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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

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Hi omg could I request Remus comforting insecure reader who makes jokes about her looks all the time and stuff and kind of tries to avoid talking deeply about it because it actually really hurts deep down but Remus wants to address it and when he talks to her she’s like “you wouldn’t get what it’s like to be ugly you (as in Remus) have always been beautiful” ? I hope that makes sense 😭Totally understand if you don’t want to write this!

Of course you can lovely! Thank you :)

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 884 words

Remus’ self control starts to fray when you discard your third outfit.

It’s not that he’s impatient to get to the restaurant—you’ve both got plenty of time, and watching you try on clothes for him is a far from unappealing way to pass it. The issue is that you don’t seem to get how fucking phenomenal you look in all of them.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, making a face at yourself in the mirror before lifting the top over your head. It’s tossed onto the bed, where Remus picks it up to put it back on its hanger. “That color makes me look sickly.”

“Dove,” he reprimands. “It does not.”

“Rem,” you mimic his tone teasingly. The late afternoon light filters through the window, and he honestly isn’t sure if the glow he’s seeing is from that or from the smile you give him. “I already look like this, I don’t need to accentuate it.”

You do that. Self-deprecate. Like it’s anticipatory, like you’re in on a joke that hasn’t been told yet. It makes Remus’ skin prickle.

“Anyway, I’ll be with you, handsome.” You set one hand on the bed and lean over to peck him on the lips. You take the top with you as you go, hanging it back up in the closet with a nod of thanks to your boyfriend. “I’m not aiming for mind-blowingly gorgeous, but I’d like to look at least remotely in your league, if I can.”

“You always look mind-blowingly gorgeous,” Remus says softly. His chest aches with earnestness.

You select a different top, tossing a coy grin over your shoulder. “Thanks, honey.”

“No, really.” He feels suddenly hot with desperation. Remus doesn’t usually get in your way like this. You make your jokes, he disagrees politely, and he lets you move on. But the need to make you hear him, to talk until you finally get it, see how obsessed he is with you, has been building. If there’s one hill he’s going to die on, he wants this to be it. “You looked lovely in that top, and in everything. You’re exquisite, dove. Do you get that?”

Your smile falters, and you turn away. You speak into the closet, over the schwick of hangers sliding. “Exquisite.” Humor bends the syllables of the word. “You’re too sweet. Careful, or you’ll give me an ego to eclipse the sun.”

Remus wishes, but he seriously doubts there’s any danger of that. Your perusal of the closet picks up its pace, criticism a shadowy gray cloud above your head. He stands from the bed and steps forward to wrap his arms around your waist. You still, relaxing into him automatically.

“I don’t understand why you have to deflect like that,” he says, doing his best to sound kind even as a protective ire burns fiercely in his chest. “You’re always making these cruel jokes about yourself, and you won’t listen when I tell you how wrong you are. Why?”

“Remus.” It’s hardly a murmur, and yet the plea is clear. “Can we drop this, please?”

Just like that, the fire in his chest is smothered. A dull ache takes its place. “Not if you’re going to keep doing it,” he says, kissing the nape of your neck. “Just tell me why, please.”

You clasp your hands over his, seeking comfort even as you stiffen in his arms. “You wouldn't get it.” There’s no venom in your tone, but Remus hears the slight edge. “You don’t know what it’s like to be ugly, Rem. You’ve always been beautiful.”

A laugh barks out of him, sharper than he means it to be. “I wouldn’t get it?”

You’re quiet. He takes you by the shoulders, turning you to face him. Your eyes drop to his chin.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t know how it feels to be insecure?” he asks. “Dove, I grew up with giant tears and scars on my face. People stare at me.” Your eyes flit up to his, shame and apology clear within them. When they go back down, Remus follows, ducking so you can’t hide from his gaze. “I understand that when you feel like something about you is ugly, no one can convince you it’s not. You have to do that on your own, pretty girl.” A flicker of emotion—discomfort, aversion, something else—passes over your face at the endearment. Remus has to swallow against the upset that clogs his throat. “But do you think you could try talking about yourself more kindly? For me, if not for you. It hurts to hear you being so cruel to someone I care about,” he says softly.

Every line of your face is tense with discomfort at the topic, but you finally meet his eyes. Remus’ smile is reflexive. He’s not sure how you can find things not to love in this face so full of sweetness.

“Sorry,” you say, sheepish.

“Don’t be sorry.” He rubs your upper arms affectionately. “I know you don’t do it to spite me, darling.”

You bring your hands up around his neck, hugging him loosely. “You really are beautiful,” you murmur into his sweater. “With the scars, too. I’m not just saying that.”

“So are you.” Remus kisses the top of your head. Someday, he’ll get you to believe it.

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superbat-lmao · 5 months ago

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Much as a man of the sea knows before he can feel a shift in the wind, Talia knows there will be a change in the world. She knew when she first laid eyes on him. A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

His movements were sure, even as his eyes held no consciousness. Her Father had seen him once and gave his ultimatum. His assessment that the boy was a waste of resources. Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert

If anything, the waste would be squandering the boy. After all, the best arsenals were made of different weapons, not the same blades. If she was ever to have her boy accepted, she would need to alter his Father. Alter his strays. Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

And truly, what better tool is there than rage? For men, it is the most productive. Better to be above ground and angry than below it and dead. It was an investment, on her part. That twenty centuries of stony sleep

She would watch him train. Occasionally. Now that the worst of the pit had left him. That blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

She could still see the moves of his Father, but the league training was becoming more familiar, more natural. Turning and turning in the widening gyre

His thoughts held no target, it was still too early for him to see sense. Rage was easy, control was futile. Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

Two teachers dead in as many hours. He would need to be sent elsewhere or it would be too great a drain of resources at this particular compound. A bit early for real missions, but not for remote instruction. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

She can see it in his eyes when he looks at her. The pain, the fear, the anger. He looks at her in challenge, in provocation. Whatever philosophy the little bird had held is gone. There is now only blood. The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

But his Father, the man of myth and shadow, is just a man. And he is not here. The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

And oh what a surprise he’s in for. She had seen few images of the boy, now man, before his submersion. What had been small in youth was made large in maturity. A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

To crack that ideology she would need a blasting charge. And from the fractures she would cement Damian’s place. The battering ram of a man would face the brunt of their Father’s ire for her son. As payment for his mind. The best lack all conviction, while the worst

And he must change. Because her Father is not a man. She cannot give Damian to him. He is immutable. Are full of passionate intensity.

Gotham will be ripped apart by Father and son. Their language is violence, even if now they will be a dialect apart. Bruce will realize all the wrong things. Surely some revelation is at hand;

Jason must be kept in motion. Always forward and everywhere. He has his targets now, his sights are not aimless. He was still for too long below the Earth and now must tilt and pitch in the direction of his every whim. Control sounds too much like inaction. Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

She places him on a plane. Few possessions, many plans. He is anger and betrayal and righteousness. He will subdue what his Father tries to tame.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

#jason todd #batman #bruce wayne #redhood #damian wayne #talia al ghul #damian al ghul #read the second coming by yeats and tell me that isn’t jason todd #tell me alfred doesn’t think some revelation is at hand when he learns jason is alive #i don’t know that i like this characterization of talia but she would do anything for her son even if that’s using another son

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dreamingofthewild · 8 months ago

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I really want to speak about Gale's version of the new evil endings but no one is. More under the cut. Warning: spoilers for patch 7, please proceed with caution.

Gale's new evil ending feels like a powerful "what if," an exploration of what happens when his frustration, ambition, and disillusionment take over. I've always headcanoned that Dark!Gale emerges when the Karsite Weave corrupts him, and this ending supports that idea nicely.

It's a dramatic "screw you" to Mystra and could even pave the way for another of her downfalls or a major shakeup in the Faerûnian pantheon if the story were to be taken further. Watching him rip off that earring and seeing Mystra's statue topple was deeply satisfying, like watching a long suppressed storm break free.

In this ending, Gale isn't just angry at Mystra—he's furious with all the gods. His bitterness and jadedness come from viewing these deities as remote figures who manipulate and abuse mortals. This resentment grows as he witnesses how the gods have mistreated those around him and their consistent inaction. It’s like watching a pot simmer for too long until it inevitably boils over.

In the boat scene, Gale's bitterness towards the gods is palpable. Having glimpsed their celestial realms, he understands their power and is incensed by their refusal to intervene.

