#Istanbul HES Code

[nicoscheer]

uumutyildirimm Standing next to me 🫂 🤍

[crazedbluette]

Skeletons (and Guns) in the Closet

A John Wick x Ex-Assassin Male Reader

Summary: You and John have built a quiet life together—peaceful, normal… but neither of you is what you pretend to be. When John accidentally uncovers your past, you both learn something surprising: you’re not alone in the shadows you left behind. And maybe, finally, you can stop running from who you are.

Trigger warnings: PTSD, violence, trauma references, identity concealment, emotional suppression, past abuse, brief mentions of blood, dissociation, mild language, implied mental health struggles, slight smut near the end

A/N at the end! Not beta read, we die like John Wick. Y/N not used, Readers downstairs area isn't mentioned.

FDNI!!!!

The apartment smelled like fresh espresso and rain. Jazz murmured softly from the record player. You could hear the gentle click of John’s mug being placed on the windowsill, followed by the slow rustle of his sleeve as he leaned into the light.

It was raining again.

Of course it was. Your favorite mornings were always rainy ones. The world outside slowed down, wrapped in soft grey fog. Everything in here felt warm by comparison—lit by amber light and the kind of quiet only found between people who understood silence wasn’t absence.

John moved like he was born in it. The kind of quiet that came from knowing violence intimately, and choosing—again and again—not to live in it anymore.

At least, that’s what you believed. What you hoped.

You weren’t sure when you’d fallen in love with him. Maybe it was the way he kissed you good morning without a word, or how he always made enough coffee for two even before you’d moved in.

You weren’t supposed to fall for anyone. You’d built your life out of lies—fake names, burner phones, dead drops and distance. You had killed for nations and corporations alike, walked away from it all, and told yourself you could start fresh.

You told yourself that this life with him was real.

But neither of you were what you appeared to be.

You came home late. Wet from the rain, grocery bag slung over your shoulder, fingers aching with the cold.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

You noticed the change before you even stepped fully inside. Something in the air—off-kilter. Still.

And then you saw it.

The bookshelf.

Slightly ajar. Just wide enough for someone to see what was behind it.

Your heart stopped.

You dropped the bag without thinking. Apples spilled across the hardwood as you stepped forward, already knowing what you’d find.

There he stood.

John.

Back turned to you, eyes fixed on the wall-mounted arsenal that had been hidden behind a lifetime’s worth of literature. Weapons. Files. A few currencies, a few names. Everything that made you who you once were—laid bare.

He didn’t speak right away. He reached for a knife, turned it in his hands. The handle was black and polished, inlaid with a symbol only three men in the world would recognize.

He turned it over slowly. “You know,” he said, voice calm, “you really should’ve changed your dead drop codes. 4-1-6-9-Theta is old-school.”

You swallowed, hard. "You know what that is?" You asked, unsure if you even want to know the answer to your question.

He turned then. His expression wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even surprised. It was… knowing. Tired.

“I used to use that cipher myself. A long time ago.”

You stared at him. “You’re not… who I thought you were.”

He let out a breath through his nose. “Neither are you.”

You sat across from him on the couch, your secrets heavy between you. The weapons closet was closed again, but the damage had been done. The truth wasn’t going back behind a lock.

John had poured you both whiskey. His hand didn’t shake. Yours did.

“I used to be known as the Ghost,” you said quietly, not meeting his eyes. “Some parts of Europe… Casablanca, Istanbul—they still talk about me like I’m a myth.”

He said nothing, just watched you.

“I got out five years ago. Faked a body, disappeared. Told myself I’d never go back.” You looked at him. “Told myself I could be normal.”

John sipped his drink. “And I’m the Baba Yaga. Or what’s left of him.”

Your blood ran cold.

“I heard stories about you,” you said. “I didn’t believe most of them.”

“They’re probably all true,” he murmured. “But I’m not that man anymore.”

A long pause.

You turned your glass in your hands. “How did we not see it? In each other?”

“I think we did,” John said, finally. “We just didn’t want to.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was relief.

You’d spent months learning John’s routines. The way he folded his shirts with military precision. The way his voice dropped when he asked if you’d eaten. The way he always positioned himself between you and the door in public spaces.

He noticed your tells, too. The way you scanned exits. How you never sat with your back to a room. The tremble in your fingers when you slept too light, dreamed too deep.

You had both known. Somewhere, in your bones, you had known.

But knowing didn’t make what you had any less real.

John leaned toward you, setting his glass down. “I never lied to you. I just… didn’t want to go back to that world.”

“Neither did I.”

He reached for your hand.

You let him take it.

“I’m tired,” he whispered. “Aren’t you?”

Your throat tightened. “All the time.”

His fingers brushed your knuckles. “Then let’s stop running. Together.”

You exhaled slowly. “I don’t even know what that looks like.”

John offered a rare, soft smile. “Let’s find out.”

That night, you didn’t make love like men who were trying to forget something.

You made love like men who had found something.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frenzied. It was slow, reverent—hands mapping scars like old stories. Lips tracing collarbones, fingertips ghosting over hipbones. You moaned into his mouth, breathless, as he held you like you were something rare and fragile.

You whispered each other’s names like prayers.

And when you were both lying there—skin to skin, hearts pounding—you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Peace.

John kissed your shoulder. “You’re safe.”

You rolled to face him. “With you… yeah.”

In the morning, sunlight slipped in through the blinds in soft ribbons.

You padded into the kitchen, shirtless and groggy, and found him reorganizing your weapons closet—again.

“You alphabetized my sidearms,” you said flatly.

He didn’t turn. “Your trigger springs were stored next to your .22 ammo. That’s chaos.”

You sipped your coffee. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you.”

He turned to look at you, eyes crinkled at the corners. “I know.”

You walked up, wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, rested your chin on his shoulder.

“No more secrets?”

He covered your hand with his own. “Never again.”

You stood there in silence, two killers with your arms around each other, surrounded by hidden weapons and half-eaten pancakes and sunlight.

For the first time in years, the world didn’t feel like a battlefield.

It felt like home.

A/N: "Pierre this isn't Whisking Hearts Chapter 1" GUYS, I KNOW. It's already finished, I'm just having it proofread by a friend before publishing! This isn’t my best work but I was rewatching the John Wick franchise and I was reminded how 🔥 Keanu Reeves is. I was literally writing this while watching lmao. But have this while waiting for WH Chap 1! Graphic and Divider are below!

Graphic

Divider

Please reblog and comment if you liked it! It helps keep me motivated!

[sgiandubh]

Looking for balance

People have been asking for years that she would name McGill in the same sentence as 'husband'. This happened, after almost six years of marital bliss #shitshow, which is (how can I properly put it?) at least peculiar. And yes, I am still perfectly unfazed - because you see, promo also means being as consensual as possible. In this regard, it would seem the lessons of that costly, (in)famous Vanity Fair interview have been learned. But also that her fresh, organic image the veterans of this fandom so much enjoyed is probably gone.

Among all the interviews she so liberally (and rather proportionally with the big budget of The Amateur) offered, the most interesting one was for Io Donna the woman weekly supplement of the big Italian newspaper Corriere della Sera. It was posted across the street and they were unable to read, let alone understand it. They imagine we were as parochial and dumb as they are, so I said 'hold my beer' and translated it for you.

[Source: https://www.iodonna.it/personaggi/star-internazionali/2025/04/08/caitriona-balfe-protagonista-con-rami-malek-in-operazione-vendetta/ - 8 April 2025]

This time, we are talking about a widespread, very prestigious European media outlet. Not a Swiss news portal, bearing also in mind that Switzerland is a market seven times less important, in terms of audience, than Italy.

Anyways, there goes - my own translation, thank you:

Caitriona Balfe, star of 'The Amateur': 'I'm Frustrated by Injustice in the World' A former model and aspiring director, she is best known for her role as Claire Fraser in the television series Outlander. by Michaela K. Bellisario

"They made Rami run around a lot. We shot the escape scene so many times that we ended up joking about it." Caitriona Balfe, 45, actress and supermodel, is one of the two female leads (the other is Rachel Brosnahan) in The Amateur with Rami Malek, an American spy action thriller directed by James Hawes, based on the 1981 novel of the same name by Robert Littell, in theaters starting April 10.

Malek is a CIA code breaker who works in the basement of the Langley headquarters in the United States. His life is turned upside down when his wife is killed in a terrorist attack in London. When his supervisors refuse to act, he embarks on a dangerous journey around the world to track down the real perpetrators of the attack and avenge his wife. Caitriona Balfe is the widow of another agent and helps Malek using her computer skills.

Caitriona Balfe in The Amateur : "I accepted the movie because we were going to shoot in Marseille and Istanbul"

For Caitriona Balfe, originally from Dublin, this is a new role . The actress is best known for her role as Claire Fraser in the TV series Outlander, for which she won a BAFTA Scotland, two People's Choice Awards and two Saturn Awards, and received four consecutive Golden Globe nominations for Best Actress in a Drama Series. In 2021, alongside Jamie Dornan, she starred in the film Belfast, written and directed by Kenneth Branagh.

Caitriona Balfe, what made you take this role? I liked the idea of ​​​​measuring up to a character so different from the others played to date. And then I was attracted by the possibility of working with Rami Malek and the director James Hawes, who I admire for the series Slow Horses. Last but not least, I confess, the fact that it was shot in Istanbul and Marseille. After all those years in Scotland ...

In fact, you basically worked and lived in Scotland for the TV series Outlander. Yes, that's eleven years in total. Intense and beautiful years. But, of course, every now and then changing location doesn't hurt, especially if I think of my colleagues who, instead, shoot for example, I don't know, in exotic locations (laughs).

Caitriona Balfe: "Rami Malek Gave Me So Much Advice" You have long scenes with Rami Malek, the “avenger”, especially those where you run to escape from the “enemies”, can you tell us a behind-the-scenes anecdote? If you mean the escape scene, we repeated it five times, it must have been three in the morning on a cold January night in Marseille. An adventure… Malek is a very generous professional and gave me a lot of advice. I arrived on the set when the shooting was already underway, it always takes a few moments of orientation to fit in and Rami supported me at every moment.

What is the message of this action thriller: revenge or peace? The film seems to be focused on revenge, Rami tries in every possible way to avenge his wife's assassination by occult terrorist forces. But during his long escape around the world, a bit like in a hero's journey, he understands that after all revenge is only the starting point of what he is doing. He understands the only thing that makes sense is to discover the truth and he wants justice to be served.

Food for thought in such a troubled moment of global politics… Exactly. In our world, these two levels, revenge and aspiration towards justice, are often confused. Yours is an interesting question we should all ask ourselves at this moment in time. I liked my character because she chose truth instead of revenge. And she has a positive influence on the character played by Rami Malek.

Caitriona Balfe: "I'm frustrated by injustice"

What makes you call for revenge? Everything! I am a Libra and I am looking for harmony in everything. I am frustrated by the lack of empathy between people, yet we are all interconnected, equal, we should treat each other with love and compassion. The same goes for animals and the environment. Everything would be easier, right? Instead, it seems to be the most difficult thing in the world. I was talking about it with a friend just today. You reach a certain point in life where you understand that the only important thing is love for all sentient beings.

Let's take a step back in time: you were a supermodel in the 90s and then you made your debut in The Devil Wears Prada… As I always say… I didn’t actually act in the film. I was an extra, one of the many girls who sashay in and out of the editorial office. But at least I had the chance to meet Meryl Streep. Even becoming a model was the result of chance. I was eighteen and studying acting in Dublin when I was noticed. I was able to live in Japan, France, Germany… ten years of discoveries.

"I'm interested in nourishing the soul"

You have tried directing on Outlander's set. Yes, I would love to end up behind the camera again, I am interested in exploring storytelling and narratives. Ultimately, thousands of years ago, when we were all cavemen, we told stories around the fire. For an actor, that is perhaps the most interesting side of it, because we are limited in the roles we play. Directing will make me able to tell stories in a much broader way.

How do you balance your private life with your professional life? Since I had a son, everything has become much more complicated. But it's not a problem, he is my priority. For the first three years of his life I worked a lot, now I've decided to take some time for us to be together, also because he will start school and we will have to find a new balance.

What do you do in your free time? I explore my creative side. I try to practice yoga. Nourishing the soul is definitely the most important task we have.'

***

I took the liberty to put in italics the answers I considered way more interesting, and perhaps even honest, than the rest. Her Stans should definitely take a deep look at what she said about empathy (or rather lack thereof), equality and her ultimately feeling that people are interconnected - all things I have particularly found Mordor wanting, especially considering their uncanny brutality and love of insults.

Corriere della Sera is a far more liberal media outlet than FOX, so the message of her points of talk was tailored to align with its values: yoga, compassion, empathy, environment and animal rights, tolerance and connection, injustice of the actual global context (subtly so, always as far as she is concerned). Again, no surprise and a clearly more serious, better adjusted image for the (perhaps more sophisticated) given audience. All you need is love, insomma: there's nothing more consensual than that, there's nothing less encouraging to probe further the real C behind the mask, Oriana Fallaci style.

I was not surprised, then, to see no mention of McGill, whatsoever. This is, at any rate, rarely done in European media of this level and importance, unless the story is compelling. She seems now entirely focused on Blonde Bambino, who (in her own words) has become 'her priority' (but, but...oooh, LOL) . That was the golden opportunity to mention McGill in a very positive, indisputable context, yet she did not take it - I really wonder why. Oh, and in case you wonder, the 'us' in 'I decided to take some time for us' refers, in my humble opinion, exclusively to her and Blonde Bambino. This being reinforced by her mentioning she worked a lot on Outlander and her will to spend more one on one time with him before he'd start school.

The contrast is clear. Different messages for different markets: she is a human being, not a batch of Skyr. However, it is with deep nostalgia (and also a wide grin) that I noticed the website also linked to a July 2016 interview of hers to the same newspaper, for the people who had time to kill and were willing to know more about her story. Lo and behold, here is what I found:

[Source: https://www.iodonna.it/personaggi/interviste-gallery/2016/07/15/caitriona-balfe-sono-uneroina-romantica-ma-non-ho-tempo-per-lamore/]

My translation: 'Caitriona Balfe: I am a romantic heroine, but I don't have time for love. On the TV screen, I have two husbands, but in my own life I've got none', jokes the actress, star of the cult series Outlander. She is talking to us about 'real sensuality', passion and feeling embarrassed. And she tells us why she'll never go to Paris with any fiancé'.

My translation: 'From the Scottish Highlands to the 1750's Paris: how much does the script weigh on the acting?

The Scottish Highlands are wild lands, the intensity of the landscape and the events of that time are encouraging Claire and Jamie's passion. Then, Paris does create strong tensions. I don't know if you have already went to the French capital while being in love: it's such a pressure to love each other, that it always ends in fighting' (laughs).

Of course, the rest is paying lip service to the narrative, but what about the trolls across the street for whom McGill was already the chosen one, by then (as if, heh... as if...)?

Stop lying. You're not doing her any good.

