#''you want me to write? the same thing that put Alan Wake in The Dark Place?''

[neuromantis]

aw2 gave me perhaps, one of the most important realizations of my life. just now. "how do you run from an idea?"

the world i created when i started writing. i liked it. and i liked my characters. they were real to me. but. i could escape there. but i couldn't live there. with my family and friends and loved ones, the only ones i've had then.

i needed to stay outside and keep writing them. i could never join them. so i kept writing. every day i would write more of it, obsessively. and with that came a realization of the genre of the story it was shaping up to be.

i keep calling it "automatic writing", because i really never felt like i was in control of it. ideas just used me as a conduit. the story was telling itself. and it wasn't. a nice story. not one with hopes or happy endings.

i once told someone a long time ago that i couldn't stand writing anymore because i loved those people. loved their world. but if i made more of it. they'd have to suffer for it. so i quit. i kept meeting new ideas and characters and i only wrote down the barest of outlines. because the narrative would inevitably doom them, there had to be no narrative anymore.

i think what also made me stop it, was meeting Adam. a guy i knew like 10 years ago who suddenly messaged me. he re-sent me my own message to him from 2013. "well what about the fact that perhaps there IS a god, but he just specifically hates you?"

the last couple of years made me accept it. Adam is me. N(adam)ian. The one who made it all. The one who set up the rules. The one they'd be suffering for. And I don't want to be that. So I chose to leave them. They don't let me. But at least I can not write.

[thelivingautomaton]

*also i really really wish there was more stuff in the game with alan and casey (either real world casey or dark place casey) interacting* <- LITERALLY SAME‼️‼️ I had to scramble for footage for this edit but this whole concept is so intriguing to me and I wish we had a whole DLC with them (also thank you for nice tags under the rb ur too kind🫡)

(yes ofc, your graphics go so hard i love them!) and YES, it's such a wild concept to me especially because like. ok lemme put this under a cut for big-time alan wake 2 spoilers but also i kind of word-vomited a lot of percolating thoughts on the game, LOL oops

so for maybe 75% of the game i was CERTAIN that i had the game's twists Figured Out by the end of chapter 1, and i was sure that one of those twists was gonna be "fbi agent casey is 1:1 the same person as the fictional detective casey that alan's books are about, or even if he's not, agent casey was still created wholesale by alan as part of the overarching scheme to get saga to bright falls and have her assume the role of 'hero' in getting him out of the dark place". (this was part of my overarching idea re: saga's storyline which was that the version of events where saga lived in watery and logan drowned was the "true" reality, and alan rewrote her life/memories basically to "make" her into a better/less traumatized hero figure, and also get rid of stuff that would prevent her from wanting to go "back" to bright falls)

so like, at first i felt kind of "meh" about the reveal that fbi agent casey is the "real"/original/whatever version and fictional detective casey arose from alan using echoes of his life as writing material (compounded with the game making it pretty clear that alan can't wholesale make/create new stuff, just rewrite or guide what's already "real", and the seemingly straightforward reveal that saga's remembered version of events is "real" because she's immune to retcon bullshit). but the more i think about it the more i actually think it works really well and if anything is a much more interesting take on the trope of "fictional character and their creator interact/come into conflict"?

like, rather than the usual angst of "oh my god, am i real, is anything in my life real, does anything i do matter when my life is a fictional narrative", you get the more interesting flavors of inner drama both from casey (i.e. "i am a real person, but exactly how much of my memories and life can i trust, how much might have been twisted or rewritten by an outside hand to make a better story, could my past mistakes/regrets be erased, have they already been?") and also more importantly alan (i.e. "holy shit i've been taking Actual Real People and treating them like paper dolls to cut up and rearrange however i want to make a good story out of it")

plus by establishing that alan can't just make shit exist + nobody in the story is a made-up creation (well, i mean. within the narrative nobody is fictional, lol), it helps ground the story and characters and maintain your investment in their struggles and the stakes. and it also helps align the broader cosmology of the alan wake games with the wider remedy-verse by maintaining a baseline "reality" that presumably follows certain rules vis a vis the way objects of power and parautilitarian abilities work. like, the rules might be fucking weird, and we as players are probably getting only 20% of all the information because in-universe people know at most like, 40% of all the information, but it's clear that SOMEWHERE remedy has a bible of rules for How Their World Works so that they can keep things internally consistent across their games

with that all being said i also think they've left things open-ended enough that they can take a lot of these concepts in a bunch of directions simultaneously -- alan can still manifest/write up distorted funhouse mirror versions of "real" characters within the dark place who can yell at him for being a jackass or try to kill him or whatever, i wouldn't be surprised if one or both dlcs have further appearances of dark place casey and/or other "fictional" versions of casey written by alan, not to mention that real world fbi agent casey could easily get sucked into further metafictional alternate reality/narrative bullshit by virtue of how he got possessed by the dark presence (albeit briefly). like the only thing i'm for sure certain about is that remedy will probably keep finding new and exciting ways of pulling the rug out from under my feet, LOL

[tsarisfanfiction]

Hey :) I might sound greedy asking you again but I’ve spun the fluff wheel and this is what I got:

‘Person A and Person B unable to sleep after watching a horror film but neither will admit the film scared them.’

The Things

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: John, Alan

Not greedy at all! I like my inbox nice and full so I can play with prompts when my muses can't otherwise settle! It might take me a while to answer sometimes, but I do flick through the collection regularly.

This one's had me stumped for a while, and I considered a couple of different bro combinations before I stumbled across the perfect one tonight. It's not a combo I write very much, but hopefully it works!

Fluffy Prompt Generator (edit: linked the wrong one whoops!)

“Hey, John?” His brother’s voice was quiet. Tentative. Scared. “Are you awake?”

“You should be asleep, Alan,” he replied, allowing the holographic visage of his youngest brother to flicker into existence in front of him. “It’s three in the morning.” The teenager liked his sleep entirely too much to stay up late without good reason, and John shuffled his own thoughts around in his head until his focus was on his brother and not the reason he was still awake despite handing monitor duty over to EOS for the night an hour earlier.

Alan was rigid, shoulders hunched and blanket pulled up to his nose. The cause was immediately obvious, and John supressed a wry, humourless smile of his own. Just one more thing he had in common with the teenager.

“No reason,” Alan mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter against him. His bright blue eyes stood out starkly against the red of the material. “I just… couldn’t sleep. That’s all.”

It never ceased to amaze John that his brothers thought they could lie to him and he wouldn’t realise. Living in space did not mean he was out of touch, nor did it mean he couldn’t see their tells. In this case, however, he was more than willing to humour Alan.

Alan wasn’t the only one still awake despite being in bed, after all.

“Do you want me to wake Scott?” he offered. He’d never go to Scott for himself over this, but for Alan was another matter entirely. Any other time, he’d wonder why Alan hadn’t wandered into the room next door already, but tonight?

Tonight, the dark was the unknown, and the unknown held Things, writhing and creepy and hands snatching at ankles from holes in the wall that hadn’t been there before they’d blinked. Thunderbird Five was well-lit, no dimming of the lights while he tried to sleep tonight. Alan didn’t have that same luxury, so the security of the blanket on his bed was the best he could do.

It was a little pathetic, really. They could face the deadly void of space without flinching, they could battle aliens and zombies in a fully immersive gaming system as blood and guts and all manner of grotesque things rained down upon them.

But one measly movie, and suddenly the bogeyman was real again.

It hadn’t even been a good movie. The plot had been terrible, and John had spent most of it listening to Scott and Gordon tearing it apart. Virgil, clearly the most sensible member of the family, had opted to linger on the mezzanine floor with his paintings rather than watch the movie with the rest of them.

The entire budget, and the creativity of the screenwriters, had gone into the Things. They weren’t ghosts, which were admittedly something that creeped John out if he considered them for too long – the ‘haunted’ Eden hadn’t helped with that – so he hadn’t expected to find anything particularly taxing about the movie.

He’d been mistaken, and apparently he wasn’t the only brother that had underestimated how terrifying the Things from the movie would be.

Alan shook his head. “He’s asleep.” The words were muffled, and sounded a lot like an excuse rather than a reason, but John couldn’t really argue with the logic. Their big brother didn’t get enough sleep as it was; disturbing him over movie-induced paranoia really wasn’t worth it.

Still, the blond clearly needed a big brother to chase away the Things, and John mentally ran through the options. Virgil would help with no hesitation, although he had gone to bed an hour earlier so that would involve getting him back out of bed and dealing with a sleep-deprived Virgil in the morning. Gordon was more of a wildcard, and when it came to something irrational like this, there was no real telling how he’d react.

…If he was honest, John wouldn’t mind some real company tonight, either.

“Okay,” he said, finding his way to his feet. “I’ll be down in fifteen.”

“You’re coming down?” Blue eyes widened further, a cross between concern and delight. “Why?”

“Well, I’m already awake,” John shrugged. “I’ll keep the line open.”

Admittedly, once he was out of the well-lit hangar and in the dark of the villa in the middle of the night, the ongoing whispered conversation held a selfish connotation. Just as Alan clearly didn’t want to leave the bed and brave the darkness, John found his own pulse accelerating a little as he padded through the familiar hallways that were somehow off despite the number of times he’d come down in the middle of the night before until he reached his little brother’s room and let himself in.

If he didn’t know Scott would fly into a blind panic, he would have grabbed Alan and whisked him back up to the brightly-lit and sterile safety of Thunderbird Five. Unfortunately, their big brother would discover that Alan wasn’t on the island and freak out before thinking to contact John and ask for a location.

No, John would have to stay down on Earth tonight, and pretend that the intermittent shivers were from leaving his nice, temperate-controlled, space station for the whims of Mother Nature, and not from a ridiculous irrational fear brought on by family movie night.

“Is there room for me?” he asked quietly, and Alan obediently shuffled over. The fact that he was in his bed at all was unusual, but considering the circumstances John declined to comment on it. Instead, he slid into the space his brother made for him, well aware that he was still in his spacesuit barring the bulky baldric. He slept in it all the time in space; one night down on Earth wouldn’t be a problem.

As soon as he was settled, Alan migrated towards him, close enough that his hair tickled his chin. John didn’t pull away.

“Think you can sleep now?” he asked instead. Alan made a non-committal noise.

“Maybe,” he admitted dubiously after a moment. Considering everything, John would take that.

“Then, night, Alan,” he said. “I’m gonna get some sleep.”

“Night, John,” his brother mumbled. More hair tickled his cheek, and then his nose, as Alan got comfortable against him. It helped John’s own heart calm back down from his scurried adventure through the dark villa.

Silence reigned, and John had just begun to wonder if Alan had succumbed to sleep when his brother spoke, curiosity lacing his voice.

“Say, John… Why were you still awake?”

There was absolutely no way John was answering that. He feigned sleep and hoped Alan was too tired to put the facts together.

“…Oh. You too, huh?”

Apparently Alan was not too tired to put the facts together, but John didn’t give up on his pretence of sleep. He had some big brother clout to try and preserve, after all.

[gumnut-logic]

The Mechromancer

There may be more to this.

This started out as an attempt to write something completely different, but it was determined to do this instead. So you have a pile of fishTank, just a different pile than expected.

Warnings for angst, hurt/comfort.

Many thanks to @scribbles97​ @janetm74​ @tsarinatorment​ and @flyboytracy​ for all their help on this one. My brain fried in the middle of it and it is a little odd as a result. These wonderful peeps put up with an extremely whiney Nutty for a few days there so they should be congratulated for not hitting my over the head with something solid :D

I hope you enjoy this anyway.

-o-o-o-

They say mechromancy is born of the Earth, of rock and metal and the energies that drive the planet.

He can feel it.

Feel metal spinning as it is cut and cries out in its making, its shaping, its becoming. It resonates in his soul as he gives birth to a new creation.

He pulls the new shape off the lathe, the smell of hot metal curling in his nostrils. A rough edge catches skin and pricks a scratch.

Red iron smudges grey steel, metal on metal.

Virgil wipes it away with a stained rag and the cog gleams in the light of his workshop.

-o-o-o-

Gordon’s days were grey.

At first, waking was pain and fog. Everything was broken. The fine instrument he had built his body into no longer worked and was little more than a source of ongoing agony.

The doctors were brutally honest. He could not expect more than a life of grey walls and kindly nursing staff for the rest of his life.

That’s if he had one. There was always the opportunity of a sudden infection and an early termination of that agreement.

His family was there.

Always.

Grandma was in charge, no matter what the hospital thought. You didn’t cross his grandmother and survive. The fact there was a looming grey-eyed and very wealthy Jefferson Tracy gave much more weight to Doctor Tracy’s demands.

His father was there.

This was something both expected and unexpected. Father was a very busy man, but each time Gordon woke in those early days, his eyes would clear to find the silver-grey suited millionaire somewhere in the room. He didn’t say much, not being a man to show a great deal of emotion, but the fact he was there and there so often said enough.

Said how dire things really were.

The most consistent presence was Scott, of course. The man’s cane was heard in his sleep. Sometimes Gordon wanted to reach out and shake it from his brother’s grasp and break it in two across his knee.

But it was a fantasy. Because not only did he not have the strength to grab the cane, he no longer had any knees to break anything.

His legs were gone.

The thought flickered through his mind and he shied away.

Alan…Alan tried to cheer him up while trying not to cry himself. It was heartbreaking.

John reached out to brush fingers through his hair, a single tear falling unacknowledged down his cheek.

Gordon was in so much pain himself and yet also the cause of so much more. It tore at his heart.

Had his sole purpose in life been reduced to a bane on his family?

And Virgil…

He dreamt of his brother. His loving and gentle mechanic brother.

But he never saw him.

In the early days after Gordon had first opened his eyes after the accident, he had asked after Virgil. Scott’s eyes had been full of…something. His eldest brother always kept up his military stance, hiding his true thoughts should they present a vulnerability and those defences were ever so thick at the mere mention of Virgil.

Even in his bleary, pain-filled state, Gordon sensed there was something wrong, but he didn’t have the strength to pursue the question.

His days were awash with painkilling concoctions of his grandmother’s recommendations that took his mind along with the pain. Distorted versions of both his father and Scott were his earliest memories after the accident.

And the dreams…a sense of heat, holding him down, burning, preventing his escape. His own fear overlapped by someone else’s desperation and panic. Flame burning down his nerve endings demanding he stay.

Stay.

Whispers in his mother’s voice.

Denial and determination.

Ever so hot and hurting.

They always ended in such a flare of light and sound, he woke up yelling.

And Scott would be there. Words of reassurance and love.

Gordon always asked for Virgil after the dreams. They meant something, he was sure of it and they had something to do with Virgil.

And Scott never quite answered.

-o-o-o-

He stokes the fire to exactly the right temperature, the coals glowing eye-blinding white, forcing his goggles onto his eyes. His skin pricks with the heat.

Cahelium requires it.

Metal hits flame in a shower of sparks and sucks up the energy, shining as brightly as the sun. He feels it breathe in, draw in the life-giving energy of creation.

His hammer shapes with each strike, the metal thinning as he bends it to his will. Muscles flexing as he swings, the energy of his body fighting, forcing form.

Sweat trickles down his brow as he frowns with the effort. His leather apron protects his vulnerable body, but the sparks still sneak through to embed in the bare skin of his arms and burn holes in his shirt.

He doesn’t care. He can feel the metal with his mind and it is becoming.

Scars in the making only record the process.

-o-o-o-

Days turn into weeks and still Virgil didn’t appear.

Scott had excuses but none of them rang true. Gordon created all kinds of scenarios in his head. Maybe Virgil was injured. Or sick. Maybe he had died. All of the above terrified him until one day while they were alone, he yelled at his big brother, demanding to know.

Only then did he get to see Virgil.

Scott wheeled him in.

Gordon stared. His engineer brother looked terrible.

“W-what happened?”

Virgil’s hands were swaddled in bandages and he was literally wilting in the chair. “Hey, Gords.” His eyelids were drooping.

Gordon looked up at Scott and his big brother’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“What happened?!” His body was busted but there was nothing wrong with his brain bar the concoctions they kept stabbing him with.

Virgil reached over and lay a bandaged hand on Gordon’s chest. “I’m well. I promise.”

“You look awful, Virg. What happened to your hands?” He stared at the swathed fingers on his broken body. Virgil’s magic fingers. His eyes widened, dreams and reality suddenly merging. “What did you do?!”

“Gordon…” His name was weariness itself, his brother’s usual baritone barely there. “You were dying. I had to.”

Gordon’s eyes shot to his brother’s bloodshot brown, so like his own. “You fix machines.”

“The human body is only another type of machine.”

“You fixed me?”

Virgil shook his head, his eyes closing. Scott, who had remained silent, knelt down beside the engineer in his chair and placed an arm around Virgil’s shoulders.

Virgil’s hand was still on Gordon’s chest. He fought with the sudden need to want it gone, yet desperately wanted to hold it in his own.

He settled for slowly, ever so slowly moving his right hand to land on top of Virgil’s as gently as he could.

“What did you do?”

“I fixed enough.” An exhausted exhale. “Just enough.”

“What has it done to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. You look half dead.”

Virgil closed his eyes again. “I am well, Gordon. Don’t worry about it.”

Gordon turned to Scott, whose eyes again dropped to the floor. His big brother swallowed.

Back to Virgil. “You are a pathetic liar. You know that.”

Virgil’s eyes joined Scott’s on the floor. “I’m sorry, Gordon.”

“What?! It’s obvious that you foolishly did something that might have saved my ass, but trashed yours. Scott, tell me! What the hell did he do to himself?”

Virgil straightened up and a more familiar fire flared. “I did what had to be done. And I would do it again.”

“Then why the hell are you apologising?”

Virgil shrunk back and shook his head, but didn’t say anything further. If anything, he wilted in his chair further.

“Virgil…” It was an exhalation of his brother’s name. His eyes darted again to Scott seeking answers. His eldest brother still had a protective arm around Virgil’s shoulders. Whatever had happened, chances were it was bad.

Blue eyes looked up and caught Gordon’s. Scott’s lips thinned and his jaw tightened.

Very bad.

Virgil’s hand on Gordon’s chest was trembling.

“Tell me you will be well.” He begged Virgil to look at him so he could see the truth.

As if summoned, that dark-haired head rose, bloodshot, brown eyes caught his. “I will.” A swallow. “I promise.”

“And your hands?”

“They will heal.”

“And be as they were?” Please.

“They will heal.” It was a repetition, almost a self-reassurance.

Gordon swallowed hard, almost terrified to look beneath those bandages to discover exactly what his brother had done trying to ‘fix’ Gordon’s machine.

Virgil was suddenly pushing himself to his feet. Scott hurried to steady him. “Virgil, what are you doing?”

But their brother didn’t answer. He took a shaky step towards the bed and, leaning over, wrapped his arms as best he could around Gordon without disturbing him. “So good to see you, Fish.” There was an emotional shake in his voice and that tremble in his hand proved to be system wide.

Gordon lifted one hand the best he could and rested his temple against Virgil’s. “Glad to be here.” His voice was suddenly hoarse. “Thank you.”

There was a muffled sound in Gordon’s pillow he couldn’t identify. Then  a rough, but firm, “Anytime.” Virgil shifted and pushed himself up a little, enough to catch Gordon’s eyes. “Anytime.”

And Scott was hauling Virgil up and back into his chair.

Gordon didn’t want his brother to go, but the man was sagging where he sat, alarming Gordon even more. A glance at Scott and he encountered that same worry there.

“Time to go back to bed, Virgil.” Their eldest brother secured him in the chair and unlatched the brakes.

If Gordon could have, he would have stretched out his arm. “Be well, Virgil.”

His weary brother nodded once and Scott pushed him out the door, leaving Gordon to stare at where his brother had been and what he had done.

-o-o-o-

He lines up the fine golden metal cladding and, with a punch he cast himself, embosses a detailed etch of an octopus into the hot cahelium-brass.

Beside it, he chooses to place a shark, its fins a sharp dent in the metal.

His breath is evaporated as he peers closely before punching in a twirled sea shell.

His fingers ache to touch the metal.

On the desk beside him lays the mechanisms. Setting the section of the cladding aside to cool, he returns to the final touches, the fine tuning of the gears and the delicate gyroscopes that will balance movement.

His fingers flicker as he reaches for information.

There is a thin screwdriver in his mouth, held across his lips as his hands correct and make minor adjustments. The metal tastes like possibilities.

His fingers twitch. There is still stiffness in his skin. They remember the feel of his brother’s broken body. Feel what was being lost.

What he was losing.

The heat needed to forge, to fix, had been unbearable, and it took from him, so much.

Now he is different. Part of him is with his brother, keeping him alive, like a donation of a body part. A donation of part of his soul.

Given willingly.

Virgil sighs and returns to the forge to shape more cladding.

The metal is warm under his fingertips.

-o-o-o-

 FIN?

[wayward-mikaelson]

Sixth Gear

Word Count: 4287

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Characters: Jensen, Reader, Marie (OG Character), Nathan (OG Character) Dylan (OG Character), Donna Ackles, Alan Ackles, Mackenzie Ackles, Joshua Ackles, Jared (Mentioned), and Misha (Mentioned).

About: Reader goes home for the holidays only to be introduced to Jensen, the star of Supernatural. The Reader and Jensen hit it off that first night where one thing leads to another until the readers Brother walks in on them about to rip each others clothes off. For the next few months the Reader and Jensen get to know each more. Then the Reader decides to go home for the Summer just to see Jensen and he shows her his motorcycle and how it all works where one thing leads to another.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Unprotected Sex (be responsible, wrap it up), Drinking, Oral Female Receiving, Mention of Drugs

DISCLAIMER: This one shot does contain a toxic parent and everything that comes with a toxic parent. That means there will be manipulation, gas lighting, emotional/psychological abuse, etc. If you live or have lived with a toxic parent and or person please read at your own discretion. 

DISCLAIMER 2: Any of the shorts that are hot and steamy, I want to put out there that it's in no way disrespectful towards Danneel at all. I love her to death and respect the crap out the marriage between her and Jensen. So when reading those shorts, know that it all takes place in an alternate world where they aren't married at all.

A/N: If you have a small request, shoot me a message. Request close 7.11.2020 at 11.59pm US central time

A/N 2: Do you want to be tagged in future fanfics posts? Comment Below!

A/N 3: This took me 3 to 4 days to write so I really hope you enjoy this hot and steamy motorcycle ride.

Requested by: @magssteenkamp​ 

Tag List: @hobby27​ @elansaidaris​ @donnaintx​ @myinconnelly1​ @squirrelnotsam​ 

*18+ CONTENT. YOUNGER THAN 18 MOVE ALONG

**DO NOT COPY AND PASTE MY WORK ANYWHERE ELSE UNLESS YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION AND IF YOU GIVE CREDIT TO ME. I WORK TOO HARD ON THESE STORIES TO HAVE MY WORK STOLEN

***PLEASE READ WARNINGS AND DISCLAIMERS BEFORE READING.

I sit in the airport thinking and wondering how I am going to make it through the weekend with my parents. My Mom is toxic as hell while my Dad is just now waking up to her toxicity after nearly thirty years of marriage. He has told me many times over this last year that he was considering on leaving her but somehow she always found out and manipulated him to stay. "Maybe I can convince him to come home with me?" I whisper to myself. I have an extra room for him. I rub my face knowing it will be a long shot to get my father out of that house.

When my flight is called for Dallas, I stand up, picking up my bag and making my way to the gate. I hate holidays that require me to come home. Like Thanksgiving and Christmas. I make up excuses for all the other ones just to stay away from home. I was much more happier in Portland. As I arrive at the gate, I pull out my ticket and let the lady scan it. As I walk towards the plane, I think, I still have time to turn around and just say screw it and not get on. It will most certainly make my life so much easier.

I sit in my seat and send a quick text to my Dad letting him know that I was on my way. In return he say's he's excited and that my brother Dylan was coming too. I turn my off and sit back. My brother. The black sheep of the family is finally coming home for a holiday after five years. It'll be nice to hug him again and see how he's been holding up. I smile and close my eyes. This trip is going to be amazing and entertaining.

