shooting at me, so…” Jake shrugged. “Just kinda did my thing.”

“Marc, you are speaking strangely.”

Strangely? Jake huffed. “Maybe you’re the one talking weirdly, gringo. That accent is so fake.” 

The pilot flipped a few more switches before letting go of the joystick. He leaned over to a small kit underneath the console and unzipped it, taking out a small flashlight by feel alone. Unceremoniously, he leaned over and grabbed Jake’s chin, turning his head around so he could shine the light in his eyes. Jake hissed, batting him away, and the pilot retreated unhappily. 

“You don’t have a concussion. Are you sure you weren’t injured?”

“Wouldn’t I know if I was injured or not?” Jake complained. “Leave me alone, man. I just killed, like, thirty guys. I don’t need you up in my face.”

The pilot stared at him. Still very up in his face. Jake scowled and busied himself looking out the window, admiring the awesome view. He had to co-con with Marc more often. He wanted to see this too. He was happy to let Marc do all of the boring stuff, but Marc had seemed a little down lately. He probably wanted more company. Watch him ever admit it, but the guy got lonely without Steven.

Finally, the pilot said, “Marc, please orient times four.”

Jake stared at him. The pilot stared back. Finally, Jake hesitantly offered, “Orient isn’t a number…”

Instantly, the pilot said, “Marc, you’re having another amnesiac episode.”

“I am not!” Jake cried, offended. It occurred to him to bluff his way out of this - whenever Jake did end up accidentally interacting with people, it was usually pretty easy to bluff his way out of the conversation as Marc and run like hell - but somehow he knew that the man would ask an annoyingly intrusive question like ‘What’s my name?’ and blow it all to hell. “And even if I were, why’s it your business? Thanks for the save, man, but -”

“Those corpses were ripped to shreds.”

Jake stopped short. The pilot had a weird look on his face that Jake couldn’t interpret. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. 

He knew that Marc was friends with this man. He was probably making Marc look super bad. But what was he supposed to do? It wasn’t his fault. Jake would do all that and worse for Marc. They were just corpses. They just - you know -

Jake looked out the window, crossing his arms. His spine tingled. “Sorry for surviving. Tell me all about how I should have died later.”

“Marc -”

“Stop it with that Marc stuff!”

The pilot froze. Jake froze. 

Uh oh. Abort. Abort. People weren’t supposed to find out about him. Marc and Jake didn’t agree on a lot, but they definitely agreed on that. Marc would never hear the end of it from anybody. They’d kick him out of the military. Then they would make Marc go home, and then he’d have to live with Mom and Dad -

Nope. Not happening. Jake wasn’t letting that happen to Marc. And, like, him. 

“Just tired of your nagging,” Jake said instantly. He redoubled his window staring efforts. Wow, look at those dunes. “Don’t need nagging in a fake-ass accent like that.”

“Fake-ass - I grew up in Toulouse!”

“I don’t care if you have lice or not?”

“I am quite French. I am extremely French. You’re being ridiculous. Not French! Lord.” The Very, Very French Guy paused a beat. “You’re the one with the different accent all of a sudden. You’re barely Puerto Rican.”

“Puerto Rico’s a state of mind and a U.S. territory,” Jake said serenely. “Can’t we have a quiet helicopter ride over the Afghani desert?”

“We’re in Saudi Arabia,” the pilot said flatly. Okay? Desert was desert. “I admit I pry. Nasty habit, but it is the only way on Earth to get anything out of you. You had an aneurysm when I asked you for your birthday.”

“June tenth,” Jake snitched happily. “A Gemini. Hilarious, right? Isn’t that great?”

Something was encroaching very slowly over the pilot. A quiet suspicion growing louder and louder; an idea picking up steam and churning faster and faster. “Because there’s two of you.”

Uh. Uh. Shit. “No?” Quick, think of a deflection, throw him off the scene - “There’s three, but one’s been quiet since we joined up.”

Silence fell. Whoops. Jake frantically searched for Marc in his mind, finding nothing. Big Whoops. Shit. Double shit. 

 The pilot’s face was impassive, and he only moved to do mysterious piloting switch flipping and radar checking. Like he hadn’t said anything at all. Jake was sweating his ass off, literally and metaphorically.

But it was strange. Normally Jake would be planning how to bump this guy off to keep the secret safe or some cool super spy stuff like that. And maybe normally Jake wouldn’t have spilled the beans so quickly. But some part of Jake wanted to tell him. Jake wanted his help. He really was Marc’s friend. Who Jake totally…

Jake groaned, thumping his head back against the headrest. “Marc’s gonna kill me.”

“Feel free to blame myself,” the pilot said. Jake was already way ahead of him. “Why would he be mad at you?”

“Are you kidding?” Jake cried. “He’s always all like -” He imitated Marc’s voice, hopefully well. “ ‘You’re a secret, Jake. We’re gonna get in a ton of trouble if you get found out, Jake. Don’t embarrass me, Jake. Stop embarrassing me, Jake.’ As if he’s not majorly cringe. All he does is watch TLC reality shows and work out! Who does that! I swear he’s outsourced all of his actual personality.”

“Is that what he does for fun?” the pilot asked, clearly morbidly curious. This endeared him to Jake. He never got to snitch about Marc. “I always wondered.”

“Yeah, he wants everybody to think all he does is sit and stare at the ceiling all day. Like, he totally does, but even then we’re hanging out. He’s had no time lately. I fucking hate Special Forces. Why are all of Marc’s coworkers so dumb?” Jake paused a beat. “You’re cool, I guess. You’re friends, right? I think I saw you in a bar one time. I’m always kinda up there when Marc’s too drunk, man has no self-control.”

“I’d call us friends, yes,” the pilot said, somewhat dodging the question. “Jean-Paul Duchamp, at your service.” Zohn-Paul? Whatever. He wasn’t going to remember it. “And you’d be Jake.”

“Jake Lockley,” Jake said proudly. It was a great name. Way better than Steven’s. Come from a movie all you want, but Jake drew the line at Captain America. “It’s from the fake ID we got when Marc was fifteen so we could buy whiskey.” 

“America is a ridiculous country. You were in the Special Forces before you were old enough to buy a beer.” Jean-Paul glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, eyebrow cocked. “What else do you do that Marc finds embarrassing?”

“Uh, nothing? He’s just prejudiced against me ‘cause I’m a kid. As if twenty one is so adult - yikes!”

The helicopter had jerked halfway through Jake’s sentence, and Jean-Paul frantically righted it. The badly done seatbelt gritted against Jake’s shoulder, and he scowled at it. He almost missed the wild look on Jean-Paul’s face, and when he looked back at him he was calm. If about ten times more stressed than he was two minutes ago. Was this what Marc meant by embarrassing?

“Kid?”

“I’m fifteen,” Jake said quickly, “so teenager. Not a kid, technically.” He faltered a little, suddenly more cognizant of himself. Of the awkward, too-big body. It had just been getting more and more awkward. Further and further away. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Marc’s super weird about my age and he’s always making me promise not to talk about it. But you have good vibes, so I thought…”

“It’s absolutely no problem,” Jean-Paul said quickly, accent just a bit more pronounced than before. “Sincerely, do not concern yourself. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Really?” Jake asked, unreasonably pleased. Marc always made it sound as if the entire world was against them. It was, so no arguments there, but it was still nice to hear those words. He never thought he would. “I think so too. I like being fifteen. I don’t want to be any other age, so fuck Marc about it. I can do my job just fine like this.”

Jean-Paul’s eyes widened at the word ‘job’. Sadly, the military didn’t care about violating child labor laws. 

“So Marc killed those men back there?” Jean-Paul asked, far too urgently. “Marc killed them and became you afterwards?”

Uh. It was always such a blur. Jake scratched his nose. “Nah. When I got control there were already a few dead bodies around. But most of them were still hassling me.”

That didn’t make Jean-Paul feel any better. Voice rising, he said, “So the intact bodies were Marc?”

Jake crossed his arms, hunching his shoulders and staring fixedly out the window. “Sorry, I guess.”

“I - no, never mind.” Jean-Paul subsided, a little bewildered. “No need to apologize. Everything is fine. I suppose it is very good to meet you, Jake. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“This is about as good as my circumstances get,” Jake said, which made Jean-Paul look a little pained. “When are we getting back to civilization? I dunno when Marc gave the body water and my throat is killing me.”

“It’ll be a while,” Jean-Paul said quickly. “There’s a pallet of water and some MREs in the cargo space. Why don’t you go and have some? I’ll take care of things up here.”

“Are you sure?” Jake asked, already untangling his seat belt and hoisting himself off the chair. He hadn’t realized it until Jean-Paul mentioned food, but he was starving. “Awesome, thanks. You’re a cool guy, Francito.”

“Francito? I hope that is a compliment.”

“It’s like saying ‘Frenchie’, which I guess is a compliment if you’re extremely French and super proud of that.” Went unsaid: no sane person would be proud of that. 

“What are the chances that you actually remember my name?” Jean-Paul asked, pained.

Jake laughed a little, holding a hand over his mouth. Jean-Paul’s eyes widened a little in surprise. Had he never heard Marc laugh before? “Pretty shit chances, man.”

But Jean-Paul just smiled - a little wrung out and left to dry, but still a smile. “If you are so incapable of learning names, then I’m certain you’d be absolutely uninterested in learning about this console.”

That got Jake’s attention. He hung off the back of his chair, eyes wide. “I’m interested! I’m, like, a Green Beret, you gotta teach me how to fly it! Safety of America’s at stake, Francito!”

“Okay, I said nothing about flying it -”

“And let the terrorists win?!”

Jake got some food and water in him, and listened attentively as Jean-Paul explained what each mysterious gadget and switch did. The guy had a massive fetish for airplanes. He had probably only joined the military (or whatever he was part of - French something) for the opportunity to fly as many fancy planes as possible. Jake didn’t blame him. It was dope as hell. Why couldn’t Marc have joined the Air Force? Not enough punching for him, probably. Meathead randomly picked the ‘badass’ branch just like everybody else did. 

He hadn’t flunked out of the Marines like everyone else. Especially all the other snot-nosed eighteen year old boys stomping around to prove how tough they were. It had never been about that for Marc and Jake. They had gotten through it and done a great fucking job. Marc was recommended for Special Forces in just a few years. Marc’s superiors were already bringing him into the mission missions. The super classified ones. Somehow Jake had the sense that the mission missions were where Marc had met Jean-Paul. 

Marc loved the military. It was so structured. At any given moment somebody was telling him what to do and how to behave and what to think. He fucking loved that shit. All Marc had to do was whatever somebody told him to do, and he only had to worry about doing it right. And even when he did it wrong barely anything happened. 

For the first time in his life even the interpersonal stuff was easy. Marc just never said more than five words at a time. Man barely talked. He accepted every invite to every bar crawl, so he didn’t look standoffish or cold or anything - which had just been a side effect of Marc’s constant desire to be in a bar crawl - and he stayed out of everybody’s way. Nobody had any opinion on Marc and Marc had no opinion on anybody. The only thing people knew about Marc was that he was very good at hurting people.

People didn’t know anything about Jake. But they knew he was good at hurting people. Jake wasn’t sure if he liked the military or not. He had never really stopped to think about it. Liking or disliking a situation never changed the situation. 

But Jake liked sitting with Jean-Paul. He liked listening to Jean-Paul go into way too much detail about the manufacturing origins of random rivets in the ceiling, and how if it was made in France it wasn’t real Imperialism, just sparkling racism. It was nice. 

His name was Jean-Paul, right? He hadn’t misheard that? It wasn’t Zahn-Paul? He didn’t know French names. But it had to be too late to ask, right?

Whatever. The question dissipated in his mind, dissolving in the vast waters of his consciousness, and Jake slowly nodded off as Frenchie’s voice softened into a distant cry from far away.

***

Marc shook awake.

