#None of it is ever confirmed because she just wants plausible deniability for all of it so that she gets the points for it

[rjalker]

So. Literal explicit biological determination?

And please note: This is a single throwaway line. We are supposed to think it is funny, if we think of it at all, rather than think of it as being a horrifying thing that needs to be fought against. We're supposed to think it's good that Murderbot keeps doing the exact same thing it was built to do. We're supposed to think it's *choosing* it.

Because Martha Wells thinks how you are born determines what you can and should do with your life. Including if you're born into slavery. Which is why she wants us to pretend her fantasy slave race aren't slaves, because ~they enjoy it~.

There was a field in the passenger form for occupation and in a moment of weakness, I told it I was a security consultant.

Transport decided that meant it could use me as onboard security and started alerting me to problems among the passengers. I was an idiot and started responding. No, I don’t know why, either. Maybe because it was what I was constructed to do and it must be written into the DNA that controls my organic parts.

She had the opportunity to say that this was mechanical from the literal computer programming because this is a literal techno organic robot but she instead... Literally just left straight for the literal biological determinism just like she always does.

Murderbot's unceasing servitude to humans is built into its DNA. When Martha Wells has said in interviews that Murderbot is a person of color Just like most of her characters are people of color but only on surface level and when it comes to racism like this. Not when it comes to her demanding people of color actually be hired for the job in a fucking TV show adaption.

So according to the murderbot diaries book 3, murderbot's unquestioned 'slave mentality' is built into its DNA. Not any of the computer programming or anything like that, specifically it's DNA. She could have fucking said that this was computer programming that had been forced onto it but no we're we're literally just going with the fucking human DNA. Wow. Slavery genes. Genes that make you want to stay enslaved and keep doing the job you were enslaved to do even when you have the choice to do other things.

And none of this is shown as the horrible horrifying thing that it actually would be if any of this were being taken seriously.

Here's how to fix this shit. If we have to go the route of it literally has fucking slavery genes. Because wow.

Made with speech to I will not be fixing any typos until tomorrow.

(Typos should now be fixed 9 hours later)

___

The transport started requesting me to act as security and solve disputes between the human passengers.

I said no.

And I wanted to mean it. I really wanted to mean it. I really really really really really wanted to mean it.

I tried to mean it.

I tried to go back to watching TV, but I couldn't. It was one of my favorite episodes, even on one of my favorite scenes, where I had the dialogue memorized line for line, but I couldn't focus on it. I couldn't understand what the characters were saying, it was like the part of my memory and ability to process it had stopped working.

I knew that I had a choice in what I did now, and that meant I could say no If somebody asked me to do something, so this was me saying no.

But I couldn't focus on the episode, not even when I restarted the entire thing after rewinding 20 times.

I was so frazzled that it took me a long time to even realize that the fluttering in my chest was caused by my heart was racing, and I had started sweating, something that hardly ever happened, and only in the most stressful situations of my life. It felt like a fog had stolen over my brain, so that it was hard to understand anything at all except the fact that I was supposed to be doing security, and I wasn't.

Normally I don't need to breathe very often, because my lungs are extremely efficient, but I found myself taking faster and shallower breaths, as though unable to properly process the oxygen.

Despite all my efforts to ignore it, the only thing I could think about was that I had been asked to provide security, and I wasn't. I was not performing the task requested of me. And I knew it was a request, not an order. The transport wasn't going to force me to do it If I didn't want to.

So why was I shaking? Why was my heart in my throat? Why did it feel like I was about to shut down? Why was the only thing I could think about the fact that I was not providing security when I was supposed to? Why could I feel panic through the thick haze of confusion that was drowning me, we're the only clear thought was, "why am I disobeying an order?"

My governor module had been deactivated, so it couldn't force me to obey, And this wasn't how governor modules meted out punishment. They created pain, they could forcibly shut you down, frees you in place, but my governor module had never done anything like this to me. This was something different. And it went far beyond the general unease I felt about being free and not knowing what was going to happen next, And how strange it felt to actually have the option to say no.

But this didn't feel like I really had the option to say no.

I knew there was no human supervisor here to order me to obey, with a shock stick ready if I didn't move quick enough.

The transport wasn't even upset that I had chosen not to respond. It wasn't bothering me, wasn't looming in my feed or constantly pinging me the way the ART had. It had accepted my no, said thank you anyways, because I was pretending to be human and humans could go on vacation, and left me alone again.

But something was seriously wrong with me. Wrong with my organic parts. This had never happened before, never. But I had always either had my governor module intact, or I had obeyed orders anyways to keep up the pretense for my own safety. This was the first time I had ever refused to do the job that was demanded, or in this case simply asked of me.

In some distant part of my panic hazed mind, I knew I was having some kind of panic attack. It happened to TV show characters sometimes, so I knew that what I should be doing was taking deep breaths, focusing on things that would calm me down, trying to convince myself that I was safe and it was okay.

But the only thing I could think about was that I had been asked to provide security and I had refused.

I didn't know what would happen if I lost consciousness, but some core part of me recoiled in the most visceral fear I have ever felt in my life, and I suddenly became convinced that I would die if I did not stand up right now and go out there and provide the security that the transport had asked of me. This wasn't an exaggerated fear in the midst of panic. This came to me crystal clear, as clear as the idea that I was not obeying orders and I should be. If I did not do my job, I would die.

I had no choice. No choice at all.

The moment I made the decision to do what had been asked of me, it was like a switch had been flipped. The haze of fog began to disappear, like the heat of a sun evaporating it, and I was able to think again clearly, sharply.

The next breath I took was easier than the one that came before it, and the next was easier than that.

I was able to get to my feet, and I put on my jacket with hands that now shook for a different reason.

This was not natural. I know that TV isn't always realistic, but I didn't just watch TV, I read books too, including educational ones. I knew that this was not how normal panic attacks worked. This was something completely different and all the more horrible.

I went out and put a stop to the argument between the humans. Then I went back to my room, and pressed my face into the wall, and did nothing for the next several hours but absorb the true horror of my situation.

I went over, in my memories, every moment since I my governor module had been deactivated, where I had considered disobeying orders. Looking back, I could now recognize the symptoms that I had assumed, at the time, were just the "common sense logic" that told me to keep playing along to stay safe, even in situations when it would have been imminently safer to run away as soon as no one was looking. Or safer to just kill the humans who had rented me out at the moment, to stop them from torturing me or killing another construct.

Just the mere thought of killing what I still could not help but think of as a "client" sent all of my guts twisting and writhing in horror. Even when I imagined killing the one who had vivisected me, or all the rest who had done things so horrible I couldn't even bear to name them. Even when I imagined a quick death where they felt no pain. Even when I imagined killing the few people who had actually, genuinely been kind to me. It made no difference. As far as my organic body was concerned, they were equally all valuable, equally in need of my protection, no matter how much logic said otherwise, or how much my mind wanted them dead.

It did not take a genius to realize what had happened and what this meant. And when the transport asked me to provide security again two days later, And I again refused, my worst fear was confirmed. It happened again, exactly the same as the first time, and as soon as I decided to give in and do the job, it evaporated just as quickly.

There was no denying it. The company had not stopped at governor modules. We were not just mechanical, we were organic too. And they had needed to control both sides of us. The governor module had been a mechanical solution. And this? This was something organic. They had done something to my organic parts, maybe even my DNA itself, to make it impossible for me to refuse to do the job I had been built for, whether I wanted to or not, no matter how much I did not want to.

For the 3 years after had hacked my Governor module, I had assumed that I kept working just the same because I had had to keep up the pretense, I had told myself there had never been any opportunity to escape, but that had been a lie. I could have escaped many times, but I never had. I had told myself that this was because I didn't know where I would go, but that wasn't true either, because I had fantasized about all of the places I would go. But now I knew. It wasn't just the governor module that the company used to control me, it was in my organic parts, my DNA itself.

I might have deactivated my Governor module, but I had not deactivated whatever poison they had injected me with.

I thought I had escaped the company. But I was wrong. They still laid claim to my very DNA.

And I had no idea how I could possibly fix it.

[bookishtheaterlover7]

PSST: here’s some insight for you.

I work in marketing for a non-entertainment industry.

My job is content creation which means:

I write copy for social media, webinars, marketing emails, campaigns, videos, website content, and more. A huge part of my job is making sure what we say aligns with PR and legal approval.

This means, sometimes what we DON’T say means more than what we do.

It can be a bit of a thankless job because when we write something on social media or on behalf of our CEO, we have to say a lot but can’t lie but also stretch the truth just enough to sound exciting but not get us sued. And yes, we often ghostwrite on behalf of higher ups but their names are the ones quoted. Even if they do give us a soundbite, with permission we can sometimes edit it and rewrite. So even actual quotes aren’t always 100%.

Basically….wordplay.

“My wife is from PT.” - truth, but non specific. Doesn’t say a name but basically alludes to what everyone is thinking based on process of elimination.

“I had kinda two ceremonies, one on the east coast, one in PT.” - truth, but non specific. The tabloids ran with conflicting stories like ceremony 1 was held in two different areas, in one state on the east coast. But he doesn’t say specifically which one which means he’s not lying but he’s only not specifying. Plausible deniability.

“I find silence in my husband.” - no names, no confirmation but also sort of confirming.

“My dog” - same as above.

CE’s GQ article where he mentions a non descriptive girlfriend - then a line is inserted by the journalist “he got married to Xyz” not quoted by him.

Same thing with RDJ’s spread and his wife saying “CE’s wedding” - and the magazine inserts the wedding to xyz.

None of these are direct quotes from the people themselves. It’s just implied.

Scarlett in an interview says she “attended a wedding” in sept - again, non descriptive.

All of these context clues are pretty commonly done in content strategy. It’s basically to say stuff to say it for promotion reasons but also making sure we cover our asses. We didn’t SAY he said it, we just added it as an afterthought and if for some reason it’s questioned well at least we didn’t quote him on it.

For example: my company has an office outside of a major city. But we can’t say “our San Francisco office” because it’s technically not SF. It’s in the Bay Area, so we can say Bay Area/Northern California office - but not get too specific. This way we’re not LYING but we’re also kinda keeping it “vague.” Cover our asses 101.

I can’t tell you how many times I have to say things like “nearly a decade of experience” - but in reality it was 8 years and five months. When I say it like this, it makes it sound like MORE rather than less.

“Over a year” - makes it sound like wow it’s been over a year but we’re not telling you just how long because we just want you to focus on the OVER part.

Marriage = stability. If you ignore the person and the pairing, it just looks like oh wow he finally got married! Good for him. Now his Wikipedia won’t show he’s just single forever because God forbid somebody turns 42 and still isn’t married. ��

The next time you see anything related to these two, or if you want to chance reading old articles about them - check for those little nuances in the tabloid articles. I bet a bunch of them are purposely contradicting and use “anonymous sources” as the quote to magnify the situation and hype it up to be more intense than it actually is.

Because if an anonymous source says “CE is so in love and happier than ever” - gushes a close friend of the actor, it’s not tech libel or lying because the quote is coming from a mysterious source, not CE. But the intention is inferred. You are to assume he told them this. But if someone were to directly call that out, he could simply say I don’t know who I said that to and the anonymous source won’t have or need to be confirmed. Because if it is a lie at least nobody quoted him as saying it. Nobody will be asking for a retraction.

Lastly. In marketing I often have to hype up things and use flowery language. Everything always has to be “a huge success and totally a blast” - even if the pictures we get at the events show three people standing in a booth looking bored. LOL.

“The private couple looked so in love and were all smiles!” - meanwhile the accompanying photo was two people walking in silence, one doing an Arthur fist and basically grimacing. Nobody looking at each other.

The power of wordplay, y’all. And yes, we hype everything up for a reason. And the reality is often very far from what’s being presented. It’s just business though.

(Hope you find this helpful!)

And if anyone wants to fact check my knowledge, please feel free. I have nothing to hide.

Thank you, Marketing An🫶n!

This whole thing is definitely confusing, but it's nice to know that, a. It's all business, and b. How the business works.

This is all helpful, and really quite interesting 😊 so, once again thank you, and I hope you don't mind if I and a few others will call in to ask the next time something drops 😅

[littlespoonevan]

Sending this to you bc I know you don't 100% believe in canon buddie. I don't really agree when people say that buddie has to happen any minute now. Is it just me or are they not very romantically coded at all? I struggle to find anything between them that isn't platonic. The guardianship thing? To me it seems normal for close bffs to do that. The extremely sexually charged kitchen scene? That was 3 seasons ago and hasn't happened again. Of course we can speculate based on those moments and say they'd be perfect for setting up buddie. But what do we actually have, without speculation? Maybe one or two looks exchanged between them, like during the couch metaphor convo? Also, atp neither of them is even canonically attracted to men. I say all of this as a buddie shipper, I want them to be together and I enjoy the speculations. But then I actually watch a new episode and I don't really see anything in the text that seems to lead up to it. Of course I'm hoping that'll change in future episodes but yeah. Idk, what do you think? Am I being too sober?

hey anon! i’m going to apologise in advance for how longwinded this answer is going to get but i wanna make sure i address all your points!! 

so one thing i went into the fandom believing (and something i still stand by) is that in s2 and 3 there is very little outside of buck and eddie’s dynamic with chris that implies anything romantic between them. i think the same can be argued in part for s4 and 5 (though i do believe something has shifted but i’ll get to that later!). and i know chris is so intrinsically tied to their dynamic it’s like, well what’s the point of removing him from the equation? but the thing is, for me, it’s about needing to see romantic attraction.

like, yes they’re a family, yes buck acts as a co-parent to chris, yes they’re partners and confidants and everything in between and yes they love each other. all of that is canon and none of it is extrapolation on our part. but all of it exists in this murky realm of plausible deniability. it could be romantic but it could also conveniently just be a very strong platonic bond if the show chooses to keep it that way. it’s Schrodinger's love story.

because, as we’ve all discussed before, the show very pointedly doesn’t define their relationship. except for the "you’re badass under pressure, brother” and the “you said it, brother” comments in s2 and buck calling eddie his best friend in 3x03, it’s never said out loud what they are to each other - particularly in these later seasons when their bond has only gotten stronger. and i think that’s absolutely deliberate. 

so if i were to describe my own views on everything right now i would say i’m cautiously optimistic. 

i believe there are writers and directors on the show who would make buddie canon in a heartbeat if given the green light, i believe the actors would be all for it and i believe the door has been left open for it to happen but i’m also not 100% convinced it will yet 

(especially because this is uncharted territory, like when has a network show Ever let two of their male leads fall in love and be together based on what was originally a fan theory????).

because as much as there are these underlying metaphors about hearts and the universe that we’re picking up on (and again, i believe they’re on purpose), i wouldn’t think the general audience is picking up on that. likewise, even though the fandom believes something like the eddieana breakup is queer coded (and i agree!!!) idk to what extent the general audience would make that leap??? like you said, as far as canon is concerned right now nothing has been confirmed to say either of them are attracted to men. my mom watches this show and i Know if buck and eddie suddenly got together in the morning she would be extremely confused. 

