#Harassment Investigation Training | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ace-of-zaun · 10 months ago

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You (And I):

Silco x f!reader - 2.6k words - SFW

cw: best friend!silco, fluff, banter, mutual pining, idiots in love, mentions of cat-calling and harassment (not silco), mentions of poverty, soft silco my beloved, a little bit of angst in the form of reader being anxious about not knowing who is climbing through the window, but it's just the boy

summary: Your best friend misses you, so the only logical solution is for him to climb through your bedroom window at three in the morning, without telling you beforehand… It’s a good thing that you love him (and it’s an even better thing that he loves you too).

It’s taking you a little bit longer than usual to drop off to sleep as you lie in bed, curled up under the covers, trying to keep as much warmth in as possible. Your room is right at the very top of your parents’ bar, The Last Drop, which is also where you’ve just started to work full-time instead of just the odd job you’d helped out with growing up.

But now, with money for food tight and the threat of closure even tighter, you’ve found yourself doing pretty much anything to help keep the bar afloat, from running errands and setting up during the day to serving customers all evening and cleaning up after a long night.

Your first proper job; you’d think with how exhausted you were you’d drop to sleep the very second your head hit the pillow.

Not tonight, it would seem. Tonight your mind appears to be far too preoccupied to let your body relax.

Your train of thought easily wanders to what you’d usually be doing on a Friday evening. More often than not you’d be holed up in the corner of a tiny café, trying to read your book while Silco asked your opinion on every little detail of whatever scheme he was working on at the time.

Or you’d be forcing Silco to give you a piggyback through the streets after raiding the market for the cheapest items you can find, Vander in tow carrying all the loot.

You can’t help but smile at the memories, a fuzzy, warm feeling spreading through you at the recollection of your best friend. Just the thought of him calms you; your lighthouse even in absentia.

And it seems to do the trick, eyelids just starting to feel too heavy to keep open, a sure indicator of incoming sleep, when a scrabbling noise outside your window causes you to frown.

…you really hope you don’t have rats again.

Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to get up and investigate. But you’ve only just gotten warm and sleepy, and not only is the window on the other side of the room, but you’re laying on your side with your back to the glass, and honestly who in their right mind would want to get up in the freezing cold just to have a staring contest with some rats?

Scrunching your eyelids even tighter closed, as if it would block out the sound, you attempt to lull yourself back into that bliss you were so close to achieving, vowing to deal with the little rodents in the morning.

Almost like magic, the scrabbling stops and you sigh in relief.

Until you hear the unmistakable sound of the window creaking open.

Your eyes shoot open and your blood begins to pump urgently around your body.

Fuck, why didn’t you lock the window before getting into bed? You must’ve forgotten in your sleep deprived state.

One hand slowly inches towards the knife you keep under your pillow as two, almost-silent thuds resonate across the floorboards.

Your heart practically leaps in your chest when you hear a series of soft footsteps approaching your bed, but you manage to keep yourself as still as possible, your only movement hidden beneath your pillow as you grip the knife handle tight.

A beat. Then another, as you wait for the exact right moment with bated breath.

The intruder pauses by your bed and you inhale sharply, preparing yourself to strike.

Without warning, you abruptly swing your body around, throwing off the covers as you blindly leap towards them.

But they’re faster, shoving you back down against the bed with their lithe body and clapping a hand over your mouth before you can even think to scream out.

The knife slips from your hand, leaving it to clatter to the floor while you thrash about in your assailant’s grasp.

“Stop it, it’s just me!” a familiar voice hisses down at you, halting your movements instantly.

You gaze up at the figure in bewilderment, slowly but surely recognising those jet black waves and hooked nose with every rapid heartbeat.

It’s just Silco.

He must spot the very moment that recognition sparks in your eyes because he’s soon grinning down at you, boyish, slightly crooked, and entirely too cheeky for his own good.

“Hey,” he says smoothly.

You push him off you with an unamused scoff, aiming to send him tumbling off the bed as you sit up and try to calm your erratic breathing.

No such luck though, he just stumbles to his feet and quickly drops down next to you on the bed while you plant your feet on the cold wooden boards, running your hands through your bedraggled hair.

Silco’s hand rests gently against your lower back and you glance up at him from your hunched up position of elbows on knees, palms against your forehead.

You’re filled with the sudden urge to yell at him. Loudly.

But your parents are asleep and they’ll be positively furious if they discover Silco in your bedroom in the middle of the night, so you settle for hissing at the ridiculous boy like an angry cat.

“What the fuck are you doing climbing through my bedroom window at half three in the morning?”

Silco appears completely unfazed.

“I left my lockpick at home, so I couldn't get in through the front door,” he replies, swiftly dodging the smack you try to deliver to his arm and instead catching your hand to press a chaste kiss to your knuckles. “And I missed you.”

You roll your eyes and snatch your hand back, but you’re unable to prevent your heart from swelling in your chest at his sweet words. Damn that natural charm of his.

Luckily, a glance down at the knife by your feet distracts your wandering heart.

“Why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve stabbed you.”

“Nah, you couldn’t,” he says dismissively until you shoot him a murderous glare. He returns it with a nonchalant shrug. “Thought you were asleep.”

“So why even bother climbing in?” you ask with a frown.

And then, from the corner of your eye, he begins to look the tiniest bit bashful, gaze dropping to the floor as he starts to draw random shapes on the material of his trousers with his nails.

“I, uh… I was gonna wake you up and ask if you wanted to go skip stones in the river.”

Your expression drops as you slowly turn to stare at him, which he meets with a dorky little grin. You groan and flop back down onto your bed, swinging your feet up so you can lay your head against the pillow, completely and utterly exasperated.

Your best friend has been possessed by a five-year-old boy, you’re sure of it.

Silco watches your dramatic display with clear amusement.

“I’m gonna take that as a no, then?” he asks.

“How do you have so much energy?” you whine, throwing your arm up to hide your face in the crook of your elbow. “Didn’t you have work today?”

“I had some work today,” he says, eyes quickly darting away from you. “Just not at the mines.”

Now this causes you to frown, peering over your arm at his trying-too-hard-to-look-relaxed body language.

“What kind of work?” you question, which he promptly ignores, so nudge him with your foot, concern growing by the second. “Sil… what kind of work?”

He lays down next to you, propped up on his side with one elbow, and starts absentmindedly playing with your hair.

“So, how was your day? You didn’t get any creeps trying to feel you up again, did you?”

You sigh heavily, knowing you’re not going to get an answer to your question. To be honest, you wish you didn’t have to give one to his.

It had only happened once or twice since you’d started working late shifts in the bar, and it hadn’t been as bad since your parents had begun to shut it down everytime a patron got a bit too touchy.

But it still didn’t make it right.

“No, just the odd comment,” you reply, suddenly overly-interested in your nails.

Silco wraps his arm around you and pulls you onto your side so he can hold you against his chest, chin resting on the crown of your head.

“I’ll hang around during your next shift and kill anyone who even looks your way,” he declares, with a ridiculous amount of conviction.

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. Dramatic boy.

“Don’t be stupid,” you say, lightly tapping your palm once against his back as a half-hearted scold.

“You’re right,” he agrees with a resolute nod. “I’ll let you kill them yourself, you deserve it.”

Your sigh is laced with exasperation but you still shift to cuddle him properly, arms wrapped around his midsection. You just want to enjoy his presence while you have it, even if he is a pain in your ass.

“I missed you too,” you say quietly after a peaceful silence, recalling his words from earlier. “It sucks working so much, I feel like I never see you anymore.”

“I know,” he hums soothingly, hand now rubbing tiny circles into the small of your back. “Just means we gotta make the most of the times we do.”

Snuggling him even tighter feels like the only appropriate response, so that’s what you do.

You could honestly stay here forever. No responsibilities, no stress, just Silco.

“You free tomorrow lunch? We could grab something to eat and then climb up to the roof of that factory by the river, if you want?” Silco asks.

A warm smile tugs at your lips.

“Yeah, I’m free.”

Your parents had been kind enough to give you the afternoon off tomorrow, but you were still expected to help out in the morning and evening as usual.

“Is Vander coming too?” you ask.

Silco shakes his head above you.

“Nah.”

“Oh,” you respond, surprised the third member of your ragtag trio won’t be joining you. “Why not?”

“I thought it could just be a you and me thing, you know?” Silco reasons confidently, although you do spot just a hint of insecurity in his voice, like he’s nervous you’ll interrogate him further.

Butterflies twirl through your stomach at the phrasing. You and him. You and Silco. A duet in this city of lonely hearts.

“Okay. That sounds nice,” you say, trying to keep the smile out of your voice.

He squeezes you once before he sits up a little, twisting around to pick the duvet up from off the floor. The covers are soon pulled over you both, where he tries to wrap his arms around you once more only to be met with you aiming little kicks at his legs.

“Oi, shoes off, you heathen,” you demand, ripping the duvet away from him. “I just washed these.”

Seriously, you didn’t spend all morning washing, drying, and ironing all your clothes and bedding just for him to muddy them with his filthy shoes. Janna knows where he’s been in them or what he might’ve stepped in (especially considering you’ve never seen him clean them in all the years you’ve known him).

“Alright, alright,” he grumbles, muttering a sardonic little,“Bossy boots,” under his breath.

Surprisingly, he does actually take the time to unlace them and even places them carefully under the bed, instead of just lobbing them across the room like you expect him to.

Only then do you allow him back under the covers, shifting about until you’re both comfortable in each other’s arms, legs tangled together to ensure you’re as close as possible.

“You know, you should really lock your bedroom window,” Silco comments after a few moments. “You never know who could be lurking about this time of night.”

You huff an amused breath through your nose.

“What, like you?”

“No, like some weirdo with nefarious ideas,” he insists, annoyed that you’re not taking him seriously.

You pull back in his arms to look him square in the face.

“...so, you?”

Silco pouts so adorably, you have to hold yourself back from just kissing him right there and then.

“You’re mean,” he says, looking like a little boy who has just had one of his toys stolen in the playground.

In lieu of kissing him, you boop him on the nose with your finger and give him a cheeky, affectionate grin.

“You love it.”

But your heart sinks in your chest when Silco’s face drops, gazing at you intently as if he’s searching for something. Then his gaze darts away, the tips of his ears turning red, and you start to panic that you’ve said or done the wrong thing.

Instinctively, your hands hold him a little bit tighter, scared that he’ll just get up and go.

“You know, my parents are going to kill me if they see us in bed like this,” you whisper over his shoulder, desperately trying to lighten the mood before he scarpers.

“Well, as long as they don’t kill me, then that’s fine,” he whispers back, and you can tell by his timbre that he’s smiling through the words.

You smack his shoulder, relief flooding through you in abundance.

“Idiot.”

There’s a pause.

Then, he says tenderly, (almost too tenderly for your poor heart).

“...Yes, but I’m your idiot.”

Patterns are happily traced against his back until you finally notice just how tired you are, leaning back to twist your head away from him so you can yawn into your hand.

Silco watches you quietly, stroking your cheek with his thumb like a slow, soothing metronome.

“You should get some sleep,” he says softly, his expression etched in quiet adoration.

Your eyebrows lift at the sheer audacity.

“Bitch, you’re the one who woke me up,” you protest sleepily.

He makes a show of turning to look over his shoulder and then back at you, pointing at his sternum with a quizzical frown.

“Who? Me?”

So, you sneak your cold hands up against the back of his warm neck until he yelps. Silco wrestles your hands off his neck, clasping them in between his palms until he lets you tiredly wrestle them back and smoosh your face into his chest, giggling into the front of his shirt.

He gently runs his hands through your hair as you both settle down once more, his own quiet laughter feeling like a blessing.

You almost don’t want to sleep now. You don’t want to miss any more time with him.

“Sil?” you murmur.

“Yeah, Squidge?” he replies.

Your nickname, from the time he threw a leftover tentacle at you from Jericho’s, named after the absolutely ridiculous noise it made when it slapped against your face. You love to hate it, which of course only makes Silco love it more.

“We’re always gonna be best friends, right? No matter what?” you say, deep down hoping you don’t sound too clingy.

You just can’t bear the thought of drifting apart from him. You honestly don’t know what you’d do without him.

Luckily, he soothes your worries without even a hint of the usual teasing.

“Absolutely,” he affirms, carefully running his nails along your scalp in a calming, repetitive motion. “You’re stuck with me now, come rain or smog.”

“Good,” you nod happily. “Just checking.”

Basked in Silco’s warmth, you’re far too exhausted and cosy to fight against closing your eyes, drifting off to sleep while the boy presses a delicate kiss to your head.

And right before you fall, he mumbles, oh so gently, into your hair.

“As if I’d want to be anywhere in this world except right here next to you, my perfect girl.” What a coincidence. There’s nowhere you’d rather be than right here, next to him.

#silco x reader #silco x you #silco x f!reader #silco #silco fic #silco arcane #one shot

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hoe4hotchner · 1 month ago

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Chapter 5 - Cracks in the ice

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Summary: The story follows you a figure skater training for nationals and Aaron Hotchner as your lives intertwine during an investigation into the abductions of young athletic women, including the your close friend, Leah. As the BAU delves deeper into the case, you find yourself captivated by Hotch’s quiet strength and protective presence. When Leah’s body is tragically discovered at the rink, the tension escalates, surrounding you in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of nightmares, blood, stabbing, violence, fear, case-related discussions, mention of potential stalking/harassment, rivalry, use of Y/N, bitterness, failure, and career-ending behavior, mentions of the Olympics.

A/N: The number of videos and articles I’ve watched and read for the latter half of this chapter is insane… My cookies are going to be messed up for the rest of my life, and I’ll forever only get figure skating suggestions.

Masterlist

The investigation had taken a grim, unsettling turn since Leah’s tragic death, leaving an oppressive weight hanging in the BAU. Tension crackled in the air, thick with unspoken fears, and the mood had shifted from determination to something darker, much darker. You sat at the round, cold table in the conference room, the harsh fluorescent lights glaring down on you and the BAU agent's tired faces. Their heated discussions about leads and suspects echoed around the room, voices rising and falling, but none of it truly registered with you. You weren't really paying attention. The words blurred together, becoming distant murmurs as your mind raced, consumed by a whirlwind of disbelief, anxiety, and grief.

The upcoming competition had once been a beacon of excitement and pride, but now, now it loomed over you like an impending storm. What had once been your passion — your escape, your everything — now felt like an obligation, a chore tainted by the shadow of Leah’s death. You knew it would be the talk of the competition. And as much as you longed for and missed Leah, you were sad that an event like this — supposed to be filled with happiness and talent — would be tainted by such tragedy. The rink had once been your sanctuary but no longer felt safe, its ice stained with the memory of Leah's pool of blood. The thought of returning there filled you with dread as if each glide across the ice would be haunted by the echoes of what you had lost — what you could lose.

“Based on the victimology and the profile we’ve constructed, it seems likely that the unsub is someone who’s been involved in the skating community,” Hotch said, his voice was steady and authoritative. His eyes swept the room, making deliberate eye contact with each member of the team, ensuring his words landed with full impact. “They know the routines, the schedules — this is not a random act. It’s targeted.”

His words cut through the tension in the room, sending an icy chill down your spine. The thought that the unsub was not some outsider, but someone within your world, unsettled you deeply. The faces of familiar coaches, skaters, and staff flashed through your mind as you struggled to imagine who could be capable of such a heinous act. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising unease gnawing in your bones. This wasn’t just a case you had somehow gotten involved in anymore — it was personal. The world you had loved, the routines and schedules that had once brought you comfort, now felt like a trap, manipulated by an unseen hand. And the worst part was knowing that you or someone you cared about could be next.

