#Id blow him for a bag if he was my plug | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

platypanthewriter · 4 years ago

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Dildos and Hayfever

Harringrove April prompt day 13, Hayfever. Detective Billy Hargrove's had a rough time lately, and Captain Hopper assigns him a partner who'll either make everything worse...or everything better.

“All you need to know is he’s the commissioner’s son,” rang in Billy’s head as he stalked down the hall. Hopper had followed up with “I told him you were fresh out of rehab,” and “I’m sure you can remember enough of the ropes to show him, right, it’s not like he’s gonna be doing the work anyway,” and Billy gritted his teeth, punching the elevator buttons with a vengeance.

The light flickered, worsening the headache that always came on in the spring when all the flowers bloomed, and every tree on every sidewalk in the city shot its rocks off in midair—or when he had to walk into the office of the captain. This morning, to his utmost joy, he’d had both, and he took the opportunity of alone time in the elevator to blow his nose, hard.

Captain Hopper meant well, probably, Billy told himself, and set his shoulders.

He found the right building because of the smoke pouring out half the upper windows, the six fire trucks, and the EMTs coming out with the victims—a nice brownstone, before. Billy looked—somewhat hopelessly—for an elevator, sighed, and hauled himself up seven flights of stairs, sneezing.

Police Commissioner Harrington’s son was interviewing witnesses. Billy’d seen him before—always with his own office, always flirting with whoever worked reception, always with his uniform tailored. How he’d brokered a transfer to Major Crimes was a riddle Billy couldn’t wait to ask about—though if he was absolute dead weight, Hopper would probably come up with another solution to Billy’s bullshit, and kick Harrington back onto a desk somewhere.

Harrington was on an upper landing, listening to a black lady and her husband. They looked in their...seventies, maybe, well-off, both crying, and clutching tabby cats. “I can speak to you later,” he said gently, “—if you’d like to—” but the woman shook her head, grabbing his hand.

“He’s a good boy,” she said, sniffling, “—and you better catch whoever did this. Anyone who could do this. There aren’t many young men ready to haul an old lady’s groceries up nine flights, or open her pickle jars, either. Anything we can tell you—”

The man nodded too, holding her hand, and Harrington crouched, jotting down their story, while Billy showed his ID and ducked under the crime scene tape into the half-gutted apartment. He listened as he pulled the whole crime scene kit on, his gloves, mask, booties, and haircap and all.

It smelled horrible, still thick with greasy smoke that clung to the inside of Billy’s sinuses, and he was grateful for the mask.

The parts of the apartment that hadn’t caught fire were nice—nicer than he could afford, certainly—with art everywhere, photos, paintings...and a floor-to-ceiling, sculptural mobile he couldn’t help thinking looked like a cock. He surveyed the scene—a coffee table with wine glasses for two, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and chocolate dick-shaped marshmallows, in front of a couch with penis-shaped pillows.

There was a spray-painted ‘GOD HATES F—’ on the wall, the last word obscured by char from the fire, but Billy honestly wasn’t sure it was new, given the decor in general, and the adjacent broken glass glued to the wall in a penis shape. He leaned in and sniffed it, and he could still smell the fumes of the paint. He snapped a few pictures of it, for later.

When he backed up to get a wider view, his shoulder thumped into someone. “Sorry,” said Harrington, and then, showing why he’d made detective, “...that huge thing on the ceiling kinda looks like a dick.”

“A lot of things in this apartment do, you’ll find,” said Wheeler, the lead CSI, raising her eyebrows at Billy with a smirk. He tensed, a little, but she just started giving him the report, and he nearly shut his eyes in relief. “Including the weapon.” She waved at a bagged, cement dong sculpture that looked like art deco. “It probably didn’t take any prints,” she said, sighing, “—with a gritty surface like that.” Harrington grimaced, wincing, and touching his head.

“The victim will probably regain consciousness,” Wheeler went on. “He left the windows open all along that side of the apartment,” she pointed, “—and with as windy as it’s been today, it sucked the fire away from him, so he didn’t get much smoke inhalation.”

“What even...robbery?” Harrington asked, then, “Domestic violence?” and she grimaced, clicking around on her tablet.

“From his phone, it looks like a first date. We’re going over it with a fine-tooth comb, though,” she said, frowning at Billy, then down at her tablet. “Since the assailant obviously wanted the crime scene burned to the ground.”

Billy nodded, his eyes watering either from the fumes, or the pollen count. He sneezed inside his mask, and grimaced as it stuck to his face wetly. “Who is the victim?” he asked, sighing, and wrinkling his nose.

“Ishaq Hill,” Harrington put in, glancing between them. “Profession, camboy. Posted photos and videos of himself, pinup style mostly, artsy, sometimes naked. Neighbors don’t think it was stressing him out any, though, he just talked about being single a lot.”

Wheeler raised her eyebrows. “Because of the head trauma, they’re keeping him in a medically induced coma, so we can’t ask him what happened at least until tomorrow. But look,” she said, leaning between them to flick between photos on her tablet. She zoomed in on the victim’s crotch, and Billy automatically shot an alarmed glance at the nearest human, who happened to be Harrington, his brown eyes frowning back.

“Was there evidence of sexual assault?” he asked, and Wheeler shook her head, waving him closer.

“No, no, look,” she said, zooming it in further. “It’s hard to see, but look, the harness. The color, there, against his white vinyl? It’s a leather harness, dyed rainbow tie-dye. The straps are cut—and it’s empty.”

Billy stared at her. “...you’re saying the victim is trans,” he said slowly, making sure he had it right, “—and the attempted murderer stole his dick.”

“What the hell,” Harrington breathed.

She raised her eyebrows, waving her arms in a dramatic shrug. “I have no idea! But go look, there’s another one in the bedroom—” she pointed, and then bent back to sweeping something into a tiny ziploc bag.

In the bedroom, Harrington pointed at the waist-to-hip sculpture of a man, used to demo, apparently, turquoise leather straps similar to the rainbow straps they could make out in the photos. This one had a securely-fitted glass dildo in it with a whole blown-glass coral reef inside. Harrington bent close to stare at the cock made of tiny jellyfish and anemones, while Billy took in the display on the dresser—a whole array of fancy condoms and butt plugs, with decorated stands, and nameplates.

“He must have used this stuff in videos,” Harrington said. “Like, you know, unboxing.”

“I think he probably filmed less taking them out and more more putting them in things,” Billy muttered, as Harrington snickered, and then waved at the small, rhinestoned pastry stand labeled ‘God <3 Fags’. It was empty.

He looked over to see whether Harrington had noticed the empty stand, but he was fiddling with his phone. “...doesn’t look like he had any nasty public messages, or anything,” he said, frowning. “I’ll look through his account when we get back—”

“I’m gonna see where he gets all these dildos,” Billy said, frowning at one with what looked like birthday candles, and ‘Ishaq 23rd’ floating inside. He pulled a drawer open, and found a few boxed vibrators, and a lot of lingerie. “Some of this stuff has to be custom. Maybe they’ll know which one got stolen.”

“Oh,” Harrington said, brightening. “Good idea!”

“You can call around,” Billy told him, and Harrington shot him a sideways glance that made Billy wonder if he was gonna be a shithead about his dad being the commissioner, but he just nodded. He dropped into a chair at a desk out on the floor like any other cop when they got back to the precinct, searching up both Ishaq Hill’s social media, and local sex shops.

Billy went to find coffee and gossip, avoiding the old guard—his father’s friends.

“Steve’s all right,” said Holland, another CSI he thought he could trust, since she was friends with Wheeler. She considered, crossing her arms. “Everybody figures he’ll be bad at the job, so he gets all the desk work, and he’s kind of obnoxious, but he’ll get down and dust vac a bloody trunk, if you need him to.”

Hagen in Vice sneered, and yelled for everyone to come say hey to Neil Hargrove’s son, back from rehab, and Billy turned on his heel and stalked back to his own department, his heart racing.

He returned to hand Harrington a vending machine coffee, and Harrington looked grateful, toasting him in the air as he talked on the phone. “No, ma’am, I’m not trying to make any trouble. No, it’s nothing like—” he groaned, leaning his head against the handset, then sipped his coffee, and hit redial. “Hey, I’m looking to buy custom, handmade dildos. I’ve got a—” he grimaced at the wall, screwed up his face in thought, and then shrugged, glancing at Billy, and grimacing as he sighed. “I’ve got a highschool ring I wanna put in a dildo. Uh, go 2011!” He listened. “Oh, you do? Oh, thanks so much,” he said, writing down a phone number, and mumbling more thank yous.

“What’d you get?” Billy asked.

“Just another store to try,” Steve muttered. He kicked the desk, and rolled a couple feet closer to hand the post-it note to Billy. “They don’t want to talk to me until I want a weird sex toy,” he said, flushing a little, but laughing. “I’ve looked for one with plastic dinosaurs in it, a butt plug with my old glass eye—”

Billy snorted his coffee, coughing as Harrington scrambled up to pat his back.

“I think one time I maybe said moose antlers,” he muttered, counting off on his fingers. “That one must think I’m pretty weird.”

“Not the eyeball one though,” Billy choked out, trying not to die. “The fake eye ass plug store thinks that’s normal as shit.”

“I just mean,” Steve said, blushing, and waving his arms in a vaguely antler-like shape from his head, “—moose antlers wouldn’t probably fit in my ass, you know?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Billy gasped, wiping his eyes, leaned in to where Harrington had brought up Hill’s social media, and scrolled.

“What’s all this shit about the Westboro Baptist Church?” he asked.

Steve was mumbling and scribbling, and then he hung up. “Oh,” he nodded. “They’ve been spamming ‘God Hates Fags’ on all his sites. He’s been doing a big photoshoot with teasers, kind of...at them? He kept tagging them. It’s gone viral.” He held out his phone, and Billy was treated to a lock screen of their assault victim on his knees, arms out like he was singing, his glittery dick spurting a cartoon rainbow.

“...sorry, that’s not very professional,” Harrington said, grimacing, and yanking it back. “I’ll change it.”

“Did you see this at the crime scene?” Billy asked him, yanking his phone out and showing Harrington the spray-painted ‘GOD HATES F—’ he’d found on the wall.

“Holy shit,” Harrington said. “Eugh, imagine them knowing where you live. Shit, I didn’t even notice that.” He sighed, and Billy kicked his chair, lightly.

“Kinda busy walls in that place,” he pointed out, and Steve shot him a smirk.

“Hargrove!” a familiar voice yelled, and Detective Holloway ran up and gave Billy a hug. “You look so good!” she told him, and then nodded at Harrington, and smiled back at Billy. “We found the guy the date was with on Grindr. They’re bringing him in.”

It was nice to have somebody happy to see him, even if her face made him kinda uncomfortable, knowing she’d been the one to catch him drinking in the supply room after all the—after.

“Make him wait,” Billy said, considering. “I wanna go through the conversations on Grindr. He can work up some nerves first.”

“He’s ex-military,” she said, grimacing. “His CV says his last job was as a ‘fully armed and trained combat specialist’ who did security for diamond mines in war-torn areas. I don’t think you’re gonna make him nervous.”

“Eugh,” Harrington said, making a face. “I can see why that date didn’t go well. He probably dresses like a supervillain.”

Holloway’s look at him was a little withering, and he shut up, turning back to sit at his computer. “Lemme know if you need anything,” she told Billy, frowning into his face, and he pushed her shoulder away, quirking his mouth.

“...I’m okay,” he told her, and she didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t hug him again, at least.

“How are you doing?” Harrington asked, after she’d left, and after swallowing half the cup of coffee in one chipmunk-cheeked slurp. He wiped his mouth, blinking wide brown eyes up at Billy, and Billy groaned.

“Look, about what the captain—”

“I know the story,” Harrington said, tossing back the rest of the coffee like a bathtub drain. Billy reminded himself to make Harrington pee before they got in a car together, like a little kid on a road trip. “My dad’s the commissioner, I know the whole...thing,” he said, grimacing. “You shoulda got a commendation.”

“...he was a dirty cop,” Billy grunted, hunching his shoulders. “It’s our job to make sure—”

“Yeah, it is,” Steve agreed, nodding at his screen, and Billy relaxed a little, out from under the weight of sympathetic eyes. “It’s our job, but not everybody does it. And you knew what it was gonna be like.”

“I did,” Billy said, grimacing. “I thought I did.”

“Hey, they let me into Major Crimes for this,” Harrington laughed, unhappily. “Even if my police work isn’t up to scratch, they won’t try anything on you if I’m standing there.”

Billy watched him, and felt a kind of brotherhood, suddenly, looking at Harrington’s tight smile, and tense shoulders. “...police work’s been okay so far,” he said, and Harrington shot him a startled grin. “I’m gonna go...call the hospital,” Billy told him, suddenly needing to be somewhere else. “Maybe swing by and take a look at our victim.”

“Oh,” Harrington said, nodding.

Billy had a few more pictures of the harness sent over—Wheeler was right about what it was, at least—and then they brought the ex-military Grindr date in. He didn’t look that intimidating, actually—his huge biceps were flexed as he held kleenex over his nose, sneezing so hard every few feet he staggered, and he was wearing a t-shirt with a badly-designed logo for a Queer Youth Charity Marathon.

“Hey,” Harrington whispered, touching his shoulder just before they went inside. “Uh, there’s a lot of hate on there from the Westboro Baptist Church. Like, they were getting specific, said someone doxxed him.”

In the interrogation room, their person of interest sneezed so hard snot dangled from both his nostrils, like a drooly dog. Steve snorted a laugh, and walked off to lean against another detective’s desk—Carol’s, Billy thought.

“Can I bribe you for some of that kleenex?” he asked, leaning in like he was flirting on a movie poster, and Carol laughed out loud, and hit him with it.

“Take it and git,” she said, and Steve ran back, grinning.

“Here we go,” he said, handing one to Billy. “One for you, the rest of the box for him.”

“I didn’t even stay for the whole date,” said Braxton Haglund, 34 years old, dark haired and caucasian, with a tattoo Billy could see peeking from under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Haglund blew his nose, again, and the kleenex was so wet it made a noise as he dropped it against the table. “He’d left the windows all open. I walked up so many stairs—” he sneezed, miserably, several times, wadding handfuls of kleenex under his nose, and wiping his eyes.

“God,” he mumbled. “If I didn’t have hayfever, I’d probably still have been there when...whatever happened,” he said, between sneezes. His wide shoulders were hunched despairingly, and even Harrington had a sympathetic grimace. “Dunno if I’d have been much use, though.”

“Did you see anyone as you left?” Billy asked, and Haglund thought, taking deep breaths between blowing his nose.

“...nobody that stood out,” he said. “Some neighbors, maybe. Think I walked into somebody, once, my eyes were watering.”

He hadn’t seen anybody going in, either, so after they let him leave, Billy spent a while scrolling through all the victim’s media accounts. Harrington stayed doggedly on tracking down the dildo maker—Billy nearly felt sorry for him, except it was giving Billy such a good read on what to expect—and he was coming up with a continuous stream of weird sex toys to be in search of. “I’m an author,” he told one. “I want a dildo containing the pen I wrote my first book with.” He jotted down another number, called it, sighed, and tried again. “Uh, I want a dildo full of baby teeth—” he started, and then stopped, frowning at the phone. “They hung up,” he said, sounding betrayed.

“Wouldn’t you?!” Billy asked, smiling despite having to see comment after comment by the Westboro Baptist Church. He found further reasons to hate them, but nothing specifically actionable, so he finally stretched and grabbed his jacket. “I’m done for the day,” he called over the other empty desks.

“Go ahead,” Harrington said, frowning at the screen. “I won’t stay much longer. How the hell hard can this be, really?”

He was there before Billy the next morning, his jaw set, with dark shadows under his eyes. Billy detoured to the coffee machine first, and plonked it down in front of him, and Harington rewarded him with widening eyes, and then a bewildered stare.

“...thanks,” he said softly, then smirked up through a yawn. “Heard back from the arson investigators, and guess what? The fire looks accidental.” He bounced a little in his chair, and Billy wondered whether he was really into murder mysteries, or whether he was just trying to stay awake. “There was a pan on the stove, some kind of chocolate fondue, they think. Just caught fire, and with Ishaq unconscious, nobody turned off the stove.”

“...lucky bastard,” Billy said, grimacing, and Harrington raised his eyebrows.

“You think? Oh, also, guess what—I found her. Our dildo artist. She’s not all that local, but she did send me a few pictures of the dildos she’s made for our guy.”

“Had to track her down eventually,” Billy said, sipping his coffee, and then caught the way Harrington just bit his lips, his jaw tensing.

“Good job,” Billy told him, feeling a little...stupid, like he was praising a dog, but Harrington brightened, smirking up at him again.

Billy studied the printouts, as Harrington spun around on his chair, guzzling down coffee, and explaining his triumph. “She says that photoshoot that had the Westboro Baptist Church up in arms? Upcoming? Get this,” he said, getting up to lean over Billy’s shoulder. “—they’re pissed because our boy was staying at a hotel once with the new leader, Steven Drain. He pretended to be maid service, snuck in, and took the guy’s wedding ring, and made it into a dildo. He describes it as ‘surrounded by rainbow unicorn confetti and delicious queer flesh’. Our victim stole his wedding ring,” Harrington cackled, beaming. “I’m subscribing to his...everything.”

“Lemme see if any of these comments can be traced to Steven Drain,” Billy said, heading off to ask someone to do computer magic. Steve hopped up and came with him, which was kinda weird, but it was nice to walk down a hall without people shoulder-slamming him like he wasn’t there.

“Hate that he has my name,” Steve muttered, as they walked back. “Drain’s got restraining orders for beating up and threatening two young teenagers his daughter talked to, it’s on the public record. We could see what kinda injuries they had,” Harrington said. “...imagine taking down the whole Westboro church.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Billy laughed, dropping into his own chair as Harrington got more coffee, then called around and discovered the assailants had both been right-handed.

“Get this,” he said excitedly, “—Steven Drain is in town. Gay soldier’s wedding, they’re planning to picket it and scream at his widower, you know, their whole thing, but he flew in the night before the assault.”

“We should talk to him,” Billy said, most of his brain on the photos of dildos and butt plugs.

“Can’t we just drop a piano on him?” Steve muttered, and Billy snorted, flicking back through, and trying to figure out what was bugging him about the dildos. There were lots of them, more than Billy’d seen in the victim’s room, and Billy stopped, squinting at his phone screen at one that looked like it was full of tiny antique coins. “...wait,” he muttered. “Where did you say she lived? Dildo lady?”

“Upstate,” Harrington told him, blinking up at him, as he held his pen on the list of neighbors he’d called to ask whether they’d seen anyone that looked like Steven Drain.

“I need to talk to Dildo Lady,” Billy announced, and Harrington blinked at him, then glanced at his screen and back to Billy, waiting. “...we should go talk to her,” Billy amended, and Harrington grinned, grabbing his jacket.

“Should we talk to Drain first?” he asked, “—since he’s local?”

“Let’s wait and see the CSI reports,” Billy told him. “We’ll be on a lot firmer ground if he clipped his nails after he clocked Ishaq Hill upside the head.”

“Hard to believe somebody that loud went down quietly,” Harrington said, nodding. “There’ll probably be hair or something. Even if he doesn’t wake up and tell us. I called this morning—he’s out of danger, it sounds like,” he said, grimacing, and Billy nodded.

“Nice if we can tell him it’s all handled, though,” he said, and Harrington laughed.

“That’s a definite yep.”

Billy led the way to the level where his car was parked, and then stopped.

His car had dead rats on it. He walked closer, and there was a scratch where somebody’d jimmied his window, and tossed more rats inside, and suddenly he longed for a drink.

“Shit,” Harrington said, putting an arm around his shoulders to steer him away, and whipping out his phone. “Yeah, hey—”

“Stop,” Billy hissed, grabbing for it. “You’ll just make it worse, don’t tell your fucking dad—”

“Wheeler,” Harrington said. “Mmm, yeah, you know you said you had some CSI training to do? I’ve got a, uh, little crime scene in the parking garage. Could you get your most annoying rookie to come down and—yeah. Yeah, blue Camaro, license plate PCE 235.” He listened for a long second, and then thanked her again, tucking his phone away.

“...shit,” Billy sighed, as Harrington manhandled him to a different car.

To his relief, Harrington didn’t say anything sympathetic. After a few minutes, driving at a snail’s pace through downtown traffic, he took a breath, and Billy’s hands twitched. “Huh,” Harrington said, glancing down, and then biting his lips in a cartoonishly intent face.

“...jesus, just say whatever it is,” Billy told him, snorting a laugh, and sipping his coffee.

“Sorry your dad is a bastard asshole shithead,” Harrington said, wincing, and Billy choked again, coughing and spluttering coffee down his shirt, but he hadn’t been able to laugh about it before, ever, and it felt good, even if he tried to breathe coffee, and couldn’t stop coughing.

When he could finally draw breath, he sighed contentedly, leaning his head against the window. “...he is, isn’t he,” he said.

“He is, and so are most of the officers he came up from the academy with,” Steve said, clenching his hands on the steering wheel. “My dad too. He didn’t—ugh.”

“What?” Billy asked, curious, suddenly, about Steve Harrington, instead of just the commissioner’s son.

“He didn’t want me to transfer,” Harrington muttered. “He said Major Crimes doesn’t need the dead weight. Hopper had to kinda go out on a limb. I fuck up and I’m kicked all the way down to traffic, I think.”

The thought that the commissioner had stepped in to help Billy, Detective Neil Hargrove’s son, had gotten Billy through some long nights in rehab. He drew a long breath, realizing he was even more alone than he’d thought. “...shit,” he said softly. His eyes stung.

“It’s fine,” Harrington said. “Hopper’s got your back. There are enough of us. I’ll lean on Hagen some, I think I can talk him around. It’s good you turned your dad in. You did a good thing, and everybody shit on you for it,” he growled, glancing over. “I’ve got your back. Jesus, man, don’t cry.”

“It’s the pollen,” Billy said thickly.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I have hayfever,” Billy hissed at him, rubbing his face.

The Dildo Lady looked about sixty, Pakistani probably, and wore a hijab. Her name was Faiza Khalol, and she was delighted to tell them about her work.

“Do you have any better pictures of these?” Billy asked her, showing her the one with the coins in it. “Or could you describe them?”

She could, as it turned out—and even better, when she’d asked about them, Hill had given her one, and she handed Billy a tiny silver coin which, after some googling, he thought might be an Athenian drachma.

“Oh,” she whispered, her brows drawing together. “Um, is it valuable?”

“I have no idea,” Billy told her, but flicked to another picture. “But these are, I think.” The clear butt-plug was full of greyish crystals, with a huge one where it would show.

“I didn’t see these in his dresser,” Harrington said, leaning in warmly against him, and Billy annoyed himself by shivering.

“No. These are uncut diamonds, I think.” Faiza and Harrington gasped satisfyingly, and Billy grinned. “Ishaq Hill stole more than a wedding ring, I think. We’ve had the wrong motive.”

“Braxton Haglund guarded diamond mines,” Harrington breathed. “He’d probably recognize them. Did Ishaq post pictures with these?”

“He always put up pictures of my latest work,” Faiza said, covering her mouth in horror. “Do you think…”

“I think we better talk to Braxton Haglund again,” Billy said, reveling in Harrington’s impressed grin.

“You’ve got duthing on be,” Haglund gasped, blowing his nose miserably. “You gan’t brove I saw ‘s pictures. You gan’t brove anything.”

Billy tried to parse that for a long second, and then, for Harrington, who looked bewildered, said, “Oh, that’s not all we have. Have you wondered,” he said, turning to his partner, who grinned back, “—how anyone could come in to Ishaq Hill’s apartment, clonk him from behind with a dick sculpture, then search his apartment, and not notice he’d left chocolate heating on the stove? Chocolate burns fast,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Haglund. “How did you not notice the smell?”

“His hayfever,” Harrington breathed, his eyes widening at Billy as his cheeks flushed, and Haglund slammed his fist on the table, opened his mouth to yell, and then stopped to blow his nose, and sneeze.

“Also while you were waiting,” Billy told Haglind with satisfaction, “—we searched your apartment. The warrant judge was convinced by our diamond-and-hayfever argument, and guess what we found?”

Haglund’s eyes widened in horror, and his back thudded against his chair as Billy shot Harrington a grin, and Harrington smirked back. “Good job framing a hate group for the crime,” Billy said, his grin widening, “—but why were Ishaq Hill’s dildos on the table in your front room?”

The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done

#Harringrove April #harringrove #Ridiculous #Billy and Steve like each other more than they thought #=D

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hailbop1701 · 4 years ago

Text

Only The Beginning

Chapter 4: My Bad...

Alas, another filler chapter. The reader finally meets Dorian! The bickering and fluff is on point my friends and I hope I got enough tension in there for you. If not there will definitely be more in coming chapters!

