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lets-try-some-writing · 2 months

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Someplace Peaceful

In the peace of the forest, Bumblebee has a chance to think and enjoy a few small comforts.

(Enjoy the Bee angst)

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

“Sire! You’re here!” Bumblebee shot to his pedes, his door wings fluttering in excitement as his Sire appeared in the clearing, breaking the silence of the forest. Light shone through gaps in the techtite trees and distantly the rustling of solarium bushes and other flora comforted Bumblebee’s spark, easing its anxious spin. He didn’t know why he was so unsettled, but everything was so much calmer now that his Sire was there.

“Are you having fun?” Optimus smiled and dropped to a knee, brushing aside copper bladed stem growths in order to allow Bumblebee to run into his arms. Bumblebee laughed as he did his best to wrap his small arms around his Sire’s far larger frame. Everything was right with the world now. The strange feeling of wrong that had settled in his mind vanished as Optimus’s powerful arms encompassed him, shielding him from any danger imaginable.

“Yes! This place is so pretty!” Bumblebee grinned as various mechanimals chirped and chattered beyond the edge of the glade. He gestured to the sunny clearing, smiling widely as his optics took in the countless fragile flowers all tinted green and red from the copper that coursed through them. A stream ran somewhere nearby, adding a gentle undertone to the perfectly serene atmosphere.

It was safe, it was secure. While it had been odd before, with his Sire beside him, it felt like home. He could hardly contain his excitement as he took his Sire’s servo, doing his best to get a grip on one of Optimus’s far larger digits.

“Come sit here! This is my favorite spot!” There was one large techtite tree in the center of the clearing, its long winding branches shifting in the gentle breeze. Bumblebee hurriedly urged his Sire on, pointing gleefully toward a nook within the base of the tree just large enough for him and his Sire to sit against. Optimus smiled and obliged, bending down a bit so Bumblebee could comfortably hold his digit.

He was quick to settle down and eagerly watched as his Sire did the same. The metallic leaves of the techtite tree brushed against one another softly, creating a quiet chime that could have lulled Bumblebee into recharge if it weren’t for the presence of one of his Primary Caretakers.

“I thought you might appreciate this place.” Optimus spoke softly, breaking the reverie that had fallen over the area. Bumblebee appreciated it, the unsettling feeling returned whenever it was quiet for too long. His frame felt somewhat cold despite the rays that had beat down on him but a moment earlier. It was strange, he didn’t like it.

“Really? How come?” Bumblebee questioned curiously as he clambered up his Sire’s thigh to sit on his lap. Optimus seemed bigger than he remembered, but then again, Bumblebee was a very small bot to begin with. He didn’t question the extra bulk on his Sire’s frame, not when Optimus’s optics glinted, cycling in on Bumblebee fondly before turning toward the landscape.

“This is where I grew up. These forests shielded me throughout my youth.” As if sensing Optimus’s words, a technohawk flew above, cawing in victory as it flew past. Bumblebee gawked in awe, his door wings once again aflutter as he tried to ignore the strange creeping cold. It was starting to get uncomfortable.

“What did you do here? Did you play games?” Bumblebee settled on asking as Optimus picked him up and rearranged him more comfortably on the Prime’s lap. His Sire’s frame rumbled in contentment and Bumblebee couldn’t help but purr happily in response, his helm butting against Optimus’s torso since he couldn’t reach the Prime’s helm. Optimus laughed lightly, and it was one of the most comforting things Bumblebee had ever heard as it sent all worries about the chill fleeing from his mind.

“I did. I was fond of climbing the trees and playing in the solvent stream on the cycles that it was not guarded by the mechanimals of the deep wood.” His Sire’s field was gentle as it wrapped around Bumblebee, comforting and as soft as the comforter his Nurturer made for him when he was small.

“I like collecting the rocks and chasing the glowing things.” Bumblebee exclaimed, quickly looking around and pointing toward several glowing insects fluttering merrily across the clearing, moving from flower to flower. Their wings were wide and almost crystalline, coming in every conceivable shade and hue. No two insects were the same, and they created a soft multicolored glow as the light in the sky began to fade, making way for dusk.

“Those are Polyhexian cog-moths. They only appear during a very specific time of the vorn. It is said that they symbolize good times to come.” His Sire held Bumblebee a little tighter, his digits running along his helm fondly. Bumblebee made a short chortle, a mix between a chirp and a purr without meaning to. Optimus merely smiled again, his field continuing to sink into Bumblebee’s very protoform. It chased away the cold.

“I like them. I wish I could live in this forest like you did.” Bumblebee added as he watched the moths from within his Sire’s arms. They glittered like jewels in the light of the nearest star. The forest was so very peaceful. He wanted to stay. Things would be even better if his Nurturer were there as well, hopefully with a snack and a song. He always liked it when his Sire held him and his Nurturer sang.

“It’s so calm here. Why did you leave?” His question hung in the air for a long moment, and for a brief nanoklik, Optimus’s field flared in sorrow. Concerned, Bumblebee turned away from where the moths still glowed and looked up to where the shade of the tree now darkened his Sire’s face.

“I had to grow up eventually, my little warrior. Primus had plans for me.” Optimus ran his digits between Bumblebee’s door wings comfortingly, but his smile was dimmer now. Bumblebee ran through the potential reasons why his Sire could be upset in a worried frenzy, but nothing seemed to make sense. Perhaps his Sire didn’t want Bumblebee to have to leave the forest? It was a possibility that could be probable.

“Does that mean I need to leave here too?” Again he asked a question, and once more, Optimus remained silent for a worrying length of time. Bumblebee’s spark flared in momentary fear as the cold caused his digits to twitch. Something was wrong. He couldn’t place it, but it was wrong.

“Soon, yes. But you will go somewhere better.” Optimus quickly noticed Bumblebee’s growing fear and drew him tight against his chassis. Bumblebee squeaked at the sudden movement but settled in quickly as his Sire basked him in his field with even more ferocity, once more chasing away the cold.

“There’s somewhere better? Have you ever been there?” He asked with wide worried optics. He didn’t want to leave his Sire. Was that why Optimus was so sad looking? Was it because Bumblebee had to leave?

“You have many questions today, dear one.” His Sire noted in a gentle whisper, his optics distant and his expression edging into a frown. Bumblebee deflated, his door wings falling and his helm coming to rest against his Sire’s chassis in regret. He hadn’t meant to make his Sire sad about anything.

“Sorry.” He mumbled as he felt his Sire’s powerful spark from where it was hidden behind layers and layers of armor. Sometimes Bumblebee wondered if his Sire ever took any of the armor off. It had to be heavy.

“Never apologize for curiosity. I will gladly answer your questions.” Optimus’s voice climbed a chord higher and his expression was forcefully brightened. It seemed strained, although Bumblebee was not entirely sure why he thought so. Optimus was smiling, that was a good thing right?

“I have only seen a glimpse of the place you will soon go, but I know it is sacred.” The light faded a little more as Bumblebee tilted his helm in confusion. Somewhere better than the forest that was sacred? Was he going to go to a sacred forest or something?

“Is it a temple? Temples are pretty and the incense smells nice, but they are really boring.” Bumblebee’s face scrunched up in a frown as he recalled the last time he had to go to a temple. The service was nice enough, but there wasn’t much to do and his Nurturer constantly had to remind him to be quiet when Optimus had to get up and do whatever rite was on the agenda.

Optimus, seeing Bumblebee’s expression, laughed lightly before his gaze darkened once more.

“No, you will go to no temple. Instead you will go…” His Sire gazed out at the encroaching darkness, his optics uncertain and strange. Bumblebee felt the ghost of a memory play in his mind, a recollection of his Sire covered in energon, watching on in horror as a city burned. The memory passed as quickly as it came, and Bumblebee could only cling to his Sire in the hopes that whatever was happening wouldn’t come near him where he was safe.

“Someplace peaceful.” The Prime settled on saying, prompting Bumblebee to reach up, and with all the power in his small body, clamber his way up to touch his Sire’s face.

“Will you be coming with me?” He asked quietly, a little afraid of the answer.

“I do believe I will join you soon enough. But there are still a few loose ends that I must see to.” Optimus leaned in, the crest of his helm touching Bumblebee’s in a comforting manner. It eased his worries, but the presence of his Sire no longer fully drowned out the chill that was infecting his limbs. Distantly, Bumblebee was sure he should be afraid. However, he felt no need to react, at least not with more than the mild fear that already weighed down his spark.

Soon, he was going to go somewhere else. His Sire had told him as much. What reason would his Sire have to remain behind if the place was better than the forest? Bumblebee could only think of one possibility, and he dearly hoped that the temporary separation was the cause of his Sire’s sorrow. Distance could be rectified, Bumblebee could always stay behind if he needed to.

Although, a part of his processor not enthralled with the world around him told a different tale. The chill was spreading. He would be going somewhere, and he did not think it would be too long now.

“Oh, I get it. Nurturer would probably be worried if you didn’t bring him as well. Just don’t take too long getting him alright? I don’t want you to leave again for too long. Megatron might get you.” Ratchet always got worried when Optimus left him alone. Bumblebee didn’t want his Nurturer to be upset. It made sense that his Sire would be a little late to follow Bumblebee if he needed to get Ratchet.

That had to be the reason he looked so sad. It made sense, and the answer resonated with his spark in a way that was momentarily unsettling.

“Ratchet will come all in good time. From what I have divined, he still has much to do on his own. But do not concern yourself with Megatron. He won’t harm me, Bumblebee.” His Sire ran his digits along the crest of Bumblebee’s helm yet again. However this time it was not quite as comforting. The world around him was still lush, but the fading light seemed to make things seem different, less… right.

Worry sat heavy in his spark chamber, and all he could do was lean ever closer to the mech who kept him steady all throughout his life, hoping that his fears were misplaced and that everything would be alright.

“He’s hurt you before.” Bumblebee found himself murmuring as memories returned to his mind. Images of a burning world, black skies, and countless unhonored and unburied dead. The lush forest broke in a mess of glitches and pixelation, revealing what his mind told him was the truth. He whimpered and clutched at his helm as the sight faded and the forest returned. He didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to believe.

“He won’t be able to any longer. A hero struck him down.” His Sire gently pulled Bumblebee’s servos away from his helm, and joy swiftly overcame everything else as the world returned to the equilibrium Bumblebee needed. There were no burning cities here. His vocalizer did not burn. Red optics did not glare down at him as he bled out on the ground. He was safe with his Sire.

“Someone actually stopped him? That’s amazing! Who was the hero?” Bumblebee exclaimed, his focus entirely on his Sire as day faded to night. The leaves of the tree glinted as the sunset painted them gold and the copper growths glinted and shone. Warm winds caressed Bumblebee’s frame, and he couldn’t help but sigh in relief as Optimus answered.

