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calciseptinefic · 2 years

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then out of nowhere, somebody comes and hits you with an ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Part 3 notes: Title from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. Many thanks to babygato for her beta on this chapter. this fic is also available on ao3 warnings: none

← previous: Part 2

Wade wakes. His hand is under his pillow, gripping the handle of his gun, unlocking the safety as he sits up. He aims—

But there's nothing. Just his heart pounding in his chest and a shrill ringing in his ears. His eyes dart to the window—closed—and the door—shut. The closet is empty. There's no room to hide under the bed. He's alone—he's safe—he's—

Wade forces himself to breathe in.

Breathe out.

His ribs and diaphragm shudder with the effort. Inhale. He counts the seconds in his head. Exhale. Tells himself he isn't in any danger. Inhale. Allows himself to be in the moment. Exhale. Lets go.

In…

Out…

Slowly, Wade calms down. When his panic has faded, he lets his finger fall from the trigger. Puts the safety back on. Briefly touches the long side of the barrel to his cheek, the cold hardness of the metal real and reassuring, a solid reminder that he can protect himself. A talisman of sorts. Grounding. Then he puts it once more under the pillow.

It's mid-morning. The sun has risen over the building next door and golden light seeps in through the blinds, hatching perpendicular against the dark wooden floorboards. Dust motes float lazily in and out of the slatted beams. Wade's comforter is heavy and warm. He contemplates curling up again and dozing for another hour or so, but…

Peter.

The spider-themed superhero from another reality.

Another reality.

A dream?

Wade gets out of bed and goes to the door, bare feet treading silent upon the floor. He turns the handle softly, the click of the mechanism barely audible, and takes a few steps forward until he can peer into the living room. There's a human-shaped lump on his couch, curled into a ball beneath Wade's spare comforter. Only the tuft of Peter's messy brown hair is sticking out, but it's enough for Wade to identify him. That, and Peter's red and blue suit is folded neatly on the coffee table, alongside a half-emptied glass of water.

Not a dream then.

This reality.

In the light of day, the situation Wade has found himself in feels more surreal. Wade's just an ex-soldier turned glorified errand boy with more mental health problems than the DSM-TR-5 can identify. How is he supposed to help a fucking superhero from an alternate universe? He doesn't have a fancy science degree—hell, he didn't even graduate high school—so if Peter needs that kind of help, the most Wade can do is help him sneak into a building after hours.

It wouldn't be the first time we were wildly out of our depth, Wade thinks to himself. Just gotta start where we always do.

An idea is forming in Wade's brain. He can feel the shape of it but can't make out the pieces, not yet, so he goes back into his room, sits on the edge of his mattress, and grabs his phone off the nightstand. Unlocks it. Pulls up Google, and types in 'parallel universe'.

The first thing that crops up is an article from space.com, which attempts to talk about 'eternal inflation' in terms of 'bubbles' and 'wave functions' and 'branches'. It seems easy enough to digest until he gets to a theory about a mirror universe and loses the thread of the plot when he reads 'while eggs would un-crack and make their way back inside chickens'. Peter's universe might be weird but Wade doubts it's that weird.

Wikipedia is Wade's next stop. There are so many blue links that he quickly gets lost in the tangle. Some links are irrelevant, connected to philosophical thought experiments or sci-fi media, while links to relevant concepts go completely over his head. He's heard a few of the terms before, but they've always been used in a hand-wavy, non-specific manner, and he quickly finds there's nothing hand-wavy or non-specific about actual quantum mechanics.

Again, Wade back-clicks and starts over. He reads a handful of other articles, watches a few YouTube videos on low volume, and even attempts to decipher a couple of scientific papers. All of it makes every neuron in his head ache. He sets his phone aside when he has the gist of it:

Math says parallel universes exist, probably—but travel? Forget about it.

The idea in Wade's brain becomes doubt as he is forced to confront the sheer impossibility of Peter's words. He knows that something undeniably preternatural is going on; he saw Peter on the ceiling last night and had his hand webbed up. But those are things that Wade witnessed. Experienced. If Wade had to explain what the reason behind it all was without any assistance from Peter, he would probably point all ten fingers (and all ten toes) at the government.

Wade sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, the pressure alleviating the ache in his skull. Truthfully, Wade doesn't think of himself as a practical person. He's not great with money, he tends to give into the most basic of whims, and—when it isn't a matter of life or death—he's generally reckless with himself and his time. But even he has to admit that travel between alternate realities seems unlikely, even more so than Peter being the product of some weird classified science project. Wade's been in the military. He's seen fucked up shit, and lost any remaining faith he might have had in both the government and the people who run it. It's not like he's some conspiracy theory nutbag who thinks the earth is flat or the moon landing was faked, but potentially experimenting on humans to give them superpowers?

See above, re: Wade's been in the military. Fucked up shit ain’t even the half of it.

The thing is, Wade doesn't think that Peter's lying. Or rather, he doesn't think that Peter thinks he's lying. In Peter's mind, maybe he truly believes that he's a superhero from another universe. But in actuality? Maybe Peter's mind is cracked from the strain of genetic experimentation. Maybe he escaped the facility he was detained in, and by random chance he ended up in Wade's apartment in Queens.

Of course, this theory doesn't explain how Peter knows Wade. Trusts Wade. Having a complete stranger place their absolute faith in Wade is just as crazy as accidental inter-dimensional travel. Sure, it might be possible, but the chances of it actually happening? The odds are so infinitesimally small that they become unbelievable. All Wade truly knows is that Peter needs his help and, whatever the truth is, Wade's going to give it.

Even if helping Peter means betraying his trust a bit.

The first stages of a plan solidify in Wade's brain. He makes a mental note to call Weasel at the first available opportunity, then puts his phone back down and grabs a change of clothes. Peter is still dead asleep on the couch and snoring lightly. Wade cannot help but smile, the expression tugging at his scar. It's been awhile since he's shared his space with someone and it feels... nice.

In the bathroom, Wade goes through his normal routine. He brushes his teeth. He hops in the shower. He pisses down the drain, washes his hair and body, then jacks off. Normally, morning masturbation is perfunctory for Wade, a way to regulate his dopamine and make sure his head's on right for the day. It's little more than a grab-n-go; he doesn't bother with elaborate fantasies, just shuffles through his mental rolodex until he finds something to sink into.

Today, Wade thinks of Peter. He can't help it. Physically, Peter's his type, and that spandex costume of his hid nothing. His long legs would feel good wrapped around Wade's waist, knees digging into Wade's ribs. He'd be so cute as Wade fucked him, his boyish face flushed red, his doe eyes gone glassy, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. Would he beg for Wade to go harder? Give Wade pretty pleases and cry about how he needed it? Or would he demand an unspecified 'more', goading Wade with playful taunts and teases while his nails dug into Wade's shoulders—

Wade grunts as he comes. His body twitches with how fast and quick it was, and his cock throbs a little miserably in his hand. Hot water hits his neck, shoulders, and chest before rolling down his body; he stares down at the nearly invisible lines of water as they move towards the drain.

This really, really, really is not going to end well, Wade thinks.

After his shower, Wade doesn't bother to shave, even though his stubble is long enough now to enter beard territory. He just towels himself dry, pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and makes sure he doesn't forget deodorant. He even eyes his cologne for a few seconds. It's ridiculous. He only wears it when he is trying to get laid which…

Wade spritzes his pulse points. He doesn't think it's in the cards but, hey, it never hurts to be optimistic.

Peter is awake when Wade emerges from the bathroom. Or rather, he's sitting upright on the couch, but his eyes are half-lidded and he yawns so hugely that Wade can hear his jaw crack from halfway across the room. Peter's hair has also transformed from messy into comical, the strands sticking straight up as though he were electrocuted.

"Coffee?" Wade asks warmly.

"Mmm," Peter hums in affirmation.

As the coffee brews, Wade digs through his fridge in search of something to make. He used most of the eggs last night and there's only a half-eaten bag of shredded cheddar in the cheese drawer. Inexplicably, he has a full bag of carrots and unopened microwavable sausage patties, but the bread on the counter is moldy and most of the stuff in his pantry is either pasta, canned soup, or some sort of snack. If Wade were by himself, he would probably slap some shredded cheese on the Jimmy Dean's, nuke it until the cheddar melted, and eat it with a quarter bag of Hot Cheeto Fries, but there's no way Wade's going to subject Peter to a depression meal less than a day after they met.

"What's for breakfast?" Peter asks as he shuffles into the kitchen.

"Bagels," Wade answers. Closes the fridge. Looks at Peter, and is hit in the stomach with a hot, fierce stab of want.

The sweatpants Wade lent Peter are hanging low on his hips, low enough that the thick band of a jockstrap rises above the cinched waist, mocking Wade for his weaknesses, and the hoodie stops just above Peter's belly button, revealing a thin, dark line of hair. The hoodie had been one of Vanessa's and Wade had honestly forgotten that it was cropped; Vanessa had always worn it with high-waisted leggings, so it never exposed much skin. But on Peter, combined with the low-slung sweats? That's... a lot of skin. A pale stretch broken only by the occasional dark mole Wade wants to put his mouth on. Peter looks like he sprung out of one of Wade's bookmarked pornos, like he's two seconds from pouting and batting his eyelashes and asking coyly if daddy wants to eat him for breakfast instead.

Wade rips his eyes away and focuses on the coffee maker. Jerking off to Peter in the shower is one thing; staring at him like a mindless pervert is another. Wade might be an asshole but he isn't a fucking creep.

The bar stool scrapes against the floor as Peter plops down and clarifies, "Bagels?"

"There's a shop a couple blocks down." Wade hopes his voice sounds normal and not at all strangled. "It’s either that or we risk whatever's gaining sentience in the styrofoam container in the fridge."

"Bagels," Peter opts. "I don't like having to re-kill my food."

Wade laughs as he fishes a couple of mugs out of the cabinet. Hot and funny? That combination in another human is almost as improbable as being able to stick to the ceiling. Wade sincerely hopes that whatever omniscient deity sent Peter his way also sees fit to strike Wade down with a bolt of lightning before he can say or do something incredibly stupid. He busies his hands with pouring coffee from the carafe.

"Cream or sugar?" Wade asks.

"Black."

Wade turns around to give Peter his mug. Holds it out over the kitchen island. Peter takes it with both hands and—

Clink.

Oh. Wade thinks. Lightning.

There's a plain gold band on Peter's left hand. On his ring finger, specifically. It looks good on him, a soft warmth that matches the olive undertone in his skin. Wade hadn't noticed the night before because Peter had only taken the glove off his right hand. If he had…

But he hadn't. And Peter had taken all his flirting in stride, even implying that the other Wade frequently called him baby boy as well. Maybe that's just how their friendship works. The other Wade flirts and Peter treats it like it’s nothing. Because it is nothing. Because Peter wears a wedding ring. Because Peter is married.

For the first time, Wade feels sorry for his other self. Wade's only known Peter for a few hours and already he can tell how easy it would be to love him. If he and the other Wade are anything alike—and he has a strong gut feeling that they are—then he must spend a lot of his time silently suffering, unable to express his feelings fully yet also unable to let Peter go.

Oblivious to Wade's thoughts, Peter brings the mug to his mouth and takes a sip. His nose wrinkles immediately in disgust which, somehow, only makes him look cuter.

Poor fucking bastard, Wade commiserates.

"God, this stuff is awful," Peter says. "What is this, Folgers?"

Wade's mouth moves on its own as he quips, "Nothing but the finest incest coffee for you, baby boy."

Peter chokes.

"What, no questionable commercials from the late aughts in your universe?"

"I wish that were the case." Peter wipes some coffee off his chin with the back of his hand, unintentionally showcasing his ring even more. "I just forgot it existed, and you very forcibly brought it to the forefront of my mind. So. Thank you for that."

Wade makes a non-committal noise and drinks from his own mug. He doesn't mind it so much, but he knows his taste buds have been deadened from years of consuming MREs. There's something comforting about bad drip coffee, harkening back to a time when he could solve all his problems with a well-placed bullet. Like into spouses from other dimensions—

Whoopsie daisy, Wade thinks, crumpling his murderous thoughts into a ball and yeeting them from his mind. Where did that come from?

