#author: Letterhead

[dramioneasks]

Hermione Granger and the Very Important Year Off - Letterhead - M, WIP - Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her year vanishes for fourth year. When she comes back, everyone is obsessed with her. Problem is, Draco Malfoy was already obsessed with her.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Overtime 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss, Mr. Hansen, runs you ragged but you find solace in an unexpected friend.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, Jake Jensen.

Author’s Note: This one is dedicated to my dearest @thezombieprostitute

Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

The sudden gust and subsequent chaos across your desk has you reeling. You wheel back as you raise your hands defenslessly and watch everything scatter. Mr. Hansen’s jacket knocks over your fresh cup of coffee and your favourite ornament of a little ballerina kitten. 

“My office now, critter.” 

You wince again, this time because of the cruel name. You hate when he calls you that. You stand and pick up your boss’ jacket before it can get wet in the spilled coffee. You hang it on the rack in the corner beside your own and go back to sop up the mess with a wad of kleenex. 

You have more down your tights and on your chair but it doesn’t matter. At least time, it wasn’t scalding tea. You gather up the rest of your things but leave them in an unsorted cluster. You know better than to keep him waiting. 

As you flit around the desk, you notice a pair of watching eyes. You almost forgot about Jensen. He was so quiet messing with the printer that you didn’t even notice him. He frowns as he sits up and shuts the drawer. 

“You alright?” He asks. 

“Ahem, yea, thanks,” you try to smile but these days, it just isn’t easy. 

He gives you a look. Sympathetic and something more. You’re too embarrassed to worry about that. More so, you’re too afraid to make Mr. Hansen even angrier. Clearly something is wrong and the days only just begun. 

You approach his open office door. That’s a clear signal that he’s been waiting. You enter as one of your flats slips off your heel and claps loudly. You cringe as he stands at the window, glowering at the courtyard below. You like the green square. You go there to eat your lunches. When you get one.

“Tell me why my ex-wife insists on making me miserable?” He snarls. 

He doesn’t want an answer. When he asks you things, he never does. It’s rhetorical. He often only speaks to hear himself and anyone else joining the conversation only gives him a target. 

“I will get you your brown sugar espresso and croissant at once--” 

“Fuck off!” He chops his hand in the air and faces you. “I didn’t just call you in here for you to feed my like some pet. Come here.” 

He snaps his fingers and points to the chair across from his. You always hate the setup. The one behind his desk is tall and cushy and makes him look like a tyrannical king, whereas the one facing him is too low and made of the most uncomfortable acrylic. It doesn’t even have armrests. 

“Take notes.” 

You open up the notes app on your phone without hesitation. The smell of coffee wafter up from your stockings. You shift and focus on him. 

“Melora, you ice cold cunt, it’s been two years since I left your dry ass. If you send your attorney to my house again, I will show up to yours with a crowbar. My dick feels good without frost bite, thank you very much. Your regretful ex-husband, Lloyd ‘Fuck You’ Hansen.” He snorts and shakes his head. “Fucking bitch.” You keep typing and he shakes his index at you, “not that part. Fuck. Oh, can you add the sick face emoji before you format that? Thanks, critter.” 

You hit save and stand up, “would you like your coffee now?” 

“Uh, sure, whatever. Make sure it’s hot. Oh, and you know what, I want that as a PDF before you forward it over to the former Mrs. Hansen. With letterhead.” 

He shoos you and you gladly take the dismissal. You never were one for arguing and never dared to say a single spare word to your boss. You assume that’s why he keeps you around. You’re no extraordinary assistant, just obedient. 

The tasks he gives you might not all be professional but as long as you get them done, you don’t get any trouble. You stride back out to your desk and stop short. Your things are all back where they belong and dry. Your cup is clean and rinsed out. 

Who did that? 

“Hey, uh, what kinda coffee do you take?” Jensen surprises you as he appears from around the corner. 

“Jake, uh I mean, Mr. Jensen, did you do all this?” 

“Ha, no one calls me mister but you,” he chuckles. “Don’t worry about it. Took like six seconds. I was just thinking, I’m going to make a run down to The Grind and maybe I could get you something fresh.” 

“Oh, that’s so sweet. I... no, please don’t waste your time,” you wring your hands, your chewed up nails aching from your nervous habit. “I gotta go get Mr. Hansen’s breakfast.” 

“Right,” he looks down and fixes his glasses, “well, I fixed that thing.” He nods to the printer, “shouldn’t eat anymore paper. I hope. You know, every tech bootcamp I’ve gone through and they never teach you about printers. I swear, they defy the laws of the universe.” 

You show your teeth in a half-smile. That’s silly. He grins proudly. 

“I didn’t mention, I... like that bow in your hair. It’s cute. Matches your little kitty.” 

You peek down at the figurine of the calico doing a pirouette. You blush. You only wish you were that dainty. You feel gawkish with the way you seem to loom over everyone else, yet somehow feel tiny at the same time. 

“Thanks. That’s... please don’t feel sorry for me. He’s not that bad and it’s my job,” you shrug. 

“Feel sorry? No, I’m just... being nice. Well, maybe another time. For the coffee,” he says. “Unless, I could go with you on your run?” 

“Uh, that’s-- you’re busy. Mr. Hansen only like Esther’s.” 

“Esther’s?” He exclaims as his eyes bulge behind his frameless lenses, “that’s all the way across town.” 

“I know some shortcuts,” you assure him as you bend to retrieve your purse from under your desk and drop your phone in. “Anyway, thanks for fixing the printer. I gotta go before he catches me dawdling.” 

“Right. Guess I should get to accounting. Guess they had a server crash and some stuff got lost. See ya round.” 

“Sure,” you agree. You don’t see too many people around. They avoid Hansen and more often, you’re running around at his beck and call. 

[bakugoushotwife]

Threads of Fate // s. gojo x fem!reader

a/n: the series is hereeeee!! thank you to my lovely discord server who helped me title this and listened to all my ramblings and plans for the series! I hope you guys love chapter one!

spotify playlist for chapter by chapter vibes!

here’s a Spotify playlist for the first chapter :)

cw: cursing, a little meanness, gojo, unedited

wc: 4.6k

series masterlist // chapter two

You were born special, that much was clear. A baby girl born to the Jujutsu Clan of Nashville sorcerers with the genetic gift of the Quelling Eyes, something your twin was not so lucky to receive. Your brother was fraternal to you, younger by just a few minutes. He had an equally terrifying and special ability, but it was apparent that his twin was destined for greater things. The two of you were number one and two in the western circuit, respectively. 

It was lonely at the top, even if your twin brother was right behind you. The higher ups expected more out of you than your classmates. They gave you harder missions and even assigned task forces under your guidance. You were expected to do things with ease, blessed with powers and techniques that no one in America had seen before, other than the genetic Quelling Eyes, and not much was known about them. You were the first line of offense and defense in any unexpected situation, even though you were just a fifteen year old girl. They made it a point to keep your brother separate on his own teams, not keen to let you two rely on each other. American sorcerers were war machines, and nothing else. You were a perfect weapon. 

Well, nearly perfect, anyway. 

It was a day like any other, the humid summer atmosphere filling your lungs with rocks as you tried to train your hand to hand combat. The sky was especially blue and clear that day, the sun exceptionally bright. Your twin tauntingly blocked every kick and strike you threw his way, the two of you in a battle of ego. You were two sides of one sadistic coin, pushing each other to be the most powerful version of yourselves. He couldn’t stomach your designation as number one, and you were determined to not let him surpass you. 

“Y/N. Pack your bags. You’re going to Tokyo.” Your drill sergeant said, interrupting your sparring contest just as you were starting to make him stumble. You groan and dramatically turn your nose in the air, not even really noting the words, just that your sergeant spoke. “You leave tomorrow. Be ready, L/N.” He read off a piece of official letterhead. 

“Hah?” Your brother furrowed his brows in disgust. “Tokyo? What for?” He asked, unstrapping the velcro of his protective gloves. 

You nod, tearing yours off with your teeth, unbothered to do it the easy way. “Yeah! What for?” You ask, perfectly manicured brow raised. 

Your instructor seemed annoyed, though that was to be expected with you in his charge. A bubbly but egotistical teen girl with the ability to back up her loud mouth was hardly his ideal student. He glanced back at the paper. “The Commission thinks you’re ready for your own squad, but they want you to help our allies in Tokyo to polish your skills. Says something here about training with their number one sorcerer, Satoru Gojo.” 

Your brother kicks the training dummy, discontent to see you sent off elsewhere. “She’s an American sorcerer. She should stay in America.”

You roll your eyes a bit. He was every bit as much of a dramatic egoist as you. You clap your hand on his shoulder. “Rest easy, bro. You know that means you get to be number one while I’m gone.” You tease, poking your tongue out at him. 

He deadpans. “Whatever, dipshit. Try not to destroy the city you’re in, this time.” He huffs, cleaning up the equipment you two drug out onto the football field today. Jujutsu School of Nashville was much like any other American highschool, though it had a much more military-esque authority presence. The school was your average brick foundation, lengthy hallways that lead to empty classrooms to study techniques and the major clans of the United States. Being a part of the Southern District gave your education a questionable undertone, as the south hasn’t been notable for their schooling over the years. Perhaps that’s why the Commission sought to send you on missions like these every so often, getting you experience with other teachers and techniques. The last time they sent you away had been talk of the school for years, you took down two special grade curses but happened to destroy the Australian village you were fighting in. 

“That happened once!” You huff, slapping your brother on the shoulder. “And the special grades woulda tore it up anyway, so I don’t wanna hear it!” 

Your twin just smiles and shakes his head. Your teacher sighs at the bickering, and just tiredly waves the letter at you, repeating, “5pm. Tomorrow, L/N.” Before he walks away. He sighs to himself, hopefully you would survive this round of missions too, but he could never be too sure with the U.S. Commission seemingly testing to see how much you could take before you snapped. 

It’s lonely at the top. You’ve known this since you were old enough to understand your power, and you’d estimate that realization at around five or six. You were able to overcome most of these struggles due to your bond with your twin and the repeated message that you were fated for a higher purpose. 

Though your brother wouldn’t be coming with you to Tokyo. This would be for you to navigate alone, and you were feeling this loneliness on your sixteen hour flight to Japan. The Academy has been all you’ve known since you started there. Once the severity of your power was realized, the government paid a pretty penny for you and your brother. Family loyalty hardly meant anything compared to the almighty dollar, plus, you were quite the unruly pair. 

Still, you had each other, and that had been enough. Until they separated you too, all in an effort to increase your power. 

Power. Tch. You were the best there is, plain and simple. All their tactics worked, paired with your natural prowess, you were sure there was nothing left to learn and no one on earth who could beat you. Your brother was extremely strong, able to bend time to his will. It’s nearly unconquerable, yet you can still best him every time. So who was this Satoru Gojo and why do you give a flying fuck? Your higher ups constantly seeking to sharpen your craft would soon realize you were as powerful as they come. Yet still, you didn’t want to walk in blind, nor show all the cards in your hand when you meet your new classmates for the first time. Your brother scored some books about the Gojo clan of Tokyo, highlighting important sections for you to study on your trip. 

You decide to pick up the heaviest book, leatherbound and dusty. It was about inherited techniques and idiosyncrasies within the clan, and your eyes land on the highlighted passage. 

“Mukagen Rikugan: The Six Eyes. A genetic power rarely inherited within the Gojo clan. They are not a cursed technique that needs to be activated—” 

That certainly piques your interest. Your Quelling Eyes are genetic as well, but they are very draining to your cursed energy. This means he has the opposite ability, you can’t help but chuckle through your nose at this. You read on to learn more about your future forced companion. 

“But an innate technique that grants the user the ability to master Limitless. Several hundred years must pass in between wielders and there will be no two Six Eyes users alive at the same time.”

Hm, that’s certainly interesting. Your eyes were passed generation to generation, with no limits to how many wielders can be alive at the same time. You figure there must be massive amounts of powers involved, and already the mention of another innate technique that he surely possessed to be hailed as the best in the east. 

“A Six Eyes bearer has immense perception and unrivaled visual prowess far beyond that of any other sorcerer. Their eye-sight is comparable to high-definition infrared vision, which allows them to see even when their eyes are covered. They can easily see from several kilometers away–” 

You figure that has to be a large distance, and you know you’re in for trouble in Tokyo. You know enough of the language to work your way around, but conversions like these were never your strong suit. The power sounds insanely strong, and you find yourself excited to meet someone with as much natural talent as you.

“---and distinctively tell apart different figures within that range. The Six Eyes can see the flow of cursed energy, empowering their bearer with the ability to read an individual’s cursed technique in use and determine its function. They can even identify between different types of cursed energy.” 

You smile to yourself. What an interesting ability. Your Quelling Eyes worked similarly, you too could differentiate between the types of cursed energy, but you specialized in repressing the circulation of it. Though the power took a lot of your own cursed energy to use for long amounts of time, it was insanely useful. Satoru Gojo would know what your cursed technique is upon meeting, but you wondered if he would discover your Quelling Eyes as well. 

Next was the books about the Limitless technique. It too, was an inherited family technique, though it seems only a user of the Six Eyes can maximize its potential. 

“Infinity is the base state of Limitless and is essentially the power to stop. The technique works the same way convergent and divergent sequences do in mathematics. The infinity is the convergence of an immeasurable series, anything that approaches the infinity will slow down and never reach the user. This is because the technique takes the finite amount of space between the two objects and divides it an infinite amount of times. The invisible barrier created by the Infinity can be expanded to keep harmful substances away from the user or to overpower someone attempting to neutralize their technique.”

You study some more notes on the subject, noting that the teen can’t actively support Infinity at all times just yet, having to decidedly turn it on and off at his choice. Either way, your ocular prowess should be enough to overpower it, and sneak your actual technique in, whether he’s expecting it or not. You hadn’t met the boy yet, but he was your new rival. It was clear he held tremendous ability, but you also wonder if he’s ever been challenged in the way he’s about to be. You hope to be a surprise, noting some records your brother tracked down that told of Satoru’s unbearable attitude and ego-centrism. You grin to yourself, knowing your teachers probably spoke of you in a similar fashion. 

You gaze out the window of your airplane, wondering what this meeting would hold for you. Which one of you would be humbled in this affair? You can’t help but smile as you picture a boy out there just as if not more powerful than you. You wondered if he felt the weight of the world pressing in around him, too. You wanted to know if he experienced that same loneliness that you felt, with everybody looking at you like a superhero instead of a little girl. Would he be relieved to find someone who knew what that felt like?

When you step out of the terminal in Tokyo, you aren’t sure what to expect. It’s not as if your school gave you many details to begin with, though they probably didn’t receive many themselves. The Commission was the federal level of sorcerer authority, so they only gave out what they needed to. You look around for anyone reeking of cursed energy, figuring that would be your best bet. But you’re met with an older man holding up a sign with your name on it. You arch a brow, chuckling softly to yourself as you adjust your backpack on your shoulder. It made you feel like you were in some romantic comedy, though the driver definitely couldn’t be the main love interest. 

You approach him anyway, dragging your suitcase behind you. He nodded his head to greet you. “Y/N L/N?” 

You nod back, giving him a polite smile. “In the flesh.” 

He seems unamused. He opens the trunk and loads your luggage in, leaving you grimacing awkwardly and debating if you should just duck into the sleek black car and eat the embarrassment or try to help with your bags. 

“Go ahead and take a seat, Miss Y/N.” He says sternly, and you nod with a tight lipped expression. Already making friends in Tokyo, your brother would be so proud. 

You sigh and shove yourself in the back, annoyed at yourself for being so nervous in the first place. Sure it was a foreign country, new people that only had a brief idea of who you are and what you can do, and the seemingly daunting task of learning aside Satoru Gojo. But you are a powerhouse. No amount of pressure can break a diamond. You can handle whatever Satoru Gojo and any other students of Jujutsu Tech have to throw at you. 

You repeat this mantra to yourself as the car winds down a curved path, no doubt taking you to the secluded castle-like building of Tokyo’s sorcery school. You can see the outlines of three figures waiting on an open field. It almost reminds you of the football field back home, though it’s not as long and most definitely not used for football in its spare time. The driver stops before the field, looking at you through the rearview mirror. 

“Go ahead. The teacher will guide you from here.” 

“Kudasai, my bags?” You ask, sliding out of the backseat. The driver only waves you off and keeps driving. There was a tall man with sunglasses, the man you assumed would be the sensei of your squad. There were two other boys with him, both tall but opposite in hair color. One had the most striking white color and the other had long dark locks. You peered in at them through the slats of the fence, unsure how to make your grand entrance. You had planned to make yourself a spectacle, impossible to ignore as you burst on the scene. 

“Ah! She’s here already! Come, come Miss L/N!” The teacher calls out as you approach, though the other two surely detected the magnitude of your cursed energy. The dark haired one seemed…surprised. The white haired one peered over dark circular lenses at you, expressionless. 

You step into the gate with a smile. From what you could tell, they were both pretty attractive. Maybe you could have a little fun while in Tokyo. “You must be Yaga-sensei?” 

He chuckles and nods. He waves you closer, brightly smiling  as you stand just a few feet away from the group. The black haired man exchanges a look with the white haired counterpart, though now that you’re closer you can decidedly say they’re good looking. The dark-haired man’s hair was long, but he had angled layers that framed his sharp features. His eyes were kind though, and his lips curled into an inviting smile. 

“This is Suguru Geto!” The teacher says, holding the boy by both shoulders. If possible, his warm face shifts into an even brighter smile. “Be nice to her, she’s from America! Tennessee!” The man chuckles as he pronounces the silly name. 

“It’s nice to meet you, L/N-chan!” He beams, extending his hand for you. You smile easily, your features soft and seductive. You’re easily the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, though he knows Shoko would be devastated to hear it. You take his hand in both of yours, leaning forward a little to give him an adorable nose-crinkled smile. 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Geto-senpai.” You hum, which flusters the boy a little. He averts his gaze from your shyly, clearly taken aback a bit by your forwardness. He shakes his head quickly. 

“Oh–no, we’re the same age so you can call us san!” He chuckled, releasing your grip. The pink on his cheeks is still evident, but your eyes had already shifted to the boy staring intensely at you. He had the most peculiar eyes that you had ever seen before. They were bluer than the sky, glowing with an ethereal brightness. It’s captivating, the way he analyzes you without any trace of his findings on his face. Yaga-sensei moves to his shoulders. He’s a couple inches taller than the first boy, but not as broad. He’s much lankier, but you can tell by his cursed energy that he is insanely powerful. It all makes sense. You realize who this is as your new teacher says it. 

“This is Satoru Gojo!” He says, and you see the hint of nervousness creep up onto his face. He clears his throat before announcing his next bit. “Satoru! You will train with her, she is on your power level!” 