“A young warrior serving directly under me. It was our final battle against Megatron, and despite being mortally wounded, he took up my blade as Megatron tried to strike me down.” Optimus did not smile as he spoke, instead his optics glinted with unshed tears, his gaze glued on Bumblebee as he listened with rapt attention.

“And with strength far eclipsing that of any Prime, past or present, he drove my blade through Megatron’s spark chamber, ending his life and saving mine.” Bumblebee smiled, but it was a soft thing. It felt… wrong to laugh or cheer. His Sire held him as though he were the greatest gift in the world even as he told the tale of the death of the one mech who served as Cybertron’s boogeyman. His focus was off, his attention diverted.

Optimus was grieving, although Bumblebee did not yet know what.

“That warrior, you said he was wounded…” His vocalizer rang out softly, momentarily shifting into binary tones that felt just as familiar as his usual voice. It did not unsettle him even as Optimus’s expression fell and true sorrow settled on his face. His Sire’s optics were always very expressive. Bumblebee could see clearly just how much his Primary Caretaker was hurting, and he had a feeling there was very little he could do about it.

“Is he alright now?” Bumblebee settled on asking as tears began to fall from his Sire’s optics. Optimus never cried, and in Bumblebee’s living memory, the Prime had only shed tears once over the loss of Elita-1 and the city of Rodion. All he could do was reach up and wipe his Sire’s tears away, allowing Optimus to nuzzle against his servo as he did so.

“He will be soon. Even as we speak, he is being relieved from his suffering.” Optimus managed a grim and sad smile that left Bumblebee more concerned than ever before. This felt more and more like farewell, and while he knew deep in his spark that he would indeed have to leave soon… his Sire was reacting as if they might never meet again. That couldn’t be right. Optimus didn’t need to cry.

“That’s good. I want to meet the warrior who saved you and cut down the slagmaker himself!” Bumblebee tried to lighten the mood even as the last of the nearest star’s light faded, leaving only the glowing veins of the flora around them to light the area. Stars shone above, and faintly Bumblebee recognized several constellations he had never been able to see with his own optics due to smog and smoke.

“Next time I will protect you Sire! Do you think I can convince the hero to teach me how to fight once he’s all better?” Bumblebee threw his arms in the air even as Optimus continued to hold him tight against him. The Prime did not smile, despite Bumblebee’s efforts to try and cheer him up in an attempt to ignore the creeping cold that now climbed his limbs.

Why was it so cold?

“Perhaps.” His Sire murmured into the night, his optics locked on the constellations above as he began to hum a soft tune. Bumblebee followed his gaze before his attention returned to the Prime. The tune was sad yet comforting, a slight trill in Optimus’s vocalizer giving away sorrow so spark deep that even a Prime could not fully suppress it.

“You seem sad Sire. Is something wrong?” Bumblebee at last found himself wondering aloud. Optimus merely shook his helm, an obvious lie.

“No, I merely missed you. The battle tired me, and your absence has hurt my spark.” Memory flashed across Bumblebee’s optics, showing his Sire reaching out to him in desperation, his optics wide and horrified. Then, as quickly as it came, it faded. Bumblebee sat still in his Sire’s arms, finally starting to sense the creeping chill for what it was.

“I am glad to be with you now, at least until you must go on your way.” Optimus’s words broke Bumblebee from his grim reverie. He reached out, grasping at his Sire’s digits until the Prime brought his servo close enough for Bumblebee to cling to. His Sire’s digits smelt like soot and plasma, just like they always had. It was a small comfort.

“I don’t want to leave you alone to be sad. Being sad and alone is terrible.” Optimus’s other servo came to support his back as Bumblebee curled up tightening against his Sire. He didn’t want to be alone in the place that he was soon to go. He wanted to stay, if only for his Caretakers. Optimus was already so sad. He didn’t want to think about how hurt Ratchet would be when Bumblebee finally left.

“Your presence lessens my sorrow, my sweet Bee. Stay with me a while, and when the dawn comes, then go on your way. I believe it will not be long until I shall soon follow.” The clearing was silent, with only the faint rustling of leaves to break the quiet of the night. Bumblebee found then that he could no longer feel the tips of his digits, nor his pedes. It was becoming harder to move, and faintly, he sensed his thoughts starting to slow.

"I'm going away for a long time aren't I?" His voice called out into the darkness, far older and far wiser than he remembered it being. Static laced his glyphs, but he knew the voice that spoke was his own. It was the voice that he would have spoken with if Megatron had not taken it from him.

"Yes." His Sire answered simply, his words coming out in a broken croak. Bumblebee understood now.

"Will Nurturer be fine?" He questioned as he gazed at the stars above, doing his best to relish in the comfort of his Sire’s touch while it lasted. He didn’t want to look at the clearing, what brief glimpse he managed showed him that his little paradise was breaking down. The forest was falling away and darkness creeping in. Only the skies remained constant.

"With time." Optimus reassured solemnly. They both knew Ratchet would suffer greatly at this loss. Bumblebee could only hope that in the end, his Nurturer would be able to move on.

"What about you?" He glanced toward his Sire, watching as the branches of the techtite tree glitched in and out of existence. It would not be long now.

"We shall meet again soon enough." A memory came to his mind yet again. Megatron stood in front of him, grinning madly as he drove a blade through Bumblebee’s spark chamber. Optimus screamed from where he struggled to his pedes. The rest of the team watched in horror as he fell. And later, as he dragged his dying frame up using what little time he was afforded by the cybermatter, they stared in awe as he dealt the finishing blow.

Faint pain emanated from his chassis as he remembered. He touched his chassis plating on instinct, feeling the remnants of the wound. Optimus was quick to press a kiss to the crest of his helm, a gentle confirmation of what he now knew to be true.

"That hero... did he fight well?" Tears fell from his optics as he sniffled, his door wings dipping down. His Sire hummed cradled him as if he were still a sparkling, the Prime’s frame serving as his final safe haven as the artificial world around him crumbled to pixels and code.

"He did. He was by far the greatest warrior I've ever had the honor to fight beside." Bumblebee managed a faint smile as Optimus’s knowing optics bore into his own. Bumblebee had fought well. He had done good.

“Could you sing me a song?” He made his final request as the chill crept ever closer to where his spark fluttered, weakening even as he felt no pain. He didn’t want things to end like this, but…

At least there was a goodbye.

“Gladly.” Optimus rocked him gently, the Prime’s voice calming like a brook on a sunny cycle. Bumblebee didn’t want to leave, but he allowed himself to smile as his spark flared in affection and love, both his Caretakers reaching out to calm him. Within a klik, a song played in the darkness, the voice of his Sire ringing out clearly. Ratchet’s voice joined the chorus before long, and with what time remained, Bumblebee felt both his Sire and his Nurturer pressed against him, their arms wrapping around his small frame with all the love in the world.

Their adoring song followed him as the chill took its toll and darkness fully claimed him.

━━━━━━

“Sir, it’s time to begin disengaging.” Arcee alerted in the relative silence of the Nemesis’s medical bay. Ratchet wanted to hiss as he frantically continued running through programs, algorithms, and life support systems in an attempt to keep his sparkling alive for a klik longer.

“His processor activity is halting. It won’t be long now.” Ultra Magnus remarked calmly as he looked over Ratchet’s shoulder at the readings. Ratchet snarled and swatted at the commander before he acknowledged the beeping of Bumblebee’s life support, a warning of what was to come.

“No! There must be more time! This can’t be it! I just need more time and I can-!” Ratchet flew toward the console, pulling at wires and desperately trying to work through tears. There wasn’t enough power, and Bumblebee was too weak to survive being put into stasis. He needed Cybertronian medicine, he needed his students and an immediate spark transfer or else-

“That’s enough. Let his last memory not be of fear.” Optimus shattered any illusion Ratchet had of completing his task successfully as the Prime’s voice cut through all else. Optimus turned from where he sat at the edge of Bumblebee’s berth, his processor connected to their sparkling’s. The Prime did not look up, the vacancy in his gaze far more telling than any words could hope to be.

The wounds were too much. The cybermatter had been a temporary fix, a bandage over a stab wound. Bumblebee’s spark chamber was irreparably damaged, at least with their current materials. He was only hanging on by a thread, and despite Ratchet’s best efforts, it had reached the point where there was little he could do but try to keep Bumblebee calm. The team all knew that this was the end for him. It was the only reason Optimus had been allowed to perform a psychic patch in the first place.

“Optimus, do you want us to leave?” Bulkhead placed a servo on the Prime’s shoulder. Ratchet felt his servos shake as Optimus nodded once, his gaze never leaving Bumblebee’s prone frame. The team were quick to comply with Optimus’s wish, each of them filing out of the room quietly. Smokescreen lingered a moment, but he too turned and left after sensing the tension in the air.

Only once all was silent, did Optimus speak.

“He has asked for a song.” Ratchet felt his spark break as his Conjunx looked up for the first time, a few silent tears falling from his optics as he held out another connector. Ratchet bit back a sob as he stepped forward and accepted the connector, staring at it through vision blurred with tears.

“Come, sing with me. He deserves to have us both by his side.” Optimus grasped his servo, squeezing it gently. Ratchet could sense how his Conjunx’s servos shook minutely too. This was it, their last goodbye to their precious sparkling.

Ratchet reset his vocalizer once and then interested the connector into the port at the back of his helm, lifting the protective plating to reveal it. He did not move as his vision changed and the world fell away. He could still feel his frame distantly, but he did not hesitate to join Optimus within the flickering memory of the forest of Helex and settle down to cradle their little one a final time.

Bumblebee’s form flickered along with the memory, his consciousness fading fast. However as Ratchet wrapped his arms around both his Conjunx and sparkling, he put all his spark into singing their song. Optimus’s deep rumbling voice joined Ratchet’s similarly gruff one in a strange symphony that lasted until Bumblebee smiled and the program collapsed.

Ratchet was thrust back into his frame harshly, and all he could do was gasp in agony as his mind reeled from the rejection. Bumblebee’s life support screeched, its systems blaring before it fell silent. A nanoklik later, Bumblebee’s exposed spark flared once more and then puttered out, his frame succumbing to the wounds afflicting it.

“I’m so sorry Bumblebee. I’m sorry I couldn’t fix this.” Ratchet reached out, pressing the crest of his helm to Bumblebee’s lifeless frame as tears blurred his vision. He choked, an ugly sob building in his throat as he ran his digits along the grooves of his precious sparkling’s face. The face he would never again see light up in joy.

“Primus has called him home… and I do not believe he will be alone for long.” Optimus placed a servo on his shoulder, pulling Ratchet’s attention away as he straightened. His spark burned with the loss of their sparkling, and it only hurt more as he registered both the words and the fact that Optimus was walking away.

“Optimus? What are you-?” Ratchet called out in bewilderment as the Prime halted in the doorway, his expression stone cold.

“There is work to be done. He must be laid to rest, and soon the Allspark must be recovered.” Ratchet was never a mech to be angry at Optimus for long, but with his spark feeling as though it were torn asunder, rage pooled where the mark of their sparkling had once lain. Their sparkling was dead and Optimus was already off to war. They won at the cost of their most precious gift. Did he have no sympathy? No love?

