#‘we waited an ENTIRE EXTRA WEEK and the chapter was seven pages’ shut up

[saltytearsofjoy]

horikoshi should take a several month break completely unannounced. some of you need to chill with the media consumption

[timelordthirteen]

Desperate Souls 1/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit

Summary: A broke and heartbroken Belle French comes to an agreement with Mr. Gold to do a little modeling, just for him, in exchange for the money she desperately needs, but it isn't long before they both realize they've made a deal they didn't understand. Based on this prompt.

Chapter Summary: Belle makes a depressing discovery and considers her options.

Notes: OKAY. Here we go. Chapter 2 is almost done, but everything was getting stupid long and in spite of my plan I had to break it up. The entire story is all fully outlined now, but I make zero promises about my ability to keep it updated because I'm the worst. In total it will be anywhere from 10 to 15 chapters.

[AO3]

Belle stared at the paper in her hands.

$37.23

That was all that was left in the account. She staggered and then dropped down onto the old sofa. Her heart was thumping in her chest, her face felt hot, and her vision blurred. The page fluttered away, sliding over the coffee table to fall off the edge and onto the floor on the other side. The corner of the paper fluttered in the air from a heating vent in the floor, and she watched it for a long moment before her head dropped to her hands, palms pressed to her face as tears stung her eyes.

Her heart, her hopes, her money; Garrett Gaston had taken everything.

Well, almost everything. Apparently, she still had thirty-seven fucking dollars and change left. She shook her head and laid back against the cushions, breathing slowly. Calming down was step one, step two was figuring out a logical plan to fix things. Most of the regular monthly bills: car payment, cell phone, and utilities, had already been deducted before Garrett had a chance to clean out their shared account. That left whatever was on the credit card and the rent to pay. She let out a short, humorless laugh, and sat up. There wasn’t much on her Visa, some books she ordered from Amazon last month and her Netflix subscription. Even if there was more she could get away with making minimum payments if she had to and eat the interest until she got back on her feet. The rent was a whole other story.

Mr. Gold didn’t do minimum payments, but he did do late fees and interest.

There was also her promise to her father. Moe French was always just barely making ends meet, and she had agreed to loan him some money to buy extra stock for the flower shop ahead of Valentine’s Day, something she had done last year as well. That holiday always put the shop in the black for a while, and she hadn’t been concerned that she wouldn’t get her money back. Now she was wondering if she would also need a loan of some kind just to keep a roof over her head.

Maybe she’d even have to move back in with her father.

Belle blinked, letting the tears roll down her cheeks, leaving trails through her makeup. Living with Moe was not an option, not if she wanted to maintain any semblance of a relationship with him, which left her with few choices. She pushed to her feet, wiping at her face with her hand as she crossed the small living room to pick up the bank statement. Her eyes immediately went to the top of the page.

Beginning balance…$4,737.23

The statement crumpled in her hand, her fingers squeezing it into a tight ball, digging the sharp edges of the folded paper into her palm before she spun on her heel and threw it across the space. It smacked against the door to the bathroom. She followed it up by yanking the ring off her left hand and flinging it in the same direction. It made a satisfying ping as it careened off the doorknob and rattled to the floor.

Rage fueled her as she stomped through the apartment, snatching up the handful of things her now very ex-fiance had left behind before he fucked off to Mexico with a woman who wasn’t her, taking all of her money with him. She felt like an idiot for agreeing to sign Garrett onto her account before they were married, but in the moment it had made sense to pool their funds. They were starting their new life together, supposedly, and he made a point of saying he wanted to help pay for the wedding.

Belle and her father didn’t have much, and from the outside it seemed like Garrett was far better off financially. He had a decent job selling insurance, a nice car, nice clothes, and his parents were very well off real estate agents in Boston. Or at least that was what he had told her. She had never met them, and that, combined with the fact that he had yet to make any deposits into their now shared account, told her all she needed to know. Garrett Gaston was a lying asshole, and for all she knew his parents could be dead or have disowned him. It was clear he had used her, though she wasn’t sure the year long charade was worth the four thousand-seven hundred dollars he’d stolen from her.

She let out a ragged breath and ran her hands through her hair. A hooded sweatshirt with a rip in the front pocket, a paint splattered t-shirt, a pair of work boots that had seen better days, a phone charger, and a mismatched pair of socks lay in a pile on the sofa. Everything else he’d taken with him, including half the hangers in the closet. He must have crammed it all into the same large suitcase and duffle bag he’d used to move in just three months ago. She wondered if he’d had it all planned before then, or if it was a spur of the moment decision. When had he met this other woman? Had he cared about her at all, ever?

Belle sniffed loudly and rubbed her nose. She refused to shed any more tears over Garrett, and looked around the room for anything she might have missed. A thought hit her then, and she hurried into the kitchen, took one of the chairs from the small table by the window, and used it to reach up on top of the fridge. Her heart sank when she felt nothing but dust. He’d even taken her emergency fund, mostly made up of spare change and small bills shoved into an old jar. She wasn’t sure how much was in it, but it had to be a couple hundred dollars. That brought the total to almost five thousand.

Deflated and exhausted, she climbed down off the chair, and placed it back at the table. Then she walked back into the living room and briefly contemplated setting Garrett’s things on fire. There was a burn barrel in her father’s backyard that he used for yard waste. Maybe she could invite Ruby and Ashely over for a bonfire, and roast marshmallows that they imagined were ex-boyfriends.

That thought made her smile, but a few seconds later, she sighed and reluctantly went to pick up the bank statement and engagement ring. Being angry might make her feel better temporarily, but it wouldn’t solve any of her current problems. Unfortunately, neither would anything Garrett left behind, which were clearly items he no longer cared about and which had no value. At least she’d been wearing the ring when he packed up and left, or he likely would have taken that as well.

She went into the bedroom and sank down on the end of the bed. The mattress dipped and the frame creaked, yet another reminder of her less than stellar financial state. A couple of weeks ago, they’d talked about getting new furniture after they were married, in particular, a bed, and Belle rolled her eyes at the memory. She put the engagement ring back in its box on her dresser, and decided to take a shower. As the hot water ran down over her neck and shoulders, she made a mental list of what she needed to do, and felt calmer after she was done.

After drying off and changing into some comfortable clothes, she shoved Garrett’s belongings into a trash bag and set it by the door to take down to the dumpster in the morning. Then she sat down with the little notebook she kept in her purse and a pen, and started writing out her expenses for the next month. By the time she was done, and after considering the amount of her usual paycheck, the total she would at the end of next month was...fifty four dollars.

She fell back against the sofa and blew out a breath. There was no way to make the math come out any better. Rent included the usual utilities, but there was food, her cellphone, car insurance, and those incidental costs of existing like laundry detergent and toilet paper and probably a hundred things she’d end up running out of next week. It felt like life was out to spite her. The cushion she had worked so hard to build up was gone, as was the paycheck that had just deposited. Garrett probably waited until Thursday just for that reason, to squeeze just a little bit more out of her and make her ruin complete.

She got up and went back into the bedroom. The ring box seemed to be mocking her as she reached for it, and she flipped it open and scowled down at the princess cut diamond. It was about one carat in size, flanked by two smaller diamonds, which gave the ring a total weight of about one and half carats. It was huge as far as engagement rings went, and she supposed that was more of Garrett showing off money he didn’t actually have. The truth was she didn’t care for it at all, the squared off princess cut being her least favorite, and the set of three gems gave it a bulk and gaudiness that wasn’t her style. But it was what he had picked out and proposed with, and because of that she made herself like it. The band was rose gold, her favorite, which was at least one thing he managed to remember about her.

Belle snapped the box shut and shook her head. The ring had to be worth something, and though there was only one place in town she could take it she was confident that Mr. Gold would give her a fair price. He had always been fair, even if he often came off as cold and eccentric. She’d never had a problem with Gold, though she didn’t really know him that well either. A few times she had gone out of her way to try to be nice and talk to him, but he seemed annoyed and eventually she gave up. She was friendly and polite when she saw him, not just because he was her landlord, or because we wielded some strange power over most of the citizens of Storybrooke, but because she sensed he was someone who didn’t have a lot of kindness in his life.

She set the ring down and yanked open the bottom dresser drawer. Inside was a small collection of what could only be described as ugly Christmas sweaters, leftover from the annual holiday parties that Granny would throw at the diner. Those were taken out and set aside. Beneath them was something that made Belle frown all over again, a pile of silk and lace, with a few price tags caught up on each other. It was the pile of lingerie that she’d been reserving for her wedding and honeymoon.

The sting of tears made her blink and she felt her earlier anger bubbling up again. She knelt down in front of the drawer and pulled all of it out, throwing it behind her on the bed. Then she set about separating it, untangling tags and eye hooks, and pairing up the things that went together. She hadn’t worn any of it yet, but the items with tags had been purchased too long ago to return, never mind that she had probably thrown out the receipts weeks ago. It wasn’t designer stuff or anything, but it had to be worth something, so she folded it all into a neat stack and placed it on top of the dresser. Then she set the ring box on top and resolved to take all of it to Gold’s shop tomorrow.

None of it would be missed.

[imaginesbymk]

PINK + WHITE.

—CHAPTER SEVEN ; FINN, ALL GROWN UP.

summary: teresa’s permanent resignation from the peaky blinders leads her to a whole new chapter of working in an art museum. but little did she know her best life would be butchered some time later when her former lover tommy shelby gives her no choice but to return to the peaky blinders after they make new enemies, with the leader, of all people, being the man teresa fell in love with one night after a wedding reception back in post world war; luca changretta.

pairing: luca changretta x OC x tommy shelby

tags in this chapter: swearing, smoking

[ chapter index / meet my oc / wattpad link ]

"Just remember, never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line." - The Princess Bride (1987)

"PENARTH ART GALLERY." Tommy cleared his throat before speaking to the operator on the telephone. He pulled a long drag off his cigarette as he waited, even though he knew his call would lead to no avail. He hasn't heard back from her in hours. It wasn't even that difficult of an instruction: reach back to him with her mind made up once she finished her errand in Camden town. Either Teresa forgot, was abducted, killed, or she never kept true to her word when she agreed to phone him. Tommy needed a response so desperately. It had been a while since the vendetta began, and he doubt he would be spared a second to take a deep breath before the Changretta mob comes in to take them out by surprise. He needed an answer now.

No response. He slams the receiver shut, almost nearly breaking the telephone, and sighs. If Tommy had to pick up and reach the operator, the same response of no communication on the other end of the line would come up once more. No point.

Groaning in exhaustion, Tommy rubs his nose bridge as Polly walks in, noticing him leaning back in his chair.

"I told you," she says. "she won't come back."

Tommy grunts. "She will. Just give it a few hours."

"We gave her a day, Tommy. Now we're giving her a few hours?" Polly slams Tommy's diary containing weekly schedules & anything important jotted in black ink, each were separated with a blank box. She flipped to the bookmarked page that highlighted one day of the week, a star coloured in the margins. She jabs a finger on it. "The boxing match. We're losing time."

"Yes, Pol. I'm aware," Tommy says, annoyed. It's not like he wasn't giving Aberama Gold's son a dream of being a boxing champion and possible boxing career in exchange for extra hands to have blood on them in a vendetta. "And what other things I'm aware of that you have to tell me?"

"Are you also aware that Teresa Griffith is no walk in the park—"

"Neither of us are, Polly."

"Are you aware that Teresa Griffith is no walk in the park," Polly repeated her sentence, sternly this time, "and that begging for her help is no use? We've got what we already need, why do you still need her? You miss her?"

"Teresa will reach out to Luca Changretta."

"For what? A fuck while he isn't looking?"

"I've dug deeper, Pol. He's scavenging for things to claim in all of Britain. If he'll start with Alfie Solomon's business, that means he's not shy to come after Teresa's. The Penarth art gallery will be signed under the Changretta name so she will try to withdraw the unjust negotiation, which will give us more time to reach out to Michael's updates before Bonnie and Goliath will face each other in the ring." Tommy slammed his diary, brushing off his wonder on how Polly was able to gain access to it in the first place when it's usually Lizzie who technically is only allowed to touch it.

Polly stared at him with a hint of dread.

"What is it?"

Frustrating as it is, Polly really didn't have the answer to pinpoint. "I read her tea leaves before she walked out on us. It said she'll lose what she loves the most."

"What or who?"

"I couldn't tell. But I imagine it being her new chapter. But now it makes much more sense. She'll lose the gallery, perhaps."

Tommy leans forward to look up closer to Aunt Polly. "So like I said, give it a few hours. I know she will come back. I doubt she keeps a handgun in her glove compartment anymore. I'll ensure her safety and keep the gallery up under her name. She needs us just as much as we need her."

Polly let out a small sigh, collecting the heavy-weighted diary to carry out with her through the same way she came in. Let's hope...

Returning to Penarth was a relief. Teresa was far away from the next person who could get on her last nerve, unless one of the tour guides or management decides to point out a small circumstance to the owner, but the Welsh woman found comfort and bliss when she looks up at a painting made by an iconic artist that speaks through their canvas.

"We should really put up more exit signs, Miss," one of the tour guides said to Teresa as they walked down the halls together. "some of the guests have been getting lost with the new corridors. And they were wondering about the empty room upstairs?"

"I've spoken to people from Nice. They loved what we did with the exhibition and they want to place up more paintings, so I saved some extra room."

"On... the second floor?"

"Why not?" Teresa shrugs. "We've set up enough for the main floor, second floor should be okay as well." And she walked down the opposite direction, hoping the tour guide wasn't gonna follow her and object the display plans.

"Miss Griffith," an exhausted employee rushes over to her, clearly out of breath from searching around the entire building for one woman. "Your office is being blown up with phone calls from Birmingham."

Teresa frowns. Did Mr. Shelby not take the hint already?

"Shall I leave a message?"

"Just ignore it. Probably someone looking to pest. We've no time for that," Teresa let out a sigh, continuing down the way she meant to go through, passing a couple of guests who read each art piece like a picture book. She had to frown again. The least she could do was answer one phone call from the man, say the word and he'd leave her be. Ignoring him would push him towards her even more.

Teresa rested her walking by standing in front of the painting. The painting, to emphasize—the one Luca pointed out to her when they first met. She hadn't looked at it in so long. Every time she passed that wall, she just had to avoid making eye contact. How ridiculous it is to look away from art, which is the opposite of the common reaction. But it was a painting only Teresa felt like a curse. Teresa doubted Luca even cared about what the painting was, since his excuse to reel her attention was to poke fun about what she loved. If only she could gain that much luck of approval to remove the piece off of that wall with her bare hands. Disrespectful and unprofessional, yes. But if she had the chance to, she would do it.

Now his voice spoke just as loud as the form of the oil painting. You were just another woman.

Teresa shook her head. It was indeed an awkward encounter, and if she had to describe it; maybe it was a heartbreak about another.

It doesn't matter anymore. Luca is here on business, to kill the man whose phone calls you're ignoring, but that is okay. You're not a Peaky Blinder. It's time to turn around and move on...

She did turn around actually, just to be greeted with another familiar face.

"Finn?"

SHE had to chuckle in disbelief. Seeing Finn holding a cigarette in his hand so casually just proves that he was no stranger to the addicting habit. He was the youngest of the family and Teresa used to chase him around the streets in a game of tag. He was much shorter than she was, voice higher, and after watching them, he mimicked the little things his older brothers did, even though it was dangerous for a young boy like him to fully understand.

"Do they know that you're here?" Teresa took a puff out of hers.

"Arthur sent me," Finn replied.

Teresa rolls her eyes. "Right," she mutters under her breath. She kicked a few rocks on the large paved steps that laid out as the entrance of her gallery. "Don't tell me. You're here to scold me for ignoring Tommy. It's not like I don't get migraines from my telephone ringing so fucking much."

"Why are you avoiding him, Teresa? Even when you were at the Garrison, agreeing to let Tommy fill you in on what needs to be done. He would of thought you got shot, otherwise."

"I went to Camden and then came back here."

"Without giving him a final decision?"

"He should get the hint by now. Is that bastard so desperate for a decoy? I doubt the Italians would fall for another trap." That was another thing she was informed about. Polly and Tommy's plan was a semi-success, however Luca Changretta is still alive, and his blood must be boiling because of how much time he had wasted sparing Michael's life when he had the chance to shoot him in cold blood.

"Luca Changretta will come after Alfie Solomons' business, as he will yours," Finn says. "He will come here and make you hand it over to his family or he will kill you. Whether he does that before or after killing us all, it will happen sooner or later."

Typical Luca. If he really thought she was just another woman, he would definitely threaten her over her business. "Did Tommy tell you to say all of that?" she chuckled.

Finn shrugs. "Maybe. But it's good that you know now. So, that gives you a valid reason to help?"

Teresa grinned. "The last time I saw you, you wore tiny suspenders, even your shoes were tiny. I could of lifted you like a doll from a toy store. Look at yourself, Finn."

"I can't, that's physically impossible."

"Finn, all grown up!" Teresa teases, using her hand to pinch together his rosy cheeks.

Finn groans in annoyance, rubbing his cheek to sooth the stinging pain after shoving her hand off him. "Fuck's sake, Teresa! We need you! You were big help when you were last with us, and you can still be the big help. Seriously, you're all our last bet."

"Tell Tommy I need more time to think about it."

"Teresa, there isn't any more time. We're out of it. We need a solid answer now."

"You guys did fine without me. Am I still being used a distraction? What if Tommy wants me as a mole?"

"He won't. That's not something we do often, most of the time it doesn't end up working out."

"Finn..." Teresa shook her head, taking him seriously this time. "I can't help kill Luca Changretta. I thought about it but I promised to never get involved with the Peaky Blinders, or anything that would paint me as a criminal. If things didn't happen the way it did, I would of said yes without a second thought."

Finn furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

She let out a soft sigh, hoping the pain would burn out like the end of her cigarette. "Because I knew Luca. He and I were once lovers."

+ basically,,,,, teresa wants to help but at the same time she doesn't want to help lmfaoo.

[scullysexual]

Jewel Sequel: Chapter Two.

