#so whatever I’m just wondering about the split at least in my more immediate orbit…..

[melrosing]

poll bc im curious.

#this doesn’t refer to when you joined a specific fandom but literally whenever you first explored online fan activity #how you define ‘online fab activity’ is up to u I guess #anyway I am for some reason super intrigued by fandom dynamics…. #like sometimes I think the way you act in fan spaces has much less to do w your age and more when you first entered these spaces #so whatever I’m just wondering about the split at least in my more immediate orbit…..

[calpops]

falling facade | c.h.

part four: falling failures

part one: falling flowers || part two: falling freedom || part three: falling fears

5k words

Copyright 2020 calpops. All rights reserved. This work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format (translations included).

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Explanations were needed and time was not a luxury that Calum and Arden were afforded. Pressure from parents and media began to intensify at the release of the paparazzi photos. The ring was splashed across headlines again, the first public appearance of the new couple sparking more than Calum could have anticipated. His friends were asking questions as well and they were getting harder and harder to avoid. Missed calls piled up and the pressure of secrets sat heavy. Only a day had passed since the obligatory paparazzi walk and things were getting wildly out of hand. They couldn’t avoid it forever; that’s exactly what he told Michael when he paid the Clifford house a visit and asked to see Arden. He realized he didn’t even have his fake fiancée’s phone number and she was completely off the social media grid. They were due for answers and they were due for posts.

Management wanted to start the presence of the relationship in the public eye hard and fast and frequently and then start to taper off to convince of the eventual split. Michael nodded his understanding when Calum showed up in search of Arden; he disappeared to yell through the house for her and in just a moment Arden took his spot in the doorway. Calum could tell she was tired. Her soft hair was in a messy bun and strands fell down to frame her face. She wore an old and oversized T-shirt tucked into shorts where her hands found a home in the pockets and a mild expression captured her face with dark circles under her eyes. She leaned against the door frame and licked her lips, teeth catching in their venture and reminding Calum of momentary bliss on a dance floor.

“We need to figure some things out,” he started with and when she frowned and her knees knocked into each other he knew that was too open ended and nerve wracking of a statement to start with. “We need to get our story straight is all. We need to figure out who we’re telling what.”

“Oh. Right,” she mumbled and craned her neck to look behind her and into the house before looking back at Calum. “Not here. Please. Can we go somewhere else?”

“Of course.”

They went to Calum’s place where it was quiet and private and they could think out loud with each other, with only Duke to listen in on them. Calum could see Arden visibly relaxing from the nervous state she was in at the doorway. She sank into the plush couch and Duke surprisingly made his way over to her; let her scratch under his chin and settled at her side. Calum sat on her other side and let them both have a moment to think through the questions they knew needed to be answered.

“It’s so quiet here. I don’t think it’s been this quiet at Michael’s since, well—since I got there,” she said and let out a tired sigh. Calum wondered if the noise of so many inhabitants living in the house had interrupted her sleep. “This is nice. I can actually hear myself think.”

Calum wanted to tell her she could come over and stay whenever she liked, for the quiet. But with only four days of a fake relationship under their belts and years of not knowing each other after years of orbiting each other, he thought it might be too soon. He let her have a few more minutes of quiet, her tired eyes casted her gaze out the window and towards the mid morning sun. Her hand lazily pet Duke who careened into her side and was satiated by the touch. Calum could see her eyes were heavy with every blink lasting longer than the previous. Her feet slightly wiggled as they couldn’t quite reach the hardwood floor and short stuff affectionately made way into Calum’s thoughts. He tried to bite back a grin at the memory of her feisty dislike of what Calum might now consider a term of endearment. From there his mind sank into other memories; trying so hard to place Arden in more moments. But she had disappeared for years. He couldn’t conjure up an image of her in a concert crowd. Never saw her backstage. For some reason, she avoided the band. Calum then realized the band would be the best tool to utilize for their situation.  

“I think Ashton and Luke need to know,” Calum suddenly blurted out and he wasn’t sure why or where the words came from but they killed the silence and the relaxed look on Arden’s face. “At least them. They can help with the PR stuff. It’d make it easier. They can have my back in interviews when it’s brought up. If they know the game we’re playing they can help me fill in the gaps when you’re not there. And it would get them off my back.”

Arden bit her lip and absentmindedly or perhaps with a mind full to the brim; nodded. She didn’t say anything in response immediately but turned her gaze over to Calum. He knew she was scrutinizing the situation. She looked him up and down once before speaking.

“We can tell them. You’re right. They could help,” she affirmed—Michael’s help could only go so far, it would be unrealistic for the rest of the band to be out of the loop. “But can we hold off on telling our parents? At least for a while? I don’t think I’m ready to face all of that yet.”

Calum recalled her words at the diner from the previous day. Disappoint my parents. Arden believed they wouldn’t be okay with the situation, that they would think less of her for their drunken night and reckless decisions without coherent thought processes and all that rained down on them because of it. He still didn’t have the full story to that reasoning and it didn’t seem she was wanting or willing to offer it now. He wanted to know why; to have a reason and justification for white lies and half truths to his family. But her comfortability and wants needed to be factored in as well. They had created all of this together. He found with another look at her that he couldn’t deny her of the request, not when her eyes were pleading and her lower lip was trembling. Maybe not ever.

“We can tell them we’re still trying to figure us out,” Calum supplied a half truth. In all honesty he wasn’t sure what they were to each other. “We can be vague. We reconnected while you were visiting Michael. We went to Vegas for a wedding and maybe we got swept up in the romance and got engaged. But we’re still trying to figure things out. They don’t need to know about the details.”

Or about the contracts.

“Are you sure you’re okay with that? I don’t want you to feel like you have to lie for me.”

Calum didn’t tell her that it might not feel like lying. He just shrugged and cleared his throat. She took it as a confirmation and a tired smile slowly tugged at the corners of her mouth. He couldn’t help but notice her lips were glossy and faintly remember the taste of sugar on them. It had been days since the kiss. He missed the sweetness and the soft touch. He didn’t miss the feeling of falling or wind at his back; that was ever present and all consuming. It was shifting. Some moments it was an easy and exhilarating descent through soft clouds. Other times it was a free fall filled with inhibitions and anxieties. But here, in the quiet with just the two of them and walls crumbled down and secrets able to be shared, Calum was content to enjoy the feeling.

“We can call them tomorrow,” Calum decided; knowing their parents wouldn’t be able to wait much longer. He wasn’t sure what tactics Arden was employing to hold her parents off or how much they might be hounding Michael for explanations as well. “But we are due for a post today.”

Calum knew once whatever photo they took went up there would be an influx of questions. Luke and Ashton would be on him in a second, and recognizing the house they might even drive over to get their answers. He could probably stall his parents' curiosity with some texts. Calum hadn’t even spared the comments on the initial photo any thought. He almost didn’t dare to look. He could picture them in his mind and he figured they were better left online. He was grateful Arden wasn’t online anymore. Her socials had gone dark months ago and Calum found some peace of mind from that.

“How do we do it our way?” She asked, referring to the fact they wanted to keep as much of themselves to themselves. She reveled in privacy and feared losing control of her life. Calum wanted to play the publicity game in a way they could win.

He had put a lot of thought into how to go about posting. The paparazzi photos had worked in their favor. Her hidden face and back to the camera provided a sense of security and left most of the comments circulating about the ring and the way Calum looked at her. Management had no complaints about the way they conducted the pap walk. Calum came off as protective and she was portrayed as shy. They needed to keep that narrative in their hands and on the board. They couldn’t let false claims and the wrath of the PR team take over.

“The most important thing right now still seems to be the ring,” Calum mused and took a glance down at her hand still coddling Duke with pets to see it fit to her finger. He was surprised she was wearing it; his visit was unprompted and though a post was scheduled for the day he didn't mention it before leaving. “Good thing you’re wearing it.”

“I haven’t taken it off,” she admitted with a faint blush and stalling hand. Duke let out a small whimper at the loss of contact as she brought her hand up but nuzzled into her further to make up for it. “All those people at Michael’s don’t know it’s fake. I also don’t want to lose it and get us in trouble.”

Her reasoning made sense and Calum was hit with the thought that pretending for her was a lot more permanent with the lack of privacy at the Clifford compound. It followed her everywhere. The weight of the ring was a constant reminder. At least when Calum got home he could stop pretending. Though, he was then faced with the question of how much was real and how much was fake. The ring was fake. The feelings that followed him were a whole other battle that he was entirely unprepared for.

“Next time we decide to get fake engaged, let’s pick a less hideous ring,” she said as the glare of the diamond picked up the sunlight and glinted on the couch. “I don’t know why people would want to see this thing.”

Calum smirked at the lighthearted words and the gaudy ring that was too big for her small finger. “It’s not that bad.”

Arden gave him a serious look with an arched eyebrow and a tilt of her head.

“It is pretty bad,” he admitted in a grumble of defeat. “But I’d rather the attention and scrutiny be on it.” Rather than you.

Arden seemed to understand the implications of those three unsaid words. She went to fidget with the ring but stopped herself and instead pet Duke who appreciated the attention with relaxed eyes slipping closed and a small groan. Calum couldn’t believe how well the old dog took to her. He was usually standoffish around new people. Hardly liked attention from anyone other than Calum. But he was soaking up her pets and his tail was wagging at every word she said directed to him. Calum was awestruck and an idea hit him; another way to keep Arden from taking the brunt of the attention and invasion of privacy. A way to stay themselves in the face of pretending.

“What are you thinking?” Arden asked and Calum knew she could see the wheels turning in his mind and how loudly his silence spoke in that moment.

“I know what we can do,” Calum began, then shifted to grab his phone out of his pants pocket and brought himself even closer into Arden’s side. He beckoned for Duke who hesitated a moment, wanting nothing more than to stay under the affection of Arden. But he slowly sat himself up and gave Calum a cursory glance with uninterested eyes.

Calum reached over to pick him up and when he gave a little wiggle and huff Calum laughed and placed him in Arden’s arms. She didn’t hesitate to receive the disgruntled dog or coo to him to get him happy again. Calum’s heart was warm at the exchange; a smile growing with every baby voiced word she said. The sun spilled in through floor length windows and lit her in a soft glow as Calum pulled his camera up. The ring was visible in her position of holding Duke. Sensing what was happening Arden did her best to hide her face in the embrace of Duke. Calum leaned in with his arm outstretched and the camera facing them. He gave her a small kiss on the cheek, helping to obscure what could be seen of her face. He snapped a photo and then a few more when she was grinning and Duke was set down. Calum’s arm fell and his lips hovered as Arden turned to him.

Honey and peaches and sugar were just before him. Her eyes were hooded and soft, hazel gleaming in the light and Calum couldn’t help but inch closer. He vaguely heard Duke jump off the couch and pad off to his own bed but he was too caught up in the moment to give it much more than half a thought. She blinked slowly and Calum did too and without seeing or knowing he was kissing her again. Tiny alarm bells rang in his mind but they were drowned out by the sweetness invading his senses. He didn’t care that Arden was Michael’s sister. He didn’t care that the pretenses of their relationship were fake and constructed by contracts—but real with a date and a kiss preceding all of that. All he cared about was the moment and the feeling of her lips against his. And the way his hand found its way to her jaw, fingertips light and tingling as they trailed along and his fingers tangled in her hair.

The moment was bliss and longer lived than on the dance floor. But still, all too soon she was pulling away but staying still in his hold. His eyes shot open to find hers still closed, lips pouted and pink dancing across her cheeks. Her eyes opened slowly; he saw the even rise and fall of her chest. She was calm and that reinforced the feelings of bliss Calum experienced in their brief moment. Words were evasive and meaningless when their gazes held and his fingers drifted from her hair back to her jaw. They were silent and let that speak for them. He could hear the tiny breaths escaping her. Could see her eyes dart up and down as if in contemplation of what might happen next. As Calum began to think that through—debating if he should lean in again or not—she made the decision and pulled away, leaving his hand to fall as a sigh escaped her.

“Guess we got caught up in the charade,” she said as her gaze went distant and the pink on her cheeks began to fade. She bit her lip and leaned back into the plush cushions of the couch.

“Yeah,” Calum agreed though he wasn’t too sure of that on his end.

His camera still captured the screen of his phone and a tiny photo sat in the bottom corner. It reminded him of what the moment was and what needed to be done. He pulled up his social media and found the photo where Arden was mostly hidden by Duke and Calum’s kiss. He was apprehensive and indecisive when captioning it. Arden was silent behind him, relaxed, while he was hunched over with phone in one hand and chin in the other. Settling for the less is more tactic he simply put a heart and leaned back and angled the phone for Arden’s eyes.

“Is this okay to post?”

He wanted to make sure they were always on the same page when it came to the stunt. He wanted her permission. Even though it was his profile, her comfortability of being on it was more important. She nodded and Calum hit post with his heart in his throat and sweaty palms still gripping the phone. He could still feel their kiss, could still taste sugar when he licked his lips and turned to face her. She was seemingly at ease while Calum was at war with himself.

It only took a few minutes of the post being up for the calls and texts to start piling up. Calum had called his family the previous night after he and Arden decided to hold off. He evaded their questions as best he could and said he’d explain when the time was right and they were ready. It was a sinking feeling to be engulfed in; he had never been so evasive with his family before. But it was justified to keep Arden okay. He knew they were picking up on the fact he couldn’t say things, not that he didn’t want to or didn’t trust them. But Luke and Ashton were still in the dark and seeking the light. Others had questions; a few exes popped up in search of answers, but they weren’t important.

“Should we bite the bullet and tell Ash and Luke the truth in one go?” Calum asked as his phone lit up with a FaceTime call from Ashton, again.

Arden took a moment to think it over and when a grin spread across her face and mischief twinkled in her hazel eyes Calum couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking.

“We could have fun with it first,” she said and Calum knew exactly what she meant as she sat up.

He slid back and wrapped an arm around her, let her head rest against him and started a group call with her hand and ring in the shot; it delicately rested against his chest and he was sure she could feel the beat of his heart just like she did with her face to his chest at the wedding. It was bound to skip and thump a little harder than usual. The connection came alive at a moment’s notice and Ashton lit up the screen with his mouth already running; throwing questions around rapidly—with some choice words to highlight his confusion—until the realization Arden was right there and snuggled into Calum’s side donned on him.

“What the fuck?” Ashton’s new tirade of questioning began with an expletive. “Don’t tell me you two idiots actually got married in Vegas?”

“Married?” Luke asked as he joined the call and caught Ashton’s last sentence. “You married Michael’s sister?”

“Management must be covering it up with just an engagement. Oh god, it makes so much sense,” Ashton reasoned though he was wildly wrong. Calum and Arden stayed quiet; mildly amused by the guessing game ensuing, even egging it on by nuzzling closer together. “Nothing good ever comes from Vegas. No offense, but what the hell were you guys thinking?”

“They were probably drunk,” Luke supplied and then tacked on in a mumble. “Sure glad I don’t have a sister.”

They let Ashton and Luke simmer with comments and questions for another couple of minutes. They came in and out with Calum’s subpar internet connection. Only when the speculation started getting out of hand; wild theories of a secret relationship for months or years tumbling from their lips. Calum decided to cut them off and Arden backed away; the fun quickly dwindling and crashing back into reality.

“Guys stop. We’re not married,” Calum said in a raised voice, he thought he felt Arden flinch next to him. Once Ashton and Luke’s theories died on their lips and the connection went quiet Calum cleared his throat. “We didn’t get married in Vegas. We haven’t been in a secret relationship.”

“Then what the hell is happening?” Luke asked.

“Not married but engaged then?” Ashton questioned and blew out a huff. “Who goes to Vegas and just gets engaged?”

“We’re not really engaged,” Calum stated and eyebrows shot up in surprise as a response. They both stayed quiet on the other ends and gave time for Calum to explain. “It was supposed to be a joke, we think… We were pretty drunk. Management didn’t think it was funny. Now it’s a stunt.”

The few sentences it took to wrap up the explanation was enough. They had all had their own individual and band struggles with management and PR disasters. Calum didn’t need to offer up why management didn’t find it funny or why they had taken it so seriously they made it into a stunt. Luke and Ashton were aware of how extreme things could get in the matters of the press. In the face of maintaining or creating images. A lot of things came down to the will of management. Arden’s fear of losing control wasn’t so far fetched or fantastical. But Calum had already swore to himself he’d do anything and everything in his power to keep her from spiraling at the hands of the media and management.

Arden stayed quiet as Luke and Ashton absorbed the news and asked a few follow up questions—how long, what commitments did they sign up for, was there anything they could do to help. Calum responded in the best ways he could and kept an eye on Arden all the while. She sank back into the couch, knees resting on the cushions and fingers playing with the hem of her shorts. She was barely within the shot of the camera now. Calum dominated most of the picture and explanation. He wanted to wrap it up and get back to Arden. Craved more moments made just between them. Thoughts of the diner and a simple line drawing in red crayon and secrets slipping out like they didn’t matter captured his thoughts as the call was winding down and questions were finally answered. Ashton and Luke were on board to do whatever they could to aid them in their cause to keep playing it their way.

When Calum finally hung up he looked back at Arden. She was still and the picture of tired. Although Calum wanted to take her away again; off in search of somewhere real where more stories could be shared he could tell she wasn’t up for it. He laid back against the couch and didn’t move when she rested against him again; it was almost as if they were both working on instinct and seeking comfort from the other. He soaked up the essence of honey and sweetness and breathed her in. She let out a drawn out sigh he swore must have been a yawn she was trying to hide.

“Wanna stay here a while?” He asked just barely above a whisper and felt her nod against him.

He had no complaints for that. His day was free and the mid morning was painting a lovely picture out the window before them. The couch was comfortable and her presence made him warmer than the sun heating his skin. He had a culmination of plans for them that he could sit with in the silence. For everything fake they had to do he wanted to follow it with something real. He wanted to show Arden the sides of him that no one else got to see. Wanted to show her the places that made him feel like himself. And if in that process he got to see the sides of her no one else knew or secrets she had never shared before then that was a bonus.

They sat in a comfortable silence and position. Time slipped past unbeknownst in the quiet that surrounded them. Calum had never been one for something like this. He had never been so at ease he didn’t need words or background noise or distractions. But with only the sound of her small breaths, his heart beating a little louder than usual and the occasional snore from Duke he was convinced he was finding a liking for it. Without thinking his hand wandered to her hair. Just minutes before his fingers were tangled in the strands and his lips pressed against hers. This time he calmly stroked through the soft tresses and ate up the content sigh that escaped her. She watched out the window and he watched her until her eyes slipped closed and he allowed himself to follow her into sleep.

When they woke the sun was behind the tree line, hiding between leaves and branches that were casted in a warm and golden glow. Calum was first to wake and take a moment to gather his surroundings. The couch. A usual napping spot for him. Arden. She was still rested against him, his arm still around her and fingers falling on her collarbones where their trail of brushing through her hair ended. Duke was still in his bed but peaked up with a half interested gaze as Arden shifted as she woke. She greeted Calum with slow blinks and a slow smile crossing her face.

“I haven’t slept that well since I’ve been here,” she admitted around a yawn and a stretch; leaving Calum’s side with the motion. “I should probably get back before Michael thinks we’re up to no good.”

She reached for her phone in her shorts pocket, Calum assumed she was going to call for a car and stopped her with a hand on top of hers. “I’ll bring you.”

The car ride was quiet as they both contemplated the events of the day. The plan for their parents would need to be set into motion soon. Luke and Ashton could now help in their endeavors. The new photo was exploding with buzz and speculation. The kiss on the cheek lingered and became something much more. Their real moment when the camera and their guards dropped was tailspinning through Calum’s subconscious. Calum could see how busy Michael’s house was when they arrived. Cars spilled onto the road and people passed in the front windows. He put the car in park and caught the end of an eye roll from Arden as she took in the added company.

“Give me your phone,” Calum said quickly in a force of realization. “We need each other’s numbers.”

Arden gave him a puzzled look but handed the device over unlocked. Calum quickly added his number to her contacts and sent himself a text so he could have hers too.

“Text me whenever you want to get away from the noise,” he offered as he passed her phone back.

She bit her lip and looked down at the screen; seeing his name and the small message sent to his phone. A ring in the message box made her laugh and for the first time he noticed small dimples appearing as her smile grew.

“You’re ridiculous,” she commented as she shook her head and tapped the screen. He leaned over to see what she was doing but she angled herself away until she was done; showing his updated info to include the ring in his name. “Just in case I ever forget we’re fake engaged.”

She said it with a wink and a small giggle that filled Calum’s chest with a nervous warmth and flutter as he laughed along with her. She unbuckled but didn’t make a move for the door handle. Instead she leaned over towards Calum, a now familiar brush of her lips ghosting on his cheek as she thanked him. Calum swore he’d never tire of her gratitude though he wasn’t sure he truly deserved it. He didn’t feel like he’d done anything worthy of a thank you; but he never rejected her words or the warmth of her closeness. It was all so consuming and just a bit addictive.

“I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you soon,” she said with a pointed gaze at the colossal house filled with too many people in front of them.

“I look forward to it,” he replied with every ounce of honesty in him.

