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newstfionline · 2 years ago

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Sunday, September 11, 2022

No September on record in the West has seen a heat wave like this (Washington Post) The heat wave that’s been gripping California and other parts of the West for 10 days and counting is the most severe ever recorded in September, weather experts have said—confirming what California’s governor is calling the “hottest and longest on record” for the month. The data supporting the assertion is overwhelming. Records began falling on Aug. 30 when Seattle and Portland set calendar day records of 90 and 100. And it’s not yet over. In just the past week, nearly 1,000 heat records have been broken, including more than 270 monthly records. Some places, like Salt Lake City, Sacramento and Reno, Nev., have broken their September records multiple times and by large margins. It’s the “greatest September heat wave ever west of the Rockies hands down,” tweeted weather historian Maximiliano Herrera on Wednesday.

Roasted pride (Foreign Policy) Argentines experienced a rare moment of national unity this week in outrage over their country’s 51st-place performance at an international barbecue competition in Belgium. The South American agricultural powerhouse prides itself on its grilling prowess. But the Argentine team was thrown off by the technical constraints of the contest, its team director told La Nación, including a requirement to use an egg-shaped Japanese-style meat smoker instead of cooking over an open fire. Excuses were not good enough for online commentators. Some tore apart a published image of one of Argentina’s dishes, criticizing it as “an aberration,” ugly, and, similar-looking to an alien in the science fiction film District 9.

‘Thank you, ma’am’: A singular queen, mourned by her people (AP) By early afternoon, the scent of thousands of lilies and roses floated in the air outside Buckingham Palace. But the pilgrims kept arriving, bearing still more bouquets and notes of endearment addressed to the only queen most have ever known. The scene outside the wrought iron gates was just as Nick French expected. But when he left a London hospital Friday, still shaky 10 days after surgery for prostate cancer, there was no question he would join them. “I felt the need to come right down here,” said the 50-year-old social services consultant from nearby Kent, standing behind a police barricade. True, Elizabeth II, born to royalty and bound by duty, had lived a life of palaces and pomp. But in the queen’s decades of steadfast stewardship, French said, an ordinary man had found an inspiration and kindred soul. Elizabeth’s life, “brings me hope because the queen was always an incredibly charitable person, a decent person even in the face of great adversity,” he said, “And that gives me a role model to try and move on in my own life, post-cancer.”

Nighttime rocket strikes spread fear in east Ukrainian city (AP) It’s at night that residents of the eastern Ukrainian city of Sloviansk are most afraid, when rocket and artillery attacks happen more frequently. Shells and rockets slam into gardens and apartment buildings, sending chunks of masonry and shards of glass hurtling through the darkness. Little more than 11 kilometers (7 miles) southwest of the front line and within artillery range of Russian forces, Sloviansk has sustained increasingly frequent attacks. The city is considered a strategic target in Moscow’s ambition to seize all of Donetsk province, a largely Russian-speaking area in eastern Ukraine that makes up part of the Donbas, Ukraine’s industrial heartland. On Wednesday, firefighters sifted through the still-smoldering rubble of an apartment building, looking for possible victims after a predawn strike collapsed part of the structure. “What is happening now is not just scary, it’s gruesome,” said 75-year-old Raisa Smielkova, who lives in another part of the same building and whose apartment suffered only minor damage. This war, she said, is worse than the previous one in 2014, when Ukrainian forces battled Russian-backed separatists. “There is more destruction. Everything is worse. Just everything.”

Ukraine Attacks Russia Along Northern Front, Swiftly Making Gains (NYT) Ukrainian forces have scored the most significant battlefield gains since they routed Russia from the area around Kyiv in April by reclaiming territory in the northeast, according to Ukrainian officials, Western analysts and battlefield imagery. In his overnight address to the nation Thursday, President Volodymyr Zelensky said that the Ukrainian military had captured scores of villages and large chunks of Russian-occupied territory across Ukraine since the offensive began. “In total, more than a thousand square kilometers of the territory of Ukraine have been liberated since the beginning of September,” he said. The new offensive in the north appears to have caught the Russian forces off guard. On Friday, its Defense Ministry said on Telegram that it was moving troops to reinforce the Kharkiv region, without specifying their numbers or specific locations.

North Korea rules out denuclearization with new law (Axios) The new law declares North Korea a nuclear state and allows the country to launch preemptive nuclear strikes to protect itself from any perceived threats. US and South Korean officials say North Korea is preparing to resume nuclear testing for the first time since 2017.

How Do Japanese Show They Care? By Sending a Telegram. (NYT) When he got married this summer, Hiroshi Kanno, who works at a security services firm in Tokyo, wanted to make a big statement that would impress his future in-laws. So he asked for his company’s president to send a congratulatory telegram. It arrived during the wedding party and was read aloud. “It really pumped up the atmosphere,” Mr. Kanno, 33, said. “I felt like a celebrity,” added his wife, Asuka, a 31-year-old office administrator. The telegram, a form of communication associated more with the Roaring ‘20s than the 2020s, has kept a foothold in Japan, where millions of the messages still crisscross the nation every year, carrying articulations of celebration, mourning and thanks. Old friends send them for funerals. Politicians deliver them to constituents. And businesses use them to commemorate the retirement of valued employees. Unlike the much-maligned fax machine—frequently trotted out as evidence of Japan’s stubborn resistance to the digital age—the telegram is a symbol of the nation’s love of propriety. (Yes, it’s possible to fax a telegram request.) For many Japanese of a certain age, the medium—extravagant, formal and nostalgic—is the message.

Thousands of Angry Indonesians Gather to Protest Rising Fuel Prices (NYT) Thousands of protesters rallied across Indonesia this week calling for the government to reverse its first price hike on subsidized fuel in eight years, and vowing to continue demonstrations until President Joko Widodo meets their demands. The government deployed thousands of police officers this week to control the crowds and guard gas stations across the country of 270 million. On Thursday, university students in Jakarta, the capital, clashed with the police and burned tires in front of the presidential palace. In the city of Bengkulu on Tuesday, the police deployed water cannons and tear gas on students, injuring five. The labor activists, workers and students who are protesting want a reversal of a 30 percent increase to subsidized fuel prices that was announced last Saturday, a hike that many say is necessary but remains deeply unpopular in the Southeast Asian nation.