“Let’s consider the patterns of behavior we’ve seen in previous cases,” Hotch said, guiding the discussion. “Unsubs with similar backgrounds often display obsessive traits. He could be lurking in the shadows, watching practices, studying routines, trying to find his next victim. He likely wants to instill fear within the community, and as far as he can tell, it's working.”

“Garcia,” Hotch called out. “Can you gather information on any past complaints or incidents involving the victims? Anything that stands out — arguments, jealousies, or even online disputes. This might help us uncover underlying tensions in the skating community.”

“On it!” Garcia replied, her fingers dancing across her keyboard. “I’ll start digging into social media as well, looking for posts or comments that could hint at underlying rivalries or tensions. You’d be surprised what people let slip online, especially when emotions are running high.”

You felt uncomfortable by the conversation between the analyst and Hotch, knowing fully well that although you weren't aware of any disputes or fights, the fact that she could dig up your whole digital footprint in a matter of minutes was terrifying. It reminded you of how vulnerable you were, especially in a world where everyone was connected yet so distant.

“Garcia, while you’re at it, could you also pull up any recent reports of harassment or stalking within the skating community?” Hotch asked. “Even if they’re not directly related to our case, they could provide context that helps us understand this unsub’s behavior.”

“Absolutely!” Garcia replied, already typing away. “I’ll prioritize those reports and see if anything stands out. If there are any patterns or common threads. You'll have them faster than you can say; Four fine fresh fish for you"

“Thanks, Garcia,” Hotch said with a nod, appreciating her enthusiasm. “Just remember to focus on cases that have happened in the last year or so. We need the most relevant information.”

“Got it, boss!” she chirped, her fingers a blur across the keyboard.

Turning back to the team, Hotch continued, “Let’s not lose sight of the potential victims. We need to ensure their safety first. Morgan, I want you to coordinate with local law enforcement to increase visibility around the rink during practices and events. Perhaps even set up a temporary command post nearby.”

Morgan straightened in his chair. “I’ll get on it right away. If the unsub thinks he can target skaters without consequence, he’s in for a rude awakening.”

As the discussion continued, theories and speculations flying around the room, a wave of frustration surged within you, crashing against the carefully constructed walls you had built to cope. It was becoming harder to keep those walls intact. Your once meticulously planned training schedule had been thrown into chaos, completely upended by the heightened security measures now in place. Extra patrols at the rink, agents stationed in the shadows, and constant check-ins from Hotch had become your new reality. What used to be a sanctuary — a place where you could lose yourself in the rhythm of the ice and the thrill of competition — now felt suffocating, the weight of the investigation always pressing down on your chest. With every passing day, it grew harder to focus, the pressure of preparing for the competition clashing with the ever-present fear that gripped not only you but the entire staff and skating community.

You felt trapped, caught between the urgency of the investigation and your desperate need to reclaim the life and the passion that skating had always brought you. Every time you laced up your skates, it felt like a battle to push past the fear, the reminders of Leah, and the nagging thought that the person responsible could be watching you from the shadows. You longed for the days when skating had been simple, pure, untouched by the dark realities that had suddenly invaded your life. But now, that world seemed distant, blurred by the same shadows that clouded your thoughts.

You leaned back in your chair, staring blankly at the scattered files on the table as your thoughts swirled like a storm cloud, dark and chaotic. You were sure that Hotch and the team broke every protocol by letting you see these files. The knot of anxiety in your stomach tightened with every passing second, twisting until it felt almost suffocating. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure of when the ground beneath you might give way.

You could feel Hotch’s gaze on you. And even as you tried to avoid looking in his direction, his concern was noticeable, etched deep into the lines of his face. There was no judgment in his eyes — just understanding, a reminder that he, too, had carried the weight of loss, fear, and duty. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to face. His presence, though comforting in its own way, was only a reminder of how far this had spiraled beyond your control, maybe even beyond his control.

You shifted uncomfortably in your chair, fighting the urge to get up and escape the tension in the room. It felt like everyone was moving forward, searching for answers, while you were stuck, paralyzed by the collision of your personal and professional worlds. The fear that had once been an abstract concept in your life now felt way too real, manifesting in the way your body tensed and your thoughts spun, unable to focus on your routine, your spins, and jumps — they craved precision, one that you weren't able to find. You clenched your hands in your lap, trying to ground yourself, but it was impossible to shake the feeling that everything was slipping through your fingers. You knew you needed to get back on the ice, to feel the cold air in your face. It was truly the only way you knew to ground yourself.

“Y/N,” Hotch said quietly, his voice slicing through the fog of your spiraling thoughts. It was soft but carried enough weight to pull you from the chaos inside your mind. “Are you alright?”

You glanced up, meeting his eyes. There was no demand for an answer, just concern. For a brief moment, the tension in your chest eased, though the knot in your stomach remained. You opened your mouth, trying to find the words, but they stuck, caught between the urge to let it all out and the fear of appearing vulnerable.

His eyes remained on you, he was patient, waiting for whatever response you could or would give.

You forced a smile. “Just trying to figure out how to train with all this going on,” you muttered, the words feeling flat, like an excuse that even you didn’t believe. They felt hollow, as though they were a weak attempt to cover the frustration and fear gnawing at you, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t seem to find the right way to express the storm of emotions swirling inside.

The truth was, it wasn’t just about training. It was about trying to function while everything around you seemed to be unraveling.

Hotch’s eyes remained steady on you. You knew he wouldn’t push, but his silence felt like a gentle nudge, urging you to be honest with yourself, to admit that this was all far more than just about disrupted training schedules and competition jitters. It was about how lost you felt, how every part of your life had been infiltrated by fear, leaving you grasping at the last remnants of normalcy.

But you couldn’t admit that — not yet and certainly not to him. So you held onto that smile, fragile as it was, and hoped it would be enough to keep the conversation from delving deeper into your emotions.

Hotch’s expression softened as he took a step closer to you. The sharp lines of concern on his face seemed to ease, replaced by a warmth that made your heart feel a little lighter. “I know it’s difficult, but we’re doing everything we can to keep you safe.”

“Thanks, Hotch. I appreciate it.” You met his gaze, finding a flicker of hope in his unwavering support, and for that instant, the weight on your shoulders lifted for a moment.

As the meeting wore on, you found yourself stealing glances at him, captivated by the way he commanded the room, drawing everyone's attention to him. The measured cadence of his voice had a calming effect, making even the most intense discussions feel more manageable. Each time he spoke, it felt like he wasn’t just leading the conversation; he was anchoring the team, grounding them amidst the chaos of the investigation.

You could only imagine that this was how all their cases went.

You could see how his presence inspired trust and respect in his team and it made you acutely aware of the influence he had over those around him. The way he engaged with each member, listening intently and responding thoughtfully, fostered an environment where everyone felt valued and heard.

When the meeting finally concluded, you stepped outside into the crisp air, which hit your face like a splash of ice water, jolting you back to reality. The stark contrast between the stuffy conference room and the brisk outdoors was initially invigorating, a momentary escape from the weight of your thoughts. You had hoped for a moment of clarity in the cold, fresh air, a chance to catch your breath and regain your focus. However, instead of the relief you sought, it felt like the weight of the world settled more heavily on your shoulders, an almost tangible burden that threatened to crush you.

You took a deep breath, trying to fill your lungs with the fresh air, but it felt heavy with the remnants of your worries. As you leaned against the cool metal railing, you felt a mixture of frustration and despair. How could you prepare for a competition that could define your future when everything felt so uncertain?

“Y/N!” Hotch’s voice called out from behind you, cutting through the fog of your thoughts. You turned to see him striding toward you with purpose and determination. “Can we talk?” he asked, his tone laced with a sense of urgency.

You nodded, curiosity mingling with a flicker of anxiety. The way he approached you suggested that something dire was afoot. As he gestured for you to walk with him, you fell into step beside him.

“Listen,” he started, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, “I know things have been tough lately.” His expression softened. “I can see the toll it’s taking on you, and I want you to know that you don’t have to be as involved with the investigation if you don't want to”

You swallowed hard, the knot of anxiety in your stomach shifting as his words resonated within you. It was a relief to hear him acknowledge what you had been feeling, to know that your struggles hadn’t gone unnoticed.

But you felt a surge of frustration bubbling to the surface, a mix of anger and helplessness that threatened to spill over. “Easy for you to say,” you shot back, your voice sharper than intended. “You don’t know what it’s like to put everything on the line and have it ripped away from you. I can’t just sit around and do nothing while my entire future hangs in a balance!” Each word felt like a weight lifted, but you could see the flicker of surprise in Hotch’s eyes.

“I understand more than you think,” he replied, his tone shifting, revealing a vulnerability that you hadn't expected. A flicker of emotion crossed his face, something deeper lurking beneath the surface. “This job… it takes and it takes. And in the end, it takes a toll on all of us. But your safety has to come first. We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

“I just…” you began, searching for the right words to convey the whirlwind inside you. “I’m trying to stay focused on my training, but it feels impossible with everything going on.” You took a deep breath. “I don’t want to let anyone down, especially not you or your team. I want to find Leah's killer.”

Hotch stopped walking and turned to face you fully, his eyes searching yours “You won’t let anyone down,” he reassured you firmly. “We’re all in this together, and I’m here to support you — like I do with my team — in any way you need. If that means stepping back from some responsibilities for a while, then we’ll figure it out.”

His words washed over you. “I just don’t want to fall behind,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “This competition means everything to me. It’s my chance to prove myself.”

“I understand,” Hotch said. “But remember, this isn’t just about the competition. It’s about you and your well-being. That’s what truly matters. The rest will fall into place once I catch the unsub.” He reached out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, and you felt a surge of gratitude for his support.

“It’s hard to let go of the pressure I put on myself,” you confessed, allowing a hint of vulnerability to seep through. “I’ve always pushed myself to be the best, and now... it feels like everything is slipping through my fingers.”

“It’s natural to feel that way, especially in times of crisis." He offered you a small smile. He straightened up, his posture shifting back to its familiar authoritative stance, his demeanor transitioning seamlessly from supportive to professional as he glanced at his watch. “You should get to the rink and start your practice. It’s important to keep up your routine in case the unsub is watching you. I'll have a few agents follow you from afar, just in case he decides to show himself.”

The following days blurred together as the investigation deepened, each one slipping by like a fleeting shadow while the team methodically narrowed down their list of suspects. Every morning felt like stepping onto a tightrope, the weight of uncertainty pressing heavily on your shoulders, making it harder to find your balance.

That morning, long before the sun had even risen, you found yourself at the rink, alone. The arena was dimly lit, with only the soft hum of the fluorescent lights above and the echoing silence of your skates cutting through the ice. It should have felt peaceful — you hadn't even been bothered to turn on your playlist — a rare moment where the world was quiet, and no one was watching. No coaches barking corrections, no judges sizing you up, no teammates glancing over with judgment. Just you, the ice, and the rhythm of your blades.

But something was wrong.

You took a deep breath, pushing off from the boards, the familiar glide of your skates over the ice normally brought you solace. Today, however, the ice beneath you felt foreign, unpredictable, like it had a mind of its own. You tried to settle into your routine, warming up with some simple crossovers, the scrape of metal against ice echoing in the air. But even that felt off, your feet slipping slightly as if the ice itself was rebelling against you.

You shook it off, heading into your first combination. A simple waltz jump into a loop. Your muscles should have remembered this — they’d done it a thousand times before — but the moment you took off, your timing faltered. Instead of a graceful arc, you landed awkwardly, your blade catching at the wrong angle, sending you stumbling. A soft grunt escaped your lips as you fought to regain your balance.

"Focus," you whispered under your breath, determined not to let frustration take hold so early in the practice.

You pushed harder, determined to shake the creeping unease from your mind. You launched into an Axel — a jump that normally felt so freeing, defying gravity for just a moment. But as you pulled into the air, your arms too tight, your rotation uneven, you came down hard on your right leg, the edge catching before your ankle buckled beneath you. You hit the ice with a sharp thud, the sting shooting up your side as you let out a breathless groan.

Pushing yourself back up, your hands shaking slightly from the impact, you shook your head. It shouldn’t be this hard. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were better than this.

Next, you tried a simple layback spin — something you’d mastered long ago. But as soon as you hit your entrance edge, you felt the wobble. Your leg extended behind you, your back arching, but the spin was unstable. Your free leg swung out too wide, and instead of holding the tight, fast revolutions, you slowed and lost your center, the spin breaking apart awkwardly before you had to step out, gasping in frustration.

The rink was supposed to be your sanctuary. The one place where you could escape everything. But today, it felt like you were battling against it. Every jump, every spin — nothing was landing. Nothing felt right.

You tried again. This time a lutz, but your entry edge wobbled, your weight shifting too far inside, causing you to pop the jump, barely getting off the ice before your feet hit the surface again.

"Come on," you growled to yourself, pushing harder, anger and frustration bubbling up inside you.

A triple-toe loop, then — something that you could do without even thinking on a good day. Surely you should be able to get this right. You gathered speed, your arms pulling in tight as you prepared to launch into the jump. But again, in mid-air, it fell apart. Your body twisted wrong, your arms lost their placement, and you came crashing down to the ice, landing hard on your hip. The sharp sting of the cold surface against your skin made you wince as the air rushed out of your lungs.

You lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You wanted to scream, scream out in frustration, not because of your inability to perform your routine, but because of everything surrounding you. Your life had become suffocating.

The rink, it was supposed to be your escape — the one place where the outside world didn’t matter, where it was just you and the ice. No matter how many times you told yourself to focus, your mind was elsewhere. Every jump was weighed down by the knowledge that someone could be watching, studying your every move, learning your routines. Every spin felt heavier, tangled with thoughts of Leah and the nightmares that had followed after her death.

The nightmares had started almost immediately after Leah’s death. At first, they were flashes — brief, jarring images that startled you awake, leaving you gasping in the dark. But as the days passed and the investigation deepened, they grew more vivid, more suffocating. You saw Leah on the ice, one moment she was dancing peacefully across the blank surface, the next her lifeless body was sprawled where you had found her, her eyes just as blank as the ice.

But in the dreams, she wasn’t alone.

The unsub was there, too.

He was always just out of reach, a shadowed figure standing in the background, faceless yet terrifyingly familiar. You never saw his face, but you could feel his presence — that sickening, oppressive aura that clung to him like a second skin. Sometimes, in the dream, you would skate toward Leah, desperate to reach her, to help her, but no matter how hard you pushed, the ice stretched farther and farther ahead of you. The more you skated, the further away she seemed, until the rink disappeared into a vast, empty hole, with only the unsub's shadow moving closer.

Other times, the dream shifted into something far darker — more visceral. You would see him there, standing over Leah’s crumpled form, his face still enveloped in darkness. His hand gripped a long, gleaming knife, its blade catching the cold, artificial light of the rink as he raised it high. And then, he brought it down, again and again, each strike tearing into Leah’s stomach. The sickening sound of the blade sinking into her flesh echoed in the arena.

Blood spattered across the ice in those dreams, bright red against the white, spreading in jagged patterns that stained the pristine surface. It splashed onto the unsub's hands, staining his clothes, but he didn’t falter. He just kept stabbing, over and over, as if possessed by a cold, mechanical need to destroy. You could hear Leah’s gasps for help, weak and broken, her body twitching with each new wound, her eyes wide in terror.

You were frozen, paralyzed with horror, screaming her name but unable to move. The ice felt like quicksand beneath your feet, holding you in place as the unsub’s violence escalated, each stab more vicious than the last.

The unsub never spoke, never showed his face. And then, just when you thought you couldn’t bear it any longer, he would stop. Slowly, deliberately, he would turn his head in your direction, as if he knew you were watching, as if this whole display was meant for you. The faceless shadow would lock eyes with you, his knife still dripping with Leah's blood, and you knew in your bones — he was coming for you next.

