send me a ship and one of these and i'll write a mini fic 10. things you said that made me feel like shit 23. things you said when you thought you were going to die.

@dev1l

The door shuts quietly behind him. Even the latch, as he turns it, slides into place with an ominous click. Likely because it’s the first quiet his apartment had known in a while. No music blaring from her phone, no sound of her voice as she calls to him over the sizzle of her favorite dishes being grilled on his never-used stove and the sounds of an ancient cartoon they used to love as kids playing like a low hum on the television. 

Caleb finds her sitting in the darkness of his room, the ember of her cigarette pulsing with a portentous menace with every sharp suck she takes upon the filter. Her legs are tucked in against her, as far as she can get them, ankles crossed in good measure as if to prohibit his closeness. He hates when she sits like that. It’s like they’re back in Gaia, and she’s suspended in that glass, waiting to be brought back to life for yet another horror. 

She looks pissed. But she always looks pissed. Maybe she’s pissed at getting ushered into his room like an ill-kept secret. What was he supposed to do? Let them see her? Let her see him talk about the tedium and minutiae of his job? Maybe it’s just a consequence of being around him. Who knows. Of course it’s likely the former, but his thoughts focus a vortex of silent anxious calculations to counteract whatever hell she’s about to bring.

“No smoking in here,” he warns her with a perfect dispassion, snatching the cigarette from her mouth. He frowns at her, only as a measure of distracting her front whatever irritation she’s taken on. Takes a long drag just to feel the warmth of her mouth. It tastes like her lip gloss, which only leaves him with foreboding, somehow. Probably because he can feel the sharp depressions on the filter where she’s bit down on it. She only does that when she’s excited or mad. Heated, one way or another. And he knows he’s in for it.

“Sure,” she assents sharply, a small, dismissive concession to him before she shifts in her seat to position herself just before she tosses a handful of letters at his chest. She manages to snatch her cigarette back in the process. “What the fuck are these?”

The missives flutter to the floor, littering his feet. Gravity feels out of his control as his stomach turns. He’s unprepared for whatever he’ll she’s going to give him. So he deflects. Just to buy himself some time. “Dunno. Dark as fuck in here. Couldn’t read it if I tried, so I doubt you could either.” 

The purl of her brows is heightened by the dramatic shadows the hallway light casts upon her face. Theatrical, even. Cinematic. She doesn’t even look mad. Just stone. “Why the fuck were you sending me your recipe for apple jasmine tea?” 

The question’s already accusatory. Caleb just shrugs. “Thought you might want it while I’m away.” 

She flings another letter at him. “And your pear tart recipe?” 

He purses his lips, the only measure of his displeasure at her line of interrogation. “In case you want them." 

“I hate pear tarts.” 

Caleb shrugs, unwilling to engage in this fight with her. “Zayne likes them.” 

Dawn's expression grows colder. “Even more of a reason to hate them.” 

The conversation seems to be going nowhere. Just esoteric accusations veiled in questions that have no direction, no clear purpose. He snaps. “Yeah, so why’s that pissing you off all of a sudden? I make your favorite tea, and I wanted to leave it for you in case you—” Miss me. No, that’s not it. “.. miss it.” Fucking coward shit. “You always forget to stock up on drinks. If you made something ahead of time, you’d at least have it as a backup. Save money, too. I don’t fucking know.” He’s just rambling at this point. Which only pisses her off more. 

“You wrote these to me because you didn’t think you were coming back,” she says darkly, and he feels the ground go out beneath his feet again. It’s not so much being found out. It’s facing the displeasure of someone he’s held such a tenuous back and forth with for all his life. The person he’d fought his whole life to make happy just ready to bolt the second he’s a problem. Not pliable. Not a pushover. "You wrote these to me because you thought you were going to die, and you never said anything about it to me." He doesn't know what this means. What he's meant to tell her to smooth over whatever serrated mood she's gotten into now. He gets it. Ever since he's been back, she's been doubly on edge. Dawn had always been impossible to latch onto, like water silk forever slipping through his fingers. But he'd been the one to disappear on her. "What was I supposed to do?" he's half exhausted with these interrogations, carding his fingers through his hair as he paces in the dark. "Put all that shit on you? Ask you to be my therapist and tell me I'm not going to die? Because I might. And that's a fact of probability, not something I can stave away with the power of positive thinking or therapy speak or manifesting my destiny or some shit." He pauses. "Not that you've ever said anything positive to me in my life."

