#anyway i just thought it was fun how unsettlingly empty it was because of the disconnection

[mbat]

empty

[heartsofminds]

Blood Stained Guilt

Description: The one where Shawn’s a serial killer. 

Warning: Contains blood, violence, mentions of murder, and some sexual situations. 

A/N: This piece of writing is not meant to glorify serial killers or anything pertaining to violent or manipulative people. Please read at your own digression. Enjoy 9.4k of serial killer Shawn. 

i.

He swears to God the first time is an accident. He had no bad intentions. There was no bloodlust or plan or even genuine interest in doing what he did.

This semester in university is truly kicking his ass, and he’s under so much pressure. He feels hopeless. He imagines that the backflow of metaphorical water is constantly running from his nose to his lungs; making it hard to breathe or to think or to even exist.

He’s constantly at war with himself; fighting to stay awake and fighting to figure his life out before graduation in June.

He’s always been mild mannered. He doesn’t like drawing attention to himself and he especially doesn’t like being mean. Shawn is the kind of guy to apologize for existing if he felt someone was bothered by his quiddity.

He thinks too much. He feels too much. But he doesn’t speak up for himself enough.

His newfound confidence streak started in a bar, with too much alcohol rushing through his veins. Some dick (a really drunk guy, but Shawn’s too enraged to care) purposely spilled his beer on Shawn’s jacket and he doesn’t know what made his subconscious flip.

He catches the guy defenseless in the alley behind the shitty building honing pretty girls and drunk men. Shawn can taste the lime slice from his tequila shot in his mouth still, and he focuses on the flavor as he punches and kicks and berates the poor, helpless, nonetheless drunk man.

He’s never been good at knowing just exactly how far is too far, and he ignores the splitting pain in his knuckles and legs. His brain sends him signals to stop himself; to keep himself out of trouble and from bad karma, but he can’t. His arms move to their own avail and his feet follow suit.

He wishes he cared enough to make himself stop, but he can’t. He can’t be damned enough to give a fuck. He can’t be damned enough to think about what he’s doing or how the outcome will prevail.

When Shawn’s exhausted and his body gives the sensation of three thousand pounds of concrete holding him down, he looks at the damage he had done.

The man doesn’t move. He doesn’t groan or gasp for air. He lies motionless on the ground with his body twisted in a more than unnatural way. His blonde hair has magenta streaks from what Shawn can only piece together as blood and his face is so swollen he can’t tell the difference between the man’s mouth and his nose. The teenage boy sees a pinkish gray substance on the pavement and crouches closer to investigate.

He knows what he’s seeing is brain matter when he sees the intricate ridges, and he knows he fucked up bad when he turns the man over to see a gaping gash on his head with his skull busted and showing.

Shawn beat the poor bastard’s brains out - literally.

He wants to puke and he can’t tell if it’s from his guilt or the alcohol he consumed that night. He figures he can’t leave evidence behind and cups his hand over his mouth. He runs through the alleyway back to his car and pukes on the pleather seats.

When he pours rubbing alcohol over the clothes he was wearing and sets fire to them in his bathtub, he puts together the events of the night.

He puts his hand in the flames of the pile of burning clothes he’s created, and when he doesn’t feel anything, he wonders how horrible he truly is.

Shawn killed a man tonight, and he doesn’t even feel bad.

ii.

The second time, he’s convinced that it was just a coincidence.

He tried walking instead of driving or taking the bus to "preserve energy" or some kind of bullshit his ecology professor was always talking about, and to be totally truthful, he thinks that he would’ve been better off driving instead. At least then he wouldn’t feel so shitty about the night afterwards.  

He curses himself for taking a shortcut instead of using the crosswalks downtown like he was su-fucking-pposed to. Yet here he is, in the middle of a fucking park at 11 PM with the Toronto wind making him freeze to death.

He contemplates calling an Uber, even pulling his phone out of his back pocket and opening the app, but the sound of high heels tapping the cobblestone covered ground catch his attention.

Shawn whips his head up to take a peek.

Her boobs and ass are glorious, he thinks, even if they’re both potentially fake and she would actually be pretty to him if it wasn’t for the poor circumstances she worked under. She looks unsettlingly familiar, and it shakes Shawn’s bones to the core.

"Hey, babe. Lookin’ for a good time?” she asks him from where she’s standing.

Shawn starts to walk faster, speeding up so he doesn’t feel obligated to reply.

"C’mon, pretty boy. Loosen up. Have some fun with me,” she says with more thirst in her tone.

She gets closer and he wishes she would leave him the fuck alone. He starts to walk faster and takes a shortcut through the empty park.

He thinks he lost her, but he’s proven wrong when he hears her heels click on the cobblestone sidewalks. He knows that he’s not gonna get rid of her ass or boobs or obnoxiously tall heels anytime soon.

Shawn stops in his tracks. He doesn’t have time to deny her. He doesn’t care to, anyway.

She’s only offering a good time and he figures getting his dick sucked wouldn’t be so horrible. He hasn’t gotten much of anything lately, and he’s tired of his friend’s pushing him towards any every girl that shows a sliver of interest in him.

He smirks and shrugs while moving to stand in front of her. Even with six inch heels, Shawn towers over the blonde girl. He notes that she doesn’t look a day over nineteen years old.

His fingers lightly stroke her collarbones. “Don’t tempt me, baby.”

She bites her lip, red lipstick making her lips stand out and the blue of her eyes cloudy. “I mean it,” she whispers.

Shawn pulls her in for a sloppy kiss; one with no emotion or thinking behind it. It’s all an angry flash of tongue and lips and teeth. He bites down on her bottom lip as he tries to pull away from her. The action causes her lips to bleed a little, and Shawn kisses her again; tongue licking up the blood he drew.

She giggles and moves with him towards the park bench. No one in their right mind would be out at this time, and the dark night sky that surrounds them makes them look like shadows. If it wasn’t for the soft glow of the park street lights, Shawn’s sure he wouldn’t be able to tell what color dress she had on.

The blonde drops to her knees, unbuckling his belt and hungrily pulling his boxers down with his jeans. Shawn’s as hard as a fucking rock and in the back of his mind, he feels like a creep.

He tries to ignore the wet kisses she gives to his thighs and his lower stomach. He prides himself on being able to block things out as they happen.

His fingers start to twitch. His leg starts to bounce up and down and the girl giggles against his leg.

“Don’t be nervous. I’ll take good care of you.”

She puts him in her mouth and Shawn grips her hair to keep his active mind and nerves in check. She’s quite good at what she’s doing, and he can’t deny that he is feeling some sort of satisfaction from it.

He thinks about the last time he was close to even kissing anyone and he’s taken back to his first year in college. He’s disappointed in himself for how long its been.

She chokes on him and the gurgled sound she makes has Shawn’s head spinning in circles. His vision goes blurry and he starts to sweat. His hands shake uncontrollably and he hears what sounds like half a million voices talking at once. He can’t decipher what any of them are saying and his head starts to pound.

He’s about to bust in the blonde’s mouth, but something in him snaps.

He pulls her plump lips off of his cock and she smile weakly; mouth messy and hair tangled from her previous actions.  

“Aww, we were getting to my favorite part, “ she whines, voice filled with flirtation. She opens her mouth again, trying to find the phallus object filling it before he interrupted.

Shawn yanks her hair and she’s pulled away from his lap. She giggles again and her laugh runs circles in his eardrums, echoing louder than a crowd at a Coldplay concert.

His fingers run across the back of her neck, thumbs gently massaging it.

“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t,” he mumbles to himself.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and Shawn’s mind flips.

His vision goes black. His brain screams frenzied thoughts at him. His lips are bitten so hard he thinks that he might rip them off his own damn face with his teeth.

Shawn’s large hands wrap around the unaware blonde’s neck and his fingers meet in the middle to squeeze. He feels the striated marks of her windpipe through her skin. He can feel it crack as he pushes down as hard as he can.

The blonde gasps for air and puts her small, manicured hand on top of his; fighting for control and for her life. It only motivates Shawn to press harder.

Her eyes start to turn red and he only lets go briefly because the image shocks him.

"Shawn, it’s me,” she says with such rasp anyone would think she was a man.

Shawn ignores her and keeps pressing down. Her pulse starts to weaken and he feels the groove where her windpipe and esophagus are intertwined. It isn’t until she slides down onto the cobblestones when Shawn realizes who exactly he killed.

He had killed Madeline Krebs; the girl down the block his mom used to babysit. No wonder she knew his name.

As Shawn drags her body to the creek a mile away from the park and throws her in, he vaguely remembers drawing competitions hosted by his mother in their kitchen as they waited for Maddie’s parents. He remembers playing house with her as the mom and him as the dad. His little sister was always the extra asset like the baby or the dog.

He was only a few years older than her, and it’s crazy how they crossed paths again in their adult lives.

Shawn figures it’s even crazier to think that he’s the cause of her demise.

When he finally arrives to his apartment, he puts his keys on his coffee table; a place where he’s sure he will never forget them.

He determines he shouldn’t walk anymore.

iii.

The fifth time, Shawn knows he has a problem.

It’s uncommon for people to black out like he does. It’s not normal for people to have permanently purple knuckles and a shadow of guilt lurking behind them at all times. It’s not pragmatic to think that he won’t get caught soon and he knows that he’s running out of time.  

Time is a bizarre concept, he thinks, because he can’t remember what his life was like before he started having these “accidents” and “coincidences”.

He traces it back to his childhood and blames it on his peculiar fascination with death.

He always wondered what his funeral would be like. He always watched in awe during crime documentaries and was especially useful in Scholastic Bowl for naming off famous crime lords and serial killers. He knows every word of every Forensic Files episode by heart and it’s so fucking strange.

He doesn’t really know what makes him snap the way he does. He would love to have some reason, some explanation for why he’s so fucked up and some excuse to point the finger at something else, but he can’t.

It makes him sick just thinking about it.

He doesn’t see people anymore. He doesn’t see a husband or a wife or a son or a daughter. He doesn’t care that the people he kills are friends and nieces and nephews.

He doesn’t give a fuck and sometimes, Shawn really does try to feel bad.

He constantly fiddles with his phone, debating on whether or not to turn himself in.

He knows that it would be one easy call. He knows that he’d have a quick trial and rot in a jail cell or get beaten to death by some violent inmates, but he decides that it’s what he deserves. He’s a fucking monster, and he knows it.

He’s a disappointment, he thinks. How would his parents feel if they knew how fucked their son was?

What would his little sister tell her friends when they came over and saw pictures of him on the wall? What would his other relatives think when his family shows up at family reunions without him? What would his friends say when their group diminishes by one person?

“Shawn? Do you want hot chocolate?” his mother asks, and it brings him out of his internalized battle with himself.

He shakes his head to dislodge the ideas of motives and killing and blame out of his brain before he answers.

"Uhh, yeah. Sure. Thanks,” he says and shifts his weight around in his seat.

He fiddles with his hands and bounces his leg as he hears the sound of a ceramic mug scrape the cabinet it was pulled from. He grows more and more anxious as his father turns the pages of the newspaper he was reading.

Shawn knows one of the articles is about him. His crimes have been on the news and he’s almost been discovered.

“The fucking bastard killed another one? Jesus Christ,” his dad comments, putting the paper down and rubbing his temples. “That poor family.”

His mother shakes her head, putting the mug in front of her son and moving to put her hands on her husband’s shoulders.

It’s ironic, he thinks, how the “fucking bastard” the city of Toronto hates so much is right in front of them, and they don’t even know it.

He likes to think that it’s funny, but the prickly feeling of culpability eats away at his heart and it sets flames to all his other organs and when it hits his skin, he’s in absolute shambles. Sometimes he gets so hot he feels as if he’s right outside of hell’s door.  

Shawn’s parents converse about the weather and their plans for the weekend. They don’t notice as their son starts to fall apart. His resolve is uneasy. His heart starts racing and his knuckles start rapping on the table. His leg bounces up and down so fast, that anyone looking at him would think he had drank an entire case of Red Bull.

He lets out a cough and he wheezes. It feels like a ton of bricks are on his chest and his throat starts to close. It reminds him of the time he ate a walnut in second grade and found out he was allergic.

“Shawn, baby? Are you alright?” his mom asks with a face full of concern.

She walks around the kitchen table and takes his hands in hers. They shake so violently it looks as if he’s attempting to wave. Shawn’s face heats up in panic and he feels like he doesn’t have control of his body.

"Hey, hey! Breathe. Deep breath in, deep breath out. C’mon. You can do it,” his mother says in an attempt to calm him, but he truly can’t redirect his breathing at all.

He’s so freaked out, that he doesn’t realize that he’s in an ambulance until he feels the prick of an IV needle on the top of his hand. The puncture site feels tight as his veins are flooded with chlordiazepoxide.

He’s able to breathe again and the words of, "stress induced anxiety attack" describe the horrific chain of events that had just taken place.

Shawn can’t hear anything anyone is saying to him. He can see their mouths moving, but no sound comes out to accompany his eardrums.

He sits in the emergency room with his sweat soaked t-shirt. He can see the bottom of scrubs and tennis shoes from underneath the thin curtain. He decides that it’s a weak attempt at closing him off to the hustle and bustle of the ER.

The mint green curtain slides back to reveal a tall man wearing royal blue scrubs and a stark white lab coat.

