#after lamb tells her that he gave partner the gun

[thealdersgateoffice]

Catherine Standish in every episode of Slow Horses

1.06 Follies 🐌🐎

[eliaca]

Saskia Reeves Breaks Down Jackson Lamb’s Shocking Betrayal

TheWrap: At first, Catherine is very touched that Lamb has come to her rescue. And then he tells her that her late boss was a traitor who was setting her up to take the fall for him. That’s a huge, huge betrayal.

Saskia Reeves: Yeah. It’s a shocking moment for her. Which is why I think she says, if you don’t mind my French, “F,U. Jackson Lamb, f—k the lot of you.” I think she’s just had it, that’s it. She’s had enough. And Catherine never swears. Jackson Lamb swears all the time, but she never swears. So that was quite a big thing for her to do that.

So of all the things that Lamb says to Catherine, what do you think was the most hurtful?

That Charles was only keeping her close because she was a drunk. [Lamb] helped her go to rehab. He helped her, she thought, recover. And I think after Charles Partner was killed, or when he committed suicide, as she thinks, she fell off the wagon a few times.

Lamb tells her, doesn’t he, in the end of Season 1 that he gave Charles Partner the gun. But she always blamed herself for his death. And she falls off the wagon, and then gets back on it because otherwise she’d probably kill herself.

And that’s when Lamb picks her up and says, “Okay, I’m going to offer you a job.” I imagine her self-esteem is very low. It’s a job that she can do incredibly well. She hasn’t sunk to the bottom like all the other [agents in Slough House].

She really gets a chance to shine this season as she gains the trust of her kidnappers and mines them for information.

I don’t know if anybody would have quite approached it the way she did. Knowing what she knows, and getting sort of caught up in their emotional reason why they need the information that they need. You have to remember she’s not a spy. She’s a secretary, a very, very good secretary.

Do you think Lamb is actually fond of her?

Yes. They’ve been part of MI5 since before the [Berlin] wall came down, they’ve been through so much together. They know the same people from before. And they’re both more analog than digital. She knows [he used to be an] exemplary member of MI5. And he knows her to be an incredibly experienced supporter of the head of MI5. I think he respects her, but he’s also a frightful bully and, and in some areas, a coward who doesn’t want to face his own alcoholism.

So he pushes her, he keeps pushing her to see how far she’ll go, to test her. I think she interprets that as, “He’s trying to break me. He’s trying to push me off the wagon, and I refuse to be pushed off the wagon.” And the longer she stays sober, the stronger she gets. And I love how strong she is. She’s very smart. And she’s kind but she’s f—ked up. Which is what holds them all together, isn’t it?

He has one one big secret left: As the viewers already know, he was the one who killed Charles.

Right. That hasn’t come out yet. Which is why when she asks him, “Do we kill our own?,” she’s not aware of how close she is to the truth.

I haven’t read the books but I assume that does come out at some point.

It does come out, but I can’t remember which book it happens in. I’ve read them all a few times.

Actually, it’s a conversation I want to have with the showrunner Will Smith. What are we going to do with this piece of humming knowledge, this thing that won’t go away? This thing that Jackson did, but he did it under the umbrella of David Cartwright (Jonathan Pryce). And that relationship will be unfolded in Season 4.

We get a few glimpses of Catherine in the Season 4 teaser trailer. Will we see her back at Slough House?

I can’t say anything!

Source: Sharon Knolle - The Wrap

[stormwinddeliveries]

Day 3 5/15

Journal Entry: *Noodles hand writing is immaculate. Near calligraphy.*

Today was better than yesterday. Even if I felt the worst today than I did yesterday, somehow, surprisingly. Considering I did feel actually awful yesterday. Though I suppose that was more emotional than physical. This one, how I'm feeling right now, is certainly more physical than emotional. Which is why its both a better day and a...worse day? 

Morrigan is sick and really didn't sleep well last night. If she slept at all, really. Then with Jasper still recovering and my body not seeming to be kicking my own cold, or whatever it is, as much as I'd like it to? My body is just fatigued beyond its limit. Which is good I haven't been drinking because boy, would I feel so much worse and bogged down if I had been. I just wish the two felt better, and everything finally worked out for longer than a day or two at max. 

No one from the Faire showed up for the market tonight. Normally I would have peddled my bread and stuff but I was feeling too gods awful to even humor peddling my own wares. While I was saving the spot for the Faire however, someone I knew from Westfall showed up. I pulled a gun on him. He pulled a gun on me. We laughed. His lady got real weird and angry that he talked to me at all. Spinning this whole thing about some fucking jealous nonsense I don't understand. Granted I don't really get jealous women. Or women who try and gaslight their partners into doing shit through that kinda behavior. Toddler behavior, bad. 

The guy also offered me work since I mentioned I didn't have fifty-six gold to drop on a cloak like his woman did. But I declined the offer. Mostly from the look he gave but also knowing that nothing good comes out of Westfall unless its good brought by your own hand. So I feel rather proud of that for myself. Even if shortly after that I up and just left the market area cause his lady was almost thrown out and I was too tired to deal with her all out yelling. I hate when people cause issues in public thinking its charming or something. 

Then I think I full on fell asleep outside the Lamb on the wall. Couldn't tell you for how long I was out, but I certainly was gone to the world for a good little bit. When I woke up I went on a walk, and ran into Miss Alice along with some few other friends. She introduced me to one of hers AND I got to hold a slime pet...thing. Someone had! The slimes name was Jim and if anything happens to Jim I'm killing everyone and then myself. 

Around there I went to the clinic to get my throat and stuff looked at. The doctor person said they were pretty sure my tonsils are infected, and they gave me medicine to take. Saying I should be feeling better by tomorrow. Hope it isn't like that medicine that makes you poop cause it kills all your inner gut stuff. I fucking hate that medicine. 

After THAT, I went back to the group of friends. As they all trickled off to go to bed, my friend Flowers and I were the sole few that remained. Which means it lead to us kind of just...talking. We talked about a lot of surprisingly deep stuff. About his old work, elections, his role in society, our own experience with drinking. He gave me three sticks of chewing gum to entertain myself with! I don't think I'm going to chew them, but instead, keep them as anxiety mementos to hold in my pocket. Like how I use carrying around this journal as a way to distract my hands when I'm reading for something. It all couldn't come at a better time too, because, well. 

I normally don't make it longer than three days. This being the third lets me know that this sobriety thing is about to get way, way, way harder. I'm certain everyone thinks the hard part has started or something. But really my own threshold for time hasn't even begun. I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for Jasper, Morgie, my friends...I would have likely drank yesterday. Drank today. Might have even drank tomorrow for all I know.

Lynn

[brave-clarice]

“Clarice” Liveblog: Episode 2

Again, some extremely unfashionably late hot takes.

(Special thanks to @kathrynethegreat and @special-agent-pendragon​ for encouraging another liveblog!)

Clarice is working out! And eating junk food! I love it.

and cleaning her gun!

hey, Ardelia is drinking what I’m going to assume is her grandmother’s “smart people tea”.

Krendler disciplining Clarice already is infuriating but appropriate.

“I lost control.” Oh no, I don’t like that. Don’t make Clarice unstable. Her mental and emotional state never had anything to do with her failing career.

getting weird mixed signals from Ardelia. Last week, she obviously didn’t want Clarice to lie/stick to the script Krendler gave her, but now she’s telling Clarice she messed up by not doing so...?

“I better know you if you’re calling this early.” Amen, Ardelia.

I’m in love: this cinematography is straight out of the film (when she’s flying to WV with Crawford)!

“When’s the last time you went back to Appalachia?” “It’s been years.” What??? It has NOT been years--Clarice was JUST in West Virginia last week as well as in Silence, and she arguably attended college there as well. (UVA is at least nestled in the mountains, and you don’t have to drive far outside the Albemarle Valley to hit Appalachia proper.) After all the details about her character they’ve been nailing, they miss this glaring error? 

I like the tiny details she’s noticing (like the guy biting his nails). Not only because she’s an investigator, but because it’s reminiscent of Hannibal’s influence (imo).

Clarice Is Short: The Saga continues

still not getting any creepy vibes off Krendler. He’s going to be much less effective as an antagonist if he isn’t lewd as well as a dick.

I really don’t care for the way the opening “credits” fade out from the death’s-head moth to Clarice’s face. There are MANY animals that represent her, or parts of her, in the books--lions, lambs, horses, and of course birds--so this choice feels empty and lazy to me.

also lazy: having a fellow agent straight-up tell her in episode 2 “you shouldn’t be in the Bureau.” Maybe in two or three years, after some further “Death Angel”-type incidents, I could see this blatant rudeness, but not yet.

“Reesey”? Thanks, I hate it.

this flashback must be of Clarice’s little brother. That answers one question I had last week. That said...Clarice’s brother doesn’t play the same role in her story that Mischa does in Hannibal’s--but this sure feels like a Mischa-esque flashback.

good: they’re finally getting to the source of Clarice’s actual trauma!

bad: this is NOT how Clarice found out about her father. In fact, that whole incident is laid out in detail in the novels, and there’s nothing overly literary/un-cinematic about it, so this feels unnecessary. “The police are here! Something happened to Daddy!” No, bad! Show, don’t tell!

she would’ve known better than to introduce herself to that kid as “Clarice Starling, FBI,” come on now.

were they regularly able to wire tap hair clips in 1993? 

actually, nothing in this show looks very 90s to me so far. I’m sad about it.

so in eighteen months, Ruth Martin has gone from a junior Senator to the Attorney freakin’ General, and now she might run for governor?? At least let her get settled in one position of power first, why don’t you!

yet more Buffalo Bill flashbacks...alas.

are they trying to make this guy another surrogate Hannibal character? He’s commenting on Clarice’s accent and the dryness of her skin, asking about who she “left behind”...it all feels very Hannibal. (I know he’s a Charismatic Cult Leader trope, too--but when played off of Clarice...)

“Ew.” “I hate this guy.” I laughed.

I understand that Clarice probably feels conflicted re: her siblings in the book, but I��m really not digging the flashbacks of this Tim Burton character her brother.

@ the writers: Clarice already has the lamb backstory/symbolism, too. We don’t need this Little Brother stuff.

*shrieking* Mrs. Starling! At the sink washing the blood out of his hat!!! 

...aaand they had to ruin it with the brother’s painfully bad dialogue. Will still be good for gif-making, though.

are we supposed to interpret all these flashbacks as Clarice being incapable of controlling her emotions/state of mind? She keeps losing herself in memories and emerging all doe-eyed and panicky. I don’t like it.

not to be a broken record but...Clarice should be TOUGH. Again, Ardelia only saw her cry once in seven years. But she’s more worked up in this scene than Jodie was in Memphis!

when Mr. Cult Leader shouts “Agent Starling! Agent Starling!” he sounds exactly like Hannibal calling her back to his cell in the asylum. That has to be intentional. 

damn, wish that I could look as good five minutes after I’ve been crying as Clarice does.

I LOVE that Ardelia gets to be the crucial behind-the-scenes book-smart partner to Clarice’s action heroine.

AG Martin’s just playing politics by turning a blind eye to the crooked sheriff. But when her own daughter was just kidnapped and almost killed, she looks like a real hypocrite.

gosh, Rebecca Breeds is great. I already hope she gets nominated for an Emmy.

so Krendler is...doing the right thing???

Clarice’s father was definitely not a sheriff. I hope she’s just exaggerating for dramatic effect. (Maybe this will be clarified later.)

she couldn’t just sit with a manipulative guy without getting emotional, but she’s cool as a cucumber while telling an extended story about her father? HmmMM.

sometimes her mannerisms and facial expressions are so much like Jodie’s that it’s uncanny, like here when she leans forward to confront the Cult Leader.

“She did it.” Damn straight!

another great callback to Silence. this show’s camera crew knows its stuff!

“He’s concerned I have some residual trauma from Bill.” I. Hate. This. Subplot--and all its OOC implications.

“Catherine was close to her father, too.” Ooh, a nice allusion to the novel! Clarice makes note of their “common wound,” the loss of a father, when she’s in Catherine’s apartment in Silence.

she is just SO pretty.

little Clarice looks a LOT like Rebecca Breeds. I hope we see some more of her. 

The Good:

the continuing visual nods to the Silence film via cinematography

Mama Starling!!!

Clarice’s “The World Will Not Be This Way Within the Reach of my Arm” attitude, refusing to leave without helping the victims.

Ardelia Mapp coming in clutch! 

Clarice being, generally, a badass

and using psychological tricks/mind games to pin the antagonist...that’s the woman who disarmed a monster with just a few words.

Rebecca Breed’s acting has been phenomenal so far.

I like Clarice’s haircut a lot better when worn down (though it’s not very practical for fieldwork, so we probably won’t see it much).

The Bad:

the continuing Buffalo Bill-related Trauma Subplot. Ugh.

all the flashbacks to Clarice’s brother (and the not-so-subtle suggestion that her brother is, symbolically, another lamb).

will the real Paul Krendler please come forward? this guy is so TAME.

the other agents’ hostility towards Clarice needs to be toned down slightly so that it can escalate. Otherwise, where’s the tension?

is this actually 1993? I’m not feeling it. Shouldn’t it have a little of that Season 1/2 X-Files aesthetic? Please give me more than once-an-episode references to pagers and fax machines!

that glaring Appalachia continuity error...it’s still bugging me.

I missed the overt Hannibal references, even though they’re not necessary to any part of this episode. A lady can dream!

Overall, I really liked this one despite my various issues with it. It started shakily but built to a great finish. The emphasis across both episodes on Clarice being in the FBI not just to “get out, get anywhere,” but out of a genuine desire to help victims has been wonderful. I just hope they don’t swerve too far into the “too traumatized and emotionally compromised to function” lane. It would be a disservice to Clarice’s character and to her journey (and would smack too much of “Hannibal really did prey on her weak mind/brainwash her”.

Things I’d still like to see: More of her personality. Her hobbies and interests. That she’s cleaning her gun is great! Now let’s see “Poison Oakley” practicing her sharpshooting skills. Or car shopping. Or clothes shopping to show off her “developing taste.” (Ardelia can come!) I’ll take literally anything. Give us more of Clarice’s sense of humor as well. She had some subtle funny moments in the pilot, and it’s nice to see Rebecca smile for a change.

And Krendler? Smear that man in grease! I appreciated a happy ending even though Clarice’s career is, as we know, already in a downward spiral--the last thing we want is for every episode to be a slog, especially when a good chunk of the audience hasn’t read the book and doesn’t know Clarice is doomed to fail in the Bureau.

However... Krendler’s not a “redemption arc” kind of character. Or even a “run-of-the-mill sexist asshole” character. This is a man who spent seven years systematically sabotaging a young woman’s career because a) he was jealous that she solved the Gumb case before him, and b) she wouldn’t fuck him. He was a Justice Department official working fist-in-glove with a serial child molester who was planning some of the heinous vigilante justice imaginable. THAT’S why his very gruesome end at Hannibal’s hands felt deserved--even Clarice thought so! In short, he needs to get nasty.