New malaria vaccine is world-changing, say scientists (BBC) A malaria vaccine with “world-changing” potential has been developed by scientists at the University of Oxford. The team expect it to be rolled out next year after trials showed up to 80% protection against the deadly disease. Crucially, say the scientists, their vaccine is cheap and they already have a deal to manufacture more than 100 million doses a year. The charity Malaria No More said recent progress meant children dying from malaria could end “in our lifetimes”. Malaria has been one of the biggest scourges on humanity for millennia and mostly kills babies and infants. The disease still kills more than 400,000 people a year even after dramatic progress with bed nets, insecticides and drugs.

#headlines #news

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rjzimmerman · 4 years ago

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Excerpt from this story from Sierra Club:

In early July, shortly after a high-pressure system baked the Pacific Northwest for nearly a week, the California Department of Fish and Wildlife (CDFW) made a dire prediction: All the young salmon in the Sacramento River were likely fated to die.

“This persistent heat dome over the West Coast will likely result in earlier loss of ability to provide cool water, and subsequently, it is possible that all in-river juveniles will not survive this season,” CDFW said in a statement to CNN.

Salmon in the Klamath River have also been suffering. In May, biologists with the Yurok Tribe announced they were witnessing a disastrous die-off of young Chinook, most of which had become infected with Ceratonova shasta, a parasite that proliferates when water temperatures warm and flows slow. On June 1, the Karuk Tribe declared a climate emergency.

On July 7 and 8, CDFW—in coordination with the Yurok, Karuk, and Hoopa Tribes and several federal agencies—tried to avert disaster by moving 1.1 million juvenile Chinook from the Iron Gate hatchery to Fall Creek, a hatchery on the Trinity River. Another million were kept at Iron Gate rather than being released (as they normally would at this time of year) into the warm, disease-infested river. The agency expects to hold the young fish at the hatcheries until conditions on the Klamath improve, hopefully in October and November.

“It was the right thing to do,” says Toz Soto, fisheries biologist for the Karuk Tribe, adding that releasing hatchery-raised juveniles into the Klamath River at “absolutely the wrong time” would have spelled certain death for many of them.

California salmon aren’t the only wildlife species that is suffering from the climate-change-intensified heat waves and drought now gripping much of the American West. The late-June heat dome events toppled dozens of high-temperature records from British Columbia to Tucson. As temperatures rose, news feeds filled with tales of desperate and dying wildlife.

Overheated bears waded into the water at South Lake Tahoe, seemingly oblivious of the human sunbathers crowding the beach. Hundreds of millions of sea creatures cooked to death on Pacific Northwest shorelines. Wildlife rescue organizations saw an influx of patients, many of them young raptors, which, too young to fly, leaped from their nests to escape the heat.

Caspian tern chicks at a tern colony in West Seattle were observed tumbling from an industrial rooftop. According to Washington Audubon, many chicks died either on the roof or on the street after leaping off. Others were treated at a nearby wildlife rehab center.

#climate change #extreme heat #wildlife #salmon

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stereksecretsanta · 4 years ago

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Merry Christmas, tabbytabbytabby!

For @tabbytabbytabby, who wanted alive Hale pack and anything alternative universe. MERRY CHRISTMAS AND I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!!!! I decided to go with a rock band AU because let's face it, they're all stupid hot and would look so good doing it. My headcanon for alive Laura Hale is the incomparable Katie McGrath if you want a visual. Those eyes, man. They make my little bisexual heart very happy.

Also everyone here is somewhere in the Kinsey Scale :)))) There will be smut and idiocy. Idiots in love has become one of my favourite tags!

The underage occurs when Derek and Stiles are in high school. Derek is a senior and Stiles is a sophomore.

Band line up is as follows:

Laura - lead vocals Derek - lead guitar Boyd - bass Erica - acoustic guitar and backing vocals Isaac - keyboard and backing vocals Cora - drums and backing vocals

Read On AO3

*****

Edge Of Seventeen

Chapter 1 - Say What Now?

‘Do you want to?’

It took Stiles a few moments to focus on the words, electricity buzzing under his skin and his mouth bruised and still wet with Derek’s spit. Two warm broad hands settled either side of his face and gently redirected his attention. In the dark of the Camaro’s back seat, Derek’s pale eyes glittered.

‘We can.’ His voice was low and rough, his breathing out of kilter. ‘If you want to.’

Stiles looked at him, his heart racing a thousand miles a minute.

I want to.’ he said and fell into another kiss.

The alarm woke Stiles with a start. He swore and leaned over to slide a finger across the screen and turn it off. He’d forgotten when he’d arrived the night before, still a little jet lagged and not quite with everything when he’d collapsed into bed and been asleep in what was probably a record time.

He lay still, looking up at the ceiling and getting his breath back. He hadn’t had a dream about Derek Hale in a very long time and he was chalking it up to being back in his childhood bed. Independence Day had been the one holiday he’d won in the field office lottery, and so Stiles had packed up and gone home for the long weekend, four blissful days off. He’d known going into the FBI would be hard, but he’d had no idea just how hard it would be. Noah was delighted. The last time they’d seen each other had been Christmas and Stiles had been morose after yet another break up. He’d spent an afternoon wandering around the preserve, ending up staring at the Hale house, still closed up and looking a little worse for wear, with nary a Hale in sight.

This time it was summer, the heat already making his room uncomfortable. Stiles grimaced and plucked his damp t-shirt away from his skin, sitting up and dragging a hand over his face as he tried to wake up properly, manfully ignoring his dream-induced erection that made him feel like he was a teenager all over again.

‘Stiles?’ Noah yelled from downstairs. ‘You up, kiddo?’

‘I’m twenty-six, Dad,’ Stiles muttered, standing up and stretching. ‘Not a kid anymore.’

He was feeling it too, the crashing realisation that those carefree days were far behind him. He had a job and an apartment in Sacramento, cacti that he had managed not to kill. All the cool stuff. It wasn’t hard to feel like something was missing but Stiles would never admit that the string of failed relationships he had accumulated were anything to do with what Lydia referred to as ‘the one who got away’.

Noah was in the kitchen as he predicted, sleep rumpled and unshaven in sweat pants and an old BHPD t-shirt. He’d been taking it a bit easier, giving Parrish more and more responsibility. Stiles was pleased and Parrish was both smart and sensible, a combination that Lydia had found irresistible. Their senior year fling had evolved into a long term relationship until Lydia had come home to buy them a small clapboard Victorian near the preserve and commute to the research lab every day where she had her associate professorship. Parrish had presented her with a simple solitaire ring at Christmas and she was very happy.

