Augs

I am a salmon.

I’m migrating and I’m homebound.

Wynston Hart didn’t use to like the colour yellow. He’d hated the way the studio walls were doused in the colour, floor to ceiling. He’d wrinkled his nose at it as he stood before the microphone; newfangled technology for the time, but he’d seen far better in the decades to come. 

He’d really hated the colour yellow.

He hated the yellow vest his host had worn, his insistence on sporting the colour had made his stomach turn.

He wished he could still hate yellow.

The walls were familiar now, faded with the light that spilled into the studio. He couldn’t help but notice how well yellow and red worked together. He couldn’t help but notice how sunshine spilled out of Tim Bardot like he himself was the centre of the universe. 

“Are you ready? I mean- you kind of have to be ready, we’re about to be live.” Ever the chatterbox, Tim Bardot repositioned his microphone for the thousandth time. Wynston only rolled his eyes, shrugging. Tim smiled, as Tim always did, pressing play on the record that spun, crooning jazz from the speaker.

Another thing Wynston used to hate. Jazz music. It had grated on him like nothing else, to the point of publicly remarking about it when it had come on in nightclubs and bars. As much as he liked this decade, he really hated jazz. Hated. He didn’t anymore. Sure in cabs it still annoyed him, made him bristle, but he was always expecting sunshine after it, a chipper voice announcing today's headlines. 

It never came.

Ice's pockets are full of gum wrappers and Mav keeps finding them in the washing machine

Iceman has sensory issues (Headcanoned with Autism)

Icemav's proposal was very lowkey, like Ice: Do you want to get married? Mav: Yeah sure! :D

They did a full on proposal for real a few days later with the daggers present

Mav wasn't very good at acting surprised though so they all caught on

Whenever he gets his glasses changed, Bob always goes for the same style because Phoenix thinks they're iconic

Bob is really good at painting nails and does his all the time

Hangman has once or twice come to class with red and black alternating colours, glaring at anyone who looked at him weirdly

Maverick started T late because he's scared of needles

He/they Maverick

She/they Carole

TRANS BRADLEY

Trans Bradley Headcanons:

Bradley knew he was trans from a very young age, always insisting that he was a boy when his parents introduced him as their daughter

Goose chose his prefered name (running it past the five-year-old first) saying that he could be 'bradley bradshaw'.

Bradley changes in cubicles, but hates it, and petitioned the admirals to make a gender-neutral bathroom

His locker is still in the mens room, but he keeps his clothes in the bathroom, which has been dubbed by the team as 'The Brad Bathroom'

Doc swayed at the piano stool, eyes closed. His voice was low, crooning as he sang, barely above the volume of his own playing. The bar was mostly empty, the bartender cleaning glasses, a few patrons finishing off their final drinks. And Wyatt. Wyatt sat at the table behind Doc, watching the blonde play with amber eyes full of nothing short of admiration. He stood from his chair, walking over to the piano, brushing a hand gently across the span of Doc’s broad shoulders. He watched the gambler's expression soften, a purr echoing in his throat. Wyatt’s hand then comes to rest on the hollow of Doc's throat, listening as he stops singing, finishing the song with a flourish. “Why my doll,” Doc’s voice rumbles in his throat and Wyatt feels it under his fingertips. “What brings you to this humble piano, and the humbler man sat at it” Wyatt bends down to press a whisper of a kiss to Doc’s ear. “You, mostly. You know, Doc, you always look so beautiful when you play”

A bashful smile blooms on the gambler's face, and he drops his chin to his chest, blonde hair falling into his eyes. Wyatt almost instantly brushes it away. “Will you play again for me, darling?” Wyatt murmured, voice thick with fondness for his companion. A sharp nod sends Wyatt sitting beside his lover on the piano stool, a hand resting on the ex-dentists thigh. Doc lifted his hands over the keys and played the first few notes, a lilting melody. He sang under his breath as Wyatt’s hands moved to splay across the ailing man's chest, feeling each breath rattle. It was a miracle he could still sing as he did, like the most beautiful bird Wyatt had ever come across. 

Doc was gorgeous. He was pretty and lithe, with sharp eyes that laughed before he did. His hair was longer now, a pale blonde that hung down by his jaw. Wyatt wants to run his hands through it, like spun gold. Wyatt leant further against Doc, closing his eyes and humming along to the chorus. “My dear?” Doc stifles a cough in his throat, and Wyatt hears the rattle and wheeze as he regains his breath. “I don’t think I have the strength for another song. Shall we retire?” His blue eyes flick over his lover, lip curling into a gentle smile. “Perhaps play a hand of poker, up in my rooms?” He offers, pushing himself up from the piano stool, holding out a hand for Wyatt, which he takes. 

Doc leans on Wyatt as they take the stairs to Doc’s room. His independence was slowly dwindling, a candle reduced to merely a wick, and Wyatt did his best to let Doc have his own independences. He could still dress himself and do menial things, and Wyatt let him, restraining his caretaking nature for his lover. 

“Want to run a bath, Doc?” Wyatt offered, knowing that was the only way he could get his friend to spend time on his health. The ailing doctor despised showers, so the bath was a safer way to go. The blonde nodded, sitting on the bed rather uselessly, breath rattling. Wyatt nodded, ducking into the next room, the noise of water running following shortly after. 

Wyatt helped Doc into the warm water, his eyes flicking over the man's thin body, heart aching at the sight of his diminishing strength. He watched as Doc’s eyes flutter closed, Wyatt motioning for Doc to turn his back to him, his hands gently running through those lovely blonde locks. A shaky sigh escapes Doc’s rosebud lips, as Wyatt drags soap through his hair, gently cleaning his hair, one hand on his shoulder, sneaking down to his chest. 

“Your breathing’s getting worse” Wyatt is now washing out the soap in his lover's hair, worry climbing through his tone. The statement was simple but held so much weight. Doc was dying, there was nothing Wyatt could do.