2twinveggies Headcanons

There are times where Junior’s propensity for inactivity irritates Diwa into a state of passive aggressive silence punctuated by slamming drawers and heavily placing objects. But, during moments like this, when really neither of them need to be busying themselves with mundane chores or tiresome responsibilities, Diwa finds herself appreciating that Junior’s most natural state is horizontal. On the comfort of their couch, she can sink her weight into him, slotting her limbs and jutting hips into the divots and curves of his body, merging into him as much as the confines of physics will allow. Every breath Junior takes, Diwa’s body moves in tandem, rising and falling; his thoughtless act of breathing, of living, influencing where she spatially exists. With her head resting where his chest meets his clavicle, she can both see and feel the essence of life running through him. If she closes her eyes, her body begins to thrum in tandem with his beating heart, vibrating and throbbing with a pleasant sensation indicative of not only the warm life of his body, but also their irrevocable, undeniable connection. Like this, she knows that if his heart were to stop, if his body went still, hers would too, so tied are they. 

Eyes open, she can see his vitality in the faint blue paths curving beneath membranes of pale skin. When she looks closely enough, tracing her fingertip along the blue lines with the precision of a surgeon, she swears she can see the blood pumping through his veins. If only she could feel the movement of his blood within him. Really feel it. Not just the rhythm of his heartbeat, but the sticky heat of that which keeps him alive. If only she could have it on her skin, coating her, protecting her. On her tongue. Tasting him. Oh, how she loves the taste of him. To have part of him linger on her taste buds, changing the taste of everything that comes next. But his saliva, his sweat, his semen, they aren’t enough. They’re bodily and they’re him, but they aren’t the reason he’s alive. They aren’t the reason Diwa’s body throbs like this. 

Diwa’s fingertip strays off the arterial path, looping into a messy cursive as they spell their own name on his skin, so ephemeral that no mark remains. Junior’s arm, curved around Diwa’s shoulders, gives a light squeeze in response. Diwa stares perturbed at Junior’s unmarked skin. Of course, their light touch isn’t going to leave anything noticeable, but shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t there be something there to signify that his body is as much part of theirs as their body is his? They push their fingertip hard against a hickey they left beneath his right collarbone, and he makes a displeased noise in response, twitching his shoulder slightly. Hickeys. Also ephemeral. There should be something permanent. He is hers. Forever and ever. So, why can’t she see that when she looks at his body? When she separates her body from his, which she inevitably will have to do, whether for dinner or some other stupidly human reason, there will be no indicator that they are one. How revolting. 

“Junior?” they say quietly with an unsure inflection, raising their head to look at his face. His eyes are peacefully closed, a small, absent smile hooking the edge of his lips. 

 “Mmm?” he hums in response. He doesn’t move. 

“Junior,” they say again. Their voice is hushed, a tight strain in their throat as the fear of him slipping away latches onto their thoughts. They could be separated. They could be separated. “You love me, right?”

Junior wraps his other arm around her and gives her another squeeze as he says, “Always.”

His tone is lazily loving. So casual. As if this is an unremarkable concern and not a carnal matter of life and death. 

Diwa shifts, wanting a better view of his face. They fold their arms over his chest, careful not to dig their elbows into tender muscle. They absently tap a finger against his skin, wanting to leave a permanent mark on him.

“Will you prove it?” she asks. Her gaze narrows in on his face, eyes unblinking and carnivorous. 

Junior opens one eye to look at her, a slight frown creasing his brows. “How?”

The frown. What if he says no? What if he doesn’t really love her?

“Would you get a tattoo of my name?”

There’s a beat of silence that feels like an eternity, though in reality, it’s less than a second. “Sure,” he says, letting his open eye fall closed again. 

Diwa’s heart jolts. So readily he agrees to have her name on his skin. But, a tattoo isn’t what she wants. Not really. Anyone can get a tattoo. She has plenty of tattoos of her own, decorating and adorning her skin, making her body more comfortable to live in. If Junior only agreed to a tattoo, she would do it herself, just as she had done her own, but even with that personal touch, a tattoo seems too detached. Too removable. Sure, without the assistance of magic, the process of removing a tattoo is painful and grueling, but most can be removed. Or they could be covered. No, she wants something more permanent. Something he can never get rid of.