Anyway, thanks for coming to another long-overdue TedTalk. Fingers crossed that the next one will be more timely (aiming for Sunday night)! 

[unfolded73]

Five Times Ronnie Was a Friend to David and One Time She Was a Friend to Patrick (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

"I think it's less about Ronnie disliking Patrick, and [more about] Ronnie seeing this person come in and having a huge effect on someone she cares as much about as she does David," Robinson said. "Ronnie likes to take her time and figure things out, and err on the side of suspicion." -- Karen Robinson in The Advocate

Rated Teen, 3876 words

___________________________________

1.

When Ronnie saw Stevie get out of the car that morning with David Rose, she almost spit out her coffee.

Ronnie had been going on Roland’s annual turkey shoot since before she’d run for town council almost a decade ago, when she’d shot more turkeys than any of the men on the trip and had earned a lot of grudging respect. This morning, she’d been standing there with Bob and Roland, shooting the same kind of shit they always did. Their council meetings often devolved into this kind of idle chatter, which was one of the many reasons it was hard to get anything done in Schitt’s Creek.

The day was cool and crisp and Ronnie��s thermos of coffee was warm in her hand. She was already looking forward to swapping it for beer later, after they’d hopefully bagged a few wild turkeys. Then David and Stevie arrived, and Ronnie’s attention was thoroughly diverted.

Ronnie hadn’t really spent any time with David Rose yet. She knew Johnny because he’d made a nuisance of himself at a couple of council meetings, and she knew Alexis, thanks to her court-ordered community service. (And yes, Alexis was a princess — the type of person you’d see on one of those ridiculous reality shows on basic cable. But she showed up for her community service dates and made some kind of an effort. Plus she was pretty; not Ronnie’s type and way too young for her, but admittedly enjoyable to look at.) Ronnie had even spoken to Moira, the most baffling of the Roses, a couple of times at the café. David, she hadn’t really given much thought to yet.

Okay, that wasn’t exactly true. She’d clocked David as queer right away, and she couldn’t say she was sorry to have another queer resident in Schitt’s Creek. But she’d also assumed he was vain and probably an asshole, and she didn’t have room in her life for assholes. Seeing him at the annual turkey shoot didn’t fit at all into her preconceived notion about him.

The way he handled a gun, that fit into her preconceived notion about him. Still, he was trying, and she had to give him credit for that. Ronnie took pity on him and helped with his grip on the gun so that the recoil wouldn’t knock him flat. And when he shot his first turkey in the neck and had to watch it slowly die, she did feel sorry for him, patting his back to commiserate.

When they paused for a break in the early afternoon, Ronnie took it upon herself to bring David a beer. He accepted the bottle with a poorly-restrained grimace. “Thanks.” His voice was quiet, the edges from earlier filed off.

“How did Stevie talk you into this, anyway?” Ronnie asked. “Doesn’t seem like your scene.”

He looked down his nose at her. “How’d you guess?”

She just raised an eyebrow and waited.

David huffed. “I don’t know. Stevie asked me, and there had been this bug thing, and… I figured if I said no, it would just confirm her assumption that I have no practical skills. And… I don’t know. She’s been a… friend… to me. So.”

Ronnie nodded, impressed with his openness. Maybe it was brought on by the trauma of killing a turkey, but it was openness nonetheless.

“Plus, I had nothing better to do,” David added.

Ronnie clinked her beer bottle against his. “Fair enough.”

2.

Ronnie couldn’t help being curious when word got around that David was starting to get things set up inside the general store, that maybe he’d be opening his new store soon, although no date had been announced. There was a lot of buzz around town about it — Brenda had been telling anyone who would listen that David Rose was a fan of the moisturizer she made at home and would be selling it under his label. If Ronnie was honest, Brenda was getting a little too excited about it given that the store hadn’t even opened yet.

Still, when Ronnie came out of the café one afternoon and saw a sign painter starting to work on the windows outside, she wandered over to have a look.

She tapped on the door, waiting until David looked up and beckoned before she went in.

Already, she could see David’s mark on the space. All the metal shelving from the old general store was gone, replaced by wood furniture that gave the store a much more upscale look. David was busy sticking labels onto bottles in the middle of the room, his tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on his task.

“Hi, Ronnie,” he said, his eyes darting around nervously. “Are you here to revoke my business license?”

She laughed. “I don’t have that kind of power.” Sticking her hands in her back pockets, Ronnie rocked on her heels. “I just wanted to get a look at the place.”

David gestured around. “Here it is. There’s a lot to do still.”

She looked around at all the boxes of products, at the empty shelves left to fill. “You don’t have any help?”

“Oh, I do, actually? Not at the moment, but I have a… I guess I have a business partner now?” A furtive smile flickered on his face. “Not officially, yet. But I will have a business partner.”

Ronnie raised her eyebrows. “Who?”

“Um, Patrick Brewer? He works with Ray right now, but—”

“That guy? Isn’t he brand new in town?” Gwen just so happened to have introduced her to Patrick last week as the newest player on the Café Tropical baseball team.

David shrugged. “I guess.”

“And so you trust him to help you run your business… why exactly?” Ronnie had gotten the impression of a hypercompetitive bro type, what little of Patrick had caught her attention during the game. She hadn’t been impressed.

David’s eyes widened. “Because!” She stared at him and waited for him to elaborate. “Because he knows about taxes and grant money and food product licenses and I don’t know about any of those things.”

“So you’re going to entrust your business to him,” Ronnie said flatly, shaking her head. “Isn’t that exactly the kind of trust that led to your family losing all your money?”

“Patrick’s not going to embezzle money from me,” David said with an eye roll. “For one thing, I don’t really have any money for him to embezzle. And for another, he’s not that kind of person.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.” David huffed, flailing his hands around. “Now can you please stop trying to give me more things to be anxious about? Believe me, I’m anxious enough as it is.”

“Okay.” She sighed. David was like an innocent lamb in some ways, she thought, and not just because of his fuzzy sweaters.

“Look, I know the town council would have preferred Christmas World, but—”

“Oh, that was mainly Bob and Roland,” Ronnie said. And Moira, it had to be said, but she wasn’t about to mention that to David in case he didn’t already know. “Personally, I think year-round Christmas stores are tacky.”

“Thank you.”

“Whereas this place looks like it’s gonna be…” She scanned the room again. Somehow it seemed brighter than it ever had under the previous owners. Maybe it was just that the windows were clean. “Really nice. Classy.”

David gave her a charming, lopsided smile. “That’s the plan.”

3.

“Where the hell is Bob?” Ronnie said, looking at her watch. The sooner they got this council meeting started, the sooner she could get on with her day.

“Robert does seem to have a rather dégagé relationship with the clock, doesn’t he?” Moira said, flipping the page on the book she was reading.

“How late is David’s store open?” Roland asked. “Jocelyn wanted me to pick up a couple of things on my way home.”

“I’m afraid I don’t monitor the hours of my son’s place of business, Roland,” Moira said with a bored sigh.

Roland leaned back and put his feet on the desk. “I mean, assuming they aren’t making a habit of closing early so they can get up to some hanky-panky in the back room,” he said with a snicker. And then when no one commented, he added more directly, “Twyla told me David and Patrick are an item.”

Moira finally looked up. “Are you asking me to gossip about my own son’s romantic liaisons?”

Roland was undeterred. “Just curious if the rumours are true.”

“I’m not sure which rumours you speak of, but yes, I understand that David’s relationship with his business partner has grown into an affair de coeur.”

“So you are going to gossip about it then,” Ronnie said, her chin resting on her hand.

“I shall give no further details, Veronica,” Moira said, going back to her book.

Ronnie didn’t give it any more thought until she saw David in the café a few days later. She was lingering over her breakfast at the counter when David came in and ordered a coffee and a tea to go from Twyla.

“How’s the store, David?” Ronnie asked when Twyla went to make the drinks.

“It’s… great, actually. People seem to want to buy the things we sell, which is nice.”

“Well, that is sort of the whole point of owning a store.” She hesitated, unsure if she should say anything else, but then she figured, what the hell. “The scuttlebutt around town is that you and you and your business partner are more than business partners.”

“Oh, so people are talking about us,” David said with a frown.

Ronnie shrugged. “It’s a small town and there’s not much else for people to do. You know how it is.”

He looked insulted at the idea that he would know how it is.

“It’s an awful lot to share with one person, David,” she said, because she’d been there before, when she was young. Madly in love and certain that she’d found the one, the stereotypical U-Haul lesbian, moving too fast and getting her heart broken. She’d learned the hard way.

“Are you giving me relationship advice?” His head moved a complicated dance on the end of his neck, somehow expressing his anxiety better than his words ever could.

“I’m saying that getting involved with the person who you have to run a business with can get messy when things don’t work out.”

His eyes flickered down to his shoes. “I know. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I fuck it up.”

“So sure that you’re going to be the one to fuck it up?” she asked, feeling that same protectiveness that he’d always engendered in her for some reason.

“Well Patrick isn’t going to be the one to fuck it up, he’s… perfect, basically?”

Him? she wanted to ask. Instead she said, “Nobody’s perfect.”

Twyla brought over David’s to-go cups.

“Just… be careful, that’s all I’m saying,” Ronnie said, accepting the check from Twlya and pulling out her wallet to pay.

“I will,” David said softly. “I mean, I am.” But she could tell that he was already a goner, his cheeks flushed and bottom lip pulled between his teeth. He also pulled his wallet from his pocket, handing over some cash to Twyla. “He’s… new at this. Being with a man,” David said, so quietly that she almost didn’t catch the words.

“Oh, boy,” Ronnie said, because she’d been down that road too. She’d been an experiment to a few girls who later decided they weren’t really all that bisexual after all. She’d been forced back into the closet by girlfriends who weren’t ready to be out. All of it sucked. She guessed David had been through his share of those kinds of relationships too.

Fighting every aloof instinct she had, Ronnie put a hand on David’s arm. “If you ever want to talk, I’m around. You can give me a call.”

David looked as surprised by this moment of tenderness as Ronnie herself was. “Thanks, Ronnie.”

“Any time, David.”

4.

Ronnie was on her third whiskey when David and Stevie arrived at the Wobbly Elm.

David was wincing as they joined her at the bar. “I hope my partner hasn’t driven you to drink, Ronnie.”

Ronnie glared at him. As if she cared enough about Patrick Brewer for anything he did to drive her to drink. “I finished the bathroom when I said I would, didn’t I?”

David held his hands up in surrender. “The bathroom is beautiful, Ronnie. The calligraphy workshop last night went off without a hitch.”

“Glad to hear it,” she muttered, her drink back at her lips.

“Will you shut up about the damn bathroom, David? We’re here to drown my sorrows, remember?” Stevie said, poking him in the chest. “Go get us drinks.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, moving down the bar to get the bartender’s attention.

“Drown your sorrows?” Ronnie asked.

Stevie sighed. “The guy I was seeing turned out to be an asshole: the Stevie Budd story.”

“Mm.” Ronnie took another sip of her whiskey. “I’d say the problem is men, but my love life hasn’t been much better lately,” she said just as David rejoined them.

“I thought you were with… what’s her name? The gravel lady,” David said.

“Karen,” Stevie said at the same time that Ronnie said, “We split up.”

“I’m sorry, Ronnie,” Stevie said, lifting her hand as if she was going to touch Ronnie’s back, and then wisely thinking better of it and dropping her hand back to the bar.

Ronnie shrugged. “It happens.”

“Wow, this has, like, never happened to me,” David said.

Stevie narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“I’ve never been the one with the successful relationship in a group of people at a bar like this. I’m always the one crying into my martini.”

“Shut the fuck up, David,” Stevie said.

“Does that sound like a thing you should be saying to us right now?” Ronnie asked, her voice going high with indignation.

“Just for that, you’re buying the next round too,” said Stevie.

“Okay.” David said, biting his lip. “Sorry.”

***

“And so apparently a casual fuck is all I was good for,” Stevie said before drawing more pot smoke into her lungs. She and David sat on the hood of Stevie’s car at the far end of the Wobbly Elm parking lot. Ronnie stood beside them, holding herself steady using the car’s side mirror and sharing a joint with these children because apparently that was how low she had sunk.

“That’s bullshit, Stevie,” David said, taking the joint from between Stevie’s thumb and finger.

“Well, you’d know,” Stevie said.

“That’s exactly it, though,” he replied before pausing to hold the smoke in. “It’s because you are such an excellent person in other ways that it would have been a mistake to ruin it with sex,” David said in a long exhale before passing the joint to Ronnie. “Or, with more sex, I mean.”

“Maybe I’m also bad at sex,” Stevie said.

“You are definitely not bad at sex. You’re great at sex,” David said.

“Really?” Stevie asked.

David nodded. “Yep. Yes.”

“You’re great at it too, David.”

“Uhhh, yeah. Of course I am.”

“I am getting such a fascinating window into your relationship,” Ronnie said as she passed the joint back to Stevie.

“I bet you’re great at sex too, Ronnie,” David said.

“Damn right I am.”

“Stevie and I tried the friends with benefits thing a long time ago,” David explained, the marijuana freeing his tongue. “And although we’re better off as friends and I’m very much in love with Patrick, that doesn’t stop me from seeing that you are the whole package, Stevie Budd, and if Emir didn’t see that then he can suck a bag of dicks.”

Stevie laughed wildly.

“Same goes for Gravel Karen,” David said, gesturing up and down at Ronnie.

“Uh huh,” Ronnie said impassively, although deep down she was pleased.

Stevie’s head dropped until her chin touched her chest. “I’m gonna have to leave my car here. We should call a cab.”

It occurred to Ronnie that she wasn’t anywhere near sober enough to drive either. She was out of practice at this whole going out and drinking in bars thing, and she was even more out of practice with this smoking pot thing. “I’m too old for this,” she said with a heavy sigh.

“I’ll call Patrick,” David said, fumbling for his phone. “He’ll pick us up.”

Which was how twenty minutes later, Ronnie found herself climbing into the back seat of Patrick Brewer’s Toyota next to Stevie, who immediately let her head fall onto Ronnie’s shoulder. David was planting a sloppy kiss on his boyfriend’s cheek in the front seat, making Patrick wipe the saliva off his face with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Wow, you guys reek of pot smoke,” Patrick said, looking at Ronnie with his stupid Bambi-eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Just drive, Brewer,” Ronnie said.

“Straight men are the worst,” Stevie murmured. “Why do I bother with them?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, honey,” Ronnie said, petting Stevie’s hair.

5.

“So they tell me I have you to thank for all the extra flowers,” David said, sinking into a chair next to Ronnie as she put a forkful of wedding cake in her mouth. She caught a flash of his inner thigh before he crossed his legs, and while Ronnie had no interest in the male half of the species, she’d have to be dead not to appreciate David Rose in that skirt and those boots.

