Archive of Our Own

Beaches. Sand. Water. Rocks and crabs and wildlife. Fish too, perhaps. Or if you are very lucky: a shark.

Pete used to go to the beach a lot as a kid. That’s the sort of kid-friendly, average activity normal kids with normal lives and normal faces do, he thinks. His mom would pack him up with sunscreen and snacks into the back seat of their old van. Strap him into his seat, seatbelt-shortner-clip so the strap didn't dig into his neck, clicky-fidgety toys placed in his hands. Windows down, cassette in the player, singing one cassette her choice, one cassette Jethro Tull, one cassette Steam Man Band, as he always demanded, back and forth and forth and back. 

Back then the family car was this huge van his dad liked nearly as much as his computers, at least before its transmission finally gave out on them and it became one of the projects his dad keeps around to do ‘Oh, hm, well, eventually, Peter.’ 

And ‘eventually’ means more like ‘Oh, ah, the old van, right, right, yes, I remember, well, I’ll fix it at at some point, Peter,’ and at some point means more like ‘Oh, yes, when the stars align, Peter, then I’ll fix it.’ 

And when he said that, of course, made him scoff right back at his dad and say, “The stars never align, Dad, they are all in orbit of our sun, as the solar system moves, alignment of stars is a concept that treats the stars as two dimensional objects–” and of course his dad stopped him right there, and said “When the universe aligns to the whims of alignment,” which means nothing. 

Nothing.

And anyway. He would be packed up in the back, buckled in, and set up in the back seat with his beach toys - buckets, shovels, watering cans and his small armada or perhaps fleet of makeshift tiny motor powered boats he made in his dads office with spare motors and gears instead of drawing. 

There’s excitement in those memories. Staring out the window as they arrived, being made to sit still as his mom dabbed sunscreen on his arms and legs.

He’d been such a small kid. 

He stopped going to the beach at some point. Somewhere in the era of life someone who went to school would call highschool, or late middle school, which is about equivalent to what he calls his “teenage fugue state of designing and launching rockets” – and well, at a certain age hanging out with your mom stops being cool, and you stop being able to click well with the random other children there to play sand tag, or build castles, doubly so when you’re a somewhat-chronically-lonely teenager who only knows how to talk about star charts and mathematical theorems.

That said:

He and Vivian are going to the beach!

He’s honestly quite excited.

Dates. Dating. Dating and dates. He’s… well, he’s not entirely a stranger to the concept - he had a girlfriend in college, for a little bit, teensy bit, bit of a bit, but he didn’t think she liked him much, and he was probably terrible at the whole idea – flitting between laboratory and classwork and laboratory and classwork and practicum and classwork and laboratory, and whatever else he’d been doing, which wasn’t much really – he liked her, he did, and he was still handsome then. He had never been bad looking, but..

Well! Well. Face. Face issues. That was then. That is then. In a past where he was still entirely stupid and a bit too blasé about safety rules, and now is, in fact, not then, because Vivian is now. And he is also, admittedly, more loved now than then, not even technically speaking. Even though his face is - a tad - a little bit, bad? But well, well, dwelling on the specifics of having (or not having) a face never does him any good in the end.

Anyway.

Vivian is perhaps the most wonderful person he’s ever met? She’s so pretty he could perhaps collapse. Has collapsed. She finds it cute or perhaps even, and get this, hot when he plays the being pathetic up a bit. Which is good! She’s so kind and sweet to him he could perhaps die. And right now, today, she is sitting next to him in this taxi and holding his hand.

And the thing is: so he loves her?

And the other thing is: they’ve been dating about 6 months and he is so very rather entirely sure and certain he loves her.

And the super double other thing is: last night she told him she loved him, as she held him, in his bed. 

She told him she loved him. 

Last night as she stole more than half his blankets, as she sequestered his better pillow (there was no harm in it, as she was his pillow, and very talented at the art of being a pillow), as they watched a movie. He was sort of drifting off a little bit at the time, but she said she loved him.

And he isn’t quite sure she meant to. Or he isn't quite sure he was meant to hear it.

But he loves her.

He really really loves her? 

She’d interrupted any thoughts he’d had of oh my god you love me? by kissing him a moment later, and he’d melted into it, into her, and–

He loves her too.

He does. 

He really does. 

And now they’re going on a date to the beach. 

The Beach!

They are going to the beach, and he might simply die, because Vivan will be wearing a bikini, and is beautiful? And he has… what, he has his….chemistry themed swim trunks and his blue crocs? and a shirt with a terrible science pun because he is significantly too nervous to be shirtless in public? and she is stunning. She is so stunning. And he is…

He is himself.

And he is possibly far too mediocre to be seen with her, because she is beautiful, and he is…

What even is he? A too-thin dweebish sort of scientist, and she is holding his hand. In this taxi. 

But.

But well.

No.

He shouldn’t be thinking that, really.

He needs to stop being so awful to himself. It's a new year, a new leaf, and a new year's resolution to be kinder to himself.

She’s staring out the passenger side window as the sun catches in her hair, and he–

He is going to have a good time today. He is going to. 

Today is going to be a good day.

…

Arriving at the beach, he tips the driver significantly more than he needs to, and they get out of the car.

And there it is! Sparkling water, blue-dark ocean, sand and sun and plenty of very attractive people in very revealing outfits, and his very pretty girlfriend beside him, smiling so darling, before she takes his hand to her lips, and kisses it.

He loves her?

“Pete,” she says, as they walk down the parking lot to the sand, “Did I ever tell you about the time Buster and I were at that beach in Kazoo, with grandpa? I haven't been since I was little, right? But the water is like, turquoise, there,”

And he’s listening, he is, or trying to, but–

But the van they’re walking pass, it has Walter Robotics 1992 written on the side, with the ancient dot-com-bubble logo, chunky 3D lettertext, and–

And that's THE van. As in THE VAN his dad always says he’s going to fix, and–

And that's Chelsea. As in his employee Chelsea. As in lives-in-the-manor-and-is-with-The-Spine Chelsea, as in sits-in-at-thanksgiving-for-years-now-Chelsea here, in one of their old company vans for moving all the robots, and—

And whyyyyyyy are his robots in the sand? 

Oh.

Um.

Okay.

Okay so he’s stopped, right, and Vivian cuts off mid sentence about Asininia fish and sand, because she’s also looking at the commotion, and Chelsea, who turns around, unloading a beach chair, and blinks at him startled, and–

“Oh! Hi Chelsea,” Waves Vivian, as he stares, 

Why are his robots in the sand. He doesn’t want them in the sand. There will be sand everywhere forever. They will get sand in their boilers. He doesn’t want to scrape sand out of their boilers. Boilers + sand = Oh No.

