Taking accountability, except it's Whumpee, coming to caretaker weeks after they've been rescued, after they've been treated well again and accepted food and rest and much needed medical care. As much as they've basked in the care— felt whole for the first time in years— they don't deserve it. They have to take accountability for all the bad they've done in their life. Caretaker doesn't know how many mistakes Whumpee has made, clearly. It's been so nice, but it's time to come clean.
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Hi guys let me formally introduce myself. Y’all know me as Victoria Ward. Big River lover and virtual photographer for mods and other stuff. I joined here in July of 2024 and was mainly a console player until Feb of 2025 before that my pics were commissions before I was able to get my own pc. Now lately theres been unnecessary drama directed towards other people in the fandom and myself. I’ve had my fair share of problems with people specially in this fandom. As a child I was always told to stand up for what’s right and never for what’s wrong. And I will continue to do so for the rest of my life and instill these teachings on to my children. But today I’m going to do something that I see a lot of people lack to do. And that is to apologize to any and everybody that I have either made upset uncomfortable , unwelcomed or unheard. I will forever always have the best intentions with any interaction of people in the fandom. I will also speak up when there is injustice. Because I hate to see the people that I care about hurt. slowly and surely I’ve learned about fandom culture in cyberpunk modding subculture and seen firsthand how disgusting and toxic it can be. So to anyone that I have hurt I apologize and I hope that this you can forgive me. Even to the people that have done me wrong I forgive you but I can never let you near me again. As well I’m all about honesty always have been. I have nothing to lose I have nothing to hide in anytime I speak it’s always the truth. So with that being said. On May 1 of 2026 I had a baby and I have been trying to recover. I initially had stepped back quietly but unfortunately was harassed in my DM’s for information and this is the blowback from it all. So all I ask is before you come and speak to me be mindful. Thank you if you’re still here if you’re still supporting me and the people who helped me and supported me and validated the inadequate feelings you are greatly appreciated.
Warnings: Angst; Allusions to major canonical major character death
Summary: Daryl is grieving and drowning in guilt. You refuse to let him do it alone.
When you found him, he was on a picnic table between the trailers, boots on the bench. The gentle breeze whispered secrets that tongues would never spill. It was a heavy atmosphere. The dark void of that cell had followed him, wrapped around him as a shroud of guilt and regret. Even his fury had fled.
“Daryl.” Your voice was a soft rustle, the murmur of leaves across the grass that both grazed and danced.
He looked at you, albeit briefly before he dropped his head and his hair joined forces with the shadows that hid him from you. That quick glance was haunted. It had been since the night you had all been doused in red—anger and blood.
“Daryl, you should—”
He cut you off with a slow movement of his hand. It left his lap for fingers to grip the edge of the table. His knuckles pulled tight, turning to ivory. “S’my fault.”
Your composure attempted to fracture, the strength you had been carrying for everyone escaping in a breath you desperately sought to drag back. “It wasn’t.” You disputed faintly. You could have bellowed it and he still wouldn’t have heard.
Daryl nodded, a single dip of his chin. It wasn’t agreement. It was his affirmation of a deeply ingrained bitter truth he had both created and accepted. “He’s gone. An’ s’my fault.”
“No.” You shook your head, taking a step closer. You stilled when he reeled to the side, appearing every bit ready to run if you ventured any closer. As if being in his orbit would condemn you to the same fate as Glenn. “Daryl, you can’t take accountability for that. That was Negan. It wasn’t you.”
He wouldn’t look at you. The same way he avoided Maggie. He was pulling away, submerging himself in the pain he thought he deserved. He was drowning in it, and his hand would dissolve into smoke when you tried to pull him up.
“Daryl, please.” You took another step. When he didn’t move, you risked one more.
“M’sorry.” His voice was a brittle shell around an apology that threatened to shatter. “Thought—thought if I hit ‘im, he’d focus on me. Didn’t think—” His grip on the table released, hand wiping roughly at his face. He began at his forehead but ended beneath his eyes, swiping the back of his hand across the area more than once. Even in his obvious grief and guilt, he tried to feign sweat for tears.