[mariacallous]

Donald Trump’s recent election victory is fueling international speculation over a possible deal to end the war in Ukraine. For now, much of the debate remains centered on what kinds of concessions Ukraine may be willing to make in order to secure a negotiated peace. However, the real question is whether Russian President Vladimir Putin has any interest at all in ending his invasion. The available evidence suggests that he does not. On the contrary, Putin appears to be as committed as ever to his goal of extinguishing Ukrainian statehood entirely.

For many years, Putin has publicly questioned the Ukrainian nation’s right to exist. He has repeatedly stated that he sees today’s independent Ukraine as an artificial state, and regards all those who disagree with this verdict as anti-Russian forces or outright Nazis. For more than a decade, he has sought to turn this toxic vision into reality via an escalating campaign of military aggression.

When Putin embarked on the latest stage of his campaign to destroy Ukraine in February 2022, he declared that the goals of his full-scale invasion were the “demilitarization” and denazification” of the country. During abortive spring 2022 peace negotiations in Istanbul, it became apparent that Russia’s interpretation of demilitarization would have left Ukraine disarmed and defenseless.

Putin’s representatives during the Istanbul talks called for the Ukrainian army to be drastically reduced to a minimal force of just 50,000 troops, with strict limits also placed on the amount of armor and types of missiles Ukraine could possess. Meanwhile, Russia would face no such restrictions. Crucially, the Kremlin demanded complete Ukrainian neutrality and insisted on retaining a veto over any international military aid to Kyiv in the event of renewed hostilities. These punishing terms leave little room for doubt that Putin’s intention was to place Ukraine completely at his mercy and in no position to resist the next stage of Russian aggression.

The implications of “denazification” are even more ominous. Putin has long accused Ukraine of being a “Nazi state,” despite the fact that the country has a popularly elected Jewish president and no far-right politicians in government. In reality, “denazification” is Kremlin code for the complete eradication of a separate Ukrainian national identity. In other words, Putin pretends to be fighting fascism order to legitimize his criminal goal of a Ukraine without Ukrainians.

The grim consequences of Putin’s “denazification” policies are already evident throughout Russian-occupied Ukraine. In regions of the country currently under Kremlin control, all traces of Ukrainian statehood and national identity are being ruthlessly purged. Ukrainian children are forced to study a Kremlin curriculum that demonizes Ukraine while glorifying the invasion of their country. Adults must accept Russian citizenship if they wish to access basic services such as pensions and healthcare.

Anyone regarded as a potential threat to the Russian occupation authorities is at risk of deportation, abduction, torture, or execution. While it is impossible to determine exact figures, it is estimated that thousands of Ukrainian civilians have been detained since February 2022. In most cases, relatives of detainees have no way of knowing if they are still alive. Britain’s The Economist recently described conditions in Russian-occupied Ukraine as a “totalitarian hell.” It is a very specific vision of hell that has been designed to remove all traces of Ukraine and impose an imperial Russian identity.

The most obvious indication of Russia’s genocidal intent in Ukraine has been the mass deportation of Ukrainian children, with thousands abducted and transferred to a system of camps where they are subjected to indoctrination in order to rob them of their Ukrainian heritage and turn them into loyal Kremlin subjects. In March 2023, the International Criminal Court in The Hague issued an arrest warrant for Vladimir Putin in relation to these abductions. The UN’s 1948 Genocide Convention recognizes “forcibly transferring children of the group to another group” as an act of genocide.

Russia’s own actions since February 2022 have made a mockery of the arguments used by the Kremlin to justify the war. At the start of the full-scale invasion, Putin claimed to be defending the rights of Russian-speaking Ukrainians in the east of the country. However, the Russian army has since killed tens of thousands of predominantly Russian-speakers in eastern Ukraine, while reducing dozens of towns and cities across the region to rubble.

Likewise, Russia’s attempts to justify the attack on Ukraine by painting it as a response to NATO enlargement have been largely debunked by Putin himself. When neighboring Finland and Sweden responded to Russia’s invasion by announcing plans in spring 2022 to abandon decades of neutrality and join NATO, Putin was quick to declare that Russia had “no problem” with the move. This indifference was particularly striking as Finnish accession more than doubled Russia’s NATO border, while Swedish membership transformed the strategically vital Baltic Sea into a NATO lake.

Putin has since gone even further, withdrawing the bulk of Russian troops from the Finnish border and leaving it largely undefended. Based on Putin’s remarkably relaxed response to NATO’s recent Nordic enlargement, it seems safe to conclude that he does not in fact view the NATO alliance as a security threat to Russia itself, and has merely exploited the issue as a smokescreen for his own imperial ambitions in Ukraine.

As Donald Trump attempts to implement his campaign promise and end the war in Ukraine, he is likely to discover that his famed deal-making skills are no match for Putin’s single-minded obsession with the destruction of Ukraine. In words and deeds, Putin has repeatedly demonstrated his commitment to wiping Ukraine off the map. In such circumstances, any talk of a compromise settlement is dangerously delusional. Until Putin is forced to recognize Ukraine’s right to exist, any peace deals will be temporary and the threat of further Russian aggression will remain.

[shoukokunoaltairfans]

Ottoman eyalet division during Beyazid II Reign

Three days after his coronation as Sultan, on the 26th day of the month of Cinili, Bayazid II restructured the administrative and provincial divisions of the early classical Ottoman imperial system—one originally formed during the reign of his great-great-grandfather, Murad I. He institutionalized a three-tiered territorial hierarchy: the Eyalet, the Sanjakbey, and the Kazas ( jurisdiction ). The term eyalet had, in fact, appeared during the Stratocracy era but was not widely adopted. Most administrative regions during that time were governed under the title Vezir, in line with the parliamentary system then in use.

At the time of the empire’s transition, there were around thirteen Vezir Pashas in office. Bayezid II decided to drastically reduce their number to just five—though this number would later grow again in tandem with the empire’s expansion. Among those retained were Koca Davud Pasha (appointed as Grand Vizier, replacing Zaganos Pasha, and serving as head of the Divan council), Gedik Ahmed Pasha (who also took on the role of Kapudan Bahriye, replacing Hamza Pasha), Karaman Mehmed Pasha, Sinan Pasha, and Ahad Pasha. Although traditionally only vezirs were involved in the Divan meetings, during Bayazid II’s reign, participation expanded to include beylerbeys and even sanjakbeys.

Unlike the stratocracy era, where the Buyuk Pasha appeared openly in council, Bayazid’s reign followed the legal code instituted by Mehmed II, in which the sultan—and at times the valide sultan—observed the council meetings indirectly, hidden behind a latticed window. This practice endured until the reign of Süleyman I, who ultimately withdrew from council attendance entirely. Nevertheless, there are records of Bayezid II, on select occasions, presiding over the Divan in person and in full view.

The grille-covered window from which the Sultan or Valide Sultan could observe Council meetings and issue orders on some controversial or critical issues

In the reorganization of the provinces, Bayazid II divided the territories of Rumelia and Anatolia into three regions each, appointing new Pashas to govern the respective Eyalets.

In Rumelia:

The Western Rumelia Eyalet, with Gol as its provincial capital, was entrusted to Zaganos Pasha.

The Eastern Rumelia Eyalet, centered in Tarnovo, was assigned to Mahmud Pasha.

The Sud Eyalet, with Phoenicia as its administrative seat, was governed by Saruca Pasha.

Meanwhile, in Anatolia:

The Anatolia Eyalet, based in Bursa, was administered by Ahad Pasha.

The Rum Eyalet, with Amasya as its capital, was placed under Kassim Pasha.

As for Trebizond, Bayazid entrusted its command to his own son, Selim.

There existed an autonomous region within Eastern Rumelia known as the Mizrak Eyalet, governed by Mizraki Beyazid Pasha. He had already served during the Stratocracy era, originally appointed by Zaganos Pasha, and remained in power under the command of Sultan Bayazid II.

In the later years—specifically during the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent (Suleiman I)—the entire territory of Rumelia would eventually be unified into a single, centralized Eyalet. By this era, the Ottoman Empire had begun to establish a number of vassal states—subordinate nations that pledged loyalty to the Sultan, sent regular tributes, participated in military campaigns, and provided logistical support. Many of them also sold food supplies to Istanbul at reduced prices to support the Empire’s wartime efforts.

The first state to fall under this category was the Balt Rhain Empire, following the Treaty of Edirne. Under the Stratocracy, they were required to deliver formal tributes (jizyah) and special gifts to the Pashas. This arrangement was later reaffirmed during the transition into the Ottoman imperial model.

On the 1st of Biber, King Goldebalt IX visited Istanbul to personally swear allegiance to Sultan Bayazid II, and to present the empire’s first formal tribute, valued at 50,000 akçes.

The second was the Kingdom of Bosnia, which submitted as a vassal state barely a month after the end of the Balt Rhain - Turkish War. Soon after came Li’solani and Cuore.

Other states, such as the Despotate of Karaman (Karamanoglu Beyliks), were not obligated to pay tribute but were still bound by military duties. Cuore, on the other hand, was only required to pay a substantial tribute in exchange for being exempted from military obligations.

At this point in time, Wallachia was not yet considered an Ottoman vassal, as it remained part of the Tripartite Alliance with Venice, actively opposing Balt Rhain. However, that changed after the coup of Vlad Dracul. With Radu del Crumos ascending the throne (80–82 CTR), Wallachia formally became a vassal state under the Porte.

Zehir Zaganos (left) and Tughril Mahmud (right) were appointed by Bayezid II as Beylerbey of Western and Eastern Rumelia, respectively. However, their ranks did not equate to that of a Vezir. Although they were granted the right to participate in council meetings on a level comparable to a Vezir, both Zaganos and Mahmud—according to the account of Ekrem İmamoğlu—were not involved in Divan assemblies during the early years of Bayezid’s reign, except when summoned for matters of war and military expeditions, which fell under the primary responsibilities of a Beylerbey.The Kayitname (personal journal of Mahmud Pasha) records the following statement: “Since assuming this post, I have known nothing of the discussions held within the palace, save for those pertaining to war,” —indicating their exclusion from the inner political affairs of the imperial palace, until the later years of Bayezid II’s reign and the transitional period leading to the rule of his son, Selim I.

[sorentymn]

The Istanbul incident.

A highly volatile piece of technology had been stolen from an MI6 courier. Suspected involvement with highly trained counterintelligence warrants the presence of 007 and the recently appointed Quartermaster himself.

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Content: Multi-chapters, 18+, mentions of violence and probably smut down the line. :p

A/N: I recently rewatched James Bond again, and the love I have for this ship is beyond unhealthy so here's a treat for fellow 00Q fanatics. 

This is set sometime after Skyfall.  

In which Bond has the fattest crush ever, honestly.

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CHAPTER I.

Mallory’s den is often regarded by many MI6 underlings as Tartarus, not only because of the sheer dread permeating its air but because it is also where the king of the underworld (Yes, Gareth Mallory himself) presides guarded by Cerberus (Moneypenny), who instead of sporting three gnashing heads possesses the same deadly aura with just one and many would argue that going up against her might just be worse. 

However, today it seemed to be too early for Cerberus, her usual colourful self was absent when she led Bond through the door to Mallory’s vacant office occupied only by a mop of chocolate curls whom he recognized instantly without the young man having to turn.

“Morning," said Bond. Q only blinked up at him tiredly from his seat, evidence of his disregard for reasonable work hours. He only managed a quick nod before returning to the screen in his hand, busying himself with what appeared to be several lines of code. 

Up to this point Bond and the Quartermaster hadn’t had the chance to get closer acquainted. Since their initial meeting at the National Gallery and after the painful blur that was Skyfall, Bond got dispatched less frequently as ordained by psych (those wretched banshees in medical gowns). So, outside of the rare occasion that Bond gets summoned to test Q-branch’s latest inventions or to give professional input (which is also typically to Q’s underlings), the pair rarely interacts with one another. 

Despite this, the younger man had been steadily climbing Bond’s list. What list you ask? The very much appropriate and not at all scandalous list of co-workers he’d like to shag of course. This revelation initially came as a shock to Bond, not because of Q’s maleness (He’s very much comfortably bisexual despite his womanising reputation and dating history) but more the person that he is. 

Commander James Bond in his youth had tumblings with his mates with various striking qualities, now with age, he liked to think that he’s got his taste in men down to its minute details. He likes them athletic, brunette, easy smiles and not much to say. Now, Q could not be more different. 

The minute they met, the two had a sparring, breakfast Earl Greys, triggers needed pulling, all that. Casual impudence isn’t something he encounters frequently (outside of his exercise of it on everyone else of course). He never imagined he’d be fed his own brand of medicine and end up liking it. The young Quartermaster wasn’t afraid to put Bond in his place and there’s the stillness in the face of Bond’s icy countenance that struck something wonderful.

Bond chalked this up as fascination over something new, an irrational bout of excitement he sometimes gets when he sees a particularly gorgeous sports car, but this compulsion to stop and stare never went away. He’s a lithe and intelligent apparition in hideous sweaters and glasses and for the life of him, Bond cannot solve this puzzle. It gnawed at him every time they’d pass one another at the office when Q would guide him in that deliciously eloquent voice, that one time during a staff party he unabashedly watched as Q danced with his disproportionately drunk colleagues. The list goes on. 

“Apologies gents, It’s armageddon out there.” Mallory finally arrived a little more dishevelled than he’d normally allow himself at a reasonable hour. His coat still had droplets on it letting the men in on the appalling weather outside their bunker. As he made his way around the large desk, Q only straightened slightly with the look of a sleep-deprived teenager somehow on a man Bond assumes is in his thirties.

“Any reason you summoned us here while half of London is still asleep?” Bond started with a tone as he checked his watch not so much to discern the time but to give Mallory a rise. 

“I am aware of the hour, Bond, if this wasn’t urgent I would have left you to whatever you get up to while half of London sleeps.” Mallory retorts with a brief look, something like pity flashes behind his eyes as he notes Bond’s misaligned tie, this would be a good time to mention Bond isn’t exactly sober at the moment and the tie is a rare mistake.

“There’s been an incident of a time-sensitive nature that needs to be addressed immediately.” 

“M if I may-” Q interrupts gingerly as he adjusts his glasses like the gesture might trick his brain to spark some alertness into his being. It didn’t. 

“I’m not sure why I’m being included in this briefing, I’ve received an e-mail regarding this mission. I think I'd better start preparing 007’s kit wh-” 

“Will it kill you both to let me finish?” Mallory sighed, effectively ending Q’s line of questioning. 

“After some deliberation, I’ve decided that you will accompany 007 on the field. We’ve been informed that our initial intel on the briefcase’s contents is unreliable. Now, I’m aware that this is beneath you, but with the volatile nature of it all, I think it’s only appropriate to put our best on it.”

The young man’s lips parted slightly as if he were computing the directive. He spared 007 a glance and only noticed the agent’s signature smirk like this was all funny and not very much inconvenient for Q. 

Sidelining Q's reaction entirely, Mallory launches back into the details of the mission. Two days ago, MI6 received intel regarding a certain cargo, believed to be either a chemical weapon or a new range of explosives engineered by the Russians. A conflict broke out during an exchange between the engineers and an unidentified party, landing the briefcase in the hands of an MI6 operative based in Southeast Asia. A courier was sent from London to retrieve the package, but was intercepted during the last leg of the journey. The case was stolen in Istanbul, where luckily the tracker is still embedded and active, the courier, however, washed up that same evening beneath the Galata Bridge. 

