head empty, only feels

Until he met a boy during his rookie season with bright brown eyes and freckles that changed his entire world. And it’s a cliche, maybe, to assume that one person can throw everything you’ve ever known off its axis. Ilya was certainly skeptical, he actually did everything he could to put distance between this idea and himself, because all he understands how to do is build barriers with his bare hands. But Shane was consistent and warm and soft and instead of knocking that wall down, instead of taking it apart, he waited until Ilya removed bricks himself to let him in. 

He thinks about that as he stands outside the cottage, his arms wrapped around himself. It’s still dark out, soft gold only pushing through the inky blackness at the very edges. He breathes in through his nose, swallowing over a lump in his throat, tired in a way that sits in his bones. He runs a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes. 

He hears the door to the deck open, Shane stumbling out, still half asleep himself. When Ilya turns to look at him, his hair is mussed on the one side and he’s got his glasses on, a blanket in his hands before he drapes the heavy fabric around Ilya’s shoulders. 

“You’re gonna get sick.” 

Ilya smiles a little, shaking his head. It’s cold but not too terrible; nothing he can’t handle. But the blanket is nice, and so is Shane molding himself to his side. His arm wraps around his waist and Ilya, blanket and all, drapes his own around Shane’s shoulders. A shiver tumbles down his spine when he feels Shane’s cold nose press itself into the skin of his neck. 

“You’re the one that’s cold.” Ilya tuts back. 

Shane hums lightly, “That’s because someone left me in bed alone.” It’s quiet for a few moments, though not uncomfortable. The sounds of nature fill the space, crickets and loons and the water from the lake. Shane breathes in, settles against him, and Ilya swears he could fall asleep standing up. Just another thing Hollander would be good at. 

“You okay?” He whispers. 

Ilya closes his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek, “Prosto durnoy son.” He says back, English too difficult. 

But Shane’s been studying, learning. He’s better at hearing Russian and comprehending than speaking it, but he’s getting good at that too. So he takes what Ilya says about having a bad dream and squeezes around his middle, 

“Do you want to tell me what it was about?” 

Ilya loves Shane for so many reasons, things he cannot count, but this is undoubtedly one of them. There’s always a choice and silent support. Ilya can tell him what his nightmare was about or he can stand here in silence and allow Shane to hold him. And both will be okay. 

He sniffs, shifting on his feet, trying to figure out how to explain something that feels so ridiculous, “YA prosnulsya, a tebya ne bylo. YA ne smog tebya nayti.” 

Shane’s eyebrows draw together, something Ilya can feel more than see. He knows he’s trying to figure out, to understand that Ilya’s dream was about Shane missing. Or no, maybe not missing, but…the absence of him. The fact that he wasn’t there. That no matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t find him. 

“I’m right here,” Shane says after a moment, peppering kisses to his neck, his jawline, anywhere he can reach. “And I’m not going anywhere.” 

It’s not until the cottage that Shane can actually see him—the real him, underneath everything he uses to hide behind. There’s a moment in which he cups Ilya’s face, kisses him in a sort of realization that feels a lot like there you are. 

It’s because of this that Shane realizes how expressive Ilya’s face is. He supposes it always has been, even when they first met, that distant apprehension melting into subtle amusement. It’s in the way his eyes are ocean blue yet moss green all at the same time. It’s in the way his nose sometimes scrunches or crinkles when Shane says something or when Ilya’s lost in thought. But he’s also noticed that a lot of his emotions live on his mouth, with that beautiful cupid bow that Shane nearly always wants to kiss. 

Ilya has different smiles, a handful that Shane feels like he knows like the back of his hand. 

There’s one that lives in the corner of his mouth that comes out when he’s not amused, when he’s annoyed. It’s usually paired with a long sigh from his nose and his jaw working, a gentle entertainment before he starts spitting out frustrated Russian or snipped out English. He has seen this firsthand when Ilya has it out for one of their kitchen appliances—when the dial snaps off of their washing machine even though it was brand new or when the coffee machine’s buttons get stuck (a small smile and an annoyed huff, “Please listen to button pressed, we want light roast. Light.” And then slams his finger into the appropriate button. They get a dark roast. It tastes like chewing on an electrical wire and disappointments). 

There’s another where he smiles with too many teeth and it’s usually on the ice, because right after that it’s a well-placed chirp and his fist flying through the air. Shane’s seen that smile during games, has watched Ilya spit blood on the ice after a scuffle as he heads to the box, has pictured kissing him far too many times and licking into his mouth. (“Ow,” Ilya yanks his head back, running his tongue over his lower lip. 

“You’re being a baby.” Shane tuts, standing between his legs, gently dabbing at his outer lip with ointment. He knows that the team doctor has done this and he’s grateful that Ilya hasn’t lost any teeth at this point but…he wants to help somehow. 

“Yes, I am baby.” Ilya insists, a soft pout, “Kiss and make it better.” 

Shane rolls his eyes but he smiles anyways. And kisses him. He tastes like copper and everything Shane’s ever wanted.) 

Another is quiet and painful and Shane can tell it’s come from years of being told not to cry, to not be weak, to not allow emotions to get the better of him. The smile is small and self-deprecating and it comes right before Ilya tries to hide, when he attempts to turn away from Shane and bury his feelings. When he’s hurting. When he’s learned that he can’t have feelings that would make him soft, that he can’t be seen as someone who is gentle or loving or sad because those are worthless emotions that do not belong anywhere. (Except that they do). Because Ilya has learned he has to be sharp boundaries and jagged lines because it keeps himself safe, because anyone who touches him will hurt themselves and leave him be. 

Shane will hold those broken pieces in his hands over and over again until the edges smooth. 

(“Hey,” Shane whispers, gently clasping Ilya’s chin as he turns his head away. Their bedroom is dark, nature still asleep outside, a lone light on a nightstand the only glow against the walls. 

There’s a sniffle paired with a small smile; he’s biting the inside of his cheek, “It is stupid.” Ilya is trembling, still half asleep. 

“No, it’s not,” Shane says firmly, smoothing his thumb along his jaw. “It’s not stupid. Look at me.” His other hand slips into his curls, massaging his scalp. 

Shane waits until those blue eyes find his own, shiny with unshed tears. Even upset, he’s still so beautiful—it strikes him like a physical blow. Shane doesn’t consider himself a very violent person; he has his moments on the ice, but he would do anything to wipe this look off Ilya’s face. To displace that hurt and give it to someone who actually deserves it. 

“If you want to talk about it, I’m here.” 

Ilya swallows, frozen, like he’s still so unaccustomed to someone giving a shit. He’s been having this recurring dream—not a nightmare, exactly, but something vivid enough to cause this sort of reaction. Shane’s gathered enough that he knows it’s about his mother, but beyond that Ilya has kept those details close to his chest. 

“Not yet,” Ilya mumbles, wiping at his cheek. And Shane will take that. The comment within itself is brave. 

“Okay,” Shane whispers. “Come here.” 

Ilya leans into his chest, allowing Shane to pull him close and tuck him underneath his chin. He presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and squeezes him until the shaking stops.) 

But Shane's favorite smile is the one that's real and just for him. 

He comes out of the cottage and takes a seat on the steps, watching Ilya in the yard. They’re babysitting Hayden’s kids for the weekend and Shane finds himself transfixed as his boyfriend entertains Jade, Ruby and Arthur. They’re playing some sort of complex game in the grass, one that involves water balloons because of course it does. Jade and Ruby are squealing as Ilya runs after them, picking Ruby up and over his shoulder for a moment after she lands a balloon on his back. His t-shirt is soaked through, curls bright and bouncy in the dying sunlight. 

He’s so beautiful it makes Shane’s chest hurt. 

Arthur is standing off to the side, a bright grin on his face even though he’s a bit shyer than his siblings. He’s been perfectly content with just handing out the balloons that are in the buckets to his sisters who are completely annihilating Ilya in this imaginary competition. 

Ilya turns his head, eyes locking on Shane, a small smile warm and real as he says, “Hollander! Come help me, there are cheaters out here.” 

“No!” Jade giggles, reaching up to hold onto Ilya’s arm. He lifts her in the air with no trouble as Ruby runs to get another water balloon. Ilya huffs, hauling Jade up and over his shoulder this time. “Obmanshchik.” 

Shane smirks because that translates more into the deceiver than anything else but the Russian makes the girls laugh and suddenly Arthur gets into the mix of tossing balloons and Ilya is overrun with water and kids who completely adore him. Shane swears his heart swells twice its size. He finally gets up off the steps and grabs a water balloon but instead of tossing it at Pike’s kids, he lands it right against Ilya’s shins. 

“Oh, it is like that?” Ilya reaches for him, yanking Shane close by pulling on his shirt. The kids are running around, squealing with laughter as water balloons fly. 

Shane grins, “Afraid it is.” 

That morning you had been laying in bed.