Imagine the orb feeding on his ambition and hatred, possibly spurred on by Astarion, Shadowheart, or Lae'zel. It's easy to see how he could end up on this dark path. This isn't the natural progression of his storyline, but rather a tragic twist where his indignation and fury at the gods consume him.

In this ending, he starts off as a hero with noble intentions but falls into darkness. He believes he is liberating everyone from the whims of the gods, when in reality, he will only cause chaos. It's reminiscent of a Greek myth, where the hero's flaws lead to their downfall. He still technically has good intentions, at least from his perspective, but in reality it's chaotic and will likely end in ragnorak. His ambition and ire have blinded him. He looses himself to them.

This ending delivers everything I wanted from a darker portrayal of Gale. While it may not be his best or my favourite ending for him, it’s undeniably cathartic and epically tragic.

Tl:Dr in summary Dark!Gale in his evil ending decides to wage a war against the gods. He uses his mind control powers to make everyone angry with the gods. They topple Mystra's statue and I presume they follow him through the tear in the sky he made to the heavens. He sees this as liberating them. But the scene ends there so we don't know what happens.

Alexa play Black Parade.

#bg3 #patch 7 spoilers #patch 7.0 spoilers #patch 7 #spoiler warning #bg3 spoilers #don't tell me that I did not put enough spoiler tags #Bg3 Gale #dark!gale #gale of waterdeep #Gale dekarios #FYI I explain at the end what happens so feel to read this if you want to know otherwise please skip #I would also love to know what other people's opinions on the ending are

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squidsinashirt · 3 days ago

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What’s the longest dive you have ever needed to complete for a rescue, and how did you handle fatigue and mental focus? It’s got to be incredibly difficult to have a complicated rescue that requires continued attention.

Ooh, big question (a very good one, thanks!)

I’ve done quite a few long trips that have meant staying at depth for a couple of weeks here and there, research trips and obviously back when I served with the WASPs. Not for an immediate rescue though as part of iR - It’s very different when it’s a rescue.

The longest rescue dive I’ve ever done in one stint was nineteen hours. That’s the record for me (and not one I’m eager to beat). It was off the Mariana Ridge. A deep-sea pipeline maintenance station had a catastrophic collapse - pressure door failure, electrical fire, you name it. There were six workers trapped in a reinforced chamber, two hundred metres below the surface. Scrubbers that were failing, a hull that critical - it was a race against time and physics.

The dive was brutal. Currents were wicked strong, the seabed was shifting, the structure was collapsing and the visibility was almost zero. I had to alternate between piloting Thunderbird 4 through a collapsed support grid and EVA’ing to try and stabilise the structure and make us room to get close. Absolutely no room for error. One wrong move and the entire thing could’ve gone down.

And here’s the thing most people don’t realize — it’s not just the currents, or the pressure, or the sheer isolation that wears you down. It’s the constant vigilance. For eighteen hours, I couldn’t mentally look away. Every second I was calculating: gas reserves, structural stress, movement patterns, pressure calculations, body positioning, welding and cutting. When you’re diving that deep, with that kind of responsibility on your shoulders, you’re always working. There’s no coast mode.

It’s the mental grind that really tries to get you. You’re thinking about how to gently cut through a collapsed bulkhead without triggering a chain reaction. What is going to happen if I release this valve? How is the pressure going to shift? What else has failed on that panel that I can see - is there a weak spot I’m not anticipating? How injured are the crew? Am I going to be able to stabilise them before they need to hit the surface? What am I going to do if I get inside this thing and someone’s too sick for that? How am I getting us all out if my entryway is blocked, what’s my plan B, C, D?

Because you’re always thinking about the voices on the other end of your comms - scared, breathing too fast, trying to believe someone’s coming. They don’t need to know how complicated it is on your side - they just need to know you’re coming for them.

I used very short windows back in Four, still at pressure, to do breathing drills - stretch, re-center myself, run diagnostics. It helps keep a clear head.

I manage fatigue the same way I manage everything else down there — through systems and rhythm. My suit is obviously pressure and temp controlled automatically. Four runs my monitoring remotely, but I hooked up to the umbilical for outside EVA’ing for that length of time. Saved swapping tanks, and it meant she could continue to adjust my gases for me as I worked, constantly judging my nitrogen levels for a mix of Tri and Hydrox. Takes some of the brain work away for me, and I trust her (and Brains’ engineering) without fault. I have an integrated hydration system (like a squid-friendly Camelback) so I have electrolyte fluids going (it’s just fancy Gatorade 😏). High-calorie, fast-absorbing nutrient gels every couple of hours. Caffeine tabs when I felt myself slipping.

I had my favourite playlist running low in one ear. Mostly instrumental stuff. Nothing that demanded too much brain space. And of course, John’s chatter about systems in the moments that didn’t require that intense, silent focus, and Virgil’s absolutely terrible ocean themed puns. And this is why they’re so damn excellent at what they do - John knows when to stay quiet or when to chime in with a report back on something, and Virgil just knows me in the field like nobody else, I don’t have to explain everything, he anticipates it.

Scott, on the other hand, was actually blocked from comms at one point because I was sick of hearing my own name and having to reply every five minutes because he was convinced I was dead. He was somewhere between strangling me and having kittens by the time I re-surfaced, I think it may have been more peaceful under the water 😏

The actual extraction took nearly six hours. Had to flush one of the pipelines and use it as my way in which was… yeah, until I’d actually got into it and made sure it was totally clear of the gas, I was sweating, won’t lie. It was pitch black, only had my headlight and (look away now if you’re claustrophobic) tight enough that it was a bit of a wiggle at the bends, shoulder to shoulder touching kind of stuff. Really, navigating through it by touch and feel, before there wasn’t enough space to turn my bed properly or lift my arms.

Once I was inside, I stabilised all of the crew and then one by one, guided each of the guys back out through that pipeline. That was tough. Most of them were injured, all of them were cold and hypoxic, and (again, claustrophobics of the world, shield your eyes), being dragged backwards through a flooded pipeline in the dark, unable to lift your arms and with the wall just inches off your nose is terrifying. Took a lot of my signature chatter to get us all through that one.

But each safe rescue is an adrenaline boost - you move with the wins, however small or big they are. Break it down into steps. It keeps you going. Each crewmember safe in the back of Four was a huge push to carry on, despite the fatigue and exhaustion and discomfort. And in the end, the massive satisfaction of a job well done when there’s six men returned safely to their families.

And I was exhausted 😂 I slept off my decomp after I’d got the crew to the surface. Sound asleep in my kit on the floor in the back of Four. 11/10, best sleep of my life. Virgil gave me a piggyback to the medbay once I hit the top and let me go back to sleep 😂

Once again, Scott thought I was dead. I was, in fact, alive and well- as my suit reported, but why allow fact to get in the way of a good smotherhenning? 😏 I fell asleep on one of the loungers by the pool and I swear he was on patrol to make sure I was still breathing.

#excellent question!#thanks anon #thunderbirds rp #thundersocials #gordons squid thoughts #tw claustrophobia

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heliopauseentertainments · 7 months ago

Text

Bonds of Inconvenience

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationships: Megatron/Ratchet OR Megatron & Ratchet

Characters: Megatron & Ratchet

Warnings: Spark Bonds, Accidental Bonds, Background & Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Alternate Universe, Not Beta Red

Summary: In which Ratchet wrestles with the aftermath of having saved Megatron’s life.

Crossposting: AO3 | Dreamwidth | TFMegaRatch

Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

Ratchet regretted his adherence to his oaths on occasion.

Sitting in the makeshift medical bay, alone in the dark, Ratchet clutched his hand to his chest. It did nothing to alleviate the pain, the pulling, the dread in his spark.

Imaginary wounds, what was likely torn tubing and bleeding lacerations, hovered on the surface of his armor, mirroring the suffering of someone not even present.

Far away, fury and rage roiled; another’s hot, shapeless anger that he had no reason to know gripped at his very core. The juxtaposition of remote violent ire with the silent shadows and astringent smell of the pathetic excuse for a medical bay in their temporary “base” on an organic world was jarring.

Ratchet had made a serious error in judgment. Long ago, saving Megatron’s life.

The chances of a bond happening with a brief, direct jump were a fraction of a percent. It was a gamble that he should have won, but here he was, jaw clenched while something horrible happened that he couldn’t neither see nor stop. If anyone stumbled in to see him, they would have possibly mistaken this for a spark attack or overexertion.