“So, I suggest you return home, pack your essentials, and your flight will be leaving at 16:00. Your travel documents have been arranged. Moneypenny will see you out.” As if summoned by her name uttered in the wind alone, Moneypenny appears with envelopes in hand and a flat smile that usually means they’d best move along. Bond and Q did not miss this signal naturally; they both rose to their feet, Bond buttoning his blazer and Q rubbing his temple as they went.

“Here you go, boys.” Moneypenny managed as they left Tartarus for the endless corridors once more. She handed them their files over her shoulders and pressed the button for the lift. As they waited, Q willed himself to speak again. 

“Eve-” It almost sounded like a whine. 

“No, darling if it were for just about anything else I would’ve flown across the world for you but some of us aren’t an evil genius” 

“But I can’t-” Q looked utterly wrecked, and Bond was endlessly entertained at somehow being completely ignored by MI6’s infamous ‘besties’ as Tanner once referred to them before looking appalled by his own word choice. The two bickered for several minutes, forgetting Bond's existence entirely before he decided to chime in.

“So it’s true” Bond intercepted finally. 

“What’s true?” The two turned to him questioningly, after a short moment Eve smiled in a sort of pitying way. 

“Yes, Q is actually afraid of flying. You self-important bastard did you really think I made that up so I could play messenger to you in Macao?” outraged Eve smacked Bond’s bad shoulder which only made Bond shrug. Q is currently wishing the floor would swallow him, nothing good ever comes from leaving his subterranean lair. As they bickered the lift finally arrived and Q unceremoniously pushed and wedged himself between the two to get into the lift too exhausted at the moment to engage in anything that required more than a sigh. 

“Take care of my best friend you old dog.” Eve left off warmly with enough firmness to imply her underlying sentiment. To this, Bond pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek before joining Q in the lift. 

 ───────────────────────────────────────────

“Do you always drink this much during flights?” Bond blinked at the sudden resurfacing of his flight companion. Q had been silent throughout the journey since their commute from MI6 and through the airport up to boarding. 

“It lives” 

“Sorry, I took some medication for-” Q trailed off his eyes flitting in different directions examining the cabin as the last boarding travellers made their way down the aisle. Despite what Q reported, his anxiety is still more obvious than ever painting the young man a sickly grey unlike his usual ivory glazed in pink. Bond could sympathise on some level, but expressing it would be ridiculous for someone who regularly treats his mortality like it's got a respawn cycle. 

“Is it working?” Bond’s gaze follows the swirling motion of the chilled sphere in his whisky. 

“Don’t think it’s kicked in just yet” 

“Keen to try an alternative?” He tried to offer putting the glass on the leaning aisle between them but Q gently nudged the glass back in his direction. 

“No, thank you, I doubt it's wise to mix” 

“Some would call that a party” 

“Or a touch suicidal”

Bond stared at him, amused, but kept his lips sealed. After the plane lifted off, Bond slid his glass back between them and then turned away for a brief shut-eye. When he woke again, the glass was empty and his Quartermaster was sound asleep. 

  ───────────────────────────────────────────

They landed in Istanbul in the early evening and were escorted downtown to a lavish hotel that overlooked just about most of the interesting sites noted on any popular travelling websites. There would be time to properly appreciate this view, for now, something else is more pressing. 

“I don’t see the necessity for this arrangement” Q voiced dryly as he examined the room, dim lights, beautiful ethnic ornaments, so spacious it could house a large family rather than two exhausted secret service agents; there were elaborate floral arrangements poised throughout the room. All this to say that it’s nauseatingly romantic for a work trip. 

“A suite?” Bond responded with a clueless look already too amused by it all. 

“A honeymoon suite” Q dropped his backpack onto the floor inelegantly along with his last syllable. It’s theatrical and boyish, Bond had to keep from outright chuckling at the face he was making. 

“That would mean we’d be sharing a bed Q, there’s a separate room just there” Bond who already found a Champagne glass pointed to the room with the tip of the glass. The revelation didn’t ease the knot between the Quartermaster’s brows. 

“....” 

“Not that I mind the company of course” To this, Q squinted at him from his place in the middle of the room. 

“R, that conniving little-” So that’s who Bond will be needing to send a souvenir to. He kept that thought to himself as he poured some of the Dom Perignon so thoughtfully chilled in an ice bath in anticipation of a-

‘Mr Arlington & Mr Ellis Beech' He pocketed the card of course like a cheeky little boy and not at all a man in his 40s whose occupation is to expire people semi-regularly.  

Bond saunters over to Q passing a glass to the exasperated young man with a look of pure bliss. 

“Perhaps if we’re better acquainted you might feel more comfortable?” All that charm from the agent and Q barely suppressed a snort. 

“Oh-  007 spare me the routine” Q waved his hand about as he brisked past the agent towards the small dining table close by. He took a sip of the Champagne before setting it down, his arms firmly folded over his chest. 

“What routine?” Bond’s eyes trailed after his every move, intrigued by his complete dismissal of his approach. 

“I’m not a terrorist’s trophy wife, you don’t need to woo me for us to co-exist 007”  

“That you’re not” Bond observed quietly recalibrating his approach. That’s right, he is after all unlike the sweet brunettes he usually favours. This was a new puzzle, a bratty one with all the smarts to justify it. 

“But I don’t discriminate” This exasperated Q. 

“Do you now,” Q’s lips pursed briefly like he was weighing on his next course of action, and it came. 

“Look, 007, I’m sure this is very entertaining for you, but I’ve got a mortgage and two cats to feed. I’d like us to carry on as smoothly as possible and that means keeping this strictly professional.”

But as the Quartermaster was drawing a line in the sand between them, his eyes betrayed his resolve. Bond noticed his eyes drift downwards to his lips and fixed on them before they drew back up again. Checkmate. Bond schooled his expression back into something almost professional before he approached Q once again, taking the half-drunk Champagne out of his hand and pouring the remainder of it down, his eyes not once diverted from Q, who couldn’t keep from staring at Bond’s bobbing throat. 

“Loud and clear. I’ll behave, for the sake of the cats” Bond then pivoted escaping the scene of the crime towards his bedroom with an air of victory. It seems his fascination isn’t one-sided after all. 

  ───────────────────────────────────────────

Memories of his last traumatic visit to this city finally surfaced during his reading. The men got comfortable after their little sparring on arrival. Q unable to forego his routine for too long built a small Q-branch right on the dinner table surrounded by thin stacks of paper fencing him in like a fortress. While Q busied himself, Bond brought his book to a lovely lounge chair on the balcony overlooking the city and it was heavenly for a while until it wasn’t. 

The pleasant dullness he sustained from that Champagne he finished hours ago finally waned and he’s left with the kind of clarity that’s infinitely useful in the field but not so much while he’s idle. His concentration officially gone, Bond does his best to recall the less ugly parts of his time in this city. 

Istanbul is one of the cities he’s truly fallen in love with had always found himself yearning to be back in it each time he leaves. There’s something about the spirit in the streets, the way the lights come alive dotting the Bosporus, the beautiful chorus from various mosques throughout the city, the spice-rich delicacies and the people naturally. He had delayed his debrief back in cold wet Britain in favour of the men and women of this city almost every single visit. 

He wondered if this trip would end in the same pleasures. 

Bond tried to recall the couple he’d last fallen into bed with on the trip before Moneypenny’s marring on that train and the scenes came to him easily. He was busy between her thighs, drunk on the sheer sight of her writhing beneath as his accomplice, her husband, tended to the parts Bond couldn’t lavish. But then something happened, her olive complexion began to pale, her hips narrowed and contracted into a flat and wiry body; her plump breasts now a flat expanse leading up to a long elegant neck. A neck he remembers very well. Q looks back at him with dark eyes and- 

"007, I've managed to set up everything, shall we begin?" Bond’s eyes squeeze shut at the interruption. Q is hovering above him, his laptop held sturdy in one hand as if the gadget is a part of his limb. He’s got a blank look about him that could not be more different than the Q of his imagination and for a moment Bond’s mind attempted to pair up the faces.

“Hello, earth to Bond?” the agent nodded solemnly before following Q to his ‘fortress’. Wait, did he refer to him as Bond just now? 

“You do love your clutter,” Bond remarked cooly as he eyed the various files and loose documents, before he could reach for them though, Q glided the paper right from beneath his hand like a primary school teacher fending unmarked homework from grubby hands. 

“It’s not clutter 007, it helps me think, have a seat” He waited for Bond to get comfortable before he swivelled his sticker-bombed laptop towards Bond. Before him, a handful of windows popped up overlapping one another. It was a jumbled mess, and this isn’t due to his age by any means rather the screen looked as if it had gained a life of its own, mimicking the no doubt chaotic mind of its owner. 

“Am I supposed to understand any of this?” Bond turned to him blankly and Q rolled his eyes—little shit. 

"So, the results came through a while ago. This is the forensics report retrieved directly from our courier. They've managed to get a hair sample from whoever stole the case. The operation must've been organized in a rush given several missteps, they're running the DNA sample through our internal archives and requesting additional profiles from our embedded sources offshore right now to see if it is somebody we've dealt with but it's taking some time."

"What's M's theory?" Bond listened intently, but also noted the speed at which the Quartermaster was typing. He must truly be losing his mind. When did being electronically inclined become something attractive to him? 

"He's positive it's counterintelligence, he won't disclose why, but he's chosen not to contact the high commands for these profiles, as I've mentioned it's all through MI6 undercover channels under his direct authority of course.” 

"That's vexing" 

"Quite" They made eye contact briefly to comment on a pattern. Mallory in his position does not need to answer to anyone naturally, but withholding information directly related to his suspicions does leave those doing leg work in an uneasy position. It gnawed at the both of them. 

Q continued to go through several extra documents with him detailing additional developments, but in conclusion, the two will effectively be in limbo until they can either find a match or additional investigating will have to proceed on Bond’s end. With any luck the case will still be somewhere in Istanbul and not halfway across the world extending their chase. 

At this conclusion, Q sags into his seat staring blankly at the screen. Bond could see the cogwheels turning behind his eyes like he was recounting all the intel to see if he’d missed anything. 

“That’s about everything” He turned to Bond after some minutes with an assuring smile. His glasses were then removed to be cleaned and Bond was treated to yet another rare sight. He’d never seen Q without those spectacles before and he’s reminded the frames aren’t a part of him. It’s baffling how differently people could look without a certain accessory. It felt all too intimate actually, like he got a glimpse of the man behind the single moniker. For a moment he felt an urge to reach out to him, to twirl his fingers around those curls that’s got a life of its own. 

Realising he’s sat there vulnerable to his sensations suddenly, Bond does what he does best. Board it back up. 

“Drink?” 

“I swear it’s like you’ve got only that one word programmed into you, and they say spies are meant to be unpredictable” Q made to get up like the invitation alone was enough for him to flee. 

“Is that a no?” Bond crossed his legs and decided to look directly into his moss greens, a sort of ‘puppy eyes’ but in the agent’s own more unnerving and piercing way. The tension he’s created seemed to chafe at Q a bit. 

“Yes, it's a no-” Q clocked the contradicting turn of phrase he’d just done and frowned, let’s have another go.

“It’s a no, 007 have you been sober for more than an hour today?” 

“Depends on what exactly you mean by sober” Bond smiled and it was disgustingly self-assured. To that, the Quartermaster was rendered speechless. His old title as the debate team captain took a hit, but to be fair it’s not easy going up against James Bond. Bond decided to break the stalemate. 

“Come, let’s just say I’m taking you for a walk we just might stumble into a bar along the way” 

“Tsk- alright, this is only because we probably won’t have time to sightsee at all the minute they stumble on something.”

“Good lad” Q's nose crinkled at that and Bond had to suppress yet another smile. 

“Cheeky bastard”

════════════════════════════════════════════

♫ Crushed Velvet - Molly Lewis 

Bond delivers as promised. The two meandered along scenic routes by the water, stopping to admire the occasional sculptures that lived amongst its vibrant people, discussing the stunning architecture that never failed to fascinate Q at every turn and of course, stopped to pet every single cat. Bond can’t say he shared the sentiment when it came to felines preferring the unwavering honesty of dogs but when he expressed this, he was immediately scolded by Q. Apparently Bond is shallow for preferring the easy enthusiasm of dogs and is willingly ignorant to a cat’s more complexed form of affection. Why did he sense a comparison here? 

Despite the hour, there was still a steady stream of people making their way towards their haunts for the night. Bond had always felt uncomfortable around crowds, it always made him nervous that something apocalyptic might be underfoot, but his well-placed cynicism aside it’s always lovely to see many happy faces off to chase a memorable night. It reminds him that not everything is always careening towards destruction. Even Q, who was usually weighed down by the burden of national security seemed feather-light on his feet thousands of miles away from grim old London.  

“We’re here” Bond announced before Q had the chance to bump right into him with how distracted he was. Q followed Bond’s eye line landing on a cosy bar that looked as if it predates the 20th century.  The sign reads ‘Menekşe’ which translates to violet and like its name the place is decorated with subtle violet ornaments along with beautiful vintage lamps and furniture inviting its patrons to travel back in time with each visit. 

Q turned to Bond baffled. “This is unexpected,” 

“See, I can be both” Q suppressed a small smile at that callback. 

“What will those posh hens at your usual haunts say when they find out you take young ‘impressionable’ men out to dark bars” Bond quirked his brows in amusement at ‘impressionable’ Q could not be further from it. 

“What makes you think they’d disapprove?” 

The pair strolled inside opting for a quiet corner by the window, the table is small the only reasonable capacity being one person and one person only but this meant the men’s legs were almost tangled beneath. Bond would never admit this was premeditated of course. 

Q remained silent as they settled in, still captivated by the liveliness of the crowd just outside the window. 

“Fancy the view?”

“An understatement, how many times have you been here?” As he asked it seemed as if Q had abandoned the ‘Q’ everyone knew. All the pronounced edge of intelligence softened into something more pliable, kind, and explorative. 

“Several times after missions”

“I can see why you take your sweet time getting back to London” 

“Well, this amongst other things” Bond in some ways is very much still boyish especially when there is an opportunity to turn something suggestive. As if queued, an outrageously beautiful waitress approaches them with a menu. She eyed the two men without any intention to conceal her interest, lingering especially on Bond before turning back behind the bar. At this comical turn of events, Bond flashed a grin, the full unrestrained kind that highlighted the many pronounced wrinkles on his face. 

 “I feel like I'm trapped in a rubbish sitcom” Q groaned. 

“Not rubbish surely, you seem to be entertained” 

“Not as much as you I don’t think, you double-00s” 

“What about us?” Bond asked genuinely and that curiosity is left to brew as Q is suddenly very interested in the menu, the smirk on the edge of his lips, despite the lack of eye contact, is the only indication he’s still willing to engage in this topic. 

He left Bond like that for some time before raising his hand to catch the same waitress’s attention and pointing to a picture of a beverage on the menu he held up with his other hand so she wouldn’t need to make her way over to them. Two he mouthed. Only then did Q graciously revert to Bond, hands folded over his lap. This was enough to prompt Bond to speak first. 

