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thetaoofzoe · 4 years

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Fic: Ethan Hunt Must Die 1/1

Pairing: August Walker x YOU

Word Count: 10,420

Summary: You are a medic and a member of what’s left of The Apostles. And it’s not rumour anymore. August Walker is definitely not dead. All you want to do is help him with his cause, kill those responsible for his grave injuries (and foiling his manifesto) and make Ethan Hunt pay. Falling in love with August Walker is just a given ;)

Rating: Mature to Explicit some Violence, sex and fluff and yearning and impetuous kisses, explosions and delicious August Walker. And, this story is not as serious as it may appear, so have fun reading.

Note: If you have been around you’ve seen the original iteration of this story, but maybe not in its entirety. It was originally broken up into 10 parts as A Month of August Walker Challenge. Now, in all of its revamped glory is the complete story all in one place.

Want to read more? Click for my Masterlist

Your contact was a pleasant woman. She’d collected you from the tiny airport in Kashmir and on the way to your destination, she’d offered to buy snack food for you from a nearby shop.

‘The cabin is fully stocked,’ she reasoned pointing to the squat building by the side of the road, ‘but in case you want a Coke or something.’

You did want a Coke in fact and you took her up on the offer. Along with a few cans of cola you grabbed other items – chocolate bars, fishing tackle, and feminine hygiene products. You didn’t know how long you were going to be out there in the middle of nowhere, and you didn’t want to use up the precious bog roll when your cycle eventually came.

The woman was leaning against the side of the battered truck and smoking a cigarette when you stepped out of the shop. Eyeing your purchases, she nodded with approval.

‘Good idea,’ she said, making a vague gesture towards you with her cigarette. ‘We didn’t think about a woman’s needs during such a long excursion. Next time. There are all sorts of painkillers in the stocks though… just so you are aware.’

She put a gloved hand on her lower belly and laughed a little.

‘I know how it can get.’

You smiled, grateful to be sharing this moment with her, woman to woman, and thanked her before getting back into the truck.

‘Is there gonna be a next time?’ you asked, sweeping the seatbelt across your chest and clicking it into place.

She didn’t look at you as she started the truck and set off down the road.

‘I hope this is the last, ‘ she said finally and as it seemed like such a struggle for her to come up with an answer that she seemed satisfied with, you didn’t continue to press the matter.

Settling into the seat, you unwrapped a chocolate bar, and with three large bites, had it stuffed into your mouth. The salty chocolate and nougat were glorious and you moulded the sweet wad into the roof of your mouth so that you could savour it with slow licks. You folded the plastic-coated wrapper into a small square and tucked it in your jacket pocket.

The woman drove along the rough frosty mountain roads as if you two were being chased. She didn’t seem at all phased with how the truck bounced and jumped dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, as if one wrong turn of the wheel wouldn’t send the two of you plunging down into the river below.

That imagery triggered sudden rage in you.

Goddamn you, Ethan Hunt, you thought.

You wanted just two minutes alone with Hunt to make him regret having ever laid eyes on August Walker. Hunt deserved nothing but a long slow torturous death.

Ever since the incident, The Apostles had been split on what to do regarding August Walker. Should he be left out there and forgotten? Or should his remains be recovered and given a proper burial?

The thought that there was nothing left to recover prevailed until reports that August had survived the fall started trickling in. With this new knowledge, it was impossible to prevent the uprising that voted to scour the mountains to find him. This time, your only mission was to man the cabin in the event one of the search teams found him.

‘Not far to the cabin. Ayami is apart of the search team. You know her, yes?’ asked the woman.

‘Yes. I know her.’

‘Good, Ayami planned all of this, coordinated us, and was able to pinpoint a location not far from this cabin.’

Not enough planning for a menstrual cycle, you thought, petulantly.

‘It will work out,’ she continued and nodded. ‘He will be found.’

‘This is the third time someone has,’ you made inverted commas in the air with your fingers, ‘pinpointed his location, only to run into IMF lies. We are wasting precious time. August is alive and we need to find him.’

The woman drove on in silence for a moment.

‘I agree with you, yes. I agree. But what do you suggest that we do? If not this.’

You relented and sighed. You had no idea what to do other than this.

‘If I could snap my fingers…’

You clicked your fingers and she chuckled, clicking hers as well.

‘He would be safe with us,’ she finished for you.

A half hour later, she slowed and finally stopped the truck and pointed through the windscreen at what looked like a stack of fallen trees.

‘Unfortunately, my friend,’ she said. ‘There is a way to drive up to the cabin. However, it is many, many kilometres that way and petrol for me is hard to come by right. It’s easier to drop you here and you take the trail. It’s only a few hours hike.’

You grabbed your rucksack from the foot well, reached over and one-arm hugged the woman and then got out. She did a wide circle turn around and pulled the truck up to where you stood.

‘Good luck, my friend. And take care.’

‘Take care,’ you said. ‘See you soon.’

She gave you a two-fingered salute and drove away.

It was cold that far up in the mountains and the beginning of the trail looked desolate. Securing your rucksack on your back, you began your long trek, and the cabin was a welcome sight after hours of navigating the rocky hard terrain. Inside was small and utilitarian, but it was more than enough for you. You didn’t bother to take off your boots before falling onto the cot and into a deep exhausted sleep.

In the morning, you took stock of your surroundings. The cabin was pretty well-appointed with a wood stove, a table with two chairs, an amazingly comfortable cot and stacks and stacks of supplies. The gold-painted metal ammo closet in the back was comforting to see and you were going to familarise yourself with its contents later. But first, breakfast.

You got up to make coffee and noticed a medium-sized cardboard box sitting on the small dining table by the stove. There was a note.

‘Your name was given to me at the last moment. Here are some things you may need.’

And it was signed, ‘Ayami’.

You slit open the box with your pocket knife and laughed when you saw the contents. Ayami had packaged not only tampons and pads but several different styles of menstrual cups for you and you felt guilty for earlier, being such a brat about the supplies you needed.

‘You planned everything, Ayami,’ you said aloud to the empty room. ‘Thank you.’

You lit the fire in the stove and put a pot on to boil some water. A noise outside pricked your ears. It sounded like the heavy motor of an ATV and out of the noise you picked out the sounds of other engines drawing closer.

Shit! you thought, rushing to the ammo closet at the back of the cabin.

Flinging open the doors, you dragged out a single barrel shotgun, loaded it, and scrambled back to the front cabin door. Peering out through the narrow window you watched as several four-wheelers and one battered Land Rover raced towards the cabin. In a cloud of kicked up dirt and dust, the Rover drove straight up to the door and to your absolute surprise, the passenger door popped open and Ayami jumped out.

You opened the cabin door and came out.

‘Good!’ she shouted over the noise of the engines. ‘You’re here. Get the first aid boxes ready, now!’

You were a medic and understood the urgency in her tone. You ran back to the cabin and were piling bandages, antiseptics, and other items on the table when three men carried in a limp body between them. Ayami strode across the room and captured you in a hug.

‘I am happy to see you,’ she gasped breathlessly and grabbed your hands. ‘We found him!’

With heart crashing against your ribs, you looked to the man being stretched on the cot as Ayami continued.

Oh God… they found him.

‘Somehow some wanderers discovered him months ago and took him in.’

She trailed off and shook her head. She still seemed to be in shock.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ you told her and squeezed her hands. ‘We’re looking after him now. Radio in for helicopter transport. It may take a few days to get someone out here.’

You cleaned your hands and went to assess the situation. August was alive and badly burned, but gladly not beyond your repair. Ayami came back into the cabin after making the call and joined you at the bed.

‘You planned all of this, Ayami,’ you said. ‘You made this happen. What’re our next step?’

Ayami put her hand on your shoulder and smiled viciously.

‘To make Ethan Hunt pay.’

You were wrong.

It didn’t take a few days for the helicopter to arrive. It took two weeks. Although the cabin was well stocked and had nearly everything you needed to tend to August’s wounds, it wasn’t enough.

Ayami wanted to leave and take August the long way through the mountains. They had the power to transport him over land and it was fucking stupid to leave him at the cabin to succumb to something that could be fixed. His body was fighting a raging infection and frankly, he was losing. You explained to her your reasons for why it would be tough on August to try to drive with him through such hard terrain. He was in a fragile state and jostling him all around in an unstable car could exacerbate any internal injuries. A chopper ride would be better.

Ayami understood that, however…

‘We’ve got plenty of antibiotics,’ she said reasonably. ‘Why can’t we give him some?’

‘Because we don’t know what he has. He could have a bacterial or viral infection and just picking something to give him might do more harm than good. I don’t want to take that risk.’

It wasn’t as if you didn’t want to pump him full of all of the pills you had, just to scattershot the infection, but incorrectly dosing him, in his weakened state, might kill him. August Walker was alive and you were going to keep him that way.

So you did your best. With Ayami’s help, you kept him clean and dry and in order to manage his temperature, iced. August, however, foiled your attempts to tend to him effectively. He was delirious and unaware of what was happening to him. More than once you had to extract yourself from his vice-like grip as he held onto you and growled guttural threats of violence to your person. All you could do was try to soothe him and mop his brow and use the aspirin to dull his obvious pain.

During the wait for air transport, you stayed up some nights with August. Sometimes you just sat at his bedside and read by the light of your headlamp. Sometimes you just watched him, held his hand and stroked his hair when nightmares haunted his sleep.

He would heal pretty well, you observed, and, without too much lasting damage to his face. He was fortunate that the hot oil missed his eye, although it ruined his ear. But you knew that too could be reconstructed.

‘We’re gonna get you back on your feet, August,’ you murmured on those nights when he was at his most fitful. ‘And we’re gonna get those people who did this to you.’

Even though you weren’t sure he could even hear you speaking, you continued to encourage and comfort him. It was the least you could do.

‘You met John Lark before?’ Ayami asked over breakfast one morning, using August’s real name for the first time.

‘When he was going by John Lark?’ you asked for clarification and she nodded. ‘No. Not then. He had already assumed the new identity and was in the CIA when I turned up.’

‘He was not always like this,’ she said a bit cryptically.

‘How was he?’

Interest sparked in you.

She shook her head.

‘Just different. Maybe he’ll tell you someday.’

Ayami smiled at you and you turned, alerted by the soft groan coming from the bed.

‘Oh God, he’s waking up again,’ she chuckled and then asked you, ‘Top or bottom.’

You laughed inspite of yourself and gave the choice a moment’s thought. ‘Top’ meant that you got to administer medication, clean up his face and check his bandages, while ‘bottom’ meant that you would have to wrestle with his strong flailing arms and risk getting punched in the face. Ayami looked at you expectantly and you grimaced.

‘I had top last time, so…’

She smiled and got up, patting your arm in passing. ‘Then you get top this time.’

‘Ayami, c’mon,’ you protested rising from the chair. ‘I don’t want to be unfair.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ she said lifting her arms and flexing her biceps. ‘But, I need my workout.’

Ayami needed to stay in Kashmir to tie up some loose ends. So, you said your farewells and parted company when the chopper transport finally arrived.

You, on the other hand, were headed to New Delhi where another contact would meet and relieve you of your August-sitting duties.

Exhausted and battered, it was just after midnight when you finally arrived at the airport. Out through the cloudy bubble heli-window, you saw the second contact rush to the settling helicopter. You unlatched an dragged open the side door.

‘Hello!’ he shouted over the roar of the blades overhead. ‘It’s Janus. You can come with me!’

‘Where am I going?’ you shouted back, not moving from where you were sitting next to August’s prone body.

He was still blissfully unconscious and sleeping quietly.

‘There is a safehouse here. You can rest. We will transport Walker to the small plane over there and continue on to London.’

You shook your head and were able to speak normally when the blades finally shuddered to a stop.

‘I’ll go on,’ you told Janus. ‘I’ll go on, it’s ok. I’ll stay with him.’

Janus looked puzzled.

‘No, you are to go to the safe house. I am to continue on.’

You had come this far. You weren’t going to leave August, so you again declined the offer of a trade.

‘Now. Come on. I’m not going to quibble with you,’ you said, kicking open the other door so that the two men accompanying Janus could wrangle the stretcher out of the chopper.

You watched them carry August off and jumping out of the heli, you turned to Janus.

‘Be well, my friend. But I’ve got it.’

Janus shrugged a little and nodded, seeing that you weren’t going to be swayed.

‘Is it really him?’ he asked and you could hear relief seeping into his voice.

You put your arms around him in a farewell hug.

‘It is,’ you said. ‘You have Ayami to thank for that. Make sure that you do.’

You ran after the two men carrying the stretcher. The men secured the stretcher inside and turned to help you into the back of the plane. You pulled closed the small plane’s door and made sure that August was securely strapped in. It was going to be another long ride to the final safe house.

It was raining in London, and as the small plane approached, the cool precipitation rinsed away grey foggy clouds to reveal the golden city. Through your headset, you listened to the pilot talk to air traffic control and learned that you were headed to Blackbushe Airport.

‘How far is the safe house from the airport?’ you asked the pilot.

‘Not far. Maybe 20 kilometers. Not far.’

You were so ready to put your feet on land that you closed your eyes and envisioned a soft bed, a hot meal, and an even hotter bath. Glancing down at the still sleeping man on the stretcher at your feet, you felt a rise of tender feelings in your heart. Not only had your team recovered August Walker, alive, but you had a personal hand in his convalescence. Reaching down, you touched his face. He felt hot, but not as feverish as before and you were relieved. Elevated fevers for sustained periods of time were dangerous and although he wasn’t out of the woods yet, he was better. You brushed a curl of brown hair off of his forehead and smoothed the edge of your thumb across his eyebrow. Yes, he was going to heal well and regain his strength to be able to fight another day.

Blackbushe Airport was small but efficient and there was a black, solid paneled van waiting for you. You helped the men with the stretcher and once August had been secured, you pulled yourself into the offered front passenger seat. The driver nodded to acknowledge your presence and you put on your seatbelt as the van drove off.

Someone tapping on the window jarred you from the nap you didn’t realise you had fallen into. With a wet grunt, you sat up, reflexively swiped the back of your hand across your mouth, and dried the drool which had pooled in the corner. Hand still to your mouth, you shifted to look through the window. It was the driver and he made a gesture for you to get out.

You nodded to show that you understood and he moved off. Behind you in the cargo part of the van, you could hear men talking and then sounds of strain when they lifted the stretcher. Even unconscious, August wasn’t for the weak or fainthearted. You chuckled at your own analogy, unclipped the seatbelt and opened the door. Your legs wobbled when your feet hit the ground and you pressed back against the closed door until you felt that you could walk without collapsing. It took a while for your legs to finally firm and when they did you followed the men into the medium sized country manor house.

Inside smelt of cedar and pine. Your footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as you walked into the charming front room and looked up at all of the old portraits and paintings and decorative weapons. Twin staircases, one on each side of the front room, dog-legged up to the next level. You approached a tall round table with a large vase of fresh flowers and walked around it. You peeked into dark rooms and soon found yourself in an equally as charming country kitchen. There was a man in there wearing a black jumper and blue jeans, drinking from a white mug.

‘Ah!’ he said when he saw you. ‘Come in, come in. Coffee?’