There’s been a change of plan. I was originally gonna get this out on the weekend (so it had a similar system to what Jewel had) but then I finished it and edited it today so the post day will either be late Wednesday/early Thursday and hopefully I’ll be able to stick to that schedule. Hi, hello, if you’re new to this. This can arguably be classed as a ‘Titanic au’ still cause it exists within that universe. This is a sequel to that and it is highly recommended to read A Jewel Beneath The Moonlight first, it’s not long, it’s thirteen chapters and if you’ve read my stuff before you’ll know my chapters/one shots are never long. You won’t regret reading it either. It’s been a while since I’ve been in this universe but most wanted me to continue with it so here you go. I do really hope you enjoy this as much as you did Jewel. If you have any questions, feel free to ask them :)

Tagging: @baronessblixen @suitablyaggrieved @purrykat @today-in-fic. As usual, let me know if you want to be tagged in future chapters. 

Link to Chapter One.

Scully sighs in frustration as she turns the pages of the newspaper. It was the third one she had picked up so far and nothing; nobody advertising for any job, nobody looking for extra help.

She places the newspaper back on the rack, her hand hovering over the next before…

“We’re not a library. If you’re going to look through it, you better pay for it.”

Scully looks up to see an old man peering down at her from his stall.

Reluctantly, she leaves the fourth paper where it is and saunters over to the counter.

“Yes?” the man asks, warily.

“I was wondering if there had any job requests,” Scully answers, her elbows coming up to lean on the counter.

The man eyes her cautiously. “What kind of job?”

“Nanny, housekeeper, that sort of thing,” she shrugs.

With one last careful glance towards her, Scully watches with apprehension as he pulls a piece of paper off the wall and hands it to her.

“The Burkes came in a few weeks ago saying they were looking for a new housekeeper. They never came back to tell me they found someone so you can always check there.”

Scully looks at the yellowing paper. The address was not of a place she had heard of but it sounded upper class enough for them to have money so it was good enough for her.

“Thank you,” Scully says, exiting the shop. Too busy still reading the paper, she misses the sign If you read, you buy the man tapes onto the newspaper rack.

   Three knocks and she’s stepping back, praying that her appearance is presentable enough for this family to consider her.

Physical appearance had been everything with the other family; hair up, clothes tucked in, and not a single curl out of place. Scully’s curls always fell out of place, regardless.

She hears barking from the other side of the door and smiles. They have a dog.

Out the way, Bruce, she also hears before the door is opening and a boy no older than herself stands before her.

“Uh…can I help you?” the boy asks.

Smiling (just as she had been taught) Scully begins,

“Hi, uh…there was a housekeeper request made and I was wondering if it was still open?” She extends the note towards the boy and he looks down at it, looking as if he’s unsure as to what it is or what to do with it for a second before he’s taking it from her.

“Uh, yeah…just, hold on a minute.”

Scully nods, still smiling, as the door is placed on the latch and waits for him to return.

To say she was disappointed to being back in this position again perhaps wasn’t right. She knew even four months ago that there would have to be an adjustment period, and while her future turned out differently than she imagined before stepping onto the ship, career-wise, it wasn’t entirely off target.

The four months she had been here was really about allowing Mulder to settle. She knows how much of a drastic change this is for him, how important it was for her to be there when he came home every evening- she was his only familiarity anymore, after all- but Scully couldn’t shake away the feeling that maybe she had pushed her dreams too far back, all just to accommodate Mulder.

Had she still been here with Charlie, they would have found the swing of things fairly early on; him at some construction site, her in some upper-class house. And she wouldn’t have to try and get the weekend off.

Charlie…

It still stung to think of her brother.

The door reopens to an older woman, late 30s Scully assumes, holding the note Scully gave to the boy.

The woman looks her up and down. “You’re the help?” she asks, distastefully.

“Aye, ma’am,” Scully nods.

The woman sighs defeatedly. “I suppose you’re better than nothing.” She opens the door the little wider to allow Scully entrance. “Well, come on, then.”

Scully enters and immediately the dog bounding towards her, curious as to who this intruder is. She laughs as the gold Labrador slobbers all over her skirt, not minding at all as she pets the top of his head.

“Edward!” Mrs Burke shouts towards the rooms leading off. The boy who answered the door exits out of the nearest doorway. “Take the dog somewhere else.”

Edward moves towards the dog, gripping it by the collar and tugging it away from Scully. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly.

“You won’t need to worry about the dog,” Mrs Burke says, shutting the front door. “That’s Edward’s job. What did you say your name was?”

“Ingrid Brevik,” Scully answered.

The woman smiles slightly, a smile that tells Scully the woman knows she’s lying.

“You’re real name.”

Scully hesitates for a moment. They had been using their fake names since they got here, every new person they met they introduced themselves as Leif and Ingrid and nothing was said on the matter. Even when they had got to Ellis Island, they had been allowed to pass through immigration fairly easily.

“If will remain within this household if you’re scared,” Mrs Burke reassures.

And maybe Scully was scared. What if they knew the Mulders had been her first thought, was always her thought when meeting anybody. Scully knew first-hand what vultures these people were.

But what if not all of them were? Mulder certainly wasn’t.

“Dana Scully,” Scully finally answers.

Mrs Burke nods, “That sounds more like it. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Scully gets a tour of the house. It’s easy enough to navigate, give her two days and she’ll be able to walk around with her eyes closed.

She’s finally led to where she’ll be staying. A room in the basement. Minimum furniture; a single bed, a set of drawers yet the added bonus is the small bathroom attached. The last house hadn’t had a bathroom and Scully had been forced to use the one they had outside.

“You’ll work from six to nine every day. Dinner is usually served at seven. Any meals you have are to be had after we’ve eaten. Yes?”

Scully nods.

“Any questions?”

Scully fumbles with her fingers, unsure of how to proceed.

“Um…I have one request, actually.” The woman looks at her, waiting. “Can I have Saturday to Sunday off?”

  An agreement was made. Monday to Friday she would work, for half the wage.

Scully hadn’t tried to bargain with Mrs Burke. She hadn’t been too impressed with Scully’s request but had granted it anyway once Scully explained Mulder. She may not have been truthfully honest, Mulder was far from inept and she had no doubt he could take care of himself if it really came down to it but needs must.

Now she had the task of actually telling Mulder, something she had been dreading since this idea first came to mind. Five days a week Mulder would have to learn to live without her which meant he had a few new skills to learn.

Scully braces herself at the sound of the door unlocking. It opens to reveal Mulder, worn out and dropping his sketchbook onto the floor. He looks over to her, smiling tiredly, taking off his shoes.

“Long day?” she asks.

Mulder smiles in agreement, placing the money jar on the table. Scully’s eyes fall to it and widen when she realises what sits inside.

A dark green dollar bill.

She brings the jar towards her, twisting off the cap.

Mulder is full smiles now, pulling out the opposite chair and sitting down.

“Took a bit of convincing, but I managed to con them into giving that over.”

She looks up at him disapprovingly. “Mulder! We agreed you weren’t gonna use any deceitful tactics.”

“Look, I only did it the once, and look what it got us,” he points to the bill she holds in her hand. “I promise I won’t do it often.”

Scully sighs, placing the note back into the jar and pushing it out of the way. “You won’t have to. I got a job.”

Mulder stares at her in surprise. “Really? Where?”

She slides the note she got from the newspaper stall over to him.

“It’s just a housekeeper. I work Monday to Friday but I get to be home for the weekend.” She smiles, hoping it’ll lift his spirits.

Mulder stares glumly at the note. “You won’t be here for five days.”

She reaches her hand out, grasping his. “But I get to be home every weekend, that’s something right?”

Mulder shrugs, his fingers playing with hers. “When do you start?”

Scully looks down at their entwined hands. “Monday.”

“Monday?” Mulder exclaims. “But what’s in two days.”

“Well, it’s better than starting tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Mulder looks glumly down at their hands. “I guess,” he mumbles. “Scully, how am I meant to survive five days without you here?”

Scully smiles, “I’ll teach you how to cook. That should keep you alive.” Another thought passes through her mind then, one she hadn’t thought about before this moment.

“Mulder, will you be okay at night? You know, with the nightmares and that?”

She watches him think for a moment, a flash of panic crossing his face. Often their nightmares consisted of something happening to the other, or just a memory of what happened that night, and when they would wake up, the other’s presence would soothe them, allow them to go back to sleep knowing the other was safe and alive next to them. With them both being separated, there was a worry that that safety, that comfort wouldn’t be there anymore.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, trying to sound like he was convincing them both. “What about you? I know you have them, too.”

Scully tried to be less vocal about hers. Sometimes, Mulder’s dreams would have her waking up- usually because Mulder’s woke her up- sometimes it was the only way he could really go back to sleep if he knew she was really alive. Scully would just cuddle closer to Mulder, listen to his breathing and fall asleep that way.

She grasps his hand tighter. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

It was going to be strange, being away from each other for so long. They had been in each other’s company since the day they met. They have never gone a day since that day without seeing each other at some point during the same day. Scully just prayed Mulder would be able to manage without her.

[thecollinhartman-blog]

Collin’s Coronavirus Thoughts

Corona Diaries

 I know what you are thinking. It is Day 4 of the Quarantine and Social Distancing and Collin has gone so crazy without all the busy-ness of life that he is writing a blog post. And you would be absolutely correct. Like every other millennial twenty-something, I have a lot of really great ideas that haven’t quite come to fruition. By now I thought I would be operating a volleyball facility, or traveling the US in a VW van driving for Uber, or pursuing a PhD program in England while playing volleyball, or coaching a small college team in Southern California.

All this to say I’m a big-time dreamer and a mostly incredibly poor “executer”. I often mistake my busy-ness for full-ness. I have seven unread books on my night stand, I haven’t been grocery shopping in weeks, I never got around to painting the trim in the bathroom my dad and I remodeled, my phone hasn’t been at full charge since November, and there has been an overflow of recycling sitting outside my house from the garbage disposal and mattress I got for Christmas… and now it’s March. Welcome to it, friends.

 Let’s start here: I stopped by my parents’ house this week to print something – which I often do because I have a lot of printing needs but haven’t ever purchased a printer. It’s nice because I can print some papers I need AND I can always count on cool ranch Doritos and a Mango Orange Crystal Lite…. that I’ll likely take one sip of, leave on the counter, and finish when I’m there 4 days later.

 Anyway, here I am printing in my dad’s office and running late for a meeting  (all because I napped for too long). I rush out the door of the house, accidentally leaving one document on the printer, pens and paper everywhere, and a cupboard desk drawer open. A few minutes later, my dad sends me a picture of his office, which was without a doubt entirely put together five minutes prior to me being there. The tone of his text is sarcastic but loving but semi-annoyed which I can handle. I spend six seconds feeling bad about my reckless and disorganized self until Hillsong’s Highlands comes on the radio and I turn it up. I don’t spend time reflecting on things that would make me sad, I’m a 7.

 In the midst of my frantic printing and meeting prep, my dad told me he was going to call me “F-5”as my new nickname. By the look on my face, he could tell I was confused as to why. He begins to tell me that tornados are classified in F-0 through F-5 categories, with an F-5 tornado being the wildest in nature. My quick google search defines an F-5 tornado as the most “violent damage, homes lifted off foundation and carried considerable distances, autos thrown as far as 100 meters.” I think what my dad was trying to say is that my general way of life is to rampage my way through different spaces, groups, situations… often times in an assertive, proactive, somewhat wild, chaotic way and then just… leave (I think this how I drive too). Stop go stop go stop go. I go from this thing right on to the next without pause. I show up, jump out of my car, race to wherever I’m supposed to go, be (mostly) present there until BOOM, it’s a Monday evening and I’m in the Eagle gym, shutting off all the lights, gathering volleyballs, turning on the alarm, leaving for Young Life – all in an attempt to get there three minutes before it starts so I can prep items for the game I’m leading ALLLLL before being interrupted in the parking lot by a mom of a U11 kid who is reminding me (probably for the 3rd time) about the t-shirt they ordered and are waiting on. Following? Me neither.

 In short – my life actually is like an F-5 tornado. I run run run from one thing to the next, filling my world to the brim with as much as I possibly can all until I arrive back at my house at 10:30 pm, gas light on, eat whatever I can find in the fridge before my head hits the pillow 4 minutes later, only to set my alarm and do it again.

 I’ve been living my life like this for a really long time until…. well until Sunday when we got the news that school is cancelled, which means volleyball activities are all cancelled too, and Young Life gatherings paused and suddenly my wild Monday is WIDE OPEN.

 This blog post / journal / diary is my attempt to articulate from my squirrel brain some things I’ve learned about myself in the last 48 hours since this craziness called coronavirus officially stopped my (and probably your) collective world right in their F-5 tornado tracks.

 First, let me tell you about my day today paint a picture of how my world feels just a bit (LITERALLY ENTIRELY) different…..

 1)    I didn’t set an alarm and I woke up at 8:30 am.

2)    Shortly after, I went on a quick walk to the nearest coffee shop and ordered a Misto: I am on my journey to black coffee and I just graduated from a latte to this half coffee half milk concoction (with caramel) and I feel accomplished.

3)    I stopped by my neighbor friend’s house to say hello.

4)    I got home, cleaned a couple things around the house, washed a couple plates in my sink, and went on a bike ride to downtown Boise where I enjoyed a takeout lunch from Whole Foods. I would like to tell you that I rode my bike home, but a friend happened to see me and my girlfriend (she is working remotely from Utah and visiting right now) saw us and somehow realized the journey completely uphill from downtown to my house on the bench might not be all that fun so we piled our bikes in her car and she took us home.

5)    I took a 20 minute snoozer.

6)    I got up and did some yard work outside, gathering pine needles from underneath my big backyard tree and finally broke down those big boxes that have been sitting outside my house for months and was able to fit them all inside my recycling can.

7)    It started to drizzle so I came inside, crawled under a big blanket and read the first couple chapters of Prodigal God by Timothy Keller.

8)    Kinslie and I then stopped by the store to pick up some things for dinner and I grilled some steaks and shared a giant salad and some grilled asparagus.

9)    After a few girl scout cookies (they stopped by yesterday), we watched the last half of Ellen’s Game of Games and picked a movie on Netflix.

10) Now I’m lying in my (perfectly made) bed (because I had the time to make it) writing all my thoughts down in a word document wondering if I’ll actually post this or if there is really anything of worth that I’m typing. I think there is but not sure yet.

 Well, friends of the interwebs, you might be wondering why you just read a detailed list of my day from start to finish. Here’s what I want you to know.

 1)    Upon arriving at the coffee shop, I had a cheerful silly conversation with the barista about what drink I should order as we laughed about me wanting to eventually enjoy drip coffee. We engaged in authentic dialogue for a few minutes and on the way out I thanked her for the drink recommendation.

2)    Before leaving for our bike ride, my tires were flat so we walked them to the gas station and filled up with six quarters before we went on our merry way. I empathized with the Chevron employee as we talked about coronavirus and how it might impact our lives. I wished him well and went on my way.

3)    While bikeriding downtown I noticed there are five…. FIVE… different types of massage or spa places between my house and Curtis, which is the next main stop light.

4)    At Whole Foods, I asked the clerk their favorite pasta salad as she walked over and told me all about the 2 for $6 deal. I noticed the different textures of the floor and the neatly stacked chairs and how the vegetables were perfectly arranged in their place.

5)    While doing yardwork, I stopped and looked at Kinslie as she was raking leaves into a pile. I went over and looked, I mean REALLY LOOKED into her eyes and noticed how the Irish green edges melt into a light sky-ish blue before meeting her pupil. I noticed the way she parted her wavy blonde hair and the way it fell just barely over the sweatshirt she was borrowing of mine.  I noticed how thankful I was I had someone to share this day with and even more thankful for her idea to do this yardwork that surely wouldn’t have been started for maybe forever.

6)    While reading, I noticed the way the soft sunshine pressed through my semi-open blinds onto my page and made the black ink pop off the page. I contemplated Keller’s words of Pharisees and tax collectors and a story of two sons on their journey of deeper understanding of God’s steadfast love and grace in the midst of their own struggles.

7)    While making dinner I couldn’t help but take just a little extra time to delicately cut each cucumber and carrot slice with care as I heard sounds of clattering branches from my cracked window as dusk began to settle in.

8)    And while writing this blog post, I can’t help but notice all the things I noticed in my own world for perhaps the first time.

 While I can’t be sure what life will look like in a few short days, weeks, or even months, and while I’m not positive what my income will be, and what daily routines or rituals will be impacted, or how our schools and communities will be changed – I can be sure of this: I hope in the midst of my crazy F-5 tornado life that surely will be back in busy routine before I know it – I hope for a couple things.

 I hope I can continue notice the little things. To notice the wildly interconnected, perfectly-timed, awe strikingly beautiful, crazy detailed, little details of this world like the way I noticed the lines on the fresh steaks as I pulled them off my garage sale grill.  

 I hope to breathe deep and see, I mean REALLY see the world around me, to engage in relationship in more authentic and honest ways, to stop for a moment wherever I am to truly connect with the people around me.

  I hope to take my time through a home cooked meal, and to not be so filled with anxiousness and fear of the future and unknown that I my eyes are blinded to see the way God is working in and through my (and our) world, possibly even through something like the freaking COVID-19.

 While I’m sure there will be more lessons to be learned in the next little while, I challenge you to take a couple moments to really press in and reflect upon the way this Zombie apocalyptic ish tirade is impacting your world. I truly hope in the midst of empty toilet paper shelves and hand sanitizer hoarders there is something beautiful in your world that you’ve noticed, too.

[nikxation]

“I can’t do this without you” with the stan twins

Stanclimbs out of the Diablo with a groan, his back aching and his knees popping ashe stands upright and slams the car door closed behind him. There’s not enoughstretching in the world that can fix being stuck in a car for almost 9 hoursstraight, but he still tries his damnedest, leaning back enough that his spinelets out a satisfying crack andgiving his neck a few rolls to get out some of the kinks. It helps ease theaches and pains a little, but he knows from experience that he’ll be prettysore for the next few days once he gets home.

Butit’s worth it.

Shermie’s house is still just asboring as ever. Same two-story villa painted the same boring tan color as therest of the houses on the block with the same manicured lawn and the samesteep-ass driveway leading up to the garage. It’s the picturesque suburbanhome, complete with the cul-de-sac of identical houses lining the perfect,pot-hole free road. The air smells slightly of dew and exhaust, one of thethings he still doesn’t miss about living in urban cities, and the ground iswet save for the dry patches underneath the four other cars in the driveway,meaning they probably just missed one of California’s infamous winter showers.