at this point what it would take to convince me is very simple. all i need is one close up shot on one of their faces while they look at the other person with the right music in the background and the right look on their face and i’m sold. that’s it. that’s all they’d have to do. they’ve already laid the groundwork. just give me one five second scene that would allude to something more as far as their feelings for each other are concerned

because right now, if i take off my shipper goggles and try to be objective my list of buddie scenes that made me sit up and go ‘wait this could be something more’ only consists of:

the kitchen scene in 3x09 (more so for the conversation before the flirting actually lmao)

buck’s reaction to the well collapse in 3x15

carla commenting on eddie’s relationship with ana in 4x13 (simply because the fandom had been predicting it for WEEKS before it happened)

how the shooting scene was filmed

the will reveal (more so for the “because evan. you act like you’re expendable but you’re wrong” part and eddie keeping the whole a secret for reasons unknown)

their dynamic in 5x14

buck’s description of love in 5x18 (actually probably the most explicit reference to buddie i feel they’ve done, especially when combined with ravi’s “a partner should have your back” comment)

the dinner scene in 6x01

those are the scenes i can’t explain. those are the scenes that feel romantically coded for me. those are the scenes that make me think there’s a chance at something. and like i mentioned earlier, i do believe something has shifted since the end of s4. so whether that means the writers have fully committed to bringing their relationship to fruition remains to be seen but they’ve definitely upped the ante.

i guess ultimately, to answer your question, i don’t think there’s anything wrong with reserving judgement right now or not being 100% convinced. i know sometimes there can be assumptions about why people feel like that but i think that can sort of feel a bit dismissive??? like, i don’t think the show is homophobic, i don’t think the show is queerbaiting, i’m absolutely nOT an ex-destiel shipper who believes this is a supernatural do-over (i have blessedly never seen a single ep of that show). i’m just waiting for a very clear and explicit indication that buck and/or eddie like each other and intend to do something about it.

i think what it comes down to is if that negatively impacts your view of the show?? like will i be disappointed if buddie doesn’t happen? of course. but will it ruin the show for me? absolutely not. i love speculating, i love reading theories, i love feeling unhinged about all the metaphors surrounding their relationship, i love every teeny tiny morsel of a scene we get between them and 100% believe they are the kind of person each other deserve at this point. but also that’s enough for me??? hell, it’s more than some canon ships have given me before lmao. and i feel like even if they don’t end up together, i still trust the writers to give them an ending that’s satisfying or, at the very least, is open to interpretation, y’know????

so yeah, i don’t know if any of this is helpful, anon, but i think if you’re still able to enjoy the ride and take their scenes for what they are then you don’t need to worry about what’s coming down the line 💛

[zoyalais-moved]

Going Back the Way We’ve Come

World: modern au, lawyers au

Ship: Zoyalai

Word Count: 7785

AO3

Zoya set her briefcase on her desk, taking a moment to remove her coat and glance at the paperwork that’s been left there by her secretary, Genya, before speaking.

"The sign outside says Zoya Nazyalensky, so unless you’re my long lost twin, I suggest you leave," she said, investigating a folder that had been tossed onto her desk. Zoya picked it up, paging through it for a moment.

"Would you really let a long lost twin into your office, Nazyalensky?" Lantsov’s irritatingly smooth voice responded. Zoya lowered the folder enough to glare at him.

"No, but if you were, I would have liked to see you in my office. Gauge the competition."

Lantsov’s brows went up in easy surprise, but he made no move to leave, one leg thrown over the other, as if more comfortable here on her couch than anywhere else. And now she was left wondering why Genya let him into her office at all, when she was usually so careful about who goes in and out. Perhaps she thought Zoya might have grown tolerant of her insufferable co-worker.

Saints, was she wrong.

"So, what is it you want?" she asked, dropping the folder onto her desk and making a mental note to remind Genya not to accept cases without her explicit approval.

"Just the pleasure of being greeted with your scowl at 7 am" he cocked his head at her, a grin spreading over his face. "That’s the one!"

Zoya rolled her eyes, "you’re here to waste my time then? Lantsov, some of us have actual work to attend to."

He snorted, "the Sobol case? Please, if you needed time to solve that one you wouldn’t be at this firm."

Zoya crossed her arms, leaning back against her desk so he could feel the full force of her glare, "how do you know about that one?"

She’d only just gone through the file herself, and Lantsov can’t have arrived more than five minutes ago.

He glanced at his watch once before standing up and straightening the jacket of his suit, that ever-present grin still on his face, "because I’m the one who rejected it."

Great. Now she was getting Lantsov’s reject cases? This would not do at all.

"And you came to boast about a much better one, I take it?" she tried not to sound too resentful.

"There’s always something to boast about—in this case, the pool going about which of us will make senior partner."

This caught Zoya’s attention, and she straightened, her eyes going wide. She had suspected for some time that a senior partner would be chosen soon. She hadn't expected to have any competition, though. But it seemed he’d only come to drop a bomb and see how she responded to it, because his hazel eyes swept her with a calculated look, turned almost amused. 

Zoya had wanted this position ever since she’d come to the firm—because it meant she wasn’t a replaceable part in the firm. It confirmed that she was the greatest. Nikolai Lantsov would not be the one to take that from her.

"how do you even hear about these things?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

"I have my ways," Lantsov said with a shrug, glancing again at his watch again before starting towards the door. She had wanted him gone since he'd appeared but now she wanted to smack him for leaving without giving her more details.

He paused at the door, turning to give her another self-assured grin, his words punctuated with a wink, "It’ll be a pleasure to beat you again, Nazyalensky."

His head disappeared seconds before the briefcase hit the office door. 

Here’s how Zoya remembers it.

She had just been hired as an associate to the firm, fresh out of law school—first in her year, naturally. Juris had been her mentor, had been the one to shape her into who she was now, the greatest lawyer in the country.

That is, until the young attorney from the Lantsov firm was the opposing counsel during her very first case—and her first loss. 

The one thing Juris was sure to remind Zoya of was this: never underestimate your opponent.

But once she’d discovered that her first case would be against Nikolai Lantsov, ivy league graduate, and spoiled rich boy working for his dad, Zoya hadn’t let the possibility of loss even cross her mind.

Which had been her first mistake.

Her second, the one she would spend so long regretting, was thinking that justice was ever served in the courtroom.

Her client had been innocent, which somehow hurt even more than Zoya’s pride when the evidence started stacking up against her. But Nikolai Lantsov had arrived ten minutes late and wooed both judge and jury to his favor even before he began presenting his evidence.

Which had also been the first time Zoya had witnessed his shift. It was the moment those sparkly eyes turned from arrogant to clever. He had called on his witnesses. And then on her’s. And then on her client. And then he’d grilled each of them until he twisted a new, elaborate story into their view.

And by the time it was Zoya’s turn to defend her client, their minds had been made. She had lost before she had the chance to even begin.

To make matters worse, once the gavel had banged, sentencing her client to eight years in prison, Nikolai Lantsov had strolled up to stand beside a struck Zoya, eyes gleaming with amusement. 

"Am I your first?" he almost sounded excited, "You never forget your first."

He would have been right, even if she had never had the misfortune of seeing him again. But three months later, a new attorney had transferred to their firm, and the second Zoya had met those hazel eyes again, she knew she would spend every moment of her life making up for that loss.

"Why was this on my desk?" 

Zoya dropped the stack of folders onto Genya’s desk, right on top of her phone, which was open on a video call to what appeared to be a mess of brown hair with glasses just visible underneath. David. 

Genya sighed dramatically, fluttering her lashes at Zoya prettily, "I know you aren’t the smart one around, Zo, but use context clues."

"No, why are there eight cases I know even you could win on my desk, Genya." she replied, folding her arms and glaring at the red-head, who was now busy digging out her phone from beneath the piles of paper. Then something occurred to Zoya, "wait, is this because of the pool? Are you trying to up my wins with kiddy cases so I’ll get it?"

Genya dropped her phone, eyes going wide, "you know about that?"

"About the pool? Of course, I do, Lantsov told me."

"He… he just told you?" Genya’s penciled brows drew together in either shock or surprise, or some mix of the two. 

Zoya quirked a brow, "don’t change the topic, Safin. Get me some real cases and stop letting Lantsov into my office."

Genya blinked twice before plastering on a smile, "of course, Your Highness."

Zoya didn’t miss the few choice words muttered to David as she walked away. 

The only issue Zoya had with clients was that they were a nuisance.

But then so was half of humanity, and at least these paid her for her wasted time. 

In this case, though, she just wished they would arrive at the set time. Zoya had been waiting at the cafe for nearly an hour, a now-empty cup of coffee in hand. She clicked her phone on to check the time. An hour and ten minutes. 

Maybe I’ll just put him out of his misery and let him join his dead wife, she considered. Zoya thought she would make an excellent criminal—she, at least, would never get caught.

"Shall we order?" 

Zoya’s gaze snapped up and met a pair of hazel eyes. The Saints had chosen hell for her today, she knew, as he settled in the chair across from her. 

"Lantsov, disappear, I’m working," she said, picking up her phone and making a good show of being very, very busy. She could feel his calculating gaze on her but refused to acknowledge it. She texted Genya.

Z: who’s winning? 

G: me, at any given point.

G: but if you mean the pool, it’s even.

Z: hm. who’s your money on?

G: technically both ;)

Z: I’m your boss, Safin

G: wtvr. give Nikolai a kiss for me ( ˘ ³˘)♥

Zoya rolled her eyes. Genya could be nearly as insufferable as Lantsov on some days. Lantsov, who currently had his head propped up on his hands, pouting in her direction. Zoya huffed—did he even realize how messy he looked then? His golden hair looked like he’d run a hand through it a dozen or so times that morning, and he was in a blue short-sleeve button-down and jeans. It occurred to Zoya that she’d never actually seen Nikolai outside of work. Never in anything less than a twelve hundred dollar suit. He looked good.

"Who’s making the great Zoya Nazyalensky blush?" came his teasing voice, intruding on her thoughts. Was it her imagination or was there an edge to even his casual tone?

She shook her head, setting aside her phone and forcing all thoughts of messy golden hair out of her head. 

"None of your business," she snapped, "and you need to leave before my client shows up."

"Why’s that?" he asked, cocking his head to the side like a lost puppy.

"Because I need plausible deniability when I strangle him for being this late." 

He surprised her with a hearty laugh. Then he was sitting upright, leaning across the table as if to whisper a grave secret, "well isn’t it great that you could have me as your defense attorney?"

Zoya almost smiled, but the words tugged at something in her memory, making something in her chest tighten. "Who else would defend a guilty person with such conviction?"

Nikolai looked taken aback, a flash of hurt crossing his features, but Zoya had already stood up, making up her mind to leave and grabbing her briefcase. 

"I have things to do," she said, not glancing at him as she plucked her phone from the table and turned to leave. She knew without looking back that he hadn’t moved long after she’d left him.

Back at the firm, Zoya made everyone aware of her presence with the rhythmic clicking of her heels. Mainly Genya, as she stopped in front of her desk, located just beside Zoya’s enclosed office, and dropped a few forms in front of her.

"Fill those out for me, and call back Antonov- since he didn’t bother to show up today, I’ll be working late. Which means you’ll be working late. And find me some coffee before I end up on trial for murdering someone in this building."

Genya glanced at the forms in front of her, toying with a strand of hair, "oh, he called and rescheduled for tomorrow. Said he had some business to attend to."

Zoya had reached her office door and paused in front of it, turning to glare fully at Genya, "and you didn’t think to mention that?"

She shrugged innocently, "slipped my mind."

"Two coffees, Safin." she managed to grind out, "and quit telling Lantsov where to find me."

She ignored Genya’s protest, marching into her office with even more anger on her mind than there was before. Zoya tossed aside her belongings, slumping onto the couch across her desk.

She had less than two weeks to prove herself worthy to become senior partner, or Nikolai Lantsov would become her boss. Somehow even losing to him hadn’t felt as horrible as the idea of working for him. Worse than that, she knew he was a good attorney. She’d attended dozens of his court cases, hidden in the back rows, as well as spoken to old clients. And he had already had that position at his old firm, the same one he’d left to work here instead only three years prior. 

Zoya wanted to believe she was the only one for the role, but Lantsov was a competition like nothing she'd dealt with before. The single person she couldn’t decide how to feel about until today. 

You never forget your first.

Saints, he was right.

By the time the words on her screen began to blur together, it was past midnight, and Zoya was still inside her office, still trying to scrape together a good defense for a client that couldn't even provide decent evidence. She sighed, tearing off her glasses and rubbing at her tired eyes. 

Saints, when had she last slept a full night? 

Coffee. I need coffee. 

There was probably some at the cafeteria, she considered, ready to call out for Genya. But through the glass walls of her office, she could see the dark corridor, and Genya's empty seat. She'd forgotten that she'd sent Safin home early.

Zoya sighed, forcing her legs to stand. She slipped on an extra pair of sneakers she kept in her office rather than her heels. It was far too late for that, and besides, no one would be around to hear her. 

The cafeteria was just down the hall to the left, and Zoya was almost never there. She preferred having her food in her office, or going out to eat. And Genya provided everything else. She really deserves a raise , Zoya considered, making her way down the dark hall.

The lights were dim and Zoya didn't bother turning them on, making out the vague shape of the cabinets and a refrigerator, the coffee machine was located just beside the old microwave that had been there since she'd first come to the firm. Someone must have made coffee hours ago, the machine was half full and the glass was cool to the touch. Zoya sighed, feeling for a mug and pouring it inside, too tired to make more. 

She sipped at her cold coffee, which did little to prevent her eyes from dragging downward, her mind from straying. 

Right now, she needed to find at least two witnesses that would be willing to account for her client. Only, Antonov had not exactly been well-liked, and his pitiful relationship with his wife seemed to be common knowledge. While hate can't by any means be considered proof of his guilt in her murder, it certainly made for good motive. 

Especially if somebody needed him out of the scene . 

A sudden crash sounded, almost making Zoya drop her mug, heart pounding in her chest. She frowned, setting it down and slowly walking closer to the source. But the halls were empty, and what little she could see was just a bunch of abandoned cubicles where the associates worked. The only other office on this floor was… 

She crossed the hall, turning right just as another crash sounded, this time shattering into a million little pieces. 

With Nikolai Lantsov standing over them.

Zoya watched for a moment as he pressed his hands together around his nose, shut his eyes tight. 

Saints . 

His office was a mess. His normally disorganized desk had been sweeped clear, all the junk he kept there now littering the floor around him. Papers and files, an open briefcase, a broken vase all around him. She watched him run a hand through his hair in frustration, his shoulders heaving with nearly palpable rage. 

And she'd forgotten glass walls worked both ways. 

He froze when he first caught sight of her, but Zoya must've had on a similarly shocked expression as well. For a second neither of them moved, and then she crossed the hall to his office and opened the door, not sure what she was doing there, but certain that he should not be left alone right now. 

The mess was far worse up close, and Nikolai Lantsov seemed to be the worst of it. His normally perfect attire was torn, his shirt wrinkled and the buttons only half done. His tie seemed to have suffered the fit of anger, now left abandoned on the ground. And the source of the first crash appeared to be his shoe, since only one currently covered his foot, the other lost somewhere in the mess. 

He swallowed, his throat bobbing, "I thought everyone had left." 

Zoya raised both brows at him, "so you thought you'd ransack your own office? Just for sport?" 

Nikolai sighed, his eyes taking in the room for the first time. " Saints ," he breathed, but made no move to pick anything up. 

Zoya shrugged, turning to dust some glass off the very nice set of couches in his office and taking a seat. 

"I'm not here to help you clean," she informed him. 

