#PREGNANT JOHN WARD WILL NOT BE SILENCED!!!!!

[jackatronics]

GRRRRRR REPOSTING BECAUSE TUMBLR BURRIED IT

edit: im so happy more people get to bask in his holiness 🙏

[ghostiewriter]

Have you seen the New interview with Maddie Cline at Jimmy Fallon? SHES PUSHINH THE CAMBANK SIBLING AGENDA !!!

Do you have any headcanons on Sarah and JJ being or finding out they are siblings?

I DID SEE THE INTERVIEW AND I LOVE THAT SHE’S PUSHING THE AGENDA!!! Now let’s talk some headcanons🌚

I think one of them finds out before the other and I won’t lie, I kinda want it to be Sarah

Like think of the potential!!!

She finds out that she has another brother, that her mother was pregnant with another man’s baby before she left them

And after practically losing her family, she’s hopeful to find this one last blood relation that could possibly fill the void of Ward and the others

So she goes snooping and soon enough she finds herself staring at the name of her long lost brother

John James Maybank

SHE IS MOST DEFINITELY CONFUSED AND CONFLICTED

because even though she’s a part of the pogues, I could definitely see a part of her being hesitant because JJ’s hatred for the kooks is not something he’s quiet about

And she was one of them not long ago

She definitely keeps it to herself for a while, but I could see her reaching out to JJ more than she normally would

Trying to deepen their friendship and I think JJ picks up on it but decides that she’s ultimately just trying to fit in with the other pogues too now that she’s one of them

Now I won’t lie, the dramatic part of me would want it to be revealed in a very theatrical way

LIKE IMAGINE THEM ARGUING OVER JJ DOING SOMETHING STUPID AND GETTING HURT

“You’re not my mother, Sarah, calm the fuck down!”

“Yeah, well I am your sister!”

There’s just silence

They are just staring at each other

And then his voice is barely a whisper when he’s like

“What?”

I think he’d need some time to come around

He’s never had a decent relationship with his blood relations, and let’s not even forget their different upbringings that would definitely cross his mind

However

I think after coming to terms with it, JJ would definitely be the brother Rafe could never be for Sarah

And even though he’s technically younger, he’s still an overprotective little shit

Sarah is even more protective though

She doesn’t want to lose anymore family

And you just KNOW JJ gives John B shit for dating the female version of him

Like

Constantly

It never ends

It’s the only way he can deal with the disgust when he realises his best mate has been boning his sister this entire time💀

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 01

Note: All right, it's been a hot minute since I uploaded anything substantial in regard to this fic. So I'm going to try something a bit risky! I've archived Insult to Injury as you all know it, with the exception of a few errant reblogs outside of my control. But that's neither here nor there; I am very excited to present to all of you all the definitive version of this fic — the Director's Cut, if you will. ;)

Fandom: James Bond Characters: Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin, various OC(s) Relationships: Madeleine & OC(s) Warnings: Strong language, intense scenes of violence, general cynicism. Rating: M Genre: Crime/Drama Summary: A troubled psychologist desperate to escape her past criminal ties finds herself drawn into a far more insidious schism. [Post-Skyfall]

[Ao3 | FFNet]

— ACT I —

“Everything which is done in the present, affects the future by consequence, and the past by redemption.” — Paulo Coelho

— Episode I: A THOUSAND DETAILS —

In the sterile comfort of her office, Dr Madeleine Swann stared blankly at her computer monitor. The notification that her application as a psychologist consultant with the Médecins Sans Frontières had been sent six days prior blurred with lack of focus. The location of the mission in question was Conakry, Guinea. Her contract duration would last from the start of May to the end of August; just shy of two months away from now. There was an additional caveat:

All non-ECOWAS foreigners are required to have a valid Guinean visa and a vaccination card in order to be granted entry. Yellow fever vaccination cards are verified upon entry into the country at Gbessia.

Approval for the visa necessitated a seventy-two-hour window of clearance. And it would be at least four weeks until she heard back from the Human Resources Office—up to six if she were unlucky. She sat erect and the movement alone was enough to incite a sharp stab of pain into the back of her head. Through the window the sun cast a reddish glare, obfuscating the monitor and warming the nape of her neck. She shoved her face into the heels of her palms while the pressure in her skull abated to a dull throbbing.

Usually she made a habit of drawing the blinds. There were already enough odd complaints about her office being too cold and sterile passed along by the secretary. It had been a stressful enough week that Madeleine saw no reason to keep the shutters closed, so her clients might have something else to focus on besides four polished wooden walls and the analog clock.

What came off to most outsiders as a cool and direct manner of conduct was simply pragmatism. She had a laptop computer used primarily for sending emails. She recorded the bulk of her notes on patients by-hand and revised by means of portable recorder. She kept no photographs in her home nor office. The casual anecdotes she provided to her colleagues were ostensibly as droll as her taste in décor; though her efforts to blend in had largely gone unappreciated.

There wasn’t anything else immediate to review for tonight. She wished a curt good-night to the secretary before donning her coat and exiting into the crisp evening air.

⁂

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the clinic to the flat. Above her head the clouds hung grey and pregnant with snow. By the time she had ascended the staircase and opened the door to her apartment her fingers prickled. Numbness seeped into her skin. She’d never much cared for the colder seasons.

“You’re back early,” said Arnaud—a fellow Sociology major from her college days. After graduating from Oxford, Madeleine had taken his offer to return to Paris and transfer over to the 8tharrondissement with the understanding that they would be rooming together. Her colleagues back then often referred to them as friends-with-benefits as Madeleine had showed little interest in dating before. After three years of cohabitation, her co-workers at the office wondered how she and Arnaud remained so cordial while balancing their careers and relationship.

“Yes.” Madeleine hung up her coat, noting that he had not yet changed out of his own. “I submitted my request with the MSF a week ago. If I am accepted I’ll be working as a psychologist consultant. In that case, I’ll be out of the country until August at least.”

“Well, you’ve never landed a position that didn’t suit you.” Madeleine smiled politely. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.” She looked away from him towards the window. “You could open the blinds. It's very bright in here with the lights on.”

“There’s hardly much to look at when the sun is in your eyes. Isn’t that what you say?”

For the most part, Arnaud was easy to live with. Neither of them required financial support and he was of equitable social standing. Her relentless volunteer work did not always lend much time to get to know his inner mind. “It’s late. Are you going out again?”

“No, I got back first. And it’s fortunate. You looked awfully cold when you came in.”

“I can hardly control the weather. And you needn’t worry, I always carry a key on me.”

“Madeleine, we live together. It wouldn’t be right to avoid you. But you know, if I were going out to an unscrupulous club it would make for a pretty good story.”

“Hm.”

“And knowing you,” Arnaud continued, “you probably won’t be going out drinking. The sunrise disturbs you in the mornings, and you woke up before I did, at seven. I assume you’ve been busy all day. In just a few weeks you’ll be working that much harder. You ought to get some rest while you can.”

“So,” a little cooler, “you’ll be another mission?”

“Most likely.”

“All these countries must seem the same after a while.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. When was the last time you volunteered out of the country? 2011?”

Arnaud laughed. “Jesus, this isn’t a competition.”

“But it’ll give you something to talk about to your friends while I am away.”

Arnaud said nothing. Madeleine frowned. She went into the other room and began to change. He could not approach her in the same casual manner as his peers, nor dissect her outright. His life was one of prestige as well as privilege, and Madeleine could not foster any underlying resentment towards him for acting in his nature. The silence held, strained. Then Arnaud said:

“It’s always been important to you. That’s what should matter.”

⁂

In two weeks’ time she got a response from the HRO; the initial interview was scheduled shortly thereafter. By the middle of April she was making preparations to depart. Thanks to Arnaud’s tactic of avoidance she had little reason to tell him the details. No one would know where she was headed unless they broke inside her laptop and hunted through her mail. The situation in Guinea had kicked into mainstream awareness back in February for a week or so before gradually sinking back into obscurity.

Reports from several news outlets cited the emergence of an outbreak primarily affecting South Africa. Originating inland, a mysterious illness that revealed itself first with fever and spells of vomiting, then gradually ate away at the flesh of those afflicted and bore their bones and muscle, vulnerable to further rot. More emboldened journalists had taken to calling it the Red Death on account of this. Neither a cure nor a place or origin had been discovered.

The situation had not improved in the last two months so much as stabilised. Madeleine had been assured several times over email and electronic conference that those working in the field had already taken precautions, and she’d be instructed further on what to do upon her arrival. She was issued a few pamphlets and strongly advised to vaccinate before boarding the flight. Which she had done, but it was very kind of them to remind her.

In spite of Arnaud’s apparent disinterest, his last words to her before she departed had been: “Last year it was four missions. I'd never seen you so tired. I wish I knew what you’re trying to prove.”

After managing to get some sleep on the plane she touched down Conakry International Airport around mid-morning and contacted the Project Coordinator; a shorter man in his mid-forties with a photogenic smile and toupee. He clasped her hand in both of his clammy ones and said: “Very glad you've made it, Doctor. We need you on-site in twenty minutes. Make sure you are ready.” Her luggage was dropped off on the second floor of the Grand Hotel de L’independence, where she and the other MSF members would be rooming. The staff were polite enough, though their attention was fixed on the Project Coordinator.

Her room was spare and a little dingy, and the only means of fresh air came from opening the window and polluting the room with outside noise, but it was at least reasonably clean. A fine sheen of sweat was building on her skin. No reason to delay the inevitable.

Upon reaching Donka Hospital she met up with the rest of the team, most notably the Medical Coordinator, and the Psychosocial Unit. It soon became apparent that there were still not enough medical doctors to handle the influx of infected. An isolation ward had been established before the MSF’s involvement, but they were reportedly at full capacity; the workers in there were clad in full-body personal protective equipment. Another section of the grounds had been set aside and fenced off; rows of tents all lined up, reminding Madeleine distantly of a prisoner’s accommodations. No matter where you went the stench of rot always seemed to hang pervasively in the air.

She was paired off with another psychologist by the name of John Herrmann; American, around her age. He was of a friendlier disposition than she was used to, introducing her semi-formally to the rest of the group before adding:

“So, one thing you should know now, we’ve been having problems with the electricity on site as well as the hotel. There’s no running water either.”

“This isn’t my first mission with MSF. And I lived out in the countryside when I was small. I know how to look after myself.”

Herrmann smiled. “That’s fair.” He scratched his neck. “The mosquitoes are worse. Bug nets won’t help worth a damn. Make sure you close your windows at night, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“I see.” The humidity combined with the smell off-road were already becoming intolerable. But she did not want to appear so snobbish or weak in front of someone she would be monitoring for the next three months. “I won’t go any easier on you just because you are unaccustomed to the environment.”

 “See ,that’s the kind of attitude we need around here!” He clapped a hand on her back; Madeleine regarded him levelly until he relented. “Good to have you on the team.”

The other members on the Psychosocial Unit were as amicable with Madeleine as the situation permitted. None of them got on her nerves as much as Herrmann. His enthusiasm was never to the point of seeming false or obsequious, but he remained just enough of a go-getter to piss her off. After a week of monitoring them she came away with the impression that Herrmann was genuine. He had been consistently genial with the clientele and hospital staff alike, no matter the severity of their condition. She saw no reason to socialise with him outright. The most he ever noted about her mood was: “You’re pretty reticent for a psychologist consultant.”

“I’m here to do my job. That’s all.”

Herrmann shrugged. “I can respect that. We all deal with the situation in our own ways.” He paused. “I can see why the Project Coordinator wanted you. You’re handling this situation a lot better than I would have.”

“Thank you.”

“The workload must be insane compared to what you’re normally used to. I know it took me time to adjust—" he stopped as Madeleine threw him a look of confusion “—what is it?”

“Back home, I am usually referred to as what one would call a workaholic. Or didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offence taken.”

The higher temperature was not so bad as the humidity that slapped her in the face whenever stepping outside—according to the forecasts, it was only going to get worse within the coming months. There was no manner of ventilation or air-conditioning in the hotel so often times she had to draw the curtains and keep her hair back. She resigned herself by reminding herself that it was better than sleeping in a tent.

There wasn’t much time to be hung-up on much else besides her assignment. The members of the Psychosocial Unit all looked good on paper, but they betrayed their inexperience through a shared level of idealism towards the mission that Madeleine deemed ill-fated. She did not blame them. Young, perhaps fresh out of school, looking to make a difference in the world without truly anticipating the gravity of the situation. Their time spent observing the crises of the rest of the world through the lens of journalism and outside empathy could not compare with the experience of actually sitting down and listening to the stuff their patients talked of with prosaic seriousness.

It often sounded outrageous when Madeleine played back the recordings, taking down notes in the quiet, stuffy hotel room. Mortality was an expected outcome, and the implication of negligence by their government a common topic of discussion among patients. Most conversations were conducted in French or else by way of an interpreter, though the antagonism in the voices of these patients needed no translation.

There was a growing disparity between the narrative put into circulation by the news and what was happening in the field. According to several members of the MSF and the staff at Donka, the media blew the problem out of proportion. The people whose condition had kicked off the “Red Death” story had been subjected to long-term exposure. Most of the patients that came through were not in that same condition, but it created an illusion of immediacy that incited concern in the public eye and a need for donations. Government officials wanted to cover up the severity of the situation as not to detract from any potential business opportunities; until the MSF got involved, they were only employing the most rudimentary of safety procedures.

This latter revelation had shaken up the Psychosocial Unit considerably; Dr Herrmann had lost his patience with the Medical Coordinator. To this end, he’d apologised profusely to Madeleine afterwards though she would hear none of it. Whatever he felt about the situation was not necessarily invalid, but out of consideration for their patients, he would not bring it up again.

Herrmann never held it against her. So Madeleine busied herself in her own work. Whatever quiet camaraderie forged between the other MSF members was not her business. When pressed for advice, she would talk calmly, carefully with the rest of the team about what would be optimal but never overreach. In the sweltering nights and throughout the early morning, Madeleine would pore over her notes, listening to the passing automobiles and indistinct conversation carried over by civilians.

⁂

June crawled by. Currently the MSF were in the process of dealing with a new influx of internally displaced persons (IDPs) from the surrounding prefectures and villages, all of whom had to be tested and separated from those not stricken with disease. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff and Medical Unit, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the start of the year.

The atmosphere within the hospital was not improving. The topic of insurgence was the new favourite with patients. Allegedly there had been several attacks on neighbouring villages; a consequence of the lack of tangible progress coupled with deep-seated mistrust of government officials. Now the Force Sécurité/Protection, or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of Kerberos, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

Their Project Coordinator called them all in for the sake of reviewing protocol in the event of an attack. Outright criticism of the government’s method in handling the situation was discouraged. Madeleine was savvy enough to keep herself abreast of any controversy. For the rest of the Psychosocial Unit, she presumed they were either too naïve or willing to look the other way.

The only exception to this was the Vaccines Medical Advisor, Francis Kessler; a stoic older man with thinning hair and glasses. He and Madeleine had cooperated a handful of times beforehand, at the discreet behest of the Medical Coordinator. Madeleine had found nothing wrong with his conduct. A diligent worker, he acknowledged her judgement fairly but did not overextend his gratitude. Outside of his work he was straight-laced and reserved and wouldn’t be seen socialising with any of the younger MSF who all talked about him as though he were some out-of-touch stick-in-the-mud. As the situation in the hospital became more dire he would stay behind on-site, late into the evening. Whenever they had a break, he would disappear on calls. Once he came back late by only a few minutes and apologised to Madeleine.

“I was supposed to be sent home last month, but with the situation being what it is, I decided to stay on until things are resolved.” He did not sit down, his attention turned towards the path back to the infected ward. “It’s madness. We’ve already waited until things are too severe to think of bringing in a proper security detail—who the hell does the Project Coordinator think we’re fooling?” Madeleine ignored him. “Dr Swann. The Medical Coordinator tells me you’ve been involved in volunteer work for a while.”

“Five years, as of March.”

“Perhaps they would be more willing to listen to someone with your expertise.”

“I’m flattered. But it’s fortunate that I was not selected for my personal opinion.”

Kessler chuckled. “You’ll go far.”

Madeleine had no interest in pursuing this topic any further. “Who were you speaking to?” He froze up, didn’t answer immediately. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have been so blunt. But you leave often enough on calls, and it appears to be taking a toll on you.”

Comprehension dawned on his face, his shoulders relaxed. “Just my wife. This past month has been no easier on her. But I find that it can help somewhat, just talking to someone outside of this element.” Madeleine nodded stoically. “I’ve never seen you contact anyone outside of your unit.” Madeleine did not anticipate the conversation to take such a turn, nor did she wish to divulge much about herself. But she could not deflect as she could in the clinic back home, and Kessler seemed forthright enough to warrant a harmless response.

“I’m living with a friend. We graduated from college together.”

“And you keep in touch while you are abroad?”

“He tends to lead his own life while I am away.”

“That’s a great deal to ask of someone.” Madeleine inclined her head in his direction. This was not a man that emoted often; now the thin mouth was set, and the eyes behind the glasses disillusioned. “Few women your age would devote themselves to a thankless vocation as this. Not everyone is going to want to stick around until you decide you want to settle down.”

Madeleine’s smile did not touch her eyes. She hadn’t even mentioned the nature of her relationship to Arnaud. “We have an understanding, that’s all. Besides, I don’t bother him about his social life.”

Kessler shook his head. In a few minutes they were back to work as usual. By the end of the day, Madeleine resolved to let him dig his own social grave without further interference.

By the time July rolled around Madeleine found her mind snagging easily on technicalities. She became less tolerant of the Psychological Unit’s personal hang-ups with the lack of resources and lack of any obvious moral closure. Smell of rot and disinfectant permeated into her clothing and hair until she had begun to associate the smell itself with a total lack of progress.

She left the window to her hotel room cracked most nights, afraid to open it completely. Alone with her own mind and the recorder. The conversations now circled back readily to death and terrorism. An overwhelming fear of retaliation from looming insurrection.

Madeleine stopped the recording. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Just past one in the morning. In six hours she would return to Donka Hospital and repeat the process. A month and a half from now she would be on a flight back to Paris. Her mind wouldn't settle on either direction.

Outside her window she heard the distant voice of Francis Kessler. He was conversing in German, from a few storeys down, but as Madeleine came over to the window she understood him clearly:

“…I’ve been saying it for weeks, and they dismiss me every time. These wounds are the result of prolonged exposure from chemicals. We’ve seen evidence of IDPs coming through, exhibiting the same symptoms as the PMCs we treated back in February. How we can expect to make any progress if the Project Coordinator refuses to bring this up? We’re putting God-knows how many lives at risk waiting for a vaccine that we don’t know if we need—and even so, it won’t be ready for another week. There’s not enough time to justify keeping silent….”

Madeleine closed the window carefully. She’d never been one to intrude on family matters.

⁂

When Madeleine exited her room the next morning, she found the Project Coordinator waiting for her in the hallway, along with the head of security from Kerberos and a couple Donka Hospital staff Madeleine knew by sight but not intimately.

The vaccines had arrived earlier than anticipated, around three or four in the morning. Several members of the Medical Unit had stayed on-site in order to determine if all had been accounted for and subsequently realised it was rigged. Thanks to the intervention of Kerberos the losses were minimal. Several doctors had suffered chemical exposure and were currently isolated from the rest of the IDPs to receive immediate medical attention. Others, such as Drs Kessler and Herrmann, had been less fortunate.

Now there was additional pressure from the hospital doctors and Logistics Team to begin moving the high-risk patients to a safer area. The fear that this story would circulate and any chance of obtaining vaccines would be discouraged could not be ruled out. So they would not be reporting this as a chemical attack, but as a failed interception of an attack by local terrorists, stopped by the FSPs.

“Dr Swann.” The head of security, Lucifer Safin, gave Madeleine pause. His accent would presume a Czech or Russian background but his complexion and eye colour invited room for ambiguity. The MSF on staff commonly referred to him by surname; perhaps Lucifer was simply an alias. What set him apart was his face. Gruesomely scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw, though the structure of his eyes and nose remained intact. In spite of the weather, Madeleine had never seen him without gloves. “I understand that you were one of the last to speak with Dr Kessler?”

His manner wasn’t explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, “but that was nearly five days ago.”

“You were instructed to monitor him during that period by the Medical Coordinator?”

 “That’s correct.”

Safin glanced at the Project Coordinator. “I’ll speak with her alone.”

“Of course.”

Safin nodded. They walked down the length of the hall back to her room. His gait was purposeful and direct. He had a rifle strapped to his side. Madeleine tried to avoid concentrating on it. Her attention went to the window. She'd forgotten to lock it.

“Dr Swann.” The early morning light put his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, it was more as if his very face were made of porcelain and had suffered a nasty blow, then glued together again. “What was the extent of your relationship to Dr Kessler?”

“I did not work with him often. We talked once or twice but that was all. I have my own responsibilities with the Psychosocial Unit. From what I could tell, he never made an effort to befriend anyone.”

“But you were asked to monitor Dr Kessler.”

“I was requested to do so on behalf of the Medical Coordinator. There were concerns that Dr Kessler was somehow unqualified to continue his work. In observing him, I had no reason to suspect he was unfit for the position psychologically.” Safin said nothing. “The only issue I could see worth disqualifying him for, was that Kessler and the Project Coordinator had very differing views on protocol.”