‘Are you going to see Mom?’ he asked and Stiles nodded, grabbing the orange juice from the ridge and pouring himself a glass, sniffing hopefully at the eggs Noah was scrambling. He noticed Stiles�� meaningful look and grinned.

‘I thought I would go after breakfast,’ He beamed at his father when he was presented with a plate full of eggs and bacon.

‘It’s turkey before you get on your high horse,’ Noah told him. ‘Get your own coffee if you want some.’

‘Not yet.’ Stiles made space for him to sit down and they ate in comfortable silence. Once finished, he did get up to make two cups. Noah accepted his gratefully and smiled at his son, grey eyes twinkling.

‘So…,’ he started and Stiles held up a finger.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t care who it is you want to set me up with, it’s not happening.’ His parents had a terrible habit of matchmaking.

Noah held up both hands in supplication.

‘Not setting you up,’ he protested. ‘Just thought I’d mention that when your mother went into the shop yesterday, she saw a ghost from the past. Several, actually.’

Stiles cursed internally. His dad knew he couldn’t resist a good mystery.

‘Okay, I’ll bite,’ he replied, starting to get up.

‘The Hales.’ Noah replied with all the smugness of a man who knew he had the scoop of the year.

‘Oh fuck.’ Stiles blurted and tripped over his chair.

It was the sneezing that woke Derek up.

‘Jesus fuck!’ Laura roared a floor below him. ‘How much fucking shit is in this place?’

‘Oh good, she’s awake.’ Cora muttered and turned over. They were in what had been the twins’ bedroom, each of them crammed into a single that was a little on the small side. The top storey of the house was still a burned out wreck and the furniture had been largely taken away over the years and so the pickings had been slim, with their merry threesome taking the scorched master bedroom and Laura camping out on the sagging couch downstairs. As Alpha, she always preferred to be on watch as it were.

‘This was such a bad idea.’ Derek borrowed deeper into his comforter. ‘We should have brought the bus.’

‘That would have given the game away.’ Laura replied, hearing them both perfectly even though she was now in the kitchen. ‘Which part of low profile are you two having trouble with?’

‘We could have always stayed in a hotel. Sleeping int the burned out remains of our family home is precisely the opposite of low profile. Lo.’ Derek pointed out, sitting up. There was no way he’d be going back to sleep. Not with his alpha on a mission.

‘Discretion is our watchword, Derek.’ Laura hissed and started banging pots and pans around with a maximum of noise. Derek looked over at Cora. Her dark eyes were just visible under the pillow she had over her head.

‘You’re her second.’ She bared her teeth at him. ‘You go deal with her.’

‘I hate you.’ Derek said flatly, rolling out of bed and onto his feet. He stumbled a little on the stairs, still half asleep. Laura had her head buried in a blackened cupboard when he got to the kitchen. It hadn’t been as badly affected as the rest of the house but it was still a health hazard as far as he was concerned.

‘Where the hell is the waffle iron?’ she demanded. ‘Mom said she left it here.’

‘Who the fuck knows?’ Derek yawned and went to the fridge. There was nothing inside except for a gallon of milk and the leftover Chinese take out from the night before. He sniffed a carton of lemon chicken, grabbing some disposable chopsticks from the small pile on the kitchen table, and started eating. Laura eyed him, one fang just visible.

‘We need proper food.’ She glared at the ceiling. ‘Everybody up! We’re going grocery shopping!’

‘Christ.’ Derek grumbled. ‘You think that’s low profile too?’

‘Shut up.’ Laura swept past him, nose in the air. ‘I’m the Alpha now.’

Derek sniggered and let her go, enjoying his leftovers while he listened to her rouse the threesome. There was a lot of complaining, and he couldn’t really blame them. Their schedule had been hectic, even for wolves, and they were all tired and the house wasn’t exactly welcoming. Laura’s plans to come home and reclaim their territory now she was an Alpha in her own right had seen them finish the final leg of their international tour in New York, a quick catch up with their pack and then flying down to Sacramento and driving the three hours to Beacon Hills all in twenty-four hours. They had barely had time to stop in at the small coffee shop near the Sheriff's station before coming out to the house, which had been shut up for the past ten years. Peter had intended to join them, but had been delayed in New York. As their manager, he was the one who took care of all the dealings with their record company. If it was left to him and Laura, they probably would have eaten every executive by now. He was worth every penny they paid him, even if the meeting had probably been manufactured as a way to get out of cleaning up the house.

Stiles pulled up at the cemetery, parking the Jeep behind the old truck that had parked off centre and across two spaces. Grinning, he got out and made his way through the iron gates, remembering Isaac Lahey, who’d been a couple of years above him at school. His father had been the groundskeeper before there had been an incident at their house and Coach Lahey had been found dead. He remembered Isaac being taken in by social services and a whole sordid story of child abuse and alcoholicism coming out. Isaac had stayed off school for a week and then simply vanished off the face of the earth. There had been a lot of theories as to where he’d gone, but the truth was he wasn’t the first person to do that in 2011.

Stiles got lost in thought as he meandered between the headstones, finally coming to a stop in front of one made of white marble and embossed with angels.

‘That’s new.’ he remarked. ‘Not sure about the daffodils.’

‘They’re so gaudy.’ The dark haired woman kneeling at the grave grinned over her shoulder at him, her eyes the same warm whiskey brown as her son’s. ‘I’m glad to see you made it out of bed. I was starting to think you’d spend the whole weekend hibernating.’

‘Funny.’ Stiles helped Claudia up and gave her a long hug. When she let him go, she stepped back and looked him up and down.

‘You look good.’ she said. ‘Dare I say, professional.’

‘Mom.’ Stiles settled his hands on her shoulders. ‘Dad said you saw the Hales yesterday.’

‘Oh.’ Claudia’s look of faux innocence was belied by the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. ‘Is that why you came to see me. No ‘I’ve missed you terribly Mother’, but ‘You saw the fucking Hales’.’

‘Mom.’ Stiles narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Did you see him?’

‘Who?’ Claudia crinkled her nose in amusement. ‘The boy you’ve been literally pining for, for almost a decade?’

‘I’m sure he’s not a boy anymore.’ Stiles snorted. ‘And yes. Stop playing dumb.’

‘I might have.’ Claudia tilted her head. ‘What’s it worth?’

‘A double chocolate muffin and all the lattes you can drink.’ Stiles replied and she cackled and linked her arm through his.