When my eyes open, I feel the plane preparing to land. I look out the window to my right and see the Dallas airport below. No time to turn back now, I think. Should have high tailed it when I had the chance. When the plane lands I wait until it's time to gather my bag and make my way back to baggage claim. As I do, I pull out my phone and text my Dad to see if he's here. I sooner I get out of this crowed airport, the sooner I can get home and lock myself away until dinner. He texts me back saying he and Mom are circling around and will pick me up when they see me.

"Great," I say stuffing my phone away. "Her highness is here to talk down to me and talk nothing but herself."

"I don't know your situation, but you can tell her highness to go screw herself," A voice next to me says. I turn to see a man about a few years older than me and highly gorgeous pulling up a few bags. He looks oddly familiar.

I laugh. "If only that will work," I see him give a small smile before I walk off.

I walk outside of the terminal waiting to see my Dad's small grey SUV. When I do, I get this sick feeling when I see my Mom. She is the soul reason why I stay away from home and avoid her. She belittles me and makes me feel so small. She judges the way I dress and do my makes. Even thinking about it makes me even more sick.

My Dads SUV pulls up next to me. He smiles at me and I return the smile. "Hey," I say as I buckle up.

"What? No hi for your mom?" My Moms tone said it all. "I see how it is. And is that what you wore on the plane?! That's just horrendous. I would never wear that!" Oh I wish this trip was already over. "At least your brother had the decency to show up in an actual outfit. You look like you're looking for drugs."

I smile sarcastically. "That's exactly what I'm doing Mom," My Dad glares at me from the rearview mirror but, I ignore it. "There's a guy I know off of 4th. He deals the best drugs! He's the whole reason I'm here."

"YN!" Dad says my name firmly and I stop. Guess I took it too far. "How was that flight?" He asks softly.

"I slept the whole time. I'm not big on flying." I say reaching into my bag to pull out the mini bottles I hid. I take one out and shot it back as fast I can before either of my parents see.

The rest of the drive home was in silence. Which, when riding with both my parents, isn't relaxing. When we pull into the driveway of my childhood home, I am out of the car before Dad puts it in park and bolt inside.

"YN," I hear Moms voice call after me. "You're not going to let your father carry your bags in all on his own."

"Marie!" I hear Dad say before I shut the door behind me. Then its all muffled voices.

I run upstairs and into my room. I can hear the music in my brothers room already. He only has music on when he and Mom get into it. That explains why she tagged along for the ride to pick me up. I close the door and drop what bag onto the floor and flop onto the bed. I didn't have time to close my eyes when I heard knocking.

"What?" I groaned. I did not want to get up off my bed.

"We will be having company over in a few hours so makes sure you presentable." Moms voice is overly heard. Dylan's music stops.

"Who?" I hear Dylan ask.

"The Ackles," She says. "They used to watch you guys when you were little. You guys got along with their kids."

"Who?" Dylans door opens but I can't shake that the name Ackles was familiar too. "You talk like we should remember them."

"Why do I even try?" Moms voice is irritated for whatever reason that is known to her. "Just be ready in two hours. Dylan don't wear look too goth. YN, don't wear pajamas. Make it look like you guys actually love your family."

I hear her footsteps retreating when a Dylan cracked the door. "Are you decent?" He asks.

"Yeah," I sit up on my bed and rub my face. I see my older brother walk into the room. He's wearing dark skinny jeans and a black button up shirt. I have no idea why Mom wouldn't think that's not goth like. "I think your outfit looks good." I toss another mini bottle of hard liquor towards him. He, of course, catches it flawlessly.

"Oh thank God," He cracks it open and tosses it back. "I do plan on wearing this and stuff like the whole time I'm here."

"Speaking of you being here," I pull out another mini bottle and toss that one back. Sadly its my last one. "Why are you here? I mean you've seen me a few times these last few years."

"Dad," Dylan says. "He says he's finally telling Mom he's high tailing it out of her life. Has the papers all drawn up and stuff. He wanted to see if he could live with me in Arizona. I automatically said yes because I want to see the look on Moms face when she sees her money source walk out on her."

Now I wish I packed more mini bottles. "Hopefully not in front of our dinner guest," I kind of hope he does secretly.

"No," Dylan stands up. "He won't do that. He will do it after they leave most likely. Now I will let you get ready and make sure you make yourself look like the fucking Queen that you are and slay that shit. Mom hates that."

I laugh. "As long as you do it too. Then we both can slay it together. And yes I will let you use my dark eye shadow palette."

"You're the best sister ever," Dylan walks out of the room. "What would I ever do without you?"

"Crash and burn, sweetheart, crash and burn."

Two hours came and went and both Dylan and I are ready. As we walk downstairs we hear the muffled voices of our parents and our dinner guests. This feels so much like my teenage years, I think to myself as I round the corner to the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks.

There stands the attractive man from the airport. In my kitchen. In my house. He's wearing a red button up shirt with jeans and nice semi-casual shoes. I zero in on his already darkening five o'clock shadow and begin to imagine what it would like in full. He notices me too and give me a smile.

"YN, Dylan," Moms voice sounds. She really never lets Dad talk at all. "I'm sure you remember the Ackles children. Well, they aren't children anymore but, you understand what I mean."

Everyone gives a light chuckle. "I'm afraid I don't remember. I don't remember much of my childhood to be honest." I say giving handshakes to everyone. I notice my brother Dylan hesitate to give the attractive man a handshake. Then I notice his small blush. Damn, I think, it would be my luck to see the same attractive man to learn he could be gay. I guess I'll see when my brother hard core flirts with him during dinner.

"I'm Jensen," he says shaking my hand.

"YN," I say smiling and he smiles back.

I get everyones names and Mom and Dad say dinner will be ready in about an hour or so. In that moment I excuse myself to the back deck to mix myself a drink. Mom glares at me while I walk away. I also notice Dylan trying to flirt with Joshua who was equally as attractive as his brother.

Once on the back deck I take a deep breath and head to Dads bar and start mixing a drink. Then I hear the door open and close. The sound of footsteps tell me its a male.

"So, the whole telling her highness to screw herself didn't happen, I assume," Jensens voice is super smooth.

I look up from my mixing. "If you're meaning my mother, then no it didn't. In fact she accused me of buying drugs."

"Really?!" Jensens voice sounds surpised. "Wow, isn't a plane ride supposed to be comfy?"

I throw my hands up in the air. "That's why I was thinking." I make the mistake of looking as he licks his lips. I turn away quickly and grab the other mixer. "Want a drink? I'm pretty good at mixing."

"Surprise me," Jensen says soft voice as he raises an eye brow and looks me other.

For the next half hour we talk. We talk about random things. We talk about his time on his hit shower Supernatural. A show for some reason I have never seen and now am very interested in. We talk about his life in between shooting his show and being home. I share that I am rarely ever home due to Mom. I don't go into details but I think he get's the gist of it.

"So, I have this huge vinyl collection. Passed down to me from my grandfather before he died." I say mixing another drink. I am slowly starting to feel the effects of this drink. Jensen is still working on his first glass. Such class that is getting horny. "Would you like to see it?"

Jensen smiles and sets his drink down to follow me inside. Dad looks up from listening to Jensen's dad. "What are you two up to?" He asks.

"I'm going to show Jensen grandpas vinyl collection he gave me." We waltz pass them and up the stairs. At the top I loose my balance and fall back into Jensen who grabs me with both his arms.

"One two many drinks?" He asks chucking.

"I promise I can handle my drinking," I begin to walk again. Once in my room I go to my closet and pull out a few boxes and open them. "My Dad was or is still going to be sending these to me but, have a look at them all you want. I don't have them organized."

Jensen looks at the records and with each one he finds that excites him, it excites me in places I never thought to be excited in again. I watch as his smile takes up his whole face and how his eyes crinkle when that happens. I guess I'm staring too long because Jensen looks up a few times with his eyes. I know I should I look away but I honestly can't. This man is just too handsome and sexy to just look away.

Jensen sets down a Sinatra record and comes over to sit next to me on the bed. I am very aware now of how close he is but I still can't stop staring. I rack him over with my eyes and take a deep breath and exhale. I look away and take a huge drink. Nope, no tonight, not in this house, I think to myself. Mom will find out and she will have my ass for having sex yet again in her house. l turn to apologize for staring when I feel his hand on my face pulling it in towards him.

His lips are soft. His lips are eager. His lips move around mine like they were made to be there. I sigh and part my lips and I feel his tongue shot right into my mouth and explore every part it. When he starts to pull back, I nip his bottom lip. Jensen sucks in a deep breath and within seconds he has me straddling his lap. The two of us trying to get our shirts off when my door opens.

"YN, Mom says dinner is,..." Dylan's voice snaps the both of us out of whatever trance we are in. "Well, I see that you skipped right on to dessert. Please continue." I look over to see Dylan checking Jensen out leaning on the door frame licking his lips.

"Don't you know how to knock?" I hiss at him fumbling to fix my shirt.

"Don't you know how to put a sock on the door?" Dylan asks smirking, still checking Jensen out.

Dinner was good. I couldn't keep my eyes from glancing at Jensen as he talked about his show and his co stars. Mom was just over the moon and always ask questions that were like "Oh Jared this" or "Oh Misha that." I will need to look those guys up too.  I could also tell that Jensen was getting uncomfortable. So I brought the attention to myself which of course Mom hated. Her death glare let me know it too. Dinner ended on a high note though.

"Here, put your number in and I'll do the same," Jensen held out his phone. "That way we can talk while I'm shooting." I take his phone and give him mine. We put our numbers in and say goodnight and goodbye. Hopefully, I think, I get to see him again.

The rest of my time home actually went to hell. The next morning we wake up to Mom screaming at Dad. He had given her the papers and told her she either had to sign now or sign in front of lawyers. Mom tries everything in the book but Dad stood his ground. In the end, Mom storms out screaming and calling Dad all sorts of names and saying she has nothing to her name and that he can't just up and leave her. Says that he can't live life without her because he is nothing without her.

After Mom left, I changed my flight to leave before Thanksgiving. I wanted nothing to do with what was going to go down. According Dad, Dylan already has space for him set up in Arizona. I felt better about him having a place. Two days before leaving, I pack up what I else I wanted to take to Portland with me. Everything else would be put into storage for later or donated. Dylan helped me ship them off.

The day before I left, Mom tries to talk to me but I told her she did it to herself all these years. The manipulation. The gas lighting. The mental abuse. The emotional abuse. The whole deal. It was all her that lead to this. She huffed and called me a bitch and that I am no better than Dad. So by the time I make it home, I am a wreck.

Over the next few months, I bury myself in my work and ignoring Mom. Dad on the other hand was doing much better. Already got a job out in Arizona and is saving up to get a small apartment. Dylan tells me he's the happiest and most easy going person without Mom. Mom on the other hand still refuses to sign the papers and has gotten cocky lawyers involved. She wants him to alimony and when he dies she wants me to continue to pay it. I said hell no. Dad stood his ground until the very bitter end.

While that was all going on and when it was finally over, I spoke non stop to Jensen. I even caught up to the current season of his show and tell him what I think of it all. We talk about anything that will keep us texting or talking all into the hours of the night. Neither of us mention that night in my room. Dylan thinks I'm falling for him with how much I talk about him. I doubt it but then again I might be.

Jensen, has been the only person to make me feel like I am not crazy. He has called me or facetimed me to help me through the rough days or the out the blue panic attacks. His entire existence keeps me from doing anything stupid. So, yeah, you can say that I'm falling head over heels hard for him.

By the time summer started to come around I am sitting in my apartment trying to get my AC to work when my phone rings. I answer without looking at the caller ID.

"Whats up?" I even hear the irritation in my voice.

"Hey," Jensens voice instantly calms me. "Everything okay?"

"No," I groan and flop onto the cold tile in my small kitchen. "My AC broke and the landlord won't have anyone out until next week. I told him he won't see rent until it's fixed. Now he's threatening to evict me if I don't pay. But it's so damn hot that I'm practically naked right now."

"I'd love to see that," Jensen teases, making me laugh. "I'm sorry your AC is jacked up. Do you have plans on visiting Dallas?"

I sit up on my elbow. "Should I?"

Four days later Jensen is picking me up from the airport in a rental car. He paid for my entire flight and AirBnB taken care of. "I thought you would like to have control of what your AC temperature should be. Hotels normally run super cold to the point that Misha has tried spooning with me." I laugh. "I do hope it isn't weird that I am also staying that AirBnB."

"None at all," I say feeling my face warm up a bit. It didn't take Jensen long to convince me to come. I really wanted to see him and I really wanted AC.

When we get to the AirBnB, I can't help stare at it in awe. It's almost like a mansion. Then the garage door opens and there sits a motorcycle. I am much more interested in this Jensen guy. I get out to grab my things but Jensen shoos me aside saying he's got it all. I then walk on over to the motorcycle and trail my hand on it.

"Isn't she a beauty?" Jensen asks. I look and he's staring at me, well, more like slowly running his eyes over my body.

"Yeah," I answer looking back at the motorcycle. "My Dad used to have one when we were little. My Mom forced him sell it for whatever reason."

Jensen takes in a deep breath and walks by me. "I can take you around the block if you want." I am suddenly aware of his closeness. I feel my face burn hotter and I get all tingly down south. I look at Jensen and he's already holding two helmets. I smile and take a helmet and strap it on.

In minutes, I am sitting with my arms wrapped around Jensen. He's backing out of the garage and with a small rev of the motorcycle, we took off. It isn't too fast or too slow. But I still tightened my arms around him and closed my eyes. I have been on a motorcycle a few times but, I still get a knot in my stomach.

When we get back, I take my helmet off and take a deep breath. "That was fun," I say as Jensen manages to slide of the motorcycle. He takes his helmet off as well and I can't help but stare at his sweaty hair. That's when I notice he's been growing out his beard. I can't imagine what it would feel like on my skin. Again, I must be staring to hard or to long because Jensen smiles like he knows what I am thinking.

I swing my legs to the side as he walks towards me. As he reaches for my face I drop the helmet and grab hold of his shirt and pull him closer to me. The moment our lips met, my brain starts to set off firecrackers. It felt like a freaking life time since the last time we kissed.

Jensens hands run down my front to the hem of my shirt. I raise my arms up and he slowly slides off. I do the same to him. I've seen him shirtless a few times on his show and internet pictures but seeing it all in real life, damn! I bite my lips and Jensen licks his lips. I slide off the motorcycle and shimmy out of my shorts and underwear. Jensen watches with lust in his eyes and does the same thing. Jensen grabs my hips and sits me back on the motorcycle as he kisses me deeply. The longer he isn't inside me, I more wet and tingly I become.

As if reading my mind, and without breaking his lips off mine, I feel Jensens fingers slide between my folds and begins to rub it before slipping  two fingers inside. I suck in a deep, sharp breath and let out a soft moan. He starts to pull in and out and twist his finger around softly but firmly. In seconds, I am starting to tighten up around his fingers when he pulls them out. I whimper at the lose of contact.

"Not yet," he says against my lips.

Jensen grabs my hips and picks me up. I wrap my legs around him as he slides himself onto the motorcycle. This is going to be interesting and fun. Jensen adjusts us so that we both were somewhat comfortable before lifting me up and positioning me just above his length. I place my hands on his shoulders as he lowers me on him. I close my eyes and drop my head. I hear a low groan come from him as he's fully inside of me. I look up and see him staring right at me.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he says and I smile. His hands grip tight on my hips. They will most likely leave a mark and I am fine with that. He lifts me up and slams me back down. A yelp escaping my mouth.

We repeat that for what I think is nearly a half hour. I am a whimpering mess and trying to hold back my louder moans. Jensen is grunting and the lifting up and down thing, well, thats starting to get irregular and sloppy. Our breathing is getting ragged and the the leather from the seat is start to rub on both our skins. One slam. Two slams. Three slams. I feel myself tighten harder around Jensen. My fingers dig into his shoulders, also going to leave marks. After one more slam into his lap, we both come undone. His arms wrap around me and I drag my nails down his back.

Once our orgasm fade away, I push back and look Jensen in the eyes. "That has got to be the best sex I have ever had," I plant a small and gentle kiss on his lips.

"Good," Jensen smirks. "I got some more ideas for the bedroom later." He must of seen the look on my face, because I am seriously intrigued now. "But first," He slides both of us off the motorcycle. "We should clean up. We have dinner with Jared and his wife."

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Canary Mary & the Miners

A/N: Um. I don’t really... know what to... *big sigh* Listen. Here’s the thing. I’ve been having some trouble finding the time and the inspiration to write in the last few weeks. So I decided to turn to some writing prompts in hopes that one of them would spark SOMETHING even if it was just a few paragraphs to shake the rust off. So I came across one that simply said write about a character named Canary. And a few paragraphs turned into a few thousand words pertaining to Ryan Brenner and of course, a new character named Canary. (It also reignited the spark for me to jump back into the world of Passing Through, which is what I am currently working on and I am EXCITED to share what comes next for that story!) This part right here though, actually takes place well before the events in PT. Ryan is roughly 24 years old here. It’s pre- Jackie, pre- losing Cowboy...pre-learning a lot of things, young, still establishing himself as a person Ryan Brenner. (and some cousins for good measure) I truly hope you enjoy. 

Fun fact: Carbondale is home to the first commercial rail line. 

Warning: brief mention of drug use, drinking 

Word count: 4,761

The first day of any trip home for Ryan was always a busy one. From the minute he’d set foot in Aunt Holly’s kitchen to the second he finally shut his exhausted eyes in the guestroom bed upstairs, the day was always full of tight hugs, loud welcomes, curious questions and more food than any of them could eat. If the weather was right for it, he’d walk down to the beach with whichever of his cousins happened to be around. They’d kill a 6 pack of beer and fill each other in on the stories they’d rather not share with the rest of the family. Once Ryan had come home in the middle of a summer downpour, and the rain, and even more so the lightning, made the trek down to sit in the sand impossible. Instead, Ryan, Jimmy, Taylor and Fitz sat on overturned buckets and bags of mulch in Holly and Alan’s shed, laughing and teasing one another as they dodged drips from the shed’s leaky roof. After supper he’d sit out on the porch with whoever was still awake and alert and play a few songs, the tempo of them slowing as the sky filled with stars. 

The second day was always more calm, all the excitement out of the way. He’d wake up in the guestroom, the mattress slightly too short for his long legs but still far more comfortable than most places he slept while on the road, and turn to the shabby wicker bedside table. Ryan didn’t get much mail, just a few letters and postcards, but reading them was always one of the highlights of his visit. Aunt Holly would save them for him, bundling them up in short stacks tied with blue yarn. Although she would always give them to him almost immediately after he unlaced his boots, he would always tuck them away with his things upstairs, knowing that he’d have more time to read them in the morning. 

On this particular trip, when Aunt Holly had stuffed the bundle into Ryan’s right hand while his left arm curled around Taylor’s shoulders and he ducked out of the way of a spiraling Nerf football that Jimmy had just lobbed from the top of the stairs, he noted that the stack was a little thicker than normal. He smiled to himself, fingers hooking beneath the thick yarn. I sent out a few more’n normal this year too. 

As he’d gotten better as a musician, he’d found more opportunities to meet and play with and learn from other musicians in his travels. Some he never even spoke to, simply set up on the same corner and agreed on song choice without words, with just chords and nods. Others he found himself forming friendships with, realizing that they had more in common than just their musical talents. His first few years on the rails had been spent mostly with Cowboy, Virginia and eventually Georgie. But more recently he found himself traveling solo, wanting to stay longer in some cities, wanting to skip town faster in others. He found himself wanting to stretch his limits and learn more about who he was, not just as a traveller or an artist, but as a person. And he realized that one of the best ways to learn about himself was to interact with as many people as he could as see what he felt, how he responded, who he was drawn to and why. 

What he’d learned leading up to this visit home was that he was someone who craved genuine connection, and sought out others who wanted the same. For every one meaningful connection he made, there were at least twenty interactions with people whom he could tell had forgotten his name before they’d even made it three steps, even after they’d just spent a few minutes chatting, dropping a few singles into his case and telling him that he sounded great. Some people, he knew, just wanted to be liked. They craved acceptance from everyone they met. Ryan learned that he was not one of those people, and he liked that about himself. Only one that’s gotta be okay with me is me. 

But when he found those rare individuals who looked for the seams in things and pulled them apart to peek at what was inside, he held onto them because he knew that those were the people who had the best chance of understanding him and helping him understand himself. Thus began the growth of the non-biological branch of his family tree. Robin and Oz and the rest of the crew he spent his first West Coast summer with, Georgie, Cowboy and Virginia had been the base of that branch, but other chutes were beginning to form now too, resulting in thicker stacks of mail and more reasons to purchase stamps. 

Waking up in the too small bed, he stretched his neck to the right until a small pop released some tension there. A satisfied sigh, the kind that only came from getting a good night’s sleep, slipped from his lungs as he sat up blinking in the dusty morning light. Rising with the sun was a hard habit to break, even when he was staying somewhere that he didn’t need to vacate immediately like he was now, but Ryan didn’t mind. He enjoyed having that time to himself while the rest of the world was still quiet. 

Dragging a hand through his sleep disheveled hair, he glanced over at the bundle of letters and postcards, and once his fingertips had finished fixing the errant strands, they reached out to brush over the frayed ends of the yarn that was cross wrapped around his mail. Blue this time. He smiled to himself wondering if he’d be leaving with a scarf or a hat at the end of the week. It wouldn’t be cold enough for a scarf  for another month or two, but he knew that it was important to Aunt Holly that she send him off with something to keep him warm. It was important to him, too, he’d learned, her scarves warming more than his neck on several solo winter nights. Clearing his gravelly throat, he pulled the covers back and set his feet down on the floor. 

Rifling through his pack, Ryan pulled out his last clean pair of jeans and a dark green long sleeved thermal, a freshly sewn patch on the left elbow courtesy of Virginia. Before making his way down to Georgia he’d spent two weeks with her and Cowboy as they made their way through the Midwest, parting ways outside of Chicago. There were certain things that Ryan always had on his person- twine, sunscreen, his notebook- and with Ginny it was a travel sewing kit. He twisted his arm to look at the patch, a dark brown oval cut from an old corduroy button down that had lost more buttons than it retained, and smiled. He ran his fingers over the stitches that held the patch in place. She’s gettin’ better at this. The nail of his pointer finger snagged on a crooked stitch and he chuckled. Cowboy prob’ly gives her plenty to practice on.

He finished getting dressed and grabbed his hat, bending and folding the brim with one hand before stuffing it into his back pocket. Aunt Holly had a strict no hats in the house rule, and even though he knew she was still asleep, Ryan wouldn’t think of breaking it. She’d knock it clean off my head ‘f she caught me. It wasn’t a guess, he knew from experience. How to pick his battles was another thing he’d been learning lately, and waiting a few extra seconds until he was outside before putting his hat on wasn’t worth causing trouble. 

Picking up the bundle of letters from the side table, Ryan left the spare room, closing the door behind him. The hallway on the second floor was narrow and dark; there were no windows because the hall wrapped around the stairwell, and there were rooms on all four sides. But Ryan had spent enough time in that house to know where to turn without having to see, and in just a few familiar steps he was descending the staircase, socked feet moving quickly and quietly over the creaky steps. He made a quick stop in the kitchen, setting up the coffee pot to brew, waiting until he could hear it hissing and clicking as the heat plate warmed up before turning towards the front door. This thing’s older’n I am. Just like shrimp and grits and peach cobbler for supper on the first night of his visits were staples, Ryan would always show his appreciation by making sure that everyone woke to a full pot of dark roast on the second day. 

He didn’t wait for the coffee to brew though. Instead he found his boots in the pile of shoes by the door, digging one out from under a red canvas sneaker that seemed to be missing its mate. Whose is this? Taylor’s? He picked it up by the lace and flung it deeper into the pile. What’d she do with the other one? Sticking the stack of letters under his arm, he tied his laces loosely, shaking his head at the image of Taylor walking home with only one shoe the night before. I bet Jimmy was messin’ with her. Though none of them were as rowdy as they used to be, all of the Brenner cousins had held onto their propensity for mischief when they gathered in groups of two or more. Some things never change. 