Flashes of red and white forced their way into his mind. Sharp voices, indistinct words. The lilac glow of activated fuel. An involuntary desire to be near the source of the sensations, to comfort and soothe.

With the bond weak from only a brief initial contact, he couldn’t discern more. Perhaps thankfully. Likewise the other end of the connection could probably sense little more than Ratchet’s reflected anguish. And over vast distances, he couldn’t even determine a direction, let alone coordinates.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened, not with the way his “bondmate” lived.

His hand flexed uselessly on his windshield, over his screaming spark.

And, if the fool on the other end of the bond didn’t die, it certainly wouldn’t be the last time either.

After all these years, Ratchet knew the only thing he could do was wait, braced for the worst in the dark until whatever was happening so far out of reach, so far out of his control, was over.

At least this time it had happened after clinic hours.

Ratchet ducked down behind a crate in the silent, Decepticon warehouse. This one was supposed to have been abandoned, a ripe location for Autobot scouts to poach for secrets.

He normally wouldn’t have been out here in the field, not on a reconnaissance mission, but circumstances—misguided orders, as usual—necessitated he extract someone.

Specifically the unconscious, but mercifully stable idiot—Bumblebee—cradled in his arms.

No footsteps had approached to tell him to hide; he hadn’t needed them to know what impended. A pulse of intuition, a “spooky” notion he had never cared for, in his spark was all the warning he had needed.

There wouldn’t be enough time to make the rendezvous point in the wilds beyond the warehouse. All he could do was hunker down with his charge and hope, a notion Megatron perhaps struggled with, but Ratchet couldn’t have been sure.

A handful of minutes passed with nothing but that pull in his spark growing stronger until finally the heavy sounds of a small group of soldiers approaching were audible.

The crate and a flimsy door were all the defenses between him and Decepticon guns.

Unfortunately, the very thing that gave him advanced warning would lead the hunters right to them. It was only a matter of time and there would be no escape. Megatron knew exactly where he was at this range, just as Ratchet could now pinpoint him.

He could hide neither his own spark’s location nor his fear from seeping into the other end of the bond. The flood of emotion drowned out any incoming information beyond an impending sense of presence. His spark spun wildly in its chamber.

Whatever Megatron wanted, he couldn’t say.

While he doubted Megatron would kill him, too risky, being tossed in a Decepticon prison indefinitely was only a slower version of that.

Maybe he could bargain for Bumblebee’s life and surrender himself instead, allowing Bumblebee to go free in a prisoner exchange or… something. Anything. The poor scout didn’t deserve to suffer for a mistake Ratchet had made so many years ago.

The source of the pull grew closer with every moment before finally stopping in front of the fig leaf of a door.

“Boss, we should check in here.” The sharp voice was familiar. Rumble. The door rattled in its cheap frame as he reached for the latch, probably having to stretch on the tips of his feet to do it. Many buildings hadn’t been constructed with minibots in mind.

What a stupid visual to have before losing absolutely everything, he thought, pulling Bumblebee’s frame protectively close for whatever good it would do. Ratchet would have laughed if it wouldn’t have—

“No.” Firm, calm, final. No room for dissent.

The rattling stopped immediately.

“There’s nothing in there but junk; let’s not waste our time.” Junk? Mild offense bloomed in his chest. “The intruders have likely already gotten what they came for. There’s no point.”

Megatron… lied? Why? Why would he lie? He wasn’t even good at it. Misdirection, sure, but direct counterfactual lying? What would he gain from not capturing two highly valuable Autobots, especially one that who was such a high personal risk as Ratchet?

No answer to those questions came as Ratchet reached out curiously. Only their feelings and senses could brush against each other with how meager the bond was, allowing a significant blind spot as their individual thoughts remained veiled.

Heavy steps retreated from the door, further down one of the warehouse’s aisles if his spark weren’t lying.

Was Megatron trying to… tell him something? By marching his troops right up to him and then continuing on their way? Capturing him and Bumblebee could have only been easier if they had been wrapped up like gifts with stupid little bows.

The fear in Ratchet’s chest faded with the footsteps, entirely supplanted by utter confusion. The only answer he received was an alien wave of relief.

“It can’t be easy,” Megatron said, looking up at him from the table.

Ratchet didn’t want to talk to him, which Megatron could likely sense. Whether or not he wanted to. The involuntary twisting of their sparks in proximity to each other was difficult to ignore. They hadn’t been this close to each other physically since the original incident.

They were hardly strangers, but they were also hardly friends. “Estranged” wouldn’t apply given that would have meant something had been there before, a fondness. And yet there was a shared intimate knowledge that they had never verbalized… but not a fondness. Not on Ratchet’s side anyway and he couldn’t imagine the feeling being anything but mutual, not that he had ever asked.

If Megatron was hoping to talk about it now that they were alone, in private, he would be sorely disappointed.

Ratchet had nothing to say to him.

A time like this had been what had caused the problem in the first place.

He could still see, in his mind, Megatron on the ground, unconscious and moribund if no treatment were to be provided immediately. Spark badly in need of a jump. No one else around in the aftermath of the battle on an alien world as Ratchet had been searching for survivors, he had done what he had deemed necessary to save a patient. Jumper cables were standard practice, but in the field he made do with the tools he had on hand: his spark.

No words had passed between them back then either. The jump had been coldly clinical: purposefully quick and devoid of pleasure. They had parted ways in complete silence after Megatron had been stabilized.

He didn’t regret saving someone, even if that person was—had been—an enemy. Letting Megatron die there in a ditch would have changed very little in the grand scheme of things; if anything, that would have just made him a martyr. Ratchet had seen how Starscream tried to galvanize the remaining Decepticon forces in the wake of Megatron’s grievous incapacitation—a period of blissful quiet—on Earth.

His oaths to heal didn’t care about whatever badge someone wore. A sentiment he and Flatline shared, a sentiment which sent them to serve on opposite sides of the war.

At least this time Ratchet just needed to weld the idiot on his table back together and ignore the pang of unwanted, aching longing in his chest. And the horrible relief that Megatron wasn’t hurt more.

Megatron continued to stare at him with an uncomfortable intensity.

Apparently he was having the same problem, being pulled along by something he had no say in.

Hell, he had even less say in the situation than Ratchet did.

Ratchet could at least say he had done this to himself, but Megatron… had had this done to him. To save a life, sure, but the unlucky bastard hadn’t chosen to bond or even have his spark jumpstarted. For all Ratchet had known at the time, Megatron had made peace with dying that day.

Yet the faint pressure of confused gratitude when Megatron had become responsive back then had been the first sign of the bond, the first sign of both failure and success.

“I’m reattaching your legs, not rewiring your nervous system.”

Some similar gratitude was present now, a hollow warming sticking in his spark, an unwanted reminder of how they had ended up here.

“You fixing me.” The word “again” remained unspoken. “That can’t be easy.”

Bumblebee may have demanded the “best treatment”—meaning Ratchet, of course—for the hero of the hour… both halves of him, but that didn’t mean Ratchet had to like it. He just had to do his job. Bumblebee hadn’t known; there was no way he could have.

“Following orders, Megatron.”

An uncomfortable pause stretched between them.

“I wanted to be a medic.”

The hum and zap of the welder were the only sounds he wanted to hear right now.

It wasn’t loud enough to drown out the silent outpouring of Megatron’s raw disappointment.

The crowd, a rippling mass of vengeful societal fury, roared around Ratchet as he stood in the stands of the lunar arena as Megatron spoke, his apologetic words obviously written by someone else. There was some truth in them, Ratchet knew from dim emotional reflections, but which parts? He couldn’t say… and he didn’t want to.

A pained chill spread through his spark. Which of them—Megatron or Ratchet—originated the chill was impossible to determine. Maybe that didn’t matter.

Ratchet had long since mentally prepared himself to die. He had already lived a full life. He had originally climbed up into the stands expecting to watch a protracted trial that would do double-duty as his own funeral.

Drift, one of the few people Ratchet had almost considered a friend, had long since gone elsewhere, sent off by Rodimus like a scapegoat bearing all their sins sent off into the wilds. What happened to Ratchet now would be of little consequence.

Whenever Megatron did finally die, whether through individual violence, an accident, or an act of the state, Ratchet had known that he too would almost certainly follow. While the severing of a weak bond was more likely to be survivable, the chances still weren’t good. He had already failed rolling the dice before; no reason to assume he’d come out on top in the future.