A warm, heavy hand was on his shoulder, and Marc shrugged it off before he even opened his eyes. He had a fuzzy, uncomfortable headache, and his mouth tasted like something died in it. Was he hungover? What -

“Jake? We’re here.”

Oh. Jean-Paul. Cool, Jake’s problem. Marc could go back to -

Marc’s eyes flew open.

Jean-Paul was standing next to him, expression inscrutable. Marc was sitting in the co-pilot chair of - what was this, a Search and Rescue helicopter? If he looked out the window he could see the extremely boring expanse of the aircraft runway around them, screams blaring in the distance as planes landed and took flight. 

Marc tried to say something, but his tongue was too fuzzy and gross. His head hurt. Something smelled like dried blood, and Marc knew it was him. 

“Come on, let’s go,” Jean-Paul said. “Chop chop. We are getting you out of this base and we are doing it as quickly as possible.”

Marc groaned, pushing his head up. He rubbed at his eyes, battling the hammer behind his eyes. “Jean-Paul, I have a killer headache…”

Jean-Paul froze, eyes widening. “Marc?”

Why the surprise? Who else would it - 

Jake.

A tidal wave of ice washed over Marc’s body. His heart plummeted into his stomach. No. The last thing he remembered was feeling like he was about to die, fighting for his life and praying to himself. No, no, no -

“Fuck,” Marc said softly, yet with immense feeling.

“Oh, good. You’re back.” Jean-Paul smiled pleasantly at him. Something in it was unbelievably threatening. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Marc opened his mouth, then closed it. Weakly, he said, “They were shooting at me…”

 “As I said. We are getting out of this base and we are doing it as quickly as possible.”

Fuck. 

***

Thirty minutes later Marc sat in a peeling and moldy coffee house in the outskirts of the nearest city, staring desolately at the cup of coffee in front of him and slowly coming to terms with his fate. And crushing embarrassment. 

Jean-Paul wasn’t making fun of him, so that was something. Marc would just die if Jean-Paul started making fun of him. He was so cool. He was the coolest person Marc had ever met. Criminally cool. He was ridiculous and incredibly weird, but he was cool. And he was, like, thirty. So he was an adult adult. Marc couldn’t believe that he voluntarily hung out with him. But he was also kind of a loser, so maybe he just didn’t have anybody better to hang out with. Marc sure didn’t.

The coffee house was dim, dust stinging Marc’s nostrils. The only sound was a buzzing radio playing yet another repetitive Arabic pop song, masking the sounds of clanging from the kitchen. Old men in sandals and old women in headscarves sleepily nodded over their newspaper, blinking sleep out of their eyes.

“That obnoxious sergeant of yours is going to start wondering where we are in a few hours, we don’t have much time.” Jean-Paul took a long sip of his own coffee, somehow with an air of martyr-like tolerance. It was hard to tell if it was of the coffee or of Marc. “Marc, I realize that this is likely a very sensitive topic for you.” Marc grimaced. “Of course, I am not necessarily entitled to any private health information you may have. You aren’t required to tell me anything about what just happened.”

Marc perked up. Escape? Escape from personal conversation? “Really?”

“No. What the fuck, Marc?”

Marc hunched defensively over his coffee, picking at the peeling linoleum circular table with one fingernail. “We had it handled, okay? Literally no other pilot on the base would have noticed or cared that I was acting weird.”

“Unluckily for you, I was the one who insisted on the rescue mission,” Jean-Paul said shortly, and Marc winced. “So I was the pilot who found you. It is a miracle you survived that ambush. I had little hopes for your survival.” Marc winced again. Yeah, neither had he. “And I find you in a ring of that -”

“Jake gets carried away,” Marc muttered. Boy, did he get carried away sometimes. It was a problem. One that Jake always left Marc to clean up. “He didn’t mean nothing by it.” 

“Carried away doing what?” 

Marc drank his coffee. 

Jean-Paul sighed, not so much exasperated as overwhelmed. It made guilt twist in Marc’s stomach. Jake could barely hold a conversation for five minutes, much less for hours. He had to have been a terror. “Why does a firefight make you believe you are a teenager? You need to help me understand, Marc.”

Make him believe he’s a - “Don’t be ridiculous,” Marc said shortly. “I know I’m not a teenager. Jesus, Jean-Paul. Jake’s the teenager, not me.” Jean-Paul slotted him an unimpressed look at him, as if he was being purposefully obtuse. Marc realized a few seconds later that it might seem as if he was being purposefully obtuse. “Look, man, I’m just…” Marc swallowed,  mouth dry. He had chugged two bottles of water and he was still parched. Some stains never faded. “I’m just sick in the head. Okay? That what you wanted to hear?”

Jean-Paul lowered his cup, expression creasing. “Marc…”

Marc leaned back in his seat, trying hard to control his own feelings. His own guilt and shame. “I’m crazy. And I’m good at hiding it, so people don’t know. That’s it. Sorry you had to find out.” He paused a beat. “And sorry you were locked in a helicopter with Jake for hours. He’s annoying as fuck.”

“I happen to like Jake,” Jean-Paul said mildly, shocking Marc to his core. “He has his charms. As do you. The greatest charm about you, Marc, is that you are far from an ordinary person. None of this changes my opinion about you.”

Marc couldn’t help but snort. He knew it was an ugly, mean sound. Marc was an ugly and mean person. Just another one of his infinite charms. 

Please. All he had going for him was a pretty face. And obviously Jean-Paul didn’t give a shit about that, so fucking mystery why he was hanging around.

“Good thing I picked out the one place where everyone pats you on the back for being good at killing things, I guess,” Marc said sourly. “My one fucking talent.”

“Good at - you were seventeen, Marc, you said you’d never shot a gun before. Why would you chase down a profession that encourages death?” Jean-Paul was sounding increasingly incredulous. Bet your opinion’s changing now, Duchamp. “What does this have to do with Jake?”

“It was the only place I fit,” Marc said. “That’s it. The only place Jake could belong. We’re just meant for stuff like this.”

Jean-Paul leaned forward, watery blue eyes sparking with intensity, but Marc only felt tears pricking at his own eyes. Marc would rather die than be like his idiot squadmates, but he was jealous of them a lot. 

A couple of them were bad people. Bad like Marc was bad. Bad in a lot of ways that Marc wasn’t bad. But it didn’t bother them. They didn’t need a damn fifteen year old boy to fight their battles for them. They could do everything Marc needed Jake to do all by themselves, and they could even laugh about it later. Marc couldn’t do that. Jake could handle anything, but there was a lot of stuff that even Jake wouldn’t do. They didn’t feel this way. 

But Jean-Paul didn’t hang out with them. 

“Marc,” Jean-Paul said, “you have to help me understand. Why does Jake exist?”

He didn’t understand what kind of question that was. How it was a question that stuck a hand into your mouth and ripped out the worst thing you had ever done. Maybe he didn’t know mental illnesses that well. But that thought felt wrong - Jean-Paul knew everything about everything, he couldn’t not know. Maybe he was just a normal person who assumed that whatever Marc had to say couldn’t be that bad.

But Marc wanted to tell him. That was the worst part. Was he allowed to tell him? Would Jake be alright with that? He stretched back into his mind, groping around for Jake, but he couldn’t feel him. It was their usual, but it was still aggravating. Why is it that Jake could always pipe up when he wanted Marc to eat that gummy bear on the ground or sneak into that abandoned building, but when Marc would actually like his input - 

Jean-Paul said that Jake confessed who he was. Maybe that was input enough.

Hesitatingly, every word forced out through a clenched throat, Marc said, “I was Jake’s age. When I was Jake’s age, something…um, happened. And Jake took care of it for me. Didn’t really get it at the time…I just kinda felt him sometimes. Wasn’t really Jake, just…this feeling. Stepping inside of me.” Marc felt his hand drift up to clench at his shirt, just over his heart. “Two years later, something…” He hadn’t intended to say it. Everything else had been hard to say. But this came out so easily. “Jake put Mama in the Urgent Care clinic. I remember - sitting in that waiting room. Thinking - I had done that. That it was me. Then I realized it wasn’t. It had been Jake. And he introduced himself.”

Steven had not been happy. Steven had been really unhappy. Everybody had been unhappy. Battered woman and a battered kid show up at an emergency care clinic and everybody’s eyes turn to Dad. Mandated reporter his ass. Where were the mandated reporters for the last eight years?

Dad had tried telling them. That was the fuck of it. The first and only time Dad had ever spoken up about it. And it all made them double down even harder on blaming Dad. Marc had hated Dad his entire goddamn life for never saying shit to anybody, but at that moment he had wondered if he had ever tried. If he had been laughed out of the office. Women must have the right to do whatever they want to their families. 

They had enlisted two weeks later. Dad hadn’t stopped him. 

Steven couldn’t make sense of any of it. He had been so confused, completely incapable of reconciling the way he understood the world with its reality. He fell back into his ‘knowing what the fuck was happening’ state, and at least those times usually meant Marc wasn’t alone, but now Jake was here and Steven fucking hated Jake. Steven hated him. Every time another CPS guy came to the door Steven would start yelling at Jake, who would just start yelling about how they need to kill the CPS guy too, then the CPS guy would see the fingernail marks in the wardrobe door, and Marc would start having a meltdown. So they left, and the CPS problem solved itself.

Things became very difficult with Steven, and then Steven left. Guess he couldn’t have Steven and Jake at the same time. That was just how things were.

Jean-Paul stared at him. Marc took a long drag of his coffee, hiding his face. Jean-Paul sipped his coffee too, but he didn’t look away from Marc. Marc’s neck prickled. 

Finally, Jean-Paul said, “Who else have you hurt?”

Marc ducked his head, scratching at the back of his hand.

“Marc, I am deciding whether or not I should report this.” Marc’s head jumped up, heart leaping in his chest, but Frenchie didn’t change his expression. “Those bodies were shredded. If you are telling me that you cannot predict or control this -”

“He’s not random!” Marc hissed. His heart was leaping in his chest, heavy and hot. “Jake does it to protect me! He doesn’t front unless somebody’s trying to kill me, Jean-Paul, don’t blame him for that. It’s my fault, I’m the one always getting him into these stupid - it’s my fault, leave him alone!”

Jean-Paul jerked backwards, shocked, and Marc realized far too late the implications of what he said. 

Well, whatever. He already knew Marc’s worst secret anyway. The bar was already on the floor. Jean-Paul was annoyingly observant, and he had understood automatically what Marc had meant. What had happened.

“Jean-Paul,” Marc said. “If you report me, I’ll have to go back there.”

Jean-Paul was lost, raging in conflict. Marc could see it. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Marc had always known this would happen. He’d been with the military for four years, and he worried about being found out every second. There were plenty of things wrong with him other than Jake. Two or three dissociative episodes at the wrong moment and he knew he’d be out on his ass. It had always been a risk. 

Just didn’t think it would be fucking Jean-Paul who sold him out. Marc was a fucking idiot for trusting anybody. Watch him do that again. So stupid. 

But when Jean-Paul spoke again, it was almost random. “You have been sitting here trying to convince me you are some sort of amoral killer. Jesus, Marc, I’ve had so many shocks today I would have almost believed you.”

Almost? He wasn’t - “It’s true,” Marc said harshly, throat tightening. “I keep getting into fights and Jake keeps finishing them. He destroys everybody.”

“You mean you keep having to defend yourself? Is that your sin? Why would you tell me that you attacked your mother and not mention that she tried to kill you first?” Marc ducked his head, hunching his shoulders. “In a situation like this, why would you try and make yourself sound as bad as possible?”

This was such a stupid thing to get hung up over, but that was Jean-Paul for you. “It was my fault anyway.”

“What was your fault?” Marc stayed silent. Jean-Paul was looking increasingly bewildered and three times as stressed out. “Your fault that your mother tried to kill you?”

“She wasn’t gonna,” Marc muttered. “Just felt like it…”

Marc had never told anybody about Mom before. Strictly speaking, he hadn’t actually told Jean-Paul. Wasn’t his fault Jean-Paul had added two plus two. It was unbelievably strange to talk about Mom this way with his mouth to anybody but Dad or the others. He had imagined it sometimes - a lot of times, that one year he had a History teacher who really loved Steven - but he had never quite imagined this. He was familiar with the shame, but this was just embarrassment. 

