#tw storms

this is. um. some art ig (took five hours lol)

it’s a redraw of the twisters scene btw

so funny how i just. put this here and no looks at it !! the numbers this doin? 5. :DDDDD

I see no downsides to this, other than getting our poor TFA Optimus caught in the middle.

Has he not suffered enough?

I’m kidding. You know who I am-

…

…

…

TFP’s Ultra Magnus is not an angry mech.

Frustrated, yes—but patient, slow to rage. The Wrecker commander can put up with even the most blatant and disrespectful attitudes.

After all, he wound up marrying the most insubordinate mech one can ever meet.

However, even the most patient and kind people have lines drawn in the sand—whether they’re always aware of them or not—something that they cannot and will not stand for, something that just pushes them over the edge, something that is completely inexcusable and unforgivable.

For Ultra Magnus, that was harm coming to the people he loved. For a long time, this manifested in his protective nature towards his soldiers—but then, he had a team, a family, and later a conjunx and children. He loved them all so much…

So, you can imagine his panic when he received that call—how he drove through the halls of Iacon to meet his medics at the bridge between the realities, and the three of them made the jump across universes. Wheeljack was already there in the medical ward with Field-Tech Ratchet.

And a young Prime in critical condition.

“What happened?” The commander demanded as he entered the hallway, his optics finding his conjunx as Doctor Ratchet and Knockout rushed past him and into the bustling operating theatre. “Wheeljack.” He went right to the smaller mech, resting his servos on his conjunx’s shoulders and frowning. “I’m here. How is he?”

“Bad.” Wheeljack was visibly shaken, his arms crossed. He had been pacing, never comfortable in medical settings but determined to stay exactly where he was. “We’d scheduled trainin’ today, to help him blow off some steam from work. I-I just found him like this, called it in.”

Jazz stood up from a bench, his expression grim. “Blurr is working on accessing security footage. We’ll know who did this soon.”

“What’s the damage?” Ultra Magnus asked, noticing how Sentinel was further down the hall with his forehead and a fist resting against a wall.

As the head of the planetary leader’s protection detail, the young Prime was probably devastated.

“Prime had just gotten out of a meeting,” TFA’s Bumblebee explained, holding a data-pad and shaking his head. “There’s a lot of chatter going through the Guard, but based on the timeline of him leaving Fortress Maximus and the time Wheeljack reached him at his home, the attack happened in minutes. This was planned, man.”

“And whoever did this, they’re powerful,” Prowl went on. “Optimus has suffered injuries caused mostly by blunt force, with signs that there were attempts… to pinch the fuel lines in the neck and cut off processor fueling. That took strength.”

Ultra Magnus’s face fell. “They strangled him?”

“He’s got several damaged internal systems,” Wheeljack finally spoke again. “Doc-‘Bot, Doc, Knockout—they can help ‘im, I know they can… but it’ll take time, and they’re not sure when he’ll wake up. The first wound was some serious blunt force to the back of his head.” He looked up, his optics narrowed. “Someone was already inside his home, waiting for him—and with a strike like that, Optimus would’ve been on the ground and he stayed down… That means that most of this happened when the kid had already tapped out. He never had a chance to fight back.”

“Not a Decepticon, then,” Ultra Magnus decided.

TFA’s Bulkhead looked at him in surprise. “Wait, what makes you say that?”

“If this was one of those extremists Megatron has been trying to locate for us, they would have killed him,” Ultra Magnus explained, the words making his spark ache in his chest.

“This sure looked like an attempt,” Sari argued, resting a servo on her hip. “Ultra Magnus, you haven’t seen him yet. It’s bad.”

“But they didn’t finish the job,” Wheeljack said quietly, and he took a deep vent. “… Either they didn’t have the bearings to finish the job, or they wanted this to be slow. This wasn’t just a planned attack, this-… This was personal.”

“Oh, hello!” A blue line zipped into the hallway, and there was Blurr—a data-pad in hand, looking extremely troubled. “I’m glad to see all of you in one place, though I wish that we were meeting under better circumstances. The circumstances actually couldn’t be much worse than this, but that is beside the point. Is there any news?”

