A 26th Century Affini in President Bush's Court

Dude, How's My Brother?

by apes

Tags: #cw:noncon #cw:george_w_bush #dom:plant #egregious_southland_tales_references #Human_Domestication_Guide #pov:bottom #pov:top #cw:guns #dom:female #dom:internalized_imperialism #drugs #f/f #f/nb #hypnosis #multiple_partners #petplay #scifi #sub:female #sub:nb
See spoiler tags : #trans_egg #transgender_characters

cw: the boys get a little Angsty

As the pickup careened through Modesto’s shitty, pothole-ridden streets, Rosales was more and more incensed by the apparent feralist hideout in its sheer largeness - as late in humanity’s pacification as she was, the remaining hold-outs to be found had their populations always number under a hundred, and almost always under fifty. But the city kept stretching on and on. By the stars, she thought, there must be more than a hundred thousand sophonts here. The thought shot a pang through her core, and she squeezed Francis tight with her vines, to continually diminishing returns of protests or resistance of any kind from the boy. A particular set of noises from Francis led Marty’s knuckles to go white clutching the steering wheel, not daring to look to his right as he muttered in an exhausted tone, “Do you have to do that?”

Rosales cooed gently, cocking her head to the side. “Well I’m more than capable enough of giving you some attention too, Marty dear, but for the moment I believe you need to focus on piloting.” She let out a little chuckle. Marty’s grip only tightened.

After a brief bit of contemplation, he turned his head back to be able to see the alien’s face. It was smiling, with notes of condescension and a firm belief in its own power. He withdrew a hand from the steering wheel, jabbing it at Rosales. He sighed curtly before raising his voice, but trying very hard not to come off as genuinely angry, a voice like gritting teeth. There was simply a misconception that needed to be cleared up.

“Hey, buddy, friend, pal. I know you’re not from around here, and I don’t want to step on your toes or vines or whatever the hell, but could you please knock off whatever act you’re putting on. It’s great you speak English, sure, I’ll grant you that, but were the only recordings your guys were able to pull off English from Sesame Street? This whole time you’ve been talking to us like we were goddamn Kindergarteners who got lost on a field-” 

As Marty’s voice grew higher, Francis called out his name gently, to which he only scowled and continued ranting.

“Lost on a field trip! And you, Francis, look at you, you’re falling all over this thing, it really is some kind of strange, maybe pathetic. Did she do something to you, scramble your brains or something? I know she injected me with fucking whatever without asking me, which, yeah, sure, I know I’m a pothead but jesus christ can’t a man have a little bit of bodily autonomy! Of freedom? Where the hell do you get off on this shit?”

Francis was calling his name with a little bit more urgency. He was undeterred.

“Francis I swear to god if you try to talk about the fucking weed one more time, you or her, I’m going to kick you in the ribs. I’m not even joking. I don’t know why both of you are so fixated on such a stupid little thing when we are staring down the barrel of first contact here. And we haven’t even mentioned it. It’s never come up, this whole time. Everything is about finding the weed, Marty lost the weed, oh Ms. Alien, teacher, teacher, Marty lost the weed! Because it’s fucking Marty’s job to know where the weed is, it’s Marty’s job to clean up, it’s Marty’s job to deal with his asshole brother, it’s Marty’s job to take fucking shit while everyone else gets off good and dandy, clea-”

Rosales interrupted him this time to call his name, but with such a strictness and power imbued in it that, for some reason, it instantly snapped Marty back to attention on the road. Oh hey, they were back at his brother’s place. Oh hey, his brother was on the road yelling about something. Oh hey, his brother’s about to be run over. 

Oh shit.

The next few seconds played out in slow motion. Marty slammed down the brake as well as he could, while Rosales squeezed Francis so tight he was afraid he might pop, and Alexander’s drunken ranting at the oncoming car transformed in a moment into horrified screams. And then, a period of silence, just as painfully slow. The truck was stopped, the screams had ended, and nobody moved a muscle. Rosales began to rapidly unwind herself from Francis in preparation of emergency procedures. Francis’ voice rapidly dropped from his frenzied notes of shock, and his cool demeanor was reacquired. 

“Marty, full reverse, then pull into the driveway. Rosales, carry him inside, quickly.”