And then you would wake up, drenched in sweat, your heart racing in your chest, you always woke up before he had the chance to stand up, to attack. The feeling of dread never fully left you on those days. It clung to you like fog, following you throughout the day, weaving itself into every thought and every moment spent on the ice.

You slowly sat up, your body aching, your muscles stiff from the repeated falls. You sighed, brushing the ice shavings off your leggings determined to try again. Just as you were about to push off for another attempt, you felt you heard your phone ringing. You hesitated for a moment before skating over to the boards, your heart skipping a beat when you saw the caller ID.

Hotch.

The screen glowed with his name, and a knot tightened in your chest. You knew it couldn't be good. You quickly swiped to answer, lifting the phone to your ear. "Hotch?"

His voice was steady but carried a hint of urgency, instantly pulling your mind away from the nightmares. "Y/N, can you come to the Academy? We've made some progress on the case, and we need your input."

A rush of anxiety surged through you. “Progress?” You repeated, your voice quieter than you intended.

“Garcia found something,” Hotch continued. “It’s not definitive yet, but we think it could help us narrow down the suspect list. We’re also cross-referencing it with the harassment reports we pulled the other day. Your insight in the community could be key here.”

You exhaled slowly, a million thoughts swirling in your head, but none of them were clear enough to grasp. The idea of getting closer to identifying Leah’s killer — to identifying the man who had terrorized your thoughts — sent a jolt of adrenaline through you, but it was knotted in fear — fear of what they might find, of how close the danger could be — whether you knew him or not.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” you said, gripping the phone tightly, you tried to keep your voice steady despite the uncertainty brewing inside you.

“Good,” Hotch replied, his tone softening slightly. “Take your time. We’ll be waiting.” The line clicked off, and you stood there for a moment, staring at the phone in your hand.

You glanced back at the ice, at the grooves from your failed jumps, the scars etched into the surface. The maintenance guys would fix them before your return — they always did. Normally, you’d stay until you got it right, but today, none of it felt right.

You had somewhere more important to be.

Grabbing your skate guards, you slid them on and quickly packed up your things. As you left the rink, the echo of your footsteps followed you.

You hoped that maybe, just maybe, Hotch and his team were getting closer to stopping him.

The drive to the academy felt longer than usual, the rhythmic hum of your tires on the pavement did little to calm your nerves. The sun was still low in the sky, casting a golden light over the city as you sped through the empty streets. Your thoughts raced, bouncing between the nightmares that had plagued you all week and the urgency in Hotch’s voice over the phone.

By the time you arrived, the familiar sight of the academy’s structure grounded you just a little. You parked and quickly made your way inside, flashing your visitor's badge — Hotch had let you keep for the duration of the investigation — at security before heading up to the 6th floor where the team was waiting.

As you stepped through the door, you were greeted by the low murmur of voices and the glow of the overhead projector casting a map of the skating rink on the screen. You dropped your bag filled with your gear to the floor, not knowing why you had brought it inside with you — perhaps out of instinct. Hotch stood at the front, ready to begin the briefing.

“Y/N, thanks for coming in,” Hotch greeted you with a small nod. You took a seat at the table, your pulse still racing as you glanced at the team, each of them deeply focused on the files in front of them.

Hotch stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the room before landing back on you. “We’ve identified a former skater, Thomas Mercer,” he stated. “He has a history of aggressive behavior and a documented rivalry with Leah. His animosity toward her has been noted by others, both skaters and coaches.”

The name hit you like a slap to the face. Thomas Mercer. You knew him. Everyone in the skating community knew him. He had been a rising star, someone with undeniable talent, but his reputation had been marred by his temper and erratic behavior. Rumors of fights with other male skaters, shouting matches with coaches — it had all but ended his career. Leah had mentioned him once, briefly, but you had never given it much thought.

You swallowed hard, trying to process the information as Hotch continued.

“Garcia has pulled up records of confrontations he’s had at various skating events. Verbal altercations, threats — nothing that was officially reported as violence, but enough to paint a picture of someone who potentially holds a grudge to this day.”

You weren't sure if you believed it was him. No one had seen Thomas in years. It was like he had gone underground.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, a sinking feeling in your gut. “Leah never mentioned anything to me,” you murmured, trying to recall any conversation, any hint that this could have been brewing beneath the surface. But there was nothing.

“Don’t blame yourself,” JJ said softly, her eyes kind as they met yours. “People like Mercer are good at hiding their intentions until it’s too late.”

Hotch nodded, his expression unreadable. “Garcia is working on tracking his movements in the days leading up to Leah’s death. If he’s our unsub, we need to move fast before he finds another victim.”

“Do we have any concrete evidence linking him to the crime?” Rossi asked the same question that had lingered in your mind.

“Not yet,” Hotch replied, turning back to the screen where Mercer's picture had been pulled up. “But we’re working on it. Y/N, your knowledge of his career might help us fill in some gaps. Is there anything you can tell us about Mercer’s relationship with Leah or other skaters?”

You hesitated, searching your memory for anything that could be useful. “He was always… intense,” you finally said, choosing your words carefully. “Everyone knew he had a temper, but Leah never said much about him, she knew him better than I did. I think she tried to stay out of his way, but maybe that might’ve made him angrier. Leah had a reputation for being untouchable, and I've been told that that kind of thing usually fueled his anger. But there's been rumours, ever since I started training in the pavilion.”

Hotch turned his gaze toward you, his brow furrowed. “What kind of rumors?”

“About Mercer,” you replied, your voice steadied as you recalled the whispers you’d heard in the locker rooms at competitions. “People said he was bitter about not making it to the Olympics. He used to blame others for his failures. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had a vendetta against those who he thought stood in his way.”

Hotch nodded, the wheels in his mind visibly turning. “And Leah was a rising star. She likely represented everything he wished he could’ve achieved.”

“Perhaps,” you said, your heart racing at the thought. “He wasn’t just competing against her talent; he was competing against his past failures. I think that fueled his obsession. There were nights when I would hear him shouting in the rink after practice, cursing himself or others. He just never seemed to take responsibility for his actions. It was always someone else’s fault — but I was young, so I didn't think much of it then, I just thought that sort of anger followed loss.”

Hotch scribbled some notes on his notepad.

He gave a short nod, acknowledging your input. “We’ll look deeper into that.” He turned to the rest of the team, wrapping up the briefing as they gathered their files and began to disperse.

“Alright, everyone,” he said, his voice felt authoritative, resonating in the now-quiet room. “Let’s regroup in 4 hours to discuss our findings. Keep digging into the backgrounds of our suspects and monitor any new leads."

As the team nodded and filed out, their chatter faded into the hallway, you watched as they left, each one consumed by their thoughts and tasks. The room gradually emptied until it was just the two of you, the air thick with unspoken words. You need to tell him about Mercer.

Doubts gnawed at you. Deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Mercer wasn’t the unsub. Yes, he had a temper and a documented rivalry with Leah, but you remembered the last time you’d seen him — a shadow of himself, of the skater he once was, barely holding himself together — he had looked miserable. Since then, he’d become a ghost, disappearing from the skating scene, the traces of him in the pavilion slowly fading away, his trophies and pictures disappearing — It was like he had completely vanished off the face of the earth.

It didn’t sit right with you to blame him for Leah’s murder when he seemed to be fighting his own demons. The thought of him being capable of such brutality felt wrong, even if others whispered about his bitterness.

What if he was just a convenient scapegoat for the killer, making sure the unsub could still lurk in the shadows? What if he had nothing to do with it? You shook your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. You couldn’t let your emotions cloud your judgment, but the idea that an innocent man might be wrongfully accused weighed heavily on your conscience.

A man you had once looked up to.

With a deep breath, you looked up at Hotch. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

He nodded, pulling out the chair beside you and sitting down. The air was heavy with unsaid thoughts. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, his tone was gentle, his eyes searching yours for any hint of distress.

“I just… I don’t think it’s Mercer,” you blurted out, your voice shaking slightly. “As far as I’m aware, he doesn’t even live on this side of the country anymore. He’s been a ghost since the last competition when he successfully ended his own career with his temper.”

Hotch regarded you, processing your words. “I understand your hesitation. It’s natural to want to protect the community you care about. But the evidence we’ve gathered—”

“I get that,” you interrupted. “But what if you're chasing shadows? I mean, there are so many other skaters who could be more likely suspects. Thomas was always… erratic, but he never crossed the line into actual violence, at least not like this. Not to my knowledge.”

“So, you believe we should look elsewhere?”

“Yes!” You leaned forward, the intensity of your conviction spilling over. “There were so many skaters at his last competition. Anyone could hold a grudge against Leah — She did win the competition after all. Mercer was volatile, but he wasn’t the only one who felt overshadowed by her talent.”

Hotch took a moment to absorb your concerns, his fingers steepling in front of him. “I appreciate your insight. You know the dynamics of this community better than anyone. If there’s even a chance that Mercer isn’t involved, we need to consider other options, but we'll keep him on our radar just in case.”

Relief washed over you, but you quickly stifled it, wanting to remain focused. “I just want to make sure we’re looking in the right direction. The thought of it being someone else from the rink — it terrifies me — I can't put the thought past me that I might know them. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“You’re right to be concerned. We will reevaluate our suspects and dig deeper into the skaters who were at that last competition. If there’s any chance that someone else was motivated to harm Leah, we’ll find them.”

“Thank you,” you said softly, feeling a relief of gratitude wash over you, although the anxiety still lingered deep down. “I just… I want to make sure we’re doing everything we can. I don't want the wrong guy to be harmed.”

He smiled slightly, admiring you for a moment. He admired how much you cared about the people around you, about your sport, about everything.

With that, Hotch stood up, his demeanor shifting back into work mode. “I’ll have Garcia pull additional records from the competition. Please stay safe for the time being.”

“Will do,” you replied, determination coursing through you as you watched him head toward the door. “And Hotch?”

He turned back, raising an eyebrow in inquiry.

“Just… be careful. I don’t want to see you or anyone from the team get hurt either.”

@love4lando @therealbaberuthless @crazyunsexycool @pear-1206 @bookworm124 @itsmytimetoodream @c-losur3 @lumestar @evvy96 @booknerd2004 @werebearcocoon

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thebeast-dennis-etcetera · 8 months ago

Text

Training Part 1

Prompt: Enemies to Lovers type. You and Gibbs never got along, and luckily you never really had to work with each other…until now.

Part 2

You followed behind Agent Fornell as the both of you stepped out of the elevator and into the squad room of NCIS.

You spotted the 3 familiar agents standing in front of the plasma, speaking amongst each other until DiNozzo spoke.

“Trouble on your 6 boss.”

Their supervisory agent turned towards you and Fornell, looking ready for an argument.

“You can release Ramos, we’ll take it from here Gibbs,” Fornell started.

“We’ll release him when we’re done questioning him Tobias. He has ties to our victim and has no alibi for the night of the murder.”

“He’s got nothing to do with your murder. He’s been under FBI surveillance for the last 3 months and if you compromise all of our work, both of us are gonna be on the chopping block with our Directors.”

Gibbs gave him a look that showed that he had no intention of backing down and Fornell sighed before turning to you.

“Stay here. We’ll be back.”

As Gibbs walked past you, you made sure to give him that hard stare that he always gives you every time you see each other. You met Agent Gibbs a few months ago on a joint Investigation and from day one he rubbed you the wrong way. He was stubborn, arrogant and always thought he was right. Even though he was good looking and good with a gun, you weren’t gonna let him intimidate you.

“So how’s it been, being the FBI’s lackey?” DiNozzo jested, making you roll your eyes.

“Better than you being Gibbs’ pet,” you shot right back, getting a snicker out of the Mossad agent behind you.

“You know I heard about that incident with your last case. Suspect got the jump on you. Sounds like your hand to hand combat needs a little work,” he continued.

You walked over, closing in on him, causing him to take a step back. You were at least half a foot shorter than him but judging by the unsure look on his face, your intimidation tactics were on point.

“He was 6,4” and pushing 200lbs DiNozzo. And I didn’t really do much hand to hand with him before putting two bullets in his chest. But by all means, we can put those skills to the test if you want.”

“Stop harassing my agents, Agent Y/N. If you wanna spar, you can do it with me,” you heard Gibbs’ condescending voice speak from the stairs. Looking over, you saw Fornell and him walking over and backed off of DiNozzo who chuckled nervously. You waited until he was standing in front of you to speak.

“Pick a place and time Gibbs.”

Your words held contempt and he just gave you a smirk while taking a sip of his coffee. It took everything in you not to slap it out of his hand. The rest of his agents were quiet as Fornell was smiled in the back.

“NCIS training room, 6pm.”

“I’ll be there.”

You all continued working, the case turning into a joint investigation, you making a point to avoid the Supervisory Agent as much as possible throughout the day. When lunch time came around, you and Fornell stopped by a little sandwich shop.

“So what’s your beef with Gibbs?” he asked you, taking a bite of his pastrami on rye.

“He just thinks he’s so righteous. The way he talks with people, the way he walks, everything about him screams douchebag,” you ranted, Fornell chuckling as you did.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just funny. Have you ever thought the reason you don’t like Gibbs is because he’s so much like you? And being the most competitive person I know, you hate having someone that matches you.”

“Don’t profile me Fornell. It’s above your pay grade.”

“See. Like that. Gibbs would’ve said something just like that. Maybe not as harsh but similar. I think you actually like him but don’t know how to deal with it. Maybe this little sparring sesh of yours will prove beneficial.”

You huffed in annoyance at his words but you he wasn’t completely delusional. It did make sense but at the same time, part of you genuinely didn’t like Gibbs.

“Are you trying to set me up with your best friend Tobias?”

He just shrugged his shoulders before stealing a fry off your barely touched plate.

“I’m not trying anything. You challenged him remember? Just one word of advice. He’s got a blind spot just outside his left eye. You use that knowledge correctly and you’ll have him on his ass. Then I can break his balls for the rest of the investigation.”

You both laughed and finished up your lunch before heading back to join NCIS.

————

You were just finished tying your shoes when you saw Gibbs come into the gym. He was wearing an old NIS shirt, some sweat shorts, and black converse. Very casual for someone about to get his ass kicked. You on the other hand, went with some black leggings, sports bra and a loose tank top.

“On the mats, let’s go,” he said in passing.

You followed him to the training mats where he placed a dummy handgun down. There were only 2 or 3 other agents in the room, minding their business with various gym equipment, seemingly none of Gibbs’ minions hanging around.

“Your objective is to not let me get ahold of that gun, understand?”

You just nodded and stood across from him, both of you an equal distance away from the gun.

“Now.”

Both of you ran for the gun, you getting there first and grabbing it. As soon as you brought it up to fake fire, Gibbs knocked it out of your hands, sending it sliding towards the other side of the mats. Before he could make his way to get it, you grabbed a hold of his neck and pulled him down in an attempt to get him to the ground but he just twisted out of it and broke free, giving him plenty of time to grab the gun and aim it at you.

“Dead,” he declared, making you roll your eyes.

“Congratulations Gibbs. Want a medal?”

Keeping a straight face, he walked over to you, eyes never leaving yours and stood a foot away, making you have to tilt your head up because of the height difference. Ok, maybe he was a little intimidating.

“I want you to stop being a brat and let me help you.”

You wanted to spit out something snarky but bit your tongue as he continued. “You’re never gonna win a hand to hand combat with someone much bigger than you based on brute force. Maneuverability and quickness are going to be your best friend.”

He took a step back and dropped the dummy gun.

“I read your file. You spent 2 years training in Judo and Jiu-Jitsu. Use those skills. Use the enemies own weight against them. For now, just try to get me to the ground for an arrest.”