“Our promiscuity serves a purpose it’s not just indulgence” 

“Even off the clock?” 

“Yes, even off” It’s hard to tell whether Q is convinced, there’s an attempt to seem agreeable but those eyes have a mischievous glint to them that's unmissable. 

“Go on then, make your case” 

“As you know, we don’t tend to last very long” Q suppressed a chuckle immediately which prompted an exasperated eye roll from Bond, he continues. 

“Fewer reasons to be suppressed” He finished off with his glass raised and the two enjoyed a hefty drink between their banter. The unique blend of spice and alcohol prompted an endearingly skewed expression from Q which somehow made him seem even younger, or maybe it’s Bond’s hyperawareness.   

“Not bullshit as justifications go” 

“You disagree?” 

“I don’t disagree, I just think it looks a lot like a vice” 

“Sex is not my vice” They were suspended again briefly, at first the two were stone-faced but then they began to crack into a smile in unison like they’d just made a filthy inside joke and in a sense it was considering the handful of times Q has had to be a fly in his earwig during these encounters. 

“Sure about that are you?” Q took another sip of his drink still very much suspicious. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Go on” 

“What exactly have they been saying about me at the office?” Bond delivered this with complete coolness despite the gnawing curiosity inside, he did his best not to seem eager. This inquiry in itself is an odd thing on his end, he never did care what stories were spun in his wake but recently he found himself wondering about the details. Couldn’t possibly have anything to do with a certain new head of the Q branch, could it? 

“Oh- wouldn’t you like to know 007” 

“One should stay informed-” 

"Helene from medical has been quite vocal about your past trysts and terrible bedside manner, namely the disappearing acts.” 

"That's not very nice"

"The disappearing isn't very nice, 007" Q said with a sternness that was meant to land as a joke but Bond received it differently. 

"I don't always do that" Bond is feeling exposed suddenly, he’s not completely ashamed of the ways he has to cope with his own complex emotions when it comes to intimacy but with Q being someone he’s actively attracted to, it was beginning to feel like being stripped open in the middle of a crowd. If the place were any brighter Q might be able to spot the red flush at his ears. He allowed himself a moment before deciding on the offensive. 

“If you won’t take my word for it I’m happy to show you?” Classic Bond deflection. This bluntness usually earns him a prominent flush from whoever he directed this to, but Q’s face seemed more puzzled than enticed. 

“What do you get out of this 007?” Bond only cocked his head, confused. Q continues. 

“This- flirting I know it’s your second nature but are you not straight?” It is mostly curiosity but Bond’s years in espionage also detected a hint of frustration, to his credit Q barely slipped up. 

“What makes you think I am?” 

“I live in your earpiece, I know where you like to be” 

“Where do I like to be?” Bond’s voice drops an octave naturally and Q feels tension curl up in his feet. 

“Inside beautiful widows and discontented wives,” Their eye contact that felt almost comfortable minutes ago now feels as if it’s attempting to burn one another in its intensity. 

“Sometimes husbands too” Bond’s bottom lip lingered on the edge of his glass at that confession, the unabated coyness of it made Q shift in his seat. 

“You’re serious?” 

“Yes” 

After a period of deliberation, Q withdraws from the staring contest, he’s a fool for trying. Nothing dims the intensity of Bond’s ice-blue gaze it seems, not even the darkness of this bar. 

“I believe I owe you an apology” 

“That you do,” Says Bond with a smile, atoning for this will mean something fun he decided. 

════════════════════════════════════════════

Bond’s relationship with the concept of good sleep is rocky at best, the culprit being his choice of occupation. But, now and then the planets align and a dreamless sleep visits him. This is one of those nights, despite his conditioning, his biology won over for the best. It’s a shame should-

His bedroom door was thrown open and the banging of the precious wood against the door stop brutally yanked Bond from his sleep. His body reacted first, grabbing the Walther beneath his pillow, safety off and aiming directly at the intruder. The intruder in question did not even bother looking up to notice the threat of course.

“007 they’ve just got a hit, best get read-” He finally bothered to lift his head from the screen, after adjusting his glasses he jerked backwards slightly at the very much aggressive and ready-to-pounce stance Bond was in.

“Christ Q” Bond lowered his gun onto the bed with a frustrated huff, and Q cleared his throat nervously. Yes, of course, the ‘no shocking any field agents awake’ because they could very easily kill you where you stand.

“Sorry about that, " but that would not be the only shock to the Quartermaster’s processing this morning.

The drowsiness left Bond’s body so quickly that one would not be able to tell he’d been deep asleep just moments ago. As he pushed off the thick duvet, Q was given the full view of Bond’s pyjamas (in the loosest sense), the black underwear was so thin it left nothing to the imagination as he dragged himself towards the edge of the king bed. The dark colour is such a hard contrast against Bond’s golden tan that Q’s eyes focused there first (or that’s what he’s telling himself anyway), but then his gaze drifts to the very much erect shape obscured by the fabric, and it made his breath hitch. Fuck he’s big. The sight made his mouth dry and it was so instantaneous his body reminded him it had been months since he last bothered to put himself out there for a good fuck.

He’s spiralling now, any reservations about looking suddenly quieted as he mapped Bond’s pronounced abs, the rich gold hairs sparsely spread out across his chest reflecting soft gold by the stream of sunlight through the curtain. The way he’s perched on the edge made him look ridiculous, the way those sculpted models appear in expensive perfume advertisements. It’s completely absurd. Time had stopped, and Q committed every curve, every bend, every…bulge to memory.

It was only when Bond cleared his throat did Q snap from his trance. He had the same expression as a cookie burglar caught red-handed. His cheeks were flushed and there was a tightness building below his waistband, this is promptly remedied by inching the folders in his one hand to cover it hoping Bond did not notice.

“At least buy me dinner first”, Bond sighed with a nauseatingly seductive look as he slowly rose to his feet. His short-cropped hair is longer than they’re usually allowed to be and he noticed a patch of it out of its usual pattern, telling of how Bond slept the night before and it was all too intimate. Q felt an itch in the tips of his fingers like they were imagining what it might be like to touch.

“I-I’m sorry that was inappropriate-” Will you look at that, what a stunning overhead lamp.

Bond stalked over wordlessly and every second he took felt agonising for Q who was glued at the threshold holding his file and laptop all wrong suddenly. That big old lion came to a stop close to Q.

“I’ve never been one for proper”

“Oh- Bond” It’s Bond again, the agent noted and delightfully catalogued it. His arms come up to rest against the door frame, serving his body up on a platter and to this Q immediately took another half step back.

“What did you need to tell me so urgently you had to barge in on me?” Oh for fuck- there was a point to this Q remembered but now that the files were effectively covering the evidence of his deviancy, he opted for a rushed-

“They found the agent responsible for the missing case you should get dressed. I will tell you everything along the way. I’m currently tracking their location”

Bond nodded but did not shift from his ‘pose’ by the doorframe, to this Q quickly swivelled around back to his room wishing his entire body would implode just then to save himself from this embarrassment.

“They're called clothes, Bond-” he mumbled. Bond did not miss it.

“I think you're just wearing too many”, Bond laughed and shut the door.

Bond 1, Q 0.

→ Chapter II.

════════════════════════════════════════════

[ae-azile]

As Long as I Can Travel this World with You: Chapter 14 Preview

When Style walks into the office, he hears several different voices - along with Fadel’s - and they are all speaking in Turkish. How is he supposed to talk with them in a language he only knows some phrases in? Maybe that's why he freezes just a few steps into the room. He needs to stay calm so he can remember the phrases he does know.

 Hello.

My name is Style.

Nice to meet you!

Where are you from? 

Great day we’re having.

Is it raining? 

Where is the bathroom? 

I am in a relationship. 

The coat is green.

Back off, sir! 

What time is it? 

Where is the train station? 

I need help!

I need to study.

What time is breakfast/lunch/dinner?

I want to rent one room with a king sized bed. 

Please. 

Thank you. 

Fuck

Shit 

Pussy 

Ass

Dick

Bitch

Plus all of the major colors, points of direction, and some phrases about studying and working. Then, there are some culturally specific phrases, ones so shocking, vulgar, and offensive that Style had to learn them. But he can't say “I’ll fuck your mother and wife” or “Shit on your glasses so you will see the world as a shit place” or “I’ll tear your ass.” He wouldn't even say those phrases to Fadel to shock him, and he loves shocking Fadel! He’ll just stick with “The coat is green” and hope for the best-

“Style.” 

Style sucks in a gulp of air and sees Fadel turned in his seat. He looks so fucking hopeful it makes Style’s chest ache. 

“Sorry,” Style says in a hushed voice, taking a few steps closer, “I came home at 4, but I had paint on me and wanted to shower, then started freaking out about what to wear until Pa picked this for me-” 

“Why were you freaking out about what to wear?” Fadel asks, tilting his head with confusion, “You look good. Come here.” 

“Is that Style?” 

“Did he come home?” 

“We want to see him!” 

Suddenly, they are speaking in Thai. Perfect Thai, nonetheless, or at least that's what he hears from the people who are currently talking. Apparently, they want him to know that they want to see him in frame if they are code-switching for his benefit. Maybe he doesn't need to pull his phone out and translate everything they say or to translate what he wants to say in return. He's so stupid, now that he's thinking of it. Fadel’s grandmother is half Thai and grew up living in both Thailand and Turkey before choosing to attend college in Istanbul and marrying Fadel’s grandfather. Melis pretty much lives in Bangkok and her sisters visit a lot, as does their mother. But what if Fadel’s grandfather doesn't speak Thai well, despite doing business here? He doesn't want him to feel left out. 

“Come on,” Fadel says, getting up to pull Style over, “Why are you acting shy? I told them how outgoing you are.” 

Because he is meeting his boyfriend's very rich and influential family? Because he grew up relatively modestly and even though he is doing very well for himself now, his wealth doesn't touch what these people have. Why is Fadel judging him for being nervous when Fadel himself was just toying with the idea of cutting contact with all of them to avoid heavy emotions? That was just six hours ago! 

Regardless, he doesn't say that. At all. Fadel’s family doesn't need to know about Fadel’s sudden and impulsive urge to sabotage his own happiness as well as theirs. It is an urge that has clearly passed. Style knows that by how happy he looks. He looks so fucking happy. Young, even. Like part of his inner child healed and woke up from a long slumber. 

Keep it together. 

“That’s my babaanne,” Fadel tells him, pointing at the first square on the screen before moving on to the next one, “That’s my dede. That’s Aunt Selin. And that's Elif, that’s Melis, and that’s Lara. Everyone, this is Style.” 

They're all fucking gorgeous. Even his grandparents. And Style knew this, he knew it back when he first looked them up. But it's ridiculous how attractive this family is. Style supposes it makes sense. Look at Fadel. On top of that, Fadel’s mother was very pretty too. Of course his entire family looks like this. But just as he is about to say hello to them all, they express their own opinions about his looks out loud.

“Oh, Fadel! He's so handsome!” Selin coos. 

“He is HOT and I rarely say that about guys!” Melis says, “Elif, he's so much hotter than your ex-fiancé.” 

“Can you quit finding ways to bring him up?” 

“Kemal, look at our grandson-in-law!”

“Hello,” Style says, bowing his head slightly, “It's nice to meet you.” 

He does make a point of saying it in Turkish. Maybe it's to impress them, or maybe it's to meet them partway. But he does say the words well enough because Fadel looks at him with pleasant surprise and Leyla lets out a happy sound as she grins brightly. 

“You know Turkish?!” 

Style quickly shakes his head, “I taught myself some words and phrases.” 

“I told him that I would tutor him if he stopped working so late,” Fadel tells them, causing Style to turn in his seat. 

“I have been so timely this last week!” Style says, “So prompt that it's out of character! Incredibly present emotionally and physically. I got here at 3:59, Fadel! What time did I say I would be home? 4 pm! That takes talent, especially when you take traffic into account!” 

“Fadel told us you customize and build cars. That you have designed one of a kind orders as well as racing vehicles,” Selin says, “That takes a lot of talent and skill!” 

Style nods and feels his leg bouncing, “I was doing mechanic work for a long time. I still do. But a few years back, I started getting opportunities to do what I went to school for and business has been good.” 

Why is he so nervous right now? They're being nice. 

“I have a friend really into cars,” Melis says, “Collecting them and stuff. We got Fadel to give us your Instagram and TikTok, both your business and personal. We all followed you! Did you follow us back yet?” 

Style pulls out his phone and sees no notifications, only to realize they are likely still off from the Macau trip. When he clicks on Instagram, the number of notifications he has is ridiculous. There are dozens of recent ones, most from Fadel’s family.

“I turned my notifications off a couple of weeks ago and completely forgot to turn them back on,” Style says, then looks at Fadel, “Your fault, by the way! You told me I couldn't be glued to my phone.” 

“Because you have problems saying no and overbooking yourself when it comes to business inquiries, and then you would have been stressed the whole time we were in Macau,” Fadel says. 

“My friend actually follows your business accounts already! I'm PISSED. It feels like we could have found Fadel a long time ago. I was scrolling through your photos and admiring your work, and there my cousin is on a Gondola with the love of his life serenading him. And it went super viral too! How did I not see it? My algorithm shows me all of GayTok!” 

“You failed us, Melis,” Lara says, “We could have found him a couple of weeks ago.” 

“How do I get on GayTok?” Leyla asks, “I want to see more videos of my beloved grandson and his partner.”

As Style lets out a shocked laugh, Fadel groans. 

“We are not the face of GayTok,” Fadel says. 

“Not with that attitude,” Kemal says, “You have to put yourself forward, my boy. With ambition, drive, and persistence, anything is possible. You just have to strive for it enough. If you want to be the face of GayTok, we will support you.”

As Style forces himself to lean out of frame to giggle uncontrollably, Fadel lightly pushes him. 

“This is your fault,” Fadel tells him. 

“Lara, you help me, okay?” Leyla says, her phone in her hand, “I want to be on GayTok so I never miss a video of my talented grandson ever again.” 

“I just sat on a gondola,” Fadel says in bewilderment. 

“But you did it so well,” Selin says, “And Style has a wonderful voice! You should sing together next time! Style, does Fadel still have a good voice? He sang when he was younger.” 

Style wipes at his eyes and forces himself to pull it together, “He does. He only shows it off when we sing karaoke with friends, but he's better than any of us, although Bison is good when he tries. But it's only Ben who can give him a run for his money-” 

“Ben!” Melis says excitedly, clapping her hands together. 

“Lara!” Leyla prompts, sounding slightly more urgent as she holds her phone in her hands, “How do I make my For You page exclusively GayTok? I don't want anything else. Only that.” 

“Anneanne, you can literally just follow his account,” Lara says. 

“He doesn't HAVE an account,” Melis says, something akin to accusation in her tone, “The restaurant does, but he has someone else manage the social media for it. They do a good job, but he isn't featured on it much unless they are sticking a camera in his face while he is cooking. I'll get you on GayTok, Anneanne. Give me an hour with your phone and you will be a permanent resident.” 

“Anneanne, do not give Melis your phone,” Elif says, “She may be on GayTok, but she is also on Surreal Tok, Provocative Performance Art Tok, Creepy Animation Tok, Analog Horror Tok-” 

“And it makes me have the best For You page in the family,” Melis says, “Style, you have to get Fadel to make a personal social media. Okay? He's so lame for not having ANYTHING.”