“Can’t you take a moment to feel! Our sparkling is DEAD and you are already discussing our next course of action?!” Ratchet burst out, his field flaring in distress and rage. So many vorns fighting, so many lost lives. Yet still Optimus marched ever on with the same brutal outward apathy he regarded all losses with. Could he not spare a mere moment to grieve?

“Our battle has not yet ended. Hate me if you must, but until the cycle my frame is returned to the ground of our homeworld, I must continue on.” The Prime replied after a moment’s hesitation, his optics flashing as though he were viewing something far off. Frag the Matrix and its visions. Ratchet wished he could tear the accursed relic out of Conjunx’s chassis if only so that Optimus would take the time to grieve like the rest of them.

“Grieve as you will. I must speak to Wheeljack.” Without another word, Optimus turned and left, his usually open bond to Ratchet shut down tight. The door closed behind him, and all Ratchet could do was turn and lean over Bumblebee’s frame, clutching the edge of the medical berth as he was left totally and completely alone.

There was no comfort to be found amongst the dead. But Ratchet did not move as he again reached out to run his digits along the already graying crest of Bumblebee’s helm.

“Forgive me Bumblebee…”

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #bumblebee #optimus prime #team prime #ratchet #angst #character death #optiratch #transformers fanfiction #fanfiction #this is going right on ao3 later today #I came up with the script for this in an hour and wrote it in three #I am very happy with how it turned out

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tagsecretsanta · 4 months

Text

From @sofasurf

From @sofasurf to @janetm74

My prompts were:

1. Steam.

2. Stripes/striped.

3. ‘Did you have to?'

I think I've managed it!!

DINER

"Yellow car no hit backs!"

The sounds of a scuffle and indignant squawks. John's tone held a warning, "So help me Gordon, if you lay a hand on me!"

"Na ah! No hit backs allowed!"

"Oh I won't hit you."

There was silence in the car as the other four contemplated John's words.

"Man, you have zero chill," Gordon huffed turning to look out the window while Alan sniggered. In the front seat Virgil and Scott exchanged amused grins.

"Remind me again why this was a good idea?"

"Because, Johnno, we have a few days off for Christmas and Alan has never been on a proper road trip." Scott accelerated round a corner causing Virgil to grab at the handles.

"Car not One, Scott! Car not One!"

Scott ignored him catching Alan's eye in the mirror and winking. Of his brothers, Alan was the one who shared his appreciation for speed. The mountain side whipped past on either side of them. "The point of a road trip is to enjoy the scenery not travel back in time." Virgil complained while Scott pretended he hadn't heard him

It wasn't often they indulged in frivolous perks of wealth. When Scott had mentioned their road trip plans to a friend, who happened to also be the CEO of Ferrari, the offer to test drive the new SUV prototype had been more than the speed freak Scott could resist. It was big enough for all five of the brothers to travel in comfort, though Scott had yet to relinquish the front seat to test that theory.

"Right well, remind me again why I agreed to come!" John was prepared to be pedantic. Close proximity to Gordon occasionally had the effect.

"Ah, Johnny, Johnny," Gordon draped his arm over his brother's shoulder.

"Don't call me that, Fishface!"

"Jonathan, Jonathan," Gordon ignored the daggers shot his way, "It''s because you love us and because we promised we'd stop off at that new lab so you can talk all geeky about geeky stuff while the rest of us normal humans go Christmas shopping."

There were sounds of a scuffle from the backseat. It was all in jest however, everyone was in good form and beginning to unwind though, perhaps they were due a break from the confines of the car. Scott caught John's eye this time waggling his eyebrows.

"Now kids, don't make me stop this car."

He then performed another stunning manoeuvre that Virgil felt was more fitting for the air than the asphalt. However, his older brother was, it appeared, genuinely enjoying himself and Virgil would put up with breaking the land speed record for that reason alone.

"I'm hungry." Alan peered longingly into his long finished bag of Doritos.

"Eos recommended a dinner just through the next town. It's about 30 minutes from tonight's stop. She says their page is down, weird, but that she thinks it seems our kinda spot." John peered at his tablet.

"She was right about the motel last night so that works." Scott agreed and the state of the art central console pinged as John sent the location through. Scott glanced at the display, "Just an hour further on. Can you wait that long, Allie?" He caught his baby brother's eye again, meaning clear.

Alan put on his best whining voice, "I don't think I can Scotty. I'm starving. I feel faint."

"Did you have to? Brat!" Virgil chocked out as Scott pulled even more power from the engine. His whoop of delight brought a smile to the faces of the others in the car.

⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️

A much shorter time than it should have been; the five brothers had selected a quiet corner booth of the small diner. It wasn't busy which suited them well. It had some twinkly lights, a small tree and upbeat Christmas tunes playing softly in the background.

John and Gordon made for the restrooms while Scott slipped into the corner and flopped opposite Virgil, all long relaxed limbs. He spread his arms along the back of the seat and let his head fall back against the surprisingly comfortable cushioning on the booth; just the right height for him.

Alan, as always drawn to Scott like a moth to flame slid into the space below his eldest brother's outstretched arm. He said something that made Scott laugh, and Virgil's heart warmed at both Alan's obvious delight in his hero's response and how chilled Scott appeared. Should nothing else happen on this trip, Virgil would consider it a hit for that reason alone.

"Right, I'm starving!" Scott reached for the menus left for them by the waitress. Virgil and Alan followed suit. Each took one and read in silence a moment.

"Um, guys?" Alan had turned to the middle page and was staring at the menu.

"Hmmm?" Virgil was still reading through the appetizers.

"Scott, look!" Alan dug his eldest brother in the ribs. Scott followed the teen's outstretched finger and his eyes widened and he immediately flicked his menu to the centre. Virgil did the same.

‘Thunderbird Specials’ the centre section of the menu had hand drawn pictures of the Thunderbirds One through Four and a slightly inaccurate representation of Five. Each had corresponding dishes.

In a rush? Thunderbird One steak burger with fries and our unique hot sauce.

More time to chew? Thunderbird two- tomahawk steak – great for sharing

Thunderbird Four our famous surf and turf. Fillet mignon and our locally sourced fresh organic prawns. All day breakfast with our mouthwatering Thunderbird Five pancake stack and creamy asteroid milkshake Thunderbird Three our unique coffee triple expresso. They don’t call it rocket fuel for nothing! “Eos set us up!” Alan exclaimed.

Scott and Virgil exchanged looks, “It would appear so!” Virgil said while Scott flipped further through the menu looking for an explanation.

John and Gordon returned at that moment- Gordon bouncing excitedly on his heels. “Guys, you are never gonna believe this.”

“Eos set us up,” Alan repeated lifting the menu to show them. Scott batted it down, checking over his shoulder. “Don't draw attention!” Virgil whispered as the teen giggled a little.

John rolled his eyes at them, “Yes. It would appear this is Eos’ idea of a little joke. I thought it was strange I couldn't see the online menu.” John slid into the booth beside Virgil while Gordon dropped on Alan's other side swiping the menu despite his protests.

“There's a picture of dad and some dude on the wall over there!” Gordon pointed the direction he and John had come.

John met Scott’s gaze and held it a moment, “It’s a picture of Dad and the owner’s son. He was in that refinery fire, remember right back near the start of IR?”

“The big one in Texas Dad fought with top brass about for weeks after?”

John nodded, “Seems Dad pulled the son out just in time with Thunderbird One. There is a little bit about it under the picture.” John’s face was hard to read, memories of Jeff were always bittersweet.

“Really?”

John smiled, “Yep. And it appears the owner hasn't forgotten. Proceeds from the Thunderbird menu,” he gestured the pages open in front of them, “Go to a charity that supports rebuilding in disaster areas.”

“That's pretty cool, right?” Gordon was grinning.

“Yea,” Virgil agreed.

“Way to go, Dad!” Alan said his tone impressed and Scott dropped his arm to pull the teen in for a quick side hug.

“Way to go Dad,” Gordon repeated back his own tone softer with a little something unreadable in it.

Scott simply nodded a soft smile on his lips. He seemed to lose himself in memories a moment and Virgil tapped his ankle gently with his foot under the table causing his older brother to meet his eye. He nodded in reassurance. All good.

They sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.

“It’s pretty cool, right?” Gordon broke the spell. “but if you want the absolute coolest, check this out!” and he produced a bundle of papers from behind his back. “Thunderbird colouring sheets!”

And just like that the spell was broken and chaos descended in the table.

⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️⛄️

The food was exceptionally good. Obviously they had to sample all the Thunderbird menu and the argument over whose dish was the best looked set to continue until next Christmas. They had pulled the crackers orbited with their meal and squabbled good naturedly over the tacky prizes and each now sported a jaunty paper crown.

Gordon and Alan had listened engrossed as John and Virgil had regaled them with the tale of the Texas fire with Scott chipping in little details. Dad in action had truly been impressive and John, although he would deny it, was a gifted story teller when he chose to be.

Now a quiet contentment had descended in the group. Virgil sat back, stomach full and observed his brothers. He clutched his Thunderbird Three coffee and allowed the steam to curl up lazily in front of him. It had a pleasing kick though Three’s pilot was still complaining that three older brothers had stated “No” in unison when

he'd tried to order one for himself. He and Gordon, also banned from that much caffeine before being trapped in a car with the others, were appeased with hot chocolate. Apple pie and chocolate cake had also been consumed. Road trips were hungry work.

John was quietly messaging Eos who was delighted her subterfuge had worked while the three opposite him, yes the Commander of International Rescue included, were finishing off their colouring pages. Scott's tongue was poking out the side of his mouth in concentration, a small tuft of hair sticking up from where he’d run his hand through it, as he finished colouring Thunderbird Two blue. The argument had been brief and Virgil had

decided not to sink any further to his level. His own completed green version of One had a festive santa hat in lieu of her traditional nose cone. John meanwhile had been mildly offended by the inaccurate Thunderbird Five option and so was egging the others on in their colour wars.

“I mean we should be pleased they don't have an accurate image of our top secret satellite, Johnny!” “Don't call me that. And that's not the point, Scooter. Here, you haven't used this shade of blue yet.”

The battle between Alan and Gordon had almost come to blows when Alan had finished a red version of Four only to see the blue and yellow stripes the aquanaut had given Three.

John and Scott had added fuel to the fire by appearing to seriously consider the benefits of a respray for each accordingly and much brotherly silliness had ensued. Virgil did however make a note to keep a track of blue paint supplies as John was sneaky when he wanted to be and was watching Scott's drawing with barely concealed mirth.

There had been a hairy moment when the waitress had appeared to recognise them, or at least Scott. He had placed a finger to his lips and his teeth had practically sparkled as he smiled at her silently requesting she not give them away, sealing the deal with a little wink. She hadn’t divulged their identities, serving then with wide

eyes attentiveness; though a napkin with her number on it had been dropped on Scott’s knee as she refilled his coffee much to his surprise, Gordon and Alan's glee, and a murmur of, “unbelievable,” from Virgil.