Dawn shrugs. "Still won't."

Caleb smiles tightly. "Right." Swallows. "So what exactly have I done here? Didn't I just save you the inconvenience of listening to my hours of nihilistic depression?"

The cigarette in her hand is extended to him, the burning tip's bright embers like a beacon, and Caleb follows. Kneels in front of her and lets her fingers play in his hair. Softly, and lets her fingers dandle as a counterpoint to where the rake of his fingers before had scraped viciously upon his scalp. "Yeah," she agrees. "But that's what you do when you're in a relationship with someone. You share burdens. So nothing feels as bad as it should. We've always done that. " She takes a drag, and laughs upon the exhale. "You're so fucking stupid, I can't believe you don't know that."

The realization didn't dawn so much on Caleb as it denotated; a silent, shattering blast that shifted the world on its axis. One moment, he was endeared by the warmth of their conversation, that familiar, steady hum from his childhood, before everything came apart; yet in the next, an icy, razor-sharp blade cuts through his senses like an animal waiting to be processed, a clarity that said: This person didn't care if he lived or died, she was just using him.

A warm, empty laugh escaped his lips, as void as a black hole.

In a way, he's grateful for Dawn's companionship, he really does. Their reunion had made him smile unwittingly to himself in a long while, one that wasn't defined by what comes after if he didn't do it. He could recall a time in the past, the familiarity of that moment when the Commander issued an official statement. Habitable bridges are live, connecting two space stations. Families, friends, and lovers, united. He'd breathed in deeply, inhaling the cool, dead air of the void. His mind pacing out, feeling the Commander's voice getting further and further until he was deep in the earth's core. Everyone had someone, and he'd thought of Dawn.

His gaze flitted towards the one he'd known for most of his childhood. The one he'd spent years chasing after yet left him feeling overwhelmingly unrewarded.

Look at her, being completely fine. You're drowning in here, and she's checking her social media.

"It must be pretty nice, isn't it?" A soft, cordial hum escapes his lips, barely masked by performative laughter. "... To know that no matter how badly things go, someone will always be there to catch you."

Go on, princess. The voice in his head said autonomously. Pretend that you have no idea that the room is freezing.

⊰ & . sparring & training ; ⊱ // @dev1l

IT REALLY WAS MEANT to be a simple training session, it was a way for madeleine to spend time with dawn - one of the few easier ways it was to spend time with her, that is. a strange relationship they held, childhood friends who seemed to contrast each other in every aspect, in every way -. and even if they seemed tense, their relationship wasn't always like that. madeleine yearned, so desperately, to be close again with dawn. finding ways to get closer, to try and repair those bonds, prove difficult. but repairing years of friendship was never going to be easy.

she really doesn't expect to be pushing herself, feeling the adrenaline through her veins, perhaps fueled by her emotions. it also was just how madeleine was, to put her all and more into every thing she did. she wanted to show dawn how much she's learned, how much she's grown, how much she can accomplish - even if it meant putting all her body weight into a launch to hurl her wooden practice sword mere inches from her childhood friend's face.

"are we sparring or settling something?"

guilty as charged, madeleine hesitates upon her rebalancing. what was she doing ? was she really proving dawn anything with this childish outburst - what was showing off going to do ? it's shame that she feels instead. madeleine readjusts her grip on her broadsword before finally looking back at dawn, frown deepening on her features.