He. 

Waves. 

“Hello Peter and Ms. Becile?” Says, or maybe asks Chelsea, and that breaks him out of his oh-no-sand thought process, and he snaps to character, 

“So when did my dad fix the van?” he asks, staring at  the old logo, nostalgic sort of thing, 

“Oh. I fixed it a few months ago.” She says, like crossing off forever-to-do’s off his dads list is part of her job description. 

And she’s sort of very breached her job description already. Thanksgiving meals are not part of her job description. 

“Does he….know?” Peter blinks at it, 

“Probably not.” She grins, as she sets the chair against the van, unloading another, and–

And you know what?

Sure.

Sure. 

Yep. Yup.

Sure.

“Are those my robots, in the sand, over there?” And he knows the answer is yes, because The Spine is reflecting sun like the world's brightest mirror, and Rabbit is absolutely killing it at Volleyball, and–

“We have new interns who will be cleaning it out of their gears.” says Chelsea, 

And–

“....Sure!” he chirps, snagging one of the chairs, “Right. Okay. Beach time for them. I just don’t want to be stuck getting the sand out of their boilers.”

“Oh don’t worry. That's for the interns.” Says Chelsea, grabbing the other chair as Vivian sits down on the lip of the van, 

Peter does not feel convinced by this, but Vivian looks out across the beach and shrugs. 

“Well, at least we won’t need to taxi back!”

Leaving Vivian with Chelsea on the towels they set up, Peter goes to check on his robots. 

Standing there, examining the lot of them, he decides, safely, to start with Upgrade and Zer0. 

They’re building sandcastles. Or perhaps a sand kingdom, by the look of Upgrade’s…seemingly dictator-esque reign over the sand. Over the land of sand. He hopes they're calling it that. That has a ring to it.

He crouches down next to them, as Upgrade waves so voraciously her arm squeaks at him. 

Mental note. Wrangle upgrade. Oil her joints. Fix that. 

“So,” He glances upon the sandcastle nation, “Sandcastles, huh?”

“Pete! I didn’t know you were invited to Beach Day,” Says Upgrade, “Look how amazing and royal my castle is.”

It is amazing and royal, and any other adjective Upgrade chooses. Adjectives with Upgrade isn't a fight he's willing to have.

“Upgrade.” He says, “This is perfect.”

“Of course it is.” She grins, “Everything I have ever made is perfect, Peter,”

Zer0 clears his throat. “Hey uh, Peter, is there a trick to making good sandcastles?”

….Zer0 is, so it appears  surrounded by somewhat crumbley sandcastles. 

Peter looks at them. Looks back to Upgrade.

“Upgrade why are you…not showing Zer0 how to make good sandcastles..?”

“Because you live and learn, Pete, and opponent sandcastle kingdoms aren’t built in a day, only hours,”

He

Stares.

Thinks, mildly, to himself, that that is something his father would say. But they have been hanging out a lot lately, so…

“Riiight.” He sits himself down in the sand next to Zer0, “It’s about the water content. Add sand, add water till it pools, then add more.”

“..Upgrade said that much water would make it fall apart,”

Peter looks at Upgrade. 

Upgrade is grinning. Sharp teeth glinting.

“Well. She is a liar.”

“She is a stratician.” Upgrade beams.

“She is a liar and a stratician. Zer0, more water makes the sand stick.”

“You’re very knowledgeable about sand castles Peter,” Zero says,

“Well I wanted to be an architect until I got really into rockets, Zer0.”

“Yeah Zer0. you were too busy doing your Zer0’s house thing then. He would sit there and get covered in sand in his star shaped sandbox and build huuuuuge towers. But you were a loser and doing cool things. And not being part of the old boyband.”

Peter shakes his head, snags Zer0s bucket. “I did do that. I’m gonna get you guys more water,”

And so: the ocean.

The ocean is no one's friend, nor enemy.

When he was younger, back with his toy motorboats and buckets, he would make lists of every animal he found, bring a huge book of sea creatures from the library that they ended up buying, because he did drop it in the water at one point, to identify them.

There’s more tidepools now than when he was little. Which is a good thing he thinks, something about ecological restoration or— 

Ooh.

There’s a crab.

Ooooh a crab.

He crouches down.

Crabs are such fascinating creatures. Their muscular anatomy is so interesting. So inhuman. When they molt shells they use hydrostatic pressure to keep themselves in shape, using water pressure to stiffen their bodies as their shells harden. They’re so different from humans. 

Animals are all so different from humans, but they’re all so similar, really. Eyes, mouths, limbs, nerves. Mitochondria and DNA. Everything is so similar when it gets down very small. 

Crabs have 360-degree vision via their eyestalks, and can regenerate lost claws.

They’re so fascinating. 

Maybe in another life he could have been some sort of biologist. Or ecologist, studying Earth life, or even Kazoo life, similarities, differences, base biologic components. 

Genetics has always fascinated him. Especially when it gets quantumly entangled with the mutating forces of various matters.

Maybe he should sequence a crab’s DNA, then another’s, see the small differences, see what encodes exactly what.

He reaches down, picks it up, the crab, stares into its eyestalk eyes, and wonders what it thinks as it looks at him, as it waves it’s clawwy little arms so furiously,

Is he a monster? A predator? Some unknown yet obviously dangerous thing?

It's all so interesting. Psychology, science, science. He loves science. 

He should do more science. Different science. Wider science. He should hire on more biologists for animal cognition testing, or–

“PETE.” He hears then, from over his shoulder, Upgrade, “ZER0 NEEDS HIS BUCKET BACK.”

Oh right, 

He was on a task to get water. For the sandcastle kingdoms.

Peter leans down, water lapping against his sandals, and gets a bucket of water. 

Bringing it back to them means leaving the crabs and animals, but he has all day to explore.

He holds the bucket out to Zero, reaching for the other bucket of sand when–

Zer0 pours it over his crumbling mess of sand, and everything melts a little bit worse. 

Zer0 looks at him, disgruntled, as Upgrade laughs, 

“Thank you for filling my moat, lesser sand king Zer0,”

“Peter that did not help,” Zer0 crosses his arms, but he’s smiling, a bit, and—

“...I’ll get more water, Zer0.”

He does that, ignores the crabs, as fascinating as they are, and sits down to build a sandcastle with Upgrade and Zer0.

In the end, he mostly ends up dredging a moat at Upgrade’s decree, and making little sand hearts with a mold to dress up as starfish warriors for Zer0’s slowly invading army, he’s just about to go and try and identify more crabs when sounds of frantic squawking sound from across the way. 