“He spoke to you about his views?”

“He expressed to me once, in confidence, that he did not understand the Project Coordinator’s hesitance to bring in a security detail.” Safin’s attention on her became sharper. “He also told me he’d elected to continue volunteering here past his contract duration, just to ensure the operation was successful. That was my only conversation with him outside of a work-related context. You would be better off asking the other doctors about this.”

“We have video surveillance in place on the Grand Hotel de L’independence. At around one in the morning, Dr Kessler exited the building and contacted an unknown party by mobile phone. Then, a minute later, you were at your window.”

“Oh, yes. I have been forgetting to close it. With so many longer days, it can be difficult to remember these things.”

“Your room was the only one to show signs of activity at that hour.”

“I was reviewing my notes from that day’s session. I heard a voice from outside, though not clearly. It was distracting me from my work, so I got up and closed the window.”

“Do you commonly review your notes in the early hours of the morning with an unlocked window?”

“I just wanted some quiet. I leave the windows open because otherwise I seem to find myself trapped with the smell of rotting flesh as well as humidity.”

Safin’s expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. This was not a man you wanted to be on opposing sides with. Madeleine kept any apprehension away from her face and her voice tightly controlled.

“Look. Without information about Dr Kessler’s lifestyle outside of the MSF, I cannot give you an answer in good faith. I was assigned to survey him. He showed no signs of dereliction in his work, and to my knowledge kept his personal views separate from his work. Whatever he said to me during outside hours was assumed to be in confidence. Many people say things to one another in what they believe to be confidence that they would not admit to otherwise. If I had reason to suspect he was unfit to work, I would have contacted the Medical Advisor immediately.”

Safin held her gaze. She did not dare avert her face. Then he said: “Thank you for your cooperation. The Project Coordinator is waiting for you downstairs.”

The rest of the day she spent in a different wing of the hospital. The Psychosocial Unit was cut down from four members to three. Another inconsequential day of thankless work that never seemed quite good enough. That night Madeleine laid back on her bed and watched the shadows on the ceiling stretch over peeling paint until daybreak.

When she’d arrived at the airport she could stave off her doubts with shallow, private reassurances. As long as you are here, you are just Dr Swann the psychologist consultant. Your father is many miles away and he won’t contact you again. No one else will come looking for you in a place like this.

With a guy like Safin around she was undoubtedly safer than she would have been with the FSPs alone.

Safer, but no longer invisible.

⁂

July brought hotter weather and brittle peace—the vaccines had finally arrived. The wing of the hospital that had suffered the terrorist attack was still closed and they had lost several more staff members wounded in the initial attack. Madeleine and the remaining MSF were encouraged by the Project Coordinator to take earlier shifts. Progress remained steady but there was no clear resolution in sight. The stench of rot imprinted into Madeleine’s senses to the point where she no longer consciously registered her own nausea. Discontent among the staff continued to bubble under the surface on account of the closed wing and bad press.

It couldn't last forever.

A week away from August. Just another humid morning at six AM. Madeleine rose and prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. Stress kept her mind working late into the night, but her position with the Psychosocial Unit barred her from working overtime in the hospital. She was overwhelmed with keeping up the pace, not yet to the point of exhaustion.

There was an inordinate of activity on the road outside as she got dressed and left the room. She put it out of her mind.

Outside the hotel she met up with the Medical Coordinator and a few members of the Logistics Unit. They spent about ten minutes standing idle in the humid air, too weary to speak. The streets were usually empty this time of day.

An unremarkable black Jeep pulled up. The Medical Coordinator opened the door and was about to step into the car when it happened. The Medical Coordinator’s head burst over the interior of the vehicle and Madeleine. The body slumped like a doll to the dirt. Madeleine wanted to scream but could not. She turned and found herself facing down the barrel of a rifle.

Around a dozen men with guns, sans insignia, circled them. The man who had fired addressed her harshly in French: “Where are the rest of the MSF? Why are they not at the hospital?”

“I don’t understand.” Madeleine could see another group of men approaching from the rear. A massacre, onset.

“We’ve been waiting for months for a solution, and you have been injecting us with a useless vaccine.” He aimed right at her sternum. “Your doctors gave them all false hope for months. Now the MSF have abandoned you.”

“You have been protecting them!” the insurgent roared, levelling his weapon. “All this time! You knew why they were here, and you allowed them to experiment on our families like dogs!”

The man at his left turned and fired. The insurgent fell dead. “That’s enough.” One of the men from Kerberos in plainclothes. A dozen more in military gear materialised as if from nowhere. “There is no need for additional bloodshed,” said the plainclothes. “Release them now or you will be shot.”

All around her at once, gunfire. Madeleine didn't wait to see who had fired first. She prostrated herself, hands clasped over her neck, breath clogged in her throat.

All sound ceased. Her head continued to ring. Her eyes were open but she did not process the colour staining her skin, on her clothes, the smell of it. She hadn’t been shot. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

Heavy footsteps approaching. She closed her eyes awaiting the kiss of metal at her temple.

“Dr Swann.” Madeleine shrunk away instinctively from the gloved hand upon her forearm. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Another soldier pulled her upright. Sight of blood on dry earth briefly mixed up with blood spattered across wooden floorboards. Madeleine went limp. Ushered into the backseat of an unmarked Jeep, she could not stop trembling. Shoulder-to-shoulder with another man she recognised as head of Logistics, Peter Miller. The door slammed shut, jolting her back into her own body. Sound of the ignition set her into trembling. Miller’s naked hand materialised on her shoulder. His voice overtaken by the roaring in her ears. Madeleine bowed her head into her hands like a child, whispering: “Ne me tuez pas. Je n’ai rien fait. Je ne sais rien.”

[monsters-demons-and-ai-oh-my]

What We Lost and What We Have: Chapter 2

May 18, 2000, the night Sam learned 3 things.

John had cheated on Mary. Kelly Kline was dead. And his younger half brother Jack was born…

Nearly 17 years later their family never really recovered. But after a panicked phone call from Jack's uncle Castiel, their family will never be the same.

"It's Jack, there's something wrong with Jack..."

AU somewhat inspired by Episode 2x20 - What Is and What Should Never Be, and the season 14 storyline concerning Jack's illness.

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Chapter 2:  A history of dumbassery, inadequacy, and definitely not a dog

“Dean are you still there?” Castiel’s voice was tilting away from fear into the realm of frustration and irritation again.

There was a long pregnant pause before Dean responded.

“What?”

He recognized the noises in the background of the call now. A tinny intercom with someone repeating a doctor’s name in a cool casual tone, distant the ringing of phones, a crying baby...the sounds of a busy emergency room.

“Jack he…” Castiel took a shaky breath trying to center himself, “we… we went back to our hotel after… what happened at the cemetery.”

He seemed finally balance himself on the rock that was being annoyed with Dean. Dean was too damn tired to care.

Castiel rambled “Jack said he was tired and had a headache so I gave him some Advil and let him sleep. I thought he was fine, upset…" he jabbed the word at Dean, "still getting over the cold he caught at school but fine…”

“Just please get to the point,” Dean groaned, he vaguely remembered the teenager hacking up a lung in the graveyard earlier that day. “So what? Does the kid have the coughing plague or something?”

Castiel went dead silent.

“We… we went out for a late dinner last night and he…” his voice broke, “Jack collapsed… he had a seizure.”

Dean’s mouth went dry “...Shit.” was all he could think to say.

Dean’s medical knowledge didn’t really go beyond the basic first aid needed for the occasional burns and bruises that came with working around hot engines and moving parts in the auto shop. But years of watching… certain soap opera’s told him that was very bad. Unless...

“Is that… normal for him?” Dean asked lamely, he wasn’t exactly an expert on Jack’s medical history.

By the time Jack came around Dean had already moved out, and he hadn’t been exactly been going out of his way to spend time with the kid in the few years Jack lived with John part-time. He’d only really seen Jack when John couldn’t first a sitter for work.

“Would I CALL you if it was?” Castiel nearly spat voice shaking clearly regressing back into panic mode.

Dean bit back a spiteful, “Then why the fuck did you call!?”

He wasn’t heartless. Even if the two people in question were people he’d pay good money to have not come within the same state as him ever again. A kid in the hospital… it was some rough shit.

When Sam was little he’d broken his arm jumping off the front porch railing of their house trying to be Superman. He remembered his parent's frantic frustrated arguing on the way to the hospital about who was supposed to be keeping an eye on Sam. His mother trying gently to get him to sit still for the x-ray. The sound of Sammy crying.

He settled on the slightly less harsh. “What do you want from me then?”

Castiel gave a long-suffering sigh, the one he inevitable heard whenever he tried to speak to the man, like he was trying to explain physics to an eight-year-old.

“They… they want to run tests, blood, an MRI, I know one thing they’re testing for is meningitis, and if it’s that’s what it is…” He let the sentence hang.

There was another voice in the background of the call. probably a nurse by their soft reassuring tone and Castiel’s uneasy thank you’s. He came back after a moment.

“Listen they're moving Jack to a room if it’s what I said... then the doctor will probably want to see you and your brother or… something. I’ll… I’ll call you later in the morning when he’s settled in, please just… get here alright…?” Castiel sounded as exhausted as Dean felt.

Dean suppressed a yawn, “Yeah… yeah sure just um… how about after the sun comes up this time eh?”

Castiel abruptly hung up and Dean blinked blearily at the phone for a moment before snorting.

"Typical..."

The combination of the liquor, lack of sleep and sheer bizarreness of the conversation were making the whole call feel surreal, like a bang on the roof in the dead of night you weren’t sure whether you imagined it or not.

Maybe whatever was going on with the kid would sort itself out by morning and he wouldn’t have to deal with this…

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Seven-ten the next morning Sam saw the big black muscle car pull up beside his hybrid in the parking lot of Lawrence Memorial. Dean exited the car wearing a pair of dark aviators despite the fact the sun had only just risen.

“Long night?”

Dean pulled off the glasses and shoved them into his jacket pocket shooting Sam a deadly glare, clearly not over what happened the day before.

“Did Saint Castiel tell you anything new?” Dean sighed draining the last of a cup of fast food coffee.

“I still don’t know why you insist on calling him that,” Sam said with a long-suffering sigh.

Dean tilted his head sardonically and tossing the cup in the bin by the door, “Yes... you do.”

“Let me rephrase that.” Sam's voice sharpened, “Maybe just don’t today okay Dean? Maybe for once act like a functioning adult, because this is neither the time nor the place for your bullshit…”

Dean stared at him eyes narrowed for a long moment before his posture relaxed and he shrugged.

“Okay.”

“Okay…” Sam said in mild disbelief.

Dean sighed and scrubbed at his eyes, wincing, “yeah fine, I get it. This shit it’s... crazy.”

There was a long significant pause.

“Castiel said he’d meet us up by the pediatrics ward…” Sam said after a moment studying the hospital entry’s diamond-patterned linoleum.

“Pediatrics?” Dean seemed to wince at the sound of the word.

“Yeah, Dean… Jack’s 16,” Sam muttered, turning to walk inside without another word. He felt like maybe it was time for Dean to stew on that fact for a while.

Things were quiet for the entire ride to the third floor, each Winchester fuming in their separate corner of the elevator.

The door dinged pleasantly before popping open to reveal a pacing Castiel his suit jacket rumpled like he hadn’t taken it off since they met the morning before.

“Thank god finally.” he breathed, “I was beginning to think…” he sighed and shook his head, “never mind I just… the doctor’s need you to answer some questions about... your family...”

Castiel trailed off seeming to lose interest in explaining turning on his heel and walking determinedly down the corridor to the ward entrance, Sam and Dean looked at each other for a moment before Sam shrugged and followed quickly behind.

“Is he… is Jack alright?” Sam asked awkwardly.

“He’s um…” Castiel sighed and paused to punch in a number in the keypad that kept random passersby out of pediatrics ward. “He’s been really out of it since we got here, he’s sleeping now.”

There was an electronic chime and he quickly opened the door, “he’s in the third room on the right…” Castiel muttered.

Something about the statement bothered Sam he quickly caught up with Castiel, “they’re keeping Jack on a normal ward?”

“Hmm?” Castiel blinked back sheepishly.

“It’s just… when you called you said they thought he might have meningitis,” Sam said carefully, “and if he did I doubt the medical staff would let us, let alone Jack himself near any of the other patients.”

Castiel stopped walking again but didn’t look at him, “No they um… he doesn’t have a high enough fever and or stiffness… they don’t think it’s that anymore…”

Sam nodded eyes narrowing slightly in confusion, there was something about that answer that made him uncomfortable.

It seemed Dean didn’t have any trouble putting his finger on what it was, “why didn’t you say that when you called this morning?”

There was an awkward silence inappropriately punctuated by the sound of children giggling in the distance. Castiel still didn’t look at them.

“I mean that was the reason you gave us to come today… right,” Dean’s words were deceptively casual.

Maybe it was his own vague hurt that kept Sam from telling Dean to shut up.

“What? did you think we wouldn’t come if we didn’t think It’d affect us?” Dean said cooly mouth twitching.

Castiel finally turned to look at him eyebrows drawn together in a warning.

“Dean maybe you shouldn’t…” Sam tried before being cut off by a hand, Dean’s eyes didn’t waver unphased by Castiel’s glare.

“Is that really what you think? That if you needed us we’d just let Jack, a kid, suffer? Do you think we’re that petty?”

“I…” Castiel’s eyes darted in the direction of Jack’s room. Through the window, Sam could just spot his blanket covered feet at the end of the bed.

“Do you really think we're that shitty of people!?” Dean’s voice rose.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed and he snapped back to Dean, “Think of you? I don’t think about you at all Winchester. I don’t know you!”

They both stared each other down for a long moment, sizing each other up. For a moment Sam thought they might start a fight right there in front of the wall mural of children of every race and color playing ring around the rosie, complete with a happy Sun.

But the seconds came and went.

“We would have come Castiel…” Sam said quietly.

Castiel finally looked up eyes watering slightly, and Sam could have sworn he saw the man’s hands shake.

“I couldn’t risk that…” he said softly.

The tenseness was broken a moment later by a sing-songy drawl.

“Well looks like the rest of the pissy party parade has arrived, so how about we take this little shindig out of the hall…”

Sam nearly leap a foot in the air, he hadn’t heard the nurse walk up, she stood behind him giving all three of them a smile that radiated the energy of someone who would just as easily disembowel them. With all their racket they probably deserved it.

“I’m sorry…” he glanced down at her name tag, “nurse Masters.”

She tapped her nails against her clipboard and gave him the same thin smile, “alright cupcake,” she tilted her head towards Jack’s room. “Right now there’s a very confused medical student sitting in there trying to figure out how exactly he’s supposed to get a history from RipVanWinkle, I figure he’d have more luck with you three.”

Cas moved first huffing softly quickly hurrying past the nurse seeming to forget the argument the second he was reminded of Jack.

Dean strolled slower behind the man still looking pissed off, leaving Sam alone in the corridor with the nurse who smiled at him expectantly.

“Right, sorry…” Sam unfroze and sheepishly followed.

Sam tried to look anywhere but at Jack when he entered the room, Castiel had automatically taken a seat in a chair on the far side of the boy’s bed his coat and a thin blue hospital blanket thrown across the back of it like he’d been camping there all night.

Dean was leaning against the far wall arms crossed, staring down a terrified-looking Asian kid in a lab coat clutching a clipboard to his chest.

By the time Sam took a seat beside the door and the nurse followed behind him the room was far too crowded for comfort.

In a room full of people he didn’t want to lock eyes with the unconscious kid in the bed suddenly became the least daunting sight.

There was an abrasion on Jack’s brow bone and a long bruise trailing down to his chin, like he’d fallen and hit head something hard on the way down.

Sam wished he felt more.

Jack was a pale stranger of a teenage boy, upsetting but...

Sam wondered if he was walking alone down the hallway and looking into the rooms if he would have even been able to pick Jack out of the other faces in their beds.

Seeing Jack like this made him feel pity and sadness, but seeing the deep-seated fear and worry on Castiel’s face

Jack was supposed to be family

Guilt bloomed in Sam’s chest. The only memory that he could pull up was at will was that Jack liked goldfish when he was two. He tried to look closer at the boy on the bed, pluck at the strings of his heart.

He focused on how Jack’s breathing was a little too fast and shallow, the heart rate on the monitor a little too rapid…

The kid was hooked up to an IV and about six different sensors, some wires trailing down the neck of his hospital gown one clipped onto the middle finger of his left hand. The opposite wrist and hand were strapped in a temporary splint, like his face probably a casualty of the seizure the night before.

The thought made Sam wince.

God this was a joke.

Someone cleared their throat “I uh… hello…” Sam broke out of his self deprecating reverie.

It was the medical student in the lab coat, gripping his clipboard and still nervously eyeing Dean. He yanked his eyes away to focus on Castiel.

“Are these the um… brothers you were talking about?”

Castiel didn’t look up from where he was straightening the blankets over Jack’s chest.

“They’ll be able to give you the information on his father’s side that I couldn’t,” he muttered distractedly.

“Half-brothers,” Dean said cooly from his position by the wall, “and I’m right over here.”

The nurse whistled strolling over to the side of Jack’s bed and picking up his chart.

“If nothing else…” she read, “Jack… will get a healthy dose of machismo today.” She frowned at something on the chart before clipping it back over the end of the bed and stepping closer to the monitor.

“Try not to make the med student piss himself okay? Bringing the janitor in here would put the room capacity over code,” the nurse said squinting at it.

“Is something wrong?” Cas asked her a little alarmed.

She gave him a smile no more sincere than her previous ones, but with worry and attempted comfort in the place of irritation.

“Don’t worry about it daddy dearest, nothing’s... changed.”

The way she said it didn’t seem all that positive when she immediately followed it up by leaving the room at a brisk pace.

They all stared after her awkwardly for a few seconds.

“A-about that history,” the med student said the tone of someone being forced to tell a joke at gunpoint.

Dean was still staring at guy though he looked more puzzled than threatening now. Dean had probably just been hungover in the first place and got the lab coat confused with the white wall when staring into empty space.

“Dude, I’m not going to eat you…”

The med student looked thoroughly unconvinced.

“Fine, you want history right?” Dean pulled one of the plastic chairs across the floor and leaned back against the wall, “ask away Kevin.”

The kid opened his mouth looking confused before glancing down at his name tag and turning red, “Right, um… your father?”

Dean turned to address his answer at Castiel. Castiel didn’t bother looking back.

“Died of a heart attack age 45, don’t know about his dad, grandma lives in Florida looking like she’s live to an ornery 105, anything else? I’m not here to hide anything” Dean shot the last sentence at Castiel before turning back to face Kevin.

The kid jumped.

“Y-yeah… your father’s heart attack, was it related to any pre-existing cardiac or pulmonary disease?”

Dean glanced up at Sam tilting his head befuddled.

“Heart and lung problems…” Sam huffed, “he didn’t have any I know of.”

“Yeah…” Dean looked down twirling his aviators in his hands, “he had high cholesterol, shitty bachelor’s diet and all that you know.”

Sam rolled his eyes and muttered, “yeah because that wasn’t his own choice or anything.”

“Bite me, Sam.” Dean grinned at him leaning back in his chair again.

“If you’re not going to be helpful then leave,” Castiel barked suddenly shooting both brothers a steely look.

The door slid open again and nurse Masters re-entered with her hands full.

"I leave for two minutes and you' start the orgy without me,” she dropped her armload of supplies down on the rolling table at the end of the bed and got to work.

“Listen I can and will use the skills I've gained changing the sheets of three hundred pound men solo to kick your asses out of here so behave…" she warned.

Castiel was quickly distracted hovering over her every movement around Jack.

Sam and Dean's faces mirrored mild shock.

"Did she just threaten us?" Dean said nonplussed plunking his chair back on four legs.

"I think so," Sam blinked.

"Can she do that? Like legally?" Dean asked.

Sam rolled his eyes, "I don't think she cares…"

Nurse Masters finished fitting a nasal cannula around Jack's face, marked down something on his chart, and left again flashing one last patent murder grin.

“Thanks…” the med student squeaked after her, quickly looking back to his clipboard when he realized everyone was staring.

“So um… is there anyone with a history of epilepsy in your family…” Kevin said not daring to look up again.

“Nope,” Dean sighed, distantly pissed again.

“Autoimmune disease?”

“Sam?” Dean said looked at him expectantly.

“No…” Sam sighed going to look through his emails on his phone, feeling more out of place by the second. He cleaned out his inbox to the tune of Dean’s repeated “no’s”

"Diabetes?"

"Nope," Dean yawned

Kevin tapped his clipboard with his pen, "Cancer?"

“Actually we did have a second cousin who’s died of cancer,”

“Oh?” Kevin’s head tilted up almost seeming relieved.

“Lung cancer, she smoked like three packs a day and worked in an asbestos factory,” Dean blinked and giving him a weird look.

“Oh…” Kevin trailed off.

“Cas?” a feeble voice broke the monotony.

Sam fumbled and almost dropped his phone, looking up.

Jack was waking up. The blanket shuffled slightly and he coughed hoarsely.

Castiel jumped and went almost immediately to hover over him.