‘Done.’ she declared. ‘And you’re right. He’s definitely not a boy anymore.’

Derek leaned heavily on the cart, eyelids at half mast and his senses muted. The store was fairly empty, the early hour on a Saturday meaning that most shoppers were yet to make an appearance. Next to him Boyd yawned and shifted on his feet, hands sunk deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.

They’d been best friends a long time, playing basketball and baseball and getting into shit when they were teenagers and when things had turned bad and they’d had to leave, Boyd had been dogged in his refusal to cut ties and turned up at the pack house in New York a week after graduation with Erica in tow. They had walked right in and asked Talia for the bite and she’d given it gladly. Derek knew she was going to do it for Erica even before they had had to flee their territory and they’d settled in like they’d always been pack. Isaac had, of course, already joined them earlier and his delight at having them back had turned into a deep and abiding love that saw them forming their triad and becoming mates.

Erica was leaning on Isaac, her blond curls dragged into a messy ponytail and Cora was trailing Laura a few feet ahead. It always grated that she had inherited their mother’s early rising nature while the rest of them would have happily slept in and threw her weight around to get them out of bed when they most definitely didn’t want to. Even the fact that Derek was her twin didn’t let him get out of doing what she wanted.

‘Toilet paper.’ Laura turned and they all tried to avoid her eyes. ‘Derek. Take Boyd and grab some.’

‘But I’m minding the cart,’ he whined, clinging to it like a drowning man to a life preserver.

‘Go!’ Laura’s eyes flared red for just a second and Derek had to resist the urge to snarl back at her like he’d always used to. The whole alpha thing was new, the result of an overambitious alpha that had come into their territory planning to challenge Talia and ending up facing her daughter instead when they tried to take Cora with the intention of forcibly mating her and claiming rights. Talia had always taught them to solve their problems with diplomacy but Laura was headstrong and fiercely protective of her siblings, ever since Kate Argent had tried to use her to get close enough to kill them all. She’d almost succeeded too, that night of the party to celebrate the basketball teams’ victory for nationals providing the perfect distraction for them to be off their guard. Kate had struck in the early hours of the morning and she’d had them trapped, the beginnings of an arson that would have killed them all if Derek hadn’t come back and caught her. He’d ripped her throat out with his teeth, calling Deaton in a panic to come and break the circle of mountain ash that kept them trapped and they’d all watched their family home burn until the police and emergency services had arrived.

Talia had decided that it was too dangerous to stay, knowing the Argents would come for Derek, getting them all packed in a matter of twenty-four hours and away from what was left of their home. They’d gone to their father’s pack in New York State, leaving no sign of them behind. It was the way with wolves, always having a back-up in case something went wrong. The Argents were a large and powerful hunting clan and there would be retribution for the death of Gerard’s golden child, but when they came for the Hales they would find the place empty. Deaton stayed, both to protect the territory and report back to Talia about hunters coming in and not a month after it had happened, they had come. Thankfully the wards on the Hale land had kept the territory claim in place and the hunters had left with no satisfaction.

The rest had been a long and bloody fight between their respective Councils. Gerard had wanted Derek’s head for killing Kate and Talia had countered with the evidence that Kate had planned to kill a pack of law-abiding wolves along with their children. The matter had finally been settled when Gerard died of cancer and his granddaughter, by all accounts a level headed and honourable young woman about the same age as Derek, had taken over.

The music had started as a way to keep them all sane while this was happening, Talia more or less forcing them into music therapy as a way to deal with what had happened. It had been a bit of a shock to realise they were actually very good at it and they’d formed the band. Some minor success saw them moving steadily up the indie charts until it became their lives. Laura had named them Hale Pack 2.0 and Talia had laughed so hard when they’d told her that she’d shifted and clawed right through the cushion she was holding, feathers flying around them like a small snowstorm.

Derek hadn’t minded at first. The music was what he loved, the fame and money secondary. The Hales were already rich, but Peter had jumped at the chance to do something different and he drove their commercial success. They were in that comfortable zone of being middle of the road, not so successful enough that they were household names but it became hard in New York to go anywhere without being recognised.

Derek didn’t enjoy that part much. He was solitary and quietly sarcastic by nature, but unfortunately that just seemed to translate into brooding and mysterious in interviews and so he was plagued by a long line of would-be groupies that tagged along after him like a cloud of midges. Laura found it hilarious and basked in her own popularity. As an out lesbian, she had her choice of pretty girls to shack up with. Cora kept her asexuality to herself, just as surly as Derek was. The other three were not exactly open about their polyamorous arrangegment, but they didn’t hide it either. They were lucky, having found each other and being able to keep each other.

He often thought about that night, the one where the reason he’d been able to save his family was because he’d been in the back seat of his father’s illicitly borrowed Camaro with the boy he’d loved pretty much forever and indulging in a bit of mutual deflowering. Then he’d had to pack up and leave said boy without even saying goodbye or telling him where he was going. It had hurt more than he’d thought possible and if part of why Derek was so keen to come back to Beacon Hills was to try and track down that boy, then who was to know. The only people who knew what he’d been up to were Boyd (because Derek told him everything) and Laura (because she’d sat on him and tickled him until he’d confessed and then had to hold her while she cried, guilt and shame coming off her in waves). Derek hadn’t had the heart to complain when their very survival had been at stake because he’d killed Kate Argent, no matter whose fault it had been. Talia had said to make a clean break with the town and while she’d made allowances for their friends who were already in the know, that was as far as she was willing to push her luck.

Derek and Laura had finished out their schooling at home, Cora had gone to boarding school in South America with her Argentinian grandmother’s pack and the twins were still too young to be a problem so that was, as they said, that. Then had come college, followed by the band and the success and the travelling and before Derek knew it, it had been almost ten years and he was twenty-eight and still hung up on Stiles fucking Stilinski.

‘Hey.’ Boyd bumped him with his shoulder. ‘You alive in there?’

‘Not really.’ Derek surveyed the toilet paper and grabbed a couple of twenty-four packs. ‘Just thinking.’

‘Yeah.’ Boyd grinned, lighting up his usually serious face. ‘I can guess what about too.’

‘Not a goddamned word.’ Derek growled and then froze, his nose twitching madly.

It wasn’t exactly the same, a little deeper and a little thicker but he’d recognise that scent anywhere with his nose stuffed up and people throwing peppermint oil in his face. He shoved the toilet paper at Boyd and charged through the aisle, needing to find the source and skidding to a halt in the aisle with the candy and stared at the Sheriff, who looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. In fact, as it was he had cookies in his hands which he quickly put back.