Asleep, mind you, there had been nothing particularly untoward in anything you were doing you were just asleep.

And he had rolled up behind you, arm thrown lazily over you and then started cupping your breast.

He had.

He had trailed his mouth along your shoulder and your neck.

This was none of your idea.

Not that you objected.

The opposite.

It was a pleasant way to wake.

It was still dark, the sun wasn’t up yet but it would be soon enough. You turned towards him, words not coming to you but little noises, little sounds, of appreciation, of encouragement, and you wrapped an arm around his neck.

He ran a hand down your sleeping gown and tugged it up and over your head.

You were alway slow to wake, something he would tease you about, your need to wake in relative quiet for a time.

So you didn’t speak.

Not even as he took your breast in his mouth, not even as he slid inside you.

You made noise.

Apparently quite a bit of it.

But he had always encouraged it before. He liked it. He would bite at your neck and your jaw and your shoulder and tell you what to say, tell you what to scream, sometimes he would make you say it in Spanish for him and you were still learning it so half the time you had no idea what he was having you repeat.

And you didn’t mind.

You had clung onto him in the morning, wrapping him around you, pulling him closer, and you had repeated some of the things he liked to hear.

You said them.

And after he was panting, half-collapsed on you, giving a lazy final thrust just to make sure you remembered he was still between your legs as you half-settled back to sleep, after that, he had whispered, half laughing, half kissing your jaw, what a sweet little whore you were.

You had snapped awake as if he slapped you.

You sat bolt up in bed pushing him off of you.

And because of the time you pulled on your clothes in a huff, and as he was asking you what was wrong you eyed him coldly and called him a callous brute.

Because it didn’t matter who he was, he would not talk to you like that.

He tried to protest against your anger but you slammed the door behind you and went to tend to the small flock of chickens, the couple goats, collect the water.

You were simmering the whole time.

How dare he.

And when he saw you kneading the bread, punching it repeatedly to express you little rage, he had chuckled as if it was adorable to see, like a little kitten trying to sharpen its claws. And with fury you just hissed that if one person in this house was a whore it was him.

That had gotten his attention.

And now you’d gone silent.

He hated the silence.

It was one thing that worked between the two of you-- each as stubborn as a goats, both impossible to move but not devoid of reason. The other just had to stand there, staring you down, until you realized what you had done.

He had assumed it was a passing annoyance but you were well and truly worked up.

When you called him a whore it had struck him.

He was little better, perhaps, for most of his life. Selling his skills to whoever would pay.

And he wouldn’t have married a whore-- who would?

He wouldn’t have wanted someone so worn down, so used, so...open to being so used.

You were fiery, always had been, and you’d been a prize for him.

He had been in stiff competition with the blacksmith’s boy and the little goat-herder outside of town-- both had been wide-eyed and fighting for you. Both were from better stock-- families you knew, good reputations.

He was a wandering mercenary, coming through, looking for work.

Hoping that a local duke was looking for men such as him-- hoping for work that didn’t mean months on a saddle and then months in mud with strangers.

He missed William.

William who had spent less than a year wandering back through Europe with him before turning around and going East again.

Pero had nearly gone with him.

But first, this job. See if he could still do it without the Irishman at his back.

But instead of the Irishman, he’d found you.

Just the daughter of the local clerk, taking care of a sickly father, pretty as a picture, much too good for him, and too good for the senseless boys who had been chasing you. Boys. Soft bellied, soft-skinned, with beards that had never really grown out, hands with no real scars.

It was a safe little town.

So few of them had had cause to really see a sword.

The baker’s boy, who at least knew he was not good enough for you but Lord did he moon over you anyway, had simpered like a woman when Pero had cleaned his blades and took them out to make sure they were still sharp and ready.

But he was, by a stretch, also the most interesting thing in the town.

And he didn’t moon over you. Didn’t fall over himself for your affection.

You played at being disinterested because you held yourself to a standard-- if you had wanted to, really wanted to, you could have moved to a larger city-- landed a merchant for a husband, maybe a clerk like your father.

But you had taken to asking the grumpy Spaniard for stories, all of which came out as curt and annoyed as he always sounded. You pretended to be dismissive. You would bring your mending and sit it in your lap while he talked, sitting closer to the fire at the inn than he did so you could better see the light, not minding as the heat made sweat drip straight down between your breasts.

Then one night, the inn empty besides the two of you, the old innkeeper fighting with her cow outside (as was normal and almost an expected part of the town’s evening entertainment) and he had snatched your stitchwork right out of your hands in a fury.

“Hey! Give that back!” You had protested but he had held up a stern finger.

“If you are going to keep coming here, demanding stories, I am going to start making my own demands back. Come here for me, or leave.”

It was as romantic as Pero Tovar ever was.

You had put two hands on your hips and not remotely settled for it, “Be more clear with me-- what is it you’re after?”

He threw your stitchwork to the ground and with a feral howl had grabbed your face and kissed you.

You’d never kissed a man before and this was not a subtle kiss. Angry, almost. Demanding. Like a temper tantrum. The force of it made you take a step back and another until you were against the wall. You were shocked against him but...Lord it felt good. You just…

You did what felt natural.

You moved against him, kissed him back, and he had gripped you harder, punching the wall beside you and pulling back with a hiss of, “We should not do this again.”

“Why not?” You bumped your nose against his, a little dazed, almost shaking.

The innkeeper and her cow were done fighting for the night and she started coming back in, making Pero take a step back.

You’d never been rejected by a boy.

But then again, this was no boy.

This was a man.

Maybe that’s why he had said he couldn’t…

But those words and that kiss had danced in your mind all night. All the next day while the blacksmith’s boy tried so hard to bring you flowers and the baker’s boy shyly gave you an extra loaf that he claimed was misshapen but was perfectly fine.

You kept your eyes peeled for Pero.

And it took you three days to track him down-- he was good at staying out of sight when he wanted, but he had to take a break sometime and you had found him sitting on a stump, drinking water out of a bladder, looking off at the Eastward road.

You had slapped it out of his hand, getting even for how he had snatched your stitching, and he looked at you, face drawn with one scarred eyebrow cocked in interest.

“I was drinking that.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Regret drinking it?”

You slapped his arm, “Kissing me, do you regret it?”

“So sensitive?” He snorted, trying to look down the Eastward road again but his eyes had kept pulling to you even when he didn’t want them to, “Go get one of your little lapdogs to kiss you...I have no business kissing you.”

You hugged yourself and looked Westward back at the town, tears catching in the back of your throat, “So you do. Regret it.”

He eyed you, even if he was trying not to.

Then he turned his whole body on the stump, facing you, facing the road back to the town, and reached out to take your chin in hand, “I regret nothing.”

You perked, “Nothing?”

“Except maybe this,” He pulled you closer, “I did no make clear: you keep letting me paw at you, you should tell me what you want. Because I am not some knight or hero. I am a simple man. A plain man. I want what I want. Do not tease me. If you want to be kissed for your vanity, go get your butcher’s boy to do it. I am not going to kiss you for a game...”

He pulled you half onto his lap and without thinking of the consequences you wrapped your arms around his neck as he said, “...I am going to kiss you until you scream for me.”

You didn’t know screaming was something that could be done except for fear and you had shaken your head, nose tip teasing his, saying, “I won’t scream for you.”

That made him smile, a smile you didn’t know yet that made your whole belly knot, “Oh you will.”

He had wound up married to you a little less than a month later while the baker’s boy pouted, and the blacksmith’s boy got drunk and insisted he’d rather have had the seamstress’s daughter anyway, and the goatherd never came at all.

And you’d learned a lesson about screaming that started, by inches, that night.

And he liked to teach you all about it.

But you...you had been as close to a little lady as the town here had.

A prize.

Not some whore.

And he wasn’t going to call you that.

He walked up behind you, arms lacing around your waist, lips on the back of your neck, “What do I have to do to get you to talk to me again, hm?”

He bit you a little on the soft skin by the crook of your neck and shoulder and you tensed, your whole body struggling to restrain the moan, and you snipped, “You wouldn’t let anyone call me what you called me this morning.”

“I mean it for a tease, mi amor.”

You stiffened, “And what, precisely, would you say if someone else teased me so?”

He forcibly spun you and pinned your back against the little table, your flour coated hands leaving prints on him as you grabbed to his coat to keep from tripping with the speed of the change, and he gripped your shoulders, “I would kill a man for less, and I have.”

His eyes were stern, “This you know about me-- I am not some village boy kissing you for your vanity. And I am going to keep you, screaming for me, for myself.”

His eyes were dark but fiery and you were melting, relenting, and his hands went from your waist to your hips and pulled them against his, “Let’s go to bed.”

“It’s morning.” You shook your head.

“It’s our bed. And our morning. And we have no master to run to.” He ground his hips against yours again, “To bed. Now.”

You relented.

