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katytheinspiredworkaholic · 4 years ago

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Correspondence, Chapter 04

Pairing: HotchReid

Summary: An AU where Reid never joined the FBI, but got roped into consulting for the LA field office while working and teaching at Caltech. Hotch gets his email referred from a fellow agent, and they start to work on cases together -- until they start talking on a regular basis. Regular becomes frequent, frequent becomes constant. They know nothing about each other, but they don't really mind.

Rating: Mature/Explicit (eventually)

Chapter CW/notes: Action-y in that there is offscreen violence and peril, injuries, talk of surgery and symptoms/effects of medical grade narcotics (morphine), more on that big ol’ age difference. Side notes: Agent Anderson of the L.A. field office has no relation to Agent Anderson of Quantico, VA, because Agent Anderson of the BAU is a national treasure. (I’m considering going back and renaming the OC, but as of right now this is the last we hear of him for a while). And I know no one really pays attention to them, but the time stamps on the texts match the time zone of the scene setting. Set in season 6, self beta’d.

Word Count: 8893

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

Chapter 04

Late September 2010

Spencer Reid wakes up to the early grey morning two weeks later, a perpetual haze shrouding his room long before his alarm was supposed to rouse him. He reaches blindly, blearing eyed and checks his phone for what feels like the hundredth time, only to find no messages waiting for him. A terrible, horrid feeling has been clawing at his chest and throat the longer it gets -- the more time that passes -- and he still hasn’t heard from Hotch.

They’ve been messaging each other near constantly for months now, and it only seemed to get more intense after that fateful talk at the beginning of September. Where Hotch finally revealed he’d thought Spencer was much older than him, and not the other way around. Spencer had set him straight, as much as he could, and even that had been nerve-wracking to say the least. The two men were crossing into a territory neither really wanted to put a label on, and Spencer was both afraid of it and excited by it. Of what it could mean, and how long it could last, but he’d thought he’d had time to figure out a solution to his inadvertent secrecy.

Then, Hotch began working a case in Delaware two days ago.

It seemed like a textbook unsub; maybe a little aggressive with anti-establishment overtones, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Nothing the BAU hasn’t seen before. They’d been closing in on the suspect, no location yet but some prospects that needed checking out, and the last Spencer had heard from Hotch…

It had been lunchtime for him, and midafternoon for the older man. The exchange hadn’t been anything of consequence, just their usual, easy correspondence. Hotch was going to check out that lead they’d spoken of, Spencer had a budget meeting as soon as he was done eating in the middle of his office hours, and they had a plan to play chess online that night. Hotch is still terrible at it, but he keeps coming back no matter how thoroughly Spencer wipes the floor with him. Now, sometimes they just forget about the game entirely after the first few minutes. It makes him smile each and every time, soft and fond and lighting a warmth inside him Spencer has… never felt before.

Then Hotch hadn’t messaged him the rest of the night.

Hadn’t shown up online to play chess.

Hadn’t texted him goodnight, or even sent him an update on the case.

Nothing in their conversations warranted such ostracization, and although Spencer has been ‘ghosted’ before (as his doctoral students would say) he knows Hotch would never do that. Not after everything, the history they’ve built the past months -- leaving nothing but the dread to sink in and spread like a stain.

All night, he imagines the worst.

By morning, he all but expects it.

[]9/22, 18:59[] Are you alright? Did something happen with the case?

[]9/22, 19:10[] If you were that scared of losing at chess, I can also beat you at online poker instead.

[]9/22, 19:30[] I’d suggest scrabble but that’s honestly not fair to you.

[]9/22, 21:55[] Hotch?

[]9/22, 22:30[] I’m assuming that lead panned out, and you caught your unsub and are neck deep in interrogation.

[]9/22, 22:36[] I don’t want to imagine anything else, so that’s what I will picture.

[]9/23, 00:06[] Hotch please answer me.

[]9/23, 05:32[] Please be okay.

Spencer arrives at Caltech looking a little more of a mess than usual. More than most are used to seeing him, at least, and it causes a few second glances from students he passes and other faculty -- but he really can’t find it in himself to care, this morning. His unruly curls, getting longer again, falling into his face and over his ears, are frizzy in their unkemptness. Bags under his eyes, normal, but he’s settled for glasses instead of his contacts. He has a spare pair in his desk, he’ll have to change them before class. His glasses somehow always make him look even younger. A mystery that boggles the mind, because once he had grown into his face a few years ago (around 26 or 27, close enough he had worried he would forever be cursed with a ‘baby face’) Spencer had thought he would finally be getting away from that.

And yet, square jaw and ‘grandpa’ glasses and thin frame towering just over six feet did nothing in the slightest to aid him. Certainly not stopping a man outside the campus coffee shop from shouting “Watch where you’re going, kid!” as he near barrels over him on the sidewalk. Not his sweater vest or half suits, attire straight out of a 1940’s noir film (he’d even sported a vintage inspired undercut with his waves combed over for a while there, too. Way too much upkeep, as nice as it looked). Nothing makes him any more grown up in the eyes of the unsuspecting world, than he’d been without his five doctorates and board of director’s seat. No matter what he tried, it seems.

This has been a subliminal thing for years, something Spencer always said didn’t bother him in the slightest. And for a long time he didn’t care one way or the other, he just kept getting more degrees. All his life Spencer has been ‘too young’, always been ‘kid’ or ‘sport’ or ‘tiger’, even when running quantum physics equations in his head. And it didn’t matter. Not with his credentials and accomplishments and everything he now has to his name.

Until Hotch.

Now, Spencer cares.

Notices, even through his haze of worry and sleeplessness, how on the street it’s “Watch it, kid!” and fifteen yards later it’s “Good morning, Dr. Reid” as he steps into the Physics building where everyone knows him on sight. Knows him, and what he’s capable of.

What if when Hotch met him all he saw was… another kid?

If they ever met.

“Whoa, rough night Dr. Reid?”

“Yes, you could say that,” he mumbles out as he signs in and scans his ID card, taking the stack of mail that the desk attendant hands him. But stops before he gets too far from the desk, backtracking. “Hey, have you watched the news this morning? Did anything show up about New England or Delaware?”

“Not that I saw, Dr. Reid,” she says in confusion, looking up from where she had been texting on her phone. “Just a whole lot of coverage on the shitshow at capital hill, as usual. Oh, and more depressing reports about the earthquake clean-up in New Zealand.”

Of course, why would there be a news story about a killer in Delaware here in California. He’d have to look up everything online himself.

“Thanks anyway, Carla.”

“No problem, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer spends way too long online that morning, searching for anything about the case Hotch and his team are working. He usually prefers paper copies of news media, at first barely knowing where to begin, but he falls into a wormhole of news outlets and local Delaware station websites, reading the thousands of webpages faster than he can scroll and click through them. But he can’t find anything pointing to a disturbance related to the case. There's nothing about a raid, or a shooting, or even an arrest -- which could all just be a part of the ongoing media blackout -- but it also does nothing to stop him from panicking. Spencer gives up after an hour, and diverts to other resources. Ones with a direct line to Hotch.

With a drafted email pulled up to Ms. Penelope Garcia, the BAU's personal tech analyst, he ponders how to... even word this without it sounding too personal. Too much like he and Hotch have more than just a working relationship.

Because they do. They have... something.

Something that gives him fluttering sensations in his stomach, makes him check his phone constantly, and react to even the slightest chime similar to his text tone. Makes him smile when he sees Hotch's name on his notifications, in his email inbox, makes him message the man in the middle of the day at the most random thoughts. Just because he wants to make him laugh.

[]8/21, 15:36[] You're going to get me in trouble.

[]8/21, 15:38[] You didn’t laugh in front of your team, did you? The scandal.

[]8/21, 15:42[] I'm at a crime scene. There's a dead body in front of me.

[]8/21, 15:43[] Then why are you checking your phone?

[]8/21, 15:45[] You know why.

But that’s not something that is shared with the rest of the team, he’s sure. So he should be careful how he words his email, lest Ms. Garcia realize that Spencer isn’t asking purely as a colleague.

Surely they know he has friends, though?

Chewing his lip, Spencer types out a brief email asking if Agent Hotchner is feeling well since he missed an appointment the night before and hasn’t been returning his calls. It’s a phrase he’s used often, so it comes naturally to Spencer as he types it out, and he realizes… he hasn’t called. He’s sent a dozen text messages, but not a phone call. Never a phone call. That was against the rules, the unspoken ones that always kept this friendship easy and free-flowing and evolving into something more.

But this feels like the closest to an emergency they’ve ever encountered before.

He looks to his phone beside him on his desk, and tries to fight back the dueling forms of panic clawing at his chest. Listed in bullet points behind his eyes. Panic that Hotch might not answer, panic what that means for the man he’s been… becoming more and more inclined to than any other person he’s met in so long. Panic if he does answer, breaking that barrier of written words to spoken, and the opportunity to hear Hotch’s voice. But he would also hear Spencer’s, and then there would be no hiding just how… how young he really is. He still didn’t have a plan for that, wracking his overworked brain day and night for a way to incorporate the information into a conversation that wouldn’t stop everything in its tracks.

But his phone is in his hand before he can stop himself, Hotch’s contact pulled up and his thumb hovering over the phone number with baited breath.

Was he really going to do this?

He presses the touch screen and can hear the line connecting, the dial tone ring even before he gets the phone up to his ear and waits. It rings, and rings, and rings a fourth time -- before clicking over to voicemail. And Spencer’s hyper-fast thought processes fail him as he realizes far too late that he’s going to hear Hotch’s voice for the first time, anyway. Frozen in a panic, unsure if he wants to or if that had been something he wanted them to do together that the seconds slip by like water through his fingers and suddenly it’s too late.

“You’ve reached the voicemail box of -- (703)-567-8790 -- this caller is not available. Please leave a message after the tone--”

It’s an automated, female voice that rattles off the numbers and generic call back message, and Spencer hangs up before it can begin recording him. Exhaling a shaky breath, relief a flash flood on his nerves that nothing had been ruined between him and Hotch thanks to an ill-timed phone call.

He keeps the momentum going without much thought, and adjusts his email to Ms. Garcia before sending it.

It feels so understated, and yet over dramatic the more he thinks about it. The more he reads it.

Please let me know of his well-being.

God, no wonder Hotch thought he was in his 60’s.

But Spencer has to keep the façade up, for now, not give away anything he doesn’t want to just because the emotional part of his brain is running rampant over the rational one. There are… many explanations as to why Hotch isn’t answering him. His gut feeling aside, he doesn’t need to be panicking like this. The world is still turning, he still has work to do, so Spencer tries to gather himself into some semblance of order and preps to talk to his doctoral students within the hour.