“Prime’s in surgery,” Wheeljack told him. “Doc-‘Bot is in there, and the Ratchet and Knockout from my reality came. He’s in good hands.”

Blurr nodded. “That is very good news. I have the utmost faith in the medical staff. Now, onto the perpetration of this crime.” He gestured with his data-pad. “I’ve accessed the security feed and found the footage from the attack. Using both the private residential security system and a wide variety of cameras located along the street, I have determined that the attacker was none other than the disgraced, exiled Ultra Magnus of this reality.”

It got quiet.

Then…

“Are you sure, kid?” Ultra Magnus asked quietly.

Blurr nodded. “He took the Magnus Hammer.”

Ultra Magnus nodded, folding his servos behind his back. His expression was unreadable.

His optics held a storm.

…

It would be several hours before the operation ended.

During that time, Blurr and Ultra Magnus spoke quietly—with the young communications agent going from worried to resolved over time.

Once it was finally over, Field-Tech Ratchet left the operating theatre and assured everyone that Optimus was alive and that his vitals had been stabilized. They would be monitoring him for the time being, waiting for him to wake up and show the state of his processor following the attack.

From this point, all they could do was wait.

As that news set in, Ultra Magnus nodded at Blurr before he looked around that crowded hallway.

His optics settled onto his conjunx.

“… Wheeljack,” the Wrecker commander spoke at long last. “Stay here, with our family—and keep me updated on Optimus’s condition.” He turned and started walking. “I’ll be back.”

“Mags?” Wheeljack turned to watch his conjunx endura go, confused. “Hey, Mags!”

“Where is he going?” Bulkhead asked worriedly.

“I dunno.” Wheeljack shook his head, then he looked to Blurr. “What were you talkin’ about?”

Blurr glanced away, then he sighed and looked up at Wheeljack with a frown. “He had me use the security footage to determine where his alternate must be hiding. Removing this reality’s deplorable excuse for a Magnus from power has not worked, exiling and intimidating him has not worked, and we’re still trying to find out who within Fortress Maximus saw fit to release him from prison.” He shook his head. “Nothing is working.” He slowly raised his shoulders. “… Between us, Wheeljack, I must confess… I always thought you would be the one to hunt him down for the very last time.”

Wheeljack blinked, then his optics widened.

The hallway grew silent, again.

“Of course, the commander is aware that there may be consequences to his actions,” Blurr went on quietly. “But he pointed out that his alternate has attempted murder, assassination of a public official subject to the Autobot-Decepticon-Detroit treaty—and he has stolen the Magnus Hammer, a weapon of mass destruction. He and I agree that the aforementioned crimes are cause enough for what he is about to do.” The intelligence agent’s optics narrowed. “Notably, my perspective may be skewed—but my profile mentions that there is no love lost between me and most public officials of the past. This information was documented long prior to me being consulted on this matter.”

“He’s going to-..?” Jazz looked uneasy as the weight set in. “I mean, our Ultra Magnus is a real bad guy—but killing your own alternate? Magnus couldn’t bring himself to do that the last time he hunted him down. Is he really gonna do it, now?”

Blurr glanced away “I… asked him the very same thing.” He looked back at the others, frowning. “He told me that he changed his mind, last time—and to look at what it has wrought. The Ultra Magnus of this reality has destabilized. He went after Optimus, and did not even have the decency to face him and own up to what he was doing.” The small mech’s grip on his data-pad tightened. “It could be anyone next, as he desperately tries to retake his ill-gotten power. Someone else in our family, a Decepticon ally, a civilian… He hoped that no one would ever have to do this, but he has determined that—in taking this matter into his own hands—he is ensuring that the least amount of harm is done.” He let out another sigh. “None of us should ever have to face him again.”

“… Did Magnus say anything else?” Sentinel looked up at last, his expression unreadable.

Blurr swallowed thickly. “He told me to turn off the cameras. He doesn’t want me watching.”

Jetfire and Jetstorm seemed jittery.

“I do not like our Good Magnus’s chances against the discount copy from this reality,” Jetstorm admitted. “Not when the Magnus Hammer is back in play. Bad Magnus will be quite strong.”