And you didn’t give him the silent treatment anymore, but sometimes he would pinch you or kiss you too hard or bite on you or leave a mark on you that was easily seen and you would wave a hand, asking if he thought this was befitting a wife or a whore, and he would roll his eyes, grumbling, about saying something once and never hearing the end of it.

____________________________________________________

A/N: Damn that felt good. I needed a little more domesticated grump in my life. Stole tags from The Cross, hope you guys don't mind.

@seasonschange-butpeopledont

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I - Santi

“I don’t know, man. I’ve got the new baby now.” 

It’s all Santi can hear as he stares down at his friend, his brother, who now lies dead atop a blue-gray rock that is quickly becoming stained a deep, rusty red. 

He’s vaguely aware of Benny, trying in vain to stop the bleeding even though it won’t matter. Of Tom, frantically snatching up the bags stuffed with cash. Of Will, grabbing at his arm and barking out a warning about where the shooter is and what they need to do now. 

But he can’t process any of it because Frankie is dead. And it’s his fault. 

“I don’t know, man. I’ve got the new baby now.” 

If he had been a better friend, he would have taken that for the “no” that it was, and he wouldn’t have pushed the issue. If he had been a better friend, he would have made damn sure that everyone on the team understood that Fish called the shots when it came to loading the chopper. If he had been a better friend, he wouldn’t have even asked Frankie to join this fucking mission. But he didn’t take it as a no. He didn’t put his foot down over Tom’s greed. He didn’t leave Frankie - who was finally building something better for himself - out of this doomed as fuck mission. 

“I don’t know, man. I’ve got the new baby now.” 

And now that baby, that little girl, will never get to know her father. 

“Pope!” 

Will’s voice finally cuts through the instant torrent of guilt and shame and regret and pain swirling through his brain and gets him to snap into action. He whips around in the direction that the shot came from, raises his gun and pulls the trigger all in one swift motion. A bang and then a thump and then quiet. Except for Benny’s incoherent mumbling and the sickening drip and slap of blood hitting stone and Frankie’s words in his head. 

“I don’t know, man. I’ve got the new baby now.” 

The trek down the mountain and to the beach is the hardest thing any of them have ever done. But it pales in comparison to the trek he makes to Frankie’s front door, where Marissa meets him cradling Sofía to her chest, where he has to tell her that the love of her life is not coming back. 

“It’s my fault, Riss,” he admits, after he tells her what happened. “I never should have-” 

Her palm across his cheek slaps the rest of his shame-filled blathering right off his tongue. “Get out of my house, Santiago.” Her voice is low, rumbling like a lioness giving a warning. 

Sofía, startled by the sound of skin smacking skin, lets out a wail and Pope looks down at Frankie’s daughter. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, he wishes he could tell the tiny bundle in Marissa’s arms. He will, one day, when she’s old enough to know what those words mean. But right now they would only serve him, so he keeps them tucked away inside his thoughts instead. 

“Go,” Marissa growls, tears spilling from her rage and anguish and fear filled eyes. “Don’t ever fucking come back here.” 

He knows she doesn’t mean the last part but that she does mean the first, so he leaves, setting an envelope of cash that says For Sofía on the coffee table. 

At the funeral, Marissa falls sobbing into his arms. She clutches onto him and he keeps her upright until he can get her to a chair. She tries to apologize for lashing out at him but he hushes her, kneels down in front of her and takes her hands in his. He tells her it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t. He’d always be there for her. He was never going to leave her high and dry, no matter how viciously her grief roared at him to do so. I’m gonna make it right, Marissa, he wants so badly to promise her. But he can’t, until he finds a way to make good on it. 

But right now he doesn’t have a clue where to start, so he packs it away for a later date that doesn’t come for a long time.

—

II - Sofía 

I wish you were here, Dad. 

She tries to swallow the knot that has been growing for twenty five years, only to find it lodged as it ever was. She straightens the photo on her mantel, fingers lingering on the frame as she smiles sadly down at one of the only pictures of her and her father. His warm brown eyes - the same color and shape as her own - beamed down at her, wrapped up in the blanket her grandmother had made. He wore a cheap blue baseball hat that said DAD in bold, white letters, like a crown atop his head. Her whole head fit in the palm of his hand. 

I wish you’d never gone. 

Some days she’s angry at her father for dying. Some days she’s angry at him for taking the job at all. Other days she thinks she understands why he did. She and her mother had never wanted for anything other than his presence, and so she sees the angle at which he must have been looking at it when he made his choice. Some days she’s sad that she never got to know him, that he never got to see who she was becoming. Some days she’s jealous of her friends, because their fathers were there for school plays and for hugs after their first heartbreaks, for graduations and birthdays, for holidays and Wednesdays. 

Some days she feels too many of those things and she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be free of them. She’s scared to think about what it would mean not to feel them. 

But some days she sinks into the stories she’s been told, about the kind of man he was, the kind of friend he was, the kind of father he was, even if it was only for too brief a time. Some days she smiles as she recognizes in herself some of the traits and mannerisms she’s been told he had. Some days she imagines what he’d say to her if he were there for birthdays and graduations and whatever else. Other days she imagines what she would say to him. 

She’s proud of him and she loves him and she’s furious at him and she doesn’t understand him and she’s so, so sad sometimes, and she does understand him and she wishes everything was different. That last one is really the only constant. 

I wish everything was different. 

The phone in her pocket vibrates, pulling her out of her thoughts. She sniffs and swipes the screen to read the message. It’s from Santi. The man who isn’t really her uncle but was her father’s brother just the same. The man she grew up with as a stand in, a protector, someone she could call on or go to with anything. She’s grateful for him, despite what he says about her father’s death being his fault. Sofía doesn’t blame him. She never did, even if her mother did at times. She loves him, and she knows that he loves her like she was his own.

She isn’t, though, and they both know that. That’s why they’d made a pact to find a way to make things right. She knows, she knows. It sounds insane. Even her mother isn’t afraid to tell her that. You can’t bring someone back from the dead, and that’s the only way to make this thing right. 

But what if you could stop them from dying in the first place? 

She sucks in a sharp breath and blows it out steadily, centering herself before she opens the message. She already knows what it will be about, she just doesn’t know if it’ll be what she wants to hear. No, what she needs to hear. She needs it to be a yes. She needs a win. She needs everything to be different. And for that to happen, she needs the research that she and Santi have spent years tracking down and compiling to be confirmed. 

She needs to hear that yes, time travel is possible. 

And she knows that that sounds almost as insane as resurrecting someone. Especially when the method she’s hoping to employ basically boils down to (extremely) theoretical physics mixed with nearly forgotten folklore. With the mixture swaying heavily towards folklore. 

The Echo Stone. 

An amulet imbued with mythical powers, that allows the wearer to travel back through the echoes of time - but with some very cut and dry restrictions. One can only travel to a time they have never been before, to speak with someone they never have before, and they must be in the physical location in the present where the moment they are trying to reach took place. Once they’ve traversed the trail that all things leave back through the current of time, once they reach the moment they want to visit, the wearer will have approximately fifteen minutes of frozen time to speak to the person they seek. When those fifteen minutes are up, the stone shuttles them back to the present, and the person they spoke to will forget the entire interaction. They’ll forget that they saw or spoke to anyone. But whatever they spoke of will be engrained in their mind as if it were a thought of their own. And the wearer returns to a present changed by the new echoes they may or may not have made. 

She needed to open this message from Santi and read that he had found the stone. She needed the echoes to change. 

Thumb hovering shakily over her screen, Sofía bites her bottom lip and opens Santi’s message. 

I have it. I’ll be there tomorrow. This is going to work. 

She doesn’t sleep that night. She just waits. Waits for the moment she’s been waiting for to finally be here. When Santi arrives to pick her up the next morning, she silently winds her arms around him, and he wastes no time in doing the same. A few tears fall onto his shirt, and she can feel his scratchy beard as he presses a quick kiss to her temple. 

“Hey, kid,” he says, rubbing one hand up and down over her shoulder blades. He doesn’t make her pull away until she’s ready to. He never has. It’s clear, though, from the surprise in his tone, that this reaction isn’t expected. Not today, not when they’re so close to changing everything they’ve been trying to change since the moment it happened. “What’s this, hmm?” 

Sofía gives him a squeeze before pulling back. When she looks up at him she sees the way that time - and the things that it had put him through - has made subtle changes to his face. Wrinkles and a beard gone completely white. But his eyes are the same as they’ve always been, and they’re looking at her now like they always have - like they never will again if they do end up changing everything. 

Because if they pull it off, she won’t need a stand in. 

She sniffs. “I just want you to know how much I love you and how thankful I am that you’ve always been there for me and-” She almost chokes on that goddamn lump in her throat, still there at least for now, but she clears it enough to keep going. “And I know you’re gonna say it was nothing or that you’d always have been there or…” She shakes her head. “But it’s not nothing, Santi, okay? Not to me, not to my mom. And not to my dad, even though he won’t ever know it.” 