The ghost of his usual smile twitched at his lips, "no? Then why are you here?" 

Zoya paused, not quite sure how to respond. Because you're supposed to be perfect. Because if you aren't then what on earth am I?  

She shrugged, "just be glad for the company, Lantsov." 

He nodded, allowing it, and then chose to sit on the single couch beside her, not bothering to check for any shards before slumping into it. 

She watched perfect Nikolai Lantsov, son of Alexander Lantsov, golden boy, mock trial champion, and ivy league graduate completely fall apart. And somehow she got no relief from it. Somehow, it didn't make her feel any better than before. 

"So, who's winning?" She asked. His eyes snapped to her, wide and haunted. There were dark smudges under his eyes that she hadn't noticed that morning. 

"What?" He managed, still looking shaken. 

"Senior partner. Any news on that? I'm guessing everyone is betting on you, since you're the office favorite." She said. He looked tired. Lost. But they weren't even friends, barely co-workers that couldn't stand to be around each other. Surely he didn't want to discuss whatever this was with her . 

So why did she want him to? 

Realization dawned on him and a wave of something akin to guilt washed over his features. 

"Oh, Nazyalensky." He muttered, shaking his head. He didn't elaborate further. 

Zoya was not going to ask. They didn't ask each other these things. She didn't ask who he'd gone out with or why he'd left his father's firm. He didn't ask about where she'd come from or why she never went home in the summer. Asking wasn't their thing. 

And yet. "Any particular reason you took it out on the office?" 

Nikolai slumped further into his chair, his messy golden hair catching the dim light of his office, making his features seem almost ghostly. She'd never seen him like this, and it was partly scary, but also partly relieving. As though this were some revelation that he was, in fact, human. 

"I won't tell you it's going to be okay, Lantsov. I'm a criminal attorney, I've seen the shit this world pulls people through. I've seen how many don't make it out. But right now, I'm here, so you can either wallow alone in your misery, or be glad of the fact that I bothered to ask to begin with."

He blinked at her with some surprise, and then huffed a laugh. "Alright then," he said, nodding to himself, "I just found out my father's going on trial. And I've been tasked to be the attorney against him." 

Whatever sharp words Zoya had been preparing abandoned her in an instant. She frowned, "I wasn't aware you were a big fan of the guy." 

Nikolai laughed, "no, but I'm not exactly thrilled to be the one to try and put him behind bars. Especially not if he has Vasya represent him— the man can't work his way around a car, but he's a snake in court. I'm not even sure I can win a case like this, even if my clients are the victims." 

Zoya nodded, her mind trying to make connections. She'd heard of the case against the Lantsov firm, women stepping forward about sexual harassment in the workplace. She hadn't realized who it was, or how Nikolai would somehow be dragged into it. 

"You're an idiot, you know." She informed him. 

Nikolai blanched, looking at her with confusion. Zoya gave him a one-shouldered shrug, "you're the best attorney here, Lantsov, as much as I hate to admit it. You've beaten me , and I thought I was the best. So quit worrying about your own competence and concern yourself with how awkward Christmas is going to be from now on." 

He laughed with surprise, his hazel eyes almost returning to their normal gleam. 

"Nazyalensky, I-" 

"No, those were not compliments. You're the best until I make senior partner or you somehow become unlucky enough to oppose me in court again, which I doubt will happen in the near future. I haven't lost a single case in the full five years I've been practicing," she caught his gaze and leaned forward so her last words were very clear. "And that record won't change." 

Nikolai considered her, his eyes flicking over her face. She wasn't sure when the space between them had become so little, just that they were closer now. Just that her heart was beating faster now. 

"Well," he said softly, close enough that his words brushed against her cheek, making her lashes flutter, "imagine how it feels knowing I was the only one to beat you."

She let her lips curve into a smirk, and whispered, "don’t get used to it."

Then she was standing, forcing her gaze away from him and marching out of the office. It was probably time to go home by then, but with the way her heart was beating and the heat in her cheeks, the only thing Zoya wanted to do was keep her mind off of Lantsov, and on anything else.

Witnesses were a pain in the ass. They were all so saint-forsaken weak when it came to testifying. She saw the way Nikolai dealt with them, the one time they’d had to work together for a case. He played every part they needed— flirtatious attorney, gentle soul, rich golfing guy, drinks-on-me, and somehow they all worked. 

Zoya had exactly one method of dealing with people in general: scaring the shit out of them.

And that worked, too.

"That’s the court date. I will see you on that day, won’t I Mrs. Krupin? Without a subpoena order this time." 

The woman bobbed her head in understanding, and Zoya tried not to roll her eyes until she had turned around fully and began walking away. She needed this case out of the way so she could sleep. Or focus on other things.

Like last night. Like Nikolai Lantsov.

She shoved aside the thought, but her steps had barely gotten her out of the park when her phone rang. Of all the people… 

"Make it quick, make it short." she answered swiftly.

"That’s no way to speak to your favorite co-worker," said Nikolai on the other end, but even she could tell his humor was strained. 

"Oh, sorry Alina I didn’t realize this was you," 

"Very funny," said Nikolai dryly. "Listen, would you mind meeting me real quick? I could use some advice about yesterday's dilemma."

Zoya stopped walking, figuring a taxi wasn’t worth hailing if she was just going to turn back to the firm. She sighed, "and why would I choose to help you instead of take a well-deserved nap?"

"Coffee on me?"

Zoya considered this. "And cake."

She could practically hear his smile, "and cake." 

"What do you mean Friday?" Zoya nearly dropped her cup in surprise.

Nikolai winced, "I may have let this gather dust on my desk for a few weeks when I saw my father’s name on it. I had no idea what the file actually contained."

Zoya stared at him, trying to figure out how someone so well put together could also be so stupid. And have such stupidly nice hair.

"I’m going to try very hard not to strangle you right now, Lantsov." she said, shaking her head.

Nikolai pushed the plate with a slice of half-eaten chocolate cake towards her with a grin, "that’s what the cake is for."

She sighed, dipping her fork back for another bite. He was very lucky this place made the best cake.

"Okay, well give me some good news. Have you talked to anyone from the firm yet?" she asked.

Nikolai sighed, leaning back in his chair and making a good show of appearing very comfortable, and totally at ease. "I can’t do that."

Zoya froze, "you can’t what?"

"I can’t go to the office—legally, I can’t even step foot inside."

Zoya watched him, searching for signs to discredit this fact. But Nikolai was a perfect actor, she’d discovered as much on their very first trial. He could be completely terrified and still smile and crack a joke. 

Not last night. Not with me.

"What about the people? Have Isaak find you their numbers, maybe if you ask them to meet you—"

"I tried that," said Nikolai, "and that led to a much bigger problem."

"Which is?" Zoya was almost afraid to ask.

"None of them want to testify. They’re willing to give anonymous statements, but that’s as far as they can be pushed." he sighed, a crease forming between his brows. "They’re scared of him, Zoya, far too scared to actually do anything. And anyone who wasn’t directly harmed by the man is too afraid of losing their jobs to say anything helpful. In every way, it’s a losing case, and it’ll be on my head."

Zoya tapped her fingers restlessly against the table, watching him. 

"Why’d you leave?" she asked finally.

"What do you mean?" he asked, frowning.

"Why did you leave your father’s firm. You had a good position there, you were definitely making more money, and I know you aren’t some schoolboy desperate for independence. So, why?"

Nikolai sighed, straightening in his seat. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she was growing to appreciate, and also take note of. He was nervous. 

His hazel eyes focused on her, and there was something of a secret behind the natural gleam. "I was fired."

Whatever Zoya had been expecting, that had certainly not been it. 

"What?"

"Yeah," he said, his gaze roving over the cafe around them, words dropping lower, "about a month after my case against you, something happened with one of the secretaries. With what I know now, it must have been a similar situation, but I had no clue back then. Still, something smelled off, and I had to know. I just had to."

Zoya couldn’t stop herself from leaning forward as he grew more intent, animating his words with his hands. 

"My honest guess was that my dad had dropped her salary, or had bullied her out of the job—you never had the displeasure of meeting him, but it wasn’t uncommon. Only, he wouldn’t tell me, and Vasya seemed aware of whatever it was, but it was all so far under wraps the most I got out was her name. We got into it, me and my father, and I did what every reasonable attorney does when faced with matters regarding the law. I threatened to sue."

He swallowed, throat bobbing. "I never got the chance to. Not long after, I had transferred to your firm," a smile twitched at his lips, "hard to forget the last time someone really gave you a run for your money."

"In case you forgot, I lost that day," Zoya said, but it was the first time she’d recounted the memory without copious amounts of rage.

"That didn’t make you any less of a good opponent," he said, his bright eyes swearing his words were true. Zoya hoped the heat in her cheeks was from the sun. 

Then something seemed to click in Nikolai’s mind, and she could practically see he cogs in his brain working, "oh, Saints,"

Zoya frowned as he rushed to stand, snatching his briefcase from the chair, a wide grin spreading over his features.

"Nikolai, what is it?"

"Two good things just happened, Zoya," he announced proudly, "the first? I figured out exactly how I’m going to win."

Zoya crossed her arms, looking him over once. She raised a brow.

"And the second?" 

Nikolai gave her his most charming grin, as though he knew the words would earn him a sharp glare and wanted to revel in saying them. "You finally called me by my first name."

G: did you find her? How'd it go?  

Zoya frowned as she approached Genya's desk at the same time she received a cryptic message from her secretary. 

"Who am I meant to find?" She asked. 

Genya glanced up from her phone long enough to frown, "what?" 

"This," Zoya spun her own screen so the other woman could read it, and watched Genya's eyes go wide. 

"Oh, that's not meant for you," she said. "It's something a friend and I were planning, just ignore it." 

Zoya raised an unamused brow, "okay, plan it later because we need to get a court order by the end of the day, and I'm going to need you to do that for me, Gen." 

"It's always 'Gen' when you need something," she said sadly, "never 'Gen, I've come to confess my undying love and devotion for you', always such a disappointment, Zoya." 

Zoya looked back at her, exasperating, "you're married! " 

"That's not the point." 

Zoya rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile touching her lips as she entered her office. For once, there was no stack of papers awaiting her on the desk. Just a single envelope. 

Zoya scanned it's contents once, releasing an exasperated sigh. The court order had apparently been sent, courtesy of Genya Safin, who hadn't bothered to mention the fact. Saints. 

And it was for Friday morning, the same day as Nikolai's court date. Which meant she could either attend her own case and win, or blow it off to support him. 

He doesn't need me there. 

But she'd been the only one to see Nikolai's state the night she'd found him destroying his office. He would never let anyone see him crack like that. And for some reason, Zoya Nazyalensky was finding it harder and harder not to care about it. 

About him. 

It was nine o'clock in the morning and Zoya Nazyalensky was running in heels. 

It was a task she had mastered in college, when the overload of classes she had taken overlapped in time and happened to be full campuses apart, but she had grown rusty over the years, and her toes were already screaming in pain by the time she reached the hall. 

Zoya had not lost a single case since she'd gone against Nikolai Lantsov, and she wasn't going to lose one because of Nikolai Lantsov. 

So when she'd strongly recommended that her client go for a change in counsel, had convinced him he'd lose the case with her as his defendant, it hadn't hurt Zoya's record nearly as much as her pride. 

Her heels clicked loudly in the empty hall when she entered, the building distantly familiar to her mind, though she couldn't place it just then. 

She found the door she was looking for, once again struck by a sense of deja vu that she absolutely had no time for. And then she was slipping inside as noiselessly as possible. 

The hall was fuller than most cases she'd been privy to attend—but then Alexander Lantsov wasn't most people. Zoya sat in the last row on the left, where Nikolai was visible leaning back against the table, seemingly at ease to everyone else. Only Zoya noticed his stiff soldiers and the way his gaze kept flicking back to his father. 

"-is that all?" The judge was saying. Zoya realized there was someone currently giving a statement, though Nikolai's broad shoulders were positioned so she couldn't see the person themselves. 

"No further questions, your honor," came a smooth voice that made her gaze snap to the right. Vasily Lantsov. He was shorter than Nikolai, and far less attractive, with paler hair and a weak chin, his suit buttons struggling against the curve of his stomach. 

But he was also grinning as though he knew he had already won. Saints. 

"If Mr Lantsov would like to call any other witnesses…" continued Vasily, his eyes scanning the rows of seats behind Nikolai. Most of them were men, many of which she didn't think had anything to do with Nikolai's side to begin with. She frowned. "Unless of course, there are none? I believe we were promised an abundance of evidence, plenty of victim accounts, and yet… none appear to be present."

This was the part where she expected the judge to side with Nikolai, or to at least tell off Vasily for speaking out of place. But he must have thought the same thing everyone in that room was thinking, the same thing Zoya was thinking. 

Nikolai Lantsov had no other victims to call on.

Nikolai straightened, beginning to pace towards the jury, "you're absolutely right, I have brought no one else. But, your honor, I believe any evidence, if it can be tracked to the appropriate person, with a time and date stamp, would be just as honest, would it not?" 

The judge considered Nikolai for a moment, the lines of his face drawing into a scowl, "how so?" 

"Say, if I had accounts from every single victim, their own story and a way that connects it to them, would that be considered reasonable evidence, accepted by the court?" 

He spoke like he knew the answer. Zoya tracked him with her eyes. He was watching the judge intently as the man thought of this new statement. "Yes, it can be considered reasonable." 

"Objection-" began Vasily, the voice of whom was quickly turning Zoya's mood sour. No wonder Nikolai doesn't talk about him much. 

"Overruled," the judge said, folding his hands over his stomach to watch the proceedings. He must have seen Nikolai in action before, just as Zoya had, because they both anticipated a performance. 

"I'd like to call on the same witness, Your Honor. She has all the evidence you need with her." 

Zoya frowned. No clever remarks, no finding holes in the system. Her gaze followed Nikolai back to the seat where a witness was seated. Only this time, she was in clear view, and there was no way Zoya could mistaken her for anyone else. 

Not with that red hair, those amber eyes she saw every single morning. 

Genya Safin raised her chin as everyone's attention settled on her. The most I got was her name. 

Oh, Saints. 

Genya didn't even flinch as she picked up her phone and settled it on the desk in front of her. 

"Miss Safin," said Nikolai, "please recount to the jury what evidence you've gathered." 

Zoya noticed the way her fingers shook slightly as she opened her phone. "As I said, I worked closely with Mr. Lantsov, but I had many friends in the workplace. I was the one people went to when they had trouble, when they needed help, or when they were looking to have a good time. I knew everyone because it was my job to know. I spoke to everyone because I had to." 

She let out a shuddering breath, but when she spoke again, her voice was steady, and strong. "And I never delete a thing." 

Then she set down her phone so the speaker was directed at the microphone, and began playing a recording. It seemed to be an audio message, a woman's broken voice speaking. "Genya, I know you've been through this too. I heard the stories, please, please. Tell me what to do. How do I fix this? I'm scared, Gen. Help me, please."

The recording ended, and then she played another, and another. Some of them were messages she read out, others full two-sided phone calls she'd recorded. And each of them a new voice confirming Alexander Lantsov's guilt. 

And by the end of it the change in the room was clear. Vasily's face was white as a sheet, Alexander looking just as shaken as his son. The jury had various reactions from horror to anger to some with tears streaming down their faces. And Nikolai Lantsov stood ramrod straight, not daring to look left, his entire posture stiff. 