Aware that you looked particularly filthy and bedraggled, compared to his crispness, you cleaned your hands on your cargo trousers and stepped into the room.

‘Yes, please.’

The man obliged, saying, ‘It’s only instant, I’m afraid.’

Instant was fine and you didn’t protest when he handed you a cup.

‘And it’s terrible,’ he added with a laugh. ‘I’ve only just arrived and haven’t had a chance to flush out all of the pipes. Everything happened so fast.’

You nodded and drank the metallic tasting coffee without complaint.

‘Ayami, then. Right?’

You knew what he was asking. Ayami was the conductor of this orchestra and she deserved all of the credit.

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck… she’s a legend.’

Finishing the cup without much tasting it, you handed it back to him.

‘I’d like to clean up and make sure that he’s… that August is ok for the night.’

He took the cup and was nodding as he put both yours and his into the sink.

‘Sure, sure. I can do that. There is a room ready for the both of you. Come on, I’ll show you.’

You followed him up the stairs and down a quiet, thickly carpeted hallway which was also lined with gaily painted portraits. Upon reaching the room at the end, he stepped aside to let you go in first.

There was a trio of men in there, that you recognised as the medical team and the room had been set up like a well-stocked hospital room. The lemon yellow wallpaper with its sunflower print was a pleasant contrast to the medical equipment and other paraphernalia. The men greeted you and they all shared a happy look. You knew why and yes, you shared it too. You said nothing as you watched them undress and bathe August, glad that he could finally receive more focused treatment.

‘And my room?’ you asked.

August didn’t need you now and you had to look after yourself. Mr instant coffee led you back down the hall and showed you your bedroom and amenities. When he left you, you threw your rucksack on the floor by the bed, stripped out of your filthy clothes, and immediately ran a bath. When you finally emerged, refreshed, and clean down to your toes, you found a sandwich and cola waiting on the table next to the bed. You devoured it in a few bites but drank the cola slowly as you unpacked your rucksack. All the way at the bottom, and rolled around a pair of thick socks was a clean shirt and sweatpants which you quickly pulled on. You sat on the edge of the bed and finished the cola.

Flopping onto your side and closing your eyes, you intended to rest for only a moment. However, sleep had other ideas.

Sunlight streamed in through the windows behind you and you woke suddenly then rolled over. On the wall at the head of the bed, a pleasant-looking woman smiled down at you from a pastoral painting and you were groggy enough to smile back. Rubbing your face you sat up, yawned, and swung your legs over the edge of the bed, staying there a moment to contemplate the night before. You hadn’t slept that well in a very long time and you were grateful to have finally got some rest. That old bed was a godsend.

After washing and dressing in clean clothes, you stood in the corridor outside your room door and looked down the hallway to where August slept. His door was closed. The scent of coffee wafting up the stairs alerted you that someone else was awake and you wondered if it was Mr Instant coffee down there still flushing out the pipes and drinking metallic tasting coffee. You decided to leave him to it and you walked to August’s room.

You tapped on the door but there was no answer, so you turned the doorknob and let yourself in. August was still asleep. The IV drip bag was half empty and the bandages on his face were bright and clean. He looked much better in the warm morning light and you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. You smoothed down the patch of IV tape on the back of his hand and August startled a yelp out of you when he moved.

His eyes were open and you found yourself under the clear scrutiny of the infamous August Walker. Before your inglorious meeting at the cabin, you had never been this close to him. The two of you never spoke nor had you even been in the same room.

His eyes moved all over your face as if hunting for something and you stood still letting him complete his inspection. When recognition finally bloomed in his eyes, he relaxed.

You ventured to put your hand over his.

‘Do you remember me?’ you asked.

‘I remember,’ he answered, voice raspy from disuse.

August fell silent and it seemed to take effort for him to speak.

‘I… remember you read to me.’

Your heart skipped with elation.

‘Yes.’

Breathing out a breath, August closed his eyes.

‘Thank you.’

‘We’ll make him pay, August,’ you said when he was quiet. ‘All of them.’

It didn’t matter that he had succumbed to sleep again and probably didn’t hear you. Ethan Hunt was going to pay.

It was fortunate Mr. Instant Coffee, as you dubbed him, was around to cook and clean because you weren’t about to look after Walker and do the domestic duties as well.

As the weeks drifted by and August grew stronger, you turned your interest away from him and to revenge.

Retribution, you liked to say to yourself. It was a much better word and to pull it off, you needed a team.

Ayami, of course, was on board. She was always up for some violence and you loved her for it. She knew exactly who you needed and how to contact them. And, if you were going to go through with it, all the way, you needed a solid plan. Every piece had to be in place for the whole machine to move forward. No stone could remain unturned.

You spent a lot of time in that country kitchen with plans and schematics and blueprints spread out in front of you on the table. The first order of business was to find the persons responsible; Benji, Ilsa, Luther and Hunt.

Find them, and observe.

‘That’s it,’ you’d told Ayami. ‘Find them and observe. Record their patterns, their travel, their habits, their pubs, markets, clothing stores, everything.’

You made sure to have rotating team members on each target so that said target would not recognise any reoccurring faces and become suspicious. IMF was a clever, skittish bunch and the way to lure them into the trap was to be patient and deliberate.

Early one morning, about three months into your stay at the safe house, a heavy thumping down the stairs distracted you from your research.

You got up, refilled your coffee and then poured a second fresh cup. Returning to the table you put the second cup in the space across from where you had been sitting. For two weeks now, August had been testing his newly found strength and had insisted on getting up and moving around own his own. He’d recently been cut out of his arm cast and was able to navigate his way on crutches. And on mornings after breakfast when he could get himself out of bed, he usually banged down the stairs and hobbled into the kitchen.

After a few days of this, you started preparing a cup of coffee for him. Whether he was looking for coffee or not, you always put out a second cup when you heard him coming down. And August was actually polite and thankful for the gesture. It surprised you. You expected him to be this gruff and grumpy take charge team leader who didn’t have time for underlings. When, in fact, August Walker was a very pleasant man.

‘Morning,’ you heard him say from the kitchen’s doorway.

‘Morning,’ you replied, nodding to the coffee cup.

He took up his regular place across from you, and leaned the crutches against the bench seat.

You looked at him finally. The bandages were all off of his face now (except for the one remaining to protect his damaged ear) and the swelling had gone down.

What was at first considered full-thickness burns were actually only partial-thickness and he could heal without skin grafts.

He looked, you decided, pretty normal. Handsome, in fact and you wanted to reach out to touch him.

He saw you examining him and he made an aborted attempt to touch his face.

‘No, it ahh… it’s good. You look much better. Really,’ you said quickly.

He picked up the coffee and drank slowly.

‘Does it still hurt?’

‘No,’ he said into the cup and changed the subject. ‘What have we got?’

Right back to business, you thought. Of course. None of this ‘feelings’ stuff for him.

‘The only one we got consistent eyes on is Luther. I guess they’re not using him these days, so he’s staying put. He’s in the States and looks to have a vacation home in Florida. If he has a third place, we don’t know about it yet.’

August listened and nodded and you swore you could see a little smile starting to play across his mouth. Not wanting it to disappear, you showed him photos of Ilsa.

‘I think, she thinks she’s clever. At first she was darting around, doing the whole ‘spy’ thing. It was cute. Now, not so much. I’d like to take her… if you agree.’

August looked up at you and that little smile was still there. In fact he looked particularly pleased with you.

‘Don’t worry. Hunt’s for last. We’re saving him for you.’

August held your gaze and you felt a thrill race through you.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I want you to do whatever you want to do. I trust you.’

You brightened considerably and resisted the urge to clap your hands with delight. Having August Walker’s trust had made the day golden.

A few days later, the thumping down the stairs distracted you from your work. Smiling a little, you got up and poured a fresh cup of coffee and sat it on the table across from you. Then as an afterthought, you got up again and plated a few chocolate Hobnobs that Mr. Instant Coffee had bought with the weekly grocery. You had barely put the plate down before August appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Seeing the mid-morning snacks waiting for him, he smiled a little and now down to one crutch from two, he hobbled into the kitchen and sat down in his usual spot across from you.

‘Look at you, speedster,’ you teased.

August’s brows rose with pleasure, but he smothered his growing smile by lifting his cup and drinking the coffee.

‘I prefer your coffee to the other one,’ said August, raising his eyes to meet yours.

You hesitated to meet his gaze, and when you did, the praise in his face melted you.

August quickly looked away and down at the plans on the table between the two of you.

‘So, tell me.’

He gestured with the cup to the papers.

You grinned, feeling pleased with your progress.

‘Ilsa. I finally got a bead on her. And I will be travelling to her location today.’

‘Today?’ he asked, sounding surprised and your brows drew together a little.

‘Too soon? I mean.. do you want to come?’

August shook his head and suddenly looked concerned.

‘I don’t want you rushing into something.’

Ah, was that it?

You reached out to tap the back of his hand with your index finger.

‘Whilst I thoroughly enjoy your concern, there’s no need for it. Do you umm, want a trophy? An eyeball? A finger?’

August was clearly surprised, and your offer startled a laugh out of him.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t want any of that. But ah… I appreciate your vigour.’

You smiled at him.

‘You sure?’

He laughed a little, again, and asked, ‘And your flight?’

‘Coupla hours,’ you replied checking your wristwatch.

‘And your plan?’

‘Delicious,’ you promised.

And it was.

Los Angeles was hot and sweltering and you were not prepared for the weather. But you didn’t let that deter you, for you had a mission to accomplish.

You found the target sitting at a table beneath a colourful umbrella at a crowded outdoor cafe.

Carrying several bags emblazoned with names of high-end shops you stopped by her table, made a show of looking into the cafe and then down at the chair across from her.

She looked up at you and you tried a smile.

‘Hi, I am sooo sorry, but do you mind if I just sit here. I am dying in this heat!’

As you were actually dying in the western heat, you knew that you came across sincerely. She took a moment to consider you. Judging you harmless, she nodded to the chair and you collapsed onto it gratefully.

‘Oh, thank you, honey. That’s so good of you. I thought I was going to get all of my shopping over and done with before noon, but you know how it is. Just one more shop, one more try on…. maybe they got those shoes in the back in your size, right? Am I right?

You giggled easily and she nodded, then glanced into the cafe.

‘I gotta wear these gloves to that my hands don’t tan,’ you said watching her. ‘There’s nothing worse than having your arms one colour and your hands 5 shades darker.’

Ignoring you, she raised her hand hoping to alert the waiter standing inside.

He eased up to the table.

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘I ordered my…’

‘Yes, I know ma’am. We are working on it right now, please give us some time. The broiler is currently holding on by a thread. May I offer you a cold drink? On the house?’

You looked at her and she sighed.

‘Sure, go on. You want one?’

Her attention was on you.

You shrugged.

‘Sure! I’ll have what she’s having.’

The two of you chatted amiably for a little while and the waiter returned with your drinks. You immediately sipped at the fizzy fruit drink and put your glass down next to hers.

Several minutes later someone inside shouted, ‘Janie Fellows?’

The woman across from you stirred and then stood up.

‘Finally,’ she said and went inside to pick up her order.

You watched her go and quickly, unobtrusively, dumped the contents of your travel perfume bottle into her glass.

Ilsa returned with a plate brimming with meat and salad and set it on her placemat.

‘Looks good,’ you said admiring the dish. ‘I might get one, but I do need to get on, I think.’

‘You can stay as long as you like,’ she assured you and began her meal.

You sat and chatted whilst she ate and finished her drink.

You were in the middle of a long drawn out story about your imaginary husband when she stopped devouring the rare steak.

Ilsa dropped her fork and you turned towards her.

‘Something wrong?’ you asked, faux concern in your voice as you let your natural accent slip. ‘You’ve gone quite pale… Janie.’

Ilsa’s wide eyes shot up to your face and she spat out her chewed mouthful.

‘I probably overdosed you,’ you said quietly. ‘I mean, you were ten pounds heavier the last time I checked. But you and your hot yoga classes have done wonders. I might take it up myself.’

Eyes bulging as the poison squeezed closed her throat, Ilsa gurgled and staggered upright. The chair screeched on the concrete, fell away and you got up.

‘August Walker says, hello,’ you snarled at her. Then changing your attitude to something more helpless you shouted, ‘Oh My God! I think she’s having a seizure, help, help!’

A crowd began to form allowing you to slip away, but not before giving the thumbs up to Mr. Instant Coffee who had posed as your waiter who had perfectly distracted the mark enough for you to poison her drink.

‘Went well, I take it?’ August asked when you bustled into the kitchen the next morning.

There was coffee waiting for you at your usual spot.

You threw your arms round his neck and gave him a hearty kiss in greeting.

‘Better than you could ever imagine!’ you crowed and left him in stunned silence.

Distracted by the noise coming from the upper floor, you looked up from the laptop. The thumping down the stairs had been sounding a little less clumsy lately, now that August had finally regained control over his healing limbs. You were glad for it, because it meant that the infamous August Walker was out of the woods and on the mend.

You got up, poured a fresh cup of coffee, and was just setting it down when August came into the kitchen.

‘Morning!’ you called brightly, like the little homemaker you fancied yourself to be.

Well, you fancied yourself to be the kind of homemaker who didn’t keep house, but made coffee and assassination plans. You turned the cup so that the handle faced August when he straddled the bench and sat down across from you.

‘Thank you,’ he said picking up the cup and drinking deeply.

Smiling fondly, you considered him a moment and looked at the fresh bandage on his ear.

‘It’s ear day soon, isn’t it?’

Ear day, as you called it, was literally when August got his new outer ear to replace the one that had been damaged. Contacts in one of the world’s leading biotech labs had been cultivating new skin and cartilage from his own cells and were ready for transplantation. August had been putting off the surgery, ever since the fire of killing off the IMF team had been lit. He wanted a clear conscience before proceeding with any additional cosmetic surgery.

August lifted his gaze, but not directly to you. He looked at a spot on the table which was still littered with papers and blueprints and your laptops and a muscle bunched in his jaw, alerting you that he was uncomfortable with this line of discussion. You were never one to back down from a subject you wanted to pursue, so you pressed him gently.

‘I think… well, I think it’s gonna be fine. The surgery will be fine. You’ll have a brand spanking new appendage and everything’s gonna be fine.’

You watched his eyes sweep the length of the table, in an obvious attempt to avoid looking at you.

‘You suffered no hearing loss, on that side, the skin is mending itself nicely and the doctors even said that there was no follicle damage. Those curls will be coming back in no time.’

He scoffed.

‘I don’t care about that.’

‘Yes you do,’ you said with a tiny grin. ‘Yes you do, you care. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t look like this.’

You waved an appraising hand in his direction.

‘August Walker, meet August Walker. He cares about his looks.’

‘I’m not vain,’ August scowled, putting the cup down and finally looking you in the face

You softened your teasing just a little.

‘I didn’t say you were vain. There’s nothing wrong with a man who looks after his appearance. It’s… sexy.’

That stopped him and a spark of pleasure brightened his face.

You continued to lay it on thick.

‘Come now, a good looking guy like you? And you don’t know it? I find that hard to believe.’

He snorted quietly.

‘Do you ever think something that you don’t say?’ he asked, lifting a dark brow.

