#Reid in red makes me feral i swear

[emo-markie]

This fit was sooo good!!

Had to pause the ep because I genuinely liked it so much :D

i would wear this 100% omg he's so me he's literally me

Screenshot of Criminal Minds, season 6, episode 12

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 140

And here we have the last chapter of the Food Festival!  This is one part I was pretty excited to write - The Closing Costume Party.  I wouldn’t have been able to get this one squared away without @baelpenrose and @charlylimph-blog... Both of you caught a few things I didn’t that kept it from making sense from a reader perspective. So thank you both, very much.

I growled softly to myself as I twisted my arms behind my back to pull on my costume. Normally, I was more than flexible enough, but the amount of leverage I needed right now just wasn’t happening unless I was willing to seriously dislocate something. Dropping my hands, I frowned as I jiggled my arms a little to work feeling back into my elbows.

“You really should have fitted this sooner than now,” Conor laughed against the back of my head as he pulled the laces tight on the blood-red corset.  Getting one made while laying low and avoiding Hannah had been a nightmare, but it was going to be worth it. I just knew it.

“You just wanted to see me try this entire costume on sooner,” I joked as I felt everything fit snugly - but not too tightly - into place.

Maverick flicked a lock of my hair over my shoulder and positioned it just-so. “It’s not his fault that you couldn’t fit this over your scrubs and have it work for tonight.”

“Who wants to see a corset over scrubs?” I scrunched my nose at the thought while smoothing my sleeves and adjusting my collar. “So far so good?” I asked, slightly louder.

As a credit to their maturity regarding the matter, both men looked me over earnestly before glancing at each other. Conor finally broke the silence. “Aren’t the slits in the skirt a bit… high?”  Maverick whispered in his ear, and an expression of utter comprehension glowed on his face. “Oh! That’s… Love, that’s clever.”

I grinned hard enough to cramp my jaw. “Thank you.”  Despite how daring the outfit looked, there was exactly zero chance of any wardrobe malfunctions more serious than a hole in my stockings  - a near-indestructible nude bodysuit under everything made sure of that.

“Your turn, now,” Maverick insisted, eliciting a groan from Conor, who he had turned toward while brandishing eyeliner.

“Isn’t it bad enough I let the two of you do this?” He gestured at his hair, which was styled within an inch of his life and would sustain an EF4 tornado with minimal loss of glitter.

“Nope,” I popped, still smiling as I sat down to put on my boots.  Parvati and Hannah had envisioned tonight to be a sort of return-to-our-roots in a very feral, primitive way, complete with costumes. “We’ve been imagining since before we could cook,” Hannah had pointed out.  Between that and the multiple hints that I wasn’t capable of costuming myself, I had gone a bit more over the top than I had originally planned. Hence the corset, the boots, Conor’s hair… although the leather pants the guys were wearing had been decidedly Maverick’s idea and I resisted the need to fall at his feet in gratitude.

Once we were finally costumed, we managed to arrive just-fashionably late to the last hurrah of the Festival. I don’t know who gaped harder - us at the party, or the people who managed to recognize me when they saw me leading the men in. Parvati’s incredible, winding mural was noticeably weathered and patchy, giving the overall atmosphere a post-apocalyptic feel.  The only noticeable lighting came from the braziers, and deep, almost subsonic music thumped in my chest, driving my adrenaline just high enough to overwhelm my anxiety.

My nose led us over to the first stall of the night, the smell of charring meat fitting the tone. Per a previous discussion around our costumes, I did not reach for anything but instead Conor took my portion and fed it to me - his idea, this time, though Maverick had readily agreed. It was just enough to set off a few murmurs before I heard a familiar laugh cut through the air.

“Councillor Reid!” Jokul’s voice crowed, turning our heads his direction. Warmly, he clasped my hands when offered, trembling with the laughter he was trying to suppress. “This is an unexpected but pleasant surprise.”

I took a moment to take in his fur trousers and tunic, with rough metal covering vital areas. “The dirt is a nice touch,” I offered, squeezing his hands in greeting. “And Ivan! Well done, sir!”

Ivan rubbed the freshly-buzzed back of his head and grinned. “He actually already had the furs, I just made the armored parts.”

“I meant all of it,” I admonished softly, waving at his work throughout the event.

“Antique, yeah?” Conor asked, gesturing to the furs both of them were wearing.

To his credit, Jokul scoffed. “Absolutely not. Quality synthetic.”

“Don’t let Hannah find out.”

A silver brow arched high enough to impress even Tyche. “Who do you think I commissioned?”

“Clever boy.” I winked at Ivan, eliciting a grin.

In response, Ivan did a runway-twirl, his fur kilt flaring just slightly. “What do you think, Councillor? Can I pull it off?”