“What about a scar?” she asks.

Junior silently processes the question. At the other end of the couch, he sways his foot lazily, unfazed by Diwa’s proposition. “Like you carve your name into my skin?”

“Not as crude as that,” they say. They don’t know much about scarification, but they’re fairly certain it’s more delicate and thoughtful than carving. They’re not trying to butcher him, cut him apart like a piece of meat. They want to adorn him. They want him to wear their name.

After another beat of silence, he asks, “Will it hurt?”

The question tastes bitter. If he loves her, shouldn’t he be willing to endure pain for her? Shouldn’t the pain be part of the experience? At the same time, she doesn’t want him to suffer.

“It doesn’t have to,” she says quietly.

Junior shrugs, “The answer is yes either way.” 

“Do you want to fight?” Justin blinked, looking up from the sudoku puzzle he was working on, hair falling into his face. 

“What?” “Do you,” Tally repeated, pausing between the phrase, “want to fight?” 

Justin shifted to face her from his spot on the couch, Archie snoozing lightly next to him. Cat and Guy were out doing something, and Tally had opted to work on her current case on his living room floor. Better floor-space, she had claimed the first time she had done so. 

“Like, vocally, or physically?” “Physically.” Tally said, jumping up and dusting off her jeans. 

“Why?” he asked with a chuckle. 

“Afraid I’ll beat you?” She challenged with a grin. 

Justin scoffed, standing up. “You couldn’t beat me when we were teenagers, what makes you think you can beat me now?” It was Tally’s turn to scoff. “Excuse you,” She corrected. “There were several times you and your buddies ‘tactically retreated’” she said, framing the last part in air quotes. “Also, you’re a teacher now.” 

He laughed, “What is that supposed to mean?” He asked. “You don’t think I kept up with it?” “There’s no way you are in the same shape.” She argued. “And you are?” Tally shrugged, “I fight more than you on the daily.” she said, gesturing down to the papers sprawled on the floor. 

Justin shook his head. “C’mon,” he said, gesturing to the door. 

“Oh are you running away?” Tally teased. 

Justin smirked. “No,” he said as he opened the door. “I just don’t want to break a window. We’re going to the roof.” Tally grinned, cracking her knuckles before following him out. 

—----------------------------

“Did you forget that stint I did as Batman for a hot second?” Justin asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet as Tally rolled her neck in preparation. 

Tally shrugged. “Lifetime ago, Juice,” she reasoned. “A lifetime.” 

“So are there any ground rul-” Justin began to ask, before promptly ducking a swing from Tally. “-Hey!” he shouted, spinning around as Tally readjusted herself, grin on her face. Justin matched her grin with his own, “Guess not,” 

Tally lunged again, this time with a roundhouse kick to Justin’s side, to which he blocked with his forearm. He responded with a punch of his own, to Tally’s cheek. She ducked under it and hit him with a gut punch. But Justin was anticipating it and blocked. He had fought Tally many times before, and she was still up to the same tricks. 

“You’re predictable.” He said as she spun around him. 

“And you have a blind spot,” She replied before her fist clipped his jaw. Justin let himself fall to the ground while hooking his leg around hers, causing her to stumble backwards. 

“And you’re overconfident,” He quipped back with a grin as Tally righted herself. He had to admit, this was making the same adrenaline rush over him, just the way it did when he was still Foot. But this was…different. There was no looming doom about it, it felt almost like he was back training with this squadron, back with Carter, Miller, and Bauer. Justin had always found solace in training; it was the only thing he had to concentrate on in those moments. Back then, he didn’t have to think about missions, or lies, or feelings-he only had to think about his body, and the task at hand. Now, there is considerably less stress in his life. Well, there was still stress: lesson planning, curriculum navigation and general child welfare, but no one was going to die. 

And that felt nice. 