Arden left Calum with a smile and a wave when the door was shut. He made sure she got inside okay, waited to drive off until the door was shut behind her and his head stopped spinning from the overwhelming scent of peaches lingering in the car. He drove home with the windows open in an attempt to get his head above water and mind away from places it shouldn’t dive into. She said it herself; they were caught up in the charade. Everything meant nothing more than the facade they had to put on. A speck of doubt pushed its way through his thoughts; her words were drawn out and unsure. He wondered if she too was trying to convince herself of that. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it was all fake. At least not on his end. Falling failures crashed around him in plumes of smoke that threatened to choke him; his descent was becoming more and more dangerous as each smile and real moment forced him down faster and faster.

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[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 80: Pulled From Orbit

As two empires threaten to fall, Lance and Keith part ways

Hot Take: the paladin armor actually kinda sucks and my children deserve better

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Despite his insistence that Keith act like, well, like someone who is pregnant, Lance is not at all surprised when the Galra pulls a Marmoran suit of armor out of the bottom of his old chest from Daibazaal. He doesn’t even protest. He’ll take anything at this point.

“Listen to me.” Lance comes up behind him as he finishes dressing, gently draws the gold and amber comb from Keith’s hair, replacing it with a set of black pins. BleepBloop watches from the ladder to the loft. “Whatever happens next, I love you, and I love your people, too.”

“What happens if we must choose between your people and mine?”

Lance inhales sharply, gripping Keith’s shoulders tight. “Raze the current rule to the ground and start our own allied regime?”

Keith works up a smile. “Yes, let’s. You can rule by my side. I’ll allow it.”

Lance doesn't manage a smile, but his eyes soften for a moment, that warrior's gaze faltering in a surge of fondness.

Keith eyes their profile in the mirror, watches Lance’s hands travel down to his fingertips, up to his waist as he lays his scaled cheek on his shoulder. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in armor, the first time their sharpest edges are in bold.

Lance’s armor is as fine as anything, white metal inlaid with his token deep, bright blue. A breastplate, greaves and boots, bracers, all made of metal plates. Instead of a plackart, cuisses, and other minor plates, Lance has scale and fine mail, and Keith notices that the pauldrons are made of many small, reinforced plates to allow more flexibility in the shoulders. More than suitable for someone with a mixed fighting style. And, of course, beneath all that is a flight suit, air tight and climate controlled the moment Lance’ helmet locks into place.

The contrast, the incongruity between them has never been more apparent, Keith’s dark, minimalist armor casting a shadow over his mate's starbright form. Lance is armed like a hero, and Keith looks like a thief in the night. He’s okay with that, happy to be underestimated. A small man with a knife and a secret skillset is far more dangerous than a big man with a large sword. The growing wolf at his side only adds to their disparity.

He is Lance’s thorn, his last resort.

“Your Majesties.” Adam steps into the room, face grim. “King Alfor has summoned you to the Situation Room.”

Keith nods, clasps Lance’s hand, laces their fingers together. He will have to let go far too soon for his liking. The Altean prince snatches up his helmet, rushing after Adam, wolf at their heels.

The situation room is dark, lit only by a large, round holotable and the pale blue accent lights on peoples' armor. There are screens hovering over the table, lit up with interfaces, statistics, and control panels. Alfor is waiting for them. All of the lines in his face are chasms, his eyes glowing a dim, pale blue. It strikes Keith suddenly how washed out Alfor’s quintessence is, how little person is in the man. He wonders who the king might have been, had he been allowed.

“Boys. I know you expect to be sent away, lives preserved. But I offer you the option to stay, and act as leaders in my stead. Of all the things I have prepared for, I am not prepared for this.”

“Neither are we,” Lance confesses. Keith grips his hand tighter, trying to regulate himself. He can’t afford to lose it now. “But I will stay, and do what I can.”

Silence, only for a moment, before Keith realizes that they’re waiting for him. “My place is here, with our peoples. It always has been.”

Alfor nods. “Tell us what you know.”

Keith’s eyes finally register other faces, Iverson, glaring at him. Griffin, surprisingly not glaring at him. “We received a message from my mother. She says that the Imperial Compound is under attack, and that rebel forces are heading for Altea.”

“You don’t seem very surprised.” Iverson’s tone is more than a little accusing. Some of the other high-ranking military members seem to share his disposition. Keith ignored them. He's used to the prejudice by now, and there are more pressing concerns.

“We’ve been aware of unrest on Daibazaal for some time. Weight discrepancies in shipping containers, people going missing, a sudden increase in deserters. Emperor Zarkon dismissed said deserters, saying that it was to be expected following the unwelcome alliance with Altea. It’s unclear if he knows anything about the shipping containers.”

“So the emperor’s allegiances are unclear?” Griffin asks.

“Yes,” Lance sighs. “As are Honerva’s.”

Pidge’s face appears on screen. “Hey, I have something to contribute to that. Not that I’ve been eavesdropping or anything.”

“What do you have for us, Pidge?” Alfor leans on the holotable, gaze severe.

“So remember how Lotor helped me hack into his medical records for reasons?”

“Yeeees?” Lance frowns, not sure he wants to have this conversation with everyone else in the room. But it’s hardly the time for tiptoeing. “Why? What did you find?”

“Turns out Honerva’s been experimenting on Lotor his entire life. See, as a result of his hybrid status -at least, that’s what I’m assuming- Lotor can only absorb quintessence, not redistribute it. It looks like Honerva was trying to artificially recreate that power. She keeps referencing this… thing. The Komar Experiment-”

“Oh, that’s not good,” Keith mutters. Under everyone’s gaze, Keith takes a steadying breath. He’s starting to feel queasy, like adrenaline or simply time has cut through the antinausea medication. He strokes Wolf's head with his free hand. “The word ‘Komar’ doesn’t directly translate into Common or Altean, but it means, ‘large breath that takes’. It um, it’s like the first breath a baby takes, or like after you break the surface of water after near drowning. It’s Galran folklore that-” He swallows saliva, skin feeling hot. “-that when someone takes a lifegiving breath, another life ends.”

Adam slips something into his palm: a small pill. He dry swallows quickly, in the wake of what he’s just suggested.

“Are you implying,” Iverson growls. “That Honerva experimented on her son in order to invent some device that absorbs quintessence?”

Alfor falls into a chair, eyes glassy. “Honerva is perhaps the greatest inventor I have ever known. Lotor is thirty-two years old. She’s had more than enough time if this is what she’s been up to.”

"Her notes are... specific. Lotor has been surprisingly unattached to his parents, despite his Galra blood," Pidge murmurs. "I would not be surprised if it's a result of the invasive procedures he was subjected to in infancy. Trauma he doesn't even remember. Honerva would put him in situations with the intention to cause distress in order to activate him limited alchemical abilities so she could study him. She would neglect, frighten, and even harm him in order to get the desired reaction."

“And that's horrible. Truly. But we don’t know that’s what she’s up to right now,” Lance cuts in. “What we do know, is that the Imperial Compound is under attack, meaning that these attackers staging a coup. If they succeed, they’ll come for us next. According to our sources, ships are already on their way here.”

“So we have a planet to defend, a coup to stop, a prince, princess, and consort to rescue, and possibly a horrifying weapon of unknown size to find and destroy. One that could, for all we know, be capable of draining our entire planet and others,” Griffin summarized. “How the quiznak do we do this?”

Silence. Keith takes in a deep, slightly-less-nauseous breath. “We split up. Lance will go to Daibazaal, rally the citizens, and take Daibazaal back from the rebels. I will stay here, and lead the defense.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Griffin mutters.

“No, he’s right. Lance will go to Daibazaal, and I will go with him. We will determine who is in the right, and join their side. He and I will rally the civilians, form a small team, and find a way to infiltrate the Compound.” Alfor gets to his feet. “Keith, rally your men. Defend this planet, and its people. But if we should fall, you are to escape by any means necessary. Do you understand?”

Keith can feel the eyes of everyone in the room, soldiers, analysts, Adam, Lance. Waiting for his answer, putting two and two together, realizing exactly what’s at stake.

“I understand. My life, by any means necessary.”

“I will stay with him, and watch his back,” Adam declares.

Keith nods, turns to Griffin. “The battalion will meet in the courtyard. They have three dobashes to form up.”

“They already are,” the aubergine-scaled Altean says, dark blue eyes hard. “We are ready, and await your orders.”

Keith nods. “Have someone ready a ship. We’re putting King Alfor and Crown Prince Lancel on the ground in Daibazaal, just outside the Compound. Lance, rally the people, follow their lead. Trust them to know which side to be on. They want peace, just as we do.”

“I know, beloved.” Lance squeezes his hand. Keith hadn’t realized he was still holding it. The Altean heaves in a great breath, forces a smile. “Will you come see me off?”

“Nothing short of death would stop me,” Keith promises.

The royals and their entourage sprint through the halls toward the courtyard where a small craft shaped like an arrowhead is already waiting. Alfor climbs right in, datapad in hand. Lance lets go of Keith’s hand, ready to board. He pulls Adam into a brief, strong hug. “Take care of yourself, and him.”

“Always, your Majesty.”

Keith notices a dangerous shine in the attendant’s eye, a kind of terror he himself is feeling. He says nothing, not even as he watches Adam’s body tremble. Adam is fearful, but ready. No matter what lies ahead.

Keith is not ready. He snatches at Lance’s arm, fingers pressing into the armor of his suit. Those blue and pink eyes he loves so much find his immediately, strangely open, ready to see anything and everything all at once.

Lance’s face is not without fear, body humming with quintessence, red and blue hovering over his form, shimmering in his eyes. The prince smiles, paper-thin. He removes his circlet, hands it to Keith. “I won’t need this where I’m going.”

Keith tosses the circlet aside, where it skitters over the ground. He pulls Lance to him, kisses him soundly, fingers in white hair, sliding over the scale at Lance’s waist. A single twist of their tongues, all they have time for, and he pulls away, noses touching.

“No matter what, I am so, so proud of you. I am proud to be your mate… Please-” He gulps. “Please come home to me, if you can.”

“Beloved…” Lance presses their foreheads together, brushes thumbs over Keith’s cheekbones. “Not even death could keep me away.”

Keith takes in one last deep breath, rubs his cheek into the gloved palm of Lance’s hand, a very subtle way of letting the other Galra know this man is his. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Lance pulls away, eyes not leaving Keith’s face for a long moment. Then he leans up, whispers in Keith’s ear, “You, and little one. With all my heart.”

And maybe Keith knows that’s not true, that if it came down to him or Atlea, Lance would choose Altea. But Keith would make him, agree with him, even though he knows it would break Lance to do it.

The prince puts on a crooked smile, kisses Keith’s cheek one last time before he puts on his helmet and turns away, following his father into the craft.

Keith watches as they lift off, just until they’re out of sight, before he turns to Griffin. “You’re going to follow my orders, and you’re going to like it, or you’re going to get the fuck out of my way, understood?”

Griffin nods, letting his visor drop down over his face. Iverson just sighs. “What’s our move then?”

“Order the civilians to go into lockdown. Any former or current soldiers who have a weapon should stand by in case of attack. Send a runner into the lowlands. Then we assign pilots to the MFE crafts. I want a squadron, broken into four flights of six. Initiate land defense and mobilize drones-”

A screeching flare of light, and a tower at the corner of the courtyard explodes.

“Brace yourselves.” Keith’s eyes find a pinprick in the swath of blue sky. He pulls his hood up, mask sliding down to cover his face, sealing his suit. “This will not be an easy fight.”

“We stand with you,” Adam murmurs, taking a polearm from a passing soldier. Each end is armed with a wicked, barbed glaive.

Keith draws his knife, feeling the blade shift in his hand. He doesn’t know who these people are -hopefully- but he will rip apart every last one of them.

Whatever it takes.

Lance stares out the front window, despairing at the sight before him. An armada of Galra ships, painted with strange symbols.

“Can you read that?” Alfor murmurs, clearly putting a lot of faith in their cloaking technology.

“It says, ‘The Fire of Purification’.”

“Oh, wonderful. We’re dealing with elitist thugs. My absolute favorite,” the king growls. Lance licks his lips, apprehensive. “Here, I want you to have this.”

Lance stares at the strange weapon his father is offering him. White, black, and his own special shade of blue, the weapon seems like two halves of a hand guard with a handle in between. “What is it?”

“I call it a bayard. It will shift into whatever you need it to, whenever you need it, and is absorbed and stored in your armor just like your shield.” Alfor inhales, holds his breath until they’ve slipped past the armada. “It will serve you well. You won’t waste time juggling weapons.”

A stretch of silence, and Alfor murmurs, "I wanted to wish you happy birthday earlier. I have an actual gift for you, if we ever get the chance."

Lance nods, drops his sword, bow and quiver, knowing he might never see any of them again. “Did you- Have you called Dad?”

“I sent him a message… He sends his love.”

“Just a message?” Lance asks. “That’s- That’s all you need? That’s all you’re giving him?”

The king takes a deep breath. “Your dad… He’s been prepared for anything for a very long time. Whatever happens this quintant, he is ready for it.”

Lance finds himself a bit envious of that, that his parents have had centaphoebs together to reconcile with what it means to be part of a colonialist empire. Of what it means to be a warring planet. Even if they’d started the day they met, he and Keith would not have been prepared. They haven't even been married haven't known each other a full decaphoeb.

Down on the ground, Lance can see fire, people running, rubble in the streets. Whoever the aggressor is, it’s clear that they are his enemy. He gives his bayard blade a good swing, flips the blade in his hand, only for it to morph into a bow in his hand, and arrow made of light already knocked.

“Father? Are you ready for this?”

“I’m about to go to Daibazaal to rescue them from an apparently elitist regime and possibly kill my only surviving friend. I am not at all ready for this.” The ship enters the atmosphere in a blaze of heat, effectively giving them away as they look for a place to land. “Are you ready?”

Lance gulps. “No. I know these people. I broke bread with these people. I defended them from a monster, I’ve watched their children, cooked them food. And now, I might be about to kill them.”

“And somewhere down there,” Alfor murmurs, searching for a place to land, “is a Galra thinking the same thing about their kin, and possibly about you.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It wasn’t meant to.” Their craft begins losing altitude. “It doesn’t matter what happens next, son. We all lose today.”

That much, Lance thinks as the craft settles just outside of town, is very true.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #Voltron legendary defender #vld

[writefightandflightclub]

Violent Delights: Chapter 6

Pairing: First Order!Poe x reader

Author’s note: This is different to the other chapters, but I hope you like it! I’ll probably fix typos tomorrow. I’m impatient.

Summary: This definitely answers that KEY QUESTION I left hanging at the end of Chapter 5! If you’re new to this story, there are MAJOR SPOILERS under the cut, so please do read the other chapters first (series masterlist here). Even if you’ve been following, you may want to recap Chapter 5 first! 

Song inspo: Oh, in my ears / My blood is just roaring / When he's the only one I've ever wanted / I suppose that's just the way it is / Just to think this could be / The last time I hold you, hold you / Ever again / Oh, I don't think I'll ever sleep till / Morning. (Nicole Aitken, The Way It Is)

Warnings: 18+ only, dark fic. This is nowhere near as dark as the preceding chapters but still some warnings: OOC!Poe, FO!Poe, Violence inc: injuries! shooting! Explicit language. Mentions of: torture / sex / death / poison! Let me know if I missed any others.

Taglist: @aussiefangirlwolfy, @localashe, @fictionalcharactersownme, @a-somehow-functioning-dumbass, @itsamedeemoney, @woakiees​​ @tintinwrites​@jyn-z-solo​ @spaghetti-666​ @kittyofalltrades​ @planetpoes (TAGLIST OPEN- let me know if you wish to be added / removed)

Word Count: 6K. Yikes.

GIF by @solorenskywalker​

It hurts you. Somehow, it hurts you.

And yet, you are solidified in place, no wound observable.

The moment slows almost to a halt as you register the shot.

Dameron is hit.

The blast hits first. Then, shock, pain, and anger strike all at once, eddying between you and the Commander like the swell of a vicious storm, the air charged and practically humming. At first, his rage at this insulting wound sunk into his flesh is so vital that an immediate hope blooms in your chest; how can he be fatally hurt if he seems so alive? Then; something alien surfaces in his eyes. Something which looks a lot like fear. He delivers an agonised moan, already sounding hollowed out, and your fleeting hope wanes with him.

He unfists his hands from your clothing as he moves to clutch his shoulder in agony. He is cleaved from you and you are split in two, in every figurative way possible. You are ruptured by the blast like a fault line snaking beneath an ocean. This boiling rage is subdued only by the heavy, cooling sea of grief with threatens to depress you down on to your knees. You are torn, the desire to erupt in retaliation on behalf of your “enemy” in stark opposition to your need to sink with your lover. You want to fall to the floor with him. To your knees. To hold him. No question. But if you try and help him, Barret might shoot you too.

The indecision burns you.

It hurts you, this shot.

But it hurts Dameron more.

The commander groans, creaks beneath the weight of this pain. It presses down on him and his body curls in on itself as he creeps further towards a colourless exit, the knives in his eyes blunted. There is no vivid, crimson tide of blood to warn you of death incoming. Not this time. This is death pouncing from the long grass like a whip crack. The predator no-one saw coming.

The commander’s face contorts in a rendition of agony, his face almost beautiful with it. But this is not the kind of pain he has made his friend. This is pain without pleasure. And, since you can’t reach out to him, pain without comfort.

The cruellest pain of all.

“No. No. No.” you repeat -almost inaudibly- as Dameron sinks to his knees. You feel like he’s sinking into the depths of a cold, dark sea. Sinking out of reach.

His dark, tempestuous eyes are directed up at you, teeth gritted, lips sucked thin as agony grips him. On his knees like this, he could easily appear like a beast defeated; defanged and declawed. But there is some fight left in his eyes yet. Enough for him to try and spur you into action. “Time to go, Rebel. You fly, he guns, understand?”

You don’t understand. How can you comprehend leaving him like this?

His voice is shot with gravel, full of holes, but it still speaks its way into the depths of you. “Now. Go!, he insists, his voice winding its way around your bones and pulling you into motion, as if he holds the reins in the palm of his hand. As if he can bend you to his will, even now.

He has been dragging you to him all this time and now he urges you to leave, as if he’s unaware of the strength it will take to release yourself from his orbit; from his gravity. But staying isn’t helping him. In fact, it’s worse than that, you’re a danger to him every second you’re still on this ship. You know too much. He needs you gone from his sky.

You obey reluctantly, giving him the smallest of nods, letting your trembling fingertips drag ever so gently, subtly along his jaw as you turn towards the TIE. You move with strings still on you, dragging you back to him and making each step feel like you are wading through mud.

Progressing towards the craft, you are vaguely aware of Barret barking at you, calling you in to the interior of the fighter. You clamber up the ladder and into the tight cockpit just as Troopers swarm into the hangar, the blaster shots bouncing off the ship’s exterior. Your shaking hands hover above the ignition controls, ready to punch it. Instead, you wait. You wait until you are assured that the Troopers have made their way over to the vicinity of the Commander. You wait until the last possible second.

With a final glance through the transparisteel windshield, you look down at his now stilled form on the ground below you. His crown of pitch-dark curls and his uniform-clad body splayed out -helpless- over the cold floor. You don’t know if it was a killing shot. Without a crimson tide of blood, you can’t tell if Dameron’s still alive. But you do know that you have to go, regardless. With a sharp growl of regret, of anguish, you boost the ship out of the swiftly closing gap in the hangar doors. Just in the nick of time.

And so, you fly.

You fly with a pounding heart, blood raging in your ears. You fly, so enraged with your passenger that you are tempted to crash the ship just to make him pay. But there is nothing around you. No ground, no sky. Nothing to cling on to. Just a loss. An emptiness. Just space. You fly away from him, like a satellite released from its orbit. Equally lost and purposeless in the endless dark. 

From out of the darkness, the thought of the Resistance base should be calling out to you right now like a beacon. A beacon inviting you home, now that you are finally free. But you’ve never before had to escape somewhere you wanted to be and return to somewhere you were no longer sure you belonged. The thought of retuning to base with Barret suddenly seems incomprehensible. And so, when you’re clear of the fleet, you don’t know what else to do except keep flying. No destination in mind, except away.

Flying. Simply flying away, is all you try to focus on. But all you can think about is turning the blasted ship back around. Flying toward him. Following those strings the commander has tied on to you which extend across space, drawing you back to him.

But you know that’s untenable. You fly, and it’s likely a good thing that the Order is in chaos, that the chain of command is interrupted. Otherwise, you’re not sure how -or if- you’d manage to lose the pursuing fleet. Not in your current state of fury. Not with Barret’s meagre attempt at gunning, through intermittent groans of pain.

Somehow, you shake them regardless. As the remaining TIEs abandon pursuit, you hear Barret breathe a sigh of relief from the gunner position behind you. The reminder of Barret’s presence is enough to make your hands tighten so hard on the controls that your fingernails dig crescents into your palms. To make your chest tighten.

Then: “They track these things. Did you disable the tracker?” he asks you.

You are loathe to acknowledge him. Even so, you fiddle with the dash until you’re satisfied that the Order can no longer trace you. You cut the strings leading back to him and you feel that you’ve just cut a lifeline. That suddenly you’re lost to liminal space, in-between anywhere and anyone you’ve ever considered home. Still ruptured in two. The feeling sets a hollowness in the pit of you, like you are a ripe fruit which has been scooped out by a cool spoon.