“Well, it was the least I could do,” she said after she’d swallowed her bite of cake. “You deserved a nice day.”

“And you and the Jazzagals learned our song,” David said with one of his lopsided smiles, a glass half-full of champagne dangling carelessly in one hand. “You, Ronnie Lee, stood in a room full of people and sang the song that Patrick sang to me at the first open mic.”

“That was Jocelyn’s idea,” Ronnie said with a frown. “I had to go along with the group.”

David elbowed her. “Come on. Admit it. You don’t totally hate Patrick. You like him a little bit.”

She was going to admit no such thing. “I don’t hate that he makes you happy. I don’t understand what you see in him, but I’m glad that you’re so happy.” And then she felt tears welling up again, as if it wasn’t bad enough that she had cried during the ceremony. She fervently hoped no one had seen her wiping away tears.

He grinned more widely, so she guessed she’d given him a satisfactory answer. Ronnie looked over at the dance floor, where David’s husband was currently dancing with his sister-in-law.

“I hear you’re buying the place out on O’Beirn Road,” she said.

He nodded, his face positively glowing with happiness now. “I’ve been admiring that cottage from afar for years. We’ll be moving in next month.”

“A place like that, it might need some work done. I trust you’ll come to me first if you need a contractor?” She took another bite of cake. It was delicious cake, moist and citrusy, and she savored the bite on her tongue.

“Of course we will. I have some ideas for the kitchen, although we might have to wait a year or two until there’s enough money to do justice to my vision.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to do anything that didn’t do justice to your vision.” She ate some more cake and watched David watching Patrick until she couldn’t stand it any more. “Ugh, your heart eyes are giving me a stomachache. Go dance.”

David held his hand out to her. “Come dance with me, Ronnie.”

She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and took his hand and let herself be pulled out onto the dance floor.

+1.

Ronnie had almost dozed off at her desk in Town Hall when he came in.

“Patrick Brewer,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “Shouldn’t you be off on a honeymoon somewhere?”

He approached her nervously, his hands clutched together in front of him like a supplicant. “We decided to hold off on the honeymoon until we could afford to go somewhere really nice.”

“It’s not time to renew your permits for the store already, is it?”

“Nope. I’m here about council, actually,” he said.

“Public meetings are the second and fourth Tuesdays of every month,” she said, leaning back and putting her feet up on the desk.

“Okay, but I was more curious about the open council seat. With Mrs. Rose gone.”

“There’ll be an election to fill the seat,” she said, her feet thunking back down to the floor. “Why?”

“I, um… was thinking about running.” He chuckled nervously. “To keep it in the Rose family, I guess.”

“Assuming you’d win,” she said. “That’s presumptuous.”

“Is anyone else running?” he asked, a little of his usual, annoying self-confidence showing through.

Ronnie sighed. “Not yet.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that really the reason you want to run? To keep it in the family?”

Patrick cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter. “No. Since we’re settling here pretty much permanently, I’ve been thinking about other ways I might be able to contribute to Schitt’s Creek. I have ideas about bringing more business to downtown. And David and I have gotten to know several of the farmers in the area, selling their products in the store, so I hear a lot about their concerns.”

Ronnie stared at him for another few seconds, and then opened a file drawer, pulling out a form. “You’ll need to fill this nomination form out and get five signatures to support your nomination,” she said, pointing at the blank spaces on the form. “Think you can do that?”

Patrick took the nomination form from her. “Do I think I can get five people to sign my nomination form?” he said, sounding a little bit testy. “Yes, I think I can manage that.”

“You’re a real joiner, aren’t you?” she asked, hand propped up on her hand. “Baseball, community theater, town council… next you’ll be joining the curling club.”

He smirked. “I would, but it interferes with my hockey practice. Besides, Ronnie, you do all those things. Plus the Jazzagals. I’d say it takes a joiner to know one.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Tell you what,” she said, reaching for the form. When he handed it back to her, she signed on the first nomination line. “I’ll give you your first signature.”

Taking the form back, Patrick gave her a bemused look. “I figured I’d be the last person you’d want filling the empty seat on council.”

She shrugged. “Not the last person…”

“Okay, thanks,” he said with an eye roll, turning to leave.

“I’m looking forward to hearing your ideas,” she called, making him stop and turn back. “And if you win, I’m looking forward to kicking your ass on a regular basis, just like I do in baseball.” And then Ronnie laughed, loud and long.

“Good to talk to you too, Ronnie,” Patrick said, headed back toward the door.

She was still laughing. “Say hi to your husband for me!”

[singledarkshade]

Detective Hunter

Part Five (Part One, Part Two, Part Three & Part Four can be found here) Author’s Note: This is the final chapter in this story. I hope you enjoy. “What did this guy say?” Matt asked, trying to work out how the guy they’d been working with was a fraud and they’d not known.

“He confirmed he is Dean Hunter,” Grazer told him over the radio, “He arrived in LA, was attacked on his way to his hotel and remembers a man in a long brown coat helping him.”

Matt frowned, “Why take over his identity?”

“No idea,” Grazer replied, “But the nurse said our fake Hunter asked to be kept up to date on the real Hunter’s condition. Has even visited him a few times.”

Matt turned to George who looked as bemused as he felt, “That makes no sense.”

“Where is he now?” Grazer demanded.

George took over, “Rip entered the warehouse through a back window. He is heading to the room and on our signal will grab Miss Jones while we distract Innabocks.”

“You let him go in alone?!!!”

“Considering where the window is,” Matt grimaced, “I didn’t think he’d manage to get in, not to mention we had no reason to believe he wasn’t the real Hunter when he did.”

“Captain,” George took over, “Perhaps we should continue with the plan we have, and once we have Miss Jones, we also arrest Rip?”

They waited as the silence on the other end stretched before Grazer finally replied, “Agreed. But I want to know who this guy is.”

Rip moved quietly through the Warehouse to the small room in the corner. Thankfully, the windows were covered with so much dirt it wasn’t possible for Innabocks to see though them. Unfortunately, that meant Rip couldn’t see in but luckily, Rip had Gideon to check the room for him.

“The girl is in the back corner,” Gideon said, “Her hands and feet are tied, she looks scared but from my observation she is not injured.”

“What about the kidnapper?” Rip asked.

Gideon glanced back, “He is at the window, making sure he stays back far enough he can’t be easily struck by a bullet, but he has a good view of the police outside.”

“I wonder what’s keeping them so long,” Rip frowned, “They know I’m in position.”

Gideon nodded before asking, “Do you want me to check what’s happening?”

“Please,” he said softly, “I don’t think we should give this guy time to think up an actual plan.”

She disappeared and Rip waited, going over in his head what he was going to do.

“Captain,” Gideon’s sharp voice in his ear made him jump.

“What?”

“Dean Hunter is awake,” she told him urgently, “They know.”

Rip sighed, “Bollocks. I hoped I could get away with this just a little longer.”

“They intend to follow the plan already discussed then arrest you,” Gideon told him, “You will never get near the shard if they do.”

“I’ve escaped plenty of prisons,” Rip reminded her, “But I agree,” he sighed, “We need a plan that doesn’t get me caught.”

Gideon frowned slightly, “The radio?”

Rip pulled it out and looked at it thoughtfully, “Tenctonese hearing is more acute than human. Good idea.”

“You will need to hurry,” Gideon reminded him.

Wishing he had a proper tool kit, Rip pulled out the small penknife he’d borrowed from Dean and pulled the back off it. Making a few adjustments, he closed it back up and snuck closer to the door.

Pulling out the gun he’d been given, Rip hit the button and tossed the radio into the room. The high pitch that came from the radio was just within the frequency that firstly hurt then in a few seconds should knock Innabocks out.

Rip darted inside and quickly untied the young girl who stared at him confused.

“There are police outside,” he said softly, “Go out and find Detectives Sikes and Francisco, they’ll look after you.”

She looked at him confused, “Who are you?”

Squeezing her arm as he helped her to her feet, “A friend. Now go, quickly.”

Rip checked the male unconscious on the floor, seeing car keys had fallen out his pocket. Those he could use.

“Captain,” Gideon called, “There is a boarded-up window back here. It leads out to an empty street. If you burst through at the same time the police enter the building, then they should not hear the noise.”

“But will catch me when I break my legs falling to the ground,” Rip replied.

“There is a full dumpster below that I calculate you shall be able to hit,” she assured

Grimacing he murmured, “This is probably going to hurt or at best be extremely uncomfortable.”

“It’s your only choice,” Gideon reminded him, “And less arduous than escaping a prison cell.”

Looking around the room he found a small bin to use rather than his body to hit the wood, “Tell me when.”

“Miss Jones has left the building,” Gideon told him, holding her hand up for him to wait. Listening intently she suddenly brought it down sharply, “Now.”

Rip ran and slammed into the wood covering the window, throwing the bin away as he dropped. The air rushed out of his lungs when he hit the dumpster, although thankfully it appeared to be filled mostly with cardboard boxes.

“You will have time to nap later, Captain,” Gideon snapped, “Move, now.”

Forcing his body to work, Rip climbed out the dumpster and pulled out the car keys.

“Please be close by,” he murmured, hitting the alarm button and turning relieved to see a car not far from him flash its lights in response.

Running to the car, he could see the police scrambling into the warehouse but Matt was standing and turned just as Rip reached the driver’s door.

“Stop!!!”

Ignoring the yell, Rip started the car and started driving as fast as he could.

 Matt readied himself to enter the warehouse, annoyed that they hadn’t known that the Englishman was a fake and confused because he hadn’t done anything other than search for the girl. He heard calls and turned to see Kira Jones running out the warehouse.

“Detective Sikes?” she called fearfully, “Detective Francisco?”

“We’re here,” George moved to her grabbing a blanket from the nearby officer and wrapping it around her, “What happened?”

“The other man did something,” she whispered, “Jack fell and clutched at his head. He told me to come and find you.”

Matt motioned one of the female officers only, “This is Officer Dobson, she’s going to take you to hospital, Okay?”

Kira nodded.

Matt gently squeezed her shoulder, “We’ll come and check on you later.”

With that Dobson led their lost lamb to safety.

“He has no way out,” George noted, “There are officers at the entrance he used and this one.”

Matt sighed and nodded, “Let’s go.”

George ordered the team to enter the warehouse, watching them run in Matt pulled out his own gun and started forward. Stopping because something seemed off.

Turning he spotted a familiar brown coat at a car further up the street.

“Stop!!!” he yelled starting to run, before throwing over his shoulder, “George. He’s here.”

They ran, stopping as the car disappeared.

“Did you get it?” Matt demanded.

George nodded.

“Let’s go,” he jumped in the car and started off the same way as Rip had driven while George sent the car details over the radio.

 The car screeched to a halt and Rip jumped out. He ran to the building and knocked on the door repeatedly.

“Members Only,” came in Tenctonese.

“The Elders are expecting me,” Rip snapped.

A few seconds passed and Rip breathed a sigh of relief as Moodri opened the door for him.

“What happened?”

“They know I’m a fake,” Rip replied, “It’s time I leave here.”

Moodri frowned, “The girl?”

“She’s safe,” Rip assured him.

Moodri nodded, before allowing him inside. As they started towards the sanctuary another knock came.

“This is the police,” George’s voice came through the door.

Moordri sighed, “You should go, Elder Dara is expecting you. I will deal with them.”

“Thank you,” Rip said.

“If you ever return to your home and visit Tencton,” Moodri said with a grin, “Tell my other self, stop it.”

Chuckling softly Rip headed through the sanctuary and to the back door where the Elder female he’d spoken with the night before was waiting.

She stopped him, “You must say goodbye.”

“What?” Rip demanded.

Dara rested her hand on his cheek, “They became your friends. Say goodbye.”

 “Uncle Moodri,” George stated when the door opened, “This is police business.”

Moodri gave a mysterious smiled, “Come in. Please put your gun away. This is a place of peace.”

George turned to his partner who grimaced but, after some time had finally managed to be tolerant of the beliefs of his people. They both holstered their guns and followed the Elder inside. As they reached the Elder sanctum they both stalled to see Rip standing waiting for them.

“You’ve no way out of here,” Matt spoke up, “So, let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.”

Rip turned to Moodri who nodded at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “I wish I didn’t have to do it this way but once you were aware that I was not the real Dean Hunter then I couldn’t stick around.”

“Who are you?” Matt demanded, “And why did you help?”

“My name is Rip Hunter,” he said, “And I helped because it was my arrival here that distracted the real Dean Hunter. It is more than likely that is why the mugger was able to knock him down. I didn’t want Miss Jones to be left with no hope, so I took up his case while I was here.”

Matt and George swapped confused glances.

“I have to leave now,” Rip continued before they could say anything, “I wish I could explain but to be honest you wouldn’t believe me. All of Dean Hunter’s belongings are in the hotel room. Apologise for me that I used his expense account, but I did need to eat.”

George frowned still confused but said, “Rip, there is no way out of this building other than through us. Please do not make this harder than it has to be.”

Rip shrugged, “You thought that about the warehouse.” The Englishman nodded to Moodri once more before he took a step backwards, “Goodbye.”

Matt and George ran forward as Rip turned stepping into a strange glow emanating from the other room and crouching down. They skidded to a halt as they saw him disappear with the light.

“The traveller has continued on his journey,” Moddri said, once the light faded into nothing, “We were lucky to have met him. May he make it home one day.”

                                 *********************************************

 Matt was still trying to make sense of what had happened. George’s Uncle Moodri was absolutely no help as he kept calling Rip the traveller and refused to explain how he’d simply disappeared. They both searched the entire room, checking for secret doors and found none. When they finally left the Elder Sanctum, frustrated and confused, they decided to check out the hotel before heading to the hospital to check on Kira Jones and meet the real Dean Hunter. Opening the door, Matt looked in and saw the room was spotless with a suitcase on top of a neatly made bed. Two envelopes sat on top of the suitcase, one for them and the other for Dean Hunter. George picked up the one addressed to them and opened it.

“Matt, George,” he read, “I wish that I could tell you both in person how much I have enjoyed my time here. If you’re reading this, then you are aware that I am not Dean Hunter. I apologise for misleading you both, but I had no idea how good you both were at your jobs and felt obligated to take Dean Hunter’s place in trying to find Miss Jones.”

George trailed off for a moment with a frown.

“Is that all?” Matt asked.

Shaking his head, George continued, “I know who I truly am is something neither of you will truly understand, despite the situation of your two races. Therefore, I have left information for you to provide to Captain Grazer which will allow you to close the case, even if you can’t arrest me. It’s all on your computer.”

Matt opened his mouth to ask, but George wasn’t finished.

“If you do need to understand who I am,” George read the final few lines, “Then Moodri will explain. It was an honour to work with you both and I hope, some day, in some way we may meet again. Sincerely Rip Hunter.”