“Hello, Mr. Mendes. I’m Doctor Ameren. I introduced myself earlier, but I don’t think you remember meeting me”, the burly middle aged man with a lab coat speaks. He has a graying beard and some crows feet near his eyes. His appearance makes Shawn calm in a weird way.

He figures it’s because he looks like his Uncle James.

“Hi,” Shawn chokes out, vocal chords tight and dry due to his panic.

The doctor lets out a slight chuckle. “Scared your folks a whole bunch. They told the nurse you’ve never had any problems with anxiety before today, so I’m gonna order an EKG to monitor your heart and make sure your anxiety was just anxiety,” he takes a pause to write some things down, “And some blood work to be absolutely positive.”

Shawn gulps, his head shaking in term with the words exiting the older man’s mouth.

Dr. Ameren leaves the makeshift room and closes the curtains behind him. Nurses flood the room soon after and some interns help with his EKG and blood work.

He doesn’t say much during the whole thing, just sits and stares absently at the tiles in the floor. His knuckles ball themselves up in an attempt to hide the cuts and bruises. His biggest fear right now is getting outed and he figures it’s the last thing he needs after having a panic attack to that magnitude.

His mother and father sit with him as they wait for his test results. She goes on and on about his panic attack and is insistent that it had something to do with his heart.

She starts to blame her side of the family for having bad heart health until she’s interrupted by Dr. Ameren making his way back into the area with lab results in hand.

“Alrighty, Mendes. Looks like you’re okay. It’s just- Hey!” he stops as he looks to Shawn’s father. “Manny? Is that you?” he asks, coming closer to pat the elder Mendes man on the back.

“Ian? You’re a doctor now?” his father questions, returning the action and giving an amused laugh.

Shawn and his mother lock eyes.

“What the hell just happened?” Shawn says and his mom swats at his arm to reprimand him for his use of language. If only she knew what else her son does that needs a punishment.

Dr. Ameren rushes over to shake her hand. “Oh, you must be Karen! Manny talked about you when we were in college. Said you went to a different school so that’s why I didn’t believe he had a lady. I’m Ian, by the way.”

Manny laughs. “Yeah, she’s real. She’s amazing, too. Gave me two beautiful kids although I’d say they definitely get their good qualities from their mother.”

The two men laugh and go on and on and on about things they’ve missed during lost time.

Shawn’s dad tells about his business that he’s started from the ground up with his uncle and his extended family living in Portugal. Dr. Ameren tells him of the international work clinic he partakes in every year and how he goes to see the New York Yankees every year and that Manny should , “Hit me up if you ever want to go! New York is amazing and baseball is phenomenal even if it isn’t your thing.”

Shawn gets lost in the minutia of it all. He feels as if he’s floating outside of his body; unaware of everything occurring directly to him, but aware of his surroundings. His sense of hearing comes back in full swing and although his mind is eons away, he can hear every word his parents and Dr. Ameren say to each other.

He can hear the squeak of gurneys and the sound of the metal hooks attached to the curtains scraping the rod holding onto them. He can hear the scribble of pens on prescription pads and the beep of pagers. He hears the click of some woman’s heels and he’s taken back to that god awful night in the park.

He starts to fall into panic again, but he regulates his breathing better this time. Shawn’s able to maneuver himself out of his thoughts and settles for scratching the scabs on his knuckles. Blood starts to drip onto the light wash denim of his jeans.

“Shawn’s in school to be a doctor! Isn’t that amazing?” his mother says and he jumps at the sudden mention of his name.

Dr. Ameren turns to look at the brunette boy. “Oh really? That’s amazing, kid! You have the demeanor for it.”

Shawn gives his mom the stink eye. She knows how he hates when she brags on him.

“Yeah. I’m gonna be graduating in June and I’ll be headed to med school in the fall,” he replies. He figures if the attention is on him, he might as well make himself seem like the poster child of parent bred success.

The fakeness of the persona he puts on starts to burn holes through his consciousness.

"Ah, you seem like a smart boy. The medical world will be lucky to have you.”

Shawn gives a tight lipped smile. Dr. Ameren scribbles down instructions on a doctor’s note and rips it out of the pad of paper.

“Here’s my address, phone number, and email if you have any questions. Feel free to stop by anytime. Any family of Manny’s is family of mine.”

Ian Ameren gives off such a radiant smile, Shawn doesn’t know how or if anyone could ever dislike him.  

His parents chat with the dark haired doctor some more about meeting for dinner soon and taking a trip to New York some time in the summer. He hears Dr. Ameren suggest seeing a therapist to sort out his feelings and to prevent anxiety attacks like this one, but Shawn doesn’t take him seriously. He just politely smiles and pretends to acknowledge the help that’s being offered.

He sits up as Dr. Ameren signs his discharge papers. The man shakes his hand and clasps his father’s shoulder one last time before giving his mother a friendly side hug. Shawn slides off the examination table and makes a beeline for the hospital exit.

Upon closing the door to the backseat of his father’s door shut, Shawn’s mom turns around with concern etched on her face. He’s too exhausted to face the thousand questions roaming around in her mind.

Before she can speak, he gives her the simple, "I’m fine. It’s just stress."

His mother opens her mouth to bombard him with more thoughts and concerns, but his father holds up his hand to hault her voice from ever projecting.

She settles for an, "Okay. Let’s get you home," and rolls her eyes at her husband's dominance.

His father puts the car and reverse to back out of his parking space before putting it in drive; blurs of snow covered streets and chimney smoke making Shawn’s eyes hurt from the view.  

He leans his head against the glass and closes his eyes. Something in his stomach twists and slithers up a horrible idea to his brain that ultimately decides for him that this is what he was born to do.

So that’s how Shawn finds himself in his Jeep across the street from Doctor Ameren’s house that same night. It’s fucking freezing, he thinks, and he almost feels guilty for having this impulse.

Shawn knows that Ian Ameren has no family. He knows that he has no partner or pets from the two and a half hours he’s spent parked outside of the man’s house.

Shawn feels his conscience picking him apart for wanting to rid this man of his heartbeat.

"You’re so fucking pathetic. You can’t control yourself at all,” his brain says to his heart, but his heart’s primal desire to kill and demolish and destroy remains prominent in his plan for the night.

"Fuck this," he speaks to himself and punches his steering wheel as hard as he can. Punching things has become a habit of his in the past couple of months. It gets him into more trouble than what he likes to admit.

He unlocks his doors and makes his way up to the house. The snow crunches underneath his boots and while he should feel sick to his stomach for what he is about to do, all Shawn can think about is how much he fucking hates the sound of crunchy snow.

He rings the doorbell and nervously pushes his hands in his coat pockets after he does so. Shawn rocks on his heels in anticipation. Seriously, why was he doing this and why was he decently okay with it? Doctor Ameren approaches the door in his night clothes, Shawn presumes, and his eyes twinkle with joy seeing the young boy on his doorstep.

“Ah, Shawn Mendes! I wasn’t expecting you at all. Come in before you freeze, kiddo!” he says, and moves out of the way, allowing Shawn entrance into his home.

He nods his head timidly before entering and closing the front door behind him.

Shawn drinks in his surroundings and wonders if this is what all doctors’ houses look like.

Everything is spick and span. It doesn’t look like anyone resides here, let alone even steps foot inside. All the furniture is sleek and looks as if it had come straight out of an IKEA store display. Books cover almost every surface and there are multiple diplomas on the wall closest to the TV in the living room.

The older man takes a seat on the couch and directs his hand towards a matching chair directly across from where he’s sitting.

"Sit,” he instructs and Shawn complies.

Shawn looks down to avoid eye contact. While doing so, he takes notice of the stack of books on the coffee table.

Gray’s Anatomy, Practical Management of Pain, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks - the guy was a total medicine junkie.

Shawn’s there for three hours, eighteen minutes, and thirty seven seconds before his legs start to shake and his lungs start to give out. It’s another panic attack, and this time, he knows that it’ll end in blood and chaos.

Dr. Ameren continues to talk about his days as a college athlete. He tells him about playing soccer with his father and how they were the dream team on the field. Shawn pulls at his shirt collar. He runs his hands up and down his thighs and his palms are so sweaty that the blue fibers of his jeans stick to them.

“Even though I had good ball control, they moved me from forward to winger because your dad had so much speed and goddamn. That man could fly. He scored seven goals in the championship game one year,” he pauses to take a sip of the kombucha in his hand.

Shawn starts to hyperventilate. Dr. Ameren puts his drink down on the coffee table.

“Whoa, kid. Are you okay? Can you breathe?”

He shakes his head in a negative manner and falls to his knees on the floor.

“Hey, buddy. Take it easy!” the older man encourages, but the words do nothing but make Shawn’s face even hotter and his knuckles clench tighter.

"No, no, no," Shawn mumbles to himself to numb his urge to kill this man.

Ian Ameren is a good guy, really. He donates twenty percent of his yearly earnings to medical associations overseas, he FaceTimes his mother regularly, and he always makes sure to bring back his nieces and nephews cool memorabilia from the places he visits.

Shawn doesn’t want to kill him, but the carnal desire of his nature is to eliminate him. It’s simply a challenge through bloodshed.

It’s too deep within himself to resist.

The doctor assists him up to his feet and helps him sit down on his couch. When he goes to his kitchen to get a glass of water for the young boy, he doesn’t realize that this will be the last thing he ever does.

The last thing Ian Ameren will ever do is help someone which is ironic, because helping people is his job.

“God, fuck! I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” Shawn says and Dr. Ameren raises his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

His eyes widen at the site of Shawn’s fist and the look in his eyes portray the fear of the unknown of his fate. Shawn’s not sure what happens but the man is on the floor and bleeding.

Shawn picks up the baseball bat that leans against the wall with a New York Yankees poster on it. Blood splatters everywhere in a plethora of reds and pinks and deep purples. Shawn can’t focus and he has to sit down to take a breath. The bat hangs in his left hand and the drops of blood dripping their way to the floor look horrific.

The fifth time turns into the sixth, and Shawn has another cold body to add to his memories.  

He scrubs his hands so raw that he can’t tell if the blood on them is his or Ian Ameren’s.

iv.

By his thirteenth “accident”, the police are close to busting him.

Shawn can’t take the heat and he certainly can’t face the music. Even though there’s tons of mystery behind his identity, there’s no fucking exhilaration behind getting called ‘The Letal Liquidator’. His friends joke about how accurately Shawn fits the description of the killer.

He figures he has no choice and he’d rather die than be caught. He would hate all the publicity and the hatred. He certainly deserves it, but he doesn’t necessarily want it.  

Shawn broke the lease on his apartment and went off the grid. He’s disconnected his phone and burned all his credit cards. He’s transferred his money to numerous banks across the country and even changed the license plates on his Jeep.

Shawn can’t handle the pressure. It’s a chore, he thinks, to walk around his own fucking country covered up with his head down low to keep anyone from recognizing him. He needs to get away, and he simply doesn’t know how.

He’s careful about leaving behind evidence. He burns all his clothes and always purchases new ones afterwards. He always wears shoes a size too big whenever he goes out because he watched a CSI: Miami episode where they busted a guy because of his footprints, so he’s careful to never make that mistake.

He doesn’t spit or scratch or have sex with any of his victims. He doesn’t leave fingerprints behind and he always covers his face and his license plates late at night when he knows his mind gets a little fuzzy. He’s become accustomed to always being five steps ahead.

Shawn even keeps a gun in his glove compartment in case things ever go too far South but they never do and sometimes, he’s tempted to put it to even better use.

On those days, he drives to a special cliff and parks his car to look out over the forest and he thinks how great it is to find beauty in something other than cold corpses.

Sometimes the thought crosses his mind of just being done. It would just be so easy and he genuinely and quite honestly believes that the world would be better off that way.

The women of Toronto wouldn’t shake when they walk home during the night; fearful of a predator lurking in the shadows.

Parents would let their teenagers out past city curfew and not get nervous when one of their texts goes unanswered for more than thirty minutes.

Police officers wouldn’t have to hold their breath every time the radio came on and news reporters’ stomachs wouldn’t drop so easily at the thought of being in the same place as someone’s body; right where their soul up and left.

Shawn thinks dying is easy.

He determined that as a fact a long time ago. Dying is giving up, and it’s just so fucking easy to do.

It’s so easy to stop screaming. It’s so easy to stop running. It’s so easy to stop begging for your life because you know it’s over. It’s easy to die because you know that it’s the end and sometimes he thinks that killing is what makes dying so beautiful.

He likes feeling like he’s in control. He likes feeling like the master chess player toying with people’s lives. He likes to think that he can twist the knife because whatever he does, he’s in control. He gets to choose, and that’s what Shawn likes about killing.

He smiles as he grabs the small pistol from his glove compartment and puts the barrel in his mouth. His fingers softly tap the trigger.

Part of him hopes that it’ll be enough to make it go off and that it’ll be a close to instantaneous death. He’s determined a long time ago that instantaneous isn’t really instant, but it’s a hell of a lot better than drawn out agony.

The gun doesn’t go off from his feather light taps and he’s halfway disappointed and halfway relieved at the same time.

He isn’t done living yet.

Tears roll down his face because he feels like such a fucking coward. Here he is, all high and mighty, murdering people left and right, without a care in the world, while he can’t even fucking bite the bullet for himself.

"You bitch. You bitch. You bitch!" His brain is on fire.

He punches his steering wheel and the horn sounds. It startles him and takes the attention of his sore knuckles away from his mind.