“Affirmative. Plotting a course to base.” You confirm in monotone, all emotion scrubbed from your voice.

“I can’t believe I got such a lucky shot at that bastard.” Barret continues, his voice sickeningly jovial and full of relief.

You feel like you might throw-up.

“Don’t speak. Save your strength.” You say curtly, inordinately thankful that you are back-to-back in the TIE. At least you don’t have to look at him. At least he can’t look at you – can’t get a read on the emotions you would be incapable of obscuring right now.

Still, as you programme your course you feel like his eyes are roving over you, all the same. You feel like he’s poking around inside you, wondering what’s wrong with you. You can imagine the gears in his brain working in an attempt to figure out why your reactions seem off, to unearth whatever happened to you on that ship. Whatever tortures you may have been subjected to. You can imagine him retrospectively register the bite marks on your neck, the cuts to your hands. The blood on your face and clothing. You practically feel his thought process creep over you in the cockpit like a cold chill.

“What happened to you?” Barret asks then, ever so softly, his voice heavy with the implication of imagined atrocities.

“It’s not my blood. It’s Hux’s. I killed him.” You say, hoping to deflect from exactly what happened to you on that ship.  

Barret hoots with laughter, and the sound jarrs you. You hear his hand slapping against his thigh in celebration. “Wow, we really fucked the Order over today, partner. Hux and Dameron dead!” Barret reaches behind him to squeeze your shoulder and you flinch away as if you are afraid of his touch; as if you don’t deserve it; as if he disgusts you. Perhaps all of those things.

“You don’t know that Dameron’s dead.” You bite off without thinking, molten tears of rage threatening at the corner of your eyes. The break in your voice is giving too much away. Emotion floods the cracks in your words like tributaries joining the churn of an unstoppable river. You can’t choke back the sob which follows.

Barret’s voice softens so much that you want to wring his neck to choke the pity out of it. “Did Dameron... hurt you?”. That’s why he thinks you’re crying, then? Because you can’t be certain that the commander’s dead, and surely you must want him dead for the terrible, unspeakable things he enacted upon you?

The truth might be even more unspeakable. The truth that you’re a traitor. The truth that you’d sell your soul to have the commander do those things to you all over again. To have him fuck you and hurt you and hold you. The truth that, yes, he did hurt you, buy you liked it. Barret doesn’t understand that you’re wretched with a crushing and unexpected grief at the thought that it may never happen again. Not since Barret did what you should have had the sense to do all that time ago. Not since Barret shot the commander.

You hope Barret doesn’t notice the course of the ship waver as your hands slip on the controls. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

The close air of the TIE is suddenly thick with a loaded silence as the ship shudders back along its trajectory. As you regain control of yourself and the craft.

Barret, however, does not relent for long. “Do you think when we get back to base we’ll be welcomed as heroes?” The question simply makes your stomach turn. You refuse to pluck at the question while it hangs there, ripe, and so it becomes a rotten thing in the air between you. You feel that chill creep over you again, as if Barret is reaching inside of you, panning for your secrets. No escape within the confines of this ship.

You think back to the last time you were confined with Barret. It seems so long ago that you hunkered in that stakeout room, tracking that shipment and thirsting hard for the commander. The commander who had consumed you with just one bite. Now, mere days later, your partner seems like a stranger and your enemy seems like your lover. You indulged your appetite for that tempting, delicious darkness; you were willingly suckered into Dameron’s honeyed trap. And now that you have been given a taste, you should feel sated. But the truth is you would gladly open your mouth and drink more of that darkness down. You’d drink it until you were spoiled and loathsome with it.

The most disconcerting aspect of these tumultuous events is how little you know yourself. What you are capable of. What you crave and how far you will wade in to the darkness to get it. You know these are your mistakes, your weaknesses to atone for. You know that despite what you’re feeling now, Barret doesn’t deserve your hate. A part of you still knows that. Knows that, objectively, he’s simply a good guy who shot a bad man. That objectively, you should still be on his side. You know you owe it to him to take him home. At the very least.

An older, softer part of you resurfaces as you hear Barret grunting behind you with a fresh wave of pain. It’s likely that the initial burst of adrenaline is wearing off and he is beginning to suffer.  

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll be ok. My stomach is hurting like a bitch, though.”

In all the chaos, you’d given little thought to the extent of his injuries, until now. So, next, you ask a question you’re not sure you truly want an answer to. “What happened to you, Barret?”

There is a beat. He replies in a small voice. “The kinda stuff our training tried to prepare us to resist.” His answer is vague but loaded. That’s enough. That’s enough to understand what they’d subjected him to. Guilt flares in the pit of you, knowing that while he was being tortured, you were indulging your darker whims. Knowing how much you were enjoying yourself while he suffered. Enjoying yourself at his expense, when you could have been trying to get him out of there.

So, you still can feel guilt, then? You still know that, on some level, it was wrong. Maybe there is something of the Rebel left in you, somewhere. Buried under the landslide of darkness. But you know there is little chance of that part of you clawing itself out when your next thought is of the commander. When your whole body clenches around the memory of him, clings on to it. You think of how he can torture you in an entirely different way, until you’re begging for mercy. A part of you feels you’d raze everything you ever loved to the ground for a chance to beg him again.

Still, you’re curious. You’re curious whether your commander was involved in Barret’s torture. Perhaps so that you can weigh precisely how much you should loathe yourself. “Troopers, or one of the higher-ups?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level, void of feeling.

“Troopers mainly. Some droids, doctors…” Barret trails off, remembering. “Though, it’s funny, really. Dameron came to my room this morning. Told me -don’t worry- it would all be over for me today. Guess the joke’s on him. The bastard.” Barret’s voice sounds darker, more malicious than you’ve ever heard it.

“He came to your room? This morning?” Something about that doesn’t sit quite right with you, leaves you uneasy. Dameron doesn’t do anything much unless there’s something in it for him, you’re learning. Maybe the games he has been playing aren’t quite over yet. Is it wrong to relish that thought?

“He visited a couple of times. To mindfuck me, from what I can gather. Yesterday he tried to make me swallow some horrible lies about you. To make me think I was alone, I guess- to get some intel out of me. Today… well, he brought me my daily rations and told me it was all over. Well, fuck him, he’s dead.”

Panic flutters in your stomach. You try to remain steady on the flight controls, to calm your breathing. You know Barret doesn’t fully appreciate the implications of his words. Of the commander’s actions. But you might.

You have two burning questions you need answers to.

The first: How much did Dameron tell Barret?

The second: What did he feed him?

Your mind pores over any detail of Barret you can remember from the escape to establish which question is most pressing. You hark back to the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the glassiness of his infuriatingly concerned eyes. The way he was clutching at his stomach. More than being injured; Barret looked ill.

Realisation strikes you, and if you didn’t feel guilty before, you sure as hell do now. You can’t be sure, of course. But somehow you know. You’d bet that the commander had fed Barret some juicy, ripe, red fruit.

Bile rises in your throat, but you force yourself to gloss over your voice with a kind tone. To paint your face with a soft, reassuring smile. “Why don’t you try and get some rest, huh? You’ve been through it.” Your passenger hums, considering your proposition. “If I divert the power from the interior electrics into the thrusters, I can get us back to base a little faster than expected. If you don’t mind flying in the dark?”

Flying in the dark is all you’ve been doing ever since the commander hit your life and turned it upside down, like a hurricane. Ans it turns out you’re still caught in his wake. You can’t tell if you’re soaring or if you’re about to crash and burn.

“Yeah.” Barret reaches a hand around to squeeze your arm again and it is like a hand rising out of a grave. His hand is cold. You resist the urge to flinch away, despite the chill it sends down your spine. “Oh, and, partner? Thank you for rescuing me.”

You bite your lips between your teeth. You’re not sure if that statement could possibly be further from the truth of what happened. Hadn’t you doomed him, right from the start? From that first bite the commander took of you? A throwaway “You don’t need to thank me.” is all you can muster.

Barret curls himself in his chair and you are grateful to fly on in silence. Now that the affront of him is over, you suddenly realise how tense you are, how the emotions wracking you are beginning to take their toll. You can’t explain how it was more comforting to be in the arms of your enemy than trapped in the confines of this ship with someone you’d let down so badly. You owe it to Barret to try and make part of this right.

Don’t you?

An alternative option niggles at you, hiding somewhere beyond protocol, beyond the rules and conventions and obligations. Then you think that, perhaps, it’s a good thing for Barret that you can’t be sure if Dameron’s dead, after all. Because if you knew that he was, you don’t think you could find the compassion or strength to try to bring your partner home. You think you might seek retribution, in the end.

Regardless, you fly. You try and allow the darkness of the cockpit to swallow you. As if Barret is not sitting there, as if Dameron never marked you. You try and push it all down, but the commander did mark you. He’s branded you as his. He’d told you “don’t forget you’re mine”, and now his words are wrapped around your bones. His words will be buried with you. And every time you try and escape, your thoughts orbit back to him. His mouth swallowing your hot core, his hands delivering delicious tortures, his cock pumping into you. Most of all: those dark eyes, like shadowed planets you would kill to be marooned on again.

Left to the dark and the dark alone, your thoughts are consumed by him. That is, until you reach your destination, and swing your craft around in the air to bring her in for touch down. Until you approach base and spot that something isn’t right. Until you see the thick pillars of smoke billowing into the air.

“No. No. No.” You plead to no-one in particular, your protestations and erratic flying drawing Barret abruptly from his sleep.

You land harshly on the runway, avoiding blast holes and charred ground, and scramble hurriedly from the ship. Your feet relentlessly pound the tarmac until you’re in the centre of it all, scanning the scene around you with eyes wide.

No-one comes running to greet you or shoot at you. No-one is left. You look around you, surveying for damages. Surveying for bodies, you realise. That the X-wings and larger crafts are gone from the hangar provides some immediate comfort. Signs of a likely evacuation. Then, your eyes pick out the remains of familiar munitions, the tell-tale shell of a downed and lightly smoking TIE fighter.

The strike was committed by the Order. While you were taken. You shake your head in disbelief. It can’t possibly be a coincidence -not after everything that has happened. That means the Order somehow found out the location of the base while you were captive… but you hadn’t…

Oh. Oh.

You put the pieces together and turn back to Barret in disbelief. He has now come to stand several paces from you on the runway. Laughably, you know you must look betrayed when your eyes meet his. In one hand he grips a blaster and the other hand waves around defensively. No, he doesn’t look well. Now that you’re truly seeing him, he doesn’t look well at all. A sheen of sweat covers Barret’s face, his eyes red-rimmed, tears seeding at the corners. He instantly recognises the accusation in your eyes, in your stance.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” he professes, voice trembling. “I wasn’t strong enough. I hoped we’d make it back before the Order could put the intel to use. Or that we’d disrupted their plans. That maybe no-one would need to know.”.

“You sold the base out?” you spit with utter disgust, looking Barret over like he’s scum.  

Apparently, neither of you were returning to base as heroes after all.

He meets your question with silence, which says it all.

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” You are yelling now. “You let the Resistance down! You betrayed them!”

You’re so angry that it feels like your blood is boiling beneath your skin. Your breath is ragged, your thoughts swirling. You feel darkness crowding at the edges of you. You feel like you are sucking it up through your fingertips, draining your surroundings of it. Feeling it course through you, like the hum of static before a storm. Barret betrayed the Resistance. He did this. And you’re so angry that you can’t see straight.

You are devoid of any sympathy or empathy for him. You’re so angry at him, of course, because you’re angry at yourself. If you can berate him for being a traitor you will take it, if it makes what you did seem to pale into insignificance.

Instinctually, although you are stood some distance away, you lift your arm as if you could simply reach out and choke Barret. Make him pay for his weakness. Your arm extended towards him, you have the desperate urge to just close your grip and crush. “I wish I could just…”

You are as shocked as Barret when he physically clasps his throat and starts wheezing, his eyes wide and afraid. It shocks you enough for you to drop your arm and physically step back from him. You shrink back from the look he’s giving you as he processes what just happened, raising his blaster arm unsteadily toward you. He looks at you questioningly. He looks at you as if he’s looking at a stranger.

All you can do is look back at him. You look Barret dead in the eyes, and you must reveal just too much. Because, if it’s possible, Barret pales even further, his eyes swimming with disbelief.

“It’s true, isn’t it? I’m not the only one who let down the Resistance, am I?” His voice is so thick with disgust that you can’t bring yourself to keep looking at him. To keep facing what you did.

“The things Dameron told me yesterday. They’re true.”

“What?” you say weakly, a pitiful attempt to backtrack, but you already know it’s futile. You’ve been found out. And you might be a traitor but you’re not a liar.

“You fucked the enemy.” Barret spits. “While I was being tortured in that cell. You could have stopped this.” He yells, gesturing around to the scene of devastation which envelops you. And, in his anger he overdoes it - ends up clutching his stomach in evident pain.

There is nothing you can say. No protestation you can muster. You had been angry and ashamed at yourself, but when confronted with it, you find a small, absurd part of you which is proud of it. Which has no desire to deny it. To apologise for it. Barret may have caved in to weakness, but you found power on that ship. Whilst he may dish out judgement, with the commander you had found understanding. Affinity.

Barret’s blaster wavered with the fresh burst of pain but now he has it pointed back at you, trained intently on you. “I didn’t want to believe Dameron. I didn’t at first.”, he bites off, chewing on his words. “But I promised him that if it was true, I’d kill you both myself. I picked your bastard boyfriend off earlier- so I guess I just need to make good on the other half of my promise, eh, traitor?”

You’re getting sick of this righteous bastard already. Hadn’t he been weak? Hadn’t he caved too? Maybe all rebels were simply hypocrites.Maybe the Order were on to something.

Then, of all the things you should say or ask right now, the next question out of your mouth is entirely self-indulgent. “What did he say?” you ask slowly, stringing out your words. In no rush. You have all the time in the world. Unlike your partner.

“What?!” Barret replies in utter confusion.

“What did he say when you promised to kill me? Because given that he poisoned you I don’t think he was too happy with you about something.” You know it’s wrong, that it’s too cruel, but you can’t help that your eyes flash with a perverse kind of satisfaction as you watch the realisation play over Barret’s face.

Is that why? Is that why the commander has poisoned your fellow rebel? To protect you? Because he threatened you? Oh, how a part of you hopes that’s true.

His blaster arm wavers again, and Barret is so weak of body and wrapped up in turmoil that you are able to walk towards him and take the blaster easily, gently from his hand. You look into his eyes, your voice steely, suddenly not feeling worthless or ashamed at all. Not anymore. Maybe you were cut out for these games, after all. “You don’t look so hot, Barret. So maybe we agree that we both made some mistakes on that ship, yes?” Barret considers your words carefully and then nods, and it acts as a meanwhile truce of sorts. You keep your tone impartial. “I’d suggest that if you want me to help you, you should take a seat. Before you drop. I’ll see if there’s anything left of the med bay.”

“You’re going to help me?” Barret looks at you in confusion.

“Yes, I’m going to help you. I’m not a monster.”

The way he looks at you in response signals that he thinks otherwise. You huff out a breath, perturbed by the condemnation. And so, for the second time that day, you aren’t able to offer comfort to someone in need. Instead, you sling Barret’s blaster on to your belt and jog towards the med bay. Barret’s only hope is that there are some shots left which haven’t been blown-up or cleared-out.

You move as fast as you’re able, gathering whatever supplies you can, but by the time you return, Barret is lying still on the runway.

You are too late.

Barret is the third body you’ve had lying at your feet that day. Three enemies, in the end. One of whom was a lover, and one of whom was a friend.

Despite what Barret had done, you feel no satisfaction in his fate. You sigh deeply and turn your head into your shoulder. You don’t look. You try not to look. All you can do is drag him into the hangar and cover him over, paying final respects to the fallen Resistance member.

Now, you are truly alone.

Feeling somewhat numb, you wander around base, confirming there are no signs of life left at all. Passing collapsed buildings, smoking craters, and remnants of devastation. You act on autopilot, and before you know where you’re walking to, you’ve reached the canteen, picking up some remaining rations and stuffing your face. Then, before you realise it, you’ve meandered across base and stand at the spot where your quarters should be.

All that’s left is a shell.

Suddenly, it’s as if you dropped the bombs yourself. As if you’ve intentionally obliterated everything you used to know and used to be beyond all recognition. You pick through the rubble, try to leaf through the ashes, but nothing at all remains. Still nothing to cling on to.

In your wandering, your quest for solace of some kind, the next place you find yourself is General Leia’s room. Hers remains intact. You find it empty, but her presence is there in all the tiny details. The uniform hanging up by the small closet, the table covered in datapads and holo equipment. Her comb and tumbler of water on the nightstand.

You dearly hope that she’s safe.

Being as quiet as possible, as if she’s sleeping there and you might disturb her, you perch yourself on the edge of her bed, grabbing her blanket and tugging it around your shoulders. You let yourself dwell on all the ways you’ve let her down, the ways you may yet break her heart, and you will the grief to hit you. But it doesn’t. You feel like you should be primed to lie down and cry, letting sobs wrack you. But there’s nothing. Only numbness. Perhaps, deep down, you feel you don’t deserve Leia’s comfort. Perhaps, deep down, you’re not truly sorry. Perhaps you are still too ruptured to start healing. Perhaps all of these things.

At least, sitting still allows the exhaustion to hit you. Still, you don’t feel like you could sleep. You feel restless. A lost celestial object with no course and no orbit. A dark, unlit moon. So, you continue your wandering, digging out some fresh clothes and taking a shower, the cool water sluicing Hux’s blood away. It circles down the drain in a crimson vortex. You redress and rewrap Leia’s blanket around your shoulders.

Without knowing where exactly you’re headed next, you find your feet gravitating towards the TIE fighter, which you half-landed and half-crashed into the tarmac.

Of course.

It’s the closest you can be to him right now.

You clamber inside, the snug cockpit encasing you. And then, finally, the rush of feelings hits you. You remember the Troopers swarming around his still form and it’s as if a vice clamps down on your chest. You imagine the chaos on the ship, the discovery of General Hux, washed up on that crimson tide of blood. You remember how it felt to kill him, and then to have the commander exalt you and kiss you and rail into you. You picture how it should have gone; General Dameron sitting coolly, smugly on the bridge. Taking Hux’s place, knowing exactly what he’d done. What you’d done. Sitting there as calm and devastating as the eye of a storm.

You screw your eyes shut tight against the thought you know will follow.

Is he alive?

And, as you close your eyes, various thoughts and faces eddy through the blackness, coming and receding like waves. As you focus in on each of them, in turn, it is as if you are slipping into a current, or a hyper stream; as if you can follow the tide which might lead you to them. One thought begins to jump out at you, tugging at you like a riptide, causing your mind to drift towards it.

Leia?

You reach out with your mind, searching for her energy. You can’t explain it, but you feel that maybe you can establish where they’ve evacuated to.

At least you think that’s where your heart is reaching out to. But wait; it’s not Leia. It’s something connected, but something darker.

Kylo.

Your eyes shoot open in fright and you startle in your seat. For a moment, it’s as if you have linked to him, as if his face is blinking in front of you. He looks just as surprised as you feel. You recoil in terror. For a good while, you sit motionless in the cold shell of the TIE, as if Kylo is a creature hunting you and any small movement might allow him to pounce. You don’t know how long you sit there, heart racing, and your fingernails digging into your knees threatening to draw blood.

You just touched something so deeply dark. Something frightening. Something you are not quite ready to face.

You don’t know how much time passes, but you sit there, practically frozen, until a blue light begins to blink on the dashboard of the TIE. Your curiosity overriding your fear, you press the button. It’s a holo, patching through.

A cool, rich voice resounds through the cockpit of the TIE.

“It’s General Dameron here.”

Your relief is palpable – a fluttering in your chest. A smile which begins in the pit of you and blooms through your whole body. You hold your breath until you’re sure you can believe what you’re seeing. Your eyes pore over the holo, trying to establish where he is, how he is. He looks as though he may be patched up and lying in a med bay.

“Maybe you thought you could run or hide from me, Rebel, but Kylo -the space bloodhound- tells me he found you.” He looks off to the side of him. “You don’t mind if I call you that, do you, Supreme Leader?”

His voice is still full of holes, shot through with gravel. But he’s alive. You’re sure you can see the hint of a shark smile spread over his features. He dips his head slightly towards the camera droid at that moment, lowering his voice just a touch, his eyes narrowing. Unconsciously you lean in toward the transmission. “So, Killer. As you know, Hux is dead, and you’re responsible.” He leans in even further and even through the holo his intense eyes bore into you. “But I’m very much alive. So, I just needed you to know...” he exhales a breath and bites his bottom lip as if his next thought amuses him. “...that I’m gonna be coming for you.”

Whether his statement is a threat or a promise, you can’t be sure. However, you know that the games are far from over. Whilst tomorrow you may need to figure out your next move, for now, you finally feel like you could cry and you could sleep.

You lean back in the pilot’s chair and allow yourself a deep, relieving breath. And yet again, you can’t hold back your own resplendent shark smile.

You press the button to reverse the transmission before sending a message back to General Dameron.

“Bring it on, General Dameron. I’m ready for you.”

He’s alive.

It’s not over yet.

