#life is short and none of this stupid fandom bullshit matters but my brain is like dumb

[kookygobbledygook]

Okay, I am about to piss off both sides of the debate.

I believe Cassandra shouldn't be articulate.

On one hand, yes, Cassandra Cain is infantalised by the fandom and that is in part due to her start in comics with being non-verbal and neuroatypical due to David Cain's training. It is rooted in ablism, racism and misogyny.

HOWEVER, as not only a person who has worked for over a decade in group homes for disabled people, but as a neuroatypical woman who grew up with multiple speech impediment, a stutter, and who had to do so much speech therapy as a kid that it ironed out my Australian accent, I hate that the discourse seems to be divided down the line of non-verbal, illiterate Cass is infantilising and verbal, literate Cass is empowered.

When you work in disability you soon learn there is a wide canyon between having an intellectual disability and being stupid. I have worked with dozens of people with intellectual disabilities over the years. None of them had been stupid. The most significantly disabled person I worked with never learnt to talk, needed help feeding himself, with personal care and almost all aspects of his daily life. He was also stubborn, cheeky, funny, impatient, enthusiastic about life, and had the best bullshit meter on the planet. He knew if you were there to help him or if you weren't worthy of his trust and that trust was hard earned. He was a fully fleshed-out, complete, adult man, with likes and interest and opinions which he couldexpressvery clearly. He passed away a few years ago and I miss him daily.

And he wasn't stupid. You see what I'm getting at?

So to loop back around to Cass, it annoys me that some people seem to think that Cass needs to be as articulate as an average person or write and read at the same level as her peers, to have her character progress. Why can't she improve and these areas still be a struggle for her? Why can't she be a bit underdeveloped in these areas not matter how hard she tries? To me it's like how there are people who learn as second language and are easily fluent, while there are other who will always struggle with articles, or tenses or the order of words or the use of plurals. That's not a sign of intelligence, why should it be that way in Cass' case?

I know people have shown examples of Cass speaking in lengthy sentences in the comics as evidence that Cass is articulate now and... yeah? But I kind of hate it? To me it's like the writers have given up on trying to depict what someone who struggles with language sounds like and have just ignored it, and treated Cass' dialogue like anyone else's. It makes her a flatter character imo.

One of the reasons I was drawn to Cass as a character was because she was so unlike me in many respects but in others so similar. The difficulty in articulating myself was a big one. And I hate that's been slowly wittled away by the writers at DC and now the fandom.

I still have a stutter. It's not a typical st-st-stutter. My brain blocks of the word before I even start to say it. But most people don't notice because on a completely subconscious level I search out synonyms. It's weird because if you got me to read out of a book, I would end up saying different words to what are written down, but they would still mean the same thing. And I don't even notice I'm doing it! Brains are weird. They compensate.

BUT I still have a stutter. Just because I work around it, and just because it's invisible in most situations doesn't mean it's not there.

We rail against other media when they find a magic cure to someone's disability. Hell I remember the outcry when DC decided to get Bab's out of the wheelchair. But because Cass' disability is invisible and more complicated to convey, we seem fine with it being watered down and framing that as character progression.

I want to see a Cass who is disabled and also an adult:

A Cass in speaks as much as she can in short clipped monosyllabic sentences because it's easier for her

A Cass who uses gestures and face expressions more often if she can

A Cass who struggles to find the right term sometimes and comes up with something left-of-field like people who have english as a second language calling a slug a "snail with no home" or calling raisins "elderly grapes"

A Cass who takes photos of crime scenes instead of writing down clues

A Cass who listens to audiobooks because physically reading is so much effort it takes the joy out of the story

A Cass who uses voice-to-text on her phone, but if she does resort to physically texting, she uses emojis

A Cass who struggles to hold down a typical job, and knows she's not built for university despite her intelligence because the type of intelligence she has is not valued or accommodated for

A Cass that leans more into the vigilante side of her life because this is the area that she is undisputedly a genius and where she doesn't feel as vulnerable

A Cass and a Babs who love each other but get into conflict because Babs does value the more typical hallmarks of intelligence as a computer genius librarian

A Cass who struggles with bills and banking and paperwork because it's deliberately set up to be labyrinthine to people who don't struggle with reading and writing. What chance does she have?

A Cass who not only has to deal with ablism but the intersection of ablism and racism as well as ablism and misogyny

A Cass who needs help with this stuff but is too afraid to ask for it because she's worried she'd be judged or looked down on or patronised

A Cass who IS judged or looked down on or patronised - even by people close to her, because even people we love have internalised ablism

A Cass who, in spite of being quiet is not stoic or shy, but acts the way she actually is. Funny, sharp, cheeky, cheerful, feral and kind. It's just her words are carefully selected precision strikes that can take down the other Bats in a single word.

That's the Cassandra Cain I want to see. And unfortunately I don't think I will, even in regular DC comics or in fandom spaces.

Because the idea that someone can struggle with developmental disability and also be smart is too much for people to wrap their heads around

[passionesolja]

I said I was gon be the biggest hater when Kenobi dropped. I did that today and now I’m forever dipping out the Star Wars fandom because what else there for me to do really?

Back to the jojo where my peeps and heart is.

Was Star Wars fun? Absolutely not. Absolutely a hellish fandom and series. This fandom and series needs to be thrown in pandora’s box and thrown in a volcano.

This my Yelp review of Star Wars and SW fandom:

Shit like being in a pressure cooker. Everyday it the same discourse like you’re in hell having to roll a rock up the hill. Insanity type shit. Mfs who write SW have never made a bad bitch like Dio Brando. The fandom chaotic.

Everyone in this fandom angry with no chill. Things are too SJW/woke, or things are not identity politics enough. Nothing is good enough.

But a bitch like me looking around saying “where all the beautiful mfs? Why are all these Star Wars characters ugly and average looking ??”

Life is too short to fight about the non existent social impact of Star Wars.

As if anybody has ever made a judgment about a strange or decision and before they did they said “what did the mfs in Star Wars do or think?”

None this shit is deep. None of this shit matters. 

Dawg I vaguely remember TRoS and I saw it in 2019. I promise y’all that Star Wars is not this important. It’s not worth remembering or acting like it’s some huge piece of social/political discourse.

It’s a stupid space wizard show for children and young teens. Now, the Eu for more grown aged people but the Eu non canon so all this series is now is a kids show.

Chill, y’all, please lmao

Overall rating : -10/10. Don’t ever get into Star Wars, it not worth the nonsense

No character in Star Wars is hot enough for me to put up with it.

No series is well written enough either. The memes don’t even slap.

Being in this fandom had a bitch brain under pressure.

I ain’t laugh one time in the Star Wars fandom, nor did I laugh watching the series itself.

I’ll be real, Star Wars is devoid of comedy for me. Real shit 💯

I’m leaving because I will make actual enemies if I stay around any longer.

I’ve have lost all respect and childhood nostalgia for Star Wars in my year and a half re entry into the series.

I can no longer enjoy Star Wars like I did as a kid because the rose tinted goggles broke😂🤪🤣

I’ll be real I grown to hate this series because nothing it gives me is worth the bullshit

Now I’m purging all ties to this eldritch nightmare of a series and fanbase.

Unless we cool, follow each other, or I generally fw you I’m unfollowing everybody. It ain’t none personal but this yall world not mine ✌️

[adiwriting]

Fic: Domesticity pt. 5

Fandom: Roswell New Mexico

Pairing: Malex (Michael Guerin/Alex Manes)

Notes: The next handful of prompts are going to be short but all domestic, so I’m putting them in the same little unnamed verse.

Prompt: Hospital Visits

—-

“Why does the nurse think you’re my husband?” Alex asks when Michael steps through the door. 

Michael takes him in and Alex can see the stress leave his shoulders as he sighs deeply. 

“They weren’t going to let me see you,” he says, moving to take a seat at the chair by his bed. 

“So you told them we’re married?” Alex teases. He doesn’t mind one bit. He’d have done the same thing. 

Michael just shrugs. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he says, reaching out with the hand that wasn’t hooked up to an IV. Michael grabs his hand and holds onto it tightly. Alex can tell that he’s trying his best not to let it show, but he’s a ball of anxious energy. He’d known that Michael was going to worry when he left that voicemail for him letting him know he was in the hospital. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d already texted Kyle about his scans, who was sure to tell Michael, Alex would have just waited to tell him until he was discharged. 

 “It was a training exercise gone wrong. I’m good,” he tries to assure him. 

Michael scoffs. “This is a bit more than a training exercise gone wrong. You were shot.” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “I was shot with a rubber bullet.” 

“A rubber bullet that did real damage,” Michael argues. “Is this some residual Manes men bullshit?” 

“Don’t,” Alex grumbles. “I’ve been shot with real bullets before. This is nothing.” 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Michael looks him up and down carefully. “When the hell were you shot?” 

“Through the shin. First tour,” he says with a shrug. “It was before I lost my leg, so… they took that story when they took that leg.” 

“You never told me.”

“Yeah well, we weren’t exactly having heart to hearts whenever I would come back now were we?” 

“Only because you never wanted to talk,” Michael says. 

“What was I supposed to say? War sucks? It’s not like you ever asked.” 

Michael is quiet for a while and Alex goes back over his words, trying to figure out if he’d crossed a line. He’s been working on being more intentional with his words. He’s never been the world’s best communicator, but he’s getting better. 

“I guess I never really wanted to know,” Michael finally says. 

“I don’t blame you,” Alex assures him. “Your life was a mess. We were both burying serious pain in each other. Neither of us were up for more than the sex marathons we got whenever I came home.” 