With the cheekiest grin my soul could ever manifest, I stared him down. “I think I am the wrong person to ask that.”  Even in the dim light, I could see Jokul’s face turn bright red.

“I smell goat,” Maverick interrupted, entirely off topic and completely unabashed.

Ivan’s nose twitched. “Oh, you’re right!” Sniff, sniff. “And it’s on a spit! Let’s find it before it’s gone!”

With that, he snagged Jokul’s wrist and dragged him less like he was an easily two-hundred pound man and more like he was a kite.  When I snickered, my former enemy leaned over and murmured “I like the chains, very nice touch.”

I shook the wrist that connected to Conor’s belt and whispered conspiratorially. “Your idea, really.  You were so convinced I was leading the entire Ark like this…”

He had the decency to snort. “Seeing it in reality, I was a complete idiot. But it’s quite poetic, and I like it.”

“Poetic?” I asked as I tried to keep pace in the six-inch heels I had elected to wear.

“Are they chaining you down, or are you leading them by their gonads? Or, perhaps, are they saving you from yourself?” He gave a very pointed look at the delicate chains going from the shackles on my wrists to the links attached just above Maverick’s and Conor’s hips.

“Saving me, definitely.” My confession was unashamed and completely sober, the result of the primal music and smells surrounding me.

“Gods agree, someone needs to.”

I didn’t have time to argue before we arrived at the source of the enticing smell - a Jamaican barbecue vendor, who had oxtails, saltfish, and…

“Grilled goat!” Ivan crowed triumphantly. As he started handing out portions from the dancing, grinning vendor, he raised an eyebrow when he noticed that the portion he tried to hand to me was intercepted by Maverick first, and then fed to me rather than feeding myself.

“Not my idea,” I managed around an insanely delicious bite. “Swear.”

“Kink tomato,” he insisted, holding up his hands.

Conor almost choked laughing. “Not our kink either, mate. Just set dressing for the Queen over here.” Taking another bite, he winked at me.

“Ah, Conor’s idea then,” Jokul nodded sagely before erupting in the closest thing to a girlish squeal I could imagine coming from him. “Miss Harper, we’ve been looking for you!”

Shit, I thought to myself. I hadn’t thought of what Charly would say when I discussed this idea with Conor and Maverick, and I was just realizing it was a monumental oversight.  Plastering a smile on my face, I turned in the direction Jokul had shouted - 

Only to be confronted with what looked like a fox with antlers, a rakish Anansi, the Queen of the Dead, a blind healer, and… a walking shrine? I wasn’t sure what exactly Arthur was dressed as, but I could clearly identify a shabby tweed suit, his sword, a tome that I hoped was faux-moldy, breastplate, shin guards, along with various tchotchkes that looked like they came from high-schoolers and were a bit too beat up to be faked.

“Arthur, what are you?” I asked. Where anyone else would find it rude, I knew my bluntness would be either appreciated or ignored entirely.

“The Ghost of Classes Past.” He swept into a near-Shakespearen bow, gesturing at the bits and bobs that adorned him. “Humans protect, and we mourn those we could not to ensure they live on in memory.” The thump of the music did not change, but his costume gave it a sepulchral tone, like a dying heartbeat.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, the antlered fox bounced familiarly before looking at the Queen of the Dead. “You did a fantastic job on their costumes! They look amazing!” Her antlers were, of course, somehow illuminated from below, but damn me if I could figure out how.

Despite the fact that I knew damned well that Tyche wanted to erupt into laughter at the suggestion, she managed to, quite impressively, tamp it down to a savage smile of silver fangs and blood-red lips. Flapping a hand at myself, Conor, and Maverick, she gave her bell-like fake-laugh, fully in character. “Oh, I had nothing to do with this. Darling Sophia and her merry toys conceived it all on their own.  This is the first time I’ve even seen it, darling.” She turned to me, tipping her chin down in respect. “Well done, dearest sister.” Tyche was on peak display, with kohl lining her glowing grey eyes, a black bodysuit covering her from  collar to feet, fitted vest and cardigan vest, all partnered with a skirt that could be ten inches thick or ten miles of ribbon - who knew with all the darting and layers? Not me, but I was surely impressed with what looked like ten miles of black feathers flowing from her waist to her hips.

“Why, thank you, Your Majesty.” I swept my leg back in a daring curtsy, forcing Conor and Maverick to smother their laughter at Jokul and Ivan’s faces.

“Ma’am! Ma’am ma’am ma’am!” Charly demanded as she pulled me upright. “You blushed at the concept of kink night, and here I find you leading your men around by their hips!”

I tossed my hair and winked at Jokul. “They aren’t being led, they are saving me from myself.” To Charly’s credit, I did look one deep breath from embarrassment - a black dress with red trim, sliced from floor to ribs and collar to navel, over what appeared to be just fishnet stockings and cavalier boots. The only thing, visibly, retaining any sort of deceny was the corset sealing me in the dress. To go with it, I sported chunky, silver cuffs chained to both Maverick and Conor. Ducking in, I whispered, “I probably will have to be cut out of this bodysuit, no worries on me flashing anyone.”