Marc scratched the back of his hand, fingernail digging into the skin. “Jean-Paul, I don’t want to talk about this…”

It was only then that Jean-Paul subsided, quite potentially realizing that people didn’t really like giving play by plays of shit childhoods. He just stared at Jean-Paul instead, long and unhappy, and Marc let the shame and guilt and fear curdle in his stomach until it turned his gut sour and aching.

“Christ,” Jean-Paul said finally, as if this was any kind of decision at all. “Christ, christ, christ…” 

“Are you going to report me or not?” Marc snapped. “At least let me do it myself so it looks voluntary.”

“I’m not going to report you,” Jean-Paul said empathetically, and Marc stopped short. He ran a finger through his neat hair, looking a little wild. “Nobody is going to find out about this. Nobody. Marc, does the military have a copy of your mental health records?”

“I never went to the doctor?”

“Fucking American healthcare…lucky for us, then.” ‘Us’? “Here is what we are going to do, then. Can Jake hear us?”

“He doesn’t hang out much. I can write stuff down for him later.”

“Good enough. Do you have an emergency contact?” Marc slowly shook his head. “From now on that’s me. From now on, whenever Jake fronts or even comes close to fronting, you call me. That includes another amnesia bout, Marc. Anything happens, I need you or Jake to call me, and I will come as soon as possible to sort things out.” He paused a beat, something clearly occuring to him. “Is Jake why you’re always waking up two hundred miles from camp? You said it was sleepwalking.” Marc shrugged innocently. “Fantastic. Well, please stress to Jake the severity of the situation. Can he understand the necessity of that?”

“He gets it.” Mostly. He would probably have a little more trouble with the ‘asking for help’ portion of the plan, but Marc knew he would have trouble too. “Jean-Paul, this really isn’t…”

“If you are going to end that sentence with ‘necessary’, I will dump coffee on your head.” What a great friend. “It is very dangerous to be at risk of zoning out on the field. There is a reason we send the men with uncontrollable PTSD home. And with a situation like Jake in the mix! Marc, he does not seem completely capable of understanding what he does.”

“Handy,” Marc muttered, “isn’t it.”

“I would expect so.” Jean-Paul rubbed his forehead, eyeing the cup of turgid coffee balefully. “But dangerous nonetheless. Even if he is safe in the field, he may not be safe with other people or in unfamiliar places.” 

It was true. Jake had no idea when to keep walking or who to avoid. Gullible, too. He was trusted too easily. He did just fine when Marc was there, but Marc couldn’t always be there. “If you’re there it’ll be familiar,” Marc said, almost as exhausted as Jean-Paul, “so fine. We’ll call. I’ll make sure Jake calls you too.” He paused a second, almost uncertain. Jake hadn’t said it in so many words, but… “He likes you. He thinks you’re smart.”

“Oh?” Jean-Paul straightened, unreasonably pleased. Any guy with a helicopter didn’t have to work very hard to make a jock fifteen year old boy like him, Jean-Paul. “I can’t believe I won his approval before I won yours.”

Helicopter. But Marc flushed a little and took a long sip from his coffee anyway. “I never said I didn’t like you.”

“But you’ve never said you liked me!”

“I don’t say shit like that.”

“Because you don’t like anyone.”

“Because I’m a guy,” Marc stressed. “Guys aren’t like that. We just, like, know. One of these days you’re gonna have to figure out how to be a guy right, Frenchie.”

“I assure you that many people have attempted to mold me into a correct man and they have all failed quite flamboyantly.” Frenchie paused a beat. “I’m sorry. Frenchie?”

Marc, of course, got a medal over the whole thing. For valor. Surviving the death of every squadmate and beating off 30 ‘terrorists’ was apparently cool or something. Marc wasn’t certain what he had done that was so valourous, but whatever.

Only twenty one, his superiors said, and going so far. 

Frenchie got kind of annoying. He was so weirdly overprotective, like some ridiculous French mother hen. Marc blamed Jake. Jake loved Frenchie. He was the only human being Jake would voluntarily stick around. When they were on different deployments and went months without seeing each other, Jake would literally make Marc call him so he could front and tell Frenchie about his video games or something. And Frenchie was stupid about him too. You had to really like a guy to let him keep calling you Francito. Or Frenchie. 

Yeah. Marc went so far. He was the real pride and joy of the Special Forces. He sure did make something of himself.

“I have a bedroom,” Frenchie said, like some kind of fucking asshole. “Three! Three bedrooms in a house I barely use. We’ll get you a Green Card, it’ll be -”

“I’m not a pet, Frenchie!” Marc snapped, and the line fell silent. “I don’t need your damn pity! I’m not an invalid, I can do this on my own!”

“I truly do hate Americans,” Frenchie said, reception crackling in the shitty apartment he was going to lose in two weeks, and Marc could almost see his sneer. “You were denied VA disability, SSI, mental health treatment, and any vocational support. But you don’t need any of it, because you can do it all on your own and you are much too good for any help.”

“I’ll find a job -”

“You’ve found five and you can’t keep any of them,” Frenchie said mercilessly, and Marc winced. “You went from your parent’s home to the military and now you are twenty five with no skills but military work and no idea how to pay a bill. Your pride is admirable, Marc, but you are being stubborn. Stay with me as long as you need to and we can work something out. Shock of shocks, France even has healthcare. You can get treatment for once in your life.”

Screaming echoed from the apartment above his head, and Marc had gathered five pieces of furniture in five months, and the cabinets were empty, and -

“I’ll be fine,” Marc said. “I’m always fine. I can take care of myself.”

“Can Jake take care of himself?” Frenchie snapped, and Marc cringed. “He is still a child. You think he does not deserve a safe place to live? Any consistency? You may be able to live happily bouncing between motels, but Jake cannot. What will you do if he gets scared and hurts somebody? Marc, you aren’t thinking -”

Marc hung up on him. He didn’t throw the phone at the wall, even though he wanted to. He couldn’t afford a new phone.

Later that day, as Marc struggled to figure out how to unclog a garbage disposal, Jake pulled forward into the co-pilot’s seat. He was down too. Jake had blamed himself for the discharge. It wasn’t his fault. Well, it was, but Marc was the adult here. It was Marc’s responsibility. He was the one who fucked things up for them.

Hey, we haven’t called Frenchie in a bit. Can - 

“We are not calling Frenchie,” Marc snapped. “He’s a fucking asshole and we’re done with him.”

Okay, fine, decide that for me. Great. You are definitely in charge of who I talk to. Just in case Marc had not picked up on the sarcasm, Jake felt the need to add, Asshole. 

“I know I can’t take care of you,” Marc yelled, and Jake recoiled back. “I know it, I know it, I know it!”

He sat on his kitchen floor, cheap Walmart tools scattered around him and a garbage disposal half-disassembled in front of him, and cried from a deep well of pure hate. He hated garbage disposals and bills and cooking. He hated Frenchie and he hated himself and sometimes he hated Jake and Steven. 

But sitting on the floor, fighting tooth and nail to figure something out that somebody should have fucking taught him, Marc hated Mom and Dad most of all. But that was nothing new. 

Jake had never once listened to Marc in his life, and was so reliable about doing the opposite of what Marc said that reverse psychology almost always worked. Jake called Frenchie two days later, squinting at the DMV website and desperately trying to figure out how to obtain any of the paperwork necessary to renew their expired ID when their parents had their birth certificate. 

“Are you guys fighting?” Jake asked, completely giving up and going back to reddit. “Marc’s gotta stop assuming I’m siding with him during fights. He’s, like, always wrong.”

“We’re not fighting,” Frenchie sighed. He didn’t sound mad at Jake - even when he was mad at Marc he never acted mad at Jake, which was very chill of him - but he did sound weirdly worn out. “I’m just disagreeing with some of his decisions and he is being very stubborn about it.”

“So the usual?” Jake clicked aimlessly around the site, but his heart really wasn’t in it. They would probably end up spending the night watching TV again. Marc mostly just watched TV. Jake was stuck cleaning the body and apartment and all that. And job hunting, but fuck him if he knew how that worked. He was watching YouTube videos on it. YouTube knew everything. “I don’t know, Frenchie. He’s really stressed out. And…like, I dunno. I have to brush the teeth. I don’t mind, but…” Jake faltered. The entire situation made his gut twist strangely. They were uncomfortable on a primal level - never quite at rest, never quite secure. “We’re losing the apartment, and I don’t really know where we’re going to live…”

“Jesus Christ,” Frenchie said.

Two weeks later, as Marc dumped his backpack of possessions in a new motel room, Frenchie called Marc again. 

“I have a job for you,” Frenchie said, in what may have been his version of an apology. God, had Jake called him? Jake always broke the picket line. “And you’ll be able to keep this one no problem.”

“Steven’s not going to accidentally take me for any walks?” Marc asked unhappily. It wasn’t Steven’s fault - he couldn’t talk with either of them, never even knew where he was - but…

“It’ll be no issue,” Frenchie assured him. “You know how I’ve been running some jobs here and there after I quit my work with the French Special Ops?”

“Yeah? You haven’t said shit about it.”

“They’re classified,” Frenchie said. Marc would later learn this meant illegal. “But they are a great deal of fun. You’ll have a blast. And I’ll be there, so you won’t be up to any trouble.”

“Fine, fine. Stop it with the hard sell.” As if he had a fucking choice. Damn it. “What’s the job?”

“You know your old CO Bushman?”

Not as well as he thought he did. 

It wasn’t a better environment for Jake, but it was the only one that Marc could give him. He was happy with it, anyway. He got antsy without a good fight. Frenchie frequently pointed this out whenever Marc half-heartedly vocalized wanting to quit. Jake was happy, their bank account was very happy, the life was unbelievably fun and exciting, Frenchie was graced with his best friend���s presence - what wasn’t there to love? 

“Baruch ha-Shem,” Marc said loudly, pressing his hands together. “I have ascended to the level of best friend. I thought I would be your annoying primo forever.” 

“I do not view us as familial,” Frenchie had said, even louder and weirdly panicked. Everybody around them used the ‘brother’ word, but Frenchie was polite enough to roll with primo. Brother was for Jake and Roro. Frenchie could share best friend with Steven, if he really had to. But he was behind Steven. “Not really - Jake is quite primo! Very familial about Jake. But I am honored to have you as a fantastic best friend -”

“Okay?”

“Not that you were not somewhat primo-ish when we first met,” Frenchie added, despite not really needing to add anything. “Not best friend, more in primo direction. However, things have - you’re much older, and I am not much wiser - wow, is that the new shipment of sniper rifles?”

“Shit, for real?!”

Frenchie was happy. And it wasn’t too bad. Apparently Marc had actually become terrifying in a fight. Jake kept looking for people who could beat them in a hand to hand fight, dragging himself through that endless quest he assigned himself the moment he was discovered, and the stream slowly began drying up. Marc had no preference between anything anymore. 

But it wasn’t the normal life Marc had wanted for Jake and Steven. He needed to save up as much money as possible, to keep them going as long as he could in case he never figured out how to hold down a real job, but after long years streaming through his fingers he had finally built up a sizable nest egg. A nest egg that grew bigger and bigger as Frenchie always convinced him to stay for one more payout. 

“This is it,” Marc said. “This is the last one. This is it.”

“I promise! I promise, that is exactly what I said.” Frenchie held a hand up, perfectly imitating the weirdest boy scout of all time. “Look, it’s perfectly pacifist. There’s even academics involved. You’ll be all finished afterwards.”

“All finished,” Marc said. “Right.”

It had been his last chance to leave that life. He hadn’t taken it - too concerned over money and boredom and bloodlust. There would be no more chances, no more opportunities. No way to ever give Jake or Steven a normal life. No backing out. No time for regrets. 