You leaned in on your elbows.

‘There are loads of things that I think, that I don’t say. That doesn’t mean that I won’t say them eventually.’

August’s lips lengthened into an inquisitive smile.

‘Like?’

‘Like?’ you repeated and decided to come clean. ‘I just said that you were sexy.’

You made an airy, dismissive gesture.

‘That’s not a new thought.’

You felt a chill manifest as a soft, insistent tingling that skittered all along your skin. Everything you’d hidden about your feelings for him was almost all the way out and you couldn’t stop yourself.

‘It’s not new that I’d do anything for the manifesto to be realised,’ you continued.

When August put down the cup, you reached out and clasped both hands over his.

‘That I’d do anything for you, August.’

The passion in your own voice stunned you. Surely, you had once again overstepped his boundaries.

First, it was kissing him without asking, and now this, though August didn’t seem bothered by your audacity. He turned his hands up to enclose yours.

‘And I reward loyalty,’ he answered, voice low and full of promise.

You drew in a long breath through loosely pursed lips, which August seemed to appreciate for his eyes lowered to your wet mouth. His own lips parted in response and you wondered if you climbed across that table and onto his lap, would it have been considered outlandish.

You didn’t think about any of that, as you stood up onto the wooden bench. With his handsome face brimming with delight, August held onto your hands and steadied you as you scrabbled across the table and landed astride his muscular thighs with a satisfied ‘ooof!’

He grimaced from the sudden pressure slamming down on his still tender leg and you were immediately contrite.

‘I’m sorry,’ you murmured, sliding your arms around his neck and curling your fingers into his shaggy curls. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll not play so rough next time.’

‘I like it rough,’ said August, running his hands over your hips to grip you close.

And then you kissed him, softly, fully, feeling his lips come apart beneath yours. Breathing him in, your thoughts ran wild.

I could get used to this. I could indulge in this all day. I could–

Then, ever a man of ill timing, Mr. Instant Coffee bustled into the kitchen, and it took him a moment to realise what he was interrupting.

‘Oh, shite, ok… uhh so that’s happening. Ok, great, but ah, you two… we need to get a move on. The car leaves in ten.’

And then he was gone, leaving you staring at the recently vacated kitchen doorway with your arms dangling over August’s shoulders. Reluctantly, you backed off of August’s lap and smiling, you cupped his cheek, pressed your thumb against the dimple in his chin and walked off to grab your travel bag.

It was back to the States again, the keys of Florida where Luther Stickell was vacationing on a secluded houseboat.

Stickell was not hard to find. His boat was moored in one of the farthest berths and was lit up like Christmas. He was having a party.

So much for keeping a low profile, you thought as you stepped off of the elegant cabin cruiser that had been rented for your mission. Your craft was berthed far enough away from his that no one in Stickell’s party could see August in his scuba gear, stepping off the low deck and into the dark water.

Standing on a nearby wooden piling, a pair of seagulls watched you suspiciously, the way birds do, and you lifted a finger to your lips, shushing them.

Holding a pair of strappy heels in your hand, you walked down the slatted dock between yachts and other smaller boats. You purposefully wore a skimpy sequined dress, in the hopes of talking your way into the party. There were casually dressed men standing on the dock and smoking and they stopped talking as you approached. They didn’t look like bodyguards, but just like regular blokes. Easy to manipulate.

‘Hullo!’ you called happily, flapping your hand at them in greeting, affecting tipsiness. ‘I couldn’t help coming over. I just came from another get-together, but I’m not done partying yet. Ya’ll mind if I… ’

You made a walking motion with your index and middle fingers towards the boat. One of the men smiled and swaggered towards you. He held out a hand which you took and he led you to the edge of the boat, then helped you down the stairs.

Too easy.

There were people milling about on the port deck and some people playing cards inside, but not a lot was going on. It appeared to be at the tail end of the party, where people were trying to drink the last of the booze and eat the last of the food before they were forced to go home. You spotted Luther at the card table. He was laughing around a huge cigar clamped between his front teeth and then he threw the cards down on the table with a triumphant cry. The men sitting there erupted in jeers and hoots as he raked in the pile of money from the centre of the table.

Scanning the area you then went down the stairs to the toilet and stood in the dark narrow corridor thinking about August swimming around beneath your feet as he planted bomb charges against the boat’s hull.

The thought of him down there was strangely arousing.

August was stronger now, strong enough to cause mayhem with his own hands, and it was all you wanted for him. You crouched by the toilet and dug about in your handbag, pulling out one of Ayami’s personal creations – something she’d called her ‘cherry bang bang’. You drew out a black device that was flat on the bottom and round on the top. It looked harmless enough, almost like a little cake, but you knew the massive power packed into that sweetly named bomb. She had given you and August a personal demonstration of the destructive power of her little sweets. You placed a kiss on its glossy surface and adhered it to the underside of the toilet bowl.

‘You are a gem, Ayami,’ you chuckled and pushed upright.

You made your way back to the upper level and moving about unnoticed you planted more cherry bang bangs, even adhering one to each of the fishing chairs bolted to the port side deck.

A chill settled over the harbour. The guests soon drifted inside and eventually left the party altogether.

You walked back to the rented cabin cruiser to find August waiting for you. His hair was curly and damp and there were pressure marks from the dive mask across his brow. You went up on tiptoes to kiss him. August caught you about the waist and wrapped you up in his arms, lifting you to deepen the kiss. Trapped like that against his big, hot body, your heart throbbed excitedly. If he could elicit such wonders from your body with just a kiss and an embrace, you couldn’t imagine what other magic he could work.

‘Ready?’ he asked, bending to put you back on your feet.

You nodded and tossing your shoes aside, went to sprawl on one of the long creme coloured couches. August started the engine and guided the cruiser out of the berth. When you were a safe distance away, he reached for your hand and helped you up to the top deck.

You could see the lights of Stickell’s boat twinkling in the distance. And after about twenty more minutes, once everyone was finally gone, Luther shut off the boat lights. You and August got up from your deck chairs. You held up the binoculars and adjusted them until the houseboat came into sharp focus. All you could see now was the red glow of Luther’s cigar as the man sat out in one of the fishing chairs and enjoyed the rest of his evening.

August put one arm about your waist, big hand splaying across your stomach, and held up the detonator with the other.

‘Two down,’ you said and he depressed the button.

The explosion was brilliant.

Through the binoculars, you watched the boat burn and sink, but August was more interested in kissing the back of your neck and exposed shoulders to pay attention.

‘Mmmm,’ you purred slyly, leaning your head back against his shoulder. ‘Did you like that? Was it good for you?’

‘So good,’ he answered giving you one last kiss before releasing you.

You opened your mouth to say something but the distant sounds of sirens broke the silence.

Time to go, you thought and the both of you disappeared into the night.

You didn’t want to go back to the safehouse right away. As nice as the country house was, being cooped up between those four floral walls drove you crazy. August paid for a few nights at the Shangri-la hotel in London so that you could shower in temperatures above lukewarm, and sleep in a broad bed beneath washing detergent scented sheets.

And when August made love to you on those soft sheets, your earlier conjecture regarding his sexual prowess, did not prepare you for the bliss you experienced with him buried deep inside you.

It was nearly nine in the morning, a few days after your expedition to the Keys, and propped up with a pillow under your armpit, you lay on your side across the hotel bed, a bowl of spag bol, and your open laptop on the white duvet in front of you. You were half under the thick covers and half out of it because the room was warm, but not uncomfortably so. August emerged from the adjoining bathroom, wearing one of the luxurious bathrobes and towelling dry his hair.

He tossed the towel across the footrest by the chair and stretched out on the bed behind you, looking over your shoulder to read the Miami Herald’s bold headline. He slid his hand beneath your tee-shirt and caressed the skin between your shoulder blades. How he figured out that you liked that, still remained a quandary, but you were glad that you didn’t have to ask for it.

‘Oh, dear,’ you said feigning distress. ‘Did you hear about the accident that happened in Florida? Tsk… such a shame.’

‘Is he dead?’ asked August, as he nuzzled your shoulder.

‘Yes, sir,’ you teased, reaching back to playfully push him off. ‘You are not paying attention.’

‘I am. I’m paying attention to what’s important.’

The implication of his statement drifted right over your head as you were too focused on proving him wrong.

He kissed your neck again and grunted when you jabbed him with an elbow.

‘Well, if you were paying attention to what was important, you’d know that…’

‘That Dunn is here in London,’ August finished for you and continued to lazily caress your back.

That shut you right up. How did he know?

‘Of course, you knew,’ you chuckled.

‘I suggest,’ said August, changing the subject and lifting his head to take your earlobe between his lips. ‘We take one more day here and then find him.’

As he spoke, August slid his hands beneath you, turned you away from the laptop and pulled you atop him. You wriggled with delight, and grasping the robe’s belt, you pulled the knot free and let it fall open.

‘Just one day?’ you asked, sliding down the length of his body to ease his cock into your mouth.

‘Anything!’ he gasped, the heat of your mouth robbing him of coherent through. ‘Whatever you want.’

You wanted at least two extra weeks after the mission.

When you woke hours later, August was gone. There was a note left for you on the nightstand and in his neat print he’d written, ‘Supply Run.’

You stretched under the duvet and tapped the stiff cardstock against your lower lip.

Supply Run either mean food, or guns and knowing August, it was probably the latter. You were just raiding the over-stocked minibar refrigerator when he returned to the hotel room, carrying a long black duffel which he dropped onto the chaise at the end of the bed.

‘Guns,’ you said aloud, looking up from the chilled box of chocolate.

‘What?’ he asked, shrugging out of his jacket.

You smiled and shook your head and switched on BBC World Service.

Unzipping the duffel, August asked, ‘what do you know about Sage Software?’

‘Nothing,’ you answered truthfully. ‘Who are they?’

‘They supply small business software. Dunn is working with them and hacking them.’

Taking the chocolates to the bed, you opened your laptop and searched the business. With a laugh, you rolled over onto your back and looked up at August with interest. He was smiling slightly back at you.

‘Well, what do you know?’ you said with amusement. ‘Sage is located in the Shard, which is… ’

August nodded to you and his grin widened.

‘Right downstairs,’ he finished.

‘Did you plan this? Getting a room here because he was downstairs?’ you giggled, when he leaned over to kiss you.

‘Of course. Leave nothing to chance, Princess.’

Well, that nickname was new, you thought, delighted.

‘What’s the plan, then?’

August stretched out on his back next to you and folded his hands on his belly.

‘He’s got an office on the 13th and is there most nights.’

‘Most nights,’ you repeated and waited for him to finish his thought.

‘Tonight.’

Dunn was surprisingly easy to pick off. You had expected for him to have cameras and monitors and other high tech stuff to alert him to the presence of anyone who came unannounced to his office. And, you were surprised that /he/ was surprised when August quietly opened the thin office door and let himself in.

You stayed in the corridor and watched the scene unfold through the narrow decorative glass panel next to the door.

Dunn obviously recognised and remembered August, because he bolted out of his swivel chair and threw himself against the wall behind him.

‘I thought you were dead!’ you heard him shout before the silenced round splattered him across the frog poster that announced ‘work hard, play hard, live hard’.

You clapped lightly as August exited the office.

‘Well done, baby,’ you praised him. ‘But come on. I heard the lift bell. It would be stupid of us to get caught.’

All the little piggies had gone to slaughter. All except one.

Ethan Hunt was not a stupid man.

In fact, he was quite the opposite. He was cunning and clever and suspicious which were characteristics that helped him to remain one of the top Mi6 agents.

He also had a golden streak of very good luck and August Walker was just about to ruin that man’s whole career.

‘He went squirrely, ’ said Ayami who was pawing through a tin of broken Danish butter cookies from where she sat perched on the kitchen counter-top.

Two weeks after you returned from the Dunn business, Ayami just turned up at the country safe-house. Much to your delight, you’d found her one morning sitting at the kitchen table having a bagel and cream tea. And you knew why she was there. Things were winding up to the big payoff and the team needed to be as consolidated as possible.

‘What does that mean?’ you asked her but it was Mr. Instant Coffee who answered.

‘Means that he knew what’s good for him and went underground.’

‘Because all of his peeps were getting murdered,’ Ayami finished cheerfully and you half expected her and Instant Coffee to slap hands in a celebratory high-five.

August sat silently in his usual place, thoughtfully turning the small white coffee cup in a circle on the table.

‘Last time he was seen?’ he asked finally.

‘Park hotel, Berlin,’ Instant Coffee read from the reports supplied by the ‘boots on the ground’ team. ‘Been there for about a week, but he hasn’t really stayed one place for more than that. We should have moved earlier.’

‘No,’ said August, not looking at him, but at the cup. ‘No, we want to give him enough rope to hang himself. Let him get complacent.’

‘Do we have time to let him get complacent?’ Instant Coffee said. ‘I mean, the longer we wait, the more time he’ll have to burrow in like a fucking tick.’

You looked at Instant Coffee for a moment. He did have a point.

‘Okay,’ August replied easily. ‘You’re right.’

At that moment, your respect for August Walker increased ten-fold. That he was able to take in the opinion of the other members of his team was unbearably sexy. He may have earned a little leg over for later that night.

‘I’m going alone,’ August announced finally, drawing the sharp attention of everyone in the room.

You reined your own reaction because an emotional response in that instant would have been inappropriate. You knew exactly why August wanted to hunt down Ethan alone. Hunt had not only gravely wounded August’s body but also his pride. His revenge was personal.

‘That’s probably not a good idea,’ said Instant Coffee, obviously feeling confident that he had scored a few brownie points a few moments earlier.

August scowled and looked to you. Meeting his gaze, you nodded once.

‘August should face Hunt alone,’ you said to the room and then to him, added, ‘but I don’t think you should go alone.’

There was so much gratefulness in his eyes that you felt embarrassed and looked away. You didn’t want August to see the answering distress in your eyes. If the fight on the cliff side had been fair, and luck hadn’t been on Hunt’s side, August wouldn’t have lost. Tossing August over the edge was poor sportsmanship. You were afraid that Hunt would employ other clever tricks and defeat August for the second time. And now that August wanted to take on the IMF leader alone ensured that he would be left vulnerable to losing the upper hand.

You didn’t want to lose him again, but you remained silent. This was ultimately August’s decision and he had made his choice.

The two of you didn’t speak much on the trip to Berlin. There wasn’t much to say. You didn’t dare express to him your fears, because that would only serve to distract him with your possibly misplaced doubt. And distraction was the last thing August needed.

When he pulled up to a local hotel to drop you off, you stayed in the car, sitting quietly for a moment, unsure what to do or say. Sighing, you turned to him and reached to cup his cheek.

‘See you soon,’ you encouraged him. ‘Bring me a trophy.’

August nodded and you got out of the car.

Come back to me, you thought watching the car disappear in the afternoon traffic.

Your room faced the Berliner Fernsehturm and you could hear music from the festival going on in the square below. You took a long hot shower and stretched on the surprisingly comfortable bed. It wasn’t the Shangri-la, but it was charming and it wasn’t long before you fell asleep.

