#it was all about clearance and disaster relief

[jaded-ghoster]

i think we all focus too much on the fighting aspects of the quirks, what about first aid? Kaminari is basically an invaluable defibrillator

[dontfeeltoohot]

Part one of an idea that came to me. Have some Eddie whump! 😈

Tw: mention of blood from a nose bleed

X X X

It’s been nearly six months since Vecna disappeared, since Eddie’s entire life was flipped upside down, since his arrest for Chrissy Cunningham's murder, as well as his clearance of it, since Hopper came back ‘from the dead’. Six months of uneasy quiet while Hawkins rebuilds and tries to move on from the ‘freak anomaly of an earthquake’ that shook the town. Eddie’s grateful that most of the residents have been too involved and busy with disaster relief to keep their attention on him.

The new, small home he and Wayne have been given is cozy enough, at least, that’s what the twenty year old tells himself, while staring at the ceiling from his bed, eyes burning from lack of sleep. The constant, dull ache in his head from countless nights spent awake is threatening to become something more, something worse, so Eddie shifts and takes the (ever dwindling) Tylenol bottle on his bedside table, shakes two pills out, then swallows them dry.

An hour passes, then two. Every time his heavy eyes fully shut, the musician is transported back to the night Chrissy died, or the night his mom died. And every time, he jolts awake and has to take deep, shaky breaths to try and calm himself down, arms hugging around his torso tightly- but not tight enough to irritate his demobat bites. They’re scarring but healing, so he can’t really complain. Sure, he’s lost a nipple, but it’s not like he really needs it anyway.

A door opens, then closes. The long haired man tenses out of pure habit; thanks to the trauma of being a wanted man for a week, constantly on edge and waiting to be caught. The second after, his body deflates. It’s Wayne, he knows, if only by his Uncle’s footsteps, and the humming coming faintly down the hall. Shifting and rubbing his eyes, Eddie sits up, just barely restraining a whine from slipping out.

He’s so goddamn tired, tired in a way he’s not sure he’s even felt before. It’s like his brain isn’t connecting properly, like his limbs short circuit sometimes when he tries to stand or walk, and his eyes always feel heavy. Shifting, Eddie sits up, then forces himself out of bed, ignoring the slight dizziness that assaults him from lack of sleep.

Shuffling down the hallway, he hears Wayne in the kitchen, mugs clinking around in the cabinet as he no doubt tries to find the right one. They’re working on rebuilding their collection- Eddie’s already explained he doesn’t want the other ones back, that they’ve been contaminated by the upside down. Which, yeah, he’d told Wayne about that too. Fuck NDA’s, and fuck the government.

“Hey Wayne,” Eddie’s voice is low and sleepy, he keeps it down so as not to spook the older man.

“Mornin’ Eds. You get any sleep? You look a little…” Wayne trails off, giving his nephew what can only be described as a ‘sympathetic grimace’.

“Mm, yeah, course I did, don’t worry so much,” Eddie lies through his teeth.

Wayne gives him a look but doesn’t push, at least not for now. Thankful, the musician bites at his thumbnail and goes to the fridge to get eggs out. He’s not particularly hungry, but he’s sure his uncle is, so he finds a pan, turns the stove top on, then gets to work. As he picks up an egg to crack into the pan on the stovetop, pain explodes in his head, worse than previous times. It’s sharp and unrelenting, not like the aching he’s used to. The egg drops to the ground, cracking and shattering, yolk everywhere.

Eddie

The pain has stopped, but standing there, right in front of him, is his mother. Dark brown curls, chocolate colored eyes, fair complexion, it all stares back at him with a smile he can sometimes see when he’s waking up from a good dream.

Eddie

“Mom?”

“Eddie? Christ kid, help me out here! Eds! Wake up,” Wayne’s voice surrounds him, making him blink again.

The pain is back, but the sharpness has dulled to its usual uncomforting ache. His mother isn’t there, now replaced with her brother, looking with wild eyes at him, cheeks red and hands holding his shoulders tightly. Eddie blinks hard, feeling alarmingly woozy, head heavy, as if he’s going to tip over. Wayne’s hand comes closer to his face, then he’s touching underneath his nose, coming away with red on his fingers.

“Sit down Eddie, your nose is bleeding.”

That explains the woozy-ness at least.

When he doesn’t move, still staring at the empty spot where his mother had been moments prior, he lets Wayne manhandle him to the kitchen table, where he’s given a hand towel to press against his face. They’ve done this song and dance before, but the culprit has always been someone else punching his face, never his own body retaliating against something. Leaning forward, he pinches the fabric against his nose, taking a shaky breath.

“Sorry…”

“Hush, ain't got nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout kiddo. You look like you saw a ghost though, you alright?”

No, he thinks. He’s not alright. His mother, the one that’s been dead for twelve years, was just standing in front of him. Instead, he doesn’t want to worry Wayne, not when he’s been stressed lately, so he gives the older man a shaky smile.

“Yeah, thought I saw something is all, but it was just my imagination. Guess I’m more tired than I thought,” he tacks on the last sentence as a sort of scape goat.

“Just stay there and keep holding it, I’m gonna clean this mess up.”

As Wayne works on cleaning up egg, Eddie finally pulls the cloth away, red stained and unusable now. He wipes a clean edge against his nose and the fabric comes away clean. Sitting there, he thinks about his mom not for the first time in the past forty eight hours. She’s always in the back of his head, even if it’s been over double the time since she’s been gone from him. He thinks about how she would sing him to sleep, and how she would try to help him learn how to read music while she played her guitar.

“How’s the bleeding?” Wayne’s next to him again, his brow furrowed in concern, wrinkles in his forehead far more prominent like this- when he’s anxious.

“S’fine old man, don’t worry, you’re gonna get even more wrinkles,” Eddie teases, letting the cloth drop to his lap. “Sorry for uh…the fun morning.”

“You’ll tell me if this happens again,” Wayne fixes him with a stare that makes the hairs on his arm raise.

“Yep, definitely will, don’t you worry your pretty little bald head,” he deflects with vague humor, hoping it’ll relax his uncle. It does.

Eddie stands and it feels like his head is floating, filled with helium as his body stays put. The lightheadedness subsides if only barely, enough that he can make it back to his small bedroom, shut the door, and lay back on his bed, squeezing his eyes shut at the pounding that starts back up in his skull.

[nasa]

5 Ways NASA Technology is Shaping the Transportation of Tomorrow

We have always been in the transportation business, whether launching astronauts to the Moon or improving airplanes to make them fly faster and safer on less fuel. And whether directly – like more aerodynamic wings for passenger jets – or indirectly – like more comfortable driver seats in sedans – this is yet another way our innovations benefit the public.

Today, the world of transportation is on the brink of some big changes. Drones are poised to make more efficient deliveries, crop surveillance and even disaster relief efforts. Taxis may soon take to the skies as well. And self-driving cars are ever closer to reality.

As we release our latest edition of NASA Spinoff, our yearly publication that celebrates the many ways our technology helps people on Earth, let’s take a closer look at some ways we’re helping augment transportation — and keeping everyone on the roads and in the skies safe.

1. Better data for driverless navigation

If cars are going to drive themselves, they need to be able to “see” and assess the world around them, from other cars to pedestrians and bicyclists to a construction cone in the road. This is accomplished with the help of 3D cameras, or light detection and ranging (lidar), which sends out laser pulses and calculates where obstacles are by how long it takes that laser to bounce back.

But that, says engineer Farzin Amzajerdian at our Langley Research Center, is like building a 3D picture one pixel at a time. Instead, a new kind of lidar grabs a full array of pixels all at once. This “flash lidar” is faster and, because it has fewer moving parts, more reliable. It sailed through initial tests for possible use on a future Moon lander, and our partner has also sold the technology to a major car parts manufacturer, for autonomous cars. 

2. Opening the airspace for drones

Air traffic control has largely been a human operation so far, with people in control towers actively directing all 50,000 or so flights daily across the United States. But add in drones, and humans won’t be able to keep up: experts estimate there will soon be millions of aircraft in flight every day.

We’re helping automate and streamline flight control, working with the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) and private companies to build the new technology needed to manage the anticipated challenges. Among other advances as a result, one company has built a platform used at airports, by air traffic controllers, and by drone operators around the world to more easily file flight plans, view the airspace, get clearance in restricted areas and more.

3. Software modeling for air taxis

It may sound like something from the Jetsons, but real people are imagining the technology needed to make flying taxis a thing. And they’re probably not going to look anything like the passenger planes that we’re used to.

But when you start with a totally new design, there are all sorts of variables, including how much it will weigh. When it comes to flying, weight is a critical factor. For one thing, a heavier craft needs more fuel, but more fuel makes it even heavier. And all that weight stresses the structure, which means reinforcing it (more weight again!). Do it wrong, and all these factors cycle endlessly until you have something too heavy to get off the ground.

New software, designed with our help, generates fast and accurate weight estimates of novel aircraft designs, helping engineers figure out what works and how to make it better. Among other customers? UberElevate, which is trying to take rideshares to the skies.

4. More nimble hand controls

We’ve even played a part in improving different kinds of joysticks, for everything from planes and video games, over the years. We had to because—especially in the early days of space travel—spacesuits were pretty unwieldy under the high g forces of launch and re-entry, so we needed to develop easy-to-use hand controls.

One former astronaut, Scott Parazynski, had acquired a wealth of experience training on and using NASA joysticks for jobs like maneuvering the International Space Station’s robotic arm. He realized similar technology could have even more of an impact on Earth. Parazynski, who is also a medical doctor, envisions improving robotic surgery with the new joystick he created; in the meantime, it’s already on the market for drones, making it easier than ever to use them to record aerial video, inspect a gas pipeline or even assess damage after a hurricane.

5. Helping farmers get the full picture

The “bird’s-eye view” is an expression for a reason: flying overhead provides a perspective you just can’t get with two feet planted on the ground. For the first time ever, we are going to get that bird’s eye view on Mars, and the same expertise that got us there is also giving farmers a new way to keep track of their crops.

The Mars Helicopter is poised to hitch a ride to the Red Planet with our latest rover, Perseverance, later this year. Designing it was a challenge: because there is so little air to provide lift on Mars, we needed something incredibly light (less than four pounds!) with large rotors that spin incredibly fast (nearly 3,000 times per minute).

We teamed up with a company we’ve worked with in the past on high-altitude, solar-powered, unmanned flyers. That company had something else in the works, using the same expertise: a drone equipped with two high-res cameras to capture images of crops as it flies overhead. The data from these images tells farmers where plants are thriving and where they’re not, informing them where they might need more (or less) water or fertilizer.

You can learn more about all these innovations, and dozens more, in the 2020 edition of NASA Spinoff. Read it online or request a limited quantity print copy and we’ll mail it to you!

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space: http://nasa.tumblr.com.

[enigmatist17]

Same Dance (Rhys Strongfork x Timothy Lawrence)

So So

Same trauma boys

--------------------------------------------

When the news of Moxxi taking over the fabled Handsome Jack’s Casino, Rhys couldn’t help but be happy for her and her crew. No one ever ventured near after several spacecraft were pulled in and never freed, and for seven years it sat there untouched and unopened by the rest of the galaxy. It sat until Moxxi had waited for the fall of the Calypso Twins to settle down, and the Vault Hunters who now resided on Sanctuary III were more than happy to help her with her vendetta. 

Now, Moxxi called in several favors. She wanted to make the casino something great, make it fair enough yet rid of the corruption that Jack had sunk into its very bones. Rhys Strongfork was one such man, having used some of her help in his early days of rebuilding Promethea. The now CEO of Atlas, still running around and rebuilding after his own War, had promised whatever he could. Part of his aid was to help reprogram the loader bots, as well as to help quietly rid or redistribute the massive army hidden in the depths of the casino. Only he and those who had helped with the takeover knew of its existence, and it was better left that way. Rhys, already on edge of entering Hyperion property after so long, as well as leaving his growing relationship, did his best to keep his nervousness and irritation on the down-low. 

Unfortunately, no one thought to tell him of a certain doppelganger. 

Rhys had drawn his gun before he had even realized, the other man slowly raising his hands as Rhys did everything he could not to start hyperventilating. Thoughts, ones he had thought long buried, were starting to creep up and into the forefront of his mind.

No, I killed him, he can’t be here, he can’t be here, he can’t be here, he ca-

“I’m not Jack.” It’s a whisper of a thing, Rhys shaking his head slightly to push his rising panic away. “I-I’m not Jack.”

“Then who the hell are you?!” He didn’t mean to scream, but Rhys had thought he would never deal with Jack, not after everything years ago.

Helios enters his mind, and Rhys feels sick as he lowers his gun.

That man isn’t Jack, he isn’t sneering and belittling and mocking his very being. No, this man sounded just as terrified as Rhys felt, and that only made his stomach churn. Well, that and remembering of how he had killed thousands of people to finally kill Jack off once and for all. It’s not until he looks at the man, really looks, and sees the crack of a mask that made his blood run cold, does he remember. Scores of men who bore the same faces, the same smiles, the same dead look behind their eyes as they were sent off to be like the man they were modeled after. 

“You’re one of the doppelgangers...aren’t you?” Rhys clears his throat, holstering his gun to the relief of both men. He gets a nod, and after an awkward pause, Rhys offers a hand. “I apologize, maybe we should start over. Rhys Strongfork, and yourself?”

“Timothy Lawrence.’ The other gives an awkward smile, holding out his left hand instead of his right. “I uh...sorry, still don’t have a right hand yet…”

“What?” Rhys moves to shake Timothy’s hand, flesh meeting flesh as Rhys zeroes in on the covered up stump on Timothy’s right arm. Whatever happened was fairly recent, glancing up when the man gave a slight cough, hiding his hand behind his back. “Sorry, it’s just, what happened? I mean, if you want to tell me.” The other shrugs, Rhys releasing his other hand and taking a step back to give him some space.

“Ah ya know...had to save this whole station.” Timothy gave a shy shrug. “Course got trapped and shit, so the only way to do it was to cut off my hand.”

“Would you believe me if I had to do something similar a long time ago?” Timothy cocks a look at the other, who just smiles and begins to regale Timothy with the story of what he had to do after Helios fell.

Conveniently he leaves out the part about Jack, figuring it didn’t matter.

It’s not until months later the subject is brought up. Rhys has had a long day of business dealings, still absorbing Maliwan and making it something better under Atlas’s hand. He’s tired and upset. His frogurt stand was closed for the day, the coffee had run out, and his back ached something fierce.  Rubbing at his eyes as he enters his penthouse, Rhys was looking forward to sitting down and just forgetting Atlas even existed. 

“You’re finally home!” Rhys doesn’t stop the smile that spreads the moment he hears that familiar voice, dropping his bag by the door and neatly stacking his shoes beside it. Spread out on the couch that had been occupying his thoughts since he left for work, Rhys spies one Timothy Lawrence cuddling up on the couch with a shy grin. Rhys spies some fresh coffee on the table beside him, and he can’t help but sigh in delight at the sight.

“You are brilliant, absolutely brilliant. You would NOT believe the utter disaster of a day I had.” Rhys pouted, taking his tie and belt off before flopping down onto Timothy with a purr. It’s a shuffle of gangly limbs before they are both comfortable, Rhys cybernetic arm grabbing the coffee and downing half of it. Timothy just hums, nuzzling the back of Rhys’ neck as he cuddles the other close. There were days Timothy didn’t say much, a byproduct of being alone for over seven years, and showed how he felt through gestures. Sometimes he would clean up the penthouse and then keep to himself, other days he would be the biggest love bug Rhys had ever seen, almost pleading for contact. It never bothered the CEO, just lying in content silence as some serial played on across the room.

“...Vaughn called today, and we chatted for a long while.” Timothy speaks softly, stirring Rhys from his slow descent into a nap.

“Is he comin’ home soon?” Rhys yawned, burrowing his face into the crook of Timothy’s neck.

“Another month he said…” The way that Timothy hesitates pulls any sort of sleep from Rhys’ mind, the other drawing back. Emerald eyes, flecked with gold are looking right at the other, and the indescribable gaze makes Rhys instantly on edge.

“What’s the matter?”

“...why didn’t you tell me about Jack?” The name, so simple and short, turns the room heavy and frigid for both men. Rhys, usually ready with a remark, can’t find the words, and Timothy just does everything he can not to have a panic attack. They sit there, Rhys eventually sitting up with a quiet sigh. It’s only to move and take Timothy into his arms, feeling the slight tremble the other was clearly trying to hide. 

“...I don’t know where to start, except with' I'm sorry.” It’s a start, and thank the universe Timothy doesn’t pull away. Timothy can hear the shaky breath Rhys takes, one he only does if he’s nervous or scared of something, and guilt starts to creep up at making his lover so uncomfortable. Rhys has to start speaking after quite a few tries, unsure of what to start with.

“It started with a deal to buy a Vault Key.” Nice and easy, just start from the top. “Vaughn and I needed access at one point, and we had found some higher clearance access from someone obsessed with...him.”  It’s better not to say that name, and Rhys just feels the words start to tumble non-stop now that he’s begun. 

“He was in the drive, and because I was stupid and plugged it into my cybernetics, he just...was there.” A breath is drawn, and Helios comes to his mind. “I had to destroy Helios to stop him...I had let him free and because of that I...I had to…” Rhys bites his lip, leaning his head into the warm palm caressing the side of his face. “I killed so many people that day...and after all of that, I killed him again. I had to rip my arm, temple connector, and eye out...god it hurt so much.”  Rhys sighed, his arm still acting out at times from nerve damage he had inflicted on himself due to the event. “He is gone...and despite the monster he was, he is always included among the names I memorized from the crash.” Timothy frowns softly, pressing a kiss to Rhys’ forehead. It had been shortly after he moved to Promethea, that he had borne witness to Rhys’ ritual on the day Helios had crashed. 

The usually bubbly man had just sat up on the roof, staring out at the city with his prosthetic downstairs as far away as he had possibly been able to place it. Vaughn merely made sure he drank something, only touching Rhys to place a blanket around his shoulders once night had fallen. Rhys just screamed guilt and self-hatred the whole day, slipping into bed between Timothy and Vaughn sometime during the night. Zer0 had taken care of the meetings the next day, and the entire day had been spent in bed with every comfort food that could be grabbed from their kitchen. 

“I’m sorry.” Timothy presses another kiss, then another as Rhys just gives a weak sigh. “I am so sorry you had to go through that.”

“You and me...stupid young kids who idolized a monster...and got screwed after his death.” Timothy hums, and Rhys closes his eyes as he takes in the others' warmth.

“I’m just glad it opened our doors to each other. I mean, what were the chances you would give me a chance?”

“I don’t know, but after seeing you smile for the first time, you had me.” Timothy feels a blush creep up his neck, and Rhys just cuddles up as close as possible. The air is no longer heavy, instead filled with a familiar warmth as they just take in each other. 

A monster Jack may have been, but his reign, in the end, had united those destined for each other.

[ablogcalledrevenge]

Potential (A General Hux x Reader Insert Multi-Chapter Fic, Rated M)

Chapter Two

As much as Starkiller was a failure in your eyes, you wouldn’t deny that it made certain things easier. You didn’t have to worry about planting politicians in the Senate if said Senate had been blown up. Still, the vacuum that left in the galaxy needed to be filled. Smaller planets and peoples were left without leaders or guidance and they needed to be reached before the Resistance got there. That had been your mission for the past few months. 

You and the General had been sending triple encoded messages back and forth, discussing which politicians to endorse and which to drop. There were plenty of First Order sympathizers even with the demise of Starkiller but they couldn’t be too headstrong. They had to be open to suggestions and molding. A true puppet government wouldn’t work right now, you’d have to build up to it. So with his ideas and some of your own in mind, you traveled under the banner of the First Order, going from planet to planet and spaceport to spaceport, sowing pride and loyalty for your cause. For your husband’s cause. 

You had married in a beautiful but small ceremony, wanting to appeal to the grandeur of the old Empire while also acknowledging the salary of a General, even the most important one. Your father regarded the whole affair with bemusement, focusing on brown-nosing the guests and drinking expensive liquor. Your mother regarded the whole day with tired chagrin, knowing she couldn’t really complain without seeming sour and ungrateful. Perhaps it was petty, but after years of being ignored and put down, you relished in your joy. In the end, everyone got what they wanted. Your brother got the job, Hux got his money, and you got your foothold.

Then, as the night drew to a close, you couldn’t help but feel flutters of something in your stomach. You wondered what kind of experience you had coming. There were rumors about General Hux’s predilections and you wondered which were true. You were not above using sex as a way to get what you wanted from him, and he was very handsome in his dress uniform. But when you left the party and went to your suite, General Hux had merely squeezed your hand, kissed it, and then retreated to a side room to work. The air turned cold after the door between you whooshed shut and unsure of the swirl of emotions inside you- anger, betrayal, sadness, relief, happiness, confusion, embarrassment- you went to bed. Two days later, you left for your mission and he for the Finalizer.

And now you’re coming home, or what would be your home for the foreseeable future. You had plans to settle planetside but that would be a few years off. The ship was a small one, only big enough for yourself, two pilots, and a small group of Stormtroopers for your protection. They were all good, hard working people and you ingratiated yourself to them easily. It was never too early to start getting allies. Despite coming from a noble family,  you were an outsider to the First Order. The more people you had thinking of you fondly, the better off you’d be should disaster strike.

