warmth_inside
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“I want to try,” Fiddleford says, gentle and windswept, “to be something good for you.”
Hope is a silly thing. It has burned Stan one too many times, and yet Stan keeps letting it, fool that he is. “Okay,” he agrees, and folds their hands together. It’s a clumsy fit: Stan’s fingers are thick and calloused, Fiddleford’s spindly and bitten at the nail. “Let’s try to be something good.”
Stan and Fiddleford try to be something good. It takes them thirty years. Companion piece to meltwater pulse, but can be read as a standalone.
Bookmarked by warmth_inside
30 Oct 2025
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Her own personal Noverian peak. That’s what it was supposed to be. Nothing but the discovery: no distractions, no comfort, no windows looking out—no familiar faces. But it's starting to look like her winning streak might have ended in that pile of Citadel rubble, if it ever extended that far to begin with.
In which Shepard doesn’t want to be found, and Garrus, of course, has other ideas.
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One polished pauldron bobs. “How does the Earth idiom go? No use beating a dead—” A long-suffering sigh. “What was it again?”“A dead horse. And yet, you’re here. Beating it.”
Pot, kettle. She wishes he’d just fucking say it.
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Bookmarked by warmth_inside
20 Apr 2025