As much as you would like to run back to him, you know now, more than ever, that you have to return home to the Resistance - to see if it’s still where your heart is. Or whether you have any heart left at all. Then, if you happen to discover that your heart does belong to the darkness after all, at least you know the darkness is coming for you. And at least then, you will truly know that you are ready for it.

You lean back in the seat and close your eyes, allowing your relief to wrap around you -like a blanket- as the darkness holds you and rocks you to sleep.

To be continued (Chapter SEVEN coming soon!)

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[tsarisfanfiction]

Grounded pt4

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Scott, Tracy Family

7k words later and this thing that was supposed to be a short explanation for what I saw as a plot hole in Venom is finally at an end. Got rather out of hand but since when is that unusual with fics? This’ll be proof read, edited, and then posted on AO3/FFN soon; I’m still undecided if I should chapter split it or have it all as a oneshot but it won’t be exactly as it’s been split here because I’ve posted this as I wrote it.

Someone mentioned ‘what if the ep was really like this’ so I’ll reiterate some of my earlier notes: this fic is a reaction to the lack of TB1 or Scott doing any sort of piloting in the S3 Venom despite it being a rescue where speed was important.  All the events in part 2 fit around the events we see in the episode seamlessly (I literally watched it in 5 sec bursts as I was writing to make sure of that), so to them and everyone else who thought that: this fic is designed to be that episode, just viewed through a different lens.  And then I made it worse after the episode was over because why not.

The reaction to this has been fantastic so far, way beyond anything I expected!  Thanks for that, and I hope you enjoy this last installment as much as the rest of it.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

There was a steady beeping, calm and methodical.  Beep… beep… beep… it went, more of a reassurance than an irritant to the dregs of his consciousness.  Scott recognised it, but couldn’t place it, and found himself more interested in the fresh air flowing around his mouth and nose.  That was more immediately familiar, a constant from his last bout of consciousness, and it didn’t take his stirring brain long to label it as a rebreather.

Was that really necessary? Frowning slightly, he lifted a hand to his face and tugged the machine away, fresh air replaced with warmer air that had just the faintest tang.  The air of the sea.  He’d been on Thunderbird Two, but Thunderbird Two’s air didn’t taste of warmth and salt, rather the recycled air of an enclosed plane in flight, crisp and just a little bit off.  If this wasn’t Thunderbird Two and he was tasting sea air, there was only one place he could possibly be.

He smiled, hand still holding the rebreather falling to his side limply.  He was home.

Opening his eyes was a little more of a challenge, eyelids still heavy and eyelashes catching on each other, but as he blinked his way into awareness, beads of moisture forming in the corners of his eyes but not falling, he realised that he was almost sitting upright, the bed raised to its full extent so he was facing the wall with its fake holographic window rather than the plain and boring ceiling.

Scott appreciated that, letting the rebreather fall from his fingers as he wiped the sleep and moisture from his eyes.  He’d spent far too many hours staring at the ceiling that never changed, and at least the hologram could change.  The actual reasoning behind his positioning was more likely his rib, which Scott would worry about later.  It wasn’t his rib that had tried to kill him, and he looked down at his left arm.

A neat band-aid – a childish one, decorated with bright red biplanes soaring across a blue background that he’d always fought for as a kid – stood out against his bare skin, just below the elbow, and he smiled, wondering which of his brothers was responsible for that one.  On that same forearm he also saw a cannula, attached to tubing with translucent liquid passing through, and grimaced.  He never liked being on a drip.

He was no longer in his uniform.  Part of him – the part that contained his pride – bristled at that, wondering who had stripped him while he was unconscious and why, but the clothes he was wearing were comfortable, well-worn, and unmistakable as his favourite pyjamas even without him looking at them.  His comfort-pyjamas, although he was fairly certain he’d never made the mistake of letting that slip to anyone.  The ones he turned to whenever things got particularly rough, a plain unassuming dark grey with worn patches from the times he’d needed all the support he could get.

It could just be a coincidence, although Scott was uncomfortably aware that if there was one person he couldn’t keep anything truly secret from it was John, but whatever the reason, he was glad of them now.  There was nothing like comfort clothes after a near-death experience.

Considering he’d just had a near-death experience, the lack of anyone in the room with him was somewhat unusual.  Virgil in particular he’d expected to see, his younger brother blaming himself for bringing him out on the mission even before he’d been bitten, let alone afterwards. Kayo hovering unassumedly in the corner, sharp eyes full of concern.  John flickering by his side, watching him for the slightest change. Grandma, retired from caring for strangers but never too old to stay up all night with her family.

Scott eyed the drip. If none of his family were with him, physically or virtually, then that meant something else was going on that trumped his condition.  In their family, there was very little that trumped an unconscious brother or grandson. And if they weren’t with him, he had no intentions of staying put.

He’d removed drips hundreds of times – his own and other peoples’.  By this point, he had it down to an art, even if his sneaky family had tried to make it harder on him by putting it in his dominant arm; there were benefits to being ambidextrous.  He reached across with his right hand, fingers gently probing the needle, and had just found the sweet spot when there was the unmistakable hsss of the door sliding open.

“What do you think you’re doing, young man?” Grandma demanded, striding in and gently but firmly forcing him to release his grip.  “That’s there for a reason.”

“Hey, Grandma,” he greeted, grinning at her and ignoring that she’d just caught him trying to escape. “How long was I asleep?”

“Your siblings brought you back four and a half hours ago,” she told him, picking up the discarded rebreather and placing it on the bedside table before perching on the bed.  Scott watched her carefully, accepting the hand cupping his cheek as a thumb swiped at what was presumably some sleep he’d missed.  “Trust you to wake up the one time I have to use the toilet.  This old bladder can’t hold it in like it used to.”

Scott grimaced good-naturedly at the tmi and she chuckled at him, patting his cheek lightly twice before letting her hand rest.

“You gave us all a scare there, Scott,” she said softly, eyes running over him once before meeting his own.  “You don’t have to try and beat Gordon on that score, you know.  It’s okay to let someone else have that crown.”

“I’d appreciate it if he never gave me another scare in my life,” Scott admitted, before glancing around the room again.  “Where are they, anyway?  Not to sound self-centred, but I don’t usually wake up here alone.”

“Alan and Kayo are dealing with a stalled freighter just outside of orbit and Gordon and Virgil are responding to a sinking cargo ship,” Grandma told him.  “They’ll all be back soon, and delighted to know you’ve decided to re-join the land of the living.”  She tangled her fingers with his, pressing them to her chest with a hand that was almost trembling.  “It was a close call, Scott.  Your brother almost didn’t make it in time.”

His brother? Virgil?  John?  John had had a plan, he remembered that much, although he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the details.  Wait…

“I heard Thunderbird One,” he said, recalling the roar that had soothed him to sleep like a purr.  It could have been a figment of his imagination, but he didn’t think so.  A smile spread across his grandmother’s face.

“Of course you did,” she laughed.  “You boys and your machines.  Well on your way to see your mother and you still recognised your ‘bird.”  The smile was bright for a moment before it dimmed again. “Alan flew all the way to a lab in China to collect a dose of the antivenom before rendezvousing with Thunderbird Two to deliver it.  I’ve never seen that ‘bird fly so fast without you in the hotseat.”

Alan.  Scott could well imagine his youngest brother, face screwed up in concentration and fear, sat in the pilot’s seat.  The idea tied a knot in his chest, but at the same time there was pride, and an unexpected thankfulness for the rib injury that had kept him grounded and subsequently given Alan more flight hours in his ‘bird. Without that…

Without that, he might well have died.  The realisation doused him like cold water, his eyes leaving his grandmother’s to stare blindly at his lap.  He’d known he was dying, remembered a desperate fight against whispered promises of the stars and seeing his Mom again, but sitting in the infirmary, home and safe, it carried a different weight.

“Oh, Scott,” Grandma whispered, releasing his hand and cheek only to draw him in to a careful hug around his shoulders.  “It’s okay. It’s over.”  After a moment his hands found the back of her always there purple onesie, fisting around the fabric as his head rested in the crook of her neck.  “It’s okay.”

There was the slightest of cracks in her voice, a reminder that no matter how much steel she was made of, she wasn’t immune to the idea of loss.  Her parents, long ago, before Scott’s memories began.  Her husband, daughter in law.  Her son, who might still be alive and waiting for them.

“I’m okay,” he repeated, as much for her benefit as his.  “I’m okay.”

Her hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair softly as though he was a young boy woken from a nightmare again.  It was the sort of treatment she didn’t give him in front of his brothers, knowing that he preferred to keep up the illusion of strength in front of them, no matter what.

“I want you to take it easy,” she told him after a minute or so, releasing him and instead gripping his hands in hers.  One pair was trembling, but he didn’t know if it was his or hers.  “I know that’s not in your vocabulary, but I refuse to let you throw yourself back in harms’ way until you’re fully recovered after what happened today.”

“But-” Scott protested, complaints and reasons why he shouldn’t be bedbound queuing up one after the other on the tongue.  A single look from his grandmother quelled them all before he could vocalise any.

“If you can’t do it for the sake of your own recovery,” she said, something in her voice implying that she thought he should treat himself better – he treated himself fine! – “then do it for our peace of mind, Scott.  We were all terrified when we heard what happened. Virgil was stuck watching you slip away with no way of stopping it.  That fear doesn’t magically go away, Scott.  We all know that.”

He was saved from answering by the swish of the door opening again.  He glanced over, wondering who it could be when he hadn’t heard any Thunderbirds come in to land.  Brains and the Mechanic were the only others on the island, and while it wasn’t unusual for Brains to check up on the infirmary, Scott didn’t want the Mechanic near him in his current condition.

It wasn’t the Mechanic. It wasn’t Brains, either – or MAX, for that matter.

“h’Oh, you’re h’awake!” Parker said with a surprised but delighted grin as he fumbled his way into the room carrying a tray laden with food.  “h’I was just bringing food for Mrs Tracy…” he trailed off, but continued to approach the bed.

“Parker, you shouldn’t have,” Grandma smiled, releasing one of Scott’s hands to move the rebreather off of the bedside table.  The older man set the tray down before stepping up to Scott’s side.  He didn’t reach for him, keeping his hands loosely behind his back, but sharp blue eyes raked him up and down.

“’Ow are you feeling?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m fine,” Scott replied, ignoring the eye roll from his grandmother, who clearly didn’t agree with his assessment.  Aside from some token weariness, which he knew was normal after a spell of time unconscious, he really did feel perfectly fine.  Even his rib wasn’t bothering him.

“h’I suppose that’s because you’re h’on the good stuff,” Parker shrugged, making Scott pause.  He should have realised that, especially after all the trouble his ribs had given him on the mission.  The temptation was there to ask how badly his recovery had been set back, but that would have just given Grandma even more ammunition to stay in bed. Besides, he’d be told eventually. Of more immediate interest was Parker’s unexpected visit.

“What brings you to the island, Parker?” he asked, glancing around the room again.  “I don’t see Lady Penelope around?”

“M’Lady’s in the lounge,” Parker told him.  “We came ‘ere to drop off the Centurion-21 fuel for Brains, but ‘eard h’about you and M’Lady requested to stay h’a while.”

“You’re always welcome here,” Grandma reminded him, and Scott smiled in agreement.  “Is she making any progress?”

“h’I couldn’t say for sure,” Parker shrugged.  “But I know M’Lady and Master John won’t stop h’until they get their way.”

Scott frowned.  Combined, John and Lady Penelope were an almost unstoppable force, but he couldn’t think of any reason for that tag-team, not right now.

“What are they doing?” he asked, because anything that big, he needed to know about.  Especially if working on that was a higher priority for John than checking in on him – John, the brother who was too used to sitting out of the loop and firmly inserted himself virtually into any situation with a brother operating at less than one hundred percent.  Scott knew he wasn’t at one hundred percent, not even by his own standards.

“Making sure today’s events never happen again,” Grandma answered, curling her hand back around his again.

Today’s events. The rescue?  Him being bitten?  That was all bad luck, how could they possibly ensure it never happened again? Although, he supposed, if anyone could, it would be the duo currently working on it.

His confusion must have shown on his face, because Parker took it upon himself to explain.  “h’It transpires that the reason the ‘ospital ran h’out of h’antivenom was a funding problem,” he said, sounding somewhat unimpressed.  Scott didn’t blame him – whenever money was the problem, he found himself wanting to strangle whoever had decided lining their pockets was more important than human lives. “M’Lady h’is setting up a charity to make sure all ‘ospitals can ‘ave all the h’antivenoms they need.”  Admirable and welcome, but that didn’t explain John’s involvement.  He certainly hadn’t been needed in any of her past charity ventures.

“So what’s John doing?” he asked, hoping his brother was not ruining whoever had decided money was more important than lives.  It wouldn’t be the first time, and while Scott agreed that they deserved it, sometimes John could go a little too far.

“Arranging for International Rescue to have our own stock of all known antivenoms,” Grandma told him, squeezing his hands gently.  “We might not be able to stop spiders sneaking into our Thunderbirds, or you boys throwing yourselves in front of each other, but there is no reason why you should have had to suffer for an hour because you didn’t have the right antivenom on hand.”

That made sense, and Scott nodded his approval.  International Rescue did have a stock of common antivenoms, as well as everything they needed to deal with the local fauna on Tracy Island, but if they could broaden that, at least to the most dangerous venoms, it would only be a good thing.

It was also a typical John reaction – finding out why something had gone wrong and immediately finding a way to stop it happening again.  That, at least, told Scott that John was okay.  If he’d found a solution to the problem then he would be satisfied. No doubt Scott would find himself under close holographic scrutiny in the near future so John could see for himself that he really was fine, but with a solution the what-ifs wouldn’t be playing on his mind.

His other siblings would be less easily pacified.  He had no idea what Gordon knew, having not seen his water-loving brother at all that day thanks to a fishing trawler in trouble, but Virgil and Kayo would be kicking themselves black and blue, and Alan would be stuck in the what if I’d been too late loop.  Scott knew that feeling very well indeed.

He hadn’t yet decided if the fact that it had launched rather than exploded made the fact that he’d reached the Zero-X too late better or worse.  He wasn’t sure he’d ever decide.

“Still, I think we’d better let them know you’ve woken up,” Grandma said, releasing his hands.  “I won’t be long, so don’t even think about getting out of that bed, young man.”  She shared a look with Parker.  “If you’re hungry, see if you can eat some of that food Parker’s brought in.”  A gentle hand touched his cheek lightly before she stood up and left the room.

One look at Parker told him he wasn’t going to be going anywhere, especially when the man perched on the section of bed Grandma had just vacated.  Parker was the one he’d learnt many of his escaping tricks from – if there was one person that would see through them all, it was the butler.

“h’I wouldn’t be in too much of a ‘urry to h’escape, Master Scott,” the older man said, and Scott found himself relaxing back against the bed.  Master Scott.  It was his favourite of Parker’s ways of referring to him, but also the rarest.  He’d graduated to ‘Mr Scott’ after the Zero-X, the man’s acknowledgement that he was now the head of the family without using the dreaded Mr Tracy.  Parker never called him that, not even in public when the rest of the world insisted. Sir was a substitute when society demanded, and Scott always appreciated that.

Master Scott only came out when Parker was being fussy, and never with an audience.  Just like Grandma, he knew and accepted there was a front to be held in front of younger siblings – even if neither of them approved.  If he was Master Scott, he wasn’t expected to make any decisions or take on any of his father’s responsibilities.

“Some food?” the butler asked, gesturing to the tray.  It was homemade, but not by Grandma, and Scott would have to be far worse off to even consider declining that.  In answer, he reached for the toast, only for Parker to lightly touch his wrist and stop him. “You’ll get crumbs h’everywhere if you h’eat like that,” the older man scolded lightly.  “Stay still, there’s a good lad.”

The tray was relocated to his lap, and Scott tore into the offering as soon as Parker retracted his hands, to an amused chuckle from his companion.

“h’It’s not going anywhere, Master Scott,” Parker reminded him.

“He’s just trying to finish it before the others get home and want to share,” John commented, and Scott’s head jerked up to see his brother’s hologram materialise alongside him. He looked tired, not that that was an unusual occurrence over the past few weeks.  “You’re looking better, Scott.”

“I can’t imagine that’s hard,” he managed through a mouthful of food.  The last time he’d been aware of John’s presence, he’d been deep in the clutches of deadly venom.  If he’d looked half as had as he’d felt, it would have been an awful sight.  “How’s the campaign going?”

John pulled a face.  “They’re asking for money, which by itself isn’t a problem because I expected that, but they’re trying to charge us triple what they charge hospitals, and as Lady P’s working to get those rates reduced because they’re extortionate, I’m not letting them use our lives to line their pockets.”

Scott grimaced along with him.  Money grabbers were the worst.

“So what’s your plan?” he asked, because there was no way John was letting that slide.

“Persuading them that it’s better in their interest long-term to not try and bankrupt us,” John offered, a bemused look on his face.  “We could afford it, but if they think that they’ll be driving the prices up with every new shipment.  More realistically, I’m talking to Colonel Casey to see if the GDF can’t pull some weight. As they’re military and not private, the companies couldn’t charge them as much.  It would leave us needing the GDF’s good will for access, but we already know the GDF don’t dare put us out of business.”

It was Scott’s turn to pull a face.  He hated getting the GDF involved in anything; for as long as Colonel Casey was a dominant figure in the organisation International Rescue wouldn’t have any issues, but in the longer term he was brutally aware that she was their father’s generation.  At some point, she would be forced to retire and then they’d – he’d – have to handle the full force of the GDF without inside help.

Still, he trusted John and Colonel Casey.  Anything they implemented would be beneficial to International Rescue.

“Let me know what you come up with,” he requested, and John nodded, turquoise eyes briefly scanning across him.

“Alan and Kayo will be returning home in five minutes,” he told him.  “Do you want me to tell them you’re awake or let them find out for themselves when they check in?”

“Tell them once they’ve landed,” Scott decided.  “Virgil and Gordon, too – what’s their ETA?”

“They’re racing Thunderbird Three home,” John shrugged.  “But Thunderbird Three will win.”  Scott chuckled.  Alan somehow always won their races home, no matter how much further away he’d been.

“What are they betting this time?” he asked, and John grinned.

“Loser gets to be your slave for the week,” he said.

“Mine?”

“Well you’re not doing much on your own any time soon,” John told him matter-of-factly.  “Has Grandma given you the rundown?”  Scott blinked, pausing mid-bite.

“I thought I was supposed to be walking around with the ribs,” he ventured tentatively.  “But no, I haven’t been told what the damage is yet. Care to fill me in?”

John glanced away at something Scott couldn’t see.

“Your rib re-broke,” he started bluntly.  “Which I’m sure you’ve realised.  So that’s another six weeks grounded, and this time no-one’s sneaking you onto a Thunderbird before that’s up.”

“Six weeks?” Scott groaned.  John raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“Well what did you expect?” he asked.  “Kayo filled us in on the mission details once you were stable.  You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“But-” Scott protested. “What about the mission to find Dad?” John shook his head.

“The new Zero-X will take longer that to construct,” he told him.  “Brains and the Mechanic finished the T-Drive while you were out in Brazil and we’ve got the fuel, so they’re going to test fire it tomorrow to make sure it’s all working before they start on the craft itself.”

“Tomorrow?” Scott asked. “If it’s ready why not today?”

“Even engineers need breaks sometimes, Scott,” John scolded lightly.  “They’ve been working almost non-stop for the past five weeks, which I know you know.”  There was a slightly accusatory tone at the end of his sentence, and Scott realised John knew how closely he’d started watching the two engineers.  “Besides, Grandma and Virgil won’t let you out of that bed for at least twenty four hours, and we all know you won’t be happy unless you see it for yourself.”

Well, they weren’t wrong.

“You still haven’t told me why I’m getting a slave for a week over a broken rib,” Scott realised, and John once again raised an eyebrow at him.

“You haven’t tried to get out of bed yet?”

“Don’t h’encourage ‘im, Master John,” Parker groaned.  “Mrs Tracy ‘ad to stop ‘im h’earlier and ‘e ‘asn’t ‘ad h’a chance since.”

“It was an hour before the antivenom reached you, Scott.  The damage doesn’t get miraculously fixed just because the venom’s gone,” John continued.  “Your blood pressure is still low so I’d wager you’ll probably pass out if you try to stand right now, no matter how ‘fine’ you feel, and we don’t yet know for sure if it’s done any damage to your heart.”

“My heart?”  The soft background beeping caught Scott’s attention and he turned his head to the EKG.  It was on, signalling that it was receiving data from wireless transmitters.  He put a hand to his chest; underneath the pyjamas he felt the tell-tale patches, leaving him with no doubt that it was his own heartbeat it was recording.  “Oh.” That was low.  Not dramatically so, but lower than his normal resting rate.

“It’s recovered reasonably well, but Grandma and Virgil still aren’t happy with it,” John told him. From his tone, it wasn’t only the family medics unhappy.  “I know you don’t like staying in bed, but unless you want to fall over and make your ribs worse, I would suggest you stay put.”

Scott scowled.

“You’re also recovering from dehydration, so drink up and leave that drip in,” Grandma added, walking back in with a large cup, complete with straw.  “I see there’s nothing wrong with your appetite,” she observed. Parker obligingly removed the now-empty tray away from Scott’s lap and stood so that she could sit back on the side of the bed.  “Drink.”

