#bits router wood

[woodrouterinfo]

5 useful tips for using wood router bit

Wood routers are great for a variety of tasks. Whether carving a piece of furniture or making a workbench, using a router bit is a great option.

Wood routers are great for a variety of tasks. Whether carving a piece of furniture or making a workbench, using a router bit is a great option. Helpful tips for using wood router bit Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com Working with a wood router bit can be a fun and rewarding experience. But before you start, ensure you know these helpful tips. This article will give you some tips on…

[castieltrash1]

I'm desperate for any content with Driver or K, maybe just how'd they treat you as their partner? Love your work!!

driver is a bit of a chameleon boyfriend. he’s used to blending in and attracting as little attention as possible, which extends to his personal life. whatever you’re interested in, so is he. if you like to eat somewhere, he’ll suggest that place every time you mention being hungry. as long as you are happy, that’s all that really matters to him. if you want to plan dates, he’ll follow your schedule down to the second. and if you’re more spontaneous, he’ll have his jacket and car keys nearby to take you wherever you want. 

he’s protective, of course, but he also loves seeing you be successful in whatever endeavors you pursue in life. whether that’s a mundane 9-5 or a niche passion that doesn’t pay the bills, he will cheer you on for every milestone you cross. ideally, he’d take care of you in every way that matters (financially, emotionally, mentally, physically, etc.) but he doesn’t want to stifle you, either. that doesn’t mean he won’t silently fix any of your problems behind your back, though! bitchy manager bothering you? you’ll never believe it, but she switched locations! low on rent? you must’ve forgotten those couple hundred dollar bills you left haphazardly tucked between your mattress! too tired to cook dinner? well, your boyfriend just texted saying he’s off work and would love to grab something and swing by your place to eat!

safe to say, one of his love languages is acts of service. including the ones you don’t know about, he takes care of every problem in your life. he’ll catch every bug, fix every leaky sink, install your new curtains, reconnect your router, change your oil, etc. speaking of cars, if you’re insistent on driving yourself everywhere, driver will check your car every five seconds to make sure it’s safe.

+ driver isn’t big on pda, but if you’ve just arrived or are leaving, he will pout without a kiss hello or goodbye. if you forget (or purposely avoid for the sake of teasing) either, he’ll follow you, grab your wrist, and use his other hand to hold your jaw steady while he kisses you. only then will he smile, let go, and pretend nothing happened.

-

OFFICER K UNDER THE CUT!

k can be insecure, sometimes. he knows it’s already hard enough dating a replicant, but his dangerous job doesn’t make it any easier. all he has to offer you is his plain apartment and the nights he’s not working, neither of which he finds particularly appealing. he’s not really sure why you like him, but he’ll be damned if he gives you any reason to break it off. every second that he can devote to you, he does. 

since he’s out in the city most of the time, k enjoys spending time indoors. of course, if you want to go anywhere while he’s home, he’ll be stuck to your side like glue, glaring at anyone who even gives you a second glance. but, what he loves most of all is curling up beside you and listening to the rainfall. nothing makes him feel more human than doing nothing for the sole purpose of it. he’s made to perform tasks, so there’s something rebellious about enjoying the silence of your apartment, counting each beat of your heart, and feeling the warmth of your skin against the synthetic of his. knowing that he doesn’t have to service you or offer anything for you to want to spend time with him makes him ecstatic.

while k can’t afford lavish gifts or, really, much at all, he does come into contact with a large collection of rare items at work. he’s always excited to bring evidence home since he knows you’ll get a kick out of seeing and touching a real flower or piece of wood. while the scarcity of the item intrigues him, he doesn’t have the same desire to connect to humanity’s past the way you, understandably, do. where he sees just another part of an ongoing case, you see years of ancestry and a forgotten world. secretly, the excited glint in your eyes has started to make him feel something similar.