“Ooooo… well played, madam, well played,” she cheered, twirling me around, forcing both men to pivot with me, laughing, before  giving me a very concerned look. “How fucking tall are those?” This was clearly directed at my heels, which she was staring at like a shark presented with a steak.

“Six,” I admitted. “But I did pointe ballet for a little while, so… This isn’t that bad.”

Maverick ducked into the center of the circle we formed. “They’re a full size too big to allow for swelling and she has the toe boxes lined with impact foam.”

“How the hell else am I supposed to wear these things?” I asked with a glare that had him standing ramrod straight and barely restraining a laugh.

Tyche, to her credit, patted my shoulder. “While sitting.  Or, if you have to stand, with a platform in the toe.”

“No shit,” I hissed, setting the mummified healer doubling over in laughter. “But I’ve done enough damage to my feet, thank you, so… there may be foot braces involved.” One of which was currently digging in just in front of my heel, which I made a mental note to pass on to the development team.

A thick, French accent set me shaking my head when it came from the very-not-French looking mummy. “Well played, Sophia.  The sling and calf brace design I saw recently get approved by medical?”

I groaned as I realized that of course this was Antoine. Life and Death, forever partnered. “Yesssss,” I hissed. “Grey created the design.” I unzipped one boot down far enough to roll it below my knee, exposing braces above and below the kneecap before running further down. “The weight is distributed throughout the leg, before terminating across the front and back of the arch of the foot, to even out the pressure.”

I could almost see numbers whirling beneath the six-foot-plus candy-pink bowler hat. “That… sounds like it might actually be comfortable,” Coffey intoned. I couldn’t help but grin at the tilt of his hat and the feather arching behind him.

“More comfy than actual heels, yes,” I admitted before deflecting attention as far from me as possible. Which, considering how much weight was normally put on the ball of the foot in heels like this, wasn’t a lie…. “But we aren’t here for this! We’re here for food!”

Cheers erupted, and we set off dragging each other to what bits we had discovered.  The theme of the night was firmly set around protein, grilled if possible, with wicks of smoke dancing through the flickering light along with the thump of the music.  Some were spicy, others unexpectedly sweet. As I laughed, and ate, and sweated, and danced, I could freely admit that there was exactly zero percent chance that I would have imagined this in my wildest dreams. And even better? I could enjoy every second, every smell, every beat of the music. I made a point to wink at each camera I could spot, to the point that, first Tyche, and then everyone else felt the need to comically push down my thumbs-up and cover my face.

Clearly, Parvati and Hannah, who I hadn’t seen all night, were monitoring what they would later discover to be a flying pass on their final exam. 

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[whumpiary]

Dark Timeline. Continued from here and here, and just before this!

content warning: blood, loved one in hospital, fears of death, premature grief, borderline compulsive cleaning

-

Cassius leans over the sink of the hospital kitchenette, shoulders tight, back aching. It’s five in the morning and he’s standing on the third floor of a private hospital, trying to distract himself from every damn thought in his head.

Lev’s in surgery. Won’t be out for a good couple hours. Cassius tries desperately not to add the ‘if at all.’

He’s still holding Lev’s jacket.

He’s holding Lev’s jacket in his fist, the same way he has been since the paramedics took it off Lev’s unconscious body a couple hours before. Only put it down once, briefly, when he was changing into the clothes Lou had brought to the hospital for him. Picked it up again straight after. Hasn’t let it drop.

Like it’s some lifeline.

Like it’s Lev’s lifeline.

Stupid, really.

He feels… He’s not sure what he fucking feels. He’s glad the clothes Lou brought him to change into aren’t black. That’s what he feels.

His left thigh keeps twitching like it hasn’t figured out yet that he’s not still sitting useless in a waiting room, leg bouncing away. Maybe like it wants to run. He’s not sure. He doesn’t know.

The jacket needs a wash. That’s what he knows.

Lou had offered to take it from him earlier. Offered to take it for dry cleaning. He’d nearly bitten off her hand like a feral dog for having the gall.

But she’s right. The jacket does need a wash. 

It’s stained. Badly. Deep red blood that now just looks like spilled ink soaking through one side. Lev had clearly pressed it to the wound as he’d driven himself – fucking driven himself – to the Estate. Not to a hospital or a goddamn doctor.

If Lev wakes up from surgery, Cassius is going to let him fucking have it for that. When. When he wakes from surgery. 

Cassius turns on the tap. Cold water. You use cold water on blood. 

Cold water and dish soap.

He puts the jacket in the sink and starts it soaking, hand aching and stiff as he struggles to uncurl it. 

