#(at least before he becomes as powerful as his verified murderer father

[taliesin-the-bored]

Fun fact: Assuming you don’t count Tancred, there is no proof that Dagbert ever successfully drowned anyone.

[inkribbon796]

Forgotten Light Ch. 1: Refractions

Summary: Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men . . . couldn’t put Thomas back together again.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3

During the several days that the Sides were in Brighton, the Coalition went through their house and every room they tended to frequent in the base with a fine-toothed comb. Trying to find another aura trail, which King, Nate, and Mare were doing the bulk of the aura searching.

The humans came in their civilian attire, not wanting to draw attention to the Sides’ home.

Deep indigos, pastel blues, sparkling reds, and vibrant purples. All the Core Sides were accounted for. There was evidence that Janus and Remus had been over to their home by the faint aura trails.

“So what else are we looking for?” Silver groaned as Jackie came back in from searching places the Sides liked to regularly frequent.

“I’ve got fook-all[1],” Jackie groaned.

“We need evidence of someone living here since March, because that’s when Deceit and the Duke moved out,” King rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. “And Spade doesn’t count. Spade was just spicy Logan with extra steps. He’d have almost the exact same type of aura as him.”

Joan sighed. “Either way this place is clear, what if we don’t find it?”

“Then we hope the legate is dead,” King decided. “Which is probably a good thing. Being trapped for so long without a lot of aura, it would probably make any demon crazy.”

“So what are we supposed ta[2] do?” Jackie groaned. “Put e’erythin’ back an’ pretend nothin’s happened? All yah’ve told us about this thin’ is that it’s dangerous or somethin’.”[3]

“Honestly I’ve never heard of one either,” Mare admitted, coming out of a wall. “I knew there were other types of demons, but I thought it was just a regional language thing.”

“Well different cultures do call you guys different things in different part of the world and that does influence it a little,” King agreed.

“Kid,” Mare crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You’re an empath just like me, you’re just a small one.”

King frowned, glaring at Mare. “Least I still have my own body, I don’t have to borrow or steal someone else’s.”

Mare looked exceptionally smug, “Just wait until yours starts rusting on you. Bodies don’t last forever. You’ll pick a fight, or someone will pick a fight with you while Daddy’s not watching, and you’ll lose. Or your body will get so useless you’ll have to leave it. It happens to everyone. You think Nate was my first body, or the one your old man’s got was his? Bodies don’t last forever, Dark’s probably overdue a trade out. Being in a broken down body can’t be good but he was always made of nothing but spite and coffee so fuck that body, I guess.”

King just about bared his teeth at the older demon, but he didn’t want anymore of that smug look pointed at him and thankfully Nate intervened.

“Okay, okay,” Nate used his magic to nudge Mare away, trying to break the stand-off and deescalate the two of them. “Let’s focus on this legate, because I was raised with the Legionnaires and I just thought that a legion was like a group of demons like a murder of crows. It’s why the Legionnaires chose their name because they were a powerful force, or at least I thought so.”

“Well that is partially true,” King agreed, searching for something in the magic space he had on the inside of his cape. “A group of demons is called a legion, but it’s also a type of demon for the same reason.”

Then King paused, “Shoot, I forgot it at the base, and we should probably go back to the base, leave this place back for them.”

“Yeah we’ve combed through this place enough,” King sighed and Joan and Silver stayed behind to make sure everything was moved back to where it was supposed to be as everyone headed back to the base.

King went to go find the tome he’d been looking for in his room, and while he was gone Silver and Joan came back into the base.

“I think we got everything back to where it was,” Silver told them. “But I guarantee we missed something.”

Joan rolled their eyes. “Lo’s absolutely gonna[4] know someone went through their house, and if he somehow doesn’t find out I guarantee you Virgil will when he goes through his stuff. He used to live with the Duke after all.”

King walked back in, Lunky clinging to his cape, King smiled and was talking with his child. There was an old book in his hand. “You can stay, but you can’t meet the new demon, he’s not very nice like 할아버지[5] is.”

“You do know you’re talking about Dark, right?” Silver asked.

“Yeah, well, he’s nice to Lunky,” King smiled, before his level leveled onto a more neutral frown as he cracked open the tome. “Alright so on Illinois’s first trips to Egypt he found this book in the bowels of some library.”

“Does it talk about Legates?” Jackie asked, walking over and getting a low warning hiss from Lunky for approaching the spawnling’s father without Lunky’s permission.

“Hey, it’s okay,” King told his child, before looking at the book. “So this book doesn’t directly talk about Legates but it kickstarted this little bout of research he and I did. What this book details is some spawnling that was formed by a lightning strike and began conquering the area. The Old Man’s apparently met this guy too, he likes building stuff apparently.”

“They play poker on the weekends or somethin’[6]?” Jackie tried to joke.

“No, they haven’t spoken in almost 200 years,” King dismissed. “More importantly this research Ills and I did helped us learn a lot about demons. Mainly that demons aren’t categorized by aura or region of the world, but based on how they collect aura. If they can survive being struck by lightning without discorporating, control lightning, or technology; then they’re glitches. If they feed primarily off the emotional state of other humans or demons, then they’re empaths. If they collect aura by manipulating people and making deals: that means they’re deal makers. If they’re attention whores that collect aura from large groups, they’re showmen.”

“Wait, glitches have an affinity fer[7] lightnin’[8]?” Jackie asked. “Since when? Anti doesn’t go outside in lightnin’[8] storms.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” King replied. “Honestly there should be a hell of a lot more glitches with an outright phobia of lightning. Before technology really took off the only way to get a glitch was if one split off from another demon, like what happened with Lunky, or something like lightning strikes them. I’m pretty sure Anti was human once and he’s old enough that he was probably killed by lightning.”

“What?” Jackie shouted.

“Yep,” King popped the end of the world. “Which is why glitches were seen as weaker or rare for centuries, it was hard for them to get a lot of power until the industrial revolution hit. But while we were deep diving in some of the books we found, we found some myths and legends that talked about another type of demon. It was like a hybrid of other demon types. Like a jack-of-all-trades, master of none, kind of demon.”

“So if demons are separated by how they collect aura,” Silver commented. “How do these . . . legates? I assume these types are legates, right? How do they collect aura?”

“Yes,” King confirmed hesitantly, “and that’s the problem. Legates are like an octopus. Eight legs, but one octopus. Something in the process of creating a legate, regardless of what it would have become, doesn’t split properly. If the legate was already a proper demon it would just make a spawnling and both the demon and the spawnling would be fine. And 99.99999% of the time the person just dies instead of making a legate. But it’s that incredibly slim chance where the soul is resilient enough that the energy can’t fully make a proper demon. That energy has to go somewhere so it makes a legate and this pseudo-demon, for lack of a better term, is dangerous because the demon itself can’t collect aura, but it’s legs can.”

“Is that where the Sides come in?” Joan asked.

“Exactly,” King gestured with his arms. “It explains why there are so many. Because when a demon makes a spawnling, multiple spawnlings mean a lot of energy was split off but when a human is turned into a demon there’s barely enough energy to make one demon, let alone seven. So the legate can’t absorb aura properly on its own, making it crazy and hungry because it can’t feed like it’s supposed to. It’s like being lactose intolerant but only being able to eat and drink dairy products. But the arms or extensions of a legate are fully capable of getting aura and bringing it back to the legate in a way it can feed from. The better control a legate has over its arms, the better it can feed. So it quickly gains complete dominion over the arms and turns them into mindless thralls.”

“But all the Sides have some of the most bombastic personalities I’ve ever seen,” Silver reminded, as Nate hummed in agreement, Mare was talking to him in his head.

“Precisely,” King smiled. “They’re not thralls, so that means they’re not giving their legate aura. So the legate is either dead or is kept somewhere that it can’t collect aura and turn the Sides into thralls. If we can verify the legate is actually dead or kill it, then the Sides keep their individuality.”

“So how do we do that?” Nate spoke up. “Especially without hurting the Sides in the process?”

King thought on that for a second. “Well when they get back we should come clean and just talk about the whole thing and maybe they know something they haven’t told us.”

“Okay, what if they don’t?” Mare asked.

“Well they’re non-violent for the most part, so if we leave them be they’re not going to torch the city down,” King shrugged, he tucked the tome into his cape. “Unless there’s something you guys haven’t told me. How did Thomas die exactly? Knowing what all the Sides have in common will tell us a lot about the legate we’re looking for.”

Nate gestured to Joan, who quickly began explaining, “So I found this old camera at an estate sale and brought it to some party. I was messing around with it, dropped it, and Thomas caught it. When that happened, he split apart and that was it, it went that fast.”

“You’re sure nothing happened in-between that time?” King asked.

“Yeah,” Joan answered, hesitant but sure.

“We still have that soul splitter,” Nate supplied helpfully. “We’re pretty sure it used to be Wil’s.”

“What?” King spat.

“Yeah, I’ll go get it,” Nate offered and ran out of the room to go fetch the camera. King at the same time sent Lunky back to Google. The spawnling complained but eventually the two heroes came back with their little missions completed.

“Okay, Logan really likes it for some reason,” Nate informed King when they were both back. By the look on King’s face the young man was thinking along the same lines. “Deceit hates the thing apparently, but none of the others have more than a passing tolerance towards it.”

King picked up the camera and groaned at the pink mustache stained into the side. “Of course it’s Dad’s. His magic always did weird things to stuff to begin with.”

The young man began trying to send his aura at it, to get it to react, but he was met with nothing.

“Okay, Dad, what weird thing did you do to make this?” King grumbled in frustration.

“That’s all I could ever get it to do,” Nate lamented. “I’ve tried popping the film cartridge, but it’s stuck. I think it’s just old.”

Humming a bit in affirmation, King turned it over a bit and set it on the closest table, his fingers drummed pensively. “Okay, it’s Dad’s, there’s gotta be some trick.”

King took out one of the medallion necklaces Dark had made for Lunky and hung it right over the camera.

Still nothing.

Frowning, King channeled his aura through the camera and finally a reaction took place. A mix of King and Dark’s aura in proximity to the remnants of Wil’s that stubbornly held the camera together brought forth another aura. It was distinct and visible: a shimmering, rainbow aura. It lasted for a second but it was there.

In alarm, King flew back from the camera, pulling the necklace away. In an instant the aura disappeared.

King approached and experimentally held just the necklace above before taking it away again and trying to search for an aura trail.

“Oh, you sly bastard!” King realized as he pulled out the very dagger that had caused part of his soul to split off and create Lunky. He’d kept it because he was certainly not letting the Jims get their hands on the knife again. “I fucking found you!”

King tried to drive the soul splitter into the camera and some protective spell fanned out to break the soul splitter and bruised King’s hand.

At first King thought his hand had been broken or fractured, but as the pain subdued to a dull, aching throb, he began trying to move it and realized that at worst it had bruised his bone.

“Fucking shit!” King hissed as Silver ran over to him. The force of the barrier spell and King’s attempted blow had caused the table to break and the camera to fall to the ground, undamaged by the fall.

Nanites surged out of some unseen compartment in the camera and created a projection disk. There was a whirl and a hum, before a holographic symbol hovering in the air. It was a blackened symbol of three heads and dozens of arms surrounding it, the only words there were: “Hecatoncheires Projects Presents:”

The symbol lasted for a second before the projection showed an image of future Logan, Spade, standing in front of them.

Spade’s projection smiled at them and he took a deep breath before he greeted them, “Heroes.”

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

Accessibility Translations:

1. Fuck-all

2. to

3. Put everything back and pretend nothing’s happened? All you’ve told us about this thing is that it’s dangerous or something

4. going to

5. Grandfather; Korean. Specifically the informal way to address your paternal grandfather. Phonically read as “halabeoji”

6. something

7. for

8. lightning

[loopy777]

If I remember my ATLA behind the scenes lore right, the villain!Iroh concept was being tossed around way back when Iroh was still a random guy with no blood relation to Zuko, so it seems like the villain angle was dropped at the same time he become Uncle Iroh. And I always figured Iroh abdicating the throne was because he must’ve taken one look at the utter shut show he came home to, deduced that Ozai’s crowning involved foul play/patricide, and figured his smartest move would be to work in the background as an advisor for a while before ultimately going with Zuko into banishment out of paternal instinct and guilt.

As far as I’m aware, the only source for villain!Iroh is a “style guide” that was originally posted on Reddit and subsequently made the rounds online. It was never verified or confirmed officially, but the AtLA Art Book contained some early development tidbits that align with the guide, like Aang forming a protective sphere of rock around him during the final fight against Ozai. That’s a pretty minor detail from the finale that I wouldn’t expect to be in an early write-up of the entire series, yet it’s a major point in the guide. So I’m inclined to believe it’s genuine.

With that in mind, here’s the mentions of villain!Iroh:

Each day, Zuko studies Firebending with his Uncle, the Fire Lord's brother. Zuko is a powerful Firebender for his age and eager to develop his skills. But Zuko doesn't know his uncle is under strict orders from the Fire Lord to teach his son incorrect Firebending. It's the Fire Lord's insurance that his son's powers will never surpass his own.

For weeks, they move through the country, hiding in caves and seeking refuge in villages. All the while, Zuko trains Aang in Firebending. However, Aang's fear of fire prevents him from controlling the volatile element, for he still feels guilt over burning Katara. Furthermore, once Zuko fights his Uncle, the Prince learns that his former teacher was under his father's orders to teach him incorrect Firebending. Under the tutelage of Zuko's flawed magic, Aang cannot obtain the skills needed to defeat the Fire Lord.

So Iroh is definitely called out as Zuko’s uncle, but neither his age nor appearance is never described. I’m not aware of any other materials that could shed light on when Iroh transformed into a true master for Zuko or when he became an old man.

Our only clue is the AtLA Art Book’s development sketches for Iroh; the earliest is of a stocky armored man with minimal facial hair, just small three-prong mustache and beard. His brow is drawn as lined, possibly indicating age, but perhaps just meant to a firm, military personality. And, of course, we have no way of knowing whether the villain concept was in play when the sketch was made. Maybe that was abandoned before they even began drawing. So we’ll probably never know how much backstory there was for the villain!Iroh or how long it survived- at least until someone manages to ask the Mike or the Bryan.

As for your read on the canon!Iroh, I largely agree. I think he knew that Ozai was treacherous, even if he didn’t know specifically what the treachery was, and was probably highly suspicious that Ozai was Azulon’s murderer. I tend to think, though, that Iroh had no plans for his life- even up through his time as a fugitive in the Earth Kingdom with Zuko.

I think he knew that taking control of the Fire Nation would have meant running a war he no longer supported, but neither was he inclined to take on the difficult task of turning the Fire Nation away from war. He was probably willing to be an advisor simply to avoid looking disloyal, but I think his advise amounted to little or nothing. I figure his only real interest was in mentoring Zuko, the only person receptive to Iroh’s newfound empathy, and so it was an easy choice to go with Zuko into banishment. I think he probably was just taking things as they come during the hunt for Aang, with no plans to interfere except for Zuko’s sake. It wasn’t until he lost his last refuge in Ba Sing Se that he finally became proactive again.

[shaineybainey]

“Noble Intentions”

Lab Rats [T]

The Lab Rats and Mighty Med teams face off with the greatest threat to humanity yet: The Incapacitator, a supervillain bent on becoming the most powerful in the planet. …Which makes things super awkward for Leo, considering that their newest nemesis is his father. AU. Lab Rats vs Mighty Med redux.

** DISCLAIMER: SEE CHAPTER ONE FOR DISCLAIMER **

tagging: @clockradio93 @vcnting @verified-dumbass @serpent-princess @weareoutofmaplesyrupdave @aaaaahhhhh1234 @lettersandwhiteroses @breanadaveport-mendel @cecespuffs @quimbionics @hollywoodendinq 

[ By the way, if anyone doesn’t like to be tagged anymore, just tell me through a DM. I appreciate the likes, but if the tagging annoys you, I’ll respectfully leave you out on the next one :) ]

TW: disturbing imagery, death of loved ones, panic triggers

V: Late Bloomer

Leo stirs, his whole body entirely too numb. He squints as his eyes sting from the flood of light shining all around him. He waits until the pain ebbs. Soon enough, he can make shapes, spot movements. But nothing is familiar.

Nothing except the overlapping Ms on the wall – one scarlet and one chrome.

“Leo? Leo, are you okay?” a shape – then a couple of shapes – approaches him. “How are you feeling?”

He withdraws from the faceless figure even though he recognizes the voice. “Chase?”

“Yes, Leo, it’s me,” the figure replies, but in Bree’s voice. He (she?) smiles. “You’ve been out a while. We’re glad you’re okay.”

“Where are we?” he asks, still trying to see through the gray haze.

“We’re on Mighty Med. It’s a hospital for superheroes,” says Adam.

“I know that. I know what Mighty Med is,” Leo says. He sits up. He sees a vague outline of a hospital room… How come he still can’t see anyone���s face? It makes his heart thump. “Who are you? Why can’t I see you?”

“The Incapacitator’s energy field must have been too much for you,” Chase replies. At least, it’s his voice.

“It’s going to be okay,” assures Bree. “The doctors said the blindness is temporary. In two days, you’ll be able to get your vision back.”

He searches their faces, still uneasy. The outlines of the shapes look like his siblings. There were four other people, although who they are he doesn’t know.

Suddenly, a worry hits him. “Where’s The Incapacitator?”

Though he doesn’t see their faces, he senses relief. “It’s over, Leo,” says Chase.

“What’s over?”

“Him. We defeated him!”

“What?”

“Yeah! He was holding you hostage,” says the figure that was Chase. Then, in Adam’s voice he adds, “It took us some time, but we figured out how to use his own power against him. Who knew it was that simple?”

“Wait. No, no, wait. I don’t understand.” He shakes his head. “You’re not making any sense. Who are you?”

“He’s dead, Leo. He imploded,” Bree says, a cold smile evident in her voice. “He died, as he should have.”

“No. No, that’s not true!” He tries to leap out of the bed, but the shapes hold him down. “What are you doing? Let go of me!”

“Why?”

Leo looks up quickly. He freezes upon seeing Krane towering over him, half of his body terribly burned just like the last time he saw him. A hole gapes at the place where his right eye should have been.

Krane grins wolfishly, blood on his teeth. “Isn’t this your fault? You should have reported him a long time ago. Maybe he would still be alive if you had.”

“We would still be alive,” S-1 agrees, appearing on the other side of him.

“You’re not quite the hero you think you are,” Krane says, his grip on his arm tightening.

The shapes press in on him, robbing him of breathing space. “No – Stop!” he screams. “Get away from me!”

But they only converge, closer and closer and closer until the shapes merge into a tangible cloud that wraps around him. Soon, the cloud turns into water that he plunges under, and then he can’t breathe.

He screams, but no sound comes out.

He gasps for air—

– Ϟ –

Leo wakes, gasping as if breaking through a surface. He defensively pulls his arm back from the person touching it, scooting away from him.

“Easy, Leo. It’s okay. You’re safe,” Joel says. “I won’t hurt you. It’s just me.”

Leo’s eyes quickly scan the room for danger. He’s in some bedroom, one he’s never seen before, and his father, wearing jeans and an ash gray t-shirt, is the only one there with him.

It all comes rushing back. Tecton, Chase, the energy lasso.

There was also the look of murder in his eyes as he grabbed him.

He retreats farther away from his father, afraid.

Joel chuckles. “Leo, I mean it. You’re—”

Leo flinches away from his touch, his heart calming but his brain still on high alert.

Joel sighs. “Right. I know. I overdid it. I’m sorry.”

“You were going to kill me.”

“I was never going to kill you. I would never. Why would I do that?”

Why would he? Leo doesn’t know. He used to think he understands why his father would do things, but now he doesn’t. “How could you lie to me?” he asks.

“Leo, you know I don’t like you being involved in the things that I do. Especially since you still stubbornly believe that there’s room for you in the superhero world.”

“But I am involved now. You hurt my family when I asked you not to!”

“I didn’t really hurt them! Everyone is still alive when we left.”

“You hurt Chase.”

“Well, the kid was kind of stupid.”

“He was still my brother!”

“Hey.” Joel points a finger at him. “Watch it. I don’t like your tone.”

The warning registers, but it does very little to allay his anger. “How could you do this? How could you hurt a lot of people like that?”

“Come on. It’s not like you don’t know that it’s just part of the job. They got in my way, I move them out.”

“But—”

“Leo, stop. Okay? Stop nagging me about this. It isn’t right,” Joel says patiently. “You know what I am. You know what I do. I understand why you’re mad, but everything I did was for a reason.”

Leo watches him indignantly as he gets up and heads towards a wardrobe. He simmers as he observes him dig through its contents.

It doesn’t make things any better when he comes back with a fresh set of clothes, smiling as if nothing happened.

His father observes him a moment before chuckling. “That must be some dream you had,” he comments. “I’ve never seen you this angry before.”

Leo says nothing and only looks away. He can’t stand his father at the moment.

“Since it seems like you won’t ask, this is the place I’ve been wanting to take you to,” Joel says. “It’s the house where I grew up. Nana’s and Pop’s house.”

Leo stubbornly keeps his mouth shut. Still, he’s moved to examine it closely. “I didn’t know it was still standing,” he mutters begrudgingly.

“Yeah,” Joel says, looking around the room fondly. “RT and I used to share this room, but when I turned 9, Nana moved Uncle RT to her sewing room downstairs.”

It’s fascinating that the childhood room of one of the most powerful supervillains in existence looks…normal. The room itself is small. Leo thinks it’s about the size of one of the sitting rooms in the Mission Creek mansion.

Pressed against the wall to his left is a study desk, a dust-covered stack of books, a decades old lamp, and a Duck Tales pencil holder sitting atop it. Right next to the study desk is the wardrobe. By the door is a shoe rack.

Everything looks so neat and normal that it’s almost disorienting. Sure, it’s obvious that not much had been touched for a long while, but he doubts that anyone would guess the kind of man the kid who used to sleep here would grow up to be.

“So, was I right? Were you having a bad dream?” his father asks. “You’re sweating like crazy.”

“Are we in Kansas?”

Though still a bit taken aback by his resistance, Joel answers. “Yeah.”

“Why did you take me with you? You didn’t need me.”

Joel shrugs. “Many reasons. Distraction, for one. Emotions run higher when there’s a hostage involve, especially when it’s a kid,” he says. “I know for sure it frazzles Tecton. That’s one of his weaknesses: his emotion tends to get the best of him in situations like this. He becomes more impulsive, more prone to make mistakes.”

“So you’re using me as a pawn.”

“I brought you here because I didn’t want to leave you behind with your new family.” He sighs. “Your stepdad is slipping. I want them to know how easily they could lose you. You’re valuable to me, Leo. I want them to feel the same fear I feel every day.”

Leo says nothing. He doesn’t know whether he should be grateful or frustrated that his father is once again stepping into his new life.

“You’re not going to tell me about your dream?” Joel prompts, smiling.

Leo stares at him, unsure. “I know you hate my new family, especially my stepdad, but you can’t keep doing this,” he says wearily. “What are we going to do if they find out that I’m your son? They’d think I’ve been in on it all along. It’s going to make a lot of things complicated.”

“Are you ashamed of me?”

“No, Dad, I never was! But after today, maybe I am.” Leo sighs. He hunches forward, gathering his thoughts. “This is putting me in a bad spot, too. I don’t want you to get hurt. I know you have your reasons why you do the things you do, and as we agreed on our deal I’m not going to interfere with anything unless it’s super bad.”

“But…?”

“But if I keep helping you, the superhero community might start viewing me as an enemy.”

“I only see that as an advantage.”

Leo only glares.

“Why do you insist on being one of them?” Joel asks. “You’re wasting so much of your time trying to earn their respect. You’re working three times as hard as your siblings, and they treat you like you don’t matter.”

“They don’t do that.”

“Yes. They do. You just don’t what to admit it.” Reading distress on his face, he says, “You’re a lot smarter than them. Take away your stepbrother’s bionic chip, and what is he? Just an average kid with an average level of intelligence.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that—”

“That what? He creates things that work, that make money, and you don’t?” His father’s eyes have darkened, and Leo realizes that the smile was just a mask for the poisonous anger bubbling underneath. “Before you and your mother met them, you were heading towards great things. But look at what they did to you. They took everything from you. They took advantage of your loyalty, your sacrifice – and once they didn’t need you, they discarded you.”

“Please stop,” Leo mutters, the words hollowing out his heart.

Joel’s eyes soften when he realizes how it’s all hurting him. “I know the way I do things aren’t how you’d do them. But the world doesn’t look to me the way it does to you. It’s not a bright and warm place for people like us, my son. It just takes advantage of us and leaves us in the dark.”