Wade's lonely. He knows that. He and Vanessa broke up shortly after his cancer was resolved and, in the three years since, it's been nothing but one-night stands. Which was fine for the first year or so while he worked on the rebound but since? He misses the intimacy. He misses knowing someone and being known. And when Peter burst into his apartment last night and knew him, trusted him…

It's heady. The other Wade has already done all of the work for him, and all he had to do was sink into it. He has no right to be upset or jealous, especially since Peter has clearly hitched his horse to someone else's wagon.

"Too late for that," Wade mutters.

"Hmm?"

"Just talking to myself," Wade tells Peter, and drains the last of his cup in one huge swallow. Drinking it so quickly has burned the tip of his tongue, and the sludge at the bottom is particularly bitter. "Alright, I'm going to run down the block and grab some breakfast. There's more coffee in the pot if you want it. Do you need anything else? Any food allergies I should know about, spider or otherwise?"

"I can eat anything. But uhhh, I do have a favor to ask."

"Ask away."

"Can I use your laptop? My phone is charged but it's not on any network, and I can't connect to wi-fi. I think the protocols might be different here since I use StarkTech." Peter holds up his cellphone. It looks much like the one Wade uses—a slim rectangle made of glass and stainless steel—but the stylized 'STARK' logo on the back is unfamiliar. "There are some people I want to look up."

"People who can help?"

"Potentially." Peter takes another swig of his coffee. "I'm just anxious, you know? I don't know why I'm here. I don't know if it was an accident or if it was on purpose. And if it was on purpose, who did it, and why?” Peter runs his free hand through his wild hair, tugging absently on the strands as he talks. “Everyone who I can think of that would want me gone would have an easier time killing me than concocting some nefarious plot to send me to another universe. Not to mention I'm inconveniencing you and putting you in danger—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Petey Pie, before you work yourself into a fit." Wade leans back against the counter and holds up one finger even as Peter's mouth briefly twists into a moue at being interrupted. "Firstly, please remember that as much as I love a good dress, I am not a damsel in distress. I can hold my own in a fight." Wade holds up another finger. "Secondly, you are not inconveniencing me. If we're being completely honest with one another, I'm curious to see how this pans out. I'm bored as shit and got fuck all going for me. I'm between jobs, and this is way more interesting than shaking down another cheating loser." Wade lifts a third finger. "And lastly, yes, you can use my laptop. Just don't snoop through my bookmarks. It's eggplants all the way down, and I don't want you scarred for life."

"What makes you think your porn preferences would shock me?" Peter asks, grinning. He's put his chin in the palm of his hand and—if that ring of his weren't flashing right next to the sultry curl of his mouth—Wade would have bet the whole house that he was being flirted with.

Stop projecting, Wade tells himself. Aloud, he says, "Who said anything about porn? I was talking about my favorite cooking blogs, Petey, geez. Get your head out the gutter." Wade tsks jokingly, then pushes off the counter. "Give me a second, I'll go find it."

Wade's apartment has a small, second bedroom that acts as a junk room. It's where he keeps all of his spare weapons: guns and grenades, knives and explosives, and even a pair of katanas he took from a dead yakuza guy the last time he was in Kyoto. He has a small desk in there too, though he never uses it for its intended purpose; it acts mostly as a table, stacked high with random shit, including his laptop. For once it's plugged in and fully charged, so Peter should be able to use it for a while.

"I'll be back in half an hour, give or take," Wade says after he gives the laptop to Peter. "Try not to have any inter-dimensional house parties while I'm gone, alright?"

"Yes, dad." Peter rolls his eyes.

Wade sticks out his tongue like the mature adult he is.

"Oh my god," Peter laughs. "Seriously, Wade, go. I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes." Peter shoves Wade's shoulder. It's barely more than a small push, but Wade is still forced to take a step back to prevent himself from falling. Peter had previously mentioned something about super strength, but it's still surprising; Peter's muscles are long and lean, and his otherwise sweet appearance belies how strong he is. Wade tries to keep the shock off his face and fails, because Peter apologizes a moment later. "Sorry," he says. "Forgot."

"S'cool." Wade shrugs it off. Goes to the front door and wriggles into his sneakers. He grabs a jacket—because it's still fuck cold for mid-March—and makes sure he has his keys, cellphone, and wallet. "Need anything else while I'm out?"

"Nope." Peter turns his back and waves a flippant goodbye. "See you in half an hour!"

"Brat," Wade says as he leaves but, as he takes the five flights of stairs down to the main level, he finds he can't wipe the dumb smile off his face.

Part 4

#spideypool #deadpool #wade wilson #peter parker #spiderman #fandom: marvel #pairing: wade wilson/peter parker #rating: m

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n-brio · 2 years

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✨About Me✨

Thanks to @somethingusefulfromflorida for tagging me!

NICKNAME: I've had a few over the years but none of them are current. I've been Lefty, Stan, Tuna, and a secret fourth one I won't tell you all because it's derived from my actual name.

SIGN: I have had a semi-active contempt for astrology ever since I politely sat through an ex whinging about how his friends all secretly hate him and it isn't fair and he doesn't even know what he did wrong etc. etc. nonstop for an hour over Skype way back when. "Why don't you just ask them what's going on?" "I can't do that. Pisces don't talk about their feelings." Take some responsibility for your choices!!

HEIGHT: 5'4"… and a half!

LAST GOOGLE SEARCH: "i hope somebody got fired for that blunder"

SONG STUCK IN YOUR HEAD?: Dusty Dunes Desert, Earthbound

FOLLOWERS: 27, and it is indeed that many and not a bugged/inflated count. I try not to let the fame get to me 😌

LUCKY NUMBER: I also don't believe in lucky numbers.

SLEEP: I shoot for eight hours, but I can survive as long as it's more than seven. Any less and I get real stupid (well, stupider) real fast. I used to fast for days with no problem, but I need sleep and I don't fuck around with that.

DREAM JOB: Writer or voice actor for a Crash Bandicoot cartoon… I know in my heart I have neither the talent nor connections to make it happen, but I can dream! 🥲

WEARING: Black-and-white floral print yoga pants, novelty T-shirt from Mother Bear's pizzeria in Bloomington, Indiana, a city I've never been to. Notable for its mascot which made my high school teachers do double takes and gives Tawna a run for her money:

FAVORITE SONGS: Too many to count, so I'll name just one from each of my playlists: Sloop John B by the Beach Boys Synchronicity I by The Police December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night) by the Four Seasons Animal Impulses by IAMX Useewa (Shut Up) by syudou Ekoroshia (Kill Command) by Masafumi Takada Cliff Town by Stewart Copeland Dive Remix by Mewmore

(Nobody is obligated to listen to these, just if you're curious. I'm not assigning anyone homework hahaha)

FAVORITE INSTRUMENT: Uhh, vocals? I took a couple years of choir and was the "weakest link", but I had fun… (´ᴗ` )

AESTHETIC: I'm not a fan of the "aesthetic"/"[x]core" style of self-expression. I think it's better to keep an open mind and try to find something interesting/appealing in all styles, images, art etc. You may notice patterns in the things I like/share, but I'm not fussed about putting names to them.

FAVORITE AUTHOR: I don't usually search out books by a specific author. I've recently enjoyed books by Khaled Hosseini (The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns), Gillian Flynn (Sharp Objects), Douglas Adams (The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul), and Tara Westover (Educated).

FAVORITE COLOR: Individual colors are less important than the color scheme they are a part of. Any color can be beautiful if it is paired with the right complement. That said, any scheme that stars jade or olive green, pastel pink, burgundy, dark brown, or black tends to win me over.

FAVORITE ANIMAL SOUNDS: Cat purrs. Frogs chirping on a summer night. Cicadas buzzing.

LAST SONG: The Night by Aurelio Voltaire. So I (like many others) learned about this song through the animated music video by Daria Cohen, but I just learned now that there's apparently an alternate version with an extra set of lyrics that the original lacks.

LAST SERIES: If you mean like TV, I don't really watch much nowadays. My sister and I are working through Earthbound and Psychonauts right now though (alternating between the two).

RANDOM: Anime Dr. Frankenstein lives in my room. I didn't draw him.

Tagging @frostconebite, @mikey-putrid, @lesserbilboy, @worpworp, @sleuth-hounds, @rhadinesthes and anyone else who wants to do it \o/

#long post #There I am Gary; there I am!

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fahrni · 1 year

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Saturday Morning Coffee

Good morning from Charlottesville, Virginia! ☕️

Kim and I had the grandkids overnight so they’re worn out and we’re worn out. Heck, even our pups are worn out. The house is really quiet, just how I like it. I’m sitting here in the dark, sipping coffee, composing today’s post.

This week work was mostly about onboarding a couple new iOS Devs who’ll be working with me on our project to add React Native support to existing native apps. I’m really enjoying it. 😀

Caitlin Harrington • WIRED

Last month, Grindr gave its all-remote staff two weeks to pledge to work from an office two days a week starting in October or lose their jobs come August 31. Many declined to return: 82 out of 178 employees—46 percent of the staff—were let go after rejecting the mandate, according to the Grindr union, which went public two weeks before the ultimatum.

Wow. That’s about all I had to say when I read this piece. I have a friend who took a job there — as a remote test engineer — only to have this mandate cross his desk two weeks later. Needless to say he didn’t move and is now looking for a new gig. It’s a real head scratcher.

Ron Amadeo • Ars Technica

The Federated Learning of Cohorts and now the Topics API are part of a plan to pitch an “alternative” tracking platform, and Google argues that there has to be a tracking alternative—you can’t just not be spied on.

Emphasis is mine. At least they admit what they’re doing and it’s pathetic. 😳

You know what’s worse? People won’t switch away from Chrome.

thehackernews.com

Apple on Thursday released emergency security updates for iOS, iPadOS, macOS, and watchOS to address two zero-day flaws that have been exploited in the wild to deliver NSO Group’s Pegasus mercenary spyware.

Update your devices right away. The talent possessed to do this type of ferreting around an OS looking for holes is both impressive and terrifying all at the same time.

Branko Marcetic • jacobin.com

The inflation rate — that is, the pace at which prices are going up — might be slowing down, but that doesn’t mean prices are lower. In fact, they are much, much higher for all kinds of goods and services than they were three years ago.

I’ve definitely noticed this when we go to our favorite Mexican restaurant here in Charlottesville.

It’s really becoming apparent in the streaming business. I just received email saying our Hulu subscription is going up to $81.99/month. We currently pay $64/month. That’s close to a 25% increase. 🤬

Taegan Goddard • politicalwire.com

Pence Calls Trump’s Populism a ‘Road to Ruin’

Wow. Pence finally figured it out. Took long enough.

I know folks have praised him for what he did January 6 — myself included — but the truth is he could’ve done a lot more prior to the sixth to avert this, like call the FBI.

MSRC • msrc.microsoft.com

Upon identifying that the threat actor had acquired the consumer key, Microsoft performed a comprehensive technical investigation into the acquisition of the Microsoft account consumer signing key, including how it was used to access enterprise email. Our technical investigation has concluded. As part of our commitment to transparency and trust, we are releasing our investigation findings.

Reading these reports is fascinating. I love seeing them own up to mistakes and solve the problems that lead them there. I personally like to focus on the problem and not point fingers. These reports come across like that to me.

Greg Jones • enginebuildermag.com

As a kid, Dan Keenan loved fixing things, tearing things apart, and figuring out a way to build something new. But he never dreamed his skills would one day lead to being a key player in designing a brand-new race engine for NASCAR.

This is an older piece but is a great little read if you’re at all interested in engine building. I most definitely am and would love to see some deep dives of all the motors used in the NASCAR Cup Series. The teams use a new motor each week! It’s amazing to me how consistent the builds are from week to week.

They do see the occasional failure but those are rare. It would be amazing to see reports from engine builders outlining the failures and the steps taken to mitigate them, just like that Microsoft Security piece linked above.

Michael Meng • eng.lyft.com

Lyft runs hundreds of microservices to power the company’s offerings. Our team, the Developer Infrastructure team, aims to build the best tools to enable microservice owners (our “customers”) to reliably and quickly test changes in a local and/or end-to-end environment.

