An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Strange Case of Starship Iris (Podcast)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: RJ McCabe & Agent Jin Seon Park, RJ McCabe/Agent Jin Seon Park, RJ McCabe & Arkady Patel, Violet Liu & RJ McCabe, Brian Jeeter & RJ McCabe, Krejjh & RJ McCabe
Characters: RJ McCabe, Agent Jin Seon Park (Strange Case of Starship Iris), Arkady Patel, Violet Liu, Brian Jeeter, Krejjh (Strange Case of Starship Iris)
Additional Tags: Birthday, Surprise Party, McCabe is still figuring out how to be Part Of The Crew, good thing everyone loves them, Ferdy and Nan mentioned, Social Anxiety, i guess, there's some hyperventilating but it's not quite a panic attack, Sh'th Hremreh, Gift Giving, idk shit about weaving, takes place immediately after Episode 3.05, the romantic parkabe is mostly implied and technically one-sided, i'm also not gonna pretend to understand how this universe's comm system works
Summary:
McCabe stands there for another minute, heart rabbiting in their chest, mind racing with possibilities. It could still be a trapâtheir whole crew could be held at gunpoint right now, forced to say whatever they need to say to get McCabe in there with the rest of them, so some enemy officer can drive their ship into the nearest asteroid and ensure the most possible casualties. They could be ruining everything by following orders, could be putting their friends in even more danger if they even think about going in there.
Or. Park couldâve told everyone itâs RJâs birthday today. And everyone could be trying to throw them some bass-ackwards melted-glass Rumor Crew Special facsimile of a surprise party.
New fandom, just under the wire before a new episode comes out! Happy birthday @whatsaterrarium!
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Bright Sessions (Podcast), The AM Archives (Podcast), The College Tapes (Podcast)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Samantha Barnes/Damien, Samantha Barnes & Damien, what do you call it when they hate each other, Samantha Barnes.... Vs. Damien?, Background Samantha Barnes/Mags Densmore, Background Mark Bryant/Oliver Ritz, past Samantha Barnes/Mark Bryant, Past Damien/Mark Bryant, Samantha Barnes & Joan Bright
Characters: Samantha Barnes, Damien (The Bright Sessions), Joan Bright
Additional Tags: Sickfic, Illnesses, Common Cold, Enemies to Something, Character Growth, Post-Canon, Post-TCT, Reconciliation, but pre-epilogue, Small Towns
Summary:
Her body recognizes him before her brain does, her stomach doing a sick little flip the second she lays eyes on him, even as she can almost convince herself itâs someone else. His hair is a little longer, choppy bangs like he cut them himself falling into his eyes. Heâs gained some weight, or maybe some muscleâ anyway, heâs not so awfully skinny, and thereâs healthy color in his cheeks, like heâs gotten some sun. Heâs wearing the employee uniform of the grocery store, an orange vest and a matching trucker cap, but thereâs no mistaking him.
It just hit me that the boys all have graves somewhere... Do you think they've gone there? Has Julie? How do they feel about how and where they were buried?
sorry this took so long to respond to! I'm not sure if you meant it as a writing prompt or just a point of discussion.... but i wrote 2500 words on it anyway. Hope you enjoy!
Special thanks to @weneedglitter for her math and naming assistance :)
Send me prompts to help me reach my 2024 writing goal!
Itâs sort of an accident, at the beginning. Reggie doesnât mean to be looking.
He doesnât really mean to be looking for anything, even if he sounded really suspicious and like he was a total lying liar face when he told Julie and the guys he was just âgoing for a stroll.â But honestly, itâs a coincidence more than anything that his stroll takes him to the bike rental place on the beachfront that used to be his house. And itâs a coincidence that the pimpled teen working the counter has that dayâs mail laid out in front of him for all the world to see. And itâs a coincidence that in said pile of mail is a letter from Evergreen Cemetery addressed to âArchibald Peters or Current Resident.â
He doesnât actually read the letter (his invisibility these days is spotty at best, and he doesnât think committing felony mail theft would be much smarter of an idea than making an envelope float in mid-air anyway). He doesnât know that the letter has anything more to say than âHey you, know any dead people? Send âem our way!â
He doesnât know it has anything to do with him.
But he goes home anywayâ because home is Julieâs house, nowâ and slides Carlosâs laptop out of its super functional hiding place under his pillow, and looks up the address for Evergreen Cemetery.
And then he poofs into the kitchen and says, âRay? Will you drive me somewhere?â
The car ride is quiet, mostly because Ray said, âYou wanna tell me where weâre going?â when they got in the car, and Reggie said, âMmhmm!â all high-pitched and obvious, and then never elaborated, and so trying to make other conversation seems rude. He just gives directions, and hums along to the radio, and Ray drives them to the cemetery where Reggieâs pre-ghost body may or may not be buried.
Thatâs the weirdest part of all of this. Not the mail theft or the bike shop or the idea that Reggieâs parents might have put him somewhere other than the Peters Family plot in Orange County where his grandparents and Great Aunt Barb are buried, but the fact that there is a body, very much dead and scientifically identifiable as his, lying under six feet of dirt somewhere.
He has a body. Now, currently, in most ways even an alive one. And yeah, heâs worked pretty damn hard to get this one, but it still feels really weird that thereâs just another one⌠out there.