The kid's eyes were half open glancing lazily around at the ceiling and Castiel like they weren't quite taking everything in.

"Jack?" Castiel asked voice quivered, "Jack I'm right here…"

The boy blinked dazedly reaching an exploratory hand up to feel the tube on his face tugging a little on the iv in his arm in the process. He blinked blearily at it for a moment and then his eyes snapped open breathing speeding up fearfully.

"Jack are you okay? hey hey, Jack… look at me…" Castiel said carefully laying a hand on his shoulder, "you're in the hospital."

Jack went stiff in his bed arms held awkwardly in front of him hovering over his chest like he was scared to move and accidentally yank on something important.

"No… no I…" he breathed looking around panicked, wincing, his eyes caught sight on the splint on his arm.

"I'm sorry…" he mumbled giving another hacking cough and tearing up, "did I… did I get in a fight? I'm sorry, please don't ground me…"

He didn’t even seem to notice Sam or Dean in the room.

"No Jack you're not in trouble you didn't do anything," Castiel quickly reassured him with a soft smile, "you… fell Jack…" his voice cracked.

Something in Sam’s stomach squirmed like he was invading something incredibly personal and private.

Castiel took a steadying breath that came out almost as shakily as Jack’s."Y-you had a seizure, Jack…"

The teenager’s eyes widened.

“Do you… do you remember anything about what happened?” Cas reached out to gently relax Jack’s arms back on top of his blanket.

“M-my head hurt… I…” Jack’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “I felt… weird, I went to the bathroom…” he trailed off.

Cas smiled sadly, “you did, and you locked the door…” he gently held the boy's non-splinted hand, “I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

Dean must have felt as out of place as Sam did because at that point with barely a sound he got up face unreadable and left the room.

Jack finally noticed his older siblings then roaming glazed eyes landing bewildered on Dean’s retreating back before shifting to Sam.

Sam’s chest jumped and he opened his mouth searching for something to say but Jack looked quickly away as if burned before he could get anything out.

It hard for Sam to resist following Dean right out the door after that. Instead, Sam tried to busy himself on his phone drafting an email to his work that he’d be a day late flying back.

“No no, I…” Jack face screwed up and he coughed again much harsher than before into his free hand, “I can’t,” his breath came out in a wheezy huff between coughs.

The medical student Kevin came to the side of his bed and picked up the control pushing a button causing the back to come to a half seated position.

It seemed to help because the coughing eased after a few moments and Jack was finally able to finish his sentence.

He cleared his throat, his pale face stained pink from the stress of the attack, “I… I can’t be in the hospital… we need to go home… I need to feed F-felix.”

"Felix? Did Jack have a dog or something," Sam thought.

Castiel comforted him gently, “Jack you fed him before we left, it’ll be at least another week before you feed him again.”

“Ah so… definitely not a dog then…”

“M-maybe you could bring him here?” Jack looked up at him hopefully.

Castiel blinked it was his turn to look confused, “Jack I don’t think they let pets in the hospital.”

“I… I’ve got school tomorrow…” Jack muttered conversation changing mid-stride looking unfocused past Castiel, “we… we have to go back.”

“Jack, you’re in the hospital I think they’ll understand,” Castiel shot the medical student a worried look.

“He’s um… they have him on morphine for the arm, he might be a little… confused?” Kevin explained looking a little unsure himself.

“Mr. Edlund hates me…” Jack muttered trying to push himself weakly up in bed, “he’ll fail me.”

Castiel sighed, placing a hand on his chest, “well then it’s good that I work at your school, I’ll just have to talk Chuck out of that okay?”

Jack seemed appeased by that and relaxed back against his pillows.

“I actually needed to ask Jack a few questions for the form,” Kevin said after a moment awkwardly clicking his pen.

Sam’s eyebrow rose, Castiel shot Kevin a look.

Kevin cleared his throat suddenly studying his clipboard like it held the secrets of the universe, “Um have you recently taken any drugs, Jack?”

Jack hunched up defensively giving Kevin a suspicious look, “Yes… but you gave them to me…”

“Okay,” Castiel broke in aggravated, “maybe now… isn’t the best time for that?”

“P-please don’t,” Jack cleared his throat, “call the c-cops…” he took a shaky breath and launched into another fit of coughing.

Castiel gently patted the boy's back as he curled in on himself coughing into his hands Castiel’s expression quickly turning to one of alarm as the coughing was broken up by almost choking gasps.

“Sh-should we call someone?” Sam asked nervousness sinking into his stomach. Kevin opened his mouth unsure.

It took a minute for the coughing to gradually ease, Jack’s face red and eyes watering as he shakily regained his breath…

“Are you alright?” Castiel asked, the hand not on Jack’s back gripping the bed rail like a lifeline.

Jack was squinting befuddled into his hand, “I… I think I coughed up a lung…” he mumbled before raising his hand for all to see, “look…”

The medical student turned dead white fumbling around for the call button.

Jack’s palm was coated in blood.

[feelingsdusk-writes]

According to plan

(For the Hunter AU square)

The very first thing Stiles does when he finally gets back on his own two feet and has things more or less on track, can’t be defined as anything other than a form of self-torture.

He shouldn’t be doing this, he promised himself he wouldn’t. He was going to spy on the Argents and…

When he started two days ago, he tried to be at the very least a little bit inconspicuous when he spied his mother on her daily walks through the park. Now he’s just sitting on a wooden bench, dying a little more inside with each passing minute.

She’s beautiful and he didn’t know how much his memory of her was skewed by the lack of pictures and the ugliness that her sickness had brought, until he saw her for the first time two days ago. What’s even more heart wrenching, is that he can’t do a thing to help her. No matter how much magic and runes and rituals he has learned, when he skips town, he will be leaving her to pain and suffering and, eventually, to death.

“Everything all right there, son?” Stiles covers a minute flinch and sighs, because he should have expected this. He has been watching her like a weirdo stalker for three days now, after all, it was bound to be noticed.

“Just trying to figure some things out,” he answers quietly without turning to face his dad. He doesn��t think he can handle it, knowing that he won’t be able to call him that ever again.

(He reminds himself ruthlessly that, back in his own time, he couldn’t call him that anymore either.)

“And how is that going?”

Stiles doesn’t have to look at him to know he has adopted his classic cop pose, it transfers to his tone of voice quite clearly. His lips involuntarily twitch but the momentary mirth leaves a sour taste in his mouth too.

“Not so good… but not so bad either.”

Because the damn ritual worked, even if it left him naked and without everything he had prepared (money, clothes, provisions) besides the knowledge in his brain in the middle of a field in Kansas. Ah, and like ten years prior to when he intended to arrive. The last half year hadn't fun at all, but he managed somehow to start from zero.

“Could be worse then?”

“Definitely,” he snorts.

The ritual could have failed and he could be dead. Opposed to that, even having to skulk around Kansas stark naked in the dark, having to steal underwear and other necessities is better. He sighs.

There’s a beat of silence and he doesn’t need to look at his father to know he’s debating with himself about something. He knows his tells like the back of his hand, after all, and this younger John Stilinski, even untouched by grief over his wife’s death, isn’t that different in some aspects.

“Do you need help, son?" he finally asks, and Stiles wonders what his father is seeing in him, a complete stranger (and a very suspicious one at that, who has been stalking his wife for days), to ask that question with that level of concern. "That was a very dramatic sigh there.”

Even after everything, some childish part of Stiles that he has never managed to kill completely still sees his dad as some kind of superhero that can win against anything. He wants to turn around and ask him to fix this mess, to give him back his time, his life, to lift this responsibility to fix everything off his shoulders.

He closes his eyes tiredly and wets his lips. He forces himself to sit up, still not looking at the man. His mother laughs ahead. At this time, either they’re trying to get pregnant or he isn’t even an idea.

“Son?“ His father tense voice reaches him and he sighs again.

This is his reward, he tells himself. To have a new untainted memory of his mother and his father is priceless. So he can remember her smile and laughter without the ugliness of her sickness. So he can remember his warm expression without being tainted sour by their issues or broken and bloodied. It’s a reward and a blessing, he repeats to himself, so that he can, maybe, close his eyes and see that image instead.

He turns around.

Afterwards, he tracks the Nemeton to check on it. The Hales and Deaton must be doing the maintenance, because he doesn’t have to purify it like he feared. The Nogitsune is another thing entirely, though. Either they don’t know of its presence or they don’t know how to deal with it, but it doesn't matter which of those it really is, because both of them are equally bad. Part of Stiles wants to kill it and be done with it; another part of him recognizes that being undeservingly trapped for seventy years (sixty now) can twist anything and anyone.

He releases and cleanses it, performing the ritual to satiate its need for revenge and lets it go. The Nogitsune vanishes with a considering look, but doesn’t say a thing. Stiles places wards where he knows they won’t be found before leaving, so if anyone with ill intent comes near the Nemeton he will know instantly.

He stays in town for a couple more days, looking into the Argents. It’s almost disgustingly easy to lose his tail. He gives his father props for the tenacity, he supposes, but he’s been doing this since he was twelve.

After getting all the information he can (gotta love magic and detection runes, he could have been sitting in their dining room with them and they wouldn’t have noticed a thing), he debates with himself for a bit before he gives in. He buys one of those cheap one use cameras. The moment he finally takes a picture of them as a family, he skips town as fast as he can. In Yuba City, he waits until he’s back at his motel room to look at the printed picture and he breaks out crying.

He keeps the printed photograph in his ratty wallet and a memory stick with the scanned version on a chain around his neck, both of them with enough wards to make anyone who tries to steal them from him vaporize.

—

He crosses the entire Sacramento Valley until he reaches Redding. That night at a seedy bar on the outskirts of town, with a nearly untouched beer in his hand, he tries to figure out what to do now.

It was a simple enough plan, really. Fool proof, even. Get back in time, kill Gerard and Kate, stopping the Hale fire and the creation of the alpha pack in one neat move. Maybe stop the whole Paige debacle? Easy peasy.

No such luck.

For starters, he doesn’t even know where Gerard is. From what he has learned, at the moment he’s part of the Tribunal’s hunters and he has been sent who knows where. Kate is a bratty fifteen year old girl, not yet out of high school and still under the wing of Alexandrine, the current Argent Matriarch. Chris has already been working under another experienced Tribunal hunter for two years now and Stiles doesn't have the means to track him down.

It gets him wondering, when did things go south with them? He can’t know about Chris, because he hasn’t encountered him yet, but Kate looks like a normal bratty teenager. A little acerbic and sarcastic, yes, but there are no tells of psychopathic behavior at all, so he’s been thrown for a loop. He would bet all his money (which admittedly is not much at the moment) that grandpapa Argent (well, at the moment only papa because Allison hasn’t even been conceived yet) has something to do with that. Something must have happened to Alexandrine, leaving the path open to Gerard to manipulate Kate into the psychopath they all know and hate. Whatever happened, though, it’s in the near future and it probably didn’t touch Chris too much because he’s already out of the nest so to speak. Or that's what he guesses happened, in any case, because it's not like Chris was all unicorns and rainbows at first... or ever, really, even if he somewhat mellowed with time.

That is not to say that the current Argents are pro supernatural, but they seem more tolerant? He supposes there’s a very ample range of views but at least they seemingly adhere to the Code to the letter. Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent. The Matriarch is an iron fisted lady about it, as far as he could tell from the three conversations he spied on.

One of those conversations was with newly minted Alpha Talia Hale, so full of rigid politeness and very, very, veiled insults and diplomatic bullshit, that it could be almost considered a new form of art. Stiles was reluctantly impressed with the verbal ninja arts and almost sorry for Talia for the way Alexandrine dominated the conversation.

The other two were telephone conversations with hunters under her command about a wendigo up north that further cemented the fact that they followed the Code. The second of which, by the way, was an epic tongue lashing so sarcastic and dry that it nearly reduced him to tears from the laughter and he had to leave before he got caught towards the end of it.

His lips twitch remembering it and he snorts into the mouth of his beer bottle, making the sound reverberate weirdly.

But back to the situation at hand, he thinks, sobering. Bottom line, he doesn’t know what to do. Does he only kill Gerard? Because something doesn’t sit right with offing Kate, that’s for sure. Also, maybe Gerard isn’t a bad person and something happened that twisted him? Stiles groans. He can’t believe he’s contemplating saving that man, it’s even worse than leaving Kate be. It leaves an incredibly sour taste in his mouth.

Stiles takes a swig from the bottle and grimaces. Damn, he hates beer. He doesn’t even know why he ordered it in the first place. He sighs.

The whole debating and pondering is pointless without the information he needs. He can’t make a proper decision lacking in that department, so he has to investigate. And for that, he has to locate Gerard. He knows for a fact that, at this point in time, the Tribunal’s headquarters are located in Atlanta, so what better place to start than that?

He sits up from the bar stool and heads for the exit after a nod to the barman that goes largely ignored. He shrugs nonplussed and goes to the parking lot. He eyes the sky, full with heavy dark clouds, and tries to remember in which direction was the motel. He really needs to get a car, he thinks as he takes a moment to mourn for his Roscoe. He really wants to invest in one because not only does he hate hitchhiking, but he could use it to sleep. Even gas money would be cheaper than paying for a motel when he can’t sleep outside. However, right now his financial balance is so close to zero that even paying for a beer feels like splurging. Winter hasn’t been fun with limited resources, that’s for sure.

A movement at the edge of his vision has him turning. No attacks come, but for some reason he’s instantly alert. A woman emerges from the dark and his first reaction is to rush to her bloodied and abused form. He squashes it ruthlessly. Something’s wrong.

“Help,” she whispers brokenly, her hand reaching out to him.

Ah, damn, he remembers. That wendigo up north. He takes the toothpick from his mouth and pricks his finger on it. He pretends not to notice how she takes a deep breath at the slight smell of blood.

“What happened, miss?“ he slurs faking concern and a slight drunkenness (he can’t overdo it in case she has been observing him), but makes no move to approach her, seemingly looking around to locate the threat. “Who did this to you?”

“A man… a man,” she sobs. “Can you help me? I need a hospital.”

“Ah, damn, I have no car, sorry! Maybe someone at the bar, I'll go get…”

She must be starving, because she launches herself at him before he can even finish turning. He sidesteps her, her nails leaving a bloody imprint on his face, and twists her arm behind her. He drives the toothpick into the base of her skull in a one swift move and she instantly drops.

Applause rings in the silent parking lot.

—

“With a toothpick.”

Stiles covers a snort and the hunter in the room with him looks at him suspiciously, still aiming the shotgun at him covertly. The doctor looks up from the wendigo briefly and continues his examination. He keeps the surveillance rune tattoo activated and listens to Adam (apparently the same one mama Argent flailed for losing the wendigo in Crescent City) talk.

“Yes, madame,” he answers, not entirely able to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “Doc says that just a millimeter off in any direction and he would have failed.” Well, that was what his blood was for, after all. Perfect placement and an undetectable charged shot to the brain that killed instantly. “We knew he’s experienced from the moment he didn’t rush to it like a civvie or a rookie would, though… and when he didn’t overdo the drunken act.”

“Name?”

“No papers, madame.”

“And?” she prompts impatiently after a beat of silence.

“Madame?“

”Did you, per chance, think to ask?“ Adam splutters and Stiles bites his cheek to cover a laugh. He actually likes this woman. That may or may not change when she fixes her attention and that cutting tongue on him, though. ”For the love of… Pass him the phone."

Adam enters the room again and with a dirty look hands him the phone. Stiles, just to be difficult, raises an eyebrow and makes no move to take it. The man scowls and he aims at him an unimpressed look.

“Madame wants to talk to you.” Adam finally relents with gritted teeth, and Stiles takes the phone, keeping his unfazed expression firmly on.

He’s been mentally preparing for battle since she told her minion to pass him the phone. He needs to set a good foundation for future interactions or she will swallow him whole, not leaving even the bones behind.

“Well, madame,“ he drawls, “tell me why should I care that you want to talk to me?”

I haven’t killed your people, yet, but if you push me that can change, he doesn’t say. She gets it anyway.

(Smart lady.)

—

Stiles is on his way to Atlanta (he keeps getting waylaid, damn it, first with a flock of garudas that needed help with a witch in Reno, and then with a herd of centaurs in dispute with a local werewolf pack near Salt Lake City), going through Denver, when he gets pulled into an alley. He almost blows Adam’s brains out before he recognizes him and only his pale and terrified expression stops him from doing it anyway out of aggravation. Dammit, more trouble, he groans mentally. Happy Birthday to him, yay. Then the foul stench of a darach’s magics assaults his nose, and he almost gags with the thickness of it, driving the seriousness of the situation home quite effectively.

He follows the man to a hideout at Quivas Street, where another two hunters are waiting for Adam. They bring him up to speed in hushed whispers, with eyes that they can't keep from darting around themselves nervously. A week ago, a team was sent to investigate strange happenings in the area and they disappeared without a trace. Of the reinforcement team of eight hunters that arrived yesterday, only the three of them remain.

It doesn’t look good at all.

Stiles asks them to retell him everything that has happened, not leaving out a single detail at all, whether they think it important or not.

They don’t know anything about the first group but, of the five missing reinforcing hunters, two disappeared at 15th Street, another two on Water Street and the last one near the Mile High Stadium, just at the beginning of Platter Greenway. Every single one complained about persistent mosquitoes. He feigns studying the map as he makes them repeat everything one more time, and marks the places of the disappearances with red sharpie. Then he activates the rune in his hand. The nearer he gets to the locations where the intensity of the signature matching the one tainting the missing hunters is higher, the hotter his fingers grow.

Over Elitch Gardens he has to hide a wince at the burn.

They refuse to be left behind, so Stiles has to bring the three hunters with him. He gives them a special speech before going: they do as he says, when he says, no doubt or complaints. They seem a little peeved, but the moment Adam nods (he remembers the toothpick thing, thank you very much) they fall rapidly in line.

Turns out there’s a damn Nemeton in Elitch Gardens (which, how the hell is that even possible???) and the darach’s trying a ritual for world domination or something equally nefarious that Stiles doesn't have the time to stop to find out. They are lucky, though, because the darach hasn’t killed any of the hunters she captured, even if she’s been slowly bleeding them out like pigs if the amount of blood is anything to go by. In any case, it's obvious they probably don’t have much time.

Before he can do anything to take her by surprise, she notices them, and an entire flock of cranes descends on them. He smiles like a shark, welcoming the distraction, and goes after her.

Taking all the hunters to the hospital is a bitch; confounding and conning the hospital staff into treating them without calling the police is even worse. But, having to spend the following ten hours purifying the Nemeton? That's the worst thing ever.

After that, when he’s finally heading (almost crawling his way) to the motel to sleep for a day or two at least, Adam intercepts him, passing him a phone. He groans and the asshole smirks tiredly. Stiles barely resists the temptation of throwing it to his head and Adam's smirk only widens, as if he can read his mind.

Turns out that, in between those seven hunters, he just saved Alexander Argent, Alexandrine’s twin brother.

He has a bad feeling about the whole thing. It only intensifies when Adam, very pissed off, leaves without his phone.

Happy Birthday to him, indeed.

—

He continues to Atlanta, determined to not be waylaid again. He’s passing St. Louis when things go south.

The moment he sits in the passenger’s seat of the truck, he recognizes the driver for what it is. He curses his luck. A wendigo, again? Really? What the hell, he curses mentally.

He nearly dies when it tries to kill him with the truck still moving. Stiles bashes it’s head into the steering wheel repeatedly while he tries to actually steer the truck, but it still crashes. He wakes up who knows how long after, his face bloody and dizzy. The wendigo is dead, slumped heavily over the steering wheel and Stiles grimaces at the sight. He unfastens his seat belt and opens the door to vomit on the gravel. He tries to clear his head, breath harsh as his world spins around him at impossible speeds.

There’s a faint sound coming from the back of the truck and he curses. He heaves himself from the seat and helps himself using the walls to move tortuously slowly to the rear door. When he reaches it, it has a damn padlock and he curses again. The trek back to the cabin leaves him shaking, and it takes him three tries to open the damaged door and another three to heave himself up to search the body for the keys. Afterwards, he has to take a minute to breathe, his rolling stomach making him sway.

Eventually, he gets back to the rear. He takes another minute to breathe again before opening the door and he nearly gets his head bashed for his troubles. He’s actually saved because his legs give out on him.

He’s pretty dizzy, but lucid enough to recognize an experienced hunter when he sees one. “Argent?” he asks a bit slurred. He has a concussion for sure.

The man stops abruptly and Stiles wordlessly passes him his phone. He sits on the entrance and looks inside. There’s at least three half eaten bodies. Chris Argent is unconscious and still tied up in one corner, but thankfully not missing any body parts.

The other man passes him the phone back before going to untie Chris. It takes him a moment to note that the call is still connected and someone is calling his name.

“Well, hello mama Argent,“ he slurs. “You keep losing things, maybe you should look into that?”

—

“I thought we talked about this, mama Argent,” he drawls as he picks up the phone she gave him (Adam, actually) almost three months ago. It’s not like he was going to get rid of it, flat out broke as he was. “Still not one of yours.”

“And yet, you still pick up, Stiles,“ she drawls back and he rolls his eyes.

“Because if I don’t, you keep calling and it gets annoying.”