Pucture complete, Scott looked up and met Virgil's eye. Virgil motioned to the other three and raised his eyebrows, Scott’s indulgent smile matched Virgil's own. Moments like this were all too rare. Scott sat back stretching his long arms along the back of the seat again, content like Virgil just to enjoy their company.

Virgil was called in to referee/ judge the which Thunderbird looked best in the new colour competition that still raged. When he looked back at Scott a few minutes later the eldest’s wasn't looking at them but at something behind Virgil's head, his expression a strange one Virgil couldn't quite read; thoughtful, wistful even? Virgil turned in his seat to see what had grabbed Scott's attention. He immediately recognised what Scott saw.

A woman who couldn't be much older than Scott himself was wrangling a small team of children into the booth by the door. Four boys aged roughly between twelve and four by Virgil's guess, she had another baby, a little girl who couldn't have been older than one in her arms. The baby had blonde hair and was waving a stuffed toy excitedly. He watched as the woman handed her to the oldest looking boy who immediately started to make faces and bounce her up and down, occupying her while the mother helped the other boys out of their coats.

Their excited chatter and the baby's infectious laughter drifted across the diner all clamouring for their mother’s attention as she attempted to answer several questions at once. It was chaos and to the two brothers watching, achingly familiar.

One of the younger boys needed the restroom and he and what looked to be his next older brother passed their booth, heads bent in discussion their conversation just audible, “I already explained, we can't ask for ice cream cos it makes mom worry.”

Virgil looked back at Scott who caught his eye and looked away. Seeming to shake himself a little as if to clear something from his head, Scott used his long reach across the back of the seat to tap Gordon on the shoulder, stealing his second last bite of cake as Gordon moved too slowly to stop him.

“Ugh! You are the worst, Scooter! Remind me again why I let you hang out with me?”

“Because you need his signature to access your trust fund,” John helpfully supplied spearing Gordon’s last piece.

He and Scott high fived while Scott slipped out of the booth to settle the bill.

“Actually ‘bout that...” Gordon turned puppy dog eyes towards his oldest brother.

“Told you, Squid, I am not signing off on you buying a Christmas tree farm in Vermont.” He ruffled the aquanaut’s hair as he passed.

“You have no vision, Scooter!”

Scott’s laugh floated back to them as he made his way to the counter.

The other four brothers watched enthralled as their waitress and another server both jockeyed to serve him.

Scott’s dimples were on full display as he leant in the counter bending his head towards the girls conversationally. Virgil could swear he could see their eyes changing shape to little hearts, “Does he even know he's doing it?” His tone was reverential.

“I really don't know. Sometimes?” John replied folding his arms as the waitress reached across to bat Scott's arm conspiratorially.

“His powers must only be used for good,” Gordon covered Alan's eyes, “You are too young to see this Allie.” Alan batted his hands away, ducking to continue watching the display at the counter.

Judging from the way the waitress was listening intently and kept glancing at the family in the booth Virgil was sure Scott's not inconsiderable powers were indeed being used for good. He didn't doubt for a second the family that reminded them so much of past times would find their bill paid with a healthy ice cream allowance added. People often thought that Virgil was the soft hearted Tracy brother; he just didn't have to hide it so carefully from corporate sharks.

Judging from the way the waitress’ eyes widened slightly as she retrieved the handset from his brother, there had been a healthy tip added to their own bill as well.

As they passed the family, now tucking into burgers and fries with gusto, the tiny girl tossed her toy into the ground. Scott bent to pick it up, smiling at the mother who smiled back in tired gratitude. He flung his arm around Virgil's shoulders as they walked towards the car.

A yellow Mustang pulled into the parking space in front of them and Gordon and Alan looked at each other, frozen like gunslingers at high noon.

“Yellow car no hit backs.”

John beat them to it, walking between the two giving them each a solid cuff to their heads. Their outraged cries floated on the crisp air drawing the attraction of the older two. It was the little things at Christmas really John thought. He hung back slightly watching as his four brothers crossed the parking lot, the sky was trying to snow, a few flurries escaping the black clouds.

“Thanks, Eos,” He whispered into his open Comm before hurrying to catch up with a shout of, ”Shotgun!” that sent the others scrambling to reach the car first.

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#thunderbirds are go #tag team secret santa #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction

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saintetheldreda · 7 months

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every 3 years or so i loop granger danger like a billion times in a row and go absolutely feral about the way they perfectly captured all the manic energy and weirdness of fandom culture and lose all of my cool then get slightly embarrassed afterwards and forget about it again and pretend its not the greatest love song ever written for another three years

#LIKE OBVS IM KIDDING ITS NOT ACTUALLY THE GREATEST LOVE SONG EVER WRITTEN #but LIKE #its SO CUTE #and i love that spotify only has the live version #cause this is the anthem of fanfiction/fandom and its meant to be listened to with a crowd going absolutely fucking feral in the background #starkid #a very potter musical #avpm #musicals #musical #musical theatre #team starkid #WHAT WHAT THE HELL IS THIS #U EXPECT ME TO SING ABOUT HER #I DONT CARE ABOUT HER!!!#harry potter

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idontknowreallywhy · 5 months

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WIP Wednesday+18hrs

Ooops, it’s Thursday!

Have this anyway :D

🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭

“John?”

“Yes EOS?”

“What kind of bagel flies?”

John ducked, concerned that the AI might be regressing back to old tricks. His immediate vicinity remained airborne-bread-product free, however.

“I’m sorry?”

“A plain bagel.”

“I… what?”

“It is a pun. I have deliberately exploited the fact that there are two meanings of the word plane for comedic effect. It is funny.”

Silence reigned.

“John?”

He lifted his head from his hands and sighed. “Yes EOS?”

“Why aren’t you laughing?”

“I was distracted by plotting my eldest brother’s demise.”

🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #john tracy #EOS (thunderbirds)#EOS learns about dad jokes #Team Scott & EOS #The Commander and The Murderbot #wip wednesday #well nearly #idontknowreallywhy fanfic #Thunderfluff

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dyingnerdyprude · 2 months

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i am a BIG BIG fan of the spankoffski bros, their dynamic is everything to me and i am well aware that pete has a father (“my dad sells women shoes”) but i will ALWAYS be a believer of the idea that when ted was in his 20's he took peter in as if he were his dad and im getting emotional just thinking abt it. pete looking up to ted despite his sleazeball reputation and ted just being so proud of pete even if he's a “nerd”. theyre just so :(( im EMOTIONAL

#its mainly fanfiction that has made me believe this #but dude them living together and supporting eachother and omg #also the idea of steph moving in after yaknow her family dies #like ted shits on them so bad and makes so many inappropriate jokes but at the end of the day wants the best for them both #because he knows what happened to himself after he let jenny go and doesnt want that to happen to pete #CRYING #npmd #team starkid #hatchetverse #nerdy prudes must die #starkid npmd #peter spankoffski #spankoffski bros #ted spankoffski #dyingnerdyprude yaps

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dearlyfetching · 9 days

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why are you reading these fics if you hate them so much? sounds like you're just bitter.

I have not actively sought an Aemond/OC fic that wasn’t exclusively recommended to me since mid-2023.

I am in fact incredibly bitter. Welcome to the house of salt and smoke.

My problem isn’t that people are pairing Aemond with an OC. Ship whatever you want, it is not my place to gatekeep the enjoyment of others. I will never enter another space and leave a comment on someone else’s hard work that is nothing more than a complaint disguised as criticism. However, within the boundaries of my own space, I feel that I can express some level of frustration and disappointment with the substantial lack of nuance within the fandom that’s become apparent to me in the time since hotd began airing.

I cannot and will not speak for anyone else in this regard, but I am personally exhausted of trying to find a compelling story that features my favorite character with a non-canonical love-interest that isn’t just a thinly veiled excuse for smut and bashing. It certainly doesn’t help that an overwhelming majority of these fics tread and retread upon the same ground, that after a while I can tell what’s going to happen just by skimming through the summary. I don’t believe this is an exaggeration, considering a lot of the scenarios (names, biological parents, dragon companions) tend to be quite common and I count myself guilty of perpetuating some of these ideas. Originality is hard to come by and it’s foolish to begrudge people for incidentally using similar concepts.

However, what aggravates me the most is how Aemond himself is treated. He is often so woefully mischaracterized, that his entire existence is warped to revolve around the OFC without any examination from these authors of who Aemond is as a person within canon and how his relationship with the Greens informs how he processes his environment and the decisions he makes. Granted, it’s ridiculous to espouse what is and isn’t canon given the format of f&b (i.e., unreliable narrator) and just the nature of fanfiction itself, but there are key components to both the book and show version of Aemond that are critical to his character. Case in point: the loss of his eye.

I have read so many fics wherein the OFC is the one who gouges out Aemond’s eye and yet still he manages to forgive and fall in love with her. To me, that is worse, because not only is there a disgusting level of victim blaming for the physical attack between his peers which resulted in the loss of his eye, it fundamentally changes the trajectory of his character and diminishes why that moment is so important. When you replace Lucerys with an OFC who commits the disfigurement but the narrative adheres to the Star-Crossed Lovers/Forbidden Love trope without direct or eventual consequences for the stand-in to suffer, unlike canon wherein Lucerys is murdered as a result of his act of violence against Aemond, then it negates examining the themes of dysfunctional family and the cycle of generational trauma in favor of committing to a bias without offering any substantial critique of the people on both sides.

The idea that Aemond would ever entertain an attraction or pursue genuine romantic feelings towards a person who literally disabled him and then betray the Greens by capitulating to Rhaenyra because he’s just so in love with her special daughter is ludicrous. Like it or not, the Greens are the family that matters to Aemond and who he is shown to have the most important relationships with that cannot be ignored. They are no less complex and deserving of exploration just because these authors solely want to imprint their fantasies onto a character that is played by a handsome actor. I have not found a compelling case in any of these fics that demonstrates why exactly should Aemond feel anything other than antipathy towards an individual whose allegiance poses a real threat to him and his own family that isn’t wildly out of character.

Ultimately what it comes down to for me isn’t that these stories exist, it’s that they exist in abundance. There aren’t nearly enough Aemond/OC fics written by authors who are either neutral or Team Green that can offer a counterbalance. Because from what I can tell, a lot of fics that heavily feature Aemond are written by authors who are staunchly Team Black. For every 1 that offers insight and sympathy to the Greens, there’s about 5 more which do the exact opposite by explicitly condemning them, exalting Rhaenyra, and forcing Aemond to betray his own family for the side that has wronged him/them. The bias against Team Green is blatant to a degree that flanderizes characters these authors have decided they dislike, that it doesn’t allow for a broader discussion concerning the overall point of the source material which are the actual problems inherent in feudalism.