This makes the boy show his first emotion of the day, genuine joy. He laughs, a hearty, full- bodied chuckle. His head is tossed back, shoulders jumping, his hand over his heart enjoying the hilarity. Suguru looks at you apologetically, but you smirk, and hold your hand up as if to say, “I got this, buddy.” 

This was the outcome you had figured most likely in your head. You’re extremely prideful and some would even say intolerably full of yourself based on your upbringing as a highly valuable military style weapon. After reading up on the Gojo clan and the powers their little Prince inherited, you figured he would be just as bad, if not ten times worse. Yaga seemed terribly embarrassed, but you gave him another award-winning grin. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Satoru-san.” You grin, folding your arms over your chest as you weigh your options. You couldn’t tell if he knew of your eyes, or if his infinity was currently active. You extend your hand, hopefully answering one or both of those questions. His face was playful, those sparkling eyes, flickering from your hand and back to your face. He seemed amused if nothing else now, his rejection of your hand only answering the question about your eyes and his infinity. “Oh, don’t insult me. I know you can read my technique anyway, but I could always show you much more effectively.” 

At this, Satoru’s grin spread. You seemed to understand his special eyes, and he wondered what else you knew. Your cursed energy was weird. It seemed like it was vibrating, and it didn’t course through your entire body. He thought that odd, but he knew he could figure that out with a brief spar. In his mind, he was also unbeatable. He stepped forward a bit. 

“You’re on, Miss Americana.” He chuckled, thinking himself at the advantage since he can see how your cursed technique works.

Suguru stepped forward a bit nervously. “Now, Satoru, that’s rude, she just got here–”

“I’m okay Geto-san.” You hum brightly. “I think I can impress, if nothing else.” You say, tying your hair up out of your way and subtly activating your cursed technique. You don’t take your eyes of Satoru, knowing he noticed your activation. 

“What’s your technique, anyway?!” Suguru asked, slightly panicked at the impression Gojo would leave on you on your first day here. 

You arch your brow at your opponent. “Do you wanna tell him, or can I?” 

Satoru is officially intrigued by you. You’re unafraid, he enjoys that, even if some poor American bastards lied and said you were as strong as he is. “The floor is yours.”

You hum, a sly grin on your lips. “‘Preciate it. You see, Geto-san, I have cursed threads, kinda like puppet master jutsu from Naruto.” You giggle, letting the invisible strings wiggle out toward your opponent. You knew Satoru wouldn’t allow them to meet his skin, so you hum some more. “I can control the speed, the number of them that appear. Ideally, I’d wrap these around your limbs. They’re sharp, so they cut as you wiggle against them, and it gives me some manipulation of your limbs. Of course, Gojo-san’s Infinity technique won’t allow that.” 

Suguru seems intrigued. “That sounds powerful!” He says, eyeballing his friend's reaction to you understanding his technique as well. 

Satoru is of course overjoyed by your knowledge. “Seems like someone did their research! Where were you from again? Hollywood? Brooklyn? Dallas! Yeah that’s the one.” 

“No it’s not.” You chuckle, a little thrown by his derailing. “I’m from Tennessee–”

“Dallas it is. Listen Dallas-chan, I see you know your enemy. If that’s true, why’d you even step up to embarrass yourself?” 

You roll your eyes at his nickname, deciding to fight that battle later. “Because I’m gambling.” You smirk, knowing this caught him off guard. He was striking to look at, really, and if he wasn’t such a dickhead you thought you may let him off the hook just for being pretty. You sigh, ready to show all your cards now anyway. 

Satoru raises a brow now, curious to what you could mean. He knew about your second form activation as well, a much scarier and painful version of your cursed threads, if that’s what you intended to show. You wink at Suguru, blinking slowly. When your eyes open again, they glow with a purple flame-like visual enhancement instead of your normal color. The boys look at each other in surprise. Satoru knew there was something off about the energy at the top of your head, but he didn’t surmise another ocular power. Soon, he feels his infinity melt away, your threads speedily wrapping around his arms and legs. 

He even chuckles when you thrust him to his knees, much to Suguru’s shock. “What did you do to him??” He asks, puzzled beyond belief, he knew your eyes must be behind it, but he didn’t understand how. 

“She repressed my technique with those eyes of hers. It’s cute, but now that I know about it, you’ll never win again.” He sighs, unbothered by your show of power. Though part of him chills, knowing your second form was so painful and crippling that your domain had to be the cruelest one he’d seen. Another part of him is highly interested in this. He hasn’t seen anyone come close to your strength, the amount of cursed energy you had did rival his own, though it was clear your techniques consumed more of it. Your attitude interested him even more, unwavering against him. You would be fun to play with. “Good job, Dallas-chan.” He teases. 

You roll your eyes and release your technique, setting him free. His cursed energy was odd. It seemed to flicker like a fire and call out to you, despite being repressed by your power earlier. “It’s Y/N. Nashville is nowhere near Dallas.”

He shrugs. “I dunno, I think Dallas suits you better than Nashville though. Your real name sucks.” He grins when he says it, but Suguru covers his face with his hands. He was going to be cleaning up Satoru’s mess forever. He almost comes up with something to say, but you remain undeterred by the boy’s relentlessness.

“Whatever you say, Gojo-san. I think I’ll show myself around your training facilities now. I’ll only answer to Y/N.” 

You wave to your new teacher, who sat and observed your confrontation with his most troublesome student. He decided then that you would be the best thing or the worst thing to happen to Satoru, and he had desperate hopes for the former. Then you wave off to Suguru, turning to walk past Gojo on the narrow track. He stepped in your way as if to shoulder check you, but instead of you stumbling back and him giggling at you, both of you looked at each other in shock. 

The place where your bodies touched sparked, and you didn’t know what to make of it. You eye his cursed energy, and the flames pull towards you again, like a magnetic field. Satoru is just as concerned, realizing that your energy’s hum was getting heavier and heavier, like a metal detector discovering gold. There was an unfamiliar connection formed, but neither of you knew what to think about it. You tear your eyes away, heart thundering in your ears. Your body had grown warm, like his energy was an actual fire that your energy accepted as a source of its own. He hums, tucking this in his mind to explore later. That is until you start walking away from him and he feels like he’s left naked in the snow. His body goes cold, and his feet scream at him to follow you, as if it’s the only way he can get warm again. The sparks start to intensify as he grows closer to you. He stops himself from following any further, growing confused as his body slowly becomes cold again as you disappear from view. 

What the hell was that? He felt drawn in and he didn’t like it at all, it must be some innate technique of yours. Whatever it is, he has to figure out how to shake it off of him. 

For the rest of the night, all you can think about is each other. You lay in your new room, staring up at the blank ceiling, wondering what could have caused your energies to have a physical reaction to each other. You knew you were both incredibly strong, maybe it was due to that. Perhaps you two were too strong to interact! Yeah, that makes sense. But you were sent here, deliberately partnered with him. How could you complete your missions if you avoid him all the time? You wouldn’t be able to, and then you wouldn’t be able to go home. So whatever happened out there tonight, you had to put it behind you and focus on the missions to come. Even if he was remarkably handsome and stupidly cunning, what did that have to do with you? His ego is a huge turn off anyway. He couldn’t handle you and you couldn’t handle him. That’s why your energies sparked. You’re sure of it. You would prove yourself to him time and time again. And you had to start with training practices tomorrow morning. 

Satoru mirrors your position in his own bed. He figures this must be your doing, maybe there was more to you that his Six Eyes couldn’t register, just like your ocular abilities. Although, the image of your smirking face and the unabashed way you flirted with Geto came to mind. Maybe he was interested in your power, maybe he was just interested in you. Either way, it was incredibly frustrating. All he can focus on is the way his shoulder burned from connecting with yours, and the intensity of your eyes locked on his. This isn’t like him. He’s met a plethora of gorgeous women, and sure your foreign American charm must play into it, but geez, he felt pathetic. You seemed so sure of yourself and your energy made it clear how strong you really were. He hated having you on the brain. He would see you again for training, and there he could put an end to his stupid wonderings by smacking you down for good. He’ll expose your power for the cheap ploy it is and send you back to America with your attitude adjusted. Then he won’t have to deal with your strange effect on him or your annoying ego. And he’ll start with practice in the morning.

tags: @aepinkoutsold @purpleguk @ddora-kken @naorizenin @makiville @getosbigballsack

[joezworld]

I did a Christmas

I wrote a Christmas story. It is of considerable length. @mean-scarlet-deceiver helped considerably in its creation.

No, you don't get it all at once. Also, I'm not tagging it any differently because a lot happens in this! If you want to find out, you gotta read it. (And put tags in your reblogs so I can see what you think of it. Please.)

June, 1985

The mail came over the span of a month. It came as postcards, letters, overstuffed mailers, and packages that weighed “a bloody ton!”

They came from as near as Cumbria and as far away as Western Australia. 

The paper ranged from lined yellow notebook paper to cream-colored heavy cardstock, and everything in between. 

Letterhead was common: SCIENCE MUSEUM, LONDON. Sir Robert McAlpine Ltd, Hemel Hempstead. Hamersley Iron, Port Dampier, Western Australia. NATIONAL RAILWAY MUSEUM, YORK. Government of Ontario Transit, Union Station, Toronto. North Yorkshire Moors Railway, 12 Park Street, Pickering, North Yorkshire, YO18 7AJ.

Bluebell Railway, Sheffield Park Station, East Sussex

Vale of Rheidol Railway, Park Avenue, Aberystwyth

Great Central Railway, Loughborough

H.P. Bulmers Railway Centre, Hereford

-

They were typed and hand-written in equal measure. Some were obviously transcribed verbatim. Others had notes from the oftentimes unwilling stenographer peppered throughout. One contained a second sheet of paper, informing the recipient that the author had been so enraged that he’d insisted on writing the letter himself. 

The letters started off normally, 

“Dear Oliver…”

“Duck,”

“7101” 

“Montague,”

“Ollie…”

“Brother,”

-

“I hope that this letter finds you well.”

“I’m pleased to hear you’re alright.”

“Let me start by saying that I’d be there myself if I were able.”

“THANK GOD THAT YOU ARE OKAY.”

“This will be a short letter. A longer one may follow.”

-

But very quickly grew… boisterous. 

“I cannot believe what’s happened.”

“I’m blindingly upset on your behalf!”

“How dare he.”

“IT IS UNBELIEVABLE THAT HE DID IT, AND YET HE DID.”

“[I don’t know what she said next but it sounded really angry]”

“Trust me when I say that I am going to deal with him.”

“-it exceeds any kind of disrespect amongst engines that I have ever heard of.”

“I had never even assumed one of their kind could stoop so low…”

“With that out of the way, let me be the first inmate to welcome you to the asylum...” 

[beefrobeefcal]

Dave Made Me Believe feat. Dave York

Summary: Dave is kind of a jerkwad with an agenda. for my own Dave York Made Me Believe challenge.

FBI!Dave York x f!reader | Rating: 18+ MDNI | Word Count: 1,974

Content Warnings: dave york is a jerk and bad lover, aliens, back seat sex, unfulfilling sex, bad sex, male orgasm, no female orgasm, vertical defenestration, old ladies, allusions to missing cats

Author's Notes: i apologize for how dumb this is. thank you to me for being such a noob and getting this posted before midnight on halloween. also, I have only even see one episode of the x-files (the one with the tapeworm human hybrid - yeah that one) and the two movies.

Thank you to @noxturnalnymph for their eyes and support and love and @strang3lov3 for humoring me and my delusions. thanks be to @saradika-graphics for the dividers

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It wasn’t supposed to happen like this in the early hours of the day after Halloween.

You were just supposed to be helping a government agent investigate the cat disappearances that were plaguing your neighbourhood. It was supposed to be simple and painless and like maybe a week’s worth of work tops.

But it wasn’t. 

Dave York had knocked on your door a week prior, looking unamused and vexed that he had been saddled with this task by the higher ups. He said he needed an ‘in with the locals’ to discuss this ‘epidemic’ while he rolled his eyes at you. He seemed like a jerk, but his badge compelled you to cooperate. It meant a week off work - paid - at least because he was able to flash his badge and official letterhead at your boss, and thusly, you were at his side while he went door to door, taking statements while he looked like he wanted to hang himself.

The first day, you couldn’t get anything out of him beyond his name and his absolutely horrendous sweet tooth. Every home you were invited into, you were offered coffee or tea, and in both of them, he would ladle sugar into the cup. Both coffee or tea became syrup and he actually drank it. You could do nothing but assume that his government job came with amazing benefits - specifically dental. 

The second day was much like the first except it rained. 

The third day, however, was different. It was raining again, but one of the old ladies that you stood back and watched Dave interview said something that gave you pause. She’d mentioned that she had let her cat, Jojo, out the back door because had been scratching and clawing at it, and even though he had been an indoor cat his whole life, the crazy way he’d been behaving made her feel like she had no choice but to let him out.

“... and as soon as I opened the door, there was this bright light and big, low noise that - “

“Thank you for your time.”, Dave interjected and closed his little leather bound notebook. He glanced at you as he stood up. 

“But the light and the-”

“Thank you again, Mrs. Roman. Please let my friend here know if little Jojo comes home.”

His forced smile and cold eyes stifled any further chance of the story coming from Mrs. Roman’s mouth and she nodded. You and Dave walked out of her house and back into the rain. 

As you stood under the awning of your front door with Dave, watching him scribble notes in his little book, you decided that if Dave was going to kill you or seize your house or force you into a small room with nothing but saltines and crab juice to eat, he would have done it by now. You cleared your throat.

“So why didn’t you want to hear Mrs. Roman’s st-”

“Mouth. Shut.”

You stared at him incredulously. This was ludacris; you had spent the last three days following him around, ensuring the neighbours trusted him enough that they didn’t give him any friction, and he wasn’t even willing to tell you what you were doing beyond asking old ladies about cats. You tried to push for more information, but you were met with a cold glare and a firm finger pointing directly at your face.

“No.”

Day four started like all the other days with Dave knocking at your door, you open it, and you are greeted with his sour puss. Normally, you would have followed after him wordlessly and begun your routine, but today, you just stood back in the open door.

Dave had already taken a few steps before he realized you weren’t following. He turned around and gave you a “Are you coming?” full body shrug and you crossed your arms in response. You knew how to talk without words, too. 

Dave huffed and stalked back towards you, and once there, he put his hands on his hips.

“What now?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. What now? How was that an appropriate response to you? When had you offered any resistance? You had gone along with everything he had thrown at you with no questions because of the badge he carried and you felt you were doing your civic duty by cooperating. But what now?

“Eat shit, pig.”

You flipped him off and slammed the door in his face. 

You didn’t see Dave the rest of the day but he did show up again the following morning, same as before with a knock and a scowl. This time though, he held out a paper coffee cup from the bistro down the block. You took the coffee and you both silently made your way to the house at the end of the cul de sac.

That house was a little weird. It never seemed to adhere to the HOA standards and looked more dilapidated each spring when winter subsided and you were always surprised to find that it was still standing. You had mentioned it once to one of your older neighbours a few years back and they said that Mrs. Anastasia von Beavertrout was a recluse and didn’t bother anyone so you and them shouldn’t bother her. On the rare occasion that you watched the house long enough, you did see movement and the occasional light, so you ignored it for the most part.

But now Dave was marching you right towards it.

In what could only be described as the let down of a lifetime, the one and only Mrs. Von Beavertrout was real and was a recluse, and that was about the most interesting thing about her. She had no information to offer Dave in his line of questioning, and was fairly pleasant, although the tea she offered you tasted odd and made your head feel light. Dave had declined the tea, despite the old woman’s crooked sweet smile and gentle pushing. Dave was not one who liked to be influenced to do anything, let alone that, even if it was an old lady asking nicely.

You’d spent the majority of the day there, feeling like you were lost in a haze as she and Dave were conversing, and the hours seemed to slip away. Now that you were walking back down the street, it was well past dusk and the kids were out trick’r treating, dressed in their spooky best. While you would have been happy to just meander back home, Dave was on a mission. When you moved a little too slowly for his liking, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you along to keep up. 

As you got closer to your paved walkway up to your door, Dave yanked you over to his car and shoved you into the backseat. You didn’t react until he was already in the driver’s seat, pulling away from the curb. 

“What - Dave?”, you drawled out.

You sighed when he didn’t respond to you and laid back, watching the houses and kids and lights pass by in a blur, although you doubted Dave went any faster than 20 miles an hour. You were fairly certain now that you’d been drugged by that weird old bat and the more you thought about it, the more the absurdity of Dave and his old lady interviewees made you laugh.

“What’s so funny back there?”

Dave’s voice cut through your giggling and you sighed with a stupid grin on your face. 

“Nothing… just funny because you’re actin’ like you’re hunting old lady aliens or somethin’.”

Dave slammed on the breaks and youabruptly smacked into the back of the front seats, getting wedged between them and the backseat on the floor.

You groaned and he got out and ripped open the back door, pulling you back up onto the seat and leaning over you.

“You didn’t hear or see anything today. Got it?”

HIs intense stare and firm tone told you that this was no time for levity, but you ignored that inner voice and sat up and kissed him. 

Much to your surprise, he kissed you back. 

Even more to your surprise, he pushed you back and crawled on top of you and he deepened the kiss. Just when you felt like your head was clearing up enough to enjoy, he pulled back and crawled off you and out of the car. 

You sat up. “Whoa, wait - Dave? Was that - what’s-”

It was then you realized he’d driven around to the back alley and up behind Mrs. Von Beavertrout’s home on the hill, overlooking the valley below. “Why did you bring us-”

Turning back to Dave, he was hastily undoing and removing his pants. When he saw your eyes go wide, he raised his brows and gestured to you as he stood with his dress pants and white briefs around his ankles. His cock was peaking through the bottom of his dress shirt right below the last button. You took the hint and pulled off your leggings and underwear. 

“We don’t have much time.”, he grunted against your mouth, crawling back on top of you. He managed to close the door behind him.

Oh. Dave was one of those guys. No prep and he spit in his hand and pumped his dick a few times then gave you a cocky half-grin before pressing against your hole. You watched his tongue pop out in concentration as he worked his way in. You winced once but he didn’t seem to notice (if he cared at all) but once he was fully seated, his mouth came down to yours; even if he was a bit of an inconsiderate lover, he was a hell of a kisser. 

He began to move his hips, setting an even and steady pace. I might actually come. You thought to yourself.

“I kn-know you figured it out… the aliens. It’s what I’m working - uh… uh - trying to work on.”

You wanted to roll your eyes. “Aliens don’t exist. Just shut up and fuck me.”

