#better to post them than leave them in the old dusty folder

[edstrid]

some old plikki Au stuff I didnt really get around fleshing out

[babyboibucky]

Babysitting Bucky - Part 5

Pairing: FATWS!Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2,368

Summary: You’ve been assigned by the government to keep an eye on the Winter Soldier to ensure that he was no longer a threat to the world.

A/N: It has begun lmfao, check out the link at the end of this post if you’d like to be tagged in the next updates! Would love to receive feedbacks! 

MASTERLIST

-

You found yourself in the conference room of the Avengers compound, together with Sam, Bucky, Sharon and Fury discussing about an upcoming mission.

Sharon went over the brief of the mission with everyone. There was an intel about a certain drug cartel that decided to expand their business and venture into the trade of biological weapons as well. Grabbing the folder on the desk, you skimmed through the information and frowned when your eyes landed on a familiar name.

“Black Sparrow? I thought the entire organization was taken down during the raid years ago?” You asked.

Bucky turned to you, “You know these guys?”

“One of my first missions, I was the assigned liaison officer to check up on the whistleblower who was placed under the witness protection program.” You explained.

Sharon sighed, “Apparently, not everyone was imprisoned. Whoever decided to keep the organization going, we have no idea.”

The mission required all of you to find out about the illegal trades. There wasn’t much information provided, except for the tip that an important trade might be taking place soon.

“Black Sparrow’s nest is said to be hidden within a fruit shop downtown.” Sharon added.

Fury let Sam takeover the strategizing, with him deciding to do a stakeout to see how the organization operates. Once the trade takes place, raid the nest, find out the other groups involved and most importantly the source of biological weapons.

“You up for a stakeout, Buck?” Sam asked.

Bucky shrugged and glanced at you, “Only if the babysitter agrees to do so.”

You let out an exasperated breath, “Mister Barnes, I would appreciate it if you’d address me properly.” You scolded.

Sam cleared his throat, “Alright. Sharon and I will try to research on the potential groups involved in the trades. Stakeout starts tonight so pack your things.”

-

All your things have been packed and you were about to leave your room when you received a call from none other than Secretary Ross.

“Ugh, what does he want now?” You complained to yourself before accepting the call.

“I heard about the stakeout, Agent. Isn’t it convenient?”

You rolled your eyes; the secretary’s voice was too chirpy, as if he was excited. He was definitely up to something, what it was, you still didn’t know. Something about the mission you were tasked to do was off. They didn’t even tell you for how long you needed to tag along the Winter Soldier.

“Yes, sir. I will make sure to keep an eye on the subject and report whatever it is that I find out of place.” You reassured, hoping that the secretary would simply hum in agreement and end the call.

“Good. But wouldn’t it be better if you stir things up a bit?” He asked.

You frowned, “I don’t understand what you mean, sir.”

Secretary Ross chuckled, “Push his buttons, Agent. See how he reacts to certain triggers.”

God, he really wants you to dig some dirt on Bucky. You were supposed to tell him that you already tried doing so and that nothing bad happened, but the Secretary reminded you that he wanted to see a detailed report about it and ended the call.

You didn’t want to push Bucky’s buttons anymore. Bringing up the Soldat seemed too much already and he had already proven how much in control he was of himself. However, you felt conflicted as well since you needed to file a report. You could easily fake it though, but you were afraid that the secretary might have eyes and ears lurking around.

You were too deep into your thoughts, almost losing track of the time. Thankfully, FRIDAY interrupted and informed you that Bucky and Sam were already outside the compound, waiting for you.

-

“You’re eight minutes late, Agent.” Sam reprimanded as you approached them.

“Did you have a hard time packing Bucky’s diapers and feeding bottles?” He teased.

Bucky grunted in dismay, “Jesus, Sam.”

“Sorry, had to take a phone call from the secretary.” You responded and began placing your things inside the trunk of the car.

Bucky stiffened at the mention of Secretary Ross, his hands tightened into fists at his side. You eyed his stance and noticed that he seemed uncomfortable. Who wouldn’t be if the government had their eyes on you?

“Nothing to worry about, Mister Barnes. You’re all good. I made sure of that.” You told him reassuringly before sliding into the passenger’s seat.

Bucky drove to the stakeout location with an uncomfortable silence in the air with the occassional directions coming from the GPS. You were slightly nervous about being on a week-long stakeout. It wasn’t because you were afraid of Bucky, but being with him by yourself was intimidating.

Seven days with the Winter Soldier. With no one else around.

You and the Winter Soldier. On a stakeout. For an entire week.

The more you thought about it, the more it was beginning to sink in. You’ve had your fair share of stakeouts in the past, but you were either by yourself or paired someone you closely worked with. But a stakeout with Bucky Barnes? How the fuck were you going to keep calm the entire week and maintain your calm persona?

“So...” Bucky trailed, tone unsure as if he too was uncomfortable with the silence and decided to break it but not knowing how to proceed.

“Do you want to turn on the radio?” He asked and cleared his throat, keeping his gaze on the road.

You looked out the window, “Yeah, why not.” You said with faux nonchalance.

Bucky quickly turned it on and adjusted the volume. He skimmed through various radio stations before settling on one.

Despite having the radio playing in the background, the atmosphere between you and Bucky remained awkward and uncomfortable. You could tell that Bucky could feel it too, so you decided to start a conversation.

“How has it been being an Avenger?”

You didn’t know why you chose that question, but it was the first thing that popped into your mind.

Bucky let out a soft chuckle, “Is that part of your research on me or are you actually trying to start a conversation?” He asked, glancing at you with amusement.

“You know what, forget about it, Mister Barnes.” You waved off.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I was genuinely curious.” He sheepishly responded, “But to answer your question, it’s been...weird so to speak. Especially having someone watch my every move.”

You shrugged, “Well, I apologize but I don’t have a choice. This is my job and I have to—“

“I know, Agent. You don’t need to explain, I completely understand. I’m really trying not to make it hard for you to do your job.” He explained.

You were actually surprised at how easy it was to talk to Bucky. You were expecting him to be completely broody and tight-lipped, considering all the things he went through. There were times when he’d be moody of course, but for the most part, he was friendly. And very kind.

“Well then I appreciate it, Mister Barnes.” You stated.

Bucky let out a breathy laugh, “I’m still looking forward to the day when you’d call me, Bucky.” He said and gave you a smile.

You felt your face heat up from the way he smiled at you and how his eyes crinkled at the sides. He almost looked the same as he did in his photos dated back to the 40’s, when he was oozing with that boyish charm and innocence before he was drafted for the war.

You immediately looked away and bit your lip.

-

The two of you arrived at the cheap motel that was situated a few blocks away from the fruit shop. The building was old and almost looked dilapidated. It was known to be the number one spot for illegal transactions. It was the perfect place for a stakeout.

“The old lady at the reception seemed suspicious of us, I saw how she eyed the both of us when we checked in.” You said upon entering the motel room, groaning at the stench that welcomed your nostrils.

Obviously, the room was far from decent given the quality of the motel itself. There were two beds separated by a night desk and a small coffee table; the cream curtains were splotchy and dusty, some parts of the wallpaper were torn apart and the flooring creaked with every single step.

“I think she was merely judging us, thinking we’re one of those couples.” Bucky said as he placed his bags on the bed.

“Those couples?” You asked, walking over to the other bed and inspecting the bedding.

“Well, I heard this motel is a popular location for shooting x-rated videos.” Bucky explained casually as he walked towards the window, pushing the curtains aside, revealing the perfect view of Black Sparrow’s nest.

You almost choke on your own spit, “You mean to say...that old lady thought we were going to shoot porn?!”

Bucky hummed, “Maybe. It’s probably for the best, that way we’ll remain unsuspicious. Less chances of being interrupted as well.” he replied casually, as if it was no big deal but you also noticed that the corner of his lips curved into a slight smirk.

Clearing your throat, you regained your composure and went to unpack your things instead, starting with some of the weapons you brought. A stakeout often resulted to a raid so you had to make sure that you were prepared in case of an attack. Bucky moved away from the window and closed the curtains again before sitting on his bed.

“Those all yours?” he asked with interest as he watched you arrange your knives and guns on top of your bed.

You glanced at him for a quick second and saw the glint in his eyes as he observed your arsenal, you just hummed in response and started cleaning your guns while Bucky watched in silence.

“When we sparred...” he trailed and you froze, expecting him to confront you when you brought up the Soldat to trigger him.

“You used Romanoff’s technique. Where did you learn that?” he asked.

You shrugged, “Mister Barnes, it’s not that hard to learn that move. I’m just as trained as you and Mister Wilson, I know a lot of moves.” you explained but Bucky didn’t seem to buy it.

“It’s actually kinda hard to execute that move. Not a lot of trained agents can do that easily.” he pressed.

You pursed your lips before looking up at him, “Sounds to me like you’re trying to compliment my skills, Mister Barnes.”

Bucky ended up letting go of the topic.

-

The first few hours of the stakeout was uneventful; you and Bucky simply kept watch to see whether there were suspicious movements in the fruit shop. It seemed to be a regular fruit shop but there were certain people walking in and out of it that looked pretty shady.

This was going to be a difficult task.

There were small conversations between you and Bucky, mostly formal and about the mission. Everything seemed to be going well but you knew that the longer the both of you would stakeout together, the more it was going to be uncomfortable. You figured that you’d cross that bridge when you get there.

It was past six when you felt a pang of hunger; the last time you had a meal was during lunch. You needed to get food before your stomach could even embarrass you in front of Bucky who remained staring out of the window, keeping watch.

“I’m getting us food for dinner, would you like anything?” you asked.

Bucky shook his head, “Anything is fine.” he offered a small smile.

You left the motel and thankfully, there was a nearby Mcdonald’s a couple blocks away. On your way back, you decided to casually pass by the fruit shop to get a closer look. You didn’t want to linger around but you did notice that there were certain people who kept on going in and out of the store throughout the day. You rushed back to your room to inform Bucky about it and upon stepping inside, you were welcomed by the sight of the Winter Soldier fresh out of the shower wearing only a towel that was wrapped around his waist while he was drying his hair with another towel.

Your eyes immediately zoomed in on the droplets of water that was running from Bucky’s neck down to his pecs, sliding lower to his chiseled abs. Your eyes remained on his abdomen, even when the water had disappeared into the towel around his waist. By the time you snapped out of your trance, you shifted your gaze back to Bucky’s face hoping that he didn’t catch you staring at his body.

Oh, but it was too late because your eyes were immediately met by a pair of baby blues.

“I...b-bought...” you stammered and wanted to slap yourself for sounding like an idiot. “...dinner from uh...Burger King.” you continued, unable to look away from Bucky’s piercing gaze.

“Mcdonald’s.” he said.

“What?”

“You bought from Mcdonald’s...not Burger King.” Bucky corrected you, pointing towards the brown paper bag in your hands.

You coughed and finally managed to look away from Bucky’s half-naked figure, “Yes, I meant Mcdonald’s. Sorry.” you softly said and pre-occupied yourself by taking out the food from the paper bag and placing them on the small table.

As you focused your attention on arranging the food on the desk, you felt Bucky hover behind you. His bare chest slightly pressing against your back as he reached for the french fries that was still inside the paper bag. You stood still and tried to keep your cool despite the closeness between you and Bucky. He pulled away just as quickly and grinned when you looked back at him with a frown.

“You smell good, Agent.” he said before grabbing his clothes from his bed and walking back into the bathroom to get dressed.

You blinked a couple of times before you realized what had just happened.

“Fuck!” you whispered under your breath.

This was going to be one hell of a stakeout.

-

Babysitting Bucky Tag List:

@chipilerendi @procrastinationinawriter @supraveng @sammypotato67 @grace-writes-shit @tanyaherondale @dev-loves-siri @ahahafudge @nerdgirl0824 @thomasthetankson @its-yasbxtch

Everything Bucky Tag List:

@ddowii @jessou893 @stealapizzamyheart @bagelofthelord @mxnt @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @jeeperky @ohladymacbeth @wildflowergubler @supraveng @twinerd14

Sign up on my tag list here - https://forms.gle/b5haFXewSKqnXxxh7

[janekfan]

Duress

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30665933

As ever, Jon’s timing was impeccable.

Impeccably awful.

Barely a month into his new “promotion” and already he could feel a toll. If he was completely honest with himself he hadn’t expected quite this level of work despite not being a stranger to long hours. To put it bluntly, the archives were a mess. Gertrude hadn’t left any clues as to how filing was done and it all seemed so haphazard he had to wonder if it wasn’t on purpose. He was up to his elbows in files he’d found in a water stained cardboard box when Tim sauntered up, looking down his nose at the papers in disgust. Jon wished he would help and didn’t know how to ask for it with their relationship as strained as it currently was. Tim had silently allied with Sasha when Elias made the announcement and they were all navigating the current situation gingerly. Jon didn’t blame him. She needed support. The statements and recordings and organization could wait until they were ready.

“Hey there, boss. Was wondering if you wanted to come out with us tonight.”

Oh, of course. It was Friday, wasn’t it.

Jon looked around his office, strewn with papers and post-its and worse off than it was this morning. Guilt welled up in him like blood from a wound. Tim was losing his already limited patience with him.

“Uh, yes, that would be nice. It has been a while.” He leaned back and wiped his dusty hands off on his trousers adding to the light streaks already there.

“Yeah, I’ll say. Too important to hang out with us now, ey Jon? Now that you’re a corporate bigwig?”

“I am not!” Tim held his hands up in supplication.

“Just kidding, yeah?” It didn’t sound like it was just anything; certainly not the jokes Tim used to tell. This just felt cruel, probably because Tim thought it was the truth. Jon could admit he was prickly and difficult and knew he never won over many. If he lost Tim and Sasha over this he didn’t know what he would do. “Usual place.”

That exchange happened hours ago and Jon didn’t feel well. He couldn’t go out like this, pulse pounding, head throbbing, vision swimming. He’d have to cancel. But he’d canceled at the last minute on them so many times before and he could tell their patience was wearing thin. How was he supposed to choose between his new job and his old friends? Why couldn’t he just be normal for once?

Why did Tim choose now to forget this sometimes happened?

