#I did NOT remember the barbers pole but I love the reminder!!

[bbytetsu]

SIGNS

pairing: osamu miya x gn! reader

word count: ~3k

author’s note: angst. warnings for slight swearing, very slight suggestiveness. best read to signs by bloc party.

on the winter day marking your first year together, you’re reminded of how deeply you’ve fallen in love.

as you exit the subway station, you’re greeted by the familiar intersection splitting off into narrow streets, each lined by streetlights. the outskirts of osaka are humble, with their greige painted walls and steep, weathered roofs. but the ordinary things here—the 7/11, the spinning barber pole, the cat lingering by the red mailbox—are like landmarks to you, noticed and loved by your crescent eyes. scanning your surroundings, you turn left towards his apartment and continue straight.

5 minutes away from his place.  

you amble past the 7/11 store. traces of nikuman waft in the cold air, inviting you in. you catch yourself smiling as you see the regular obasan, red-rimmed glasses perched on her leathery skin, bantering with the store owner—they’re definitely flirting, you think. through the wide windows, you watch the local high school boys’ volleyball team scatter throughout the rainbow aisles. some squat just below your field of vision, others pore through magazines by the register.

3 minutes away from his place.

you take a left. on your right, you pass the family-owned barber shop he visits. its endlessly spinning barber pole is a welcome dash of color amidst the neutral hues of the neighborhood. across from the shop stands the house with the red mailbox. the family’s calico cat idles dangerously close to the road and licks it paws before wandering off.

1 minute away from his place.

you pass the empty bike rack, and the gated residence comes into sight at the end of the street.

it’s all the same, but suddenly it’s not.

small fluffs of white begin to obscure your vision. you glance up at the sky, and your eyes widen—it’s snowing. juxtaposed against the osaka skyline, it’s almost as if the city lights are disintegrating, their embers falling around you in the form of bright snowflakes. you watch the snow in a trance, and before you know it, winter has draped a sheer white veil over the street, dusted over naked trees with its snowy kiss.

on the winter day marking your first year together, you feel as if your love for him has overflowed and trickled out from your chest. and now it surrounds you in the form of snow. falling so softly, so wonderfully dizzyingly.

----------

“i’m here, ‘samu,” you call out in a singsong voice as you twist your spare key in the lock. pushing open the door, you’re stunned to find his place completely dark. you step into the apartment and wrangle your boots off of your feet.

“’samu? you here?” with your eyes trained on the floor for any potential tripping hazards, you tread through the dim foyer.

“yeah, i’m here.” his familiar voice rings out, partially relieving your confusion. you look up to search for his figure.

“why’s it so- oh my god, what’s all this?” you nearly trip into the kitchen. you gasp at the sight of candles casting golden highlights across the dinner table. slivers of mahogany peek in between plates of nigiri, bowls of miso, and other tableware. in the center of the table, a glass vase holds two crimson roses, petals coated with glassy dewdrops.

you try to collect your thoughts. “i thought we were just meeting here,” you pause to think. “wait, did our dinner reservation get canceled? did you call me earlier? i might’ve missed it...” you fumble for your phone in your coat pocket.

he grins a slightly lopsided grin. “ya still haven’t caught on? i didn’t actually make a reservation, i was just tryna surprise ya… seeing as ya like surprises and all that. plus,” he clears his throat. “why would we go out to dinner when i can make it myself? i hear their wasabi isn’t even freshly made.”

you’re silent as tears well up in your eyes.

“hey, you’re not about to cry, are ya?” he’s unsure whether to poke fun of you or embrace you in a warm hug.

“i just can’t believe you did this all yourself,” you whisper, still fixated on the feast in front of you. even to your untrained eyes, you can tell that each each piece was handled with precision, delicacy, but above all, love. the air between you feels thick and honeyed, suffused with all the feelings brimming in your chest.

“i mean, i do this for a living.” you glance up at him. he shrugs, but you notice the tender twinkle in his eye.

“i know, but it’s still amazing. i don’t even know what to say,” you confess.

“ya don’t have to say anythin’,” he murmurs. “just let me enjoy the quiet for once.”

“huh?” your eyebrows furrow, but your lips curl into a faint smile. “okay, i take it back. you better be prepared to listen to me all night.”

he cocks his eyebrow. “why? is there something ya wanna do all night?”

“‘SAMU! don’t twist my words,” you lunge towards him. he recoils.  

“oi, relax!!”

just as you’re about land a solid smack on his ass, he maneuvers behind you and folds his strong arms around you in a back hug. laughing, you squirm in his embrace, but he doesn’t budge.

“gotcha,” he huffs into your ear. he loosens his grip around you, allowing you to wriggle your arms above and over his. you intertwine your fingers with his, and the two of you sway from side to side like in a slow dance. he pulls your body closer to his chest.

“happy anniversary,” he whispers, as if he’s afraid that speaking any louder will disrupt the romantic atmosphere he’s so diligently crafted.

of course, you know that nothing could ruin this moment.

“mhm. happy anniversary to us.”

with his eyes closed, he breathes in your scent. the two of you are quiet—there is no need for words. the way your limbs melt into each other, no beginning or end to either of you, is enough for the both of you.

he loves you. you love him.

he’s thankful that sushi doesn’t need to be served hot. he’d hold you here for an eternity if he could.

----------

it’s funny how things change throughout the years.

you sit motionless, with both of your elbows pressed against the cold mahogany of the table. when you first sat down, the sun had just begun to creep below the skyline, wispy streaks of reds and yellows blazing in its wake. now, the sun was long gone, and your only companion was the moon, whom you know all too well these days. round and low in the dark sky, it casts shadows across the empty dinner table.

the apartment is silent besides the quiet ticking of the kitchen clock.

tick, tock. as if it’s a bomb waiting to explode. as if it’s mocking you for waiting so long. as if it’s counting down the time you have left with him.

you lean your forehead against your hands, clasped in a silent prayer. with your eyes closed, you allow any and all emotions to wash over you.

how could you forget our anniversary? does our relationship even matter to you? do i even matter to you? why am i always your second choice?  how did things end up this way?

the muffled jangle of keys outside the door interrupts your thoughts, and the lock clicks as it turns open. hours ago, you would have perked up at the sound, but now it’s been much too late. you remain motionless. after shaking his shoes off, he walks into the dim kitchen to find you sitting at the dinner table, your forehead still pressed against your clasped hands.

“you forgot,” you whisper, refusing to look at him.

“i know, y/n. i’m so-”

you cut him off. “you could’ve called. or texted.”

“i’m so sor-”

“save it. i’ve been sitting here for the last… i don’t even know how many hours. and i’ve just been thinking about what to say.”

he’s quiet. how many more mistakes will it take for you to realize he no longer loves you like he used to? you shudder at the thought, but are unable to ignore it any longer. you’ve opened pandora’s box, unleashing thick smoke that swallows you whole. it clouds your every thought and contaminates your memories with him; it stings your eyes and steals the breath from your lungs.

you begin to shake, and he watches as your breaths shorten into small, erratic gasps. his chest tightens at the sight. kneeling down onto the ground to level himself with with your seated figure, he stretches his arms towards you. but to his shock, you flinch at his touch.

“don’t!” you gasp. “don’t come near me. i don’t want that-” you’re unable to finish your sentence, sudden gasps curbing whatever words were to come next.

“y/n, i’m sorry.” his voice is low, his mouth sours with dread.

“i know. but it’s not the first time that you’ve done something like this. remember my birthday?” you choke out, burying your face in your palms.

he grimaces at the mention. “i do. but ya said ya wouldn’t bring that up again. i thought we agreed to move past that.”

“well, yeah we did. but the thing is, it’s become a pattern.”

he stands up and hovers by your seated figure. “me forgetting? it’s happened two or three times. i wouldn’t say that’s a pattern. but listen, i know i was in the wrong and and that’s why i wanna say i’m sorry. i really am.”

you look up at him with puffy, bleary eyes. red tinges your waterline. “you just don’t get it, do you?”

“whaddya mean?” his mind scrambles. get what? he replays your interactions in a frantic attempt to uncover whatever deeper meaning he was missing.

“it’s not just you missing our anniversary, or you missing my birthday. it’s so much bigger than that. all of this,” you wave your hand. “is just a symptom of the bigger problem.”

he raises an eyebrow. “i wasn’t aware we had a bigger problem.”  

his lack of awareness shocks you. how can you be so unobservant, so oblivious? all the sorrow and rage that you’ve repressed begins to bubble and overflow, like a pot of boiling water with its lid on for too long. you ball your fists as hot, stinging tears run down your cheeks. “you wanna know what it is, ‘samu?” you straighten your back and turn towards him. “it’s the fact that you no longer have room in your life for me! admit it, onigiri miya is more important to you than i am!”

“what’s onigiri miya gotta do with all this?” he retorts. his voice is grating. “i know i’ve been busy with work, but ya couldn’t possibly think that. you’ve always supported me and my dream of running my own damn restaurant, but now it’s the problem with us? the fact that i have a dream?”

“no, the fact that your dream doesn’t include me,” your voice quivers. “there’s no space for me in your future, ‘samu.”

“oh come on, ya know that’s not true. i’ve just been busy keeping up with it, especially with how business is growing.”

anger flares within you. how dare he dismiss your concerns as if they’re not legitimate? as if you’re nothing more than a small child whining for candy?