At least Jake was happy with Khonshu. He always got antsy without a good fight. If they had nothing else, they had that.

“I like it,” Jake had assured Marc, white gloves dripping with blood. “It’s fun. I feel like Desmond Miles.”

I don’t even know who that is, Marc had said, exhausted. I can’t keep up with all of your video games. 

“Fortnite is not complicated -”

He was happy. They had that. And they had each other. There was that too.

There was rarely anything more. 

******

After two sleepless nights clutching an engagement band, Marc decided to tell her.

It had obviously been a mutual decision. Half of each sleepless night was spent in the mindspace - not so much arguing furiously as arguing together against that looming terror. Jake kept on telling Marc that he had the final say, since it was his girlfriend, and Marc kept telling Jake that he had the final say, since the situation was technically about him. 

Marc had hesitated. That had cinched it. Layla had knelt in front of him, holding that ring and looking at him as if she was everything good in her world. He had hesitated, tensing away, and she had seen it. Her face had fallen. Her hand had begun to drop.

He never wanted to put that look on her face again. He never wanted to let that thought roost in his chest again - ‘if you knew about Jake, you wouldn’t be saying this’. The fear and hesitation, because it had been actively difficult to hide Jake from her in the past four years, and the thought of continuing that for the rest of their likely short lives seemed exhausting. Maybe if it had been easier to hide him, maybe if the task hadn’t seemed so insurmountable - but as it stood, the only way she would never find out was if she left his life. And Marc didn’t want that. He wanted something again, and he didn’t want that. 

Everything else he could hide. The things he’d done that she would never forgive - Roro, hurting his mother - could be hidden. The things that couldn’t come out of his throat could stay in his chest. But if she left him because of Jake, then fuck her anyway. 

He almost wanted her to. It would make the decision for him. 

Four days after she proposed, Marc mustered everything he had and laboriously typed out a text. He had tried telling her in person, but his throat had closed up so harshly it almost strangled him. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to have this conversation via semaphore. 

Marc: Can we talk when you get back from your mission? In the hotel room 8pm I will have takeout Indian

There. Great text. Awesome.

Layla: ok yeah sure

Layla: Anything bad?

Layla: ha ha 

Marc considered the matter. Jake was pretty terrible.

Marc: Yes, very bad.

Layla: ok cool 

Layla: we can’t have it over text?

Marc: No

Layla: see you then

Layla: love you

Layla: lol

Marc patted himself on the back. He was so great at fiance. 

When Layla came home, after five hours of her mission and five hours of him staring at the ceiling playing mental basketball with Jake, she was practically vibrating with stress. It made Marc antsy. For some reason he always got nervous when Layla was super stressed out. He tried to repress it.

“Okay,” Layla said loudly, dumping her singed backpack on the hotel bed, “if you’re going to break off the engagement just tell right now instead of beating around the bush.”

Marc stared at her, naan half-hanging out of his mouth.

Chew, dude. You’re so embarrassing.

Great. Backseat driving. Jake was almost never in the ‘cockpit’ while Layla was around, which suited Marc just fine. Jake had fought a few battles back-to-back with her - Layla had never noticed, far too concerned with more important things - but that was where their overlap ended. Jake probably didn’t have a real reason. He never hung out in the cockpit while anybody else was around either. Frenchie was the only exception. Constant backseat driving while Frenchie was around. Made for a few awkward team missions. 

He had to be here for this. Jake wasn’t happy with it. But apparently everybody was stressed. 

Marc gulped the naan, slowly pushing forward her steaming carton of Indian food across the small, rickety table towards her. He pointed at it. 

Layla squinted at him. “Is that an ‘I’m not breaking up with you’ or an ‘eat food before I break up with you?’.” Marc held up one finger, and Layla abruptly sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. “Oh, thank fuck.”

Had he worried her? Shit. Bad grade in fiance, Marc.

He waited until Layla had started digging into her own curry before swallowing the last mouthful of naan and speaking. “It’s the opposite. There’s something I…have to tell you.”

The stress returned. Instantly. “Oh my god, you’ve been cheating on me.”

“I don’t know any other women?”

“You don’t need to - that’s a no?” Marc slowly shook his head, and Layla exhaled again. “Marc, please just say it and stop giving me a heart attack.”

Easy for her to say. Marc picked at the edges of the file folder next to him, forcing himself to keep his heart rate steady. This was more terrifying than a warzone. Love could be war, he guessed. 

He had written this out. It was written in small, messy script on a sheet of lined paper ripped from a spiral notebook. It was in the folder, and he could take it out and read from it if he needed to. He had memorized it and could probably recite it backwards and forwards, but it was there if he needed it. 

Layla noticed how tense he was. Somewhere along the way she had learned his language, learned how to speak every word Marc never said, and she understood him in a backwards and forwards way that almost frightened Marc. She had seen the good and bad and ugly in him, and she had still held up a ring and asked him to show her the rest. She didn’t know what she was asking for. She didn’t know how ugly it was. 

“Marc? What is it?”

A twisting and putrid part of Marc wanted this to be the final straw. He wanted her to leave him over this. He wanted it to be simple, and he wanted her to make the decision for him. Why did he always want the worst things possible to happen? Just to get it over with?

Slowly, haltingly, Marc spoke.

“We agreed years ago that we don’t need to tell each other everything. You said that you trusted me to tell you anything important, and - and I trust you. But there’s something important I haven’t told you. I didn’t tell you earlier because this is a really private thing for us, but I don’t want to start off our marriage by fighting to hide something.” He faltered a second, and found himself saying words that weren’t in the script. “I don’t want to keep acting like he’s some dirty secret. It’s not fair to him.”

“Oh my god,” Layla said, in slow and mounting horror, “you have a baby.”

“Okay, fuck this.” Marc grabbed the folder next to him and slammed it on the table in front of her, ignoring the way she leaned away. “Read it. That’s it. No babies necessary.”

No, this is good. The bar’s going on the floor here. Give her a few more worst case scenarios, this is going great. 

Layla flipped open the folder. She read the headline of the first print-out. Her eyebrows climbed. Marc buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t watch this.

He heard the soft sounds of paper sliding as Layla flipped through the folder. Frenchie’s idea. It was all pages from websites he’d printed out. What it was, what it looked like, all of that stuff. There was a handwritten list of books that he recommended too. Marc had angrily vetoed all of the ones about childhood trauma. That wasn’t her business, and he didn’t have to talk about it. Jake himself was bad enough. 

They sat in silence for what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Jake was silent. Marc couldn’t speak if he wanted to.

Finally, Layla said, “Thank you for trusting me with this, Marc.”

Tension drained from his body, and Marc looked up at her. She looked - she didn’t look like she was mad at him. Or like she thought he was a freak. Her eyebrows were furrowed, and she was looking intently at him, but she wasn’t - Christ. 

“Are you mad I didn’t tell you earlier?” Marc asked weakly.

Layla flipped over another page, landing on a section on etiology. “I get it. You’re telling me now because it’s my last chance to back out of our relationship, right?” Marc nodded. Layla’s eyes sharpened, and she nodded firmly back. “This doesn’t change anything. We’ll figure it out together.” She halted, something occurring to her. “Khonshu’s not…”

“Not what?”

“He’s not…like…” Layla grappled with something before giving up. “Khonshu’s not a…personality, right?”

“What? Khonshu’s an actual god. Seriously? No.”

“The Weapon of Justice thing is completely unrelated to the DID?”

“Completely unrelated,” Marc said. “And if Khonshu was an alter I’d kill myself.”

When you think about it…

“I mean,” Layla hedged, “you’re certain…”

“Mental illness did not give me immortality, Layla.” 

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, that was - that was dumb.” Layla stopped short, finger lingering on a section Marc had highlighted on other symptoms. “I thought all of this was the PTSD.”

“Bit hard to differentiate,” Marc said grimly. Dissociation was dissociation, wasn’t it? There wasn't a special PTSD flavor and special DID flavor. Maybe. “I told you I’ve been living with the PTSD for a while.”

“Looks like it,” Layla said softly. She was back on the etiology page. Move the fuck on. Why won’t anybody move on from that? He wished he could have told her everything but that part. If he could share Jake and Steven with her - just Jake and Steven - then he would have told her years ago. But Jake and Steven raised too many questions, and the answers were only words he couldn’t say. “Marc, whatever happened -”

“That’s not on the table,” Marc said harshly, and Layla quieted. “We aren’t talking about that.” 

“Are you -”

“It’s not important and we aren’t talking about it.” She was probably drawing conclusions. Whatever. She could do whatever she wanted. “Look, I just - I knew I couldn’t hide it from you. So now you know. If you meet Jake, then you meet Jake. Just leave him alone. He won’t want to talk to you. That’s it. Now you know, alright?”

“And let me guess,” Layla said dryly, “we’re never speaking about this again?” Marc had, in fact, been under the impression that they would never have to speak about it again. “I’m sorry, Marc, but I don’t want to ignore this. Ignoring this means ignoring you. You keep on asking me to just ignore all of your PTSD symptoms, and it kills me to see you in pain when you won’t let me do anything about it. I want to make things easier for you.” Marc squinted at her. “What? I can be emotionally available if I want!”

“Frenchie tried telling you about his breakup and you bolted out of the room,” Marc said dubiously. “You hate feelings.”

“I hate Frenchie’s feelings.” She might just hate Frenchie. “I love your feelings.” She might just love him. The thought was warming. “Even the ones you don’t like as much. Okay?” She faltered a little, uncertain. Marc was uncertain too. Maybe married people felt everything together. The thought was terrifying. “Can you tell me about Jake? Is that his name?”

Could she tell him about Jake? What was there to say? What wasn’t there to say?

Could he tell her about Jake’s ridiculous hats, his video game obsession? The way he loved to drive even though Marc never let him? How fucking humiliating it was that Marc had to let a fifteen year old fight his battles for him? Marc didn’t know if there was a ‘supposed to’ or ‘should’ in this situation, but he was reasonably sure that younger alters shouldn’t have to protect the older ones. He should be the one protecting Jake. Jake, who had a thing for Lord of the Rings that was terrible for their bank account.

Could he begin to tell her about the first time Jake saved his life? Fifth, tenth, fifteenth? About how Jake put the bottles down for him and flushed away the pills? When Marc was twenty five he would wake up randomly to see every razor in the house in the trash and Jake sullen. That wasn’t the kind of thing he knew how to tell her. 

Marc couldn’t decide. He couldn’t pick one thing out of infinity to tell her. It was better just not to say anything. “Nothing to say. You won’t have to meet him. Don’t worry about it.”

Layla set her jaw. Stubborn Layla face. Uh oh. “What if I want to meet him?”

“You don’t,” Marc said dully. “He’s annoying.”

“You’re annoying and I like talking to you,” Layla said, faux-sweetly. Marc flipped her off. “You don’t have to, Marc. But I would like to. It’s like…” Layla grappled for some sort of comparison to ‘meeting your fiance’s DID alter’ before brightening. “Meeting your parents! I never met your parents. This can be like that.” She paused again, the etiology of DID marching through her head. “Oh. Bad comparison.”

At least she knew why they were no contact now. Small favors. Very pointedly, Marc said, “I don’t know. What does Jake think?”

“I don’t - oh! You’re talking to him!”

We agreed we’d probably end up meeting eventually, Jake said warily. He was just as uncomfortable with the conversation as Marc was, if not five times as much. We should…

Marc pressed his lips together and projected loudly. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. 

Jake was silent for a long moment. It was rare for him to stop and think about things. He didn’t have a lot of impulse control and he had a lot of impulses. He could be canny and clever when he wanted to be, and surprisingly tricky and subtle. But mostly he was just a punk.

Finally, he said, Yeah, alright. Fine. You’re forgetting to mention something. Marc winced. Nuh uh. I’m not hiding that. I like my age, you can get over yourself about it.

“There’s one last thing,” Marc said haltingly, and Layla perked up. “I…Jake, he’s…”

Nope. Couldn’t say it. He reached over and moved aside a few pages in the pages in the folder, finding a page that described Littles. He tapped on it. 