Obediently, he took the cup with both hands and sipped at the liquid, which revealed itself to be simply water.  A dull rumbling even through the soundproofing of the infirmary told him Thunderbird Three was back.  John confirmed that before signing off to talk to their returning siblings.

Scott made a note of the time, wondering how long it would take before he had visitors.

Three minutes later and the door slammed open to find Kayo and Alan shoulder-to-shoulder, clearly racing each other.

“No running in the house!” Grandma barked, but neither of them looked the least apologetic.  They did at least walk the distance from the door to his bed, where Grandma had slipped off to let them get closer.  Both stopped short, Alan fidgeting from foot to foot at he stared at him with open relief, and Scott rolled his eyes.

“Come here,” he told his youngest brother, spreading his arms in demand of a hug.  As always, Alan needed no further invitation, crashing into him and wrapping his arms around him tightly, although it didn’t miss Scott’s attention that it wasn’t Alan’s usual rib-squeezing hug.  He appreciated that, curling his own arms around his brother’s shoulders.

Alan was trembling.  “I thought I was going to lose you,” he mumbled into Scott’s neck.  “I thought-”

“I’m still here, kid,” he interrupted quietly.  “And I hear I have you to thank for that.”  The sniffle he got in response told him it was Alan, the baby brother, rather than Alan the emergency responder he was dealing with.  “You did good.”

“I thought I was too late,” Alan mumbled, and there were tears against Scott’s skin.  He tightened his grip on his brother.  “You looked d-dead.  I d-didn’t think you were breathing.”

“I’m here and breathing,” Scott reminded him, letting him sob on his shoulder as long as he needed, rubbing the neoprene – both siblings were still in uniform – underneath his hand reassuringly.  He remembered the same reaction after EOS had first made herself known to them, only that time it had been John Alan had clung to in tears, post-adrenaline rush. They needed to stop putting their lives in Alan’s hands like that.

But Alan would settle, barring the new nightmare fuel that never went away, once he’d let out the initial emotions.  It was either a blessing of youth, or a coping strategy he’d been forced to employ too young. Kayo, who was watching with unguarded relief across her face, was like John; pragmatic and level-headed.  A serious conversation would settle her, although when she met his eyes, he linked his hands together behind Alan’s back and made them flutter, shooting her a quick grin.

The resulting glower she sent him didn’t hide the softening in her eyes, or the way her shoulders slumped. Satisfied for the moment, he returned his attention to his youngest brother, who seemed content to stay where he was.  Scott let him, nodding at Parker when the older man gestured that he was going to leave the room.

No sooner was Parker gone than Gordon burst through the door, Virgil hot on his heels.

“Scott!”  Gordon skidded to a stop just behind Alan, reaching out to put a hand on Scott’s shoulder where he could.  “Don’t do that again,” he demanded, amber eyes flicking to the EKG for a split second before he found some space to perch on the bed behind Alan.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Scott shot back.  Gordon grinned.

“I won’t if you don’t,” he said.  “Deal?”

“Deal.”

They couldn’t really promise that, not in their profession, but Scott saw something lift behind Gordon’s eyes, the banter regardless doing something to reassure him.  Gordon had always used humour to cope.

Four siblings down, or at least addressed, and one to go.  Somehow, Scott didn’t think a hug or joke would work quite so well on Virgil. Guilt was deep-set in brown eyes, but Virgil didn’t look at him directly, focusing on the EKG and drip as he bustled around.

“Virgil,” he said, pulling one hand away from Alan to catch his brother’s arm the moment Virgil got in reach. It was the arm with the needle in it, bright band aid stark against his skin.  Virgil’s eyes focussed on it and Scott sighed, tightening his grip on the neoprene beneath his fingers.  “Look at me.” He couldn’t do much, not while Alan was still clinging to him, but hell if he was going to let Virgil shut himself away and stew in a self-inflicted puddle of misplaced guilt.

Virgil stilled, but didn’t obey.  Scott closed his eyes and sighed again, squeezing Alan lightly.  The blond snuffled but didn’t otherwise move.

“Virgil.”  That was John’s voice, his final brother reappearing holographically at the foot of Scott’s bed.  The middle brother ignored him, too.

“Kid, your brother’s talking to you,” Grandma chipped in.  “At least have the manners to look at him.”  Despite the words, there was no scolding in her tone, just a quiet encouragement.  Virgil glanced up at her, and a look passed between them that Scott couldn’t see before Virgil slowly turned to face him.

“Thank you,” he said before Virgil could apologise, or say something else nonsensical.  Whatever his brother had been gearing up for, it clearly wasn’t that; he blinked, startled, before opening his mouth to probably-protest. “I know it was Alan that got the antivenom, but you’re the one that kept me alive long enough to get it.”

“I’m the reason you needed it in the first place!” Virgil snapped, looking away again.  “If I’d paid more attention… if I-”

“If nothing,” Scott interrupted, conscious that they had an audience but unable to ask anyone to leave.  He wanted his family there, with him, and knew they were all busy reassuring themselves that he was going to be fine.  “You’d have done the same thing if our positions were reversed, except I’m not as good as you with all the medical stuff.”

“You’d have done enough,” Virgil mumbled, and Scott rolled his eyes.

“And you did enough,” he returned.  “No what-ifs, Virgil.”  Hell knew he’d told himself that enough through the years, with varying levels of success.

Virgil at least met his eyes again, even though Scott could see it wasn’t enough to lift the guilt. That would take much longer, including him making a full recovery and a conversation without the rest of the family listening in, intentionally or not.

“You’re staying in that bed,” he said instead, and Scott made a grumbling noise of protest.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied.  “I can’t say I’m happy about it, but John made quite the compelling argument.”

“Does this mean you’ll listen to me for once?” John asked disbelievingly, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

“What do you mean, for once?” Scott asked.  “I listen to you!”

“When it suits you,” John rebuked.  “I have a list, if you’d care to hear it.”

Scott wouldn’t put it past John to actually have a list.  He turned his attention back to his other brothers without responding, to an amused noise from the space monitor, and gave Alan a grin as the youngest finally pulled back from his shoulder, eyeing him with teary blue eyes.

“I’ll sit on you if you try and get up,” the youngest told him firmly, look somewhat ruined by those eyes. Gordon laughed.

“Alan, you’re a twig.”

“Am not, fishboy!”

“Are, too!”

“Not!”

“Boys,” Kayo interrupted, taking a few steps closer to the cluster on the bed.  With one arm now free, Scott reached for her and got a light hug at his silent request.  It didn’t last long, but it was enough for the rest of the tension to leave her shoulders before she stepped back, out of his reach again.

“Hey, where’s my hug?” Gordon demanded, and Scott raised an eyebrow at him.

“You want a hug, you’ve got to come get it yourself,” he said.  “I’m not moving.”

Permission gained, Gordon shoved Alan out of the way, the younger falling off the bed with a squawk of indignation, and wrapped himself around Scott.  It was far looser than his usual hugs, but out of all his brothers, Gordon was best at gauging what an injured person could take.  Scott rested his chin on his shoulder, feeling the dampness of the neoprene that betrayed that Gordon had been in the water during his mission.

Tension drained out of his aquanaut brother’s powerful shoulders and Scott found himself relaxing as well.  He’d always found it easiest to relax and wind down when his brothers were okay, and with three out of four openly reassured, his own nerves were less on edge.

“I’m still sorry,” Virgil said after a moment.  Scott still had hold of his bicep, and glanced up at him as he spoke.  That pain and guilt was still there in brown eyes, but it was Gordon and Alan that Virgil was looking at.  A big brother himself, he too was being drawn into some sort of reassurance by the youngest two calming down.

There were many responses Scott could give, and maybe later once it was just the two of them he’d dive deeper in if Virgil hadn’t managed to settle himself and needed a stronger release, but in that moment, with his family around him and the knowledge that whatever happened next, they’d survived this hurdle, there was only one thing to say.

“I know.”

Surprised brown eyes met his, as though Virgil had expected another rebuke, another it’s not your fault, but Scott knew better.  He didn’t blame Virgil at all, but it wasn’t his forgiveness Virgil needed; his brother needed to forgive himself for his perceived transgressions, and that he couldn’t do as long as Scott stayed stubborn.  He tugged at the bicep in his grip, coaxing Virgil closer with an inviting smile.

Virgil hesitated, understanding but unsure.  Scott didn’t say anything else, didn’t push harder, but then Grandma put a hand on Virgil’s other arm and whatever remaining fight there was seeped away.

It was Gordon’s turn to squawk as he found himself nudged out of the way, but he went willingly, surrendering the space to Virgil as Scott’s dark-haired brother wrapped his arms around him cautiously.

“I’m okay,” Scott murmured into his brother’s ear, returning the hug as fiercely as he could.  Like Alan before him, Virgil shook ever so slightly under his touch, but unlike the youngest, no tears were shed.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Virgil mumbled.  “You stopped breathing for a minute just before Alan arrived and I thought that was it.”

“I heard you,” Scott admitted, just as quietly.  “I don’t think I’d have had the strength to keep fighting without you.  Alan might have got the antivenom, but you saved me, too.”

Virgil gave a shuddering breath and his arms tightened, just a little.

They stayed like that for several minutes, Scott managing to relax further now that was the fifth and final sibling’s immediate concerns addressed, but eventually Virgil pulled back, the ghost of a smile on his face.  He looked like he wanted to say something, but before he could, Gordon crashed into him.

“Group hug!” he declared, reaching out to snag Alan and pinning an unprotesting Virgil in place as Scott’s three youngest brothers gathered as close as they could for a tangle of arms and bodies on Scott’s bed.  Alan flailed in Kayo’s direction and the woman stepped closer, slipping an arm delicately around the back of Scott’s neck and more tightly around Alan.  Scott grinned at her before looking past the mass of brothers to lock eyes with the one he couldn’t reach.  John grinned back at him, and even though he wasn’t physically there, Scott didn’t need it to know his immediate brother was just as relieved.

The hug lasted until Grandma intervened, suggesting that they let him have a little bit of space. He didn’t need space, but they all heard the underlying reminder that he was in that bed for a reason.  After that, it was back to business as usual, his on-Earth siblings scattering to change on Grandma’s order and reconvening later in their civvies with various forms of entertainment while John went back to his latest project.

Lady Penelope poked her head in later, but he didn’t see Brains – or the Mechanic – until the next day.

“I-it’s time to t-test the T-Drive e-engine,” the engineer told him the next morning, after checking him over in his own desire for reassurance; there was some guilt there as well, for pushing him out on the rescue, but thankfully Brains was much easier to calm than his brothers – the fact that Brains hadn’t seen him almost dead helped.

“Give me five,” he said, reaching for the drip stuck in his arm.

“Make that ten, Brains,” Virgil rumbled, catching Scott’s hand.  “Scott’s not up to walking even if he thinks he is.”

Scott groaned, but Virgil raised an eyebrow at him.

“I thought John made a convincing argument for you to stay in bed?” he challenged, and Scott shrugged.

“That was yesterday.”

“And your heart rate still isn’t back to normal, so it’s the hoverchair or nothing,” Virgil rebuked, rolling his eyes.

Scott sighed but dutifully held out his arm for Virgil to remove the drip instead.

“No, that’s coming with you,” Virgil corrected, gently pushing it down to his side again.  “Just the EKG.”  The machine was turned off, but Virgil made no move to relieve him of the transmitters, telling Scott that it was being linked back up later. Wonderful.  “Now then, let’s get you out of this bed-”

Scott leaned forwards and swung his legs around, placing them on the floor and pushing himself to his feet.

“Woah!”  Virgil sprinted around the bed and caught him as his vision fuzzed.  “John’s compelling argument?”  Scott was vaguely aware of being shifted around as the world spun around him, but it was a surprise to find himself in the hoverchair by the time he was fully aware of his surroundings again.  Usually, Virgil would dump him straight back in bed.

“Okay, John’s compelling argument still holds,” he admitted, leaning against the back of the chair and closing his eyes briefly as the world tried to spin a little more.

“Let’s get going,” Virgil sighed.  “Hands off the controls; I’m steering.”  Scott grumbled, but had no doubt that the controls had actually been disabled.  “As soon as the test is over, you’re coming straight back.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” he asked, and Virgil chuckled.

“Not at all.”

They were last to the balcony; it didn’t escape Scott’s notice that the Mechanic was the other end to the rest of them, talking quietly to Brains but otherwise ignoring the Tracys. That suited Scott just fine; if the test worked, he was well aware he owed the man an apology for his accusations of sabotage.  Although maybe he’d keep that back until the Zero-X2 launched successfully and Dad was home. Just in case.

“You look pale,” Grandma commented.  “Did he try to stand up?” she asked Virgil.  Scott glowered as Virgil rolled his eyes in answer.

“What do you think?” he asked rhetorically.  “He didn’t pass out entirely, otherwise the test would be happening without him, whether he liked it or not, but it was close.”

“He is right here,” Scott grumbled.

“And he’s going to keep his mouth shut and drink this up,” Grandma informed him, pressing a cup of water, complete with straw, into his hands.  “You shouldn’t be out of bed at all, young man.”

“T-test is ready,” Brains announced before Scott could find a retort that wouldn’t get him taken straight back to the infirmary.  “I-igniting T-Drive in three, two, one.”

Without binoculars, it was difficult to see what was happening on the platform, but nothing exploded and after several moments all that could be seen or heard was the whining of an engine.  It was higher pitched than the engines Scott was used to, but there were none of the warning noises suggesting that something was wrong.

Beside him, Virgil sighed in relief while Gordon and Alan whooped.

“C-cutting engine,” Brains called, and it powered down easily.  Smooth as any of the best plane engines Scott had piloted – and he’d piloted many.

It had worked.  They had a T-Drive engine.

They could go find Dad.

“Scott?”  Virgil sounded worried, and he opened his eyes – when he had closed them? – to look up at his worried brother.  Alan and Gordon hovered nearby, and he looked at them all in turn, even John’s silent hologram – his ginger brother hadn’t been there when the test had started, hadn’t been expected after he pointed out their holotech’s range didn’t reach that far.  “Are you okay?”

Was he okay?  He had a broken rib, was recovering from a near-fatal spider bite and its side effects of dehydration, bradycardia and hypotension, and the man who had almost killed his brothers multiple times was standing the other end of the same balcony.

But they were one step, one significant step closer to Dad.

“Yeah,” he said, staring out past them, at the platform cradling the most important engine International Rescue had ever created.  For the first time since that horrid trash mine day five weeks earlier, he could honestly say, “I’m okay.”

Fin

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #john tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #grandma tracy #aloysius parker #lady penelope creighton-ward #brains #the mechanic #kayo kyrano #grounded

[per-ineptia-ad-astra]

Star Trek Episode 1.4: The Naked Time

AKA: Everyone Has A Real Bad Day Except For Sulu

CONTENT WARNING: This episode contains an onscreen suicide in which a man stabs himself in the stomach and dies later in surgery. No blood or gore or details of the surgery are seen. This recap covers the first scene but does not contain any images of it. There is one screencap of the surgery scene, which does not show the body, and is only there to point out a particularly ridiculous prop.

Here's a story about The Naked Time for you: one year when I was in college I had a Star Trek wall calendar. Each month had a picture from an episode on the top half, with the name of the episode underneath it, and then some trivia about it on the bottom half. The picture for February was shirtless Sulu posing on the bridge, naturally captioned The Naked Time. So one day a friend of mine who didn't watch Star Trek was over hanging out when she saw my calendar, and I wound up having to explain to her that yes, that was an actual Star Trek episode, no it was not a porn parody of Star Trek, yes it was really called The Naked Time, no, no one actually got naked in it. Which was quite the conversation. You try explaining shirtless Sulu with that caption completely out of context.

February was a good month that year.

Our episode begins with the Enterprise orbiting a planet called Psi 2000, because 2000 is the coolest number (except for 3000). Psi 2000 is an old planet, now little more than an arctic wasteland, which is near the end of its life. So near, in fact, that it's about to fall apart completely, and the Enterprise is there to watch (for science). Before they do that, though, they've got to pick up a research team that's been stationed down on the planet surface.

But all is not well, for we soon see that the inside of the research lab is just as much of an arctic wasteland as the outside, complete with a dead person sprawled over a console. Spock and some dude beam down wearing snazzy orange bubble wrap suits and Spock examines the stiff with his Pringles can gun.

[ID: Spock and another man wearing textured orange hazmat suits, faces only barely visible, standing in a room covered with dubiously realistic snow and ice. A body is slumped over the table in front of them, also covered in snow. Spock is pointing a cylindrical device at it.]

The two of them split up, the dude to check out the life support systems and Spock to examine the horrible scene of a shop window mannequin half-buried in snow. His Pringles can tells him that she's been strangled. The dude comes back and reports that all life support systems are off and there are four more dead people, including the engineer frozen apathetically at his post and another man taking a shower fully-clothed. Well, maybe his clothes were dirty too.

As Spock goes to check out this spectacle for himself, the dude wanders back into the main room and gets out a device of some sort that makes whirring sounds. But then his face itches, so, like the competent Starfleet officer he is, he carries on and ignores this. Ha ha, no, I'm just kidding. He takes his glove off, puts it on the dead guy's head, then sticks his bare hand up his helmet to scratch himself. As if that wasn't bad enough, he then leaves the glove off while he messes around on the floor. When he puts his hand on the side of the desk, we see an ominous red spot in the ice. To give the guy the very little credit he deserves, he doesn't put his hand directly on the red spot, but this doesn't matter much because some of the liquid crawls upward and splatters onto his hand anyway. And he obviously notices this, because he shakes his hand, sticks it back into his helmet to sniff it, then puts his glove back on like nothing happened.

Immediately afterward, Spock comes back and tells him to be certain they expose themselves to nothing. Well, have I got some bad news for you.

Spock calls up to the Enterprise to tell them what's going on, and when Kirk asks what caused all this, Spock says it's like nothing they've dealt with before. The drama of this is a bit undermined by two things: one, everything they deal with is like nothing they've dealt with before, and two, Spock says this in a complete and utter deadpan, even by Spock standards.

After the titles, Kirk recaps what just happened, and says that despite it all they're still going to hang out and watch the planet implode because hey, why waste a trip. Spock and the dude—whose name is now revealed as Tormolen—beam aboard and Scotty decontaminates them by making the transporter lights flash on and off for a few seconds. Then they go over to Sickbay to get checked out just to be double sure. This consists of a brief examination which I don't think is going to be much good for revealing any contaminants they might have picked up, but at least we get to see the cool Sickbay examining tables that flip up and down.

Here's an interesting point: in this scene both Spock and Tormolen are wearing black t-shirts instead of their usual colored tunics. We saw this earlier with McCoy wearing the same kind of shirt when he was chilling back in The Man Trap, and he also seems to be wearing one under his short-sleeved blue shirt, which suggests that it's a standard uniform undershirt (especially since Spock and Tormolen put their blue shirts back on over them after they get done with the examination). So...where the hell is Kirk's? Because we're going to see Kirk with his shirt ripped or off many, many, many....many, many times throughout this series, and he's never wearing anything under it. So what gives? Are these not part of the uniform and these three random people just enjoy wearing them? Are they part of the uniform for everyone but goldshirts? Is Kirk exercising some kind of captain's privilege to not have to wear an undershirt? I don't know, man. Star Trek uniforms have never made any sense to me. Also, I’m sorry I introduced that as interesting. I don’t know why I did that.

Anyway, Spock and McCoy snark at each other a bit, but on a less cheerful note we see that Tormolen is rubbing his forearm anxiously. Which presumably means more in this context than it does when I do that about thirty times a day. Kirk comes in to see what's up, and Tormolen mournfully describes how terrible the scene was. That leads to this bit of dialogue from him and Kirk: “I keep wondering--” “You keep wondering if man was meant to be out here. You keep wondering, you keep signing on.” So either Kirk is a mind reader, or this sentiment is old ground for Tormolen.

Spock says he has no idea what happened down there, but maybe they could find something on the record tapes. Kirk tells Tormolen to go get some rest since he keeps going on about how many dead people there were down there, and he and Spock go off to check those tapes. We see Chapel (yay!) and Tormolen looking at his hand while a sinister rattling sound plays (not yay).

In the briefing room, everyone's looking over the tapes. Spock identifies one as a spectro-analysis tape, but it turns out to just be a slow pan of the room where they beamed down. I would say that's not what spectro-analysis is, but spectro-analysis (as opposed to spectral analysis) isn't a thing, so I guess you can have it mean whatever you want. Kirk muses over how bizarre and macabre this situation is, with everyone just frozen and uncaring, and asks for theories. McCoy says it couldn't be drugs or intoxication since the bio-analysis tapes, which were apparently more useful than the spectro-analysis tapes, rule that out. Spock suggests it may be some new form of space madness, which is like regular madness but in space, but he doesn't know what could have caused it since they didn't pick up anything unusual on their sensors. Scotty points out that that just means they didn't pick up anything unusual that they were designed to pick up, so this could still be something entirely new.

Kirk's main concern is this: they have to get the best readings they can of Psi 2000's breakup, and to do that means maintaining a really precise orbit, so they need absolute efficiency and no one getting space madness and randomly dying. He asks if there's any chance that what happened to the science team could affect the crew of the Enterprise. There's a conspicuous lack of any answer to this, which annoys Kirk, but hey, if they don't know what happened, how can they know what effects it's going to have? Anyway, the bridge calls in to report that the expected erratic changes are beginning to happen to the planet, and the meeting ends on that note.