“I know, I know…I didn’t… I didn’t actually need your help but you’re hot and - oh fuck… you’re pussy is perfect.”

Shut the fuck up and do NOT ruin this. Your thoughts were trying to keep you on track to at least getting an orgasm out of this asshole, so you tried to play along. “So what? You’re like a… like a Fox Mulder Alien X-Files guy but real?”

“Yeah,”, he nodded. “Some-something like thaaaa - oh fuck, you close, baby?”

This was painfully bad sex. You were getting poorly fucked in the backseat of some federal assholes’s sedan and he was going to blow his load before you were really even wet with something other than his saliva. 

“Yeah… sure.”, you mumbled as he whined softly and rutted into you. 

A few more thrusts and Dave pulled out and let out a long, loud, open mouth groan right into your face. His cum covered your mound and disappointment wasn’t a strong enough word for what just happened.

Before you could make a comment or push him off you in the most insulting way possible, your eyes caught movement over Dave’s shoulder in the window. It was Mrs. Von Beavertrout, but her eyes looked a little larger and her mouth was open, baring her unnecessarily long, beaver-like teeth.

“What the fu-” was all you got out before the old woman smashed the glass and a blinding light enveloped the cab of the vehicle. 

You heard Dave scream and felt his body get ripped off of you as he was sucked out the window.

And then it was dark again. The only sound was your shaky breathing and the light wind running through the grass outside. You were alone. 

Dave York made you believe, even if he didn’t make you cum. 

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obligatory boop.

[2nd2ndalto]

what if there were two (side by side in orbit)

__

(Chapter 4 here)

Chapter 5

March 1999

“Got your mail,” Will announces as he comes back into the office. He falters at the edge of Nico’s desk, trying and failing to see a single square inch of available space on which to drop said mail - a handful of memos, photocopied reports and interdepartmental envelopes.

Nico straightens from the newspaper he’s been poring over, immediately registering Will’s dilemma.

“Oh, thanks, I can –” Nico accepts the little bundle of papers from Will and automatically looks around for somewhere to set it down, reaching the exact same conclusion Will did a second earlier. Will laughs.

Nico slumps, defeated, still holding the mail in a loose grip.

Will plucks the envelopes from his hand. “Here, I’ll put them…” Will glances around, finding almost every other surface cluttered with papers, books and files.

Nico sighs, dejected. “It’s a lost cause.”

“I can go put them back in your slot in the mail room,” Will offers, only half-kidding.

“No, I’ll just –” Nico takes the papers back again, opening three crammed-full drawers in his desk before finding one with room to stuff the mail on top and shutting it with a satisfied nod.

“Much better,” Will says. He moves to his own, mostly-clear desk and begins to flip through the items he’s retrieved from his own mailbox. Nothing too interesting. Copies of authorized expense reports, a reminder that he’s due to renew some sort of workplace safety training that he doesn’t even remember completing the first time around. He pauses, eyes skimming over a glossy flier.

“You think we should do the workplace communication training workshop?” Will says contemplatively. He glances over to Nico, who looks predictably appalled.

“No,” Nico answers.

Will grins. “Aw, c’mon. Don’t you want to learn to communicate more effectively with me?”

Nico gives him a withering look. “Solace, if we communicate any more effectively, they’ll make us teach the class ourselves. And neither of us want that.

Will attempts not to look too outwardly pleased at this. “Good point,” he agrees, solemn. “We don’t want to peak too soon. Or like, get promoted against our will.”

Nico lets out a laugh. “Definitely not. I kind of like it down here.” He shoots Will a smile, a real one. Will winks. Nico huffs and turns back to his paper.

Will sets the flier aside, unfurling the red string of an interoffice envelope. He squints at his name, misspelled and scrawled messily underneath two dozen others, before pulling a single sheet of paper from the envelope, folded in half. It’s nice paper, embossed. Thicker than the stuff he and Nico are allotted to print letters on. Will makes a face, scanning over the page. “What kind of a name is Octavian?”

Nico’s head jerks up from his newspaper.

“Sorry,” Will shakes his head. “That wasn’t very nice, was it? I’m sure he’s lovely.”

“He’s not,” Nico says acidly. “What does he want?”

Will blinks, surprised at the sudden vitriol in his partner’s voice. “It doesn’t say. I’ve never even heard of this guy.” Will peers at the letterhead, then the interdepartmental envelope, trying to ascertain where the letter originated from. “He wants to meet with me tomorrow. Why wouldn’t he call, or send an email? What if I hadn’t even checked my mail today?”

Nico scowls. “That’s Octavian.”

“He’s the… associate deputy director?” Will reads from under the signature at the bottom of the letter.

“Yeah,” Nico says, tired. “He’s Reyna’s boss.”

“Wonder what I did to deserve a meeting,” Will says, his stomach lurching unpleasantly. He reads through the letter again, but there’s absolutely nothing to indicate what the meeting might be for. It feels ominous.

Nico grimaces. “Nothing, most likely. He’s – Octavian doesn’t like me. Or the X-Files. I’m actually surprised his name hasn’t come up before. When I’ve mentioned fighting for the department to keep its funding – that’s all on Octavian. He’s always looking for some excuse to shut me down. To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was looking for you to snitch on me.”

Will scoffs, disgusted. “Well, that’s not going to happen.”

“No?”

“Of course not!” Will says, aghast. “I would never. What would I even snitch about, if I wanted to? That you put in extra hours you don’t claim in your paysheet? That you do research into cases on your own time? Besides, we’re partners, Nico. You’re my friend.”

Nico looks a bit shaken by this declaration, and Will turns back to his desk, giving the other man a moment.

“What happens in the basement stays in the basement,” Will announces with finality, flipping through the rest of his mail. Nico laughs.

::

Nico’s in the office a full hour early the next morning, pacing, his stomach in knots. He’d tried to brush off Octavian’s letter, and done a pretty good job of it for most of yesterday. But it had started to weigh on him by the evening, alone in his apartment. By the time he’d gone to bed, the thought of Will’s looming meeting had taken up a heavy, unpleasant occupancy in his gut.

First, there’d been the niggling worry that Octavian was looking for dirt on Nico. But even if Will would have indulged that, which he’d made quite clear he wouldn’t, Nico’s not really worried about his work or his methods being scrutinized. He’s proud of the cases they’ve worked, maybe even more so in the last six months. Sure, they haven’t solved every case in its entirety, they haven’t locked up every perpetrator, but they’ve been careful and thorough. They’ve helped people. The case in Fairbrook was a standout, certainly, and it’s gotten a lot of attention, both from the Bureau and the media. Surely that will help his case, if he needs to have one.

So there have been those worries - small and persistent, really nothing new. The X-Files has been in perpetual danger of losing its funding ever since Nico first descended into the basement. But what’s truly had his insides twisting since last night is the unwelcome worry that perhaps this meeting means that he’s losing Will.

There’s no denying that Will’s an excellent agent, and he did amazing work in Fairbrook. What if the Bureau wants to reassign him somewhere they think he’ll be more useful? What if Will wants to be somewhere where he’ll be more useful?

Nico works alone. He always has. Sure, there have been other agents assigned to work with him here and there, and it’s been fine. Nothing special, but fine.

But Will... Will is a partner, in a way Nico hadn’t even considered possible. Nico doesn’t want Will to leave. He’d arrived at this realization with complete, crashing clarity at three am just as he was finally about to drift off to sleep. The rest of the night had mostly been a write-off.

How did this happen? This was not part of the plan when Will came to work down here. Work, sure. They could work together. With a very few notable exceptions, Nico gets along decently with his colleagues. He can be a team player when the situation requires it.

But just when exactly did Will worm his way under Nico's skin the way he has? The way that makes it feel like there's a tangibly empty space in the office when Will leaves early for a dentist appointment, or gets pulled into another department for an afternoon? The way Nico glances over to Will automatically, reflexively seeking his agreement, his input. The way it settles him when he receives it.

The way his stupid heart swells when Will laughs at his jokes, loud and bright, his lingering fond smile.

Fuck.

And now – what if all that gets snatched away? What if that's even what Will wants? Sure, Will seems to enjoy Nico's company, but really (as Nico realized as he entered that particularly devastating train of thought around four am) Will seems to enjoy everyone's company. It's not as though there's anything special about Nico, no reason for Will to want to stay here of all places. Here, in the basement, the armpit of the FBI. Here, hanging out with the one little weirdo no one else takes seriously.

Will's just so damn easy to get along with, so fucking pleasant to have around. So much more curious and open-minded than Nico ever would have expected. He's smart and funny and... tall and... okay, Nico supposes he can admit it – it doesn't hurt that he's really attractive.

Fuck. Fuck.

Having completed probably a dozen laps of the office (not easy, thank you, there’s not exactly a clear path around the perimeter), Nico drops heavily into his chair then drops his head into his hands. He's an existential, underslept mess, in no way prepared for Will's early arrival when the office door opens mere seconds later.

Will beams at the sight of Nico, sitting there like a disheveled, pathetic pile of desperation, and how the fuck is that fair?

Nico clears his throat, forcing himself to sit up straighter. "You're early," he says. The words come out sounding far more accusatory than he intended.

"Yeah." Will's face falls a little. "Sorry?"

"No, no," Nico says immediately. "I'm – just ignore me. I didn't get much sleep."

Will's brow creases in sympathy. "Sorry to hear that."

Nico watches with a sinking heart as Will pulls off his coat and hangs it by the door, ruffling a hand through his hair and brushing water droplets off his bag. What if this is their last morning in this office together? What if this is the last time he watches Will hang his coat, cross the office and drop into his chair? Every little motion is so familiar now, so much a part of his morning. How did he never think to properly appreciate it before?

Will turns once he's seated, regarding Nico with a little more scrutiny than Nico had been prepared for, and Nico immediately attempts to look completely sane and cool. Like the sort of person who wouldn't miss his partner at all, were that partner to be reassigned.

Will doesn't look as if he's fooled, which is concerning in itself.

"Should we go grab coffee?" Will asks, worried. "Have you eaten?"

Nico nods, grateful for the distraction. "Definitely yes to coffee and no, I haven't eaten." He stands from his desk. "Dunkin’?"

Will makes a face. "It started pouring right after I got off the train. I ran all the way here with my bag over my head. I don't suppose you have an umbrella?"

Nico does not, so the cafeteria it is, then. On days when they’re feeling particularly motivated, they'll take the stairs up to the eighth floor, but god, it's early and Nico feels like shit, and Will seems to understand this without Nico needing to explain. Will leads them to the single elevator that descends to the basement level.

The elevator gets progressively stuffier and more crowded as it rises through the building, and Nico gets progressively more twitchy and irritable. By the sixth floor, there's barely room to breathe, and he and Will are trapped in the back corner together, a wall of suits and briefcases forming a barricade of claustrophobia in front of them.

Will glances down at Nico, then bumps their shoulders together, once, then harder, teasingly shuffling over inch by inch until Nico's smushed against the wall, Will grinning and Nico trying valiantly to maintain his scowl in the face of this unasked-for amusement.

Ten minutes later they're settled at a table with a view of the rooftop garden, Nico gazing out the windows at the puddles collecting on the pebbled cement outside and picking at a bran muffin. Across the table, Will checks his watch.

"What time's your meeting?" Nico asks. As if he doesn’t know. As if he’s spent more than a few minutes not thinking about it in the last eighteen hours.

Will lets out a breath. "In an hour."

"Oh –"

"Yeah." Will makes a face. "He emailed me last night to move it earlier. Not sure why he couldn't have just emailed in the first place."

That's not such a bad thing, Nico supposes, as his stomach gives a violent lurch. At least they'll know soon, one way or another.

"Guess he didn't say what he wanted to meet about in the email," Nico says, trying to sound as though this is only of minimal concern to him.

Will shakes his head. "Nope. Just hope I'm not about to get fired." He lets out a nervous laugh and Nico glances up, surprised.

"Why would you think that?"

Will shrugs. "I don't know. It's all a little weird and mysterious, isn't it? Maybe I made some horrible mistake and didn't realize."

"You definitely didn't. If anything, I'd think he'd – well. Just, hypothetically... what if they offered you a promotion?"

Will laughs, surprised. "What would – that doesn't make any sense. I'm brand new. I barely know what I'm doing yet."

Nico scoffs. "That's ridiculous. You do know that, right? The Robert Marcus case – that was basically all your doing. And the whole Bureau's been talking about it."

Will blinks. "I mean – that was a group effort, though."

Nico averts his eyes, gazing into his coffee. The coffee here is decent, at least. Thick and strong. The ceramic cups are small, but heavy, a pleasing weight to them. The bran muffins leave a lot to be desired. Although Nico's not sure if he could enjoy eating anything at this exact moment.

"What – what would you think? If they did offer you a promotion?" Nico asks, his heart throbbing in his chest, staring desperately into the depths of his coffee.

"Do you really think that's what this is about?" Will sounds incredibly skeptical. Which is kind of hilarious, Nico thinks. Will, the skeptical partner, whose deadliest skepticism is directed at his own abilities.

"Wait," Will says, taking in Nico’s expression. "Are you – are you worried that I'll be promoted?"

And okay, that's uncalled for. Nico is frankly offended. Nico is supposed to be the psychological profiler here, thank you very much.

Nico shrugs. He chances a glance at Will, who's gazing out into the rain, brow furrowed. Probably considering all the other floors he could be working on that aren't the basement. All the other agents he could be working with who aren't weird and grouchy. And short. Take Magnus, for instance. Magnus is tall, and he’s almost always in a good mood. That fucker.

Will's gaze finally flicks from the window back to Nico, something tentative there. "I don't think there's any other job I'd rather do at the Bureau," he says slowly, as if he's only just realizing it himself. "I feel like I really lucked into something, being assigned to this department, you know?” Will’s blue eyes are clear, and Nico's stomach seems to settle back towards its regular location. “The work we’ve been doing together – it’s fascinating. And it feels worthwhile. Like we’re making a difference. I think it’s something I think I could learn to be really good at. I’d like to. And I mean." Will swallows. "I think you already know that I enjoy working with you," he finishes, timid.

Nico can feel his cheeks warming. Stupid cheeks. "Yeah," he mutters, turning his coffee cup in his hands. "I mean... me too."

"You like working with me, or you like working with you?" Will asks, suddenly wide-eyed and dead serious.

Nico scowls. "Fuck off."

Will laughs.

"I like working with you, okay?" Nico says, pained.

Will's fully grinning at him now, the full, devastating one hundred watts.

"And you know. You did just save me from death by exsanguination, so it's probably in my best interests to keep you around," Nico says, as grudgingly as he can manage.

Their conversation in the cafeteria is heartening, but Nico's still a grouchy ball of nerves almost an hour later as he watches the clock in the basement office tick down, the time of Will's meeting looming closer and closer. With fifteen minutes to go, he can't take it anymore and he stands abruptly, throwing his jacket over the back of his chair. He crosses to a cabinet in the corner and pulls out a bag, little-used, slinging it over his shoulder.

Will blinks up at him from where he's cross-legged on the dusty floor in front of a filing cabinet, digging through the bottom drawer. "Are you running away from home?"

Nico rolls his eyes. "I'm going to go to the gym."

Will's eyebrows rise. "The gym? Oh. Okay."

"You don't have to sound so surprised," Nico mutters, "I go to the gym."

“No, obviously you do, I mean…” Will suddenly goes pink and flustered, his gaze somewhere around Nico’s chest, and Nico’s brow furrows in confusion, glancing down to make sure he hasn’t spilled something on himself.

Will clears his throat. “It’s just that I’ve never seen you go to the gym. Here.”

They gaze at each other for a long moment. Will’s pink cheeks make his eyes look bluer. Brighter.

“Well,” Nico says, bemused. “I guess it’s been a while. And hey,” he adds as he reaches the office door, as if it’s nothing but an afterthought, “good luck with your meeting.”

Will smiles from where he’s still seated on the floor, looking nervous. “Thanks.”

::

Nico’s workout doesn’t last long. Mid-morning is apparently a popular time to use the Bureau gym, and Nico can’t bear the thought of making small talk with any of his colleagues at the moment. He lasts about half an hour, weights and some half-assed cardio before he hits the showers, washing up quickly before heading back downstairs, hair still damp.

Maybe he’ll have some time to collect himself before Will reappears. Maybe he should have done some yoga. That's supposed to be relaxing, right? Frank showed him some poses once. He doesn't think he can remember any of them except the one where you lie flat on your back.

Nico does actually manage to distract himself by reading through a file for a few minutes before he hears the heavy slam of the fire door at the stairwell, letting him know that someone’s reached the basement level.

Nico watches the office door, breath caught in his chest. He only has seconds to wait.

“What a fucking asshole,” Will announces, the office door slamming shut behind him. “What the actual fuck.”

Will’s face is flushed. He pulls off his jacket, the motion jerky, tossing it on top of his coat on the rack by the door. It falls to the floor. Will takes a deep breath, hands on his hips before retrieving it and shoving the jacket more violently at the coat rack. Nico thinks he’s actually shaking.

“What happened?”

“You were right.” Will throws up his hands, disbelieving. “He wanted me to fucking snitch on you! He started asking me all these inane questions, like whether your methods made me feel unsafe.” Will rolls his eyes, gloriously. “All these fucking pointed questions about our protocol for initiating cases and –” Will lets out a huff of frustration. “I obviously wasn’t answering the way he wanted me to, and he just got… more and more infuriating.”

Will sits on the edge of his desk, then immediately stands again, shoving a hand roughly through his hair.

“That fucking anemic loser,” he seethes. “The absolute nerve. I can’t even –” Will shakes his head, lost for words.

Nico watches him for a long moment, now torn between worry and admiration. “And so what did you – what did you tell him?”

“I told him you were a brilliant agent, one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, and that the FBI was lucky to have you!” Will says, his voice rising.

Nico's throat goes tight.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t actually yell at him.” Will huffs out a laugh. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate that.”

Nico feels as if he’s been hit over the head with something very heavy. “Well. I might have. A bit. I sure would have enjoyed watching it.”

Will smiles, finally. His eyes are bright, cheeks pink. He’s radiant like this. Like some kind of avenging angel, or a Greek god.

“Thank you,” Nico manages. “For defending me.”

Will shakes his head, frowning. “I just told him the truth.”

“So he’s not – he didn’t threaten to pull our funding or, I don’t know. Assign us both to Agricultural Corruption?”

Will barks out a laugh. “No.” He lowers himself to the edge of his desk again, aggressively scrubbing a hand over his face. “He made some noise about irregular procedures and untenable evidence.” Will throws up one hand in a half-hearted air quote. “But honestly it seemed like he was just grasping at straws by that point. He kept bringing up specific instances of when seemed to think we weren’t following protocol - he had a fucking list – and I just very patiently explained all the ways he was wrong.”