Stan buries his hands in thepockets of the Christmas sweater Mabel knitted him, trying to take the edge offthe slight chill in the air. A quick scan of the house’s windows shows nofluttering curtains or grinning faces, meaning they haven’t been spotted yet.He reaches a hand out of his pocket and gives the roof of the Diablo a quickrap.

“Come on Sixer, hurry it up,” hecalls, walking around to the front of the car. “We’re already runnin’ late, andShermie ain’t gonna appreciate us making the whole family wait even longer.” Hestops in front of the car, looking in at his brother sitting in the passengerseat, still nose-deep inside some book on integrated circuits. He pats the hoodof the car, making Ford jump and glare up at him. Stan waves at him and motionstowards the house, mouthing “let’s go” at the other man.

“I’ll be just a minute,” Ford says,his voice muffled, already sliding back behind his book. “Go in without me. Ineed to finish this chapter.”

“Nuh-uh. No you don’t,” Stan says,coming around to the passenger side of the car, unceremoniously yanking thedoor open, and grabbing the book out of the other man’s hands.

“Stanley! I was reading that!” Fordprotests, reaching to grab the book right as Stan moves it out of his reach.

“Not anymore, nerd,” Stan says, crackingthe back door just enough to drop the book on the back seat and close it again.“Book time’s over. Let’s go.”

“Just a few more minutes, I wasgetting to a really good part,” Ford says, turning in his seat to reach behindhim. Stan opens and slams the back door again, the warning having the intendedeffect as Ford freezes.

“It’s integrated circuits. There is no ‘good part’,” Stan deadpans. Fordis still frozen part-way turned around in his seat, one arm braced against theback of the seats. Stan nudges him with his knee. “Come on. Out of the car.” Forddoesn’t move, his face turned away from him, giving no indication oracknowledgement that Stan had spoken. Stan nudges him again. “Bro?” Ford whipsaround in his seat, facing him so suddenly that the movement makes Stan flinch.

“Are you sure Shermie said he didn’tneed us to pick up anything?” Ford asks, a certain tension in his voice. “I’msure we still have time to run to the—”

“Nope,” Stan says. “He told me notto bring anything. Man doesn’t trust me after the last time I brought food andeveryone that ate it got sick.”

“What about drinks?” Ford says,eyes glancing momentarily to the side and then down. “We could probably run andgrab another pack of Pitt Cola. I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt—”

“We’re not going to the store,Ford,” Stan says calmly, leaning forward so that arms are crossed on thedoorframe, resting his head down on them so that he’s looking in at Ford who isstill glancing around nervously.

“Did you remember to grab Mabel andDipper’s presents?” he asks.

“They’re in the trunk.”

“What about our suitcases?”

“With the presents in the trunk.”

“Do we have the anomaly detectionapparatus?”

“In your suitcase.”

“What about the back-up batteries?”

“In my suitcase.”

“Well… Maybe we should run by thegas station and fill up the Diablo really fast,” he tries. “It’s a bit warmerhere than in Oregon, and I know the seal on the gas cap has a bit of a leak, soaccounting for the humidity in the air and the extra heat absorbed by the car’spaint, the gasoline will evaporate out at a rate of approximately one hundred-thousandthof a cubic meter per hour, and I know you like to drive until it’s almost emptybut I think—”

“Ford…”

“Plus the weather is wonderful, soI think we should just sit out here and enjoy it a little—”

“Ford…”

“Actually, I think we left the ovenon, we better drive back and check.” He re-buckles his seatbelt, not meetingStan’s eye. “Wouldn’t want the Shack burning down. Let’s go. Right now. No timeto waste.”

Stan just stares down at him, andFord openly avoids looking at him, his eyes plastered straight ahead of him andout the front windshield, his entire body rigid, only moving to reach up andadjust his glasses before putting his hands back down in his lap.

Stan shrugs and shuts the car door,heading around to the driver’s side, hopping back in the front seat, andsticking the keys in the ignition. The car turns-over once before revving tolife, and he pretends not to notice Ford’s slack-jawed expression as the otherman stares at him.

“Really? Just like that?” Ford asks,absolutely incredulous.

“Just like that,” Stan confirms,throwing the car in reverse and inching back down the driveway. “You wanna goback home? Then we’ll go back home.”

“I didn’t say—”

“Sure, Shermie will be prettydisappointed, but he’ll get over it,” Stan says, foot still pressing lightly onthe brake, letting the car roll down the driveway inch by inch. “Mabel’ll probablybe upset for a few weeks. I know she’s been lookin’ forward to this. Dippertoo. But I’m sure they’ll understand. We don’t want the shack to burn downbecause we left the oven on, right?”

“Uh…”

“And I know Sue and Dave have been dying to finally meet the man the kidshave been raving about since the summer. But they can wait a little longer. Whocares if this is your first Christmas back in thirty years? There’ll be more,right? Maybe we can try again next year when you’re—”

“Stanley, stop the car,” Fordsighs. Stan obliges, the car lightly bumping to a halt halfway down thedriveway. Stan turns and raises and eyebrow at his brother.

“What? You finally remember turningoff the stove?”  he asks sarcastically.Ford buries his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses. “Ormaybe you thought of something we need to buy from the store?”

“Okay, okay, Iget it,” he sighs. “You can stop now.”

“Or maybe your mathwas wrong, and the gasoline is gonna evaporate out of the gas tank in sixtyhours instead of sixty-seven?” Ford snorts, his face still in his hands.

“Yeah, that wasa stretch,” he admits.

“You bet yourass it was,” Stan says, throwing the car in park, the thing jolting as he letsoff the brake and it settles on the steep incline of the driveway. “So, you wannatell me what all that stalling was about? Or do you wanna finish that fascinating chapter on the new dopingmethods of P-type semi-conductors?” Ford groans, running his hands down hisface and then tipping his head back against the headrest with a small smile.

“God, I don’teven remember the last fifty pages of whatever I was reading about,” he says,snorting as he shakes his head, his hair mussing against the seat-back. “I’msuch a wreck.”

“I’d beconcerned if you weren’t,” Stan says, turning in his seat to face him. “It has been thirty years, Sixer.” Ford justshakes his head, his eyes closed and a sad little smile on his lips.

“Thirty years,”he muses, breathing in a deep breath through his nose before letting it out witha chuckle. “Feels like it was all a lifetime ago.”

“I’d say,” Stanagrees. “You try spending that time trying to convince everyone I’m you, andthen we can talk.” Ford laughs, but it’s a small, sardonic thing, no real mirthin the noise, just a sad acknowledgement of the series of events that madetheir lives what they are today, of all the time they lost, not just after hefell in the portal.

“Hey,” Stan says,getting Ford’s attention with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Ford rolls his headto the side to look at him, the back of his hand still pressed against the headrest.“If you’re not ready to go in there yet, I totally understand. It’s a lot, andI get that it seems real overwhelming, ‘specially right now. Everyone’s gonnahave questions, and there’re gonna be a lot of difficult conversations to behad, and it’s not gonna be all sunshine and rainbows contrary to what Mabelwould have us believe.” That earns him a small, genuine smile, Ford’s eyesgrowing momentarily distant, probably thinking about the kids if Stan had toventure a guess. He knows they really grew on Ford in the short time they weretogether over the summer, and they were both looking forward to getting to seethem again. He gives Ford’s shoulder a light squeeze, pulling him back. “I can’t do this without you, bro. Notagain.” He remembers those first few years, after the portal incident, when hehad to walk into family dinners like this one alone and afraid. Afraid that someonewould find him out, afraid that he’d slip up, afraid that he’d say somethingstupid, afraid that he’d have to explain that he once again managed to ruin hisbrother’s life, and that this time he wasn’t sure if there was any way to saveit. The first few years were so hard, having to look at his Ma and pretendeverything was okay, having to watch them cry at his own funeral, having to alwayswear six-fingered gloves until he faked the surgery, always having to lie cuz Lord knows that’s what he seemsto do best—

“Stan?” Fordsays softly. It snaps him back to the present, his mind going through momentarywhiplash as he forces himself to remember that he’s not alone anymore, that hedoesn’t have to lie anymore, that everything is alright now, and Ford is home where he belongs.

“If ya don’t wannago in there, we can leave right now,” Stan says, holding his brother’s gaze. “I’llfigure out somethin’ to tell Shermie and the kids; they’ll live. I just don’twant you doin’ anything you’re not quite comfortable with yet. I’ll beperfectly happy either way. It’s all up to you. Whatever you want to do.”

Ford stares athim for a moment, his eyes searching Stan’s own, before he turns and glances atthe house ahead of them, his expression perfectly neutral, practiced. Stan putshis foot on the brake and his hand on the gear stick, ready for whatever Forddecides.

It seems like along while, though in reality it was probably only a minute or two, before Fordfinally speaks, his voice stronger, more determined than Stan would haveexpected.

“Wherever we go,”he says, almost seemingly to himself, “we go together.” He turns to Stan, givinghim one more searching look, before nodding his head. “I’m ready.”

Stan smiles,throwing the car back into drive and coasting back up the driveway, Fordlooking more determined than he thinks he’s ever seen him. Stan can’t help butfeel a little proud of him.

He puts the carinto park and looks up at the living room window just in time to see two setsof identical eyes disappear behind rustling curtains, the front door barreling openonly moments later.

[rantingfangirl]

Cross Life Chapter Nine

Summary: Moving across the pond was supposed to signify new beginnings for the Kirkland family. Arthur’s parents seemed to take that a bit too literally for his liking.

Chapter Index

This was moved from my old account

Arthur tapped his foot as he scanned through the Sea of Fools, looking for a particularly obnoxious one. Of course, Alfred would be late. It was just like him, and Arthur was annoyed with himself for thinking that he would bother to be on time.

Mr. Wang had given an ending time- and a vague one, at that- but he had failed to give a start time. Hell, Alfred would probably show up at fifteen minutes til four, only to check over Arthur's work and leave. He would still collect his extra credit that way, and it's not as if Mr. Wang would believe Arthur if he were to complain. Teachers like him never did, especially if said complaint was concerning a favorite student of theirs.

Arthur decided that he would give Alfred one more minute to arrive before he would leave maybe if he missed multiple sessions, time after time, then Arthur would be able to request a different tutor. That would surely be ideal.

And it wasn't as if Mr. Wang was lacking good students in his class. Earlier that week, when he had been assigned this god-awful torture, Mr. Wang had claimed that Alfred was one of the top performers in the class. One of them. Arthur could always trade him in for another, more cooperative and reliable tutor, and he could use the complaint as extra ammo for his cause.

Maybe he would even get someone who arrives on time.

Sighing, Arthur checked his watch, scowling when he discovered that another two minutes had passed. Two minutes that he could've spent walking home, swimming in his thoughts and solitude. "Speaking with the fairies", as his mother- that vile woman- called it.

Arthur could be mentally writing a story or fantasizing about winning an argument or violently killing his enemies, but no. He had to wait for Alfred F. Jones, who couldn't be bothered to show up to a tutoring session on time. It made Arthur's blood boil, made him want to just say, "Screw it," to everything and just walk away.

But then again, throwing down the towel wouldn't get him back up to an A.

And so Arthur stood there, waiting and waiting. He leaned against the wall to the library, watching and judging people, which, considering that he spent seven precious hours of his day with them, he figured he should be able to do. It was amusing, actually, being able to snort at their obnoxiously colored hair and their wrinkled clothing. He wondered if any of them even bothered to look in the mirror before leaving their houses.

Sure, he knew it wasn't the nicest thing, but it was something to pass the time, which seemed to go slower each time he checked his watch.

Eventually, the hallway cleared out, leaving Arthur alone. It was quiet, to the extent where you could hear a pin drop. Perfect conditions for reading.

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder and onto the tile floor, Arthur sat down, crisscrossing his legs. He cringed, thinking of all the dirt and dust that would be sticking to his pants. He would have to give himself a good pat down when he stood.

Unzipping his backpack, Arthur pulled out his current read, tabbing through the thick pages to where he'd last left off. Vlad had recommended it to him, which meant that it was riddled with vampires and other supernatural creatures, and while that would normally be a turn-off, he was hooked. The story was captivating, the plot unique, and the characters relatable. And though the romance was a bit cheesy, with dramatic love declarations and mush and gush, that was exactly how he liked it. In fiction, anyways.

Arthur reread the previous two paragraphs before moving on to his current one, refreshing his memory. He tapped his feet against the tile, his fingers tightening around the edges of his book and face leaning in as he sped through page after page.

Arthur paid no attention to his surroundings and didn't hear the footsteps as they approached, nor when they stopped. "Hey, Arthur! Sorry for keepin' ya waitin', we were afraid that ya would've left already." Arthur jumped as he was ripped out of his trance, squeaking in surprise. His finger slipped out from the crease, forcing him to scramble to save his spot. It would be a pain in the ass to find again.

After saving his reading experience from doom, Arthur looked up to see who could've begun a conversation so carelessly and haphazardly. He had to admit to himself, as he found Alfred- along with Kiku, damn him- standing in front of him, Arthur couldn't say he was surprised. Of course, it would be them.

Alfred took a step back, his eyes wide, raising his hands in surrender. "Woah... sorry 'bout that. Didn't think I would scare ya that badly."

Tsking, Arthur shook his head with disdain. So he knew that talking to Arthur would frighten him, but chose to go along with it anyway. The nerve of that boy.

With a groan, Arthur stood, pulling his backpack along with him. Making sure his bookmark was in its proper place, Arthur snapped his book shut, returning it to the pocket from whence it came. He flicked his wrist up, checking his watch, before looking up at Alfred. He scowled. "You're twenty minutes late."

Alfred winced, taking in a sharp breath. Kiku stayed silent, just staring at Arthur, and the latter couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. "Eh~, sorry, man. As I was about halfway home- Kiku and I were gonna go over to my house and play video games or somethin' like that- I thought, 'Oh shit, I'm tutorin' Arthur today!' I had completely forgotten! I couldn't just leave ya standin' here, and it's not like I've got yer phone number or anythin', so here we are! Man, ya should've seen it, though. I made such a sharp turn into the school parkin' lot that Kiku went face-first into the window. It was hilarious."

Alfred lifted his hand to touch a slightly red part of Kiku's cheek, but the latter shied away from before Alfred could make contact. Alfred pouted, but for some strange reason, it didn't look genuine. Interesting. Arthur pocketed that little exchange, saving it for later.

Arthur nodded, forcing a lazy smile on his face as he did so. "That must've been a sight to see."

Alfred smiled, his teeth so white Arthur doubted that they were even real. Perhaps they were crowns.

The hallway was silent as Alfred's smile faded, the three waiting for someone to speak. After about a minute, Arthur decided he was done waiting, turning around and walking towards the glass double doors. "Let's try and find a nice table in the corner to sit at."

Alfred snorted as he and Kiku followed, a thump sounded each time his foot hit the carpet. "Why would ya wanna sit in the corner, we're probably gonna be the only ones in-" Arthur glared at him, swiftly cutting Alfred off. Kiku's eyes narrowed at that, his lips pursed into a fine line, but he stayed silent. Good. "Or, y'know, a corner table's fine, too. Perfect, actually."

Yanking open door, Arthur shivered as he stepped into the library. Though it was quickly growing towards the end of September, and many people were now trading in t-shirts for long sleeves and jackets, the school's librarian insisted that the air conditioner be kept on at full blast. while it had been much appreciated at the beginning of the year, when Arthur regularly melted onto the concrete sidewalk, now it was just plain mental.

"Brr! It's hella cold!"

Arthur stopped, turning around. Alfred skittered to a stop against the floor, just barely keeping from running into him. He ran his hands up and down his upper arms, grimacing. Arthur supposed he was regretting his sleeveless shirt and short shorts at that moment.

Giving Alfred a deadpan glare, ignoring Kiku when he took a step closer to the former, he raised an eyebrow. "Hella?"

Alfred stopped, cocking his head to the side and frowning. Arthur thought he looked cute, if only a little bit, but would largely deny it should anyone confront him about it. "Hella."

"Hella."

"Hella."

"What does that even mean?"

"Ya don't know?" Alfred crunched his eyebrows together.

"No, I don't."

Alfred looked shocked at that, his eyes wide. He took a step back, slowly shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what Arthur was saying. He looked almost comical, and Arthur fought to keep a small smirk from cracking on his face.

Arthur made a quick glance towards Kiku. He had yet to say anything, and probably wouldn't the entire tutoring session. Not that it bothered Arthur. He could certainly go without hearing the fool's voice.

Unfortunately, he still had to hear Alfred's.

"Do ya not have an Instagram?"

"Oh, I do." He hadn't had one for long, though. Before, he had never found it necessary, but Vlad thought it quite the opposite. They made him an account during lunch one day, making sure that he followed Vlad and Lukas. Arthur promised the latter that he would follow Mathias when he got to know him better.

"Then how have ya not seen it before! Literally, everyone says it!"

Arthur snorted at that. Ridiculous. "Not everyone. I don't say it. My friends don't say it. My family doesn't say it."

Pouting, Alfred crossed his arms. As he spoke, his voice sounded whiny. Childish. "I don't mean everyone~. It was just an exaggeration! Stop being so serious."

How Alfred managed to go from snarling days before to pouting like a toddler denied a nap would forever be a mystery. Maybe it was because he was with Kiku, and wanted to look good- not that he was at this current moment. Or perhaps Alfred seriously didn't want to lose those extra credit points and college recommendation. Either way, his behavior was odd, almost fake, and it made Arthur curious. If only a little bit.

Moving his hand onto Alfred's shoulder, Kiku pulled him down to his height. Alfred narrowed his eyes, blinking rapidly as Kiku whispered into his ear. He nodded his head, smiling, rubbing and patting the latter's shoulders. "Yeah, okay. I'll come get ya when we're done."

Kiku smiled, glancing at Arthur with a look of subtle distaste. As he walked away, into the maze of the library, Arthur watched him go. "He's quite the character."

Alfred sniffled, a funny look on his face. "Yeah. I guess."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. That was an interesting reaction. He almost wanted to ask what was wrong, but didn't, knowing full well that he wouldn't get the answer that he wanted. If anything, Alfred would tell him to mind his own business, complete with a one-finger salute.