He turns around, over his shoulder and–

Oh. 

Hm.

Hm.

There is The Jon. There sure is The Jon. There sure is The Jon, holding a seagull. Just. Holding a seagull. Just holding a seagull. Like a football. 

Peter stares at him, all the way over there, and runs equations in his head wondering if that is, perhaps, his problem, or if….somehow it isn’t his problem, and can be someone elses problem. 

Upgrade snaps her fingers. Dull metallic thunk.

He glances at her, away from the…seagull situation across the way. Upgrade’s eyes shine bright blue, as she points, 

“Hey Peter!”

“Yes Upgrade?”

“You should proooooobably go get that seagull away from him?”

“...Yes. I probably should.” 

He does not move. 

“Are you gonna, Pete?” She asks. 

He looks over at Chelsea– she’s crowded over a book with Vivian.

He looks over at The Spine, who is mid-volleyball game.

He looks at….himself, sitting on the ground with two finished sandcastles, and…nothing else happening.

Yep.

He’s.

He's up to bat as the adult, isn't he?

He’s got to deal with The Jon and his seagull, doesn’t he?

He stands, cane pressing into the sand.

Sighs.

Starts over to The Jon.

“Hello, The Jon,” He leans forward against his cane, as he looks at him.

Sandy blue beach shorts. Wig half sideways. And a seagull the size of his head in his hands, squawking indignantly. 

His top hat lays forgotten - or perhaps intentionally left - in the sand a ways away.

“Hello Pete!” He holds his bird casually. Normally. Like a football. Or perhaps a particularly precious sandwich. 

Yay. 

What is his life?

“I see,” Peter starts, staring at the thing. It has… calmed down a bit, accepted its fate as a robot’s sidekick, apparently. “That you have acquired a bird.”

“ExCUSE you, Peter Walter the Sixth! He is a Seagull. Not just any common bird like a house sparrow, or a lark! Or a peacock.” The Jon holds it up, for Peter to see. 

Peter sighs. He doesn't think peacocks are as common as sparrows. But The Jon does still perform at the Zoo, so….

“..Yes. Well. You should let him go, probably, Jon?”

“Hm. I would like to bring him home with me, Peter, his name is The Jon Two.”

His name is— 

Ok.

Ok.

Alright. Okay. He's named it. Shoot. Do they have room for a seagull at home? What do seagulls eat?

“..The Jon Two?” he asks, wiltingly.

“Yes!” The Jon declares, swinging the bird forward an inch or so like that helps with the point.

Peter.

Breathes in. Casts another sidelong glance for Chelsea, or Vivian, Or The Spine, and–

No. None of them. All busy. 

Why does he have to be the Sane One right now. He just wants to stare at crabs.

“Well, I think Jon Two doesn't like this much?”

The Seagull, or well, Jon Two looks perfectly content now, sitting there, in Jon’s hands. Not proving his point of discontent at all.

“Hm well. I think he does, Peter! He is perfectly well behaved!”

Peter stares at Jon Two. Then up at Original Jon. Back down to the bird, still content, then back to The Jon. 

“He probably has a family, The Jon”

“Well, Yes!” Says The Jon, “Me!”

Well.

Hm.

He can’t argue with that. If he invents a seagull wife for Jon Two then he’d be getting into semantics about the concept of seagull spouses and loyalty if he plays that card. And he is fresh out of ideas. 

Well.

At least it looks happy enough. 

He looks over his shoulder again, back at Chelsea and Vivian, and–

And yes. Yes! Chelsea is looking back at him. Vivian’s reading her book alone. Chelsea’s eyes widen as he catches her gaze. She shakes her head. He tilts his head back at her. She shakes her head again, more stern this time. He shrugs. She shakes her head back and forth, more and more frantic. He nods, decidingly, and turns around before he can see her respond again. 

“Jon?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“Why don’t you go show Chelsea Jon Two!”

“That seems like a wonderful idea, Peter! Thank you for the suggestion!”

This is her problem now. Not his! Perfect. 

With that, The Jon marches past him, and Peter, deliberately not watching the carnage he’s sowing, walks back to Upgrade. 

“Hey Upgrade?” 

Her head clicks up to meet his. 

“Could you…talk The Jon into doing sandcastles with you two? I don’t want him to hurt the seagull,”

Upgrade blinks at him. Deliberately. Eyelids clicking open and shut. Then she turns to Zer0. 

“Zer0! Great knight of the Sand Kingdom, do you swear to protect the sanctity of the sand truce, and to defend the sand palace to your last ounce of steam?”

“Of course, Princess Upgrade!” Zer0 swears. 

Peter hums “That’s a tad dramatic? We do have water, you both. Chelsea brought lots of–”

Upgrade’s head swivels to him, “Pete, do ya want me to make sure that Jon doesn’t smuggle a seagull home or not?”

Peter holds up his palms. 

“Thats what I thought prettyboy. Sir Zer0! Your post!”

Zer0 salutes but does not otherwise move. Peter thinks about pointing out that saluting like that is a uniquely american thing, and not a…medieval sand castle thing, but thinks that would perhaps not help his cause very well.

Upgrade stands, three jittering movements up, in the sand, before she marches over to The Jon and Chelsea. 

Peter looks down to the sandcastles, at Zer0, who is, quietly, singing a version of The Star Spangled Banner but… sand themed, to the sand streets and towers.

Peter steps back.

Perhaps now is the time to delicately extract himself from this. He glances around.

Perfect.

Spine and Rabbit’s Volleyball game seems to be wrapping up, so he figures he should go say hello over there, and avoid being wrapped back up in the seagull situation.

He walks over to them, watching as they play, sitting in the sand a step or three away.

They seem to be winning. Though, winning seems to be an understatement. It's the two of them against a group of 7 or 8 others, and they are super winning. 

He catches Vivian’s gaze through the net, she gestures to the…seagull situation. Beside her.

Peter shrugs. Does a ‘I don’t know’ motion to the air as–

Oh thank god. The Jon throws Jon Two into the sky. He flies away. Vivian throws him a baffled thumbs up, and Peter blows her a kiss, just as Rabbit and Spine officially win their volleyball game. 

Rabbit, of course, comes bounding over. 

“H-h-h-hey Pete!” She leans over him, copper and impossium shining in the sun, “I didn’t know you were coming!”

The Spine stops beside her. “This is because he wasn’t, Rabbit.”

“Well Spine, He’s here now, soooo.” She pokes Spine’s head. He tilts sideways with it. 

“Yes. Say, Peter, why are you here?” He asks, reaching up, catching Rabbit’s hand, and returning it to her side.