“but think about it!” you shoot up from your chair and look him in the eye. “when you envision yourself in 5 years, what do you think about? you think about onigiri miya, you think about how business is booming, critics are raving about your cooking. you’re raking in so much cash you’ve opened a new restaurant and you’re standing there in front of the new place, and maybe you’re cutting the ribbon for the grand opening. but am i there? am i standing next to you anywhere in your dream? do you think about us, where we’re going to be in five years? no, no you don’t. i’m not anywhere in the picture and you know it.”  

even in the dark, you can see his jaw clench. the rest of his features grow rigid with frustration.

he, too, has reached his boiling point.

“how can ya possibly say that?” he seethes, his tone unforgiving like steel slicing through palpable air. “i told ya already, y/n. i’m sorry. i fucked up. i missed our anniversary. i even missed your birthday. but that is not the reason we won’t work out, i won’t let that be the reason. ya know i love ya. i do. but ya wanna pit yourself against my job... don’t ya think that’s a little unfair? for fuck’s sake, not even my job, but my dream? ya know how it’s been a dream of mine since forever to open my own shop. ya know how hard it’s been, how i shed blood, sweat, and tears to open it, much less to keep it going. of all people, ya know how hard it was for me to find something i wanted alone, something that was different than ‘tsumu’s. something that would let me be my own person. and now i’ve finally found it ya wanna take it away? all because ya need attention?”

his words leave a metallic aftertaste, and he watches your features twist in pain as you confirm your growing suspicions.

he’s outgrown me.

“i- i’m sorry. i know that you’re not trying to take anything away from me,” he confesses. he wants so desperately to take back his mangled words, but it’s too late. he’s dropped a lit match onto your bed of oil, setting flame to what he once knew.  

you stand up shakily and face him: the man who taught you what it meant to love. the man who taught you what it meant to hurt.

“you’re right, i’m not. but you know what?” your voice cracks before growing raspier. “thanks for telling me that. because when i imagined my future, i always imagined a future in which you were by my side. i thought we’d move in together someday, maybe even get a dog, maybe even get married, maybe even have—oh, i don’t know—kids, and move into a house! help them with their math homework! take them to the aquarium, go on family picnics! make onigiri on sundays! but, i guess i’ve been a fucking fool, haven’t i?”  

he looks at you with wide, dinner plate eyes.

you choke back sobs, not even bothering to wipe away the wet tears trailing down your cheeks. your heart weighs heavier than lead, and you turn on your heels.

“i- y/n, wait, where are ya going?” he reaches for you, the tips of his fingers brushing against your arm as you shoulder past him.  

“outside. to think.”

as he realizes you have every intention of leaving the apartment, he trips into the hallway after you.

“wait, it’s fuckin’ freezing outside-”

“ii’ll be fine.” you forcefully grab the woolen coat off the coat rack and swing it over your shoulders.

“y/n. please, we can work this out.” you’ve never heard him like this—quiet, but painfully desperate.

too late.

“i need to think.”

you step through the doorway, not daring to look back.

----------

you trudge through the half melted snow that coats the street. as your eyes burn with tears, the faraway osaka city lights blur in your vision like a kaleidoscope. shivering, you dig your bare hands further into your pockets and clench onto the fabric—an attempt to preserve whatever heat there is, but more so as an expression of your anger.

your legs seem to move by themselves, and you grit your teeth to keep yourself from crying. how did things end up like this?

1 minute away from his place.

you hurry past the empty bike rack and the brick walls guarding the houses. the greige walls have never looked grayer.

3 minutes away from his place.

you pass by the house with the red mailbox, its obnoxious color like a warning that’s much too late. the calico cat has abandoned you and is nowhere to be seen. the spinning barber pole taunts you with its endless dance.

5 minutes away from his place.

you pass by the 7/11. there’s no one in the store except for the regular obasan, whose wrinkles are drawn taut in a frown. you watch as she fires words at the shopowner, her one hand pointing at him animatedly and the other resting on her hip. they’re definitely arguing, you think.

you finally reach the open intersection in front of the subway station. leaning against a streetlight, you survey the neighborhood defeatedly, trying to find beauty in the surroundings you once regarded with so much affection. trying to find a sign. water seeps off of branches and falls onto the pavement like teardrops. the steep-roofed houses huddle together in the cold, their walls practically rubbing against each other.

it’s all the same, but it’s somehow different.

you look down at your feet, slush coating the edges of your shoes. it pains you to see that the the snow is no longer bright or pure, but translucent. tinted an ugly brown. with footprints littered across its surface.

on the winter day marking your fourth year together, the snow you loved so much has melted into slush, revealing nothing but barren soil beneath.

it’s over between us.

[xiolaperry]

Four Ways Gaston Could Have Died (and the One Way He Actually Did)

After much delay, here is the the story I promised months ago at the end of “The Piano”. It won’t make much sense if you didn’t read that one. A special thank you to everyone in my NaNoWriMo Rumbelle Writers group!!!

Summary:  We all agreed at the end of 'The Piano' that Gaston deserved to die. But how? I opened it up to prompts, and here they are...

Notes: Prompt from Brokensoul, “a haircut from Barney.”

Read “The Piano” on AO3.

Read “Four Ways” on AO3.

--

Gaston looked at himself in the mirror with a critical eye. He smiled a big toothy grin, then assumed a look of nonchalant superiority. His “intimidating” look was next and he finished with the charming, flirtatious smile he used with the ladies.

The reflection in the mirror confirmed he was as handsome as ever, but life hadn't gone back to normal since Belle left with Gold. Whispers followed him wherever he went. Instead of looking at him with admiration, people looked at him like they expected to see shame on his face. Shame? He may have overreacted a bit with Belle, but leaving a challenge to his superiority as a man unanswered was not an option.

He stroked his face in contemplation as he paced, the sound of his heavy boots filling the sparsely furnished bedroom. Perhaps he needed a haircut and a shave. Freshen up his look and maybe turn things around. His aunt Cora told him yesterday that a barber set up shop in the village. Before the incident, he'd have heard about it himself, but his friends no longer dropped by to share the local gossip.

“Not a very confident man,” Cora had said about the barber. “A bit nervous. But I can work with that.” Gaston had no doubt his aunt would find something about the fellow to exploit.

He passed Reverend Hopper and Ruby out on a stroll as he entered the town. Hopper said a polite hello and stopped to exchange pleasantries. The Reverend was one of the few that still spoke to him. His companion glared and said nothing. The charming smile on his face had no effect on her. If anything, it only made her frown harder.

How did such a mild-mannered man catch the eye of a firecracker like Ruby Lucas? Not that he wanted her for himself. Hopper could have her. No, he was done with women. They were more trouble than they were worth.

Ruby had a pretty face and a nice, lean body, he thought as he turned to watch them for a moment as the couple continued on their way. He was sure most men would find her attractive, but she'd set her mind on the mousy Reverend and pursued him with determination, ever since the day she arrived on the same ship that took them away.

His aunt was very unhappy with the match between Hopper and Granny's granddaughter. The sermons now were full of love and acceptance, instead of the grimmer messages Cora favored. Hopper was no longer her dutiful companion, and she was furious. Ruby had better watch out.

Gaston made his way down the main street with his head held high. He kept his smile on his face as he seethed at the snubs he received from most people he encountered.

The barbershop, with its new red and white striped pole, was easy to spot. He stomped up the steps and pushed the door open with a bang, making an entrance to attract attention. A slight man wearing a maroon jacket was sweeping the floor and he jumped at the noise. His hair, combed and slicked back from his face, shone in the light pouring in the large windows.

“Hello?” the man said. His voice, uncertain, made his greeting a question.

“You the barber?” asked Gaston.

“Yes, I am. Barney Thomson.” He stepped forward and extended his hand.

Gaston shook it, gripping with more force than necessary. It was important to establish dominance in all situations. After a final squeeze, the smaller man extracted his hand, wincing.

“Gaston Legume,” He introduced himself, satisfied with his superiority. “I need a shave and a haircut. Can that be done now?”

“Yes, sir. It will be a few minutes. I just need to heat some water.”

Barney scurried to one of the chairs, brushing non-existent dust from it with a handkerchief. “Please, have a seat.”

The man's meek demeanor made Gaston want to punch him in the face. And he looked familiar too. Something about the eyes, the sharpness of his nose... he shook his head. Aunt Cora told him he needed to lay low for a bit to let everything blow over. Now would not be a good time to lose his temper. He took a deep breath and sat in the chair Barney had gestured at.

---

Barney returned a few minutes later carrying a steaming basin. “If you could please lie back, Mr. Legume?” he asked, and with deft, practiced movements draped a damp, hot towel across Gaston's face.

Barney was nervous, which was not good. Bad things happened when Barney was nervous. And those bad things were how he ended up here in New Zealand, far from his home in Scotland. However, something about this man, with his massive arms and handsome sneering face, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Calm down, he told himself. Just be happy to have a customer. But his anxiety ratcheted higher as he tried to place the name. Legume. He knew he'd heard it since he moved to town, but could not remember where. Barney removed the towel and applied a soapy lather to Gaston's face. He attempted to make friendly conversation, reminding himself not to ramble.