Style shrugs and glances at Fadel, “He’s pretty private.” 

Elif pouts at that, “You can set your profile to private and just let us and your close friends follow you.” 

“Let's not pressure him,” Kemal says, “I don't love the social media stuff either. I barely get on it. Fadel just takes after me.” 

“No, he takes after ME!” Leyla says, as if it is a competition, “We both love to cook! 

As the conversation moves forward, Style finally loosens up. It's not as nervewracking as he thought it would be. They are very friendly and enthusiastic to hear anything he has to say, and Style takes his own advice by trying to match their energy. Although, that is somewhat exhausting. They are all clearly excited and running on high emotions. 

“When we fly in, I will probably be tired,” Leyla says, “But I will have the best chefs at The Demiral cook us a wonderful meal. All you can eat! Do you have any dietary restrictions, Style?” 

Style gives Fadel a pointed look before shaking his head, “Fadel will get on me about red and processed meats because of studies connecting it to cancer-” 

“You have cancer?” Kemal says, his voice grave.

“No,” Style says quickly, “Which is why Fadel expanding the menu at his restaurant solely to cater to needs I don't have is ridiculous-”

“His mother passed at 40 from cancer and he likes to remind me it's genetic before claiming he will die before me approximately every three days,” Fadel says, “It actually made the restaurant more popular, so it's fine.” 

“It was unnecessary,” Style reiterates. 

But Leyla just waves her hands, “We will go pescatarian. Kemal and I mainly stick to a Mediterranean diet anyway. We will get there Sunday. So if your father, Bison, Kant, and anyone else you want to bring have no objections to that, then that is what we will have.” 

“Speaking of, I think they are here,” Fadel says as Style hears the main door open as well. 

“Kant and I are going to cook,” Style says, beginning to stand up, “Why don't I do that and see if Bison will come in here for a bit? You want that, Fadel?” 

Fadel looks at him hopefully and nods his head. He looks so young. Style reaches over, squeezes his hand, and looks back at the screen. 

“I'm really glad I got to meet you all,” Style says honestly, “I was more nervous than I expected to be, but you all seem like wonderful people. I'm looking forward to meeting you in person.” 

“On Sunday,” Selin says happily, her eyes looking slightly misty. 

“And we’ll play my videogame tomorrow,” Lara adds. 

“I read your rundown, and it sounds so incredibly cool,” Style says, “Slightly terrifying, but I am down for some nightmare and psychosis inducing bonding time. I'm sure the others will be too.” 

“Speaking of,” Fadel says, getting up from his seat to peek out the office door, “Babe? Ben? My cousin is a fan of yours. Can you come say hi?” 

“Yeah!” Style hears Ben say. 

“Style!” Melis squeals, “Did he just say what I think he said?! Are they THERE?!” 

Before Style can answer, Ben leads the way in and squats in front of the computer with a grin. 

“Which one of you is it?” Ben asks, getting an answer when Melis’s squeals re-emerge more loudly. Kemal and Leyla look concerned, Selin looks mildly exasperated, Elif looks unimpressed with her younger sister, but Lara looks mildly interested. Maybe she has binge watched some BenBabe series with Melis. 

“Babe!” Ben calls out, “Come here! Sorry. He was getting Perdita settled. Do you want to meet Perdita?”

“Of course!” Melis says. 

“Who is Perdita?” Kemal asks. 

Melis sighs, “She's their dog! Their child. She's really popular on social media.” 

“And she is friends with our grandson like you are?” Leyla asks, as if that's the deciding factor on whether they approve of a five month old puppy. 

“She loves Fadel,” Style says to reassure her, “She likes to sprawl out across his lap. She's a good dog.” 

Leyla nods, seeming satisfied by the answer, “We shall all follow her then. Melis, send us her socials.” 

But Melis is too busy squealing over Babe when he comes in and gets into frame. Style gives him his space and pats Perdita on the head before Ben picks her up. When he walks towards the doorway, Bison and Fadel are standing nearby. 

“How hard were they to impress?” Bison asks before glancing at Fadel, “He's a bit…I don't know. I have barely seen him like this. I'm not sure I can trust his judgement.” 

Style looks at Fadel too, who is still bright eyed and excited. He quickly kisses Fadel’s cheek, then turns back to Bison. 

“They're sweet people,” Style says honestly, “Supportive. And they're excited to meet the person Fadel calls his brother.” 

While Bison seems like he wasn't expecting a sentimental and sincere answer from him, that's what he's getting. In fact, Bison keeps sending Style surprised and incredulous looks, even as Fadel leads him into the office. 

[generallemarc]

Russia-Ukraine talks have concluded slightly more constructively than the first ones

Both sides have agreed to exchange all seriously ill and seriously wounded prisoners, as well as all prisoners aged 18-25. This would be the largest exchange of the war by far, and ordinarily I'd be rather skeptical of this, but the exchange of around a thousand soldiers each brokered during the first round of talks was also the largest exchange of the war, so if that got done perhaps this can too. The two sides agreed to exchange a total of 12,000 bodies of fallen soldiers, 6,000 per side. There have been exchanges of bodies in the past, but again nothing of this scale. Russia has said it needs another week to respond to Ukraine's proposals, which are basically what's already been said-full and unconditional ceasefire, security guarantees, etc.

The Ukrainian delegation at Istanbul said there were issues that couldn't be resolved without a meeting of Zelenskyy, Trump and Putin all together, which is likely code for "we need a mediator with more power than Turkey to get Putin to shut up", as Russia's proposed plan included not only a repeat of their unenforceable demands for Ukraine to withdraw from the parts of Donetsk, Zaporizhzhia and Kherson that Russia has spent the past three years not being able to take and/or hold but a ban on quote "nationalist political parties", which Ukraine is never going to accept because Russia would define "nationalist" as "supports Ukraine remaining an independent nation and not a Russian puppet". Zelenskyy, meanwhile, has met with incoming Romanian president Nicusor Dan and incumbent Polish president Andrzej Duda; despite the whining of the mainstream media, Poland's new incoming conservative president is very much pro-Ukraine and anti-Russia, which makes sense seeing as he's a member of Duda's party and Duda has been a consistent supporter of Ukraine since the war began, creating a convenient thing that both he and his rival, Prime Minister Donald Tusk, can agree on.

[humanrightsupdates]

Prosecutions For ‘Insulting the President’ Continue in Türkiye

Government Should Scrap Obsolete and Unjustified Offence

Last week, university student Esila Ayık was released after 40 days in detention following her arrest for holding a banner calling Türkiye’s president, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, a dictator at a protest in Istanbul. The protest was against the politically motivated arrest and detention of Istanbul mayor Ekrem İmamoğlu in March and the subsequent arrests of students during the demonstrations that followed. Ayık was charged with “insulting the president,” (article 299 of the Turkish penal code) a crime for which she could still face up to a four-year prison sentence. Her detention became a focus of media concern due to her chronic kidney and heart conditions.

Ayık’s case is just the latest in a pattern of similar abusive detentions and prosecutions. The European Court of Human Rights has in case after case found Türkiye to have violated the right to freedom of expression in pursuing these prosecutions, and in 2021 ruled that the crime of “insulting the president” conflicts with the right and should be amended. Yet the Turkish authorities continue to use it to prosecute thousands.

Swedish journalist Joakim Medin is one of them. On April 30, an Istanbul court handed him an 11-month suspended sentence for his newspaper’s use of a photograph of an effigy of Erdogan at a 2023 demonstration in Stockholm with his news coverage of the event. He was released from detention on May 16 and able to return to Sweden.

Lawyer Burak Saldıroğlu was likewise charged with insult earlier this month. Two days after he garnered significant social media attention for posting a witty reaction to the blocking of jailed mayor İmamoğlu’s Turkish-language X account, an Istanbul court ordered his detention pending trial for insult based on an old post he made questioning whether the president was “in his right mind.”

[chadillacboseman]

This is the OC fairy 🧚 Use this ask to infodump about your OCs and send to 10 other blogs whose characters you'd like to know more about! ❇️

Alex Demir (Mortal Kombat) Alex is Turkish, raised in Istanbul and emigrated to the USA with his parents when he was 13. He's a certified college drop-out, but borders on being a chemical engineering prodigy. He can tell you the periodic table by heart, but may or may not believe that his friend Kate can talk to pigeons.

Alex is the resident Black Dragon explosives expert since No Face blew himself to hell. He practices extra care when it comes to civilian lives, but may hit the detonator a little too soon if you're the type of merc who isn't as careful as he is.

Alex has a heart of gold that refuses to harden despite his working conditions. After enduring a long period of near suicidal desperation, Alex persevered and now has a support system of friends inside the Black Dragon that keep him sane. He still calls his mother once a week, and his lie that he's working as a government contractor has held up so far.

--

Jeremiah "JJ" Mitchell (Mortal Kombat) JJ is former US Marine turned private military contractor and Earthrealm defender. An only child raised in Birmingham, Alabama, he joined up with the military at age 19 and served in several tours overseas. Unfortunately, luck was not in his favor when his transport hit an IED and he lost his leg below the knee while the rest of his squad was killed. Sent home with a medal and a prosthetic leg, JJ knew he could make more of a difference with his own command.

Thus was born Falcon Company.

An old friend, Jason Geller, offered him friendly competition in the form of Red Claw Mercenary Group, until greed reared its ugly head. There is no honor among thieves, and there is no code among mercs. When contracts started to get poached and Falcon Company's men began running into deliberate setups and bloodbaths, JJ took matters into his own hands.

Jason Geller died with a bullet in his heart and JJ wiped the slate clean.

Or so he thought.

--

Jesse Geller (Mortal Kombat) Jesse is the younger brother of Jason Geller, former commander of RCMG. Upon his death, the position of leadership was thrust onto him, as was the undying need for revenge.

Jesse is a certified sociopath. There is no jilted lover who broke his heart, there is no father who beat him or mother who neglected him. There is only a minuscule piece of metal embedded in his prefrontal cortex rammed through his skull when he was ejected from a vehicle in a rollover crash.

A strict regimen of anti-psychotics kept him in check for a long time until the death of his brother, which sent him into an uncontrolled spiral. Jesse is obsessed with prolonging his life for as long as possible, and is painfully aware of his flaws and shortcomings. As a result, he utilizes the Malleus Mark V armored exoskeleton, which greatly enhances his strength, speed, and aim. Without the suit, he is physically weak, a fact he that infuriates him.

As the new commander of Red Claw, Jesse uses his position to satisfy his bloodthirsty and ruthless desires, often choosing to be on the frontline, where he can be up to his elbows in blood and viscera.

[phightinghottakes]

while Blackrock’s probably meant ti be russia-coded if i was held at gunpoint and had to assign phighters real life ethnicities medkit will always be from istanbul to me idc He is istanbul born and raised Subspace is from izmir by virtue of being my favourite phighter

— ‼️

what is Istanbul I’ve never heard of that place in my life

[marigoldbaker]

upside-down-y

“What do I do?” said Willow. She sounded so little in that moment. Suddenly, Jenny wasn’t imagining that woman in a clean-cut black suit and heels, but the little girl in striped sweaters and white tights. “If there’s no—word—for it? I like being a lesbian, or I thought I did, but I can’t call myself that if I like Oz. And I think I do.” “You don’t need a word for it,” said Jenny simply. “I need a word for it,” said Willow, a stress on the pronoun. “Maybe people in general don’t, but I do.” “Maybe there isn’t one.” “I need—” Willow’s breath hiccupped. “I need the words, a-and the rules. To make sure I don’t—” Abruptly, Jenny knew who Willow needed to be talking to.

decided that, in lieu of tonight's blogging, now might be a nice time to post a tumblr-only exclusive that i've not yet figured out how to work into the canon of what you make! i would like to write a larger fic about willow's adventures at some point, & also figure out when this development will happen within the timeline, and once i do, i think i'll understand better how to work this thing in. (but it is definitely what happens.)

this requires no knowledge of my sprawling fic 'verse except for: it's an everybody lives/nobody dies au, jenny and giles are together with their eight-year-old son, this is a few years post-series.