His morning routine progresses as usual, as if nothing at all is wrong with the world. Dr. Reid has his mandatory round up with his doctoral candidates going over thesis and dissertation parameters, class lecture schedules, updates, the works. Like morning announcements, but he requires them all to be there and to listen, and they all show up. Everyone knows of Spencer’s eidetic memory. He will certainly not forget a single date or schedule change, and he expects his students to not forget as well.

But this morning Spencer is fully distracted, his mind elsewhere, somewhere in the state of Delaware with an agent who may or may not be in danger. Because Spencer cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. It almost seems more like a fact than a feeling. The juxtaposition of his daily routine and this unfounded worry throws him entirely off kilter, and all of his students seem to know right away.

Then, his distraction reaches its peak when his email pings, right in the middle of his department announcements. A response from Ms. Garcia of Quantico, VA flashing across his laptop screen. Spencer’s eyes skim the preview sentence in the pop-up box, and his voice trails off as his mind… whirls.

Dr. Reid, I’m sorry to tell you I don’t know when Hotch will be available again. There was an incident, and he’s still in surg-

Surgery.

That vice-like grip of worry that has taken hold of him since last night tightens further, to the point Spencer can’t breathe. Hotch is in surgery, Hotch is hurt, and if he hasn’t been answering his phone since last night -- or even late yesterday afternoon -- it was not a minor thing.

Hotch is hurt.

She doesn’t know when he will be--

If he will be --

“Dr. Reid? Are you okay?”

“I--” he’s still looking at the email pop-up box, and is clicking on it before he can stop himself. Immediately disconnecting his laptop from the projector as his email loads there. It takes him a fraction of a second to read the email. “I’m sorry, an emergency just came up. Kimmy, finish reading off the schedule for me?” He doesn’t even wait until she answers him, just picks up his laptop and retreats to his office as fast as his long legs will carry him.

--surgery and we’re still waiting on word. I know you 2 talk on the reg so I’ll keep you posted.

Fret not, genius professor, our fearless leader has been through much worse than this.

She’s using informal speech patterns, which she has never done before. It bleeds her nervousness, and worries Spencer even more. Teetering on the edge of panic. Ms. Garcia also revealed she knows he and Hotch talk, but surprisingly that doesn’t have the effect he thought it would on his already rattled nerves. Instead, any and all reservations fall away as he types out a response much in the same way he and Hotch had started their friendship all those months ago.

Please, is there anything you are allowed to tell me about the case or his condition? We --

Spencer pauses, bites his lip as he considers crossing this boundary into the uncomfortable unknown, and then thinks about Hotch on a hospital operating table three thousand miles away.

“Screw it,” he mutters and continues to type.

--We’ve become good friends and I’m very worried.

The reply is almost immediate.

That makes 2 of us, boy wonder, but I’m already hacked into the hospital records database and Prentiss is in the waiting room for any immediate actions.

I’m sending you the case files and the incident report from last night. Maybe you can see some shiz we can’t b/c the bossman is tough but he’s been in surgery a long time.

Of course, whatever he can do to help. Spencer’s heavy heart-beat triples in his chest as pulls up the files and immediately prints them out so he can read through them faster. Utilizing anything and everything he can do to aid the BAU team, and whatever Hotch has gotten himself into. But then, his mind sticks on something from the email. Boy Wonder. It stalls his hands mid-movement.

Ms. Garcia knows how young he is.

She must have done a background check on him, that would make sense since he’s been consulting so much lately. But why would Garcia know his age, and not Hotch? Wouldn’t she send the files to him directly? Had Hotch really known, all along?

Or did she do it on her own, and not tell him? Assuming her boss already knew everything about him. It’s too many questions and possibilities and they are interfering with what’s most important right now. Best to get it out of the way, no time to be indirect about it.

Ms. Garcia, did you update my dossier with the bureau after you ran my background check?

If you’re referring to why Hotch seems to think you’re rocking the senior discount at restaurants and not still getting carded for beer, then no I didn’t update it. I’m very anti-gov files having every detail of our lives in them, that’s what I’m for, and I figured there was a reason he didn’t know. Your secret is safe with me, sugar bean.

Spencer hadn’t meant for it to be a secret at all, it just happened that way.

The real reason is Agent Anderson of the LA field office is a dick, with a bully streak he never outgrew after high school, and didn’t bother filling out a full file on him the first time Spencer consulted for the FBI. Then, he couldn’t be bothered to update it when his consultations became more than a one time thing.

But that was all in the past now, and Spencer can’t even be upset about it. Because now he has Hotch.

Thank you, Ms. Garcia. I’ll let you know my findings soon.

He skims the file quickly, pulling information out at lightning speed. It appears a very straight-forward case. As straight-forward as a murderous sociopath can be, anyway. Very anti-establishment, like he and Hotch had discussed the previous day, aiming for specified targets that devolved to anyone in a uniform. Anyone who appears too official, or labels as official.

It’s easy to see, now, why the unsub attacked Hotch instead of running from him. He practically served himself up on a silver platter. But there’s something about the kills that’s bothering Spencer. The knife wounds, bludgeoning, even the gunshots during the first murders when the unsub still hesitated -- it’s all overkill. Rage. Every single target has died from massive internal bleeding, M.E. reports all label the knife wounds and beatings as the cause. But the amount of blood left over, measured during autopsy, doesn’t add up. They bled too much. No wounds indicating intentional bleeding occurred, and the tox screens are all clean.

Except, every victim’s hospital records show elevated potassium rates. Spencer’s hands, skimming down each and every page quick as they can, stop on a dime as his gaze zero in on the information.

“Oh, God,” Spencer whispers, quiet and horrified. “--Hotch.”

There’s no time for email.

He picks up his phone, goes to an older email that has full contact details in the footer, and dials Ms. Garcia’s direct line in Quantico.

“Speak, and behold greatness.”

“Ms. Garcia, it’s Dr. Reid,” Spencer says, and his tone and quickened speech patterns gives way to his panic.

“Dr-- Dr. Reid?”

“Yes, quick there’s no time. Do you have Hotch’s hospital records in front of you still?”

“Yes,” Garcia says, her voice a musical thing even in it’s breathless reaction to his heightened state of haste. “Updated every two minutes.”

“Is his potassium elevated?”

Some quick typing of keys that move faster than even he could ever hope to type. “...Yes.”

God. “Okay, okay I need you to call the hospital right now,” Spencer says in a spiel that all sounds like one word. “Whatever you have to do, he needs Sodium Polystyrene Sulfonate as soon as possible, to counteract the chemical imbalance or he’s going to go into kidney failure and bleed out.”

There’s more typing going on and Ms. Garcia’s breathing has gone a little labored.

“Alright, alright I’m getting patched through. What else can you tell me?”

“I think he’s been dosed with something called an XG Compound, either Eastman or Zhao I have to look up the specific components and chemist. But they are a series of banned, experimental military-grade drugs that suffer effects of thinning the blood, that’s why they can’t stop the bleeding around his stab wounds and old scar tissue.” Hotch’s old wounds from Foyet would only exacerbate the condition, once it reached the kidney failure stage, but up until then the intrusions of hardened tissue is the only reason his abdominal cavity hasn’t been flooded with blood and drowned out his other organs.

“Okay, okay I’m through, I’m keeping you on the line. Stand by-- ” then she clicks over and he’s left with a pulsating silence. Nothing remaining but continuing his work, and hoping he’d called in time. Hoping that Hotch will be alright.

Spencer is digging through his floor to ceiling bookshelves for the biology book on airborne pathogens given to him by a visiting Professor two years ago and he is hating himself for never cracking it in that moment. It’s nearly the last book he gets a hand on, because of course it is, and he makes it a third of the way through the book before Garcia is back on the line. The phone on the floor beside him and just barely within reach.

“You literal genius, I could kiss you,” Garcia tells him in what can only be overstated relief, and Spencer snatches up his phone with a very undignified scramble. “They’ve had to do two transfusions on him and are prepping a third, but you were right he’s been dosed with that XG compound.”

“He’s going to be okay?” Spencer asks, still cross-legged on his office floor surrounded by books and holding his phone to his ear like a lifeline.

“Yes, yes my dear he’s going to be alright. They think. He’s not out of the woods yet and the surgery is still going on, but he -- he would have died within the next hour if you hadn’t found out what was wrong.”

Spencer’s heart is in his throat, her words doing the exact opposite of reassuring him. Hotch had been that close to dying, to being forever out of reach, because Spencer had been too scared to pick up the phone.

“I should have called sooner,” he says, so quiet even someone in the room wouldn’t have heard him correctly. “I knew something was wrong.”

“Oh no, sugar don’t think like that. You just saved his life,” she pauses, like she wants to say something else, but diverts to an adjacent topic. “How did you know?”

“Autopsy reports. There wasn’t enough blood left in the bodies, they bled out too quickly. Then I saw the elevated Potassium,” he murmurs it all, rattled off without really thinking about it.

“And you just… knew all of that, without looking anything up?”

“That’s basically what I do. The only reason anyone calls me,” Spencer laughs but it holds no humor. “I know too much, make connections, and drink too much coffee.”

“You drink and know things, oh God I hope you get that reference because you’re getting a coffee mug.”

Spencer laughs a little, despite the situation, and feels… lighter, somehow, even with the worry still plaguing him. Caught up in his chest like a bad cold.

“I’m reading this textbook on airborne pathogens, I have a hunch, and I’ll send you anything I find that can help with the case,” Spencer continues, his voice not so heavy for a moment. “Just… tell me when he’s out of surgery? Keep me posted?”

“Of course, honey, you’ll be my first message,” Ms. Garcia assures him, but then she pauses again -- and he almost hangs up because it feels too anticipatory. “You should tell him, B.T.Dubs.”

Spencer hesitates more than is probably necessary.

“... I don’t know what good that will do,” he admits, quiet and unsure. “I’m not -- I’m not ready for this to be over.”

“You’re not that young, honey. Does he know you like him?”

“Mmhmm,” Spencer makes a nervous, affirmative sound. “And… he likes me, or who he thinks I am.”

“Don’t write him off just yet, Doc, let him speak for himself when he wakes up,” Ms. Garcia all but scolds him, in as gentle a way as possible and Spencer appreciates that, at least.

“--I’ll think about it.”

Not long after Spencer finds what he’s looking for: military grade poisons that were banned for causing adverse effects, listed and categorized by chemist and agency. It is the Eastman compound, originated during the first invasion of Afghanistan. Their unsub has prolonged exposure, Spencer is sure, and that will narrow down the suspect pool immensely.

After he sends the information to Ms. Garcia, Spencer looks to his phone once more, where there is a block of text all from him himself in his correspondence with Hotch. Begging him to be alright, to answer him, and now that he knows that the man has a fighting chance -- or as much of one as he will be able to have, with where advanced medicine resides in the current conjecture of time -- there really isn’t much he can do now. But hope. And wait. And pray.