Jetfire nodded shakily. “Agreed, brother! With the Magnus Hammer and his millions of years of experience, the only thing stronger than Bad Magnus in this universe is the Allspark!”

“… Good thing Mags ain’t from this universe,” Wheeljack said quietly, his optics narrowed.

Sari glanced at him warily. “You really think that he’s going to do it, this time? He’s gonna-..?”

“That fragger went way too far long ago, and we all know it,” Wheeljack said. “And Magnus, he did his best to be civil… Some things, you don’t hafta cross a line for—but when someone comes into your home, after your family… enough’s enough.”

…

…

There were already clouds forming and swirling in the sky when Ultra Magnus arrived at the vacant boot camp. Its operations had been put on hold while the system was undergoing serious reform.

The Wrecker commander had the Forge of Solus Prime at his back, and his fists were clenched at his sides. He walked deliberately through the camp, his optics scanning the area diligently.

At last, someone stepped out to face him.

“I wondered when you might arrive, commander,” his alternate said much too calmly. Ultra Magnus just gazed at the mech silently. “… How is-?”

“Say his name, and this experience will be even more painful for you than it is already going to be,” Ultra Magnus told him curtly.

“… You seem rather confident,” the other Ultra Magnus noted, gripping the Magnus Hammer in his servo and glancing up. “I am aware that your kind are highly sensitive to electricity.”

On cue, three bolts of lightning struck the ground around the outcast dictator—not touching either mech, but sending quite the message.

Ultra Magnus’s optics narrowed as low thunder rumbled to answer the lighting—and he reached back and drew the Forge, taking it in both servos. “That’s only going to be a problem if I’m struck. I intend to get this matter over with swiftly.”

“Tch.” His alternate seemed an infuriating mixture of irked and amused. “You can’t honestly believe that you can outrun a bolt of lightning.”

Ultra Magnus gripped the Forge in both servos. “I really don’t care if I can or not, because I don’t intend to make this easy on you regardless…

You attacked my son.”

Thunder roared above as the two mechs gazed at each other, watching each other and waiting.

“… I will never understand it, this attachment that you and your Wheeljack have developed towards the sorriest of sparks and how you display it,” TFA Ultra Magnus stated. “Coddling them, allowing them to believe that their foolish actions do not have consequences. What I and my predecessors did made the generations of Autobots who came after me strong, discarding any weak links.”

There was a crack, but it was not thunder.

TFP’s Ultra Magnus had made the first move, and the impact of the Forge upon his alternate’s chest sent the other mech flying through the wall of one of the former bunkhouses.

The former leader of this Cybertron staggered to his feet, debris scattering, and he ran a servo over his dented chest before scowling and lifting the glowing Magnus Hammer aloft.

Lightning flashed, striking the ground in a jagged line that approached the Wrecker commander—but TFP Ultra Magnus wove between the bolts with remarkable agility, approaching his alternate with a determine look on his face.

TFA’s Ultra Magnus barely avoided a swing that seemed almost-intended to sever the top of his body from the bottom with sheer force, and the swing decimated what was left of the bunkhouse wall instead of the criminal.

The smaller Magnus stepped back, his optics wide, then he raised the Magnus Hammer to block another swing and was instead sent all the way through the back wall of the bunkhouse.

He wheezed as he pushed himself up onto one knee, still gripping the Hammer—then he looked up in alarm as his alternate approached.

“They weren’t weak links, they were children,” TFP’s Ultra Magnus said quietly, the storm over his head insignificant compared to the one in his optics. “They weren’t supposed to be strong, to need to be strong—they needed to be protected.”

It was terror that drove TFA Ultra Magnus’s next move, as he had finally come to understand that—unlike their previous encounters—his other self had no intention of allowing him to live this time.

He had been scolded, warned, tracked down and thrown into prison. This was the final mistake.

If he did not win this duel, he would die.

A bolt of lightning came down from the sky and into the Magnus Hammer, which channeled the electricity and blasted it out towards TFP’s Ultra Magnus. The Wrecker screamed and dropped down on one knee, gritting his dentas and closing his optics as his whole body heaved with deep, shaking vents… and his alternate thought he won.