In my experience, a lot of people who enjoy the Greens – be it Aemond specifically or in general seem quite capable of acknowledging the culpability of almost everybody involved in the dance, not just the side they dislike. I wouldn’t have this much of an issue if it weren’t for the reality that most fics of my favorite character are just renditions of the same shallow of Team Black = Good and Team Green = Evil rhetoric that has permeated throughout the fandom. If you’re ambivalent or you actively dislike Greens, that’s fine. But to deny all except one of them any complexity and understanding in favor of uplifting others who stand in opposition, just because Aemond is seen as physically attractive, is where I take issue.

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kitkatt0430 · 10 months

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Iris - We had a prank war in high school that I won after convincing a significant portion of the student body that his full first name was actually Barrence.

Barry - I had to show the yearbook committee my driver's license and birth certificate to convince them it was really Bartholomew. We did a five year reunion and my name tag said Barrence on it, so people still think that's my name.

Cisco - Note to self, never get into a prank war with Iris.

Barry - To be fair, I did find it funny.

Caitlin - Is this why Joe calls you Barrence Henry Allen when you annoy him? As opposed to Bartholomew Henry Allen when he's upset?

Barry - Yeah. I hear the Barrence and I know I'm fine. The real first name comes out and I know I'm in deep shit.

#the flash #team flash hijinks #mini fanfic #fanfiction #incorrect quotes #iris west #barry allen #cisco ramon #caitlin snow #the yearbook committee was probably gonna go with bartholomew when barry asked #so the hard part was barry convincing this wasn't his 'chosen' name it was his 'given' name; his chosen name was barry #it's only later he realizes that he should have just asked them to stick him under 'barry'#now he's stuck with a senior yearbook that says 'bartholomew' in it all formal like #iris cackling in the background because her prank is the gift that keeps on giving

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lightandheatao3 · 4 months

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The Bunker - Criminal Minds

Chapter 1: The Bunker

Summary: Spencer Reid wakes up in a locked bunker to find half the current BAU and two of its departed members unconscious on the floor. The old team is back together but the reunion is not what any of them would have wished for. An Unsub from their past has decided it's time they all stop keeping secrets, even if it means exposing them by force.

Hotch and Derek have been pulled back into a world they tried to escape. Emily, Rossi, and JJ are doing their best to keep it together. Spencer is falling apart.

AKA a found family is reunited and forced to go through the most nightmarish version of family therapy imaginable.

Set months after the end of Criminal Minds: Evolution. Evolution referenced, but not necessary to understand the story.

Read chapter 1 on AO3 or under the cut. All comments and reblogs are so appreciated <3

Chapter 2 link

Spencer cracked his eyes open, flinching from the white fluorescent light and blinking hard against the groggy, dull ache in his head.

His mouth was dry, body heavy. A familiar wake up. He reached his hand out blindly for the relief waiting on his bedside table.

No- wait.

His lights are all yellow toned filament bulbs, not white fluorescents.

The smell was wrong. The dull electrical buzz in the air was louder, pitched higher.

His eyes shot open wide and he scrambled to his feet.

This wasn’t home.

He surveyed his surroundings, fighting the wave of dizziness that came with standing too abruptly.

“Oh no,” he said out loud. “Nonononono…”

The room was large and square and made entirely of concrete. Up the top a small vent, too high to reach and too small for a person to fit into. A heavy door with a double walled chamber for someone to put things into without having to interact with the person on the other side. The kind you would find in a maximum-security prison cell. The whole room felt like a prison cell, a place he’d hoped to never be again. At the back of the room a small en-suit that was completely stripped bare but for a metal toilet with no seat and a sink that was bolted into the wall. There was a door that could be shut, but there was a gap under it and a hole where a doorknob had clearly been removed.

A camera. There on the roof, drilled in and protected by a plexiglass dome, blinking its little red light at him. He stared at it for a moment, then closed his eyes.

He slowed his breathing. Now was not the time to fall apart. Not now. Not yet.

Not when there were 5 of his friends prone on the ground around him, unconscious as he had been only moments ago.

Each was laid out on a thin foam mattress, the kind with no seams or springs that could be fashioned into tools.

His first stop was the door. He knew before he tried it that it wasn’t going to open, but he had to make sure. As soon as that was confirmed, he turned his attention to the people in the room with him.

He rushed over to Emily first, rolling her onto her side and checking her pulse. It was slow, but steady. He looked around at the rest of them, noting the gentle rise and fall of their chests. All alive. He sighed audibly, clasping his hands together in thanks and relief for a split second before turning back to Emily.

He gently shook her, putting his hand on her cheek in what he hoped was a comforting way. His hands were shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline or the comedown. “Emily," he said gently. “Emily, it’s me, Spencer. Wake up Emily.”

After a few more repetitions her eyes fluttered, then opened. She looked up at him hazily. “Spencer?”

“Hi,” he said sadly, knowing there were only a second left until she realized the danger they were in and wanting to let her experience that second in peace.

She glanced behind him where JJ lay unconscious. He looked at her pupils. They were constricted, confirming his suspicions.

“Oh my god,” Emily gasped, her hand reaching up to clutch his shoulder. She leveraged herself against him to drag her way up into a sitting position. She rubbed at her eyes blearily, then opened them again and cast them around the entire room. “Fuck,” she breathed.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Her eyes snapped back to him. “Are you alright?” she asked urgently, looking him over. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” he assured her. “And I don’t know. I woke up a minute ago. I don’t remember how I got here. I think we were all drugged.”

She hummed in agreement. “Last thing I remember I was outside my apartment on the way home from the gym. I still feel a little out of it. God, Spencer, you look awful,” she said, putting a hand over his. “What did they do to you?”

“Same thing as you, most likely.” He looked away. “Emily, that’s Hotch over there,” he deflected. “And Derek.”

Emily looked to where he was pointing. Her expression was solemn, professionalism kicking in even in these dire circumstances. “Yeah. And no sign of Tara, Matt, or Luke. And no Penelope, thank God. Whoever did this, they’ve got a grudge against us that predates the others joining the BAU. Someone who met all of us but never had direct interaction with Penelope. This is good. If the others are free, they’ll find us.”

Spencer nodded in agreement. “This is someone with the skill to find Hotch in witness protection. If he wasn’t dead, I would have said it was Scratch. The logistics of kidnapping 6 highly trained federal agents takes an enormous amount of planning and ability. There are only handful of people we’ve encountered with the capacity to pull something like this off.”

She rubbed at her temples. Her eyes were losing the glassy sheen as the adrenaline counteracted the effects of the drugs. “I assume you tried the door?” He nodded. “I guess we should wake the others.”

No sooner than she said it, JJ stirred. They both crawled over to her. Her wake up process went much the same as Emily’s, but for the fact that the first thing she asked about was if her children were safe, before she’d come to enough to realize they had no way of knowing.

“Whoever this is likely targeted you while you were alone,” Spencer assured her. “It’s much safer to take a victim without witnesses, especially a victim who is trained to defend themselves and needs to be physically incapacitated.”

Next, they woke Rossi, who responded immediately by swearing up a storm and threatening to rip the head off whoever was responsible for this.

“Hey, Dave, it’s okay,” said JJ in a calming voice, even as she looked about to cry. “There’s nobody in here but us.”

He breathed. He nodded. He cursed again. He nodded again.

“At least I’m not alone this time,” he said with a world weariness that Spencer felt in his gut.

They had all been in situations like this before, but Rossi was barely recovered from the last time only a few months ago. Spencer still regret so deeply that he wasn’t there to help with Elias Voit.

“No, you’re not alone,” agreed Emily emphatically. “On that note, look who else is here,” she said.

“God fucking dammit,” cursed Rossi as his eyes swept over Derek and landed on Hotch.

Seeing Derek there was upsetting, but it wasn’t as jarring as Hotch’s presence. Derek still came along to the occasional social event, though less and less recently, as he was busy with the birth of his second child. Spencer personally still saw him once a month or so, though the past year their contact had been more limited to phone calls. They were all dreading having to watch him learn he’d been pulled into this nightmare, but if nothing else they could offer him the comfort of familiarity and camaraderie.

But Hotch… none of them had heard so much as a whisper from him in years. When he disappeared, he did so completely. It’s the kind of thing that would have wounded Spencer deeply under any other circumstances, but after everything Daniel Lewis aka Mr Scratch had put him through, he only ever hoped that Hotch had found every semblance of peace that life could give him. He’d missed him badly at times, but he would have rather they never meet again than have to meet like this.

They decided to wake Derek first.

Rossi nearly got a fist in the face before Derek pieced together what was happening. Then, he put a fist directly into a concrete wall instead.

“I’m going to regret that when the drugs wear off,” he said sheepishly once he’d calmed down just a bit. “Whatever they dosed us with, they did not skimp. The comedown is gonna suck,” he said, side eyeing Spencer, who pretended not to notice.

The question and answer was the same as with the others. Do you remember anything about who took you? No. Has anyone tried the door? Yes. Derek threw a shoe at the camera for good measure, but of course it just bounced off the plexiglass and landed pathetically on the floor.

The bang of it hitting the concrete was enough to make Hotch finally stir. They all turned to face him, staring helplessly.

His hair was longer than Spencer had ever seen it. Still short, but more relaxed, skimming the bottom of his ears and starting to curl a little at the base of his neck. He was still lean, but some of the muscle had been replaced by fat. He looked just a little softer. Healthier. His face was peaceful. Spencer always remembered him looking tense, even in his sleep. His hair was streaked with grey but somehow this was the youngest Spencer had ever seen him look.

He stirred a little more, blinking at last.

Ah, there was the familiar tension creeping its way back across his face.

Rossi was the one who finally knelt down beside him. “Aaron? I’m so sorry my friend,” he said sadly as recognition flashed in Hotch’s eyes.

“I’m dreaming,” came the familiar voice. Spencer had missed that voice more than he'd known.

Hotch closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. He looked past Rossi at the rest of them. Spencer raised his hand in a polite greeting, then immediately felt like an idiot for doing so.

“I’m not dreaming,” he said, no trace of emotion in his voice.

“I’m afraid not,” Rossi confirmed.

Hotch fixed his eyes on Rossi again, pushing himself up so he was sitting against the wall. He looked like he was staring at a ghost, trying to figure where the projector was. “When did you get so old?” he said, reaching out a hand to Rossi’s face and poking at it.

Rossi grabbed the offending hand and clasped it between both of his. “Careful. You’re no spring chicken yourself,” he joked.

“No,” said Hotch, still expressionless. “Peter Lewis is dead. This isn’t my life anymore. He’s dead. They told me he died. I saw photos of the body.”

Spencer didn’t know that, but judging by Rossi’s lack of surprise, he pieced together that the older man had likely made sure the witness protection people had passed the photos along.

“Scratch is dead,” Rossi confirmed. “Whoever did this, it’s not him.”