When his son still won’t meet his eyes, he attempts a genuine smile. “I’m doing all of this for you. I don’t want you to experience the same things I’ve experienced. I know it may seem that I just want destruction, but really, what I want is a world where no one would take away anything from you.”

Leo knows what his father means; he knows the story. His dad and his uncle were only children, 10 and 7, respectively, when their parents were killed. They were able to get away from the murderers and hide in an abandoned house not far from here.

His grandfather had been close friends with a superhero at the time. They waited and waited for him, wishing that the man would show up and rescue their parents.

But the minutes only turned to hours, and hours turned to days. Even in the funeral, no superhero showed their face.

It was the day The Incapacitator was born. Injustices with no one to help only piled up, and the anger only increased until finally, everything he once was had turned into the man who sits in that room today.

Leo understands. Or, at least, he can sympathize. But why does it have to go this far? “You do know that if you drain the whole Earth of its energy, it’s possible that it would just implode in on itself,” he points out.

Joel laughs. “I just say that to spook the superheroes. You know them. They don’t do anything unless it involves drama.”

“You kidnapped me to prove a point. It’s not like you don’t.”

“I don’t. I prefer to be practical.”

“Practical? What if you get hurt?”

Joel shrugs. “Big game, big risks.”

“What if you die?” Leo asks, exasperated. “What if this is the one to end it all? You told me that your line of work is the one where people make you retire. Why would you put them in that position when you don’t have to?”

The expression on his father’s face changes. “I’m not going to explain anything to you.”

“I don’t need you to explain it to me. I don’t want to get involved in it.”

“Yes, you’ve made that very clear.”

Leo huffs. Why can’t he understand? “Dad, please. Don’t do this.”

“This is not your fight,” his father says decisively. “You’ve never wanted to be on the same side as me. I’m letting you. But don’t interfere with my plans.”

“It’s going to hurt a lot of people.”

“People die. That’s just what they do.”

“People? People like who, Nana and Pops?” Leo regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth. Horrifying still is the look of shock and hurt on his father’s face, turning the silence that ensues into something stinging.

He can kick himself. He should kick himself. He should have never gone that far. “I’m sorry, Dad. That was a terrible thing to say,” he apologizes. “It was hard on you when you lost them. I’m not as young as you were, but I don’t want you to die either. No matter how many offenses the law has listed under your name and how much they’re offering people for your capture, you’re still my dad. My world will also fall apart if something happens to you.”

For a moment, Joel only glowers at him. Then, he scoffs. “I can’t believe you know that they have a bounty on my head.”

“Well, I have to find a way to pay for college,” Leo jokes cautiously.

Joel chuckles. He’s still notably upset, but it’s obvious the tactic has worked. “So was that what you were dreaming about? That I died?”

Leo nods. “I was in Mighty Med. They told me you were dead.”

A smile teases at Joel’s face. “That upset you?”

“Of course. Who would ever want to wake up in a world where their parents are gone?” Remembering more of the dream, his frown deepens. “Krane and S-1 were also there. They told me it’s my fault that you died.”

“Krane. I took care of him a long time ago.”

“I know. It was the first time I asked you for help.” Leo hesitates before pointing out, “You know, you didn’t have to go that far. You could have just overloaded them and shorted them out. You didn’t have to…”

“Eliminate them? Of course I did. He was going to hurt you. He also didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who stops after you fire a warning shot.”

“You do know that what you did technically counts as being a hero, right?”

“Hm.”

Leo smiles for the first time. “You know, if Uncle RT finds out you—”

“Don’t.” Joel directs a steely stare at him. “Don’t mention any of the three of them anymore. I don’t want to talk about the dead right now.”

The smile on his face wanes. “Okay.”

Joel nods at the set of clothes sitting on the feet of the bed. “Change into that. You’re gonna be here a while so you might as well be comfortable.”

“Wait. You’re gonna be staying in?”

“Like I said, I’m practical. The longer you’re gone, the more desperate they’ll be. It’s easier to work with desperate people.”

“Aren’t you worried that they’ll find us here?”

“How? I fried your phone while you were sleeping, you don’t have bionics that—”

“You fried what!”

“—can trace, we’re in the middle of nowhere—” Joel smiles as he walks out the room. “They’ve got nothing.”

Leo feels like his brain has shorted out from that one information. “How could you destroy my phone? I worked hard to get that paid off!”

“I can always get you a new one,” Joel calls from down the hall.

Leo groans. That one was mine, though! “Why are you doing this to me?”

His father makes no reply.

Leo sighs, defeated. “You know, I feel like if I had superpowers, we’d be having a different conversation right now.”

His father slowly drifts to the door. “Why? Do you feel like you might?”

“I said if,” Leo says, irritated. “Let’s face it, Dad: I’m 17. Yours started showing up at 5. It’s time that we both accept that I’m a loser in that genetic department.”

“You know you’re not a loser,” says Joel. He shrugs. “You never know. Maybe you’re just a late bloomer. Maybe it’s just taking you longer.”

“Or maybe it’s really just not in me.”

“Could be trigger-based, too,” Joel muses. “Stress…”

“Had four years of that in high school.”

“Life or death situation?”

“Almost died five times, on my last count.”

Joel frowns thoughtfully. “Toxic waste?”

Leo deadpanned. “There ain’t no way I’m going to let you drop me in a pool of one just to see.”

Joel watches him closely. “Do you want superpowers?”

“I don’t think it’d make a difference at this point. I mean, it’d be cool,” Leo admits, “but if I just don’t have it, I just don’t have it.”

Joel nods thoughtfully. “Well, let me know. We could make a bid for the Arcturion if it’s something you want.” He smirks. “I have a better chance at it than she does.”

“Wait,” Leo calls after his father. He swings his feet off the bed, and it’s then that he realizes he’s chained. “Dad, what is this? Why’d you bolt me to the floor?”

“In case they do find us here!”

Leo fiddles with the lock a moment but decides to abandon it for now. “What’s the Arcturion? What’s that?”

“Do you want to help me with this one device I’d been working on? I could never get the mechanics quite right. Maybe you’d have an idea on how to fix it.”

“Yeah, sure – but what’s the Arcturion?”

Joel only chuckles. The real reason why I wanted this transponder, he thinks but as with all unspoken words Leo doesn’t hear it.

Not that he should. He has decided his son can’t know about it yet.

After all, it’s the true key for The Incapacitator to be the most powerful of them all.

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

This story comes soon after the Roman ambush on Alabaster’s laboratory. After the Pax brothers and Alabaster defend the lab until reinforcements show up, the question hangs in the air: who revealed the location of Alabaster’s lab? The Spy Master is assigned to find out or, at least, find a scapegoat.

 Mercedes: Interrogation Letdown

           If you asked Mercedes, she would say that she didn’t drink coffee. Her hijab always smelled of the robust aroma, one that wafted memories of her mother, of her mother’s lips as they pressed Mercedes’s forehead in a morning goodbye. Another day of work. Another disposable cup of coffee. Another hour to torment her brothers as Mercedes corralled them ready for school.

         There were few personal items in her Camp Othrys cabin, but two of her most valuable were a rug (for when she went to “tend to the Hecate garden” in the chapel) and a small French press.

         Few were awake early enough to witness her trek from Fajr prayer to the Spy Wing. There, she dumped some coffee beans and hot water into the glass container. After capping it, she would lean over the golden lid to inhale the fumes. Normally, the French press, accompanying mug, and coffee were all cleaned and away before anyone came in.

         Today, she set her coffee mug in the center of the interrogation table. Steam curled up between her and Pax. She tapped her pen against her Othrys notebook. She hoped her irritation was prominent enough to cover up her worry. Pax didn’t need to know she was worried about him. It would get into his head, inflate it, and he’d become the next astronaut to circumnavigate the world and her anger.

         This silence was one of her and Pax’s many games: invite him into the spy wing, give him no clear instructions, then ignore him for thirty minutes. At the end of his twitching, squirming, and sprawling across the table, she would ask him which three suspicious activities she had done. She would ask for the exact timestamp for each.

There weren’t always three. Sometimes there were none. Sometimes there were eleven. She wanted him to question her authority, and she wanted him to use his brain, something many people found abhorrent, she knew. At least Pax could be bribed into it.

         Today was not one of those exercises. However, she didn’t correct his assumption that it was. She enjoyed his rapt attention and silence.

         At the top of the page, as she did in every page of this notebook, she scrawled, “To me, death is nothing but happiness, and living under tyrants nothing but living in a hell” and “The end justifies the means.”

         Pax, as suspected, broke first. “Are you going to drink that?”

         “No,” she said, “It’s there for the aesthetic.”

As per usual, Pax couldn’t tell if she was serious or sarcastic. That’s exactly where she liked him. His face scrunched up in his I’m Over-Thinking expression. Mercedes loved it. Pax’s unending chatter put her at ease. Ever since he went to Tartarus, his liar’s tells had become obvious. If she waited long enough, he’d rat himself out.

That’s why she left Pax’s interview for the end. He was uncomplicated and comforting after the morning’s slog.

Underneath her paper’s quotes, she wrote, Suspects.

“Did you decide it wise to tell someone about Alabaster’s super secret layer before its defenses were activated?” With others, she couldn’t be so direct. With Pax? If he thought he was at fault, he would crumble to guilt.

Instead of falling apart, he fell onto the table. The coffee mug jerked, the brown liquid sloshing against the white, ceramic sides. She forced herself not to grab for it, to maintain her composure as cool and collected.

“Oh! Mercedes! Do I have to answer more questions about this?” He peaked at her through his fingers, his amber and black eyes glistening. “Axel and I didn’t know the location until we got there! We were just told we’d be Alabaster’s pack mules for the day and we’d do less of a half-assed job that the empousas would.”

From the information she’d collected, this was correct. Mostly. Alabaster verified it: he hadn’t told the Pax brothers anything until moving day.

However, Axel, after several rounds of questioning and clearing his throat, admitted that Alabaster had given him a rough approximation about the plans and location. This either meant Alabaster was willing to lie for one of his “meat shields” or that he had forgotten that detail. Alabaster had come to their interview with a stack of papers meticulously chronicling each time he’d mentioned the lab project over the last three months. If he had forgotten, Mercedes was a Zeus fangirl.

Mercedes had checked his records and found that Alabaster had altered them. He probably thought she wouldn’t notice, but….

But Mercedes knew Alabaster. She knew all of them. It was her job. She knew that Alabaster rubbed the upper left corner of pages when he was thinking. Several pages from his records had unmarred corners. The penmanship was sloppier on those pages. (He forgot to dot an “i;” an atrocity in Alabster’s book of How to be a Hard Ass.) The margins were five millimeters wider than the other pages, something he would balk as being a behemoth waste of space. He likely rewrote those pages, omitting that he told Axel anything. And he thought he adjustments were small enough that she’d overlook them.

From Pax’s reaction, neither Axel nor Alabaster had told him.

“Pax Two, you’re—”

“I know, I know.” He sighed, slumping back into his chair. “I’m excreting salacious facial sweat onto your interrogation table.”

She forced her lips not to twitch. “Sebaceous,” she corrected and immediately regretted it. It brought her joy to envision adult Pax on a CSI crime scene, taking fingerprint samples and discussing how “salacious” or “lustful” the evidence was to the appall of all of his coworkers, all left to theorize about his sex life.

Mercedes was always pleasantly surprised by how carefully Pax listened to her and remembered what she said, even if he did mispronounce a word way out of their grade’s reading level.

“How did you detect the Romans?” she asked. Part of her wanted to be proud of him: he was her trainee, after all and he thwarted the Romans with his snooping.

“One of them shot Sphinx.” The playfulness was gone. He stared at the coffee mug’s rising steam.

Mercedes set the pencil down. Her instincts said to touch his hand or give him a hug.

Impartial, she reminded herself, tracing quotes in her notebook. I’m supposed to remain impartial. Not to think about Lou Ellen crying when she went to the lab, where Sphinx used to live. Not to notice Pax shamefully avoid his best friend’s gaze, horrified Lou Ellen might blame him for not saving Sphinx.

I’m as impartial as a campaign poster.

Mercedes often caught herself daydreaming about ending this war without any deaths. This was the problem with being a spymaster: you had friends on both sides of the war. Little divided you other than a sense of loyalty or cultish idealism. When most Romans defected from Camp Jupiter, they left everything and everyone. But, Mercedes was the spymaster. She needed contacts. She could never truly leave either camp.

No one had won this fight, though New Rome definitely lost. Alabaster no longer had his lab, half-a-decade’s worth of priceless magical artifacts, and one of his spell books. The full death toll wasn’t in on the Roman side, but they had lost a lot of people. Mercedes still needed to verify the death of their prisoner. Rumor said that he had consumed a suicide pill during Jack and Flynn’s “questioning.” Lucille and Mercedes normally did the interrogation. They kept the interrogation humane. Jack and Flynn didn’t.

Mercedes shivered. She didn’t like Flynn and Jack doing interrogations. She didn’t like that Jack’s mind was waning alongside Luke’s.

On top of that, rumors swept the Roman legion of a new monster, this creature that had awaited the legionnaires in the Mist of the Witch’s Layer. No doubt, this was a rumor started to preserve some soldier’s honor, to make the Pax brothers and Alabaster seem an insurmountable foe instead of three panicked kids. From the way Pax retold the story now, he had no idea about the impression they had made.

Pax was retelling the events—enumerating the soldiers, recalling their location, their armament, their words—when he choked. “I couldn’t kill her, Mercedes. Is that bad?” He puffed up his cheeks and popped them. His eyes were glassy. He had been talking about a soldier that he’d caught in a noose. “Good thing to know I’ll always go for the high five. I’ll never leave you hanging there.” The last words broke with a hiccupped sob.

Impartial. You’re impartial.

Mercedes gripped the handle of the mug. The warmth was fading from the ceramic. She lifted it. What was left of the heat and the scent of tangy undertones—she exhaled, shuddering. How would she get through this talk without hugging Pax?

He shouldn’t have been at this fight. He ought to have been failing out of middle school. Really, he ought to be playing with a pegasus at Camp Half-Blood. She tried not to consider how their relationship would differ if he was.

She set the mug back on the center of the table. “No. A propensity for murder isn’t a skill I value and… and the availability of a compassionate heart is a rare delicacy on this ship, despite what Luke and Kronos preach.”

Pax’s watery eyes went wide. He sniffled. His gaze shot around the room before resting back on her. “You don’t like Luke very much, do you?”

Mercedes scowled. “That is a dangerous accusation, Pax Two. I feel for him the same way I feel for my father.”

Irresponsible. Power-mad.

Luke had made her exchange her fear of one monster for another.

She did not always see eye-to-eye with Axel; she’d been to one of his cage matches and was unfond of the sensationalized violence he so easily exhumed. However, she’d never been more relieved than the day he stood between Annabeth—a bound and gagged, thirteen-year-old girl—and her would-be molester. That changed her mind about Luke forever.

This was not a conversation to have aboard the ship.

“I made you something,” the words exploded from Pax. It startled Mercedes and reminded her of the time that Pax smuggled thirty containers of pudding from the cafeteria in Matthias’ spandex boxers. The seams ripped, much like Pax had sputtered these words: clumsy and a little too excited to escape.

Trust Pax to easily dodge a conversation and to make you think about someone’s underpants.

He withdrew something from his jacket pocket. A bulge had inhabited that it since he’d returned from Tartarus, though she’d assumed it was some kind of safety blanket. Knowing Pax, it could have been a preserved piece of skin that hadn’t properly reattached to Lou Ellen’s hand.

When he unfolded the brown silk, Mercedes stopped breathing. While scrunched up and crinkled, the embroidery was still beautiful: all pink and gold thread. It swirled in an elegant floral pattern along the square’s edges. He made this?

“And—I—I made you a magnet pin to hold it together so you don’t need to be worried about piercing the material…”

When he fumbled in his pocket again, Mercedes could feel her lip trembling. Before he looked up, she shut her jaw and dabbed her cheeks with the back of her hand. By the time he had set the items on the table, she managed her expression into a neutral one. She added Practice Facial Expressions to her list of spy exercises for his training. Vitally important if he ever had the karma of training a mini-him later down the road.

“I made a different one and ruined it when I practiced pinning it. Can you show me how to put one on right? The fabric slides and goes everywhere so I can’t test it properly. You won’t tell us when your birthday is, and I’ve been wanting to make you one for awhile, and this is one of the many things I wanted to do to make it up to you...”

His voice trailed off. Although he tried to keep his eyes sheepishly on the table, they kept flicking up to check her reaction. His information cataloguing demeanor was so obvious: wide-eyed excitement, the hint of a smile curling his lip, a slight lean forward.

Mercedes couldn’t keep her hand from shaking when she reached for the fabric and magnets. He would notice the weakness; she had taught him to notice.

Both sides of the magnets were decorated, one a subtle brown that matched the hijab and another with bold gold and pink paint to match the embroidery, presumably to either blend or use as an accessory. Both were coated in a smooth gloss, likely for comfort. From what she could see, there was no trick or prank attached. Just a small, thinner section, where he must have fiddled with the fabric when talking to her.

This was one of the nicest things someone had done for her since she got to Camp Othrys.

His words echoed in her head. I wanted to make it up to you. To make up for lying and going to Tartarus.

         “This is an acceptable start, Pax Two,” she said, “This does not mean you’ve dissuaded my wrath. Continue to grovel and do not expect any items in return.” If he thought she was mad, he was less likely to do something so stupid again. Mercedes almost swore. Technically, Pax was younger than her, even if by less than a year. She ought to give him something, even if it was a few pennies, for Eid al-Fitr. He better not look at that as an apology acceptance.

         Pax’s conniving smile broke into a goofy grin. “Gifts are not gifts if you’re expecting something in return.” He sounded like he was quoting a childhood mantra, adding in a little jingle.

         “Then they’re transaction pieces,” she agreed absently. Mercedes folded the fabric and attached the magnet to assure she didn’t lose it. She shoved the gift out of sight, under the table. If she looked at it for too long, he’d catch her smiling. She was furious that some part of her wanted to be somewhere private, so she could examine the embroidery in detail.

         She began again, “The investigation—”

         Pax whined and sank right back onto the table.

         Mercedes waited until he quieted his whining. “Did you notice anything suspicious? Oh competent assistant of mine? Or were you too busy examining Alabaster’s assets.” She flipped her notebook to a previous page, one with two columns of names that were subdivided into tables. “This is my list of people who found out or were told. Who would you find most suspicious? Who do you think can’t keep a secret and to whom would they relieve the secret’s burden?”

         She read it aloud from a second copy before he could point out that he couldn’t read:

 Involved in the planning process: Alabaster, Matthias, Lou Ellen, Hecate, Prometheus.

Involved in construction: Matthias, Alabaster, a rotation of blind-folded minions under Matthias (see back)

Knew the location: Alabaster, Matthias

Found out the location: Flynn, Jack, Luke/Kronos, Phil, Pax One, Pax Two, Mercedes, Morpheus

Two days of constant interviews had taken its toll. Tension clenched her jaw, something she didn’t notice until Paxton forced her to relax. Had she had water since before Wudu? Her mouth felt dry.

         Paxton began to babble, “Matthias is a great secret keeper. I still don’t know how he shaved an underwear pattern into Phil’s—”

“Pax Two.” She meant to stop him from going off on a tangent. He took it as an accusation.

“Who, me? I’m a huge security flaw.” He gave her a sly smile. “I tell you everything.”

“That’s amply evident.” Since his return from Tartarus, he felt the need to tell her each time his color switched from green to transparent.

Pax tapped the lower part of the paper. “You forgot the centaurs. They didn’t know until we got there, but they did find out.”

Mercedes applauded this observation with silence. This would indicate that she had not forgotten the centaurs, but wanted to know if he would. This type of testing was so customary to Pax that he continued unhindered.

“Oh! And that sun god—the old one? Hecate’s friend that can see everything under the sun, like Greek Santa. How come he gets the privilege of being Greek Santa but the sky god doesn’t? If I were Zeus, I would want some those powers re-sorted

         “Helios,” Mercedes said. She had forgotten him. Rumors of his power (near-forgotten at the likes of Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter) were rampant in the Othrys ranks. Helios sometimes claimed his powers didn’t work because he didn’t have the sun chariot, but she would need to be sure. Mercedes sat very still. Would she need to interview another titan? One she did not want to see?

         “You forgot about him.” Pax sounded cheery.

         Slowly, Mercedes nodded. “I had. This is why it’s good to keep parasites around. Sometimes they keep things in their digestive systems longer than the host. Or, maybe, sometimes hosts need partners more than parasites.”

         Elevating Pax’s position—that was a conversation for another day.

         Mercedes felt sick. She wanted to accuse a friend of espionage as much as she wanted to volunteer them for an interactive presentation on degloving. No one had given her much to work with, but most didn’t fit the bill.

Matthias had gone in rambling circles during his interrogation. The main thing saving him? He was too clever and resourceful. Had he wanted to capture the three boys in a building that he had designed, there would have been an attack of chloroform-coated underwear automatons.

Prometheus, likewise, would not have been so sloppy. He, as he admitted, would have gassed the boys or poisoned them.

Alabaster and Lou Ellen suspected Lamia. Apparently it would be easy for such a powerful witch to locate the magical objects transported there. Mercedes had Lamia on a different suspect list.

Luke, in his ever-increasing paranoia, thought it was Alabaster who set himself up. A charming disposition to cover up Luke’s insecurities, but Mercedes knew that Alabaster had no use for subterfuge. His family made up a third of the army. If he wanted, he could have the Princess Andromeda make port in San Pedro Bay with a Welcome Legions of Rome! sign.

That left an option Pax should have pointed out but never would.

Axel.

He was close to all the right people: Luke (formerly. Mercedes blamed their falling out on a lack of shared interest. Axel didn’t have the propensity for pedophilia and domestic abuse that Luke had), Alabaster, Jack and Flynn, and, of course, Pax. By being close to Pax, he was close to Mercedes and all of Mercedes’ documents. He was one of the only souls aboard the ship not pledged to Kronos—incapable since he was full-blooded Maya.

There was no point in interviewing Flynn. Flynn could tell Mercedes that she was innocent; with her charmspeak, Mercedes would believe her. Any argument against Flynn would have to be cautiously researched, compiled, and brought to Lucille, Prometheus, and Luke in full secrecy.

For that matter, Lucille could be a good option, but there seemed no reason: she was happily courting Ethel and had taken Charlie on as her own daughter. She didn’t feel right… Although, Mercedes guessed Silena Beauregard wouldn’t feel right as a spy for Camp Half-Blood, and Silena had been cheating on Beckendorf and getting campers killed for at least two years now. Having children of Aphrodite around was always dicey. Thank god the Roman editions weren’t as powerful.

Although it was unwise to be too close to anyone with Mercedes’ job, she wouldn’t want to accuse Lucille without hard evidence. Lucille made sure no one bothered Mercedes about her hijab, just as Mercedes assured that no one bothered Lucille about her relationships with women.

Mercedes watched Pax’s gaze flicker over the symbols on the paper, pretending to read them.

She didn’t think Pax would accuse his half-brother or his surrogate mother, even if those were the most logical conclusions.

Pax set the paper down. His rounded cheeks puffed into a frown. Insecurity wrinkled the edges of his eyes as they gazed intently into hers.

Mercedes took in a deep breath. Would he?

“Mercedes,” he said, sounding grave, “I’m thinking about having my first kiss—well, my real first kiss.”

“Ya Allah, save us from the sins and hellfire,” Mercedes mumbled, exhaling. The tension eased out of her muscles as she restrained a laugh.

“I’m thinking about Alabaster, though Lou Ellen says he might not be ready yet. But, that’s like saying she shouldn’t try to make a move on my brother during our victory dance party, and she should totally make a move on my brother.”

As he spoke, Mercedes collected the list of suspicious names, tucked it into her flip notebook, and closed it. She rose, took her cup of cold coffee, and dumped it down a sink along one wall. As the brown liquid splattered against the white porcelain, she sent a mental prayer of safety for her mother, brothers, and friends back at home.

No one seemed to realize she eavesdropped on her comrades as much as she spied on her enemies. If there was one thing she knew, Alabaster was not ready for intimacy, with anyone, let alone with Pax. And Axel would certainly have a heart attack warding off Lou Ellen, who, she knew for a fact, Axel thought was too young for him.