Michael shakes his head. “That’s not us anymore.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

Michael smiles at him and Alex’s whole body feels warm. Growing up, he never imagined it was possible to feel this much love. But Michael made him feel like this regularly, without even trying. 

“So you’ll tell me what happened?” 

“Some cocky ass punk thought he was above listening to orders and ended up accidentally shooting me,” he explains. 

“What’s his name?” 

“Why? So you can melt his brain with your mind?” 

Michael looks at him as if to say, ‘well yeah.’ 

“He’s in enough shit. And even if he wasn’t, I’d hate to be that poor kid when the rest of the cadets realize who’s replacing me. They thought I was tough, but I’m a fucking cupcake compared to Harrison.” 

“I’d pay good money to see you boss those kids around.” 

“Oh, no… that wouldn't be good for either of us,” Alex says, tugging on Michael’s hand until he moves from the chair to sit on the edge of his bed. He’d been too far away. 

“Why?” 

“Because I know how turned on you get when I give orders.” Alex moves his hand to Michael’s thigh, but Michael moves it with a stern look. 

So he probably wasn’t going to be successful in convincing Michael to attempt a blow job in the bathroom. It’s unfortunate. Alex hates hospitals. He’d spent too much time in them when he’d lost his leg. He was hoping by Michael showing up, that meant he would have a good distraction.  

“Please you think that’s gonna shatter anyone’s precious perception of us? Anyone that knows us could tell you that I’m the bottom here.” 

Alex can’t really argue with that. Nor would he want to. 

“You’re so good at it, too.” 

Michael laughs. “I’m not having sex with you in a hosital.” 

Alex pouts, but when Michael doesn’t budge he just rolls his eyes. It had been worth a shot. 

“When are they letting you out of here?” 

“They’re keeping me overnight to monitor the bleeding and make sure I don’t need surgery then I think they’ll let me go home.” 

“Surgery?” Michael’s entire body stiffens. 

“They’re being overly cautious. I already sent Kyle pictures of my chart and he says I’m probably fine.” 

“Probably,” Michael scoffs. 

Rather than try to convince Michael that none of this is a big deal, Alex deflects. 

“You’re distracting me.”

“From what?” Michael asks, disbelievingly. 

“You know that you’re going to have to actually propose and have a wedding, right? You can’t just start calling me your husband and assume that’s all it takes.”

“You want a wedding.” Michael gives him a look and… it’s fair. Alex most certainly does not want a wedding. He hates attention. He’d much rather just sign the certificate at the justice of the peace and call it a day. 

“No,” Alex says. “But Isobel will kill you if you don’t have one. And it definitely would have pissed off my dad to have one so I guess it wouldn’t be so bad.” 

“Wouldn’t be so bad. God, you’re such a romantic,” Michael teases. 

“I’m sorry, were you expecting flowers? Because the most romantic thing you’ve ever done is change my oil for free.” 

“I may not line the bed with rose petals on your birthday, but I’m a poet of words.” 

Alex freezes at that phrase and instantly wants to kill Maria. 

“A poet of words?” he tries to play it off like he has no idea where Michael came up with that. 

“Yeah. Did you or did you not call me that to Maria? You said I made you all weak in the knees when I told you I never looked away?” 

Alex blushes at that and Michael gives him that cocky smile of his. 

“I was drunk. And Maria never should have told you that.”

“You told her that while I was still dating her,” Michael says. “And you never get drunk. You knew exactly what you were doing. Don’t pretend you’re surprised she told me that like it wasn’t your plan all along.” 

Alex shrugs. 

“So you admit it?” 

“What do you want me to say? I’m trained to win wars.” 

Michael rolls his eyes half heartedly. “You’re such an asshole. I didn’t get laid that night because of you.”

“Again, I’m not seeing how my plan was faulty,” Alex says with a hearty laugh. 

“I knew you were taking me dating her too well,” Michael says. “Should have known you were secretly plotting away.” 

“I didn’t intend for her to actually tell you that,” he says in his defense. “And I was cool with you two. Truly. Well, after the initial shock wore off. I just… was having a petty moment and she kept talking about us like it was only ever some high school crush. It was stupid and imature. I’m sorry.” 

“It wasn’t stupid.” 

“No?”

Michael shakes his head, but his body language tells him that there’s something he’s not saying. 

“Out with it, Guerin.” 

“I might have accidentally left pictures of us at the library when Forest was there.” 

Alex snorts. “I thought you didn’t get jealous.” 

“I said that so you would think I was a better person than I am,” Michael says. “Did you really think seeing you with him didn’t affect me?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Alex says, grabbing his shirt and pulling him close enough to kiss. “Cause I’m with you now.” 

“Thank god for that.”

—-

more Domesticity

[suzu-kun22]

Numb

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26268835

Prompt: Addiction/withdrawal Fandom: The Umbrella Academy (TV) Pairings: None Warnings: Kind of obvious but, drug addiction. Drug withdrawal. Very brief suicidal ideation.  Summary: Klaus forgets that his tolerance is getting better. The ghosts don’t. @badthingshappenbingo​

If there are any specific prompts you’d like me to write and any specific scenarios/fandoms/pairings you’d like me to write for, just send in an ask!

Story below the cut!

Klaus Hargreeves doesn't exactly remember the last time he was sober.

It isn't much of a surprise. Most of his mental energy at this point in time is spent on when he's going to get his next high. Sometimes he worries about money – not because he cares whether he starves to death or sleeps on the street, but because he knows that he needs money if he's going to keep the ghosts at bay any longer – and sometimes a passing thought will dedicate itself to wondering after his siblings. Is Luther still stuck with dear old dad? Is Diego still getting himself injured like an idiot? Is Allison remembering to take time for herself?

Is Five even still with them? He wonders that, sometimes.

Is Vanya feeling any better? He did spare some of his remaining competent brain power to reading her book. Honestly, even with everything in that book that she wrote about him – calling him everything from a nutcase to a junkie – Klaus can't blame her. It isn't as though it's untrue. He is a nutcase. He is a junkie. Maybe he'd be upset if she had told a lie. Maybe he'd care, even slightly, if there had been some mistruth.

But, honestly, why does Klaus care if the world knows the truth about him? He's never pretended to be anything else. A nutcase. A junkie. The disappointment. Perhaps even more than poor little Vanya. She never had the potential to live up to their bastard of a father's expectations, no matter what she did. It isn't her fault. Klaus would never think less of her for it. What a stupid thing to judge people on.

Klaus, however, was fully capable of living up to everything his father wanted from him. Klaus could have been great. Klaus could have harnessed those powers that his father thought were so powerful, and become someone so much stronger. Stronger, maybe, than even Luther or Diego or–

"Klaus."

He blinks himself out of a stupor. He fell into thoughts, at some point. Maybe he didn't take enough, if he can still fall into thoughts of things such as family. Past. Fathers. Anything and everything that he would rather forget in favor of the numb bliss of a high. He closes his eyes again and leans backwards. Maybe he's hoping to fall asleep and let the numbness wash over him. Maybe he's hoping that the person snapping in his face will just bug off already.

"Klaus." The person repeats, pointedly and angrily and Klaus furrows his brow in annoyance. Can't they see that he's trying to sleep? Can't they see that he's tired and that the drugs are making him sleepy?

"Klaus. Open your eyes."

"What!?" He finally snaps, eyes opening and entire body lurching forward. His coat slips from his shoulders, and honestly he doesn't care enough to try adjusting it. He's not going to move. Why bother? No matter how far he might stumble, where he might go, there isn't anyone who would care enough to help him out. There's no one who would open their door for him, and he doesn't have the energy to break into Diego's apartment or look up Allison's phone number. 

"Oh, forgive me for worrying about my brother's health." Klaus' companion practically hisses. Through the haze of his vision, Klaus can just about see Ben Hargreeves, his brother, with arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed. "You're shaking, Klaus. If I were you, I wouldn't pass out on the street."

"Oh, truly?" Klaus mocks, waving his hands as though doing so would help make his point in any way. He doesn't even have a point to make. His head is starting to hurt, and really he just wants to go to sleep. As much as he loves his brother – that's what he's supposed to think, right? Not how much he wishes his precious brother would just leave him the fuck alone – he really wishes he could throw a brick right at Ben's face. Maybe that would shut him up. "Why wouldn't you? Passing out sounds great, right about now!"

Ben raises an eyebrow, as though Klaus' words are truly ridiculous. Maybe they are. He's starting to think that he definitely didn't take enough. His tolerance keeps getting higher and higher and the drugs are less and less effective. It's never pleasant to blow every penny he's managed to gather on an amount that would have gotten him high as a kite just a month ago to find that it barely has any effect. Maybe it's time to give up. Maybe it's time to just stab that needle into his neck and call it a day. 

If he can't stop the ghosts, might as well become one. Right?

He shudders at the thought. As though Ben would ever let him do something that self-destructive. No matter what Ben's interactions with the world could be, Klaus doesn't think he could bring himself to do something like that in front of his brother. Not Ben, anyway. The brother who has followed him around so loyally since they were teenagers.

Not that either of them had much of a choice.

Ghosts are drawn to Klaus Hargreeves. Of course the one belonging to his brother – and the one he was closest with to boot – wouldn't leave his side.

Klaus' hands start to shake.

"My head hurts." He mutters, raising his hands to pull at his short brown hair. Headaches are nothing new. Often they come with the drugs – or at least they come with the drugs wearing off – but this one is a different kind of familiar. A worse kind of familiar.

Klaus.

He feels himself jump. His shoulders start shaking. His fingers detach themselves from his hair and fumble through his pockets. Fingers jumping and shaking and there's no way he's out, right? There's no way there's no way there's no way–

Klaus!