“Oh,” Layla said, reading. “Oh. Oh! That’s…that’s alright!”

“I know it’s weird,” Marc said dully. “It’s just the way it is.”

“That’s fine,” Layla said, even more resolute than before. At least she had already realized she was going to run into some stuff she found weird or uncomfortable. Layla was sharp.  “I - uh, I get it. Looks like they mostly come out in therapy.” Left unsaid: which Marc definitely does not go to. “No problem, don’t feel pressured.”

“I don’t. And you’re right. He doesn’t front much. Mostly just -” When they were in fights. “ - with Frenchie.” Layla shot him a scandalized look, and Marc smiled apologetically. “They’re friends.”

“Frenchie knew - Jake! Jake’s that friend Frenchie mentions! Jake’s that mutual friend you two have! Shit!” Layla was looking increasingly outraged. “Now I have to meet him, Marc!”

What’s her deal? 

“She gets really competitive about Frenchie,” Marc said to the floor. Let her hear this one. “I still don’t understand why.”

“You don’t get that he’s annoying,” Layla hissed. “I can’t believe he has this up on me.”

“What, is there a score system?” Marc asked, alarmed. “Over what?” Hermano, you’re dense. “What do you mean dense?”

Layla giggled. “Sounds like Jake’s a smart kid.”

“He’s fifteen and he’s an idiot.” Something subtly untensed in Layla when he said that, although Marc didn’t really know why. A small child would probably be even weirder for her. “If Jake still wants to, then…”

“Tell him he needs to help me win over Frenchie,” Layla said, smiling. “Does he like games?”

“He loves them.” Marc squinted at the table, mentally reaching inside. “C’mon, Jake. Why don’t you tell her about your new Assassin's Creed?”

 “I’m very interested,” Layla assured him. 

It was sweet of her. Marc could still feel the discomfort deep within Jake. Marc stood up from the table, moving back to the beds and pulling out Jake’s favorite sweater. He found the sensation and weight comforting. He grabbed one of Jake’s fidget toys - the Infinity Cube, the one that drove Marc crazy - and moved to sit down on the floor in front of the coffee table. He beckoned Layla over, pulling the sweater over his head. 

“There. Feel better?” Don’t wear my sweater! “Then you wear your sweater.” Don’t put on my clothing, you are so invasive - “You wear my clothing all of the time, suck it up. Come on. It only has to be for a few seconds.” 

Layla walked over to sit cross-legged across from him, carefully watching him carefully. Marc gave her a grimace, running his fingers through his hair. 

“We don’t have to, Jake.”

Shut up. Fine. Move over.

“There we are,” Marc said. He glanced at Layla. “Give this a second.”

Marc let himself step away, detaching from the body and moving away from it. He felt Jake step in, reluctant and hesitant, and he gave him a push before settling out of the way.

Jake shook himself, immediately registering his sweater and the cube in his hands. That was the greatest amount of consideration Marc had shown for his comfort basically ever. He must really be serious about this. 

The second thing he registered was the woman in front of him. Layla, apparently. She had already noticed the switch, and Jake could see her fight to keep her expression blank and vaguely supportive. 

He had met Layla before. They’d even talked. He pretended to be Marc the whole time, and she hadn’t caught on. He knew that she was super beautiful, and that she had a kind face. Jake felt very safe with her, which could only be influenced by Marc - Jake himself didn’t relax around anybody but Frenchie. But she was looking at him now…him, Jake Lockley. It was overwhelming. He felt like a mouse stepping out of its burrow into the open field, neck pricking with the constant sensation that there was an owl waiting just out of sight to eat you. He didn’t have any knives in arm’s reach. There was the suit, but it was the principle of the thing. 

He was vulnerable. Jake didn’t really do vulnerable. Jake stepped in when Marc felt vulnerable (mostly Steven’s job, but somebody had been useless lately) and he made the whole vulnerability thing stop. He cut that shit out. Jake didn’t play with that.

He had never done this before. He didn’t know what to do.

Whatever. Layla was the adult here, she could figure it out. He applied his attention to the cube, flipping it around and greatly satisfying himself. These things rocked. The click was part of the charm, Marc.

“Jake?”

Layla’s voice was soft and gentle. It was a tone Marc only heard in the cold darkness in the depth of night, jolted awake by another nightmare. Layla soothed him then. She could do a lot of things for him that Jake couldn’t. Maybe they were a team like that. Even if she didn’t know it.

Jake didn’t look up from the fidget cube. Why did he have to be so socially awkward? What was he supposed to do here? When did you introduce yourself? She already knew his name. Was he still supposed to introduce himself? What was the point of saying his name if she already knew?

“Jake, do you know who I am?” Her voice was soft. It was nice. Nothing like Mom’s. Jake didn’t answer her anyway. “I’m Layla El-Faouly. I’m Marc’s fiancee.”

Jesus Christ. He didn’t live under a rock. As if Marc had shut up about that in the last four days. So obnoxious. Still, it solved the introduction issue. “Jake Lockley,” Jake said gruffly. Layla’s eyes widened. “Still dunno why you’re marrying that. You got bad taste, lady.”

“I’m marrying Marc because I love him.” Layla really did have a sweet voice. He liked it. “How do you feel about that?”

“It’s fine,” Jake said loftily. “Good for him or whatever. I can’t take care of him all by myself.”

When Jake sneaked a peek upwards to look at her, all he saw was Layla smiling at him. It wasn’t exactly a natural smile, but it wasn’t fake. Or it was fake in the good way. Whatever. “You take care of him? That’s really nice of you. How do you take care of him?”

“Oh my god, lady, talk to me like a normal person.”

Layla straightened, smile falling a little. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure -”

“You’re fine, it’s whatever. Good job flexing to Marc that you’re totally good with kids. You don’t gotta convince him, you know. Guy won’t shut up about Marc and Layla babies.” Layla immediately broke into frantic denials, which Jake completely ignored. “I take care of him by beating up goons. You seen me do it all the time. When Marc randomly turns into a badass, that’s me.”

Careful, Jake. Don’t tell her the extent. 

What happened to honesty? Whatever. Frenchie was still weird about the whole thing, so it was probably for the best.

“You help Marc fight?” Layla asked slowly - in the confused way, not in a condescending way. Mostly. “But he…”

“I just lend a hand.” There, was that vague enough? Jake wanted to flex about how good at killing people he was, but even he knew that it might upset Layla a little. “I beat up whoever’s hassling him. I’d beat up anybody who hassles him.” Jake focused intently on the cube, flipping it around and around. “If you hassle him I’ll beat you up too.”

Jake, don’t - 

Jake pushed Marc aside. He got this one. This was the whole reason he wanted to talk to her anyway. Layla started a bit before forcibly controlling herself and putting that reassuring voice back on. “I would never…hassle Marc. I love him very much, Jake.”

Jake snorted, twisting the cube around his finger. “That’s what they all say. I don’t care. If you touch him I’ll kill you. I’ll do it.”

“I promise I won’t hurt Marc, Jake,” Layla said quietly.

“That’s what Mamá said.” Flip, click, flip, click. “She was real nice and all that. Then she started hurting us. You’re nice too, lady. But if you start hurting Marc then I’m gonna hurt you back. Just like I did Mamá.”

Layla didn’t say anything. Jake kept Marc far away. He didn’t want him to hear this. If Jake had to do something then he didn’t want Marc to see it. 

Finally, she said, “If I hurt Marc, I would deserve that. Thank you for protecting Marc, Jake.” Jake snapped his head up, finally looking at the intense expression on Layla’s face. There was something sad in it. A lot of things sad. But a lot of it was nothing but firey intensity too. “From now on I’m going to help you protect him. Is that alright with you?”

Jake squinted at her. “I’m way better at it than you are.”

“Oh, no doubt about that. But I’d like to help anyway.”

Jake considered the matter thoroughly. Layla’s expression didn’t change. Finally, he announced, “That’s cool. I’m not good with his feelings. You can take care of that.”

“I’m not terribly good at his feelings either,” Layla said, straight faced.

“Then find something you are good at, damn.” He missed Steven. Steven did the feelings around here. They had a gap in their ecosystem. “And you gotta do what I say about Marc. I know him way better than anybody does.” He paused for a second, resolving that he should probably give her a fair shake. “Alright. I’ll loop you into the democratic process with me and Frenchie. We need a tiebreaker anyway.”

Layla smiled again, a bit fuller. “Democratic process?”

“We vote on what to do when Marc’s being dumb,” Jake said seriously. “You think he’s bad now? That’s after I’m done with him. It’s pathetic.”

“Then I am very glad you’re here.” Layla nodded, watching his seriousness, and Jake hastened to nod back. “Marc said you liked video games? Are you why Marc owns a Switch he never touches?”

“Uh, yeah.” Jake went back to the fidget cube, flipping it around with dexterity he knew the vast majority of people didn’t have. He didn’t really like Layla knowing about his things. He’d have to ask Marc to hide it later. “I’m done here.”

Layla blinked, a little thrown, but Jake was already checking out. Longest conversation he ever had with a non-Frenchie person as himself. Shit was exhausting. No wonder Marc was so grouchy and useless if he had to do this all day. 

“Alright, that’s - fine. It was nice to meet you, Jake.”

The fidget cube fell from Marc’s fingers, its alluring quality completely lost. He shucked the sweater quickly. He liked layers too, but Jake’s were oppressive. Man would live in coats if he could. 

“I blacked out a bit,” Marc said hurriedly. Dammit, Jake! “What’d he say? I am so sorry about him.”

“No need to apologize,” Layla said, so quickly that Marc knew Jake had said something completely inappropriate. Dammit, Jake! “I…can he hear us?”

“He’s gone. He’s tired.” It was amazing how he could fight thirty men without tiring, but a five minute conversation exhausted him. “He’s rarely listening in on us. Don’t worry about that.”

Layla sagged, the change as sudden and complete as Marc’s own. She propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands, carefully regulating her breathing. Marc stiffened, eyeing her carefully, and watched her dig her thumbs into her eyes.

“Marc, that was - that was very weird, Marc.”

Guilt squirmed in his stomach, writhing and slimy. “I’m sorry, I - I can’t really help it.”

“No! No, no, you’re fine.” Layla looked up, abruptly panicking a little, which only made Marc feel worse. “You’re completely fine. It’s not your fault. It was just weird seeing you - but that’s fine. I’ll get used to it super quickly. And you said that I shouldn’t see him a lot, so it’ll be fine.”

Somehow Marc had the sense that Jake’s relatively minimal presence in Layla’s life was a relief to her. He couldn’t blame her, but - 

It wasn’t as if Frenchie liked Jake’s existence for a while there either. She’d warm up to him. Or she’d just get used to it, which was effectively the same thing. 

“Did he say anything weird to you?” Marc asked. “I think I heard him threatening to beat you up…?”

“Just a shovel talk,�� Layla said quickly, making Marc groan. “It’s perfectly fine. He was just…setting some boundaries. It was sweet.” Layla hesitated a second, hand squeezing into a fist before she purposefully relaxed it. “He participates in Khonshu’s fights, doesn’t he?”

Marc bristled. “I don’t put him there. I don’t switch in fights voluntarily.”

“I know, Marc, but - how does Jake work when you’re Khonshu’s Avatar? Does Khonshu assign him missions too?”

Marc’s entire body coiled in tension, heart skittering for half a second, and Layla watched it warily. He hated Khonshu and Jake in the same sentence. Much less the same body. The same life. Marc’s life. He had opened the door and invited Khonshu in, and he hadn’t given a shit if it would hurt the kid who already lived in that home. Great fucking job, Marc. Great job. So much for giving Jake a life free of assholes. 

Jake knew Khonshu upset Marc. It frustrated him. He wanted to fight off any threat to the body, but Khonshu was one danger that Jake couldn’t do anything about. Best to just guarantee that Khonshu wouldn’t become a danger to Jake. It was even possible, thank god. 