+ k loves pet names. the first time you called him babe/baby, he stilled and stared at you in shock. he’d heard humans referring to other humans that way, but the names people usually called him were very different. whenever you call him a pet name, he smiles, almost unconsciously. he’s tried every combination of affection terms with you, but his favorites are the personalized ones that he knows no one else ever has or ever will call you. they remind him that, for now, at least, you’re entirely his. when you use them in return, he feels unique, like a human. he feels like he finally has a real name. out of the well-known ones, however, k’s favorites are sweetheart, dear, flower, and pretty. flower and other pet names based on things that are now rare feel especially fitting to him, since someone “as perfect as you is hard to find.”

gosling sleepover sunday

[rrcenic]

i’m reading a book called lord of the fly fest by goldy moldavsky and it is. literally a lotf au and i love it so much

it’s about a group of teens, a mix of musicians, influencers, and fans, who are stranded on a tropical island after a trending music gathering called fly fest turns out to be a scam

the main character is rafi (ralph), who has a podcast and is currently investigating whether musician river stone killed his girlfriend. she is wandering in the woods when she meets peggy (piggy), a non binary techie who is the only one able to figure out how to access wi-fi (the specs)

rafi has a microphone (the conch) and calls everyone together on the beach. there she meets many other kids, including twins paul and ryan (sam and eric)

then, the dangerously self absorbed influencer crowd shows up (the choir) lead by queer makeup artist and all around asshole jack dewey (jack obvy). he, rafi, and river go explore the island while peggy keeps track of the others.

next, rafi meets sierra madre (simon) a beauty influencer thought of as the prettiest person ever with a strange but sweet personality. she quietly assures rafi it will all be okay because everything will always turn out good and gives rafi a flower crown. sierras a bit looks-focused but is still kind:

it took me a while to figure out who rivers lotf equivalent is, but as soon as rafi saw him brutally gutting a fish in the dead of night i knew he was roger. he acts very roger-y as well.

other cool little details:

-greer (percival). they are greer at the first meeting, smaller than the rest, and always crying about something. she wants her villa, she wants her vegan sandwich, she wants her mom, she’s worried all the time, etc

-instead of painting their faces with blood, jack wannabies cover themselves with his beauty products which i think is silly

-peggy is highly revered and respected for their ability to get wi-fi, but jack and his gang eventually break into their tent and steal their router (stealing the specs)

-sierra does not die like simon, but goes missing, and rafi suspects jack and/or river killed him

-in a nod to jack merridews hunting obsession, jack says “are you saying there are wild hogs on this island? if i wanted to party with wild hogs, i would have gone to my cousin lionel’s seventh birthday party”

-in the first scene with the influencers, one of them passes out, and jack says “probably from secondhand embarrassment”

so. basically.

this book is really cool so far because. its literally lotf. it’s an interesting au as well?? like rafis one of the only people who isn’t a very stuck up influencer. it was written in 2022 so it has commentary on gen z culture, social media pros and cons, the pandemic, and good queer rep. it also stays true to the dangerous nature of children that lotf has, just with less murder lmao.

i really recommend this book to the lotf fandom in general!! i got it at my local library but i’m sure you can find a free audiobook version or get it online.

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Ruinous Effigy

"That's not right." Banshee-44 taps a spectral analyzer against the Effigy's frame. Commander Zavala turns, closes the lid on a small golden weapon case, and walks to Banshee's side. "What have you found?" "Well, it's not petrified wood, but it is organic." "That's troubling," Zavala says and moves to run his fingers over the weapon's frame. "I wouldn't." A shallow cold saps the heat from Zavala's fingertips; he pulls back. "This wasn't in Eris's report." His voice is thin and stark with disappointment, as if spoken through dead winter air. "Guardian doesn't seem to notice either." Banshee clinks the analyzer into a tool tray. "Leeches a bit, kicks out Void. Sig's hazy, though. Wild."

