yarrow's yelling

“So I help people,” Hawkeye said. “When they’re in over their heads, I try to step in and help. Mostly they think it’s luck, but a few people have caught on an’ that’s how I’ve made it through the years. Gods need faith to survive. So they don’t fade away. It takes a while. Not a pretty way to go. I’m scraping by as it is, but I figure as long as I help one person, it’s worth it. It’s all worth it.

“And recently... I’ve been losin’ it. Losing time, losing people. My brain’s all a-fucking-mess. Past decade has been real rough to stay conscious. Like no sleep will make me less tired. I know I’m dying.” Hawkeye gripped his beer with white knuckles. He took another pull and a ragged breath in. “That’s not the issue. If I die, I die. Whatever. All gods die. But this — isn’t a natural death. I’m being drained. Someone’s taking my divinity.”

He swiveled his head and stared at James, eyes hard and iron-grey, mouth in a thin line. “I’m sorry this started the way it did, in that bar. But — the favour I need from you is help. I need you to help me find who’s draining me, and I need you to help me stop them. They’re going to hurt people. A lotta people. It’d be fine if it was just me — ‘cept it isn’t, and I have to do something about it.”

James stared at him. Hawkeye stared back. During his story, Hawkeye seemed to — to fade a little, almost, like the shadows had reached out and dragged a little of his life into them. He looked so impossibly tired. He was tempted to ask why me but wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“I’m Jewish,” James said when the silence became too much to bear. “I don’t think I’m allowed to believe in you.”

Hawkeye blinked like he hadn’t expected that response, and then he laughed like it was startled out of him. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and James found himself cracking a smile. The guy’s laugh was infectious and bright, even as exhausted as he was. He reminded him of Steve, and not ‘cause they were both tall blondes with too much bicep to know what to do with.

“Go home, man. I can’t help you.” James moved to close the door but the blonde shoved his foot into the door, quite literally. James blinked. People only did that shit in movies. “Dude.”

“Just hear me out, listen to the full story, let me prove it to you, and then you can kick me out if you want to. Also, I — wait, is something burning?”

“My lasagna!” James fled from the door, all pretenses forgotten, and rushed into the kitchen where — yeah, yeah, that was black smoke, not a thick cloud but a cloud of black smoke nonetheless, rose up from the grate in the oven door. He groaned, slamming open the window above the sink and grabbing his one oven mitt. It was a bit of an adventure in rocking back and forth since his prosthetic was generally good for staying still and keeping him balanced more than it was helpful for reaching into hot ovens.

The smoking mess of cheese and pasta was… sad. James turned off the oven, and he gave it a moment of silence. Sarah Rogers’ lasagna was legendary. The guy cleared his throat.

“Oh,” said James. “You’re still here.”

“Ouch,” the guy said, “but unfortunately, yes. You got a minute? Just hear me out?”

1 807 words / rated g / trahearne/oc/oc.

contains: polyamory, established healthy relationships, fluff, pre-end game, discussions of war and trauma but not in depth.

He stepped to Nylarun, who peered up at him with raised eyebrows.

"I lost my place," Nylarun said, gesturing to his book. "I'll have to restart. I have so much to—"

"'—to do, and I have a responsibility to the Pact and to the people of Tyria, and I just can't rest now, Cath, five more minutes?'" Cathasach finished. Nylarun's eyes narrowed, but it was a good day, and he didn't retreat into himself as he was so often inclined. He reached up and gave Cathasach's shoulder an affectionate shove. His sap was singing in his veins, Nylarun's handprint burning like a mark through his flesh to the woody base of his bones.

9 479 words / rated teen / spirk star wars au.

warning: mass death, character death. clone programming. non-graphic violence.

"Mm," JM-2233 grunts.

"What is your designation?"

A heaving sigh. "JM-2233," he croaks. "Captain of the battalion." A harsh, scraping cough, and the face hovers over him, brows drown deep in concern. "NCC-1701. Sir."

If JM-2233 was confused about his alive-or-dead status, that is all but erased at the pealing cry that emanates from somewhere beyond his vision. The face vanishes and JM-2233's vision continues to clear, pieces of his memory coming back as the world solidifies. Soon, he can see definition amongst the tropical jungle leaves that float in the gentle breeze. The wind carries the heavy stench of blood and blaster fire, but it is peacefully quiet.

Within minutes, the cry is silenced, and the face is back. A handsome face, a Mirialan: one of the Consulars, of mixed blood. Heady relief floods through JM-2233 and if he wasn't lying down he would be dizzy with it. He hadn't failed. Non-cloned life still lived.

"Captain." Again, that damned voice, and JM-2233 blinks fiercely as the same face solidifies before him. JM-2233's breath rushes out of him, and suddenly he's on his back, again, the painful lump still kicking into his flesh. "Are you conscious?" Just one, one life, and it was worth it. The slaughter, the slaughter—