Matt took the letter from George and scanned it before he sighed.

“Let’s get out of here,” Matt grabbed the suitcase, “We’ve got work to do.”

[mrsdeanwinchester19]

Getaway

Written for @cake-writes​ 1k follower celebration

Steve x reader

Warnings: Lots of angst, some fluff towards the end, mentions of miscarriage, like 1 swear word

Author’s Note: I’ve never experienced a miscarriage but my mom had a scare with me, and my grandma did, so I know a bit about them.  Written in third person from Steve’s POV

Emptiness.   That’s what Steve feels when he walks into the nursery.  He doesn’t even turn on the light, or open the curtain, because no amount of light can brighten the darkness swirling in his mind.  What was supposed to hold nothing but joy for his family, only now holds a pain equivalent to a stab in the heart.  He just got back from the church he went to as a child, where he went in, sat down at a pew, and simply prayed for strength.  Slowly, he walks over to the changing table and picks up the lamb stuffy Bucky had gotten.  A memory flashes behind his eyes.

“Alright everyone, Nat and Clint won!” Pepper calls out.  “Baby shower games’ over, now it’s time for presents.”

“Of course Clint won, he has kids,” Tony says, unwrapping Bruce from his adequate swaddling job before walking over to the couch where everyone else is waiting.

“Bucky you asshole, unwrap me!” Sam’s voice rings out from the floor.  A thudding sounds comes out and Steve looks over to Sam to see him trying to crawl over without the use of his arms or legs, which are swaddled tight in a blanket.  Instead of helping, Bucky begins cackling, falling backwards onto the couch, so Steve gets up and unwraps him.

Steve goes over to the couch again and instinctively sets his hand on his wife slight baby bump, starting to show at 4 months.  Sam glares at Bucky as he sits on the opposite end of the L shaped couch.  

“Ok, Steve and Y/N, this one is from Sam,” Pepper, the saint who organized this entire baby shower, says, handing Steve a large box.  He sets it down on the floor in front of them, and Y/N starts excitedly ripping the teddy bear wrapping paper.

“A car seat!  Thank you Sam!” Y/N says happily.

“Mine next!” Bucky shouts, practically pushing Pepper out of the way to grab his off the table.  He hands it to Y/N, a small square box with not much weight to it.  She unwraps it and pulls out some onesies, a Captain America one, and a black one with a silver left arm with a star in the same spot Bucky’s used to be in.  Then, she pulls out a lamb stuffy and lets out an aww. “Steve used to have a lamb stuffed animal when he was little.”

“No I didn’t!” Steve says, blushing red.

“Yes you did, I found it in your closet once looking for your inhaler after you lost it for probably the 50th time.  Nothing to be embarrassed about.  You even told me your Aunt Josephine gave it to you.  If I could’ve found yours, I would’ve given you that, but it’s long gone,” Bucky says.

“How do you remember his aunt’s name but you couldn’t remember to help me build my new bed frame an hour and a half after I asked you?” Sam asks incredulously.

“I didn’t forget, I just didn’t want to so I went to the mall with Y/N.”

“Ok, next present,” Y/N says, breaking up the argument.

Steve sets the lamb down back on the changing table and walks over to the crib, looking down at it.  In just 3 short months, this crib would’ve had held the laughter of their baby girl, but will now sit empty for God knows how long.  He grabs the blanket and sits in the rocking chair next to the crib, running his thumb over the soft green fabric.  This used to be his baby blanket.  Somehow, the Smithsonian got their hands on it and put it in his exhibit, wrapping it around a doll that was custom made to be how small he was at birth, since there were no pictures.  When Steve found out he was expecting his own bundle of joy, he politely demanded to have it back.  It was something his mother brought over from Ireland, and wrapped him in during the cold Brooklyn winter nights, since she was able to wrap it around him multiple times. A tear makes its way down Steve’s cheek before falling onto the blanket.  Many times he imagined wrapping his daughter in the faded emerald green blankie and rocking her to sleep in the chair he was currently sitting in.  He’ll never forget the fateful day when their baby was lost, the horrible image burned into his mind forever.

“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just excited to see your wife?” Tony says to Steve as Clint is landing the quinjet.

“What?” Steve asks, not understanding the joke.

“Nevermind,” Tony says.

Once the quinjet lands, Steve grabs his duffel bag with clothes and weapons and heads towards his rooms, wanting nothing more than to hold his wife in his arms after not seeing her for 7 days.  Rub her 6 month pregnant belly and feel his daughter kick.  They had just found out two weeks before that they were having a girl.  It wasn’t their first appointment, they had at least 3 more before.  Steve was amazed at the fact that they could see their baby on a screen, and even more amazed that the doctor could tell their gender from the blurry picture.  As soon as Dr. Cho offered to print some copies of the ultrasound, Steve immediately ordered 6.  One for his car, office, wallet, fridge, Bucky, and his nightstand.  After he had a nightmare one night, he gently held Y/N’s hand and looked at the ultrasound picture to remind him of what was real.  

The elevator doors opened on his floor, and Steve walked into his living room, setting his bag down on the sofa.  “Y/N? I’m home!” he called out.  When he got no response, he wondered if she was even here.  She could be in her office working, since she became Tony’s assistant after she got pregnant, but mere hours earlier she texted Steve telling him her back was hurting and decided not to work that day.  She probably fell asleep, so Steve quietly opens their bedroom door.  When he sees her however, he pushes the door open and runs to her side.  Even in the dim light of the evening, he could see that something was horribly wrong. She was laying on the bed, unconscious, not under any blankets, the handmade quilt underneath her thighs and the surrounding area soaked with blood.  He immediately checked for a pulse and, after discovering she did have one, scooped her up and sprinted to the medical wing where Dr. Cho was waiting, as she always was after a mission.  

Steve sat by her bedside while he waited for her to wake up.  At the moment, Bucky and Nat were the only team members who knew, since Bucky was getting a gash stitched up and Nat was having her shoulder popped back into place when Steve burst into the room, looking like he just saw his worst nightmare, which he had.  

Her eyes started fluttering, and Steve reached over, grabbing her hand.  “Steve?” she asks, covering her eyes while she adjusted to the bright fluorescent lights.  Once her eyes focused, she took one look at his red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks and knew.  “I lost the baby, didn’t I?”

Steve looks down, lips pressed in a thin line, and nods.  He takes a shaky breath and manages to say, “The important thing is that you’re ok.”

Tears start falling down her cheeks as Dr. Cho walks into the room.  “Y/N, I understand this is hard for you, but how are you feeling health wise. Any lingering pain?”  

She shakes her head no, unable to speak at the moment.  Any sound that would come out would be a mourning cry.

“If Steve had found you an hour later, you could’ve been dead.  You lost a lot of blood so you’re probably still tired, but we need to set an appointment to remove the fetus.”

This startles her, “The baby is still in me?”

“Yes.  We can either induce labor and have you deliver the baby vaginally, a D & C procedure, or a caesarian, but we would prefer if you don’t choose the last because it’s the most invasive.”

For 3 days, Y/n had to continue carrying their dead baby inside her.  Dr. Cho is a good doctor, but she wanted an expert, and she knew one in South Korea, so she was flown to the compound.  They tried to find the reason for the baby’s death, but were unable to determine the cause, which she was told is common for many miscarriages. For half an hour, he and Y/n were able to hold their child.  Ten tiny fingers and ten perfect toes.  Y/n stroked her cheek, and that was when the dam broke.  The entire medical wing heard the terrible wailing of a mother who lost her child.

 Steve walks into Tony’s office, not bothering to knock.  “Tony, I need you to grant Y/N some time off.”

Tony looks up from where he’s welding yet another Ironman helmet.  “I already told her not to come back to work until she feels ready.  Why?”

He sighs.  “I’m going to take Y/N to the cabin where they took me after I woke up from the ice.  I think it would be best if we got away from here, just for a little while.”  

Y/N had been refusing to sleep in their bed, even though the sheets with blood on them had been thrown out. The team had been walking on eggshells around her, treating her as if she was made of glass.  If one more person asked her if she was okay, she would burst.

“Take all the time you need. While you’re gone, I’ll have the team help pack up the nursery and redecorate your bedroom so hopefully you and Y/N can sleep in it peacefully again,” Tony says.

Steve nods and walks back to his room.  He packs a bag for him and Y/N, enough for three weeks.  He wants to keep their relationship strong.  He heard from someone that it’s common for men to cheat after their partner experiences a miscarriage.  He doesn’t understand how a man could take a woman’s broken heart, and crush it even further.  He understands that the men are desperate to feel something other than the anguish of losing a child, but it’s a cruel way to cope.  He won’t be that husband.  

He goes out to look for Y/N, only to find her sitting on the couch, staring at a picture of the ultrasound. He walks over and squats in front of her.  “Y/N, please don’t torture yourself.”

“It’s my fault Steve,” she says in a voice so quiet he wouldn’t be able to hear her without his super hearing.

“Y/N, Dr. Cho told us there was nothing either of us could do to prevent this.  There was nothing you did wrong, sometimes these things just happen.”

She looks up from the picture and meets his eyes before they flicker to the floor beside him.  “Why do you have bags?”

“We’re going on a trip. Both of us need to get out of here for a little while.”

“Where?”

“A cabin up north, in the woods.  A few hours away.”

They walk down to the garage together and Steve puts their bags in the backseat of the car.  He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that someone, probably Sam, removed the car seat.  He was the one who set it up because the others couldn’t.

“Attach part A to part B,” Steve reads the instructions out loud.  He’s sitting on the floor of their living room, surrounded by parts, attempting to put together the car seat Sam got them.  He’s been able to figure out Hydra technology within minutes, he should be able to put a darn car seat together.  “After A and B are together, pinch the end of B and the left side of part C together.” Steve looks at the parts.  “Pinch what?”

At that moment, Bucky stepped out of the elevator and saw Steve trying his hardest to put together a car seat.  “Having some trouble?” he asks, walking over to help.

“This is stupid, it’s not fitting.  Apparently the hospital has a law that they can’t let you leave the hospital unless you have a car seat to take the baby home safely,” Steve explains.

“Why don’t you just have the baby at the compound?”

“We talked about it, but Y/N doesn’t want to.  She said there would be too much pressure with everyone waiting right outside the medical wing and she doesn’t want to be overwhelmed while in labor.  She’s been getting her ultrasounds here, but she has a different OBGYN at a hospital nearby that Tony knows.”

20 minutes later, Bucky throws down the pieces he’s holding.  “This is bull!” he shouts, kicking the box clear across the room.  “Why do you even need to have the baby at a hospital? Just have the baby at home, that’s what my mom did and I turned out fine,” Bucky angrily mumbles as he stomps away. Steve sighs, pulls out his phone, and calls Sam.

Steve starts the car and the soft melody of the Bee Gees How Deep Is Your Love starts flowing through the speakers.  Even this car reminds Steve of what they lost, and he can tell Y/N’s thinking about it too.  At the end of the baby shower, Steve gave Y/N his gift.  He went out and bought a white Crossover, the one with the highest safety rating, since he was going to be carrying extra precious cargo, as if his wife wasn’t precious enough, this just made him realize how much more they needed a safer car.  Steve makes small talk to get their minds off it, but she quickly falls asleep.

When they’re about 10 minutes away, he wakes Y/N up and tells her they’re almost there.  A song starts on the radio, one he knows she doesn’t like, so he presses a random pre-programmed channel.  The lyrics of Rodney Atkins Watching You comes on:

I'm your buckaroo, I wanna be like you

And eat all my food, and grow as tall as you are

We like fixing things and holding mama's hand

Yeah, we're just alike, hey, ain't we, dad?

After those lyrics pass, Steve quickly shuts the radio and apologizes.  The last few minutes of the drive go by in silence.  Finally, Steve sees the snow covered roof of the log cabin come into view.  Last time he was here, he didn’t even know Y/N.  He would rather be here with her, even with this pain, than ever be without her again.  This isn’t a It’s a Wonderful Life scenario.  When Dr. Cho told him how close to death she had come, he had nearly blacked out.  She’s the most important thing in his life; she’s what keeps him going when the world look bleak.  If he had lost her too…that’s not something he even wants to think about.

They both step out of the car and look around.  Steve grabs the bags and Y/N grabs the groceries he picked up in the nearest town while she was asleep.  Snow covered mountains with a lake in front of it creates a picturesque view.  Pine trees around the area are covered with snow. A tree near the house looks like it started blooming already.  Tiny pink buds are frosted over, but it could look like that year round.  The air is crisp and feels pure when it fills his lungs. He starts trekking through the snow, up to the house, and Y/N follows.  

Once inside, Steve places the food either in the cabinets or the fridge.  Someone must be cleaning this place monthly because there’s barely any dust.  Not even 5 minutes pass when Y/N says, “Fire’s started.”

Steve looks over to see she started a small fire in the fireplace.  A smile makes it’s way to his face.  “You will never fail to impress me.”

“Well when your grandpa is a boy scout troop leader, you learn some things.”

Steve kissed her forehead and started making dinner.  She watched him make dinner while occasionally stealing bits of food.  They make the bed while the chicken parmesan cooks. Steve sets the table, dims the lights, and lights two candles on the table while Y/N looks at the movies in the bedroom.

“Steve, they have Sleeping Beauty.  We are so watching this cuz you were frozen when this came out in ’59,” Y/N says, carrying the movie out of the room.  She’s about to keep talking, but falls silent when she sees the candlelit dinner all set up. “What’s this for?”

“I just want to show my wife how much I love her,” he replies, pulling out a chair for her to sit in. He jokes around, acting like a waiter, “Chicken parmesan with steamed cauliflower and a buttered biscuit.  A nice merlot to go with it.  Is there anything else I can get for you milady?”

“I can’t-nevermind,” she says, remembering that she can drink alcohol again.  

Supper goes well and they watch the movie while the food settles.  At the end of the movie, Steve gets up and grabs something from their bags. “Here, put this on.”

She looks at what he handed her.  “My swimsuit. I mean, the lake isn’t frozen but it’s the middle of March.”

He laughs.  “We’re not going swimming in the lake.  Just trust me.”  Once they’re both dressed, he covers her eyes and leads her to the back door. He keeps her eyes covered as he opens the door and a blast of cold air hits them, causing her to gasp.   He uncovers her eyes and she gasps again, this time for a different reason.  

The back patio has lights strung up around the edges, creating an ethereal glow.  A hot tub is set up, steam rising as the heat from the water mixes with the cold winter air.  “Well let’s get in before we freeze to death.”

As they step into the hot water, Steve explains why he had SHIELD set up the hot tub.  I’ve noticed you rubbing your back a lot, I can tell it’s still sore from the procedure, which the expert says is normal.  I thought this might help loosen your muscles. And as much as I love taking baths with you, the tub here is way too small for that.”  Steve turns her around and begins to tie her hair up with the ponytail he grabbed from their room.  