The room door thunking shut as if a heavy weight collapsed against it awoke you hours later. With a gasp, you shot upright and reached for your weapon. You couldn’t remember where the light switch was, so when you scrambled up from the bed, you backed up to the table under the window and jerked open the curtains to let in the artificial outdoor light.

The scent of sulphur and petrol filled the room and as your eyes slowly adjusted to the differences in the light you could just make out the bulky form sitting on the floor against the door. You knew that form as the impression of it was etched on your own flesh.

You put your weapon aside and padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, grabbing a towel and wetting it as you passed the small bathroom alcove. You crouched before the shadowed figure and put your hand beneath his chin. You lifted his face to the light and it was clear that Hunt had given August a run for his money.

You gently cleaned the dried blood from his mouth and chin, carefully working it out of his moustache and scruff.

You wanted to say something reassuring, something positive, but you were too overwhelmed with relief.

‘Well,’ you murmured, stroking his face. ‘I hate to see the other guy.’

August was silent and you hoped you hadn’t over stepped the line.

He then held up a small package wrapped neatly in butcher’s paper and tied with white twine. You took it from him, pulled the string and the paper unfolded to reveal your trophy. Holding it up to the light, it took a moment for you to recognise the carefully extracted evidence of Hunt’s death and you smiled.

‘Come on, you big brute,’ you said fondly, attempting to pull him up from the floor.

When August didn’t budge, you stopped straining against his weight and gasped with exertion.

‘You’re gonna have to help me here, babe!’

Groaning miserably, August managed to get his feet beneath him using the door and you to heave himself from the floor. You struggled to get him out of his clothes and under the soft yellow light above the sink you examined him. Big swollen bruises bloomed across his chest and back accompanied by several shallow scrapes and slashes. You wasted no time washing him up, patching his wounds, and getting him into bed.

Lying on his belly, August was still asleep when you woke the next morning. You went to the minibar refrigerator, withdrew your trophy and admired it in the morning sunlight. Your mobile beeped.

It was a message from Ayami.

‘Tell your boyfriend to be a little less conspicuous next time, ok?’ she’d written.

Curious, and glancing at August’s sleeping form, you rang her.

‘What’s that mean?’ you asked when she answered.

‘I mean that August didn’t need to leave that fucker’s burning corpse in the warehouse. He damn near burned down the place.’

‘He was obviously sending them a message,’ you answered, smiling gleefully, proud of your little murder puppy.

‘I can understand that,’ she shot back sounding uncharacteristically irritable. ‘But that also earned us more attention than we wanted.’

You sobered.

‘Is this something that needs to be taken care of?’

‘It’s already handled,’ she answered and some of her good humour crept back into her voice.

You sighed and relaxed, wrapping an arm about your midsection.

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ you said after a moment with no conviction in your voice and she laughed incredulously.

‘When are you coming back?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘I dunno. Depends on what August wants.’

‘Ok, you two lovebirds hash it out and I’ll see you… whenever.’

‘Thanks, Ayami. I love you!’

‘Get something from the Wall museum for me, ok?’

You disconnected the call and tossed aside the mobile.

Feeling a warm sense of well-being, you re-wrapped your trophy and stored it in the refrigerator again. Climbing into bed next to August, you lifted his arm, crawled beneath it, and curled your body against him.

August had exacted his revenge and you felt satisfied for him. But you weren’t sure what was going to happen now. The mission that had consumed so much of your year was over. You felt un-moored and a little panicked, but when August tightened his arm round you, your hamster wheel of thoughts scattered.

There was time to worry later, now in the heat of August’s embrace was peace and with a small smile still on your lips, you put your head against him and slept.

-end

#Henry Cavill #August Walker #August Walker x reader #Henry Cavill smut #ethan hunt must die #napolwon solo #man of steel #clark kent #geralt #the witcher #napoleon solo

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gumnut-logic · 4 years

Text

We’ll Be Home For Christmas 5.1

Title: We’ll be home for Christmas

Day Five – Here on Tracy Island – Part 1 Prologue | 1.1 | 1.2 | 2.1 | 2.2 | 2.3 | 3.1 | 3.2 | 3.3 | 3.4 | 3.5 | 4.1 | 4.2 | 4.3 | 4.4 | 4.5 | 4.6 | 5.1

Author: Gumnut

20 Jun 2020

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: The boys can’t fly home for Christmas, so they have to find another way.

Word count: 3313

Spoilers & warnings: language and so, so much fluff. Science!Gordon. Artist!Virgil, Minor various ships, mostly background.

Timeline: Christmas Season 3, I have also kinda ignored the main storyline of Season 3. The boys needed a break, so I gave them one. Post season 3B, before Season 3C cos I started this fic before we saw it.

Author’s note: For @scattergraph. This is my 2019 TAG Secret Santa fic :D

No, I haven’t forgotten about this fic, and yes, it hit the six month mark about two weeks ago. I started writing this 8 Dec 2019. I’m nearly there.

Landmark, though. It is now officially my longest Thunderbirds fic, overtaking Gentle Rain today at around 60,000 words, depending on which word processing program it is sitting in. Never expected it to be this long.

This chapter pretty much wrote itself. It is almost like a role call of the five brothers and their states of mind. So a little bit of all the bros in this. I hope you enjoy.

Many thanks to @i-am-chidorixblossom @scribbles97 and @onereyofstarlight for reading through various bits, fielding my many wibblies, and for all their wonderful support.

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

Day Five: Here on Tracy Island

Virgil woke late the next morning. It was a pleasant awakening, slipping from deep sleep to doze to a peaceful warmth beneath the covers. His room was dark. Darker than his cabin on A Little Lightning and with decidedly less sway.

He lay there for a while, enjoying the lack of need to get up and do anything and the absence of pain. He had slept the sleep of the dead and was thoroughly rested. There was something to be said about sleeping in your own bed at home that no holiday anywhere could provide.

But honestly, he wasn’t one to sit and do nothing for long, his brain kicking into gear while he lay there, listing off things waiting to be done. A visit to Two to reassure himself she had been checked over and was ready should she be needed. Not that he didn’t trust his family, it was just for his own peace of mind.

He should be able to get away with it so long as he didn’t spend too much time down there.

It took him a full half an hour of random rumination to realise that it was Christmas Day.

Oh shit.

The clock said eleven am.

His family...

He sat up abruptly and was thoroughly reminded of how stupid such a move was.

Oh, for the love of...

He grunted and rolled over until his face was smothered in his pillow.

The medic in his brain listed off the reasons why he shouldn’t have done that and why he needed to be careful and, goddamnit, he was sick of this. It was only an appendix, for crying out loud.

Stupid surgery.

That could have been so much worse.

He was being a spoilt child.

He let out a breath into his pillow, its warmth wrapping around his face. Another week and he would be fine.

But now, it was eleven oh five on Christmas morning and he was holding his family up.

He clambered out of bed with minimal complaint from his body, into the shower, a shave and into his familiar red flannel, jeans and boots.

It was such a comfort to be home.

He blow-dried his hair, gelled it up and made himself presentable.

The man who stared at him from his bathroom mirror was one appendix less and a whole pile of experience more.

He hummed to himself, tasting the notes in his throat. He could feel the soft whale skin under his fingertips, hear the lap of the water, the breeze in his hair...

And the music.

His eyes were closed without permission, the imagery taking over his mind. His fingers tapped against the bathroom vanity marking out the beat and rhythm of what he was trying to say, the pictures warping into abstract and lack of understanding.

Salty and long spoken, the notes repeated.

He didn’t know how long he stood there under the bathroom light, eyes seeing another world somewhere below the ocean surface.

By the time he shook off the haze it was eleven forty-five.

Almost lunchtime.

Alan would be foaming at the bit.

He pushed himself away from the sink and killed the light. Walking carefully across his room, he shook himself, rolling his shoulders. Get it together, Virgil. Your family is waiting for you.

Out through the door, down the corridor and, screw the stairs, he was taking the elevator.

It swallowed him whole.

-o-o-o-

Gordon had been up since before the sun. It was a sign that he was home. A session in the pool brought familiarity into the equation. There was definitely a difference between swimming in the pool versus the ocean and it had nothing to do with water salinity.

The ocean was beautiful and he adored it. But the pool sported no threat, no need to monitor his surroundings beyond the presence of a mischievous brother or two, leaving him to be able to focus on his stroke and let his mind wander.

The pleasant warmth of well used muscles pulling him forward through the water, simple thought processing...and considering the last few days, there were a lot of thoughts awaiting examination.

Some he had managed while piloting A Little Lightning on the home stretch, but there were still more needing answers and tactical decisions.

Sam. Mel. Scott. John. Virgil.

As far as he knew, Scott was still planning on inviting the neighbours over today. That would place Sam within reach of the apparently resistant Virgil.

He understood where both men were coming from. Virgil needed time and Sam was just a ball of eager energy.

Gordon was stuck between the two.

Push came to shove, he would side with Virgil regardless. He had too. But he really didn’t want to be divisive. If Virgil would talk just a little, it would help not only Sam and himself, but it might assuage the ball of worried energy that was Scott.

His arms sliced through water until he reached the end of the lane, his body automatically flipping and turning into the push off surge in the opposite direction. Air, splash and his hands slicing through the water again.

Okay, he would admit that he was worried himself. At first it was just amazing. His brother could sing to whales! A breakthrough. But yesterday he witnessed exactly how spaced Virgil became when singing and everything screamed wary. Humpback whales were beautiful creatures, but so big and so possibly unintentionally dangerous.

He couldn’t let Virgil anywhere near a whale alone. It just wasn’t safe. There was so much they didn’t know and the urge to protect his gentle brother just swelled in his heart.

They needed to investigate further. Find out exactly what was going on. Make sure his brother was safe. That it didn’t affect any water rescues.

They couldn’t afford to have Virgil spacing out in the ocean at random. As it was, Gordon wasn’t going to let Virgil anywhere near the ocean during rescues for the foreseeable future. He could stay up in Two.

Safe.

Whale song could travel around the globe.

His native realm had become a hazard for his big brother and that was unacceptable.

They had to find out what was going on.

John and Eos had made a good start, but Sam and himself needed to investigate further and soon.

Virgil needed to cooperate for his own safety.

Gordon broke his stroke, pushed himself to the side of the pool and rested his head on the concrete a moment, letting his body float randomly.

Blood pumped through his ears, his heart still running at exercise rate.

He needed to convince Virgil.

Somehow.

-o-o-o-

Scott revelled in the early dawn light. His feet pounded on his wonderfully familiar route around the Island. A trek he hadn’t laid eyes on for a week.

His runners crunched volcanic gravel beneath them.

The sun was just rising on Christmas Day, the beautiful weather hanging strong, the sea a stretch of glass disappearing off into the horizon. His current trajectory pointed him directly south where he knew beyond the glass lay Raoul Island. A single spot in a sea of blue, so similar to the even tinier spot that was Tracy Island.

Same sea of blue.

A pokey tree appeared on the side of the track, its red flowers quite glorious in the morning sun, and he found himself grinning. Sure, he knew the correct name of the pōhutukawa tree, but Alan’s name was so much easier to pronounce and it made Mel laugh.

His legs took the strain as he jogged up the rapidly steepening trail.

If he was honest with himself, the whole no strings attached thing was a lie. He found himself thinking about the woman more the longer they were away from Raoul.

And they only left yesterday.

As soon as the sun was high enough in the sky to be polite, he would be contacting Raoul with his invitation to her, Sam and Liam. It wasn’t the only time he had invited people to the Island, they weren’t entirely hermits, but it was rare and the first time in a long time.

And he was so looking forward to it.

Penny and Parker were due after breakfast as was the tradition. As soon as everyone was awake, they would have their present opening party, always a major family event. More for the company and laughter than the presents themselves.

He could almost hear Gordon declaring it ‘Tracy style’ complete with the arm movements to compliment the claim.

But Mel...it was like he was excited to show her the Island, perhaps because he knew she would be very interested in the ecosystem that had developed here since their father had begun repairing it over a decade ago.

And he was staring at it right now as he followed the path around the back of the Island. Pokey trees, palms and ferns were everywhere a foothold was available. Scott knew very little about their ecosystem beyond the need to keep it safe. Gordon and Virgil were the ones who knew most about it among the brothers. Gordon focussed on the sea and Virgil sometimes helped out with animal numbers and photography for the scientific group.

But Mel hadn’t been here since Dad...

He grunted and hurdled a rock he hurdled every morning as the slope inverted and started heading down. The view was stunning.

Despite the glass of the ocean, the swell still crashed on the back cliffs of the Island, jagged volcanic rock resistant to the relentless pounding.

Hopefully she would consent to the visit even though it was late notice.

He did have a Thunderbird, after all.

-o-o-o-

John hadn’t slept much. He never did when something was on his mind. His everything drove him to find a solution, particularly when a brother was involved.

Eos never slept, so she was the perfect insomnia companion.

There was also the factor that he was home, but he really wasn’t.

He was missing Five.

Now he was back on the Island, everything was screaming at him to go home.

Not that he didn’t like the Island, quite the opposite. The Island contained his brothers, his grandmother, Kayo, his family and he adored his family.

But the stars were calling to him. His body ached to feel the release from gravity. He wanted his home.

He ignored it.

His body needed gravity. It was an undeniable fact. It had evolved under the pressure exerted by the planet and while his mind adored the stars and the lack of gravity, nature demanded its return under the ‘use it or lose it’ mandate of life on Earth.

So, tired, but awake anyway as the sun hit the front of the villa, John made his way down to the pool where he found Gordon, as expected, in the water, but unexpectedly, not swimming. His head was lying on one arm at the edge of the pool, his body floating lazily behind.

John dropped his towel on a lounger and, bare footed to the edge next to his brother. Folding himself into a seated position he dropped his feet to dangle in the cool water.

“Gordon?”

“Hmm?” His head rose a little blearily. “Oh, John, hey.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Huh? What, oh, Merry Christmas, John.”

A frown. “You okay?”

Gordon flexed his shoulders. “Yeah, just thinking.”

“Virgil?”

“Yeah.”

John sighed. “Same. But you do know he’s okay?”

“Yeah, just thinking it through.”

John pushed himself into the water and couldn’t help a relieved sigh as the water took away so many of the effects of gravity, cradling his body. “Swim with me?”

Brown eyes turned to him and John saw a reflection of his own worry in their depths. “Sure.” Gordon pushed off from the edge, his movements graceful despite his distraction.

John moved to the lane next to Gordon’s preferred and lined up beside his fish brother. Gordon shot him a brief but grateful smile before pushing off the end in a careless surge into stroke. He was metres ahead before John had even shifted into form.

Typical.

Show off.

But he couldn’t help but smile as he pushed off the edge himself, automatically moving into a strong but leisurely stroke in warm up.

Swimming denied verbal communication, but it wasn’t needed, the two of them just keeping each other company.

By the fifth lap, John started pushing himself, putting his body through the exercise needed to keep it healthy. He had no delusions of keeping up with Gordon. He just paced himself as his body needed it. Twenty laps in, he eased up a little and checked on his brother.

Gordon was still going. John brought himself to a halt, treading water, muscles pleasantly buzzing.

“Hey, John.” The astronaut startled, turning in place to find Scott standing on the edge of the pool. His running gear appeared well used, sweat stains prominent, and he was still breathing heavily. “Just letting you know that I’m going to be taking One out in about half an hour.”