TFA’s Ultra Magnus stood, shaking himself due to his injuries and the rush of fright he had felt, but he glared at the Wrecker leader as he approached.

“It seems you haven’t built up the same tolerance to electricity as your conjunx endura,” he said in a scathing voice. “Needed to be protected? It was that attitude which sent your Cybertron into eons of darkness, while mine has forever thrived. You just can’t learn to make sacrifices, Ultra Magnus.”

He raised the Magnus Hammer over his alternate, and he swung down with all of his might—but a prosthetic servo reached up and caught it.

TFP’s Ultra Magnus looked up, his expression eerily calm. “… Whose sacrifices were they?”

The Forge swung up and knocked TFA’s former Autobot commander back, but the handle of the Magnus Hammer stayed right in the Wrecker’s grip. TFA Ultra Magnus looked up, horrified, as his alternate stood with a hammer in each servo.

TFP Ultra Magnus glanced over at and regarded the Magnus Hammer, an optic-brow raised, then he looked down at his target and started to walk.

“No, wait. Stop!” TFA’s Ultra Magnus scrambled back and stood, terror gripping him again. “You can’t do this.” His alternate was not moved. “All this time, you’ve held back on principle. What sort of example will this be setting for your ‘children’?”

TFP’s Ultra Magnus halted. “… Sometimes, your enemies won’t bow their heads and graciously accept the mercy you’ve offered them. They will be relentless, insidious… and when that happens, mercy is no longer an option. Protect yourself and your family, whatever it takes.” He nodded. “That seems, to me, a worthwhile lesson.”

The other Ultra Magnus knew his time was up. His alternate was not going to leave him with his life. He would be joining the Allspark.

But as terrified as he was, something else burned deep within him—the very same thing which had propelled each of his failed attempts to regain his former place and restore his Cybertron.

Shockwave’s attack had removed him from his post and sown seeds of doubt into his people, a doubt which had allowed for a new order to take place before he had the chance to undermine and put a stop to it: a permissive, sentimental order which would be the death of his previous world in due time—led by a former student which he once actually thought could take his place.

Everything he built had been torn down by a crew of reject repair-‘bots and their Allspark-forsaken Wrecker who had gotten lucky at every turn, and his alternate was siding with them—called them “family”, defended their every indiscretion.

It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t fair.

“I should have sent Optimus and the rest of his blasted team to the stockade when I had the chance!” TFA’s Ultra Magnus snapped.

And the next crack?

That was thunder.

“… Is that so?” TFP’s Ultra Magnus asked quietly. “Then, I hope you understand what I am about to do—now that I have the chance.”

Finally, finally—the calm mask broke.

The storm was all over the Wrecker’s face as he bared his dentas in a scowl, light from the rain of lightning behind him casting shadows across his frame which were only relieved by the glow of the Magnus Hammer—which gave his target a long, clear look at his livid expression.

Both hammers swung.

And there was one final crack, but the sound was drowned out by the roar of thunder.

…

…

It was quiet in the hallway.

Wheeljack stayed up as his kids had drifted off one by one, waiting for updates. The medics were still awake and fussing in the hospital room, with Knockout insisting that they do a lot more than stabilize—Optimus shouldn’t have to wake up and see the physical damage dealt.

Wheeljack appreciated that more than the former Decepticon would ever know.

Bumblebee was sitting on a bench, leaning on Bulkhead and holding Sari. Jazz and Prowl, Jetfire and Jetstorm—they were taking up a different bench, leaning on each other as they slumbered. Blurr was sprawled across a third bench, face-down with a data-pad resting on the floor—one arm hanging over it.

Sentinel had been the last one to fall into stasis. He’d been too busy blaming himself, fussing, and texting back and forth with Blackarachnia about Optimus’s condition—‘maintaining our outward projection of political stability’, the young Prime had insisted stubbornly when Wheeljack looked at him with a raised optic-brow.

Megatron had sent Wheeljack a private message, asking to be kept updated and offering to contact his own medical staff if necessary.

Wheeljack had thanked him.

How times had changed.

So, there Wheeljack sat—with Sentinel leaning on him, in a troubled stasis—watching over his family in a time of crisis as he always tried to.