You sized him up real quick, identifying his strong and weak points before attacking. You remembered what Fornell had told you earlier and decided to use it. Side stepping to Gibbs’ left side, you grabbed him by the shirt and used your leg to trip him backwards so that he fell to the floor. You wasted no time in climbing on top, getting your legs around his arm and neck before pulling in for a successful armbar. Once he tapped, you let him go and couldn’t help but wear a triumphant smile.

You went to get up but was taken off guard when you felt Gibbs push you back to the ground, grabbing your wrists and twisting them behind your back while sitting atop of your stomach and wrapping his legs around your own so you couldn’t move. You squirmed, hoping to slip free but he had you in a vice grip.

He leaned down so his face was inches from yours, both of you breathing hard from the exercise.

“Never let your guard down,” he whispered. You don’t know if you were more pissed about the fact that he got the drop on you or how turned on you were right then but you weren’t gonna let him win that easy.

He may have had a grip on your hands and legs but that didn’t stop you from pushing your chest up and bringing your head to the side of his, gently caressing his cheek with your mouth. You heard him let out a breath and loosen his grip just the slightest.

That’s all you needed.

Slipping your arms out, you used all your momentum to shift the weight, grabbing the gun that was lying inches away and pointing it at him once you were on top.

“Dead,” you declared the same as he had earlier but with more cockiness.

He chuckled and sat up, leaning back on his hands, licking his lips and looking at you with his head cocked to the side.

“With a little more practice, you could join NCIS.”

You laughed at his joke and took a second to give him a once over. His striking blue eyes, chiseled jawline and boyish grin was actually pretty attractive if you thought about it. In that moment, he didn’t seem like the typical douchebag you pegged him as and it unnerved you.

He didn’t make a move to push you off as you realized you were still straddling him and just held his stare until you looked away.

“I’ll stick with hanging with the big boys, thank you.”

You got to your feet and offered him a hand which he took. Your stomach fluttered just a little as his hands met yours to took the dummy gun from you.

“Look forward to working with you again Agent Y/N.”

You just smiled and turned to leave.

“Goodnight Agent Gibbs.”

As you left the gym, you saw his own smile appear on his lips.

#gibbs x reader #leroy jethro gibbs #ncis #ncis fanfiction #agent gibbs #mark harmon #ncis request #jethro gibbs x reader #ncis imagine #jethro gibbs fanfiction

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002yb · 2 months ago

Note

Secretary AU: A pipe has burst in Jason and Dami's apartment--they have to stay elsewhere for a week or so while it's repaired and things are being cleaned up and restored. Where are they staying, and how does Bruce make it so the manor is the obvious solution? 😂

It goes without saying that Bruce is the first to extend an invitation for Jason and Damian to stay at the manor while their apartment is being restored. A very eager, borderline aggressive invitation for how intensely it's offered lol.

Jason respectfully declining because Bruce is his boss; it'd be weird. A devastating blow to Bruce's heart, truly.

But Bruce isn't deterred. He insists.

And is promptly reprimanded by Tim who smacks him with a folder filled with contracts they need to review because Bruce is going to be the face of their next HR mandated training on harassment if he doesn't watch it.

Just Bruce tasting bitter defeat in the face of corporate culture and an amnesiac son who still doesn't remember him (and who Bruce had an ulterior motive to wanting to stay at the manor because maybe if Jason could stay in his old room, he would remember something. Something being Bruce. He misses his boy).

Tim offering to help find a hotel. Which he's already researched at length and has a list of suitable choices (all high end, safe, conveniently located on a route to/from the manor).

Jason being grateful for the effort up until he sees the unrealistic prices, at which point his smile drops to an unimpressed look of pure judgment because CEO and CFO salaries can afford this; Jason is a secretary.

Tim insisting WE will front the charges

Leading to Jason quipping about how Tim is going to be at the top of WE's audit risks this year, undoubtedly

And Tim can't even argue because either he's an audit risk or an HR problem - there's no winning

At which point Jason laughs and thanks his bosses for looking out for him, but Jason is fine. He can take care of himself. He's already got a motel booked.

Meanwhile, Bruce and Tim doing their utmost not to react to 'motel' like the rich bitties they are; they can't help it. They do ask which one though. And only let themselves visibly wither and die after Jason leaves the room because it's in such a dangerous location!! They know for a fact that there's an open investigation for a murder that happened on the premise; drug deals go down regularly in the alley just behind it!

Cue Batman and Robin wasting a portion of patrol monitoring the location. Stewing over the circumstances and startling when another pipe breaks.

It's an act of god (it's the League, courtesy of Talia who hears the news and refuses to have her son stay in such an environment) and, like the overbearing dorks they are, Bruce and Tim text Jason to check in, fully expecting news of needing a place for the night after all

The message they get instead: All good. Thanks.

The both of them thinking Jason is too proud or doesn't want to impose. But it's like, 2am and Jason is caring for a toddler. He needs support.

Which is precisely when Dick pulls up and Bruce and Tim (still as Batman and Robin) are so peeved because fucking dick.

But yes, Jason turns to Dick when everything at the motel goes tits up. Because somehow all the motels nearby are booked (again, courtesy of Talia) and Jason just needs help for a night, please.

So Dick comes over despite the late hour (and having been on patrol himself). He helps pack up the few things Jason and Damian have into the car, sends a cheeky little nod Batman and Robin's direction, and then they're off.

Which leads to the dickjay portion of this ask ///u////:

Where Dick's apartment isn't much of a home. It's not something Dick has ever cared about; he's not around enough for any comforts to matter.

Only he might care in that moment. Because Dick brings Jason over to this. Someplace empty and unwelcoming and cold.

'Did you get robbed?' Jason asks, a joke that Dick can't help but laugh at because he realizes that there really is nothing.

Because Dick moved abruptly. He left what little he had behind because everything he wants is here in Gotham now that Jason is back ;A;

But also because he genuinely stopped caring at some point and he's a bit staggered by the apathy in that - it's depressing.

It's such a contrast to Jason's apartment which is filled with warmth and life and comforts. Books on tables, Damian's art displayed on the fridge. Worn blankets folded over chairs and discolored drapes that paint shadows like lace across Jason's skin when the sun starts to set and they're sitting back on his couch and-

Dick's apartment isn't a home. And Dick might feel a little self-conscious about it because there's a vulnerability in exposing your home to someone and having there be so little. ;//////;

And Jason might not say anything, but he clues in. It gives him a new perspective on Dick and it's surprising, but he's not put off. Jason's more than familiar with having nothing and the slow process of finding things to build yourself (and your home) up.

But anyway. Dick showing Jason to the guest room. Scrambling to find which box he stowed away some quilts in. Passing off extra sweatshirts because they might not be enough to keep Jason and Damian warm.

And Jason calming him down by simply grabbing Dick's sleeve and looking up at him and telling him, 'thank you.' Because even if Dick feels it isn't enough, the gesture of being there in a time of need and putting himself out and wanting to do more for them means a lot more than Dick gives credit.

Stand by we're gonna get back to the building a home train of thought after this:

Where the next morning Dick is cooking breakfast for everyone and lowkey sweating because the domesticity is a lot

Jason coming out first (in Dick's sweatshirt and it might take Dick out at the knees a bit; might steal his breath) and being all endeared because Dick is cooking according to Damian's dietary restrictions and the thought is really sweet. ;U;

Something something wholesome breakfast while stood/sat at the counter. Dick, Jason, and Damian ahhhhhhhhh.

And that's how Bruce and Tim find them. Because they 'have a key' (they don't) and 'wanted to talk to Dick about a family matter' and 'oh, hey Jason didn't know you were here.'

Just the contrast of these two guys dressed to the nines while Dickjay + Damian are still in their sweats/pj's LOL

Then they all have breakfast together and it's sweet. It's a taste of the big family Dick misses from his childhood. <3

But yes, back to Dick's home being so scarce. Because of course by the time Jason and Damian leave to return to their apartment, Dick has Damian's art pinned to the fridge. As well as a blanket Jason knits (while on the clock at WE lol; Bruce and Tim are so jealous it's not even funny). It feels like this AU's Jason would know how to knit. Or he’d teach himself on the spot just for this.

Dick's home becoming more and more full of things as Dick sets down proper roots. Gifts from friends and family, second hand furnitures he picks up that Jason (+Tim and Bruce when they find out) helps him move in. (♡´艸`)

#dickjay #jaydick #secretary au

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matan4il · 8 months ago

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Update post:

Yesterday, there were no less than two terrorist attacks against Israeli civilians, one in the morning, and one in the evening.

The first one happened in Beersheba, where the terrorist stabbed and injured two people before being neutralized. The terrorist was an Israeli Bedouin, who had been convicted of drug-related criminal charges. The prosecution asked for his arrest, but the court decided to be lenient, to aid in his rehabilitation, and instead only sentenced him to community service. He was due to start in two weeks, but instead he chose yesterday to attack innocent civilians.

The second terrorist attack took place in Gan Yavne. A Palestinian man, who used to have a work permit in Israel, but lost it and remained here illegally, carried out the attack. The Palestinian terrorist started stabbing people at a gym and then at a nearby cafe, wounding 3 people, all of them originally determined to be in serious condition, one is a teenager, the other two are reported to have life threatening head injuries. The terrorist was 19 years old, and he was neutralized at the scene. In investigating how he managed to stay inside Israel illegally after his work permit had expired, the police has arrested two people so far.

Israel has wrapped up its second operation at the Shifa hospital in Gaza City, with another soldier pronounced dead (20 years old Nada Cohen), bringing the IDF fatalities in the Gaza ground operation so far to 256, and the total number of killed Israeli soldiers in this war, including during the Hamas massacre (reminder that some of those soldiers were girls serving in non-combative posts, without combat training or even a weapon, and were slain while still in their pajamas) to 600.

The end of one operation in a Gaza hospital doesn't mean that's the end of Hamas abusing medical and humanitarian facilities, so there are and will be more such operations. That's why I'm also sharing this reminder that nothing is sacred or even just... off limits to Hamas, who moved kidnapped civilians in ambulances, as one of the released hostages testified.

I mentioned in a post expressing my frustration over foreigners' ignorance over the conflict, which doesn't stop them from acting like they know better than the people actually living it, the Hamas-Fatah "civil war," which erupted in 2007, when Hamas killed Fatah members in Gaza and took over the place. The two Palestinian factions have tried reconciliation several times over the years, but it never lasted long. Israel's war in Gaza against Hamas and its fellow terrorists organizations is not over yet, but already there's signs of that tension. This def bodes well for Palestinians if Hamas survives this war.

A city council meeting in California, which dealt with Holocaust remembrance, ended up being the scene of some despicable displays of antisemitism in its anti-Zionist form. IDK what was most distressing to hear about, the way they screamed "Lies! Lies!"' at a Holocaust survivor, or that they took and threw to the ground the phone of a Jewish man who came to speak about his grandma who had survived the Holocaust, or that they mocked a mother speaking of her child being harassed at school to the point he doesn't wanna be a Jew, because he doesn't want to be hated... Maybe that they made my friend, who attended the meeting, cry on what was supposed to be a very special day. I saw coverage on Israeli TV of the city council, which both told me how bad it was, if of all things, that's what they're talking about, and at the same time, it was nothing like hearing about it from her. So I'm glad that she shared some of her own impressions about this ugly demonstration of hatred (I'm also scheduling her post for a reblog). I just hope Jews all over the world know that we here in Israel care about you, we love you, we are standing by your side, and we wish we could do more for you. <3

Speaking of antisemitism, and an inability to recognize it as such, to call it out and condemn it, here's some recent examples from around the world. In Spain, the locals went out for an Easter drink, a tradition called, "to kill the Jews," but insisted it's not racist. Attacking and even killing Jews actually was customary in Europe on Christian holidays such as Christmas and Easter. In fact, this specific nickname is derived from those old attacks.

In London, a policeman insisted that swastikas being displayed at an anti-Israel protest were not antisemitic, and should be taken "in context," despite admitting that a symbol that's abusive or would cause public distress would fall under his jurisdiction to act against.

youtube

In the Netherlands, a single mom of a Jewish girl was attacked for the daughter's choices (she decided to move to Israel and has served in the Israeli army) both at home and at her workplace, a hospital. The mother was so rattled after the attack at her home, that she wouldn't stay there. A Jewish hotel owner offered her a free stay at his hotel. In an interview with an Israeli reporter, the mom said she's considering moving to Israel, too (source in Hebrew).

This is 32 years old Celine ben David Nagar.

She worked as an office manager at a law firm, was married to Iddo, and they had a 6 months old baby together. On Oct 7, Celine was on her way with a friend to the Nova music festival, but they never made it there. The Hamas rocket attack started first. For 10 days, she was considered missing, and it took a while, but eventually they found her body. While her fate was still unknown, two days after the massacre, Iddo went on TV and talked about the fact that Celine was still breastfeeding. Following the interview, hundreds of Israel women volunteered to donate their mother's milk to the little baby girl. At Celine's funeral, Iddo asked said goodbye to his wife, and asked hr to watch over him and little Eli from above.

May her memory be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #israelunderattack

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fluentmoviequoter · 9 months ago

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Favors and Broken Promises

Requested Here!

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x journalist!fem!reader

Summary: When you begin receiving death threats while writing an article on a dirty cop, Deacon Kay reluctantly agrees to protect you. He makes the situation worse before it gets better.

Warnings: angst to fluff; non-descriptive fight scene and injuries. the detective and dirty cop's names are a somewhat obscure book reference

Word Count: 3.0k+ words

A/N: I didn't proofread this, but I'll be back soon to do so!

Picture from Pinterest

Masterlist Directory | Deacon Kay Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

Deacon is attempting - and failing – to enjoy his day off. When his work phone rings, he sighs before answering.

“Sergeant Kay,” he greets, hoping this will be quick.

“Deacon, this is Detective Jeff Sherman.”

Smiling, Deacon is pleased that it’s not a SWAT call.

“What can I do for ya, Sherman?” he asks.

“I need a favor.”

“Anything for an academy classmate. Couldn’t have survived without you,” Deacon replies.

“It’s a big favor, Deacon. Big enough that if you say no I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“What have you gotten yourself into? This LAPD business?”

“Yeah. It’s for a case I’m investigating. Dirty cop working in the academy.”

“LAPD academy? For how long?”

“Started around the time we were there.”

“We would have seen it, wouldn’t we? Is there any truth to the claims, Sherman?”

Sherman sighs, and Deacon isn’t prepared to hear, “You didn’t know to look, Deac.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I’ve got a friend, a journalist investigating the cop, and she needs protection. She started receiving death threats last week, and she was being blackmailed before that.”

“Why call me?”

“It would be off the books. Our history and your time in private security make you the perfect choice to keep her safe while we find this guy, get to bottom the threats.”

“Of course. Like I said, Sherman, anything for you.”

✯✯✯✯✯

Investigating a dirty cop in the Los Angeles Police Academy isn’t as easy as one might think. After years in investigative journalism and a brief history in the criminal justice field, you found yourself drawn to telling the stories of the people who need justice the most but can’t get it for themselves. This particular story caught your attention because you know exactly what these young women are dealing with.

Walter Greener has been harassing, blackmailing, and assaulting female recruits since you were in the academy years ago. His history of mistreating women and the fact that he’s still at it with no record of any reprimands makes you eager to expose the truth.

You were likely one of the first. Greener harassed you constantly, and when he grew bold enough to assault you on numerous occasions, putting his hands on you or getting rough in the locker rooms after training, you began considering dropping out. Letting the actions of one man dictate your life seemed ridiculous, and you vowed not to quit without good reason.

When the first letter demanded something in exchange for your safety, essentially asking for a piece of your soul to keep your life, you knew you couldn’t keep going on the track you were on. You pulled away from your friends and family before dropping out and moving. During this time, completely alone, you began studying to become a journalist, refusing to let other women’s stories go unheard. Your classmate, Jeff Sherman, tracked you down and demanded to know what happened, able to see something that no one else could.