“I want it to be perfect. Jack agrees and he’s been brainstorming with me. He said he doesn’t remember his first kiss and that makes him really sad and Flynn won’t tell me about hers. But, it has to have great atmosphere—music! And maybe outdoors—maybe with a garden—but what if something goes wrong? I’ve been practicing on my hand—You know, to make sure I’m not the worst while keeping the purity of the first kiss—and I’ve been asking for advice all around, from Lucille and Prometheus won’t tell me anything, he just laughs in his ‘I’m a titan who can predict the future’ kind of way. And what if it isn’t perfect?! Like, I want it to make Alabaster happy and make me happy and be a good story for future Pax generations like Jack wishes he had a good story for me!” Pax rose to his feet to follow her around the room.

From the frantic cadence of his tone, she knew, with relief, they were done for the day. The part of Pax’s brain capable of none-meandering thoughts had a clear timer and that alarm had gone off.

She walked back to the table, gathering her notebook and new hijab. The fabric felt so soft when she tucked both against her chest. “Too many expectations lead to inevitable disappointment. What if you’re a bad kisser?”

“What if I’m a bad kisser?” Pax’s eyes widened. He puffed up his cheeks and popped them.

“Planning isn’t in your nature. What if nothing goes according to plan?” She ushered her stunned friend towards the exit of the Spy Barracks.

Pax stumbled alongside her, eyes clearly visualizing the worst case scenario. “You’re right! What if nothing goes according to plan?!”

“What if you make a big fuss over something that won’t matter and you worry yourself needlessly?”

“What if I—hey!” Pax’s features scrunched up into a pout. He folded his arms.

Mercedes sighed. Like Alabaster, she didn’t have time for experience in this field and couldn’t offer much advice. As someone who ran spy operations, and someone with a cute, unpredictable parasite pouting in front of her, she knew things tended to fall apart in correlation with how hard you tried to keep them together. “You can’t control if something goes wrong, Ajax, and you can’t control how Alabaster will react. If things go wrong, then you’ll find someone else later, whose lip sensitivity is closer to that of your palm.” She pointed to his right hand, the one she assumed he’d been practicing on.  

“But what if—”

Pax went quiet.

Mercedes had, much to her own surprise and skipped heartbeat, leaned forward. His nose was cold when it pressed against hers; his lips, warm. There was a faint hint of something citrusy, like he had drunk orange juice for breakfast. Fortunately, no reek of bacon.  

Several jittery questions flashed through her brain: What constitutes as a “real” kiss? Was I supposed to close my eyes? It’s awkward if I keep them open, right? How long am I supposed to do this for?

The insecurity shook her nerves—it shouldn’t have. This was Pax. And they were just friends. Just two friends who spent 90% of their time together.

His eyes had gone wide with shock. His gasp sucked air from her before he gently exhaled.

Four seconds was plenty, plenty enough to make her face feel hot. Mercedes saw movement out of her peripheral—either he was about to push her away or pull her close. She didn’t wait to find out. She withdrew, absently fussing with her notebook and hijab like she’d finished another closing procedure. Both items had almost slipped from her grasp.

Pax looked lost. His mouth moved a few times, before remembering how to form words, “Why did you do that?” The question was quiet and uncertain. Not angry.  From his hesitant tension, she got the feeling there was more he wanted to ask, but was scared.

Mercedes quirked her lips into a smirk. “Because, no one will believe you when you tell the story later.”

His mouth moved a few times more times; Mercedes resisted the urge to remind him that they were no longer kissing.

In the most delayed startle she’d seen, he jumped. “But—wha—it—Mercedes!” he cried in protest. Mercedes ushered him outside the spy barrack’s door while he was still floundering for words. “I—but—” He huffed. “I wanted to share my first kiss with someone who hadn’t had theirs!”

Mercedes paused in the doorway, widening her grin. “You just did.” And, she shut the door on his face, locking it. Mercedes pressed against the wall, flipped out her dulled mirror, and tilted it to watch him through the window.

Pax paced back and forth across the entranceway, paused, raised a hand to open the door again, threw his hands up, and dropped them. After six seconds of standing there, he touched his lips and blushed. The blush remained as he walked, unsteadily, away from the Spy Barracks.

He’d be pouty with her for another week. To keep any ideas out of his head, she’d have to pretend she didn’t know why. She unfolded the hijab to admire the embroidery. This must have taken Pax weeks to make. She pressed the silk against her face, enjoying the smooth coolness. The slickness would be a pain—she’d have to wear an undercap to keep it in place.

She thought about how hard her mother would slap her if she ever found out Mercedes had kissed a boy. At home, she would have been forbidden to see Pax or, at least, be forbidden to spend time with him without a chaperon—no, it would be fully forbidden. Pax was raised Catholic. There was no potential for—

The elation in her chest crushed when she glanced down at her notebook. This was a botched job. There was no time for any daydreaming or—had she been flirting? Luke expected a report from her by the end of the day, and she needed to give him a name in that report. If she didn’t—

Mercedes tried not to think about the hunger in Luke when he stared at Annabeth, the way he’d smacked Phil across the room, the times she’d stumbled into Jack healing his own battered face with a hushed, “Don’t tell Flynn or the boys. They won’t understand that Luke has bad days the same way that I get confused.” The way Kronos’ darkness seemed to spread through the underlings like a contagion, through how Jack and Flynn had future plans to torture-heal-torture any new captives (for Jack, as some displaced revenge against Thalia for failing his friend; for Flynn, for fun) and the increased violence and spectacle of Axel’s now labyrinthine cage fights.

And here she was, holding a gift against her face like she could have a Catholic Maya boy as a sweetheart even if she were at home. People died and were seriously injured because of her lack of oversight—how dare she. What else had she clouded from her vision?

Pax is a good suspect. He has access to all your files. But, he had no reason to alert Axel and Alabaster to the ambush. Breath choked in Mercedes’ throat. And she couldn’t do that—she couldn’t do that to Pax or herself.

She knew this—suspecting friends—came with the job. But, that had been a distant thought when she—terrified and desperate for some good to come out of the inevitable slaughter of her Cohort—realized she would make the perfect spy for Camp Othrys. Before she knew the ease of Lucille’s smile, how special Pax could make her feel, how horrifying Flynn was.

Pain spread along her forearm. She dug her nails in. Underneath were the lines of her Roman tattoo, of Mercury’s symbol and her bars of service. The marks didn’t vanish when she pledged her soul to Kronos, when she forsook any chance of joining her real family after death. Was there a chance Allah would understand? To what extent could you step into the dark to stop tyrants and false idols before you were consumed?

When she inhaled sharply, she could almost taste the scent of her centurion’s perfume, a smell as comforting as her mother’s brewing coffee. She thought about that home—Rome. About her real home in Spain. About her real name, the one she had to abandon, and the one she took upon joining the legion, now reserved for her contacts in New Rome. She could never keep a name. If she did, and something went wrong, if she couldn’t do her job right, legionnaires or titans might find her real family and kill them.

Like not finding a satisfying suspect for this report.

Life seemed complicated when she lived in Granada, helping to raise her brothers while her mother worked. It seemed more complicated when she had to abandon them to keep the monsters away. Tiny Mercedes could have never predicted life would get worse.

Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear.

But, she didn’t feel that right now. She’d been so careful not to feel anything. And then Pax gave her this stupid hijab and she was dumb enough to kiss him.

Her breath felt tight; legs, weak. She had to lean against the wall for support. How many homes can you have before none of them are a “home?” How many identities can you wear before all of them lose meaning? How many times could you pledge a soul before it shatters?

         There were no answers to these questions, and Mercedes still had to pick from one of her friends to throw to Luke as a scapegoat and sacrifice.

Mercedes slid to the floor, pressed her face completely into the hijab and sobbed.

 Authors note:

Thank you for reading! I’m sorry for the hiatus--I aim to get back to a bimonthly schedule.  Every time I edited this piece, it just didn’t feel right/good enough. I hope you enjoyed anyway! I also hope all of you are well and being gentle with yourselves! Stay tuned for one of my first (sorta?) fluff pieces, Alabaster’s Delicate Dance of Chance (hopefully during the month of October >>’‘)

[hellzyeahwebwielingessays]

The Not-So-Amazing Mary Jane Part 28: AMJ #3.2

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As with issue #2 (and all future posts) I advise you to read the prior instalment as I’m not going to recap the first half of the issue again here.

Moving on, we finally get to meet these new crewmembers. They consist of:

H.E.R.B.I.E. 1.05, a version of the F4’s robot buddy

Screwball, a “… self-styled as a performance artist and the world's first live-blogging super-villain. She was an Internet personality and social-media attention monger to such an extent that she committed crimes on camera.”

And Master Matrix. He's a whole mess. Basically he is the world’s most powerful LMD, and a highly dangerous weapon. He views Spider-Man and Deadpool as his ‘fathers’ in a weird way.

Beck starts to justify the hires, but MJ says that if they believe in the project as she does and have earnest intentions then she’ll reserve judgement.

Screwball tells McKnight that she’s leaked some fake photos to mislead the Savage Six and buy them some time. With that McKnight is eager to get to work.

Let me be upfront about this, I know little about HERBIE or Master Matrix. I’m not an F4 expert and I never bothered with the Spidey/Deadpool ongoing. So I will admit that maybe I’m missing some important context here. My research on the Marvel.wiki didn’t yield any results on who HERBIE 1.05 is beyond him maybe being the regular version of HERBIE. And last I checked the regular HERBIE wasn’t a bad guy. Master Matrix in contrast seems to have been a morally ambiguous character initially but grew to be a good guy. He has a kill switch he willingly handed over to SHIELD just in case he ever went rogue.

So 2/3 of them are perfectly fine. I don’t even know how much MJ would know about HERBIE or Master Matrix. However, Screwball?

Screwball is a straight up criminal. Not an especially dangerous one granted, perhaps not even a D-lister. But a criminal nonetheless. MJ has seen her before, as she witnessed Superior Spider-Man assaulting her on TV in Superior Spider-Man v1 #6.

Realistically, given how horrified MJ was by the incident you’d imagine it’d stick in her mind. Additionally, given how Screwball is an attention monger and very into social media I’d imagine MJ would have some awareness of who she is. MJ herself is very up-to-date with the latest trends and would be plugged into modern pop culture and social media.

However, for the sake of argument let’s say MJ doesn’t remember Screwball at all. Let’s say she’s never heard of HERBIE or Master Matrix. Given how in the first issue she was taking note of the criminal and super powered crewmembers, wouldn’t she at least suspect these people might be shady? Wouldn’t she double-check somehow that they are legit? It all leads back to the same complaints I made between my coverage of issues #1-2. She’s not even checked that Beck is out and about legally for God’s sake!

What’s so much worse is that the story acknowledges  that these hires might be shady. Beck is concerned MJ will have reservations. MJ decides to reserve judgement.

This means she doesn’t fully trust them, that she acknowledges they might  be sketchy.

And her conditions for reserving judgment depend upon even shakier criteria.

How the Hell can she tell in this singular moment, when she’s barely spoken to any of them, that any of these people:

a)     ‘Believe’ in the movie like she does?

Or

b)     Have earnest intentions?

She’s not verified any of them are reformed or on probation. She’s got no idea what they are fully capable of or if they are on the run.

Once more she is engaging in blind faith. She is trusting the word of a super villain who’s entire skillset revolves around lying.

The final thing to take note of is the fact that the crew are actively avoiding the Savage Six; hence the new shithole location.

Um…why aren’t they just contacting the authorities or organizing protection for themselves?

SIX super villains just attacked them and want to do so again. That’s surely grounds to bring in the police or the West Coast Avengers or somebody.

Surely, MJ herself could arrange that.

Alright, maybe you could argue they want to avoid arousing suspicion because of their criminal crewmembers. But this leads back to the fact that MJ wouldn’t stand for criminals working on the movie and Beck wanted press attention for the movie anyway. In fact if a civilian like Diperna knows about the movie how do the press not? How could no one have noticed that there are super powered people and criminals working on the set?

Everyone should know that about the movie anyway, so why not bring in help from superheroes or the authorities for protection?

The answer lies in the fact that this story is incredibly half-baked and inconsistent.

I will also add that on a purely personal note I dislike 616 Screwball so just seeing her annoys me.

The next day filming has been delayed again because of bad weather. Mysterio decides they should shoot in the caves.

Filming inside some caves nearby an abandoned zoo whilst it’s raining. Seems like a health and safety nightmare doesn’t it?

If so then it’s yet more evidence of how vain and selfish Mysterio is.

Days later, we see some crewmembers intimidated by Screwball. Their conversation with her reveals she hacked someone’s private information and threatened them to deliver food to them.

MJ overhears this conversation and learns that, in order to evade the Savage Six, Screwball arranged an unmarked truck. MJ decides to solve the problem by contacting Peter and asking if he knows any teleporters in L.A.

Later, Cloak and Dagger show up and deliver food to the cast and crew.

*pinches bridge of nose again*

God, where to start with this?

So, Screwball has definitely committed a crime in the course of her role as production manager. Hacking someone’s cloud server is very much illegal and an invasion of their privacy.* Depending upon whether you believe her or the truck driver she might also have threatened the driver’s life.

Screwball admits to having done this and MJ over hears it. And yet MJ is still ‘reserving her judgment’? 

I guess earnest intentions+believing in a movie>>>>>>>>>>>harming people in Mj’s book right?...

...what the fuck Williams seriously…

But the stupidity goes another level when MJ contacts Peter so she can get super powered assistance.

Let me get this straight, MJ and Beck are on board with using superheroes to deliver food to them, but not as protection for actual super villains who want to hurt them?

And MJ in particular doesn’t feel she should let Peter or other heroes know about Mysterio or his criminal crewmembers. BUT she will still contact them for a far less serious reason?

Anyone still arguing that for MJ to ask for help would be reductive to her/female characters no longer has a leg to stand on. MJ just used super heroes to solve a problem for herself. Scratch that, she asked her super hero boyfriend to solve a problem for her. And by bringing in characters like Cloak, Dagger, HERBIE and Master Matrix AMJ has arguably invited the wider Marvel universe into the story too. At which point MJ has no end of options available to her to ensure Mysterio isn’t a danger. She just isn’t using them because Leah Williams Mary Jane is not the Mary Jane we’ve known and loved. She’s this weird facsimile with all her social skills and charm but none of her deeper moral convictions.

Finally, if Beck and MJ (hypothetically) aren’t getting protection because they have crooks on staff then why bring in super heroes at all? I admit we never see what crewmembers are in Cloak and Dagger’s line of sight, so arguably MJ asked the criminal crewmembers to scram. But a hint of that would’ve been nice.

As filming inside the cave proceeds we see the Spidey actor struggling with his lines. The scene depicts ‘Spidey’ saying ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Mysterio. Now it’s personal.’ Amidst a street full of injured/dead people.

Mallorie is playing one of the injured people.

First of all, Mallorie wasn’t an actor or extra earlier in the story. But I suppose it’s not uncommon for crewmembers to have small roles in movies and with a reduced cast it’s likely she was just filling in.

More problematically, the scene is clearly depicting the fact that Mysterio has hurt (even murdered) people in his past. He’s done stuff so bad that Spider-Man, a hero, has been personally enraged by his evil acts.

This is in the movie. It’s in the script. MJ read this. MJ is seeing this recreated.

This eviscerates  even the slightest remnant of deniability on MJ’s part. As I’ve argued in prior instalments, MJ SHOULD know Beck is a killer and a violent person. There was no denying that. But even if you were being wilfully ignorant or belligerently insisting only the events of this mini-series ‘counted’, the mini-series just spelled out for you that beck has seriously hurt people and that MJ knows  that.

But she is still allowing him to make his vanity project. She’s still letting him walk free. She’s still chummy with him. She’s still showing no sign at all that she’s going to make Beck face justice.

On the last pages the actor playing Spider-Man quits after a light falls nearby. This leaves Beck and MJ sad, wondering how they can finish the film without Spider-Man.

I have nothing to say about this beyond a heavy light falling inside a wet cave should’ve been an obvious health and safety concern.

So, that was Amazing Mary Jane #3, quite possibly the single worst issue of the entire series thus far.

Honestly, I’m going to soldier on through this series, but I’ve made my points.

There is no hope of fixing this series now.

Not because there couldn’t be a justifiable explanation (or several) that could address all the problems. But because it’s become plain to me that Williams will not provide them to us.

Williams frankly seems like someone who understands aspects of MJ as a character. She knows how to make those aspects shine.

But there are other aspects she so fundamentally doesn’t get that it debilitates any good she might’ve done.

And more poignantly, even within the context of the story she is telling she has been incredibly inconsistent and at times downright baffling.

She either needs a better editor or she might be someone who ultimately wasn’t a good fit for this character/story.

*It’s extra bad considering several years ago in real life there was a major news story about the private photos of celebrities being hacked, perhaps the most notorious example being Jennifer Lawrence. I’m like 99% sure Leah Williams heard about that because I  heard about that just from tumblr and I’m not someone who used to work in Hollywood nor do I work in the entertainment industry in any capacity.

P.S. How does Peter not know about the Savage Six?

Super villain attacks aren’t that common outside of New York city and the villains in question are predominantly associated with operating in NYC.

Three of them are very recurring enemies of his, one of which committed some very violent crimes during a traumatic recent event; the ‘Hunted’ storyline.

They attacked the set of another of his very recurrent enemies that his lover is working on.

None of this happened in a secluded location, it was all perfectly public.

So how on Earth does he not know about this? Why hasn’t he contacted MJ to ensure she’s okay? Why isn’t he riding down there to see if he can help her or trying to arrange his Avengers buddies to provide some protection?

The only answers are that MJ has lied about that again, Williams is mischaracterizing Peter indirectly or this story is badly written.

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[gabriel4sam]

Stolen moments, a Mon Mothma/Obi-Wan Kenobi story

Written for @swrarepairs  for @wrennette and betaed by @legobiwan

Mon Mothma is hiding with her Jedi protector. Despite that beginning, this isn’t a story about murder attempts.

The Chancellor of the Republic was hiding in her bedroom with her Jedi bodyguard.

It read like the beginning of a holonovel, a political thriller, perhaps , with one or two mysterious dead bodies- a Rhodian mogul and too many almost-naked Twi’lek ladies.

Like  most political holonovel thrillers.

Or perhaps it could be the beginning of a murder mystery,like Snorr Syrilax's popular 'Death in the Hyperlane' Series. Judicial would be crawling around her apartment, trying to find clues about the gruesome murders- if this had been that sort of story. There also would have been too many almost-naked Twi’lek ladies, because holonovel writers had a tendency to think that exposed flesh could substitute itself for good writing.

Despite that beginning, this wasn’t that sort of story.

Mon Mothma, freshly elected Chancellor of the Republic, felt instead like she was in some sort of comedy holodrama, the sort with a catchy tune, one billion episodes, and a disjointed plot where the characters revealed themselves to be long-lost siblings (only to discover their also long-lost father figure, who returned in dramatic fashion to save the family farm, ship, space station, or whatever was en vogue at the time).

She felt ridiculous, yet she wouldn’t have moved from their hiding spot in her bedroom for anything in the world. Here she was, the Chancellor of the Republic, the most powerful person in hundreds of systems, and her Jedi bodyguard, a member of the revered Jedi Council, hiding from her two clones bodyguards for fear of interrupting them!

“We should say we’re here,” Obi-Wan Kenobi, her Jedi bodyguard for the day, whispered against her ear, so low she struggled to understand the words. In the dark of the room, she could feel his breath against her skin every time he spoke, causing long shivers down her spine.

She grabbed his hand, like she wanted to stop him from interrupting the conversation in the other room, the conversation they were eavesdropping on despite themselves. From their position, they couldn’t understand the words. Only a murmur  reached them, and if they interrupted the two men, perhaps the discussion would never be restarted. Mon Mothma had been waiting for them to clean up their acts regarding this particular subject for months, since she had come to know them enough to understand what exactly was happening.

“If you even think of letting them know we’re here, I’m sending you to the furthest Salt Mines I can find!” she whispered fiercely in turn.

“You abolished the law giving you that sort of power yourself, three months ago,” he retorted

Mon Mothma snorted, in a very unlady-like manner. “I’ll find a way,” she half-laughed as Obi-wan buried his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing.

Mon Mothma smiled at his reaction.

“I’ve spent months enduring their endless pining, their misunderstandings. Months waiting for the day when one of them would say something, something about the love they so obviously share, instead seeing them muddle into every direction except the proper one! Not to mention that liaison with the Mon Calamari envoy-.”

“Don’t talk to me about it,” Obi-Wan said. “I had whiplash from the second-hand jealousy seeping into the Force  every time I was less than twenty meters from them.”

Mon Mothma had a decided smile. She hadn’t become Chancellor by lacking stubbornness “-So, I’m ready to stay here until they solve this tension between them for good, one way or another.”

In her living room, the shouting had started again.

“I’m sending them for remedial training,” Obi-Wan said suddenly.

This time, Mon turned to him in surprise “Why? They’re efficient, I think. From what I know of the duties of a  bodyguard, at least from the other side of the fence. Don’t the results speak for themselves? They have been on protection detail since I announced I would run for Chancellor. I ran, I won, and I’m still there, aren’t I? The Order can offer a bodyguard only for an official event, but the rest of the time, my safety relies on them.”

“We’re half an hour past the moment where you were supposed to come back to your apartment,” Obi-Wan explained. “They should already have tried to contact us. And they definitely should have verified all the rooms of the apartment when they arrived, instead of sniping and shouting at each other.”

“But, then, they would have found us,” Mon retorted, not clarifying why that would have been bad, either because the other two in her living room wouldn’t have had the conversation they deeply needed, or because she wouldn’t have been there, alone with Obi-Wan.

Since the death of Palpatine and the renewal of the Republic, she had seen a lot of Obi-Wan. Many of those moments with that particular Jedi had been full of unsaid things, unexplained, and unclarified. Mon Mothma wasn’t ready for words and she understood it was even more complicated for him.

To set sights on a Jedi was stupid. Not as stupid as it had been before- before the war and everything which had been shaken loose by the conflict. Even now, Padme Amidala’s career would never recover from loving Anakin Skywalker, and neither would Skywalker’s place in the Order. Even if it had been the lie, not the marriage, which had lost them their respective careers, and even if, in this strange, new post-war world where everything seemed possible, a few Jedi had publicly found love... The Chancellor and a Jedi?

In the other room, a suspicious silence fell, followed by a strange noise, like a body in full armour falling against a flat unforgiving surface.

Mon and Obi-Wan looked at each other, pink on their cheeks.

“Are they…”

“Oh no, they wouldn’t? In my living room? When I’m supposed to arrive?”

“Not sure they remember other people exist,” Obi-Wan admitted, creeping, silent as a Jedi could be to the door. He waited another second, and then, not hearing anything else, risked a glance, immediately receiving an eyeful. Apparently, Boil and Waxer had resolved their quarrel for the moment and one of them - Obi-Wan couldn’t see which - had the other pinned against the wall, kissing like their lives depended on it. As Obi-Wan debated if this was really good moment to speak, the first piece of armour fell to the ground, and he beat a hasty retreat.

A few assassins, a Nightsister, or even a Sith - they would have been better than the sensation of encroaching on this private moment. He was pretty sure those two idiots were about to have their first time, right here, right now, in Mon Mothma’s living room, when the Chancellor was supposed there.

“So much remedial training,” Obi-Wan grumbled, cheeks flushing.

“What do we do?” Mon asked when he turned back to her eyeing her clothes. Thank the Force, Chandrila, her home planet, had more common sense in terms of dressing up their politicians than Naboo with their meters and meters of brocade and headdresses weighty enough to test the neck of their wearer.

“Do you have a cape?” he asked, and when she had hidden the luminous white of her dress inside the folds of a grey cape, he opened the window and helped her step out on the balcony near a decorative caryatid sculpted with flowing robes similar to those draped around the Chancellor’s thin form. From the other room, the so-called conversation devolved into noises better left unheard for unintentional eavesdroppers .

“Are we supposed to spend the next hour hiding here?” she asked skeptically. “Yes, we can’t hear those two anymore, but before long, someone will call the holonews about the Chancellor alone on her balcony with a dashing Jedi.”

Obi-Wan snaked a firm arm around her waist and promised, “We won’t fall.” And then he jumped, still holding the Chancellor, and she would have yelled in terror, if not for the chance she might distract the Jedi. The air rushed around them as they moved in a manner contradicting every law of physics. He knew what he was doing, of course, and only a handful of seconds later, they were safely on the sidewalk, three buildings north and twenty stories down. She didn’t know if she wanted to slap him or take him in her arms and laugh. The rush of adrenaline was making her tremble. Around them, people paid them no heed, not even slowing in their walk. On Coruscant, nothing surprised anyone anymore.