Other things did, though. He took the stack back out from under his arm as he straightened up, eyeing it and guessing that it was thicker than the last one by at least five pieces. Passing the pencil marked molding that measured the heights of he and his cousins at various ages, he opened the door and headed out into the bright morning to read his letters. He settled into the angled Adirondack chair, the wood worn smooth after decades of use and abuse, and untied the knotted bow, smiling at the little pop as the yarn let go of the knot. 

Dropping the yarn into his lap he sifted through the pile until he found Robin’s loopy lettering, always in brightly colored ink. He plucked out two letters addressed to him in red and purple respectively, as well as a postcard from Culver City that was so smudged that all he could read was the last line- Oz and I miss you, Brenner. No matter what else she wrote in her letters, whether she was writing to tell him that things had gotten dark for Oz again, or that things were going well for them, she always ended them with that and he could hear her unwritten next line: Get your ass back out here! He was happy to see, after reading as much as he could of the smudged postcard and both letters, that things seemed to be on an upswing for Oz. One of the letters even mentioned that he’d been clean and sober for a year and Ryan beamed. I gotta get out there soon. Maybe this spring, after Montana.  

There was a birthday card from Nikki, the girl he’d gotten his first tattoos from. Happy Birthday, handsome!! Was all it said, with a line of little x’s, her name signed below them, more x’s dotting the two I’s. Ryan felt his lips twitch under his beard as a slight flush climbed over it, and he recalled all the teasing he endured from Georgie when it became clear to the rest of the group that there was something between Ryan and Nikki. Been a while since she saw me. He ran one hand over his scruffy facial hair before lowering it to look at the roughly inked black lines and dots that marked the spaces between his knuckles. Inhaling a slow breath through his nose he could almost smell the woman’s strawberry shampoo as she leaned close, holding his hand in one of hers and her tattoo gun in the other, her chunky silver rings cool against his skin. Wonder what she’d think now. Nothing had ever really happened between the two of them. Nothin’ more than kissin’. 

His tongue flicked out to wet his lips and he sighed. She was somethin’ else though. Wonder ‘f she’d… He tapped the card twice against the knuckles of his opposite hand before shuffling it back to the bottom of the pile. Nikki’s not really...neither of us wants to stop movin’ around and… He shook his head. Nikki was a great kisser, that he was sure of. She was vivacious and spontaneous and lived her life in bright colors and never failed to make Ryan laugh when they spoke on the phone. But even through all the physical attraction Ryan knew that there would never be anything serious between them. She’s a good friend… just not a good fit for me. He snorted to himself as the sun rose above the treeline. ‘Nd I’m not a good fit for her. He wasn’t looking for a relationship anymore like he might have been last time he went out West to see Nikki and Louie and the rest of them. But if a relationship found him along the way he knew it would have to be right for it to stick. ‘Nd if it ain’t gonna stick there’s no point.     

There were postcards from Cowboy that said very little, if anything at all other than a quickly scrawled You’d like it here, Brenner, or Good spot for buskin’. It was like a breadcrumb trail of suggestions for when Ryan didn’t know where to go next and wasn’t ready to repeat or circle back up with anyone else. The two of them- three, counting Ginny- had spent enough time together to know what small town charms and quirks would peek the other’s interests, or what tiny details in big cities the other looked for. Le Claire, Iowa. Laramie, Wyoming. Las Vegas, Nevada. Point Pleasant, New Jersey. The images on Cowboy’s postcards were always faded, and Ryan knew it was because the man would always hastily pull the first card he touched from a display in the window of a gas station or convenience store. No one sends postcards anymore so they sit in the sun. A faded river boat. A washed out field of cattle. The strip, sanded down by sun and time spent in a gift store. A ferris wheel, maybe. Doesn’t matter what’s on the front. He made a point to set the cards from Cowboy aside so that he could jot down the cities in the back of his notebook, where he kept a running list, crossing them off after he’d taken his friend’s advice to visit them.

By the time Ryan was down to the last postcard the sun had breached the tree line, brightening the sky and waking up the birds. The quiet morning filled with the chirps of sparrows and warblers, each trying to outdo the other in the complexity of their songs. Somewhere in the trees behind the house a mockingbird stole pieces of each, taking credit for the others’ creativity in order to fit in, and from the gargantuan oak in the front corner of the yard a small cluster of nuthatches erupted squawking from the middle branches. But Ryan hardly noticed the wildlife around him because his mind was on a very different bird, one certainly not native to Georgia. He read the front of the postcard in his hand, vintage linen print in bright colors spelling out Greetings from Carbondale Pennsylvania, a small white mountain laurel blooming beside the state’s Capitol building, and he knew who the card was from before even turning it over. Canary Mary. 

His eyes widened with excitement as he flipped it around, and though he’d never seen her handwriting before, it matched his expectation of her penmanship perfectly. Her letters all stood at a hard slant and the bottoms of her y’s, g’s and j’s curved back around to underline the words they occupied. Ryan always picked up on the ways that a person’s handwriting reflected parts of their personality, and Mary’s rebellious spirit and intensity were visible in the way she pressed her pen to the cardstock. As he read he could even picture her leaning casually in the corner booth at Lyle’s, layers of shawls and sweaters and long necklaces draped around her as she wrote. 

Ryan- 

First off I hope the rails have been good to you. Hope you and Georgie Porgie are lookin’ out for each other, and I hope y’all had a good summer. I hope you got after some of the things you were lookin’ for when you left here- but only some, ‘cause you always gotta have more to go after, remember that. There’s always more. 

Second, just wanted to see if you’n Georgie were interested in swingin’ up this way come October. There’s this music festival ‘round Halloween called Blues’n Boos - don’t hold the name against me, I didn’t make it up!- and I’m thinkin’ of tryin’ to be part of it, but only if you two come and back me up with your strings. I can sing, you know that, but I ain’t never sounded better’n when you boys stumbled into Lyle’s, and those couple’a duets you sang with me? That crowd won’t be ready for Canary Mary & the Miners I’ll tell you that! So I’m crossin’ my fingers you’ll say yes. You got my number, honey. 

-Canary 

Ryan hadn’t felt the smile creeping up his cheeks as he read, but when he finished he realized he was wearing it all the same. Canary Mary & the Miners, huh? He shook his head and laughed under his breath as he turned the card back over. He traced the block letter P with one finger, thinking back to last fall and the week or so he and Georgie had spent in the small coal town of Carbondale. They’d hopped off in hopes of finding somewhere to busk, but the weather had other plans, a heavy, chilly rain soaking them to the bone within minutes and making playing outdoors impossible. Heading towards the first establishment they saw that they didn’t think they’d be turned away from- a dive bar called Lyle’s, the chipped paint on the lit sign above the door beckoning them like a beacon- they carried all of their things inside and were immediately met with the sound of piano keys and Mary’s sultry, smoky voice. Knew we were in the right place then. 

Where ya goin’ baby? And how you gonna get there when I’m gone? 

Tell me where ya goin’ baby? And how you plannin’ to get along? 

I’m not tryin to doubt ya no, no… just thought I’d ask ya for fun. 

Rain water dripped from the ends of his hair beneath his hat, running down the side of his nose as he stared at the woman on stage, completely captivated by her performance. Damn. His mouth dropped open and he let out a breath, turning to his friend. “You hearin’ this Georgie?” 

Despite the fact that the woman was clearly ten or maybe even fifteen years older than they were, Georgie’s eyes twinkled mischievously as he answered. “Oh yeah, Ry, I’m hearin’ this alright.” Ryan smacked him on the arm with the back of his hand and laughed knowing that even though Georgie was a sucker for a pretty face that could sing, it was more about the voice than the face, and he respected this woman’s talent. 

They had ended up settling in at the end of the bar nearest the small stage, the bartender allowing them to stash their bags behind the bar while they had a few drinks and waited out the rain. They’d listened to three more of the woman’s songs, but it was those first few lyrics that he’d heard that had stuck with Ryan, and not just the words themselves, but the feeling she had put into them when she sang them. 

Where ya goin’ and how you gonna get there? 

It was supposed to be a song about independence and Ryan felt that in the confident yet carefree way she sang, seeming to play with the listeners’ ear as well as their heart and their ego. But he also realized that he didn’t know the answer. Where am I going? If someone asked me… what would I say? He sat there, brow all wrinkled as he contemplated the bubbles in the foam of his beer. Georgie had gone off to the restroom leaving Ryan by himself, but his stool didn’t stay empty for long. 

“That beer got the answers you’re lookin’ for there honey?” Wha-

Ryan looked up in time to see the woman slide into Georgie’s seat, one shoulder shrugging to try to keep her sleeve from falling down it, the other arm waving at the bartender and motioning for a glass of water. She lowered her arm then and turned to face Ryan head on, her wide eyes rimmed with dark liner and fringed with long black lashes. A stud dotting the side of her nose and a small scar cut through her top lip but did nothing to dull her smile. She was beautiful, but not in the most conventional sense. Her beauty came from the way she moved and how she carried herself, how sure she was when she sang and spoke and smiled. I’ve never seen anyone like her… she’s… It wasn’t attraction but awe, Ryan looking at this woman like a moth might look at the light- slightly stunned and not sure if it would burn him or show him the way.

The bartender had appeared with a water, reaching over the bar to hand it to her. She took it, winking at the man and thanking him before drinking a big gulp and wiping a hand across her mouth. Several bracelets and bangles knocked about on her wrist as it fell to her lap, her attention turning back to Ryan. “I take it that’s a no then?” 

“A...no?” Ryan shook his head trying to clear it enough to focus on the moment and the woman who was speaking to him. “Sorry?” 

“Mmm,” she hummed around the glass as she took another sip, her eyes brightening above the rim. “Don’t be.” Ryan blinked and felt himself relax, the furrows in his forehead smoothing back out at her casual manner. “I just meant...guess you’re not findin’ what you’re lookin’ for in that drink. But then again, who really does, huh?” She set her glass down and extended a hand to him. “I’m Mary. ‘Round here I go by Canary Mary.” She gave a playful roll of her eyes, tossing a wave around the place. That makes sense. Voice like that in a town like this. She laughed. “‘Cause if I ain’t singin’, you know somethin’ ain’t right. Ain’t that right, Lyle?” She called the last part out to the kind, balding man who had allowed Ryan and Georgie to tuck their stuffed packs safely away. 

“That���s right darlin’. You’re our songbird alright.” The man called back as he poured two beers from the taps. 

Mary laughed again, eyes returning to Ryan’s as his fingers wrapped around her hand. “And who are you, honey?” 

“‘M Ryan,” he answered, giving her hand a small shake as she squeezed his in return. “You sound...you’re really good up there.” He nodded towards the stage with his chin as she released her grip on his hand. 

“You think so, huh?” She cocked one eyebrow and Ryan tilted his head. Yes. How could you- “Well I s’pose you’d know.” What? She smiled and pointed to the case that was standing up between Ryan’s legs. “Saw you come in with that baby on your back, so I know you know what you’re talkin’ about.” 

Ryan shrugged and looked down at the thick lacquer on the bartop. “Oh I dunno, I just-” 

“Hey that friend a yours you came in with, he play too?” She asked before he could downplay his talent or ability and Ryan nodded. He does. “How’s about you boys come up and play with me? You can be my band for the night.” She lifted one hand up, panning it in front of her as though reading the marquee on a theater. “Canary Mary & the Miners.” She laughed, the sound heavy and sweet like molasses. “C’mon I think it’ll be fun, what’dya say?”

Georgie had come back right at that moment, agreeing for both of them, and he and Ryan had spent the rest of the night crammed up on the small platform, playing a few songs with the woman who was part songbird, part sultry lounge singer and all heart. She’d leaned in to whisper into Ryan’s ear, urging him to join her on a song or two. At first he’d been hesitant because the only female singers he’d ever done duets with were Robin and Virginia, and he knew both of them well enough to know what they were feeling when they sand, how to match them. But Mary had put that hesitation to sleep with her next words. 

“Trust me, honey, what you were lookin’ for in that beer? You got a better chance of findin’ it in a song. So you wanna sing with me?” 

He had, and it had somehow felt...easy. As the night wore on and the number of patrons dwindled, Mary, Ryan and Georgie found themselves closing down Lyle’s, the three of them sitting in the only three stools that hadn’t been overturned and lifted up onto the bar. Lyle swept the floor, music playing softly from an old but still functioning radio, allowing them to finish their last round as he cleaned up. They’d gotten to talking, Mary sharing a little about herself and how she left home to pursue a life of music and whatever came with it, and Ryan had asked her if she ever worried that she’d made the wrong choice, or that she’d ended up in the wrong place. Is that… am I worried about that? I didn’t think I was but… 

“Only thing I ever ask myself, Ryan, is if I’m good with who I am in the moment. Only person that’s gotta be good with you is you, honey. If I’m good with where I am and where I’m goin? Then I know I didn’t make the wrong choice.” 

Where am I going, and how am I gonna get there? He tapped the card against his knuckle again, taking a deep breath in through his nose. He could smell the nutty aroma of the coffee he’d made, could hear the sound of his family waking up and shuffling towards the kitchen for a cup. Smiling as he let the breath back out in a sigh, he plucked the yarn from his lap and re-wrapped the bundle of cards and letters. I’m good with who I am… lot of it thanks to her. Canary Mary had taught Ryan more than he thought she knew at first, but as time went on and he thought back on the interaction, he wondered if maybe she knew all along that he needed some guidance, needed to be shown the way or at least pointed towards the light.  Either way, he knew his answer. 

It’s too early to call Georgie. Ryan squinted at the sun as he rose from the chair and stretched, his shirt lifting up to expose a thin strip of his belly, the morning air a cool shock on his skin. 

“Ry’n, you want milk’n your coffee’r no?” Huh. Guess Taylor didn’t go home last night. Must’ve slept in the living room. Her accent was always thickest in the morning when she wasn’t quite awake, like it was now as she called out the screen door. 

He turned away from the sun and back towards the house, tucking the bundle of cards under his arm and whipping the hat off his head. “Yeah, just a drop though. ‘M comin’ in now I can…” 

It was too early to call Georgie now, but Ryan knew that as soon as it was late enough to guarantee the other man would answer, he’d be calling his friend to make travel plans for Carbondale in October.

.

.

.

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[thorne93]

Inside the Criminal Mind (Part 2)

Prompt: You’re married to Dr. Spencer Reid of the BAU, and are a distinguished doctor yourself on the team. You’re sent down to Miami, Florida for teaching and as a side request from the FBI, to investigate a string of missing persons. When you think you’ve figured out who the unsub is, your life becomes more complicated than you ever could’ve imagined.

Word Count: 

Warnings: (throughout the fic -->) death, blood, gore, killings, language, disturbing mental notions, mentions of rapes/murder/etc (You know, Dexter and Criminal Minds related business)

Notes: Thank you so much to @arrow-guy, @carryonmyswansong, and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo - without each of you, I couldn’t have finished, written, or properly navigated this story. Each of you helped me fish out details that were incredibly important to me. Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo... Aesthetic by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo

This is a crossover of Criminal Minds x Dexter. First time writing Dexter.

Also, the timeline is after Season 1 of Dexter, but during season 14-ish of Criminal minds into Season 15. Enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So, I got a job offer,” you started as you picked at your meatloaf.

“A job offer?” Spence questioned from across the table. “I had no idea you were even looking. What about the BAU? What about being together? You and I agreed this was the only way to ensure the other person is safe--”

You held up a hand to stop his onslaught. “I’m not leaving the BAU, and I wasn’t looking for a job. This just sort of fell into my lap.” 

“Is this what Emily wanted to talk about today?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s a teaching position.”

“Teaching? I never knew you were interested in that.”

You shook your head. “I’m not. Well. I wasn’t.” 

Spencer and you had been married for eight years. You fell in love quickly when you came to work for the BAU. When you met him, it was like stars shone for the first time in a dark sky for you. He was unlike any man you’d ever met, thankfully. He was kind, sweet, intelligent, and slightly awkward. Almost as if he was made for you. When the two of you met, it was a meeting of the minds. He saw you as his equal, and he was yours. You might not have the IQ of a genius, or read as quickly, but you deduced things faster than anyone else on the team. At first, you were worried he wouldn’t be impressed by you or see you as a peer, seeing as he’s a genius. But that fear quickly fell to the wayside when you realized you had quite a lot in common, especially books and chess. You two bonded over Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as the nerdier side of things such as Star Wars and Star Trek. 

Even though you were the greatest of friends, spending all your time together, it still surprised you when he asked you out to dinner. Apparently to everyone else on the team, it wasn’t a surprise, as Spence had confided his feelings long ago to them and they encouraged him to ask you out. 

After a year of dating, he asked you to marry him. There wasn’t one thing you didn’t love about this man. He was everything you could ever ask for in a husband and more. You two had shared your ups and downs. Dealing with his mother, him going to prison falsely, you working on a book, somewhat like Rossi. It’s all been a lot of strain for a marriage that was just beginning. But each day, you wake up looking at him with more love than before. 

“So what is it, exactly?”

“University of Miami. They’re opening a new course and want me to teach in the Spring.” 

“And you think you might want to do this?”

You shrugged slightly. “I think… I think I’d like a break from the BAU.”

He frowned at you, concern coloring his face. “Is this because of the trial?”

“Ten, Spence,” you reminded in a calm, sad voice. “Ten cases that we solved, that we arrested the bastard and for what? So some hotshot defense attorney could get them off? To paint them sympathetically? To put that seed of doubt in the jury’s head. These are ten people who have just… just walked! They’re out on the streets. I know we like to live in this world where once we capture the bad guy it’s over but the reality is these people aren’t serving time. Justice isn’t being done. After today I just… I need a break from it all. Maybe teaching some people will help remind me why I wanted to do this in the first place.” 

“We do this because even if they don’t get sentenced they’re off the streets and less people are in danger for the time they’re jailed.”

“And what about after they get off? Hmm? What then? They just learn to be craftier, sneaker, erase their trail? Do they go overseas to torment other countries? A few months isn’t good enough, Spence. Not any more. Alan Rochester is out, hell he could be hunting us down for all we know.”

He said nothing. He knew it was true. Both of you knew the dangers you lived in from the possibility of criminals getting out to hunt you or the others on the team down. 

“I know it’s scary. I know it’s tough but just… leaving the BAU to do this…” 

“I’m not leaving, Spence. It’ll be temporary. It’s a needed break.”

“But it’s a break from me, from us. I won’t see you for almost six months.”

“I know that. We can meet on spring break though and I can fly up at least once a month to come see you on the weekends… we can video chat…. I just really think I need this sort of mental break from catching bad guys that might end up being for nothing.” 

“Are you sure this is really what you want? If it is, I’ll support if. Or we could go away on vacation, perhaps?”

You shook your head. “I’m not sure a two week vacation would be long enough, and with our luck we’d be called back after three days.”

A look of powerlessness fell over his face as he slumped slightly in his chair. “I’m just going to miss you, that’s all. We’ve never been without each other. Even before we dated, we always stayed in the same hotel room and now… now you want to leave for five months to a different job in a different state.”

“It’s not like that, sweetie. I just need the break. You teach here. I’d like to give it a go and see if it’ll help me regain some sanity.” 

He bobbed his head, understanding. “I get it. Alright. If you think it’ll help, I’m all for it.”

“Thank you.” 

------------------------

Over the course of the next month, Spencer helped you devise a school plan, a curriculum to which you could go by. You told him everything you wanted to cover, and a book you thought the students might enjoy. You tried to remember professors from college and the way they taught so that you could incorporate that into your lectures. This was daunting to say the least. 

On your last day at the office, everyone was in tears. 

“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” Garcia stated as she walked over to you as soon as you and Spence showed up. 

“It’s not forever,” you reminded with a slight laugh. “Nothing to cry over.” 

“What do you mean nothing to cry over? You’re going to be gone and Lord knows how well Reid here is going to take it.” 

You chuckled. “Spencer will be fine in my absence. So will you. All of you will.” 

“But you crack about half of our cases. Without you…”

“I’m still available for calls during certain parts of the day and all hours of the night. Emily knows this.” 

“Yeah but--”

“But nothing, Garcia. This is okay.” 

She peered at you unsure, but then she nodded, walking into the office with you and Spence. 

“Hey, you ready for this?” Tara asked as she stepped forward, putting her hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m pretty excited to be honest.” 

“That’s good. We’re going to miss you though.” 

“I know. I’ll miss all of you. I’ll be back over spring break and I’ll try to fly up on the weekends,” you informed Tara, Luke, and Matt. 

“You better, or we’ll come kidnap you,” Luke joked, slightly punching your arm, making you laugh. 

“Is that our new professor?” Rossi asked from behind you.

You grinned, blushing slightly before turning. 

“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, kid, I know it,” he assured as he walked up. “And we all pitched in to get you this,” he stated as he handed you a wrapped gift. 

A grin popped onto your face as you took it. “What is this?”

“Open it up and find out,” Rossi encouraged with a coy grin making you chuckle lightly. 

You tore into the paper, opening the box, to discover a clear glass apple inside with the words “To your first day of class, Professor Reid,” etched on it.

Tears sprang to your eyes as you laughed. “This is great. Really great. Thank you!”

Before you could get too cozy or caught up in goodbyes, Emily called you all in the conference room for a case. The team had to start a local case, and you helped out all day while you could, but then you had to get home to finish up packing, and get sleep for your early flight. 

You had packed three big suitcases full of the essentials, you would spend the first week down in Miami in a hotel, looking for an apartment in the meantime. Once you found an apartment, Spence agreed to send down the boxes of clothes that you had already put together. 

On your way out of the door though at the office, an agent stopped you, one you had seen a handful of times before. “Dr. Reid?” he addressed, looking at you. 

“Yes?” 

“Could you come with me?” 

You peered at Spence with a curious look before nodding. “Sure. Can my husband come?”

“I believe so.” He took off and you two began walking beside him. “Don’t worry, you aren’t in trouble. The director merely wants to see you before you leave for Florida.”

You nodded, keeping with his pace. He led you two to the director’s office, and opened the door for you, announcing your arrival. The two of you stepped over the threshold and the agent closed the door behind him, leaving only you, Spence, and the director.

“Ah, Dr. Reid, I’m so glad we caught you before you left,” she stated, smiling at you. 

“Is everything alright?” you questioned, slightly worried.

“Oh, of course, of course. I brought you in because I hear you will be working down in the University of Miami?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Well, we have a case I’d like you to look at while you’re down there. Several, actually.” 

She lifted a box off the floor and put it on top of her desk, lifting the lid off of it, exposing a full box of files. 

“These are missing persons that have been going on for a few years.”

You picked up the top file and flipped through it. “Cold cases?”

“Yes, for the most part. Most of them have been in jail, prison, or suspected of illegal activity, never to be seen or heard from again.” 

“Not typical related crimes, such as a gang offing or…?”

“I want to believe that, but this is a high rate of missing people in these sort of circles compared to other cities in Florida.” 

“So why don’t you have the Florida division investigate?” you wondered, peering up at her. 

“We did. They didn’t have much of a lead or much to go on.” 

“What makes you think I will?” 

“You’re the brightest agent we have. You’ll be in the terrain. While you’re down there, we would appreciate it if you worked this case on the side. You have full range to question people. This is a real investigation, it’s not under the radar. Feel free to use whatever resources you need.”

“This… this is a lot to take on,” you commented. “I mean, by myself, that’s just... “

“I’m sure you can do it. If you need to consult your current team, feel free to do so.”

You slowly nodded. “Alright. Thank you. I’ll do my best.” 

She smiled a dazzling grin at you and shook your hand. “Thank you, thank you very much. Check back in by the end of the month, if you don’t mind.”

“I will.”

“Thanks. Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you, I’ll try.”

With that, you grabbed the box and left her office, your husband beside you. 