Turning around, he continued his walk to the corner of the library. It was large, shelves and shelves arranged in rows and rows. Much bigger than the ones at his old schools, which Arthur found fantastic. Libraries were wonderful, peaceful places where he could do his two favorite things: read thick hardbacks and stay away from his basket-case family.  The bigger, the better. And the fact that he had to spend an hour and a half with someone like Alfred in such a sacred place...

He would rather swallow his teeth.

They found an empty table that was far away from the air conditioner, Arthur thanking any powerful deity for it. He dropped his backpack onto the dark, dirty carpet, not caring what got on it. Alfred slid his own on the table, scooting it towards the edge.

Unzipping his very back pocket, Alfred pulled out a notebook, textbook, and a folder. He looked up at Arthur, his smile looking forced. "Okay~, where do ya wanna start?"

Sitting down in one of the chairs- plastic and uncomfortable, like all the ones in this school- Arthur took out his own supplies. He didn't know where to start, didn't even want to, but he would be damned if he was going to spend his precious free-time alone with Alfred doing nothing productive.

"Mr. Wang wants me to redo that homework assignment I failed." The man was merciful enough to offer him a second chance, even if that chance came with this.

Alfred winced, his nose and the skin around his eyes scrunching up. "Oh, yeah. Ya did fail that." Narrowing his eyes, he cocked his head to the side, lightly clicking his tongue. "How did ya manage to do that, by the way? To get every single question wrong? I got a hundred percent on that test."

Alfred must've thought that to be an innocent question, simple small talk, because he couldn't possibly be that cruel. To rub Arthur's failure in his face while showing off his own success. Or maybe he was. Maybe he's been aching to mock him since Tuesday morning, or last Friday at the café, or maybe since their confrontation in the parking lot. Perhaps it was Kiku who had put him up to this, as revenge for the scuffle they had on their first meeting. It would just be like that snake to do so.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur clenched his fists. He smiled as best he could, not bothering to hide the venom that dripped from each word as he spoke. "Well, Alfred. Not everyone can have a magical calculator and a protractor swimming around in their thick skulls."

The confusion on his face was infuriating. "I don't have-" He paused, his eyes widening. Leaning back in his chair, Alfred raised his hands in surrender, giving Arthur a shaky smile. "Hey, hey. Sorry 'bout that. I didn't mean it that way."

Yes, he didn't mean it that way. Of course, he didn't. Arthur pulled out his test, scowling at that awful red ink. It stood out so much against the white of the paper, like blood splashed on snow. "Sure, you definitely didn't mean it."

"Yeah, I didn't." Alfred nodded, smiling, obviously not catching the sarcasm that lined Arthur's words. it was an American thing, he had noticed this past couple of months. It made for an amusing game, to see how far he could get without them noticing that he was mocking them.

He usually got pretty far.

Scooting his chair to the side to touch the edge of the table, Arthur flipped the paper horizontally, so that they could both see it. Grabbing two mechanical pencils, he tossed one to Alfred, who caught it with one hand. Alfred looked up, surprised, before breaking into a beaming smile. "Hey! That was a nice throw! Kudos to ya."

Arthur bit his bottom lip, slightly cocking his head to the side. Either Alfred was trying desperately to get in his good graces, to make up for something, or he was genuinely like this. When he wasn't pissed off or being a hair-pulling level of irritating, of course.

He narrowed his eyes, looking Alfred up and down. At his superhero t-shirt, his tanned skin, his glasses- they were new, bright blue plastic instead of the plain wire ones, hair that still reminded Arthur of caramel sweets. His smile, his laugh, the way his skin crinkled as he did both, the dimples that would show. How fake and tired he looked.

It was so obvious, to the point where Arthur couldn't figure out how he didn't notice it before. He knew he couldn't say anything, couldn't ask, unless he wanted to explain. To throw random, half-assed accusations that stemmed from half-assed theories made on the spot. That would only lead to further disaster.

Alfred looked up at him, his eyes wide. In a bout of impulse, Arthur looked away, clicking lead into his pencil. He could feel Alfred staring at him, and spoke without even a simple glance in his direction. "Is there something wrong?"

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Alfred set his hand on the table. From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Alfred shake his head, his hair going into disarray. "Uh... it's nothin', don't worry 'bout it. Ya wanna start?"

As Arthur nodded, Alfred flipped his pencil between his fingers, letting the grip rest on the bump on his index finger. "Let's get started, eh? Um... uh, how 'bout ya show me yer process for each question and we can see where ya went wrong."

Arthur nodded, staring at the paper. As they worked, Alfred finding every single mistake in every single one of Arthur's problems, the gap between their abilities grew even more apparent. The situation with Mr. Vargas earlier this week was nothing compared to Alfred having to explain five times how he got the answer for one problem.

They were barely a quarter way through the paper when Alfred began to grow irritated. His voice was slower, the twang in his accent thicker. Alfred kept smiling though, kept on laughing at his jokes and nodding his head each time Arthur asked him to explain again.

Arthur knew that his bottom lip would be raw by the time they were finished. He had reverted back to his old habit, which, now that he thought about it, never really went away. His hair was smooth and without a single tangle from carding through it, and the thought of how greasy it would be by this evening bothered him.

Sighing, Alfred slammed his pencil against the table. If it cracked, Arthur told himself that he was going to kill him.

"God... why don't ya get this? Even a freshman could learn how to do it, with how much I'm tellin' ya."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes. "Excuse me?"

Alfred sighed, shaking his head. He sat up, rolling his neck back along with his shoulders. Looking up with a particularly pitiful gleam in his eye, he put a hand to his forehead. "I'm- it's just-" He paused, deflating. "I'm sorry."

"Sure you are."

"I am. But this- I just-"

Arthur groaned. Couldn't the idiot just get it out? He crossed his arms, his mood going sour as he watched Alfred try to "save" his ego. He found it a little insulting, actually, that Alfred couldn't be straight and just say that he was awful.

He raised an eyebrow. "If I need to go to Mr. Wang and see if I can get someone else to tutor me-"

"No! Don't, that ain't necessary!"

He looked shocked, fearful, his eyes wide and panicked, his jaw tight and tense. Either the boy really, really wanted that college recommendation, or something else was afoot.

Arthur desperately hoped it was the former. He didn't want to deal with Alfred's angsty drama. Not now, nor in the future.

Which brought Arthur to a mistake of Alfred's that he had just noticed. One that he had to fix at that very second. He cleared his throat before he spoke. "That isn't." Alfred furrowed his brow, cocking his head to the side, waiting for Arthur to clarify. "That isn't necessary. 'Ain't' isn't a word."

Alfred scoffed, rolling his eyes. "It is, too. They've got it in the Oxford Dictionary."

Arthur deadpanned. "I sincerely doubt that."

"Welp. It's true. Google it, why don'tcha?"

"I don't think I will. Rather, I suggest you go back to year two and learn proper grammar-"

"Year two? What in the hell is that?"

Arthur snorted. "Obviously, you can't-"

"Ah, Kiku, you're still here."

Arthur stopped, looking in the direction the voice came from. From the corner of his eye, he could see Alfred tense, muttering something under his breath.

Kiku was sitting at a table adjacent to them, a stack of think books next to him. Arthur hadn't noticed Kiku was there, most likely because he was too busy dealing with his fool of a boyfriend.

As he thought about it, he could see how Alfred and Kiku were such a good couple, as much as he didn't want to admit it. Both were general pains in his ass, hell-bent on making his life as hard as possible. They made him want to pull his hair out, bit by bit, and seemed to make it a hobby to do so.

Standing in front of Kiku, his brown hair was messy, as if he had just woken up and rolled out of bed. He was tall, his tight white t-shirt going barely past his hips and his olive green cargo shorts ending just above his knee. Whoever he was, Kiku was happy- no, elated to see him.

Closing his current book, Kiku set it to the side, a small, warm smile spreading across his face. "Heracles! How are you?" He leaned against the table, his hands folded on top of the veneer.

"Fine, you?" He pulled out the chair across from Kiku, slumping as he slid into it. Heracles had no backpack with him, and Arthur hoped- for the former's sake- that he hadn't been stupid enough to leave it in his locker for the evening. Even Alfred was smart enough to take his home with him every night.

Kiku nodded, offering the same response his friend had. He picked up his stack of books, moving them away to the side, clearing up the space between the two of them. "Do you have time to talk? I'm just waiting for Alfred to finish up what he's doing."

Arthur couldn't help but snort at his subtle diss, biting his bottom lip and ignoring Alfred as he gave him an odd look. He looked confused, which was highly amusing, considering that his boyfriend was the subject.

Heracles soured at the mention of Alfred's name, but Kiku didn't seem to notice. He smiled, and when he spoke, his voice was lazy. Lethargic. "Actually, I was just about to ask you the same thing."

Kiku laughed. Arthur sat back, rapidly blinking. It was the first time he had heard it, and while it was quiet and breathy, it didn't seem to fit him.

Though, if Arthur was being real with himself, it was probably just that he didn't want such an unpleasant person as Kiku to be happy.

Hearing Alfred sigh, Arthur turned back around in his chair, his attention away from Kiku. Cocking his head to the side, he let his curiosity get the best of him. "Heracles?"

Alfred huffed, carding his fingers through his hair. Arthur couldn't tell if it was out of frustration, jealousy, or both. "Heracles Karpusi. He's Kiku's best friend. Well, besides me, of course." He added the last part quickly, his words too fast to be anything casual. Jealousy it was, then.

"And does that bother you, him being so close to your boyfriend?" He rested his cheek against the palm of his hand, raising his eyebrows. Arthur knew he was being nosy, but didn't really care. There was good gossip on the line, gossip that would do great at the lunch table.

Alfred sneered, lightly shaking his head. "What're ya, my therapist?"

He snorted. Even if he was, Arthur would raise his prices through the roof to deal with someone like Alfred. Which, he thought bitterly, he was doing twice a week these days for free, anyways. "No. God, no." He laughed breathlessly. "Just making conversation."

Deflating, Alfred shook his head, a defeated expression on his face. He turned his attention back to Arthur's failed homework, picking up his pencil and swinging it between his pointer and middle fingers. "'Course you were."

Arthur watched as Alfred fixed his hair and surroundings- clearing his calculator, stacking the numerous scratch sheets, etc.- the latter all the while sending glances of various distaste in Heracles' direction.

He looked up at Arthur, and, noticing him staring, stuck his tongue out. Arthur snorted, shaking his head and clicking his tongue at Alfred's childishness.

Picking up his pencil, Alfred bounced his leg, annoyingly causing the table to shake. He had been doing it the entirety of their session, and while Alfred claimed it made him concentrate, it got on Arthur's nerves. "What question were we on again?"

Arthur scowled, deadpanning. They had come away from their task for not even five minutes, and he had already forgotten. Alfred offered a sheepish smile and laugh as a way of an apology, but he ignored it.

"We're on twenty."

He nodded, smiling as if he knew it all along. "Twenty. Right~."

Arthur rolled his eyes, huffing. As they started back up again, he found himself constantly turning around and checking the time on the nearby clock, counting down the minutes until he could finally return to his house.

"Jesus Christ, where is he?" Vlad huffed in frustration, pouting and crossing his arms.

They were sitting at what had quickly become their usual table in the courtyard, their lunch laying on the metal top. The space across from them was empty, Lukas not having yet arrived, to Vlad's ever growing irritation.

And Arthur's, as well.

"I'm sure he's on his way. Lukas is rarely late."

Vlad rolled his eyes, drumming his fingers against the table. He had grown unusually snappy these past few minutes, which could be blamed on the circumstances of today's lunch break. "Yeah. Which is why it's so weird." Vlad froze, his eyes widening to the size of saucers, his mouth gaping. "Wait. Do you think they could be having-"

"And here they are." True, Lukas and his guest had finally walked into the courtyard, but they were far enough away to be out of ear shot. The severe unwant of hearing Vlad finish his sentence was enough for Arthur to point it out, even if it was a pet peeve of his.

As he got closer and closer, Lukas' smile grew wider and wider. Mathias was smiling as well, though it was smaller. Shaky.

Arthur snorted, shaking his head. He was nervous. How cute.

"Guys, this is Mathias." Lukas nodded to him, Mathias smiling and saying his greetings. Arthur watched as the two sat down, grinning at each other as they did so.

Vlad watched as well, a smug smirk spread across his face. He rested his cheek on the palm of his hand, slowly nodding his head. "Oh, we know who Mathias is." Vlad put extra emphasis on his name, his smirk growing into a smile.

Lukas rolled his eyes, tsking. "Stop." He turned to Mathias, who was playing with the holes in the table. The smile Lukas had on his face was nauseating. "Mathias-" he looked up from his fiddling, turning his attention to Vlad and Arthur as Lukas motioned to them. "This is Vladimir Popescu-" Vlad nodded, his smile unwavering, giving his usual introduction spiel. "And this is Arthur Kirkland."

Mathias' smile faded, and Arthur mentally cursed. He had forgotten the vendetta against him since his situation with Alfred- and Antonio for that matter. It was stupid of him to assume that they had done the same.

"Arthur Kirkland? You're Arthur Kirkland?" Mathias' eyes were wide, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Lukas furrowed his brow in confusion, Vlad doing the same, also cocking his head to the side in addition.

"Why're ya lookin' like Arthur like he's the man who savagely murdered yer mother?" Vlad leaned in, hunching over the table.

Mathias perked up, shaking his head and blinking rapidly. He gave the three a bright, reassuring smile, or at least that's what Arthur figured it was supposed to be. "Oh, sorry, it's nothin'." Glancing at Arthur, his smile faded a bit, but was quickly back at full force. "Arthur just has a bit of a reputation at our table."

Arthur nodded, his suspicions having been confirmed. So they knew his name, maybe a general description, -but not his face. Surprising, but, at the same time, not so much. He had made sure to avoid Alfred's friends- especially Antonio, after that cake incident- and rarely saw them outside of lunch, and even that was from afar.

Vlad relaxed, leaning back, a small but wary smile on his face. It was weird, Arthur thought with a tinge of bitterness, that Vlad and Lukas were worried about him, even in such a trivial situation such as this one, when his old friends never were. They never really cared, Arthur just being another person to buy them alcohol and cover for them when a teacher came around the corner. Hell, when he told them that he was moving to America, they didn't care, didn't say so much as a goodbye.

And here he was, two months later, with Vlad looking as if he were prepared to rip a throat out over him. It felt... nice, to have someone feel that way about him.

Lukas smiled, giving Mathias a small laugh and a nod of his head. "I'm pretty sure that Arthur has a reputation everywhere. All of various qualities."

Arthur laughed, tipping his head back, not bothering to confirm how true Lukas was. He looked down, reaching for their lunch- apples and whipped peanut butter- as he listened to the others' reactions. From the corner of his eye, he could see Mathias smiling, hearing him chuckling, though they both seemed forced. As if it was a struggle not to reveal the truth.

As the laughter died down, the smiles beginning to fade, Vlad pounced. "So, Mathias." He grabbed an apple slice, dipping it into the peanut butter and biting into it with a crunch. "What did ya think of yer date? With Lukas? Last Friday?"

Mathias smiled, looking off to the side. His eyes glazed over a little bit, his shoulders relaxing as he most likely relived the memory. Vlad watched, growing impatient, drumming his fingers against his cheekbone. Arthur could hear him tap his foot under the table.

Leaning forward and scooting in, the hard table cut into his stomach. He folded his arms and hunched over the table. Arthur gave Mathias a honeyed smile, one that was nice and sweet. "Oh, yeah. We've only heard Lukas and his gushing."

Lukas tsked, Vlad laughing and clapping his hands. Mathias chuckled, looking slightly uncomfortable, but trying his hardest not to show it.

Looking down, Mathias scratched the back of his neck. He raised his head and smiled, a cocky little grin filled with pearly-white teeth. One of his canines was slightly crooked. From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Lukas double take at his smile, but the former ignored him.

"It was fun. Really fun." His smile grew wider, and he nodded, sure of his answer.

Vlad blinked in a quick succession, leaning back. He laid his hands flat on the table, giving Mathias a surprised smile. "Fun? It was fun. That's all you have to say."

Mathias took in a sharp breath, his face falling. He looked like a kicked puppy, living up to his nickname, his lips pursed into a fine line and eyes filled with... something. Rejection, sorrow, or maybe guilt, he supposed.

Arthur tsked. He was losing his touch.

Rolling his eyes, Lukas put a hand on Mathias' shoulder. He gave his boyfriend a reassuring smile, making Arthur want to gag from the sweetness laced in it. "Mathias, ignore them. They're just protective." He turned to Arthur and Vlad, frowning. "Guys. Y'all need to leave 'im alone."

Mathias shook his head, his freckles scrunching up as he smiled. "Nah, it's fine. I know I'd be protective of ya, too. 'Cause you're just so stinkin' cute."

Lukas smiled, laughing and lightly shoving his shoulder. "Stop." Mathias giggled, strands of his hair falling out of place as he did so. The two shared a look. One of those disgusting ones that made you vomit in your mouth a little.

A hand slithered up Arthur's back, stopping at his shoulder, causing him to jump. He turned, relaxing upon realizing that it was Vlad and not a random assailant. The latter leaned towards him, hot breath blowing on his ear as he whispered.

"They haven't even been dating for more than a week and they're already giving each other looks like that. Disgusting." Arthur nodded, agreeing fully and whole heartedly. Next thing they knew, the two would become a "we" couple.

And that would be the exact moment Arthur makes his hasty escape.

Not being able to bear any more of their lovey-dovey mush, Arthur racked his mind for a possible question, saying the first thing that came to mind. "Mathias." He looked up from his conversation with Lukas, a small bit of color draining from his face upon realizing it was Arthur speaking. "What exactly gave you the courage to accept Lukas' proposal? For the date, I mean."

Vlad made a quick glance towards Arthur, smirking, before turning to Mathias. "Oh, yeah. So, did it just pop up, a heat of the moment sort of thing, or was it slow and left to boil over the years?"

The confusion on Mathias' face was almost enough to make Arthur laugh. He stuttered over his words, remaking and remaking his answers, before finally settling on, "What?"

Vlad and Arthur both smiled, Arthur's a bit more sarcastic than the former's. cocking his head to the side, Vlad's smile grew, the seal on his lips breaking to show teeth. "Oh, y'know. Lukas has been wantin' ya for the past- what?- nine, ten years and-"

"Vlad. Stop."