“Mon?” Obi-Wan asked, and she saw in his eyes he feared to have overstepped in a moment of boldness.

“A little more warning, next time,” she replied. “Or I will slap you.”

“Politicians grow more ferocious every day”.

“Good politicians don’t jump from their bedroom window with a Jedi,” Mon laughed, and she pushed up her cowl to hide her well-known face the best she could. She felt alive, sparks dancing across her nerves. She loved her job, she understood her duty, but there was something exhilarating in the transgression of this moment.

“Come,” she ordered. “If I have a few hours of respite and anonymity, I want to make the most of it.”

“To be honest, I thought I would take you to the Senate.”

“And suddenly you’re lacking an adventurous spirit?” Mon retorted, taking his hand in a moment of courage, pulling him along.

“I had quite enough adventures during the war,” he protested, following Mon Mothma as she took them in the opposite direction of the Senate, intoxicating herself in the freedom of the crowds. Obi-Wan had pushed his own cowl over his head and in that moment, nobody knew who they were, the Chancellor and her bodyguard, now only two beings, free of duty, lost in the sea of sentients that was Coruscant. Mon Mothma laughed, then ran, keeping Obi-wan's hand in hers as the Jedi easily matched her pace, soon coming to her side. When she stumbled on a broken piece of sidewalk, Obi-Wan’s protective arm saved her from a fall, and without really understanding how it happened, they found themselves huddled against a closed repair shop. He cradled the back of her neck and finally, finally , after almost six months desiring that moment, his lips were on hers.

Coruscant, uncaring as ever, passed them by, not realizing the scoop that could be sold to the holonews, as the two humans kissed again and again.

It was the high-pitched horn in the closest lane of speeders that stopped them. They exchanged two shy smiles without a word, and then Obi-Wan took her hand again as they lost themselves in the crowd a second time. He guided her round the capital planet, Mon remembering when she had been an aide, then a junior politician- when she could make the most of the most exciting city in the Republic without a whole security detail.

Without talking about it, they avoided  public transport, simply walking, hand in hand, as Mon gorged herself on the colours and smells and people. After nearly an  hour, they arrived at a small diner with a broken neon sign and a creaking door, where Obi-Wan asked the Basilik cook for a discreet booth and two of his specials of the day.

Here, hidden by the tall booths, Mon dared to put down her cowl.

The special was too sugary and the caf stronger that she liked, but outside, night was falling, and in this grimy dinner, in their little bubble, the moment was perfect. She never wanted to leave, or at least, she wanted to pretend the night could be eternal and that a very irate Commander Cody, in charge of Coruscant security and technically Obi-Wan’s boss, wouldn’t come through the door in the next hour with a tale about Boil and Waxer’s panic and a sarcastic eyebrow that could make a stubborn Jedi and politician fall in line.

She took Obi-Wan’s hand again and he smiled, putting a  kiss on her fingers.

It was only stolen time, but whatever would happen, it was a perfect moment.

[inyri]

19. …for luck.

Remember that horrible prompt idea I mentioned the other day? It’s for you, I’m afraid. i’m SORRY

SWTOR. Theron POV. Copero.

***

(but i won’t do that)

He isn’t getting anywhere with Zenta.

What intel she’s shared so far has come in scraps and fragments, all verifiable but barely enough to keep that lunatic Atrius from frothing at the mouth, and for his part he’s got precious little left to broker in return that won’t actually hurt the Alliance. He’s done enough damage as it is- Nine’s holomessage, cast wide across the ‘Net, was proof enough of that.

(Theron doesn’t dare keep a copy on his ship’s mainframe where the GEMINI unit might find it. Instead he uploaded it into his implant where he can let it play as often as he wants, an overlay to his own senses, a memory and a penance all in one. It hurts, still, to hear her voice.

It should. If someday it doesn’t-)

He should have known better than to think this would be easy. If it had been House Mitth still in charge on Copero he could have sweetened the deal with credits but the Inrokini had beaten them to it; with the Eighth Family in her pocket, even if no one admits it publicly, he’s not sure that Zenta needs anything at all. In the weeks since he arrived he’s ransacked the entire Inrokini database, including the encrypted parts- their security was good but not that good- but the map isn’t there.

He needs her datapad.

He needs a better plan.

*

She’s running late from her previous meeting but waves him into her office as the guards step aside to let him through. (He’s already ruled out breaking into her office. Decryption was one thing, but he isn’t blasterproof.)

“Theron Shan.” He still can’t read her smile properly. “Excellent timing. My brother was just speaking of you.”

“My visions don’t lie, Inrokini’zenta’alani. You know that.” Valss paces back and forth across the woven rug in front of the carved wooden desk. “If we don’t help him you’re going to-”

Her jaw tenses. “We’ll continue this discussion later. Leave us.”

Valss turns abruptly on his heel and strides out of the office, looking back over his shoulder at him as he goes. The door shuts behind him; Zenta unclenches her fists, her knuckles cracking audibly.

“I’m very fond of him,” she murmurs, “and he is correct that his visions have never been wrong. But sometimes I wish his mother had smothered him in the cradle. It would save me a great deal of aggravation.”

He doesn’t reply. He isn’t meant to; he’s learned that much, at least.

“Now-” Zenta gestures to the vacant chairs in the far corner- “shall we pick up where we left off yesterday?”

*

The knock on the door of the guest suite is so soft he almost misses it beneath the sound of her voice.

This is the Commander of the Eternal Alliance. This message is for my husband-

The second knock, louder, breaks him out of his reverie, and he pauses the recording as he checks his blasters and then moves to check the viewscreen. He isn’t expecting visitors. Outright murder isn’t precisely Ascendancy style but-

“Theron Shan?” A male voice. When he activates the screen Valss- oh, Void, it’s- he’s hopeless at Chiss names, he’d have thought it’d be Inrokini’valss’something but that wasn’t it, he doesn’t think- “It’s important that we speak. May I come in?”

His lightsaber’s clipped to his belt, his hands empty. If it’s a ruse, it’s a good one. Theron takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Sure.”

He opens the door. “I’m sorry,” he says, to start with- might as well be honest- “it’s Valss, I know, but your formal name is-”

“Don’t worry about that. I don’t mind the informality.” Valss moves a few steps into the room. “Though I’d ask you not to mention that to my sister.”

“My lips are sealed.”

His smile, unlike Zenta’s, touches his eyes. At this distance he’s younger than Theron had thought; if the syndic was Theron’s age he might be ten years their junior, with high cheekbones and skin unmarked by worry lines. (Or that might be the Force at play, of course. He’s known a great many Jedi who could pass for decades younger than their birth records would suggest, his mother included.) “Oh, good.”

Words trailing off into silence, the pause lingers awkward between them until Theron clears his throat. “You said you needed to speak with me.”

“Yes,” Valss says. “Apologies. I was considering how to begin. I don’t-” he pauses, makes a face- “I’m permitted to speak to very few people. Even fewer when it pertains to my visions.”

“I’m not Force-sensitive.” Will that ever not hurt to say? “But I’m familiar with the concept.”

“I’ll be plain, then. I dreamed about you last night.”

*

“She’s afraid,” Valss says over the rim of his glass. “She doesn’t trust you.”

Theron shrugs. The whiskey here’s surprisingly good, smooth going down with just a gentle burn on the back of his tongue, and he rolls it slowly around his mouth before he swallows. “Can’t fault her for that. I probably wouldn’t trust me, either.”

“She has to. She’ll die if she doesn’t, and your success is certain.”

“You say that like it’s carved in stone.”

The gesture he gets in reply isn’t familiar. “I’ve never been wrong, though there have been many times when I’d rather have been. All I know is that the people hunting you will come here, too late to prevent you from finding what it is you seek. But in my dream my sister would not help you. She fought a woman in red who moved like a ghost and the ghost struck her down.”

He closes his eyes, trying to picture Nine, and all he can see is the the holo: her hair charred and chopped short, angry bruises on her face and her eyes swollen with unshed tears. That’s my girl, he thinks, still fighting.

“I don’t always agree with Zenta.” When Theron looks at him again Valss is frowning and for a second he wonders if he can read his thoughts, but no, he’s lost in his own head, staring past Theron out the window toward the sea. “But I do not want her to die.”

“Do you know what the timeline is?” He takes another sip of whiskey. “Until I’m found?”

“No. It’s not an exact science.”

Another sip.

“I’ll speak to her again in the morning.” Rising, Valss sets his glass on the table between them; a bead of condensation rolls slowly down its side to settle on the mosaic tiles beneath. “She’ll see reason. She has to.”

*

-we can end the cycle of war, Theron. You have a hundred ships waiting for your command, to use as you see fit. But I need you to-

(Her voice broke, then.

His heart breaks with it, every time.)

*

The old Alliance arms cache on Hoth is almost abandoned now, with the Star Fortress long destroyed and their foothold there no longer needed.

He hopes so, at least. He gives up the location to Zenta the next day when she asks about heavy weaponry; it buys him another week.

*

“It would help me reason with her-” Valss says a few days later; these meetings have become routine now, as much so as his daily conferences with the syndic- “if you’d tell me why you need the map.”

Theron sighs, slouching lower in his chair. “I’m sure it would.” Telling him about the map, even in the vaguest possible sense, was probably stupid. All his instincts keep telling him Valss’ motives are genuine- even if it’s only to keep Zenta alive he seems to truly want to help and he’s got to use that however he can- but the last thing he wants is word of the Order’s goal getting back to the Chiss. Some of them might think it was a good idea and he’s not giving that beast any more fodder beyond himself. Time to change the subject. “Why is she hesitating? She clearly values your gift, but-”

Valss blinks. “Wait. Say that again.”

“Which part? Why is she-”

“No.” His smile is radiant. “Gift. You called it a gift.”

Theron nods slowly. Master Zho had always used the word- gifted in the Force, he’d said, as though one day he’d wake and it’d be there, wrapped up beneath the Life Day tree. “You can see the future. I think most people’d call it that.”

“Not my people. For us the Force is…” Valss leans forward toward him. “By the standards of the Ruling Families I am considered defective. Unworthy. They exile us, drug us. The mountains of Csilla are full of the bones of children like me.”

“But you survived.”

“By chance. I had my first vision just after Zenta’s father died. My own family wanted me medicated and shut away, but Zenta needed every advantage she could get to hold onto power- against all advice she adopted me into her House. By calling me brother, she put me near enough to her that my safety was assured.” A shadow falls across his face as the light fades from the window, Copero’s sun falling below the horizon. “Insofar as that’s possible, and only as long as she survives. But if she’s seen to rely on me too much, that also makes her vulnerable. Do you see?”

Oh.

He considers his next words carefully.

“When I was a child,” he says, “I was raised to believe that if I worked hard enough, if I meditated often enough, that the Force was my birthright. When that turned out to be a lie, I didn’t have a place in that world. So I’m sorry if I offended you. I only-”

“You didn’t offend me.” Valss hesitates a moment before reaching out, resting one of his hands carefully on top of Theron’s. “You understand.”

He’s reading too much into it. He’s reading too much into it. It’s just a gesture (don’t be stupid it isn’t just a gesture the Chiss don’t touch anyone but what- oh, Void-)

Theron turns his arm, slow and deliberate, until Valss’ hand sits in the curve of his palm; he waits.

“And I understand-” skin on skin, fingers curling- “why I was meant to help you.”

*

(He asked her about it once, after enough time had passed that the hurt of it had faded into memory and the question became academic rather than personal.

It takes her almost five minutes to answer.

How do you do it? She sits up on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees. Like anything else, I suppose. I was taught. How did they teach you to kill?

He starts to respond and she shakes her head gently.

That was rhetorical. It’s… Theron, why are you asking me this?

I love you. He shifts until he’s curled around her, head beside her hip, looking up at her. And I want to understand.

She nods. I love you, too. I- think of it like this. Did you ever walk into your office and realize you have no memory of how you got there- that you left your apartment and made all the correct turns, traveled the correct streets, but you were so busy thinking about something else that your body went through the motions while your mind was a thousand parsecs away?

All the time.

You just- she lets one hand fall, combing idly through his hair. It’s the same. It’s just sex. Your body knows what to do so you think about the mission, about a film you enjoy, about an old lover- anything but what you’re doing. And you tell yourself that it’s necessary.

But-

It sounds awful. I know that. But it’s what they made me.

He arches up to kiss the bare skin along her ribs. I know. I know. I just don’t think I could ever have done it.

I said that once, too. But you never know how far down you’re willing to go until you’re already falling, I think.

Very poetic of you. He kisses her again, lower, on the arch of her hip, and she sighs through the words and leans into his mouth. I’m sorry. Come here.)

*

(She was right.

Of course she was.

He’s a traitor, after all, and he’s already fallen so very, very far that it only makes sense that his body is, too.)

*

A listening post sacrificed. Another week bought.  He sleeps alone, still, when night comes. That’s a line he will not cross. But-

I love you, Theron, she says inside his head. Come home.

He’s no longer certain whether he deserves to.

*

“You don’t have to agree.” Theron shoves the last of his few belongings into his rucksack, slinging it over this shoulder. “I know it’s asking far too much.”

With a shake of his head Valss turns, considering the still-closed door and the commotion beyond. “If I don’t go now we won’t have another chance. They’re coming, Theron, and if I can’t save Zenta at least I can save you.”

He closes his eyes. This wasn’t how it was meant to go.

“Ten minutes and I’ll be back with the datapad. I know where Zenta keeps it, and by the time she knows it’s gone we’ll be halfway to your map.”

“All right.” He exhales and then breathes in sharply at the pressure of Valss’ kiss. “What-”

“You don’t need luck,” Valss says as he opens his eyes again. “But I do.”

[aformersheep-blog]

Open letter to Franklin Graham

Attention: billygraham.org, samaritanspurse.org, tbn.org, cbn.com, focusonthefamily.com

Please direct this letter through the appropriate channels and feel free to read it yourself.

Open Letter to William Franklin Graham III

September 23, 2018

 Dear sir,

It is with a heavy heart that I contact you. I have never sought to reach out to you or your organizations, but I have lived my whole life looking up to what your father and your family represented in the faith. I was raised to see such work as the core of what it means for us to be Christians; focusing on spreading the Gospel to all who would hear it, and leading them to Christ and their eternal home with Him. I myself accepted the Lord at the age of four while watching a TBN kids show in the early 1990s, and I tried to live as best as I could to walk in the faith while living in this world. I always held onto the notion in my mind that God’s message was pure and unwavering as it was spread to the world by His people, save for a few fanatics who carved out their own incorrect path. At any rate, I accepted that people were human and prone to error, but also that God’s grace was capable of transcending it just as it transcended Moses’ speech difficulties before addressing the Egyptians. Providing we as Christians offer Christ’s Gospel of love and acceptance as well as the path to salvation by acknowledging and rejecting sin, anything else is superfluous.

Having said that, your words this week pertaining to the assault allegations against Judge Kavanaugh were deeply disturbing to me. You said that we shouldn’t judge someone for something they did forty years ago as a teenager. Will God not judge someone who heard the Gospel as a teenager, but did not accept it? Time is a null point in the discussion. When the attack occurred is irrelevant. What matters is if it did happen, a sin was committed against another person and against God. Now, whether Kavanaugh repented to God is something we can never know, but I’d like to think the son of the great Billy Graham might have at least one word to say to that matter in the interview you did. What’s more, is that you dismiss the possibility outright that this allegation is true with no evidence whatsoever, and claim that Kavanaugh respected Ms. Ford by stopping his advances when she simply said “no”. Such seems not to be the case, but the debate is ongoing and I can no more judge the legitimacy of the claim than you can. What really left me speechless was when you opened up the discussion to the realm of supposition by saying the allegations are irrelevant even if they are true. Christ taught us to forgive, yes, but He did not teach us to turn a blind eye to sin. You based your argument on the hypothetical notion that the attack did happen, so I will continue to do so for the remainder of this letter for the sake of the argument.

I came to Christ at the age of four, so if I was capable of making a choice about my eternal condition at that age, Judge Kavanaugh was capable of knowing it is wrong to make advances to a woman who is either unwilling to participate or incapable of making a decision because of intoxication as a teenager. Yet, we live in a world where “boys will be boys” and girls are at fault for putting themselves in a position to be attacked. In the rare cases where a doctor molests a patient under anesthesia, the doctor is barred from practice and made to face the consequences, yet it could be argued that the patient is at fault because she chose to have whatever operation done and consented to anesthesia. By that logic, the patient is just as at fault, right? Of course not, and neither is Ms. Ford. Similarly, we don’t blame the man walking to Jerusalem who was helped by the good Samaritan, even though it could be argued that perhaps he was flaunting his wealth to the robbers. I’ll agree that on rare occasion sexual assault and rape allegations are phony, but don’t we owe it to the legitimate victims, who often live in silent fear and shame for years, to investigate as best as we can? We have a culture where young ladies are berated for being too provocative, but we seem to neglect to teach our sons to respect women regardless of their appearance. Did Jesus turn away the prostitute who touched his robe? He told her to sin no more, but he also said to love thy neighbor as thyself. Oppose sin, but do not sin also.

The fact that you dismiss the relevance of a sin committed, and take no stance to voice against it for the future is deeply disturbing to me. Furthermore, you made no attempt to offer condolences of any kind to actual victims. That is not the mindset of the good Samaritan. That is the mindset of the priest and Levite who passed on the other side. Did the Samaritan question if the man’s wounds were real? Did he verify what was stolen, if anything? No. Jesus commanded us to take pity on the victims of the world and to oppose sin. You sir, have not gone and done likewise as our Lord commanded.

This brings me to my final point. In recent years, it seems the Christian church in the United States has fallen away from its core values in favor of being loud and boisterous on specific topics such as homosexuality and abortion. We cry and scream at the thought of taking the life from an unborn child, yet support a war with no clear goal where we send the survivors of abortion to die in a foreign land at the hands of murderous fanatics. We condemn and pass judgement on a same-sex couple who wants to live in harmony while patting the back of an adulterer on his third marriage. Are we without sin? Do we not have a beam in our eye, thus justifying our accusations of the speck in another’s eye? I cannot continue. I’ve fought the fight, and I’ve come to see we’re not fighting what we even claim to be fighting. We’ve become so caught up in fighting such tiny battles, that we’ve lost sight of the war for humanity’s souls.

It’s because of men such as yourself that I am going through this turmoil. The majority of the evangelical force in America is more concerned with the liberal political movement than with doing God’s work. Every day I see people thanking God for delivering us from Obama and into the hands of a psychotic real estate mogul who seems to believe God’s first gift to man, Eve, is deserving of being grabbed by the pussy without repercussion to the man. You support and encourage this ideology either by direct action or total inaction. Standing by and choosing not to take a stance against the sin is just as reprehensible as the sin itself. Therefore, I cannot stand with you any longer. I do hereby renounce my faith in Christianity. Whatever Christianity is now, it isn’t what Christ taught us any more. I will retain my overall faith in God and Christ’s message, but I cannot sit by while the whole church maintains such a blatant hypocrisy. It held back the scientific study of the natural world as God created it centuries ago, and it praises sin while accusing victims today. I have no further use for your ramblings. God is too big, powerful, good, and just to fit into your backwards religion any longer. Am I condemning myself to hell by choosing to do this? Perhaps so, but if heaven is populated with racists, misogynists, pedophiles, greedy philanderers and those who support them like yourself, then I will gladly take my place in the lake of fire knowing I chose to respect and love all who walk this earth while actively opposing actual sin. Presently, Matthew 18:6 is bringing me a mild consolation. Good day to you sir.

 Sincerely,

a former sheep

[possiblyimbiassed]

What happened to Sherlock? The game is on!

Here’s a thrilling, really dramatic scene from TSoT:

John seems desperate here; a person very important to him ;) is about to die – either from suicide or from a mystic criminal we haven’t identified yet. John’s wedding has become a crime scene! So he orders Sherlock to solve it… But wait a minute - does he now? Why then is John saying that Sherlock is not a puzzle solver?

I mean, we do know that he’s been a drama queen ever since S1, don’t we? Shooting the wall, sulking when John criticizes him, faking his own death in front of John, disguising himself to surprise John after two years, making John forgive him while pretending that a bomb is going to explode…  And in HLV and TAB, Sherlock himself even says that he can’t resist a ‘touch of the dramatic’.

But he has also been a puzzle solver – that’s Sherlock Holmes’ MO. That’s what the Holmes stories always have been about in every adaptation, right? And yet John tells him now that he’s not a puzzle solver!? And then, in spite of this, he still says “the game is on – solve it!”

I always found this conversation a bit weird, seeing as it’s Major Sholto who is the drama queen in this case; it’s he who threatens to kill himself behind a locked door, not Sherlock. But now, in hindsight after Series 4, I finally think I ‘get it’. In fact, I believe they said it already in Series 1, TGG:

Why should we wait for Sherlock to solve the puzzle, when it can take years before S5 airs? This is something new! And John says Sherlock is not the puzzle solver. I believe John’s message from TSoT is directed at us, the audience. Look at John in the last TSoT picture above – for a moment he’s looking away from Sherlock. This is our case – our game, and I believe we’re meant to figure out what has happened to Sherlock!

Because after TSoT, Sherlock is no longer solving puzzles; he fails his cases and has completely turned into Drama instead. We’re supposed to figure out what happens here – not with Major Sholto, but with Sherlock. Look at this girl from TGG. She’s hungry, but Sherlock has given her food for thought money for food, if she helps him to solve a puzzle; I think she’s us! 

And in TLD, Shakespeare Sherlock couldn’t have said it clearer:

I think we have a crime case to solve – in fact I believe the whole show is a case for us, the audience, to try to solve. We’re not meant to just consume BBC Sherlock for entertainment, as passive viewers; It’s a crime case carefully laid out before us, complete with victim, suspects, murder weapon, venue and everything. And I think we’re supposed to use Sherlock’s methods - the science of deduction - to solve it. So, why not have a go? After all, we have plenty of time on our hands until S5 airs. ;)

This is the introduction to a series of metas where I’ll try to see if it’s possible to deduce what has happened to Sherlock. To read the following installments, click theses links: [Part I]   [Part II]   [Part III]   [Part IV (1 & 2)]  [Part V]  [Part VI (1 & 2)]  [Part VIII (1 & 2)]

In this exercise I’ll also try to provide links to a series of truly brilliant metas from different people in this fandom, which are all a great inspiration. And please bear with me if this introduction is getting a bit long (you can find most of it under the cut).

To solve this, I think we’ll need to try to use Sherlock’s methods. On his website, “The Science of Deduction” he gives a fairly brief description of his methods:

This is what I do: 1. I observe everything. 2. From what I observe, I deduce everything. 3. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth.

But what is actually deduction? Is it really a science? According to Wikipedia, logical deduction (or deductive reasoning) is “the process of reasoning from one or more statements (premises) to reach a logically certain conclusion”. Which means that you also need to back up your statements, you need to know that your premises are true (or false), before you can use them to deduce the resolution of your problem. And here is where the actual science kicks in, I believe. Science is based on observations, facts, data that has to be collected. “Data, data, data…”

For anyone not familiar with the scientific method, what I can say is that the procedure is usually something like this:

1. You make observations about the world around you (”I observe everything”).

2. Your observations make you curious; you start asking questions.

3. You formulate a hypothesis, to explain your observations (”I deduce everything”)

4. You make some predictions that you can test (T6T and TLD: “It’s possible to predict the future if you have access to the blah, blah and blah…” Here’s where Sherlock gets a little fanciful I believe :) But in theory he’s right)

5. Now you need to collect more data – evidence - to see if the outcome is as you expected, or if you have to change or reject your hypotheses. Your peers will want to participate in this testing process, perhaps to try to debunk your ideas. (I’m not sure this is the case with Sherlock, though. But at least he does use a Conductor of Light for inspiration ;) Mostly he does the testing himself, though: “When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth”).

6. If several of your predictions turn out true, you may have enough stuff to set up a whole theory; a model of explanation. If there are competing theories, you’ll be wise to pick the one that has the most explanatory power, the one that can answer most of the questions that have appeared.

7. To verify and/or refine your theory, you’re back to point 1.

If this was a scientific paper, and I was a scientist, I’d put in references to a lot of other studies by other scientists. And if I’d like to have it published in a scientific context, I’d need it peer-reviewed first. But this is just a blog post, so what I can do is to propose some hypotheses of what happened to Sherlock, provide some suggestions for explanations, and try to back up my ideas with evidence, and also with links to some brilliant analyses from other people in Sherlock fandom. :)  

Example:

Observation: In T6T many scenes seem weird, characters are acting OOC and the plot line is incoherent.