Years later, when you learned that Greener was not only a cop but was working in the academy, you had to return to the heart of Los Angeles and find the entire story; the good, bad, and ugly. Now that you have enough evidence, both past and present, you’re ready to write your article. There’s more than enough to get him fired and charged with harassment and assault if anyone else is willing to testify against him. The moment you began preparing the story, a death threat appeared in your email inbox. Within a few days, they were being delivered straight to your door.

The only relationship that survived your forced exit from the academy was with Jeff Sherman, so you called him and told him everything. He jumped to action, promising to find him and keep you safe. Believing him, you continue working on the story, unwilling to let Greener scare you away again.

✯✯✯✯✯

“This woman have a name?” Deacon asks.

“You’re not gonna like it,” Sherman says before telling Deacon your name.

“Are you kidding me? No way, Sherman.”

“You already agreed, Deac. C’mon, man, do it for me?”

Deacon pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering how he went from being suddenly abandoned by you to being responsible for your safety. While you were in the academy, you dated Deacon for several months. He was happy, and things were getting serious, and then, out of nowhere, you started pulling back before disappearing completely. You dropped out of the academy, and Deacon had to accept that he’d likely never see you again. You broke his heart without giving him any idea about what happened. Even today, he is hurt and angry that you didn’t talk to him about the unknown issue.

Unaware of how you were forced to pull away from him and the career of your dreams, Deacon has remained clueless about the blackmail and harassment that targeted your personal life. Each threat included your family and friends, including your cop friends and Deacon himself.

You and Detective Sherman only stayed in touch because he realized something was going on with all of the women and found you, cornering you for answers after your disappearance.

Deacon already agreed and won’t go back on his word, but he really doesn’t want to see you again. Doesn’t want to be that close to you, responsible for you, any of it. He was pissed when you left, and he’s still so angry and hurt that he can’t imagine letting you walk into his life, his house, without at least providing a few answers. The idea of someone threatening to kill you, however, makes it harder to say no (if he could).

“You said death threats?” Deacon asks. “Are they bad?”

“They weren’t at first. Progressively, yeah, they’ve gotten graphic and detailed. The blackmail was rough too, though. Greener knows a lot about her.”

“Wait, Richard Greener? From the academy?”

“Right, you didn’t know, I’m sorry. That’s who the article is about. He’s still harassing and assaulting young girls in the academy and she’s trying to get to the bottom of it, get him fired or indicted.”

Deacon wants clarification on the ‘still’ aspect of Sherman’s statement but decides that getting close to this is a bad idea. It’s a job, nothing more, so he can’t let you get under his skin. The anger and hurt are as powerful as they were years ago, so Deacon will keep you alive and then watch you walk away again.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Why won’t you tell me who my bodyguard is, Sherman?” you ask, approaching a back door.

“Because you wouldn’t have come,” he admits while knocking.

The door opens, and you find yourself face-to-face with Deacon Kay.

“Hi,” you whisper, shocked to see him.

He ignores you, looking at Sherman instead. “Check for trails?”

“Of course, Deac. We weren’t followed. Thanks for your help.” He looks between you to add, “Don’t kill each other.”

Sherman walks away, and Deacon enters the house, leaving the door open for you to carry your bag inside.

“Guest room is the second door on the right,” he says, his back to you.

“Thanks,” you reply. “I’m sure you didn’t want to do this, but I appreciate it.”

“Oh, yeah, I just live for protecting people who intentionally piss off the wrong people with their second career choice of journalism. Because writing will change so much.”

You try to ignore his hurtful jab, opting to find the guest room instead of staying close to Deacon. He’s already forgotten this is supposed to be a job, letting his emotions control him. When you reemerge a few hours later, he wordlessly slides a plate of food to you.

“Thanks.”

“Feel free to throw it away if you suddenly decide you don’t like it, since you seem to enjoy that,” Deacon snaps, taking his plate into his room and closing the door.

“I think I might prefer the death threats,” you say to yourself.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Luca, you don’t get it. She left me, took part of me with her,” Deacon says quietly, pacing as he asks for advice.

“Sounds like she may still have it,” Luca offers. “Maybe give her a chance to explain. Have you talked to her yet?”

“Um- sort of. Nothing civil though.”

“Deac,” Luca sighs. “You can’t attack her for something she did back then and expect her to feel safe, for one, but that’s also no way to move on, man. At some point you just gotta let go and find something else.”

“You’re telling me to forgive and forget?”

“I’m telling you to remember that neither of you are the same people you were back then. Give her a chance, and maybe be a little respectful of the fact that the man who destroyed her life is threatening to take it.”

“Thanks, Luca.”

Deacon ends the call and exits his room, noticing your door is closed. He sees your shadow move in the light under the door and decides that Luca’s advice can wait a day because his hurt feels brand new.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Is that wise?” Deacon asks, walking into the kitchen the following morning. “Isn’t writing what got you into this?”

“Not exactly,” you answer, completing your outline.

“Well, it’s what got me into this, and it’s not my dream vacation, so maybe don’t do anything to make the situation worse, if you can manage that.”

You nod slowly, sad that Deacon seems stuck on what you did in the academy. If he can’t move on or at least give you a chance to explain after all this time, then it’s probably not worth trying, you think.

Deacon notices the sad, misty look in your eyes as you continue typing but exits the room before anything else happens. He’s not in the mood to give you pity or feel empathetic toward you; you got yourself into this situation, but you also drug Deacon into it.

Throughout the rest of the day, you don’t even react to Deacon’s jabs and outright mean comments. Whenever he sees you, you jump as if you didn’t know anyone else was around, are lost in thought, and ignore him, or stare longingly out the window. Even after stumbling upon you crying at two different times, he keeps pushing you, letting the past impact his current treatment of you. Deacon thinks you don’t seem to care, so why should he?

By the end of the first day, you refuse to meet Deacon’s eyes and try your hardest to avoid him. Deacon notices, of course, and realizes that something in your past must be affecting you, maybe even the same thing that made you leave him. Everyone seems to think Deacon needs to move on, but he’s not the only one.

✯✯✯✯✯

A few days into your nightmarish stay with Deacon, he wakes up in an especially bad mood, which shows in his snarky comments and low-aimed insults.

“Couldn’t make it as a cop so you sit behind a computer and judge those of us that answered the call to serve and protect,” Deacon mutters.

Tired and unable to take Deacon’s – for lack of a better word – verbal abuse for a moment longer, you snap. “Well, I am so sorry that I was harassed and assaulted so often that I didn’t feel safe anywhere, not even with you! Dropping out and pulling away from everyone I cared about was my only choice, and it hurt me just as much as it hurt you, Deacon, but I’m not trying to make you feel like a monster for letting me leave and not noticing that Greener was putting his hands on me every time you looked away!”

Deacon’s eyes are wide as you continue, “And if the panic attacks and trust issues get to be too much, I’ll just leave again, because I think anything would be better than sitting in this house, with the man who is supposed to be keeping me safe but instead is making a bad situation a whole lot worse.”

With your emotions raging, you can feel the panic attack building in your chest, and you storm away before Deacon can witness that level of vulnerability.

Once he’s alone in the living room, Deacon begins piecing together all of the little signs he missed before, growing more and more determined to make it up to you. From the academy to this moment, he has a lot of hurt to mend, but he can help you now, even if he didn’t back then. Your situation requires a reminder that there are good, trustworthy cops; despite his recent behavior, Deacon is one of the good ones.

✯✯✯✯✯

Deacon knocks softly on your door, and you harshly rub the tears off your cheeks before answering.

“I’m so sorry,” he says when you come into view. Staying in the hallway, Deacon holds his hands before him, his genuineness evident in his gaze and body language. “I’m here with you and I will protect you, I promise.”

You nod, and he sends you a small smile before retreating into his room. Your heart feels a bit lighter, and Deacon’s does, too.

✯✯✯✯✯

Over the next few days, Deacon’s heart begins healing. He’s casually protective, gently moving you out of the way when you’re blocking something he needs, calmly asking you to stay away from the window, and refusing to let you out of his sight for too long. When you spend too much time in the shower, Deacon knocks and asks if you’re okay. Your responding laugh makes Deacon smile for the first time in too many years.

Deacon does more than a bodyguard should, with evident kindness and concern underlying each of his movements and commands. When he speaks, his words are nearly parallel to his previous comments.

“What are you writing?” he asks when he finds you curled on the couch with your laptop perched on your knees.

“Working on the article,” you answer carefully.

“I’ve read some of your pieces. You write on important topics in a way that makes them relatable. That’s admirable.”

Later the same day, he encourages you to keep writing when you mumble that it feels pointless.

“Even if you help one more girl, isn’t that enough?”

He even walks you to bed, holding the door open as he apologizes again. “And I didn’t mean what I said – any of it – but especially the part about you not being able to be a cop. We both know you were on track to be the best of us. But what you’re doing now is just as important.”

“Still can’t help but feel robbed,” you admit. “He took everything I loved.”

Glancing up at Deacon, you think he understands your meaning when he smiles.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Sergeant Kay,” Deacon says, answering his phone. “I’m off this week… How bad is it?... Yeah, I’ll get right back to you.”

“You should go,” you say, looking over your laptop. “Sounds like they need their best.”

“It’s a major hostage situation, and they only called because it’s urgent. I shouldn’t leave you, though, they can find someone else.”

“Deac,” you call. “I’ll be okay for a little while. And I will call if anything happens, or I get worried or just want to talk. I promise.”

Deacon reluctantly agrees, gathering his things as he calls his team back and tells them he will meet them at the scene. As he leaves you, he feels like something is wrong, out of place, but maybe that’s just because he misses you after spending so much time together.

✯✯✯✯✯

Something scratches across the front door, and you’re immediately alert. It hasn’t been long enough for Deacon to return, so you rush to his room, but the front door slams against the wall before you can escape behind another locked door.

“An article about me?” Greener asks. “I’d be flattered if I didn’t know exactly what kind of woman you are.”

“Now, I’m the kind of woman that you can’t intimidate.”

“Intimidate?” Greener laughs as he cracks his neck. “We’re way past that, don’t you think?”

You step back as Greener lunges, glad you continued training after dropping out of the academy. You’re still a good fighter, and Greener underestimates you because you’re a woman. While Deacon deals with a tiring afternoon of saving hostages, you win a tiring fight.

Car doors close in the neighboring driveway, and an exhausted and injured Greener rushes out of the broken front door. You don’t want to call Deacon, not because you don’t trust him but because you know he will blame himself. Regardless, you dial his number and lean back against the wall.

“Hey, what happened?” Deacon answers.

“Uh, Greener broke in. I’m okay… mostly okay. We fought but he got scared off,” you answer softly.

Deacon hangs up, rushing home and patching you up. He covers your scrapes and bruises, apologizing as he goes.

“I will never put you in this situation again,” he promises as he secures the last bandage over your split knuckles.

“Stay by my side?” you ask, offering your less bruised hand.

Deacon takes it with a soft touch as he answers, “Through it all.”

✯✯✯✯✯

Deacon keeps his promise, staying by your side through the trial, the mixed backlash and praise over the article, and perhaps most surprisingly, your sudden fear of being alone again.

Standing by his door with your bags in tow, you can’t cross the threshold.

“You don’t have to go,” Deacon repeats. “Stay as long as you want. I’m by your side, remember? There’s nothing to worry about here. Other than me getting attached to you and clingier.”

You smile, glancing at the door before stepping closer to Deacon as he pulls you into a hug, and you wrap your arms around him before pressing your cheek against his shirt.

“I’m never leaving you again,” Deacon vows. “I lost you once, and after everything we went through to find each other again, what I put you through, I’m not losing you again.”

#david deacon kay x reader #david kay x reader #deacon kay x reader #david deacon kay #deacon kay #swat cbs #requests #fem!reader

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jennibeultimate · 5 months ago

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Scandal in South Korean National Team

❗TW sexual harassment, molestation ❗

Originally on 10th June 2024 it was reported that members of the Korean National Team have violated training regulations at the camp in Italy:

On 21st June 2024 it was reported that there have been cases of sexual harassment:

Original articles:

Article from 10th June 2024:

Article from 21st June 2024:

Translation of the full article by @seha_bk (x/Twt) (source)

The Korean news have published blurry pictures of the female skaters supposedly A and B. You can guess who the skaters are. It was not said who did what.

You may have read about the alcohol drinking of Team South Korea at their camp, but it turns out it's so much worse. The Korean federation has investigated and sanctioned the skaters. You have to give it to them, that they reacted quickly.

I would say just another sad day in fs but it's no time for joking. It's so awful. Don't know if disappointed is the right word to describe my feelings. This is sick and sad.

#figure skating #team south korea #tw harassment #i am shocked tbh

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she-is-ovarit · 1 year ago

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Ashli Streeter said Stevens Transport did not hire her because it had no women to train her. Credit...Montinique Monroe for The New York Times

The trucking industry has complained for years that there is a dire shortage of workers willing to drive big rigs. But some women say many trucking companies have made it effectively impossible for them to get those jobs. Trucking companies often refuse to hire women if the businesses do not have women available to train them. And because fewer than 5 percent of truck drivers in the United States are women, there are few female trainers to go around. The same-sex training policies are common across the industry, truckers and legal experts say, even though a federal judge ruled in 2014 that it was unlawful for a trucking company to require that female job candidates be paired only with female trainers. Ashli Streeter of Killeen, Texas, said she had borrowed $7,000 to attend a truck driving school and earn her commercial driving license in hopes of landing a job that would pay more than the warehouse work she had done. But she said Stevens Transport, a Dallas-based company, had told her that she couldn’t be hired because the business had no women to train her. Other trucking companies turned her down for the same reason. “I got licensed, and I clearly could drive,” Ms. Streeter said. “It was disheartening.” Ms. Streeter and two other women filed a complaint against Stevens Transport with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission on Thursday, contending that the company’s same-sex training policy unfairly denied them driving jobs. The commission investigates allegations made against employers, and, if it determines a violation has occurred, it may bring its own lawsuit. The commission had brought the lawsuit that resulted in the 2014 federal court decision against similar policies at another trucking company, Prime. Critics of the industry said the persistence of same-sex training nearly a decade after that ruling, which did not set national legal precedent, was evidence that trucking companies had not done enough to hire women who could help solve their labor woes. “It’s frustrating to see that we have not evolved at all,” said Desiree Wood, a trucker who is the president and founder of Real Women in Trucking, a nonprofit. Ms. Wood’s group is joining the three women in their E.E.O.C. complaint against Stevens, which was filed by Peter Romer-Friedman, a labor lawyer in Washington, and the National Women’s Law Center. Companies that insist on using women to train female applicants generally do so because they want to avoid claims of sexual harassment. Trainers typically spend weeks alone with trainees on the road, where the two often have to sleep in the same cab. Critics of same-sex training acknowledge that sexual harassment is a problem, but they say trucking companies should address it with better vetting and anti-harassment programs. Employers could reduce the risk of harassment by paying for trainees to sleep in a hotel room, which some companies already do. Women made up 4.8 percent of the 1.37 million truck drivers in the United States in 2021, according to the most recent government statistics, up from 4 percent a decade earlier. Long-haul truck driving can be a demanding job. Drivers are away from home for days. Yet some women say they are attracted to it because it can pay around $50,000 a year, with experienced drivers making a lot more. Truck driving generally pays more than many other jobs that don’t require a college degree, including those in retail stores, warehouses or child care centers.