read for -- giles and willow having frank and very loving discussions about sexuality, jenny calling willow "baby" because she's now a mom who does that kinda thing, briefest sleepiest calendiles child cameo!!!

~~~~~

Willow called at some godawful hour, late enough for it to be edging towards early-morning and for Jenny to be too tired to check the time. She happened to have been pulling an accidental all-nighter that had spun out from a few lines of code that just would not cooperate, so she managed to catch the phone before the second ring, hoping that it hadn’t woken up anyone upstairs. The shrill tone felt impossibly loud to her tired ears. “’lo?” she mumbled, rubbing at her eyes with her sleeve.

Anxiously, Willow said, “Jenny!” and then didn’t say anything else, her breathing nervous and rapid on the other end of the line.

“Willow.” Jenny was too sleepy to think. “You. Need something?”

“I don’t know! I just! Something happened and I can’t tell Buffy about it, and I can’t tell my mom, because she’ll think—well—she keeps saying she approves of the political implications of my lesbianism, so I feel like this is going to go over like a lead balloon, but I don’t know—I mean, I don’t think I’m straight again! It hasn’t—”

Jenny felt very much like this was a conversation that required her to be more awake than she was. Shuffling over to the kitchen table, she took a long sip of coffee. “The political implications?” she repeated skeptically.

“It’s just—we—” Willow took a wobbly breath in, then, in an exhaled confession: “I kissed Oz!”

For one bizarre, sleep-deprived moment, Jenny was convinced that she’d somehow been thrown back in time to 1997. “Oz?” she repeated. “Like, Oz, Oz?”

“Like Oz Oz!” Willow confirmed tearfully.

“Like your high school boyfriend Oz?”

“He was in Istanbul for some—thing—I don’t remember—and I wish I could say that we got drunk or high or something, but I was really only a little buzzed, and he was completely sober, and we were talking about everything we’ve been up to—he was the road manager for this really cool Eastern European band, and, and he’s been doing some networking with other werewolves, and oh, that’s part of why we met! We were talking about all of the complexities of connecting werewolves to resources that will help, and the stigma, and he’s really—well—he never really did much in high school, which I used to have such a complex about because I felt like he could do more than he was doing, but I guess I’ve changed because I just felt, I was so happy to see him doing things that mattered to him! And then that they also have a positive impact! And he’s still got that, that smile where when he looks at you, you sorta feel like you’re the only girl in the entire world! He still looks at me like I’m just the same, and I thought at first, you know, maybe that was why I felt all fuzzy and warm around him, because I’m a horrible person who gets off on validation, but then I started looking at him too and seeing that boy and—and—remembering—”

Jenny had absolutely no idea why any of this was a problem, but her ability to assertively interrupt the Willow-babble was significantly impaired when she was inches away from nodding off in between sentences. “Isn’t that good?” she tried, but Willow had not at all stopped talking.

“—and then we kissed and we actually did a little more than kissed, like, there was some over-the-clothes action and some grinding, except then when we stopped all of that, he walked me to my hotel! Like a gentleman! And he kissed me on the cheek and said he was really happy to share this moment with me, and who even does that??? What do I do now???? What if I’ve just—but I loved Tara so much! I still love Tara! I mean, I have NC-17 dreams about Tara, those wouldn’t happen if I’m straight! And I haven’t been with a guy since Oz, and I haven’t wanted to be with a guy since Oz, but now I want to—to call up Oz and be with him! Which, hello, so clingy, it was just one really nice month and then a whole bunch of kissing—”

“—wait, you’ve been spending a month with Oz in Istanbul and it’s only now become romantic?”

“WE WERE AT A CONFERENCE,” said Willow, as though this explained anything at all.

Jenny sat down at the kitchen table. “Willow—” God, she wanted to be asleep. “People can be bisexual,” she managed.

“But I’m not!”

“So you’re not into men?”

“But I am!”

She was going about this all wrong. “Baby. Are you into men or are you into Oz?”

A long silence. Then, timidly, “There’s not a difference, though, is there? You can’t be a real lesbian if—”

“Please God don’t turn into one of those witches,” said Jenny, who did not have the energy to be tactful. “Willow, there’s no way to be a real lesbian. There’s no manual. We define ourselves with the words that feel best for us, that’s what the queer community is about. What’s the word that feels best for you, right now?”

Another long silence. “I don’t know if the word is lesbian,” said Willow uncomfortably. “I don’t—I didn’t—really—question it? When it happened. It was Tara, first, and then Kennedy, and then a whole bunch of other girls, y’know, on account of the traveling, and then nobody at all for a little while, so I just—I wanted to kiss girls and I stopped looking at guys, and the only guy I ever noticed before Oz was Xander, and Xander, I didn’t know he was everything. They don’t tell you in high school what to do with someone who’s everything, they just say you should marry him if he’s a guy, but I don’t—I’ve never really wanted to marry Xander. We’re not like that. So I figured, Oz, he was just a fluke! Especially because of how everything with Tara happened, and I never thought any guy was pretty like I think girls are pretty, but—I don’t know. Oz is different. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Jenny leaned back against the wall, listening.

“I don’t know if the word is lesbian,” Willow repeated. “But—it doesn’t feel right to say that the word is bisexual, either. I’ve dated more girls than guys, now. I’ve built my life around imagining a girl there.”

“But Oz is different,” Jenny prompted.She was met with a tiny sigh in response. “Is that bad?”

“What do I do?” said Willow. She sounded so little in that moment. Suddenly, Jenny wasn’t imagining that woman in a clean-cut black suit and heels, but the little girl in striped sweaters and white tights. “If there’s no—word—for it? I like being a lesbian, or I thought I did, but I can’t call myself that if I like Oz. And I think I do.”

“You don’t need a word for it,” said Jenny simply.

“I need a word for it,” said Willow, a stress on the pronoun. “Maybe people in general don’t, but I do.”

“Maybe there isn’t one.”

“I need—” Willow’s breath hiccupped. “I need the words, a-and the rules. To make sure I don’t—”

Abruptly, Jenny knew who Willow needed to be talking to. “Baby, can you just stay on the line?” she asked gently. “Just for a second, I gotta—” and she set down the phone, stepping quietly out of the kitchen and into the unlit hallway, halfway up the stairs to the little landing between the first and second floor, where the bedroom door was still ajar.

Her baby was asleep in the middle of the bed, curled against Rupert like a little puppy; his dozing father’s arm was round his shoulders. Jenny leaned over the bed, carefully untangling a drowsy Art from Rupert. Art, always cuddly in slumber, whined; she ran her fingers through his hair, and he settled. “Rupert,” she murmured, shaking her guy awake. “Rupert.”

“Mmh?” Rupert stirred.

“Rupert, it’s Willow.”

Rupert’s eyes flew open. She saw the panic and gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze, pressing her forehead briefly to his. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay. She’s okay. Nothing bad. She just needs to talk to you.”

~~~~~

Willow waited on the line, listening to the crackly static, trying not to breathe too loudly for fear it would tumble into crying before Jenny came back. She heard rustling on the other end and held her breath, waiting, until Giles, his voice all rough and sleepy like it got during those old early morning research sessions, said, “Hello, Willow.”

“Giles,” Willow all but sobbed, feeling a rush of relief. “Did—did Jenny—tell you?”

“Some of it,” said Giles. “Just the loose pencil sketch, really. But I’d like to hear it from you.”

Maybe the Oz stuff wasn’t really why Willow had called Giles. “How do you know when to stop playing by the roles you made up when you were twenty-two and trying not to be the kind of asshole who destroys the universe?” she said, all in one breath. “I, I didn’t decide I was a lesbian because of the magics, but I decided it while I was in the magics, and I wanted to be good at being a lesbian, but now I’m worried that I’m not, if, if I kissed Oz and I liked it. I don’t know what the word is for that.”

“Bisexual?” said Giles.

“That’s what Jenny said but it isn’t that!” said Willow tearfully. “And lesbian doesn’t feel like it’s right either, even though it did for years before this!I don’t know what it is! I like girls and I like Oz, but I don’t like—I don’t want—I don’t think I want, but I don’t know—I wasn’t trying to look, after Tara, because I thought it was simple as—”

“Does there need to be a word for it?”

“That’s what Jenny said!”

A soft, tender laugh, the likes of which Willow hadn’t heard since she was in high school. She loved that laugh so much. It always meant that Giles knew the answer, and really, the problem wasn’t anything to be that afraid of, and five minutes from now, the world would feel okay again. “Willow,” said Giles. “Nothing in a person’s heart is ever finite. We are always—always—growing and changing past the words we used to describe ourselves five, ten, fifteen years ago.”

“But what if I—” Willow swallowed. “What if I change wrong?”

Giles didn’t answer for a couple of the worst seconds of Willow’s life. Finally, gently, he said, “Then you right yourself, if you can. Lean on others, if you can’t. We’re all muddling through. There’s no certainty that I can give you, as much as I wish that I could, but I can—” Now it was his turn to pause. A heavy one. “I can tell you that I love you,” he said, finally.

She had never heard him say that to her before. Not that directly, anyway. “I love you too, Giles,” Willow whispered. The whole thing felt faintly unreal: that she could say those words, and not snatch them back. Not watch his face contort uncomfortably as he tried to wriggle out of genuine emotional expression. “I just don’t wanna do what I did to everyone. And I don’t—if I was wrong, if I’m not—”

“I don’t think that you were wrong,” Giles countered. “You used the words that made sense to you at the time. Those words might not make sense with who you are now. Who you’re growing into. This is good, Willow. You questioning this is good, and healthy. I think…you need to become comfortable with the notion of not having that neat answer, or that label, if the notion of a label has become…restrictive.”

“I don’t want to not be a lesbian,” said Willow unsteadily. “It made everything make sense, when I found out about that word—”

“Does it help you now?”

Willow exhaled. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know. I don’t want to not kiss Oz. It feels like I got turned all upside-down-y again.”

Giles was quiet again. Then he said, “When I was in my twenties, my group, it was all men, save one. Diedre. It hadn’t been intended, her being a part of the group. We’d all wanted a place to…to be ourselves, free of societal expectations.”

Willow’s heart flipped over. This was not something Giles had ever talked about. She’d known, of course—pieced it together through Ethan, and what she’d learned, later, about the kind of magic Giles got up to, but to hear it from him was completely different. She wanted to say something, affirm that she was there on the other end of the line, but she was halfway afraid that he would change his mind if he remembered that she was listening. She held her breath.

“I…didn’t mind the notion of including women within our group, even then.” Giles laughed softly. “It wasn’t something I talked about with the rest, but I wasn’t—I’ve never really—it’s always been about the person, for me, you see. Ethan and the rest, though, they…it wasn’t usual for them to, ah, prefer the company of a woman. They abhorred the very notion. But that was simply how special Diedre was. To, to all of us.”

Something tight and knotted in Willow’s chest was beginning to loosen. She sat down on the hotel bed, curling her fingers around the phone, listening like her life depended on it.

“You, you don’t need to have the right words for it, Willow,” said Giles gently. “Lord knows we didn’t know any of them. And I’d never—endorse—the other sort of things I got up to back then, but I, I think I’ve spent a lot of time refusing to engage with the parts of my life that have been…joyful. All because I was ashamed of the person that I was then.”

Willow wasn’t ashamed of high school Willow, exactly. It was just that sometimes it was hard to reconcile Willow-then with Willow-now, and that wasn’t even getting into the Willow-in-between. “So, for them, it was…guys plus the one exception,” she said uncertainly.

“Do you need to know what it was?” Giles’s tone was mildly pointed. Instructive.

“If I don’t—”

“What if you don’t?”

“I mean, that’s why I’ve been traveling,” said Willow, halfway timid. “To learn stuff.”

“And what have you learned?”

Willow closed her eyes, half-afraid of the answer. Oz had smiled at her in the light of the full moon, unencumbered, gentle. He’d listened to stories about Tara and Kennedy and everyone with thoughtful patience. He hadn’t made a single move. The kissing had happened by accident, and because she’d initiated it, and the nice thing about Oz was that he didn’t question that. He didn’t have a whole bunch of things to say about whoa, hold on, didn’t you go gay and change your mind about me? He just smiled at her, like he saw her, saw right down into her bones, and like what he saw was good.

And she’d missed him so much. The pinwheeling way he talked about things had baffled her when she was in high school, but now, after years of traveling, it was nice to be with someone who had just as many strange questions and quiet observations as she’d been collecting herself. She liked hearing him tell his stories. She liked him. She liked the person he’d become, and the person that she was with him. The people that they could maybe be together.

“I think I’ve learned that I wanna kiss Oz again,” she said, barely a whisper.