Nico laughs. Octavian’s got to be absolutely seething right now, and that’s a pretty great feeling. As if that wasn’t enough good news, it doesn’t sound as if Will’s going anywhere. Nico suddenly feels about twenty pounds lighter.

“Seriously, what an absolute dick,” Will says. “What the fuck is that guy’s problem?”

Nico shrugs. “He’s one of those guys who always wants to be at the top of the heap. Even as far as he’s climbed the corporate ladder here at the Bureau, it doesn’t seem to have made him any happier. It’s not enough for him to be at the top. He needs everyone else to know they’re at the bottom, too.”

“I can’t stand guys like that.” Will scowls. “He did commend us on the Fairbrook case, though he didn’t seem happy about it. Told me I was a valuable asset but he sounded like he meant the exact opposite. I made sure he knew that without your timely research resources, Marcus would still probably be murdering diabetics.”

Will stands again. “You know, I think I need to walk this off. I’m kind of a wreck right now. I managed to hold it together while I was talking to him, but I feel like my blood pressure’s through the roof.”

“Isn’t it still raining?” Nico asks.

“I don’t think I care," Will laughs, shoving a hand through his hair again. The violence he’s perpetrated on it in the last few minutes combined with the humidity of the day makes it stand out like a messy halo around his head. It’s glorious. "I can’t believe I put on my best suit for that idiot.”

"Well, you look..." Nico swallows. Amazing. Gorgeous. Breathtaking. God, why the fuck did he start this sentence? The longer Nico's lost for words, the more Will's smile grows, and when Nico finally manages, "very professional," Will grins, wide.

"Aww, thanks."

Nico rolls his eyes as hard as he can.

"Do you want company?" Nico asks, as he watches Will pull his coat back on. He immediately curses his lack of filter. "It's fine if you don't." Will’s jacket falls from the coat rack again and Will kicks it aggressively into the corner.

But Will only says, "of course I want your company.”

"What if it's still raining, though?" Will asks as they head to the stairwell. "You don't like getting wet."

"I guess I can make an exception," Nico mutters, because that sounds a lot more sane than, now that I know you're staying, I kind of don't want to let you out of my sight.

Will steps back neatly, holding the door open for Nico with a little bow when they reach the ground floor. "You know, for someone who doesn't like rain, you'd think you'd keep an umbrella around," he muses, eyes sparkling.

"Yeah, well. I'm an enigma wrapped in a mystery," Nico mutters, and Will’s bright laughter is worth any potential rain.

The rain is more of a drizzly mist by the time they make it out onto Pennsylvania Avenue, and they walk in companionable quiet in the general direction of the sculpture garden, Will looking a bit more settled the longer they walk. It settles Nico, too.

His mind drifts back over the last six months, still a bit baffled that this has become what it has, and so easily. A partnership. A friendship. Will had said, of course I want your company like it was nothing, implicit.

And Nico suddenly remembers his worries, in the first few months Will was here. That he wouldn't be able to keep Will at arm's length, that he had to make sure not to let Will in, not to let Will know him. As they wait at the back of a crowd of tourists for the lights to change at Constitution Avenue, Will's shoulder bumps gently into his, and Will smiles and Nico realizes it's far, far too late for that.

The realization doesn't hit him like a truck, not like last night, when he desperately wanted to sleep. Instead, the knowledge settles over him gently, like the misty rain, like the half-memory of a mostly-inconsequential task that he neglected to complete.

Well, damn.

::

Still March 1999

Nico, having returned from the continental breakfast buffet, hands over a coffee and muffin. Will accepts both gratefully from where he’s seated cross-legged on his bed. Nico’s footsteps falter on the way across the hotel room. “You smell… fruity,” he comments, then immediately looks embarrassed.

Will grins. “Well,” he shrugs. “I am, a little.”

Nico huffs, settling himself onto his own bed, newspaper spread out in front of him.

“It’s probably my shampoo,” Will realizes. “It’s Dewberry, from the Body Shop. Kayla got a big gift basket for her birthday, but she didn’t like the scent. I like it, though. So you’ll have to put up with me smelling fruity for the foreseeable future.” He tilts his head in Nico’s general direction, ruffling his still-damp hair.

Nico rolls his eyes. Then, a moment later – “It could be worse,” he mutters.

Will hides a smile, turning back to his own work. If he’s forced to tolerate Nico’s arms in that devastatingly tight Ramones t-shirt every time they share a room, Nico can put up with Will’s fruity-smelling hair, Will thinks ruefully.

They’re sharing a room on this particular trip because Reyna insisted on it; Will’s been called here to conduct a couple of autopsies, Nico tagging along because he’d read about reports of possible UFO sightings in the area. They’re both a little disappointed with yesterday’s conclusions – neither of the autopsies revealed anything indicating foul play, and Nico’s UFOs turned out to be drunk teenagers with laser pointers.

Sharing a room isn’t a hardship, anyway. They’ve done it on cases more often than not in the weeks since their visit to St. Ambrose, Ramones t-shirt notwithstanding. The couple of occasions they’ve booked separate rooms, they’ve wound up watching TV and chatting until late in the evening anyway, WIll often dozing off in Nico’s room.

Nico folds up the newspaper, leaning back on his hands and gazing towards the window. It’s still pouring out. The rain began just as they pulled off the interstate yesterday afternoon and it hasn’t stopped since. Neither of them had thought to bring an umbrella, and they’ve been sprinting from building to car to building attempting to shield themselves with briefcases and newspapers.

“It’s still fucking raining,” Nico grumbles. “I hate getting wet.”

“Because you’re made of sugar,” Will says vaguely, glancing over his report.

Nico snorts. “I’m what?”

Will glances up, grinning. Nico’s gone a bit pink.

“Because you’re made of sugar. It’s what my mom says. You know. Because if you were made of sugar, you’d melt. In the rain.”

Nico scowls, clearly trying not to look amused. “If anyone’s made of sugar, it’s you,” he mutters. “I’ve seen what you call breakfast.”

Will laughs. He refuses to feel any guilt over his penchant for pastries. “Are you calling me sweet?”

Nico rolls his eyes. “You wish.”

Will grins wider, flopping back onto the bed for a long stretch. He doesn’t miss the way Nico’s eyes flit to his waist, where his shirt rides up. The reflexive flip-flop in his own stomach is already expected, familiar. He’d pulled on sweats and a t-shirt after his shower, knowing they likely wouldn’t leave the room for a couple of hours and not quite ready to face getting properly dressed.

Will rolls to his side, tugging his shirt back into place and propping himself up on an elbow. Nico regards him, looking a bit exasperated. But that’s become familiar, too.

“So you don’t want to head out yet then?” Will asks.

Nico glances back to the window. “Eh. It’s still early. We could wait a bit, see if it eases up. I’m not crazy about driving in this.”

“Sure,” Will says easily. “I think I’m done my report. You wanna watch TV?”

Nico makes a face. “It’s all gonna be morning news right now. I’d be happy to never hear another word about the fucking Clintons.”

Will nods, in complete agreement. “Animal Planet?”

Nico huffs, then – “Oh, actually…” He hops up from the bed, grabbing his overnight bag from the floor and retrieving something small from a side pocket.

He tosses the item to Will, who of course, fumbles it. It lands on the bed though, and Will’s eyes go wide. He feels his face heating, fast. “Um,” he says.

“Oh,” Nico laughs, almost giggles. Will glances up, astonished.

“I should have explained –” Nico begins, red-faced himself, then laughs harder as he takes in Will’s expression. Will doesn���t think he’s ever seen Nico laugh so hard, and the sight makes him feel almost unbearably fond. He’d be able to enjoy it so much more if it weren’t for the accompanying and distracting feelings of shock, and confusion, because –

Nico leans over the bed, grabbing the pack of very clearly x-rated playing cards from Will’s limp hand.

“They were a gift,” he says, still very much red in the face, still laughing. “A stupid – I don’t know, it was one of those stupid blind gift exchanges. Secret Santa, or something. And – they’re the only playing cards I have, and I thought I could try teaching you to shuffle again next time we were on an overnight, but I didn’t really think about –”

“Oh,” Will laughs, the pieces finally fitting together. “Oh. Yeah. A little warning might have been nice.”

They gaze at each other in silence for a moment before bursting into simultaneous laughter.

“Sorry,” Nico laughs, “just – the look on your face.”

Will shakes his head, scrubbing hands over his very warm face. “Fine,” he laughs, “Fine. Let’s shuffle.”

He heads to the table, and Nico follows. It’s sweet, Will realizes, a shot of warmth to his chest as the shock fades. It’s sweet that Nico remembered this, that he wanted to give Will another chance. Will splits the deck, snorting when even more explicit scenes are revealed.

“Jesus, Nico,” he laughs. “I don’t know if I can – where do you even get – it’s just so many naked men.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Nico agrees, peering over. “To be honest, I hadn’t actually opened them.” Nico grabs the top card from the deck and surveys it critically, eyes dancing. “Are you saying this gentleman isn’t your type?” He flips the card to show it to Will, who inspects it for a moment, lip caught between his teeth, trying not to laugh.

“I don’t know. He’s awfully… oily.”

Nico nods, trying to compose himself. “True, true. He looks like he could use a good shower. He flips to the next card. His brows shoot up. “Oh, look. These three are having a shower.”

Will shakes his head, letting out a giggle. “I don’t see a lot of showering going on there. That’s a waste of perfectly good hot water, is what that is.”

Will makes a few half-hearted attempts at shuffling, but it soon devolves into commentary on the scenes depicted on the cards, Nico laughing loudly as Will deems certain situations “physiologically improbable” and “highly inadvisable.” Will’s not sure if he’s ever been so pleased with himself for making someone laugh before. There’s something about seeing Nico so uninhibited that makes him feel about ten feet tall. His stomach aches from laughing when Nico finally slides the cards back into the box.

“Oops,” Will says, snatching up a card that’s fallen to the floor. “You missed these guys.”

Nico’s mouth twitches as he surveys the card, seven of hearts. “What do you think, workplace safety violation?” he asks, turning the card to Will.

Will leans closer. “Definitely. Although… they are wearing hard hats.

Nico shakes his head, slotting the card in and closing the box. “Should I leave them in the desk for the next people to find?”

Will considers. “Maybe not. Imagine if someone’s kid opened the drawer, and –”

“Oh god.”

Half an hour later the rain isn’t splattering quite so hard against the windows, and they decide to make a break for it while they can. Nico makes one final sweep of the room while Will kneels at the door, tying his shoes.

“Oh hey, you forgot your glasses,” Nico says, snagging them from the corner of the nightstand where Will had left them last night.

“Oh shit, thanks.”

Nico raises an eyebrow, settling the glasses on his own face as he returns to the door.

Will feigns annoyance although Nico, of course, looks adorable in the glass. Will plucks them off Nico’s face when his partner is close enough. He folds them, slipping them into the pocket of his blazer. When he glances back up, Nico’s brow is furrowed, his eyes on the pocket where the glasses disappeared to, and Will feels a twinge of discomfort.

“What?”

“That – that’s a really strong prescription,” Nico says slowly. “You don’t usually wear contacts, do you?”

And Nico likely already knows the answer to that, considering their hotel-room proximity in the last month, both of their possessions spilled over bathroom counters and hotel room beds and floors, Will’s socks occasionally ending up in Nico’s laundry and vice versa.

Will groans inwardly. Instead of answering immediately, he opens the door, heading down the hall towards the elevator. Nico’s quiet, but as the elevator descends, he’s still watching Will with something like curiosity, or concern.

“I don’t like wearing contacts,” Will says, finally, as they reach the main floor.

“But you don’t like glasses either? I almost never see you wearing them.”

Will grimaces. “I – I know it’s stupid. Or vain, or whatever. I just don’t like the way they look.”

Nico regards him seriously as they take their place at the end of the line to check out. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Will rolls his eyes, batting Nico’s hand away.

They make one more stop at the continental breakfast after checkout, one last coffee for the road. Nico shifts so Will can fill his cup, securing the lid on his own coffee.

“So am I just like, kind of blurry to you all the time?” Nico asks, still teasing. “How do you manage to pick me out in a crowd?”

“I just look for the grumpiest short guy wearing a tie,” Will shoots back, unthinking, then – “sorry,” he says, because the words sound meaner than he intended, and something like hurt flickers over Nico’s face, But Nico’s shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –”

“Kids teased me,” Will says flatly, because suddenly, unfortunately, it’s become a thing he needs to explain. “I know that’s stupid and I’m an adult and I should be over it, but…” he shrugs.

“No, I get that,” Nico says, softer.

“You’re not really that grumpy,” Will feels the need to say as they head for the front doors.

Nico huffs out a laugh. “It’s okay, Solace.”

::

The rain has eased a bit more now, and the two men jog across the parking lot in the misty drizzle.

Will’s given up on looking presentable at this point. He’s past due for a haircut, his curls have gone rogue in the humidity, and he doesn’t mind getting a little damp when all he’s got ahead of him is a two-hour drive. It’s clear that his partner doesn’t feel the same, but Nico flatly refuses Will’s offer to bring the car around and pick him up at the door.

Much to Nico’s dismay, the CD player is on the fritz in their fleet car. After his third attempt to get the player to accept Road to Ruin, they give up.

“Just put it back in the case,” Nico says glumly. “We might never get it out again if it does go in.”

Will does so, flipping to the radio. They’re not required to keep the police scanner on, but Will supposes they should at least check in and make sure they haven’t missed anything important.

There’s nothing at all for the longest time, and Will starts to doze to the sound of the static when suddenly there’s a crackle.

“Dispatch to all available units. We have a code 10-65, missing minor near Rockwood Forest. Repeat, missing minor near Rockwood Forest. All nearby units please respond.”

Will glances to his partner. “Missing kid?”

Nico’s brow furrows. “Yeah. Can you check on the location? I think we’re near there.”

Will presses the call button radio, leaning closer to the dash. “Dispatch, this is unit 215. We’re about 30 miles west of Argyle. Can you give us an ETA to Rockwood Forest from our current location?”

“Stand by, unit 215.”

The wipers are on low now, just an intermittent drizzle. Despite the damp and the low hang of clouds in the sky, it’s gorgeous out here, just starting to green up. Will finds himself itching to get out in it, inhale a few deep lungfuls of fresh, forest air. Hopefully be of some help, too.

The radio crackles again. “Unit 215, you’re approximately ten miles west of Rockwood Forest.”

Will glances over at Nico, who nods. Will clicks the radio once more. “Unit 215, en route.”

::

“Hey, it’s you guys!” Magnus brightens, making his way over to them through the crowd of officers. He squeezes Will’s arm, and Will pats him on the shoulder. Magnus takes a formal step back, back straight. “Agent di Angelo,” he nods, eyes sparkling. Nico rolls his eyes.

“So, what’s going on?” Nico asks.

Magnus heaves a sigh, shoving a hand through his hair. “Too much, honestly. We’ve got an escaped convict – there was a crew of prisoners from Morgantown doing some highway cleanup about a mile from here, one guy made a break for it. We think he headed this way. This is him.” He hands Nico a photocopied picture. “Then there’s a nine-year-old boy missing in the area as well.”

Will and Nico share a glance, concerned, and Magnus immediately shakes his head. “We don’t have any reason to believe they’re connected. Guy was in prison on some minor charges, he’s not believed to be dangerous. Kid seems to have wandered off from his buddies who were playing in the area. But it’s all-hands-on-deck until we find them both.”

Magnus hands Nico another photocopied sheet, a school picture of a young boy with a wide, toothy grin and shaggy dark hair. “Sam’s been out for a few hours already, no sign of either of them. The kid – Andy Torres – may or may not be in the company of his dog, who’s also missing.” He passes Nico one more sheet, a photo of the dog.

Will leans in, propping his chin on Nico’s shoulder for a better look. Nico elbows him in the ribs.

“Nice dog,” Will grins, taking a step back.

“Yeah,” Magnus sighs, frazzled, “husky-shepherd cross. Not considered dangerous. Answers to Chew-Barka.”

Will laughs. “Nice.”

Nico inspects all three pages of slightly damp paper before passing them to Will. “So. Where do you want us?”

::

Feeling more than a little self-conscious about it now, Will pulls out his glasses as they enter the forest. They are kind of necessary, in the current circumstances.

Nico’s gaze flicks over. “You know, they –” Nico cuts himself off, making a face. “The glasses. You look… good. In them.”

Will breathes out a laugh, embarrassed. “You don’t have to say that. But thanks.”

“I wasn’t just saying it.”

Will glances over to see his partner, eyes set on the trail, pink in his cheeks.

“But if you really don’t like them,” Nico adds, awkward but determined, “you could get some new frames, find something you like better. They have some really nice ones now. My sister just got some – they’re like, purple and… chunky.” Nico waves a hand vaguely in front of his face.

Will smiles, fond. “I don’t know if I could pull off purple and chunky, but yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

Nico’s quiet for a moment, the crunch and squelch of mulchy leaves underfoot. “Anyway. I’m sorry for teasing. I didn’t realize it was a sore spot.”

Will shakes his head. “No, it’s really fine. I’m just being stupid.” He makes a face. “And I’m – sorry I called you grumpy.”

Nico sighs, a little dramatic now. “You know, the more times you apologize for calling me grumpy, the more glaringly obvious it is that you’re not sorry for calling me short.”

Will laughs, loud. Nico’s still got his gaze set ahead of him, but there’s something pleased and satisfied in the set of his mouth that loosens the tension in Will’s shoulders. “You don’t wanna be good-natured and tall,” Will says. “That would make you too powerful.”

He makes a gentle, purposeful collision into his partner’s side on the narrow path and Nico rolls his eyes.

::

They’ve been tramping through the forest for almost an hour when Nico suddenly comes to an abrupt halt. Will, once more lamenting his choice of footwear, slips on the wet leaves underfoot and nearly bowls his partner over.

“Did you hear that?” Nico says, hushed.

They’re both silent for a long moment, blue eyes gazing into brown. All Will can hear is birdsong, water dripping somewhere nearby. Maybe several somewheres.

He pushes his hair off his forehead, and his hand comes away damp. He grimaces. His shoes are caked with mud, pants damp and muddy up to mid-calf. Nico’s looking equally damp, the bottom of his coat spattered with mud and a smudge of it across his cheek, dark eyes wide under a mop of dark hair. His hair has a bit of a wave to it, moreso in the humidity, a perfect, spiral curl just behind his left ear.

Nico shakes his head. “Fuck. I was sure I heard something. A voice.”

Before Will can even reply –

“Help! Somebody help me!”

“Andy?” Will calls.

Silence.