Any moment they’d be by to collect him and Jon was so dizzy he wasn’t altogether sure if he could stand. He hadn’t felt like this since Uni when he and Georgie spent many a late night studying for exams. He’d crashed shortly after, struck down with some illness or another, and barely remembered more than a glimpse of her face staring down at him with concern. Surely they would understand?

“Ready, boss?” Casual with his jacket over one shoulder, Tim leaned into the office, scowling when he laid eyes on him, exasperated. “Really, Jon?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Tim scoffed. “S’sorry. I know it’s rude, I’m just. Tired.” That was a part of it anyway.

“You know, Jon, you say you still want to be friends and then never hang out with us.”

“I know, I’m--”

“You’ve cancelled so many times at this point I don’t know if it’s even worth inviting you.” Jon’s heart nearly stopped, a painful lurch that all but choked him.

“...Please.” Bare more than a whisper, Tim raised an eyebrow in question.

“What?”

“P’please keep inviting me.” If Jon wasn’t so sure he’d pass out upon standing he’d be springing to his feet. “I, I, I’m there. Next Friday, bells on, I swear.”

“And tonight?” Cold sweat slipped down his spine. But if he rested this weekend, took it easy next week, maybe asked them for a bit more help-- “Sure, boss.”

The weekend came and went and Jon tried every trick in the small volume of self-care tips he actually paid attention to. He wanted to show them what they meant to him, even Martin, new and bungling as he was. If they were to be a team, he needed to get to know him. And besides, Sash and Tim enjoyed his company. Had been inviting him out the whole while. Unfortunately, Jon was still exhausted from not sleeping well for bad dreams and restlessness, not eating enough because anxiety turned his stomach. But he’d made a promise and he vowed to make good on it.

Monday saw a fresh pile of work stacked neatly in the center of his desk blotter, old assignments shoved off to the side and a note in Elias’ neat scrawl informing him that this was the priority. Jon spent the next hour putting together the things he’d been in the process of collating and jotting down a list of instructions that even Martin could follow before dragging it out to where his assistants were working.

“Hullo, Jon.” Bright and cheery, Martin chirped a greeting and Jon forced a small smile.

“Morning.” Tim and Sasha nodded back, expectant looks on their faces. “I, um. Well, Elias brought in some more documents for me to take a look at.”

“Promotion came with some extra obligations, did it?” Tim laughed, elbowing Sasha good naturedly.

“Yes, I suppose it, it did.” Jon shifted nervously, anticipating the answer even before he’d asked. “I was hoping you would be able to help me with these ones?” He lifted the stack and Tim made a show of whistling.

“Wow, I mean. I would, boss, but I’m in the middle of this other thing you gave me last week.”

“Oh. I was. Well I was rather hoping you’d have wrapped that up by now.” The room began to tunnel and Jon staggered just a step even though he was standing still. He hadn’t been able to use his cane and handle this veritable mountain.

“You and me both.”

“Jon?” Martin’s worry was more embarrassing than anything else and he forced himself to focus despite the trembling in his hands. “I can take some of them.” But the messy heap on the corner of his desk in danger of toppling hardly seemed smaller than it had the week before. It wouldn’t do to add even more to what the other man couldn’t seem to handle but...

“Th’thank you for the offer.” He selected a few slim folders and handed them off and somehow the work in his arms became heavier.

“No problem!” Martin was beaming so he must have done something right and it sparked a bit of warmth in him. “I’ll make an exchange for another, soon as I finish this up.”

Tuesday went much the same, though Jon’s insomnia and sore joints forced him out of bed and he decided to use the gift of time to come in early to get a bigger start on the old mess so he had more time for the new mess and while Martin was slow it helped to have someone else tackling it with him. He suspected that Tim and Sasha were making a statement in their being shiftless and Jon couldn’t find it in himself to address it instead hoping that once he proved himself they could move past it. Using the stairs proved foolish as Jon nearly took a header from vertigo and he thanked the stars he was early and alone so he could sit down and wait for the episode to pass. Lord, he hurt. Joints on fire, white-hot fire pokers of pressure needling his hips. He hung his head when tears of frustration began to fall.

Wednesday found Jon buried alive and struggling. He had to stay late in order to finish out the day and by the time he made it home he could barely stand, falling into bed and waking the next morning still dressed in his wingtips and work clothes. Marginally better for the rest, Jon used the boon to plow through the rest of Elias’ assignment, skipping lunch he knew he wouldn’t eat anyway to finish.

“Oh, Tim!” He called out his door as he passed, relieved that he wasn’t ignored. “When you have a moment could you take these up to Rosie?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Jon pushed away the disappointment when the end of day came, his assistants left, and the box still sat on the corner of his desk.

No bother, Tim probably forgot and Jon searched the stacks for the department’s hand truck with its one sticky wheel and found it loaded up with more of Gertrude’s chaos. He didn’t have much choice than to shove at it unceremoniously until it toppled over, papers fluttering out of their folders and under shelves. He’d just have to deal with it later. What’s one more thing? When he tugged, his shoulder very nearly came loose and his yelp of pain was swallowed up in the dark and the dust. Noone around to hear him anyway.

More tears.

He was a mess.

He went along more carefully, cursing the squeak of the blasted wheel, cursing Tim for his forgetfulness, cursing Elias for letting him even steal the job from Sasha to begin with. Cursing time itself because he wanted to go home and it was already an hour past.

“Rosie, I’m so glad I caught you.” She was just starting to collect her bag. “Can I leave this for Elias to collect when he gets in?”

“Of course, Jon!” She helped him lift it to her desk and disguised his taking a rest with interest in her writing a note of explanation.

“Thank you, you really are a lifesaver.” Jon chuffed a weak and humourless laugh. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Of course, dear. Just take that along with you so I don’t have to hear about it from the night staff.” The dolly. Yes. It would have to go back down with him wouldn’t it?

Thursday Jon could barely lift his arms. The debacle from the day before had taken whatever they had left and he was scared that at any moment, his arm would drop from its socket. That happened sometimes. So far, no doctor had figured out why.

“Ready for tomorrow?” Tim jolted him out of staring at his pen cup and the surprise set his heart to racing. Jon didn’t know how many minutes he’d lost.

“Ah, uh.” Absently, he rubbed at his chest, willing the battering tempo to slow before it shook him apart.

“Boss.” It sounded too much like a warning and felt too much like his last chance to prove he had what it took to be their friend.

“I’m not backing out!” Quick to cover up his fumble. “Don’t forget to collect me.”

“Never!” Jon couldn’t help but hope he did.

It was a short walk to their usual pub and Jon pushed himself to keep up, breaking out in cold sweat as the nausea from his laboring heart rocked his stomach. He couldn’t wait to sit down. They were regulars enough that the first round appeared before them as if by magic. Jon sank into the conversation around him, sipping from his pint, wishing it was water, and interjecting when he felt up to it. Martin kept staring at him. Jon didn’t have the energy to pretend.

“Oh come on, boss! Our company can’t be that boring!” Tim was three drinks in and clapped Jon hard enough on the shoulder to rattle his bones. Jon bit his tongue so hard he tasted iron.

“Ah, no, just a long week.” His voice was papery as a wasp nest, thin and drawn. “Looking forward to a lie in.”

“Aren’t we all?” Tim drained his glass and Jon looked down at the worn scratched surface of the table to hide his irrational irritability with the statement. He didn’t corner the market on sleeping in. The others deserved a restful weekend just as much as he did.

“I’m surprised you managed to make it through Elias’ busy work.” Sasha murmured, selecting a chip and using it as a means for sauce delivery.

“Martin helped a great deal.”

“That’s kind of you to say, Jon, but we know who worked his way through the majority.” They exchanged a warm smile.

“Yes, well. Any you did, I didn’t have to. It was very much appreciated.” Martin was bright red and Jon’s cheeks were warm, from alcohol or otherwise, and Tim’s cawing laughter rang bright as a bell over the cacophony around them.

“You’ve broken him, Jon!” They caroused well into the evening until Martin mercifully faked a yawn and explained he had an early morning. Jon almost hugged him and if it weren’t for the state of his shoddy joints he may well have. Holding up a very drunk and very affectionate Tim, Sasha nodded to him.

“This was lovely.” Her grin beamed. “We’ll have to do this again.”

Jon dreaded it.

That month they dragged Jon out to the shops for lunch a few times each week. Catching dinner after work became a regular occurance. Sasha hosted a movie night one weekend. Friday nights at the pub continued.

Jon wasn’t sure which was worse; the exhaustion or the steadily increasing pain, but it felt worth it when the frosty attitude began to thaw. They were still friends. That’s what counted even though the littlest tasks had become huge when faced with choosing which ones to do at the cost of himself. He knew better and still he was overspending, going into the red just to collect more and more debt with no way to catch up other than lose his friends. Something was going to break. Jon hoped it wouldn’t be him.

Groggy, slow, Jon came to with his cheek mashed into the statement he’d been skimming. Something was...wrong. His heart. Racing, pounding against his breastbone, trying to hammer its way to freedom or jump straight out his throat. He blinked hard, trying to bring anything into focus and failing. The first attempt to stand had him face down on the desk again, the next he took in steps.

Sit up. Let the room stop moving.

Breathe. In. Out. Count them.

Ignore the agonized beating. Ignore the fear that came with it.

Stand. Slow. Wait. Patient.

Let the world fall still.

Jon didn’t bother picking up his bag. His phone, wallet, keys, all in his trouser pockets.

“Sorry all. I. I think.” He paused, gulping for air, swallowing none. “Need to go, go home.” If what made it out of him were even close to words he’d consider himself lucky. His tongue was thick and clumsy in his mouth, tripping up the syllables fighting their way past the rabbit-quick hammering,

hammering,

hammering.

“What’s wrong?” Sasha was at his elbow, Tim halfway out of his seat.

“Not feeling well.”

“You sure you can get home, boss?” Nodding absently Jon made his way carefully to the lift before Martin could offer to call him a cab or something equally ridiculous.

Muscle memory got him back to his flat and it wasn’t until he collapsed into bed that he remembered it was Friday and he’d again ducked out on drinks again. Tears collected on his lashes, slipping down his temples when his trembling got the better of them. They. This. All his hard work and he’d undone it. Before the encroaching black overtook him he fumbled with his phone, tapping out an apology to the group chat and barely managing to hit send.

He slipped in and out. Lucid one moment, hallucinating the next, burning away to nothing and ending up on the floor more than once after passing out attempting to, to…didn’t matter. There wasn’t enough in him to attempt it again, opting to lay flat on his back in the sweat soaked sheets trying not to move for the pain. For a wild, hysterical moment Jon was sure he would die here, alone, phone just out of reach, melting in wretched heat and so uncomfortably hot it was difficult to remember a time when he wasn’t.

Jon hurt.

Everything was darkness and agony. Each tremor an earthquake threatening to tear him apart. He was trapped in treacle, done up in bits of twine, strung together with razor wire and unable to move. It was a familiar voice that clawed its way down to him. Lifted him up, low and soft, a stone tumbling down a mountain and catching Jon up in the landslide. He thought he answered, made some attempt at a response, drawn out of him like water from a well. Hurting and disoriented Jon drifted. Consciousness slipping in and out through his fingers like the surf, breath like coals banked beneath his ribs. Jon’s body wouldn’t cooperate as it should and time seemed to skip from one moment to the next between long bouts of nothing.

A heavy palm, cool and comforting, came to rest over his forehead and Tim materialized out of nowhere, startling Jon enough that he keened when each joint shrieked and protested at his moving.

“Sh, sh, shh.” Tim. That’s right...he wasn’t sure it was true, but he was wiping down his over sensitive skin with a damp flannel to quell the coals for a handful of moments.

“Wha’s..?”

“When you didn’t come in yesterday or this morning, we figured we should check on you.” So many words. Too many to parse more than a few but the flood came anyway, streaking into his greasy hair because he’d been sure no one would come and Tim kept applying the cold compress; wrung, applied, repeated, and Jon sobbed with the simple relief of it, tears cool against the incandescence of his skin.

“Are you...l’leaving?” He winced at the raw scrape of his voice against his vocal cords. “Been. You’been s’so angry with m’me.” Tim’s face fell and Jon wanted to apologize. It was the illness, that’s all, lowering his defenses and simmering his many insecurities just below a fractured awareness that refused to keep them in where they belonged. Instead his breath hitched and he choked on a whimper of defeat. “Tri’tried so hard ‘nd still. M’sorry.”

“It’s alright.” So unbelievably soft. Jon thought he’d ruined this long ago and the tears came somehow faster. “I think we need to call an ambulance, bud.”

“No...nonono…” Jon didn’t want to be poked and prodded by strangers and stuck full of needles alone in a cold sterile room. Even in his ragged state Jon could see Tim was torn. “Pl’please.”

“Okay, okay,” he soothed, gentling him with a touch. “But if you can’t keep this down we have to go.” Medicine. Lucozade. Fed to him mouthful by mouthful in the intervals he was awake.

Quiet sounds he recognized, Martin. Sasha. Hushed. Martin tipped the next sip into him and Jon wasn’t aware of much, but he was aware enough to know he was disgusting after having slept and sweated in the same bedclothes for days. Martin wouldn’t hear of it and Jon didn’t know where to put all the feelings and he was so tired of crying and couldn’t seem to stop.

Sasha, they told him, has gone out for supplies and they asked if he’d like help getting out of his uncomfortable trousers and button down, now missing several buttons no doubt from his restlessness. Jon didn’t trust his voice, only nodded, trying and failing to sit up, losing consciousness entirely when one of them levered him up with an arm behind his shoulders. Tim was explaining it to Martin when he came around, peering up at them through fluttering lashes.

“S’al’...” Clumsy, the words wouldn’t come to him.

Together, they shift his limbs, passing him back and forth between, one moment resting against Martin’s chest, another tucked into the hollow where Tim’s shoulder and neck meet. He should be helping but he can barely stay with them, just concentrating on the pulse currently beneath his ear to ground him. Carefully, as though he is some precious thing, they rid him of the awful, disagreeable stickiness and their low murmuring seems such an intimate thing. He isn’t worth it. This. And then soft, clean clothes, well worn and familiar and when Jon surfaces again he’s with Tim on the sofa, bundled up and more comfortable than he’d been in months.

