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Orpheus

Listen, I have like-- essays worth of writing in my head about how (at different times) Booster and Ted both take the roles of Orpheus and Eurydice, depending on the situation. (Ted during the Overmaster arc. Booster-- pretty much eternally throughout the rest of his pre-Flashpoint life after Infinite Crisis.) But I also have no time to write them right now. Someday, though, dammit.

So, the context for this piece is it's part of a much longer piece, the original brainchild of the amazing @daraoakwise that I ended up also writing despite it being my Christmas present in 2024 because she's just that damn good. That story takes place after Little Rabbit and, in a way, after Stardust, too. It's the original JLI timeline.

This particular interlude, though, is a flashback to 2007, a scene from Booster's second solo during the span of time between when they left Arizona and when they arrived in Switzerland after the Beetles and Booster rescued Ted. Because that's a long-ass flight, the Bug is not that fast, so there's definitely shit that had to happen off-screen there. Taking into account that Booster had just gotten the life about kicked out of him by Joker right before all this shit went down, that too gets acknowledged and addressed.

This one fulfills both prompts. Angst and pining. Also mildly references the piece I posted yesterday.

@boostle-events

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Little love sessions that rule me Titan Prometheus, pull me in the light; A little mist feels so familiar Come in close so I can feel you one more time. But on your horizon, oh Come put your own mouth on me Underwater Quickly 'cause it'll all In a moment wash away. Thought of Eurydice, When I look back on what was forbidden. Where you a fantasy Or just some myth I could create? -Beta Radio; On Your Horizon

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2007

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"C'mon, shirt off," Ted said, hauling out the Bug's first aid bag, which was extensive enough to put most paramedics to shame. Because it was a hell of a long flight from Arizona to Switzerland, and now that they weren't landing in the wrong century, creating looping paradoxes or fleeing OMACs, he could finally start fixing things instead of just reacting to them. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."

Booster eyed him archly, which was reassuring, but then obligingly started stripping out of the top half of his costume, moving stiffly enough that it was obvious all that adrenaline he had to have been running on since saving Ted had abandoned him. "Okay, but will you still respect me in the morning?"

An easy crack flitted to the tip of Ted's tongue, but an instant before he said it, he realized just how far away they were from a time when it wouldn't sound barbed and mean-hearted. So, he smoothly shifted to something that was probably funnier anyway, "Only if you promise not to press charges."

It got Ted a chuckle; not quite the bright bark of a laugh that he was hoping for (hadn't heard in longer than he cared to remember), but sincere nonetheless. But any humor for him vanished instantly when he got a look at just how beaten Booster was.

And he'd been running around with Ted, Dan and Jaime for hours before this.

"Jesus, Boost," Ted said, eying the blood-soaked bandage barely clinging to Booster's upper left arm, which was only especially notable because it hadn't stopped the man from bleeding all down said arm, the color fresh enough to be alarming. Ted knew that suit — or, at least, he knew the version of it Booster wore before Doomsday — and therefore knew it couldn't be bled through, so just the thought of his best friend dashing through time to save him while actively wounded made his own hands ache down to the bones. And that wasn't even accounting for all the other, less-immediate bruises and cuts and scrapes, or the blood dried in Booster's hair from where Max kinda-sorta shot him in the head, all because—

—god, all because he literally leapt in front of a bullet for Ted. And even though Ted knew that it had been longer for Booster than him, it still felt like it was immediately preceded by Booster getting hit by fucking lightning just all of a couple days ago.

"It looks worse than it feels," Booster said, the shrug in his voice rather than his shoulders. But then he made a sour sort of face. "Actually, no, 'cause it feels gross and cold and sticky and I'm amazed my sleeve didn't make a— a shlorp sound when I pulled it off."

It no doubt said something about their lives — as heroes, as friends — that this still wasn't anywhere near the worst shape Ted had ever seen Booster in. Or the worst shape Ted had ever worked on him in, for that matter. Though that didn't mean it didn't hurt anyway. "I'd have guessed more a squelch. What the hell happened to you?" he asked, even as he dropped the first aid kit and went to get water, because this was gonna take a hell of a lot more than anything he had in his kit. And because if he didn't act, he'd scream. "Did you get shot? I mean, did you get shot before Max almost blew your brains out?"