“Have any advice for someone new in town? I haven't been here very long, just arrived from Scotland.”

“Make friends with my aunt, Cora Mills. She's the most important person around here, so stay on her good side.”

Barney almost dropped his razor. Wasn't this just his luck. Women flustered him as a general rule. But aggressive women? They reminded him too much of his mother and rendered him a cowering mess. After meeting Cora, he had planned to stay as far away from her as possible. And now here he was with her nephew in his chair.

“Cora Mills is your aunt?” Barney's hands began to sweat as he fumbled with the razor. He sent up a prayer not to cut the man sitting here, who would not be the type to forgive an accidental slice.

“Yes. That's what I said.” Irritation was creeping into Gaston's voice.

Barney spoke to fill the uncomfortable quiet as his blade glided across Gaston's cheek, its sharp edge making quick work of the stubble. “You have beautiful skin, Mr. Legume. I'm sure your wife will appreciate seeing you with this smooth, close shave. Very handsome.” He attempted, in vain, to keep a high pitched nervous tone out of his voice.

It was the wrong thing to say, judging by Gaston's response. His jaw tensed and his hands tightened into fists, the veins in his forearms standing out. “I'm not married,” he said through clenched teeth.

Barney laughed nervously. “I'm sure someday you'll meet a special lady.” Shut up, shut up!

Gaston's face darkened further.

“I have no luck with women, myself.” He knew he was babbling, but could not keep the words from pouring out of his mouth. “Maybe your aunt could set you up with someone. Not that you couldn't find someone yourself if you wanted to. Because you could. I mean, look at you. I bet you have to beat the women off with a stick. Who wouldn't want a strapping young man such as yourself?” He stopped to take a breath, his mind spinning, begging him to stop talking.

“I. Don't. Want. A. Wife. Women are nothing but trouble.” He paused, then muttered under his breath, “Especially if they're interested in books or music.”

Barney's hand froze where it hovered over Gaston's neck. Now he remembered where he'd heard the name Gaston Legume before.

“You're the one who–—!” The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“'The one who' what?” Gaston's handsome face contorted with rage.

“The one... the one..” Barney drew a blank. There was no way to fix this. He was unable to move, prey immobilized by the predator. The razor hung just above Gaston's neck.

Gaston knew exactly what “one” he was. The one who cut off his wife's finger. The one whose wife left him for a crippled old man. The one who looked like a fool. He'd been on his best behavior for weeks and still, no one would let him forget what happened.

He sat up and whipped around, ready to give the barber a beating he wouldn't soon forget. Warmth startled him as it spread down from his neck to his chest. When he tried to speak the only sound he made was a strange, wet gurgle. His hands fumbled, slippery at the slit in his throat. He looked at them and they were crimson.

“I'm sorry!” shrieked Barney, dropping the razor. He grabbed a towel and tried to stem the flood of blood gushing from Gaston's jugular. It was a futile effort, the white towel turned red and sopping in an instant. The anger and confusion in Gaston's eyes soon faded to a dull, lifeless gaze as his life drained away, and he slumped over.

“Oh, not again,” whispered Barney with panicked tears in his eyes. He hung his head and wrung his hands. No one would believe that Gaston had inadvertently slit his own throat. Another accident, and another body to dispose of. At least he had experience.

End Notes: I hope to post a chapter a week until this is finished-- and if you have a prompt, feel free to send it! I can always change the title to “Five” or “Six”...

[louigender]

When I Was Older- Chapter 1

Bucky Barnes x Holmes! Reader (eventually) Avengers x Sherlock

Summary: John Watson is one of Reader’s friends. Her other is a cat whom she found in the alley between two flats. Reader is a Holmes and a high functioning sociopath. The Avengers need the readers help as Moriarty has teamed up with Hydra. Takes place between season 3 and 4 (my favorite season) of Sherlock. Infinity War and Endgame never happened.

Series Warnings: blood, violence, angst, fluff, is Moriarty a warning?, death

A/N: Happy Memorial Day, mis amigos! Here’s chapter one of When I Was Older. This series was inspired by the song by Billie Eilish (love her) and I just rlly love Sherlock. Your feedback of the prologue warmed mi pequeño corazón! Without further ado, here’s the first chapter.

(A/N: i also changed the moodboard)

The quinjet rocked slightly as it flew through the air. Bucky sat, along with the other Avengers, strapped and in his uniform. Clint sat in the pilot seat, navigating. Steve and Tony were talking in hushed whispers, discussing the mission at hand.

They had gotten word of a Hydra base off the shore of England, Sutherland to be exact, and had suited up almost immediately. It was 9pm when they boarded the jet. Now it was close to midnight. Bucky had been riddled with nightmares the past week and was eager to finally get a good’s night rest.

“ETA: five minutes,” barked Clint.

Tony and Steve strapped themselves in their own seats, as Clint flipped switches preparing to land. The quinjet successfully made its descent and the team stood. Steve clipped the shield on his back and walked out. Bucky checked the ammo of his guns before walking down the ramp.

Rolling green hills, light golden colored sand and the salty aroma of sea water, along with the twinkling stars, almost calmed him. Almost. He quickly remembered why they were here and turned the safety off his guns. The team walked in a group, taking in their surroundings and watching out for danger. As they walked through a forest of trees,signs exclaimed ‘danger!’ and some with skulls and crossbones on them.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, scan the area,” ordered Tony.

“There seems to be seven active mines. I am recalculating the route to avoid them,” spike the AI.

A map of the forest with dots,Tony assumed as mines, and a path highlighted.

“Alright follow me.”

The team followed after him a single file line. The hairs on the back of their necks stood on end. Suddenly an explosion rang out, causing them all to flinch. They quickly looked at each other, making sure the other was safe, when they realized they didn’t set off the mine. Someone else did. Tony, Rhodey and Sam took off and flew above the trees to see what had caused the explosion.

“Jesus,” muttered Rhodes as he saw what was in front of him.

The Hydra based was gone, blown to bits. Bodies littered the ground, blood and limbs scattered as well. The tress surrounding the base were burnt and had parts of them blown away. A mine didn’t do this.

“You guys are gonna wanna see this.”

The rest of them quickly made their way to the base and stopped in their tracks. The odor of smoke and burnt flesh hung in the air. They scrunched their noses and walked through the rubble. Bucky looked at the scene in front of him. The mess of dead bodies and concrete made his stomach churn. As he took in what he saw, something caught his eye. Turning to the side he saw the only remaining wall, even thought half of it had been blown away.

“Um guys,” he spoke through the com, “I found something.”

The team quickly found him and Wanda gasped at what she saw. They stood in shock and horror. A man was hanging off the side of the wall by a metal pole in his chest. Written in blood and pieces of flesh was a message.

‘Get Holmes

-M’

Bucky sure wasn’t getting any sleep tonight.

***

“You have been busy, haven’t you,” remarked Mycroft, behind his newspaper, with a little laugh. “Quite the busy little bee.” He put his paper down.

“Moriarty’s network, it took me two years to dismantle it,” You replied back as a man stood behind you, cutting your hair.

“You’re confident that you have?”

There goes brother Mycroft, doubting you again.

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle.”

“Yes. You got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertius. Quite a scheme,” Mycroft joked.

“Colossal,” You muttered.

“Anyway. You’re safe now. A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

“What for?” You mindlessly asked.

“For wading in. In case you’ve forgotten, field work is not my natural milieu.”

Your brows furrowed. You raised a hand to the barber to tell him to stop and sat forward in the chair with a grunt. The Serbian man had done a number on you. “Wading in? You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp,” You pointed out.

“I got you out,” defended Mycroft.

“No, I got me out.” You argued back. “Why didn’t you intervene sooner?”

“I couldn’t risk giving myself away, could I?” Mycroft said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “It would’ve ruined everything.”

“You were enjoying it,” You accused.

“Nonsense.”

“Definitely enjoying it.”

“Listen, do you have any idea what it was like,” began Mycroft, “(Y/N), going undercover? Smuggling my way into their ranks like that?”

You rolled your eyes.

“The noise, the people!”

You sat back in the chair with another grunt and allowed the barber to finish his work.

“I didn’t know you spoke Serbian,” You questioned.

“I didn’t. But the language has a Slavic root. Frequent Turkish and German loan- words. Took me a couple of hours,” shrugged Mycroft.

“Hmm, you’re slipping.”

An bitter smile crawled its way up Mycroft’s lips. “Middle age, sister mine. Comes to us all.”

The door opened and Anthea stepped through with your clothes in hand.

***

John stepped through 221B Baker Street with timid steps. He watched as dust hovered off the furniture and drifted through the air. You never liked it when people dusted. Memories of your adventures flooded his mind. He drew a breath in to compose himself. Mrs. Hudson came in and turned on the lights.

“I couldn’t face letting in out,” she said. Breaking John’s train of thought.

She walked over and drew the curtains, grimacing at the dirt. “She never liked me dusting.”

“No, I know,” he replied, thinking of the moment when you had a screaming match with Mrs. Hudson about her cleaning.

“Where’s Alyx?” John had also taking a liking to the cat. She reminded him of you.

“Oh, um, she ran away one night and never came back. I leave food out, but she never shows. So why now? What changed your mind?”

“Well, I’ve got some news,” John started.