“This way,” Nico mutters, turning to lead Will straight through the trees, nothing like a path for them to follow. Will’s hot on his tail, shoes slipping on the slick ground, grabbing onto rough bark to steady himself.

There’s the sound of a dog letting out a sharp whine. They pick up speed, branches scraping at their faces, dead leaves catching in their hair. Will takes a damp tumble when he trips over an exposed root, knees muddy, but he’s up again a second later, pushing through the underbrush. They emerge from the trees onto the bank of a creek, trickling sluggishly through deadfall and muck. There’s a culvert, just visible, and then the sound of a few plaintive barks.

They approach the bank. It’s slippery with wet leaves and mud. It doesn’t look particularly treacherous though, just messy. Thankfully, the water below is shallow. Will half-climbs, half-slides down the bank. Nico follows, only slightly more graceful.

“Andy?” Will calls again, near the culvert. “Andy Torres?”

“Hi?” comes a boy’s voice in response.

The two men glance at each other. Relief.

“Are you okay in there? Why are you in a culvert?” Will asks, loud. Nico snorts and Will shoves him, nearly sending him sliding further down the bank. Nico grabs Will’s arm to steady himself.

“My dog ran in and he got stuck,” says a small voice after a moment. “Can you get my dad?”

Will smiles, half-listening to Nico, now on the radio to other searchers in the area. “Your dad should be here soon. In the meantime – my friend and I out here are FBI agents. We’re going to try to get you out, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” the boy says, sounding less than enthused. Then he adds, “I’m really muddy. My mom’s gonna be mad.”

“Wait until your mom sees us,” Nico calls, dry. “We’re even muddier.”

There’s a giggle from inside the pipe.

They share a glance. “After you?” Nico says hopefully.

Will tilts his head, glancing first at the muddy culvert, then Nico. “You are smaller. Besides, someone should stay out here and um… wait for the others to arrive.”

Nico groans. “Fine.” He inches a bit closer.

Will scans the area critically. “I think we’re going to… here.” He carefully lowers himself to the creek bed, cringing as his already-muddy shoes fill with icy, stagnant water.

“Come on in, the water’s fine,” he says deadpan, and Nico grimaces.

They manage it, eventually, Will giving Nico a boost into the pipe, both getting even muddier in the process. The dark-haired man disappears into the hole in the bank grumbling to himself.

Half a dozen other agents, a couple of EMTs and Andy’s dad have arrived by the time Nico emerges with Andy and Chew-Barka in tow, and Will watches, amused, as Nico is roundly congratulated, probably receiving far more handshakes and thumps on the back in ten minutes than he’d like in an entire year. He finally makes his way back towards Will looking harassed but pleased, and they follow along near the rear of the group as everyone heads back towards the trailhead.

Andy, thankfully, doesn’t seem hurt in the least, and his high, excited voice carries back to them as he swings off his father’s arm, enumerating his adventures. Chew-Barka looks thrilled just to be along for the ride, repeatedly tripping up the search team as he attempts to make friends with everyone.

“That was a good morale boost,” Nico murmurs, a small smile on his face as they pick their way over a fallen tree.

“Yeah,” Will agrees. “Always good to schedule in a few of those.”

They trudge along in silence for a while, the group in front of them slowly drawing further ahead.

Will glances over at his partner. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Nico huffs. “Just trying to keep my shoes from getting wetter than they already are.”

“Good luck with that.”

They’re only walking for another minute when Nico speaks up, sudden. “Did you see his dad?”

Will blinks. “Whose dad? Andy’s?”

“Yeah,” Nico says, and then there’s a pause as they pick their way around a large puddle, anchoring themselves on branches alongside the path to keep from falling into the muck. “He didn’t seem upset with the kid at all, did he?”

Will frowns, considering. Andy’s dad had caught the little boy up in his arms and squeezed him like there was nothing else in the world. He thinks there isn’t anything quite like the relief on a parent’s face at finding their child is safe when they were worried otherwise. “Why would he have been upset?” Will asks slowly. “I know the kid wandered off, but… I think he was just happy we found him in one piece.”

Nico nods. “Exactly. That’s how – that’s what dads should be like,” he says fervently.

Will glances over, processing. Nico’s studiously avoiding his gaze. Then, “Oh,” Will says, soft. “Not like your dad?”

“No, he would’ve…” Nico shakes his head. “No. Not like mine.”

Will’s throat goes tight. He wants to reach out, but Nico picks up his pace, and Will does his best to keep up.

::

Several hours later there hasn’t been any sign of the escaped convict. The rain has stopped though, and the sky has begun to clear, trails of white fluffy clouds smudged above the treetops. Nico’s somewhat less damp, now, if nothing else. He hopes the lady at his regular dry cleaner will refrain from comments on the state of his pants.

The search crew are lingering around the trailhead, awaiting further instruction. Nico glances over to see his partner seated at a picnic table with Sam, dappled sunlight illuminating Will’s blond curls and Sam’s hijab, sky blue today. The two are chatting animatedly.

“Search is moving into town,” Magnus announces, making his way over to Nico. He’s looking a bit disheveled at this point in the operation too, but his gray eyes are bright. “There was a reported sighting. I just heard from Ramirez-Arellano though. She wants you and Solace to head back to DC. Says if you accumulate one more minute of overtime she’s sending you both on a forced vacation.”

Nico huffs. “Fine.” He can’t say he’s too disappointed. His back is aching and his toes are icy inside his wet socks.

“Keep in touch though, yeah?” Magnus says. “Sam was saying something about organizing another karaoke night.” He winks and Nico rolls his eyes.

Magnus heads back to the search crew and Nico crosses to the picnic table. Sam’s gone, but Will’s still sitting there, legs stretched out, eyes closed, face turned up to the weak spring sunlight. Photosynthesizing, maybe.

Nico stops in front of the picnic table, giving the wooden structure a light kick. “Hey.”

Will opens his eyes, already grinning. “Hey.”

“Hate to interrupt your tanning session, but Reyna wants us to head back. They’re moving the search into town, and we’re not invited.” Nico drops down beside his partner. His cold feet are throbbing.

“So rude,” Will sighs, dramatic. “I have some good news, though – look what Sam lent me!”

Will holds out a CD. Nico peers at it, then pulls a face. “Dawson’s Creek? Isn’t that the show with the teenagers with the huge vocabularies?”

“Nico.” Will shakes his head, solemn. “It’s so much more than that. Dawson’s Creek is a classic. Ahead of its time. Sam and I are going to watch the season finale together, in May. You should come!” Will nudges his leg with a muddy shoe, and Nico grimaces. Not that he can get much muddier.

“I think I’m washing my hair that night.”

Will sticks out his tongue.

Really? He’s almost thirty years old. He’s a doctor.

“Party pooper. Anyway, the soundtrack is really good. You’ll like it. We can listen to it on our next trip.” Will wiggles his eyebrows in a manner that’s probably meant to indicate that what he’s just proposed should be enticing to Nico.

Nico sighs, pained. “Fine. I guess.” He stands. His cold, wet shoes make a weird squelching sound, accompanied by a weird squelching sensation. Gross. “Let’s go. I wanna stop in town for snacks before we head back to DC.”

“Sure.” Will extends his hand.

Nico blinks at the hand, then at Will. “What.”

“Help me up,” Will says, as if that should have been obvious.

“Help you – why should I – why do you –” Nico sputters.

Will sighs. “Nico, we can argue about it, or you can just help me up.” He makes a grabby gesture.

“Oh my god,” Nico mutters, grabbing Will’s warm, large hand and yanking him to his feet. It does something stupid to Nico’s stomach and he drops Will’s hand quickly, shoving down the impulse to rub his own hand on his coat. Really, if Will’s hands are going to be so much larger than his, then surely Will should be the one helping Nico up, or –

Will smiles, all sunlight and freckles. Jerk.

“Andy was right,” Will says. “You are strong.”

“What?” Nico laughs, startled. He can feel himself going red, and he walks a bit faster up the path, attempting to position his flushed face out of sight.

“I heard him telling his dad,” Will grins, catching up easily with his stupid long legs. “All about the strong, brave policeman who rescued him.”

“Jesus,” Nico mutters, unable to come up with anything cleverer.

Will laughs, bright.

The car is parked about half a mile from the trailhead, and they make their way back through the wooded trail together. The sun is slowly beginning to warm the forest, and it smells lush and earthy, droplets of water sparking on leaves in the filtered sunlight. Nico’s dragging a bit after a long day, having trouble focusing on anything besides his wet feet, but Will seems energized, practically skipping next to him.

“I’m so hungry I could eat the north end of a southbound polecat,” Will announces, affecting a southern drawl. Nico snorts, and Will glances over, grinning. “That’s what my nana used to say,” he explains. A branch catches his hair and he pauses to untangle it.

“That’s a new one,” Nico mutters.

“Why, what would you say?” Will asks, still bouncing along next to him.

Nico makes a face. “I don’t know. I’m just hungry. I don’t feel the need to drag out colloquialisms about it.”

Will ignores this. “I’m so hungry I could eat my arm,” he says. “Or your arm.” He grabs Nico’s arm and squeezes.

“God, you’re so touchy Nico complains, batting Will’s hand away. They’re walking side by side, but it’s still obvious, the way Will wilts at the words, a dimming in Nico’s peripheral vision. Nico immediately internally berates himself.

The truth is he’s never been touched so much – at least not outside of romantic relationships. Or at least, not in his memory. He’s sure his mother was affectionate with him, but his memories of her are so hazy, more flashes of her smile, a vague memory of her presence in the house, comforting. And while Bianca was his best friend, his companion and sometimes caregiver, she was never easy with physical touch the way Will is. Nico never has been either. He never thought he particularly liked it, or wanted it. It's taken some adjusting to, as prickly as he knows he can be, but now that he has, he very much doesn’t want to be without it. And Will’s touch is so easy. Something generous. Unconditional. It makes Nico feel warm and grounded.

“Sorry,” Will says, chastened, the teasing gone from his voice. “I’m – I know I can be. I’ll back off.” Will moves a bit further away.

Fuck.

“I don’t – I don’t actually… mind,” Nico manages, feeling his face heat. “I was just – I was teasing. Sorry.”

Will glances over, still guarded. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Nico says, embarrassed. “I might – I kind of like it. Actually.” he admits. His face is burning, but look. He brought this on himself.

Will beams, suddenly throwing an arm around Nico’s shoulders, hugging him from the side. It nearly knocks them both to the forest floor.

“Okay, okay. Nerd,” Nico mumbles, gruff. But he carefully slides an arm around Will’s waist, squeezing back before Will moves away, and okay. That’s kind of nice.

::

They make the short drive into Rockwood. It’s barely large enough to be called a town, Will thinks, and lunch options are thin on the ground. They park on the main street, leaving their muddy coats in the trunk before making their way across the street and up the block to a small grocery store. They exit soon thereafter with a paper bag brimming with snacks, wrapped deli sandwiches and two bottles of soda. Will glances at their reflection in a glass storefront as they wait for the town’s single traffic light to change. He huffs out a laugh.

Nico turns, cocking an eyebrow. “What?”

Will waves a hand towards the glass. “Just wondering how you manage to look artfully windswept after our trek through the woods while I look like I just crawled out of a trash compactor. Especially since you were the one who climbed through the culvert.”

Nico snorts, glancing into the glass. He preens a little and Will laughs. Will glances back to Nico himself, who’s gone a bit pink.

“You – you look fine, anyway,” Nico says, gruff.

Will grins. The light changes and he follows Nico across the street. There aren’t many pedestrians around to begin with, and both men glance up automatically as a man passes them, crossing the street in the opposite direction.

They pause mid-step, halfway across the street. Realization seems to dawn over Nico at the same time as it does Will.

Nico scrambles to pull out the papers that Magnus gave them hours ago, his eyes wide.

“Was that –”

“Fuck.”

A quick glance at the photocopied picture of the escaped convict and both Will and Nico hurry back across the street the way they’d come.

“Edward Michael Corrin?” Will calls.

The man whips around to look at them. His eyes go wide and he takes off at a sprint.

“FBI, stop where you are! Nico yells. If anything, this makes the man run faster.

“I hate running,” Nico groans, cursing and taking off after Corrin. Will sadly abandons their bag of snacks, dropping it as carefully as he can before racing after his partner. Nico may not be tall, but god, he’s fast, and Will’s quickly out of breath.

The town of Rockwood borders right on dense woods, and that’s where Corrin seems to be heading. Will grimaces, thinking ruefully of his already-wet feet and muddy clothes.

Will’s just finished calling for backup as he sees Nico disappear into the trees, maybe 50 yards behind Corrin. The guy’s got a lot of life left in him, considering he’s been on the run all day.

The land here isn’t quite as wet, but it’s rocky and uneven. Will’s pace is slowed immediately as he tries to find a safe way through the woods. The forest here is mostly deciduous, thankfully, just the barest hint of new leaves on the trees. Otherwise, Will thinks there’s no way he would have spotted his partner, halfway up a sharp incline. Nico’s gasping for air, leaning forward with hands propped on his thighs. Will reaches him a moment later, clutching at a stitch in his side.

“I think I lost him,” Nico manages, breathless. “Fuck, I hate running.”

Will breathes out a laugh, sharp. “Yeah, it‘s not my first choice either.” His lungs are burning, but he manages to force himself upright, shoving hair off his sweaty forehead and scanning the landscape. “You didn’t see which way he went?”

Nico shakes his head, still catching his breath. There’s a rip in the shoulder of his jacket.

“Should probably keep climbing,” Nico manages, tilting his head towards the top of the hill. “Might get a better look from up there.”

Sadly, he’s probably right, and they make their way up, breathing hard. The rocky soil underfoot might make for good footholds under other circumstances, but right now the rocks are slippery with rainwater and dead leaves, and Will nearly loses his footing several times, finally resorting to crawling rather than climbing to the top of the hill.

“Where the fuck is everyone?” Nico breathes as they reach the hilltop. It’s dotted with birch up here, too, but the trees are thinner.

Will glances around, chest heaving. “Maybe – there?” He points across the little plateau they’re standing on, because he’s sure he’s just seen movement, a flash of color…

“Where?”

Not enough breath for conversation, Will grabs Nico’s chin with a sweaty hand and points him in the right direction. Nico blinks, startled, but there’s no time to argue, because –

“Oh fuck, that’s him.”

And Nico takes off running again. Will groans, one more deep breath before following. Where are the others?

At least he’s no longer fighting his way uphill. The ground up here isn’t quite as rocky, and Will makes better progress than he had been.

“FBI, stop where you are!” Nico yells again. Corrin doesn’t, but in the next second, Nico’s somehow right on his tail, then he’s got the other man by the shoulder and then they both go down. There’s a brief tussle, but by the time Will catches up, Nico’s got Corrin’s hands behind his back, fumbling for his handcuffs.

“Nice one,” Will gasps, crouching down to help. Nico pulls Corrin to his feet just as the other agents crest the hill, Sam and Magnus in the lead.

“Nice of you all to finally show up,” Nico says, breathless.

There’s a blur of activity. Corrin is led down the hill. Nico takes a few minutes to debrief Magnus, but finally they head back towards the little town they’d left so suddenly. They don’t talk much as they make their way back over the rocky ground, finally emerging from the trees into late afternoon sunlight.

“Oh hey, our snacks are still here!” Will exclaims as they round the corner, spotting the paper bag he’d stowed next to a mailbox. “Thank god, because I could, quite literally, eat your arm at this point.”

He quirks an eyebrow at Nico, who rolls his eyes. “Oh – you’re bleeding,” Will frowns, grabbing his partner by the arm and turning him.

“It’s fine. Sam gave me a bandaid.”

“Let me –” Will ducks his head, trying to get a better look. Sure enough, there is a bandaid at the corner of Nico’s forehead, right at his hairline. A dark lock of hair has fallen over it, might even have done a good job concealing it, if not for the trickle of blood.

“Nico, it’s not fine. There’s literally blood running down the side of your face.”

“Just a flesh wound.”

Will rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t mean you – here. Sit. I’ll be back with the first aid kit.” He grabs both Nico’s shoulders, guiding him firmly to a bench.

“Will, I can make it back to the car, it’s just a cut,” Nico complains.

“Yeah, I know, but the light’s better out here. Just stay put. And give me the car keys.” Will gives him a stern look, holding out his hand, and Nico finally slumps, acquiescing.

Will shoots a glance over his shoulder to make sure Nico hasn’t moved as he hurries back to the car, popping the trunk. He’s been trying to push it aside as best he can, but images of Nico collapsed on a motel room floor, rapidly losing consciousness, seem burned into his brain. The way Will’s heart had plummeted when Nico had stopped responding, gone limp under his hands. The interminable drag of minutes as Will waited for the ambulance to arrive, counting Nico’s every breath.

Nico casually bleeding from a head wound isn’t particularly helping matters. Will takes a moment for a few deep breaths, for whatever good that might do, before heading back up the street.

Nico’s waiting for him, looking mollified or disgruntled, Will’s not sure.

“Okay, let’s take a look,” Will says, settling himself next to Nico. He opens the little med kit, cleaning his hands and then pulling on gloves. He offers the hand sanitizer to Nico as well, who holds out his hand obediently as Will squirts a blob into his palm.

“Can you hold your hair back?” Will asks.

Will carefully peels the bandaid back, blood already soaking through the fabric. It’s a jagged cut, nearly two inches long and still bleeding freely. It could probably use a few stitches.

“Jesus,” Will mutters. “How did this happen?”

Nico’s nose scrunches. Sitting this close in the sunlight, Will notices a scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “Not sure. Might have been a rock.”

Will gently tilts Nico’s head to the side. “Did Sam see this when she gave you the bandaid? Why didn’t she take you to the EMTs? They were right there when the guys carted Corrin off.”

Nico makes a small sound in his throat, noncommittal.

“Nico?” Will frowns. “Did Sam tell you to see the EMTs?”

Nico glances over, cagey. “I told her you’d look at it.”

Will huffs. “Seriously? And were you planning on mentioning that to me?”

Nico shrugs, and Will gets to work cleaning out the cut, his jaw set. Nico’s gaze flicks over to him a few times, but he stays quiet.

Finally Will shakes his head, dabbing at the still-bleeding wound. “I can put a Steri-Strip on this, but I’d really recommend getting it stitched instead.”

“But you can do it?” Nico says, hesitant.

Will sighs. “I can. If the other option is putting a bandaid back over it and oozing blood all the way back to DC.”

Nico grimaces. “Can – can you do the Steri-Strip? Please?”

“Fine,” Will says, short. The trouble with human bodies is that they’re so fucking fallible. All that blood, right under the skin. Bones that break and hearts that stop and the smallest, stupidest choices that can put you six feet under. Will grits his teeth, throat tight.