"Yeah. I think it was a .38." Booster sort of leaned sideways, probably so he wasn't getting too much blood on Ted's upholstery. "It's okay, it's fine. And better Max aim at mine than yours. There's enough empty space around mine to make it harder to hit," he added, in such a bad attempt to sound hearty and upbeat that Ted almost did scream.

Several attempts at sentences tried to crowd into Ted's mouth at the same time, which meant he failed to actually spit any of them out; sentences about how it really fucking wasn't okay or fine, sentences about how Ted wouldn't trade the integrity of his skull for Booster's ever, in a million years or lifetimes, no matter how messed up things had gotten between them. Sentences about how he could still hear right through that dysfunctional stoic bullshit because he was the one who'd always been able to hear through it—

—except for when he had chosen not to.

"Just— don't," he finally managed to say, coming back with washcloths, buckets and towels. He set the empty bucket down, the full bucket on the edge of the auxiliary control panel and breathed out, trying to set it all aside. "Let your arm hang down straight. I'll leave your shoulder for later," he said, going to grab a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge ('cause water didn't expire) and dig a couple pills out of the first aid kit.

"I can clean myself up, you know," Booster pointed out, which was not helping Ted get rid of that urge to scream.

"Good thing I didn't ask you to," Ted snapped back, more shortly than he meant to. The words were nothing particularly barbed, but when his tone made Booster flinch around the eyes, he winced internally and took a few breaths and made a major effort to soften it. "Man, Max just nearly gave you an aneurysm and you leapt in front of a bullet for me. If I don't do something, I'm going to— I don't know. Lose my damn mind. So let me do this. It's not like I've never put you back together before."

"Literally, once or twice," Booster said back, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He took the two pills Ted handed over, then the bottle of water for a sip to wash them down. Then he let his arm hang like Ted told him to, sagging a little more in that awkward lean.

Ted stepped back to the closet and brought back a blanket, rolling it up so Booster could rest his side against something softer than the arm rest, then pulled on a pair of medical gloves, crouched and got to work mopping off the coat of blood on his best friend's arm, working from just under the wrecked bandage and letting the water run red into the empty bucket under it. "More than once or twice. Someone shoulda given me another degree by the time that was over. Maybe a doctorate in biomechanics."

"Or sainthood, if not," Booster said, eyes closed, and therefore mercifully oblivious to Ted intermittently studying his face.

"Saint Theodore?" Ted asked, then scrunched his nose. "Saint Ted of Chicago. I can maybe live with that."

"Patron saint of insect-themed superheroes, mechanical geniuses and disgraced former-footballers?"

That made something in Ted's chest ache, something wholly unrelated to his replaced heart valve. "Sure, why not," he agreed, hands moving on autopilot, rinsing and occasionally scrubbing gently at a more stubborn dried patch. When Booster shivered, he stood up and hit the temperature controls with an elbow, raising the heat in the Bug, then went back to work. "You didn't tell me how you ended up catching a .38 round."

Booster shook his head, both the beating and exhaustion evident on his face without his mask and visor to help hide it. He didn't really look any older than he had when Ted had left him in the hospital, but he did look a kind of— unfamiliar tired. A kind Ted hadn't ever seen on his face before. "I don't want to talk about it. And it doesn't matter. All that matters is— you're here. Everything else— we can fix anything else."

Ted didn't like that answer, but he also didn't know exactly how to push on it. He wasn't so convinced of that; he'd known the moment they stepped out of the lab and saw all those OMACs that it wasn't going to be as simple as the Black Beetle had claimed. That time didn't necessarily want to accommodate his continued life.

And he didn't need anyone to tell him that whatever bullet Booster caught before he'd tried to catch the one Max had fired, it had been in the pursuit of saving Ted. Just like he'd come back from Miami to try to help Ted, only to end up scorched and electrocuted and not breathing on Ted's lawn, as the house burned down behind them; Ted could still feel the echo in his wrists and elbows, only a couple days old, of those chest compressions.

"How long has it been? Since— since?" Ted asked after a bit, more quietly, getting into the lines of Booster's palm, where some of the blood had managed to leak all the way into his glove.