“Daryl—”
His shoulders shook, a small movement more like a twitch. “Dunno how to fix this.” His hand gripped the table edge again, fingers pressed tight. “Dunno how to let this go.”
“You don’t.” Your eyes brimmed but didn’t overflow. That had his attention. He finally looked at you, eyes tired and red. Rimmed with shame and guilt, but also something else. Something worse. He was preparing himself for the lashing he thought he deserved. From you. From Maggie. From anyone.
Daryl didn’t think he was worthy of absolution. Only punishment. And if someone didn’t give it to him, he’d do it himself.
That was what broke the dam. Eyes shining and cheeks damp, you closed that remaining distance, winding your arms around his neck. “We carry it. We carry it.” Your hand cradled the back of his head, his face tucked against the side of your neck. “Not you, Daryl. Not alone.” You sniffed, trying to gather your bearings. How could you hold him together if you fell apart?
“Don’t.” You felt the movement of his jaw, the word taking shape against your skin. He was going to tell you not to comfort him. He was going to push you away, widening the chasm that was forming between him and everyone else. “Please, don’t cry.”
You stifled a gasp, feeling his hand press against the small of your back. It was a loose hold. “Daryl—”
“Not for me.” His voice was almost too low to hear, muffled and cleaved. “Cry for him. For Maggie.” His fingers twitched against your spine. “Not for me.”
Your face twisted, and you nearly had to bare your teeth to stifle the sound of devastation that his request stirred within you. You had to let the silence stretch, your hold on him tightening a fraction so that he didn’t try to pull away when the quiet was too loud.
“Do you wanna know why I cry for you, Daryl?” He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. “I cry for you because you won’t cry for yourself. Because you carry every single death like it’s your fault. Because you’d bleed every day if it meant someone else didn’t have to.” You felt him shift, stiffen as if preparing to reject your touch. You held on tighter. “Because you think that if you suffer enough, maybe it’ll somehow make things right.” Your tears dampened his hair, falling around quivering lips and quiet gasps. Hilltop had gone silent under a veil of grief. “I cry for you because you loved him.” The words were a pane of glass, shattered. “Because you’d trade places with him in a heartbeat.”
“Stop.” His plea was more air than sound.
“I cry for you because you’re good, and you don’t see it. Because you think you have to earn the right to be forgiven. To be loved.” It was you that pulled back first, palms framing his face to force his gaze to meet your own. His blue eyes were wet, screaming with raw urgency. “But you don’t. You don’t have to earn it, Daryl.” When he bowed his head, you allowed it. He was hiding, but you only saw him more clearly.
“Don’t deserve ya cryin’ over me.” The attempt at clinging to his self-deprecation was a fragile wisp meant for only you to hear. He didn’t look up when you brushed his hair—greasy and untamed—away from his face. There was no fight when you pulled him into you again, only a reluctant acceptance of your support. Your love.
“That’s why I do.” You murmured. “That’s exactly why I do.”
An accident leaves Natasha without her memories, without anyone to guide her, and the Red Room chasing after her, the odds are not in her favour… unless those that love her find her first.
Whumptober 2025: Day 2 - Taking Accountability
Warnings: self blame, injuries, worry(?)
Word Count: 1.2k
Summary: everyone panics, it’s what happens when bombs go off in a wedding, the ensuing chaos leads to confusion, and the question; where is Natasha?
Whumptober Masterlist/Masterlist of Fic / ao3
.
LONDON / OCTOBER 01 / 16:37PM
Sirens wail.
It’s all Tony hears. The rise and fall of it seems to be as panicked as he is.
“Sir, we will have to sedate you,” the paramedics starts.
“Your wounds they need surgery, the arch crushed your leg, we need to make sure it didn’t do anything else,” he continues.
“Pepper?” he asks again.
“Natasha,” he starts, the thought lost amongst the grief that threatens to drown him.