When we crossed that line from desktop focused computing on local networks to service based computing on the open web software development became infinitely more complicated. I know a lot of folks who’ll disagree with that assessment and that’s fine. It’s how it feels to me. I’m a simpleton and prefer my little self contained IDE and platform. 😃

GMS Racing • legacymotorclub.com

LEGACY MOTOR CLUB™ Signs John Hunter Nemechek to Drive the No. 42 in 2024

It’s fun to watch NASCAR teams make lineup changes for next season. How many more changes will we see between now and next season? Who knows.

It’ll also be nice to see where the Stewart Haas Racing rumors land. Do they run two or four cars next year? Do they have charters for sale? If so, who picks them up?

Oh, right, when is Dodge coming back! 🤣 Yes, I really do want to see it.

Lane Brown • Vulture

The Ophelia affair is a useful microcosm for understanding how Rotten Tomatoes, which turned 25 in August, has come to function. The site was conceived in the early days of the web as a Hot or Not for movies. Now, it can make or break them — with implications for how films are perceived, released, marketed, and possibly even green-lit. The Tomatometer may be the most important metric in entertainment, yet it’s also erratic, reductive, and easily hacked.

I’d not heard of folks gamifying Rotten Tomatoes scores but it makes sense it would happen. Gotta keep those scores fresh so folks will watch your movie and put money in your pocket. 🍅

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mediagrouplong · 2 years

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Hobo shoestring

HOBO SHOESTRING SKIN

HOBO SHOESTRING FULL

I had researched a potential catch out spot via Google Maps in satellite view. I ordered a self inflating pad, which I ruined on my first hop, and a mummy type sleeping bag good for Spring, Summer or Fall, but not totally suitable for real Winter. To keep expense down, and knowing how rough and dirty trains are, I elected to buy a used 70L pack on Craig’s list. I also wanted to bring camera gear and some extra battery storage to charge up all the batteries involved. I figured I needed a decent pack, sleeping bag, tent, self inflating pad, some food and some means of carrying water. So, I began getting serious in May about catching out. Known as the Overland Route, it’s probably double tracked all the way to Chicago since the UP acquired the C&NW (Chicago Northwestern) in 1995 to expand eastward. The UP (Union Pacific) has one of the longest stretches of double and even triple track in the world from Omaha to Ogden Utah. On the busiest mainlines nowadays, much of the tracks have been changed to “double track” which negates the need for one train to stop to allow another to pass. You can count on the non-owner to get stopped waiting for clearance fairly often, and you can catch out if you’re lucky. Usually, only one of the railroads owns and controls the crossing, the one that preceded the other. They still call them diamonds even when the tracks cross at right angles and the center is a square instead of a diamond. The track crossings are usually referred to as “diamonds” because of the shape the tracks make in the middle when they cross at an angle. There are only a few places where that happens regularly, crew change points or places where two competing rail lines cross and less often, along sidings used to allow trains to pass one another are a few such places. So, I’m pretty much limited to getting on and off where the trains are stopped. I’m too old, and truth be told, probably never was athletic enough to safely catch out on the fly. In some areas, the tracks are about the only thing to interrupt the beautiful scenery along the way. For me, riding a freight train is the perfect combination of excitement and anticipation followed by a mostly tranquil, but noisy, ride through backyards, old sections of towns and open countryside. I find the anticipation of a ride to be exhilarating to the point I don’t sleep much the night before I plan a hop. Being a foamer (railfan) doesn’t hurt since most foamers know the workings and hazards of trains. In short, I can’t recommend doing this unless you have some help or significant experience around trains. Freight yards, especially hump yards, carry an entire list of additional hazards, especially at night, which is when you’re most likely to end up in one. It isn’t unusual to be ticketed or jailed for hopping freight trains. So, I don’t take riding lightly, it isn’t safe and it is illegal in most places. Jay’s accident.īy all accounts, “Railroad Man”, Lil’ Jay was a gentle soul living life his way. The shock and pain was over quickly for him, but not so much for his wife and a traveling companion. Jason Litzner, aka Lil’ Jay was killed when he fell under the suicide container car he was riding. There are several types of cars that people do ride, that are inherently dangerous and are referred to as “suicide rides”. There have been countless others, people who have been crushed by shifting loads on various types of cars, or people run over trying to hop on or off on the fly, which is much, much more difficult than it appears on film.

HOBO SHOESTRING SKIN

He required multiple surgeries and skin grafts to save what was left of his hand. RIP StobeĪnother of the people I follow slipped on ice getting off a train, and had his hand crushed between the rail and a train wheel, losing part of his hand and several fingers in the process. The result was a dragging that ended in fatal injuries. He was supposedly on the bridge when Amtrak came screaming past and his backpack was somehow caught by the passing train. Apparently he was on a bridge without a walkway, which isn’t uncommon, especially back east where much of the infrastructure is old or created in narrow right-of-ways.

HOBO SHOESTRING FULL

I don’t really know the full details so my knowledge is secondhand at best. Jim Stobie, aka Stobe the Hobo, or Hobestobe on Youtube, arguably the most widely known modern hobo, was fatally injured in an accident with an Amtrak train in the Baltimore area. I don’t follow all that many train riders on Youtube, but two of them, which amounts to about 30% of those I follow, have met with significant accidents. Let me be very direct, if you have an inkling or maybe even a major itch, to ride trains, don’t do it without some help.

#Hobo shoestring

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atrirose · 2 years

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♡. THINGS THEY DO MAKE YOU FLUSTER

𝐅𝐓. OT7 . . . 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 : none , not proof read , rest undercut

𝐖𝐂. 0.6k . . . 𝐆. FLUFF

𝐀𝐍. school has rlly taken me for granted, also to ppl who understand arabic I hope you see the lil arabic i used 😔( not me being excited over my broken arabic🧍🏻‍♂️), anyways enjoy. would be rlly appreciated if you can reblog with some feedback and like

i. . .𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆 : brushes your stray hair behind your ears while you talk to him, hee is a gentleman but don’t let that confuse you, he would do anything to see you all red, a sense of pride? yes most certainly. he noticed that doing so just leaves starstruck and in awe so he does that, honestly to you he seems like a prince doing that even though his motives are not necessarily princely “you look beautiful” also throws his signature smile for extra effect.

ii. . .𝐉𝐀𝐘 : wears your initial around his neck so whenever it flashes it leaves you giddy, I mean who wouldn’t be giddy when you have THE jay park wearing your initial and calling himself as your property, he knows what effect it has on you he purposely plays with it when he is around you “how is it?” “it's pretty jay” makes you compliment the necklace at least 100 times a day.

iii. . .𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐄 : cooks. that's it, a man who can cook for you is the biggest green flag, husband him up in a heartbeat, his main agenda is cooking for you but also learns cooking so he can impress your family aka getting easy access as son in law “you know you should hurry up and propose to me” he said while serving you his ‘special meal’ he cooked for you “I plan on wifing you up real soon don’t worry” he is shocked but you don’t if its from proposing him real soon or calling him your wife lol.

iv. . .𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐍 : stretches in front of you, makes sure he flexes his biceps, his abs, and then winks at you thinking himself as irresistible, he is but you mostly give him a deadpan look even though you feel you heart beating 120km/h but you try not to inflate his already inflated ego “like what you see” “not really” looks at you in disbelief “yeah keep lying but you can’t deny my handsomeness” “yeah that I can’t” you said because it looked like he would cry any moment

v. . .𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐎𝐎 : calls you randomly to say ‘i love you’, kim sunoo doesn’t care about the time to call you and say that he loves you, whether it be 3 am he would call you, in school passes you random sticky notes and treats, sits and learns I love you in different languages and makes you guess it “ana ahibuk” looks at you to answer “did you use google translator again” — “guess the language yn” pouts and urges you to answer “arabic” stares at you blankly because he thought you wouldn’t know “how DO YOU KNOW THAT?” acts shocked for no reason “this is the third time this week so I memorized it”

vi. . .𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐖𝐎𝐍 : becomes strict, leader yang all the way through unlike others he doesn’t do this on purpose but it's just something about him being pissed passive-aggressive is so attractive so you do stuff to make him pissed, I don’t blame anyone who makes won mad at purpose I mean have you seen him??!!! maybe a lil scary but it's still hot “correct your collar yn” you chose to ignore him “no” walks over to where you were sitting “correct it and if you can’t do it yourself then I would do it for you” at last he did correct the collar for you

vii. . .𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐈 : bends down to talk to you, it started as a way to make fun of your short height but now he does that to intimate you/ make you blush “it's not funny niki stop” he bends down “oh I thought it was though” smirks on purpose, his main excuse is that he can’t hear from ‘his height’ so bend down to listen to you. smh I would kick him

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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 2 years

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Words: 10,097 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: the prison, post-Negan Alexandria, The Commonwealth Warnings: language, chronic illness Summary: Daryl has always watched out for the reader and done everything he can to help her bear the weight of her chronic illness. They've been close ever since she confided in him during the flu epidemic in the prison. Now, with Alexandria needing repair and medications almost unfindable, Daryl comes up with a plan to make sure she gets what she needs. A/N: The patron and requester for this fic is the lovely goddess ellerelly! Thank her for the existence of this fic, without her it would not have happened! Thank you SO much for trusting me with writing this fic, love. Seriously. A/N: The reader in this fic suffers from a real condition, postpartum cardiomyopathy. I did some research on this so hopefully it is fairly accurate, but I'd encourage everyone to give it a Google for awareness and further info. MUAH! Much love to you, ellerelly! I appreciate you so much.

Your name: submit What is this?

Daryl was drenched in sweat, having spent the better part of the day burning or burying the dead. The flu swept through the prison like a poisonous gas, seeming nearly indiscriminate in who it seeped into and who it passed over. But Daryl was beyond grateful for one thing; so far, you weren’t sick.

He made his way through the catacombs of the sprawling prison and into the administrative part of the building with its neat rectangular little offices. He needed a break from all the death and dying… and hearing your voice was all he wanted. After checking on Beth and Judith, he made his way to the small office you were in and knocked lightly on the door.

You shot up onto your feet, your heart pounding as you waited for the delivery of bad news. Who else hadn’t made it? “Yeah?”

Your voice sounded thin through the heavy door of wood and glass. “Hey. S’me. Ya alrigh’?”

Daryl. You sighed with some relief. “I’m fine,” you said, moving toward the door. He could see you press a hand to the frosted glass, see the shadows of your fingertips and the blurred shape of your hand ghosting behind them. He had to suppress the urge to place his hand against the glass too, to line up his fingers with yours and see how small your hand looked against his. “How—how are you? Are you okay?” He easily heard the worry in your voice.

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘m okay. ‘M alrigh’. Ain’t sick,” he drawled.

You wrung your hands even as you breathed in a sigh of relief. “Good. Thank God.”

Daryl wiped the drips of sweat running down from his hairline with his forearm. “Somehow I dun think God’s got anythin’ to do with it,” he said. He was surprised when you didn’t respond, a thick silence lingering. “Y/N? S’goin’ on?”

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment and wondered where to start. “I—I have something to tell you,” you started. “It’s—not easy to talk about. But I want you to know.”

Daryl’s heart did a full stop and dropped through the floor. “Alrigh’… Ya ain’t sick, righ’?” he asked urgently.

There was another long pause, longer than was needed to answer that question.

“Y/N? Hey.”

“No. No, not exactly…”

Daryl gulped. That wasn’t the response he wanted or expected.

“I don’t have this flu or whatever it is but there’s a reason Dr. S and Hershel rushed me in here as soon as they realized what was happening.” You had to stop and force air into your lungs. “I—I have heart failure. A heart condition called postpartum cardiomyopathy. I’ve had it for a long time. It’s not new.”

He heard the words but he couldn’t process them. “Heart failure,” he repeated, and this time they materialized and loomed in the air in front of him in a dark cloud, greying his vision.

“Yeah…” You wished you could see his face. Somehow, even through the frosted glass and heavy oak of the door, you could feel his tension and anxiety. It seemed to only inflate your own.

“What—what’s that mean? You’re dyin’?”