The Finalizer comes into view- massive and imposing, and your breath catches in your throat at the truly awesome amount of power it holds. The co-pilot, mistaking your gasp for romantic excitement, turns towards you with a fond smile. 

“Eager to get home to the General, my Lady?” He asks, his aged face looking kind. You glance down as if embarrassed but then quickly look back at the viewport and sigh. You couldn’t truly miss your husband, you’d been in contact with him these whole four months. The encrypted messages, though pointed and factual, made you feel something akin to closeness. You spoke of ambition and treason and he never spoke down to you but instead took your ideas into consideration. It was honestly the perfect way to be married. You never had to see him, but he still did everything you told him too.

“Oh yes! These past few months have been difficult but the Order must always come first. I know my dear husband has been so hard at work and getting to see him in action will truly be a gift.” You say with all the breathless anticipation of a newlywed. The pilots chuckle and nod, perhaps remembering their own youth, and the ship is silent until you land in the loading dock. If you roll your eyes anymore they’ll pop out of your skull. 

The Stormtroopers gather your bags and walk behind you as you exit the ship onto the Finalizer. The landing bay is a large and open area, bright floodlights hitting the silver walls and floors in a way that makes the whole place shine. It is also very cold and unfriendly. No one stops to greet you when you finally stop walking, barely anyone gives you a second glance. It’s honestly insulting. As a general’s wife, as the General’s wife, you deserve more respect. That’s not even including the fact that you are technically still a member of the ruling noble class from your home planet. At least your retinue of Stormtroopers remains behind you, loyal to a fault.

The sound of boots reach your ears and a young woman comes into view, the bands on her arm suggesting her rank of Lieutenant if you remembered correctly. Stopping in front of you, she bows slightly and you give an indulgent smile at the action.

“Good evening Lady Hux, I’m Lieutenant Stynnix. General Hux has asked me to take you to your quarters and help get you settled in.” She says, clearly impressed or at least interested in you and your dress. You bristle anyway, the insult of your own husband not coming to greet you being more important. Clearing your throat, you nod in her direction and follow her out of the landing bay and towards the officer’s quarters.

You don’t pay attention as she guides you through corridors and in lifts. You’ll make the General give you a tour later. This would be a way to speak to him and also annoy him, and you were always an expert at multitasking. Using a code you didn’t know, Lieutenant Stynnix opens the doors to General Hux’s quarters.

“The General has provided you with a datapad. All of the codes you’ll need are there, as well as a few forms you’ll need to fill out for your medical profile. You can set up your fingerprint analysis with this and send messages to anyone on the ship within your clearance level.” She explains, handing you a shiny black datapad, bigger than your hand but not unwieldy. You want to sound petty and ask exactly what clearance level your husband had so thoughtfully assigned you to, but you hold your tongue.

The quarters were large, certainly comfortable for two people. The doors opened to a sitting area, sparsely furnished. There was a low coffee table and one black leather chair. There was no artwork but there was a floor to ceiling wall of transparisteel, showing the beautiful stars as you traveled through space. Across from the coffee table and against the other wall was a light blue couch that looked uncomfortable. You admired the color, interested at it’s addition in such a utilitarian room.  Next to the transparisteel wall was a simple desk, covered in flimsi and models. It was neat and organized and you wondered if moving something over an inch would set a klaxon off. There were doors leading to other rooms, probably the bedroom and refresher, maybe a kitchen?

You turn in a circle, the silver and pink cape of your traveling dress twirling around you. It wasn’t a perfect space, far from it, but it could work. It just needed a feminine touch and some warmth; you could provide that. 

“Yes, this will do quite nicely I think. Thank you Lieutenant Stynnix. I appreciate you getting me settled in. You’ll have to forgive me though, I’m very tired. I would like to unpack, start filling out those forms, perhaps even eat something.” You say, putting your hands on your hips. 

“Of course my Lady. If you’re hungry, you can call up for a droid. The control panel for the lighting and temperature in your quarters is next to the door. The General has tasked me with acclimating you to life aboard a starship so if you need anything please feel free to send me a message.” She says with a click of her heels and a salute. You’re about to apologize for the task of babysitting you but instead she seems proud of her assignment. You decide you like Lieutenant Stynnix and having her in your corner will be a benefit. Plus, it’s always nice to have other women to talk to.

You thank her again, kindly and sincerely, and she leaves. Your bags are sitting on the floor next to the door and you let your shoulders sag. Sinking down on the blue couch, you make a noise in surprise at it’s comfort. Like everything else in this room, it looks hard and more for show than actual use. A beeping sound starts and a mouse droid enters, zooming around the room before stopping at your feet. 

“Yes?” You ask, amused at the little droid. It rolls back and forth for a moment before a transmission plays.

“This is a message from General Hux of the First Order. Welcome aboard the Finalizer. I will return to my quarters at the end of my shift. 1900 hours. Please prepare yourself to meet the troops. Fill out the forms.” The automated message repeats and you break out into laughter. What a romantic, your husband was. Still, it would be exciting to stand in front of the assembly of the First Order. Your first introduction as their Queen, even if they didn’t know it. You do have some time to change but you decide against it. It will seem more cost conscious and humble if you appear in your travel attire. Besides, it was extravagant enough to work for a simple address.

“Yes, I will. Thank you.” You respond, reaching down to pat the little mouse droid. It chirps as if used to such treatment and retreats back into it’s charging station. More pieces are added to the puzzle that is your husband. It was never a bad thing to be kind to droids and it suggested kindness in other areas that would hopefully be revealed to you soon enough. 

There was a chronometer on the desk and you realize the General will be returning sooner than you thought. Now that was something you’d have to speak to him about. You knew he didn’t like his first name but you certainly couldn’t call him “the General” for the rest of your life. Perhaps he had a nickname or enjoyed endearments? You’d have to ask him at some point, lest you embarrass him. You barely liked the man but you needed to appear united, and him jumping in shock if you called him Snookums on the bridge would work against that.

Squaring your shoulders with resolve, you get up and explore the rest of the rooms. You’re right about the doors. One leads to a small galley kitchen filled with more mugs than usable cooking equipment. That works for you; used to being served meals. Your husband likes Tarine tea and apparently nothing else. It suits him, the thought of the bitter tea making your tongue go dry in your mouth. It was almost sad, how much of General Hux’s life lacked sweetness and comfort. Did the man do anything for the simple pleasure of it? When you made him Emperor would he even enjoy it? 

Slamming a cabinet door and stalking out of the kitchen, you avoid the idea. Opening the door to the bedroom, something makes you pause before entering. You suddenly remember your wedding night, the shame and anger coiling inside of you. From the doorway you can see that it’s a simple room featuring a large bed with black sheets and two night tables. There is a dresser and an armoire and you wonder if your clothing will even fit there. Your clothing and various accessories are very important to you and you will not give them up. There is an open archway leading off to what you assume is the refresher but you close the door and return to the sitting area. The bedroom is not for you and you feel unwelcome trying to force your way in right now. 

How horrible of your husband; to make you feel so unsettled in your own home! That’s your bedroom too and yet you avoid it like the bed will swallow you whole. You’re probably safer in there then out by his desk. He certainly wouldn’t touch you among the sheets if his past behavior was anything to go off of.  You feel the urge to cry suddenly; the emotion strange and choking but you hold back. Now is not the time, especially at the start of your journey. You have no reason to cry, everything is going well. Just because your husband refused to greet you in person and has a dark, bleak home doesn’t mean you can break down. You don’t even know why you need to cry anyway; nothing is wrong, nothing bad has happened. You unpack and attempt to imagine your life here instead.

In what seems like the blink of an eye, a beep sounds and the door opens. You stand and face your husband as he enters, your hands resting at your sides to avoid fiddling with your dress or jewelry. His eyes scan your form briefly, more mechanical than appreciating, but you can’t help the way your heart skips when his bright eyes meet yours. The uniform is not a very attractive one and not even necessarily flattering but it fits him impeccably and you admire the striking figure he presents with his greatcoat. Were you other people, you’d run to his arms and kiss him madly. But you’re not other people, you don’t want his love, just his participation and obedience. 

Still, you smile as he walks towards you, pleasant and welcoming. He removes his hat and tucks it under his arm. He is speechless and you’re not quite sure why. Has the sight of you after so many long months truly arrested him? You didn’t think he considered your beauty that amazing but you would take the silence for what it was.

“Welcome home, it’s so wonderful to see you again.” You breathe out with all the sweetness you can muster. There’s no reason for you to put on an act for him, he knows of your ambitions but seeing him in person has made you want to be affectionate. You have been alone for four months.

“I hope you had a safe and comfortable journey. You look well. I know the officers are eager to meet you after my speech. As for everything else, we can discuss it later. Do you need more time to get ready? This will be broadcast to the First Order systems.” He says, before breaking away from you and going over to his desk. He moves a sheet of flimsi over to the left and you smirk behind his back. 

“No, I’m alright. Unless you don’t think this is appropriate? I’m used to galas and lunch gatherings, not addressing the entirety of the military and government. Perhaps I’ll add a circlet?” You ask, not caring about the answer at all. You want to get this over with, you want to discuss your progress and start the next phase of your plan.

“It’s fine, your dress is very becoming and fitting of your status.” He says brusquely before softening a little. He seems to consider his behavior and his shoulders drop causing you to freeze in shock. 

“Forgive me, it’s been a very long day and I won’t deny that I’m tired. (Y/N), you look very beautiful and I’m glad you’re here. I’ve enjoyed talking with you these past few months and I look forward to doing it in person. I am proud to introduce you to my fellow officers and subordinates. Please, let’s go.” He says, the ice that surrounds him melting a little. You give a genuine smile and give him your hand. The leather of his gloves feels warm against your own gloves and while he doesn’t smile in return, his gaze is less severe. He looks so young this way, so approachable. Were he any other man, you could see yourself falling in love with him.

Heading towards the bridge is an interesting exercise. Everyone must have been alerted to your presence because Stormtroopers salute and bow as you both pass and officers move out of the way to let you ahead. This is the behavior you were expecting and you give them all elegant nods. Perhaps it’s not true respect, just marvel at your unstandard dress, but you’d take their approval in whatever way you could. 

Entering the bridge causes a hush to fall over the room and you give a soft smile in response. Glancing at your husband, he leads down a walkway and towards the windows. The stars will be your backdrop as you’re introduced to your future subjects. You see Lieutenant Stynnix and give her a playful wink; she blushes. 

They’re setting up the cameras when you finally come face to face with Kylo Ren. He is ominous, tall and dark with an unforgiving mask. Your hand twitches with the urge to touch it and feel the grooves. You’re not sure if his title is one of actual nobility but you curtsy anyway. 

“Lord Ren, it’s nice to finally meet you. The General has mentioned you often and I’m eager to know if his assessment of you was correct. I have a feeling you will exceed any expectations I have and I look forward to getting acquainted.” You say, keeping your voice soft and mind blank. You were told that Kylo Ren could read minds and so you thought of simple things to make him skip over you. You thought of unpacking and cleaning your quarters, your nervousness at addressing the Order, your husband’s profile against the blackness of space. 

Kylo Ren’s only response was to cock his head at you and then walk away towards a corner. You feign confusion and disappointment and turn back to General Hux. It seemed the Force user was a very different kind of beast. You wonder if your family would be watching the broadcast and the thought fills you with malicious glee.

The address actually had nothing to do with you but this would be your first appearance in front of the First Order. There would be a little placard under the footage of you, declaring your new name and place in the universe. 

A throat clears and you face the camera as a red light turns on. General Hux squeezes your hand and steps forward towards the center of the bridge. There were a few cameras moving around and one was focused solely on you.

You were live in front of the galaxy, your galaxy, and the surge of pride that entered your being caused a sparkle in your eyes that people would talk about for decades to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If asked about it, you wouldn’t be able to say what your husband talked about. During his speech, you focused on keeping your face pleasant but neutral while occasionally sending adoring looks his way. Let them think you vapid and simple, let them underestimate you. They would learn the truth in time.

After the broadcast ends, Hux in a surprisingly display of cleverness and foresight, returns to you and takes your hand. You don’t expect him to kiss you in happy exhilaration; it would be out of character for the staid man. But showing the crew small affectations of intimacy would endear you to them. 

You’d done your research on the troop’s view of General Hux, especially after Starkiller. You wouldn’t have been surprised if they hated him, distrusted him, and ignored him. But instead, it seemed like the crew respected him more. They admired him for his calm under pressure and his acknowledgement of failure. They didn’t believe Starkiller was his fault and gave him more trust and loyalty. The First Order loved General Hux with a level of fanaticism that inspired you. 

If they thought he loved you and respected you, they’d fall in line. All you had to do was keep up a good reputation and blush in front of your husband a few times and they’d support you in your endeavors. They would listen to your flesh and blood General before the flickering image of Snoke. While your path to power wouldn’t be easy or quick, it was nice to have built in supporters.

Several officers approach you, awe in their eyes. Lieutenant Mitaka stammers out a hello and bows far too deeply to you as did the other younger officers. The older colonels and captains address your husband first before grasping your hand with approval. The female officers compliment your dress and composure. Captain Phasma, resplendent in chrome approaches but does not bow or genuflect. 

“Welcome aboard the Finalizer Lady Hux. Your work the past few months has not gone unnoticed and the Stromtroopers who you traveled with spoke very warmly of you.” Her modulated voice giving no indication of her emotion. You hate all these masks, they make you feel so uneasy.

“Thank you Captain. The same goes for you. Your Troopers are expertly trained and I felt well protected with them. I didn’t expect anything less from someone as revered and respected as you.” You say, looking up and up at her. General Hux’s hand touches briefly at your lower back before moving away and the gesture is unexpectedly sweet. 

The parade of people you have to meet seems never ending but at last it does. As General Hux leads you back towards your quarters, you recognize your path. Learning this ship is easier than you thought, though you’re sure if left to your own devices you would get lost.

“I’ve ordered dinner for us. I imagine you must be hungry.” He says as the pneumatic doors close behind you. He removes his hat again and places it on a table before heading into the bedroom. At a loss for what to do, you follow him, breaching the threshold.

“Yes, thank you. I am hungry.” You assume you’ll eat at the small table in the kitchen. There’s no space for entertaining here and that makes you frown. You’re not expecting to throw dinner parties but as a wife and nothing more for the time being, your home will be your work space. Perhaps you could commandeer a meeting room for such an occasion and only focus on small groups for the sitting area.

He nods at your agreement and taps out a few things on his datapad before taking off his gloves and laying them gently on a night table. His side obviously; it’s already been chosen for you. The sight of his bare hands stuns you and you sink to the bed unknowingly. There is an elegance to his pale hands, a grace to the long fingers and short, manicured nails. You wonder if they’re as soft as they look and if they will be as cold as the rest of him. He doesn’t notice you staring as he disrobes, or if he does, he doesn’t comment on it. 

The greatcoat comes off next and he looks so much smaller without it. He looks less like the megalomaniac you know him to be and more like a regular person. Even without the breadth his coat affords him, you still enjoy the shape of his body. You like a man you can overpower. There is something effortlessly beautiful about your husband, a sharpness to his features that shifts into curves and keeps him from looking too old and severe. His nose and cheekbones lend an aristocratic air to him while his tapered waist spoke of good proportions and decent breeding. His hair would need some work, the vibrant color dulled by gel and plastered to his skull. You understood that there were certain rules about grooming but even just a little less would be nice. His hairline was strong, he luckily wouldn’t go bald too soon. Yes, you could enjoy seeing him age, that much you decide.

“Dinner should be here in a few minutes. You can put your clothes in here, although I fear we may have to get another one if all your dresses go out like that.” He says with good humor, gesturing to the armoire. You couldn’t decide if you were offended by the statement or in agreement. You did have dresses with fuller skirts and flamboyant sleeves- though you were no Padme Amidala- so another bureau or armoire would probably come in handy. You’d need at least two drawers for your jewelry and headpieces alone. 

The door chimes and General Hux leaves the bedroom, you following quickly behind. A droid enters pushing a cart and he directs it to the kitchen. It smelled surprisingly delicious, and the relief you felt at not having to eat the officer’s rations was palpable. General Hux smirks knowingly before setting the covered platters down and thanking the droid. A surge of affection went through you at that, charmed by his behavior. 

“I wasn’t sure what you liked but I knew you wouldn’t eat the normal meals officer’s get. Perhaps you could make a list of food you prefer and we’ll get that to the cooks for the future.” He says, taking off the covers to reveal a fragrant and juicy looking fowl with colorful vegetables and mashed tubers. His own meal was a protein pack and the strange sludge you knew the officers ate in the mess hall. It almost put you off your own dinner. How sad, that he was the leader of the First Order and he still ate the same things his lowest subordinates ate. His tastebuds must be shot. 

Him having better tasting meals wasn’t necessary to your plan but it would make you feel better. His well-being mattered to you and it would be very uncouth for an Emperor to still be eating rations when everyone around him was eating penne all’arrabbiata. You would improve everything in his life, get him used to the luxury of his new life.

You eat in comfortable silence, commenting on the food occasionally. It seemed that outside of his grandiose speeches, your husband was not a talker. Better for you, you had plenty to talk about.

After dinner, he sets the trays back onto the cart and wheels it outside for a droid to return to the kitchen. An awkward air settles around you as you wait for him to do something, anything. He goes to his desk and turns on a projector, fingers tapping at his datapad. Apparently it is time for work.

Throwing your hands up with a groan, you go to the bedroom to change into sleep clothes. You might as well be comfortable. If your nightgown also happens to be very flattering and thin, then that was a coincidence. You return quietly to his desk, looking at the spinning holograms for a moment before turning his chair around to face you. His look of consternation makes you chuckle. 

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough work for today? You promised we would talk and I have a lot to say. There’s so much to figure out. All of this can wait.” You say, knowing that you could be wrong and he could rebuff you like your wedding night. But he doesn’t disagree or yell at you. Instead, he gets up and leads you towards the blue couch. Curling up on the cushion, legs tucked underneath you, he retreats to the bedroom. You’re about to start screaming about his cowardice at abandoning you once again when you realize he’s getting into his sleep clothes as well. Through the open door you watch him remove his boots with a jack and the sight of his socked feet strikes you as so vulnerable and innocent. You don’t see him remove any other clothing and you don’t know whether to be grateful or discontented with that.

He returns to the couch, and to you, in a simple black shirt and soft black pants. Does the First Order make no other clothing? Is everything black and red and white with the occasional grey? No wonder they all stared at your colorful gown.

He reclines next to you and settles a gentle hand on your knee. You can’t feel it through your gown and you keep yours in your lap. You are still conflicted in your desire to be close to him.

“Tell me about your trip, (Y/N). What do we control and what comes next?” He asks, your name coming from his lips making your skin buzz. Any anger or annoyance you experienced earlier dissipates and a smile appears on your face, wide and wicked.

“We control it all. Ando and Atollon are under the First Order banner, as are Iego and their moons. I went to Eriadu and spoke with many older Empire families and they are in full support of the First Order’s current conquests though they still seem bitter about losing Hosnian Prime. Despite the fact that the planet was the home of the New Republic, they miss the exports. We should look into replacements. It may seem silly but we need the support of the Empire. We need their money and their influence, especially on the Core Worlds.” You say, grabbing your data pad off the coffee table and showing him the current statistics. They weren’t one hundred percent accurate but they gave a good overview of the First Order’s reach across the galaxy. Your finger swiped across the screen, showing him the profiles of the people in charge and the current approval rating. All in all, it was very promising. 

“Excellent. I’m glad the families on Eriadu didn’t cause you too much trouble. I find them exhausting and foolish but you’re not wrong. We do need them, as much as I loathe to admit it. Promise me that when we take control we’ll ship them off to a work camp or an ice planet and ignore them.” He asks, rubbing his eyes. The brief show of his exhaustion causes a flare of worry to rise in you. 

You gently remove his hand and kiss his fingertips, correct in your assessment that they were cold. He doesn’t stop you, moving his hand to caress your cheek. It’s the most he has ever touched you. It’s a lot for him to do this, you can tell. It’s obvious that the General has never known soft and gentle touch. Unlike on the bridge when everyone was watching, his movements here are hesitant and slow. You reward him for his bravery by turning your head in his grip and kissing his palm. It warms under your lips and you think it’s a fitting metaphor. 

His face is still and calm but his eyes have taken on a peculiar quality. It is intrigue but of a different kind than you’ve seen before. It thrills you and gives you hope that this could perhaps become a true marriage. You would’ve been happy with just a understanding partnership filled with contentment. But his reaction to you suggested more. Your kiss turns into a bite and he raises a red eyebrow in challenge.

“I promise.”

Chapter Three Coming Soon...

Tagging: @babbushka, @livy1391, @girl-next-door-writes, @renaissance-mama, @peqchynero, @the-temple-pythoness, @cupofmoonlighttea, @sincerely-cronch, @brujademente, @potato-ren​. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters!

[sablelab]

Covert Operations - Chapter 117

SCENAIRO:  Madeline and Operations are seething at the treatment that Colum has metered out to them and vow to seek revenge but until then they have the problem of Jamie and Claire to deal with. They discuss the possibility of a mole in Section who is feeding Colum intel about Jamie and Claire and the mission. Meanwhile Murtagh and Fergus access the Level 5 room which houses the data they seek.