If he were to simply… perish, abruptly offlining coincidentally whenever Megatron did, everyone would know what had happened, especially if an autopsy were performed. Perhaps they would have come to the wrong conclusion, of a secret love affair across faction lines… that Ratchet had been a secret traitor. All far more sensational than an accidental, unwanted sparkbond during a live-saving medical procedure.

Even leaving a testament to what happened in his subspace for an autopsy to explain the situation would have done little good. Who would have believed it? It would have looked like an excuse, an attempt to explain away the suspicion, even to those would have vouched for Ratchet’s character.

He had long ago simply accepted that there was no good outcome.

So when Megatron had been put on trial on Luna-2 for his crimes, Ratchet had tidied his things and cleared his calendar so that he wouldn’t be in the middle of anything important, like an operation in the near future, not that the Lost Light would be going anywhere for some time. He had prepared paperwork transferring his position to First Aid so that everything would be as smooth as possible.

Ratchet, who had, in a muted way, felt every single one of Megatron’s injuries for the past hundred thousand year, had wondered what it would be like to feel someone die…. Or would he too be gone before he could even know?

There was no way the kangaroo court—“military tribunal”—wouldn’t find Megatron guilty and sentence him to death, he had told himself. Even a reasonable court would come to the same conclusion. At least, he had thought, he would have gotten to plan around the end of his life rather than have it come upon him unexpectedly.

Yet… as mechs screamed in utter outrage all around him, the trial was being set aside, on a technicality.

Neither of them would be dying, not yet anyway.

It took all Ratchet’s composure to remain still amongst the roiling spectators rather than throw the nearest object at Megatron’s helmeted head.

Megatron, ending his compelled pronouncement, announced that he would be joining the Lost Light on its mad quest. And the bastard didn’t even have the bolts to look at him while he said it.

Ratchet, for the first time, flooded their pitiful connection with static and disappointment.

“Captain,” Ratchet said, not looking up from his work organizing supplies in medical bay’s cabinets. First Aid hadn’t asked him to, but a little after hours tidying would keep him busy. Or so he had thought.

Apparently not busy enough.

He didn’t need to look to know who had just walked into the otherwise empty medical bay.

His own personal hell had come to pay him a visit. Who needed a sleep paralysis demon?

Megatron joining the ship a few weeks ago had given him significantly more practice at nonverbally telling the idiot where exactly he could stuff it. Not that it had stopped Megatron from just going wherever he wanted to anyway.

At a range as close as sharing a ship, even their weak bond let Ratchet pinpoint Megatron’s location, whether he wanted to or not.

The steps stopped several paces behind him, an oddly respectful distance. No hint of resentment in their shared link, just an awkward, perhaps embarrassed warmth.

They would be putting a stop to that right now.

Ratchet let a frosty annoyance saturate his end of the bond before Megatron could even get a word in edgewise.

He could feel Megatron tensing behind him at being so intimately brushed aside.

“Ratchet.”

He didn’t turn around; keeping his back to Megatron felt safer, his spark more difficult to physically access. Not that he thought Megatron would do anything. There would have been tells of some kind, even through the inexpertly blocked bond, if the big idiot intended any harm.

If Ratchet kept that wall of ice emotional ice up, perhaps he could ignore the heavy remorse seeping in from the other side. Blocking Megatron out ached, as though his own spark were protesting against pushing its bondmate—unwanted or not—away. His spark couldn’t tell the difference between an accidental link or one of the truest intent; perhaps there wasn’t one. Perhaps on that level, it was all the same.

“Well, you haven’t hurt yourself.” He would have known. “So, what do you want?”

Maybe if he played along, kept it professional, Megatron would just… leave. Go somewhere else. Bother someone else. Ratchet didn’t want to think about how that mean-spirited wish was the opposite of what his spark craved.

“I thought it would be wise to… address the situation since we’ll… be here.” As opposed to being flung apart on opposite sides of the galaxy, of course.

How diplomatic. Ratchet didn’t have to be.

All Megatron had done with getting stationed here was forestall the inevitable, putting them both on borrowed time, borrowed time Ratchet had no intention of wasting with talking about an old mistake.

“There’s no situation to address,” he lied, stalwartly keeping his back to his visitor as they stewed in their shared disappointment.

Ratchet hadn’t told Drift about the bond; he couldn’t bring himself to. Not when he had abandoned the Lost Light to find his lost friend, not when they had returned triumphantly to help save the day, and not when they continued to chase Cyberutopia at Rodimus’s purple behest even when Megatron had escaped.

He trusted Drift with more than he had ever trusted anyone else before, but….

Not that it mattered now. Ratchet’s spark was once more alone.

Megatron had been left behind in another universe. A bond apparently couldn’t reach across that sort of divide, not such a weak bond anyway.

It wasn’t severed, no…. The edges of the connection didn’t feel ragged and painful to the proverbial touch, something that the rare survivors of a bondmate’s death had consistently reported.

Rather, it slept. He had reached out to test it but no response, like a frequency still in service though the user had stepped away.

It was a strange, empty loneliness.

Even when Megatron had been sealed in one of Wheeljack’s insane contraptions, he had still been there, exuding a quiet, seething fury in the background.

It had been easier to ignore the void with his and Drift’s return to the Lost Light. There was too much to do, everything happening so fast and all at once… and Drift was there. He was strange and ridiculous… and grounding.

Now, as Ratchet faced down an old friend, an old enemy, at what felt like the universe ending all over again with Drift at his side, the comatose link, quiet for weeks, bloomed to life.

A cruel joke of fate.

A distant sense of familiar hot anger mixed with soft relief reached out towards him, but why? Why should Megatron feel relieved? Here, where only death awaited them both—

Guns fired. Ratchet shouted. The glass wall behind them shattered. Drift, with a hole in his chest, was sucked out of the vessel.

On reflex, he flooded the bond with his helpless, despair, unable to follow, unable to do anything worthwhile to save Drift as he was lost to space.

All he could do… was keep talking to a facsimile of Pharma, of "Adaptus.” Of… something wearing his old friend’s body. Now was the only thing he could cling to.

In his chest, while he watched Rodimus further provoke hostilities, he could sense Megatron doing… something while what felt like ages pass as purported “gods” played their hands.

White armor on the ground. A welder. Drift, moving. Warm words. A distant, shared relief.

Ratchet slammed the door to the captain’s office shut, trapping Megatron inside with him.

He surely had sensed Ratchet’s approach, but perhaps didn’t know why. Even Ratchet himself couldn’t untangle the web of interwoven emotions weighing on his spark; how could he expect Megatron to?

The poor bastard sat at his desk, blinking at him curiously, a little as though he weren’t sure if the metaphorical ticking object before him were a clock or a bomb.

“You saved him,” Ratchet said, with all the finality of delivering an ill-fated diagnosis as he stood in front of the door.

It wasn’t entirely shocking that Megatron had done so, given Ratchet had seen the fool try to save lives.

What was shocking was the how.

Before he had been lost across the divide between universes, he had made those attempts through tactics, not medicine. Something had changed in him; whatever it was had amplified while they had been apart.

“He was a patient.”

That itself would normally have been explanation enough. Ratchet would have understood. It was how they had ended up here in the first place.

Ratchet crossed his arms.

“Since when do you have patients, Captain?”

Megatron continued to blink at him, radiating a faint, fond warmth across their bond, like it was a stupid question to have asked. Truth be told, it was—or at least it had been redundant. Ratchet had asked as though he didn’t already know the answer.

“As I said in my report, I was gone for centuries.”

He had read that report, yes, even if he hadn’t been supposed to since he had surrendered his post as CMO to First Aid. Truly retiring was difficult. Especially when higher ups forgot to revoke his access.

He nodded, still keeping his arms crossed. He still felt less exposed with his arms between his spark and Megatron. Not that he was in any danger. Megatron had never—since their accidental bonding anyway—raised a hand to him or gave off any indication that he would want revenge for what Ratchet had done so long ago. There had never even been a hint of resentment flung his way.

If, anything, it seemed to him that Megatron had accepted their link, perhaps cherished it even long before Ratchet had even been willing to acknowledge it, but the nuances were hard to distinguish with a bond so weak, so old, and so unreinforced.

The warmth was inviting; his spark ached to respond to it in kind.

“You saved Drift,” Ratchet clarified. They both knew full well what Drift meant to Ratchet.

Now they had all disappeared into yet another universe themselves where that could still matter. Would wonders ever cease? Would the Ratchet who had stayed behind even have this conversation or would he have simply left the loose ends to dangle until execution day?