Except Spencer doesn’t believe in prayer, or God, or anything that might hear him. The only thing he really believes in is science, and facts, and none of that is very helpful to him right now. Except maybe the coincidental balance of the universe, in a theoretical physics sense, and unexplained phenomenon that have an equal and spatial balance to it. Anything with the descriptor ‘unexplained’ always draws him in like a moth to flame, and he knows he can typically find a semblance of comfort in the way his brain constantly connects dots and far off specks of information that not everyone can see at first glance. Constellations in the sky. But only when he has someone to tell it to, that even pretends to listen for a moment, and for a long while now… Hotch has been that someone. Hotch always listens to him.

Before he knows it, he’s typing into the text box once more --

[]9/23, 11:10[] You’re in surgery still, but Ms. Garcia has confirmed the treatments are working and they are able to actually repair the damage instead of treading water like they have been the past ten hours. I’ve had her personally in contact with the doctors and surgical staff, and all they’ve been able to tell us is to let them work and just pray for you.

[]9/23, 11:13[] Which is such an odd thing; men of science telling people to pray like the outcome of a surgery isn’t in their hands, but some theoretical astronomical entity. I know it’s probably just a ‘bedside-manner’ tactic, but it doesn’t help me in the slightest so it just irks me instead.

[]9/23, 11:15[] I don’t believe in prayer -- a shock, I’m sure -- but I do believe in the phenomenon of universal affirmation. It’s an interesting trend in history and spans cultures where if someone has something awaiting them, to live for, even if they are unaware of it… they will fight harder to cling to life.

[]9/23, 11:18[] But I also know you will fight tooth and nail for Jack, and for your team that you treat like family, and maybe even me. I’d like to hope I’m included in that, and no amount of books or IQ points can make me think of something to contribute to help you keep fighting.

[]9/23, 11:19[] Just please keep fighting. Come back. And if I come up with something to entice you… I’ll let you know.

It eases a lot of the tension in his chest, talking to Hotch like this -- even if he’s just talking at him, in a place where he might never know what Spencer has had to say. But he can hope. Hope that Hotch will wake up and have thirty missed messages and see they are all from Spencer and it will make him smile.

Spencer would give anything to see him smile, and he allows himself to hope that one day... he might get to.

He might as well, while he’s sitting there hopelessly hoping for things beyond his control.

Come back to me.

Spencer almost types it out, can see it in the text window though he hasn’t pressed a single letter, and closes his phone before he can. Pressing it to his mouth and closing his eyes and just…

Hoping.

The hours roll over into the afternoon, and there’s still no word.

Spencer has spent the majority of the day messaging Ms. Garcia, who has had no information beyond trivial updates here and there and Spencer has read more about surgical procedures and practices than he has in his entire life. Even raided the biology department’s library, surrounding himself with the comfort of books and files and filled his head with the soothing monotony of medical terms and safety protocols.

But once noon has come and gone he finds himself staring into the bookshelves across from where he sits on the floor, among stacks of textbooks, with an epiphany trying to make itself known to him. Despite his every attempt to ignore it.

His phone is back in his hand, there’s an email correspondence from Ms. Garcia that only briefly says Still nothing. And that makes up Spencer’s mind.

[]9/23, 12:49[] I’ve thought of something.

What he types next makes it hard to breathe, his heart lodged in his throat, and it all comes flowing out of him much like before. His fingers keep moving, his emotional part of his brain steam-rolls over the rational one, and then he’s done and he’s tacked on six extra messages and Spencer has to put his phone away before he rereads it beyond what is deemed healthy or sane.

Because he’s done what he could, and all he can do is believe that will be enough to… subliminally keep Hotch fighting. The day is only half over, and Spencer feels like he hasn’t slept in a week.

It would be hours before he got the message that would send relief through his spine like a shot of Novocain. Just three words from Ms. Garcia, sent in haste in a text instead of an email.

{}9/23, 14:58{} He’s in recovery.

Hotch wakes up just barely the first time, the room spinning and hit with that familiar smell of anesthesia he can always taste as it fills his senses, before he slips back under.

The second time is to a small pencil light being flashed in his eyes, staccato movements meant to test his pupil reactions, and an older woman in nurse’s scrubs saying his name and calling to him. He hums an affirmative, even though he isn’t fully returned to a working state of mind. Instinct, more than clarity.

“Welcome back, Agent Hotchner.”

“About damn time,” he hears Prentiss say from somewhere across the room. Probably leaning the wall, if that faux drone is anything to go by. The nurse gives her a look but his agent isn’t even fazed by it, as far as Hotch can see. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust that far. But he knows the look well enough he doesn’t actually have to see it.

“Where is everyone? Is anyone else hurt?” Hotch can feel the words form on his tongue, droned out in a haze, his mind slowly coming back to him.

“Good to see you, too, boss,” Prentiss says in mild exacerbation, coming up to the side of his bed but not taking a seat. She must have been waiting a long time, her whole stance jittery just like after long flights on cases. “Everyone is fine, you’re the only one that got into a knife fight with an unsub who’s into biological warfare.” Hotch blinks at her, trying to make her words make sense without asking it of her. He remembers going to a warehouse to follow a lead, but not much else after that. It’s coming back too slowly to keep up with her. Prentiss just sighs, and repeats herself. “Everyone is fine.”

She regales him with a play by play, his own memories appearing like raindrops on a windshield to accompany her commentary. Slowly beginning to form a picture of what had happened. He’d been stabbed before, more than he cares to think about, and he’s been dosed with military-grade drugs before as well -- but never both at the same time. No wonder he feels like he’s been hit by a truck.

“You’re lucky to be alive, honestly,” she points out, hip resting against the plastic side panels of his hospital bed.

“Yeah, I’m gathering that.”

“And your phone has been blowing up like crazy.”

Hotch is finally able to sit up enough and see straight without his vision swimming, to find that his agent does indeed have his cell phone in her hands.

“What?”

“Yeah, eight missed calls and three voicemails, and--” she squints at the screen before looking at him in astonished confusion, “eighty-seven missed text messages, from a whole bunch of people. I’m not reading through all of them. I didn’t know you were that popular.”

“I’m the Unit Chief, popularity has nothing to do with it,” Hotch deadpans, more himself. Wanting to reach for his phone but his arms are still dealing with pins and needles sensations, sluggish to lift and his fingers uncooperative. “Who called me eight times?”

“Let’s see,” she unlocks his phone -- somehow, god damn it Prentiss -- and scrolls through his notifications. “Two calls from Jessica, one from me, three from Strauss (Jesus), one from Dr. Reid, and one from Garcia. It doesn’t say who the voicemails are from.”

Hotch suddenly feels much more alert, his heart rate monitor picking up but he does his best not to draw attention to it, instead looking up at Prentiss as carefully guarded as he ever is.

“Dr. Reid called?” he tries to keep his voice even, and unaffected, but the aftereffects of the drugs in his system leave a little more hitch in his voice than he would have liked.

“Yeah, he’s been talking to Garcia,” Prentiss says without much comment, still scrolling through his phone and making Hotch a little more than nervous. “Busted the case wide open, and saved your life while he was at it. We never would have known you were dosed with something if he hadn’t figured it out. Think you owe that old man a fruit basket.”

“Can I have my phone back?”

“Don’t think you’re supposed to have it,” she says without looking up, still scrolling through his notifications. “Lots of junk e-mail…”

“One of those voicemails is probably Jack, I should call and let them know I’m alright,” Hotch tries to reason with her.

“He and Jess are already on their way up, they’ll land in an hour,” Prentiss tells him, but looks over her shoulder for that nurse as she makes to hand Hotch his phone anyway. Still hesitant despite her predilections to breaking every rule she can get away with.

“I still want it back,” Hotch insists, regretting saying it as soon as he does.

It catches Prentiss’ attention a little too sharply. “...why?” But at Hotch’s steady stare and solid silence, unwavering like he hadn’t just been in surgery for hours on end, she finally relents and hands it over, still giving him a suspicious look.

“It’s important,” he finally admits, when she doesn’t stop staring for a good couple of minutes. Those perfectly shaped eyebrows raise near to her hairline, the profiler in her connecting more dots than should be humanly possible.

A small smile teases her lips, though not fully forming there. “Now I wish I’d read them.”

Hotch just gives her a reprimanding look of his own, but it’s short lived.

“Thank you, for staying.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Prentiss assures him, her smile going softer. “I’ll leave you to your mystery woman.” A beat, another raised eyebrow. “Person.” A knowing look, but then she exits and Hotch is able to look at his phone at his own discretion.

Hotch goes through the text messages with a brief glance; there’s so many of them. Other agents and agencies, his team in a group chat Garcia had started, Jessica left fifteen before someone got a hold of her, and Jack’s school sending reminders about soccer and parent teacher conferences.

But 39 are from Spencer, and his heart constricts in his chest at the worry he must have caused the man. Aches next to the scars on his chest and the blood that doesn’t belong to him in his veins. And somewhere in the recesses of his mind, it’s coupled with a torturous feeling of longing. Even subtle jealousy, because even half drugged out of his mind Hotch hadn’t missed the precise word choices Prentiss used. Garcia has been talking to Spencer -- talking.

Garcia got to hear him.

She talked to Spencer, when he still hadn’t, because of some unspoken rule Hotch isn’t even sure when they decided upon. He still knew so little about the man, and Spencer’s voice could tell him so much with just a few words. He could fill volumes with what he would learn from just a single message --

Without much further thought, Hotch pulls up his voice mail. Listens to the automated voices and the three messages there. None are from Spencer, although his heart had beat a little harder in anticipation -- enough his heart monitor beeped audibly next to him. Embarrassing as that was, like a lovestruck teenager. He’d glared at it and centered his breathing until his heart rate slowed back down, not wanting to alert the nurses station. Two of the voicemails are from Jessica’s phone, one of her worried out of her mind, and the other of Jack telling him they are coming to see him and he hopes he feels better soon. Just listening to his son speak more strongly than his aunt had or anyone else should in his situation, telling his daddy he loves him while the sounds of a commercial airline filter through the background, makes Hotch want to smile and sob all at once.

The last voicemail is from Garcia, telling him a similar story to what Prentiss had earlier, but with a bit more detail on her end. How ‘Dr. Reid’ called her out of the blue, because there had been no time for his usual emails, and gave them the information that saved his life. He’d been working the case diligently, ever since, and was checking up on him a lot. More than a lot. ‘Let him know you’re okay, when you wake up and get this. The poor guy is worried sick, and my updates only give him so much comfort.’

Spencer had actually called Garcia, when he hasn’t physically spoken to anyone in Quantico the entire time he’s consulted for them, just to save a few precious seconds to relay what he’d found. He’d even broken their rule, probably before hand, and called Hotch -- just to make sure he was okay. Hadn’t stopped working to help, the moment he found out he wasn’t.