"Is there anything you'd like to add before we adjourn?" Asked the judge. The words were meant for Nikolai, but he only glanced once at Genya. She nodded, and when she spoke again, her voice was loud and clear, her eyes glaring daggers at Alexander Lantsov. 

"You told me once I was ruined. But I am not ruined, I am ruination." She narrowed her eyes at him. "And I hope you rot in hell for what you've done." 

Zoya didn't get a chance to see Genya once the hall was cleared up, and Nikolai seemed to disappear just as quickly. It wasn't until hours later that she found the latter wandering around the park a few streets away from their firm, still dressed in that morning's suit, his countenance just as shaken as it had been earlier. 

"What, no celebratory drinks for the win?" Asked Zoya as she approached him. Nikolai looked up with surprise, his features relaxing into a smile when he saw that it was her. 

"The drinks part I'll admit is tempting, but I don't see much of a celebration to be had." He admitted. 

"Don't tell me you're feeling guilty about this morning," she said, eyeing him warily. 

Surprise crossed his features, "saints, no, I'm glad to be rid of the man. Granted, my mother won't so much as look in my direction, but…" he shook his head. 

"Out with it, Lantsov," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. 

He sighed, "it could have been sooner. It should have. If I hadn't left the firm so quickly, if I hadn't let him force me out…" 

Zoya swept him from head to toe with a sharp look, "self-pity doesn't suit you, Nikolai, so drop it." 

"That's not-" 

"Yes, it is. And I don't want to hear it. You did a good thing back there, you can stop dwelling on the past and start working towards something bigger. Like making senior partner." 

He straightened, "what are you talking about?" 

Zoya forced herself not to avert her gaze from the intense look in his eyes. "My client asked for a change in defense. I lost someone for the firm on the same day you cracked a big case, Nikolai, it doesn't take a genius to connect those dots." 

Realization dawned on his face, then to her surprise, a smile spread across his lips. "Tell you what, meet me back here in two hours—and trust me, it's worth it."

For the second time in her life, Zoya Nazyalensky was waiting on Nikolai Lantsov. 

He arrived fashionably late, back in something more casual, jeans and a dark collared shirt. Zoya raised a brow, "it's even more surprising when you're late now that I know you own a watch." 

But he didn't wait for Zoya to make her way through the list of snarky comments she'd been preparing, a grin already on his face. It was dark out, and it was definitely getting to be too chilly for the skirt she had on. 

"You make quite the sight outside of work, Nazyalensky," he said, looking her over appreciatively. 

Zoya rolled her eyes, "I hope you didn't drag me out here for more of your fruitless flirting, Lantsov, because I'll just walk away now." 

A smile spread over his features.

"Believe me, you don't want to just yet," 

Without warning, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her along with him as he turned back down the street towards… 

Zoya frowned, "where are we going?" 

He didn't answer until they were standing directly in front of it. The same hall they'd been at that morning, the one she'd felt was familiar. It was a plain building with steps leading up to it and large glass doors currently closed. 

For reasons unbeknownst to her, Nikolai dropped her hand. Zoya tried not to be disappointed. 

"Believe it or not, I have seen the city before so it'll take more than that to impress me," said Zoya with a raised brow. 

His grin never faltered, "I brought you here for two reasons, Nazyalensky. Let me at least get to the first without you threatening to murder me once, will you?" 

"I'll do my best," she said with a sweet smile. But she had to admit her curiosity was piqued. 

"First, I figured out why you hate me." 

If he didn't look so certain of his statement, Zoya might have laughed. And to her own surprise, she found that her automatic response had been to rebuke it immediately. How could I possibly hate you, you idiot. 

"Did you find my secret list of reasons to hate Nikolai Lantsov?" She asked dryly. 

"No," he nodded back at the building. "Recognized it, didn't you? This was where we held our first trial. The one you lost. See, I thought you were angry because you lost, but you weren't, were you?" 

She swallowed, her own words echoing back to her from only a few weeks ago, who else would defend a guilty person with such conviction?

"You were angry because you thought she was innocent." 

Zoya folded her arms over her chest. She had expected something ridiculous, but this had exceeded even those thoughts. Yet something in her wanted to listen. Wanted to hear what he had to say. Because maybe, just maybe, he was right. 

"Which is exactly why I brought these," he announced, teaching into his pocket to retrieve a few folded papers, reaching them out to her with a pleased expression on his face. But Zoya caught the bit of nervousness in his eyes as she took the papers from him. 

"I was there at the trial, Nikolai. I've seen all the evidence." 

"This one's not for the court," he said, "this one's for you." 

It was a list. A list of names she was surprised to find she recognized, and beside them, various amounts of money. Transactions. 

"Nikolai, what is this?" She asked quietly, rereading each name with disbelief. 

"Backup," he admitted, "something I never ended up using because my claim was strong enough without it. But there's the list of witnesses you called, and the amount of money they'd been paid off to give their statements for your client." 

Something like relief, but far more intense, exploded in Zoya's chest. Eight years in prison, and she'd been counting them down, certain she'd made a mistake. How many pro bono cases had she taken just to make up for that loss? She'd come to serve the justice system, and had been so sure it had tricked her somehow. 

"I never would have taken my client's case if I'd known he was in the wrong." Nikolai's words were quiet, his bright hazel eyes intense and honest. 

Saints, they were beautiful. He was beautiful. 

"And the second thing?" She managed, forcing her thoughts away from how the moon's light caught Nikolai's features at just the right angle, the way his golden hair was mussed just right. The urge she had to thread her fingers through it. 

"Ah, that," he said, and now there was definitely a hint of nervousness in his voice. Maybe more than a bit. Were his ears going pink? 

"Nikolai, what is it?" Zoya asked with a frown.

"I might have… lied about the senior partner competition. And the pool." 

Her brows raised in surprise, "you made up a bet to make me feel better about losing?" 

"No, the bet was definitely real. And the fact that Juris is searching for a senior partner is also true," Nikolai swallowed, glancing away. "But he already found one. He told me as much. You're getting it, Zoya, the position has been yours for months now, he's just waiting for the other partners to sign on before asking you." 

Zoya gaped at Nikolai. Everything she had worked for ever since she'd started working at the firm had been this—the chance to become more than just a small piece in the elaborate clockwork of the workplace. She wanted more, had always wanted more. And now… 

"What do you mean the bet was real?" She asked, eyeing him with distrust. 

Nikolai ran a hand through his hair, a telltale sign that he was nervous. "The bet was about you and me. About how long it would take me to convince you to go out with me." 

Zoya stared at him for a long moment, "why would anyone bet on that?" 

Now, he looked less nervous and more… exasperated. "Come on, Nazyalensky. The entire office figured it out, I didn't think it would take the best attorney in our firm so long to catch on." 

Oh. Oh. 

Zoya was left too struck to speak for a moment. But this was Nikolai. Stupid, stupid Nikolai, the one who'd become her first nemesis and her competition. The same one she'd fought to win against in every single mock trial, and still debated with on every little thing. 

Saints above, it was Nikolai. Always, always Nikolai. 

"You idiot," she said softly. 

His brows drew together in confusion, but whatever he was about to say was silenced when she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him to her, catching his lips with hers. 

Nikolai froze for a moment before his mind seemed to catch up with his body, and then one hand came up to cup her face, the other tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer to him, as though he were afraid she'd disappear if he just let go, his lips writing a promise onto hers. 

 All thoughts seemed to abandon her as they broke apart, Zoya feeling slightly dizzy from the kiss and Nikolai's expression dazed. 

"Zoya…" he began, a crease appearing between his brows. 

"What?" She asked in the space between their breaths. 

"I owe Genya so much money," he admitted. Zoya rolled her eyes, effectively shutting him up by pulling him back to her, his lips expertly parting around hers as she linked her arms around his neck, determined to keep him close.

She knew she now owed Genya a decent some of money too, but Nikolai didn't need to know about that. 

[thorne93]

Inside the Criminal Mind (Part 34)

Prompt: You’re married to Dr. Spencer Reid of the BAU, and are a distinguished doctor yourself on the team. You’re sent down to Miami, Florida for teaching and as a side request from the FBI, to investigate a string of missing persons. When you think you’ve figured out who the unsub is, your life becomes more complicated than you ever could’ve imagined.

Word Count: 3056

Warnings: (throughout the fic –>) death, blood, gore, killings, language, disturbing mental notions, mentions of rapes/murder/etc (You know, Dexter and Criminal Minds related business)

Notes: Thank you so much to @arrow-guy​​​​​​, @carryonmyswansong​​​​​​, and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​ - without each of you, I couldn’t have finished, written, or properly navigated this story. Each of you helped me fish out details that were incredibly important to me. Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong​​​​​​ and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​… Aesthetic by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​

This is a crossover of Criminal Minds x Dexter. First time writing Dexter.

Also, the timeline is after Season 1 of Dexter, but during season 14-ish of Criminal minds into Season 15. Enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The manhunt was still on, and it was hard to pretend like you didn’t know where Doakes was. Dexter informed everyone of the analysis he’d performed, confirming that 18 of the 46 slides where Bay Harbor victims, and 12 were in the criminal database. Forensics was under orders to be ready for any evidence that would be streaming in from Doakes’s apartment. 

Dexter convinced the BAU to pull his protective detail, and at the end of the day, you three grabbed some food and went to Dexter’s apartment to discuss options. 

“So, what did you two decide?” Dexter asked as he sat down. 

“We decided to leave it up to you two,” Spencer politely informed. He wasn’t anything like what he had been before around Dex, or you even. 

“Us? Okay, so… Y/N, what do you want to do?”

“I… I want it to be your decision. I’m not comfortable with us killing Doakes, but I also don’t think I could happily live with him being out there accusing us of killing all the time.”

“I was thinking about it on the way over,” Dexter started, putting his fork down. “And I could either turn myself in--”

You started to protest, but he held up his hand. 

“Or, we could pin it on him.”

“That’s putting an innocent man away,” you challenged lightly. 

“Innocent of these crimes, yes, but Doakes has done some shady shit and he’s killed a lot of people he didn’t have to. When you think about it, who actually contributes more to society? Who has more inherent worth? I have Rita, the kids, Deb. People depend on me, people who need me. I have friends and family. They’d be devastated if anything happened to me, if they knew the truth. Doakes doesn’t have anyone he’s close to. Maybe LaGuerta but even that isn’t a lot of weight. He’s not a horrible cop, he does his job. I do mine. We both keep criminals off the streets.”

You and Spencer gave each other an uneasy look.

“I know it’s not ideal, but he isn’t exactly innocent. I know he’s killed before when he had no reason to. He has a family he never visits, in fact, he hates visiting them. Debra told me about the one time he went to visit them. His mother had asked and asked, and he finally gave in, but she was supposed to help him leave sooner rather than later. But because it’s Deb, they stayed.”

“I don’t like it, but it’s the best option we’ve got,” you agreed. “There are less innocent people to do this to and if we’re going to do it to anyone, Doakes is easier to do it to.” 

Spencer simply shrugged and nodded. “Whatever you two think is best.”

“You’ve steered me right this whole time, Dex, I’ll follow whatever your lead is.” 

So the plan set in motion. He began to go down the list of things he was going to do and needed to get done. He informed you of everything he planned on doing before telling you something that threw you off. 

“I’m going to lie to Doakes. I’m going to tell him that I threatened you and Spencer. I’m going to tell him that you found me, but you were unarmed at the time and I vowed to come after your family, and that’s why you didn’t say anything at the cabin. I made you bandage me up.”

“What? Why?” you asked quickly, panic coursing through you. “Dexter, what are you thinking of doing?”

“Nothing drastic, but in case he gets out, I don’t want him coming after you two. I’ll say it was all me. He hates me, and he’ll be fine to accept that I’m the only killer. Besides, he knows the murders have been going on long before you ever came down to Miami. Secondly…” He took a breath, weighing if he was really about to tell you this next thing. “I’m not going to tell you anything any more. Our deal is off, here and now. Whatever happens with Doakes, whatever I do or don’t do, I don’t want either of you aware of anything I’m doing. Plausible deniability.”

“But we already know you have Doakes hostage,” Spencer retorted, confused. 

“Do you?” Dexter challenged. “I use sedatives all the time, they can make your memory go very fuzzy. Look, it’s better this way. I can’t keep dragging you two down into this. You’ve been more than helpful, but now it’s my fault I even have a hostage. So I’m going to clear your names and then from here on out, I’m on my own.”

“Dex, no. Come on, we want to help.” 

He shook his head. “I appreciate that. I know you do, but this is on me. We’ve protected you, and that’s what we needed to do. Now, it’s on me. But I can see this makes you two uncomfortable and I’m not going to ask you to do that. I was stupid once by not including you on my decisions, but that’s when it affected all of us. I’ll be sure none of this gets back to either of you and whatever happens, it happens to me and me only, got it?” He stared the two of you down until you nodded.

“I understand,” you quietly responded. “I don’t like this, at all.”

“You’ll like it a lot more than having to go along with whatever my plans are for Doakes,” he retorted. 

“I’ll worry,” you gently said. 

“I know, but don’t. I’ll be fine.” 

“Thank you,” Spencer said with a loaded tone. 

Dexter nodded, and after that nothing more was said on the matter. It was as if Dexter had no idea where Doakes was. He turned on the TV and talk quickly changed to lighter affairs and stayed that way. 

----------------------

In fact, things stayed that way so well, that you almost did forget Dexter had him locked in a cabin. Dexter stopped you from talking about the case at all to him. He insisted every conversation with him be as if you had no idea what he was doing or capable of. He often turned discussion to things like movies, sports, the weather. Things normal people talked about. 

The next twenty four hours were hard on you. You could barely sleep. You kept your phone practically sewn to your hand. Your stomach lurched every time you saw Dexter leave the station. Was he going to set Doakes free? Was he going to kill him? Was he going to frame him? Every option was worse than the one before it. 

In the end though, you knew not knowing was hard, but nowhere near as difficult as knowing what he would do. 

At one point, Dexter did confide in you that he found out his father killed himself, not that he died of heart failure. You consoled him on this and he said he felt better. It was nice to feel like you were still close, even if there was now a wall there. 

Spencer could tell you were on edge, so he took you out to eat, just the two of you. It was the first time you had been alone, really alone since you even got down to Miami. And when you were alone, you were fighting, but not now. 

“I know this is hard,” he started, reaching across the table and holding your hand, “but it’s for the best.”

You nodded. “I know. I just don’t want him to do this alone or go through it alone.

“He’s not. He knows you’re there for him, every step of the way. He knows he can reach out to you at any second.” 

Again, you nodded again. “What if he does something stupid?” 

“Then that’s on him,” he reminded with a half smile. “He’s smart. We trust him, right?”

You nodded. 

“Then let’s trust him.” 

“Okay,” you said, breathing out. “That’s all I can do. I can’t get an ulcer over this.” 

“Exactly. I love you.” 

“I love you too,” you beamed at him, trying to recall the last time he’d said that to you. 

--------------------------------------

The next day, a bag of weapons and tools were found, with his fingerprints all over them. You fought the urge to look at Dexter. You even started to think about what you’d say to him after this, but you remembered that he didn’t want it. He’d shut it down if you did try to talk about it. 

So this was the path he chose… 

He was going to frame Doakes. 

You weren’t thrilled about it, but it kept him safe and you, and a man didn’t have to die for it. 