Thank you to my lovely Beta Reader @toppysammy! 🥰

-H❤🖖

John’s grip is tight on your upper arm. Wincing slightly, you allow him to lead you over to his car. A handsome-looking android casually leans up against the passenger side door with his arms crossed. He looks at you curiously, obviously scanning you for ID; you give him a little smile when he doesn't come up with anything. John yanks open the backseat and shoves you in.

“Rude,” you mutter, straightening in your seat and pulling your messenger bag close. Looking into the bag, you check on the heavy drive that is nestled inside. It has a small crack but otherwise is undamaged. Sighing in relief, you blow a strand of hair out of your face. Both car doors open up in front and the two detectives get in, bickering.

“Come on, John, you can’t be serious.”

“You heard what they said; rogue android turned on the security team.”

At that, you sink down in your seat feeling more guilty than before. John’s android partner rolls his electric blue eyes. “Security," he scoffs, "more like black market mercenaries. One of those men had a rap sheet longer than your attention span,”

You choke on a laugh as John sputters and glares at the DRN; you had heard about this model, but it's a wholly different experience to meet one. John shoots you a hard look in the rearview mirror.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck happened?” he barks, turning around in his seat so he can fully scowl at you. Clearing your throat, you think over your words carefully. To give yourself more time, you hold out a hand and introduce yourself to John’s partner.

“I’m John's friend--” you glance at said man; he's losing patience. Grimacing, you amend, “I think…”

The android smiles kindly and takes your hand, “Dorian, John’s partner.” His deep and polite voice puts you at ease.

Pulling your hand away, you look back at your angry best friend warily. You mull over what happened for a second before opening your mouth to explain, “Well, I figured out what happened to Julia Lawson, and it wasn’t suicide,” you jerk your head in the direction of the building.

“The creepy death squad murdered her and staged it to look like a suicide. Which, by the way, was completely obvious; they did a horrible job. Whoever had the case was paid off to keep it clean-cut and closed."

Both men in the front seat looked shocked. “You mean you figured this out in, what, three hours?” John asks with a raised eyebrow. You simply shrug, “I have no red tape I have to constantly cut through. I talked to Julie's brother; he told me what I needed to know and I figured out the rest by using the internet. Breaking in was easy--”

John cuts you off mid-sentence with a warning. He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing out his frustration. Dorian looks at you like you're an entirely new species; fascination, amusement, and disquiet all flick across his face. Biting the inside of your cheek, you watch the two carefully.

“Look, Julie stumbled upon something very big and I think you should know about it,” you offer, holding out your bag like an olive branch. John watches you closely for a moment before taking the bag and looking inside.

“A hard drive?” he asks skeptically, pulling it out and handing it over to Dorian to peruse. You shrug and gave a smirk, “I downloaded everything I needed on to that thing; Julie’s ‘suicide,' who ordered it, and the plans Julie overheard that caused her death in the first place.”

Dorian plugs into the drive and the more information he obtains, the deeper his frown gets. “This is very...wrong,” he says with a wrinkle of his nose.

You grimace, “Yeah, I forgot about that part; it’s also about Speartips. Horrible name for a private tech company by the way; it's the CEO getting down and dirty with underage interns and paying them extra to keep quiet.”

Dorian stops looking through the drive and hands it back to John without a word. The android’s eyes are as hard as his partner's. John looks back to you, anger still in his gaze. Sighing, your shoulders slump. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t mean to get caught by the mercs. The android was a new addition,” you defend quickly.

“You threw him out a window,” John points out, losing patience with you.

You throw up your hands, “HE started it! At least his body didn’t hit anyone."

John groans and shakes his head, “Pushing anybody off the fortieth-something floor is bad!” he scolds, starting the car. You scowl at John and cross your arms childishly, “Well, I didn’t like getting choked out. I panicked."

John winces at your words, his posture changing from tense and angry to sad and sympathetic. “I’m sorry, I know you wouldn’t have done any of that if you didn’t have to,”

Dorian’s attention jumps back and forth between you and John, his eyes widening as he connects the dots. “You’re the one who--” he cuts himself off and looks at his human partner.

John sighs heavily and taps his thumb against the steering wheel anxiously, “This is where the whole trusting me thing comes in.” He looks over at the DRN pleadingly. Dorian stares at John for a nano-second before nodding and keeping silent about the whole thing. He was no doubt currently wiping your presence from everything involving what just happened. From camera feeds to bystanders, taking pictures and selfies of the chaos.

“I really am sorry,” you mumble, feeling guilty for more than just putting John in the position that he's now in. Your best friend looks at you in his rearview mirror.

Pressing his lips into a thin line, his shoulders slump just a touch. “I know. You’ve been away from people--well, civilian people for a while. You have to be more subtle from now on, though, alright?”

You grimace at John’s words but nod anyway, agreeing to what he's saying. This is his home after all. He built a life here; and here you were, wreaking havoc in that home like a maniac.

“What now?” you say in a voice just slightly above a whisper. Dorian glances over at his partner, wondering the exact same thing. John purses his lips as he drives through the city. You can’t help your wry smile in response; he always makes that face when he is thinking hard about something.

“We should get you settled into a place. I’ve been keeping an eye out and I got a message from a buddy of mine. There’s a little apartment right near where I live,” he says, handing his phone over to Dorian, who downloads the directions and information.

“I guess you do want your bed back, huh?” you ask with a slight chuckle. John huffs and nods, “My couch is great and all, but it does get a bit uncomfortable after a while,” he mutters with a wrinkle of his nose.

Dorian smirks, “That explains the changes to your sleeping pattern,” he muses, making John scowl. “How many damn times--” he hisses, pointing an accusatory finger at the android only to be cut off by your snort of laughter.

John’s lips twitch upward at the sound, the tense atmosphere of the car lifting as the car crawls through city traffic. “So, Dorian, has John ever told you the story about how he became addicted to noodles?”

You immediately have the DRN’s full attention; John sputters from the driver’s seat unsuccessfully, trying to shush you.

“Well, you see, it all started when he and I traveled to China and we stumbled across this little mom-and-pop shop. The food there was to die for, what was it called…” you trail off, trying to picture the little restaurant in your mind.

“Little Bo’s.” John supplies with a fond smile.

You snap your fingers, grinning from ear to ear, “Little Bo’s! Oh, my gosh, they had some damn good food, and the owner was so sweet; she tried her best to teach John how to use chopsticks.”

Dorian chuckles, “He still can’t use them,” he whispers none-too-quietly.

John shoots him an offended look, “I can too!” he yells indignantly.

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Not very well.” he mutters, ignoring John’s slight pout. You giggle and gently squeeze John’s bicep.

“Maybe when I get settled, I’ll make you dinner,” you offer sincerely. You yelp when John suddenly hits the brakes and looks back at you with wide eyes.

“Seriously?” he asks with a grin. You snort and nod. Dorian looks bemused at the action and his jaw practically drops when John holds out his pinky for yours. Grinning, you seal the promise.

“Just let me know what you wa--”

“Chicken and dumplings," he answers immediately.

You snicker at the quick response. “I should have known,” you sigh with a shake of your head.

Dorian is at a loss for words; he tries multiple times to add something but he can’t. He’s never seen his partner this relaxed and happy before (despite today’s events) and it's odd. However, it's a good kind of odd. John deserves happiness and that’s what you seem to make him.

Just friends, Dorian mentally scoffs, smiling to himself as you and John bicker about the best dishes you've made in the past. Something deep within Dorian’s circuits says that someday you’ll end up being so much more. The heated discussion becomes a bit louder and suddenly changes to whose fault it was in burning down a rental in Rio.

Dorian sighs. Maybe not today, but someday, he thinks ruefully before verbally stepping in to divulge how John once ate a slug in hopes to not offend an old Japanese man.

Tags:

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@writerdee1701

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"Only The Beginning" :

@dw-writes

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#almost human on fox #almost human #doom 2005 #john kennex x reader #john grimm x reader #john grimm #john kennex #reaper x reader #john kennex/reader #john grimm/reader #John Kennex is John Grimm #Reaper!Kennex #reader insert #hailey the queen of typos

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pilot-boi · 5 years ago

Text

Shouting In Cafes: Chapter Two

Downsides Of Revenge

If possible, second impressions go even worse. And this time, he doesn’t even have the excuse of being hungover. As much as he wished he was.

AO3 LINK

Neptune laid in bed, phone on his chest, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His hangover had finally worn off and he was starting to regret everything. Why had he initiated anything? He should’ve just acted passively annoyed and let the guy - Sun right? - figure out how much of a dick he was being by himself.

Why the hell did he tell him he had nice pecs?

He wasn’t in his right mind when he was hungover. That was apparent.

So, now he was debating whether he should actually call this girl and get one last blow in. It was a shady move. Using a girl for petty revenge. Was he really that kind of guy? What had Sun really done to him?

Neptune considered opening the bottle of replacement-wine he’d just bought.

No. Stop. He needed to stop. He wasn’t using a girl to get back at a guy he met once who kind of pissed him off. He needed to sleep. He needed to get his shit together.

He’d take care of it in the morning.

“Well, hello, sunshine.” Jaune greeted a drowsy, rumpled Neptune with a broom in his hand and a flower from one of his sisters stuck awkwardly into his blonde curls.

Morning light streamed through the windows of the empty coffee shop, the smell of fresh coffee and Jaune’s careful sweeps across the tile floor the only indication that the building was open. Neptune checked his watch. 7:05 AM. They didn’t get customers until around nine. They had some time to kill.

Neptune rubbed at the bags under his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Do I look that bad?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.” He shoved his card into the slot to clock in with a little more force than needed.

“Not enough sleep?”

“I went to bed at like nine but kept waking up in the middle of the night.”

“Nightmares?”

“Stress dreams, more like.”

“Are you still trying to be mad about that guy?”

“I’m not trying! And no. I don’t know.”

“Did you get your revenge?”

“I’m not going to sleep with somebody’s girlfriend out of spite. Even if she’s dating a douche. She seemed pretty nasty herself.”

“Hm. She did give you her number while she was on a date, didn’t she?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you even know her name?”

“No.”

“Well then, that settles that!” Jaune plucked the flower from his hair and tucked it behind Neptune’s ear, poking his friend in the eye in the process. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ll never see either of them again, anyway.”

Jaune’s soft smiles were one of the only things that could warm Neptune’s heart. He tried not to show any emotion other than general annoyance whenever he could, but Jaune never failed to see right through him. He appreciated that sometimes.

But right now, Neptune couldn’t tell if he wanted to be annoyed by Jaune’s optimism or not. He settled on giving him a soft smile. He tried harder than most people he knew. “Thanks, Jaune.”

“No problem. You’re on register today.”

“God dammit, Jaune.”

The day was slow. Slower than usual. By three in the afternoon, they had only had five customers. Neptune caught himself falling asleep a couple times while standing up, which could not be healthy. Had he done his homework? God, he didn’t remember. All he remembered doing last night was staring at his phone and contemplating whether he wanted to be an asshole or not.

No homework then. He could do it before class. After work. How much longer did he have?

The door opened. Shoes smacked against the floor.

“Welcome to The Daily Grind. What can I get for you to-”

It was the dickhead. And his girlfriend. Again.

Neptune took a breath. Cleared his throat. “Welcome to The Daily Grind. What can I get for you today?”

The guy- Sun? -hunched his bare shoulders up to his ears. He was wearing one of those tank tops that had nearly the entire side of them cut out of them so you got a healthy dose of chest no matter what angle you were looking on from. They were nice shoulders. He didn’t deserve nice shoulders.

Thankfully, his expression took away from his body. Cocky and whimsical and snarky, like he knew everything you didn’t. “What? Not hungover today? No sleazy remarks?”

God, he commented on how nice his pecs were yesterday, didn’t he? No. God, no, of God why. Why would he let him have the upper hand like that? Bad move, bad move. Wine did bad things to him. Never again. Or at least he’d settle for never that much.

Embarrassment flooded to his cheeks and he tried to choke it back down. “Could I please take your order.”

Sun forced his palms against the table, winking and flashing a toothy grin. “What? No guts now that you don’t have some booze in you?”

“I’m working. Please keep your voice down.” Neptune let himself wonder if Sun could ever be quieter than a jackhammer.

“You were working yesterday, too! But that didn’t stop you from saying that my pecs were nice!”

Neptune leaned forward. “I like complimenting a handsome man when I see one, but no matter how nice your body is, your personality reeks of frat boy and beer.”

Sun’s date appeared beside him, grinning at Neptune from ear to ear. Sun’s face melted into pouted lips and a worried brow, like Neptune had actually offended him. Neptune felt victorious for a moment, before more heat rose to his face.

He was at work. All three of their other customers were staring at him.

Neptune coughed and picked up some cups and a sharpie, staring straight at the plastic. “What will your orders be today?”

“Grande white mocha and a plain cappuccino,” Sun said.

“Right.”

There was a silent exchange of a credit card and a receipt. Neptune’s blush was finally fading away. Just as Sun and his date were walking away, Sun turned back around and asked, “Are you gay?”

Neptune tensed, mouth slack in shock. Finally he managed to stutter out, “Your order is almost ready, Sun.”

They stared at each other for a moment more before Sun spun on his heel and walked away.

“He asked me if I was gay,” Neptune said in a hushed voice, fingers pressed to his temples, head bowed to the floor. “Is this real life? Did someone just ask their fucking barista if they were gay?!”

“Were you acting gay?” Jaune asked.

“Jaune!” Neptune hissed, sounding scandalized.

“It’s a genuine question.”

“I said I liked complimenting handsome men. I kind of implied that he was a handsome man.”

“That’s pretty gay.”

“That’s not the point!” Neptune nearly yelled before gathering himself. “You don’t ask your barista if they’re gay! What?! No! You don’t do that. Who the hell does that? This guy, apparently!”

“Neptune.”

“I’m sorry, dude, but honestly what the fuck. I can’t believe this. Who acts like this?”

“Neptune, I understand, but calm down. Take a breath.”

“I have to retaliate.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m texting his girlfriend.”

“No, you’re not.”

Neptune pulled out his phone. “Then tell me what I’m doing right now.”

“Oh my god.”

He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out the crumpled straw wrapper, plugging in each digit into his phone. He thumbed the text icon and typed out a message.

Ocean Man: Hey this is the barista at the daily grind. I never caught your name.

“Sent it,” Neptune said and waggled the phone in front of Jaune’s face.

“I can’t believe you,” Jaune sighed.

“I’m probably going to regret this later.”

“You definitely are.”

They both watched as Sun’s date sipped her coffee, set it down, and looked at her phone. Sun was too engrossed in his own storytelling to notice the smile that pulled on her lips or how fast her thumbs typed on the keyboard.

A few seconds later, Neptune’s phone buzzed. Neptune puffed out a sigh. Guess he was doing this.

No Contact: Aria. And you?

Ocean Man: Neptune vasilias. Nice to meet you aria. Quick question. Why are you going out on a date with that guy? You dont seem to like him.

No Contact: He’s hot and he asked me out. Quickly finding that his personality sucks. You’re cuter. Wanna hang?

Neptune gave his phone a sour expression. No matter if the guy was a dick, you should at least finish the date before setting up a new one with someone else.

Jaune read over his shoulder. “Yikes.”

“Yeah.”

Neptune looked up and across the cafe to find Aria looking over her shoulder, smiling, and waving at him. No.

And Sun was glaring straight at him. No.

Was this what he wanted?

Sun stood up, nearly knocking his chair over backwards as he stomped back to the bar.

“Is this what you wanted?” Jaune asked, echoing his thoughts.

“What do you want exactly?” Sun questioned, pushing a finger into the middle of Neptune’s chest. “To piss me off? Is that why you’re flirting with my date in front of me?”

“Look. You might be an ass but she’s the one who gave me her number while you two were here yesterday. You might want to find someone who actually likes you.”

Neptune could hear Aria squeak in outrage from the other side of the cafe.

“Fine! But that doesn’t explain why you actually texted her!”

“I think I wanted to make you mad.”

“What the hell!”

“You asked me, your barista that you don’t know the name of, if I was gay!”

“You were acting pretty gay!” Sun exclaimed, as if that explained everything.

“So what?!”

“I dunno! But you obviously aren’t because you’re flirting with my date!”

“Why do you still care? She doesn’t like you!”

Jaune stepped to the side of Neptune. “Dude, you might wanna stop.”

Neptune didn’t stop. “I’m not having the best time right now! I got dumped two days ago, got painfully drunk and hungover and have had to deal with you repeatedly!”

“Neptune,” Jaune warned.

“You’re just a shitty frat boy! Why the hell are you in a tiny coffee house on a date at three in the afternoon?”

“I get free coffee here!” Sun yelled. Not that it made a difference, his only volume setting was yelling.

“No, you don’t, you id-”

“My mom owns this place!”

Neptune went quiet. He stared at the fury burning in Sun’s eyes, white teeth bared, flimsy tank top threatening to fall off.

For once, he had no words. Well almost no words. Thank you Mama Vasilias, for your words of wisdom for these troubling times. Words that had helped him through many hardships before. Words straight from the old country.

“Merda,” Neptune muttered, his eyes wide and his jaw hanging open.

#rwby #neptune vasilias #sun wukong #jaune arc #seamonkeys #mine #my writing #shouting in cafes #chapter 2 #writing wednesday #coffee shop rwby

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miss-choco-chips · 6 years ago

Text

Miraculous Ladybug Au part 1

For @iphoenixrising who I think might like the idea. Thanks for always giving me confidence hon. I hope this cheers you up a lil bit.

Where Dick is guilty for wanting what he wants, Jason is confused about who he wants, and Tim just wants to sleep.

<<-Hey, Tim, check this out! You missed big time! That’ll show you not to go on vacation without me to keep you in touch with the real, exciting world.

-Uh?

-Someone on Instagram just posted a twenty seconds clip of Robin doing something.

-People are always posting about the bats. How is this news, Steph?

-Shh, I’m getting there. Look at this. This Robin is waaay too short. It’s not the one we’ve had for the last three years.

-... and? There were two different Robins before him, maybe he just outgrew it or something.

-But, where is he? The others came back, with new names and powers, they�� they didn’t left us.

-Maybe it’s just taking him some time, to decide who is he going to be now.

-...Yeah, maybe. He saved me and my daughter once, you know. Took one hell of a blow for us. Wherever he is, I hope he’s doing okay, and gets himself on track quickly. The city needs him.

-I’m sure he’ll appreciate the sentiment. And… I hope that, too.>>

Now...

He tumbled through the open window, face planting into his bed, the transformation letting up even before his forehead was properly buried in the pillow. His muscles practically melting against his Nightwing comforter (birthday present from Dick, oh the irony), the scent of smoke still clinging to it from the last time the boys dropped in for a impromptu visit (nearly scaring the bejesus out of him when he heard their voices and footsteps climbing up the stairs to his bedroom while he still was in the suit, holy fuck-!).

He wanted to sleep so badly. But he had maybe (it was around five a.m, right?) two hours until he needed to leave for work, and if he took a nap now, he might not be able to wake up on time.

-Are you alright, Timmy?

Gathering whatever leftover strength he had in him, he turned his head to the side, his almost closed eyes finding the worried ones of his kwami.

-Yeah. Only tired.

-I’d bet -the little bird-like creature huffed, his tiny black and red chest puffing like an offended peacock-. You are running yourself too ragged.

-Well, lots of things to do. Work stuff, Red Robin stuff, Tim Drake stuff... Not to mention, college.

-Speaking of… -trailed off the kwami, his big blue eyes signaling towards the desk, where his Advanced Economic’s paper awaited for attention.

Tim followed Rouge’s line of sight and promptly groaned when he got the hint, dropping his head once again in the mattress.

-Fuuuuuck. When was that due for?

-Tomorrow. And you’re supposed to met up with Jason today, and dinner with Dick after that. If you cancel on any of them again...

-...Well, it’s not like I actually expected to get any sleep today.

-Two all nighters in a row?

-It’s like you read my mind.

----.----.----

Then...

He met Richard at the circus, when he was four, but since the other boy didn’t remember (his parent’s death probably overwrote anything else in his memory of that night), their official meeting happened two months later, when Dick was formally introduced to high society as Bruce Wayne’s ward.

-Mister Wayne -his father shook Bruce's hand, fake smile firmly in place- and this must be young Richard. Hi, champ, I'm Jack Drake, and this is my lovely Janet.

Behind his mother, Tim couldn't repress a giggle. Champ, dad? Really?

-Good evening, gentleman -his mother, the perfect picture of a lady, smiled delicately behind her gloved hand. It didn't reach her glacial blue irises, but it was enough to fool most businessmen in lowering their defenses.

Tim himself had eyes only for the boy clutching the taciturn billionaire's sleeve. He wondered how was he feeling, if he had tried to fly at all since his parents deaths. He hoped so.

Dick had looked so happy while flying.

—I'm Tim —he butted in, when it was obvious his father intended to speak business and leave the introductions behind them— A pleshure.

He winced internally when the last word was mispronounced, and externally when his mother's nails sank into his shoulder in consequence.

-You'll have to forgive him, he's a baby still -laughed his mother, her hand letting him go and reaching for his father’s elbow-. Go explore, Tim. Your dad has people he needs to talk to, all boring stuff. I’m sure it’s the same with Mister Wayne.

Said man seemed to agree, though how Tim knew, he couldn’t tell, as the man’s expression barely changed.

Dick, on the other side, seemed absolutely crestfallen.

And he knows, he knows he's going to get into trouble for this the moment they are home, but the expression in the boy’s face is just… He wants to wipe it clean, like his nanny does for him when he gets tomato sauce on his cheek.

(It's so different from how he looked that night, soaring the skies besides his parents. Had been so… free)

«Was it then, when he started to put Dick's happiness before his own?»

—Mister Wayne -he finally gathered enough courage to talk, going as far as to interrumput his father’s speech about current politics- can Richard come play with me? Please? We’ll behave.

Dick's small, thankful smile was enough to warrant Bruce's permission, and seal Tim's destiny away.

----.----.----

Now...

-Tiiiiiiimmmyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!

He regrets picking up without double checking the caller id. So strongly.

In defense of his sleep deprived brain, it was an unknown number. So either Dick had a new phone, was burrowing someone’s for any reason, or he had caught on on Tim’s attempt at taking distance, decided to try and catch him when he knew he had his defenses low (before eight a.m) and bought a burner to accomplish it.

-It’s six in the morning. You better have a damn good reason to be calling me so… chirpily, at this ungodly hour. You don’t even have to work till nine, why are you awake?

Because Nightwing, along with Red Robin, had been fighting an akumatized nurse not two hours ago. But, since Dick didn’t know Tim knew, his obvious response at such a close corner was to deflect with a practiced, not awkward-totally-but-still-noticeably laugh.

-Come on, honey, where’s my happy Timmers? Who spat in your cereal?

Rouge passed by his bathroom mirror, where Tim was inspecting his reflection in search of his will to live, and like the god-like tiny thing he was, he rubbed comfortingly against his partner’s cheek, as if lending him strength.

Tim sighed and put the phone in speaker, dropping it on the marble countertop. He wasn’t getting out of this conversation anytime soon, so might as well continue with his morning routine.

Tam once compared it to watching a snake changing skins. From the tired, more-than- slightly-murderous teen, to the wow-lookit-a-respectable-young-man.

-First, you ever call me that again, I’ll rearrange your face a la Picasso. Second, no one uses that expression. And lastly, only you eat that crap anyway.

-That’s a lie, I know for a fact you have at least two different brands in your kitchen, even though one is an insult to the cereal industry. Fiber, blegh.

-Because one is for you when you visit, and the other I bought on an impulse of spite to punish you for… I don’t remember now, but I’m sure it was horrible and deserving of drastic measures.

He could hear Dick’s laugh over the line. Once upon a time, the sound would make Tim’s mood lighten, like an echo of the other.

Now it hurt a little.

-You’re spending too much time with Jason and not nearly enough with me. You used to be such a sweet, eager to please angel. What happened?

-I asked your dad to let you play with me, and here I am, fourteen, fifteen years later, looking at my life, looking at my choices -and looking for his damn tie, which he swore he left by the toothbrush yesterday, where the fuck… - Asking myself where I went wrong.

-Yeah, now I remember why I never call you this early.

-About that, was there a reason, or you just wanted to take Jason’s place of honour in my hit-list?

Dick choked on a laugh, and Tim took the chance to quickly brush his teeth. His hair was a lost cause and he had learned to ignore it or risk spending too much time in a battle he wouldn't win. Easier to just ask Tam to brush it for him at the office, because that woman was a magician and Tim would fire the whole board of investor from D.I before letting her go.

-Just checking in. We are still on for movie night, right? Because I might just use my power as a law enforcer and arrest you if you cancel on me again.