He jumps again. He feels a whimper bubbling up through his throat. There's nothing in his pockets. How did he run out already? There's no way there's no way there's no way–

Klaus!!

He gasps for air. Desperate and pained and god can they ever just shut the hell up–

"Klaus."

His eyes snap open. He looks up. Ben is there. Ben is exactly where Klaus left him, but his eyes don't look as... upset? Angry? Annoyed? Ben doesn't usually wear concern so blatantly. Usually he hides it beneath a layer of judgement. Just to make sure that Klaus is always aware that Ben doesn't condone his choices.

"Klaus, hey." Ben's voice is quiet. Comforting, almost. It brings him back. So far back. He remembers being 12. 13. 14. After long days of training – or what their father thought was training, anyway – where Klaus barely knew up from down anymore and he'd end up dragged back to the house. Barely conscious and entirely stuck in the sounds of the angry dead.

Those days, where Ben would be the one to whisper to him that it was okay. That Klaus was safe, and whatever their father had taken him to do was over now. He remembers never believing it. No matter how many times Ben would hug him and let him cry and scream and whimper and–

"Klaus. Listen to me." Ben continues, and Klaus' hands slip over his ears. Maybe. Maybe he can just block them out that way. Maybe he should just gouge out his ears. If he can't hear, then the ghosts can't bother him. Right? Maybe–

"It's okay." Ben whispers. "You're okay. You're not there. You're here. With me. It's Ben. Dad is gone, the ghosts can't hurt you, and you're okay. The withdrawal will wear off. You'll be okay. It'll be okay." 

Klaus almost wants to laugh. Say something about how stubborn life coach Ben Hargreeves suddenly took a turn into soft and gooey feelings territory, but he thinks himself far too tired for such a thing right now. His head hurts. He wants to sleep. He wants to feel numb. His entire body itches for something that he doesn't have, and he thinks that this might just be the worst feeling in the world.

"Klaus," Ben's voice stays quiet. "You can do this. You don't need the drugs. You can do this. You're strong. You can do this on your own."

Maybe that's what sets him off. Of course Ben would use this to try to shove that bullshit down his throat once again. Of course. Of course of course of course. What else did he expect? No matter how soft Ben makes his tone or how much Klaus is reminded of their teenage years, Ben wants Klaus to do something. And, as Klaus now knows, Ben is willing to use Klaus' trust in him to get him to do it.

"Think I can pickpocket enough for some coke~?" Klaus coos, forcing himself to his feet and waving his hands dramatically. Flashing both the 'Hello' and 'Goodbye' to his brother as he starts down the alley. He struggles not to sway, eventually leaning against the alley wall with one hand. He can't hear Ben following, but knows that his brother is hot on his tail.

Maybe Ben is right. Maybe Klaus should just let the drugs leave his system and work on a way to deal with his powers all on his own. Maybe that would be the best thing for him. Maybe that would be the healthy, adult way to handle this. 

But, really, does Klaus care what the healthy, adult way to deal with his problems is?

No?

That's what he thought.

[renaroo]

Expecting the Best

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth. Pairings: Grimmons Warnings: Language, Canon-typical violence Rating: T Synopsis: [Reverse Big Bang Entry!] Grif and Simmons prepare for an award ceremony for themselves and the rest of the Reds and Blues, but those pesky expectations keep getting in the way.

A/N: An entry in on the wire! My apologies everyone, but I was having an absolute blast with this entry which I got to do with the amazingly talented @st-franz! And what better to add to the fandom at large than some Grimmons goodness?

Maybe he should have expected a little more.

As a mandate of sorts, Dexter Grif did not allow himself to carry many expectations. He hadn’t bothered to have any for himself, and he certainly hadn’t held any for the people around him. The day he was shipped out to Blood Gulch and was cementing his time with Red Team, that nonexistent bar had been perfectly place.

If he’d raised the bar, he was pretty sure they were readying to trip over it.

So Grif didn’t set expectations, didn’t raise himself to them, and he definitely didn’t exude confidence in them of any sort. Yet, when he looked in the mirror, and he wondered about whether or not there was enough of that monkey grease hair gel Donut had given him, if he’d be able to drop the look of utter shock from his face before he went out there and made an ass of all of them.

Probably not. He probably didn’t have it in him to be unsurprised anymore. Not even after negotiations and settlements and all sorts of other legal jargon that was being thrown their way before the day had come.

They were free.

And as a draftee, Grif meant that on all accounts.

Free of expectations, free of responsibilities, free of active duty, free of…

Free of duty.

It sounded so fake, even bouncing around inside his own skull. The more Grif looked at his war scarred face, the heavy bags under his eyes, and the mess that his hair was even as he smoothed it down with the gross monkey grease again and again. It wasn’t the face that had been drafted into a backwards, stalemated war. It wasn’t even the face that had stumbled into saving the humanity that was left after the Covenant was brought to a daw.

It was…

It was just him, looking like he had never expected the day to come where he was wearing stripes on his uniform.

In truth… he didn’t even know what the stripes meant.

Giving up on calming down his hair, Grif reached up to his uniform and felt over the stripes with his fingers, pressing hard so that the cool curves of the metal could be imprinted on his fingertips.

Recognition had never been a driving force for Grif. He wasn’t looking in life for promotions or handouts or anything. Again, those were expectations. Grif had none.

But there was something… strangely warm about the feeling he got looking at those stripes. There was something nice about knowing that in a few hours he would be standing in front of all the people in the galaxy who mattered, and a lot more who, to him, didn’t, getting ready to recognize those long ago earned markings.

If he was a sentimental man, which Grif really didn’t want to be, he might have had something profound in his mind at all that.

A speech? A toast?

Dexter Grif was a simple man, though, so instead of profundity or nonexistent resolution in his spirits, he waited until the bathroom door opened and he turned around to face his partner in crime and point at his stripes.

“Fucking finally, am I right?” he said sardonically.

Simmons — because of course it was going to be Simmons — stopped short and raised his eyebrows at Grif’s statement. But the surprise was momentary and he quickly returned to a near stoicism.

A near stoicism with an additional presence of sass.

“Do you mean finally I’m done taking up space in the bathroom or do you mean finally someone’s going to make me leave because I’ve been hogging up the bathroom?” Simmons asked dryly. He then moved forward, lightly pushing Grif out of the way as he got to the mirror. “Seriously, what’re you even doing in here? Putting your head in the sink? Your hair’s soaking wet!”

“It’s — no,” Grif scoffed at the very idea. “You know I don’t wash my hair before big events. It’ll just make it easier for sweat.”

“Which I still tell you is not how human bodies work, but go on,” Simmons replied, straightening his already pristine lines of a uniform.

it was only a few steps from infuriating how used to Simmonsisms that Grif was, he didn’t even bother to make fun of the uniform business.

“Seriously, Simmons, my hair’s not wet. It’s this stupid hair moose that Donut gave to me! It won’t keep my hair down no matter how much I add to it!” Grif explained, irritably running a hand through the slick but still distinctively standing hair. “Believe it or not, I actually don’t want to be a complete jackass at this event tonight.”

“Tonight? It’s in two hours,” Simmons scoffed. He then turned and looked at Grif, really looking at him. “Wait… are you nervous?”

“Pfft, no,” Grif said rotating his wrist candidly. “I’m the complete opposite of being nervous. I’m…  bored. Everything about award ceremonies are boring.”

Simmons squinted at him. “Then you admit that the ending to A New Hope is boring and not as good as Empire?” he asked pointedly.

Scandalized, Grif put a hand over his chest and shook his head. “Did you hear me say that? No. Of course you didn’t hear me say that because saying that would be complete bullshit and against everything I’ve ever stood for as a soldier.”

“I’ve never seen you stand for anything,” Simmons needled further, a sly smirk growing at the corners of his mouth. He was definitely enjoying riling Grif up.

What a fucker.

“No, that award ceremony was great and you’re never going to ruin it for me,” Grif said firmly. “But everything is great with Star Wars and everything is crap in real life. So I can totally argue that this thing tonight—“

“In two hours.”

“—is boringly dead on arrival.” Crossing his arms, Grif glanced around Simmons, looking for anything to freshen him up or otherwise explain why he was in the bathroom but coming up with nothing. “Simmons, what’re you even doing here?”

“Besides moving you along for the sake of everyone who wants this thing to run smoothly and us to get discharged without further complaint from the UNSC?” Simmons asked sarcastically. He paused, eyes rolling up in thought, then he shrugged. “Actually, no, that’s pretty much it. Why?”

“Because I don’t see any confetti on you,” Grif replied in equal sarcasm.

Simmons’ brows knitted together. “Confetti? Grif, what the hell are you going on about?”

Letting out a fake gasp, Grif leaned back and away from Simmons in feigned horror. “Why, Simmons! Surely you’re not serious! You forgot the confetti?”

Though Simmons’ face put on a good front — all scowly and unimpressed — the red tinge to his ears and the general way he seemed to grow tense was giving Grif an entirely different story. “What confetti? You’re not making any sense!”

“Wow, Simmons, this really isn’t like you,” Grif continued to joke. “Don’t you remember? Back in the day, Sarge promised after the war was over I’d be a big war hero! Sarge’s going to drive the float, and you’re in charge of confetti!”

For a moment, Simmons seemed to doubt the entire structure of the universe as he knew it, but he quickly snapped back with, “You’re not a big war hero!”

“Uh, I did save you and everyone else a little big ago, or did you forget?” Grif pressed.

“You mean how you saved us after abandoning us on a mission to save the world?” Simmons asked. “Which was the only reason you weren’t captured alongside us?”