“You’re angry at me,” Nico says quietly.

Will blinks, pulled from his morose contemplation.

“What? No.” He shakes his head. “No, I’m really not. Sorry.” He carefully secures one side of the Steri-Strip to Nico’s forehead, applying gentle pressure with two fingertips and holding gauze against the wound with his other hand. “I’m just going to hold this here for a minute and make sure the adhesive sticks before I secure the other side.”

Will’s eyes flick to his partner, who’s watching him with something like wariness.

“I’m not mad,” Will repeats. “I’m just –” he trains his gaze on his gloved fingertips, pressed to his partner’s forehead. Nico’s blood slowly soaks through the gauze, shocking red against the white. Will takes a deep breath. “I almost lost you on our last case. Gotta be more careful this time. Right?” His voice comes out clipped and hoarse.

“But that wasn’t your fault,” Nico says slowly. He’s still holding his hair out of the way, and he swaps one hand for the other, taking care not to jostle Will’s fingers.

Will grimaces. “Wasn’t it? I read the autopsy report on the first victim. I performed the autopsy on the second one. And then I let you order pizza, and I left.” He hadn’t had the space to give it much thought at the time, but in the ensuing days it’s weighed on him more and more. It seems baffling how quickly they moved on from it. Baffling that they’re both still here, alive and breathing.

Nico’s brow creases. “But that’s – I read the autopsy reports too, Will. I didn’t put the pieces together either. And besides, if you hadn’t left, we’d probably both be dead.”

Will shrugs. “I think this side is adhered now,” he tells Nico, avoiding his gaze. “You’re just going to feel some tension and then I’ll secure the other side.”

“Okay,” Nico says quietly.

Will finishes applying the Steri-Strip, then carefully tapes a square of gauze over it. He clears his throat. “I don’t think it’s going to bleed too much more, but the gauze will take care of it if it does.”

Will takes a deep breath, finally turning his gaze to Nico, who’s watching him with those big, dark eyes, his expression solemn. Looking at Nico from inches away like this is a bit like gazing directly into the sun. Will glances down instead, peeling off his gloves and discarding them with the trash in the can next to the bench.

“Any other open wounds I should know about, before I put the kit away?” Will asks irritably.

“No,” Nico says softly.

Will begins packing away his supplies. His hands are clumsy, though, his heart beating too fast, and he fumbles the gauze and then the baggie of cotton balls. Nico pulls the kit and all its accessories out of Will’s hands, packing everything away and handing it back wordlessly.

“Thanks,” Will mutters. He sighs. “Look, I didn’t mean to bring that up. I didn’t mean to make things awkward. Can we just forget about it?”

Nico watches him for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says finally.

Will can still feel his pulse pounding in his throat. “You don’t know?”

“Well, I –” Nico lets out a breath, sharp. “Look, I’m not good at…” he waves a hand vaguely. “Talking. But I think – look. This job has certain risks, right? And we know that going into it. And if anything ever happened to me, because of this job – this job that I choose to do – I would never want you to blame yourself. Not even if, say, you think you missed something. Or even if you fucked up – which you didn’t, incidentally. But I would never want you to carry that with you. Because this job is my choice, and I accept the risks that it involves. Okay?”

Will lets out a breath. “I mean, that’s easy to say but…”

Nico nods. “I know, but –”

“But obviously I’d never want you to blame yourself either,” Will says, “if anything ever happened to me.”

“Well.” Nico suddenly looks conflicted. The waning sunlight catches on his dark hair, his long lashes, a flash of gold. “That’s different.”

“What? Why –”

“Because I’m never going to let anything happen to you,” Nico says smoothly, his lips quirking.

Will stares at the other man for a moment, his throat going tight. “Yeah? That’s your grand plan?”

Nico shrugs, smug. Will manages a laugh. “You’re such a nerd.” Will restrains himself, just, from throwing his arms around his partner’s neck and sobbing into his shoulder.

“Fine. Then I’m not going to let anything happen to you either,” Will says, as light as he can.“And in fifty years we’ll be like… chasing down perps together with our walkers and canes.” Will feels his face warming at all the possible implications of that, but Nico only laughs, looking pleased.

Will stands, holding out his hand to his partner, who accepts it. Nico’s hand is warm. It fits nicely in his. Will pulls Nico to his feet.

Will leads the way back to the car, unlocking it and passing the keys to Nico, who still has a quietly please look on his face.

“You wanna solve crimes with me when we’re old and infirm?” Nico asks, light.

“Well,” Will huffs, stowing the med kit in the trunk. “Not if you can’t be bothered to tell me when you’re actively bleeding,” he can’t quite resist saying.

But Nico just grins. “That’s probably something I can work on.”

There’s a light chill in the air now, at the day’s end, but the car is sun-warmed and cozy inside. Will’s very much looking forward to staying seated for a couple of hours and finally eating something.

Nico starts the car and then pulls down the sun shade, flipping open the mirror. He wrinkles his nose. “Not so artfully windswept now.”

Will glances over and grins. “I don’t know. I think you can pull it off. I especially like the bloody bandage. And the leaves.”

Nico huffs, tilting his head. He plucks several dried leaves and a small twig from his hair.

Will watches, fond. “You missed a couple,” he says, and when Nico can’t quite locate them, turning his head this way and that, Will can’t help himself. “Here,” he says, leaning closer.

Nico stills, but Will’s committed now, stomach fluttering with nerves despite the fact that he’s just spent the last twenty minutes in close quarters patching up Nico’s head. It feels as if there’s something more private about the car, though, and this is distinctly less medical. Less necessary.

Nico’s hair is soft, silky. Will’s fumbling fingers take a moment longer than they should to extricate the leaves, and he can feel his face warming in the process. Nico smells a bit like sunshine, a bit like the fresh forest air, and under all of it, the comfortingly familiar smell of Nico. It doesn’t help Will’s butterflies.

“Got it,” Will says, finally, a little rough, holding up the leaves in demonstration. He lowers the passenger side window, letting the leaves flutter out onto the street outside.

There’s a rather loaded silence following this interaction and it’s truly ridiculous, Will thinks, the way his heart is pounding in his chest.

“I really need a haircut,” Nico mutters as he starts the car.

Will huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, same.” He ducks his head to inspect his reflection in the window, shoving a few errant curls out of his face.

Will finds a radio station that’s acceptable to both of them, and neither speaks much more until the exit signs for Baltimore begin flashing past in the twilight.

“Actually –” Nico glances over at Will, then away.

“Hmm?”

“If you wanna take a quick detour into Baltimore, I’ll treat you to a haircut?”

Will’s face must betray his confusion, because Nico immediately goes red, turning back to the road. “Sorry, that sounded really weird,” he laughs. “My um – my sister. Half-sister. She lives in Baltimore. She always cuts my hair for me. I could use a trim, and we’re in the neighborhood – forget it, though. I’m sure you want to get back to DC.”

“No, that actually sounds great.” Will actually has very little desire to get back to his empty apartment. Kayla’s away overnight, and the Wednesday night TV lineup is usually a bore. He grins, poking Nico in the shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re going to introduce me to your family already. It’s only our tenth case-iversary.”

Nico scowls. “I changed my mind.” He moves to bump the cruise control back up.

Will laughs, loud, grabbing Nico’s wrist to pull it away from the cruise. “No, no, I’m sorry. I would love a haircut. I promise I’ll be good,” he adds, because Nico’s looking pained.

“Anyway, it’s our eleventh case-iversary,” Nico mutters a moment later.

Will blinks. “You’re right,” he realizes. “I forgot about the spaceship.”

Nico snorts.

“What’s the gift, for the eleventh case-iversary?” Will wonders aloud.

“Haircuts,” Nico says, dry.

Will nods, serious. “Right, right. Tenth was shitty take-out coffee.”

Nico shakes his head, looking harassed, but he drops his speed again. “Case-iversary,” he mutters under his breath, disparaging, as he exits the freeway. Will laughs. ___

It’s fully dark by the time they park on a quiet street in the heart of industrial Baltimore. Nico turns off the car and then pauses, not unbuckling his seatbelt yet.

Will shoots a glance in his direction. “What’s up?”

Nico looks uncertain. “Um. Just – my sister –”

“Hazel, right?”

Nico looks surprised. “Yeah. You remembered.”

Will shrugs. “It’s kind of an unusual name. Pretty.”

Nico watches him for a moment, then nods. “Yeah,” he says. “So – she lives with her boyfriend, Frank. He’s great. They’ve been together for ages. Actually, he’s my star researcher – remember he did the background check on Robert Marcus?”

“Oh, Frank Zhang, right? Perfect, I already love Frank,” Will smiles.

“Me too. He’s fantastic. But then there’s their roommate, Leo.” Nico scrunches his nose. “He’s… well, he can be a lot. Just so you’re forewarned.”

Will nods. “Okay, noted.”

“He actually – he’s the one who gave me those playing cards.”

“Oh, I see,” Will laughs.

“Yeah.” Nico rolls his eyes, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Will closes the car door, stretching. He glances down at himself, brushing off as much of the dried mud as he’s able to. Nico joins him on the sidewalk, does the same.

“Ready?” Nico asks.

Will swallows, more nervous than he thinks he probably should be. “Yup. Bring it on.”

Nico pauses, his gaze softening as it flicks over Will’s face. “They’ll like you,” he says.

::

There’s a shriek as the door opens, and Nico is immediately enveloped by a woman several inches shorter than him with a fluffy cloud of golden-bronze curls. “You should have told me you were coming by,” she exclaims, then turns to yell over her shoulder, “Frank, have you ordered the pizza yet? Can you get extra?”

Hazel’s eyes light up as she catches sight of Will, hovering awkwardly just beyond the doorway. “You must be Will!” she exclaims, reaching out to shake his hand. Will smiles at being so enthusiastically received then smiles a little more, just to himself, at the surprise of Nico’s hand, pressing low on his back as the other man ushers him into the apartment. The small touch is reassuring, immediately making him feel more at ease. As much as Nico denied it, Will knows that he can be too touchy.

“You’re not allergic to dogs, are you, Will? Or cats?” Hazel asks.

“Or hamsters, or lizards?” comes a deep voice in the background. “Hi, I’m Frank,” says the man attached to the voice, sticking out his hand with a warm smile. He’s tall, burly, with close-cropped dark hair and a kind face.

“Frank works at an animal shelter part-time,” Hazel explains, somewhat apologetic as Will toes off his shoes and an enormous orange cat approaches, sniffing the muddy cuffs of his pants. “He brings home a lot of strays.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling me now?” asks a third voice, and another man crowds into the already packed entryway. He’s about Nico’s height, and wiry, with a head of brown, glossy curls. He grins widely at Will, giving him an appreciative, very obvious once-over, then turning to Nico. “Is this your skeptical partner? He’s hot.”

Nico scowls. “You can fuck all the way off,” he mutters to the newcomer, then turns to Will. “I’m so sorry. Please feel free to ignore him. I try to.”

“Nice to meet you, Will. I’m Leo.” The man sticks out his hand, offering a toothy smile. Will reaches out to grasp Leo’s hand. “The moon landing was faked,” Leo adds, his smile never faltering.

Will can’t tell whether he’s supposed to laugh or not, and he ends up just kind of awkwardly staring.

“God,” Nico mutters, grabbing Will by the arm and dragging him further into the apartment. “Hazel, we actually came by to see if you had time to cut my hair – and Will’s,” Nico says, sounding a little guilty. “I know I should have called first, but we were in the neighborhood and –”

Hazel’s face lights up. “I would love to cut your hair, Will,” she says, stepping closer and beginning what feels like a clinical inspection of Will’s head, rising on her toes and tilting her head from side to side. Will tries very hard not to feel like some sort of a medical specimen. “And yours too, Nico,” she adds as an afterthought, reaching out to examine a curl at Will’s ear more closely. “Will, what’s your curl regimen?”

“My um – what?”

“Your curl regimen,” Hazel says, deadly serious. “What products do you use?”

“I –” Will blinks at Hazel. “I wash it? And um… sometimes I use a little gel?” He looks helplessly at Nico, who looks like he’s trying desperately not to laugh.

Nico nods, solemn. “It’s true, he does sometimes use a little gel. I’ve seen him do it.”

Hazel’s brow furrows. With disappointment, maybe? Will suddenly feels very guilty for something, though he can’t quite get a handle on what that might be.

Nico sighs. “Sorry. Hazel gets a little excited about curly hair. It’s kind of her thing.”

Hazel turns to stick her tongue out at her brother and then, thank god, ceases her inspection of Will’s head. Hazel’s brow furrows as she takes in Nico’s appearance.

“What on earth did the two of you get up to today?” Hazel asks, sounding worried. She plucks a leaf from Nico’s hair that Will must have missed earlier, her eyes going wide at the hint of bandage half-hidden under Nico’s over-long bangs. Hazel brushes the hair back from Nico’s forehead. He makes a face but doesn’t flinch away. “Oh no, what happened?”

“Well, actually,” Will says, “Nico completely saved the day.”

Nico’s gaze flicks over to him, pink in his cheeks. “I absolutely did not.”

“You absolutely did,” Will says. He turns to Hazel. “We were heading back to DC after a case, and we got a call about a separate incident while we were on the road. Missing dog, missing kid and missing convict. There were at least a dozen other agents on the case, but Nico managed to personally find all three of them.”

“Nico, really?” Hazel squeals. “That’s amazing!” She throws her arms around her brother.

“Well, when you put it that way,” Nico mutters as Leo claps him on the back and Frank nods approvingly.

“You mean when I describe the events exactly as they occurred?” Will grins. Nico shoots him a smile, a bit bashful. Hazel’s gaze flicks between the two of them with a level of interest that makes Will a little nervous.

She gives Nico a squeeze around the waist. “Come on, big brother. You can tell me all about your heroic deeds while I wash your hair. We’ve got time to give you a quick trim before the pizza comes, and then I can do Will’s afterwards.”

Will thinks Nico looks a bit reluctant to leave him with Frank and (probably more accurately) Leo, but he follows his sister and they disappear down a hallway together.

Frank leads the way into the main living area, he and Leo settling themselves in easy chairs. Will sits on the floor against the couch as a dog shyly approaches, sniffing delicately at Will’s hand when he extends it. She’s medium-sized, possibly some kind of a lab mix (Frank introduces her as Summer) and she climbs into Will’s lap, turning in an awkward circle before curling herself into a ball and tucking her head against Will’s stomach.

Leo is certainly a lot, as Nico described, but he’s easy enough to talk to. Soon he and Will are engaged in a friendly debate on flat earth theory, Frank sitting quietly in the background and occasionally shaking his head good-naturedly.

“I’m not saying I believe you could actually walk off the edge of the earth,” Leo is saying, his eyes bright, “but you have to admit they make some compelling arguments. And to be perfectly fair, I haven’t tried it myself.”

Will, who’s been trying hard not to laugh, finally allows himself a proper grin aimed at Nico as the dark-haired man returns to the main living area. Nico shoves a hand self-consciously through his now much-shorter hair, smiling to see Will sprawled on the floor against the couch, Summer still curled in his lap and a three-legged gray cat tucked under his arm. Nico lowers himself to the couch at Will’s shoulder.

Leo grins, jerking his chin towards Will. “He’s like a fucking Disney princess.”

“He sure likes to sing like one,” Nico complains and Will grins, his gaze flicking up to his partner. He sees the gauze has been removed from Nico’s head.

“Can I take a look at –” Will motions to Nico’s forehead and Nico leans forward obligingly, so Will can avoid dislodging the cat and dog.

A light touch to Nico’s temple and Nico leans his head closer. Will nods approvingly. “It looks better now. I think I did a decent job,” he says, a little relieved.

“You’re a forensic pathologist, Will?” Frank asks.

“Yes,” Will says, surprised. “These days the most medicine I do is autopsies. But Nico was kind enough to let me practice on a living specimen today.”

Leo and Hazel laugh. “I never should have brought you here,” Nico says, an amused look.

Will grins up at him, unrepentant. Frank looks to be thinking something over, a worried pinch to his brow.

“I know you’re not a vet,” Frank begins,“but would you mind taking a quick look at Otis later?”

“Sure,” Will agrees immediately, then suddenly hopes that Otis is, at least, a mammal. “And Otis is…?”

“A dog,” Frank says, looking relieved. “He’s got this infection under his ear. I’ve been doing my best with it, but I’d really appreciate a second set of eyes on him. I know you’re not really trained to –”

“No, it’s okay,” Will interrupts, smiling. “I’d love to take a look at Otis. I agree. It’s always good to get a second opinion.”

The doorbell buzzes, and Leo carries the pizza in a minute later, setting boxes on the table as Hazel follows with a stack of plates. Will fills his plate and moves back to the floor at the foot of the couch. Hearing a huff next to him a moment later, he laughs in surprise to see three more dogs sitting in a line, avidly watching the progress of his pizza from the plate to his mouth.

Hazel rolls her eyes. “Just ignore them, if you can,” she tells Will, attempting to (mostly unsuccessfully) shoo the dogs to their beds. Frank, looking a bit shifty, explains that while city bylaws generally prohibit having quite so many pets in a dwelling, he’s found certain ways to circumvent this.

“It’s okay, Frank,” Nico says. “He’s not that kind of cop.”

Frank looks a little relieved, dropping into a chair with a plate of pizza in one hand and a one-eyed tuxedo cat tucked under his arm. A second cat, this one a brown tabby, immediately hops gracefully into his lap.

“Definitely not,” Will assures Frank, grinning at the two cats simultaneously head-butting the man in the chair, Frank attempting to hold his pizza safely out of the way. “Anyway, you’ve certainly got the room for it here. This place is amazing.”

It really is. The apartment is impressive, the main living area a loft-style apartment with high ceilings and huge, arched, floor-to-ceiling windows. A mish-mash of pleasantly mismatched but comfortable-looking chairs and couches are scattered throughout the space, along with a large collection of dog beds, and several of the most elaborate cat trees Will has ever seen. In the corner, what looks like a crib mattress is occupied by something large, shaggy and weathered-looking. A dog, probably; whatever it is is lightly snoring.

Frank brightens. “Thanks. My dad owns the building, so our rent’s pretty cheap, and he’s willing to overlook the fact that this place isn’t really zoned as residential. We’ve got plenty of room for the pets and all our side-hustles. Hazel has a little salon in the back, and Leo has a workshop. The door to the kitchen is right where you came in, and that hallway there,” Frank points, “leads to the bedrooms.”

“I’d be happy to give you a tour,” Leo grins, leaning forwards in his chair. “Of the bedrooms.”

Will blinks.

“That definitely won’t be necessary,” Nico says firmly.