Martin is changing his sheets.

“I’m sorry, Jon.” He didn’t know what for and shook his head, or tried anyway. “Made you think you had to push yourself like that. Ignored how exhausted you were and guilt tripped you into not telling us ‘no’.” Lord, so many words, Jon dizzied himself trying to catch them, hold them, decipher them. “You should be able to trust us, and I.” A suspicious sniff. “I’m sorry.” Jon relaxed into him with a hum he hoped conveyed something.

“I think I remembered which meds he tolerated best.” Sasha elbowed her way into the flat, face lighting up when she saw he was awake. Kind of. “Jon! Thank god. You were in such a bad way.” Whispery and rushed, the same feeling in it as with Tim. “Let's get you dosed up and back to bed, okay?”

It was late evening judging by the window. The reading lamp was on. Martin sat beside him with a book he couldn’t recognize by cover alone.

“Mah’in..?” So it hadn’t all been a hallucination after all.

“There you are.”

“Miss’d work.” He nodded, uncapping a bottle of sports drink and holding it to his chapped lips. Jon drank what he could.

“Not important right now, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Gave us a scare.” Easy, like it was nothing in the world to do it, Martin laid the back of his fingers against his neck, against his throat. “That’s a relief. Tim called us in a panic.” By way of explanation. “But I think you’re past the worst of it now.”

“Don’, don’ remember.”

“Probably for the best. We’ve decided, if you’re alright with the arrangement, that one of us should stay with you.” That sounded okay even if normally Jon would fight it tooth and nail. He did remember being alone and scared. “Tim and Sash are talking. I get the feeling we missed something very important.”

“Mm.” Jon tried to sit up and swooned, came around with a pillow behind his back.

“Dunno if I’ll get used to that any time soon though, I’ll be honest.”

“Happens sometimes. Th’that’s why…” Martin picked up the thread.

“You cancelled on us. I understand. And I hope, I hope you know you can always tell me, us, I hope, when you need to. There’s no shame in it. I’ll admit, I’m upset with Tim.” He fussed with the quilts, smoothing out imaginary creases. “He knew this was something to look out for and he didn’t tell me.”

“No, it’s--”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” Martin spoke with conviction. “Ever. I don’t want you to, to push yourself like this for a blasted game night. We can do other things as a department. Things that don’t jeopardize your health like this again.”

“Martin’s right.” Sasha sat at his feet, draping a hand over his ankle, and Tim stood at the foot of the bed. He looked proper chastised, eyes rimmed in red and swollen from crying.

“I’m so sorry, Jon. So sorry. I should never--I was angry and frustrated and used it to. To hurt you. Make you think we’d stop being friends over a stupid night out. Not like I lifted a hand to help you! When I knew you wouldn’t ask a second time!”

“S’okay.”

“It’s not!” Tim was a staunch friend. The type who got to know you so well and sometimes aimed too precisely at your soft parts. He didn’t need another telling off. Exhaustion lapping at his limbs, Jon curled his fingers in poor imitation of a come hither gesture. Willingly, Tim allowed himself to be pulled along by it, slotting himself beside Jon on the mattress to hide his own tears in his chest. Graceless, Jon managed to tug a hand over the back of his head, tangling fingers in Tim's hair, surrounded by friends and not alone.

“Will be, then.”

[papa-rhys]

Risky Business (Jacob Seed X Reader)

Note: I’ve had this in my folder for so long and I’m finally getting around to posting it. Have some hot, secret, forbidden sex in Joseph’s church because honestly why wouldn’t you want that? Enjoy!

Find more of my stuff here! 

You stand up from your seat in the pews and smooth out your scruffy beige sweater. The sermon is over and everyone is following Joseph out of the church, including John and Faith. You move against the crowd, heading for the front of the church where Jacob messes around with the back of one of the TVs. The screen had started blinking during the sermon, and Jacob was always the one tasked with fixing things that broke. You found it ironic, really; him being in charge of fixing broken things when he himself was so… well… broken. 

You reach the front of the church and turn to the crowd, catching sight of the last few people trickling out as they close the doors behind them, leaving just you and Jacob alone in the church.

The church is dark and stuffy, and particles of dust float by, illuminated by the single ray of sunlight that floods in through the window at the front of the church, behind the pulpit. You’d always suspected that that ray of light, in contrast with the darkness of the rest of the room, was only there to make The Father look more saintly.

You watch Jacob fiddle with the cords at the back of the TV for a few moments. He’s tall and strong and oh-so-handsome. You lose yourself in a daydream very briefly before shaking the thoughts off and clearing your throat. He whips his head around so fast it may have come off if it weren’t secured to his shoulders.

“Oh,” he says, the surprise falling away from his face as he looks over his shoulder at you. “I thought everyone’d gone.”

You should’ve known better than to creep up on a military veteran; especially one as highly-strung as Jacob. “I’m sorry if I startled you,” you tell him. Your voice is meek and cracks as you speak.

“Ah, that’s alright,” he assures you. “Do me a favour? There’s a toolbox under that table over there. Fetch it over, would ya?”

You move over to where Jacob points and pull out a rusty toolbox from underneath a dusty old table. You haul it over to where Jacob stands and put it down at his feet.

“I actually wanted to ask you something,” you say, holding your hands behind your back.

“Oh yeah?” Jacob asks, taking a screwdriver out of the toolbox and holding it in his mouth while he pulls the cord out of the TV. “And what’s that?”

“Well, I know you’re training people – soldiers – and I wanted to know if you have any spaces left.”

Jacob stops what he’s doing at looks at you. He has a look of mild disbelief that you’ve seen before from other members of the church after announcing the same thing to them.

“You wanna join my ranks? You?”

“Yes, me.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’d fit in much with my guys.”

You fold your arms across your chest and frown at him. “I may be quiet, but I’m a damn good fighter,” you tell him.

He doesn’t respond; doesn’t even look at you. He just keeps twisting the screwdriver in silence, as if you hadn’t spoken. In a moment of frustration, you reach out and pull at Jacob’s arm, turning him to face you. The screwdriver falls from his hand and hits the floor with a clatter and Jacob looks down at you with a look of anger and shock mixing together on his face. If there’s one thing Jacob Seed did not like, it’s being touched. Church members often pushed his buttons, even dared to poke fun at him if they were feeling particularly brave, but everyone knew that you don’t ever touch him.

“Are you listening to me?” You ask him, adrenalin coursing through your veins. It’s too late to take it back now. If you apologise and go back to being quiet, Jacob will think you’re all bark and no bite, and you’ll never get a place in his army. You have to go all in; show him that you won’t back down in the face of danger.

“I heard you,” Jacob says coldly, turning his body the rest of the way around to fully face you.

“I’m good at taking orders,” you say.

A spark flickers into life behind Jacob’s eyes. “That so?” He walks forward and moves behind you, looking you over. “Let’s put that to the test, shall we? Stand up straight,” he says, lightly slapping the back of his hand against the curve of your back. You do as he says, standing as straight as you can and keeping your eyes fixed on the busted TV in front of you. “Not bad, not bad,” he says, moving his hand up to your shoulder and leaning in to speak into your ear. “Now, howl like a wolf.”

“I- what?” You ask, letting your posture slip and turning your head to look at Jacob.

“You heard me. Howl like a wolf.”

“But-“

“I thought you were good at takin’ orders,” he shrugs.

You look back at the TV, stand up straight again, and inhale deep. “Hawoo-“

Jacob puts his hand across your mouth, silencing you. He chuckles before removing his hand, placing it on your back and guiding you towards the pulpit. “Put your hands here and here,” he says, smacking his hand against both sides of the wooden stand. You do as he says. “Good. Now, bend over and spread your legs apart.”

“What is this for?” You ask, growing suspicious of what exactly he’s asking you to do.

“You want a place among my men? You’re gonna have to earn it,” he says, positioning your hips and stepping into place behind you. He reaches around to your front with both arms and begins unfastening your jeans.

The penny drops. “Jacob!“ you gasp, standing up straight and grabbing his hands.

Jacob shushes you, the air from his lips brushing against the back of your neck. He shakes your hands away from his own.

“This is a sin,” you whisper. “The Father teaches—“

“I don’t give much of a shit what my brother teaches,” Jacob mutters as he yanks your jeans down.

“Jacob, we really shouldn’t—“

“So you don’t want me to fuck you?” He asks, holding onto your hips with both hands.

“I…” You sigh. “Yes, I do, but—”

He lets out a small “heh” before reaching one hand up and brushing your scraggly, unkempt hair to one side, exposing your neck. “Thought so,” he says softly, kissing the back of your neck slowly whilst he unbuttons his jeans. He slides into you with ease, forcing a small gasp from your lips as he pushes all the way in. He grunts at the feeling of you wrapped tightly around him, and slowly and steadily begins rocking his hips back and forth.

“Your lips are softer than I thought they’d be,” you breath, leaning back into Jacob as he presses his open mouth to your neck, breathing heavily against your skin.

“You’ve thought about this before, then, huh?”

You blush. “I, uh…” The embarrassment swells in your cheeks, burning hot underneath your flesh. You’d thought about it a lot. More than you’d care to admit to yourself, and far more than you’d admitted to his brother, John, during your confession. John was the only other person, aside from yourself, who knew of your feelings towards Jacob; earning you the sin of Lust, of course.

Jacob moves his lips close to your ear. “Me too,” he whispers.

You reach behind you and grab the edge of his jacket, trying to pull him closer – as if you could possibly get any closer to a person than literally having them inside of you. Jacob gets rougher and rougher until your entire body is being shoved forward with each thrust. He forces you forward and you lean over the pulpit, your hands clutching onto either side of it.

Just as you’re loosening up, muffled voices are heard on the other side of the church door. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but there’s more than one of them and they’re getting louder and louder as they approach the doors. Please God, don’t let them come in. You think. I’d be strung up from one of the bridges across the Henbane if anyone caught us like this.

Momentarily distracted by the voices, Jacob thrusts a little too hard, earning a rather loud whimper from you. He immediately claps his hand across your mouth, stifling any further noise.

The church door cracks open and you instantly drop to your knees and hide behind the pulpit, holding your own hand over your mouth in place of Jacobs.

“Oh… Jacob. We didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“Didn’t you attend The Fathers sermon?” Jacob asks, remaining stood behind the pulpit.

“Uh, no, sir. We had other business today,” the man says.

The adrenaline that pumps through your veins mixes with arousal, and you can’t help yourself. You reach down between your legs and begin touching yourself, looking up at Jacob as you do so. He risks a glance down at you and holds back a smile when he realises what you’re doing.

“Well if you’d bothered to attend the sermon, you’d know that the TV’s on the blink and I’m trying to fix it,” he says, leaning forward against the pulpit with both hands.

“Oh, well we’re sorry we disturbed you, then,” the man says before the door clicks shut again.

Jacob waits a good 15 seconds after the man has left before speaking. “You enjoyin’ yourself down there?” He smirks, looking down at you as you kneel at his feet with 2 of your fingers buried inside yourself. You look up at him through your eyelashes and nod, biting your lip.

He reaches down and grabs you by the collar of your shirt, dragging you to your feet. You’re facing him now, and his dick is pressed against your pubic bone. He holds your chin in place with one hand and presses his open lips against yours. You kiss him back, closing your eyes and placing your hands on his chest.

“Now, where were we?” he says, lifting you up in one swift scoop, and balancing you against the pulpit with your legs wrapped around him. You reach down between you both and guide him in, your breath hitching once more.

He doesn’t bother going slow this time; he’s only got one goal in mind and he’s all about getting there as soon as possible, and considering how close you’d just come to having your head on a pike somewhere in Hope County, you were fine with hurrying the process up.

His movements are uneven and violent, and your lower back scrapes against the pulpit. You throw your head back.

“You gonna come for me?” Jacob asks. “You gonna show me how much you wanna be one of my soldiers?”

“Yes, Jacob,” you gasp.

“Jacob? Who’s Jacob?”

“I mean… yes, sir.”

You become lightheaded as you climax, losing all the strength in your body and turning to jelly under Jacob’s grip. He pulls out and gently lowers you down until your feet are firmly on the floor, before pushing you further down onto your knees. He finishes himself off with a grunt, coating your lips with warm fluid that trickles over your bottom lip and down your chin. After taking a few moments to bring himself back into the room, he zips up his fliers and fastens his belt.

He holds out his hand and helps you climb to your feet.

“I guess you did alright,” he says, watching you as you pull up your jeans. “As first interviews go, it was a pretty good one.”

“You’re gonna let me join your ranks?” You ask him, pushing the hair from your face and wiping your mouth and chin on the sleeve of your sweater.

“I’ll think about it. There’s still 2 more stages to the interview process, so we’ll have to see how you do on those. Now, get gone,” he says, picking up the screwdriver and waving it at you. “I got work to be doin’.”

You make it to the church door before you pick up on what he just said.

“There’s 2 more interviews?” You ask.

“Oh yeah,” he nods. “And you better believe I’m gonna put you to the test in both of ‘em,” he smirks. 

“I’ll look forward to it, sir,” you smile, pushing the door open and stepping out into to the sunlight.

[yastaghr]

Dusty Boxes

Characters: Alphys, Frisk, Undyne, Papyrus, Sans

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route - "I want to stay with you.", Medical Experimentation, Medical Trauma, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Frisk (Undertale), POV Multiple

Ao3: Here

Summary: Frisk and their friends help Alphys dig through some old boxes at the lab.(Not a good summary, sorry)

Alphys stared at the boxes and boxes of old reports and notebooks. The dust spinning in the air was sickening - whether it was the remains of the dead or the decayed paper of centuries of scientific progress, the horror was the same. How had she never noticed this door before?

All of this data - what if it held the answers she needed to stabilize the Amalgamates? What if it contained records of someone else doing the exact same experiment? How stupid would that be, hurting so many monsters and their families when just reading one of these files would have told her what to expect?

A small hand tugged at her sleeve, pulling her out of it. Frisk looked up at her through their brand new glasses, beautiful red eyes filled with concern.