CONTACT

[Report by VanNet encrypted router.] At last, another substantive message. The enemy's influence in our system may be more extensive than we realize. You must look for signs of its effect. Errors or crashes in Vex constructs. Eruptions of empowered or self-destructive Hive sorcery. Newly created Scorn. Revels and expeditions by the worshippers of the narcissist emperor. [Personal notes, shaved into quartz with a surgical stylus.] Our enemies are turning to the Darkness. The Red Legion is broken; the Almighty destroyed. The remaining Cabal will either join Calus's death cult or seek his daughter, Caiatl. And the Fallen—we have driven them to the edge of survival. Turned them against each other. How many will look to the Whirlwind for an advantage over their rivals? By pushing them from the Light, we have groomed more supplicants for the Darkness. We are in an arms race. If we do not learn to use our greater enemy's power, our lesser enemies surely will. I confronted Enina about the strange Ghost. It was not hers, she protested. I asked her why she had been so generous to me, so eager to please. She confessed that she had come on behalf of her fireteam: Guardians who are champions in the Drifter's strange games. They wish to learn the ways of the Darkness itself. To descend into the underworld, like ancient Inanna, and return. They want what I have learned here. How easily they might be corrupted. And yet it thrills me to know that I would not be alone in my work… I sent her away. I fear the Witch Queen's spies. The pine-apple blossoms are still growing. But now I stare at the purple flowers in the black soil and I wonder about poison. I am no longer hungry.

O: Hmph. Debating the reasons does not interest me. The data does. We have thought Neptune to be a dead end. A hope that was never realized. But she knew something about it, or perhaps something on it, which brought her power. Some deception or hidden truth; some bluff that she had held uncalled against the Witness and its Disciples.

O: [sips tea] Though my senses were darkened, that much was clear through the murk of her throne world. There was a secret she kept veiled, even to the last.

O: [sighs] I do not fully understand what I saw, and for a Human to understand a Hive mind... How many legends of katabasis do we have, Ikora?

I: We currently have dozens of stories about descending to the realms of the dead, though research has indicated many more must have existed, lost in the layers of Human history we will never lay eyes on. Mathematically, there were likely hundreds.

I: [pauses] Inanna and Dumuzid and Geshtinanna, Orpheus and Eurydice, Izanagi and Izanami, to name a few. Gods and goddesses, mortal and immortal lovers, always seeking to descend and return with the lost.

O: And neither the lost nor those who searched for them were ever returned the same.

I:...Is that how you think of yourself?

O: [scoffs] Do I sound that dire? All Guardians, all Lightbearers have done as much. But others, well... I wonder, do our former enemies have similar stories...

I: What exactly are you getting at?

O: Frequently, the underworld—or those realms beyond mortal existence—possess wisdom the living do not. What then, is knowledge from a dead Hive god vested in deception.... [long pause]

I: So. Neptune, and secrets.

O:...Inanna...

I: What is it?

O:...A thought. An echo of one. The return from the underworld, and Inanna cast off her veil... It makes sense. I did not understand, when I first felt clutching whispers. Carrying wisdom away from Kur when she strode into the sunlight again.

Osiris sits in the small stone garden beneath the Traveler; his attempts at communion unsuccessful. He had seen the Speaker stand here for hours. Ikora had begrudgingly agreed to appear in his place at the Remembrance. Her words were stern, but deep down, she knows victories have lulled in complacency. There is an imminent, daunting pressure. A noose awaiting a misstep. A delicate game. Braziers cast shadows; distracting shades flickering across his eyes, breaking his concentration. Osiris breathes. The stone gardens are endless space. The skyline is razed horizon. Breathe. He is alone in the void. Intrusions no more. There is a point in the depth. It cannot be directly viewed. Delve. Dive. Deeper. Still, only a point in the aphotic depth. The nothing. Expansive. Osiris sinks to gain new perspective. The point remains. It is so faint. Distant. Though he knows he can see the Light. His reach stretched thin. Clarity, in the space between his hand and the point. The osseous-white point. Dim now. The omnipresence was. Hungry acknowledgement. Vast. Himself against the enormity; an endless unfurling midnight. And a lone point.