« just sparring. are you not taking me seriously ? » her words betray her resolution, choosing to be accusatory despite. madeleine, never good at speaking her emotions, thought that perhaps through actions she could potentially convey... something. what did she want to tell dawn ? that she missed her ?

a pathetic, terrible way of doing so, this was. she'd need to try again another time - but for now, it'd be best to get this session over with.

⊰ &. dramatic & protective ;; ⊱ // @dev1l

MADELEINE IS SICK and tired of being the one being pushed aside to safety - the one that needs to be protected. she's been working hard at trying to train her evol so it could be more useful - while not the most effective in battle, she's not useless ! acknowledging that she will never be as skillful in combat as dawn - she doesn't want to hide behind the other, there's only so many times madeleine can watch her from behind as the other rushes head first into danger on behalf of her.

her jaw clenches, madeleine tries to reach her hands outwards to focus on an incoming rogue wanderer that had ambushed them - her eyes squinting in focus as she tries to channel her evol. the power that surges from her body is painful - as the wanderer gets torn right in half, madeleine feels the pain reflect against herself as she feels a warmth trickle from her nose. the expected nosebleed from her use of her evol. the wanderer falls and fades into dust, their protocore remains.

« i'm not leaving without you. » messily, she rubs the back of her hand against her nose - smearing her blood across her face instead of cleaning it properly. adrenaline pumps through her veins, anger fueling her thoughts. she's not angry at dawn, she just doesn't want to become her baggage.

"You certainly don't, do you? How confident ~" What an arrogant a woman. He adds wordlessly. She should be relieved that he's decided against holding her accountable for the amount of losses he's sustained in the raid. The AMO truly had no mercy, confiscating everything and everyone who happened to be there, Touya including. Not that Harold would grief over any of those losses, but he can't help being an arrogant man as well. "But you know how annoyed it makes me to have vermin sniffing over my property. If you're trying to provoke me, it's unduly working. Do keep a tighter leash on your canines, my dear Dawn."

" well, i wished for you to stay out of trouble & that didn't happen. " snaps. you're short with caleb these days. would like to maintain the front & say it's for no reason in particular, but his absence had left you spiraling into that familiar cocktail of resentment & maverick restlessness. - apathy you knew all too well. if time apart served a testament to anything, it was that you didn't need him. didn't need anyone. " i'm not listening to you, & you'll learn to live with it. " sneers. " or not. who know with you these days. "

She's already walking straight to the door, the pace of her footfalls as rushed as they are heavy, and surfeit with their intent to leave.

The last time he’d seen her, there was nothing the pair of them wouldn’t have done for each other. Even if it was with the understanding that they were the one constancy in each other's lives. A tenuous, tentative sort of bond that always felt like maybe they wouldn't have been in each other lives if they hadn't needed each other. Maybe this is what it looked like when Dawn decided she didn't need someone around anymore.

It didn't matter that he kept her secrets for all his life. That he'd held onto those memories so he could prevent the past from repeating itself. That he felt the responsibility of her survival, her happiness, her innocence and ignorance from her life before coiling about him, suffocating him with its consequence, it's emanation.

Not that she owed him anything. Not that she should have been grateful. It had always been his choice to bear it alone because he'd never wanted wanted her to suffer for anything. But it stings, it stings and she couldn't care less about him or anything he wants, because all she knows is that he's failed her. Disappointed her. And it's his cross to bear now.

And it was fine. He was used to disappointment. In himself, and from others. Caleb had never been anything special, and had achieved nothing special. Couldn't even pass his exam. Couldn't even protect her. Couldn't even stay dead so at least she'd at least be able to think fondly of him.

“You getting horny about the sky again?” Dawn asks, leaning out of his bedroom window like she’s got half a mind to join him.

The clove cigarette that dangles precariously from his lips nearly falls when he breaks out into a bright smile at her apathetic appearance. Pats the roof tiles beside him. “Evening star just popped up,” he explains simply. “Your fave.”