Hazel laughs, her arms raised over her head as she ties her hair out of her face. “If you’re finished eating, I can cut your hair now, Will.”

Will is, and Hazel leads him down a hallway into a small space that’s been converted into a salon, a long mirror and two styling chairs.

“I’ve heard lots of good things about you,” Hazel says casually as she drapes a cape over Will’s shoulders. Is my brother treating you well?”

Will wishes she wouldn’t say those words in quite that tone – but maybe he’s just imagining unasked questions. Regardless, his face warms, and he hopes Hazel won’t notice.

“Nico’s great,” Will offers. “He really knows his stuff. I’m learning a lot.”

“That’s good to hear.” Hazel efficiently spritzes Will’s hair with water, shielding his face with a hand at his forehead. “He can be a bit stubborn sometimes. Doesn’t always like following rules.”

Will laughs. “We make it work. We don’t always agree, but we can usually find a way to meet in the middle.”

“It sounds like the two of you make a good match,” Hazel says, reaching for a comb. “Professionally speaking, of course.”

“Of course,” agrees Will.

Hazel does her best to make a case for Will growing his hair longer and letting her teach him a decent curl regimen. He politely declines, citing a lack of time for grooming as well as the general vibe of the FBI.

“I understand,” Hazel says, sounding a little regretful. “You have beautiful curls, though. You let me know the second you decide to grow it out and I’ll set you up with products.”

“Will do,” Will agrees as Hazel begins snipping. “So, do you see a lot of clients here?”

“Yeah, I do,” Hazel says. “It’s been really busy the last couple of years. I have a lot of regular clients – and then I’ve got a ton of government and corporate contracts right now. Everyone’s in a panic about Y2K.”

Will blinks. “You’re – sorry. I’m assuming the government contracts don’t have anything to do with cutting hair?”

Hazel laughs. “No. I guess Nico didn’t mention – I have a degree in computer science – as well as my cosmetology license.”

“Oh, wow, that’s fantastic.”

“It keeps me busy,” Hazel agrees.

“I bet. And can I ask – the government contracts are for –”

“Oh.” Hazel rolls her eyes. “Paranoia, mostly. Government agencies and big corporations are afraid that when the millennium hits, all their computer systems will fail. Mass chaos and panic, you know?”

Will nods. He’s seen some Y2K compliant stickers on some equipment at work – he stuck one to Nico’s forehead the other day as he passed by his desk – and he’s heard some buzz in the media, but he honestly hasn’t been paying a lot of attention.

“I heard about some guy somewhere in the midwest who wants to go into his bunker on New Year’s Eve with two hundred hamsters – he’s planning on using them as a self-sustaining food supply,” Will says, remembering a newspaper he’d been reading to Nico on a recent road trip.

Hazel laughs. “I’m not surprised. Leo’s been trying to convince us to build a bomb shelter out in the woods. Honestly, the chances are it’s all going to be a bit of a letdown for everyone who’s so worked up about it. But everyone wants the appearance that they’re making an effort, right? They want plausible deniability. The contracts are out there – so I take them on, fix up the code, and keep pulling in the big bucks,” Hazel moves to stand in front of Will, checking her work.

“That sounds like a win-win,” Will says.

Hazel shrugs. “I think so. It makes Frank a little uncomfortable, knowing all this work is being done and all this money is being spent when it’s not really necessary. But someone’s gotta do it. And once the millennium turns over and everything is fine, Frank and I might finally be able to buy a big property in the country.”

Will’s eyebrows rise. “Oh yeah? That sounds amazing.”

Hazel smiles. “Yup. Frank can rescue as many dogs as his heart desires and I can finally have horses.”

Will glances up at Hazel’s face in the mirror, seeing the same expression on her face when she mentions horses as Nico has when he gets started on cryptids. Will smiles. Hazel’s engaging and kind, and Will finds himself warming to her quickly. Sure, Nico has those same qualities, sometimes in abundance, but it’s quieter. You have to work to get there, with him. With Hazel, it seems to be all on the surface.

Will’s back in the living room not long after, dropping onto the couch beside Nico, who’s scanning over a newspaper. Nico glances up from his reading in surprise, reaching out a hand to Will’s hair and brushing his fingertips over it lightly before seeming to catch himself.

“Looks good,” Nico manages, looking a little embarrassed.

Will grins. “Thanks. Hazel does good work. What’re you reading?”

“Oh.” Nico passes the paper over. “These guys –” he gestures around to the others in the room, “put out a monthly newsletter. I was just getting caught up.”

Will glances at the cover, scanning over headlines including Criminal Whalers Exposed and Teletubbies Mind Control??.

Will blinks, then flicks a gaze over to Nico, surreptitious and questioning.

Nico appears to be fighting a smile. “It’s mostly Leo’s brainchild, as you might have guessed. But it is actually a group effort. Frank’s research is amazing, of course – you know, government watchdog stuff.”

Will nods, grinning. “I have no doubt.” He flips the newspaper open.

“You can have that copy if you like,” Frank offers.

Will nods his thanks. “You guys have some great side hustles going on here. Coding, journalism, top-tier research –”

“And Leo,” Nico mutters.

Hazel bumps Nico with her shoulder, hard enough that he collides gently with Will on his other side. Will bumps him back.

“We all love Leo,” Hazel says.

Leo beams, and Nico almost audibly rolls his eyes.

“He can fix absolutely anything,” Frank adds. “He’s our robotics expert. He actually built the cat trees,” Frank gestures over to the massive structures at the other side of the room. Will notices now that they’re bolted securely to the wall.

“Cool,” Will nods. “And the animals are very cool, of course,” he adds, as Summer makes her way back into his now-available lap, stopping to touch her cold, wet nose to his before settling back in. “Did I see lizards in the back?” Will asks, scratching Summer behind the ears. He’s pretty sure he saw a lit tank in a room somewhere along the hallway.

“Yup,” Frank says proudly. “That’s Pancake. He’s a bearded dragon. We’ve got a bit of everything here.”

“Everything but birds,” Leo says, and before Will can answer he adds, serious, “because birds aren’t real.”

“Oh my god,” Nico mutters. He glances at Will, who nods. “We should actually get going.”

“It’s been a long day,” Will agrees. It’s hard to believe that it was just this morning that he and Nico were laughing over Leo’s x-rated playing cards.

The whole group of them crowd into the entryway to bid Will and Nico goodnight, Hazel throwing her arms first around her brother, then Will. Will hugs her back, surprised, but pleased. He has to admit, Hazel is nothing like what he would have imagined a sister of Nico’s to be.

“Come by any time, Will,” she says warmly. “Oh wait - here’s my card.” She presses it into his hand. “You won’t find anyone who does curly hair better. I cut your hair from now on,” she says, just a bit too intense, and Will suddenly sees the resemblance between the siblings, vividly.

“Yes please come by any time,” Leo adds, somehow making the words sound more suggestive than Will would have thought possible.

Nico scrubs a hand over his face. “Valdez, please don’t scare him away,” he says weakly. “I like this one.”

The door closes behind them and Will follows Nico to the elevator, grinning. “You like me,” he teases.

Nico snorts. “Yeah, don’t let it go to your head, though. It’s only our eleventh case-iversary.”

(chapter 6 here! Please note chapter 6 is split into two parts)

__

Notes:

1. It's another chapter already! I didn't think I'd get it out so fast, but this one wasn't in bad shape. The updates will slow down at some point because there are still big chunks I need to write from scratch. 2. I can't even remember how long this thing is because at some point it got so large I had to split it into separate docs. It might be 200k total by the end? 3. Thank you SO MUCH for reading and thank you SO MUCH for your comments. They really keep me going <3 4. Thanks once again to @rosyredlipstick for the beta. Thanks also to @anything-thats-rock-and-roll and @snoelledarts for allowing me to borrow their pets/friends' pets :)

[collapsedsquid]

The emails that flew between Lafarge Syria’s executives in 2013 and 2014 are an ample chronicle of self-interest and subterfuge. Among the chief correspondents was Firas Tlass, the son of a former defence minister who had since withdrawn his loyalty to Assad. Tlass hadn’t lived in the country since 2011, but he remained Lafarge’s chief fixer. To make its monthly payments to armed groups in northern Syria, Lafarge used Tlass as an intermediary. Tlass sent Pescheux, Lafarge Syria’s CEO, regular updates on the groups he was paying off, and Lafarge reimbursed him. (Neither Pescheux nor Tlass responded to requests for interviews.) Pescheux had to hassle Tlass to send invoices that were sufficiently evasive. In December 2012, Pescheux recommended that all invoices be on the letterhead of a new company located outside Syria: “This will avoid problems with Syrian authorities and our auditors.” The following April, he sent Tlass detailed invoicing instructions that would “make things more ‘presentable’ and help us a lot”. Pescheux added: “Please do not mention my name on this invoice.” Early in 2013, Tlass referred to a new group in his updates: the al-Nusra Front, an al-Qaida chapter that had taken Raqqa, and that had already been declared a terrorist organisation by the US. Lafarge started paying them: 200,000 Syrian pounds a month at first, rising to 325,000 soon after. In June, Waerness wrote to Pescheux that IS was gathering strength in the area; soon after, IS set up checkpoints on the roads around Jalabiya. Lafarge agreed to pay Tlass $75,000 a month, so that he could disburse funds to both groups – but the money would only come to him if Lafarge kept selling at least 75,000 tonnes of cement every quarter.

Make those sales targets or get killed by the Islamic State I guess

[todaysdocument]

Letter from Corporal James Henry Gooding to the President

Record Group 94: Records of the Adjutant General's OfficeSeries: Letters ReceivedFile Unit: Consolidated File for Corporal James H. Gooding, 54th Massachusetts Infantry Regiment (Colored)

The item is a letter written by Corporal James Henry Gooding of the 54th Regiment of Massachusetts Infantry to President Abraham Lincoln.

Camp of 54th Mass Colored Regt 1863 Moria Island Dept of South . Sept 28th Your Excellency : Abraham Lincoln: Your Excellency will pardon the presumtion of an humble individual like myself in addressing your but the earnest Solicitation of my Comrades in Arms besides the genuine interest felt by myself in the matter is my excuse. for placing before the Executive head of the Nation our Common Grievance: On the 6th of the last Month, the Payments of the department informed us that if we would decide to recieve the sum of $10 (ten dollars) per month he would come and pay us that sum. but that, in the sitting of Congress the Regt would in his opinion be [underline] allowed [/underline] the other 3 (three) He did not give us any guarantee that this would be as he hoped certainly [underline] he [/underline] had no authority for making any such guarantee and we can not supose him acting in anyway interested . Now the main question is Are we [underline] Soldiers [/underline] or are we [underline] Labourers [/underline] We are fully armed and equipped have done all the various Duties. pertaining to a Soldiers life, have conducted ourselves to the complete satisfaction of General Officers, who were if any prejudiced [underline] against [/underline] us but who now accord us all the encouragement and honour due us: have shared the perils and Labour of Reducing the first stronghold that flaunted a Traitor Flags and more. Mr Prresident Today the Anglo Saxon Mother. Wife.or Sister are not alone in tears for [thoare sworn to serve her. Please give this a moments attention. Corporal James Henry Gooding Co. C. 54th Mass. Regt. Morris Island, S. C. [addressed to] President Abraham Lincoln Washington D. C.

[bifold paper] [left hand side; handwritten] H 133 C. T. 1863 [red ink] New York Oct 12/63 Harper & Brothers Forward a letter from James Henry Gooding Corpl. Co. C. 54th Mass Reg "Colored Vols", urging the President to allow the Soldiers of that Regt. the full pay of $13- per month as allowed the other Regts of U. S. Vols. (one enclosure) [red ink] H 1423 Oct 15/63 [red ink] Staff Genl Colored Troops- [red ink] file [pencil] Read AGO Oct 19, 1863 [red ink] [right side of paper handwritten except for letterhead] Franklin Square, New York, Oct 12, 1863 Messers Harper & Brothers present their compliments to the President, and beg leave to transmit to him the enclosed letter, which has been sent to their care by M. James H. Gooding, Corporal of Co. C., 54th Mass. Reg't., at Morris Island, S. C.

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Remember this? Did Meghan Markle get any legal blowback for trying to influence US politics while using her "Duchess" title (how tone deaf). A letter on "Duke and Duchess of Sussex" letterhead and making phone calls is beyond tacky. Maybe she was reprimanded? by u/KimberleyC999

Remember this? Did Meghan Markle get any legal blowback for trying to influence US politics while using her "Duchess" title (how tone deaf). A letter on "Duke and Duchess of Sussex" letterhead and making phone calls is beyond tacky. Maybe she was reprimanded? https://ift.tt/lOj5IoA post link: https://ift.tt/My4GnO5 author: KimberleyC999 submitted: October 21, 2024 at 07:22PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

[neathbound-fiends]

Had a dream about the Citizen's Armada and a potential opportunity you could encounter at Zee while an event is taking place, so I wrote out the text I remember and filled out what I didn't

★

The Armada, Splintered

Wreckage litters the Zee around you...

→

Wreckage litters the Zee around you, a vast swath of water displaying the detritus of a battle lost. Whatever did this has moved on. The ship, it seems, did not receive that same opportunity.

You recognize the name as you approach, carefully navigating the more menacing of the debris: the Hyacinth, a tramp steamer that set out with the Citizen's Armada just before you did.

Your crew is solemn, tense. A fight breaks out in the back regarding what should be done about the wreck.

Pick through the wreckage.

It would be a shame to allow anything she was carrying to be lost with her, and who knows what may have been in the hold?

[Shadowy, 1 Strange Catch]

Attempt to retrieve the crew.

Even if no one survived, it's possible to return them to London for a burial.

[Watchful, Zeefaring]

★

Pick through the wreckage.

→

[Failure]

Whatever secrets this ship might have held belong to the Zee, now. And the drownies. And that set of lengthy reptilian jaws--you make a hasty retreat while you still have all the extremities you arrived with.

[You've gained 10 × Shard of Glim.

Wounds is increasing... (+1 CP.)]

[Success]

It takes some doing--and a generous portion of bait--but you're able to pick through the wreckage rather thoroughly. The ship was apparently rerouted from its course; the hold is filled with a miscellany from London, and--oh? what's this? The authorities would be quite interested in this...

[You've gained 10 × Fistful of Surface Currency.

You've gained 5 × London Street Sign.

You've gained 2 × Tale of Terror!!!]

★

Attempt to retrieve the crew.

→

[Failure]

There is too much carnage and not enough identification. Anything that may have been useful has been claimed by the inky water.

[Nightmares is increasing... (+3 CP.)]

[Success]

It's difficult to locate anything of use, but eventually your search yields results. Bodies are loaded, carefully, onto the ship, and any identification is catalogued. Tattoos, ruined calling cards, initials in engravings on pocketwatches or embroidered into handkerchiefs. It's a long, tiresome endeavor.

Someone in your crew cries out in agony; her wife is among the bodies you recover. Where are all the Admiralty casualties?

[This has unlocked an opportunity somewhere in London. Search the City to find it.]

★

[Opportunity in Wolfstack]

Returning the dead.

You have returned to London with the bodies of some of the Citizen's Armada in your hold. You have identified everyone you recovered, and now must begin the process of determining what to do with them.

Give them to the Admiralty.

This was their battle to fight, and it is their consequence to bear.

Deliver them yourself.

You don't trust this task to those who already failed it. You will handle it yourself.

★

Give them to the Admiralty.

The Stoic Ropemaker stops you at the door. "Heard about what you did out there--the Admiralty gives you its regards. Leave the bodies with us, we'll ensure they make it to their kin."

The next week, a letter arrives at your door on Admiralty letterhead. It thanks you, in brief and efficient detail, for your contributions to the return of those who fell to protect the City.

[You've gained 1 × An Aid to the Admiralty.]

[An Aid to the Admiralty -- You have lent them your aid to return those who've fallen.]

Deliver them yourself.

You spend the day locating and calling upon the families of everyone you recovered, delivering the bodies--or what is left of them--to their next of kin.

It is a thankless task, save for the occasional token of gratitude, but you have the knowledge that you have done the right thing.

[You've gained 1 × A Champion of the Lost.]

[A Champion of the Lost -- You found your fellow citizens, and brought them home to those who lost them.]

[usafphantom2]

Red Eagle Reminisces, The Story Of An Aggressor Pilot

September 27, 2023 Vintage Aviation News Articles 0

Members of the 4477th Tactical Evaluation Squadron standing in front of a MiG-21 under evaluation. USAF Photo

By Stephen Chapis

“After a few minutes of waiting, Colonel Chuck Holden called me into his office. He was in a flight suit with his feet up on his desk and a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. I saluted and as he returned a half-ass salute he leaned forward and shook a piece of paper at me. He growled, ‘Z-man. How the [expletive] did you get this job?’ I replied, ‘What job would that be, sir?’ He congratulated me as he handed me the paper. It was a letter, on 4477th letterhead, from George Gennin notifying my wing commander that I was being reassigned to the Red Eagles as of October 1983. That’s how I found out I got the job.”

Photo by Stephen Chapis

Due in no small part to restrictive, politically imposed rules of engagement, the U.S. Air Force kill ratio during the Vietnam War was just 2.04-to-1. In the 1990s, during operations over the Middle East and the Balkans, Air Force fighter crews scored 50 aerial victories for no losses. This dramatic turnaround is often credited to the advent of the Red Flag in 1975, but it was a number of classified exploitation programs and the establishment of a top-secret squadron that operated MiG-17s, MiG-21s, and MiG-23s that allowed the Air Force to achieve such unchallenged air dominance.

Two USAF F-5Es flanking a MiG-17 and MiG-21 of the 4477th Tactical Evaluation Squadron. United States Air Force. [USAF Photo via William R Peake]

In early 1968, the United States borrowed and exploited the capabilities of an alleged ex-Iraqi MiG-21F-13 Fishbed E under the classified program Have Doughnut. The following year, the U.S. obtained a quartet of MiG-17F Fresco Cs, also alleged to be Iraqi in origin, and exploited those jets under the Have Drill and Have Ferry. In 1973, exploitation programs such as these were formalized under Have Idea, and five years later, the highly classified 4477th Test and Evaluation Squadron (TES) was established at the equally classified Tonopah Test Range, north of Nellis AFB, Nevada.

Members of the 4477th Tactical Evaluation Squadron standing in front of a MiG-21 under evaluation. [USAF Photo]

In a nutshell, the purpose of the Red Eagles was to expose as many pilots as possible to real MiGs, to eliminate what was called “buck fever”, the pilot’s shock of suddenly seeing a real MiG up-close for the first time. It was better for a fighter pilot to get the proverbial deer-in-the-headlights look with a “friendly” MiG over Nevada rather than in combat with a hostile foe.