“It’s manageable. For now… but there are special medications I need and—I can’t count on having those forever. Not in this world. It’s a miracle that I’ve managed to find them as long as I have. And it does make things harder…”

Daryl had to lean heavily on the door and hung his head, shutting his eyes. His jaw clenched and a tightening across the back of his head manifested, like a band someone was stretching tighter and tighter.

Inside, you sank back down to sit on the floor, your back leaned up against the door. You could sense that he was still there, even though he was silent. You always felt him like a warm fire, comforting and secure and glowing.

Finally, Daryl’s southern drawl slipped back to you again. “What’s it—I mean, how and why? What’d ya say it’s called?”

You wet your lips. “Postpartum cardiomyopathy.”

There was a beat where he mulled this over. “Wait—postpartum… Ain’t that like—like babies? After pregnancy?” Oh. Oh… The sinking feeling in his core intensified until he felt like he may be pulled down through the floor.

Your voice was even quieter now. You sounded fragile and faraway as you answered. “Yeah…” Idiot. Dumbass. Fuck. Why didn’t he fuckin’ think for a goddamn minute before he spoke? “Sorry,” he said hurriedly. “Shit… ‘m sorry. Y/N, ‘m so sorry…” He rubbed both his hands over his face and you felt the door move as he leaned against it more heavily with his shoulder. “Uhh—I—”

It had been a while since you’d have to give someone what you thought of as “the talk.” Dr. S had been the last person you’d told, out of necessity for continuing to monitor your condition and keep up with necessary treatments. It wasn’t an easy thing to explain to anyone, but was especially difficult to tell to someone close to you. And with Daryl, it almost felt like you’d lied to him, not explaining until now. You knew he wouldn’t see it that way, but it felt like a significant lie of omission to you. And then there was the realization it carried with it—that you had been a mother, and now you weren’t. Or you still were a mother, and always would be, and yet you were childless. You were speaking again before you even realized it. “I had two kids before The Turn. A son first, and then my daughter. Not too long after I’d delivered her, I couldn’t catch my breath… I was weak, tired. My heart rate was too high. We ran tests. The doctors told me that I had this rare kind of heart failure. Basically, my heart was weak and not pumping blood efficiently the way it should. It can happen at the end of pregnancy or just after. Many women recover most, if not all of their heart function over time but—I didn’t.” You paused and shifted, wrapping your arms around your bent knees, steeling yourself for a moment. “If I catch this flu,” you hesitated for a moment, “I’d most likely die. I’m already prone to fluid collecting in my lungs, and I just—I wouldn’t make it, not without a hospital and special treatment.”

Daryl hated the door between you at that moment. He wanted to see you. He wanted to look into your eyes while he told you everything was going to be fine, but he also knew that that door was going to keep you safe. He cleared his throat and shifted again. “Well, that ain’t happenin’,” he said forcefully. “Yer gonna stay righ’ here until this all blows over and ya ain’t gettin’ sick.”

He didn’t ask about what had happened to your kids or their father. He didn’t need to. They weren’t here. That was enough to know.

Daryl straightened up from the way he had been slumped against the door, leaning on it to keep himself standing while he tried to absorb blow after blow. “Listen, ‘m goin’ on a run with a few people. We’re gonna get meds to get everybody who’s sick through this. Just tell me what ya need and I’ll find it while ‘m out there.”

“Daryl, you should just focus on what the others need. I—I don’t want to be a—a burden any more than I already am.”

“Hey,” he said, now pressing his hand to the glass. You felt the door move again behind you with his weight. “Ya ain’t a burden. Dun ya ever think that, ya hear me?”

You felt tears start to well up in your eyes. “I am,” you insisted.

“No, ya ain’t,” he said again. “Ya ain’t. This thing—we’ll take care of it. S’just somethin’ ya need a little extra for, tha’s all. Righ’? That ain’t bein’ a burden.” He heard you sniffle and that ache in his chest became even more pronounced. “Righ’, Y/N?”

You climbed to your feet and stood at the glass again. You could make out the vague shadow of his broad-shouldered frame. “Okay,” you said.

He nodded, but the pit in his stomach was still there, like he’d swallowed a weighty stone, cold from frigid water. “Good. Now tell me what ya need and I’ll find it.”

“Hershel or Dr. S can give you the names of the meds,” you said. “Or if you happen to run into a heart transplant surgeon with a new one available that’d be even better.” There was a hint of sarcasm and laughter in that second part and Daryl felt a small sense of relief.

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” he said. His tone was lighter now too. “Just stay safe in here and this’ll all be over in no time,” he said.

“Daryl…”

“Yeah.”

“Please be careful,” you urged him, your fingers coming to the glass again, right toward the center of his shadow.

“Pfft. Ya know me. I’ll be back better than when I left,” he said.

“One more thing,” you murmured. “If you could just keep all this to yourself…”

“Of course. Nobody else knows?” he asked. That was like you to want to keep it quiet. You didn’t want anyone to worry about you, didn’t want to be a bother.

“Just Dr. S and Hershel. That’s it.”

He nodded. “Alrigh’. It’ll stay that way. Ya have my word.”

“Thanks. I know. Stay safe,” you breathed one last time.

“You too.” And with that, his footsteps retreated.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Many Years Later

You knew that knock on the door of your apartment easily. It was Daryl. He always knocked the same pattern. You wondered if he was aware of that fact. You were glad you’d left the door unlocked so you didn’t have to move from your place on the couch, ensconced beneath a blanket and your little gray cat, who hardly twitched an ear at the rapping sound. “Come in,” you yelled back.

You lowered the novel in your hands and looked up to see Judith bursting through the door, trotting toward you with a smile on her face and a paper fluttering in her hand. Daryl ghosted behind her, his hands shoved into the back pockets of his dark pants.

“Well, hi there,” you greeted Judith, mustering the best smile you could. Your cat leapt down from your lap and Judith threw her arms around you in an embrace. You gladly hugged her back tightly. “Wasn’t expecting you!”

“Rosita said you weren’t feeling well. So, RJ and I made a card for you,” she said, holding out the paper in her hand. Daryl was standing across the room still, now leaning on the top of an armchair and chewing on his bottom lip anxiously.

You had to fight back a few tears as you looked at the little folded paper, charmingly decorated with sweetly drawn hearts and flowers and a big orange, glowing sun. “You did make me a lovely card, didn’t you?” you cooed to her. Judith beamed proudly. “Thank you.” You hugged her again and she sank into it, turning her head to rest it on your shoulder. “I’m going to keep it right here where I can see it.”

Daryl straightened up with his heart equal parts warmed and worried. You were pale and seemed somewhat listless. “Alrigh’, Jude. Ya gotta go meet up with Gracie and Aaron. Let’s go,” he drawled.

Judith gave you one last long look, her warm brown eyes a bit wide. She always had that look, the one that was understanding and perception beyond her years. She grabbed your hand in both hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Feel better,” she said softly, and you gave her a small smile.

“I will. Say hello to Gracie and Aaron for me?” She nodded and bounded past Daryl to the door. He glanced back at her.

“Ya good gettin’ there?” he asked her. She nodded. “Alrigh’. I’ll see ya back at the house later.” And with a small flurry of energy, she was gone. Daryl turned back toward you. You were still holding the card and looking down at it with a faraway expression on your face. His attention was broken when your little gray cat, Ashes, rubbed against his ankles and purred. He bent to pet her and heard you hum a noise of amusement. Your eyes met his when he glanced up, still running his hand along her silky fur. “Hmm?” he prompted.

You shrugged, setting the card down on the coffee table beside you. “She knows you so well now. Remember when she used to hide when you came over?”

Daryl nodded and crossed the room to sink down beside you on the couch with a sigh, his blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on your face. He shook his hair out of his eyes. “Yeah. I remember,” he drawled. “Tell me how ya are. Really.”

“Daryl, I’m fine.”

He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, looking skeptical, his brow knit. “Y/N… c’mon. Tell me.”

You ducked his gaze and shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just… tired,” you said. “Feels hard to breathe today,” you admittedly quietly. “But I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer, but frowned softly. Daryl stared at the dark circles beneath your eyes and the pallor of your skin. The ache in his chest became more pronounced. “Ya eat anythin’ today? Lemme make ya somethin’.” He knew the answer without you answering and got up to go into the small kitchen. “Ya still got them eggs I brought over yesterday?” he called over his shoulder.

“On the counter,” you answered, shivering a little beneath the blanket over your lap. You huddled more deeply beneath it. You heard him putting the kettle on the stove and lighting the burner and clinking around with the skillet. In a few minutes he returned with a plate of eggs and hot cup of tea for you. You accepted them gratefully and felt warmed already as he sunk back down beside you again, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

“Thanks,” you said, taking a bite. You paused and warmed your hands around the mug. Daryl watched you eat in silence, absently petting Ashes when she jumped up and rubbed his arm with her head.

When you’d finished and he was satisfied that you’d at least had some sustenance, he shifted anxiously beside you. You picked up on the action immediately and glanced back over at him. “What?” you prompted him.

“How’re yer legs today?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Swollen. The usual.”

He shifted again, grabbing a throw pillow and placing it on his lap before sweeping an arm beneath your legs, blanket and all, and resting them over his lap.

“Daryl, you don’t have to—”

“Hush up,” he scolded you. “Jus’ lemme make ya feel a little better if I can.” Your ankles and feet were often swollen, a side effect of an inefficient heart, and when Daryl had found out he’d insisted on propping them on pillows to elevate them and sometimes gently massaging them to help your circulation. You still often felt stupidly embarrassed about the swelling, but he never acted like it was anything… His rough hands were surprisingly gentle and you always felt yourself melting into relaxation when he was around. “‘M sorry,” he said suddenly after several long minutes of comfortable silence, snapping you out of your quiet musing.

You looked over at him with a question on your brow.

“I keep tryin’ to think of anywhere else to go look for yer meds and I—" His voice caught in his throat as it suddenly tightened. You realized then that he was fighting hard not to cry and you felt a vast emptiness in your chest. You swung your legs off him and scooted closer.

“Hey,” you soothed him. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” you said. “Don’t do that. You’ve always done everything for me. More than enough. And I’m so grateful to you. Hell, I’m probably alive still because of you.”

His head was bowed and his face screwed up a little as he struggled to force the emotion back into some dusty corner in his chest. “It just—” he cleared his throat so his voice would come out more freely. “It just ain’t fair that ya—that ya gotta go through this. And I can’t do shit about it…” His hands fiddled aimlessly, his eyes fixed on this little nick or that callous or the scar that was still pink.

You sighed and linked your arm through his, tipping to lean your head on his shoulder. He glanced over at your touch, his anxious fidgeting stilling immediately. You sighed, settling in against him. “Whoever said life was fair?” you mused. He knew it wasn’t as much as anyone. You’d seen his scars many times over the years. He’d confided in you about his childhood, his past. Life wasn’t fair most of the time.

His other hand came and rested on top of yours and the two of you sat tucked together that way until the afternoon light cooled and he had to get back to Judith and RJ. “Alrigh’,” he sighed, climbing to his feet. You could sense that his mood was still significantly dampened. He was inside himself, in his own head. It made his voice sound somewhat thin, like it was fraying at the edges. “I’ll come back and check on ya in the mornin’.”

You reached for your book on the coffee table. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Yeah, well, ‘m gonna. Hey—ya got bread in there and some of them canned vegetables. I want ya to eat ‘em,” he instructed you, pointing toward the kitchen. “’M serious, Y/N. They better be gone when I get back in the mornin’.”

You couldn’t help smiling at this and gave him a salute and a small smile, earning a head shake in return. You laughed. His heart jumped at the sound. Fuck, he wanted to hear that more often. He couldn’t help but think back to times when you had your meds more consistently, when your health was better, and you had been… something to see. You still were. But back then you were vivid. Trouble walking around in boots. He’d found every possible excuse he could think of to invite you outside the walls, just you and him together. Hunting. Scavenging. Teaching you to shoot different kinds of guns. Recon. Tracking lessons. Anything. And somehow even when everyone was struggling to survive, when that line between life and death became thinner and thinner, you still always had this light that didn’t dim. Sure, you had your dark moments just like he did. He could remember prying a whiskey bottle out of your hand one time as you went on about the pointlessness of it all, raged and broke down about what you had lost, struggled to cope with the reasons why. Why you? Why this world? Why any of it?