The infrastructure act of 2021 required the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration to set up an advisory board to support women pursuing trucking careers and identify practices that keep women out of the profession. Robin Hutcheson, the administrator of the agency, said requiring same-sex training would appear to be a barrier to entry. “If that is happening, that would be something that we would want to take a look at,” she said in an interview. Ms. Streeter, a mother of three, said she had applied to Stevens because it hired people straight out of trucking school. She told Stevens representatives that she was willing to be trained by a man, but to no avail. Bruce Dean, general counsel at Stevens, denied the allegations in the suit. “The fundamental premise in the charge — that Stevens Transport Inc. only allows women trainers to train women trainees — is false,” he said in a statement, adding that the company “has had a cross-gender training program, where both men and women trainers train female trainees, for decades.” Some legal experts said that, although same-sex training was ruled unlawful in only one federal court, trucking companies would struggle to defend such policies before other judges. Under federal employment discrimination law, employers can seek special legal exemptions to treat women differently from men, but courts have granted them very rarely. “Basically, what the law says is that a company needs to be able to walk and chew gum at the same time,” said Deborah Brake, a professor at the University of Pittsburgh who specializes in employment and gender law. “They need to be able to give women equal employment opportunities and prevent and remedy sexual harassment.” Ms. Streeter said she had made meager earnings from infrequent truck driving gigs while hoping to get a position at Stevens. Later this month, she will become a driver in the trucking fleet of a large retailer. Kim Howard, one of the other women who filed the E.E.O.C. complaint against Stevens, said she was attracted to truck driving by the prospect of a steady wage after working for decades as an actor in New York. “It was very much a blow,” she said of being rejected because of the training policy. “I honestly don’t know how I financially made it through.” Ms. Howard, who is now employed at another trucking company, said she had worked briefly at a company where she was trained by two men who treated her well. “It’s quite possible for a woman to be trained by a man, and a man to be a professional about what the job is,” she said. Other female drivers said they had been mistreated by male trainers who could be relentlessly dismissive and sometimes refused to teach them important skills, like reversing a truck with a large trailer attached. Rowan Kannard, a truck driver from Wisconsin who is not involved in the complaint against Stevens, said a male trainer had spent little time training her on a run to California in 2019. At a truck stop where she felt unsafe, Ms. Kannard said, the trainer demanded that she leave the cab — and then locked her out. She asked to stop the training and was flown back to Wisconsin. Yet she said she did not believe that same-sex training for women was necessary. “Some of these men that are training, they should probably go through a course.” Click the article to read more. The author is Peter Eavis.

#women in the trades #women's oppression #women truck drivers #truck drivers #sexism #misogyny

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starsfic · 5 months ago

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Summaries:

Red Son is a prince. Which means that he can break curses that can only be undone by kisses from royalty. But it's weird that the Dragon Girl and Noodle Boy keep getting cursed like that...

AU: Red Son, the son of a poor noble family, is ordered by King Long to marry his daughter, her dragon heritage twisted and malformed to make her into a hideous monster. She demands a wedding, but three princes have already been eaten.

AU: One day, Prince Red Son loses a tool in a deep woods. A monkey offers to find it for him...if Red agrees to let him live with him in the palace.

Shermie always knew Stan was Stanford and kept it a secret for him because he honestly preferred Stan over Ford.

AU: Brozone is brought together at the request of Poppy King in order to play at her wedding reception as sort of a band reunion. Yes, it’s awkward with all of them having their own lives now- John Dory having lived out in the woods of the Rockies for decades, Bruce having a family in Hawaii, Clay being Viva’s best friend and co-owner of her golf course, Floyd trying to train the teenage wannabe stars Velvet and Veneer as their manager and BB nowhere to be found- but the last three are excited to reunite and play together, see their old haunts, plus its good money. Shame Poppy couldn’t find Baby Branch in her internet stalking to find them… Until he walks into the meeting to discuss the playlist as Poppy’s groom.

AU where Macaque hears Wukong has a successor, something that's gonna be announced soon, takes one look at this new monkey kid, and goes "My kid now."

A fic where it seems that Spicynoodles and their children are having dinner. Just a cute, fluffy family fic. Of course nothing's off! Everything is fine! Red is with his family. Dark Red.

Azure Lion is sent to investigate a thief and finds a beautiful king instead. In a rare burst of instinct, Sun Wukong is courtnapped and taken to Heaven.

Sabine and PIF are sisters and the Dupain-Chengs (plus Alya) are invited to Spicynoodles' wedding to mend bridges. Much confusion from Marinette and Tom (who assumed that Sabine was from a mafia family, not a runaway goddess family).

Lila Rossi has a history of issues, including a lawsuit by Long Xiaojiao for stalking and harassment. When Lila reappears on the Ladyblog, Xiaojiao decides to step in and help the poor kid running the blog before Lila tries the same stuff. Kinda inspired by the Ali section in this.

#next year planning #LMK #Monkie Kid #LEGO Monkie Kid #ML #MLB #Miraculous #Miraculous Ladybug #poll

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sapphicdib · 11 months ago

Note

"i could gush about my sig headcanons all day but auuughvjgghh". You know what, do it. I dare you. After that sleepy iterators post I'm itching for more headcanons to ponder.

SORRY THIS IS RLLY LATE, IVE BEEN WORKING A LOT

THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME HAVE AN EXCUSE TO HAVE A CATEGORY 10 AUTISM MOMENT ON THE DASH. this is legit about to be a better essay than anything ive ever turned in for university so strap in, obv everything is gonna be under the cut bc this is prolly gonna be long as fuck

Okay! My main headcanons for Sig are:

He uses he/she/it pronouns, but mainly he/she!

He's a bioengineering dork.

She's a specialized medical facility!

She doesn't really care much about the great problem, and thus has a lot of hobbies. He knitted her own scarf!

She has a lot of friends, even outside of the local group. He's incredibly close with Chasing Wind.

He's a mid-gen iterator, (Ages being: LTTM, SRS, SOS, CW, NSH, UI, FP), so his emotional AI is a lot more advanced than Suns' (there's quite a gap between the two, Suns is closer to Moon in terms of age).

She considers Hunter to be her daughter, Hunter calls him her dadmom and Moon her mom.

He tends to bury these emotions down for the sake of others, which leads to...bad situations.

She's terrified of being alone :)

Sig just gives me gender fucky-wucky vibes. Her pronouns are the/bit and he's committed to it. There's not really a basis for this in canon but it just fits his personality of being pretty laid back and goofy when not in um. emotional distress. Also the accessorizing to his puppet (ie the scarf) makes me think he likes to experiment with her appearance and presentation. To add on to this in the streamer au she goes by any pronouns and is pretty androgynous, so none of his followers can tell his AGAB, and its funny to him to watch the chat argue about it. (He's AFAB, tbh I can't see her as anything else). No one can guess his sexuality either, the only "confirmed" thing seems to be polyamourous, but other than that it's "whatever makes it gay", or "whatever pisses you off most".

Sig obviously has a knack for bioengineering, as he was the one who started investigating the idea of using purposed messengers to stay in contact with others once the comms degraded, not to mention the creation of the slag reset keys. Yes this is my incoming rant of "Sig is not bad at making slugcats", since sometimes people tend to act like "Sig didn't follow Suns' instructions" or something like that, and that's why Hunter is sick. There are MULTIPLE points in their conversations where it's outright stated that Sig was the one who did it first:

Sig was the one who showed Suns the process:

SRS: I purposed a messenger, and sent the information by land via a data pearl. NSH: How original of you. SRS: I learned from the best.

Sig clearly has experiences with messengers, and Spearmaster happens before Sig begins working on Hunter:

NSH: I feel like I need to be simplifying my speech patterns. Is that something you do when conversing with your messenger?

SUNS SAYS "ANOTHER" MESSENGER, AND THEN LATER SIG SAYS "ANOTHER MESSENGER" AS WELL. SIG HAS MADE MESSENGERS BEFORE:

SRS: Do you suppose you'll ever raise another messenger?

NSH: I'm tempted to start work on raising another messenger as a last ditch effort, but to be honest I don't think there is any point.

And then, in her reply, she says, "*I* started investigating the method".

NSH: If the need arises, I certainly would. After all, I started investigating the method out of the inevitability of our situation.

And just to nail it down that Sig was the one who purposed them first, the gossip between Wandering Omen and Pleading Intellect:

PI: You haven't heard about what No Significant Harassment did? WO: All I heard was the complaining. Didn't he send an iterator something distasteful? PI: Well, yes, but more importantly, he trained a purposed organism to deliver it!

WO: How do you even get a dull creature such as that to follow orders? I may consider asking him to teach me his ways.

So yes, Sig was the one to purpose the messengers first. She had already made at least one in the past, to send the "distasteful message" to someone. I'd honestly say he probably made more between that/before, to test the efficacy and also just to mess around with the process.

This leads into my next headcanon: Sig was a specialized medical facility! Five Pebbles mentions to Hunter that "I was not a medical facility even when the equipment was functioning," so I believe that there were some more specialized iterators built. Sig's knowledge of bioengineering could be an indication of this specialization, not to mention it fits with him not really caring about the great problem to the same degree as everyone else. Purely headcanon after this point, but when Sig was first built, Moon was very nervous about getting a new model of "specialized" iterator that she wouldn't be able to help train as well! Moon was a more generalized iterator as she was older, so she does have knowledge about medicine and bioengineering, as all iterators did for the health and growth of her city, but nothing to the degree Sig would need. Thankfully, iterators are fucking supercomputers, so its not like Sig needed much "training" in the way of that, but still. Moon wanted to be a good mentor to her! And she very much was, considering how Sig turned out. That's why they ended up so close.

After the mass ascension, he became the resident "doctor" of the local group. Pointing back to the slag reset keys, Sig seems to have shoved as many as he could into that thing, since Pebbles reacts to the amount of them with surprise, so he knows his way around iterator biology. In pure headcanon mode now, when they develop my tangible projections thing (which Sig and Moon were heavily involved in), it meant that she could actually help others by preforming repairs on their puppets, and even their structures by sending her overseer into them. Moon's inspectors enjoy head pats from her whenever he's passing by.

Her being a medical facility also means she doesn't give as much thought to finding the Triple Affirmative as others. His processing power was delegated more towards finding cures, aiding the sick, and engineering better production techniques for medical equipment and such. His city is also highly accessible and optimized for the disabled and elderly. When you're a medical facility, your goal is more to keep people alive than perma-kill them! I mostly get this headcanon from the fact that when Suns is faced with "what to do" other than solve the great problem, they respond with "What else CAN we do? You're stuck in your can, and at any moment you have no more than two alternatives: Do nothing, or work like you're supposed to.". Meanwhile, Sig responds to Suns' question about purposing another messenger with "There's nothing better for me to do with my time, though.". Not to mention, he was already purposing messengers before this, so she certainly wasn't dedicating all of her time to iterating the great problem! Of course, he probably did iterate on it, just not to the degree his peers did. He also jokes about it in that broadcast where Wind is telling everyone about erratic pulse, saying "Haha with the slimers, lizards and etceteras? Surely the answer was in a lizard skull all along!" so it really seems like he doesn't take it very seriously.

Her disinterest in solving the problem led to her developing a wide range of hobbies. He's an iterator after all, they probably get horrifically bored if they're not doing something! She taught herself to knit (telling his citizens it helped her focus so they would provide her with needles and yarn), and eventually learns to make garments as well. I headcanon he plays video games too, especially with Chasing Wind, mostly just because she probably wanted to see if an iterator could run Doom for the lolz. Probably also trolls in the group chats sometimes, considering the "distasteful pearl", and I think her being being NGI ("No Great Ideas") would be funny as hell. This also makes it pretty obvious why I made the streamer au, Sig's a top level player for multiple FPS games and has won some pretty prestigious awards in esports tournaments. And then she goes home and plays Hollow Knight randomizers with Pebbles in a maid outfit.

Sig's personality also lent itself to having a lot of friends. Her and Chasing Wind were built less than 50 cycles apart (Wind is older), so they're practically attached at the hip. Wind isn't in her local group (He's in Sliver's), but they're still very close. It's not really explored much in canon since we really only see her interact with Suns for the most part, but given her personality, I don't think it'd be a far off assumption for him to have lots of friends. Because she's younger, she also has a more sophisticated emotional AI...which can be detrimental at times, but is helpful when it comes to maintaining friendships!

AHAH So here comes the um. SAD portion of the rant lol. I feel like Sig buries her emotions down a lot, for the sake of others. In her conversations with Suns, we do see him get snappy with him, but for the most part he remains either calm or sympathetic, at the most a bit pessimistic towards the end. When she finally does call Suns out for their bullshit, he (presumably) stops replying to Suns for a short time before apologizing and continuing to talk to them.

SRS: I'm in noticing you are becoming more defensive. This obviously wasn't the end result I was aiming for, you know. SRS: Please respond to my messages. I don't want to leave it like this. I need someone to talk to. NSH: I don't mean to be cold, I'm just very worried.

After this interaction, Sig seems to either just reply with facts/possibly explanations for Moon/Pebbles' actions, or completely changing the subject to Suns' messenger, which then leads to the broadcast where Suns is telling her all the ways they modified their messenger to sneak past Sig's overseers, by not giving them the mark and hiding the pearl, we see Sig's replies become very short, single sentence answers.

This to me reads as slightly passive aggressive, but Suns doesn't seem to pick up on it. To be honest I in my head I hear this as Sig hissing this shit through clenched teeth if he could, but it's just text so I suppose we'll never know.

Additionally, he still does let his emotions overwhelm her at points, (such as during the "Your plan was a complete failure" broadcast), but the most blatant is probably in the messages she sends to Moon and Pebbles.

Starting with the Pebbles one:

NSH: Five Pebbles, I will say once again. You need to stop. Immediately. NSH: I know you are going to trash this message like the rest, but... NSH: I hope eventually when you are out of this state of mind you will look back at these. NSH: Look back and reflect on all the regrets you've set yourself up to have.

Sig is angry. Like he shows no sympathy for him, and just hopes he wallows in regret for the rest of his life. She does express his dislike of Pebbles while talking to Suns as well, but manages to still be nice by saying "I think a lot of us were like that in the beginning.", and such, and then drops the subject by the next broadcast by talking about Suns' messenger. He only ever talks about Moon's condition, likely to keep himself from being a dick about Pebbles in front of Suns because talking directly about him is obviously pretty touchy. But this broadcast is straight up mean. She doesn't manage to hold back her emotions but to be honest? I don't think he actually cares, if he burns that bridge with Pebbles then fine, because Pebbles burned it first.

Pebbles took away one of the few friends he still had in this dying world.

I really and truly believe that Sig's biggest fear is being alone. She makes the slugcats as a way to keep in contact with others after the comms arrays degrade. After being snappy with Suns, she immediately backtracks, apologizes, and keeps talking to them, even if it hurts. His messages to Moon also emphasize this:

NSH: Moon? Moon, are you able to communicate?

NSH: Moon? It's me again.

NSH: I need to talk to you. I need to know you're okay.

The fact that we are provided two of these broadcasts and not just one seems to point to the idea that these are not the only two Sig sent. "It's me again." There is more desperation in her tone compared to the messages he shares with Suns, possibly because he's more comfortable expressing his profound distress with Moon because they're closer. A part of me headcanons she...never stopped sending messages. He needs to know she's okay. You can even find a green overseer in outer expanse and subterranean, locked out of the facility but still searching, still looking for any sign of Moon...or Hunter.

When Sig sends Hunter to Moon, the pearl he sends is goofy and lighthearted. He doesn't want to bring her down when she's already suffering enough. It's short, and sweet, because anything longer would probably devolve into something unpleasant. She's holding the words on that pearl together with tape and glue. Once again, hiding the pure grief he feels for the sake of others.

I also think that's why Hunter is sick. Once again, pure headcanon, but Sig mentions this on the pearl:

Excuse the unorthodox delivery method, equipment eroding etc etc.