“Well, me and Vivian were going to go on a beach date and–”

“Ah.” says The Spine, letting go of Rabbit’s hand, and, subsequently, being poked in the head again, “I apologize if we interrupted–”

“PETER P-P-P-P-PLAY VOLLEY BALL WITH US!” Rabbit interrupts, reaching forward and pulling Peter to his feet and into the court, 

“Alright?” Peter says, standing there, beside them, “Now I don’t really remember how to play, Rabbit but–”

“Make a weird double fist and hit the ball it.”

He does. A tad blankly. Rabbit takes his hands. Changes how his fingers are.

Its awkward but.. well, 

Sports.

“You know, Pete, they are not going to go easy on you. We have gone undefeated for several dozen games now,” The Spine walks him to where, presumably, he’s supposed to stand.

“Well, if I hit the ball with how limited my vision is, that might as well be a win for us?”

Rabbit turns to the group across the net, does a flourish to him, “ANYWAY! THIS IS P-P-P-PETER!! He’s my great great greatgreatgreatgreat-” Her voice glitches and she has to hit her head to reset it, “-lots-of-those nephew!”

She moves him, bodily, to the back corner. Not where Spine put him.

Whatever.

“He’s super smart, he’s a genius, and also!” She moves to her position, “He is s-super bad at volleyb-ball so this will make things fair because we will have to dodge him!”

“Hey.” He complains. 

“She is right, Peter,” The Spine confirms,

“Spine.” 

“ANYWAY. Peter y-you serve!”

“..How do I do that?”

“So Peter,” The Spine starts, “You essentially stand like this, and–”

Rabbit steals the ball from Under Spine’s arm, and serves it.

Now.

Now he didn’t really think he would be good at this. He has never been a ‘sports’ individual. He does not actually recall the last time he participated in a ‘sport’. Is ping pong a sport? Pool is not a sport, and neither is competitive UNO, so he did not think he would be good at this. 

But he does NOT know what he is doing!

He doesn’t hit it once. He sort of stands there, trying to track where the ball even is, as The Spine and Rabbit all but swim around him in circles, keeping it moving.

And then its coming down in front of him, and Rabbit is yelling “PETER HIT THE BALL”

And he does! He actually does!

Only for it to sail sideways and around the net.

Oops.

A foul.

Rabbit laughs as he looks up at her, rubbing his wrists, little bursts of fire from her throat as she reaches over and tousles his hair.

“Well! I think that’s that then, Pete,” says Spine, as he retrieves the ball.

“Can’t believe he actually hit it Spine!”

“Yep.” Peter takes a step back, out from under Rabbit’s hand, backs up and off the court, “I sure did.” He lets himself fall dramatically backwards into the sand. “And that’s enough jumping for me.”

“Peter you jumped approximately twice.” The Spine leans over him, shadow blocking the sun from his face. 

“Yep. That’s enough. My yearly quota.”

Rabbit joins Spine in standing over him. “Hey. Hey Petes,”

“Yeah Rab?”

“I think your missus wants you, Petes,”

“We aren’t married, Rabbit.” He mumbles from the sand, covering his head with his arms. 

Spine hums. “Well, you may as well be married. She does live with us Peter.”

She–

“No she doesn't?" Peter looks up at them between his arms. “She doesn’t live with us?”

He can hear Spine’s fans kick on, the way he’s thinking harder at that, buffering as a fine spray of sand feathers out through his side vents, 

“Excuse me. She doesn’t live with us?”

“She just spends the night.”

“No. Peter. I was certain she lived with us.” He stares. 

Peter sits up. 

“She has an apartment, she just works with us and spends the night when she doesn’t feel like driving home.”

“Peter I really thought she lived with us–”

“Well ANYWAY.” Rabbit cuts in. “Petes, it looks like she wants ya.”

He holds up a hand at them. “One of you pull me up. I jumped twice and may die. My bones.”

Rabbit laughs and drags him to his feet, pats him on the shoulder as she spins him to look at Vivian. 

Vivian is, in fact, waving him over.

He likes Viv. He likes her a lot. 

She and Chelsea have migrated to a towel under an umbrella, and as he approaches, Vivian grabs for him, snagging his hands and pulling him down next to her.

Her smile could light up the entire world if she let it. It certainly does his.

Is that too mushy? Who cares. Its true.

She dusts the sand out of his hair, as he sits, stealing his hand. 

“Y’know, Peter Walter, we’re supposed to be on a date,” She reminds, but it’s fond, and he melts into her as she takes his chin, pulls him close enough she can press a kiss to his mask, just under the bottom of the keyhole.

“Vivian, my robots are here. In the sand.”

“Yes. And so is your girlfriend. Who you went and built a beautiful sandcastle without.” She leans sideways, kisses the side of his jaw, just under where his mask ends, her lips brushing just-grown-in-stubble.

He loves her. He loves her. He loves her. 

“and how can I make it up to you?” He asks, perhaps a bit desperate, because he hears her laugh a bit, beside him, as she kisses up the side of his head as she leans them back, pulling him onto her chest, her fingers sliding under his shirt, tracing up his spine, around to the front of his ribs.

He wishes, abruptly, that he wasn’t wearing his mask, because then he could kiss her properly. 

He wants- needs to kiss her. 

But he’s– here, and there are people, who might see, and–

And the real startling thing about the thought is that its I want to take my mask off and not I wish I had a face to kiss her with, and–

And Vivian’s fingers press into his shoulders, as she kisses down his neck, and he loves her.

“Pete?” she says then, soft, and just into his ear, “I’ve got a task for you.”

“Anything,” he says,

“So you’re gonna go get me a lemonade from Hatchy, and then we’re gonna go in the water. Alright?” She squeezes him, and he–

He loves her?

He sits up, then, and doesn’t make eye contact with Chelsea who is, obviously, from the corner of his vision mouthing get a room. 

He’s seen her and The Spine do worse in the robotics lab. He nearly says as much, but he has a job to do, and–

And hm.

Flavor. What Flavor Does His Vivian Want.

He makes it two steps before turning around. 

“Hey Vivi?” 

She grins. 

“Any particular flavor?”

Vivian hums, taps her knee, thinking, “Pink lemonade. Please.”

“Perfect, perfect, I’ll get you that, then, anything else? Chips? Corn dog? Barbeque chips?”

“Surprise me.” Vivian blows a kiss after him, as he, of all things, defaults to a thumbs up as he turns.

Chelsea whistles at him. And he is glad his mask is hiding how much he’s blushing. 