“So now you’re doing a case, several, all by yourself,” Spence noted. 

You let out a huff. “I guess so.” 

“This is going to be a lot. Teaching, grading, doing this case.”

You nodded. “I know, but I can handle it.” 

He grinned at you and kissed your forehead. “I know you can. I just… I’m just worried. This was supposed to be a break and now--”

“Spence, it’ll be fine. This sort of case won’t piss me off. There’s no one who is going to ‘get away’.” 

With a nod, you two exited the elevators and went home. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[aoiaoimm]

Iwaizumi Hajime & Oikawa Tooru: character- couple analysis: who wore the galaxies, who lightened up the stars?

• Written by me.

• Personal thoughts.

• Ao3 link here

"What I am saying then is just because you don’t know how you manage to be conscious, how you manage to grow and shape your body, doesn’t mean that you’re not doing it. Equally, if you don’t know how the universe shines the stars, constellates the constellations, or galactifies the galaxies – you don’t know but that doesn’t mean that you aren’t doing it just the same way as you are breathing without knowing how you breathe."

----Alan Watts from the book The Essence of Alan Watts Vol. 4: Death (1975)

---------------

On Facebook, there is a topic that came up like this: Can you guys try to list out how many rival pairs are there in Haikyuu?

Someone suggested Hinata and Kageyama. Others said it’s obviously like the relationship between Nekoma and Karasuno, or the equal of Nishinoya and Yaku's abilities. Speaking of the barrier, there's Aone, there's Tendou, there's Matsukawa. Although a bit skewed, there are people who think that this is Bokuto, Kuroo.

At that time, I thought like this: You know, Iwaizumi and Oikawa are also rivals.

The beginning of their story begins with a few small images: Oikawa with the passion for volleyball from an early age, and Iwaizumi who was drawn to his fanciful hobby even when his full attention had been put into the racquet he used to catch insects and forests. Starting from that prologue, Oikawa Tooru's world only had volleyball, and Iwaizumi Hajime's world only had Oikawa Tooru. Although I was very hesitant in writing all the above, but I don’t think that is wrong. If everyone has carefully watched the anime and even read the manga, people will see almost any frame, when Furudate-sensei describes Oikawa's growth, Iwaizumi is always there for him. Supporting him, looking at him, staying behind him. Never once did Iwaizumi exploit anything other than volleyball and Oikawa, perhaps the world for Iwaizumi is just Oikawa, to go to school in the morning, to study, play volleyball together. Perhaps not just a friend, Iwaizumi to Oikawa is a quiet walk after a late workout, a light from a window in a dark night, a clenched fist that adds more warmth. Surely, even when Iwaizumi was just a child, his thoughts were like this: He is simple-minded, he is very stubborn, a crybaby, and he doesn’t know how to take care of himself. I have to look after him, I have to be here. I should be the support he needs, I should take care of him.

Because Iwaizumi Hajime has always been like this: hot-tempered but easy-going, grumpy but firm with his own gentle tenderness. He doesn't ask for anything, because maybe for Iwaizumi, just as long as Oikawa is okay, he is fine either. Oikawa is his best friend, the person he cares about the most, rather than the fact that he didn't start with a love for volleyball like Oikawa, more than an insect cage and racket. Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan, look, this serve is great, let's play volleyball. It’s okay, Oikawa. I choose you.

And then what?

Oikawa collapses in front of him, doesn’t even have even a bit of joy for playing volleyball. This is not just a painful pain for Oikawa, but it is snatching what Iwaizumi wants most- which he has always tried hard to collect and preserve- and shatter to pieces. Iwaizumi was there when Oikawa started his passion for volleyball and watched the way it sprouted around him, unable to stop Oikawa from his own guilt. Iwaizumi was there when they entered the middle school together, became captain and ace, and lost at the hands of Shiratorizawa. Yet it's still not that he can save Oikawa from that painful black hole in the end, until Oikawa explodes in front of him, until Iwaizumi almost couldn’t stop from gung further, before he can do anything with the younger setter that year.

On many forums, websites, media types, in fact, there are many people who have different opinions: think about it, Iwaizumi can choose a softer and less violent way to wake Oikawa up isn't it? Why does he always have to be so violent like that? Are they really friends? They're teammates, aren't they?

The answer is: only because they’re teammates, that they can treat each other as so.

Because they’re friends, Iwaizumi can bring all the anger in him down on Oikawa with a hit on the head. Listen carefully, the sounds from the invisible story page, the sounds that literary minds bring you. The frown on Iwaizumi's face, the way his fists tighten around Oikawa's collar before he gives him a bump on the forehead, they're saying it too.

If they were a normal friends, would it be possible to one of them to immediately hit the other person? If they were only normal friends, would you not hesitate, not be afraid of anything, not feel upset and do something like that?

I'm not promoting violence, I'm trying to understand the emotions that are cornered into muscular movement, in a person who has always been familiar with the watching position, with the role of a supporter.

The blow that Iwaizumi gave to Oikawa, is exactly the same as the punch Oikawa was almost swung towards Kageyama without thinking. If Iwaizumi wasn’t there, what would happen after? But of course, we have no chance to discuss that subject, because Iwaizumi was there, sliding right where he needed to be as if the universe was always, always watching them. Certainly a part of him wanted to scream: look! Feel it! This is what you intend to do with Kageyama! Think it through, what are you thinking? You are a fool! You really have no cure!

But he didn’t. Instead, he said:

“Among us, no one has the ability to win against Ushiwaka in a one-on-one match. But damn, volleyball has six people on the court and that must have a reason! Even if the person on the other side of the net is a first-year genius or Ushiwaka, six who are stronger are stronger!”

Maybe that's what Oikawa wants to hear the most. Perhaps Oikawa doesn't want to hear people call him the best setter, doesn't want to hear people praise him anymore. Perhaps what Oikawa wants is someone to come over and tell him that no one can win against Ushijima alone, that he has already tried his best, that he doesn't need to worry anymore, just rest. Now it's everyone's turn. The people on the same side of the net are all his allies, Oikawa had Kitagawa Daiichi by then, just that he didn't realize they were what he needed until Iwaizumi told him that. He had been rolling around in those hellish years, hurting himself, pressing himself on the involuntary burden like Atlas with the eternal punishment of carrying the earth on his shoulders. Oikawa has never wondered then, what about the other thing?

The joy he craved when playing volleyball.

"Suddenly, I feel invincible."

Feeling that there's nothing that could win over him right then, it's because Oikawa Tooru suddenly realized he was with such a person.

Instead of advising Oikawa Tooru to remove the burden of this planet from his shoulders, Iwaizumi Hajime suggested them to do it together until they couldn't anymore, until the world crumbled on their shoulders.

Instead of smooth and sad goodbye words, Iwaizumi Hajime said that you are the partner I can boast, an excellent setter. No matter which team you join, that fact will never change.

You know, Iwaizumi Hajime is a guy with a lot of "didn't", with a lot of "instead", only for Oikawa Tooru.

Oikawa Tooru is a proud and arrogant jerk, enjoying jokes and compliments about himself. Think, when you are being called "excellent setter", what kind of face would you have? In each match, when you look at the opponent, what kind of face would you have? A smirk, probably. Brown eyes quickly become sharp but a little arrogant, it's also right to say that Oikawa Tooru is a complacent, but it is not wrong to think that he knows his ability, aware of what he is, what he should do to keep it up, how he is better than others, how people look up on him.

However, after watching the anime, I felt like the kind of looks Oikawa gave Iwaizumi when he finished their challenge, was something stranger. I mean, Oikawa has been praised a thousand times before, right? Surely he must not be too surprised anymore? Yet he is. The pupils opened their eyes wide with every single of Iwaizumi's words, he probably couldn't believe this was the person three years ago who slammed his forehead into Oikawa’s face. When Iwaizumi ends his impromptu speech and Oikawa turns around to face Iwaizumi, there is a kind of emotion in his eyes that is usually not there when Oikawa receives a compliment. It is called warmth. It is called pride. It is called a tender emotion, the noble respect between two friends that not everyone can have, when both find themselves stopping by the familiar park, under the moonlight.

"..... But when we confront each other, I will definitely defeat you"

“I have no intention of losing either."

For everyone, this is simply Iwaizumi's fight with Oikawa, or a hint about what will happen in the future, for example, that they will meet again even if they choose two different schools. For me, this is Iwaizumi's last respect for Oikawa when their high school volleyball career is over, as the two prepare to turn to a new chapter of their lives without the other person.

Do you know? Considering someone as a peer competitor is a kind of gentle respect.

Talking about personal issues again, for a while I was very determined to complete the literature test my school took in order to be able to be in the excellent students team. There was this girl in the same class as me who attended the test with me, and when it came to the exam day, she jokingly asked me that because we are in the same class, that can I go easy on her. I also just smiled back then, but actually in my head, I kept thinking. I didn't tell her, but I wanted to say no, I won't need to hold back on you. I will do my best if we compete with each other, because I respect you, because I know you are amazing and powerful enough to me to do that.

So, I think Iwaizumi means the same thing. The fact that he seriously considers Oikawa to be his opponent is kinda odd, because we've always been used to look at him as someone who silently looks after Oikawa, walking behind him, taking care of him. As Ushijima said, almost everyone tried to assert that without Oikawa, Aoba Johsai would be just a mediocre team. But no, after all, Iwaizumi was there, facing Oikawa, on equal position with Oikawa, forcing Oikawa to seriously accept himself as an opponent. Everyone knows this, but to me, I still want to say that Iwaizumi Hajime is really, really strong.

He doesn’t want to stay in the back anymore. He didn't want to be overshadowed by Oikawa, he didn't want to be silent, he wanted to stop watching. He wanted to take a step forward. He wants to be a rival to Oikawa.

Yesterday, while rewatching "Seijou after match", I was surprised to realize Oikawa's eyes were so soft, to realize Iwaizumi was always in his own way, steadfast and thorny until the last minute.

Perhaps Iwaizumi's wish at that time was more than just facing Oikawa on the court. It was his own way of expressing- apart from his deep respect- that he wants to see Oikawa again. He wants to be with Oikawa again, with anything related to volleyball. Perhaps all the little things that Iwaizumi Hajime wants is just to once again feel his connection with Oikawa, once again meet him when the two have became adults,

Once again,

Can be able to play volleyball together.

Oikawa Tooru is covered by the whole galaxy, but Iwaizumi Hajime is the one who lights up the stars.

[somefantasticplace]

THEY DIDN'T LET IT LIE

After four years of writing in secret, Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer are about to bring their surreal masterpiece Catterick to television screen. Glimpse here an interview that treads the outer regions of sanity…

A long time ago Vic Reeves (real name Jim Moir) and Bob Mortimer were television revolutionaries, their work genuinely baffled as it made you laugh. But in recent years they have lurched perilously close to becoming light entertainment stalwarts. Their new six-part series for the BBC, Catterick, named after the North Yorkshire garrison town, might be the TV show that puts Vic & Bob back in a deeply disturbing and equally funny place. Or it could be a creative disaster. Either way, as this exclusive on-set interview shows, it will certainly be strange.

Catterick, what is it then?

Vic: It’s just a great long story about people who have lost things and then try to find them. We’ve been working on it for four years as a movie but then the BBC offered us a sketch show so we’ve put it into that space.

Bob: It’s different, a real treat. But it’s bonkers. It’s not Phoenix Nights or Early Doors but in a funny way we hope it will be as easy to watch as they are. There are mysterious crows influencing events.

Vic: It’s got very sinister undertones.

Bob: If we do get away with it, it will be a much bigger thing than we’ve done before. But they’ll only trust us to a certain extent.

The BBC don’t trust you?

Bob: I don’t think the BBC is sure about anyone for much longer than about a year, or two years. They might not even be sure about Ricky Gervais in three years time. I do get that feeling that they don’t fucking know either way of it’s good or bad.

Vic: The BBC just usually let us get on with it. Because it’s a drama they got us involved, or tried to get us involved because at the end of the day we are the ones who say yea or nay.

Bob: Just little things. Like they didn’t want it to be called Catterick. Should it be called Catterick? Should it be this long? Should it have more plots? The sort of things that come out of corporations.

Were you disappointed by Randall & Hopkirk not getting a third series?

Bob: I was surprised we got the second series really. To be honest, I didn’t think the stories were good enough. Charlie Higson wrote it… well, it was a fuck of a lot to take on, six one-hours on the BBC. We knew it when we were doing it. You know when you’re doing something and saying, “This isn’t the sort of thing that we do but we’ll try it.”

Do you suffer from people thinking you are dark geniuses rather than just comics?

Vic: If people do feel that, they don’t ring us up, they’ve thought about it in darkened corners.

Do you think you are dark geniuses?

Vic: Well, Emile Zola didn’t have people ringing him up and saying, “Are you a dark genius?” you do what you do. And we never hear of anything from fans.

Are they kept away from you?

Bob: No

Vic: It’s not that we’re not interested but we never hear of them.

Bob: I mean we don’t set up web lines and we don’t get aggressive not see fans, it’s just not…

Not what you do?

Vic: (looks over at Bob who is wearing a tracksuit top beneath a formal jacket): That’s quite unique is that look. That approach.

Bob: I’ve got a Gentle Giant t-shirt on (with a patriotic US design featuring a stars ‘n’ stripes-coloured horse).

Vic: A sports top.

Bob: And quite a formal shirt these days.

Vic: But a sports top and a suit.

Bob: What’s your verdict?

Vic: Well, it’s the new thing. The younger set will be wearing that next week. Is Jack in the younger set?

Not really, no. Is your show similar to what Paul Whitehouse did with Happiness?

Vic: No, it’s nothing like it at all.

I don’t mean the end product, but whether it’s written with similarly downbeat inclinations.

Vic: I think if you wanted to really analyse it the essence of comedy is about sadness. And there’s a lot of sadness. It’s very similar to Voltaire’s Candide, in that a bloke meets a woman who he falls madly in love with, she gets kidnapped and he spends the rest of his life looking for her and when he finds her, he finds out he doesn’t fancy her anymore. But that’s his entire life gone, for nothing. Also in Candide, people get killed and then come back to life.

And in Catterick?

Bob: Well a few die.

Vic: But if someone gets killed they are not necessarily dead. Although they’re not far off. I think it’s the best thing we’ve ever done, one of the best things ever on television but whether people like it or not is a different thing. I think people are now numbed; they’re dumbed down to the state where they’re going “We just want to watch someone decorating someone’s house.”

If everyone’s stupid, what hope is there for clever humour? Or clever anything?

Vic: I think it’s got to the state of just before punk rock emerged. Someone’s going to have to say, “Look, this is getting too much. It’s too shit, it’s too boring.” Fortunately we grew up at the right time. People of our age, from our era, are the only creative people around. There’s fuck all going on.  I get so agitated watching television – there’s nothing on.

Bob: If we get away with Catterick it will make people more ambitious, take more chances. This isn’t Early Doors or the Alan Partridge thing, it has no element of – and this is something I’m not particularly keen on – “Oh he’s just like the bloke in our office” or “I know people like that”. All that stuff, there’s none of that, there’s no-one you recognise.

Vic: The characters in Catterick, they don’t look and act like normal people but they are normal. You can take somebody who’s outlandish in their look or the way that the speak and put them in a real life proper situation. It’s confusing and then it becomes funny.

Do you think that’s a Northern thing?

Vic: What do you mean?

A warmth towards outlandishness.

Vic: There’s some of that in our area.

Bob: You used to follow oddballs, didn’t you? Around the streets.

Vic: Yeah, but I think there’s something particular about where we grew up, the northeast of Yorkshire. It seems to breed a particular viewpoint, which is, I think, funny. And we’ve got Mark Benton who is a superb character and he’s from Middlesbrough, and it’s so easy to work with him because he’s got that particular… he knows what the humour is. But it’s from darkness and from sensibilities and straightforward people. And you just take a twist off to the right or left. That’s where humour is.

What do you thing to Ant and Dec, who’ve, arguably, done a childish version of your act?

Vic: Well, all the best to them. They do stuff that’s so popular and I’m sure they enjoy magnificent flats.

Bob: When they started doing Saturday morning telly, they did it well. Just because we’re from the same neck of the woods and there’s two of them…

Vic: I hope they don’t go too far and people start to despising them. Like what’s his name… not Michael Jackson… the ginger-haired fella…

Bob: Terry Evans?

Vic: Chris Evans.

Did you work with Evans?

Vic: We must have met him… he had a snotty nose.

Bob: We thought he was a sneezer.

Vic: So am I. It’s all the cocaine I abuse.

Bob: You do?

Vic: I have cocaine constantly. I love it.

Bob: (returning to the subject of Ant and Dec): Yeah, their early stuff has probably got a half-life but at the moment they are the top presenters. If there’s a big event they’ll probably be the number one choice for it at the moment.

Was your first television break on Jonathan Ross’s ‘The Last Resort’?

Vic: I wouldn’t say it was a break, as we weren’t looking for a break at the time. I think Jonathan got in a lucky position hosting a programme – he’d get all his mates on.

Bob: The other thing you realise is how indebted you are once you’ve got a show. We used to do a live show down in Deptford, but people heard about it and they wanted to put us on. By the end of it we had this fucking theatre in Deptford. As soon as we did a run of five weeks in it, it was sold out in hours.

Vic: There were people coming from all over to see it and then we had TV bosses sniffing around but they didn’t know what to do with us.

Bob: What would we have done, would we have just carried on doing that?

Vic: Well I remember sitting in a cab and you said, “Shall we be famous then? Do you fancy it, do you want to be famous for a bit?” And we really didn’t think – and it didn’t matter…

Bob: I think I took 10 weeks off work. We were doing a shitty little tour.

Vic: We didn’t think it would carry on from there. I think it was a case of… (we stop as a waitress arrives).

Bob: Cup of tea, please. (Bob points at my chip bowl, which he has gradually filled with fag ends.) Sorry about that, pet.

Vic: Can I have a large gin and tonic. I need a hair-of-the-dog and I don’t usually do that, but…

It works.

Vic: I bet it does – because you were here late for the interview I bet you got up out of bed late, didn’t you? What were you doing last night? I was singing with me father-in-law. Were you living it up?

Drinking, talking rubbish.

Bob: That’s your job though, isn’t it?

Vic: That’s alright!

Bob: I watched Harry Hill’s TV Burp. You know, it was one of those nights.

Vic: Quiet night, then.

Bob: Quiet night, yeah.

How close do you live to each other?

Bob: About 16 minutes.

Vic: No, longer, I reckon 40 minutes.

Bob: I’d say 28, if it’s important to you then we have to get it right.

Vic: More 29. Depends on the wind.

Bob: Mmm.

Isn’t that like giving up on life, moving to Kent?

Bob: Why do you say that? Where do you live?

Me? Camberwell.

Vic: Do you like it there?

I’ve not been there for that long, I was in Greenwich before.

Vic: You’re obsessive, that’s where we lived. The next thing you’ll be in Kent – you’re living the same places that we lived. You would have been here (central London) quicker if you lived in Kent, and you have the luxury of having a nice quiet life with beautiful countryside and fresh air. What happens with you now? You wake up and open your windows and you’ve got…

A gherkin.

Vic: Or a Nigerian taxi going, Waaaah! Waaaah!

Bob: You’re got a Gurkha?

A gherkin. It’s a building. And apart from me everyone else in the block is Nigerian.

Bob: Ah, yes. Do you drink in The Grove?

No, that’s turned into a big-box-little-box place. I drink at the Hermit’s cave.

Bob: That was the police pub. It was a no-go.

Vic: Do you go in at lunchtime? What do you have, pie or fish?

Just a drink.

Vic: Really, and then do you go home and have your tea? And then have some pints. What do you have for your tea?

My flatmate’s doing a cooking course so…

Vic: So she comes back with some good recipes. I left a recipe for Nancy when I was coming up here. I said “Get those chickens’ breasts out, put them in lemon juice and soy sauce then a bit pf paprika and let them marinate for some time and we’ll have those with a nice bit of cabbage and some mushrooms.”

Bob: I loved Camberwell. But I’d been in Peckham and Camberwell for 15 years and one weekend my girlfriend got attacked, my motorcycle got nicked and the police, with their helicopters, cornered a criminal in me back garden. And then the spell of it were gone. I couldn’t live there. I’d lived there happily but as soon as something happened I walked out.

Vic: I remember when we first did Big Night Out. I’d secured myself a really nice flat in Blackheath. One bedroom, but nice. It was posh. And he was living on the worst estate in Peckham and it used to make me think that other people were thinking that I was getting all the money and he wasn’t getting anything and he wouldn’t fucking get out of this shit hole. Even when we had quite a good deal of money he wouldn’t get out of that shithole in Peckham and it used to make me highly embarrassed.

Bob: I was in a homeless hostel, it’s true, and then I got this council flat just off the North Peckham council estate.

Vic: It was going to be on Through The Keyhole.

Bob: I wish I’d done it, like.

Vic: It was fucking frightening, like. When we were on tour I’d get picked up, it wasn’t a luxury flat but it had a nice front piece and it looking like a nice big hour and then I’d go and pick that fucker up and it was a disgusting hole.

Bob: It was fucking noisy at night.

Vic: And he made it worse because he was a lazy fucker. He couldn’t be bothered getting out of his bed and walking round to go to the toilet so he kicked a hole in the wall to the toilet. I said “What are you doing about getting this rubbish out of the house?” and he said, “Oh, I’ll put it out the window.” There was a triangle of shit, milk bottles and crap out the back window. Piss everywhere, piss in milk bottles…

Bob: They were the days thought, you can’t do that in Kent. And you know what, it’s embarrassing. I’m not being nasty to Nigerians in any way, I’m just making the clear point that they are noisy. Eight or nine of them in a very tiny space and they never shut up. Either that or it’s the tinkle of chicken bones falling on the pavement all fucking night.

Could that be construed as racist?

Vic: I don’t think it’s racist. When you go into an Indian shop they are always on the phone. Always. And it’s not racist but you get accused of being racist if you say that all Nigerians are…

Bob: They are fucking noisy.

Why isn’t that racist?

Bob: Because it has been my experience.

Vic: With our type of humour – a lot of people from the North East have our sense of humour – it’s a positive thing. We can say it because it’s the way we sound.

Well you’d have to ask a Nigerian whether he minds it in a North Yorkshire accent or not.

Bob: You noisy bastard.

Vic: One of the characters in Catterick is white, Jewish, ginger haired who’s got an Asian accent.

Bob: See that could be a stumbling block… it’s quite idiotic.

Vic: When we did The Club on Bang Bang, Bob played a character who had a Chinese accent and that was covered by the fact that…

Bob: But we seemed to get away with that but Asia’s different, isn’t it? As for what people are going to say? Fuck, I don’t know. Vic: If you were raised in Hong Kong and you were white Anglo-Saxon and you came back you’re going to talk with a Chinese accent. Which might be intriguing.

Bob: See the other thing is that I reckon probably in fucking South Yorkshire it’s incredibly cool to be Asian.

Like it used to be cool amongst some whites to pretend to be black?

Vic: That’s still cool now. White children in Southeast London have got a basically West Indian accent, haven’t they? It’s cool but will it ever be cool to come from the Isle of White.

Bob: I don’t think the BBC have cottoned on to that yet. That Matt Lucas is going to be Asian.

You said your humour is a product of where you come from, but Roy “Chubby” Brown is from the same area, isn’t he?

Vic: Do you know, when I was talking to my friend Eugene at the weekend, Nancy said “He says ‘cunt’".  And Nancy says, “You say ‘cunt’ a lot.” She says she doesn’t like it. Being from the South she finds if, well not offensive, but she says she “notices” it, it’s a serious word. But Eugene said it’s a particular thing to our particular area. People will say cunt in the Northeast without thinking about it and I think it’s because of the accent. It’s not forced out. If it were in the South it would be “CAANT!” so it sounds like it’s being shot out. In the Northeast it’s nice, and it’s rounded. I mean I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that word. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with any language. It’s just a natural thing.

Isn’t it violent towards women?