Booster opened his eyes and looked at Ted for a long moment, mouth in a line, then briefly turned his hand and linked their fingers before letting go. "Sixteen months. Give or take a few days. In real-time, I mean."

Christ. A year and a quarter more. Ted held still, then went back to cleaning, jaw flexing as he absorbed that.

A year and a quarter. He went to open his mouth to ask what had happened in that time — to the world, to their friends, to his best friend — but the words stayed in his throat. But he knew without asking that— that he'd been mourned. And maybe that was where that unfamiliar kind of tired on Booster's face came from; maybe that was what a man looked like after he'd been mourning for a year and a quarter.

He turned Booster's hand back and forth gently, then let it go, satisfied it was clean. He'd gotten as well as he could around that bandage, but he wanted to wait for the pain medication to kick in before he peeled it off and redressed the wound it wasn't really protecting anymore. Not that it would take much to remove it; blood had loosened the tape already. "Lemme have a look at your head," he said, instead, stripping off that pair of gloves for new ones.

"You know, there are costumes you can wear if you wanna play nurse," Booster said, but he obligingly tipped his head enough to let Ted look at where the bullet had grazed him just above and a little behind his right eyebrow.

Ted snorted, even as he used the back of his hand to hold Booster's hair out of the way. It wasn't a bad wound, though it could use a rinse; anything more serious would set it bleeding again. "Sorry, buddy, you don't pay me enough for that kind of service. And lemme tell you, white pantyhose would pull the hell out of my leg hair."

Booster smirked at that, which was admittedly a pretty damn welcome sight. "And blue tights don't?"

Ted shrugged, though it was with a bit of a smile, as he leaned over to grab a clean washcloth and towel. "No more than gold fiberweave does yours. I'm gonna rinse this off, it'll probably sting."

"Joy," Booster deadpanned back, heaving out a long breath and sagging a little more. Like some kind of hound-dog laying on a porch. Ted figured that was probably the vicodin kicking in, which was confirmed when Booster (inconveniently) furrowed his eyebrows and asked, "What did you give me?"

"Tylenol," Ted said, which was some of the truth, because he knew when he'd handed those pills over that Booster was probably going to kick about it. "—mostly. Stop with the eyebrows."

Of course, Booster ignored him and even left one eyebrow raised, though Ted had to allow that might have been instinctive rather than intentional. "Mostly?"

"Mostly Tylenol. A little hydrocodone," Ted admitted, making a mental note to stock more sterile saline wash, pressing the dry towel to Booster's jaw and letting the still-warmish water run down over the graze to soak into it.

Booster scowled, unsurprisingly, though he didn't really react to the rinsing. "Thanks for the warning."

"You'll forgive me when I'm redressing your shoulder," Ted replied, unrepentant. "Who the hell taught Hunter to wrap a shoulder, anyway? Presuming it was Hunter. Did he seriously just slap that on and let you run off into trouble with the equivalent of a cheap-ass band-aid?"

"I didn't exactly give him the opportunity to protest," Booster said, sulking a little. Though Ted knew Booster had probably already forgiven him, or would within short order. "Or do a better job."

Booster wasn't really the martyr type, Ted knew; he had no moral qualms with being patched up or taking painkillers and his sometimes ridiculous levels of stoicism had nothing to do with masochism. Early on, he'd been skittish about potentially developing an addiction to something, terrified of becoming his deadbeat addict dad — which Ted had understood and tried to work around — but he didn't like being in pain any more than most people did and would escape it given the opportunity.

The main problem with Booster, Ted had discovered quickly, was that he just didn't tend to think to ask for help; at least, not unless he was actively being killed at the time. No matter how bad it was otherwise. And when help was offered, he had a hell of a hard time accepting it. Or— more trusting it. Most of his stoicism was down to not knowing how to trust in the kindness or good intentions of other people, not for any desire to be a stoic. At least when it wasn't a dogged attempt to push through to whatever goal, anyway.