The whole night feels surreal. Distant. There was a difference, somehow, in knowing your partner – business partner – was mob and having them turn up and collapse on your doorstep. Lose consciousness and bleed out in your arms. Ruin your rug and your favourite robe. All at once have the mob brought home.

The difference between your waiter describing tonight’s special and eating it. Between watching someone drown and having your head shoved under the water. 

Cassius pulls his hair back, ties it up. Doesn’t notice the chunk at the back that he misses that doesn’t go up with the rest. Tries not to feel the brush of Lev’s lips against the back of his neck, the kiss he earns more times than not, when Lev sees him throw his hair up at home. He doesn’t exactly know why. Just one of those little rituals. Stupid, really.

He’ll get that again, he tells himself. He’ll feel that again. In a few days from now, a few weeks from now, a few months from now when everything’s fine. When Lev gets out. When Lev is fine.

Cassius just needs to focus on the first step. What’s in front of him. What’s tangible. He just needs to get Lev’s jacket clean. Back to normal. 

The water’s fucking freezing. Pricks his skin, numbs his fingers. 

All this money. All this influence. All this fucking power. And none of it means shit when it matters.

He couldn’t keep Lev awake, couldn’t even call the ambulance. 

But this? This he can do. 

Under the jet of the water, under the fluorescent yellow, lemon-scented dish soap, the blood starts to loosen from the denim. He rubs the fabric against itself, the heavy stitching a good abrasion, the water turning from clear to pink as it swirls past and through. The longer he scrubs it, the lighter it gets. It isn’t perfect but it’s working. It’s enough. 

Someone else had called the ambulance. Someone else had fetched the towels. Someone else is with Lev now, cutting a bullet out of him, stopping him bleeding out, keeping him alive.

And Cassius’d had to stand there, swaying, useless, powerless as they took Lev away from him.

Had to watch as people put their hands on him, touched him, skin on skin contact that Lev would have hated had he been awake. He’d kept wanting to scream at them to get off him, to get away, to leave him be, not to crowd, not to grab, not to touch or hold down but-

All he could do was let go of Lev’s hand so they could treat him. Hand him over. Hold a jacket instead.

Cassius keeps trying to remember the last thing that Lev had said to him. The last moment he saw him, alive and well and untouchable. The last proper words Lev had said to him. He doesn’t know why he’s hooked on it. Hardly like those would’ve been his actual last words. 

Lev’s hand on the back of his neck, a kiss pressed to his hair, the lightest touch there and then gone with a “See you Friday for breakfast?”

And he’d barely responded, head buried in his phone. Must’ve said something stupid or funny because he remembers Lev laughing as he’d gone out the door. That’s the last thing he’d heard from a Lev who wasn’t bleeding out in his arms. His gorgeous, stupid laugh.

The last thing Lev would’ve heard was a command from Cassius’ lips.

Lᴇᴠ, sᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ.

The last thing he would’ve heard was a crushed promise.

You are never going to use it on me again. Understood?

Never. I swear.

A broken vow.

Do you?

One of the patches further down is speckled with red that’s refusing to lighten to pink. It’s a different kind of fabric, embroidered and silky to the touch and the blood won’t shift, no matter how much soap he rubs into it. It just suds up and floats on. It’s like that near the seam of the buttons as well. On the edges of the stain where the blood dried first. Harder to get out.

Maybe Lev will like that, he tries to reason. Tiny flecks of red sitting like tiny badges of honour of what he’s survived. If he survives.

If he doesn’t like it then they’ll just get it fixed. Dry cleaned, restitched, made new, whatever needs to happen. Lev Viklund-Reid needs his jacket. This jacket. It needs to be clean. Needs to be perfect.

Lev needs to survive.

Cassius scrubs. His hands are freezing. Joints stiff from holding too long, now aching from too cold. His chest is aching too. Squeezing.

Is that how Lev had felt? Sitting in a car, hand pressed to his torso to keep his blood inside as he drove. Hands freezing from the blood loss. Chest aching from a heart working overtime. Jacket getting more and more soaked.

Cassius breathes. Keeps breathing.

Somewhere in this goddamn hospital he hopes, begs, prays that Lev keeps breathing too.

He can’t change what he said. He can’t change what he did and didn’t do. He can’t rewrite the last few moments to make them more poignant, more profound, more meaningful. He can’t make himself Lev’s hero or change the last thing from betrayal to I love you. He can’t go back to Lev’s breakfast invitation and say fuck the meeting, let’s have lunch today instead. 

He can clean the jacket. 

He can have it ready for when his partner wakes up and wants to wear it again. 

He can have it perfect. Make up for the loss. 

Cassius scrubs.

The blood washes into the sink. 

The water dilutes it. 

Both swirl down the drain. 

He’s sure the plumbing won’t complain about a few tears mixed in alongside.