There was a twinge of guilt that Grif couldn’t help but flinch back from when he heard it, but he was then determined to see through the charade just for the accusation. True as it might’ve been in some people’s perspectives.

“Uh, yeah. What else would have made me a hero of this story?” he asked. “Seriously, Simmons, I’m going to be pretty disappointed if there’s not any confetti at this thing tonight.”

“It’s not tonight, it’s in two hours!” Simmons cried out.

“Well, then. You better get moving on that then,” Grif shrugged in return.

He might’ve been going a little too harsh, but Simmons more than anyone should have known about Grif that pushing him into a corner did not yield any expected results. So he shouldn’t have been too surprised to open his eyes and see the swinging of the bathroom door as Simmons headed out in a hurry.

“He… wouldn’t really be getting confetti…” Grif tried to reason with himself. He then snorted at the ridiculousness and shrugged. “Nah, Simmons knows me better than that.”

No one knew him as well as Simmons, and it didn’t exactly take knowing Grif well to know that he wasn’t a man who carried many expectations with him.

If Simmons had to narrow down all of his problems to a single entity, it would probably be overwhelming expectations.

It was something that he had been struggling with before he was even able to put it into terms. And it was something that was putting a stranglehold on him in that moment. But with an hour left before the big award ceremony that was supposed to put some relief to his gnawing feelings of anticipation and claustrophobia, he was in the passenger seat of a car with Agent Washington behind the wheel, taking him to the nearest supermarket.

Man, he hoped there was a confetti aisle in supermarkets.

“Can we move any faster through this traffic?” Simmons half whined, looking to Washington as the man simply stared ahead almost lazily.

“Yeah, let me turn on the propulsion system so this car can fly us above the traffic and take us to the local H-E-B,” Washington answered without even glancing toward Simmons.

Blinking in wide eyed surprise, Simmons tilted his head. “These models can do that?” he asked, his brain already working out the schematics for the vehicle they were in which could account for those additional systems and what mechanism would be responsible for making the transformation.

Washington’s eyes squinted slightly and he actually glanced Simmons’ way before refocusing on the road and traffic ahead. “This is a minivan. No.”

Despite his immediate disappointment, Simmons tried to keep himself from shrinking back into his seat and instead crossed his arms in aggravation. “Right, I didn’t think so. Really, I was testing you. I knew that… well, statistically, most minivans aren’t going to be awesome James Bond cars. Because most of them are Aston Martins and not… Nissans? This is a Nissan right?”  Listing off car things was about the most stereotypical bro thing Simmons could manage to make himself do, and there was no denying that Agent Washington was totally going to respect the amount of faux bro that Simmons could pull off.

Or, at least, in Simmons’ ideal scenario that was the case.

Instead, reality served him with a bored looking former special operations agent driving a minivan with an unnatural amount of concentration on the road ahead of them.

“I’ll be honest, I don’t really know that much about cars,” Washington said almost thoughtfully.

Simmons then allowed himself to sink back into his carseat and look at the unending traffic ahead. A high pitched groan came from him almost accidentally as he saw what little progress they had made. “Do you know enough about cars to make them go faster?”  he asked irritably.

“I know enough to obey the law,” Wash answered. “If you wanted a maniac behind the wheel, I seem to recall Carolina offering to drive you to the supermarket instead. You know. The person who got us a speeding ticket on the way to the auditorium.”

“I said faster, not deader,” Simmons argued, shifting in his seat. “Ugh, we only have fifty-five minutes.”

“Probably should have thought about that before you started demanding someone take you to the supermarket for…” Washington paused thoughtfully before glancing back to Simmons curiously. “Sorry, what are we going to the supermarket for again?”

“Confetti,” Simmons answered flatly.

Washington was already looking at the road again, nodding a bit to Simmons’ words probably before even fully hearing them. Then, as the words really made their impact, his brows furrowed and a frown teased at the corners of his mouth.

After a few sideways glances toward Simmons, Washington surprisingly put on the turn signal and began to pull off the road just as Simmons could utter any objections.

“What— Washington! We’re not at the store yet, and unless gravel is a substitute for non recyclable and incredibly wasteful plastics, I can’t imagine why we’d be getting confetti from the side of the road!” Simmons shouted at a tone that was high pitched even by his own ears. Which, of course, was truly saying something.

“I have learned to let a lot of truly strange and unusual tendencies from you guys fly over the years, usually against my better judgment,” Washington answered as he changed the gear into park. “But sometimes I get the good sense to question something that is unusual even for you guys and usually when that happens, I either listen to it or we end up getting shot by someone we stupidly trusted. The latter happens too much, so I’m going to question this time around.” He tilted his head slightly, looking at Simmons expectantly — as if expectation was the ingredient Simmons’ life needed added to its misery stew. “Simmons, why are we going to a store to get you confetti? And why can’t it wait until after the award ceremony that will try to make the past few years of ridiculousness mean something to our permanent records?”

Simmons blinked a few times in surprise. “Well, when you put it that way it sounds like no amount of confetti could really be enough to ;put some semblance of reason behind what we’ve been doing for, like, fifteen years now.”

“You see my confusion then,” Wash replied with a wave of his hand. “Seriously, though, what’s going on?”

“It’s…” Simmons trailed off before pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a long, heralding sigh. “Okay, you know how most of what we do doesn’t make any sense on Red Team but holds us to some loose interpretation of logic because of dumb conversations we’ve had?”

“Sure,” Washington said, apparently wanting to move past that point more than anything else.

“It’s one of those,” Simmons tried for subtly.

“Confetti has to do with some conversation you had ages ago that Red Team now wants to uphold,” Washington clarified.

“Not all of Red Team,” Simmons answered, feeling his face heat up for reasons utterly beyond him.

Washington kept staring at him for a good few minutes before he leaned back and began to reach for the gearshift. “So this is for Grif?”

“Ha! Grif Me doing favors for Grif. I mean. Why would you even make that assumption? That’s so weird! And not necessary! I mean, think of all the times I do really weird things for Donut! Or for Sarge! I can’t even make a proper list of all the weird things I’ve done for Sarge!” Simmons then added a rather awkward laugh. “Ah, Agent Washington. You… kidder.”

For a moment, Washington looked like he was just going to let the details pass by, but he shook his head and asked, “Does the confetti have glitter in it?”

“What? No,” Simmons answered.

“Does it explode on impact with something very specific and unhelpful, like banana peels?” Washington continued.

“What’re you talking about, of course it doesn’t!” Simmons scoffed.

“Hm, sure doesn’t sound like it’s for Donut or Sarge,” Washington answered easily.

Realizing his own folly, Simmons felt his face heat up even more. “I… Well. Don’t think that that makes you some kind of expert about Red Team! You.. you dirty Blue!”

The words were so flustered, even Simmons had a hard time listening to them.

Washington didn’t seem overly offended, however. “You good? That out of your system?” Wash pressed.

With a long and frankly disappointed sigh, Simmons eased back into his seat again. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Great, why does Grif want confetti?” Wash continued.

“It’s not that he wants it,” Simmons responded with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s that it’s… well it’s something we talked about forever ago, and not getting it would basically be, like, admitting that I don’t expect us to be the same people we were all those ages ago back in Blood Gulch when we talked about nonsense and had all these… I don’t know, expectations for what the future was going to be. You know. Before everything was bad.”

Washington showed a bit of concern. “Are things bad now?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Simmons answered, glancing away from the intensity of Washington’s need for answers. “No? Yes? I don’t know. It’s just… Things are never the way we expected them to be.”

“What’d you and Grif expect them to be?” Washington asked. “And is confetti really going to make the difference on whether or not you’ll ever achieve it?”

“Maybe?” Simmons responded, worrying his lip. “I mean. It’s so hard to read Grif sometimes… It’s like he expects me to be some kind of mindreader and just… know him? Like, how am I supposed to live up to those kinds of expectations? Why can’t he ever just say what he actually means instead of asking for me to get confetti and then getting annoyed when I give him exactly what he said instead of exactly what he wanted?”

The silence that filled the minivan after the outburst was stifling and Simmons took it as an opportunity to sink so low that his shoulder blades were almost resting in the seat. He was certain that his uniform was misshapen and creased in ways that were totally unbecoming of an award ceremony, but the sudden rush of existential panic took over for the generalized anxiety in his bones.

Whether or not it was a worthwhile tradeoff had still not been determined by the time that Washington was pulling them back onto the road.

“We only have forty-five minutes to get confetti,” Simmons informed him before he looked up enough over the dashboard to see that Washington wasn’t merely pulling them back onto the road toward the supermarket but was crossing lanes to get them turned around completely. “Agent Washington!? What are you doing? We haven’t gotten the confetti!”

“Of course we’re not. You just said it yourself, it’s not about the confetti.” Washington answered. “So we’re heading back.”

“Why?” Simmons demanded.

“Because you need to get Grif exactly what he wants and not the thing he says he wants.” Washington said flatly. “Also so we’re not wasting either of our time or my money.”

Simmons scowled in return. “I would have paid for it!”

“You didn’t bring a wallet,” Washington answered. “There’s nothing in your back pockets.”

“I don’t like the way fabric feels against my ass when it’s being pulled taut!” Simmons cried out in defense.

“The rest of the world usually uses that as evidence that someone doesn’t have an ass,” Wash replied with a shrug.

“Hey!” Simmons protested, though he wasn’t entirely sure how else to counter the accusation. Instead he crossed his arms and glared at his driver. “Besides! Didn’t you hear me? The problem is I don’t know what Grif wants! That’s why he drives me crazy!”