With one last look at his reflection (making damn sure his concealer hid both the black and blue spot by his jaw and his ever-growing eye bags), he picked up his phone and started for the kitchen. Rouge, bless his little soul, had plugged in the coffee maker, and the smell called to him like light to a moth.

And there was his tie, by the pot. Score.

-Movie night? -he asked, dubiously, glancing at his kwami. Rouge’s brow furrowed and he shook his head- No, we were going out for dinner. I’m sure.

-It’s Tuesday. Tuesdays were always movie night days. I thought it was implied, Timmy, for God’s sake.

Tuesday were movie night days back when they were five and eleven respectively, even before Jason was adopted, up until Dick started getting busier and calling it quits more often than not. It had been a while since they followed the tradition.

-Uhm, no, sorry. I have a paper due tomorrow, and was going to work on it after dinner with you. Can’t stay the night at your place. Rain check?

-...Yeah. Okay, sure. But you aren’t getting out of dinner.

He could hear Dick’s disappointment over the line. Once upon a time, the sound would ruin Tim’s mood, like an echo of the other.

Now, it still hurt a little.

(More than a little. Fuck)

It’d be easier if he could just cut ties with them all as Tim Drake. If he could get up and leave them, betray their trust, their love.

Like Nightwing had done with Red Robin. Or, to be fair, Robin.

----.----.----

Then…

Tim had known of the Akumas since… forever, really. They had been haunting Gotham long before he was born, hurting people, destroying things, breaking everything in their reach apart.

And then, when he was but a baby, the Batman appeared. Mrs Mac, the housekeeper, told him about it once. How, when the city was going through it’s darkest times, a knight of shadows and justice had risen, taking upon himself the responsibility of protecting the city.

Protecting everyone, really.

He, as any gothamite born and raised, had watched in wonder at whatever recordings the News Channels could provide, talked theories with his friends, stayed up at night wondering who the magic hero might be…

Until said magic hero recruited a sidekick, and Tim stayed up at night for totally new reasons.

(He’d recognize those moves, those tricks, but above all else, that laugh, anywhere)

He wanted so badly to knock at Wayne Manor’s doors, hunt down Bruce and fucking scream at him. Akumas were dangerous, whoever sent them was dangerous, fucking Gotham was dangerous, and Dick was his friend. His thirteen year old friend, who had been a hero for years before the lucky camera man had caught him on frame, revealing the mysterious partner to the world. And while Tim was a kid himself, barely seven, he was smarter than tons of adults he knows. Smarter than Bruce, at least, since he, unlike the other, understood the dangers of the night. Of Gotham herself.

He got as far as the inner gym, where Dick was practicing by the trapezius, flying from end of the room to the other, spinning, twisting mid air, laughing when the roof got too close to his face in one of the highest jumps. And then (maybe because he caught sight of Tim watching by the door, maybe he wanted to show off just a little, maybe he wanted to tell him something and this was the only way to properly express it...), a quadruple somersault, the one he performed for Tim that first night -even if he doesn’t remember that-, the one Robin was caught on camera doing, the one that gave him away.

And Tim, caught in his amazement of the boy, unable to take away this if it was what gave him his wings back, could only clap and yell ‘again!’.

----.----.----

Now...

-You look like death warmed over -greeted Tam when he passed by her desk in his way to his office. Like the well trained boy he was, he detoured, dropping in the empty chair by her side she always had ready for him. Within a second, his assistant took a hairbrush from her purse and started to work her magic in his head.

-Didn’t sleep and had to deal with a morning person before seven. You’d look just as bad, thank you very much.

-Dick called?

He huffed. Rouge, in the inner pocket of his jacket, pressed closer to him for the movement. He stilled immediately, knowing the kwami needed all the sleep he could get.

-That obvious?

-You don’t associate with a lot of morning people.

-There’s something inherently wrong with them, if they are happy that early.

-One of your best friends is like that -Tam tutted, working on a specially difficult knot. Tim didn’t dare complain, even when the tug to his scalp made him wince.

-Bart is a special case, he lives in a perpetual state of high. I still believe he takes cocaine and redbull with his breakfast.

She hummed, hairbrush now discarded in favour of her fingers. They passed through his hair without resistance, his bedhead (could it be called that, when he hadn’t actually slept?) all but gone, the movements soothing. There weren’t a lot of things capable to relax him, these days.

-Well, you have an eleven o’clock appointment with a possible investor, but between that and the board meeting at three, you are a free man. I can make sure no one bothers you while you cat nap.

-I’d love to, but Jason will come and drag me out of here kicking and screaming if I miss lunch with him. Or worse, he might find me asleep and princess carry me all the way to the restaurant in plain view of as many cameras as he can as punishment.

Tam shook her head in amusement and fondness, releasing his hair and straightening on her chair, her ‘back to business’ pose- I’ll never understand your relationship with those boys, I swear.

A sigh, roll of shoulders and he was ready to face the day too.

-Neither will I.

-But you’ll miss them, if they leave.

A flash of something passes through his eyes.

----.----.----

Then...

-I miss you. Don’t you miss me?

Dick, sixteen in body but about five in soul pouted at the screen of his computer, trying to convey the ‘mean, little brother!’ expression as perfectly as possible.

Tim snorted through his nose, getting comfortable on the bed; the notebook on his lap, back to the headboard of the too-big matres, pillows everywhere.

-I can use your bed whenever you go away, so I’ll go with a tentative ‘maybe’. ‘sides, you’ve been gone for two months, Dick. The exchange program goes for seven to eight. Give me another one or so, and I’ll be crying for you to come back.

-That’s an ugly lie, but I appreciate the effort -a change of stance, then the voice turned utterly blank- How are things over there?

Tim bites his lip, wondering, but what would he gain hiding it? If Dick already knew, he would expect Tim, as a young kid, to mention it. If he didn’t, he would find out soon enough and wonder why he didn’t tell him.

-You know how for the last few months Robin just… stopped appearing?

-...yeah?

-Well, he came back a few days ago, and either he shrunk, or it’s someone else.

Dick’s expression doesn’t change, so Tim knows he made the right call telling him; he was already aware.

-Oh? Another kid, putting his life in danger? I wonder what those child activists think about it.

-Keep asking for Batman’s head on a platter, like usual. I think it helps that this one isn’t as small as the previous one was when he first appeared, but, you know. Still setting on fire Batman merchandise in the streets.

-The original Robin wasn’t small. You are small.

-Reaaally mature, Dick. Since when are you in Robin’s protection squad?

-Always been my favorite hero.

Self centered, much?

-Hm… And what about the new one?

-...Let’s wait and see if he can fill the shoes.

-Lucky for him, they’re just kid shoes, no clown ones.

A small, real smile steals his way into Dick’s face, and Tim wants to throw a happy fist to the air.

He lives for that smile.

-You are a dork. Anything else new?

Again, uncertainty, but this one was easier to explain if detected. After all, Dick was aware of how uncomfortable was Tim in his new position as the mediator.

-Jason’s adapting. His grades went up and…

-Oh, look at that. Sorry, Timmers, I gotta go. My roommate is texting me that he wants to hang out.

-Oh… okay. Are we… are we face timing for movie night later? right?

-Yeah, yeah, sure -he waved a hand, as if discarding Tim, and he just knew Dick was going to forget about it… again-. Go have fun. Your parents are still traveling, right? Give Bruce a few white hairs while you’re at the Manor for me. I think he might get bored, without me there to spice things and kickstart his nervous system once an hour. The life of a businessman is soooooo dull.

(Except when said business man is practically a magical girl. God, once Stpeh had made that comparison, Tim just couldn’t unsee it)

He tries to laugh, but it’s empty. He won’t push the issue, and Dick won’t talk about it willingly, but they are both aware of the elephant in the room.

-Wouldn't dream of taking your place as the ever-evolving ulcer in his stomach. Take care. Bye.

He closed the computer lid and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. The situation made him uneasy. It was hard, being Dick’s loyal, loving little brother, Bruce’s unproblematic charge (since his parents decided that letting Tim stay with Wayne during their trips was cheaper than the nanny and housekeeper), and Jason’s-

-Hey, Baby Bird, you done talking to the jackass?

He nearly jumped out of his skin, neck almost breaking with how quickly he turned to face the door.

-Jason! -the automatic smile, brought to fore by the mere sight of his friend in workout clothes (he must have been training) melt into a frown when the words sank in- Don’t be a jerk.

-He’s a dick, pun unintended.

-Cut him some slack, it’s the ‘no more single child’ symptom. He’s just jealous to have to share Bruce’s attention.

-Ain’t he a little too old for that?

-I don’t think ‘old’ is a word you could ever use to describe Dick. Ever. I mean, he’ll be retired and have like twenty grandchildren, and still give off the ‘young, single and ready to mingle’ vibe.

The laugh is so sudden, so surprising, Jason chokes on his own spit.

-You’re a riot. Why do I like you, again?

-Because if not for me, you’ll be alone in this big, scary house, with only Alfred and Bruce for company.

-Alf’s cool.

-Yeah, but he’ll put you to do chores if he thought you’re bored enough to get up to some mischief.

-Sometimes you talk like an 90’s British book.

-Shut up, Harry Potter is my Bible. Besides, not like you can talk about british literature.

Another laugh, and the last of Jason’s tension faded away like a charm. Tim left the computer on the bedside table and stretched, getting up.

-Come on, let’s go find some way to make your Dad rethink his life choices.

-Fuck French, you speak the language of love.

----.----.----

Now...

It was on his way to that new Barbeque on Cameron Street, northwest from Diamond district, when the ground beneath his feet shifted and he and another fifteen passers-by were caught in what seemed like an asphalt cage.

In the middle of the street. With no corner to hide and transform.

Great.

There wasn’t any villian in sight, so the akumatized person probably had just wanted some back up hostages. Most likely, they weren’t the only ones trapped.

And that in the corner was a street cam. Fuck.

He needs to get out and help catch the bad guy of the day, but can’t exactly break asphalt with his bare hands, and transforming in front of fifteen eyewitnesses and a camera isn’t exactly an option.

So, he takes out his phone.

-What’ll you do? -comes the whisper from within his jacket, and he looks down just enough to look at his kwami without drawing attention at himself.

-Well, at this rate I’m going to be late for lunch. It’d be rude of me if I don’t tell Jay about it -he types quickly while he talks, making sure the annoyed (and it always stuns Conner, his friend from metropolis, how Gothamites consider freaks and monsters running around a minor inconvenience; how used to crazy they are) people around him aren’t paying his actions enough attention-. There. Sent.

-Hope he’s not mad at you.

-He can't be, I didn't postpone anything. Just told him I'll be held up here until Red Hood gets his ass on gear and does his job.

-Should you text Dick as well?

-Nah, that'd be too much of an overkill.

-...

-...How long until he comes guns blazing to the rescue?

-Two, three minutes tops.

It was the basis of his and Jason's relationship, the knowledge that, if in peril, they could always count on the other to come running to either save them or hold their hands while everything went to shit.

----.----.----

Elsewhere…

-Hm… the little shit is taking his time. Think I should go get him?

The kwami popped her head out of the bike helmet Jason had left in the extra chair he requested for the table. She seemed deeply unimpressed.

-okay, okay, I'll give him five more minutes. Then, it's fair game.

A sudden ping called his attention to the cell phone carelessly left above the tablecloth. It was the most obnoxious sound he could think of, and was as such his ringtone for the young man he was actually waiting for. It was a sound he couldn't ignore, or sleep over it.

BabyBird:

^Hey Jay, might be a little late for lunch

-That little…

Another ping.

BabyBird:

^Got held up on my way there, some akuma caged me and other fifteen people. Don’t know how long until one of the masks comes to the rescue

^Lol, some woman doesn't give a DUCK and just keeps fighting with someone over the phone about someone named Jerry

Ping.

BabyBird:

^update; Apparently Jerry is her son and she's fighting her ex.

Another ping, quickly following the former.

BabyBird:

^...I'm going to kill either you or Dick. Who programmed my phone to replace all swear words? You motherHUGGERS.

He was out of the door before the last text actually sank in and, by the time he ducked behind a corner, was already laughing.

-Tireur, arm me up!

----.----.----

Then…

He didn’t care who he pushed or tripped on his way to Jason’s room. He wasn’t hearing their screams and complaints. The sound he heard when turning left on the next corner might have been a paparazzi’s camera, or an IV stand he knocked down in his haste, but, again, it wasn’t important at the moment.

The only thing in his head right now, was the echo of that psychotic laughter, of Batman’s screams, of his own gasp when the news coverage showed footage of Robin, bloodied and hurt, trying to get away from a building about to blow up… and failing.

The full blown panic attack that followed made him hyperventilate so bad he actually lost consciousness, only to wake up to the sound of his phone going off and Alfred’s voice on the line telling him how Master Jason, along some other victims, had been caught in the same explosion the Joker, the clown that got akumatized every other week, caused. The same that took Robin out.

He refrained from yelling at Alfred to not lie to him, he already knows who Robin is and who he was before. He knows everything, so don't lie to him, not about something as serious as this…! But only because it was Alfred, and no one yelled at him.

Instead, he asked for updates, still on his phone while running to Wayne Manor, where the butler was ready to give him a lift to the hospital.

Jason was just asleep, they told him, like he was too young and naive to hear the truth. His body needed time to get better, so his head had taken a little vacay.

He was just asleep, the doctors said. All the while Tim kept running numbers in his head, statistics on how likely it was for comatose patients to wake up.

But Jason wasn’t another statistic. He was his friend, his brother, his hero.

Robin. His Robin. The one he watched from the very beginning, the one he discretely helped easing into the hero life by being always there, to unwind after a fight or hang out when the dangers of the life he lead hounded up on him.

The sobs he tried so hard to reign in were now freely bursting out of his dry lips.

When Tim cried, it usually was a quiet thing, tears rolling down marble cheeks, not a sound escaping his mouth. A cry for help from a child who knew no one would come running at the sound of his pain. A resigned thing.

There, at Jason’s bedside, clasping the boy’s hand on his own, what came out of his chest through his mouth was a full out, loud, broken wail.

The next couple of days were kind of a blur to him. He was aware that, at some point, Mister Wayne had tried to coax him away from the room and to his home. He knows, too, that had his parents been there to witness his hysterical tantrum, he would have been grounded until it was time for him to leave for college. Every few hours, Alfred would came and feed him small bits of food. Sometimes he threw up, sometimes he didn't. It was like tossing a coin on that one.

He thinks it’s a week later, but it could very well be a month, when he weaseled his way into Jay’s bed, careful of the IVs attached to his arms, and spoke out loud for probably the first time since the explosion.

-You don’t have to keep hiding. I know about you. About how… you gave Dick, and then Jay, their powers. I… I know I’m not the only one grieving, so if you want, we could… keep each other company.

A few moments passed by. It was okay. Tim wasn’t going anywhere.

Then, a small green and yellow head poked out of Jason’s pillowcase, big blue eyes staring at Tim in wonder and wariness.

-...how?

-Dick’s not nearly as inconspicuous as he believes he is. I already knew he was Robin, but couldn’t figure out how exactly did he get his powers… Until one day, he thought I was asleep, and transformed in the bathroom attached to the room I was in. Doofus didn’t even completely close the door.

The little thing laughed, like a bell. Tim borrowed deeper into Jay’s side.

-My name is Merle, Robin’s kwami.

-I’m Tim. Robin’s friend.

----.----.----

Now…

Red Hood arrived at the scene in record time. He was almost impressed.

Once there, the masked hero drew his guns, loading each of them with a brown and gold magazine. As far as Tim understood, Hood’s powers derived from his firearms, and he had different kind of bullets for specific situations.

He shot at strategic points in the asphalt cage, crumbling it to the ground. Coincidently, none of those points were near the corner were Tim was crouched. Typical.

-Is everyone alright? -asked the hero, once the dust had settled and they were free.

A few nods, some ‘thanks for the save’ then and there, the occasional ‘any clue where the Akuma is? I’d like to avoid it today’, and then the people scattered. A woman strode past Red Hood, phone at hand, yelling something about child support.

Tim took his time getting up, straightening his tie and running his fingers through his hair in an attempt at controlling the strands again.

-Hey -the masked man approached him, concern palpable in his tone- you alright, Tim?

It said something about his life as Tim Drake, that he was on first name basis with Gotham’s heroes.

-Yep, just hungry. I was on my way to have lunch with my friend, so I’ll be leaving now.

He saw the anxiety flash through Hood’s expression at the mention, remembering that Tim was expecting to see his alter ego at the restaurant, but he still had an Akuma to catch.

-Ah, wait! You mean, that Jason dude, right?

-Yeah?

Tim wondered if it made him a sadist, the satisfaction he got from making Jason, Dick or Damian squirm like this, putting them on the fence with his ‘innocent’ worry about their alter egos.

-I saw him on m’way here, actually. Said somethin’ came up, and he’s gonna take a raincheck on lunch.

He let the tiniest bit of disbelief slip into his facade, before seemingly deciding to trust the masked man.

-Oh, what a shame. I’ll be very busy the next couple of weeks, it’s going to be a while before we can meet up again.

-That.. that sucks. But, ah, ‘m sure he’ll get it. I gotta go now, kid. See ya around.

He watched Hood’s retreating back as he shot a line at the nearest rooftop. Perfect, since now he’d have the time to transform and catch up with him to help with the Akuma as Red Robin. If Tim Drake got the chance at skipping bonding time with Jason? Even better.

He wasn’t mad at Jason, the way he was at Dick’s alter ego, Nightwing. Jay never hurt him, never casted either him nor Red Robin out (exception made for the very first encounters they had as heroes, back when he still used the Robin miraculous).

But, since his alter ego had slept with Jason’s, he figured he had every reason to feel a little shy.

----.----.----

Then…

-You never tried to get to know him -he said, and it wasn’t a reproach, just a fact. Nevertheless, Dick still cringed in place, bending in on himself like a kid sent to time out.

-I… I know.

-He is just a kid Bruce saw something in. Like you, a kid who needed someone to see his brightest parts, and take him in to give him a chance at a better future.

-I know.

-He’s… he’s a very good person. Really smart, loyal and caring.

-I… know. You told me.

-You are/ Dick, you are one of the best people I know, if not THE best. Why would you treat an innocent kid like the gum stuck in your shoe?

Dick squirms in his place by the door, not daring to get closer to the bed where both Tim and Jason laid, but obviously wanting. Not that it mattered. Jason wouldn’t want him so close by, specially at his most vulnerable, and Tim was nothing if not the ferocious dragon protecting the sleeping Prince’s will, his surname all too fitting.

-Just… It’s just stupid, okay? And it doesn’t matter now. All that matters, is that he gets better. And if… when, he wakes up, I’ll explain it to him.

Dick wouldn’t be able to see him, because of the angle, but Tim catched the yearning and sad look Merle, hiding between Jason’s covers, sent his oldest partner. The little fairy (kwami, Tim reminded himself), his companion this last weeks in guarding Jason’s room, seemed as troubled as Tim had been when he was expected to mediate between the two adopted brothers.

-But not me.

There was something a little dark, a little sad and a little empty in Dick’s eyes. For the first time ever, he didn’t feel the compulsion to fill that void with happiness.

-I don’t think I can stomach telling you, BabyBird.

----.----.----

Now…

He intercepts Red Hood two blocks away from Newtown, still in Crime Alley territory but close enough to the other neighborhood. Since D.I was by Moench Row, just between the Fashion and Diamond districts, it took some time to catch up on the hero.

The fight is well in its final course when he arrives. The Bat is here, which means Red Hood is content on just sharpshooting from a close by rooftop. N and R are missing, but Tim already knew they would be: it’s not Dick’s patrol time, and R must be at school.

As the independent vigilantes, neither Red Robin nor Red Hood follow Batman’s patrol routes nor schedules. For the later, it means he can choose to stay close to the Bowery, Crime Alle and Chinatown, where he feels he’s more useful. For himself, it means he doesn’t have someone putting a hand to his shoulder and mandating down time after a few consecutive hard patrols.

When he was Robin, he wasn’t allowed to fight during school hours, nor after three a.m. If there was some kind of emergency that required all hands on dock, it meant almost a week of taking things slow, because even if B didn’t know his nightlife protege was also his daylife charge, he would never leave a kid under his protection unsupervised enough to hurt themselves. Now, he can choose whenever the fuck he wants to help, and when he feels like leaving the others to deal with it (watching from afar how Dick and Jason dealt with a akuma with the powers of body switching people, and how the heroes had to improvise working with bodies and powers that didn’t suit them, had been too funny to actually put any effort to stop).

Shaking his head to clear it from the memories, he landed softly by Hood’s side, careful to not startle the hero laying on his stomach by the edge of the roof, with a long-distance rifle ready to go on his hands.

-Ya came all t’way here for nothin, Pretty Bird. The old man has it all in hand.

Letting himself fall at the edge, legs dangling and resting his weight on his arms behind him, he allows his gaze to travel through the skyline of buildings. It was a nice view, for those used to the air pollution and angry drivers yelling a few stories bellow.

-Had lunch cancelled, thought I might as well.

Hood grunts, shifting his stance to a less alert one. B clearly didn’t need their help.

-I had fucking plans, man. If B wasn’t in the fucking way, I’d put a bullet through the bastard, see if he lets himself get akumatized again.

Tim crooked his head to the side, analyzing the crazy of the hour.

-It’s a new one, though. I don’t recognize him. Probably his first time getting transformed?

-It’s already one too many. Our lives are just as shitty as anyone’s in the city, and you don’t see us fucking shit up.

-To be fair, we get our chances at therapeutic skull smashing when we keep those guys in check.

A few feet under them, Batman’s batarang was already boomeranging past the former akumatized transit police woman, slicing through the black and green butterfly and setting free the white and pink one trapped inside it.

And he hadn’t needed to move a single muscle. Sighing in defeat (he sooo could have used this time to power nap before his next meeting at work), he climbed to his feet.

-Seems like you were right, we shouldn’t have bothered to come. See ya, Hoo/

-Hey -interrupted the other, suddenly standing, rifle out of sight and way too deep into Tim’s personal bubble-, since we r' both here… no energy lost… n' we didn’t use our miraculous, so no chance of us de-transformin' suddenly…

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Hood, please don’t say it.

-One of my safe spot’s near. Want ta come for a cup of tea?

Don’t play along. Don’t play along. Goddammit, Tim, Don’t play along.

He takes that last step separating them, hands carefully delineating the outline of Hood’s suit of armor.

-You know I don’t drink your dirty leaf-water.

The other hero’s hands were big enough, they could almost completely envelope his waist, something never failed to arouse him.

-Good. Then we can go straight to the cake.

All the way to Hood’s (Jason’s) secret apartment, Tim berated himself, again and again, about how bad of an idea this was. How fucked up (in both senses, oh my god) was he going to be by the end of it. How uncomfortable was it going to be for him to actually talk to the man when the masks came out and Jay was looking at his best friend, not knowing he had had his tongue on his mouth, his neck, deep inside his ass. Not knowing why Tim was suddenly avoiding him.

Why he felt so goddamned guilty.

But, once they arrived to the place, and his back was to the wall not two seconds later, Hood’s strong body pressed tight against his, hands grabbing anything they could, mouth hot and dirty and doting…

He could only throw his head back and moan.

----.----.----

Then...

The city was in absolute chaos. From his place by Jason’s windowsill, Tim winced at the fiery remnants of the last explosion (by the library? It could have also been the post office), the hospital one of the few places untouched by the madness that was Gotham right now.

In his hands, his smartphone kept him up to speed about what was taking place on the streets. Apparently, the patients at Arkham Asylum had been akumatized again, only at the same fucking time. The Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy and Two Faces so far. Apparently, the first two had already been apprehended and de transformed, and the third was calm and unobtrusive at Robinson Park, but since they had kept the Bat focused on them until now, that meant the last of the lot had enough time to completely cover the city in bombs.

Which exploded two at a time, every two hours and twenty two minutes. There was a serious OCD there.

Perched on Tim’s propped up knee, Merle’s sky blue eyes danced from one burning spot to the other, shining like little red and yellow dots on the map that was Gotham from such a height.

-The library -quietly commented the kwami.

-And the Museum -Tim added, fingers tapping the location on the screen of the phone, on the downloaded blueprints of the city.

-Before that, it was the park.

-And the Aquarium.

-And the first two where the Zoo…

-...and planetarium.

-Why those places?

Minutes were ticking by. Bombs kept going off, unpredictable locations being blown up with everyone inside with them. Batman and Nightwing, Gotham’s newest hero, were running themselves ragged, trying to contain the damage and stop the villain. Batgirl worked with the authorities to keep buildings standing, her Eye of Insight (which, Tim was now aware, was her Miraculous) determining the most flimsy spots in the structures, the ones they needed to reinforce before the entire thing crumbled down.

And Tim was here, at the hospital, hearing the nurses and doctors doing their best to save everyone from being a casualty of the akuma’s violence, useless to both his family and the innocents from Gotham that were most likely going to die today.