‘Derek?’ He looked pleasantly surprised. ‘Claudia said she’d seen you.’ He came over and Derek couldn’t help taking in a deep breath. The scent of Stiles was all over the Sheriff and it made his heart start thumping like a drum.

‘Sheriff Stilinski.’ He took the offered hand and shook it, gleeful when he could smell a little bit of Stiles on his own skin. ‘Yeah, we’re back. Laura said she was going to stop by and talk to you about the house. She’s actually around here somewhere.’ He couldn’t stop smiling. ‘I’m glad you’re still here.’

‘Where else would we be?’ The Sheriff raised an eyebrow at him. ‘To be honest, we never thought you’d come back. Any of you. The last we heard, you mom and dad had skipped town and taken you all with them after the fire and then five years later, you and your sisters pop up playing gigs in New York with the Lahey kid, Vernon Boyd’s son and Erica Reyes and since you hit the big times, you’ve been entirely responsible for provisioning this town with 90% of its salacious gossip.’

‘How did you know that? I mean, New York.’ Derek was completely bemused. They had started out small, playing tiny venues, still wary of being recognised. It had only been in the last couple of years that they’d made it big enough to be known internationally.

‘I kept track.’ The Sheriff replied. ‘The fact that you all pretty much disappeared overnight hit this town like a slap in the face. I called in a lot of favours.’ There was something in his voice though that had Derek frowning. ‘I had my reasons, son.’

Derek was about to ask him what those were exactly when Laura came barreling down the aisle.

‘There you are.’ She came up short when she saw who he was talking to. ‘Sheriff Stilinski?’

‘The one and only.’ The Sheriff tipped an invisible hat at her. ‘It’s good to see you, Laura. Derek and I were just catching up.’

‘Well, I have to steal him. Excuse us.’ Laura gave him a toothy grin that was not her usual smile and Derek wondered just what was happening. She caught his arm and practically dragged him away.

‘What the hell?’ he protested, trying to wriggle out of her iron grip.

‘Hunters.’ she hissed and Derek’s blood ran cold.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked and she nodded, her face grim.

‘The others are doing the check out.’ she said. ‘We need to go.’

Stiles parked on the kerb and got out. Claudia already had the front door open and was looking down the street.

‘Visitor.’ she announced and went inside, leaving him to stand and wait for the car to stop. He bounced in excitement, barely waiting for the driver to get out before grabbing her and squeezing her hard enough to make her squeak.

‘Lydia, my strawberry blonde goddess.’ He kissed her cheek soundly. ‘I was wondering when you’d show up.’

‘Stiles.’ Lydia had softened since high school, growing into her intellect and losing the hard veneer of extreme fashion that had been her armour in high school. She was still elegant, but the tan leather boots she wore under her long floral skirt were flat and her face was less determinedly made up, her hair a mass of loose fronds that framed her face. She was also as beautiful as she had always been but Stiles loved her for more than that. They had grown close in junior year when Jackson had moved to the UK and she’d been left bereft. Scott had been dating Kira that year and he’d had little time for Stiles so they’d drifted together and never really drifted apart, in spite of their physical distance. Now Scott and Kira were engaged, with Scott working for Deaton full time and Kira teaching martial arts with their first baby on the way and Stiles felt even more like he was lagging behind. Lydia kept him tied to Beacon Hills as much as his parents did.

‘So what are you doing here?’ He escorted her to the house. Lydia went in first, saying hello to Claudia as they went into the kitchen.

‘I have some news you might want to hear.’ she said, her eyes dancing.

‘’If it’s that the Hales are back, I already know.’ Stiles was smug when she pouted. He so seldom got one over on her so it was fun when he did.

‘Sorry.’ Claudia grinned at Lydia. ‘That was my fault.’

‘Dammit.’ Lydia folded her arms. ‘Well that may be, but I bet you don’t know that they’re going to be playing the Jungle tonight.’

‘No, that I did not know.’ Stiles was immediately hooked. He’d always wanted to go watch them, ever since they’d first popped back up on his radar after years of radio silence, courtesy of a discarded music magazine in the field office. He’d fantasised about meeting Derek’s eyes across a crowded venue but he knew that in reality, Derek probably didn’t even remember the boy he fucked in the back of his sister’s car and probably also had his pick of beautiful people to spend his time with. It hadn’t stopped him from following the band’s progress almost obsessively though.

He’d been distraught when Derek had gone, trying to find any trace of him online, but there had been nothing at all in the years just after the fire. Noah had been cagey about what he’d known and Stiles had been at a loose end, trying to fill in the gaps. When he’d rediscovered them, Stiles had followed them on every form of social media he could and tracked down every article about them. Derek still didn’t have any online presence apart from that and the music videos his band put out. Stiles had jealously hoarded every single tiny piece of information and downloaded every picture and video of him, seeing how handsome Derek had become, growing into himself in a way Stiles envied. He’d jerked off many a night, watching the stylised black and white videos that the Hale Pack 2.0 preferred. Derek was always dressed in black jeans and tight white t-shirts, the sleeves of his trademark leather jacket pushed up to his elbows and his broad hands drawing Stiles’ gaze in as he played his guitar, all precision and power that had Stiles breath coming short at the thought of them on him.

‘Danny told me this morning. He’s practically beside himself at getting them on his books at such short notice.’ Lydia smirked, knowing she had his full attention. Danny had made a ton of money in apps and bought his old stomping ground. It had had a makeover and was now a very stylish LGBTQ+ venue that he ruled along with Jackson as his partner in business and life, once he’d had his gay crisis while he was gone. Stiles knew from the Hales’ publicity that Laura was a lesbian and he was pretty sure Isaac, Erica and Boyd were involved in something that looked pretty polyamorous but Derek and Cora were notoriously private and there was never any suggestion as to who they might be seeing. It seemed the kind of place they would be playing.

‘Okay.’ He moved to the coffee maker, preparing for a long sit down. ‘Tell me everything.’

TBC on AO3!

#tabbytabbytabby #stereksanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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daughterofluthien · 4 years ago

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Fictober - Day 6 / Whumptober - Day 6

Prompt number: 6. “that was impressive” Fandom: Teen Wolf Rating: T Characters/Relationships: Alan Deaton and Scott McCall Word Count: 2865 Warnings/Tags: canon-typical violence, possession A/N: Deaton POV of the end of 3x19 “Letharia Vulpina,” with added episode tag

The plane landed after nightfall, and he knew he was running out of time.