“You know he doesn’t want the confetti,” Washington reminded him. “So I’d say the real problem here isn’t that you don’t know what Grif wants, but that you definitely know what you want. And you’re frustrated with Grif and yourself for not doing anything about it.”

Simmons stared at him, somewhat aghast. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you guys need to talk or something. Preferably after not making asses of all of us at the award ceremony or making it so that our honorable discharges are brought into question by… Basically all of humanity. It’d be stellar if we didn’t have either of those to contend with, honestly,” Washington replied.

At first, Simmons couldn’t even believe what he was hearing, he scoffed at the notion, turning in his seat to swivel away from Washington and his utterly ridiculous charges.

Obviously, the Freelancer had no idea what he was talking about. He and Grif were just fine. And no one was bringing unreasonable expectations to their situation. Definitely not Simmons himself.

It was so ridiculous that it was making Simmons’ entire face heat up once more, like a schoolyard misunderstanding between two kids who hadn’t learned how to talk to one another yet.

And then Simmons almost felt his heart stop.

Fortunately being partially cybernetic made that a relative impossibility even for his organic body parts so his heart kept chugging along even as Simmons’ voice got trapped in his throat in an excruciating manner.

Washington glanced over, seemingly concerned at the noises being made. “Simmons?”

“Oh my god,” Simmons gasped at last.

“See,” Washington said a bit eagerly. “Told you. I’m an expert at Reds and Blues now! I know exactly how you all think. And… Well, honestly, when I say it out loud like that it makes me think I’ve had some pretty regrettable choices in my life to get us here, actually.”

Simmons couldn’t even hear Washington as he continued to slowly sink into his seat much like his stomach was sinking through his person.

His carefully curated expectations for the evening suddenly and dramatically changed in a moment.

Grif might have, over the years, for reasons beyond him and definitely not within his control, allowed himself to have a single expectation. The kind of trapping that would ruin a man of lesser caliber.

Of course, Grif wasn’t really of any caliber, so the situation was just annoying the hell out of him more than it was trapping him in anything.

“Sarge!” he shouted over the stage despite the already mostly gathered audience surrounding their stage.

For maybe the first time since Grif had met the man, Sarge was dressed in completely proper order with the sort of rigid lines to his uniform that would have made every single one of Simmons’ ninety-nine problems absolutely jealous. He was also holding a rather dramatic pose with his cap under his stiffly held right arm and his forceful, toothy smile drawn back so tight his eyes were lost behind wrinkles. Even when he turned himself — as in his entire body so as to not take himself out of his stiff posture — he did not lose a bit of his smile, if anything it grew and his eyes were further lost in the clench. “Private Grif!” he shouted between clenched teeth in what was, ultimately, a rather impressive maneuver. “We are preparing for an award ceremony that you most certainly don’t deserve! All I ask is that you don’t ruin the most important part — the part that’s for me! Your esteemed leader!”

There were many, many opportunities to lampoon his commanding officer that Grif was passing up in the heat of the moment. “Yeah, honestly, don’t care, this is important.” But he then paused and allowed himself at least one response to Sarge’s mania. “Also? Totally a captain now. And it’s in the earned way, not in that whole stupid fake way you became a colonel. But that’s not important right now—“

Sarge’s smile dropped just enough to allow his right eyebrow to shoot up, exposing a bloodshot, unblinking eye at Grif. “The hell it’s not!!!” he shouted before coughing and immediately reestablishing his previous expression, if not scarier. “Goddammit, Grif! See what you’re doing? Making me lose my composure is what you’re doing!”

“Fuck composure!” Grif shouted. “Where the hell’s Simmons? It’s almost fifteen minutes ’til! And Simmons has never been less than forty-five minutes early for something in his entire life!”

“Aw,” Caboose cooed from behind Grif, making the Red jump in place before whirling around to face him. How someone so huge and so dumb could manage to constantly sneak up on other people was completely beyond Grif. “You’re worried about Simmons!”

“Ew, no,” Grif scoffed. “Worried about Simmons? Don’t be ridiculous, Caboose! I’m not worried about Simmons! Who would be worried about Simmons? Definitely not someone like me who was ready to attack Locus if he touched Simmons. That’s fucking ridiculous, Caboose! How could you even ask me something like that?”

Caboose blinked at him and shrugged. “Oh, my bad. Sorry. I thought that was why you were talking about Simmons. And why you always talk about Simmons. And why you always talk to Simmons. Usually about Simmons. Yeah. You’re very close.”

“No, not close!” Grif countered heatedly. “I’m asking about Simmons because I’m worried if he’s not here then we’ll never be discharged from the fucking military and I’ll be stuck doing this stuff with you idiots for the rest of my life!”

Sarge once again dropped his composure and whirled around to face Grif, a serious look on his face. “You mean if one of us accidentally screws the pooch today, that’s an option? Indefinite military solitude!? Well Laaahhhhhrrrrdddeeeee! Why didn’t someone say so!?”

“No! I’m not saying that! No one was saying that and no one would ever say that, except you,” Grif snapped. “I just don’t want this ceremony to be postponed for any reason!”

“But it can’t start before Simmons and Agent Washington come back!” Caboose cried out in concern. “They promised it would not take long! They said they’d come back and it would be because they had to be here for the thingie with the things and the scary people with frowns!”

Grif turned to Caboose with a bit of wonder. “Wait, Agent Washington is with Simmons? What the fuck is he thinking? Doesn’t he know the first rule of Reds and Blues? Going with a Freelancer always leads to problems! That’s why we always kick them over to Blue Team and make you all deal with them and your stupid team kills and backstabs and generally idiotic stuff. Like alien fucking.”

Caboose put a hand over his chest and grew a big, watery grin. “Grif! You are the reason for Blue Team always having new teammates!? I always get new friends because of you! Thank you, Grif! Oh, thank you!”

“I’m not responsible. If anyone’s responsible, it’s you and your constant team kills,” Grif snapped back.

A bit put off — more by Grif’s tone than anything else, most likely — Caboose tilted his head back and sniffed. “Well then! I will just be thanking myself for all my bestest friends! And you can stay with only having Simmons!”

“Good! All I need is Simmons anyway!” Grif snapped back, turning to march off and get to the bottom of the missing Simmons issue, but much to his aggravation, the moment he did so he ran face first into a uniformed chest. It was with enough force to nearly knock them both over, but they managed to save it.

“Hey! Watch it!” Simmons groaned. “Grif, can’t you at least bother to see where you’re going!”

“No, fuck you!” Grif retorted automatically before shaking his head profusely and really accepting the revelation. “Simmons! There you fucking are! What the hell were you doing, taking off right before this whole shindig? I was going to fucking haul you back! And disappearing with a Freelancer of all people! You’re lucky you weren’t killed and then had your body bombed by Mister Destructo himself!”

There was an uncomfortable cough that drew Grif’s attention to Simmons’ side where Agent Washington was standing.

“I’m right here,” Washington pointed out plainly.

“What do you want, a cookie?” Grif demanded in annoyance.

“Grif, I’m here,” Simmons answered, looking at Grif like he was imparting some kind of deeper meaning.

One that was far too deep for Grif to comprehend so he just looked at Simmons in annoyance. “Of course you are! The problem is you almost weren’t! Like what the fuck Simmons?”

“No, Grif! I mean… I’m here!” Simmons restated. “I’m… I’m trying to say… What I mean is…”

Grif squinted at Simmons, uncomprehending. Unsure what Simmons could ever mean by any of it. Which was super annoying since, well, for a man who had lived his life to that point priding himself on living without the burden of expectations, he had — for better or worse — allowed himself to experience one expectation above all of his stoicism and near nihilism.

And that single expectation, his road to certain ruin, was that no matter what happened going forward, he had Captain Dick Simmons there by his side.

“You finally decided to show up to the award ceremony that’s for everyone? Congratulations,” Grif responded thickly, scratching at his chin as he only then realized that he had not shaved despite all that wasted time in the bathroom. “Son of a…”

“No, you big idiot,” Simmons half laughed, a breathy, nasally noise that — no matter how many times he heard it — Grif never felt like he had heard enough. “I’m trying to say I’m here for you. Awards and stuff, sure, but I mean more generally… more… bigger… I’m always gonna be with you. On your side. All that stuff.”

Grif looked at Simmons, brows raising high toward his hairline.

“What? Like… metaphorically? You’re metaphorically showing up to the award ceremony from A New Hope which totally isn’t lame at all and now that we’re pretty close to it, being knighted as a space knight hero is pretty fucking rad?” Grif tried to clarify. “Because if that’s our takeaway I have to say — no fucking duh, and welcome to the right side of the Force. Which, we all agree, is the Gray Jedi.”

Simmons gave what had to be at least in the top ten of the universe’s largest eye rolls before coming forward. “Shut up, Grif.”

“You’re metaphorically here to tell me to shut up?” Grif continued only to be taken by complete surprise when Simmons surged forward and landed a kiss on his lips.

Blinking a few times, Grif wasn’t sure what to do, even as Simmons began to nervously back away. But before he was going to allow any of that, Grif reached forward, grabbing Simmons by the shoulders and bringing him into a deeper kiss, one that was beyond any sort of expectations.

The kind of thing that caused a dozen camera flashes all at once and earned some cheers and jeers from the other gathered award recipients.

“HA!” Sarge howled. “Kept the smile for the pictures! Hot dog!”