“I’m okay...thanks, F-f-frisk,” Alphys looked around the room again, this time taking in the massive heap of collapsed boxes shoved in a corner, the flickering fluorescent lights, the receding walls. Sorting through this chaotic excuse for a filing system would take ages.

“Actually...do you, um, think we could c-c-call Undyne? There’s a l-l-lot of boxes.”

Frisk shot her a thumbs up, then signed out a question. Alphys’ lips moved as she tried to work it out. Some of Frisk’s symbols were very different from Monster Hands. Everyone was learning to translate, but sometimes it was tough.

“you w-w-want to call the...bone...broth- oh. Oh! Yes, they’ll be, um, helpful? Papyrus is very o-o-organized and Sans...yeah. That’s a really g-g-good idea, Frisk!”

The human smiled at her. They pulled their phone out of their pocket and started fiddling.. As they worked, Alphys wandered further into the ancient store room. She started mapping, in her mind at least, the relative age of various files. Some of the writing looked absolutely archaic! There didn’t seem to be much of a chronological ordering. Decaying cardboard leaned against colorful plastic. Maybe it was by subject?

Alphys’ thoughts trailed away as she paced through the caked dust, her friend's boisterous voices crackling through the cell’s speakers and disturbing the long quiet of the room.

Papyrus surveyed the neat columns of stacked paperwork in the hall before him. With his expert advice the unorganised files were being transformed into a neat chronology! Of course, his brother’s suggestion of sorting by handwriting and quantity of dust was of some help. Without the direction of the Great Papyrus, however, they would never have gotten this far!

“PAPYRUS! This one’s full of loopy dotted stuff. We got a place for that?”

He thrust his sternum proudly towards his friend, “INDEED! LOOPY DOTS ARE IN AISLE 3, ROW J!”

Thanks!” Undyne set off into the piles, “By the way, have you seen your brother lately? Alphys saw him disappear into the unlit mountains almost an hour ago and hasn’t seen him since.”

Papyrus patted his mandible thoughtfully, “NOW THAT YOU MENTION IT, NO! MY LAZY BROTHER HAS PROBABLY FALLEN ASLEEP AGAIN. I SHALL GO FETCH HIM IMMEDIATELY!”

Undye looked at him oddly, “You do realise he can’t help falling asleep like that? Punk’s got some kind of a medical thing. Frisk told me.”

Papyrus smiled brightly, “I KNOW! HE’S ALWAYS BEEN LIKE THAT, BUT I KNOW HE CAN DO BETTER! AT THE VERY LEAST HE COULD FALL ASLEEP WHERE I CAN SEE HIM. THEN I CAN GIVE HIM A BLANKET SO HE DOESN’T GET COLD!”

His best friend tilted her head, “I thought you said skeletons couldn’t get cold.”

“WE CAN’T! BUT THAT’S WHAT ALL THE MOVIES SAY YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DO.”

She grinned, “Gotcha. So what are you waiting around here for? GO FIND THAT LAZY BROTHER AND WRAP HIM IN THE WARMEST BLANKET YOU CAN FIND!”

Papyrus saluted, “YES UNDYNE!”

He dove through the doorway into the cavern of paperwork, clearing Frisk’s approaching head by only a few inches.

When Papyrus found Sans he was sitting in a circle of scribbled paperwork. Three empty boxes were stacked behind him. One of their pet blasters hovered next to him, a pink lantern with cat ears on it dangling from its jaws.

“SANS WHAT ARE YOU DOING? ALPHYS SPECIFICALLY TOLD US TO LEAVE THE PAPERWORK IN THE BOXES UNTIL EVERYTHING HAD BEEN SORTED!”

His brother jumped, dropping a set of grainy images messily around him.

“wha- uh, hey bro. i know, just...” his skull rotated to avoid Papyrus’ gaze, “it’s my file, bro. never got to read it fully.”

Papyrus collapsed his knees into a messy tailor’s seat just beyond the ring of documents.

“OH,” his voice was plastic and crispy black slacks, “ANYTHING INTERESTING?”

Sans shrugged, “not really. no notes yet, just the figures. 20 mg of dried patience here, tibia cracked after 3.82 centimeters of separation there. ‘bout what you’d expect, really.”

Papyrus fiddled with his left glove, “I’M SORRY.”

Sans patted his patella awkwardly, “hey, what’d i say about apologizing for him? s’not your fault.”

Papyrus’ roving sockets stalled on one of the clearer pictures. A much smaller Sans stared blankly at the camera with one working eye. The other was stuffed with red-stained gauze and had fresh cracks around the edges. His jaw was wired to his skull in three places, and anyone who knew how skeletons healed could see the wires were already half-covered in new bone.

“I SHOULD HAVE NOTICED SOONER. HE WAS ALWAYS SO COLD, AND HE NEVER ANSWERED MY QUESTIONS. HE-”

Fragile, unevenly bleached arms wrapped around him.

“naw, bro,” Sans’ voice was a cracked whisper vibrating into his collarbone, “you’re perfect. suspicion isn’t in your nature - how could i blame you for thinking your dad was perfect? you saved me, you taught me how to eat and talk and trust other monsters. i’d never have survived without as cool a guy as you taking care of me. i love you so much bro, you’ve got no idea.”

Papyrus wailed into his brother’s hoodie, “BUT HE HURT YOU SO MUCH!”

“yeah. but you taught me how to love. besides, if frisk can forgive us for trying to take their soul to break the barrier, i can forgive you for taking so long to open that door. maybe i can even forgive him - after all, he didn’t realise his experiment had developed a soul.”

Papyrus gave in and let the tears fall. His little brother just hugged him, scarred frame radiating so much love and forgiveness that it was a wonder the humans on the other side of the world couldn’t feel it.

Alphys was snout deep in one of the dusty files when Frisk tapped her on the shoulder. She dropped the file, papers flying everywhere, and sneezed. A puff of dust disturbed the thick air.

“Sorry, sorry,” she turned to the young human, “Did you, um, want something?”

Frisk signed. Alphys’ lips moved as she worked it out.

“You found a file that has weird writing in it?” Frisk nodded, “What kind of writing?”

Frisk signed that the script looked like weird symbols.

“Oh. Okay. Do you want m-m-me to take a look?”

Frisk nodded again. Alphys got to her feet, casting a forlorn look at the scattered papers. Before she could open her mouth to ask, Frisk had already bent down to pick them up. Alphys joined them. They soon had the papers back in order and tucked safely away in the file. This accomplished, they set out.

“Alright, what am I looking at?”

Papyrus wrung his gloves under the pressure of Undyne’s one eye. Sans had only made him promise not to tell anyone about things, right? So obviously it was okay to bring the former Captain of the Royal Guard into the stacks of paper and point her at the right box. Obviously. His gut was just going to have to sit there and stop complaining.

Anyway, he hadn’t said anything to Undyne. He’d just...let her follow him. That was it. It wasn’t his fault if Undyne chose to follow him, was it?

Suddenly she snorted, “Snrk. Pap, really? You made me a puzzle again?”

Well no, he hadn’t, but that was fine. If Undyne thought this was a puzzle, he could play along. Sans always encouraged him to enjoy his puzzles. Papyrus suspected it had something to do with all of the tests they’d had Sans do back then. Some part of him still thought that doing good on tests was important, and that it meant safety. Making Papyrus safe was very important to him, and that was rather touching…

Or it could just be that Sans wanted him to be happy. Puzzles made him happy. Therefore Sans liked it when he did puzzles because they made him happy.

Something like that, anyway. No matter what, Sans would be happy that he was doing a puzzle. Therefore he could let Undyne think this was a puzzle. In fact, it was, in a way. Just not a puzzle with a very happy solution.

One yellow eye surveyed the area, “Okay. I see...boxes. Lots of boxes. Am I supposed to move them?”

Papyrus shook his head. She gave him a look.

“Can’t you just tell me? This is STUPID!”

Papyrus shook his head. If he told her he’d be breaking the promise to Sans.

“FINE! OKAY!” Her voice dropped in volume to something more normal, “Is the puzzle in a box?”

He nodded.

“Which one?”

He scuffed his boot pointedly. She stared at him. He scuffed it again, louder this time. She looked down.

“Oh.”

She turned around and stomped over to the right pile of boxes.

“These?”

He nodded. She snatched up the top box and plopped it on the ground. He winced as she tore it open with about 250,000% more force than necessary. The box disintegrated under the strain, spraying photos, folders, and binders all over the floor.

She looked at him guiltily, “Sorry, Pap. I ruined it, didn’t I?”

He shook his head. No, as much as it pained him to see that amount of unnecessary mess, it really didn’t matter whether or not the box survived. He doubted it would have done so after she saw the reports, anyway.

Her brows furrowed, and she looked back down at the mess. Then she groaned.

“A reading puzzle? Ugh, I hate those.”

Papyrus couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye. He heard the thud as she dropped to the ground, then paper rustled.

Silence filled the dusty cavern of dead paper as Undyne read. The flipping of pages was the only interruption. That and the grumbling of an annoyed fish monster, but that hardly registered. The sound followed Undyne to a lot of places - he wasn’t even sure she was always moving her mouth to make it. It could just be background noise, like the music Frisk had signed to them about.

A longer than usual period of silence drew his attention. Papyrus turned.

Undyne was rereading the same page over and over again. Her hands were trembling, her arms tense with barely restrained fury. She reread it again. It wasn’t changing. Not even the former Captain of the Royal Guard could wish this away.

“Papyrus.”

Her voice was low and deadly.

“Please tell me this is a really bad joke.”

He shook his head. Her voice went on, wheedling.

“A prank? Did your brother put you up to this?”

He shook his head.

“Please don’t tell me this really happened.”

Papyrus nodded with a decisive finality drenched in grief.

Her head turned back to the sheet. She read it again, slower now. Then her fists clenched and it tore in two.

Her voice was calm, in an odd sort of way. Not happy. It was just calm. For Undyne, that was a lot more terrifying that spears.

“You know, it’s weird. I don’t want to believe this, and yet...there’s a lot of stuff that fits.”

She rolled her shoulders, loosening every muscle in such a way that she would be ready to fight. He knew that move well.

“Where are the freaks?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t know?”

He nodded.

“AND YOU’RE OKAY WITH THIS?!!!”

Papyrus faced her fully. She gulped.

“Sorry. I know you...I just...HOW THE HECK CAN YOU FEEL SAFE, NOT KNOWING WHERE THEY ARE?!! HOW CAN SANS?!!”

“how can i what?”

Both Undyne and Papyrus managed to flinch and spin at exactly the same time in exactly the same movement. Sans had peered around the edge of the boxes, a stack of binders in his arms. He looked between their guilty faces and the broken box.

“oh.”

Undyne clearly wasn’t as prepared to handle the blank expression as Papyrus was. She crumpled away, gulping. He just walked, slowly, over to his brother and took the box. Sans’ arms didn’t move. None of him did.

Undyne blurted out, “HE DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING! I WAS JUST-” Her voice dropped into a whisper as Sans’ eye lights returned, “I was just following him. I thought it was a puzzle he made me.”

Sans arms slowly lowered to his sides. He was still tense as a wire and NOT LOOKING at Papyrus. Papyrus tried to ignore the little bubble of unhappiness that was forminging in his SOUL. Sans didn’t know it, but this would help, he was sure of it.

Undyne muttered a curse, barely audible under her breath, and then said, “Sorry.”

The look in her eye and the face Sans turned on her made Papyrus glad. She wanted to help Sans, just like he’d thought. And while he didn’t believe it entirely, Sans actually looked as if he might accept that she would try.

It was nice to know he’d been right.

Alphys tried to allay her guilt by saying that it wasn’t really spying. They were in here to sort through the mess, after all, and just because some of the papers were in the same box didn’t mean they belonged there. A part of her brain objected that that step was supposed to come later. She hastily buried that thought.

Anyway, Frisk had asked her to read this file, so stopping now would be rude. It was dry stuff, just experiment notes on well-known substances. Albeit rather large amounts of said substances, but still.

The next section made her pause. It mentioned DT, and that was her specialty after all, but...but the way the author talked about it made it sound, if not commonplace, then at least familiar to the scientifically inclined. That couldn’t be right - it had taken her ages to identify the compound. It couldn’t be common...could it?

She read on, appalled at the tremendous quantity of DT that seemed to have been wasted on a fruitless experiment. The author only seemed to have been testing how much physical DT it took to form a stable mass. Why anyone would be interested in that-

The next paragraph stopped her dead. The author described a surgical procedure in which said mass was implanted into a living socket.

“Wha- who w-w-would...why…”

Her voice trailed off. The file referenced the subject as C0-M1-C5-ANS. Something about that serial number was familiar to her, but what-

“whatcha doin there, alph.”

She started, flinging the file into the air. Once more papers scattered around the dusty floor. A skeletal hand picked them up. It was attached to a dark-socketed skull.

“huh. interesting reading material. where’d you find this?”

Alphys tried to speak but could only squeak. Annoyed, she made the sign monsters had universally accepted as meaning ‘FRISK’.

“ah. shoulda expected that. our little human loves to stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

The skeleton bent down and started slowly gathering papers. It looked as though he was lingering over each and every one.

“and i suppose it’s too much to believe that you didn’t read these.” She nodded her head glumly. Sans sighed and asked, “which one had you got to?”

“I...I w-w-was...DT. In a mass. And they w-w-were, um, surgeryintosomeone’seyesocket. Yeah.”

Alphys couldn’t make out Sans’ expression as he demanded, “what did you think of it?”

Her jaw gaped. What kind of a question was that?

“It’s horrible? Not j-j-just the surgery, I mean, the science is b-b-bad. DT is dangerous. Why would anyone t-t-try to make a ball of it? Well, I did, but not that big! It’s just a w-w-waste. And there’s NO WAY I’d try to imp-p-plant it in someone. Even if they, um, consented? And I d-d-don’t think th-”

“they didn’t,” He interrupted her, “no, they never asked. they didn’t think i was a mons-fudge.”

She’d have to buff the snout scales above her mouth tonight. Her claws were leaving scratches all over them. Her knees felt weak, too.