Their friendship had been close enough and real enough that Ted knew Booster trusted him, though. Enough for Booster to let his guard down. Enough, even, to sometimes ask Ted for help with something, though that was pretty dependent on the thought occurring in the first place and required Booster swallowing his pride to do it. But there had been plenty of times Booster hadn't, and Ted had discovered only in the midst or after the fact that Booster was hurting or in trouble; still, it never crossed Ted's mind that there was any distrust involved in that: Sometimes it was because Booster thought he'd work it out himself, and sometimes it was fear of being a burden. Sometimes, too, it was just not realizing he could or should ask.

As such, Ted had developed a pretty good set of instincts when it came to his best friend. Which was how Ted knew this time that Booster wouldn't be happy because he'd inevitably crash into a narcotic-soaked sleep, and relatively soon. In fact, Ted had picked a dose that would guarantee it; since he'd spent a year keeping the man alive — through some periods of real, godawful suffering — he knew precisely what it took.

(Ted also knew exactly how much Booster's long hair had weighed because he'd been the one holding it back while Booster sometimes threw his guts up into trash cans, suffering without word from migraines that came on after Doomsday; those only tapered off after about a year. Or how, during that time he was in that bulky, awful prototype armor, he'd take beatings with no forcefield and walk around bruised black in parts, down to bone. He'd had teeth broken and crowns put on, just like many of them had. After the Devastator took his arm and wrecked his chest, he'd grit his way through phantom limb pain that the pain-blocking circuitry couldn't stop. Sleeping during that time had been an especially wretched thing for him, because the armor acting as a walking version of an iron lung couldn't be streamlined further, so there was just no way Booster could ever get comfortable; he was chronically sleep-deprived. The few times Ted had to straight-up anesthetize Booster during that time — because taking his prosthetic arm off and working deep where mechanics met flesh would have been a cruel thing to do to someone conscious and capable of feeling it — and Booster had gone under and come back with tears wetting his temples. Relief, Ted knew; however brief, an escape.

In all that intimate knowledge, though, the one that haunted Ted — even during their worst periods of disconnection and anger — was the one and only time he'd gotten to hold Booster through most of a night; Ted still remembered the weight and heat of Booster sleeping on him, against him, and sometimes he hated himself for thinking about it, and sometimes he raged against it, but sometimes he woke up aching for that ghost with his own temples wet and a sob caught in his throat.)

"This isn't deep enough to put anything on it," he said, drying Booster's face off, having gotten most of the blood out of his hair. "How're you feeling?"

Booster leaned a little after that towel in a way that made Ted's heart sore, when Ted took it away, and his voice was hoarse when he just said, "Tired."

It didn't take a genius with six degrees to know it encompassed something more than physical.

"I'll bet," Ted said, because he sure as hell believed it. "Once I get your shoulder fixed up, provided you don't got something else that needs patching under your fiberweave, I'll grab you a t-shirt and sweatpants and fluff up one of the cots. Speaking of, how's that feeling?"

Booster had opened his mouth to no doubt protest being sent to bed, but he was definitely lagging, because Ted could watch him forget the protest and recalibrate to answer the question, "Uhm— distant. Kinda. Not bad."

Well, that was a decent answer. Ted carefully peeled the ruined bandage off, but then swore a blue streak under his breath. Beyond it being a through-and-through gunshot wound, exit side ragged and more open and worse than the entry side, it had gotten perilously close to the joint. No wonder it kept getting reopened. The patch-job Hunter had done was beyond shoddy, too. "—you might want something to bite on for this, 'cause it's not gonna stay distant."

Booster managed to pry his eyes open a little bit and rolled his head over, eying his own shoulder. "Oh. Yeah, s'pretty bad, huh? Good thing the suit did the real lifting."

Ted shook his head, dropped the old bandage and dressing into the trash, then stripped that pair of gloves and threw them out, too. He stepped back and got the lone bottle of sterile saline wash out, then the hemostatic gauze, roll gauze, tape, bandages, lining it all up in quick and easy reach. "How do you wanna do this, Boost?"

He thought for a second that Booster was going to doze off before answering, but then Booster said, sleepily, "Pin me down, I guess. I'll try'n hold still, but—"

There was no way in hell Booster was gonna be able to keep from flailing when Ted packed those open wounds, but Ted knew from too much experience that Booster wouldn't throw a punch at him, either, not even mindless with pain. There was only once, in all the long years, that Booster had actually even tried: Ted had been mercilessly jabbing him in every weak spot he could reach, angry and wanting to hurt Booster as much as he'd been hurt by Booster ignoring him and making light of his heart, and after an amount of abuse that made Ted nauseous to think about now, Booster lashed out back. He hadn't connected, hadn't even tried too hard to. Ted had avoided it with an easy lean to the side, and then it devolved into a screaming domestic (pretty much) in front of Manga Khan and everyone else.