Question: Why does John seem to type his blog posts on a jpg-file?

Hypothesis: This is actually just someone’s imagination, that’s why things are not at all realistic. 

Prediction: “If a character is just imagining T6T, then the things that we see John write on his blog in T6T will not appear on the real blog”. 

Testing with new data: No new posts have, as of date, appeared on John’s blog since before HLV. It even says right out that the blog is no longer being updated. This data indicates my hypothesis might be true. But I would need more evidence to really believe this.

More observations: In T6T we see ‘Mary’ jumping in front of a bullet while it’s being fired:

Question: How can ‘Mary’ do something that is physically impossible?

Conclusion: “When we eliminate the impossible, what’s left must be the truth, however mad it might seem”. Thus, this is just someone’s imagination.

Actually there’s loads of evidence supporting this idea, and I’m not going to go into them here, since so many people have already done it. Some people claim that it’s John Watson’s head we’re inside, but in my opinion these theories have been de-bunked long ago by @loudest-subtext-in-tv, for example by this logical reasoning about the end of TLD: Sherlock could only know Mary was telling him to wear the hat if she’s a figment of Sherlock’s imagination instead of John’s. Or this: “John can’t remember stuff like the waterfall scene from Sherlock’s mind in TAB”. Instead, I subscribe (mainly) to the so-called EMP theory, which suggests that we’re actually in Sherlock’s extended mind palace, where he’s running scenarios to figure out what to do about John. EMP theory was proposed long before S4 aired, by @monikakrasnorada, @gosherlocked and @the-7-percent-solution - truly brilliant people! You can read up on it here.  

So – what about Sherlock; what happened to him?

For a start, after viewing and re-viewing this show ad nauseum - and still finding it amazing - we need to ask some questions and put up some hypotheses about what has actually happened to Sherlock. 

And that’s what I’m going to try to do in a series of meta here – ticking off the hypotheses below, one by one, trying to back them up with evidence, and finally reach a possible theory. It will probably take quite some time, because there’s a lot of data to collect, and a lot of analysis to be made, but time is all we have before S5, right? ;)

Here below are the hypotheses I’ll try to go through: 

(Disclaimer: some of them are not my own to begin with; they are inspired or even suggested by other people and the fandom discussions on tumblr. For example #2 is definitely @raggedyblue’s idea).

1. John’s blog is the most truthful account of the actual events.

2. The show up until John’s wedding is Sherlock reliving their story together in his MP, after reading John’s blog.    

3. The weirder scenes from ASiB to TSoT means Sherlock is influenced by drugs.

4. At some point in time between TSoT and HLV, Sherlock takes an overdose of drugs and ends up in coma. (1, 2)

5. Almost everything we see happen in HLV, TAB and S4 is Sherlock ‘running scenarios’ in his mind, based on a mix of his earlier memories and movies he has watched.

6. In the show’s ‘reality’, Sherlock is slowly dying, which also has implications on a meta level. (1, 2)

7. By TFP Sherlock has managed to figure out some essential things about John and the importance of staying alive, and he has managed to get in touch with his own repressed emotions. (1, 2)

8. John is not the father of ‘Mary’s baby. (1, 2)

9. What remains to be solved in S5 is most of all how to defeat the villains of the show; homophobia and heteronormativity.

I’ll tag some more people in case they might be interested in this:

@sarahthecoat @tjlcisthenewsexy @ebaeschnbliah @fellshish @loveismyrevolution @sagestreet @sherlockshadow @darlingtonsubstitution @devoursjohnlock  @tendergingergirl @kateis-cakeis @csi-baker-street-babes

[glittergummicandypeach]

QAnon: The alternative religion that’s coming to your church

(RNS) — It’s a rough time to be a pastor. An election year, national racial unrest and a global pandemic each challenged the usual methods of ministry. Taken together, many church leaders are facing the traditional post-vacation ingathering season with a serious case of burnout.

But there’s another challenge that pastors I spoke with say is on the rise in their flocks. It is taking on the power of a new religion that’s dividing churches and hurting Christian witness.

Mark Fugitt, senior pastor of Round Grove Baptist Church in Miller, Missouri, recently sat down to count the conspiracy theories that people in his church are sharing on Facebook. The list was long. It included claims that 5G radio waves are used for mind control; that George Floyd’s murder is a hoax; that Bill Gates is related to the devil; that masks can kill you; that the germ theory isn’t real; and that there might be something to Pizzagate after all.

“You don’t just see it once,” said Fugitt. “If there’s ever anything posted, you’ll see it five to 10 times. It’s escalating for sure.”

Conspiracy theories — grand narratives that seek to prove that powerful actors are secretly controlling events and institutions for evil purposes — are nothing new in the U.S. But since 2017, a sort of ur-conspiracy theory, QAnon, has coalesced in online forums and created millions of believers. “To look at QAnon is to see not just a conspiracy theory but the birth of a new religion,” wrote Adrienne LaFrance in The Atlantic in June.

Named after “Q,” who posts anonymously on the online bulletin board 4chan, QAnon alleges that President Donald Trump and military officials are working to expose a “deep state” pedophile ring with links to Hollywood, the media and the Democratic Party. Since its first mention some three years ago, the theory has drawn adherents looking for a clear way to explain recent disorienting global events.

Once the fascination of far-right commentators and their followers, QAnon is no longer fringe. With support from Trump and other elected officials, it has gained credibility both on the web and in the offline world: In Georgia, a candidate for Congress has praised Q as “a mythical hero,” and at least five other congressional hopefuls from Illinois to Oregon have voiced support.

One scholar found a 71% increase in QAnon content on Twitter and a 651% increase on Facebook since March. 

Jon Thorngate is the pastor at LifeBridge, a nondenominational church of about 300 in a Milwaukee suburb. In recent months, he said, his members have shared “Plandemic,” a half-hour film that presents COVID-19 as a moneymaking scheme by government officials and others, on Facebook. Members have also passed around a now-banned Breitbart video that promotes hydroxychloroquine as a cure for the virus.

Thorngate, one of the few pastors who would go on the record among those who called QAnon a real problem in their churches, said that only five to 10 members are actually posting the videos online. But in conversations with other members, he’s realized many more are open to conspiracy theories than those who post. 

Thorngate attributes the phenomenon in part to the “death of expertise” — a distrust of authority figures that leads some Americans to undervalue long-established measures of competency and wisdom. Among some church members, he said, the attitude is, “I’m going to use church for the things I like, ignore it for the things I don’t and find my own truth.

“That part for us is concerning, that nothing feels authoritative right now.”

A demonstrator holds a QAnon sign as he walks at a protest April 19, 2020, in Olympia, Washington, opposing the state’s stay-at-home order to slow the coronavirus outbreak. Washington Gov. Jay Inslee has blasted President Donald Trump’s calls to “liberate” parts of the country from stay-at-home and other orders designed to combat the spread of the coronavirus. Inslee said Trump is fomenting a potentially deadly insubordination among his followers before the pandemic is contained. (AP Photo/Elaine Thompson)

For years in the 1980s and ’90s, U.S. evangelicals, above nearly any other group, warned what will happen when people abandon absolute truth (which they located in the Bible), saying the idea of relative truth would lead to people believing whatever confirms their own inward hunches. But suspicion of big government, questioning of scientific consensus (on evolution, for example) and a rejection of the morals of Hollywood and liberal elites took hold among millennial Christians, many of whom feel politically alienated and beat up by mainstream media. They are natural targets for QAnon.

There’s no hard data on how many Christians espouse QAnon. But Ed Stetzer, executive director of the Billy Graham Center at Wheaton College, noted that distrust of mainstream news sources “can feed a penchant for conspiracy theories.”

A 2018 poll from BGC found that 46% of self-identified evangelicals and 52% of those whose beliefs tagged them as evangelical “strongly agreed that the mainstream media produced fake news.” It also found that regular church attendance (at least once a month) correlated to believing that mainstream media promulgates fake news (77% compared with 68% of those who attend less regularly).

Jared Stacy said the spread of conspiracy theories in his church is particularly affecting young members. The college and young adult pastor of Spotswood Baptist Church in Fredericksburg, Virginia, Stacy said some older members are sharing Facebook content that links the coronavirus to Jeffrey Epstein and secret pedophile rings. He says his and other pastors’ job is to teach that conspiracy theories are not where Christians should find a basis for reality.

“My fear … is that Jesus would not be co-opted by conspiracy theories in a way that leads the next generation to throw Jesus out with the bathwater,” Stacy said, “that we’re not able to separate the narrative of taking back our country from Jesus’ kingdom narrative.”

Others are concerned the theories will become grounds for more mistrust. “Young people are exiting the church because they see their parents and mentors and pastors and Sunday school teachers spreading things that even at a young age they can see through,” said Jeb Barr, the senior pastor of First Baptist Church of Elm Mott outside Waco, Texas. He said conspiracy theories are “extremely widespread and getting worse” among his online church networks.

“Why would we listen to my friend Joe … who’s telling me about Jesus who also thinks that Communists are taking over America and operating a pedophile ring out of a pizza restaurant? … Why would we be believed?”

But Barr and other pastors I spoke with are reticent to police church members’ social media conduct. Instead, they try to teach broader principles. “Christians are meant to be agents of hope, to be peacemakers; the Bible says we’re not to be quarrelsome,” said Barr. “We’re not to be the ones spreading fear and division and anger.”

Barr also teaches critical thinking skills and encourages his members to read “boring news.” He will recommend news sources that are credible.

But teaching media literacy isn’t enough, precisely because QAnon thrives on a narrative of media cover-up.

Fugitt said it’s not effective to tell conspiracy spreaders that what they are sharing online is false. “Nobody joins a cult. I don’t think anybody shares a conspiracy theory either because they believe it’s truth.” Rather, he tries to address the dehumanizing language of QAnon theories that equate certain people with evil. History is replete with examples of where such language can lead.

“I can’t hate another person, but boy if I can make them less than human, that’s the Crusades, that’s Jewish persecution throughout history, that’s racial issues hand over fist there.”

In a fraught political moment, the pastors I spoke with worried that taking on QAnon, by addressing politics directly, would divide the church.

But QAnon is more than a political ideology. It’s a spiritual worldview that co-opts many Christian-sounding ideas to promote verifiably false claims about actual human beings.

QAnon has features akin to syncretism — the practice of blending traditional Christian beliefs with other spiritual systems, such as Santeria. Q explicitly uses Bible verses to urge adherents to stand firm against evil elites. One charismatic church based in Indiana hosts two-hour Sunday services showing how Bible prophecies confirm Q’s messages. Its leaders tell the congregation to stop watching mainstream media (even conservative media) in favor of QAnon YouTube channels and the Qmap website.

And it’s having life-and-death effects: It’s hampering the work of anti-sex trafficking organizations. The FBI has linked it to violence and threats of violence. And its adherents are downplaying the threat of COVID and thus putting others’ lives at risk.

The earliest Christians contended with syncretism in the form of Gnosticism, which blended elements of Greek philosophy and Zoroastrianism with Christianity, emphasizing the good-evil spirit-flesh divide as well as secret divine knowledge (Greek: gnosis is “knowledge”). Early church fathers such as Irenaeus and Tertullian battled Gnostic ideas, rejecting them as heresy.

At a time when church leaders are having to host digital church and try to meet members’ needs virtually, the idea of adding “fight heresy” to their to-do list might sound exhausting. But a core calling of church leaders is to speak the truth in love. It’s not loving to allow impressionable people to be taken in by falsehood. Nor is it loving to allow them to spread falsehood and slander to others.

“Conspiracy theories thrive on a sort of cynicism that says, ‘We see a different reality that no one else sees,’” said Stacy. “Paul says to take every thought captive — addressing conspiracy theories is part of that work.”

(Katelyn Beaty is a former managing editor of Christianity Today and the author of “A Woman’s Place.” The views expressed in this commentary do not necessarily represent those of Religion News Service.)

This content was originally published here.

[uniquequotesonlife]

13 Things We Learned About Travel by Watching Star Wars

View photos Luke yearns to get away over a binary sunset. (Video: Benguitar9000/YouTube) Are you excited yet about Star Wars: Episode VII — The Force Awakens? We sure are!  So when someone tells me they’re going to try traveling someplace soon, I give them my best Yoda impersonation: “DO or do not. There is no try.” With J.J. Abrams revving up the Star Wars hype machine again, it got us at Yahoo Travel thinking about how the original films are as much a travel guide as they are a classic mythological space opera. We see diverse lands and fascinating modes of transportation, all in a story sparked by one farm boy looking far, far away to the heavens with wanderlust. You don’t think we can come up with 10 travel lessons learned from Star Wars? As Han Solo once said, never tell me the odds! Here are 13 of them that will teach you a Jedi’s wisdom when on the road, inspired by the thousands of times I’ve watched the original trilogy (no dorks here!). One note: I’ve purged most of the prequel movies from my memory in protest to George Lucas, but I do include one romance-related reference to them here. Han Solo was the original Uber

(Video: Daniel M. Kobayashi/YouTube) Ride sharing was cool in the Star Wars films long before their geeky fans in Silicon Valley thought of it. Obi-Wan didn’t use an app to find Han, but he did go to a part of town where rent-a-pilots were known to congregate, and he arranged to ride a vehicle driven by its cocky owner. Notice any parallels? When Han found out they were running from the Empire, he even used surge pricing on them! How much more Uber can you get? Can’t you just picture Princess Leia calling CEO Travis Kalanick a “scruffy-looking nerf herder”? Related: Go Far, Far Away to See Where the New ‘Star Wars’ Was Filmed Also like Han, Uber shoots first at its critics, and it’s known to keep a secret compartment or two. We just hope Uber will follow his lead and learn that underneath that bad-boy exterior, the company has a heart of gold. (We’re not holding our breath.) One thing is for sure: Anyone would give the Millennium Falcon a five-star rating. If you must lie to customs, play it cool

(Video: Daniel M. Kobayashi/YouTube) Repeat after me: “These aren’t the Cuban cigars you’re looking for.” Maybe you shouldn’t risk it with American customs, but travel to enough countries and you’re probably going to need to employ some Jedi mind tricks against sketchy border-control people. In my case it was the officers at the Syrian airport six years ago, when I had to calmly deny my father was from Syria — had they known the truth, under law I could have been drafted in the Syrian army even though I was born in the U.S. Talk about going to the Dark Side. Pack a versatile wardrobe for any occasion

(Video: Stormcab/YouTube) We’ve got to hand it to Princess Leia — in addition to being the kick-ass, courageous leader of a rebellion against an evil government, she can really pick an outfit. When she was dodging Imperial starships in Episode IV, she was dressed in a practical white robe with that iconic hair bun; on frigid Hoth in Episode V, she wore smart layers. And when cavorting with Ewoks in Return of the Jedi? She was all about that camo look, baby. And all this was despite most of her wardrobe getting blown up on Alderaan! Preadolescent boys like me were most intrigued by Leia’s Slave Girl outfit while trapped on Jabba’s sail barge in Jedi. But we’re not going there, OK? Resist the temptation to have an unplanned wedding when you travel

(Video: Daniel Ard/YouTube) Hey, girlfriend, I understand how you feel traveling with that guy you’re dating. He’s tall, handsome, and saying super-romantic things such as, “I don’t like sand.” You’re light years from home and alone with this person, surrounded by digitally enhanced scenery. Sure, he had one bad night and slaughtered some innocent locals, and he hinted at his desire to become a galactic dictator. But just look at those eyes! And it’s like he can read your mind! Don’t jump into any big relationship decisions without getting back to reality and giving it some thought. Padme didn’t follow that advice, and she got married on the road to a future Sith Lord who knocked her up, then indirectly murdered her. Don’t go into bad neighborhoods by yourself or without telling someone

(Video: joncarr/YouTube) Luke learns this the hard way when he takes his landspeeder into the Jundland Wastes, chasing after Artoo without even telling his aunt and uncle. True, he wasn’t technically alone, but would you want C-3PO having your back in a fight? We’re not saying you should stick to tourist areas when you travel — some of the best experiences are off the beaten path — but have a sidekick and make sure you know exactly how you’d get out of a hairy situation. Luke got bailed out not once but twice when you include his kerfuffle at the Mos Eisley Cantina, but we don’t all have exiled Jedi Masters looking out for us, now do we? No, really, Luke ��� DON’T go into dangerous places by yourself!

(Video: schultzstudio/YouTube) Yup, he did it again in The Empire Strikes Back, only this time in the snow at his tauntaun’s expense. Luke gets bailed out more times than American banks. If you’re traversing any desolate, icy terrain, have someone to help you fight off Wampa creatures so Han Solo doesn’t need to rescue you. When traveling with the boss, DO NOT slack off

(Video: DRMMRI14/YouTube) It might start with sleeping in before the conference. Then you have a couple too many drinks at the hotel bar and embarrass yourself. Before you know it, you’re pulling out of hyperspace too close and letting your sworn enemies know you’re there. Then this happens, and you’ve failed your boss for the last time. And remember, the Emperor is not as forgiving as he is. Don’t crash at a friend’s house unless you’re on good terms

(Video: Canale di BenguitarBis/YouTube) We understand Han and the gang didn’t exactly have an Airbnb search at their disposal while ducking Star Destroyers in The Empire Strikes Back. But by his own admission he didn’t trust his frenemy Lando and hadn’t spoken with him lately, yet he chose to fly to Bespin anyway. All that got him was betrayal, electroshock torture, and a frozen date with Boba Fett. Lando did redeem himself by saving Han, but still. A general rule: If it’s been more than a couple of years since you talked to the person, don’t ask to crash with them if you don’t fully trust them.   Back up your photos and video as you travel … just in case you’re attacked by a Star Destroyer

(Video: QuoteTheGuy/YouTube) When most of us travel, we accumulate files that we can’t risk losing: a photo of that glorious beach sunset, a video of your kids playing in a Parisian fountain, a blueprint to destroy the same Death Star that blew up your home planet. You know, typical souvenirs. Princess Leia knows this, as demonstrated by the way she quickly reacted to Darth Vader’s boarding party by saving the Rebel plans inside the most reliable flash drive in the galaxy, R2-D2. Even if you don’t have an astromech droid handy, carry a USB memory stick with lots of space. You can find Zen in exotic places … with the right instructor

GIF11 (Video: Canale di BenguitarBis/YouTube) Luke Skywalker was not into glamping. He flew to an ugly swamp to learn how to untap his spiritual potential from a cranky old guide who was on his back all the time. But what a guide Yoda was, and despite a frustrating start and that one bad trip where he saw his evil father’s face as his own, Luke emerged a far stronger and wiser person ready to take on the universe. Plus Yoda showed him how to get your vehicle out of the mud. When you’re shopping at a mobile flea market in the desert, inspect the merchandise closely

Would you buy a droid from these guys? (Courtesy: Wookieepedia) While the pre-Jedi Luke Skywalker was trying to whine his way out of the Jawa market — “But I was going to Toshi Station to pick up some power converters!”— Uncle Owen was the one who questioned and picked out C-3P0, the most overqualified farm droid ever, because Threepio spoke the right language. This was the right call. On the other hand, Owen passed on R2-D2 for that defective red look-alike droid without a good inspection. Thankfully the droid broke down on the spot, so they were able to exchange it for Luke’s future X-Wing copilot. Related: Eye Massagers and Star Wars Toasters — Odd Gifts From SkyMall for the Holiday Season Really, Owen and Luke should have known better. It’s not like the Jawas were Amazon, with a credible return policy: They were fly-by-night merchants. When you’re traveling through a foreign town and dealing with a street vendor you’ll never see again, you need to trust but verify. Be friendly with the locals and they may help you out of a jam

The cutest secret weapons you ever saw. (Courtesy: Wookieepedia) I tried going through this article without an Ewok reference — they’re my least favorite part of the original movies, and it’s hard to believe that a family of teddy bears could take down the Empire. Still, there’s a lesson to be learned here: While the Empire threatened the Ewoks, Leia befriended them, which swung the odds in the Rebels’ favor in the Battle of Endor. A parsec is a measurement of travel time … or is it? We confess, we’re not sure what the lesson is here, but it needs to be said in any mention of Star Wars and travel. As Han Solo tries to price-gouge Obi-Wan and Luke for a ride on the Falcon, he brags that his ship is so fast, it “made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs.” Only thing is, a parsec is a unit of distance, not time. It’s kind of like saying, “My car is so fast, I drove from San Francisco to Los Angeles in less than 400 miles!” Either this was a rookie math mistake by George Lucas, a con attempt by Han, or something else: Han shortening the Kessel Run from 18 parsecs to 12 by bravely flying close to black holes. We’ll probably never know, and nerds like me will be debating it years from now in our nursing homes. source Read the full article

[blacknerdproblems]

*Some plot spoilers for the Jupiter Series*

Holiday weekends, in theory, or in the imagined psychic lie I construct for myself are supposed to be super productive days. I spend the waking hours of the work week doing a job that does not feed my creative necessities, so being off for three days or more should be my “get shit done” days. But instead, at the praising and properly hyped recommendation from Black Nerd Problems contributor Ja-Quan, I found myself instead venturing into my comics to do list. I had only meant to read the first couple of issues of Jupiter’s Legacy. I had only meant to read the first volume of Jupiter’s Legacy. I had only meant to see how Jupiter’s Circle started. Within a few hours, I had read the entire series, including the Legacy volume 2 conclusion, the single issue that released this week. Yes, Mark Millar is a brilliant and innovative writer. This is a known and verifiable thing. I wasn’t surprised at the efficient and beautiful locomotion of the story. I was most drawn in by the proposal and questioning of legacy itself, as it’s something I feel the grip of each and every day.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.*

Jupiter’s Legacy essentially begins with a Macbethian story: the plot to murder a king. After being granted powers on a remote island during the 1930s, the Utopian, the world’s greatest hero leads America back to prominence. For a time. Along with his fellow heroes (once dubbed the Union), time has moved even if the Utopian and his puritan ideals have not. He’s a father of two children, both inheriting superior powers, both initially unable to live up to their father’s incorruptibility. Eventually, the Utopian has alienated enough people over a long enough time line they have imagined a world that continues to spin without him in it, with his own son Brandon providing the final wound on the senate floor.

Reading through this series, I realized that I am no one and everyone in these panels. While this story is of course wrapped in flight, heat vision, telekinesis and stakes of the entire world hung above the head of its characters, it is at its core about parenting and parentage. To know me for a day is to know that I think that my father is a brilliant man. And while either encouraging or a detriment to that statement, I am also aware that I am very much my father’s son.

While this story is of course wrapped in flight, heat vision, telekinesis and stakes of the entire world hung above the head of its characters, it is at its core about parenting and parentage. I graduated with my undergrad from The Ohio State University at the age of 34. My father graduated with his Master’s Degree in chemistry before he turned 24.

By the time he was 30, my mother and him were sacrificing a lot on the way to lifting us (and my yet to be born sister) from the previous lower economic state that both of their families existed in. He ascended highly within his job, a fortune 100 company and worked tirelessly there and at home, all of which was a precursor to my sister and I having little excuse to not succeed in some fashion once we left the nest. My father, who is a good man was, and is, far from the pillar of humanity that is depicted by The Utopian in the Jupiter series. I am not the colossal fuck up filled with jealousy and murderous intent that was the Utopian’s son Brandon.

We do, exist somewhere in the space between the Gods and the Earth they dare not land upon. My father seized on his potential early, while I floated in the undisciplined current downstream from the waterfall he conducted. And yes, I’m aware that is not a condemnation of me, that I was not a failure because I didn’t become my father, at least not at the speed he did. But once, I was a boy with a father. And once, I was a boy with my father’s gifts cloaked in the tower of what he had achieved thus far. No amount of self esteem makes those constructs disappear overnight.

Read on here [x]

[poipoi1912]

Barisi Episode Tag, 18x17

(Yes, I know Barba wasn’t in this episode. No, I didn’t let that stop me.)

(10.8K. Rafael POV. Fluffy and angst-free. Inspired by Sonny and Rafael wearing almost the exact same outfit, and then wearing literally the exact same outfit. Also inspired by my need to justify why Rafael was missing from Real Fake News, even though Liv needed him. Lastly, in this story I attempt to explain Rafael's softened personality in S18. So this is the Barba version of Flan, I suppose. Oh and, this is sort of a prequel-tag to the finale. It'll make sense when you read it.)

Please enjoy.

~~~

Snapping

~~~

“Is he here yet?”

“No, Mr. Barba. Not yet. I’ll send him in, as soon as he arrives.”

Rafael sighs.