It was Justin’s turn to go for a kick to the ribs, which caught Tally off guard. She grunted when his shin collided with her side, but pivoted to spin so that she was behind him. She went for his kidneys,but Justin rolled away in time before spinning himself and almost landing a punch on her jaw. 

“Okay,” Tally grinned, as she blocked it. “I admit it, you’re still in shape.” Justin grinned back “Duh,” He said as he blocked her next hit. “Gotta keep this temple in shape.” 

Tally danced back and laughed. “Finally leaning into the hot teacher of it all, huh?” Justin shrugged, “I’m warming up to the idea.”  he said, subconsciously reaching for the place that his throwing knives would have been in his previous life. He had suspected that Tally would have lunged again by now, but she was biding her time. 

She had grown in her technique, he realized with a realization of pride. 

Just then, she lunged. 

Not too much growth then, he thought, as he promptly flipped her to the ground. He winced as he heard the air get knocked out of her

“Ouch-” She groaned as she rolled up, clutching her left hand. 

“Shit-ouch, sorry,” Justin apologized, clocking Tally’s pinky, which was not at an angle a pinky should be at.

“Comes with the territory,” She winced, getting to her feet. The fight was over, they both concluded. 

Justin took her hand gingerly to examine it. She winced. He pressed gently where the finger was bruising. Definitely broken, but not shattered. 

“C’mon.” He said, leading her toward the roof door. “I’ve got some splints and can reset it for you.” “You know I’ve broken this specific pinky like four times?” she asked as she trotted down the stairs in front of him, as he closed the door to the roof. 

Miss Kathleen Stewart considers herself a level headed young woman. Graduating teacher’s college at the top of her class, and landing a position at an esteemed Chicago school right away was a feather in her cap.

Her students were, for the most part, bright and willing to learn. But the rambunctious, chattering few were a challenge, she told herself, reminding herself that that’s what she got for choosing to teach fourth grade.

Miss Stewart loved her students, even the troublemakers. She can handle them.

“Oh, Kathie, you can’t discipline these kids,” a colleague once told her. “Don’t you know who their parents are?”

That’s what she got for teaching at a prestigious private school - self-involved parents, who think they know better.

“My job is to make sure my students succeed, not to make their parents happy,” she had replied in the most diplomatic tone she could muster.

The tittering laughter of the teachers lounge echoes in her mind as she welcomes parents into her classroom for parent-teacher conferences.

Some parents want more focus on the history of hunting, more practical training, and less modern issues.

Miss Stewart has been patient, outlining her curriculum and concerns regarding each student to the disparaging reactions of their parents.

She’s about at her rope’s end when Nolan Rivers’ parents arrive, partway down the alphabet.

They’re prompt, waiting outside her classroom with a surly Nolan, his John Deere hat pulled low over his face. It’s clear the man, knees tucked comically almost up to his shoulders in the children’s sized chair, sitting next to him in a near identical hat is his father.

If Nolan’s dad looks too young to have a fourth grader, his mother looks like she shouldn’t have any kids at all.

Doctor Rachkova - other teachers had warned Miss Stewart about her - is on her phone, the clack of her heels echoing on the tile as she paces, a worn Birkin bag on one arm. She can’t be more than 20, about Miss Stewart’s own age, but she’s reminded of bits of gossip, of how Doctor Rachkova, and her children, don’t age the same as other humans.

Miss Stewart clears her throat.

Nolan’s head snaps up; he sinks further into his seat as his father stands, shaking out his legs a bit.

“You must be Miss Stewart,” he says, his voice a gentle rumble. “I’m Lucas Rivers, Nolan’s dad. Please um, pardon my wife,” he says with obvious pride, “She’s just dealing with a um, situation over at her lab.”

“That’s no problem Mr. Rivers,” Miss Stewart replies, as Dr. Rachkova snaps at the person on the other end of the line, abruptly ending the call. “Come on in.”

“Nolan, stay here,” Dr. Rachkova says, leaning over to kiss the top of her son’s head, striding into the classroom ahead of her husband.