“Oh god, is it serious,” asked Mrs. Hudson.

“What? No, no I’m not ill. I’ve, uh well, I’m...moving on.”

“You’re emigrating?”

“Nope. Uh, no, I’ve uh, I have met someone,” he explained.

“Oh! Ah, lovely,” gushed the elderly woman.

“Yeah. We’re getting married. Well, I’m going to ask, anyway.” The excitement was evident in his voice.

“So soon after (Y/N)?”

“Hm, well, yes.”

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. They turned around to see Tony Stark and Steve Rogers in the door way. Mrs. Hudson let out a surprised gasp and John’s eyebrows shot up.

“We hope we’re not intruding, but we, uh, need some help,” Steve shyly said.

“Is (Y/N) Holmes here by any chance?” Asked Tony.

The mention of your name mad them tense. Sadness creeped into their hearts.

“No, she’s not,” John told them.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“She’s gone. As in, uh, dead,” croaked Mrs. Hudson.

This seemed to surprise the two super heroes. “Oh, we’re sorry. We didn’t know,” Steve apologized.

“We’ll be on our way. Sorry again,” Tony nodded his condolences and ushered him and Steve out the flat.

They stepped into the cab that had been waiting.

“So, what now?”

“I have no idea.”

***

“I need you to give this matter your full attention, (Y/N), is that quite clear?” Instructed your brother.

“What do you think of this shirt,” you asked you tucked the shirt in your dress pants.

“(Y/N)!”

“I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in. Feel every quiver of its beating heart.”

“One of our men died getting this information,” Anthea explained. “All the chatter, all the traffic concurs, there’s going to be a terrorist strike on London, a big one.”

“And what about John Watson,” you asked as you shrugged on your suit jacket.

Mycroft and Anthea shared a look.

“John?”

“Hmm. Have you seen him?”

“Oh yes, we meet up every Friday for fish and chips,” Mycroft said sarcastically.

You gave him a look before shifting your gaze to the mirror, buttoning your jacket.

“I’ve kept a weather eye on him, of course.”

Anthea handed you a file. You opened it. A slew of pictures, along with a few papers were inside.

“We haven’t been in touch at all to prepare him,” explained Mycroft.

You noticed a recent photo of John. He looked the same except he had a mustache on his upper lip. It certainly did not suit him.

“Well, we’ll have to get rid of that,” You said.

“We?”

“He looks ancient. I can’t be seen wandering around with an old man.” You set the file on Mycroft’s desk.

You sighed deeply, putting on the last touches on your outfit. You ran your hands through your hair. You always like it when it fell just past your shoulders. It felt good to be in your familiar clothes after being on the run for the past two years. “I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted.”

“You think so,” Mycroft doubted with a amused smile on face.

“Hmm, pop off to Baker Street, who knows, jump out of a cake,” you quipped.

“Baker Street? He isn’t there anymore.”

You turned to him, having an incredulous look on your face.

“Why would he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life,” Mycroft explained.

“What life? I’ve been away,” You added.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Where’s he going to be tonight.”

“How should I know?”

“You always know,” you said with confidence.

“He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 St. Emilion, though I prefer the 2001,” told Mycroft.

“I think maybe I’ll just drop by. “

“You know, it is just possible that you won he welcomed,” Mycroft tried to reason to you.

You scoffed. “No, it isn’t. Now, where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“You know what.”

Anthea came in, your infamous coat in hand and collar popped. You smiled at the sight of your trusty coat. She helped putting it on and you stepped into your iconic black heels.

“Welcome back, Misses Holmes,” voiced Anthea.

“Thank you,” You fixed your newly cut hair and ran your hands down the coat.

You turned to Mycroft. “Blood.”

You walked out and for the first time in two years, you felt alive.

A/N: that’s it for the first chapter! It was actually longer than this but it was too long, so I broke it up into two chapters. I’ll be posting again later this week, so don’t worry.

Taglist:

@izzyisavengersupernaturaltrash

@rootcrop

[jonjordanforrealz]

The Chronicles of Elfdom

Last December, I documented my struggles with Hermie the Elf - you know, of the “on a shelf” variety, sure, but more accurately, in my head, eating my brain and in my soul, tormenting from here to eternity. 

This is my story, shared only in hopes that it may help others.

Tread lightly... Vol 1: Narrowly avoided complete disaster after totally forgetting about the little bastard on Night 1, despite having read the special book/instruction manual/elf commandments at bedtime. Oldest boy Kramers through our bedroom door at 0500, announcing that he'd prefer to use our bathroom over his. As I pondered the logic behind this, thinking, "Boy, he's assertive," something felt amiss and within seconds, I realized my worst December nightmares (since exam time during the old teaching days) were already coming true. As Boy 1 finished his business, I sprung into action, anticipating his yearning to find our annual household guest at this ungodly hour, escorting his proactive little ass back to his bedroom. Always (read: sometimes) a step ahead, I waited in the hallway for the inevitable: an attempted rendezvous to join forces with little brother. After that was easily intercepted, it was time for a little psychological warfare. Warding off both emotional sabotage (Boy 1's, "Daddy, I love you") and an honesty play (Boy 2's, "We we were trying to find Hermie but he's tricky") some redirecting was in order. Authoritative Dad speaks! "It's 5:00 am. No one comes to this house unless everyone is sleeping." With that understanding in mind, aided by the musical distractions of the old Epcot Canadian band and, of course, Kidz Bop 27, I hunted down Public Enemy #1 in his top secret hideaway. Tucked away in a Target bag - dead giveaway, right? Duh. - I shoved him into my pocket and moved on to recover the donuts that he brought with him from the North Pole. Breaking kayfabe here, I'd actually purchased these GMO-laden diabetes bombs myself from Dunkin Donuts on the way home last night, on direct orders from the General, but yes, still totally forgot about this whole charade... Does anyone realize how fucking loud a paper bag is at 5:15 am? Donuts on a paper plate and little orphan Hermie's demanding ass still secured in my Florida State sleepy pants, I knew I had very little time to reach the intended destination and disappear into whatever remained of this night. Cat- or zombie-like in my movements (not quite sure which) down went the plate and into a bouquet of flowers leftover from Thanksgiving landed Osama - or whatever his name is. Somehow, now back behind my bedroom door, I'd survived. There would be no more sleeping for our hero this morning. The sweet taste of victory would be the lone reward. Looking ahead to Night 2, it is possible that we may bribe an acquaintance to drop the bomb on Boy 1, letting him know that this is all a bunch of honkybonk, and thus, instantly creating a valuable ally to continue the ruse for Boy 2. It is now clear that the oldest is the mastermind of what will surely be a constant barrage of this sort of subterfuge for the next 24 days. Vol 2:

There will be no threat of disaster tonight. Since yesterday's torment weighed on my mind all day, it would have been nearly impossible to forget my elfly duties this evening. So, there he sits, the little prick. He's made friends with another rather smug trio that has taken up residence in my home (rent-free, I might add.) Yes, nestled snugly between Alvin and Simon, while Theodore's fat ass looks on, in the morning, the kids will find Hermie, appearing to have read the timeless holiday classic, "Santa Comes to Florida" with his rodent buddies. If you haven't read this piece of literature, it's worth at least a passing glance. But I must warn you that it isn't all that accurate. For one, there is no mention of meth or bath salts, even as Santa flies right over Apopka. And two, there isn't a lot of love for Melbourne, which is pretty shameful since such visionaries as Jim Morrison, Darrell Hammond and that guy I went to high school with who ended up in that reality show boy band are among its native sons. Let's not get too sidetracked here. There is still work to be done. I was informed earlier that one of Boy 2's little friends announced that he received a letter from Santa himself this morning, officially putting him on "The Nice List," while, shame on me, all I did was make sure the kids saw the fuckin' elf and got to eat donuts for breakfast., sacrificing sleep, sanity and something else I forgot about because I'm tired and crazy. I guess lil' man used the power of deductive reasoning and, sans Santa letter, convinced himself he was on "The Naughty List," creating a bit of a challenge at bedtime. Dad here, who may or may not have occupied a spot on the unsavory version of the imaginary fat man's lists a time or two over the years, did his best to convince the young buck that he was not on any such document - that things were going just fine - but I'm not sure he bought it. Thanks to utter exhaustion, a self-inflicted derivative of last night's bullshit adventures, sleep came quickly for the littlest Jordan, allowing me time to think of what I might include in the now necessary piece of prose needed to support my earlier claims of his green light toward Christmas presents galore. Ideally, it'd be straightforward: [Hey, kid(s). If you're worried that you might be on the wrong side of Santa's ledger, maybe you weren't as good as you thought you were all year. You ever hear of the NSA? Ever see any of my text messages? Holy shit! Now that's a list you don't want to worry about being on. Anyway... Keep the faith. The truth is, we like you. And you'd probably have to try to stab one or both of us before we'd make sure you didn't get anything at all for Christmas. Love, Dad PS: On Saturday, I want you to sleep until 10 am. Remember: THE LIST!] But traditions are traditions and in this family, as in so many others, we lie like a muthafucka - especially around the holidays! And so, the propaganda continues. Hermie, it will appear, took a break from reading his Florida Santa book to his pals to write a letter to the Jordan kids, detailing how fantastic they've been and urging them to be good listeners and make good choices at least for a few more weeks. (Pretty suspicious - or "ironic," as Alanis Morrisette might deem it - that the stuffed elf, who I think wears makeup, uses the exact same discipline terminology as Mom and Dad do, ain't it? These kids get any smarter any time soon and they'll bust me for sure. And what then?!?) Depending on what time they wake up in the morning, I may have to stage a sacrifice when it comes to the chipmunk population in this home. If we can send positive messages via letters from imaginary people, we can also send negative messages by offing a fake friend or two. And since they haven't seen "Christmas Vacation" just yet, nor do they know for sure that I don't have a Cousin Eddie, they'll have no idea that he stopped eating chipmunks (yeah, yeah, chipmunks and squirrels are different things, I get it) when he found out they were high in cholesterol. Black and white photos should do. I'll use the old Hitchcock chocolate syrup trick. Tomorrow brings the added challenges of that batshit crazy Chick-Fil-A with all the lights, what the food there does to my insides and selecting the 2016 Jordan Family Christmas tree. There will be booze. Two down, 23 to go. Vol 3:

It's clear that my efforts here are drawing something of a crowd, which is much appreciated but not at all the intent. One trusted advisor has even suggested I attempt to profit financially from this record but the truth is simply this: It has to be done. For the betterment of all mankind, our successes and failures with this Johnny-come-lately holiday irritant must be documented. Tonight, I was reminded of a better day that has passed us by. As we decorated our tree, I took some inventory of the many ornaments we've accumulated over the years. Among them, holiday stalwarts like Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus and The Grinch make their presence known. We also have the typical representation of some of our sports teams (all of whom suck out loud), life milestones ("2006 New Home" is a real joy, since that was two houses, two kids and one lawsuit ago) and the innocence of homemade trinkets featuring the younger versions of Boy 1 and Boy 2, long before they discovered the art of whining. There is also an ornament that is simply a beer glass (right on!) and the disembodied head of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which I find terrifying. It wasn't so long ago that my biggest holiday concern was making sure that as few of these characters were damaged during tree-trimming time as possible. (Why do they call it "tree-trimming" anyway? When I go to get my hair trimmed, I'm not looking for Akbar the barber to scatter random trinkets about my rapidly-depleting mane.) But as I longed for the days of yore tonight, there it was, right in my face, as if to say, "Not so fast, asshole! The glory days are over, mother fucker!" Hermie - this sonofoabitchofanelf - is also present as an ornament on our tree. Well, shit in my hat. Just as I discovered this mini version of our mini-monster, both boys began to melt down, merely an hour past their regular bedtime, and I was already on my way to a conniption fit myself, three days into the shit and already running out of placement ideas for Elfrey Dahmer. Coincidental timing, my ass! This guy's in my head. Or he's like the alien thing from Stranger Things. If my lights start flickering, I'm setting him on fire and we'll tell the kids he didn't stop, drop or roll because he wasn't a good listener. But at least I'm not in danger of forgetting at the moment. Tomorrow may prove difficult, what with multiple activities involving alcohol already scheduled - after the children's sporting events, as per societal acceptance. I figure if I can make it through a day like that and still move "it" from Point A to Point B, that's a big win for ol' Daddio. His mind powers working on both me and the young'ins tonight jives with my recognizing the cheery-cheeked, red-and-white clad fuzzy thing to be quite clearly a demon in cahoots with Beelzebub himself. So, I've now paired him up with a dragon statue that we have atop our curio cabinet. (Never thought you'd hear me use the term "curio cabinet," did you, old friends? That's right, I'm cultured. Or I've lost all street cred. Not quite sure which distinction to hang onto here.) What's the connection between Hermalerm and the dragon? Well, heroin of course. That's right, kids, the elf didn't just chase the dragon. He caught the damn thing. Which means as I drift off to sleep tonight, I'll be headed for a righteous dream of Hermie sinking through the floor to the sounds of Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," a la Trainspotting. You'll be alright, elf boy, but this one won't be easy. One bucket for urine, one for feces, and one for vomitus. Preparation is key. You're in a new kind of hell for now, fella. See you on the flip. Vol 4:

The voodoo appears to be working. In the last 24 hours, my better half and I have each been caught making mention of "having a talk with Hermie" about this instance of a slight misstep in behavior or that. It's worth pondering what sort of residual effect this may have on the boys (or any kids, really) long-term. Is life truly one observed event after another, with an eye in the sky passing judgment in turn? And let's not get all religious here. I'm seeing this through an Orwellian lens at the moment. If we do slip up, must we live in fear of being told on? I should get out more... Speaking of, having been out quite a bit yesterday, bailing on my "move the elf" responsibility was a distinct possibility but it did not come to pass. Late at night, headache looming, our favorite holiday hobo was relocated from the dragon's back to a high perch overlooking the entrance to Boy 1's room. It's a creepy spot for sure. Like, if you were to walk out of your bedroom and find a person situated the way Hermie is at the moment, laying on his belly, chin resting on his hands, smiling like a whackjob, cheeks as rosy as ever, you'd definitely call the cops. Or shoot him. Or both. The creative maneuvers are lacking for yours truly this year - although I guess mounting the dragon was pretty cool. That's ok, though. My goal is simply to survive this month with as few mid-sleep panic attacks as possible. Started off 1-for-1 but we have a clean slate since, so I'll call it a win so far. Perhaps tonight, we'll set the elf up with a lady or something - freak Carrie out a little, if nothing else. The boys have been warned - née, reminded - that no one is supposed to be up and moving about until at least 7 am in this house (great rule, hardly ever followed) and they seem pretty beat from a long weekend so there might be hope for a more restful slumber. If not, maybe it's time for the elf to get shelved for a day or two, go visit Santa (or Satan?) or something. That'll get these tired kids back on track. Tired kids are like drunk adults, by the way. But that's a story for a different setting. 21 days to go. Zeus help me. Vol 5:

There has been no shortage of remarkable moments in our adventures with the red devil of late. Boy 1, in an apparent attempt to extort his elf friend, left him a tangerine on Monday, after finding him purportedly reading through one of Mom's cupcake cookbooks. Perhaps he was being proactive, in the event that the elf delivers cupcakes as he did donuts on opening day of this annual charade. A simple, "Hey, man. I gave you a tangerine. Whatchyougot for me?" Or maybe he's overheard dear ol' Dad opine on the corruption of politics, in general. Either way, Boy 2 was not pleased. The littlest Jordan, you see, has developed an affinity for these tangerines and while he is almost always quite willing to share his snacks, such was not the case here, as he relocated Boy 1's offering back to its original box. This incensed the elder sibling and the back-and-forth game from tangerine box to offering table began. I should note that the boys are still suffering from Christmasitis - the plague that renders otherwise lovable little humans into demon beings, drunk on exhaustion, impulsive and exhibiting a bravado unbecoming of their age or social status. Now off to school, Mom stepped in with a solution, staging a scene where the elf appeared to have eaten the tangerine in question, abandoning his cookbook perch in favor of a seated position at a makeshift snack area and leaving scraps behind, along with a note that read, "Thanks for the tangerine! I'll only eat one!" (It is also likely that a smiley face was included but I cannot confirm with any certainty, having destroyed this document, and thus, in the name of accuracy and out of respect for journalism, it is omitted here.) This was, largely, an intelligent counter tactic by my female counterpart and while its intended result - assuaging the pending civil war betwixt brothers with a reasonable compromise - was achieved, ultimately, the strategy lacked the necessary foresight to continue the mind games without needling questions from the youngsters. Of utmost importance: "Wait... You moved him?" Crickets. "No, kid," I thought to myself - but dared not say aloud. "He moved himself, of course!" But, of course, this was not supposed to be a part of the pestilent pixie's skillset! For his meandering about is only supposed to take place at night, according to the owner's manual! Far be it from Mom to not have her next move planned, however, and as I stood stock still, considering a swift exit strategy (were the neighbors home? Could a friend pick me up? Where is my rocketpack?) as if beamed in by the projector of Orson Welles himself, the holiday classic "Home Alone" was suddenly on the living room television and Mom's invite for cuddle time was accepted by both young Jordans. Crisis averted, once more. In the time since, the attitudes of drunken demon children 1 and 2 have worsened. Boy 1 resisted piano practice and was not permitted to walk the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights in turn, then admittedly plotted revenge on yours truly, attempting to stave off bedtime as long as possible by prancing about the house, giggling and speaking in tongues. And Boy 2 ignored my orders to disarm, wielding his light saber freely about the living room as though I wasn't even there. With Mom on a run (and not 100% sure she was coming back) I engaged hand-to-hand, demilitarizing my target and receiving his "Mad Dog" glare for my troubles. In fairness, Boy 2 pulled it together enough to join me on the aforementioned Christmas walk, where he graciously educated me on the difference between frogs and what he calls "toadfrogs," (apparently this has everything to do with their tongues - who knew?) and I shared with him my disdain for projector lights. Nonetheless, the net result of Sunday/Monday called for a sabbatical for the nefarious imp creature, who has, as far as the boys know, "gone to visit Santa for a day or two," according to my - no, his! - note. Improvements are expected in short order but just in case, the vodka supply has been restocked. I now count 19 days, which looks far less daunting than 20. Still, my sleep pattern has been erratic. We'll call that 20% problem drinking, 60% guilt from blatantly lying to one's offspring and 20% New York Jets football. With apologies to my parents and, more importantly, to Mark Twain, I haven't told the truth, out of necessity, thanks to you-know-who, and now I can't remember anything.