Vic: No, not really. The word cunt is the same as “Kent” and “quaint” if you take it right back to language. Where it first came from (all this is palpably untrue); from the English language when we had fewer words in our vocabulary Kent, quaint and cunt were all the same thing. So what do you do? Do you start saying you can’t say these words?

Bob: That’s terrible.

Northerners say “bastard” better.

Bob: I think they are the best words. Whatever you think to “Chubby”, he’s a fucking great swearer.

Vic: With Roy “Cubby” Brown those words can come out and they’re got the same amount of force but they’re used in a certain way so you can accept them a little bit easier. This Jethro character – I’ve never heard him but he’s quite oo-arhh, isn’t he? And I can imagine he says (speaking in an almost Long John Silver pirate accent to denote the West Country), “You farking Carnt.” It’s a lot smoother, but if it’s cockney it sounds like a battering ram of a machine gun.

Bob: There’s not that much kudos up North in being sharp, it’s not the thing to be the aggressive comic.

(Looking at photographs that Vic has brought) Is this the stuff you’ve been taking?

Vic: Yeah. I liked the way you said that. Are you the boss of Jack?

I am actually, yes.

Vic: Are you enjoying it?

Bob: Have you got a good office?

Yes. I’ve got a chair on a castor and a floor with no carpet so when I put up the phone I move…

Bob: Are you going to stick to the castors, though?

Well, we’re moving office… today, in fact.

Vic: To a place with carpets?

Yes, afraid so.

Vic: You might find that more tricky.

Bob: You’ll miss the movement you know. Have you booked your office and said, “That’s my fucking office.”

The new place is open plan…

Vic: Oh eh!

Bob: Oh fucking cordon it off man and put “The Boss” up.

Vic: (Handing me some photographs) I want them all back. I want to do a portrait book so you have to promise me that you’ll give them all back.

Bob: Well, what will you do if he doesn’t?

Vic: I know where he lives.

What, you’ll send the boys round?

Vic: Yes, to go in your pub. I know coppers.

They shut the police station.

Vic: It doesn’t matter, not coppers from Peckham.

Hull coppers are direct and to the point.

Bob: Hull? They’d be great coppers.

Vic: Leicester’s the worst city, though.

Bob: I tell you what I think is worse, when you go down the Thames to those towns…

Vic: Marlow!

Bob: Marlow’s the worst.

Vic: Complete fights… and gang warfare. We should have a street fight.

Bob: It’s been a while hasn’t it?

Vic: Yeah. Do you want to join in or are you not a street fighter?

No. I’ll leave that.

Bob: You arrange a street fight for soft lads where no-one really gets hurt. It looks fucking amazing.

Vic: Bob used to be a big street fighter.

Bob: There's a lock-in pub (Bob here gives extended directions to a particular pub in South London). I used to live next door to it, Fucking hell. Every day of the year.

Vic: Where was that other place you used to do a lock-in?

Bob: Oh the Mexican place. That was a long one, an all-nighter.

Vic: I never did all that, you used to do three days of drinking…. You were a real drinker.

Bob: I used to be.

Have you stopped.

Bob: To be honest, more or less. We had some dos recently because we’d finished filming and I don’t seem to be able to get past five fucking pints.

Do you fall over or just go to sleep.

Bob: I’m just fucked.

Vic: Twice a week I’ll have a really good piss up.

Do you turn into a violent drunk or a lachrymose “I love you” drunk?

Vic: You know what I like? I really fucking love getting nicely pissed in me house and do fuck all. I’ll mess about. I’ll do a drawing or fiddle about with a candle, or poke the fire. Poking the fire when you’re pissed… I fucking love it. I’ll do that twice a week, get heavily pissed poking a fire. The other times I’ll drink camomile tea. Me and my lass drink camomile tea and eat sweets. I tell you what, and I don’t know how the fuck she does it, she’ll get a big box of chicken legs and stuff and she goes through all the chicken legs and she doesn’t put on an ounce. She’ll have eight chicken legs in a night and… nothing. And we have a big jug of squash, chicken legs, sweets and cheese comes out every night – like a bastard! Cheese is going to kill me.

Which is your favourite cheese?

Vic: I love all Bries and the Camemberts. I love that and pickles. Pickled eggs. Every night the tray will come out with all the shit on it and she’ll eat and eat. And she’ll not put a thing on.

Why do you think the tabloids always chase Vic’s personal life, not Bob’s?

Bob: I think it’s because he’s “Vic Reeves”. That’s the story there, that’s the way they see it.

Vic: Bob and me are both equally dull as each other. We don’t do fuck all but they seem to want to think that I have an exciting life because I married an underwear model. They seem to think that we have rampant sex all the time. She makes the dinner and puts her pyjamas on.

Bob: And you poke the fire.

Vic: I poke the fire. And then I occasionally poke her. Nothing happens, we do fuck all. But the tabloids want us to have an exciting life. They expect more of me and I don’t know why.

As a double act you’re quite unique, there’s not a straight man and a funny man – it seems an equal opportunities arrangement…

Bob: In the old days there was a straight man and a funny man but if you look at Ant and Dec they're equal as well.

Vic: Maybe it’s just a copy of us. Maybe we were the first…

Bob: It seems a bit of a waste, up a blind alley ultimately if one’s straight and one's funny. I was quite straight in Shooting Stars.

Vic: But you were never the straight one. You can have the straight one or you can have two straight men. You can have someone who is the dozy one but then if you switch the tables… in Catterick I’m clearly, if you look at it straightforwardly, the dozy one and my brother Carl is the one who has got it together. But then if you look more deeply maybe I’m cleverer… and he’s a liar. But it’s got that underlying thing all the way through that you don’t really know.

How scripted is your stuff?

Vic: Quite heavily. If we’re going to do a routine then we’ll know about it.

Bob: The nice thing about Shooting Stars is there are surprises. It’s not like Buzzcocks where they give them the questions beforehand. They are quite brave some people, they don’t get any chance to think of something funny.

Vic: When we are writing we have an office and we go in at 9:30 and leave at 3:30. Deathly silence, we never speak.

Bob: You’ve just got to sit down and do it. It’s no good going to Denmark and thinking you’ll be inspired. It’s, “here’s an office and a table”. Sometimes you do three pages and sometimes you do three lines but we try and stick to it.

Has anybody ever turned you down to appear on Shooting Stars?

Vic: I tell you who we never get – boxers, because they all want five grand and they think they’re fucking it.

Bob: We send off massive lists.

Vic: We nearly had Art Garfunkel once.

Bob: He’s got an airport problem.

Vic: I don’t think we are au fait with the younger set so you get someone like Destiny’s Child on to the show, or someone else and you think, “Who the fuck’s that?”

Bob: There's a lot of that.

Vic: My daughter's like, “Wooooooooh, yeah, you’ve got Mis-Teeq on!” and I say “Mystique – is that a juggling act?”

Bob: We don’t know their names.

Vic: And Mis-Teeq is a big deal, isn’t she? I thought she might have been a trapeze act but no, she’s a singer.

How do you cope with someone as patently Southern and middle class as Will Self being in love with you?

Vic: He finds us fascinating.

But slightly patronising?

Bob: He really cares for what he’s doing.

Vic: He’s bombastic and we’re vicarious.

Do you worry about Johnny Vegas?

Vic: Yeah. We have to edit out a couple of hours. We once did a take of Shooting Stars in 36 minutes, but when we get Johnny Vegas in we were lucky to get three hours and I just felt sorry for the people who were sitting in the audience. I mean he’s fucking bright, he’s hilarious but he’ll go on for an hour-and-a-half with his answer and you’re thinking, “Fuck, can we just get him to the green room?”

Do you drink and work?

Bob: A live show, I like to have three pints before I go on. A television show, I like to have three cans. I’ve never recorded a show where I haven’t had a drink. I don’t think so.

Vic: It wasn’t religious but we’d have lagers, cans. I do remember once when I had one too many at Sheffield.

Bob: You know how lager’s powerful, at some venues we’d phone up and say, “Please, don’t fuck us up with this Skol and Stella and stuff,” Just three and that would fuck us. You don’t realise at the time but you can see afterwards.

Vic: It’s acting, that’s what it is, and you can’t act if you’ve had anything, you just can’t do it. I don’t understand how people smoke pot. I don’t know anyone who can have any drug or drink loads and go on stage.

Bob: That’s a fucker.

Vic: Here’s something interesting. Two comedians in Denmark are re-creating Shooting Stars ad they’re going to film it.

Bob: Who wants to do that?

Vic: The BBC, with us.

Bob: Denmark? That’s butter.

Well, bacon really.

Vic: And very soft shoes.

NO, YOU LYING GET…

A brief history of Reeves & Mortimer.

1986: The Vic Reeves Variety Palladium begins at Winston’s Wine Bar, Deptford. Sketches include “Tappy Lappy” – Moir dancing to “Fly Me To The Moon” with planks on his feet, wearing a Bryan Ferry mask. The show is re-named Vic Reeves Big Night Out and moves to Goldsmith’s Tavern, New Cross Road. Moir is joined by pal, Bob Mortimer.

1988-1989: Big Night Out  shifts to the Albany Empire, Deptford. Spotted by Jonathan Ross and invited onto Ross’s The Last Resort, giving Reeves his big break.

1990-1991: Vic Reeves Big Night Out on Channel 4. Classic end sequence as Reeves belts out “Mr  Songwriter”, turning side-on to accentuate the flare in his trousers.

1991:  I Will Cure You album released. “Dizzy”, performed with the Wonderstuff, reaches Number One.

1992: The Weekenders is on Channel 4, where Vic and Bob visit a meat festival and buy sausages for aliens.

1993-1995: The Smell of Reeves & Mortimer on BBC2, giving us Mulligan And O’Hare, Stars in Their Eyes and TV chefs eating the flesh from a giraffe’s antler.

1995-2003: Shooting Stars, a quiz format featuring regulars Ulrika-ka-ka-ka, Mark Lamarr, Donald Cox The Sweaty Fox, Will Self, Johnny Vegas, The Dove From Above and multi-talented drummer, Matt Lucas.

1997: “Comedy” show It’s Ulrika! hits the screens with the duo credited as writers. It’s bloody painful viewing.

1998-1999: Families At War includes a Vic & Bob five minute bit with Bob as a spider on a crane. Bang Bang It’s Reeves & Mortimer gives the duo more space. “The Club” shines.

2000-2001: Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased) on BBC1, but it doesn’t quite work.

2004: Catterick begins, which charts the first hours of a brotherly reunion. They become involved with a murderer and a hotelier who has lost his penis.

[neuroticphysiologist]

"Itinerary"

For FabFiveFeb - Scott @gumnut-logic

My story changed themes. First it was about exhausted Scott, then another Virgil reassurance story, until it ended up like this, which is a new one for me. So yeah, this is another unplanned story, or as I call it, an immediate short.

And, another OC. Also, back to first person POV.

Prompts: glow, apple

Rated T for themes and language.

[Alan] | [Gordon] | [Virgil, Part 1] | [Virgil, Part 2]

*****

Scott

June... it's a hell of a busy month.

Same things happen everyday. Not the rescues, but some of my tasks are made at the same hour. Goes like this.

0700 hours or earlier, or later. Depends.

Phone alarm rings. Wake up. Check time. Grandma gave me an apple, and there's a note too. It's from Virgil.

Morning, Scott

Grandma says an apple a day keeps you stronger. It's gonna be a long day, bro.

-Virgil

Yep, Grandma is the best.

0710 hours

Morning routine. Wash face, brush teeth, shower, hairdryer, hair gel, etcetera.

0735 hours

Check if there are any calls for help. If none, time for breakfast. A heavy one. Plus Virgil's trusted brand of coffee. It's gonna be a long day. If there are calls for help, perhaps a bagel will do. Have a bite on that apple too.

0810 hours

Reports, reports, reports. My brothers would pass their contributions while I compile them. Even if I'm not involved with the rescue. More analysis.

0900 hours

Almost all of our rescues happen at this hour. If I'm not involved, I'll monitor. Sometimes Brains would show his new inventions to me.

1030 hours

Colonel Casey calls for a meeting with the GDF. Happens almost every Tuesday and Friday. If I'm called to present my reports, well, wish me luck.

If no meeting scheduled, rescues. If none, systems check, or analysis... again.

1230 hours

I've been called again for a rescue, a longer one. Happens almost everyday at this hour. Lunchtime? Perhaps a good sandwich.

1400 hours

Back on Tracy Island. Monitor several rescues. Most of my brothers are at work. Virgil and Gordon are always out at this hour. Thirty minutes later, it's all up to John. Sometimes I would head to the hall and see Kayo at the gym. If she sees me, she would ask me to join in her training. She would teach me a few moves...there goes another punch on my arm.

1520 hours

Thunderbird 1 is go... again! John sends me the coordinates. Looks like this is gonna need some more help, not only Thunderbird 1. Virgil's needed again.

1630 hours

Another long rescue. Or maybe two rescues, or three (it happens rarely!)

1830 hours

Kayo and my brothers will talk about their rescues and note it down. Business conversations are mostly at this hour.

1900 hours

My colleague and one of the agents of International Rescue, Bethany Lloyd, would call. She sends our meeting place. Then I'll get my files, freshen up, and wear a suit. Yes, it's like a date. If it's a club, perhaps a dark casual outfit will do. Dinner with my family, tell them I have to meet one of our agents (tell Gordon it's not Lady Penelope), and Thunderbird 1 is go.

If Beth doesn't need me for the night, it's back to reports again, or systems check. Sometimes another rescue. Then dinner. In the next hours, reports, business and personal conversations, then off to bed.

Let's talk about my missions with Beth as we continue. This happens twice a week.

2000 hours

Beth sends me the place where I could land Thunderbird 1. Meet her at the hangar, head to her car, then she'll take me to one private place where we would have our rendezvous.

2020 hours

The date. Small reports, casual talks, and slight drinking.

2040 hours

Sometimes, someone interrupts our date. Beth needs to solve a case, and I would join her. Tell John about it briefly.

2150 hours

Beth takes me to her apartment in New York. Help her write her report, decode messages if there's a need to do it. Sometimes her cases can be solved in a day or two.

After, we would share a bottle of vodka. I'd go for only two shots, of course.

2240 hours

Reporting and decoding all done.

She gives me a kiss. Sometimes that single kiss turns into a makeout session, if I'm up for it. Back in college we've been teased that we're a perfect match, but we wanted to keep it secret. We've done these sessions before. Yes, she's my girlfriend. I don't usually bring it up when it comes to business, of course. All of my brothers know about this one.

Damn, I'm so weak. I hope I don't drift off.

0030 hours

Oh god, I did.

She had all of my clothes off. Shit, I should be home by now. Tell her I should get going, even though it's already past midnight. We put our clothes back on, get my files, head to her car, and she'll take me back to Thunderbird 1.

0045 hours

John calls again. I have to head home now.

And then he's off to his room in Thunderbird 5.

0055 hours

Shit.

"You said you're going to meet one of our agents," Virgil folds his arms. "What's taking you so long?"

"We solved a case, wrote reports, that's it."

"That's it?" he repeats.

I sigh. "It was Bethany Lloyd."

"I know. John told me. So, was there a makeout session?"

"Virgil..."

"Gordon's going to ask you that question. Grandma's worried about you, Scott."

"I know. Sorry, Virgil."

"You better head back to bed, big brother. Another long day tomorrow."

"You too."

Did Grandma remember I was with my girlfriend?

Small conversations with Virgil, and then he's off to bed.

0100 hours

Head to my room. Finish the last bit of my report about the last rescue before the rendezvous with Bethany Lloyd.

Oh, and I just added glow in the dark night sky stickers on my wall. Alan gave me a set. Beautiful, isn't it? Appreciating his art project.

0120 hours

Energy runs out just in time. Drift off for real.

0700 hours or earlier, or later. Depends.

Phone alarm rings. Wake up. Check time. Apple on my nightstand. Virgil's note. Get going. Cycle might repeat.

June... it's a hell of a busy month.

*****

Wow, I can't believe I wrote this faster than my take on Alan. That's a new record.

[our-jensen-ackles-love]

Flashes; Chapter Eleven

Summary: Playboy Jensen Ackles is hurting his television show’s image. Every time he promised to get his act together, it’d last for about a week before pictures emerge of him half-drunk with some broad on his arm. Fed up and desperate, his agent decides their only hope to save some face is to write up a contract with a nobody girl who could use the money while getting to play the role of Jensen’s girlfriend.

It was only for a year and it was only for the photos.�� But feelings don’t always follow the rules, do they?

Word Count: 1945 

Warnings: Angst, lots of it. 

CATCH UP HERE FEEDBACK MAKES ME WRITE.

Chapter Eleven

“Oh, good,” Momma poked her head in from around the corner. If you had to take a wild guess, you figured that would be where the dining room was located. “I was starting to think we would have to send someone else up there to get the two of ya.”

You couldn’t help, but blush at her words.

Jensen tore his harsh gaze away from Danneel, giving your hand a small squeeze before letting go and heading over in his mother’s direction. “Ma, no amount of lovin’ could keep me away from your fried chicken.”

Now you knew your cheeks were flaming.

You didn’t have to look to know that Danneel had her sights on you, probably tearing you apart to pieces in her mind, just like you were sure every girl did when another picture was posted of you and Jensen together. Instead of pretending like she didn’t exist, you turned towards her and offered up the biggest smile you could manage.

“Oh, Danneel, right?” You asked, taking a step closer while extending your hand in her direction. “I’m Y/N.”

She eyeballed your hand like the simple gesture would transform into a rabid dog that was out to bite her. Cautiously, you noticed her dark burgundy eyes wander to where Jensen was standing with his mother in quiet conversation.

“Yeah,” was all she said before flipping his hair behind her shoulder. If you didn’t know any better, you could guess that this night was going to go something like a scene from a popular teen girl rom com. “I know who you are.”

“Then you know that I’m Jensen’s girlfriend.”

Her thin lips formed into a sly looking smirk. She stole another glance at Jensen’s direction while Mackenzie walked into the dining room with what looked like several dark pieces of cloth. “Only for now.”

Something bubbled in your chest at her words. “Excuse me?”

That little smile didn’t leave her face, “You’re just going to be like the rest of them. Jay will only keep you around until you bore him.”

In that moment, Jensen was at your side. “Y/N,” he said breathlessly like he had rushed to get to you. You saw him from your peripherals, looking from you to Danneel then back – it was like he was trying to read what had already been said in the quiet between us. “Table’s all set.”

Danneel stood up so slow that even you got a good shot of her cleavage before she went sashaying her hips into the other room. Not the kind of person to resort to violence, you were getting really close to launching yourself at her and pulling a scene out of Mean Girls where you just went all animal kingdom on her smug, irrelevant face.

“Hey,” Jensen’s voice came through the storm cloud of fury that was raging in your head. “Remember to keep that war face strong.”

Your head whipped over to look him, his eyes searching you carefully while his fingers gripped your chin lightly, making sure that you couldn’t look anywhere but at him. Despite the way your insides were twisting at having to break bread with that woman, you cracked a small grin. “Are you using my words against me?”

He shrugged, releasing you from his grasp, but keeping his eyes on you cautiously. “Am I really using it against you if it’s sound advice to begin with?”

“Wow, Ackles.”

After another careful smile was shared between the two of you, he reached down and grabbed your hand before playfully dragging you along to the dining room. The long, rectangular table had been set with something similar to wedding china; the kind that was white with specs of dark blue and gold, tall glasses filled to the brim with what looked like iced tea and the food was plated throughout the middle.

The big plate of fried chicken was calling your name front and center.

Like the southern gentleman you were getting to know, Jensen led you to your chair, pulling it out for you to sit before scooting you closer to the table. “Now ya’ll don’t be shy,” Momma said from the top of the table. “I made enough food to feed a whole fleet.”

Once Jensen was sitting and Danneel was adjusted directly across from you where she was basically eye fucking the man next to you, did the proper introductions start. At one end of the table sat Jensen’s father who insisted that you call him Alan - no matter what, then Joshua sat caddy corner to his father with his best friend Barrett who sat opposite of him. Mackenzie was sitting next to Danneel, passing the spinach salad towards you while Jensen said something that made his mother whack his arm playfully. Cliff was apparently still sleeping and Momma didn’t want to wake him, but she made sure to mention that Josh would have to bring him a plate of food when he did make his way upstairs.

Despite Jensen’s ex-girlfriend being there, the whole environment made you feel like you were home. There was a lot going on a once, from Alan asking for more fried chicken to Jensen focusing all of his attention on making sure that your plate was full at all times, to the small chatter than Kenzie was trying to make with their guest.

“So remember when I said that I hoped you got fat on this trip?” You asked before Jensen gave you a chuckle and a slight nod while shoveling more mashed potatoes onto his own plate. “I didn’t mean that you could take me down with you.”

The tip of his thumb was in his mouth as he was licking up a bit of the leftover mash that had escaped the bowl, but that wink that he gave you made you want to melt into your chair.

“So I saw the interview Jay,” Danneel spoke for the first time since dinner had started. Her voice was even, like she had been preparing this speech for quite some time, but her focus was on strategically stabbing the pieces of spinach salad before her. “There seemed to be a lot of questions about us.”

A silence fell over the whole table.

In the quiet, your mind wandered back to that night that he came stumbling home drunk making your heart hurt for the man next to you. Instantly, your hand reached between the chairs and grabbed his, which had been tightly clamped into a fist in his lap.

“Dee,” Kenzie hissed at the woman next to her, stealing a sorrowful glance at her brother. “You promised you wouldn’t bring that up.”

Her shoulder rose and fell with a half assed shrug, never taking her eyes off of Jensen. You weren’t even sure if she had blinked since stating her piece. “Maybe I have my own questions.”

Jensen, who had finally released some of the tension in his hand enough that he grabbed your own and gave it an aggressive squeeze before he stood up from the table, his knees bumping the edge in the process. You half-drunk glass of iced tea almost toppled over, but you managed to catch it just before the worst could happen – making an even bigger mess of this night.  

He towered over where you were sitting, breaking eye contact with the bitch who sat across from you. “Ma, I think it’s time I excuse myself.”

It was evident that everyone around the table was a little put out by these proceedings. Momma cleared her throat before offering her son a forced smile. “Are you sure darlin’? I made some pie for dessert.”

Jay veered over his mother’s chair and kissed her forehead. The action itself was a polar opposite of what was probably gnawing away on his insides. “Save me a slice.”

You had barely been able to get out a thank you before Jensen almost tore your arm off when he made contact with your body again. The rest of the house, that you had yet to see, blurred by quickly as you were hurried up the stairs. In record time, you found yourself back in Jensen’s room with him standing before you with an hazy look overshadowing his forest green eyes.

No words were spoken prior to his lips finding yours for the second time that night.

Jensen’s body pushed into yours, like he was trying to mold himself into you. His body caged you in between the wooden door and his hard chest - his kisses came urgent, devouring your mouth like you were the only slice of heaven he needed right now.

Those same lips were starting to cloud your judgment about what was happening. His mouth was making it’s slow descend down towards your collarbone and you couldn’t help, but close your eyes as he continued on his way. Your hands made their way into his hair, tugging gently enough that you could bring his focus back to your face.

He broke contact with you, breathing heavily while his eyes searched yours for permission to continue. Damn, did you really want to continue. “Jensen?”

“Yeah?” He asked leaning down to nip at the corner of your mouth causing your to groan internally; the man was doing things to you.

“Is this really a good idea?”

As he continued to lean over, your bodies still pressed together and your labored breath filling the momentary silence, you watched him continue to look over your face like he was searching for the answer. “Probably not,” he mumbled, releasing you.

With an slow step backwards, you had a little more breathing room to get your head on straight. “Don’t get me wrong,” you started seeing the look of rejection flicker across Jensen’s face. “I want this.”

His eyes lit up. “But?”

You chewed your bottom lip while choosing your words carefully. “But, don’t you think you are just acting on impulse right now? Out of anger at Danneel?”