[namestaybutfriendscallmetrash]

Parks and Wrecks

Fic #2 of the day for @davekatweek 2017 Day 5 Prompt "Leave it up to Fate"

The prompt I used in in the link below, and okay maybe it wasn't exactly random but that's still okay right? Right?

http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/158049080336/person-a-is-super-sad-and-its-super-late-so-they

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: Homestuck

Relationship: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas

Characters: Dave Strider, Rose Lalonde, Karkat Vantas, Roxy Lalonde (Mentioned), Gamzee Makara (Mentioned), Kanaya Maryam (Mentioned), John Egbert (Mentioned)

Additional Tags: Tumblr Prompt, Davekat Week 2017, Day 5, "Leave it up to Fate" Day, hardly any romance but whatever right, alternately titled "Taylor has a problem and can't stop writing pesterlogs because they're pretty", tw for:, abuse mention, Mental Illness, (unspecified)

Read it on Ao3 through the link below or under the cut :)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11769885

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

TG: rose TG: heu rose TG: whre are you rigght now TG: rpse TG: rose TT: Dear gods Dave are you drunk? It's nearly midnight! TT: What do you want? TG: i need yu to comr gett me TG: quicjly if posssivle TT: What? Where are you? TT: And what's going on? TG: th park TG: itss hapenng again TG: pleaase help m TT: What park? TG: cannt read the sing TG: fuck i cn hardlt see TT: I need to know where it is if I'm coming to get you. TG: h sometingg TG: maybe higglans TG: highlad TT: Highland? TG: plese come egt me0 TG: m freakin the fuccout TT: I'm on my way, just sit down and wait for me.

You shut your phone off and shove it in your pocket with shaky hands and try to remember what your psychiatrist told you to do about these attacks. Deep breaths, silence, stress ball, vitamin d? You have no idea, and it's making it worse.

You all but throwing yourself onto the bench beside you, the only one free of the influence of any streetlight.

All it took was a stroll along the side if the road, a piece of gravel kicked into a street sign, a distinctive clang of metal, and it all hit you like a damn semi.

Swords, swords, why did everything sound like swords? And why did the sound make you shake, make your scars tingle?

You pull your legs up onto the edge of the bench and wrap your arms around them tightly, shutting your eyes to block out what little light the nearest streetlight throws and wait for your sister.

...

Eventually you hear tires on gravel, and when you take your hands away from your face you hand see headlights nearby.

You sit upright immediately and stare at the black sedan, which has now stopped in the parking lot hardly 60 feet away from you. A short, dark dressed figure gets out of the driver's seat and you stand.

“R-Rose?” You call, and it turns to look at you.

You're running before she has a chance to answer, bridging the gap between you in seconds and all you hear is a startled yelp as you cling onto her like a toddler that lost their mom in the supermarket.

“Rose thank fuck you're….” a lot less curvy than last time and also have no boobs…?

You look up at not Rose's extremely confused and slightly alarmed face.

“Shit, shit,” You pull off the visibly uncomfortable stranger, face going even whiter than usual.

Not literally though. You're albino so it's more like a figure of speech in your case.

“I'm sorry, you're not Rose, shit,”

“Yeah, no. Sorry?”

“God damn it, I'm, no, shit,”

You shove your violently trembling hands in your pockets and turn away from the guy because it's getting worse even faster now, and you really don't want anyone to see you like this, not even a stranger.

Speaking of stranger, you hear a cautious sounding footstep behind you.

“Hey, um, are you, like, okay?”

You don't turn around, just nod your head.

“Y-yeah, just… looking for someone.”

Good one, Strider.

The guy behind you seems to shuffle in place like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. That's probably for the best, he's got one of those voices that can't be quiet and quite frankly you can't handle that right now.

You back over to the dark bench and sit down again, trying and failing to control the shaking in your shoulders. You look over at the guy and he's staring, but once he realized you can see him he turns back to his car.

“Where the hell are you Rose…” you mutter under your breath as you put your head between your knees. You wish you hadn't gone out tonight, and you really wish you hadn't turned down John's offer to drive you home. ‘It's cool bro I'm only a 10 minute walk that way, save your gas’ was, in hindsight, not your best decision tonight.

Judging by the fact that someone just sat down beside you and cautiously placed a hand on your arm, smother hugging someone before you were sure they were Rose is pretty high up there on tonight's regret scale, too.

“Hi, so I know you said you were fine, but I kinda think that's bullshit and I'd be an ass to leave you here alone, so…”

He trails off, and you have to look up and make sure it's that same guy because that same grating voice just got really soft somehow.

He half smiles at you nervously when you turn your head enough to look at him out of your left eye, and you sigh shakily.

“Thanks, but I really am fine. I'll be back to my usual cool self in no time, I'm just down a bit right now, you know like, uh, shit I don't know, just whatever.”

You really wish your voice didn't sound like you were on the edge of tears. It doesn't help that you're on the edge of tears, wait what the hell why are you crying now?

“Fuck off, I'm not leaving until someone shows up to take you home.”

You tuck your head back between your legs and you feel hot tears begin to run down your cheeks.

“So who's Rose? Girlfriend? Oh, or ex maybe? Shit, sorry-”

“Sister. Rose is my sister.”

“Oh.”

You'd laugh at the total ass he's making of himself right now if you weren't in the middle of having a mental breakdown. Thanks a lot past traumas.

“Does she know you're here? I can call her to come get you, or something, if you want…”

“Yeah. She's coming.”

You don't know when he took his hand off you but you know he did when he shuffles awkwardly beside you, then goes silent for a minute or so. His voice cuts in just when you had almost convinced yourself you were home and it was Rose beside you.

“I, uh, I'm sorry if me being here is stressing you out or something… I can leave if you want.”

You don't say anything.

“It's just that I used to have a friend who would do this all the time, I mean break down alone at night, he usually came to this park too.”

You think he's balling his fists in his lap by the way you can hear skin and fabric brushing together.

“That stupid kid, he'd just drag himself here and wait for me to come get him, balled up under the slide and spouting nonsense at no one. I wish he'd have fucking realized he wasn't… Nevermind. He doesn't matter anymore.”

You actually kinda want to see where that story was going, but you're finally moving into the exhaustion stage of your little fit. Your eyes still sting from the tears that stopped not long ago and your eyelids desperately want to cover them. You think maybe you shouldn't let that happen, you don't want to add ‘falling asleep in a public park’ to the list of stupid shit you've done tonight.

You sit up, but let your head hang lazily in front of you. You make no effort to move it when you speak, either.

“He wasn't what.” You sound half dead, and you hope his voice can keep you from flatlining.

“He… he thought he would be fine if he just waited for me there every night. He'd get high out of his fucking mind, wander the streets in a stupor then come here when he started to feel bad again and wait for me. I'd find him passed out, crying, biting his fingers, pissing himself, you name it. But…”

He gulped.

“I'm not a doctor. I couldn't help him with the after effects or the mental problems he was trying to escape. He wasn't safe like he thought he was.”

This time the silence was worse. You peer at him through your left eye again, and he's staring off into the pitch black sky.

“You okay man.”

He looks at you suddenly like he didn't know you were there before scowling and turning his head away.

“Me?”

He's gone back to the loud voice, but you don't really mind at this point.

“When the fuck did this turn into my therapy session? You're the one who tackled me in the parking lot in search of your surely more stable sister.”

You snort with as much humor as you can muster, which is none.

“Hey how about instead of talking about my fuck ups you tell me why I was assaulted today?”

You turn your head back down with uncertainty. As much as you usually love spewing your personal life at people, you feel kind of weird about talking to a stranger about this part. Apparently the guy could tell, because when he speaks, his voice seems kind of panicked.

“Fuck, sorry, you don't have to say anything, you don't even know me-”

“I'm not good at change.”

You don't really know why you said it. It's true, you guess, but it's not really the root of the problem.

“I'm 22 years old and I just moved in with my Mom, for the first time. It's… Really different than what I'm used to.”

You yawn, and slouch a little further down on the bench. You think maybe it should be Rose you're retelling this story to again, not whoever this poor guy is, but she's not here and he is. Too bad it's not a couch like you're used to.

“It's so nice, so much better than before. Before was… Really bad. But I didn't know how bad it was until I had something good. Does that make sense…?”

You look to your left fully for a response this time. The guy nods, his fluffy hair nodding with him.

“You don't know what you have until it's gone, but… worse.”

You face forwards again.

“Exactly. And now that he’s- it's gone, I'm learning that my brain got just as fucked up as my body did.”

“I'm really sorry to hear that… uhm…”

His voice was soft again, and you turned your head so see him staring awkwardly at you, his dark eyes peering out at you nervously from the mess of coarse black hair that hung around his face.

“Dave. Strider.”

He looked away, clearly embarrassed that he hadn't asked sooner.

“Thanks. Oh, and I'm Karkat by the way.”

You stretch your legs out in front of you, which you're starting to be able to feel normally again.

“Nice to meet you Mr.Karkat, and welcome to Dave's mental trauma- the only talk show where literally no one wants to be there.”

The guy- Karkat- chuckles a little bit, then sighs.

The two of you sit for a few minutes which seems to translate to ‘an uncomfortable amount of time’ for Karkat beside you, because he's fidgeting and keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something but quickly turns away any time you start to turn your head towards him.

You guess about five minutes total have passed when you get up and stretch, about ready to start walking home. You're about to turn around and say bye or something when he finally speaks up.

“So, Dave…”

You make a short “Hm?” and half turn to see him on his feet as well, standing a surprising foot shorter than you- how did you think he was taller when you were sitting beside him?

“Do you need a ride home? Because I've got my car here, and I'm not busy... or whatever.”

You decide not to take any chances this time.

“Sure, thanks man. Here, give me your number and I'll text you my address so you can put it on maps or whatever.”

He complies, and you send the message before following him back to his car and getting in the passenger's side.

You hear him start up the car and mess around on his phone for a minute, then he pauses before shifting gears.