It was ironic, really. The majority of the trip -- including entering a Yakuza base of operations under false pretenses -- had gone nearly as smoothly as he could’ve hoped. He had even managed to carry the sample vial of lichen through customs in his medical bag with very little fuss.

The first sign of trouble was on the connecting flight out of Sacramento. According to the scheduled arrival time, they were only a half an hour away from their destination when the pilot announced over the intercom that an unexpected thunderstorm had formed, and they would be experiencing some turbulence.

This turned out to be an understatement.

When they did finally reach their destination, the pilot informed the passengers that they had not been cleared to land. This was due to the amount of lightning activity in the vicinity of the airport, and Deaton felt a sense of growing dread. The forces of nature often reacted in sympathy to intense foci of supernatural activity, and such events had been known to cause storms in the past. And when the supernatural activity in question was a pitched battle between ancient spirits known to harness electricity--

If the storm dissipated long enough for the plane to land, that might mean it was already too late.

Eventually, there was a sufficient break in the lightning strikes, and the plane landed without any serious incident. All departures had been delayed, however, as weather reports forecasted that the storm would only get worse before it got better.

The storm was already severe, and Deaton drove back to Beacon Hills faster than was strictly safe in these conditions.

If they followed the previously established pattern, then the Oni would’ve manifested as soon as the sun fully set, which meant they were already active. Of course, they weren’t technically a danger to anyone except the Nogitsune and its host, but if someone tried to interfere with their task, he knew they would show no mercy.

He also knew that Scott would almost certainly interfere.

Even through the storm, he could hear the sound of a fight behind the clinic, so he parked in front, mentally running through the steps necessary to prepare an injectable suspension from the lichen.

Intramuscular injection would be preferable, to get the solution inserted as close to the nervous system as possible, he decided. Keep the spirit from puppeteering its host by manipulating the electrical impulses controlling the musculature and brain. An aqueous vehicle would be best. Include a small amount of ethyl alcohol to break down the lichen, hopefully releasing the toxin into the body at a faster rate--

He entered the clinic and was immediately greeted by the sound of someone in pain.

His blood ran cold. Apparently, his fears on the plane had not been unfounded after all.

It was only the sounds of pain and not the sounds of fighting, which indicated that the Oni hadn’t yet materialized inside the clinic. That meant that, with a little luck, they still had time. He gripped his medical bag tighter and hurried towards the back room, closing the gate behind him as he did so. From what Scott had told him, the Oni were eventually able to break a mountain ash barrier, but it took energy and time.

Tonight, time would be invaluable.

He turned around to see Scott, rain-soaked and in visible pain, fully impaled with what looked to be an ancient Japanese sword, though it was too dark to make out any further details. Kira was attempting to pull it out, but in what he assumed was fear of hurting Scott further, she did not use the amount of strength required to cleanly remove it. Scott’s didn’t scream, but his face contorted in pain.

The sword remained firmly lodged in place.

Deaton was about to rush forward and assist, when Stiles -- or rather, the Nogitsune -- grabbed Kira by the wrist and threw her into the table with the sort of strength only possessed by supernatural beings. She slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Dread settling deep in his gut, Deaton stepped back into the shadow of the doorway. Short of breaking the mountain ash barrier and letting the Oni in, the small sample of lichen that he carried in his kit and had traveled over 5,000 miles to find was the only possible hope of subduing the spirit that was inhabiting the teenager.

And it wasn’t ready.

Between the items in his kit and the supplies in his office -- mostly consisting of overflow from the fully stocked exam room, but sufficient for his purposes -- he should be able to synthesize the mixture quickly. But it would still take time.

According to all the information that he could find, Nogitsune gained power and strength by leeching off of pain, fear, and other negative emotions. With the Oni bearing down on its location, Deaton knew the Nogitsune would be desperate for the power to match them.

It wouldn’t kill Scott until it had devoured every last bit of fear and pain available for the taking. If he worked quickly, he would have time to prepare the solution.

It was a cold comfort.

When the Nogitsune’s back was turned, he slipped into his office. He caught a glimpse of Scott’s face as he passed and saw the dread that he was feeling mirrored in Scott’s eyes. Deaton thought grimly that if the spirit was in fact looking to maximize horror and fear, terrorizing the young man while wearing the face of his best friend was certainly an effective method of doing it.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, according to the legends, the creature had existed for centuries. Perhaps even a millenia. It was only logical that, in all that time, it had learned to hone its craft.

Once inside his office, Deaton opened his kit on the desk and set to work as quickly as possible. He didn’t close the door, as everything counted on him remaining unnoticed. He didn’t dare do anything that would alert the Nogitsune to his presence before the solution was prepared.

The open door also meant that he could clearly hear the proceedings in the back room.

He emptied the sample jar of lichen into a mortar and pestle, and began to grind it into a fine powder. Or rather, paste, as the lichen was still fresh and held a fair amount of liquid.

In the other room, the ancient chaos spirit spoke to Scott with a mockery of a best friend’s concern. “You okay?”

“Please don’t. Stop.” Scott’s reply was more accurately breathed rather than spoken, and Deaton’s heart broke. He had, of course, seen the young man terrified on numerous previous occasions -- but this was the first time he had ever heard him beg.

He tipped the contents of the mortar back into the sample vial, and scraped out every last bit of lichen that he could. He recognized the inherent danger in using all of the material that he had, but this sort of thing had not yet been quantified by science. If he skimped during the first preparation and it wasn’t enough, he likely wouldn’t survive long enough to try again.

In the other room, Scott screamed.

Deaton’s hand tightened around the vial. He didn’t increase the speed at which he was making the solution, because the risk that he would make a noise that could be heard by the Nogitsune was too great. Because any error or misstep could get all three of the teenagers trapped in the adjacent room killed.

He measured out the proper amount of distilled water in a graduated cylinder. Added it to the vial. Measured a smaller amount of ethyl alcohol.

The Nogitsune’s quiet, measured voice overlapped with the sounds of pain that started and stopped in short bursts. “Does it hurt? Hey, look at me.”

Deaton wanted to tune it out, but he was well aware that would be foolish. For one, it was important to know your enemy. Any details that the being let slip in a moment where it thought it had total control could be important. And second, as a medical practitioner, he had a duty to pay as close attention to any signs of Scott’s physical state as possible, in case the situation became so dire that he needed to intervene immediately.