I kinda interpret this as Sig pushing herself too hard to make Hunter in time to save Moon, and in turn, irreversibly damaging himself in the process. An emergency shutdown occurred after he ignores the 50th pressure warning his systems desperately tried to get her to pay attention to, causing Hunter to become sick thanks to the sudden disruption in his concentration, much like Pebbles and the rot. This is also why no other messengers were sent after this, Sig simply couldn't make any more that were healthy. She loved Hunter, and I fully believe that, as Hunter's last vision in the void sea was to return to his arms. Continuing the pure headcanons now, but he treats Hunter like a daughter and knits her a scarf for her journey. She tells Hunter that Moon is her mom. She gives Hunter a name, which were held in very high regard in ancient culture, a gift so she can at least be remembered for her sacrifice: "Hunting the Stars, Moon's Savior."

All and all, Sig is desperately trying to delay the inevitable, watching the walls of loneliness close in as she loses contact with friends, slowly encroaching on her until he's locked up in a box. Alone.

HOWEVER!

I for one, absolutely adore the goofy, flirty personality the fandom gives Sig. I really do believe when he isn't in extreme emotional distress, she is like that. The motherfucker uses tildes in his texts and teases Suns and makes jokes about slimers and lizards. I just like peeling apart the little snippets we see of him, which are mostly at pretty low moments unfortunately, and just seeing what I can extrapolate from that. Even if some of my headcanons are far-fetched and shit, I do at least try to keep most of them at least slightly in character with some explanation.

I hope you enjoyed my unhinged rant about my favorite guy!!!! I put this in google docs and its literally like, 2.4k words, I could genuinely have turned this in to one of my fucking college courses LMFAO. It's probably better than some of the garbage I DID turn in tbh. If you want more I am totally happy to provide, cuz I could make a whole OTHER ramble about Hunter that's just as long LMAOOOO

(Oh also none of this applies to rot au Sig. that freak deserves her own post bc at this point he's 50% oc and 50% No Significant Harassment Rain World LOL)

#rain world #rain world downpour #no significant harassment #NSH RW #rw no significant harassment #rain world lore #letters #GIANT ESSAY INCOMING #IVE BEEN ALLOWED TO RANT ABOUT MY BLORBO #CATEGORY 10 AUTISM MOMENT #rw

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luna-andra · 6 months ago

Text

The Shadows Return | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x OC Retired AU | Chapter 8: Compromise

Summary: Andra wants answers, and Ghost has to choose

Word Count: 6.5k

If this is the first time you're seeing this, Chapter 1 is here. You can find the rest on my masterlist!

Content: slow burn, eventual smut, 18+, fluff, mentions of mental health, mild violence

The clouds on the way home were overcast across the afternoon sky. Johnny left Andra with several things to think over, bringing her back to a familiar train of thought from five years ago.

He gave her the same look that stirred shame in her belly. She didn’t like being on a different level of rationality – or lack thereof – with the people once close to her.

It was declared by the officer that showed up there was no indication of foul play. The possibility of an incompetent and inconvenienced officer being sent to her call was in the forefront of her mind, and also the possibility of any traces of someone’s presence could have been washed away from the thunderstorm by the time they came out to investigate. The whole process of filing the report gave her no peace of mind, but she took the advice of setting up surveillance seriously.

A precautionary that she should have done ages ago.

The quiet, quaint life out on the farm had soothed her troubled worries all of these years, making her forget for a moment what it was like to live looking over her shoulder every moment. She wasn’t naïve, no, she knew how to take care of herself when the seldom case of harassment arose. Andra should have never gotten so comfortable the way she did.

Her foot pressed down heavily on the brake pedal as she waited at a stop light to rub the exhaustion from her eyes. She was just a few more turns from home, she reminded herself. The caffeine she had ingested all throughout the morning was threatening a big crash.

Andra drove slowly down Middleton Lane as she spotted the first right turn to the private dirt road of Ghost’s property. Then her truck came to a full stop. You know what-

Her hand turned the wheel right as her tires skid around the corner.

Andra didn’t know what she was doing, or what she would exactly say to him, but she needed to know what was going through his head.

Andra parked behind his truck and turned the key out of the ignition. She paused for a few seconds to take a breath and gather at least the first sentence that would come out of her mouth.

Her phone vibrated.

I’m in the garage.

Of course Ghost knew Andra had arrived, another sign that she definitely needed to do the same thing to her property. Cameras and motion sensors.

She shut the door behind her as she made her way to the garage off to the right of his house. One of the metal double doors was left cracked open, and she could hear the metal clink of a tool being put down.

The garage was Ghost’s own personal auto shop, with an incomplete classic-looking car taking up majority of the left. The wall was lined with tool boxes, yard tools, and almost a pallet’s worth of army green ammo cans. To the right, a rudimentary gym setup took up another portion of space, with a bench press, a high pull-up bar, seemingly crafted and welded together amateurly, and a rack of assorting dumbbells and plates to complete it all.

Ghost was hunched over the open hood of the car, one hand on the lip of the hood as he kept his attention on whatever he had been working on before Andra’s unannounced arrival.

“Is this your way of letting me know that you’re pushing me away again?” Andra sharply said to the backside of Ghost.

Ghost tossed a tool onto the toolbox on his left side and retrieved a rag, wiping grease from his stained hands. His muscles tensed in his back as he turned to Andra’s direction. “Today has been a really tense day. I wanted to give you some space to come down from last night.”

Andra clenched her jaw. “I don’t need space, I need answers. I feel like I’ve been kept in the dark about something I have no control over.”

“That’s because you don’t.”

She could feel her blood simmering already. Not how she wanted this to go. “I don’t because you never gave me the choice to take control.” Andra couldn’t recognize the person she was talking to. His stare was cold and dark. If his goal was to anger her into cutting her losses with him, it wasn’t going to work. “You didn’t tell me anything because we lost touch the first time, fine, I get it. But you went ahead and told Johnny? That’s what I can’t get passed.”

Ghost trudged out of the garage with Andra following behind him. “He and I had an eye on things. We had it under our thumbs.”

Andra tossed her hands up. “Had what exactly?” Her voice echoed all around them. “What the hell is going on with you?”

He turned back to her, stopping her in her tracks before bumping right into him. Ghost peered down to her, his eyes burning the same heat. “What do you want from me? You want me to take back what I did?”

Her fists clenched hard enough for her nails to dig into her palm. “No, I just want you to stop being such a hard ass and talk to me.” Her carotid artery strained against the muscles in her neck. “Tell me what you think is going on and we’ll deal with it together.”

He flinched as if her hand flew across his face.

“You keep acting like you’re looking for an excuse to push me away, for an excuse to leave.” Andra’s chest rose and fell with a heavy rhythm. “You act as if one morning I’ll wake up and you won’t be here, and you’ll just be a memory for me.”

His eyes squeezed shut as his own breath left him.

“You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? Leaving without another word, taking your shadows with you.” There was a shiver in her voice.

“I have.” Ghost finally answered. “I could leave in a moment’s notice. I’ve done it before.”

Andra didn’t doubt him. She had done it herself, she knew how easy it was to pack a couple of bags and leave. “What’s stopping you this time?”

Ghost opened his eyes to meet hers.

She scoffed and turned away from his silent response. The wind picked up and wisps of her hair flew around her face. She had to squint her eyes at the unbearable overcast sunlight. “I was able to forgive you for cutting me off the first time. I shook it off because there was no expectation for you to keep in contact after fixing my truck. Then you came back, and I thought you wanted me in your life, and maybe we even had something. Cool. Great, even.

“But when you brought up the transpiring events, the person driving up our street and telling me there have been people on my property?” She shook her head. “You think you’re handling this on your own but you’re not. I won’t let you. Either you let me know what’s going on, or you’ve lost my trust.”

His eyes were unreadable when she saw him once more.

Andra reached into her pocket and flipped her keys into her palm, the key ring sitting on her index finger as she clenched them tight. “I’ll see you around, Ghost. If you figure out what you want to do, you know where to find me.”

The screen door smacked the side of the house harder than it should. Andra wasn’t paying attention. Her face still felt hot with anger. Sammy darted outside for her chance to do what she does, leaving her alone in the house.

The air felt thick, charged with energy that wasn’t there when she woke up the morning before. Or maybe it was her mind messing with her. Either way, her house felt compromised.

The tears collected in her eyes out of nowhere, and she quickly wiped them away. This is stupid. She felt ridiculous for letting it get to her. For letting a shattered window re-surface the fear that drove her away to another country.

This was all going to blow over. The tracks in the woods were a random coincidence, the car meant nothing. And the rock flying into her window was just a freakish feat of nature. She’s witnessed some heavy storms in the countryside in her years of living here. It wouldn’t be the first time something has sustained damage on her property, and it was bound to happen again.

“Be kind to yourself.” Andra whispered to herself as she kicked her shoes off, remembering what she was taught in therapy and from self-help reading. However, being kind to herself was proving difficult with the lingering anger from talking to Ghost.

The nerve of him.

But also, the nerve of her. She felt the weight of her corrosive past. An affliction, threatening to dismantle the life she had built. It had to be irrational, she was no one. She wasn’t worth being tracked down, right? That’s the rhetoric she kept force feeding herself. They had succeeded in getting rid of her, she made sure of it. At this point, if anyone wanted to pursue in finishing the job, she would end up burning a hole in their dirty wallets.

And if Ghost was going to play the need-to-know card, two can play that game.

She stopped in her tracks as she walked into the kitchen, catching a glimpse of the black trash bag covering her window. It crinkled and swayed inward and outward with the passing wind. The ever-growing chasm in her chest was making itself comfortable, and she couldn’t stand it.

-----

Ghost knew Johnny would stop calling after the second time he reached his voicemail. The third call in a row told him that he better answer the phone. His heavy hand reached out to the nightstand for his phone, swiped his thumb across the screen and pressed it against his ear, eyes closed. “Yes, sir.”

“You broken, Simon?”

Price’s gravelly voice came through the speaker on his phone, and it was like a splash of cold water on him. It was a question he was familiar with Price asking, except he’s no longer checking for missing limbs or hemorrhaging blood loss. Ghost sat up on the edge of his mattress and rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes. “M’solid.”

“When’s the last time you got a full eight hours of sleep?” Price asked.

Ghost took a quick glance at the time on his phone before returning the receiver to his ear. “I was getting’ rest before you woke me up.” He was only asleep for two hours, and his pounding head reminded him that it had been a restless 72 hours.

Price doesn’t reach out very often. The captain – along with the other lads – will dedicate an amount of time out of the year to catch up with the former task force in person. It was an annual event of spending the holidays doing anything but celebrating Christmas and New Years. When he hears from Price before November, it’s because he’s been tipped off on Ghost’s concerning behavior.

“Soap tells me you’re acting barmy, you think you’re being followed, son?”

There it was.

Ghost didn’t respond for a few beats, his feet felt like lead against the cold wooden floor. “A couple of events transpired, would put you on edge, too.”

He could hear a deep sigh come from the other end of the line, and it had Ghost clench his jaw. “Get yourself to an appointment or a meeting, or I’ll bring the meeting to you.”

Price’s demand sent a wave of guilt and shame through Ghost. The memories of being pulled up off the living room floor and thrown into his tub flashed behind his heavy eyelids. Price, Johnny and Gaz showed up. Ghost reeked of alcohol and piss. They had him hauling bags of sand back and forth from his backyard to the range on his property for several hours, making him sweat and puke the remains of alcohol in his system.

“I’m still sober.” Ghost gritted his teeth. He made Ghost sound like an addict.

Price clipped his words, “See your doctor, and get out of bed for a sweat.”

Ghost opened his eyes to the void of his darkened room and sighed. “I’ll set up an appointment today.”

“Good lad.” Beep-beep-beep went the line as Price disconnected the call.

Sleep had eluded Ghost once more. He sat there at the edge of his bed and rolled his neck, failing to relax the knotted muscles at the base of his neck. His eyes burned, and his headache pressed down on every surface of his skull. He felt an irritation for Price waking him up, but rationality told him it wasn’t his fault.

Since sleep was out of the question, Ghost stood up and peered out the bedroom window. The sun wasn’t due to come up for another couple of hours, but he insisted to listen to Price’s advice. Get a workout in, then when the office opened, call doc to get that appointment.

His feet were heavy as he shuffled to the bathroom. Ghost always looked down to the basin of the sink before turning on the lights, avoiding the reflection staring back at him. He watched as his hands gripped the edge of the counter. Scars littered his knuckles, the skin over bone splitting open too many times for him to count.

It was when he was sick of looking at the reminders of his violence when he slipped and the person he hated stared back with cold, dead eyes.

You’ve tried killing me so many times, but fail every single time. You need me. You need the mask. You need it to hide so there’s never a chance to hurt again. You don’t deserve her. You try and pretend to be someone worthy of a teaspoon of affection, but you’re not what she needs. You’re filthy. You’re-

The glass shattered against his fist as he struck as quick as an asp. He hissed between clenched teeth, cursing as the reached for a towel and covered his bleeding knuckles.

If one thing was for certain, his reflection was right.

He didn’t deserve her.

-----

Andra flipped closed the back end of the book and placed it on her blanket covered lap to rub her tired eyes. Every night she would read The Operators when it was evident she wouldn’t be getting peaceful rest, or when something had her jolting awake. She had no clue how many hours she had slept in the past couple of days; definitely not enough to keep her from loading up on caffeine and making her debate breaking her years of being nicotine-free.

She could hear the roosting of her birds out in the coop. Andra leaned her head back against the headboard and sighed. There wouldn’t be time to try and fall asleep. Her day had to start.

After the morning chores, Andra headed inside for another cup of coffee. She stared out of her newly replaced window, out into the distance. It was hard not to; it was as if something – or someone – was going to come storming out from the brush and trees. All remained quiescent in those groves, as logic would have it.

The rattling sound of her plastic phone case vibrating against the countertop broke her focus. She swiped her finger across the screen and pressed the speaker button. “What’s up, Johnny?”

“I need to ask a favor.”

His voice was hushed and the words were muddled like he had the phone pressed against his mouth, and she could hear the workings of the auto shop in the background.

“I need you to go check on Ghost for me, he called out of work this morning.”

Andra felt her chest and throat tighten all at the same time. Johnny wasn’t aware of the fallout between her and Ghost from the sound of it. Or if he did, he must be extremely concerned for Ghost’s silence. I figured he would be used to it by now… she thought bitterly. “You need me to go immediately?”

“Take yer time, a mate of ours reached him this mornin’. Just pop over there when you get a chance. Gotta go, text me.”

The line went dead before Andra could say bye. She released a heavy sigh after taking her first sip, her fingers tapped against the countertop as apprehension churned in her gut.

Maybe Ghost took their last conversation as motivation for him to actually leave.

Tears pricked in the corner of her eyes, and she rubbed them away with her thumb and index finger, pushing her fingers together to pinch the bridge of her nose. She didn’t want their relationship – friendship – whatever they had, to end on that note. Fuck, I messed up.

She took a deep breath to regain composure. You don’t know if he’s gone. Andra decided she would go by after her run to the post office to pick up her package. With a quick rinse of her empty coffee mug, she headed to the front door to collect her keys and purse.

The sound of gravel crunching and a vehicle engine made her pause in her tracks. Her heart raced, she could feel her adrenaline dump. Her shaky hand moved aside the curtain to look out the window beside the door, and the sight of Ghost’s truck had her releasing a heavy breath.

It took everything in her not to throw the door open and run to him. She took another grounding breath and unlocked the door, opening it to Ghost preparing to knock.

Andra swore her heart was going to burst. The look in his eyes mirrored the same surprise she displayed. The discernible presence of a bandage wrapped around Ghost’s hand caught her attention in the corner of her eye.

He noticed where her eyes fell to, and shoved it in the pocket of his jacket. “You got a minute to speak?”