So then he’s walking over to Hatchworth. Hatchworth, who, apparently, is running a hot dog stand. Where did he get the hot dog stand? Why does the sign on it say ‘Hot Dog Sandwiches’. Where is he getting the hot dogs? His hatch? Because sure Peter has eaten a lot of hatch sandwiches, but he’s not sure hatch sandwiches should be priced at 1.99 a dog. Or if they are fit for typical human consumption.

Regardless.

The hot dog stand has a line. And Peter cuts all of it, ducking into the back, beside Hatchworth. 

He is immediately handed a bottle of ketchup. 

And you know what? Sure. Sure he can be handed a bottle of ketchup. 

Thats fine.

“Thank’s for coming over to help me, Peter, there are a lot of people. And they are very hungry.” Says Hatchworth, handing him a hot dog, then. Presumably for him to ketchupify?

“That’s not why I came back here, but alright.” He ketchupifys a hot dog. Hatchworth takes it back and wraps it in foil, handing it forward to a customer who certainly didn’t pay for it.

Sure. 

Alright.

Sure. 

Free hatch dogs.

“So… a hot dog stand?”

“Chelsea said I couldn't sell real dogs! From my hatch. So I figured hot dogs were a viable alternate to real dogs.”

….Yeah. That’s a good call. He looks distantly at Chelsea, who is now reading her book again, engrossed. 

She deserves a raise. But she has told him he can’t give her a raise every time she is helpful. She deserves one anyway.

“Well. I’ll stand by that, Hatchy.” 

Hatchworth hands him another hot dog wrapped in foil, points him to hand it to the next person in line. 

He does. Slightly automatic. 

“So, uh, are you…charging for the hot dogs?” He asks. 

“Nope!”

…..Yeah. Okay. Alright. He doesn’t have the permits and they don’t have the liquidity to be sued for improper food service right now. He wouldn't trust Hatchworth with too much money anyway. He’d get home to find the manor full of mustache shaped balloons and mustache patterned pillows, or something. 

“You have a sign that says 1.99 a dog, Hatchy,”

“Yep! But you have to have a sign for price.”

“...but you’re not accepting payment?”

“Nope!”

….Sure!

“Having fun at least?”

“I am having a delightful time!” He's handed another hot dog. He commits another ketchupification.

“Lovely. Wonderful.” he stares at one of the dogs still on the grill. (Where did Hatchworth get a grill?) Feels, terribly, his stomach go oooh, a hot dog.

He is hungry.

Eurgh. 

Hunger. Hungry. But he is in public and he can’t eat with his mouth unless he wants to go hide in the van, and, well, and he hasn’t had a hot dog in years. Dad used to try real hard to be like, a textbook television dad, when he was little, would grill solidly okay hot dogs by the pool they have. He’d always eat like four, and he–

He misses having a mouth that works. Sure he hasn’t really tried to eat one, since the whole, boom, but he wants one. 

And he’s HUNGRY now. And he’s waterproofed himself for the ocean by taping up his g-tube, and that was so much effort with all the medical tape to keep him safe against seawater and sand, and–

And he doesn't want to have a crisis about his face right now. So.

“ANYWAY, anyway, Hatchy, can I have a pink lemonade for Viv, please?”

Hatchworth nods, and, two seconds later, he’s produced a beautiful pink lemonade from his hatch. Glass cup, fancy ice, lemon on the rim. Peter takes it.

Hatchworth squints at him, as he sidesteps from the hot dog booth, 

“Peter, wait,”

“Um. Yeah Hatchy?”

“Would you like a milkshake?”

He…

Would really like a milkshake. 

It is frustrating not being able to eat snacks when he wants. Or easily. Or at all.

“....with a very long straw, please, Hatchy.”

“Coming right up, Peter!”

And just as Hatchworth pulled a perfect lemonade from his hatch, he pulls out a perfect 60s style chocolate milkshake, glass to boot, with a long twirly straw out the top. 

Peter, very suddenly, has zero hands. And has been relinquished from hot dog duty. 

“Thank you very much, Hatchy,” Peter sidesteps back towards Vivian, Hatchworth waves him off, and then he’s walking back across the sand to his Vivian.

She takes the drinks, before he sits down beside her. She set him out a towel, which is just, so sweet? The umbrella blocks the worst of the sun.

Vivian smiles at him.

“Thank you very much,” She sips her lemonade, as he takes his milkshake back.

His milkshake.

His….Milkshake. A beverage that he now has to figure out how to drink, without fully dislodging his mask. And he put it on so tightly this morning to ward off water, so seawater didn't get under it, and..

eurgh.

“Pete?” Vivian asks. 

“So I don't know how to manage this without taking my mask off and on, and Viv there are people.”

“Baby. That’s easy.” She grabs a towel up from where they’re folded, swings it up, “Curtain. C’mere. No one will see you.”

He,

He could cry?

He pulls up his mask, adjusts it a bit, so he can fit the straw between his mouth and the wood, then leans sideways against her, grabbing for her hand when he’s done. 

She kisses his hair, tucking a strand of it that got caught in his mask aside as he sips it. 

Drinking is still difficult. Swallowing is slow. But it's thick and frozen, and that helps a bit. But he doesn’t gag on it, which really is progress compared to even last year. 

He’s getting a bit better. Slowly, but he really is getting a bit better. 

“Is your lemonade good?” He asks, and she hums, pulls him against her, 

“It always is. Hatchworth's good at this. Are your robots okay in the sand?”

“Zer0 is a little bit bad at sandcastles. Oh and Jon has decided to become a seagull tamer. Apparently.”

“You sent him over here with it.” She laughs.

“Well I ran out of ideas!”

“So you sic him on your…aunt…in-law?”

“On Spine’s Chelsea, yes. A regular decision. A successful one. Regardless, Upgrade and Zer0 are now entertaining him with sandcastles.”

Across the way, The Jon has placed a handful of sand on Upgrade's face. Peter is, dutifully, ignoring it. Even as Upgrade’s arm folds out and into her katana as Jon springs up and bolts away, laughing maniacally. 

They are siblings and are none of his business. Nor responsibility right now. 

Vivian does not dutifully ignore it. Instead she squints after them. “Y’know, I’d have thought Zer0 would be on Upgrade’s side. As a knight or something.”

“Hm. So would I.” Peter hums. Watching. 

Zer0 is cheering them both on, depending solely on who looks to be winning at any moment. 

“Upgrade and Jon are funny. They argue constantly.” Vivian hums. “Makes me think of me and Buster when we were teenagers.”

Upgrade tackles The Jon into the sand. Katana to his throat, as she lectures some sort of threat to him, “Viv, did I ever show you those old film reels of Jon and Upgrade in the 20s? They were built to be dancing partners.”

“Were they?”