âReggie?â Ray asks as he slows the car along the gravel driveway of the cemetery. âWhatâŚ?â
He doesnât finish his question, which is probably a good thing because Reggieâs not sure he has an answer. âCould youâŚ?â he asks instead, staring down at his hands in his lap so he wonât have to look Ray in the eye. âUm. Would you maybe mind going in there and asking if⌠or, uh, whereâŚâÂ
He trails off, unable to finish his own question either.
Ray makes a soft sound, somewhere between a hum and a sigh, and nods once before giving Reggie a comforting pat on the knee and getting out of the car.
Heâs in there a long time. Long enough for Reggie to get all squirmy and start to feel bad for dragging him into this.
He can only imagine the conversation going on in there: Hi, can you please point me to the grave of a seventeen-year-old who died twenty-five years ago? No, no, Iâm not related to him, nor do I have any legitimate connection to him that I can offer you as an explanation for why Iâm asking. Please do not ask any follow-up questions.
Jeez. What was Reggie even thinking bringing Ray all the way out here, just on a hunch? As soon as he gets back to the car, Reggie should just tell him to take them back home.
But itâs only a few minutes later that the office door opens and Ray emerges, a piece of paper in one hand. He shakes hands with an older white guyâ the manager, Reggie guesses, or whatever the term is for people in charge of the little office at a cemeteryâ and then heads back over to Reggie.
He gets back in the car, shuts the door, and sits heavily in the driverâs seat without buckling his seat belt or shifting the car out of park. Reggie opens his mouth to say something, closes it again. Shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
Ray hands him the piece of paper. âYou tell me what you wanna do, mijo.â
Itâs a listâ of names and plots, next to a handy-dandy little map of the cemetery. Three are highlightedâ Reginald Peters. Alexander Mercer. Lucas Patterson.
Reggie shivers, the edges of the paper crinkling in his tight grip. âThese are⌠Jeez. Weâre all here?â
âSeems so.â Ray puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. âIt was sort of a long shot, but I figured Iâd ask while I was in there.â
Reggie stares at his nameâ at his friendsâ namesâ just three lines on a list of ghosts.
He points at the plot number next to his name. âGuess weâre going here then?â
Itâs not a far walk. Reggie leads the way, squinting at the map, while Ray follows politely behind. Ray doesnât berate him or even comment when they get lost, and Reggie only gets them lost three and a half times. Eventually, they find it: a modest tombstone in a far corner of the graveyard, neatly kept with a still-fresh bouquet of lilies propped up against it.
The tombstone reads:
Reginald Alastair Peters
August 18, 1977â July 22, 1995
Beloved Son
Loving Brother
Cherished Bandmate
âOh,â Reggie whispers, reaching out a tentative hand to touch the last line of lettering. He canât imagine his parents choosing to spend extra money on that particular engraving, not without some serious coercion, but the only other option isâŚ
âSomeoneâs been here recently,â Ray says, voice reverent and yet too loud, all of a sudden, in the otherwise silence. He reaches around Reggie to pick up the flowers and place them gently atop the headstone. âSo your parents might still live nearby.â
âMaybe,â Reggie whispers, though he highly doubts his parents had anything to do with the bouquet. With effort, he tears his gaze away from his grave and down to the map in his hands. âUm. Can weâ?â
He cuts off, swallowing against the lump in his throat, and instead points wordlessly at the plot numbers for his two best friends.
âOf course.â Ray puts a hand on his shoulderâ warm, solid, reassuringâ and takes the map with the other. âMay I?â
Reggie lets it go with relief and wipes his sweaty hands on his pants. The walk between graves will give him a good chance to clear his head, and heâs way too distracted to follow a map without getting them lost way more than three and a half times.
But Ray only takes a few steps before he stops and frowns down at the map. He looks up again, turns a slow circle, and walks just a few feet before stopping again, the map falling to his side. âOh. Well.â
Reggie goes to see what heâs looking at, and his breath catches in his throat.
Thereâs a good bit of space between them, but the next tombstone over from Reggieâs belongs to Alex. He continues down the line, and sure enough, the next one down from that is Lukeâs.
Theyâre all distinctly differentâ Lukeâs is the biggest of the three, Alexâs has a Bible quote snaked along the sideâ but theyâre all adorned with fresh flowers, and they all have the same phrase tacked onto the end of their epitaphs:
Cherished Bandmate.
Cherished Bandmate.
Cherished Bandmate.
A cold feeling seeps through Reggieâs bones, not unlike the time he and Luke were playing hide and seek and he won by curling up inside the refrigerator.
âI think I wanna go home now,â Reggie says slowly, feeling shivery and stuck and ghostly in the worst way as he stands at the point of the triangle of his and his best friendsâ graves.
âOf course,â Ray says, his voice muffled like heâs speaking through water or from very far away. âIâll go get the car.â
But Reggieâs already poofed out.
***
He doesnât intend to bring it up again. Because heâs not entirely sure Luke and Alex would want to know. And the last thing he wants to do is assume his friends are at the same place on the same journey regarding their life, death, and rebirth as he is.
He doesnât want to hurt their feelings if heâs wrong about his theory. He doesnât want to make them sad if heâs right.
But apparently Reggieâs not as good at concealing his own feelings as heâd like to thinkâ even though Ray doesnât say anything, and Julie at least seems convinced by Reggieâs âwe were running errandsâ story, less than two days has gone by when she informs him that the jig is, in fact, up.
Heâs sitting cross-legged on the couch in the studio, eating a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream very slowly because Ray made him promise he wouldnât drip any on the sofa cushions.
