#weirdradios

   the  ship  seems  so  vast,   energy  pulsating  from  the bottom  of their  feet  to  the  top  of their  head,   shuddering  and  shivering,  thousands  of  pieces  of  machinery  working in tandem  to take  them  away ...   not unlike the  natural  world  from where  they  originated.   ad’ika  was  quite  the  walker,  liking to  exercise  their  little legs  after  being  cooped up  for  so long,  hidden away   ...    and  yet  ...  

  they  approach,   stumble  a  little,    looking  up  at the  mandalorian in the  pilot’s  seat  until  they  look down to  notice  glass - like  black  eyes  staring up  at  them.    then,   slowly,    ad’s   arms  raise  up a  little,  brushing  up  against  dirty  pantleg.    up!

“You got some nerve.”

Maybe it’s history, maybe it’s a big brother thing, maybe it’s cause and effect. Whatever it is, one or all things combined, he knows better than to put any stock in Luke’s promises. Luke can take his promises and choke on them, for all he cares. 

And so it goes: every time. A wheel like a ride like a prelude to the vomiting. Perhaps it’s the helplessness of it all that makes Arthur feel like the only way to react is with anger, with irritation, with his hackles raised. It sits ill on his face; like the right shade of fury will make him look like his father. 

@weirdradios​      /      martin       :       [       can i kiss you?       ]       *

jon is not expecting the question.      he feels like perhaps he should have      —      though he’s been trying to resist the urge to Know and to See and to Understand,      the way the eye wants him to,      he is bombarded with little facts about what is happening around them,      where the stain on the safehouse’s living room wall came from      (      halfway gruesome;      he’d spent some time trying to scrub it out after finding himself in possession of that knowledge      )      or the exact breed of cow wandering the nearby pastures or the precise number of kilometers back to london,      though he cannot fathom what is happening there while they are so far removed.      there are things that they do,      and things that he has not dared to ask about.      he holds martin’s hands,      the way he did when he’d led martin out of the lonely and back to the world of the living,      but he does not dare shift any closer.      he sits with the heavy knowledge of his own love      (      and martin’s own words echoing in his ears,      muffled as they’d been by the fog      :      i really loved you,      the past - tense of it stinging every time jon recalls it      )      but does not say the words.      they sleep in the safehouse’s one bed but leave a buffer of space between,      and jon is more afraid to bridge that gap than of any all - powerful entity.

so it’s martin who asks.      martin who,      haloed by the morning light of the window behind him,      sitting next to jon on the sofa as they both read the scattering of books daisy’s safehouse had inexplicably had on its shelves and pretend that everything is safe and normal,      reaches out.      martin who jon stares at for too long a moment      —      taking it all in,      processing,      running the words through several filters to ensure he could not possibly be misunderstanding,      though it’s as direct as a question could possibly be.