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CHARACTERS: Bear & Fox Bradshaw.
WHAT: A reunion.
WHEN: Feb 6, after this.
WHERE: Bear & Hache's room.
WARNINGS: References to chip fuckery. Boys with no real sense of selves!
WHAT: A reunion.
WHEN: Feb 6, after this.
WHERE: Bear & Hache's room.
WARNINGS: References to chip fuckery. Boys with no real sense of selves!
Bear has been wracking his faulty memories for anything he can find about family, but there's next to nothing there. He remembers his mother's face but not her name. He knows they lived with Autonomous Corpus, and that they felt like his family. But besides that, there's nothing, ghosts of unfamiliar faces with no name or relationship attached to them, people who could be family or friends or strangers, all blended together into anonymity.
Fox seems to know him, though. And their last names match. Their nicknames, too, which could just be coincidence, but Bear knows he's lying to himself with that line. It's probably not coincidence, a thought that gives him an electric anxiety that's buzzing through him as he straightens up his already immaculate section of the room. He's not sure why he's doing this other than nerves, especially because it's not really helping. His door is propped open, and his eyes keep flitting over to it as he moves his few possessions around in the name of organizing.
In the Bradshaw family, there was an uncle who took particular pride in his folksy expressions — the more colorful, the better. Fox clings to the ones he remembers as one way of holding onto his heritage, and a few of them are ricocheting through his head now as he paces the hallway outside Room 25. Sayings like more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs and sweating like a sinner in church. He hasn’t been this keyed up since his first flight as a fully credentialed pilot, and that kind of anxiety won’t help him now. It has to be tamped down before he knocks.
(And isn’t it just his luck that this is also his ex-boyfriend’s room? But Fox doesn’t have time to think about that right now.)
By the time he raps on the door and nudges it further open, most of it the nerves are buried beneath genial politeness and the steady calm he adopts in the cockpit. But only most.
“Heeey there,” and each vowel is drawn out in his weird hybrid accent, Piedmont Carolina and Appalachian and a splash of South African. “I’m — well, we spoke earlier. I’m Foxworth Bradshaw, and I’m from North Carolina too, and—” He falters, squinting as he takes the man in front of him. Very tall, very broad. Bear had always been taller than him, but that could be chalked up to the age difference. His heart gives an unhelpful little thump. Bear's, in turn, does the same. He doesn't recognize Fox, at least not technically, but there's something familiar about him. Does he look like his mother?
“—we might be kin,” he blurts out. Mercifully, Hache is not present for any of this. “I mean, I think you might be my—” Fox stops, grimaces, exhales. So much for the air of calm. “Hi, sorry, let’s start over.”
Bear smiles, a reflex to reassure and a subconscious attempt to calm himself. Even though his memories have been a mess forever, he really hasn't met anyone that came from his life before. He's never had to try to figure out someone while they already know him, hasn't had to explain that he's sorry that his mind is a big gaping hole.
"You go by Fox, yeah? Two animal Bradshaws gotta mean something." This is in no way starting over, but it comes out before Bear really thinks about it. His head suddenly hurts and he feels a little ill.
"Hey, I mean. It's… my memory is real bad, so I'm sorry. It's… there was a killswitch in my implant? And so it really messed everything up in there." A hand is wiggled next to his head, a very relaxed way to indicate what happened. "And sometimes some things come back, but it takes some time and also it's really a crapshoot, and it's been a while so no one's sure about how much will come back or when or anything like that. But sometimes it does." He's rambling, so he abruptly stops.
Fox nods, casual and composed, as if there was a killswitch in my implant is the sort of revelation he hears every day. Internally, though, it’s what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck/ on an endless loop. Concern, confusion, curiosity — all three flicker across his face, competing for dominance as he reaches back to shut the door behind him. If nothing else, this conversation is going to need a steady hand, and he reckons that hand is his. These emotions, however brief, are not lost on Bear. His brows crease and his smile wanes.
(Because what the fuck, a killswitch?)