Miss Stewart sits behind her desk, fidgeting with a loc draped over her chest before pushing it behind her shoulder with the rest, as Nolan’s parents sit in the adult-sized chairs she’d brought into the room.

“Please tell me Nolan isn’t causing any trouble,” Dr Rachkova says without preamble. Miss Stewart is impressed by her brashness; she knows she probably won’t be happy with the answer.

“I’m afraid I can’t say that,” Miss Stewart says slowly, as the doctor tips her head back.

“He’s an active little guy, he needs to move to focus,” Mr. Rivers says thoughtfully, “Not like Auggie.”

“August takes more after me,” Dr. Rachkova explains, as Miss Stewart wracks her brain for who August is.

All she does is nod.

“I just want Nolan to be able to succeed. If he’s being disruptive, I want you to tell him. Find a way where he learns best,” Dr. Rachkova says firmly, surprising the teacher.

“We’ll do what you recommend, Miss Stewart,” her husband adds.

At a loss for words, Miss Stewart nods.

The Rachkov-Rivers listen as she lays out Nolan’s grades, and her plan for channeling his mischievous nature into focus, and better relationships with other students.

“Sound plans Miss Stewart,” Dr. Rachkova says, “You let us know how we can help from home.”

Miss Stewart only nods at the scientist, standing from her chair to collect her designer bag, her husband rising as well, tipping his cap back a little.

“It was nice to meet you both,” she says, opening the classroom door. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks, Miss S,” Mr. Rivers says with a smile, Nolan leaping to his feet as they leave.

“Am I in trouble?” he asks suspiciously, as his mother takes his hand.

“It’s so fucking coldd,” the demon whines, clutching Anya’s arm as they walk down the trodden dirt paths between the apple trees. “I hate fall.”

“But you look amazing,” Anya replies, stopping to give her friend a thorough once over. “The jacket, it’s perfect,” she says, touching the black leather of the oversized coat. The midriff-baring long sleeve top doesn’t look very warm, and the mini skirt underneath leaves Chloe’s long legs exposed to the brisk October breezes, and her red knees knock together.

“You can wear my sweater if you’re cold, Chloe,” Lucas pipes up from Anya’s other side, one hand holding Anya’s, the other adjusting his cap as his cheeks flush.

“Thanks Lu, but it doesn’t like, really go with the rest of my outfit,” Chloe replies, leaning around her friend as they walk. Anya laughs dryly, tugging on Lucas’ hand.

“You’re too thoughtful, baby,” she teases, leaning up to give him a kiss. “I’ll wear your sweater later,” she adds slyly, and both women watch the blush creep over Lucas’ face. 

“Uh, I’ll um, go get us a basket,” he stammers, heading over to the table in the front of the barn to pay for the pick-your-own-apples. 

Anya sighs and holds Chloe’s hand, blue eyes watching her husband walk away from them.  

“Girl, thirsty,” Chloe says appreciatively at the dreamy expression on her friend’s face. “How are your legs not freezing?” she finally asks, looking down at Anya’s bare legs. 

“I’m Russian,” Anya replies, brushing a manicured hand over the tartan mini skirt, pulling out her phone from her designer bag. “Ok, go stand by that tree and I’ll get some photos before Lucas comes back and we go pick fruit.” 

Chloe shoves her hands in the pockets of her jacket, sticks her tongue out and winks, leaning forward as Anya snaps photo after photo.

“Chlo, turn around,” she directs, crouching in her platform leather boots to get Chloe’s best angles. “We should set up a fall themed shoot for your OnlyFans. Bend over a little? No kids are looking - yes, wow you’re so hot.”

“Well I’m still fuckingg freezing,” Chloe complains, doing as Anya says. “But you’re like, totally right. I could do like, a little apron or something.”

“Sexy,” Anya agrees, flipping through the pictures.

“Your turn Stas!” the demon chirps, making grabby hands at Anya’s phone as the dolgozhi passes it over. “Gorgeeouss,” Chloe cheers, as Lucas comes back with a bushel barrel.