It’s a strange thought, that if not for Spencer -- Hotch would be dead. That Jack would be flying up here for a very different reason.

Hotch switches over to the text messages with a lump in his throat. Not at all prepared, emotionally, but needing to know.

The 39 messages start from the night before, when they were supposed to have had their usual online chess date. They range from playful banter, teasing edged in worry, and escalate to panic as the night wears on. Anxious worry bleeding through the single sentences, building and building until that lump in his throat feels like it might block off all air soon.

Please be okay.

God, that alone starts to set a tone -- and reveals something Hotch hadn’t expected to find. Those three words give way to his speech pathology training, and all indicate that Spencer is… very likely younger than he’d originally thought. Some of Hotch’s assumptions might be close, even the teasing ones he’d only said because he’d been sure they were wrong. The other man is obviously beyond worried about him, as well. Petrified, despite knowing the risks of his job. They had become so close the past few months, were most definitely past the flirting stage and into something so tentative and wonderful Hotch can barely believe it some days. But they had never talked about this, about the possibility that Hotch might walk into a situation one day and not walk back out of it.

Spencer’s messages soon give way to him just… talking at Hotch. Relaying what was happening, philosophical rants meant to ease his own mind and Hotch finds himself smiling softly at the man’s constant stream of thought, lectures at genius levels that he still feels so compelled to share with Hotch. Because they are that close. They really, truly, are -- and it brightens the fluttering feeling in his chest all the more. How Spencer is trying, subliminally, to draw Hotch back to the light. Three thousand miles away.

Please come back.

Hotch hears it loud and clear, the come back to me. Even unwritten. And it makes his heart skip a beat, aching as it does.

Then…

[]9/23, 15:49[] I’ve thought of something.

[]9/23, 15:52[] I’m 29.

Hotch doesn’t understand, at first. But then it hits him.

Years.

29 years.

Spencer is 29 years old. Proven, further, by the following messages sent after that.

[]9/23, 15:56[] I’m a certified child prodigy, on a registry and everything. I graduated high school at just twelve years old, and had my first Ph.D. by 15. Youngest in CalTech history.

29.

Jesus Christ, no wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell Hotch his age. 29 is… far younger than he expected.

When Spencer was born, Hotch was getting his driver’s license. 16 years difference in age…

He keeps reading, despite the numb aftermath of a bomb going off inside his head, trying to process it and also hear the younger man out.

Younger. Spencer is 16 years younger than Hotch, and he finds himself scrubbing at his face to try and wake himself up further as he reads what Spencer sent.

[]9/23, 15:57[] I turn 30 at the end of October, and I was trying to wait until then to tell you.

[]9/23, 16:00[] I’ve noticed a prominent dynamic shift in perception, between listing my age as in my 20’s and ‘almost 30’. It’s a numerical allusion our brains can’t help. You hear 29, you think 21. It happens with decades, too, once someone is outside the familial range of 10 years. +/- either side.

[]9/23, 16:02[] An age gap doesn’t sound as bad when I’m 30. That’s why I wanted to wait, just a little while longer, but if that universal affirmation phenomenon actually works for us -- I don’t mind dealing with the consequences.

[]9/23, 16:03[] Just please come back.

[]9/23, 16:07[] Please be okay.

[]9/23, 16:10[] I miss you.

His heart is about to be ripped to shreds.

Hotch feels terrible, because Spencer is right. 29 sounds so young, and it keeps repeating in his head over and over. But 29 isn’t the same as 21, he isn’t some college student still stumbling around trying to figure out his life. He has five Ph.D.’s, runs three departments at one of the best universities in the country, is consulted by the FBI and Homeland Security and very obviously has a reputation he upholds to the highest regard. Hotch had guessed Spencer was 32 not so long ago, what was the big difference between that and his actual age? From what little Spencer just shared of his life story, he’s never gotten to be a kid, so who was Hotch to consider him one? What gave him the right to be floored by this, did it actually change what he thought of Spencer? How he felt about him only moments prior to reading that?

I miss you. Come back. Please be okay.

I’m 29.

It could be the recent flirtation with death, the anesthesia or the morphine, even the gratitude that Hotch will get to see his son again and not leave him without both his parents -- there’s so many reasons for him to take pause as he considers the messages in front of him.

But it feels a lot like the months of talking, and the countless late nights spent together, that pile up and up in his chest. A rising pressure that reminds Hotch that he and Spencer have something, and it’s not a normal, regular situation for either of them. Something that precedent, and everything Hotch has ever been told to hold to standard, doesn’t seem to fit. He and Spencer don’t seem to fit, when looked at afar or even on paper -- but they do. They really do. It was never supposed to be something that could be this easy, or normal in any capacity.

But what about their lives ever was?

[]9/23, 18:26[] I’m so sorry I worried you.

[]9/23, 18:26[] I miss you, too.

[]9/23, 18:27[] If I stop answering you, the nurse took my phone away. I hate hospitals.

[]9/23, 18:29[] Hotch, you scared me to death.

[]9/23, 18:30[] I know, I’m sorry.

[]9/23, 18:31[] From what I heard, you saved my life.

[]9/23, 18:33[] I don’t even know how to begin thanking you for that.

[]9/23, 18:36[] Just get better.

[]9/23, 18:38[] Which means resting, don’t glare at your nurses too much. They’re there to help you.

There’s a long stretch of a pause in their correspondence, which picks up so smooth and easy it’s as if they had never stopped. Like the last few days hadn’t happened at all. But they had, they were both looking at the messages to prove that. He does take pause, maybe more than he should, and Hotch knows miles away Spencer is just as nervous. Staring at his phone.

Hotch isn’t wrong. Spencer let out such an exclamation of relief at Hotch’s name on his notifications he about sobbed with it. He never cries, hasn’t in years -- but his eyes sting with relief and worry and… an emotion he doesn’t want to name.

[]9/23, 18:44[] What day is your birthday?

[]9/23, 18:45[] October 28th.

[]9/23, 18:45[] Same week as mine. November 2nd.

Hotch pauses, again, considers his next response… and 3,000 miles away Spencer can barely blink as he stares at his phone with mounting dread.

[]9/23, 18:49[] I understand why you didn’t want to tell me. It’s alright.

[]9/23, 18:51[] Am I correct in assuming you’ve never been in a relationship with this much of an age gap?

It takes Hotch a moment to even gather the courage to type that out and send it. Knows it sounds almost too formal, for them, but Hotch also knows that he and Spencer are balanced on the edge of a knife, here, and… no matter what the outcome, everything is about to change between them.

Spencer licks his lips in nervousness, reading the line over and over although he has no need to. It feels like a tipping point, and he’s still… terrified this will be his last conversation with Hotch outside of case work. Ever.

[]9/23, 18:55[] Never.

[]9/23, 18:57[] I haven’t had many relationships at all. My peer groups have always been older than me, and people my own age never understood me enough to be interested. So it’s just something I was used to, going without.

[]9/23, 18:59[] This has been… the closest thing to what I’ve been told is normal that I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never had the chance to have something like this with someone, or connect in this way. I gave up, for a long while there.

[]9/23, 19:01[] I’ve been in a similar situation before, on an intellectual spectrum.

[]9/23, 19:03[] I’ve never--

Hotch pauses, again, putting his thoughts in order. Weighing it all, before taking that final leap. Spencer waiting with baited breath, all the more.

But Hotch doesn’t regret what he sends. Not one bit.

[]9/23, 19:03[] I’ve never dated anyone younger than me like this, before, so we’ll both be on a learning curve.

[]9/23, 19:03[] But we will figure it out. Together.

Spencer’s breath catches, and he can’t seem to release it again. He can’t believe what he’s reading. What Hotch has sent him.

He said ‘dated’.

He thought they were dating. Spencer isn’t quite sure he can trust his own eyes, despite the words being there in stark black and white on his phone screen.

[]9/23, 19:06[] Dating?

Hotch smiles, because he just knows -- from that single word text -- that Spencer has sent it not in admonishment or anything negative of the sort. But in hope. Confident that he recognizes the nuance in Spencer's voice even without ever having heard it, Hotch just knows, and it makes warmth blossom anew in his chest. Sends his heart rate monitor skittering across the machine all over again.

[]9/23, 19:08[] Hate to be the one to tell you, but all of those late nights where we talked for hours instead of playing chess? Those were dates.

Spencer has his hand over his mouth, still in disbelief that he hadn’t… fucked this up beyond repair. That his age hadn’t been the deal breaker he’d feared so vehemently for months now. That everything is still as it was, age difference and life-threatening situation, aside.

They were dating. All this time.

[]9/23, 19:10[] I should have worn nicer clothes.

Hotch laughs at his phone at the same time Spencer laughs at his own, having reread what he’d sent.

3,000 miles away, and their quiet laughter coincides perfectly.

[]9/23, 19:11[] Our next one I’m sure I’ll be in a hospital gown, so I think you’re in the clear.

[]9/23, 19:12[] Sounds like you’re making plans, already.

[]9/23, 19:12[] You still need rest.

[]9/23, 19:14[] Well, I have to thank you somehow. And, I saw something about poker instead of chess? I’m actually not bad at poker.

[]9/23, 19:15[] … you remember I’m from Vegas, right?

[]9/23, 19:16[] We’ll play for fake money.

[]9/23, 19:18[] No such thing.

[]9/23, 19:19[] I do play for favors, though.

[]9/23, 19:19[] Oh?

Hotch feels a wild, youthful thing unfurl in his chest as he types away. Mischievous, almost, in a way he only gets when he and Spencer are hours deep into conversations in the middle of the night. But it’s broad daylight, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too wide. Getting lost in the thrill of it all. In the officiality of it, now, and another curtain unveiled between them.

[]9/23, 19:20[] Did you have something in mind?

Spencer has to be blushing seven shades of red, right about now, and he hides his face from his phone for a moment before he realizes how ridiculous that is -- Hotch can’t see him. He can stop messaging the man any time he wants to.

Except he doesn’t want to.

[]9/23, 19:24[] I’ll get back to you.

Hotch can’t help it as he grins at his phone. A wry, suggestive thing, but he manages to school it before a passing nurse can see him -- how his eyes are alight with possibility. With elation, just from talking to the younger man that had seemed to capture a part of him he thought wasn’t available to anyone any more, and types out one last -- slightly more flirtatious subtext to put a cap on their conversation. To indicate he’s awaiting more, always wanting a little more of Dr. Spencer Reid.

He can blame it on the morphine, later.

[]9/23, 19:25[] Looking forward to it.

(tbc...)