Jensen looked at you, his eyes roaming from the top of your head all the way down to your toes. You would have sold your soul to the devil right then and there to get a piece of what was running through his head.

When his eyes found yours again, he spoke with intention in his words. “Only a little.”

Your insides squeezed at his answer, but you still didn’t trust that he actually wanted you right now. Like that he honestly to god wanted you. There was no way that his sudden actions weren’t being influenced by the fact that his ex-girlfriend was sitting downstairs at the family table right that very minute.

Jensen stepped closer to you, closing in on your personal space. With the same gesture from earlier, he grabbed your chin gently. “But, I think we probably should just get some sleep and see what tomorrow holds for us, okay?”

You managed a slow nod. “Okay.”

After all was said and done, you found yourself in the darkness of the bedroom, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a tank top while a shirtless Jensen was laying awfully still next to you. Your mind started to wander, focusing mainly on the fact that the man next to you said that he wanted you, but you had been wondering if that was genuine or not.

As that thought kept circling over and over, Jensen rolled over and threw an arm over your waist. You felt him snuggle up close to your warm body which in turned caused you to relax before reminding yourself that this was all fake.

Who was to say that these feelings weren’t fake too?

TAGS: @supernatural-bellawinchester, @luciathewinchestergirl, @supernatural-teamfreewillpage, @nanie5, @kbl1313, @wanderer-08, @squirrelnotsam, @allonsy-yesiwill, @mirandaaustin93, @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @docharleythegeekqueen @sandlee44 @chameleah86 @dean-is-my-superhero @hellolarry34 @internationalmusicteacher @maralisa124 @spn-ficfanatic @mannls @like-a-bag-of-potatoes @angelessquirrel @appleslicesandmustard @ilovesebastianstanmore @mlovesstories @aeonian-forever @faithfullpanicmoon @shawtygonemad @itssmallerontheoutside-13 @theplaidshirtmadness @laqueus-ludovicus @jhudawnareeves @applepielyf @gemini75eeyore @missbosstown @kristina818 @hayleighr4 @superwhomerlockinuum @ria132love @shutupiminlooove @imaginationisgrowth @thatbandchick39 @spnwoman @deangetsme @satanwithapencil @dramione-winchester-mccall @monkeymcpoopoo @in-tenebris-ad-astra @just-ladyme @juniorhuntersam @ineedhelpmovingtobostonmatoteach  @ravenangel33 @iamabeautifulperson18 @chocolateturtlepeanutopera @xalgaliareptx @snffbeebee @laurenw1025 @sweetlythoughtfulbird @winchesterjude @thebeautywithinme

[writers-revolt528]

A HPHM Story:

The Night Time Stopped

MC: Alan Morrissey

Spoilers

---

March 2, 1989- 11:28pm

The forest was dark and otherwordly at night, hell, it was creepy during the day. Alan, Ben, and Merula, were examining something under a bush, " what should we do with it?" Alan questioned looking back at the others, Merula frowned, " there's nothing we can do, if we touch it we could die , but if we cast spells on it, they could rebound." Ben began to shudder uncontrollably, enough to make Merula notice, " what's wrong with you Copper?" she asked sharply, "you don't feel that?" Ben asked puzzled trying not to fall over, "feel what!?" Merula said irritated Alan started to shake violently as well, " wha- what, it's so cold" Alan breathed heavily, "you two better not be messing with me!" Merula yelled." trus-tt me" Ben said, " I wouldn't l-lie to you." The group did not notice at first but just over a hill a large group of dark hooded figures were coming their way. " What are those things?" Ben asked, the figures got closer, " dementors" Merula called back. A large group of dementors boxed in the triad, "oh shite" Alan whispered to himself, " Alan? what should we do?" The slytherin girl asked nervously, " Merula, I'm glad you asked, but you-you don't need my permission to run" " I'm not running" Merula said, "alright...Expecto Patronum" Alan yelled, but just as a white panther bounded from his wand it dissapated due to another patronus running down the hill, it drove the dementors from the area, Merula walked over to the iradescent blue cat, ' a lioness patronus' she thought, staring at the creature in awe. The cat quickly disappeared due to its owner walking through it, this person wore a long red robe that covered their face, their voice pierced the air, it was deep, but Alan couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. Merula drew her wand, and shot a spell at the figure, who blocked it easily, they threw a spell back at her, it hit, and she went down as if someone had thrown her a medicine ball. " Foolish girl, you call yourself a great witch, yet you can't even block a simple knockback spell, you're nothing but a washout." Ben and Alan pulled out their wands and took dueling stances, " you want to duel me?" The new threat asked exasperated. " I feel we're evenly matched," Ben said determined, " please, I'm stronger than the both of you combined" they scoffed, "we'll see" " it will be fun watching you die then."

The surrounding area was littered with spells from both sides, in a moment of hesitation Alan was hit with a spell causing him drop his wand and fall to the ground. Ben continued to fight without Alan, he stumbled a few times, but he wasn't going to stop. Meanwhile Alan seached for his black coloured wand on the dark forest floor amongst the dirt and dry grass. Watching overhead as magnificent wafts of blue and red soared above him, finally after what felt like forever, in such a small amount of time Alan grasped the familiar feeling of his blackthorn wand. " Incendio" he wheezed a large flame shot from the wood lighting his opponent's robes alight, the robes were extinguished by their owner, although they were now tarnished and darkened. Alan rejoined Ben and the duel continued, but their opponent grew tired, suddenly they yelled, " enough! I feel I've won this duel... Avada Kedavra!" A green jolt of light poured from the wand, Alan felt hands on his shoulders pushing him out of the way, he fell and rolled, looking up he saw darkened red cloth fleeing into the forest, he stood up and followed after.

Alan ran as quickly as possible, trying to cast spells accurately, the same went for his opponent, as the two ran, thorned branches tore at their clothes and scratched their skin, low hanging branches bruised them, but they kept on running. Alan was determined he was going to catch the robe wearer. They uttered incantations back and forth, some could set the entire forest ablaze, some trees began to smolder. They ran into an area with thick trees, Alan lost sight of who he was chasing, when he reached the clearing on the other side, it was empty, they were long gone. Alan leaned up against a tree and stared off into the starry night sky. The moon was high in the sky, it was peaceful and as pretty as a picture.

Alan hiked back to where his friends were, but upon his arrival Merula ran to him wrapping him into a tight hug, tears streaming down her face, " Alan, I'm so sorry!" She said through her tears. Alan pulled the girl off him, his hands on her shoulders. "What's going on" he questioned, Merula's eyes widened, "you mean you didn't see?" Alan was in a fog, clearly not understanding what was wrong. Merula sniffed, and put her face in her hands, " fuck...come on, follow me." Merula led her friend to Ben who was kneeling next to another person who was laying on the ground motionless, it was a student. Yellow lines amongst the black robe went well with their long golden blonde hair. "Penny" Alan whispered, he ran over and knealt down beside the body, he placed a hand on the girl's shoulder and rolled her over, it was Penny, her once beautiful blue eyes had been drained to a cloudy grey. Alan had been hit with a wave of shock, then doubt. " Penny wake up!" He said moving her shoulder, " do you think I didn't try that already" Ben said halfway serious, trying to hold back his tears. " shut up, shut up, she she isn't gone" Alan cried, he checked to see if he could hear her breathing. Nothing. He started compressions, tears streamed down his face, " come on, come on, you're not gone, you're not gone," Alan slowly stopped doing compressions, "no, no, no, no, fuck, fuck, god damnit," at this Alan turned to Ben and hugged him, to which Ben could no longer compose himself, and cried with his distraught friend. "What happened?" Alan asked, "she saved your life, pushed you out of the way." Ben said, his voice quivering, "I could've been there for her in her final moments" Merula sat down with the two boys, " there's nothing you could have done, the killing curse is instant... I'm sorry Alan" she said wrapping her arms around both boys.

The group regained some strength, especially Alan, who carried Penny, all the way back to the castle. When the group arrived, they walked through the halls, no one was around, and prefects were most likely washing up for the night, the corridors echoed at the group's foot falls. They reached the infirmary door, there was light underneath of it. Ben swung the door open, and the group walked into the candle lit room. Madame Pomfrey was sitting at a desk, Alan laid Penny on an empty bed. Madame Pomfrey noticed the new arrival, and walked over, she looked at the three students, Alan was in bad shape, he was bloody, parts of his robes were torn or bloody, and his shoes were muddy. The other two werent in as bad as shape, just a few scuffs and bruises, but the girl on the bed looked as she had seen a ghost. "What happened?" she asked, " she's dead" Alan whispered, "what?" The woman asked her eyes wide, " I want to speak with Professor Dumbledore."

Madame Pomfrey sent an owl to the Professor, and a moment later recieved one back, " all of you report to Professor Dumbledore immediately" she said in a stern voice. As the group was leaving Alan watched as Penny was covered with a white sheet. Once in Dumbledore's office, the triad stood around waiting, when Dumbledore walked out of a hidden book case, it shut behind him as he entered the room. "Sit" he said calmly, the group sat down in chairs, Dumbledore sat in his chair. " Madame Pomfrey sent me an owl discussing the unfortunate death of Miss Haywood. Her letter also informed me that you three brought her in, so I'd like to be informed on what happened" he said with a very serious look.

Alan ended up falling asleep in his chair, and had a strange dream in store for him. He walked through the dark Forbidden Forest, a thick fog rolled in, and a gust of wind swept through carrying the words that all overlapped eachother, " they changed again" "it's worse this time" "some more drastic than others" " I can't sleep" "who are you" "lying seems..." " I know you" "familiarity" "doubt" "overcome" then all went black.

8 hours later

Alan awoke from his dream, if you could call it that. His two friends were gone, and Dumbledore was sitting at his desk writing. Alan stumbled over to the headmaster's desk, " what time is it?" Dumbledore looked at the student, whose wounds had been cleansed and robes that had been repaired over night, " it's almost 9:00 am, but there's no need to worry, I've excused you and you friends from your classes today to recover from last night's events, there should be some leftover food in the Great Hall, you can use my fireplace if you want." Alan walked to the back of the office where a fireplace sat, he took a handful of floo, " thank you Professor" Alan said before stepping into the fire place, " Great Hall" he said sternly before dropping the dust. The Great Hall contained two students, Ben and Merula, they were eating still, slowly. Then the fireplace fire glowed green and Alan walked out, he saw his friends, and headed their way, " hey guys, he said softly," Merula waved, but Ben greeted his friend, who sat down and tried to enjoy breakfast to the best of his ability. They didn't talk about what happened, they just sat in silence.

After dinner that night, Ben walked off to the corridor closet, to clear his thoughts, but when he arrived he wasn't alone. Alan was sitting on the floor sobbing. "Alan?" Ben asked, " what?" Alan said turning to face his friend, "are you alright?" Ben sat down on a barrel. "I-I tried to forget how much pain her death caused me" Alan said breathlessly, " so I brewed a forgetfulness potion, but I botched it, and I can't stop crying, and really nervous, I need help." "Let's go see Snape" Ben said. Ben helped Alan walk to the threshold of the potions classroom. Alan cried terribly "She's dead. She's dead. She's gone, why didn't I fight harder, why didn't I do something, *sniff* Ben, tell tell me why didn't I do something..." Alan cried into his friend's shoulder, as he hugged him. " It's all my fault, I ran away..." he continued. Ben brought the sobbing Ravenclaw into the classroom, sat him down, then walked into Professor Snape's office. "Professor, Alan Morrissey drank a botched forgetfulness potion, do you have an antidote?" He asked, Snape stopped grading papers, got up from his desk, and followed Ben out to the classroom where Alan was talking nonsense at this point. Snape opened a drawer, pulling out a small vial, he basically forcefed it to his wailing student, who stopped crying. " I'm sorry Professor" Snape smiled an understanding smile, "people grieve in different ways Mr. Morrissey, yours just might be making rash decisions." Alan slumped, " Mr. Morrissey, grieving takes time, everyone is feeling what you feel, I understand that you and Miss Haywood were close, she was a great student and cheerful kid, I'm sorry for your loss." Snape walked back to his office and sat down at his desk. "Come on Alan let's go" Ben said. The two exited the classroom. That night Alan lay awake, until 11:48 pm, he drifted into a terror induced sleep, over and over again the words" they changed again" "it's worse this time" "some more drastic than others" " I can't sleep" "who are you" "lying seems..." " I know you" "familiarity" "doubt" "overcome" over and over again...

[tsarisfanfiction]

Grounded pt4

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Scott, Tracy Family

7k words later and this thing that was supposed to be a short explanation for what I saw as a plot hole in Venom is finally at an end. Got rather out of hand but since when is that unusual with fics? This’ll be proof read, edited, and then posted on AO3/FFN soon; I’m still undecided if I should chapter split it or have it all as a oneshot but it won’t be exactly as it’s been split here because I’ve posted this as I wrote it.

Someone mentioned ‘what if the ep was really like this’ so I’ll reiterate some of my earlier notes: this fic is a reaction to the lack of TB1 or Scott doing any sort of piloting in the S3 Venom despite it being a rescue where speed was important.  All the events in part 2 fit around the events we see in the episode seamlessly (I literally watched it in 5 sec bursts as I was writing to make sure of that), so to them and everyone else who thought that: this fic is designed to be that episode, just viewed through a different lens.  And then I made it worse after the episode was over because why not.

The reaction to this has been fantastic so far, way beyond anything I expected!  Thanks for that, and I hope you enjoy this last installment as much as the rest of it.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

There was a steady beeping, calm and methodical.  Beep… beep… beep… it went, more of a reassurance than an irritant to the dregs of his consciousness.  Scott recognised it, but couldn’t place it, and found himself more interested in the fresh air flowing around his mouth and nose.  That was more immediately familiar, a constant from his last bout of consciousness, and it didn’t take his stirring brain long to label it as a rebreather.

Was that really necessary? Frowning slightly, he lifted a hand to his face and tugged the machine away, fresh air replaced with warmer air that had just the faintest tang.  The air of the sea.  He’d been on Thunderbird Two, but Thunderbird Two’s air didn’t taste of warmth and salt, rather the recycled air of an enclosed plane in flight, crisp and just a little bit off.  If this wasn’t Thunderbird Two and he was tasting sea air, there was only one place he could possibly be.

He smiled, hand still holding the rebreather falling to his side limply.  He was home.

Opening his eyes was a little more of a challenge, eyelids still heavy and eyelashes catching on each other, but as he blinked his way into awareness, beads of moisture forming in the corners of his eyes but not falling, he realised that he was almost sitting upright, the bed raised to its full extent so he was facing the wall with its fake holographic window rather than the plain and boring ceiling.

Scott appreciated that, letting the rebreather fall from his fingers as he wiped the sleep and moisture from his eyes.  He’d spent far too many hours staring at the ceiling that never changed, and at least the hologram could change.  The actual reasoning behind his positioning was more likely his rib, which Scott would worry about later.  It wasn’t his rib that had tried to kill him, and he looked down at his left arm.

A neat band-aid – a childish one, decorated with bright red biplanes soaring across a blue background that he’d always fought for as a kid – stood out against his bare skin, just below the elbow, and he smiled, wondering which of his brothers was responsible for that one.  On that same forearm he also saw a cannula, attached to tubing with translucent liquid passing through, and grimaced.  He never liked being on a drip.

He was no longer in his uniform.  Part of him – the part that contained his pride – bristled at that, wondering who had stripped him while he was unconscious and why, but the clothes he was wearing were comfortable, well-worn, and unmistakable as his favourite pyjamas even without him looking at them.  His comfort-pyjamas, although he was fairly certain he’d never made the mistake of letting that slip to anyone.  The ones he turned to whenever things got particularly rough, a plain unassuming dark grey with worn patches from the times he’d needed all the support he could get.

It could just be a coincidence, although Scott was uncomfortably aware that if there was one person he couldn’t keep anything truly secret from it was John, but whatever the reason, he was glad of them now.  There was nothing like comfort clothes after a near-death experience.

Considering he’d just had a near-death experience, the lack of anyone in the room with him was somewhat unusual.  Virgil in particular he’d expected to see, his younger brother blaming himself for bringing him out on the mission even before he’d been bitten, let alone afterwards. Kayo hovering unassumedly in the corner, sharp eyes full of concern.  John flickering by his side, watching him for the slightest change. Grandma, retired from caring for strangers but never too old to stay up all night with her family.

Scott eyed the drip. If none of his family were with him, physically or virtually, then that meant something else was going on that trumped his condition.  In their family, there was very little that trumped an unconscious brother or grandson. And if they weren’t with him, he had no intentions of staying put.

He’d removed drips hundreds of times – his own and other peoples’.  By this point, he had it down to an art, even if his sneaky family had tried to make it harder on him by putting it in his dominant arm; there were benefits to being ambidextrous.  He reached across with his right hand, fingers gently probing the needle, and had just found the sweet spot when there was the unmistakable hsss of the door sliding open.

“What do you think you’re doing, young man?” Grandma demanded, striding in and gently but firmly forcing him to release his grip.  “That’s there for a reason.”

“Hey, Grandma,” he greeted, grinning at her and ignoring that she’d just caught him trying to escape. “How long was I asleep?”

“Your siblings brought you back four and a half hours ago,” she told him, picking up the discarded rebreather and placing it on the bedside table before perching on the bed.  Scott watched her carefully, accepting the hand cupping his cheek as a thumb swiped at what was presumably some sleep he’d missed.  “Trust you to wake up the one time I have to use the toilet.  This old bladder can’t hold it in like it used to.”

Scott grimaced good-naturedly at the tmi and she chuckled at him, patting his cheek lightly twice before letting her hand rest.

“You gave us all a scare there, Scott,” she said softly, eyes running over him once before meeting his own.  “You don’t have to try and beat Gordon on that score, you know.  It’s okay to let someone else have that crown.”

“I’d appreciate it if he never gave me another scare in my life,” Scott admitted, before glancing around the room again.  “Where are they, anyway?  Not to sound self-centred, but I don’t usually wake up here alone.”

“Alan and Kayo are dealing with a stalled freighter just outside of orbit and Gordon and Virgil are responding to a sinking cargo ship,” Grandma told him.  “They’ll all be back soon, and delighted to know you’ve decided to re-join the land of the living.”  She tangled her fingers with his, pressing them to her chest with a hand that was almost trembling.  “It was a close call, Scott.  Your brother almost didn’t make it in time.”

His brother? Virgil?  John?  John had had a plan, he remembered that much, although he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the details.  Wait…

“I heard Thunderbird One,” he said, recalling the roar that had soothed him to sleep like a purr.  It could have been a figment of his imagination, but he didn’t think so.  A smile spread across his grandmother’s face.

“Of course you did,” she laughed.  “You boys and your machines.  Well on your way to see your mother and you still recognised your ‘bird.”  The smile was bright for a moment before it dimmed again. “Alan flew all the way to a lab in China to collect a dose of the antivenom before rendezvousing with Thunderbird Two to deliver it.  I’ve never seen that ‘bird fly so fast without you in the hotseat.”

Alan.  Scott could well imagine his youngest brother, face screwed up in concentration and fear, sat in the pilot’s seat.  The idea tied a knot in his chest, but at the same time there was pride, and an unexpected thankfulness for the rib injury that had kept him grounded and subsequently given Alan more flight hours in his ‘bird. Without that…

Without that, he might well have died.  The realisation doused him like cold water, his eyes leaving his grandmother’s to stare blindly at his lap.  He’d known he was dying, remembered a desperate fight against whispered promises of the stars and seeing his Mom again, but sitting in the infirmary, home and safe, it carried a different weight.

“Oh, Scott,” Grandma whispered, releasing his hand and cheek only to draw him in to a careful hug around his shoulders.  “It’s okay. It’s over.”  After a moment his hands found the back of her always there purple onesie, fisting around the fabric as his head rested in the crook of her neck.  “It’s okay.”

There was the slightest of cracks in her voice, a reminder that no matter how much steel she was made of, she wasn’t immune to the idea of loss.  Her parents, long ago, before Scott’s memories began.  Her husband, daughter in law.  Her son, who might still be alive and waiting for them.

“I’m okay,” he repeated, as much for her benefit as his.  “I’m okay.”

Her hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair softly as though he was a young boy woken from a nightmare again.  It was the sort of treatment she didn’t give him in front of his brothers, knowing that he preferred to keep up the illusion of strength in front of them, no matter what.

“I want you to take it easy,” she told him after a minute or so, releasing him and instead gripping his hands in hers.  One pair was trembling, but he didn’t know if it was his or hers.  “I know that’s not in your vocabulary, but I refuse to let you throw yourself back in harms’ way until you’re fully recovered after what happened today.”

“But-” Scott protested, complaints and reasons why he shouldn’t be bedbound queuing up one after the other on the tongue.  A single look from his grandmother quelled them all before he could vocalise any.

“If you can’t do it for the sake of your own recovery,” she said, something in her voice implying that she thought he should treat himself better – he treated himself fine! – “then do it for our peace of mind, Scott.  We were all terrified when we heard what happened. Virgil was stuck watching you slip away with no way of stopping it.  That fear doesn’t magically go away, Scott.  We all know that.”

He was saved from answering by the swish of the door opening again.  He glanced over, wondering who it could be when he hadn’t heard any Thunderbirds come in to land.  Brains and the Mechanic were the only others on the island, and while it wasn’t unusual for Brains to check up on the infirmary, Scott didn’t want the Mechanic near him in his current condition.

It wasn’t the Mechanic. It wasn’t Brains, either – or MAX, for that matter.

“h’Oh, you’re h’awake!” Parker said with a surprised but delighted grin as he fumbled his way into the room carrying a tray laden with food.  “h’I was just bringing food for Mrs Tracy…” he trailed off, but continued to approach the bed.

“Parker, you shouldn’t have,” Grandma smiled, releasing one of Scott’s hands to move the rebreather off of the bedside table.  The older man set the tray down before stepping up to Scott’s side.  He didn’t reach for him, keeping his hands loosely behind his back, but sharp blue eyes raked him up and down.

“’Ow are you feeling?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m fine,” Scott replied, ignoring the eye roll from his grandmother, who clearly didn’t agree with his assessment.  Aside from some token weariness, which he knew was normal after a spell of time unconscious, he really did feel perfectly fine.  Even his rib wasn’t bothering him.

“h’I suppose that’s because you’re h’on the good stuff,” Parker shrugged, making Scott pause.  He should have realised that, especially after all the trouble his ribs had given him on the mission.  The temptation was there to ask how badly his recovery had been set back, but that would have just given Grandma even more ammunition to stay in bed. Besides, he’d be told eventually. Of more immediate interest was Parker’s unexpected visit.

“What brings you to the island, Parker?” he asked, glancing around the room again.  “I don’t see Lady Penelope around?”

“M’Lady’s in the lounge,” Parker told him.  “We came ‘ere to drop off the Centurion-21 fuel for Brains, but ‘eard h’about you and M’Lady requested to stay h’a while.”

“You’re always welcome here,” Grandma reminded him, and Scott smiled in agreement.  “Is she making any progress?”

“h’I couldn’t say for sure,” Parker shrugged.  “But I know M’Lady and Master John won’t stop h’until they get their way.”

Scott frowned.  Combined, John and Lady Penelope were an almost unstoppable force, but he couldn’t think of any reason for that tag-team, not right now.

“What are they doing?” he asked, because anything that big, he needed to know about.  Especially if working on that was a higher priority for John than checking in on him – John, the brother who was too used to sitting out of the loop and firmly inserted himself virtually into any situation with a brother operating at less than one hundred percent.  Scott knew he wasn’t at one hundred percent, not even by his own standards.

“Making sure today’s events never happen again,” Grandma answered, curling her hand back around his again.

Today’s events. The rescue?  Him being bitten?  That was all bad luck, how could they possibly ensure it never happened again? Although, he supposed, if anyone could, it would be the duo currently working on it.