He’d grabbed you by the shoulders and made you look at him, practically shaken you out of it. And he’d almost kissed you then. You were red-eyed with tearstained cheeks and messy hair, but he still thought you were the most beautiful damn thing he’d ever seen, and probably would ever see. But you were drunk. And that was somethin’ he sure as shit wouldn’t do. He couldn’t do that in a vulnerable moment of yours. He couldn’t take advantage. He wouldn’t. So, he didn’t. And then he just never could seem to find the courage or the right time or… or any other stupid excuse he told himself. And now so many years had gone by and he knew you were afraid of how much time you had left, knew you were tired of the constant struggle… He’d squandered so much time.

Daryl suddenly realized he was on the front porch back at the house. He didn’t even really remember saying goodbye to you. He hoped he hadn’t seemed as distracted as he was as he left you in your little apartment. He pulled in a deep breath and arranged at least a neutral expression before pushing inside to find Judith and RJ with Rosita, who had baby Coco in her arms.

That night Daryl slept even less than usual. Your face swam in his mind’s eye, pale but smiling, and it was like there was a tether attached to his heart being yanked over and over again, like someone was trying to jerk it right out of his chest. He rolled from one side to the other, kicking off his blankets before pulling them up again the very next moment. And as he laid there on his bed, staring up at the shifting shadows, he came up with a plan.

When he knocked on your door the next morning, your voice sounded even thinner and farther away than it had the day before, and he felt as if he’d swallowed a stone. He pushed inside and the first thing he did was make his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on for you and check to see if you’d eaten the bread and vegetables he’d “prescribed”. The bread was gone, but the veggies were still sealed in their glass jar, the top undisturbed. Better than nothing though.

He came back out into the living room. You were sitting up now from your previous prone position on the couch and looking at him with curiosity. He had the sense that you could read his anxiety, knew already that he had something on his mind. You pulled your blanket aside to create an empty space beside you. “Come sit with me,” you asked. Of course he would.

He sighed as he sank down next to you, glancing over and trying to compare the color in your face to the day before. He thought you looked paler. There was still light in you, but it was colder, like the light of a distant star compared to the bursting warmth of the sun. You’d always been his sun. But now he felt a sinking feeling in his midsection and bit his bottom lip anxiously.

“Daryl,” you prompted him.

“Hmm?” he hummed.

“You look worried sick,” you said. “Do I look that bad?” you asked with a wry laugh.

He ducked his head, his face tightening and drawing lines between his eyebrows.

You linked your arm with his, the way you had the day before, resting your other hand on his forearm, leaning toward him so he could feel the weight of you. “Talk to me.”

He glanced over as you rested your head against his shoulder. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of your blanket and you felt the muscle in his forearm tensing and relaxing. “I can’t just sit here while ya get sicker,” he said in a low murmur.

“Daryl—”

“No. I won’t.” This he spoke louder, with determination. You lifted your head and angled your body toward him, your eyes meeting his. Yours were sad, questioning. It almost looked like pity, and that flared his resolve further. “I—I came up with a plan last night.”

You straightened, looking apprehensive. “What plan?”

He gulped. “We go to the Commonwealth.” You stared back, unmoving. “And ya get what ya need. And who knows, maybe somebody will die and they can give ya a whole new heart.”

You stiffened. “Daryl—” you said again.

“Nah, jus’ listen to me!” He seized your hands in his and you were surprised by his vehemence. “The Commonwealth is helpin’ with repairs here. And I know they want me up there. They know I can fight. They know what our group can do.” He hesitated, nervous now that it came to it. “If I can get in good with ‘em, I can make sure ya get what ya need. I’ll pull whatever strings need to be pulled.”

You shook your head, looking apprehensive. “I can’t ask you to do that. You’d be taking on some kind of debt, and I don’t trust them. Everything costs something. We’ve seen it over and over again. Daryl—”

“Ya didn’t ask. S’my choice, my idea.” He found himself smoothing his thumbs over the silkiness of the skin on the back of your hands and you looked down at the action, your brow furrowed. “And ya really think I trust ‘em? Me? Hell nah. Somethin’ ‘bout that place stinks like black mold. I just ain’t quite figured it out yet… But if it can help ya I don’t give a shit. I ain’t just gonna give up. I can’t.”

Your eyes searched his face, wide and uneasy. “But what if what it costs is—is you? What if they send you out somewhere, send you to do something dangerous and—and you don’t come back? How could I ever live with that?” He saw your eyes welling up with tears at just the thought and it was with a shameful sense of satisfaction that he watched your emotion at the thought of him gone. It felt shitty to be pleased by your worry, but at the same time he couldn’t help it… Could it be that you couldn’t bear the thought of him gone, just as much as he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you? “What if it’s just trading a little more time for me with your life? Or if not even that, then your freedom. Daryl, we—”

“Hey. C’mon. That ain’t gonna happen. This is me we’re talkin’ about.” His mouth twitched up in a small half-smirk. “‘S’gonna take a hell of a lot more than those assholes or the dead to take me out. Ain’t happenin’.” He tried to swallow the nervous lump in his throat again. “Just hear me out on this… You, me, RJ, and Judith. We go as a family. It’ll be… better for the kids there anyway. They’ll get enough to eat, go to school again, see other kids. I let ‘em assign me whatever bullshit they wanna come up with and in exchange they treat ya. They—they gotta take care of my wife if they want my skills,” he said, glancing up to gauge your reaction. Your hands were still in his. You were stunned for a moment.

“Your wife,” you repeated, a lilting question in your voice.

He shrugged nervously. “Yah. I mean—I think that’s the best way for me to make sure ya get what ya need. S’weird, right? S’almost like the old world… Fuckin’ health insurance or some shit.”

Your eyes were flitting over his face again. He could almost see the revolving of your mind. “Wouldn’t they know by now if you had a wife?”

“Nah. ‘M a pretty hard to read kind of guy. Righ’?” he added, with a pointed look at you that did make one corner of your mouth twitch up. “Beside, ‘m private. And it’s safer not to go around tellin’ everybody what yer weakness is these days—Err… wait—not that yer—Shit,” he hung his head. “Goddammit.”

If you weren’t so worried about this idea of his you may have seized on what had accidentally just spilled out of him. But you were worried. Terrified, actually.

He cleared his throat again. “Y/N, lemme do this for ya. Please.”

His voice cracked slightly and you crumbled. You always crumbled when it came to Daryl. “I can’t say ‘no’ to you, Daryl,” you breathed.

He tugged you in against him and wrapped his arms around you tightly. “Thank you. Thank you.” He got away with tucking his face into your hair and breathing in your smell as he held you. “Ya ain’t gonna regret it. S’gonna be—s’gonna be worth it.” He finally became self-conscious and pulled back, a fluttering in his chest and a wash of relief drifting over him.

A small laugh bubbled up out of you and Daryl thought just maybe it was hope. “Um… Does this mean you’re asking me to marry you, Daryl Dixon?”

He gulped. “Uhh… “ he hummed a vague noise and you laughed again, annoyed that you felt a warmth growing in the apples of your cheeks.

“I know… just for the plan,” you said, ducking your eyes a little bashfully. “A fake marriage.” But Daryl’s heart was pounding in his chest. This felt somehow dangerous. He was suddenly picturing what day to day life would be with the four of you living together under one roof. You were of course all family, but this felt different… you’d feel like… his. He could take care of you even more than he did now, see you first thing in the morning when he woke up and last thing in the evening before he tried to chase sleep. What if he got used to it? He would. He knew he would. He tried to remind himself this was just the way things needed to be for the plan to work, for you to get all the care you needed. You couldn’t possibly work enough in your current health to pay for the services and medicine you needed on your own, so he would shoulder it. And he didn’t mind. In fact, it felt like part of his purpose right now; caring for Judith and RJ and taking care of you the best he could.

“We’ll need a ring or something,” you said. Your voice snapped him out of his deep well of thoughts.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, righ’. I’ll see what I can find,” he drawled, looking at you with bright blue eyes that seemed at once both soft and uncertain.

You sighed, trying to release some of your stress. “So… when is this happening?” you asked anxiously. “I mean, when are we going?”

Daryl shifted beside you and his arm brushed against yours. “Soon as we can. I’ll talk to Aaron and Rosita ‘bout it today. She’s been thinkin’ of goin’ with Gabriel and Coco anyway, ‘til things are fixed up around here. Judith and RJ will be excited.”

“Are you going to explain to them…?”

Daryl nodded. He knew what you were implying. The kids would have to be in on the plan, have to know you would be Daryl’s “wife”. “Yeah. Jude will be fine. And RJ will do what she does,” he said.

You gulped nervously, nodding again. “Okay… But Daryl—if we get there and it’s too much—too dangerous for you or—something… I don’t know, if something isn’t right, we stop. We stop, and we get out, and we just come home. Promise me.”

He studied the worry line near your left eyebrow. Finally, he nodded. “Alrigh’. I promise.” But it wouldn’t be too much. Not if it made all the difference for you.

You seemed satisfied and relaxed somewhat. He noted again how tired you looked. The kettle whistled on the stove and he managed to force himself apart from you, even though he didn’t want to.

Daryl stayed with you for a few hours while you drank tea and tried to shake the cold that seemed to sink into your bones every night. But then he couldn’t wait any longer to set things in motion and he headed to the door, looking back over his shoulder, and hoping that within a couple days you’d be getting what you needed.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You were nervous as the four of you approached the checkpoint, each with only a small bag of belongings. The journey could have been smoother—the car had blown a tire and then the radiator had sprung a leak at some point. You all had to walk the last stretch. Daryl tried to carry your bag for you, tried to give you water from his canteen, but you stubbornly refused, always refocusing on Jude and RJ. His heart ached as he watched you with the kids, making jokes to cheer everyone even when he could read the exhaustion on your face. Luckily, you hadn’t run into any herds of walkers or troublesome people and you’d even happened on a patrol from The Commonwealth that escorted you all the last few miles to the checkpoint.

You stared straight ahead at the nondescript buildings and the long stretches of chain link fence topped with razor wire. You gulped and your stomach churned. “I’m—having some flashbacks to Terminus suddenly,” you said in a low voice to Daryl.

He glanced over at you. “Yeah… I get that. But that ain’t this.” Whatever was rotten in The Commonwealth, and he knew something was, it was more subtle. At least for now.

“Do you think they’ll separate us?” you asked nervously, moving closer to him as the entry gate loomed closer and closer. Your shoulder brushed against his arm, and his stomach jumped at the simple contact. Jesus Christ. He needed to get a hold of himself—a hold of his feelings. He didn’t need emotion clouding his judgement now of all times. But it was nearly impossible when he was around you.

“I dunno,” he finally answered you. “But hey—we ain’t gonna have a bad time of it. S’gonna be okay. Alexandria has already got a relationship with ‘em. Our group has been vetted. Hopefully it’s just a few questions and we’re in. A formality, ya know?” He could still read anxiety on your brow. “Y/N. S’gonna be alrigh’. We’re almost there. And then ya are gonna get the care ya need, okay?”

You nodded, still wide-eyed, and surprised both of you when you moved closer to him again and grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

He looked down at your hand in his, bewildered, but managed to hold it together and fix his eyes ahead on the gate, even while his heart hummed in his chest. He felt you give his hand a gentle squeeze as you all stopped in front of the uniformed soldier.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Daryl had been right. You’d had a reasonably easy time at the border. The only questions they asked more intensely were about you, challenging him about why he hadn’t mentioned his wife before, asking what your condition was, what kind of medications and other care you would need. He’d squared his shoulders and told them firmly that his family wasn’t any of their damn business and that seemed to shut them up. But you had answered the questions about your heart as clearly as you could, anxiety building in you all the while, worry that you would be turned away as being too needy, something you’d told yourself your whole life—that now you were a burden. Daryl had always told you differently, treated you differently. You held tightly to his hand the entire time, and held RJ’s in the other.