“You going to get Mel and Sam?” Gordon was suddenly beside him. It was a sign of how tired John actually was that his younger brother startled him almost as much as Scott had a moment earlier.

“Yeah.”

“Can I come with?”

“Don’t you want to be here for when Penny arrives?”

John arched an eyebrow in Gordon’s direction. The fish had been looking forward to Christmas for that very reason. Before Virgil’s illness, it had been Penelope this, Penelope that. Apparently, he had the ‘best’ gift lined up for their first Christmas as a couple. Whether or not that was still going ahead considering recent events, John had no idea. Gordon hadn’t mentioned it since Virgil fell ill.

“I thought you had the fastest plane on the planet, Scotty.”

Their eldest brother snorted. “Plane, yes, younger brother, no.”

“Hey, I can be fast.” A strawberry blond frown. “Regardless, I need to speak to Sam.”

Scott eyed him a moment. “Virgil?”

Gordon sighed. “Yeah, Virgil. Gotta handle this delicately.”

Scott’s lips thinned. “Okay, then you better be ready in thirty because that’s when I’m leaving.”

The fish was already climbing out of the pool. Wet footprints marked the concrete as he strode to his towel.

Blue eyes turned to John. “You okay? You look tired.”

John let water run through his fingers. “I am, but I’ll live.”

Voice quiet. “Virgil?”

A single nod, voice equally quiet. “Virgil. Eos, Gordon and I will work it out. We just need time.” And patience. Admittedly, he didn’t have much of that where his brothers’ health was concerned. He could fake it, but it didn’t mean he felt it.

Scott’s expression was thoughtful. “I know you will do your best. Don’t forget to look after yourself.”

A groan. This was why Virgil was always adamant that he was fine. I single hint of something wrong and their biggest brother was all over them, his concern obvious. “I’m fine, Scott.”

That earned him a grunt and John actually struggled not to smile at his brother’s exasperation. John swam to the pool edge and pushed himself out of the water. A wave in the direction of the rising sun’s reflection. “The pool is all yours, dear brother.”

Scott eyed him. “Thank you.”

The morning breeze cooled John enough to raise goose pimples on his arms. Before he could reach for his towel, Scott was handing it to him.

Ever the big brother. It was John’s turn to eye him back. “Thank you.”

Scott smiled at him, a definite smirk on those lips. He knew exactly what John was thinking and had likely done it on purpose. “Anytime.”

Hmmm. “Merry Christmas, Scott.”

Those blue eyes widened as his big brother obviously realised that despite all the preparations underway, despite the tree they had stacked with presents the night before, he had still managed to forget the significance of the day.

It was John’s turn to smirk.

But Scott recovered quickly, tilting his head, a small smile on his lips. “Merry Christmas, John.”

With that he turned and headed off into the house.

-o-o-o-

Alan loved to sleep in. He shared this love with his second eldest brother. Getting up early sucked big time and he had no coffee addiction to help him.

But there was one day of the year when you could witness the youngest Tracy out of bed, while not early, at least a decent time where breakfast could still be called breakfast and not lunch or even brunch.

Christmas Day.

Alan adored the day. Presents, food and family, what more could a guy ask for?

So, eight am found him stumbling down the stairs to the kitchen in search of the second and third items on the list. He found Grandma at the kitchen table eating her fruit and yoghurt.

Alan made no effort to be quiet, but she didn’t appear to realise he was there, staring out across the lagoon. “Grandma?”

She dropped her spoon with a clatter as it hit the bowl. “Alan!” She clutched her hand to her chest, gasping. “You frightened me. Gave my old heart a kick in the pants.”

“Sorry, Grandma. Are you okay?”

“This time. Though I wouldn’t recommend doing it too often.” She held out an arm. “C’mere and give me a Christmas hug.”

Now that was something he was quite happy to do. Grandma hugs were always appreciated. “Merry Christmas, Grandma.” He held her tight.

“Merry Christmas, honey. Are you hungry?”

Uh, that was always a loaded question and there were important indicators related to that. “Where is everyone?” He had expected to find at least John down here. His space brother would eat his breakfast staring out into the lagoon and follow it with work on his tablet just to be around family in his own way. But not today.

“Scott and Gordon have gone to Raoul to collect Ms Fisher and that scientist friend of Gordon’s.”

“Sam?”

“I guess. They were both in quite a hurry to leave.”

That set Alan grinning. “I think Scott likes Mel.”

An arched eyebrow. “I thought she liked Virgil.”

A snort accompanied the grin. “I don’t think she is Virgil’s kind of girl.”

Of course, that was the very moment Kayo decided to enter the kitchen. She had obviously been on a run, dressed in shorts and a high cut top.

“Who’s Virgil’s kind of girl?”

Alan’s eyes widened. “Um.”

Green narrowed at him. “What are you up to, Alan?”

“Nothing!” He held out his hands. “What did I do?”

“I’m more concerned with what you are going to do.”

“Suspicious, much? I’m going to eat breakfast, that’s what.”

She continued to eye him. “No practical jokes today.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Gee, you’d think I was Gordy or something.”

“Gordon will be contained by Lady Penelope. You, however, are not.”

“And what? That makes me some kind of prank genius?”

“Genius, no, annoyance, yes.”

“Hey, Merry Christmas, Kayo. How about a little of the spirit?”

She glared and him and grunted before turning away and stalking off.

“What’s up her skirt?”

“Alan!”

“Well, you saw her. I didn’t do anything!”

Grandma was quiet a moment. “She has things on her mind.”

“When doesn’t she?”

“Let her be.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Grandma sighed. “Things will work themselves out for the best.”

Alan stared at his grandmother. What on Earth was going on? Did everyone know something that he didn’t. He sighed. Wouldn’t be the first time. “I’m going grab some breakfast.”

“Yes, dear.” And Grandma was staring out at the lagoon again.

What the-?

Alan grabbed the refrigerator door and flung it open, his eyes raking its contents. Perhaps food would fix things.

A glance at Grandma found that she hadn’t moved.

There was definitely something going on.

-o-o-o-

End Day 5 Part 1

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #Scott Tracy #John Tracy #Alan Tracy #Grandma Tracy #kermadec fic

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so-shiny-so-chrome · 6 years

Text

Witness: B_Kilroy

ThCreator name (AO3): B_Kilroy

Creator name (Tumblr): brian-kilroy

Link to creator works: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Kilroy/pseuds/B_Kilroy/works?fandom_id=51060

Q: Why the Mad Max Fandom?

A: I was just instantly drawn to it after seeing Mad Max: Fury Road for the first time. The movie was incredible, from the imagery to the people, from the story we see to the story we have to piece together ourselves. I was no stranger to fanfiction since I had written and read it in the past, so when I thought "I need to get more of this," I knew where to go. Being more internet savvy than I was several years ago meant that I was able to find more places and people who engaged in the fandom, which in turn allowed me to become more engaged, and do more for this fandom than the ones I had been a part of before.

Q: What do you think are some defining aspects of your work? Do you have a style? Recurrent themes?Which of your works was the most fun to create? The most difficult? Which is your most popular? Most successful? Your favourite overall?

A: I think even though I didn't write much for it, "Through The Looking Glass" was the most fun to create, because the goal was to take the entirety of Mad Max and reframe it with Furiosa and Max being able to contact each other through their dreams. It's fun to take that and view events through a different lens, or use one character to advise the other and shove the story in different directions. After a while, these changes would have stacked up, but it would have amounted to a serious overhaul of character and plot through four movies.

The most difficult fic was "Ear to the Ground," namely because it was a gift so I couldn't bounce the idea back off of its source to talk about it. At a certain point I pretty much stalled, and that combined with the time constraints of the exchange were some serious stressors. I've stalled many times in many fics, but this was the most difficult one to conquer.

My most popular, successful, and favorite fic to work on is by and large "Runaway." I can't truly speak for why, but I believe its relative longevity and the AU concept of Fury Road essentially never happening was what earned some attention.

Q: How do you like your wasteland? Gritty? Hopeful? Campy? Soft? Why?

A: I like a good mix of gritty and hopeful, though it does depend on what sort of fic I'm writing. I think we've all seen enough to know that you can't have good without the bad, but we also know that sometimes it's very possible to basically go about your business as long as you're smart about it. Sometimes, the characters don't have that option. I enjoy having a diverse world so characters can have a multitude of experiences.

Q: Walk us through your creative process from idea to finished product. What's your prefered environment for creating? How do you get through rough patches?

A: My creative process really varies. Often, I just start writing. Only after I have some stuff written down do the gears really start turning about the future. As I work, sometimes I'll put down specific lines I want to use, or scenes I want to see, or a general rough outline. The best thing I've done in this regard is have an outline set for "Runaway" and use the first posting of "Royce" as a first draft. The best way to create is to have something set out in front of you, so you know where Point B is, and it's just a matter of getting there.

When I wrote in college, it was pretty much wherever I could snag a seat. A handful of my old fics started in the very back of a State Government lecture hall. As time went on, I wrote in the student center or in a dorm lobby or just somewhere I could sit down that felt vaguely productive. At home, it's in my dark room with some music on.

Rough patches often signal a break in writing. I'll typically go to another fic to work on, but recently having trouble means walking away completely. For me, the only way to get through rough patches means sitting down and writing. It can be a word, a sentence, or a paragraph, and any amount is fine. All that matters is that I get the gears going, because there's no progress if I don't think about it.

Q: What (if any) music do you listen to for help getting those creative juices flowing?

A: I'll listen to a general playlist I've wrangled together if I'm writing for Maxiosa, and that can sort of get me in the mood - namely, some DJ Shadow or some Radiohead, though a lot of artists are one-offs. For other fics, or moments where I need a specific tone, I can turn to more energetic music and scratch that itch.

Q: What is your biggest challenge as a creator?

A: Inspiration and drive is my biggest challenge. Nowadays, I don't really have inspiration unless it just somehow *comes* to me - which will often be around 1 AM which leaves a lot to be desired. A lot of writing also came out of emotional distress, which thankfully I don't really experience anymore, but that means finding some other sort of fuel to write from.

Q: How have you grown as a creator through your participation in the Mad Max Fandom? How has your work changed? Have you learned anything about yourself?

A: I've definitely grown in terms of how I write. I sort of cringe at how I first wrote a lot of my stuff, which resulted in some works being removed or re-worked. My writing has done a lot better in terms of - well, I don't cringe at it as much. I'm more confident in what I write and how. It's a more mature style that I can reflect on as an era of writing separate from what I wrote when I was younger. In short, it's better.

Have I learned anything about myself? Can't quite say.

Q: Which character do you relate to the most, and how does that affect your approach to that character? Is someone else your favourite to portray? How has your understanding of these characters grown through portraying them?

A: I'd say I relate to Max the most. I understand being alone and avoiding people. That's oversimplifying it, but I sympathize with him the most. This allows me to write him if not accurately, then it helps me write him well. Writing characters in general, while I'm not writing canon material, allows me to think of them as more than what they've done on the screen. It allows me to think of them as complex characters. I fill out the blanks left on the screen and it helps make them whole.

Q: Do you ever self-insert, even accidentally?

A: Definitely. "Royce" is by-and-large a self-insert, and I think it pretty much says so on the can. It became a great way to explore what I would do in such a world, but I feel like doing self-inserts in the right way can be an excellent method to explore parts of the story that we don't usually see.

Q: How does your work for the fandom change how you look at the source material?

A: It allows me to form a more complete image of the before, during, and after. It may not be canonical, but I can appreciate the movie as more than just a slice of the world. I think about everything happening behind the scenes - what's happening at the Citadel, in the War Party, in the wreckage following the battle of the Fury Road. Instead of asking questions about what happened and what will happen, I form answers.

Q: Do you prefer to create in one defined chronology or do your works stand alone? Why or why not?

A: I enjoy the concept of trying to fit all my fics into one world, because 1) it breeds continuity, 2) it breeds opportunities for the future, and 3) it's just fun. Not only do you have the source material, but using what you create helps you get more familiar and comfortable with the characters. Writing for standalone fics means you have to resort to a different mindset for these characters, though some may enjoy that, so more power to them.

Q: To break or not to break canon? Why?

A: Both is fun. I have canon-compliant and canon-divergent fics and they both have their benefits and drawbacks in terms of familiarity and "give" in terms of what you want to do.

Q: If you work with OCs walk us through your process for creating them. Who are some of your favourites?

A: If they are proper OCs with no real inspiration, I start with basically envisioning them in my mind. What are their names and what do they look like? What is their purpose? What is their past, and do you want that to factor into what they do in the present and future? It doesn't have to be a whole lot if they're minor characters, but the more you do means you have more to play with. You can add complexity to a character or just use them as a means to an end.

My favorite OC has to be Royce just because of how I know Royce ends up, and how he's used as a storytelling tool.

Q: Who are some works by other creators inside and outside of the fandom that have influenced your work?

A: Owlship has had a direct influence on my work - I've snagged quite a few prompts from her and I've been inspired at least directly by "the centre cannot hold;". While I can't say I really look up to anyone else as an influence, I definitely give props to Weirdness_Unlimited for taking off running with "To Love Reptiles" and their OC work, and giving me inspiration to keep going with mine. I quite literally went through every single fic that looked good to me when I first found MMFR so I can't really point anything out that has influenced me except for the creativity of the community as a whole.

Q: Tell us about a current WIP or planned project.

A: Runaway is the big WIP I'm staring down right now. I've been bogged down in terms of having a hard time writing thought and reflection instead of action. I've probably said it a hundred times, but I do have an outline set up for the fic which would go pretty far if written for completely. Anyone reading it can expect something interesting in the next few chapters. I do have another WIP or two in my pocket that I'll abstain from talking about, but they'll be little one shots. One's a bit of pre-canon, another's post-canon which is the one I'm favoring. There's still gears turning, no matter how small, and I hope to get stuff going again soon.

@b-kilroy thank you for your time.

#mad max fandom #mad max fanfic #Mad Max Fandom Creator Spotlight #fury road fic #mad max creator spotlight #B-kilroy #brian_kilroy #fanfic author spotlight

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houkuaichuii · 6 years

Text

Then There Was You - Chapter 3.

Tfw it takes you two years to write a single chapter. HA!

Recap about the fic: It’s a normal!AU, with Rukia being a photographer and Ichigo being a paediatrician. It sounds simple, but it’s actually quite more complicated than that. Anyhow, it can be found on both fanfiction.net and AO3!

And bless @rvkiakuchiki for beta-ing like always!!!!!!!

Also, warning--- pure fluff down below.

Summary:

“You’re really adamant about that burger of yours, aren’t you?”

Rukia grinned, “As adamant as you are about your tonkatsu.”

It were moments like this when she forgot that she had only actually known him for no more than a two weeks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He took her to a garden; a place that held such aspect of simplicity, and yet with the morning light hitting it just right, the essence of fantasy did more than take her breath away. Spring was woven all around them, with the flowers blooming and pink petals falling onto their path. It was peaceful, perfect equilibrium through and through, even as the sound of the running stream reached their ears. The air was also almost different--- or it could just have been her mind playing tricks on her, she could not say --- fresher than the outside world. She loved it there. It was secluded, not a soul seen nor heard. It was like a whole secret hidden by nature itself, found by those who truly searched to their wits’ end. The imagery of it all was so vivid within her mind, she could have almost felt herself in the centre of garden with her eyes closed. And that was how time passed her by; quiet, lost, and alone as she was sat before her desk, work quite forgotten all the while.