“Khonshu’s a dick, but he’s not a monster. He has a connection with kids.” Marc quietly suspected it was part of the reason why he found Marc ‘a perfect fit’ - he had the aspect of a child, just like Khonshu did - but it was whatever. It wasn’t Jake’s fault. “He stays away from Jake and doesn’t interact with him unless I give permission.” Only fucking thing Marc had power over in that relationship.

“Wow,” Layla said, eyebrows jumping up. “Khonshu? Respecting boundaries? Didn’t know we could teach old birds new tricks.”

“I don’t think it’s a new trick.” Marc halted, grappling to find the right words for it. Khonshu’s…traditional. And godly families are strange. You know that they just create each other. Jake’s a part of us, but Khonshu might see him as somebody I created. Khonshu respects me as Jake’s parent. He doesn’t intrude on that.”

 A familiar look crossed Layla’s face - a look Marc only ever saw when they talked about Khonshu. “But your work with Khonshu still puts him in danger. That’s not…”

“It’s the best I can do,” Marc said, and Layla cut herself off. It wasn’t a conversation worth having, and it wasn’t something he particularly liked thinking about. “It works for us. This is the most I’m going to get, Layla. So is it a dealbreaker or not?”

Layla’s expression softened, and she leaned over the table to take his hand. Her hand fit so easily in his, calloused and strong and warm and gentle, and Marc wanted to curl up with her forever. He wanted to stop letting go. 

If that was true, then why did he want her to leave so badly? Why had some part of him wanted this conversation to end with her walking out the door? 

Fear that Layla would leave him wasn’t new. It had started about two weeks before they started dating, and the proposal hadn’t stopped it. Marc liked familiar fears. He could rest comfortably within them; organize his life around their presence and forget that they were there. He was only uncomfortable when a familiar fear wasn’t present - when a familiar presence became an unfamiliar absence, and it left a hole in Marc. He would find some way to drag that familiar fear back. He didn’t want to live without it.

The only thing worse than a life without that familiar fear was an unfamiliar fear. That was too much. That tipped him over the edge. It was unbearable. Fear for his life was familiar - fear for his own happiness was not. It terrified him. He wanted it to resolve itself, if only so he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. 

“Of course not, Marc,” Layla said, ruining them both. “I love you.”

“Great,” Marc said.

Great. 

******

Steven sat in a waiting room, tapping his foot. 

He had been waiting there a while. He was sure about that. Not very sure of much else, frankly. It didn’t bother him. Most things bothered Steven, but he was working on achieving serenity. He saw it in a self-help book at the grocery line once: the serenity to accept the things we could not change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

It seemed like helpful advice. There was a lot of stuff in Steven’s life he couldn’t change. He couldn’t do anything about his mean boss and rude coworkers, so it was best just to bear that. He was a little worse at finding things he could change. Download a Tinder, perhaps? A Grindr? Steven didn’t know if he was gay or not, but Grindr seemed a little overwhelming regardless. Strike the Grindr idea. Steven shouldn’t be allowed to make his own decisions.

Maybe he should focus on gaining the ‘wisdom to know the difference’ part right now. His entire life just felt like unchangeable and unpleasant things. Which was a horrible attitude! You never improved your life with an attitude like that. And life could be improved. That was an essential component of optimism. Steven was an optimist, so he had to remember that.

Steven was an optimist like he was a vegan, environmentalist, pacifist, Buddhist-In-Mindset-But-Jewish-In-Practice, and a Gemini: aspirationally, born from a conviction of the kind of person he wanted to be but without much direction on how to get there. Well, you couldn’t will yourself into becoming a Gemini when you were an Aquarius. But it was about the Gemini mindset. 

It was never too late to adopt a take-charge mindset. Waiting rooms were a great example of the ‘things you could not change’ category, but he could change if he was miserable about the whole thing. He just had to enjoy waiting rooms. It was about mindset. Just change how you think. Change the kind of person you are. Decide to enjoy waiting rooms. Once you got that down, then life was in top shape.

“You are such a loser.”

A teenager sat across from him, slouching on the molded plastic seat and kicking his trainers against the tile. He was wearing baggy canvas pants and a jumper that reached down to his thighs, sleeves pulled over his hands. The boy had a taller and stronger frame, but the hand-me-down clothing made him seem smaller and slighter. Somebody out there was not buying this lad the right sized clothing. Or maybe baggy clothing was just fashionable? Steven had read that in a magazine once.

“Ah,” Steven said, bursting with conviction to take charge of this situation and show rude teenagers who was boss, “I’m sorry?”

Utter failure. Expected at this point. Steven should just give up on this whole thing. He wouldn’t, but he should. 

The teenager scoffed at him, arms folded tightly against his chest. Steven deserved that. “You’re always so sorry. It won’t help you, you know.”

“Uh,” Steven said, left without conversational recourse if apologies were off the table. “I’ll…keep that in mind. Where are your parents, again?”

The teenager pointed forwards, and Steven twisted around to see a set of swinging double doors further into the infirmary. “Mama’s in there. Dad’s talking to the cops.”

Wow. Steven was glad he hadn’t been rude to this rude child. Clearly he was having a truly awful day. “I am so sorry. That’s bloody awful. You really shouldn’t worry. Everything’s going to be alright.”

“You’re worse than him,” the teenager said, impressed. But he didn’t seem dismissive or annoyed. Not appreciative, but… “I thought maybe you and me were in the same boat, but I guess not. I still don’t think that means you should be left on your own, though. People shouldn’t be all by themselves.”

“I’m not alone,” Steven said weakly. He opened his mouth to inform the teenager about his goldfish before shutting it, fully cognizant that it would make him seem impossibly more pathetic. “What business is it of yours, anyhow?”

The teenager ignored him. “He’s such an asshole, making you go through all of this. But you’re an asshole too, so it’s fine. You’re both assholes. Got that? You’re both dicks. I hate both of you.”

Steven wasn’t certain what he’d done to deserve such abuse, but that was pretty par for the course. No point getting up in arms about it. Clearly the kid was going through a lot. “What makes me such an arse, then?”

“You ditched us,” the teenager said, and to Steven’s shock his voice wobbled a bit. “He missed you and you just ditched us ‘cause you were too busy riding your high horse about how murder is bad or something. Fuck off about the murder thing. Nobody cares.”

“Okay?”

“And when you do come back you’re a total nothing about it.” The kid was obviously working himself up into something more and more upset. Steven felt lost. He didn’t know what to do. “Now you’re finally back, but you’re old and weird and lame. He says that you’re doing your best right now and that you’re helping so we need to be nice to you, but screw that. I’m here and I’m not coming out. I don’t know where we are and I don’t know why you two are doing any of this. I don’t like it here and I don’t want to come out anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” Steven said gently. It was important. Not because it should be, but just because it was. “You should be where you feel safe. You don’t have to front if you don’t want to.”

The teeanger’s face screwed up in what he wished was anger. “I didn’t want to leave Layla and Frenchie. I want to go home.”

“I know, Jake,” Steven said, and a wave of exhaustion crashed heavily over his shoulders. “I know. But Marc and I can’t go home right now. And I don’t think you can either. Right?” Jake’s silence was incriminating. “I’m doing the best I can. But this is all I can do. I’m sorry it hurts you too.”

“I deserve it,” Jake said. “That’s what you think about me. That I -”

“Jake, no -”

But Jake just spoke over him, voice growing louder. “You think I deserve it because I hurt Mom. You never hurt Mom. You loved her. That’s why you’re fronting and I can’t. Marc can’t deal with loving her and all of the shit that happened, so he’s taking the easy way out and just decided to love her instead. But you know what, Steven!” Jake’s voice grew louder and louder, until he was almost screaming. “That means you hate me! That means I’m nobody but the kid who hurt our mom, and you hate me without giving a shit why I did it! You weren’t there, Steven! You don’t understand!”

Steven was standing. He didn’t remember standing. A chair skittered backwards, but he didn’t remember stepping back. “Why would you hurt Mum?”

Jake clenched his jaw, expression twisting in hate. He only knew hate. “You and I can’t both exist. It’s a paradox. It tears all of us apart. And I don’t feel like being the bad guy again. So you have fun with the life, Steven. You can have it. Anything that makes you into the person you want to be and that lets you forget the person you are.”

“Wait,” Steven said - yelled, maybe. He couldn’t tell. “You hurt Mum? Why would you do that? Why would you hurt my mum?”

“Your accent’s fucking stupid, you know,” Jake said, before Steven opened his eyes.

He stood on a busy street. It didn’t look like any street in London. The cars were driving on the wrong sides of the lane, and foreign chatter buffeted his ears. Grody signs littered the edges of the streets, featuring beautiful light-skinned women holding skin whitening cream, but that was all he knew. A donkey pulling a cart pushed past him, and Steven had to stumble out of the way.

“Fuck’s sake,” Steven’s mouth said, pulling out a gun.

Steven woke up.

[randomvarious]

Today's mix:

01.1 by Timecode 2001 Drum n Bass

Holy mother of god, this thing was fucking magnificent! 🤯 Here we're kicking off the week with another mix from Rob Playford, the owner of top-shelf UK dnb label Moving Shadow, who operates as a DJ under the name of Timecode. Last week, I gave a listen to an excellent prior dispatch by Playford from this same Moving Shadow 'year-decimal' sampler mix series called 99.2, and for years I've also been cherishing 99.1, but with this 01.1 set, Rob appears to have raised the bar by a significant margin.

However, I will say this up front: I actually don't find this mix to be nearly as consistent as those other two. A lot of the first half of this set is just way too clean, simple, and linear for my own liking. Unless we're talking that soul-piercingly jazzy type of atmospheric stuff that people like LTJ Bukem are especially known for excelling at, I tend to like my drum n bass to sound like what you'd imagine the mad scrawlings of a disturbed child in a psychological horror sound like. Like, when the kid just sits in their psychologist's office for an hour and turns in a big, black, and fuzzy circle of absolute crazy? That's the type of shit I'm on. And It really takes a good while for this mix to whip itself up into that sublime state of blind frenzy.

And while 99.2 is a purely steady and fun bounce-fest, this one sees Playford adding a substantial dose of murky and corrosive subterranean grime to his brew. Basically, whatever the polar opposite of a flower needing water and constant, direct sunlight is, in order for it to grow from just a seed in the ground into its fully formed self with unfurled petals and all, is what this mix is.

And nothing in this set will probably fuck your head up more than its rightful and jaw-dropping capper, Dom & Roland's 9-plus minute extravaganza that is "Imagination." This is a patently bonkers track that surrounds its pumping breaks with thick hazes of eerie ambience and wickedly rumbling and dubby, zapping sub-bass. And it has its own drum-less breakdown too, à la progressive trance. Plus, Dom also appears before this one on a tune with Ryme Tyme called "Iceberg," which as a standalone track is actually relatively calm and still; but that then just opens up an opportunity for Playford to sow even more chaos by blending it with a track with a whole lot more action on it: D Kay's "Monolith," which is a song that maintains its vigor with intermittent insertions of dope jungle fills that signify a change in the succeeding bars every time that they're deployed 🤘. Hearing those little morsels of jungle play simultaneously alongside "Iceberg" definitely make for some of the best moments on this mix.

And one final thing before we close out: both 99.1 and 99.2 came with bonus discs that contained extra promotional content for Grand Theft Auto 2 on them. This release doesn't have anything like that, but the GTA-Moving Shadow partnership still continued on with this mix, as apparently you can hear portions of it on the MSX FM station in GTA3, with MCing done on top of the selections by Code:Breaker. And this also wasn't the only videogame series that Moving Shadow was affiliated with, either. "Imagination" actually first appeared on another popular Rockstar title in 2000, Midnight Club: Street Racing.