He’d never forget the concern he’d felt when he saw Optimus’s door open, nor the scene he saw when he’d stepped inside. He probably burst the Doc-‘Bots audial-receptors, with that call…

“Wheeljack?”

The white Wrecker looked up, his optics wide. “Magnus?” The first thing he noticed was that his conjunx was holding the Magnus Hammer, then he saw scorch marks. Finally, he met his partner’s optics and saw weariness but resolve—and even though he knew what happened... “What-..?”

Ultra Magnus sighed. “You already know.” The quiet returned. “… How is he?”

“Assumin’ Knockout’s still tryna get his way with makin’ cosmetic repairs, he’s restin’,” Wheeljack replied. “All of ‘em are.” Ultra Magnus hummed as he nodded. “… Mags? What happened?”

“He’s never going to hurt anyone else ever again,” was what the commander said.

Even as a weight lifted away, Wheeljack sighed. “You didn’t hafta do that. I could’ve-”

“I know you would have.” Ultra Magnus moved to sit beside his conjunx, leaning both hammers on the adjacent wall before doing so. “That you were thinking about it.”

“No one plans a murder out-loud,” Wheeljack argued. “Except you, apparently.”

Ultra Magnus huffed quietly, then he calmed. “… But I wasn’t going to let you break your streak. We’re all so proud of you, Wheeljack.”

“Heh.” Wheeljack crossed his arms and looked down. “Not every day the Autobots’ fastest killin’ machine reforms, right?” He hesitated, then he looked up at his conjunx with a frown. “You still shouldn’t have had to do it, Mags. I mean, even though he was a poor example, he-”

“Was an alternate,” Ultra Magnus agreed. “But I am told that, in your travels, you met some rather poor examples of yourself as well… I just did what I had to do to protect my family.”

Wheeljack nodded, then he glanced towards the hospital room. “What are we gonna tell him?”

“That it’s over. I’m certain that he’ll know what we mean.” Ultra Magnus shifted uncomfortably. “I just- I never wanted him or anyone else to ever have to face that again. To-…”

“Mags.” Wheeljack nudged him gently. “They all know you’re a different guy. They wouldn’t have signed those docs, otherwise.” He gave a small smile. “They love you, and know you love them—like I do.” He glanced towards the hammers and raised an optic-brow. “They’ll just be bummed no one was around to see you dual-wield.”

“Heh.” Ultra Magnus grinned, raising an optic-brow in response. “Like you are?”

“Hm.” Wheeljack shrugged, shameless. “What can I say? It was probably quite the show… Blurr turned off the cameras, though.”

“Good.”

…

…

…

When Optimus woke up, his whole body hurt.

His processor was screaming at him, and the few dim lights that were keeping the room from being completely dark were too bright for him to take.

He didn’t want to move or even think.

Slowly, he regained his bearings—and he saw that he was in a hospital berth. Immediately, he knew what must have happened after it all went dark.

And as much as he wished to not be conscious, seeing his family squeezed into that little room and dozing in huddled groups made him smile.

Wheeljack was on one side of his berth with Ratchet at his side, and Sari was sitting in the Wrecker’s ajar chest compartment and snoring.

Optimus snorted, then he looked to his other side and saw Ultra Magnus hunched over in his chair and resting his head on folded arms at the edge of the berth. Standard furniture in this reality had always been comedically too small for him…

The young Prime found himself reaching out, his arm like molten lead, and gently resting a servo on the Wrecker commander’s arm.

Ultra Magnus started a bit in his slumber, then opened his optics and blinked.

“Optimus?”

“Hey,” Optimus greeted wearily, cringing at how even that ached. “Agh… What happened?”

“I should-” Ultra Magnus went to get up, likely to rouse Wheeljack, but Optimus gripped his arm entirely out of instinct. The young Prime cringed again, this time out of embarrassment, but the commander’s expression softened. “Hm.” The massive mech carefully settled back down into his little chair, and he sighed. “It seems that my alternate failed to learn his lesson.”

Optimus deadpanned. “Again?”

“Optimus,” Ultra Magnus chided.