“Wait, you're like three blocks from here- couldn't you have just told me the way to your place?”

You don't answer, and instead keep your head rested against the door and your eyes closed.

The car starts backing up and you smirk as you hear an exasperated “Asshole,” from the driver.

…

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: Dave where are you, I'm at the park on Highland like you said. TT: Hello? turntechGodhead [TG] is an idle chum

TT: Come on, don't worry me like that then stop answering me. TT: Dave if you don't answer I'm calling Kanaya to come help me find you. TG: oh hey rose TG: wait did I say highland TG: i meant henson TT: That's half an hour from here, are you serious? TG: sorry TT: Whatever, do you still need me to come get you? Or are you fine now? TG: im fine just talked to some guy who showed up instead TG: he drove me back to mom's place too by the way TG: and don't worry about hunting him down like some deranged stalker bent on thanking people for me, I gave him my number so we're cool TT: That's great to hear, TT: Leave it to you to hit on a stranger after dumping your feelings on him. TG: im the king of getting ass, and not even a panic attack can slow me down TG: you know how it is/span> TT: Yes Dave, of course. tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

[shadowolf19]

[Fic] I Can’t Do Anything Now That You’re Gone

Words: 3918 Fandom: Marvel Sub-fandom: Earth 616 Genre: Angst, Dramatic, Introspective Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark Rating: M Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Death, Missing Moments, One Shot, Notes: First fill for my Stony Bingo card (prompt “hurt/comfort”) which is on at cap_ironman (and will be until the end of the month). It's set right after Civil War ends and basically during Captain America: The Death Of The Dream in which Cap gets shot. Had to tinker a bit about him dying during the ambulance ride for obvious narrative purposes but it's explained in the fic anyway. My friend @jetblackfeeling also asked me to write something angst with a major character death so I combined the two since we have it in canon thanks to Civil War. This is for him <3

His phone rings once again. It has barely stopped since this morning, and it’s only 11am. This is going to be a hell of a long day.

“Mr. Stark?”

“What now?”

“There’s been a shooting, sir.”

He sighs deeply. He doesn’t have time for this.

“So what? Look who’s available and—“

“It’s Captain America, sir.”

At first Tony doesn’t think he has heard it right. It can’t be. It’s Steve, come on.

“What do you mean, Captain America?”

“He’s been shot, sir. On his way to the federal courthouse.”

Suddenly his ears start ringing. He squeezes his eyes as if to push that noise away, but he knows it’s only in his mind. He takes a deep breath before answering, a desperate attempt to steady his shaky voice.

“Who’s with him?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t told.”

“Do you know where are they taking him?”

“Mercy Hospital, sir.”

He hangs up without even thanking him. His head is aching but is nothing compared to the sting of dull pain he feels in the left part of his chest.

∞

It takes a while, but eventually his brain starts gearing up again whilst a helicopter is flying him to the hospital. With the sniper still at large, possibly ready to strike again, he decides the only smart thing to do is to let the world believe the person who did it… succeeded. He can’t bring himself to say the exact words out loud, even if he really should. Because doing it would mean entertaining, even just as a mere possibility, that idea, and sorry, he’s not doing it, not now, not ever. Steve is Steve, right? He’s America’s one and only super soldier. He’s been around for nearly a century. A stupid and insignificant human mercenary is not going to do much damage now, is it? What a nonsense. Time I get to the hospital he’s gonna be up and wanting to be escorted to the courthouse again. Yeah, that’s what going to happen. He knows it. But he’s going to make sure that Steve is well rested and looked after for at least a couple of days before he lets him out of the doctors’ sight again, no matter how hard Roger will try and protest. That will also give them the chance to catch the perpetrator and make sure they don’t see the light of day ever again. He might even try and push for the death penalty. Sure, Washington doesn’t have it anymore, but hey, special occasions call for special measures, right? That’ll teach all those bastards a lesson, so they’ll think it over before h—

“Sir? We’re here.”

The pilot’s voice sounds so remote to his ears that for a moment he doesn’t understand where it’s coming from; he gives a little pat on her shoulder as a thank you, then steps out of the helicopter and follows the agent greeting him inside, where they’re joined by the hospital’s head physician.

“How bad?” he asks, even if he doesn’t want to hear it, not one bit. Not before he sees him, at least.

“He’s suffered severe damage to his c—“

“In English, thank you.”

They stop in front of Steve’s room, and the doctor steps in front of him, giving a deep and penetrating stare that makes the whole of Tony’s body grow limp in a second, so much so that he has to lean a hand against the wall to stay on his feet.

“The truth, sir?”

“Do you think I’ve got time for anything else?”

“If he was a regular guy, he wouldn’t even have made it to the hospital.”

“But he’s not now, is he?”

“No, but sir, you have to un—“

“Is he conscious?”

“Not right now, we had to sedate him. Sir, if I may…”

“I’m going in. You.” He gestures to the agent who was trying real hard to blend in with the wallpaper, obviously without succeeding. “Make sure this whole floor is free, I don’t want anyone else around, okay? Have I made myself clear?”

“Yessir” the guy replies, giving him an unnecessary military salute for all good measure.

“Hey, you can’t just do t—“ the doctor protests, looking at him as if he was insane. Which he probably is, right now. How could I not be?

“I can, and I’m doing it. If you don’t like it, you can take it up to my superior. He’s the President of the United States.” he replies tersely, and ignoring the expression of disbelief on the other man’s face, he opens the door and gets inside the room, closing the door behind himself and locking it.

There’s a perforating smell of dirt and blood in the air, the light is dimmed and the only sound he hears is the blip of the cardio machine recording Steve’s heart rate. So slow and sporadic that you could think it’s not working at all. Tony takes a deep breath and gets near the bed, his throat growing tighter with each step forward that he takes. The blood from the wounds – how many he’s terrified of actually counting – has irremediably stained the blue and white parts of his uniform, so that now it’s only different shades of red. You’re gonna need a brand new one, Captain. Tony desperately wants to throw up, not only the three cups of coffee he’s drank today so far, but possibly his own soul too, or what there is left of it. Probably not a lot, after all that’s happened recently.

“My god, Steve…” he whines, fighting back some unwanted wetness that has been gathering in his eyes.

There’s a chair by the bed on which he lets himself slide down onto, staying like that for whole minutes, silent and still, unable to do anything else except for staring at Steve. At the fucking mess he himself has contributed to create.

Slowly, as if it had a brain of its own, one of his hands slips gently on the other man’s, leaning on it and crossing their fingers together. Tony looks at them as if he was truly mesmerized at what has just happened, and at the same moment he blinks, letting a couple of tears run down freely against his cheeks. He brings Steve’s hand on his lips to leave a kiss on its back, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths to calm himself down, to at least restore some of his composure. Or trying to.

“C-Careful to not let… Sharon s-see you…” a voice – his voice – says all of a sudden, and Tony has to really keep himself from screaming out loud now. He ventures a look at Steve, trying to smile despite it all but falling short in his attempt. He snuffles then, quick to hide any trace that could spur the rumors that he is indeed, after all, irremediably human. Tony can’t allow that to happen, not today, not in the nearby future. Not when there are so many things to discuss and settle; not when he’s the only one both the public and the government can rely upon. As if.

“Hey old man… You gave everyone quite the scare out there…” he replies, his lips still against Steve’s hand, as if keeping it there would actually help things to get better, his wounds to heal.

“W-Who?”

“Still no clue, but we’ll get them. We always do.”

Steve puts the oxygen mask back on his mouth and closes his eyes, but lets his hand being held by Tony, who seems unable to move from that position. Or to find some meaningful words to say.

And it’s not because he doesn’t know what he would like to say, on the contrary. There are so many damn things he only wishes he could express out loud, but they all seem… wrong somehow. ‘I’m sorry’ would be the first one obviously, because that’s always how you’re supposed to start, right? And don’t get him wrong, he is sorry, of course he is, even if this is not his fault, not really, but the point is, he should have said it earlier, when there was still time to contain the situation. Now, it would sound like something you say just because, and that’s not really how he operates.

Next, he would probably say that he wants to sneak Steve out of the country somehow, because when he got the call earlier today he felt his heart crumble and like the most powerful alarm in the world had just woke him up from some sort of hypnosis, and now both the world and his own life are a mess and the only solution he can think of is making him disappear for a while so that he has time to work everything else out. But Steve would protest and spit some patriotic bullshit out of his mouth, which is not a discussion he’s willing to have right now, not when the other man is in these critical conditions. So that’s another pass.

Then he would probably beg him for forgiveness, which is not the same as apologizing, because while the latter would be professional, the former is… personal. It wouldn’t be Iron Man or the Director of SHIELD going back on his steps; it would be Tony Stark asking Steve Rogers for a second chance, a do-over, a chance of redemption for all the mistakes he’s made regarding them, all of these years. He could probably lead with this, now that he’s thinking about it.

He takes a look around the room to see if there are any cameras recording; it appears to be none, so he’s about to open his mouth and pour his heart out when Steve beats him to it.

“Why… didn’t we s-stop… before it got this… bad, Tony?”

Hearing his name slurred out in such pain hurts his heart more than the truth contained in his other words does. He turns to look at Steve, kissing his hand again, and runs his fingers through his short, blonde hair now sticky on the account of sweat and blood, sighing before answering: “Because at the end of the day, we were both foolish enough to believe the other would come around. And when neither of us did, we were just too damn proud to admit it wasn’t worth it.”

Steve tries to smile, but it’s so tiny and fragile that Tony has to look away: “We are… a couple of i-idiots, you… you know that, right?”

“That’s the understatement of the century, Cap.”