His dark eyes grow wet in the corners, and when he blinks she can see tears slide down his weathered cheeks. “I know, Sof.” His voice is raw with emotion, but he swallows it down and digs out a smile for her. One that she’s seen countless times when she’d brought him whatever woes she would have brought to her father and he made her forget them. “Now let’s go make it right.” 

The ride to the gymnasium where her father and Santi and Will and Tom watched Benny’s fight, where Santi proposed the cursed job to them all, was a short one. Santi had paid off the gym owner ahead of time to ensure that they’d have the space blocked off for themselves, so when they get there, the locker room is empty. He hands her the amulet and goes over the instructions that they both know by heart one last time. 

Concentrate on the moment you’re trying to reach. Deliver your message within the fifteen minute window. Be prepared to wake up in a completely different life. 

“I’ll see you on the other side, kid,” is the last thing he says to her as she slips the amulet around her neck. 

—

III - Frankie 

“Fish? I need a pilot. I can’t do this thing without you.” 

Santi looks at him expectantly, like he’s supposed to leap at the offer. He doesn’t, just shakes his head and gives the man his reasons for saying no, a proud smile pulling at his lips as he does. 

“I don’t know, man. I’ve got the new baby now. And my lady-” 

He doesn’t finish the rest of his sentence, though, because midway through it the whole room freezes… And a young woman appears. 

What the fuck? 

Frankie blinks rapidly, focus shifting from his friends, suddenly still as statues, to the girl standing in the corner wearing a strange, glowing stone around her neck. She isn’t frozen, and the air around her seems to shimmer. She trembles slightly, lifting one hand to her mouth in a gasp, and when he sees tears gathering in her eyes, something stirs in his chest. Something that he’s only ever felt when holding his daughter. 

This girl can’t be Sofía. This girl looks to be in her mid-twenties. His daughter is only a few months old. 

But her eyes… 

They looked just like his own. 

It struck him speechless. But that was fine because she broke the silence with a single word. 

“Dad?” 

What? 

He can’t explain it, but when she calls him that, even though it’s impossible, Frankie knows it’s true. His heart pounds and he sucks in a breath and stands straight as an arrow. His daughter is at home, asleep in her bassinet. His daughter is standing here in front of him, a grown adult. And she’s crying. 

His voice is a swirl of uncertainty and recognition, of questions and answers, and it comes out strained. “S-Sofía?” 

That seems to be the right thing to say, because she lets out a strangled whine and then rushes towards him, barreling into his arms. He wraps them around her like it’s a familiar thing to do. Because somehow, in ways he’ll never be able to understand, it is. 

Her eyes are just like mine. Her nose is just like Marissa’s. And her curls... This… this is my little girl. But- 

“How?” He doesn’t realize he asks aloud until she’s answering, her thin arms still tight around his waist. 

She chokes out a sound that could almost be a laugh. “It’s a long story, and we only have fifteen minutes to change it forever.” 

Her response does nothing but confuse him further, but she pulls back and looks up at him like she can’t believe he’s real, even though she’s the one who just materialized out of thin air. He shakes his head, palms coming up to her biceps. He’s making sure she’s real, too. 

“What does that mean? Change what forever?” 

A ripple of unease spreads through him, something heavy sinking to the pit of his stomach. He glances over Sofía’s shimmering shoulder at Pope’s face, still suspended in that expectant expression, and he gets the uncanny feeling that somehow this is all connected. That the reason time is standing still has something to do with the job that his friend is trying to get him to agree to. He shifts his eyes back to Sofía’s and it’s like a punch in the gut all over again at how he knows it’s really her. 

She reaches up to take his hands from her arms and grasps them, holding tight. “You can’t go with Santi.” 

“What?” Frankie shakes his head. “How do you- How can you know about this? I-” That heaviness grows in his stomach. “Does your mother know that-” 

“Dad!” She drops his hands then and brings her hands to his face, a furrow deepening in her forehead as she implores him to stop speaking and listen. He does, falling silent. “It doesn’t matter how I know or what I know, or what mom knows or how I’m even here, okay?” 

Her hands fall away and she takes a deep, shaking breath, clearly fighting off a sob. Seeing her so upset makes his insides twist and he wants more than anything to comfort her. But she doesn’t come close for another hug. Instead, she pulls something from her back pocket, hands shaking as she presents it - shimmering and blurry-edged just like she is - to him. 

Frankie’s mouth drops open as he takes it. It’s creased, just like the one folded and tucked into his wallet, though it looks older, faded by light and time. He digs out his copy and holds them side by side, staring at them.

“This is one of the only pictures we ever take together,” she says, taking hers back and rubbing her thumb over the fold. Before he can ask what she means by that, because surely by the time she’s grown so much they’d have taken hundreds of photos together, she continues. “This was taken two weeks ago in your time, but it’s been twenty five years for me.” Her voice breaks and she takes a shuddering breath. “Dad, you die. If you take this job, you die. And I grow up without you and-” 

It’s all he can endure. “Hey, hey,” he pulls her in and she lets him, pressing her cheek to his chest. One of his hands comes up to cradle the back of her head,and acting solely on instinct, he leans down to kiss the top of it. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m here.” 

She sniffs and shakes her head. “But you’re not here. Not with me and mom. And we miss you. I miss you.” Pulling back, she looks up at him with her tear-reddened eyes. “Please. Please, you can’t take this job.” 

Though only minutes ago he’d been in the process of turning Pope’s offer down, he realized that something must happen in the moments following the one she’d frozen to make him change his mind and accept. He glances back at his friend. Fuck, Santi. His eyes skate around to the others in the room. He must have convinced us all if I was in. 

It’s true, Frankie knows it is. Though he’s loyal and trustworthy and the closest thing to a brother Frankie has, Santiago Garcia is worse than a dog with a bone when he gets something into his head. And though he’d never worked in sales, the man could sell water to the ocean. He must have sold this fucked up job somehow. 

If he didn’t love the man he’d be furious. Instead, he feels another layer of pain. 

“What about the rest of them?” He gestures to the others and Sofía blinks up at them. “What happens to-” 

“They all come back, but…” She shakes her head. “Mom says none of them are okay. None of them are the same.” She frowns and walks over to where Santi stands, placing her hand on his shoulder. “He helps mom and he does his best to help me and,” she nods, looking up at Santi. “And he does a good job, Dad.” She looks back at Frankie. “But he’s not you.” 

Tears stream down her cheeks as she reaches for Frankie’s hand and pulls him down to sit on one of the locker room benches. She twists her wrist to check the countdown on her watch. “A few minutes left,” she mumbles, then clears her throat and picks up the strange stone hanging from her neck. 

“This,” she holds it up for Frankie to see. “This is what I used to be able to talk to you and-” She swallows, closing her eyes tight before opening them again. “And Santi helped me find it. We spent years looking and… and then he found it. He helped me come here so we can make things right. So we can save you.” She sighs, the sound far too sad. “So we can have you back.” 

Though he knew he would need more than the amount of time she claimed to have left to be able to understand, he didn’t have to understand to know that this was real. “Okay,” he says, nodding. 

She lets out a relieved breath that comes with an emotional whine, her shoulders releasing so much tension that Frankie is afraid she might slip from the bench. “Okay, listen,” she turns towards him, determination written all over her features, and it makes Frankie’s heart swell to see that she has her mother’s fire. “You won’t remember this once time resumes. You won’t remember seeing me here or talking to me. But what we talked about will still be in here.” She uses her pointer finger to tap the side of his head. “As though it always was.” 

Something breaks in him as she says that, because what the fuck is wrong with him? How could he have chosen to take this job that he knows is dangerous, that he knows only comes with a big payout because it also comes with enormous and unnecessary risk? How could he have done anything to jeopardize what he has with his family? They mean everything to him. Being Sofía’s father means everything to him. 

He nearly chokes when he says he’s sorry. “I shouldn’t have needed you to come here for that to be my choice. I’m so sorry, Sof.” He feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and does nothing to hold them back. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” she tells him, even after everything she’s been through. “Just come home.” 

It’s the last thing she says before she vanishes just as suddenly as she appeared. And just like she claimed, he has no recollection of her being there at all. 

“Fish?” Santi tilts his head. “You just zoned out in the middle of a sentence. What about Marissa?” 

Frankie frowns. “Nevermind Marissa.” He looks around the room, catching the eye of everyone there before fixing his gaze back on Pope. “I’m not doing this.” His voice isn’t angry, but it is insistent. “We aren’t doing this. C’mon, man.” He shakes his head. “We did our time and we were lucky enough to walk away. It’s done. We have to be done.” 

For a few seconds no one says anything, until Will speaks up. “Fish is right, Pope.” He sighs. “The money’s good but it’s not worth it.” 