She wrinkles her nose at that, then ducks her head to slip through the window to join him upon the eave. “Yeah, my fave. So why are you all horny about it?” Dawn doesn’t sit beside him as much as she topples over with indeterminate design, landing hard on the hand he’s leaning on and ignoring the inconvenience as she reaches to snatch the clove cigarette from his lips to try. 

She makes a rare hum of approval. “Is this cherry?” The disarray of her legs have somehow folded themselves into something artful, the bend of her knee pressed indelicately to his side. 

Caleb nods. Resists the urge to touch that knee. “Yeah.” 

She takes a long drag. “Nice,” is her only verdict, then stuffs the clove cigarette back in his mouth. Reaches for the chain she’d given him and yanks him closer just bury her nose in that spot where his hair meets the fragrant softness behind his ear. “Smells good on you.” 

It’s like some sort of feint. She leaves him stunned as she reaches around his waist to fish out the packet of cloves in his pocket for herself, taking one without asking (knowing full well he’d never deny her). She leans in again, lighting her own cigarette with the embers of his. “You’re nervous about tomorrow.” It’s not a question. “You always get moody when you’re nervous.” 

Caleb’s staring out at the horizon, avoiding her eyes. “I’m not moody,” he says. Tries not to sound petulant but… “I’m contemplative.” 

He can’t see her but he knows she’s pulling a face. “Yeah. I know. You probably picked that up from Zayne.” 

He’s not entirely sure it’s disdain he hears in her voice. It’s not out of line with the usual tone she takes with him. Or anyone. But maybe he’s looking a little too much into it. 

Probably because he wants to. 

He doesn’t say anything so she fills the silence. “I know you wish he was around. So he can see you become … something. Which, honestly, is a little lame of you, given how little he comes around. You’d think you’d get used to it. But—“ She takes a long drag as if to steady herself. Frowns a little before half-choking out, “He’d tell you good luck. Or good job. Like something he’d tell a patient or a crying child. You know, with that shitass constipated look he gets when he doesn’t know how to process human emotion in an appropriate way?” A sharp drag this time. “If that makes you feel any better.”

The cigarette dangles precariously from his lips, threatening to fall if his jaw continues to slacken. Was this her coarse, hideous attempt at encouraging him? 

Dawn sniffs, shifts where she sits when she feels his eyes on her. “I’m leaving if you’re going to stare at me like a creep.” 

He laughs, still incredulous about this rare turn of volitional kindness. “Sorry, I just …” What was he supposed to say? That he was surprised she could be nice? Thank her for her effort like an insincere kindergarten teacher searching for something nice to say? Anything he’d say would just come off as condescending to her. Especially when she was in a mood.

She takes that moment of hesitation and makes a noise of disgust. Claps a hand on his shoulder and uses him to get on her feet with a groan, the heel of her boot nearly crushing his fingers underfoot. “Don’t fuck up tomorrow, okay?” she advises tersely, her tone bright just to exacerbate the irritation in her tone. 

His hand slips between the part of her legs, catches her by her slender thigh, just above the knee. “You know, they used to use a radio instrument back in the day before we had computer navigation systems. In order to synchronise with base and watch out for friendlies, every plane used to have a little instrument that would beep every few seconds, emitting a frequency to identify itself. They’d also use it to fix themselves. Stay on course. Keep from fucking up.”

Silence from Dawn’s end. But neither is she moving. Just lets the ashes fall from where her cigarette burns between her sylph’s fingers. 

“They called it a pipsqueak. Just like you. Because you’ll always be the reason I find home again.” 

“Fuck,” she swears under her breath, finally moving to leave just at the moment that he’s leaning in, lips chasing the warmth of that thigh. 

It’s better that way. That she doesn’t take him seriously. That way his feelings aren’t a burden to her. He thinks about the letter he was going to give her, burning a hole in his jacket pocket. Maybe it should stay there. It’s probably best it does. 