“I can always send someone, if you prefer that instead. I have some people in Modesto right now. I’m sure Adam will be thrilled to see you again.“

Stiles rolls his eyes again. It took him a while to get that she’s only very good at pretending to know where he is at all times, that it isn’t actually true. He has this mental picture of her minions calling her the moment they spot him anywhere and it shouldn't be this hilarious.

“Yeah, because that worked so well last time.” There’s an actual reason for Adam’s mild to moderate dislike besides having to give him his phone on the spot, pictorial blackmail included. “Let’s cut the chase, shall we? What do you want that I won’t actually give you?”

She snorts dismissively at his words and he pouts. He needs to start following them through.

“What do you know about the naga?“

“That you only find them in Laos, Thailand or Cambodia, which is nowhere near freaking Modesto?“ There’s a beat of silence. “Tell me it’s not in the Naraghi Lake, in full fucking view.”

“Stiles! Of course it’s not in the Naraghi Lake,” she tuts as if she’s dissappointed.

“Let me guess, it’s not in any of the reservoirs, is it?”

“You’re such a clever child when you want to be.“

“I’m fucking twenty-three, you old hag, and I refuse. Nope. Not doing it. I hate the sewers!”

”A little bird told me you went to Atlanta.“ Yeah, he did. It was a complete waste of time, after the pains he went through to get there. At some point the hunters must have had a better relationship with the supernatural world (or maybe they still have it at the present time), or at least the druids, because the headquarters were warded to kingdom come. And trying to contact the Tribunal the normal way without an endorser was futile. “Your help in exchange for my endorsement.”

Stiles sighs. “If it’s not a threat, I’m not killing it. How big is it anyway?”

“An estimated fifteen feet.“ Stiles splutters. ”And I don’t care, so long as none of you get killed and you get the same results as with the centaurs.“ Okay, now he is impressed. How does she know???

He meets with the group in Elmwood Avenue. He has worked with them before, and they know to do as he says without question (even Adam, for all he scowls). Good. It’s probably not a coincidence it’s them, either. Alexandrine can be terrifyingly good like that.

They take Needham Street until they reach Eisen Park. It’s almost midnight, but they take care to check if someone is looking before they open a manhole and slip in.

It takes them more than three miserable and excruciating hours to locate the naga and Stiles curses when he finds out she’s laid eggs. Fuck, he curses loudly. The men tense at the hostile movements of the humongous reptilian but obey his signal to stay put and non threatening. Before she can attack, he blurts out a peace shout, first in Thai, then in Cambodian and in Laotian, hands in the air in the universal sign of peace. He keeps a respectful distance and stays still, hoping she will get it despite his most likely horrible pronunciation.

She blurts something back and he sighs relieved. He asks which is her mother language. Laotian, she’s from Laos, but she speaks just the basics of English. It takes him a while, but he finally gets that she was smuggled with another from Laos almost a year ago, by some man called Jensen or Jansen. She killed the man and hid here after he murdered her mate. And now she’s stuck here with a clutch. She hates the sewers, she wants to go home.

He takes great pleasure in waking Alexandrine at four in the morning so she can reach out to her contacts in Laos. Almost three hours later, they have everything planned to extract Naa Rak and her clutch, and give her a safe passage back to Laos.

He separates from the rest of the group, who is going to keep investigating the man that had Naa Rak and see if there’s a smuggling ring and this situation will be repeated, or if it’s an isolated case. He doesn’t envy them, to be honest, but it serves them right for snickering when Naa Rak hugged him, pressing his face to her very naked breasts (scaly or not) and nearly suffocated him, because she heard that’s how humans express their gratefulness and affection. Ah, and that was right before she did the forked tongue thing so she could memorize his scent and transmit it to future generations because she and her line, quote, would be forever in his debt.

They left the damn room to laugh, the bastards.

—

“Tell your sister she’s a fucking bitch!” he shouts the moment the call connects.

“What.”

A Kate! What have you done now? Are you two timing your boyfriend again? comes muffled, as if the receiver has been partially covered. A Not at the moment? is heard in response and Stiles splutters.

“Ah, sorry, I thought you were Alexander. You have very similar voices, through the phone, I mean,“ he stutters flustered.

”Are you calling my mother a bitch?“

“She’s being one?” he offers weakly.

“What.“

“It’s her fault! She fucking adopted me without my consent!” he finally shouts frustrated.

There’s a beat of silence from the other end of the line, followed by a twin, male and female, MOM.

“You did keep calling me mama Argent, son.”

“I-you-It was mocking and you know it! Stop with the amused tone, dammit!“

“I did promise you endorsement, Stiles.”

“What does it have to do with this?!”

“To be accepted by the Tribunal, you have to be a member of a hunter family. There’s no in between. Either you marry into the main families or you get adopted. This is the only way I could give you what I promised.“ She makes a pause for effect. ”Unless you want to tell me something about you and Adam, Stiles? I'm sure I could arrange something if you want?”

Stiles hangs his phone after spluttering and eyes the identification papers dismayed. There’s a passport, a driving license and, of all things, a credit card, all to the name of Stiles Argent. Even the birth date is right. He recalls his bitching and the string of happy birthday to me from that day with the darach and Alexander so at least he can explain that. He groans. He would bet his life that they are official and complete legal.

The phone rings again and Stiles contemplates not picking it up, but reluctantly decides against it.

“What.“

“You’re genuinely angry.“ She sounds so perplexed that Stiles contains his acidic response. “Most people normally throw themselves at the opportunity to become Argents. Until you hung up I thought you were being your usual dramatic self.”

“I wouldn’t-” he starts, only to stop himself abruptly. He would, because he enjoys ticking people off by being difficult. He sighs. “I dislike being strong armed into things.”

(Dislike doesn’t even begin to cover it.)

There’s a beat of silence before she speaks. “I apologize. I’ll have it undone by tomorrow morning. I’ll change the last name to anything you want, and you can keep the papers. I’ll also try to find another way to endorse you, though I’m going to be honest here and admit that I don’t have high hopes for that.”

Stiles doesn’t answer yet, choosing to analyze what has happened in the past few minutes and what Alexandrine has said. Is it possible that this was her way of thanking him for saving her brother? If it’s so well considered, she probably thought that in his current situation he’d jump at the chance. She has just opened a lot of doors for him, after all. But this taking him for granted rubs him the wrong way.

He sighs again. “Don’t, I just…”

“I should have asked you?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to be an Argent, Stiles?“ He snorts. ”I’m going to be honest here and admit that we would be gaining as much as you would.“

“I need to think about it.”

“Take all the time you need.”

—

He wanders for a while, going south but not leaving California. He goes through Porterville and Ridgecrest and even tries the Mojave Desert up to the Kelso Dunes, where he sits for a while.

He’s not a Stilinski anymore.

He feels as if he’s been sucker punched. He rubs his face tiredly and presses his palms into his eyes until spots dance in front of them, hoping to stave the anxiety attack off. He takes a deep breath. It’s not like he was officially a Stilinski before the whole adoption business anyway, he tells himself. Up until now, in this time he was a nobody. He chokes on his own saliva and gasps.

Stiles takes out the picture he took all those months ago and stares at it for the first time, feeling broken and jagged around the edges. He thought he had prepared himself mentally for this, for being a nobody, alone and without any ties whatsoever. It’s not like he was on speaking terms with his father, dammit! Before he watched him die, they hadn’t seen or talked to each other for nearly a year, this shouldn’t be so difficult! But it's obvious he wasn’t as indifferent to the whole familial situation as he made himself believe, after all, or he wouldn't be trying to control himself in the middle of nowhere. Maybe taking the picture wasn’t such a good idea, because it just serves as a reminder of what will never be, what is forever lost to him.

He takes another deep breath and starts timing himself. He reminds himself that, in his own time, he was also not a Stilinski anymore, despite what his official identification papers said. It takes him a while to calm down enough to start thinking clearly again.

He’s frustrated, and not only about Alexandrine’s faux pas. He’s already passed the half year mark since he came back to the past and what has he done? Because he hasn’t killed Kate and Gerard, he doesn’t even know where he is? And now he’s an Argent? Christ, he's now Chris and Kate’s bigger brother! What the hell is he doing?

He takes another deep breath. He needs to take control pronto. He knows that he has more than seven years before everything goes to hell, but if things follow the same dynamics as up until now… He’s going to end up running out of time.

A gentle breeze goes through his fingers and he looks up. He gapes at the sand sprites in front of him. The second they realize they have his attention, they start to beckon him.

Stiles hesitates for a moment but their urgency convinces him. Besides, from what he knows, sand sprites are normally peaceful unless their land or tribes are threatened. He arms himself just in case and follows cautiously but hurriedly. After a long while they pass what he assumes to be the ghost town of Kelso. They cross the railway, and a little further away, he gets what they are trying to show him.

Taking down the manticore, even with the help of the sprites, almost kills him. A centimeter to the left and it would have taken his head. He lets himself fall to lay on the ground, breathing harshly.

The sprites flutter nervously around him and he sits up frowning. Following them to where they’re pointing, he almost chokes on his own saliva from the shock, and has a brief moment in which he doesn’t know what to do. Then he reacts.

He sets out to save as many as he can, unloading everything from his bag and filling half of it with sand. He swiftly creates a safe space with rune arrays that will help them heal and starts helping the few survivors into the bag. There’s no sign of the ruling pair.

Before leaving, he eyes the rest of the desert fairy colony, his heart almost breaking. He tries to take as much as he can from it, but the manticore pretty much destroyed it. He thanks the sand sprites after they guide him to the nearest bus station.

He gets off at Ridgecrest and then heads to the Indian Wells Valley, following Eglantine and Aelfdene’s directions until he reaches pretty much the middle of the valley. He lets them down gently and waits for their return, meanwhile tending to the survivors. Not even five minutes after their departure, a swarm of fairies flies towards him, seemingly out of nowhere. He helps them unload the wounded and what little he could save from the actual physical colony, including the sand when they ask for it.

He leaves feeling pretty damn good about himself. He may not have achieved much from his initial goal, but he can’t say that what he has done today is nothing.

—

He backtracks to Ridgecrest and decides to take a week to recover from the ordeal. By the third day he’s so restless that he throws that plan out of the window.

He decides to go back to check on the fairies. He waits where he thinks the colony is until Eglantine and Aelfdene come out to meet him. His heart clenches when he learns that ten out of the thirty fairies have died in the past three days, and that five are still in critical condition. He offers his runic and ritualistic abilities and they decline. Their bodies are fine, they say, their minds are not. They’re fading due to heartbreak, and no rune or ritual will help them with that.

When they try to talk about rewards, he’s cold and stony. He didn’t come back for that and they helped him get mental tranquillity, he considers them in peace. Eglantine flies to his face and places a kiss on his forehead.

“Fairy luck for you, my friend,“ floats melodiously into his mind.

“Take care,” he mutters back softly, waving at them as he retreats, suddenly assaulted with the need to be elsewhere.

It isn’t until he’s nearly in Sacramento when he connects his restlessness to Eglantine’s words and recognizes the lucky boon she granted him for what it is. He immediately stops questioning it and follows his instincts to the Angelo Coast Range Reserve in Mendocino county.

He gets another sudden the urge that tells him to hide and he swiftly activates his misdirection runes as he approaches the entrance to the preserve. Even in the dark, he spots Alexandrine and Alexander ahead with a bunch of her minions, Adam included. More importantly, Gerard is there too.

(Beautiful, beautiful Eglantine.)

He follows after them at a prudent distance. Runes or not, he’s not going to risk it, because there’s being confident and there’s being arrogant. They go straight to a building next to McKinley Creek, Stiles still closely behind.

The moment he spots the party the hunters are meeting, he turns the scent suppression runes on. He thanks Eglantine mentally again. Even with his swift reaction, he can see some of the werewolves sniffing at the air suspiciously in his direction.

Something doesn’t feel right.

Instead of following them inside, he checks around the building. He pinpoints three of Alexandrine’s hunters guarding the entrance, and four betas doing the same. He ignores them and tries to comb through the surroundings in the dark. He goes around just in time to catch two intruders approaching the back of the building. There’s no sign of Alexandrine’s hunters and he doubts she left this part unguarded. Or that the pack did, for that matter.

He activates the tiny little runes on the palm of his hands and claps them at their backs. They immediately drop unconscious. He goes hunting again and manages to incapacitate two more.

He returns to the front and observes. Two of the hunters look shifty, trying to look inconspicuous as they eye around them more and more with each passing minute. He recognizes the third as Paul, one of the hunters that accompanied him on the field trip from hell to the sewers back at Modesto. He looks wary of the betas, but nothing out of the ordinary. Stiles curses the fact that he never bothered getting his phone number…

But he hasn’t deleted anything from Adam’s phone, has he? He grins shark-like when he finds his contact details and then shoots a text. Paul’s eyes widen in shock but he doesn’t react otherwise. Voices start to rise on the inside of the building and Stiles' feelings of urgency grow. He shoots another text.

After a couple of minutes, Paul turns as if he has heard something from the back of the building. The other two offer to go and check and he protests, but ultimately relents. When they are out of sight, Stiles takes them out.

After that, he doesn’t bother with subtlety.

“Tell me you’re fucking sure,” Paul pleads ignoring the wary betas.

“So fucking sure,” he answers as he pulls him towards the back of the building.

Turns out that what Gerard did to Deucalion was the perfected version of what he did to his wife in the original timeline. He takes great satisfaction in crushing the life out of him. He wonders if being glad that he wasn’t redeemable makes him a horrible person but a moment later he doesn’t fucking care. They have found the bodies of the missing hunters and betas. Adam was one of them.

He starts somberly helping the pack and the hunters alike, using some herbs he has in store to help them with the wolfsbane poisoning. He might as well go big or go home, he thinks, following another hunch and using runes with the worst cases, not even bothering with subterfuge.

Alpha Donovan eyes him calculating and then turns to Alexandrine. “My emissary is dead,“ he states, not very subtly. Stiles doesn’t like him very much, to be honest. For starters, it’s very crass to try to replace a dead member of your pack not even an hour after the event took place. Not to mention cold, and it gives the impression that he thinks of the members of his pack as tools. Alexandrine adopts a blank expression. “This was a breach of the Code and now two of my betas are dead too,” he growls and she narrows her eyes. “I demand a compensation.”

Stiles aims a saccharine sweet smile at Donovan and he takes an involuntary step back. Alexandrine’s lips twitch slightly. “Maybe you should check if he’s in shock, Stiles,“ she says in a deceptively soft tone. “I admit my medical knowledge is at best limited, but that’s the only reason I can think of for him to forget that we were here to get to the bottom of why two of his betas killed four of my hunters in the first place.”

“It sounds like a sure thing, mama,“ he answers mildly. “No one is stupid enough to think that forcing anyone into being your emissary is a good idea, after all.”

Donovan doesn’t stand a chance under their combined efforts. He leaves with his pack sanctioned and with a scowl.

Stiles’ a little bit surprised and wary of the lackluster reaction of the hunter party to his abilities (he’s feeling sort of collectively duh-ed?), but he’s still riding the fairy boon’s effects, so he remains to help move the injured and the bodies to the Argent’s vehicles. Alexandrine looks at him from the backseat of a SUV questioningly when they’re about to leave.

“Well?” she prompts impatiently. “Aren’t you going to get in? You did call me mama, after all. Or am I reading the situation wrong again? You’re so difficult to understand sometimes.”

“I expected something like…”

“Fire and damnation raining on you when you decided to stop hiding?”

“Yeah?“ he answers weakly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, child,” she tuts.

“Again, I’m twenty-three years old, you old hag!” he protests, indignant. A passing hunter (and the driver, actually) chokes and starts coughing, quickening his pace. “And I don’t think it’s that far off to believe your reaction would be," he inserts some manic hand movements that are supposed to represent hell on earth, “when you found out, taking into account what you do for a living.“

She blinks. “You seriously don’t believe I just found out, right?” Stiles flails. “You took care of a wendigo with a toothpick, Stiles, I knew right from the start.”

“That could totally happen!”

She ignores him. He pouts. “Obviating the fact that you’ve saved several members of the family already, well, you’ve seen the headquarters in Atlanta, haven’t you? It’s not the first time we've worked peacefully with a druid without having homicidal urges,” she says dryly and she can’t possibly know how much she’s rocking his world view. What the hell happened on the next six to seven years in the original timeline that changed the hunter world so much?

“Not a druid,” he grumbles as he starts to climb into the SUV.

He promptly trips and nearly eats the door. Yeah, seems like the fairy luck is gone.

—

During the very first week Stiles spent in the Argent household, Alexandrine convened a reunion to address Gerard’s conspiracy. Being his charming persona, Stiles managed to infuriate ten more conspirators into revealing themselves and to antagonize almost all of the rest of the attendees.

Including his now (future?) sister-in-law when she answered harshly and almost dismissively one of Kate’s questions about Gerard’s stand on werewolves, with a rant about mutts and how they should be locked up and, of course, eliminated when they lose control. Alexandrine and Alexander had left the room, but he would have said his piece with them present anyway.

"Why?"

"They are dangerous. All that strength and abilities…"

"Of course, you’re right! Just like with all the military personnel, we should lock them up,“ is his blase counter. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the magazine he’s browsing. “And all those pesky veterans with PTSD? Eliminate them, of course."

"Are you stupid? It’s obviously not the same!"

"Is that so? They are dangerous, with a lot more strength than the average civilian and trained to have a lot of deathly abilities. And if they snap…” He snaps his fingers. “Now that I think of it… we should do the same with law enforcers too. Maybe even with firefighters?"

"They are human, they don’t turn into monsters every full moon!"

"Of course, you’re right,“ he answers mildly. “Soldiers can snap any day, after all, like every human. Or more so, given the situations they are placed in almost daily in war zones."

"I can’t even” she splutters outraged. “You’re ridiculous!"

"And you’re incredibly ignorant,” he counters, still in a mild disinterested tone. “Do you even know what an omega is or why shifters can lose their minds when a pack member dies? And I’m not talking about them being killed, I’m saying plain dying, no matter the cause."

"I-"

"No, of course, you don’t know,” he cuts in. “How can I explain it…” He fakes thinking about it.“ I think the most accurate analogy would be losing a limb. You lose a pack member and, it doesn’t matter if you liked them or not, you maybe even hated them, and suddenly it’s as if someone took a serrated knife and took their sweet time cutting your leg. And afterwards, you have no leg but it still keeps hurting. Kinda like when a human loses an actual limb but ten times worse.“ He licks the tips of his fingers and turns a page. No one says a word. “Now, imagine what happens when their whole pack dies."

"That doesn’t explain about newly turned omegas,” Victoria tries to counter weakly."

"It’s pretty simple, actually, if you think about it.” Victoria presses her lips at the jab. “One, born shifters train to control their abilities from childhood, whereas turned ones have to learn from scratch in a very short span of time.“ He purposely leaves the anchor detail out, he doesn’t trust them with anything else besides the obvious things he’s explaining now. “Two, there’s an instant pack bond between the alpha and the turned one. If the alpha dies or leaves, not only do they have to deal with instincts they don’t know how to control, but they also experience the aforementioned losing a limb consequence of the snapping pack bond. And if they have been bitten against their will? Add in trauma to all that shit."

"Are you saying that we should just let them be?"

"Of course not! Don’t be silly, sugar,“ he chides her saccharine sweet, before sobering and looking at her in the eye. “I’m all for killing an asshole that goes around purposely biting people against their will. Keyword: purposely, keep that in mind. And sometimes you have to do what you have to do, and a mercy killing is the best option. Because, don’t be mistaken, that’s what it is in most cases with omegas. Do you think they actually want to lose their minds and kill people? Don’t be stupid if you can help it, mmm?“ He makes a pause for effect, knowing he has the attention of the whole room. “I agree it’s impossible to force a pack bond on an omega, so it’s irreversible. But don’t make the mistake of assuming that every lone wolf is an omega.” Incredulous murmurs rise. “Silence,” he snaps. “Engrave this into your thick skulls: a pack doesn’t have to be formed by shifters only, they share those bonds with humans too. Or do you think that the humans in a familial pack are left apart? They feel the same loss with their human packmates. Also, the turning omega thing is not an immediate consequence. Bringing them to an established pack may stop the process completely.“ He suddenly returns to his placid smile. “Mmm, why am I bothering anyway? It’s not like you care about what I’m telling you, of course. They are just mutts after all, right? Just like they were just Jews. Save yourself the hassle of thinking and just murder them.” He closes the magazine. “Silly me. It’s obvious you dislike thinking and all that bothersome stuff, because anyone with half a brain would know treating your future boss as if she’s a retard is a little bit counterproductive, you know? I’m almost looking forward to that, if she’s half as vicious as mama you’re doomed. Thanks in advance for the future entertainment your stupidity will bring.” Stiles leaves the room throwing a peace sign at them.

“Twinkle, I need a ride to the cinema.“

And now, a month after that happened, he still can’t shake Kate off.

From what he has gathered, Victoria is a bitch to her, continuously judgmental about her choices, because she’s the next Argent matriarch and she should start acting like it. And every time they cross paths she’s silently condemning and Chris is almost always out with his mentor and doesn’t seem to notice the pattern when he’s here. What's even worse, it’s an attitude concerning her that seems to be spreading around the family, and the more that happens, the more rebellious and antagonizing Kate gets. It’s a little absurd that they treat her like a kid and at the same time expect her to act like an adult and Stiles finds it incredibly hypocritical, because they hide like children that know they're doing wrong, never doing it in front of Alexandrine.