(Everything because Bruce couldn’t think straight)

-Kids, Merle -he answered, his phone going, once again, to the billionaire's voicemail-. Those are all places where kids like to go, or have to. If he keeps the timeline, the next attack would be at two twenty two a.m, and it’s going to be…

-Gotham’s kindergarten? -the little creature tried to guess. It wasn’t too far off, since, judging by how many witnesses on twitter swore to have spotted the bat at Gotham’s primary school, B thought the same.

But it was wrong.

(Everything because, since Jason died, Bruce stopped thinking about the akumatized people as… people. People with minds of their own. With feelings)

-The orphanage.

(Horrible and twisted feelings, but feelings after all)

-We have to stop him!

-How? B isn’t picking up. Neither is Alf. Dick’s phone is at my house where he left it yesterday. I have no other way to contact them. And Bruce is so deep in his rage because of Jason’s accident, he’s so desperate to hurt something, he’s being impulsive. Reckless. He’s not going to think about orphans until it’s too late.

-We can’t just stay here! -Merle cried out, desperate at the sight of his city in flames, of one of his boys out there risking his life, and the other fighting for it in the bed behind their backs.

-Well, what would you have me do? -Tim finally snapped, standing from the windowsill and turning to face the kwami- I can’t just take a bus to Gotham’s school and yell at B to move his ass!

-Yes you can! You have to!

-I’ll never make it in time! There’s no vehicle that could dodge the shitstorm that must be the streets now, and unless you have some way for me to travel via rooftops, I would never make it there! I can’t help anyone! I’m not Robin!

When no reply came, Tim’s eyes, that had strayed to the window again, looked for the kwami.

Merle floated right in front of him, face determined, eyes pleading. He held a too familiar necklace, that almost every boy and girl wore as an ode to their hero. A green ‘R’, encircled in red, on a golden chain.

Robin’s necklace.

-But you could be. If you take this and fly with me, you could be. Gotham needs a hero. Batman needs a Robin. Your family needs you.

On the little screen, the reporters said something about Nightwing being hurt by a burning beam falling on him.

He made the decision before he could even think about it.

-Merle, help me fly.

Robin soared the skies again.

#my writing #i can't believe i did this #i'm so tired #i did this instead of sleeping #Tim Drake #dick grayson #Jason Todd #bruce wayne #stephanie brown #Barbara gordon #Miraculous Ladybug au #Batman is a magical girl #No edit we die like women #no beta #JayTim #future TimDick #future JayTimDick #secret identity

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amillionsmiles · 6 years ago

Text

checking (you) out (Pidge/Lance)

Summary: Katie works the tech desk at the university library. Lance never remembers to wipe his memory card before returning the camera equipment, which is how she becomes intimately familiar with his life via, of all things, his vlogs. A/N: finally get to post this in full! Written for @plance-zine ; it was wonderful to be part of such a project, and shoutout to the mods for keeping everything running smoothly! :)

[Read and review here] or continue under the cut.

People, Katie has decided, are predictable. Watch them for long enough, and their everyday motions start to read like clockwork. At 9 AM on Thursdays, she shows up for her shift behind the library’s tech desk. At 9:20, the girl with space buns and an artfully distressed jean jacket strides in, heading straight for one of the study pods. At 9:25, somebody blows through the doors in a last-minute effort to print materials for their 9:30 class. And at 10:50, ten minutes before Katie’s shift ends, Lance McClain shows up, laboring under the weight of a camera bag, backpack, and tripod.

Katie reaches for the scanner as Lance puffs his way toward her, depositing the tripod on the table with a heavy clunk. It takes him another minute to locate his student ID card: he checks the pocket of his cargo jacket first (not there—it never is) before wriggling his fingers into his jean pocket instead. When he hands the plastic over, it’s warm from being pressed against his thigh.

Katie spares it a passing glance as she pulls up the ‘Equipment Return’ form, filling in the requisite information.

“You’re good to go.” She gives him a thumbs-up, careful not to look him straight in the eye.

“Cool, thanks.” Flashing a bright grin, Lance backpedals toward the doors, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

Once he’s disappeared completely from view, Katie unzips the camera bag. She flicks the dial to on and goes straight to display mode. Sure enough, the schmuck hasn’t bothered wiping the memory card.

Smirking, Katie kicks her feet up on the table and leans back in her chair.

Let the entertainment begin.

o.O.o

Lance McClain does not know her name, and Katie is completely content with this. She applied for her gig at the tech desk specifically because it required minimal human interaction. Nobody expects her to make conversation; they just want to check out equipment and leave. Occasionally she has to troubleshoot a printer jam or direct tourists to the bathrooms; most of the time, though, she just does her homework and gets paid.

Still, when someone visits at least twice a week, it’s hard not to notice. The first time Lance left recording footage behind on the camera had sparked her interest, and from there it wasn’t too hard to find his YouTube channel, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Which was how she knew that he was a second-year bio major with a side-job at the Starbucks in the Garrison, the student union, and in his free time he liked to record himself attempting to do stunts with his skateboard, if not narrating a funny story about his day or answering the call of things like the Cinnamon Challenge.

Katie and Keith had gotten halfway through that video before Keith closed her laptop.

“I can’t watch you do this to yourself,” Keith said, shaking his head. “Katie, you’re too good for him.”

“I’m hate-watching!” Katie justified, attempting to wrestle her Chromebook from Keith’s grip.

“You know way too much about him to just be ‘hate-watching,’” said Keith, making air quotes with his left hand. “You have his student ID number memorized.”

Katie glared. She regretted letting that piece of information slip. Memorizing Lance’s ID hadn’t even been intentional—it’d only happened because of how many times she’d typed his information into the system during checkout.

“You go to office hours just so you can breathe the same air as your TA for an extra 120 minutes,” she retorted. “You don’t get to lecture me on sad.”

Anyways. All of this is to say that despite what Keith thinks, she does not have a weird, borderline crush-fascination with Lance. And when she stumbles into Green Library’s 24-hr study room at 3 AM to work on a CS project, he’s the last person she’s expecting to see.

Lance is slouched in a swivel chair, earbuds plugged into the desktop in front of him. One dangles loosely around his neck, the other shoved in his ear. Upon hearing someone else enter, he lurches to attention. Katie pretends not to notice—she fully intends to sit on the other side of the room—but Lance doesn’t give her the chance.

“Hey! You’re tech-desk girl!”

It’s a dumb nickname. Definitely not something to get excited about, and Katie schools her features to reflect that. She’s above all… this. Unaffected. “I have a name.”

A quirk of the lips. Lance somehow manages to hook an ankle around the chair closest to him and spins it so the seat faces toward her, an offering. “Wanna tell it to me?”

It’s uncannily close to the Pick-up Line Challenge video he posted to his account a month ago. Katie tries not to think too hard about that.

“What’s in the thermos?” she asks instead, setting her backpack down and warily accepting the chair.

“Redbull and coffee.” Lance’s leg bounces under the table, fingers tapping a jittery rhythm on the keyboard. “Wanna try some?”

“No thanks. It sounds unholy.”

“Oh, it is. Definitely a personal low, but sometimes you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.” As he gulps his strange concoction, Lance’s face wrinkles, throat flexing as if he’s swallowed a frog. “God, this is like… sacrilege for me.” His voice lowers, confiding. “I’m a barista.”

“I know,” blurts Katie. Immediately after, she freezes, hoping that the comment will drop unnoticed.

No such luck. Lance raises an eyebrow, questioning. A strange light has entered his eyes; by admitting that she’s paid attention to him, Katie has suddenly become the sole focus of his attention.

How much to admit? Best to be blunt—rip it off like a bandaid. The best defense is offense, and all that.

“You never delete your videos off the camera before you return it,” she says.

Whatever explanation Lance had been anticipating, this one catches him off guard. His face contorts as he tries to process the information. “I—my videos?”

It’s almost too easy, slipping into the impersonation. “Hey guys, it’s ya boi Lance, and today I’ll be—”

“Okay, okay.” Lance waves his hands, cutting her off. “Please do not continue.”

“I thought you’d be flattered hearing your own lines back at you.”

“Not like that, it’s weird! You make me sound like a tool.” He sighs. “Well, now I’m disappointed.”

Katie frowns. “Why?”

“I don’t know! I thought it’d be cool if you knew stuff about me because I was like, your secret Starbucks crush or something.” At this, he shoots her a hopeful look.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“We sell other stuff. Also, you still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Katie,” she finally relents, breaking eye contact to pull her laptop out of her bag. When she looks over again, Lance is resting his chin on his hand, staring at her thoughtfully.

“What.”

“So does this mean you subscribe to my YouTube channel?”

“No.”

Lance pouts. “Why not?”

“I like the raw footage better. It’s funnier. Like the first take of the spicy noodle challenge, where you spewed milk out of your nose? Classic.” She cranes her neck to look over his shoulder. “What are you working on, anyways?”

“Nothing!” Lance pushes his body between her and the screen, the broad line of his back blocking her view.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing if you’re being like that.”

“Hey, haven’t you heard about this thing called privacy? 4th Amendment! Search and seizure! Gimme back the mou— ow!”

Years of wrestling with Matt has made Katie adept at underhanded maneuvers; with Lance still rubbing his side from where she pinched him, she takes control of the mouse and opens up the window he’d minimized earlier. Onscreen, several scenes are being recolored and spliced together; she recognizes the footage from earlier today.

“Do you always make your videos on the school computers?”

“I have my own laptop. It’s just shitty and will only run like, 2 programs at a time, and all that’s being directed towards a stats project right now.” Lance eyes her sideways. “Hey, what major are you? Or, wait—are you a freshman? Have you even declared yet—”

“I’m a sophomore. Computer science and math.”

“Ah, the double major.” Lance nods, then puffs out his chest. “Guess what I am.”

Common sense tells Katie that she should play dumb. Let him have the satisfaction of correcting her. But her overwhelming need to prove she knows things wins out.

“Pre-med bio.”

Lance blinks. “Wow, first guess.” His surprise turns sly. “You do have a crush on me.”

Katie rolls her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. All it takes is a quick LinkedIn search.”

“Yeah, but you only fully read through someone’s LinkedIn when you’re a) hiring or b) evaluating their bae potential. It’s okay—” he holds up a hand, cutting off her protest, “—I’m honored, truly.”

“You’re ridiculous.” This entire interaction has gone so far off the rails, she doesn’t know how to begin redirecting it. Lance, meanwhile, shifts focus easily, pulling a camera out of his backpack and popping the lens cap off with practiced ease. The next thing Katie knows, it’s pointed at her, Lance narrating: “You’ve heard of Sleepless in Seattle, but we’re here with Sleepless in the Study Room, guest-starring my new friend Katie!”

“What—who said we were friends?” says Katie, trying to duck out of the frame. Lance is an unerring videographer, though; he follows every motion. Backed into a corner, Katie swats at the lens before remembering that it’s from the tech desk and, therefore, her responsibility. She stays her hand.

“We’ve been talking for over half-an-hour,” Lance says, flashing his phone at her, where 3:30 AM makes itself known in thin white strokes. “I’d say that counts for something.”

His smile is bright and close. It’s probably the lack of sleep that’s making her loopy, but the feeling underneath her skin is not unlike a sugar rush.

“I guess,” she says.

o.O.o

She regrets everything the next morning. The minute she gets behind the tech desk, Katie thumps her head down and starts calculating. If she naps in ten minute increments, maybe she’ll recuperate some of her lost sleep and still manage to do her job.

The hours crawl by slowly. At 10:50, the characteristic whoosh of the automatic doors awakens her from her latest sleep cycle, and from somewhere above, an entirely too chipper voice says: “You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

“This is your fault,” Katie groans, raising her chin to glower at Lance. “Because of you, I got distracted, and then I had to stay up even later to finish coding.”

“I know, I was there. You are a very aggressive programmer, by the way.”

“Just pass over your card so I can check this equipment back in,” she grumbles, wiggling her fingers in demand. Instead, though, Lance curls her fingers around a warm paper cup.

Katie stares at it blankly. “I told you I didn’t drink coffee.”

“It’s my special blend,” Lance insists. “You’ll like it, promise.”

“Yeah, well, it’s going to have to wait ten minutes,” sighs Katie, pushing it to the side and heaving the camera and tripod over the desk. “I’m not allowed to have drinks back here. On-duty policy.”

“Then I’ll keep it safe in the meantime,” says Lance, snatching it back. “I’ll just be over here.”

Katie watches him stake out a table. Blinks a few times, to confirm that he’s still there. This isn’t part of their usual routine. It feels strange but not entirely unwelcome.

When she flicks to the camera’s memory card, it’s clean. That’s weird, too—that they actually had a fully fledged conversation, and he took something she said to heart. In fact, the other night, she’s pretty sure she made him laugh. And there’d been a moment, where Lance had tipped his head back, eyes crinkling, and Katie had thought: shit, maybe Keith had been onto something after all.

When her shift ends, she heads over to the table that Lance has staked out. In characteristic Lance fashion, he’s already found a way to unfold himself over all the available space: backpack slung over the back of an empty chair, feet kicked up on the seat opposite him. Katie nudges them aside as she sits down, reaching over to grab her coffee, and Lance’s face brightens.

“By the way, your earbuds aren’t plugged in completely,” she says, sipping her drink. Lance, despite only knowing her from their interactions the night before, has somehow guessed at her sweet tooth, and the foamy latte goes down easily. “Nice music.”

Lance rips the buds from his ears, gaping down at his phone in horror. Onscreen, a disturbingly animated baby waves its arms, singing, Yes papa, as a banjo strums in the background. Katie marks that down as another piece of information on Lance: listens to educational children’s music in his free time.

“In my defense, it’s for a project.”

“Sure it is,” she says, slapping Lance’s hand away when he tries to grab the coffee back in retaliation, and it’s so natural to mess with him like this, to laugh and call him noodle arms and have everybody else glare at them for being disruptive.

I think it counts for something, Lance had said the other night.

Something, indeed.

#voltron #pidge #lance #plance #vld pidge #vld lance #otp: teenage dream meme team #my writing #fanfiction #ff: voltron

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keep-me-inmind-kaspbrak · 7 years ago

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You Take My Breath Away~Reddie Fic

Summary: When DJ job opens at the local roller rink Richie takes it not knowing he would meet the possible love of his life.

AO3: {READ}

Chapters: [Chapter 1], [Chapter 2], [Chapter 3], [Chapter 4]

Notes: OH HELLO, SORRY FOR SUCH A LONG WAIT (yikess)! I had such a bad case of writers block for this chapter plus some personal struggles, but ITS HERE AND ITS THE LONGEST CHAPTER! I hope you all enjoy this! ALSO S/O to @cestleprobleme FOR HELPING ME THIS CHAPTER SHE BASICALLY ADDED SOME UMPH TO IT!

WC: 5.5k

CHAPTER 5

“Well, Mr. K, I bid you a good evening.” Richie said taking Eddie’s hand, bowing down to give it a soft peck.

Eddie’s heart leapt out of his chest as Richie took his hand and placed a soft kiss on it. A soft giggle escaped his lips as he said goodnight to Richie and backed his way into the dorm.

Once Eddie was in the building he let himself fall back against the stony wall and began to laugh softly, the sound bubbling out of his chest, covering his flushed face with his hands. Eddie had never felt so happy and giddy in any moment like he did now. He had just asked Richie out on a proper date and Richie had said yes. Eddie smiled as he pushed himself off the wall and made his way back up to his room.

The days leading up to Wednesday went by agonizingly slow for Eddie, and his excited anticipation only made it worse. He had two tests, a quiz, and a paper all due before Wednesday, and in order to get everything done, he had to spend most of his time studying, writing his paper, or sleeping. Being in college barely gave him anytime for himself, let alone for his friends.

By Tuesday evening Eddie was exhausted and just wanted to sleep for the rest of the week, but the only thing keeping him from doing just that was his date with Richie the following day. Eddie was super excited to go out with Richie and get to know him more, but his nerves were beginning to kick in, and Stan could tell.

“Eddie, everything will be alright, just be yourself.” Stan said reassuringly.

Eddie had told Stan everything that had happened between he and Richie, from all the texts they exchanged to the way Richie made him feel. As much as Eddie knew Stan didn’t really care for Richie’s sense of humor, he knew that Stan actually kind of liked Richie, and at the very least liked how he made Eddie feel.

Eddie sighed, “Yeah, you’re right, but I’m just so nervous.”

“Its okay to be nervous Eddie, just take a deep breath, everything will go great. I can tell he really likes you.” Stan reassured rubbing his back gently.

Eddie just nodded as he fell back on to his bed exhaling loudly just as his head hit his pillow. He knew Stan was right, he knew Richie liked him, but that didn’t stop the jittery feeling he felt in his bones. Once he landed on his pillow he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he reached in to pull it out and saw it was a text from Richie.

Richie: I hope you’re ready to have your socks blown off by my sk8ing skillz

Eddie: We will see about that ;)

Richie: You doubting me?

Eddie: I would NEVER do such a thing!

Richie: Whatever you say, spaghetti man

Eddie: Well on that note, I’m going to head off to bed

Richie: Okay grandma, its only 8

Eddie: I’m tired okay?!

Richie: Okay okay! Goodnight sleepy prince ;)

Eddie looked down at the last message, his eyes tracing it over and over, smiling wider each time. He could feel a soft blush dust his cheeks as he locked his phone and plugged it into its charger.

Eddie let his eyes flutter shut as the world blackened, but his thoughts wandered and they went straight to Richie; the soft, disheveled curls that adorned his head, the freckles that dusted the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks, and that stupid mouth. The mouth that would spout vulgarities, but also the mouth that tasted of bubblegum and made Eddie’s insides churn delightfully. Everything about Richie made Eddie feel like a high schooler falling foolishly in love.

Not after long, he felt himself begin to drift off; it was that kind of falling asleep where you don’t really remember it happening. He was warm and pleasantly surrounded by darkness, and it was so restful that, after the week Eddie had already had, he never really wanted to leave.

Eddie was jolted awake to Stan poking at him,

“Eddie. Eddie, you gotta get up, you’re going to miss class.”

Eddie felt panic course through his veins as he jumped out of bed and hastily got ready. He had never been late to class, not once in his academic career. He took off the sweater he fell asleep in and threw on a new one that was bigger and drowned his small frame. He ran his hands through his hair to hastily style it into something remotely acceptable enough to make him look presentable in as short a time as possible. He grabbed his backpack and all but ran to his first class.

Eddie spent most of the day feeling like he was going to throw up from the distress. Waking up late set his nerves on edge from the moment he opened his eyes, and his date with Richie was still weighing heavily on his mind. He would bounce his leg in class to try to help calm the anxiety that was coursing through every inch of him. He felt like his skin was vibrating, and no matter what he tried to do, he couldn’t settle his coursing veins. By the time four o’clock rolled around Eddie was ready to be back in his room for a short reprieve before his date with Richie.

Eddie walked back to his room as quickly as he could, a mix of his anxiety and his desire for as much time alone as possible driving his hastened pace. The cold fall-transitioning-into-winter air prickled his cheeks, making them turn a soft bright red. Eddie waved his student ID in front of the blocky scanner to gain access to the from door of his building, and after getting inside, quickly made his way up the stairs and down the halls to his room. He tried the handle on the door but it was still locked, indicating Stan wasn’t back yet, and he was sure he was probably with Bill since his classes ended over an hour ago.

Eddie walked into the cold, dark room and put his backpack on his desk chair before he made his way over to his bed where he flopped down with all the grace of a flailing fish, exhaling sharply. The cool and the dark were a much needed relief on his sense, and he looked at the time on his watch and saw he had one hour before Richie was going to be picking him up.

As he lay there he took deep breath and exhaled, “Okay. You got this.” Eddie pushed himself up off the bed and walked over to his dresser to begin getting ready. He wanted to look nice for Richie, but he knew they were going to be skating, so he decided to pick something that would be comfortable but very flattering on him. He rummaged through his drawers until he found his large loose-knit pink sweater. It was one of his favorites to wear, especially when he paired it with his light-wash jean overalls.

Eddie slid the sweater over his head and let it settle on his shoulders, allowing one side to slip down, showing off a little of his shoulder and collar bone. He then pulled his overalls on, clipping on one side and letting the other strap dangle unclipped. He looked in the mirror on the wall near his desk and smiled, pleased with his outfit.

Eddie looked down at his watch again and sighed a little, relieved, seeing he still had some time to spare. He decided to use his spare time to make sure his hair was up to par, and he grabbed his brush and hair pomade and made sure it was securely styled in his usual soft brown quiff. He grabbed the bottle of cologne that sat on top of his bookshelf and spritzed it on his neck and pulse points. Nothing more aggressive than normal.

After setting his cologne down Eddie felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He quickly retrieved it to see Richie hand sent him a text saying he was waiting outside, and to take his time if need be. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, in then out, he grabbed his bag with his skates and left the dorm.

Eddie made his way out of the building and once outside was greeted by Richie, leaning against his car with one leg bent up and his foot resting against the side, blowing bubbles with his bubble gum. Eddie could feel his insides already begin to warm as he watched Richie look him up and down and give the most devilish smile.

Eddie smiled shyly back as he approached Richie slowly, taking him in. He was wearing his black leather jacket with an AC/DC shirt underneath it, and of course those skinny jeans that had perfectly placed holes at the knees. Eddie never understood why someone as good looking as Richie even gave him a second glance.

“Shit, Eds.” Richie said, cracking his gum and looking Eddie up and down.

Eddie just looked up at Richie smiling a bit, grabbing his left arm and shifting his weight to his right foot. “You…you look really…good.” Eddie said stammering over his words trying his best not to blush.

“Eds, I am sorry, and not to demean your other numerous and completely winning qualities, such as your bright intelligence, way with words, and endless list of jaw-dropping talents, but you look so fucking hot.” Richie said running his right hand through his hair.

Eddie bowed his head and chuckled lightly before licking his lips, feeling his cheeks warm as well as his stomach, and then looked up to smile at him, “Thanks.”

Richie slid away from the passenger side door that he was leaning on and opened it for Eddie. Eddie walked up to the door, smiling at Richie, and then ducked his head as he slid gracefully into the passenger seat. As he sat down he could feel his heart beat in his eardrums, so he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing his whole body to relax.

Eddie heard the driver’s side door open and he turned to see Richie climb in, and Eddie realized he could smell him, he smelled different, not like he remembered him smelling before, not bad but very good. Richie usually had the distinct smell of cigarettes and bubblegum, which had its own allure, but today he smelled more musky with a hint of vanilla, and some other notes he couldn’t place. Eddie could feel his head begin to swim as the smell of Richie swarmed all around him.

“You ready?” Richie said looking over at Eddie.

“Yeah, where you taking us?” Eddie asked with a smile.

“It’s a surprise.” Richie said, returning the smile and adding a wink.

Richie accelerated the car as Eddie sat back and buckled himself in. He looked out the windows and watched the scenery pass by, a comfortable silence between them filled only by the softly playing radio. It felt nice, after having his nerves on edge all day. He watched as they passed neighborhoods, the small downtown that included a small movie theater that everyone loved, and barren trees getting ready to face the cold. It wasn’t that long of a drive though before Richie pulled up to the diner in town. That very same diner where Eddie felt his heart ignite and knew that he wanted to be with Richie.

“This is where we are eating?” Eddie asked, a little surprised and delighted that this is where Richie wanted to eat.

“Yeah, it’s the first place we really…uh, you know, met.” Richie said smiling almost shyly.

Eddie smiled fully at the fact that Richie had chose this specific place to eat, and the reasoning behind it, and opened the passenger door and climbed out. He began to make his way over to the diner door when Richie caught up with him in time and grabbed the door.

“M’lady.” Richie said bowing dramatically while holding the door open.

Eddie walked into the diner and was greeted with the familiarly pleasant smell of grease and burgers. There was a sign by the hostess stand that said ‘Seat yourself!’ in some vintage font. Richie walked up and looked over at him, “Lead the way.”

Eddie nodded slightly as he took Richie’s pinky in his, locking them together, and lead the way to the back of the diner. Eddie chose a booth that was by one of the windows and looked like it had been freshly cleaned. He slid into one side of the booth and Richie sat down on the opposite side.

After settling a waitress in her mid-40’s approached the two. Eddie noticed she had curly brown hair with strands of grey just beginning to show, and striking physical features. Her cheekbones were sharp, nose coming to a perfect point, and piercing blue eyes.

“Hey there, I’m Sallie, I’ll be your waitress today. Can I start you off with a drink?”

“I’ll take a coke.” Richie said smiling up at Sallie.

“I’ll have a strawberry milkshake please.” Eddie smiled.

“Sure thing, I’ll be right back with those.”

Sallie closed her ticket book and walked towards the kitchen to get the drinks they just ordered. Richie leered slightly in her direction as Sallie walked away, “Now that’s a MILF.”