He wasn’t sure what he would do if that moment came before the solution was prepared.

He added the ethyl alcohol, capped the vial, and shook it vigorously. The ground lichen swirled through the liquid, tinting it a light and cloudy green.

Outside, the spirit continued it’s monologue. “A Nogitsune feeds off chaos, strife, and pain. This morning, you took it from Isaac, then you took it from Coach. And then from a dying deputy.”

Deaton closed his eyes. Selfishly, he found himself wishing that he had never taught Scott about that side of his abilities. Though, he supposed that the teenager inherently cared so much and so deeply for others, that he would have discovered it on his own, even without Deaton’s interference.

Scott McCall was only seventeen years old, and he had every right to be as selfish and self-centered as boys his age often were. Yet without fail, he always considered the well being of others above his own.

It was part of the reason that he rose to the status of True Alpha less than a year after being bitten.

It also made Deaton worry deeply about him, as Scott refused to worry about himself.

He selected a needle -- large gauge, so there would be little chance of the particulate in the solution clogging at the entry point. Screwed it onto the tip of the syringe.

The Nogitsune’s voice deepened, finally revealing itself as the demon it truly was. “Now, give it to me.”

There were no longer sounds from Scott.

Deaton knew that if a werewolf took too much pain, their system could eventually be overwhelmed, sending them into shock and damaging them beyond the healing capabilities of the body. This could eventually lead to death.

He did not know what would happen to the body if that pain was violently consumed by an ancient spirit of chaos. He imagined that it couldn’t be good.

He was running out of time.

Deaton loaded the syringe.

“You really have to learn, Scott. You really have to learn not to trust a fox.”

He depressed the plunger slightly. Primed the needle.

“Y’know why? ‘Cause they’re tricksters.”

He tapped the syringe, dispersing any air bubbles.

“They’ll fool you.”

Done.

“They’ll fool everyone.”

Deaton walked into the exam room and -- in one clean, practiced motion -- injected the contents of the syringe into Stiles’ neck.

The Nogitsune’s control of its host was instantly severed, and Stiles crumpled to the ground.

Thankfully, Stiles didn’t immediately seize or have a visibly severe reaction. He was immobile on the ground, which was mildly concerning, as the fully human Stiles should not have been harmed by the lichen, but the others needed more immediate medical attention. Kira was still unconscious on the ground, and Scott--

Scott was braced against the exam table. Panting. Face pale. Fully impaled by what Deaton could see now was a wakizashi. He hadn’t spoken since Deaton had entered the room.

Deaton wasn’t sure if, in his current state, he was even capable of it.

Scott’s eyes were wide and panicked, as if he didn’t fully believe that Deaton was really there. Deaton met them with a grave look, because this wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Not for the first time, he wished that supernatural creatures didn’t metabolize anesthetic so quickly.

He braced a hand lightly on the teenager’s torso, careful to not place it too close to the wound, and with the other hand pulled the sword out as quickly and cleanly as he could manage.

He was glad the sword was straight, rather than curved. He’d rather not cause any additional damage during the removal.

Scott still groaned loudly as the blade was yanked free. Deaton let the offending object clatter to the ground.

Unsurprisingly, the first thing Scott did was to ask after Stiles.

Deaton wished that he had better news to give him -- while the fox inside of Scott’s best friend was currently incapacitated, he had no idea how to remove it or kill it. “Not yet.” He fixed the body on the floor with a look.

Scott appeared to have only started to process that information, when they were interrupted by a groan, and he looked over, startled. “Oh god, Kira!”

Nearly hidden behind the exam table, Kira had begun to stir. Scott started to bend down to check on her, but Deaton could see that he was in obvious pain, exhaling through gritted teeth.

He placed a hand gently against Scott’s chest, halting the movement. “I wouldn’t do that just yet, if I were you. Those muscles are still healing, and we wouldn’t want to tear anything further.” He followed Scott’s gaze to the girl on the floor. “I’ve got her, don’t worry.”

After a brief moment, Scott nodded, and Deaton bent down to help. He checked her head for any bleeding or contusions, but she seemed fine. When Kira assured him that the only thing she felt was a little lightheaded, he helped her to a chair.

If she had been fully human, he would’ve been worried about a concussion, but he suspected that the fox spirit inside her would prevent that sort of thing from happening. While he didn’t know if she had learned to consciously master her healing abilities yet, those sorts of things tended to happen a lot more automatically when the individual was incapacited.

Kira’s gaze landed on the bloody sword on the ground, before glancing up and over at Scott. “So now what?”

Scott, for his part, was standing stock still, with his hand over the wound in his abdomen. He was staring at Stiles.

Kira persisted. “Scott?”

He shook his head. “I don’t-- I don’t know.”

Deaton gathered a few medical supplies, then returned to Scott, carefully lifting up his shirt to clean the wound and tape a bandage in place. He noted with satisfaction that the torn edges of the puncture had already begun to show signs of healing. While he didn’t look up from his work, he interjected anyways. “Now, the three of you need to get back to your homes and rest. You’ve had a very long night.”

He glanced up at Scott, who could still barely move following his injury, but he only furrowed his brow in confusion. “All three of us? Even Stiles?”

Deaton nodded. “The poison I injected in his system should give Stiles control of his body back, at least for a couple days.”

A little bit of hope returned to Scott’s eyes. “Long enough to buy us some time to fix this. To save him.”

“But what about the Oni?” This was from Kira, and she still sounded terrified.

Deaton glanced over at her. “Well, they haven’t gotten in here yet. And if I’m right, the wolf lichen has surprised the spirit deeply enough that the Oni will no longer immediately register him as supernatural.” He looked back at Scott, because he knew the young Alpha had the same fears. “He’ll be safe.”

Scott released a breath, and at least a small amount of tension visibly left his body. “Thank you.”

Deaton smiled. “Anytime.”

In the end, after a matching bandage was placed over the exit wound on Scott’s back, it was decided that they would call Sheriff Stilinski to come pick up Stiles, as the older man was likely worried sick. Once Scott was healed enough to move, he and Kira would take the jeep to go back to their own homes.

While Scott called the Sheriff, and Kira texted her parents to let them know she was okay, Deaton knelt down to check on Stiles, who still had not fully stirred. However, despite the trauma of an entity invading his body and mind, the boy’s pulse was strong, and his pupils were evenly dilated. That was not a guarantee of anything, of course, but all they could do now was wait and see when he woke up.