“Th-th-they di- di-”

“hey, alph, easy! breathe with me. come on, iiiiiiiiin. ouuuuuut. alphys, listen to me, alph. please. iiiiiiin. ouuuuut. iiiiiiiiiiin.  ouuuuuut. iiii-oh. your hugging me. okay. hi alph.”

She wailed, “SAAANSSS!”

“yeah, alph?”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”

She felt him try to shrug. He calmly answered, “didn’t think it was that important. i don’t have a whole lot of memories from back then. when pap found me, well, i wasn’t really sans before that. i was just a bunch of pain and confusion.  and i didn’t really know you that well until recently,” he got a glimpse of her face and rushed, “it’s not anything wrong you did, or because you are a scientist or anything. just...i don’t like talking about it. only paps knew, before today.”

Alphys blotted off her tears in his hoodie. Then “D-d-did you ever, um, talk with anyone else?”

He shook his head, “no. just pap. he’s so cool, you know? he got me out of that place and took me in. he taught me everything. how to talk, how to eat real food, how to walk comfortably, how to read. the first book i ever read aloud to him was fluffy bunny. he had some physics textbooks that i’ve memorised. maybe i can go to college once we’re settled up on the surface.”

She smiled weakly, “That would be n-n-nice. We could, um, go to classes togeth-th-ther? I’m such a mess. Undyne wants to study human history. The real history. ‘Cause I lied to her. About anime.”

“hey, don’t beat yourself up,” he tried to comfort her,  “people make stupid decisions, and once you’ve made a choice it’s hard to change your mind. you owned up to it. she forgave you. that’s enough.”

“Why do you alw-w-ways come up with stuff like that? After everything you’ve been through?” She asked.

Sans shrugged, “pap read a lot of books. psychology stuff. maybe you can help me convince him to go for a degree?”

She nodded, quick little motions that had her head spinning - or maybe that was the shock. Probably the shock. It was definitely the shock that made her ask, “Um...which eye?”

He blinked at her, clearly trying to remember what she meant. Then his face grew a little bit sadder as he lifted his hand and tapped under his right eye. He said, “this one. i can’t see out of it at all now. the mass didn’t do anything except make me bleed when i get hurt. i guess i can ask frisk if there are any tricks to getting it to stop. it doesn’t want to coagulate, so i keep bleeding for days. it sucks.”

“I have, um, I mean, I m-m-might know a few tricks. Bratty has hemophilia, which means her blood doesn’t c-c-clot either. I used to help her with her bandages. I could, um...show you?”

He nodded, “that would be nice.”

Frisk hadn’t meant to start a landslide. They’d been trying to get one of the boxes that was just a little bit too high up for them to reach. They couldn’t see the boxes on top of it. When they’d finally gotten it loose, the entire pile shifted. It collapsed on top of them. There wasn’t a whole lot of it, but unfortunately, it was paper. Paper was heavy. Not heavy enough to hurt them, but heavy enough to pin them down. Now they’d have to wait for someone to come rescue them.

“hey, human. i don’t have to ask if you got the memo, do i?”

Frisk turned their head. Sans was standing a few feet away and grinning at them. They stuck their tongue out at him. It was the only reasonable response.

He chuckled and said, “hey. why don’t i lend you a hand? i’m pretty sure pap wouldn’t like having a pancake for a friend.”

Frisk nodded as best they could. He came over. The pile around them lit up blue while his left eye turned blue and yellow. Frisk felt the heap lift off of them. They wriggled out from underneath. Sans let the pile sag back onto the ground. Frisk jumped up and hugged him.

Sans hugged them back, saying, “heh. don’t let that paperwork bog you down, kid.”

They stepped back and signed their thanks.

He said, “don’t mention it. hey, while your here, can i ask you something?”

They knocked on the air twice.

He closed his eyes and said, “alphys showed me something. she said you’d found it. what i want to know is this,” Sans opened his eyes. The sockets were dark. Frisk shivered. He continued, “what were you doing with my file?”

Frisk gulped and signed quickly. They’d been trying to find Papyrus and Undyne to ask where to put a box when they’d seen Undyne tear apart a box with her bare hands. The files had scattered everywhere, and one had gotten forgotten in the cleanup. They’d taken it and seen the weird writing. They’d been curious. They asked Alphys to look at it. They were sorry if they’d done something bad.

Sans sighed. His sockets closed. When they opened, his eye lights were back. He said, “it’s okay, kid. i’m not mad. i’m just...a lot has happened today,” he breathed in deeply, then asked, “do you still want to know what’s inside it?”

Frisk nodded.

“okay,” he said, “it’s not exactly kid friendly, but i can summarize. some very bad scientists took one of the dead humans and made a little skeleton. they did it so they could run some painful experiments. but somewhere along the way the skeleton developed a soul. one of the bad scientists had a real son. he found the hurt skele. he took the skele home and taught him how to be a monster. the bad scientists went away, and the two skeletons were happy together.”

Frisk’s eyes watered. That was horrible! Their imagination was filling the gaps in with really, really bad things. And Sans had lived through that? They jumped back over and hugged him tight. If they had their way, they’d never let go.

[jagged-edge-and-mess]

Hi! I’m doing a sorta pseudo-Nanowrimo and I’m posting it scene by scene so enjoy it if you wanna

Alder Valley is a strange name for a town. Or, rather, it’s a strange name for the town called Alder Valley. Mostly because we don’t have any alder trees. I don’t think that alder trees even live in SoCal. My ma always says that the people who live here want to pretend they live in Cape Cod, and that naming their town after an tree that doesn’t exist here is really just them trying to escape the fact that they live in a desert. Not that you could hide it, no matter how much money you had. And the people of Alder Valley have a lot of money.

Not that it stops them from trying. The town feels like any corner of eastern suburbia—green lawns, rosebushes, the whole white picket, white-skinned American Dream racket. There are tennis courts, parks, a huge mall, even a man-made lake smack-dab in the middle of it all. If the land was flat, you could almost imagine you were somewhere in Massachusetts with unseasonably warm weather. But even the wrath of the country’s most upper upper middle class can’t hide the mountains.

And we do have mountains. The town might not have any alders, but it certainly has plenty of valley. The mountains mark the horizon in every direction, rounded, purple giants covered in all the scrub and brush that California was born with. Stepping out of the city limits is like stepping into another world, one that most citizens thoroughly disapprove of.

Alder Valley. A corner of European paradise, tucked away in the wastes and fed by the highway on the ground, the power lines above it, and the aqueduct below. It’s a forgotten piece of the landscape, a place with too much money to be respected by the rural classes that surround it and too far from the glamour of LA to earn any social capital in Hollywood. I was born here, and I’ve been waiting to leave ever since.

The day is coming. I need to blow through senior year and then I’ll be off to do whatever people do when they escape this polished corner of the desert. But, as Aragorn says, “Today is not that day.”

In fact, today isn’t even shaping up to be a particularly good day. It’s supposed to be fall, but one of the hazards of Southern California is that the temperature can suddenly and viciously spike well into sweltering with no warning. Moreover, my abuse of the snooze button meant that there was little time for any breakfast outside of a few scarfed crackers.

So, sweaty and starving, I walk through the fence of Alder Valley High School, with its iron bars painted a cheery blue to make the whole place feel slightly less prison-like. Slightly. No one’s around yet; the sun still has yet to climb over the mountains, so the sky seems to lighten almost by itself.

The library is a little glass building tucked away in a corner of the school. I’m not sure most of the students even know we have a library, but that suits me fine. No one checking things in or out makes my job easier, and the fewer boys I have to catch looking at porn on the library computers, the better.

I’m fumbling for the key to the library’s employee entrance when a hand taps my folder and I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Whazzat!” I whirl, and my backpack slips off my shoulder and spills its contents across the ground. I barely notice, because I’m suddenly trying not to turn tail and run.

Gawain Kyla is standing inches from me. He’s the school’s resident goth, and from what I’ve seen, he takes his job seriously. Black nails, silver crucifix earring, septum piercing, lipstick, the works. But his hair’s fluorescent pink, which never strikes me as particularly Victorian, and he’s famous for wearing a short, pleated skirt every day. Well, that and attacking people who comment on the former attribute.

He stares at me, and I stare back, suddenly unsure of how exactly to get air into my lungs. Gawain isn’t glaring, exactly, but it’s hard to call the unsmiling stare of someone wearing eyeshadow friendly. Finally, he glances down at my strewn belongings, and I spring back to life.

“Oh, God, sorry, I’m so sorry,” I stammer, bending to stuff papers back into folders and pencils back into bags.

“You’re the librarian, right?” It strikes me that this is the first time I’ve ever heard Gawain speak. It’s reedier than I expect.

“No,” I stutter, before correcting myself. “I mean, yes, I mean, assistant! I’m the assistant librarian.”

“Great.” I’m not sure whether it’s bemusement or annoyance in Gawain’s eyes. I hope it isn’t annoyance. Gawain Kyla has a reputation for smashing annoying people’s faces in. “Then you can assist me. I’m looking for a book.”

“You can read?” I clap a hand over my mouth as Gawain’s face darkens. “Oh my God, oh my God, I’m sorry, that just slipped out, of course you can read, I’m just saying whatever stupid thing pops into my head.”

“How’s this?” Gawain leans forward. He’s only a few inches taller than I am, but at the moment, he seems like one of the mountains. “You help me out, and I’ll forget you said that.”

“Sounds good!” I manage to get the key into the lock, despite my shaky hands.

When I’m nervous, my head latches on to insignificant details. As I lead Gawain Kyla into the dusty back halls of the library, I can really only think about how his lipstick is two different colors. His bottom lip is pure black, but the upper one is a very deep purple. You almost can’t notice it. I wonder where he learned to do his own makeup.

There isn’t anyone in the library, so I don’t turn the lights on. Mrs. Dunwiddy usually doesn’t arrive until just before first period, so I usually get a half an hour or so to myself.

The place isn’t much. Some bookshelves piled with mostly unread books. A few work tables, a line of computers shoved against one wall. There are some reference stacks, too, though no one ever asks for anything. Watery blue sunshine pours in from the skylights.

I start typing into one of the ancient computers at the librarians’ desk, hoping that this won’t be the day they finally give out on me. “So, uh, what book are you looking for?” My voice comes out shrill, and I wince.

Gawain stares out at the darkened library. “It’s a book on plants,” he says, finally. “The Complete Catalogue of Desert Flora. By Eugenie Hatherford.”

“Really? Why?” I catch a dark stare for my efforts and return to the computer. “Right. Desert Flora. Hatherford. On it.”

A couple torturous moments pass as I wait for the library program to load up and find the book, the whole machine wheezing in protest the whole way. But eventually, I stare at a blank screen and frown.

“The program says we don’t have a book by that name in the library.”

“What.” In Gawain’s mouth, the word isn’t a question. It’s a threat. “I was told it was here.”

“Who told you?” I ask. “Mrs. Dunwiddy’s worked for a lot of libraries. Sometimes she forgets—“

“It was someone reliable.”  Gawain’s face darkens, and I notice with considerable alarm that his fingers are curling into a fist. I grasp for an explanation and—wonder of wonders—there is one.

“Wait!” I spring up from my seat. “I think I know where we might be able to find it.”

“Explain.” Gawain’s eyes are brown, so brown they’re nearly black. People would call them boring, but they’re not. They blaze with some sort of hidden fire that makes it hard to watch them for too long.

I scatter the thoughts before they get my nose broken. “The library switched over to a digital catalogue a few years ago, before I started here. They didn’t do a very good job, and I’ve been working on fixing it, but sometimes, there are still books that haven’t been input into the computers.”

“Then how do you find them?”

“The old card catalogues.” I smile, hoping it doesn’t look as much like a rabbit staring down a wolf as I think it does. “Dunwiddy keeps them in the back. This way. I mean, I don’t know if it’s going to be in there, but I can check.”

“Fine.” Gawain’s fingers unclench, and so do my lungs. “Lead the way.”

“Right.” I leave my backpack next to the desk and step into the back rooms.

I like the card catalogues. Whoever organized them when the library was built did a much better job than Mrs. Dunwiddy and her computers. Temperamental as the desktops are, the cards are even usually faster. But it’s more than that. There’s something soothing about the process of searching for a book, rifling through all the neatly written cards, and then searching the bookshelves. It has a rhythm and an order, and things are where they’re supposed to be.

The catalogues sit in a dusty row in the printer room, where no one but me ever opens them. They’re supposed to be organized by record number, but whoever moved them in here evidently didn’t have the patience to put them in the right order. By now, though, I’m accustomed to this small piece of chaos, and I pull open a drawer.

“Here,” I mutter, more to myself than Gawain. “The H’s. Hamlet…Halloway…” I search through the cards. Then I search again. Then I reach around underneath in case a card has gotten folded. No Hatherford.

“Oh, that’s not good.” I shut the cabinet.

“It’s not there?” I can feel Gawain’s presence behind me. He seems furious, and I’m suddenly very aware that we are in a back room, and that there’s no one around to help if he attacks me.

With waning hope, I point towards the cabinet at the very end of the row. “It might be in the reference cabinet. It’s mostly just encyclopedias, though.” And then it hits me. “Oh. Right. It is an encyclopedia. I’m an idiot.”

“I’m not sure anyone who understands how all this stuff works is an idiot,” Gawain says, and I glance back at him.

“That was almost nice. You were almost nice to me.”

“Problem?” Gawain’s face twists, like storm clouds rolling over a clear sky, and I whirl back towards the reference catalogue.

“Problem? Course not! I’m just talking to myself. I do that a lot. Talking to myself, I mean.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I slide open the cabinets, then succumb to a sneezing fit as dust flies free. Normally, I don’t look at the references. They’re just encyclopedias. They’re ordered up on the shelves, and no one wants them anyway, so I’ve been saving them for last in my new organizational scheme.

When I’ve recovered, I start looking. And then all the tension goes out of my shoulders.

“The Complete Catalogue of Desert Flora, by Eugenie Hatherford.” I pull the cobwebbed card free, silently commit the reference number to memory, and replace it. “It’s here. This way, please.”

I lead Gawain back into the open part of the library and into the reference stacks. Then I have to return to the desk to turn the lights on, so I can read the reference numbers.

The way Mrs. Dunwiddy taught me, I place my finger against the shelf and drag it sideways, scanning the book numbers as I go.