Alex is out skateboarding with Willie. Luke is out âchaperoningâ (read: mooching off of) Carlos and his friendsâ laser tag party. Julie was ostensibly doing homework, which is why Reggie had taken his ice cream out to the garage, but now the doors open and Julie bounds in to join him, plopping next to him on the couch with a warm (if slightly mischievous) smile.
âHey there, you,â she says expressively, poking him in the arm.
Reggie blinks, slowly drawing the spoon out of his mouth. âHi, Julie.â
âWe both know Iâm not very good at beating around the bush,â she says, hands in her lap, âso Iâm just gonna cut to the chase. The boys tell me youâre sad, and while at first I tried to convince them that maybe just not everyone thinks the 2002 Scooby-Doo movie is as funny as they do and thatâs why you were a little quiet during movie night, the more I thought about it the more I agreed that you havenât been your usual amazing chipper self⌠lately⌠So, uh. You know. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?â
âI know,â Reggie says, nodding, because he does know, and clutches his bowl of ice cream to his chest for some comfort. âI, um⌠Iâm not⌠sad, I just⌠Okay, so you know how your dad and I ran some errands the other day and I came back early because I didnât wanna have to listen to his sad Dad Rock the whole drive home and he didnât have a single good CD in the car?â
Julie nods.
âWell, I actually sorta made all that up. We went to see where the guys and I are buried.â
Julieâs face falls, her eyes going wide. âOh. Wow.â
âAnd I didnât say anything,â Reggie continues, âbecause I didnât really know how I felt about it yet. And I didnât know how Luke and Alex would feel. I didnât know if theyâd wanna know.â
âOf course we would, bro.â
Reggie felt the spark alighting in his chest a split second before Luke spoke, so the sudden arrival of his friends doesnât startle him. He ducks his chin, staring into his ice cream so he doesnât have to see if theyâre mad at him.
âReggieâŚâ Julie puts a hand on his knee. âYou didnât do anything wrongâ this is a really complicated situation to navigate. Itâs just⌠we didnât even know you were looking.â
âI wasnât,â Reggie promises, but he doesnât know how to explain himself beyond that. He sets his bowl down on the coffee table and slowly raises his eyes to meet his friendsâ gazes. âWeâre all together. The three of us, ourâ weâre not buried with our families.â
Lukeâs and Alexâs faces go through several expressions before settling on twin looks of determination. âGood,â Luke says. âThatâs how it should be.â
âWill you go back with us?â Alex asks. âTake a look all together?â
In the moment that Reggie hesitates, Julie takes his hand in hers and gives it a warm, reassuring squeeze.
Reggie takes a deep breath, feeling it whistle through live, healthy lungs, and reaches out his other hand. Luke takes it and offers his hand to Alex, who joins hands with Luke and Julie to complete the circle. When the ghosts who arenât quite ghosts anymore poof out, they carry Julie with them, until all four members of Julie and the Phantoms stand solemn but supported in front of Reggieâs grave.
They take it in. The epitaph. The flowers, a bit crumpled from yesterdayâs rain but nowhere near wilting. The edge of Alexâs headstone just visible in their peripheral vision, and Lukeâs just beyond it.
âWe are all together,â Alex says in awe.Â
Luke shakes his head. âWhy would our parentsâ?â
A voice behind them says, âI insisted.â
They spin around. Reggie didnât hear anyone approaching, and yet standing just a few feet back, dark sunglasses obscuring his expression, is Trevor Wilson, three bunches of fresh wildflowers tucked in the crook of his arm.
He nods toward the grave behind them. âThey were gonna take you halfway across the state, and the Mercers wanted Alex cremated, and I wasnât even invited to the funerals but I pitched a fit. Told them Iâd pay for everythingâ the plots, the services, the upkeepâ if only theyâd keep you all⌠intact. And together.â
Reggieâs heart does an Olympics-worthy gymnastics routine inside his chest. âYou added the bandmate line?â he guesses.
Trevor shrugs a little sheepishly. âI snuck it in on the paperwork. Donât think Lukeâs dad ever forgave me.â
âYeah, well, my dad canââ Luke starts to say, and then trails off, shoving his hands in his pockets so itâs a little less obvious that theyâre curled into fists. His voice is strained but sincere when he says, âThanks, Bobby. For doing all that.â
âItâs the least I could do.â
With some hesitation, Trevor steps forward and past them, to lay one bouquet at the foot of Reggieâs headstone.
It feels right, for them all to be there together, paying homage to the people they once were.
Reggieâs glad he found this place, even if it was sort of an accident.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Strange Case of Starship Iris (Podcast)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Brian Jeeter & RJ McCabe, Krejjh & RJ McCabe, Brian Jeeter/Krejjh
Characters: Brian Jeeter, RJ McCabe, Krejjh (Strange Case of Starship Iris), Violet Liu
Additional Tags: Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, technically, it's just a vague post-canon where the whole crew's back together again cause i said so :), the author does not speak French, made-up Dwarnian, Canon Disabled Character, Illnesses, Cuddling & Snuggling
Summary:
âI⌠shouldnât be here,â RJ mumbles, rubbing at their eyes again. âCanât get you sick, Brian, yourâyour lungsâbut. It. Was cold in my room.â
I'm going to give you a prompt my brain gave me but that I haven't made any progress writing. My idea is that Adam from The Bright Sessions is Atypical and his ability is fusing with other people like the gems in Steven Universe. Because this requires some degree of physical, emotional, and cognitive synchronicity, he probably wouldn't discover it until one of the many moments he and Caleb almost kissed before they started dating. Then Adam has to deal with becoming a new person sometimes when he's with Caleb, figuring out who that person is and their name, whether Adam wants to tell his parents about this, how Wadsworth would react, and a slew of other issues. I imagine that Adam's fusion with Caleb would get to experience the world on the stakeouts. The College Tapes would also definitely happen differently, since I'm not sure Caleb could hide his pokemon evolution from Adam if they fused and Adam being Atypical himself deals with many of the problems that caused them to break up in the first place
Me, who's seen zero (0) episodes of Steven Universe, looking at this prompt: hmm... I don't really know what to do with this... but I bet I could get 750 words out of this concept somehow.