Tagged List: @spencehotchner @ssa-sarahsunshine @gothamapologist @reidology @marsjareau @dragon-snaps-fandom @emmyraebird @just-an-emo-rat @aaron-hotchner187 @dk18077 @more-heid-pls @fakin-it-til-i-make-it @merpancake

#I legit added like 1500 words while editing this afternoon so I'm hella worried it's convoluted but HERE IT IS #Getting this show on the ROAD #cross your fingers and pray I have this damn tumblr formatting thing figured out #hope you enjoy everyone I love ALL OF YOU #super duper long chapter #Correspondence #HotchReid #Heid #Updates on Saturdays hit me up if you want in on the tag list #katyswriting

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illdesigns · 4 years ago

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3 H ☁ for mags/pickle? 8)

fic prompts - (jail cell, blackout, lipstick)

It hadn’t been Pickles’ first time in a cell. Or the first time he woke up in one completely unaware of how he had gotten there in the first place. It had just been the first time in a while. The fact that he hadn’t experienced that level of disorientation in a while threw him off. And the realization that he didn’t exactly have a ton of Snakes ‘n’ Barrels money or fame for possible bail set him on edge. He hoped that it was for something minor, just a regular public intoxication, not resisting arrest or armed robbery or some horseshit that might actually take him to court or prison. Again, the money that could help clear this up in a good out of court settlement was far, far from his fingertips at this point.

The sound of a different cell door opening had woken him up. Pickles rubbed his eyes and inhaled sharply. The conversation and lights and smells all flew around like little cartoon birds around his head before settling in his skull to nest painfully. The feeling of nausea and sluggishness associated with a hangover-inducing migraine made him lurch forward for a second, rub his face and smack dry lips.

He sat there for a moment, face in his hands, trying to focus. Phones rang. The distant sound of crying bounced off tile. Muted conversations he heard two words of at best. And right next to him, at his side, a snore. A thin, high one that ended in a click. A snore that was oddly comforting in its immediate familiarity - considering how Pickles would usually wake up to it at three in the morning. Usually accompanied by a nightmare of being eaten alive by a snake, or strangled by vines, only to find long limbs wrapped around him and hair that was not his in his face and mouth. And the source of the snore’s face pressed against him, breathing hotly on his skin and whining at any attempt Pickles made at prying himself free.

Pickles looked down next to him and saw the source in the flesh. Right now, it was a lump of curls with long legs stretched out the length of the bench, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge. He groaned and sat up against the concrete wall before reaching a hand out to shake the lump’s shoulder.

“Magnus,” Pickles muttered. “Magnus. Magnus? Magnus!”

“Five more minutes,” was the muffled response, Magnus’ face buried in the jacket bunched under his head in a makeshift pillow. A hand reached out from under his body to swat Pickles’ away in annoyance.

“Five fuckin’ nothin’, dude, wake your ass up,” he hissed in annoyance. “We’re in jail, dipshit.”

“What?” Magnus jolted awake, legs kicking out, head lifting up to look around at their surroundings. At the realization they were, in fact, in jail, he groaned. “Ohhh, fuck…”

“Yeah, oh fuck!” Pickles replied incredulously. “You know what happened?”

“No? You...don’t?” Magnus heaved himself up with a grunt, stretching his arms and cracking his neck. “Shit.”

Pickles inspected him for clues. He couldn’t see himself, but if he saw his apparent partner in crime, there might be a hint as to how they got here. A vivid bruise was forming on Magnus’ cheek but beyond that, he looked normal. His hair was wild and puffed out like an annoyed cat, his shirt was annoyingly unbuttoned three buttons too far and-

“The fuck’s this?” Pickles asked suddenly, jabbing an accusing finger at his chest.

Black lipstick. Everywhere. On his face, on his neck, leading down into his shirt. Magnus looked down at himself, rubbed one of the marks and looked at his fingers. Pickles rubbed his own lips and saw the back of his hand come back clean. That wasn’t his.

“Lipstick?” said Magnus with a cautious tone. Pickles crossed his arms and sucked his teeth, making Magnus roll his eyes. “We’re not arguing about this of all fuckin’ things right now! And you, you’re covered in the shit too!”

He dragged another finger across Pickles’ face and showed it to him. Red. Okay, fine. What’s good for the goose was good for the...other...goose. But that doesn’t negate the fact that there was an implication of two missing people in this equation. One of whom was wearing black lipstick and was going to get a thorough fucking talking to if Pickles got his hands on them. Pickles looked around at the slumped over drunks and surly faces that were their new roommates. None of them struck Pickles as his type and while Magnus had lower standards, their faces were bare too.

“Mag. Don’t fuck with me. If you remember anything, tell me, dude!” Pickles begged. He didn’t even care about the lipstick at this point. He just wanted some kind of answer. “Even if it involves you new lil’ girlfriend or whatever-”

“Man, if you don’t shut the fuck up about this I’m kicking a drum in when we get home,” snapped Magnus in turn. “Like, what if we had a foursome, lucky us! So drop it. We need to...call...someone…”

Pickles decided he was going to pout. That was an easier solution than trying to figure out how they got into this mess, or how they would get out. A hand found his knee, which he jerked away pettily, pulling a heavy sigh from Magnus. They sat like that in silence for a moment. For a long moment, it seemed, as Pickles found himself blinking and opening his eyes to someone being escorted out of the cell. It was cold. He still had a headache. He was sore. And now he was cold on top of everything.

The cold was okay. But the chills that his hangover gave him on top of everything was almost embarrassing, feelings as if everyone could hear his teeth chatter over the commotion going around them. But he sat and suffered and wondered where his jacket went. It was October, so he had to have worn it out. That was his good jacket with the fun patches. He was going to be so mad if he couldn’t fucking find it again. It was probably already lost forever.

The shivering was offset by the feeling of denim being tucked around his shoulders. Pickled was jerked out of his thinking and he slipped his arms inside the sleeves. They fell over his hands like a kid playing dress up, but it was warm. And smelled like cigarettes and sandalwood and sweat and...Magnus.

“Thanks,” Pickles said softly, cowed by the simple gesture into dropping his anger. Magnus grunted in response. “Thank youuuu.”

“Welcome,” was the reply. Magnus looked over at Pickles and cocked a brow. “You still pissed off at me for something you did too?”

Pickles blinked.

“No,” he grumbled. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Magnus chuckled as he spoke, nudging Pickles’ foot with his own. Pickles nudged in turn. Jail footsies wasn’t what he pictured when he said yes to the offer of dropping acid and watching Star Wars as a date a few months ago, but it somehow felt fitting. “Very grown of you, Pickles.”

Before Pickles could say something back, the cell door rolled up.

“Hammersmith? And…” the officer sighed. “Drummer? Bail’s posted.”

“Oh, thank fuck! Me! Us!” Pickles yelped, jumping up and waving awkwardly like it was a roll call.

“You call someone?” asked Magnus as they walked out. Pickles shook his head, slipping his arm in Magnus’ to draw him close. “I didn’t. Who the hell-”

“Me,” a voice rumbled next to them, making them both jump. “You uh...you called me. For some reason.”

The source and their savior was a very displeased, very sleepy Nathan Explosion. Who was standing trying to look stern despite his grogginess in a stained hoodie and pajama pants. Pickles started in surprise, looking up at Magnus for an answer, who shrugged.

“So, you thought drowing in a goddamn fountain was gonna go well, Pickles? Or spitting at a fuckin’ cop, Magnus?” scolded Nathan. “And don’t you two have any other friends? Shit, we’ve hung out three times, y’all.”

So that’s what happened. Why the kid they knew through their dealer was the first number in either of their brains was yet another question they didn’t have the answers for. Or why he posted their bail. Or why they both felt properly reprimanded by someone who was probably in middle school when they were graduating. But things just happen.

“We do, but! Thanks man!” Pickles said happily, reaching out to pat Nathan on the shoulder. “You’re a good one. Our new best friend.”

Nathan rolled his eyes, trying to tug the smile on his face back into a frown. Pickles chuckled to himself as he reached inside of Magnus’ jacket to steal his cigarettes, if he still had them, pulling out a piece of paper instead.

Had a real fun time. Call us. Staci and Luna. XOXOXO.

“Hey!” the call jolted Pickles from his thoughts before he could even process what he was looking at.

The three turned their heads to the source of the sound. Faces pressed against the bars of the next to where Magnus and Pickles had been, two women peered out at them with wide grins. And smeared red and black lipstick on their mouths. One shook her extended thumb and pinky against her head and mouthed “Call me!” while the other blew a kiss. Nathan whistled a sharp note, nodding his approval when Magnus and Pickles looked back at him.

“Good job,” he said before patting Magnus’ arm. “Let’s get you guys home.”

The cold night air was more than welcome when they stepped out into it. The smell of falling leaves, crisp autumn and freedom. Nathan jerked his head at the beat up pickup parked in front of the station and popped the seat back for one of them. Pickles climbed in the back, immediately regretting the decision when both seats were crammed against him to make room for two sets of long legs. But it didn’t matter. If he remembered right, their apartment wasn’t too far away, and it was made alright when a hand reached into the back and found his knee. He smiled and set his own hand on top of it. Nathan gazed into the backseat for a second, eyes scanning Pickles’ face before looking down at the obvious affection, and cocked his head before starting the truck.

“Ohhh!” he said after a few minutes of silence, making both Magnus and Pickles turn tired gazes at him. “Your apartment only has one room!”

They really shouldn’t have laughed. He did drive out in the middle of the night and bust them out. But it couldn’t be helped.

#rowan's mtl tag #mine #did this run away from me? a lil but idc <3 #thank you for the prompt murphyyyy <33333

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dispatchesfrom2020 · 4 years ago

Text

2020

Week 32: August 3-9

3: Microsoft is in talks to buy Tiktok from its Chinese owning company ByteDance. And in California, wildfire season has begun with a large-scale blaze. The Apple fire has singed up 20,500 acres near Los Angeles - by the end of the summer, much of the coast will be engulfed with smoke as fires rage throughout the Pacific Northwest in the driest, smokiest season in recent memory.

Hussein Malla/AP

4: A large shipment of long-neglected ammonium nitrate warehoused in the port city of Beirut goes up in flames, igniting a large-scale explosion that levels city blocks and kills at least 204 people. Buildings up to 10km away sustain damage - and shockwaves are felt as far away as Cyprus. Photos of the city capture blocks upon blocks of blown-out apartments, strewn glass and roads clogged with rubble. Lebanon, already facing down a flagging economy, defaulted loans and a looming health crisis, now faces the struggle to house the 300,000 newly-homeless residents displaced by the eruption. Three hospitals were completely destroyed - killing at least 4 nurses and 15 COVID patients. Two others were damaged - and all are strained to capacity with the incoming wounded. Grain silos in the city’s port are destroyed, sending the country into food shortages in coming weeks.