Chapter 116 and all other chapters can be found at … https://sablelab.tumblr.com/covertoperations

THANK YOU to all reading and enjoying Covert Operations.  During the month of May, I will post twice weekly on Tuesday and Friday for those who are interested and who are still around after Season 5 finishes. I will still be here writing until I finish this story.   I hope you enjoy what happens next.

   CHAPTER 117

Colum Mackenzie’s words resonated in their heads but the fury that coursed through Section One’s leaders was less than palatable and the tension in the air could have been cut with a knife. Beside her, Madeline noticed the white knuckled fists and the ramrod stance of her superior. Operations’ eyes were sleet grey with fury; his lips were pressed into a white slit of anger; however, Dougal’s reaction was not unexpected. Folding her arms across her chest, Madeline gave him an abrupt glance. Her manner was markedly cool; she too was incensed by Colum’s surprising bombshell. It had been a long time since she had felt such a surge of pure rage, and now thanks to Oversight’s leader he had managed to evoke those feelings within her. However, in some morbid way, Madeline was thankful to him for she had forgotten the rush that such a primal reaction could give. In past occasions such a rush of emotion had given her options that she had used for Section’s advantage … but this time she would have to weigh up her choices well. As shocked as she was by Colum’s surprise, she had been playing this game for far too long to allow raw emotion to overpower cool logic. There was much at stake and personal vendettas at this moment may not be the best option for Section One or for Dougal and her.  She watched as Operations slowly unclenched his fists and shook his head as though struggling to find the right words for what had just transpired in Committee. Calmly Madeline met Dougal’s eyes, watching his reaction. Finally, he blinked and turned to stare back at her, his expression rigid, his words clipped with anger.

“It seems that my brother has been well informed about Jamie and Claire than we had known or anticipated.”  “You don’t think that someone is passing on information to Colum at Oversight?" “It’s possible.” “Then we may have a mole in Section.” “But who?”

“Fergus? Murtagh?” “No … I would find that unlikely. They are opportunists not traitors. Fergus is too loyal to Section and Murtagh has been here too long.” Madeline’s skeptical reply was, “Colum could have gotten to them. There is one thing that is puzzling.” “What’s that?” “I ran into them near a restricted area before coming to Committee.” “Are you convinced they were acting inappropriately?” “No … but it was a surprise to find the two of them there although they gave plausible reasons why.” “Were they acting suspiciously?” “I’m undecided if they were up to something or if it was just a coincidence that the two of them were in the vicinity of a restricted area without clearance.” “Then follow it up Madeline.” “I will.” “But at the moment we have far greater concerns with my brother than to be worrying about Murtagh or Fergus.” “I agree.” Madeline had expected this very response from Operations for she too felt that the two of them had been played for a fool by Colum and that his visit had not only been a reconnaissance mission but had also deeper connotations. It was plainly obvious that Oversight, or more to the point Colum, had his sights set on their leadership at Section One and it was imperative that they do nothing more to antagonise him concerning the Rising Dragons’ mission and in their dealings with Jamie and Claire.  Madeline inhaled and exhaled to compose the fury that welled within and although her face was rigid with barely concealed anger at having been duped by Oversight, her calm tone belied her true feelings. “Yes … so it would seem.” Operations shot her an expression of dark thunder. “And just what are we to do now that Colum has firsthand knowledge of the comings and goings at One?”  Her spine stiffened at his mocking tone and Madeline chose her words carefully. “I admit that it is an unforeseen complication…” Operations snorted disdainfully but said nothing as she added, “… it's unfortunate, but not a complete disaster.”  “Unfortunate!” Dougal turned to her then, his eyes hard as he repeated her words, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Someone at Section One is feeding information to Colum at Oversight and that is unfortunate?” He folded his arms and stared at her, his voice rising in anger. “Explain to me how this is not a complete disaster, Madeline!”  To her unemotional relief, the directive provided Madeline with a perfect opening to a solution.  Meanwhile in the restricted area … The mood of the two men was at polar opposites. The close incident with Joe Abernathy weighed heavily on Fergus’ mind but Murtagh seemed oblivious to the churnings that centered in the pit of his friend’s stomach. With adrenalin kicking up a notch Murtagh had bravado in his step but beside him his ever-cautious buddy was more reticent. Although the corridor was deserted, Fergus continuously referred to his scanning device ever vigilant for any movement that would alert their superiors to their unauthorized access to Level 5.  “Relax Fergus you’re wound up tighter than a spring. We’re in an undocumented area. There shouldn't be anyone here.”  His friend’s confidence was reassuring and Fergus reluctantly nodded but he still kept a close eye on his scanner. They turned right continuing on deeper into the classified level until they arrived at an isolated room with secure doors that seemed to indicate that the room was heavily reinforced and shielded.  “Well what now? How are we going to get in there?” Fergus asked looking over at his friend.  Murtagh’s happy demeanour suddenly dissipated, and thinking that their adventure had come to a sudden end he replied reluctantly, “Yeah.” “Murtagh you promised that if there was another obstacle we would abort.” “Okay … Just give it one try and see if you can access the code. If you’re not successful then we’ll call it quits.”  “Fine.”  Fergus punched the code … two-two-one-seven-one … into the keypad but nothing happened. “Look there's a port on the right,” he stated. “Use your pad again amigo. It might work this time.” Finding the port Murtagh had pointed out, he plugged his keypad in to it. “Try it now.”  But like before, nothing happened and just as Fergus was about to try keying in the code once more, Murtagh placed his hand on his shoulder stopping him. “What’s wrong?” He looked more closely at the entry. “It looks like it might be a retinal scan.” “Well that’s it then. Only Level 5 operatives have clearance for that,” Fergus replied as he watched his friend come closer to examine the mechanism on the door.  However, Murtagh Fitzgibbons placed his eye close to the scanner which immediately lit up. The door opened to reveal a deserted room filled with computer wizardry. “Don’t ask,” he stated when Fergus stood there gobsmacked at what had just happened.  They both stepped through the opened door.  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Folding her arms across her chest, Madeline consciously mirrored Dougal's body language, but was careful to keep any hint of defensiveness from her tone. “I’ve been studying Dr Foster’s report on Jamie and Claire and it pains me to say that I feel we have no course of redress concerning the two of them.” Judging by Dougal's cynical expression, Madeline knew he remained in a quandary as to where she was going with this. Taking a step closer to him, she proceeded to push her point home. “We will have to give them some respite together it would seem, to appease Colum.” “No ... it’s out of the question! They will recover here in Medical where we can keep an eye on them.” “Think about it Dougal.”   Madeline replied warily. “Colum knows Jamie and Claire’s recovery is imperative to the Rising Dragons’ mission and he blatantly said they were to have some downtime together. We can’t very well go against his directive now that it has been issued. Mr. Lambert will not take too kindly to our opposition if we do.” Dougal's gaze narrowed, but he finally bowed his head in reluctant acknowledgement. He sighed grudgingly. “I see your point.”  “Anyway, it’s nothing that we have not already discussed. We are not conceding defeat in this matter, but merely covering all bases.” “I never concede defeat Madeline … and you of all people should know that,” he stated brusquely in his usual manner. “I think Colum knows that as well, but think about this rationally. We can bide our time until the time is right. It will give us time to reassess the mission profile, still keep our finger on the pulse as well as keep Oversight and more importantly Mr. Lambert out of our affairs. It’s a win-win situation.” Operations glared back at her as though giving the matter careful consideration. “Fine … do it!” At his acceptance, the tension in Madeline’s neck suddenly eased somewhat. Her mind was already leaping forward planning her next course of action, but she needed to get back to her office in order to do so.  “Madeline?”

She glanced back at Dougal to find him watching her with knowing eyes. “Yes?” “How do you want to play this out?” His pale stare seemed to look right through her. “I’ll finish going over Dr Foster’s report and recommendations and when the time is right, we’ll let them know of our decision. Agreed?” “Agreed.” 

 Meanwhile in the restricted area …

 Murtagh and Fergus entered a small circular room lit with eerie green and pink lights. It had a surreal feel to it and both of the operatives were a little taken aback at what they were seeing.

“Wow! I’ve heard about this section.” Fitzgibbons exclaimed taking in their surroundings as if seeing this room for the first time was like opening a Christmas present.  “What's stored here Murtagh?"  “Each segment is a Mission. When you see one that's lit up that means it's active. It also houses all personal data on Level 5 operatives and above.” Somewhat overawed, Fergus took a quick moment to cast his eyes around the room as well. The walls were lined with rows of panels indicating the subject residing inside the databank and he studied the various panels lining both sides. They passed a bank of blank monitors then a series of labelled ones. Murtagh walked over and started to read the panel labels but couldn’t find what he was after. He looked around and then saw a panel marked PERSONNEL.  “Hey Fergus … Got it … over here … I think this is what we’re looking for.” “Good.”  “Okay can you open it?” Fergus immediately rushed over and examined the panel. There was a handle at the bottom of the panel and he pressed it to access the computer. The shield immediately rolled up to reveal a screen and keyboard.  “Look amigo … There’s a docking port for your gizmo about waist height. Can you see it?” “Yes.” Excitedly he replied. “Plug in your panel then.”  Fergus did so and suddenly a command bar appeared as the monitor pulled up a search request … ENTER ACCESS CODE.  He’d hacked into many a mechanism but this was something new to him. What was the code? he wondered. He looked at Murtagh who shrugged his shoulders.  “Now what?”  Fergus knew he was flying blind but when all else failed he reverted to the high security access code from the Vickers Log. “Nothing. Just wait.”  Punching in the code, he tapped his fingers anxiously while beside him Murtagh waited with bated breath. It seemed as if they waited an eternity but in a manner of seconds several windows appeared with the last one on the monitor screen reading … LIST DIRECTORY - FILE SET “Yes!” Murtagh also gave a slight “whoop” when he saw what was on the screen and watched as Fergus quickly keyed in the request instructions … JAMES FRASER’S MEDICAL RECORDS.

ACCESSING DIRECTORY appeared on the screen and once again the two men waited for the computer to process the demand. With eager eyes Murtagh and Fergus watched it search for Jamie's name to download the information. Suddenly, another window appeared but the information was not what they wanted. The emblazoned bright red letters of the warning icon were glaring, flashing a statement that nearly dashed their hopes. ACCESS DENIED. However, when other instructions appeared beneath the statement lettered in blue, they breathed a sigh hoping that the extra Intel would show how they could access what was denied them. Their hopes faded though, when it was apparent that what they sought was not possible. SECURITY LEVEL 9 - ERROR

Discouraged the two men felt downhearted as they stared at the screen in puzzlement. However, it was not at all surprising that Jamie's personnel information was restricted and only accessible by Operations or Madeline. It made perfect sense that this particular cold operative’s files would be the most difficult to access.

Fergus tried everything possible that he could think of to access the encrypted code that would let them view Jamie’s Intel … but to no avail.  “We tried Murtagh but without Level 9 authority there is no way we can ingress Jamie’s personal data.” After having come so far it was such a letdown that they were not able to get the Intel they wanted. 

“Yeah we did …  but … is there any other way around that Fergus? You’re Section’s resident IT genius, and your computer abilities are legendary, if anyone can hack into the codes you can buddy. You can hack intricate codes and find out anything and anybody. Can you work around this one?”

“I don’t know if that’s possible. I can give it one more try but gee Murtagh Level 9 that’s gonna be tough.”

“You can do it. You’re good at piggybacking onto obscure access codes,” Murtagh encouraged confident in his friend’s computer prowess. “Give it your best shot and no pressure amigo,” he added for good measure.

Fergus wracked his brain to come up with a solution that might work. He was so nervous that at first, he couldn’t think straight. He’d been able to hack into terrorists’ intel clandestinely many times and this should be a cakewalk if he was able to pull himself together first.  If he was able to break the code then they could also access Operations and Madeline’s records as well, but that would be dicing with abeyance if they were to find any intel that they shouldn’t.  However, they had come too far to stumble at the last hurdle so he had to give it his best shot.

Section’s computer expert was smart and resourceful and if anyone could break the access code it was him. He just had to have confidence in his abilities.  Fergus knew he could do it but he had to think on his feet. If he could outwit Operations and beat the system to succeed in this task, then they would have the data they needed for Dr. Foster. With a furrowed brow he set to the task at hand.

Murtagh stood by and watched his buddy as his fingers glided over the computer keyboard.  He could see that Fergus was concentrating on getting the right formula that would gain entrance to Jamie’s file and it was obvious that the wheels were spinning in his mind. Murtagh watched his friend vacillating at what he could do to break the code and he saw beads of perspiration dot his forehead as to what he could try and do.  However, Fergus would have to find something soon as time was of the essence.  Madeline and Operations would be finished in Committee at any moment and they needed to get out of here A.S.A.P.  Still, he had great faith in his little dynamo pal to be able to pull off the impossible.

Suddenly Fergus looked up at is buddy with a broad grin on his face.  

“You got something amigo?”

“I’m pretty sure this will work Murtagh but if this doesn’t, we have to go.”

“Sure thing.”

With a smile he couldn’t hide on his face, Fergus relayed, “I think I’ve got it.  It was so simple that it was staring me right in the face.  I was expecting it to be more complicated than it was and obviously Operations would never think that the anyone except him or Madeline would need the code.”

“Slow down, slow down Fergus!” Murtagh said as he saw the excited anticipation on the young techie’s face at having cracked the code.

“Operations put a firewall on the code which was much too easy to get around. He should have staggered it to create a series of traps that was impossible to break.”

“Well then.  That makes you better than the man who designed it.” Murtagh replied pleased as punch with Fergus’ skill.

“Let’s see what happens now,” he replied as he tried again. Following the same steps as before but only this time Fergus tapped in the code in reverse.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Yes!  You’re a genius Claudel,” Murtagh exclaimed as ACCESSING DIRECTORY appeared on the screen in front of them. In no time at all Jamie’s Medical and DNA records began appearing on the monitor. The two men quickly downloaded the intel to Fergus’ little pad but as more intel flashed onto the screen both men looked at each other with stunned expressions as one piece of information caught them by surprise.

“What the …?”  They both exclaimed at the same time giving each other an O.M.G. look.

James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser was Dougal and Colum Mackenzie’s nephew and their blood types were the same. No wonder this intel was classified and only Operations and Madeline could access it. Did Jamie even know he was related to Dougal?  They thought not.  Did that explain Operations contempt of Jamie because he was a better man, a better leader for Section One, than Dougal was?  This information was dynamite. They could use this intel to their advantage if needs be further down the track but for now, they both decided to sit on it until it may be needed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Still shell-shocked by their discovery Murtagh was the first to recover his composure. “Alright then. We’re done. Fold it up Fergus. Let’s go. I guess we better get out of here before we’re missed.”  Fergus pulled his gizmo out of the port, closed down the computer, lowered the shield and replaced everything as it was before leaving no clues that anyone had tried to attain entry to the classified material files. In a hurry to leave before both he and Murtagh were discovered, the two men then made their way to the exit but as soon as they left the room an alarm sounded. The piercing sound had them freezing in place.  “Do you hear that?” Fergus nervously asked knowing that their goose was cooked. They’d finally been discovered. There was no way that they’d be able to talk their way out of this one. “Yes, I hear it. They've added an egress code.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ However, Murtagh did not appear panicked. Remembering back to the days when Letitia was in charge of Section One, he’d been responsible for many a scenario such as what they now faced. There was a solution to their dilemma but they had to be quiet and they needed to get away from here A.S.A.P.

“In about ten seconds, two operatives should enter from the Southeast to check why the alarm was activated. So, we’ll go the other way.”  “Are you sure?” “Sure I’m sure.” Fergus gave him an evil eye look as if to say, you’ve gotta be joking. “This is a grade two breach Murtagh, they’ll close all entry and exit points.” “Trust me … I’ll get us out of here without being seen.” “I’m never going to forgive you if you get us killed Murtagh Fitzgibbons … remember that!”  Fergus was skeptical but what choice did he have but to put his blind faith in his friend.  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The two men scurried away down a corridor toward the Northwest as quietly as possible. No sooner had Fergus and Murtagh disappeared from sight than two operatives hurried down a circular set of stairs and converged on the room. Raising their weapons, they each took one side of the open door. Gavin Hayes nodded to the other operative and together they entered the room weapons at the ready. Finding it empty, they lowered their guns and surveyed the room. There was no evidence of any tampering with sensitive files, nothing appeared to be out of place and there were no clues left behind that they could act upon. The two operatives decided in order to maximize their chance of finding an intruder they would need to split up to search the corridors in different directions. If there was a trespasser in this area, they would find them soon enough as the only way anyone could escape from this room was to take either one or the other corridor. Hayes also called for back up to converge on the corridors from the egress point thus giving any intruder no way to avoid capture. Keith Lesley took off down the Northwest corridor in which Fergus and Murtagh had made their escape to search for the intruder but he was unaware that Hayes had unfortunately been left behind. His colleague had been trapped when the doors suddenly closed behind him before he was able to exit the room.  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Perspiration poured off Fergus’ forehead and his nervousness was heightened every time he heard the slightest noise thinking that they had been discovered. However, unbeknownst to them, the two friends were doing a good job of eluding the operative who had come to investigate the breach. Nevertheless, Fergus was very uneasy and continually checked to make sure they were not being followed. He jumped at any little noise and kept his scanner at the ready to check for heat spots ahead and behind them.  “Murtagh!” He whispered anxiously looking scared. “Someone's coming.”  “How do you know?” “I’ve picked up an infra-red heat schematic. I'm tracking it. What do we do? What do we do?” He repeated with alarm lacing his voice. “Fergus, just stay calm.” With another panicked reply he blurted out. “I can't!” “Yes y'can. Listen to me carefully.” His buddy reassured him firmly. “Just keep calm and do exactly as I say.” They continually kept out of sight of the operative who had come their way keeping one step ahead of him at all times. The two friends entered a new winding corridor and raced along as quietly as they could until they came to dissecting passageways. Realising just where he was, Murtagh suddenly stopped. He looked to his left then he looked at the floor.  Fergus nearly ran into him. “What are you doing?” “Looking for something.” “Looking for what?” He asked incredulously aware that they were being followed and time was of the essence if they were to avoid being seen and detained. “Murtagh … we’re in dire straits here.” However, Fitzgibbons ignored his friend’s panicked pleas as he found what he was looking for… a small indentation on the wall. Identifying the panel, he pressed it, waited for the secret escape route to appear then ushered Fergus through.  ���How? … How did you …?” Fergus mumbled surprisingly as the panel silently closed behind them separating them from the operative who was searching for them.  Murtagh raised an eyebrow in mock triumph. “I'm a rebel. When you’ve been hanging around this place as long as I … well you get my drift? … Now follow me.”  They walked over to some circular stairs that obviously led back to the top level. Making their way up they were soon back on an unsecured level. Once there, they righted their clothes. Relieved, Fergus wiped the sweat from his brow and Murtagh straightened his bandanna then they strolled off toward Section's Common Area, doing their best to act nonchalant.  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Hot on the heels of the suspected intruder the operative turned the corner with his gun drawn, only to be surprised to find nothing and no one in the corridor. Perplexed he lowered his weapon and shook his head in disbelief. He thought that he’d been on to something but it had been a wild goose chase after all and he’d come up with no proof that there had ever been an intruder in this corridor. Perhaps it had been a false alarm. Other operatives soon approached from the dissected passageways but had nothing to report. They too had come up empty handed. Lesley then contacted his colleague.  “Hayes? Did you find anything?” “No … I’m trapped in the room.” “What?” “The door closed before I was able to escape. Did you see anyone in the Northwest corridor?” “No. No one.”  “What about the other operatives?” ‘No … nothing.” “You better report in then,” he replied unaware of the fate that would befall him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ to be continued on TUESDAY 5th May

[ferociousqueak]

Daffodil or Iris for Dess, pretty please?

So, this one is Iris, though I do plan to do one for Daffodil too. But I’ve thought a lot about how the Vallum Blast would affect Dess, being from Vallum herself. Thank you for the prompt and enjoy :D

You can also read it on AO3!

valor: (n) strength of mind or spirit that enables a person to encounter danger with firmness: personal bravery

***

News of the Vallum Blast was on a constant loop on every station. Everywhere she looked, Dess found another reminder, another devastating image that left her cold and nauseated.

She hadn’t been home since . . . well, home was too strong a word, but Vallum had been her family’s hearth since the city’s founding, long before even the Unification War. She could’ve had her arm amputated and it would hurt less than seeing a crater of rubble and ruin in the place where she grew up, the place where her family . . .

Within hours of the news, Executor Chellick issued carte blanche leave to anyone in C-Sec with ties to Taetrus. To grieve. To search for loved ones. To fight.

A transport carrying volunteers would leave in two hours. With priority traffic clearance and a relay already on the edge of the Mactare system, Dess could be there inside a day.

“You’re going?” Han asked. Anyone else might’ve missed the strained note of panic kept in check in her voice, but for Dess it rang like an alarm bell.

Grabbing an old footlocker—dusty from disuse, kept all these years from nostalgia rather than out of some expected need—from the hall closet was a convenient excuse for Dess to avoid looking at Han. “I have to.”