“Humor’s how most of my team copes. I figured I’d give it a shot,” Optimus argued, then he let the full weight of what he had just been told slowly set in. “… He got the drop on me, huh?”

Ultra Magnus tensed, then he sighed. “And stole the Magnus Hammer.”

Optimus nodded. “O-Okay. Okay… How’s the search going?” He saw the elder mech frown, then glance back at something behind him. Optimus let his gaze track the commander’s, and he saw two hammers leaning on the wall. “Wait, but-" He blinked. “Ultra Magnus?”

The Wrecker leader hesitated, then he met the Prime’s optics. “… It’s over.”

“Over?”

“… Over.” Ultra Magnus nodded, then he seemed to brace himself. “Optimus, I-” The commander’s optics widened as, over the screams of protest from every bolt in his body, Optimus sat up and hugged him. “… Hm.” Ultra Magnus closed his optics and returned the embrace. “… You’re safe now, Optimus. I promise.”

“I-I’m so sorry.” The Prime shook his head. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“Optimus-”

The Prime went on. “I should have been stronger, smarter, more careful-”

“Optimus.” Ultra Magnus pulled away just enough to give the shaken mech a gentle yet stern look. “This was not your fault. He attacked you.” He shook his head. “And now, he will never hurt you or anyone else ever again… I should have done what I did a long time ago. I’m the one who must apologize to you, to all of you.”

Optimus blinked, then he sighed before giving a small smile. “Sounds like someone needs to have a ‘jam session’, when everyone wakes up.”

Ultra Magnus blinked, then he huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “If you insist. I have learned to trust your judgment.” He carefully pulled away and helped Optimus lie down again, then he sat back in his chair. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I was hit by a truck,” the young Prime said wryly, glancing at the ceiling. “Huh. I guess I was.”

Ultra Magnus shook his head, not even dignifying that with a response. “You’re not allowed to talk to Smokescreen unsupervised anymore. Or Miko. Or the Bumblebees.”

“That was more of a Jack line,” Optimus joked.

“Ugh.” Ultra Magnus rolled his optics, then he smiled again. “Heh.”

Optimus glanced towards the two hammers, and he raised an optic-brow. “… Did you dual-wield?”

“Now, that was a Wheeljack line,” Ultra Magnus noted, obviously dodging the question.

“Yeah, but did you?”

Ultra Magnus snorted. “Perhaps, briefly.”

“How did it go?”

“Honestly?” The commander rolled out one of his arms, shaking his head. “My shoulders hurt.”

“Pfft-!” Optimus woke up everyone else in the hospital room with the loud laugh he let out.

There was a lot to work through, but the worst had finally passed. The nightmare was over.

...and, well, his voice now came from the muzzle of one large beast. That was an important fact to remember, despite how they had since acclimated to the discovery. He stood on four sizable paws, oversized for a fox—perhaps as large as a wolf. Certainly not what they had expected, once they finally found him again.

When one lives in a castle from fairytales, Watson allowed, as they approached their bedroom, the fantastical becomes your everyday. 'Foxy' was hardly the only one who spoke despite bestial features, after all. Not even the largest one either.

Shaking their head, they mumbled, “I was almost finished.” The words scratched on their way out. They cleared their throat, adjusting their grip on the lantern. With their father leading the way, they hadn't felt the need to reignite it. These dark corridors, despite the rumors, held nothing frightening.

“Aye, laddie. Ye would 'ave been finished, if I hadn't stopped ye!” This, they did sigh at. With a chuff, he purposefully angled his steps into their path to bump them. Unsteadied, the human reached out, fingers gripping his fur for stability. The lantern lightly thudded against his flank. Unbothered, he returned their stare. “Ye be stubborn as a mule.” Despite his scolding, something in his vulpine eyes twinkled. “Wonder where ye get that from.”

“I wonder.” Grin unbidden, they shoved ineffectively at his shoulder.

The old fox chuckled as they reached for the knob. Snout and shoulder nudged the door open, before he stood aside for them to enter first.