5: Isaias - the 2020 Atlantic storm season’s second hurricane - finally peters out over Quebec. It raked along the eastern seaboard causing flooding, high winds and even low-grade tornados over Delaware, Maryland and Virginia. Millions of homes are left without power across New York, New Jersey and Connecticut. Falling trees, flooding, rip-currents and lightning-strikes claim 18 victims during the storm. In India, Prime Minister Modi lays the ceremonial first stone at a new temple in Ayodhya. The Babri Mosque previously occupied the site. Built in the 16th century, the mosque was destroyed during religious violence and riots during the 1990s. Archaeological reports indicated that, beneath the mosque, there was an earlier Hindu shrine, marking the birthplace of the god Rama. The country’s Supreme Court ruled that the land be returned to Hindu hands while a replacement mosque was built elsewhere. The country has seen dramatic swing towards Hindu nationalism under Modi’s leadership, accompanied by a distinct uptick in violence towards Muslims, a religious minority.

Hyderabad’s Muslim MP Asaduddin Owaisi says that Modi’s participation in the ceremony is a violation of the country’s secular structure and constitution. Muslim journalist Rana Ayyub calls the temple’s inauguration, at the site of a crime against Muslims, is an “ugly dance of fascism” - Rajesh Kumar Singh/AP

6: Allan Lichtman, a historian who has successfully forecast every election cycle since 1980 including the upset 2016 contest, claims that his unique model bodes well for Biden. It’s welcome news because the Democratic hopeful has just cancelled his upcoming Milwaukee trip due to rising numbers. Campaigning during coronavirus - when door knocking, canvassing, and rallies are seen as dangerous and virus-spreading - presents its own rich mosaic of challenges.

7: Bubonic plague is back. I’m not kidding. China shuts off the Inner Mongolia village of Suji Xincun after a herdsman becomes ill and dies of the illness. In Thailand protests continue as people demand new elections, reforms to the monarchy, and a new constitution to replace the one drafted by the military after the 2014 coup.

8: Frustrated protesters clash with security forces in Beirut as they rally against the government mismanagement and corruption. The ammonium nitrate that sparked Tuesday’s explosion had been stored in an insecure warehouse in the city’s port for six years, despite custom officials frequent appeals to government officials and the Lebanese courts to allow them to dispose of the material, transferring it to the army or selling it to local demolitions companies. For many Lebanese people, the blast is the latest embodiment of government negligence and incompetence.

Sergei Grits/AP

9: It’s election day in Belarus, following weeks of brutal government crackdowns on independent journalists, activists, protesters, and opposition leaders. The long-time incumbent, Alexander Lukashenko, is being challenged by Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya, an English teacher and translator unwillingly thrust into the political limelight after the arrest of her husband, Siarhei Tsikhanouski. Siarghei, a politician and entrepreneur, was detained two days after announcing his own intention to run for president on trumped up charges of assaulting a police officer. Late in the night, state-controlled media report that Lukashenko is leading exit polls with nearly 80% of the vote - which Tsikhanouskaya denounces as a rigged and unfair election. Spontaneous protests erupt across the nation - in at least 20 cities. In Minsk, the national capital, police batter protesters with pepper spray and rubber bullets. A police van barrels into a crowd, injuring a protester and another demonstrator is shot dead by security forces. Thousands are arrested - and the city is thrown into an internet blackout.

#2020 recap

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moviehealthcommunity · 5 years ago

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Daybreak (2019)

This is a Movie Health Community warning. It is intended to inform people of potential health hazards in movies and does not reflect the quality of the TV show itself.

Daybreak has multiple explosion shots at night, fire flickering in barrels at night, mirror flashes, disco ball flashing against ballons, sparks emanating from a chainsaw in a dark room and a flashlight in blackout conditions.

The camera motion in this TV season features city flyovers, walk along with shots, overhead shots, whirling in a circle, upside-down to right side orientation changes, shaky camera throughout every action sequence, scenes in a car, camera whipping and a flyout shot.

Flashing Lights: 8/10. Motion Sickness: 10/10.

ADDITIONAL NOTE: There is blood, high pitched ringing, vomit, body horror, amputation, cannibalism, animal killing, maggots, ultraviolence, decapitation, underage sex, homophobic comments, slut-shaming, multiple counts of bullying (including cyberbullying) and rape.

ADMIN NOTE: To request evaluations of any films outside of our weekly plan, please join our Patreon at Patreon.com/MovieHealth

#Movie Health Community #Health Warning #Actually Epileptic #Photosensitive Epilepsy #Flashing Lights #Seizures #Migraines #Motion Sickness #Netflix #Daybreak #October #2019 #Aaron Eli Coleite #Rated TV-MA

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fulltimereviewer · 5 years ago

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Top 50 Best Transformers Fanfiction Stories 2020

Best Transformers Fanfiction Updates That You Must Read

Since Childhood, I am watching transformers and looking forward to becoming a transformer one day, Grew up by Reading Transformers Fanfiction Stories and was always amazed by the fictions that used to pop out from such inspiring Fanfiction Lovers. Also liking the Transformer Fanfiction Crossover a lot.

If I Start Giving my Opinions about Transformers Fanfiction Lemon and Transformers Crossover fanfiction, I don't think so that I won't end the topic of Transformers Fanfiction Stories even in 24 hours. Lukas Schimik Agreed ! Don't know why everybody hates it, I think it's still my number 1 TF movie! Optimus new look, Lockdown & Galvatron, KsI (bots), Dinobots, cast ( HATED this Sam & Mikeala ) and the TF/human conflict. Still love it. Miguel GC Gamer Age of Extinction is the only film that entertains that I don't skip any parts of the movie and I like all the characters in this film and the transformers designs are great, dino bots are Awsome. Vincent H well....bad taste is also bad taste at the end of the day. I know you younger kids think that everyone is supposed to have an opinion and everything is subjective blah blah blah but if you're a cinephile than the Transformers are objectively bad films. They are cynical cash grabs made to make money in China. Bay and the producers have said as much. I mean you can like whatever you want. If you wanna listen to Teletubbies soundtrack all day that's your right....but that does mean you have shitty taste. It's okay. Not everyone has good taste. urtpro 2 I'm not hating I'm genuinely curious. I certainly like it more than Last Knight but barely lol. I'm curious the reasons why AOE fans consider it one of the better Transformers movies. I will say it was nice to switch up the protagonist and all that since Sam Witwicky had worn out his welcome by the third film. And the actress who played Wahlberg's daughter was smoking hot, so that was a plus too. Oliver Parker I thought the premise of the world hating and hunting the Transformers(regardless of Faction), cuz of what happened in Chicago(in DOTM), was kool, MW was a refreshing Main Hero over Shia tbh, and Lockdown was Badass! Honestly kinda just laughed off the whole Romeo and Juliette law thing as being just a bad movie joke! I’m mean honestly I know there’s no such law, and as such it didn’t really bother me! Just rather thought it was somewhat silly! Yann Labeille Well Lockdown was a pretty good villain for once in the movies. However Galvatron went nowhere after this. Anthony That isn't true. I saw Bumblebee yesterday and I find it Like watching E.T., the movie is just on Charlie, not really much on Bee. The only g1 part is the first 5 minutes of the movie. Too much 80s references. Sometimes is even boring for me. It Was a cute movie but absolutely not my favourite. I still prefere the first one. Aron T-900 I'd rather get vibes from ET and Iron Giant instead of witnessing stupid humor, unnecessary hot shots, dogs humping each other, unrealistic explosions, parents acting like they belong in a cartoon, patriotism and confusing slo-mo action sequences. Cam Rich I preferred the first and third ones as they have so much more action in them making the films actually entertaining, when most of bumblebee is almost like a compilation of ‘cute’ little clips of bumblebee and that annoying girl taking up almost the entirety of the movie. Max Ramirez Personally prefer the 2007 movie because it's just overall more entertaining to me. Also, you can pretty much tell Bumblebee was a movie that was directed towards kids so 2007 wins for me So Sit back and enjoy reading my favorite transformers fanfiction lemon and Transformers fanfiction Crossovers Collection. That I have collected for you guys. I Hope You Guys liked our collection of the best transformers fanfiction stories and updates that we have presented above for all fanfiction lovers out here. Transformers Fanfiction Crossover Stories 2020(Updated) Transformers is America based Franchise that was first seen in the 1980s globally. So the first five transformers Films was directed by Michael Bay. I really believe that this was the boost up for the Transformers Fanfiction Crossover stories that I really liked about among the whole and sole of the transformers fanfiction stories including the lemon version of the franchise. Minaya Rojas Tony: We have a Hulk! Optimus: We have a Grimlock! Porg King VII Bee is here what would Optimus want with that what would he take her hostage IT SOUNDS LIKE HE HAS BEEN BRAIN WASHED BY DESEPTAGONS Siidimus Prime! Except they transform their aliens they have Real blasters Different Voices blood Etc. arfhanisbest The interesting thing is that transformers would actually make for good marvel villains. dave tasca The original transformers comics were made by marvel and marvel had to do with the original transformers tv show so they really should try to get the rights back jovinprime Poop soc This would've been more awesome if gi joe, rom the spaceknight, M.A.S.K., micronauts and the other properties interfere with the whole marvel universe and the transformers both. That would be, not only a big, giant, massive crossover event, but a... gigantic, space-involving, multiversal collusion as well Darkknight329 yes megatron hack the armor with Soundwave and turn it off then they all just step on them but they will throw hulk to cybertron and leave him to the toxic oxygen Dr. Nobody Celz On they are robots what is a snap gonna do I know buckys arm was turned to dust but still they have weapons that can make thanos cheese agnas yes because they’re alive. They go to the allspark when they die, they are alive just like us, just made of metal. Bee is here Tony: We have thanos Optimus: We have your mom Tony:0_0 ok you win now give me my mom Hoping that you guys liked our collection of the topmost fanfics about the transformers fanfiction crossover flavors that we have published above this.