So maybe you'll impatiently tap your foot and point at your watch for a bit after first starting this thing up, but as the saying goes, good things come to those who wait. Just give this one some time, and the radioactive freak will eventually bust out of its padlocked cage and turn you rabid 😌. It's certainly not always the most satisfying set, but when 01.1 gets to where it needs to go, it really is an unbelievable y2k era drum n bass experience 🤤.

Listen to the full mix here.

Highlights:

Calyx - "Quagmire" Rascal & Klone - "Get Wild" Ryme Tyme - "Judgement Day" Rascal & Klone - "The Grind" Ryme Tyme - "T Minus" nCode - "Spasm" D Kay - "Monolith" Dom & Ryme Tyme - "Iceberg" Rascal & Klone - "The Phoenix" Aquasky - "Uptight" Shere Khan - "One Day" Technical Itch - "Crystal" Dom & Roland - "Imagination"

[whilomm]

Hey, so this is kinda off the wall, but I need to find a roommate but I'm so anxious about it, did you use a certain website? Or like do you have any roommate finding tips?

oh yeah i was super nervous about it too bc of previous bad experiences (with college apartments that were auto-matched), i guess my tips would be from someone whos only done this manually Once:

worth a shot, straight up ask if any of your friends need a roomie. sometimes things line up! didnt for me atm (aside from one friend who said "oh maybe in like 2 years but maybe not")

try and keep in mind that if it doesnt work out its not Forever if that helps you not freak out as much. like, maybe yall stay to the end of the lease and split, or if yall have to split before than eh youre just starting the matching process over again. getting that thru my head helped me lmao

as for websites, yeah there are a ton of specific roommate matching sites you can use, personally I just used facebook and posted in a couple of local groups with a lil thing about myself and I got some matches p quick. I live in a largerish city tho (austin tx) so if you live somewhere smaller there might not be AS big of a pool. facebook as a whole sucks of course but the groups here and there are useful!

I posted both in a more general group and a queer housing group, and i said a lil more about myself in the queer group, but you can also use your post to explicitly or gently filter out ppl you dont wanna live with. personally i did purposefully mention being autistic offhandedly just to hopefully filter out ppl wholl be cunts about that (made a lil comment about "im autistic and a super picky eater, so i wont eat your food lol"), you can explicitly say you dont wanna roomie who has pets/smokes/etc, stuff like that.

(oh, also, if you have a long abandoned facebook acct/need to make a new one, that can sometimes look a lil sus so maybe straight up say "i dont use facebook but i can give you one of my other socials if you want to snoop")

look around the website/group for examples from other people on what to include (max rent, apartment layout prefs, area, whether you already have a place picked out or not and if you'd be willing to apartment hunt w someone, timeframe, etc)

and of course actually say a lil about yourself in the listing. I know thats nerve wracking and all but eh, people wanna have a vague idea of you beforehand. List some of your hobbies/interests, normal boring stuff like that.

talk about how clean you are. and how clean you want your roomie to be. neat freaks and gross ppl may be Incompatible. "i can keep the common area clean but my rooms gonna be a mess" was my thing, and roomie is sameish, which works out!

make a listing, in multiple places if possible, and both see who contacts you and browse other peoples listings. this is defo a time to get over that fear of being the first to say hi! if someone lists a super sweet set up at a good price tho and gets 20 likes dont be surprised if they dont respond lmao, might have a waitlist going

(OH YEAH and if u havent used facebook in 10 years be aware on mobile theres a separate messaging app and you might miss ppl messaging bc of the stupid "pending" tab or whatever. a lotta ppl in the group specifically also commented "messaged!" on posts ig to just say "HEY CHECK THE OTHER STUPID APP IF IT DIDNT GIVE YOU A NOTIF", i found it REALLY easy to miss messages for a bit)

SCAMS EXIST! be cautious, dont just send ppl a "$500 deposit" off the bat, make sure you meet people IN PERSON and preferably talk to whoever you're gonna be renting from (like the leasing office if its an apt complex, or just the landlord) first before signing whatever someone on facebook sends u

as usual meet ppl in person in public places like coffee shops and tell ppl where you're going espec if you're going to look at the rental etc etc, same safety rules for meeting anyone from the internet

if you got any responsible adults in your life (like parents/family/friends who have more experience renting) just talk shit thru w them. maybe they can literally help u look at any contracts if you're not used to reading them, or maybe just chat w them about how shits going so they can just be like "oh yeah that all sounds normal they sound cool" or "YEAH THATS A RED FLAG".

oh yeah, make sure you READ YOUR LEASE. i know we all just Agree To The Terms And Conditions all the time but yeah contracts should be read. even if you dont read every word at least skim it, make sure u read the big things like the money numbers (and stuff like uh. how much notice the apt requires on move out. recently fucked over by that! 🙃). check for extra fees and numbers that are different than discussed. dont just sign whatevers put in front of you!!

think about how much Stuff you have. are you moving out for the first time and have Jack Shit? well, you probs wont have conflicts like "whos couch do we keep?" which is nice. do you currently live on your own and have p much all your own furniture? might be a lil issue if your roomie is also established! just st you gotta work out with your roommate, and if nothing else you could always get a cheap storage locker to set aside shit you dont wanna get rid of til you know its gonna work out long term. if its st important, maybe say it in your listing. personally i noted in my listing "i got a big ass couch i dont wanna get rid of" and my roommate specifically contacted me like "oh yeah the couch is chill" so all twas fine 👍

and like. try to talk shit out w your roomie when issues arise instead of letting shit boil over. gotta get good at this myself!

sorry for being long and disorganized but those are just a few of the things that popped into my head lol, +anyone else w more roomie searching experience has any advice on the matter feel free to chime in! im not really an expert or nothin but also feel free to ask more questions, i can at least try to answer!

[crosseyedcricketart]

the natchez trace in 2024

original website post here <3 originally posted on January 14 2024 at 9:00 a.m. 01-14-2024.

The Natchez Trace – Updated into 2024.

The Natchez Trace was recently updated, reopening last year in Alabama, with some new pavement and updated rest areas. I recently passed through there when traveling out of Alabama so I thought it would be nice to have an anecdote from me to you about the updates.

Before the repaving, we always used the Trace heading into north Alabama and stopped at the rest stop in Colbert, Alabama. (Now, if you’re familiar with Steven Colbert, you may think you pronounce it the same as his name. But no. It’s “cole-bert” with a hard “t”.). This rest stop has been updated a bit, with a stable accessibility bar in the wheelchair-accessible stall of the restroom. Here’s some little bullet-points about this particular stop-

Water fountain, bottle fountain, and dog fountain. (Winterized at the time of travel).

Wheelchair/large stall with mobility handle available.

Multi-stall bathroom.

Hand drier, no paper towels.

Natchez Trace map available.

Picnic tables available.

Trash cans and recycling bin available.

Bicycle rack.

At the time, the fountain water was probably shut off for the winter season as it was ranging between 20°-40° F while we were there. The bathrooms were clean— very clean for what they are— with hand soap. In the women’s restroom, there is one sink, a mirror, and a filled soap dispenser. They use foaming soap in this area. These are the same buildings as before, while the inside had a facelift. These buildings are insulated well so they don’t let in too much of the cold. When I went in, it was a comfortable temperature. Not steaming, but certainly not cold. It was 43° F at the time of my visit. They use low light so the majority of the light in the buildings is natural light from the windows.

There are also no stairs at this stop, with ramp dips in the pavement from the parking lot into the side walk, and a ramp up to the restrooms. There is a little stand with a pamphlet of a map of the Natchez Trace Parkway and it’s expanse through Tennessee, Alabama, and Mississippi. This was a very comfortable stop with dogs; our two dogs went with us on this trip and there was a comfortable amount of space between the road and the parking lot for the dogs to (leashed) walk around without me worrying about a freak accident happening. Speaking of dogs, this stop has a doggie water fountain. Or for a person who is a foot off the ground.

This stop, on Apple Maps, is “Colbert Ferry Visitor Center” with the address being:

Colbert Stand Trail Cherokee, Alabama 35616 United States

This stop is on the eastern side of Pickwick lake. This stop is where the Trail of Tears and Natchez Trace cross, the Trail of Tears following the Tennessee River and the Natchez Trace Parkway crossing over the river.

This leg of the trip was the trip back to Memphis, so we also passed through Walnut, Mississippi on Highway 72. Walnut is a small community with a Love’s Travel Stop. This particular Love’s has a Godfather’s Pizza Express in it. This location is very clean, well stocked, and has fresh food out. I am a very picky person with where I stop on trips and I tend to stop at truck/travel stops instead of normal gas stations. There is also a Jack’s beside the location. If you have never stopped at a Love’s, or a proper travel stop, they have fresh fruit, fresh coffee, warm food, and ample shelf-stable foods, along with some auto/truck care inside. Depending on the size of the stop, they have less and more of each. In my personal experience, Walnut’s location is one of the smaller travel stops.

Here’s the location of this Love’s off of Highway 72:

Travel Stop #799 600 Richardson Dr Walnut, Mississippi 38683 United States

For your own reference, if you’d like some more information, here’s a few resources relating to the Natchez Trace Parkway:

Natchez Trace Parkway via National Parks Service

Alabama Trail of Tears Locations via Muscle Shoals Heritage

Trail of Tears in Alabama via National Parks Service

That's all for today. I hope this was insightful and gave you an anecdote for this section of the Natchez Trace. Make sure to subscribe to get new blog posts in your inbox when I post. Have a beautiful day or night, wherever you are, and most of all, happy travels! - Annie, the crosseyed cricket.

[darkshrimpemotions]

WIP Tag

Rules: In a new post, post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Thanks to @eiirisworkshop for tagging me! I'm going to follow your lead and only do this with things that are currently active, not just every WIP in existence. This actually gave me a good reminder to clean up my active projects folder, so thanks!

Moriarty Caine

Mountain Witch

Apocalypse Vandweller

Night People

Angel on the Radio

Bunkerfic - Student Housing

Juliette the Midnight Vet

Night Is When We Slake Our Thirst

The 7 Rules of High School and the 5 Rules of Community Theatre

The Bee Charmer Extended

The Magicians - Wishful Thinking

The Gentle Sting

The Turning of Guillermo de la Cruz

Guillermo's Home for Directionless Humans and Lonely Freaks of Super-nature

5 Times Guillermo Undressed Nandor and 1 Time Nandor Returned The Favor

5 Times the Dildos Were Fine

I Love You Colin Robinson

Plausible Season 6

Good god. I have a lot of writing to do! Okay so that's 18...

@beansprean @sinnabonka @impossiblebarbarian @pixiedustandbluebutterflies @neil-gaiman @dduane @petermorwood @xiranjayzhao @seananmcguire @thebibliosphere @fozmeadows @inkskinned @icaruspendragon @deancaskiss @darcyfangirlsfrequently @brigdh @treesofgreen @spookybibi

Also, I see your auto-suggest function conundrum eiirisworkshop, and though I know the response, if any, will most likely be some variation of "wait and see" I have a LOT of people to tag based on the rules of the game and am just ridiculous enough to tag Neil Gaiman. He's no stranger to the eccentricities of his neighbors in this weird little neighborhood, after all!

(I went ahead and tagged some of the other beloved authors of tumblr as well, because seriously, how do I have EIGHTEEN active WIPs???)

[darkimpala1897]

Late night thoughts with Mars

So I can't sleep because I'm currently trying to write something aka Munson brother au well I'm also watching Wall-E at the same time because you know multitasking. But just imagine this with me for like five seconds okay.

Eve= Jason

Wall-E= Eddie

Like come on cute right!

M-O=Gareth

Sorry for making you clean freak but like it's cute.

All the defective robots=everyone else from Hellfire plus Dustin

Like come on, Eddie wanted to find all the outcasts so as a trash bot he would do the same just saying

The two humans who snapped out of there trance= Robin and Nancy

Got to have a cute lesbian love story in there as well like obviously

The captain=uncle Wayne

Because why not

Steward bots=Chance and Andy

Mindless drones that follow orders I love them but like it's obvious

Auto=Henry Creel

Do I have to explain myself?