From his tense jaw, hardened eyes, Lukas looked angry- no, murderous would be a better way to describe it. He put his hand on Mathias' shoulder, pulling him to the side to whisper in his ear, not unlike the way Vlad did with Arthur. After a few seconds, Mathias pulled away, smiling and whispering something back. Lukas huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, reaching for an apple slice. He waited impatiently for them to finish, fidgeting his fingers and biting his lip. They had to stop eventually. Maybe.

When they were first trying to set up Lukas with Mathias, Arthur had no clue that this would happen. The quiet, aloof Lukas Bondevik had turned into a monster, one that giggled and squealed and tickled. Gone was the beloved friend he once knew, replaced by... this.

"Mathias~. Ya never answered my question."

The two jumped, turning to Vlad, who had a sweet, unknowing smile spread across his face. Finally, the interrogation would continue. Finally.

Mathias pouted, looking like a toddler told that he couldn't have his desired toy. Averting his eyes, he blinked- once, twice, three times- letting a fair amount of time between each one. "Well-" he scratched his head, huffing and smiling like he was one of the happiest men in the world. "It's kind of a funny story, actually-"

"Oh, do tell."

Arthur snorted at the way Vlad said it, his tone sounding like he was about to hear some juicy gossip. He himself was excited to hear Mathias' story, only to see if there was some kind of lie wedged in it, just to make sure everything was good and genuine.

To see if this wasn't just some kind of sick game to Mathias.

Mathias looked at Lukas, the expression on his face unsure. Not even a week of dating and he already looked like that. Lukas nodded, smiling, giving him damn permission.

One week. What will a year be like?

"It started around, like, the third grade-"

"Oh, so ya started crushin' on him around the same time he did you."

"Yeah, actually-"

"Wow, what a coincidence." Arthur couldn't help it. He had to say it.

Lukas sent a glare in his direction, Vlad snickering, covering his mouth to hide it. Arthur didn't say anything back, keeping his attention on Mathias.

The latter kept smiling, not showing any sign or anger or annoyance. It made Arthur wonder if he was always like this- him being the Human Golden Retriever, of course- or it someone, such as Alfred and the other fools at the table, prepared him for this. For Arthur.

For some reason, both seemed likely.

"It's- uh, it's kinda weird, I guess, but in the fourth grade, I joined the orchestra because I heard that Lukas was thinkin' about it."

A small noise came out of Vlad's mouth. It was quiet enough that only Arthur could hear it, the couple across from them not showing any signs of doing so. Vlad leaned back a bit, careful not to fall off the bench, crossing his arms. "So, the rumors were true, then?"

Mathias' nose scrunched up, piles and piles of freckles wrinkling along with it. "There were rumors?"

Vlad's smile had turned smug. Like a long time theory of his had been proven true. "Yes, there were."

Mathias turned to Lukas, looking confused. The latter just smiled at him, patting his arm, before moving his attention to Vlad and Arthur. "Guys, I think it's time y'all stopped with the-"

"Why, Lukas? Arthur n' I are just gettin' to know our new friend. Y'all're plannin' on bein' together quite awhile, aren'tcha?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Mathias, what instrument do you play?" Blinking rapidly, Mathias turned his attention to Arthur, cocking his head to the side. His eyes were wide, smile tight. He had definitely been prepared before coming.

"I'm sorry?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "In the orchestra. What instrument do you play?"

Mathias perked up, straightening his shoulders. He seemed to relax a bit, now that he had finally gotten a relatively easy question. "Oh, I play the cello."

Vlad twisted his body around, looking Arthur up and down with a raised eyebrow. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Arthur shrugged. "Just curious." He leaned to the side, looking under the table. The space around Mathias' feet was empty, and so was the bench next to him. No case. Arthur sat upright, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. "You don't have it with you. Did you leave it in the orchestra classroom?"

A sheepish smile. As if the whereabouts of his cello had been a recently discovered secret. "Uh, nah. I keep it in my locker, get it out on my way to class. So I don't haveta lug it around everywhere."

Arthur nodded, satisfied with his answer. He quickly tried to think of something else to say, freezing when an idea popped into his head. "Speaking of your locker-" Lukas perked up, looking back and forth between Arthur and Mathias. The latter kept his smile bright and sunny, just as he had been doing most of their little get-together. "What did you think of our- Lukas' letters?"

Vlad looked at Arthur, staring at him with awe and jealousy. Arthur smirked, happy that he had thought of the question first.

Cocking his head to the side, it took Mathias a few seconds to realize what Arthur was talking about. His eyes widened, his mouth gaping. "Oh! Sorry, sorry, sorry." He chuckled, it being a bit breathless. "Sorry 'bout that. Yeah, I was pretty surprised when I saw the first one. I read it, and was like, 'Who the hell is this?'"

Lukas laughed, that turning into a giggle. Going along, Arthur chuckled, though he didn't really see what was so funny about it.

Mathias continued, though his voice was slower. Unsure. "Actually, I kinda thought it was an accident, until I got the second letter. And the next one and the next one. the flowers were really a surprise, and my mom ate most of the chocolate before I could get to it."

He sent the three a sheepish smile after the last part, an apology for not putting their gift to "proper use".

It didn't matter. They were chocolates, and not even good ones, either. They were made with an American recipe, which, of course, meant a severe lacking of sugar. Arthur spat out his piece when he tried it, gagging his way to the bathroom.

"How did you figure it out? That it was me sending them?" Unlike Vlad and Arthur, Lukas' voice was soft as he spoke, like he was having a simple conversation, and not interrogating him.

Vlad sent Arthur an exasperated look as Mathias turned- actually twisted his body, resting his side against the table- to Lukas. The two smiled at each other, a rosy pink slowly spreading across their cheeks.

Arthur tried his best to suppress the gag, but failed. Vlad sent him a quick glance, sympathy shining in his eyes.

"At first, I had no clue who it was. Hell, I didn't even know who that Frithiof guy was." Mathias laughed, and Arthur had to give him credit for remembering the subject for their first letter. Even he had forgotten, and he was the one who wrote the damn thing.

"Everyone at the table- over there, where I eat lunch with my friends, I mean- was tryin' to figure out who was sendin' 'em." He shook his head, smiling as if he felt stupid for not knowing the answer was right in front of him. In this case, it was literal. "And then, you walked up to the table, lookin' all nervous n' everything and you were clutchin' that book you always carry around with ya, and it was right there! You were there! I felt so embarrassed, not bein' able to figure out that I what I was lookin' for was close enough to slap me in the face."

Lukas tipped his head back and laughed, Mathias doing the same. He grabbed the latter's upper arms, squeezing tight, then rubbing them up and down.

Arthur stared at them with a raised eyebrow, feeling a bit nauseous. He vowed then and there, that if he ever found someone insane enough to be in a serious relationship with him, he would never be as affectionate with them as those two were with each other. At least in public, anyways. He refused to be- no, he couldn't be- that cruel to those around him.

Arthur turned to Vlad, throwing all his desperation into the look he gave him. The latter nodded, thankfully understanding what Arthur wanted him to do.

Reaching for an apple slice, Vlad made his voice loud enough that those at the neighboring tables would be able to hear it. "So~, Arthur." He bit into the apple, glancing to the side to see if the two had stopped there fondling, waiting until they came apart. They did, eventually. "How was your tutoring session with Alfred?"

Arthur groaned. They had moved on from one hellish situation to another. He should've expected Vlad to bring it up, considering that he had ranted and raved so viciously about it earlier that week. It was foolish of him to think that they wouldn't ask about it.

Lukas pulled away from Mathias, who pouted- actually pouted- and returned his attention to his friends. He rested his elbows on the table, cupping his face between his hands. "Oh, yeah I was wonderin' about that. How'd it go?"

Mathias furrowed his brow, cocking his head to the side. "Arthur's tutorin' Alfred?"

Lukas shook his head. "No, the other way around. Arthur's been failin' a lot of his assignments, so Mr. Wang has Alfred help 'im after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays now. Yesterday was their first session."

Mathias slowly nodded, an unreadable expression spreading across his face. Arthur frowned at Lukas, feeling slightly betrayed that he would divulge that much. The latter smiled back, and though it was small, Arthur knew that he had finally gotten his revenge. Arthur gritted his teeth.

That bastard.

Silence fell over the table, and it wasn't until Vlad cleared his throat that Arthur realized he was still waiting for an answer. He scowled, remembering the events of the previous afternoon.

"He showed up twenty minutes late, regularly insulted me, and, worst of all, I had Kiku as a chaperone." More and more anger showed in his voice as he spoke, and by the end of it, he spat out Kiku's name in disgust. Arthur grabbed an apple slice and, not bothering with the peanut butter, popped it into his mouth, chewing violently. It made him feel a little bit better.

Vlad winced, swearing. "That bad, huh?" He shrugged, pursing his lips. "Hey, at least ya didn't have to do it with Kiku."

He snorted. "That would be literal Hell. I would rather fail than spend more than five minutes with him."

The three laughed, Vlad slamming his hand against the table. Mathias stayed silent, his eyes narrowed and his mouth etched into a frown. This was Arthur's first official meeting with the boy and he already thought it didn't fit him.

Lukas, upon seeing Arthur staring at him, whipped his head over to Mathias. He put his hand on the latter's shoulder, only for him to slowly pull away. "Mathias? What's wrong?"

He shook his head, keeping his attention on Arthur. Before he even spoke, Arthur knew exactly what was coming. Exactly. "Alfred insulted ya? As in, Alfred F. Jones, Alfred? He wouldn't do that, he's such a nice guy."

Arthur huffed, deflating. It seemed that every single time Arthur went in a five-foot radius of one of Alfred's friends, they said that line. Every single time.

Vlad shook his head, tsking. "I know y'all constantly say that about him, but Alfred isn't perfect."

Mathias tensed. "Yeah, I know that, but-"

Setting his hand on Mathias' back, Lukas shook his head. "Mathias, yer not gonna win this. Those two are very stubborn."

Mathias huffed, shaking his head. He muttered something too quiet for Arthur to hear, and most likely the same for Vlad, while Lukas gave him an apologetic smile. He only received a tiny one back.

Silence fell over the table, save for the chewing and crunching of apple slices. It was all terribly awkward, in Arthur's opinion, and he racked through his mind to find a new conversation topic.

Alfred was off the table. Mathias had grown defensive of him, and it pained Arthur to have the image of the fool in his mind. He was the only one in choir, and bringing up orchestra again had the risk of starting another mush fest. Arthur wasn't even sure that Vlad played an instrument, so that would leave him out of the conversation altogether, anyway.

He definitely didn't want to talk about grades. That would only succeed in rubbing salt in his open wound, something he sincerely wanted to avoid. Besides, their lunch period was, as they had decided a few weeks ago, "sacred", with no talks of projects or homework allowed. Arthur found the rule to be almost counterproductive, but didn't object to it.

The mood of the table was rapidly deteriorating, the once playful and questioning atmosphere turning to gloom. Arthur didn't know why he cared so much, he could just take out his book and read for the rest of the period, but a conversation, for some strange reason, sounded much more desirable. And less awkward, for that matter.

There was nothing in particular that Arthur was curious about, not anything that anyone at the table would know about, maybe except-

Oh. <i> Oh. <i/>

Arthur perked up, eyes wide, blinking rapidly. How did he not think of him sooner? He had the potential of becoming a major part of his plan, after all.

"Mathias." He, along with Vlad and Lukas looked up from wherever they went during the period of silence. Mathias smiled, still looking angry, making it smaller than usual.

"Yeah?"

Arthur paused for a second, pursing his lips into a fine line. What was that kid's name again? The one who looked like he was a few steps from toppling over and falling asleep?

"Do you know... oh, shit, what's his name?" He ran his fingers through his hair, cringing at how greasy it was. Arthur smacked his forehead, groaning. Vlad chuckled, shaking his head, not bothering to help as he watched Arthur struggle.

It started with a G- no, and H, and it sounded Greek or something-

He had it. "Hercules. Do you know Hercules?"

Vlad and Lukas broke out into a wave of chortles and cackles, clapping their hands as if they were damn seals. Mathias smiled, breathing in sharply, looking as if he was barely keeping the laughter contained.

"Pft. Hercules?" Mathias shook his head, chuckling. He clamped his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he tried to keep it all in. "Do ya mean Heracles? Heracles Karpusi?"

Rolling his eyes, Arthur tsked, huffing. Vlad and Lukas had yet to stop laughing, and Mathias was close to joining them, if how tense his smile was was any indication. "Shut up, at least I got most of it right."

Vlad's face was growing red, and he wiped his eyes and set his hand on Arthur's shoulder. He had half the mind to brush it away, and almost did, but knew that if he did, they would only carry on.

"Arthur- Arthur." Vlad shook his head, lowering it to the table and folding his arms around it. The shakes of his shoulders and the muffled noise only made Arthur fume.

He gritted his teeth, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand. Arthur took a deep breath, rolling his neck back, trying his best to calm himself by counting to ten.

It didn't work.

"Shut the bloody hell up and answer my god-damn question." Several people around them turned to Arthur as he snarled, but he ignored every single one of them.

Mathias' eyes widened, his smile growing and becoming laced with... wonder, strangely enough. "Did you just say-"

"Don't." Arthur knew exactly what he was going to say, stopping it before he punched him in the face. That would certainly earn him brownie points in various social groups.

Mathias raised his hands in surrender, Lukas huffing at it. Their laughter slowly died down, causing Arthur to relax- only a little bit, though- and deflate. "Just- just answer my question, will you."

Mathias nodded, giving him what he assumed to be a reassuring grin. "Yeah, man, sure. Ya wanted to know if I knew Heracles, right?" Arthur nodded. Mathias winced, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mn, can't say that I do. I mean, he's sat with us at the table a couple times, yeah, but he mostly just talked to Kiku. Hell, it's almost like he's got a crush."

Vlad furrowed his brow, frowning, glancing back and forth between the two. "Who's Heracles?"

Arthur snorted. So he mocked him without even knowing who Arthur was talking about. Fantastic. He ignored him. "So, you would say that Heracles has a crush on Kiku?"

Mathias shrugged, clicking his tongue. "I dunno, I guess. He's always blushin' around and talkin' to 'im and everytime he looks at Kiku, he's got this funny look in his eye. And he doesn't really seem to like Alfred to much, or vice versa, really, but I'm not really sure."

Arthur nodded, his theory having been confirmed. Somewhat. He would have to do some inner digging.

Vlad cleared his throat, looking peeved. Arthur gave him an apologetic smile for having ignored him, but it was brushed off. "Who's Heracles Karpusi?"

Mathias smiled. "Just a weird guy who sleeps all the time. He's not really too important, and isn't gonna be. Hell, I dunno why Arthur even asked about him."

Vlad and Lukas both shared a look at that, seeming curious and just a bit suspicious.

Arthur himself had to disagree with Mathias' later statement. If he was correct and his theory proved to be completely- and he meant completely, one-hundred percent- true, then Heracles would play a huge part in the plan. If the idea that was slowly forming in Arthur's mind went through, then Heracles could be the person to set it all off.

He tapped his fingers against the table, letting the idea finish laying itself out. He smiled, feeling smug, ignoring his lunchmates' demands at knowing what he was so happy about.

[audreycritter]

Sooo, you said you don't mind having a list of flash fics and trauma asks to work through... This is kind of both; What do you think of a flash fic that's *about* trauma? ((I'd just absolutely adore one that goes into a little detail about Tim and your idea that the oft-made-fun-of coffee habit actually predates his time as Robin-- but if you've got lots of Tim requests, anybody, really! I love your take on the Batfam and their psyches.))

um so I couldn’t stop thinking about this and I ended up writing a REALLY LONG AND REALLY SAD THING.Gen/Family/Backstory~6700 WordsTim Drake, Janet Drake, Jack DrakeMild canon divergence/much canon inclusion

Shut Eye (AO3 Link)

Timothy Jackson Drake was the kind of baby that defied parenting books. He was not a particularly active infant, but he craved motion instead of sleep. He exhausted every chapter of sleep advice while he exhausted himself, Janet Drake, and the three nannies that had come and gone by the time he was seven months old.

During the day, when the doctors and psychologists and parents who had penned the books said he was supposed to be kept awake, he was content to gaze at toys or attempt to roll over or gum on his chubby hands. He did not nap, except those places or times it was inconvenient– the ten minute drive to the pediatrician, Jack’s shoulder right before he had to leave for a meeting.

In theory, he should have been exhausted by the time bedtime rolled around (nine, then eight, then seven, on the dot, because the books said schedule was important, the books said maybe he was overtired and earlier was better), and he was exhausted– exhausted enough to let his eyes close with the swaying motion of being carried to his crib.

But in the gap between arms and mattress, his eyes would snap open and he would shriek and wail as if hurt or gravely offended. Once, on a new book’s recommendation, they tried to let him cry it out. Three hours of screaming ended with a sweaty, red-faced, furious baby vomiting all over his sheets.

They tried everything.

Music, white noise, fan, night light, blackout blinds, organic cotton sheets, warm pajamas, no pajamas, extra formula, sensitive formula, a teddy bear.

Nothing worked.

“He hates sleep,” Janet said more than once, eyes ringed with deep circles even make-up couldn’t cover anymore.

“Maybe,” Jack agreed absently, looking over stock reports.

“He hates me,” she complained, when walking the halls to lull Timothy to sleep resulted in him screaming in her ear when he realized she was walking toward his bedroom. Somehow, he knew.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Jack said without looking up.

Timothy arched his back and howled at the world.

Nanny after nanny quit when it was clear that their job involved no naptime breaks to pee or eat and hours of carrying around a miserable, tired baby who jerked his head up every time he suspected his eyes might be closing.

“He’ll grow into it,” the pediatrician said.

But if anything, he was getting more resistant to sleep, more aware of their methods.

Things that had once worked for brief hours, like driving in circles with him strapped into the car seat, backfired and before long he cried in shrill suspicion anytime they had to drive anywhere.

One by one, their meager methods faded and he would crawl, then toddle, around the house in staggering fatigue until he finally slumped over somewhere around one in the morning with Janet or a half-asleep nanny trailing after him. Sometimes they’d risk moving him if it seemed especially uncomfortable, like halfway down from a dining room chair, but other times if he was on carpet or the couch or even once inside the piano bench, they’d leave him. Moving him often woke him up, and once he was out they only had until five in the morning or so, anyway.