ACCESS: RESTRICTED

DECRYPTION KEY: 73XK5V2PG1$AUN-326

REP #: 053-VIP-1315

AGENT(S): AUN-326

SUBJ: Psych eval

1. THIS DATA OBTAINED FROM SURVEILLANCE DEVICES AT 1315-HOME2.

2. In previous reports, I stated that it was my belief that #1315 had invoked some kind of paracausal event enabling the resurrection and return of enemy VIP #2015. This belief was predicated upon reports of creatures resembling the infamous "Echoes of Oryx" that Guardian forces engaged and destroyed en masse during the Taken War (cf. Ghost-stream footage here: CATHEDRAL.OF.DUSK.DREADNAUGHT).

This has proven false. Spectral analysis from multiple Ghosts participating undercover in Prime and Reckoning confirms that the impossible world at the heart of "the haul" is located in unknown space. (Cf. REP #001-012-PARAC-NINE.) Further, these Primevals differ in their literal elemental composition: low SNC, high ambient ΛCDM. #1315 has harnessed his "banks" to what appears to be an engine of pure potential. He no longer needs to pilfer the Ascendant Plane of Primevals, the oldest Taken in residence. He can create Primeval-likes from the energy of "the haul" and sheer force of will. As to the apparent presence of #2015, it is a falsehood. My handlers in the Praxic Order surmise simply: the shape of Oryx was the scariest Hive he could think of. He's tenacious, but he has a small mind.

3. Highly recommend we assess #1315 for the influence of paracausal forces or entities. Since the conclusion of the joint Vanguard/Praxic investigation into his operations, the subject has become increasingly erratic. Beyond running his Gambit and Reckoning drills with the Guardian population, he has done nothing but hole up in the Annex. He has always exhibited the signs of stress related to prolonged solitude that are typical of all surviving Risen; this manifests in the subject in prolonged and rambling conversations with either himself or his as-yet-unseen Ghost. However, his musings have become less and less coherent over time. Late into the night, away from the Guardian cohorts, he yells at voices that our surveillance equipment has never picked up. He has spoken to himself about trips across vast, interstellar distances to realms no Guardian has ever described.

Again, he has not left the Annex in ages. One might say that I am overstepping even Praxic boundaries here, but I would say to them: the subject is free to leave any time.

4. Following the results of my investigation, the subject has ceased regular reports to Lord Shaxx. I'm sure both prefer it that way. #1315 has broken none of the Vanguard's decrees in that time, nor have any further Guardians perished on his watch in Gambit or Reckoning. He is still a facilitator to murder and a thief, but he has done nothing to warrant eviction, as I had hoped. The Vanguard obviously still needs him.

5. The following is a transcript of one of his late-night rambling sessions logged for evidence:

TYPE: PRAXIC SURVEILLANCE REPORT

PARTIES: One [1]. One[1] Guardian-type, Class N/A [u.1]

ASSOCIATIONS: Gambit, Drifter, Annex

[u.1:01] What now? What the hell is it you're trying to tell me?

[the hum of a generator]

[u.1:02] You showed me a universe with no Light. Dominated by the Dark. What are you arguing? Steadfastness in the Traveler's dogma? Ha ha. That's not obtuse enough for y'all.

[u.1:03] No, no. I don't think so. Because then you showed me a reality without shadows, of pure Light from every angle. Nowhere to hide. Everyone begging to die, like we did in the Dark Age. Light's no gift, but I already knew that. What else you got?

[a metallic clink echoes]

[u.1:04] Yeah. I know the coin doesn't lie. It's the only thing in this world I trust for real. But you know what? I control the coin. And I make my own fate. No one writes on this but me, you got that? You pencil-necked, phantom-assed geeks. Have some respect for people's stuff.

[a second metallic clink]

[u.1:05] I've refused the Traveler's dogma for generations. And I'll reject yours.

[a rush of static as the feed distorts from Light-based radiation]

[u.1:06] You can't boil my brain, brothers and sisters–I see you tryin'. But I'm already there.

[a fizzling crackle as the feed distorts from Light-based radiation]

[u.1:07] And if you think you have a handle on Orin? Well, you didn't know her like I did. You slip up just once? That girl will eat you alive. Nine steak sounds mighty tasty if you can find it, scrape it all together. Get a fire goin' that'll cook it. What a fire that would be. You wanted to see what made us tick? Maybe Drifter wants to see what makes you stop.