“Wow Doc,” Lucas says, looking over Chloe’s shoulder. “You look so beautiful!”

Anya’s expression turns Grinchly, blowing a kiss to him over Chloe’s shoulder, her wedding bands glinting on her finger. Chloe’s thumb hits the capture button over and over again as Anya poses suggestively, the flush deepening on Lucas’ cheeks as she leans forward.

“Chlo, come here,” she calls, gesturing for Lucas to take the phone. “Baby, can you take a few of us?”

He smiles boyishly, setting down the apple baskets to take the phone from Chloe, tipping his hat up.

“Of course,” he says, “Uh, smile!”

Soap bubbles drip off the edges of brightly coloured children’s dishes into the dirty sink as Amy moves her fingers through the lukewarm water, searching for the drain. A scream echoes down the hall, rattling through the speakers of the baby monitor on the counter, startling her into action.

She moves as if on automatic, drying her hands with a dish towel - one of the linen ones his parents had got them for a wedding gift - tossing it over her shoulder, making her way down the hallway to the girls’ room.

“Hey Barb,” she says gently, reaching for her youngest daughter in the crib. All pink wrinkles and angry fists, with a tuft of strawberry blonde hair atop her head, Barbie howls as she is lifted into her mother’s arms. 

Barbie’s screams have woken Darcy, laying still in her bed, surrounded by pink sheets. The room is silent except for Amy’s empty words of reassurance and Barbie’s screams. 

Bouncing her daughter in her arms, Amy watches the moonlight filter through white curtains, revealing the tint of Rivers red of Barbie’s hair as she strokes back the downy curls.

“Mama?” Darcy asks from her bed, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “I want Daddy.”

Amy nods, swaying on the spot as Barbie calms, hiccoughing cries fading to a whine.

“I know baby,” she says softly, padding towards the little bed to sit on the edge, Darcy curling into her side. “Daddy won’t be coming home.”

The doorbell rings, startling the three - Barbie’s cries resume at full volume, Darcy’s worried mouth splits into a smile, and Amy’s heart drops. 

The last time the doorbell rang past 9pm it had been just the other night, when the police came with the news of Stephen’s death.

Holding Barbie in her arms, and hurrying down the hallway as Darcy toddles along, racing for the door, her small hands grabbing for the person she hopes is on the other side.

“Darce, get back baby,” Amy sighs, crouching carefully to pull her child away, as they hear the click of a key in the door. She steps back with the girls as the door opens slowly, and a familiar blonde head pokes in.

“Amy?”

“Jamie,” she sighs, shoulders sagging. Behind her, Darcy claps her hands in excitement as her aunt steps into the apartment.

“Sorry we’re late,” she says gently, bouquet of lilies in hand with a takeout bag on her arm. “We like, had to stop for dinner.”

“We weren’t sure if you’ve eaten at all,” her brother says, ducking through the doorway. Smokey grins sheepishly, Teddy held in one arm, the baby carrier with little Huey in the other. 

Amy shrugs as Darcy is embraced by Jamie, and she rocks Barbie, quieting the second round of screaming in the embrace of the two friends.

“She just knows her grandmama’s been left behind.”

Amy’s breath catches in her throat as her mother comes through the door behind Smokey, duffel bags in hand. Meredith sets the bags down, as Jamie kisses Amy’s cheek, taking the bags into the living area.

“Mama,” Amy sighs, “It’s good to see you.”

Meredith opens her arms, as daughter and granddaughter step into the hug.

“We left as soon as we heard about Stephen, baby,” she says softly, pulling Amy’s forehead to hers. “I’m so sorry.”

Amy nods, resting her head against her mother’s. Barbie wails, and Meredith tuts, taking the baby in her capable arms.

“Smokey, come get these bags,” Ted calls from the doorway. 

“One sec,” Smokey replies from the couch, rocking Huey’s carrier gently on the floor with his foot, while Darcy and Teddy curl up on his chest. 

“Oh, Daddy, I can help,” Amy says quickly, going to get the rest of the bags. Her father shakes his head, setting them down in the entryway for Smokey to take into the apartment.