“This. Isn’t. Real,” Hotch insisted, the first sign of emotion entering his voice in the form of hysteria as he pulled his hand away from Rossi and scrambled to his feet. “All of you stay away from me!” he yelled, looking at each of them in turn.

JJ grabbed onto Spencer’s arm. He flinched at first, then put an arm around her and gave what he hoped was a comforting squeeze. Derek took a step towards Hotch, but Emily held him back.

Hotch backed into the corner, looking at them like a caged animal. They were all caged animals now, Spencer supposed. An unfortunately familiar role.

“Hotch,” Spencer said, surprising himself by speaking. They all turned to look at him. He couldn’t back away now. “This is real. I’m so sorry this is happening to you, but Penelope and the rest of our team aren’t here, which means they are out there looking for us. I know it doesn’t feel real. We have all been drugged and you are probably still feeling the effects. I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t real, but it is,” Spencer said kindly but emphatically.

“We’ll get out of this together,” said Emily. “It’s going to be okay.”

Hotch’s eyes were looking just a little clearer.

“Listen man, I know what you’re feeling. I got out, too, remember? I have a family and I don’t know if they’re alright. I’m right here with you. We’re all on your side. Do you believe me?” asked Derek, and this time Emily let him take a step forward.

Hotch looked around at all of them again. He assessed them carefully. Then, he turned to the corner, putting his back to them and his hand over his face. It was the closest thing he could get to privacy and Spencer was suddenly grateful to have woken up first to process all of this without being watched.

Well, except for the camera.

They all looked at the floor and did their best to give Hotch space. It was almost a full minute before he finally tuned back around.

There was that stoic expression that Spencer remembered. All that youth and peace was gone from his face in an instant. Spencer hoped so badly that it wasn’t gone for good.

“What do we know?” asked Hotch, crossing his arms.

A moment of silence passed and Spencer wondered if the rest of them felt their hearts breaking into pieces at this cruel facsimile of a reunion.

“Why don’t we start with the last thing each of us remembers?” said Emily, stepping up beside Hotch and looking back at the rest of the room, two natural leaders doing what they do best.

Each of them recounted the details they knew before they woke up in this room.

They had been going about their lives, nothing special. The only common thread they could find was that each of them was alone when their memories stopped.

Derek had been at a picnic with his family and the last thing he remembered was leaving to use the park bathroom. Emily on her way back from the gym. JJ heading out to get groceries. Rossi walking home late from a bar.

“I was driving to work,” said Hotch shortly.

“We’re going to need more detail than that if we want to put together a timeline,” prompted Rossi. "Where do you work?"

Hotch pursed his lips. Spencer could see him strategizing in his head. He wasn’t back in their lives by choice. Spencer understood.

He didn’t get it back when Gideon left, but he got it now. Once you let people in the door, it can be impossible to fully extricate them. Hotch’s old life was filled with trauma he was trying to leave behind and the team were living representations of that past. Spencer couldn’t bring himself to be hurt by the other man’s reticence.

“A legal consultancy in a small town in Kentucky,” he said reluctantly, like divulging the smallest part of his personal life meant inviting the entire FBI right back into it.

“That’s an 8 hour drive,” said Derek. “No wonder you were so out of it compared to the rest of us. You must have been dosed multiple times to keep you under that long.”

“I think you’re right,” he said. “I’m still a bit foggy, if I’m being honest,” he admitted quietly. “What about you, Reid?”

Spencer blinked. “I feel fine.”

“No, I mean what’s the last thing you remember?”

Oh. Right. “I went to sleep in my apartment, then I woke up here,” he said honestly. It wasn’t important what he was doing before he went to sleep.

“Since we can be fairly confident whoever this is took Hotch first,” said Emily, “That probably means they got to you last, Spence. They hit all of us in one day. They must have known the BAU had a day off after closing the last case. They would have had to hit us quick to avoid raising alarms.”

“And the fact that we were all grabbed at different times indicates we’re likely dealing with a single Unsub. Someone highly organized and familiar with each of our routines.”

“The Unsub must have been planning this for a long time. Finding someone in witness protection, especially a former profiler, would take an incredible amount of skill or resources,” said Spence. “They stalked us, learned our routines, then used blitz attacks to stop us from being able to fight back.”

It didn’t take long for them to get into the flow. He felt his panic slipping away as his brain shifted into work mode. At some point they all went from standing to sitting in a circle on the floor.

It felt ridiculous to think about, but Spencer couldn't help but be mildly self conscious being the only one of them in his pajamas, as he was taken in his sleep. He was just glad it was a cold night so he'd been wearing nice, full length ones and not boxers and a shirt or something to that affect. Derek, Emily and JJ were all dressed in comfortable day wear. Rossi and Hotch in suits. Hotch was interesting, though. Spencer had rarely seen him outside of a crisp black suit characteristic of an FBI agent. The one he wore now was navy with a striped tie. It looked good on him.

They put together a more detailed timeline and looked back on the past few months of their lives to discuss anything that could have possibly been out of the ordinary.

The more they talked, the less cagey Hotch was about his life. It was strange to learn more about the day to day he had been living in the years since they’d seen him.

None of them talked about their kids or partners beyond a simple acknowledgement of their existence. They were all acutely aware of the camera on the roof. Whoever was doing this didn’t need to know any more about their families than they already did.

Their phones had been taken and none of them had anything to write with, so they were relying on Spencer to catalogue and compile the information in his brain. He did just that, and after a couple hours they had what was likely a fairly reliable timeline, including geographical information.

Whoever was doing this, they were extremely organized, meticulous, and quick. Not one of them saw it coming. None of them could point to any strange interactions they had over the past months, any red flags, any signs of being followed.

When it came time for Spencer to recount the details of the last months of his life, the others stared at him intently. “I haven’t seen you in person in months,” said Derek. “You don’t look so great, pretty boy.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but the bunker we’re currently locked in isn’t making the rest of you look at your healthiest, either.”

“You know what I mean,” said Derek with an affectionate eyeroll.

“You know I was doing some classified work for the bureau. That’s why I couldn’t be there for what happened with Voit,” he said with an apologetic look to Rossi, who waved his hand dismissively. They had already been over this when Spencer first got back. He noticed Hotch raise a curious eyebrow. “I can’t talk about the work since we’re currently being recorded,” he said, nodding up at the camera. “Emily knows the details. It was nothing bad, just research that kept me out off the grid for a while. But if the Unsub could find Hotch in witness protection, then it’s possible they could have been tailing me for that long.”

“That finished months ago,” pointed out Emily. “What have you been doing while you’re on sabbatical?”

“A few guest lecture series at Virginia Tech and spending time with my mom, mostly. I just needed a break. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much. I guess I’ve been a bit distracted. I haven’t seen or experienced anything unusual, though.”

“I hope your mom’s doing okay,” said JJ comfortingly, prompting the rest of them to nod sympathetically.

He just nodded back. She was doing fine, honestly, not that he’d been visiting as often as he should. Easier to let them assume she was the reason he had been absent.

“Why are you doing this?” said Hotch, standing up and looking directly at the camera once they realized none of them had any more details to share at this point. “What do you want from us? Tell us what it is and maybe we can give it to you.”

The camera blinked its red light at them, showing no care for their presence.

Hotch sighed. He looked down at them all helplessly. His eyes stopped short on Derek. He knelt down, staring at something on the side of his head. “What?” asked Derek, leaning away in concern at Hotch’s suddenly very close face.

“Hold still,” said Hotch. He waved Emily over, who shuffled round to his side. “Right… there,” he said, hovering a finger just behind Derek’s ear.

Her eyes widened. Hotch looked at her questioningly, then turned his own head and tucked his hair away so that she could see behind his ear.

“You have it too,” she said. She did the same as him and he checked her over. They looked at each other again and he nodded.

They all stared at them expectantly, though Spencer was pretty sure he knew what they were seeing.

“Puncture marks at the top of the neck, just behind the ear,” Emily explained. “That’s where we were injected.”

Spencer, Rossi and JJ all checked each other. Sure enough, same thing.

“That means we were likely attacked from behind,” said Derek.

“Do we know what we were drugged with?” said Hotch, shooting an almost imperceptible glance in Spencer’s direction.

His skin crawled at the way none of them wanted to look at him, to just come right out and say it. He didn’t particularly want to talk about it. Not really. But they always acted like the subject was poison and it made him feel like he had to walk on eggshells too. Like the reality of his life was harder for them to hear than it was for him to live.

“I am fairly confident it was some kind of opioid,” he said, careful to keep the irritation out of his voice.

JJ put her hand on his and he felt the irritation dissipate.

They cared about him. He knew that. It’s not as if they were wrong to worry. They had talked about it a little over the years, but not enough that it had stopped being awkward every time it came up.

“Are you certain?” asked Rossi. “Could have been a tranquilizer.”

“I’m certain,” said Spencer. “Trust me, I know the feeling.”

Derek reached a foot across the circle and bumped it against Spencer’s knee in a supportive gesture, like saying ‘I’m here with you.’ Emily smiled at him softly, reassuringly.

“It could have been cut with something,” pointed out Hotch.

“The totality of the blackout indicates it may have been cut with a sedative of some kind, as a high enough dose of opioids to include that kind of memory loss reliably could be unsafe and none of us are suffering significant enough side effects to indicate that’s the case. Whoever did this knew exactly what dosage to use,” he explained. “But… I am quite sure it was predominantly an opioid.”

Of course he was sure.

“Jesus,” said JJ. “I’m sorry, Spence.”

“I don’t believe in fate but the universe does seem to have a strange way of conspiring to get you high,” deadpanned Emily.

Derek shot her a harsh look, but Spencer cracked a smile. “I think ‘an Unsub made me do it’ is going to start sounding like ‘a dog ate my homework’ to my sponsor,” he joked back, relief washing over him that they weren’t going to dance around it the entire time they were in here. Not that he’d spoken to his sponsor in more than a year. They didn’t need to know that.

The others smiled too. “You’ll be alright, kid,” said Rossi. “If you kept it together after Mexico, you’ll get through this.”

That would have been a comforting statement if not for the fact that it was completely false. It didn’t matter anyway. Penelope and the rest of the team would find them and get them out before any of this became an issue.

Or they wouldn’t. But he couldn’t think about that yet.

A crease sat deep between Hotch’s eyebrows. “Mexico?”

“You don’t know?” said Emily. “I just assumed you were across everything to do with the Scratch case.”

“No,” said Hotch. “I accepted proof of his death and told the liaison I didn’t want to know anything else.”

“It’s complicated,” said Rossi. “There were other players involved, but the short version is Reid was drugged and framed for murder. It wasn’t pretty.”

“We don’t need to go into the details,” said Spencer, oddly embarrassed at the idea of Hotch knowing just how prone to being victimized he apparently still is. He knew it wasn’t rational, given the things that had happened to Hotch and the fact that all of them were in this locked room as victims together.