It’s quiet again without her. His fingers get restless with every passing thought that feels like he should doing something. But isn’t. 

Caleb reaches for the phone in his pocket, thumbs idly at the screen like he’s looking for something before he finally resigns himself to his fate and looks up his recent calls. Six calls to the same unresponsive number. Maybe seventh time would be the charm. 

It’s not. Goes straight to voicemail, and for a second, he’s ready for that familiar, even voice on the other end, whose timbre always seems to resonate within the marrow of his bones, set every hair on edge. But it’s an automated voice. Must have changed recently. Or maybe the number’s changed. (Since last night?) 

The message tone beeps. “Hey. Sorry, I know I’ve been calling a lot. You’re probably busy, and I get that. I’m not trying to be annoying, I promise.” A beat. “Tomorrow’s my exam. I’ve done this a thousand times at this point, but this is the only one that matters. I know it’s not .. med school, but it’s kinda … you know. Dream come true. That sounds corny as fuck. It is corny. But … yeah. Wish you were here. I’ve talked so much shit about being a pilot, I figure it might be nice to see I wasn’t full of shit about it. Dawn’s .. I don’t know if Dawn’ll make my landing, but that’s okay. It would have been dope if you both could have come. Maybe you could come to visit later. Whenever you’re free. I could make dinner. No carrots, I promise.” His knee bounces furiously as he screws up the courage to say, “I miss you.” 

« 𝚃𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚎𝚢. 𝚃𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚔𝚎𝚢. »

He makes his selection.

« 𝙼𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚎𝚢— » 

Click. 

It’s like trading one kind of ruination for a more manageable one. At least this one’s a little less closer to home. Figuratively and literally. There’s a little more space between them. A little less acute. At least for the moment. He doesn’t have to live with the apical spikes of terror and pleasure every time he passes him in the halls. Or the way the scent of his perfume lingers on Caleb, like an effluvium that haunts him with the inlying and intimate cruciation of the possibilities and potentialities that would never be. How even a breath sounds like a melody to him, a sigh like an unhappy glissando that reverberates in strange polyphony with the hollow ache of his heart. Those little devastations belonged to Dawn. Caleb only really had the memories of late night sleepovers that made up for all the unhappy frowns directed at him, or usually nothing at all. Even those frowns felt almost like they’d existed in a dream. Like they were ephemeral, already fading from memory. Like they maybe had been a figment of his imagination, some torment of a crush that he’d made up in his mind. 

Because how could he care so deeply for someone who barely knew he existed? And then he remembered he’d done it twice. 

If looks could kill, Dawn would have long dropped dead in front of him. A glower flashes across his irises as Jade very gently pulls his face away from the woman's grasp. "Touching me would require my consent beforehand. Not having it entails that it might be workplace harassment. I could have you reported if you do it again." His voice, clear and concise with a cutting edge, did nothing to hide his disdain. It's indeed unfortunate that parts of the military were outside of his control. His master isn't the absolute judge of the law here, after all. If there was something that had slipped through his fingers and his influence, it would be the parts of the government that were already within Dawn's possession.

"You and that alien's repertoire are nothing within my fields of interests. I would appreciate it very much if you stayed within your lane." That is, Jade echoes, hunting and killing preadators as long as they didn't touch Zayne Li, not that Dawn or Harold would have realized that Jade had access to highly classified information. It's his little secret to keep. He hated how the sight of Dawn could wipe that smile off his face even if she hadn't done anything to warrant such strong dislike of herself. But perhaps, just as Zayne Li appeared to be someone with an interesting personality to Jade, Dawn had been the direct inverse of him: everything Jade disliked to see in a person. It's a pity that orchestrating her death would be a troublesome plan, and so far he's decided to take the easy way out: barely tolerating her. Her methods, from the way she makes friends to the way she runs her own segment of the enforcers, stank of petty underhanded methods and audacity as if it was owed to her. And now she wishes for him to kneel to her, and someone who didn't even belong to this world?