Me, 2000 words later:
No but for real, this prompt ended up bringing me SO much joy to write. Once I figured out the general idea I was going for, I really hit the ground running, and wrote the whole thing in just a couple hours! I really hope you enjoy what I came up with!
(and as always with prompts, if I didn't end up writing your idea exactly how you envisioned it, you are of course so allowed to write your own fic with the same idea! Or a continuation of my version! Or you can always request that I write my own continuation! Two cakes, etc!)
This takes place vaguely post-season four. CW for references to Safe House, kidnapping, depression, PTSD, etc. Canon-compliant angst :)
Send me prompts to help me finish my 2024 writing goal!
By this point in his life, Adam Hayes feels like heâs pretty much got a handle on how all the atypical stuff works. There are specifics that keep crawling out of the woodwork to shock himâ Damien, for example, as Adamâs recent brush with kidnapping proved, as well as his Aunt Annabelleâs evil villain arc, which Adam is admittedly still getting used toâ but the general gist of it all, heâs got down.
The gist being: there are people with superpowers. And there are people like Adam. Normal. Boring. Safe, until theyâre not anymore.
Heâs not worried about it. Not consciously, anyway. He trusts, for reasons he canât even explain, that Damien really is gone for good, and that even if he werenât, Calebâs beating has officially moved him from the âsuperpowerâ category to the âboringâ one, leaving him no more threatening than any other asshole white guy.
(He does not let himself think about the fact that Damien was as good as powerless when he hit Chloe with a lamp, or how six months later sheâs still dealing with the effects of the resulting concussion he gave her. Adam will simply keep a can of pepper spray in his backpack and continue to convince himself that he will never let his guard down around Damien like Chloe did, should their paths ever cross again).
He has enough other things, better things, to focus onâ his Yale application, and then finals, and then preparing to live away from home for the first time ever, and on top of all that, his boyfriendâ that for six months, he manages to think about the safehouse incident as little as humanly possible (nightmares notwithstanding). And not once does it occur to him to make the connection between almost being kidnapped by a whackjob mind manipulator and something his mom said to him almost a year ago when he first got her to sit down and talk about atypicals with him: Sometimes abilities start to manifest after instances of trauma.
After all, making said connection would require Adam to admit (even just to himself) that he experienced a trauma, which he has no intention of doing because that would mean heâs even more fucked up now that he already was.
Besides. There are two kinds of people in the world. People like Caleb. And people like Adam. An atypical ability âstarting to manifestâ is just something that was never going to happen to him.
Until today.
Heâs at Calebâs house, which is always a little bit complicated because Calebâs parents (not to mention his nosy little sister) are way more likely to be home and âinterested in what you boys are up toâ than Adamâs. They try not to complain about it, because itâs sort of a miracle that the Michaelsesâ only reaction to Calebâs endangerment at the safehouse was âno more therapyâ and not âno more boyfriend,â and the last thing Adam wants to do is give them any reason to change their minds on that, but it is annoying. Theyâve learned to be quiet.
Calebâs sitting up against the headboard of his bed, facing the âjust ajar enough to be plausibly called openâ door, while Adam straddles his lap, poised purposefully on his knees to be able to roll off and into the desk chair placed strategically next to the bed at the slightest sign of someone approaching.
Like I said. Theyâve got a system.
Adam usually enjoys kissing Caleb more than he enjoys just about anything, but heâs not feeling it today. Not even in a âhis depression is bad so every sensation is muted and foggy, much less his libidoâ kind of way, but just like⌠heâs preoccupied by something.
Caleb must notice, because he breaks the kiss and takes Adamâs face in both his hands so he can look him in the eye. âHey. You all right?â
Adam opens his mouth to lie, but if he tells Caleb heâs fine then theyâll go back to making out, and heâs not sure he actually wants to do that. So instead, he says, âWhat am I feeling right now?â
Caleb gets the little crease between his eyebrows that Adam loves and hates in equal measure that means heâs really focusing in on his empath ability. Adam knows him well enough by now to be able to track the turning gears behind his eyesâ he can see the moment when Caleb separates his own feelings in his chest from Adamâs and starts to analyze them.
But then his frown deepens, and he says, âI⌠donât⌠know.â His eyes meet Adamâs. âPurple. And like⌠stretchy. Itâs not an Adam feeling Iâve ever felt before.â
Adam sits back in surprise, hands falling away from where theyâd been looped around Calebâs neck. âWhaâ seriously? Weâve known each other over a year. I thought youâd have felt all the Adam feelings by now.â
âSo did I,â Caleb says, frowning into the distance again. âItâs weird.â Adamâs stomach flips, just as Caleb adds, âOh, shit, now youâreâ sorry, I didnât mean to make you, like. Feel bad. New feelings are probably super normal.â
Adam rolls his eyes, trying to brush away the guilt eating at him, and whatever heâd been feeling beforeâ the purple, stretchy distractionâ intensifies.