He’s so fucking sad and angry and inhuman that he doesn’t give a single fuck about what happens. He stopped caring months ago. Shawn considers going out in public and getting caught.

He considers tipping off the police to his whereabouts, but the little voice in the back of his head isn’t ready for this game to be over. Shawn’s ready for it to be over, so he takes his passport with him and drives to Seattle from Toronto.

He pays for a month in a motel with cash and goes job hunting. Shawn is absolutely done, but his brain still flirts with the idea of resuming what he had left incomplete.

v.

Shawn’s been good. He’s been doing great. The seasons change. His hair grows a little longer and he stops picking at his torn up knuckles. Shallow scars replace the scabs that once lived on the junction between his nimble fingers and his palms.

He had finally told his parents where he was; even made up some bullshit lie about dropping out and how he didn’t want to disappoint them. He cringed when he heard his mother cry over the phone, but he assured her by saying he was taking classes at a community college.

She sounded a little relieved, but he doesn’t mention the fact that he’s a barista at a coffee shop or that he was on the run from the Toronto Police Department.

Shawn’s been good, though. He hasn’t had any more slip ups; hasn’t had any more accidents. He thinks it means that he’s finally learned self control.

At least, he knows thinking is worse than knowing and he knows he can’t control his neurotic brain and fiery instincts when he sees her.

She comes in every Tuesday and Friday, dressed in sweaters and boots and always carrying her laptop with her. She’s polite, always saying her “please” and “thank you’s” as if she’ll combust if she doesn’t. The girl orders a medium caramel latte without a straw because she’s “Trying to save the environment, of course. Climate change and waste are gonna take us out soon.”

Shawn tries to fight it. He tries to think of other things while she’s talking but he can never veer his brain towards happy, shallow thoughts.

She orders her drink and as he types it into the register, he thinks about the dark red of her blood on his pale hands. When she says “thank you” he thinks about the perfectly circular alveoli her lungs would have when they’re filleted open. As she sits in a booth and puts her headphones on to work on her papers, Shawn tries to imagine how white and strong her bones probably are.

Months go by and he gets closer to her. He learns that her favorite color is yellow and that she attends the University of Washington. He learns that her major is in chemical engineering. He learns that her favorite artists are John Mayer and Ed Sheeran and that COIN is her favorite band. He knows that she lives alone in a studio apartment on the second floor five minutes away from her school.

Shawn learns a lot about this girl, and the warm, gentle part of his heart feels horrible for even thinking about making her his fourteenth body.

He wanders to the hardware shop on a day when he doesn’t have to work. His legs take him to the alise that has the padlocks and rope and he constantly multiplies and adds numbers together in his head to get the lowest cost. He can’t use his debit card because then he’ll get traced, so he settles for things he can buy easily with cash.

The older man ringing him up eyes him up and down, drinking in his appearance to see if he should be worried about the young man’s purchases.

“What are ya? A serial killer?” the man jokes, putting the items into a plastic bag.

Shawn’s spit catches in his throat and he has to swallow insanely hard to keep from choking. He suspects choking at the man’s suggestion would make him seem more suspicious than what he already is.

“No, sir,” he dumbly gasps. “Just helping my dad move some stuff this weekend. Nothing crazy going on ‘round here. I promise.”

The man cracks a smile, gray mustache and beard making him less daunting. “You have a good day. Better not see your face on the news, son.”

He hands Shawn the bag and the younger boy smiles before thanking him. He runs out to his Jeep and starts it up as his thoughts eat away at his resolve.

He has no choice. He has to do it now.

Shawn can only vaguely remember seeing the cabin a few times as a kid, but he’s been told that he has an amazing memory so he somehow knows exactly where it’s located. He had spent a few of his summers as a young boy here with his parents and his friends and their parents. Washington was cool to them because it wasn’t in Canada, and any kind of travel outside of the country was super exciting back then.

It doesn’t take a whole lot to impress eight year olds.

Once they became preteens, they were too cool for trips with their moms and dads, so the tradition died and Shawn hadn’t been back ever since.

He puts his car in park outside one of the cabins. The wood is green from Washington’s heavy rainfall and years of neglect from being abandoned. The windows are boarded up and the parking lot that used to exist is covered in what seems like three tons of leaves. Ivy grows up the side of the door and the patio creaks with every step Shawn takes to reach the entrance.

As he opens the door, it creaks and wails. He would get oil to silence it if he actually cared enough.

There’s no cell reception and no cell phone towers. There’s no houses inhabited by people for miles and the road the campsite is on leads to a dead end.

It’s the perfect place for Shawn to plan his next kill, but where’s the fun in no spontaneity?

His brain sifts through the catalogue of easy targets. He sees tens of hundreds of faces and hair colors and tattoos and piercings. He wants to throw up when his brain stops on one in specific. His mind circles her in a red marker and highlights it in a million different colors.

“No, no, no. Absolutely not,” he speaks out loud, hoping his thoughts will diminish with his refusal.

He has an internal argument with himself and it’s something that hasn’t happened in close to a year.

His stomach turns. He feels hot and cold at the same time. His head spins and before he knows it, vomit conjures in his mouth and flows out onto a pile of leaves until he’s dry heaving and can barely breathe.

His mind won’t let him concentrate on anything else. He drives to his motel room and takes a shower, scrubbing at his skin in hopes of rubbing off the dirty thoughts he posses. All it leaves him with is pink water flowing down the drain and raw skin that stings every time he moves.

His wounds starts to scab and they crack and bleed whenever he makes a sudden movement. Shawn likes to think it’s punishment for doing what he’s done and thinking the way he does.

Sometimes he thinks of it as a game to make himself feel better.

So when he finds himself outside of her apartment building at 2 AM, he thinks of it in the most simple way.  He thinks of it as hide and seek or cat and mouse and the innocence behind her eyes when she spots him breaks his heart.

“Shawn? Is something wrong? Are you okay?” she asks, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

She’s clad in some plaid pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Shawn doesn’t answer. He forces her inside and tells her to put some shoes on.

“What the fuck, dude? It’s the middle of the night and I have a 9 AM tomorrow,” she stops to yawn, “Go home.”

He puts the pocket knife he has with him to her throat.

“Put some fucking shoes on and don’t make a sound,” he instructs, voice a different kind of deep that terrifies her.

She’s grown up on TV shows like Forensic Files and Law & Order and Criminal Minds. She’s been one of the viewers that screamed at the television when the soon to be victim stood helpless. She always called them dumb and stupid and idiotic, but now that it’s her - now that she’s the one standing in her living room with a knife to her throat and a seemingly nice boy behind it - she’s at a loss of movement.

She can feel her heartbeat pick up and travel from her chest to her stomach. Her eyes feel as if they’re going to bulge out of her skull. Her mouth is dry and her joints are locked.

She figures that this is how she’s going to die. This is who she’s going to spend her last hours with and this is who’s to blame for her slaying.

In this moment, Shawn realizes that he’s the predator and she’s the prey. She can’t run away. She can’t escape. She can’t call for help. She’s a sitting duck waiting for her demise.

He’s surprised she does what he says. He’s even more surprised at how complacent she is and how fucking easy it was to lure her in.

He keeps the knife to her throat as they walk down the stairs to the parking lot. He pushes her into his Jeep and blindfolds her. As he steps on the gas to get to the cabin, he realizes that he’s created his own personal hell.

At least now he’ll have some company.

vi.

He’s kept her there for a week so far.

Every morning when she wakes up, her brain hopes for a change of scenery. It hopes that she’s waking from a terrible dream and it hopes that she wakes up in her own bed or in the bed of someone else, but not here. Certainly not in the dusty room with no windows or doors.

It’s so dark in the room, she’s not even sure if her body’s sleeping schedule is on track. She could be falling asleep at any time during the day and she wouldn’t even know. She can never hear the sound of cicadas or birds or even people, and she’s thankful that she can’t.

She knows she would drive herself fucking crazy if she could. She’s tied up on the floor with rope digging into her wrists and ankles. She can’t walk around. She can’t scream for help. She can’t even scratch her fucking face.

She’s never hated anyone before, but she hates Shawn. She hates how he slithered in. She hates how clever and cunning and deranged he is. He had been getting information on her for months and she didn’t even know it. Most of all, she hates how he had taken her away; absolutely shredding the metaphorical paper of everything she is and was.

She knows that she will never be the same.

Shawn hasn’t done much of anything since she’s been his captive. He only speaks in short sentences. He comes in the room twice a day and the door he comes in is barricaded and locked.

She couldn’t even escape if she tried.

He stares at her a lot, she noticed. His eyes look at her with a million different thoughts and when they do, she thinks about her grandmother. Her grandmother had told her that people whose eyes dart around and zero in on things are often very intelligent, and her grandma wasn’t wrong at all.

She figures Shawn is intelligent because he had created this whole scheme. He had taken her here. He had locked her up. He had distanced himself so she would be easier to kill. She knows Shawn’s intelligent but she also knows that intelligence has nothing to do with a person’s heart. Judging by the way his hands shake and his leg bounces up and down; judging by the way he never looks her in the eyes or touches her, she knows that his heart is long gone.

It’s almost calculated and cold; like he had done it many times before.

She’s always been a smart girl, he noticed. She’s compliant and doesn’t fuss. She hadn’t tried to run away because she knows that she won’t get far. She’s far from clueless, and that’s what he hates about her.

While he hasn’t spoken to her in a conversing manner, she hasn’t spoken to him at all and her eyes look deep into his empty soul; questioning him without actually talking and it makes him die a little more inside.

He wonders how many heartbreaking looks he can take before his heart shatters completely.

She knows that this wasn’t always him; that he wasn’t always like this. Before he had taken her and before the hatred started to set in, she would have considered them friends. They had spent nine months getting to know each other. She knows that he’s from Toronto. She knows that he had dreams of being a doctor, but dropped out because he couldn’t afford the tuition anymore. She knows that he played soccer for his college and she knows that he loves John Mayer.

Shawn is not what he seems at all, and she wonders how true any of the things he told her were. Certainly, they weren’t because kidnappers aren’t relatable people. They aren’t kind hearted and they don’t have souls as deep as the ocean.

He wasn’t always a kidnapper (or murderer, she’s pretty sure he’s killed some people, too) and she wasn’t always a victim.

But it’s too late to get heartfelt and emotional. It’s too late to have sympathy for him.

Despite all those things, she thinks he’s strange and evil and down right horrible; no matter how good of a person he was before this.

She often has vivid dreams of her killing him or him killing her. She figures either or wouldn’t be bad considering she would get to escape this hellhole.

During the day when she’s haunted by the ideas of captivity and isolation, she distracts herself by wondering if her succulents are still alive.

She knows she won’t be for long.

vii.

He says a compound sentence for the first time in three weeks and his voice cracks. If it were concrete, he’s sure a car would have hit it and the driver would have screamed some obscenity to themselves.

But it isn’t a car. It isn’t a crack in the sidewalk. It isn’t his imagination. This is real life. This is reality.

He clears his throat and her absent eyes look at him. “I’ve killed thirteen people,” he says.

She furrows her eyebrows. “Am I supposed to be surprised?”

Shawn’s taken aback at her words. He wasn’t expecting her to speak. He wasn’t expecting her to respond of have thoughts or emotions. 

His other victims sure didn’t. Then again, he either crushed their windpipes or bashed their brains. Of course dead people can’t have conversations.

“Didn’t think you had it in you to speak to me still,” he admits, pulling a chair from the corner of the room to sit down in front of her. 

She’s sat on her knees with her wrists behind her back. He ankles are locked and it’s quite absurd how the positions of power a depicted by the imagery Shawn’s created by sitting down.

“Didn’t think you had it in you to do this,” she responds.

Shawn shakes his head. “Watch that mouth of yours. Wouldn’t wanna carve it out.”

He gives her a weak smile and she frowns back to show her disdain with him.

“I’d rather you kill me than tell shitty jokes.” Her heart beats faster at her statement. She isn’t ready to die and part of her is terrified at what he might do.

“I won’t yet. There’s a game I still wanna play with you.” Shawn scoots the chair closer to her. He puts his face directly in her line of vision. She can’t look elsewhere and she’s forced to stare into his hazel eyes.

They’re the same hazel eyes that took her order every Tuesday and Friday for the past nine months. They’re the same hazel eyes that told her goodnight when he walked her home to her apartment after a late night cram session at the coffee shop. They’re the same hazel eyes that told her dumb knock-knock jokes and complimented her on her brilliance.

They’re also the same hazel eyes that appeared more greedy than usual on that fateful night. They’re the eyes that are busy and stagnant all in the same and there’s nothing that terrifies her more. She never knows what he’s thinking.

Shawn doesn’t want to kill her. He doesn’t want to rip her limb from limb. He doesn’t want the responsibility of cleaning up her blood or disposing of her body.

In all reality, he wishes he had never done it. He wishes he would have walked away when she told him to go home. He wishes he would have developed better self restraint.

“Fuck you,” she spits, eyes never leaving his boot clad feet. She’s scared that if she looks up his hazel eyes will burn holes through her before his hands inevitably rip real ones in her body.

She half expects him to shout and half expects him to take action. But instead, he whispers. His lips move and it’s almost as if the words aren’t coming out.  

She has to stop breathing to hear what he says.

He looks up at her to see her response and his stomach sinks when he doesn’t see her thinking of one.