The room was not quite as decadent as many others they'd explored. Yet it was all still quite fancy to someone unused to fineries, such as Watson. At first, they'd felt like an intruder upon the space. Masterful hands had carved and upholstered the ornate furniture, cut and woven together colorful fabrics. Sadly, it had also suffered the same neglect as the rest of the castle, gleams dulled, colors fading.

With time, and some effort, the room had collected Watson's little homey touches. A few of their father's as well: The lantern, which reclaimed its spot on a nightstand, was his gift to better aid their near-endless wandering. A desk against the wall boasted piles of documents covered in their messy scrawl. The 'organized chaos' declared the room happily occupied. Once they could burrow beneath the luxurious covers, they would be more than cozy, despite the neverending storm buffeting the glass windows.

“Must get it from yer mother,” Foxy continued. Teasing words warmed, as honey before a fireplace. “Aye, Amelia always had a stubborn streak. Swore up 'n down I hadn't charmed her—even when I had her smilin' brighter than the summer sun on our wedding day!”

The declaration made Watson smile. They remembered musical laughter, the playful air about their home, years ago. Fragments of it had lingered, even after...

Lungs squeezed. A dull ache grew in their ribcage.

The path that brought them to Tempest's Peak had been long, taking them far from the woman who'd raised them. Long, yet important. They didn't regret leaving to search for their missing father. Not for a second. We needed to know the truth. Nonetheless, it didn't dull the pain of being unable to actually bring him back home, thanks to the chains of a curse.

Dark gazes met, father and child. Watson knew the pain wasn't theirs alone. Remorse had swallowed the gleam in his eyes, again. After all, he had lived with this truth for far longer.

They wished he hadn't asked they not tell their mother about the curse, if they left the kingdom. He claimed she was better off thinking he had been taken by the sea, instead of finding out the truth... They disagreed. Despite this, they couldn't bring themself to leave and go against his wishes. I was perhaps lucky he let ME learn about this, instead of scaring me away.

It was partly why they were determined to break the curse—even before they had grown attached to the rest of those under its spell, as well. They didn't care that it had already 'run its course.' There just had to be a solution, or even just a partial one. This was what often led to the sight he'd stumbled upon earlier: Finding Watson dozing in the library, surrounded by books and parchment. They had a new search. Break the curse, free the kingdom, and allow the man to tell her the truth himself. A compromise, or perhaps a loophole. How deceptively simple sounding.

Sparks gnawed upon the lantern's cooled wick, lighting the room. Dark shadows cast their fingers across their father's vulpine form. Nightfall masked his face, swallowing one half and coiling the other. It cut away at soft fatherly features. Robbed him of the boyish joy and mischief so rooted at his very core, of his humanity.

Leaving only a forgotten beast.

This damned curse.

Watson furrowed their brow. Then, forcibly banished the dark thoughts with a smile. A hand reached out. Fur easily gave way under their palm, until it pressed down upon one sturdy shoulder.

“I love you, Papa.” Quiet, insistent. A promise and reminder.

A low chuckle. The sound was heartening, even tinged with bitter regret. His illuminated eye slid shut. “I love you too, dear pearl.”

A fatherly nickname, from years past. When his calloused hand would ruffle their hair or pat their cheek. Before stepping foot in this kingdom all these months ago, Watson hadn't heard it for decades. Still the years sat between them... but, with every day, that distance lessened. If he can just forgive himself for things outside of his control... Their mouth opened to further reassure him.

Beneath their hand, muscles rippled, then heaved. Large frame rising, Foxy shoulder-tackled their side. With a yelp, they toppled onto the bed.

“...but ye won't sway me, laddie!” Grasping one edge of the bed cover between his teeth, he leapt up with surprising grace, and dropped it over top of his child. “Ye're not gettin' out of yer bedtime!”

“Ack—HEY—” Watson's own laughter interrupted protests. They wriggled up to the head of the bed, until they popped back out for a gasp of fresh air.

“Yarr-harr!” The reprieve was snatched away. Now, the extra weight of a massive fox pinned the cover's ends together. “Thar'll be no more readin' 'til ye get yerself proper rest!”

Arms struggled to flail out from underneath, tightly sandwiched as they were. Yet he didn't budge. “Grrr...... grah...” They tossed their head left-and-right. To no avail. Head knocking back against the pillow, they gave one final, “AGH! I can put myself to bed!”