Transformers Fanfiction Lemon Version 2020 Funny Part of the Franchise is that the transformer's movies, on one hand, was loved by the fans and on the other hand there were critics about the direction "Worst Director of all Time". Still, there are some dirty minded people who are always in search of the Transformers Fanfiction Lemon and some people also call it Transformers lemon Fanfiction. Night light I really want to be apart of one of micheal bays movie of transformers Flo Parsons see this is why I love transformers, because the actors ACTUALLY seem like they are having fun, and they are such fun films to watch obert Delgad Even though the movie sequels are not that great, but you have to give Michael Bay a lot of Credit for what he does. fake lol Bay is a genius I mean, I wouldn't be able to figure out the scale of you know the explosions Like the layout nig*a LOL, lol or as you typed if, Lol: an acronym for laugh(ing) out loud or lots of laughs, some say it is Lots of love, is a popular element of Internet slang. It was first used almost exclusively on Usenet, but has since become widespread in other forms of computer-mediated communication and even face-to-face communication. Alex Bruh Bumblebee knows how to pick up ladies more than Sam 😂 lala I remember being a kid and having the biggest crush for Megan. Good lord she was so hot Michael ceasar Back than I thought Sam was looking at her belly and so was I saying "Hot belly I guess." hotman 280 Michael Bay while directing: Yeah Megan arch your back, perfect perfect. Get a good shot of her sweat glistening tanned bronze body. Yeah just like that. chief ada Yeah right. That engine is a big block. Fuel injected side draft 8 barrel carburetors. Hell even the headers are up and over side mount. And the damn engine is worth more then the car. As he only paid $4500.00 That damn engine alone cost $20,000.00! Leave the critics aside all I want to know is: How did you people find our transformers fanfiction lemon version? comment down below if you guys liked this collection on some of the best lemon flavors of transformers fanfiction stories. Transformers fanfiction Bumblebee Stories Updated The best part of the Transformers franchise is that bumblebee is the only character that got most of the positive reviews. This can be a reason that people Love Transformers Fanfiction Bumblebee Version a lot. No worries because we have provided some of the best Bumblebee fanfiction stories that you will enjoy reading. Master Yoda "Wasp", "Stinger" or "Hornet" would be appropriate Decepticon sounding names as "Bumble Bee" sounds too friendly. ron 1j2j barricade is a ford mustang and bee is a Chevrolet camero trust me they will not be friends pro gmer yes i do lol they killed ironhide and ratchet and jazz and sideswipe is already missing dnt know if hes alive but hes my favorite hari bhaskar I'm Bumblebee was a Decepticon he'd be dead like the other Decepticons, because boi they sure kill Decepticons like it's nothing. mighty raju Blackout had skills. Shockwave had skills. The Fallen had skills. Yet they all died like they're nothing. Why? Cause they're Decepticons lol. It's simple rlly, they kill off Decepticons like they're nothing that's just how it is lol. habob What about “what if sentinel prime didn’t betray the autobots” I think age of extinction and beyond wouldn’t have happened since sentinel basically destroyed N.E.S.T. And also Rachet and Ironhide wouldn’t have died so the Autobots would have had a great advantage, and then Sam would still be with the autobots since he disappears after DOTMBasically, I’m saying that the Transformers franchise would have dramatically changed if Sentinel didn’t betray the Autobots. ShyGuy 15 In the movies, technically Megatron is an anti-hero. The first movie makes an acception bc he was using the allspark for pure evil, also in Aoe no reason told us what he was trying to accomplish other than detonating the seed. So 2, 3, and 5, he has reasons to his doing Rotf: using the pyramid to kill the sun and repopulate cybertron. Dotm: rebuild cybertron. TLK: kill unicron using cybertron. This is all in my own mind, not sure if anyone else agrees with me Simon Tyson I forget what it was called, but there was a comic book series where Megatron was an Autobot. It basically swapped all the characters so that Optimus, Bumblebee, Iron Hide, etc. were bad guys. Megatron, Starscream, etc. were good guys Dank Starscream If Bayformer Megatron's history is similar to the IDW comics Megatron's history...then that would mean the Autobot government was not all that good, and would be directly responsible for why Megatron turned out the way he did. Because he was a slave to their functionalist system of control, and he would have remained a slave worker miner if he didn't rise up from the lifestyle forced on him and formed the Decepticon faction... Though it seems to me that if this were the case, Bayformers Megatron would still have become a gladiator before forming the Decepticons...and then eventually he found his way into more of the politics of Cybertron after one day meeting with Optimus Prime (Orion Pax at the time) and then they became brothers/friends. In that sense...it would be similar to how the history of the two were from the show TF Prime. They could still keep the part with the whole Optimus being a knight too, somehow... So in short...Megatron really did not start out as a bad guy at all, it was the way in which he reacted to everything that made him turn out a 'bad guy'. She-Venom What if Megatron is a good guy in the movies? Simple answer is right here becuse Optimus accepted become a Prime if he didnt accept Optimus and Megatron wouldnt fight each other and best brothers it was Optimus fault he started the war i think Megatron is a good guy Hoping that you guys liked our collection of the topmost fanfics about the transformers fanfiction crossover flavors that we have published above this. People Love Bumblebee! i love him/her because bumblebee is cool, let me know why do you love Bumblebee and more importantly why do you guys love Transformers fanfiction on Bumblebee. Transformers Fanfiction OC Version Earning a total amount of $4.3 Billion, transformers became the 13th highest-grossing film series in the world. The Transformers Fanfiction Fans Should be happy to know that the Transformers franchise grossed a total of $1 Billion each from two superhit blockbuster movies. Comment Down the names of those movies if you know them. Jack R I think the first one was more epic just cause the fight scenes were cool and it was the first time we saw something like that. But the writing and characters were absolutely horrific. Bumblebee had much better writing and characters especially the character relationship between Bumblebee and the girl which is much better than the relationship between Sam and bumblebee. Dotm Shockwave Yeah I dont know how he put tlk over revenge and extinction. The last knight is incredibly boring and the only remaining aspect left to enjoy (the action) is incredibly dull in it compared to all the other films. There are no good fight scenes. Which is likely why it bombed so hard Ur mom Gai Ok imo the last knight is my fave AND I ONLY like TF5 is cuz bumblebee new form looks good as hell and Optimus prime vs bumblebee AND there is explosions. EVERYWHERE Boss I definitely didn't think it was my favorite. It depends on what you are looking for in a movie. If you like character relationships and a girl and her problems trying to find her way, then you'll like it. If you like transformers actions and interactions, you may not like it as much. Even though the Bay movie didn't focus enough on the transformers, this one did even less The Burden of Bordem I'm a decepticon fan and none of the main decepticons were even given a name in the movie. They were just there to be bad. The Burden of Bordem For me I think this film would have worked much better if they just had Starscream as the main villain, and maybe Barricade hunting bumblebee and give them a more personal relation ship as enemies. But like I said, it end up being a movie about a girl and her relation ship with Bumblebee and enemies getting in their way. bandwon he main character is more fleshed out than the others, Bumblebee I guess is as well, but he can't talk so it isn't by much, the story is standard E.T./Iron Giant, the acting is fine, the directing is probably better than the others, the action is good when it happens, but there is far less than the others, and non of the action reached the peak of the Bay movies. and if it wasn't for the fact there were transformers in it I probably wouldn't have really liked it, but it's enough to get you invested and entertained imo. luke jack You really think anyone's gonna take you serious after you typed "Bumble" Haha the 2007 film and DotM were pretty decent films and satisfying in the end. lisa Speaking as a male, it always annoys me, as a child, that certain plot-line of every terribly written sci-fi (mainly Transformers): "main character is a dick=likable guy" "he has 'relatable' problems, that are only explored in the first 15 minutes of the film" "He start having an abusive/creepy relationship (because that's how well written romance works, right...), with the love interest (they barely explore her name)." "1+ hour action scenes" "world is gonna explode (not really)" "Main Character and Love Interest hook up". People always call me "a pussy", because i want equal rights, and then they go make a video about "how everything is now pandering to women, and everything is Woke"... By your perfect logic... most movies are "pandering to males, and straight people only" imo not like super duper mad, but kinda upset. It was actually kinda funny. But dude, I love what you said about Man of Steel in your DC ranking video. I love that you love Man of Steel. Not many do, and it's seriously awesome! IMO I hope You Guys Like our Collection of the best Transformers fanfiction stories along with transformers fanfiction lemon and transformers fanfiction crossover collection. We know that people will like the Transformers Crossover fanfiction and transformers fanfiction bumblebee version stories. If you like These Transformers Fanfiction Stories make sure you share this on various social media, and you can also give credits to our website. Thank You Also, read Star Wars fanfiction Updates 2020 Read the full article

#transformerscrossoverfanfiction #transformersfanfic #transformersfanfiction #transformersfanfictionbumblebee #transformersfanfictioncrossobver #transformersfanfictionlemon #transformersfanfictionnightmare #transformersfanfictionoc

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brownellsinc · 5 years ago

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"This is my AR-15 pistol in .300 AAC Blackout with an 8" barrel. It has a lightweight Tegra Arms lower receiver of carbon fiber reinforced polymer, the most compact EOTech I could find, an Aero Precision handguard, a Magpul Angled Fore-Grip, and offset MBUS Pro flip-up "iron" sights. The folding mechanism for the brace is a Dead Foot Arms MCS adapter. [Brownells doesn't sell this, but we do offer the Law Tactical Gen3-M adapter. –The Mgmt] I built this gun mainly for self-defense, but now I'm planning to use it in competition, too." - Brownells Customer Kyle B for Sunday Gunday

#brownells #guns #gun #ar15 #rifle #pistol #300blk #lawtactical #eotech #2a #freedom #gunsmith #gunsmithing #firearm #sunday #sundaygunday

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persephone-is-here-omg · 6 years ago

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One of the funniest things about Tumblr CommunistsTM inserting themselves in the Venezuela discussion is that they show very early one that they have no real knowledge of Venezuela besides the revisionist version of "history" that Chavez put out there.

They go around talking about "socialized programs" as if those things weren't part of the venezuelan life before Chavez or Maduro became presidents.

One example: France made it's social security reforms in 1946, but Isaías Medina Angarita had already created the IVSS (Venezuelan Institute of Social Security). By 1948 all public employees were incorporated to it. In 1967 motherly security is incorparated to this program. In 1955 every single private employee becomes part of this program, too, and in the same year the IVSS hospitals network is created.

Another example: Universitary Autonomy has been recognized by law since 1958. But, in Venezuela, education is free, public and mandatory since 1896, during the government of Guzmán Blanco. Luis Herrera Campins was the president that built more high schools in Venezuela's history. His government started in 1978.

Work security exists in Venezuela since 1944 and the current law of Work Security exists since 1986.

Since 1997 Venezuelan workers enjoy the benefit of Cestatickets (a bonus payed by the employer, public or private, every month to be invested in food). Also, during the 1990s the Habitational Politic Law is introduced which basically created a subsidized way of acquiring a home.

And, of course, there was corruption with currency exchange controls and corrupt bankers. Corruption exists everywhere. But here, in the same Venezuela ridden with blackouts and food and medicine shortages today, there were dining-halls for children of school ages. Bags with schools supplies, even full uniforms, were given and what was called "el vaso de leche escolar" all this with oil at 8$.

Many people in Venezuela went to school without paying a cent, went to college only paying for the copies of their books and gained scholarships without being connected to the government. That there were injustices and inequality? Of course there were; like everywhere else in the world. But no, Venezuela was not Westeros. This wasn't the feudal system Chavismo has painted it as.

Chavez did not create 44 Universities. He just took already existing institutions and changed their names. Many Univerisity hospitals gave free diagnosis for diseases like Chagas Syndrome, now there are not the supplies necessary to diagnose them. Venezuela was not a perfect country, but god damn it, people came here in hordes to make their lives (my parents amongst them) because you could come here and have a life.