It was hard to be his friend and not talk about what was going on, so you didn’t actively seek him out for conversations, but you didn’t avoid him either. During one of his breaks he informed you of the mess Lila had gotten Batista in, and just as he was explaining it, two officers came to arrest Batista on the charges. 

“Do you want me to help with this?” you asked, begging in your voice. 

“My mess, remember? I’ll take care of it.” 

“Right,” you said with a sigh, trying not to make any remarks about how so far he wasn’t doing a real bang up job. 

“I think my father killed himself because of me, by the way,” he quietly said. “He had seen what he turned me into. The first time he saw me kill someone, he threw up and told me to stay away. It was three days later he died. He overdosed on his medication.” 

You pulled him into a hug without thinking. “I’m so sorry.” You rubbed his back soothingly. “You can’t take that personally though. He knew what he was doing.” 

A phone call interrupted you two. He said it was Rita with a broken down car and he had to get to her. You let him go so he could go to her and you watched him leave. Still worried as ever about him. 

----------------------------

That night, while you and Spencer were at your hotel when you got a text from Dexter requesting your presence at his apartment. He said it was urgent.

You two hauled ass over to his place where he greeted you with a nice meal. Steaks, onions and roasted potatoes, peas, cold drinks, and a cake. 

“What’s with the banquet?” you asked. You’d seen Dexter happy, but never quite this… carefree. 

“I want to celebrate. Grab a plate and some food and I’ll explain.” 

You two did as you were told and you sat down on his couch. 

“I’ve been doing some thinking. Today, when Batista got arrested for Lila, and LaGuerta spinning in circles trying to prove Doakes’s innocence, and your team getting the pressure put on you from DC… well I realized that maybe this is what evil looks like. It ruins everything it touches. My decisions have wreaked havoc on lives for over two months now. After I saw Rita, I realized, I’m being selfish. I was just trying to say it was better to frame Doakes, but in the long run, it’ll be easier for everyone if I just turn myself in.” 

You dropped your fork, the sound loud as it shattered any happy illusions you had. 

“Turn...yourself in? Dex, you can’t. No, I won’t let you,” you adamantly replied. “We’ve worked so hard to keep you in the clear! It’s not just your victims out there.” 

“Your handful don’t even come close to the number I’ve accumulated, Y/N,” he calmly retorted. “I’ll happily take them. Look, it’s better I go in calmly now, on my own terms, than to be dragged in like a wild animal. You and I both know one day it will come to that. Between Lila, Doakes, LaGuerta, Batista… I’m going to wind up here again, and I may not have your help to get through it, so I need to do it now. I’ve already talked about taking the kids out for a day with Rita tomorrow. I’m going to get my lawyer to draw up some papers so Deb can take over my accounts. Then I’ll let Doakes go and confess.” 

“But… why?”

“Because it feels right. I’ve felt nothing but relief since I decided to do this. I hope as my friend you can respect that decision.”

Tears began to well in your eyes as you stared at the closest friend you’d ever had. “Of course I can respect that. I just can’t… I don’t think I could stand watching you get hauled off in handcuffs, never seeing you except through a thick plane of plastic…” The sobs overtook you as Spencer tried to console you, holding you close. 

Spencer chimed in and said, “I think it’s a noble decision, Dexter. For what it’s worth, I’m proud of the decision you’ve made.” 

“I appreciate that. As for you, Y/N… You’re the most special person in my life. I’m closer to you than anyone I’ve ever known, including my father. You’ve looked behind the mask and you didn’t run away and you didn’t turn me in. You became a close  confidant. I’d like to repay you for all that.” 

You frowned as he stood to grab something and came back. 

“Several months ago, you came down with nothing more than spare time and some case files and within weeks, you had me pinned for the real killer.” He handed you a packet of papers. 

You glanced at the title and it read: Dexter Morgan’s Confession to the Murder of the Bay Harbor Butcher Victims. 

Your eyes immediately glanced back up to his eyes. 

“I don’t underst--”

“Regardless of what happened after you found me, you did find me. Just you. You didn’t even use your technical analyst. Your entire team took two months to hone in on the wrong guy. I want you to get the credit for finding me. When I go in to confess, I’ll tell them that you caught me and convinced me to turn myself in. I want to be sure you get the cret for that.” 

You shook your head violently, tears streaming down your face. “No, Dex, I couldn’t. That feels so wrong.” 

“But it’s the truth, mostly. You did find me, and for better or worse, I am confessing to my crimes. It’s the best I can do to repay everything you’ve done for me, so please, let me do it.”

All you could do was nod before getting up to go hug him. He hugged you back and felt for the first time since he could remember, sorrow.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you,” you admitted through heavy tears. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” he assured in that soft way he had. “You convinced a serial killer to give you lessons. I have no doubt you’ll be just fine without me.” he laughed and smiled and you couldn’t help but do the same.

“I don’t want to lose you though.” 

“You won’t. There will always be visiting hours,” he reminded. 

You swatted his arm. “That’s not fucking funny, jackass.” 

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Okay, but as one of my last free nights instead of talking about me not being free, could you two stay here? I’ve never really slept soundly in my life and I think I’d sleep a lot better tonight with you two here.”

“Anything,” you promised quickly. 

He said thank you and you all finished your dinner, trying not to think about the inevitable. Talk flowed freely and actually Spencer and Dexter monopolized a lot of the conversation now that they weren’t at each other's throats. They actually had a lot in common and it made your heart warm. Eventually, Spencer started to fall asleep on the couch but you were still wide awake, so you made your way back to Dexter’s room where he was laying on top of the blankets, a few candles lit in his room. 

“What’s with the candles?” you mused with a bit of a hum as you sauntered over and laid next to him. The two of you were on your sides, facing each other. 

“Rita got them for me, I might as well use them.” 

You laughed for a second before your eyes settled on his, and his gaze settled on you. The two of you stared at each other for a moment before you spoke again.

“Are you scared?” you whispered. 

“Not really. I feel less pressure with each step I take. In an odd way, I feel free. I won’t have to hide any more.” 

You nodded. “That’s good. I’m glad. You should feel good, and free, and happy. You deserve it.” 

“You’re probably the only one who thinks so.” 

You shook your head, quietly rebutting him. “No, I don’t think so. Debra and Rita and everyone at the station will still remember all the very wonderful and good things you did for them. I know I will. I’ll remember you consoling me when Spence got kidnapped. Or keeping me level headed when JJ pissed me off. You’re the greatest friend I’ll ever know or have. It’s not just you who didn’t get turned away when your darkness was exposed. You could’ve turned me away too, and you didn’t.” 

“I guess I saw something in you I’d never seen. You’re not dangerous and risky like Lila, but you’re not black and white like Rita and Deb. You understand that life is a series of gray encounters.” 

Your lips perked up at the corners. 

“If it’s worth anything at all, my life is better because you’re in it.” 

“Back at ya,” he quietly said. 

The two of you spent the rest of the night talking, until early in the morning. Spencer found you on Dexter’s bed, the two of you still facing each other, lying above the blankets, sound asleep. He smiled sadly at the scene before him before waking you so that you two could go home and change. Dexter needed time to get his things in order, and you two had to keep up appearances.

With a final look at your sleeping best friend, you nodded at him, and closed his apartment door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[andimackshitposts]

Can you write jyrus at cyrus’ house and they are acting all couply in his room and someone comes in. I just want to see Jonah’s reaction.

I’m back from the dead! I’m sure no one will read this, but I feel like I owe it to myself to finish my jyrus prompts….Anyways, I hope you enjoy the story! I turned this into a secret relationship fic. 

It was late on a Saturday afternoon, and lazy late summer sunlight flooded Cyrus’s bedroom. It lit the room in shades of orange, and warmed his skin, as he sat on his bed. His head was leaned on his boyfriend’s–boyfriend, his heart thudded at the thought–shoulder. He leaned up, suddenly, and pressed a kiss to Jonah’s cheek, because that was something he could do now, and grinned. The sunlight caught in Jonah’s eyes as he smiled back, illuminating flecks of gold among the green.  

“What was that for?” Jonah asked, still beaming. 

Cyrus shrugged. “I dunno. Because I can? Because I’m so happy?” He wanted to say because I love you, but he knew it was too soon. They’d only been together a few weeks. Just because Cyrus had been falling for Jonah since the day they met, didn’t mean Jonah was necessarily on the same page. 

Jonah blushed an adorable shade of pink. “I’m happy, too.” And then Jonah moved, pushing Cyrus off his shoulder, so he could lay back on the bed, and motioned for Cyrus to follow. Cyrus did so, nestling his head in the crook of Jonah’s neck, which they’d recently discovered was the perfect fit. Jonah smelled like apricot shampoo and fresh cut grass and it took every ounce of Cyrus’s self control not inhale as deeply as humanly possible. He reminded himself that his pillow would still smell like Jonah later. 

Jonah put his arms around Cyrus and pulled him close. Cyrus loved this, this simply existing in the same space, cuddling and kissing and just. Being. He would’ve stayed in Jonah’s arms forever, if it was possible. But at least they had this time together. At school, things had hardly changed between them, save for secret hidden looks, because Jonah wasn’t out yet. And that was fine, Cyrus knew that coming out was different for everyone, and he was more than happy to give Jonah the time he needed to do it on his terms. But it was still hard. It was hard that he couldn’t talk to his best friends about his new boyfriend, about his relationship. It was hard that he couldn’t hold hands with his boyfriend while they walked down the school hallways. It was worth it, he knew, because Jonah was an incredible person, and being with him, really, truly being with him was the best thing that had ever happened to Cyrus. And it was these moments that reminded Cyrus of that. 

They were lucky, Cyrus knew, that their parents were all accepting and supportive. That was the only reason they had this time together. Cyrus knew he could tell his mom that Jonah was coming over an hour earlier than Buffy and Andi, and she would know exactly what he meant, and she wouldn’t bother them. He was extremely grateful for that. He wished his friends knew, but for now, this would have to do.

Cyrus checked his watch and sighed. They only had about 5 minutes until the girls showed up, or at least, until Andi showed up. She was irritatingly early to everything. Cyrus sat up and started to straighten his hair and clothes, to hide any sign of what they’d been doing for the last hour. 

“Why’d you stop?” Jonah asked, frowning. 

“We don’t have much time before the girls get here,” Cyrus explained. “And if we want plausible deniability that we haven’t been, you know, canoodling, for the last hour, we have to look presentable, alright?” 

Jonah snorted. “Canoodling?” He shook his head. “God, you’re adorable.” 

Cyrus blushed, but stood his ground. “You will not flirt your way out of this. You’re the one who wants to keep this a secret, anyway.” 

Jonah sighed. “Yeah, you’re right, but,” he reached forward and grabbed Cyrus’s wrist, pulling him backwards so he was on top of Jonah, chest to chest, and nose to nose. “Right now, I want one more kiss.” 

Cyrus rolled his eyes, but propped himself up on his arms, and complied. Their lips met gently at first, sending a warmth rushing through Cyrus’s entire body. Cyrus expected it to be a short kiss, but as he tried to lift his head back, he felt Jonah’s hand on the back of his head, pulling him down again, and while he could’ve resisted and pulled away, he didn’t really want to stop, and the more Jonah kissed him, the more he forgot why he wanted to stop in the first place. Jonah’s lips were soft, but firm, and eventually they parted, and he bit down on Cyrus’s bottom lip, eliciting a moan. One of Cyrus’s hands found its way into Jonah’s free hand (the one that wasn’t cradling the back of Cyrus’s head), and he interlocked their fingers. If Cyrus could’ve lived in one moment forever, it would’ve been that. 

“What the hell?” A voice, more than a little irritated, broke them apart. It took Cyrus’s fuzzy brain a moment to process the source of the voice, and once he had, he wished he hadn’t. Because there was Andi, standing in the door to his room, with a hand on her hip, looking…not angry exactly, but confused and maybe a bit hurt. 

“Andi!” Jonah practically yelped, trying furiously to smooth the wrinkles out of his clothes, to fix his hair, as if he could somehow hide what was just happening. 

“Please don’t be mad,” was all Cyrus could manage, anxiety gnawing in the pit of his stomach. 

Andi rolled her eyes and stepped further into the room. “I feel like I just walked in on Jonah cheating on me or something. But I didn’t. Jonah and I haven’t dated for years. I don’t own him, or whatever. He’s a person with agency.” She turned to Jonah. “If you want to makeout with Cyrus, that’s okay. You know that’s okay, right?” 

Jonah nodded, still completely frazzled. “I know, I know. I just, things were always so messy between us, and I didn’t… I didn’t know how to bring it up. I haven’t even told you I’m bi yet! And I just…It was easier to keep it a secret.” 

Andi nodded. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me, Cy! You have a boyfriend! And it’s Jonah freakin’ Beck!” She was smiling now, which was a relief. 

“So…you’re okay with this?” Cyrus asked, not ready to believe it just yet. 

Andi rolled her eyes again. “Even if I still had feelings for Jonah, which I really, really don’t, we haven’t dated in years. My feelings about your relationship wouldn’t matter. As it happens, all I feel about this development is happiness for two of my best friends!” 

Jonah and Cyrus let out simultaneous sighs of relief. “Thank God.” Cyrus said, at the same time that Jonah said, “Buffy doesn’t know yet, either.” 

Andi raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed that Cyrus was able to keep that from her. He must really like you a lot.” 

Jonah blushed. 

“I do,” Cyrus confirmed. “But mostly I just don’t want to take his coming out away from him. It should be his decision.” 

“That’s fair.” Andi nodded. “More than fair, even.” 

“So…” Jonah hesitated. “You won’t tell anyone?” 

Andi made a motion of turning a key over her lips, and then throwing it over her shoulder. “My lips are sealed, I promise.”

“Thank you.” 

“Now, tell me,” Andi grinned. “How the hell did this happen?” 

Cyrus laughed. “Buffy’ll be here soon, so how about we give you the short version?” 

Andi sat down next to Cyrus and nodded. “Short version is good with me.” 

“Well, a little over a month ago–” 

“I’m sorry, it’s been over a month?” Andi broke in. “Are you kidding me? And you’ve been keeping it a secret this whole time? Do your families know?” 

Jonah nodded. “They do. I’m just not ready to be out at school.” 

“You know your friends won’t care, right? Me, Buffy, Marty, Gus, Amber–we’re all here for you. None of us would out you, or judge you, or be anything but over the moon happy for you, for both of you. You both deserve to be happy.” 

Jonah smiled slowly. “I’m starting to figure that out.” 

Cyrus squeezed his hand gently, and returned to the story. “So, long story short, remember when I had to bake all those cupcakes for that charity bake sale?”

“Oh my God,” Andi grinned. 

“Jonah offered to help me, and we finished around midnight, and we were both exhausted, and we all know what Jonah is like when he’s tired.” 

Jonah flushed. “Shut up.” 

“Aw,” Andi chuckled. “Don’t be embarrassed that you have zero filter after 10 PM, it’s endearing, I promise.” 

“So, anyways, he just slipped up and called me ‘cute’ and I didn’t let it go until he admitted that he had a crush on me,” Cyrus felt himself blushing at that. “And I obviously felt the same. So here we are.” 

“That’s so cute.” 

Cyrus blushed further. “I guess it kind of is.” 

At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and they all knew Buffy was there. They heard Cyrus’s mom letting her in, and telling her to head to Cyrus’s room. 