Of course, Stiles didn’t know that when he confronted Victoria. To be honest, he only seized the opportunity to say his piece. And the last jab was more to call Victoria stupid to her face than to actually defend Kate…

“It’s spark, you runt, spark. I know your lone half neuron is overworked as it is, but make an effort to engrave that into your memory. If that’s too difficult, I don’t know, sharpie it to the back of your hand or something?”

“Are you sure antagonizing your future boss isn’t a little bit counterproductive, mmm?“ He aims at her a disgruntled glare and she smirks. She’s been milking that a lot. He kind of misses her wary persona from the first week.

“Brat.“

“You know you like me,” she crows and he grunts.

The thing is that he does. This Kate is so like him that it’s almost scary. She’s a sarcastic little shit, almost too smart for her own good, and with the people she likes, she loses that acidic edge that makes her so grating and intimidating to others. He wonders when he entered that category and why, because they have just physically met not even two months ago and he doubts just defending her once grants it.

He eyes her and she shifts minutely. Tough cookie, she is. Just like him, covering his insecurities with a smartass remark. He sighs. He’s doomed all right. When did he get so soft?

“I do, oh, my bratty little sister.“ She covers a grin and, dammit, he shouldn’t find that so charmingly cute. “But that still doesn’t make me your chauffeur.”

“I’ll buy you an ice cream?”

“When you’re trying to bribe someone, make sure to learn beforehand what to bribe them with, runt.”

“Getting you curly fries would require you to drive me to the other part of town yourself, and the play station is broken, so no games. I don’t have access to the library either, so…“

He looks at her for a long moment before he snorts. “I’ll make the terrible sacrifice of driving there. But it’s not enough payment. Send Victoria to any sewer related missions in the future and I’ll even pick you up afterwards.”

“Done,“ she says, and after they shake on it she adds. “You don’t bargain very well do you? I was going to do that anyway.”

Stiles cracks up. Doomed, indeed.

He waves at her lightly as she goes to meet her friends. He decides against going back and goes to the park. He sits on the same wooden bench from half a year ago and turns his face towards the sun. Summer in California is hot as hell but the temperatures had gone back to bearable by now.

He’s a little bit lost, to be honest. In less than a week it will be the one year anniversary of his arrival and, in theory, he’s done what he set out to do? Gerard is gone and Alexandrine follows the Code to the letter, so the annihilation of Deucalion’s pack or the Hales shouldn’t happen. Maybe, since Gerard won’t kill Ennis’ packmate either, the whole Paige debacle won’t happen? He doesn’t know the details of what happened, so he’ll have to keep an eye on that.

But what does he do meanwhile? Because that won’t happen for… nine years? Derek’s six years old now, if he’s doing the math right. He has the sudden urge to check if even at this age he has the same impressive eyebrows.

Come to think of it, he hasn’t met the Hales still. His mood sours, remembering Cora, Derek and Peter.

“Still trying to figure things out, son?“ Comes lightly from behind.

Stiles jumps from his seat with a yelp. His left foot slips and he falls face first to the ground with a pained grunt.

Just his luck. He’s not been purposely avoiding his father, but he hasn’t been looking for him either. He still has the picture, but he hasn’t looked at it since he was at the Kelso Dunes. He made his choice of having a new start as an Argent and he has stuck to it, trying to be open-minded about the whole situation and to adapt, but it doesn’t make seeing him any easier.

“Yeah?” he grunts from the ground and he hears a snort before hands reach to help him up. “Hello again, Deputy Stilinski.”

“Hello, son. It’s been a while,“ he answers as he makes a hand motion to him. He passes him his identification papers wordlessly. “Argent?”

“Stiles, please.”

“Stiles,” he repeats. He can see a lot of questions in his eyes, but his father refrains and just gives the papers back. “How are you holding up?”

“Better?“

“You don’t sound very convinced.“

“The past year has been hectic, and I’ve been trying to complete a project, you know, full investment and all that, and now that I’ve sort of finished it… I don’t know what to do with my life?“ He answers self-deprecating and his father blinks, obviously not expecting the straightforwardness.

“Work, relax or go back to study? So long as you don’t go back to stalking people…" Stiles blushes slightly. His father starts turning to leave. “Stay out of trouble, son.”

He nearly cries at the familiar phrase.

When he calms down, he starts thinking. In his time, he was a year away from getting his PhD in criminal justice at Walden University. Here, he doesn’t have even a high school diploma. He calls Alexandrine.

“What would you say if I told you I was thinking of going back to study?”

She’s awesome and her contacts are terrifying. He takes his exams and has his high school diploma before the month is over. He’s accepted at Walden without a hitch. Inadvertently, he lets it slip he almost knows the whole curriculum and, he doesn’t know who she knows or blackmails or bribes there, but they let him take the exams to evaluate his level and he ends up again at his last year. There’s no point in wasting time, she tuts to a flabbergasted Stiles. The catch? Taking all those exams in the span of a month is a nightmare. It was the most stressful and horrible time of his life and he lost count of how many times Kate mocked him.

He vowed to get back at her and she laughed.

But she also brought food and coffee, and even managed to convince Alexander to drive her to buy curly fries and ice cream so maybe he can be slightly more merciful about the retaliation.

Maybe.

—

In January, at Walden, he debates with himself long and hard. He calls Alexandrine and tells her to keep an eye on threats on the Hales. He doesn’t explain about Wolf Moon and, even though she knows there’s something he’s not telling her, she agrees.

There’s no incident and Stiles breathes relieved.

—

“You asshole!” Kate shouts in his ear the moment he takes the call, making him separate the phone from his ear hastily.

He hangs up, earning his roommate's snickers at his face and he flips him off. He goes to his room as the phone starts ringing again and he smirks. Turns out Kate was born on February 29th. It’s priceless. This year is a leap year and she turns four years old. It’s too good of an opportunity to let it pass.

He told Kate he would get back at her, after all.

“Asshole!“ she shouts again. “You’re the worst brother ever, Twinkle!”

“You’re being such a naughty girl, Kathy.” She splutters outraged and curses. “What a mouth! I’m going to have to confiscate your present and put you in the naughty corner!”

She promptly tells him where to stick Radar, the two-way tutor and he cackles. He goads her for a while before taking pity on her and telling her where the actual real present is, because he also said he was going to be merciful.

“It better make it up to me, I opened the other one in front of my friends!“

Stiles cackles again and she hangs up. It really does make it up to her. She calls gushing (really gushing, and being how she is, Stiles is pretty proud of himself about that) half an hour and an awesome treasure hunt filled with smaller presents later.

—

Stiles officially meets the Hales at Spring break. In his defence, he’s cranky and exhausted and dirty and many things more. Which actually means that he has a concussion, his brain has turned into mush, he can't think clearly and he's past the point of being simply pissed off.

He gets off the plane in Sacramento expecting to have to get a taxi and endure the one hour drive to Beacon Hills. What he gets is ten times worse.

“Welcome home!” Alexander, honest to god, chirps from the entrance of the airport, arms wide as if expecting a hug. A silent Chris, who is at his side, waves shortly at him, rolling his eyes at his uncle. Stiles stops abruptly to give them a narrow-eyed stare.

“I’m not gonna like this, right?“

“Dear nephew…” Alexander starts.

“No,“ Chris deadpans. Stiles looks at the taxi line mournfully and sighs. Paul waves at him as he takes the small luggage case from his hands to put in the trunk. “Welcome home,” Chris adds belatedly in a dry tone.

Stiles snorts and bumps into him as he passes him to get to the SUV. Chris smirks. Alexander pouts at being ignored and Stiles rolls his eyes and gives him a one-armed hug that the man turns into a full blown one. He squeaks, he’s not proud of it.

“This is a hostage situation,“ he grumbles as he climbs in. He nods to Anthony, Clara and Meghan.

“I have coffee?” Paul offers handing him a still hot cup and Stiles grunts as he takes it.

“A COFFEE TOTALLY DOESN’T MAKE UP FOR THIS, YOU FUCKERS!“ Stiles screams as they run through Sacramento’s sewer system, a pack of twenty ghouls after them.

“AT LEAST IT WAS BLACK,“ Chris offers dryly, nearly out of breath. He ducks and shoots in the face of one ghoul. It falls and gets up almost immediately. “UNCLE ALEX WANTED TO GET YOU AN ALMOND AND PUMPKIN MONSTROSITY.” Stiles trips and Chris grabs his arm, righting him and pulling him to continue running. Anthony pushes them both from behind to help them recover speed.

“DON’T YOU HAVE ANY MOJO OF YOURS, STILES?!” Paul asks as he swipes with his machete at one. It gets stuck in its neck and he has to let it go.

“I ALWAYS HAVE MY MOJO!“ he cries almost indignantly. “WE HAVE TO START GOING IN CIRCLES!”

“WHAT?!” Meghan shouts incredulous.

“THE FUCK?!“ Clara ends.

“DON’T QUESTION THE MOJO!” All the men shout.

They start going in circles, Stiles is reminded somehow of that phone game, the snake, as they try to not catch the tail end of the ghoul pack and at the same time not be caught. He slaps his hand to the walls as he passes, placing runes (containment and fire, durability for the walls), directing some of them to the ceiling while some of them glow under his feet too. He desperately tries not to think about what his hand is touching and just concentrate on the runework. It takes him another twenty minutes even going as fast as he possibly can. And fast he works, because if he lets them, all the runes will drain him to an empty husk.

The contained fire is the most beautiful sight they all have seen in a long time. The ground trembles horribly and they have to fight to stay upright, but the walls hold and they don’t explode into kingdom come from the explosion that the fumes cause, so that’s definitely a plus.

They hightail the hell out of there.

“Well, fuck me sideways,“ Clara gasps as she helps her twin. “Don’t question the mojo?”

“Don’t question the mojo.” Meghan agrees, breath harsh.

“Never question the mojo,“ Stiles says. “Question what are we gonna do about the witch.” Everyone turns to look at him. “Seriously? You don’t really think that those ghouls sprang out of nowhere, right? Right? What the hell do they teach you at school these days?”

“Math?“ Paul answers weakly. Anthony groans.

“See?” Alexander crows. “I told you it was a good idea to bring him along.”

“I hate you all,“ Stiles whines.

They do find the witch, after two hours. They have to sneak into the hospital filthy and tired, and it’s a miracle they aren’t found. Their witch is an ancient looking man with Alzheimers (or that’s what his chart says) that probably doesn’t even remember creating them. No one knows what to do about it, because he’s almost catatonic and hooked up to a myriad of life support machines.

He doesn’t survive the night.

They leave town without even showering, which some part of Stiles relishes in, because it's Alexander's car and he keeps whining about how he's never going to manage to get the smell out of the upholstery. But it's not like they can do anything else, because policemen are roaming the streets after the earthquake (they all snort at that) so they can’t even have that luxury. The Welcome to Beacon Hills sign is a sight for sore eyes, though, petty revenge or not, even if Stiles' nose died about twenty minutes into the ride and he's been dozing off for the last ten, nearly asleep after all the energy he spent on those hundred and something runes.

And then they nearly run over someone that comes out of the woods and into the road, hands in the air frantically waving. Stiles’ head impacts harshly against the window as Alexander steps on the brakes violently and he curses loudly.

They all rush out of the SUV. Even dizzy, Stiles can pinpoint the exact moment Peter recognizes Alexander and Chris, and what he probably thought as his salvation turns into a nightmare. He covers a kid (Derek?) behind him and snarls, which obviously serves to identify them as hunters to their pursuers because four men come out of the woods, guns in hand and pointing to the werewolves.

“Thank god you got them!“ one of them exclaims.

“What the hell is happening here?” Alexander demands, his normally easy going countenance gone. Stiles is pretty proud of his group. They have their guns out but, even though they’re obviously wary of the werewolves, they aren’t actively pointing them at them.

“They broke the treaty and killed one of ours.“ Almost as one, they all turn to the snarling and trapped Peter.

“Question,” Stiles butts in even before Peter can say a thing, utterly fed up and wanting nothing more than to go home and shower and sleep. He isn’t very hopeful about the latter, because he’s almost sure that he has at least a mild concussion, which only makes his mood worse. “What the hell are you doing in the middle of the preserve, which is, by treaty, Hale territory, armed to your teeth? And, you’re obviously not Argents, which means this isn’t even your territory… so the explanation better be good.” He lets electricity crack around him. And, all right, normally he isn’t fond of making this kind of theatrical threatening move (especially since he’s rapidly approaching his last reserves after the Sacramento stint), but it gets the guns to point at him instead of a small kid, so he's satisfied.

“You are not pointing a gun at my brother,“ Chris growls menacing and, holy cow, Stiles is impressed. He thought that the effortless badassness was a thing he had gained with age and experience, but nope. He’s also a little touched by the brotherly protection, if he’s honest with himself, because for a very long time it’s been him who does the protective thing and not the other way round.

Stiles, always a fan of nipping the problem at the bud and all that, takes out his phone to call Alexandrine. “Mama!“ he sings happily to the other hunter party’s incredulity. His own (like every single one) either snorts or is vaguely amused. Peter has stopped snarling, still wary but waiting things out, and also, no doubt, still looking for a window to escape. “Yeah, just by the preserve. We’ve got a bit delayed, you know, finding four hunters breaking the Code and the treaty, pointing guns at us… nothing out of the ordinary. I don’t think they’re ours, can I blow their kneecaps off? They’re bullshitting us to kingdom come and it’s so irritating.”

“Very diplomatic,“ Chris snorts.

“Bring them back in one piece to interrogate them, Stiles.”

“I could have asked about blowing their brains out,“ he counters Chris before turning his attention back to the phone. “No? You can still interrogate them without their kneecaps.“ They start to turn, obviously to flee. Stiles lets go of the phone and claps his hands. Electricity flows. “What,” he snaps at Alexander’s dry look. “She didn’t say anything about electrocuting them unconscious.”

He sways as he's finishing talking and Meghan and Clara catch him before he falls. He’s vaguely aware of what happens on the next hour.

Alpha Hale and her entourage come first, making obvious that they were nearby by the response time. Alexandrine has yet to arrive, but Talia doesn't wait for her. When she tries to make them responsible for the hunter’s attack on her pack, Stiles has had enough and he tells her so.

“Sure,“ he says saccharine sweet from where he’s sitting on the floor (not a very intimidating position, he knows, but he doesn’t think he can get up without eating the floor… so the lesser of two evils), “make us responsible. But next time an omega or anything supernatural crosses the border and causes problems, we get to make you responsible, deal? No? I thought so.”

“I’ve heard about you,“ she says, disgust evident in her voice. “The Argent’s dog. A druid that works with those who hunt us.”

“Then, either you have to have that looked at," he motions vaguely to his own ear, “or your contacts are shitty, ma'am,“ he answers plainly and several hunters cough suspiciously. So unprofessional, he tisks. “For starters, I’m no druid. And, well, not to be offensive even when you have just been exactly that, but I’m not the dog here.“ You’re acting like a bitch, he doesn’t say, but her eyes narrow, so he doesn’t think he has to actually say it aloud. “Aaaand… seeing that we are in a clarifying and hashing out misunderstandings mood, we don’t hunt you, per se, or they would be dead," he motions to Peter and Derek, “and we wouldn’t have played white knight.” And, just like he did all that time ago with Alexandrine, he sets out for a good first impression. He gifts her his shark-like smile. “Believe me, if I wanted you dead, you would be.”

The sound of engines fills the air but they don’t stop staring at each other. When Alexandrine gets off one the SUVs, Deaton approaches Talia and murmurs something urgently to her. She frowns at Stiles, way more wary than before and he makes a show of blinking innocently at her, making Chris snort amused.

Alexandrine makes them leave and takes things from there. He waves mockingly to Talia, for once making a graceful exit and not falling to the floor, and smirks at Peter, terribly amused by his baby face and his still teenage attire.

When they enter the house exhausted, Kate is waiting for them. She makes to hug them but stops herself. “Ugh, you stink so bad. What the hell have you been doing? Roll in shit?”

“Remember your promise,“ he grunts at her as he flies to the bathroom. She blinks and then cackles.

He does have a concussion and has to be woken up every half hour the whole night. Joy.

—

On April 8th, he gets woken up at three in the morning by a dead weight falling on him. He flails and falls off the bed noisily, pulling Kate along with him. He looks at the clock and grunts, turning his back to her and pulling on the sheets to cover himself, preparing himself to fall asleep again right there for the other two hours he still has before taking a taxi to the airport.

“Seriously?” she says incredulous and Chris snorts from the doorway.

“Wha'u'doinere?” he grunts sleepily as Kate sits on him and starts wiggling and butt jumping on him. Chris has been living with Victoria for a month now.

“Happy birthday,” he says simply and leaves.

Stiles gapes, instantly rising. Kate falls with an ompf.

There’s birthday pancakes and presents and very yawny people. Alexandrine and Alexander go back to sleep, but Chris and Kate drive him to Sacramento airport.

He’s so stupidly grateful for everything that he almost cries.

—

If there’s one thing he knows about Chris, is that under all that hardened skin he’s a cinnamon roll. Which is why he slips into the bride’s room, to their outrage, and, not caring about the audience, he proceeds to threaten (promise) Victoria with what he’ll do to her if she hurts his brother. Alexandrine, who was just passing by to hand over something blue, is immensely amused.

He throws at her a peace sign along a wicked smile as he heads to the yard where the ceremony will take place. He waves at Chris and snickers at the almost green tint of his face. Alexander and several male family members share it and he’s sad he missed the bachelor party, because something must have happened. Alas, he had classes yesterday and he flew back just two hours ago, because he predictably forgot to book the flight in advance. He’s lucky he even found one in time.

Stiles shares a smirk with Kate as he passes her and a quick kiss. He goes up to Chris and hugs him. He can tell he’s bewildered, because as a rule none of them are very touchy-feely but he hugs him back. The runes take effect and he groans relieved, squeezing him a little more before letting go.

“Don’t question the mojo?“ he says amused and grateful, green tint gone.

“Don’t question the mojo,“ he agrees.

The ceremony is beautiful. And, really, what’s with the Argents? He knows she has just become one, but their crazy absurdity must be contagious because Victoria looks at him with some less frigid contempt in her eyes. What the? He has just promised her hell and damnation and eternal pain if she…

Well, huh. It seems that she loves Chris as much as he loves her, after all.

—

Stiles misses his own graduation.

On the very same day, Alexandrine has a meeting with the secondary Argent branch in Minnesota, but she promises to be on time for the ceremony. She takes Chris and Alexander with her, but sends Kate and Victoria in advance to meet Stiles. Victoria isn’t happy to be relegated to Kate’s guard just because she’s pregnant, but a look from Stiles silences her.

Their bickering draws looks but the last time someone frowned at them, well, their combined glares nearly made them flee and no one has dared again. It was very satisfying… and terrifying to actually coincide on something.

On their way to campus, someone tries to abduct Kate. Long story short, Victoria saves them both and gets taken instead. He breaks his wrist when he pulls a fast one to put a tracking rune on the fleeing van. He calls for the cavalry but doesn’t even wait for it. He wraps his wrist with the hair scarf thingie Kate is wearing and goes after them. She follows despite his protests.

They find Victoria rescuing herself, of course, dented lamp in hand and three attackers already dead.

There’s blood between her thighs.

Allison.

No, not again. He won’t be responsible for her death again.

He comes to himself, covered in blood and other things, just as Victoria’s strength fails her. He catches her with the help of a pale and wide-eyed Kate, whose own hands are crimson. The pocket knife in her hands makes a deafening noise as it impacts with the ground.

Nonononotagain.

He makes her lay down carefully and curses. Kate scrambles to take her phone out and it slips from her bloody hands and clatters on the ground. She’s shaking. Both of them are shaking. They don’t have time, he pulls Victoria’s shirt up harshly and places his hands on her stomach.

He doesn’t know what to do, but anything is better than nothing.

He wakes up at the hospital of Beacon Hills after a two month long coma, his broken wrist still in a cast. Victoria is in the room with him and, after a soft tap on his face and an empty snip about stupid heroics, hand on her swollen stomach and eyes silently grateful, she calls the nurses and the rest of the family.

“The not question the mojo thing, right?” she inquires dryly, eyebrow raised.

“Never question the mojo,“ he rasps back, lips twitching, and she snorts as she helps him take a sip of water.

Kate cries, Chris looks suspiciously moist eyed, Alexandrine hugs him and Alexander, is calm and subdued, which he never thought he would ever witness. And over the course of the day, a lot of hunters he has worked with come by to pay a visit. Of some of them he doesn’t even know the names because he didn’t bother.

He realizes that, even if he has somewhat warmed up to Chris, Kate, Alexandrine and Alexander, he has been subconsciously keeping everyone at arms length. Even though he made the decision months ago to give them a chance and to let go of the past, part of him has held back and tried to not make new ties and friendships.

He’s failed.

He can’t say he’s too heartbroken about it.

—

On January 8th, Allison Claudia Argent is born at exactly four a.m. eleven minutes. Chris comes out and says Victoria is asking for Stiles to enter first without anyone else.