Vol 6:

Tensions have subsided. The elf was brought back after the exhibition of acceptable behavior on the part of both boys on Tuesday night. 1 did a fine job at his school Christmas concert, while 2 gave a great effort at soccer practice. (It is also important to note that Dad scored a goal in an impromptu coaches/kids mixed scrimmage. That this feat was accomplished against 6- and 7-year-olds matters not.) More importantly, bedtime was without incident on the evening in question. Why that is ever an issue is still beyond me but never has a more relatable tale been told than that of "Go the Fuck to Sleep," by Samuel L. Jackson a few years back. (Well, maybe it isn't exactly the written work of Jules Winnfield himself but I'd like to think it is, as no one could possibly ever recite it better.) Boy 1 is a fan of the every-excuse-in-the-book technique (from pooping to asking questions to feigning injury to everyone taking turns laying with him, telling stories, needing water, etc.) while Boy 2 is more straightforward with his thoughts on sleep overall. Namely, he says he never sleeps. He just relaxes. While I know this isn't completely true, having witnessed him sleeping myself on thousands of occasions, there is something a little vampiresque about the littlest Jordan, who is almost always the first to arise in the morning, often long before the sun. Today, in fact, I awoke to a noise and thinking it was either intruders (that I would have to exterminate, obviously) or my youngest son dicking around (slightly more likely) I promptly began a seek-and-destroy (or G the F to S) mission. The latter scenario proved to be reality, as there he sat, hiding behind his bathroom door, sitting on the floor with the light on, cuddling with his blanket. I don't know either, people, but hey... We all have hobbies... The return of Hellboy Hermie, fresh from his visit with Santa, Satan or Sam Kinison - can't recall which and perhaps it was all - featured him choking out one of the boys' forgotten bath toys, a gator. In this house, that visual brings more joy than the hair of the dog cure-all on a Jordan Family Christmas morning. (Well, almost.) As we enjoy this new era of peace, recognizing that it may be a brief interlude, I'm appreciative of the pause its given me, for the war against the imaginary (?) black magic of this shitbag of a Christmas toy is rather taxing. 17 days. #tylenol Vol 7:

This tradition begets strange bedfellows. Hermie the Elf, who is destined to be renamed Beelzebub, I assure you, commandeered a ship belonging to Jake and the Neverland Pirates last night, along with John Cena and Sleepy (of Seven Dwarfs fame.) Oh, if this were only real, what an adventure they may have had overnight. Sleepy, groggy to the point of hallucination, no doubt, likely from a mixture of NyQuil, booze and some medicinal herb (since we can do that here now!) wouldn’t have been much help to his shipmates. The elf, in his Luciferian glory, perched atop the crow’s nest, would attempt to serve as captain, I would think, causing immediate conflict with Cena, the jorts-wearing, self-important hero, who nobody above the age of 12 really likes. (I’m told he was actually at a local bar I’ve been to a time or 200 a couple of weeks ago. Think I could take him?) They’d square off at some point to determine the alpha male and I’d have to give that decision to the only being on this ship with supernatural, other-worldly powers. “You can’t see me,” John? Well, that’s fine. Hermie doesn’t need to see you to breathe demon fire into your soul. And they'd land at their final destination knowing that the little red-faced asshole with the pointy hat was absolutely in charge. The destination was our TV stand, by the way, because I didn't feel like thinking anymore - or leaving the ship somewhere it might easily fall, ruining everything for everyone. (Or saving them?) The children seemed to approve of this newly established faction, upon this morning's discovery, and I suppose that’s what it’s all about. Unfortunately, it’s also proven to be all about my own sick mind, full of delusions and unfulfilled desires belonging to my inner child. Back in my day, all we had was the mystique of Santa Claus himself – and thanks to friends, Sean and Tina, that gig was up for me at around eight. (Eight! That’s Boy 1’s age now. Well, balls... Getting old indeed.) I believe the big reveal upset me for a few minutes but already conditioned toward materialism (thanks, America!) I reasoned that, hell, I’d still be getting presents, so I don’t think I really cared whether they came from Mom, Dad, Uncle Charlie (who I’m pretty sure once stole a trampoline before gifting it to me) or an old, fat stranger in a furry red suit who likes to have little children sit in his lap. I was skeptical – maybe my friends lied to me. After all, this was the same brother/sister combo that once had me convinced that the oil I spotted floating atop the drink they’d made for me was perfectly normal for “Swedish chocolate milk.” (Looking back, the accompanying smell of vinegar should have been a dead giveaway. Tasted like shit but I’m sure it built character. Appreciate that, S&T!) But alas, as I gave my dad a goodnight hug on Christmas Eve, 1987, there sat the Nintendo I’d be receiving the next morning, in his closet behind him. When I found it, unwrapped, as was Santa’s style, at the foot of the tree, the bullshit meter exploded but I wouldn’t let it get me down. Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out and Super Mario Brothers (and Duck Hunt, if only so we'd all learn about tagalongs at an early age) awaited! I was smart enough to know that I didn’t want to deal with upsetting my mom so I didn’t let on that I knew that Santa was Keyzer Soze (or Verbal Kint? Sometimes my metaphors don’t work.) I think I hid that from her for at least two years. Point is, I guess I fear these kids of mine finding out we’re all the masterminds behind some pretty serious fabrications. What sort of example does that set? But mostly, it’s about the growing-up-too-fast thing. I mean, fuck. I’m 37, somehow. Oh and the other point is, how did we allow this elf thing to get so popular? We had friggin' Santa already! And wasn’t one lie enough? I’m tired. 16 days.

Vol 8:

Turnabout is fair play. Boy 2 had something of a rough day yesterday, although not in the sense that his behavior was unacceptable. With the added pressure of a snitch like the elf-demon watching over you at all times, I'm sure being a 6-year-old isn't as easy as it could be at this time of year so, when the boy wonder seemed exceptionally emotional, I should have known to chalk it up to just that. After eight straight days of "being on 'Good Citizen'" at school, the littlest Jordan was proud to announce that he had recorded No. 9 in a row. How about that? My own little Cal Ripken-type thing. But after dinner, the tiny tough guy started showing his sensitive side (a trait shared by his father - but don't tell anyone.) Seeking either a goalkeeper for his soccer game, an opponent in marbles or a playmate of any sort, he solicited the services of all of Boy 1, myself and the lady of the house, though we all politely declined, citing a collective desire to relax and/or consume the programming of WWE Network before bedtime. (The latter, of course, forced upon Mrs. Jordan, although I think she enjoys it at least a little, though she would never, ever admit as much.) His emotions played out with faulty reasoning - "No one likes me!" - and harsh accusations - "I don't have a nice family!" and "Nobody is being my friend!" My explanation was simple; that declining an invitation to any particular activity does not automatically disqualify one from being another's friend, since free will is an important quality and, if I asked a friend of mine to eat dog poop with me, their lack of participation would not stand in the way of my assessment of their loyalty toward me. But Boy 2 was not having any of this and in a brief fit of rage, he roared at me, "You better watch your attitude, Mister, or I'm telling Hermie!" Oh, did I laugh! But he did not appreciate that either and retired to his room. Confession time came quickly. As I laid with him to coax him to sleep - the sleep that, remember, he swears he never gets in favor of only "relaxing" - he exclaimed, "I'm a bad boy!" and began crying immediately. At first, he would not tell me why he had come to this conclusion but after some leveling with him in the form of a promise not to get mad, he told me he had lied and that he had not, in fact, achieved a ninth straight day of school-bestowed "good citizenship." Instead, he was stuck on "Ready to Learn," which is quite fine in this house, although anything less will need to be addressed. I blamed the elf. For the boy was convinced that he needed to be stellar each and every day without fail, whereas on most days, outside of this window of watching from on high (and by on high, I mean somewhere high enough so as not to tempt the "illegal" touching) he, like his father, would be just fine in the realm of acceptable mediocrity. Never again will I utter the words, "I'm telling Hermie." At this point, 1) I hate the name. The kids named him, after that failure of an elf from the original Rudolph special, now a dentist, or so we're told. (Probably one of those creepy dentists, I'd say. You know, the kind that gasses his female patients and plays peekaboo and stuff?) 2) The kids know the (completely fabricated) score. I will not add to this charade more than I already have. And I will not go gentle into this good night. The company Christmas party awaits and I've got some tomfoolery in which to partake. Still tired. 15 days.