He’s pretty sure Carmen would sigh too, if she weren’t the consummate professional that she is. He’s asked her five times, already, and the meeting isn’t for another ten minutes.

He can’t help it.

Rafael can’t help feeling nervous.

Frustrated.

Useless.

It’s not his case.

He knows that.

It can’t be his case.

Rafael had to quietly recuse himself.

Again.

He knows his record is taking a hit. A last-minute recusal due to blackmail, and then a month-long suspension due to prior misconduct, and then another recusal, due to Rafael’s ‘personal connection’ to the case.

Rafael remembers a time when his record was spotless.

A time when his conviction rate was the envy of every A.D.A. across five boroughs.

A time when he was ambitious, and up-and-coming, and thirsty for victory.

Rafael remembers a time when he didn’t have any personal connections.

At all.

A time when he made enemies in every precinct, because he based his decisions on logic, and odds, and cold hard facts.

Now, Rafael makes friends.

Somehow.

Now, he lets himself get talked into some decisions.

Decisions like getting almost baseless warrants, and prosecuting creeps when the law isn’t quite on his side, and trying cases no one else would touch with a ten-foot pole.

The worst part is, Rafael has no regrets.

He thinks he should, but he doesn’t.

He’s not sure what that means.

If he’s evolved, or devolved.

If he’s become a better person, or a worse prosecutor.

Or both.

Either way, he has no regrets.

None, except for the deterioration of his relationship with the District Attorney, who was not amused when Rafael asked for another recusal, so soon after the last one.

It was bound to happen. Even the world’s most understanding boss can be pushed to the brink. And Rafael has been pushing, for months now. Years, maybe. There’s still trust between them, at least, and some residual fondness, but long gone are the days when Rafael used to be the golden child.

Now he’s the black sheep.

It was bound to happen.

Rafael has no regrets.

He only wishes he could help more.

Work more.

Rafael has only worked one case with Manhattan SVU, in over two months.

One single case.

He’s always on the sidelines.

Always asking for a favor.

It’s a good thing he has friends, now.

The D.A. may not have been amused, but when Rafael asked him to withhold the reasons for both recusals, to protect innocent third parties, he did it without a second thought.

The other A.D.A.’s may not enjoy the heavier caseload, but they always agree to cover for Rafael, whenever he needs to step down.

Rafael appreciates it.

He only wishes it didn’t have to happen so often.

Other prosecutors, trying his cases.

It’s his job.

It’s not theirs.

It’s Rafael’s job to work with Manhattan SVU. It’s his life’s purpose.

Still.

He has no regrets.

He has no choice.

Liv and Noah are more important.

Rafael has to protect them.

That’s why he had to recuse himself. Rafael had to make sure Liv’s privacy and Noah’s lineage were protected. He had to keep himself away from this case, because his very involvement could open the door to some unfortunate revelations.

Duca may be a crackpot, but he has access to a variety of means. Legal and illegal. Money. Crazies with guns. Hackers for hire. If Rafael’s name were to be thrown in the mix, it wouldn’t take long for Duca to put it all together.

To target Liv more aggressively.

More accurately.

Knowledge is power. The less Duca knows, the better.

Rafael prosecuted Noah’s biological father.

Duca doesn’t know that.

If he did, if Duca ever got wind of that, they could all be in trouble. If Duca were to hire someone to look into Noah’s adoption paperwork, sealed or otherwise, he’d find Johnny D.’s name right there, in bold letters. All because Liv just had to be honest. A good hacker could get the job done in minutes. Rafael has been burned before.

And he’d get burned again.

Rafael would be the very next person implicated, as the prosecutor in Johnny D.’s trial. As the same prosecutor who wouldn’t take on Congressman Bolton, because unsubstantiated claims on a hokey website aren’t exactly hard evidence.

That would paint a target on his back.

Duca would have a field day trying to discredit him.

Trying to discredit Liv, too.

It wouldn’t even be that difficult.

The ingredients for a scandal are all there.

Liv ‘just happened’ to personally arrest Johnny D., the biological father of the child she was in the process of adopting.

Rafael, Liv’s close personal friend, a fact that’s easily verifiable, ‘just happened’ to prosecute that same man, offering a suspiciously favorable plea deal, just to manipulate him into relinquishing his parental rights.

Nick Amaro, another one of Liv’s personal friends, not to mention her direct subordinate, ‘just happened’ to shoot and kill Johnny D. in the middle of a crowded courtroom, effectively rendering Noah ‘fatherless,’ as Duca likes to say.

Rendering Noah ‘available.’

There for the taking.

That’s how Duca would frame it. He’d start peddling a new theory. Forget being bribed with babies, Duca would claim Liv set everything up, from arrest to prosecution to murder, just so she could get rid of Noah’s biological father. No need to wait for the courts to decide on custody. Duca would say Liv took it upon herself to make sure she wouldn’t have to drive little Noah to Rikers for parental visitation until his eighteenth birthday.

That’s what Duca would say.

That’s how a wild conspiracy theory would turn into a real story.

Or ‘real.’

These days, there’s not much of a difference.

Rafael can only imagine that headline.

‘Killer Cop Steals Baby.’

Or something to that effect.

Liv doesn’t need that. The ‘real’ fake headline is bad enough.

Let Duca take shots in the dark. Let him post salacious nonsense about ‘flesh’ and using babies as bargaining chips. Let him make a fool of himself.

Rafael will not give him any information he can use.

Rafael will just sit in his office, frustrated and useless, and wait for th-

“Hey, counselor! Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. Carmen said I should come right in.”

Carisi.

Finally.

Finally, an update.

“How’s Liv?”

Rafael instantly regrets the bluntness of the question. The lack of a greeting. He skipped the pleasantries to save time, but he suspects he only made things worse. They’ll waste even more time, now. Carisi will probably scoff and say something like, ‘Well, hello to you too, Barb-

“She’s good. She’s mad, but she’s good. Especially now that she and Amanda got their kids to New Jersey, until this whole thing blows over. It’s all good. It’s gonna take a lot more than some hack with a website to rattle Liv. Don’t worry about her, Barba. We got her back.”

Oh.

Carisi didn’t waste time. He got straight to the point.

Sometimes Rafael forgets Carisi worries about Liv, too.

“I know, Carisi. I’m jus-”

“You’re just frustrated ‘cause you can’t help. I hear ya.”

Straight to the point, yet again.

Sometimes Rafael forgets Carisi knows him too well.

“Frustrated? Me? Why on earth would I be frustrated, Carisi? Because I had to recuse myself again, five minutes after my suspension? Because that lowlife is posting that drivel about Liv and I can’t prosecute his ass? Because I’m off the case, and out of the loop, and I have to sit here and wait for you to grace me with your presence, if I want to know what’s going on?”

Carisi smiles in sympathy and starts unbuttoning his coat.

Rafael wishes he hadn’t said that.

One smile from Carisi, and Rafael regrets snapping.

Carisi hasn’t even sat down yet.

Carisi rushed to the D.A.’s office, all the way from the precinct, just to give Rafael an update in person.

Carisi is winded, which Rafael is only now noticing. It’s like he literally ran there. In fact, knowing Carisi, that’s probably exactly what he did. At the very least, he must have jogged there from his car.

Carisi had no reason to even show up, let alone come running.

Carisi is doing Rafael a favor, out of the goodness of his heart, and he was so eager to get there he’s still trying to catch his breath, and Rafael saw it fit to chew him out for not getting there earlier.

Carisi wasn’t even late.

Rafael sighs.

Carisi has been there for a minute, now, and he’s still standing, and he’s still in his coat and scarf, because Rafael is a very ungracious host.

Rafael hasn’t even said hello.

He hasn’t even asked how Carisi is doing. How things are, back at the precinct, now that two members of the squad are being targeted like this.

It can’t be easy.

Carisi is empathetic to a fault, and he always gets worked up when a case involves children, so this can’t be easy for him, either. And Fin, too. He’s been especially sensitive to children, ever since he became a grandfather. That’s according to Carisi’s random blathering, at least. Rafael has yet to witness said sensitivity in person.

Probably because he has only worked one case with SVU, in over two months.

Anyway.

Now that Rafael has remembered his manners, not to mention his own empathy, or something close to it, he’ll ask Carisi all about it.

As soon as Carisi takes a seat.

As soon as Carisi takes off that coat, maybe the jacket, too, and gets comfortable in Rafael’s leather armchair.

That’s what they do. Carisi sits in the armchair, with his jacket draped over one of its arms, and Rafael sits on the couch, and they’re so close their knees sometimes touch, and they rely on the coffee table to keep them apart.

That’s what they do.

They huddle together over that damn table, over piles of paper and cups of coffee and half-eaten pastries, always courtesy of Carisi, and they work.

They talk. 

Carisi did just show up empty-handed, but Rafael is sure that’s because he didn’t want to be late.

It doesn’t matter.

It’s not about the coffee.

Well, most of the time it is about the coffee, at least as far as Rafael is concerned, but it’s not just about the coffee.

Rafael doesn’t let anyone else sit in his armchair.

Only Carisi.

That chair, that expensive leather chair, it’s an antique. It’s Rafael’s favorite spot, in his entire office. It’s his spot. It’s where he always sits when he wants to relax and enjoy a glass of bourbon.

Unless Carisi is there.

Rafael doesn’t mind it when Carisi plops down on that elegant chair like it’s a crusty futon in a dorm room.

Carisi likes sitting in that armchair.

Or on Rafael’s actual desk.

Those are the two only places he deems worthy of his ass, for some reason.

The perfectly comfortable chairs across Rafael’s desk, specifically placed there to seat visitors, they’re no good for Carisi.

Rafael doesn’t mind that, either.

He understands why Carisi does it.

It’s the distance.

Those chairs are too far away. That’s why Rafael never gets up from behind his desk for a perp, or a defense attorney, or a politician.

The distance between Rafael’s seat and those chairs, it establishes an air of formality. Coldness. The desk itself, it’s a symbol of power. The nameplate serves as a reminder of who Rafael is, and it should be clearly visible to his guests, at all times.

That doesn’t apply to Carisi.

Carisi knows who Rafael is.

No reminder necessary.

That’s why Rafael always gets up for him.

To eliminate the distance.

Carisi is already hovering over the armchair, so Rafael gets on his feet. Maybe he can’t have his favorite spot now that Carisi is there to occupy it, but the couch is a decent substitute.

Rafael hasn’t even sat down yet, when Carisi lamentably takes off his red scarf.

That’s always the first thing he does, every time he wears it. Rafael noticed it a while back. Carisi almost looks uncomfortable wearing it, for some reason, even though it looks fantastic against his pale skin. It’s too loud for him, maybe. Maybe Carisi feels the red attracts too much attention.

Rafael happens to think that a hint of red attracts just the right amount of attention, but being a snazzy dresser isn’t for everyone.

As if to prove that, Carisi proceeds to take off his generic navy pea coat, revealing a dull but passable brown suit underneath.

Carisi starts unbuttoning his jacket, too, and Rafael settles down on the couch, where the view of a disrobing Carisi is a little bit better.

At least Carisi is wearing a blue shirt today. That’s something, even if the shade of the blue tie he’s chosen doesn’t add much to the ensemble. It brings out Carisi’s eyes, and that’s good enough.

Rafael always thought Carisi should wear blue more often, but there’s just something about off-white, apparently. Carisi loves it. White, whiter, a little less white, white-ish, beige if Carisi is feeling adventurous. Rafael never understood why so many people are afraid of color.

The one and only saving grace in Carisi’s wardrobe are those vests he wears, on an almost daily basis. A good vest is the easiest way to elevate a plain outfit. Carisi’s actually wearing a nice brown vest today, and th…

Wait.

“What are you wearing, Carisi?”

Carisi grins as he finally sinks into Rafael’s armchair, coat and jacket and scarf haphazardly thrown behind him.

“What’s it look like I’m wearing, Barba? A suit.”

Uh-huh.

“Any reason you’re wearing that particular suit? Today?”

Carisi shrugs and starts rolling up his sleeves.

Slowly.

Innocently.

It’s not convincing in the least. His grin alone is damning evidence.

“I don’t know. I just thought it looked good. Why? You don’t think it looks good, counselor?”

This feigned nonchalance does nothing to help Carisi’s case.

Rafael is onto him.

“It looks fine. On any other day, I might even compliment you on it.”

Carisi frowns.

“What, you’re not gonna compliment me today? Guess I got all dressed up for nothin’.”

Rafael barely stops himself before rolling his eyes.

“I might as well compliment myself, Carisi. Seeing as we’re wearing the exact same outfit.”

Carisi’s poker face is impressive.

He assumes a completely neutral expression, like he has no idea what Rafael is talking about.

There’s no reaction at all, as Rafael loosens up his own blue tie, and fiddles with the lapel of his own brown vest, and starts undoing the cuffs of his own blue shirt, that’s a perfect shade match for Caris-

“The exact same outfit? That’s kind of a reach, Barba. We’re both wearin’ a brown suit. You, me, and half the guys in this building.”

Right.

“Right. And the shirt?”

The corners of Carisi’s lips move. It’s a small flinch, but it’s enough to make his dimples show, just for a second.

“What about it? You got the exclusive on blue shirts?”

This time, Rafael does roll his eyes.

“I have the exclusive on the clothes I’m currently wearing.”

Carisi finally breaks.

Into a smile.

“I never said you didn’t.”

Rafael sighs.

“No. You just happened to pick this outfit. Today.”

Carisi’s dimples appear again.

“Yep. You said it, counselor. I picked it. Guess we both got great taste.”

There’s an irony in that statement, and Rafael appreciates it.

He does not appreciate copycats.

“At least take off the vest, Carisi. We look like twins.”

Carisi grins, probably because he knows they do not look like twins.

Not by a long shot.

They just look like two grown men who are wearing matching outfits, for some reas-

“Twins? Nah. More like one half of a barbershop quartet.”

Of course.

Why didn’t Rafael think of that?

“Come on, Carisi. Enough with the jokes. We can’t walk around in the same outfit all day.”

Carisi keeps grinning.

“Why not? It’s not like we’re gonna spend the day together. You can’t work this case, which means you won’t be coming to the precinct. So what if we’re wearing similar outfits? Who’s gonna know?”

Carisi is sticking to his story.

‘Similar.’

‘Similar’ outfits, even though their suits are pretty much the same shade of brown, and their vests are near-identical, save for the fact Rafael’s vest has a silk back, and they’re both wearing foulard ties in a muted dark blue, and Carisi is literally wearing the same exact shirt as Rafael, just in a different size.

Rafael takes solace in the fact Carisi’s foulard is more understated and basic, whereas his own has a bolder and more eye-catching pattern.

Well, some solace.

“I’ll know, Carisi.”

Carisi snorts.

He’s enjoying this.

Rafael is not.

“Maybe I won’t come to the precinct, but you came here. You are here, in my office. What if one of my colleagues sees you? Sees us, in our ‘similar’ outfits?”

Carisi is still all smiles.

Rafael would smile back, but he doesn’t want to give Carisi the satisfaction. Even though it’s hard not to smile b-

“What, you’re afraid somebody’s gonna see our outfits look kinda similar, and that’ll reflect poorly on ya? ‘Cause you’ll be wearing the same thing as me? ‘Cause the stylish Rafael Barba put together the same outfit as Dominick Carisi, Jr.?”

Oh no.

Rafael hadn’t even thought of that.

“I hadn’t even thought of that.”

Carisi cracks up, likely at the panicked expression on Rafael’s face.

“Sorry to cramp your style, counselor. Guess you’re gonna have to live with it.”

That is true on so many levels.

“I will do no such thing, Carisi. You will fix this.”

Carisi smirks, like he has absolutely no intention of fixing this.

“Fix this? What do you want me to say, Barba? Wait, I know. You wore it best. Congrats. Alright? Did I fix it? Are we good?”

They are not good.

“You’ve had your fun, detective. Now take off that vest.”

Carisi keeps smirking, like he has absolutely no intention of taking off that vest.

Which is a shame.

For a moment, Rafael pictures Carisi gettin-

“No way. If one of us has to change, it’s gotta be you. You’re the one with the problem. I don’t mind us matching.”

Resisting a smile wasn’t easy for Rafael, but resisting a sneer is impossible.

“Clearly.”

Carisi chuckles.

“I’m serious, Barba. If you’re so offended, you change. Besides, I can’t take off the vest. Vests are my thing.”

Okay.

Now Carisi is just messing with him.

“I wore vests when you were in kindergarten. I doubt you even owned a vest before you met me. Vests are my thing.”

Carisi dares to raise an eyebrow.

It’s not enough he’s copying Rafael’s outfits, now he’s moved on to copying Rafael’s expressions, too, and th-

“I thought suspenders were your thing.”

One of these days, Rafael swears he’s going to reassert himself. Carisi has gotten way too comfortable.

“They are. I have many ‘things,’ Carisi. Unlike you. I have suspenders, and floral ties, and pocket squares, and pastel polo shirts. And vests. So take it off. Now.”

Carisi blinks.

His lips come apart.

It’s probably an involuntary reaction to Rafael’s commanding tone.

Carisi is probably imagining Rafael uttering those same words, in that same tone, under very different circumstances, and that has to be more than a little distracting.

Looks like Rafael just found a quick way to gain the upper hand w-

“You’re makin’ my point for me, counselor. You got many things. Vests are my one and only thing. Ergo, you should change.”

Oh.

Looks like Rafael has a long way to go until he can reestablish dominance over Carisi.

That’s alright.

There’s plenty of time.

For now, Rafael will keep it simple. A classic taunt should do.

“Ergo?”

Carisi laughs quietly.

Happily.

Rafael smiles, after all.

These little moments, over the coffee table, these little conversations, Carisi’s jokes, Carisi’s dimples, deep lines cutting into his skin, almost as deep as those frown lines on his forehead, they’re a pretty good reason to smile.

The only reason, sometimes.

When Rafael is suspended or otherwise sidelined, when he can’t work, when he can’t help, when he can’t find anything else in his life that’s good, these little talks with Carisi, they do the trick.

“Did you honestly think using Latin would win you this argument, detective?”

Carisi is still laughing.

He’s close enough to touch, now, he’s leaning all the way forward, and Rafael thinks th-

“Worth a shot. Hey, instead of me takin’ off the vest, and ruining my signature look, why don’t you just grab somethin’ out of your stash? We’re in your office. Don’t you have a spare shirt you can change into, or something? A shirt that’s a different color? Or another tie? Don’t you have, I don’t know, an extra pair of suspenders lying around? In case of a fashion emergency?”

Rafael doesn’t even know where to begin. ‘Fashion emergency,’ or the ridiculous notion that Carisi has a ‘signature look.’

“I put a lot of thought into this ensemble, Carisi. I refuse to defile it with mismatched accessories, just because of you. And, yes, I did keep an extra pair of suspenders here, but I had to use them. You see, there was an emergency, the other day. Right here, actually. On this couch. The pair I was wearing at the time, it snapped. The back piece was torn off. The leather flap was frayed. Ruined. They were custom made, too. They had great sentimental value. Such a pity.”

Carisi leans even closer, like he’s intrigued. Like he wants to know more about that mysterious ‘emergency’ on the couch. Carisi looks like he sympathizes. His brow is practically furrowed in concern.

Bullshit.

As if Carisi gives a damn about Rafael’s fancy accessor-

“That sucks.”

How poetic.

“It does suck. Especially because I’ve neglected to replace that pair, which means I’m all out of suspenders. Ergo, you should change.”

Carisi’s grin is getting very annoying. So what if Rafael felt like using Latin too? That doesn’t mean h-

“You’re still on that, Barba? Let it go. I gotta leave in a few minutes, anyway. Liv’s expecting me back at the station. I’ll make sure to button my coat before I go, all the way up. Alright? Nobody’s gonna see what I’m wearing.”

Oh.                                                              

Rafael’s reason to smile is about to walk out the door.

Story of his life.

At least he can trust Carisi to come back.

“Don’t be so sure, detective. Someone could still see your poor imitation of my outfit. Someone could walk into my office, before you leave. Right now, someon-”

Someone’s at the door.

Right now.

Someone’s knocking.

Carisi has the audacity to laugh.

“Come on, Barba, it’s just Carmen. She kn-”

“Mr. Barba, A.D.A. Caliay is here to see you.”

It is Carmen.

It is not, however, just Carmen.

It’s Rose, too.

To his credit, Carisi attempts to stifle his laughter. And he keeps his mouth shut, too.

Prudently.

Rafael is this close to telling him t-

“Mr. Barba? She says she doesn’t have much time.”

Of course she doesn’t.

“Let her in, Carmen.”

Carisi sits up and moves away, just a little.

Moves out of reach.

That’s all.

Carisi makes no attempt to fix this mess. To put on a jacket, at least.

There’s no way Rose won’t notice.

And she does.

As soon as she walks in, Rose stops in her tracks.

Well, first she looks at Rafael’s empty desk, and when she finds no one there, she turns to the armchair.

It’s Rafael’s favorite spot.

It’s where he always sits.

Unless Carisi is there.

Carisi is there, so Rose turns to the couch, and that’s when she finally sees Rafael. And Rafael’s outfit.

Her eyes immediately flit back to Carisi.

Then, back to Rafael.

Then, back to Carisi.

This goes on for several seconds.

Rose’s eyes, darting back and forth.

Her brain, trying to process what she’s seeing.

All the while, Carisi is just sitting pretty. Like nothing’s wrong. Like he and Rafael didn’t get caught wearing practically the same outfit.

Carisi is just smiling politely, or casually, or charmingly, or stupidly.

Or something.

Rafael’s smile is a little less charming, and a lot more fake.

Rose will definitely have some questions later.

This has never happened before.

Ever.

Rafael’s outfits are always unique, and creative, and striking. He always stands out among the other lawyers, not to mention the cops, with their basic blues and their gloomy greys and their washed out whit-

“Rafael, I, uh… I won’t keep you two… I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to give you an update on the Duca subpoena. Do you have time? Or are you… Am I interrupting? Are you guys working on something?”

Rafael can’t even lie.

He can’t pretend he’s working.

He can’t pretend Carisi is there for a case, even though that is kind of true.

Rose would never believe him.

Why would she?

Rafael and Carisi, they’re just lounging in their matching outfits. That’s what it looks like. That’s what it is. There are no case files on the table in front of them, no open folders, no scattered documents, no laptops. Even their phones are still tucked away in their pockets. Aside from them being colleagues, there’s nothing to suggest this is a work-related meeting.

There’s not even any coffee on the damn coffee table, which is there for that explicit purpose, and everybody knows Rafael Barba does not work without coffee.

Rafael and Carisi, they were too busy chatting to even pour themselves a cup.

They were too busy arguing.

Too busy flirting.

Carisi didn’t even give Rafael a real update on the case. Nothing after that first question about Liv. Rafael didn’t even ask a follow-up. He spent all morning worrying about her, but one vague, ‘she’s good,’ from Carisi, and Rafael felt perfectly reassured. That was the last they spoke of the case. Rafael moved on to something more fun, like arguing with Carisi about suspenders.

For fifteen minutes.

Carisi has a way of reassuring him.

Even when they’re arguing, which has been happening a little more lately, even when their arguments are legitimate, and serious, and not a thinly veiled attempt to flirt, even then, Carisi’s presence is reassuring.

Always.

Rafael always loses track of time, when they’re sitting in this little corner, in his office, over the coffee table that’s more of a prop and less of a t-

“Rafael? Are you busy? Because I am. I need to leave in about five minutes.”

Rose.

Right.

Rafael hasn’t said a word since she came in.

To say that’s embarrassing would be an understatement, and yet it’s not even the most embarrassing thing currently happening to him. That honor goes to Carisi’s quiet snort.

“No. No, go ahead, Rose. What did you want to tell me?”

Rose shoots Carisi another fleeting look, but she doesn’t ask if she can speak freely in front of him.

Rafael is glad. Carisi would find that very upsetting. He may not be an A.D.A., but h-

“I found a case I can use, to prevent Duca from blocking the subpoena. United States versus Sterling. ‘So long as a subpoena is issued in good faith, based on the legitimate need of law enforcement, the government need not make any special showing to obtain evidence, criminal conduct from a reporter in a criminal proceeding.’”

Oh.

That’s gr-

“That’s great, Rose! Even if the judge agrees to treat him like a legitimate journalist, the subpoena will stand. Because there’s a legit-”

“There’s a legitimate need for the information that’s on his hard drive. Exactly! Exactly, Carisi. We need that evidenc-”

“We need that evidence to save those girls. Yeah. That’s awesome! That’s a slam dunk! How did you find this case?”

Rafael isn’t even surprised.  