Megatron’s mouth pulled a little awkwardly to the side, like he was trying and failing to smile without it being a smirk. Points for the attempt.

“I must admit, you’ve been quite the bad influence on me over the years, doctor.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, cautiously unfolding his arms as he approached the desk, “I’ve committed the unforgivable sin of nefariously tempting you into practicing medicine.”

He had rarely ever come this close to Megatron outside of actively repairing him. This time there wasn’t anything requiring his focus to distract him from the involuntary spinning in his spark, a spinning that no longer terrified him.

“As though you didn’t already want to do that.” He hadn’t forgotten what Megatron had told him in confidence on the operating table.

Though being bonded to Ratchet for ages probably hadn’t lessened that desire in any way.

He walked around the side of the desk.

“That component wasn’t pertinent to the discussion—”

“Shut up.”

Ratchet wrapped his arms around the fool’s chest—or what he could reach while Megatron was seated anyway—and pulled him into a rough, awkward embrace, finally satisfying his spark’s long-neglected need to be close.

“Thank you.”

#fic #one shot #maccadam #idw1 #megatron #ratchet #megaratch

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goatsludge · 3 months ago

Text

CTF Photonics CTF3 + Malkoff E1HTv2 and Z-Bolt Blazer IR Heads

A follow-up to the previous post, this unit officially belongs to @bureau-of-mines' AK build and figured I'd give my own more thorough early impressions on it so far - despite the presence of other devices hitting the market around the same time and price bracket as this, I still feel like the CTF3 has a niche of its own to fill.

The key selling point to this unit is its modularity - in lieu of an onboard IR illuminator, the CTF3 features effectively two 3V Scout Flashlight bodies machined into the laser body that sit saddleback on either side of the top rail. This allows you to interchange whatever IR or white light heads you need for your specific setup.

The fire buttons are surprisingly easy to reach despite the protruding battery caps; the center button being laser only and the smaller left and right buttons activating both the laser and the corresponding light body.

Sadly this means your IR laser will be activated when using the white light, and there's also no constant-on function for the light bodies, but such is life.

In my opinion, the greatest benefit of the CTF3 is its low profile - this really is the perfect laser for an AK or other rifle that force you to use lower-mounted optics. It fills the same niche as the 3EIR DIR Series, except it's more modular, made of higher quality materials, asks roughly half the cost (as far as a base unit without heads), and eliminates a separate white light setup, keeping the overall cost of accessories down.

Obviously, you also lose a remote cable port, vis laser, power output controls, the ability to co-align the illuminator with the laser dot, and divergence control is greatly limited as well (unless you get an IR Blazer Head), but you get the benefit of having less integral components to fail within the laser body itself.

Although I have a massive bias to ancient laser boxes, the CTF3 is a very cool unit and I love how it works on "westernized" AK setups (though how well it handles 7.62x39 is yet to be determined). Love to see more from CTF going forwards.

Also giving @avtomatkalashnikova a tag since he was interested in this setup as well.

#custom ak #ctf 3 laser #ctf photonics #ctf 3 #laser aiming module #night vision

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mariokart8wiiu · 1 month ago

Note

y'know a lot of the switch 2's "new" gimmicks feel familiar. the microphone, the kinect camera, a video chatting service, a square button next to the home button you need to pay to use... but the thing is, they're all disconnected, no cohesion between them. switch 2 has gimmicks, but it doesn't have a gimmick, unlike the wii u. the wii u gamepad ties all of the switch 2's gimmicks together into one controller. it's got a microphone, a camera, wii u chat, and the tv button, but its all done better. the microphone is actually on the controller and not across the room. the camera isn't something you have to pay extra for. the tv button is a much better execution of the "square button next to the home button you have to pay to use" concept as while switch online is a subscription you have to pay for indefinitely, buying a tv compatible with the wii u gamepad's ir blaster is a one time purchase that will last the rest of your life.

this is why nintendo should have made the switch u.

I couldn't have said it better-- The Wii U Gamepad was always meant to be the centerpiece of the living room. Family, friends, guests from all around could come and see it proudly displayed. The Switch and Switch 2, among other consoles, are meant to be tucked away shyly in a corner, almost as if they are ashamed to be shown. GameChat emulates a few aspects of the Wii U's social features, and dare I say improves upon them by having multiple people in a call, but it lacks the heart and soul that went into every facet of the Wii U's hardware.

I like the TV button too, I lost the remote for my TV years ago and exclusively use the Gamepad to turn it on. I hope my Gamepad never breaks.

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pearls-and-vignettes · 1 year ago

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Spaceway 70 - Pablo

The Marlin heaves out of the darkened dock, whining with unwarmed engines. A simple objective:

- Assess damages, neutralize threats.

I've done it a million times before. Come to think of it,—

Red lights blare outside and the station's distress call is picked up by the radio. I fly around the cylindrical body—perform a systematic scan. How would the incident report be written?

- Upper hull damaged in a hit-and-run bombing; station status unknown.

- Soldier casualties: ...

Soldiers. They never chose to lay down their lives—to fight for an uncaring ruler—not them.

- Assailant(s): Unknown vessel, presumed solitary. Heat signature detected, actively pursuing.

Ambiguous language. Open to litigation. Sarge would be sad.

- Disregard previous entry. Chasing assailant via engine heat; infrared reading with 0.87 certainty. Monitoring radar.

- Radar confirms a small ship. Moving at 75% of own velocity. Distance 2000 mi.

- 1500.

- Approaching civilian zone

- 1000.

- 500.

- 250.

- 175.

- 100.

- 50.

- 25.

- Contact.

They pull up and to the left, attempting to get above and behind me, though it's too little, too late.

- Assailant neutralized with ballistics. Assumed to have hit engine.

- Upon visual examination, there appears to have been no pilot. Control is either automated or remote. No outstanding radio frequency detected.

Darn...

Out and ahead of me are markers indicating a commercial route. Safe for traders.

A transponder on one of the markers pings my ship. Something about remaining in place, a unit arriving soon. I don't make it a good hundred miles before a squad comes in with weapons hot.

I dodge a few shots and they graze me with a laser. I'm not about to make war with a whole task force.

The Marlin is a ship of esoteric construction. It has a hull constructed for incredibly heavy salvos—granted you have enough sealant [1] aboard. It comes with a cloak [2], more a scrambler than anything, which uses up insane amounts of power, and an EM pulse [3] which likewise drains my batteries. It's a perfect ship for an early retirement [4], as long as my encounters are few and far between.

With the push of a fader I turn my radio into a tool of war, creating a streak of white along their IR imager and making their radar unusable. Similarly, with a press of a button the magnetron pulses on, disabling their steering and warming up their cabins.

- Three combatants neutralized; nonlethal means

Two more pull down and in front, shooting and missing. I pull up and turn around, hoping to hit them with more microwaves.

< -#- VACDETEC V1.4 -#- >

< ALARM >

I begin to sweat as the laser weapon dissipates as heat into my cockpit.

< HULL SEALED >

< SEALANT AT 25% >

I need to leave.

I reach up to grab a solar compass [5] and scribble my heading onto the cockpit glass.

- Taking extratactical measures: Magnetron shielding angle set to 175.8 degrees

< ## Are you sure? Use of EMP with current settings may cause systems to misbehave. ## >

[ YES ]

Navigation goes dark as two more ships behind me lose steering. I launch a wide-range RF jammer [6] and a hot net [7]. I cut my engines and seal the exhaust [8].

This is a special dance they taught us in Academy; " . . . each ship has its own precise limits, though with them come potential," they had us memorize old literature, "that is why you must know yours more intimately than the body of your lover . . . " I positioned one hand over the exhaust control and another over the ignition. Two seconds, three seconds, and

< -#- SHELL -#- >

< ALARM >

The ship rattles as I rocket dead ahead in the direction of home. Another alarm blares on my monitor,

A few milliseconds too late. I hear a faint whisper—a hiss—join the chorus of the Marlin's song. I'm sorry. I'll fix it soon. It'll be ok.

" . . . for each time you take up the helm, you partake in a romance far more real than any other, for no other can see the terror

of a deprivation so terrible, or a death so swift."

[1]: A chemical formulation which undergoes an extremely exothermic reaction when exposed to the vacuum of space. Akin to tire sealant from when vulcanized rubber was used for land vehicles.

[2]: A system consisting of telescoping antennae and an ultra-high amplitude RF generator. Hides a ship's exact location within a much broader, irregular radio signature.