“How?“ Stiles asks, voice broken and silently crying. He’s never seen anything more beautiful than the baby in Victoria’s arms.

“Remember when I got you drunk on Christmas Eve?” Victoria deadpans tiredly from the bed.

“No?”

“Exactly.“

She hands him the baby, who starts to whimper at being moved. She instantly calms in Stiles' arms. He presses a reverent kiss on her forehead.

“And what else did I say?”

After a moment, she starts speaking. “I didn’t pry beyond your parents names… but I know who they are. I also know you have somehow saved me. I knocked you out after you blurted that.“

Ah, that explains the killer headache from hell that very next day, when he normally doesn’t like to drink at all. And the bump in the head. And… He snorts.

“Is that why you’ve been randomly pulling me into shops for the past week? Because, I tell you, I didn’t buy the excuse about you deciding to build a handmade wooden crib for Allison at the very last minute.”

“That crib is perfect and way better than that plastic prefabricated thing we had before,” she sniffs and… Is that a red tint on her cheeks? His lips twitch.

“Yeah, because you made me build it and I warded it to Pluto and back.”

“You did?“

“Duh.“

“You’re going to be the perfect godfather.“

Stiles cries again.

(That she won’t tell anyone goes without saying.)

—

Stiles is on babysitter duty when he meets Peter again. Chris is in Ontario and Victoria in Atlanta. He’s going to get it so bad when she comes back, because she found out about the pact between Kate and him about future sewer related missions and Alexandrine found it so funny that she sent her on one.

“Your mama is gonna kill me,“ he baby talks to Allison and she squeals. She’s almost impossibly cute in her summer dress with matching hair bow. He can’t resist the temptation and Eskimo kisses her. She squeals again.

Dammit. He’s so whipped.

A couple of women coo as they pass him and he blushes a little bit.

“You make me soft, yes, you do. And also talk like an idiot, my precious cinnamon roll, so your goddaddy needs a very black coffee to recover his masculinity and dark edge, yes, he does.“

“He really is an idiot,“ he hears a little girl’s mocking whisper followed by a man’s voice, also mocking. “Yes, he is.”

“He also hears very well,” he says dryly, and has the satisfaction of seeing both Laura and Derek jump guiltily. Peter smirks openly, obviously having known he would hear them.

“Uncle Peter,“ Derek whispers wide eyed, “isn’t he the one from that day?!”

“Yep, still can hear you, yes, I do,” he singsongs as Allison giggles and slaps with her tiny hand on his face. Gotta love runes and his paranoid nature, especially when he’s out with Allison. Derek blushes and hides shyly behind Peter. Stiles contains his cackles. “We meet again.“

—

Over the next four months, he sees Peter exactly ten times. Eight times still at Beacon Hills, during summer vacation, in which more or less both of them try to one up each other, and another two at New Haven, where they save each other’s life.

Figures Peter studied Law at Yale.

Stiles is working solo, which, admittedly he shouldn’t have been, but he was just on his way from Long Island to meet a bigger group in Shelton to take down a vampire coven that is kidnapping and turning kids from orphanages and foster homes from all around. He was on his way, that is, until he noticed something wrong at the East Rock Park and decided that a quick peek shouldn’t hurt.

And now he’s running across the park in the dark chased by a Cerberus. A fucking rabid three headed dog that is supposed to be extinct. And nothing he throws at it seems to be working. Wonderful.

Not.

(In case it isn't sufficiently obvious that he's being sarcastic.)

Cue in Peter and his very sharp claws and even sharper tongue.

“Well,” he says nonchalantly as he cleans his hands with a handkerchief, “so you do have a weak point, after all. Sister dearest has been most anxious to find one, having us, her poor subjects, search left and right for it. And here it lands in my lap. So convenient.”

“Good luck finding another Cerberus,“ he drawls back. “I was convinced they were extinct, but maybe you just killed the last one.”

“First, isn’t that an empowering thought?”

“You would think that.“ Stiles rolls his eyes as he pats his clothes to shake off the dirt.

Peter ignores him. “Second, she didn’t specify it had to be a useful weak point. But, I could be convinced to stay silent on the matter if…”

“I don’t really care if you do?“

“…you go out on a date with me.”

“What.“

He’s too shocked to protest when Peter grabs his hand and writes his number on the back of it before sauntering out, but Paul’s frantic call makes him wake up and speed all the way to Shelton.

In the end it’s a coven in as much as a mad nearly three hundred years old female vampire with an obsession on creating the perfect offspring and eighty-three of her failed attempts can be.

It’s a sorry affair. Out of those eighty-three kids, they can't help killing ten when she sends them to attack while she tries to flee. Forty-two are completely out their minds and try to kill them or each other the moment their sire’s mind control is gone. Of the twenty-one remaining, eighteen are so fragile that they die immediately after so many bonds snap. Finally, the only three left are terrified out of their minds and so touch and go that they can’t be moved without risk of them dying.

Stiles tries the contacts he had in the future, hoping at least one works. After a lot of failures, the one in Pittsburgh works. It takes a lot of convincing but they agree to take them in. Before help arrives, though, one of the little girls dies and only the twins remain. He calls again to urge them. Finally, the help from the coven arrives. Stiles breathes relieved when she assures him they will be fine.

By the time everything is over, the phone number has long since faded from his skin, but he only wants to go back home and steal Allison away and snuggle her for days, his most important decision what he’s going to dress her in when Victoria is not looking (at the moment he really wants to see her in a spiderman onesie).

His phone rings.

What he really does is pick up Brandon and Madison, Anthony’s son and daughter respectively, from Beacon Falls, where they have gone all cocky, without the backup from a more experienced hunter and against their father’s orders, to take on a wendigo to prove they aren’t puppies but able hunters.

It’s difficult to tell if Anthony is proud of their success or furious at their irresponsible idiocy. Stiles’ bet is on a twenty-five slash seventy-five percentage respectively. When the man asks him for advice on how to deal with it (he has already lost his wife, he can’t lose them too, he says pained), he tells him to be honest with them about how he feels, the good and the bad.

(He doesn’t welcome the reminder of his father, to be truthful.)

It must have worked, though, because when the siblings emerge from the motel, they are a chastised pair. He drives them to New Haven, prepared to just drop them, leave the car at the nearest Argent branch garage and take a flight home. He’s not in the mood for anything else. Besides, he’s knackered and the darkness is making him sleepy.

He debates with himself, though. What are the odds of being brought back to New Haven after losing Peter’s number? Stiles normally doesn’t believe in these things but… ever since he came back to the past, even if nothing has gone according to plan, he’s pretty much moved on good luck spectrum of his bad luck… But if he goes and asks for his number, he’s going to be insufferable… He tries to decide how to proceed as he drives towards Yale. For starters, he needs to locate him, after all.

He needn’t have worried, because, just as he’s driving past East Rock Park, a scantily clad Peter crosses the street pursued by… what the hell is that?

Turns out the owner of the Cerberus has taken exception to her pet being killed.

Afterwards, Stiles can’t stop laughing and Peter’s disgruntled expression does not help. He lends him some clothes and buys him coffee, continuously making puns about cheeks or any part of his anatomy that he’s had revealed tonight. He also filches his phone to put his number in and send himself a message.

He’s feeling better, but he still steals Allison the moment he hits Beacon Hills and dresses her in the spiderman onesie. It becomes his phone’s wallpaper.

—

When Kate becomes eighteen she shanghais Stiles into becoming her mentor. He retaliates by leaving her tied in the sewers as her initiation.

Stiles hears her telling Chris that she expected the reaction, that it was fair enough. He cackles, irritation forgotten.

—

For the next two years, everything goes without a hitch. He takes missions, taking Kate with him whenever her college schedule allows or he’s feeling plain vindictive. He also keeps babysitting Allison, who has him wrapped around her little finger. Peter and him continue dancing around each other, to Talia’s chagrin. Alexandrine (or the rest of the family for that matter) isn’t exactly happy about it either, but they leave him be. Peter gets silently threatened a lot, though, but he seems to find it very funny.

Even after all this time, Stiles doesn’t like Talia at all. Peter has started acting as her left hand, even from Yale, which seems to be a sore spot between them. Apparently, she expected him to settle into position and sort of leave his studies or study from home or something. Which, not happening, because it’s a source of pride for Peter to have been accepted into Yale, and he’s not about to give that up like he always does when she demands something. He put his foot down on that one and she has had to accept it, but even so, she still tries to force his hand continuously. And Stiles doesn’t understand why, because at the same time she sort of silently boasts of not needing one, that the respect people have for her (which is based on the measly fact that she can perform a full change) is enough. Also, she always seems to condemn Peter whenever she has to use him and it drives Stiles nuts. And her behavior gets worse and worse as time passes.

Stiles is very sure his patience is going to end up snapping.

—

Cora disappears on a Sunday afternoon. Talia blames Peter, who wasn’t even in the house and was on a date with Stiles. Phillip, who doesn’t like Peter very much, but recognizes the absurdity of the situation, tries to calm her.

Stiles snaps so badly that he slaps her out of the panic. Hard. “Snap out of it, you bitch!” he shouts. Then, he looks at his hand surprised. An array of runes melts from her temple and she looks around as if she has just woken up. Before it finishes dispelling, he surges forward to get a taste of the magics. Phillip tries to stop what he thinks an attack and Peter covers Stiles.

He knows this signature like the back of his hand, but first, Cora.

He tracks her easily via runes, just playing un the woods outside the house. He doesn’t know why they can’t catch her scent… Jackpot. He finds the talisman and recognizes the signature immediately.

He knew it.

How many times did he tell Scott and he didn’t listen? How many? He knew there was always a hand behind the scenes, with every bad they faced. And then, they were being hunted like dogs and they didn’t know by whom. And he could always get a tiny taste of the culprit but never enough…

“Stiles?”

But, why? What was the game? What did he want? Because this didn’t happen in the original timeline, of that he was sure. At least about the Cora thing… But it’s true that Peter was always wary of him. Did he suspect? Or has Stiles presence this time forced his hand into acting sooner or into being more heavy handed?

“Where are Laura and Derek?”

"In their rooms... Why- Stiles?!“

They are gone.

Whatever it is that Deaton wants, it’s always been about the Hales.

How did Laura find out about what was happening back in Beacon Hills when nothing was published about it? Why did he never tell them about his sister being the emissary of the alpha pack? Or about the darach? Stiles has been doing this for a lot less time than Deaton had at the time, and he can recognize a darach’s doings from a mile away! He tricked them into sacrificing themselves, knowing that an untrained spark would be perfectly open to the nogitsune and don’t tell him he didn’t know he was there! And suddenly, when everything seems fine after all the shit, the doctors at the institution where his sister counsels turn out to be psychos? Which, of course, forces Derek and Cora back… And the beast…

And everything went to hell.

When did Deaton become their emissary? He was already their emissary when Talia’s mother was the alpha, which doesn’t make sense, because he’s pretty young at this point. Her mother passed down Deaton along with her powers. Where are they now? Their parents went traveling after she passed the baton to Talia. When was the last time they talked? They look at each other wide-eyed, they can’t remember. When did Talia start changing? When she turned alpha, but it really worsened abruptly about four years ago.

Stiles helped the nogitsune nearly four years ago.

He can’t, for the life of him, guess what he wants, but he doesn’t care right now, or he maybe never will. He’s going to get Laura and Derek back and kill the bastard. And he’s going to enjoy it, dammit.

He calls the cavalry and tells Talia to do the same. Deaton’s pretty good at blocking his magical tracking so they’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way. Hunters and supernaturals are extremely wary of working together, but Alexandrine takes a look at Stiles thunderous expression and gets things moving.

They comb the town and the preserve and nothing. They try the town’s surroundings and nothing. Talia even calls Deucalion to get Marin to talk. Marin says she has never had a brother, that she’s an only child. Stiles opens his mouth to call bullshit and then…

If Deaton is that good that he can even make a pretty powerful druid like Morrel be convinced that she has a brother that she doesn’t really have… his wards around the Nemeton are laughable. He just placed them to warn him about ill intent and Deaton has probably circumvented them a long time ago.

He tries his directioning runes just outside the preserve to track the Nemeton and they fall flat. He swears and everyone backs off at his livid expression. Peter doesn’t.

No, no and no. He’s not going to lose this time. Never again. He’s a spark, he just has to believe, and a measly druid’s rituals are not going to be more than his magics.

He enters the preserve and doesn’t notice that they immediately lose sight of him and that no one can follow him. He doesn’t hear Peter’s howl.

He faces Deaton at the Nemeton. He says Stiles has ruined everything. He has been the guardian of this land since the Nemeton sprouted here and has been keeping it healthy and…

Everything around him starts to blur.

Stiles’ pretty sure that if he ever has the chance to investigate, he will find out that every older generation of Hales (and thus, probably useless to protect the land in Deaton’s eyes) has always disappeared without a trace while their descendants thought them either traveling or away for whatever reason. The Hales have been rumored to have been always capable of a full shift up until Talia’s mother Esme, married a non werewolf, so this last generation, instead of having two powerful sacrifices, Deaton has only had one, and thus he was counting on the nogitsune’s energy to keep the Nemeton alive… and himself. And then Stiles went and freed him.

(And in the original timeline, even if the nogitsune wasn’t freed, Talia (the last known full shifter up until Derek managed it) and almost every Hale died in the fire.)

He tries to fight the drowsiness, hopelessly outmatched. It occurs to him, as he is slammed against the tree stump, that a trained spark is a pretty succulent sacrifice. Which is probably why Deaton has lured him here.

He’s going to die. And probably Deaton is going to wipe or change everyone’s memories and every sacrifice he’s made until now will be for nothing.

He fights. He’s a spark, he just has to believe. He’s stronger than this. He’s just outmatched because Deaton is siphoning from the Nemeton… from which he has been a part ever since his own sacrifice. No matter in which point of the timeline he is, that doesn’t change the mark or the connection it left on him.

He pulls from it and Deaton must notice immediately because he gives an outraged cry and goes for Stiles. Something slams into the man forcing him back and Stiles' mind clears. With a snarl he goes for the kill before Deaton can recover.

Later, breathing harshly and with a rolling stomach, he eyes his rescuer warily.

“We are in peace now,“ the nogitsune says, snout bloody. He licks his teeth lazily, eyeing his surroundings with distaste.

Nothing remains from Deaton.

Now he’ll never know the why of many of his manipulations (why change Talia, for example), but he finds that he doesn’t care so long as he’s dead and can never come back for a repeat performance.

All his suspicions are confirmed when he accesses the Nemeton's roots and finds dozens of mummified bodies, lined in pairs. He waits until he has Derek and Laura outside to wake them and hugs them tight as they cry.

—

Stiles runs across the preserve, breath harsh and exhausted after everything. He’s tackled from behind and he falls with a yell.

“Asshole,” he grunts fondly and Peter huffs amused. They stay like that for a couple of minutes, curled around each other, until a half wolfed Cora jumps on them followed by Derek. Laura laughs before doing the same. “Okay, people, I have to call it a night.”

“But it is Wolf Moon!“ Laura protests as Peter helps him up. He shivers and the kids huddle around him. Peter passes an arm over his shoulders with a big toothed smirk and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Wolf Moon or not, I’m freezing and I hate the cold so chop chop.”

On his way to the car, he nods to a fully shifted Talia and several members of the pack. He immediately sneezes and throws a dirty look at them when they snicker. He kisses Peter deeply before leaving, to the kids' disgust.

Back at home, he’s tackled by a five year old Allison the moment he crosses the threshold. He Eskimo kisses her and she squeals. They all are staying at the family house for the holidays, even though Stiles and Peter’s flat is less than ten minutes away, and Victoria and Chris’ not even fifteen. But since Peter is staying at the Hale house too, it’s working out pretty well.

Victoria hands him a cookie filled plate and warm milk that he not so sneakily shares with Allison. His heart melts when she hands him the last cookie. She squeals again when he theatrically hugs her. He hears the tattletale sound of a picture being taken and he smiles at the camera.

Suddenly, he remembers the picture that he never looks at and his smile dims. Chris leans over his shoulder to kiss Allison, and, at the same time he squeezes the back of his neck. Stiles smiles softly.

The plan was very simple: go back in time, kill Kate, kill Gerard, never ever make contact with his parents, try to find a place within the Hale pack or not, but either way, live the rest of his life displaced and without the people he loves.

Out of those, he can cross out at least half, which is not that bad considering that right from the start, nothing has gone according to plan. He did go back in time, even though it wasn’t exactly when he wanted to arrive. He did not kill Kate, but he did off Gerard. The not making contact has been a total failure, because he’s made contact several times thanks to first his stupidity and later Allison’s park visits and play dates. He’s certainly found his place among the Hales as their emissary, even though he’s still a hunter, and more importantly, as Peter’s mate. About the last one, he’s not so sure, though, because he is displaced and without his loved ones, but, at the same time…

He’s found a new place and loved ones for himself.

Kate headslaps him as she goes to the kitchen. “Wake up, Twinkle!“ Allison giggles a chorus of delighted twinkletwinkletwinkle as she squirms on his lap. Stiles sniffs at Kate, to her amusement too tired for any kind of retaliation, and he tickles the toddler mercilessly. A wet and dirty rag slaps him on the back of his head with perfect accuracy and he narrows his eyes. He’s still on time to tick another thing from his list…

He calmly passes Allison to an amused Victoria and then he runs after Kate, disgusting rag in hand. He’s gonna strangle her, dammit.

A little continuation here.

[chilledplantmum]

In 2017 I moved in with my partner of 7 years we built the house from scratch with a ‘gift’ from his family of 30,000

We moved in and the violence started and escalated I developed an eating disorder and I was held at knife point and guilted into sex everyday and if refused it would be 3 days punishment of silence.

I would come home exhausted from full time work everyday and have to undo all the mess that man had left and he would say you need to keep on top of the chores I don’t have any underwear left.

My job at the time was a social worker with the homeless in st kilda where I received death threats regularly and tried my best to stop people over dosing or trying to hurt themselves.

An ambulance or police attendance was not foreign everyday was a fight to help others at the detriment of my own mental health.

I couldn’t not count how many people thanked me for stopping them from suicide or overdose.

The day I left I was verbally assaulted and threatened with death on my way to work.. I ran to my workplace in tears and they said take the day off and said that I would have to use my sick leave as it happened on the way to work.. this was confirmed by work cover calling to see if I could make a claim...

I left shortly after and then the man I was with started financially abusing me all the money in our joint savings account was disappearing in the thousands he claimed it was $1000 for our electricity bill which was my fault as I never turned the lights off....

He brought himself a brand new car which cost $25,000 and we remortgaged the house to pay it off, he stole my credit card and maxed it out...

He then got into a car crash with my personal car wrote it off and got a loan for a new one for me in his name with the deposit coming from insurance...

He then started suffering severe mental health and would often call me at work saying he had cut his legs open and needed me to take him to hospital...

I begged the outreach team to take on his case they refused as he was ‘fully functional’ in his face to face appointments.

I started finally working at a new job with youth services working to reduce juvenile offending and since I started I kept over 40 young people out of the criminal justice system and 90% surveyed that has interactions with me their mental health and self esteem improved.

I then being financially independent as tired of the abuse from my ex partner which had only escalated to more violence threats and sexual assaults which then turned into him denying they ever happened.

The day I packed up and left was the day he hit me across the face and seconds later said it didn’t happen.

He threatened to kill himself if I left and I said I just couldn’t do it anymore so he took my car and said you’ll never see me again...

I called the police and told them what was going on and they said they’ll do a search and put out a report and did a welfare check on me and said would you like to file an AVO I said no as if he’s still alive it would just put me in more harms way.

The psych team called me 4 hours later and said do you know this man and I said yes and they said we have no beds can you take him home?

I said no he longer has a place to come too and I’m moving in to crisis accommodation.

They asked me to pack him a bag of clothes and said I could drop it off at the door but the psych team made me drop in his room and I’ll never forget the death stare he gave me.

So I put the house on the market and just as I was about to sell it he said he would not sign the contract unless I gave the 30,000 back that was stated in the stat dec it was a gift so he could not do this... I called a lawyer while at work and they said I was entitled to the money but the cost of fighting it would see me lose any money I was able to get to move out.

So I signed it gave it back the house was sold and in the new property I made a deposit and my mum gave me the missing bit of money I needed to get over the threshold for the deposit and to reach 95% of the loan.

I collected all my things and moved everything myself with the help of a amazing moving company.

I was still working full time but the mortgage was still a bit unmanageable so I rented out 2 rooms of my 3 bedroom unit.

I didn’t over capiltilise I chose the smallest unit that worked for my lifestyle.

6 months after I moved in and had still been working full time I had 3 mentally ill youths on my 20+ caseload, they all attempted suicide and I spent weeks taking them in and out of hospital and then when another youth was caught and put in custody for a long sentence for shoplifting at 14. I made sure all my kids were safe went home and tried to take my life. I survived luckily and spent 2 weeks in the John cade ward.

While I was in hospital my roommates trashed my house and when I finally got home my house smelt of weed and urine I asked them to leave and stayed at my mum’s with my dog for awhile.

I got back to work 4 weeks later major exhaustion and depression setting in and the first symptoms of a major disability and health crisis to come.