But they hadn’t turned you away, They’d only instructed Daryl on where the barracks were where you would all stay while he “trained,” whatever the fuck that meant. You’d almost laughed. You had a feeling that he should be the one teaching the training.

Now the four of you were standing in a small dingy room in a tiny apartment. There was a couch and a bedroom with a bed, but not much else. You’d have to make up some beds for the kids in the living room with their bed rolls. They’d told Daryl that the accommodations would improve after his training, depending on how he advanced.

As Judith and RJ ran to stare out the window again at all the bustling activity and people below, Daryl was all too conscious of the small space that you’d occupy together. He felt a fluttery nervousness in his stomach as you walked to the doorway of the bedroom and looked inside at the scant furnishings. He came to stand beside you.

“Sorry it’s kind of a shithole compared to what ya had at home,” he said, his cheeks coloring a little with shame. He’d hoped to do better for you from the beginning here. But you only glanced over at him and gave him a small smile.

“Don’t apologize. We’ve both had worse,” you said kindly. You looked back at the dim space. “There’s a roof. And we’re safe. And the kids will have food and school. That’s more than enough these days.”

Daryl glanced down nervously at his hands, picking at the side of his thumb nail. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said.

You laughed. “Don’t be silly,” you said, a lilt still in your voice. “You’ll sleep in the bed with me. There’s no way I’m letting you sleep on the floor. It’s plenty big.”

He felt his ears and face grow hot and he had to avoid looking at you out of fear that you’d see and somehow read his mind.

Instead, he simply felt your fingers lace between his again and he gulped nervously.

“Daryl, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you,” you breathed to him quietly. His head was ducked and you wished he’d meet your eyes, but you allowed him his shyness, sensing his nerves. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “ ‘S’nothin’,” he drawled. “You’d do the same thing for me.”

You leaned against him and rested your head on his shoulder, giving his hand another gentle squeeze. “Yeah. I would.”

He cleared his throat and snuck a glance down at you. “Ya know where to go for yer appointment tomorrow?” You nodded. “‘M sorry I can’t go with ya, but those assholes said I gotta report first thing.”

“That’s okay. And actually, Yumiko said she’d go with me. She wants to introduce me to her brother. He’s a surgeon… she seemed more hopeful than I am about a heart transplant…” you trailed off. Now you avoided Daryl’s eyes.

He couldn’t help but seize on that. Maybe it was possible. God, he hoped so. If he’d been a religious man, he would have been praying for that every damn day. “Good. That’s good,” he said. “Listen, why don’t ya get settled with the kids, alrigh’? ‘M gonna go see about gettin’ us some food.” You lifted your head from his shoulder, and he regretted speaking. When your hand slipped apart from his, he regretted it even more. But after he grabbed the first decent meal you all would have in days, after you were all settled, he realized he’d sleep beside you that night. That instead of lying on his back on his cot in Alexandria, wondering whether you were getting any rest, wondering if you were cold or hungry or awake from an endless cough, he’d be right beside you. He’d know. And he could help. And that was worth anything they could throw at him in this new place.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Yumiko had accompanied you to your doctor’s appointment as promised. You’d been given the medication you needed and they’d marked down something about the cost beside Daryl’s name. You still felt anxious about it… You were determined that once you had more energy that you’d find some job to do to help contribute, but for now you desperately needed to rest and let the medications work. The doctor had also told you the same old things about diet you’d practiced as much as you could. So often now, you didn’t have a choice about food, but maybe here you would. The kids were still at school and you walked with Yumiko over to the part of the hospital that Tomi worked in, a small bag of your meds in hand.

The surgeon was kind and warm to you, but he told you to be realistic about the chance of a heart transplant. “Even in the old world it was like winning the lottery,” he said. “If anything, it’s worse here.”

Yumiko had stiffened at this. “I’ll pull some more strings for you if I can,” she told you. “I’m sure Daryl is doing the same.”

“Please,” you said, shaking your head. “Don’t. I don’t want any special treatment. It’s enough just to have some medications again that will help.”

Yumiko sighed and put a friendly hand on your shoulder. “There’s something you should know about this place…” she started. Your brow furrowed deeply over your eyes. “There’s a certain segment here that is always pulling strings.”

“…what do you mean?”

She sighed, wondering how much to say. “This place is more like the old world than you realize.” She glanced around at the couples meandering on the clean sidewalks, the busy shop windows, a nearby man emptying a garbage bin. “Just—they don’t play fair here. Everyone isn’t equal.”

“Yumiko—”

“It’s alright. My point is that you should let me and Daryl help you. Because the system is already rigged. We may as well take advantage of it for someone who deserves it,” she said. She gave you a friendly smile and suddenly started, glancing at a nearby clock. “Dammit, I have to go. You can find your way home alright?” she asked. You nodded and thanked her again, still puzzled by what she’d told you.

You recounted it to Daryl that night when you couldn’t sleep, lying on your back on your side of the bed. You could feel the mattress sloping toward his weight and he was unusually quiet and still. “Daryl,” you murmured. “Are you still awake?”

“Yeah,” came his voice in the darkness near you. “Ya alrigh’?”

You rolled onto you side so you could face toward him. “Yes…”

He sensed the ‘but’. “But?”

“It’s just something Yumiko told me…” You repeated the conversation to him as best as you could remember.

You heard him sigh in the darkness. “I get why yer worried,” he started. “But she’s righ’ ‘bout the system and ‘bout you. Ya deserve whatever good things we can get to come yer way.”

“But what if helping me means someone else doesn’t get what they need, what if it—"

Daryl suddenly reached out and his fingertips grazed your cheek. Warmth and electricity shot through you. He could barely make out your silhouette in the dark. “Jus’ let us do this for ya.” His touch lifted almost as quickly as it came. “Jus’ for once, think about yerself before e’rybody else.”

You didn’t say anything, but you quieted. Daryl heard you shift softly in the sheets beside him.

“I ain’t tryin’ to tell ya yer wrong, or dismiss ya, Y/N. I just—I need to do this for ya. Alrigh’?”

You moved closer toward the middle of the bed until you could almost feel his warmth. “Alright,” you agreed softly. And then the two of you were soon asleep.

You all fell into a comfortable routine over the next few weeks. As the medicine had more time to work, you began to feel better and have more energy than you remembered having in a long time. Daryl would rise early to report for work most days, but sometimes he had to work late shifts, and then the apartment felt empty without him. You were sharply aware of his unoccupied side of the bed, and realized that you almost needed him there to be able to sleep.

One night, he’d had a late shift and collapsed into bed beside you at nearly three in the morning. You weren’t sure if it was because he was so tired or what, but shortly after he’d gotten home and fallen deeply asleep, you felt him move in against you. His arm draped over your waist and his body pressed against yours. At first you were so stunned you weren’t sure what you were feeling, but then a warmth and joy washed over you, and a feeling of such complete safety and belonging that you could scarcely bear to think about how in only a few short hours you’d have to separate to start the day. You wanted to stay there with him tucked up behind you… You pressed back against him and smoothed your hand over his where it was resting over your waist, lacing your fingers between his as was becoming a habit. And you slept deeply and soundly, until the sound of the kids in the other room, up and preparing for school, roused you.

You extracted yourself from Daryl’s embrace as gently as you could, hoping you wouldn’t wake him, but he stirred almost immediately. You were already on your feet by the time he was fully awake and his blue eyes blinked open.

He realized he was in the middle of the bed instead of over on the edge where he usually tried to stay, too fearful of encroaching on your space or making you uncomfortable. But you were smiling at him with a serene sort of look he hadn’t seen before and he pushed himself up stiffly and sat on the edge of the bed. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Shit… looks like I was takin’ up more than my fair share last night,” he drawled, his cheeks reddening. “Sorry.”

Your smile widened and you ducked his eyes. He thought he could see a blush on your face too but he didn’t know why. “No worries.” You watched him try to stretch but a wince quickly crossed his face and you frowned. “Are you alright? Did something happen at work yesterday?”

He hummed a non-committal noise in an attempt to put you off, but you wouldn’t have it. His muscles had stiffened overnight. He and Rosita had had quite a time clearing out an unexpected herd while on patrol, and he’d apparently been slammed around and more banged up than he thought.

“Let me see,” you insisted.

“Nah, ‘m fine.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and gave him a stern look. “You have to change anyway; you might as well let me take a look.”

Daryl sighed and started trying to get his shirt over his head, but his shoulders were stiff and achy and his movements were labored. You crossed the bedroom to him and tugged it off over his head. Your face flushed at his strong chest and torso and broad-shoulders bared before you, but then your heart sunk as it always had when you saw his scars, many and varied now from a life that began hard and only stayed hard. He deserved so much better than what he’d been handed.

“Daryl…” His back and ribs were bruised and scraped in wide, darkening marks. For now, they were various shades of dark red but moving toward purple. In another day, they’d be black and deep blue.

He glanced down at his own body and pressed a few fingers over a smudge of blood on his ribs. “Ain’t that bad,” he drawled. “I’ve had worse.”

You shot him another look, but your eyes were soft and sympathetic this time. “Of course you have. But that doesn’t mean this isn’t—” you couldn’t find the right word and pushed your hair away from your eyes.

“Auntie Y/N!” Judith’s voice came from the front room. “We need to go to school or we’ll be late!”

“Oh—okay, Judith! Just a minute!” you called out. “Just stay here,” you ordered Daryl. “I’ll be right back.”

“Y/N, I gotta go to—"

“It’ll take one minute!” you argued. “Don’t move.” You let yourself out into the main room of the apartment and asked if Judith was okay walking herself and RJ to school. She agreed eagerly and even seemed excited at the prospect as you quizzed them about strangers like you always did when they went anywhere without you or a member of your extended family. “Okay. Have a good day at school. Daryl or I will pick you up later, okay?” You kissed both of them on the tops of their heads and sent them off with lunches in hand. Then you went to the little sink and filled a small bowl with warm water and a washcloth and returned to the bedroom.

Daryl was still sitting there without his shirt on, fidgeting. He tried to argue as soon as you came back in but you quieted him with another look. “Just let me at least get this dried blood off you,” you said, sinking down beside him. You squeezed the excess water from the rag and dabbed at a cut on his side. Daryl licked his lips and let himself study the focused expression on your face, the contraction of your eyebrow and the way your tongue occasionally poked out the corner of your mouth as you concentrated. He felt like he was filling up with warmth, feeling the bruises and bumps less and less with each pass of your gentle hands and the warm cloth. He couldn’t take his eyes off you but you hadn’t seemed to notice.

An involuntary shiver ran up his back as you moved behind him and your fingertips lightly tickled his skin. “Sorry,” you said quickly. But you didn’t know it was an electric shock that had shot through him from your touch, not some result of sitting bare-chested and the cooling water. You worked your way around to his other side, and though it had probably only been a few minutes, Daryl felt like time had slowed. You wiped away the last bit of dried blood on his ribs and dropped the cloth back into the bowl, shaking the now faintly pink water from your fingers and setting the bowl on the nightstand.

Now you caught his eyes and were stunned by the look in them. “Thanks,” he said vaguely.

All you could do was nod, your throat suddenly tightening for some reason… Flutters erupted in your stomach and your heart started to race, something that was all too common for no reason at all. But right now… you knew why. You raised a hand and pressed it over your rushing heart and Daryl’s brow furrowed.

“Are you alrigh’?” he asked quickly.

You nodded again. “Yeah. It’s just—my heart is racing a little,” you managed. Your voice came out slightly breathy.

Daryl’s eyes darkened as his brow furrowed even more deeply. “What can I do?” he asked. And for some reason you smiled. His heart jumped.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you said softly.

He was mildly confused, and you watched it flash across his handsome face. “Like what?” he drawled.

Your eyes lowered for a moment and then lifted again, your eyelashes fluttering. His heart jumped again. “I suppose—the way you always look at me.”

Daryl felt suspended. He shook his head slightly. “Nah. I can’t,” he drawled. Was this a dream? Was he still asleep? But he was awake. He knew it, because the intensity of feeling welling up in him was far too profound for any dream, and it was only another moment before he crashed his lips into yours, his hand clasping your face and his fingertips reaching into your hair.