“Rhodey?”
“Happy?”
He continues to list the names of people he loves, but the paramedics look at him blankly.
“Give him something for the pain,” the other decides as Tony’s voice cracks, and he shudders against the pillow.
“We’re almost there,” they say. He’s not sure which one, as the drugs drag him under.
“Wait.”
“Tell them,” Tony starts.
“Tell them… Natasha….”
But the drugs take hold before he finishes his thought.
.
“I’m fine,” Steve growls, “just get me some more pants, these ones are burnt.”
It still feels hot agains his skin, though he’s sure, judging by the way his skin feels new and tight that his body is already healing.
The smaller man nods, his police uniform too big on his skinny body. Steve tries not to draw any parallels.
People are everywhere and he’s sure a helicopter just landed somewhere in the park.
“Get me a phone, mine was fried in the flashbang.”
His hands are still shaking.
He can’t get images of war out of his head.
The explosions.
Again, he didn’t move fast enough.
Again, he let people down.
It was his fault.
He moves those that are injured, trying to reassure them, he doesn’t know them, but Pepper and Tony would have.
The man and woman in their Sunday best.
He’s gentle with them, placing them under a tree in the shade.
He’s sees Maria and she nods at him, fear and sorrow on her face alongside the fierce determination that seems to carry her along.
He hears Rhody yelling and firemen obeying commands.
People are everywhere.
Shellshocked and fearful.
It’s his fault.
He’s sure it has something to do with him.
What did they even want?
Tony is alive, and so is Pepper, if this was about them, then surely they would have targeted them better?
Were they after one of them?
It’s a gruesome thought.
Looking around, Steve locked eyes with Clint who’s pushing a paramedic off him. He has blood in his hairline.
Clint sits at the back of ambulance, ice pack to his head as he waves off the paramedics again.
He catches Steve’s eye and stands, almost stumbling as the exasperated paramedic pulls him back into sitting.
Steve increases his stride to meet him.
“Fury’s called Shield in. Well, you know whatever Shield is now. Is it still Shield?”
Steve rambles and Clint nods, then seems to regret the action.
He sways on the spot and the paramedics tries to tell him again that they need to go to the hospital.
“Tony and Pepper and I think four others have been taken in the first wave of ambulances and I think there about twenty on their way to the hospital. Luckily, I suppose that the wedding wasn’t big.”
“Happy insisted on driving behind Tony, even though I don’t think he should have been driving.”
“Rhodey got caught in the first blast, and it pushed Tony out, Maria and Fury are around; I think trying to co-ordinate what the fuck just happened.”
Clint’s eyes narrow.
“Natasha is with Pepper?”
Steve shrugs.
“I don’t know?”
Clint stands, stronger this time.
“Did she go in the ambulance with her?”
Steve looks around, unsure.
“I thought she was here?”
“Not with Pepper?”
Clint turns to the paramedic to ask, but he’s met with a shrug.
“Can’t you find out?”
The words are in anger but he softens visibly and apologises.
“If you come to the hospital, you can check?” the paramedic with perfect teeth replies.
Steve nods.
“Go, I’ll figure it out here.”
Clint concedes.
“You haven’t got a spare mobile do you? Mine was fried.”
Steve shakes his head.
“Mine’s gone too.”
Clint sighs, his face a mask of worry and concealed panic.
“Fine, I’ll go.”
He turns to Steve.
“If you find her, get her to the hospital and to find me. Or get word to me, or something okay?”
Nodding, Steve backs away, leaving the Clint and looking around to the world; still on fire.
.
Clint’s head pounds, he’s sure his shoulder is dislocated, and there’s pain radiating from his abdomen.
“Other people need more care than me,” he tries.
The woman rolls her eyes and chooses to ignore him.
“And you’re taking me where you took Pepper and Tony?”
She nods.
“I can reset that,” she advises, pushing him back into lying.
He nods and she does it quickly.
He shouts in pain, and thanks her for it.
“Rest,” she nods at him.