Then Timothy Drake discovered books and his temper, in the same few week span.

Janet Drake, desperate for some relief and maybe, maybe a solid three hours of sleep and a nanny who wouldn’t quit, found her world flip-flopped.

Now Timothy was angry about everything. Nothing made him happy. He threw and bit and pulled and roared his way through every day, upsetting sippy cups and plastic plates of cheerios and her fragile sense of well-being.

But at night, he’d sit in his crib and happily hum to himself while his fat little fingers turned thin pages with impossible care. She guessed he still stayed awake until one or two in the morning, but she slept through all of it, because at least he wasn’t screaming and at least he was staying in his crib (he had taught himself how to climb out the same week he learned to pull himself to standing, and would fling himself toward the floor and crawl away while indignantly crying).

“Is that really something we should indulge?” Jack asked once, looking at the video monitor from their master bathroom.

“Shut up, Jack,” Janet had murmured, almost asleep already. “At least he’s quiet.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t love Timothy. It was just that loving Timothy was so exhausting and she wasn’t entirely sure, despite Jack’s insistence, that Timothy liked her very much in return.

“Just wait until he says mama,” one mother advised her at one of the only playgroup meetings she attended. “It changes everything.”

The mother doling out this advice bounced a smiling toddler in her own arms, who demanded a kiss in childish babbling a second later.

Janet looked across the room where Timothy was sitting, surrounded by the chaos of playing children, studying a book about wild lions. Another boy stumbled on him and Timothy screamed and hit the round-cheeked face of the other boy with the book.

They didn’t go back to that playgroup.

But the other mother had been right, in a way.

Timothy’s temper, so volatile and constant, dropped off almost in the course of a single day. His wordless shrieking and chattering was just beginning to worry her– the books said he should have a vocabulary of close to two dozen words now, and until that day she didn’t think he had any.

That day, he picked up a cup full of watered down apple juice and held it aloft like he was going to pitch it onto the floor, his face already flushing red with fury, and he paused with it clutched in his tiny hands. Then he looked at Janet and held the cup out, and said so clearly she didn’t process it at first, “No, I want milk.”

“Please,” she promoted automatically, in a stupor, staring at him.

“Please, I want milk. Where is it?” he said, blinking at her calmly.

And just like that, with rare exceptions, his temper had vanished.

The nanny had been with them for four months (a record), Timothy was speaking in full sentences and looking at picture encyclopedias until he passed out at night.

Jack suggested they take a vacation.

Without Timothy.

Janet only felt a twinge of guilt when she agreed.

“I love you,” she said to him, kissing his head, the morning they left.

“I love you,” he echoed, while watching a butterfly as they stood in the driveway, the nanny clutching his hand.

She wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or the winged insect. Her consolation was that when she picked him up and hugged him, his arms snaked around her neck and squeezed. His little body was warm and limp against her, trusting and cuddly. He pulled back and looked at her face.

“Mom,” he said, bypassing the traditional repetitive syllables. He twisted in her arms and pointed. “A painted lady.”

She was fairly certain he was talking about the butterfly that time.

They fell into a routine. Jack had missed her traveling with him and she had missed it, too. It seemed unfair to put Timothy through the red eye flights and different hotel rooms and gauntlet of available foods, and every nanny they hired promised he never seemed very distressed at their absence.

Janet wasn’t sure if this was comforting or wounding.

“He’s such a good baby, so quiet,” one nanny said. “So polite.”

Janet wondered if maybe she was talking to the wrong nanny.

They’d come home and Timothy would tear around the house, whooping like a banshee, while Janet talked about the places they’d gone. She didn’t know how much he heard while he was standing on his head, tangled in the living room curtains. But he asked questions that were, if strange or specific, on topic. She couldn’t answer half of them.

Once, when he was three, they came back from Argentina and she’d gotten a book to read with him. It had been a while since they’d sat and read, but Janet assumed from his overflowing bookshelves that the nanny kept them both busy. Timothy snuggled up next to her, happily enough, but half a page in he put a hand right over the text.

“This is not real,” he said firmly.

“No,” she agreed. “It’s fiction.”

“Spiders do not talk,” he said peevishly, jabbing an accusing finger at the next page.

Janet’s heart skipped a beat when she realized he was reading, and reading ahead of her. His little face was a pinched picture of disgust.

“Spiders do not talk,” he repeated, as if scolding her. He slid off the couch and darted to the bookshelf. He came back with an orange bound field guide and climbed up next to her again and opened it, pointed to a microphotography image of a garden spider. “This is a real spider,” he said.

Janet put the storybook away and spent the rest of the hour pointing to words, amusing herself and not testing him.

She was testing him.

She was also proud.

“Jack, did you know Timothy can read?” she asked when he walked into the room.

“Good,” he said, tearing open an envelope. “He’ll get into a good preschool. I thought we could go to the circus tonight. A good one is in town.”

“Elephants!” Timothy shouted, standing on the couch. Janet made a mental note to look into preschools before they left again. It was probably overdue– she kept forgetting how quickly he was growing up.

At the circus that night, Jack pulled strings and they met the acrobats and the elephants before the show. Janet snapped a picture of Timothy on the shoulders of a young, dark-haired acrobat. She didn’t think she’d ever been good with children at that age, but the acrobat had Timothy giggling within seconds.

Once in their seats, Timothy had watched everything, sometimes covering his ears when the announcements or music pumped through the speakers grew too loud. Jack had gotten them good seats, and Timothy stood on his with Janet’s arm around his waist for safety. Their neighbor, Bruce Wayne, sat a dozen seats away and it was the first time Janet had seen him since the Christmas party at his house two years before.

Timothy’s attention was fixed on the circus with a patience that belied his age, his eyes wide and his little spine rigid under her hand. He watched the elephants, the clowns, the lions, the firebreather, the acrobats, the plunge to their deaths.

Half the crowd screamed and the other half gasped, all in unison; it was a wrenching sound mingled with the bodies hitting the hard, packed ground and it lingered in Janet’s dreams for years after. Everyone was so focused on not looking, or looking for help, or moving to or away, that it was several minutes before she heard Jack snap, “Godammit,” and she realized Timothy was looking straight at the bodies with a blank expression as he gradually comprehended it wasn’t part of the show.

“Dead,” he announced calmly, as Jack swept him off the seat and over his shoulder.

Janet followed, turning her head from the pools of blood when they walked toward the exit. She put her hand over Timothy’s eyes just as they swept out of the tent; too late, she knew, because he’d tracked the bodies as they moved through the crowd.

For the first time since he’d begun lulling himself to sleep with books, he woke crying that night.

“Dead,” he kept saying when she picked him up to bounce him on her hip. “Dead. Dead.”

After the fourth night like it, she took him to the pediatrician. She asked about seeing a child psychologist, but the doctor seemed more interested in the fact that Timothy could read and was putting a model of the human eye together on the exam table after taking it apart with his nimble, chubby hands.

“He’s a little young for conversational therapy,” the doctor said, leaning back on his stool. “But I think you might find some help if you have some intelligence screenings done.”

“He’s very smart,” Janet said defensively.

“He is. He’s very bright. It might help to see if he’s dealing with autism or–”

“He’s not autistic,” Janet snapped. “He’s fine. Aren’t you listening to me? He saw two people, well,” Janet noticed that Timothy’s fingers had stopped adjusting pieces. She made a vague downward motion with her hand and raised an meaningful eyebrow at the doctor.

“Does he have friends?” the doctor pressed.

“Friends?” Janet demanded. “He’s three. His friends are the Kratt brothers and Elmo. He makes eye contact. He hugs me and Jack. He talks to us. He doesn’t mind new places. He’s fine.”

“Hmm,” the doctor said noncommittally.

“I’m signing him up for preschool,” Janet said as a last defense, feeling attacked. “If his teachers notice anything, they’ll say something.”

“Alright,” the doctor said, standing. “It was nice to see you, Timothy.”

“Tim,” the boy corrected, holding up the reconstructed model eye. “Look. The pupil is in half.”

They left the pediatrician’s and within ten days, Tim was enrolled in preschool, Janet had found a new pediatrician, and his nightmares had stopped. She didn’t bother looking for a child psychologist, figuring his young mind had rebounded after given enough time.

Tim took to preschool like a fish to water and, satisfied he was adjusting well, Janet resumed traveling with Jack. The nannies never complained about him anymore, except laughing updates that he asked too many questions. They still couldn’t seem to keep a nanny longer than six months, but now it was always external things and not Tim himself. Family illness, finished college, another job opportunity, cancer.

When Tim was six, they came back with presents that had very different outcomes. Janet brought him an encyclopedia of planes she’d found and set aside time between lunch and her chiropractor’s appointment to look at it with him. When he opened it, he flipped slowly through the first few pages and though he was trying hard to smile she could tell he was disappointed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, wrapping an arm around him. He stiffened. “It’s okay if it’s boring right now. Maybe you’ll like planes later.”

“I have this one,” Tim said, as if admitting it pained him. “I got it when I was four. It’s…it’s good though.”

“Oh,” Janet said, taking the book in her hands. “We can exchange it.”

This was a lie and he knew it. She’d purchased it in the English section of a bookstore in Germany.

“What are you reading now?” she asked, trying to keep him talking, to show she wasn’t upset. Or, wasn’t very upset.

“Harry Potter,” he said, retrieving the book and sitting down. He was halfway through the second one, or so she guessed from the number on the spine.

“I thought you didn’t like fiction,” she said.

“I’m not a baby,” he rolled his eyes.

“You’re six,” she said, looking over his thin shoulder at the dense block of text.

“I’m glad you noticed,” he said, sounding suddenly bitter and moody.

“I told you, I’m sorry we missed your birthday,” she said, guilt washing over her all over again. “You said it was a good party, though.”

“I’m trying to read.”

She got up.

“Timmy-boy!” Jack’s voice boomed through the room. He missed Janet’s warning glance and headshake. “I got you a camera. Thought you might like playing with it.”

Rather than insist he was reading, Tim abandoned the book in the blink of an eye to take the heavy, black digital camera from Jack.

It was too large, too expensive, too complicated for a child and Janet had tried to tell Jack so, but he’d refused to listen. Tim struggled to hold it up but flipped through the buttons like he’d been doing it all his life.

“It has manual focus,” he said, sounding excited.

“You can use autofocus for now,” Janet said, trying to avoid the eventual meltdown over blurry pictures.

“Don’t discourage him,” Jack said easily, grinning at his own success. He posed for a picture.

He fiddled with the settings all afternoon and Janet felt both justified in her worry and heartsick with the aptness of it, when she caught Tim in the hallway outside the dining room thumbing through pictures and muttering, “Stupid, stupid. All blurry. Stupid.”

When she tried to talk to him, his face went blank and he shrugged, turning the camera off and letting it hang from the strap around his neck. It was too large, the leather band spanning from his nape where his hair curled all the way down to the collar of his science day-camp shirt.

“It’s fine,” he said, brushing past her.

She caught him again, ten minutes later, sniffling and rubbing his eyes while he talked to the nanny in the kitchen. The woman was flipping organic salmon filets in a skillet and Tim didn’t have her full attention, but maybe he preferred it that way, Janet thought with a pang. She was suddenly jealous of the woman but Tim was all smiles again by dinner, so she let it go.

Late that night, Tim climbed onto her bed with the camera. She was sipping a glass of wine while Jack yelled at someone on his cellphone from the walk-in closet. She’d already taken her makeup off and let her hair down, so when Tim pointed the camera at her she laughed.

“Not now,” she said, putting a hand over her face.

“Don’t miss my birthday party next year,” he said, kneeling on the bed with the camera held up. He said it simply, without malice or hurt, like he was giving instructions for delivering a package or ordering food.

Janet dropped her hand and let him take the picture, the wine glass near her mouth while she smiled for him.

“Okay,” she said, the smile fading after the shutter clicked.

Tim crawled off the bed and opened the closet door to take a picture of Jack with his arm thrown in the air, his face flushed as he shouted at someone about a contract falling through.

Janet never saw either picture. She assumed he deleted them, but she also didn’t say “I told you so,” to Jack about the camera. She went to sleep accepting that she’d been wrong, again, about Tim, and woke up to him already outside on the back lawn climbing a tree to take pictures of the house. The nanny was on the patio in a bathrobe, yawning and drinking coffee, and Janet wasn’t entirely certain that Tim had ever gone to bed that night.

But saying anything to Tim about sleep was pointless, so she didn’t bother. She helped him set up an email account so he could send her pictures when she and Jack flew out again at the end of the week. Rather, she stood next to him, giving him permission, while he pecked at the keys one finger at a time and set up an email account for himself.

Even though they weren’t there long that time, it wasn’t like Janet was never home. She came home for a month, sometimes two, at a time and left again with Jack for business or sightseeing. Her trips away always started as one week, or two weeks, and turned into six or seven or nine. Three months, even with stellar reports from the nanny, was her limit.

But at home, Tim had school and computer club and LEGO Robotics club and photography class and after school science camp and swim lessons and soccer practice, and it seemed selfish to interrupt his education to do…nothing. So she saw him between dinner and bedtime, and sometimes in the morning he’d creep into her curtained bedroom and tell her goodbye before he left for school.

And Janet had lunch dates and appointments and gym classes and meetings of her own, and if Tim was dissatisfied with this arrangement he rarely showed it.

She did come home from India for his seventh birthday, with Jack.

She came home from Hong Kong for his eighth birthday, without Jack, but with his apologies and an expensive traditional film camera.

Tim had a gift for her, too, and it made her feel guilty about how badly the rest of the time at home went, because it was only the second time Janet had been forced to fire a nanny and it just figured that it would be a nanny Tim was particularly attached to.

The trouble started when Tim walked in to give her the photography book he’d put together as a gift, the printed album in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. She accepted the book and reached for the coffee, but Tim pulled it back smoothly, quickly, and frowned at her as if disappointed.

“Tim, I’ll look at the book,” she promised. “Right now. You don’t have to tease.”

“I’m not,” he said, sounding irritated. He sipped the coffee. “I can get you a cup if you want some.”

“You’re seven,” she said.

“Eight, since this morning,” he answered, sitting down on the couch. His feet dangled over the edge of the cushion. He’d always been small for his age and it made the mug he held seem even more ridiculous.

“Eight is too young for coffee,” she said sternly. “Go dump it out.”

“I have a cup every morning,” he protested, whining, holding the mug more closely to his chest. “Look at the book I made you.”

“Letitia,” Janet called sharply to the nanny, straightening her posture.

“Mrs. Drake?” the woman answered, coming into the room with an armful of Tim’s laundry.

“How long have you allowed Tim to drink coffee?”

“Oh,” the woman said, bewildered. She seemed more confused by Janet’s tone than anything else. She made eye contact with Tim. “Two months, ago, now?” Her gaze shifted back to Janet. “He has trouble sleeping and coffee always makes me sleepy, so we tried it.”

“It doesn’t help,” Tim said. “But I like how it tastes.”

“Of course it doesn’t help,” Janet snapped. “You’re a child. It’s full of caffeine and can stunt your growth.”

“Myth,” Tim said, patting the book she was holding. “I did research. Are you going to look at the book?”

Janet closed her eyes for a moment and said, “No more coffee, Tim. That will be all, Letitia.”

Tim threw himself back against the couch, scowling, and then looked straight at her and took a long drink of his coffee. Janet sighed and flipped open the book. Maybe she could try to reason with him later, when he wasn’t already mad at her.

The pictures were good– photography class and his personal drive had paid off. But she noticed a bothersome trend only three pictures in. The pictures were all black and white: a smiling homeless man, the jutting and crumbling gargoyle of a downtown bank, a crowd of stony-faced teenagers with spiked hair and skateboards.

“Tim,” Janet said, her voice scared and hard at once, “Tim, where did you take these?”

“That’s Charlie,” he said quickly and excitedly, leaning forward and tapping the picture of the grizzled, toothless man. “He’s nice. I buy him hot chocolate sometimes.”

“Tim,” Janet said again.

“I don’t know their names,” Tim said dismissively of the teens, “but they were excited about the pictures. I printed some at the Walgreen’s for them.”

“Tim,” Janet hissed.

“Gotham,” he said casually, as if it were obvious. The problem was that it was obvious and he was eight years old and should not have pictures like the work of a fucking Gotham Times’ journalist’s side project about poverty and the city.

Janet was too shocked to summon any other words for a moment. She turned another page.

It was a building at night, clouds in the distance, the silhouette of a distant figure with points on his head like animal ears.

“Look!” Tim shouted, “It’s Batman! It’s the best one I got of him.” He reached over and flipped the page for her. The next page was a blurred picture of a boy in a bright uniform, soaring through the air. “I had to zoom in a bunch but this is the best one of Robin.”

“Timothy Drake,” Janet snapped so fiercely that Tim jumped, his coffee sloshing in the mug. “How did you get these pictures?”

“I took them,” he said, his little brow creasing.

Janet stood and paced for a moment while Tim shrank back on the couch, his mug pressed against his chin.

“Letitia!” she shouted and the nanny reappeared, this time with a backpack and a washcloth in her hands. Janet waved the album in the air and demanded, “Why the hell are you taking my eight year old child into downtown Gotham?”

“She’s not!” Tim protested, at the same time Letitia said, “Mrs. Drake, I don’t know what–”

Janet whirled on Tim.

“She doesn’t take me,” Tim said, standing and reaching for the book. Janet held it out of his reach. “I’ve been skipping Science Explorers after school. And soccer at the YMCA at night.”

“Why?” Janet asked, a cold pit of fear warring with anger and bafflement alike. “I thought you liked science.”

“It’s too easy,” Tim said, a little desperately. “It’s all stuff I know. But downtown is interesting.”

“It’s not safe,” Janet snapped. “And it has to stop, right now.”

Tim’s face twisted in fury and then went blank, impassive and unreadable.

“Letitia, you’re fired,” Janet said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said quietly. “I’ll go pack my things.”

“No!” Tim shouted, standing on the couch, the blankness falling away into sheer rage.

“Yes,” Janet said firmly, tucking the book under her arm. She felt a pang of regret that this, and not praise for his artwork, had to take the precedent, but his safety was more important than feelings about pictures. “It’s not your fault, Tim, that she wasn’t watching you more carefully, but coffee? Trips alone into the city? No. This is why we have a nanny, to keep you safe, and she’s not doing her job. I’m not mad at you, baby, but you need to let me be a good mommy right now.”