[3]: A high-powered magnetron capable of producing strong microwaves with multiple miles of range. Temporarily scrambles navigation systems, causing affected ships to veer off-course.

[4]: I can't keep doing this

[5]: An indicator which points in the direction of the closest star, when properly calibrated. Detects the unique products of nuclear fusion.

[6]: Akin to the cloak, a disposable projectile which blanks out vast swathes of a ship's radio imager.

[7]: A large, mechanized retroreflector which concentrates heat from all directions, and shoots it back at the viewer, making infrared imaging of a ship nearly impossible.

[8]: In reference to a mechanism which seals the exhaust vents of the Marlin. This turns the entirety of the engine tract into a bomb. A stupid idea if held closed for more than a few seconds.

#`twtocwbart

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pampanope · 8 months ago

Note

Hello, how are you doing? I’ve come with more questions >:3

1. Since cannonly Graves’ died in MW2, how is he alive? Did some cute girl/boy/enby necromance him or something? Or was it something more reasonable and realistic. Hell, was he even in the area when he was supposedly killed.

2. Is MW3 cannon in the ShadowDadlderverse? I hear it’s really really bad and not many or everyone considers it to be not cannon. This question goes hand in hand with the former

3. How did Graves’ feel when he realized that his dad wasn’t a hero? Did his finding out happen to coincide with Bell? Or is Graves still blind to what Addler did to Bell?

4. Since the Shadows are notably close in their verse, they most likely have game night. What games and movies do they play while together? What games and movies are banned?

5. Since I cannot go five questions without asking about fantasy and dnd, what would Graves character sheet look like? Class, race, backstory, spells, weapons, etc.

6. why is last name Graves? Is it his mother’s last name? Does like 7-11 call him Phillip A. Grave when pissed or something?(i definitely need to dig into the gas station man)

7. What is relationship with Laswell? And maybe if you’re feeling extra extra dangerous, maybe say what you picture Laswell’s wife to look like.

8. Also how old do you think Graves is? He can easily be seen as like 25-41. Or how old you think he is in your Au?

I know I am definitely asking some pretty deepish questions when it comes to your Au, but I like to learn. I especially like to learn about characters. And since your interpretation of Graves’ is currently scratching the itch I am internally inclined to ask these questions.

Stay safe!

Okaay here i gooo

1. I rly believe that tank was an unmanned vehicle that Graves controlled remotely while Soap ran around frantically XD hurling insults and a Shadow thumping him on the shoulder when he got carried away.

2. The only canon a peel off of mw3 and slap onto the Shadowdadler verse is that Makky is at large and Graves flew off into the sunset|

3. It depends on how he found out. If Graves knew what his father did at an early age, it’s be less of a shock. If Adler was honest about why a masked man was lurking somewhere nearby, told his son that he hurt one person for the sake of millions, it’d be better than if he tried to hide his actions. It wouldn’t surprise me if adult Graves grew to have a similar mentality as his father.

4. Game night’s full of multiplayer games (snash bros, mario party, MvC, etc). There’s a DnD session off to a corner. Ruined jenga towers litter the floor. A circle if Shadows play charades. Monopoly is DEFINITELY banned, too many fights break out. Any high shakes gambling on card games is also prohibited (there Shadows who are talented at card counting and sleight of hand). Any and all genres of movies are watches, with the exception of the Star Wars sequels. Those are unanimously banned.

5. I’d die if Graves was still the leader of a mercenary group but classed as a bard XD high charisma definitely. Still human. Idk enough about DnD as a whole to say what spells he’s gonna use but I like ghe idea of him boosting his part members that do the fighting

6. Ok so in one of my Dadler comics, Adler fights off and kills enemy agents that wanna target him and lil Phillip. He buries them in their backyard. Phillip learns one day that there are dead bodies there. Learns that they had to die for him to keep living. He’s looking at graves. The memory would stick with him. Lol 7-11 calls Graves Sir when the commanders being stubborn ir reckless 🤣 (funny, the Lt. can be just as stubborn and reckless)

7. Oh! I like her and the role she plays. I liked the sneaky sneaky part she had~ Her wife? I picture her a bit taller than Laswell. She’d be a brunette, soft featured, a bit tanned, down to earth and honest about her thoughts and feelings, something Laswell appreciates as someone used to subterfuge.

8. I got Graves at a solid 40. A tiny bit seasoned to be out in the field, but still young enough to be effective. He ages gracefully 🥰 hehehe

#that was an interview lmaoo i had fun!!!!#and thanks for asking!!#ask #call of duty #phillip graves #shadow company #mw2 #mw3

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redpusea · 10 months ago

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Reconceptualising the colours in Stranger Things

Currently (I could have my mind changed in the future) my understanding is that Jane/Eleven, Will, and Mike at their core are generally associated with 1 colour each Red, Yellow, and Blue respectively

Following is an excerpt from chat GPT;

“Electromagnetic Spectrum

The electromagnetic spectrum encompasses all types of electromagnetic radiation, arranged according to their frequency or wavelength. The main categories include:

Radio Waves:

Wavelength: > 1 mm

Frequency: < 300 GHz

Uses: Communication (radio, television), astronomy, MRI

Microwaves:

Wavelength: 1 mm to 1 cm

Frequency: 300 MHz to 300 GHz

Uses: Microwave ovens, radar, satellite communication

Infrared (IR):

Wavelength: 700 nm to 1 mm

Frequency: 300 GHz to 430 THz

Uses: Remote controls, thermal imaging, night vision

Visible Light:

Wavelength: 400 nm to 700 nm

Frequency: 430 THz to 770 THz

Colors: Red (longest wavelength) to violet (shortest wavelength)

Ultraviolet Light:

Wavelength: 10 nm to 400 nm

Frequency: 750 THz to 30 PHz

Uses: Sterilization, fluorescent lamps, UV curing

X-Rays:

Wavelength: 0.01 nm to 10 nm

Frequency: 30 PHz to 30 EHz

Uses: Medical imaging, security, astronomy

Gamma Rays:

Wavelength: < 0.01 nm

Frequency: > 30 EHz

Uses: Cancer treatment, sterilization, nuclear physics”

Make of that as you will, please share your thoughts if you have any before continuing to read.

But for me I think about the full spectrum of colours we can see are obviously very limited. If we were able to perceive all of this spectrum, I image it is just purely more nuance and distinguishing between these levels. So imagine we could distinguish and our perception wasn’t so limited. Radio waves- Gamma rays represents a spectrum from red to violet (red, orange, yellow, green (maybe cyan), blue, (maybe indigo), violet… I notice that Jane has been since the start of the show associated with radio, television. I think this is giving us the key to understand the other characters like Will and Mike… Will has already been hinted at being in control of some characters in a way and I think this is also how the Mind Flayer achieved control of Will by stealing his power and using it against him. Now Mike is interesting because his colour could be UV a symbol for something beyond human perception in a way beyond sight (like emotion - “you’re the heart” OR or X-Rays a possible symbol for the ability to see through something…

what do you think?

#byler #stranger things

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tagsecretsanta · 1 year ago

Text

From @gaviiadastra

From @gaviiadastra to @womble1

Hello to my wonderful gift recipient! I’m certain this was a gift to me; I got to write my all time favorites. Thank you! I hope you have a wonderful holiday and that you enjoy this story, and special thanks to TAGSS for organizing the exchange this year.

My prompts were:

1. FishTank (Virgil & Gordon) and woodland dappled light.

2. Alan having to deal with life outside the island.

3. Anything christmassy. Who am I kidding, I'll be happy with anything. 😁

___

Along Country Roads

Summary: a place can hold unique memories for different people - sometimes it’s the same one, just different.A/N: I promise, it’s a balanced level of sappiness and brother time with some light h/c. For exact warnings: references to depression and avalanche aftermath, in which I headcanon Virgil was present with Lucille. Gordon’s hydrofoil accident is always in the background. But there’s laughs too, aaaand I’ve continued to use crafty!FishTank as a plot device.

~*~

For as much as Scott fought the GDF for them to have a family holiday, the IR commander sure managed to make himself scarce, Virgil thought bitterly. It was the first time they’d managed to take International Rescue offline for a full week without there being an excuse of a serious injury prompting the decision – a fact that hurt his heart to think about. Still, Virgil awoke to a mostly empty household despite the homely comfort of coffee still warmed and the gentle brush of heat throughout the cabin from the controlled flames stoked in the fireplace.