The two in question nodded and began doing as requested, the former unable to figure out a better idea and the latter not wanting to compromise her position deep in feralist territory, preferring to trust the locals. What had just befell Francis begged further explanation - one breath in and his stress indicators just collapsed - but this was not the time for such investigations. Hopefully, Rosales thought, the time would soon come that all of her little investigation items could be revisited, and the future wasn’t merely an infinite succession of panic attacks and stupid accidents. 

While she wasn’t a vet, she had of course a basic understanding of human anatomy and medical techniques, and leaped into action, not caring to reassemble her anthropomorphized form as she slithered out of the truck door as a towering miasma of vines, a cloud of concentrated jungle. The feisty little dear was unconscious, but was breathing steadily and had an even-ish pulse. Apparently Marty had been able to stop the car just in time - most of the damage was likely from falling to the ground and not the actual impact force of the vehicle, though blood did run down his legs. A trivially easy medical problem in almost every circumstance but this one. Hopefully rest and gentle care would do well - she’d certainly heard the tales of feralist’s ideas on healthcare. 

Marty felt very little, looking on as the plant thing seemed to glide through the air with impossible precision, scooping up his brother and guiding him through the open front door. Francis left the truck at the same time Rosales did, so all Marty was left to do was sit sullenly in the driver’s seat  as the car idled in the driveway. He always felt like this after he got angry. Especially when it leads to shit like what had just happened. Got both Francis and the alien - who was, by all respects, far nicer than anybody could be expected to be in that situation - away from him, tending to his moron brother. Bottom line, he felt lousy. He hated feeling lousy. Once he was done moping, he headed over to see the status of the situation inside.

Francis continued being rather unlike his typical self, staying quiet, speaking curtly, and staying focused without need for background stimulation. He guided Rosales into Alexander’s bedroom and tried as best as he could to help ease him onto his bed. This, of course, was absolutely unnecessary, and Rosales could make him quite comfortable all on his own, but the gesture was sweet, and more pats to the head were granted. Francis smiled and nodded gently. “Do you know if he’ll be alright?” His voice was small. Hearing him so broken up twice in as long compelled another tight hug. It seemed to squeeze something right out of him - with the inflection point of the crisis past, his cool head evaporated and stress and worry flowed back into him. As he shivered in place, a few stray vines applied a rudimentary topical salve to Alexander’s bruises. For now, he could rest.

A few minutes later, Rosales awkwardly bristled her vines in the very cluttered living room - stars, she was only just now noticing the dismal state of the boys’ abode. Trash everywhere. Dirty everything, broken everything. How could any level-headed sophont think that letting cuties languish in such sad pits like these was better than giving them nice, warm habs, like the one Mx. Hashplant was surely desperate to get them back to. As Marty and Francis were trying their best to calm down from the hectic events of the day, she was near-constantly rearranging things and throwing trash out with free vines. Both Marty and Francis were quiet. Francis was despairing, shivering and shaking, while Marty was still, a slight scowl hiding a great wellspring of negative feelings.

Rosales tried to put on her most caring and sweet face, for the two sorely deserved it. Vines snaked up towards them, but only rested nearby, waiting for some kind of reaction, positive or negative. From trips to the Jafe to floretsitting for friends, she’d learned that humans were often quite bashful about what they wanted, and one of the best ways to get clues on what that might be was to observe the ways they moved that were less than intentional - glances and twitches, what they focus on and what they don’t. And Francis was surely communicating that he needed some more vine cuddles badly, staring at them and then frantically looking away. She let out a low hum as she thought. These dears need some ease, some liberation from worry, some pure sweet happiness - in short, a Class-A and Class-E cocktail. 

“Boys, would it be alright if I gave you some xenodrugs?”

Francis’ eyes widened before rapidly narrowing. “What’s it like? Is it like weed?”

Rosales chuckled and smiled. “Something very similar to what you’re used to, yes.”

Francis started to think over the proposition before Marty cut in. “Yeah, sure.”

Marty and Rosales’ eyes shifted to Francis, who offered a little grin and a nod. The both of them felt a sudden prick in their side as incredible warmth flooded their bodies, spinning out the world for a moment as every sensation bled together into wonder and majesty. Rosales was confident things would be better for all of them from now on.


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