“Gawain’s an interesting name,” I say as I go. “Are you Welsh?”

“That’s a weird question.”

“Yeah, because I’m the weird one in this exchange,” I mutter under my breath, then start. “Oh my God, I did it again, didn’t I?”

“You’re not used to people hearing you when you talk, are you?” Gawain raises his eyebrows.

“That obvious?” I reach the end of a shelf, start at the next. Slow and steady. “Gawain was King Arthur’s nephew, in those old legends.”

“I know.”

“It’s kind of funny, really. He was supposed to be great with herbs, and here you are, looking for books on plants—“

“I don’t need the narration. Just the book.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” I clamp my jaws shut until finally, a thick, tome distinguishes itself from the rest. Its spine is a faded green, and gold letters mark it in cramped type. The Complete Catalogue of Desert Flora. I pull it out, marveling at the size of it. It’s as big as any of the other encyclopedias, but it looks much older.

“Here it is.” I manage a small smile. “You can check it out for two hours at a time, but school will be starting soon—“

“What?” Gawain just holds out his hands. “I’ll return it when I’m done with it.”

“Uh, the thing is, it’s a reference book, so you aren’t really allowed to check it out.” I take a step away as I see Gawain’s fingers curling again.

“I need to read it by myself,” he growls.

“And I like this job, and I want to keep it,” I protest. “Look, if you don’t want to read when other people are around, why don’t you just come back around five? Mrs. Dunwiddy goes home early on Mondays, but I don’t close up till eight. You won’t be completely alone, but it’ll just be me.”

“You’re really not going to just give it to me?” Gawain folds his arms, and I offer him my most apologetic smile.

“Sorry?”

“Whatever. I’ll be back at five.” Gawain turns and stomps away. His boots, big, clomping pieces of black leather, made satisfying clicks on the wood.

I turn to restore the Catalogue to its place, and then I remember, and I sprint after him. “Wait!”

But it’s too late. I emerge from the stacks just in time to see Gawain Kyla walk face-first into the library’s sliding glass doors, which I haven’t turned on yet. With infinite slowness, he turns back to face me, his expression apocalyptic.

“What the fuck, Averill.”

I offer a halfhearted chuckle and scurry over to the librarians’ desk, wondering about why he knows my name. “Sorry!” The doors slide open, comically too late. And Gawain stalks off into the early morning. I wait for them to close, then shut them off again, snatching a bottle of Windex and some paper towels. There is a perfect imprint of Gawain Kyla’s lips on the glass, the top half violet, the bottom half black.

I hyperventilate for next several minutes, because holy fuck Gawain is the scariest person I have ever met. Then I get to work, turning on the dying computers, setting out the chairs, all the quiet things that it takes to keep the library running. The book of the day, I decide, is Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. I make a mental note to erase that before five o’clock.

[stranger-who-writes-fiction]

One of my ‘batfam’-related posts was getting notifications today and I thought to myself...’didn’t I write some batfam stuff? at some point?’ and I did but it turned out...eh...? So it collected dust in my documents folder but I found it recently and honestly at this point I’m just like...’well it’s not the worst thing’ so HERE WE GO.

(Oh, um. Description might be nice, huh? WHAT IF: Kara didn’t end up in Midvale after arriving on Earth?)

...

The news that Bruce Wayne has acquired another orphan passes without much fanfare—a modest mention in the society pages overshadowed by a front page splash dedicated to the latest masked lunatic to cause a traffic jam down on Hearst. Clark chafes at the article, at that much attention; he’s used to hiding behind shared bylines and a pair of glasses.

Bruce can tell that his friend is having second thoughts. He can see it in the slight furrow of his brow, the white knuckle grip on the latest edition of The Gotham Gazette.

But Bruce isn't in the habit of polite reassurances. He leaves Clark to his reservations—there's work to be done.

Work that Kara only has a passing awareness of; she knows her cousin 'works' with Bruce, knows that those dark rumors about the crazy man in a bat suit are half true. Sometimes, as she's rushing to get ready for school, hands tangled in the necktie of her uniform, she'll pause by the grandfather clock in the library.

She could pry it open, if she wanted to. It wouldn't even be hard.

But then Dick will appear at her side, ready with a corny joke and an easy smile, already reaching to fix her tie. He'll ask her about Krypton, about her powers. He's endlessly curious, and doesn't seem to care that he might be prying.

“Tell me more about Nightwing,” Dick begs when homework becomes too boring for words.

Kara, who is as curious about Earth as Dick is about Krypton, is reluctant to put down her book on the Dutch Masters.

“Please?”

She's halfway through the story of Flamebird when she notices Dick's gaze is fixed behind her.

“Be back in a bit, Kara,” he murmurs quietly. Kara turns just in time to see Dick and Bruce disappear down the hallway, and there's a flash of jealousy, hot and bright, almost like her heat vision. She's just as much a Wayne as Dick is—more so, even. Kara Wayne. Printed in black ink on the forged papers that Bruce was somehow able to procure. Dick is still a Grayson. She should be with them; she should be part of the  secret Bruce Wayne keeps in the cave beneath the manor.

But Kara's also an alien in high school—a place where even the most average of humans feel ostracized and awkward. She has papers to write and superpowers to hide. She tells herself she can't handle another huge secret in her life, right now.

So she lets them go.

(That Alfred should appear mere moments later with a cup of hot chocolate is no coincidence. She hugs him as tight as she dares, and only hears one joint pop. Progress.)

At sixteen, Kara is a head taller than Dick. At eighteen, Dick finally catches up. He teaches her how to drive a motorcycle as a graduation gift.

Clark sends a card; Bruce tells her that he won't be able to attend the ceremony—if he did, it would turn into a circus. Price of being famous and all that.

In lieu of a gift, Bruce tells her she can go to whichever college she wants. He'll foot the tuition, she'll be debt free.

“Get out of Gotham while you can,” Dick tells her. Jovially, of course, but even he is beginning to grow tired of Bruce's One Man Crusade; she knows he's been looking into apartments in Bludhaven.

“I'd miss Alfred too much,” Kara tells him. It's very true.

She's enrolled in the fall semester at GCU when Commissioner Gordon goes missing. It's all over the news. Kara watches the ongoing coverage with growing anxiety. She knows the commissioner's daughter—they go to school together. Dick is hopelessly in love with her but refuses to do anything about it. ...Well. Aside from being insufferable.

This has nothing to do with Batman, Kara tells herself, because it's easier to imagine that the Commissioner has been dragged into the undercurrent of corruption that runs through Gotham like a sewer. Sad, really, to hope for a drug bust gone bad. But that's Gotham for you—where the other option is always, frighteningly worse.

She doesn't see Dick or Bruce for three days straight. She hounds Alfred, but Alfred seems just as worried as she is.

Dick and Bruce eventually show up on the same day that the news breaks about Commissioner Gordon and the Joker.

“...What happened?” Kara asks. Dick is slumped at the counter in the kitchen, trademark smile nowhere to be seen. Bruce—Kara suspects he's down in the cave.

“...I don't know...” Dick says. And at first Kara wants to throttle him because it's another one of his secrets—their secrets, but he turns and looks at her and there is nothing but defeat in his eyes. “I really don't know.”

Kara's at the grandfather clock before Dick can so much as blink. She tears it aside easily—as easily as she'd always imagined it would be—and sprints down the steps before she has a chance to talk herself out of it.

The dark stairs seem to stretch on forever; an eternity passes before she's standing beneath buzzing halogen lights, staring at a collection of dusty computer equipment, a cluster of workbenches.

A tall, guttering shadow.

“I want to help,” Kara blurts, not entirely sure where those words come from. It certainly wasn't what she'd been planning to say, but she doesn't take them back.

Bruce doesn't even turn to look at her.

“...No.”

No. It's the same answer she's been receiving for the last six years, ever since her cousin ripped the canopy off her pod and decided, no, you can't stay with me.

“I'm faster than Dick. Stronger. I...I can't get hurt!” Kara sputters. “You should train me. I can do everything my cousin can!”

She thinks. She hopes.

“You're dangerous,” Bruce says, still turned away.

Kara steps closer. “I'm not!”

“You are,” Bruce counters with the patience of someone used to winning arguments. “Because you're angry.”

Well, Kara's certainly angry now, but that's only because this entire conversation is stupid. She could handle the criminals in Gotham city no problem, and no one would have to get hurt. Dick would be safe, and Barbara's dad would still be alive, and Bruce wouldn't have to keep torturing himself...

“I'm not!” Kara shouts, and she can't help the blue haze that falls over her vision it just...it happens. That's all.

Bruce finally turns around, face obscured by the chiseled cowl. She's never seen it up close before. Only in blurry pictures in The Gotham Gazette. He ignores the heat vision just barely contained in Kara's fierce gaze.

“You are,” he says gently—it's a tone she's never heard him use.

And she's about to shout what do you know but the fact is, Bruce is right. He's always right. It's the most annoying thing about him.

She's angry. Angry at herself for keeping her powers to herself and not helping. Angry at Bruce, for being such an awful guardian. Angry at Dick for having a better relationship with the enigmatic man. Angry at Clark for failing to provide a sense of home. Angry that all of this even had to happen in the first place, why couldn't they fix Krypton? Why...why?

It's...awkward, trying to hug someone dressed in full body armor, but Kara doesn't care. Because everything's kind of awful and she's tired of pretending it isn't.

The Kevlar's cold against the side of her face, and for a moment, Bruce just stands there, like a big, bulletproof lump. But after a time he fits his arms around her, careful not to poke her with one of the spikes on his gantlets.

And Kara just...cries.

It seems so ridiculous. Surrounded by all the wealth Bruce had to offer, by Alfred, and Dick, even Babs, on the rare occasion she'd come over to make fun of Dick and pester Kara about AP classes...all these good things in her life that aren't nearly as healing as a simple hug.

A very weird hug, in an underground cave created by a man with a bat fixation.

For all his faults, however, Bruce doesn't push Kara away, and lets her cry for as long as she needs to.

After a time, Kara's shoulder stop heaving, and the crying calms to sniffles.

“...I'm sorry,” Kara mutters, pulling away. “About Commissioner Gordon. I know he was your friend...sometimes.”

Bruce nods and pats her shoulder in a way that makes Kara think he learned how to show human emotion by watching movies.

And Kara marvels at how they've just had a moment, complete with discussion of feelings, but then Bruce adds, in his gruff baritone, “I'm still not training you.”

So Kara is very glad that it's Dick who finds her, winded and shuddering in a dark alley, trying to recover from Shriek's sonic blast.

“Kara—” he starts, and she tries to put on her best poker face, beneath the bandanna and hood.

“I'm—I'm not—”

“I bought you those shoes after your tore up your other pair running back from Metropolis,” Dick says, pointing to her unremarkable footwear. “You didn't want to tell Bruce you'd sneaked off to see your cousin.”

It's true, but. There are plenty of people with blue high tops.

“And you threw a minivan at Shreeve,” Dick says. And that is harder to explain away.

“...Are you going to tell Bruce?” There's no use trying to deny it. Also, she doesn't want to have to fake a weird accent or anything, she's tired from the fight and her ears are bleeding.

Dick shrugs. “He'll figure it out eventually.” (He's probably right.) “Because only you, Miss 'On-Krypton-we-Rely-on-Diplomacy,' could throw a punch so poorly.” (He's absolutely right.)

“We can't all be as great as you, Dick,” Kara mutters. “You could maybe help me, you know.”

Dick pats her shoulder.

“I've got a better idea.”

The better idea is an old clock tower on the east side of Gotham, dilapidated by design.

“Got another student to add to your class,” Dick says as they walk inside. Two girls close to Kara's age, maybe a little younger, pause what looks like some sort of sparring match, and Barbara Gordon wheels herself over to greet them.

“Honestly, Bruce should pay me,” she snarks. “Hi, Kara.”

“Hi,” Kara waves weakly, a little surprised to discover a hidden vigilante school.

“He does,” Dick reminds her. “He just...doesn't know it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Barbara rolls her eyes before turning to Kara. “Your brother and I have to talk shop for a minute, why don't you...” she narrows her eyes. “...sit down, actually. You look peaky. Did you even bother to make sure she was okay, Grayson?”

“She's Kryptonian. She's fine!”

Kara does as she's told, but before she can take a seat, the two other girls intercept her, the blonde one extending her hand.

“Hey! Nice to meet you,” she says. “I'm Batgirl. This...is also Batgirl. We're...all Batgirl, actually. It's like a...'you're Squidward, I'm Squidward' thing.”

“...Oh, that's a Sponegbob joke,” Kara realizes. The blonde beams.

“See, Cass? She gets it.”

“Who are you?” The other girl—Cass—raises an eyebrow at Kara's ruined red sweatshirt and muddy jeans.

“Um.” Kara hasn't given much thought to a name, actually. It's all happening a little quicker than she anticipated.

She thinks of Clark's bold and colorful Superman, and maybe, in another life, she would've chosen something similar. Superwoman? But she hardly knows Clark, or Superman, for that matter. And she'll never be a Bat.

Dick's not a Bat either, come to think of it. Even though people assume his name is a reference to the nocturnal animal. Nightwing.

Kara knows better.

“Flamebird.”

Cass nods, but the other girl looks unimpressed.

“...We'll workshop it.”

[memorylang]

Remembering Mom—Third Year After | #36 | May 2020

I joined Peace Corps chiefly to experience part of my mom’s life teaching English in Asia. Thus, nearing one year since I left the States for Peace Corps, I reflect now on what I’ve come to understand about her... and me. 

Coincidentally, this story #36, published on my normal Friday schedule, coincided with May 8, 2020, the exact day marking 36 months since my mother’s sudden death. While most events occur during Week 9 (Chinese number for longevity), this story begins Week 10 (number for perfection). Amazing. 

As something unprecedented to this blog, I felt transcribing for you one of my penned free writes would give the clearest sense of where I’m at with Mom. So expect a tone different from my blogging norm. 

A Story for Mothers’ Day

[4/22/20]

God gave imagination as a gift, so [I use] it now to envision [my] mother and grandma. [My paternal grandma Mary] and [Mom] greet [me] in the meadow. They smile lovingly, and [I feel] their warmth. 