His voice sounded like sandpaper. He looked just as sleep deprived as she felt. Andra couldn’t say anything, so she just nodded. She closed the door behind her and opted to sit on the wooden bench, leaving a space for Ghost to sit beside her. He never did, instead he decided to lean against the railing, his ankle crossed over the other.

Seconds passed before anything was said. “I’m not good with words, you’ll have to bear with me.”

Andra folded her legs beneath her and clasped her hands together. Her eyes remained on him as she waited to hear him out.

His head tilted down. “I gave a lot of thought to what you said, about losing your trust.” He rolled his neck, rolling the nerves and giving him a chance to think. “And I realized, taking a bullet is far less painful than that.”

Andra could see his adam’s apple bob in his throat underneath the fabric of his mask as he tilted his head back with closed eyes. She felt her throat tightening, and had to swallow to relieve the ache.

“So, I’ve come to terms with if I want to mend what I had with you, I’m going to have to find a way to tell you what you need to know.” Ghost’s eyes found hers, searching for a response.

She gave him a subtle nod, letting the words sink in. “How are you going to do that?”

Ghost uncrossed his ankles and took the two steps to sit beside her. It was a struggling few seconds for him to begin speaking. “Did you ever pick that book back up?”

Andra was confused by the approach he was taking, but went with it. “Yeah, I finished it actually.”

"Did the author talk about some of his assignments?" Ghost asked patiently.

She recalled what the author was able to talk about and reveal. "Not specifics, but he went in detail with Selection, and then the training thereafter and some events that happened in the 80s in Northern Ireland."

He nodded as he listened. "What did the training entail?"

"Physical training, a lot of sleep deprivation, weapons and vehicle tactics, photography, interrogation..." Andra's words drifted as she continued her recollection. She wouldn't say this out loud, but it was a dry read.

Ghost cut in at the mention of the last topic. "Interrogation, okay." His shoulders rose and fell as he let out a deep breath, and his hands flexed over and over. "I've been on both ends of being interrogated. Not just in training, but out on the field." His red-rimmed eyes aged several decades, and her chest grew heavy. "And there were times the bars and stars – officers that outranked me and my team – had ordered us to let go of the person we had just roughed up.

"They were dangerous people, Andra, do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

Andra was piecing together why Ghost had given her that book to read. It was more than just what was on the surface. The selection process, the training, the assignments, the images in the book illustrating the teams with black lines redacting their eyes. It occurred to her then when she was reading it all, Ghost was another one of the SAS operatives that had an alias, he had paperwork with his name on it that contained redacted information on what he and his team had accomplished, but now discussing it all solidified it for her.

Not only him, but Johnny as well, and Johnny had brought up a few other names. People that were also special forces.

It was sobering. She never took the time to sit with all of this information and come to terms that these men had enemies that went deeper than just being from differing nations. Enemies that may or may not still be alive out there, preying on the downfall of the men she had come to know.

“Has anyone ever found you or Johnny?” Andra asked with a tremble in her throat.

“No.” He answered definitively. “And I would like to keep it that way.”

Andra nodded, as she fully agreed with him.

Ghost leaned back against the bench. “I truly never intended to alarm you and bring you to endless conclusions. I wish I could take it back, my foolishness, everything.”

“You can’t help that, though.” Andra defended. “It was a really messed up chain of events.”

There was a pregnant pause. “I have moments like these when there are too many coincidences happening at once. I’ve been working on how I handle it.”

Andra turned to him. “Do you… talk to someone about it?” She felt hesitant to ask.

Ghost’s eyes slid back to her. “Does that bother you?”

She shook her head swiftly. “No, oh Gods, no I didn’t mean it that way.” Her hands covered her face for a moment. “That was wrong of me to ask.”

Ghost reached for one of her hands. “You have every right to know, doll.” The calloused pad of his thumb brushed the top of her hand. She could feel a tremor in his touch.

It would have warmed her heart had it not been for the churning contrite souring her stomach. He had every right to know, too, but how would she even begin to tell him?

His injured hand was holding hers. She took this opportunity to distract herself from the guilt eating at her. “What happened to your hand?”

“Ridiculous accident with some glass.” He answered too quickly. Andra could feel him wanting to recoil, but he continued to let her hold his hand. Her peripheral vision gave her a peak of Ghost studying her face. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look exhausted.”

Andra let go of his hand and rubbed her eyes. “I really haven’t been sleeping. Every little noise wakes me up, and I lay there for hours.”

Ghost’s eyes turned serious. “What can I do to remedy that?” Andra started to shake her head. “No, I’m responsible for this. Name it, I’ll do what I can.”

“I was actually on my way to go pick up a security system I ordered from the post office.” Andra raised her hand with her set of keys jingling.

Ghost stood from the bench, Andra followed in suit. “That I can do.”

Her smile returned. If it was one thing Andra was certain about Ghost, acts of service was how he communicated his apologies. It was easier to demonstrate with his hands than words.

After picking up the hefty box of camera and motion sensor equipment, Andra worked around the farm after her and Ghost discussed where the best places to set up the cameras would be. He got it done in less than a few hours, giving them time to pick up food together.

As they traveled, she remembered Johnny was waiting for an update from her.

Ghost is fine, we’re picking up food.

“So, you read the book in the past three days?” Ghost asked to start up chatter. Look who’s talking more now.

She hummed. “I read when I can’t sleep, and found it sitting there on the table before I locked up for bed.” Andra glanced at him. “What do you do when you can’t sleep?” Her phone vibrated with a response.

Thank you.

Ghost shrugged. “I lay there hoping I fall asleep.”

“I would get so bored.” Andra confessed, tapping her hands on her thighs. “You don’t even scroll through Netflix or something to try and turn your brain off?”

“I don’t have Netflix.” He responded.

Andra shook her head and blinked. “Remind me to give you my login.”

“I don’t watch TV or movies.”

Now she was looking at him like he was crazy. “You’re lying. You’re a liar.”

He rolled his eyes. “I do watch movies, but they’re all old war movies or westerns on DVD.”

Andra narrowed her eyes. “What are you, fifty?”

Ghost chortled. “I have a while before I hit fifty, thank you for that.”

“How long is a while?” Andra smirked. “Five years or six months?” His mouth opened, but she kept going. “Wait, I bet you have M.A.S.H. all on DVD, don’t you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with M.A.S.H.” Ghost defended.

“Yeah, when you’re as old as my dad and watching it on your days off as you doze on the living room couch at eleven in the morning.”

“You’re pushing your luck, doll.” Ghost warned with a grin in his voice. “Let me put it this way, I joined the Royal Air Force after the events of 9/11.”

Andra’s face went slack and her eyes were as wide as saucers. She turned to the passenger window with a hand pretending to scratch the side of her head and wondered if he would be weirded out if she told him she was in grade school during 9/11.

Her silence was loud in the cabin. “We’re not that far apart in age if you know M.A.S.H.” Ghost resumed.

Andra raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you saying I look old?”

“No.” His accent thickened as his voice dropped. “I didn’t say that.”

She was having too much fun busting his chops. “We have a tad bit of an age gap,” she demonstrated with her thumb and index finger with a small gap, “I’m a ninety’s baby.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Three years is a tad of an age gap, not a whole decade.”

Andra rolled her eyes. “Is this what I have to look forward to in my thirties?” She laughed at the flash of astonishment as he panned a look at her. “I’m kidding! Well, kind of, but I’ll be thirty next summer.”

Ghost smoothed his hand over his covered mouth. “You’re killing me, woman.”

“Best stay on top of those heart meds then – ooh!” Andra shot forward and was caught by her seatbelt from Ghost slamming the breaks harder than normal. “You’re gonna cause an accident, sir.”

After a few beats of silence, Ghost changed the subject. “I hope the camera system will give you some peace of mind.”

“I’m sure it will.” She nodded with a hopeful smile.

Ghost ran inside the chip shop they ordered from while Andra sat in the truck to keep it running. Her head tilted back onto the head rest as she stared up at the roof of the truck. The lack of sleep was catching up to her, and now that there was less of a problem with surveillance around the farm, she felt the muscles in her shoulders relaxing.

The sudden sound of the driver door opening had her jerking back awake. She attempted to cover up the fact that she had dozed off in his truck with a little stretch of her legs.

Ghost handed her the bag of food without noticing her brief second of sleep and drove back to her house.

-----

“I get why you go to this place.” Andra spoke in between eating in the living room with him. “It’s not bad.”

“It’s also because Johnny has been getting us discounts from his little girlfriend.” Ghost wiped his mouth with a crumpled napkin.

Andra looked over the app on her phone that connected her to all of the cameras on her property. The feed looked really good, giving her confidence that she could point out important details if she ever had to. She switched to the camera that aimed at the dirt driveway with both trucks sitting outside. Her thumb and index finger spread across the screen to utilize the zoom feature; she was able to read off the license plate numbers from each truck.

“Thank you again for setting up the cameras.” Andra locked her phone and placed it down on the coffee table.

Ghost covered the lower half of his face back up with the balaclava as he finished his own meal. “Thank you for letting me.”

Her heart fluttered at the sudden drop in his voice. His eyes were set on her when she turned to look at him. Despite not being able to see his expression, she could feel a softness in his brown eyes.

“Let me get these out of the way.” Ghost insisted as he began to collect the takeout containers. Andra sucked down the last of her drink in her Styrofoam cup and tossed it into the bag Ghost was using.

Andra slipped a hand in the back pocket of her jeans. “You staying for a little while?”

“I can.”

She felt some relief for having to spend less time by herself for the evening.

While Ghost did his thing, Andra browsed her bookshelf in search of a new read.

“Anything interesting?” Ghost asked as he returned.

Andra chose Dune from the shelf. “Maybe.” She returned to her designated reading lounge chair and curled her legs up. “How far did you get with The Outsiders?”

Ghost scratched the back of his head. “Maybe the first fifty pages.” Then, he tilted his head. “How did you know I had it?”

Andra smirked. “It was gone the following morning after you left.”

Did she have him flustered? The indecisive glance to the couch and back to the front door then back to the kitchen was amusing enough to have her grinning.

“I have it in the truck, actually. Be right back.” Ghost made his way outside, letting in a kissing, chilly breeze.

It must have been the book she chose, or the way she receded back into the cushions, but she felt the wave of sleepiness return back. Or maybe it was Ghost’s presence, knowing he was only a few feet away on the couch with Sammy next to him. He emitted an aura that Andra could only classify as comfort. Safety.

She knew he was safe to fall asleep around, she knew he would keep her safe.

Andra flinched out of the sleep she was slipping into and let out a disappointed sigh. Her book was still in her hand, but the pages were damp from the warmth of her fingers holding them in place. She closed the book, not worried about where she left off because she wasn’t paying attention anyway and softened her movements as she looked to her right.

Ghost’s head lulled to one side from the upright position he fell asleep in, his arms crossed over his chest and his own book sitting on the table with Sammy resting in her own bed by the window. The heavy breath he suck in and released told her he was deeper in that sleep than she was.

How is he sleeping with the mask on? Andra wondered.

With light movement, Andra rose from her chair and padded quietly to the hallway closet to retrieve a blanket. He looked as tired as she felt halfway through the day, and she wasn’t about to wake him up and send him home. She unraveled the blanket and moved to lay it over Ghost just above his arms and below his collarbone.

But his awareness was more keen than Andra had anticipated. Ghost reached out, throwing the blanket off and swiped her wrists single-handed. The room went spinning, and she let out a small yelp as her back met the bottom cushions of the couch, his grasp securing her wrists above her head.

Ghost’s eyes were wild with alert, then widened as he realized who he just wrestled down. It startled her at first, but out of nervousness a chortle escaped. Then a chuckle, and confusion wrinkled Ghost’s eyebrows.

She probably looked insane to him. She was supposed to be frightened, but all she was was dizzy. And too aware of how his body hovered over her. The grip on her wrists eased up but remained there. Her giggles dissipated, along with whatever she was about to say. She was too absorbed by Ghost’s eyes darting all over her face, and she wasn’t too sure, but she was almost certain he kept looking to her mouth.

Before Andra could register what she was doing, she pressed her lips against the teeth of the skull pattern on his mask, hitting her mark as she felt his lips beneath. Ghost pulled away like she had put his hand in an open flame, his eyes widened. Oh shit, what have I done –

His empty hand shoved up the fabric of his balaclava and he smashed his mouth against hers. Heat blazed through her face, molten liquid flooding her core as she took in every sensation overwhelming her. The fierce hunger of his kiss. The friction of their bodies pressed against each other. The solid grip Ghost had on her wrists.

She couldn’t get close enough to him. Her leg attempted to hook around his waist, but only succeeded in wrapping around a thigh that nestled its way between her legs.

He couldn’t pull himself away, and instead fed the part telling him to nudge his knee where she wanted it. Ghost freed her hands to grip the thigh pulling him in, giving her free reign to cradle his stubbled jaw. His fingertips worked divots into the fabric of her jeans, earning a small sound from her tightening throat.

Andra hoped there would be marks later left where he was squeezing.

Her tongue slipped out between her lips and playfully swiped across his mouth. Oh fuck, the sound that just came from him… Andra had never heard arousal so delicious before.

All of Ghost was crashing through her like a freight train. His taste, his heat, his sounds. Her head felt like it’s been shoved underwater, and she has no intentions surfacing for air. Not when drowning in all of him felt this good.

Ghost reciprocated her invitation and found his tongue pushing through the slit of her lips. She felt her own arousal winding tightly in her warmth. Anything more was likely going to set her off. There’s no way I’m coming just from this, she cursed herself.

Ghost pulled away, hit hot breath fanning over her face. He moved his free hand to his mask, but it remained there. One second, two seconds. His mouth slackened into a frown, lips parted with labored breathing. The trance had been broken between the two. He retreated from where he had Andra pressed into the couch, his hands ran down his face and stayed there as he battled with himself.

Andra adjusted her shirt as she sat up and gave him a nudge of space. “Hey,” she softly said as she brought his hands down, cradling them in her own. “You don’t need to.”

“I want to.” He rasped, breathless from their kiss. “I don’t know why, but I can’t.”

“It’s okay.” She took his hand away from his face and stroked his knuckles with her thumb.

Ghost blinked a few times like he was waking up from a dream. “I shoved my tongue in your mouth.” He stated, a little too forward. His words had heat rushing to her face. “The least I can do I show you who is beneath this.” He gestured to the mask covering half of his face, a bitterness in his words directed to his disguise.

Andra slowly raised her hands to the bottom half of his revealed face. He flinched away from the contact, but settled as she let her thumbs brush against the stubble on his jaw. She made no subtle movements; just exploring the craters and slits across his skin.

Ghost watched her silently, attentively, his eyes flickering back and forth. She can feel the intensity, a man questioning the intentions of the woman touching him, holding the privacy and secrecy he clings to. He sucked in a breath as she took hold of the balaclava and didn’t exhale until Andra had pulled it back down over his face.

“If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready.” She affirmed.

His bandaged hand brushed Andra’s disheveled hair behind her ear. Ghost leaned in and pressed his covered mouth against her forehead. Andra gave him a meek grin as he pulled away.

Andra felt this moment building up to a goodbye, but she took his hand again. “You can stay here for the night. I don’t want you driving back even if it’s just down the street.”

He reached down on the floor and picked up the blanket. “If that’s alright with you, I’ll take up the couch-”

“Sleep on a bed, for gods’ sake.” Andra nodded her head to the stairs. “I have an extra room upstairs.”

Thankfully, Ghost didn’t argue. Heavy feet dragged themselves up the stairs, Sammy following them both. They took pause as both turned to each other from across the hall. There was so much she wanted to say, but the brief, drowsy goodnight that was exchanged had them retreating into their respective rooms. Andra leaned against the closed door, clouds in her head and lips swollen with the phantom sensation of their catalyst.

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