“Richie!” Eddie whispered harshly while smacking him in the head with his menu.

“What? It’s true!” Richie said laughing.

“Do you have to say it so loud?!”

Richie only responded with a proud smirk on his face and leaning back in the booth at an angle, one arm on resting on the table and the other on the top of the seat. “How was your day, Ed’s?”

“Well, I was late for my first class, I haven’t been able to focus like at all on anything, and to be honest I’ve been a nervous wreck all day.” Eddie felt the words slip out of his mouth easily, not meaning to be so openly worn down and honest about his nervousness towards tonight.

Richie sat there in silence, staring deeply into Eddie’s nervous gaze, and Eddie began to fidget with end of his sleeve. He saw Richie begin to lean across the table a little, but Sallie chose that moment to return with their drinks.

“Here you go boys, are you ready to order?” Sallie asked with a smile, pen at the ready to take their order.

“I’ll take the chicken wrap with no tomato.” Eddie smiled up at her.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger with fries.” Richie added.

“All right, I’ll put that in, it should be out shortly.” Sallie responded closing her ticket book putting it in the pocket of her apron.

Once Sallie walked away Richie spoke, “Eddie, I don’t want you to be nervous around me, I want you to feel comfortable.”

“It’s hard not to be nervous around you, Rich.” Eddie said back with a wan smile, quickly realizing he had just called Richie “Rich”.

“You can just be yourself, Eds. I already like you, so what’s there to be nervous about?” Richie said with a warm smile, reaching his arm out to give a soft pinch to Eddie’s cheek.

Eddie let a soft laugh escape his lips, and he quickly covered his face with his hands, feeling every nerve relax in earnest for the first time today. Something about being with Richie made him so nervous but at the same time so relaxed. “Well, other than being a ball of nerves all day, it was alright, and it’s getting better by the minute. What about you, how was your day?” Eddie inquired, resting his head in his hands.

“Well, I certainly am glad to hear that, Mr. K, I could only wonder what is making it get better.” Richie said, using some god-awful attempt at Southern Belle accent, and winked before continuing in his normal voice, “I pretty much just had class, and now I am having dinner with a really fucking cute boy. I’d say the day has been pretty good so far. One for the books, maybe even.”

Eddie couldn’t stop the smile that broke out across his face (despite Richie’s poor use of grammar), and quickly took a sip of his milkshake to try and hide it. “You sure you’re not just talking about yourself there?”

“What do you mean? I am positive, Eds, that you are the cute one here. I, on the other hand, am the sexy one. That’s the difference.”

Eddie nearly choked on his milkshake as he began to laugh at Richie’s utter charm and stupidity. He felt the burn of milkshake about to come out of his nose, and quickly reached for his napkin to cover it and his mouth, before a complete embarrassment happened. He could see Richie trying to cover his mouth with his hand as he laughed loudly, his eyes crinkling at the corners and a flush covered his high cheeks, and Eddie tried to calm his simultaneous coughing and laughing, a painful and all the more hysterical combination.

“I mean, I knew I was funny, but Jesus H. Christ.” Richie chuckled.

“I’m laughing at the fact that you think you’re the sexy one. Don’t get me wrong you are very sexy, but let’s be honest, I take the cake on that one.” Eddie said still laughing, feeling emboldened by the glow Richie was making him feel, and tried his best to wink at Richie, but failed epically.

“Touché, Spaghetti, touché.” Richie said taking a sip from his coke, “But you being completely unable to wink just proves my point that you are the cute one.”

Eddie knew he couldn’t wink for shit and felt a mildly embarrassed blush rise to his cheeks. Just as Eddie was going to shoot back at Richie, probably something about how yeah, maybe Eddie was cute, but he could still kick Richie’s ass, Sallie showed up again at their table with their burger and chicken wrap. “Here you go, boys, is there anything else I can get you?”

“Uh, no thanks, I think we’re good.” Richie said sweetly to Sallie.

“All right-y, well enjoy.” Sallie said, returning the smile before making her way back to the kitchen.

Richie and Eddie began to eat their food in a comfortable silence for a short while before Richie made some joke about his burger tasting better than sex, and Eddie completely disagreeing saying sex was obviously better than a greasy burger. They both had laughed, and Richie, realizing his folly, agreed that sex was indeed better than a burger.

As they chatted, Eddie learned that Richie was at school for journalism, hoping one day to land a job as a DJ on the radio. Eddie also learned that Richie loved music more than the average person, and he was a big fan of 80s rock and modern alternative music, completely different from Eddie’s taste in music, but entirely respectable.

Eddie told Richie about his major and hoping one day to become a pharmacist, and maybe even having his own pharmacy. Richie listened intently with a smile as Eddie told him about his post-graduation plans. Richie asked about his favorite music, and Eddie blushed as he told him he liked Indie pop and music you hear on the radio, but Richie seemed to show some interest as well, and this made Eddie relax a little.

They were sitting there talking when Sallie walked up again, “Are you guys ready to pay?”

“I think we are, thank you.” Eddie said politely.

“Alright-y, would you like the bill split?” she asked.

“No, I’ll take it.” Richie responded quickly, taking the bill from Sallie.

“I think not!” Eddie said, reaching his hands out, trying to grab the bill from Richie.

“No, no, no, I got it Ed’s!” Richie raised his arm over his head, making it completely out of reach for the smaller man.

Eddie tried to grab the bill from Richie by standing up and reaching for it, but ultimately he gave up. He sat back down, admitting defeat. “Thanks, Richie.”

“Anytime, babe.” Richie said with a smooth wink (unlike Eddie’s earlier attempt), stuffing a twenty into the little book before shutting it. “Shall we?”

“I think we shall.” Eddie replied sliding out of the booth.

The two walked towards the front of the diner and thanked Sallie on their way out. Once they got in Richie’s car, they made the short drive to the roller rink, and Richie quickly parked the car in the small lot. Just as soon as Richie had put the car in park, Eddie was already flying out of the car and making his way into the rink, full of excited energy to do his favourite activity, and do it with Richie. It was his chance to show off. Eddie could feel Richie’s gaze on him as he raced to the door.

Once they entered the rink, Eddie took Richie over to get fitted for some skates. Eddie was kneeling on the ground, lacing Richie’s rented pair up while he sat on the rickety bench. Eddie could feel Richie’s gaze on him, and it made his skin tingle pleasantly. He finished lacing up Richie’s skates by tying a small bow at the top.

“Okay, how do they feel?” Eddie asked pushing off his knees.

“Good!” Richie nodded enthusiastically, giving the skates a wiggle with his feet.

“Okay, let me get my skates on and then we can head to the track.” Eddie said sitting beside Richie as he began to take his own shoes off.

Eddie quickly yet carefully laced up his skates, a practiced precision, and topped them off with a small lopsided bow on both skates, just like Richie’s. He stood up and stuck his hand out to Richie to so he could grab it. As Richie’s hand met Eddie’s, that same tingle ran through his fingertips and up his arm, consuming Eddie’s entire body with a warm, low burn. Eddie reveled in it.

Eddie lead them both out to the track, carefully making sure Richie wouldn’t fall over on the way over and giggling when he realized Richie looked about as graceful as a baby giraffe. As they made it out on the track, the thudding music grew in intensity as they got closer to the speakers, but the track was barren, not a single person skating.

“Alright, you ready?” Eddie turned and asked. smiling ear to ear.

“I was born ready, Spaghetti Head!” Richie said placing his hands on his hips, but the shift in his balance causing him to wobble a little bit.

“Oh okay, sure,” Eddie said laughing, “Just be careful!” He reached out towards Richie, placing his own hands on Richie’s hips to help balance him a bit.

“First off, I need to show you how to get moving. There are two ways you can do it.” Eddie began to explain.

“Well, get teachin’, because damn, I am not going to be able to concentrate or do anything functional if you keep holding my hips like that.” Richie said smoothly.

“Fine, ANYWAY, as I was saying, there are two ways you can move forward: there is weaving your legs, which is the easiest way to learn first, in my opinion.” Eddie continued, “So what you’re going to do is just start to spread your legs apart slowly, and just as your feet go past your hips underneath you, begin to point your toes back in and bring your legs back together.” Eddie smiled up at Richie.

“Okay, Eds, you’re the boss.” Richie smiled back and began to spread his legs slowly, hands up and out at his sides for a little added balance.

Eddie skated backwards a bit to give Richie some space, and he watched as Richie began to weave his legs slowly and made his way over to Eddie. As Richie approached he saw Richie’s legs spread further and further apart. “Oh, no…”

“EDS!” Richie all but screeched, “HELP, I’M GONNA FUCKING EAT SHIT.” He flailed his arms a little to try and gain control, but he was almost in the splits.

Eddie skated over smoothly as Richie still squawked and helped him back into an upright position. He tried to stifle a giggle as Richie began to rub his inner thighs. “Okay, maybe not that one?” Eddie asked.

“You think? I almost went into the fucking splits! These jeans, although very flattering on my ass, don’t allow for that kind of mobility.” Richie laughed back while still massaging his inner thighs, looking only mildly indecent to anyone who may have been looking.

“Okay, so the other way is to just push outward with your legs, kind of like shuffling forward, but not quite. Just watch me.” Eddie said, and began to demonstrate the second way of skating. He pushed off with his right leg letting the left one support his weight underneath him, and then shifted so that his right leg was supporting him as he pushed with his left, and he smoothly made his way down the track and then back to Richie, stopping just short of him.

“Okay, your turn.” Eddie said, placing his hands proudly on his hips.

“Will you be there to catch me if I fall?” Richie said in a dramatic voice, looking right at Eddie.

“No, you can fall on your ass.” Eddie responded smiling playfully.

“I’m hurt, Kaspbrak!” Richie responded mock sadly, clutching his heart with all the flair of the dramatic.

“I guess don’t fall then.” Eddie patted Richie’s shoulder sympathetically.

Richie shook his head with a laugh as he began to slowly skate by pushing off with his left foot first then his right, just as Eddie had done, but with a little less grace. Eddie was surprised to see how well he was doing, and he could feel himself smiling as he saw Richie take the corner and skate up to the wall and held on to it.

“I DID IT!” Richie cheered from the opposite end of the track, wearing the biggest smile Eddie had probably ever seen, looking as though he was waiting for Eddie’s approval.

Eddie smiled and giggled a little as he made his way over to Richie. As he skated up, he reached his hand out and grabbed Richie’s, pulling him back into the main track with him. The song had switched over to Everytime We Touch by Cascada.

“Well, isn’t this ironic.” Richie said cheekily, lacing his fingers in Eddie’s hand.

Eddie just shrugged, trying to play off the blush that dusted his cheeks as exertion, and he turned to face Richie, taking his other hand and started to skate backwards. Eddie was pulling Richie along as they both began to sing along to the song. Richie getting a bit more into it and making more of a theatrical performance of the song compared to Eddie, but unable to do too much without throwing his balance off.

Eddie helped Richie stay stable as they skated around the track and sang at the top of their lungs, smiling and giggling all the while. The song was nearing the end when Eddie swung back around to Richie’s side, still holding his hand. The song had switched over to something neither of them knew, but was still rather upbeat. Not knowing the lyrics to the song, Eddie decided to initiate a conversation to engage Richie a bit more.

“So, uh, when did you figure it out?” Eddie asked.

“Figure what out?” Richie asked holding tightly onto Eddie’s hand for balance.

“When did you figure out that you weren’t straight?” Eddie blushed.

“Oh, high school, like pretty much everyone else. I had my first girlfriend in middle school, but then going to high school really opened my eyes. I saw this boy, and I knew I had more than just friendly feelings, you know? I got that gut-tight feeling and butterflies and all that sappy shit that comes along with crushes. But I was confused because I was still attracted to women as well.” Richie began to explain.

“I had begun to get these feelings, and crushes on guys and girls all the time, and I was just so confused and frustrated. Everyone only talked about gay or straight, ya know? I had just decided to bury everything, and not think about it, especially after one day I brought up liking both boys and girls to some friends and they shot it down right away, said that there was no such thing, that it wasn’t possible to like both. I was scared and suppressed it hardcore. I would sneak around with guys all throughout high school and openly be with girls all the time.

“It was coming to college where I really finally accepted my bisexuality. I met some others who were bisexual, like Bev, and few others, who actually told me that bisexuality was a thing, and that it was totally okay and normal. I told my parents after my freshman year here, and they were actually pretty open and understanding and have been very supportive.” Richie sighed looking over at Eddie with a hesitant smile on his face.

Eddie could feel himself tearing up a bit hearing what Richie had gone through with his sexuality. Eddie didn’t know what to say or do, so he just slowly brought them to a stop, turned to looked up at Richie and said, “You are valid. To me, to the world, and no one should tell or convince you otherwise.”

Eddie could see Richie’s smile grow, and he brought his thumb up to Eddie’s cheek to swipe away a lone escaped tear, “You got it, Spaghetti head, you’re the boss.”

Just as Richie had finished speaking, the song switched to another upbeat tune, this time a song the both of them knew, and sent a thrill of excitement through their bodies. The sweet guitar of AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long came through the speakers, and Richie’s face completely lit up as he turned and began to skate again, a bit faster and steadier, and started to play air guitar along with the song.

Eddie and Richie were laughing as they both skated kicking their legs, playing the air guitar and screaming the lyrics, Eddie surprised by Richie’s quite good impression and singing voice. Eddie began to shake his hips swiftly and smoothly to the beat, and dropped lower to the ground as the guitar solo came on. He watched as Richie eyed him and continued to play the air guitar.

Just as the second guitar solo was coming around the music abruptly stopped and transitioned into Take My Breath Away. Eddie, taken by surprise at the abrupt change, began to lose his balance, and he felt his body tilt back and fall flat on the track. He winced a little at the pain in his tail bone, but looked up to see Richie coming directly towards him, a look of concern on his face, and Richie tried to stop in time but lost his balance instead, falling right on top him.

Richie made a graceful ‘OOF ‘ sound as he landed on Eddie, his face ending up smooshed into Eddie’s chest, arms flailing a little for purchase on the ground, and when he was finally able to right himself slightly, he looked up only to come face to face with Eddie, whose eyes were looking directly into his. The two froze, and Richie could see that Eddie’s mouth was parted a little bit, feeling soft puffs of air against his skin. From here he could count every cute little freckle on Eddie’s nose, and he was sure Eddie could do the same. They stared at each other, neither sure who was going to make the first move, but when Richie began to lean in a little closer to Eddie, the smaller man grabbed the sides of Richie’s face and brought their lips together, and Richie wasted no time kissing back.

It was a little awkward because of the angle and position they were in, but Eddie swore nothing had ever felt this good or right. Richie’s lips were warm, plush, and smooth, and he unconsciously pressed his own against Richie’s harder, tilting their heads to deepen the kiss. Eddie felt himself sigh a little, and parted his lips ever so slightly, inviting Richie in. He felt Richie’s warm tongue graze his inner lower lip and he couldn’t control the shiver that ran down his spine in response. Eddie pushed his own tongue into Richie’s mouth in return, letting it explore, and reveling in the feeling of their tongues meeting in the middle. The song was picking up, and that’s when Eddie came back to Earth, and pulled away gasping.

He looked up at Richie, into his deep, dark brown eyes, and couldn’t resist saying, “Rich, you take my breath away.” Richie couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his chest, and Eddie pulled him back in for another kiss. They stayed there, in the middle of track in the middle of the roller rink, kissing and not caring who was there or who saw.

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#reddie #reddie fic #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #fic #fanfiction #it 2017 #AU: modern #AU: college #aesthetic #fluff #AO3 update #AO3 fic #YTMBA-Reddie

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phoenixsavant · 7 years ago

Text

Vengeance

Part 3: Following Saeran’s First Christmas

Saeran, MC and Saeyoung are joined in the hideout by Vanderwood. Together they go after The Agency, but The Agency still finds them!

Saeran woke to someone cursing loudly and a crash from the top of the stairs. He vaulted from the bunk, leaving Toby behind. Saeyoung was a few steps ahead of him and they moved toward the stairs silently.

“Seven! God damn it! Call off your fucking cat!” Vanderwood shouted.

“Intruder!” Elly called out, followed by some noise Saeran couldn’t make out.

“Seven! I know you hear me!” Vanderwood shouted again.

Saeyoung looked like he wanted to laugh, but instead he called up the stairs, “Elly, stand down.”

“Standby mode engaging” Elly said.

Vanderwood stomped down the stairs. “Fire? You seriously made it breathe fire? You dumbass!”

Saeyoung shrugged as Vanderwood reached the bottom of the stairs. “It works to keep people out,” he said.

“I saw that,” Vanderwood replied, dropping a bag on the small table. He looked around. “You two look alright. Where’s MC? Is she hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she said, coming to stand next to Saeyoung.

“Good,” Vanderwood said, nodding. To Saeyoung he asked, “The Agency?”

“I believe it was, yes. They got into the security system and hacked the cameras, but set off the alarm. It was closer than I like to admit,” Saeyoung frowned. “I had to blow the bunker. It’s gone.”

“Better it than all of you,” Vanderwood said somberly. “I can’t believe they did that. We warned them to leave us alone.”

Saeyoung nodded. “I thought it was enough.” His face was drawn and pale.

“Well, I didn’t know what you wanted to do, so I brought everything,” Vanderwood said, gesturing to the bag he’d carried in. “There’s cash, ID’s, tickets, and all the rest. I say we burn the bastards to the ground. I’m sick of waiting for them.”

“IDs?” Saeran asked. “You mean, so we could just disappear?”

“We can,” Saeyoung confirmed. “That was always the plan, before. If they’re not afraid though, they’ll just hunt us down anywhere we go. We can change names and hair color, but their facial recognition software is good enough to see through that. I know, I built it.”

“So what, we just live down here in a hole forever?”

“No,” Saeyoung said, his voice taking on an edge. “No, but we’re going to be here for a few days.” He looked at Vanderwood and the darkness in his eyes made Saeran step back involuntarily. “Bring me my machines,” he said. “They’re never going to threaten my family again.”

Vanderwood smiled proudly at Saeyoung. “That’s my boy.” He turned and reached into the bag, pulling out a laptop and a series of other boxes and cables. “I didn’t think you’d let them walk away. Start setting this up. I have the rest in the car.” Motioning to Saeran he said, “Come on, I need an extra pair of hands.”

Saeran followed Vanderwood up the narrow stairs and out of the shed. In the parking lot, Vanderwood had parked a beaten up van next to Saeyoung’s dilapidated car. He opened the back and pulled a box over.

“See if you can lift that,” Vanderwood directed.

The box was heavy, but Saeran managed to get an arm under it. Vanderwood pulled another box out and shouldered the doors of the van shut. Together they returned to the hidden room under the storage shed. Vanderwood went back up and locked the doors as Saeyoung directed MC and Saeran in unpacking and positioning equipment. Apparently Saeyoung had set up a satellite link to this location that ran alongside the satellite for the TV in the motel. They would have their own connection to the internet in no time.

“Vanderwood?” MC asked, as he came back down the stairs. “Do you have your phone?”

“I do, why?”

“I was just thinking, and shouldn’t someone call Jumin or someone? If anyone from the RFA goes to the bunker, they’d think we’re all dead,” she worried.

“Already done,” Vanderwood said. “And thinking you three were dead would be the least of their worries. I wouldn’t be surprised if The Agency is watching the place still.”

Saeran felt the strength run out of his body. The RFA was warned, but what about Nina? She wouldn’t have known anything. She was supposed to call him, but if he didn’t answer his phone, she might go to the bunker.

“Saeyoung,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Hmm?” his brother responded, not looking up from the cables he was connecting to the computers.

“Who will warn Nina?” Saeran asked, his voice quavering.

“Oh!” MC exclaimed, sharing Saeran’s realization.

“Damn!” Saeyoung exclaimed. “Vanderwood, could you call Jumin and …”

“On it,” Vanderwood said, scrambling back up the stairs.

Saeran followed him up, his heart pounding in fear. Nina couldn’t be a part of this. She couldn’t be left in danger. His mind was filled with images of her seeing the bunker, of Nina being kidnapped and tortured.

“Jumin, it’s Vanderwood.” A pause followed. “Yes, everyone is safe, no injuries. We’re going to be in hiding for a few days. The news is about to get interesting, you’ll want to watch. … We missed someone. I need you to make a call. …. That painter, Nina, can you get in touch with her at her shop? She can’t go to the bunker. … Bodyguards might draw attention, can you do it without anyone realizing they’re around? …. Yeah, until we call again. …. I will. Watch yourselves out there.”

Vanderwood ended the call and turned to Saeran. “Jumin will go to her shop right now. He’ll give her the message in person. Also, he’s going to set up a couple of guards to keep an eye on her at a safe distance, just to be sure.” He rested his hand on Saeran’s shoulder. “She’s safe. She’s going to stay safe. She won’t know anything unless you tell her about it later.”

“Thank you,” Saeran said, his voice still shaking.

Vanderwood shook his head, dismissing the thanks. “Why don’t you hang out here for a few minutes, dry your face a bit? MC is already stressed and she hasn’t had the kind of life we’ve all had. No need to upset her more, right?”

Saeran lifted a hand to his face. He hadn’t even realized that he was crying. Wiping the tears away, he nodded and stepped aside so Vanderwood could return. After Vanderwood left, Saeran sat on the top step. He folded his arms over his knees and rested his forehead against them. How were his brother and Vanderwood going to make sure that everyone would be safe? How were they going to be able to return to a regular life after this? What if they had to go into hiding? He’d never see her again. The thought made his chest ache.

Saeran hadn’t ever really taken an interest in anyone before. He had just done as Rika told him to do. MC was the first girl he’d ever liked, but she was with his brother. Even Saeran knew that meant that they couldn’t be more than friends. Nina was different. That day, when he was shopping, Saeran had talked to a lot of different girls at the shops he visited. The only one he had trouble talking to was Nina.

At the party, she’d stayed close to him. He’d caught her looking at him more than a few times. Exchanging phone numbers had been her idea, probably because he’d been too afraid to ask. Nina was different because she had done everything to show that she was interested, too.

Saeran felt a strong desire to make sure that Nina stayed safe, and that he was able to see her again. He didn’t know how to help, but maybe he could. He was as good at hacking as his brother was, right? He’d hacked his brother’s security and the messenger! He could help Saeyoung and Vanderwood.

He took a deep breath and made sure that the tears weren’t going to start up again. Standing, he went back down the stairs. Vanderwood and Saeyoung were firing up the computers and checking the security on them.

“I want to help,” Saeran said, standing at the foot of the stairs. “I can hack, too.”

Vanderwood looked at Saeyoung with a raised eyebrow, leaving the choice to him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Saeyoung said. “You’re clear of that stuff now.”

“I’m not clear, none of us are. I want to be clear though. I need to be clear if I’m going to see Nina again.” There, it was out. Now his brother could start teasing him about having a crush on someone.

Saeyoung looked over at MC and smiled softly. “Yeah, that’ll make you do some things, won’t it?” He turned back to Vanderwood. “Do you have the stuff for another station?”

“Probably. What do you need?”

Saeyoung shrugged. “Monitor, keyboard, mouse, we can plug him in with those.”

“Yeah, I’ll go check,” Vanderwood said, going back up the stairs. Halfway up, he turned back. “This needs to be the last trip out today. Does anyone need anything else?”

“PhD Pepper?” Saeyoung asked, looking hopeful.

“This isn’t a grocery trip,” Vanderwood grumbled. “If you wanted your junk food, you should have stocked it.” He turned and left the shed.

Saeyoung grinned. “I miss playing with him.” He walked over to the bunk beds and reached under, pulling out a long chest. He dragged it back to the table and flipped the lid open. Inside were bags of Honey Buddah chips and PhD. Pepper cans.

“Saeyoung, you are not serious!” MC admonished him. “You stocked your hideout with junk food? What would you do if you had to be here for more than a day or two?”

“What?” he asked her innocently. “There’s other food here.”

“You idiot,” Saeran muttered at him.

Vanderwood returned and brought the things to set up a work station for Saeran. Once everything was connected, Vanderwood sat at the far end. Everyone looked at Saeyoung.

“Alright, Vanderwood, you keep them off of us. You’re not bad, but Saeran and I are faster and better. We’ll get into their systems and dump the data out to the press and the authorities. You make sure that they can’t find us while we do it.” Saeyoung was in charge again, all business. “Saeran, I want you to come over here and watch what I’m doing. I’ll get us an opening and I want you to start pulling everything you can from their systems. I’ll keep them from blocking you. Let me know when it’s done.”

MC sat on the bunk beds, holding Toby and watching as the three men began chasing down The Agency. She didn’t talk or even leave the bed. Saeran’s focus became centered on the events at the table.

Once Saeyoung had gotten through The Agency’s security, Saeran switched to his station. He started downloading data as quickly as possible. ��He didn’t even know what parts of the data were going to be useful, he just started copying files over as fast as possible. Time went by at a crawl, watching the files complete their downloads. The room was silent except for the rattling of keyboards and an occasional, muttered curse word.