“No, you don’t,” Han said, her voice hardening from panic to defiance. “The Hierarchy has plenty of soldiers they can throw into that meat grinder. You don’t have to be one of them.”

Dess moved into the bedroom and started gathering her clothes to fold compactly into her bag. A couple decades might have passed since she’d served, but old habits died hard. “It’s not like that,” she said. “As a volunteer, I’ll be behind the frontline most of the time and—”

“What frontline, Odessus!” Han wasn’t one to raise her voice, and the sound of it made Dess grow still. “They flew a goddamn spaceship at the whole fucking planet!”

“I know.” Dess’s heart pounded hard against her chest, but she kept her eyes on the task in front of her.

“People were already dead before the fucking thing even made impact!”

“I know.” Dad . . . Mom . . . Hadrian?

“They can do it again, and you wouldn’t even—”

“I know, Hannah!” Dess snapped, a high keen threatening in her throat. Finally, she turned her full attention on Han, anger and grief tearing at her voice. “I know they can do it again. Right now, it’s my family who’s gone, and tomorrow it could be someone else’s. I can’t just do nothing and let that happen. Again.”

“And if you go, I’ll lose my family!” Tears streamed from Han’s eyes, but she still held onto her defiance. “I can’t do that again. Not after Alli. Not you. I can’t—”

All the anger went out of Dess, and she reached for Han, pulling her close until Dess could press her brow to Han’s. “You’re not going to lose me. I promise. But I need to do this. My family, my parents, everyone, they’re—”

Her voice finally broke and her shoulders trembled under the weight of her grief. She could feel Han sob, something she hoped she’d never have to feel again after the news of . . . of Alchera had reached them.

Han put her arms around Dess. “I know,” she said, her voice watery. “But I’m going to hold you to that promise. If you die over there, I’ll kill you.”

Dess huffed a short laugh. Her subvocals vibrated all on their own, even without her prompting. I love you, too.

#

The impact crater—centered on where the Radiatum, the main parliamentary building, had stood—was five kilometers in diameter, but the devastation rippled so much farther. Evidence of the destruction saturated the landscape.

Turians of all ages were wrapped in bloodied gauze and hooked to IV cocktails to clot internal bleeding, fight infection, and replace fluids they’d lost—and they’d been the lucky ones on the outskirts of the city, hit by the shockwave rather than the blast itself.

The streets, or what was left of them, were lit by twisted, still-glowing metal rather than streetlamps.

What had been proud, tall buildings were now jagged, hollowed-out skeletons.

Vehicles lay on the street crumpled to a fraction of their original size.

A jaundiced, apocalyptic glow from the fallout hung over the city day and night.

The acrid malodor of burned flesh, drying blood, and still-living bodies turning sceptic was a constant companion, even with the protective equipment she lugged from one pile of rubble to the next.

Ash and wisps of curling smoke threatened to claw down her throat should she even consider removing her air filter.

She’d gotten straight to work when she arrived. From the moment her boots hit the tarmac of the landing pad, she’d had her assignment and her chain of command. Search and rescue. Lieutenant Araxus. Bunk 347, shift 2.

There’d been only enough time to kick her footlocker into place before she joined a squad of six to take on their section of the grid. After nine hours, they’d cleared two square kilometers and not a single living body. She’d had enough energy to wait for her bunkmate to rouse and vacate the cot before falling down, every muscle and tendon finally failing her.

As her eyes closed and she tried to ignore the instinct to reach for a soft, warm body beside her, the day’s work floated into her mind like sewage water from a blocked pipe. The unrecognizable bodies. The pieces of bodies. The places where bodies had clearly been but nothing salvageable remained. They’d taken genetic samples where they could—she wondered just how many people were too obliterated even for that—so their families could have some closure and might find rest in knowing what happened.

Ravaka didn’t.

#

After a week, the search and rescue operations were reclassified as search and recovery. If there had been any survivors, the chances of them still being alive were vanishingly slim. While a part of Ravaka was gutted to think there was no one left to help, another part of her whispered relief.

No more hope meant more no more disappointment.

No more ticking clock meant no more exhausting pace.

No more lives to save meant no more families to fail.

Finally free to turn off her emotions altogether, Ravaka spent her days picking through rubble, documenting the bodies she found in quiet numbness. She knew it would need to be addressed eventually, but for the moment at least, the levees holding back her own grief and trauma were tall and strong and doubly reinforced.

#

“You must have some kind of leave, right?” Dess could hear the strain in Han’s voice, however much she was clearly trying to suppress it. “You’re a volunteer, they can’t keep you forever.”

Dess scratched her mandible, considering how to respond. “I . . . don’t think we have the same understanding of volunteering. My job here isn’t done yet.”

Han let out a long sigh, cut short by an audible swallow and small hitch in her voice. “I know. I just worry. I miss you.”

When they disconnected, she lay back and scrubbed her hands over her face. Somewhere in the barracks, someone was taken by a coughing fit. Dess wondered idly how she would hide it from Han during their calls when she eventually began coughing too. It wasn’t an unexpected risk working in a disaster zone like this one. Even with the air filters and the decontamination chambers at the entrance of the prefab barracks, the particulates in the air were very fine and tenacious. Things would get worse for everyone for some time before they got better for anyone.

She closed her eyes, hoping to get some rest, possibly some shallow sleep before she would have to relinquish her bunk to one of its other occupants. Her mind had only begun to drift when a sudden uproar outside snapped her back to attention.

As others rose from their bunks around her, she knew she hadn’t imagined it. The sound swelled when someone opened the door to the outside. Grabbing her mask, Ravaka hurried toward the commotion.

The crowd seemed to swarm toward the camp’s medical center. As the sound turned to cheers, Ravaka’s heart thumped hard against her chest. Was it . . .

Her wrist buzzed with a priority message. A low orange glow lit the crowd around her as others checked the same alert.

BREAKING: Survivor of Vallum Blast recovered after 10 days beneath the rubble. This is a developing story. Check back for more details later.

A grainy, low-quality video showed a crew of turian volunteers in a chain pulling a juvenile, who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, from the debris field and placing her on the ground to check her vitals before transferring her to a gurney. She was clearly emaciated—her plates, still soft with youth, hung loose against her hide, her remaining down was matted and gray, and she didn’t have the strength to hold her mandibles against her jaws—but she was alive and responsive.

Despite the swirling ash and smoke, despite the air filled with death and despair, Dess felt herself breathe easy for the first time since she’d heard the news of the blast.

Things might still get worse, but they’d found someone. Alive. There was hope.

[wordywarriorwrites]

Chapter 5: Mother Knows Best

Series Master List | A03 | Rating: M​ Summary: Bogged down by duty and somehow always in her younger sister’s shadow, Katherine D’Beaux has lived a luxurious, albeit utterly directionless life. Bucky Barnes is a no-frills, no-nonsense business owner who cannot afford any personal distractions. When an embarrassing and costly incident brings their two, completely different worlds together, they’ll soon discover there are still some things that money just can’t buy. Series Warnings: Language, violence, alcohol, smoking, explicit sexual content, illegal activities.

The D’Beaux family name had once been utterly meaningless and entirely unremarkable. Then, a little something called The California Gold Rush happened, and it changed everything.

From there, it was Comstock Silver and the Central Pacific Railroad. When they settled in New York, they capitalized on the subway, and invested in textiles, factories, and shipyards. Over time, their influence spread into educational, political, financial, and technological intuitions, until eventually, there wasn’t a single cookie jar in the city they hadn’t dipped their hand into.

Every connection forged was another opportunity to expand, and some of the most notable expansions came as a direct result of the many marriages that had taken place over time. The more significant and wealthier the individuals involved were, the more desirable the union was, and theirs was a house built on the combined success of its’ power couples. Business mergers could fall through, but blood relations weren’t so easily dismissed, and when it came to becoming a member of the D’Beaux family, nobody had ever declined an invitation to join, nor had anyone willingly left.

Katherine had never been pressured to marry, but after her father passed away, her mother started to broach the topic. At first, she’d been cavalier, and only occasionally asked if she’d met anyone. Then, she began to regularly mention the unattached sons of her friends. After that, she really started to meddle, and had pushed the subject so much that Katherine had eventually caved, and went out on a few dates.

The most recent match-making attempt had taken place the same night Isobel had been hauled to jail, and the would-be suitor had checked all her mother’s boxes: good family, handsome, appropriately rich, and well-connected. What her mother hadn’t bothered to account for was his lackluster personality, and even though Katherine told her the evening had been a disaster, Charlotte D’Beaux was a woman on a mission, and could not be deterred.

“Now, this young gentleman -- he sounds very promising,” she declared.

Katherine picked up her napkin and placed it on her lap, “Oh?”

She enlarged the photo and turned her phone around, “He is quite handsome, is he not?”

“Yes,” Katherine agreed as she perused the article. “And I’m sure his fiancé thinks he is, too.”

She waved it off, “No matter. I will send his profile to your cousin, Victoria.”

Rather than try to remind her that cousin Victoria was also engaged to be married, she simply nodded, and decided to divert attention to a less dangerous topic.

Katherine brought up the Fire and Ice Ball, and much to her relief, her mother launched into a long-winded tirade about the catering, live music, silent auction, prize drawings, and local awards. Katherine made sure to chime in with the appropriate non-committal and sympathetic sounds, but she didn’t really engage in the conversation because her nerves were frayed and her mind was obstinately preoccupied.

She’d gone over the situation dozens of times, and she just couldn’t figure out why Bucky wanted to speak with her privately. It had been only a handful of weeks, and as far as Katherine was aware, nothing had gone amiss. The paperwork had been signed, Mr. Rogers had confirmed receipt and clearance of the settlement, and no breaches of contract had been reported.

Katherine had casually chatted with him dozens of times and had gotten to know him better, and rather liked the idea of becoming even more acquainted with him. But to suggest or even presume that Bucky wanted to be alone with her for any reason other than to discuss The Sidecar was ludicrous. She could only assume something else had gone wrong, and that he intended to bring it to her attention first before taking it to his lawyer.

“In other news, I am pleased with your sister’s progress,” Charlotte affirmed. “Mr. Barnes seems to have had a positive influence on her.”

Katherine arched an eyebrow, “Really?”

Charlotte nodded and sipped her wine, “You know, your father’s great aunt had a husband who owned a distillery. It was purchased by Anheuser-Busch, and I believe she still owns some shares. Perhaps there is a connection to made here after all.”

For a brief moment, Katherine thought her mother was insinuating that she intended to encourage a relationship between Bucky and Isobel, but the idea was so positively absurd, she didn’t even bother giving it another moment of consideration. As soon as she put the idea out of her own head, she saw that her mother had gotten a faraway look in her eye, and that meant she was truly thinking about it.

“Isobel says Mr. Barnes is handsome and astute, and he’s already demonstrated that he’s more than capable of handling her,” she mused. “Of course, I would have to research his people first, but I daresay we could improve his prospects should his pedigree warrant the investment.”

The mere suggestion of Bucky being paired up with Isobel sprouted something vile and unearthly inside of her. Katherine felt the resentment take root almost instantly, and when she envisioned the two of them together, the urge to upend the dining table increased tenfold. The rage was visceral and overwhelming, and she bit her tongue bloody in an effort to suppress it.

Katherine had always done what she was told to do. She’d never disobeyed or contradicted her parents, and because she’d allowed her mother to all but dictate her life, she’d never been hurt, and had never experienced or understood what it meant to want for anything.

But she wanted now. And she wanted Bucky.

More than anything, she wanted him, and Katherine knew she had absolutely no right to feel so heinously possessive. Bucky was a person, not an object to be coveted or owned, and as much as it pained her to admit it, she knew Isobel was more his type. Her sister was gorgeous, fared much better than her socially, and could be so charming when she put her mind to it.

The butter-knife she’d clenched dug painfully into her palm, and after she purposefully placed it onto the table, she removed the napkin from her lap, and got to her feet. She retrieved her purse, feigned the need to use ladies’ room, and graciously excused herself.

A cacophony of silver clinking against fine china; the pop of a champagne bottle; the harrowing notes of the baby Grand Piano. Low, ambient lighting; jewels twinkling; headlights rushing past. Perfumes; colognes; freshly baked bread. The smooth surface of a heavy wooden door; the roughness of a terrycloth; the security of a metal lock.

The floor-to-ceiling stall provided privacy, and that enclosed, darkened space was where she decided to let it out. Katherine sucked in a deep breath. Put the towel she’d snagged from the sink counter between her teeth. Covered her mouth with both hands. Bit down hard.

And then, she screamed.

She screamed until she felt she’d expelled the demons that had festered. She screamed out her frustrations, her unspoken desires, her all-too-quiet desperations, her amorous appetite for a man she had no business thinking about, let alone lusting after…

Katherine screamed until her throat was raw and her body was blissfully numb, and when she exited the stall, she felt purged. With focused eyes and steady hands, touched up her powder, and refreshed her lipstick. Once she was presentable, she exited the restroom, and rejoined her mother.

Charlotte ordered a light, lady-like meal for both of them. Pumpkin soup and wedge salad. Poached salmon and asparagus. Espresso accompanied by fruit and whipped cream. The server checked on them as frequently as was appropriate, the Chef came out of the kitchen and accepted praises, and the owner personally escorted them to the door.

“It may be time to consider a new law firm,” Charlotte announced as they stepped onto the sidewalk.

“But we’ve worked with ours for decades,” Katherine countered. “They’ve been loyal to us.”

“Yes, but they have become quite lackadaisical,” she admonished. “We need new blood. Perhaps Mr. Rogers would be willing to consider our account. Speak to him, will you?”

The tone of her voice suggested it wasn’t a request, and Katherine didn’t have to wait long to understand why her mother wanted to suddenly jump ship. She went on to say that she’d read an article, which touted Steve Rogers as a “bright up-and-comer,” and that he’d just been named one of the city’s most eligible bachelors.

Two unmarried men. Two unwed daughters. One opportunistic mother.  

Katherine blanched and gave her ticket to the valet, “Mother, I really must--”

“Ah, finally,” Charlotte interjected. “I swear, my driver is as prompt as a turtle.”

Before Katherine could get another word in edgewise, her mother issued an abrupt peck to her cheek, promised to call soon, and promptly departed. A few minutes later, she was also on the road, but she didn’t go back to her penthouse.

Maybe it was just bad luck, or perhaps it had been fate’s way of preventing her from doing something stupid, because when Katherine pulled up to the curb in front of The Sidecar, the sign above the door was off, and the lights inside had been turned out.

Disappointment was often a bitter pill to swallow, and the sting of it was just as familiar and unwelcome as the tears that burned her eyes. For all the internal struggle and self-admonishment, the hour-long journey had amounted to nothing, and she had no choice but to dry herself off, and move along.

Later that night, long after she’d emptied the buckets, Katherine came to the awful conclusion that what she wanted didn’t matter, and while she wished it could be otherwise, Bucky Barnes had been and would forever be completely out of her reach.

Chapter 6: Ignited

[pinnithin-writes]

Good Jokes

Chapter 18

Benrey reappeared with a vengeance to play hardball with Gordon’s head.

Tommy could do little to buffer it. As soon as they set foot in the Lambda Complex, he was gripped by a sense of vertigo that nearly knocked him flat.

This sucked. God, this sucked. He could feel the rift in space like a tear in his gut, and it only grew worse the farther into the sector they went. Staggering along with the group took all he had, lacerated as his nerves were by the rending of time, and Benrey took full advantage of his weakness to find new and creative ways to make Gordon suffer.

The entity very carefully skirted around the man’s modified arm, having received a taste of the beating it could give and preferring not to subject himself to it further. The damage he dealt was more psychological in nature, and he seesawed wildly between making ominous threats and firing off nonsensical bullshit. Gordon held onto his resolve as best as he could, gritting those pretty teeth of his and brushing the entity off as he and the team waded through waves of aliens.

Some of his resiliency slipped when they encountered the first helpful soul they’d seen in hours and Benrey promptly shot him. This nameless person had stayed behind for them, surviving unimaginable horrors alone at his post by the door, an admirable bravery for the sake of such a slim hope. Benrey put a bullet in his skull with a bored look on his face and stepped neatly over him while he bled out.

Pointless. Death for death’s sake, purely for the sick satisfaction of watching Gordon’s expression crumple as he passed the fresh corpse on the ground.

“I’m sorry, man,” Tommy heard him murmur, his words brittle and shaky. “I’m fuckin’ sorry.”

His heart broke for him.

The best he could offer in comfort were fleeting touches here and there, halfhearted jokes that landed flat, his words dropping limply to the floor as soon as they left his mouth. He could barely put one foot in front of the other, much less keep the mood light as time knotted a noose around his neck. Whatever was at the heart of the Lambda Complex, it undeniably wanted them dead.

Everyone except Benrey. He was beginning to hum with a vitality Tommy rarely picked up on, taking bullets as an afterthought and grinning like a maniac while the laws of physics loosened around them. The extraterrestrials continued to pay the entity no mind, but the portals they opened into Black Mesa hit Tommy with the force of gunshots, and he suddenly knew what it felt like to be helpless. He stuck behind the others for protection as the interdimensional nausea rendered him all but useless. The pressure built behind his head like a hungry thundercloud.

This sucked.

Tommy felt too shitty to be relieved when they reached the sector they were looking for. A huddle of nervous scientists greeted the team when they arrived, and they hurriedly gathered around Gordon, because Gordon was the leader, Gordon was the one with the suit, Gordon was the messiah that would deliver them from this hell. What a burden to place on someone who just wanted to go home - who probably no longer possessed a home to return to.

He didn’t have the necessary energy to pay attention to the exchange, so he trusted Gordon to handle it as he sat wearily against the wall. Tommy rested his head in his hands and ran them obsessively through his hair, as if he could make the awful boiling in his stomach go away if he fingercombed hard enough. Dimly, he registered discussions of teleportation and a planet called Xen, a term he recalled vaguely but certainly never possessed the security clearance to know much more beyond that.

Off to the side, Benrey had a scientist cornered and was grilling him about PlayStation Plus, which seemed like a suspiciously benign conversation topic considering the gravity of the situation they were in. The entity caught Tommy’s eyes from where he stood and showed his teeth in a cheeky grin, causing the scientist he was speaking with to take a nervous step backward. Tommy returned his head to his hands, too overwhelmed to bother.

Once Gordon was given the appropriate run down, the science team reassembled to keep moving. Their destination: a rift in the very fabric of space. This should be fun, Tommy thought grimly as they headed down the hall.

All at once, the pressure bearing down on him lifted and he could breathe again as a presence entered the complex. A familiar wave of energy rippled outward and everything stood still, freezing Tommy in place along with the other members of the group, save for Gordon. Tommy would let out a sigh of relief if he could make any sound. His father had arrived.

Up ahead, Gordon stopped in his tracks as he registered the change in the air. “Oh, no, not this again,” he breathed. He cast a narrowed glance to the entryway in front of him. “Come on - come out,” he said, waving his left hand in a beckoning gesture. “Come out, man.”

Tommy’s father stalked coolly into the hall with them, looking pin-sharp as always. The barest ghost of a smile touched his lips as he surveyed the group before landing his nebulous gaze on Gordon.

The man huffed out a sigh. “What do you - what now?”

“Doctor Freeman,” his father began, “it’s so good to see you in such… good spirits.”

‘Good spirits’ was a stretch, Tommy guessed, considering Gordon had been on the receiving end of Benrey’s psychological warfare for the past several hours. He tried desperately to make eye contact with his father, but the man in the suit was lasered in on Gordon. His chosen one.

He went on. “You are nearing the end of your journey, my friend, and I thought it would be only fitting to-���

His sentence crumbled in the middle as Benrey stepped casually out of his place in time. The entity cut his cat’s eyes over to Tommy while he passed his frozen form, grinning a smug grin and joining the two bewildered men at the head of the hallway.

Tommy’s nerves raced with alarm. Benrey wasn’t able to do this last time. Breaking free of his father’s influence was something that was beyond even Tommy’s power, and the fact that Benrey had shaken off the shackles of time with merely a shrug did not bode well for them. He held his breath and watched.

Gordon was equally disbelieving, eyebrows drawn behind the frames of his glasses. “What?”

Benrey ignored him and stared straight at Tommy’s father. “D’you have - you have credentials?” he asked.

The swirling galaxies that made up his father’s eyes flicked to the entity, a gaze so piercing it would make any mortal man balk. He knew who Benrey was - had heard enough stories about him to place his name and face - but had never been formally acquainted. Benrey held his stare defiantly.

In that hall in Black Mesa, a god actually faltered. “Uh - I-”

Tommy had never seen his father fidget before. The sight of Benrey causing his father to scramble for words made his skin crawl.

“They’re in my… other coat.” he finally said. “I - if you wouldn’t mind, I’m trying to um, talk to Mister Freeman over here.”

Enjoying the man’s discomfort, Benrey pressed further. “It’s okay, I wanna see them, though? Do you have PlayStation Plus - uh, voucher?”

“Oh my god,” Gordon murmured.

“I don’t know... what - um…” Tommy’s father paused, forehead furrowed into contemplative lines. “Hm.”

“I just - I’m waiting, I wanna - I wanna get another month, but I want, like, a free trial?”

Gordon wheezed with incredulous laughter under his breath.