Tumblr CommunistTM love to scream at Venezuelans about how "The USA wants your oil" But isn't it curious how the Castros tried to invade Venezuela, not once, but twice and filled our Universities and schools with marxist planfeets. I mean, the USA obviously has an interest in Venezuela's oil... But the USA has pretty much always been one of Venezuela's main commercial partners? In fact, after Venezuela's oil industry was nationalized in 1976 this relationship was kept intact.

Why aren't this very concerned Tumblr CommunistsTM equally concerned about Guatemala's work laws? Why are they only interested in rich countries like Colombia, Argentina and Venezuela? When are they going to show an interest in Haiti?

During the "facist" Fourth Republic many things were done with oil at 8$, but during the Fifth many things were destroyed and left undone with oil over 90$. Not going very far La Carlota is an airport in Caracas, Chavez talked for years about turning it into a park. Six years after his dead the only thing you can see about said park is the billboards announcing it's construction.

Tumblr Communists don't seem to be very concerned about the 300.000 (at the start, then it went down) oil barrells a day Venezuela's current government gave away to Cuba and the $50.000,00 million that were "paid" to the island over services (many of them were never delivered).

Chavez made his first attempt at siezing power in Venezuela in 1992, through a coup (curiously enough, none of them mention this either) and ran for president in 1998. All the things listed above happend from several decades to a year before Chavez won his first election.

Is an historical fallacy to just claim that Venezuela was a terrible, very bad, feudal system where no one had a chance to make a living, when many people made lives in this country before Chavez even thought of running for president.

#venezuela #I'm just salty about this issue today

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primerprojects · 6 years ago

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Ballistic Advantage Guts! If you want to build your own, check it out:

8″ 300 Blackout Barrel

5.56 Nitride BCG

BA Radian Raptor SL

#AR15

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newlifefori · 6 years ago

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Not all things are B&W. A little story about me.

Roel Williams

The healing process can differentiate depending on how you look at it. It can be meeting a new person that teaches you necessary lessons. It can look like accomplishing the goals you set out for yourself and sometimes it can be the complete opposite. Pure chaos, a total change of everything in front of you. Having everything destroyed and forced to rise again like the phoenix. That, personally, is the healing process, to me. We are all trying to reach the next level or just improve to be the best we can be. We strive to reach our highest potential. And sometimes, when we do not follow our calling, our bodies have a way of letting us know. That is what happened to me a couple years ago.

The street was faintly lit when I left my best friends house. I stumbled a little due to the alcohol circulating through my veins. A night of celebration because in my mind I deserved it. Anyone would after acceptance into the program I was in. I took a couple steps north towards the 7-11 so conveniently placed and open all hours of the night. Ready for anyone to walk in even at 2am. It was a couple blocks away. As I walked, I could see my breath but I didn't feel the drop in temperature until about 5 seconds later. I didn't have my ipod like I usually would so I was observant of the sounds around me. Footsteps walking up is what caught my ear. I turned to the direction of the sound and two males were in proximity. I knew what was going on but they were nice enough to clarify. “Give me all your fuckin shit right now!”. I was staring right into the barrel of a 9mm pistol but I had no signs of intimidation so they acted upon my arrogance. I felt a solid object hit the back of my head with great force. I fell to the ground. When your adrenaline is pumping you don't really feel pain. You kind of just know what's going on with what seems like subtle contact. It was all just a process until someone grabbed my head and slammed it into the cement of a worn down sidewalk forgetting by the city. Blackout.

I was recently accepted into a program that I had an 8-percent chance of getting into. The the program was called YearUp. A year long program that would teach me professional skills as well as technical. 6 months would be schooling and the other 6 months would be the intership at a very big company in the area. YearUp had a very extensive application process. If you happen to make it past the first phase you would be subjected to multiple meetings and interviews regarding your background, financial situation, living conditions, extra curricular activities and much more. It was a very accomplished moment for me. Here I was in a program that promised me a career in Information Technology. A field that is booming here in the pacific northwest. With this opportunity I tried my hardest and put my heart into it. When it began I was off to the races. I was strong in everything. I excelled in all my classes and I even represented the school when they were trying to score grants. I did so well I earned professional of the week the second week I was there. With all this success I thought IT was the thing I wanted to do as a career. After 6 months of being in the program I was finally sent off to my internship. Seattle Children's Hospital: Research Institute. All was well. I had a badge, access to many different buildings, and on the verge of getting hired on. This was the big reason why I felt the need to celebrate.

I felt the grappling of wires around me, in fact in me. I was turned to my side when I finally awoke. I could see that I wasn't in my street clothes, as I could easily slide back to laying in a position where I faced the bright white lights in the ceiling. I focused my eyes as much as I could and I realized I was in the hospital. As I focused my eyes a little more I took a glimpse at the foot of my bed. There I saw my mother Donna with her head down. She looked down and out. I softly called out: “Mom”. The moment she heard the sound of words escape my mouth she jumped up and ran to me, being careful to not put any weight of my frail body. She wrapped her arms around me and cried out: “Honey, please don't ever scare me like that again.”. I tried to comfort her by telling her I'm alright but she continued to hold me. I Couldn't blame her. She saw everything and I just saw the aftermath. A few moments later a male wearing white came in. He had a clipboard so I knew he was the doctor. He asked if he could sit down and talk to me. I said yes. He grabbed a stool and sat next to my bedside. That's when he let me in on what happened. “Roel, we almost lost you bud. But you're getting better now. You were in a coma for about 4 days. You really need to thank your mom because she got you here in due time.” I then looked at my mom and saw that she was starting to tear up again, I grabbed her hand. “We’re going to keep you here for a couple more days so that you can heal up a little more. Get some rest ok.” He proceeded to walk out of the room and then he stopped. He turned around, looked at me and said: “You're strong Roel. Get some rest.”. It was a lot to take in and all the medication didn't help either. I needed some clarification. I turned to my mom and asked her what happened. She said: “Honey when I arrived at your friend's house you were unconscious. So I rushed you to Highline Hospital. When they got you into the ER they told me you were blind in your left eye so they had to transport you to Harborview. When you got here you were still unconscious. They started to operate on you and that's when….” She began to cry. “That's when you...flatlined honey. They resuscitated you and you flatlined another time. They were finally able to stabilize for about five mins and for some reason you flatlined again.” I asked: “Mom? Did I die?” she softly said: “Yes... but you kept fighting honey. You are here now and that's all that matters ok. Just please, don't scare me like that again.” I sat there in disbelief. But I sat there indeed, alive. So, even under the circumstances I was thankful.

When I was finally healthy enough I returned to my internship. It was a drastic change. Every day that I was there I felt like I wasn't supposed to be. I didn't feel fulfilled anymore and that I was wasting my time. Changing printer paper, installing software, taking monitors out of boxes and being around people that seem to be pursuing their dreams, drained me. Just a year prior I had my first keynote speech in front of a crowd of 500 people. I raised up a lot of money for the people that needed it. I felt like I could fly. Being in front of all those people, telling my story and receiving a standing ovation was the most exhilarating thing I have ever done. That was the vivid daydream I would partake in while I was dealing with people's technical issues.

A week later I had my review regarding my internship. They sat me down and told me that they were really happy with my work as well as my customer service when it came to meeting with people for their computer problems. They also said that they were going to hire me on as soon as the internship ended starting off at about 35/hr. The manager asked: “Well, how do you feel?” I replied: “I actually quit. Thank you for the opportunity but I quit.” Those near death experiences really put my life into perspective. Life can be taken away so quickly, for nothing sometimes. And that forced me to switch my focus to my true calling. To help others find their voice by using mine.

I am a person damaged in many ways. So I will never claim to be fully healed, nor will I ever. I grew up not having a father. I also went through about 16 different foster placements because I lost my mother a day before my 7th birthday. Being 100% will never be an option for me but I can choose to live within the healing process. I believe that I can do that by following my heart and helping as many people as I can. Because of that, I have set many goals to accomplish. On the surface they may seem to only benefit me, but deep down those goals have my community, the world, and the people ingrained within them. A goal I set for myself, that is a part of my healing process was to find stable housing for the first time in my life. People need basics necessities. Food, love, and shelter. Without those you cannot fully start to develop oneself or even begin to think about assisting someone else in the development of themselves. Shelter was always the one that got away. I've only lived in couple homes where the stay was more than a year. Trust was never established because I never knew when I would be forced to up and leave again. So I never put up posters, bought furniture. and I sure in the hell never psychologically settled. It wasn't until a 1 ½ ago that I found a place. I was definitely skeptical about it for months but my roommate and I really connected. I could tell she really cared about me and in the process she became another mother to me. Till this day I am still in that place with a big ol poster in my room. From there, I set a really big goal for myself. To earn an opportunity to have a second keynote speech. I had one a couple years ago advocating for the foster care system and the homeless community. I wanted to do it again. I wanted to see how much more I could help my community just by using my voice. And I wanted to know for sure that giving up that job wasn't in vain. I prayed and prayed, worked hard and one day I got an email from someone claiming they had an opportunity for me. It happen to be an event coordinator speaking on behalf of this organization called Amara. Amara is an agency that promotes adoption of Foster children. They also provide resources to any youth transitioning into Foster Care. She asked me to be the keynote speaker of their event. I said: “Yes! Of course! I gladly accept” I knew then the universe was listening to my wishes and that I was on the right path. This meant the world to me because by using my voice and my story, I raised $432,000.00 for Foster Children. Kids that don't know the power of their voice, yet. Then I set a main goal back in April. It was to get back into college. With all the good things that have come from public speaking my dream revealed itself. I want to be a world renowned public speaker that changes the world in a positive way. I know that college is the first step, so here I am, pursuing my dream. And looking back, I can only be thankful for the events that occurred because without them, I wouldn't be where I am today.

I know that “Healing” doesn't occur overnight and sometimes even years. It is up to you to define what healing means and what is needed to be done in order to accomplish that. I also know that there are some things you can't fully heal. Traumas, terrible things you've seen and things you've dealt with. There is no remedy or cure for that. It just becomes fuel that, if you let it, will launch you to the end goal. Personally, I define my healing as trying my hardest to better myself and the lives of people around me. I believe that, it will be the key that unlocks the door to a place where I feel content with what's happened and what is happening. Overall, I believe in my heart, that we are all here to help one another. We’re not here to take what we can take, but here to give all that we can give. That's how I think you heal. You recover when you assist someone along the road of healing. Even if you're there for just a moment or a glimpse in time. Whether it's a smile you put on someone's face or a simple “Hello” that makes the forgotten feel remembered. You are helping someone get through the healing process. And when you do, you are also helping yourself get through it as well.

#personal #life #determination #nevergiveup #short story #seattle #home

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