Steve’s smile grows a bit now and it becomes lighter, giving Tony the smallest flicker of hope in his heart; he stands up and heads to the sink nearby, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and letting some cold water on it before going back to his seat. He moves the chair closer to the bed and then carefully and gently starts cleaning up Steve’s face, trying to be as delicate as he possibly can.

“Tony…”

“Shut up and let me do this. I can’t stand looking at you covered in your own blood like this. I’m gonna fire all of the nurses in this dump of a hospital, I swear to god…”

Steve sighs but doesn’t add anything else, mostly because he doesn’t have the energy to argue, but also because he seems to enjoy the other man’s dedication, or at least that’s what Tony hopes.

It takes some time – and a couple more of handkerchiefs – but eventually he manages to get all the crusty blood off Steve’s face. He knows it does nothing for the wounds, nevertheless he thinks it makes him more… himself, and maybe that could help him on a psychological level. He has no clue really, but at this point it doesn’t really matter to him. And maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, but when Steve talks again, his voice sounds somewhat stronger.

“What… are we gonna do now?”

There it is, the question he has been thinking about nonstop for the past few hours. He knows what his ideal solution would be (“Fancy a holiday, Steve? I’d visit during weekends!”), but alas, that’s not even worth bringing up, he already knows what the reply would be. So he goes for the third down his list, the more practical and – in certain aspects – legal.

“I’ve already contacted the best defense lawyer in the US, he’s studying the case as we speak. You won’t be charged. It’s gonna be a tough and maybe lengthy process, but you’re not going to be in jail for any of it. And eventually, you’ll win.”

“You can’t… know that for sure…” Steve replies, smiling softly nevertheless. Tony’s heart skips a beat.

“Oh believe me, you will.” he says, adding a small wink that was begging him to come out.

Steve shakes his head to himself, and Tony knows in any other occasion he would be protesting, claiming that it’s not fair, that he doesn’t want special treatment or anything of the likes, that he can’t just fluttering his money around to make problems go away.

For sure Steve is about to reply something along those lines as he lifts up the oxygen mask from his mouth and pulls it on the side, but this time is Tony who beats him to it, leaning his lips on his and leaving a small kiss on them, closing his eyes and staying there, unable to let them (or him) go. Much to his surprise, not only Steve doesn’t turn his face away, but he even returns the kiss, one of his hands leaning against Tony’s unshaved cheek.

As his mouth receives a taste of metallic blood and artificial air, Tony’s defenses start to quietly crumble down, and before he knows it he’s crying silent tears that drip on Steve’s face as if they were sharing a secret bond that no words could ever manage to fully describe. They kiss again, and this time when their mouths part Steve is actually smiling in what seems like the first real time in a long while.

“Never thought… I’d see you cry, Shellhead” he whispers, and Tony wants so desperately to laugh it off and tease him and act normally because he knows that’s what Steve needs right now. But he can’t, no matter how much his brain is screaming at him, it’s his heart the one in control at the moment. All he manages is sobbing out loud, turning away as hearing his own grotesque wails, muttering a “For fuck’s sake” under his breath, embarrassed and guilty and ashamed. He stands up and rubs his eyes, swallowing hard, trying to stop. He hates himself.

When he manages to stop, eventually, he sits back down, shaking his head as much to himself as at Steve, not knowing how to follow up on his remark. Once again, the other man is the one breaking the silence, quite remarkable if you think he’s the one fighting for his life.

“Tony?”

“I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

But Steve shakes slightly his head and painfully stretches a hand out to catch Tony’s: “Do you still love me?”

Tony blinks, and for the second time today he thinks he hasn’t heard the words right. He didn’t just ask me that, did he? He lifts his gaze on Steve, finding a dead-ass stance in his blue eyes now. He actually did.

“I’ve never stopped…” he mumbles, the simplicity of his words the only way to express such pure feelings. And although is so terrified of hearing the answer, he has to ask the question back: “Do you?”

“I’ve never… stopped.”

They smile at each other, and for a moment it’s like nothing has happened between them and they’re not in a stinky and cold hospital room where one of their lives is hanging by a thread. For a moment they are back at the mansion, sitting next to each other on the sofa in front of the TV, waiting for everyone else to go to sleep so they can cuddle and kiss and make love to forget about fighting criminals and evil masterminds and feel wholesome again. Then Steve starts coughing, his heart rate slightly increases and so does the blip on the monitor, and the moment passes but Tony doesn’t want to let it go, because the reality they live in now sucks and it could even get worse just with a snap of fingers.

He stands up, sits on the edge of the bed and before Steve can say anything to try and stop him he’s lying down next to him with slow and delicate movements, trying not to brush against his wounded body. When he sees the other man lifting up the mask again, he pushes it gently down and shakes his head.

“Not a word. You need to rest, and I don’t want to let you go.”

Steve mouths a ‘thank you’ before closing his eyes, and Tony leaves a kiss on his cheek, grateful for not having to provide further explanation. He wouldn’t have wanted to say that he’s so scared of seeing him slipping away right in front of his eyes that he figured, if he just held him tight, Death wouldn’t manage to steal him away from him. And not because he believes he’s invincible or what – if today proved anything is that nobody really is, at the end of the day – but because don’t they say that love conquers all? Soppy as it is, Tony hopes with everything he’s got that it’s true. The alternative is too terrifying for him to even think about it.

∞

Although it hadn’t been his intention, he ends up falling asleep a few hours after Steve, swiftly dozing off in an unconscious sleepiness, the result of too many nights spent awake since this crisis started. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but it’s the incessant and frantic blip of the monitor that eventually wakes him up, immediately followed by the deep panic that quickly gathers control of his body.

“Steve?” he says tentatively, and when there’s no reply his instincts click in and make him jump out of the bed to hurry to the door. He unlocks it and starts screaming, a desperate howl echoing in the empty hallway: “Help! Someone help!”

The head physician comes running towards him straightaway, and Tony realizes that the machine must be connected to a computer in the doctors’ lounge.

“Did anything happen?”

“I-I don’t know, I… fell asleep” he replies, feeling stupid and useless and guilty whilst his heart is racing way too fast.

“Okay… Stay here” the doctor tells him, hurrying inside.

But Tony has no intention of obeying, so he follows the stream of nurses in the room, standing aside as to not obstruct their maneuvers. Steve, please… You can’t do this to me… I need you to be with me, look what happens when we’re not together. Steve…

There are too many people in the room now, too many noises all around the bed, not enough space. Tony feels like he’s suffocating. He can’t spot Steve anymore under all those white coats and that makes everything ten times worse. Then the heart rate machine grows silent, the voices louder and Tony’s ears start ringing as if someone was dragging their sharp fingernails across a smooth surface. He only manages to hear random words: “Cardiac arrest”, “ECG” and “paddles”, followed by ever increasing numbers shouted in the air. He covers his face to try and filter at least some of the noise out, but with little result; soon enough, his own body goes into safe mode and he just stays there, not able to think or move, for god knows how long.

It’s only when the head physician starts shaking him by his arms that he opens his eyes again, regaining a sense of himself and his surroundings.

“I’m sorry, sir. I did the best I could” the doctor tells him in a low voice of one who has been delivering bad news for far too long. When he looks beyond him Tony sees a procession of nurses silently making their way out of the room. He knows what’s happened, it really doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, but all the same, he needs to ask, he needs to hear it.

“What do you mean, you’re ‘sorry’? What’s going on?”

“Steve Rogers… Captain America is dead, sir.”

“No. That can’t be.” He moves past the doctor and approaches the bed. Steve is still there, his body warm to the touch. “How long have you tried CPR for?”

“More than enough. Five minutes and counting.”

“Do ten, for fuck’s sake! He’s a super soldier, don’t you know that?!”

The doctor gives him a comforting smile followed by an amicable pat on his back: “I’ll give you a moment.”

Tony nods and holds his breath as if he was underwater until the man leaves the room and closes the door behind; the silence explodes between the walls and inside of him, and all he can do is dropping on his knees, shaking as he begins to sob and cry as quietly as he can.

∞

Ten minutes go by before he is eventually able to pull himself together and leave Steve’s side, shambling his feet outside the room, his eyes red and swollen, feeling old and weary. The head physician stops talking to a nurse as soon as he sees him and approaches him, looking at him. Tony doesn’t return his gaze, fixed on the pavement.

“What do we do now, sir?”

“I’ll give instructions to collect… We need…” words just keep escaping him, he doesn’t know how to do this, he doesn’t know if he can do this. This is too much. “He can’t… stay here. I’ll make arrangements. I’ll let you know as soon as I have a plan. In the meantime… four agents will guard the room, nobody in or out except for you. As of now, this whole building is in lockdown. All of the other patients’ visits are suspended for the time being. I hope you understand.”

The doctor nods, and Tony is relieved that he doesn’t have to fight about this. “What about… family? Did he have a partner?”

His partner was there when he died, he thinks, but of course he can’t say it out loud. “I’ll take care of that too.” he sighs, and there’s enough fatigue and anguish in those words for the man in front of him to take his leave.

He had me, and I let him down. We could have talked it out, but we decided to fight instead. All of these years together, and still we let something come between us.

Tony shakes his head and snuffles, having to fight another wave of tears from coming out. There will be no more evenings on the sofa, no more fighting side by side, no more sneaking out in the middle of the night to go sleep in the other’s bed. Steve is gone, and Tony is partially responsible for that, and the guilt is going to eat him alive, he can feel it already.

I was his partner, he was my soulmate and I was his home. But we never told anyone, and now he’s gone, and I’ll just be the guy whom everyone will blame for it.

Steve Rogers is dead, and I think I am too.