Tommy’s father tried once again to ignore the entity. “Right, um. Doctor Freeman, if you wouldn’t mind. You have to bear in mind, now, the next leg of your journey is going to be the-”

“Where are we?” Benrey cut him off suddenly.

Tommy, motionless, could only watch as his father snapped his mouth shut in shock. An achingly long stretch of silence followed, and Tommy wondered if his father was contemplating destroying the entity then and there. Benrey had an innocent look plastered on his face, expectantly awaiting an answer.

“What is happening?” Gordon asked, darting his eyes between the two.

The god among them finally waved a dismissive hand and turned his back on the group. “Y- You’ll You - You’ll f - figure it out,” he said. “You’ll figure it out.”

As the space around them began to shimmer and warp, Tommy’s stomach dropped with realization. His father was leaving them to deal with this on their own, all because some churlish creature had caused him to misstep? Anger and disappointment warred inside him, but both feelings were quickly overpowered by nausea as the pressure of space tearing apart gripped him once more.

His father hadn’t even looked at him.

“Bro, add me - what’s your tag on PSN?” Benrey called, but the man in the suit was already gone.

Time began wheeling again and the team shook out of their stupor.

“Yo what the fuck,” Benrey sighed. “I just wanna play games with people, man.”

Bubby, who apparently hadn’t witnessed anything from the past few minutes, shouldered past the entity toward the next room. “Um… me too, I guess?” he commented.

Gordon gave a sharp shake of his head, freeing a few stray curls into his face. “Can I confide in you guys about what just happened?” he asked. “You’re never going to believe me.”

Racked by vertigo and the crushing reality of being left to his fate by his own father, Tommy barely paid attention to the conversation. No, Gordon was not going crazy, and yes, the previous maddening exchange had actually happened, but whatever was beyond the threshold of that door was hammering into Tommy’s skull with a painful, distracting insistence. His head might split open if they stood out here deliberating much longer. He pinned Gordon with a troubled look through slitted eyes.

Gordon got the message, nodding back at Tommy with a grimace. “Let’s go to the alien homeworld,” he said with finality, “and kill a space god or something.”

In the chamber beyond, the Dimensional Portal Device looked a lot like the machine that started this whole disaster, and Tommy could tell right away it was the source of his torment. Colossal metal claws thrust up from the subsurface of the chamber, looming over a cylindrical conduit in the center. Tommy trailed behind Gordon blindly, fighting down the nausea and the memories as Gordon called to the attendant to turn it on.

The room rumbled with the force of the machine groaning to life, and as Tommy flinched away, he caught a wide, placid smile unfurling across Benrey’s face. The entity’s expression was an eerie calm, relaxed and expectant as his skin was bathed in the blue glow of the device powering on.

He looked like he was awaiting a homecoming.

As Tommy realized this, a tremendous shockwave overhead sparked and spat, and an alien ripped into their dimension. Coomer and Bubby, already alert to danger, pelted the creature with artillery as it swung around the chamber. Gordon grabbed Tommy by the sleeve of his lab coat and dragged him out of the line of fire. A jarring vibration hummed deep in Tommy’s chest, but he suspected that had more to do with the machine that was rapidly expanding with power than Gordon’s concern for his life.

Benrey continued to move through the chamber with a dreamlike bliss, and it was an unsettling contrast to the gunfire and the flailing monster and the great, shuddering drone from the portal. Tommy nearly blacked out from the rift in space that appeared at the device’s epicenter, a debilitating punch to his solar plexus. Gordon kept him standing with a strong hand under his elbow, his free arm raised to fire at the flood of aliens that began rolling into the chamber.

“We’ve gotta go!” he roared to be heard over the din.

Bubby’s mouth was a grim line, taking shots at the creatures like they were clay birds. “You’re wearing the suit,” he called back, “you go!”

“It’s ready? Okay!”

Gordon passed Tommy to Dr. Coomer as gently as he could with the world ripping apart around him. Tommy sagged against the old boxer’s steely shoulder, watching Gordon as he strode toward the platform. Extraterrestrials and bullets screamed around them and the machine began to buckle under the weight of its own creation. In Tommy’s periphery, Benrey was smiling.

“I’m going for it!” Gordon called over his shoulder.

He charged in with the boldness of a supernova, and Tommy didn’t think he would ever be that brave in his life.

The portal flashed outward and the world went white.

Chapter 17 <-----> Chapter 19

[thwip--thwip]

5, 12, and 44 😈 ILU

Did you used to get things as a child when you screamed? I’ll let you know right now that it’s not going to help you here.

You’re in a well? Is it more like the Buffalo Bill one or the Samara one?

This joke goes beyond practical and far into sadistic territory. 

This…got out of control so fast. Enjoy your 2.5k O:

Tony has to admit, this wasn’t how he saw his day going.

Things had been going just fine, business-as-usual; he had taken Peter Christmas shopping, which was no small affair. Normally, Tony wouldn’t be braving the veritable throngs of wailing children and exhausted parents just for a 20% deal on a pair of socks (seriously? 20% was the best they could do?), but when he’d said as much with an offhand quip about shopping online, Peter had regarded him more seriously than he’d anticipated.

“Christmas gifts need to come from the heart, Mr. Stark.”

How a blender you bought at Macy’s had more heart than a blender you bought online, Tony didn’t know (maybe it had something to do with the number of people you had to elbow out of the way?), but he also thinks it’s because Peter is insistent on spending his own money. Tony would much rather the kid use it to take his girlfriend out (he’d come back from the disaster of a trip with a girlfriend, and while it wasn’t quite worth the panic and terror of watching Spiderman take down a madman in a literal London blitz, Tony had to admit, Peter was being adorable about the whole thing).

Regardless, they’re perusing through the JCPenny perfume section (Tony told him not to buy MJ a fragrance, but did Peter listen? It looks like he might, though, because so far he hasn’t liked any of the scents, nose wrinkling more and more with each spritz) when everything goes to hell.

Peter cringes a full two seconds before the first explosion hits, tackling Tony out of the way as the storefront windows blow out. They land hard, skidding across the tile until Peter stops them by a clearance rack. The kid’s already up on one knee, and he makes eye contact with Tony for the briefest instant before he’s up and running for the dressing rooms.

“Kid - “ Tony starts, but Peter’s already gone. Spiderman swings out not three seconds later (was he wearing the suit under his clothes), launching himself into the mall proper.

Tony doesn’t have the suit. Tony doesn’t have the suit. He knew something like this was likely to happen eventually - he still has his watch, a few tricks on the new prosthetic arm he’s wearing - but his heart can’t take the kind of stress the Iron Man suit requires. It’s the first time he’s been caught in a situation like this since Thanos, and it’s panic-inducing, dizzyingly so - especially when Peter jumps right into action with no back-up.

Tony swallows down the tightness in his chest (no panic attack, not right now, chill the fuck out) and gets his feet under him, heading towards the chaos. People are running for cover, screaming - Santa bolts towards the FYE, beard flying off and landing somewhere on the floor behind him.

“Gobby, we talked about this!” Peter sails overhead, swinging around a column and trying to kick the Green Goblin off his glider. He aborts the move at the last second, while the Goblin swings at him with what looks like a sword. “Do you want to make the naughty list three years in a row?”

Gobby cackles in a way that makes the hair on Tony’s remaining arm stand up on end, gnashing his teeth, and he zooms after Peter, launching another handful of pumpkin bombs at the kid.

There’s a man throwing bombs at his kid.

“FRIDAY, get us some back-up here,” Tony instructs the AI through his watch, though he’s sure she’s already put in the necessary calls. It still doesn’t make it any easier, watching Peter dance and dodge out of the Goblin’s way (barely, barely, every time is a razor’s edge to pure disaster). Tony moves to help a few people up off the ground, keeping an eye on the fight the whole time - the atrium is nearly empty, thankfully, shoppers having dashed for the cover of the stores.

Another bomb goes off - this time, part of the ceiling goes with it. A sizeable chunk hits Peter as he’s trying to swing away from it, and sends him sprawling. It’s not enough to seriously hurt him (Tony doesn’t think), but it still makes his heart leap up into his throat. Either way, the second of distraction is all it takes for Goblin to end up on top of him.

“I’ve got you now, little spider,” Goblin snarls, one hand wrapped around Peter’s throat, and Tony sees red.

“Hey douchecanoe!” Tony yells, drawing attention to himself. The man’s head snaps up, crazed eyes zeroing in on Tony. “Yeah, I’m talking to you!”

“Mr. Stark - “ Peter starts with a cough, but Goblin is already laughing again - crazily, maddeningly, and Tony doesn’t even have enough time to react. Peter goes flying - Goblin throws him through the Urban Outfitters window in an ostentatious display of broken glass and hipster scarves - and the villain is on Tony in the next instant.

“Hello Mr. Stark,” Goblin giggles, grabbing him bodily and zooming upwards, towards the caved in part of the ceiling. “Fancy seeing you here!”

Tony tries to activate his watch so he can blast this asshole to kingdom come, but the Goblin’s fist comes down on his face, and Tony’s world is enveloped in swift darkness.

***

He wakes up to screaming.

“LET ME OUT! HEY! LET ME OUT!”

Tony groans and winces as he opens his eyes - at least it’s relatively dark, so he doesn’t have to worry about light fucking with his probably-a-concussion - but jesus, the screams are loud and panicked. Whoever it is doesn’t seem to have noticed Tony’s awake just yet, yelling upwards towards -

Huh. They’re in some kind of a hole, which looks to be too deep to climb out of. Great.

“Did you used to get things as a child when you screamed?” Tony grumbles, and the yells cut off abruptly as the person turns to look at him, startled. “I’ll let you know right now, that’s not going to help here.”

“You’re - holy shit, you’re Tony Stark.” His vision focuses in on his fellow prisoner - he looks like he’s Peter’s age, maybe, with thickset eyebrows and curly, dark hair. Tony pushes himself up into a sitting position, back to the (damp) wall, and he bites back another wince when he touches the tender spot on the back of his head, and his hand comes away bloody. Great.

“The one and only. And you are?” Tony glances down at his watch, which is still on his wrist. Goblin, what a dumbfuck - or probably just overly cocky, the prick. He pulls up the hologram and starts executing commands to find out where he is, and to alert the appropriate people.

“Flash, uh, sir. Flash Thompson.” Flash stutters, and Tony spares a second to look at him dubiously (what? Comedic timing waits for no Goblin-related-emergency.)

“Seriously?” Flash nods, eyes wide, and Tony frowns. The name is a) stupid, but b) sounds oddly familiar. His attention is diverted by a chirp from his watch - a location lock, distress signal sent. They’ll be out of here in no time at all. “Well…citizen, no need to worry. Help is on the - Christ.”

There’s an incoming call from SPIDERMAN flashing on the watch’s projection, and Tony pulls it up, careful to hit audio only. “Talk to me, kid.”

“Mr. Stark!” Peter’s relief pitches his voice high, almost a little shrill, coming through the speakers, and Tony dials it down a notch on the volume. “Oh my God, you’re alive!”

“Thought you could get rid of me that easily? I’m disappointed, I thought I taught you better than that.” Tony barely resists the urge to smile when that comment gets a relieved laugh out of Peter, which echoes against the walls of their pit. He’s too aware of his audience, though - Flash, staring at him from the corner - so he tries not to let the worry seep through too much. “Are you okay?”  

“Me? I’m fine,” Peter rushes out, as if the last time Tony saw him, he hadn’t had Goblin’s fingers wrapped around his neck in a chokehold. “Are you okay? He turned on his cloaking tech before I could get after you.”

“I’m fine.” Peter made a skeptical noise at the back of his throat, and Tony bit his tongue to stop from bantering with him - one dubious look at Flash kept it under wraps (the kid wasn’t even trying to hide his blatant interest). “You’ve got my location lock?”

“Yeah, I’m on my way.” Tony opened his mouth to protest, but even without seeing him, Peter must have known what he was going to say because he hurried to continue. “Falcon is en route, but I’m closer.”

“Just be careful,” Tony grumbles to himself, concealing a wince when he rubs at the back of his head. “Could be a trap. He’s got us in a well.”

“Sorry,” Tony can hear the shit-eating grin in Peter’s voice and he closes his eyes so he doesn’t roll them up to the heavens. “Did you just say you’re in a well?”

“Yes I did, and I’d very much appreciate it if I wasn’t anymore.” It’s the closest Tony can get to threatening; Flash looks like he’s about to wet himself with excitement, and the starstruck novelty is beginning to wear off.

“Is it more like the Buffalo Bill well or the Samara well?” Yet again, Tony has to bite his tongue before he can ask what the hell are you doing watching Silence of the Lambs, you’re eleven. All of this holding back is just stockpiling for later. “It rubs the lotion on it’s skin - ”

“Is that Spiderman?” Flash whispers, way too loudly, inching closer. Tony fixes him with his second most intimidating stare, but the kid must be brave (or just stupid), because he’s insistent. “I’m his number one fan.”

“Mr. Stark? Is there someone there with you?”

“Yeah, Gobby’s got a kid here - why are you here, anyway?” A detail he skipped over before, but what is Flash to the Green Goblin? Flash puffs out his chest, looking far too proud.

“I’m Spiderman’s biggest fan! Spiderman - I’m your biggest fan!”

“Yeah, I got that part.” Peter sounds confused, and Tony’s kind of starting to wish he hadn’t woken up. Unconsciousness is pretty blissful, turns out. “Maybe Gobby got jealous. He’s always wanted to be president of my fanclub.”

“You have a fanclub?” Flash says - no, demands - in a way that suggests ‘Spiderman Fan Club’ will be the first thing he Googles as soon as they’re out of this hole. Tony pinches the bridge of his nose - this joke has moved swiftly beyond ‘practical’ and is making a play as far into ‘sadistic’ as possible. Then again, what was Tony expecting from a shopping trip with Peter?

“Shit.” Peter says, half a second before an explosion ends their phone call. Tony doesn’t even have time to react, because the reverberations from said explosion shake the entire well (hole? pit?), and Flash starts screaming again.

“HELP, SOMEBODY HELP! SPIDERMAN HELP ME!”

Flash gets his wish - a web comes out of nowhere and latches onto Flash’s shirt, and the kid is gone before Tony can blink. He starts to stand up, words already forming. “Don’t you dare - “

“Yoink!” Tony’s flying upwards before he can finish the sentence, which he leaves half-formed somewhere at the bottom of the stupid well (along with his stomach). Tony grabs on for dear life, and Peter catches him around the waist, hoisting him under one arm.

“I hate that you said ‘yoink’ out loud. Absolutely disgusting.” Tony feels his stomach swoop as Peter swings them over a mountain of debris and out an opening Tony is very sure they won’t fit through - but somehow, they manage. “Where’s our friend?”

“Who, Flash?” Peter doesn’t sound winded at all, even though they’re booking it down the street, arcing into the next side street. “I tossed him to Falcon.”

“You know that kid?” Suddenly, it clicks. “Wait, that was the shithead whose been giving you a hard time?”

“Aw, man.” Peter groans, torquing them in another direction. “I never should have introduced you to Ned.”

“What - Peter! I wasn’t even - I wanted to know where the Goblin was!”

An explosion that is far too close for comfort answers that question for him, and Peter lets out a yelp as they execute a nausea-inducing maneuver to dodge out of Gobby’s way. Tony hears the high-pitched laughter behind them, and Peter switches Tony to his other arm as he tries to get away.

“I have had enough of this chucklefuck,” Tony growls, and he’s serious. Between the Midtown housewives elbowing them out of the way of the sale racks and Goblin dropping him in the bottom of a well, he’s fed up with today. “Peter. Throw me at him.”

“What?” Goblin throws another pumpkin bomb, and Tony can’t even feel whether or not it singes over how angry he is. “What do you mean throw you at him?”

“I meant what I said, and I said what I meant.” Tony clenches and unclenches his metal fist; he might not be Iron Man anymore, but he’s not dead.

“An elephant’s faithful, one hundred percent.” Peter finishes with a snicker, because of course Tony couldn’t sneak anything by him. “You just want me to chuck you?”

“With a little more precision, yeah. Throw me at him, and when I get him off that knockoff hoverboard, catch me.” Peter only hesitates a half a second before he nods, directing them into a wide arc as he swings back around to face the Goblin. Goblin is behind them, swerving jerkily in the air, in all his teeth-gnashing glory, and Tony curls his hand into a fist.

“One, two - “ Peter throws him on three, and Tony has the satisfaction of watching Goblin’s eyes widen in surprise for the briefest instant - because who would suspect Tony using himself as a projectile, truly? He tries to swerve out of the way, but Tony grabs the end of his hoverboard and yanks, throwing him off balance.

Goblin snarls, blade extending so he can jab down at Tony with it, but it’s too late. Tony lets an electrical charge loose from his prosthesis, shutting the glider down and tasing the fuck out of the Goblin. He buckles, and the glider starts to crash - Tony bails, letting go and free-falling towards the concrete at an alarming speed.

But then there’s the familiar yank of webbing attaching to his shirt, and in the fight against gravity, Peter wins. He changes Tony’s momentum, swinging him upwards like he’s trying to do goddamn yo-yo trick.

“Next year,” Tony wraps an exhausted arm over the kid’s shoulders as Peter tucks him under his arm like a football. He’s still wired from the adrenaline, muscles trembling slightly. “Everybody you know is getting gift cards.”

“Who doesn’t enjoy a good holiday rush?” Peter says, and Tony can hear the smirk in his voice. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“Gift cards, Peter. Gift cards.”

[eliasbouchardisarobloxthot]

you keep your socks on in bed

i wrote more fic! this is jonmartin, au where Everything Is Fine, contains mild spoilers for s3 and s4 but nothing plot-related or major. it’s very soft and fluffy and contains gratuitous descriptions of minuscule details about the apartment jon and martin share. also they’re both trans

The flat is small. One bedroom, one bathroom, half a kitchen, and a room that was probably meant to be a closet that they've converted into a makeshift recording studio for Jon. There's an empty corner in the kitchen where a table might fit if they really pushed it in close, and another empty corner that's big enough for a couch. 

The bedframe is cold metal, bought from a local Ikea and put together with great difficulty even after Jon used the power of the Eye to read the instructions. Their mattress is used—a gift from Georgie after a sponsorship—and their sheets are brand new, ordered online. Martin had insisted on ordering a novelty bedspread, one with cats and a galaxy print, and Jon hadn't protested, so their bedspread currently features a very dramatic-looking cat staring up at a planet orbiting above it. The pillowcases match, two cats wearing astronaut suits gracing their pillows with their helmeted heads. 

The walls are mostly bare, aside from a large abstract painting bought secondhand from a thrift store. It's vaguely orange, with a blue circle beneath it that Martin said looked like a blueberry—which was, of course, why they'd bought it. Jon has absolutely no taste in art, so he hadn't protested when Martin had taken the lead and bought everything he liked. Besides, the whole store was quite cheap, and he didn't mind if Martin wanted to decorate. 

Their kitchen, too, features some abstract art. Something that vaguely resembles bread, arranged in aesthetically pleasing uneven lines. The table crammed into the corner has a secondhand wooden napkin holder in the center that reads "Bless This Mess" in curling white cursive. Jon still laughs at it whenever he sees it. Martin insists that it's "homey", though they do usually agree that it is quite cheesy. 

Martin's poetry collection is stacked up in one corner of the living room, boxed up neatly and lovingly. They're each painstakingly labeled in slightly smudged pen, the same handwriting that labels most of the other tapes in the house—though those tapes have dates and statement numbers, and these have titles with tiny hearts filling wherever there's an empty space. The boxes themselves are labeled by year, again in the same handwriting, neatly arranged in the corner by the couch. 

The couch itself is dark red corduroy, secondhand from the same thrift shop where they’d discovered the kitschy napkin holder and the bread painting. It’s missing a button from the decorative buttons on the arms of the couch, and the bottom looks like it’s been chewed by several different varieties of tooth, but it was cheap and it fit, so it was perfect. Martin’s decorative style could generously be described as “eclectic”, and so their apartment looks like it’s been decorated by a grandmother with a penchant for keeping absolutely everything. 

One of the pillows appears to be made by hand, cross-stitched with a gorgeous picture of bluebirds on a tree. The pillow itself is white with tassels, and sits comfortably on the couch where it can easily be picked up for impromptu pillow fights or tossed aside to make room for cuddling. The other two pillows are from a matching set, which would be perfect if not for the fact that they match nothing else in the house. They’re magenta and teal and covered in slightly matted faux-fur, and most likely belonged to a middle schooler with a penchant for bedazzling things, if the rhinestones along the side of the pillows are anything to go by. 

The blankets they’ve piled up on the couch do not match anything—not the couch, not the pillows, not even the terrible curtains they’d put up. One is all black and crocheted, and one reads “THIS IS MY HALLMARK CHRISTMAS MOVIE WATCHING BLANKET” in all capitals. It was on clearance, and the whole way to the checkout Jon made jokes about how awful it was to sell this for such a low price, how undervalued this poor blanket was. Martin had just rolled his eyes and sighed, but though neither of them would admit it, the terrible blanket had somewhat grown on them. 