She sighed.

Willing herself to finally open her eyes, what met Rukia were not the flowers, trees, or the birds that she longed for. Rather, a raw picture was wide on her monitor, waiting to be edited.

Right, her job. Something to which she had chosen to ignored for the past few hours.

Another sigh.

Unmotivated, uninspired, Rukia sat there in silence, the tablet’s pen loose in her grip. She rested her cheek on top of her other palm, elbow perched on the edge of the desk as she stared at the shot.

It was a portrait taken at a slightly lower angle on the side, the model standing close behind a tall, chain-linked fence. The blue of her irises were bright with the setting sun’s light, a hint of a smile visible with the way her lips were curved. Moreover, the blurred chains of the fence formed patterns of shadows across her features, her set gaze directed towards the viewer; as if saying bow down to the queen.

An image of dominance, conveying the concept of no shit taken nor needed. It was what they had asked from her, and it was what she had just delivered.

Though of course, the photo itself was far from being a finished product. There were still a few remaining touches needed, she just couldn’t quite figure them out.

Rukia stared at the colours and tones that were used, and she was fine with them. She moved onto the contrast levels, the shadows and the highlights, and again, no complaints. For the next fifteen minutes, her attention shifted from detail to detail, searching for anything that would have satisfied that annoying feeling in her mind. It was constantly telling her that there was something missing, something that she was meant to change or fix.

An element that she couldn’t see.

She hated that feeling so much.

Leaning back into her seat in defeat and frustration, the wheels rolled her away from her workstation. The photographer focused on the high ceiling above her, waiting for inspiration to strike. But once she knew that it wasn’t going to happen, she closed her eyes and just breathed.

Through her apartment’s opened windows, the city’s noise reached her from below. She delved into the soothing sound of cars driving by, of a helicopter flying in a distance. She was embraced by the night’s warmth, the air tickling her skin. She relaxed herself, all pretense from stress leaving her body right there and then.

Her thoughts were silent, her entire being calm as her chest rose and fell. At that rate, she could have fallen asleep, and would have if her phone hadn’t rang. Eyes shot open, the moment of peace broken by a call that was very much unneeded. Nevertheless, she pulled herself back to her desk and grabbed the phone, glancing at the caller ID with contempt before sliding across the screen to answer.

“Do you realise what time it is?” She started, her voice low and eerily threatening.

“Mm, time for me get food,” The other responded, completely disregarding the annoyance that he had just heard, “I just finished my shift and I don’t feel like eating at home. What are you doing?”

Somehow--- just somehow--- the man’s voice was as soothing as the cityscape, even through the phone. As irritated as she was for having been pulled away from the abyss of sleep, Rukia couldn’t help but loosen a bit as she listened to him speak; a quiet breath released.

“Working.” It wasn’t a complete lie, considering how that was exactly what she was supposed to be doing.

“Really?”

“. . . Yes.”

It was suddenly quiet on the other end of the line, until Rukia could have sworn that he chuckled, “Alright, then. Well, I’m about to leave the hospital now to buy dinner.”

“Ichigo, did you really call at 8 P.M just to tell me this?”

“No, I called to see whether you wanted to eat dinner with me. But since you’re busy---”

“Where are we having dinner?” Rukia heard herself cut in without a thought. She could have said that she was surprised at doing so, not understanding as to why there was a form of excitement that started to buzz within her. Sure, he called to invite her out for dinner, though it wasn’t like it was anything out of the ordinary, right?

They already had a morning walk with coffee together, so what was dinner?

It was just two people eating dinner, no biggie.

“Meguro. I’m in the mood for tonkatsu, so heard of Tonki?” Ichigo answered as she heard a door closing from his end. She presumed that he got into his car.

She had been told of the place, just had not necessarily eaten there. Last she remembered, Rangiku described the restaurant as great, with the menu being somewhere in between of delicious and simple. However, she also knew that in judgement of the restaurant’s popularity, the chances of them having to line up in a queue were high. Plus, did she really feel like eating there?

“I’ve heard of Tonki, yes,” she said, “But I don’t know, Ichigo, I kind of feel like eating McDonald’s.”

“McDonald’s for dinner? Really, Rukia?”

At his reaction, the woman in question couldn’t stop the smile that pulled at her lips. She spun her chair around, gaze up on the ceiling as she shrugged. “Why not? It’s basic and I haven’t had a burger in a while.”

“Fine, you can buy your burger and then meet me at Tonki.”

“And what? Watch you eat your tonkatsu? I think I’ll just buy my burger and then head home straight after.”

He was quiet again, and Rukia found herself waiting for a response. She continued to spin around, tapping her fingers against the armrest. She knew that he was thinking, although about what was the actual question.

“You’re really adamant about that burger of yours, aren’t you?”

Rukia grinned, “As adamant as you are about your tonkatsu.”

It were moments like this when she forgot that she had only actually known him for no more than a two weeks.

About an hour and a half later, the two of them were sitting on a table in the endless rush of a McDonald’s branch, with Rukia sipping happily on her glass of earl grey ice-tea. She watched as Ichigo took his time on eating his wrap, a knowing twinkle in her stare. There he was, professionally dressed as he ate in front of her, after he had tried to convince her to eat tonkatsu for dinner.

Ha! Iconic!

“How long are you planning to stare at me like that.” And there it was, his trademark scowl.

Rukia peered at him, playfully at that as a smile made itself known. She had only known him for a short two weeks, but her comfortability said otherwise.

“Don’t feel so bad, Ichigo,” She began, “You’re enjoying your wrap, aren’t you? And you also have my company, so aren’t you lucky?”

She saw him contemplate her words, knew that he didn’t want to admit to relenting earlier on. The boy-like scowl didn’t leave his face, even as he took a bite of his meal and visibly enjoyed it. He may not have said it, but one’s eyes could only ever actually hold so much hidden.

“So, why did you call me out tonight?” Rukia asked amidst the white noise of others’ chatter. She was relaxed in her seat, playing with the straw of her drink by flicking the end. There was pure curiosity in her tone, an indication that she had been itching to let the question out. And although she was slightly expecting for him to be caught off-guard, Ichigo merely looked up from his wrap and blinked.

“I don’t know,” He said, “Just thought that you’d need time away from whatever you were doing.”

Confused as she was, Rukia tilted her head, a crease appearing between her brows, “What made you think that?”

“Because every time you messaged me during this past week, you’ve been saying that you have no inspiration and that you were doing nothing but staring at your screen. Besides, I thought some company would be good, so yeah.” He spoke casually, mixed in together with something akin to familiarity. Rukia was astounded that he even managed to pick the point up, albeit not realising it herself. Did they really talk to each other often enough for him to notice her small problem?

“I see.” Was her response, her smile diminishing as it was replaced by uncertainty. It was, however, not towards Ichigo, although more for the question that came to mind.

But with the doctor being the doctor, he noticed the change in her expression as well, and said, “Don’t give me that look. If you didn’t want to come, you could have just said so.” His intonation was lighthearted, a reflection of his own gentle smile.

Rukia soon felt herself at ease, relieved by the words that came from the doctor. Then when she opened her mouth to speak, to say something along the lines of appreciation, Ichigo continued on.

“Besides, I could have gotten my tonkatsu if it weren’t for you.” He finished off, before chewing on a piece of the wrap.

Of course, she should have expected for him to say that.

Not being able to bite down the growing smile that came to be, the smile that mirrored the one in front of her, Rukia simply shook her head and fell back into comfortable silence as she, too, decided to finish her meal.

It was tranquil between them after that, enjoying each other’s company, accompanied by a few questions here and there.

How was your day?

Was work busy?

And what about the patients, how were they?

Today’s clients didn’t give you any problems, right?

Conversation flew by without a hitch, and it was that aspect that Rukia found herself savouring. There was no air of awkwardness, their small talk just enough that it didn’t overwhelm her as it would have with others. They spoke like old friends, just with the same level of interest that strangers would have during first meetings. It was an equal amount of give and take from both sides, and Rukia was actually enjoying it.

In fact, they were so in tune with one another that her actions became instinctive.

“Wait, so let me get this straight: your brother is a lawyer who wanted you to follow his footsteps, so that you could have taken over the family firm when the time comes?” She heard him ask. However, her attention had been set elsewhere.

Rukia motioned for him to lean forward, and naturally, he did. She then reached out and using the pad of her thumb, wiped the sauce off from the edging line of his bottom lip.

“There we go. Can’t exactly have you walking around with evidence of you enjoying your wrap from McDonald’s now, can we?” using a napkin to clean her thumb, she missed the dumbfounded expression etched across Ichigo’s face.

He didn’t move an inch since the initial contact. His brown eyes were wide, intently focused on her. Yet, she paid them no heed. She also didn’t know how heavy his chest became, how loud the beating of his heart was in his ears, and how he faltered to confusion due to that single second.

What… happened?

Time seemingly slowed down around him, everything else a blur apart from her. His body froze, his pupils dilating --- that much he knew. The hairs on his skin stood, and yet there was an overwhelming amount of warmth that had blanketed over him. He was staring, he knew that he was staring as he couldn’t bring himself to move his attention elsewhere. She was there, nonchalantly going as she normally did. And he was bewildered, confused with the way he was reacting to nothing more than an act of kindness. It was no lie that Ichigo was caught in captivation.

“But yes, that’s pretty much the story. Thing is, even though I’m not directly related to him, I’m the only one who he can actually trust with the responsibility,” Rukia said, still oblivious to the gaping man, “Not that I can be angry with him or anything. Well, apart from the fact that he sometimes still tries to control my life, but I guess it’s just because he’s afraid of me tarnishing the family name.”

It were a few seconds later when Ichigo finally regained his composure and gradually sat back down onto his seat. He tried to nod along, cleared his throat, and cleared his head in hopes of organising his thoughts. It was a simple matter, and he was not about to make a big deal of it. Not at all.

Unbeknownst to him, the tips of his ears had turned red.

“Right,” He said, “You know, you’re kind of making it sound like you’re a princess or something.”

Rukia looked at him with a raised brow, “What if I am?”

“Are you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that. Who knows, you might end up running your mouth off and someone’s bound to tell the paparazzi that there’s a princess around town.”

Ichigo snorted in disbelief at Rukia’s response. She really was strange; he came to that conclusion during their walk through the garden two weeks ago. With her gushing about nothing but Chappy for fifteen minutes straight, it took a lot of him to not walk away until she stopped. But all in all, she was… interesting. Different to those he knew, and though he understood that there was nothing extremely special about her (because as if he was going to believe that entire royalty shenanigans), there was something about her that he couldn’t exactly pinpoint. Left at that, she was Rukia, and for whatever reason unknown to him, he was content with it.

“Any other plans in mind for tonight?” Rukia asked next.

Swallowing the final bit of his salad wrap, Ichigo shook his head. “Nah, you?”

“Was supposed to have a girls’ night, but backed out last minute.” She said.

“Should I ask why?”

Rukia lifted a shoulder, amused by the curiosity heard in the lilt of his voice. She threw him a small smile, a glint in her indigo eyes as she replied, “I just didn’t feel like it.”

“But you’re here.” Ichigo remarked.

“This… this is different.”

When the doctor looked at her with a bemused gaze, Rukia sighed and crossed her arms against her torso, leaning back into the backrest of her seat.

“I wasn’t in the mood to go clubbing. And knowing my friends, I’d have to deal with their sorry asses by the end of the night, and I felt like I needed time to myself, instead of whatever it is that one does at a club.” As short as the explanation it, it was nothing less than truthful.

“Right, so instead of having wine and drinks, you’d rather settle for a happy meal at McDonald’s.” Ichigo said.

“Would’ve been great if it were a happy meal, but alas, you only bought me a burger.” She retorted.

Ichigo tried his best to at least look a little bit innocent in that case, “I’m pretty sure I asked you whether you wanted a toy---”

“Shut up.”

A smirk and a concise response, “Yes, ma’am.”

At the end of dinner, the two had split ways in note of the late night. Had it been a weekend, Ichigo would have wandered around the city a bit more; most likely sharing life stories with his earlier companion, had she agreed to stay for a little while longer. But in the comforts of his own home, the man pulled on his necktie and unbuttoned the first three buttons of his dress shirt, a heavy breath leaving him. There was a sudden appearance of overwhelming tiredness on his shoulders, weighing in on him the instant he had set foot through the front door.

As tempting as it was to drop dead onto the leather couch, his body was aching for a hot shower.

He walked past the open space of the apartment’s living room, purposefully not glancing at it, in case he were to cave in and sleep into a new day. And as he dragged his feet across the wooden flooring, trudging his way through his home, Ichigo’s mind decided to settle for that night’s events--- how normal it had been, despite of it being different to his everyday routine.

He thought of Rukia, how open her character was around him; as if there was no wall in between them. Weirdly enough, he had known her for far less than those he worked with, and yet it was safe for him to assume that she knew him better than they did. Around her, he found that he was able to be himself, whoever that was. He didn’t need to hold back with his smart remarks, and even so, she managed to make comebacks that didn’t leave a bitter feeling in him.

Around Rukia, he was able to let go of Dr. Kurosaki and simply become Kurosaki Ichigo, the boy from the small city known as Karakura Town.

He liked it. Or if anything, he appreciated it.

He didn’t need to uphold any professionalism. It was what he did at first, only to have the photographer laugh at him and brush it off.

It’s not that she ‘didn’t like it’, she said, but more of how it ‘felt wrong coming from him’.

He chuckled inwardly at the memory as he entered his bedroom, setting his suitcase on the chair next to the door.

In the dark, the room was nothing extravagant, except for the floor-to-ceiling window that covered the entire end, giving away a grand view of the awakened city. To the centre, was the bed, its headboard connected to the wall adjacent to the window, whilst his walk-in closet was built on the opposite end. And the door directly across from Ichigo’s entrance, led to a bathroom that he was actually quite fond of.

It wasn’t too big, nor too small. The shower head was perfect for his height, and even with its wet floor design, the tiling had fit his tastes perfectly.

It really was nice bathroom.

Falling into the soft, cotton sheets of his bed, face first as one often did when they were ready to avoid their problems, Ichigo inhaled and closed his eyes for a moment’s while. He was tired, so tired that he could have fallen asleep had his mind not reminded him of the shower that he needed to take. He groaned at the thought and rolled over onto his back, only to feel the vibration of his phone in his pants’ pocket. He fished it out, and squinted at the blaring light of the screen until his vision came to focus at the message received.

Got home safe. Said the first one.

Thanks again. Came after.

Ichigo didn’t even need to look at the sender’s name to know who it was, nor did he need to for the smile to tug at his mouth. Upon setting an arm as a pillow beneath his head, he unlocked his phone and typed a reply with a single thumb.

Glad to know. Your treat next time?

He didn’t have to wait long before the other responded.

Next time? We’ll see.

