When Will’s sister picks up on the 2nd ring, he doesn’t even bother to say hi.
“Fuck this. Fuck the Haus, fuck dibs, fuck Ransom and Holster, fuck quarters, fuck hockey. Fuck. Everything,” Will fumes.
Alex is quiet for a moment. “I’m sure you don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do,” Will retorts. “Because of some grade-A crazy bullshit, I’m now sharing a room at the Haus with him.”
“I thought he was getting Lardo’s room and you were–”
“Getting the attic? Yeah, that’s what we all thought, except my idiot captains gave the attic to Ollie and Wicks.”
“Okay, I mean that’s odd, but not–what did you say? Grade-A crazy bullshit?” Alex replies.
“I haven’t even gotten to that yet,” Will says. “So Lardo can’t decide because like, Nursey basically wrote her thesis or whatever. I mean, who cares that all the shit I’ve done to keep the Haus standing was more important to the team, right? So Bitty comes up and is like, ‘oh, let’s do a dibs flip.’ Like a coin flip. So–”
“Okay, wait, so if there was a coin flip for it, how are you sharing?” Alex asks, clearly confused.
“Yeah, this was the bullshit. It rolled and got stuck in between two floorboards! Exactly on its side!” Will nearly shouts, feeling that same mixture of anger and despair he felt as he watched the whole thing unfold in front of his eyes.
“So it was a tie. And now you have to share,” Alex says plainly.
“Yes. Oh fuck me,” Will curses. “How am I going to survive Alex? How? Sometimes I can barely stand to be around him, how am I supposed to share a room with him?”
“You could always just–not,” Alex says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Will is an idiot for not thinking of it himself.
“Ha! Right, like I’m going to give him the satisfaction. He said I would move out by September at the latest. And maybe I can’t stand being around him, but my pettiness is–uh–”
Will falters as he spins around in his desk chair. When he got back to his dorm room, he had propped the door open (he’s trying to be friendly and prove to his floor that he’s not a total weirdo). And now, standing in that open doorway, is Nursey.
“Fuck my life,” Will mutters.
“Billy?” Alex responds questioningly.
“I have to go Alex, I’ll call you back later,” Will says, pulling the phone away from his ear and ending the call. He takes a deep breath as he puts his phone face down on his desk. “H-how long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough, Poindexter,” Nursey shrugs. “I just came by to bring you this book. You left it at the Haus.”
“It’s what not what it sounds like, Nursey,” Will says, springing to his feet.
“It’s chill dude,” Nursey answers, his expression appearing unfazed. But after two years as his partner on the ice (and often off it), Will can somewhat read him.
He can see his disappointment in the slight drop of his head, the way his eyebrows have gone up just a bit, and of course his eyes. Will has learned that Nursey’s eyes always give something away, whether he’s able to understand what they’re saying or not.
“That’s bullshit,” Will counters. “And I know that you know that I know that.”
“So what if it is? What gives you the right to know?” Nursey retorts angrily. “You clearly don’t give a fuck about me, so why should I tell you?”
“That’s not true and you know it!”
“Do I? Do I know that? Because not even two minutes ago, I stood in your doorway and listened to you tell your sister that you can barely stand to be around me. That sounds like someone who doesn’t care to me,” Nursey replies sharply and they’ve argued before, but something in Nursey’s voice is different this time.
Because Nursey is used to people not caring about him. He’s gone through his whole life surrounded by people like that. And he thought Will did care about him because, despite all their difficulties, they’re pretty close friends (even if they still annoy the hell out of each other from time to time)–and he does–but it doesn’t look that way right now.
Will gets that. But what Will doesn’t understand is why this seems so devastating to him. It’s not like no one cares about him–there’s Lardo, Bitty, Chowder, and a whole slew of others. What’s different about him?
“It’s–listen, you heard one statement out of context–”
“You said it twice.”
“How many times I said it isn’t important–”
“Not to you maybe.”