[a dull roar as the feed distorts from Light-based radiation]

[u.1:08] Yeah, boy. That's a threat.

[u.1:09] Hello?

[u.1:10] No, not you. I still need you. This week. Get back to work.

[u.1:11] What? Nothing...

[u.1:12] Still hungry...

MESSAGE ENDS

Equinox.

The new Lighthouse obscured the silhouette of the sun. It cast a long shadow that wormed across Mercury's uneven terrain in orbital-locked perpetuity. Ships descended, some flawless, others to maintain what fragile holds the Vanguard claimed. Rust and sand baked, and distant space was alight with half-earned talk of posterity. No Cabal blemish remained in orbit. No shattered lines rewrote the landscape. There was only frenetic stillness. A discomforting itch unresolved. A knowing inclination that ignorance could not quash: unity is fragile. Vance stood in the old Lighthouse, frantically assembling the Infinite Simulacrum: a machine formed from bits of simulation seeds and connective Vex architecture to mimic a pocket forest. Textured notes and schematics derived from Osirian lore guided his hand. He heard stories from passing Guardians of increasingly frequent coronal mass ejections. Vast bursts of charged particles whipped into space and furled around a gravitational monster buried from sight and sense in the roar of the star-wind. Passage to Mercury had become more dangerous for the uninitiated. These unnatural motions were heralds of speculation, and he had read the signs. He knew the prophecies by heart and mind and intention. Ruin. Something new |and so very old| emerged, brother to a shriveling star: An angular |hungering patient yawning deep| shadow reached across Mercury. Uncounted |known| spires fell under its grasp |with uniform relief|. Dulcet tones brought low under lightless breadth and the weight of dark |salvation| hummed beneath the shadow. Their echoes spilled out |awakened| and flowed over crumbling spires |in conversation|. One singular spec of illumination blinked into being, |an end| seen by none, and then |many| spread as the shadow did. The old Lighthouse |spire's collective| beamed |rose| and flared as shadow overtook it |to meet the underbelly|. Vance |the implement| could hear |their inspired voices| weeping, not with tears, but in the |voracious| low |ceremonial| hum he had come to associate with death. He closed his eyes |and saw what was to come|. This day had many names. None would suffice.

Eclipse.

Long quiet overtakes the workshop, imposed by shuttered windows and empty streets below. They stand over the weapon. Banshee stares down and nods along to the ambient static. "What were you saying?" The weapon master's voice is framed in apology. Zavala puts a hand on Banshee's shoulder, smiles, and gestures to the weapon. "Equipment that uses the wielder's Light is not unprecedented." "It doesn't use it; it eats it. Thing's got an appetite. Works almost like, uh… a converter." "Is it dangerous?" "Nah. Guardian doesn't even seem to notice. I'll get you a write-up."

Lightfall.

The Gardener is hard to bother; she is constantly amidst her weeds, kneeling in the tangent dust, gloves covered in a mix of distant soils and metallic saps. She is listening to the music of the insects amidst the flowers, the unguent as it begins to drip from the ferns, the slight scratch of the Worm beneath, and not to you, and certainly not to your cries for help.

From the many wings of ruin blows a wind that will reshape this dead world.

[katenepveu]

Museum for Art in Wood (Part 3)

This is the section where I talk about the museum's curated bits (which, as you may recall from my first, ranty post, are extremely limited), and also the places where I most desperately wanted curation.

Here is a very nice explanatory label, which is alas not in the website's information on this piece:

The Museum Collection originally consisted of lathe-turned objects, but today it features pieces that represent a wide range of processes. From ancient tools like the lathe to modern computer-controlled CNC routers, technical skills are at the core of artistic work.

Ron Fleming in Earth Offering (OBJ 1010) masterfully combined techniques: the traditionally turned bowl is upheld by a dramatically carved base of leaves. Fleming's piece exemplifies how artists utilize technical processes to create striking displays of craftsmanship and ingenuity.