âSo, uh⌠what is that feeling?â Caleb asks, rubbing absently at his chest, like Adamâs emotion is causing him some kind of physical discomfort, which does not help much on the âAdam not feeling like a burdenâ front.
âI donât know,â he admits, climbing all the way off Calebâs lap to sit cross-legged in front of him instead. His feet were starting to fall asleep, and his hands feel a little numbâ he wrings them, trying to rub feeling back into his fingers.
âIs something on your mind?â Caleb asks, laying a comforting hand on Adamâs knee.
âNo,â he starts to say, because there isnât really except for the fact that he feels a little weird all of a sudden, cold like thereâs a draft and a little unsteady, but somehow what comes out of his mouth is, âDamien.â
âWhat?â Caleb says, voice sharp and close in Adamâs ear in a way it wasnât before, even though neither of them has moved. âYou were thinking about Damien?â
âNo!â Adam says, for real this time, and then winces, knowing Caleb can feel the untruth, and amends, âI mean, notâ I guess, not consciously, just⌠I guess maybe Iâm always thinking about him? In the back of my mind?â
The purple, stretchy feeling inside himâ and damn Calebâs stupid emotion color metaphors, but that is a good way to describe itâ expands even further, pressing tight against his ribs like itâs trying to break out of him, and maybe Caleb can feel that too, because he takes Adamâs hands in both of his.
âI think, sometimes,â Adam continues, words flowing out of his mouth almost without his permission, âI just hate that he got away with it. Like, okay, he spent, what, four months? In a basement cell that Mark was trapped in for the better part of five years? Oh, so his only consequence was having to leave town and be normal like the rest of us? Like thatâs so fucking bad? Chloe still gets headaches and youâve got all this guilt to deal with and Damien just has to be normal?â
The more he talks, the more the purple feeling fills him up, and red hot anger right alongside it, and a distant tiny part of himself knows that he should calm down before he says or does something heâll regret, and that heâs probably freaking Caleb the fuck out right now, but his vision is starting to white out around the edges, and the purple and red warring for dominance in his stomach are making him feel sick, and for a moment or two, the only thing Adam can focus on is the warm, rough sensation of Calebâs hands in his his.
Adam blinks, and the world turns upside down.
Or, no, waitâ not upside down. Backwards. Heâs facing the door nowâ sitting where Caleb was just a second ago. His anger has dissipated, but the purple stretchy feeling is still there, if settled, somehow, like itâs filled him up enough that he can mostly ignore it.
But somethingâs still wrong.
Maybe itâs that he feels bigger now. Taller. He brings his hands in front of his face and theyâre hands heâs never seen beforeâ big, with thick fingers and skin a lighter shade of brown.
Maybe itâs that Calebâs goneâ nowhere to be seen, the room totally empty, the spot on the bed in front of him already growing coldâ or that Adam is too.
Because heâs not⌠quite⌠Adam anymore. Heâs not Caleb, either.
The thing thatâs wrong is that heâs someone new.
He scrambles off the bed, stumbling a little on new big feet, and rushes over to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of Calebâs bedroom door. He touches his face, and those big hands cup Calebâs stubbled cheeks. He touches his head, and thick fingers tangle in Adamâs messy curls. Heâs wearing Calebâs jeans, tight around the waist, and Adamâs Black Keys t-shirt, hanging just above his belly button like itâs been cropped. Heâs gotta be at least six and a half feet tall.
âHoly shit,â he breathes in two voices, and the purple thing inside him snaps.
Adam hits the floor with a shout, curling protectively around himself out of instinct. Next to him, thereâs a twin cry and thud as Caleb is thrown to the ground with equal force. Adma pats himself down, feeling his skinny arms and pianist fingers, the shirt that fits and his hair on his own head.
âHoly shit,â he says again, voice high with panic but purely his.
âWhat the hell!â Caleb agrees, scrambling back away from him. Adam backs up against the opposite wall, giving Caleb as much space as he can without leaving the roomâ Caleb doesnât need Adamâs alarm in his chest on top of his own.
Plus maybe Adam feels like something you shouldnât get too close to at the moment.
âWhat was that?â Caleb gasps, staring at him with big, wide eyes.
Adam shakes his head. âI donât know?â
âBut that wasâ that was you, wasnât it?â Caleb pats his chest, like heâs still trying to convince himself heâs real and solidâ Adam knows the feeling. âHow did you do that?â
âI donât know!â
Footsteps pound up the stairs, and Mrs. Michaels calls, âCaleb? Adam?â She raps perfunctorily twice on the half-open door before sticking her head in and sizing them up: Adam cowered against one wall, Caleb still on the floor and huddled up against the other, both of them looking disheveled and wild, like theyâve been up to who knows what. âI heard a thud, are you boys all right?â
Caleb looks from Adam to his mom, and hurriedly gets to his feet. âYeah! Yeah, Mom, sorry, weâreâ weâre fine.â He takes a calming breath, like heâs gotta prove it, and gives Adam a charged look. âRight, Adam? Weâre okay?â
But Adma canât imagine lying right now, not even just to get the adult out of the room so that he and Caleb can debrief in private. He feels wrong still, and monstrous, and so far from normal it hurts.