“Mine stopped working when I was thirteen,” Fox admits quietly, taking a curious step forward. “Total implant failure. I was living at an Autonomous Corpus compound near Black Mountain when it happened, and Uncle — I mean, Dom got me out before I could be—” He drags a finger across his throat and clicks his tongue, the sound sharp in the small bedroom.
“But I had to leave my mom, and my sisters, and my brother, Bear.” Pausing, he takes another tentative step closer. A cautious but boyish smile spreads across his face, one the mustache, in its valiant attempt to age him, never quite manages to hide. “Short for Barrett.”
As the younger man has brushed past the killswitch mention, Bear too moves mentally on from the mimed throat slit. There's enough going on without that.
Autonomous Corpus. A brother, Barrett. Bear. He doesn't move as Fox advances, watching him closely, trying in vain still to find some moment in his mind that will tell him the truth of what he's saying. It doesn't feel right to hug him, even though he very much wants to. He could be his brother. But also, he might not be. What if even what little he remembers of himself is a lie? What if his name isn't even his, just something planted there? Something essentially stolen?
"What if I'm not him?" is the only thing that comes out from this train of thought, and despite Fox's smile, Bear is struggling to conjure up his own.
“I don’t know.” It could very well be the case, though Fox isn’t privy to whatever specifics are turning over in Bear’s mind. And when his gaze catches on the birthmark at the other man’s temple a moment later, that doubt quickly begins to shore up into certainty. “But my dad,” he continues, eyes wide, sounding a little dazed, “Our dad? Monty Bradshaw. He was a big believer in trusting your gut. And mine’s telling me I should show you this. It might jog something.”
From his back pocket comes a worn photograph, one corner nicked with age. Four siblings stare up from it — two girls, two boys — all with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes. And there, on the slightly older boy, is a birthmark that mirrors the one Fox can’t stop looking at now.
Trusting his gut is something Bear does frequently — he has little choice. But normally that means making decisions for himself, not imposing them on others, getting their hopes up, maybe. But he reaches for the offered picture, holding it gently in his hands in respect of its fragility and likely importance.
His head hurts again as he scans the picture, the siblings, the boy who is, he is now certain, him. His birthmark is unmistakable, and even his cautiousness about unintentionally lying to Fox can't stop him from knowing that it's unlikely all these pieces are simply coincidental. He has three siblings, one of whom stands in front of him.
He sets aside the photograph so that he can move to hug the young man that is apparently his brother, and Fox returns that hug tightly, arms wrapping around Bear’s back, clinging to him as if afraid to let go. Bear still doesn't know him. The picture didn't jog any memories. It doesn't really matter though, because Fox knows him, at least a little, and that means he could probably use this. His mind clears of his own needs, focusing on providing some comfort for Fox. It's too overwhelming to think of what he might be feeling himself in this moment.
"I… I'm sure some of it will come back." He is nothing if not optimistic, his voice quiet and even, maybe even the slightest bit detached. "You're lookin' a little more grown up these days."
“Yeah, some of it will definitely come back,” Fox murmurs into Bear’s shoulder, overly bright, doing his best to mask his flicker of disappointment. There was never going to be some lightning strike of revelation — this wasn’t some movie, after all. He’s the one with his memories (mostly) intact, and the last thing he wants to do is to burden his brother (his brother!) with expectation or letdown. This is why he gives Bear’s back a couple of easy claps before stepping away, smile carefully pinned in place, his eyes kind — patient, easygoing, not the least bit sad. Bear tries to mirror this for Fox's benefit; he deserves this because he is clearly good and caring, just the kind of person you'd want as a brother. He forces a smile that's convincing, if a little soft around the edges, still feeling somewhat separated from himself.
Then, because lightening a serious moment with levity is what he does best, Fox blurts out: “Do you think the mustache makes me look real distinguished-like? Like a proper gentleman pilot.” Pausing, he makes a show of stroking it thoughtfully. “I’ve been getting mixed reviews.”