President Forthright=Papa or Martin Brenner

Again obvious reason

Wall-E's cockroach friend=Steve

I mean if Eddie's gonna be a trash bot Steve would be a cockroach

I think that's it

Peace✌️

[esperanzacboronial]

32 or 48 for the writing prompts hhhhh,,,if u are feeling them <3

I'm so sorry that this took me like a year to respond to.

32. I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you.  I can think up some clever lines, if you’d prefer.  But I wanted to say that, first.

Ao3 link

February 14th, 1938 

This was supposed to be the year. 

Firo had told himself he would buy flowers this year. Truth be told, he had played with the idea of buying a ring. 

1937 had felt fresh and new, at least for a little while. Things were on the way up. It wasn’t like they were handing out a blank check to every American, but he saw fewer people on the street, more lights on in the shops and offices around Little Italy. People started paying their debts, no threats required. On a personal level, too - it felt like it was all behind them, all that trouble and strife, the mess at the casino, Alcatraz, Nebula, all of it had faded into the backdrop. Lately, it was just he and Ennis and Czeslaw, a little family in their little apartment, no threat of attack or kidnapping – or no more than the usual amount that came with being tied to the camorra – and although they were still immortals, still freaks, still not-quite-humans, although he still had centuries of borrowed memories to contend with, he had been able to put all of that to the back of his mind. 

Every statistician and politician and mathematician on the planet, or at least this side of the Atlantic, had promised that this would be the year. The year it all went back to normal. Now, Firo had only been a kid back when normal went out the door, so he didn’t have a fantastic recollection of it, but even he could sense it around the corner. It was in the little things, the smiles of the people who came into the Alveare, the fresh smell in the air, the clean, litterless streets. 

The economy was recovering; he heard on the news that things were looking up. He wasn’t one for keeping up with all the indexes and the rates of this-and-that, but they were saying it was looking like 1929 again, and he imagined himself back there – 1929, before all that ruckus, before he drank the elixir, before he was even sworn into the family. The peace and quiet of 1929 again, this time with Ennis at his side. 

But just like that, spring passed, and with it any optimism for the future. Summer and fall rolled by, and then came a long, bleak winter where no one could deny reality any longer; after a fleeting taste of improvement, they had been plunged back into the worst of it. A new recession. 

Firo found himself standing in a flower shop, staring dumbly at the price tag on a bunch of roses and counting the coins in his pocket, thinking he ought to have bought them this time last year - just cut the waiting and seized the moment and accepted better as the best it was going to get. 

This was supposed to be the year that he - 

No, it was a stupid idea, anyway. 

He decided not to buy the roses. He grabbed a few wilting daisies for the windowsill and made his way home. 

There was always next year. 

February 14th, 1942 

Two months earlier, the U.S had entered World War II. 

The draft had a way of missing mafiosi. There were all kinds of whispers about it: maybe they ran an ‘essential business’, some old farm or auto-manufacturer that they used as a cover, maybe they had a special agreement with the government, maybe there was cash exchanged, maybe they had a few too many ties back to the homeland and couldn’t be trusted – maybe someone needed those ties, and had to keep them alive, or maybe they got called and just never went – it’s not as if it would be the worst crime a mafioso had ever committed. Whatever the reason, like the Angel of Death, the draft passed them over. 

And whatever the reason, the camorra just didn’t have the same sway – maybe a honey shop wasn’t considered essential . Maybe Don Martillo was just too honourable to let his underlings dodge the draft. Firo had heard down the grapevine that a few members of the family would be sent off in the weeks to come. 

He would be lying if he said it didn’t make his stomach plunge when he first heard it. An episode of existential panic washed over him, where he imagined himself as a scrawny, twenty-something in a too-big suit being shipped off to fight against seasoned soldiers, and before the reality of his own immortality caught back up to him, he found himself sputtering out a nervous confession over drinks with Ennis.

“Look Ennis, uh, I don’t know if I’ll get called out – drafted, I mean –” 

“I’m sure that Mr. Martillo would never let that happen,” Ennis assured him coolly, a soft smile at her lips.

“Yeah, maybe not – you’re probably right,” Stop staring at her lips . Get to the point . “But I should tell you, anyhow, if I do…” 

“If you do?” She tilted her head.

“If I do get drafted, I… uh, I know I’d be fine - I mean, I wouldn’t die. But it would be hard to be away for so long, you know?”

“Ah, of course,” she nodded, and looked at him sympathetically. It wasn’t at all the look he had been hoping for. “I am sure Czes would miss you terribly.”

“Uh, yeah, sure, but what I meant was…” he scratched the back of his neck and fell silent.

With the ease of someone who did not have to think about her every move – too easily, as if it meant nothing at all – she reached over and squeezed his hand. “I would miss you, too.”

He could have kissed her right then and there, but he did not. 

February 14th, 1969

The newspapers that morning are plastered with Vito Genovese’s old mug. Mafia Kingpin dies while serving time . A heart-attack - not stabbed, or beaten, or shot - just kicked the bucket, just like that. What was he, ten, twelve years older than Firo? Practically a contemporary. And he died an old man, sitting around in his cell until his heart gave out. Not that he had much sympathy for him - Luciano’s lot were as bad as they came. Still, it felt like the start to the end of an era - maybe for more reasons than one. 

“He was one of Lucky Luciano’s fellas. He took over for him for a while, actually–” he explained to Ennis when she asked. “Just like I’m taking over for Maiza.” 

The start to the end of an era. No more child’s play. 

In a few month’s time, Maiza was due to start his trip around the globe. It was stupid, really, considering that he was almost 60 years old, but Firo still felt a little like a kid stepping into his dad’s shoes. Maiza had gifted him a nice silk necktie and told him he could wear it for his date with Ennis (he said it like that, with that smug smirk of his) and maybe it wouldn’t kill him to wear it after that, too . He was too proud to admit that he could count the times he’d worn a necktie on one hand, and had no clue how to tie the damn thing properly. He would look like a complete buffoon fumbling around trying not to strangle himself, and it wasn’t like Ennis wouldn’t be there for the whole show – she lived with him, after all. (Living in sin, the other guys liked to joke - except there was nothing sinful about it.)

Maiza had a point, though. The way he dressed might be alright for the Martillo family’s youngest executive – a title which was starting to feel a little outdated – but if he was going to be their contaiuolo, he would have to be a bit sharper, wouldn’t he? Not just in wits, but in looks, too. A bit more adult. Every button buttoned, tie on straight, reading glasses. Even Vitone was wearing glasses in the paper, although Firo swears he did not remember him needing them back when he was arrested. Either there was something to it, or it was just old age, but they always suited Maiza, anyway, made him look wise. They probably helped him read the accounts, too. Staring at those tiny lines of numbers for hours on end was already giving Firo a headache. 

Maybe he would shop around with Maiza before he left, for old time’s sake - make sure he’s all spruced up for the new role. 

He had been looking for flowers earlier that day - it felt like he did it every year - but how do you pick out flowers with a dead guy’s mugshot staring at you from the newsrack? It got him thinking about everything to come, and suddenly roses and pansies didn’t feel like his top priority. He was about to promise himself to such a great undertaking - how could he promise himself to Ennis on top of that? What if he couldn’t manage both - being what he needed to be for the family and being what he needed to be for his family? 

Maybe when Maiza was done globetrotting, maybe he could think about it then.

February 14th, 1971

If Firo had learned anything over the course of forty years of immortality, it was that there was never going to be a perfect moment. He had endured too many missed opportunities, too many good deals waiting for the best. 

Now, all the talk of mutually assured destruction on the radio did not exactly scream let’s spend the rest of our lives together , but when he thought about it, it was pretty meaningless to them. They were cockroaches, weren’t they? The kinds of underground pests who ought to be able to survive an apocalypse. Who knows if they could really withstand nuclear war – but mutually assured destruction, that’s a pact he’s used to, anyway, isn’t it? Don’t raise your right hand and I won’t raise mine - he could die tonight if one of the guys at the Alveare suddenly decided to go on a rampage, but that doesn’t mean it’s ever going to happen. 

Besides, it feels like there’s a war every other minute, like America can’t take one single global conflict out on the benches. There could be a truce in the morning, or it could last the next 50 years, but he knew that if the Iron Curtain lifted tomorrow, he would still be too much of a coward to ask Ennis to marry him, so why wait until tomorrow? Why not stop being a coward today? 

Of course, it was easier said than done. He had been racking his brain for the past week to come up with a good way to lead up to it, but everything he came up with felt too contrived; he could cook a fancy meal, or invite her out dancing, but she would smell it from a mile away, then the pressure would mount and he would chicken out again. 

In the end, they went out for a walk, took in the frost of central park and the crisp, chill air. They sat at a bench in the ramble and watched the chickadees huddle together for warmth on the bare branches, and Firo thought about reaching out to hold Ennis’ hand, but ended up thinking about it too much to actually do it. When the tips of Ennis’ ears went red from the cold, they walked a short distance to a  nearby cafe and ordered hot chocolates. 

It was there that, with the light chatter around them to break the silence, Firo managed to get a few words out. 

“I think you’re beautiful,” he said quickly, almost tripping over his own words. “And I’d like to kiss you.” He kept his eyes fixed on his drink, worried that if he looked up he would see Ennis’ expression change - to confusion, or disgust, or, worst of all, pity. “I can think up some clever lines, if you give me a bit of time, but… I guess I just wanted to say that, first.” 

Ennis said nothing, but scooched around the booth to sit beside him. A moment later, he felt a soft kiss on his cheek. 

“Is that a good place to start?” Ennis asked him. He looked up to meet her eyes, resting his forehead against hers. 

“That’s perfect,” he said, and answered her kiss with one of his own.

[bellshazes]

wait whats the deer story im curious now

i used to work in home & auto insurance and the fire/water/wind etc. restoration guys would always come around and try and - it wasn't bribing, because we had pretty strict implicit policies against bribing that mostly meant picking business cards at random to read to customers with very detailed disclaimers that we were not endorsing any particular services. but they'd come around with fruit or flowers or cookies or to just chat or whatever and some of them would talk shop with us. there is a bond between guys who do biohazard cleanup and guys who do claims intake phonecalls.

so anyway one of them came by to the office one day and we got to talking about weird claims/cleanups we'd encountered, as you do, and this one guy who was one of my faves described a time they'd had to do biohazard cleanup on this house where a deer had apparently busted in through the big front window on a culdesac. i forget now but i suppose they had maybe left the door open and the deer wandered in and attempted to exit that way - but the important thing is that the deer busted through the big window and bled fucking everywhere, but in its horrible frightened terror it also managed to enter and similarly bleed over the house across the cul-de-sac, and their job was to clean up the absolute carnage of panicked deer blood all over multiple houses. i took some really buckwild calls in my time but even the weird stuff was more like is squirrels eating your brake lines a covered loss or someone's breaker box flooding (which had happened to me!) and that one has stuck with me forever. i wish i remembered the details better but the image of that freaked-out deer causing havoc across multiple homes sticks with me

[fizzigigsimmer]

The Stranger Life

The Fight Part 1

Billy usually likes it when Eddie comes by his job at the garage to hang out. It keeps Billy from missing Steve who is busy with basketball and the kids he babysits. Even if it means listening to Eddie gush about the girl he’s had a crush on since middle school, Billy’s grateful for the company. But when Chrissy shows up at the garage one evening with Jason, Billy has a bad feeling about it from the start.

Everyone’s heard that Chrissy and Jason are ‘off’ again, but Jason is hopeful they’ll get back together. He convinces Chrissy to drive him and Tommy to the auto shop to pick up Tommy’s car, but his plans to rekindle their romance doesn’t go quite like he expected. When he catches Eddie “the freak” flirting with Chrissy, he can’t believe how close they look. How long has Eddie been moving in on his girl?

Billy promised Steve he would clean up his act and stop getting into trouble, but he can’t just stand there and leave Eddie to fend for himself. If he’s lucky the fight will be quick and Steve will never even find out.