“We’ll see. . .?” Ichigo repeated the words to no one in particular, but there was no way he could have ignored the feeling of peaceful happiness; more so when it was sitting just between his lungs, confined by his ribcage. Chuckling, the tired doctor pulled himself up and stood, throwing his phone onto the bed. He ran his hand through his mess of a hair, and contented, made his way to the bathroom.

The screen lit up again, alerting of a new message received.

He stood under the warm spray of the shower for a good twenty minutes, his muscles loosening and the aches disappearing. Truth be told, he spent most of the time pondering about whatever situation needed to be sorted, rather than doing any actual cleaning. Still, it didn’t take long for him to scrub as much grime, dirt, and sweat as he possibly could have.

Barefooted, he walked through the apartment, his knit joggers sitting threateningly low on his hips. He also opted for the lack of a shirt, reasoning that it was too warm to wear one, and that he was bound to take it off in his sleep. It were the little things like those that made life easier in a way; decisions made without too much thinking or expectation of consequences. Moreover, he was living alone, so it wasn’t like he was committing a crime by walking around shirtless.

The lights were dimmed down, albeit bright enough for him to navigate past the furniture and corners. Gentle music echoed throughout the space from the speakers in the living room, the tune of piano keys calming him as he found his way to the kitchen next to it. He had turned it on when he arrived--- out of habit more than anything, really. Because, again, he was alone in a big place, and there was something about music that made him feel less… isolated.

Arriving at the kitchen, Ichigo got a glass from the dryer and poured himself a cold drink from the fridge. He soothed the thirst of his dry throat, a breath of satisfaction leaving him straight after. He rolled his neck, and tilted his head from side to side, knowing that he couldn’t feel any better than he did then. To describe him, he was utterly filled with naught but a state of calmness and contentment.

He had tended to his patients earlier in the day, and finished his rounds as he expected himself to. The children were looking much better than they did when they were first admitted, and fortunately enough, they had taken a liking to him; letting him in on their little secrets, and stories, and worlds that were often kept hidden. Their smiles were as bright as the sun that shone through the windows, and their parents were more than happy to trust in him. And as a doctor, those were enough to keep him going.

There was also the dinner. Originally, Ichigo didn’t plan to have a salad wrap from McDonald’s, but what right did he have to complain in consideration of who sat across from him?

It was a nice way to end the night, he admitted that much. He was able to leave the character of a doctor behind in his office for a while, and merely laughed as he did all those years ago. Hell, he wasn’t even sure when was the last time he had enjoyed another’s company. It was a nice change of pace for once, and he was glad that he made the phone call after minutes of pure hesitation.

The buzz of a doorbell and Ichigo was instantly pulled out of his reverie. He glanced at the digital clock embedded on the fridge, 2337 staring at him boldly and in its ominous colour of red. He frowned, brows furrowed together in wonder as to who was insane enough to drop by at this hour of the night.

A weeknight, nonetheless.

In resignation, he made his way to the front door; his bare torso forgotten much to his repose. He called out, telling them to hang on. And without even looking through the peephole, or even the monitor near the entrance, he turned the doorknob and pulled it open.

Who stood on the other side was no one in particular-- correction, she was somebody, just not one whom he was expecting.

Her surprised gaze met his, her posture straightening the second she saw him. And uncontrollably, Ichigo’s heart was quiet.

“A-ah, Kurosaki-Kun…!”

#Chie writes.#IchiRuki #Ichigo Kurosaki #Rukia Kuchiki #bleach fic #2 years lATER WE FINALLY GOT IT OUT!!!!!#Y E E E E E E E E ET!!!!

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fordanoia · 7 years

Text

Gotham Falls [2/??]

My crossover fic between Gravity Falls and Batman: The Animated Series. || Fic Tag || On AO3 / Fanfic ||

Ch 2: (Not Quite) According To Plan || Words: 5,900~ || CW: mild swearing

Ford sluggishly made rounds through his house, repeatedly glancing out windows and checking outside the front door. He’d cautiously listen from beside the door then open it and look outside before closing it with all the locks latched. It was something to do and the blast of cold air kept him awake.

He'd already checked the bunker today, but all the supplies had been long since stored and organized. Although worrisome, he made a point each time to count the filled barrels off in the distance. He had rolled them far off and wrapped them in barb wire to keep the fuel as far away as possible without losing sight of them. It’d be easier to just dump them, but he couldn’t do that without hazardous effects from the radiation. There was only a few of them left now, forebodingly resting in the snow.

The rest had been emptied without his memory on the ‘trip’ days ago, similar to the times he found yet more new eerie notes written in his journal. However, the instance when he had found the door to downstairs wide open and the fuel gauge no longer empty a sharp panic had struck him square in the chest. Just another hour asleep and the machine would have been fueled and only a few switch flips and a lever pull away from disaster. That was when he had made it a point to find industrial strength coffee. His usual supply evidently hadn't been doing enough. Since the event at the diner though he hadn't been able to get it anymore. No way he was going back inside that building again. He could feel his body struggle to stay awake with the cut back on caffeine though, now more so than usual. Ford went back into the dining room and towards the table, heavily dropping into a chair beside it. Something… He needed to do… something…

He didn't know how much time had passed with him absently staring into the calming grain of the wood paneling, but eventually there was a knock on the door jerking him up in his seat. He hadn't even heard someone walk up to the door. Maybe the snowfall had muffled the sound of footsteps. He needed to be careful though, no telling who it would be. Quietly, he hurried towards the front door. He grabbed the crossbow by the door before pulling back the greased locks that slid open without a sound. He curled one hand around the door knob, figuring out how to efficiently switch his hand from the door to the crossbow without compromising himself when an electrifying thought sparked in the air. What if it's Stan?

He could already feel a fresh hope at the idea, but kept it in check. Even still, he opened the door a bit eagerly with the possibility at the front of his mind. It was only one possibility, though, and an unlikely one at that. He poked his head around the door, securely holding onto it with a hand. “Who is it?” He asked roughly, prepared to bring out the crossbow. There was no need though. It was him. It was actually him!

“Stanley!” He opened the door further and set the crossbow down against the interior wall of the house. He was immediately overcome with relief. He was practically home bound now, all he had to do was get Stanley to take the journal and well- the rest he'd figure out. He wasn't going to let this moment get squashed down dwelling on everything else. Very little had turned out well since all of this had started. He was going to cling onto his renewed hope and focus on this moment for as long as it lasted.

Stan smiled, easygoing and confident like he used to remember, back when they were teenagers. Stan smiling as he'd assure him to ignore Crampelter. ‘Jerk couldn't tell the difference between a screwdriver and a pen so don’t bother listenin’ to him, Sixer.’

Ford allowed himself a slight smile, ignoring the slight edge of bitterness that came with nearly any memory of his twin. After what the other did... but he pushed it aside. He could let himself have this small comfort, just for now. When was the last time he had had positive human interaction, after all. Enjoy the moment and proceed handing over the journal so he could work on what he needed to afterwards.

He fully opened the door to Stan and he didn’t know what exactly he was expecting, but Stan smiled wider and took a step forward. A warning alarm was blearily going off in the back of his head, as if he was under water. Utter nonsensical nerves that-

Suddenly, Stan grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him off balance. Grinning, as Ford lost his footing, the tips of his boots scuffling on the ground behind him as Stan held him up in the air. Not high enough where he could get his feet underneath him, but not so low as for him to be completely on his knees where he'd be able to get up. He was forced to look up at the face merely a foot above his own, his own arms splayed out uselessly at his sides. The grin was still there, oh yes, and now he could see it. The slit eyed pupils bearing down on him with malicious excitement.

“Hey, Sixer!”

“Bill!” Ford gasped, blaming the strangled surprise in his voice on the hand choking him by his shirt.

He remained in the unstable position held aloft in the air, helpless to really get himself free. Too frightened to even think of how to go about it, and how could he with all these alarms. Muddled thoughts now uselessly running around his mind. All of these alarms nagging at him. Alarms that were too busy screaming at him in urgency through the thick water for him to actually know what they warned of. Bill, he was sure. He should have seen this coming, he should have been prepared. He hadn’t been careful enough.

“Oh, come on, Fordsy,” the fake Stan said with a roll of his not his not his not his eyes, not quite in sync, “you didn't honestly think calling your dear old brother who hates your guts was going to actually work in your favor, did you? ”

Ford struggled uselessly in the grasp, panic making it impossible for him to move his feet in any coordinated fashion that would actually get his balance back under his own control again.

Last hope. That's what this had been. His last hope, the only thing he had had left and of course it failed him. He was somehow worse off than before, and out of any options now. Out of options and time and reality was blending together at the corners of his vision. His hands pricked painfully, needles in the palms of his hand.

“You're not activating the portal!” Ford spat at him fiercely, voice full and hearty even as he was being choked. Another alarm. Why were there so many alarms, why. Why were so many of them muffled? Bill was here and Stan was decisively not. He was easily overpowered, and Bill had every advantage over him. What else was even left over to worry about outside of this?

“Oh, yeah, smart guy? You gonna stop me?” Bill taunted, laughing in his usual high pitched voice.

Even his feeling of helplessness was starting to get distracted by all the muted warnings from his mind. “You have to do more than just push a button, Bill!” He fired back, determined. Even if the other was undoubtedly stronger, he was still going to fight him every inch of the way. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he gave up, even now. Ultimately, he knew that he could be tied up or otherwise effortlessly dealt out of the way, but...

St- Bill seemed to smile just a bit more and it twisted his stomach to see the knowing tilt of that grin. He finally looked away from him, the imagery itself already was close to paralyzing, making his blood run cold. Of course, though, he was outside in the… and… wait, no. No, it wasn't cold. Why wasn't it cold?!

Ford scrambled back from the other, roughly pushing against his chest and ripping himself out of Bill’s grasp. He threw himself back onto the floor, wide-eyed. A vulnerable position, yes, but no longer important. His mind was now barraging him with a whole stream of inconsistencies, ones he instantly chastised himself for not catching as they were happening. Bill’s voice remaining the same even in Stan’s body. His blurry mind with so many warnings purposefully smudged out and turned unintelligible. The bone deep exhaustion he had had for weeks straight, now missing.

“Figured it out finally, huh?” Bill teased, standing over him, still in that body. “It's funny how much you've got riding on this. Pathetic, really! He's not coming to help you. Even if he DOES show up it'll just be to see how far you fell without him and laugh.”

Ford wanted to argue back, say Stanley was coming to help with unwavering certainty.

He couldn't do that.

Bill was right.

He was holding onto a thinly worn shred of hope that Stanley would come, but that's all it was. He didn't have any viable reasoning to assure himself Stan would actually show. When ever he actually thought about it it became more and more apparent that he wouldn’t come. That he had just said he'd come over to get back at Ford for letting him get kicked out years ago. For expecting help when he wouldn't have anything to do with him for over a decade. Empty thoughts pulled vacantly on his mind though, urging him again with soundless voices. Wordless warnings which he could now recognize as calls to wake up.

He closed his eyes and focused, trying to bring solid sensations back in and pull himself out of the floating blur of sleep. There was that pain in his hands again as well as the ache in his body slowly returning and he latched onto the feelings, dredging himself awake again, and opened his eyes. He was warm and Ford winced as he flexed his hands, it helped jar him further awake though. He looked down to see his palms covered in bleeding red marks, small holes covering it. Nothing on the back of his hands though. He then realized rather gratefully that he was still in the middle of his house. Unlike the cool damp air of the basement, it was warm and… and there was an icy breeze. He turned slowly, following the draft to find the front door thrown carelessly open, snowflakes flying in and melting as they hit the floor of the house. He walked towards the door, but paused before the threshold to listen for anybody or anything. Considering what had just happened though he actually felt a slight comfort in that whatever Bill had tried there was nothing to do about it now and thus no lingering danger. He probably expected him to stay asleep for longer. Or maybe it was just a nightmare. There had been times like that before, where he had woken up and Bill had ultimately did nothing. Just a nightmare and his body had been left alone. Or so he thought. The times he had woken up seemingly in the same place, he'd originally thought just that. Then he started to find those notes... it made him doubt every instance that seemed like just an innocuous visit in the mindscape. He hoped that was the case though. However, he couldn't quite identify the puncture marks in his hand. They seemed like they had been made with small needles, but the uncertainty was unnerving him.

He decided to give the inside of his house a look over first to assure everything was secure. As he went to shut the door a looming dark shape caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He stopped, not having even grabbed the door handle yet. Sitting innocently on the porch were the three metal barrels, barb wire still coiled around them and bright red tips standing out on a few of the sharp spikes. He swallowed unevenly. Close. That was close. They weren’t inside the house though. He walked out, pushing the door open further with his hand, immediately regretting doing so. He'd have to disinfect and bandage the wounds as soon as he put the barrels back out. He carefully grabbed the lid of the first barrel to pull it onto its side. Rolling them through the snow would take less energy than carrying them. He hooked his fingertips over the metal edge, prepared for the immense weight as he started to pull. However, with almost no effort, the barrel tipped towards him and Ford let go of it in alarm. It clattered back onto the porch, a distinct metallic hollow sound reverberating out of the open canister. Ford leaned forward with a deep sinking feeling in his gut, looking inside to find it completely empty. Quickly checking the others as well, he found them empty as well. All empty…. which meant- Ford didn't even bother to close the door behind him as he bolted back inside, hastening through the security measure of the basement door and downstairs. He felt a pang of relief as he saw the machine was still turned off, large room dim, though he was still far from eased. He checked the fuel gauge first, completely full, foreboding, but a good sign. If it had been activated, it would have been empty. He turned on the electronic panel to scan the activity log. Nothing today. He finally let out a shaky breath as his hand fumbled in turning the simple circuit board off again. Ford double checked everything in the portal room as quickly as he could. As he made his way back upstairs everything locked automatically behind him. The air was colder than before, growing predictably more so as he went back towards the open door. He bitterly looked over the barrels, pulling all of the barb wire off of each of them to toss the curling metal rings into the snow. They disappeared from sight under the powdery white, as useless a precaution down there as they had been on the barrels. Ford didn't close the door as he went back inside. The house wasn’t entirely cold yet, a fading warmth seeping into his skin the further inside he went. A luxury he couldn't afford anymore, he concluded. After turning the heating off entirely, he opened the kitchen window as far as the small window could. He spent an hour, opening different windows and doors in the house, assuring nothing came inside as he turned every room of the house as frigid as the outside.

Driving in the snow and ice already wasn’t that easy, but with the amount of driving Stan had done he really didn’t think about it. Not really. Not until he had been driving for over three hours. Save for a few instances, he never drove this far in one sitting. Not during the Winter at least. This was somehow worse than his last cross country drive, and that was saying something. He pushed every hour, every minute, to fight off sleep and kept driving. It was just like that last drive, except nerve-wracking in a wholly different and frustrating way. He felt like he was fighting against the clock, but with no way to tell just how much danger there actually was. At least last time he could count on himself to be able to make it. Besides this, it was the first time he’d been in any sort of rush. Sure, he pushed himself to keep going because he was scared of getting recognized when he passed through familiar states. Better to keep up the pace rather than get recognized and have to hightail it out of there before someone came for him. Cops, old angry customers, those that he had, ahem, ‘‘‘‘borrowed’’’’ funds from.