âI donât know,â he whispers, and canât help the first dark thought that springs to his mind:
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-something that fills in a little bit the space between tama and tct since i feel like a lot was skipped in the podcast that you could dip into (all the developing relationships and moving ons)
-joan cutting marks hair after he comes back from the roadtrip with damien
-sam/mark dancing together when their relationship is still new
im happy if anything even gets written, this fandom is sadly so dead and i love any and all additions no matter what they look like
thank you for these prompts! Hoping to get all of them written eventually, but have this one for now. Hope you enjoy!
TW for canon-typical PTSD/depression, Mark post Tier-5, etc.
Markâs first few weeks back in Boston are a fun amalgamation of Good Things and Bad Things.
Good Things include but are not limited to: Sam. Really good Scotch. Drinking really good Scotch with Sam that he stole from his sister. His sister.
Bad Things include but are not limited to: Nightmares. Damien. Knowing Damien is just Out There getting his ability back. The way Sam looks at him sometimes like sheâs not quite sure who he is. The way his sister looks at him sometimes, like heâs just the broken mess of a thing who took her baby brother away. His sister.
Joanie, despite her best efforts, fits neatly into both camps. Sheâs always been special like that.
The days blur together in a haze of booze and bad dreams, interspersed with all too brief moments of light. Sam drags him out of the houseâ he has a panic attack at the grocery store. She takes him out to dinnerâ the waiter tells her she needs to âfatten him up.â She curls up next to him on the couch, warm and real and living, and he feels hyper-aware of every way in which his body fails to live up to the ghost she fell in love with.
He doesnât know how long itâs been when his hair starts to bother him more than anything else.
âMark?â Joanie calls, rapping her knuckles against the half-open door of her closet turned guest room. Mark was supposed to be getting readyâ because Joan refuses to leave the house if heâs still in bed or pajamas, but then she never lets him hear the end of it if she has to cancel on patients, so he at least has to make himself get dressed each morning, even if he falls back into a depressed stupor on the couch the second she walks out the doorâ but he got stuck at the mirror. Heâs wearing jeans, slung low and loose on his hips because Joanie keeps insisting heâll âgrow into themâ like heâs five, a t-shirt in his hands. He hasnât managed to work up the energy to actually pull it over his head yet, but itâs not his scrawny, scarred chest that has him stuck in his own head.
Itâs the hair, clean but unruly, reaching almost all the way to his shoulders.
He hates it.
âMark!â Joan says again, sharper this time, and he startles back into action, mutters, âHey, sorry, whatâ as he finally puts his shirt on, his reflection disappearing behind the fabric for a moment.
âAre you okay?â
âYeah. Fine.â He tugs his jeans up a little. Fixes his shirt over top. Runs a hand through his hair and then shakes it out like heâs touched something slimy.
He still canât quite tear his gaze away from the mirror, not even to give his sister a more convincing proof of life.
âOkay, wellâŚâ Joan hovers in the doorway. âIâve got a nine oâclock, so Iâm gonna get goingâŚâ
âOkay.â Mark gathers his hair up into one hand, turning one way and then the other to try and see how it would look short again. âHave fun.â
Joan still doesnât move. After a beat, she says, âIs Sam coming over?â
Mark sighs and pats his hair flat again, giving up on trying to make it how it used to be through sheer force of will. âNo, sheâs got plans with Chloe. And frankly, I think she needs a break from my bullshit.â
âDo you want me to cut that for you?â
He was expecting a big sister/therapist response along the lines of now, Mark, if you say all those negative things about yourself, youâll just end up believing them, so the question startles him enough that he finally looks at her. âWhat?â
âYour⌠hair,â Joanie says, gesturing a little awkwardly. âYou keep fussing with it. Is it bothering you?â
Mark grabs a belt from his bed and starts looping it through his jeansâ anything to not have to look his sister in the eye. âItâs fine, I just gotta get to the barber.â
They both know perfectly well why he hasnât yet. The idea of sitting in a chair with restricted access to his hands while a strange man brings sharp objects close to his neck just about makes him wanna fall back into a coma.
But he hates looking like someone who lost autonomy over his own life for the better part of five years. He wants to feel like himself again, and the first step in doing that is to look like himself again.
Joan looks at her watch, shifts her weight from foot to foot. âI really have to get going⌠but when I get home, weâll talk about this some more, okay? Maybe we can figure something out.â
***
Joan calls on her way home from work (because sheâs an insane person who still has a landline) to say âMeet me on the porch. If youâre wearing something nice, change your clothes.â
Mark is not wearing something nice. He changed back into sweatpants before noon, and heâs pretty sure this t-shirt once belonged to Joanieâs college boyfriend Derek. And part of him wants to see the annoyed look on Joanâs face when she gets home and he has not, in fact, met her on the porch, but honestly heâs too curious about what tricks she has up her sleeve to want to waste time pissing her off.
So heâs leaning over the porch railing when Joanâs car pulls into the driveway. She gets out of the car and calls, âGood! You listened!â and Mark becomes painfully aware of the differences between the two of themâ Joan in her neat blouse and pencil skirt, heels in hand as she runs barefoot up the drive, versus Mark in ill-fitting hand-me-downs and Crocs.
âWait here,â Joan commands, rushing past him into the house. âIâll be right back. Did you have a good day?â
Mark rolls his eyes, not even dignifying that question with a response.