He gives off a sadistic chuckle. “Fucking kill me then.”

She swallows hard. She doesn’t respond. It’s not like she can find the words to anyway.

“Say something! Say something, scream at me - fucking try to kill me!” he yells, pure anger dripping off his words.

She simply shakes her head and laughs with pity deep in her chest. Tears start to cascade down her face and she doesn’t know why.

"Kill me! Just kill me, please!" he screams, nimble fingers pulling at the roots of his hair.

She starts to choke on her tears and sobs break their way through her chest. She figures that she’s crying because she’s being tempted. She’s fucking ridiculous, she thinks, because she’s having a meltdown like a fucking toddler.

"I want to! I want to, but I can’t," she screeches, pulling at the rope that binds her hands and feet together.

Tears run down both their faces and he reaches down into his boot and grabs a small knife.

Shawn takes two steps towards her.

Her breath catches in her throat.

He grabs her wrists and she expects him to plunge the blade deep; ripping every single vein and artery she has.

But he doesn’t.

He saws away at the dirty rope stained with blood and dirt and tears. Her arms are numb because she hasn’t moved them properly in close to forty days.

Shawn drops to his knees and cuts away at the bondage of her ankles. She’s free and the disbelief her mind gives off sends her into a fit of rage.

There’s so much anger and emotion and pity and disgust that she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

"I hate you! Fuck, I fucking hate you!” she screams at the top of her lungs, “Fuck you! I hate you!”

She feels extremely stupid because there aren’t any words that can define how she feels and how utterly angry she is.

Shawn sits back down in the chair, eyes still gazing at the floor.

"Kill me," he repeats.

He pulls at her arms and yanks her up. He sits back down in the chair and he’s glad his calculations were correct. She’s short enough that her arms reach his face.  

Shawn holds out the pistol from his Jeep and tells her everything. He tells her where she’s at and where the keys to the cabin and his car are. He tells her that the choice is up to her, and that she gets to choose.

"No. No, no, no. I - I can’t," she stutters.

"Kill me or we both die," he speaks chillingly. He forces the gun into her small hands, making sure the chamber is facing him and not her.

Her hands shake violently. As much as she’s thought about it, she can’t actually go through with it.

Shawn puts the chamber in his mouth, hand still holding her’s firmly on the pistol.

"No, Shawn. Stop! Please!" she begs.

He gives her hand a gentle squeeze before pulling her finger up to the trigger. Before she can move it away, he pushes her finger down.

She hears a loud pop and she’s sure that she’s never seen so much blood before. She throws the gun across the room and can’t bring herself look down at the floor.

The maroon leaking from his skull seeps its way to her feet.

She hears voices outside the room and her name being called. The door is kicked in and a swarm of police officers crowd the area.

They tell her that she’s safe and that he tipped off the police an hour earlier. They tell her he had this planned. They tell her that she did the right thing and they tell her that her parents are waiting for her at the hospital.

As she exits the room with the officers, she looks back to see the dark red splattered across the floor. She wonders how her killing him is any different than him killing other people.

A female officer notices her staring at the scene and pats her shoulder. “Self defense, honey.” she says.

She nods. She understands entirely.

The color maroon makes her feel guilty whenever she sees it.

[fataziraphale]

The Best and Wisest Man Whom I Have Ever Known (A Good Omens Secret Santa)

Happy holidays, @ditherwings!!! I was your Good Omens Secret Santa! I had oodles of fun writing this—I too adore literary history and Aziraphale being a dork. You have excellent taste! I hope your holidays are wonderful and you enjoy this offering from me.

When Aziraphale sent a letter to cancel their dinner plans, Crowley dropped a potted plant in shock, scattering ceramic shards all over his kitchen floor. Aziraphale never turned down the Café Royal. He relished in running into all those authors he was fond of, like the unsettlingly tall one who flirted a bit too much for Crowley’s taste. Plus—and this generally piqued Aziraphale’s interest even more—their French patisserie was to die for.

Perhaps more alarming, Aziraphale’s elegantly looped handwriting announced he was cancelling dinner because he was currently in mourning.

In mourning? For a human, then? It didn’t seem in-character. Among their other arrangements, Crowley and Aziraphale had made a pact, some drunken night in 1431, that they weren’t going to love any specific humans. Sure, it was all right for Aziraphale to go the salons and debate the merits of various magazine poems, or be on a first-name basis with his local baker. It was another matter entirely for him to become attached.

It all got too messy. They’d agreed on that. They’d practically emptied out a winery after Boccaccio died—Aziraphale because the man had made such incredible contributions to the literary canon, Crowley because he’d inspired a whole generation of women to take up masturbating, but both because Giovanni was a friend. They knew what happened to humans after they died, they knew the man’s soul would live on until at least Armageddon, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that they would miss him, and they couldn’t keep going on like this, becoming blubbery messes incapable of doing their duties every time a good drinking buddy got ill. So they’d decided not to. They’d promised.

So then who the dev—who was Aziraphale mourning now?

Miffed at Aziraphale going back on his word (and certainly not worried about the angel, don’t be daft), Crowley fetched his hat and coat and set off into the streets of London. Carriages crowded the road, humans weaving in and out of the foggy air. Crowley flagged a cab and rattled off Aziraphale’s address, tapping his foot against the carriage floor as it bumped against the cobblestones.

It was awfully inconvenient, relying on humans for transport, but he had never been particularly good with horses. He’d read in the paper about a German woman who’d traveled a great distance in some sort of horseless carriage. He’d been thinking of heading to the continent to see what the fuss was for himself. He wondered if Aziraphale would like to come along—they could go hear that new Brahms piano thing everyone and their mother raved about.

But no. Aziraphale was in mourning.

Not for the first time, Crowley wondered if it wasn’t simply a euphemism. If Aziraphale wasn’t angry with Crowley but too polite to say so. Sure, they’d had that tiff in the 60s over holy water, but Crowley had thought they’d patched things up. He’d bought Aziraphale his weight in apology chocolate. So what could be the matter now?

Yet as he exited the cab onto Aziraphale’s street, Crowley couldn’t help but notice a pattern: young men sporting black armbands. Yes, there were bucketloads of them—this one hurrying into his apartment, that one buying flowers from a stand on the roadside, those two comforting a weeping woman. Crowley remembered himself just enough to push one mourner into the street, making sure to do so when no carriages where heading his way.

The bookshop was closed, but that was normal for Tuesdays. Crowley rang the bell and, when no one answered, willed the knob to turn.

The angel Aziraphale sat his desk, sniffling over a copy of The Strand.

Crowley stared at him. Indeed, Aziraphale did appear to be mourning—he wore a black crêpe around his upper arm, and another adorned the hat hanging on his hat stand. He put down the magazine with a sigh that came from the very depths of his soul, if angels had that sort of thing (Crowley wasn’t entirely sure). He removed his spectacles from his nose, tucked them into his pocket, and caught eyes with Crowley across the room.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured. “You’ve read it, haven’t you? Do sit down. Would you like some tea? No, you’ll likely need something stronger.”

Mystified, Crowley lowered himself into a chair, stopping first to lift a heap of books off its seat and onto the floor. “Read what? I saw the men in the streets. Who died? Is it someone important?” His eyes widened. “They didn’t catch that friend of yours, did they? That author who wears all those gaudy green flowers?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oscar is perfectly sound, though I’m not sure A Woman of No Importance was his tightest work. Perhaps he should stick with prose rather than drama.”

“Then what’s this about? Someone from your gentleman’s club? No, it’s got to be some famous bugger if everyone’s gutted about it.” Crowley cast his eyes around for inspiration. “It’s not the Queen. I would have heard if it were the bloody Queen.”

Aziraphale drew a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. Crowley had never known Aziraphale to be a crier, but now he was getting the disturbing impulse to start saying things like “There, there” and “It’ll all be all right in the end.”

“He was a great man,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps Britain’s finest. Crowley, I simply don’t know how I will go on without him.”

Crowley had already reached across the desk for Aziraphale’s hand before he remembered he was supposed to be a demon. “I thought we said we weren’t going to do this. Not after Joan. We weren’t going to get close to humans.”

“Oh, he and I aren’t close. Goodness, though, I should think I’m going to write the man a very stern letter. You simply can’t go playing with people’s emotions like that!”

“It probably wasn’t his fault,” Crowley said. “You know, dying. Humans tend to do it whether they want to or not.”

“But humans can choose not to murder a beloved cultural figure!”

This caught Crowley’s attention. Murder wasn’t always the work of his side, but it was certainly more in his wheelhouse than the angel’s.

“Do you want revenge, angel?” Crowley tried his best to snarl, but his tone came out more like sympathy. “Because I can help you with that. I can turn the murderer’s… undergarments into ants. I don’t know, give me time to think of something really devious, I’m a bit rusty.”

“Perhaps you could write him a letter too,” said Aziraphale, and then his eyes lit up. Something inside him clicked, and a smile lifted his chubby cheeks to Heaven—just as it had when he’d first tried bread back in Mesopotamia, or last week when he’d showed off his charmingly bad gavotte.

“We could start a movement,” Aziraphale gushed. Crowley’s heart, despite not strictly needing to beat, threatened to give out altogether. “Yes, I believe we could! One letter might not sway the man, but twenty? Fifty? One hundred? We could rally the men in the streets! Tape up posters in Trafalgar Square! I could make a picket sign! I’ve always wanted to make a picket sign.” He stood up, raising a triumphant fist as he glared righteously at a stack of encyclopedias. “Why, if we put enough pressure on the man, he’ll have to cave! He’ll bring the dead back to life in no time at all!”

“Er,” said Crowley. “I’m not sure that’s how that works.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. If anyone can think of a way to bring back the world’s greatest detective, it’s Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Why would this Conan Doyle bloke kill a detective? Did he do a crime he wants covered up? Does the detective owe him money?”

“What? Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale chuckled. Crowley could feel his cheeks growing pink for at least three reasons. “Sherlock Holmes is fictional. He’s Doyle’s literary creation.” He frowned. “I gave you The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes last Christmas. Did you not read it?”

Crowley stared. “Do you mean to tell me, all this time, you’ve been planning to skip out on dinner because you’re mourning someone fictional?”

“He’s a very good detective.”

“I don’t believe this! Angel, I thought you were actually depressed!”

“I am depressed!” Aziraphale scoffed. “And it’s perfectly reasonable to be affected by literature! Why, just last year, I closed my bookshop for a month to recover from The Picture of Dorian Gray!”

“I thought you just didn’t fancy dealing with customers!”

“And you, my dear.” Aziraphale jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you! 1806 BC! You cried after reading The Epic of Gilgamesh! At seeing the humans’ first attempt at truly great literature!”

“Angel, those were tears of laughter! That guy Enkidu had a hard-on for two bloody weeks! Could you keep a straight face reading that?”

“There’s no need to be crass.” Aziraphale coughed into his handkerchief, but Crowley could recognize those upturned lips anywhere. “Anyway, I’m hardly alone in this. Plenty of readers lived for the Holmes stories. It’s a true pity there won’t be any more.”

“Good. Oodles of angry humans. Doyle did my job for me.” Crowley was already mentally drafting a very threatening letter. Naming the man’s children should do the trick. In the off-chance he didn’t have any children, well, the replacing Doyle’s undergarments with ants idea was growing on him.

“But you see, this is why I mustn’t go to dinner with you.” Aziraphale assumed his most sincere expression. “It would be disrespectful to be seen lavishly dining and carrying on when such a tragedy has befallen the literary world. Why, none of my friends there would let me hear the end of it.” He gazed forlornly into an empty mug, rimmed around the top with cocoa stains.

“What about lunch?”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. “Oh, excellent. I’m simply starving. And a man must eat. No one could blame me for that.”

Crowley’s mouth curled into a devilish grin. He held out his hand, and Aziraphale took it. “I won’t tell any of your author friends if you don’t bring up me and Gilgamesh.”

“Perhaps only in private.”

“It’s a funny poem! The bloke had sex for two weeks!”

“Ah, that reminds me. If you truly don’t want your first edition Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, may I have it back? It would make an excellent addition to my collection.”

“You devious bastard. You only bought me that bloody book because you wanted it.”

Crowley weaved between dusty stacks of hardbacks and emerged blinking onto the Soho street. Remembering the mourner with his arm around his compatriot, Crowley vaguely thought of putting an arm around Aziraphale.

But that wasn’t the way their love language worked. Crowley’s love was showing up. Was badgering Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle to a bloody pulp until he brought Sherlock Holmes back to life, logic be damned. Was giving Aziraphale an excuse to pig out on French pastry. Was hailing a cab and taking Aziraphale’s hand to pull him up inside.

As Aziraphale’s plushy hip pressed into Crowley’s, he thought of the new electric lights they’d shown off at the Paris Exposition. He could feel that current now, running through the angel’s body into his.

He realized Aziraphale had only broken his promise if their pact not to love humans extended to fictional ones. At any rate, if it included falling in love with angels, Crowley was in an awful lot of trouble, and he owed Aziraphale about £15.

Perhaps some promises were made to be broken.

[do-your-socks-have-holes-in-them]

Til the End of the Night / Ch22: Finale pt. 2

Previous / Masterpost 

Summary: It’s time to go home.