He can’t, every time he closes his eyes he sees Natasha being pushed through the air and the heat of the explosion.
It’s not the first time that he’s been in an explosion but he can’t help but feel it’s his fault. He should have known the sounds, done something. He should have double checked the security, and not trusted Tony with it.
“Sir, we will be there in a minute. I’m not sure you’ll be able to see the doctor straight away.”
“Tony?”
“Mr Stark and Ms Potts are both in surgery.”
“Rhodey?”
“I’m not sure.”
She takes his blood pressure again, and checks his eyes.
He winces in response.
“Concussion,” she concludes.
“You’ll have to get cleared by the doctor.”
“And you’re sure nothing has been said about Natasha Romanoff?”
“No-one I’ve talked to her has brought her in but that doesn’t mean anything.”
His worry stays on his face and she ushers him though the doors and into a waiting room.
“Sorry,” she offers, “you’ll have to wait here until the doctor sees you.”
He nods, locating a nurse on the other side of the room.
“Uh, thanks,” he offers to the paramedics retreating back, heading for the nurse.
“Wait for the doctor!”
But he has no intention to.
.
Natasha wakes to darkness.
Her head is in a bag that smells of vomit and she gags on waking. Bile makes it way up her throat and she swallows hard to push it back down.
Nothing
She tries to move her hands and feels and feels them bound.
“Oh look, she’s awake,” a female voice is harsh and holds contempt as she feels a boot to her side.
The last moments of waking come back to her and she startles in realisation that she’s no longer at the wedding, the explosions and the chaos.
She doesn’t remember much and this development of being bound and effectively gagged has her on edge.
They’re in a car, maybe a truck; she can feel the movement and if she looks at the bag in the right angle she can see boots.
Clint.
Two explosions.
Pepper.
Tony.
Steve.
She panics into movement, kicking out with both legs at the legs she can see and using weight to snap the small zip ties.
The truck dissolves into chaos.
A body falls on her to stop her and she uses the leverage to snap the ties that bind her feet.
An elbow hits her solar plexus and breathes out heavily.
Natasha grabs at whatever she can of the woman with her, and with her other hand rips the bag off her head.
She’s face to face with a mask and of that it’s one she knows well.
She used to wear one like it back in the Red Room.
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Days 1&2 | rating: t | wc: 1,214 | prompts: No. 1: “Please don’t cry”| Lamb to Slaughter | Ceremony | Beg for Forgiveness No. 2: “You’ve got a lot of nerve to dredge up all my fears.” | Prophecy | Sewer | Taking Accountability | cw: Character death (Bobby), Character bashing (Eddie) | ao3
After the dedication ceremony, Buck is going through it. He refuses to beg for forgiveness.
The station dedication ceremony had been difficult. Every day since losing Bobby had been difficult, especially getting to the station without him there. Every day feeling the gaping hole that had been left behind in the lab. But now, having Bobby's name on the station, an ever present reminder of the call he never came back from. It was too much. Too heavy. Buck knew it was the right time to move on, to transfer to a new station. Somewhere he wasn't treated like the impulsive probie he had been once upon a time.
Somewhere he wouldn't continue to have Bobby's ghost hanging over his head.
He'd received his new assignment a few days prior, and had been forced to tell everyone on their shift before the ceremony when Chimney brought up the email he'd received from the chief about it during line up.
Now they were really making him feel like he didn't belong- especially Eddie. The side eyes, the muttering. The only person that really seemed to support him was Ravi.
He'd escaped to the roof as soon as he could, shortly after the ceremony had finished. There were still dozens of people downstairs in the equipment bay, milling around and talking over the light refreshments that had been provided. Buck just couldn't take it any more. He needed space from the judgment and the grief. He needed to not be repeating the same conversations over and over with people he barely knew. But it was too soon for him to be able to leave without raising suspicion, causing more gossip. So going to the roof for some air was the best option.