“I want to tell you everything,” I emote. “Life under quarantine has led me so much closer to you.”

The two continue smiling, kind eyes wide. I go on, speaking the frankness I long to know. [...] The two seem so glad I’m taking time to share with them. I muse I’ve really nothing better to do at 11 p.m. on this Wednesday night. They’re glad. 

“Anyway, I hope you’re enjoying it up there together with everyone else. Mom, I envisioned you with your parents and brother some sleepless nights ago. Mary, I imagine you, too, at peace with your parents and among your son and your husband. You all must be doing just fine in Heaven.” [...]

“Do you have any advice up there for me on the spiritual life? It gets awfully tough down here sometimes. I know you know. [...] Rosaries help, that’s true. And acts of kindness are certainly key. [...] My, you two both had busy families to attend to. I guess you must be praying beside Jesus now, for the rest of us still here on Earth. [...] Maybe it’s hard watching us all slip and fall sometimes. But then again, you’ve such hope in us. Thank you for praying on our behalf.”

I try to think of what else I might say while the Spirit’s given me their attention. I feel moved by how the two grew up from such humble origins yet were so loving all the same. [...] I hope in Heaven they've gotten to know each other very well. 

“I guess one area that’s troubling me these days is the prospect of pursuing academia. It’s daunting. It’s tough. But Mom, you did it. And Grandma, you sound like you had so much hope. So, I guess I’ve patron Saints like you up there helping me here, reading while I read, praying while I pray.” [...]

“I mean, heck, Grandma, I’m writing to you as though I know you, but I don’t believe we’ve met. I hope you don’t take offense. You don’t sound like the woman who would, though.”

*sigh*

“It’s a big world out here on Earth. I guess it’s even bigger in the heavenly kingdom. Oh, how I wish I’d be better at taking breaks and just resting in the majesty of your world. God made us to love, more than to work. [...] And in time, we’ll be healed to something beyond the beginning. That’s the resurrection. This is Easter. 

“Maybe you two get to spend holidays together. If you haven’t I hope you try it. In mortal time, Mom’s been up there nearly three years, anyway. I like the term, ‘passing on’ more than ‘passing away,’ by the way. I think you’ve moved from this life to the next more than you’ve simply left this one. 

“How joyful it must feel to live in a reality without status, one where all are one! Perhaps my depravity in this life will teach me gratitude in the next, as Peace Corps informed my time right now. That’d be nice…”

The two gesture it’s getting late, and there are things I’ve still to do tomorrow. But I shouldn’t forget to cherish my pilgrimage on Earth while I’m still on it. They’re right on both these accounts.

I’m glad of the time we spent together in these short moments. May the Spirit guide and protect me onward to my rest and return to living tomorrow. All is well.

Wrote My Way Out

Although this is the first and only 2017-2020 free write I’ve shared publicly among nearly 100, I felt its content valuable to help you witness a grieving process. And no, I don’t imagine Heaven as a place, “up there,” exactly. But since childhood, I’ve pictured my “happy place” as a meadow of Psalm 23.

Now I’ll give context. 

That Week 7 (April 17-23), I’d just finished seeing “Star Wars IX: The Rise of Skywalker” and felt too annoyed to sleep. Still, a few of Skywalker’s quotes spoke to me: “A thousand generations live in you now,” “You have everything you need,” “No one's ever really gone.” 

The quotes reminded me of my “Frozen II” feels and brought to mind a sleepless thought I had earlier. As in Mongolia, I struggled at times to sleep these past months home and would think to Mom. I envisioned her at peace, reunited in Heaven with her parents and older brother who passed while she was rather young. Mom came from a troubled childhood, I’d learned. But her older adulthood spiritual struggles inspire me to this day. 

Generations In Me

Nearly a month before, Week 3 (March 20-26), I’d begun home improvement operations, namely garage sorting and donation projects. My younger USC sister helped during her visit home the following week, too. 

Uncovering Dad’s old family photos on our Austrian-American side, I felt motivated to dig into family history. So I aggregated years of emails between an uncle and me and paused my garage operation to spend nearly two days straight weaving stories into one narrative. 

I uncovered on Dad’s side, generations of faithful heroes in a vaguely biblical way. Through my uncle’s resources, I traced back at least three ancestral marriages of a ‘Joseph’ and a ‘Mary.’ A couple of my Austrian ancestors had 12 children, a Christian number. And those parents may have met on a Marian pilgrimage. I felt awed to have genes from them, who walked before. 

But I felt most moved by stories of my late grandmother, Dad’s mom. As among the Marys who married a Joe, she was especially devout, relatives said. And only later in life did my uncle, who would study German, learn his mother came from a troubled childhood. My grandparents’ devotions to the rosary and ancestors’ devotion to our Holy Mother shone new light upon my spiritual lineage. 

So, that Wednesday, April 22, 2020 night, I took to the pen. Since winter 2017, I've revived an old grade school hobby of keeping an unedited free write journal. As an undergraduate that 2017 spring, having left a stressful job and joined more liberating orgs, I wrote for a creative and mental wellness outlet. After Mom passed, months later, my free writes would draw more catharsis. Even years later, while in Mongolia, I took free writes as my ‘time heist’ mentioned in my first Mongolia blog story, June 2019. 

Thus, remembering Mom and conjuring my grandmother, I penned what I shared here. 

Hidden Mother

During Week 9 (May 1-7), I experienced significant moments around Mom. Here lie the many. 

After posting a Monday blog story, I usually spend the Tuesday after on house projects, to break from screen time. Recall, when my USC sister visited for Easter, she and I sorted away Mom's lifetime of dresses. Back at Christmas, I sorted Mom’s books—all but her desk’s, feeling those among her most cherished. 

May's first week, having finished “Easter Epilogue | #35,” I felt ready for Mom’s desk. My family left it almost untouched the past three years. 

What a struggle. I saw a dusty accordion folder, for example. I opened it to find what it might be and suddenly met a whiff of Mom's perfume. It saddened me. I could imagine why my family put off touching her desk post-death. I could practically feel her presence in her things. Finding a 2010 letter penned in China, I marveled how our relatives loved her, decades beyond her leaving. 

Here’s where things get very curious.

Earlier that day, I felt like practicing Spanish again, but with the communicative way I practiced Chinese and Mongolian. Reaching out to Salvadorian friends, I felt glad they supported me eagerly. (Later, I realized it was Cinco de Mayo, though I doubted that affected El Salvador.)

But while sifting Mom's books to bins, I felt astonished. 

I found a black notebook not unlike those I use. Dated spring 2013, I would've been a high school sophomore finishing Spanish classes. 

At first, the book seemed nothing special. Mom penned pages of translations to technical words from the decades of Chinese-English dictionaries her shelves housed. Her notebook focused on English for medical science and technology. Still, I paged through. 

Then I felt so shocked, I left the room. 

My mom studied Spanish. 

She practiced what she preached... She professed languages open doors, wanting my siblings and me multilingual. But she aspired toward it, too. 

I could hardly believe it. Wisps of memory returned to me. 

If Mom was alive during this Coronavirus period, she'd surely be doing exactly what I'm doing—studying.

And then I felt, yet again, I really am my mother's son. Her love of languages—I'm of her next generation.

Mom still has my back, all these years later. :)

A Blessed Generation

I continued the night for hours stowing Mom’s things. And curious thoughts came to mind.

Mom and I learned differently. She self studied phrase books and dictionaries. But my family’s had internet since I was young. Besides grammar books, I’ve had online translators, video access and friends as native speakers. 

Throughout my childhood Mom and Dad would say how they were giving me a better childhood than either of them had. I realized it, with such abundance. At my fingertips have been resources hardly seen in human history. I have ways to learn that few could envision mere decades ago. 

I noticed in one of Mom's dictionaries after she was an English professor, she, too, wrote with the International Phonetic Alphabet. One of my Mongolian colleagues first showed me that alphabet. 

For better or worse, maybe my colleagues were right—English as the globe's most valuable language? And Mom sacrificed the life she knew in China. Emigrating, she gave my siblings and I abundant lives. Like her, I became an English instructor—but one privileged with native English. 

As I walked our house to find new homes for Mom's possessions past, I noticed my Mongolian language notebooks and suddenly felt emotional. 

Could Mom have imagined I'd know Mongolian, too? That I'd spend nearly a year bordering China? That I’d teach not only my English but also her Chinese—to real students. 

I sighed. I hope Mom saves me a nice seat in Heaven beside her. 

The Little Flower 

Later that night, one more find spoke to me. 

I noticed peculiar plastic bags with a book about grief among Mom’s things. I assumed the city handed these to my family when officials visited to impart our mother was killed. (I wouldn’t know, for I was away at uni, asleep with a vision I’ll never forget.) But, maybe the funeral home gave these after sealing Mom’s casket. I noticed especially the crimson rosary siblings said Mom kept on her. 

Holding its beads, I noticed an inscription read, “St. Therese, pray for us.” 

Strange—Mom never mentioned St. Therese. Mom grew up without churches in China, though, so I wondered whether Mom knew St. Therese’s story. I wondered, was this St. Teresa of Avila, Thérèse of Lisieux or another? 

On the back I found a little flower. Alright. 

Then a thought struck me—St. Thérèse the “Little Flower” would be this year my 19-year-old little sister’s confirmation saint. Since me, Sister would be my first sibling to receive the sacrament. 

Maybe St. Thérèse prayed for us. 

Case Closed

Wednesdays keep coming up. Before I share what happened this Wednesday, here’s an Easter egg. 

Earlier that week, I returned to a series I used to see the summer before I left home for uni—Marvel’s “Daredevil.” Picking up where I left off, the hero wins a court case and approaches his client, a youth who’s lost something for life. The hero, who bears a similar cross, coaches his client, winning the case doesn’t change reality. The client will have to live with this loss the rest of his life. 

That Wednesday afternoon, our family had an unexpected web call with our lawyer. Mom's wrongful death case settled. After over two years' challenging litigation, we won. Mom wasn’t at fault. “Justice prevailed,” say some. Our lawyer echoed the hero. A win could never replace a parent. 

Feelings Beyond Mother

This is the most emotional part of today’s story. We’re hitting “Frozen II” spoilers, so fair warning if that worries you. 

Alright. While flying home from Mongolia, I wanted to see something either in Chinese or with subtitles. "Frozen II” had Chinese subtitles. So I chose it. 

But it surprised me—magnificently. 

From the moment the musical numbers began, I felt moved by timely lines, “Yes, the wind blows a little bit colder / And we're all getting older / And… That's why I rely on certain certainties.” I sat in the jet plane leaving nine months of uncertainty into the unknown. 

I reflected on losing my community suddenly. The film’s themes of change felt nothing new, though welcomed. As it went on, I related to the princess’ unwavering love for her sibling. I related, too, to her sibling’s quest to their late parents. 

But “Show Yourself,” that crushed me.

Its piano, the iridescence, the darkness and wisps attracted. But something more related. Lyrics felt as me talking to me, trying to talk to God or Him trying to me. 

“All my life I’ve been torn. … Are you the one I’ve been looking for, all of my life?”

Then, determination: “You are the answer I’ve waited for, all of my LIFE!” 

I thought the hero would find herself… I didn’t expect who would help. 

The climax came. These moments stunned: 

Hero: “Mother?”

Mother: “Come, my darling, homeward bound.”  Hero: “I am FOUND!”

Together: “Show yourself! Step into the/YOUR power. Grow yourself, into something new.”

Mother: “You are the one you’ve been waiting for!”  Hero: “All of MY LIFE!” Mother: “All of your life—”

I replayed that movement four times after finishing the film. 

I cried. 

Mom’s Effect

Years since Mother’s death, I’d racked my brain trying to find her. 

Three years ago, I instinctively knew after Mom’s death, my siblings and I carried in our very lives the image of her. But I felt I wanted to know her, who she really was. 

Then I heard and saw the hero’s mother afar profess with her, “You are the one you’ve been waiting for, all of MY/your life!” To remember, I am the very one I need and seek… That broke me.  

The song struck like “Audition (The Fools Who Dream),” three years before. Yet, this transfiguration felt… personal. 

Weeks later, I still reflected on why I identified so strongly with the climax. 

I felt in some ways released from the quest that drove me my upperclassman uni years, indeed, to the point I entered the Peace Corps. I pursued this path to find my late mother. I wanted to know her better. She taught English in Asia. I’d teach English in Asia. 

Because, in many ways, I trusted I would find and know myself through her. Indeed, following my mother’s star led me back to her… and me. 

I felt my power. If I return to Peace Corps, I’m doing it for my reasons, not Mom’s. If I’m teaching in Asia, I’m teaching on my path, not hers. For mine is not hers. And hers isn’t mine. 

Liberation’s euphoric. 

Transfiguration 

For weeks, people had told me as a Christian, the power of the Holy Spirit is mine to use in God’s name. I just need to call on it. 

To my bewilderment, the exact day after seeing our “Frozen II” hero’s transfiguration, my first return to Mass in weeks celebrated the Transfiguration of the Lord. What? That following week—attending daily morning prayers, rosaries and Mass—concluded with reconciliation. My Lent continued. 

Weeks later, I finished Mom’s copy of “Tuesdays with Morrie.” But days before seeing “Frozen II,” I felt awed to chance upon these lines: “‘Morrie,’ Koppel said, ‘that was seventy years ago your mother died. The pain still goes on?’ ‘You bet,’ Morrie whispered.” 

I circled those lines.

Three years later I still search—for much. I still write. But, the journey won’t end soon. And the journey is the most beautiful part. 

My Chosen Five

I focus on nurturing strong mental, moral and physical habits daily, amid Coronavirus quarantining. Each day, I've been working out, eating more protein, reading Scriptures, journaling, getting information, relaxing and practicing languages. And I welcome the friendly chat. 

I especially love my early mornings in America, when it’s evening in Asia. My friends are up and eager to pick my brain. Their drives to learn English inspire. 

I practice Mandarin Chinese and Mongolian to keep in touch with friends and family and to enjoy meaningful exchanges. I'm learning Church Latin and Spanish to help me read histories to pursue in graduate religious studies. Spanish benefits my Latin and helps me keep in touch, too. 