His confusion must have shown on his face, because Parker took it upon himself to explain.  “h’It transpires that the reason the ‘ospital ran h’out of h’antivenom was a funding problem,” he said, sounding somewhat unimpressed.  Scott didn’t blame him – whenever money was the problem, he found himself wanting to strangle whoever had decided lining their pockets was more important than human lives. “M’Lady h’is setting up a charity to make sure all ‘ospitals can ‘ave all the h’antivenoms they need.”  Admirable and welcome, but that didn’t explain John’s involvement.  He certainly hadn’t been needed in any of her past charity ventures.

“So what’s John doing?” he asked, hoping his brother was not ruining whoever had decided money was more important than lives.  It wouldn’t be the first time, and while Scott agreed that they deserved it, sometimes John could go a little too far.

“Arranging for International Rescue to have our own stock of all known antivenoms,” Grandma told him, squeezing his hands gently.  “We might not be able to stop spiders sneaking into our Thunderbirds, or you boys throwing yourselves in front of each other, but there is no reason why you should have had to suffer for an hour because you didn’t have the right antivenom on hand.”

That made sense, and Scott nodded his approval.  International Rescue did have a stock of common antivenoms, as well as everything they needed to deal with the local fauna on Tracy Island, but if they could broaden that, at least to the most dangerous venoms, it would only be a good thing.

It was also a typical John reaction – finding out why something had gone wrong and immediately finding a way to stop it happening again.  That, at least, told Scott that John was okay.  If he’d found a solution to the problem then he would be satisfied. No doubt Scott would find himself under close holographic scrutiny in the near future so John could see for himself that he really was fine, but with a solution the what-ifs wouldn’t be playing on his mind.

His other siblings would be less easily pacified.  He had no idea what Gordon knew, having not seen his water-loving brother at all that day thanks to a fishing trawler in trouble, but Virgil and Kayo would be kicking themselves black and blue, and Alan would be stuck in the what if I’d been too late loop.  Scott knew that feeling very well indeed.

He hadn’t yet decided if the fact that it had launched rather than exploded made the fact that he’d reached the Zero-X too late better or worse.  He wasn’t sure he’d ever decide.

“Still, I think we’d better let them know you’ve woken up,” Grandma said, releasing his hands.  “I won’t be long, so don’t even think about getting out of that bed, young man.”  She shared a look with Parker.  “If you’re hungry, see if you can eat some of that food Parker’s brought in.”  A gentle hand touched his cheek lightly before she stood up and left the room.

One look at Parker told him he wasn’t going to be going anywhere, especially when the man perched on the section of bed Grandma had just vacated.  Parker was the one he’d learnt many of his escaping tricks from – if there was one person that would see through them all, it was the butler.

“h’I wouldn’t be in too much of a ‘urry to h’escape, Master Scott,” the older man said, and Scott found himself relaxing back against the bed.  Master Scott.  It was his favourite of Parker’s ways of referring to him, but also the rarest.  He’d graduated to ‘Mr Scott’ after the Zero-X, the man’s acknowledgement that he was now the head of the family without using the dreaded Mr Tracy.  Parker never called him that, not even in public when the rest of the world insisted. Sir was a substitute when society demanded, and Scott always appreciated that.

Master Scott only came out when Parker was being fussy, and never with an audience.  Just like Grandma, he knew and accepted there was a front to be held in front of younger siblings – even if neither of them approved.  If he was Master Scott, he wasn’t expected to make any decisions or take on any of his father’s responsibilities.

“Some food?” the butler asked, gesturing to the tray.  It was homemade, but not by Grandma, and Scott would have to be far worse off to even consider declining that.  In answer, he reached for the toast, only for Parker to lightly touch his wrist and stop him. “You’ll get crumbs h’everywhere if you h’eat like that,” the older man scolded lightly.  “Stay still, there’s a good lad.”

The tray was relocated to his lap, and Scott tore into the offering as soon as Parker retracted his hands, to an amused chuckle from his companion.

“h’It’s not going anywhere, Master Scott,” Parker reminded him.

“He’s just trying to finish it before the others get home and want to share,” John commented, and Scott’s head jerked up to see his brother’s hologram materialise alongside him. He looked tired, not that that was an unusual occurrence over the past few weeks.  “You’re looking better, Scott.”

“I can’t imagine that’s hard,” he managed through a mouthful of food.  The last time he’d been aware of John’s presence, he’d been deep in the clutches of deadly venom.  If he’d looked half as had as he’d felt, it would have been an awful sight.  “How’s the campaign going?”

John pulled a face.  “They’re asking for money, which by itself isn’t a problem because I expected that, but they’re trying to charge us triple what they charge hospitals, and as Lady P’s working to get those rates reduced because they’re extortionate, I’m not letting them use our lives to line their pockets.”

Scott grimaced along with him.  Money grabbers were the worst.

“So what’s your plan?” he asked, because there was no way John was letting that slide.

“Persuading them that it’s better in their interest long-term to not try and bankrupt us,” John offered, a bemused look on his face.  “We could afford it, but if they think that they’ll be driving the prices up with every new shipment.  More realistically, I’m talking to Colonel Casey to see if the GDF can’t pull some weight. As they’re military and not private, the companies couldn’t charge them as much.  It would leave us needing the GDF’s good will for access, but we already know the GDF don’t dare put us out of business.”

It was Scott’s turn to pull a face.  He hated getting the GDF involved in anything; for as long as Colonel Casey was a dominant figure in the organisation International Rescue wouldn’t have any issues, but in the longer term he was brutally aware that she was their father’s generation.  At some point, she would be forced to retire and then they’d – he’d – have to handle the full force of the GDF without inside help.

Still, he trusted John and Colonel Casey.  Anything they implemented would be beneficial to International Rescue.

“Let me know what you come up with,” he requested, and John nodded, turquoise eyes briefly scanning across him.

“Alan and Kayo will be returning home in five minutes,” he told him.  “Do you want me to tell them you’re awake or let them find out for themselves when they check in?”

“Tell them once they’ve landed,” Scott decided.  “Virgil and Gordon, too – what’s their ETA?”

“They’re racing Thunderbird Three home,” John shrugged.  “But Thunderbird Three will win.”  Scott chuckled.  Alan somehow always won their races home, no matter how much further away he’d been.

“What are they betting this time?” he asked, and John grinned.

“Loser gets to be your slave for the week,” he said.

“Mine?”

“Well you’re not doing much on your own any time soon,” John told him matter-of-factly.  “Has Grandma given you the rundown?”  Scott blinked, pausing mid-bite.

“I thought I was supposed to be walking around with the ribs,” he ventured tentatively.  “But no, I haven’t been told what the damage is yet. Care to fill me in?”

John glanced away at something Scott couldn’t see.

“Your rib re-broke,” he started bluntly.  “Which I’m sure you’ve realised.  So that’s another six weeks grounded, and this time no-one’s sneaking you onto a Thunderbird before that’s up.”

“Six weeks?” Scott groaned.  John raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“Well what did you expect?” he asked.  “Kayo filled us in on the mission details once you were stable.  You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“But-” Scott protested. “What about the mission to find Dad?” John shook his head.

“The new Zero-X will take longer that to construct,” he told him.  “Brains and the Mechanic finished the T-Drive while you were out in Brazil and we’ve got the fuel, so they’re going to test fire it tomorrow to make sure it’s all working before they start on the craft itself.”

“Tomorrow?” Scott asked. “If it’s ready why not today?”

“Even engineers need breaks sometimes, Scott,” John scolded lightly.  “They’ve been working almost non-stop for the past five weeks, which I know you know.”  There was a slightly accusatory tone at the end of his sentence, and Scott realised John knew how closely he’d started watching the two engineers.  “Besides, Grandma and Virgil won’t let you out of that bed for at least twenty four hours, and we all know you won’t be happy unless you see it for yourself.”

Well, they weren’t wrong.

“You still haven’t told me why I’m getting a slave for a week over a broken rib,” Scott realised, and John once again raised an eyebrow at him.

“You haven’t tried to get out of bed yet?”

“Don’t h’encourage ‘im, Master John,” Parker groaned.  “Mrs Tracy ‘ad to stop ‘im h’earlier and ‘e ‘asn’t ‘ad h’a chance since.”

“It was an hour before the antivenom reached you, Scott.  The damage doesn’t get miraculously fixed just because the venom’s gone,” John continued.  “Your blood pressure is still low so I’d wager you’ll probably pass out if you try to stand right now, no matter how ‘fine’ you feel, and we don’t yet know for sure if it’s done any damage to your heart.”

“My heart?”  The soft background beeping caught Scott’s attention and he turned his head to the EKG.  It was on, signalling that it was receiving data from wireless transmitters.  He put a hand to his chest; underneath the pyjamas he felt the tell-tale patches, leaving him with no doubt that it was his own heartbeat it was recording.  “Oh.” That was low.  Not dramatically so, but lower than his normal resting rate.

“It’s recovered reasonably well, but Grandma and Virgil still aren’t happy with it,” John told him. From his tone, it wasn’t only the family medics unhappy.  “I know you don’t like staying in bed, but unless you want to fall over and make your ribs worse, I would suggest you stay put.”

Scott scowled.

“You’re also recovering from dehydration, so drink up and leave that drip in,” Grandma added, walking back in with a large cup, complete with straw.  “I see there’s nothing wrong with your appetite,” she observed. Parker obligingly removed the now-empty tray away from Scott’s lap and stood so that she could sit back on the side of the bed.  “Drink.”

Obediently, he took the cup with both hands and sipped at the liquid, which revealed itself to be simply water.  A dull rumbling even through the soundproofing of the infirmary told him Thunderbird Three was back.  John confirmed that before signing off to talk to their returning siblings.

Scott made a note of the time, wondering how long it would take before he had visitors.

Three minutes later and the door slammed open to find Kayo and Alan shoulder-to-shoulder, clearly racing each other.

“No running in the house!” Grandma barked, but neither of them looked the least apologetic.  They did at least walk the distance from the door to his bed, where Grandma had slipped off to let them get closer.  Both stopped short, Alan fidgeting from foot to foot at he stared at him with open relief, and Scott rolled his eyes.

“Come here,” he told his youngest brother, spreading his arms in demand of a hug.  As always, Alan needed no further invitation, crashing into him and wrapping his arms around him tightly, although it didn’t miss Scott’s attention that it wasn’t Alan’s usual rib-squeezing hug.  He appreciated that, curling his own arms around his brother’s shoulders.

Alan was trembling.  “I thought I was going to lose you,” he mumbled into Scott’s neck.  “I thought-”

“I’m still here, kid,” he interrupted quietly.  “And I hear I have you to thank for that.”  The sniffle he got in response told him it was Alan, the baby brother, rather than Alan the emergency responder he was dealing with.  “You did good.”

“I thought I was too late,” Alan mumbled, and there were tears against Scott’s skin.  He tightened his grip on his brother.  “You looked d-dead.  I d-didn’t think you were breathing.”

“I’m here and breathing,” Scott reminded him, letting him sob on his shoulder as long as he needed, rubbing the neoprene – both siblings were still in uniform – underneath his hand reassuringly.  He remembered the same reaction after EOS had first made herself known to them, only that time it had been John Alan had clung to in tears, post-adrenaline rush. They needed to stop putting their lives in Alan’s hands like that.

But Alan would settle, barring the new nightmare fuel that never went away, once he’d let out the initial emotions.  It was either a blessing of youth, or a coping strategy he’d been forced to employ too young. Kayo, who was watching with unguarded relief across her face, was like John; pragmatic and level-headed.  A serious conversation would settle her, although when she met his eyes, he linked his hands together behind Alan’s back and made them flutter, shooting her a quick grin.

The resulting glower she sent him didn’t hide the softening in her eyes, or the way her shoulders slumped. Satisfied for the moment, he returned his attention to his youngest brother, who seemed content to stay where he was.  Scott let him, nodding at Parker when the older man gestured that he was going to leave the room.

No sooner was Parker gone than Gordon burst through the door, Virgil hot on his heels.

“Scott!”  Gordon skidded to a stop just behind Alan, reaching out to put a hand on Scott’s shoulder where he could.  “Don’t do that again,” he demanded, amber eyes flicking to the EKG for a split second before he found some space to perch on the bed behind Alan.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Scott shot back.  Gordon grinned.

“I won’t if you don’t,” he said.  “Deal?”

“Deal.”

They couldn’t really promise that, not in their profession, but Scott saw something lift behind Gordon’s eyes, the banter regardless doing something to reassure him.  Gordon had always used humour to cope.

Four siblings down, or at least addressed, and one to go.  Somehow, Scott didn’t think a hug or joke would work quite so well on Virgil. Guilt was deep-set in brown eyes, but Virgil didn’t look at him directly, focusing on the EKG and drip as he bustled around.

“Virgil,” he said, pulling one hand away from Alan to catch his brother’s arm the moment Virgil got in reach. It was the arm with the needle in it, bright band aid stark against his skin.  Virgil’s eyes focussed on it and Scott sighed, tightening his grip on the neoprene beneath his fingers.  “Look at me.” He couldn’t do much, not while Alan was still clinging to him, but hell if he was going to let Virgil shut himself away and stew in a self-inflicted puddle of misplaced guilt.

Virgil stilled, but didn’t obey.  Scott closed his eyes and sighed again, squeezing Alan lightly.  The blond snuffled but didn’t otherwise move.

“Virgil.”  That was John’s voice, his final brother reappearing holographically at the foot of Scott’s bed.  The middle brother ignored him, too.

“Kid, your brother’s talking to you,” Grandma chipped in.  “At least have the manners to look at him.”  Despite the words, there was no scolding in her tone, just a quiet encouragement.  Virgil glanced up at her, and a look passed between them that Scott couldn’t see before Virgil slowly turned to face him.

“Thank you,” he said before Virgil could apologise, or say something else nonsensical.  Whatever his brother had been gearing up for, it clearly wasn’t that; he blinked, startled, before opening his mouth to probably-protest. “I know it was Alan that got the antivenom, but you’re the one that kept me alive long enough to get it.”

“I’m the reason you needed it in the first place!” Virgil snapped, looking away again.  “If I’d paid more attention… if I-”

“If nothing,” Scott interrupted, conscious that they had an audience but unable to ask anyone to leave.  He wanted his family there, with him, and knew they were all busy reassuring themselves that he was going to be fine.  “You’d have done the same thing if our positions were reversed, except I’m not as good as you with all the medical stuff.”

“You’d have done enough,” Virgil mumbled, and Scott rolled his eyes.

“And you did enough,” he returned.  “No what-ifs, Virgil.”  Hell knew he’d told himself that enough through the years, with varying levels of success.

Virgil at least met his eyes again, even though Scott could see it wasn’t enough to lift the guilt. That would take much longer, including him making a full recovery and a conversation without the rest of the family listening in, intentionally or not.

“You’re staying in that bed,” he said instead, and Scott made a grumbling noise of protest.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied.  “I can’t say I’m happy about it, but John made quite the compelling argument.”

“Does this mean you’ll listen to me for once?” John asked disbelievingly, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

“What do you mean, for once?” Scott asked.  “I listen to you!”

“When it suits you,” John rebuked.  “I have a list, if you’d care to hear it.”

Scott wouldn’t put it past John to actually have a list.  He turned his attention back to his other brothers without responding, to an amused noise from the space monitor, and gave Alan a grin as the youngest finally pulled back from his shoulder, eyeing him with teary blue eyes.

“I’ll sit on you if you try and get up,” the youngest told him firmly, look somewhat ruined by those eyes. Gordon laughed.

“Alan, you’re a twig.”

“Am not, fishboy!”

“Are, too!”

“Not!”

“Boys,” Kayo interrupted, taking a few steps closer to the cluster on the bed.  With one arm now free, Scott reached for her and got a light hug at his silent request.  It didn’t last long, but it was enough for the rest of the tension to leave her shoulders before she stepped back, out of his reach again.

“Hey, where’s my hug?” Gordon demanded, and Scott raised an eyebrow at him.

“You want a hug, you’ve got to come get it yourself,” he said.  “I’m not moving.”

Permission gained, Gordon shoved Alan out of the way, the younger falling off the bed with a squawk of indignation, and wrapped himself around Scott.  It was far looser than his usual hugs, but out of all his brothers, Gordon was best at gauging what an injured person could take.  Scott rested his chin on his shoulder, feeling the dampness of the neoprene that betrayed that Gordon had been in the water during his mission.

Tension drained out of his aquanaut brother’s powerful shoulders and Scott found himself relaxing as well.  He’d always found it easiest to relax and wind down when his brothers were okay, and with three out of four openly reassured, his own nerves were less on edge.

“I’m still sorry,” Virgil said after a moment.  Scott still had hold of his bicep, and glanced up at him as he spoke.  That pain and guilt was still there in brown eyes, but it was Gordon and Alan that Virgil was looking at.  A big brother himself, he too was being drawn into some sort of reassurance by the youngest two calming down.

There were many responses Scott could give, and maybe later once it was just the two of them he’d dive deeper in if Virgil hadn’t managed to settle himself and needed a stronger release, but in that moment, with his family around him and the knowledge that whatever happened next, they’d survived this hurdle, there was only one thing to say.

“I know.”

Surprised brown eyes met his, as though Virgil had expected another rebuke, another it’s not your fault, but Scott knew better.  He didn’t blame Virgil at all, but it wasn’t his forgiveness Virgil needed; his brother needed to forgive himself for his perceived transgressions, and that he couldn’t do as long as Scott stayed stubborn.  He tugged at the bicep in his grip, coaxing Virgil closer with an inviting smile.

Virgil hesitated, understanding but unsure.  Scott didn’t say anything else, didn’t push harder, but then Grandma put a hand on Virgil’s other arm and whatever remaining fight there was seeped away.

It was Gordon’s turn to squawk as he found himself nudged out of the way, but he went willingly, surrendering the space to Virgil as Scott’s dark-haired brother wrapped his arms around him cautiously.

“I’m okay,” Scott murmured into his brother’s ear, returning the hug as fiercely as he could.  Like Alan before him, Virgil shook ever so slightly under his touch, but unlike the youngest, no tears were shed.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Virgil mumbled.  “You stopped breathing for a minute just before Alan arrived and I thought that was it.”

“I heard you,” Scott admitted, just as quietly.  “I don’t think I’d have had the strength to keep fighting without you.  Alan might have got the antivenom, but you saved me, too.”

Virgil gave a shuddering breath and his arms tightened, just a little.

They stayed like that for several minutes, Scott managing to relax further now that was the fifth and final sibling’s immediate concerns addressed, but eventually Virgil pulled back, the ghost of a smile on his face.  He looked like he wanted to say something, but before he could, Gordon crashed into him.

“Group hug!” he declared, reaching out to snag Alan and pinning an unprotesting Virgil in place as Scott’s three youngest brothers gathered as close as they could for a tangle of arms and bodies on Scott’s bed.  Alan flailed in Kayo’s direction and the woman stepped closer, slipping an arm delicately around the back of Scott’s neck and more tightly around Alan.  Scott grinned at her before looking past the mass of brothers to lock eyes with the one he couldn’t reach.  John grinned back at him, and even though he wasn’t physically there, Scott didn’t need it to know his immediate brother was just as relieved.

The hug lasted until Grandma intervened, suggesting that they let him have a little bit of space. He didn’t need space, but they all heard the underlying reminder that he was in that bed for a reason.  After that, it was back to business as usual, his on-Earth siblings scattering to change on Grandma’s order and reconvening later in their civvies with various forms of entertainment while John went back to his latest project.

Lady Penelope poked her head in later, but he didn’t see Brains – or the Mechanic – until the next day.

“I-it’s time to t-test the T-Drive e-engine,” the engineer told him the next morning, after checking him over in his own desire for reassurance; there was some guilt there as well, for pushing him out on the rescue, but thankfully Brains was much easier to calm than his brothers – the fact that Brains hadn’t seen him almost dead helped.

“Give me five,” he said, reaching for the drip stuck in his arm.

“Make that ten, Brains,” Virgil rumbled, catching Scott’s hand.  “Scott’s not up to walking even if he thinks he is.”

Scott groaned, but Virgil raised an eyebrow at him.

“I thought John made a convincing argument for you to stay in bed?” he challenged, and Scott shrugged.

“That was yesterday.”

“And your heart rate still isn’t back to normal, so it’s the hoverchair or nothing,” Virgil rebuked, rolling his eyes.

Scott sighed but dutifully held out his arm for Virgil to remove the drip instead.

“No, that’s coming with you,” Virgil corrected, gently pushing it down to his side again.  “Just the EKG.”  The machine was turned off, but Virgil made no move to relieve him of the transmitters, telling Scott that it was being linked back up later. Wonderful.  “Now then, let’s get you out of this bed-”

Scott leaned forwards and swung his legs around, placing them on the floor and pushing himself to his feet.

“Woah!”  Virgil sprinted around the bed and caught him as his vision fuzzed.  “John’s compelling argument?”  Scott was vaguely aware of being shifted around as the world spun around him, but it was a surprise to find himself in the hoverchair by the time he was fully aware of his surroundings again.  Usually, Virgil would dump him straight back in bed.

“Okay, John’s compelling argument still holds,” he admitted, leaning against the back of the chair and closing his eyes briefly as the world tried to spin a little more.

“Let’s get going,” Virgil sighed.  “Hands off the controls; I’m steering.”  Scott grumbled, but had no doubt that the controls had actually been disabled.  “As soon as the test is over, you’re coming straight back.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” he asked, and Virgil chuckled.

“Not at all.”

They were last to the balcony; it didn’t escape Scott’s notice that the Mechanic was the other end to the rest of them, talking quietly to Brains but otherwise ignoring the Tracys. That suited Scott just fine; if the test worked, he was well aware he owed the man an apology for his accusations of sabotage.  Although maybe he’d keep that back until the Zero-X2 launched successfully and Dad was home. Just in case.

“You look pale,” Grandma commented.  “Did he try to stand up?” she asked Virgil.  Scott glowered as Virgil rolled his eyes in answer.

“What do you think?” he asked rhetorically.  “He didn’t pass out entirely, otherwise the test would be happening without him, whether he liked it or not, but it was close.”

“He is right here,” Scott grumbled.

“And he’s going to keep his mouth shut and drink this up,” Grandma informed him, pressing a cup of water, complete with straw, into his hands.  “You shouldn’t be out of bed at all, young man.”

“T-test is ready,” Brains announced before Scott could find a retort that wouldn’t get him taken straight back to the infirmary.  “I-igniting T-Drive in three, two, one.”

Without binoculars, it was difficult to see what was happening on the platform, but nothing exploded and after several moments all that could be seen or heard was the whining of an engine.  It was higher pitched than the engines Scott was used to, but there were none of the warning noises suggesting that something was wrong.

Beside him, Virgil sighed in relief while Gordon and Alan whooped.

“C-cutting engine,” Brains called, and it powered down easily.  Smooth as any of the best plane engines Scott had piloted – and he’d piloted many.

It had worked.  They had a T-Drive engine.

They could go find Dad.

“Scott?”  Virgil sounded worried, and he opened his eyes – when he had closed them? – to look up at his worried brother.  Alan and Gordon hovered nearby, and he looked at them all in turn, even John’s silent hologram – his ginger brother hadn’t been there when the test had started, hadn’t been expected after he pointed out their holotech’s range didn’t reach that far.  “Are you okay?”

Was he okay?  He had a broken rib, was recovering from a near-fatal spider bite and its side effects of dehydration, bradycardia and hypotension, and the man who had almost killed his brothers multiple times was standing the other end of the same balcony.

But they were one step, one significant step closer to Dad.

“Yeah,” he said, staring out past them, at the platform cradling the most important engine International Rescue had ever created.  For the first time since that horrid trash mine day five weeks earlier, he could honestly say, “I’m okay.”

Fin

[gumnut-logic]

Minerva (Bit 1)

Okay, this fic is an attempt to get my mojo back. Every time I go on holiday it gets sideswiped. Being sick definitely did not help, though admittedly coughing all night last night may have made me my usual sleep deprived self, so who knows, it might have helped :D

But anyway, This fic is Kermadec because I needed a boat :D It also required a little research - Minerva Reef is a pair of actual atolls not far from Tracy Island. I’m not sure of the distance so I fluffed it.