Moving in had taken them nearly a full week and the help of Georgie and Melanie—with some additional comments on how ‘even though I’m blind, I can still tell this apartment looks like shit” from Melanie. They didn’t spend a night in their new apartment until everything was fully moved in, and when they finally did they were too excited to sleep. Jon had scoffed at this at first, saying something about how they were just like kids at a sleepover, but the realization that he and Martin were finally, really, actually living together struck him as soon as he had, and it had taken him far longer to get to sleep than he will ever readily admit. 

He wakes up first. Not from nightmares, which surprises him greatly. He actually feels well-rested, too, which surprises him even more. And then he rolls over in bed and his face is centimeters away from Martin’s and he can feel his heart skip a beat because oh god, they’re really doing this, they’re really living together. 

Leaning in, he presses his forehead to Martin’s. It’s early enough that he’s still sleeping, so Jon can curl up as close as he likes without having to worry about the gentle teasing he would otherwise get. 

Jon’s hand finds its way around Martin’s waist and he nestles into the blankets with a soft sigh. Though the apartment is a disaster and he’s a disaster and life is a disaster, there is still a sense of calm in this, in a morning undisturbed by anything other than the gentle sound of cars whooshing by outside and the rhythm of Martin’s chest rising and falling, his heartbeat steady against Jon’s. 

He stares up at Martin until he feels like he’s nearly going to cry, because god he loves him so much, and then he only looks away for a moment before he returns to gazing up at him. Without his glasses, Martin is hazy, and Jon reaches over to find his glasses before he starts to think too hard about what that means to him. Glasses on, and Martin is in focus once again, and though Jon knows it’s ridiculous, he actually breathes a sigh of relief. 

The blankets shift, and Martin wakes, blinking the sleep from his eyes and smiling as soon as he sees Jon.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he murmurs quietly. “You sleep well?”

Jon nods, leaning up to give him a kiss. “Your hair’s a mess,” he says, ruffling the sleep-flattened curls that are sticking up on the side of Martin’s head. 

“So’s yours,” Martin replies, sitting up and climbing out of bed. “I’m going to go make us some tea, alright? We can go get breakfast if you’d like, too.”

“Yeah. Just… let’s stay in a little while longer. Just give me a minute.”

Martin nods, leaving to start making them tea. From the bedroom Jon can hear him in the kitchen, the teakettle clattering against the stove as he places it down, the hiss of the burner, the bubbling of water, the clink of the spoon against the sides of the mugs as he stirs. There’s something magical, Jon thinks, about the honey-golden light filtering in through the bedroom window, the city waking up, the quiet of a weekend morning. There’s something magical about being in the same apartment, sharing a space, waking up side by side in a place that’s theirs and only theirs.

He gets up, throwing on a cardigan over his pajamas, and walks into the kitchen. There are two mugs of tea sitting out on the counter, and Martin’s adding sugar to his as steam rises from them. 

“Jon!” He turns around, beaming as if it hasn’t been literally two minutes since they’ve last seen each other, and Jon can feel his heart melting. “I made tea!”

Jon takes a mug and sits down at the table, smiling softly. “I noticed.”

They sit in silence for a moment as Martin finishes up with his tea and joins Jon at the table, running his fingertip along the edge of the mug as he thinks. A car horn honks, but it sounds distant—like they’re somehow separate from it, on another plane of existence altogether. 

“It’s nice,” Martin says. “This. Having a home with you.”

“Yeah.” Jon can’t think of anything else to say, because it is nice. There are other things, but how can he say that he loves the way that nothing matches, the way Martin always looks so happy when he sees the boxes of cassette tapes Jon organized, the stupid napkin holder and the awful throw pillows and the ridiculous space cat pillowcases? How can he describe in words the way that it makes him feel to know that it’s their stupid napkin holder, their awful through pillows, their ridiculous space cat pillowcases—the way that it makes him feel to know that they’re together? 

He doesn’t have to say it. Martin reaches across the table, like he knows what Jon’s thinking and agrees, and takes his hand with careful affection. 

“I love you,” Jon says under his breath, the very act of saying it curling his mouth into a soft smile.

“I love you, too,” Martin replies, brushing his thumb over the ring Jon wears on his right middle finger, turning it gently. A small, quick reminder that he’s there, present and solid and real, and Jon could cry from just this simple thing. It’s not uncommon—Martin does this nearly every time they hold hands—but now it feels different. Like he’s promising something, promising to stay here with Jon, promising to love him no matter what.

The morning draws on, and they get dressed. It’s intricate, the way they somehow already seem to anticipate the other person’s routine and make accommodations for it. Jon somehow knows the order Martin does things in, the way he takes a moment to fix his hair before putting on his shirt and then fixing it again. Martin can somehow tell what Jon’s going to do, can somehow hand Jon the right bottle at the right time when he’s finished shaving. They fit into each other perfectly. 

As Jon struggles into his binder, Martin puts a hand on his shoulder and gently helps him into it. A tiny gesture. Nonetheless, it’s comforting, and strangely meaningful.

“You ready to go?” Martin’s voice is blocked by the wall as Jon looks through his shirts. 

“Just a sec.” He finishes getting dressed, then heads out into the main room. “Where are we headed?”

“There’s this coffeeshop and cafe that I saw on my way here yesterday—looked really cute. I think it’s open this early, we could go get something to eat there and then maybe let everyone know we finished moving in? If you want we could do a little housewarming party, I feel like that’s fun.”

“Yeah. That sounds nice.”

And with that, they start off from their new home.

[trekkele]

Captain James T. Kirk high jinks and/or little terrifying JT when Starfleet arrives on Tarsus?

Oh oh oh my friend the phrase James T Kirk High Jinks speaks to my very soul.

First thing that you need to understand is that these two things are absolutely connected. At some point in his long and illustrious career Jim grins (a sharp edged, snickery little thing, all hidden jokes and regulation breaking glee) at a poor, unsuspecting Admiral with a good memory but low security clearance, and a wave of undiluted horror washes over them when they realize they know that smile.

They remember seeing it in the weeks after the tarsus disaster.

Jim’s ability to screw with StarFleet lies in two things 1. He’s been a fleet brat since birth and knows every regulation better then the people who wrote them.

And, 2. He has zero concerns for things like tradition and ‘the way things should be done’.

Traditions and rules and unshakable beliefs in ones own righteousness are recipes for horrifying abuses of power and Jim’s just not into that, sorry.

One of Jim’s own personal favorites is the time he conscripted a scrap ship (old StarFleet vessel on its way to being broken down for parts) to help in the civil rights war between several romulan colonies and Romulus, and managed to use several of StarFleets own rules to prove why its a. Legal b. Necessary, and c. Actually part of the prime directive, sub paragraph 6, line 8, and amendment 12.

(He’s actually responsible for Amendment 12. And 9. And 13. And probably 3-7 now that he thinks about it.)

JT is the one who started the fine tradition of adding amendments to the StarFleet Charter, 13 and starving and so generally enraged he could fight a sehlat and probably win.

He argued that since 1. Tarsus was an independent colony, and 2. They (JT and his kids) were a rebel group within this independent government who had successfully established a ‘city’ with a ‘governing body’ of their own, then 3. All StarFleet interactions with his kids must be overseen by him, the leader, or one of his appointed deputies.

His argument was as flawless as a teenagers permanently high on hunger could be, and was joking (but fondly) called Mr President by the StarFleet relief team.

[ivebeenmade]

I never meant for you to fix yourself (FitzWard kinktober 2019)

Grant had a bad habit of taking care of his own injuries. In fact, he was slightly notorious for it around the base. Now that they were all stuck together on the mission, his lack of attention to his own wounds were more obvious.

The symptoms of a possible complication, an infection, were there. The sweat on his brow, the slower than usual reaction time, the attitude. 

Not only did this all get in the way of the mission, Fitz genuinely cared about this man. As an agent, as well as someone he’d tried a few times to strike up a more than casual relationship with. 

There was always an excuse, a disaster, and it was always work. Well work was going to kill him if he kept this up. And Leo was not about to let him keep it up.

“Ward, I need you in the lab.” Dr. Fitz calls, without taking his eyes off his other work. Conveniently, Jemma is taking a moment off and everyone else is busy somewhere else on the mobile command center.

Grant dismisses the first attempt to get his attention. Sighing heavily, Leo marches out to where Grant is training. He can see the haphazard attempt at bandaging through the thin white t-shirt he’s wearing.

Standing on his tiptoes, Leo pokes the wound harshly with a metallic instrument he was using on his latest project. 

Grant’s world spins at the shock of pain. He’s trained well though, and quickly recovers. “What the fuck?” He says evenly. It’s a flat accusation, not his usual aggression even that he’s used with his new teammates. Leo hasn’t bothered to ask yet, despite the fact that they’d been fooling around a bit, but he knows Grant must be under some extra pressure. Classified and all that. Whatever.

“Take it off, I’ll be seeing that now.” Fitz demands, tugging at the hem of the shirt. 

“Uhh, I think that’s Simmon’s job isn’t it? Medical?” Grant smirks. He thinks he’s won.

“Certainly. And isn’t it yours to have basic field training in the same area?” Grant’s smug face falls. “That’s what I thought. Now show me.” Grant yanks his shirt off in one go, wincing at the movement. Leo sighs. “Get on your knees, agent. I can’t fucking reach that.” 

Agent Ward does as he’s told, with a wink. Thinks he’s so damn clever, maybe that he can turn this into something else and save some dignity. With such an obvious infection now, as Leo peels off the dressing, there’s no way they’ll be up to anything for a few days. “Maybe we should-”

“Shut your mouth,” Leo growls, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. He goes back into the lab to gather supplies while Grant waits on his knees.

Leo noticing him shifting, perhaps he’s thinking about bolting. That’d be just like him. The scientist pockets a little device he’s been working on. 

He’d actually tested it on a volunteer a few days ago. His on again, off again, *whatever*. Yeah that asshole. 

“Now you could behave. Or I could use this again.” Grant had performed quite well, and those that had trained him would be proud of how he’d tried to resist the effects of the little disk. It immediately brought most test subjects to their knees. 

Grant smirks. “You won’t need that. Go ahead.”

At some point Grant loses some of his bravado, as Leo works on the wound. “This is just disappointing, agent. You should be able to perform better than this.” It’s not clear if Leo is talking about the care of the bullet wound or the fact that Grant’s legs are beginning to quiver. He’s been on his knees for quite a few minutes now. “Knees hurt?”

Grant just nods, trying to remember his training, as he’d say. All field agents were prepared for torture, and this was no where near as bad as Leo already knew the specialist had been through. Still, Leo stops what’s he’s doing and meets his eyes. Those pretty blues that Grant was secretly a sucker for have a darkness behind them he doesn’t recall seeing before. 

There’s an edge of command to it. Leo sees that Grant’s dick is hard, and watches him shift again uncomfortably. The agent lets out a little cry that’s not from the pain when Leo slaps him. 

“What did I fucking say?”

“Sit still?” Despite the deep blush in his cheek, traveling to his ears (normally Fitz would find this adorable) the question is mocking and earns him another slap. That won’t hurt him anymore than he already is. 

Grant is practically panting, possibly about ready to make a mess in his trousers when Leo finishes dressing the wound properly.

***

Fitz had had a theory, and several days ago Agent Ward had given clues to support that theory. Not only was the bigger man a bit starved for attention and affection, but that a person with a life that was that high stakes and high pressure needed someone else to help take some of that pressure and control away for a while.

Grant had been invited to Leo’s bunk that night. The rest of the crew was enjoying a well deserved break. A night on the town. They’d be back late and probably all a bit wasted. Good for them.

“Dr. Fitz?” So formal. The specialist was a stickler for the rules. Leo suspected he also did it in large part to annoy people (ie keep them at a distance). Wasn’t about to work on him.

“Agent Ward,” the heavy Scottish brogue in the dim light makes the hair on the back of Grant’s neck stand up. There���s a special edge to it, something he doesn’t want to admit he likes, but he fucking loves. “Strip.”

“Hey, take it slow. We’ve got all night.”

“I said. Strip.” Leo approaches, completely dressed, and somehow intimidating as hell even with the height difference. The agent does what he’s told, taking it slow, remembering some details from a mission he’d never tell another soul about (except those he’d had to report to after, or with the clearance to see those reports). It’s sexy, and Leo shows his appreciation, hands resting on his hips and head cocked to the side. “Fold them and put them on the bed.” Grant hesitates. “That’s an order, agent!” 

In spite of himself, he does what he’s told. He feels Leo prowl around him, trailing a hand down his side, finding his hands behind in back in the typical ‘at attention’ stance. Smooth, light cuffs are clamped to his wrists before he has a chance to react. 

For a moment, the agent struggles, trying everything he knows to get out of them. He feels them tightening, a force holding him to the spot he’s standing in. One of a kind tech. “Kind of cheating, isn’t this? And a little kinky for you.”

“On your knees. I could make you, but I won’t need to, will I?” Leo’s hand in his hair, tugging hard when he complies. Grant sighs and leans back into it. Just then, his head is forced forward. Caught off balance, he finds his forehead and shoulders against the floor, ass in the air. Something softer slipped around his neck, not choking, just holding them there, is attached to the cuffs. He’s not going anywhere. “Don’t ever do shit like that to me again.”

“Shit, Leo...what?”

“You could kill yourself with that bullshit. You never take good enough care of yourself. And call me doctor. Or Fitz. Agent Ward.”

He’s already ridiculously turned on, and Fitz is kicking apart his ankles, placing a spreader bar between them. He wouldn’t ask where Leo got all this stuff, probably put it together himself. He didn’t care. Dr. Fitz palms the specialist’s aching hard cock. 

Backing off for several agonizing moments, Grant can just barely hear him shuffling around. He’s given no warning at the first smack to his ass. It’s hard, flat, not the beginner impact toy for certain. All the scientists needs is to hear a breathy moan to continue. 

Stopping and moving away to let Grant breathe, Leo finds a different implement. “Ok, shit. You’ve made your point. I’m done with this.” 

“Still not giving in yet. Then we’re not done here. This is all for you,” Leo kneels down, kissing him on the cheek. “It’s alright, Grant. I’ve got you.” 

The scientist is relentless after that, keeping a steady rhythm and making Grant count every smack of a thin leather implement. When the agent misses a beat, when he takes a breath, everything stops. “Start over.”

“One.” 

“Good boy. If you actually make it to let’s say...20, without getting behind, you can come.” Leo expects Grant to be a smartass again, say there’s no way this alone would get him off. His reactions would betray him, but he says nothing. Just nodding. 

“Please, please…” he begs when he makes it to Fitz’s goal.

“Well done Agent, I’m proud.” That’s all it takes, and Ward comes. He doesn’t realize he’s crying from the relief of it until Fitz leans down and wipes the tear away, kissing him as he utters a command that makes the restraints fall away. “Whenever you need that, from now on, come to me.”

“Yes Dr. Fitz.” 

@kirk-spock-in-the-impala

[honekitteh]

FIC: Countdown - Chapter 3

Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight Rating: M (this chapter) Genre: Angst, H/C, Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Humor,  Canon-typical levels of poor decision-making Synopsis: A distress call leads the Jedi Battlemaster to Ziost, but time is running out.  Follows the storyline of The Rise of the Emperor and inserts missing scenes.   Warnings: See Chapter 1; corpses

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Crossposted to AO3

“Again?” I flinched slightly but held my ground, waiting. “No. I don’t think so. When this world turns to red and you choke on torrents of blood, remember that this was your chance to flee.” Master Surro then put her hands to her head as she continued speaking. “A chance I… gave…” She collapsed to the floor, the silver of her eyes giving way to a more natural hue. She took a few deep breaths. “There is no… contemplation… there is only… duty…” she screamed and then collapsed further into an unconscious heap.

The forcefield was between me and the Jedi Master. I wanted to reach to her, to help. I wasn’t entirely sure what I could do at that exact moment.

“We’re wasting time here,” Kovach interrupted my thoughts with rational logic, “The armory’s safe. You go ahead. I’ll be close behind.”

I nodded to Kovach and then looked back to Master Surro. The Sixth Line Commander was no longer there, vanished somehow. I frowned, wondering how she’d managed to get up and slip out in the split second I had turned to speak to the Agent. The stealthier ways of the Force tended to elude me on most days, requiring a bit more concentration than today’s events appeared to allow. I sighed a bit and looked over the next objective. I needed to scan for the air defenses around the Outpost so we could take them down. This required a set of quality micro-binoculars. Thankfully a pair of them were readily available and Kira and I picked them up, attaching them to our belts and then we wrapped back up for the cold outdoors.

I tried to walk more carefully this time, avoiding large piles of snow and more slippery areas. Sadly, I wasn’t entirely prepared to trip over a dead imperial officer. Which, of course I should have been prepared, there were quite a few of them. I heard static coming from this particular corpse’s comm. I knelt carefully, adjusting my scarf over my nose, despite the stench of death and decay not quite setting in due to the body’s newness with its current state. I picked up the comm and listened to the voice over.

“If anyone can hear me: I have received clearance, but air defenses are not reading me as friendly. I cannot land. Repeat: I cannot land.”

I frowned slightly and picked up the dead imperial’s data pad. According to Imperial regulations, evacuation protocols for this area required the use of a nearby emergency landing field. The former Emperor’s new friends seemed to have interrupted the evacuation proceedings and disabled area landing beacons, surprising no one.

“Teeseven, I’m forwarding you some coordinates. I’ll be rerouting the data we get as we scan the air defenses, but until then, I need you to see what you can do to repair these Landing Zone Beacons.”

The droid beeped acknowledgement, then pointed out that Evacuation Droids were also not properly deployed in the area.

“Kira, see what you can do about those Evacuation Droids.”

“On it, boss.”

I took up a small perch on the wide railing outside of one of the buildings and scanned the horizon. There were four air defense satellites that I needed to scan to secure the link. I was going to scan those links, reroute them to T7, who would then connect them back towards the Administration Office Agent Kovach had indicated as our next meet up point.

“That’s one Evacuation Droid reassembled and back on task,” Kira announced over the commlink, “It’s still a right mess out here.”

I sighed as I studied the next satellite and turret. “I don’t think this is going to be over any time soon.”

“Lord Scourge doesn’t think we should linger too long. He says it’s too late.”

“What do you think we should do, Kira?”

“Have we heard anything from Theron yet?”

“No. Nothing.” My heart fell at the thought, but I just had one more satellite to find.

“Well, I think we should stay. Not just to make sure he’s okay… but all these people. None of them deserve this.”

“I agree.”

“To hell with Scourge’s ‘practicality.’”

“Watch behind you!”

Kira startled and suddenly force pushed a group of soldiers away from her, knocking them down.

“Unconscious?”

“Yes.”

“Okay good, let’s try to avoid killing anymore people if we can at all help it.”

“Already on it, boss.”

T7 beeped an alert. I looked up at a display. Emergency Form 98BG-HM7 was filed. This designated the current emergency as a hostile invasion by ground forces. Power was routed to the ground defense network to repel the invaders. The readings on the power draw indicated that the ground defense network was not in place. T7 made a comment about the protocols were not being kept. Honestly, I thought it was good that the ground-defense turrets were offline. I didn’t need additional bolts to deflect and dodge.

Once both T7 and Kira acknowledged their tasks were completed, we made it to the Administrative Office. We quickly made our way to the appropriate console and shut down the air defense network. Agent Kovach was not far behind and took over the console from me once my task had been completed.

The relief in his voice was evident. “I can confirm it: defenses are down. Between those weapons and the armory, a lot of their killing power’s out of their hands now.” Both Kira and I shared a small sigh of relief. Agent Kovach continued on, “Should be able to start evacuation efforts as well. The fewer potential targets on Ziost, the better.”

I nodded and leaned back against the wall as the agent worked on the console.

The squish of the door opening startled everyone in the Administrative Office. Kovach drew his blaster and Kira drew her saber. I, on the other hand, just froze.

Looking every bit the walking disaster we had expected, Theron Shan walked in the door with a smirk saying, “Hope you haven’t had too much fun without me.”

There was a collective sigh of relief and Kira just rubbed her face with her palm.

I approached him slowly. “Thought I’d lost you. Nice to see I was wrong.”

“Yeah,” Theron offered a small smile, walking slowly towards me as well, “Circumstances aside…”

“Sir…” Kovach cut in. “I thought it would be wise to disclose my role in all this, so I did. I hope that’s all right.”

“Sure, of course. Saves us the trouble of playacting our way into an alliance in front of someone we can trust.”

My face heated up a bit and I took a glance down as Theron’s gloved hand brushed mine. I then studied the array of bruises around his face. I was sure there were more hidden somewhere underneath his trademark red coat and light green shirt. I very nearly reached towards them, before glancing towards where Kovach was. The Agent had moved back to the console to monitor the current situation and wasn’t really looking back to where Theron and I were. I sighed slightly and said, “You look a little worse for wear, Theron.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” Theron replied with a sigh, lightly hooking my pinky with his own, after sharing a glance at the Agent’s location. “Way things are out there; I can’t believe I even made it this far.”

I glanced down at our hands, hooked together by pinkies, and allowed myself a small smile before looking back at him.

“Soon as I crashlanded, the Emperor’s puppets started coming for my shuttle, just like that. Maybe figured on some easy kills inside.”

I frowned but nodded. If I was honest with myself, which sometimes was not the case, I was just glad he was here.

“Did the only thing I could think of,” he continued, “Rigged the ship to overload, fry everything in and around it. Tried to shield myself but still scrambled half my implants.”