When the crowd of vehicles surrounding the firehouse started thinning slowly, he made his way back down. Most were still downstairs, but a few people had taken to the balcony, for the comfort of the couches. Buck still kept to himself, standing in the kitchen that had been neglected since Bobby's last shift. He'd tried so hard to keep the family dinners going, but no one wanted it. Choosing to order in in small groups instead. Maybe using the microwave if someone had brought in something they'd prepped at home.
The entire firehouse felt like a crumbling shell of the home it once was. Bobby had been the center, the glue holding everything together. Buck had tried his best, but it felt like he was sticking a band aid on a bullet wound.
He was just waiting for it to all fall apart. For someone to question why he was there. To make him feel unloved, unwanted. The way he'd felt for a long time, even before Bobby had died. But maybe they were waiting for more people to leave, as to not make a scene.
After all, he was the one who made everything about himself. Supposedly. It wasn't like he was the last one other than Athena to talk to Bobby. Or the one who had to spread the word, make the calls. Who had to file the reports and inform the chief. Tommy had helped, holding him together while he wanted to fall apart. Informing the B and C shift captains as he still had their numbers from when he had been at the 118. Getting them to arrange pick up for the engines and ambulance.
"Are you okay?" Tommy asked, coming to stand beside him.
"No. But I'm managing." Buck leaned into Tommy's touch, the only thing he could take comfort from. Not wanting to be seen as selfish.
"I don't get why you're still here. I thought you couldn't wait to leave." Eddie muttered as he came into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
"I'm here to remember Bobby. Just like everyone else." Buck kept his tone clipped, knowing whatever he said, however he said it, Eddie would be ready to pick a fight.
"Sure. Like you're not disrespecting his memory by leaving the moment things got hard. You really think he would want you to abandon your family at a time like this." There was venom in Eddie's voice.
"The same family that abandoned me after the funeral? I was doing my best to keep this place together. Nobody wanted to eat together, abandoning family dinners. You and Hen and Chimney would talk about me but no one would talk to me. I was left to deal with with my grief alone." Buck snapped, no longer caring about making a scene. A few people were starting to gather, watching it unfold.
"None of us knew how to talk to you."
"None of you tried." Buck felt the dam break, everything he'd held back since the lab. "Maddie tried, but she had so much on her plate. I had to talk Chimney down off the roof the day of the funeral. I had Taylor check in on me more than you did. My ex girlfriend you all hate and love to talk shit about. She knew I would take it hard and has called or texted every damn day since the news broke. You never asked about how I felt that day. You asked what happened. You asked who did what. But you never asked what it was like not knowing if I was going to be the only one to walk out of that lab alive."
"You never asked what it was like to tell Chris."
"I had to tell Athena. I had to radio Athena so she could say goodbye to her dying husband. And if you want to compare how difficult it was to tell Chris bad news, I had to tell him when you'd been shot."
"Here we go again, everything has to be about Evan Buckley." Eddie yelled, drawing the attention of anyone who wasn't already watching. "Where are we now, act 98?"
"No matter how much you want me to, I'm not going to stand here and beg for your forgiveness. I did nothing wrong. You can accuse me of not doing enough to save Bobby. You can act like it's my fault you weren't there. But I know the truth. I did everything to get everyone out alive. Along with Athena and Karen and Tommy. We were facing domestic terrorism charges because of how much we pissed off the army and the FBI."
"I would have done anything to be there and help."
"Then try taking accountability for your own actions. It's your fault you were in Texas, but you try to blame everyone else. I didn't do enough to talk Chris out of it, your parents stole him away from you. But face the reality, you destroyed the trust between you and your son by bringing a woman who looked like his dead mother into your home. He couldn't feel safe there so he asked to be taken 800 miles away. When the thing is, I had warned you. When Kim showed up here looking for you, I warned you it wouldn't end well, and you didn't listen to me. And the result of all that? You traumatized him a hell of a lot more than finding out about Bobby did." Buck reached for Tommy's hand, gripping it tight enough that it would be painful, wanting to escape the scrutiny of everyone around them.