Rose was supposed to be updating him, but Carisi is the one who’s getting the detailed update. Carisi is the one who’s eagerly asking all the questions, and Rose seems equally eager to answer them.

Carisi’s stupid smile must be charming, after all.

At least Rose seems to think so. She cracks a smile of her own, a genuine, real smile, nothing like the awkward smile she’s been giving Rafael this whole time, and she starts explaining her research to Carisi, step by step. She even moves closer, to stand over him, and Carisi is looking up at her like she’s giving him the answer to life, the universe, and everything.

That’s nice.

For them.

Rafael remembers when he used to get excited over case law.

A long, long time ago.

Maybe he could be a little more helpful, when Carisi asks him these questions. A little less dismissive. A little more specific. He usually rattles off a case title and lets Carisi worry about finding it, let alone making sense of it. Rose is taking a more hands-on approach, citing journal articles and websites, and Carisi seems to be responding favorably. Hell, Carisi is half a second away from busting out the notepad, and that makes Rafael irrationally jealous.

Thankfully, the notepad stays in Carisi’s pocket.

Rafael likes to think the notepad is reserved just for him. Just for his pearls of wisdom, which Carisi always seems to lap up.

In truth, Carisi probably has no time to get his notepad. He’s too busy absorbing all that information. He’s too busy staring into Rose’s eyes.

Rose keeps talking.

She only stops when Carisi interrupts her to ask for clarification, and then she graciously elaborates.

Rafael never lets Carisi ask for clarification. And, as a mentor, he is anything but gracious.

He’s also anything but a mentor, but that’s a whole other issue.

Rose keeps on talking.

She said she only had five minutes to spare, but she appears to have forgotten that.

Rafael decides to remind her.

“That sounds good, Rose. A slam dunk, as Detective Carisi astutely observed. But shouldn’t you be heading out? I thought you were supposed to be in Motions Court in a few minutes.”

Rose frowns, like she really did forget. Or maybe like she lost track of time.

Rafael doesn’t blame her. Carisi has that effect on peopl-

“Right. Yeah, I’m heading out now. I just wanted to tell you about this in person. You said you wanted regular updates on the case, so I thought I’d drop by, on my way to court. It beats a phone call. I know this case is important to you.”

Rafael nods.

Even when he’s unable to work a case, for reasons out of his control, he has trusted colleagues who are his eyes and ears. Colleagues who can fill in for him, and take over his cases, and win, just like he would have.

Rafael has friends, like Rose.

Like Carisi.

People who know when something hits him hard.

People who want to help him feel less frustrated.

More involved.

That means a lot.

“I appreciate that, Rose. Really. You didn’t have to come by my office, but I’m glad you did. Thank you. And that was a great find. You’ll have no problem with the subpoena. Good job.”

Rose grins.

Her grin is almost Carisi-esque in its brightness.

Sometimes Rafael forgets Carisi isn’t the only one who admires him to an almost disturbing degree. There are several younger A.D.A.s at the Manhattan office, Rose being one of them, and they all look up to him. Any one of them would kill for such praise from the less-than-effusive Rafael Barba.

That thought should make Rafael feel good about himself, and it sort of does, but it also makes him feel old. Rose, and Carisi, for that matter, they’re from a different generat-

“Don’t mention it, Rafael. It’s my pleasure.”

Rafael smiles.

Carisi smiles too, for some reason. This smile isn’t stupid, though, or charming, or even polite.

It’s sweet.

Carisi is smiling sweetly, as he watches Rose and Rafael smiling at each other, and there’s currently way too much smiling happening in Rafael’s office.  

Carisi is smiling like he’s happy to know Rafael has friends, other than him.

Which is endearingly foolish.

Of course Rafael has friends. He has plenty of frien…

Well, he has a few friends, but they’re good ones. All of them.

Well, except for Caris…

No.

Carisi included.

Rafael knows he’s lucky to have Carisi in his life.

Most of the time.

Rafael is lucky to have multiple people who care enough to personally deliver updates in his office, instead of either calling or leaving him out of the loop entirely.

Carisi didn’t have to stop by.

Rose didn’t have to stop by.

They both did, for Rafael’s sake.

Out of the goodness of their hearts.

Actually, Rose is probably also hoping for a quid pro quo, at least if Rafael has taught her anything, but Carisi?

It’s just plain goodness.

Just heart.

It’s not ass-kissing anymore.

Carisi has stopped seeking Rafael’s approval, because somewhere down the line he found his footing. They found themselves on equal ground, which means Carisi no longer caters to Rafael’s every whim.

Now, when Carisi does something nice, when he helps Rafael with a kind word, or a smile, or some pastries and a triple espresso?

Now Carisi is pure of motive.

In some ways, at leas-

“Okay, I’ll be on my way. Carisi, always nice seeing you.”

Oh.

Rose is still there.

She’s still there, and her words might be cordial, but her smile is back to being awkward.

Possibly because she is no longer preoccupied by the case, or Carisi’s dimples, or Rafael’s compliments, so she’s back to wondering why the hell Rafael and Carisi are dressed exactly alike.

It’s bad enough they’ve had matching haircuts for almost a year, now.

Fortunately, Rose really is in a hurry, so she leaves without saying anything else.

Crisis averted.

For n-

“She’s great, huh? A.D.A. Caliay? She really knows her stuff.”

Carisi is grinning. If Rafael didn’t know any better, he’d be expecting Carisi to ask him for Rose’s number.

“Yes. She is great. And she also has eyes. Which means she saw our matching outfits.”

Carisi keeps grinning.

“Eh. So what. It was a coincidence.”

Of course it w-

“For all she knows.”

Rafael rolls his eyes. It’s his automatic reaction to Carisi’s nonsense.

“Shouldn’t you be heading out, Carisi? I thought you were supposed to be at the precinct right about now. Isn’t Liv expecting you?”

Carisi’s grin fades.

Maybe he lost track of time too.

Rafael regrets the fact so much of their meeting was spent arguing, and then listening to Rose’s informative but long-winded explanat-

“Yeah. I’m goin’. Listen, I just want you to know we got it all under control. There’s no need to worry. Alright? I know this is important to you, like Rose said. It’s personal. But we’re good. Liv’s good. She’s more than good. She’s got Duca runnin’ scared.”

Reassurance.

Carisi’s specialty.

Always.

Rafael remembers to ask, this time.

“How about you, Carisi? Are you handling this okay? It’s personal for you, too. I know Liv and Amanda are your friends. You love their kids. How are things at the precinct?”

Carisi’s grin reappears.

Sweet as ever.

“I’m alright, counselor. As for the precinct? I don’t know. I mean, the place ain’t the same without ya. First you had to recuse yourself from the Willard case, and then you got suspended for a month, and now you’re out again. If you stay gone any longer, we’re gonna forget what you look like. We miss you down at the 16th. A lot.”

Carisi is choosing his words very carefully.

‘We.’

‘The 16th.’

Well, somewhat carefully.

‘A lot.’

Carisi let that slip.

Rafael is determined not to react.

Carisi always does this.

He always lets his affection show, at the most inopportune moments.

It mostly happens when Rafael is anxious, or overwhelmed, or otherwise too distracted to see it coming.

Carisi’s sweet talk.

There’s been a lot of that lately.

Carisi keeps trying to sweet talk Rafael, at least when they’re not passionately arguing over interrogation methods or legal strategy or fashion accessories.

They’ve had their ups and downs, these last few months.

Carisi and Rafael both.

Death threats, and failed job interviews, and near-death experiences, and suspensions, and blackmail, and loss.

Things haven’t been easy.

Carisi keeps trying to make them a little easier.

It’s like he thinks his innocuous little comments are enough to make Rafael feel better.

They are.

They’re more than enough, but Carisi doesn’t need to know.

“Dry your eyes, Carisi. I’ll be back on the next case. Just try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”

Carisi smiles like he totally knows.

Like he knows he just made Rafael’s day, with two stupid words.

‘A lot.’

Rafael tried, but his insults aren’t as effective as they used to be.

They’re not as genuine, either.

Carisi knows that too.

Even so, Rafael decides to give sarcasm another shot.

“Also, and I know this won’t be easy, but please, when I come back, try not to wear the exact same thing as me.”

Carisi chuckles as he gets up. He looks all dimply and bright-eyed and totally unfazed. Rafael’s second attempt at an insult was as ineffective as the firs-

“No promises, counselor.”

Yeah.

“That’ll be all, detective.”

Carisi’s light chuckle turns into real laughter, and Rafael isn’t even mad. He may act like he wants Carisi gone, but the truth is self-evident.

The truth is, Rafael wants Carisi to stay.

Which is not something he can admit.

Not right now.

Not when they’re in the middle of this case, and Liv is waiting.

So Rafael just watches, silently, as Carisi rolls up his sleeves and puts on his jacket.

Finally.

Finally, Carisi covers up the offending items, namely that blue shirt and that brown vest and that generic tie that costs a fraction of what Rafael’s does.

Finally, Carisi puts on his coat, and he self-consciously wraps that red scarf around his neck.

Rafael would revel in the fact they no longer look like twins, or one half of a barbershop quartet, as Carisi more aptly put it, but he’s too busy lamenting the fact Carisi is leaving.

That’s probably a good thing. Rafael has done way too much smiling for one day, and…

And Rafael can’t even finish that thought.

Carisi leaving, it’s not a good thing.

Smiles have always been hard to come by, for Rafael.

And now his reason to smile is about to walk out the door.

Literally.

Carisi is literally at the door, so Rafael gets up to see him off.

Or to walk behind him awkwardly, until they both come to a halt, and then d-

“Alright, alright, I’m goin’. No need to chase me out of here, Barba.”

Rafael’s reluctant steps could never be misconstrued as an attempt to ‘chase’ anyone out, so he chalks that up to Carisi’s terrible sense of humor. If Rafael is walking a little faster, it’s because he wants to beat Carisi to the door and lock it, so Carisi will have to stay.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

Rafael would never actually do it, of course, but he is thinking it, and he’s pretty sure Carisi is well aware of that.

That’s the worst part.

Carisi knows.

Then again, it’s not a particularly well-kept secret.

Even now, they’re both standing by the door, inches apart, and neither of them is moving, because they don’t want to part company.

Neither of them is taking a step.

Carisi isn’t walking out, like he said he would.

Rafael isn’t walking back to his desk, to pretend he has better things to do than engage in a staring contest.

They just stand there.

How could Carisi not be aware?

How c-

“Okay, I’m… I’m gonna be late. I’m leaving. I’ll call you if there’s any news.”

All good things must come to an end.

“You do that, Carisi. Call me. And tell Liv that ADA Caliay and I are in constant communication. Tell her I’m here if she needs me.”

Carisi smiles that sweet smile again.

He has to know this is killing Rafael. It’s obvious by the way he keeps dropping all those reassuring platitudes, like, ‘it’s all good,’ and ‘there’s no need to worry,’ even though that can’t possibly true. This isn’t just any case. This is about Liv and Noah, and Rafael can’t help them right now, so there’s definitely cause for concer-

“Sure thing, counselor.  She knows, but I’ll tell her again.”                    

Rafael’s worry flies out the window.

That tends to happen, when Carisi smiles.

Which would be embarrassing, but in Rafael’s opinion there’s no shame in getting practical use out of someone’s dimples.

In fact, Rafael wonders if he could get Carisi to do his taxes, or check his blood pressure, or measure his cholesterol. He’s curious to see if Carisi’s unique skill of easing his worries applies to more than just case-related stress.

It probably does.

Carisi is still standing there, still not leaving, still smiling, Carisi has a practically smitten look on his face, for some reason, probably because he thinks it’s adorable how much Rafael worries about Liv, or something inane like that, and yet Rafael feels more and more relaxed, every time Carisi exhales.

It’s not just the dimples. The rest of Carisi can be useful, too.

Carisi’s nose, or Carisi’s lungs.

Carisi’s mouth.

They’re standing so close, Rafael thinks he can almost feel the soft puff of Carisi’s breath against his face.

He can’t.

It doesn’t matter. It’s enough to just watch Carisi breathing.

This isn’t the first time Rafael has noticed this. Carisi’s breathing is always slow and steady. You could set a clock to the rise and fall of his chest. Rafael doesn’t know how he does it.

It’s very calming.

Rafael is so calm, he even allows himself to smile back.

That’s what prompts Carisi to finally get a move on.

Carisi takes those last few steps to the door, and he’s practically bouncing on his feet, like all he wanted was to coax one last smile out of Rafael, and now he can leave satisfied.

Rafael finds that both amusing and understandable. This wasn’t the most cordial of meetings, what with Rafael’s perfectly justified accusations, and Carisi’s laughably fraudulent denials, but at least they’re parting on a good note, with smiles on their faces and a warm exchang-

“Oh, counselor, one last thing. I’m rockin’ this outfit. I only said you wore it best to get you off my case.”

Rafael can’t decide between rolling his eyes and face-palming.

Forget about the warm exchange and the smiles.

This is about Carisi being a smartass.

No wonder he had a spring in his step. He was about to unleash this little gem.

One more joke, for the road.

At least Rafael hopes that was a joke. Carisi can’t possibly think he looks better.

Even though he kind of does.

Still, this calls for retribution.

Rafael is about to respond accordingly, and then some, when Carisi reaches for the door handle.

He’s probably trying to escape before Rafael has a chance to even speak.

Not gonna happen.

“Your tie is ugly.”

Not the classiest of insults, but it does the trick.

Carisi turns around immediately, his head snapping back, and he looks…

Dammit.

Carisi looks vindicated.

Gleeful.

Smug.

This is exactly what he wanted, and Rafael took the bait.

Rafael tries not to show his irritation. He’s just glad he didn’t waste one of his good insults, the ones he’s been saving for a rainy day, for when Carisi inevitably gets on his nerves and he needs a real clincher to g-

“You bought it for me, Barba.”

Oh.

Right.

Well.

No one’s perfect.

Rafael’s taste can certainly be questionable at tim-

“What, did you forget? Or were you so eager to insult me, you didn’t stop to think you were insulting yourself in the process?”

Rafael does not answer that question.

Because the answer would be ‘yes.’

He just turns his back to Carisi and walks to his desk.

Rafael hopes it’ll be easier to come up with a good comeback if he’s not directly staring at Carisi’s shit-eating grin.

“I didn’t forget, Carisi. The tie isn’t ugly per se. It just looks ugly paired with that vest. It ruins the whole ensemble.”

Or not.

By the time Rafael settles in his chair and looks up, Carisi’s grin is even cockier.

And rightly so.

That was a terrible comeb-

“That was a terrible comeback, counselor.”

Rafael can’t disagree. Pettiness is his only recourse.

“That’s a terrible outfit, detective.”

Rafael isn’t proud of that childish retort, but it does get a reaction.

Carisi finally loses his grin.

Carisi frowns, and he looks hilariously confused.

“What do you m… We’re literally wearing the exact same thing, Barba! How is my outfit terrible but yours isn’t?”

Success.

“Oh, so now you admit we’re wearing the exact same thing.”

Carisi blinks for a few seconds, which is the amount of time it takes him to realize he’s been busted.

His eyes dart left and right for another few seconds, which is the amount of time it takes him to realize he can’t get out of this one, so he raises his hands in exasperation.

Good.

Rafael is finally getting the upper hand in this argum-

“Okay, okay, fine. Maybe I was inspired by your elegance. Alright? Maybe my outfit is loosely based on yours. It’s an hommage. Alright? Can I get back to work now?”

Not so fast, even though Rafael appreciates the fact Carisi used the French pronunciation of ‘hommage.’

“Sure. You can go, Carisi. As long as you promise to actually ask me for fashion advice, instead of blatantly copying me.”

Carisi laughs under his breath.

He even takes a seat, in one of the guest chairs, for once, probably because he has a bevy of excuses, and this is going to take a while.

Rafael hates it. That’s not where Carisi is supposed to sit. They’re sitting too far apart, and it feels wrong, and Rafael doesn’t like all that distance between th-

“In my defense, counselor, I really didn’t think anybody was gonna see us, ‘cause you were off the case. And, come on, if you didn’t want us wearin’ the same shirt, why did you buy it in two different sizes, and give one of ‘em to me? So I wouldn’t wear it? It’s a gift! I’d never be that rude. This one’s on you, counselor.”

Oh.

Perhaps Carisi has a point.

Rafael did buy him the shirt, too.

It was a good purchase. That lighter shade of blue really brings out Carisi’s eyes, just like Rafael thought, when he bought it. That, and it’s not the usual baby blue, the kind that every other cop wears, when they’re not wearing the typical crisp white shirt. It’s understated, but not boring. In other words, perfect for Carisi.

And also perfect for Rafael’s favorite foulard.

Which is why Rafael bought one in his size, too.

A mistake, in retrospect.

Maybe this is on him. He didn’t think Carisi would combine the shirt with that particular blue tie. Rafael bought them separately, several months apart, so that didn’t even occur to him.

It should have. Carisi isn’t the most fashionable of individuals. He saw blue and blue, and he probably thought, ‘perfect match.’

Perhaps Rafael should start advising Carisi on how to properly wear, combine and accessorize his gifts.

A daunting task, considering the amount of clothes Rafael has bought for him.

Rafael even bought him that red scarf, the one that makes him uncomfortable. The one Carisi keeps wearing, anyway, because he’s not rude.

The one he keeps wearing for Rafael’s sake.

Because it’s a gift.

Maybe Raf-

“Not to mention, aren’t you always tellin’ me I should wear blue more often? Well I did. That’s why I wore this shirt today.”

Rafael can’t believe he ever gave Carisi the benefit of the doubt.

“Oh? Is that why? And here I thought you picked this blue shirt because you saw me putting on my blue shirt, after my shower this morning.”

Carisi smiles like’s he’s willing to concede the point.

And also like he’s picturing Rafael in the shower.

Not ‘picturing.’

Remembering.

Recalling the memory of a scene he’s witnessed a hundred times.

This morning, most recently, in Carisi’s tiny shower stall.

They shower together, more often than not.

‘To save time’ getting ready for work.

That’s how Carisi goaded Rafael into it.

Not that Rafael needed much convincing.

And not that their showers are particularly time-saving. Carisi always finds a way to waste time. Which, to be fair, can be a lot of fun, but not when Rafael needs to be in his office at eight thirty sharp.

Lucky for him, Carisi often has to work even earlier.

But on Carisi’s days off? Or when Carisi has a late shift, or a half-day? On the days when Carisi has all the time in the world to pester Rafael?

On those days, Carisi just lies there and watches as Rafael gets dressed.

Rafael is used to it now, but at first it was truly unnerving. Rafael would be rushing to get ready, like he does every morning, grabbing ties and cufflinks and socks, and he’d turn around to find Carisi, lounging on the bed, watching him.

Nakedly.

Staring.

Like a weirdo.

Like a naked weirdo.

Like a very alluring naked weirdo.

Like a very alluring naked weirdo who made Rafael late for work, four days in a row.

It was maybe the second or third week since they’d started dating. That’s Rafael’s excuse, anyway. On the fourth day, Rafael was so late, he had to ask Carisi to drop him off at the DA’s office, in plain view.

That’s how Carmen found out about them. She saw Rafael coming out of Carisi’s car, and she asked about his unusual tardiness, and Rafael admitted it because Carmen can be very persuasive.

Fortunately, that never happened again.

Being late, that is.

And being interrogated by Carmen.

The rest?

Carisi, being a naked nuisance and watching Rafael get dressed?

That happens all the time.

It’s become a habit.

It’s the main reason why Carisi prefers to spend the night at Rafael’s place. Because that’s when he gets to watch ‘the whole shebang,’ like he says. The outfit selection. The care that goes into it, and the attention to detail, and the importance of color coordination, not that Carisi’s actually learned anything from watching.

When they sleep at Carisi’s place, like they did last night, Rafael brings a duffel bag with an outfit he’s already picked out, and that’s less fun to watch, apparently. It doesn’t compare to Rafael’s enormous closet with his full collection of suits, plus the motorized tie rack that’s as awesome as it is overpriced.

Carisi is far less interested in watching Rafael pull a tie out of a bag. He needs to see the real thing.

Nakedly.

That’s always a vital part of Carisi’s process, for some reason. He can’t observe Barba with some pants on. That’d be crazy.

Rafael thinks Carisi is only doing it to distract him.

It used to work, too.

It’s taken months, but Rafael can finally say he now has the power to resist Carisi’s naked charms.

Most of the time.

Sometimes.

Rarely.

Rafael has resisted once or twice.

Whatever.

What’s important is, Rafael can now time their escapades a little better, so he’s not late for work.

In fact, sometimes, when his schedule permits it, he’ll even put on a show. Rafael will go through several shirts, like he can’t decide. He’ll pull them on and off, slowly, stretching and posing and eyeing Carisi through the full-length mirror, the entire time.

Carisi loves it.

Making eye contact with a half-dressed Rafael through the glass.

Nakedly, of course.

Carisi even asked for permission, a couple of weeks into their relationship, when he realized Rafael was disturbed by his intense looks of concentration at the ass-crack of dawn, before they’d even had their coffee.

‘I just wanna watch you,’ he said.

‘I wanna see how you put it all together. You always look so good. I wanna learn from the best.’

Rafael didn’t have the heart to say no.

Which is new.

Saying no is what Rafael does best.

Or it used to be.

Rafael has been saying yes to Carisi for about eight months, now.

Ever since Carisi was almost shot in the face, which somehow prompted him to show up on Rafael’s doorstep in the middle of the night.

Rafael invited him in.

That was the first yes.

Rafael kissed him back.

That was the second yes.

Rafael let him sleep over.

That was the third yes.

Many followed.

Rafael has yet to say no to Carisi.

It’s been a learning experience.

Saying yes can lead to some unexpected pleasur-

“Like I said, Barba, my outfit is loosely based on yours.”

Even when Carisi is admitting guilt, he manages to stay cocky as hell.

Rafael has to respect th-

“As for the tie, I didn’t think it looked that bad. I figured, since you bought it for me, I couldn’t go wrong with it. Guess not. Guess I still have a lot to learn. Maybe you could give me a few tips. On how to dress.”

Classic Carisi.

Trying to charm his way out of a problem.

And succeeding.

Carisi is presenting a tempting alternative.

Rafael has a lot of experience undressing him, but dressing Carisi could be fun as well. After all, just buying the clothes is clearly not enough. Carisi requires closer supervision.

Specific advice, so he can improve.

“The tie didn’t look bad, Carisi. It was just a little dull, paired with an already muted suit. But overall, you didn’t do such a bad job. The slim-fit vest was a nice touch. And I didn’t even have to buy it for you. And, even though you did copy me shamelessly, I have to admit the shirt looks better on you. That particular shade of blue isn’t doing much for my complexion. You look… nice.”

Carisi smiles a smile so blinding, you’d think Rafael just asked him to move in.

Which, incidentally, is something Rafael has considered.

Once or twice.

Rarely.

Sometimes.

Most of the time.

Rafael thinks about it all the time.

Whatever.

Rafael’s just lucky Carisi hasn’t asked yet. When Carisi asks, and he will, Rafael will have to say yes, and then they’ll have t-

“Thanks, counselor. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Rafael’s sneer is instantaneous.

“I look amazing, Carisi.”

Carisi’s laughter is also instantaneous.

And boisterous.

And potentially offensive. Carisi better not be laughing because he disagr-

“Yeah. You do.”

Oh.

Rafael can’t stay mad when faced with such flattery.

Such sincerity.

Such devotion.

Rafael can’t stay mad in general.

He’s having trouble with that lately.

Holding onto his anger.

Using it as fuel, like he’s done all his life.

Anger just seems to evade his grasp, these days.

Rafael remembers a time when he was ambitious, and up-and-coming, and thirsty for victory.

Rafael remembers a time when his righteous anger was what allowed him to persevere.

Not anymore.

Now Rafael is fueled by hope.

He’s not sure what that means.

Maybe he has evolved.

Maybe he is a better person.

Maybe Rafael somehow let himself get talked into it.

Into hope.

Maybe Carisi, standing there with a dimply smile and a matching outfit and a red scarf he doesn’t even like, maybe he’s part of the reason why.

Maybe he’s one of the reasons why.

Maybe he’s the main reason.

The only reason.

It’s hard to stay heartless when your heart is beating so loud.

Rafael’s heart always beats louder, and faster, when Carisi is there.

It’s annoying.

For the first few days after they got together, Rafael was convinced he was developing some sort of a heart condition. He thought it was a shame he was on the verge of a cardiac episode, right when he finally managed to get into Carisi’s pants, after two years of trying.

It took a while, but Rafael eventually realized he was just in love.

Talk about shame.