Warnings: same fantasy violence stuff as ever, the emotional aftermath of All That

A/N: it’s f i n i s h e d holy shit i’m done

AO3

~ ~ ~

Virgil did not like the plan. Virgil, in fact, hated the plan, but it was the best they had, so he went along with it- story of his freaking life, lately. He huddled behind the shield with Logan and Patton, who still hadn’t moved after what Virgil had accidentally done to him, and watched as Roman stormed up to the witch again.

She wasn’t even in her dragon form anymore, that was how confident she felt that the fight was over. She smoothed out her clothing and merely smiled at Roman’s approach. “Well?”

“Undo it,” Roman demanded. “Now.”

“Why would I do that? Caring about whether things are fair is more your, ah… personality flaw.”

He glared at her.

“You’re not going to threaten me. There’s nothing you can do.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, fiend,” said Roman, and threw a potion rather dramatically in her face.

The witch blinked and wiped the liquid away from her eyes. It was clearly taking a lot of restraint to stop herself from just punching Roman in the face, but she managed to keep her dignity. “What,” she bit out, “exactly, what that supposed to do, aside from making me want to kill you even more than I already did? You can’t hurt me. You’re only doing more damage to him.”

Roman smiled back, just as confident suddenly as she’d been a second ago. “Oh, I don’t know… I’d say it worked exactly as intended.”

That was Virgil’s cue- no, literally, Roman had insisted on taking a minute to come up with an actual script for all this. He looked down at Patton, who, thank god, was starting to wake up and open his eyes again and looked a little more alive, if no less unsettlingly empty. That final healing potion had done its job. Logan carefully shifted Patton over to him before scooting back a healthy few inches. Virgil took a steadying breath, placed his hand over Patton’s heart, and looked up to lock eyes with the witch, who had finally realized something was up and shifted her attention to him and Logan. The fear present in her eyes for just a moment was, he had to admit, extremely gratifying. Maybe even worth the effort of getting the timing right, although he was absolutely never letting Roman know he’d had that thought.

“Sorry,” he whispered to Patton, just in case he could hear him and just in case this didn’t work out perfectly. He gritted his teeth and focused, and shot all the offensive magic he could muster directly into his best friend’s chest.

The Dragon Witch screamed, stumbling back. “This isn’t over,” she somehow managed to yell at them all, and then she was gone in a highly ambiguous puff of smoke. Logan and Virgil looked at each other uncertainly before both turning to Roman.

“What did that-”

“Is she-?”

Roman hurried back over to the rest of them. “Don’t worry, she does that every time she’s defeated. I can’t very well kill her off for good if I want to keep using her as a character, although I’ll be very sure to keep better control of things next time.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m letting you anywhere near here after this,” Virgil snapped.

“Bold of you to assume you can stop me,” he shot back, before sighing. “It will… probably be a while before I do come back, though. After this.”

Patton stirred, scrunching his face up in pain and confusion, and everyone went quiet. After a second that felt like an eternity, he opened his eyes and looked up at them.

“Did you win…?”

Roman smiled reassuringly and squeezed his hand. “The witch has been defeated, dear Padre.”

“Oh… good.” He smiled back at all of them and closed his eyes again. This time, the sleep he slipped into was much more peaceful.

“He’ll be okay now,” Logan said quietly, partially to himself and partly for the sake of everyone else’s nerves. “Roman? Please don’t tell me we’re going to need to walk all the way back to the portal we came here through. I’ve run out of materials for healing potions, and… I’m tired.”

“Oh! No, no need to worry yourself about getting back. Now that we’ve resolved this story, the Imagination should just…”

They didn’t get to hear the rest of his sentence, but they also didn’t particularly need it. A bright light filled the room with no visible source, whiting out everything, and there was a feeling almost like falling. When the sides’ vision cleared again, they were no longer in the wrecked throne room of the Dragon Witch’s castle, but clustered together on Roman’s bedroom floor sometime in the middle of the night.

It was… jarring, almost, to be so suddenly back to normal. No, not almost. It was incredibly strange. Their usual outfits had returned, the bag Logan held was once again full of snacks and other supposed essentials, and none of the harm they’d suffered in the fantasy world carried over- they weren’t even dirty. Roman was surely used to this sort of transition, but Logan and Virgil were still struggling to adjust when Patton blinked himself awake and sat up.

“Patton!” Virgil grabbed his hand. “I… are you okay?”

He looked down at himself, brow furrowed. Flexed his hands and patted at his limbs. “I… I guess so? None of that was real. It was just- imaginary.” He laughed, but it didn’t come out quite right. His hands were shaking. “I’m fine.”

“Pat…”

“It’s- I mean, I’m not hurt! None of us… everything is, everything is fine, a-and it was all…”

Roman touched his shoulder, and he flinched. Virgil’s grip on him tightened reflexively. Logan still hadn’t spoken, looking distantly around the room as if trying to memorize it.

“…Hey. Listen to me, okay?” Everyone turned to look at Roman. “I understand… well, first of all, I understand that all of this was… at least somewhat my fault, and I take full responsibility for that. If you want to be angry with me, I only ask that you wait until we’ve all had a nap, because I do not have the energy to get yelled at right now.” He smiled thinly and didn’t quite laugh at his own joke. “But I also need to make sure you all understand that… well, just because it happened in the Imagination, doesn’t mean it wasn’t real to us.”

“As real as anything else that happens in Thomas’s mind,” Logan muttered.

“Exactly. And I know better than anyone that these things can still leave a mark, even if it isn’t physical. What I’m saying is…” He sighed and tugged on Patton and Logan’s sleeves. “Come here.”

“Group hug,” Patton said quietly, leaning in and pulling Virgil with him, and then his breathing hitched and he was crying into Roman’s shirt.

“There you are… there, I know I- I really messed this one up, and I’m…”

“You didn’t know.” Logan’s voice was muffled somewhere in the tangle of a group-hug. “If you had made that happen on purpose, it would be another matter, but… I seem to recall you weren’t enjoying yourself much, either.”

“…No.”

There was a long silence, in which everyone slowly began to calm down and then began to realize how exhausted they were. They were going to be in danger of falling asleep where they were and waking up very uncomfortable if they didn’t get up soon- apparently, tiredness was the one thing that didn’t go away as soon as they returned home. Logan was the first to sigh and sit up, muttering something about going to bed, although he didn’t look any more eager to move than anyone else. The others followed suit and reluctantly gathered themselves in preparation to get off the floor.

Patton stifled a yawn and paused, looking thoughtful. “It wasn’t all bad, though, right? The adventure?”

Virgil looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “We almost died, Patton. A lot.”

“Yeah, but before that… It was fun at the beginning, right? At least a little?”

He exchanged a look with Logan, and they both made vague and begrudging noises of assent.

“A little. Maybe.”

“I thought that little town was really nice,” Patton insisted, and it didn’t escape his notice that Roman perked up from his guilty moping at the compliment. “And… some of the forest, anyway.”

“I could take you back there sometime, I swear it would be safe-”

“Nope,” interrupted Virgil, “don’t even wanna hear you talk about that, no…”

Patton leaned over to Roman and whispered in his ear. “Maybe when we’re all feeling a little better, okay?” He smiled.

Meanwhile, Virgil wasn’t done. “Actually, you know what, I’m not letting any of you out of my sight for like, a week, and you’re all just gonna have to deal with that ‘cause you don’t get a choice.”

No one disagreed.

“You can all stay in here for the night,” Roman suggested. “I’ll just…” He waved a hand behind him, and the bed in the middle of his room, which was already large enough for at least three people and ridiculously luxurious, expanded even further.

Logan nodded slowly, blinking. “Good. Sleep… is good,” he said seriously, clearly needing some very badly himself. Patton covered his mouth with his hand and pretended to be yawning again rather than laughing at him.

“Yup,” Virgil agreed, pulling him upright. “And you need to get some before you pass out on the floor.”

“Mm.”

The tangled pile they ended up sleeping in, once they got themselves into bed, was comfortable in that special “I would be okay with sleeping on Legos right now and this is infinitely better” sort of way. The low ambient light in Roman’s room was comforting, and they all held on to each other, each assured the others were with them and safely home, and drifted off to sleep. Everything else could wait until the morning.

---

Thomas Sanders woke up to the sound of his alarm going off, and smacked at his phone blindly until he managed to turn it off. “Five more minutes,” he muttered to himself, turning over to shove his face into a pillow and hide from the sun. “Or maybe more like five more hours. Or… days.” For whatever reason, he felt like he’d hardly gotten any sleep at all, and his mind was still disoriented from… wait.

He sat up straight in bed, blinking against the light, and fumbled for his phone once again. A minute later, Joan picked up, sounding almost as tired as he felt, and very reasonably asked why the hell he was calling them first thing in the morning.

“Sorry,” Thomas said quickly, a little sheepish. “But, listen- I just had the craziest dream.”

[gramon-my-otp]

To The End, With You - chapter twelve

Previous Chapter |  Next Chapter

Chapter Synopsis: Russell and Gareth participate in the entrance ritual of the secret gay brotherhood of Britpoplar. The Gallagher brothers prank Damon and Graham in an awful way - which escalated to a surprising revelation between the two friends!

Alternative Universe fanfiction placed in the 1600s. 

Words: 2040

Disclaimers:  I understand that Blur, Pulp, Oasis, Suede, Elastica and other bands members belong to their own and have their own personality and personal lives. I am aware this is nothing but a work of fiction and the way the characters are represented are fruit of my imagination and do not correspond to their real thoughts and way of life. Fanfiction should not be taken seriously.

(After more than three years, I came back to finish what I have started. Thanks for the giving me motivation @skygramon​ I can’t do this without you)

Two cloaked individuals sprinted around the borough of Britpoplar at night. They were aware that there were eyes in places they would never imagine. The location chosen for a secret meeting was unfamiliar to them, but the path that led to it was infamous for the grieving memory it sparkled. It was where Simon Gilbert last walked alive - and they were there, the two cloaked men, holding hands. They stopped by the butcher shop, as it was instructed to them. A straight gated iron door opened before them, almost invisible in the corner of the slaughter house. Only then the blokes noticed a flickering light in a window above. A hidden room above the shop. The negotiators had already been waiting. The men entered and the iron gate shut closed. Damon Albarn received the visitors with a knife in hand, pointing at them.

“Identify yourselves”

They removed their own covers completely, revealing to be Damon’s fellow Russell Senior and his young lover, Gareth Coombes. Damon put his blade back and greeted them accordingly. The setting was unsettlingly silent. The glow of candles reflected upon the stairs behind them.

“Up we go”, asked Damon, gesturing with his arms and hands. 

The blonde followed the couple climbing the stairs, heading to the bedroom. Another iron gate, and also a door. Anxiety built up in the two lovers hearts. They held their hands tighter, and carried on. On the edge of the bed sat Morrissey and Alex James. He wasn’t happy to be there, but as a member of the society he had to fulfil tasks when required of him. Russell wasn’t expecting to see neither of them there. He would never guess the so much respected librarian was homosexual, and he never cared for a poor lowlife profile such as Alex. He was speechless already. Gaz took a deep breath and gathered the courage to make his question:

“Are those the ones assigned to each one of us?”

“Yes”, answered Damon, behind them. “It was easy finding someone slim, tall, and young as you are for Russell. Believe me, it’s easier to get it done when the person resembles someone you like”.

“So, I have to lie down with fellow Alex, while he has to lie down with Morrissey”, Russell was repeating the obvious. He knew Damon wouldn’t volunteer because they were kind of close. Still, the thought of that passage rite was absurd, but necessary.

“Are you going to stay here and watch us?” - asked Alex, annoyed. “Aren’t we going to have a little privacy?”

“Mr. James… Somebody has to watch the surroundings. Damon had the idea that we leave as a group afterwards, pretending we’re drunk”, Morrissey explained. “I’m sorry this room doesn’t fit your needs, but it’s the only we could find in a hurry. Now, shut your mouth and do what you are supposed to!”

Gaz and Alex were tops, while Russell and Morrissey were bottoms. It was difficult for the couple having to have sex in those conditions, only to be accepted, protected by the community. Proof was necessary, and now they had it. The plan for them to leave in safety proceeded well. They were mistaken by drunkards lost in Britpoplar streets. 

~

The sound of boiling metal and hammers crashing against steel filled the emptiness of the air under the hot midday sun. The Gallagher brothers had been reforming armor pieces for the soldiers for the last few days. Not that they cared for the army. In fact, they didn’t, but gold was gold. The payment was good and they needed it. They constantly thought about what Jarvis Cocker and Brett Anderson said to them. Honestly, they thought they were crazy and being paid for following people was something way over the line. They rarely did the patrols they were supposed to, and never saw anything that called their attention. That day, though, was their lucky day. 

“Fuck, I’m bored!”, voiced Liam, dropping his working material. “Tired of doing this and bored!”.

“If you leave the hard work to me again, I will take your gold for meself”, warned Noel.

“You just try it!”, Liam raised his fist toward his brother.

When they were about to throw punches at each other, they noticed movement behind them. They see Damon walking past by with Graham, chatting joyfully. In the midst of the awkward silence between the Gallagher brothers, the two peasants ignored them. In fact, they didn’t even witness the foolish discussion. They were so focused and entertained with each other. 

“Let’s fool with them just like we did with that Justin Welch moron last week” - suggested Liam, with pure mischief in his eyes. 

“Do we really have to?” - Noel questioned, uninterested.

“Are you crazy?! Stop being a slackass and let’s go!”- Liam tried to encourage him.