But, no, that wasn’t necessarily fair to Scott either, and Virgil recognized his sleepiness taking control of his thoughts. He’d known his older brother would need to take some time in DC, and it wasn’t actually all that far to the Capitol. All would be well, as long as Scott’s business was concluded by Christmas, like he’d promised them. It still felt strange to be offline; not knowing what was happening in the rest of the world left an uncomfortable itch that ran through his blood, which was only eased with the knowledge that Eos was still watching, listening, and would alert them if they were needed.

The distance away was exactly why they'd chosen here in the first place - a remote location for the full step back and reset they needed after months of running on exhaustion.

These days, the mountain cabin and its surrounding property belonged to Virgil, even if he still thought of it as one of their family’s winter homes. It was only after their mother’s death that they started vacationing here in Appalachia. The hills of Shenandoah were different enough from the ski lodge, so he’d been able to form new cozy Christmas memories within its walls, comforted by the East Coast’s gentler, wiser mountains. The Blue Ridge Mountains to the east and the Alleghenies to the west and were among the oldest on the planet. They knew loss.

The ache in his soul then had been raw and bare, and certainly it had taken a few winters for him to heal enough to step foot into the snow. But he'd wept with the song of the ancients and walked stronger for it.

Home, through country roads, indeed.

That morning, though his heart rang with the distant echo of the constant activity of their childhood, he’d walked in instead on just Gordon cozied by the fireplace, wearing more layers than his usual attire and with a blanket thrown across his feet. Virgil recognized the hank of heathered blue and dusky grey, now spun into a usable yarn cake, that Gordon had selected for a pair of fingerless mittens for Scott. And it was that which had reminded Virgil of their brother’s planned departure that morning; Scott’s absence had given Gordon some privacy to finish his Christmas gift.

In lieu of a greeting, Gordon finessed his foot from beneath the blanket to waggle his toes at him, while continuing to crochet the stitches in the round. “Do NOT tell him how close I cut it.”

“Ugh, gross. Good morning to you too.” Virgil parked himself in the adjacent recliner, far enough from potentially stinky feet and near enough to a side table for him to comfortably drink his coffee while watching the flames flicker within earthen stone. “And I would never.” It was the curse of the homemade gift - always the best of intentions and never enough time.

The fireplace mantle he usually kept bare save for a large, framed painting of a creek running through a grove of autumn red oak trees. The brush strokes were ones he knew as well as his own. He’d studied from them, committed them to memory. And though their mother never knew the cabin home, the scene could’ve easily been something right outside their door, albeit in a different season. The deciduous trees were spectacular in the height of color-changing foliage, and he’d had the pleasure of seeing them many times in their travels as children for their father’s business, then again with International Rescue through which he’d seen many of the world’s marvels as well as its strifes.

When they arrived, the first thing they did together was pull out the old holiday decorations, and so for the first time in a long while the artwork shone from a podium of garland, the green of blue spruce with wine-red bows interspersed in the artificial branches.

“What are you thinking about?”

Virgil flicked his eyes away from the painting where Gordon had pulled his earbud away, his yarn work resting in his lap while he rotated his wrists to stretch.

“Mom,” Virgil answered, glancing back to the landscape captured in time.

“Oh, I always thought that was one of yours.”

Virgil shook his head. Coughed. “Where is everyone else off to?”

Gordon rambled in answer, but Virgil was versed enough to catch the key points: that Scott was, of course, in Washington; John was in the office on a conference call with his editor in New York; Grandma had gone into town for supplies – “I would’ve gone with her had I known” – and Alan was still asleep.

Virgil glanced down at his watch.

“He was up until four modding for one of Brandon’s livestreams,” Gordon defended on their youngest brother’s behalf.

“I’m going to pretend I know what that means.”

“It means let the kid sleep.”

Virgil knew he’d have to trust Gordon on that one. Besides, he wasn’t one to argue over late mornings; he’d done his fair share of staying up late to catch the sunless sky for this art project or that over the years. He nodded in acknowledgement and took another sip from his coffee as Gordon settled back into his project, replacing the ear bud.

It had been rare, in their childhood, for Virgil to enjoy spending time with Gordon like this, not because of the age difference between them though that certainly played a small part, but because they existed on different schedules. Even more so than his space-faring siblings, Virgil was like the moon to Gordon’s sun. His late nights, however, were not a product of scientific interest, but rather an overactive imagination and trauma-based insomnia, and later - as he got older - the artistic outlets to alleviate the worst parts of them both.

When they were younger, Gordon would be the first awake and the first to wake everyone else with his volume and exuberance. He didn’t really like Gordon for that back then, but it was also something that he didn’t realize he missed until it was gone. That was something that had changed drastically over the years between Gordon developing a discipline for a morning routine with his swimming and then his subsequent military experience. And though the vivacity came back after the accident, there was a time Gordon understood Virgil’s own mind more than Virgil ever wanted his younger brother to.

The Gordon he knew now was plenty more considerate than his younger self, among the most carefree spirits he knew despite the scars on his heart, and still the most resilient, most tenacious person he’d ever met.

They made a good team. His light was good for him.

“You’re thinking so hard, V.” Startled, Virgil tried to regain control of the remaining coffee in his mug so it wouldn’t spill. “Honestly,” Gordon added, laughing, “I can’t even focus on my stitches.”

Virgil watched as Gordon stabbed his hook in the top of the stitches from the row before, grabbed his working yarn with the hook, then struggled to wiggle it back through the loops. It budged eventually, but mid row, Gordon stopped and had to stretch again.

Virgil gently placed his drink down on a coaster to protect the wood of the side table. “You should take a break,” he suggested.

Gordon shook his head. “I have to finish these by tonight.”

“Scott’s out the whole day, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but - ”

“So come for a walk with me?” He glanced out the window. Outside it was a clear day, deceptive in how bright the sun was, dappled through the branches of the trees. “I’ve been meaning to check the markings along the trails. Make sure they are clear or if they need a new coat of paint. Come with me?”

Gordon hesitated, squinting at his progress. “You know the cold isn’t my thing.” Suddenly, frustration cut through his concentration as his brow furrowed. “My stitch count is off! For fu-”

“Ooookay, you definitely need a break.” Virgil hopped out of the recliner and pried the work out of a grumbling Gordon’s hands before he could unravel the whole thing unnecessarily, gently placing the hook, yarn, and partly-finished mitt on the adjacent table. “Come on. The air will be good for you. It doesn’t have to be for long, and we’ll be walking the whole way, which’ll help with the cold.”

“And walking for the whole time?” he pressed, eyeing Virgil warily, like he knew better in trusting Virgil’s word when it came to the wonders of natural beauty. He had to hand that one to Gordon; there was some truth to that lack of faith.

“For the whole time,” Virgil promised. “I won’t even bring a sketchpad, scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t ever a scout,” Gordon countered.

“Still.” Virgil beamed.

~*~

They met back in the lounge after Gordon changed and located a hoodie to slide over his long sleeve, and after Virgil had poked his head in the office to check on John, realized he was still on his call, then slid a note for him under the door. He handed Gordon his sherpa-lined puffer jacket, then donned his own hooded flannel with fleece interior. They each had their own preferences for winter accessories – so Gordon grabbed his pair of grey fingerless mitts and a matching knit hat from the closet, while Virgil wrapped a wide scarf in ivory white loosely around his neck.

Virgil’s core body temperature always ran a bit warmer than his siblings’. There had been many a winter growing up with one (or both) of the terrible two tucked into his side.

With the additional layers on, Virgil’s skin crawled with the heat from inside the cabin stifling him, so he didn’t linger in the entryway while Gordon tied up his hiking boots. Outside in the crisp chill he breathed deeply, his nose finding the gentle tickle of pine and woodchips, before he exhaled a cloud of breath that warmed his cheeks. He stepped down from the porch, and the frozen patches of amber grass and earth crunched under the heel of his boot.

“Ugh, it’s so cold out here!” Gordon exclaimed in the clamor of him joining Virgil in the great outdoors. “My hands are going to get so dry.”

Virgil fondly rolled his eyes and started to reach for the top of Gordon’s head before he remembered he would be blocked by the hat. “That’s what hand lotion is for,” he said instead, further loosening the knot of his scarf.