In the rec room, or whatever, some people are playing space checkers (like regular checkers, but in space) and Tormolen is getting some food. He's still staring at his hand and rubbing it against his shirt like there's something on there he can't scrub off. Which I guess there is.

Sulu and friend come in to get some coffee, chatting about Sulu's latest passion: fencing. His friend complains that Sulu has a habit of picking up intense interests every week or so, which I guess is kind of thrown in there as a justification for why Sulu was in the botany lab a couple weeks ago but never shows up there again. The two of them sit down next to Tormolen and Sulu, noticing his buddy's new compulsion, asks if everything is alright, causing Tormolen to snap at him violently.

The two goldshirts get called to the bridge, but Sulu makes one last effort to check on Tormolen before they go. This really sets Tormolen off, making him jump up, knock his chair over, and go on an impassioned rant about how mankind doesn't belong in space. When his friends try to calm him down, he grabs the knife from his plate and points it first at them, then at himself. They get into a tussle, trying to take the knife from Tormolen, while everyone else in the room watches dispassionately. Thanks, guys.

Sulu and his pal aren't successful getting the knife away and all three of them take a tumble to the floor, and as they get up it's revealed that Tormolen stabbed himself in the stomach. I'm...not sure how he managed to do that with a butter knife. Sulu's friend runs over to the intercom and yells that they need medics. Then we hear another sinister rattle and he starts rubbing at his hands like Tormolen did.

After the break, Kirk gives a log saying that unbeknownst to them, a new disease has been brought on board. But this one's not in the past tense, so it just kind of makes it sound like Kirk has precognition. On the bridge, Sulu and his friend—who we finally learn is called Riley—are keeping the Enterprise steady around the rapidly condensing planet. Spock waxes on a bit about how they may be seeing Earth's own future, since before its sun went dark Psi 2000 was very similar to Earth. I dunno what we're going to do with that information, but hey, science!

Everything seems to be going alright so far, except that both Sulu and Riley have caught that bad case of Out, Damn Spot that's been going around, complete with sinister rattling. Kirk can't hear the soundtrack, though, so he doesn't notice anything off. He goes over to talk to Spock about the strange case of Tormolen. Spock thinks Tormolen was too confused to be actively trying to kill himself, but he notes that the man's capacity for self-doubt has always been high and wonders what caused it to suddenly come to the surface like that.

In Sickbay, Chapel and McCoy are operating on Tormolen, but it's not going well, even when McCoy blowtorches Tormolen's wound shut.

[Image description: McCoy and Chapel, dressed in blue Sickbay scrubs, doing surgery on a draped body at a Sickbay table. McCoy is saying, “Closing,” while pointing a device at the patient. The device looks remarkably like a completely undisguised blowtorch. ]

We briefly cut away to the bridge, where there's been a sudden increase in gravity that causes the orbit to go all wonky. Riley's too busy looking at his hands to do his job, causing Kirk to have to do it while Riley sits there and sweats heavily. Back in Sickbay, Tormolen's vitals are inexplicably dropping, and despite McCoy and Chapel's best efforts, he dies. This really freaks McCoy out because Tormolen's wounds shouldn't have been fatal. He calls Kirk to Sickbay, and after taking a moment for a bit of exposition, Kirk heads down.

Sulu and Riley talk about how much they're both sweating, then Sulu abruptly suggests they head down to the gym for a bit of a workout to calm their nerves. Riley is understandably perplexed about this, but that doesn't stop Sulu from sneaking off the bridge unnoticed (somehow), leaving poor Riley with no idea what to do about it.

In Sickbay, McCoy is explaining to Kirk that Tormolen's wounds were not severe enough to kill him, and says that the only reason he died was because he didn't want to live. Um. I don't think you can will yourself to death. Especially not while you're unconscious. But McCoy can't come up with anything else, and he's especially baffled because he says that men like Tormolen don't give up. They can't be trusted to investigate inexplicable deaths without contaminating themselves and they're incredibly susceptible to ennui, but they don't give up.

Kirk wonders if this is a coincidence, with Tormolen dying after having been down on the planet where all those other people died. McCoy can't see how, since they checked everything they could and did everything that was possible. Kirk tells him to check the impossible too. What the hell does that mean? “Check if he was a vampire! See if he died from Kryptonite poisoning! Try sprinkling fairy dust on him!”

On the bridge, the orbit goes out of whack, causing Spock to finally notice that one of the helmsmen is mysteriously absent. He runs over and sets things straight, recruiting a guy called Rand (no relation) to take Sulu's place and demanding to know why Sulu isn't there. Riley is...not very helpful.

[Image description: Riley, a white goldshirt with brown hair and a very drunk look on his face, sitting at the helm on the bridge and proclaiming, “Have no fear, Riley's here!”]

Spock relieves Riley, replacing him with Uhura. That's right, Uhura can run communications and fly the ship. Uhura can do anything.

Spock sends Riley to Sickbay, and Riley goes happily enough, sauntering off through the corridors and opening the Sickbay doors by blowing on them. He goes in and pesters Chapel, first mournfully asking her what happened to Tormolen, then, without skipping a beat, starts hitting on her, causing more sinister rattling when he touches her chin. Then he says that Tormolen's mistake was that he wasn't born an Irishman. Because as we all know, Irish people are immortal. Then he leaves. Well, to be fair, Spock just said to report to Sickbay, he didn't say anything about what to do when Riley got there.

Riley's pretty quickly overshadowed though, because immediately afterwards we see Sulu burst through a door, shirtless, laughing, waving a rapier, and having the time of his life.

[ID: Sulu, wearing only his uniform pants and boots, standing in the middle of an Enterprise corridor, grinning and striking a duelist’s pose with a rapier. The subtitle reads [Music]. ]

Legend has it that the original script was undecided about whether Sulu was using a rapier or a samurai sword, and that the choice was up to Takei, who went with the rapier because he felt that the samurai sword was much too stereotypical for a Japanese character, something he really wanted to break away from because in the 60s it was really goddamn hard for an Asian actor to get any role that wasn't a pile of stereotypes. Legend—and by legend, I mean, George Takei—also has it that Takei spent the time up until the shoot frantically doing push-ups in his dressing room to prepare for his shirtless scenes. He really enjoyed this episode, and boy howdy can you tell by watching him.

Sulu encounters a couple of crewmen walking the other way, who have an astounding lack of reaction to being spontaneously menaced by a really sweaty guy with a sword. At least, up until he charges them, at which point they turn tail and run away. Sulu only finds greater amusement in this, calling them cowards as he climbs up a nearby ladder.

Meanwhile, Spock gets a guy to relieve Uhura, and Kirk comes on the bridge to discuss the strange case of the missing helmsmen. He tells Uhura to send a security team out to locate and confine the two of them, and Uhura responds with a report about Sulu's antics.

Spock proposes a pattern of hidden personality traits suddenly surfacing: Tormolen's self-doubt, Sulu's desire to be a swashbuckler, and Riley...being really proud of being Irish. I guess that's a personality trait.

Before they can go any farther with this theory, there's another disturbance from the planet, only this time the helmsmen can't compensate because their controls aren't working. Kirk decides enough's enough and orders them to warp out of there, but the warp drive also isn't responding. Neither are the impulse engines.

Kirk heads off to see what's up with this, but he's interrupted by Sulu bursting in on the bridge, waving his sword around wildly, and I don't think Shatner's expression as the rapier gets shoved in his face had much to do with acting. Uhura tries to get the sword away, but Sulu grabs her to his side, declaring, “I'll protect you, fair maiden!” To which she responds, “Sorry, neither.” Wow. Censors were asleep that day, huh.

A triple attack by Kirk, Spock and Uhura gets Sulu a Vulcan nerve pinch for his trouble, and Spock has him hauled off to Sickbay, with a surprisingly snarky comment from Spock about “D'Artagnan here.” Kirk goes back to trying to raise Scotty about that engine trouble...but it's not Scotty that replies. It's Riley. He says that he's relieved Scotty of his duties and also that he's the captain now. Apparently they can't shut him off, either, because he goes on to demand double portions of ice cream for dinner and then starts singing “I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.” Kirk's face says it all.

[ID: Kirk, standing on the bridge next to the lift doors with one hand to his forehead, looking extremely frustrated, while Riley sings, “I’ll take you home again Kathleen...” over the intercom.]

Kirk's having a really bad day.

With nineteen minutes to go before they swandive into the collapsing planet, Kirk finally reaches Engineering, where Scotty is doing his best to get in. He says that Riley told everyone that Kirk wanted them on the bridge, then locked the door behind them. Wow. It is really easy to take over Engineering. Not only that, but Riley's hooked everything up to the main panel in Engineering, so they can't use auxiliary control. The only way they can get back into Engineering is to literally burn a hole through the wall, which is going to be tricky because the wall is full of stuff that you really don't want to burn through.

Riley's still singing, and I would comment on the quality of his singing, but that would be very hypocritical of me, so I won't. Besides, everyone else in the episode will do it for me. Uhura reports to Spock that various incidents among the crew are increasing, either because of the sickness or because they're all just worried they're gonna die, so Spock orders her to have the main sections sealed off so they can hopefully slow down the spread of this thing. But Uhura's alert is cut off by Riley, who's also overridden the alert channels. You can do anything from Engineering. Riley tells Uhura that she won't get ice cream since she interrupted his song. Awwww. He also says there will be a dance in the bowling alley later. Hang on, they have a bowling alley? Of all the things you could have installed for entertainment on your starship, you picked a bowling alley? No wonder they're so desperate for shore leave all the time.

Uhura says she can't do anything to cut Riley off, so Spock goes over and presses a bunch of buttons to confirm this. I've noticed a running theme in this show is that no one believes Uhura when she says she can't do something or something's not working. Then again, that happens to Scotty a lot too.

Just then, there's a big jolt, and everyone dutifully flings themselves across the set. My favorite part of this is the brief cutaway to Sickbay where we see McCoy doing a belly flop across Sulu's legs.

[ID: Sickbay tilting to the side, causing Chapel to fall backward onto a bed and McCoy to wind up horizontal on top of a passed-out Sulu.]

He calls up to the bridge to complain about this (apparently Riley didn't bother cutting that particular channel) and says that they're running tests on Sulu but haven't found anything yet. Kirk asks if there's anything he can do about Riley, but McCoy's got nuthin. Not even some tranquilizer gas to pump in there or anything. You're falling down on the job, there, Bones. Literally and metaphorically.

Riley calls in again to give the female crewmembers orders on how to look (thanks dude), including telling them not to wear too much makeup. You don't want too much makeup on this ship, Riley, you better take that up with Mr. Spock and his eyeshadow.

Then he starts singing “I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” one more time. Which I guess is the only song he knows. You couldn't mix it up a bit there, Riley? Rocky Road To Dublin? Galway Bay? Thousands Are Sailing? No?

Scotty does something that gives the bridge enough power to keep the ship stabilized, but that's not that much help since their orbit is still decaying and they're now sixteen minutes away from faceplanting into the planet (faceplaneting). Kirk takes a moment to sign a PADD for a crewman. Kirk. Kirk, the ship is crashing. You can do paperwork later. He sends Spock down to help McCoy, but tells him to stop on the way to harangue Scotty to go faster.

On his way, Spock encounters a maniacally laughing man who's painted 'love mankind' on the wall, and a goldshirt harassing Rand, because harassing Rand is the main pastime on the Enterprise. Spock tells him to stop that, and he does...until Spock leaves, whereupon he immediately starts again. Helpful.

Spock finds Scotty, who says he's doing the best he can, dammit, and he can't cut through the bulkhead safely any faster, but Spock tells him they don't have time to be safe. This clearly perturbs Scotty deep in his engineer's soul. Not much anyone can do about it now, though.

In Sickbay, McCoy is yelling at the biopsy lab, but they're not responding, so he goes over to yell at them in person. Chapel is left behind with Sulu, who's coming out of the tranquilizer (we can tell because he's thrashing his head around and grunting). Unfortunately Chapel has the contagion from where Riley touched her, and she wanders off.

Things aren't going well on the bridge. Riley is still singing, various people are having to be shoved out of their chairs as they succumb to the contagion, and Kirk is about to lose it. He snaps at Uhura to cut Riley off, and she snaps back at him that she sure as hell would if she could. Kirk has the good grace to apologize, but it's understandable; I think anyone would lose it after that many renditions of “I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.”

Spock finally makes it to Sickbay, where he encounters Chapel, who starts rubbing his hand and talking about how the men from Vulcan treat their women. Keep in mind that's the Vulcan equivalent of passionately making out, so Spock is understandably pretty perturbed by this, especially when she starts saying she loves him. Spock finally manages to disentangle himself, but it's too late: he's been infected too. He wanders out into the corridor, ignoring Uhura's attempts to get a hold of him, and starts sniffling, which is the Spock equivalent of attacking people with a sword.

Kirk stomps down to Engineering with some security guys in tow, where Scotty is finishing up cutting a Tetris block-shaped piece out of the wall. He reaches his hand right in the still-smoking hole (badass) and opens the door, letting Kirk and the redshirts rush in and apprehend Riley. Riley's a graceful loser, though; he just says, “No dance tonight,” and gets thrown into the redshirts while Kirk and Scotty desperately start pushing buttons.

Meanwhile, Spock finds an empty room to duck into, and tries desperately to get control of himself, collapsing into a chair and muttering some math as he breaks into sobs. This is an interesting scene, because it wasn't originally in the script; Spock was supposed to have a much more light-hearted encounter where he burst into tears after getting a mustache drawn on him by the mad graffiti artist. Nimoy objected, feeling that this was out of character for Spock and missing a great opportunity, so he pushed for the scene to be changed. He had to keep pushing, because the scriptwriter didn't initially want to do it, and then it came in at the end of the shooting day and no one thought they could get it done in time, but Nimoy persevered and did the whole thing in one take right under the wire.

The result is something special: a rare scene showing Spock in a moment of true, open vulnerability, confessing to the feelings he insists he doesn't have, the struggle to keep himself restrained and logical to the point that he can't confess feelings like love and friendship even to himself. It also stands out from the rest of the episode, as aside from Tormolen—whose arc, while tragic, is rather flat--most of the results of the affliction are much more Wacky Hijinks than anything seriously emotional.

There's bad news in Engineering: Scotty's found out that Riley turned the engines off completely, and it would take thirty minutes to start them up again. This is bad, since they're now starting to burn up in the planet's atmosphere and have got about eight minutes left...leading to one of Scotty's most famous lines: “I cannot change the laws of physics. I got to have thirty minutes!”

Well, Kirk isn't going to take the immutable laws of physics as an excuse. He suggests a controlled implosion of the engines, but Scotty says that's only a theory and has never been done. They'd need a row of computers working weeks to find the right formula. Speaking of which, where is Spock?

In Sickbay, Sulu has finally come round, which for some reason involves screaming at the top of his lungs while McCoy watches dispassionately.

[ID: Sulu sitting up in Sickbay and screaming, while McCoy watches him with a hypospray in his hand.]

When he's done screaming, Sulu seems back to normal and apparently doesn't remember anything since he left the bridge. That's enough for McCoy, who shoves Chapel out of her chair (there's a lot of shoving people out of their chairs in this episode) and calls the lab to tell them they've finally isolated the problem. He says that somehow on Psi 2000 water has changed to a complex chain of molecules (it what now) that's passed through perspiration and acts like alcohol once it's in the bloodstream. Except it doesn't cause anyone to lose coordination, or slur their speech, or throw up, or pass out, or have difficulty thinking, or have any effect aside from soul-baring and a lot of sweating. So...maybe not a whole lot like alcohol. McCoy tries to tell all this to the lab, but they just laugh hysterically at him, so he goes off to do it himself.

Kirk finds Spock (...somehow) and demands to know why he's crying in a side room while the ship is crashing. Spock starts talking about his mother and how he could never tell her he loved her. It's very moving, but we've only got five minutes before no one on the ship is going to be telling anyone anything ever again, so Kirk's got no time to listen. Not even when Spock says that he feels ashamed when he feels friendship for Kirk, a touching admission which is somewhat undercut by the fact that Kirk is currently expressing that friendship by smacking Spock repeatedly across the face.

Eventually Spock gets tired of this and backhands Kirk in return, sending him tumbling over the nearby table with such force I'm surprised Spock didn't break his jaw in the process. Kirk starts ranting about the about implosion process and then smacks the nearby console when Uhura tries to contact him, from which he intuits that he's got the infection. Then he starts going on about how the Enterprise consumes everything in his life and he can't have normal relationships. Now, when Tormolen, Sulu and Riley were affected it took considerable time for substantial behavior changes to occur, but Kirk has to one-up everyone so he managed it in about five seconds. Meanwhile, Spock calms down and starts talking about the intermix formula, because...I guess he just got over this by himself. Also, I'm pretty sure five minutes have passed by now.

Scotty comes in to try and get something useful out of somebody, and he and Spock go off to work on the intermix formula, leaving Kirk to angstily make his way up to the bridge. As he steps out of the turbolift, McCoy is waiting to give him the antidote, which he does by ripping Kirk's sleeve open. Even though hyposprays can go through clothing. And Kirk's exposed neck is right there. And a gentle tug at the fabric would have been more than sufficient. Look, McCoy's had a long day, alright, he needs to take it out on somebody.

[ID: Kirk standing in front of the bridge lift doors looking tired and annoyed while McCoy injects a hypospray into the bare skin on his arm exposed by Kirk’s uniform shirt sleeve being ripped open almost down to the elbow.]

While we're at it, the question must be asked: how did McCoy manage to not get infected this whole time? He was in ample contact with lots of people who were infected, while wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and somehow never once had the slightest bit of skin-to-skin contact with any of them? The only thing I can come up with is that he was infected but it was impossible to tell any difference.

On the screen, the planet is rushing past closer and closer while everyone stares silently. In Engineering, Spock and Scotty are cutting even more corners to get the intermix to work in time. They do...something, and the lights go dim on the bridge while everyone reacts dramatically; Kirk goes full throttle by throwing his head back in a silent scream, while McCoy is content to rub his ear and squint a bit.

Then it's all over: the lights come back up and instead of a rapidly approaching planet on the viewscreen there's an open starfield. Spock comes up to say that they were successful, obviously, but with a bit of a hitch: they overloaded the engines and now they're traveling faster than possible. Not only that, but the ship chronometer is now running backward. They're going backward in time! Why is this happening? Who knows. Maybe they just went so fast they came back around again the other way.

They hit the brakes, but not before traveling three days back in time. Well, could've been worse. Spock points out that this is all very intriguing, having, you know, access to time travel now, but Kirk isn't interested in repeating this experiment anytime soon. He tells Sulu to take them on to their next destination. Um. Are you sure it's a good idea to head to your next destination before you've technically departed your last one? You're gonna get some questions from Starfleet about why you're not on the mission you're supposed to be on.

Anyway, the episode ends there, leaving the whole time travel thing a bizarre non-sequitor that comes out of nowhere, adds nothing whatsoever to the episode, and is never mentioned again. This is because this episode was originally supposed to be a two-parter leading into Tomorrow Is Yesterday, which is a proper full-fledged time travel episode. For whatever reason that didn't happen, though, so we just have this weird little endcap that it's probably best not to think about too much.

TREK TROPE TALLY: Crew death count for this episode is one blueshirt (Tormolen), bringing us up to seventeen. We also have our first case of Space Diseases with the Emotions Virus, our first case of a Time Trek, albeit an extremely mild one with the Enterprise getting thrown back three days into the past, and our second case of Uniforms Unformed with Kirk’s tissue-paper sleeve being mercilessly destroyed by McCoy. Next time, we'll be looking at a tale of doppelganger woe in The Enemy Within.

#star trek #star trek TOS #star trek tos season one #1.4 The Naked Time #recap tag #star trek TOS recaps #1.4 The Naked Time recap

[trbl-will-find-me]

Every Exit, An Entrance (22/?)

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet.

She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option.

New Year’s is quiet. They watch old Twilight Zone episodes on her laptop and pop a bottle of sparkling cider when the clock reads 00:00:01 1 1 2016. It is not grand, and it is not fancy, but as her lips meet his, Elizabeth Regan is happy.

“Any resolutions?” He asks.

She tips her head against his shoulder. “Hmm, all the usual ones seem sort of blasé now. Who gives a shit if my paperwork’s late? Aliens invaded the Earth. We fought them off. We won. I’d like to say it’s to develop a more regular sleep schedule again, but somehow, that seems about as likely as learning to understand football. I know,” she says, after a moment. “How about finding bigger sleeping arrangements? That sounds good.

“You’re saying you don’t think two adults are mean to fit on the same twin XL mattress? I’m shocked.”

“Much as I loved undergrad, I could do without reliving that particular aspect.”

She feels his chuckle deep in his chest. “Don’t know why.”

She shrugs. “I’m just funny like that. Traveling spoiled me.”

“Lizzie, I hate to break it to you, but the bunk’s a lot bigger than an airplane seat.”

She laughs. “That’s not what I meant! We stayed in some fairly nice places. They had real beds. Beds big enough to share.”