She could hear the smile in Giles’s voice. “That’s lovely, Willow,” he said. “I’m very happy for the both of you.”

~~~~~

Giles went back to bed. Jenny and Art had taken up just about all of it, making it nigh impossible for him to lie down comfortably. An attempt to nudge Art a bit further towards the middle was met by an unhappy, half-awake whine that positively tore at his heart, so he resigned himself to sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the bed for three minutes before Jenny, half awake, said, “Honey. Are you being stupid again?” and pulled Art against her like a teddy bear, clearing space for him in the middle.

“Don’t solve all of my problems for me,” said Giles, lying down and reaching to squeeze her shoulder. Their arms encircled Art, who turned his head towards his mother, soft dark curls against her sweater.

[averagejoesolomon]

WELCOME TO THE KIDS. God, we are not ready for this installment, I'm so serious. Matt and Rachel are going to kill us all. To say nothing of the upcoming spycraft and general ass-kickery. Thank you for reading this with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Before Matt boards a plane to New York, he pastes an OTS-issued mustache to his upper lip and switches the passports in his backpack.

There are no direct flights from Washington DC to Moscow. The reasons for this span far and wide, but the most significant factor also happens to be the simplest—sheer distance. At nearly five-thousand miles as the crow flies, there ain’t a whole lot of civilian aircraft that can make the flight in one go, to say nothing of the fact that neither country is especially amicable to the idea of direct contact. As part of a global effort to reduce the friction between two nuclear superpowers, Morocco offers up its services as the geographical and political buffer between the two destinations, its liminal and atmospheric nightlife acting as the ideal backdrop for the world’s transfers, layovers, and delays.

The trip usually takes eighteen hours if flown straight through, but the gin joints can eat into a full day if given the chance. For his part, Matt’s latest trip takes thirty-seven hours.

But he can’t blame the bars this time around because he doesn’t stop in Morocco, and hasn’t since he picked up a Soviet tail in the CMN terminal last spring. For every US intelligence agent flying through Casablanca, there are five Russian officers waiting on the ground with direct orders to identify and apprehend incoming westerners. The behavior has become too predictable. The Soviets have become too prominent. As Joe puts it: an agent in Morocco is an agent in the grave.

So Matt begins with a trip to New York, then London, then Istanbul, where he switches passports again to fly to Dubai, so he can finally make his way up to Moscow. He survives off of complimentary peanuts and ginger ale, stopping only at the occasional newsstand for the latest local headlines and a fresh packet of M&Ms—one of the few candies sold consistently across international borders. Vigilant airport hours are balanced with the relative safety of the sky, and his only sleep happens alongside the low, rattling drone of jet engines in his ear.

By the time he lands in the Soviet Union, he’s already added a goatee and traded his honey blond hair for a bleached wig that more closely resembles his newly assumed Slavic heritage. After deboarding, he identifies the nearest bathroom to the gate and enters the last stall on the left. As instructed by his CO, he runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a ridge in the tile. He carefully peels back a damn near invisible panel, revealing the compartment Langley promised him. There’s a change of clothes. A pair of contacts. A note written on evapopaper: E ibvltn aely ldrm oor we uti I. The key to this particular skip code was already given to him in New York, which helps him decipher the message that a driver will meet him in Lot 2. Thank God he doesn’t need to hail a taxi.

He drops the note into the toilet bowl and watches it melt from the edges inward. After changing into the provided outfit, he silently shreds his old travel clothes to be discarded in various trash cans on his way to the parking lot. Finally, he pops both contacts in, replaces the panel, and flushes the toilet in case anyone is listening. When he approaches the sink to wash his hands, unfamiliar blue eyes blink back at him from where his own brown eyes ought to be.

Between the sporadic sleep and the changing time zones, he has no idea what the local time is, but the dark sky narrows his possibilities to either very late or very early. The weight of travel saturates every muscle, every joint, every step, but he can’t afford to turn off his senses and slip lazily into the night—not in Moscow. Never in Moscow. After five consecutive flights in less than two days, the hard part has only just begun.

The Soviet Union has always been dangerous to western agents, but the capital has only gotten more hostile in Matt’s time as an operative. Last summer alone, ten US informants were executed in the city, including two of Matt’s most reliable contacts. In the following winter, a handful of Russian specialists left Langley for a field mission and didn’t come home. The last time Matt was here, he met with a Circle informant named Omar who offered to talk in exchange for medication not available in Russia, but easily acquired at a US pharmacy with a forged prescription. Omar is dead now, too, and Matt suspects an assassin finished him off before the illness did. These days, Moscow is a loaded spring trap ready to snap at the slightest tick in the wrong direction, deadly enough that even a skilled Pavement Artist stands to don a disguise or two.

Despite the ocean between them, Joe’s voice rings through Matt’s head. It’s always strongest in Moscow, imploring him to pay attention. Notice things. This is the sort of place where it’s best to lean into strengths, so Matt jumps in with the rest of the red-eyed passengers as the mob progresses through customs, down to baggage claim, and toward ground transportation. From his pace to his posture, he strives to put on a seamless Soviet appearance.

When he reaches the lot, he identifies a license plate number he was instructed to memorize, then enters the backseat of the boxy beige Lada. The driver doesn’t look back when he says, “Nice weather we’re having, yes?” in the sort of thick, Russian dialect that only natives can pull off.

Matt replies in his own practiced Russian. “I hear rain is imminent,” he says. “But I seem to have forgotten my umbrella at home.”

Satisfied with the exchange, the driver shifts gears and squeezes out of his parking spot, working his way toward the main city. By now, Matt knows the streets of Moscow as well as he knows the streets of Hay Springs, so he pays close attention to the route, just in case the driver has been compromised in the past forty-eight hours. The two of them do not speak, wary of bugs. They do not exchange glances, wary of pinprick cameras sewn into buttons. Instead, they embrace their existence as total strangers, not eager to leave any impression of an alliance.

This suits Matt just fine. That is, until seventeen minutes later, when the driver takes a right-hand turn away from the city center, then another.

In this business, in this part of the world, two right turns are a surefire signal to any veteran agent that something significant is about to happen, though it’s impossible to predict whether he’s looking at a positive or negative outcome until the moment actually passes. That’s probably why Joe’s voice is in Matt’s head again, anticipating the worst and providing Matt with escape plans. 

The sidewalks look reasonably empty, easy enough to run.

The rear doors appear to be unlocked from the inside. 

If the doors are jammed shut from the outside, Matt’s shoe has an iron wedge embedded in the rubber heel, which will help him kick through the window.

The driver isn’t armed, but if he makes a move for the glove box, Matt’s best option is to choke him from behind.

The little Lada pulls up to an alleyway tucked between high-rise apartments and a seemingly abandoned liquor store. There are no streetlights. No witnesses. The driver shifts the car into park and says, “You exit now.”

Risk assessment is a key component of any covert decision and, in that moment, Matt senses some serious risk waiting for him at the other end of that alleyway. At the same time, he also senses an even greater risk if he overstays his welcome with this native Russian driver who, by the way, has about a hundred extra pounds on him. Matt doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands up, he slowly exits the vehicle and prepares himself for the next piece of this rapidly evolving Moscow puzzle.

The instant Matt kicks the door shut and slings his bag back onto his shoulder, the Lada’s engine grinds into full gear with a squeal of the tires. He has officially run out of CIA instructions, but the good news is that he doesn’t have any time to doubt himself before his next priority makes itself apparent. The bad news is that his next priority should probably be to get away from the knife that was just pressed against his side.

The pointed end of the blade pokes along the muscle just above his hip. It hasn’t cut through his shirt yet, but one wrong move could change that and much more. “This is a nice surprise,” Matt says, sticking with Russian in a rushed attempt to keep his cover intact. “Where are we going?”

The answering Russian is good—excellent, even—but it has the subtle lilt of someone who learned it as a secondary language. “Is that all it takes to best you? One knife to the ribs and you roll over completely?” It’s a woman’s voice, and one of the few commonalities between the CIA and the KGB is the rarity of female agents among their ranks. Plus, the hold on the knife is petite and graceful, belonging to someone who was taught to fence before she was taught to fight. Matt decides he’s not up against a Soviet agent, but this ain’t a friend either. Not yet.

Joe’s voice is telling him to fight, but Matt’s curious enough to say, “In my experience, the person with the knife usually gets to make all the rules.” He continues with Russian, hoping that the woman will respond in kind and give him a chance to identify the accent layered below. “And, by the way, if you’re aiming for my ribs, you’re about two inches too low.”

She doesn’t disappoint. British accent, maybe. Or Australian. It really is impressively subtle. “Bold thing to say to someone with a knife to your side,” she says. “Remarks like that could get you killed.”

Matt huffs. “Maybe one day, but not today.”

She twists the knife a little deeper, pricking a hole in his shirt. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Because if you were going to kill me, ma’am,” he says, “I’d already be dead.”

This is a bit of a risky gamble. Few things make one human want to kill another more than spite, and Matt’s gone ahead and welcomed it with open arms. His mama always did say he had a real way about him, when it came to tempting fate. Thankfully, this particular bet seems to pay off as the knife finally falls away from his torso. The woman grabs him by the back of his collar instead, pulling him deeper into the alleyway. “You’ve taken all the fun out of it,” she says with a sigh. “Come with me. And don’t ever call me ma’am—that much will get you killed.”

This is a joke. He thinks. And jokes are awfully promising in a place like Moscow. 

At the end of the alleyway, another car sits idling. No headlights. No plate lights. Matt can’t know for sure, but he reckons the brake lights are probably cut, too. In the presence of a car designed for a perfect covert getaway, Matt recognizes this moment for what it is—not an attack, but an escape. A high-tech game of keepaway.

In this particular instance, Matt is not an agent. Rather, he’s an asset in need of transportation, and he’s just met his new driver. When this stranger opens the rear door and shoves him inside, Matt knows that she’s putting on a show for potential onlookers. When she says, “Stay down,” he understands that his silhouette can’t be seen driving through the city. It is not enough to blend in—not when he could have a tail leftover from travel, not when the customs office could have bugged his backpack, not when a patrolman might recognize him from another visit into the city and assign a car to follow close behind. Agents have been known to disappear between an airport and a safe house, which means Matt is only safe if he becomes completely invisible. It’s the sort of thing that can only be accomplished with careful timing, meticulous planning, and an appreciation for redundancy, after redundancy, after redundancy.

In other words, this plan has Rachel Cameron written all over it.

He’s managed to avoid the thought for the past thirty-seven hours—and, frankly, for the entire two years before that—but the idea of being in the same city as Rachel after such a long time away has him wishing for a knife to his side instead. Knife wounds, at least, are an isolated pain with one clear source. They can be cleaned and stitched up. Bandaged and healed. This business with Rachel pings around all of his insides, taking turns with his stomach, his heart, his throat, his lungs. Rancid regret rots his brain and radiates down to every last muscle. Laying alone in the back of a stranger’s car, staring up at the velvet interior, Matt gets caught in a loop of all the things he wishes he’d said sooner.

He didn’t expect it to all stop.

He never should have made her cry.

He didn’t think it would last this long.

He lies, sometimes. He’s sorry he has to lie.

He’s doing good, good, good as often as he can.

Matt has always meant to say these things to her, but the longer they went without, the harder it got to call. Now it feels like too much time has passed to say any of it—like apologizing will only serve as a bitter reminder of just how deeply they tore into one another. Like acknowledging it will only reopen scars that have only just started to heal over.

The longer they drive, the more Rachel’s proximity presses down on his chest, squeezing him into the seat. He knows he ought to count the seconds. Track the turns. Try to get some sense of where they’re headed. But Rachel Cameron fills every last available space in his thoughts and, God almighty, she would lecture him straight to high heaven if she knew how distracted he was.

Once he’s fully worked himself up into a tightly wound ball of unspoken mistakes, the tires hit a gravel drive. The car takes an awfully long route over bumpy back roads and heavily forested hills, which is especially impressive given the lack of headlights, before it finally slows to a stop. His driver turns to the backseat, moonlight catching on the curve of her cheek, an icy white steak against smooth dark skin. “Congratulations on surviving your trip,” she says, and Matt thinks it might be an American southern drawl hiding beneath her Russian, with the way her vowels drawl. “You may leave. Your bag, however, must stay until morning.”

Matt sits upright, his silhouette visible to the night once more. “Sure thing,” he answers. “It’s like I said—the lady with the knife gets to make the rules.”

This earns him a subtle tick of the stranger’s lips. Matt latches onto the near smile and vows to turn into a broad, toothy grin sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, he’ll settle for the semi-charmed side-eye she casts his way, just before she opens the driver door. “Bloody Hell,” she says as she exits, finally switching to English. “She was right about you.”

British. Damn. Matt should have trusted his gut.

Wait. 

He bolts out of the backseat and jogs to catch up. “Right about me?” he echoes, falling back into his own American English. “Who was right about me—right about what?”

The Brit’s stride is incredibly long, and would probably be better suited to a runway than barely-used backwoods paths overgrown with weeds. Matt has to quicken his own pace just to keep up with her. “Never you mind,” she says. “This way.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” he tries, “that you get inside info on me when I don’t even know your name—”

“This way,” she says again. “Surely I don’t have to remind you, of all people, that Moscow’s trees have ears.”

Matt has spent a significant portion of his career listening to conversations picked up by precisely placed bugs exactly like the ones she speaks of now. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the surrounding trees probably aren’t bugged—at least not in the way she expects. The Soviets wouldn’t go to the trouble of tagging each individual tree, only to have an opposing agent uncover them within an hour of arrival. The birds, foxes, and deer, however, are worth a second glance. 

Either way, she’s right. The forest is no place for introductions. Instead, he follows as she hikes toward a tiny cabin tucked between one hillside and another. It appears perfectly plain on the outside, built from cedar logs and a tin roof. Shrubs and pines surround the perimeter, and Matt knows from experience that these are probably prickly and unpleasant, making it difficult for any unwelcome guests to get too close. The curtains are drawn. The chimney is without smoke. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say no one was home. 

They cover their tracks as they go, wordless right up until they reach the door. Mind split in the dozens of different directions demanded by good countersurveillance, Matt forgets to be nervous until the last minute, when the Brit knocks in a unique, four-rap pattern, then opens the door. The cabin’s light flashes into the nighttime forest, so they waste no time stepping inside. 

A new voice greets them. Then again, this voice ain’t really new. Not to him. He’d know this particular voice anywhere, even if he spent years, decades, centuries away. “Grace?”

Rachel Cameron waits for them just inside, seated at a small dining table at the center of a small kitchen. Rachel Cameron has lists, and blueprints, and notes scattered all across the tabletop, the chairs, the linoleum, splayed across kitchen countertops, and taped to cabinets, and stuck to the refrigerator with little black magnets. Rachel Cameron scans one stack of papers with the pencil in her right hand, then another with a highlighter in her left. Rachel Cameron looks up. Rachel Cameron meets his gaze. Rachel Cameron sighs.

Genius. He’s always known the word applied to her, though it strikes him anew. Rachel’s brilliance is better experienced in small doses, when he can slowly acclimate himself to the raw appreciation of it. The last two years have robbed him of his resilience and it’s like he’s seeing her for the very first time all over again.

Except it only takes a single moment for all of their history to come rushing back, filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, until there’s no more space for words, or gestures, or glances. Rachel looks away first, eyes falling back to a set of blueprints, and Matt follows her lead.

Thankfully, their companion cuts through the silence without a trace of discomfort. “Found your boy,” she says, kicking off her shoes. “He’s cheeky, this one.”

Matt starts to protest with “Oh, I ain’t—” at the same time Rachel says, “He’s not my—”

They both stop, and wait, and wait some more. Neither of them meet the other’s eyes. When enough excruciating seconds have passed, Rachel starts again, and Matt lets her. “Thank you for picking him up,” she says. “I know you were eager to stay in tonight, but—”

“But we aren’t taking any chances with this op,” the Brit finishes. “Understood. Really, Rachel. Though I will say, I was a bit surprised at how easily this one came along with a complete stranger.”

It is as if all of Rachel’s years of etiquette training hit her at once. She brings her fingers to her forehead, suddenly remembering. “Ah, yes, sorry. You haven’t been introduced yet.”

“Not unless you count my putting a knife into his side,” she says.

Matt clears his throat, finally finding his words. “In this business, that’s sometimes the only introduction we get.”

The Brit smiles again. It’s still not the full grin he’s looking for, but it’s closer. “Quite right.”

Rachel studies the pair of them, analyzing something Matt can’t see. She squints back and forth between them, her face twisting into something sour, as though she’s not sure she likes what she’s looking at. “Right,” she says, slowly. Then, clears her throat. “Right, well, anyway. Grace, this is Matthew Morgan. Matthew, this is Grace Harris—”

“Baxter,” Grace cuts in.

“Right,” says Rachel, squeezing her eyes shut, remembering again. Matt’s not sure he’s ever seen Rachel forget anything, and he takes note of the fact that she’s gone and forgotten twice in a sixty-second span. A data point he’ll save for later. “Grace Baxter.”

Grace Baxter holds out her hand to shake, meeting Matt with a far firmer grip than he’s expecting. He feels a couple of knuckles pop in his own hand, and resists the urge to call out. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she says. 

That’s an awfully interesting choice of words. “Finally?” says Matt.

Grace does not elaborate. “My husband is around as well, but he’s being a good little agent and sleeping off his jet lag while it’s still dark.”

Matt, who hasn’t had more than two hours of consecutive sleep since DC, can’t quite hide the longing in his reply. “Smart man.”

“Outrageously so. It’s infuriating, really,” Grace agrees. “You’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, but in the meantime we should all probably join him. The last thing we need is four exhausted agents trying to run an op in Moscow.”