Vol 9 and 10:

They sell both volumes of Kill Bill together now, as I understand it, so I’m allowed to drop a double dose of Elfdom if I want to. (This will be of no additional length, mind you, but we’ll call it two volumes nonetheless.) The uptick in emotion from Friday still fresh in my mind, the idea this weekend was to restore the spirits of Boy 1 and Boy 2 (and mostly the latter) and the elf, for all his faults, appears to be adept at aiding that, so long as the pressure he brings is tempered. I’d like to think that the littlest Jordan is less concerned, having had some weekend time, about trying to be “Good Citizen” levels of perfect than he was during our last volume. Saturday morning, Elfenstein, which is one of many names I am considering for a possible rebranding, took a ringside seat next to Boy 1’s toy wrestling ring, watching what was staged as a battle royal between all of his favorite toy wrestlers. Adorning the garb of a particular favorite, Samoa Joe, along with the NXT championship belt, he sat, smiling his usual satanic smile, as if to say that he was some sort of champion himself. You are not, sir, by any stretch. Let me make that clear. But, they enjoy your company, again, despite your many shortcomings. The wrestling set-up reminded me, however, that I would enjoy squaring off against you, were you of an acceptable size to do so, and perhaps if I can find someone of a similar appearance in human form, elbows will drop (and he shall fall.) Of course, then, I’d likely be arrested and/or sued but hey, that’s the cost of doing business, I suppose. This scene, like so many others featuring you-know-who, turned out to be less than perfect, largely because I set him up too low to the ground to be completely ignored or out-of-reach, but this turned out to be a positive step for the children, who resisted the temptation to move him themselves and asked for assistance when he flopped over at one point. Boy 1 wanted the championship belt the evil elf had been wearing, you see, and I was happy to strip it from him, since he did not deserve such an accolade by any means. Boy 2, it should be noted, held back his elfly interactions on Saturday. Maybe he was trying to determine just how emotionally invested in this thing he really should be. Saturday evening brought forth the annual company Christmas party and since the lady and I do not often stay out past 11 pm, let alone 2 am, anymore, it is no wonder that the Hermie the Hack almost did not get moved that night. Of course, I had every intention, and though my return home (thanks, Uber!) involved a certain level of whiskey breath as I spoke directly with my mother-in-law about plans for said move, in the fleeting seconds following that conversation, I forgot completely, probably focused on the pillows calling my name just a few feet away. Ever-clutch, Gran chipped in and relocated the impetuous imp, placing his (fake) happy little ass in the middle of a wreath on the door to the laundry room. Last night, as I stared at him, I honestly thought to myself, “You know, elf, you look like a real asshole sitting there smiling at me with your hands folded. I’d like to spear you with one of the skewers I use to make kebobs from time to time. Or drop you into a vat of bleach. Or something... Keep looking at me like that! Go ahead!” He was just lucky that there was no whiskey for a second consecutive evening. Of course, there can be no whiskey on consecutive evenings for yours truly anymore. Such is the penance that comes with age. Well, that and a vile attitude toward all things festive, it seems. Or at least all things purportedly festive that are nothing more than some sort of fabric, a little plastic and stuffed with cotton (or is it demon fiber?) 13 days. Unlucky 13, the elf might say, but we’ll see how lucky he is when I practice punting him later on today...

Vol 11:

The easy way seems like the right move at the moment. From one stocking (with Spider-Man) to another (with Ultron) - specifically recognizing each boy's individual preference for good guys vs. bad guys, we've killed two days and two potentially grief-inducing moments. But hark! There are three more stockings! That could very well be three more days. Lady Jordan would love to see the imp intruder in her stocking, along with, say, vodka? Yeah, she likes vodka. And Superdog would dig it if he were to show up in hers next to, ah yes! Something she always begs me for - leftover pizza! Perfect! As for me, well, this isn't really about me but if I'm to tend to this shithead as much as I do, why not treat myself and set the stage for him to gift me some Johnny Walker Blue? Mmmmm. We're already down to 12 days and if I can pull this off, we're into the single digits with plenty of creativity left in the reserve tank. Note to self: Boy 1 is looking more and more suspicious by the day. He is wise indeed. Perhaps it is time to distract him with fear and confusion. Would he believe the Russians hacked his elementary school, forcing an uptick in homework? That seems to be a popular play these days and it just might work. Operation: Borscht shall commence in the am. And looky, looky! It's now midnight! 11 days, just like that! We can do this. Ohhhhh, yes. We shall overcome.

Vol 12:

Rats once spread the Bubonic Plague. Prince Prospero's hubris allowed the Red Death to infiltrate his castellated abbeys, according to E.A. Poe. And I say these little elves carry their own special pandemic - a yuletide malady that flips the universe onto its head and turns otherwise relatively well-behaved children into distracted, exhausted malcontents, spewing tidings of discomfort and misery on adults the world over. It makes no sense. At a time when conventional wisdom would dictate that they walk the straight and narrow like never before, the little ones have truly gone mad. Under the watchful eye of the hellion in the red hat, I always expect that Boy 1 and Boy 2 would adopt model citizenship - and for small spurts, they do. For instance, Boy 1's cleaning dog poop from the backyard last Sunday was completely out of character and Boy 2's strong run of eight consecutive "good citizen" statuses (already chronicled in a previous volume, as well as his subsequent fall from grace) was quite a feat! (Suddenly, I'm reminded that I did not ask for details on the dog doo cleaning duty - nor can I say for sure if they showered that night... Nonetheless, the past is the past.) But these exceptions have not become the rule. instead... It took 47 utterances of the elder Jordan child's name tonight just to get him to come to the table to do his homework, when normally, it would only take 3-5. And that was just the beginning of the battle. "Math with Mom" may sound like a fun game show of sorts but in reality, it's quite torturous. Eating dinner in short order once that was finally complete, a necessary rush on an evening when baseball practice beckons, drew moans and whines and pouts and eventually, claims of complete disinterest in our national pastime - a sin, certainly, but more importantly, a lie, as proven instantly upon arriving at the field, where free-spirited fun commenced. (I noticed there, too, that it is not just my own children who have figuratively tooted the Christmas cocaine of late. Everyone's offspring is mental at the moment, it appears. We're all in this together, people.) As for Boy 2, well, that run of eight straight school days by which he was judged all chivalrous and what not has been followed by quite the struggle. Warnings and consequences and nastygrams from the teacher are the new trend. (Note to Teacher: I feel ya, girl. I mean, I ain't never did kindergarten and shit but I did teach at muthafuckin' Hillsborough High School for a hot minute. And you trippin' if you think students clownin' in December is only for the jits. Teenage fools be whack AF.) But we have reached the magic number of 10 and with that, I see the light. Alas, I am stupid enough to crank this sonofabitch waaaaaaaaaay past 10 on the Holly-Jolly-Christmas-o-Meter tomorrow night, as we venture to what some might call the happiest place on Earth (whereas I call it, "Whythehellcan'twedrinkhereagainland") for Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party. We'll see how very merry it is this time, kids. Just keep up the shenanigans and maybe I'll tell you the story of the crazy Christmas kid who got left with the elephants on the Jungle Cruise back in 1984. Look for him, Reggie, I think... Yeah, he's in there, somewhere. Keep looking... Ah, but that's tomorrow night... Tonight, I'll resist the urge to send the elf into the garbage can, no matter how easy to pull off the narrative of "Hey, kids. Yeah, sorry... He must have really wanted that last piece of chocolate," might be. Single digits are afoot!

Vol 13:

As if Christmas madness wasn't already enough to make even the most level-headed parents consider sending their normally well-adjusted children to some sort of juvenile rehab, we went and introduced the idea of this all-powerful elf and sent things into hyperdrive. And then you have idiots like myself, who facilitate the special kind of speedball that is Christmas and Disney World to launch the youngsters into a stratosphere of holiday intoxication that would appeal to Belushi- and Farley-types the world over. I've spent enough time at the House of Mouse in the last seven years or so to know that on any random Tuesday, you can do some serious people-watching but on a designated Friday night in December, at something they jam down your throat as a "Very Merry" Christmas party, young bucks and grandmas alike are off the rails right from the jump. It's marketing, I get it, but shouldn't it be up to me to decide how to describe the levels of joy and/or merriment I get from a party to which I'm invited (and certainly one I've paid for?) I'm not going to throw a pool party in a couple of months, invite a bunch of you people, and call it "Jon's Super Enjoyable and Relaxing Pool Party." I might assist in the temporary adjustments of your dopamine and serotonin levels as best I can but I'll leave it up to you to determine what sort of accolades you bestow upon my event. Anyway, free from the eyes of the elf (theoretically, anyway) the children were a bit wild on the journey to WDW but I've found that any car ride longer than 20 minutes or so has the potential to become the clearest manifestation of their best friends/worst enemies style of relationship at this phase of their lives. One minute, they're sharing books and the next, someone's finger is in someone else's eye. I tried my best to sing Christmas songs to myself (no, really, I do try to get into it here and there) but my soul-soothing would have to come in the form of a bunch of junk food at the park and a ride or two. The kids had free reign to try and off each other in the interim. As evenings go, one could really do far worse, honestly. As I've said a million times, it would be tremendous if adults could wander around the Magic Kingdom with a beer but I get it. It's a kids' park. And I suppose that isn't appropriate EVERYWHERE, after all. Plus, there are fleeting moments on these nights that we just aren't going to get anywhere else - like Boy 2 cuddling with his mom or Boy 1 beaming from the front row of a parade route or both of them, giggling with laughter (and maybe a little hint of fear) as we whirl around on some roller coaster or other. Those are sights and sounds I'm tattooing into my brain for sure. But by the time it's all over, we have reached full-fledged juvenile Christmas drunkenness, where, just like your overserved adult friend, conversations ramble on making very little sense, emotions are high and the expression of as much can go from "I love yous" to crying in an instant. There is slurring, overindulgence on late night snacks and then, ultimately, they just pass out. And while one big difference between your friend, Drunky the Bear, and your overtired, cranky Christmas kid is that you usually don't have to worry about the latter throwing up, another is that you can't just leave them where they fall out. So, in my case, you're forced to scoop and carry the now 70-ish pound, increasingly long 8-year-old for miles into boats and trams and finally to the car. While waiting for said tram, I surveyed my surrounding area and confirmed my suspicions that, yes, out of the 500 or so people I could see in my immediate vicinity, Boy 1 was definitely the biggest human sleeping in another human’s arms at that point. But again... Special moments, I suppose, if I'm being honest. (And honestly, between that and multiple shoulder hoistings throughout the evening, holy shit is my back messed up! Thanks again, lady who rear-ended me a few years back to kickstart that now-lifelong pleasantry.) As for the elf, the vile, heinous, intrusive being that he is, he's joined forces with an Angry Bird and Sven from Frozen, and has taken up residence in the boys' bathroom - which is definitely a little weird and creepy, now that I re-think my most recent placement strategy but hey, can't touch him again until tomorrow now. And besides, weird and creepy suits him just fine. ONE WEEK.