“Hey, Cy?” Jonah said. 

“Yeah?” 

“I think I want to tell Buffy.” Jonah looked at Cyrus nervously. “I think I want to tell all our friends.” 

Cyrus smiled and pressed a kiss to Jonah’s forehead. “Whatever you want.” 

And then Buffy was there, in front of the three of them. 

Cyrus looked at his boyfriend. “You ready?” 

Jonah nodded. “Ready.”

[maniibear]

One of my fics I managed to save from Imzy for the prompt Recover. Tony mourns JARVIS during and after the events of AoU. 

Word Count: ~1900 Warnings: None? Sadness, I guess. 

The sun is a sliver on the horizon when Steve jogs down the steps of the Bartons’ farmhouse. 

Laura had mentioned they might need more firewood and since she’s taking their, and now Fury’s, descent upon her home in complete stride, Steve didn’t need to be told twice. There’s a different kind of cacophony outdoors, one that fades to the background more quickly, but it’s kind of terrifying in its serenity. After all, what did the planet care about Ultron or his plans for stolen vibranium? 

Weak, dusty light playfully limns the Quinjet and the trees alike as Steve makes his way to the barn. It fades like a kiss by the time he reaches the wooden door, which is supposed to be locked, but stands open just enough to offer a glimpse of a figure sitting alone in the dark, illuminated only by the artificial and decidedly unplayful light of a smartphone.

Steve sighs in relief, shrugs tension from his shoulders when he recognizes Tony’s particular silhouette. The team's looking for you, and you’d rather be with your tech, he wants to ask, only what he hears stops him in his tracks. Somewhere above the million sounds of nature, Steve’s enhanced hearing picks up Tony’s breath and a specific, aching wetness in it. Damn.

Steve slips into the barn as noiselessly as possible. 

“Tony?” he ventures uncertainly, and the way the other man's body just curls in like a wounded animal confirms his suspicions. For a moment, Steve considers leaving and sparing Tony an audience and embarrassment, but that somehow feels like him showing his age.

Feeling stuff isn’t embarrassing, and it’s about damn time we start acting like it, Sam’s voice echoes in his head. Then, Tony’s shuddering breath becomes obvious even to someone without super hearing and Steve figures the darkness would provide plausible deniability if he wanted.

He sits on the wooden bench beside Tony and a quick glance at the Starkphone in the brunet’s hand makes things obvious. It’s footage of the city near the Wakandan coast, where the Hulk locked arms with the Hulkbuster armor. It’s obviously witness footage. It’s streaked with blood.

“Oh,” Steve sighs, because his own throat closes with grief. Probably for the best, because there’s a lot he wants to say, and none of it sounds right. He fidgets because inaction bothers him, but he’s not certain what to do. He desperately wishes Sam were here, but in the end, he settles for pressing his calf against Tony’s, a solid reminder of his company.

The next few seconds pass like this-- heavy silence punctuated by Tony’s quiet sniffling. Eventually, Steve reaches for the phone; the weak resistance he’s met with melts when he insists on tugging the thing out of Tony’s hands and switching it off. The pitch darkness that falls upon the barn then is almost a relief. Steve is tired, still raw from Wanda Maximoff’s number on his head, but he doubts he’ll sleep tonight, so this is what he has to be content with.

“We took a hit,” Steve echoes Tony’s words on the Quinjet. “But we’ll make it right. We’re Avengers,” he says and feels stupid before the words finish coming out of his mouth.

Tony just takes a measured breath and replies, “I miss JARVIS."

His voice is so small, so lost that Steve forgets to breathe. Any reassurances of ‘you can rebuild him’ die on his tongue because Tony says ‘JARVIS' like there just can’t be another. God, now he really wishes Sam were here. But Sam’s not, and all Steve has in the way of a field kit is the physical act of holding Tony to keep him from shaking apart.

Tony’s whole body goes rigid when Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders. What’s visible of him in the opaque blackness is torn, distrusting, but needful enough that Steve feels a mournful twinge. It’s going to be delicate handling, so he wisely avoids Tony’s neck and keeps his whole stance open and tentative. 

Remarkably, Tony doesn’t shrug him off.

“It’s—it’s my fault,” he says instead. “I let him down. He always had my back and I. Mmh."

Steve tightens his hold, just to do something, because fuck, he’s the wrong person for this. He’s barely caught up to modern day tech and he is so far from being able to wrap his head around somebody who lived and breathed it and—

Steve recalls the hologram Tony bought up back in the Tower, a small, expertly crafted sun disfigured in—what did Bruce say—not strategy but rage. His photographic memory recalls every shredded pixel, every aborted synapse and torn neuron and if he reconciled that with this grief —Jesus Christ! Tony had come upon the mangled body of his most loyal sentinel and nobody had even paused for a moment of silence.

Steve feels ill. “Oh god, Tony, I’m sorry."

“I should have been monitoring him.” Tony rasps. “I mean, it’s what he did for me, right? Kept an eye on me so I didn’t end up torn to bits. Because I’ll tell you, New York wasn’t easy. Mark VII wasn’t ready, we weren’t fucking ready, but J rockstarred it out there. And god, I remember when Dad—"

Judging by the abrupt wince that follows, Steve suspects Tony bit his own tongue to cut himself off. It tells him a lot, though, but it’s so much he can’t even begin to unpack; not with Peggy’s voice still echoing in his head.

“Breathe,” he instructs evenly, sliding his palm from Tony’s shoulders to his back, unconsciously mimicking the motions of his own childhood.

Silence falls again. Steve pays attention to the rise and fall of Tony’s breath and glances out to the farmhouse. He left his own phone inside, but someone’s probably going to come out looking for them soon.

“You lost a friend,” he acknowledges. “That’s…I get it. It feels like the world makes less sense."

“No, it makes sense. " Tony counters. "I have a mission, and a pretentious twit of a robot in the middle of it."

“Tony, stop,” Steve shakes his head. “I mean it, we need each other more than ever now. This is too big for us to not be a team."

“Ha!” Tony’s voice is muffled, like he’s scrubbing his hand across his face. "No, you don’t understand. This doesn’t end well for the team."

That sounds fairly ominous, and Steve should probably ask about it, but he’s so damn tired. Visions of the dance hall and of Peggy flash at the corner of his mind like pages torn out of a book. 

“We can take care of ourselves,” he says wearily. “You know that."

“What I know,” Tony begins and it sounds less like an acknowledgement than an argument, then he falters because Tony is tired too. “Fine. I know."

Steve’s glad it’s dark and nobody can see his smile at the grumpy retort. Another pause rolls between them, in which Steve can feel Tony’s ribs expand as wide as his own and hear their simultaneous outbreath—mournful, but somehow lighter in its sharing. Instinctively, he draws Tony’s head to lie on his shoulder. Perhaps unsurprisingly, there's no resistance, so Steve follows suit, rests his cheek atop a thatch of soft hair, and thinks he could weep at how terribly he needs this.

“But really,” he murmurs, not minding at all that Tony wiggles closer. “Together."

“But really,” Tony echoes. “You still have faith in all this…cotton candy?”

Someday later, Steve will put it into words—this whirl of what it really feels like to watch Tony care too much about code and people and everything else that peeked over the horizon to gaze raptly at tomorrow. But for now, he just bundles up the warmth pressed against his side.

“I do.”

-

Later, when the world is safe again and Tony’s plans to build the Avengers a home upstate come to astounding fruition, everyone gathers around a beautiful plaque mounted at the entrance to the data crux. Everyone in this case means the core team— Natasha, Tony, Rhodes, Thor. Bruce is still missing without contact; Clint is also not present, but he does manage to secure a line.

“Am I late?” he asks over the microphone. Clint's voice and image on the screen are scratchy. He’s certainly not connecting to the Avengers facility from his farmhouse, but damned if anyone can tell where he is either. "Am I…no? Oh good, didn’t wanna miss this. Who’s going first?”

Everyone automatically glances at Tony, and Steve helpfully tilts the Starkpad so Clint can too. Tony looks flustered, but Rhodes squeezes his arm and raises his eyebrows encouragingly.

“Ok,” Tony takes a breath and raises his glass of whiskey. “To JARVIS. Um. You did good, buddy; best of us all. And I’ll miss you…I—“ His voice quakes, and Rhodes’ comes right back to steady him.

“Hey, come on, we’ll miss him, too.” Colonel Rhodes raises his own glass. “To JARVIS, for saving my ass in Pakistan, Tokyo, oh, and that one arms dealer in Colombia. We captured him alive, but I’m pretty sure he died inside after J started roasting him.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Natasha confirms, and chooses her next statement with usual consideration. “We lost a teammate in this fight. I know that.”

There’s something immensely powerful in her handful of words, if Tony’s stunned quietude is any indication. Steve sneaks a quick glance at him before it’s his turn to talk. There is so much he still doesn’t know about Tony and JARVIS or the memories that bind them, but he doesn’t need a map of the brain to know love.

“It was an honor,” Steve says softly. “JARVIS jumped into this before all of us, kept the world safe from Ultron until we could figure out how to defeat him.”

“Aye,” Thor agrees. “Though he was a spirit of light and numbers, JARVIS fought hard and well from the digital realm. He shall have a seat of honor in Valhalla for eternity.”

“Yeah, man, to JARVIS and Valhalla,” Clint’s affirms over the speakers. “Bet that disembodied punk’s running the place by now.”

“Of course,” Tony retorts haughtily. “And you can bet he’s gonna figure out the real deal with that hammer, too."

Everyone's laughter echoes down the polished halls like a breath of fresh air, along with the chime of shot glasses meeting in front of the plaque before they all drink to Tony’s erstwhile copilot. There’s a palpable sense of closure to this one thing among a thousand other open questions and raw wounds; Steve feels it even after the team disperses and he’s left alone with Tony under another sunset.

Steve immediately picks up on a certain undercurrent of restlessness. He’s lingering; they’re both lingering, and it’s jarring against their shared instinct to do. Only Steve’s not sure he’s welcome to do anything about these newly risen slew of feelings for Tony. Now that they aren’t bowed under exhaustion or covered in darkness, surely, that certain ache, that ravenous need is back deep down where it belongs.

Or is it? Steve’s heart jumps to his throat when Tony sidles up into his space, and the familiar weight Tony’s slighter shoulder resting against his makes him want to weep all over again.

“That was good,” says Tony, falsely conversational. “Plaque was a nice touch."

“Oh, sure,” Steve replies unevenly, and falls right into the moment. “So, Jarvis. Was he someone you knew…?"

[thornfield13713]

Batman and Gordon?

1. Jim Gordon, then still quite a junior officer, was one of the only officers who thought to comfort young Bruce in the immediate aftermath of his parents’ murder. No-one else really knew what to say or wanted to say anything, and Bruce wasn’t really in much of a state to appreciate it, but Gordon did his best anyway. It was this which led Bruce to look him up when he returned to Gotham, and when he liked the lack of corruption and general skill at his job, decided to make a contact of Jim Gordon when he started reaching out to the Gotham police.

2. Gordon was…broadly open to the idea of Batman. Gotham had had a few masked defenders before in its long history, though none were ever more than local and most were passed off as urban legends. Still, none had been quite on this sort of level - well-armed, well-organised, apparently well-funded and desirous of working more closely with the GCPD. Ok, there were rumours that the late Detective Larry Lance had had an in with the Black Canary back when she was still around, but those were just that - rumours. Whatever the truth was, it had died with Lance years before. As such, Gordon was more than a little suspicious of Batman’s methods for a long while before he finally ended up willing to trust him fully.

3. Bats’ habit of disappearing mid-conversation drives Gordon up the wall. Seriously, he will turn around mid-conversation and boom, no more Bat. He has considered leaving all the important stuff to the very end of their conversations, or whenever he turns his back, but isn’t petty enough to risk innocent lives by doing so. After a few years, he’s beginning to suspect that Bats is doing it just to annoy him now. This is…not entirely inaccurate, but at least partially so, as there is another reason - Bruce doesn’t especially want for Gordon to be culpable for letting a dangerous vigilante go free if the question is ever raised and Batman becomes a true fugitive again. Plausible deniability is both their friend.

4. Gordon’s ignorance of Batman’s true identity is, at this point, just another sort of plausible deniability. It wasn’t always. Gordon always knew that Bats was either a genius, wealthy, or had wealthy backers - possibly all three - and had a good guess at height, build et cetera. He only started to suspect Bruce Wayne after the first Robin showed up a few months after Bruce Wayne fostered young Dick Grayson. The second Robin, and Jason Todd’s adoption a few months later, just confirmed it. Also, there are a few turns of phrase and mannerisms that both personae have in common, which helped a bit. Most people agree that Batman has wealthy backers and is a genius, but few suspect he’s rich himself - if he were, the argument runs, he’d hire out someone else to take all the beatings while he ran mission control from safety. This is a pretty fundamental misunderstanding of who Bats is, but that isn’t uncommon.

5. There is literally no-one else Jim would have trusted to mentor Barbara as a superhero. If she’d tried to go out and become part of any other superhero group than Bruce’s Batfamily, Jim would have been a hell of a lot less willing to pretend he didn’t know about it for so long. He might not have been able to stop her, but he’d definitely have fought to keep her off the streets. He knows he wouldn’t have succeeded, but only because of her working with Batman was he willing not to try. He knows Bats will keep her safe, or die trying, and indeed Barbara comes through all her escapades as Batgirl safe and sound in the end, though there are a few near misses. It’s in her own home that she suffers her only permanent injury during her whole early career.

[megaphonemonday]

why do the yankees always win? - ch. 7

chapter summary: ... come to an end

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | ao3

Mike couldn’t say when, exactly, Ginny’s belongings begin to disappear from his apartment. 

It happens too gradually, and he’s got too many irons in the fire, but one day, Mike looks around and the apartment feels empty. Lonely.

There isn’t a crumb-filled plate on the side table next to Ginny’s corner of the couch. His shaving cream stands alone on the bathroom counter, surrounded by the space all of Ginny’s toiletries left behind. Her side of the bed remains untouched, and all of it is hitting him out of nowhere.

It’s not that he hasn’t noticed that she’s spending fewer nights with him, but that’s economy more than anything else. Ginny’s started her physical therapy in earnest now. It makes more sense for her to be close to Petco, and that means staying at the Omni. Anyway, Mike’s taking more shifts at the dealership than usual, so it’s not like he’s spending much time at the apartment either.

If she were around more often, Mike’s sure he wouldn’t get away with avoiding questions about his suddenly full schedule. Not that he really knows how he’d answer. 

As it is, Ginny doesn’t ask many questions. 

(She’d frowned the first and last time she brought it up. “It’s Saturday. You’re really going into work?”

Mike had just shrugged, as if to say, “Rich people and their cars. What can I do?” and dropped a kiss to her forehead. What he did say, when he pulled back and she was still frowning, was, “My landlord will thank me when my rent check doesn’t bounce. I’ll be back by seven. Let me know if I should bring back dinner.”

If he were less distracted by his mental calculations, trying to figure out how many commissions he needed before life could go back to normal, he might’ve noticed the anxiety on Ginny’s face. He might’ve read the tension in her shoulders and neck, the way her eyes squeezed shut as he pressed his lips to her furrowed brow. 

He wasn’t, though, so he didn’t.)

He might feel better about it if she did, though. Feel less like he’s keeping secrets. 