There was a small grouping of things for kids (I don't remember the actual title, sorry), which was fun. Among the highlights were these two pieces, which were next to each other: Frog Bowl by Michael Brolly; Hippo - Two Bowls Joined by Robert Trout.

This grouping felt very Seussian: Which Way To Grow by Dina Intorrella-Walker; Hurdy-Gurdy by Jean-François Escoulen and Mark Sfirri; and Clarinet-A-Kazoo by C.R. (Skip) Johnson.

There was a grouping featuring works from immigrant artists. I really liked this Shell Form Series by Graeme Priddle, though it looks puzzlingly different in color in the catalog from my picture.

And this plate, and also the small sculptures to right, by Michael Korhun from Ukraine:

I thought this was amusing: Hat, Hats Off to Woodturning Series by JoHannes Michelsen from Denmark.

Moving away from the intentional and labeled groupings, the person I went to the museum with pointed out this much more confusing grouping:

A potato masher and a strainer, both of unknown date and maker, highly functional, next to ... an untitled sculpture by Jean-François Escoulen. I am entirely happy to have functional objects in an art museum, though I can't say that I entirely understand why those.

This functional object, on the other hand, is very pretty! Rays (Cutting Board LS39) by Lincoln Seitzman.

There were also the occasional forays into meta woodworking pieces that I would dearly have loved explanation for.

For instance, there was Sanding Disk by Kevin Burrus, made of "Ash, Wood Turning Center brochures": has it actually been used as a sanding disk? What is a sanding disk?

Similarly on the deliberate meta, also on display was a Pre-Turned Wood Object—at least that's what it says on the top. I'd love to get the joke? But I don't. (By Garry Knox Bennett.)

Or this shelf: why is there a pile of papers on the left? Is that a chalk board on the right? Is the shelf a collective exhibit of some kind?

I looked up object number 4 (the only one there) and found the very useful: Large Mallet. This is apparently a whole section of things from the John Grass Wood Turning Company, judging from the papers, on which that name is visible, and the item underneath, which is a Bundle of Balusters, but: why those pieces? Why is there a beat-up baluster on top of some new ones? What is happening here???

This, on the other hand, is just as meta and historical, but doesn't actually need explanation and I found it very charming: The Itinerant Turner's Toolbox by C.R. (Skip) Johnson.

Sculpture next.

[siriannatan]

Empires Falls - Gravity Falls AU ft. fWhip

A bit of a shorter one and, le gasp, no shipping but I had a scene in mind okay… and I hope it's as cool as I imagined it while writing.

fWhip was slowly starting to hate summer... more than he already did that is. Why you ask? Well. His parents decided to send him and his siblings to a remote, boring, town. In their distant uncle's dusty library of a home. After one week of avoiding spending time outside with Sausage and talking about Uncle Pix's books with Gem the great summer retreat made him hate summer and its sweltering heat a whole lot more. Mentally counting the remaining days until once more no one cared how much he was on his computer and when he had good internet. And wasn't limited to his phone, tablet and slightly bad laptop...

He was staring at the ceiling of his basement bedroom. It was that or sharing with Sausage and he snores. A lot. And the internet is slightly better since he's almost under the router. Only very slightly... At least it wasn't that hot in there. Still warm but not as bad as the attic. There were exactly twenty-two tiles on the ceiling. fWhip wasn't sure he ever saw a ceiling with only full tiles... outside those tiny tiles but those hardly count. The tiles here were big. And beige and were pretending they were made out of wood. Badly. They were very obviously plastic. The paint chipping off in a few places.

It was so damn warm he kicked his duvet off. His sleeveless sleep shirt was still uncomfortably sticking to him. If it was so bad in the basement then how bad was it in the attic he thought. Still staring at the ceiling. He blinked. And...

The big red eye on the ceiling blinked back... Black sclera and either red iris and pupil or lack of one.

It blinked again as his brain raced to think up a logical explanation. It could not be real. It had to be a dream. That's why he can't move or look away. Just a dream he'll barely remember when he wakes up...