And yes, this confirms that Fox is good. Bear laughs for real, thoughtlessly going to put a hand on his brother's head. It's a relief to do something naturally, and this shows in his face more than he'd like it to. This is your brother, he repeats to himself a few times in his head. Your younger brother. See? You already know how to take care of him in a little way.
"Don't know why anyone'd say otherwise. Seems like… classy?"
“Thank you!” Instantly mollified, the wattage of Fox’s smile shoots up, settling into something more natural and easygoing. This is all so insane and unbelievable, the best thing that could possibly happen that’s still profoundly sad, but there’s a rhythm to this exchange that makes him feel warm and content and unexpectedly at ease. “That’s what I keep trying to tell people, but then I get told I look like a baby or some kind of pizza delivery man.”
That genuine smile eases something in Bear, momentarily pushing down the repeated mantra he has cycling through his thoughts to keep from thinking about anything else. He's glad to be useful.
"What? No, they're bein' silly. You look like, uh…" He's got no idea. "Like a movie star or something. What baby has a moustache? Seems right for a pilot to me."
Brimming with excitement — like a puppy whose owner has just come home from a long trip — Fox finds himself tumbling headlong into questions about what comes next. Should he tell Bear about the memories he has, fragmented though they may be? Should he ask what Bear remembers — about this killswitch, about anything? Should they trade stories back and forth until something clicks and the missing pieces start to align?
He draws a steadying breath, thinking back on the advice Eli gave him. It’s with a quiet and wondrous jolt that Foxworth Bradshaw realizes he’s now lucky enough to have two brothers.
“I know you’re not exactly new new,” he says carefully, “but could I show you around? Help you get settled?” Fox puffs his chest out a little, completely unearned pride edging into his smile as he lies through his teeth. “I know this ship like the back of my hand. Never been lost once.”
Everything that happens is confirmation that he has said and done the right thing for Fox, and that further soothes Bear. He nods and smiles as his hand falls back to his side, watching that unmistakable show of pride. He really, really hopes he can remember something about him soon.
"Looks like you got the brains — I'm positive I'm about to get lost a whole lot, so I'd really appreciate it."
“It’s the least I can do. Really, I’m happy to.” Despite Fox’s tall tales about his ability to navigate the ship, that is the honest truth. And as he reaches back for the door to lead the way, he feels something warm and almost unfamiliar settle in his chest — something he doesn’t usually allow himself to think about too much.
Hope.
Fox seems to know him, though. And their last names match. Their nicknames, too, which could just be coincidence, but Bear knows he's lying to himself with that line. It's probably not coincidence, a thought that gives him an electric anxiety that's buzzing through him as he straightens up his already immaculate section of the room. He's not sure why he's doing this other than nerves, especially because it's not really helping. His door is propped open, and his eyes keep flitting over to it as he moves his few possessions around in the name of organizing.
In the Bradshaw family, there was an uncle who took particular pride in his folksy expressions — the more colorful, the better. Fox clings to the ones he remembers as one way of holding onto his heritage, and a few of them are ricocheting through his head now as he paces the hallway outside Room 25. Sayings like more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs and sweating like a sinner in church. He hasn’t been this keyed up since his first flight as a fully credentialed pilot, and that kind of anxiety won’t help him now. It has to be tamped down before he knocks.
(And isn’t it just his luck that this is also his ex-boyfriend’s room? But Fox doesn’t have time to think about that right now.)
By the time he raps on the door and nudges it further open, most of it the nerves are buried beneath genial politeness and the steady calm he adopts in the cockpit. But only most.
“Heeey there,” and each vowel is drawn out in his weird hybrid accent, Piedmont Carolina and Appalachian and a splash of South African. “I’m — well, we spoke earlier. I’m Foxworth Bradshaw, and I’m from North Carolina too, and—” He falters, squinting as he takes the man in front of him. Very tall, very broad. Bear had always been taller than him, but that could be chalked up to the age difference. His heart gives an unhelpful little thump. Bear's, in turn, does the same. He doesn't recognize Fox, at least not technically, but there's something familiar about him. Does he look like his mother?