A few minutes later, she emerges, having changed into shorts and a t-shirt, carrying a folding chair under one arm, her other hand clutched around a handheld mirror and a pair of kitchen scissors.
Mark blinks, the pieces falling into place. âWait, you were serious? Youâre gonna cut my hair?â
âWhy not, right?â Joan plops the chair down in the middle of the porch. âEither I do a great job and it gives you the confidence to leave the house more, or I donât and Sam dumps you, but at least the length wonât bother you so much anymore.â
Mark glares at her, but thereâs no heat to it. âIt has⌠been bothering me,â he reluctantly admits.
Joan snips her scissors in the air. âSit, then.â
He sits. Joan plays the Roman Holiday soundtrack on her phone, for some ambiance. Mark closes his eyes, and then, when that paired with Joanâs fingers brushing up against his neck brings back bad memories, stares into the mirror Joan brought so he can see each clump of hair fall away.
He watches as the broken boy who was imprisoned, and then trapped, and then kidnapped disappears, leaving in its place⌠Mark.
The Mark Sam met in 1810. The Mark Joan spent years working to save. The Mark he wants to be.
âThank you,â he whispers, âfor this.â
Joan combs through his newly shorn hair with her fingers. âYou can ask next time, you know. You can ask me for anything.â
Markâs still not sure about that just yet, but he is sure of one thing: Joanie has a firm spot on the Good Things list today.
--
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3:56⌠3:57⌠3:58âŚ
Luke glances at his watch for the sixth time in half as many minutes, tapping his foot impatiently against the root of the tree heâs been leaned up against for the last half hour. He told himself when he left the house today that he was gonna be way too early, and that he was therefore going to be bored, because thatâs what happens every single day he goes to meet Julie when she gets out of her last class, but sue him, the other option was being bored and antsy at home, and at least here there are pretty trees to look at and he knows he wonât be late.
Adulthood, heâs learned in the year and a half or so since he stopped being part of a full-time ghost band and started being a somewhat functioning human member of society, is like eighty-five percent waiting and fifteen percent being bored as shit.
Whateverâs left after that can be awesome as hell, though.
Across the street from his tree, the doors of the big brick building where Julie has French class swing open, and a crowd of students and/or teachersâ indistinguishable because college studentsâ ages range from 15 to 45, apparentlyâ bustles out onto the front steps. Luke pushes off the tree, leaning forward on his toes to get a better look, and grins when he picks out Julie, coming down the stairs with her books clutched to her chest cause she doesnât like carrying a backpack around if she can help it, lost in deep conversation with a guy and a girl who look to be about her age.
Luke starts to raise a hand to her, opens his mouth even to call out, but something makes him hesitate.
Theyâve been doing this for a few months nowâ the college thing. Reggie and Julie go to school, because theyâre nerds like that, and Alex and Luke stay home and work shitty minimum wage jobs to Provide, and on the weekends they all go in on the band. Luke would be lying if he said he didnât miss the old days, when Mr. Molina brought three square meals out to the studio and Luke could spend every waking minute either playing, writing, or being with Julie, but heâd at least like to think heâs grown a little, emotionally, since he was a seventeen-year-old ghost, and he knows he couldnât have had that easy life forever even if he wanted to. And Julie wanted to go to college. And Luke wants Julie to be happy.
And this specific thingâ Luke getting off work at the music store down the road just in time to meet Julie after class and they walk home together, occasionally stopping for a delicious treat along the wayâ has been really nice. It makes Luke feel like a person with a life. He can work a job without wanting to kill himself and walk his girlfriend home from school.
So why does today feel different?
Julie says something to her friends, and the guy laughs like itâs the funniest thing heâs ever heard, eliciting one of Julieâs soft smiles that she usually saves for Lukeâs dumbass antics. It makes jealousy burn hot in Lukeâs chest, and he drags his gaze away.Â
The guy, like every guy Lukeâs seen hanging around the college lately, is dressed neatly in khakis and a polo, his hair short around the ears and long in the front so it curls nicely over his eyes, with a leather messenger bag slung across his chest in lieu of a backpack. His loafers probably cost a million thousand dollars or something.Â
Heâs the exact kind of guy Luke and his friends used to make fun of in high school, the kind of guy Bobby probably wouldâve turned into way sooner if he hadnât spent his best years in a rock band, the kind of guy Trevor Wilson is now. A rich, preppy, cleaned-up asshole. The exact opposite of Luke, with his hair thatâs only grown longer since coming back to life and his ratty tank tops and his jeans slung low on his hips, metal chains hanging from them like itâs still 1995.Â
Guys like that probably wouldnât know fun if it bit them in the ass, let alone good music.
But he made Julie smile.
âHey!â Sheâs there all of a sudden, with him by his tree, a hand on his arm, her school friends nowhere to be seen. Luke didnât notice her cross the street. âThanks for waiting!â
âSure.â He forces a smile, but he only has to force it for so longâ Julieâs warm energy is enough to coax a real smile out of him on the worst of days, and the easy way she hands him her books and wraps her arms around him for a hug and kiss only help the matter.
Heâs being stupid. Of course Julie doesnât want preppy guys like that. She chose him, didnât she?
***
And yet.Â
***
The next morning before work, Luke finds himself loitering outside the thrift store down the street, fingering the twenty-dollar bill in his pocket that he allowed himself to take from the bandâs emergency fund. This counts as an emergency probably, if he ends up going through with it. It definitely feels like one.