It blinked for the third time and got closer and closer as it continued to blink. And fWhip could not blink or look away, and his eyes burned. And it blinked and he could finally blink and when he did it was gone.

And fWhip was alone, covered in a cold sweat. Staring at the boring twenty-two tiles and slightly flickering light. And no weird eyes. And by how fast his heart was going, he was not asleep. Pinching himself did nothing so he was almost certain he was awake. Awake and damn confused. 

If that wasn't a dream then what it was? His brain was in overdrive until it overheated and he fell asleep.

[mariposakitten]

Catch You When You Fall

A Duskwood Fanfic

Chapter 1

Pairing: Jake/Male!MC

Length: 5k

Rating: Teen

Tags: after the story, hurt/comfort, reunion, pre-relationship, gratuitous cuddling, hypothermia, gunshot wound

Summary: It’s been roughly six months since the events of Duskwood, and no one’s heard from Jake - was he captured? is he even alive? Until one night, in the middle of a blizzard, when MC gets a knock at the door...

A/N 1: It occurred to me after writing this that Duskwood is heavily implied to take place during autumn, meaning six months later would be spring not winter. However. I like 6 months as the length of time MC was left waiting and wondering, and I need it to be winter not spring, so. Just don’t think about it!

A/N 2: I researched hypothermia and gunshot wounds and how to treat them extensively, and then I Marie Kondo’d my results to make them fit the story better. If you’re ever unlucky enough to be in a situation like this PLEASE do not take my story as a guide, it is not guaranteed to be accurate!

*

They say that a shared traumatic experience can bring even the most disparate people together. Perhaps it’s true. For Farid, at least, the people he met and the bonds they forged during what he'd begun calling (in the privacy of his own head) “The Duskwood Incident" wouldn’t be forgotten any time soon. How could they be? At the beginning, they had all been strangers to him, but by the end he’d become their friend, their confidante, even their confessor. He’d shared private jokes with them, helped them through grief and shock, and gently coaxed them into sharing things they’d never told anyone else. He’d become closer to them than perhaps anyone else in his life – and all without even meeting them in person. When the dust settled, when all secrets were revealed and everything came to light, he was there to hold their hands – virtually, at least – as they began to pick up the pieces and put their lives back together.

And yet.

And yet it really had only been the crisis that had brought them together. Without it, things were… different. Oh, the groupchat was still up and running, and at least a few times a week they’d all check it and shoot the shit for a bit, but the urgency was gone. Which was good, of course it was good, but still. The glossy photos of Cleo's latest culinary adventure, tempting though they were, didn’t quite have the same thrill as desperately trying to warn her that she was being watched as she jogged through the woods. Talking Dan through a bout of maudlin drunkenness was just a bit more tedious without the sharp edge of trying to convince him to go home before the killer struck again.

Jessy still talked to him, of course, almost daily, sweet as always. He’d finally managed to gently inform her she was barking up entirely the wrong tree, and ever since their friendship had only grown stronger. But the others… they were drifting apart. They liked him, were grateful to him even, but they didn’t know him, not really. He had an entire life outside of The Duskwood Incident, and although a couple of them had made token inquiries about it, it was clear that their focus was – understandably enough – on rebuilding their own lives.

Besides. To them, he represented the most stressful, terrifying time in their lives. Could they ever not associate him with that? Maybe it would be better for them in the long run, if he wasn’t a part of their new lives. He understood that. It made sense. And he was an adult, it’s not like his feelings were hurt by it. It was just… lonely.

And then there was Jake.

The computer interrupted his thoughts with a beep and Farid frowned, staring at the error message attached to his latest assignment. What do you mean, message could not be sent? One glance at the router and he groaned. It shouldn’t be surprising, but it was definitely irritating. A tree, he supposed, weighed down by snow from the storm, finally snapped and fell onto a line. Or else someone was out driving, despite all the warnings telling them not to, and lost control before plowing into a pole. For a brief moment he considered calling his internet provider, less because he thought calling would resolve the problem even a second sooner and more because he wanted to vent his frustration onto someone, but decided against it. Whoever was working the phones tonight would soon have quite a few frustrations of their own, after all, with no way to vent them.