“Alright, alright. They are full of shit anyway…” - Noel got moving then, and Liam went along.

Graham was actually having one of the most exciting afternoons of his life. Listening to Damon nonstop, telling stories of the town and sharing his adventurous experiences. He would either blabber about managing the gay community or how much he liked Justine. Graham couldn’t avoid thinking how big of a hypocrite and selfish Damon was at that matter. What the hell did he want in life? The answer was simple, Albarn wanted the whole world, he wanted everything. However, no man was able to play God, nor he was allowed to be larger than life just for the sake of good fun and self indulgence. Damon’s sins were numerous, as he was endangering both himself and all the people he cared about. Sooner or later, Graham would suffer from some kind of backfire. The blonde one had been spending the whole day with his friend, saying lots of things, but not what he really wanted to say. Coxon was fine whether Damon knew he was attracted to him or not. It was too dangerous to risk it all for an affair. He was more than happy with his friendship.

“Oi, mates! What a pleasure to see ya in this part o’ town!” - Liam came in grinning wide.

Graham froze from his arse up. He was aware of the Gallagher’s reputation. 

“What’s wrong, newcomer? Shat your trousers?!?” - Noel already got a grip of the brunette’s shoulder. 

If Damon decided to fight them he would surely lose. Graham was nothing but a scaredy cat - there was no way he was going to help out in combat. As Liam sunk his knee deep in Damon’s stomach, Noel punched Graham in the mouth. 

“Damon, no!” - uttered Graham.

“I’m okay, Graham. He’s too weak for me…” - Damon could barely talk, and still he mocked the one who bullied him.

The two victims were dragged by their enemies to Britpoplar’s cemetery. It had both fancy tombs for the rich families and some areas to drop poor abandoned chaps. Last time Damon was there he stole Simon Gilbert’s body away, to bury him at his homeplace. 

“Right! Let’s play a game!” - Liam held Damon by his hair, almost pulling it from his scalp. They kept climbing the hill on the cemetery until they found the tiniest stone mausoleum. It must have been built for a child, but the funeral never happened. The monument was there for a really long time, and the Gallaghers often took other young men there just to terrorize them, locking them up in the tomb for several hours. They were about to do it with Damon and Graham.

“Liam, I don’t know if they will both fit in! We never tried putting two at once!” - Noel was laughing at his younger brother’s psychotic necessities. He probably participated only for gags.

“Shaddap and help me” 

The only way Damon and Graham could coexist in that horrid conditions were positioned against each other, face to face, squeezed in the vault between the stone walls. 

“Let’s see how long it will take for them to figure how to get out” - the two friends in trouble overheard the sentence, as the voices from Noel and Liam disappeared with the distance. 

It was so tight in there that their rib cages didn’t have enough space to breath. Their legs were nearly intertwined with one another. Graham’s crotch was against Damon’s thigh, as well as the same for the other way round. The whole situation was disturbingly inconvenient, and yet it could get a lot worse.

“Graham, are you okay?” - Asked Damon after noticing his friend’s face twitch. - “Can you breathe?”

Coxon could only nod positively, while a drop of sweat ran down on his forehead. Damon struggled to move his hands and looked all around the stone enclosure.

“That’s what Justin Welch meant with being abused by the Gallaghers! What a bunch of useless cunts! If he got out, we can too!”

Not that Graham was relieved with the idea of being free from that nonsense, but while Damon was slowly searching for a lump, a button, or a handle of any sort in the walls, it was hard not move accidentally against his mate, rubbing himself against Coxon’s body.

“Damon, I am sorry, I am so sorry, I can’t!”

“What are you…? Oh, my… Graham, you…”

That was it. Graham Coxon got a boner, and his stiffness was screaming inside his trousers, trapped between Damon’s thigh and below his own navel. Damon first reaction was to be in shock. Never in his mind he could imagine this chap longing for him, even though Morrissey had suggested so a few days prior. Graham was truly mortified. He refused to open his eyes and wished he was dead only not to hear what Damon had to say. Instead of what was expected, Damon suddenly burst into laughter. Graham discreetly peeked at his giggling face. 

“That’s right! Laugh at me! I deserve to be humiliated!” - Coxon cried dramatically. 

“Shut your mouth, Gra.” - Damon silenced Graham himself, surprising him with a warm, magisterial, and hopeless kiss. He forced his tongue inside the man’s mouth, relishing on his sweet taste and extreme insecurity. 

Graham, at first, got so scared with Damon’s sudden move, that he fought it, refusing to believe that his life had come that - but as soon as Damon’s large tongue made way, his whole body simply swooned. He wanted more, and he didn’t want it to stop - but Damon had a million thoughts in his head. He started it, and he ceased it too.

“We shouldn’t, Graham, you’re my friend.”

“I… I think I am in love with you.” 

When they thought they were never gonna leave that wretched tomb, Damon unexpectedly hit his elbow on a piece of the wall and dislocated, making it possible for them to push the stones apart and escape the trap. They literally fell on top of each other when they made it out.

“You don’t want to get involved in this, Graham.” - Damon was referring to joining the gay brotherhood. “I can't let you risk your life over me.”

“But - I am not confused anymore! I know now, I want this, and I want you!” - Graham embraced Albarn, still on the ground.

The blonde one held Coxon’s chin, as if he was about to kiss him again, but then let go. He got up and assisted his confidant afterwards. 

“Try to imagine yourself with a maiden or something and get rid of this hard-on you’ve got, We’re going back to the university.”

Eventually, Graham’s erection faded away, but not because he imagined a naked woman - being rejected by Damon in that way had hurt him. He felt as if his feelings had been played with, like a dart game. Damon had hit bullseye, and his heart was now bleeding.  Neither him or Albarn could sleep that night. Coxon was just too sad, regretting that he opened his heart to his friend in a moment of fragility. Damon, on the other hand, kept awake because of his guilt. He didn’t want to mess with Graham’s feelings at all. He was still resenting Simon’s death, and believed he couldn’t keep his brothers at the secret community safe. He loved Graham too, still, he wasn’t ready to put his life on the line for the sake of their feelings. 

[hgfstreamchats]

New Boxyverse Footage

thenightetc 09:43 PM Hello hello!

highglossfinish 09:43 PM Hello there!

highglossfinish 09:43 PM Just waiting on our special guest to join us.

thenightetc 09:44 PM Special guest, eh? warwearymedic joined the party.

highglossfinish 09:44 PM Speak of the devil. thenightetc joined the party. warwearymedic joined the party. warwearymedic joined the party.

highglossfinish 09:45 PM Everything holding up?

warwearymedic 09:45 PM We've sorted out my connection, yes

thenightetc 09:45 PM Horribly, yes.

highglossfinish 09:46 PM Excellent.

highglossfinish 09:47 PM And off we go.

thenightetc 09:47 PM *settles in*

warwearymedic 09:49 PM What in the world am I looking at

highglossfinish 09:49 PM Looks to be the boxiest incarnation of the boxyverse yet.

warwearymedic 09:50 PM How are they moving with that much weight on their spinal struts

highglossfinish 09:50 PM I don't like their mouths.

thenightetc 09:50 PM My eye keeps sliding away from them.

warwearymedic 09:50 PM I'm trying very hard not to look

highglossfinish 09:51 PM Oh, to get Starscream's opinion on this one.

warwearymedic 09:51 PM I somehow think I can feel Bumblebee having a spark attack from here

thenightetc 09:52 PM Honestly, this seems like a great time for them to sneak off quietly.

thenightetc 09:52 PM Quietly, I said

warwearymedic 09:53 PM Nothing makes sense in the boxyverse, I've learned

highglossfinish 09:53 PM LIPS.

thenightetc 09:53 PM gah!

warwearymedic 09:53 PM I didn't need that

thenightetc 09:53 PM Everyone has such a poutuy mouth

thenightetc 09:53 PM *pouty

highglossfinish 09:54 PM That Megatron has absolutely appeared in a video somewhere in this world, sucking on someone's fingers.

thenightetc 09:54 PM Please, please don't link to it.

warwearymedic 09:55 PM Knock Out, this is an honest question. Do you think before you speak?

highglossfinish 09:55 PM I only say what we're all thinking.

warwearymedic 09:55 PM Are you referring to you and the scraplet on your shoulder, because I was certainly not thinking that

highglossfinish 09:57 PM That scraplet agrees with me, this Megatron's true calling is to look over his shoulder like he has a naughty little secret.

thenightetc 09:57 PM I'm distracted by the implication there was some kind of ramp that Optimus drove off of to come in like that

warwearymedic 10:05 PM Is that Red Alert?

highglossfinish 10:05 PM I'm pulling up old footage of Starscream after this, just to look at something aerodynamic.

thenightetc 10:05 PM Sounds like a plan!

highglossfinish 10:06 PM Dear sweet Unicron, does everyone in this universe speak and act like they're living in a cheap static vid?

highglossfinish 10:06 PM Especially their medic.

thenightetc 10:06 PM It's too early to judge, but... yes.

thenightetc 10:06 PM Absolutely.

highglossfinish 10:07 PM Typical Autobots.

warwearymedic 10:08 PM The first comment we've gotten that I've been asked to share: "Is that what I look like?"

highglossfinish 10:09 PM I mean comparatively speaking...

warwearymedic 10:09 PM Don't answer that

thenightetc 10:10 PM Hm.

thenightetc 10:12 PM Is that cloth?  Where did he get cloth?

thenightetc 10:12 PM *squints*

highglossfinish 10:12 PM It's going to get caught in his fans or seams.

warwearymedic 10:12 PM The same place he apparently got the audacity

thenightetc 10:13 PM This is going to go well.

thenightetc 10:13 PM Are those Decepticon logo chairs?

highglossfinish 10:13 PM Everyone take a good last look at Ultra Magnus.

warwearymedic 10:13 PM Oh, we've left the room, apparently

warwearymedic 10:14 PM I did not mean warwearymedic joined the party. thenightetc joined the party.

warwearymedic 10:14 PM I meant he's walked away from the console

thenightetc 10:15 PM Oh, that's MUCH clearer

thenightetc 10:15 PM Is that a giant portrait of Megatron--

highglossfinish 10:15 PM It always shows up clear as day on my end, I wish I knew why it does that.

thenightetc 10:17 PM it's a d20!

warwearymedic 10:17 PM What in the world is Shockwave holding

highglossfinish 10:18 PM I do like how he types with his blaster.

warwearymedic 10:19 PM I do not

thenightetc 10:20 PM I like how he kind of sounds like he's doing a Starscream impression

warwearymedic 10:22 PM Soundwave sounds like that voice sound on that social media application the medbay eradicons have been tormenting me with

highglossfinish 10:22 PM Optimus sounds like some bot off the street doing a very rough impression of Optimus.

highglossfinish 10:22 PM Our Optimus. Thebes joined the party.

warwearymedic 10:23 PM I've been avoiding that

Thebes 10:23 PM hello!

highglossfinish 10:23 PM Hello there!

thenightetc 10:23 PM Hello!  It's a whole new, unsettlingly boxy, universe.

highglossfinish 10:24 PM The boxes are thick and so are the lips. Thebes joined the party.

warwearymedic 10:25 PM I'm going to ask again, Knock Out, do you think before you speak

highglossfinish 10:25 PM Ahh, how I've missed having everyone together.

thenightetc 10:26 PM Yes, investigate the package.

Thebes joined the party.

highglossfinish 10:28 PM Everyone looks and sounds like everyone else.

Thebes 10:28 PM with varying levels of ANGRY1!1

warwearymedic 10:29 PM That sounded urgent

highglossfinish 10:29 PM You can tell the war's been harsh because everyone is mildly disgruntled and surly.

thenightetc 10:31 PM Megatron REALLY likes the self-portraits, huh.

warwearymedic 10:31 PM Why does "Spinster's" voice sound so familiar

highglossfinish 10:31 PM Ours absolutely hated having his picture taken.

highglossfinish 10:31 PM "Tell me or I'll give you such a pout!"

thenightetc 10:32 PM Tsk.

warwearymedic 10:32 PM Clear weather down there, is it?

highglossfinish 10:33 PM Oh, here we are!

warwearymedic 10:33 PM Oh is that what I look like?

highglossfinish 10:34 PM It's what the boxiestverse says you look like, so yes.

thenightetc 10:34 PM *leans back*

warwearymedic 10:34 PM This is jarring and I don't like it

warwearymedic 10:34 PM This is worse!

thenightetc 10:34 PM It is unsettling.

highglossfinish 10:35 PM On our Cybertron, they make you pay for this experience.

thenightetc 10:36 PM Ten dollars says he's dead soon.

highglossfinish 10:36 PM Ratchet, this you sounds like a younger Wheeljack.

warwearymedic 10:37 PM Saying that may be the worst thing you've ever done to me, and you've tried to cut my head off.

highglossfinish 10:37 PM Oh yes, I've definitely missed this.

highglossfinish 10:38 PM Oh, look who gets to go out and safely look up in the rain?

thenightetc 10:38 PM So is Megatron in charge of this Cybertron...?

warwearymedic 10:38 PM That's not very clear

Thebes 10:38 PM Are there any clear answers?

highglossfinish 10:40 PM /LIPS./ Thebes joined the party.

thenightetc 10:40 PM Look away from the lips.

warwearymedic 10:40 PM We can all see them. You don't need to point them out

highglossfinish 10:41 PM I can't look away. They're like a light show.

highglossfinish 10:41 PM Or a Seeker taking a dive into the ground.

thenightetc 10:42 PM He sound so shocked.

thenightetc 10:42 PM f

highglossfinish 10:42 PM F.

thenightetc 10:42 PM Those captions

warwearymedic 10:42 PM I looked away, what did I miss with the captions?

thenightetc 10:43 PM "[Jetfire panting] Lord Megatron..."

highglossfinish 10:43 PM Well, then!

warwearymedic 10:43 PM Ah

highglossfinish 10:44 PM Even Laserbeak is blunt and heavy.

highglossfinish 10:45 PM I never got to know our Skyfire, but if it's true that Starscream's found him, I hope they're getting along better than these two.

thenightetc 10:45 PM Yeah.

thenightetc 10:46 PM What *are* aerodynamics, anyway.

highglossfinish 10:47 PM None of that in this universe.

thenightetc 10:48 PM So he's... possessed?  Possessed by Beardy?

highglossfinish 10:52 PM How terrifying it must be to live in a universe where that's a thing that can happen.

thenightetc 10:55 PM Look at him, he's having fun.