Tim was still standing on the couch and he glared at her and then his expression shifted to something cold. He stretched out his arm and before she could order him not to, he tipped his mug and dumped the entire remainder of his coffee straight onto the brushed suede couch. It splashed across the fabric and splattered the white carpet beneath.

“You little shit,” Janet gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth right after. “I’m sorry, Tim, that…I shouldn’t have said that. I think we both need time to calm down.”

It was lunchtime when she went to find him and could hear him crying in his bedroom. It was locked and she knocked gently.

“Go away,” he snarled from inside.

He just needed more time. She let him have it.

She found another nanny. She gave strict instructions that he was to be accompanied to all his classes and clubs and that coffee was absolutely off-limits. He was still angry at her two weeks later and with resignation, she decided that giving him more space might help. She joined Jack in Tokyo.

The next time she went home, it had been five months. Tim had come to join them for a month in the middle of that, so she didn’t feel too guilty about being away so long. Tim chatted with her like nothing had ever happened while with them in Europe and happily took pictures and added things to their itinerary.

But once she came home, it was to more problems. She was beginning to dread going home.

There was a stack of notes from teachers, praising Tim’s intelligence and expressing concern that, while he made friends easily enough, seemed to have trouble maintaining long-term friendships. He was often distracted or fell asleep in class, he conversed easily with adults but ignored most children his own age with the exception of a few. None of the notes had ever been forward to her, all the envelopes neatly sliced open. Tim had opened them.

The nanny was a woman she didn’t recognize even though they’d texted a few times about Tim and scheduling and plans. When Janet pressed, she got it out of Tim that the other woman had resigned quickly and that he had hired another nanny without ever letting Janet find out. His resourcefulness both impressed and frightened her and she dreaded to ask, because she had to ask and she already knew the answer, what he’d been doing in his spare time.

His answer was casual but his body was tense and it was then that Janet realized, with the sharp sensation of nausea, that Tim was both a remarkable child and nearly an absolute stranger to her. And he was afraid of her, afraid of her disapproval, and fiercely defensive of his own freedom all the same.

“Taking pictures,” he’d said vaguely at first.

“Downtown, but I’m careful,” he added after a moment.

“I know where all the police stations are,” he said helpfully, almost an hour later, when he approached her again.

“I take a taxi, so I’m with a grownup,” he said at dinner, as if this constituted responsible childcare.

Janet couldn’t even think of what to say to him. She wasn’t afraid that he would hurt her– he was, and remained for the most part, a gentle and quiet boy. He was so careful and precise and she watched him that same day rescue a spider and put it outside before taking pictures. There was a steel in him that she recognized, a hardness that surely came from Jack and would maybe benefit him in business someday, and he was stubborn and independent, but he wasn’t violent. More than anything, she was afraid of losing his waning affection.

“You have to talk to him,” she told Jack, passing the buck. “He’s your son. It isn’t safe.”

“Damn straight, it’s not safe!” Jack had thundered, when she finally filled him in on all the details she’d kept back for the past year. “Tim!”

After Jack yelled at him, her plan turned out to be a failure. Tim was furious at both of them and did not seek her out for solace.

Jack tried to confiscate his cameras, but Tim produced another one within hours. She didn’t know if he’d hidden it or purchased it somehow. Jack took that one, too, and the next morning they woke to ten identical cameras in boxes on the porch while a chipper-looking delivery man waited for a signature. Tim had ordered them online the night before, using Jack’s card, and Jack threw his hands in the air and let the boy keep them.

They fired the nanny and hired a new one. Janet stayed behind when Jack left for Australia, determined for once that she could be more obstinate than her sour child and was pleased to find success. Tim’s ire faded quickly and she let some smaller things slide in favor of connecting with him. They didn’t have a traditional relationship, exactly, but he joined her in the morning for coffee when he wasn’t at school, he was happy and even excited to come to her with projects and ideas. He wasn’t sneaking out of club meetings, as far as she could tell, and after two months she was satisfied that he’d adjusted and found a healthy, age-appropriate medium.

If he sometimes seemed a little sad or reserved, she chalked that up to his age– he was getting close to surging hormones and it was an area where she was lost. She’d have Jack talk to him again. She went to the school and had him moved to more advanced classes and several of his issues at school seemed to disappear.

Halfway through her third month at home, Tim was doing well and Janet was growing bored. The long hours he spent in school and in class, with a nanny to take care of the details, left her with nothing to do after she’d exhausted lunch and manicure dates with friends who seemed caught up in their own on-going lives. Plus, Jack kept calling and asking when she’d join him again and he was, after all, her husband. So she made plans to join him and Tim had accepted her announcement with that same impassive expression he had that could mean any of a dozen things. They were doing better, more attached, so she decided if it bothered him, he’d certainly say something.

And he did.

But he waited until ten minutes before she left for the airport.

“I don’t want you to go,” he’d said, tears in his eyes before he ducked his head.

“Tim,” she’d said, her voice strained. “It’s a little late. Your dad is expecting me.”

“So, call him,” Tim said, almost pleading but not quite.

“I mean, if you really need me,” Janet said slowly, considering. She was torn, so torn– she’d missed Jack and he was so busy, but Tim wanting her– needing her– felt like something she’d been waiting years for him to admit.

“No, never mind,” he said quickly, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I just had a weird night.”

“Are you sure?” Janet asked, knowing she’d drop her plans if he said the word.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Tell Dad I said hi.”

Janet kissed his forehead and hugged him and went out to the waiting car. She felt a little disappointed but guilty about it, because it was good that he was alright.

She was barely out of the front drive when he came tearing out of the house, crying.

“Mom, mom,” he said, rapping his hand against the window while she rolled it down. “Mom, please, stay. Please stay.”

And maybe it was the stress of being late for her flight, but Janet felt suddenly annoyed with him. He was almost nine years old and had known her travel plans for five days.

“Tim,” she said, trying nonetheless to keep her voice soft and calm, “you don’t need to be so dramatic. It isn’t like you. I’ll come home in a week, baby. Just a week.”

He hiccuped and put his arm across his face and she waited. After a moment, he nodded and turned from the car.

“Love you!” she called after him.

“Love you,” he answered, his voice muffled through his sleeve.

When she called a week later to check on him, he sounded fine. He didn’t say anything about expecting her home, which was a relief since Jack had made plans without asking her first, and Tim was already excited about an experiment he’d been working on. She listened patiently while he talked about it and then he had to go to an evening class.

His ninth birthday came and went and Janet came and went from the house, over and over. Tim fluctuated between giddy and morose, but never at such sharp spikes or with such pronouncement that she grew worried. The one time she did feel a slight pang of concern, Jack soothed her worries with the acknowledgment that Tim was a boy and whatever he was dealing with was probably normal.

Janet really didn’t know so she trusted Jack.

They fell into routines and Janet was now long-used to Tim being awake when she fell asleep and also when she woke up. She wasn’t sure when exactly he slept but he was responsible enough to take naps in the afternoon sometimes, and if it was unusual that he drank coffee he made up for it by brewing extra for her when she was home, better than she could make for herself.

And as he grew, he became increasingly private, or guarded, sometimes even locking his room when he was away.

When she mentioned this to Jack, he snorted once and waved a hand, saying, “I don’t know any twelve year old who wants his mother to find his dirty magazines. I would’ve wanted to kill myself.”

And Tim wasn’t defensive or angry in conversation, but rather gave off an aura of near-constant worry. Janet resigned herself to his growing sense of self-determination and need for privacy, suspecting she was crowding him, and went to Paris with Jack.

They came home sometime in the middle of his thirteenth year to find his worried frown vanished and the basement outfitted with gym equipment. Jack, though he never worked out if he could help it, seemed exceedingly proud of Tim’s newfound hobby as if his pointed insistence on soccer during Tim’s elementary years had something to do with it.

“This is great,” he said to Janet while surveying the equipment. “Maybe I’ll start exercising. It’s great for him.”

Janet couldn’t even find anything to be anxious about. Tim had gone from pushing hard for adulthood to nearly adult, seemingly overnight. He carried himself like he knew where he was going, and his moments of obvious self-doubt or hesitancy were dwindling.

And if Tim, when he did talk to them, spoke often of Bruce Wayne, who was she to deny the boy another mentor? God knew Jack was home even less than she was, and Tim clearly looked up to their long-time neighbor. When she insisted on asking some questions, just to make sure Tim was…safe, was not being ‘taken advantage of’ as she put in mildly, afraid to put ideas into his head if nothing was going on, it turned out that Bruce Wayne shared a fondness for photography and computers. Tim had been caught sneaking onto the property to take pictures and when Janet expressed horror at his trespassing, she’d been introduced to the butler and felt much better afterward.

So, when Tim gently suggested that perhaps, at nearly fourteen and with a responsible neighbor and a busy school schedule, that he no longer needed a nanny, Jack was all too ready to cut it out of the budget and give the boy his freedom.

“He’s a responsible kid,” he assured Janet after letting the nanny go. “He’ll be fine.”

Tim barely slept.

Tim inhaled pots of coffee.

Tim worked in the gym for hours, arranged his own trip overseas the following year, kept his door locked, taught himself how to drive, emailed her regular updates that she always read but didn’t always know what to reply.

And at least he wasn’t using drugs or vandalizing property or throwing parties in the house while they were gone. Her friends were now dealing with such behavior in their children, and two of them had already dealt with arrests and one had a son in rehab– rehab at fourteen.

If she had any remaining reservations about their new arrangement, they were not discussed with Jack. After years of happily traveling and working together, things had taken a bitter turn between them and when they weren’t fighting about each other, the last thing she wanted to do was fight about Tim.

And Tim was, like Jack said, fine.

He emailed her pictures that she looked at on her phone while waiting with Jack to board the plane to Haiti. For a moment, she considered sharing them with Jack but he was in a bad mood and stressed about a delayed boarding time.

She opened an email to reply to Tim, to admire the pictures and tell him she loved him, but their seating section was suddenly called and she turned the phone off. Tim knew, like Tim knew nearly everything. She’d never known such a smart kid and it was more obvious the older he got, the more children she met.

Tim was fine.

Janet was not.

They arrived to muggy weather in Haiti and she saved the email to Tim in her drafts and in the end, it was never sent.

Janet Drake went home three weeks later, an unusually short absence.

The problem was that she went home in a coffin.

[lesbrarians]

Junkrat/Roadhog:: Origins Ch. 15

(Just two more chapters left!)

Title: Origins

Characters: Junkrat, Roadhog

Rating: R

Summary: The origins of Junkrat and Roadhog. Junkrat finds a mysterious treasure in the nuclear wasteland of the Australian Outback and quickly finds himself a target. When a hitman is sent to kill him, he convinces the man to become his personal bodyguard in exchange for half the spoils. Their ensuing crime spree could be legendary – if they can get over the initial bad blood between them. Can also be found on AO3 if you prefer reading it there!

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen

---

“Cells 14 through 21, hit the showers. Fawkes, that includes you,” said the disembodied voice over the speaker.

Junkrat grimaced. He had made it over a week and a half without showering, just washing up with paper towels in his cell sink, and it looked like the correctional officers had finally taken notice. If his last encounter with a shower was any indication, it was not going to go well. What was worse than the difficulty of washing up was how vulnerable he’d be in a prison shower with two missing limbs. Instead, he’d taken to hanging out in his cell and waiting for the brief five minute overlap between when Roadhog’s cell group was called and his was sent back to their cells, when he could briefly communicate with Roadhog.

He scowled the entire way to the shower area, taking his sweet time getting there. He picked the stall furthest away from everyone else, grateful that there were at least curtains to shield him in his limbless state. He shrugged off the upper half of his jumpsuit and detached his right arm.

Junkrat stood there, staring at the arm and contemplating whether or not someone would try to steal it if he left it outside the shower. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice, but he was still reluctant to do so. He wondered if he could get away with keeping his peg leg on and trying to hold it out of the spray…

“Well, well, look who finally decided to stop being a dirty freak and show his ass around here.”

Junkrat dropped his arm with a metallic clang and whipped his head up to see a group of three inmates approaching him, grinning like hyenas. He recognised one of them as the man with work privileges and another as the howler who took to screaming at night. “Oh -- heh -- hey...” He laughed nervously and took a step backwards into the shower stall. He immediately regretted it, because there was nowhere else for him to go once the three of them crowded around the entrance to the stall. “What can I do ya for?”

“If you're askin', you can start by not being so fuckin’ annoying,” the howler said.

Junkrat couldn’t help but giggle hysterically. "Me? I’m not the one screamin’ bloody murder in the middle of the night!”

One of the other two men frowned. “See, he can’t help that. You can control that obnoxious voice of yours.” Junkrat was pretty sure he’d found the only two inmates on their block who would defend the screamer.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me voice,” he protested weakly, falling back another step as the howler advanced on him. His back bumped against the knob of the shower.

“You say that, but you're not the one who has to listen to it.”

“You've been stirring up shit around here, Rat. You think you're so much better than the rest of us. Belmont, why dontcha teach him a lesson, we'll see if he's still singing that tune after this.”

Belmont, the inmate with work duty privileges, stepped forward. He was two or three inches shy of six feet, roughly Junkrat's height when he was hunched over in his usual slouch, but he was imposing. His very presence felt like a threat to Junkrat's well-being.

“Back off,” said a familiar, deep voice. “He's mine.” Roadhog grabbed Belmont and the howler by the backs of their prison uniforms and hauled them away from the entrance to the shower stall. The third man hastened to follow before he was forcibly removed as well. “Let me make something clear,” Roadhog snarled. “No one touches him. You mess with Junkrat, you mess with me. Understood?”

The offenders nodded, wide-eyed. Roadhog's stature and general bulk had a way of intimidating even the most hardened of felons. They slunk off, shooting dark looks over their shoulders.

Junkrat picked up his mechanical arm. “Thanks, mate. Woulda been fucked if ya hadn't shown up. But, ah -- I, I'm yours?” he said, raising his eyebrows at the choice of phrasing. And oh, he hated that that thought gave him a weird flutter in the pit of his stomach.

“Just in name,” Roadhog replied. “They won't bother you if I have your back.“

Junkrat nodded and gave a sheepish grin. “Glad yer stuck in this shithole with me, then.” There was a reason he'd hired Roadhog as his enforcer, after all -- he might have been a scrapper who could hold his own in a fight, but he needed someone to watch out for him when it was a matter of being ganged up on or squaring off against someone who was out of his league. He reattached his prosthetic. If Roadhog had been let out of his cell, then there were seconds left until he had to be back in his cell. Besides, he'd soured to the idea of a shower after that encounter. Scrubbing himself down in the sink was good enough for him.

---

The next day, Junkrat scanned the list of items offered by the commissary. If the available TV was the same as Thatcher's, it would be a small, old school flat screen that looked like it was from the 2020s. He could work with that. The radio would be even better though; it would give him batteries in addition to wires, and he would need the extras, given that he was limited to buying only two packs of D batteries at a time.

“Ooh hoo, coffee creamer, I can definitely get some use outta that.” He put a tick next to the item on the list. “Gotta get some coffee to go with that, though, can't just get the creamer by itself.”

“Do you always talk to yourself?” Thatcher asked, shooting him a look of irritation.

“That’s a stupid question.” Junkrat tapped the pencil against his metal arm. “I’m gonna get Roadhog somethin’,” he decided. “Say thanks for savin’ my ass all the time. D’ya think he’d like almonds?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“I’m gonna get him almonds. Everyone likes nuts.” He finished checking off the list and folded up the piece of paper to give to the CO the next time he made his rounds.

He was already brainstorming how best to use the material parts he would pilfer from the various electronics he was going to acquire. They would only go so far, though; if he was going to build a functional bomb, he would need illicit supplies that he couldn’t acquire through the commissary.

“Say, Thatcher, you smoke, right? I mean, I figured, what with the durries y’ve got stashed and all.”

Thatcher hissed, slicing a finger across his throat as a warning signal to shut up. “Could you say that any louder?” He peered outside of the cell, but none of their neighbors were reacting. “You know what kinda shit I’d have to deal with if the rest of these assholes knew I was carrying? I wouldn’t get a moment’s piece. Probably get shanked by a smoker jonesing for a fix, so shut your fucking trap if you know what’s good for you.”

Junkrat held his hands up in surrender. “Just askin’! I wanted to know where ya get yer matches. Unless ya use a lighter?” He was very much hoping for the former, but he could make use of a lighter for alternative weapons

“Talk to Buzzard.”

Junkrat had no idea who Buzzard was. One of the inmates he had yet to interact with, most likely. “Buzzard?” he called out.

There was a moment’s silence, then a response. “What do you want?”

“I gotta talk to ya! What cell you in?”

“I know who you are.”

“We all know who you are,” Maynard sullenly interjected from a few cells down.

“I’ll find you during rec,” Buzzard finished.

“Works for me,” Junkrat agreed, ignoring Maynard’s comment entirely.

Buzzard stayed true to his word and approached Junkrat during their recreational hour. Despite being able to put a face to his name, Junkrat still barely recognised him. He had the impression that Buzzard, who had to have been in his sixties or seventies, didn’t leave his cell much even when he had the opportunity. “What?” he asked, blunt and to the point.

“I heard you’ve got access to matches. What’s a bloke gotta do to get his hands on some of those?” Junkrat wiggled his fingers.

Buzzard hushed him and led him over to his cell. Across the room, Roadhog’s eyes tracked them, and it reassured Junkrat to know that he was watching in case things went south. Buzzard pulled a stack of yellowing paper from beneath his bed and spread them out on the mattress. Junkrat gave a low whistle and picked up one of the pages to get a better look at it. Buzzard was an artist, showcasing dozens of illustrations in pencil and watercolour. Nearly all of them were of nature, vivid pictures of sunsets and flowers and desert oases, everything that he likely hadn’t seen in decades.

“Colours,” Buzzard said. He popped the back off an old school radio with loose screws, showing Junkrat how its innards had been ripped out and stuffed with as many matchbooks as it could possibly fit. He’d clearly been hoarding them over the years, perhaps from back in the days where inmates were still allowed to purchase cigarettes and smoke. “Two matchbooks for a packet of Skittles,” he said, closing up the radio once more and securing it so it appeared to be tightly screwed together. “I dilute them with water to make my paints.”