“Fuck, Nursey, would you just listen to me for one minute!” Will shouts, and Nursey clamps his mouth shut, but continues to glares at him. “I’ve been talking about you to Alex since day one. Day one! She knows a fuckton of things that you don’t! So when I tell her that I can barely stand to be around you sometimes, she knows that it’s not because I hate you! It never is and it never was.”
Nursey snorts derisively. “’She knows things you don’t.’ Super convincing argument, Poindexter. I’m supposed to just–take your word for it? Oh, of course, because you said you don’t hate me, and just because you said it, it must be true. Yeah, fuck you.”
“If I didn’t love you so much, I’d punch you in your fucking face right now,” Will quips.
Nursey’s brow furrows. “What did you say?”
“That I want to punch you?”
“No, the other part.”
“If I didn’t lo–oh for fuck’s sake,” Will groans, throwing his head back, praying for death to take him quickly. It’s become such a natural part of his emotions when he’s around Nursey that it’s no wonder it finally slipped out on accident.
“I’m going to guess that that’s what your sister knows that I don’t, right?” Nursey questions, and Will expected him to sound shocked or angry not–fucking bemused.
“Yep, and if you’re going to laugh at me, you better leave right fucking now, because not even that will stop me from punching you,” Will says, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.
“I’m not going to laugh,” Nursey says. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Will doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.
“I think–I think I understand what you were saying now,” Nursey says, and Will feels the bed dip gently as Nursey perches next to him. “It would be hard to see me every day–be in close quarters when you feel the way you do. You were scared that you would say something like you just did.”
Will nods. “Doesn’t matter though, ‘cause I said it just now.”
“Now. Later. Either way, I wouldn’t have minded,” Nursey says quietly. “I’m glad it’s out there now.”
There’s a strange, swooping feeling in Will’s stomach as he lowers his hands away from his face. “Nursey–” is all he gets out before Nursey is pressing their lips together.
It takes Will a second, but he kisses back.
“You know I was excited to be sharing a room with you because I was hoping you would eventually figure out how I felt, right?” Nursey asks.
“Have I mentioned that you continue to surprise me?”
“No,” Will answers, his brain still struggling to string words together that aren’t he kissed me he kissed me he kissed me.
“Well you are,” Nursey says. “I would’ve never guessed that you would feel that way–or that you would be the one to say it first.”
“S-same t-though,” Will stutters, the stutter in his voice matching the stuttering of his heart.
“So–do you think you can stand to share a room with me now?” Nursey asks, and if Will didn’t want to kiss him again, he would shove him off the bed.
Your phone was ringing by the time you made it inside the cab. Minseok must have left the awkwardness of the restaurant by now and the on and off buzzing inside your purse punctuated the humming you felt inside your chest – you saw his name flashing boldly across the screen of your cell phone.
After the first three calls went ignored he was texting and the taxi was pulling up outside of your home just as you turned off the buzzing and left the phone to deal with ignoring the man you hated to have the misfortune of falling in love with.
@garden-ghoul reading the lay is making me reread the lay, and, random characterization note but it’s interesting to me how the one distinct feature of celegorm and curufin’s relationship, the thing that makes itself felt even through the poesy, is also a feature fic mostly drops—curufin is super deferential toward celegorm! he’s coaxing and polite and celegorm takes it as his due. which, it kind of makes sense to me that celegorm and below is where feanor’s sons start being hypersensitive to birth order? for maglor and maedhros it’s probably more like, oh, lol, dad’s lieutenants willing or not, and also all the younger kids are Infinitely Below Us, but then with those same younger kids there’s an appreciation of their rights over their duties, and all the status-sifting that comes with that
It's interesting that you point out Tucker and Carolina having the potential to be really good teammates with one another, because I feel like Tucker seems to have a way with Freelancers in general. He and Tex seemed to have a pretty friendly rapport with one another (I mean, they have some quality banter in seasons 3 and 4, and since the BGC show affection with banter the fact that she only really did it with him & Church is kind of a big deal), and Tucker had Wyoming figured out very quickly.