“We only tested that, what? Two? Three times?”

“Three,” she says, wiggling closer. “The spiders. Zurich. Berlin.”

“Ahh, the spiders.” He kisses the top of her head. “How could I forget?”

“How could you forget? I woke you up at two in the morning.”

“You woke me up in your bathrobe.”

She laughs. “I thought it would be quick! I didn’t think you’d be offended. I still had underwear on!”

“I would go with distracted over offended.”

She presses a kiss to his jaw. “Sorry.”

“It was nothing compared to the villa. You know, the one with the pool?”

“I’m not sorry about that.”

“Tease.”

“I was hot! It wasn’t air conditioned!”

“You were in a bra and panties. They were floral.”

“You do remember!”

“I don’t think I could forget if I tried. Not that I’d want to,” he adds.

“Would it really have been better if I’d been in a bathing suit?”

“You were standing there in your underwear. It wasn’t a far jump to other places you could be standing in your underwear.“

“But is it really worse than a bikini?”

“You own a bikini?”

“God, no.”

“Exactly.”

“You were so surprised that they matched. I don’t know what you were expecting, but it apparently wasn’t that.”

“I was so surprised you were standing there in them.”

“I was wearing a silk blouse and a linen skirt. I couldn’t jump in a pool in those. The dry cleaning bill would have been even worse than it already was for that trip. Though,” she says, trailing off. “If you’re really so baffled by the sight of matching lingerie, maybe I should just keep the uniform on after all.”

He sets the laptop aside and catches her in a kiss, pinning her to the bed.

“I think I’ll adapt.”

–

She lingers the in the archway, watching Central help Sally fit her armor. He steps back to look at the girl, then brushes a stray bit of hair behind her ear. He reaches into a pocket and presses something into her hand, but whatever he says is too quiet to carry. She slips it around her neck and under her shirt, then throws her arms around Central’s neck. The gesture seems less foreign to him, and he pulls her in closer for a moment before releasing her.

Sometime later, the whole of Menace One Five stands assembled in the armory, split into fireteams: Sally and Kelly on one, with Zaytsev and Wallace on the other.

“For better or worse,” she begins. “This isn’t a standard op. You’ll be escorting two hostile parties to a rendezvous point that you’ll receive once you’re on the ground. Kelly, Royston: you’ll be with the Reaper. Wallace, Zaytsev: you’ll escort the Skirmisher.“

“We’re operating in the dark, people. We know little to nothing about conditions on the ground, or what you’ll be facing. Both the Skirmishers and the Reapers have agreed to a ceasefire for the duration, but I don’t know to what extent either side intends to honor those terms.”

She draws in a deep breath, and her demeanor softens. “My point is: be careful. We could be facing anything out there, and the nature of negotiations is volatile. Stay alert, watch each other’s backs, and don’t take any risks you don’t have to. If this goes well, we stand to gain two very powerful allies. Good luck, team. You’re on the clock.”

Menace salutes her and piles onto the Skyranger, stowing their gear for transport. She heads back towards the bridge as the craft rises towards the open air. Central gives them the go for takeoff, and they are on their way.

Forty five minutes til drop and she stands on the balcony overlooking the ship’s heart, a bottle of water in her hand. Central is next to her, hands braced on the railing.

“Sal looked like her mom, all kitted out like that,” she offers. “It’s gonna be like having a ghost on the field.”

He nods. “Steph would kill me if she knew.”

“Didn’t want Sally following her into the family business?”

“Think she knew that was inevitable. Just wanted to put it off for as long as she could. I promised her eighteen.”

“But?”

“But Volk must’ve had a reason for asking. If he really thinks a friendly face might help defuse some tension…” He shrugs. “She’s a good shot. She’s got good instincts on the field. She ever gets a better hold on that Gift, and she’s gonna be something else. Besides,” he shakes his head. “I know her. She would’ve found a way to go no matter what I said. Least this way, I get to feel like I gave her my blessing, instead of having her sneakin’ around behind my back.”

“You trying to convince me or yourself?” She asks, softly.

“Little bit of both.”

“It’s just one op.”

“And then another, and another. She’s an XCOM operative now. Not much I can do about it.”

“You said it yourself: was probably inevitable.”

His shoulders droop. “Regan, I never should have been a parent. Half the time, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, and the other half, I knew it was the wrong thing. But I tried to keep her safe. I didn’t always succeed, but I tried. Now, there’s not a hell of a lot I can do, but watch and hope. Just hits harder than I thought it would.“

–

What surprises her most is the normalcy. For all his concerns in the wake of Berlin, there is no discernible change in their professional relationship. Everything flows as it should. If the men suspect anything, they do not show it — a near guarantee that all appears as it was.

It occurs to her that it is because they have been together, in some way or another, for a long time already; always in one another’s orbit, always able to parse the other’s meaning with a minimum of explanation. It is what makes them such a good team, what has always made them such an effective team.

She could laugh.

Or kiss him, but she’ll have to wait til later for a shot at that.

“Commander,” her comm sounds. “When you have a moment, please stop by the labs.”

“Of course, Doctor. I’m on my way.” She catches Central’s eye across the room. “You’re in charge. I’ll be with Vahlen in the labs if anything comes up.”

“Understood.”

She breezes through the empty Common Room on her way and stops to pause a moment, trying to envision the space decorated for a wedding. She believes in Molchetti and Hershel, no doubt, but she still can’t wrap her head around it. Still, Steph had seemed grateful they’d taken such an interest in it; she and Edouard still seemed to have their hands full managing their families.

She realizes she will not have to wonder for much longer: the twentieth is rapidly approaching.

Vahlen pulls her into the labs’ small conference room almost immediately upon her arrival.  Shen sits in the dim light, apparently waiting.

“Should I call Central?” She asks, suddenly wary.

“No. Someone needs to monitor the energy spikes,” the Chief Engineer says, shifting uncomfortably.

“What’s going on, you two?”

“In the wake of the energy spike in the base,” Vahlen begins. “We noticed a change in the blood samples we had previously tested. The nanomachines, which we had previously observed in a dormant state, activated.”

“And?”

Vahlen reaches into her coat pocket and hands her a vial of dark green liquid.  “This was our sample with the highest concentration. While it still carries some DNA markers, it has been mutated beyond a state one could reasonably call human.”

“This was blood? Human blood?”

“Indeed.”

She passes the sample back to the scientist. “Goddamnit.”

“While correlation is by no means causation,” Shen offers. “I am reasonably confident that the Fog Pods serve as a kind of control mechanism for these nanomachines. The energy spikes we have previously observed must be instructions to remain dormant. The spike from within the base was likely an activation. If it was able to take out our monitoring tech, such a pulse would like be catastrophic to civilian communication devices.”

Her mouth runs dry. “So, it’s a time bomb. What do you suggest?”

Shen and Vahlen lock gazes for a moment. “A dual pronged approach,” Vahlen says. “My team will work to understand the machines’ effect on human physiology.”

“And mine will work to disable the Pods.”

The Commander nods. “Do what you can to start investigating countermeasures for those already … infected.” She rubs at her temples. “Brief Central, then get to work. Let’s not cause a panic, but we’re working against a clock we can’t track.”

She rises from the table. “Anything else?”

The question is met with shaking heads.

“Good. Dismissed.”

–

She does not think she is hallucinating, but she does not entirely believe what she sees is real, either.

Zombie movies were always something of a joke among her cohort. How could anyone be so bad at responding to a biothreat to let it escalate the way it always seemed to? What idiot allowed that to happen?

ADVENT, apparently.

The hoard, things that might have once been called human but might now only be called humanoid at her most charitable, advances down the alley, blocking Dragunova, Kelly, and Sally’s only exit path.

There is seemingly no end to their numbers, a whole city mutated beyond recognition. With each wave they shoot down, more appear. It feels like a video game with an unmerciful AI; she tries not to focus on the comparison. Her sense of reality is impaired as it is. There’s no reason to exacerbate the problem.

She tries to focus on the positives. Contact with the Reapers went well. Dragunova seems comfortable operating in the ruins. She’s a strong third member of the fireteam and already seems to have a decent rapport with Sally, who in turn, works in uncanny synchronicity with Kelly. For his part, Central has barely touched his flask, a fact she notes with no small amount of surprise.

The creatures continue their approach, unphased by the gunshots thinning their numbers.

“Out!” Kelly calls.

“I’m spent,” Dragunova echoes.

“I got this,” Sally chirps, scrambling on top of an automobile carcass, and onto a nearby fire escape.

“Sally, what are you —“

“Trust me, Commander.”

Gunshots ring out, and the Lost begin to fall in quick succession. Kelly and Dragunova reload and make quick work of the remainder.

She does not believe in ghosts — not really, at least. They are things of myth ad fairy tale, scary stories used to coerce little children in from the dark. The dead are the dead. Their memories roam the halls, yes, but the cause remains the grief of the living.

She believes in an afterlife, though. For her own sake, she has to. She has to believe that there is a chance, however small, that the lost are not gone forever, that reunions are not a pitiful dream.

She believes that, wherever Stephanie Royston is, she would be proud of her daughter.

Central’s grip on the railing is tight, but when she looks, there’s pride in his eyes. “That’s my girl.”

#xcom #fic #every exit an entrance #commander/central

[swfanficbyjz]

Full Circle - SW AU

Pairing: Brotp/otp Anakin/Ahsoka

Part 1:

It was a routine op, nothing the two of them couldn't handle. Plus, they had Rex and Echo and Fives with them. It was the dream team as far as Anakin was concerned. The only one missing was Obi wan, but he'd spend more time questioning the plan than just going for it. No, it was better without him. They had to be stealthy and quick, and other than Fives' unfortunate clumsiness, this was the best team for it. 

Ahsoka was fast and small, her job was to scout ahead, unnoticed by the enemy. Rex watched the rear, while he, Fives and Echo scanned the surroundings. 

This planet was practically a wasteland, but somewhere there was a crashed Separatist ship with important intel. There'd been no sign of any enemy activity on the surface, but just to be cautious, they dropped several kilometers away, preferring to go the rest of the way on foot.

They moved through the canyons slowly, making sure they didn't attract any attention. It was at least an hour before Anakin realized that Ahsoka hadn't checked in. It wasn't exactly unlike her, he shouldn't be so worried, but with so many crevices and unknowns, he felt himself getting uneasy. 

"Hey Skyguy!" She said, dropping down from a hidden ledge behind him about 30 minutes later. 

"Kriff, Ahsoka!" He said, nearly slicing her in half with his lightsaber for surprising him. "Where have you been?" 

"Scouting, like you told me!" She said in annoyance. "Why is he so jumpy?" She asked Fives who was still laughing about how Anakin had leapt in surprise when she appeared. 

"It's this place, Little'un." Rex said joining the group from behind. "There's something off about it. I'm no Jedi, but all my equipment has been on the fritz. If there's some kind of electronic interference, I imagine it's messing with your senses too. 

"I haven't had a proper readout for at least the last hour." Echo said, taking off his helmet and hitting it on the side like that would fix it.

"Well, what have you found?" He asked her, tapping his foot. His bad feeling was intensifying by the second. 

"Honestly? A whole lot of nothing." She said as though bored. One of these days he needed to teach her to not enjoy fighting. "But while up there, I noticed that whatever is causing this electrical disturbance appears to be in a straight line, not just everywhere."

"What do you mean?" He asked her.

"I mean that when I'm standing in it, it feels like it's all around me, but if I take a few steps to the left, it's gone. Or if I go to the right, it's gone. So there's a line of it. And it's leading to the south." 

"What could cause that?" Asked Echo. 

"Buried equipment, perhaps?" Rex said, stroking his chin. 

"I thought of that," Ahsoka said. "It's less bad close to the ground. It messes with my Jedi senses, but I can still feel it other ways."

"Well, likely what we're hunting for is at the end of this 'pathway'," Anakin said, "but I feel like we're going in blind. Any sign of battle droids?"

"None." She said. 

"Maybe we should call for assistance, sir?" Rex said.

"But there's nothing out there!" Ahsoka commented.

"That we know of!" Anakin chided her. She opened her mouth to argue, but decided against it, moving over towards Fives and crossing her arms in a sulky manner. "It wouldn't be a bad idea to at least report in."

Echo tried to put a call through to the Indomitable waiting in orbit, but reported a few minutes later that none of his comms were working. They each tried, but none of them got through. 

"Maybe if we move out of the stream?" Ahsoka said. They all agreed, and Anakin and Ahsoka force leapt to the top of the canyon walls, waiting for the other three to don their climbing equipment and follow. 

"I'm sorry, Ahsoka. I didn't mean to snap at you down there. I've just got a bad feeling about this. It either seems too easy or like something really bad is about to happen." He admitted to her while they were alone up top.

"It's okay, Master. I don't like it either. But other than this weird disturbance, I haven't seen a single hint we're not alone down here." She said calmly. "How much do we know about this ship that went down? Could it have an experimental weapon on board?"

"Well, that's not what the scouts reported, but it's possible." He said, reaching down to help Fives who started stumbling trying to get over the edge.

He let her lead them outside the stream, but still none of their comms worked. "I think they're fried, sir." Echo said at last. 

"Well that makes me even less inclined to follow this path." Anakin said thoughtfully. "You three move about two clicks East and see if you can repair communications. Then call for backup. Ahsoka and I will continue on ahead, since we don't need electronics."

"But sir?" Rex said, "are you sure it's a good idea to split up?"

"No I'm not sure, but in case we do meet resistance, I don't want my soldiers getting killed because their blasters won't fire. We'll rendezvous in two hours." He said. "Come on, Ahsoka."

They parted ways, him and Ahsoka walking mostly in silence. He wondered if this electromagnetic field they were sensing was why he was feeling so paranoid. He glanced at his padawan a few times, but if it was bothering her as much, she didn't show it. 

As they got closer to their destination, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Whatever was causing this weird energy wasn't far away now. Ahsoka had dropped to all fours, seemingly following some kind of ingrained instinct. She was moving cautiously, almost like an animal. "You okay, Snips?" He asked. She didn't answer. She swayed side to side, her eyes were dark and narrowed like she was hunting prey. He'd never seen her like this before. 

He tried to open his own senses, but felt as though he was stumbling around blindly. What kind of energy could completely cloud a Jedi's senses? He reached down to touch Ahsoka on the shoulder, but leapt back when she turned to snap at him, baring her teeth in a feral growl. 

"Ahsoka?" He stared at her in surprise. "Hey, snap out of it!" He said nervously. "You're a Jedi, not an animal!"

Her eyes changed a little and she shook her head. "What happened?" She asked. 

"Well, for a moment, I thought you were going to bite me." He said looking at her in concern. "Do you feel alright?"

She rubbed her head, sitting back on her heels. "Yeah." But then she furrowed her brow. "Why would I bite you?"

"I don't know. You started acting like an animal." 

"I... I don't remember...." she said, sounding fearful. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't be sorry, Snips." He said kneeling close to her to comfort her. "This place is weird. Let's find that intel and get out of here." 

She nodded and he helped her to her feet. They made it to the ridge and saw the wreckage below. Halfway down the hill, Ahsoka dropped to her knees again and took off in a weird scuttling run towards the ship.

"Ahsoka, wait!" He shouted after her, but she disappeared inside. 

He ran after her, pulling his lightsaber from his belt. The feeling of dread worsened so bad it was almost crippling by the time he was to the wreck. There was no sign of Ahsoka anywhere, or anything moving for that matter. He couldn't even feel her in the force. Not that he could feel much of anything at this point.

He moved slowly through the ship, his lightsaber in front of him at the ready. It cast a blue glow illuminating the hallways, but there were still so many shadows and every one felt ominous like it was moving towards him. He leapt out around every corner, waving his weapon menacingly, but nothing jumped out from the shadows. 

He was worried about Ahsoka. He hoped the clones had been able to get the comms repaired and called for backup by now. He listened hard, but heard nothing. Not even an echo of something moving. Where on earth had she gone? He found his way to the bridge of the ship but met no resistance. He plugged in the computer chip to download the information from the ship's data banks. While the data was being transferred, he looked around, noticing for the first time the lack of bodies. The separatists preferred droids, but there were none of those around either. It was almost as though they'd crashed the ship intentionally.

That didn't make him feel any better. He thought he heard movement and spun around. His lightsaber didn't illuminate much. Nothing came at him though, perhaps he'd imagined it?

"Ahsoka?" He asked aloud. No response. The computer beeped behind him and he turned to reach for the chip. 

Something leapt at him from the shadows, knocking his lightsaber across the room. He wrestled with it for awhile, some kind of beast that clawed and snapped at him. It was a few minutes before he realized he was wrestling with her. 

"Ahsoka!" He cried, trying to hold her face away from him as he saw her bared teeth going after his bare neck. "Snap out of it! This isn't you!" He yelled, but unlike before, she didn't respond. He pushed her back with the force, blocking his body from her relentless attacks. She bit him hard in the arm, he could feel the blood soaking through his robes. He felt scratches up and down his body, stinging in pain. "I don't want to hurt you!" He said. Trying to stay calm. But she was like a wild animal, and nothing he said or did, slowed her down. 

He pushed her away again, getting to his feet. He turned to reach for his lightsaber, but she leapt onto his back, digging her claws into his shoulders and knocking him back to the floor. He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to hurt her, but he had no way to stun her. He rolled onto his back and kicked out with his legs, throwing her back into the wall. She yelped like a wounded animal, but didn't get back up immediately. 

He took the opportunity to pick up his lightsaber and then went to grab the computer chip. He was sure she'd be fine, just a little sore. But without warning, a stream of lightning poured from several places across the bridge the moment he removed the chip. Before he could react he saw Ahsoka dive between him and the lightning, she screamed in agony as the volts ripped through her body from four sides. 

"No!" He yelled when she fell to the ground, her body smoking from the burns. He reached to touch her, the lightning system faded. She was hot to the touch, but he couldn't find a pulse. "No! Ahsoka! Why?" He cried, shaking her. But her head rolled to the side. "No no no!" He rocked back and forth. His head screaming at him. His body felt like lead, he could hardly move. He collapsed onto her, tears streaming down his face, trying to shake her. But nothing he did brought her back to him. "You can't be dead. You can't be! I need you!" He said crying into her stomach. 

He couldn't move for a long time. No matter how he begged and pleaded with the force, she didn't wake up. She was gone. And it was all his fault. He was the one that should have died, not her. Why hadn't he protected her? Whatever intel was on this disk wasn't worth her life, but it didn't matter now. He couldn't bring her back. There was no undo button in life. She was gone. And he was alone. 

He heard Rex shout from somewhere. He sounded so far away. He lifted Ahsoka into his arms, surprised by how heavy she felt. He held her tightly as though that would be enough to bring her back. 

He stumbled numbly through the ship. He wasn't paying attention to anything else. He didn't really care if he died too at this point. He already felt as though part of him has shriveled up the moment her life force had faded. 

He ran into Rex the last corridor before the exit. He'd stopped mid-sentence the moment he saw what Anakin was carrying.

"Sir?" Rex managed in a hoarse whisper. But his throat was so tight and dry he couldn't answer him. Rex moved like he was going to take her from him, but he pulled her body possessively away from him. 

Echo and Fives both bowed their heads as he emerged outside carrying her. They turned, leading the way back to the ship in silence. No one spoke, no one knew what to say. He avoided looking at her face, it only made it that much more real.

Tears streamed freely down his cheeks, falling onto her. But he couldn't stop them. It hurt more than he could comprehend. The voice in his head repeating that he'd failed her. He'd failed her, just like he'd failed his mother. Who else would he fail before this war was over? Maybe he should run away. Get far away. Then maybe he wouldn't hurt anyone else. He was the Chosen One, that's what they told him, but all he saw that he accomplished was as a harbinger of death. Not just to their enemies, but to everyone. 

---

"That was a very noble sacrifice, child." A voice said.

"Who are you?" Ahsoka said, looking around. But she saw nothing. There wasn't even a color to associate with this place, wherever this was. She didn't remember much of anything at all. Her and Anakin had been following something and then a huge blank spot in her memory. The last thing she remembered was jolts of electricity ripping through her body and then waking up here. 

"You never met me, but I knew you. Master Plo was quite fond of you. Told me all about how strong you were in the force." It said. 

"Where are we?" She asked. She wished she could see something.  

"We are part of the force, young one." It said calmly. 

"Am I dead?" She asked surprised. That couldn't be right. How was she still aware? How did she still have memories and some semblance of an identity? 

"No child, you are alive. Alive in every living thing, connected, whole and complete." The voice echoed around her. Every time it answered a question it only gave her more. 

"Anakin?" She asked. "Is he okay?" 

"The Chosen One lives on." She didn't like how it said that. 

"I have to go back! He needs me!" She exclaimed. She didn't like it here. 

"Your journey is complete, you cannot return." It said. 

"No, that's not true!" She cried. "Let me go!"

"Ahsoka." Another voice whispered. "There is a way. I can guide you there, but if you take the last step, you'll be on your own."

"Who are you people?" She asked, scared now. A light appeared in front of her, at first indistinct, but then a shape. She gasped. "You're the daughter?" 

"I sacrificed my life force to bring you back to life after my brother killed you. Ever since, I've lived inside you, protecting you, protecting your light. I can take you back, but it will destroy the last piece of me. If I do that, you must carry the light so that it doesn't die."