Oddly enough, he wasn’t really worried about that now. Sure someone might recognize him, but he was barely stopping to rest and eat as it was. Definitely less than any of his old trips backtracking through states, and he hadn’t gotten recognized then! Well, for the most part. Okay, well maybe a couple times. But it had just been angry customers so that hadn’t been bad, almost fun really. 'Ya can’t blame me for you being a sucker!’ He’d told a particularly angry man as he ran out to his car. The look on his face was priceless. Good times. Well… for the most part. You don’t exactly cross back into states you’ve been banned from because of good times. ‘Banned states’ should already have been enough of a hint to imply some bad times. He had almost ran out of states to get banned from though. There were a few states scattered here and there, and he could still have gone to any of them. But hey! It’d been over ten years since he’d been in New Jersey so it’d be the best place to retrace back to, right? Even go to a different town. A city with POTENTIAL, too. Yeah, see? It was a great plan. Besides, it’s not like he’d been technically ‘BANNED’ from the state per se. Sure, run outta town by an angry mob, but you know, no official banishment as far as he could remember.

Well… you know. ... But the state itself was a different story...! He’d go somewhere new and fresh. Who wanted to go back to some dingy beach town anyways… ... Not Stan Pines… That’s for sure… Err- anyways, right, icy roads. Complete Bogus. God, see this is why driving for forty something hours with only hour naps was a bad idea, completely derails your train of thought. Anyways, anyways. All the cold weather had made the drive absolutely suck, and it didn’t really help that he was half expecting to arrive to a literal crime scene. Then it really didn’t help when he actually made it to the town. It was a small town and while the highway was at least salted the further he went into town the more it came to a barely plowed single lane path. A snowy road with only one clear line running through it. He was willing to bet a single person was paid to plow the entire town. The plowing stopped entirely once he got on the icy dirt path into the woods. The El Diablo turned slowly onto the path barely marked free of trees, the small curving line into the forest a better indicator than the snowed over road sign. He’d had to step out into the snow and wipe an arm over it to actually check the street name. Snow crunched under the wheels as he slowly went along, careful not to get stuck in any valleys as he was almost immediately surrounded by towering trees. He parked the car when he saw the house. The wooden house sat silently, muted in the snow, mysterious barrels set out on the porch. A satellite that was covered in snow, and Stan couldn’t help picking out small foreboding details. The way that the mailbox looked frozen shut with uninterrupted ice like the snow over it had melted and refroze many times over without being opened once. The distinct lack of any tracks. Although there WAS an ice encased squirrel somehow hanging on the cable. That was almost comforting. …. The….. That…. … That fucking barbed wire perimeter. “Oh, yeah, no,” Stan scoffed to himself, gesturing with an arm at the house, “this isn’t worrisome at all.” He got out of the car, shutting the door and crunching his way through the surprisingly shallow snow to the porch. He couldn't help feeling on edge, like any second some monster or goon was going to pop out at him from nowhere. The way Ford had been acting… He couldn’t help feeling there was something nearby just waiting for him to make a new step, get into just the right position. That was ridiculous though, there wasn’t anything here… probably. He looked around behind him, you know, just… checking out the scenery. Yup, snow… Great trees, too... Real uh... beautiful or whatever. ...Mmm, wow.... Nature... and uh, you know, stuff. Alright, that was enough of that. He stepped up to the wooden porch to knock on the door, expecting the wood to creak underneath his foot, but no sound came. There had barely been enough time for him to step back before the door swung open and almost immediately a crossbow was shoved out of the door, pointed at him. “Who is it?! Have you come to-!” Stan grabbed the weapon and pulled it down and away from himself with a muttered curse. The weapon, surprisingly, was rather than met with resistance to hold on was pushed down and into his gut taking Stan by surprise, lowering him to the ground slightly. He let out a huff of air and dropped the crossbow, the weapon thudding onto the wooden paneling. He looked up and was faced with his brother holding onto a baseball bat raised and pulled back, poised to swing, he stopped though, having to actually pause the swing that had already started by a few inches. The two froze for a moment, looking at each other, Ford still holding the bat in the air as he quickly scanned over Stan. Weirdly focused on staring into the depths of his soul. Well, that was what it felt with the way the other was intensely looking into his eyes like that. Oh, jeez, he needed to say something or do something. Anything. Stan rubbed the back of his head and stood up fully, and in response Ford went to set down his bat. Good start, this was good. Take the situation down a notch from crossbow in the face and jerking said crossbow out of hands. “Stanley, did anybody follow you? Did anybody in town see you?” He asked, glancing out past Stan into the snow storm. “Uh, no, I’m gonna go with ‘no,’” he said, glancing back behind him. Before he could fully look back Ford had suddenly pulled him forward by his hoodie and a bright light was shined into his eyes. “Agh-! What is this?!” He grabbed the hand holding the offending flashlight and pulled it down first before pushing them both away. The other let him do so, even taking a few steps back past what was necessary for ordinary personal space. Stan rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles, blinking away dark spots making it hard to see now. “I’m sorry, I had to be sure you weren’t-” Stanley began to actually see his brother by this point, vision returning gradually, enough to realize he was casting a suspicious glance around the room, “-ah,it’s nothing. Come in, come in.” Ford urged him. Stan complied, taking a few steps in and turned as Ford arced around him, purposefully avoiding sweeping past him too closely as he went back towards the door, closing it and- jesus. Stan’s vision was back, and he watched as his brother slid back and turned not one lock but several of them. It was easy enough to tell which ones were originally part of the house, they were the ones actually on the door itself after all. Meanwhile, the new ones were screwed securely into the wall itself. There were five locks total, including a very sturdy deadbolt and all of them almost looked- Ford began to turn back around and Stan quickly looked back up to his brother’s face, not wanting to be caught staring. However, Ford didn’t even look at him as he walked back around again, eyes on the floor. He swept past him, holding his coat closed with both of his hands up to his chest. “I wasn’t sure you were actually- I didn’t know if you were going to come or not.” He admitted. He followed after his brother, quickly glancing back at the locks on the door. Yup, new locks… “Look, are you gonna explain what’s going on now that we’re face to face?” He asked, looking around at the house as he went through the room. Scattered items, a practical mess, though at least it looked semi-organized. Could have been worse. Could have been blood-splattered with the door left open. “Yes, yes, yes,” the other answered distractedly, going towards a desk at the end of the room and fishing out a book and stack of papers, letting several papers fall to the ground carelessly. “I have to ensure that…” he paused and glanced, almost suspiciously, back at Stan, but it was only one glance and then he looked back down to the papers. He readjusted them with a journal in his grip as he turned back around, clutching them to his chest as he started walking back through the room and past Stan. “I’ve made huge mistakes and I don’t know if anybody can be trusted.” Again, as Ford went to pass by Stan he arced around him slightly, but Stan went to catch him gently by his shoulder. “Hey-” Before he could even touch Ford’s shoulder though, Ford had whipped around and smacked his hand away from him. He still had his right hand clutched around the book and papers, arm curled up to hold it protectively against his chest. He eyed Stan for a moment, on edge, taking a couple of steps back to be out of reach. Then glanced down at the ground between them, the slight alarm diminishing. “Hey…” again Stan tried to reach for Ford’s shoulder, slower this time, but as he started to move his arm he could see Ford shifting backwards. He let his foot fall back to the ground and his hand to his own side. “Easy there. Why don’t we talk this through,” he suggested. Ford brought his other hand up to the stack in his hand, holding the entirety of it securely in his grasp, looking to it. Then, determined, he looked back to Stan. “I have something to show you,” he told him, “something you won’t believe.” He used one hand to brush aside his hand for effect. “Look, alright, I’ve seen a lot. Whatever it is, it can’t be much harder to understand than half the stuff going on in town.” Stan replied with a smile, trying to ease him down. Instead, Ford seemed to falter, seeming taken aback. “You- what’s been going on in town? I thought you said nobody saw you.” He said, almost accusingly. “No, no, I didn’t mean this town. Nobody here was even out to see me, besides they couldn’t in the blizzard.” He said, gesturing back. “I meant where I’ve been. Now that town, trust me, you wouldn’t believe everything going on there.” Ford simply took just a half step backwards, seeming to go on guard, watching Stan carefully. “Like what?” Suddenly, Stan regretted trying to play the joke, but he had already let that cat out of the bag now. “Well, there’s a lot of wackos in town. Some of the stuff, they’ve been doing, yeesh.” He laughed slightly, trying to ease Ford’s obvious tension. Stan was only met with an unchanged Ford, still waiting for him to say more. “You know,” he put his hands in his pockets, “some real nutcases, I don’t even get this one guy, but I guess no one does. There’s even some that go way overboard, like you wouldn’t believe, just pulling out big stunts to steal some cash.” “I see.” He replied simply, scanning over Stan. It was silent for a little while, Stan giving Ford a rather long chance to say something or voice, you know, literally anything. Some effort would have been nice. Instead, all Ford did was pensively look at Stan, which he was actually pretty sure Ford was just staring into space if he was honest with himself. “Hey, so I did really think I was gonna come over here and find you dead or something. If you wanted to tell me what’s going on or show me that thing…” He trailed off, expectantly. “Right,” Ford said absently. Then he actually seemed to focus on Stan. “Right, yes, this has been a highly precarious situation.” He said, taking another step back. “One best handled carefully.” “Uh, okay?” Stan said, waiting. He looked back at his brother. He had almost seemed calm, even enough to do an unnecessary dramatic (c’mon who waves their hands like that, Sixer.) Now though? Now he looked just as cautious and on edge as he did opening the door. Then it hit Stan. “You’re saying that I’m not careful?” “This is a very important matter. I can’t just let something happen.” Stan went to take a step forward, upset, and instantaneously Ford jumped back a foot, nearly out of the room by this point, hand going to the doorway. He watched Stan with a new sharp-eyed expectation, poised to bolt out of the room. It was oddly reminiscent of rabbits that had spotted you and went still, watching, ready for the next inch you moved. “Christ, Ford. Calm down, okay?” Stan said, trying his best to ease him. He gestured slowly, as though a quick enough motion would be enough to set something off. “I’m not gonna bite your head off or anything, I just wanna know what the hell is going on. I mean, you did call me out to the middle of the goddamn woods talking about how I just ‘had to’ come right then and there.” “Well, I wouldn’t have called you at all if I had known- I didn’t even-” and then Ford put a hand up to his head, running it through his hair as he started talking almost to himself. “I didn’t even ask you any questions. I just called. I didn’t think-” he covered his mouth, seemingly appalled at himself. Did he really think calling him was that big of a mistake…? “What?” Stan demanded, frustrated. “What’s the problem?! You wanted to show me something and oh just because there’s a bit of crime in my parts, SUDDENLY, you can’t show me?! There’s crime in every town, alright, pal. Besides, it’s not like it means anything.” “It’s obviously more dangerous where you are than most towns. For all I know there could be cultists there too!!” He accused. Stan crossed his arms, and looked aside. “Pshh, I don’t know anything about any cults. D’ya hear yourself?” There was at least one cult in Gotham, probably a few, in all honesty. However, there was no way in hell he was letting him know about that now. Well that, among a few other things. “You don’t understand, Stanley!” Ford immediately snapped back at him. “I only called you because I thought you’d be removed from dangerous people and apparently you’re surrounded by them!” Surrounded was definitely the right term considering all the criminals, but, again, Ford didn’t know that. “You’re just making assumptions, I never said there was a TON of them, just some, alright! Why does it even matter though? What did you call me over here for?!” “I needed- I’ve been hiding my research. I was going to ask you to take the last piece and go far away to hide it, but that’s out of the question now!” “You just wanted me to come run an errand for you?!” Stan asked, almost sure he could physically feel some string of patience snapping inside of him. “This isn’t a shopping list, Stanley! It’s extremely serious!!” “Well, you know, it sure sounds like it. Oh, WAIT! I wouldn’t know about that because the only thing I know is that you’re terrified of something happening and want to hide some kind of research!” “I am- I am not ‘terrified!’” Ford refuted. “I’m simply being careful” “Oh, right.” Stan replied, words dripping with sarcasm. “Because nothing says ‘careful’ like answering your front door with a fucking crossbow.” “I didn’t know it was you!” “Look, what’s going on. Are you getting blackmailed, threatened, what’s going on?!” “That’s not-” “Is that why you didn’t want to talk over the phone? Are you being watched?” Ford froze at that, unable to keep his eyes from shifting around the room. Nail on the head. Not that that wasn’t already obvious, but he just wanted some kind of confirmation from Ford of what was going on. If he had to throw stuff at the wall until he could see what stuck then so be it. His brother had to have messed with something big or gotten bad attention... Or he had completely gone off the rails. Seeing the condition of the house and Ford himself he couldn’t really rule out that option, but it wasn’t one he was going to think about. Although… well he couldn’t help really looking over his brother now that the thought had come up. He was watching him, still paused in place, possibly holding his breath to keep himself from breathing. If he was actually breathing though, it had to be very slight. Clothes, a mess. Although, that coat looked like it hadn’t been washed in months, so that was more of a long term lack of hygiene then really whatever had recently been happening. Hair, a mess. All over the place and he had stubble too. Face, a mess. That was putting it nicely too, his eyes had been near constantly shifting over anything and everything, like something was going to pop out at any moment. Not to mention the very obvious lack of sleep, bags under his eyes from who knows how long he’d gone without rest. Most of all though, the way he acted, the way he moved. He was like a cornered animal that seemed as likely to scrape something up as it was to run away and not stop until it was miles and miles away from anything dangerous. Even now, Ford hadn’t said anything back yet. Just stared back at Stanley with bright eyes full of something shiny and cold. As frozen as the shack itself they were in. Stan took a deep breath, letting it back out slowly. “Alright,” he said, with incredible bounds of patience, “you know, I came here to help you out of whatever mess you’re in, so just tell me what I can do.” Ford blinked back at him, and looked aside, thinking, wheels in his head obviously turning over options. “You can…” he trailed off and it took another dozen seconds for him to continue, slowly, “You can’t take the journal now…” and almost too quiet to hear, “unless maybe...” He nodded his head to himself. “I need to think.” He said slowly, still not looking at Stan as he walked off down the hall, hunched over with the book. Stan simply stood there, taking in a slow deep breath as he heard the steps going off down the hallway. He let all his frustration out in a quiet and long stream of curses to the floor.

#gravity falls fic #crossover fic #Fic: Gotham Falls #paranoid ford #mullet stan #bc Y E AH #my fics #my own #!!! finally putting up ch 2 on tumblr!!!!#not gonna lie to y'all #i remember proofreading up to ch 5 #so i'm not gonna proofread this before posting #bc like - i KNOW i extensively checked it out before #tumblr could mess up the formatting thou #i'll try to start backlogging the chapters on here every 2 weeks though!!#that way it also gives me a solid 28 weeks to get into some good gotham shenanigans #gOSH i just get really excited about this fic man #you guys don't even know #/i had to italics all bits back up so hopefully i didn't miss anything/#i'm also just... striaght up not gonna worry about the spacing #if you read this though - i'll tell ya one of the hints for the dream sequence #was that the paragraphs themselves had extra lines of space between them

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