Andre and Cecil are a pair of private nurses first mentioned in Gentle Rain. I like to recycle my OCs but I haven’t read that story in ages. Here’s hoping I’ve kept them true to form. They haven’t been sketched out in this much detail before, in any case.

There is fluff. I broke Virg again, oops, but there is resultant fluff. I’m sick, I can’t help myself. 

Many thanks to @scribbles97​ and @vegetacide​ for the read throughs and support. I haven’t forgotten about The Tattoo, I just needed a little self indulgence first.

This bit is mainly set up and I hope to write more asap. 1726 words.

I hope you enjoy it.

-o-o-o-

Two broken legs.

If there was anything worse than a broken limb, it was more than one and two broken legs was the worst.

Or two broken arms. He wasn’t sure as he hadn’t managed to break two arms as yet. But two broken legs definitely sucked.

Of course, it was worth it. Saving children was always worth it. But weeks of confinement, of being unable to do anything for himself, was about to send him around the bend, out the window and into the Pacific.

His brothers did their best and both Andre and Cecil, the family nursing staff - yes, they had enough injuries on enough of a regular basis to have nursing staff on their payroll -  had been called in on this one to cart him back and forth across the house, see to his necessaries, and pretty much do his bidding.

Which was fine, since he and Andre got on like a house on fire. The man spoke both paint and piano almost as much as Virgil and there had been fun times, despite his infirmities.

Cecil was a Gordon clone and those two got up to much more mischief than was really acceptable for an employee. But since Gordon usually took all the credit, even the time Scott had his eyebrows shaved, they got away with hell.

Besides, Scott’s eyebrows had been partly burnt off already and had looked stupid, so shaving them both off was an improvement that had to be done. How Gordon had managed it, Virgil didn’t have a clue...and also didn’t want to think too hard about it because it gave his rapscallion little brother powers that he really shouldn’t have.

Cecil played it straight and the Tracys put up with it. Because despite Cecil’s idiosyncrasies, the two nurses were very, very good at their jobs.

That and they came as a pair because Andre and Cecil were married.

So, other than expanding Gordon’s power of pranking, things were good. Well, as good as they could be while he had two broken legs. 

But there were days.

God, were there days.

Days, so many days, and today was one of them.

Scott had been called out early in the morning and consequently everyone was up. Alan was called next and he and Kayo were out dealing with yet another space freighter collision. Scott was going to kick some space agency ass about updating some space etiquette rules in the near future to stop this stupidity from happening, and considering how much profanity was bouncing down from orbit, both John and Alan would be there to back him up.

So three brothers were out, leaving Virgil imprisoned with Gordon, Andre, Cecil and Grandma. This combination wouldn’t normally be an issue, but Grandma was cooking up a storm and Virgil was trapped.

Gordon may be a pain at times, but he saw the hazard coming and he was a good brother at heart. So, with some assistance from Andre and Cecil, the Fish deployed his yacht, A Little Lightning, and suddenly the day seemed so much brighter.

Virgil was ensconced in pillows and the best of comfort on the back deck and had the privilege of watching Mateo pass on their starboard side as Gordon guided the yacht out into the open ocean.

Why he seemed to always be injured when aboard this boat, he had no idea, but Gordon was a life saver.

Virgil had no idea where his brother might be taking him and he didn’t really care. He just lay back and enjoyed a beautiful day, the breeze, the many sounds of water and the gentle bounce of the boat.

At some point he dozed off.

It had to be a sign of how much healing his body needed, but somehow he managed to sleep the entire trip, because it was the sudden change in the engine noise that woke him.

Andre was smiling at him in that soft caring way he had about him. Dark hair, blue eyes and a soft smile, the nurse was somewhat reminiscent of his big brother, but without the fire and the drive. The man was quiet and reassuring, exactly what was needed when ill or injured.

“It looks like you needed that.”

Virgil grunted, never a fan of waking up. 

But Andre knew this and had exactly what the injured engineer needed - a mug of steaming coffee.

Virgil forced the last few steps to full consciousness, and, pushing himself up, made a grab for the mug.

The mug moved away. “Uh-uh, stretch first.”

Shit.

It was a thing Andre made him do every time he woke. Before coffee, he had to stretch abused muscles that were forced to sleep in awkward positions due to his legs.

Virgil mumbled and grumbled, but did as he was bid. He knew how important the exercises were, but the lure of coffee was just cruel. He vaguely noted the yacht’s engine dropping to a slow cruise and the open ocean having just that touch more sway, rolling the yacht in the swell.

“Where are we?”

“Cecil says we’re visiting Minerva.”

“Oh.” Virgil blinked. He’d flown over the Minerva Reefs many, many times. They were a navigation marker not that far from Tracy Island. Though they were far enough away for him to have been asleep for some time. “How long was I out?”

That smile again. “Several hours. Did you good.” The nurse had placed the coffee on a side table and was helping Virgil sit up straight enough to consume the taunting liquid from heaven.

A breathless moment and the mug was in his hands and coffee was pouring down his throat. God, Andre made great coffee. Yet another reason to put up with his husband.

He surfaced at some point and managed a thank you that set the nurse grinning just as a coral reef started to drift past.

Virgil didn’t know much about the Minerva Reefs other than Melissa Fisher on Raoul swore about them..alot.

They were on the very edge of the Kermadec Ocean Sanctuary and she had wanted to add them to the exclusion zone for a very long time. But the reefs were owned by Tonga or Fiji, depending on which country you spoke to and the environment continued to suffer from it.

He vaguely remembered Gordon saying something about visiting the reefs in Four on several occasions and Virgil had no doubt that he and Melissa were likely doing some kind of sneaky ecological monitoring or some such. After all, the reefs were rather close to Tracy Island and Gordon rather passionate about such things.

As A Little Lightning cruised between two reef headlands, Virgil surmised they were at the northern of the two atolls.

As Virgil guzzled the last of his coffee, the yacht came to a complete halt in the lee of one of the headlands - if you could call it that, the reef barely made it above the water line. He heard the sea anchor deployed and there was suddenly silence except for the crashing of waves against coral and sand and the breeze.

Virgil closed his eyes and soaked it in.

The empty mug was tugged gently from his hand and he vaguely registered a plate being placed on the table beside him. “Cecil made pie.”

That snapped him out of it. “Pie?” The prankster could cook and he was suddenly assaulted with a delicious aroma.

“Steak and bacon, topped with mashed potato and cheese.” The plate had a generous serving along with salad piled up beside it. Andre was grinning at his expression. “He’s mine, you can’t have him.”

Virgil had to grin. “Well, at least I know one of the reasons why you nabbed him.”

Andre’s grin softened, but it was still a grin. “In the top five.” A hand landed on Virgil’s shoulder. “Eat up, you’ll need it for this afternoon’s workout.”

That deflated him a little.

The nurse noted what must have been in his expression. “Okay, perhaps it can be a brief session today.” A shrug. “After all, an atoll is hardly a swimming pool.”

“Virg trying to con you out of rehab?” Gordon bounced onto the deck, a grin on his face and that look of absolute relaxation the man got whenever he was out on the water.

“‘S not rehab.” So Virgil was pouting and acting like a child. “It’s maintenance.” Of what still worked, until the casts came off and then the hell would really start.

“Don’t let those baby browns lure you from the path of righteousness, Andre.”

“What? Like you attempted last time?” The nurse was grinning at the aquanaut.

That brought Gordon up short.

“I have to say that your eyes are a lighter brown, not quite the same colour, but the manoeuvring is almost identical.”

“What?” It was a two Tracy chorus shot at Andre with two brows, one dark, one light, shooting daggers at the nurse.

Andre just laughed and turned back to Virgil. “You going to eat your pie?”

The nurse’s blue eyes did some manoeuvring of their own and Virgil found himself snatching up the plate and hovering over it to protect his slice of pie.

Cecil chose that moment to appear. As usual, there was never a laugh far behind him as he was wearing a bright pink chef’s cap canted at an angle. But it was the two plates of pie in his hands that drew the attention of the other two men on deck.

Gordon didn’t hesitate, grabbing his plate and shovelling pie down his throat with barely a thank you. Virgil growled in his direction.

“What? It’s good pie. Cecil knows I appreciate him, don’t you, Cecil?”

But the cook was accepting a gentle kiss from his husband as the man took his plate, his other hand drifting from Cecil’s shoulder, down to the small of his back in a gesture simple but intimate enough for Virgil to turn away to give them privacy.

His eyes landed on Gordon, who’s face had an odd expression as he looked back at Virgil, as if he knew something that Virgil didn’t.

Virgil glared at him.

It, no doubt, had something to do with Kay. He would slap his little bro about the head later.

In the meantime...”So, what are we doing here?”

-o-o-o-

Bit 2

[kmalexander]

Gleam Upon the Soundtrack

In the past, I’ve released my book playlists before the launch of the book. These tend to be inspiration playlists, not the music I find myself writing to. (If you’re interested in a “writing playlist,” let me know in the comments! I’d be happy to assemble something. There’s very much a “type” of music I listen to when writing a Bell Forging Cycle book.) Since Gleam Upon the Waves has been out for a little over a week, I thought I’d go a step further and not only share the playlist but give a few details, why I chose particular songs, and how I felt they reflected (and inspired) aspects of the story.

First, the playlist! Jam out, roaders.

Not a Spotify fan? The playlist is also over on YouTube.

SPOILER WARNING

The following details will contain Gleam Upon the Waves spoilers. So, if you’re still reading, I’d recommend avoiding the rest of this post until after you finished the book. For the rest of you, let’s head deeper into the playlist.

Prologue

Sons and Daughters – American Spirit

Sleep now child beneath The heavy current Dragging you along

This was the song that inspired this book. Something about life dragging you through the wringer without caring about your desires or plans cemented itself inside my head (even well before 2020.)

Chapter 1 & 2

Baltimore Blues No. 1 – Deer Tick

Can you hear the sound of the crawling flesh Now can you smell the burning desire This place is too small to hide All the ghosts that’s kicking around inside

There’s something gritty to this Deer Tick song. I felt it was a nice pairing to Wal putting on airs and wearing suits—despite his intentions, he can’t hide who he is. His problems will not disappear. Lovat devours.

Chapter 3

Gates of Dawn – Heartless Bastards

I have awoken The footsteps sound of thunder

While this tune more positive than Wal’s experience, I thought opening a new reality deserved a song that had a similar impact. I’m also a sucker for Erika Wennerstrom’s vocals. (Probably why Heartless Bastards make an appearance a little later.)

Chapter 1-3

How Deep Is The Ocean – Miles Davis

Like I wouldn’t include this in an ocean-themed playlist.

Chapter 4

bury a friend – Billie Eilish

Why aren’t you scared of me? Why do you care for me? When we all fall asleep, where do we go?

I had this chapter in my head since Red Little World. I also read it for Dead Drop Live last week. I loved the idea of Ashton being this ghost that haunts Wal—an echo of his past. One he weirdly cares about despite understanding that he’s an enemy. Eilish’s pop-minimalism just felt right for a decoupled avatar whom you may or may not want dead.

Chapter 5

Wild and Wasted Waters – Kill It Kid

Wild and wasted waters Have come to carry me on

For something so deadly, humans have an odd fascination with water. Also, this song fits with Wal being entirely out of his element. It’s helped by the Alan Lomax sample that works too well as an undercurrent for the story happening to Wal.

Chapter 6 & 7

Blood on your Bootheel – Caroline Rose

Think if you act like a man, you can alter this wheel; You can make it in this world without that blood on your bootheels

“Altering the wheel” is something Wal has attempting for a while (since Old Broken Road, if we’re honest,) but he can’t change his destiny. He can kick against the goads as much as he wants, but fate will drag him along whether he wants it or not.

Chapter 8

‘Round Midnight – Thelonious Monk

No lyrics, but man what a song. (If you haven’t noticed, any of the jazz numbers I call out in the books end up in my playlists.)

Chapter 9 & 10

Glitter & Gold – Barns Courtney

Do you ponder the manner of things In the dark The dark, the dark, the dark

Wal’s damn lucky for a guy that can’t escape his reality, eh? There’s also an element of foreshowing here. With the cult’s interest Wal can’t escape his past just like he can’t escape fate.

Chapter 11

Lovecraft in Brooklyn – The Mountains Goats

Someday something’s coming From way out beyond the stars To kill us while we stand here It’ll store our brains in mason jars

If you’ve read the last three books, it should be obvious why I included this one. Also, John Darnielle is a national treasure and should be protected at all costs.

Chapter 12, 13, & 14

Sirens – Lola Marsh

In a million years It’ll all be over Within a million years It’ll all be over

Yael Shoshana Cohen’s voice is incredible. There is a vastness in this song that matched the tone of the Wasteland. It also deals with time on an epic scale, and that’s something I appreciated—it’s cosmicy without being overt.

Chapter 15

Postcards From Hell – The Wood Brothers

I got a soul that I won’t sell And I don’t read postcards from hell

I hope you caught how Gleam Upon the Waves reflects the other stories up until this point. Wal waking in a hospital and pushing himself out of bed is awfully familiar. Despite what he’s faced with, Wal tends not to stop. He’s relentless. Tell him things are bad, and he keeps going. His tenacity is admirable, if not a bit foolish.

Chapter 16 & 17

Wicked Waters – Benjamin Booker

This must be where I lose it all, darling Throw myself into wicked waters

Again, water. Maybe our pal acted a bit too rashly?

Chapter 18

Ding Ding Dong – Waipod Petchsuphan

For all its familiarity, Empress is a foreign place, and Wal is a stranger. This poppy Thai luk thung track from ’76 sparked similar emotions for me. It’s familiar, borrowing from common themes, but at the same time it’s different from other music of the era. It’s also a bop.

Chapter 19

Hello, Darling – Conway Twitty

Hello darlin’, nice to see you, it’s been a long time

Should be fairly obvious.

Chapter 20

Figure It Out – Royal Blood

Nothing better to do When I’m stuck on you And still I’m here Trying to figure it out

This is a fairly big reveal, and while the theme of the song is related to Wal’s relationship with Essie, it’s even more complicated. “Figuring it out” is kinda a thing here, see?

Chapter 21, 22, & 23

You Want it Darker – Leonard Cohen

There’s a lullaby for suffering And a paradox to blame But it’s written in the scriptures And it’s not some idle claim You want it darker We kill the flame

Cohen’s last album deals with death and loss, there’s a heaviness to it, and it felt fitting for this section of the book.

Chapter 24, 25, 26

Mean Old World – Big Bill Broonzy

This is a mean old world to live in, I’m just travelin’ through It’s a mean old world to live in, I’m just travelin’ through Yes, sometime I get so blue, that I don’t know what to do

Another one that should be obvious. Poor Wal. Who’s the jerk that subjects him to this?

Chapter 27 & 28

Madness – Ruelle

Nowhere to run from all of this havoc Nowhere to hide From all of this madness, madness, madness

Eventually, you can only experience so much before it all just begins to break down.

Chapter 29 & 30

Sway – Heartless Bastards

So, I stumble and I sway into the room and I fade I hope my darkest day are behind me I want to stay here in the sun for a while I hope my darkest days are behind me

There’s a spark of hope here, and I feel like there’s a spark of hope in these chapters as well. Yes, two Heartless Bastard songs in this playlist. You’re going to have to deal.

Chapter 31

Remains – Algiers

While the captors boast On how they lower your costs The rich men gamble At the foot of the cross

When you make a decision, you need to be ready to deal with the outcome.

Chapter 32

Revival – Soulsavers

Why am I so blind With my eyes wide open, oh? Trying to get my hands Clean in dirty water

A song about people doing something they feel is right even though reality clashes with that desire, and somehow, at their core, they know it. If that doesn’t fit the Deeperists, I don’t know what would.

Chapter 33 & 34

The Church Bell’s Moan – Bror Gunnar Jansson

Don’t you hear them?

Ring the bell and eventually they’ll come.

Chapter 35 & 36

Get Loud for Me – Gizzle

I see my goal and get cold as December when Counting our sins, I don’t have no friends I came here to win, my start is your end Now let it begin now

FIGHT. FIGHT. FIGHT. Also, this is such a great reflection of the previous song that I had to include it.

Chapter 37 & 38

The End – Kings of Leon

This could be the end This could be the end This could be the end This could be the end ‘Cause I ain’t got a home

A song about change and facing that change. Felt like a fitting end to this playlist. 

Chapter 37 & 38… again

I See A Darkness – Johnny Cash & Bonnie “Prince” Billy

And did you know how much I love you Is a hope that somehow you you Can save me from this darkness?

Wait, never mind. This is even more fitting.

Chapter 37 & 38… for real this time

The Parting Glass – Hozier

Of all the comrades that ere I had, they’re sorry for my going away, And of all the sweethearts that ere I had, they wish me one more day to stay, But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise while you should not, I will gently rise and I’ll softly call, “Goodnight and joy be with you all!”

No… this one.

So, that’s Gleam Upon the Soundtrack, a Gleam Upon the Waves playlist! I hope everyone enjoyed a glimpse into my musical inspirations. It’s really fun to assemble these things and reflect on why particular songs spoke to me over another. I totally understand why other authors do it as well. This isn’t the only playlist I’ve made for my novels, you can check out the other ones here.

Once again, thanks to everyone for picking up Gleam Upon the Waves. I’m really proud of it, and I hope you enjoyed your time back in the Territories. If you haven’t nabbed your copies yet, you can do so from any of the links below.

Buy the paperback:

Amazon – Barnes & Noble 

Buy the eBook:

Kindle – Kobo – Nook – Apple Books – GooglePlay

Finally, if you’ve finished Gleam, please leave an honest review, and if you liked it, tell your friends! Thank you for making Gleam Upon the Waves one of the books you chose to read this year. Time is finite and it’s an honor you decided to spend some of yours with my book.

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[parkpavilion]

Goodbye to All That

The following post was first published on Message in a Bottle, the Island Books blog, and on NW Book Lovers, the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association blog, at the tail end of a very trying year. It’s being revisited now at the tail end of another, by way of celebrating the paperback release of Brian Doyle’s One Long River of Song.

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2016 wasn’t quite two weeks old when I first heard that it was cursed. On top of the usual bad news (Sharaban tea shop, bombing) came the announcement of David Bowie’s death, and something about it, hard on the heels of his most acclaimed record in years, songs that were released on his birthday, seemed especially shocking and unjust. Public celebration of the music quickly turned into lamentation for the man, inverting Hamlet’s sardonic lines about how “the funeral bak’d meats / Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.”

Given Bowie’s lifelong example of ironic detachment, it felt right to make black jokes about a curse, but as the months went by more and more celebrities died (Alan Rickman, Harper Lee, Prince, Muhammad Ali, to name a few) and so did a crowd of dancers in an Orlando nightclub, and the talk of curses started sounding serious. It became a commonplace that 2016 was the Worst Year Ever.

Not being a superstitious sort, I chalked this up to normal variation. The year may have brewed up an atypical amount of trouble, but there were also some high spots. Scientists identified the gene responsible for ALS and the Cubs came from behind to break a century-long string of bad luck. Things could have been worse.

But then came a one-two punch–well, more like a chin tap and a train collision. Within a couple of days in early November, Daylight Saving Time came to and end and so did my faith in democracy. It started getting dark earlier and, after the election, it seemed like it was going to stay that way for the foreseeable future. I fell deeply into what used to be called a “brown study” and couldn’t see the point in getting out of bed, let alone reading a book. No matter what I did, I couldn’t dispel the fog of depression. For almost two weeks I had no answers, and then it came to me to ask a question instead: “What would Brian Doyle do?”

Yes, the Northwest’s own Brian Doyle, author of beloved fictional classics including Mink River and Martin Marten. Ever since I first fell in love with his work he’s been a touchstone for me, and I like to imagine that we have a lot in common. We are both bespectacled, bearded men in our middle years; both of us have the creaky knees that result from too many hours of basketball and the quirky minds that result from too many years of Catholic education. Brian has written often about his lovely bride, Mary, a woman of Belgian extraction he describes as “no bigger than a heron;” my own remarkable spouse grew up outside of Brussels and has to stand on a chair to look a heron in the eye. Brian enjoys writing wise, witty, and lyrical books that make any subject important and interesting; I enjoy reading wise, witty, and lyrical books that make any subject important and interesting.

We differ, though, in respect to temperament. As he put it when I had the privilege of interviewing him earlier this year (another 2016 highlight):

“My sister the smiling Buddhist nun says I am congenitally optimistic, as the well-balanced middle child in a large family, but I think it’s more that I just cannot repress the constant stream of amazing examples and chapters of grace and humor and courage and tenderness and humility I see every blessed day. Fact. It’s all there if you look hard enough. I am not always stupid, and I get it that grief and pain and loss and evil are everywhere and daily fare, and people I love are hammered and have died, and I am terrified of fouling the nest so badly that kids can’t live in it, and I am enraged at murderous thugs and bloviating buffoons, but still, man, look at the armies of light pitted against it all! Isn’t that astounding?”

As for me, a quote from Leonard Cohen (another casualty of 2016) will suffice: “I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel completely soaked to the skin.” Like him, “I’ve always been free from hope.” That mindset carries me over most crises, but not this one. In this case I needed the boost that only Brian Doyle could provide. This is the man, after all, who made a legendary impromptu speech that brought tears and then laughter to a room full of booksellers in the wake of a terrible shooting in Roseburg, Oregon. This is the man who recently published something called The Kind of Brave You Wanted to Be: Prose Prayers and Cheerful Chants Against the Dark. It’s like he went back in time to write what I needed before I knew I needed it. I decided that not only would I go back to his books and read my way into the light, I’d do what he’s always telling us we have to do, share our stories. I’d write up that true tall tale of the time I was in my twenties and I beat that giant Viking guy one-on-one on a gravelly court with a rusty backboard and a bent rim and I’d send it to him and tell him what he meant to me.

And then the next day I learned that Brian Doyle has brain cancer.

Oh, if I could kick you in the teeth, 2016, I would. But I haven’t got the time. I have to Kübler-Ross my way through this and get my head on straight. I have to think of Brian’s family and friends and colleagues and students and readers and all the pain and sadness they feel. I have to figure out what to do next, because there’s a lot for everyone to do.

The doctors can take the lead. Even though they “can’t delete it or fix it or cure it,” they can treat it, and they are. Brian’s already had surgery that removed almost all of his tumor, and is beginning a course of radiation and chemotherapy that will, with fingers crossed, give him “a few more years of reading and writing and being with [his] wife and kids.” There’s a fundraiser online to assist them with medical and therapeutic costs, which will undoubtedly be vast. For an example of what they’ll be dealing with, one side effect of this kind of brain surgery, hopefully a temporary one, is homonymous hemianopsia, the loss of half the field of vision on the same side in both eyes. Particularly cruel of 2016 to force a writer to look at things from only one side, don’t you think?

Those of us further from the center can contribute, of course, and we can spread the word about the help that’s needed. And we can do what we’ve always done, support his work. Out now is his collection of short-short fiction, The Mighty Currawongs, which contains “This Is the Part Where You Say Something Real,” maybe the best story of a marriage that it’s possible to tell in three pages. Read it. In the spring will come another novel, The Adventures of John Carson in Several Quarters of the World. Put it on your wish list.

We can also give to each other what Mary Doyle is thankful that her friends have given to her. Give “your tears your hope your compassion your warmth your wit your generosity your respect your creativity your friendship your tenderness your humor your searching your reading your writing your cooking your dog walking your baking your mailing your typing your stamping your donating your sitting your roof cleaning your Christmas lighting your carpentry your hands held together in prayer.” Give the benefit of the doubt to the good who deserve it and no quarter to the evil who don’t.

We can put 2016 behind us and think about what’s ahead. We’ve got 2017, all of it we need, however long it lasts. As a great philosopher once said, “We’re only here for a minute, we’re here for a little window, and to use that time to catch and share shards of light and laughter and grace seems to me the great story. And I love that work.”

More Life. The Great Work Begins.

--James