Thebes 10:55 PM now what's going to ruin everything for him

warwearymedic 10:56 PM Historically? Everything

highglossfinish 10:56 PM Historically, everything, up to and including Starscream himself.

thenightetc 10:56 PM You're not wrong.

Thebes 10:56 PM yeah, but are we talking at once or domino effect resulting in a screeching tantrum that finishes the job

warwearymedic 10:56 PM Old. Alright.

thenightetc 10:57 PM "Hmmm.  Bold choice"

highglossfinish 10:58 PM I certainly hope nothing plants a great big Autobot insignia on that vast empty space on his chestplate.

thenightetc 10:58 PM Perish the thought.

highglossfinish 10:59 PM "Also, some organic grass is here too."

thenightetc 11:00 PM So it... tells the future??

warwearymedic 11:00 PM Can this divine projection only move one arm?

highglossfinish 11:00 PM Apparently.

highglossfinish 11:01 PM Did Prowl's voice just change completely?

warwearymedic 11:01 PM This Prowl sounds horribly inconsistent

thenightetc 11:01 PM What else is new.

warwearymedic 11:02 PM Just because you can walk through the screens does not mean you should

thenightetc 11:02 PM So is the code... magic?

thenightetc 11:02 PM Is there some reason it can't be copied?

highglossfinish 11:02 PM Absolutely none.

highglossfinish 11:02 PM "I have a virus."

highglossfinish 11:03 PM I thought he was just going to end it there.

thenightetc 11:03 PM Heh.

highglossfinish 11:05 PM "Not that?"

thenightetc 11:06 PM Honor.  Yeah.

thenightetc 11:06 PM Trion seems to have a problem with sticking things in people.

warwearymedic 11:06 PM I've figured out why they're so jarring to look at: their plating is so textured but their faces are so smooth

highglossfinish 11:06 PM It's very uncanny.

thenightetc 11:06 PM They all polish their faces every day.

highglossfinish 11:07 PM Then they gather around to caress each other's smooth, smooth faces, as all Autobots do.

thenightetc 11:07 PM :(

thenightetc 11:08 PM Need I remind you that the Decepticons' faces are equally smooth.

warwearymedic 11:08 PM It cost you zero credits to say that

highglossfinish 11:08 PM And yet, here we are.

highglossfinish 11:08 PM The best things in life are free.

warwearymedic 11:09 PM I should have said "not to say that" but I was just too stunned

highglossfinish 11:09 PM Speaking of which, alternate you is losing that "young Wheeljack" note and just slipping straight into Wheeljack.

thenightetc 11:10 PM Did he need to phrase it like that

highglossfinish 11:10 PM He did not.

Thebes 11:10 PM God those lips are... disturbing? I think disturbing's the right word

highglossfinish 11:10 PM Now, I must have missed something...why does Ultra Magnus have a deadly virus inside him?

warwearymedic 11:11 PM All of us on this end would also like the answer to that

warwearymedic 11:11 PM Ah, I forgot Praxus did that

thenightetc 11:12 PM Ugh.

highglossfinish 11:12 PM Was it war related? Or did he just pick it up in a bathhouse somewhere?

thenightetc 11:13 PM ...Oh boy!

thenightetc 11:13 PM Oh

thenightetc 11:13 PM Oh boy!  Stealing!

warwearymedic 11:14 PM I need you all to know that Leo murmured "a heist" very quietly under her breath and now she won't stop giggling

highglossfinish 11:14 PM Why are all Arcees save ours so ugly?

highglossfinish 11:14 PM Leo's there too?

thenightetc 11:14 PM One of those multiversal quirks, I'm sure.

warwearymedic 11:15 PM She's been popping in

thenightetc 11:16 PM Of all the things to happen, "Shockwave ties up Ultra Magnus's corpse and gives it a virus" wasn't one I expected.

highglossfinish 11:17 PM Concurred.

highglossfinish 11:17 PM Just let the storm have him.

thenightetc 11:17 PM Agreed.

warwearymedic 11:17 PM I can't say I disagree

thenightetc 11:18 PM Still, I guess Jetfire has something to prove.

highglossfinish 11:18 PM What's that little device again? I was busy commenting on Ultra Magnus and bathhouses.

warwearymedic 11:19 PM Which device, the core override?

thenightetc 11:19 PM The remote for the bomb in Jetfire's head.

highglossfinish 11:19 PM Charming.

thenightetc 11:19 PM Interesting logo.

warwearymedic 11:20 PM Fundamentally not how sparks work

highglossfinish 11:20 PM Nothing about the way this universe works is how anything works.

warwearymedic 11:21 PM But you would at least think they'd cover the basics

highglossfinish 11:22 PM A way to carry them out might have been a good idea.

thenightetc 11:22 PM What a great heist.

warwearymedic 11:23 PM How is she walking

highglossfinish 11:23 PM How are any of their hips not giving out under them?

thenightetc 11:24 PM :|

highglossfinish 11:24 PM Terrorcons. Ugh.

thenightetc 11:24 PM Oh good, saved by something unrelated to what they were doing.

highglossfinish 11:26 PM Goodbye, highly disposable member of our team.

warwearymedic 11:26 PM Ah, yes, Prowl, well-known to buy into myths and legends

thenightetc 11:27 PM So uh... is the presence of the Allspark responsible for the terrorcons?

thenightetc 11:27 PM Now roll it.

thenightetc 11:27 PM Please somebody roll it.

highglossfinish 11:27 PM "They just pulled off my arms and legs, which our species is built to survive. I'm fine...I'm not dead. Is anyone listening?" ~Moonracer.

thenightetc 11:29 PM Again, is this MAGIC code?

thenightetc 11:30 PM Are there backups somewhere?

warwearymedic 11:30 PM This Red Alert is not nearly paranoid enough to be Red Alert

highglossfinish 11:30 PM The same magic code that they apparently all injected when they split into political factions, just so they could have one more additional way to kill each other.

thenightetc 11:31 PM I guess Megatron doesn't join in on the face-polishing.  Has other things to do.

highglossfinish 11:31 PM He polishes his lips and nothing else.

thenightetc 11:31 PM Or does he have someone polish his lips FOR him?

highglossfinish 11:32 PM He puckers his lip components and chases everyone around the base for an hour and whoever's left standing gets polish duty for that day.

warwearymedic 11:33 PM Every time you speak it gets worse

thenightetc 11:33 PM Speaking from experience, eh?

highglossfinish 11:34 PM Our Megatron's mouth is violently incompatible with lips.

thenightetc 11:35 PM Polished until there was nothing left.

thenightetc 11:35 PM Sounds like one of those cautionary tales.

warwearymedic 11:35 PM Gladiators were either known for excessive attention to appearance, or almost aggressive lack thereof

highglossfinish 11:36 PM They were fun that way. Rajkumar99salam joined the party.

Rajkumar99salam 11:38 PM hi

highglossfinish 11:38 PM Mysterious stranger.

thenightetc 11:38 PM And who could have seen that coming.

thenightetc 11:38 PM F.

thenightetc 11:39 PM Wait how did it land point-up?

thenightetc 11:39 PM :|

highglossfinish 11:40 PM This is a mess.

thenightetc 11:40 PM Once again, the Allspark is hurled randomly into space.

highglossfinish 11:42 PM Now who will patch up all their internal trauma with his lush, velvety voice?

highglossfinish 11:42 PM Fightin'.

thenightetc 11:42 PM Who indeed.

warwearymedic 11:43 PM Has Ironhide spoken at all

warwearymedic 11:43 PM Ours never managed to stop talking

thenightetc 11:44 PM "Died".  Right.

highglossfinish 11:44 PM I would be up all night laughing if they'd all just died immediately on the ship.

thenightetc 11:45 PM You know they're fine.

highglossfinish 11:45 PM Yes, but it would be *funny.*

thenightetc 11:46 PM Oh boy!

thenightetc 11:49 PM Gun... orfices... :|

highglossfinish 11:49 PM Oh yes.

thenightetc 11:50 PM This sure is how everything works

highglossfinish 11:50 PM It certainly is that.

thenightetc 11:51 PM Nice.

Thebes 11:55 PM only the most rigorous scientific method around here

thenightetc 11:55 PM Just hollow out the entire planet.

highglossfinish 11:56 PM He's angered the gods.

thenightetc 11:57 PM Oh my

highglossfinish 11:58 PM Amazing.

thenightetc 12:00 AM I am in awe.

highglossfinish 12:00 AM I want to have his capacity to see opportunities.

highglossfinish 12:02 AM ....I've been given a suggestion for what we're closing the night on, and it's very short and it's needed.

thenightetc 12:02 AM Ooooo?

thenightetc 12:02 AM Sounds promising!

highglossfinish 12:02 AM You'll see!

thenightetc 12:07 AM I love it.

Thebes 12:07 AM I am reminded of Dwarf Fortress.

thenightetc 12:09 AM Dear lord.

highglossfinish 12:09 AM Here we go.

highglossfinish 12:11 AM Dear sweet Unicron.

thenightetc 12:12 AM Nice.

highglossfinish 12:13 AM Here comes boxiest Megatron!

Thebes 12:13 AM was not expecting things to end in nuclear armageddon!

thenightetc 12:13 AM *squints*

Thebes 12:13 AM OH NO

Thebes 12:13 AM THE TIM CURRY ORGAN?!

highglossfinish 12:13 AM OH YES INDEED!

thenightetc 12:14 AM Er

warwearymedic 12:14 AM It was decided that that's what he looks like

highglossfinish 12:14 AM Megatron before he set his sights on Cybertron.

thenightetc 12:15 AM My god

thenightetc 12:16 AM "If you're turned on, then just turn off"

highglossfinish 12:16 AM That certainly was a lyric.

thenightetc 12:16 AM It sure was.

highglossfinish 12:17 AM And that, dear friends and Ratchet, is where we close! KIMBERLY06 joined the party.

KIMBERLY06 12:18 AM hie

thenightetc 12:18 AM Well, thanks for hosting!  It certainly was a trip.

warwearymedic 12:18 AM I suppose I should say it was a pleasure, but that's questionable

highglossfinish 12:18 AM Thank you for coming!

thenightetc 12:18 AM Goodnight!

highglossfinish 12:18 AM It was wretched. Thank you all for sharing the burden of it.

highglossfinish 12:18 AM Good night!

thenightetc 12:18 AM Ha.

[spectrumscribe]

Explanations please?

Part of my Voltron/TMNT AU, Donnie and Raph meeting up for the first time, again, under some... interesting circumstances.

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

Maybe Raph should have stayed in the research and development division. It probably would have been less of a headache.

But, what could he do? Mysterious emails containing information about his older sister and father’s disappearance, summoning him to the garrison, and absolutely reeking of Donnie’s sneaky little hacker touch, could not be ignored.

He hadn’t seen his brother in a good while, either. He hadn’t seen any of his siblings, not since their father and sister left earth. Karai would probably give them all hell for losing track of each other- especially Mikey, who knew where he’d gotten off to- and Raph wasn’t sure if he’d fight the scolding.

Nah. He would. It was the principle of things.

It wouldn’t be fun, trying to figure out how to exist in the same space as his siblings again. Military rules or no, they’d find a way to start a fight. But this was for Karai and their dad, and figuring out why no one had even told Raph that his sister and father were missing. It felt unsettlingly like a thriller spy movie, all the secrecy and cover-ups.

So when Raph had gotten the email, containing what was probably a lot of stolen documents- he’d deleted it, twice over, packed his bags, and submitted a form to transfer into pilot training.

The transfer alone had been hard enough, and now Raph couldn’t locate Donnie or Leo. His eldest brother should’ve met him at the door, because Leo was a nosy motherfucker, and Raph thought Donnie would at least slink by to say hello. Instead, he hadn’t been able to find either, and he’d already been on base for a few hours.

Suspicious.

Donnie had said, in the email, that he’d been on base for a few weeks. That he’d been steadily sifting for new information about their missing family. Secretly. For reasons he hadn’t put into the email.

Raph honestly couldn’t believe that his techy brother had signed up for piloting, but it was for a good cause. He guessed that even Donnie, devoted as he was to his private research, would set that aside for this.

It would be nice if he would actually show up now, and maybe explain a bit more in-depth about just what the hell was going on.