One by one they all agree. Benny reminds them that they’re there for his fuckin’ fight, and soon enough they’re walking down the hall and towards the ring. The others walk ahead, but Frankie and Santi stay a few paces behind. 

“I’m sorry it wasn’t what you wanted to hear,” Frankie tells the other man, slinging his arm around his shoulder. “But you know I’m right.” 

Santi lets out a frustrated huff, but the sidelong glance he gives Frankie comes with a smile. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “You can’t help but gloat about it, huh asshole?” 

The smile drops and Frankie can tell that the disappointment is still there. Still will be there. He knows why going after Lorea always means so much. He knows how hard it is for Santi to let that go. But if he doesn’t it’s all he’ll ever have, that and whatever aftermath there is to deal with. And Frankie knows that his friend deserves more. 

“Why don’t you come back to my place tonight. Stay with us while you’re in town. Marissa would love to see you, and you can meet Sofía.” He beams when he says his daughter’s name. 

“Yeah,” Santi responds, nodding. “I’d love to meet your kid, Fish.” 

—

Thank you again to @grogusmum & @avastrasposts for creating this challenge!! And once again I apologize!!

Falling back on the old Frankie tag + some that might be interested - the if I guessed wrong, yup you guessed it, I’m sorry:

Din feels the pressure building behind his eyes as he tries to fight back his tears. The child, Grogu, looks at him from the arms of the Jedi with a sadness he hadn't seen from the boy. The Mandalorian ekes out a crooked smile and hint of a nod as the kid leaves. He promised him he'll see him again. He promised. The turbo lift door closes and Din stands frozen until the pressure behind his eyes jars him. As he brings his hands to cup his eyes a grunt of pain escapes before he is blinded with a searing pain. A throbbing pain in his head radiates to his ears, and down his spine, he can't stay on his feet.

Din drops to all fours, the floor feels as though it's moving. Struggling to stabilize himself he moans.

Cara Dune is the first at his side, "Mando? What's wrong?" Her hands hover over him as she sees her friend's face, truly, for the first time.

"He fought off those droid troopers," Fennec says approaching.

Koska Reeves walks over and picks up Din's helmet.

Din groans again, wretches, and dry heaves before he vomits bile and rations onto the floor of the bridge.

"Kriff," Koska says as she holds his helmet up to the light. "Where is the med bay? He's in trouble."

Din gives into the throbbing pain, collapsing under his weight. His armor clinks against the durasteel floor.

Bo-Katan joins Koska in looking at the helm.

"What do you mean?" Cara asks, disturbed.

"It's cracked, can you see that?" Koska asks Bo-Katan. Bo nods. The two observe a flaw in the helm that only their trained eyes can find.

"His beskar helmet? That's impossible."

"The visor is cracked, the integrity was compromised. He needs the med bay now," Koska reiterates.

Bo-Katan's eyes flick to the saber on Din's side and back to the Mandalorian. "Not like this," She mutters under her breath.

Fennec is looking at a layout. "Down the hall."

Din screams, balling his fists up, bringing them to his head. His breath quickens into short gasps. "I..I c-can't see." His face is flushed red now as he struggles.

Cara attempts to pull him into her lap. His voice out of the helmet sounds so different to Cara, he sounds so much more vulnerable to her. He blinks his big brown eyes wide trying to focus. Blood drips out of his nose now running over his top lip into his mouth.

Din tastes something metallic. The words he spoke repeat in his head, forcing their way through the wall of pain. I'll see you again. Don't be scared. I'll see you again. I promise. I promise. Din doesn't realize the words mumble from his scarlet stained mouth, "I promise."

"Okay, it's okay, we're gonna get you to the med bay, you'll be right as rain again…k big guy?" Cara finishes the sentence with a sharp intake of breath. Fighting back how utterly terrified she is that this time is real and he won't be so lucky like last time.

Din squeezes his eyes shut and screams again, his mouth draws into a hardline as he fights the mounting pressure in his head. His moans don't let up. Din feels himself being hoisted. He knows it's Cara because she's the only one strong enough to fling his tall, beskar clad body over their shoulders.

Din's eyes come into focus again, he sees two sets of boots following behind him. He recognizes one as Fennecs, the other he can't recall.

Din mumbles, "Gideon."

"With Bo-Katan, Mando," Fennec says "Through here." They enter a dimly lit med bay, save for the brightly glowing surgical pod station.

"I don't know how any of this stuff works!" Cara says in frustration as she grunts dropping Din onto the table outside the surgical pod.

"My head," Din pleads weakly now. His face is streaked in tears from the existential and physical agony.

Koska takes over, "The control panel is here…you've gotta be fucking kidding me. It's secure."

"Can't you breach it!?" Cara shouts. She takes Dins hand. His grip is weak, his gaze is up towards the ceiling as he blinks slowly. "Mando? Can you squeeze, squeeze my hand." He tries, he's sure he's squeezing tight. Cara feels for any pressure and she's met with barely a twitch. She shakes her head no as she breathes deep to calm her anxiety, "I'd love to see that killer smile you've been hiding under that helmet Mando. Maker, if I had known you were so kriffing good looking I'd have given you more shit for not staying on Sorgan with Ms. Gorgeous and Single. C-can you look at me?"

Din hears her and wants to smirk but he can't. His neck is so stiff he's not sure it'll move but he tries and with the movement it sends a searing pain racing through his head again. He screams, his perfect teeth tinged in blood.

Koska and Fennec are furiously going over the controls of the surgery pod trying to override.

"Bo! Does Gideon have a cylinder on him?" As Koska is asking, the doors open. Bo-Katan is dragging in an unconscious Moff Gideon.

"Yes." She bends down and takes it from his front pocket. "How is he?"

"Get the beskar off." Fennec commands as she inserts the cylinder and punches away at the control panel.

Din is confused, "Stop, stop." He feebly tries to push the hands away of the two women removing his armor. Cara notes how he can only lift one side of his body. They lift him up to a sitting position to remove his jet pack and entire cuirass. Blood drips again from Dins nose. He mumbles, "Din." They set his armor to the side.

Cara knows that's his name, everyone knows now but she still calls him by his nickname out of habit. "Mando. We're gonna put you in the pod now."

"Din," He says his name again, barely audible.

"Din. You're gonna be okay," Cara assures him as she, with the help of Fennec lay him back gently on the glowing table.

"Grogu. I'm sorry," Din mumbles. He feels cold, he can't feel his fingers and the pain in his head comes in waves that his body no longer has the strength to react to. His eyes catch a glimpse of Cara's face, contorted and scared. He doesn't want to see her scared. No one should be scared. "I'm fine. Don't be scared," Din slurs the words.

His broad body fills the table as it slides back into the machine. The light above him is bright as it surrounds him. Din's head stops hurting and the bright light begins to shimmer and shift. It sparkles with an iridescence and feels warm. Like nothing he's ever seen or felt.

The three women watch as the surgical pod beeps. They can't see Din save for his boots, they give a kick as the machine attempts to restart his heart. None of them know how to exactly read the information on the screen. If they did, they'd see that Din's brain activity is dropping rapidly. Like a blackout sweeping across a metropolis, the synapses stop firing one by one by one.

"He's dead." A smug, smooth voice says from the floor behind Bo-Katan.

Cara is in disbelief, shaking her head and looking at Din as though she can will the machine to do more.

Fennec and Koska stand at the panel at the end of the bed, doing their best to make heads or tails of the situation. "It's still trying. He has time." Fennec says through clenched teeth.

Din hears nothing. It's silent. He is weightless and the shimmer begins to reach out to him. The silence is interrupted by a force. He can't feel it but he knows the calm is getting further away.

"He is dead. Stop torturing him with that machine and let the valiant warrior rest. He has earned it." Moff Gideon says from his place on the floor.

Cara turns to him slowly, "You better hope he isn't because I won't kill you quickly. But I will be killing you."

"He's alive. It's working. It's performing surgery on his brain if I'm reading correctly and the outlook for survival and full brain function is at 50%...it's climbing, but I say–" Fennec draws her side arm, aiming it at the smug man on the floor"–we kill him anyway. I'm not much for men that torture children."

The panel blinks and all the readings change. Din's body begins to shake and rock as all his muscles seize in a fit.

"No!" Cara screams her hand flying to her head.

Bo-Katan stands still, her mind races with the options. She stands paralyzed. Din Djarin has won the saber and if he dies in this moment technically he loses the fight. She will have to fight Moff Gideon when all she wants to do right now is cut his head off with the Darksaber. Her eyes see it laying with the rest of Din's impressive armor. The thought of Moff Gideon being the blades champion for one second longer fills her with a rage she can no longer control. Whether the Darksaber goes to her or Din stops mattering, it belongs in the hands of a Mandalorian. The Moff has one of the most fearless of them on a table fighting for his life. She doesn't even realize it's happened when she sees Gideons head roll to the floor. Her actions were faster than her reason and she's done it. Koska is screaming at her as Fennec and Cara pore over the information the surgical pod is giving them.