“Well, we’re out here in the country, completely alone…no need for swimsuits,” she says, taking off her swimsuit and dropping it on the rim of the tub.  Steve grins and takes his off too.  They both know they can’t be together in that way, but there’s nothing wrong with enjoying their naked bodies pressed up against each other.

“I have one more surprise for you,” Steve says, pressing a button.  A small fire starts up next to the hot tub, set in a stone firepit the same height as the hot tub, filled with coals.  Then, he pulls the cover off a small table next to it, revealing marshmallows, chocolate, graham crackers, and small cooking sticks.  “I know you love s’mores; I thought this the perfect opportunity.”

Both of them cook s’mores as they reminisce on their relationship, each of them bringing up cherished memories in the conversation.  Their first date, the time Steve fell backwards into the pool while backing up to get a picture of Y/N and Nat at a pool party, his marriage proposal.  “This reminds me of the date where we hijacked that old pickup truck Tony has in the back of his garage and drove it out into the country where we couldn’t see the city lights anymore.  Then we laid out blankets and pillows in the truck bed and stargazed,” Y/N says.

Once  both of them had their fill of the sweet treat, Steve turns the flame off and covers the s’mores ingredients again.  He lifts his right arm and Y/N cuddles into his side.  They sit in silence for a while, enjoying the other’s company and the beauty of the winter landscape and the night sky, clouds rolling in to cover to stars.  

Steve lifts his cheek from Y/N’s hair, causing her to look up at him.  He leans down and kisses her softly.  He pushes his tongue forwards and opens her lips with it.  The taste of chocolate is prevalent on her tongue.  They get lost in each other until the howl of a wolf breaks them apart and draws their attention.  While they were kissing, it had started snowing, the soft snowflakes sticking to Y/N’s hair make her look like an angel.  

Y/N grabs her suit and sprints inside.  Steve covers the hot tub and grabs his suit, along with the s’mores supplies.  He shuts off the string lights and turns on the electric lanterns set along the patio railings to keep animals away from the cabin. He puts out the fire in the living room fireplace, the one in their bedroom is most likely still going, and makes sure the doors are locked and the alarm is set.  He walks into the room to see Y/N already in bed.  He puts on some boxer briefs and climbs into bed behind her. He curls up behind her, wrapping his arms around her as they watch the snow fall in earnest.

“I love you.  Never forget that,” she says.

“I love you too,” he replies. The pain they were feeling at the moment, it would pass.  They would get through this, together.  They both lost a daughter, it’s something they won’t face alone.  They will be ok.  Yes, everything will turn out ok.

[geethedentist]

The Sassenach Warrior

Catch up on the Chapter 1 here! 

Chapter 2: Not Alone Anymore

Three Months Earlier 

It’s odd how quickly one’s life can change, not that mine had gotten off to a swell start anyway. Happenstance and fate become intertwined to create what you never thought possible. For years I clung firmly to the belief that I was a walking attraction for rotten luck. It took a fair bit of time, but much later I realized I was wrong. 

I had been walking relentlessly for three days, feet throbbing with each step. The rolling, rocky hills now behind me, I had entered an expanse of forest. Sheer exhaustion necessitated an overnight rest in a large, green glade. I had all but collapsed onto the soft grass the previous day. There was a small pool of water, and it was warm and peaceful. But it was time to get moving. An uneasy twinge of fear lurked at the back of my mind. I packed up my tiny camp, glancing nervously over my shoulder like a skittish animal. It was eerily silent, which could only foretell yet another (possibly deadly) predicament. I still needed to put a bit of distance between myself and the last village, where I had almost received a thorough beating for continuously refusing to give up my horse to a ragged group of men calling themselves The Watch. 

They took my horse. 

After my especially hasty retreat out of England, and riding through nearly half of Scotland, I had heard there was a port in the Highland town of Inverness, where I could finally board a ship again. The minor issue of financing this voyage remained firmly in the back of my mind, for I had nothing. It was strange being this destitute, not knowing where the next meal was coming from or going days on end without human interaction. I supposed I should be accustomed to it by now, it even gave me an odd thrill at times. 

I was reluctant to go, to leave this momentary peace and venture back into the unknown once more. Here, nobody chastised me for wearing trousers or carrying a sword. Sometimes I believed myself a traitor to womankind. Other times I thought perhaps I was its savior. Too often I had been on the receiving end of outright anger. Others merely stared in shock, content to observe from a distance as if watching some sort of exotic show or attraction. Many laughed at me. Of course, my nature is not what one might deem “typical.” My breech of the status quo is offensive to many, but it only served to fuel my passion for fighting, adventure, and knowledge. I thought of Uncle Lamb, who had gifted me all three of these things, so woefully unattainable for countless others. He always knew dolls and lace never satisfied my spirit. He gave me my first bow and taught me how to use it. The only thing I had left of him was his ring, which I kept on a chain around my neck. It gave me comfort, having him close. 

A twig snapped. My reverie dissipated like a fog. I was on my feet in a second, ears strained, listening for more. My breath caught as voices materialized out of the trees. I became completely still, perhaps I’d be swallowed by the shadows, be granted invisibility. I saw a flash of red. 

Oh God. 

I snatched the bow off my back and made to run when I heard, “Oi I found one!”

I had remained frozen and indecisive for a beat too long. 

My heart was threatening to burst out of my chest. I felt my pulse everywhere at once. 

“Where's the rest of your lads huh?” the redcoat continued, having fully entered the clearing. He was a short man, with a thick neck and a pink face. His teeth were badly stained.  

His small beady eyes nearly popped out in surprise as he took in my pants, boots, and weapons. 

“You're a lady!” He sputtered. 

“Very good! Your eyesight appears to be functioning normally.” I shot back with a sneer. 

Another soldier had entered the glade. A bit taller than his companion, he seemed much more able to prevail in a fight or a chase. His face reminded me of a rabbit. “Lady or not, she and her company raided our stores!”

While it was completely within the realm of possibility for me to have done this, I stood there wide eyed shaking my head. Plainly, a bunch of hungry and fed up Highlanders had attempted to nip a bit of food and perhaps a cow or a horse from the English stationed in the small town I had avoided the previous day. 

“So you’re just out here all alone, right after we discover the Scots robbed our depository?” He said it in a tone that conveyed he obviously didn’t believe that this was as coincidental as it appeared. 

“Yes! Precisely!” A jolt of anger and desperation shot through me along with the reality that they were not going to believe me no matter what I said.

The rabbit faced man was advancing menacingly while his partner prepared his rifle. I didn't like the hungry, animalistic way their eyes traveled over me. Suddenly, rough hands grasped the front of my shirt and I felt rotten breath on my face. “Boy she’s a pretty one.” He breathed. 

“How dare you!” I could not bear to imagine how many others he could have done this to, and his feeling of contentment knowing they could do nothing to stop him.

And then, in my typical fashion, I proceeded to ruin any chance I had of a peaceful escape. Grasping his shoulders, I drove my knee up as hard as I could. The building adrenaline caused me to be shaky and clumsy, and I missed my mark. The man looked stunned as we glared at each other for a second. The next thing I registered was a fist colliding with the side of my head. I half dropped to the ground as I felt warm blood oozing down my cheek. Panic rising, I scrambled away on my knees, grabbing the bow off my back. 

“You little bitch!” He shouted. “Who do you think you are?” 

“Not your plaything!” Shaking from anger now rather than fear, I had made my decision. Arrow in place, I slowly pulled the string back. 

At that moment, the sound of running footsteps became apparent behind me. A small squeak of fear threatened to escape my throat. I was surrounded. My mind was frantically working out some fantastical lie to tell if they decided to take me and question me. A petite, innocent lady shouldn't and wouldn’t be pointing her lethal homemade arrows (lovingly sharpened to perfection) in a good Englishman's face. There is most definitely something amiss with that.

“Surely ye don't mean the lass any harm? She isna with us. She travels alone.” 

My shoulders slumped in relief at the unmistakable Scottish voice behind me. My accent had earned me mistrust from many of the Scots I had met since arriving here. But overall I found them to be very kind and hospitable people who placed a high emphasis on family. The man behind me was undoubtedly one of the raiders that I had been mistaken for. I was thankful he had done what my less than rational mind had conveniently chosen to leave out before I raised the bow. At least now the fact that I had never seen these men before was now out in the open. 

Behind, I heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn. He knew as well as I  that this had no chance of ending peacefully.

     “No harm at all.” The soldier said, a nasty smile creeping up his face. He stepped closer, rifle now raised. I stepped back. 

    “I dare you to try that again.”

“Now what would an English lady be doing out here in the mud with a bunch of filthy Scots, pretending to be a man?”

The man spoke from behind me again, “I tell ye she had no part in this. Let her be.” His voice was deep and soft, but not void of threat. I wanted to turn around to see who the voice belonged to, but I also didn’t want to turn my back on the redcoats.

“I am not pretending to be anything. What you see before you is simply a woman who happens to despise corsets. Dreadful things in my opinion. Trousers enable much more movement and freedom don’t you agree? I wouldn’t be able to do this!” 

I was only vaguely aware of my fingers releasing the string. Moments like these always seem to happen in slow motion. I heard a sharp inhalation from the Scot at my back.

The plump man screamed as the arrow pierced his boot. His gun fell to the ground. The other dropped his rifle in surprise. Fuck. I had only meant to shoot the ground near his feet to scare them a bit. Perhaps my aim was a bit too good. I was in big trouble now, and I could only dig myself a deeper grave from here on out.

I turned and ran . . . 

. . . right into a very large, very red-headed Scot. 

“Ooof!” The sound of the breath exiting my lungs all at once. 

 He was so solid. 

“Come on!” He said urgently. I staggered back, reeling from the impact as he caught me by the wrist and began towing me along with him. I allowed a glance back. It appeared that two more soldiers had reached their comrades, apparently unlucky in their search for the missing goods and the thieves responsible. One had stayed behind with the injured man, who was now writhing on the ground. It didn't take long for the other two to begin their pursuit, running to mount their horses. 

We were both sprinting now. The trees whipped past and my blood pounded in my ears. Suddenly he gave a high pitched whistle, and then I heard great hoofbeats from somewhere off to the right. A giant black stallion came trotting alongside us. We stopped and he quickly swung onto the horse and began to pull me up. 

“I can do it!” I said hotly, yanking my hand from his grasp.

  "Are ye sure about that lass?” He raised an eyebrow questioningly. But of course just to spite me, the horse proved too massive for my short stature. I saw that the side of his face had lifted in a smirk as I settled into the saddle behind him. Soon we were galloping through the forest, me haphazardly clutching this stranger's waist with my hair flying wildly in my face as the turbulence increased. His own shoulder length auburn curls flew out behind his head. I still hadn’t gotten a decent look at his face.

The horse jumped a large fallen tree trunk and I suddenly became airborne in the saddle. I blindly groped for a handhold and grabbed his kilt to anchor myself. He looked back in surprise; his ears tinged pink. I felt a flush up my neck as well, in spite of the wind whistling in my ears. I had been in Scotland long enough to know what a Scotsman wore under his kilts. I was about to mumble an apology when he jerked the horse sharply to the left and began to ride back the way we came, like a giant circle.

“And just where are we going?”

“Doubling back. They think we still ride ahead of them. We’re going to find the others and ride back into the Mackenzie lands.” he said in concentration, steering the horse away from more fallen trees.

“We?” I’d known him for a good five minutes. I had no idea who he was with, or what he thought he was going to do with me. He was speaking as though none of this mattered. The soldiers were now riding well ahead of us. They hadn't seen us turn. I thought I heard him sigh in relief. He slowed the horse to a walk and I relaxed my grip on his waist. My hands were clammy.

“I, um, thank you.” I told him, swinging my leg over the horse. Determined not to have any help with the dismount, I slid gracelessly off the horse’s back and almost pitched forward into the mud.

“No problem at all,” he too, had dismounted. I now saw that his eyes were the clearest blue, like the sky on the brightest of days. He had strong cheekbones and a prominent forehead, over which hung a mess of red curls. I then began to register the events of the past ten minutes.

“Allow me to clarify however,” I said indignantly, “that I don’t want you thinking that I was too scared to kill them. This arrow could have easily went straight through his eye had I told it to! And furthermore, I could have escaped without help. I am not some damsel in distress.” I crossed my arms.

I was babbling.

“I dinna doubt it, Sassenach.” He smiled. 

Sassenach. I’d heard that term before. But when he used it, it sounded different. It didn’t sound discriminatory or mistrustful, but endearing. 

Suddenly, I became aware of the absence of the comforting weight around my neck. My hand flew to the spot, finding only bare skin. Uncle Lamb’s ring was gone. It must have fallen off. I cursed quietly. 

“Will ye tell me your name?” 

“I - It's Claire.”

“Claire.” He smiled, as he said it in his odd Highland way. “I'm . . .”

“Jamie!” came a cry from someways off. “We thought we lost ye lad!”

Another kilted man was riding toward us. He was short, with a big brown beard. 

“My godfather, Murtagh.” Jamie murmured to me. 

Murtagh raised an eyebrow at the sight of me. He looked me up and down for several seconds. “Ye've found yerself a lady then?” He said finally. 

“I - she, redcoats . . .no!” Jamie stuttered, face flushing scarlet. 

I must have made a face for Murtagh laughed loudly and said, “she doesna seem too taken with ye does she?” 

I heard more riders approaching and decided the time had come to take my leave. “It was very nice to meet you both,” I attempted to mask the anxious tone in my voice. “But I had really better be going.” I began to back away slowly.

“And who might this English lass be? Following us were ye?” A new, accusatory voice asked. He was tall, as tall as Jamie. He didn’t have much hair on his head but made up for it with a dark brown beard streaked with gray. His emphasis on the word English did not go unnoticed. Annoyed, I exhaled loudly and ran a hand over my face. I should have run the second Jamie stopped the horse. But first I needed them to tell me the way to Inverness, and then I could put this whole little hiccup behind me.

With as much politeness as I could muster at this point, I tried to seem as innocent as possible. “Please sir, I was just trying to find my way to Inverness. Could you help me?” 

“Inverness. Is that where your consort is waiting?” 

So he wasn’t going to make this easy. I glanced helplessly at Jamie and Murtagh, as the last two riders of their company had ridden up behind them, watching with interest. “Uncle, Claire means no harm. She almost killed a redcoat!”

“Aye but what is she doing wandering these woods alone? She may be a pretty lass, but she’s also an English lass Jamie lad.” 

Jamie had gone red in the face once more as my last shred of patience disappeared. “What exactly do you mean to say?” 

“What I mean to say is that I canna be takin’ any chances letting ye go free should ye be an English spy!” His voice had risen considerably. 

“What I’m doing here is none of your business! Although I can assure you I have no interest whatsoever in your activities and I am most certainly not a spy!” 

