troubleforhireâ:
2051. 2051. âJa, you donât see where drugged by a strangely domestic meta-fetishist trafficking group rates higher on my list of possibilities than time travel?â The thing wasâŚhe didnât feel drugged. He had scars he couldnât place, the tech, the datesâŚit was like waking up in some sort of fantasyland - or what would have been fantasyland if he couldnât still feel the slight wheeze of his breathing, if his former best friend wasnât sharing a bed with him didnât raise more questions than it answered these days. Taking the offered clothing he shifted enough to start layering up, mind pulling at the contents of the clothes basket to draw more layers of warmth to him.
 A snorted laugh left him as he dressed, thin layers stacking over scars, â Somehow I donât see that being the next tourism tagline. We need a plan.â The patter of small feet in the hall tugged at his attention, nieces? Nephews? Mags give Bastian a sibling? Even as he fished a cigarette out to steady himself, looking through the drawers for a lighter, his mind dragged back to the lockscreen photo of his phone. Unlit cigarette dangling from his lips he looked up at the wordsâŚ.and felt his heart clench at the sight before forcing a grin back to the twin faces only a moment before finding himself ambushed in a tackle of wild red hair and giggles, âPapa, itâs pancake breakfast today -â â-Ja, you promised!âÂ
âDid I?â The words hitched in his throat as he sat up, taking in the familial resemblances of the tiny faces and the words. They might be a bit more out of their depth than he had realized. Wry grin tugged at his lips as he turned to his partner - friend - âTry not to faint, Lock, butâŚCongratulations, itâs twins?âÂ
He shook his own head slightly, clearing away the dazed revelation. So. Pancakes then.Â
Scooping up the girls, who couldnât be more than three, in his arms he stood with a groan, nodding to his counterpart as his grin broadened at the otherâs look, âLook sharp, bru. Apparently, a promise was made.â Pancakes was a plan.
Lachlan wasnât terrible with children. Inexperienced perhaps, nervous most definitely, but it helped that he wasnât alone with the whole âsuddenly married with kidsâ thing. Thankfully he was a competent actor and they were lovely little terrors, Freja and Ilse. Every time they called him âpapaâ he started a little, but they were terribly forgiving about that, and as the hours rolled by where he was the main caretaker, he felt more comfortable with them. Kas had a job with CARMA, and Lachlan had apparently retired to become what he could only assume was a metahuman vigilante tailor. Not a stitch was sewn, not with how busy he was managing the girls, but it was a good sort of exhaustion by the time they were settled in their beds. His future self must be as paranoid as his current self, for they still had a baby monitor in their room, and he switched that on before he left to return to the shared bedroom. The one he was sharing with Kaspar, whose continued existence he was still getting used to, and who might not want his possibly ex best friend in his bed. Lachlan hesitated at the door, then slid inside as unobtrusively as possible, the better to not bother Kas.
âI could sleep on the floor if youâd um...â He began, watching Kas remove his shirt with the sort of awe one might reserve for seeing a famous work of art in person. Oh, he was scarred in ways that hurt Lachlanâs heart, but he was Kas, alive and in the flesh. There, living and breathing and so beautiful it was like a knife to the chest to watch him. âGiven weâre still working things out with us. What we are, after what happened. I donât mind, if itâd make you more comfortable.â Kas stared back at him in the half light of the room and it made Lachlan shiver involuntarily. Desperate for something, anything to force his eyes away, he looked at the basket of fresh laundry he had done today and fetched the warmest shirt he could find, then handed it to him. That made it worse, because their hands brushed against one anotherâs by accident and words tumbled through his lips before he could stop them. âYouâre so beautiful, I just...I had plans to say so many fucking things to you when we got back to the hotel after that op and I didnât...â He bit his lip hard, stepping back from Kas before he did something even more stupid like reach for him. God, he wanted to. He wanted to bury his face in the crook of Kasâ neck, to be held by him again, and all he could find right now were festering words from a wound never quite healed. âI loved you, that was what I was going to tell you. That Iâd loved you for ages, that I...shit. I still love you. You donât have to say anything to that, you donât have to feel the same. I should sleep on the sofa or something though. To be fair to you.â