“Yeah. They’re both slight - it was about them moving on the stage quickly, I think, they click together, physically, to do like— I think the number of individual dances my great uncle helped them sequence out was 316? Or so? Rabbit and Spine were center stage attractions, the main two vocalists, and Hatchy was meant to do a lot of the background instrumentals, or– well he told me once he was often the concessions robot, doing magic or tricks outside, bringing people into the main act.” 

He sips his milkshake.

“What about Zer0?”

Peter– he does have to do a weird thing, to swallow, then. Half tilt his head forward, to let the milkshake out of his throat, then try again, a second later. 

By the time he can talk, Vivian looks like she half expects him to have choked again. Which. Well.

His biggest problem is the fact he chokes so easily.

“Ah well. Um.” He grimaces for multiple reasons. “Quite the story there, Viv.”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh. Oh. Um. Uh, Pete um, If it’s a horrifying family story you do NOT need to tell me–”

“So he wasn’t really– finished until I was about.. 8?” Peter shifts, sighs, “We um. Did not realize. He. Existed. Because he was behind a wall in the basement because I guess their father didn’t….like the work he’d done with him?”

“Oh.” Says Vivian. Quiet. 

“My Dad got him working and functional! Though! So uh. Yeah. I mean Hatchy was similar but it was more um. Yeah.”

And the silence is silencing. Yay.

Peter leans sideways against her.

“Well um. Pete. I mean like. Um. My great great grandfather did necromancy Delilah Morreo so like um. Robot abandonment in the basement for a hundred years isn’t that much worse than basically. Um. …Soul assault?”

The silencing is silencing worse. 

Um. 

Uh.

“In any case um! Yeah. Jon and Upgrade. If they get along longer than five minutes they can do a lot of perfectly synced dances. They don’t, though.”

“....Yknow, Pete,” she squeezes his hand, and this is her trying to break the terrible silence. “You’re cute. Didja know that?” She sips her lemonade again, and he gets the sense she is brute forcing their way back to nicer topics. 

“...Am I now?” He asks, turns his mask into her hair,

“You are. You love hearing yourself talk. Telling me things. It's cute.”

“Well. I have a lot to say, Vivi.”

They sit there, a little while longer, Peter leaning against her, staring out at the water, commenting on the things happening - the robots bickering, Rabbit setting the volleyball net a little bit on fire. The Spine un-setting the volleyball net on fire. 

He only makes it halfway through his milkshake before the coldness of it has really made his throat start to spasm, and he’s had to set it aside

“Hey Viv?” He asks, hiding against her as he wrangles the straw out of his mask. “Do you wanna go sit a ways away? Like we planned?” unsaid - get some privacy and stop subjecting Chelsea to us?

“Hm. Yeah.” She stands, pulls him up and insists on grabbing their bag, citing the fact his hands are full with his cane and drink as a reason.

She’s right, but he insists on carrying the big towel, at least. They set up a ways up the beach, Vivian unfolding their Walter Robotics Brand Super Compact Big Pop Up Umbrella, Peter struggling to get the towel flat and unsandy. 

When it's ready and nice, Vivian snags his hand, informs him he needs to kick off his sandals, and that they’re going to the shallows. 

The water is nice, not too cold, not too warm either. There’s not as many tidepools over here, which is a shame, but–

But he catches sighs of another crab, letting go of Vivian’s hand, squinting down at it.

He likes crabs.

Vivian crouches down next to him. “Were these guys what you were looking at earlier? In the tidepools?”

“Um. Yes. And a few starfish.” 

“..Pete, you’re so cute.” She grabs him, kisses just below his ear, and–

“Well they’re fascinating! Vivian, did you know that crabs have a tendency to evolve repeatedly, from different lineages of sea creature! They evolve crab-like traits differently, they’re such a efficient lifeform for their niche, it’s called carcinization,”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s so interesting! It's like island life, and flightless birds, did I ever tell you about those birds that evolved twice?”

“I don’t think you have,”

“The Aldabra rail. It first evolved out of white-throated rail when it flew out to that island, and it evolved to be flightless! Then the island sunk, killing all of the then-flightless rails that evolved. Of course, later it resurfaced, and the white-throated rail flew back to that island all over again, and became flightless again! So it evolved twice.”

“Again, Pete, you’re cute.”

He takes her hands, and pulls her a few steps deeper into the water, 

“I can tell you many fun facts about wildlife, if you’ll let me.”

She shakes her head, but lets him drag her along anyway.

He tells her many fun facts. And she doesn't let go of his hands.

…

They’re back on the beach, then, sitting on their towels, Vivian leaning against him.

“Yknow, Peter,” her voice is softer now, as she settles to his side, “If someone asked me like, even a year ago, where I saw myself in 12 months, I’d have been like– I dunno. Green matter poisoned and losing my shit, or maybe even like, having caved and moved back in with my dad. Y’know?”

She squeezes his hand. 

“..I know,” he pulls her against him, 

“And I just wish that Buster would stop putting up with my dad’s shit, Pete, and it’s– God Pete I’m here now and I don't think I’ve ever, like, ever ever, been this happy? And it's cuz of you, y’know?”

…He wants to kiss her.

“I just– I’m kinda, I’m kinda real glad, even, that I fucked up so bad, on um. My first day. Because then we kinda met properly ish. Even if it was so embarrassing.”

“Viv I was obsessed with the idea of you from the moment you did an interview. Not— not romantically, um, at first, obviously no, just– I think we would have happened either way?”

“Yeah but–” She shakes her head, turns into his shoulder, “I’m just glad I met you, Pete,”

He really wants to kiss her. 

And–

And she changed his life. She really did. He’d– he’d been halfway to losing it, maybe. Better than he used to be, but he didn’t leave the house, he stressed about work too much, he–

She makes him so happy, every day, and every time he wakes up next to her, to her head on the other pillow, he thinks about how lucky he is. 

She gives him a reason to do something other than work.

He loves her. He decides. He’s thought it before, nearly said it a hundred times. 

He loves her. He really really loves her. 

He…

He really wants to kiss her. 

It’s terrible, isn’t it? It’s terrible. That he can’t. That he can’t just take off his mask and be fine with whatever happens. What if someone sees him? What if sand gets in his eye? What if somehow everything gets worse again, he–

But he really wants to kiss her. 

Maybe there’s a solution. Maybe..

Hm.

Maybe.

He pulls out his phone, navigates to the Walter Chat Terminal and starts to type.

Peter glances over at him, he’s mid-hitting-the-ball as he replies:

He stares at the messages. Leans closer to Vivian.

Types and retypes a ramble 7 or 6 times over, only to be interrupted by,

Peter watches The Spine catch the volleyball in their game they’re playing, before he turns to Rabbit, they make direct eye contact for several seconds. The Spine sets the volleyball down in the sand and walks towards them. 