I furrowed my brow. “And that stopped the attack.”

Theron rose an eyebrow at the statement. “They went down, yeah. Some of them got back up, but they seemed out of it.” Theron thought about it for a moment before adding, “Not possessed—dazed… OW!”

“Good to see you too, Theron,” Kira smirked at him, twirling the now empty kolto injector in her fingers.

Theron opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Agent Kovach shouting, “Intrusion!”

Theron shot a glare at Kira and rubbed his neck after letting go of my pinky. He then moved over to the console next to the other agent. “Vitiate’s pawns…?”

Kovach nodded, then tilted his head. “I have a thought.”

I raised an eyebrow watching the agents work on the console. Looking over on the view screen I saw a couple of Imperial soldiers approaching the building. With a push of the button, Kovach had them electrocuted. The agents then stepped away from the console and went out to the door to investigate. After a few moments, the two of them dragged the stunned imperial soldiers up to the conference table.

Kira moved over to help them put bindings on them as they situated them in their chairs. She smirked over at Theron, “Don’t holo, don’t write.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Been a little busy…” he muttered trying to keep the unconscious Imperial from flopping out of the chair in a heap. The Imperial looked to be one of their officers as opposed to a normal soldier, at least if the markings on his armor gave me any indication. Probably a Lieutenant if I had my imperial officer designations properly memorized.

“Takes like two seconds to say ‘hi,’” Kira continued.

“Kira, now really isn’t the time,” I said with a heavy sigh.

“Fine,” she pouted slightly, but her tone was light and playful.

Theron gave me a slight glance of thanks, but there was an apology behind his eyes I could sense. I just shrugged and gave him a tired smile. He stepped back after securing the Lieutenant and looked across the rest of us. “Be ready for anything…”

The Lieutenant and his fellow officer started to slowly wake up. Blinking a few times, he began to speak as he took in his surroundings. “That was a… a nightmare… What’s?” His gaze started to come into focus, he glanced over between the agents, then his eyes landed on me, and glanced down to my lightsaber. “Is that what this was? Some kind of gutless Jedi mind trick?”

My eye twitched in response and I frowned. Shaking my head, I went to take the bindings off the two officers. “Go, get somewhere safe if you can. Off world would probably be wisest.” The Lieutenant nearly protested for a moment, but I quickly cut him off, “Now, before I change my mind.”

“Change your mind to what?” Theron asked, frowning slightly.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Either keep them bound or execute them. I’d rather not either.”

“Executing them would’ve been pretty cold.”

“And wrong.”

He nodded slowly.

“Though it would’ve given us two less people to have to fight later,” Agent Kovach mentioned as he was studying his console. Theron, Kira, and I just stared at him. He seemed oblivious to it and continued, “So now we know, shock them unconscious and the tie is severed—for a while, at least.” He continued working on the console, his mind obviously working quickly. “Hit enough of them hard enough and they’d be out a good, long while.”

“Yeah, but how do we do that?” Theron fidgeted his feet for a bit, also trying to sort out the problem in his head.

“I have some ideas. I need to consult the New Adasta municipal systems.”

Theron raised his eyebrow at that. “You going to need a hand with that? Some backup?”

“No,” Kovach responded, “I’ll be in touch.” He picked up his data pad and left the Administration building without a further word.

T7 wandered over to take Agent Kovach’s place on the console, Kira right behind him as he plugged in. He beeped confirmations of what was going on around the Outpost.

I watched them for a moment as Theron approached me. I felt my ears heat up a bit as he brushed my hand.

He also gave a glance over to Kira and T7 before looking back at me. “Kovach has been amazing. I just wanted eyes and ears inside Sith Intelligence, and he gets himself saddled up next to Lana.” He chuckled slightly. “Lana Beniko, Minister of Sith Intelligence. Who’d have thought it right? When I met her on Manaan, she was in over her head. Seemed to be at least.”

I smiled, stepping closer to him. “I know what you mean. She’s not always what you’d call direct.”

“You don’t have to tell me. My bruises still have bruises thanks to her little deception on Rishi.”

I reached towards his face, lightly tracing my fingers along the bruises around his implants. He flinched at my initial touch, so I withdrew my hand. The kolto Kira had injected into him seemed to be starting to work its magic, albeit slowly.

He shook his head at me. I frowned a bit and tilted my head. He made a small motion to his implants and I reached back to touch the bruises. This time instead of the flinch, he leaned into the touch with a sigh. “Still,” he continued, closing his eyes slightly, “Who am I to talk? I should have never sent my team here.”

I frowned shaking my head, leaning in closer to study his injuries.

“I made a bad situation worse, and now…”

“Shh… It’s not the time for blame…”

He smiled lightly, leaning in, his lips lightly touching mine before a beep from the holoconsole startled both of us and we quickly moved at least a meter and a half apart. “… And now I’ve got a priority holocall.” He sighed heavily, his voice heavily dripping with sarcasm, “Great.”

I thought I heard a small giggle and I shot Kira a glare as Theron answered the call. Then I blinked as the Republic’s Supreme Chancellor, Saresh, appeared on the holo.

“You’ve been busy, Agent Shan.” Her voice was accusatory. I blinked and looked between the two of them.

“Chancellor?” He seemed confused. His emotions were a whirlwind of guilt, surprise, concern, and frustration. I tried to clear my mind of my own thoughts and emotions as well as trying not to absorb everything he was feeling at that exact moment.

“An off the books mission to Ziost. A secret team of Jedi that—I don’t even know where to start with you about them—.”

I blinked and looked over at Theron.

He spoke rapidly in response, “Everything’s happened so fast. You don’t realize—.”

“No, I do realize. I realize that you declined to inform me of a prime opportunity to cripple the Empire and face the Emperor head-on.” Oh… no… I shook my head rapidly, my eyes widening. Saresh either did not notice I was there or did not deem to acknowledge my presence. I suppose it didn’t matter because she kept speaking. “We’re taking advantage of the chaos on Ziost, starting with New Adasta. I expect your cooperation.”

Theron’s face paled. “Wait. Please, before you send the order–”

“You don’t seem to understand, Agent Shan. There’s nothing to argue.”

I stared at the Chancellor, my eyes wider than they had any right to be. I muttered under my breath, “What?”

“Our ships are in orbit,” the Chancellor continued, “The invasion’s already begun.”

The holo communication blinked off. Theron pinched the bridge of his nose and rested one hand on the edge of the console looking down.

My thoughts were going a kilometer a minute. My hands balled into fists for a brief moment, then I released them. I repeated the motion for a good few minutes while I tried to settle down my own thoughts. When they started to coalesce, the just under the skin irritation would not leave. “Well this is just fantastic. Now I have to clean up an even bigger mess,” I growled.

Theron didn’t look at me but muttered in response, “Great, yeah just go ahead and clean up after me.”

“Wait what?” I responded startled, “I was talking about the Chancellor’s brilliant idea to send more soldiers to the slaughterhouse. That’s got nothing to do with you.”

He whirled around at me. “I’m the reason she’s here in the first place.”

Okay, he had a point. “Demented soldiers; slave and civilian populations under fire? You should have called me first.”

“I didn’t know for sure. I had to get more intel before I brought you in on it.”

“And now the Sixth Line are under his control.”

He looked down. “I know…”

“Why didn’t you contact me first? You knew I had experience with this.”

“I didn’t want to bring you in unless I was sure.”

“Are you sure now?”

“Going in alone? You could’ve been hurt or possessed!”

“And you could have died!” I snapped.

He blinked at me. I blinked and looked down and tried to calm my own breathing. “Jyana…” he said softly after what felt like about five or so minutes.

I was silent for another moment before stating simply, “I’m going to New Adasta. Teeseven, stay with Theron. Kira, with me.”

T7 beeped an acknowledgement in a confused and concerned tone while Kira just nodded and tossed her large bag of kolto at Theron.

He was startled by the toss and it caught him in his face. He barely managed a quick and smooth recovery and did not end up dropping it to the floor. He looked back up from the bag as I had already made it to the door. “Jyana…” Theron continued.

Without looking behind me I just pulled up my hood and walked out into the cold breeze of the Ziost Outpost.

[flyingblackhawk]

Debt

Clintasha fic

for @rosawright (same girl same)

1,096 words

-

Clint comes back from the debrief to find a pile of laundry folded on his bed. Weird. He can’t remember the last time he folded laundry. Who the fuck has folded his laundry?

The next surprise is the smell of something cooking. He’s done some dumb shit in the past, but could he actually have walked into someone else’s room? The agents’ quarters all look pretty similar at HQ. It could happen. But no, there’s his quiver, there’s his coffee maker, there’s the heavily redacted postcard from Kate sitting on the bench. Who-

Natasha turns and smiles at him. It’s so strange seeing her standing by the stove that Clint does an actual double take. She looks so domestic. It’s a highly unsettling image, especially after what he saw her do to four men at the sparring mats yesterday.

“Romanoff?”

“Hey,” she greets him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d make dinner. There’ll be enough for leftovers, so I hope you like pasta.”

“Did you do my laundry?” he asks. She nods, and for a moment she looks nervous.

“I thought I’d surprise you,” she says. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. Surprise him? Yep, this is definitely a surprise. But it’s also weird, and quasi-invasive, and she’s looking at him funny. He doesn’t know how to handle this particular situation, so he goes to the fridge and gets a beer.

“Clint?”

First name. Weirder. Clint opens the beer and leans against the kitchen bench, studying her. She has a wooden spoon in her hand. Very out of place.

“What’s all this about?” he asks.

“I’m just making dinner,” she laughs. “You’re being paranoid.”

He’s not, though, he knows that. She’s good at convincing him everything is fine - her SHIELD assigned psychs, too - but this is ringing several alarm bells for him.

“What are you doing?” he asks. It’s harder this time. He doesn’t think any of this is funny, and her smile fades.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks. “I don’t have to cook. I could do anything.”

He doesn’t get it. She sets down the spoon. He still doesn’t get it. She takes a few steps over to him and he still doesn’t get it.

“Romanoff-”

“Call me Natasha,” she says. “If you want.”

She grabs his hand and pulls it to her chest. He doesn’t understand what’s happening even when she splays his fingers over her breast, curling her hand so he’s squeezing-

He pulls back, like he’s been stung. Natasha advances, and in a fluid movement his eyes barely follow, she pulls her shirt off.

“Romanoff!”

“Natasha,” she says again. She’s wearing a barely-there black lace bra. Where the hell did she even get that? Did she go shopping just to fuck with him? Clint feels questions and confusion overwhelming him, and suddenly all he can focus on is the fact that the pasta water is boiling over. He pushes past her, and turns the hob off. The water simmers, and the bubbles dissolve into steamy calmness. Disaster averted, Clint turns back to the show. Natasha is holding her shirt, and looking at him in total confusion.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“What are you doing?” he retorts. “Put your goddamn shirt back on.”

She does, but she’s still looking at him like she’s not the insane one, and Clint still can’t work out what the fuck is going on, and now she’s looking at him like she’s just realised something, and she looks upset, and fuck, what the fuck?

“If you don’t want me, that’s okay,” she says, and it doesn’t sound okay at all. “I can do other things for you. Anything you want. Just let me do something.”

“Why do you want to-”

Clint stops, because the quaver in her voice strikes at something in his throat, and he finally understands what’s happening.

“Natasha,” he says, and he hates the spark of hope in her eye and the way she fiddles with the hem of her shirt. “You don’t have to do anything for me, okay?”

“But-”

“No. I don’t know what you thought, but you don’t owe me anything.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “I literally owe you my life.”

“I didn’t do that so you’d do… any of this,” he says, gesturing around the kitchen. “I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“The right thing to do,” she repeats, tasting the words. “That’s noble and all, but you can’t expect me to believe there’s no quid pro quo, Barton. Surely there’s something you want.”

“Sure,” he says. “I want you to finish the deprogramming with the shrinks, get field clearance, and start working with me. I mean, I’ve got the seduction down pat, but you’re way better at cracking heads than I am.”

She stares at him. “But what do you want?”

“That. I just told you, Romanoff.”

Natasha can’t seem to get it into her head. He can practically see the words floating around in front of her, refusing to coalesce into something she can understand. He walks over to her, and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“I didn’t save you because I wanted you to owe me a debt,” he says. “I saved you because I wanted to save you.”

“It can’t be as simple as that.”

He nods, dropping his hand from her shoulder. “It can. It is.”

She searches his face for some trace of dishonesty, and finds nothing. He’s an open book, and her face slackens for a moment. He shrugs at her, as if to say ‘told ya’. She moves back, and he waits to see what she’ll do.

“Okay,” she says, and her voice is unsteady, but he can almost hear relief in her tone. That’s all he wants - for her to feel safe, and in control.

“Do you want to keep making pasta?” he asks. “I’ve got passata in the fridge, it’s simple but it’s delicious. I’m starving.”

She clears her throat, and nods. Clint points to the top cupboard. “Pasta’s in a packet up there. You do that, I’ll heat up the sauce.”

They orbit each other in his small kitchen, completing separate tasks to bring the meal together. Before too long, they are sitting at his table, each with a beer and a plate of simple tomato pasta.

“This is weird,” she says. “It’s so… domestic.”

He chuckles, and clinks his bottle against hers.

“Here’s to us,” he says, and her smile is all he could have hoped for.

[blancheludis]

Tagging: @tokky231, @catonmylapbutineedtopee

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Characters: Tony Stark/Steve Rogers, James Rhodes, Pepper Potts, Bruce Barton, Steve Rogers Chapters: 4/?, Words: 25.469

Summary: Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate's arm before they threw him back out into the streets.

---

“Sir,” JARVIS speaks up just when Tony has decided that another hour of sleep might do him some good. Better, in any case, than rushing into his problems head on. “Mr. Stane has called several times now while you were otherwise occupied.”

Despite not wanting to talk to anyone else for the moment, Tony’s first instinct is to call back immediately. Then he pauses, though, and thinks first.

It is not that Tony does not trust Obadiah. If he told him about Steve’s claim that someone is selling their weapons to the enemy, he has no doubt that the matter would be dealt with quietly and efficiently. Obadiah has fixed enough of Tony’s mistakes to leave any doubt about that.

This is personal, though. Stark Industries is Tony’s company, if mostly in name only, but this is about his weapons, his designs. Therefore, it is his responsibility to clean this up. A small part of him also wants to know who sold him out and ask them why. Tony is not a good person, not by far. He is callous and careless and quick to replace one disaster with another. He is sure Pepper could add a lot more unpleasant adjectives, he is well aware of his failings.  

Also, and that is much harder to admit, he does not want Obadiah to think bad about him for this. Over the years, Tony has caused a number of scandals, leaving everyone scrambling to clean up after him, but this might just take the cake. Beat up by his soulmate and his friends on top of finding out that Tony does not have his own company under control enough to avoid his weapons ending up in the wrong hands.  

It always feels like he is constantly balancing on the edge of disapproval with Obadiah. They are family, and not just in terms of Obadiah being Tony’s godfather. Obadiah has always been a part of Tony’s life, has always been his ally, offering encouraging words or sneaking him materials to build things that Howard had disapproved of. Without Obadiah’s presence, Stark Industries might have just fallen to ruins after Howard and Maria’s death. Even now, Tony is not sure he could keep the company afloat on his own. He has always kept out of the business end as much as possible.

Before Obadiah had been Tony’s godfather, though, he was Howard’s friend. At some point, Obadiah might realize that Howard was right about Tony after all. That he is lazy and stupid and the worst kind of Stark. Every mistake Tony makes, every stupid question he asks, every project he does not finish on time because his mind got stuck on other things might be the one that puts an end to Obadiah’s patience with him.

Tony does not have enough people in his life who he trusts, so he cannot risk upsetting Obadiah with this. He will deal with it. It is certainly time he learns how to.

“Write him a message,” Tony tells JARVIS, “say that I had an idea and didn’t get out of the workshop all day.”

On most days, that would be the truth, so Tony does not fear that Obadiah will see through the lie.

“If he calls again, send him through to Pepper.”

Pepper does not know yet what happened, but she is well versed in running interference for him. She will feed Obadiah some story that will give Tony some time to come up with one of his own.

It must have been something business-related anyway for Obadiah does not usually call to inquire about Tony’s well-being. That is not a bad thing either. Tony knows Obadiah will be there for him when it matters, he always has been before. For now, it is better not to make him worry.

Once he has talked this through with Rhodey and Pepper, he will know whether he needs to bother his godfather with this. Until then, he will manage on his own.

When Pepper comes in, ten minutes after seven, she clings to a bottle of wine as if she instinctively knew she would need alcohol for this conversation. Tony studies her closely, almost involuntarily on guard. She knew about the USB drive. She is involved in everything at Stark Industries, has the highest security clearance, and is probably better at signing Tony’s name than he is himself. He has to see her reaction, has to be as sure as he can be – without outright accusing her of anything – that she had nothing to do with selling him out.

Tony does not believe Pepper would betray him, but he has trusted the wrong people before.

Once Pepper sees him, her eyes widen and her mouth opens for a gasp. Only years of training help her keep her composure enough to not let the bottle fall. Tony sees her hand twitch nonetheless.

Air floods into his lungs as he sighs in relief. There is no way of being certain, but Pepper looks like she is feeling every visible bruise of his herself. The worry in her eyes is not faked, and neither is the fury rising in them only moments later. He cannot afford to distrust her beyond that.

“What happened?” she asks with more venom than Rhodey had but with as much conviction to do something about it.

“We have a mole,” Tony says simply.

He has hoped that would draw her attention, to keep both her and Rhodey from focusing on the blaringly obvious wreck that is his face. He needs them to make sense of this for him.

Pepper opens her mouth and Tony is almost ready for the barrage of questions, but then she closes it again. With determined steps, she walks to the couch, sets the bottle down on the glass table heard enough that Tony half expects it to leave a crack, then sits down beside him and takes his face into her hands.

She turns his face to the light, studies the motley pattern of bruises and swelling. Gentler than her expression promises, she lifts the lid of his left eye to get a better look at it underneath the bruise.

Her gaze is burning in its intensity when she lets her hands drop. “What happened?” she then asks again in that tone of voice that regularly has the board of directors cowering before her.

She looks at Rhodey, who is sitting opposite them, arms spread out over the back of the couch, even though that does not hide the tension in his body. It will be easier to get answers from him than from Tony himself – which is part of the reason Tony has not told Rhodey anything substantial yet, insisting to wait until Pepper’s arrival. Going through it once will be hard enough, and he needs to keep this under his control as much as he can.

“Tony got himself kidnapped,” Rhodey says, aiming for a dry tone but is unable to hide the angry tremor in his voice.

Ever since Rhodey arrived half an hour earlier, he has been glaring, looking Tony over for every twinge of pain he is not sharing, and demanding answers. It has been near impossible to keep him from storming off to look for the people who did this to Tony.

“By whom?” Pepper asks, voice icy. It is a tone that is impossible to ignore.  

Rhodey shrugs. The motions is distinctly dangerous. “He doesn’t want to tell.”

“Then you must not have asked often enough.”

They are in their own little world right now, intent on solving another problem labelled Tony. When Tony first introduced them, he had been anxious whether they would get along, these two most important people in his life. These days, they team up against him far too often for comfort.

“I was getting there,” Rhodey says, and his impatience is not directed at Pepper. “You know how he is.”

“He is right here.” Tony should have kept his mouth shut, because as soon as the words are out, both his friends’ attention is on him. They are wearing twin-unamused expressions of impatient concern. It is nice to have them looking out for him, but right now, he needs them to concentrate on the bigger picture.

“Why?” Pepper demands. One word is enough to convey she will not let this go, not until Tony has given her a satisfactory answer.

Tony stares at the bottle Pepper brought, at his own glass on the table, still containing about an inch of whiskey. He could reach for any of those, offer his friends a drink, stall for time. If he does not stark talking now, though, he might just never manage to.

“They wanted information about my personal projects. My USB drive?” Again, Tony looks closely at Pepper, gauging her reaction. When she nods, impatiently but without guilt, he continues. “Someone hired them to get it for them.”

Steve and his gang have not yet tried to open the files on it – JARVIS would have gotten a signal and alerted him. Tony is afraid that means they will not look at it at all. Almost a whole day has passed since they got the drive. If only they put it in a computer, Tony would know where they are, JARVIS could integrate himself into their system without them ever being the wiser.

It is also entirely possible, that they are going to hand it over to the buyer without ever touching it themselves at all. From a strategic point of view, that would be the better way, since it would lead Tony straight to the person who sold them out.

He wants that connection to Steve, though. He tells himself that is only because he wants to keep an eye on them, to make sure he will know beforehand if they come after him again. There is no denying the sheer demand in the throbbing of the soul bond, though. Perhaps Tony is just too weak to try.

“And you couldn’t just hand it over,” Rhodey says with the kind of accusation that was borne from years of trying to keep Tony safe from himself, “so they beat you up over it.”

The easiest thing would be to say yes. Tony hesitates too long for it to still be believable, though. Immediately, Pepper narrows her eyes at him.

“They took it first thing. That wasn’t the issue.” Tony grimaces, remembering how he thought the kidnapping was the most civil one he ever had. Thoughts like this just have to be punished. “It’s just that they have a personal grudge against –” He shrugs, swallows against the tightness of his throat. “Well, it’s complicated.”