The program in which the Red Eagles operated was known as Constant Peg, but we’re not here to present the history of the squadron as it is covered in great detail in Steve Davies’ 2008 book, “Red Eagles: America’s Secret MiGs” and “America’s Secret MiG Squadron: The Red Eagles of Project Constant Peg”, which was written by the Red Eagles first commanding officer, Galliard R. Peck, Jr., Col. USAF, (Ret.) in 2014. What follows is the story of Robert J. “Z-Man” Zettel, Lt. Col. (USAF), Ret. (Bandit 39), and his career path that led him to the Red Eagles and the cockpit of the Mikoyan Gurevich MiG-23 Flogger.

Born in Racine, Wisconsin, Robert Zettel grew up in a family where no one had flown or even been in the military. Through his high school years, Zettel read a lot about aviation built model airplanes, and decided that he wanted to be a pilot, but a high school guidance counselor killed that dream. Zettel told the author, “I told him I wanted to be a pilot. I was so naïve that when he asked me what kind, I said, ‘I don’t know. Air Force or Navy.’ I’m sure he meant well, but he gave me three or four reasons why that would never happen and that I should probably think of doing something else. I was completely deflated.” Not even a year later, Zettel’s Air Force career came out of the most unlikely place, “…one of my older brothers was heading for Notre Dame and the ROTC department had sent him a big package. He threw it out because he wasn’t interested, so I literally pulled it out of the garbage. I asked, ‘What’s this?’ He said, ‘Something about Air Force.’ So, I looked through all the colored brochures, and back in the day, they had those little tear-out things, so I filled one out and sent it in.” Zettel related.Ezoic

That piece of refuse launched Zettel’s career. He took his Air Force test and was awarded a four-year Air Force scholarship at the University of Saint Thomas in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Upon graduation, he received his commission through the Air Force ROTC program and went to an undergraduate pilot training class at Vance Air Force Base (AFB) in Enid, Oklahoma, where he graduated at the top of his class in March 1978. After completing his conversion training in the F-4 at Luke AFB, Arizona he flew F-4Ds with the 12th Tactical Fighter Squadron (TFS)/18th Tactical Fighter Wing (TFW), at Kadena AB, Okinawa followed by F-4Es the 36th TFS Osan AB, Korea, which was the last F-4E unit in the Air Force.

It was during his time at Kadena that Zettel set his sights on becoming an aggressor pilot and his assignment to 36th, which was the last air superiority F-4E unit, was quite beneficial in building his credentials and skill set. Zettel spoke of his path to the Aggressors, “I was first introduced to the Aggressors at Kadena… I looked at their role and thought it was an ideal role to hone my skills and become a real air-to-air expert. When my flight commander offered me the opportunity to go to F-4 Weapons School, I turned it down because I wanted to be an Aggressor. He was a graduate of that school and my response to his offer was simply, ‘Well, thanks I’d rather be an Aggressor.’ He was livid.”

Zettel called the commander of the 26th Tactical Fighter Training Squadron (TFTS), which was based at Clark AB, Philippines, that afternoon and told him he’d been offered the weapons school slot, but he’d rather be an Aggressor and amazingly after asking Zettel how much time he had (he had 600 hours in F-4), he hired him on the spot. When he completed his tour at Osan in September 1981, Zettel went to Nellis to check out in the F-5E and complete the Aggressor Program, which included a single surreal sortie against a mysterious MiG-21 and reported to the 26th at Clark in February 1982.

When Zettel came home for Christmas in December 1982, he spent a few days at Nellis and had a most fortuitous meeting with a friend from Clark, “I happened to run into a guy by the name of Jim Day. He’d been one of our GCI controllers at the 26th and was then working GCI for the 4477th. When he saw me in the hallway at the 65th he asked, ‘What are you doing here?’ I said, ‘Well, I’m home on Christmas leave, so I’m hanging around for a day or two to see some old friends and talk to the commander.’ He looked at me and said, ‘Do you have your Class A uniform with you?’ I said, ‘Yes. Why?’ He said, ‘Your name has been floating around as a possible Red Eagle.’ I was shocked because I didn’t think I could get there from where I was in my career at that time.” Zettel recalled.

Day arranged for Zettel to meet with Lieutenant Colonel (LTC) George S. Gennin, who was the Red Eagles commanding officer at the time. Zettel recalled the interview in 2016, “I walked in, saluted smartly, and introduced myself. I think they already knew who I was. Gennin asked me, ‘Would you have any problems flying these airplanes? These are not your standard airplanes. They’re not as safe. We’ve had accidents. We’ve had people get killed.’ Of course, I was young and single, so my reply was, ‘Absolutely. No problem.’ You throw caution to the wind, and you’re bulletproof at that age, right? Anyway, it was all over in 35 or 40 minutes, and I still remember as I was walking out the door he said, ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ Well, at that point I figured I’d never get the job.”

Three months after Col. Holden handed Zettel the letter from LTC Gennin, Zettel arrived at Nellis in September 1983 to begin a most amazing time in his career. He told the author in August 2021, that the cover story was that he was flying “highly modified F-5s” at a secret location north of Las Vegas. Over the years, this cover story was bolstered when Z-Man would go on the road with the 65th. Zettel arrived when the Red Eagles were in a period of transition as they had just retired the MiG-17s and received a number of MiG-23s.

Squadron members with one of the F-5E Trainers/DACT aircraft. [USAF photo]

A total of 61 Air Force, Navy, and Marine Corps pilots were assigned to the 4477th during its 11-year existence and nearly half logged time in the Flogger. There could have been more, but there were some who turned down the opportunity to check out in the swing-wing fighter, especially after crashes claimed the lives of Capt. Mark “Toast” Postai (Bandit 25) and Lieutenant General Robert M. “Bobby” Bond in 1982 and 1984 respectively. Zettel on the other hand made it known that he would jump at the chance to fly the jet and after two years and 338 sorties in the MiG-21, he got his chance.

Zettel explained the process of learning to fly the MiG-23 without the benefit of a two-seat trainer, “The checkout was very similar to the 21. I sat down with the squadron IP (Instructor Pilot) for a few days of academics, which included sitting in the airplane, touching all the buttons and switches, and spending a lot of time on emergency procedures. Then one morning you go out there, crank the airplane do a taxi out to the end of the runway, and then come back. Then in the afternoon, you do the same thing again, except this time you go out to the runway, close the canopy, light the afterburner, pull it out quickly, pop the drag chute, exit, and drop the chute off in the infield and taxi back to the ramp. You didn’t take your checkride until the fourth or fifth hop.” On those early flights, the pilot in the MiG had an experienced Red Eagle on his wing in a T-38.

Once Z-Man was fully checked out in the MiG-23, he began flying presentation flights in earnest, and despite its dubious reputation, Zettel loved flying “the 23”, he was especially impressed with its speed and described two flights where, as Sam Shepard said in ‘The Right Stuff’, he wanted “…to see where that old demon lives.” Zettel told the author, “Once I was down on the deck at two or three hundred feet… and I indicated 830 knots, which was probably close to 1.4 Mach. It was really moving.”

The second flight was a functional control check flight, a favorite of fighter pilots because the airframe is unencumbered by pylons, missile rails, and external tanks. Zettel said, “That was on the deck. I once did a functional check flight, and I had some extra fuel. I was talking to the GCI controller, and he said the ranges were clear. So, I thought to myself, ‘You know, I’m going to see what this thing will really do.’ I climbed to 40,000 feet and did a straight and level 1G acceleration. If I recall the [canopy] redline was 2.23 [Mach] and when I hit 2.2 it was still going, and I thought, ‘That’s close [to redline], that’s fast enough.’ The MiG-23 was the fastest jet I ever flew.”

Whereas the MiG-21 was a dogfighter with an excellent turn rate, the MiG-23 Zettel said was “…more of an interceptor than it was a dogfighter… go into a furball… one or two turns and you’re done.”

That statement didn’t keep Z-Man from nearly getting a gun kill against what is today a fighter that is undefeated in aerial combat- the F-15 Eagle. Zettel related the story with a grin, “I obviously had a lot of air-to-air experience, so I learned how to max perform the 23, meaning taking it right up to the angle of attack limit. I would surprise guys by going into the vertical. I would do an attack on them, and they would get ready to reverse… I’d see this turn; I would just take it up… to work them in the vertical. They weren’t used to seeing that. I did that vertical setup with an F-15, and when he reversed early, and I took it up high, and he reversed back, which depleted a lot of his energy. By the time he tried to come back for me, I was up over the top, getting ready to come down as he started to fall off. So, I’m coming down on him… ready to call guns killed and he calls knock it off. I still remember swearing inside my oxygen mask, ‘Son of a bitch. I can’t believe you called.’ I’m pretty sure he called knock it off only because he did not want to be the only F-15 guy ever to be killed by a MiG-23.”

By the time he left the 4477th, Zettel had logged 138 sorites in the MiG-23 for a total of 70 hours. After his Red Eagles assignment, Zettel went on F-15 with 94th TFS/1st TFW at Langley AFB, Virginia, and retired in 2001 after 14 years of active duty and six in the reserves. In 1991, he was hired by United where he flew DC-10s, A320s, 767s, and 777s. He retired in 2019 as a 767 Line Standards Manager. Today, he and his wife, a retired Captain for American, reside in Florida and enjoy flying a float-equipped AirCam.

In 2019, Zettel was traveling through the Midwest and stopped at the National Museum of the US Air Force (NMUSAF) to take a brief trip back in time. He was there just as the museum was opening and knew just where to go to see an old friend — MiG-23MS ‘Bort 39.’ Having arrived at the display within minutes of opening, he found no visitors nearby, just a couple of tour guides no doubt wondering why someone was there to see a MiG-23 first thing in the morning. Noticing their curiosity, Zettel explained his background, affiliation to the Red Eagles, and this actual aircraft. The guides said they’d never met anyone who’d actually flown a MiG, much less the one right before them. Without hesitation, Zettel quickly told them a few anecdotal stories about the unit, as well as the aircraft. He then offered to tell them a few more if they would allow him behind the display rope for some photos with his old comrade. They both nodded instantly, and Bandit 39 was soon beside the “Flogger” he’d first flown more than 30 years earlier but couldn’t talk about until just 15 years ago. Oh, and true to his word he told them of a couple of short experiences he and others had in the “Floggers” of the 4477th — a once-top-secret unit that contributed to America’s decades of air dominance.

@WarBirdsNews via X

[forcedcompanionsdaycare]

(Imperial Agent) Forced Companions Daycare, 012

On FRIDAY AFTERNOON, the children are picked up from daycare to go home for the weekend. A sleek black van zooms up to FORCED COMPANIONS DAYCARE’s door.SCORPIO: Good day. I am only authorized to release these children to the Hand of Jadus. IMPERIAL AGENT A: What? Since when? SCORPIO: Since I got this memo on Imperial letterhead specifying. IMPERIAL AGENT B: You never do anything about my memos. SCORPIO: You work for the Republic. IMPERIAL AGENT A facepalms. IMPERIAL AGENT B: Oh, like you stand for anything. IMPERIAL AGENT A: The Empire’s people? Like, normal people trying to live without— LORD SCOURGE: Please, continue. LORD SCOURGE, who is roughly 2.5x IMPERIAL AGENT A’s size, crosses his arms and smiles. IMPERIAL AGENT A: At least you’re out of the chain of command. BABY KALIYO: I’m not budging ‘til the Hand of Jadus gets here. BABY TEMPLE: Do I have to pick which Sith to listen to? LORD SCOURGE: Oh, no, I intend to back the Hand. IMPERIAL AGENT B: This isn’t fair.

[mudwerks]

(via Florida surgeon general fudged data for dubious COVID analysis, tipster says | Ars Technica)

Florida's health department opened and then closed an investigation into the state's polarizing surgeon general, Joseph Ladapo, after a tipster claiming to have insider knowledge alleged that Ladapo "manipulated data" and committed "scientific fraud" in his final edits to what became a contentious, widely panned analysis on COVID-19 vaccine safety in young men.

“Batshit study”

The dubious analysis at the center of the controversy was posted online last October by the health department. Oddly, though, it did not list any authors or bear the health department's letterhead or other identifiers. Ladapo used the analysis as the basis for the state's concerning recommendation that males aged 18 to 39 should not receive an mRNA-based COVID-19 vaccine. That recommendation goes against the recommendations of all other major health organizations, including the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

As Ars previously reported, the analysis was roundly criticized by outside epidemiologists and other health experts, who described it as "utter rubbish," "extremely misleading," "comically bad," "seriously flawed," and "the absolute most batshit study design and analysis plan I have ever seen." Others noted that the conclusion "smells of p-hacking" and data cherry-picking.

[johngarfieldtribute]

Tennis Anyone?

Not sure which movie magazine or when this is from but it’s pretty fabulous. It seems that Julie loved to play tennis.

Recently a handwritten letter penned by Julie was auctioned. He has a line in there about tennis. It’s on his personal letterhead, postmarked June 16, 1938.

Letter to Johnny Moreno: "Well, N.Y. is very nice—I saw some plays and I'm beginning to get a little restless from lack of work. I'm going to a pre-view of 'Having Wonderful Time' on Tuesday—We're going away this week-end to the country—and if I don't have to come back July 4, I'm going away for a longer week-end near Maine. I couldn't get seats for the big fight so I'll have to listen to it over the radio. Tell Louis H. that the play I spoke to him about ('John Reed') was sold to Cheryl Crawford a friend of mine. I spoke to the author about him playing the lead. I'm also going to see Miss Crawford about it too—the author knows Louis's work and likes it—so maybe it will work out. I think he's just right for the part. I miss tennis and am beginning to miss the hot California sun! Regards to Arthur and the gang."

Julie in candid footage at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club.

Clowning with Peter Lorre and Richard Conte.

It was also known that Julie had a weak heart and written that he played several sets of strenuous tennis not long before he passed away. It was at a time when he was under tremendous pressure from HUAC and being blacklisted in Hollywood.

One-handed wallop!

[mariacallous]

Russia’s crusaders for traditional values have found a new battle, and nudity of all kinds is at stake. The real headline-grabber was rapper Vacio (Nikolai Vasiliev), who wore nothing but socks on his feet and penis. Still, fellow celebrities Filipp Kirkorov, Lolita Milyavskaya, Ksenia Sobchak, and others gave Vacio a run for his money, wearing transparent bodysuits that teased nipples, navels, and buttcracks. 

This was the scene at Moscow’s “Mutabor” nightclub on Wednesday, December 20, where blogger and TV presenter Nastya Ivleeva hosted the “Almost Naked” party. A ticket for the evening reportedly cost a cool million rubles ($10,770). Before the bacchanalia was even done, footage from the event started appearing in tabloids and spreading rapidly across social media. 

As Internet users gawked and gossiped, there was immediate outrage from conservative activists and pundits, several of whom began lobbying for a police response. Representatives of radical traditionalist groups like “Sorok Sorokov,” “Call of the People,” and the “Federal Project for Security and Anti-Corruption” (FPBK) soon appealed to the Prosecutor General’s Office and other law-enforcement agencies, calling the “Almost Naked” party an “immoral” celebration of the “dark arts” and asking the authorities to investigate its organizers for propagating drug culture and “the gay lifestyle.” 

Some have called for administrative charges, while others want a full-on criminal investigation. One of the recurring complaints is that Ivleeva’s festivities come at a time when Russia is busy invading Ukraine, ostensibly in defense of “traditional values” against the onslaught of Western decadence and progressivism. 

Ekaterina Mizulina, the head of the Safe Internet League, has campaigned aggressively to purge Russian popular culture of drug references and other unholy cravings. Her objections to “dangerous content” often lead to real consequences for the artists responsible, such as police charges against musician Oxxxymiron and the deportation of rapper Nekoglai. On December 21, Mizulina urged a boycott “at the state level” of the celebrities who attended the “Almost Naked” party. “Our soldiers at the front definitely aren’t fighting for this,” she said. “These raves are like firing a bullet into the foot of the entire policy implemented by the state.”

Other conservatives found the party’s supposed “LGBT” overtones most alarming. Maria Butina is a former gun rights activist who became a television propagandist and federal lawmaker after serving 14 months behind bars in the United States, where she pleaded guilty to felony charges of conspiracy to act as an unregistered foreign agent of the Russian state. On Thursday, writing on official State Duma letterhead in her capacity as a deputy, Butina appealed to the Internal Affairs Ministry, the Cultural Ministry, and Russia’s media regulator, requesting inquiries into the “Almost Naked” party to see if it violated Russia’s ban on “LGBT propaganda” and a November 2022 presidential decree on preserving and strengthening “traditional Russian spiritual and moral values.”

“Listen, they all have children. What kind of example are they setting for their children? All the truest LGBT people gathered there,” moaned FPBK director Vitaly Borodin. “What were they thinking? There’s a special military operation underway. Our society is at a loss.” Borodin also asked Internal Affairs Minister Vladimir Kolokoltsev and Moscow Chief of Police Oleg Baranov to dispatch officers to the “Mutabor” nightclub on December 21 to prevent a planned second night of festivities. 

When Thursday evening came, the police arrived at Mutabor ahead of most guests, but the authorities didn’t stick around. “Officers collected what materials they needed and left,” said the radio station Govorit Moskva. Round two of the party eventually rolled into action, this time open to the general public at an admission fee of just 2,500 rubles ($27). At the time of this writing, organizer Nastya Ivleeva was absent from the celebration. The Telegram channel Shot reported that the nightclub’s security guards were now asking guests to don additional clothing if their outfits revealed too much skin.

Hours earlier, on Thursday morning (apparently before realizing the scale of conservatives’ outrage and the involvement of law enforcement), Nastya Ivleeva taunted her critics on social media, writing (in a comment that’s since disappeared) that she loves getting hate for staging risque events: 

We look at the West and see these beautiful, slim models come out, and we say, “Damn, they’re so beautiful, they’re so cool.” And now our own beautiful, trim artists come out, and everyone’s like, “Fuck, look at this shit. Pop is dead.” God, I love it so much. May it never end.

[sasquapossum]

Once there was a truly awful YA fantasy author who had a habit of posting fake reviews on Amazon. Having read one of the books, which would have flunked an eighth grade creative writing assignment, I was one of the first to catch him at it. This bought me *years* of accusations and harassment, such as being doxxed along with some pretty nasty false allegations.

One of the less serious kinds of harassment was a litigation letter (i.e. threat to sue), on fake-law-firm letterhead but obviously written by the barely literate author himself. I'm no lawyer myself, but I've seen a fair number of legal documents and this clearly wasn't one. So I responded thus, and I quote in full:

Piss off.

There was never any further reply.