He..

He trusts The Spine. A lot. 

Especially with this. With him.

Vivian, who’s been sort of reading over his shoulder, looks over at him.

“Pete you really do not have to take off your mask,” She starts but he shakes his head.

Maybe part of actually getting better is doing things that scare him to do things that he wants to do. 

Such as kissing his girlfriend in public. 

It doesn’t stop the difficulty he actually has reaching behind his head.

“Pete,” Vivian’s voice is quiet, as she chases his hands, 

“I want to,” he cuts in, taking a breath. “I want to, Viv.”

He brings his hands to the clasp behind his head. Undoes the strap, and brings the mask down to his lap. The brightness is– much more than he gets from inside the mask. Tinted glass, so no one can see him through it. 

He blinks at her against the light, hoping his expression is at least something like human.

He doesn’t feel human, a lot of the time. He doesn’t think he ever did. Losing his face made him feel a lot less of it. 

Her expression is– soft, as she looks at him, as she brings a hand up and to his cheek. He finds himself leaning into it. Into her.

He’s so aware of his face. Of every muscle in it. Months of physical therapy and hours spent in the mirror, practicing trying to recreate expressions with nerves and muscles just not built to make them anymore.

“Vivian, if you’d asked me a year ago if I’d let anyone who– I don’t know, who wasn’t my parents, even, look at me, I’d…really I could not have understood that.”

He leans forward, presses his forehead to hers, and it's physical, her hair brushing his forehead, her skin against his, not against mask.

He..

“You never even saw me before my accident, Viv, and.. I don't know,” He pulls their foreheads apart, “Can I kiss you?”

“Of course, Pete,”

And he does. He does, he leans forward, presses his lips to hers. Her hands snake through his hair, pulling him to her, then pushing him down to the towel.

His lips don’t work right. And they don’t work the same as they did before. But she doesn’t mind, and as he kisses her, its–

It’s okay.

He’s 33 years old. And it’s been 8 years since he ruined his life. And it’s been slowly getting more apparent that he never really ruined it to begin with. 

She breaks back to take a breath, then, and they’re just looking at each other.

Green eyes to blue. 

“Vivian?” He reaches to cup her face. 

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

And she smiles, then, laughs, and presses herself back to him, and maybe he’s crying a bit, as she says “I love you too,” against his lips, and he’s–

This is a good day.

This is a really good day.

He used to never have those. Good days. Now he has more of them, more and more often, with every passing month.

He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.

He loves her. 

He can feel himself smiling, and he used to be so nervous about it, feeling the way muscles pull scar tissue. He honestly still is too nervous about it. Far too aware of muscle tissue and keloid scarring and what moves still and what doesn't. 

He hates people seeing him. But Vivian smiling at him feels like home. And like maybe he really does have a chance at being alive again. 

“I love when you smile.” Vivian leans forward and pecks his lips again. “You’re cute when you do. You’re always cute, Pete,”

And maybe one day he’ll have mostly good days, and maybe one day he won’t be scared at all.

He kisses her back, as she presses him back to the sand, and he really does think this is the best day. 

Eventually, though, Vivian wants to go back to reading her book, and he can tell, from the corner of his eye, The Spine might be getting bored standing watch of them.

Vivian picks up his mask from the sand, brushes the sand out, before she brings it to his face, reaches behind him and clicks the buckle shut. 

He loves her. 

He loves her so much.

“Thank you.” He says softly, as she plants a kiss squarely to his jaw. 

And of course, as all things end, just as he opens his phone to text The Spine and relieve him of his post, tiny metallic hooves sound against sand, pattering closer. 

A swinging bright blue bucket slams into his mask, as, abruptly, G.G. stands in front of him. Over him, really. Two hooves sinking into the sand at each of his sides, other two by his feet. 

Blue-blue eyes bore down and into his keyhole. 

“PETER” She’s holding the bucket handle in her mouth, talking around it, voicebox muffled, a bit, “I didn't know you were here!”

“Hi, GG.” He reaches forward, pats her head. She presses herself half an inch closer, so the front of her nose digs into the grain of his mask. 

“How dare you, honestly, Peter, how dare you not tell me you were coming to the beach with us. I have such detailed plans, Peter, about everything everyone was gonna do with me, and Spine and Rabbit have already ditched doing my seashell-collection off. And sure it means I won by default but you’ll collect seashells with me, right? I’ve only found icky seaweed. And it's all stuck in my tail.”

There is, in fact, icky seaweed in her tail. 

He pushes himself up, a bit. “Let me get that.” He says, and she huffs sparks out of her mouth, turns around as he pulls a string of half-dry seaweed from her tail rings, before she plops down next to him. Or rather– on him. On his legs. All 50 pounds of her. 

He brushes sand out of her mane. 

“I said,” She pokes her nose into his arm, before biting onto his shirt. “It’s seashell time.”

He pushes himself up. All of him and all of GG, levering upright on his cane. “Right, lets go find you seashells.”

Spine nods to him, as he stands, then shakes his head to GG, who snaps at his ankles. He claps Peter on the shoulder before turning back to Volleyball, and–

And….

Hm. Hmm.

They are both about 3 seconds to late to stop Rabbit from tackling Spine backwards and into the water, as she shouts something about betrayal against the cause of proving robots are superior at Volleyball to humans. 

The sound of clanking metal and water is not exactly music to his ears. Peter glances over at Chelsea, who has a similar air of ah that might be more work to fix than we intended to her face, that he feels.

Saltwater. Metal. Metal and saltwater. Yay. Fun.

Peter stands up. GG standing next to him, as The Spine sputters water around Rabbit’s victory shouts.

And y'know what?

Maybe this is just a good day for the two of them too.

The Spine sits up, bringing Rabbit with him, as The Jon bolts into the water after them.

Peter gives Chelsea a look of you have been at the last 4 thanksgivings. That’s your partner. I’m going to find seashells with GG now, which is most likely interpreted as you handle this please? Please? Please? Before he nods to Vivian, and reaches down to pretty up GG’s mane. 

Seashell time with his baby robot giraffe. 

Today is a good day. 

An eventful evening, and maybe a lot of work to get the sand out of their chassis’ in the next week, but a very good day. 

Finding seashells with GG is about as eventful as it goes. A lot of it is going, no, GG, that is a rock. A pretty rock, but a rock nonetheless. 

At least a half of it is sitting on the ground while she gets exceedingly excited about things living inside the shells. 