As he worked, Deaton spoke quietly to the spirit locked inside the teenager’s mind. “You know, I know you can hear me,” he said conversationally, “And I suppose you thought that was impressive, getting them all to jump to your every whim like that. The chaos and fear left in your wake. But you chose the wrong host.”

He glanced over at Scott, who was still on the phone, tired but determined. “You chose his best friend. And he’s not going to stop until he figures out a way to remove you, permanently. And as for me, well, I’m generally not one to advocate for killing. I prefer to heal.”

Deaton thought about Scott’s screams of pain. The Nogitsune taunting him with the face and voice of his best friend.

“For you, though? I’m willing to make an exception.”

#fictober20 #whumptober2020 #no.6 #stop please #teen wolf #fic #possession tw #violence tw #alan deaton #scott mccall #whoops this one actually took 3 days whatcha gonna do #also i fell asleep right before posting this last night 😂#my fic

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penaltybox14 · 5 years ago

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@dying-redshirt-noises I tried to write sex but plot exposition and emotion happened instead, because that’s just how life is.

Pete Malloy believes in beautiful things.

That is, he believes in loveliness, in mystery, and that some things, sacred, should be observed cautiously.

Overall he is a practical man, with his mind on practical things. In good, reliable cars. In a good, steady job. In good, hearty food.

But because he believes in beautiful things, too, he wants his car to rumble and his roads to spin out like kite ribbons the wind, and his job is a vocation not unlike a priesthood, and he believes closing your eyes before the first bite hits your tongue.

Pete Malloy's always been a romantic. The guys would roll their eyes, for sure. He's got a girl for every day of the week if not two, he's got his girls who like dancing and wine, and he's got his girls who like tacos and drive-ins. He's got girls who kick up their heels Friday night to Sunday morning, sleeping in til noon. He's got girls who serve dinner with a yard of utensils on either side, who know how to use each one. He's got himself girls who know how to have fun, who ring him up (what a scandal that'd be, for the guys, a lady asking a man out) and say, Pete, how'd you like to catch the picture tonight? ��And he'll say, what's at the drive in this week, I'll buy the popcorn.

And they'll put the top down on his mustang and cuddle up close under the cool evening and watch the moon creep up shy over the city like it wants to watch the show, too. Let the moon in, he'll figure. Let the moon sit quietly by and wipe her stony eye when the picture gets sad.

What a sap, the guys would figure. What a sap, to let the moon in.

When he was a younger man, still a kid, before he was a cop, before he was even the uncertain thought of a rookie, one summer he drove up the coast and back down the mountains, with friends from the city, and friends from Sacramento and San Francisco and Seattle and Tacoma, all the way up to Vancouver where he sat on the deck of a ferry in the cool mist of a morning before the sun woke up all the way and saw killer whales playing in the bay a long way off. Black and white and shining. He'd remember them all the time, when he saw the patrol cars in the parking lot. Remember the way they rose up splitting the waves to breathe, learning that it was breathing, they had lungs and hearts and eyes like people, not fish. Playing in the bay before the sun came up like kids.

Sometimes he stops at the cemetery just as the caretaker is opening the gates. Sometimes he's still in jeans and shirtsleeves. Sometimes he pulls his jacket close around him and sometimes he holds it in front of him.

Sometimes he walks the narrow cemetery roads, criss-crossing the footpaths, looking for one particular plot. Sometimes the flowers by the stone are new, sometimes they are beginning to sag in the heat or cringe in the chill.

He still doesn't know what to say, so he stands, a little ways away, hands in his pockets, as if the tight-cropped grass and the chatter of the birds and the sultry breeze in the neat little trees that line the paths have any answer. So far, they don't, but he looks over his shoulder anyway when he leaves.

(From his perch on the locker room bench, shining his shoes. Listening to the boy tell stories, looking over his shoulder, trying not to crack a smile. The boy trying to be the big man, and Pete still wearing his role stiffly like a new coat. Blond hair fell over bright cheeks that still had a couple bright spots of acne. A crooked tooth. Pete had liked him at once, but he was the softie who let the moon in without paying for her ticket, after all.)

(How long ago was that?)

He's still angry, sometimes. So the words don't come out. So he bites his tongue. So he looks at the sky like it's a personal insult, to have the sun still rise and the world keep on fucking spinning. A man with a gun blows the face off a boy with a crooked tooth and the man goes to jail and the gun goes into a box in the basement and the boy goes into a box in the ground and a girl with a baby on her hip leaves flowers.

He thinks about the way Tommy made him laugh, and how he tried to swallow it, like he'd crossed some kind of threshold, now he had to be the veteran, now he had to be the sensible one, but no one, not even time, had told him how.

(Did you tell him not to stand in front of the door?

No, I didn't.

Why?

I thought he knew. I just. Thought he knew.)

Now the guys dance around him like he's a wolf in a trap, now they don't know what to say, now the Lieutenant gave him a new boy to replace the old one, and sometimes this feeling like an oil slick comes surging through him and makes his mouth taste red and black, and sometimes he wants to slam the boy with the straight dark hair and the straight white teeth straight into the wall and then - and then -

And then?

Sometimes Jim Reed looks at him so earnestly, Pete wants to close his eyes and tilt his head back and let the earth swallow him up whole. Sometimes, his eyes are so bright it hurts, and sometimes the wanting sits on him like a shine of midnight rain. The kid is not subtle. The kid shines. Pete yearns after it like some animal part yearns after the color of burn-down coals, the way the heat ripples inside them, the scales and souls of dragons.

Pete believes in beautiful things and romance, he believes in sex and making love and that there's a difference between the two, he believes in patience. Truly, he does.

He sits at home after shift watching the sign off and thinking about how Jim's low voice hits him like a blackjack to the gut, how Jim's lips press and part when he has a question, how he looks away when he asks, how his hands fold in his lap.

He sits at home at night staring at the ceiling where the lights of cars with the kind of midnight business you best not ask about come striding past and light up the specks and shadows. Wakes bolt-eyed and sweating, convinced he will kill this boy, too. Goes to work the next day, where Jim is still alive, still ironed into his uniform, still prattling cheerfully about the baby and the baby's room and his wife and his wife's cooking, while the thought is lurking, whispering, he will ruin this boy somehow, if not now then later, with the body in his arms one way or another.

#adam-12 #pete malloy #jim reed #butterfly meme: is this a romance?

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