Hotch looked at him. Spencer couldn’t read his expression at all. Eventually he just nodded and let it drop.

Before any of them could say another word, there was a banging at the door. The hatch on the other side of the door chamber opened.

Derek got to the door first, trying to rip the hatch on their side open. He shouted at the door “What do you want?! Talk to me! Just tell us what you want!”

There was no response.

The only thing they could see was a hand covered in a thick leather glove sliding a piece of paper in. It was a smaller hand than expected.

He continued pulling but the panel didn’t budge until the other one had closed completely. Derek stumbled backwards as the panel suddenly released.

“It’s soundproof,” Spencer said, despairing. “There was no sound of footsteps on the other side.”

Emily grabbed the note from the chamber. They all whipped around to watch her as she read the words aloud.

“Hello, old friends,” she started, all of them frozen in place and hanging off her every word. “I know you are wondering why you are here. It is simple. You dragged my secrets into the light and then put me in a cage. At first I wanted to get revenge. Then I watched you for a long time and I learned all about you and I learned that we are the same. I saw how you are suffering. How you are scared. All hiding. I remember when I had to hide. For so long I hid even from myself. Now, because of you, I am free. Even when I was in a cage, I was free, because I had no secrets anymore.

I want to give you the freedom you gave to me. Soon, you will not have secrets. You will see that in this room you cannot hide and that when there is nothing left to hide, you will be free.”

Emily looked up from the letter, meeting all of their eyes in turn. There was a painful lump in Spencer’s throat.

If he was being honest with himself, he knew it as soon as he woke up in this room and saw them all there. He knew they weren’t going to make it out in time. He knew the Unsub must have watched him closely enough to know what was going on with him. He knew he wasn’t making it out of this without all of them seeing him for exactly who he is.

Now, he thought, might be the time to fall apart.

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some-pers0n · 5 months

Text

A Curious Case of Curing the Cold

Fandom: TF2

Characters: Heavy, Medic (Engie's also here but he has like three lines)

CW: General sickness and illness (common flu), neglecting self needs, general manic Medic behaviour

Summary: Medic wakes up one morning with a cough. He does not like this. Not one bit. He's the Medic, he doesn't get sick. He'll do anything to get rid of it, despite what Heavy says.

Word Count: 4.0k

A/N: After like. two months of working on this on and off, here ya go. Medic manic episode sickfic oneshot. Here ya go.

It all began with a short, insignificant cough. He had been sat down in his lab, hunched over his work table with a steaming cup of coffee next to him. He'd woken up a couple of minutes ago and was slowly preparing for the day when suddenly he felt a little irritation in his throat. Build-up of some kind. So, he coughed. Expelling the gunk from his system and out into the air. Nothing more, nothing less.

To be honest? Medic would've chalked it up to it being from the doves roughhousing and kicking up dust. Perhaps it was a sign that he should clean up the infirmary. Or maybe it was whatever crud that was lodged in his lungs now being disturbed.

That's what he thought until he went to sip his coffee. The sweet aroma wafted around him, but when he tried taking a moment to sniff it, he snorted. He hadn't noticed that his nose was stuffed up. One nostril was blocked entirely, with the other one barely even being able to let the air through.

It was a downward spiral from there. Like tripping on the second step and crashing all the way down. Every feeling that could possibly be a symptom he was now hyper-aware of. An ache behind his eyes. A slight headache and feeling light-headed. He felt weaker than usual. His muscles were sore and the mere idea of going out to work made him dizzy.

He grabbed onto the table, nearly dropping his mug in shock. He held his head in his hands. It was warmer than usual, feeling some slight relief when pressed against his cold hand. "No," he cursed. "No, no, no... Hurensohn!" He smacked the table. "What do you mean?! How could this happen?"

Immediately upon his small outburst, he entered a coughing fit. Too much strain. He hacked and wheezed, spewing out god knows what from his body. He held his chest, trying to regain his composure. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face, trying to comprehend it.

Sick? How could he be sick? That isn't what's supposed to happen. He's the Medic! He is the one who tends to others; mostly by chucking whatever medication is close enough to what they need or using a borderline magical machine to heal them of their paper cuts and bullet wounds. He doesn't get sick. Being ill? That's for some lowly, weak-willed person. He's stronger than that. Better than that.

You know what? No. It's fine. Like he said, he had a machine that can heal the wounds of anybody. If it can fix up a man's entirely missing arm, bringing him back to health as though nothing had happened, surely it will heal whatever affliction he was cursed with.

He stumbled out into the lab. His precious medi-gun was hung up on the stand from a recent operation. He flicked on the switch, relief and hope rushing through him upon hearing the gentle whirling as it came to life. Medic twisted it around, pointing it directly at himself. The brilliant red beam connected with him. The power and energy of the healing ray shot through his system.

Yet, nothing. In fact, he sneezed only a moment after some painful silence.

Medic's expression faltered. "...wie bitte? Why aren't you working!?" he snapped. "Years you have worked for me, performing miracles and defying God's will, yet now you refuse to treat me?!" He grabbed it by the nozzle, shaking it as if that would somehow make it work.

Nothing. He did not feel better. If anything, the stress made him feel worse.

He pushed it away. "Fine. Be like that." He paced around his lab. Well, at least he made a new discovery. The medi-gun could bring a man back from the verge of death, reforming and reshaping the body back to its original state, sealing cuts and restructuring the muscle tissue and bone of arms that were chopped off or flew off in an explosion...but it could not kill a virus? Whatever infection or aliment that was festering within him?

Perhaps it could reform and heal wounds, patching them back up without issue, but it couldn't kill any sort of infection. It could fill in empty space, but cannot possibly destroy what may be harming the body at a cellular level.

Ough... Medic held his head again. Thinking and theorizing was tiring him out. Mixing that with the rampant pacing resulted in him being sapped of his energy.

Of all of the mercs, why was he the one to be sick? Well, perhaps some other ones had caught the bug, but him? He's too good for whatever this is. Ever since he was young, he hated being sick. Helpless and at the mercy of others. Might as well have been classified as some form of psychological torture to be bound to a bed all day. At least at that age, his parents were kind enough to get him textbooks and novels to read.

Now? He has a job! He has mercenary work during the day and possible experiments to conduct in the quiet hours of the night. He couldn't be bothered by books and research papers.

He can't be sick. This could not be happening. He needed to fix this. Now.

----

It was a long, long day for Heavy. Work was tireless and tedious with one member of the team missing. The Medic, no less. They lost their control over the Turbine district and had to come home with a resounding failure and a cut from their pay. He didn't let him affect it that much. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don't. Such is being a mercenary and working in this profession.

However, he couldn't help but notice the other teammates were feeling down. Not only by the loss, but were no doubt coming down with something. Scout had been complaining about his nose constantly being plugged and had been sneezing nonstop since the moment he got up. Spy had been coughing and hacking more than usual. Engineer was griping about having a headache. Even Heavy was feeling a bit more tired and weak.

So, what does he do? What normal men do when they see their fellow friends sick. Grab the bear shoulder he had gotten from a recent hunting trip out of the freezer and start making solyanka. Thick and hearty soup that warms the soul when it's unwell.

Cooking was an outlet of Heavy. He learned how to help around the kitchen when he was young, chopping and peeling vegetables and searing meat along with his mother. Many hands were needed to give everyone a meal to eat. Once they escaped the gulag, he often found himself being the main breadwinner. Going out, retrieving enough bear meat to last them several months, before then making whatever it was they felt. Kotlety, shashlik, sometimes just heating up the meat over a fire and eating it off the bone.

He'd been working on the broth all night. The base smelt of rich meat, mushrooms, and cabbage brine. He was now pouring out a bowl for himself when he heard another voice.

"Hey, mind if I get some too? Don't think you're hogging the whole thing to yourself now." Heavy turned to see Engie standing in the doorway, arms folded and leaning against the frame.

"Heavy made soup for everyone," he said.

"I know, just lightly teasin'." Engie's expression soured. "I tried getting the doc to come out, but no dice. Thought telling him that you're making something would bring him out. Not a chance though. Deep in whatever it is he's doin'. Said that he doesn't want to see anybody until 'it's perfect', whatever that means. Ah well. His loss."

"You think he is sick as well?"

He looked back at him. "I mean, I dunno why else he'd be like this. Nothing really set him off. Come to think of it, haven't really seen him sick...ever." He chuckled. "He'll come out eventually though. Maybe. I mean, I've been like that. So focused on something you just don't wanna leave it for even a second. But, eventually, you finish it and then, uh-oh, a couple day's worth of exhaustion knocks you right out." He let out a nice, hearty laugh. "Ahh...never too great. Always worth it though in the end. Making somethin' beautiful."

Heavy blinked. "I see..." he muttered. He poured the rich soup into another bowl, placed in a spoon, and handed it to him. "Here."

Engie grabbed it, taking a whiff. "Whoo-ie, that's one mean stew you've got there. Thank you, big guy." He grinned. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be taking this back to my lil' workshop. I'll tell the other boys you're done with the stew. I think they've been looking forward to it."

Heavy cracked a smile. "Many thanks." He grabbed another bowl. "Heavy will give it to doctor."

"You're gonna try and talk him into eating?" Engie snickered. "Alright. Best of luck with ya there, big guy." Engie tipped his head and then walked out of sight, leaving Heavy to himself. He looked back at the bowl, let out a long sigh, and then picked it up before going out into the base itself.

It wasn't uncommon for Medic to lock himself in his lab for hours. Heavy had seen him stay in there for hours, days, once or twice over a week. Staying in there to do god knows what. Whenever he'd crawl back out, he'd go on a long rant to whoever was closest and explain his newest medical achievement. Rambling and raving about how he "once again surpassed the bounds of which humans were meant to accomplish". Usually, it involved some random person he plucked off the streets of Teufort being subjected to an impromptu lobotomy or being injected with some solution meant to have the body simulate rigor mortis, with Medic coming out having learned something apparently.

Heavy found it endearing. He knew enough about anatomy and physiology to get the basic idea, but the actual accomplishment wasn't nearly as captivating as how Medic explained it. Overtired, bags under his red eyes, breath reeking of coffee, clothes stained with blood and gore. Despite it all, he'd rave about his grand victory in medical science with such enthusiasm and manic thrill. Waving his arms around and so incredibly happy to be sharing this moment with somebody else.

When Heavy came here for mercenary work, the last thing he'd thought was that it would be anywhere near entertaining like this. Making nice memories with the fellow men he worked with. One of them was coming out to the kitchen for a late-night snack, only to see Medic raiding the cabinets and causing a mess. Heavy called out to him, only for Medic to turn around, staring him down like a rabid animal spotting the closest thing to prey.

They then spent the next couple of hours sitting at the table, with Medic going on and on about how he's been experimenting with the rabies virus. He found that Soldier's little raccoon friends carried it and went wild trying to isolate it and test it on random things, including himself. He managed to survive through his own makeshift vaccine full of the virus, dirt, loose change, a bird feather, and who knows what else, but that's not terribly important.