“Rupert, Angus, have you ever seen a woman quite like this one?” He switched his gaze from me to the others. 

“That I have not.” One of the men answered. He was round but strong, with long light brown hair and a beard to match. “I suppose it’s wee bit suspicious.” 

I scoffed at him, and he shrugged. “Why should you be so nervous that I was a spy anyway?” I said, testing him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jamie bend to pick something off the ground and a gasp escaped my throat. It was my ring. 

My accuser stepped forward and snatched it from him. 

“Dougal!” Jamie tried to snatch it back. He looked at me apologetically. 

An insincere smile appeared on Dougal’s face. “’Tis evident this trinket is of great importance to our new guest. I think I shall hold on it for a while.”

“No please!” I begged. 

“It would be foolish of ye to attempt an escape lass,” he said. “At least now I am guaranteed ye wilna be leaving us. Show’s over lads, we’d best be on our way back to Leoch. The Sassenach will ride wi’ Jamie.” 

And that was that. 

I stuck my arm up in the air with a scowl. Jamie’s large warm hand wrapped around mine and hoisted me up onto the monstrous horse yet again. 

“I’m sorry about my uncle.” He said as we began to ride behind the others.

I didn’t answer him, but pressed my lips together and folded my arms like a child. We swayed back and forth with the horse’s movements. Ahead, numerous pairs of eyes that thought they were being discreet stole glances back at us. 

“He won’t keep me here you know.” 

“Ooch I think ye’ve made that much clear, Sassenach. Give him time and no cause for suspicion aye?” 

“He seems a very difficult man to budge.”

“That he is. Will ye be getting on to Inverness then? After ye leave.” It sounded as though he expected me to elaborate on this. 

“Yes.” I said shortly, hoping my tone relayed the fact that I was not about to volunteer any information about my plans or reasons. There was no one left on earth who I would trust. He seemed to get the message. 

“That’s a handsome sword,” he commented with admiration. “I’d wager it does well in combat.” 

That was the moment I took a liking to this Scot. His remark was made in reference to the weapon itself, rather than passing judgement on me for wielding it. 

After that, we talked pleasantly. We discussed his sword as well, an extremely heavy thing that was not quite as agile as mine, but ruthless in a fight. 

“Do you use it much?” I asked excitedly, hoping for a story. 

“Oh aye this hunk of metal saved my neck numerous times while I was fighting in France.” 

We passed the next hour or two in companionable conversation. We talked of his time in France, and he spoke of the clan culture which dominated the Highlands. I’d always found upon first meeting somebody new, I draw conclusions and pass judgement subconsciously. I had been prepared to lump Jamie together with Scots like his uncle and the other Mackenzies, as he told me they were called. However, he lacked much of the narrow-mindedness and superstition I had previously encountered, not limited to Scotland. He was educated, like I was.

As the sun dropped and the shadows lengthened, Dougal declared that Leoch must wait until tomorrow. 

I was rolling out my thin blanket away from the others when Dougal, seemingly more calm than before, spoke to me. 

“I know ye said ’tis none of our business, but that answer wilna be accepted by Himself. He’ll want to know what an English lady was doin’, roamin’ around so close to the Mackenzie lands.” 

A small jolt of dread. He was right. If I was going to be questioned by their chief I had better come up with some believable excuse. I would make up a story then, and pray I’d be able to look the laird dead in the eye when I told it. Restless sleep overtook me. 

[supernatural-book]

Philophobia

Title: Philophobia

A/N: And finally I release the fic that’s been sitting in the back of my mind forever, but I never had time to work on. I hope that after all the time you’ve waited it’s good enough.I’m sooooo glad I could finally get this out.

Summary: After the reader saves Dean and accomplishes her first djinn kill, the drive home in a celebratory mood, pushing aside the fact that Dean almost died. But later on, the dream the djinn gave him is still haunting Dean, and each of them shares more than they would’ve normally wanted to. Word Count: 3,010

He had never been good at feelings, and he knew it all too well. It was one of the many imperfections in his character. Whenever he sensed someone getting close to him- aside from Sam and eventually Cas- it was his natural instinct to push them away- no matter how churlish and tragic it was- before they got to close for their own good.

“In this lifestyle,” his father had told him “there’s no room for chick-flick moments.” he spat the words out like poison. And with those words, the old man had stunted his motherless son of ever having a true, caring anchor in his life. It would have been different. He had told himself night after night. If mom hadn’t died.

But then he met her. He couldn’t even begin to describe what she was like to him. A maternal figure, a sister, a hunting partner, and his best friend all rolled into one. One moment he would wake up to the aroma of apples, and she’d tell him with a flushed face that she had been baking a pie just for him, and the next she would be decapitating vampires by his side and laughing at his corny, less than appropriate jokes. Not really romantic, he knew. But still enough to make him feel something. Because even with his near tattered flannel shirt hanging loosely from her frame, splattered in blood and dusted with the dirt and grime that comes with this life, she was still more beautiful than he could ever begin to imagine. And as she dragged his drunk, sorry ass home from the bar, he felt his heart flutter in his chest, even with the alcohol in his system. She made him feel things he had never imagined he’d ever feel. And he knew it needed to stop before someone got hurt.

By this case, however, was already too late.

You both knew that you were biting off more than you could chew, working on this case, just the two of you. Sam had insisted on coming along, but you only scoffed, telling him he needed a break, and you were happy to get to see a new monster. Despite how long you’ve been working with them, you had never dealt with djinn before, though Sam and Dean had, and you were excited to get lessons from the elder Winchester brother. So you and Dean set out on your road trip, laughing and singing, trying to push back the fear of what could very possibly happen.

This morning, you had woken up before Dean, stolen one of his flannels, and knocked on the door to his motel room. He had opened the door, still groggy with sleep, and you handed him a cup of instant coffee you had made. He couldn’t stop the smile that lit up his face at your sweet gestures.

“I’d get you pie, too, but it’s not like this place has any.” You soon set off to the warehouse you suspected the djinn was hiding out, unaware of what was to come.

 Now, Dean sat, tied to an uncomfortable chair, hands tied behind his back as the djinn holding him captive walked slowly in circles around him. His nose was already dripping with a bit of blood due to the strike to his face that knocked him out for only long enough to give the djinn time to tie him down. Somewhere along the way, the two of you split up to try and find the monster, and he couldn’t help his mind wander to you, wondering if you were okay. Part of him was glad that he was the one here and you were most likely away from harm. But he also worried that, while tied up here, he couldn’t protect you from danger. God knows what he’d do if you got hurt on his watch. He flashed a smile at the female djinn, hiding his fear with charm. “So, what’s going on here? You gonna kill me or what?” The djinn only smirked, stopping her walk around him.

“Oh, deary, eventually. But first, let’s see what scares you the most.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those bastard offshoot versions of a djinn. You feed on fear, huh?” He forced out a laugh. “Go ahead. I’m not scared of you.” The djinn leaned down, a finger on Dean’s chin and eyes examining his face closely.

“Ha. It seems like your deepest desire and your worst nightmare are connected.” Dean was about to open his mouth with a snarky comment, but the djinn cut him off by slapping a piece of duct tape over his mouth. “You talk too much, ya know?” Dean grunted behind the tape. “Who’s this precious (Y/N) on your mind?” A malicious smile ripped across the djinn’s face as she saw the look of fear shatter his once confident face. Before he could cover up his worried face, the djinn’s poisonous touch washed over him, sending him into a dreamy state.

“Dean!” You laughed as he spun you around, pulled you into his body, and pressed your mouths together with a smile. You laughed against his lips. “I made pie.” You nodded towards the counter, presenting him a slice of the fresh apple pie- his favorite.

“Oh, baby. You’re the best.” The bunker was illuminated in a slightly gold light from an unseen source as Dean held your hips firmly against his own, backing you against the counter in the kitchen and diving into your lips again. “I love you.”

“Dean. Oh, Dee, baby. I love you too.” He smiled and dug into the pie, happily, watching your eyes light up, hoping for compliments.

“This is really freaking good.” You only smiled modestly, face flushed at his compliment.

“Thanks, I made it just for you.” His felt heart swell, more full than it had ever been before in his life. It felt as if he was about to burst. “Dean? What’s up?” He snapped back into focus, seeing your big, beautiful eyes watching him with worry.

“Nothing. Just… don’t ever leave me.” Dean smiled down at you, and you smiled back, relieved that nothing was wrong.

“I’d never think of it.” Before he could capture your lips in his own again, the scene twisted manically, and suddenly you were lying in the dark, a few feet in front of him, blood pooling around you as demons circled you, taking their turns torturing you. Their blades sliced at you delicate skin, leaving deep cuts that bled and bled without stopping, and they mocked Dean with their black eyes, grabbing you in ways only Dean should be able to. He tried to hurl himself at them, ready to fight but found himself unable to move. He was frozen- metaphorically and literally, and could only cry out for you.

“(Y/N)!”

“Dean… Help! Why can’t you help me?” The torture got even worse, your cries became raspier, louder, and more desperate as the wounds become more severe. Dean felt his throat close up, his eyes filling with the hot tears that he has held back for so long. Your arm bent back in an unnatural position, a sickening snap filling the dark room, shortly followed by cries of despair. Dean tried to call out, but his voice failed him once again. “It hurts! Why can’t you end it, Dean? Dean!”

“Dean?” Your voice was just under a whisper, as you looked around nervously.

You rounded the corner, gun gripped tight in your hand, ready for combat. You’d tried calling out for Dean, but he never responded, so there was only one explanation. He was captured. Wherever the djinn had taken him, you’d find him, you knew you would.

“Night, night, lover boy.” You snapped into attention, hearing a sickeningly sweet voice coming from a door ahead. That must be them. You crept forward, keeping as silent as possible and going over your plan in your head. If she was in here, you’d shoot at her to distract her from Dean, and then you’d get up close and stab her with the blood-dipped knife, killing her. You took one last breath and pushed open the door, taking aim at the woman- djinn- across the room, firing at her shoulder.

“Stay away from him!” She looked up, hardly phased by the bullet wound.

“Oh, you’re the little (Y/N) that Dean cares about so much, huh?” She circled you slowly, like a cat stalking its prey. Ignoring the glow in your heart at the thought that he cared about you, you lunged forward, taking the Djinn by surprise and grabbing her, lamb’s blood knife at her throat. “Oh, it doesn’t matter if you kill me now, I’ve already got him in a dream. And guess what. You’re the star.” You couldn’t stand listening to her any longer, plunging the knife into her throat and looking towards Dean.

“Dean.” He had a pained look on his face, suffering from whatever dream- or nightmare- the djinn had him trapped in. You rush to him, untying his wrists and shaking his shoulders, willing him to wake up from whatever fantasy world he was trapped in. “Dean, wake up!” You felt him trembling under your touch and continued to call out to him, unsure as to what to do. This was your first time dealing with anything djinn related. Dean had mentioned something about an antidote earlier, but he must’ve kept it on him. You dug through his pockets furiously, finally pulling out the one thing that could save him. You were quick to inject it to him, watching him intently for any signs of him waking up. His expression softened, and he stirred slightly, eyes fluttering open. “Dean…” You let out a breath of relief, dropping your head into his shoulder and wrapping your arms around him. He returned the hug slowly.

“(Y/N)...?” He sounded broken, scared, even. He took a moment to examine the room, a question in his eyes, before realizing what must have happened. He smiled at you, eyes red with tears. “Damn, you did good kiddo.” And just like that, his walls were back up, as if seconds ago he wasn’t near breaking down right in front of you. You wondered what could have been so bad that he was crying, but you didn’t want to pry, especially considering the circumstances.

“Damn it, Dean. You had me so fucking scared.”

“Well, it looks like you had it all under control on your own. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling particularly homesick right now. Let’s get out of here.” You smiled, helping him up.

“Please. But maybe we could stop for food? I’m starving.”

“Oh.” He chuckled, as if everything was suddenly perfect, draping an arm over your shoulder softly. “You read my mind.”

The night dragged on slowly after that. You had gotten back to the Impala and cleaned each other up, not wanting to walk into a 24-hour diner covered in blood and dirt before you settled in the passenger seat and your trip back home began. The first part of the drive was quiet, a nice quiet. You slept through most of it, finding the sunset and early dusk calming. By the time you woke up, the stars were out, and Dean was listening to classic rock on a low volume. Finally feeling energized for the first time since the hunt, you sat up, cursing your fucked up sleeping schedule.

“Woah, look who’s up!” Dean laughed from his side.

“How long was I out?”

“Only two hours. But I think it’s time for food, don’t you? Gotta celebrate your first djinn kill.” He smiled over at you, and you felt a burst of happiness through your body that he was proud of you. You had come so far since you first started hunting with them. “There’s a diner up here, wanna check it out?”

“Yeah, let's do that.” Half an hour passed, and you were finally clearing out of the neon-lit 24-hour diner after devouring some of the most unhealthy food you’d probably ever eaten, laughing hysterically at Dean’s cheesy jokes and funny stories. Stories about pranks he had pulled on poor Sammy had you snorting your drink. “Yeah, times were simpler then…” His sentence trailed off, but you didn’t want it to dampen the mood and cheered him up quickly. With your stomachs full and a celebratory mood filling the night air, you left the diner with a burst of energy and drove for a few minutes, blasting classic rock the whole way.

Your eyes fixated on his face, studying the features of his jaw, the day-old stubble and the cuts from the most recent hunt. You wanted nothing more than to curl into him and cry, try to forget the feeling in your gut when you thought you may have lost him. You were both far too young to die. And as you looked over at the man beside you, belting along to the music blaring out of the stereo, you felt the same giddy excitement as you had the moment you sat across from him in a booth at the 60’s era diner, cheekily sipping from his milkshake. You knew this feeling, and you knew you had to do something. “Hey, Dean-o. Pull over here, please?” He looked around, trying to figure out why you’d want to pull over here of all places. It was practically the middle of nowhere, just plain open land, the moon casting a soft glow over everything. Beautiful.

“Pull over? I thought you would be in a rush to get home.” Even as he questioned you, he agreed, pulling to a stop at the grassy side of the road. You cast a glance towards him, searching for the right words.

“I… I just wanna look at the stars.” ...and tell you something… Pushing the thought aside, you justified your claim.  “It’s not often I get to stargaze, ya know?” Dean laughed, opening his door.

“Stars? Aww. You’re a nerd, (Y/N).” You smiled and exited the car, walking around to lean against the front of the hood with Dean. “Hey, come ‘er.” He helped you to sit on the hood, and you couldn’t help but laugh giddily. It was as if your teenage fantasies were coming true with the man of your dreams.

“We’re gonna sit up here? Really? I didn’t expect you to let me do that. This is your baby, after all.” He smiled, scooting himself back and leaning back against the windshield.