After a year on my own and working to pay as much of my mortgage off as possible. I finally met someone 2 months later I was diagnosed with osteo arthritis and burstitis in both hips and the exhaustion was never ending.

I started a new project as I had become a senior member of the youth work team, I was working towards a community project with refugee and at risk youth communities to get feedback for how to improve youth services to reduce youth offending in the melbourne west community.

And then the workload doubled the pressure was intense and the long hours with my mental and psychical health declining for a mystery cause that lead to a few close calls on the way home in my car from work from exhaustion to the point of nearly falling asleep at the wheel.

Being on call to some of the more severe youth cases was becoming too much and lack of support from child protection and other gaps in government funding with an over saturation of punitive measures for youth I ended driving myself to hospital Emergency after a confrontation with my superior.

After that I felt like a complete and utter failure fighting for kids that were just abused and neglected and I couldn’t help them.

My family finally had to beg me to let go of working for the sake of keeping me alive.

My new partner moved in and then coronavirus lock down began in Victoria. We had an unsuspected surprise that I fell pregnant and I was so happy, I had a very sick and prolonged health crisis in pregnancy and in august at 22 weeks I had a severe infection we lost our son and I ended barely surviving in ICU including not having any visitors besides my partner for 2 hours a day once a day due to covid hospital restrictions.

After the still birth I came home and was still suffering extreme pain and was refused care by the hospital and I was making it up.

I went private and was found to have retained infected placenta. I had another round of the strongest antibiotics available.

Shortly after I had been referred to a private rheumatologist and not only was a I diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis it was found I had juvenile arthritis my entire life.

I then lost my uncle and could not attend the funeral again because of covid stage 4 lockdown.

I struggled through the Christmas period staying locked down due to severe pain even though lockdown had been eased.

I finally succeeded to apply for the disability support pension as I knew I could not pay my mortgage when the corona virus supplement had ended and motherhood was not an option until remission occurs as my disability had gotten so severe my partner had become my full time carer. He also was approved for the carers payment to care for myself and my disability.

I was knocked back not for the reason of missing the points or stabilization of my condition as I had both. It was rejected on the condition of that had not been in a program of support long enough.

The mortgage payments are due to start back this week and we will survive but not comfortably as my walker has broken and I was rejected for NDIS support due to ineligibility for not being disabled enough. So I will have to either wait another month for the appeal process or self fund a walker. Meanwhile not being able to access the community due to lack of accessibility.

This week has been breaking point as my job provider called and said I had been transferred to the DES and would need to do 18 months of job searching even though my hands are now cramped everyday and are starting to deform from overuse, inflammation and rheumatoid arthritis degeneration. The inflammation is causing severe aphasia daily and my carer now has to take all calls from DES and CENTRELINK as I just have a panic attack on instant call dial and pick up.

The fact that I was told if I do not attend an appointment if I was too sick I would have my payments suspended.

I also have just been rejected from the DSP from the second time and now I haven’t checked but legally I cannot work from my Total and permanent disability approved claim however having been rejected by my DSP claim and having to apply for 8 jobs a month as a administrative process however I’m terrified of being sued from the insurance company as I have been deemed unable to work.

Today I am contacting the tribunal today hoping for updates.

[sinceileftyoublog]

Årabrot Interview: Speaking in Tongues

BY JORDAN MAINZER

On Norwegian Gothic, Kjetil Nernes and Karin Park preach the gospel of Årabrot. The Norwegian band’s 9th full-length is, according to the band, the logical culmination of the noise they’ve been peddling for almost two decades. Recorded and centered around the Swedish church where Nernes and Park live, Norwegian Gothic takes equal thematic influence and reference from Theodore Adorno as it does David Bowie, its aesthetic filled with psychedelic folk and ecstatic rock and roll. 

Just take a look at the two-part video series associated with the record, encompassing three songs. On “Kinks of the Heart”, Nernes, dressed in his suspenders and wide-brimmed hat, and Park, pregnant in a flowing white dress, come to a town with a bible-looking book with the band’s name printed on the cover. They quickly round up a few townsfolk and cause them to reflect and act on their innermost desires, from sexual promiscuity to cross-dressing, over crackly guitar riffs and hard-charging drums. Part II is the sharp dance-punk synth jam “Hailstones For Rain” and washy, saxophone-laden “The Moon is Dead”, where Årabrot and their newfound cabal go to a local church--in actuality, the church where Nernes and Park live--to speak in rock and roll tongues to enrapture the crowd and later celebrate the summer solstice in a haunted-looking mansion, Nernes and Park nude as other folks dance around them.

Årabrot have fully embraced the idea of Norwegian Gothic as a statement for a while. The record was written starting in 2017, a year before their last full-length, Who Do You Love, was released. (Earlier this year, they also released an EP from the Who Do You Love sessions.) It was eventually recorded with producer Jaime Gomez Arellano (who Nernes calls “Gomez”) in London last year right before lockdown. There, they tracked drums, bass, and guitar before returning to the church for Park’s synthesizers, Hammond organ, mellotron, vocals, and overdubs. So while the album also features a number of other collaborators, like Jaga Jazzist’s Lars Horntveth, the spookiness of the church contextualizes the drama of the record, from the Kyuss-like opening guitars of “Carnival of Love” to the strings of “The Rule of Silence” and theatrical vocals of “Feel It On”. There’s also a number of spoken interludes, namely “The Voice” and album closer “You’re Not That Special”, that act as not just breaks or a comedown but, as they were culled from real-life thought provoking conversations the band had with friends, gives the album some substantial meat to back its purported philosophical influence.

Årabrot are holding out hope for some festival dates, like ArcTanGent in the UK in August, though I get the sense that, for once, their live streams so far are expertly curated displays of both Norwegian Gothic and Norwegian Gothic. Watching them perform “Hallucinational” from their church, Park’s spiritual singing and organ playing centering the band as much as the skulls that encircle them, I feel like I’m watching a production rather than a live show, yet one distilled to its raw emotion, and not just because it’s acoustic. Dressed in the same outfits as the characters from the short film, I’m unsure what’s an act and what’s not. What could be more gothic?

A couple months ago, I spoke with Nernes over the phone about Norwegian Gothic, which is out this Friday via Pelagic Records. Read our conversation below, edited for length and clarity.

Since I Left You: You say that Norwegian Gothic represents the culmination or combination of everything you’ve done so far. What about it makes it such a good summation of what you do as a band?

Kjetil Nernes: As a musician and an artist, you might say, I have a pretty specific idea of how I want things to sound and be. Usually, it’s really hard--it’s a goal you have far ahead in front of you, and you just aim to that goal. It’s really hard to get to that goal right away. It’s a process: You need to make a few albums, for example, to come closer to your main goal, and finally, it comes together. I felt like Norwegian Gothic was like that, for the past 10 years, or even for my whole career. We kind of reached that one goal we’ve had for a really long time. It has to do with songwriting, how it actually sounds, the lyrics, a number of factors. It’s also important to reach the next goal, too--it’s a never-ending process, in many ways. It doesn’t stop here.

SILY: What else makes Norwegian Gothic unique as compared to your other records?

KN: The fact that we brought in a producer for the first time made a big difference. We had Gomez. He made a big difference, for sure. Karin’s been a part of the band on and off for 10 years, but she was much more involved here, which made a big difference from the previous ones. When you’ve done as many albums as I’ve done and been involved in as many projects as I have, you get a little feeling for when things turn out slightly different from all the other times. I had that feeling with this one. I also had that feeling with The Gospel that was released some years ago.

SILY: The Gospel is my favorite record of yours, so it’s interesting to hear you compare it to this one...What about the song “Carnival of Love” made you want to open the album with it?

KN: That is an interesting question because me, Karin, and Gomez were debating back and forth about that for a long time. There were a number of different options. Maybe you agree with me: I feel that there a quite a few songs that could have opened the album. We could have chosen a faster and shorter song, and it would have been a little bit of a different vibe to the album. We had a friend who was involved at the time, and he really got a kick out of “Carnival of Love”, and that made us decide to open with it.

SILY: How do you generally approach sequencing, and was there a different way you approached it here?

KN: Usually, you get a feeling. Sometimes, the label or the management comes with a suggestion. They usually decide the singles--which songs to promote. When you pick out the singles, usually you put them very early on, especially these days, even though I personally prefer to put them somewhere else. Back in the day, if you look at David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust, all of the hits end the album. Many of the bands in the 60′s did the same thing: The main single was very far out in the album. Nowadays, the attention span is maybe a bit different so they’re usually earlier on. From there, you just listen to the songs and get a feeling, but on this one, it was particularly hard. Doing The Gospel was incredibly easy. This one took days of back and forth, and we had a lot of different ways of approaching it.

SILY: There are a lot of cinematic aspects on this record, from the strings to the spoken word interludes. Do you think about your records in a cinematic sense?

KN: Maybe. I do see a lot of films and am inspired by films and thinking of an album as a way of traveling through something. That may be what you’re referring to, too. I enjoy albums, and I particularly love albums that make you feel like you’re on a journey. That’s very often my starting point for making albums.

SILY: As much genre territory as this album traverses, “Hailstones For Rain” is an aesthetic standout. Can you tell me about the arrangement and instrumentation of that song?

KN: It does stand out. The label saw it as a very psychedelic song. I didn’t think of it that way. It started with me writing this specific rhythm inspired by some of the stuff The Residents were doing in the late 70′s. They had these weird sort of synthesizer rhythms with basslines on top. It just developed when we played it a lot. Karin added the jazzy theme on top of it. Further on, Lars Horntveth from Jaga Jazzist is playing saxophone, and there are two synthesizers going, and later, Anders Møller is playing percussion on it. It just develops. It’s a rhythmical thing. It turned out pretty interesting, that track.

SILY: How did the interludes come about? Who’s speaking, and what’s the inspiration behind the words they’re saying?

KN: Me and Karin had finished a tour with Boris. We did a week of traveling around the UK and visiting friends two years ago. I was interviewing my friend, and it started out with me saying to him, “Why the hell do we do this?” I got some really good conversations out of it. The first one on the record is Karin before “Hallucinational”, talking about her experience before writing it. The second one is with the writer John Doran, the cofounder of The Quietus. The final one is Andrew Liles, who is part of Current 93 and Nurse With Wound. “You’re Not That Special”: That’s his words.

SILY: I really like the panning in the vocals on that last one. It’s a disorienting way to end the album...You mentioned the label thought “Hailstones For Rain” was psychedelic. For me, the true psychedelic song is “Deadlock”.

KN: Yes. Exactly. I would say the same. I agree--the label is German. [laughs] Germans usually have a different way of approaching things.

SILY: What’s the inspiration behind the album title?

KN: I have a good friend who used to be in Chicago; he used to work for Chicago Mastering [Service], Jason Ward. He sent me an email a few years ago where he described our music as Norwegian Gothic, so I wrote it down. Over the years, there have been a lot of questions like, “What is Årabrot? What is it all about?” I came to the conclusion when I started writing the songs for this album that [“Norwegian Gothic”] felt right describing these genres and as a title. He was also being tongue-in-cheek about [Grant Wood’s painting] American Gothic because we live in a church and kind of look like the people in the painting. I forgot to Google the title after we started the whole process of recording, and I discovered my friends in Ulver have a song called “Norwegian Gothic” and had released it as a single or an EP and have released t-shirts for it. I was like, “Oh no!” [laughs] I did talk to them, and they were totally fine with it. Maybe it’s a good reference point, too, Årabrot and Ulver.

SILY: What’s the story behind the album art?

KN: We did a live session in the church on the summer solstice--Midsommar. I’m not sure if you’ve seen the movie Midsommar.

SILY: I have.

KN: So you know it’s quite big in Sweden. It’s a special day in Scandinavia. The sun is out all day. In Norway, not so much, but in Sweden, it’s a big day, and they dance around the maypole, and there are all these parties going around. This year, we did a live stream, and because there were travel restrictions, we did this live acoustic set. By the end of the session, we did some photos, and literally, exactly on the time of the summer solstice at whatever time--2:00 in the morning or something--that photo was taken by this photographer on his iPhone. He was really tired and getting really grumpy and sour, and Karin asked, “Take one more photo!” We just stood there in that circle with the skulls and stuff. There was some magic to that moment, so he took the photo. Karin was also 6 months pregnant at the time, and you can see her holding her belly. 

SILY: Is there anything you’ve been listening to, watching, or reading lately that’s caught your attention?

KN: The last two Clipping. albums, the film Corpus Christi, and the book Perdurabo: The Life of Aleister Crowley by Richard Kaczynski. 

[ed-edward-blackbeard]

So I ran across this old thing in my journal, and I figured I would resurrect it here:

When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.

So, here's some WIPs (BBC Sherlock, Doctor Who, Gotham).   Hannibal WIPs required their own post, which I will do later. 

BBC Sherlock; Life Form

There were three of them.

Watson, himself, and this tiny, delicate creature.  A living, breathing creature whose life he was partially responsible for.  Feeding, cleaning, caring--an entire plethora of responsibility that he was in no way ready to take on.

At least his parents--and Mycroft--had been at least partially responsible for helping raise him. Medical care, logistics, food considerations, those were the things young Sherlock had not had to deal with.  

But now, he was responsible for it.

"Sherlock."

"John."

"You're staring.  And I think you're scaring her."

"But I'm supposed to be watching her."

"Yes, but you can blink."

Sherlock did allow himself to blink, and when no catastrophe happened, he relaxed microscopically.

BBC Sherlock; Past Life

And then he'd met John Watson, and the dreams began to take further shape.  Gladius became Janicus, and he was Sparr.  And they were obviously more than simply friends or compatriots; they shared tents at first, then sleeping blankets, then each other.  Some nights, the dreams were pleasant; they were hunting together, sprinting in bare feet after some sort of deer, or part of a legion hunting a bear.  Other nights, Sherlock woke, his eyes heavy with the grit of battle and the sting of sweat and blood.  At least once a week, though, it was terrible.  

BBC Sherlock: untitled ace!Sherlock 

In retrospect, it was probably the most obvious thing in the world.  But in the moment, it was a bit of a shock.  "I'm sorry?"  John leaned forward in his chair as if that would help him focus entirely on Sherlock.

"I thought it only fair to inform you.  You've been trying for the past month to figure out a way to ask me to dinner, except you can't quite decide how I'll react.  Well, let me save you the fuss.  I don't care for large restaurants; I prefer smaller venues, such as the Chinese on the corner of Baker Street.  But not while I'm working, you know how I feel about that.  Yes, that's a yes.  After dinner, we'll come back to the flat, say good night, and go to bed, preferably together, where absolutely nothing else will happen.  Or, if you prefer, we can skip over the awkward courtship rituals and simply come to bed right now," Sherlock finished, looking vaguely satisfied with himself.

Doctor Who, 1920s Gangster AU

Rosie was a London transplant, brought here by a small-time hustler named Jimmy Cuestick, aka Jimmy Stone.  The Doctor had met Jimmy Cuestick at his autopsy, where he retrieved a handful of uncut gemstones from his stomach.  After that unfortunate incident, one of the boys in the Cicerone family took a liking to Rosie and got her the job at the Calypso, a Cicero family holding.  

The Doctor had met her not long after she'd begun working, treating her for strained vocal chords and a twisted ankle from dancing on stage.  That had ended after the Doctor's treatment, but he still checked in on her.  Ostensibly to protect the family's investment, but he could admit that he was infatuated with her.

But he didn't dare move on her, because her current boyfriend was Mickey the Idiot, head of the family's bookkeeping.  It was Mickey that paid the Doctor, and it was Mickey who gave the Doctor his occasional delivery job.

But there was no harm in looking, the Doctor kept telling himself, and so he continued to pay regular visits to the club.

Doctor Who, A Crack In Time (Rose/Twelve) 

She was on her way back to her room when she heard it.  The TARDIS was landing, and Rose picked up her skirts as she ran down the cobblestone streets.  Skidding to a halt, Rose reached into her neckline and pulled out the TARDIS key.

But before she could unlock it, the door flew open.  "Doctor!"  Darting in, she stopped absolutely cold.  The organic shapes and warm gold-brown glow had been replaced by an antiseptic green-blue.

"Who--Rose?"  The Doctor's voice faltered as he came around the console.  "How are you--"

"Doctor?"  Rose forced herself not to flinch.  "What happened?  You regenerated, yeah?"

"Yes.  No.  I mean yes, but not how you think."  He approached her slowly, like she was a wild animal.  "I'm not your Doctor."

"Of course you are," Rose argued.  "Just because you change your face doesn't stop you being my Doctor."  Although this wasn't what she'd expected.  So much older, so much harsher.  The eyebrows seemed to move on their own, over eyes that looked so sad and pained.

Doctor Who, Come Back To Me (Ten x Rose, Bad Wolf) 

And trying to explain things to the police was even more frustrating, because the officers kept distracting him with stupid questions like, "Did you hear the car's brakes?"

"No, we didn't.  As I told you, Rose was on her mobile, talking to her mother and I was walking beside her on the sidewalk.  We're laughing at Jackie one moment, and the next, the car's on the sidewalk.  Rose dropped her mobile, and we both tried to get out the way."

The officer looked over his shoulder, where the destroyed phone had been marked and photographed.  "And the driver didn't stop?"

"Not until he hit the tree," confirmed the Doctor.  "Look, I'm a doctor, and I need to check on Rose."

"All right, Doctor Smith.  We've got all your information; we'll be in touch after we've filed charges against the driver."  

In that moment, the Doctor couldn't bring himself to care about anyone except Rose.  "Thank you."  He tucked the psychic paper back in his paper, looking for all the world like he was just tucking his wallet away.  

The officer pointed at the Doctor's arm with his pen.  "Better get that checked out."

Doctor Who, Doctor John Smith, (Tentoo/Rose) 

"You should be so lucky."  But she winked at him, and as she passed by his side of the island, she gave his backside a quick pinch.  

"Hey!  Hands!"  He tossed a wadded plastic bag after her, which she dodged with ease, and he bent to pick it up.  

"Looks like you two are getting it sorted," Jackie said as she burped the baby.  "Taking you long enough."

John looked steadily at Jackie.  "It's a lot to take in.  Rose has been through a lot.  I just want to make it easy for her, that's all."

"Listen.  If it were easy, then it wouldn't be love, right?  You think it's easy loving Pete?  Not even my Pete, but a new Pete?  We've all been through it, John, even you.  That Doctor, he loved Rose.  I saw it, and I don't even like the man.  That means you love her, and anyone who looks at you together can see it, plain as day.  Don't make it easy.  Make it real.  Make it blood, and sweat, and tears.  Make it painful, and messy, and sweet.  And then it'll be easy, because after all that, you've still got each other."    

Doctor Who, Drips (Ten/Rose, coffee shop AU) 

"You're incorrigible."  In the next second, though, Rose straightened and unconsciously flipped her hair over her shoulder.  "Shut up, now," she hissed at her friend.  "Tall café latte, hot, with a double shot of espresso?"

"Yep, thank you!  with an extra sleeve, please?"

"Sure, no problem."  Rose was beaming and breathless as she turned back to the coffee machine and started his order.  

Shareen watched in silence as Rose made the most meticulously perfect cup of coffee she'd ever seen dispensed.  The man himself was a skinny streak of nothing in a pinstriped brown suit and hair that hadn't seen a comb in days.  But it was his grin she noticed; when Rose's back was turned, he was watching her every move.  But as soon as she turned around, he buried his gaze in the laptop before him.

"John, coffee's up!"  Rose was a little flushed from the heat of the coffee machines, but she was smiling brightly.  "£4.45, double-sleeved."

John handed over a £5 note, and dropped the change into the tip jar by the register.  He took the cup with a flirty grin, making sure that his fingertips brushed against Rose's before going back to his table and his computer.

When Rose continued to stare after the man and didn't pony up the information, Shareen encouraged her with a quick kick to her backside.  "Well?  Who's the bloke?"

Rose jumped.  "John Smith, he's a physics professor at the university.  He's got a doctorate in astrophysics, and he teaches night classes three times a week.  He comes in every night, sometimes with a stack of papers, and he's always the last one out.  Oh, and he's got a horse named Arthur, I heard him on the mobile once talking to someone about it."

Doctor Who, Light and Dark (Ten/Rose) 

They were left with the light specks floating around them as the light vortex broke apart, and then coalesced into a human-shaped form that appeared to be taking on Rose's appearance.  "Silly travelers, in the forest of the darkness."  The words were spoken in hundreds of different voices, in unison.  "Silly travelers, thank you for playing with us."

Rose reached out, and her light doppelganger reached out to touch her, and their fingertips touched.  

Rose giggled.  "It feels like there's hundreds of little hands touching me!"

"Yes, yes!  We are more than one!"  More giggling.  "This one is smart, she knows!"  The light creature turned and looked at the Doctor.  "This one belongs in the dark, this one is anger and fear and hate ."  A terrified trilling came out as the light creature crossed hands at the wrist, as if warding the Doctor off.  

"No, he's not!"  Rose stepped back to loop her arm protectively through the Doctor's elbow.  "He's just old, and he's seen everything!  He's not a child, that's all."  

"We like children, we like them young, they are still light and generous and they want to play!"  A few free light specks floated around Rose again, and lit on her hair, on her shoulders.  "Oh, we see!  You keep him light, he glows when you're with him!"