An elevated heart rate because of love, instead of anger.

Not that Carisi doesn’t make Rafael angry, too.

They’ve had their ups and downs, these last few months.

Things haven’t been easy.

Carisi and Rafael, they’ve had their arguments. Work-related, for the most part. Some loud but fleeting, and some quiet but lingering.

They even argue on how to argue.

Carisi tends to blow up, out of nowhere. He snaps, and he yells, and he gets in Rafael’s face, and he even storms off, on the rare occasion, because he likes to air his grievances as soon as they come up. Carisi doesn’t like letting things fester.

When Carisi gets angry, he likes to get it out of his system immediately. One big outburst, and then he’s back to smiling and being sweet and making Rafael elaborate homemade dinners as an apology.

Rafael’s approach is very different. He snaps too, of course, but he snaps constantly. Snapping is practically his default state. It’s when he doesn’t snap that there’s a problem. And letting things fester has always been one of his preferred methods to handle an argument, along with the cold shoulder and petty insults.

When Rafael gets angry, he likes to keep everything bottled up. He likes to gather all of his complaints into a long, long list and then, when Carisi least expects it, Rafael likes to lay it all out, in a perfectly calm and detached manner, all the better to show Carisi that the situation is serious.

It’s not.

It almost never is.

Their arguments are usually resolved within hours.

Minutes, sometimes.

Sometimes it’s Rafael who’s making the apology dinners.

Shame.

Love.

Same difference.

This is a new experience for Rafael.

Snapping without breaking.

Getting right up to the breaking point, but never past it.

Knowing it won’t end.

This is new.

This is all Carisi’s doing.

Rafael was always quick to give up on people.

The first time they fought, the first time Carisi stormed off, Rafael all but wrote him off.

Carisi had other ideas.

Carisi had faith.

Carisi came back.

Carisi probably said something trite, like, ‘You can’t get rid of me that easily, counselor,’ or ‘You’re stuck with me,’ or, ‘Bad news, I’m back.’

Rafael doesn’t remember.

Rafael only remembers relief, and his heart, pounding, and Carisi’s smile, and something dangerously resembling a hug, and Carisi’s chest, rising and falling steadily against his own.

Rafael has faith too, now.

Trust.

He can trust Carisi to come back.

He can trust himself to yell Carisi’s head off, without worrying about the consequences.

It goes both ways.

Faith goes both ways.

No one’s ever had faith in Rafael before.

Not like this.

Not like Carisi does.

It’s weird.

And heartwarming.

Familiarity breeds contempt.

That’s what Rafael always thought.

That’s what always happened.

Not this time.

Not with Carisi.

Familiarity with Carisi has bred affection, and compassion, and love, too, and that’s n-

“Okay, I really have to go now, Barba. I’m already late. But before I go, I just wanna say something.”

Of course.

Rafael instantly regrets every single sappy thought he just had about Carisi. The smirk tells the tale. Carisi is obviously about to drop another little nugget on him, and Rafael can only imagin-

“Sorry I snapped your suspenders last week.”

Oh.

Rafael would find that thoughtful, but Carisi is smirking like he’s not sorry at all.

“Are you? Sorry?”

Carisi licks his lips.

“Nah.”

Well.

That’s okay.

Snapping isn’t always bad.

Sometimes it can be fun.

Like last week, when things got a little hot and heavy on Rafael’s couch during their lunch break, and Carisi tugged on his suspenders a little too hard, and the button flap on the back snapped and came right off. Rafael still doesn’t know how Carisi managed that. It was leather.

Then again, Carisi can be very enthusiastic.

So much so, that he didn’t even stop to apologize. Carisi just yanked the ruined suspenders all the way down, and then he started undoing Rafael’s pants. Rafael is lucky Carisi didn’t break the zipper, too.

Not that Rafael would have noticed.

It’s hard to notice much of anything when Carisi is on his knees.

Truth be told, Rafael didn’t even notice his suspenders were ruined until after.

After Carisi got up from his knees, and onto Rafael’s lap.

After Carisi made a mess of Rafael’s shirt, though Rafael fully accepts the blame for that one.

After they were done, after Carisi was done licking a stray drop from the underside of Rafael’s jaw, after Rafael grabbed a new shirt, because sometimes it is worth it to let Carisi defile one of his outfits, that’s when he noticed the casualty.

Carisi did not offer an apology.

Rafael held up the tattered suspenders, ready to let Carisi have it, but Carisi grinned and gave him a very long and very dirty kiss.

Perhaps that was the apology.

Either way, Rafael feels he is owed something more.

“I see. You remain unrepentant. I might have to ruin something of yours, in retaliation. This tie, maybe.”

Carisi grins.

“No way. I love this tie.”

That’s right.

It’s a gift.

And Carisi loves it.

Just like that scarf.

Carisi hates it, but he loves it, too, because Rafael gave it to him.

Carisi is too sweet for his own good.

And Rafael is too infatuated for his own g-

“I mean, unless you wanna buy me a better one. ‘Cause this one’s ‘dull.’ I’m out here thinkin’ I look like a million bucks, but I guess I don’t. I guess I just look ‘nice.’ Thanks, by the way.”

Carisi looks a lot better than nice, but Rafael isn’t about to say that and let it go to his head. Carisi is cocky enough as it is.

“Maybe I could let you borrow one of my ties, Carisi. If you ask nicely.”

Carisi smiles a smile so blinding, you’d think Rafael just proposed marriage.

Which, thankfully, is something Rafael has never considered.

Because he’s not crazy.

Well, never, until this very moment.

Before Rafael can dwell on that, Carisi leans over his desk and kisses him.

Thank God.

The distance was getting too much. Plus, Carisi’s kisses always make for a great distraction.

Whether they’re long and dirty, or short and chaste, like this one.

It doesn’t matt-

“See you at home, counselor.”

Oh.

Maybe it does matter.

Rafael grabs Carisi by the scarf and holds him there, for a longer kiss.  

Home.

Yes.

Carisi’s soft lips, and Carisi’s warm breath, and Carisi’s palms sloppily spread on Rafael’s desk, and Carisi’s fingers, carelessly crinkling the papers Rafael has been working on all morning, and the sound of Rafael’s heartbeat, thudding in his ears.

Carisi’s bright eyes, when the kiss ends.

Home.

“Oh, and, if you ask nicely, Barba, maybe I can let you borrow this tie. As long as you promise to take good care of it. It has great sentimental value.”

Carisi, being a smartass.

Carisi, finding new ways to say ‘I love you’ without saying it.

Home.

Rafael smiles as Carisi finally leaves, about twenty minutes after he was supposed to.

Carisi’s pea coat is buttoned all the way up.

No one will know about his little stunt.

No one will know he and Rafael are wearing the exact same outfit, save for that tie.

No one will know Carisi’s outfit is about sixty percent Barba-bought. More, possibly. There’s the shirt, and the tie, and the scarf, and the belt Rafael spied underneath Carisi’s vest. There’s the watch, the one Carisi wears when he’s not wearing that chunky Apple monstrosity. And, odds are, Carisi’s wearing Barba-bought underwear, too. Lord knows Rafael has bought him plenty. And then there’s the socks.

No one will know.                            

Rafael will know.

Rafael finally pours himself some coffee. It’s only his third one today. He blames Carisi. When Carisi is there, Rafael forgets about caffeine.

If that isn’t love, he doesn’t know what is.

Rafael takes a sip and smiles into his mug.

Carisi bought it for him.

‘Instant Lawyer – Just Add Coffee.’

It’s dumb.

It’s a gift.

Rafael loves it.

[sweetwriting]

Tim Drake Week 2017 - Day 4: Enemies / Family

Category : Gen

Genre : Angst / Fluff / Family

Fandoms : DC Comics, Batman (1940), Detective Comics, Young Justice (1998), Robin v4 (1993), Superman - Batman (2003), Teen Titans (2003)

Continuity : Post-Crisis/Pre-Flashpoint

Summary : Tim always wanted a family but things aren't that simple. Or are they ?

Author’s notes : This one's a little longer than I expected (I try to do less than 1000 word each) I hope you'll enjoy it.

Word Count : 2251

To read it on AO3

There were many Rogues in Gotham, but each of its vigilantes had their own nemeses among them. Well Tim only had one. One whom, strangely, none of the other members  of the Batfam had ever gone against (and while they were all competent he was a special breed which would be hard to overcome for anyone other than him, Bruce or Barbara, well even for him it was hard), two if you added Ra's Al Ghul on the list after Ulysses but Tim wasn't sure whether to call him a nemesis or a creepily obsessed stalker (he had sent him a woman to bear his heir and if this wasn't a creepily obsessive behavior then what was). Well and King Snake but it was a whole can he'd rather avoid opening.

But Tim had held his own against them all. And especially against the Joker.

Sure the Joker wasn't the worst of them all really (honestly in Tim's mind Scarecrow, Ulysses, and the Riddler were on top of the list), but he was the one who had murdered Robin and seeing Robin back, well…He might have developed a bit of an obsession too even if, weirdly he never seemed that tempted to act on it aside from their first encounter.

His first meeting with Scarecrow (who was Dick's own Gotham nemesis) had been quite something too since it was thanks to that encounter that Batman had allowed him to become Robin. Though now that he was older and more -or less depending on how you see it- emotionally stable he was trying to remember if the hallucinations he had seen were due to a bit of the gas reaching him or not (he had thought Conner was another hallucination back in Paris after all).

And of Course Two-Face, the first time he met Bruce and Alfred…How had they never realized Tim wasn't alright is beyond him now that he's started introspecting on his life as Robin since the very beginning.

Finally, the Riddler. He may not have faced him much but Tim would be lying if he didn't admit that, despite the lives hanging in the balance, he couldn't help but enjoy trying to solve those riddles (to this day his favorites were the ones on baseball and that time he had to team up with Wally).

Of course he had face them all but, some like Penguin were a real pain but they weren't that important to him. Others like Selina or Ivy were different because Selina had, at least partially settled down (and was usually pretty nice to him even if she loved mocking him) and he couldn't help but feel for Ivy's crusade.

The biggest one though had been Jason Todd (and Damian Wayne). Because Bruce was still so attached to him and Tim had tried, he had freed Jason because he chose to let his own issues go and give Jason a chance. What a bad idea that was. Apparently the pit Madness was still present. Even if it had lessened.

Now. Now however Jason seemed to have slightly settled. And Tim still felt the guilt for letting him go too soon but he had still let go of most of his resentment toward him. So sure Jason wouldn't be his family (maybe one day but at most Tim believes they'll be cordial to each other), but at least he and Bruce were making progress and really that's what matters even if… Tim had always wanted a family. It was easier to admit now that he had finally mourned his father, but he never really gave him one. First he and his mother kept leaving him behind, then Jack was forced to stay and still had the reflex to leave him behind when he wanted to -even if for lesser lengths of time- and got angry when Tim had to cancel at the last minute. Tim now realized the depth of the hypocrisy his father had shown back then. The anger he always directed at Tim for simple mistakes. Tim realized it now, because he followed some courses on parenting to be of at least some use to his Neon Knights Program (also Conner had convinced him to see a therapist who treated the few heroes who admitted they needed the help and seeked resolution. Bruce had, of course, verified all their references before Tim could even think about it, after all if they had been helping Kon they were probably good -and Conner seemed to feel so much better). He realized now that his parents had been neglectful and that his father managed to be both neglectful and verbally abusive (and physically violent even if it was never directed at Tim's body, it was still only directed at Tim's stuff).

So he wanted a family and when he was 9 he started projecting on Dick, because Dick had hugged him when he was still pretty much a baby and he had been so happy and Dick was Robin, and he had been taken in by Bruce Wayne, by Batman and he seemed so happy. And not long after this Jason joined and, well Tim didn't know him so he mostly focused on him as Robin.

And then he really met them and, of course they weren't a family. It was a job and Tim still wanted his parents to be the ones taking care of him. Still he and Bruce got closer, especially after his father became comatose and his mother died. Because there was no way to know when he'd wake up and Bruce and Alfred took care of him and, sure it was more like going to your grandparents with your uncle than anything else but it was the closest Tim had had to a real family since he had been 4 or 5. And Dick. It took about a year but Dick became Tim's big brother, and oh how he loved him. Dick was easily one of the most important people in Tim's life, the one person (with Conner and Bart) he thought would never hurt him. Of course he ended up being wrong but he still loved him so much and Tim shouldn't feel so betrayed for one little mistake but he couldn't help himself (according to his therapist though he should have a talk with Dick because apparently it wasn't just one simple mistake but, Tim didn't want to ruin the fragile status quo they had reached. Of course he knew his therapist was right but he just couldn't do it).

Now Dick was obviously the biggest influence on him, but one shouldn't forget Alfred Pennyworth, who was the one person everybody loved and no one could refuse him anything. Alfred loved everyone so much and they all know it. If there's one thing that they knew it was that.

One of the thing that surprises Tim the most is the number of sisterly figures he gained : Barbara who was like a mom sometimes, whom he shared a passion for computers with, one of the rare people who was more intelligent than him. Helena who was one of the first people he teamed up with and who had become a sort of on and off sisterly figure to him (who allowed him to raid her fridge), he only partially trusted her on the field, but if you put aside her murdering streak she was genuinely one of the most compassionate people he met (as long as you weren't a criminal). Finally Cassandra Cain who had just come back to Gotham had really intimidated him at first, not especially because of her skills and efficiency (though there was that) but because of her kind heart and strong will which made him ashamed of his own. But he got past it and things weren't always good but he loves her so much, she's one of his favorite people in the world. And he's so glad he accepted to see a therapist because she convinced him to *force* a little reconnection with them and they're all amazingly supportive.

He misses Harold, who was great company when he was around despite his lack of speech. He misses Ace, the Bat Hound who was the only pet he was ever allowed to have (he could hep but be jealous of Damian's zoo as he was never even allowed to keep a cat for a night and he had never dared ask his parents for one before, at least not since he was a kid and decided they wouldn't be able to take care of a pet and that they didn't want to take one and have to take it back if Tim grew bored…He couldn't help make a parallel now and it's one of those times he wishes he had never gone to that therapist). He misses Steph even if he now realized how unhealthy they were being. It might have been better if they had been friends (if he hadn't tried to run from the drama with Ariana), according to his dear therapist one of their biggest issues was the imbalance in power due to Tim mentoring Steph at the beginning, maybe now they could work on that and start being friends. Not to forget Dana, his sweet step-mother. She was still in a mental institute but Metropolis was a lot better for her health than Blüdhaven was (not that it was a surprise) and he had -finally- introduced her to some of his fellow Titans. She of course fell in love with Bart and Kon who were "sweet and thoughtful". One day she even took them aside and they discussed something that none of them ever revealed to him, but whichever it was, it obviously made them all happy (and really as long as they were happy he didn't care that much what had happened). He and Damian still didn't get along but they did have a sort of truce now (mostly because Damian's pets liked it when Tim petted them and it probably did more for Tim's cause than anything else ever could. On his side Tim had admitted to himself all the progress Damian had done and it was easier to not see him as a threat).

Then there were his friends. Young Justice had felt like a holiday camp sometimes, it was mostly fun and Tim couldn't help but wish he had been able to be himself completely and not just the Robin part of him. Back then it felt like they were all a bunch of (un)disciplined siblings and cousins. Then Donna died and…Well things got hard. Cassie who already had anger issues became worse and… he still can't believe they dated when they never really saw each other as anything but siblings (it says a lot about what Conner's death did to them and…Well he only started on this part with his therapist but at some point, they had had a weird knowing smile that felt slightly out of place). He loved Cassie but not in a romantic way and he felt honestly disturbed every time that week-end wass brought up. Bart was like a little brother whom he had mentored for a while, he was a true and tried genius when it came to engineering and computer programming. Tim would be jealous if he wasn't so proud of everything Bart had accomplished (or simply happy that Bart was alive), some of the Titans usually joked that Bart was the Baby friend to Tim's Dad Friend Trope and to Conner's Mom Friend one (they didn't know that Tim and Conner had done it long ago and he never realized how right he was).

And of course Conner. His best friend still loved to mock him (and it went both ways, Tim never missed his shot), but they were even closer than before. When he died Conner had been away for a couple of weeks and refused his calls because he felt guilty for breaking his arm (and other things which...honestly were too big to start thinking about). But before that he had been one of the rare people able to convince Tim that he wasn't a bother and that he should talk to him/them when something weighted him down (of course he still needed a push but he accepted it gladly). And Tim knew that, likewise, he was one of the rare people Conner felt comfortable talking about his harshest fears and issues with. Despite this, or maybe because of it, Conner was probably the healthiest relationship Tim has ever had with anyone (even Bart and Cass) because they didn't hesitate to talk about things that were wrong between them (not that there were many to begin with) and they actually dealt with them and that before even going to a therapist, they had even gone to a session together once, they had joked that it was couple counselling and the therapist told them that a lot more friends should do it because whether it's romantic or platonic every relationships need work. But, apparently theirs didn't because they naturally (or not, apparently it's mostly thanks to an advice Conner got from the then supergirl that they started having healthier reflexes) dealt with their issues. So yeah lots of love and support there. It was nice to have at least one person he could entirely trust and rely on.

And Tim couldn't help it but, it gave him hope for the future.

Author’s Note 2 : Hope you enjoyed it. As most of my works it was unbeta-ed.

For the physically violence toward Tim's stuff, I don't remember the number of the issue but there was at least once when Jack broke Tim's TV because Tim was distracted by it. (if I remember correctly it was after Jack grounded Tim because he refused to listen to Tim's explanation after Ariana's uncle called him and Tim was stuck in his room so he was watching the news which are, admittedly slightly more important than his father coming to explain to Tim how it was his fault that Jack ended up reacting this way...A++ Father Jack)

[ladystylestores]

India Rounds Up Critics Under Cover of Virus Crisis, Activists Say

NEW DELHI — After spending several anxious days in prison, Natasha Narwal, a student activist accused of rioting by the New Delhi police, thought her ordeal was nearing an end.

A judge ruled that Ms. Narwal had been exercising her democratic rights when she participated in protests earlier this year against a divisive citizenship law that incited unrest across India.

But shortly after the judge approved Ms. Narwal’s release in late May, the police announced fresh charges: murder, terrorism and organizing protests that instigated deadly religious violence in India’s capital. Ms. Narwal, 32, who has said that she is innocent, was returned to her cell.

“I felt like crying,” said her roommate, Vikramaditya Sahai. “We are grieving the country we grew up in.”

As India struggles to quell surging coronavirus infections, lawyers accuse the authorities of seizing on the pandemic as an opportunity to round up critics of the government who are protesting what they see as iron-fisted and anti-minority policies under Prime Minister Narendra Modi.

In recent weeks, Ms. Narwal and nearly a dozen other prominent activists — along with potentially dozens of other demonstrators, though police records are unclear — have been detained. They are being held under stringent sedition and antiterrorism laws that have been used to criminalize everything from leading rallies to posting political messages on social media.

India’s coronavirus restrictions, some of which are still in effect, have blocked pathways to justice, lawyers and rights activists say. With courts closed for weeks, lawyers have struggled to file bail applications, and meeting privately with prisoners has been nearly impossible.

Law enforcement officials in New Delhi, who are under the direct control of India’s home ministry, have denied any impropriety. But rights groups say the arrests have been arbitrary, based on scant evidence and in line with a broader deterioration of free speech in India.

In a lengthy report released this month, the Delhi Minorities Commission, a government body, accused the police and politicians from Mr. Modi’s party of inciting brutal attacks on protesters and supporting a “pogrom” against minority Muslims.

Meenakshi Ganguly, the South Asia director of Human Rights Watch, said cases against the activists appeared to be “politically motivated,” and that the police have devised a formula for keeping people like Ms. Narwal in jail: When a judge orders the release of a prisoner for lack of evidence, new charges are introduced.

“The urgency to arrest rights activists and an obvious reluctance to act against violent actions of the government’s supporters show a complete breakdown in the rule of law,” she said.

Before the pandemic hit, Mr. Modi was in the throes of the most significant challenge to his power since becoming prime minister in 2014. After Parliament passed a law last year that made it easier for non-Muslim migrants to become Indian citizens, millions protested across the country.

To critics, the citizenship law was more evidence that Mr. Modi’s Hindu nationalist government planned to strip the country’s Muslims of their rights.

Tensions peaked in February when sectarian violence and rioting broke out in New Delhi. The vast majority of people killed, hurt or displaced were Muslim, and the police were involved in many of those cases.

After Mr. Modi announced a nationwide lockdown in late March to contain the coronavirus, shutting down businesses and ordering all 1.3 billion Indians inside, the protests disbanded. Lawyers said the police then moved to detain demonstrators while skirting complaints against government allies.

Among those in custody are a youth activist who raised awareness about police brutality against Muslims; an academic who gave a speech opposing the citizenship law; and Ms. Narwal, a graduate student who co-founded Pinjra Tod, or Break the Cage, a women’s collective that organized some of the largest rallies.

Nitika Khaitan, a criminal lawyer, said the crackdown has also pushed beyond higher-profile critics to include ordinary residents living in riot-hit neighborhoods. She recently challenged those arrests in a jointly signed letter to the Delhi High Court.

Lawyers have tracked a few dozen such arrests under the lockdown, though Ms. Khaitan said the true figure could not be verified because police reports have not been made public. Many detentions were “not in compliance with constitutional mandates,” she said.

In a recent interview, Sachidanand Shrivastava, the police chief in New Delhi, said his officers were conducting fair investigations.

In May, the authorities said they had detained about 1,300 people for involvement in the protests and riots, including an equal number of Hindus and Muslims. Recently, the police arrested a group of Hindus for forcing nine Muslim men to chant “Hail Lord Ram,” a reference to a Hindu god, before killing them and throwing their bodies into a drain.

“It is very important that the police force remain impartial,” Mr. Shrivastava said. “And we are following this principle from Day 1.”

But members of India’s judiciary have questioned the official numbers, accusing the police of withholding information about the arrests under national security protections and singling out Muslims for many of the harsher charges.

In court proceeding notes reviewed by The Times, a judge hearing a case against a Muslim protester wrote that the police appeared to only be targeting “one end” without probing the “rival faction.” During the riots, the police were accused of abetting Hindus and, in some cases, torturing Muslims.

Khalid Saifi, a member of United Against Hate, a group that works with victims of hate crimes, was arrested after he tried to mediate between the police and protesters, according to his lawyers.

The police charged him with being a “key conspirator” of the riots. His wife, Nargis Saifi, said he was tortured in custody.

“His only crime is he is a Muslim,” she said.

M.S. Randhawa, a police spokesman, denied that Mr. Saifi had been tortured, adding that he has regular opportunities to speak to a judge if abuse occurs.

“These are just allegations,” Mr. Randhawa said. “He would have told the magistrate if he had been tortured.”

But rights advocates accuse Mr. Modi’s government of shielding party officials — and more broadly, of Hindus involved in the violence.

Ms. Narwal, who was detained in May, could face at least several years in prison for helping organize demonstrations that blocked a busy road in northeast Delhi, where February’s bloodiest battles between Hindus and Muslims broke out.

The police have accused her of playing a leading role in the riots, charging her with murder, attempt to murder and being part of a “criminal conspiracy.”

At the same time, the police have been accused of ignoring complaints against Kapil Mishra, a local politician with Mr. Modi’s Bharatiya Janata Party who gave a fiery speech threatening to forcibly remove Ms. Narwal and other protesters if the authorities did not take action.

Kapil Mishra addressing a crowd in New Delhi last year.Credit…Sonu Mehta/Hindustan Times

Hours after the ultimatum, the streets erupted. But charges were never filed against Mr. Mishra, who has denied a role in starting the riots.

A New Delhi police superintendent, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said some officers had wanted to act against Mr. Mishra, but they were pressured by the force’s leadership not to touch “the warriors of the government.”

“We did not even try,” the superintendent said. “The directions were clear: Don’t lay your hands on him.”

Through an intermediary, Mr. Mishra declined to comment.

Ms. Narwal’s father, Mahavir Narwal, said the government was moving India closer to authoritarianism and demonizing anybody who questioned their policies.

For weeks, prison officials ignored his calls and emails to Tihar Jail, where Ms. Narwal is being held. With coronavirus restrictions in place, she was moved into an isolation ward at one point, where she stayed for 17 days, said Mr. Narwal, a retired scientist.

Lately, communication has smoothed out. But Mr. Narwal said the subtext of his daughter’s arrest seemed clear: “If you protest, you will be called a terrorist.”

“All she did was fight to keep the soul of India alive,” he said.

Karan Deep Singh contributed reporting.

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