But even years before that, Booster had let Ted — Ted, who had no forcefield or power suit, who was dressed in a dirty sweatshirt and jeans, angry and depressed — pin him down to the floor of the Bug and draw back a fist and rage at him, but only after Ted took several cheap, mean shots at him verbally as a warmup. Ted's only saving grace there, in memory, was that he never brought down the fist he had cocked back, because he was pretty sure Booster would have taken it on the chin rather than let Ted break knuckles on his forcefield.

Ted had— fuck, Ted had enough things to be guilty over just in what he had done and said. He was pitifully grateful not to have more.

"Okay," he breathed out, halfway to himself, eying what they had to work with positioning-wise. "Scoot your butt back deeper into the seat. I'm gonna put my knee in the chair and lean into you and put an arm around your neck, but try not to thrash around too much anyway. You sure you don't want something to bite on?"

Booster moved on a delay, but did what Ted told him to do. "Nu uh. We're not in some Old West cowboy movie."

Somehow, Ted smiled there, even as he finished staging everything for the new positioning so he could grab it quickly and got on his third set of gloves. "What, pardner, ya don't want no prairie dew poured over that there hole ya got drilled in ya?" he asked, layering on a bad drawl as he put his knee in the seat and used it to pin Booster's left leg to the side of the chair, and the bulk of his weight to press his best friend back into his own arm, both of them now leaned awkwardly over. He winced a little as he wrapped his left hand just above and behind that gunshot wound, but that was the best they were going to be able to do with what they had.

"Plumb sure I don't, sawbones," Booster mumbled into Ted's side, which — miracle of miracles — made Ted laugh.

"Good, 'cause if I had whiskey, I'd probably rather take a belt myself right now," Ted said, dropping the accent and taking a bracing breath before getting to work.

It wasn't too bad just irrigating, though Booster hissed like a snake and wiggled around a little. But when Ted had to get serious, it was awful for them both; the entry wound didn't end up needing much beyond more secure compression than it'd had, but the wide-open exit hole needed properly packed, or it was just going to keep reopening and bleeding and risking infection. And doing the packing meant listening to the bone-chillingly jagged noises Booster made, meant Ted having to hold his struggling best friend down, and by the time it was most of the way over, they were both a wreck of sweat and tears, though thankfully not much in the way of more blood.

Ted had been mindlessly shushing and soothing, just that automatic thing a person did when they were trying to comfort someone, but he didn't know if it helped. Still, he had to give a ragged little chuckle when Booster said, still gasping into Ted's ribs, "I definitely haven't— haven't forgiven you yet."

Ted finished gingerly putting on the last piece of tape, but then eased back and tried to catch his own breath. "Worst part's over, but I'm not done," he said, shuddering from the tension as he stripped the gloves off. Everything else could be done barehanded from here. "We'll see if you change your mind."

Because Booster would. Ted already knew that. Because Booster always did forgive him.

"There can't be much more," Booster complained, leaning forward to rest his head against Ted again, and finally releasing the fist full of Ted's undershirt he'd been death-gripping. But given he was already shutting back down, breathing slowing quickly, Ted figured the forgiveness was imminent, though it might not be said aloud.

"Nope," Ted said, just resting there with his knee on the seat and his best friend sagging against him. "Re-bandage that properly, get you into some comfortable clothes, strap on a sling so you don't go moving that arm before you have to, then you sleep. Probably in that order."

Hell, he was gonna take the rest of his own costume off, since it was such a long damn flight. And likely trust his autopilot while they were over the North Atlantic so he could catch a few hours sleep of his own. He'd been running hard — and was still sore as hell from the explosion that had taken out the other Bug — and he was kind of amazed he hadn't crashed yet himself.

Booster shook his head, but didn't sit back up again. And even the head-shake seemed time-delayed. "I don't want to sleep."