(Warning: this quickly turned into a Tucker gushfest, I am so sorry omg)
Yes, Anon, I agree completely!!! (True story, I brotp Tucker with pretty much anyone, and I love the banter between Tex and Tucker. And it’s also very true that Tex only banters with people that she feels comfortable with (maybe even trust??) so it means a lot that Tex does banter with him. Lmao, gimme that good Tex & Church & Tucker brotp goodness!)
Though perhaps I would expand it from “Freelancers” to “people” (though he has the most practice getting freelancers doesnt he?) bc Tucker manages to befriend or understand people, in general, really damn quickly and like, I think that Tucker just gets people, you know? Like, his plans against Felix wouldn’t have worked if he wasn’t able to accurately predict how Felix would react and think. And his plans too, at the end of s13, with the whole BGC, also means knowing how each of them tick and what role would best suit them.
And I think one of the reasons why he’s so good at it, (beyond it being an innate skill) is just that he has such an easy demeanor y’know? It’s hard to not trust him or let your guard down around him, especially since he plays the fool so well.
Honestly, I think making him an ambassador was actually a good choice, lord knows everyone else in Blood Gulch would’ve caused some kind of diplomatic incident. (Can you tell Tucker’s my fave?? lmao take all of this with a grain of salt, I’m so heavily biased towards him)
(Side note: all of the above is kind of why I think of him as like, the solidifying factor in blue team? not the heart, that’s obviously Caboose, but like, the one they can lean on or look to for stability? Bc! You know that frame in s11 where we see that blue team chart, and everyone has been scribbled out or added on and the only one left that hasn’t been touched at all is Tucker’s name and that fucking hurts me so much. He’s weathered so many changes and deaths, but he’s still there, still bringing his humour and ease and I just really love Tucker okay can we all take a moment to appreciate him?)
You know, I think maybe the fact that Tucker does seem to have a way with Freelancers in general, might be the reason why there are quite a few fics with Tucker being a part of PFL. (though in this case, with how it’s phrased, makes it sound like he’s their handler and omg can you imagine Tucker being the liaison between them and the Director? Or worse, Tucker taking the role of the Counselor? he would obvs actually care about them but omg he would have none of that psychoanalysis stuff and if they came to him for help he’d be like “idk go get laid? take a nap? spend time with friends? Chill out? why are you coming to me, I dont actually have a degree you know”)
fallout new vegas where nearly everything is the same except its a show and it has the same art style as su
su, especially in early seasons, had one of the best and most pleasing art styles of any modern cartoons, and the color palettes were gorgeous and the animation really nice and flowing, so it would be really cute to see all fnv characters in that style
however you say nearly everything is the same, are you implying su!fnv will spiral into the same hole as su where benny will get a redemption arc with the help of the protagonist, steven courier, see the err in his ways as well as the legion will decide they no longer want to attack hoover dam and they were just sad and misunderstood this entire time but with the power of love and friendship, changed and inevitably someone with a su style mister house icon on here will argue why papa khan is a feminist icon–
or you meant like, the show will be lest gritty realism and dark humor? i can see both scenarios played out
As you look down at your left arm, you realize that you don’t even remember the last time you had one.
Before you were exiled, of course. A cybernetic arm fit to tear out the throat of any enemy that would dare oppose you, half the size of your body and nearly equal in its weight. Something that, despite being there all the same, hardly counted as a prosthetic as much as it was a weapon. A weapon of war forged by the Druids for you and you alone, something you would consider a second arm, but never once did you forget its true purpose.