At some point, MC brought bowls of stew to everyone, insisting that they eat. Saeran hadn’t realized he was hungry until he started shoveling food into his mouth. Bottles of water appeared on the table next to each of them as the bowls vanished. When those emptied, new bottles took their places. Around the edges of his focus, Saeran realized that MC was doing what she could to take care of all of them while they worked.

“No! Bring those back!” Saeyoung exclaimed.

“Not until later,” MC said, dragging the chest of soft drinks and chips away from Saeyoung. “You’ve had eight cans of that stuff and two bags of chips. You’ll make yourself sick,” she scolded him.

“But, Babe…” he whined at her.

“Saeyoung, no. I’ll give you some after dinner.”

Vanderwood snickered. “I like her,” he said.

Saeyoung sighed, defeated. “Saeran, all I can say is you should really, really rethink this Nina thing. Women are trouble.”

“You should be thankful there’s one that’s willing to put up with you,” Saeran quipped, starting another set of downloads.

Saeyoung sighed heavily. “There was a time when I was a god, you know.”

“Only in your own head,” Vanderwood clarified. “Work. I still have the taser.”

Saeyoung looked nervous, but fell silent again as Saeran snickered softly with Vanderwood.

Saeran watched the files loading across the system and realized how many were left to copy. Even with the amped up satellite connection, this was taking far too long. The odds of being noticed and traced back grew exponentially the longer they were in the system.

“How many individual computers do we have here?” he asked.

“Five, why?” Saeyoung looked up at his brother.

“This is taking too long. Which machines are standalone?”

Saeyoung pointed at the three in the middle of the table, one of which Saeran was already connected to.

Checking the progress of the files he’d started pulling, Saeran unplugged the keyboard, monitor and mouse, and switched to another computer. He started up another set of files to pull down, and then repeated the process on the third machine.

“Are you sure you can keep up with which files you’re getting?” Saeyoung asked.

“Yeah, I can pull directories this way. It’ll cut the time down.” Saeran lined up the computers so that he had ready access to the ports to switch out the connections. “Can you keep up with that many connections?”

Saeyoung looked at him dryly. “Did you really just ask that?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who thought to have one connection pulling files.”

“No fighting,” MC cautioned. “There’s too much on the line. You can play who’s better later.”

Saeran glanced at her. She wasn’t even looking at them. She was sitting in the floor, playing with Toby.

Still, time seemed to crawl by. Vanderwood went up the stairs a few times for a smoke break. Saeran watched his machine while he went. He bummed a cigarette once, just needing some way to get out of the cramped room and away from the computer. He stood in the shed, not really smoking the cigarette, stretching to pull the tension from his back and shoulders.

If the lighting outside was any indication, it was almost nightfall. He figured that they needed about three more hours to finish pulling the information from The Agency. Thank god his brother had installed terabytes of drive space in those computers. There wouldn’t have been enough room any other way. Putting out the cigarette, he headed back down the shaky stairs.

“How’s it going over there?” he asked Saeyoung, settling back into his seat.

“If they’ve noticed anything, they haven’t reacted. Vanderwood? Anything?”

“Nothing so far, no. They’re not tracing at all, yet.”

“Good,” Saeran said. “We’re almost through it.” He switched machines again.

The three men kept working. MC brought food around again, stopping to hug Saeyoung as she did. Saeran’s eyes were burning. Finally, he started the last round of files.

“This is it,” he said. “What do you want me to do when I’ve got these?”

“Kill the connections. We’ll drop the satellite link. We can organize it all offline. It’ll buy us some time,” Saeyoung said. His voice sounded tired.

Saeran watched the files nervously. He knew his brother was good, and he’d taught Saeyoung the trick he used to make his access unnoticeable. Still, everything was going too smoothly. He was afraid that the Agency was just waiting for a chance to strike. It left a cold pit in his stomach. He wondered if Saeyoung or Vanderwood felt the same sense of dread.

“Done!” he called out, as soon as the last file finished. He killed the connections to the Agency servers as quickly as he could. Saeyoung and Vanderwood did the same. Vanderwood reached over and pulled the ethernet cables from every computer.

They all sat back, suddenly panting for air, looking at one another for confirmation that they’d been successful.

“Ya-HOO!” Saeyoung shouted, startling Toby and Saeran both. “Alright, boys, we did it! All we have to do now is organize this stuff and send it out! After that, we’re just going to hijack a TV from the hotel and watch the news!”

“You’re positive,” Saeran asked, “that they didn’t see us or trace the connections?”

“There was zero activity,” Vanderwood confirmed. “Even if they bugged the files, we’re offline. They can’t find us if we’re not connected.”

“That’s right,” Saeyoung said, his voice sounding cheerful again. “When we send this out, we’ll leave here, just to be safe. It won’t matter if they find this place. It’s just a safehouse. There’s others.”

Saeran let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since the alarm had gone off in the bunker. “Well, let’s get organizing,” he said, turning back to his monitor. “How do you want it done?”

“First, we need to stop,” Saeyoung said. “Not for long, but we’ve all been here long enough that our eyes are about to pop out. Take a few minutes, go see your cat. Your eyes will thank you and you’ll work better.”

Vanderwood nodded in agreement. “I’m going to go get a smoke. I’ll be right back.” He stood and went up the stairs.

Saeyoung pulled MC into his lap, resting his head against her shoulder and closing his eyes. As he murmured to her affectionately, Saeran went to see Toby. A half-eaten plate of stew showed him that MC had at least found a way to feed him. That was so like her, to take care of things without disturbing anyone else.

With a full belly, Toby wasn’t interested in playing, but he was happy to lay in Saeran’s lap as he bathed himself. Saeran realized that despite being in the small room all day, without a litter box, there was no smell of Toby having relieved himself anywhere. He poked the kitten’s belly, but it didn’t seem overly distended.

“MC?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Um, I just realized that we don’t have a litter box. Has Toby… you know?”

“Oh!” MC giggled. “I didn’t have anything else to do but watch him, so I’ve just been putting him up on the toilet when he started looking like he needed to go.”

Saeran blinked in surprise. He wouldn’t have thought of doing that. “Oh, okay. Thank you for watching him.”

“It’s no trouble. We’ve kept each other company.” She smiled at him warmly.

Vanderwood came back down the stairs. “I checked around outside. There’s no sign of anyone poking around. Also, it’s starting to snow. No one goes out until we’re ready to leave.”

“Snow is good,” Saeyoung said. “Any tracks we left will get covered. That’s a relief.”

“Are we ready to finish this mess?” Vanderwood asked.

“More than ready,” Saeyoung said, nudging MC to stand up. “Saeran?”

“Yeah, be right there.” He nuzzled Toby before handing the kitten off to MC.

The hours moved by slowly as each began organizing the information pulled from the servers. A history of hits on political figures, international dealings, businesses sabotaged, and even falsified criminal evidence to jail people; all the data sorted into neatly referenced lists. Saeran had to admit that he was impressed by the reach of The Agency, and also a little unnerved by it. These were the men that they’d escaped, twice now? His brother and Vanderwood must be better than they let on, Saeran decided. It was the only explanation for how any of them were still alive.

In the very early hours of the morning, everything was ready. They prepared the packages to send out to the media and to the authorities. They were reaching out across international boundaries as well. Every nation where The Agency had dealings was about to get copies of the information blanketing their media, police, and government agencies.

“Okay,” Saeyoung said, once it was all set. “Saeran, take Toby and MC upstairs. MC, get Elly. The only thing staying behind is the computers. Vanderwood and I will clear the place. This will be the least secure place in the world when the news starts getting ahold of this stuff.” He tugged MC’s coat close around her. “Stay bundled up. It’s going to be a few minutes. We have to make sure that no one can tie us to this place.”

MC nodded and turned to the stairs, wearing her backpack and carrying Saeyoung’s. Saeran followed her, carrying two of the bags they’d brought and Toby. It was cold in the shed and his coat wasn’t holding the heat in very well. His teeth clattered as they waited. MC held Elly and danced from foot to foot. Finally, Saeyoung and Vanderwood came up the stairs, hauling the trash and Vanderwood’s large bag with them.

Saeran snickered at the sight of them. They were dressed like they were going into surgery. They wore paper scrubs, gloves, masks, and funny little paper hats. All he could see was their eyes, and both shot him a look that killed his amusement.

“Everybody out,” Vanderwood said.

Luciel led the way out to his car. He slung Vanderwood’s bag into the back seat and opened the front door for MC. “Time to go, babe,” he said to her.

“What about Vanderwood?” she asked.

“He’ll be meeting us. Don’t worry.” He grinned at her. “I only half joked about him being my maid.”

As they pulled out onto the street, Saeyoung shed the cap and mask. He pulled the scrubs down as well.

“Why were you two wearing all that, anyway?” Saeran asked.

“Because the locals will be looking for evidence. That means DNA evidence, too. They’ll be looking for hair and anything else they can find. So, we cleaned up. There’s nothing left down there to lead anyone to us, now,” Saeyoung explained.

“And yet you can’t clean your room?” Saeran teased.

“Hey, that’s a whole different kind of cleaning!” Saeyoung protested.

“I think I may have to agree with Saeran on this one,” MC chuckled. “If you can clean so well that not even a hair is left behind, I think you might have to start hitting the hamper with your laundry.”

“Save the world, bring down the evil spy network, put your laundry in the hamper…” Saeyoung whined. “Are you ever satisfied?” he grinned at MC.

She didn’t say a word, but Saeran caught her meaningful grin as they passed under a streetlight. He felt his face grow red and focused on Toby.

MC fell asleep, leaning against Saeyoung’s arm as he drove them out of town and down to a dock. When he pulled in, he sat her up gently and whispered to Saeran, “Keep an eye out? I’m just going to make sure it’s clear.”

“You own a boat?” Saeran asked in surprise.

“No, Jumin does. We’re borrowing one for a few days,” Saeyoung grinned. “It’ll be great! You should see the stars when you’re out at sea!” He opened the door and stepped out. “Be right back,” he said, closing the car up again.

Saeran looked out the windows of the car. The docks below were well-lit. There would be no sneaking onto a boat with that much lighting. On the flip side, it also meant that if anyone tried to sneak up on them, they’d be less likely to be able to hide.

Suddenly Saeran saw headlights coming down the road. He reached over the seat and shook MC awake. “Someone’s coming. Quickly, follow me and stay down.” They slid out of the car on the side away from the approaching lights, following Saeyoung’s footsteps to the trail in the trees. Toby was once again trapped in Saeran’s coat, and MC carried Elly in her arms. Saeran led her off the trail and they crouched behind a low wall with trash bins in front of it. As a person passed by, heading down the trail, Saeran signaled for her to stay still, and snuck around to see who was on the trail.

He sighed in relief. “Vanderwood,” he called, standing slowly.

Vanderwood stopped and turned. “There you are! I thought you’d all gone down to the boat. I was going to hand Seven his head for not checking it out first!”

“No, he left a few minutes ago. Should he be back already?”

Vanderwood frowned. “How few?”

“Maybe five before you got here?” Saeran said as MC joined them on the trail.

“No, that’s fine. He should be getting back here any minute though. Can you two handle waiting where you were? I know it’s cold. I’ll go see if everything…”

Vanderwood was cut off as a roar filled the air and an explosion shook the area. A fireball rose from where the cars had been parked.

“Run!” Vanderwood shouted, shoving MC in front of him and almost dragging her by her arm as he raced down the trail.

Saeran ran after him. In his mind all he could think was “not again, not again,”

Saeyoung sprinted up the trail toward them, grabbing MC and running with her back the way he’d come. He and Vanderwood shouted about whether the boat was secure or not, and that Saeyoung had made sure that it was. Saeyoung pulled MC onto the boat at the end of the dock and Vanderwood untied the moorings, throwing the heavy ropes to Saeran. Saeyoung started the motor and was pulling away from the docks when several men appeared at the other end of the dock.

“Everyone down!” Vanderwood barked. “Seven, move this tub!”

Saeran looked up just in time to see one of the men on the dock pull out what looked like a rocket launcher. He ducked, but when nothing happened, he looked up to see Jumin’s body guards swarming the men who had appeared. One waved in their direction. Saeyoung blew the horn on the boat and steered them away from the docks and out to the open ocean.

As the lights faded, Vanderwood rose to his feet. “Is everyone alright?” he asked. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” MC said.

“Saeran?” he asked.

“I’m good. What the hell happened? How did they find us?” Saeran asked.

“Who knows,” Vanderwood said. “Maybe they knew about Jumin’s boat and were watching the area. Thank god he knew we’d be heading this way and had backup ready. If they’d gotten that rocket launched…” He shook his head.

“Seven! Did you even plot a course for this thing?” he bellowed, stepping up the ladder to the bridge.

Saeran turned to MC. “Let’s get inside,” he said. “It’s too cold out here.”

MC nodded, rising to her feet. She shuffled down the stairs and opened the narrow door. Inside, they fumbled around until they found the light switch.

Saeran had never been on a boat before. He saw a small kitchen area, a table, and a door at the far end of the space. Another door was directly behind the one they’d just come through. He looked at MC, wondering what to do about sleeping space.

MC looked back and set Elly on the floor. Sighing, she mumbled, “I don’t even care.” She laid down on a bench by the table, pulling her coat close.

Saeyoung came through the door behind Saeran just then. “Babe, no, come on, there’s a bed here,” he said, squeezing by his brother. He got MC back up on her feet and guided her to the door at the far end. Opening the door, he revealed a bed on the other side and helped her scoot into it. He crawled in after her but emerged again a few minutes later.

“Thank you,” he said to Saeran, after he closed the door. “I owe you her life.”

“I wouldn’t have moved if I hadn’t seen Vanderwood driving up,” Saeran said, shaking his head. “You really lived this way?” he asked Saeyoung.

“Well, usually I was the one doing the chasing, but yeah, this is about how it went. Why?”

“I couldn’t do it,” Saeran admitted, leaning against the wall behind him.

“You could, if you had to,” Saeyoung shrugged. “Here, though, you’re probably tired, too. If you open that door, there’s a small bunk in there. You should find a storage above the bed with some blankets in it. Get some rest.”

“What about you?” Saeran asked. “You can’t stand up there all night in the cold. Neither can Vanderwood.”

Saeyoung chuckled. “Not to worry. Jumin has this baby all set up for winter travel. We have heat, blankets, coffee and even PhD Pepper!” He laughed. “I’ll get some sleep in a while. First we have to get away from shore and away from the shipping lanes. Go to bed little brother. You’ve earned it.”

“Saeyoung?” Saeran asked, as his brother climbed the stairs again.

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to be able to go home again, right? I mean, I know the bunker is gone, but, we’ll have a home, somewhere?” Saeran couldn’t bring himself to ask the question he wanted to ask the most.

“Yeah, hang in there for me. It’ll be a few days, but we’re going back. You’ll get to see Nina again. I promise.”

Saeran smiled his thanks. He knew that his brother had known what was going on inside his head. He hadn’t expected it to be recognized so clearly, but it made him feel better. He crawled into the odd little bed, closing the door behind himself. Finding the storage Saeyoung mentioned, he pulled out a couple of heavy blankets and wrapped himself and Toby in a cocoon. As soon as he was warm enough to relax, he fell asleep.

#mystic messenger #707's Route #saeran choi #saeyoung choi #Vanderwood

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kyloscomet · 7 years ago

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Missing You || JDM

Summary: You haven’t seen your husband in months, due to him being away on press. After going to the spot that the two of you love the most, you get an interesting phone call.

Warnings: EXTREME FLUFF!!

Paring: Jeffrey x Female Reader

Words: 1767

Note: hello, familia! so, prettyepiic posted the gif above yesterday and I got hit with inspiration (*queue the rainbows and sparkles*). I wrote a small imagine for it, but then I was challenged to make it into a full fic so, here you are! grab your blankets and teddy bears, this one is hella fluffy! much love!

Tags: @prettyepiic

“Umm… let me get the berrylicious iced tea. Hold on the sugar,” you asked, while digging into your purse. The cashier in front of you nodded and punched the buttons on their screen before telling you the total. The smell of coffee and cookies filled the air and the sighs of people waiting in line behind you resounded in your ears. It was lunch time in New York, and every little restaurant and coffee shop was filled with people looking to get something into their hungry bellies. This place, the Bean Boys coffee shop, was you and your husband’s favorite spot for midday treats. You remembered what he would always order. “A coffee, black, one spoon of sugar. Oh and a cake pop,” he would say, always eyeing the sprinkled ones in the glass case. You’d scoff at his obsession with them. “Jeff, you literally tasted half of one at a wedding once, and now you’re obsessed with them.” “I can’t help it,” he’d answer, chuckling, “They’re just so– oh my.” His face would light up every time that sprinkled little treat was handed to him. He swallow it in one bite, and you’d shake your head while taking your tea. He’d then take his coffee and you’d both sit at the same table, every time. The cashier looked at you as your pulled the money from your wallet, but as you handed him the cash, you saw the cake pops sitting in their glass case. You pulled out one more dollar and smiled. “Hand me one of the cake pops too.” The cashier, taking the dollar, nodded and punched it into the computer. He answered with your new total and handed you your receipt. Then he turned and took one from its case and handed it to you. “Your drink will be out shortly.” Nodding you walked over to the waiting spot. Looking down at the cake pop you wondered how Jeffrey was able to fit the full thing in his mouth every time. It was huge! You decided to give it a try. Opening your mouth as wide as you could, you took a bite. Sprinkles fell all over your shirt and frosting covered your lips. You chuckled to yourself. “Need a napkin?” You looked over to see a woman handing you a brown napkin with the name of the coffee shop spread on the front. You made an awkward smile and swallowed, taking the napkin. “Thanks,” you said. The woman nodded. “My husband is obsessed with these things and I never understood how he could fit the whole thing in his mouth with one go,” you admitted. The woman, her blue eyes becoming cheerful, released a soft laugh. “That’s funny,” she said, taking her drinks from the counter, “My husband loves their carrot cake! Every other day, like clockwork, he gets a craving for it.” You chuckled with her as your drink was the next to be served. The woman was then handed a small container holding a slice of the carrot cake. “Gotta hand this to the beast,” she joked. You laughed along with her. “Yeah, my husband is out of town so, I’m taking this one in his honor.” “Where is he?” “He’s on business,” you lied. Actually, Jeff was out doing press for the next season of his show, The Walking Dead. It was widely popular, and one thing Jeff had warned you about earlier, was how emotions with his character were still running high. He was perceived as they evil prick who murdered some of the good guys. But in full honesty, Negan was simply a man trying to survive and protect his people, no matter what it took. Very similar to his counterpart, Rick Grimes, if you said so yourself. “Aww well, I hope he comes home safely,” the woman said, nodding to her husband who was sitting in a booth. “It was nice talking to you,” she said. You returned the compliment and went your separate way, going to your favorite table. It was the one, second to the corner, along the windows. It was perfect for people watching, which you and Jeff loved to do when adult conversations were just too boring. You’d both point out the weirdos who walked down the street and laugh at the crazy things that, well, only ever happened in New York. You sat down and placed your bag on the floor, taking your phone out to place it on the table. Biting off the last of the cake pop, you slightly smiled and put the stick on a napkin next to you. You tasted the sweetness of your iced tea and felt at ease. The day was bright and sunny, but the sounds of the shop seemed to get louder. More people kept coming in and forming an even longer line then before. Sighing, you went down to your purse to pull out your headphones. You suddenly felt the table vibrate. You looked at the screen, to find your own face staring back at you, with the ID of ‘Norman Reedus’, showing at the top. Norman was FaceTiming you. You plugged in the headphones and made a face. He hasn’t ever FaceTimed you before, so maybe it was a mistake? After sticking the ear buds in your ears, you answered it. The call connected, but all you saw was a half black screen, and ceiling. “Hello?” You asked. There were voices coming through but, they were unfamiliar to you. You listened a little more carefully. “What time is it?” “Oh umm, 9:30.” “With the 3 hour difference… she’s probably at Bean Boys.” “What the fuck is Bean Boys?” It was Norman, for sure, but the other person? “You’ve never been to Bean Boys?!” said another voice in shock. It sounded like Jeff. “No–” “Oh, dude. It’s a little coffee shop by our house. There’s coffee and snacks…. They have these amazing cake pops there!” It’s Jeffery. “Cake pops?” You smirked and blushed a bit, turning up the volume on your headphones. “Yes! They’re balls of cake, frosting, and sprinkles; (Y/N) gets them for me every time we go and ugh!” Jeffrey groaned and you chuckled. You could just picture him slouching in his chair and rubbing his belly as he explained them to Norman. The phone moved and you could suddenly see Jeff, doing exactly that. He was dressed in a jean jacket and grey shirt, sporting his favorite Ford hat. You smiled, missing him very much. “Man, speaking of, I miss (Y/N),” he sighed, taking off his hat to fluff his hair. “I know, you asshole, you’ve told me 7 million times today.” “I have not,” Jeff replied, putting the hat back on and crossing his arms. “Yes, you have. Every other sentence is: I miss (Y/N)… I miss (Y/N)’s cooking… I miss (Y/N)’s blah blah blah,” Norman mocked. Jeffrey made a face. “We’re ready for you guys.” Both of them looked up at a young and spunky girl who had bright blue hair. She smiled, a piercing sticking out of her top lip. It was beautiful on her, but you cringed, thinking about how badly that had to hurt. She also had a lanyard around her neck that had a graphic card on the front reading 'SDCC Volunteer’, and a cut t-shirt that had a graphic of some band on the front. She motioned for them to follow her. Jeff and Norman stood and began walking as their conversation continued. “I love her and miss her,” Jeffrey started going, “I miss her kisses and her hugs, and I miss her hair, ohhh man her hair; it always smells so nice.” Norman groaned. “She also has this amazing smile that just leaves an impression on your brain, I can’t ever forget it.” Jeffrey then went on and on, telling Norman how much he loved and missed you. Your heart fluttered as you heard him blab over you. He made dramatic hand motions as he told memories and Norman, being the brother he said he’d be for Jeff, listened to every word. You rested your chin in the palm of your hand and smiled, your eyes almost welling with tears. You missed your cake pop loving husband. The two of them talked a little more, before someone interrupted. “Uhh, Norman want me to hold your phone while we take the pictures?” “Oh, yeah, just once sec,” he said. Suddenly, the screen brightened and Norman brought the camera to Jeffrey. His face flushed red and his eyes grew wide. “Hey,” you said, waving and laughing. Norman chuckled. Jeffrey’s hand went up in a hang 10. “Hey, baby,” he said, annoyed. Norman laughed and smiled. “I had her on here the whole time, bro!” “What do you mean the whole time?” Jeffrey asked, is face getting even redder. You laughed out loud and smiled. “It all started with the cake pops!” Norman chuckled and Jeffrey snatched the phone from him. “Give me that, you piece of shit,” he said jokingly. Jeffrey’s smile grew wide when he saw your face, and you blushed as he spoke. “You know all those things I said were true, right?” You nodded. “Of course, my love.” Jeffrey smiled and kissed the camera. “I miss you!” “I miss you too! I got a cake pop today,” you said, showing in your cakeless stick. He laughed and started to go on about how badly he wanted one, and that he refused to eat anyone else’s but Bean Boys. A few minutes went by as the two of you talked, and you could see flashes of light going off behind him. A woman came by with a makeup brush and she started powdering his cheekbones. He sighed. “Honey, I have to go, but I love you and we’ll talk as soon as I get back to the hotel. I’ll call you!” “Sounds good, hun,” you agreed, smiling. You said one last goodbye to Norman, before blowing a kiss to Jeffrey. After the call ended, you felt your heart flutter even more. You couldn’t wait to see him again! Standing to leave, you grabbed your bag. The line now was completely gone, the lunch time rush being over. The small room was now quieter and the only noise around was the air conditioner and a small radio that played in the corner of the shop, as well as a few people talking. Even the woman and her husband had left. You looked back and before leaving, looking at the counter. Taking a few steps forward and handing the cashier some money, you smiled and spoke. “One cake pop, please.”

#jeffrey dean morgan #jdm #jdm fanfic #jeffrey dean morgan fanfic #jdm fluff #negans thirst squad #nts #jdmfanfiction #fluff #my works

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dancekickboxcardio · 5 years ago

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I looked 👀 so much better morning ☀️. Exact words to BFF, “I was cuter.” Afternoon, you can see the weigh of the day on my face. I am run down. My eyes 👀 is kinder and not mean looking like I can kill you with my icy 🥶 stare. It’s not fresh for sure. It says more like what do you want, I have no time of the day, I am done ✅ . It’s more approachable in what do you want way. At least it’s not don’t talk to me. I took a picture 📸 of the dino 🦖. I try to capture a photo even of little things that I found magic ✨. They caught my eye 👁. I found art 👩🏼‍🎨 in them. There was something interesting. Most of the times it is to take a better memory of what happened. Something to cue and go by. It could tell a story. But my favorite is random.