“Well, you get special privileges, alright?” You leaned back with him, your heart pounding in your chest. “So this is what you find fun, huh? Looking at the stars?” You looked up. It was a perfectly clear night, crisp with autumn breezes, and the stars glistened far above your figures. In your head, you imagined them cheering you on. Come on (Y/N)! If not now, when? You might never get the chance.

“Actually, Dean. The stars aren’t why I wanted you to pull over.” Deciding it would just be easier to keep talking, you continued quickly. “Tonight, I thought I lost you. And I realized that I don’t want to lose you.” You took a moment to compose yourself. “I… I love you, Dean.” You didn’t expect a reaction, let alone an answer, and you weren’t waiting for one. But, after a moment of letting it sink in, he shocked you by sitting up and turning to look you in the eyes with urgency, uttering one small word.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“(Y/N), please. I care about you so, so, so much. You couldn’t even imagine it. But, for your safety...”

“Dean…”

“No, (Y/N), I care about you, I really, really do! Hell, I don’t think I ever cared about someone romantically as strongly as I do about you. But have you met me?” He laughed, such a bittersweet noise. “Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into? Have I ever had a good relationship? Do you know how long it takes me to open up to someone? Shit, (Y/N), I’m horrible. I’m scared of love, of all things.” He was breathing heavily by this point, obviously stressed out about just the thought of it. Not knowing what to do, you lay a hand on his knee in a consoling manner.

“Dean, I’m sorry. You don’t need to respond at all. I just needed to tell you. I wanted to tell you in case anything happens and you…” you couldn’t even bring yourself to finish your sentence.

“But I want to give you a response. You deserve one. I just need you to understand this. Do you know what happened in the dream the djinn had me in? We were together. God, it…” His voice cracked and the sound of it broke your heart. “It was great, (Y/N). We were so in love. But you got hurt. I let you get hurt. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.” He stopped his reflecting and looked back up at you, eyes filled with tears. All the emotional barriers were torn away, and you were seeing what he really felt. “So baby, I want to love you. But you need to help me break down the walls, okay?” You leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and letting his face rest between your shoulder and neck. You could tell he needed this. After a moment, you pulled back, and he promptly pressed his lips against yours softly. It was a short, sweet kiss, unlike anything you expected from him. You couldn’t help but giggle a bit, and Dean’s face lit up.

“Dean, I promise. I’ll help you, alright?” He smiled through his tears. You’d never seen the eldest Winchester so vulnerable, and you felt special that he would trust you enough to let his walls down. “I’m yours, Dean Winchester. And you, and all of your mess of emotions and fears are mine.”

   Taglist: 

All: @theredheadedwinchester , @solis200213, @music-lockscreen , @bella-ca  

Dean: @samanthaharper2018

[shan282-ao3]

The Devil Has Come Ch5

Originally posted on Archive of Our Own [x]

Chapters: 12/? Fandom: Far Cry 5 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/Jacob Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed Characters: Original Female Character(s), John Seed, Jacob Seed, Joseph Seed, Faith Seed, Staci Pratt, Nick Rye, Sharky Boshaw, Female Deputy | Judge (Far Cry), Original Male Character(s), Kim Rye, Boomer (Far Cry), Joey Hudson, Earl Whitehorse Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Torture, Fluff, Minor Character Death, Recreational Drug Use, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Character Death, Slow Burn Series: Part 1 of Bottom of The River

Summary: They should never have been there. Whitehorse and Pratt were right when they spoke against going to Eden’s Gate. They should have left The Project alone. They’d started something and there was no going back now. The lamb had broken the first seal and the deputy had been helpless to stop her.

Read below:

It had been nearly a week since she’d spoken to John on the radio. The channel that he had previously called her on remained silent when Sarah was tuned to it which was more and more now. She told herself she was just keeping it on that channel so she could get a heads up if John sent his goons after her.

Since leaving the Ryes’ and taking US Auto back for the Resistance, Sarah and Rook had been laying low. Sarah had collected Boomer from the packing facility and brought him back to her house where he’d proceeded to make himself at home on her couch. It was comforting to have him there, though he’d woken her up a few times so he could bark at squirrels.

She was curled up on the couch reading a trashy novel when her radio blared to life, causing Boomer to leap up from his spot next to her and start barking again. Sarah shushed the dog and looked at the radio in front of her, anxious to hear what it was about to relay.

“Deputy? This is Mary May over at the Spread Eagle.” Mary’s voice rang out and Sarah sat forward, her book discard and elbows resting on her knees. “We’ve got a bit of a problem. John Seed and his fucking Peggies are trying to take the town.”

Sarah swore and jumped up, she cranked the volume on her radio in case someone else called and ran into her room to change. While she was rushing to change into something more practical, she heard Dutch telling Rook to head to Falls End.

Changed, Sarah holstered her 1911 and slung her rifle across her back. “You stay here Boomer, I don’t want you getting hurt. I promise I’ll be back soon.” She gave the dog a few pats before heading out the door, locking it behind her.

As she climbed into her truck, she debated radioing Rook to let her know she was on her way, but she decided against it. If the Peggies had their radios tuned to the channel she didn’t want to alert them to her arrival.

The radio clicked on with the car, she had forgotten that she’d left it on Peggie radio. Oh John carried through the speakers and Sarah couldn’t help but smile. The song was actually really pretty. She caught herself singing along in no time and didn’t really care, it was catchy dammit.

“I’m gonna strafe these sinners.” A voice echoed through the radio of a fallen cultist nearby. Sarah looked to the sky in time to see the plane start to fire and dove for cover. Bullets peppers the spot she’d just been standing and she took a shaking breath.

She’d shown up to a mostly calm situation, the Peggies had already won the battle and taken over the town. Her plan had been to stay low and do this stealthily, then a few had spotted her when she was trying to get into the church and that plan got thrown out the window.

Rook had shown up just in time and, with the added firepower, they’d managed to free most of the people of the town and take out the majority of the Peggies on the ground. That’s when two panes had shown up and everything went to shit again.

Mary May was screaming at Rook about a mounted gun somewhere but Rook was focused on keeping the ground reinforcements at bay. Sarah could get to it, she just had to time it right. She looked to the sky again to figure out where the planes were and about how long she had till they fired again.

The one plane that had just fired was circling back to fire again, however the other simply circled the town menacingly. It was black, unlike the other white was a bright white, similar to all of the other Project vehicles. Its color and height above them reminded Sarah of a circling crow.

The white plane fired again, as soon as the bullet were past her spot Sarah shot from cover and ran towards the general store. She kept looking back towards the black plane as she hastily climbed the ladder. On the roof, she spotted the mounted gun almost immediately and rushed to it.

She lined up the shot with the white plane and held the trigger down. They exchanged fire until enough of her bullets had hit the engine and the plane exploded, the force causing Sarah to jump back and press herself against the ground. Pieces of the plane rained down on the streets below, the smell of burning fuel filled the air, and the flaming carcass of the plane crashed down near the water tower.

The black plane circled once more before turning and leaving, Sarah took it as her cue to climb back down and rejoin everyone else. By the time she was back on the ground, Mary May, Rook, and Pastor Jerome had already disappeared into the Spread Eagle. Sarah stepped in just in time to hear the tail end of their conversation.

Jerome nodded at her as he passed on his way back to the church, Sarah returned it and leaned against the wall, watching Rook and Mary May share a beer. She felt a little ignored, neither had even acknowledged her presence, in Rook’s case she had her back to her but Mary May could see Sarah standing there clear as day.

“Rook?” Sarah finally said, causing her friend to look in her direction.

“Partner!” Rook cheered and grabbed Sarah, pulling her down onto a stool. “Good job taking down that plane. Thought it was gonna kill us all.” Sarah smiled at the woman and shrugged at the praise.

“It was nothing, you would’ve done the same.”

“Well yeah, obviously, but I didn’t you did. Mary May can I get another beer and…” She turned to Sarah with a prompting look.

“Oh um I guess a vodka tonic.” A minute of waiting and the drinks were served. Sarah smiled at her drinking companion as they cheered before taking a long drink from her glass. She breathed a happy sigh and the warm feeling the licked her throat as the drink went down, she hadn’t had a proper drink since before all this shit started and God she’d missed it.

More patrons filed into the bar and as day turned to night Sarah and Rook found themselves moving to a small table outside, their drinks moving with them. Sarah nursed her eighth vodka tonic of the night, sipping it idly through a tiny straw she’d stolen from beside Mary May’s coffee pot.

“You got a first name?” Sarah broke the silence, she kicked her feet up on the table, leaning the chair back precariously.

“Yeah?” Rook responded with a small grin, quirking her eyebrow.

Sarah waited for her to give it before letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Well… what is it?”

“Tessa, Tessa Rook.” Rook, or rather Tessa, responded, Sarah would have to get used to the first name.

Sarah broke into a goofy grin. “Wait your last name is Rook?” A nod of affirmation sent Sarah into a fit of giggling. “So you’re Tessa Rook the rookie? On God, that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

Her hysterics infectious as soon Tessa had joined in the laughter, only to start laughing even harder when Sarah, in all her idiocy, leaned back and topped her chair. She paused in shock before meeting Tessa’s eyes and laughing just as hard.

“Jesus fuck I love that.” Sarah wiped a few tears from her eyes, still laying on the floor. Mary May’s face swirled into view to tell them they were cut off and Sarah only grinned stupidly at the woman and waved her away. Someone pulled her up off the ground and handed her back the jacket she’d left inside, John’s jacket, the keys jangled in it.

“G’night Rookie. See ya tomorrow.” Her words slurred together and she waved at the other woman before shoving her hands in the pockets of her jacket and starting her trek back to her truck. It was slow going, she was swaying an awful lot, not to mention it was dark as shit out so she was tripping over her own feet.

With a lot of fumbling, tumbled toes, and swearing, Sarah finally found the truck and pulled the keys out to unlock the door. The key scrapped against the door, missing the lock on the hand completely and dropped from Sarah’s hand. “Fuck me.” She swore, dropping to the ground to find them, kicking them farther away in the process.

After maybe two minutes she gave up, she was a quitter by nature and slumped against the side of the car. Her radio dug into her side, an idea popped into her head and in her drunken stupor, it seemed absolutely genius.

It was still turned to the old frequency she’d shared with Tessa before John had hijacked it, he hadn’t talked to her on it in a while but maybe he still had the frequency tuned.

She clicked the button to talk and waited a second before actually saying anything, “John?” She waited, nothing. “Come on John I know you’re there. Johnny? Johnnycakes? Answer me.” She was practically whining.

“What?” John finally answered and he sounded irritated beyond all hell. “Do you have any idea what time it is, deputy?”

“No.” She deadpanned before bursting into another fit of giggles. “You know you say deputy weird.”

“What do you want Sarah.” His tone was getting more irritated by the second and Sarah couldn’t help the amused tone that slipped into her’s.

“Whatcha doing?” No answer. “Torturing lost souls? Marking sinners? Hey, what’d my sin be?”

“What are you talking about?”

“When you called me the first time, to tell me you were gonna free me from sin, you said you knew my sins. Well, what are they?”

“Wrath. Pride. Sloth if the past week is being taken into account. No one has seen you in days have you even left your house?” There was playful accusation in his voice

“Hmm, okay I guess those are valid. Guess I pictured myself as more of a Lust girl but Pride is fine too.” She shrugged, her slur was worse than it had been earlier as exhaustion started to take over.

“You’re drunk,” John replied, realization finally dawning on him.

Sarah clicked the button to talk again and laughed. “No shit honey.”

“I’m sending someone to get you.” She could practically hear him pinching his nose in irritation. He was probably shouting at some exhausted guard, Sarah couldn’t help but at the image. “Where the hell are you?”

“Outside Falls End, but I have a car. When I find the keys I can drive home don’t worry.”

“You’re not driving home,” He snapped, “Just wait there, someone is coming for you. Just wait, please.” His last words were softer, his voice carried the same gentleness as it had at the baptism and Sarah sighed at it. “Sarah? Sarah are you still—”

“I’ll wait, John,” She cut him off, “I’ll wait.” The few lights in town were shutting off one by one until all the was left was the Spread Eagle sign. Sarah’s head lolled back, hitting the truck softly with a quiet clunk, and she smiled up at the stars, waiting.

The crunch of dirt under tires announced her escort’s arrival long before the truck stopped in front of her. She looked up at the driver as they, he, stepped out, and she grinned at him. “John sent his favorite lapdog. Hi Tommy.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and stooped down to help Sarah up. “Hello, deputy.” He didn’t seem pleased to be out here, Sarah didn’t really care.

“It’s Sarah, pretty sure we’re gonna see lots more of each other.” Thomas held her gaze for a second before sighing and shaking his head. He led her to the car, helping her into the passenger’s seat and strapping her in. “Can you take me home?”

“I’m taking you to John.”

“No.” She sounded like an angry child, on the verge of stopping her foot in protest. “Home. If you take me to the ranch I’m just gonna break Johnny’s nose and run away again.”

“It’s not up for debate, missy. Now sit back and fall asleep or something, just stop bitching.” He was definitely not pleased to be here, John probably woke him up. Sarah glared at the man for a second before finally shrugging and turning in her chair so her head was against the window. She tried to pull her legs onto the chair, but they were too damned long and she gave up after a minute of struggling.

The Hope County choir played quietly through the speakers and the beginning of “We Will Rise Again” lulled her to sleep as they neared the ranch.

Sunlight pouring in through the uncovered window woke Sarah up with a pained groan. She practically hissed at the light and rolled over, covering her head with her pillow. She was vaguely aware that it wasn’t her pillow, her bed, or her room, but she honestly didn’t give a shit right now.

She cracked open groggy blues eyes and noticed the glass of water and bottle of pain killers on the bedside, bless whoever had left them because fuck was she feeling last night. She downed a couple pills and chugged the glass before laying back in the bed and taking some steadying breaths.

Sarah finally pushed back the blankets and climbed out of bed, albeit incredibly slowly. She was grateful to see that she was still dressed in her clothes from last night, minus her boots and stolen jacket. There were clothes sitting on top of the dresser in the room and Sarah looked at them curiously for a moment before her attention moved to the bathroom.

She stripped off her clothing, biting back a small curse as she jostled some injuries from yesterday’s gunfight. She turned on the shower and stepped in, finally breathing a sigh of relief when the hot water rushed over her. An audible groan escaped her lips as she washed, the water at her house never got nearly this hot, it was like she was in heaven.

When she’d finished up and toweled herself dry, she dressed in the clothing that had been left for her: jeans that actually fit relatively well and a dark blue button up that was obviously a man’s. She rolled the sleeves up and left a few of the top buttons undone. It clearly didn’t fit still, so she tucked the rest into her jeans. Her boots were next to the door and she pulled them on, someone had scrubbed all the dirt off of them, weird.

Sarah stepped out the door and stopped when she saw Thomas standing across from it. “Morning.” He greeted, he sounded exhausted and Sarah felt a touch of pity for the poor man. He’d probably been out there for hours.