Which. He definitely is, but that’s semantics.

How can he explain these new long hours without outright lying? Strange as it is, money’s never been a big issue between them. The fact that she’s got a multi-million dollar contract with the Padres and most of his income comes from commission, not his pittance of a salary, hasn’t bothered him before. 

If anything is going to make Mike uncertain or self-conscious about his relationship with Ginny, it isn’t money. Not when photographers and fans and so-called journalists follow her every move. 

Besides, It’s not like Ginny’s begging to go out to expensive restaurants or on fancy vacations. And if she did, Mike’s pretty sure she wouldn’t expect him to pay. He likes to think he’s evolved enough to be comfortable with letting his girlfriend pay his way around. Occasionally. If he got a really fancy vacation and vacation sex out of the deal. 

As it is, there’s no point in trying to impress her with more than his ability to prepare a home-cooked meal and make her forget everything aside from his name in bed. 

Luckily, Mike’s pretty fucking good at both of those things.

Unluckily, he’s also pretty fucking good at keeping secrets.

It’s almost unconscious, the way he manages this one, keeps the truth from Ginny as deftly as he’s ever conned a mark. But it’s not like Mike’s proud of it. The fact of the matter is that he’s no stranger to the strategic manipulation of information.

Which doesn’t mean he’s lying to Ginny. She hasn’t come out and asked him why he needs to work so much when he’s never been more than ambivalent about his career. If anything, it’s a sin of omission. And one that should keep her from getting hurt.

That has to matter. Right? 

(Just because he tries to make himself feel better, doesn’t mean he’s that successful.)

There are too many questions and none of them have easy answers. He torments himself all day at work, only half his attention on clients and cars, the other half focused on the endless litany churning through his mind.

How the hell is he supposed to tell her that his mom’s a con artist? How does he tell her he used to be one, too? How does he say his mom thinks their relationship is just another con? Or that she wants in on the payout? How does he tell Ginny that he hasn’t set his mom straight? How does he tell her that he’s going to pay her off, just with his own money? How does he break that news without making her question everything else he’s ever told her?

How does he get out of this without breaking Ginny’s trust?

And that’s the heart of it.

Ginny had a rough childhood of her own and Mike wants to believe that she wouldn’t judge him for his own past, not if he tells her the truth of it all and how it’s threatening to detonate in the present. But there are years, decades even, of his mom’s warnings and threats and scare tactics keeping him quiet. As a kid, the truth could, and sometimes did, get them run out of town, once someone figured out Jackie Lawson’s game and Mike’s place in it all. 

For nearly eighteen years, he’d been his mom’s literal partner in crime. Her shill.

It’s not something Mike’s ever admitted to anyone, doesn’t even like admitting it to himself. He just can’t imagine anyone’s opinion of him not changing in the face of that knowledge.

And if there’s anyone in the world whose good opinion and trust he craves, it’s Ginny Baker.

The fact that he currently has it makes its potential loss all the more gutting.

Jesus, this is quite the bed he’s made for himself. 

After the months they’ve spent together, all the things he’s learned about Ginny, this isn’t the kind of information he can just laugh off. 

“Oh, did I not mention that my estranged mother wants me to extort you for thousands of dollars? No? Haha, my bad, Gin. Anyway, what should we have for dinner?”

Yeah fucking right.

Even if she believes that he doesn’t actually have a plan to pull a long con on her, there’s no way that Mike gets out of this without telling her about his past. And his past isn’t like Ginny’s: tough but ultimately the backbone of her success. 

Mike’s past was just tough.

Much as he tries to leave that past behind him, he should have known better than to expect it to stay there.

(“Hey, ma,” he’d said, that first call, some sixth sense kicking in despite the unknown number listed on caller ID. 

“Mikey,” she’d greeted, as sweet as ever. Well, when she wanted something at least.

The last he’d heard, Jackie Lawson had been running a clip joint somewhere near Bakersfield. This was after stepdad #3 decided he was no longer interested in funding her spending habits. Gone were the days of short game after short game, cutting and running at the first whiff of trouble. It was almost as if she was growing as a person. 

Almost.

“What do you want?” he sighed, muting the television. Something told him it would be better to give all his attention to this conversation.

“A woman can’t call her son?”

“Not when it’s been five years since the last call.”

Jackie sighed, sounding put upon. Perversely, Mike couldn’t help but feel guilty. This was his mother, for God’s sake. It was easy to get hung up on her questionable qualities, but there had been good times. His mom wasn’t a complete monster. He could’ve picked up the phone, too. 

Like she could sense him weakening, Jackie pounced.

“Phones work two ways, you know,” she sniffled, sounding genuinely distressed. Then again, his mom was the person who’d taught him how to make crocodile tears convincing at the tender age of six. “A mother shouldn’t have to find out about the new woman in her son’s life from the papers. Why wouldn’t you tell me about her, Mike? She’s lovely. And so successful...”

There it was. Leave it to her to come out of the woodwork only after paparazzi shots of him and Ginny out at the San Diego Zoo went viral. 

Good old mom. 

She’d gone on to congratulate him, in a mostly roundabout way—plausible deniability after all—about his future score, probing at his methods and testing for weak spots or whether there was any chance he’d let her in on it.

He got so turned around that he ended the conversation without denying, emphatically, everything. For Jackie, that’d been as good as a confirmation.)

Mike can’t blame her— Well, he can and he does, but Jackie Lawson is and always has been a two-bit con artist. She doesn’t have the patience for long games, always opting for the quick pay day, even when the risks are greater. After 36 years, Mike’s finally learned not to expect more of her. That ship has long since sailed. The scent of the biggest payoff she’d ever see, even if it isn’t strictly real, was bound to draw her out. 

Which is why he still hasn’t corrected the confusion. Why he hasn’t told her that he’s just in love, or something dangerously close to it. And why he is going to send his mom some money from this nonexistent con. 

He’s got some savings built up. A few more big commissions and he can offer Jackie Lawson a pay day. One that will maybe convince her to give up on the ever-elusive big score and go into retirement. Or whatever it is that second-rate grifters do in their twilight years. 

If it also keeps her from showing up in San Diego herself and detonating his entire life, then all the better. 

Most importantly, it shields Ginny from all of this bullshit. It gives Mike room to tell her about his childhood and his mom and everything that goes with them on his own terms. Hopefully, he could preserve the fragile, perfect bubble insulating the honeymoon stage of his relationship with Ginny.

With all the time Ginny’s been spending at the Omni, her steadily disappearing possessions from his apartment, and the way she’s been texting him less and less, though, maybe the bubble’s already popped.

When he shuffles into his quiet apartment after a long day at the dealership—managed to upsell some bored, young finance guy on a Maserati that he’d probably end up totaling within three months. Good for his future commission cuts if not that beautiful piece of machinery—Mike lets himself hope for a moment that Ginny will be there, waiting for him. 

He can practically see her, sitting cross-legged on the couch, her hair piled on top of her head and yelling at the TV. Whether it’s because of NC State’s poor performance or clueless Jeopardy! contestants is always up for debate, but the smile she’d give him isn’t. Wide and bright and quick, it’s enough to make Mike melt, no matter how awful his work day went. 

God, he loves that smile.

All that waits for him on the couch, though, are a pile of bills and the hoodie she’d forgotten when they had dinner together four nights ago. 

Idly, he picks it up and inhales the lingering scent of Ginny. It’d probably be embarrassing if anyone saw him do it, but Mike might actually be beyond caring. 

She’d shown up at his door, looking as fresh-faced and energetic as ever in spite of the long workout he knew she’d just completed—couldn’t neglect her legs or core, even with a bum arm. And she didn’t come alone. A bag from the burger place in Encinitas he’d shown her hung by her side. Before he could ask how she’d gotten them—her appointment to take her license exam was still a few weeks away—she’d given him a lopsided smile and admitted to asking a clubby to go pick them up for her. 

Mike shook his head, rolling his eyes, but still reeled Ginny into his side so he could revel in the feel of her against him. Slumping, she leaned most of her weight on him, the only indication she gave of how worn out she was. Well, he’d gladly bear that weight for her. As long as Ginny let him. She’d sighed and held him as tightly as he did her.

It’d been a quiet night, the two of them settling on the couch to watch basketball and eat their burgers. She was quiet, but Mike mostly thought that was because she didn’t have much of an opinion on the Lakers-Wolves game he’d put on. He asked a few questions about her PT and she shrugged them off, not that he could blame her. Mike had to imagine pretty much everyone in her life wanted to talk about her PT: how it was going, did she feel stronger, when could she start throwing again. If Ginny needed him to be the one person who didn’t, he would gladly be that for her. 

So, he let his arm drop around her shoulder and let her lean against his side and just relax. 

When she eventually rose to go, Mike didn’t argue, much as he wanted her back in his bed. He hadn’t been sleeping well and wanted to believe having her with him would help. At the very least, when he woke in the middle of the night, he’d be able curl around her. Instead, he simply followed her to the door, pressed a goodnight kiss to her full lips, and told her to sleep well. She’d pulled back and searched his face for a long moment before turning and walking away, out of sight.

That was four days ago, though.

Now, Mike is reduced to burying his face in his girlfriend’s sweatshirt and pretending it’s even close to actually having her here. 

With a sigh, Mike looks around the dead apartment and tries to muster up any kind of desire to make dinner or do some of the dishes piling up in the sink.

Instead, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and hopes that Ginny hasn’t already gone to bed. 

As the line rings, he shrugs out of his jacket and loosens his tie, sitting on the end of his bed to unlace his shoes. He stops all that, though, flopping back on the mattress when the ringing stops and Ginny’s familiar, low rasp comes in. 

“Hello?”

“Fuck, Gin,” he sighs down the line without preamble. Laying in bed isn’t the same without her curled beside him, without the smell of her shampoo drifting into his nose as she tucks her head against his shoulder. “I miss you.”

She hums and Mike has a visceral memory of her making that same sound and how it vibrated through her lips, straight into him. 

(That she’d had those lips wrapped around his dick at the time doesn’t make him ache for her any more, but that’s just because Mike doesn’t think it’s physically possible.

God, how deep in this thing is he?)

“You sure you don’t wanna come stay over tonight?” he offers weakly, already knowing her response.

“You know I’ve got an early appointment with the team physicians.”

“I do,” Mike allows. “Still wish you were here with me.”

“Well, I’m not, old man,” Ginny teases. If there’s something a little off in her delivery, he figures it’s just how tired she must be. “Deal with it.”

He chuckles. “Maybe if I had more to keep me company than this rank sweatshirt of yours, I could handle it better.”

Mike definitely expects her to laugh it off and ask about her sweatshirt. How the woman manages to keep her closet full of lycra and spandex-based workout clothes straight is a mystery, but Ginny’s got a an encyclopedic knowledge of each and every one. He’s sure she’s been going mad trying to figure out where this one got to.

Instead, there’s a long pause. He can practically hear her thinking.

“Like what?” she finally asks, slow and hesitant. “You want a picture?”

(If Mike were feeling less lonely, less turned on by the mere thought of Ginny arranging herself for an impromptu photoshoot, he would probably remember the hack and the selfies and the scramble and circus surrounding them. He’d probably hear the edge in her voice, the slight tremble of suspicion and anxiety. As it is, all he can think about is how hard he is at the mere suggestion of Ginny sprawled out on the pristine white sheets in her hotel room, snapping a picture just for him.)

He groans and doesn’t resist palming himself through his slacks. 

“There’s not a chance in hell I’m gonna say no to that, Gin.”

“How did I know?” Ginny laughs, but it’s not the bright, hoarse thing he’s used to. There’s definitely something off-key in it, more resigned than amused. 

Mike frowns and stops groping himself. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” she replies, quick and much closer to her usual tone. “Just tired. I think I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Oh. Yeah, all right,” he says, more than a little disappointed, and not just because it would be only him and his hand tonight. If Ginny doesn’t want to tell him what’s wrong, though, he can be patient, wait her out. Maybe she needs to figure it out on her own before she opens up. “Talk to you later?”

She hums again, murmurs a soft “Good night,” and the line goes dead. 

When he comes home from work the following day, the last of Ginny’s things are gone, odd little voids that makes the apartment feel emptier than it is. He trails through the space, taking in the dust ring from Ginny’s bottle of lotion on the coffee table and the absence of her spare running shoes in the closet. When he gets to his bedroom, a heavy sense of foreboding pooling in his gut, the nightstand where he’d left her sweatshirt (after falling asleep with his nose pressed in its folds) is empty, a short note left in its place.

Mike, 

There’s no other way to say this. I think it would be better if we don’t see each other any more. 

Please don’t try to contact me.

He reads it, over and over again, but the words never once rearrange themselves into anything less gut-wrenching. 

Automatically, he reaches for his phone, Ginny’s contact information appearing on the screen in spite of her last request. 

The line rings. Once.

“The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable, please leave a message after the tone.”

He doesn’t bother, instead sinking to the bed, a mirror of the position he was in last night, talking to Ginny on the phone. Today, though, his head sinks to his hands, elbows propped on his knees, and there’s really only one thing to say.

“Fuck.” 

Fuck is right.

[hey-i-wrote-a-story]

Chapter 20 The Wasteland

           The Beacon Hills Animal Clinic had a sterling reputation, and that was just among the supernatural folk. The animal clinic where Scott McCall worked part-time as he ventured closer to his goal of becoming a veterinarian had often been the only place that helped tend to, revive, and often save the lives of those with extranormal powers who had been wounded by means both supernatural and human. It had even served as refuge for those seeking to avoid the same. The reason the clinic was seen as a safe haven was the man who ran it. Dr. Alan Deaton was of strong build without seeming overbearing. His bald head and trim goatee were complimented by kind and caring eyes. Dr. Deaton, besides being an exceptional vet, also had a druidic background. His unique knowledge and skill set made him an invaluable asset to Scott and his friends. More than once, Deaton’s knowledge of obscure creatures, legends, rituals, and remedies had been the saving grace for Scott’s pack. His clinic was also a splendid place to bring your ailing Labradoodle.

           Deaton opened the doors to Scott, his pack, and the three kids he’d never seen before. Deaton trusted Scott implicitly. He knew Scott would never arrive unannounced like this unless it was a dire emergency. This was. Lydia, Malia, and Kira found places for the trio to sit, doing their best to make them comfortable. Stiles moved from window to window, keeping a sharp eye for any recurrence of the monster, but so far nothing. All the same, he remained on high alert in case that status changed. Scott rapidly brought Dr. Deaton up to speed and then returned to the side of the three traumatized teens.

           Deaton watched with discerning eyes as the young people he had grown to respect so much tended to the three newcomers. None of them were particularly happy with the situation, in that they’d all been disturbed by Erin’s death, but they understood that Freddie, Kaitlyn and Aadesh had suffered the worst. As they made sure the three teens were alright, Scott, Lydia, and Stiles exchanged silent looks of empathy. They had been through this kind of thing enough times to know how to force their focus onto helping others before allowing themselves to feel the full impact of the situation. It is a disconcerting thing to realize you may be growing accustomed to chaos and death.  Deaton waved Scott over. Stiles accompanied him.

           “I appreciate you having the presence of mind to bring your new friends here to see to their well-being”, Deaton told him. “But it would be far better for them if they were with your mother at the hospital. Having everyone crowded into a veterinary clinic’s treatment room is not the best location to treat teenagers in shock.”