So these are my five languages to which I’m committing. From Mom and Dad I inherited English—from Mom, language power. Now I grow myself into something new. 

New Beginnings

Losing my mother shall not define my life. But, I won't fear letting go, either. 

Instead, I hope to integrate more the passing of her life to mine.

For I reflect her. In me always lives her. That's special. 

The end of May 2019 began my life with Peace Corps Mongolia. During my nine months, Mom resurfaced throughout. A year later now, back in the States, I’ve kept my service close at heart. 

So, rest assured. New stories will come. 

All in God’s time. 

Up next is a 2020 Father’s Day reflection. 

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :)

P.S. Since Dad checked by the Marriage License Bureau today, who knows? Maybe by Mother’s Day 2020, Dad’s fiancée will be my next mom. But as for today’s piece, this took days to revise. So I hope it made sense. Feel free as always to share thoughts. —And thanks, friend. Peace be with you. 

[virtual-lara]

Did you know...

There was a story called 'Down Among the Dead' published by the Times newspaper to compliment the Times exclusive level that was created in 1999. It was written by Erica Wagner, who was the then literary editor of The Times and there were 7 episodes, each published every Saturday, starting on 27th November 1999 and finishing around the New Year 2000. Sadly, this piece of Tomb Raider history has been lost to the sands of time, and there is only the first episode available on the web. The story for the first issue is as follows:

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lara was bored. November days in London weren't really her style - it had been too long between adventures. In this first of seven episodes, Erica Wagner, the literary editor of the Times, launches Lara on a perilous journey across three continents to the heart of the greatest Egyptian mystery of them all. Now read on....

Lara rounded the corner and - just as she'd suspected the thing was waiting for her. She felt the adrenaline rush up into the roots of her hair as he lunged at her, swearing, but she feinted, drawing from behind her the lead pipe she'd kept concealed. She swung it at him with all her force, but he was fast too, and managed to dodge away, in the blink of an eye she was staring down the barrel of a gun. Everything slowed, she could see his finger tighten on the trigger, and she heard the shot be fired, point blank, at her chest.

"Bloody hell," Lara grumbled, pushing her computer keyboard to the side of her desk. What rubbish these computer games were. Anyway, she had better things to do. In front of her was a mountain of papers, books and files... she was sifting through them, trying to decide what the topic of her next book should be. Scott had it Easy: An Antarctic Escapade? Barrelling through Borneo? Nothing seemed quite right. She got up and made herself a cup of coffee, looking out her kitchen window at the garden of the house stretched out before her. The leaves were just starting to turn, she beloved roses had closed and fallen, gone to sleep for another winter. This was always the time she wanted to get out of England, not sit at her desk.

Well, there might be one way... she picked up the letter she'd left lying on the table the day before. It had come... regular as clockwork, as it did every year from her godfather Jeremy, the man responsible for so many of her adventures. Each year he took her travelling, the price of her ticket always the same. She had to solve the puzzles he'd set, which revealed their starting point. It could be anywhere in the world and the test was always exciting.

Now the first of his puzzles lay before her, it wasn't hard for Lara to summon up the interest, but her concerns about her nest professional move still hung over her. She wasn't a girl any more, after all, and she had to earn a living, all this tomb-raiding was one thing but it wouldn't pay for the upkeep on this place. She sighed and sipped her coffee, and heading back to her desk, nearly tripped on a book that had slipped out of a not exactly orderly pile. Treasures of the Cairo Museum.

She knelt. She'd forgotten she owned it. She leafed through the pages, Jeremy's clue still in her mind; the conjunction of the two was serendipitous. As she gazed at stone and gold, in lapis and alabaster. It almost seemed to her that she could smell the dust and bustle of Egypt. She dropped the book quickly. She'd had an idea.

The original copy of the letter no longer existed: the archivist had explained to her that once it had been set in type, it would have been thrown away. It had appeared in The Times in March 1923 "Death comes on wings to he who enters the tomb of the pharaoh." The novelist Marie Corelli reminded the paper's readers - avid for news of what would be revealed in the recently opened tomb of the boy-king Tutankhamun. She claimed the admonition could be found in an ancient Arabic text in her possession, but all the same her warning might have gone unremarked had not Lord Carnarvon, patron of the tomb's discoverer, Howard Carter, died just a few days later. The "Curse of the Pharaohs".

What rot, Lara thought to herself as she looked carefully through the boxes the archivist had set in front of her. In 1922 The Times had paid £5,000 for exclusive coverage of the greatest archaeological discovery of the century. News from the Valley of the Kings arrived by runner to Luxor in those days: Lara sighed a little, wondering if life before e-mails and modems wouldn't have been rather more exciting. With its thick brick walls and small barred windows, the archive was quiet as a tomb on this rainy London afternoon.

She knew it was cheeky, just showing up. Luckily her uncle who she hadn't seen in years, but never mind - had been up at Oxford with the Editor, reading classics. She'd met him a few times and thought he'd seemed all right. Sitting on a fat sofa in his low-lit, low-ceilinged office, she had a feeling he didn't know what to make of her. Still, he'd let her into the archive. Before she left she wandered over to his bookshelves and pulled off a volume of Xenophon in the original Greek which, she noticed, had once belonged to "The Times Intelligance Service". Definitely, those were the days. She rattled off the opening paragraph for him; her Greek wasn't rusty as she'd thought. That, at any rate, made him smile.

Death comes on wings to he who enters the tomb of a pharaoh. She sat with a pencil between her teeth, wondering where all of this was leading her. The archivist popped his head round the door. "You all right in there?" She started.

"Yes, fine thanks", she said. "But is this all the material?" Somehow, curse of no curse, she hadn't found what she was looking for.

"I think so," He said. He seemed a nice enough fellow, Lara thought. He'd told her he was new on the job; been there six months. Lara couldn't have stuck it, shup up in dusty offices all the time. He counted the boxes in front of her. "Hang on", he said. He went into the back, and after a few minutes returned with another, smaller than the others, made of wood, not cardboard. "Funny", he said, "I thought it might be part of that lot". There was a small label on the front, neatly written in black ink, in an old-fashioned hand; '1923' was all it said. "I've not been through it though". He bent and blew dust off its lid, "Looks like no one has, or not in a while anyway". He smiled at her, "there you go, then". He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Carefully, Lara opened the box, setting the lid on the table besider her. Inside was a mass of papers, unsorted, yellowing. All the other boxes had had their contents neatly divided into folders, tidily arranged. In truth, when she'd seen them her heart had sunk, she couldn't believe she'd find anything really new in such pristine order. But this... Carefully she began to sift through the material; much of the handwriting, she could now tell, was Howard Carter's. Occasionally she saw the failing signature of Lord Carnarvon. Mostly it was accounts; there were columns of figures and names of photographers, journalists, news agencies. Among the papers she spotted something else, hidden near the bottom of the box. It was a little handmade notebook. About thress inches by four, made of thick heavy paper and bound with waxed twine, its cover was stained but unmarked. The first page was blank. On the next page some numbers; confused sums. Then a sketch or two; details, it looked like, of jewellery or statues. A Horus eye stared out at her. On the next page, Carter's writing again, this time cramped and hurried. She began to read:

They say this is the most important archaeological find ever to have been made in Egypt: perhaps anywhere in the world and certainly I know that to be true. And yet I am still quite certain that there is more - of greater importance still, that is possible. And what I have found so far might well lead me on to the next, if I could only -

"How's that?"

The archivist. Her heart was pounding. Slowly she closed the little notebook; it almost fitted into her palm.

"Fine, fine," she said quickly, trying not to sound out of breath, "It's, um, more of the same, you know... accounts, ledgers, that kind of thing,"

"Not too exciting?" Lara smiled, unconvincingly, she was sure. "Not really." The archivist shrugged, "Well, you know where I am if you need me," he said.

When he'd gone, Lara hastily rearranged the papers from the box, piling them back in. They'd never miss the notebook. Well, they wouldn't, would they? It had been sitting here all these years, not doing anyone any good - she was the one who should have it, she could do something with it. Grinning, she slipped it into the inside pocket of her leather jacket. She felt better than she had in months.

The next installment of Down among the Dead will appear on Saturday December 4. The story will run until the New Year.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

To end with a few notes, we notice that the render as shown in the background of the newspaper is very suitable for the story so we wonder if the render was created specifically for this story/ game. It can be seen on the cardboard sleeve for the limited edition disk that contained this game. Please share your thoughts on this and if anyone knows anything about the six other episodes, we would love to hear from you!

Credits:

Pictures: Uploaded by user Lopez @ CroftNotes

Text: Please don't just copy and paste this elsewhere (as we have noticed that some of our other posts have been copied without credit). This took a lot of time and work to correctly right up and understand what some of the lines said.

To check out the other pages in this supliment of the The Times Newspaper, check out this post on the Tomb Raider forums.

To read episode 7, the finale of this story, see here.

[ntrending]

Spring cleaning for your computer

New Post has been published on https://nexcraft.co/spring-cleaning-for-your-computer/

Spring cleaning for your computer

If you want to keep your house clean, you need to dust it regularly; if you want your car to run well, you should service it annually; and if you want your computer to stay speedy and responsive, it needs its own maintenance—a digital spring clean.

We’re not just talking about wiping down your keyboard, but also clearing up the digital clutter taking up room inside your system, including the apps and files that you no longer use. Here’s how to get started.

What’s the harm in leaving unused applications on your computer? These programs take up precious storage space, and they also make your operating system work harder than it needs to. They force your computer to incorporate entries in the Start menu, sift through settings files, and install updates for programs that you’re not actually using. In addition, each application on your system can become a target for hackers or data-mining companies, so the fewer you maintain, the better.

Take the time to identify the programs you no longer need and uninstall them—you can always reinstall them later if you change your mind. On Windows, open the Start menu, go to the Settings screen, and then click System followed by Apps & features. You can sort apps by size or date to weed out the ones you don’t need, or click an app to remove it. On macOS, open Launchpad, click and hold on any app, and hit the delete button. Some programs might require you to launch an uninstall utility. To do so, open Finder, navigate to the Applications folder, and look for the uninstall program. If it doesn’t have one, then just drag the app’s entry from Applications to the Trash.

While you’re sifting through your applications, you’ll find some that you want to keep. For those, download updates to make sure you’re running the latest versions.

Clear away digital clutter

It’s an inevitable consequence of modern-day computing that as you use your device, junk files will build up: items you’ve created and forgotten about, temporary files created by the operating system or applications, and so on. You can’t stop this from happening, but you can stay on top of the mess with a regular clear-out.

Unless you really know your way around Windows or macOS, it’s a good idea to get assistance from a third-party program for this task. CCleaner (for Windows and macOS) has long been one of the best free options in this department, and we also like CleanMyMac (macOS) and System Mechanic (Windows), though those last two aren’t free.

If you’d prefer not to rely on these programs, you can probably do some simple clean-up jobs yourself. Sit down and spend an hour or so deleting those photos you’re never really going to look back on or clearing out old documents and spreadsheets that are no longer relevant.

We spend a lot of our computing time inside a browser, and this is another area where you can do some serious tidying. The aforementioned CCleaner does a good job of clearing out digital garbage that your browser doesn’t really need, but each browser has options of its own that you can also employ.

In Chrome, go to Settings and click Show advanced settings followed by Clear browsing data to erase cached files, browsing history, plug-in data and more. This should make your browser a little lighter on its feet. On Firefox, the option is under Preferences, Advanced, Network, and Cached Web Content. In Microsoft Edge, you need to go to Settings then Clear browsing data. Finally, in Safari, open the app menu and choose Clear History.

While you’re slashing and burning, check your downloads folder for files you’ve forgotten about. Delete the ones you don’t need to free up more space.

Finally, removing unused browser extensions can have the same benefits as uninstalling unused applications. This will streamline your browser, lowering its demands on your computer’s resources and keeping you safer as well. Open up your browser’s extensions or plug-ins page and see if there are any add-ons you can do without.

If no one sees your computer except you, what’s the point of keeping it tidy? (You may have the same attitude about your house.) Well, as we’ve mentioned, it means an easier time for your OS and applications, and it also saves you time when you’re looking for important files. Plus, if everything is organized neatly, there’s less chance of files getting forgotten and eating up hard drive space that could be used for something else.

Sort your files into the designated user folders (like Documents) and you’ll notice the benefits the next time you need to open something quickly. In particular, you should try to avoid keeping masses of files and shortcuts on your desktop, as it gives your computer extra work to do every time you view the screen. For the same reason, it’s a good idea to spend a few minutes clearing up the Start menu or the Dock (depending on your operating system), to make sure the shortcuts you really need are available and any unused ones are cleared away.

A whole host of cloud services, including Dropbox, Google Drive, OneDrive, and iCloud will store your files on the web and give you the option to delete your local copies. This is a handy way of freeing up some hard disk space and lightening the load on your operating system at the same time. Just be sure you keep the online versions and don’t delete both the local and cloud-based copies of your files at the same time (each service has instructions on how to do this).

Physically clean your equipment

While you’re tackling a computer spring clean, you may as well do some physical cleaning at the same time. It will make your machine look shiny and fresh, in some cases, you can actually prevent future problems (like the insides of your desktop getting clogged with dust). You don’t need expensive equipment, or even that much time.

Start by powering down and unplugging your computer. Then grab a can of compressed air, which blasts dirt off of keyboards and ports. Next, use a dry microfiber cloth to wipe down the outside of your machine and any of its peripherals, such as mouses and keyboards. (You can read our full keyboard-cleaning guide here.) Cotton swabs are another helpful tool in the computer cleaner’s arsenal, as they help you clear away built-up dirt from nooks and crannies.

For a more comprehensive clean, lightly dampen your cloths or swabs with isopropyl rubbing alcohol. Plain old water can work too, but as you’re dealing with electronics, you need to gently dampen your cloths and swabs rather than getting them completely wet. If you’re dealing with a desktop PC and you know your way around it, you can dismantle certain parts to really get into those dusty corners, but this step isn’t essential.

With the digital and physical spring cleaning complete, you can power your computer back up and enjoy the benefits of your rejuvenated system—at least until the same time next year.

Written By David Nield