It might have sounded like a kid after being told it was bedtime if one only considered the words, but that wasn't the tone. Ted petted the crown of Booster's head for a couple seconds because he wasn't sure what answer he could give, aside that. "Need you to sit up some, buddy. I can't work my magic if I'm your leaning post."

After another moment that stretched, Booster sort of sat up, though Ted had to stop him from overcompensating by leaning against the seat-back again. Luckily, the process of bandaging a shoulder that was already clean and dressed was a lot less gruesome than doing the dressing; instead of just trusting some tape to hold through heroic antics, Ted wove the bandage up over Booster's shoulder, but then anchored it around across his chest and under his opposite arm, making sure it was positioned such that Booster would be able to get his costume on over it.

By then, there weren't any words exchanged, let alone bantering; Booster was a fraction of consciousness away from ragdoll-status, and Ted could feel every physical and emotional blow he'd taken himself since Barbara had informed him he was being robbed blind. For that matter, he could feel the ones from before that, too; not the physical there, but the emotional. The echo of his anger and Booster's careless betrayal wasn't gone — how could it be, when it had hurt that deeply? — but Ted had already been trying to disarm it the first time he'd flown across the ocean to go confront what turned out to be Max Lord on a power trip.

(His mind was still shying back from the word vagrant in Booster's file, though. It had kicked him in the gut once it sank in, but there had been no time since to ponder the implications attached. The timing. But where was that rich old hag Booster had married? It wasn't that long since the Super Buddies broke up. There were always at least a few people who would normally bring up any Booster-gossip to him, but no one mentioned a divorce?)

Ted tried to shake it off because now wasn't the time to try to deal with this. Instead, he wrestled Booster out of the rest of his costume and into sweatpants and a t-shirt, the former of which was Booster's and had been kept clean and stocked in the Bug since all the way back before the JLI had broken up, and the latter of which was Ted's own, telling himself that a shirt fit for his broader shoulders would be more comfortable and refusing to think too hard about the real reasons why.

A sling and a fluffed up cot later and Ted hauled his best friend out of the seat, sliding in under Booster's good arm. "All right, c'mon, Boost. Just a few more feet and you can sleep it off for awhile."

Even with one of them right at the edge of consciousness and the other sore and out of shape, they both knew how to move together still: where their arms fit and the balance of their weight where it intersected, and how and where their footfalls would land as a unit, rather than as individuals. And if Ted would have known how everything would play out after they arrived overseas, that he was going to rush back to his own ending, that there would be no real time for the most important things, everything might have played out differently.

He may have hovered the Bug somewhere safe for as long as it would have taken to work things out between them; to give them that time, long enough to talk and to make the inevitable regrets more bearable. And probably there would have been lies, but then truths, and probably there would have been shouting because no one had ever been able to hurt them like they were able to hurt each other, and almost certainly there would have been apologies and tears.

But he didn't know then, and so all that was left were the tears.

"Don't go," Booster mumbled brokenly into Ted's shoulder, once they were sitting on the cot, the one hand he had available tangled in Ted's undershirt again; too sedated to sob, but Ted could feel those tears hot against his skin before they slid down his back and cooled. "Don't go," Booster said again, a plea he would repeat in increasingly desperate forms before it was all said and done.

"I'm right here, Michael," Ted answered, and he tried to sound gentle and calm and sure and soothing, because he wanted just as desperately to believe he would continue to be right here and that all the things wrong between them would have the time and space to heal. "I'll be here when you wake up," he added, which was the truth; "I'm not going anywhere," he added, because he wanted it to be the truth.

Already, he had been planning ahead: Wash out Booster's costume, clean himself up. Eat something, which he hadn't done yet, because thank everything he'd always kept his Bugs stocked with non-perishables. Fluff up the other cot, sleep for at least a few hours. (Stop thinking about sleeping in this one with Booster against him.) And finally, strategize for how they were going to wrench the world back to rights again.

Yet still Ted sat, his now-sleeping best friend sagged against him anew, smelling of iron and salt and suffering and home, and in those moments, there was nothing more important in the universe.

"I'm not going anywhere," Ted murmured again, to them both, and even then must have known on some level that he didn't want to acknowledge that he would soon be made a liar.

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