You reached for him in turn and kissed him back eagerly, sinking into it, reeling with electricity as his other hand pressed hesitantly into the small of your back. You smiled into his lips. You were breathless, weightless, consumed by only the sensations of him, and he was consumed by you.

It was far too soon when you pulled back. Your eyes flickered between his. He took a few seconds to catch his breath, to find his voice.

“Ya got no idea how damn long I’ve wanted to do that.” That wide smile that drove him mad graced your face again.

“Same,” you said. You leaned in and kissed him again, but this one was softer and sweeter. He never wanted to stop kissing you. Your lips were silky and tasted like the cinnamon tea you drank, and you moved together like you belonged, like you’d always been kissing. You were almost shaky with adrenaline. “You’re gonna be late for work,” you said dreamily.

Daryl shook his head slightly. “Fuck ‘em,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of your hair briefly before resting his hand along the graceful curve of your neck. He was just about to wrap you up in his arms and kiss you again when there was a loud banging on the apartment door. You both startled apart.

Daryl was on his feet in a moment, pulling a shirt on hurriedly. “Stay here,” he said. But before he could even get to the threshold, a familiar voice was calling out.

“Y/N! Y/N, answer the door! It’s urgent! It’s Yumiko!”

You and Daryl rushed to the door, still feeling vaguely rootless, and he opened it wide. “Yumiko? What’s happened? Are you okay? Is everyone okay?” you asked. She breezed right into the apartment past you and spun in place.

She had a hurried and bubbling kind of energy, like a pot of boiling water about to overflow. “Somebody fell off a ladder,” she said suddenly.

Your hand flew to your mouth. “Oh my God. Who?” you asked with horror.

“No,” she said, stepping up right in front of you. She grasped both of your hands. “Y/N. Somebody fell off a ladder.” You still weren’t getting it. But a nervous and wildly overjoyed smile broke out on her face and she laughed. “Y/N. There was an accident, and—yes, it’s very sad—but you’re getting a new heart.”

You stared at her, suddenly frozen and wide-eyed. You blinked once. Twice. You were trying to process what she’d just said. “What?”

“You’re getting a heart!” she said again. “Tomi is doing the surgery and we need to go to the hospital now!”

You were just frozen again. But then Daryl was suddenly beside you and Yumiko withdrew, dropping your hands and apparently sensing something between you two for the first time. Or maybe not for the first time… maybe she’d always known. Her smile was a little knowing.

Daryl clasped your face. “Y/N. Are ya okay?” he asked you. You reached up to grip his wrist and nodded slowly, in disbelief, your vibrant eyes still wide. “Ya wanna do this? There’s risks but—” He felt suddenly sick as the realization crashed into him. This could be everything, give you everything, or if something went wrong—it could take everything.

“I—I don’t know,” you said suddenly. And then another voice inside you answered. “Yes. Yes, I want to do this.” You studied Daryl’s face. You had too much left to do. You had to live this new life with Daryl and you wanted it to be long and happy. You wanted to do all the things you hadn’t been able to do for so long, to hunt with him outside the walls, to run, to climb, to explore, to rebuild Alexandria, to play and lift and toss RJ and Judith as much as you wanted. And even if something went wrong, you’d go to sleep knowing that you had kissed Daryl Dixon, a man you’d loved for so long, and he loved you back. “Yes. I want to do this.”

Daryl gulped and nodded, emotion sticking in a lump in his throat. “Okay. Okay, then we’re doin’ this,” he said. He didn’t care that Yumiko was standing only a few feet away. He kissed you and he tried to put every thought and every feeling he had about you into that kiss, and it never would have lasted long enough, but it built courage in both of you. Then he grabbed your hand in his and gave Yumiko a nod. “We’re ready,” he said.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Daryl paced the length of the sterile, white corridor endlessly. The surgery was long and each passing minute increased his anxiety further. He heard footsteps down the hallway and hoped that it would be Tomi emerging to tell him that everything had gone perfectly, that you were coming out of anesthesia well and that he’d be able to see you in a moment. But instead, it was Rosita and Gabriel with Coco, Carol, Yumiko, Kelly and Connie, Magna, Judith and RJ, Ezekiel carrying a bunch of daffodils… it was all of them. It was his family. Carol rushed up and hugged him.

“Any word?” she asked, her brow knit.

He shook his head and pulled away, shifting anxiously on his feet. “No. Not for—not for a few hours.” Three hours and 26 minutes to be specific. Yes. He was keeping track. He glanced at his assembled loved ones. “Thanks for bein’ here, ya’ll,” he said. His voice was a bit weak with worry. He sounded unlike himself. He was sick over this. Had they made the right choice? Open heart surgery during the fuckin’ apocalypse… what the hell was he thinkin’? He collapsed into a nearby chair, his stomach churning with nerves. The others exchanged a few glances and settled into chairs nearby, except for Connie who stopped in front of him and bent down so she was in his eyeline.

“It will be okay,” she signed to him. She gave him a reassuring smile. She spelled your name and then signed “strong.”

Daryl sighed and nodded, but the tension in his face was unchanged. He got up and resumed his pacing, tearing the cuticle of his thumbnail with his teeth until he tasted the metallic tang of blood.

It was another hour before Tomi stepped out, mask and gloves off. Daryl had paced down to the opposite end of the hall and he tore back at full speed to meet the surgeon. As he got close, he saw that Tomi was smiling…

_ _ _ _ _ _

You’d been sleeping for some time since you’d been wheeled into the designated ICU. Daryl had gowned and masked up, insisting on being there by your side when you woke up. The day had been such an insane whirlwind and seemed to have passed in a blaze of emotions. It was dark now and Rosita had taken the kids home and the rest of your collected family had eventually drifted off too.

Tomi had warned Daryl that you’d be groggy when you woke and that the most important thing was for you to rest. He sat perched on the edge of his chair, your hand in his, watching your peaceful face for any change, good or bad.

Finally, you began to stir against the pillow and he rocketed to his feet. He smoothed his free hand over your hair and kissed your forehead. “Y/N?”

Your eyes opened with some tremendous effort. The fog of your breath was steady in the oxygen mask. You were on a ventilator and connected to so many wires and tubes it was hard to bear, but despite all this, despite having your chest cracked open, despite the fog in your brain, the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes was Daryl, and you smiled.

And that was the way it would always be from then on.

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jackrrabbit · 3 years

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open season thirsts [3/?] /// Dabi x f!Reader (18+)

Request: my darling sara dm’d me this request for halloween-themed dabi creeping on poor innocent reader <3

@printhes ily for getting me to make a halloween playlist in fucking september. your mind unparalleled. this is just a drabble but i’ll consider continuing it for real halloween…

Tags/warnings: stalking, mentions of alcohol/drinking, drugging, angel costume ok ok

everything seems a little more spooky on halloween.

your mouth tastes like cranberry juice and white rum and bacardi breezers and you wonder if it stained your lips red. the halloween party you were at was fun, but you shouldn’t’ve had that fourth drink…and you shouldn’t’ve said you’d walk home alone. it’s cold. you didn’t bring a jacket because you thought it would ‘ruin the outfit’, or something—and hey, 5-hours-ago-you has a point. this year you decided you were going to be an angel for halloween, and you don’t own anything that fits over the wings.

still. damn it, why didn’t you bring something to change into? sure, you’re probably not the only pretty girl stumbling down the sidewalk in a too-short costume and too-high heels past midnight on october 31st, but the stretch of pavement you’re walking down is weirdly deserted. no fellow post-party walk-of-shamers, no random teens in ribcage t-shirts smoking in huddles, not even the perpetual annoying men who seem to think yelling about your tits as you pass by should be taken as a compliment.

you don’t know this area of the city well—you took the bus here, and by the time you left the party the buses weren’t running anymore. according to google maps your place is less than a mile away, but everything around here looks unfamiliar. chain link fences, brick walls, rows of iron grating covering closed storefronts. you pass a club you’ve never heard of and hear a snatch of the music pumping from inside—‘this is halloween’, the marilyn manson version. so stereotypical...the clubs have to stick to the theme, right? they played this song at your friend’s party too, and now it’s going to be stuck in your head for weeks.

but the music’s fading into the background now, and the only thing you can hear is the clickclickclick of your shoes against the concrete and the buzzing of the streetlights overhead. mist is hanging low and thick in the air, seeping through the thin satin of your slip and lifting cold sweat onto your skin. the dark feels darker than usual. you check your phone for the dozenth time since you started walking…

no signal.

that’s weird, isn’t it? the neighborhood you’re passing through has gotten steadily more residential than urban, but it’s not like you’re in the middle of nowhere. you stop dead, hold up your phone and turn in a tight circle, trying to coax out a few bars of data.

nothing. damn it. well, you know you have to keep walking in this direction for a while. hopefully if you go far enough, you’ll get somewhere you recognize. you take a step forward, making for the next orange halo from the streetlight at the end of the block.

god, it’s so quiet. shouldn’t there be—like, a dog barking or something? a couple yelling at each other, crappy teen music from a house party, some kids snickering to each other while they TP their principal’s house—something. it’s halloween, for fuck’s sake. it shouldn’t be this quiet. it’s making you imagine things…

…like another set of footsteps behind yours.

click. the heel of your strappy white pump hits the sidewalk. click. you take another step. thud.

you’re imagining things. you stop in your tracks again and twist around to look behind you. there’s no one there, just the blue-black expanse of sidewalk disappearing between the trees. you’re just imagining it.

you start humming. just to have something to listen to that isn’t your shoes and your own nervous breath. as predicted, that fucking song is stuck in your head, so you start murmuring the lyrics quietly.

“come with us and you will see—“

keep going. keep walking. the house next to you is decorated like a 9-year-old’s halloween fantasy—big inflatable jack-o-lanterns lit from the inside, plastic bats hung on strings over the stairs, cotton batting stretched out to look like cobwebs. there’s even a hunched-over witch mannequin sitting on the porch swing with an empty bowl in its hands, the kind of thing you’re sure would bust out a terrifying animatronic cackle if a kid got too close. the next house has foam gravestones sticking out of the yard. the next house has gigantic purple-striped stuffed spiders twined into the trees near the entrance, and the next house—

“—scream in the dead of night—“

the light overhead flickers.

someone’s behind you.

you heard it for sure this time. footsteps, not yours. and the sound of someone flicking a lighter on. you’re not sure why that knowledge makes you shiver—weren’t you wondering why the hell no one else was on this street just a few minutes ago?—but you pick up the pace, almost skipping in the direction of the next light down the block.

don’t look back, you think. maybe you’re still imagining it, maybe the atmosphere is getting to you and you’re nervous for no reason. keep singing. “—everybody’s—everybody’s waiting for the next surprise—“

someone laughs—low, a man, mocking—but don’t think about that. your heart is beating like crazy, fuck, you’re an idiot, who walks home alone on halloween while dressed like the sluttiest angel since lucifer? damn it—your little white slip is riding up on your thighs and you smooth it down with cold damp palms. you can’t run in these shoes, not really, but you want to. he’s probably just passing by. he probably thinks you’re an idiot for running away. you’re being really rude, it’s really—you’re panting—

you hit the circle of light and the rush of adrenaline from being able to see around you makes you pause, turn involuntarily behind you to look for him. but once again, there’s nothing there. maybe you really were dreaming it up. maybe you’re too tired or you’re drunk or maybe you’re losing it.

either way, it’s time to call a damn uber. no more walking in the dark in a nightdress and fluffy white wings. you shrug your phone back out of your purse to check if you have signal yet—one bar, but the map isn’t loading. it feels quiet again and you realized you must’ve stopped singing so you pick up where you left off while you twist around again seeking a better connection. “something’s coming…no, what is it? something’s waiting now to pounce and how you’ll—“

“scream?”

weight on your shoulders. you whip toward the yellow streetlight and he’s in front of it. he’s dressed up, you think dazedly, he’s dressed up for halloween—dark eyes dark hair all those piercings and his face—but then your brain catches up and you try, you try to scream, except a hand is folding something over your mouth and pinching your nose shut and he’s squeezing around the grip you have on your phone until the pain is unbearable and you have to drop it—

you hear it hit the ground. your phone. it probably cracked. but you can’t look, can’t check, can’t bend down. how are you supposed to? a man, a man has you, he has you. the cigarette hanging out of his mouth glows blue and then a cloud of bitter smoke hisses out into your eyes.

his face. god, that has to be a costume, it has to. you need to breathe but he’s holding a damp rag over your mouth like some movie villain but you need to breathe. you shove a fist into the hard muscle of his torso and nothing happens. could you kick him? your legs feel shaky.

you make a whimpering sound and the corner of his mouth curls up into a smile. “are you trying to fight?”

your lungs are screaming. you need oxygen, your head is starting to spin. air rushes into your lungs before you even realize you’ve taken a breath and it tastes wet and warm and sickly sweet. he adjusts his grip so he’s holding you more securely, ready to lift you up when you fall. feels warm against him. you’re already getting dizzy but you shake your head, push weakly against the dark fabric of his shirt.