The one you’re staring down at it sleek and black and iridescent, reflecting silvers and reds and oranges against the tinny light of the Under City of Neo Shousis. It works via reading the brainwaves in a headset fit just behind your tattered ear and without that, it’s virtually useless. It’s not ideal, really, not like something you’d get from the Empire, but you don’t want anything from their ilk ( they, not we, not us ); it’s just enough for you, not wildly expensive mostly just because you know better than to shell out too much money on a planet like this. Your credit chit houses more GAC than you could ever need, enough to sustain you for a hundred lifetimes, definitely enough to get you off this planet if you really, really wanted ( the only reason you hadn’t initially is because you’d have nowhere to go anyway, not like it matters and you’re sure if you tried to leave, the Empire would have you tagged before you could so much as blink and given the bounty on your head, you’re stuck here for better or for worse ). Affording a prosthetic wasn’t hard. Part of you wondered why you didn’t do it months ago as soon as you were able to walk outside without the very sun wounding your pride all the more.
It was different then.
“Well?” The voice sounds off from the other side of the round, nasally and expectant.
An ear flicks underneath your hood before you look up, just finishing eyeing the way your fingers flex experimentally. Much like your organic hand, the underside of it has a thick layer of grip, rough like the pads under your fingers with claws similar and stronger than your own, sharper than your blunt fangs.
“It’ll be sufficient.” You say it casually, barely regarding the cyborg woman enough to even notice her semi-offended expression ( you think, anyway; difficult to read a single optic on an otherwise featureless face that never stops spinning in place ). Sufficient? Is on the tip of her tongue and you know it, but if only for the sake of not passing up on the sum of credits you’re about to pay for it, she doesn’t say anything.
For the better part of three hours you’ve been bargaining with her, going through the various models, dozens of them, assuring her that her time would be well spent once you found what you were looking for. The sooner you get out of here, the better even despite the pickiness you express in your browsing.
“Fifty thousand. Like we agreed. Not happy with the results later? You bring it back for a return. No, having it ripped off, shot off, stabbed off, melted off by acid or eatendoes not warrant your money back.” Her thumb rubs against her fingers, and you assume this is a speech she’s given far too many times before. “My tech is the best you’ll find for an affordable price. I’d know. I use it.” As you approach, her hand kept close to a button along the underside of her desk — an alarm system, you assume, necessary for thieves and the other types of scum that run rampant on this planet. It would explain the inactive war-bots settled forebodingly in the dark corners just surrounding the door, not that someone who has the intention to pay has anything to be nervous of. A sum like this will hardly put a dent in the money you have. Serving the Empire as a High Commander paid well, after all.
“I won’t need the return.” An idle, almost too confident remark as one of the sleek new fingers taps at the gauntlet on your second arm, bringing up the red-orange holographic interface; an account you can access remotely has always been better than the physical credits. You’ve kept this exchange as wordless as it needs to be, your face half covered by the bandana wrapped around your mouth in turn with an orange visor across your only working eye; the fact that you’re Galra is hardly evident by the admittedly shitty lighting of the Under City as an entirety, the pale purple-pink of your fur washed out underneath the dim red lights. The less memorable you are, the better.
As you move back to the streets and out of the dingy, unsettling shop, you lift your right hand in front of your face, admiring the flex and curl of your fingers, almost admiring the phantom feeling you know is nothing but in your head, but you don’t linger, already having plans to move on elsewhere in the city. There’s a crack somewhere overhead, and you can feel the corner of your lip twitch in aggravation, not that it’s anything new to you. It’s a surprise if anything at all when it doesn’t rain at least five times in the span of two or three days, such is the horror that comes with a Jungle world. That you’ve learned long ago, and it served as half the incentive for you to even bother with a new set of armor ( cloak included); the entire time you’ve been here, all you’ve wanted is something waterproof. It was something you never realized was as much as a problem in your now slowly rusting old and Empire-grade armor set until now ( how long had it been, even, since you had it upgraded anyway? At least over two to three centuries ). Something different and unrecognizable as Galra tech, of course, but waterproof first and foremost.
Your hand flits upwards, pulling the cloak over your face a little more before you step out onto the streets, heading to the surface past the red-lit lights barely illuminating the streets of the Under City. Thankfully the shop hadn’t been too far from the surface, and you’ve only walked for what feels like ten to fifteen minutes before you can see the telltale pink-blue-yellow neon glow of Neo Shousis spattering across the walls from the inclined ramp and large steel arc.