“Ye got me wily blood,” he argued cheerfully. Weight shifted across the bed. The sheets loosened, only for him to drop his big head onto their stomach without ceremony. Oof. It angled their way, dark eyes glittering. “Ye're a chip off yer ol' cap'n's block! Ye'll sneak out o' bed the moment I have me back turned!” Part of his weight had settled over their legs as well, entrapping them.

At least their arms were free to fold over their chest, though they'd be useless in shoving him away. A grin snuck through their huff. “I would not.” Craning their neck this way to look at him was a tad painful, yet they persisted.

“Would ye nah?”

“It's too far back to the library,” they argued, “I'd just be caught again.”

“Aye, this be true.” Despite agreeing with them, Foxy's teeth were bared in his own grin. “...Which be why ye would work in here, if yer cap'n weren't here to stop ye.”

Their mouth opened. Gaze flicking sideways, to the pile of books and documents on their desk.

The vulpine stare didn't waver, amusement merely rising with the silence.

Scoffing dramatically, their head flopped back onto their pillow. A low snicker tickled their stomach, until it rolled into a yawn. Their father's maw opened wide with a full-body stretch, revealing many pointy teeth. He gave a dramatic smack of his lips. For a moment, he truly appeared like the clever fox of folktales, drowsy after a long day of outsmarting his opponents.

“Oh aye, I remember chasin' ye to bed as a wee thing!” Weight shifted off of their poor legs, he rearranged to be a warmth against their side instead. One cheek still rested on their stomach. That fluffy tail coiled around to rest over his paws, almost transforming him into a fluffy reddish cloud. He huffed lightheartedly, as creeping fingers lightly scratched his furry chin. “Ye've always been a wee rascal. Used t' tell ye tales t' get ye t' stay in yer cot, 'til I was ready t' nod off meself!”

“Mama would sing, sometimes...” Though the memories were faded and tender to the touch, Watson still smiled. They had missed those bedtime rituals. Their eyes closed. “But you always had the best stories.”

“O' course! Yer cap'n's seen a lot on these high seas!”

Lightning brightened the room, glass panes rattling from its following thunder, as if the storm itself confirmed his claim. Rain tapped incessantly upon the window. The constant noise of this turbulent weather sometimes seemed to fade into the distance, and others seemed as a particularly excitable neighbor. They wondered when they had stopped fearing that they would spy a waterspout from their bedroom. The thought was still frightening, yet for whatever reason, they no longer thought it was likely...

A sigh warmed their stomach. Foxy's wet nose brushed under their forearm. “S'ppose one day, 'twon't be me job t' get ye t' bed anymore...”

“Hm?”

They waited, listening to the rain and howling winds. Yet he didn't continue. So their head rose just enough to peek at him. His eyes were closed... they couldn't tell if that was a grin or not. Finally, they prodded, “What do you mean?” They hoped he wasn't suggesting they'd leave him here, or that he referred to the day that he...

Despite the darker turn their thoughts threatened to go, his chuckle surprisingly held none of its earlier bitterness or regret. Lips pulled back for a toothy smirk. Instead of directly answering their question, he went on, “Always dreaded the day I would nah be th' most important scalliwag in yer life anymore...”

Watson's noise of confusion earned an abrupt guffaw, startling them. What does THAT mean? Exasperated, they pushed, “What are you talking about?”

“On the bright side... S'ppose I best be glad I might still 'ave the chance t' walk ye down the aisle!” Lantern light gleamed off of one squinted eye. He was fully grinning now. “I jus' wish ye had better taste than that ol' cod!”

Bewilderment clicked into realization, igniting embarrassed warmth across Watson's face. Exhaustion kept features from twisting and furrowing as tightly as it usually would, when he teased about this. Head dropping back down, they turned it sideways with a huff.

“Here's me one 'n only suggestion, laddie, if ye do go through wit' it—”

“Good night, Papa.”

“Put the veil on his head, so I don't 'ave t' look at that shark's sorry mug!”

If he mentioned it in the morning, they'd deny how they snorted. “Good NIGHT...!”

.