Cara doesn't care anymore that the vital witness and suspect is dead. Her friend is hovering between life and death.

The images in Din's mind that were shrouded by the overwhelming tunnel of light return. The promise he made to Grogu is the only thing that consumes his thoughts and his dreams as he drifts in and out of the unknown oblivion and dreamland. He hears voices, speaking his name. He feels no pain, once again a bright light hovers over him. He mutters his promise aloud.

Cara can't speak because if she did the dam would break and she wouldn't be able to control her wails. She takes Dins cold hand in hers. She can't look at his face, it feels wrong but it feels more wrong that he looks awake. She reaches up and pulls his eyelids over his brown eyes she never got to properly gaze into.

"I'm so sorry," Fennec says as she rests her hand on Cara's back.

Bo-Katan looks at the dead Mandalorian, the child of The Watch that she ridiculed and in a way used. She feels bad, but mostly she feels angry. Once again the Darksaber has come into her possession the wrong way. The way. She thinks. She approaches Din and lays the saber on his chest before walking out the med bay door to gather herself.

Koska approaches Cara, "What do you know of the child?"

Cara breathes in, broken and shattered, "He was his foundling, part of his clan, a son to him." She looks at Din and tenderly, absent-mindedly brushes his hair off his forehead. She had never gotten a chance to see his soft curls. Her forehead falls to his shoulder, she refuses to let the dam break.

"The Mandalorians will honor his promise. The child will always have a place with us."

Din can hear his name being spoken by many voices, and for the first time since he was a child he hears his mother and father calling him home.

The silence was so tense it felt like the smothering weight of a wet blanket. They’d heard one or two more shots about thirty minutes ago but then all had been still. Steve kept shooting nervous glances at Javier trying to gauge how he was doing and mentally trying to take vitals or assess his wound. 

“Murphy, if you look at me one more time I’ll-I’ll make it my per-personal mission to kiss your wife,” Javier forced out as he squeezed his eyes closed. 

“Murphy? And here I thought we were becoming friends and you were gonna start calling me Steve.” Steve normally wouldn’t engage when Javier made such comments but it felt better to hear his partner talk, even if it sounded weaker and more strained than usual. 

“I’m serious, m-man,” Javier retorted. “You’re dame’s a dime piece.” 

“Too bad she’s not into sleazy, dark-haired detective types.” 

He waited for Javier to respond and when he didn’t he risked another glance and saw his partner leaning in his chair again with his eyes scrunched closed and his hand pressed to his chest. The man’s skin was starting to look like the same lifeless gray rug beneath their feet. 

“You sure you don’t want me to get someone, man?” Steve asked in a low voice. 

Javier shook his head and swallowed as he mentally prepared himself for the task of speaking. “I’m fine. Just give me a sec and it’ll pass,” he said in a tight voice. 

Steve resumed picking his nail nervously as he sat on the desk. The skin was becoming raw and he hoped they would hear an update too. Sure, Escobar had an army, but they did too…didn’t they?

*******************

“H-Hey, Steve…” 

Steve’s head snapped up so quick it sent a twinge of pain down the back of his neck. He and Javier hadn’t spoken in almost twenty minutes and the stress had riled him up so tightly his body felt completely drained and he couldn’t fight the nap that had folded over him in the dim office. 

Now he was wide awake and at his partner’s side in an instant. Javier was nearly folded in half and his skin almost looked white. But worst of all, heavy gasps pulled themselves from his lips. 

“Javi,” Steve said quietly, crouching beside him. “Talk to me. You still with me?”

Javier’s lips parted, but the sound was barely a whisper. “Can’t… can’t breathe. S-Something’s not right.”

Steve's heart twisted in his chest. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

“G-Get Car-Carillo,” Javier rasped out as he grabbed onto his shirt like it was the thing choking him. 

Steve felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. It must be serious if Javier was breaking his code of silence. “Shit. Alright, okay. Just stay calm, alright? I’m getting Carillo.”

“D-Don’t l-let anyone else know,” he choked out, eyes wide with alarm. 

Steve nodded and patted Javier’s hand before moving swiftly across the room to Carillo’s office where the Colonel was currently taking shelter and knocked on the door softly. 

“Peña if it’s you, get away from my door. I don’t have an update yet,” came the irritated reply. 

“It’s Murphy. We’ve got a situation,” Steve said softly and the door to the office opened. 

“What’s going on?” Carillo asked, taking in Steve’s concerned expression. 

Steve gestured for Carillo to follow him back to his and Javier’s desk clump and Carillo’s eyes when wide with shock. 

“Damn it! When did this happen?” he demanded as he moved to Javier’s side to assess him. 

“When he saved Kimberly. He didn’t want to scare anyone. He said he was fine,” Steve reported as Carillo pulled off Javier’s jacket so he could watch him breathe for a moment. 

“Peña, hey, Peña, you with me?” Carillo coaxed as he tried to get Javier’s unfocused eyes to settle on him. He was gasping like a fish out of water and his lips were starting to take on a bluish tinge. 

“C-Can’t breathe,” Javier gasped breathlessly. 

“Help me lay him down,” Carillo ordered Steve. “Slow and easy.”

Javier groaned as they moved him, the sound raw and agonized. Carillo steadied his head with one hand and gripped his shoulder with the other.

“You’re okay, Peña. We’ve been through worse.” His voice was calm but had a hard edge, the kind of command that only comes from years of leading men under fire.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked.

“His lung’s collapsed,” Carillo said tightly. “He’s got a full-blown pneumothorax. Air is trapped in his chest. We need to relieve the pressure.”

Steve’s blood turned to ice. He recalled distant days of field training. Long dormant memories about decompression kits and incisions. It wasn’t a pretty business but he also remembered that if they didn’t do something quick Javier would die. 

“There’s a medical kit on the far wall,” Steve said, his voice full of dread at the idea of what they’d have to do. 

Carillo met his eyes and nodded. “Then get to it. Fast. He’s circling the drain.”

Steve ran to the med kit, sweat dripping from his brow as he fumbled for supplies. Thank goodness this kit was essentially a small medic badge and had decompression materials in it. It paid to have an army with all the attached equipment in your pocket. 

 Javier was gasping now, eyes wide with panic. Carillo leaned close to him. “Javier, listen to me. You’re going to be okay. Stay with us. Just focus on my voice.”

“Hurts…” Javier whispered, his voice raw.

“I know,” Carillo said firmly, gripping his shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere, Hermano. You stubborn bastard, if this is how you’re trying to get out of paperwork, I swear to God—”

That earned a flicker of a smirk from Javier, but it faded fast. His eyes rolled back and his chest stilled for a long, horrifying beat.

“Javi?” Steve’s voice cracked.

“He’s out!” Carillo snapped. “You have to move, now, Murphy!” He’s not breathing. He’s not breathing! Hurry, damn it!”

Steve raced back with the supplies in hand and knelt beside the unconscious agent. By now a small crowd had gathered to see what the commotion was all about, but thankfully had the good sense to keep their distance. 

“Murphy, you gotta move now!” 

“I know, I know! Just a second—” Steve’s hands shook as he cut through the skin just above the rib.

“You’ve got this,” Carillo said quickly, eyes darting between the procedure and Javier’s still form. “Come on, Steve. You can do this. He needs you.”

Steve found the right spot, inserted the tubing, and held his breath.

Then came the hiss.

The air rushed out, and Javier jolted with a ragged, awful gasp. His whole body shuddered as he coughed, blinking rapidly, eyes wide in pain and confusion.

“Easy, easy, you’re alright,” Steve said quickly, gripping his shoulder. “You’re okay, Javi. Just breathe. That’s it, that’s it. You’re alright now.”

Javier groaned again, trying to move, but Carillo pressed a firm hand to his chest. “Stay still, brother. You just scared the shit out of us.”

“Hurts like hell,” Javier panted, his voice hoarse and raw.

“Yeah, well, that means you’re alive,” Carillo said with a weak grin. “First time I’ve seen you shut up for more than two minutes since I met you. I might miss the peace and quiet.”

Javier was quiet for a moment as he sucked in hungry lung-fulls of air. Then, his head lolled to the side weakly as he looked at Steve. “Th-thank you.” 

Steve gave a shaky laugh and patted Javier’s shoulder. “You thought I was gonna let you off so easily? You still owe me a beer for every time you’ve been a pain in my ass.”

Javier managed a faint, pained smile. “Guess I owe you a case-full then,” he murmured weakly. 

Steve let himself breathe just a fraction. He knew Javier’s current calm state was due to the adrenalin rush and shock. But for now, they were out of immediate danger and they would bask in that no matter how short-lived it was. 

“Is he going to be ok?” The soft query made Steve tear his eyes from his partner and turn to see Kimberly, looking wide-eyed and frightened. 