This was a bad idea. He should have done what he always does and hidden away in the workshop until the bruises are faded and took care of this himself. It would have been much easier to not say anything than to fumble through an explanation, especially since he knows he will not be able to satisfy his friends. They will look right through him, and then all the things he wants to keep secret will come out anyway.

For once, he wanted to do the responsible thing and get help, if only because it will be easier like this to deal with the lost weapons. It was stupid to believe they could keep the personal part of the problem out of it.

“You’re obviously deflecting so we don’t have the whole story, but I don’t see what could be complicated about this,” Pepper says, steel in her voice. She shifts her position so she sits farther away from him to make her glare more effective. “Someone kidnapped you, stole your private data, and beat you up. Have you already informed the police?”

“No,” Tony exclaims hastily, the same kneejerk reaction he gave JARVIS. “And we’re not going to.”

Thoroughly unimpressed glances bear into him from both Rhodey and Pepper. Tony feels like withering under it. The disapproval of one of them is hard to shoulder. Both of them at the same time leave him no room to wiggle free.

“Pray tell,” Pepper drawls, ferocious in her worry, “why are we not doing that?”

Tony takes a deep breath and ignores the pain in his ribs. “Because,” he says slowly, silently begging them to listen, “we have bigger problems.”

They do not listen.

“Bigger than someone beating you up?” Pepper asks, staring at the visible bruises before her eyes wander down, attempting to look through his clothes to see the rest of the damage. “Have you been to the hospital?”

Not once in his life has Tony gone willingly to a hospital. They all know that. “JARVIS checked me,” Tony says, making a show of shrugging as if the motion does not hurt. “I’m all right.”

Not taking her eyes off him, Pepper says, “JARVIS?”

The AI answers before Tony can protest. He has probably waited for his cue. “Sir has several broken ribs, a mild concussion –”

Rhodey sits up abruptly, his tension growing tenfold. “You told me you don’t have a concussion,” he calls, cutting JARVIS off. “You’ve been running around all day. You should rest. No screens, no excitement.”

Tony knows how to deal with a concussion. He also knows how to ignore the symptoms. So what if his head starts hurting easier than usual? So what if his vision swims? That is what painkillers and speech output systems are for.

“I’ve slept,” Tony says with all the petulance of someone tired of getting reprimanded for the way he takes care of himself.

“Sir has indeed had a nap for one hour and twenty-seven minutes,” JARVIS speaks up. His tone is too pleased to hide that he let Tony look bad on purpose. They really have to talk about what that whole Protect Anthony E. Stark thing means again.

“That’s like a whole night’s sleep for me,” Tony adds, although there is no saving this blunder.

“We’re not in the mood for jokes,” Rhodey snaps, glaring but not surprised. “JARVIS, get me everything you know about this. Where Tony was kidnapped, who was in the vicinity when it happened, where he turned up again. We’re going to find these bastards.”

Before JARVIS can make things worse by volunteering all his data on the Avengers, Tony says, “We don’t. You don’t.” There is enough authority in his tone that Rhodey, begrudgingly, turns to him, not insisting on his order. “Look, I’ll handle them,” Tony continues, sounding weary. He has to fight the urge to scratch his itching arm. “I didn’t call you here for that.”

With carefully constructed calm, Rhodey asks, “What could be more important than that?”

He shares a look with Pepper, and Tony knows they will not be getting anywhere if he lets them continue this line of questioning. His bruises will fade. He will not do anything about Steve and his gang for now as long as they leave him alone. He will not advertise the fact that he has found his soulmate.

“We have a mole,” Tony repeats his earlier words as firmly as he can manage.

“What does that even mean?” Pepper asks in a high voice, looking ready to throw her hands in the air to show her frustration at how little sense he is making. “We’re not a spy organization, we’re a normal company. Is someone doing inside dealing?”

Now they are getting somewhere, although Pepper does not sound half as concerned about that as she should be.

“Someone’s selling my weapons under the table,” Tony says into the expectant silence. The words weigh heavy on his tongue. “To the enemy. To terrorists. To anyone willing to buy. They turn up where they shouldn’t be and people die.” He exhales slowly, watching his friends’ faces for the same urgent need to fix this as he feels. “Someone’s doing that and we need to find them.”

The first thing Tony notices is the doubt. It might be the way he looks or the fact that they now know he has a concussion or simply that he has just returned home after having been kidnapped. It is not that they do not believe him, but they obviously think there are more important things to deal with.

It makes Tony irrationally angry with them. He is tired and in pain and constantly battling a stream of emotions from the soul bond that he did not ask for. All he wants is for his friends to believe him so that they can do something against this. He does not need to be kept safe right now, he needs to fight.

“How do you know that?” Pepper asks, looking like she has ten arguments ready why this cannot be true.

She does know more about Stark Industries’ inner workings, that is why Tony needs her help. Her constant scepticism, on the other hand, is mostly a hindrance right now. Of course, Tony wants this to be false information. If they go digging and do not find anything, he will be more than happy with that. The do need to look, though.

“The guys who took me told me,” Tony replies. He knows how that sounds. Telling them that the gang leader is his soulmate will not make them trust his word any more – and push them even farther off topic.

“Of course,” Rhodey snaps. He sounds decidedly done with this. “Because kidnappers are a reliable source of information.”

“The leader said –” Tony tries to argue, but does not get any farther.

“Before or after he beat you into a pulp?”

Tension fills the air like static, crackling, ready to detonate at the tiniest spark. Rhodey is trembling with a mixture of anger and worry and the need to find this gang to teach them to never touch Tony again. Tony has seen all of that on his face before, several times even over their friendship. Pepper, too, looks ready to snap. She is pale but her posture is flawless, her back straight to the point where it looks ready to break.

All of that because of Tony, because of some bruises, because someone always has it out for him. A part of him wishes he could give in to them, could allow them to wrap him up in a blanket and hide him away until the world is safe for him. He could give them Steve’s name and watch from afar while they take care of it. No matter how good the Avengers are, they are no match for Colonel Rhodes and Virginia Potts on a mission.

It would feel good even. Probably. He would not have to worry anymore about what to do with Steve, with this bond he does not want. At the same time, though, it would be cheap, heaping the responsibility for this on his friends. He does not want to drag them into another personal drama of his.

“Listen,” Tony says. It should not be this hard to keep his voice calm. “I don’t like this situation either. You’re right. Anyone could have ordered that hit and the information could be false, but now that I have it, I can’t not act on it.”

Tony feels breathless, more so when he sees that Rhodey and Pepper are still hesitating. With a desperation that he hopes does not show, he reaches for his glass and drains it in one go. Feeling restless, he jumps to his feet and walks over to the liquor cabinet where he remains standing, his back to his friends. That gives him the chance to collect himself, although he feels their stares on him, hears their silent conversation.

“I believe that you believe this,” Pepper says slowly, cautiously as if anything could soften the blow of them questioning him still when they could already be acting, “but you hit your head –”

“Yes,” Tony whirls around, alit with frustration, “I hit my head. Repeatedly. Against two guys’ feet. Because they have been out there fighting against terrorists with my weapons.” He forces himself to make a pause, to calm himself. “I don’t like them, and I don’t trust them, but I believe them when they say that someone’s putting my weapons where they don’t belong, and that someone told them that was my doing.”

At least that gets their attention in a not completely doubtful way.

“When did they have time telling you that?” Rhodey asks, still hung up on Tony’s wounds,

Tony closes his eyes, briefly. He remembers the shift on Steve’s face from disgusted to incredulous to concerned, remembers his own dislike decreasing paradoxically every time they looked at each other afterwards, with every touch they shared that did not hurt.

“The leader made sure I did not actually die, because that’s apparently not something they’re doing,” Tony says, his tone as neutral as he can manage. “We had a little chat. He didn’t want me thinking they weren’t justified in what they did.”

Bitterness coats his tongue, but he swallows it. This is not the time to think about Steve.  

“And now you’re all chummy?” Rhodey raises his eyebrows, staring at Tony in the way that makes it clear he knows Tony is hiding something. “He believes you didn’t do it, and you believe they’re not coming after you again?”

Put like that, it really does not make sense. Tony cannot explain it to them, though, cannot open himself up to that misery. “They are passionate enough about this to look for proof before they do anything further.”

“How did you get out?”

Everything in Tony wants to turn around, grab a bottle, and just vanish. Perhaps it was naïve of him to think this would be easier, that they would not ask questions. He keeps his eyes steadily on Rhodey, not even blinking.

“That sounds suspiciously like you’re thinking I’m working with them,” he says, harsher than intended. It does not bring him any satisfaction when Rhodey winces. “This wasn’t my first kidnapping. They beat me up and threw me out. Their job was the USB drive. The punching was just a little extra.”

Where Rhodey looks ready to back down, Pepper is not yet done. “Why won’t you let the police deal with them?” she asks, easily sprinkling more salt into his wounds.

“Because they’re looking into the weapon deals from their end.” That answer will not satisfy her. It would not satisfy him if their roles were reversed, but he is done with this. “Now, could you please stop the interrogation? I asked you here to help. You’re not helping.”

To give them credit, they look ashamed. That does not mean they are giving up or that they are done worrying about him, but perhaps they can finally get to the business at hand.

“We – I’m sorry, Tony,” Pepper says. “We want to help.”

She pats the couch next to her to get him to come back, to sit down. Both of them must see the way Tony is leaning against the cabinet to take some of the weight of his legs. The nap earlier had helped but he still feels the aftershocks of the kidnapping in every movement. Stubbornly, Tony remains where he is.

“Good,” he says with the kind of authority he seldom uses on them. “Then let me handle the kidnappers and concentrate on finding out who’s selling my weapons.”

Pepper nods, although it looks like she is biting her cheek to keep herself from saying something.

Leaning forward, Rhodey studies Tony. “Are you really all right?”

A smile spreads on Tony’s lips, holding no humour, tugging at the bruises. “Of course not,” he replies dryly. “But I will be. I always am.”

Rhodey and Pepper share a look and are not even subtle about it. There is no mistaking their worry, and Tony knows he can trust them. He just needs them to trust him on this too. This is not the time to rest. He can do that afterwards, when this matter is dealt with. And he will get there much faster with their help.

“Of course we’re going to help,” Rhodey says. For a moment, Tony is afraid he has said all of his thoughts out loud. His head is hurting and the concussion might be more noticeable than he told them. “What do you need us to do?”

Tony exhales in relief. This is not over. By showing them that he is hurt, he has doomed himself to constant questions about his well-being, but he could not delay this any longer nor is this a topic that could be talked about on the phone.

“There has to be evidence. A paper trail, communication.” Tony trails off, thinking.

If his weapons are truly spread through the wrong hands, there are a thousand possible perpetrators. It could be someone at Stark Industries, although it would have to be someone high-ranked enough to tamper with the books without it being too obvious. Otherwise, the profits would hardly be worth the risks.

It could also be one of the buyers, which really only leaves someone in the military, and that is a hornet’s nest he does not want to poke unprepared.

The people who could have reasonably ordered the hit on Tony are even more numerous. Business opponents, women he has spurned, fired contractors, former employees. If Tony is good at something, it is at making enemies.

Stark Industries is the sensible place to start. That is where the most damage can be done, both to their future business opportunities and to himself. It is also a matter of pride.

“Pep, I need you to dig into accounting to look for irregularities. I’ve had JARVIS going through anything he can without uploading him to SI’s servers.” Pointing at his face, Tony adds, "I can’t go in to work looking like I do, but I’ll give you something to make it easier to get to the sensitive data. It’s a –” Tony interrupts himself. Pepper does not need to know about the technicalities, the algorithm. She just needs to put the USB drive into a computer at Stark Industries. “It’ll help me get in.”

He waits for her nod, then turns to Rhodey “You’re my ears within the military. We need to know where my weapons wind up. Maybe someone’s just selling them on. I don’t –”

Tony shrugs. A thousand different starting points and possible solutions race through his head, but he does not know which step to take first. He is so tired but there is no rest in sight.

“We’ll take care of it,” Pepper says, as resolute as he had hoped for her to be from the very beginning. Once she sees Tony bearing up to protests, she amends, “We’ll take care of our end.”

Rhodey nods his head in affirmation. “Show us what you’ve got already.”

This time, when Pepper beckons him back to the couch, he goes to her, glad to sink back into the cushions. Nothing is solved yet, nothing makes sense, but with his two friends at his side, he has come so much closer to it already.

For the rest of the night, they strategize, speculate, and if they try to send him off to bed several times or to keep him from looking at a screen to long, Tony can live with that. It is good, even, to let them take some of the control.

They never get around to drinking that bottle of wine after all.

 ---

Pepper leaves at some point, citing the need to get some sleep if she is to go to Stark Industries in the morning without raising suspicion. She has a reputation to uphold of being constantly perfect, unflappable. Pepper Potts is never too tired or too distracted to do her job and to do it well.

Rhodey stays, though. It will be only for one night and that is too much of an unauthorized leave already, but Tony does not have it in him to send his best friend away tonight. He is in need of comfort, even if he does not outright say it. Rhodey understands him well enough without words, and he does not need to know the exact reason.

They stay on the couch, cuddled up together like they have done a thousand times before. Tony does not say anything when Rhodey pushes the wine bottle out of his reach. The one glass of whiskey he had sits heavily inside his stomach already. Getting drunk might have been his universal response to any problem at one point, but his head feels messed up already without adding alcohol into the mix. If Rhodey thinks that means Tony is slowly learning something like common sense, Tony does not correct him.

Tony pulls a blanket up around them as he settles more comfortably against Rhodey, using Rhodey’s breathing as a template for his own. He is calmer now, having lifted a huge part of the weight off his chest. His arm is itching, but he has taken care all evening to not reach for it to not tip off his friends about it.

He knows that Rhodey has not yet met his soulmate, and he supposes Pepper has not either, although they have never specifically talked about it. If not for the complicated mess surrounding the whole matter, Tony would have told them. He would have never even hesitated. They are family, the people he trusts most in the world.

“Are you all right?” Rhodey asks, disrupting the comfortable silence with more concern.

“Asked and answered, platypus,” Tony replies briskly, closing his eyes as if Rhodey would believe him if he pretended to fall asleep. “It’s time to move on.”

A silent chuckle reverberates through Rhodey’s body. “That was several hours ago,” he argues, “when we had a problem to solve.”

Tony’s answer to that will never change. He is fine, and if he is not he will act like it until the situation has either blown over or he has fixed things. With this, of course, only one of these is an actual option.

“We haven’t solved anything,” Tony says, attempting to change the topic, no matter that he would prefer to not talk anymore at all.

“I know. But we’re getting there,” Rhodey says, sounding like he is rolling his eyes, but Tony is too tired to lift his head and look. “So, how are you really doing?”

Of course, Rhodey would not let himself be distracted this easily. Tony is silent for a long moment, burrowing his face closer into Rhodey’s warmth. He is not going to lie, Rhodey would see through him anyway. The question is just how much of the truth he is going to offer.  

“I’m tired and in pain and not as angry as I should be,” he finally says, quiet and disheartened, perhaps too honest.

Rhodey raises his arm and puts it around Tony to hold him closer. Inside his own mind, Tony can admit that he missed this, intimacy without any demands. There is no price to pay for Rhodey’s closeness other than opening himself up enough to accept it.

“You’ll get there,” Rhodey says, not a trace of doubt in his voice. “I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to snap out of feeling betrayed right into doing something about it.”

Part of Tony fears that moment. He can never be sure he will make the right decisions.

“I thought we were already doing something,” he answers somewhat flippant, then softens. “But I hope you’re right. It feels wrong to be so passive about this.”

“As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never been passive,” Rhodey says, clicking his tongue. “Sometimes, your brain is pulling you into too many directions at once, but I’ve never seen you pass by a problem or a wrong without doing something about it.”

It is nice to have someone believing in him, even though Tony obviously does not deserve that kind of trust. If he did, he would not have been so blind, he would not have a soulmate who hates what he is, what he stands for

“So that is how my weapons are ending up in terrorists’ hands. Because I always fix what’s wrong.” Tony’s voice is sharp, but he only cuts himself with it. He has practice doing that.

Rhodey sits up a bit straighter, looking down at Tony even when Tony avoids his eyes. “You didn’t know,” he intones firmly, leaving no room for discussion. “And now that you do, you are immediately acting to make up for it.”

Glancing up, Tony is overwhelmed by the sheer conviction in his best friend’s eyes. “I should have known,” he says nonetheless, not allowing his guilt to be taken from him so easily.

“No sense in dwelling on that” Rhodey insists, unwilling to move even one bit. “We’ll make it right.”

It would be easy to give into the ease with which Rhodey promises something that is not actually in his control to offer. Tony will still wake up tomorrow, and none of his problems will have gotten any smaller. On the contrary, time and distance do not seem to make the heaviness in his arm go away, nor the nonsensical longing.  Over the course of this day, it had periodically risen and fallen, even. There is no ignoring the fact that Steve and he are now connected.  

“Can we?” Tony asks, concentrating back on the topic at hand. “I mean, so much bad stuff has happened because of this. People are dead or hurt, the fighting never comes to an end.”

For all that it is a big part of Tony’s life, war has always been an abstract thing, captured in statistics and equations, not in actual human lives. Tony is familiar with the recoil of a gun, but not with the force of impact in a body. He knows about the blast radius of bombs but not about the wreckage they leave behind. His best friend is part of the military, but he has never allowed himself to think about Rhodey not coming home.

“They aren’t fighting because they have your weapons,” Rhodey argues with a ferocity that soothes Tony a bit. Not enough to keep him from loading more blame onto his plate, but it is a beginning.

“But they do it so much more effectively with them,” Tony replies, self-loathing dripping from his tongue.

He has had so many ideas not involving weapons. He should have ignored his board of directors, should have ignored Obadiah even, and done something good for the world for once. How hard could it be? They are afraid of losing money, but not all profit has to be paid for in blood.  

“Tones –” Rhodey says slowly, gearing up for another argument.

“I know, I know,” Tony cuts him off quickly. He even manages to paste a smile on his face. “Moving on.”

In response, Rhodey holds him tighter for a minute, another promise of safety that could not possibly be upheld. It almost seems like this is it, that Rhodey will let it go now. Then, however, with grating nonchalance, Rhodey asks, “Why are you protecting the kidnappers?”

“What? I don’t – why would I?”

Rhodey knows him too well. Tony could bury him under a never-ending flood of arguments, all of them solid and logical, and Rhodey would still zero in on the fact that Tony is hiding something.

“Then why don’t you tell me their names,” Rhodey continues casually, as if he does not care for the answer either way. “I’m sure JARVIS has found something out already.”

The knowledge of all the information about the Avengers is weighing heavily on Tony. He sends a silent plea to his AI to not mess this up by unwanted autonomy for once. Miraculously, JARVIS remains silent.

“I can’t,” Tony then says as firmly as he can. He almost wants to disentangle from Rhodey but does not, knowing it would seem too defensive. “I – I know one of them.”

It is not even a complete lie. Bruce, as it turns out, is the one and only Dr. Bruce Banner. Tony has read all of his papers, has gushed over them really. It had been a hard hit for the scientific community when Bruce disappeared several years ago, running from a military contract he had apparently taken offense to. Colleagues had declared him another brilliant mind lost to scruples.  Considering the company Bruce is keeping now, something more sinister must have happened.

Bruce might not be the reason Tony is so tight-lipped about the kidnapping, but he will serve for now. He is a better alternative than making up some story about Steve without mentioning that they are soulmates.

“You know them?” Rhodey asks, leaning back to look at Tony with open incredulity. His eyes are turning just a shade more furious.

“One of them,” Tony corrects, keeping his tone even as if his heart is not beating wildly. “And he didn’t harm me. On the contrary, he helped me get out. He promised that they won’t come after me again.”

Rhodey does not believe him. Not fully. There are too many holes in Tony’s story. “And you –”

“Please, Rhodey,” Tony interrupts him, shoulders dropping. “I can’t fight all these battles at once.”

They are at an impasse, neither of them willing to back down. In the end, though, Rhodey will always care for Tony’s well-being.

“All right,” he says, although nothing is. “As long as you promise me you won’t fight them alone.”

Tony opens his mouth, mindless agreement lying on his tongue. He thinks better of it, though. Despite all their years of friendship, it is still incredibly hard to reach out for help.

“I called you as soon as I came home, right?” he then says, skirting the topic graciously enough that Rhodey lets it drop.

“Right,” Rhodey says, drawing out the word, then relaxes back into the cushions. “Now, do you want to go sleep in an actual bed, or are you condemning us both to hurting backs tomorrow morning?”

Smiling, Tony wonders for the umpteenth time how he deserves a friend like this. “I’m comfortable where I am.”

Rhodey sighs but does not seem surprised. “I knew you’d say that,” he mutters, but already adjusts his position to make it more comfortable for the both of them on the couch. “Sleep, you maniac. I have to catch an early flight tomorrow.”

When Tony shifts his head a bit, he can hear Rhodey’s heartbeat, a steady, familiar sound. Like that, he knows he will be able to sleep, perhaps even dreamlessly. This is the soundtrack of his MIT years, which were perhaps the happiest of his life. Like this, with Rhodey at his side, Tony knows he is safe.