“save your strength, angel,” he laughs softly. one of those horribly scarred hands cups the side of your face where you’re staring up at him and he pinches your cheek. “…you’re gonna need it.”

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kinsey3furry300 · 3 years

Text

So how the heck do the Avengers pay for stuff, and how rich are they?

So, in the wake of “Falcon and the Winter Soldier” There’s a lot of debate about why Sam didn’t seem to get paid well for his work in the Avengers (at least in the MCU continuity), and this has got me thinking: we’ve got no evidence that the Avengers are, financially, anything but a hot mess. So lets break it down, Avenger by Avenger, using real-world pay scales for the ones who have jobs.

Tony: a billionaire, so clearly he’s a financial genius, right? Well….. his actions say otherwise. He’s shown to be wildly irresponsible with his money. He inherited a lot of wealth form his parents which was managed by the first Jarvis, Obadiah, and Pepper for him, he buys and then gives away not just woks of art, but entire collections by major 20th century artists on a whim, destroyed his own cars and home without concern, he tanks the value of his own company in the first Iron Man with a bad press interview, gets kicked of his own bord of directors, and ultimately, in Iron Man 2, gives control of his company to Pepper. He’s insanely rich, and insanely smart, but man, he’s not smart with his money. So all the cool stuff, his suits, the Avengers tower, the facility up-state: that’s all paid for by him, but Pepper is holding the purse-stings. So, does he pay the others? We have no evidence for most of them… but we do with Spidey. Peter Parker is in the Stark Internship Program a euphemism to hide the fact he’s training and mentoring him as a super-hero, but I find the wording interesting: he refers to Spidey, his surrogate son and chosen heir, as an intern. I.E., Unpaid. I’m guessing this is Howard’s influence over him, some sort of ‘make you own way in the world, son’ attitude, but if he’s not paying Spidey, is he paying anyone else? He certainly pays for stuff super heroes suits and things, equipment, fuel, the base, but does he pay anyone a wage? No one ever mentions it. You think it would come up.

So, if he’s not paying them a wage, where do Avengers (and thier allies) get their day-to-day money from, and are they rich? Using google and https://www.federalpay.org, lets find out.

Cap: Well, before Civil war, he’s a shield operative, and he presumably still holds his military rank: he’s a US Army captain, with (well) over 40 years service, so USD$88,142.40 per year, with $237.71 drill pay (pay per drill you have to do on weekends, on leave or outside of normal service) and $175.00 per month hazard pay (which I bet is interesting) on top of that. As a WW2 veteran, he’d be eligible for a war pension if he:

Was not discharged for dishonorable reasons; and,

Served 90 days of active military duty; and,

Served at least one day during wartime ("wartime" as determined by the VA); and,

Had countable family income below a certain yearly limit; and,

Is age 65 years or older; or

Regardless of age is permanently disabled, not due to wilful misconduct.

As he’s still receiving 90k per year, he’s ineligible for a pension as his countable yearly income is above the limit. So if shield pays him in accordance with his rank and years of service, about $90, 600 per year incuding hazard pay.

After civil war, he’s a fugitive on the run, so presumably flat broke. I’d asume he gets his pension returened to him after the snap.

He’s also just gone from the 40’s to the present day, so 70 years of inflation probably makes buying things very confusing for him: everything would seem insanely expensive at first. He’d also not know what the correct prices are for anything invented after 45. You might get used to how much more expensive food and coffee is, but how much is a smart-phone worth? $200? $2000 $20000? Who knows? I bet the others have to facepalm a lot when he either refuses to pay for what he sees as clear price-gouging, and at the same time regularly pays insane amounts of money for goods and services because he doesn’t know better. He also has no known assets other than his pay: he rents an apartment making him one of the few American males in his age-group who isn’t a home-owner

Thor: Does Asgard even have currency? It’s depicted like a “Crystal spires and toga” type utopia with no poverty: even working class Asgardian’s like Scourge seem to be pretty well-off and want for nothing, so he’s from a post-scarcity society where actual magic is a thing. His “Another” coffee cup smashing and the fact he doesn’t have a computer of phone in Ragnarök might indicate that, no, he just doesn’t have, need or understand money. Splitting a bar tab with him must be a nightmare. His breakdown post snap indicates he’s got some cash, but not a huge amount, and is probably skiving of Valkyrie and the other Asgardians.

Banner: Okay, so a PhD could make you a lot of money from patents… in pharmacology or engineering. Theoretical physics? Not so good. And if Banner did have any patents, they’ve probably been seized under eminent domain by the US military. At the start of The Hulk film, he’s working a entry-level factory job at a botteling plant in Brazil. The minimum wage in Brazil is 1069.62 Real per month, that’s 12,835.44 Real per year, or around $2437.79 US per year, before everything goes wrong for him! He then runs off to India, works for Tony for a bit and then gets shot into space. Spidey may actually make more in allowance than Banner does, and Banner is a gown ass man with bills to pay: I’d imagine he loses a lot in ripped clothing.

Natasha and Barton: Pre Civil-war, both are government spooks, so how well does that pay? The salaries of CIA Intelligence Analysts based in the US range from $25,838 to $685,701 , with a median salary of $125,340, so let’s assume that Shield pays in a similar range: $685,701 per year for Director Fury, around 125,000 for Natasha and Cliff, which explains Cliff’s nice, middle-class mid-western home. Post civil war, presumably not great: we know that Natasha spends a lot of her savings running and hiding all across the world, and Cliff takes a deal and presumably lives of his savings, pension and his wife’s income.

Rhodes: Full USAF colonel with over 10 years service? $105,562.80 per year, plus $293.23 drill pay per drill and $175 per month hazard pay, and because he’s team Stark and not Team Cap in Civil War, he’d not lose any of that. He presumably also gets an injury pay-out after his accident. After T’challa and Stark, he might be the best paid avenger.

Dr Strange: spends all his money he made as a surgeon on trying to cure his hands: spends literally his last dollars heading to Nepal to train. Wong even jokes with him about their lack of worldly money when asking for a tuna-melt. But, can use illusion to make people think he has money, and his home and clothes etc. come with the job, so in the same boat as Thor in that he has no money, but needs none AKA, he’s a bastard to try and split a restaurant bill with.

Wanda and Vision: No know source of income, just sort of live in Tony’s hose and eat his food, and on top of that Wanda goes on the run after civil war… yet they can stay in fancy hotels in Edinburgh, a relatively expensive city, and Vison apparently bought them a house to retire in, so one of them has some source of money. Maybe Tony gave Vision years of back-pay form when he was still Jarvis, or maybe the vison has a day job, which is, frankly, hilarious. Could you imagine him as a barista? I can, and it makes me very happy.

Scott Lang: I’d assumed he’d be super, super broke, but apparently the average pay for a private security consultant in the Bay area is $85,430 per year. Not bad. Pity he gets sucked into the quantum realm just as his business is taking off, so presumably, flat broke again.

Bucky: no known income, and I doubt Hydra paid him for being the Winter Soldier so he probably has no savings, but he should, technically, qualify for a military pension. As a single veteran, he’d be eligible for federal tax-free pension of up to $1732 per month, or $20,784 tax free per year. Not much for someone who lives in NYC. He may also be eligible for medical benefits over the loss of his arm. Whether or not he got to see any of that money given how confused his life has been over the past 10 years is unclear, but on paper he’s eligible.

T’challa: He is, quite possibly, richer than Stark, and as an absolute monarch pays no tax and has access to his Nation’s vast wealth in vibanium. It’s good to be the king!

Captain Marvel: USAF captain, and a test pilot; the test pilot school only accepts applicants with a service length of less than 9 years 6 months (10 years six moths of helicopters) as they don’t want older applicants. With 8 years service, $79,538.40, plus drill pay and hazard. However, no know (human) pay since 1990. Flat broke.

Guardians of the Galaxy: no data, but I’m assuming “Cowboy Bebop” levels of perpetual never-ending poverty given the way they choose to live. I’d also assume Rocket has taken all their cash into some sort of Ponzi scheme of his own creation, because just look at him, of course he has.

Spidey: he’s got about $10 of his aunts’ money at any given time, so he can buy lunch… which may in fact be more than Banner or Lang, and we know it’s more that Strange or Thor.

So, here the big one: how rich or how broke is Sam?

Sam Wilson: annoyingly, we’re not directly told what rank Sam held in any MCU film. USAF pararescue “Maroon berets” are generally NCO’s (but there’ are officer-ranked pararescue) , and he’s seen working on his wings at one point, where as officers don’t generally work on or maintain airframes. He’s shown wearing a Nation Air guard grey while jogging at one point to confuse the matter further. The general consensus on redit is he’s a former USAF tech sergeant (E-6). But how long was he in the air force? With six years service (the minimum sensible time he could have served to work in pararescue based on his age), that would be $41,464.80 per year, plus drill pay and hazard. As Anthony Mackie, the actor that plays him, was 36 as of Civil War, and assuming the character is the same age, and assuming he retired from the air force that year, and he joined the USAF at 17, the youngest you can join, he’d have served 19 years, giving him a pay of $51,566.40, the maximum pay you can get at this rank before promotion to Master Sergent, but meaning he left just before he’d qualify for the 50% final salary pension you’d qualify for after 20 years. Which seems weird. So let’s assume the character is one year older than the actor that plays him and served 20 years (ages 17-37), that means Sam has a military pension of $25,783.20 per year (20,784 of it tax-free), plus any injury benefits. He councils other veterans, but doesn’t get paid for that. He also chooses Team Cap in Civil War, so would become a wanted criminal, and so lose his income between 2016 and 2018, and then gets snapped and has no income for 5 years, which would destroy his credit rating. Like the rest of Team Cap, he presumably gets his post snap pardon, and goes to work for the US government at his former pay and rank. However, given how Captain John Walker treats him as an equal, it’s possible he’s been promoted to a captain when the hired back, giving him a pay of between $54,176.40 to $88,142.40 (with 20 years experience, depending on if they take into account his prior service or not, and how much prior service he has), but either way, he’s just starting this as a new job after being legally dead for 5 years: no savings, and no credit.

Commercial fishing vessels cost about 10% of their total value per year in maintenance alone. I can’t identify what sort of boat the Wilson’s have, but some quick googling indicates that the cheapest 15m long wooden in-shore shrimp trawler costs around $140,000, so that’s $14,000 per year in maintenance costs alone, minimum. And that’s a lower estimate, assuming the rest of the business is sound, which we know it isn’t.

So, in concussion, yes, Sam is in some serious financial trouble until he can re-build his savings and credit, but the scary bit is he’s not alone in that: he’s probably better off than Lang, Banner, Danvers, Strange, Thor, Bucky, Wanda and Parker. Only Clint (if he gets a full pardon and gets his full pension), Rhodes, Stark and T’challa aren’t in some sort of potential financial problems. That asshole bank teller was right: despite the fact it seems to pay well on paper, with a few exceptions, the Avengers financials are probibaly a mess. EDIT: Rocket is running the Ponzi scheme, if that’s not clear from context. The others know they have money somewhere, but not where it’s gone. And It’s been pointed out to me that as he’s technically a POW while he’s the Winter Soldier, Bucky is owed over 70 years back-pay, equal to over 3 million dollars, details in the notes.

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