As he sits there, her bucket around his arm, he holds up a crab, and–

And well. Sometimes his Dad makes jokes about GG being his grandchild, when he asks his Dad to hang out with her a few hours. His mom definitely treats her like it, she organizes GG’s recitals like she’s organizing a every-department-yes-all-of-them meeting. Emails sent to every employee inviting them.

And other times he sits there, crouched down with a crab and a bucket, explaining that crabs have eye-stalks and hard shells, just like his mom used to with him, on the beach, years and years and years ago, as GG stares at him and asks a thousand and a half questions, and–

And she really is sort of like a kid to him. She was put in that box when she was only a few months old, she thinks.

She doesn’t like talking about it. 

And it's been some years now since they found her in that box, powered her back on. She’s about how old he was when he would sit on his beach and look at all sorts of sea animals in that library book.

She loves learning. Loves reading and watching and taking in information on anything. 

Advanced learning module, maybe. That's what he called it when he first found her.

But if he were a robot and 7 they’d have probably said the same about him. Child prodigy, building star-probe plans at 6 years old. 

And as he sets the crab back down and into the sand, and it hurries itself away into the sand, she watches it go, takes a step into the tidepool he picked it up from.

…She’s a lot like him, maybe.

He was a loud kid with a lot of ideas too. 

Today is a good day. He’s really glad that today is a good day. 

He sits down next to her, and starts explaining a starfish next.

…

Hours pass. 

GG gets bored of her seashell extravaganza, and they've mostly run out of unique fauna for him to talk about.

They've picked out her very favorite shell to bring home, and set up the rest as citizens of Upgrade’s sand kingdom. 

GG's getting tired. She only has so many hours of “up time” really - before she needs to rest while her core cycles into what he sort of calls “memory time” - blue matter crystals growing into the shape of all the new information she's received.

So GG goes, very favorite shell in her mouth, off to go “do her tanning time” which in reality means laying next to Chelsea in the shade with plastic cucumber slices on her eyes. 

Today is a good day. 

He drags Vivian out and into the water again. Chelsea gets roped into volleyball. Chelsea kills at volleyball.

The Jon Two makes a thrilling return, stealing one of Hatchworth’s hot dogs. 

It’s a good day. 

And by the time the sun is beginning to crest the waves, Peter is so, so, so very tired. 

…and also, perhaps, getting a little bit faint with hunger as all he’s really eaten since before they left was a milkshake. Jumping running sprinting and swimming is a lot for him on a good day, and today was a very good day. 

Blue matter poisoning. Dysautonomia. Chronic fatigue. And the everything. 

He’s made his way up and to the van, the robots are…mostly all dry and preliminarily vacuum blasted over there, though Vivian is finishing dusting off Hatchworth and Rabbit. 

Or at least, that's what he thought, because he blinks his eyes open to Chelsea poking him in the leg.

“Hey Peter?” Says Chelsea, in a tone that suggests she’s said it twice or thrice now. He offers a watery-maybe-a-little-tired smile as he looks up from where he’s sequestered himself in the back of the van.

She and The Spine are holding chairs and folded umbrellas. And he…ah. He is a little bit in the way. 

“Oh! Oh, yes, chair space. Yes.” He pushes himself up, up and to his feet, and then, as The Spine reaches out to steady him, nearly down and to the pavement.

“Yes, Petes,” The Spine’s hand holds him steady, and upright, as he, um. Nearly doesn’t stay that way.  “You’re sitting in it while we load the van.”

“I— well,” He huffs, starts to complain, but he’s sheparded down in one as Upgrade creeps up next to them, extending her wing over him to block the setting sun as The Spine and Chelsea start loading the van. 

“...Should you be helping them?” He asks Upgrade, letting his eyes shut again. Tilting sideways a bit against her. 

“I’m royalty.” She says, and— and really, she should only get to use that excuse so many times. “Why would I have to pack things? Thats what the servants are for.”

“You mean your siblings?”

“Yes. My servants.”

“Don’t let them hear you say that.”

“They know!” She clicks open a panel in her side, and then air, One of her fans blowing cool air on him, and that’s good honestly, so, well…

Maybe this time he won’t be the buzzkill.

He is tired. 

And he maybe goes back to dozing a bit, leaning against Upgrade, until..

“Peter,” Vivian crouches down in front of him, stealing both his hands. “Van’s set up.” And then she’s dragging him up to his feet, and walking him to the doors. 

She’s pulled on a shirt over her bikini, and shorts on, which is fair, really, but he is also mildly disappointed over it.

…he'll see more of her tonight, he’s sure, so who is he to complain.

He’d argue she doesn't need to walk him like this if his cane wasn’t half the reason he was standing. She pulls him to the back row of the van, and the air conditioning is to kill for, really.

“Viv—” He starts, before seeing his medical bag is already thrown back here, and yay. He can eat. No more sand and seawater. He lets himself fall to the van seats, and lets Vivian laugh at him as she props him up.

Goodbye medical tape over his feeding tube. Hello box of formula crushed into a syringe, settled against Vivian’s chest as she (because she is so lovely) helps him handle nutrition. Beloved nutrition and calories. 

He, maybe, perhaps, is too tired to exist right now. And the way he is settled against Vivian isn’t fully legal, as the van starts moving, but the transporting 6 human sized robots and a GG probably would distract cops long enough for him to sit up and buckle his seatbelt in the event Chelsea speeds so badly they get pulled over.

Which she won’t.

It’s Chelsea.

And, perhaps, as he turns against Vivian, after she’s packed back up his medical supplies, his food, he is a bit too tired to think rationally. 

….And his mask is digging into his jaw. A little bit. With the angle he's laying on Vivian. 

He asks himself if he cares, really, if anyone in here sees him. 

And the thing is he doesn’t. He doesn’t care. Not right now. Not here.

(And maybe getting better involves taking a bit of risk)

He turns to Vivian, blinks at her, through the keyhole, before reaching behind his head and pulling his mask up and over his face.

“There’s sand in my mask,” is all he really says, as he turns and hides his face in Vivian’s chest.

She pulls him closer. No one can see him anyway, really, like this.

Vivian’s arms are around him. 

Upgrade is narrating map data to Chelsea up in the front seat. 

Rabbit and Zer0 are arguing about snakes named Jeffery and crickets named after various of the 7 dwarves.

The Jon flops backwards over his seat, away from GG, hair brushing the floor.

GG talks to, well, no one in particular all about the water they drive past.

The Spine sits quietly, for now at least, even as Hatchworth begins poking him in the back of the head, again and again. 

Vivian is stroking his hair, quietly humming along to music he can only-just-hear from her headphones. 

He keeps his face to her, tired.

Today was a good day. 

Today was a very good day. 

God, he hopes he gets to more of those.