Steve tried his best to look positive. “Yeah. He’s one tough son of a bitch. He’s gonna be just fine.”

Kimberly nodded before cautiously crouching beside Javier’s shuddering body. She gently placed her hand on his, causing his gaze to drift lazily over to her. 

“You saved me,” she said softly. 

Javier tried his best to give her his signature smirk, though it was only a fraction of what it normally was. “All in a day’s work, ma’am.” 

Kimberly bit her lip, then leaned in and kissed his forehead gently. “When you’re better, dinner’s on me. You earned it.”

Javier’s lips twitched, though his eyes were starting to drift closed again.

“Looking forward to it,” he murmured.

But Steve could feel it. Javier was fading again. The pain might be less intense now, but his skin was clammy, his pulse thready. He was still dying, just slower now.

Carillo stayed kneeling beside him; his face grim.

“He’s not out of the woods. Not even close,” he said quietly. “We need that backup now.”

Steve nodded tightly. “We just need to keep him alive and talking until they get here.”

Javier lay between them, silent now, but alive.

And that would have to be enough for now.

“What on earth,” you whisper. But you’re moving before you can consider the answer.  

The creature before you is unlike anything you’ve seen, and while it’s covered in a layer of fur and its eyes are large and insectoid (are those wings tucked tight against its back?), it's clearly no beast.  

Curled in on itself, one of it’s legs tethered to the ground, hands (fuck, those hands are too human) caging an injury on it’s torso: it’s a pitiful sight.  

It shuffles back when you near it, but you kneel, pausing only a moment as it chirps at you, the sound a question – and a warning. It’s large, and even sitting with its knees clutched to its chest its head sits above yours.  

“What did he do to you?” 

Because it’s no question that this is why you’ve been forbidden from the basement. This is why your grandfather forbade you from leaving your room at night, and why he’s always ignored certain questions you’d asked.  

For a moment you’re torn between going for the injury and going for the rope. You hesitate, going over your options.  

The wound is clotted and old, and you know little about first aid, other than stopping the bleeding.  

The rope, however, is mundane in appearance. You wonder why the creature hadn’t set itself free until your fingers graze the fibres, and your hand jerks away with a sting. 

A red welt raises where you’d touched the rope. You stare at the creature’s ankle with horror – the fur and flesh beneath the tether is blistered and burnt. The fur is missing in patches, damaged badly.  

“I’ll be back,” you promise, before eyeing the lab equipment.  

Glassware, a burner, metal instruments – none of it is particularly familiar to you, but the set of tongs and the scalpels look useful.  

You snatch them up and return to the creature – it looks more and more like a giant moth upon closer inspection. It’s wings which twitch and shudder at your scrutiny, are beautifully patterned, and covered in a thick later of some kind of dust.  The creature – also unnervingly humanoid in shape – wears no clothes, but its short fuzzy fur is thick enough to obscure its bodily features. 

It chirps again the sound higher in pitch, almost alarmed when you return, and rears back as far as the tether will allow. 

You wince at the implication, and hold one of your hands out in supplication. “I’m going to cut the rope. Will you let me?” 

It grows still at your words, and you wonder how much it understands. 

It’d be easier to cut from where you are, but then that’d leave the moth creature with a ring of potentially magical rope stuck around its ankle, and you doubt it’d let you close enough to help once it’s loose. 

Slowly you close the distance. It allows the movement, though visibly tenses when you pick up the tongs. You use the metal to lift the rope from its leg, and it lets out a hiss. 

The scalpel is a poor choice, but it does the job. Frustratingly, slowly, you pick at the threads until the rope comes apart and falls from the creature.  

For a moment the pair of you are still.

You dare to meet its eyes, curious as to what it’ll do next. It seems equally hesitant to break the tension, staring at you with an intensity that’s almost unnerving.  

A thump from upstairs jolts you from the moment, and like a bolt the creature is standing, fur on end and wings fluttering with unease. 

“There should be a back door,” you whisper, scanning the area with mounting unease.  

The basement is small, but you’d seen external door during your trips around the grounds. With three of the walls apparently bare and the fourth leading back to the house, you frown. 

You eye the bookshelf and move to shove it aside. Several sheets of paper flutter to the ground, and you curse, bracing yourself and pushing harder. 

The shelf moves with a sudden lurch when a set of hands appear above your own, and the heat of another body slots behind yours. You don’t have any time to start at the creature’s proximity, though, because the door comes into view. It’s not locked – thank god – but the bilco doors at the top of the stairs are barred shut.  

There’s more noise from upstairs, and your breathing hitches. You’d be in trouble if he knew you were poking around in the basement. And you shuddered to think of what he’d do to you if he found out you’d freed his ‘pet’.  

You claw at the wood – it's nailed to the door and you let out a despairing whimper.  

The creature pushes you aside, digs its fingers into the rotting wood, and pulls it free with a loud groan and a crack.  

Those are footsteps on the stairs – your grandfather is entering the basement. 

“Go, go, go,” you whisper, shoving the creature on the arm.  

The bilco doors shudder open, creaking in protest, just as your grandfather swings the basement door open and lets out a shout. 

You don’t really have time to process what happens next. The creature wraps an arm around your waist and holds you against its chest. You don’t have a chance to marvel at it’s strength, or kick your legs as your feet leave the ground. 

Then it moves. With unnatural speed it bounds a few steps across the estate grounds before jumping into the air, wings snapping open before launching you into flight.  

You’d shriek if it weren’t for the hand that presses against your face, covering you nose to jaw. Crushed against the creature you still loop your arms around its neck, terrified of the sudden drop beneath you.  

The fear doesn’t abate, but after a few minutes of flight you grow used to the position, and your trust that the creature won’t drop you grows. You realise that it had saved you from your grandfather. From having to explain away your misdeeds. Your guilt.  

When the creature sets you down at the edge of the estate grounds, you know you can still go back. That if you sneak into your bed right now, you can continue your life of moderate luxury without fear of consequence.  

Nobody has to know what you’d done.  

You hesitate to step out of its grasp.  

It chirps a question at you and you swallow.  

Grandfather will have discovered the creature is missing. What will he do first? You’re not that great a suspect. He won’t go to your room immediately. Will he give chase? Summon a tracker? A mage?  

Either way, morning come he’d be making your life miserable. You might escape blame but he’ll still be in a rage for gods-only-know how long. Breaking your things. Beating the staff. Perhaps even locking you in your room again.

“I don’t want to go back,” you murmur. Further consideration isn’t really needed. 

The creature tilts its head. Lets out a low grumbling chirp, accompanied by a shrug. And opens its arms to you. 

The fighting started so fast you almost couldn’t react fast enough. A blaster bolt whizzed by your face so close you could feel the warmth of it through the cloth you wore to protect your skin from the blowing sand. 

By the time you ducked behind a pile of crates and peered over them to fire your rifle you noted that Mando had dropped at least five on his own and was grappling with another. Grogu was hiding in his little backpack. You had to get to him before the little guy got trampled or worse. 

The train was chugging louder as it grew closer to the station but the notable lack of screeching indicated that the breaks hadn’t been engaged. More than likely the driver spotted the scuffle and didn’t want to get in the middle of anything. 

“Mando! The train isn’t stopping!” You called as you fired and hit two more pirates. 

“We have to jump on!” He called back.

Suddenly, a loud clang echoed across the platform as a wild blaster shot struck the Mandalorian in the pauldron, knocking him off his feet. A pirate immediately tackled him and tried to stab him with a jagged knife. 

“Stop!” You shouted as you raised your rifle and aimed. You shouted in pain suddenly as one of the pirates shot the weapon from your hands, burning them with the heat of the blaster bolt. Whipping around you managed to throw a punch at your attacker, who was barreling towards you. 

You heard a pained shout as the pirate managed to jam the tip of his blade into the gap between his helmet and chest plate, just below the collar bone. Another pirate tackled you before you could help and you found yourself tussling in the sandy earth and avoiding taking a punch to the face. 

You could feel your strength quickly sapping away. You’d been traveling hard for days and even the night spent with decent food and rest wasn’t enough to keep you running forever. A well aimed punched aimed to your face completely obliterated your grip on reality for a moment and you slumped back to the ground in a daze, aware that you were now vulnerable to attacks but your brain was too scrambled to do anything about it. 

“What the-“ The pirate towering above you was suddenly knocked away by the flying body of another. 

Scrambling to your feet, you stood in complete awe as two pirates hung in the air like limp puppets. What was even more baffling was Grogu standing on the ground with his little arms in the air, as if he was the one orchestrating this phenomenon. You couldn’t believe it, even as it was happening right in front of your face. 

Suddenly the pirates when from hanging in the air slammed against the wall of the station and slumped into a heap. The rumble of the train caught your attention. If you were going to make it you had to leave now. 

But something was wrong with your traveling companion. He laid limply in the sand and you could see the way his chest heaved with his ragged breathing. He didn’t look like he was going to make any attempt to get up. 