From the front porch, the road curved past a line of bare trees before it disappeared down the mountain. The drive there was treacherous enough it sat comfortably on Scott’s favorites list between testing hot sauces and bungee jumping. Despite the drop close to the road, deceptive with the blanket of trees, Virgil trusted his older brother behind the wheel. The cabin was only midway up the mountain, and it really was only one large stretch of hill that was particularly touch and go. Scott was plenty capable, and the lack of land rover was an indicator that Scott had driven himself into the nation’s Capitol. He might be back a little later than expected, but Scott thrived in his time behind the wheel. Relaxed even. Those hours to decompress would be beneficial for him – plenty of time to mentally leave work behind so he could fully and completely join the family for the holiday.

“So, up or down?”

Gordon, his covered hands tucked into his jacket pockets, twisted toward him then glanced at the two paths as he shifted onto toes to stretch his back. With a sigh, “Let’s get uphill over with. As long as you promise not to linger at the look out.” Virgil held his hands up, palms out, to prove he was without his art supplies as promised.

As they walked, Gordon excitedly shared the latest on his co-written article for Marine Science Daily, which Virgil knew was the exact reason Gordon’s Christmas project plans had been derailed. He nodded along at the appropriate talking points, having read the article but always more engaged when hearing it from the aquanaut directly. Meanwhile, Gordon subconsciously kept moving closer to Virgil’s side. Eventually Virgil untied the scarf completely, letting its length fall unsecured down the front of his jacket. Like a tie at the end of a long, wild night. Not that he would ever admit to having those. What happened at college stayed at college.

“Do you know my favorite Christmas?” Gordon asked, pulling Virgil from his fond memories of theater afterparties and post-concert celebrations. But Gordon hadn’t waited for Virgil to answer, his eyes unusually bright against the reddening of his cheeks with the bite of the wind. “I used to hate the cabin when we first started coming here. I was too young to remember – uhh – before, but I remember how it felt against all that change and you were so different and always so sad all the time. The first time it snowed, I remember you running back inside like it burned you, and Scott ran in after, leaving John to help Al and I with our snowman.”

The lump in Virgil’s throat grew.

“But then one year, it actually snowed on the holiday. A for real white Christmas! And I remember thinking – this is it, this is what we’ve been coming here for. It wasn’t a massive snow; just enough to cover the grass – definitely not enough for a snowman, but we made our fun anyway. I had just made the perfect snowball out of what little was there. And any moment, you would come join us. I just knew it. And then I saw you watching us from the window, and it didn’t look like you were going to come.

“It was just enough time distracted for John to launch his freezing projectile at me. He hit me square in the face and I dropped my perfect snowball. And as I cleared the snow off my face, I caught you actually laughing about the snow. You did eventually come out that Christmas. Scott encouraged you to sit with him on the porch stoop first, and then you walked out on your own. I know you leaned a lot on Scott in those days, but there was just something about that laugh – it made me feel like I helped you take those steps, even if I wasn’t the one at your elbow to keep you steady.”

Virgil swallowed hard. He remembered that year, and Gordon had only been a child. “You did plenty.”

Their breaths expelled in little huffs as they continued the climb, where Virgil noticed, as he figured might be the case, certain spots where the red paint had faded on the trees. It could use a refresh to make sure the trails were clearly marked. If he didn’t get to it this season, he’d be sure to prepare for next time he visited his cabin. Beside him, Gordon trampled over fallen branches, grumbling about the temperature between curse words, especially as they reached what had seemed like the top of the last hill only to see another awaiting them.

Virgil chuckled as he waited for them both to catch their breath at the top of the hill before they continued to the lookout just a few more steps up the final hill. His mountain was not among the tallest nor the smallest of the range, and so the top was a vision of both the valley below and the neighboring peaks. He loved the view; when it was cold enough, the mountains were sometimes snowcapped, the trees blanketed in white as soft as the cumulus through which he’d often soared.

So far, the sky had yet to open. But, oh, how she teased. Nimbostratus in neutral grey with a cobalt undertone approaching from the east, mottling the sunlight.

Beside him, Gordon took advantage of the flatter land and Virgil’s brief examination of the sky to stretch. Virgil recognized the movements in his periphery, and when he glanced back over, Gordon’s hands were placed purposefully on the small of his back as he twisted both directions.

The sway of the wind had been absent of Gordon’s familiar idle chatter for a while, he realized, and there was an unusual balance to his stance that hinted at stiffness in his joints.

“Are you okay?”

Gordon didn’t answer, but rather smirked at him and gestured with a flourish for Virgil to lead the way.

Virgil was barely two steps forward when he felt a weight launch onto his back. Squid arms quickly slung around his neck, squeezing, and Virgil leaned forward, his hands instinctively moving to catch his younger sibling before he fell off his back.

“Help me, Virgil-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope!”

“Oh my GOD,” Virgil grunted, already shifting him into a better position. “You’re fine.”

“I am, mostly,” Gordon laughed at the back of his head. “Carry me anyway.”

An arm around his neck loosened as Gordon lifted it to point one finger onward up the mountain.

“Don’t you dare say it.”

“I’m going to say it.”

“Gord-!”

“Thunderbros are go!” His laughter echoed, past tree and stream and along the paths they’d traveled.

Virgil couldn’t let him go if he tried.

He carried Gordon piggyback the rest of the way, a short sprint upward that had his calves straining, but the ache was minor compared to some of the training they did at Grand Roca. Only once they reached the lookout did Gordon hop down, giggling, while Virgil worked on calming his heart rate.

“Thanks!” Gordon skipped past him.

Virgil was tempted to throw something. In fact…

He tugged his scarf the rest of the way off his neck, scrunched it into a ball, and sent it sailing at the back of Gordon’s head. It unfurled some, but Gordon hadn’t gotten too far ahead, so he definitely felt it hit before the rest of it dropped to the ground.

“That’s no way to treat your accessories. I’m offended.” Gordon snorted. He retrieved the scarf, gave it a shake that sent a few leaves in Virgil’s direction, and then wrapped it around his own neck. “You don’t get to have this back now.”

Feeling light despite the burn in his legs, excited to witness the lookout once again, and without any real anger towards his brother’s antics, Virgil joined him at the bench nearer the view and positioned safely away from the edge. He hadn’t known how to respond to his brother’s sudden introspection about their childhood, though his own version of the memory lingered with him.

He hadn’t known that year mattered so much to Gordon. Nor was he able to recall the events leading up to him walking in the snow. Those details were fuzzy for him, but he remembered the warmth. He remembered the laughter. He should’ve realized the mark his sadness had left on his family, and before he could think any further about it, Virgil was apologizing. For dragging Gordon out in the cold, for all the years he couldn’t help the littles with their snowmen, for not doing more to make sure they had the Christmases they deserved without the weight of loss.

“Sorry? Whatever do you need to apologize for?” Gordon interrupted. He shook his head. “No, Virgil. Don’t do that.” He stared out to the mountainscape, his lips thin, as slowly he raised his palm to catch the first snowflakes in the center of his hand. One, two, then they melted into the knit fabric. “I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

Virgil gaped at him. “For what?”

Gordon lifted his gaze from his clenched fist to meet Virgil’s baffled expression, fiery resolve softened into humility. “I told myself, if Virgil could learn to re-love the snow – I don’t think you understand how important that was for me to keep carrying forward. I know I can get so stuck in my own head sometimes, but your support has always been incredibly grounding. You’re like… having a sturdy shore to return to for when the tide ebbs too far. I can’t imagine having another co-pilot as good for me as you are.”

It was too much.

His own words, his own thoughts about Gordon, mirrored back to him, about him.

“Well,” he rasped, clearing his throat of the overwhelm of emotion, “we are Tracy’s after all.” It didn’t say nearly enough, but it also said exactly what it needed to. Perseverance ran through their blood, after all, and they’d both been through the unimaginable.

Virgil turned his head towards the sky, the feather fall of snow catching in his lashes, and in his hair, and on his flannel.

“It’s also entirely your fault my project’s not finished.”

“My fault?”

“You promised no lingering for art purposes, and I definitely heard a whispered phthalo earlier.”

“Cobalt,” he corrected.

“Same thing.”

“It’s not at all -”

“Soooo, do you think John’s done his meeting yet? Maybe he’ll make us hot chocolate?” Gordon hopped off the bench, clapped his hands together resolutely, and started walking back towards the trail and away from Virgil’s disputes.

“Gordon! They aren’t the same color. They don’t even sound the same!”

Smiling, Virgil had no choice but to follow.

#thunderbirds are go #tag team secret santa #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction

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