He couldnât sleep last night, was up for hours staring at the ceiling as Julie slept peacefully in his arms, because every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was that asshole in the loafers laughing at something Julie said, the way she smiled at him afterwards. Lukeâs not an idiot, or some kind of jealous prick, he knows that people who arenât him are allowed to make his girlfriend happy, but somehow itâs different seeing her smile at a guy like that versus when she gives the same smile to Alex or Reggie. Luke just canât help thinking if she ever wishes he were different. Neater, smarter⌠preppier.
Heâs not going to collegeâ thatâs just never going to be on the table. But he can get some new clothes, if itâll make Julie look better to her school friends when sheâs standing next to him.
He sifts through the racks of clothes, looking for something he thinks he can wear without wanting to tear his skin off. Eventually, he comes up with what he deems an acceptable outfitâ dark slacks, a white button-down, with a plaid sweater vest and a tie. The total comes out to$20 exactly, and even if his friends would make fun of him till the end of time if they ever saw him in it, at least heâll look a little closer to on par with the guys Julie sees at school every day.Â
Because this is, ultimately, always, for Julie. Heâs gotta prove to those guysâ and to himselfâ that heâs good enough for her.
After his shift, he changes out of his grungy music-store clothes and into the new ones. The shirt is tight around his arms in a way that doesnât necessarily mean itâs too small but serves to remind him why he hates wearing long sleeves, and he has to pull up a YouTube video on his phone to figure out how to tie the tie, but eventually he stands in front of the mirror in the public restroom and tries for a smile.
His hair is still too long, and he hasnât shaved in more days than he can count. He doesnât look anything like those preppy college guys. But he doesnât look quite like himself either.Â
Itâll have to be good enough.Â
His daily wait for Julie to get out of class is filled with extra anxiety today. Instead of chilling by his tree across the street, he walks all the way up to her building and leans against the outer wall, tapping one foot against the brick to keep from bouncing. He glances at his watch about every four seconds.
3:56⌠3:57⌠3:58âŚ
The doors open, and he jumps, but itâs just a few random students whose classes got out early. A couple of the girls give him approving glances, which helps his ego a little bit, heâs not going to lie.Â
Finally, the majority of students start to filter out, and he keeps his eyes peeled for Julie, eager for her to see the work he put in for her. When she does emerge, sheâs by herself this time, and she gives Luke a polite, close-lipped smile, like you give strangers, and walks right past him.
His face falls. âWaitâ Julie!â
She turns, eyes wide in surprise, and then recognition hits. âOh myâ God, Luke? Iâ youâ I didnât evenââ She touches his sweater-vest, and for a terrible moment, Luke has the crippling sensation that sheâs going to laugh at him. But all she says is, âYou got new clothes!â
âI⌠yeah.â He shifts awkwardly on his feet, resisting the urge to tug at his tie, which is starting to feel even more too tight around his throat. His face feels hot. âI⌠Do you like it?â
âDid you go to the bank or something?â Julie says, which isnât an answer.
Luke fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, wanting desperately to tear his sleeves off. âI was just trying to⌠I thought, you know, youâre around all these smart rich guys every day, and the least I could do was put some effort in when I come to pick you upââ
âStop,â Julie says, cutting him off, and lays a hand flat on his chest, drawing his gaze up to meet hers. âYou got new clothes just to pick me up? What, because guys I go to school with dress like this?â
Luke, aware heâs blushing, nods.
âBaby, guys I go to school with also wear pajamas, or shorts when itâs 20 degrees outside. Only people in the business school dress like this every day, itâs otherwise only if theyâve got a presentation or something. And either way, youâre not one of those guys. You donât have to stuff yourself into clothes youâre not comfortable in just to reach some ideal nobody even expects of you.â
âBut donât you wantââ
âI want you,â she interrupts again, looking him right in the eye so he knows sheâs serious. âJust the way you are. And comfortable, preferably. You look like youâre choking.â
âJust a little bit,â he admits, and undoes his tie with a wash of relief. âYou really donât care if I look like Iâm in a 90s punk band all the time?â
âOf course not, because you are in a 90s punk band. Basically.â She stands up on her tiptoes to kiss him. âI want you just the way you are, Luke. You donât ever have to change yourself for me.â
And he believes her.
--
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/2
Fandom: The Strange Case of Starship Iris (Podcast)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: RJ McCabe & Arkady Patel, RJ McCabe/Agent Jin Seon Park, RJ McCabe & Agent Jin Seon Park, RJ McCabe & The Crew
Characters: RJ McCabe, Agent Jin Seon Park (Strange Case of Starship Iris), Arkady Patel, the rest of the crew are there but they're less present
Additional Tags: Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Found Family, Parkabe if you squint it's mostly just the canon Undertones, there will be more of them in part two, Fever, Headaches & Migraines, i suck at writing scifi guys bear with me i'm doing my best
Summary:
They trip, or stumble, or maybe their knees just give out, but the next thing they know, theyâre on the floor, blinking hazily up at the ceiling.
Shit. Maybe this is worse than they thought.
âHoly shit, McCabe,â a voice says, and suddenly there are soft gloved hands on their arms, helping them sit up against the wall, gently humming from the shipâs engine. Arkadyâs face swims into view, looking more baffled than concerned. âWhen Violet said you looked about two seconds from keeling over, I thought she was exaggerating.â