Raph adjusted the collar of his new uniform, one that was a lot more constricting than the engineer’s version had been. Those things had room to breathe, and this one felt like a snake’s skin. Too tight all over.

A few other new initiates were milling around the area, the dorm rooms hallway, as they settled in. Raph had already dumped his bag out on his bed, so he figured he was unpacked enough for the moment. He could make it military grade order later. Right now he was hunting for his other missing siblings.

His eyes skipped from trainee to trainee, examining each one briefly. It was a good idea to get familiar with who he’d be spending the next few months of his life with, considering his circumstances for being on base.

He paused on one of the trainees.

A long braid went down her back, dark hair pulled tightly into it. A pair of black framed glasses perched on her nose, and they reflected the screen of the device she was typing on. She stood apart from the crowd, leaned against a wall. She seemed to be waiting for the people making noise in a room to be done. Probably so she could go back inside.

It took another second to match the person in front of him with the person in his mind, and then Raph figured out the girl was his brother.

Oh what the actual fuck.

She- he glanced up from his device, and red eyes met Raph’s green ones. Donnie looked at Raph for a moment, nodded, and then seemed to conclude that was enough of a greeting.

Wow. No, it was so not. Definitely not.

Where the fuck was Leo? Why the fuck was Donnie without his binder? And were those extensions in his hair??

Raph marched over to his brother, grabbed Donnie’s arm, and started hauling him away. Donnie protested quietly, but didn’t pull hard enough to break Raph’s grip on his arm.

Raph pulled Donnie around the corner into an empty hallway, released his brother, and rounded on him to say, “You have exactly three seconds to explain what the hell is going on.”

Donnie blinked down at Raph. “Nice to see you to.”

“Oh- don’t give me that, Donnie,” Raph said. He gestured sharply at Donnie. “What the hell is all this. Why do you have extensions? Because you definitely didn’t the last time I saw you. Hell, for that matter, where the fuck is your binder.”

“Shhh!” Donnie hissed, glancing around them. “No one here knows about that! And I’m not Donnie right now, okay? It’s Tessa while I’m on base.”

Raph gave Donnie a look. “Tessa? Really?”

“Tessa Tello, to be precise.”

“Oh my god.”

“Hey, if you’re dark enough and have the right documents, people will believe anything.”

“Oh my god.”

Raph paced in a short circle, working on catching up on what was happening. “Okay. So you’re undercover. Obviously. Fantastic. Got it. Why though.”

Donnie crossed his arms, and looked away. “Because. Missing family and all that.”

“Yes, but why are you-” Raph gestured sharply at Donnie again. “-like this? We- we put a lot of work into helping you… you know. Why’d you go and undo all that?”

Donnie seemed to bristle, scowling at Raph. “It’s my body. My choice.”

Raph sighed, and turned to look at his brother again. “I know that. But… you were so happy. And everything that went on before that- I don’t get why you’d go back. You weren’t happy Don- Tessa.”

If Donnie wanted Raph to call him by his new name, he would. Felt weird in Raph’s mouth though.

Donnie kept scowling for another moment, and then his shoulders slumped. The careful mask over his stress and exhaustion lifted, and he looked a lot more like the brother Raph knew. “I know. I know it’s weird. I don’t like it either, but it’s for our dad and sister. Just until I find them.”

Raph grimaced at his brother, not liking how tired Donnie seemed. “How come you didn’t just register as a guy? There wouldn’t’ve been any issue with you doing that. Your papers are already all changed.”

Donnie shifted uneasily, and looked away from Raph again. “Um… weeeell…”

Raph knew that tone. Uh oh. “D- Tess. What did you do?”

“I kinda sorta maaaaaybe got myself perma-banned from the base. And might’ve verbally assaulted a few people during that. Maybe hit a few too. Um. Yeah.”

Raph blinked. “Are you kidding me?”

“Would I be dressed like this if I was?” Donnie asked dryly. He sounded like he was attempting to cover up his embarrassment. “This hair is making me feel like I’m dying of heatstroke like all the time. And, god, I didn’t know how frustrating makeup could be. I don’t know how Karai does it.”

Raph pinched the bridge of his nose. He left his brothers alone for a few months, and this is what happened. Leo cutting off almost all contact, Donnie going and hacking government files, and apparently assaulting government staff too, and who fucking knew where the hell Mikey had buggered off to.

“And people used to call me the impulsive one,” Raph grumbled.

“Shut up,” Donnie said. “They’d been lying to us all along about our dad and Karai. I was a little ticked off, alright?”

“Why did you have to come on the base for that anyways? Couldn’t you have- I don’t know- just hacked from afar? You usually do that. Why didn’t you do that?”

“I was upset, okay? Thinking straight is hard when you’re upset. And besides, the best way into the file system was direct uplink. Via a computer already a part of the system.”

“Why are you not in jail,” Raph asked, rubbing his temples. “How are you not in jail?”

Donnie adjusted his glasses, narrowed eyes glaring at something not there. “Because. They want to keep things quiet about dad and Karai. If they locked me up, they’d have to give a reason, and then the media would hear about them losing our family and Shini. I wouldn’t exactly have stayed silent, either.”

“Well, okay then. Fuck. Where’s Leo?” Raph asked, switching topics. Because, hell, if things had gotten this bad, Leo had to have gotten involved already. “He should’ve come and stuck his nose into my business already; it’s been like three whole hours since I got here.”

“He’s… well…”

The change in Donnie’s tone made Raph’s older brother instincts twitch. He looked at Donnie, and saw a bit more slump had been added to his posture.

“I don’t think he knows I’m here,” Donnie said quietly.

Raph stared at him. “The fuck. How could he not? You’re like six feet now. How could he miss you.”

“He’s, um,” Donnie visibly swallowed. “He’s walked right past me. A bunch of times. I… I looked him in the eye one time, and he just… ignored me afterwards. I don’t think he recognizes me.”

Wow. What the shit.

“Bullshit,” Raph said automatically.

“No, really,” Donnie adjusted his glasses again. Nervously. When he’d had glasses as a kid, that’d been a nervous tick of his. “I’m back to not binding, and I do use a bit of makeup, and the glasses and hair and, uh, I’m pitching my voice a bit too-”

Raph grabbed Donnie’s hand, and stopped his brother from listing reasons why their older brother wouldn’t recognize him. “Dee. Donnie. Donatello.” That got Donnie to look at him. Good. Raph squeezed Donnie’s hand. “Hey. You okay? For real. I know this probably hasn’t been easy on you.”

“Do you need physical okay-ness or emotional okay-ness?” Donnie asked, a hint of grim humor in his voice.

“Donnie.”

“Fine. I’m not okay. Emotionally. This has been awful, and it really sucked that my own brother didn’t recognize me with long hair.”

Raph squeezed Donnie’s hand again. “Are you going to be okay?”

Donnie let out a long sigh. “When this is over, and our family is home, I’ll be okay.”

“Good.” Raph said shortly. He grabbed Donnie in a quick, tight hug, then let him go and started walking towards the hallway they’d come from. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go find and punch our brother in the nose.”

“Raph- no! Stop it!” Donnie exclaimed, grabbing Raph’s shoulders and pulling him back. “What part of undercover and low profile don’t you get? The garrison doesn’t know me and Leo are related, or you and me for that matter!”

“He still should’ve known you! Crap on you head or not!” Raph said, pulling against Donnie’s grip.

“Oh my god- can you just- chill for like a minute! It’s fine! I’m fine with it!”

“No you’re not!”

“Maybe! But it’s for Karai and dad! Chill out!”

“After I punch Leo, I’ll chill out all you want!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

    Raph didn’t get to punch Leo in the nose, but he definitely, definitely wanted to.

Even after Leo’s explanation of “I was just doing what I thought Donnie wanted me to. Keeping everything low profile.” and how it would’ve been dangerous for him to contact Donnie anyways, because the whole garrison was watching Leo, “-for months, and I haven’t been able to figure out why, and they wouldn’t tell me anything about dad or Karai either-”, but still.

Fucking asshole. Not even trying to tell Donnie he fucking recognized him.

Raph really wanted to punch Leo. He didn’t get his chance though, because-

-then they’d seen a space ship fall out of the sky, relocated their missing sister and AWOL brother, become fugitives, and found an ancient robotic cat. And then gone to space.

Raph honestly didn’t know he would’ve expected, five of the Hamato’s reuniting like so. Why was nothing simple with his family? Ever?

Staying in the engineering division definitely would have been less of a headache.

Next fic.

[sofanite]

the sphinx

I sprint down Polk Street, past barred windows and liquor stores. It’s already starting to get dark out because my shift at the hospital ran late, and I’m about to miss the next bus.

As I run, there’s a feeling pumping in my chest. Maybe it’s unease or excitement or loneliness or fear. Who cares? They’re all so similar. I don’t know which feeling I should be wearing, so my face is just tensed up into a combination of every emotion.

Anyways, it’s getting dark and foggy out and the pumping in my chest is growing more and more insistent. Down the street on my left, I see a man with a knife, and I run a little faster. I run right into a statue. Shit, that hurts.

I blink, and look up at a marble sphinx. She’s gleaming ghostly white in the dusk.

“Why the hell are you here?” I demand, “In the middle of the sidewalk?”

“I don’t know, why are you here, Marumi?” she asks. Her voice is deep and soft.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

The Sphinx’s smile slowly widens, and I feel like I’m about to be attacked. “Well, why are you here? How do you feel? Who are you?”

“I don’t know? I’m just me,” I say.

“I hoped you would at least try. You don’t know who I am?”

“Uh,” I say, “A sphinx?”

“Yes, I ask questions. Answer them right, and I’ll let you go. Answer them wrong, and I will kill you. Remain silent, and you’ll remain lost.”

“Sounds fun,” I say, “but I’m about to miss the bus. Could you move over a little?”

An emotion drifts onto the Sphinx’s face, but then she leans in and purrs, “I know a good kushiyaki restaurant nearby. Do you want to go? Answer wrong, and I will kill you.”

I’m not sure if she’s joking, but she does have a beautiful voice and I don’t want to die. I nod and follow her down the street.

The restaurant is small, and loud, and smells like smoke. The hostess seats us at the corner booth. There’s a pause as I wait for the Sphinx to say something, but she just stares at me with her empty eyes.

“So…” I say, “How was your day?”

“Why were you in such a hurry to get home?” she replies.

“I don’t like to be out alone so late” I tell her. She just stares at me some more.

I watch a woman across the restaurant as she feeds her child a spoonful of oyako don, a dish which translates to “parent and child on rice.” I feel the unnamed pumping feeling in my chest again. I’m melting away, in this crowded place that smells like roasted meats and childhood.

I think of the skewered meats I ate as a kid, at summer festivals in Japan. I’d walk through seas of people wearing colorful yukatas, holding tight to my mom’s hand to keep from melting away into this web of stories that weren’t my own. Then, my mom would notice how scared I was, and she’d buy me a flimsy plastic oni mask from the festival stand full of Hello Kitties and Pikachus. This angry red-faced identity would melt onto me and protect me from the fear and joy and isolation of knowing my mom and I were the only individuals in this sea of masks and caricatures.

“Why did you agree to dinner with me, if you were so desperate to get home?” the Sphinx asks, finally. “And just so you know, I can smell lies.”

“Well…” I say, “you literally threatened to kill me.”

“And instead of running away, you followed me,” she says, and frowns, slowly.

The way she moves is slow, confident, and unsettlingly transparent. It’s as though she has no mask to protect her thoughts from the world, and not much is going on under her cold marble surface. Then she says,

“If you insist on avoiding the truth, I have a riddle for you:

What is full and empty at the same time, stacked up inside itself like nesting dolls? Whose fervent pursuit of home, by design drives itself further and further from shore? What goes trawling through deep thoughts, just to drown in the shallows, forced down by contradictions?”

“Hey!” I’m insulted, though I can’t articulate exactly why. “Are you talking about me?”

“Well done. I guess I do not have to kill you,” she says.

“Just because I appreciate beauty doesn’t mean I’m shallow.”

The Sphinx rolls her eyes. “You completely missed the point. All I meant is you do not know yourself, Marumi.”

“What do you know about me?” I ask. “You’re just a sphinx statue, cold and stone all the way to your core.”

“What a charmer you are,” the Sphinx says, in her cold, stony way, and she leaves me alone in the booth. I swallow my mouthful of skewered chicken heart.

I eat the rest of my meal as fast as I can. This place is full of people, with lives and stories that aren’t my own, and I hate being alone in public places. I run out of the restaurant. Hide, hide, hide, I think, with each step I take through the maze of San Francisco streets.

When I finally reach the steps of my home, the Sphinx is there, glowing white against my dark apartment building. She’s waiting for me. Fuck.

“Look,” I start, “...I’m sorry I called you cold.” The Sphinx smiles down at me slowly, serenely. I take a step towards her. “It’s just, you always seem so calm. All I see of you is perfectly sculpted marble. It’s hard to feel you.”

She says nothing.

“Look,” I say again. “I’m sorry.”

At last she says, “Why were you so desperate to get home?” and leans down until her face is almost touching mine.

“You ask too many questions,” I say.

I pull her closer and kiss her. Under my lips she feels marble-soft and warm. I feel the pumping feeling in my chest. Maybe it’s surprise or fear or satisfaction or infatuation, but whatever it is, my plastic face-mask melts off and I smile slowly, serenely. I kiss her again.