Junkrat admired his ingenuity, sensing a kindred spirit in Buzzard. It took a special kind of person to find such creative uses for everyday items. “There’s somethin’ I can give ya.” He made a mental note to add Skittles to his list of requested commissary items before he turned the list in at dinner.

The final piece needed to construct his makeshift explosives would be considerably more difficult to get his hands on, and it required asking a favor of someone he was not terribly fond of. Junkrat made a beeline to Roadhog when he left Buzzard’s cell. “Listen, mate,” he said in a low voice. “I gotta talk to that bastard what tried to jump me in the showers. Watch my back, will ya?”

Roadhog grunted in agreement, folding his arms over his chest and watching like a hawk as Junkrat approached Belmont.

“Say, Belmont...” he said, inching within earshot but keeping an arm’s length away. “Gotta ask ya for a favor.”

Belmont, who had been reclining on the couch, took off his headphones. “It better be good if you’re taking me away from my soaps.”

Junkrat glanced at the TV. He couldn’t hear anything, the sound funneled through headphones so as not to start a volume war with the other inmates, but it looked dramatic. “Yeah, no, it’ll just take a sec! Y’work in a workshop, roight? Any chance you can acquire a few pipes? Just like a plastic tube, don’t need nothin’ fancy.”

“What’s in it for me?”

This was the question Junkrat had been dreading. “Whaddya want?”

“A joint,” Belmont answered without hesitation.

Junkrat scratched the back of his had. “Well...” he said slowly. “Can’t get ya that. What about somethin’ else to smoke? I can get ya a pack of durries, easy. Might be a few missin’, but better than nothin’, eh? How many pipes’ll that get me?”

Belmont considered. “I’ll take it,” he said, slipping his headphones back on. “One pipe for every ten cigs. I’ll see what I can find tomorrow. Get me the goods by then. Now leave me the fuck alone, Anthony’s about to propose.”

Junkrat gave him a thumbs up and scurried back to Roadhog.

“You’re making friends,” Roadhog observed.

“More like business associates,” Junkrat amended. "Acquaintances. Gettin’ all my bombs in a row and all that.”

“What are you getting yourself into?” Roadhog warily asked.

“What makes ya think I’m gettin’ into anythin’?” Junkrat responded, offended.

“You always get into trouble.” It was more of an observation than anything else.

“Well, not this time. I’m gettin’ us out of trouble this time. Gonna blow this place to kingdom come and get us the hell outta here.”

Roadhog glanced around them. “You really need to be careful who you say that around.”

“I’ll be careful! Careful is me middle name.” They both enjoyed a hearty laugh at that, and Junkrat felt indescribably good, the way he did every time Roadhog laughed with him instead of at him.

---

Junkrat’s commissary processed the next day, and he giggled at the sight of his haul. “S’like Christmas in here!” He set aside the Skittles to swap with Buzzard and piled up the electronics in the corner by the toilet that Thatcher had designated for him, the implications of which did not escape his notice.

He waited until Thatcher left for his hour in the recreation yard before making his move. It took him a while to find the right brick, but he dug it out and pocketed the cigarettes before sealing it back up with the makeshift toothpaste grout. A closer look at it revealed that it was a 40 pack of cigarettes, with nine of them missing. He didn’t know when Thatcher had gotten his hands on the contraband, but he was clearly being economical with them.

Of all the goods he got from the commissary, the almonds had to be his favorite. He slipped them in his other pocket to deliver them to Roadhog during their recreation hour.

“I gotcha somethin’,” he told Roadhog when they met up by the chess set.

“Hm?”

Junkrat held up the bag of almonds. “To say thanks for havin’ my back.”

Roadhog chuckled and took the gift. “Thanks.”

Junkrat didn’t expect the heavy hand placed on his head, flattening his wild hair, but it made him glow with pride. “Ah, it’s nothin’!” He was mildly disappointed when Roadhog withdrew his hand, and he did his best to commit that sensation to memory. Roadhog so rarely touched him, but he craved those small moments of human contact. “Got some other things to deliver though, so I’ll be back in a tick.”

“You’re just handing out gifts left and right today.”

“Wha-- no!” he protested. “These ain’t gifts, they’re business transactions! You get the one and only gift, yer special.”

“I’m teasing,” Roadhog said gently.

“Oh. Well. Alright then.”

Junkrat traded Skittles for matches with Buzzard first and deposited the matchbooks inside his pillowcase for safekeeping. He tracked down Belmont, who brought him to his cell so they could make the transaction with some semblance of privacy.

“How many ya got?” he asked.

“Three. If you don’t got ten cigs, you’re not getting a single one of them, and I’ll be taking what you do have as payment for my trouble.”

Junkrat slapped the pack in Belmont’s hand. “Thirty two,” he said triumphantly. “I believe I’ll be takin’ all three of those pipes.”

Belmont weighed the pack in his hand before counting them to confirm Junkrat’s claim. “It’s thirty one, you idiot. You can’t count. But still, impressive,” he said. “Fine, a deal’s a deal.” He went to his cell and they completed the transfer, Belmont slipping him the short pieces of pipe he’d filched from the workshop. Junkrat shoved two in his pockets and the third down his pants to smuggle them back to his own cell.

He surveyed all of his goods and grinned, rubbing his hands together. "Now we’re cookin’ with fire.”

[touchmyspinebookreviews]

Go Home, Afton

Author: Brent Jones

Length: Novella

Genre: Thriller

Series: Afton Morrison, Book 1

Release Date: June 25, 2018

We all wear masks, and Afton Morrison is no exception.

A small-town librarian with a dark side, Afton, twenty-six, has suppressed violent impulses her entire adult life. Impulses that demand she commit murder.

Blending her urges with reason, Afton stalks a known sexual predator, intending to kill him. But her plan, inspired by true crime and hatched with meticulous care, is interrupted by a mysterious figure from her past. A dangerous man that lurks in the shadows, watching, threatening to turn the huntress into the hunted.

Go Home, Afton is the first of four parts in a new serial thriller by author Brent Jones. Packed with grit and action, The Afton Morrison Series delves into a world of moral ambiguity, delivering audiences an unlikely heroine in the form of a disturbed vigilante murderess.

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        Wow, what an amazing ‘hit it and quit it’ kind of novella! From the first chapter I was already hooked! Think about it like an unique female version of Dexter Morgan, how can you go wrong? The story had me hooked and I devoured the whole book in one setting. After reading some books that I am way past the due of being reviewed that were triggering and some that were blah, this story was a breath of psychopathic fresh air!

I admittedly can relate to Afton in some ways like having more than one version of “myself” not the whole murderous vigilante type of way. This novella had one helluva story line as well, most of the time when reading a novella you feel like you are missing out on something or it doesn’t give you enough enjoyment because of its length but that was not the case with Go Home, Afton! This story was “Wham Bam, Thank you, ma’am” kind of fun! I would definitely recommend this story to anyone looking for a good read that can be read in a couple sittings and you can’t beat a great read for 99 cents! You can grab a copy if interested with the buttons above! I am so excited about reading the second novel and I can’t wait to see what Mr. Jones comes out with next!

“Someone was creeping in the shadows. A man, perhaps, watching me while standing next to a wooden bench at the edge of the street, concealed in part by a decorative lamppost. And all at once, I could feel it. The prying eyes of a fellow voyeur, keen to assess my intentions as much as observe my actions. But as I gave my head a soft shake, the figure disappeared, and I was almost alone again.” —Go Home, Afton (Chapter 1)

  “I hadn’t experienced true autonomy over my consciousness since adolescence. Well, seventeen or so, to be exact. A second Afton emerged that year. A twin sister of sorts, a manifestation of my darkest desires. A relentless cheerleader, in a manner of speaking, who appeared only to me, urging me to obey impulses that most good people can suppress or ignore. I had named her ‘Animus’ Afton, and the time to give in to her was drawing nearer.” —Go Home, Afton (Chapter 1)

“Kenneth Pritchard had to die, you see—she and I agreed on that much—but it would be me who would have to kill him. He would be my first, and his death had to be just right.” —Go Home, Afton (Chapter 1)

“There was nothing on my desk but a plastic canister of Lysol wipes. Not a framed photograph, not a placard, not a pen or a pencil, not so much as an artificial fucking ficus. My belongings, sparse as they were—lens cleaner for my glasses, an extra cable to charge my phone—were filed away in a two-drawer cabinet next to my feet. I took a moment, as my single computer monitor flickered on, to savor the beautiful synthetic scent of lemon disinfectant. No, not all librarians were meticulous creatures, but I was, and it felt soothing, reassuring.” —Go Home, Afton (Chapter 4)

“When I left for college…I swore I’d never come back. But it was that last year before I left, when I was seventeen, that cemented my roots in this town. That gave me a sense of belonging here. The incident, as I had labeled it in my head, in a strictly euphemistic sense. More like scarring, perhaps, or what some might call Stockholm syndrome. Somewhere inside, I harbored this crazy notion that returning to Wakefield might help me find a lost fragment of my soul. Closure, wherever it was buried.” —Go Home, Afton (Chapter 5)

“…a thin line of red trickled down his throat. Even seated as he was, he towered over me. He looked down his nose through widened gray eyes, waiting to see what I’d do next.” —Go Home, Afton (Chapter 6)

“Thousands of memories came flooding back through my consciousness at once, each one an image I had fought like hell to forever banish from my psyche. Demons, that had laid in wait, were seething at my core, and came breaking to the surface in flashes of white-hot anger, rushing to my head and neck.” —Go Home, Afton (Chapter 11)

“I debated my next move, chastising myself for allowing fear to creep into my consciousness. I hadn’t come this far to turn around and go back…” —Go Home, Afton (Chapter 15)

  From bad checks to bathroom graffiti, Brent Jones has always been drawn to writing. He won a national creative writing competition at the age of fourteen, although he can’t recall what the story was about. Seventeen years later, he gave up his career to pursue creative writing full-time.

Jones writes from his home in Fort Erie, Canada. He’s happily married, a bearded cyclist, a mediocre guitarist, and the proud owner of two dogs with a God complex.

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Excerpt (Chapter 3)

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Parents—stay-at-home moms, mostly—brought in their toddlers once a week so I could read them a story. And I use the word toddlers loosely. Kids as old as six or seven sometimes attended during the summer. And the stories we would read were made up of fewer than fifty words, for the most part. A lot of the mothers in Wakefield were too lazy to read to their own children, I guess.

Oh, and crafts, too. After reading a story together, we’d break out glitter and colored pencils and paste and other nonsense, but that wasn’t the real reason a dozen women turned out with their little monsters each week. Storytime was an excuse for the mothers to gather and gossip. It always took a little while to get the children to settle down, sure. I’d press my finger to my lips and wait. Five or ten seconds at most, although I would have been happy to wait longer. Their mothers, on the other hand, were so much worse. Getting them to shut their fucking traps was a whole separate exercise in endurance.

But as much as I disliked children, there was something magical about them. It was their inability to see gray, I think. Their entire worlds existed in black and white, right and wrong, good and evil. You could see it in their faces as a story unfolded, rife with nervous energy at every inconsequential turn.

“And she just doesn’t know”—I read to the room, pointing to each gigantic word—“should she stay, should she go?”

I caught a boy’s expression, who sat just inches from me. The hippopotamus in our story was faced with a dilemma, and this boy was transfixed. His eyes were wide, his hands were cupped over his mouth, and he was vibrating with anticipation to see what the hippo would do next.

I flipped to the last page. “But yes the hippopotamus.”

The boy relaxed a little, making a deliberate show of letting his shoulders drop. A talented drama queen in the making. He was new to storytime and looked to be about five or six years old. He had dark hair, a tan complexion, and a missing front tooth. He’d attended just once before and he’d sat close that day, as well. I’d never really been big on learning children’s names, to be honest, but I knew his was Neil only because he’d come to the library alone both times. It sounds strange, I’m sure, but having a parent use the library as a free babysitting service happens more often than most people would guess.

I continued on, reading the final words of the story. “But not the armadillo.”

Neil was stressed all over again, and his tiny hand shot up. “Miss Afton?”

“Yes, ah, Neil? What is it, little man?”

“How come not the arma-darma?”

“Armadillo.” A woman in baggy gray sweatpants corrected him from the back of the room. She was a few years older than me, had bleach-blonde hair in a ponytail, and her voice resembled a seagull getting crushed by a car.

I shut the book and set it on my lap. “That’s a good question, Neil.” I bit my lower lip, deciding how much to share. “Well, let’s see. Ah, no one likes armadillos, for starters. They’re bullet-proof, if you can believe it, and ugly as sin. They carry leprosy, too, but they don’t bite children too often.”

The woman at the back of the room—Sweatpants, let’s call her—looked horrified. Her stained teeth chattered and she blinked in rapid succession. She placed her palms over her daughter’s ears, a girl around three or four in age.

Neil scratched his head. “What’s a lepra-she?”

“It’s—”

Sweatpants raised her hand to silence me—not that I minded—and looked to a few of the other mothers in the room for support, most of whom were checked out or occupied with their phones. She looked back at me again, then at her daughter. “It’s when good little boys and girls get ice cream.” That wasn’t how I might have defined the word, however. “You want to stop for ice cream on the way home, Jessi?”

It was hard enough getting these little turds to sit still for all fourteen pages of But Not the Hippopotamus. Why on earth would this woman want to stuff her daughter’s face with sugar before lunch? But the girl jumped up and squealed at the mention of sweets, and soon, other kids joined in, as did their mothers.

I peeked down at Neil to see him cradling his head in his hands, masking a look of disappointment by staring at the floor. It appeared he had forgotten all about armadillos and leprosy and storytime, and now sulked, wishing he had a parent present to take him for ice cream like the other children.

The mothers talked amongst themselves, and their toddlers fed on the elevated energy levels. The room was alive with discourse, and I wondered if the local Dairy Queen might consider paying me a small commission. “Well, that’s it for storytime, boys and girls. Thanks for coming.”

Sweatpants spoke up at the back of the room, the self-elected leader of Wakefield’s fattest and frumpiest. “But it’s only quarter past, Afton. Isn’t storytime supposed to be a full hour?”

“Just figured you were all on your way to get a double-scoop of leprosy.”

“Very funny.”

I raised my hands in a gesture of mock uncertainty. “We’ve got crafts we can do.” I pointed to three short tables covered in plastic, adorned with supplies that Kim had set up for us. “Should we get to it?”

“That won’t take long. Couldn’t you read them another story first?”

Couldn’t I read them another story? It’d been her idea to squeeze out one of these little nightmares. Why was I being punished for it? “Not this week, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

But she just wouldn’t give up. “Afton, do you know where Jessi’s daddy is right now?”

My first thought was that her husband was probably fucking her sister at some roadside motel with hourly rates, bed bugs, and a one-star rating on Trip Advisor. I couldn’t say that out loud, of course, and so I fought like hell to keep a smirk off my face. It helped to keep my sights trained on Jessi, who had sat back down, cross-legged in a checkered dress. She was drawing on the floor with one small finger.

Sweatpants answered her own question. “He’s at work, Afton. And he works hard, by the way, and we pay more than our share of taxes in this town. Taxes that pay your salary.”

Oh, the salary card. How I loved it when disgruntled parents brought up my salary, as if any one of them wanted to trade places with me. Yes, her taxes paid me a small fortune. That’s why I rented a one-bedroom apartment in a triplex. And it’s the same reason I drove a seven-year-old Corolla. I was so grateful—indebted, even—to Sweatpants and her husband that I just couldn’t wait to read another story.

“Sure thing.” I grabbed a second book off the pile next to me. “One more story, coming right up.”

Sweatpants smiled. It was a flat, fake smile, of course, the kind where the mouth curls tight but the eyes are dormant. It was about the best I could have hoped for, and it seemed to have a calming effect on the other mothers. They quieted down, eager to return to their various text message conversations.

I pointed my finger to more jumbo text on a colorful page. A story about an overweight and diabetic caterpillar with impulse control issues, who was always so very very fucking hungry. “In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf . . .”

And I couldn’t help but lose myself in thought. I was that little egg on a leaf, glimmering in the moonlight, and about to hatch. Soon after, the morning would come. And my hunger would be satiated at last, because Kenneth Pritchard would be dead.

Schedule

June 25th

Reads & Reels (Review) http://www.readsandreels.com

Book Wonderland (Review) https://bookwonderlandweb.wordpress.com/

Down the Rabbit Hole (Review) http://meggydowntherabbithole.wordpress.com/

Touch My Spine Book Reviews (Review) https://touchmyspinebookreviews.com

June 26th

Book Dragon Girl (Review) http://www.bookdragongirl.com

Jessica Rachow (Review) http://jessicarachow.wordpress.com

Sinfully Wicked Book Reviews (Review) https://sinfullywickedbookreviews.com

The Scribblings (Review) https://thescribblingssite.wordpress.com

June 27th

On the Shelf Reviews (Review) https://ontheshelfreviews.wordpress.com

Tranquil Dreams (Review) http://klling.wordpress.com

June 28th

Dash Fan Book Reviews (Review) https://dashfan81.blogspot.com

J Bronder Book Reviews (Review) http://jbronderbookreviews.wordpress.com/

Just 4 My Books (Review) http://www.just4mybooks.wordpress.com

Life at 17 (Review) https://lifeat17.wordpress.com

June 29th

Kim Knight (Review) http://kimknightauthor.wordpress.com

Misty’s Book Space (Review) http://mistysbookspace.wordpress.com

Port Jerricho (Review)  http://www.aislynndmerricksson.com

R&R Book Tours

  Thanks so much for checking out my review, loves! I am so sorry I haven’t been spamming up your notifications as of late. My mom got married this weekend and I was the maid of honor and had those duties. I also had to stop one of my medications so haven’t been feeling the best but now that the wedding mess is over I can bloggy hop! Woot! I missed your faces and can’t wait to read your posts. Thanks for reading my review of this great book! I have many to catch up on and unfortunatly some reads were not as great. I hope everyone has a fantabulous week! You guys rock!

  Go Home, Afton by Brent Jones~R&R Book Review Go Home, Afton Author: Brent Jones Length: Novella Genre: Thriller Series: Afton Morrison, Book 1 Release Date: June 25, 2018…