"I died before?" She felt overwhelmed. 

"Your master never told you?" The daughter asked. 

"No." Her head was spinning. If she had one anyways. She didn't even feel a body around her anymore. "Will he be okay without me? If I don't go back? I can't ask you to give yourself up for me again."

"I do not know." She said.

"Can I see him? One last time?" Ahsoka pleaded. She missed him already. She shouldn't, but she did.

A ship appeared around them, she knew it well. The people there were fuzzy at first. It was loud and the lights blinding after having been looking at nothing. She saw Rex in the pilot's seat, his shoulders slumped, doing his best to hold himself together. He was hurting, she could feel it. Fives was sitting in the copilot seat. Moving through the routine as though in a daze. His normally optimistic attitude replaced with a painful sorrow. Echo was sitting at the control behind them, he too was moving numbly. But where was Anakin?

She looked through the viewport and saw them leaving orbit, heading towards the Indomitable. As quiet as a funeral procession. She turned away from them, knowing they couldn't see her. She moved through the door leaving the cockpit. Shivering slightly at the feeling. 

Anakin was sitting in the far back of the shuttle, her body cradled in his lap. His face was etched with tears. Deep lines of pain and loss, fresh and harsh. She could see his lips moving and moved closer to hear him. He was repeating an apology, over and over again. She wanted to comfort him, she wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault! She wanted to tell him he'd be okay! To be strong. But he heard nothing as she poured her heart out to him. He just sat there, numbly rocking back and forth, holding her limp body as though afraid to let it go. 

She couldn't leave him like this! He needed her! It was more evident than ever. But the vision started fading and she cried out to him. He didn't hear her. 

"No take me back!" She begged. "Let me go back! Can't you see him? He needs me!"

"He is a Jedi, he will move on." The original voice was back.

"No, you don't get it! He won't. He can't! He loves people too much!" This voice infuriated her, angered her. It didn't know him at all! He'd carry her death for the rest of his life. She knew it was selfish, but she couldn't let that happen. She couldn't let him live feeling responsible for it.  

"Then he is a danger to everyone around him. And if that is his path, there is nothing your presence will change." 

"You're wrong! He's not dangerous! He's afraid. I can help him! I've already helped him." She exclaimed, exasperated.  

"If you go back, he will kill you. It is his destiny."

"No! You're lying to me! He won't hurt me! He'd never hurt me!"

The voice faded, replaced again by the daughter's, "are you sure?" She asked. 

"Sure he won't kill me? Absolutely!" She said stubbornly.

"I must warn you, the path ahead is treacherous. He is dangerous, and unless he can learn to control his emotions, the galaxy will burn. You will be the last light. If you fade, it will be gone forever."

"I can save him! I know it! I know I can." She said unsure of whether or not anyone else believed her. 

"I hope you're right." The daughter said, reaching out and taking her hands. "May the light be with you." The daughter glowed blindingly bright, becoming as small as a ball and disappearing inside her chest. Her body took form around her again, she felt his arms, his presence. Her head ached for a few moments as she tried to regain control of the physical world around her. 

"Anakin?" She asked, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Ahsoka?" His voice cracked as he pulled her tight against his chest. "But how? I felt your death!" He breathed into her neck, crying.

"I came back," she cried too. "I came back for you."

They hugged for a long time, her on his lap, his arms around her. Her body ached, they both cried. She was so grateful to feel him again. And she could feel his relief, though he still repeated how sorry he was. 

"You didn't do anything wrong, master! Don't apologize!" She whispered, bringing her hand up to his face. The lines deeper than she'd realized. 

"I thought I lost you!" He said, as lost and broken as a child. "I failed to protect you."

"No you didn't!" She said, wiping the fresh stream of tears away. "I'm supposed to protect you. That's what I did."

"You have that backwards." He said choking as he tried to laugh. 

"Well it doesn't matter now. I'm here. And I'm not leaving you again." She said adamantly. 

"Sir, we're about to dock..." Rex trailed off after coming through the door from the cockpit.

"Rexy!" She said, sliding off Anakin's lap and throwing her arms around him. 

"You're alive?" It was his voice that cracked this time. Although he'd looked surprised, he'd caught her in his arms. 

"I am!" She said, giggling. "Isn't it great?" 

"It's a miracle," he said sounding dazed. "We all..." he couldn't finish the sentence.  

"I'm sorry." She whispered. "I didn't mean to scare you." 

"What happened?" He asked, looking more towards Anakin.

She saw him just shrug in response. "I don't know how it works." She said. "But I'm back, and I'm not going anywhere." She hugged him again and then let go. 

"I'm glad you're alive, Little'un." He whispered, touching her gently on the cheek. "And I know he is too." He said even quieter. "For a few moments... I thought I lost you both." The weight of his words fell around her like rain. She understood what he was saying. She'd been right, Anakin needed her. He would probably never admit it so openly, but he did. Without her, he was lost. He hadn't wanted her, when she'd first appeared in his life, but now he couldn't really live without her. Somewhere along the way, she'd made herself irreplaceable. And she was going to do whatever it took, to make sure she could help him. That's all she'd wanted from the start. And now, it was even more important to her. 

The voices in the force, they'd told her he was dangerous. But as she glanced over at him leaning forward somewhat dazed and looking helpless, she couldn't believe them. They were wrong about him. They had to be. She'd seen the things he was capable of, but he never went too far. Maybe he pushed the line a few times, but he always managed to reign himself in. Besides, Chosen One or not, how much could he really influence in the entire galaxy?

 ---

"Anakin?" She asked, turning in surprise at his entrance into her room. None of them had reported what had happened to her. He'd been in a daze the entire time they'd given the report. All he could think about was her. When they'd decided to call it a night, he'd already known he couldn't go to his own quarters. He needed to be close to her. "Are you alright?" 

"I carried you..." he started, emotion splitting his voice. "All the way back to the ship... you were dead. For over two hours! Your body was stiff by the time we got to it..." he felt like collapsing. It didn't make any sense to him. "I just... I just needed to be sure I hadn't imagined you coming back to life..." he looked up at her, grief-stricken.

She moved towards him and took his hands. "I'm here." She whispered. "Really. I don't know how, but I am."

"You said you came back for me." He breathed. "You were given a choice?"

"Not really," she said thoughtfully. "I was told I couldn't. But I found a way anyways." She looked him over. "Why are you all scratched up?" Her fingers rubbing across his ripped and bloody robes. 

"You, um... turned into an animal..." he said nervously. Her eyes widened. But she swallowed whatever she'd been about to say.  

"Well, let's get you cleaned up." He let her undress him down to just his pants and boots. While she puttered about inspecting the wounds and cleaning them up, he couldn't take his eyes off her. There was something she wasn't telling him about what happened. But to be honest, he wasn't sure he cared to know. All that mattered was that she was here now. She was alive, she was flesh and blood again, and he would stop at nothing to make sure she stayed that way. 

He was scared to go to sleep though, scared when he woke up she wouldn't be there. This was the second time he thought he'd lost her, maybe even third or fourth. He couldn't take it anymore. He still felt the urge to run away, but this time... he'd take her with him. If he left, she'd continue to fight, and he couldn't leave knowing the war would probably kill her.  

"Ahsoka..." he breathed, as she started cleaning up his wounds. "When I thought I... when I thought I lost you... I wanted to run away. I wanted to get as far away from everyone I loved as possible so I couldn't hurt them. I don't want to be the Chosen One. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't even know who I'm supposed to be. I'm so scared." He confessed, looking up at her nervously.

She paused and looked up at him, her hand on his arm. "I know who you are." She said softly. "Forget the title. It's a stupid and unnecessary burden. If you're meant to bring balance to the force, you will, by being yourself. And whenever you forget, I'll be there to remind you." She leaned forward and kissed the scratches across his chest. "It's okay to be scared, you know." She kissed the bite mark on his arm. "I'm scared too. But I know we'll be okay." She said, moving behind him and he felt her lips on more marks. 

He knelt down, taking a deep breath. He shouldn't want this with her. He had a wife waiting for him at home. But after what happened today, he was having to face the realization that losing Ahsoka had scared him far more than he'd expected. He was sure Padmé would be fine without him. Maybe even better off. But Ahsoka knew him. Really knew him. He'd never dream of telling Padmé the things he'd just confessed to his padawan. When had she become so important? Why did he know he needed her so badly? A thought niggled in the back of his brain... Ahsoka had fought death itself to return to him. Likely with some knowledge of what was coming, assuming that everyone that joins the force suddenly becomes omniscient. He didn't deserve her devotion, but he also knew, he couldn't live without it. 

He felt her hands in his hair, petting him softly. She kissed the top of his head. "How can you be so sure we'll be okay?" He asked, fresh tears streaming down his face. 

"Because I have you." She said, brushing his tears aside. "And that's all I need." He caught her hands in his and pulled her into an embrace. "And you have me." She said a little muffled from where her face was against his chest. "And even if I'm not all you need, I'll always be there."

[theshipsfirstmate]

Arrow Fic: I Have Been Homesick For You Since We Met

post-5x21, Felicity watches Oliver’s press conference and has a talk with Thea.

“It's not time. Not just yet. But maybe soon. They're not planets in orbit around each other, they’re comets scorching through constellations, alternating near misses on an inevitable collision course.”

Title from “A Father’s First Spring” by The Avett Brothers.

I Have Been Homesick For You Since We Met (AO3)

Oliver texts to tell her about the press conference, and somewhere in between reading his message and replying, Felicity's slipped her heels back on and buzzed the doorman to hail a car. Next thing she knows, she's at City Hall.

She enters the building, and knows the route to the briefing room by heart, but when she hits the lobby, her feet turn to lead and won't carry her any further. She’s genuinely contemplating walking right back out the way she came when she catches sight of one of the wall-mounted TVs. Oliver is taking the podium and something in her chest still swells at the sight of him standing in front of the cameras, speaking to the city he’s given everything to protect.

The volume icon on the screen ticks up until she can hear his voice and after holding her breath for a long, heartbreaking moment when he admits that “the allegations made against Robert Queen are true,” she turns around to see the friendly security guard at the front desk watching either her or the TV.

“Thanks, Lito.” The uniformed man gives her a familiar smile and a mock salute with the remote control.

“You going up, Ms. Smoak?” he asks. “I can print you a visitor pass.”

The question shouldn't throw her for a loop, but it does. Oliver's given dozens of these press conferences since taking office. Felicity used to love being in the room as he commanded it, watching him lead the city the way he was meant to, and feeling her heart take a stutter step every time he met her eyes on a particularly meaningful turn of phrase.

She hasn't been to one since they split, and she's almost certain it would be too much. She's glad to have trusted that instinct when she hears Oliver continue.

“It’s time to leave the past in the past, so that our children may inherit the Star City we’ve always dreamed of.”

Felicity hears her words about his father echoed back in that line, but she can’t help but picture the school photo of William that she uncovered during her dark web deep dive to try and find where Oliver’s son and his mother had dropped off the grid. She’s spent the days since their harrowing entrapment in the bunker waiting for the other shoe to drop and avoiding the sting that comes when she thinks about how he’s chosen to trust her now that the dust has settled around the ruins of their life together, now that she’s apologized for walking out, now that he’s out of other options.

But that’s not the only thing that hurts.

She hadn't been ready for kids, of that much she’s certain. She still isn’t. This work they do is only conducive to heartbreak, and she's spent more than a few sleepless nights weighing the ethics of bringing more life into a world fraught with pain and destruction. Even still, in the face of every logical argument, Felicity’s come to realize that some subconscious part of her had believed that eventually, the two of them would hand down a legacy together.

There’s a hurricane raging inside her, but she still finds herself waiting in the lobby after the press have finished their questions and the local station switches back to regularly-scheduled programming. Mercifully, it’s not Oliver who happens upon her first in the exiting current of reporters, it’s Thea.

“Hey!” Felicity reaches out to hug the younger Queen, who relents after slightly longer pause than normal. “How are you?”

Thea feels like next to nothing in her arms, and when they pull back, Felicity can see that her time away hasn't done anything to lighten the worrisome smudges underneath her eyes. She's got that haunted look that creeps up on Oliver sometimes, and Felicity’s heart aches because she knows even less about how to fix this Queen.

“Feels like I should be asking you the same thing.” Thea replies, avoiding the question and Felicity's eyeline. “Ollie told me about your bunker death trap lockdown. The chip’s OK?”

“Oh yeah, Curtis fixed me up in no time.” Oliver's sister's gaze returns to her with sharp focus then, and Felicity wonders if she'll go as far as to press her on what she really wants to be asking. She’s slyer than Curtis, but often delights in pushing the two of them into awkward circumstances or making them answer for the longing looks that even Felicity’s growing weary of denying.

But today, Thea seems like she’s a million miles away. “You came for the speech?”

“Yeah.” It’s more of a breath than an answer as Felicity wrestles with the hot burn of embarrassment that stains her cheeks. She had come for the speech, she just hadn’t quite made it there. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

“There's nothing to apologize for,” Thea says with false levity and an even more fraudulent pursed-lip smirk. “At least he's not as sinister as my biological father, right? Not nearly.”

Rage like an adrenaline rush floods Felicity’s veins at the mere mention of Malcolm Merlyn.

“You’re nothing like him.” The words press through clenched teeth and her jaw only relaxes when she remembers someone who might be more convincing. “Did Oliver show you the video?”

“Yeah, he did. We talked about…a lot.” She heaves a sigh that tells Felicity that's not an exaggeration. “About our dad, and… mostly about leaving the past in the past.”

This time, the reference tugs a hint of a smile at the corner of Felicity's mouth and Thea must catch it. “That was one of yours, huh?”

“Not specifically,” she lies in the face of the other woman’s knowing grin. “We just had another one of those conversations about how maybe his burdens aren’t his alone to carry.”

It’s the same talk they’ve been having for years, Felicity thinks to herself. She tries to chip away at his walls with whatever tools she has handy, while Oliver stockpiles bricks and mortar on the other side.

“Talked him back into the suit and back up on that podium,” Thea muses. “Feels familiar. Might as well get that ring back on your finger.”

“Thea, come on.” Felicity’s shocked by both her sharp, immediate response and her visceral reaction to the suggestion. It's agonizing, thinking of what was, and what could have been. Even the flippant possibility of getting that happiness back sends an unwanted flash of hope through her that’s more lightning bolt than static spark.

“Come on, what?” Thea’s tone is less playful than her eye roll would indicate. “You're being goddamn idiots, both of you.”

But Felicity’s still got electrical current running through her, and she stays quiet for a long enough moment that Thea heaves a sympathetic sigh. “Sorry.”

“It's OK.” Felicity hates how small her voice can sound around members of this family. “I know you didn't mean it.”

“No, I meant it,” Thea cuts back, with a tone that leaves no doubt about whether or not she’s Moira Queen’s daughter. “But I didn't mean for it to sound like that. I just… you guys are only wasting time, you know? Life is short, and if you have even a chance to be happy…”

“We’re not the same people.” Now it's Felicity's turn for a sharp interruption. “We're so different from who we were when we were together, when he…”

The tears in her throat muck up the explanation she’s recited in her head countless times, and she clears it before articulating the most important point: “Too much has changed.”

“Some things are the same, though.” Thea Queen is the perfect storm of smart and stubborn, and it’s only fun when it’s not your boat that’s getting tossed through the whitecaps. “The most important thing is the same, and isn't that all that matters?”

That's the question Felicity's been asking herself since she saw Oliver lying in an ARGUS medical bed, smiling at her after pulling them both from the jaws of certain death, and realized it was futile to pretend that her heart wasn't beating the same cadence it has been for five long, agonizing, wonderful years.

But there's still no perfect answer to their biggest problems, and there never has been. They've tried once already, and failed so spectacularly that Felicity’s not sure she'd survive the drop again.

Then, just as her heart is turning itself over on nothing more than a memory, Oliver’s standing in front of her, and there isn't an excuse in this world or any other that can measure up to the feeling in her chest when their eyes meet. His are rimmed with red and shiny with a mess of emotions that she’d be able to pick through one by one if she stared for long enough. She’s not certain what he sees in hers, but she has a pretty good guess.

He hugs his sister first, murmuring a few words in her ear -- and Felicity tries not to notice how his figure makes Thea look impossibly thinner still -- then turns to her almost on instinct, like he might wrap his arms around her too. He settles for cupping her elbow with a warm, calloused hand, and she says a silent prayer that her sigh isn't embarrassingly audible.

“Felicity.” He's saying her name like that again, like it’s a complete sentence. It seems to have started back up after their moment in the ARGUS facility, but she hadn’t realized just how long it had been until earlier in the bunker, when he laid his hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for coming.”

His name in return, and all her excuses, get stuck in her throat at the feeling of his thumb grazing her upper arm. So she says the next best thing that comes to mind: “It was a good speech.”

He gives her a little smile, like he knows what she's trying to tell him. But before she finds out if that’s true, her phone buzzes with an alert from the new security system. “Someone’s in the bunker.”

A few more taps reveals the surveillance feed, and she breathes a sigh of relief upon seeing the familiar face. “It’s just Rene.”

“I told everyone we were laying low tonight.” Oliver says with a frown, which almost, almost covers Felicity's slip of the tongue.

“Speaking of fathers...” She trails off, but both Queen siblings turn to her with a genetically-resemblant furrowed brow, and wait with that infuriatingly practiced patience until she explains.

“I just… Quentin said he missed his custody hearing earlier.”

She turns her focus towards Oliver, anticipating the layers of his disappointed reaction. But they're both taken aback when Thea vocalizes her own. “He what?”

Felicity's genuinely not sure if she's asking her to repeat herself. “Yeah, he just... didn't show.”

“That idiot,” Thea’s seething, and it’s the most extreme emotion Felicity’s seen from her in months. “I'll go.”

The confusion must be visible on their faces, because she offers a feeble excuse as she turns for the door. “I have to stop by anyway, I left the USB down there.”

She's up to something, and Felicity hasn’t the faintest idea what. Thea’s always been the best of all of them at keeping secrets and this one sees to have come out of nowhere. “What was that?”

“I have no clue,” Oliver breathes, and she talks herself back into believing that she knows what he sounds like when he's telling the truth. “Thea's always been the mysterious one.”

She nods and he does too, quirking an eyebrow when the corners of her mouth twitch unconsciously.

And then it’s just the two of them. Again. They've been careful to avoid this kind of interaction since their night in the bunker loosened the cap on everything they’ve been keeping sealed up, but now it’s like someone’s shaking the bottle.

Felicity speaks first, almost as a reflex. “It was a good speech.”

Oliver grins, and she notices that the red in his eyes only makes the blue shine more brilliantly. “You said that already.” It’s hard to know what to do when he smiles at her like that, like things are easy and attainable, like the undeniable pull between them is enough. It’s hard to remember how to breathe, let alone control her rampant thoughts.

“Yeah, but I meant something different this time,” she admits, almost breathlessly, like she’s run a mile just to tell him the truth. “You're a good son.”

Felicity can’t remember when they moved so close, but he takes her hands in his then, and the whole world freezes. “Can I tell you something?”

She should say no, even though it is his turn. She should take a step back. She should remind him that they’re standing in the lobby of City Hall and almost every member of the Star City press is milling through the public space. But instead, she just nods.

“I was standing up there just now, looking out at all the faces... looking for you.” The catch in her throat is audible and he squeezes her hands gently. “And I realized that speech might be the best thing I ever do in my father's name.”

And it could be one of the last, she mentally adds, knowing there's a good chance he's thinking the same thing.

“But,” Oliver continues, and she can’t look away, hope looks so good on him, “it doesn’t have to be the best thing I ever do.”

It reminds Felicity of his words in the bunker, the confession that had spilled from his lips as the life seemed to drain out of him, and she’s hit with a sudden rush of blissful relief for the mere fact that, if nothing else, they’ve made it to today.

“You're a good son, Oliver.” She tells him again because it’s true more than one time over, and because she knows he needs to hear it as much as possible. But she surprises even herself with the next part. “And you're a good father.”

Her eyes have gone glossy with unshed tears, so much so that she can't really tell if his are shimmering back. But he squeezes her hands again, and tugs her just that much closer and it forces out her most painful truth.

“I always knew you would be.”

Even in a perfect world, where the danger is conquerable and their secrets aren’t life-changing and there are more good days than bad, Felicity can admit that she’s still not sure she’d ever be ready for kids. But the thing is, she hadn’t been sure about marriage either, until Oliver Queen was holding out a diamond with a question in his eyes.

He’s standing in front of her now, just like he has been for years. But he doesn’t have anything to ask her, and she doesn’t have any answers.

“I should go.” She says that instead of a thousand other things. “It was a good speech.”

The tears trip down her cheeks then, and when he comes into focus, he’s looking at her like he used to. Just like he's saying her name like he used to, just like he's touching her like he used to. He's looking at like he does when he wants to tell her that he loves her.

But when he opens his mouth to speak, she can't let him.

“I know.” It's not time. Not just yet. But maybe soon. They're not planets in orbit around each other, they’re comets scorching through constellations, alternating near misses on an inevitable collision course.

“Felicity.” There it is again. She has to go before the last vestiges of her willpower give out and she succumbs to something neither of them are ready for.

“It's OK,” she tells him. For now, it's enough. “I know.”

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