I should have had a terrible day yesterday. However, it didn’t get a meltdown from me. Ugh 😑, I hate it. I was god darn straight up reasonable and level headed. Why don’t you like combust like a desperate lunatic loser who can’t do anything but spew bogus stuff. Then, that would make not totally me. That’s what people admire about me. They know that they can believe what I say. It is reliable and accurate and they won’t make a fool of themselves repeating it. Although if you want to own my ideas 💡 it is lovely that you can’t defend them and not better than I can.

By the end of the day I was exhausted 😩. I was a little depleted. I had this feeling of giving up given the enormity of the drama of the day, my physical exertions and lack of anything to give ⚡️ anymore. Somehow, in that time of unsureness, I found it in me to keep going. It was almost automatic. What makes me scary 😨 is when most would shrivel into smallness, I am able to let out a confident courage that anchors itself in my coping mechanism, my ability to evaluate a situation, find the solution and follow through without doubt what I believe is the best way to go about it. Sometimes it is scary that I could be automatic that I don’t pay attention and not notice I am there and the little things. Perhaps, I have some other things going on in my mind. You can’t possibly remember every small detail of your life. Like, we were dancing 🕺🏽 in Zumba right. As we were grooving it out 💃🏼 I was actually making some figuring out decision. I don’t ever do that. It was easy going in class yesterday. It wasn’t packed. The energy was there. Everybody seems happy 😃 to put in work. I don’t know 🤷🏼‍♀️ where they were coming from but I just talked to the activities desk about a problem and it was my fifth exercise 💪🏾 🏃🏼‍♀️ after AMP which is high velocity, intensity spinning 🚲 . It was like a party 🎊 too. The reason I don’t give much credit to whatever people think 🤔 I am and it’s not that I don’t know 🤔 they are basing it off themselves, I am more, I weigh it based on where I am. I basically know where I am coming from. You are full of strength. Well, I have excess weigh all over my body and also I am having my shake dinner 🍽 . You can’t judge a person based on you. You put it in their shoes 👠 . Like duh 🙄. Some people are more like others and they can relate better which means they easily form friendship 👭 👬 👫 bonds. But in adulthood, there is a healthy way of going about living.

Wamesy gave me toe kisses 😽. I have achy 😖 tightness in my back. My legs are sore. My stomach too. Yes, tea cup table abs progression 📈.

I had some yogurt 🍦 coming in to the gym 🏃🏼‍♀️ 💪🏾 and I didn’t feel like having my full breakfast 🥞. I blow dried my hair and form it to my fancy. I was pretty cute with my tress. I spend time on my phone 📲 until it was time for Pilates. I missed the Monday class and glad to show up Wednesday. Well, it wasn’t as easy as the last time with April but it was manageable. I wanted to tell her I got out energized and limber. Many people where schmoozing and I am on a clock 🕰. I was able to pull myself lying down to reach my legs 🦵🏾 sitting. I had to hold on to my knees but strength is build up. I was wobbly and I was ok with where I was. I’ll keep on working on it. I love 💕 the part where you are folded in front and one on the side legs and you reach up towards the opposite side for the stretch on your torso and inner thighs. It was complex and a great pose 😊. I felt so womanly 👩🏼 . It was a joy to express myself. Although I am not saying it is a girl’s only class. You take these classes because you know you get something from it. Mary, the Ashtanga Vinyasa yogi 🧘🏼‍♀️ does tiny muscle exercises on the floor. It tickles me. I thought 💭 it proficient. April was great. She was being funny 😆, loose and she’s great with instructions.

I went for breakfast 🍳 after the class. I changed in my bathing suit 👙 and there was an Aqua class. I felt Pilates was for me morning. Another time and not this day. It was nice to see the ☀️ sun shine as I quietly nourish myself. I spend time on my phone 📱 again and that’s because I felt like it. It was something to be done ✅ and I had the option and really the wiggle room in my schedule 📅 to allow for it. Tit for Tat. I do it now, I have free time later. About 30 minutes before suntanning was over at 77 the heat 🥵 was unbearable for me and I was worried 😟 that I might get a heatstroke. I moved to the shade to get my nap 💤 for the day. I went back to switch my lunch 🍴 from breakfast on my food 🥘 bag. I had a leisurely meal at 100p.

I went back to the locker 🔒 room. I showered 🧼, I changed and I opened my stuff to grab my work 📚 to find me freaked out. “Where the hell is my black Vince Camuto purse 👜?” I reported it and they were going to investigate what had happened like check the security cameras. I am like, “What the heck.” Thank God, my laptop 💻 was spared. I checked in with Keya through out the day if there were updates. If someone turned it in. I don’t need the bag 💼 . Heck I am more than happy 😃 to use one of my new designers. But my lipsticks 💄, my Tahiri sunglasses 🕶, my chargers 🔌, my book 📖, my IDs and credit cards 💳. I would love 💗 to get a new wallet. I know I seem funny 😄 about it. It fuels my retail 🛍 enthusiasm. I have had the Badley Mischka wallet since graduating from Notre Dame. It was as old as I was an undergrad graduate 🎓.

I continued with my day like a pro. Ugh 😑 and I wrote ✍🏾 on my journal and I studied 📑. I wish I had my plug for Apple Watch ⌚️ and phone 📱. I wasn’t able to log my activity starting AMP 🚲 .

The room was not volatile. It was of course full of bullying. Yet my impression was it was calm relatively. It was also not pressure packed like I told Laura and you feel at ease to move about like you are safe. I may have low anxiety stepping on the floor because I know many of the trainers 👟 and I have friends in the gym. I also spend my entire day when I am training in the building. I eat my lunch 🍴 and dinner 🍽 there and sometimes breakfast. I use the sauna 🧖🏼‍♀️ and relax 😌 🧴 by the pool 🏊🏻‍♀️ . It’s not that I am not on my toes sharp. I just have lower threshold in my defense and I have a good relationship and a pleasant one with most of them and I feel that I am aware what it’s like during bottlenecks and low attendance moments. There was room to maneuver yesterday working on my lower body using the equipments. It wasn’t as busy. I told Lane seeing him downstairs that there was nobody on the floor. He was like, “I like it.” Mmmmhm. Something that he would say.

My Mom was making me do more over my lost bag. I did what was reasonable. She wanted me to check the garbage 🗑. I am like Mom, I am not going to go crazy over my lost purse 👜. If I remember putting it in my bin, then someone must have taken it from there. I don’t know what that person did to it. She told me like what Morgan said if I brought it to the poolside. I did not. She was like, “Maybe you just brought it with you not thinking 💭.” That’s the thing even with automatic routine behaviors I still account for what I need. What are extra I store. She stopped 🛑 her scenarios and insistence when I said hypothetically if I did bring it outside the camera shall have shown I did. End of discussion.

I was not too bad in the cycling 🚴🏼‍♀️ studio. There were many colleg 📚 kids in club and it is great. I remem using the Notre Dame gym which is open in limited hours and I told an advisor, “The guy was staring at me like he has never seen a girl use the treadmill before.” Yeah, strict stringent conservative. The handle bars where wobbly but I keep my seat 💺 because I wanted to get that after session report. I don’t believe I pressed the right end button 🖲. I had to leave and that’s where I saw my Mom and I got a lecture and I talked with Keya. It was a fun 🎊 class. The instructor was so bubbly . She beats me. I enjoyed her towel exercises. I thought 💭 they were great. I liked the mechanics 🧰 we did on the bicycle. I had to think 🤔 peddling and moving my arms at the same time without falling off the machine. It was great. I felt my inner thighs doing work and I was happy 😃 . Ballerina strength bod.

Zumba 💃🏼 I couldn’t move my legs anymore . They felt like a heavy brick 🧱 . I was able to bust it out on some easy Latin like music 🎶. But squats. It was a feel good work out 🏋🏼‍♀️ and as always the case L’Tan was great in getting us all into it and with various dances from 🕴🏻all over the world 🌍 . Some of them I knew by heart already. I was ready to pass out by the end of that last exercise routine. This was me.

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tatooedlaura-blog · 8 years ago

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Twenty-second Christmas

the series is as follows so far:

First … Second … Third … Fourth … Fifth … Fifth Christmas, Part 2 … Sixth … Seventh … Eighth … Ninth … Tenth … Eleventh … Twelfth … Thirteenth … Fourteenth … Fifteenth … Sixteenth … Seventeenth … Eighteenth … Nineteenth … Twentieth … Twenty-first … Twenty-second … Twenty-third

———————–

I have to mess with the timeline again but I need another Christmas in here before Maggie dies so I’m putting one in and shifting the rest of the timeline … sue me … 8^)

&&&&&&&&&&&&

Maggie had lay down the law with his previous year’s Christmas gift. It was a smartphone, a simple one, one without a camera on it, one attached to her cell plan, one that she insisted he keep on now because she was getting old and if she fell, he would be the first one she’d call and he needed to be reachable at all times.

He tried to argue but she shut him down, good-naturedly and with mother’s love abounding but still, she told him to be quiet and do as he was told. He’d fought her but she was more stubborn than her daughter had ever been and much scarier so he relented, taking her at her word that she’d be calling him at random times just to check that it was on.

It didn’t annoy him.

It made his heart beat a little faster, however, at the prospect of something on in his house at all times that wasn’t ‘firewall-paranoid-Frohike would be proud, technologically protected from everyone in the world who was not him or Scully or Maggie’. He did, once he got home, stare at it for a long while, power it down, felt the crushing guilt of having turned it off, turned it back on, plugged it in in his office, shut the door, went to bed, returned five minutes later to retrieve it because he had sudden visions of Maggie falling down the stairs, Maggie burning the house down, Maggie getting in an accident, Maggie showing up to read him the riot act for having turned it off in the first place.

It took until the next morning for him to use it to call her with one simple response to the whole situation, “why wouldn’t you just call Scully? She’s closer and can sign forms and stuff and won’t need to wait for a cab to get to you.”

Maggie honestly had no idea it would take him this long to figure that out and she laughed, “just leave it on, Fox, for me.”

He did.

Now he called her like a normal human being, she called him and somehow, Scully began calling him … not often but at least once or twice a week, sometimes just to see if she had any mail there or if he was doing okay or if he needed anything …

Scully’s standard mode of caring when she wasn’t sure if she could handle admitting she cared.

He accepted the erratic thud of his heart when he saw her name flash on the caller ID and the second thud as he hit the accept button. It returned to its normal beat two minutes later when she deemed the conversation over, having satisfied some nameless need buried deep inside for another few days.

He accepted this, too.

&&&&&&&&&&&

They hadn’t eaten a meal together in nearly two years but Maggie had called about a dripping pipe and Mulder had come, even though it was a Wednesday and Scully had dropped by unannounced because it was Wednesday and not Tuesday and the moment she saw him, soaking shirt with a wrench in his hand and he saw her in a messy ponytail, keys dangling from the Apollo keychain held precariously in her teeth while she tried not to drop her purse and what looked like Maggie’s mail, her mother/his adopted mother felt a spark in the air, a flutter in the ozone, a blip on the radar and breathed a sigh of relief because, regardless of what may have happened between them in the last 24 months, the magic was still there, sleeping but stirring awake once again and palpable in her freezing living room.

“Dear, would you shut the door, please? Fox is going to freeze solid and I don’t think he’ll enjoy that.”

Scully quickly gathered her senses, dropping keys and mail, shutting door, opening door again to retrieve dropped keys before finally standing up, blowing stray hair from her eyes with a sudden puff upwards, “sorry. I just … wasn’t … sorry.”

Maggie nearly giggled but managed to contain her glee at her two people finally in a room once again, “it’s fine. Come on in. We were just about to have some dinner. Fox came over to fix a pipe that was dripping.” Twisting her hands gently, “old things don’t grip quite as well as they used to.”

Mulder scrambled out of the way, “yeah, sorry. Come on in. I’ll head out in a minute, just need to find a dry shirt.”

“Fox, I promised you dinner and you are staying. I’ve made your favorite so you don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

Shrugging but smiling, he looked at Scully, “she really enjoys ordering me around.”

Returning the smile before quickly looking away, “she does it out of love.”

“She must adore me something fierce then.”

Tentatively touching his arm as she passed, “she does.”

Dinner itself wasn’t as awkward as it could have been but there were definitely moments, moments of dead air that pressed down, compressing the spine and shoulders, back hunching involuntarily under the weight of the silence. Scully excused herself to the bathroom in one moment … Mulder to blow his nose in another … both stood in unison for the third to bolt then both smiled shyly for a moment before turning their looks to a Maggie simply shaking her head, “we need some dessert and music. Dana, go find a decent station on the radio for me, please.”

All in all, it was a happy night, all three parties going to bed at ease with the world.

&&&&&&&&&&

Maggie had her normal, raucous Christmas with the family, sans Charlie and Bill but with enough grandchildren and grand nieces and nephews to fill her house to cacophonous capacity. She had invited Mulder but he was nowhere near ready for that and politely declined, telling Maggie he’d be around on the 27th with her gift and to help her clean behind the oven and refrigerator. Instead, he settled with an orange cat on his lap, a bag of Cheezits so if some got on the animal, he’d never know and six bottles of ice tea and root beer.

Nearly asleep, with the cat ninja-like attempting to steal snacks from the open box, he startled awake at the sound of a quiet knock on the front door. Jerking upwards, the cat, the crackers and two empties clattered to the floor, the yowling cat jumping immediately to the coffee table to give Mulder a piece of her mind at the disturbance.

He ignored the cat, optioning to panic at the midnight rapping at his entryway. Peering cautiously through the front curtain, he saw Scully’s car and pulled the door open immediately, “what’s wrong? What happened? Is Maggie okay?”

His intruding presence, inches from her, panic look on his face made her smile, arms automatically going to his chest, pushing him back slightly into the house and out of the freezing wind, “we’re all fine, Mulder, I promise.”

Next he pulled her further in, shutting the door, softest touch of coiled steel to her forearms, “are you sure?”

“Yes, honest, I swear to you. She’s fine. I’m fine. Everyone’s fine. I left there about a half-hour ago and everybody was just going to bed.” Still bundled in her coat and knit rainbow stocking cap with the tassles on top, her pink cheeks peeking through her matching rainbow scarf, “I just wanted to come wish you a Merry Christmas.”

Studying her for another second, he deemed her honest and let out a sigh, “you scared me.”

“I’m sorry. Truly. I didn’t think. I should have called to warn you.” He saw the doubt at her side excursion creeping into her eyes, which began darting around the room, then angling towards her escape, “I can go though. Sorry … sorry again.”

Finally smiling in her direction, “get in here. I need help drinking my root beer.”

Raised eyebrow met crinkling forehead, “root beer?”

“No liquor for me anymore. Interferes with the meds.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he nodded over his shoulder, “me and Flab share us some of that fine New England root beer every so often. Keeps us young.”

Hearing her name, the cat jumped from table to couch to end table to chair back to Mulder shoulder in silence, perching as if she were queen of the kingdom and Mulder was her throne. Scully laughed, “Flab?”

He scratched the cat’s chin, “Flab.” Finally remembering the rest of his manners, “shit, sorry. Would you like to stay?”

Great debates raced through her mind, even as she was shrugging out of her coat, stuffing scarf and hat into her sleeve, “for a little bit.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Twenty minutes later, they were settled on the couch, Scully on one end, Mulder on the other, Flab stretched to maximum capacity in the middle, head pressed against his thigh and feet pushed against hers. The TV was on but mute and making the darkened room glow blue, “so, don’t hit me for this but I can’t ask your mom and I’ve been wondering for awhile now … what the hell happened with Charlie?”

Scully could only shrug, picking at the label of the bottle in her hand, “nobody really knows. Mom won’t tell me, Bill talks to him occasionally and can’t get anything out of him, Sarah, while she loves us and is around all the time, we’ve stopped asking because it just makes her cry and that bothers the kids and so … we just … ignore it, I guess. The kids bring him up sometimes and we all are fine with that but usually it’s just to say what they used to do with him or something he would have liked.” Turning her head and resting it on the couch, “I hate to say it but it’s like he’s died and we’ve moved on but he’s still alive and we don’t know how to move on.”

Moving his hand to touch her automatically, he discovered his reality a moment too late and instead of hanging there like an idiot, he nonchalantly dropped his hand to pet Flab instead.

Scully was not an idiot and knew what his hand movement had been about though she couldn’t fault him since her body anticipated the touch, craved it and standing up, she turned, then sat on the table, knees touching his, bottle still in hand, although not for long. Setting it down beside her, she let her fingers float over his denim, loose fitting cotton over hard thigh. She didn’t move any further up than just past his knee but it felt warm and comfortable and right.

“Scully?”

“Nothing’s going to happen, Mulder. I know it can’t but I haven’t touched you in centuries.”

His hand drifted to cover hers, digits between digits slipping in divots and dips. Fingerprints circle knuckles, palms against backs as his thumbs finally settle softly against wrists, “I miss you everyday, Scully. Every hour, every minute, every second, every millisecond and whatever the hell comes after that.”

She couldn’t begin to echo the sentiment, even come close to how much she missed him. Needing to break eye contact with him before she came apart completely, she looked around the room, letting the emotions settle, “not decorating this year, I take it?”

Beginning small circles on the softest skin known to man, he felt the delicate tendons under her skin, the underside of her wrist his sole dream in that moment, “I haven’t decorated since you left. I didn’t see any point to it. Have you decorated?”

Truth bubbled up, threatened to pour forth in a torrent of painful, hurtful words but a quick intake of air shored up the dam, “no. Haven’t been in a Christmas mood the last few years. I do well at Mom’s but I go home and I don’t want that there.”

“You don’t want what there?”

Shit, she couldn’t stop it now, “I don’t want that sense of permanence, the notion that I’m going to be there long enough to have to go out and get more decorations, pack things up and put them within easy reach for the next year. I’m not ready for that. I want a place that is mine but I’m not ready to call it my home yet. Decorations are for a home, Mulder, not a stale apartment in the city.” Tears pricked her eyes but always the expert at pushing through them, she blinked rapidly, although not fast enough to hide them completely, “I will someday but not yet.”

Checking the clock and seeing they still had about a half-hour, he squeezed her wrists lightly, “what do you think about decorating now? We could put up all our regular stuff and make this place look like it used to.”

Suddenly, she missed him so much her chest ached, a stabbing pain across her breastbone reminding her she did indeed have a heart, still broken but very much there. Fighting the logic racing through her brain, she nodded, “I’d like that.”

&&&&&&&&

Slipping into old habits instinctively, Scully set up the tree while Mulder hung stockings and garland. Both quietly placed ornaments until Scully came across the one her mother had made him. With a smile, “I knew she made you one, too! She didn’t answer me when I asked but she had that ‘I’ve got a secret’ look on her face.”

“What color is yours?”

“Red, white lettering.”

He scooted just a little closer, brushing shoulders with her, “you should have bought yours with you. We could have added it to the collection.”

“Maybe next time I come by.”

Mulder wanted to smile at the prospect of her coming by again but he couldn’t look forward to it, knowing disappointment would set him on edge so he chose to continue staring at the tree, feeling her warmth, her energy, the life he had once and would give almost anything to have again.

Scully felt it, too and nudging his hand with hers, no commitment, no expectation, just touch, “you got any hot chocolate around this place?”

“I think I got some on my last shopping trip. Flab likes to drink it with me on our Saturday dates.”

Following him to the kitchen, “you have a standing date with your cat on Saturday nights?”

He knew she wasn’t judging so he told her over his shoulder as he rummaged through cupboards, “yeah. We have tuna salad, carrots, biscuits and hot chocolate or steak, baked potatoes, spinach and hot chocolate. We eat on the couch and she gets to share and then she gets to lick my mug when I’m finished. After that comes brushing and then she falls asleep while I watch bad sci-fi.”

Deciding the past wasn’t as forbidden as she thought it was when she knocked on the door, “that sounds surprisingly like our Saturday date nights used to be as well.”

With a glance at her hair, “speaking of brushing, what happened to your hair? I mean, it looks good but it’s not the right color suddenly. I noticed earlier but forgot to ask.”

Self-consciously touching the strands against her shoulder, “yeah, so I was at the hospital and Methylene blue sprayed on me and dyed my hair a lovely shade of splatter-pattern Cobalt and it wouldn’t wash out so I had to bleach my whole head and then the woman who went to dye it back to my regular color did something and it came out like this. It’s paler than it used to be but I’m getting used to it.”

Reaching out to feel it, “are we mentioning the straw feeling?”

With a smile, she batted his hand away, “we are not and I was also informed that if I try to color it again in the next six months, it’ll all fall out of my head so I’m living uncomfortably with it until further notice.”

“Good to know.” As he pulled the hot mugs from the microwave, he handed her one, “I’m liking it, if that’s any consolation but I gotta say, I would have liked to have seen you as a blonde again. It’s been awhile.”

“Well, next time someone tries to turn me into a Smurf and I have to bleach, I’ll be sure to call you.”

Grinning, he nodded, “I’ll be waiting.”

Mugs in hand, they headed back to the couch, where they proceeded to sit until well after 3am, when half-asleep on his end of the couch, he suddenly remembered, “shit! Aren’t you due back at Maggie’s in two hours?”

Scully, more than half asleep on the other end, grunted quietly, “then I’ve got an hour and a half to sleep. Be quiet.”

Flab, happy to snuggle on the lap of the strange lady invading her home for the evening, stretched, kneaded, wiggled and purred her way to sleep, notifying the stranger, in no uncertain terms, she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“I don’t think the cat was going to let you leave anyways.”

“My kind of cat. G’night, Mulder.”

“G’night, Scully.”

&&&&&&&&&&&

Baffled as to how she got out of the house without disturbing him, he awoke to Flab on his lap, the Christmas tree lights still on and a new ornament on the tree.

Well, new to the tree but matching the one Maggie gave him the previous year. She’d smuggled hers over, sneaking it onto the tree before disappearing to her Christmas morning chaos. Picking up his puddle of cat, he held her, showing her Scully’s ornament, “that’s your mom’s. She’ll be back someday I hope but for now, I think we should decide to have truly enjoyed last night then move on to breakfast. What do you say … eggs? Pancakes? Tuna?”

The cat simply purred, licking his hand for a moment before going back to sleep.

He kissed the top of her head, “Merry Christmas, animal.”

“Mmmrrrorr.”

#msr #saturday nights dates with the cat #dropping by #christmas series #my writing #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic

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theliterateape · 6 years ago

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A Model United Nations: This Curfew Is Bullshit

By Erik Lewin

When I was seventeen, I had an opportunity to go to Washington DC to attend the national Model UN conference. It’s exactly as the name suggests—a three day pretend UN proceeding, where high schools from all over the United States represent the interests of countries from around the world. I wasn’t even in my school’s Model UN club, but the prospect of a trip with my friends, Ricky and Dean, was too fetching to pass up, and they managed to sneak me into the club’s enrollment.

This club was run by an esteemed professor whose knowledge was vast and diverse from decades of historical study. Dr. Sheehan was of an older time, his oak desk surrounded by cedar bookshelves featuring every political treatise of importance in the last century. He was immersed in his fascinations to his own detriment, however, when it came to keeping rascals like myself off his roster of students.

Washington DC had a crisp, refreshing bite to the air in early autumn. I’d never been before, and was a bit dumbstruck at seeing the major American monuments in person, which rose from the ground like Roman ruins.

We checked into the hotel and were sternly warned by security not to smoke and to keep the noise down. We assured them it was no problem, then promptly lit cigarettes and played our boom box full blast. It felt very freeing, like a glimpse into college life without any of the work.

Dr. Sheehan told the group to convene in his hotel room for preliminary instructions. I sat on the floor next to Dr. Sheehan’s TV, stuck my arm behind the dresser, felt around for the cord, and yanked it out of its socket. Ricky and Dean snickered when I showed them the plug in hand—a symbolic disconnection. We found out which countries our school would represent at the conference—there were over one hundred nations and we would be in charge of two. Incredibly, Ricky, Dean and I would be representing—the great US of A! We were put in charge of the most visible and influential nation in the entire conference.

After the meeting dispersed we were forced to return to our room.

“This curfew is bullshit,” I said, sprawled out on the bed.

“What can we do? There’s security in the lobby,” Dean said.

“I don’t think it’s insurmountable,” I countered. “What would our great forefathers do?”

“Erik may be right,” Ricky said, blowing a smoke ring and squinting into the peephole. “I don’t see anybody out there. The hall looks clear.”

At that pronouncement, we changed into loose button-down shirts and stuffed our pockets with mints, cash and smokes.

“Let’s do this,” I said, stepping out into the hallway. “Follow me,” I said, opening the door to a nearby stairwell.