“Good morning, Thomas.” She returned the greeting and followed him as he led the way out the front door instead of the back like he had last time. They stepped out onto a covered patio and Sarah took a brief moment to breathe in the cool morning air before continuing behind her guide.

Thomas stopped in front of a table and gestured for Sarah to take a seat. She looked around curiously before sliding into a chair, tapping her fingers on the wood to stave off the awkward silence that had formed. A copy of the Book of Joseph sat on the table and Sarah traced the gold embellishments on the cover until a forced cough caught her attention.

Sarah looked up to see John and held his gaze as he sat down across from her. He handed her one of the two mugs he’d been carrying and sat back as a cultist who’d followed him set down to plates of various breakfast foods.

“Do you want cream or sugar for that?” He gestured to the mug and Sarah simply nodded, stunned by the domesticity of the whole situation. The Peggie scurried away before returning with a small cup of cream and a little bowl of sugar. Sarah tore her eyes away from John to smile in thanks before fixing her coffee to the way she liked it.

After another few minutes of silence, John just watching her as he sipped his coffee and she nibbled at a piece of buttered toast, she finally broke. “Thanks for not letting me drive, probably woulda killed myself.” She let out a hollow laugh, this whole situation was so weird and she honestly had no clue was to expect.

“You’re welcome. I can’t have you dying for you can reach atonement.” Sarah tensed at that but John quickly waved his hand away. “I didn’t bring you here for that, this time. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit during the night so I had Thomas bring you here.” He nodded to the other man before allowing him to leave.

“Ah, lovely, what a wonderful image for breakfast.” Sarah laughed a little and dared to let her guard down as she finally dug into the meal. “So is this going to become a thing? You send one of your guys to bring me here and we eat a meal together.”

“It could be.” John shrugged, faking nonchalance, but the look on his face betrayed him as a hopeful look flashed across him.

Sarah hid a smile behind her mug and finished it off, pushing her plate away. She leaned back, looking around at her surroundings.

“What’s your angle here John?”

“No angle. I just want to help you.”

“But why? I’m not the one who was prophesied, I’m not Joseph’s harbinger of the apocalypse. So why are you so invested in my safety and intent on freeing me from my sins?” There wasn’t a hint of mockery in her voice, she was genuinely curious.

John paused, his fingers lacing together as his brow creased in thought. The movement drew Sarah’s attention and she admired the tattoos that she could see decorating his hand. “I see my own sins in you,” He finally said, his blue eyes darting from her to the Book of Joseph on the table and then back. “I want to help you be free of them. They’re a burden I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

Sarah was shocked by the honesty in his voice and leaned across the table, to do what she wasn’t sure. Her hand hovered over his in hesitation for a moment, her eyes locked with the Herald before she pulled it back and stood from the chair. John followed her up with a look of apprehension.

“You said last time that you’d show me your plane hangar. Lead the way.” She was grateful that he didn’t try to continue their conversation but instead grinned in excitement and started off towards the hangar.

He held the door open for her to walk through and followed close behind her. Inside sat a sleek looking black plane, white Project logos decorating the wings and tail. John immediately launched into a detailed description of the type of plane and why he’d chosen it. As he went on and on, his voice getting more excited as he pointed out little things about the plane Sarah caught herself smiling. She couldn’t help but find it adorable. He reminded her of Nick the first time she asked him to teach her to fly and he’d spent nearly two hours fawning over Carmina before even teaching her the controls. If things were different she was sure John and Nick would be the best of friends.

Things weren’t different though, and the Peggie armed to the teeth in the corner served as a reminder of that. His eyes never left her as she followed John around the plane, his finger resting on the trigger. He made it very clear that one wrong move and she’d find herself dead on the floor.

John must have talked himself out because he finally finished his excited rant and lead her back outside, stopping by the steps to the front of the ranch. He seemed to be warring with himself over something, the crease in his brow was back. Finally, he snapped a finger and a nervous looking women scurried up, quiet words were exchanged and after a few angry looks cast Sarah’s way by the woman, she produced a set of keys from her pocket.

John took the keys and waved her away then turned to Sarah. “I told you I wasn’t going to take you for confession today.” He held the keys out to her, watching to see what she’d do. Sarah gave him a curious look and took them from her, weighing them in her hand for a minute. “There’s a truck down the road, you’re free to leave when you want.” He turned around and started to walk away, pointedly not looking back as if he didn’t want to see what she was going to do.

“Why?” Sarah called after her, still frozen to the ground. Why the fuck would he give her an escape? This had to be some sort of trap.

He turned and looked after her with soft eyes. “After our last encounter, I now understand that this is something I cannot force on you. When you’re ready to atone you’ll come to me.”

Sarah looked between the keys in her hand and John, still unsure. “I— thank you.” She took a few steps in the direction of the car before pivoting and striding to stand in front of him. “John,” He paused again and met her eyes. “I mean it, thanks. For this, for last night, for everything.” She gestured to her clean clothes and in the direction the breakfast they’d shared.

John smiled and without thinking Sarah touched his arm as she returned it. He looked down in slight shock before looking back up, his own hand coming up to wrap around the back of her head and pull her forehead against his. “I hope to see you again soon Sarah.” He pulled away, the smile not leaving his face, and walked back into the house. Sarah watched until the door had closed before she set off towards the car, ignoring the glares of every cultist standing outside.

She climbed into the car and drove towards the Ryes’, Rook had been sleeping on their couch for the past week and hopefully, she would still be there. It was well past time Sarah told her about John’s new interest in her.

[moodboardinthecloud]

I don’t want to be the strong female lead

By Brit Marling

Ms. Marling is a filmmaker.

Feb. 7, 2020

I moved to Los Angeles to become an actress at 24. These are character descriptions of roles I have read for: “thin, attractive, Dave’s wife”; “robot girl, a remarkable feat of engineering”; “her breasts are large and she’s wearing a red sweater.”

I stuffed my bra for that last one. I still did not get the part.

After a while it was hard to tell what was the greater source of my depression: that I could not book a part in a horror film where I had three lines and died on Page 4, or that I was even auditioning to play these roles at all. After dozens of auditions and zero callbacks, my mom suggested I get breast implants. From her perspective, I had walked away from a coveted job at Goldman Sachs and chosen a profession of self-commodification. She wanted to help me sell better.

But I wasn’t drawn to acting because I wanted to be desired. I was drawn to acting because I felt it would allow me to become the whole, embodied person I remembered being in childhood — one that could imagine freely, listen deeply and feel wholeheartedly.

I continued to audition and continued to fail. My depression deepened. My self-esteem plummeted. My boyfriend would get drunk and punch holes in the wall next to my head. I let him. He spat in my face. I let him. He dissolved into tears in my arms. I let him. And then I sifted through the ashes of his anger and his father’s anger before him to help him uncover the forgiveness he needed to move on. I was auditioning to be “Dave’s wife.” I was “robot girl, a remarkable feat of engineering.”

After a day of running from men with chain saws in audition rooms and a night of running from the man I shared a bed with, I decided I was done auditioning. I felt I had to write my way out of these roles or I wouldn’t find my way in the real world, either. I could not be what I could not see onscreen.

So I went to the library in downtown Los Angeles and started reading books and watching films about how to write dramas for the screen. I clung to Jodie Foster in Jonathan Demme’s “Silence of the Lambs,” to Holly Hunter in Jane Campion’s “The Piano.”

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But aside from a handful of exceptions, I was overwhelmed by the number of dramatic narratives that murdered their female characters.

In “The Big Heat” she has a pot of boiling coffee thrown in her face and is then shot in the back. In “Chinatown” the bullet tears through her brain and out her eye. And in case this seems like a trend of the past, consider the more recent noir “Blade Runner 2049,” where the holographic femme fatale is deleted and the remaining women are stabbed, drowned and gutted like a fish.

Even the spirited Antigone, the brave Joan of Arc and the unfettered Thelma and Louise meet tragic ends in large part because they are spirited, brave and unfettered. They can defy kings, refuse beauty and defend themselves against violence. But it’s challenging for a writer to imagine a world in which such free women can exist without brutal consequences.

We live in a world that is a direct reflection of these stories we’ve been telling. Close to four women a day are murdered in America at the hands of their partners or former partners. One out of every four women in America has been the victim of a rape.

I am one of those one out of four. Our narratives tell us that women are objects and objects are disposable, so we are always objectified and often disposed of.

There are centuries of trial and error inside the “hero’s journey,” in which a young man is called to adventure, challenged by trials, faces a climactic battle and emerges victorious, changed and a hero. And while there are narrative patterns for the adventures of girls — “Alice in Wonderland,” “The Wizard of Oz” — those are few and far between, and for adult women, even less so.

Even when I found myself writing stories about women rebelling against the patriarchy, it still felt like what I largely ended up describing was the confines of patriarchy. The more fettered I felt inside the real world, the more I turned toward science fiction, speculative fiction and lo-fi fantasy.

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I eventually co-wrote, produced and starred in two microbudget films, “Another Earth” and “Sound of My Voice.” Both stories left reality just far enough behind to give me the mental freedom to imagine female characters behaving in ways not often seen onscreen.

I emerged from the Sundance Film Festival with offers to act in projects I would never have been allowed to read for a week prior. Most of those roles were still girlfriend, mistress, mother. But there was a new character on offer to me as well, one that survived the story.

Enter, stage right: the Strong Female Lead.

She’s an assassin, a spy, a soldier, a superhero, a C.E.O. She can make a wound compress out of a maxi pad while on the lam. She’s got MacGyver’s resourcefulness but looks better in a tank top.

Acting the part of the Strong Female Lead changed both who I was and what I thought I was capable of. Training to do my own stunt work made me feel formidable and respected on set. Playing scenes where I was the boss firing men tasted like empowerment. And it will always feel better to be holding the gun in the scene than to be pleading for your life at the other end of the barrel.

It would be hard to deny that there is nutrition to be drawn from any narrative that gives women agency and voice in a world where they are most often without both. But the more I acted the Strong Female Lead, the more I became aware of the narrow specificity of the characters’ strengths — physical prowess, linear ambition, focused rationality. Masculine modalities of power.

I thought back to the films I watched and stories I read burrowed deep in the stacks of the library. I began to see something deeper and more insidious behind all those images of dead and dying women.

When we kill women in our stories, we aren’t just annihilating female gendered bodies. We are annihilating the feminine as a force wherever it resides — in women, in men, of the natural world. Because what we really mean when we say we want strong female leads is: “Give me a man but in the body of a woman I still want to see naked.”

It’s difficult for us to imagine femininity itself — empathy, vulnerability, listening — as strong. When I look at the world our stories have helped us envision and then erect, these are the very qualities that have been vanquished in favor of an overwrought masculinity.

I’ve played the Strong Female Lead in real life, too — as an analyst at an investment bank before coming to Hollywood. I wore suits, drank Scotch neat and talked about the women and the men I was sleeping with like commodities on an open market. I buried my feminine intelligence alive in order to survive. I excelled at my linear task of making more money from a lot of money regardless of the long-term consequences for others and the environment.

The lone female V.P. on my floor and my mentor at the time gave me the following advice when she left to partner at a hedge fund: Once a week, open the door to your office when they finally give you one, and place a phone call where you shout a string of expletives in a threatening voice.

She added that there doesn’t actually need to be someone on the other end of the line.

I don’t believe the feminine is sublime and the masculine is horrifying. I believe both are valuable, essential, powerful. But we have maligned one, venerated the other, and fallen into exaggerated performances of both that cause harm to all. How do we restore balance? Or how do we evolve beyond the limitations that binaries like feminine/masculine present in the first place?

In 2014 I went back to the library and encountered Octavia Butler’s “Parable of the Sower,” a sci-fi novel written in 1993 imagining a 2020 where society has largely collapsed from climate change and growing wealth inequality. Butler’s heroine, the 17 year-old Lauren, has “hyperempathy” — she feels, quite literally, other people’s pain. This feminine gift and curse uniquely prepares her to survive the violent attack on her community in Los Angeles and successfully encourage a small tribe north to begin again from seeds she has saved from her family’s garden.

Butler felt to me like a lighthouse blinking from an island of understanding way out at sea. I had no idea how to get there, but I knew she had found something life saving. She had found a form of resistance.

Butler and other writers like Ursula Le Guin, Toni Morrison and Margaret Atwood did not employ speculative fiction to colonize other planets, enslave new life-forms, or extract alien minerals for capital gains only to have them taken at gunpoint by A.I. robots. These women used the tenets of genre to reveal the injustices of the present and imagine our evolution.

With these ideas in mind, Zal Batmanglij and I wrote and created “The OA,” a Netflix series about Prairie, a blind girl who is kidnapped and returns seven years later to the community she grew up in with her sight restored. She opens up to a group of lost teenage boys in her neighborhood, telling them about her captivity and the inter-dimensional travel she discovered to survive it. It turns out these boys need to hear Prairie’s story as much as she needs to tell it. For the boys face their own kind of captivity: growing up inside the increasingly toxic obligations of American manhood.

As time has passed, I’ve come to understand what deep influence shaping a narrative has. Stories inspire our actions. They frame for us existences that are and are not possible, delineate tracks we can or cannot travel. They choose who we can find empathy for and who we cannot. What we have fellow feeling for, we protect. What we objectify and commodify, we eventually destroy.

I don’t want to be the dead girl, or Dave’s wife. But I don’t want to be a strong female lead either, if my power is defined largely by violence and domination, conquest and colonization.

Sometimes I get a feeling of what she could be like. A truly free woman. But when I try to fit her into the hero’s journey she recedes from the picture like a mirage. She says to me: Brit, the hero’s journey is centuries of narrative precedent written by men to mythologize men. Its pattern is inciting incident, rising tension, explosive climax and denouement. What does that remind you of?

And I say, a male orgasm.

And she says: Correct. I love the arc of male pleasure. But how could you bring me into being if I must satisfy the choreography of his desire only?

And I say: Good on you. But then how do I bring you into being?

Then I hear only silence.

But even in the silence I dream of answers. I imagine new structures and mythologies born from the choreography of female bodies, non-gendered bodies, bodies of color, disabled bodies. I imagine excavating my own desires, wants and needs, which I have buried so deeply to meet the desires, wants and needs of men around me that I’m not yet sure how my own desire would power the protagonist of a narrative.

These are not yet solutions. But they are places to dig.

Excavating, teaching and celebrating the feminine through stories is, inside our climate emergency, a matter of human survival. The moment we start imagining a new world and sharing it with one another through story is the moment that new world may actually come.

Brit Marling (@britmarling) is the co-creator and star of “The OA.”

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/02/07/opinion/sunday/brit-marling-women-movies.html?fbclid=IwAR3DSJ3Q6shZQwE8jGHxNhuU5skF62SAcfJzXap0j_XPFdZHK4JKYa5n02E