“—we might be kin,” he blurts out. Mercifully, Hache is not present for any of this. “I mean, I think you might be my—” Fox stops, grimaces, exhales. So much for the air of calm. “Hi, sorry, let’s start over.”
Bear smiles, a reflex to reassure and a subconscious attempt to calm himself. Even though his memories have been a mess forever, he really hasn't met anyone that came from his life before. He's never had to try to figure out someone while they already know him, hasn't had to explain that he's sorry that his mind is a big gaping hole.
"You go by Fox, yeah? Two animal Bradshaws gotta mean something." This is in no way starting over, but it comes out before Bear really thinks about it. His head suddenly hurts and he feels a little ill.
"Hey, I mean. It's… my memory is real bad, so I'm sorry. It's… there was a killswitch in my implant? And so it really messed everything up in there." A hand is wiggled next to his head, a very relaxed way to indicate what happened. "And sometimes some things come back, but it takes some time and also it's really a crapshoot, and it's been a while so no one's sure about how much will come back or when or anything like that. But sometimes it does." He's rambling, so he abruptly stops.
Fox nods, casual and composed, as if there was a killswitch in my implant is the sort of revelation he hears every day. Internally, though, it’s what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck/ on an endless loop. Concern, confusion, curiosity — all three flicker across his face, competing for dominance as he reaches back to shut the door behind him. If nothing else, this conversation is going to need a steady hand, and he reckons that hand is his. These emotions, however brief, are not lost on Bear. His brows crease and his smile wanes.
(Because what the fuck, a killswitch?)
“Mine stopped working when I was thirteen,” Fox admits quietly, taking a curious step forward. “Total implant failure. I was living at an Autonomous Corpus compound near Black Mountain when it happened, and Uncle — I mean, Dom got me out before I could be—” He drags a finger across his throat and clicks his tongue, the sound sharp in the small bedroom.
“But I had to leave my mom, and my sisters, and my brother, Bear.” Pausing, he takes another tentative step closer. A cautious but boyish smile spreads across his face, one the mustache, in its valiant attempt to age him, never quite manages to hide. “Short for Barrett.”
As the younger man has brushed past the killswitch mention, Bear too moves mentally on from the mimed throat slit. There's enough going on without that.
Autonomous Corpus. A brother, Barrett. Bear. He doesn't move as Fox advances, watching him closely, trying in vain still to find some moment in his mind that will tell him the truth of what he's saying. It doesn't feel right to hug him, even though he very much wants to. He could be his brother. But also, he might not be. What if even what little he remembers of himself is a lie? What if his name isn't even his, just something planted there? Something essentially stolen?
"What if I'm not him?" is the only thing that comes out from this train of thought, and despite Fox's smile, Bear is struggling to conjure up his own.
“I don’t know.” It could very well be the case, though Fox isn’t privy to whatever specifics are turning over in Bear’s mind. And when his gaze catches on the birthmark at the other man’s temple a moment later, that doubt quickly begins to shore up into certainty. “But my dad,” he continues, eyes wide, sounding a little dazed, “Our dad? Monty Bradshaw. He was a big believer in trusting your gut. And mine’s telling me I should show you this. It might jog something.”
From his back pocket comes a worn photograph, one corner nicked with age. Four siblings stare up from it — two girls, two boys — all with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes. And there, on the slightly older boy, is a birthmark that mirrors the one Fox can’t stop looking at now.
Trusting his gut is something Bear does frequently — he has little choice. But normally that means making decisions for himself, not imposing them on others, getting their hopes up, maybe. But he reaches for the offered picture, holding it gently in his hands in respect of its fragility and likely importance.
His head hurts again as he scans the picture, the siblings, the boy who is, he is now certain, him. His birthmark is unmistakable, and even his cautiousness about unintentionally lying to Fox can't stop him from knowing that it's unlikely all these pieces are simply coincidental. He has three siblings, one of whom stands in front of him.