Medic was an interesting case. A man so passionate about science and eager to do anything for his cause. Not simply that, but watching him on the battlefield. So engrossed in the violence and mayhem. Joining in the fun of mocking the other team in slaughtering them like weak cowards, while also losing what little patience he had for his own team. It was infectious to see him express these emotions.

He cared about him. Odd to say that about a man who kills people for a living and makes it exceptionally clear that he enjoys completely disregarding any sort of medical code, but it's true. On some level, he wanted to see his doctor well.

He paused in front of the doors to the medical infirmary. The sign above read "Closed", yet Heavy could hear Medic inside. Faint whispers and the soft sounds of clinking glass. Through the doors, he couldn't make out the words, but he still figured it was enough of a sign that Medic was awake and possibly able to have dinner.

Heavy knocked. "Hello?" he began, "I've brought bowl of solyanka. Fresh and warm. Would you like some?"

No response. Not even a slight pause in Medic's murmurs that at least gave Heavy the idea that he was listening. He tried pulling on the door handle. It let out a distinct clunk as it refused to open. Locked.

Heavy knocked. "Medic? Would you like bowl of stew?"

Nothing but the same old clattering of glass and soft mumbling.

Maybe Engineer was right. Perhaps there was no way he could exactly get to him. It was worth a shot anyway. He'll simply eat the stew himself. Heavy had just turned around to walk away when...he heard something.

Stillness. So quiet that one could hear a pin drop. Then, the sound of light, if a bit deafened, manic giggling. It bubbled and boiled over into full-on laughter. Heavy stood there, holding the bowl, not quite sure what to make of it. He seemed...happy? Then again, with Medic, laughter could either mean he's just completed something delightfully twisted or is on the brink of tearing somebody's jugular out. Hopefully, it's the former.

Eventually Heavy heard footsteps rapidly approaching him. The jingling of the door before it clicked open. Standing before him was Medic.

He was a wreck. There wasn't exactly a better way to put it than that. His hair was unkempt, curly and messy. His glasses rested upon his rosy red nose. His eyes were sunken and he smelt faintly of sweat and blood. He was wearing a white dress shirt stained with blood along with pyjama bottoms, little diagrams of anatomically correct organs dotted on them.

He looked at Heavy. A crooked smile was etched into his face. His eyes were wide, locking onto him like he had finally found a target. That familiar manic look.

"Heavy!" Medic cooed. "Oh, it's so nice to see you." His voice was hoarse and scratchy.

"Da, yes. Is nice." Heavy glanced back into the lab. "What has doctor been doing?"

"Excellent question!" Without so much as a warning, Medic grabbed him by the hand, practically dragging him inside. He nearly dropped the bowl in the process. Before he knew it, he was inside the lab, still stuck with the solyanka.

To say it was a disaster would be an understatement. It was as though a tornado had ravaged through, throwing all of the supplies up and across the room. It was in utter disarray. Papers strewn across the desks and operating table. Several coffee mugs resting on various pieces of equipment, the contents inside now tepid. The dim lighting heightened the feeling of unease that flowed through Heavy.

What caught his eye however was a rolling chalkboard. On it were incomprehensible and mad scribbles. Numbers and formulas that were cut off halfway through. Doodles of viruses and bacteria cells. Scrawl of words that fluctuated between German and English.

"I've been busy, mein Freund." Medic appeared beside Heavy. He walked in front of the chalkboard, giggling to himself. "I assume you can gleam the basic idea, no?"

He looked at what was virtually just archaic symbols. "Uh..."

"So you would understand that what I'm trying to accomplish here is some sort of cure for this blasted affliction I've been cursed with."

He squinted a bit. Medic's handwriting was never that great to begin with. Manic episodes only exasperated that issue. For what was completely legible to Medic was little more than a random assortment of lines.

Before he could respond, Medic continued. "It's quite a simple process, really. I wrote down all of my symptoms. Headache, fatigue, sore thro–" Suddenly, he entered a coughing fit. He held his chest as he coughed into the crook of his elbow. "And, of course, the coughing. All common flu symptoms, no?"

"Yes?–"

"Perfekt! However, you'd be mistaken there. I have reason to believe that, no, this is not a normal cold."

"...is not?"

"Of course! You feel it too, don't you?" he asked. "The pathogen floating through your veins. You've encountered many diseases like it, but ah, no, that's where you're wrong." Medic turned back to the chalkboard, putting extra weight on his spin for dramatic effect. "I have reason to believe that this is not any simple cold, but rather the result of a bioweapon. BLU is trying to kill us."

Heavy blinked. "What."

Medic glanced back. "You seem surprised."

"Do you have proof of this theory?" Heavy placed down the bowl of solyanka onto a table. "Anything?"

He blinked. "Is it not enough to be suspicious of the fact that I get sick all of a sudden?"

"It is not just you, either. Whole team is sick."

"Ah, well, that further confirms it. BLU is trying to sabotage us. I wouldn't expect anything less than this. Perhaps their Medic had created something of this ilk..." He grumbled, the faint shadow of a smile forming on his face. "When I've recovered, oh-hoh, they won't know what hit them. Like they always say, all's fair in war, and 'war crimes' simply do nothing but halt progress and kill innocent men in slightly less gruesome ways."

Despite having a doctorate in Russian literature, Heavy had never heard that phrase before. Perhaps it was of German origin, with them being prone to some odd sayings, yet somehow he doubted it.

Medic adjusted his glasses. "Regardless, I refuse to be sick."

"I can see."

"Which is why I've dedicated several hours to isolating a sample of this virus in order to study it and create a cure of sorts."

"...you what."

"One moment." He pushed past Heavy and approached the mini-fridge next to the operating table. He rummaged around for a moment before saying, "ah, here we are!" He stood up, proudly presenting a jar.

Inside was something otherworldly. He almost thought it was some sort of alien creature before realizing it was a virus. Trapped in the jar was a cell the size of a football. It had the texture of styrofoam and sloshed around with every minor movement. It had nubs sprouting in all directions.

"Behold, yet another medical achievement!" Medic giggled, pressing the jar up to his face. "By virtue of my own genius design– and lightly borrowing some equipment from Herr Engineer's workshop whilst you were on the battlefield– I've created a method in which to stimulate incredible amounts of growth within a cell. Within hours, it has gone from a fraction of a micrometre to, well, this!" He laughed as he shook it around. His eyes were transfixed on the virus. A wide, crooked smile was etched into his face.

Heavy stared at it. "And why was growing cell...necessary?"

"Excellent question, mein Freund!" He placed the jar down on an operating table, fidgeting around and trying to get supplies. "Now, while it may seem like the average influenza virus at first glance, I assure you that it is anything but ordinary. Like I said, deadly bioweapon most likely used by BLU to kill us."

"Which you do not have proof of."

"Komm schon," he scoffed, "would you believe that this could be some natural disease that just happened upon us?"

"Is not just the flu?" Heavy asked. "Little man said a few days ago he had gone to Teufort. Perhaps he had gotten sick then–"

"While I suppose Scout could have been patient zero, having spread it through the base at a rapid pace with his nonstop chattering, I still have doubts."

"Of course you do."

"Until suggests otherwise, it is a bioweapon. Thus, I shall unravel its insides and attempt to deconstruct its genetic material via surgery."

"Medic is doing what now?" Heavy bluntly said.

"I am doing surgery on the–"

"I heard that part. Why are you–"

"Because I have to!" he snapped. "Figuring out how it functions at a genetic level and I could perhaps create a new virus of sorts that's specially equipped to fend it off is the fastest way for me to be rid of it! Do you think I want to be like this!? I-" He went into another coughing fit, hacking and wheezing for air. "I cannot be sick," he grimly said.

Heavy sighed. He looked at Medic for a while. He wanted to help, but was unsure of how. He could stand there for emotional support (or perhaps as a vessel for him to ramble to), but that wasn't doing anything. He was simply indulging in this self-destructive behaviour.

He glanced at the table. The bowl of solyanka rested on it, pillars of steam twisting around in the air. "When you are done, you will eat stew. Is good for heart and soul." He gestured to the bowl.

"Unsure about that, but, yes, I suppose when I'm finished with this operation I will eat. Haven't had a proper meal all day; unless you were to count the sixteen or so cups of coffee as 'food'."

"No."

"Tja. It's fine." Medic rolled up his sleeves, not bothering to put on gloves. "Now, finally, I can work! Hours of preparation all for this moment." He unscrewed the lid of the jar. It hissed as the pressure released. "I'm fairly certain it'll do the trick." He gave a small smile, gesturing Heavy over. "Come, come! Watch. Not too closely, but near enough to see. Breathing too hard might make it explode."

He complied, walking over to stand near him. He watched as Medic lifted up the lid and haphazardly dumped the contents of it out onto a tray. Hazy grey water splashed onto the floor. By the end, the cell sat in a small puddle of its juices. Heavy noticed however it lost some structure. It was flattening a fair bit.

"That's to be expected. Cells are not exactly the densest thing in the world," Medic said. "But, nothing to worry about, I'm sure." He grabbed a scalpel. "Now, all I need to do is make a small incision and–"

It was an odd sound. The moment that Medic had poked at it, it released a small, whisper of a hiss. Air being released into the surroundings. With it, it began to deflate. Like a sad, old balloon, it shrunk and shrivelled up. Within seconds, it was flattened. Small bits and pieces of cytoplasm and whatever other contents inside spilled out into the water. Yet, even that began to dissolve. The bits and pieces broke up. Within seconds, they were gone. All that they were left with was the corpse of a cell.

Medic was still. He had not moved an inch since the process began. His eyes were wide, unblinking. His chest was still. Slowly, he moved. His hands shook. His mouth quivered as he let out short, feeble breaths.

He dropped the scalpel. "Ich bin erschöpft," he said in a tired, strained voice. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. "It has been a long, long day, Heavy... Hours of work, gone in seconds." He weakly laughed. "I need to sit down."

Heavy was a bit surprised to see that Medic wasn't busy flipping over a table or curled up on the floor and crying with laughter. To see him crash? It was unpredicted, but understandable.

He placed a hand on Medic's shoulder, giving him a small pat. "Will doctor eat now?"

"...ja. I'll do it." He exhaled as he looked up at Heavy. That glint his eyes held just moments ago was absent. He'd come back down. All it took was for his experiment to fail to regulate him.

He pulled two chairs and sat down, Medic following soon. He grabbed the solyanka and took a sip of the broth. "Oh. Ooh!" He took another spoonful. "Why didn't you tell me this was so good?"

"I–"

"Never mind that. It's perfekt! Danke schöen." His face lifted into a warm, content grin.

"Like Heavy said, solyanka helps with the heart and soul." He cracked a small smile. He was simply happy to see his doctor happy and healthy.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #heavymedic #tf2 fanfiction #sickfic #SP-writing #I'm going to bed now honk shoo honk mimimimi

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