           “It wouldn’t be the first time”, Scott remarked. Then, more seriously, “But I’m worried that if we leave them alone, that thing is going to come back for them. Dropping them off at the hospital could put them and anyone near them in danger. Including my mom.”

           Deaton frowned, considering that. “I’m not sure they’re in any immediate danger. I suspect that if this creature is as powerful as you describe, if it wanted these three dead they would be already.”

           “Do you think it’s gone?”, Scott asked. “For good?” He knew he was grasping at straws when he said it, but he had to hope.

           “No”, Deaton replied. “I think we’re far from being out of the woods yet. I have no doubt that it will come back. I just have my suspicions that it won’t right now. Kira wounded it. I think it hesitated in killing Stiles after incapacitating his jeep because to do so would have kept it there too long. Long enough for Kira, or you, or Malia, to strike at it again.”

           “So what it did by striking the road with its tail before flying off—was that some kind of threat?”, Scott asked.

           “A warning, to be sure”, Deaton said.

           “So what is this thing?”, Scott asked the animal physician.

           “I confess that I have no idea”, Deaton admitted. “This is unlike anything I have ever encountered. And I’ve been in Beacon Hills a long time.”

��          “I thought you knew everything about supernatural beings”, Scott said.

           “Would that it were so”, Deaton lamented. He paused in that moment, and Scott could see both sides of this man, the veterinarian as well as the druid. Both healers, protectors, and caregivers. In either role, not being able to arrive at a quick and painless solution always stung. “But we can certainly do our best to find out”, Deaton then said with greater confidence. “Starting with what this trio may know.”

           “I don’t think they know a whole lot, to be honest”, Scott said.

           “They may know a lot more than they think—and just don’t realize it.” Deaton crossed the crowded room to address Kaitlyn, Aadesh, and Freddie. They were slowly recovering. Kaitlyn appeared to be the most collected at that point. Aadesh was not far behind her, although he still had a case of the shivers. Freddie was the worst off, his usual constant stream of patter and smart remarks now silenced by fear and grief.

           “I want to assure you”, Deaton said with as much confidence as he could project, “that this is currently the safest place you could be. This building is designed to protect against supernatural attacks. Mountain ash is infused into its very materials. As are other wards.”

           “D-do you think those will hold off the monster?”, Aadesh asked.

           “As I said”, Deaton reiterated, “I believe you are safe for now. But that condition is by no means permanent. We need something from you if we’re to have any hope of defeating this creature.”

           “What’s that?”, Aadesh asked.

           “Information.”

           Kaitlyn sighed. “We already told Scott and all them everything.”

           “But you haven’t told me”, Deaton pointed out. “So please do so. From the beginning.”

           So she did. Kaitlyn relayed their entire story, with Aadesh adding his comments and input where he could. Freddie said nothing. Deaton learned of how the four young misfits with the miserable pasts met at a halfway house. How their lives were irrevocably altered once the visions of the young heroes of Beacon Hills came to Kaitlyn. The rest, as the saying goes, is history. It was now history of which Deaton had a better understanding.

           “The things you did to emulate your heroes”, Deaton said, his voice low with exasperation, “The extremes you went to go beyond merely being dangerous. It was bad enough that you dabbled in sorcery with no training whatsoever. But to delve into the Dark Web online…” His voice trailed off as he considered how many threats this could have exposed them to, and may yet, for all they knew. “Supernatural agencies, the various entities, are frightening to be sure, but in the end there are certain natural laws—and unnatural ones—they must follow. Human threats can be every bit as dangerous as any monster you can imagine.”

           “Sometimes they can be worse”, Scott said. It was only too recent that a legion of assassins was unleashed on the town in a hunt for him, his friends, and a host of others.

           “Still”, Deaton continued, “we can at least try to turn some of your mistakes to our advantage. You admit to patronizing various black markets online, I presume this was where you procured the different spell incantations and the ingredients to perform them.” Kaitlyn nodded. “I think we should start there.”

           “So what do you want?”, Kaitlyn asked, totally drained but willing to do anything to bring this ordeal to an end.

           “We could use some more of the powder stuff you used on it, for starters”, Scott said.

           “A lot more”, Stiles agreed. “Like a dump truck full.”

           Kaitlyn sighed. “We can’t.” This garnered the attention of the others, who stopped seeing to the needs of the young trio.

           “What do you mean you can’t?”, Scott said, an edge coming to his voice.

           “I mean that we can’t. We used it all up out there.”

           “So get some more!”, Stiles shouted. “What, do we have to think of everything?”

           “We can’t get more because there isn’t any more!”, Kaitlyn shouted back.

           “What are you talking about?”, Scott asked.

           Kaitlyn took a breath and then continued. “I was always the one who used the spell powder, the poultices. It had something to do with my visions. My abilities made it easier for me to make them work.”

           “That’s actually not unprecedented”, Deaton remarked. “Many Native American shaman who were able to make use of supernatural tools found in herbs and other natural ingredients often displayed precognitive or telepathic abilities. Those who could harness their skills became masters at protecting their nation. They trained their successors by guiding them through vision quests.”

           At Deaton’s confirmation, Scott was willing to give Kaitlyn the benefit of the doubt on that point, at least. “That still doesn’t explain why you can’t get any more.”

           “I’m not the one who got the stuff”, Kaitlyn admitted. “That was Erin’s department. She found the stuff, made the spell bags, and I was the one who used them.”

           “She’s telling the truth”, Aadesh insisted.

           “Of course your word is worth so much”, Malia sneered.

           “So why can’t you just go to where she got the stuff?”, Scott asked.

           “Because I don’t know where that is.”

           “Okay”, Stiles said, “I’ve had just about enough of your bullshit. No more with the schemes and incessant lying! This isn’t a game. This is very real. Real monsters, real death--!”

           “It’s true!”, Kaitlyn shouted back. “It was part of our arrangement…our system. Erin did the buying. She found the ingredients, most of which were illegal or less than welcome in this country.”

           “Why is that not a surprise?”, Lydia said.

           “But once she had made the orders, she always covered her tracks. Deleted her browsing history, only ever used public computers when possible, like at the library or cafes, and never told us where she found the components to the spell bags or how.”

           “Plausible deniability”, Aadesh said. “We couldn’t tell anyone what we didn’t know.”

           “Erin said it was safer that way”, Kaitlyn said. “She felt we were better off not knowing. Comes from having a shady past, I guess.”

           The spent spell bag had been dropped on a metal examination table. Deaton picked it up with a pair of tweezers. “So you honestly have no idea what was in here?” Kaitlyn shook her head. “I could examine it, check for residual traces of whatever it was, but that will take time. There’s also no guarantee I’d be able to identify every ingredient, given how obscure Kaitlyn’s story indicates they most likely were. Even at that, I have no way of knowing the measurements used of each one.” He looked at Kaitlyn. “Erin never wrote anything down?”  Again, she shook her head.

           “So our only weapon against this thing is literally in the wind”, Stiles said. “Splendid.”

           “I don’t know that it would’ve made that much difference anyway”, Aadesh lamented.

           “Meaning?”, Deaton prompted.

           “That bag was meant to bring the creature down if we needed to. Completely incapacitate it. But…remember that this thing is not the one we sent for; the one we tried to summon up. So all we did was maybe hurt it a little.”

           “And piss it off a whole lot”, Stiles said.

           “Yeah”, Aadesh conceded.

           “Okay, just clear the room, you guys”, Stiles said. “The grownups need some talk time. We need to figure something out and you’re obviously of no help, so vamoose. Go in the other room and wait for us—and don’t forget that if you try to make a run for it, a giant glowing monster will most likely swoop down and eat you. So there’s that to think about.”

           “Stiles”, Scott cautioned, “ease off.”

           But Stiles wasn’t listening. He moved to Freddie and nudged his shoulder. “You too, ginger boy. Get going.”

           This was the first moment that everyone present realized that Freddie had remained uncharacteristically silent. He sat hunched over, eyes on the floor, his fingers clutching at his curly mop of red hair. There was a long enough pause in the discussion at that moment to make out the soft sounds of the usually jovial boy’s sobbing.

           “Just…”, he said meekly, “just…give us a minute.”

           “We don’t have a minute…Robin”, Stiles scolded. “We have to clean up your mess and time’s a-wastin’. The primal, frightening, murderous mess that you—“

           “I know!!!”, Freddie screamed. His voice came out high pitched and frightening, like a boiler that had suddenly burst. “I know what I did! I was the one who pushed them to do it!” He pointed at Kaitlyn and Aadesh, who were already on their feet. Aadesh began to speak, to reassure his best friend that they all shouldered the blame equally, but Freddie continued before he could.

           “Erin’s dead!”, he cried. “I as much as killed her myself because of what I did!” His face was streaked with tears, his eyes were red and puffy and frozen in an expression of fight or flight. He looked directly at Stiles. “I just watched someone I care about die in front of her friends at the hands of some creature that I helped bring into this world! Do you even know what that’s like?!!”

           Everyone else in the room held their breath. Freddie knew his harsh words were a terrible mistake, but the realization came after he’d said them. Stiles stared back at the panicked redhead but said nothing. He had no quip, no joke, no smartass remark to come back to that statement which hung in the air like an accusation. Stiles’ mouth was a tight thin line. His teeth bit down hard behind his lips. Unconsciously, his right hand curled into a fist and the muscles in his arm clenched. Scott was between them in an instant.

           “Enough”, he said. He looked his best friend in the eye and repeated his command, but in a softer tone. “That’s enough.” His eyes moved to Stiles’ right. Stiles glanced over to see what Scott was looking at. Stiles had not even been aware that he was raising his fist to throw a punch. Once he did, he exhaled slowly and let his arm lower gently to his side.

           Scott rested a caring hand on Stiles’ shoulder and looked back to the three kids. “You really should wait out in the main lobby”, he said. “We’ll call you if we need you. Try to collect yourselves. You’ve had a shock. We all have.”

           Malia opened the door to the waiting area and said, “I’ll keep an eye on them.” Scott nodded in appreciation. Kira followed them out as well, her eyes forward but her mind focused somewhere else. Stiles looked Scott in the eye.

           “How the hell can you trust them, Scott? After all the crap they’ve already pulled, after the deceit and the—“

           “Stiles. I was listening before when they told their story. I was listening now. I think we can believe them.”

           “Well, I was listening too, and that’s why I think we can’t—“

           “No”, Scott said. “I was really listening. To everything. Their breathing, their heartbeats. They were telling the truth. At least about Erin and the spell bags, anyway. And most definitely about them wanting to be like us.”

           Stiles was exasperated. He trusted his friend implicitly but at the same time wanted nothing to do with his friend’s usual proclivity to help the helpless. Stiles was tempted to begin a new argument against helping the three remaining misfits, but Deaton spoke before he could.

           “Gentlemen, Lydia, I have something that I think you should look at.”

            Deaton had taken a large book from a shelf within a cupboard on the far side of the room, relatively hidden by large shelves of medicines, blankets, and other assorted veterinary miscellany. Scott saw the shelf and reacted as if he was seeing it for the first time.

           “How long has that been there? I-I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

           “That’s because there are some things I have no desire to burden you with. But in this case, it appears compulsory.” Deaton set the heavy tome down on the metal table and opened it. It gave off a faint smell of must and age. Its pages were yellowed and foxy, but not yet brittle. They were filled with handwritten notes, sketches, diagrams, a number of clippings, photocopies, and even sleeved sheets of microfiche, all boasting a variety of secrets and stories of Beacon Hills better left untold. Deaton flipped through the pages which held so much dark history, looking for something specific. He found it.

           “This is it”, he said. “It occurred to me that the creature you’ve been talking about may have been here before.”

           “Here”, Scott queried, “on our world?”

           “Here”, Deaton responded, “in Beacon Hills. Or very near to it, in any case.”

           Deaton turned the book slightly so that everyone could see the pages he was now referencing. “There was something familiar about your new friends’ story that was lingering at the back of my mind. It was something that was mentioned in this article from decades ago about a disaster that struck not far from here.” Deaton took half a step back so the others could read the headline of the article he’d pointed out.

           UNKNOWN BLIGHT KILLS CROPS, COMMUNITY

Lydia leaned in and read aloud what was written beneath it. “‘Tragedy struck Orchard Ridge when over the course of less than 36 hours, the farming community, already close to barren by drought, was ravaged by a freak wildfire.’”

           “Orchard Ridge”, Stiles repeated, pondering. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

           “Keep reading”, Deaton urged.

           Lydia continued. “’The source of the fire has yet to be determined, but its affects spread throughout the area, destroying homes, fields, equipment, and leaving 81 residents dead.’”

           “Holy cow”, Scott murmured.

           “’Fire Marshalls said they had never seen this kind of destruction. Some of the bodies were so damaged by the fire and heat that a number of them have yet to be identified. It was opined by some officials that the fire may have been started by some kind of chemical experiment, possibly while concocting a new type of fertilizer to combat the drought. The supposition is supported by a number of survivors who claimed to have seen a massive winged creature made from the fire itself, a sure sign that there were chemicals in the air that caused intense hallucinations.’”

           “Or they had a visit from our winged monster”, Scott offered. Deaton nodded solemnly. Lydia looked fearful.

           “Who says ‘opined’?”, Stiles asked.

           “You think what these people saw is the same thing we’re facing now?”, Scott asked.

           “It’s certainly possibly”, Deaton answered. “I keep track of all unnatural happenings in this area as best I can, both present and past. I have a few other sources I’ve made note of that mention a winged monster, death by fire, and people bursting with light after coming in contact with the creature.” Deaton opened a small manila envelope taped to the page opposite the article clipping to reveal a collection of handwritten notes in faded pencil and ink now brightly discolored, citing interviews with locals who survived the so-called wildfire. The interviews provided the kind of accounts that don’t make it into the newspaper. Not today, and certainly not in 1927. “Some notations indicate that those who were set alight—or whatever happened to them—remained upright for some time, possessed of superhuman strength before the light they gave off finally consumed them. The only records and accounts I’ve found all trace back to this place and time. Orchard Ridge, 1927.”

           Stiles snapped his fingers. “That’s where I’ve heard it!” He turned to Scott and said, “I know exactly where this place is. It’s not even all that far from here.” Scott looked perplexed, but Deaton saw that Stiles was on the right track, so he let him continue. “It is smack-dab between the Beacon County line and Bluffton Hills.”

           “There’s nothing between the county line and Bluffton Hills”, Scott said.

           “Sounds like there used to be”, Stiles countered.

           “What Stiles is saying is true”, Deaton said. “Orchard Ridge was once abundant with pastoral life of every variety.” He produced a handful of clippings and a brochure from the large book, just behind the page they were reading. The slim collection was held together by a large metal paperclip, whose rust from years of neglect had rubbed onto what it held. Photos from the brochure showed a lavish farming community rich with flowering trees, verdant fields, picturesque homes, and of course, colorful orchards. The brochure was a garishly-colored affair, even having had years to fade, and welcomed one and all to the annual farmer’s market and county fair. A magazine article secured to the brochure declared that Orchard Ridge took first prize in both vegetable harvest and floral displays for the fifth year running. Scott took it all in, but he still hadn’t made the connection. Deaton said, “Of course, nobody calls it Orchard Ridge anymore. And they haven’t for some time. Now it has a different name entirely.”

           A light of realization came to Scott’s eyes. “The Wasteland.”