We materialized in a corner of the hotel’s grand lobby. There were several men in grey uniform with walkie-talkie’s and rubber wires around their ears. I brought the guys out slowly, like a military ambush, setting my sights on the front door. We were spotted but high-tailed it out, until safely on a block in the city. We hopped in a cab, shouting to the driver, take us to Georgetown!

Georgetown was a full-blown college town with girls, coffee shops, record stores, bars and clubs. It felt like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; first we checked out this great punk band in a music venue, then took in an open mic at a coffee shop with cute girls reading poetry, and finally settled on a college bar that didn’t scrutinize our cheap, fake ID’s.

We ordered whiskey sours for our amateur palettes. There were little parties, college kids taking shots and dancing around tables. We didn’t work up the guts to talk to any women, but certainly got drunk, staying until closing. It wasn’t far back to the hotel, and fortunately we didn’t have to pull a Macgyver to get back to our room. We didn’t wake until early afternoon, totally missing the morning session of the conference.

“Oh man, the last thing I want to do is go to a meeting,” I said, trying to brush the whiskey breath out of my mouth.

“I’m so thirsty, toss me that water bottle,” Ricky said.

“Maybe we should rally and get with the rest of the team,” Dean said.

“That’s just the hangover talking,” I suggested. “What we need is some good food, fresh air, and a little hair of the dog.”

“I can’t deny that makes a lot of sense,” Ricky agreed.

“Whaddya say, Dean? Let’s get back out there,” I said, shoving open the blinds to reveal a patchy grey sky and wan sunlight. “It’s a beautiful day.”

We carried notebooks to portray an air of engagement, and this time found it quite simple to walk out of the hotel.

After a time we passed some interesting storefronts. “Here’s a place!” Ricky shouted.

It was an old smokeshop, replete with artifacts; ceramic mermaids, wood carved bull horns, an oil painting of a boat amidst a raging sea.

“Djarum is the best,” Ricky said, strangling us with musky clove.

“Let’s wander around,” I said.

And we did. It was a glorious day in the nation’s capital. We picked up beverages and laid out on the lawn, toasting the Washington Monument as it glinted in the sunlight. I fleetingly wondered how things were going at the conference; not well to be sure, given that the delegation from the United States was busy drinking malt liquor out of brown bags on Capitol Hill. The entire Model UN was probably falling apart.

“I’ll be right back,” I notified the guys, following the sound of a floating saxophone. There were people in suits rushing along the periphery of the park, as well as some more bedraggled types asking for change, but in the midst of this activity an older African-American man in a multi-colored, Rastafari hat was blowing his horn—I was pretty sure it was Coltrane—and I stopped to admire him. His clothes were tattered, but the way his eyes closed while he played, as if in prayer, mesmerized me. I swigged from the bottle of Old English and left a couple bucks for his tip jar. He took the horn out of his mouth and thanked me. I told him what we were doing there and he smiled. A very attractive women in an elegant business outfit walked past, her heels clicking on the sidewalk.

“No shortage of beautiful women out here,” he said, stroking his chin.

“I wish I knew what to say to them,” I said.

“Aw, young blood, that’s easy!” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “It’s the simplest thing in the world. Here it is. Ask a woman how her day is. That’s it. That’s the magic.” His eyes were open and honest; we shook hands and he retreated to his spot, where he poured more sweet, timeless notes into the afternoon.

I rejoined the guys on the lawn, lazily drinking our bottles while the real world circled. I lit a cigarette, warding off imminent slumber, wondering why I felt more warmth toward that sax player than any connection whatsoever with this conference.

In the end, we never attended a single session of the Model UN; the United States was in absentia on every vote, its delegation in a drunken haze for three days, its status on the world stage regressed from superpower to third world country.

But what nags me now isn’t that we shamed our school, or badly lost the stupid conference; it’s that I was offered immense opportunity and went about systematically wasting it. It was practically a pastime. I wasn’t willing then, but I’ll tell you what—where’s the Model UN for forty-somethings? Sign me up for that! Let Dr. Sheehan know I’m ready—only twenty-five years too late. But that sax guy has stayed with me. We spent only a moment together, but I think that flunkie kid he met was the real me—a helpless moth to the flame of beautiful notes played.

#United Nations #Georgetown #high school

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dallasmbrownb · 6 years ago

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Really bad drain thread!!!

We’ve all had them. I could write a book, as could so many others out there. Figure we can share our PITA day’s experience. Bragging rights or how you figured it out. Here is a disclaimer for handy hacks, handymen, diy’ers and anyone else who is not a professional Drain Cleaner, DO NOT ATTEMPT ANYTHING DISCUSSED IN THIS THREAD, IN YOUR HOUSE, ANYONE ELSE’S HOUSE, PLACE OF BUSINESS, INDUSTRY OR ANY PLACE ON EARTH! ONCE SPACEFORCE IS LAUNCHED, DO NOT ATTEMPT THERE EITHER! BODILY HARM AND OR PROPERTY DAMAGE CAN OCCUR! Before you start reading, grab a beverage and some popcorn... this is a long one... Had probably the oddest one yet yesterday! Had to reset a toilet for a landlord yesterday. He’s a no BS kinda guy, I like him, but we’ve butted heads in the past over price. So while my Master is working on his toilet he turns to me and asks “what I’m doing later.” Um... nothing.... “I have a city inspection at 2:15 today and my tenant texted and says his main line is backing up. I went there earlier to check it out, but no signs of a main line back up. The laundry stack is full though.” Me: “well that’s on our way to the next one, we can stop by.” (I already had my machines loaded for other jobs.) The best way I can describe the basement is clean, empty, dry and has two floor heights. The upper floor is about a foot and a half higher and the main line goes out “highwall” or into the upper floor with a pvc wye on its back, 45, tee for the laundry, clean out at the top no hubbed to the old cast. Sure enough, the laundry was holding almost to the top! F! So I go to the front clean out spanner plug and slowly pull it. No leaks.... shine my light down there and only see a solid slug of black sludge. Told the LL I’d run it if he wanted, but his best bet is a jetter. So we go outside, Master asks what’s up. Told him it’s a main line jet job. “Why?” Me “just go and see.” We all go back down.... this where I thought about posting in the soap opera thread... my Master says grab your machine. Really?!!! I know I can get it open, but why half azz it?!! I get tired of him calling my shots sometimes. Halfway dragging my machine up the driveway the LL stops me and says “If you’re sure it needs to be jetted, why just not have it jetted and not have to pay you. I agreed. Master says nope. Bring your machine. (The have a long time trust/friendship. For those who might not know, Drain Cleaning is my company, his is Plumbing, we are essentially two companies working together.) Ok, whatever. So I run the front clean out twice about 65-70’. I know the line, cabled it a few years ago... it’s about 60’ long. Pull back a some roots, enough to cause a backup, but not noteworthy. By this time my Master has the hose down there. Guess what backed up right away. So I get the blow bag. 20 minutes later seems to be flowing. Now on to the blockage between the ”highwall” or better yet “lowwall” clean out. Caught what I could in buckets. Shined my light in the clean out. Solid wall of brown! Got a chunk of 1” copper, beat one end flat to ream out as much compacted poop as I could to get the blow bag past the wye. Nope, started pushing right back out. So I cabeled twice to and from the front clean out to break the poop up. Reamed it out again with the copper and put the blow bag in. Master watched the front clean out. Said a 8-10’ black slug came through followed by a 6-8’ brown slug. We ran water for a good 2 hours until finally semi clear. To give you an idea how compacted this line was, and believe me, this is a thousand times worse than any constipation you’ve ever experienced... take a five gallon bucket, fill it only with poop, compress it so all liquid is gone! I wish I could have taken more pictures, but I burned through six pairs of gloves. The pile under the clean out was just the crap I couldn’t catch with the bucket. I’ve seen this before, but never to this extreme! No where even close! Tenant doesn’t want to call the LL thinking they’ll have to pay pay the bill because of tampons or wipes, but this case was straight up abuse and neglect! My invoice reflects it accordingly. My guess is they spent a week cleaning the basement before telling the LL. No way in heck did this line drain one bit in months if not a year! Back out at the truck I told the LL no warranty and when it backs up again... he interrupted me and said jokingly “Don’t call you!”. I said “Yes. I got you open, not cleaned out. You will plug again. Chunks of sh!t will fall from the top and collect and your plugged again! This time my Master backed me up. Yeah, thanks for making me do a half azzed job with my name on it! I give this LL a discount because of volume, I know he’s going to charge the tenant, so his bill will be full price. So let the nightmare stories roll in!

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8247361 https://www.plumbingzone.com/f23/really-bad-drain-thread-83272/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

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iamnotthedog · 7 years ago

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EUGENE TO ARCATA: AUGUST 12-13, 2001

When I got to Eugene, Oregon, after only about four hours of driving, I was already sick of the interstate. I didn’t want to take the truck up over about seventy miles an hour for fear that it would fall apart, so driving on the interstate was not only boring, but pointless. I gassed up at a Shell Station on 7th Avenue in Eugene, then decided to head west to Florence and take the 101 south along the rugged Oregon coast.

Headed south from Florence, you can smell the ocean—you can even hear it off to your left, beyond the trees—but you can’t see it. A dense forest surrounds you for miles—a forest so dark that you can’t see anything inside it beyond the first twenty yards or so. I passed a few logging trucks—dozens of logs tethered to the beds, dreary-eyed men in dirty shirts and baseball caps behind the steering wheels. Just north of Reedsport, the forest opened up into a series of lakes, then I crossed the mouth of the Umpqua River and was back in the woods all the down to the Coos River and Coos Bay, when the 101 took me inland for a stretch until I got all the way down to Port Orford, when I got my first view of the Pacific. South of Port Orford, the drive alternated between views of flat, sandy beaches and dense forests all the way down to California.

So much for an afternoon spent driving along the rugged Oregon coast.

Driving into California, I had this strange sense of being home. It was my first time ever feeling like that about anywhere since leaving Morrison. I stopped in the small harbor town of Crescent City—it would seem just from passing through that almost half of the town’s population is inmates at Pelican Bay State Prison. I bought a cup of coffee from a very small espresso shop in a very large parking lot next to what looked like a warehouse of some kind—possibly a storage facility for boats in repair. Then I spent the late afternoon hours driving slowly down the Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway and the 101 as they twisted through Redwood National and State Parks.1

At a paved pull-out for the Big Tree Wayside—a 304 foot-tall and 21 foot-wide coastal redwood just off the Scenic Parkway in Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park, I noticed a bathroom with closable doors and decided to stop and freshen up. The sky looked like rain, and I was going to have to find somewhere to stay that night or I’d be stuck sleeping in the cab of the truck again, so I wanted to make myself look presentable. My new sweater, jacket, and jeans were holding up fine, but I needed to change my t-shirt, and I still wanted to use those clippers I bought to shave the hair off my head.

I pulled the truck up alongside the bathroom, cut the engine, and yanked my pack out from behind the passenger seat. I took out my Buddhist Bible, an envelope with $186 dollars left in it, a small black bag of toiletries, eleven pairs of brand new wool socks, my underwear, a few old t-shirts, and my sleeping bag. In the bottom of the pack were my clippers. And that was everything.

I folded the envelope of cash and stuck it in my jeans pocket, grabbed the clippers, and got out of the truck. There was only one other vehicle in the parking lot—an aqua marine minivan with Oregon plates and a Clinton/Gore ’96 sticker on the bumper. No one was in the minivan as far as I could tell—they were probably off down the trail, looking at the Big Tree Wayside.

I walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

There was one outlet in the bathroom, just below a small mirror above the sink. I took off my jacket, sweater, and t-shirt and draped them over the door to the stall, then plugged in the clippers and turned ‘em on. They worked, but rattled a bit, so I took out the little bottle of oil that came with the set, bit off the tip, and oiled ‘em down. While waiting for the oil to get down in there, I looked at myself in the scratched up mirror.

I had been growing my hair since Don had shaved it all off for me in our kitchen on Wall Street one late summer evening before entering my sophomore year of high school. I had grown out of the grunge look by then, and had unfortunately chosen to go with the short and spiky, bleached blonde look instead—a look that luckily didn’t last long, as my newfound love for marijuana soon had my personal aesthetic choices steered more towards the pseudo-intellectual hippies and au naturel styles of the late 1960s and early ‘70s. So basically, I had long hair. Then short regular hair. Then short “styled” hair. Then regular hair. And back to long hair. All of which is terribly boring, I know, but the fact that I hadn’t cut my hair since Don shaved it all off when I was still in high school and living under his roof meant something to me as I stood there in that cold bathroom in the middle of an old-growth redwood forest on the fog-drenched North Coast of California, completely alone and shirtless with $186 dollars in my pocket, an oily, buzzing set of electric clippers in my right hand, and a truck put together from pieces from a junkyard somewhere up in Washington waiting for me outside the heavy brown metal door.

I grabbed some toilet paper from the stall and wiped the excess oil off the clippers, then snapped a #2 extension on the blade—which would cut my hair down to a quarter-inch in length—and made the first pass right down the middle of my head. A good foot of thin blonde hair fell into the dirty porcelain sink in front of me. I moved the clippers to the right and swiped again, then again, and worked my way down to my right ear, then started swiping up the back, which I couldn’t see. I had to rely on touch, pushing the clippers up my head with my right hand, and following with the palm of my left. After several minutes, when almost all of my hair was in the sink and I was working back around the left side of my head, getting all the last hairs I had missed, someone pounded on the door and I about jumped out of my skin.

“Hello?” I yelled, brushing hair from my face. “It’s unlocked!”

A tiny little man in a pastel overcoat with glasses as big as the entire upper half of his face pushed open the heavy door about a foot and peeked at me. I smiled at him. “Odd place to give yourself a haircut!” he said. “Mind if I come in to have a wee?”

“Not at all,” I said, turning my attention back to my work. The man came in the bathroom and went into one of he stalls to blow his nose. Satisfied with the evenness of all my now-quarter-inch-long hair, I popped the extension of the end of the clippers and began using the bare blade to clean up the edges, just over my ears and then in the back, which I again had to rely on touch in order to do. “I’m sorry about all this,” I said to the little man. “I had to do it.”

“Well, you’re looking good!” he said, exiting his stall. Sidling up to the urinal on my left, I noticed his overcoat was soaked.

“Did it start raining out there?” I asked.

“No, no,” he said. “I got wet rambling around in the forest.”

I turned off the clippers, blew the hair off them, and put them back in their plastic box, then turned my attention to getting all the hair out of the sink and into the garbage can. I grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser next to the sink.

“These are some beautiful woods,” I said.

“Sure are. Have you and your friend been out hiking today?” The little man finished pissing, zipped up, and started washing his hands in the sink next to mine.

“I’m out here alone,” I said. “On my way down to Yosemite.”

He shot me a quizzical look. “Isn’t that your truck parked right outside?”

I threw a wad of paper towels and hair into the garbage can. “Yes.”

“Well, buddy, there IS or WAS most definitely someone in your truck not two minutes ago.”

Without thinking twice about it, I burst shirtless from the bathroom into the parking lot. My eyes scanned over first the truck, then the foggy redwood forest surrounding the lot. No one was in the truck, but the passenger door was wide open. As I approached it, I saw my Buddhist Bible, my toiletries, my socks, my underwear, and my t-shirts on the seat. My pack was no longer there. Nor was my sleeping bag. Quickly scanning the periphery of the parking lot, I saw a short, long-haired figure in baggy clothes—various shades of green and brown—slinking into the trees by the exit to the parkway. Leaving my jacket, sweater, t-shirt, clippers, and hair in the bathroom and my open truck in the parking lot, I took off like a madman into the woods. The long-haired figure took off as well.

I quit playing basketball—and all other sports, for that matter—once I started smoking weed and playing in a rock band in high school. I decided that I didn’t have time for sports—that it was a good idea to focus all my energy on learning how to roll perfect cone-shaped joints and playing seventh chords on a goddamned acoustic guitar with flames painted all over it instead. After my buddies and I got busted, though—and after Don took the apartment away and the band broke up—I began to miss the camaraderie offered by organized sports, and I had decided to join the track team. And when I had joined the track team, I had immediately regretted not running track for my entire junior high and high school career, because—despite smoking at least six unshared joints a day—I was a very good runner—far better than I had ever been at basketball.

My point is that when I want to be, I am pretty fast. So it wasn’t long after I took off through that parking lot and tore through the ferns—sprinting shirtless through the wet fog, under the dense forest of Douglas fir and Sitka Spruce and Western Hemlock, the Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway on my right—that I started to gain on the long-haired thief, who I could by then see very clearly. He was a young man with not-very-well-kept dreadlocks—like thick, moldy rat tails on his head—and he was wearing a green hoodie and khaki-colored cargo shorts, with long brown socks pulled up to his knees and tall black boots laced up over his ankles. He had a dark red pack of his own tethered securely to his back with a grey bedroll tied to it, and my sleeping bag and pack were tucked under his right arm. He jumped and sprinted and skipped and twisted out of the underbrush, bursting out onto the parkway to the right, where I could then hear his footsteps on the pavement as I plowed forward through the forest, hoping to catch up to him while I was still under the cover of the trees, where he couldn’t see me until I burst out of the woods and...what the hell was I going to do then? I was hardly a fighter. I had only been in one fight ever, actually—back in high school—and that had ended pretty badly. So I just pictured myself throwing a flying tackle at the kid, just like a cop tackling a bad guy in one of those network television crime shows I currently watch but never want to admit to watching, and then he would drop my shit and run away. Easy, right?

The kid slowed and turned to look for me, so I cut back deeper into the woods, sprinting faster now, jumping over fallen, moss-covered logs and piles of dense ferns, and then I cut out onto a narrow dirt road and turned hard to the right, sprinting as fast as I could, knowing that if I beat him to the intersection of whatever service road I was on and the Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway, I could either throw that flying tackle at him that I was thinking so hard about—really getting excited about, actually—or I could at least force him back into the woods to slow him down and catch him there.

When I got back out to the parkway, though, sopping wet and breathing heavily, the thief was nowhere to be seen. I was turning around in circles looking for him, completely exasperated, when the aqua marine minivan with Oregon plates and a Clinton/Gore ’96 bumper sticker came around the bend and pulled up to me, driven by the little bespectacled man from the bathroom. He rolled down his driver’s side window.

I decided to stop for the night and check it out for myself.

As the last few colors disappeared into the coastal night sky, I walked into a large grocery store on the western side of town called the North Coast Co-op and bought some bulk food—nuts and dried fruit and sesame sticks and chocolate—and I got an apple and a bag of carrots from the piles of colorful organic produce lining the northern half of the store. While waiting in a rather long checkout line, I surveyed my surroundings and actually ended up getting a little weirded out. Literally everyone around me—the apron-clad employees conversing loudly behind the customer service counter, the old woman in a sweat suit one check-out line over, the pimple-faced kid in a trucker cap rummaging through the empty cardboard boxes at the front of the store, the family of four picking through the produce in their cart (the father discussing whether or not they should put back the organic unfiltered apple juice and get a bag of apples instead), the aromatic geezer wobbling around in front of me in line with his one gigantic dreadlock coming off the back of his head—everyone had a certain feel to them. A certain “Summer of Love” kind of feel. They weren’t all wearing bellbottoms with flowers in their hair or anything, but they were all definitely red-eyed, all spacey and slow-moving, and they all had a tendency to stare at one other, or off into space, with faint smiles on their faces.2

When I got up to the front of the line, the girl at the counter who rang me up smiled at me and asked if anyone had ever told me I looked like Justin Timberlake.

“I haven’t heard that one,” I said, smiling back.

I paid and got the hell out of there, then ate my snacks in the Co-op parking lot, watching the hippies leave with their groceries. After I ate, I left my truck in the lot and went for a stroll around the Arcata Plaza. The plaza is a quaint, grassy square surrounded by local businesses—gift shops, art galleries, a photography store, a furniture store, some restaurants, some clothing stores and boutiques, an ice cream shop, a record shop. The square had several young people lounging around in it, smoking cigarettes and playing with dogs. The majority of them looked like homeless-by-choice types, and had the backpacks and panhandling signs to go along with that assumption. I saw several white kids with dreadlocks and knit Rastafarian hats, and I smelled a lot of dog shit. The grassy square also had a statue of President McKinley in the middle of it, and someone had put a paper bag over McKinley’s head.3

After walking around for an hour, I got a beer in one of four bars lining one side of the square, and asked the bartender where I should go to take a load off. She was Indian, with huge eyes, long, wavy black hair, and big hand-carved wooden earrings in her ears. Her skin was literally glowing in the dim bar light. I told her I had been driving for days. She suggested I go to the Finnish Country Sauna and Tubs—a café that apparently had a courtyard in back surrounded by little shacks with hot tubs and saunas in them.

“People fuck in the tubs a lot, which is gross,” she said. “You’re sitting there trying to relax, but you’re too busy looking for little drops of semen in the bubbles the whole time.” She stuck her tongue out. “But get a sauna! It’s well worth ten bucks. It’ll clean you out.”

“I could use a good cleaning out,” I said, sipping my beer. I leaned back and rubbed my hands over my newly shaven head. I thought about the checkout girl and laughed to myself. There weren’t many people in the bar—only about a dozen, including the bartender—but I was relieved to find that not everyone looked as spaced out as those nut jobs in the grocery store. The bartender washed a few glasses, then leaned on the bar rail and peered back into the back room, where a couple of older fellas in armless denim jackets were starting a game of pool. “Where should I sleep?” I asked. “I’d rather not spend money on a hotel.”

She smiled. “Sleep anywhere!” she said. “Seriously. The homeless basically run this town anyway. We have a homeless guy on our City Council.”4

She bought me a shot of Jameson and I thanked her, then went back to the Co-op, got my truck, and drove it three blocks to the Finnish Country Sauna and Tubs. I sat in a sauna for a half hour, took a cold shower, bought a cup of hot tea, and then drove to the Arcata Marsh and Bird Sanctuary, another three or four blocks away, where I slept in the cab of the truck, right next to a sign that said “No Overnight Parking.”

The following morning, I awoke to a blue sunrise and went on a short walk through the marsh to look at all the birds, finding their breakfast in the mud flats that had been exposed by the early morning low tide. Then I left Arcata, due east on Highway 299, through the Trinity National Forest and back out to Interstate 5.

The Redwood National and State Parks—comprised of Redwood National Park and California’s Del Norte Coast, Jedediah Smith, and Prairie Creek Redwoods State Parks—protect some 133,000 acres of eerie and majestic coastal redwood forest, which include almost 40,000 acres of old-growth redwoods—the tallest and one of the most massive trees on Earth. Along with the redwoods, the forest is also home to Douglas fir, Sitka Spruce, Pacific Madrone, Bigleaf Maple, California laurel, the evergreen hardwood tanoak, and red alder. Ferns cover the understory of most of the forest, particularly the sword fern near ample water sources. And huckleberry, blackberry, and salmonberry provide food for many animal species, and were also a major part of the diet for the Yurok, Tolowa, Karok, Chilula, and Wiyot tribes who first inhabited the area, and the European settlers who moved in much later. ↩︎

I know I’m sounding like a real dick here—like I’m some overly-generalizing Yankee, and there’s no way everyone in the goddamned grocery store was not only high, but also weird (etcetera, etcetera)—but I’m telling you, it really seemed that way. I tried to tell myself that it was just me—that I needed to loosen up a little—but I honestly felt like I was grocery shopping with the Manson Family. ↩︎

The reason why there is a statue of the 25th President of the United States in the center of the Arcata Plaza is a reason all-too-fitting for such a bizarre town—a town that McKinley not only had nothing to do with, but also never even visited—not once. The reason? The statue was a gift. And that is all. The statue had been commissioned by 81-year-old George Zehndner in San Francisco in 1905, and sculpted by a young man named Patigian. It had survived the Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 before being shipped by steamboat away from the burning wreckage of San Francisco Bay and up to the port of Eureka. Zehnder than gifted it to Arcata, where it has stood for over a century, causing both tourists and residents of the peaceful little hippie town alike to ask, “Why is McKinley here, again?” ↩︎

This seemed so crazy to me that I later looked it up. Arcata didn’t have an actual homeless person on their City Council. They have, however, had former homeless people, which I suppose is close enough. It makes sense, too: the homeless people hanging around Eureka, Arcata, and the verious beaches and harbor towns north of Arcata make up a fairly large portion of the Humboldt County population, and they have for the greater part of the last fifty years. I’m not actually sure if this is or has been proven, but it is the opinion of several Arcata residents that the first big influx of homeless to the area came after the Vietnam War, and the second came after the death of Jerry Garcia and subsequent disbanding of the Grateful Dead in 1995. ↩︎

#eugene #oregon #california #redwoodnationalpark #bigtreewayside #billclinton #algore #hair #theft #pacificocean #arcata #humboldtcounty #northcoastcoop #mansonfamily #hippies #presidentmckinley

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