Doctor Who, untitled pregnant!Rose

But in the dark of night, with Rose snuggled tight, with her hand on his chest and their fingers entwined, he wondered.  Wondered why Rose wasn't talking to him about the situation.  Wondered why he hadn't confronted her about it.

And he dared to dream.  Dream of a tiny blonde baby with Rose's eyes and two hearts.  Of tiny brown suits, and precious little pairs of high-top canvas shoes.  Of Gallifreyan bedtime stories and human lullabies.  Of an old cot hidden away in the TARDIS, put to use after so many hundreds of years gathering dust.

Doctor Who, Two Hearts (Ten/Rose/Captain Jack) 

"Gah.  You've got rubbish taste, you know that?"  The empty glass slid across the table, and the Doctor spun a chair around backwards to straddle it.  "You been leavin' a trail of empties halfway across time and space."

Jack vaulted across the table and met the Doctor with a left hook.  They both went tumbling, and Jack ended up on top.  He meant to wrap his hands around the Doctor's throat, but ended up clutching him, hard and tight.  "Doctor?"

"Yes, hello!"  He was returning Jack's hug, and together they were garnering the attention of every customer in the bar.  "Think we can stand up, now?"

"Huh?  Oh, yeah, of course."  Jack got to his feet, and pulled the Doctor up after.  "let me have a look."

The Doctor shrugged, as if to say knock yourself out.

He'd regenerated.  Skinny as a rail, tousled brown hair, tight pinstripe suit and rubber-soled trainers.  But the smile was the same, and so was the hug.  And the bulge of the sonic screwdriver, right in the same jacket pocket.

But something was miss--"Rose!" Jack blurted out.

"Back in the TARDIS, or else she's wandered off again," was the Doctor's reply.  "Didn't know what I'd find in here, so I asked her to wait.  But you know how rubbish she is at waiting about, so we'd better go."

Gotham, Father Nygma's Bird Problems (Nygmobblepot, Religious AU) 

A tentative knock on Carmine’s door made him look up from his desk.  A glance at the clock confirmed what he already knew; this was the new transfer to Gotham’s major diocese.  “Come in, please.”

A slender young man with almost-curly tousled hair entered the room, and came around the desk to kneel beside Carmine’s chair.  “Monsignor,” he said quietly, and waited to be acknowledged.

Carmine gently touched his head.  “Come now, Edward, get up already.  Your knees are wearing a hole in my carpet.”  The young priest made him smile; he held quite the affection for Edward, and made no attempt to hide it.  

Edward gave a self-deprecating smile as he got to his feet and sat in the chair across from Carmine’s desk.  “I’m sorry, Your Grace.  It’s a habit by now.”

Gotham, Mine (Nygmobblepot, cameos by various DC people) 

Oliver Queen shoved back his green hood, an expression of consternation on his face. “Cobblepot?”

“Yes! And I'm here to tell you that I do not want any unauthorized vigilante action in my city.”

Green Arrow didn't lower his bow. “Nygma--”

“Riddler,” Edward interrupted.

“Hush now, I'm working!” Oswald chastised in a sing-song voice. “Believe me when I say that no one is more aware of what a colossal pain in the ass he can be than I. And when he breaks out the ridiculous riddles? Please.” Oswald's hand flipped through the air dismissively. “But the fact remains that this is Gotham, and I can't allow you to swoop in and start killing all willy-nilly.”

Gotham, Cuts Like a Knife (Nygmobblepot) 

It always seemed to be raining in Gotham.  Or snowing.  Especially when there was trouble.  Oswald had his back to the window, staring into the fireplace as rain pattered against the glass.  Lightning flashed occasionally, throwing strange shadows across the Van Dahl mansion.  He was drinking hot tea, and he looked at the gun sitting on the table beside the tea saucer.  

Ever since Ed had disappeared from the Lounge, Oswald had been carrying it everywhere, just in case.  

One particular bolt of lightning hit especially close, causing the lights to dim.  The generator kicked in, and by the time the lights had come back to full strength, a dripping Edward Nygma was standing in front of the fire, back to Oswald.  “Ed?”

“Hello, old friend.”  A long pause.  “That is what you said to me once, wasn’t it?  Hello, old friend.”

Gotham, Walking the Tightrope (Gobblepot) 

A gusty sigh was his first response.  “Who caught it?”

“Who do you think?”

Another sigh.  “Wonderful.  Just great.”

Victor’s expression didn’t change.  “Don’t you have some kind of influence over him?”

Now that earned a laugh.  “Victor, if you think I’ve got one iota of influence over Jim Gordon, you have no idea who we are dealing with.  I had better luck when I was paying Bullock off than trying to get Jim to not do his job.  Believe me.  I’ve tried.”  He slapped the table with his fist.  “Don’t worry.  I’ve got both an alibi for you and a fall guy picked out.  It’s just a matter of moving things into position.  What time is it?”

Victor shrugged.  “Morning?”

Oswald closed his eyes and counted to five, then looked at the clock on his computer.  “9:09 AM.  Excellent.  If I know Jim, and I do, he’s going to be at the Jade Duck by 9:30, back to the station by ten, and here to shout by eleven.  My, we’re going to be busy.”  

Gotham, What He Needs (Gobblepot) 

The key to the box was on a chain, and he draped the chain over his head.  The ball chain chafed against the leather, but he didn’t mind.  It wouldn’t chafe long.  From the front door of the manor, he made his way to his bedroom, and closed the door behind himself.  He took off his clothes, laying them neatly on the foot of the bed, and placed his shoes under the dust ruffle.  His socks and underwear went into a wicker hamper, and Jim looked at himself in the mirror.  His bare chest shone in the soft light, and the lines on his face stood out in deep relief.  

Turning away from the mirror was easy, and he padded down the hallway.  As instructed, Jim knelt outside the door.  The green mat was there, as usual; sometimes it was filled with soft sand, but tonight it was filled with what felt like pebbles and rocks.  They dug into his knees as he knocked, and waited.  

He didn’t know how long he waited; his knees were painful with his weight resting on them, and shifting position only caused new places to hurt.  So Jim strained to stay still, and listened.  Finally came the call of “Enter.”

[jenmedsbookreviews]

It is official. I am broken. Well … when I say official, I mean that I feel it. Let’s face it – none of us are getting any younger, me included, and it’s fair to say I’ve been working some pretty wacky hours of late. Well … they are finally catching up with me and if the bags under my eyes get much bigger, I’m not going to have to worry about taking my bags for life to Tesco for the weekly shop anymore …

This week was less hectic than previous weeks, but I’m not entirely convinced that’s a good thing. You know how it is. When you’ve been running around like a loon for ages, the minute you finally take a step back and relax, the worse you feel for it. That’s me this week. Only one trip out, although it was a long one. 0300 start to drive the 170+ miles to Southampton for an 0545 start. Then a day out on the van with one of my team who was using our new POD system for the first time. Thankfully the weather was good as I spent the day travelling around various customer in Southampton and seeing places I had read of in books. In fact at one point it felt as though I was on a Helen Grace mystery tour… Lots of views of the Solent and I saw some really big butts in the docks and some slightly smaller butts on a shelf … (that’s boats to people who have never watched Finding Nemo …). Actually, I suppose to the navy they’d be ships – boats go under water …

Actually, the worst part about the day wasn’t the early start or the 12 boxes (8 bottles bottles of water cooler water included) that we had to take to the second floor of an oldish building with no lift and a rather small staircase. Nope. That’s all bread and butter stuff and nothing I can really complain about as my drivers have to do it every day. The worst part … that was the nearly 5 hour drive home. Bloody Friday traffic and being that horrid hybrid weekend at the end/start of a half term week. Yak. No easy way back whichever way I played it. Got about 60% through my next audio book though so it’s not all bad, but I am fluffing knackered now.

The weekend was much better. Headed down to London late morning (I know – I’m nuts) for the TBC 3rd Birthday party. I have no pictures as I am not a selfie gal and I have already done something foolish this weekend which will haunt me (and you) for years :p, but there will be some knocking about of me on social media to prove I did it, and I do have witnesses by way in Susan Hampson, Linda Hill, Fiona Wilson and Rachel Gilbey amongst others 🙂 A big thanks to Tracy and the gang for organising it as it was a fab night and I got to meet some great folk and catch up with a few authors I’ve met before or have been chatting with on Social Media.  I even rounded off the weekend with a trip to what is quite possibly my favourite restaurant now – Ole and Steen – for some Halloween cakes before heading home Sunday morning.

I know. Just … don’t say anything about the picture on the right. It is white chocolate, filled with a kind of chocolate cream.marshmallow and a marzipan base. It is very tasty and it is a ghost!!! Not all mine. I shared with family as a thank you for poochie sitting.

Anyhoo – back to the books. Well – Saturday night came with a whole host of them as each attendee had a tote bag full of goodies and I was also given a couple of new books by the lovely Karen Sullivan of Orenda Books. What did I get? Well, a side from back ache carrying them all home 😉 – from the party: The Watcher by Ross Armstrong; The Mine by Antti Tuomainen (love that book); Will You Remember Me by Amanda Prowse;  Sing Unburied Sing by Jesmyn Ward and The House by Simon Lelic. From the lovely Karen I received Maria in the Moon by the equally lovely Louise Beech and Deep Blue Trouble by the also very lovely Steph Broadribb. I will admit to getting a bit Gollum over them and perhaps stroking my new books a little too much … Moving on.

Book post wise, just the one this week but it is a cracker and I am very, very excited to read it. Again from the lovely Karen Sullivan and Orenda Books I received the CWA Short Story Anthology – Mystery Tour featuring some very fabulous authors. Bouncy happy tigger moment for me then. The only thing to cheer me after a very long Friday of travel. You find the last reserve of energy for the good books. Isn’t it stunning?

Book purchase wise I have been very reserved. I only ordered/pre-ordered the following books: The Cover Up by Marnie Riches; Truth or Dare by Richard Parker; Come Out To Play by Dylan Young; The Summer of Impossible Things by Rowan Coleman; Before You Go by Clare Swatman; The Prodigal by Nicky Black and The Good Samaritan by John Marrs. No new Netgalley titles. I know!!! And no new audio books either.

Reading wise … well I really need to buck my ideas up as I’ve been pants again this week. Only three completed plus about 2/3 of an audio book and just about started another book. I am now a book and a half behind plan but determined to catch up. If I am missing from the world of blogging and sharing, you know why.

Books I have read

The Good Samaritan by John Marrs

She’s a friendly voice on the phone. But can you trust her?

The people who call End of the Line need hope. They need reassurance that life is worth living. But some are unlucky enough to get through to Laura. Laura doesn’t want them to hope. She wants them to die.

Laura hasn’t had it easy: she’s survived sickness and a difficult marriage only to find herself heading for forty, unsettled and angry. She doesn’t love talking to people worse off than she is. She craves it.

But now someone’s on to her—Ryan, whose world falls apart when his pregnant wife ends her life, hand in hand with a stranger. Who was this man, and why did they choose to die together?

The sinister truth is within Ryan’s grasp, but he has no idea of the desperate lengths Laura will go to…

Because the best thing about being a Good Samaritan is that you can get away with murder.

Oh, oh, oh. Now I loved Mr Marrs last book The One (met him over the weekend too – lovely chap), but I have to say I think this one is even better. It’s quite a taboo topic and the main character is very, very dark. The creeping, twisting and unravelling story had me completely hooked, even if some of the characters made some mad decisions. Gah. I can’t talk about the book without spoiling things, but I am going to have to try as my review is due on Saturday – eeek. Out on December 1st, you can pre-order your own copy, as I have done, right here.

…

Killing State by Judith O’Reilly

The bullet in his brain isn’t the problem. She is. Michael North is a hero, with a bullet in the brain to prove it. A bullet which has rewired his neural pathways and heightened his sense of intuition. A bullet which is driving him mad.

Working for an extra-governmental agency called The Board, North knows one thing for sure. He is very good at killing very bad guys. But what happens when a hero is ordered to kill a good woman rather than a bad man?

Because it turns out that rising political star, Honor Jones, MP, can’t stop asking the right questions about the wrong people. 

He should follow orders.

Shouldn’t he?

Wowsers. What a book. I don’t know quite what I was expecting when I started to read this but it wasn’t this. Part action thriller, part psychological thriller and part conspiracy theory, this is a most unusual but very entertaining and gripping read. You shouldn’t love a guy who is essentially a gun for hire but there is something about Michael North which engages you and has you rooting for a man you should want to see taken down. I’ll be reviewing this for the blog tour at the weekend but you can order a copy here.

…

White Out by Ragnar Jónasson

Two days before Christmas, a young woman is found dead beneath the cliffs of the deserted village of Kálfshamarvík. Did she jump, or did something more sinister take place beneath the lighthouse and the abandoned old house on the remote rocky outcrop?

With winter closing in and the snow falling relentlessly, Ari Thór Arason discovers that the victim’s mother and young sister also lost their lives in this same spot, twenty-five years earlier. As the dark history and its secrets of the village are unveiled, and the death toll begins to rise, the Siglufjordur detectives must race against the clock to find the killer, before another tragedy takes place.

Dark, chilling and complex, Whiteout is a haunting, atmospheric and stunningly plotted thriller from one of Iceland’s bestselling crime writers.

Man… I wanted to savour this, the last in the Ari Thor series, but I just couldn’t. I had to read and read and read until I was finished. What a haunting story; what a wonderfully atmospheric setting, what a brilliant way to say goodbye to Ari. Oh … but now I have to review it and there are only so many times you can use the word brilliant and perfect and magnificent and … well you get the picture. You’ll see if I managed to find any unique and seldom used adjectives next Monday. In the meantime go order yourselves a copy here.

…

And that was it. As I say I am most of the way through another audio book which I hope to complete and review this week, and I’m part way through another book I started last night, but I have a way to go to catch up with myself right now. Still if I go into radio (or social media) silence, you’ll know it’s in a good cause. And I have a pretty full week on the blog this week just as I did last, which you can see the highlights of below:

Review: Christmas at the Falling Down Guest House by Lilly Bartlett

#BookLove: Karen Cole

#BlogTour: Dead Lands by Lloyd Otis

#BlogTour: Absolution by P.A. Davies

#BlogBlitz: A Cosy Candlelit Christmas by Tilly Tennant

#BlogBlitz: The Lost Child by Patricia Gibney

Review: Now We Are Dead by Stuart MacBride

Review: The Binding Song by Elodie Harper

Broken Bones by Angela Marsons – Prologue Preview

The week ahead is a mixture of blog tours, and a little book love, this time from Annie at The Misstery Book Blog. Blog Tour wise I’m dropping in reviews of Murder Game by Caroline Mitchell, The Good Samaritan by John Marrs, and Killing State by Judith O’Reilly. I also have a special review planned in for later in the week, but trust me – soon said, soonest mended on that front. You may won’t want to miss it…

So that is it folks. I am off to read. Or sleep. Or some weird hybrid combination of both. If you share my posts this week – thanks in advance. If you see me about on Social Media – tell me to sod off and get some reading (or work) done.

Have a fabulously bookish week all

Jen

Rewind, recap: Weekly update w/e 29/10/17 It is official. I am broken. Well ... when I say official, I mean that I feel it.

[lifeastoldbympm]

A Powerful Love that Does

       An interesting perspective was posed to me this week regarding how African culture views God. Life in Africa is harsh with so many forces that could curse you, hurt you, starve you, bring sickness, pain, sterility…you name it and there is some belief in an evil or punishment from somewhere that was the cause..So it only makes since that in order for people to see God as a love like many of us do in the western world, He must be powerful! Our God, in order to appeal to the people in African countries or in any developing country for that matter, must be able stronger than voodoo, must be more powerful than the storms of rainy season, a mighty warrior able to defeat the violence between tribes and opposing governments and terrorists, bigger than the ancestors..  Only then will they realize that He is the side they want to be on, He will defend them, He is THE power.       There is a lot of conflict in the country of Cameroon between the regions that speak french and the regions that speak english. Basically the french speaking parts are the larger cities and the english speaking parts are to the north, more impoverish, more rural, more suffering..The current president is “francaphone” or french speaking so the english speaking or “anglophone" regions are in discourse with the french parts, feeling as if the francaphones have been oppressing them, purposely causing more power outages in their regions, and overall causing them to continue to suffer.. Thats as unbiased a perspective as I can provide.. That being said, the government here is very corrupt, the north is more poor, but the francophone regions are not living pretty by any means.         I met our first 2 patients on Friday, the hospital hasn’t officially opened yet but one patient with a high risk tumor was admitted just for close monitoring early and then I had the pleasure of attempting to fatten up a very tiny little nugget named Paul. Because I prefer the tiny humans to the grown ups, Paul was my patient. I went down to the dock to wait for him as Dr. Gary assessed him and then his mama walked out with a tiny bundle of baby blankets in her arms. I used my best french to introduce myself and then took her purse off her shoulder to carry as I guided her up the gangway and onto the ship. Once on the ward, I did my best to use my very broken, and terribly southern accented french to explain that she was free to lay down in bed and make herself comfortable. I got her some water which she chugged down and I checked out little 3 month old and 4lb  baby Paul. His mom, Francois, seemed so worried as she kept her eyes downcast and remained sitting upright on the side of her bed. Once my translator arrived it came about in their conversation that she said she had been to many hospitals with little Paul and each had said they couldn’t help her. She opened up and said that she had heard of “our God” but didn’t think He was for her because she felt Paul’s afflictions (cleft lip and cleft palate) was punishment for her sins in her life. That people in her village had mocked her, called her names, and said she should be ashamed to have given life to such a monster. As I cared for Paul, Jerry, my translator, shared with Francois John 3:16 and emphasized that ANYONE who believed would have eternal life. I don’t know what else was said as they chatted in those minutes but she relaxed, sat back in bed, and I gave her Paul to rest on her chest and tucked them both in with a blanket. She began to share with me tidbits of all that she had been told about her baby and I was able to share with her that her baby’s ailment was not a result of her sins nor was it the result of anything she could possibly have done while pregnant. I told her that cleft lip and palates are just something that happens sometimes all around the world and she seemed to contemplate each detail I told her as if it was a deep thought requiring processing. After a stretch of thought and silence while we both sat coloring color sheets I had found for us, she came to tell me that she thinks God has now had mercy on her and has sent Mercy Ships here to save her baby.. that she now believes that God will never give a person something beyond their strength.         In 8 hours I colored in a coloring book, mixed formula for a very cute yet very malnourished baby, and somehow..was the light of Jesus. Paul has a long journey ahead of him but hope and healing has already begun in his strong mama. I came to find out later Friday night that often babies born like Paul don’t even get a chance at life. That often they are buried alive soon after birth due to the shame of their deformities. Oh I can not wait to see Paul get fat and surgically fixed and his beautiful smile…and his mama’s heart shining right through her eyes.. Sadly I won’t be here to see it but I saw it begin, the seed has been sewn and it makes my heart swell.. I did zero fancy nursing interventions Friday.. Very small tidbits of information and tasks anyone could do but big things were happening. I continue to struggle with the deaths of those in Mango and all over the world who never hear about God but I’m realizing that God has many ways of presenting himself to us..I’m praying so hard that as I went about my work in Mango, thinking I was just working my butt off, that I was also, actually being the light of Jesus and people who had never heard, saw God’s love as I loved my patients and fellow nurses in the Hospital of Hope.         As so many very sad and broken things are going on all around the world...war, floods, hurricanes, hunger, disease, racism, corruption….I know it seems cliche’ but really, ask yourself what Jesus would DO.. I think in this broken world He is calling us all to DO more than say you’re there for your neighbor but to actually be present with them. Faith isn’t about knowing all the verses to recite to someone or obeying some list of rules, its about something more costly because it involves being present and making sacrifices. The name Immanuel literally means “God with us.” God sent Jesus to be with us, to be present, and that is His expectation of us to be to our neighbors. Our gay neighbors, our muslim neighbors, our hungry neighbors, our refugee neighbors, our black and white neighbors, and our neighbors who believe different, who vote different, who speak a different language.. Too often the world can make you think that love can be bought in a gift or sent in a hallmark card but the kind of love that God gives to us is a "no matter what” love. The kind of big love that He created and then demonstrated by sending His son to die was a costly love because it required sacrifice and presence. We are called to freely give that same no matter what kind of love. Its not just about thinking about good things or agreeing with them or talking about them, its a love that DOES. I encourage you all to sacrifice a little, however God is leading you to, and be present for someone in need in this fallen world..you just never do realize how powerful God’s love through you can be.        I want to thank you all for your emails and donations! Even in these email updates I’m constantly surprised at who is listening and what moves each of you. I truly can’t convey how thankful I am for all my blessings in this world… Today we went into the hospital and prayed over each ward and patient and nurse and doctor and surgery that will be taking place starting tomorrow. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t so excited to be back on the ship and being part life changing surgeries and healing hearts. Its such a privilege to be used to help the less fortunate and I am so aware that I couldn’t have gotten here without each of you. Pray for us as we officially open the hospital tomorrow and that each patient and day worker and care giver not see a white person or a mercy shipper or a nurse or a doctor, but in all of our roles and titles they see the love that DOES, A powerful love, God’s love.

Unbelievably blessed, Meggin