Vol 14:

Creativity has ceased. There are no more ideas. The focus has shifted, solely, to survival. Christmas intoxication has run amok and both children are perpetually drunk in turn. I have not yet found the proper means to detox them, although I believe, once that bag of chocolate-covered pretzels was stolen and consumed, only time was to be my ally. Boy 2 turned emotional once more last night, expressing his desire to "go home." Since he was sitting in his bed as he proclaimed this, a deeper inquiry revealed that he wanted to go back to our old house, which we left roughly 18 months ago, because he missed his friends. Total bullhonk, of course, since he couldn't identify a single "friend" by name, other than the old neighbor's dog, aptly named Jordan, which weakens his argument even further. Boy 1 arose at 6 am today, reportedly uttering some nonsense about starting a band. (I cannot confirm this directly, as I was in the midst of a dream starring myself, Wolf Blitzer and Jennifer Lawrence, all scouring the planet for "the lost relics." But the reporting of my wife person is to be trusted, more often than not.) His level of Yuletide inebriation has manifested itself in a phenomenon known as "Low Eyes Syndrome" and whether you choose to admit it or not, you've all been there. Just look through photos in which you've been tagged by others - specifically anything after midnight, at weddings or taken by your most obnoxious friends. On the positive side, we've reached the 5-day mark and are just two days shy of relocating this clan to the other coast, where the grandparent folks can assist in keeping us all alive. The inherent danger of said grandparent folks inadvertently contributing to Christmas chaos matters not, for there is strength in numbers and reinforcements at this point are sorely needed. The elf is spooning with a San Francisco 49ers Christmas ornament today and I think I will say no more to that end. "Take a look around here, Ellen. We're at the threshold of hell!" - Clark W. Griswold, Jr.

Vol 15:

The day is nigh. The elf has been bagged in preparation for the cross-state trek. Part of me wanted that to happen legit abduction-style - little potato sack thrown over his head, a swat of a tiny baseball bat to the dome... A garrote, probably, would have been overkill but I wouldn't have ruled it out. Anyway, he's MIA - and of course, that means we'll have to lie to the children once more as to why he's disappeared. "I don't know, kids. I walked around the corner and he just wasn't there anymore!" Then, tomorrow morning when he shows up at La Casa de Jordan 1.0, I'll be ogling Boy 1 to see if there is any further hint of suspicion in his eye. Surely, Boy 2 will wake up some time between 3 and 5 am tomorrow as the excitement percolates. (I will not.) There will be no attempts to peer deeply into his eyes, mostly out of fear that they've turned black by now, undoubtedly the evildoing of you-know-who. The good news is that I believe all is reparable, once he is gone for good - or at least until next year. In my experience, Christmasitis usually takes a couple of weeks to fade away and then some semblance of normalcy returns. This year, I'm hoping that comes with a newfound affinity for sleeping in. I was never very good at that as a young kid and didn't master it until college, really - an achievement aided at that time by, well, let's just call them PEDs. But I know it is possible for even an 8-year-old to sleep until 9, 10 or 11, even, because I saw my pal Jeremy do it with my own eyes. Sleeping over at his house was great the night before amidst our usual hijinks but I could only describe the following mornings as, uh, educational, as in I seized the opportunity to read every single book on his bookshelf and watch every movie he owned, killing time until he finally woke up. (What the hell were my parents doing anyway, that they couldn't pick me up early, as I often asked? Actually... Don't answer that.) So, again, the hope is that Boy 1 takes after Uncle Berm and learns to hibernate (at least a little.) There is no hope for the other one to that end. He continues to remind us that he never sleeps and only relaxes. "Sometimes," he says, "I don't mean to but I accidentally go to sleep automatically." Clearly, he isn't to be trusted with this intentionally perplexing narrative of his but I believe he has convinced himself that it is all true. That, in and of itself, surely leads to the unique circadian rhythm he's adopted. He sure is cute, though. I imagine that'll keep earning him a pass, no matter how many times he fires a soccer ball directly into my nether regions. Perhaps only one or two more entries into these chronicles shall be necessary from this point forward. I should say that I'm pleased with the response so far, as it seems most of the free world can relate in one way or another, but the goal from the beginning was simply to document the daily deeds of our ignominious, inanimate, annual invader and their impact on our everyday lives. Plus, if I should meet my demise during his stay, surely this will aid law enforcement officials. As far as that goes, one only needs to buy one vowel to solve this puzzle, and that is the "E" to kick off "E.L.F." You see, although we are still in the pre-Christmas phase of my intensive study, I have learned enough to commit to the conclusion that it is indeed an acronym, standing for Evil Little Fucker, as some of you may have already ascertained. It is but one piece but a vital one indeed. I've got you now, you hellion. It is only a matter of time. Deportation is but three days away!

Vol 16:

He is everywhere and he takes on many forms. The shape-shifting shithead has obviously meandered about my home for weeks but also invaded my tree, in the form of a Christmas ornament, and now, as I've taken up temporary residence at my parents' house, he is present as a children's nightlight in the bathroom, staring, peering, judging as people partake in their most private and personal moments. He truly is a sick sonofabitch. He is also in my brain at this point, as evidenced by the masterful mindfuck he pulled on me on Thursday evening. I am a man of many talents but perhaps my most important task as the husband, father and clearly established second-in-command of our family is to handle all packing duties for out-of-town adventures. At Christmastime, this can get tricky, what with an overabundance of presents to account for, in addition to our regular haul. But, always up to the challenge, I gathered up all of the important items and successfully played the game of Tetris that is fitting all of them into the dadmobile, née Honda Pilot. All of them, you see, except for my own suitcase, left perfectly packed and wide open on my bedroom floor, only to be revealed at the most impactful moment from a psychological perspective, as we crossed the Brevard County line, all according to "Its" diabolical plan. I have no clothes. I have no toiletries. As a broken man at this point, I also have no soul. And now I seek redemption. A Christmas angel has aided my efforts to thwart this hostile takeover and my suitcase has been successfully recovered, here, two days later, so brushing my teeth and replacing the loin cloth I've adopted in the interim is but hours away. But the damage has been done. The little fucker has clearly won a round. His reign of terror ends for the season after tomorrow but does that give me time to recover my soul before he is banished once more? Clearly, his excommunication is more important than my return to human form so if sacrifice is required, I must remain committed to the cause. In the event of Christmas catastrophe, I offer warmest regards and eternal gratitude to all that have followed these chronicles. As I forge forward, know that I am acting not on my own behalf but for all that is good in this world. The final showdown is nearly upon us and with any luck - and the guidance of Lord Zeus, Ra the sun god, sweet baby Jesus, John Cougar, John Deere and John 3:16 - when it's all said and done, I aim to look the elf straight in the eye and tell him what a cheap, lying, no good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?

Vol 17:

It is all over. Since I am writing this, it needs not be clarified that the side of righteousness prevailed in the end but this was not always a foregone conclusion. The red devil was a formidable foe and I can say with near-certainty that we will do battle at least once more, as Boy 1 and Boy 2 will probably still be buying what he's selling. It cannot go undocumented that Hermie took one last pound of flesh as he exited, to the tune of me waking up in a panic at 5 am to remove him from sight and complete this festive ruse. Just as he had on Day 1 this year, he ruined my slumber and that cheeky little smile stretched ever so slightly. It did feel good, under the cover of darkness, to jam the little prick into my suitcase pocket and zip it up. I hope it's hot in your own personal hell, you heathen. And now, we pick up the pieces. I am in need of repair, inside and out. Tired, tattered, full of torment... But mostly tired. Is there no vacation from Christmas vacation? It's become clear to me that, despite my ultimate victory, this experience will haunt me for years to come. And in ensuing years, likely, it will be worse. So, when is a win actually a loss? Perhaps it is now. Perhaps it is more than just a pound of flesh the evil elf has taken with him. There is, it turns out, slight discomfort in my liver area, you see. That's either from the traditional holiday excess or, if you believe the ancient Navajo legend, that's where the soul is located and clearly, mine is gone. Back to our happy little lives? Sure - I can play that game. It is a beautiful existence. But he has broken me indeed. "And Darkness and Decay and The Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."