He sets aside the photograph so that he can move to hug the young man that is apparently his brother, and Fox returns that hug tightly, arms wrapping around Bear’s back, clinging to him as if afraid to let go. Bear still doesn't know him. The picture didn't jog any memories. It doesn't really matter though, because Fox knows him, at least a little, and that means he could probably use this. His mind clears of his own needs, focusing on providing some comfort for Fox. It's too overwhelming to think of what he might be feeling himself in this moment.
"I… I'm sure some of it will come back." He is nothing if not optimistic, his voice quiet and even, maybe even the slightest bit detached. "You're lookin' a little more grown up these days."
“Yeah, some of it will definitely come back,” Fox murmurs into Bear’s shoulder, overly bright, doing his best to mask his flicker of disappointment. There was never going to be some lightning strike of revelation — this wasn’t some movie, after all. He’s the one with his memories (mostly) intact, and the last thing he wants to do is to burden his brother (his brother!) with expectation or letdown. This is why he gives Bear’s back a couple of easy claps before stepping away, smile carefully pinned in place, his eyes kind — patient, easygoing, not the least bit sad. Bear tries to mirror this for Fox's benefit; he deserves this because he is clearly good and caring, just the kind of person you'd want as a brother. He forces a smile that's convincing, if a little soft around the edges, still feeling somewhat separated from himself.
Then, because lightening a serious moment with levity is what he does best, Fox blurts out: “Do you think the mustache makes me look real distinguished-like? Like a proper gentleman pilot.” Pausing, he makes a show of stroking it thoughtfully. “I’ve been getting mixed reviews.”
And yes, this confirms that Fox is good. Bear laughs for real, thoughtlessly going to put a hand on his brother's head. It's a relief to do something naturally, and this shows in his face more than he'd like it to. This is your brother, he repeats to himself a few times in his head. Your younger brother. See? You already know how to take care of him in a little way.
"Don't know why anyone'd say otherwise. Seems like… classy?"
“Thank you!” Instantly mollified, the wattage of Fox’s smile shoots up, settling into something more natural and easygoing. This is all so insane and unbelievable, the best thing that could possibly happen that’s still profoundly sad, but there’s a rhythm to this exchange that makes him feel warm and content and unexpectedly at ease. “That’s what I keep trying to tell people, but then I get told I look like a baby or some kind of pizza delivery man.”
That genuine smile eases something in Bear, momentarily pushing down the repeated mantra he has cycling through his thoughts to keep from thinking about anything else. He's glad to be useful.
"What? No, they're bein' silly. You look like, uh…" He's got no idea. "Like a movie star or something. What baby has a moustache? Seems right for a pilot to me."
Brimming with excitement — like a puppy whose owner has just come home from a long trip — Fox finds himself tumbling headlong into questions about what comes next. Should he tell Bear about the memories he has, fragmented though they may be? Should he ask what Bear remembers — about this killswitch, about anything? Should they trade stories back and forth until something clicks and the missing pieces start to align?
He draws a steadying breath, thinking back on the advice Eli gave him. It’s with a quiet and wondrous jolt that Foxworth Bradshaw realizes he’s now lucky enough to have two brothers.
“I know you’re not exactly new new,” he says carefully, “but could I show you around? Help you get settled?” Fox puffs his chest out a little, completely unearned pride edging into his smile as he lies through his teeth. “I know this ship like the back of my hand. Never been lost once.”
Everything that happens is confirmation that he has said and done the right thing for Fox, and that further soothes Bear. He nods and smiles as his hand falls back to his side, watching that unmistakable show of pride. He really, really hopes he can remember something about him soon.
"Looks like you got the brains — I'm positive I'm about to get lost a whole lot, so I'd really appreciate it."
“It’s the least I can do. Really, I’m happy to.” Despite Fox’s tall tales about his ability to navigate the ship, that is the honest truth. And as he reaches back for the door to lead the way, he feels something warm and almost unfamiliar settle in his chest — something he doesn’t usually allow himself to think about too much.
Hope.