“Mando!” You shouted as you scrambled to your feet, scooped up Grogu and ran to the ailing warrior. “Mando come on. We have to go!” 

He tried to push himself up on shaky arms but he was took weak to get far. His breathing sounded horrible. 

“Come on!” You urged as you yanked his semi-dead weight up with all your strength. Grogu whimpered and fussed at the sight of his father laying helplessly on the ground. 

That seemed to spur Mando awake and he managed to stumble to his feet. 

The train was picking up speed as it pulled away from the station. Soon it would be too fast to board safely. It was now or never. 

“Come on!” He exclaimed as he started to run after the train with you close behind, clutching Grogu like your life depended on it. He stumbled and nearly fell but by sheer force of will, Mando kept himself upright and grabbed hold of one of the outer rails attached to the side of an open car. 

“Here! Give me your hand!” He shouted. You reached out and felt the worn leather of his glove encase your hand and suddenly you were pulled faster and you could hardly keep up. 

With a surprising amount of strength, Mando hauled you up into the open train car. You tumbled along the durasteel floor and rolled to a halt, Grogu still clutched in your arms. But you couldn’t rest yet, because Mando still wasn’t in the car with you. 

Grogu whimpered as you set him down and sprinted to the car’s opening. Mando was still gripping the wheel but he was having a hard time keeping up as the train was gaining speed. If he didn’t jump on, he would get sucked under the wheels. 

“Jump! Come on, Mando. Jump on!” You reached out, a quiet promise that you would help him. 

With all his remaining might, Mando used his grip on the rail as leverage and launched himself forward. You caught hold of his free hand and pulled him through the opening. For a moment the two of you laid on the floor of the train car, panting and gasping in the wake of the adrenaline rush you both just experienced. Then, so suddenly it shocked you to your core, Mando suddenly turned to one side, yanked off his helmet and vomited violently on the floor. It looked mostly like blood, but at the moment, you were so shocked at the sight of his face that’s all you could stare at. 

Then, it occurred to you that your traveling companion was throwing up blood and you quickly moved to his side. 

“Hey, hey easy, Mando. Easy. You’re ok. It’s ok,” you soothed as he finished vomiting and nearly slumped onto the ground again. You caught him and eased him back so he was propped up against the wall of the train car. For a moment, you just took in the sight of his face. Thick, unruly brown hair, brown eyes, dulled by fever and pain, and stubble gracing an angular jaw line. He didn’t look like the intimidating warrior you imagined. He looked like a man tired from a lifetime of hardship. 

Wordlessly, you grabbed his helmet and handed it to him, worried that he might want to put it back on but he weakly shook his head. 

“J-just leave it o-off. D-doesn’t matter now,” he rasped. 

Worry filled your gut. He didn’t look good. 

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. “But we’re on our way now. So you just need to hold on a little longer, Mando. Please, just hold on.” 

“Din.” 

You turned to look at him with your eyebrow cocked in confusion. “Come again?” 

“Din. M-My name is Din.” 

This was the first bit of personal information you’d ever gotten from him.

“Din,” you repeated. “It’s nice to finally have a name for you.” 

“Don’t normally give it out to just anyone,” he huffed. His eyes were starting to flutter closed. Something in your gut told you the very worst thing he could do right now is pass out so you shook him gently. 

“Hey, don’t go to sleep. Talk to me.” 

“‘Bout what?” He slurred. Grogu had waddled over to his side and was now curled up against him, whimpering softly.

“I don’t know. Anything.” 

It was quiet for a moment between you two. Then, he gathered himself to speak. “What did you mean that you couldn’t remember your past.” 

Ah, he was going right for tough questions, huh?

You were quiet for a moment, almost electing to pretend that you hadn’t heard him. But seeing the way he was fighting to stay awake made you forgo the desire to keep your past a secret. 

“There-” you cleared your throat, trying to ward off the emotions before they got the better of you and you wouldn’t be able to speak at all. “There was an accident. I’m not really sure how long ago. I just remember waking up in a med bay on some planet I still can’t remember the name of with absolutely no memory of how I got there.” 

“You remember nothing?” He asked. 

You shook your head. “Occasionally, I get the faintest memory of something, almost like a dream. Sometimes it’s a place, other times it’s the faintest outline of a person, but I don’t know what any of it means.” 

It was quiet for a moment before he offered a faint but sincere, “I’m sorry.” 

You shrugged. “It’s in the past. Maybe one day, I’ll remember who I am, or what I was doing on that planet or if I have someone who is waiting for me. But in the meantime, I’m surviving, and that’s what matters. Now, time for you.”

Din let out a groan and rolled his eyes. It gave you a momentary sense of relief to see a hint of joking from him despite how pale and sickly he looked. 

“Ok, starting with the magic baby. What’s his story?” 

Din let out a heavy sigh and swallowed like he was trying to fight the nausea rising in him. “He’s a Jedi, or was, I guess. They were wiped out some time during the Clone Wars. He’s one of the few that managed to escape. An Imperial remnant wanted him, sent me after him. But, when I saw he was just a child, I couldn’t go through with it. So, I saved him.” 

You were touched by the tender tone in his voice. You didn’t know much about this man, but by the way he talked about the boy who’d fallen asleep at his side, you could tell there was nothing but love and care for him. It was almost dizzying the juxtaposition between the hardened warrior of steel and the tenderness he show the boy. 

“Ok, what about Tracinya?” You asked. He stiffened at that question. “You murmured it when you were delirious. Is it a name?”

Din was quiet. He was quiet for even longer than when you’d asked him about Grogu. You almost didn’t think he would answer. 

“It means flame in Mando’a,” he explained weakly. “Th-there’s a woman. Fiery, passionate. We, well I don’t know what we’re doing, but, I know I care for her. And, I think she cares about me.” 

You smiled. “Well who would have thought, the gruff man of steel has a heart after all.” 

Din scoffed, which turned into an audible wince as he wrapped his arms around his stomach and hunched forward. His breath came in staggering gasps, like it physically hurt for him to pull them from the depths of his lungs. 

“Din? Din, hey, talk to me!” You urged worriedly as you shook his shoulder. 

“If-if I don’t make it. Pl-please take care of G-Grogu. He-He doesn’t take up m-much space. He’s-He’s a good kid. He’ll eat y-you out of house and home, thought.” 

“No. Hey, no don’t talk like that, ok? You’re gonna be fine, Din. We’ll get you to a healer and they’ll fix what’s wrong with you, ok? You just have to hold on a little longer. We’re almost there. Just, please hold on.” 

You found yourself pleading with him, long into the night; long after the poison stole his consciousness.” 

Ben glanced over at Sue worriedly. This was the third time in so many minutes that Reed had fallen asleep mid-sentence. Something was definitely off with the usually mild-mannered scientist. 

He’d snapped at Johnny during dinner that evening for something completely harmless and inconsequential. If he wasn’t busy snapping or saying things that made no sense he was yawning constantly. Ben was starting to suspect that his childhood friend had fallen back into his old habits. 

Sue met his eye and nodded. She knew her husband well, and she could tell when he’d gotten a little too hyper-fixated on things. And now with a baby in their lives, she knew he wasn’t sleeping whatsoever. 

“Yo, Stretch,” Ben said casually as he touched Reed’s shoulder, startling him awake. 

“Hm? Wha?” Reed murmured groggily as he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. 

“When was the last time you slept more than ten minutes?” Ben persisted gently. 

“Wha?”

Sue was worried now as she sat beside her husband. Usually his mind was so sharp. It was deeply disconcerting to see him not know exactly what was going on. 

“Honey, when was the last time you slept?” Sue asked patiently. 

“Uh,” Reed scrubbed a hand over his face as he tried desperately to get his brain to engage. “Can’t remember. Experiments ran long. Franklin wouldn’t go down last night. I don’t…remember.” 

“Alright. Enough said. Come on,” Sue directed as she took him by the hand and pulled him to his feet. “To bed with you.” 

“But, the lab,” Reed tried to protest. 

“Will be waiting for you when you’ve slept. There’s nothing going on in there that can’t wait until you’re rested. Now off to bed.” 

She herded them to their room and closed the door. He barely had the energy to take off his tie and toe off his shoes before he was stumbling to their bed and practically collapsing into it. 

“There, now I don’t want to see you up again until you’ve slept at least a full, eight uninterrupted hours,” Sue said as she tucked her husband into bed. “And when you’re awake, we’re going to have a discussion about taking care of yourself because I love you, Reed Richards, and I need you here, not caught in some freak lab accident because you fell asleep mid-experiment. 

He was already half-asleep through her lecture and she couldn’t help but smile at how boyish he looked like this. She knew that he couldn’t help his obsessive compulsive behavior or hyperfixations sometimes. It was something she loved deeply about him. It just meant that every once in a while someone needed to step in and remind him to take a break.