Matt has about a million more questions for Grace Baxter, but none of them form quite right in his head. A fog fills his brain, clouding all of his better thoughts, and he reckons Grace is probably right. He’s useless to Rachel like this, and she’ll be the first to call him on it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. “Do you think we ought to run it by the boss, first?”

Grace risks a glance toward Rachel, who has already returned to one of her blueprints. With Rachel’s attention occupied, Matt steals this chance to take her in. Her clothes are worn with travel and her shoulders slump with a need for sleep. Some of her curls have escaped the denim scrunchie holding back the bulk of her hair, falling into her face, and Matt remembers all at once that Rachel never did know how to stop, once she got started.

“Good luck,” Grace scoffs. “I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. She’s been planning since the moment she walked in.”

Matt ain’t got any sense that Rachel doesn’t already have ten times over, and he doesn’t dare pretend otherwise. Thankfully, Rachel recognizes this and provides an answer of her own. “I’ve been planning for the past three months,” she corrects, just as she circles something on the page. “I just wanted to get some last-minute changes down before bed.”

Grace turns back to Matt. “You see? Hopeless,” she says. “You two may do what you please, but I intend to get some sleep. Pulling off a fake kidnapping at the edge of Moscow is exhausting work, you know.”

With this, she sends a playful jab into Matt’s side. Only problem is, Grace’s idea of a playful jab is most people’s idea of a full-on elbow to the ribs, and Matt has to catch his breath afterward. It takes all of his might not to let out an unmanly yelp in front of these two women. “Right,” he gasps. “See you in the morning.”

“Thanks again, Grace,” Rachel calls, not looking up from her writing.

With a wave of her fingers, Grace disappears behind one of the two available doors and shuts it with a twist of the lock. Matt realizes too late that her absence leaves just him and Rachel. Alone. Together.

This silence just won’t do.

“Flights good?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers, scribbling away.

“Abby okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Yes.”

“You okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” This is worse than the silence, actually. Out of questions and energy stores depleted, Matt decides that his only remaining move is one that has been employed by desperate agents for centuries—a retreat. “Listen, I think I might join the others and try to get some sleep. Unless you need me?”

Scribble, scribble. “Not yet.”

“Great,” he says. “Just point me to my bed and I’ll be on my way.”

Rachel’s pencil freezes mid-sentence. This is Matt’s first clue that something is horribly wrong, followed by the fact that her eyes finally meet his and this time, she doesn’t look away. “No.”

“Um.” Retreat, retreat, retreat. “Okay? I guess I can find it—”

But Rachel is already up, dashing through the sliver of a living room that hosts a single chair, a coffee table, and a throw blanket. When she reaches the second available door in the cabin, blood drains from her already pale face, turning it to an alarming, ashen white. Her voice is hollow and distant when she squeaks out a soft, “No, no, no.”

When it comes to Rachel, Matt is woefully out of practice, but it doesn’t take an expert to see the panic, and Rachel’s panic ain’t built the same way everyone else’s is. The sight of Rachel out of sorts is enough to get Matt’s heart really, truly racing. “Rachel, what are you—?”

She flicks on the light, and when Matt steps up behind her, he’s met with an instant understanding of the situation. “There’s only one other bed,” she says, spinning to face him as she explains. “Abby and I usually share. I booked the safe house when it was going to be the two of us, but between the hospital, and the flights, and coordinating our assets…” Sometimes Matt wonders how loud the inside of her head must be. He suspects she doesn’t realize when her words dissolve between inner and outer monologue. It takes some deciphering to understand her complete thoughts from start to finish. “I forgot. I’m so sorry, I forgot to account for the beds when I switched agents, I’ll take the couch.”

By couch, he supposes she means the ancient loveseat tucked away at the end of the bed. The leather cushions are scratched and cracked, and the silver shine of a spring peeks out from beneath the quilt laid across its back. A grease stain rests along the arm where agents have laid their heads for years and years before. Throughout his travels, Matt has seen more than his fair share of uncomfortable furniture and this one has serious potential to rank among the worst, but this is Rachel’s third strike at forgetfulness when she’s usually a home run hitter. She needs to sleep, and sleep well, and it simply won’t do, for her to sleep on that old thing. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No it’s my mistake, I should—”

“Rachel,” he says, and his hands fall to her shoulders out of habit. Out of familiarity. “I’m sorry, but there just ain’t no way I’m letting you take the couch.” She’s looking up at him with big, brown eyes. They’re glassy, and tired, and he spares Rachel her dignity by ignoring the twinge of tears sneaking into either corner. “She may be all the way in Nebraska now, but there’s no quicker way to get Joy Morgan to Moscow than if I let you sleep on that couch.”

She shakes her head. “Matthew—”

“I’m telling you,” he tries again. “My mama can sense that sorta thing, and believe me when I say she’ll shake down the entire agency to find this cabin and knock me six ways from Sunday, right upside my head.”

“You’re worried that your mother will intimidate CIA agents into disclosing the location of one of their most heavily protected safe houses?”

“You’ve never seen my mama when there’s a matter of chivalry at stake.”

“Matthew, I—” she interrupts herself, this time, freezing when she meets his gaze. “Your eyes,” she says, studying the intimate features of his face. “Your eyes are blue.”

This is outright nonsense, and even more proof that she needs to sleep. That is, until he remembers the light blue contacts. He blinks, as though he might be able to get rid of the color, because everything artificial seems so ridiculous now that he’s in the presence of someone who knows him to his core. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sorry.”

With that, she studies him more deeply, and he notices the faint lines that have started to form where her eyebrows always furrow, the freckles she’s accumulated along her cheekbones with years of missions spent in the sun, the ease with which her lips fall into a tight, even line. Her eyes bounce between each of his, debating her next words before she finally says, “Why are you apologizing?”

Matt’s breath catches, and he knows this is it. The opening he’s been waiting for. But it’s late, and they’re tired, and they both smell like planes, and airports, and taxis. So despite the desperate words trying to crawl from his heart to his mouth, he settles on something softer. “I think we both know I’ve got plenty to apologize for,” he says, finally letting his hands fall. “But I think we both know this ain’t the time to do it.”

Genius. She’s always been smarter than him in more ways than he can count, and this moment is no exception. She’s smart enough to know that they both need clearer heads. That they both need a moment of quiet. That morning will come and they’ll both be better for it, and that tonight is no place for their usual fights. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the bed,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m so tired.”

She has this way of taking small words and making them feel big. Of making them span years, when they shouldn’t last more than a second or two. Rachel isn’t tired, so much as she’s exhausted, and burned out, and lonely, and weighed down—and she manages to convey all of this by simply shaking her head, and folding her face into her hands, and standing in front of him with all of the humility in the world.

He has this way of feeling her when she most needs it, in a way that no one else seems to be able to. Of hearing those great big words tied up in all of her small ones, and trying his best to say the right thing in response. “Let’s get some sleep, then,” he says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll get some sleep, and when you wake up, you can tell me exactly what all of those crazy kitchen plans mean.”

Despite herself, she laughs. It's a pitiful, mangled thing, but it still counts. “They’re not as crazy as they look.”

And Matt can’t hold back a smile. “Well thank God for that, because they look…” he tries to find a word, but this is much like everything else Rachel does, in that it defies explanation. “I mean, seriously, Rachel, you’ve gone full Doc Brown in there.”

She shoves him, gently, and Matt makes a show of clasping at his chest in faux hurt. “They’ll make more sense in the morning,” she tells him.

“Everything will make more sense in the morning,” he assures her.

And she believes him. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s enough for them, for tonight, for now. It’s all they need. And maybe tomorrow will be bitter and hard at the center of Moscow, working an op that Rachel has given her whole heart to, but right now is easy and safe. Right now, they’re old friends who need each other more than they knew. 

Rachel finds his eyes again, and sighs something that sounds like relief and regret mixed together. “At least let me ease some of my guilt by hunting down a truly outrageous number of blankets on your behalf.”

Matt looks back to the loveseat and knows in his gut that there will not be enough room for more than one blanket. There is barely enough room for Matt, as is. Even so, he smiles at her. “Rachel Cameron,” he says. “I’ll always take any blanket you hand me.”

[ottomanladies]

Hello,sorry for bothering you,I have question there is version according to Sakaoglu(in Bu mulkun Sultanlari) and Alderson that Ahmed I had daughter Zeynep Sultan who had died after 1617 and had died young not in early childhood or in infancy like Esma Sultan,Zahide Sultan,Hatice Sultan and possibly Kosem Sultan(?) In Sicil i Osmani,it's also mention that she had died young and was burried in her father's mausoleum,also there is possible theory that she could be daughter of Mahfiruze,because Osman II had daughter too named Zeynep Sultan and from those names for sultanas doesn't appear later untill Ahmed III.Do you think could be possible that Osman's daughter was named after Ahmed's daughter Zeynep who may have been Osman's full sister? There is also version that Turhan Sultan could have possible 1 or maybe 2 sons who had died in infancy. Some mention that Turhan Sultan had second son Şehzade Ahmed who had died shortly after his birth,it's according to Öztuna based on Turkish Wikipedia(but I don't what excact book)and others mention (Turkish men,Ottoman Women:Popular Turkish historians and the writing of Ottoman women's history,page 206-Ruth Barzail Lumbrosso). Do you know more about it or if it's mentioned that indeed? According to some there is also possibile theory for Turhan Sultan to have anither son,as there is infant sarcophagus of Şehzade Mehmed Sultan Ibrahim'in oglu in the mausoleum of Ahmed I buried next to Şehzade Bayezid also son of Ibrahim I.

Hi! Well, Zeynep has a religious meaning:

Zaynab is the name of a daughter and a granddaughter of the Islamic prophet Muhammad and two of his wives: Zaynab bint Jahsh and Zaynab bint Khuzayma.

Öztuna says Zeynep Sultan died “very little” and was one of Ahmed I’s last children. If he’s right, then he couldn’t have been Mahfiruze’s, as rumours of her death had begun in 1610.

If Öztuna is not right, and she was born earlier, then maybe she was Osman’s younger full sister. What you said about the names is very interesting and could have happened, but as of now we cannot confirm it.

I have checked Turhan’s Wikipedia page and the source to that claim is “Öztuna, Yılmaz, Hürrem Sultan, Ötüken Yayınevi, İstanbul, 1978. (isbn=9754371415)”. The ISBN code corresponds to “Büyük Osmanlı Tarihi Osmanlı Devleti'nin Siyasi Medeni Kültür Teşkilat ve San'at Tarihi (10 Cilt)”, which is not a work I own. I do have several books of Öztuna, though, and this claim wasn’t reiterated in them. According to him, Turhan was the mother of Mehmed IV and Beyhan Sultan.

Still per Öztuna, these are Ibrahim’s children who died in infancy:

Şehzade Murad (22.3.1643-16.1.1644), buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Şehzade Osman (8.1644-1646), buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Şehzade Bayezid (1.5.1646-8.1647), buried in Ibrahim’s mausoleum

Şehzade Cihangir (14.12.1646-1.2.1648), buried in the mosque of Ahmed I

Şehzade Orhan (10.1648-1.1650)

Şehzade Süleyman, buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Şehzade Ahmed, born and dead in 1642, buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Şehzade Ahmed (2), born and dead in 1642, buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Safiye Sultan, buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Hatice Sultan

I don’t know how accurate this list is.

As for Barzilai-Lumbroso's dissertation, on page 206 there's nothing about a Şehzade Ahmed born to Turhan:

Turhan Sultan's transformation from a 14 year old Russian captive, presented to Kosem Sultan who had been the Valide Sultan at the time, to a powerful valide herself. Kosem was concerned that Sultan Ibrahim (1640-1648), who was considered mentally unstable, was the last male descendent of the dynasty, and "began to introduce a slave girl to the sultan every day for the purpose of producing a son. She gave Turhan to Sultan Ibrahim after a short training [period]. Turhan was a very beautiful attractive girl. Tall and well developed, her body was white, her eyes blue, her hair was reddish yellow... Turhan tied herself to sultan Ibrahim with her intelligence and coquetry…" Turhan, however, soon lost her favorite position, as Ibrahim became addicted to women. Feeling the Sultan neglected her and her son Mehmed she "attempted to argue with her husband.. .at the head of the pond. But the sultan's daughter took Turhan's child from her arms and threw him to the pond. The heir to the throne, Mehmet, almost drowned and died. Turhan Sultan saved her child with difficulty [and] withdrew from public life and began to live quietly." She returned to the historical scene, we are told, upon becoming Valide Sultan with her son's ascendance to the throne in 1648, only to find Kosem unwilling to give up her powers. The bitter struggle that ensued between these two women ended with the strangling of Kosem, usually attributed to Turhan, who then acquired absolute rule of the harem.

The only Şehzade Ahmed mentioned throughout the dissertation is Gülnuş's son.

[mariacallous]

Croatian Women's Network staged protests all over the country on Monday in solidarity with women in Bosnia who - shocked by a particularly brutal recent murder – are demanding more effective protection against male violence.

In the action titled "Women's Safety is the Responsibility of the State," women's organizations in Croatia submitted requests to the Ministry of Justice on Monday, advocating for enhanced protection for women against violence.

"Violence against women is a systemic issue that requires appropriate sanctions. The state must finally take a proactive stance on this problem and enact legislation that aligns with the Istanbul Convention and is not gender-neutral," emphasized Sanja Juras, coordinator of the Women's Network of Croatia.

About 50 women gathered for a protest in front of the Ministry of Justice in Zagreb on Monday, holding a sign bearing the message: “Women’s Safety is the Responsibility of the State”.

The protest briefly blocked a section of the city’s Vukovarska Street. The stopped cars honked their horns, responding to the call from their posters to “honk that the minister hear”.

The protest aimed to commemorate Nizama Hecimovic, the victim of a brutal murder earlier this month in Gradacac, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Nermin Sulejmanovic shockingly livestreamed his wife’s murder over Instagram, after which he killed two more people and wounded another three. Nizama’s murder has again underscored the inadequacies of state systems designed to safeguard women from violence.

On behalf of nearly 40 women’s organizations and initiatives, they called on the Ministry of Justice to improve women’s safety across Croatia and establish a working group dedicated to formulating legal solutions to address femicide.

They also want femicide defined as a distinct crime within the penal code, with comprehensive legislation that covers all forms of violence against women.

They also demanded the adoption of a national strategy encompassing all forms of violence against women, in accordance with the so-called Istanbul Convention – the Council of Europe’s 2011 Convention on Preventing and Combating Violence Against Women and Domestic Violence – along with the allocation of funds for its implementation in the state budget.

Throughout the day, protests took place in 18 Croatian towns and cities, including Zagreb, Split, Rijeka, Osijek, Pakrac, Mali Lošinj, Beli Manastir, Vukovar, Virovitica, Krizevci, Korenica, Sibenik, Karlovac, Zadar, Trogir, Korcula, Dubrovnik and Glina.

Women from all over Croatia were encouraged to halt their activities on Monday at 4 pm for 15 minutes, symbolically supporting the motto: “If Women Stop, Everything Stops.”

[24worldnewsnet]

s Security Serviceclaims to have struck more than 40 Russian bombers deep inside Russian territory, in what would be one of the largest and most audacious attacks on Russian territory in the yearslong conflict. A sourcewithin the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU) told NBC News that the country targeted “41 strategic Russian aircraft” in an offensive operation code-named “Spiderweb.” The sourcealso released dramatic video purportedly showing a drone attack at the Belaya air base in Russia’s Irkutsk region, located in Siberia, nearly 3,000 miles from Ukraine. The footage captures bombers under attack, with explosions visible and smoke rising from the scene. “Preliminary estimates indicate that enemy aviation has suffered over $2 billion in damage,” the source said. “Enemy strategic bombers are burning en masse in Russia.” Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy did not directly address the bombing, but said Sunday on X that Ukraine was “doing everything to protect our independence, our state, and our people,” after saying he had received updates from intelligence agencies and the SBU. Zelensky’s chief of staff, Andriy Yermak, posted an emoji of a spiderweb on Sunday, seemingly referencing the name of the massive drone operation. The remarkable attack was in the works for over a year and a half, the source inside the SBU told NBC News. The SBU first smuggled drones into Russia, followed by mobile wooden cabins. Once inside Russia, the drones were hidden under cabin roofs mounted on cargo trucks. During the attack, the roofs opened remotely, enabling the drones to launch at Russian bombers, according to the source, who added that the operation was overseen by Zelenskyy and executed by the country’s Security Service. NBC News could not independently verify the claims. Russia did not immediately comment on the bombings, but Irkutsk’s regional governor, Igor Kobzev, said on Telegram that there had been a drone attack “on a military unit in the settlement of Sredny.” He did not say whether the Belaya air base or others were hit, but said the drone was launched from a truck. Russian officials in the Ryazan and Murmansk regions also reported drone activity on Sunday afternoon, according to The Associated Press, but did not give further details. The attack follows a night of bombardment, with Russia launching 472 drones, Ukraine’s air force said. Earlier Sunday, Ukraine’s army said a Russian missile strike on an army training unit killed at least 12 Ukrainian service members and injured 60. The latest escalation comes just a day before Russia and Ukraine are scheduled to meet for a second round of direct talks in Istanbul. Zelenskyy appeared to confirm Kyiv’s participation on Sunday, saying on X that he had “outlined the tasks for the near term and also defined our positions ahead of the meeting in Istanbul on Monday.” “First — a full and unconditional ceasefire. Second — the release of prisoners. Third — the return of abducted children,” he said. On Saturday night, two bridges collapsed in Russian regions bordering Ukraine, killing seven and injuring dozens. Russian officials alleged deliberate sabotage. The first collapse occurred late Saturday in Bryansk, crashing onto railway tracks and derailing an approaching train, according to Gov. Alexander Bogomaz. “Unfortunately, there are seven fatalities,” he posted on Telegram, later adding that 47 people had been hospitalized. Hours later in the Kursk region, a railway bridge collapsed while a freight train was crossing it, according to acting Gov. Alexander Khinshtein. NBC News could not independently verify either incident. Ukraine has not commented. Freddie Clayton Freddie Clayton is a freelance journalist based in London.  The Associated Press contributed.