Jake could fix this.

A treacherous thought, and one that he quashed immediately. First of all, it wasn’t true. Jake could do many impressive things, but he wasn’t a wizard. If the outage was, as Farid suspected, due to physical damage, not even Jake could miraculously restore infrastructure with a flick of his magical hacker wand.

More to the point, though… Jake was gone.

Farid had been frantic, the first few days after The Incident. Begging for information on what the FBI was doing, if they’d taken anyone into custody, if anyone besides Hannah had been recovered from the mines. He’d even broken down and told Alan there’d been another person down there, asked him to send a search team – after all, arrested was still better than suffocating in a cave-in. He sent text after text, dropped hints in the dark web forums Jake had shown him, blanketed social media with the #IAmJake hashtag hoping for a clue, for anything.

But there was nothing. More nothing. Continued helpings of nothing, and at some point the panic had to stop. There were three possibilities: either Jake was dead, or Jake had been arrested and it was being covered up, or Jake was in hiding. If it was either of the first two, there wasn’t a damn thing he, Farid, could do about it, and worrying wouldn’t help. So for his own mental health he had to assume it was the third. Jake was alive and free and laying low, and letting Farid know any of these facts was just… not a priority for him.

And that was… that was fine. Really, it was fine. Jake had been very clear about who and what he was: an antisocial, distrustful loner who absolutely wasn’t looking for new friends. Sure, he and Farid had become… close, ish, during The Incident, but just like the others, they were brought together by circumstances and a shared goal. In the end, it had been a friendship of convenience and necessity, and no matter what Farid might have hoped, it was never destined to survive the solving of the mystery. Jake didn’t owe him anything; he had no reason to risk breaking cover just to say hi.

And yet every time he was thwarted by a technological dilemma the instinct was still to turn to Jake, and every time it was a shock to remember that he couldn’t. Every time he sent an email, or chatted, or browsed a website, he found himself wondering if Jake could see it, if he was watching.

A year ago, the thought of someone spying on his every communication would have horrified him. At some point that had changed. It was oddly comforting, to think that he might still be out there, still watching over Farid like a silent, weird guardian angel.

Well. Nobody was watching over anything right now, and likely wouldn’t be until the morning at the earliest. He tapped a few times at the keyboard anyway, as if doing so would somehow force the email to his professor through, then closed his laptop with a sigh. Outside the snow continued to fall, soft and silent, a quiet steady storm that intended to keep going as long as necessary until the entire world was blanketed in white.

It had been a while – too long, now that he thought about it – since he’d had to entertain himself without internet access. After a moment to think, he puttered to the kitchen to start milk warming for cocoa; while he waited, he browsed his bookshelves, fingers trailing over all the books he’d bought with the best of intentions and then never read.

In the end he went with an old, well-thumbed favorite, justifying it with the excuse that a night like this, when the world seems too big and too cold and too quiet, is hardly the right time to start a new adventure. Much better to stick with something beloved and comforting, to keep him company in the storm. He finished tweaking his cocoa to perfection – a splash of vanilla, a drop of almond, the barest hint of cinnamon – and settled down to lose himself for a few hours.

Three chapters in, there was a knock at the door, so faint he almost thought he’d imagined it.

In fact, he hoped he’d imagined it, he thought, setting the book and the cocoa away and rising with trepidation. No one should be out and about on a night like this; this wasn’t a night meant for people.

He hesitated before opening the door, glancing through the peephole, but all he saw was darkness. Weird. Ominous. For a moment he considered ignoring it, but… what if someone really was out there, out in this storm that was rapidly becoming a blizzard?

Here goes nothing. Bracing himself for whatever awaited, he opened the door.

Immediately he was hit with two things. The first was a sudden gust of wind and snow, shockingly cold as it slapped into his face.

The second was a human body, collapsing heavily against him as soon as the door moved away from it.

His arms came up on instinct, grabbing the dead weight of the body and keeping it from hitting the floor. Farid wasn’t particularly strong, but whoever this was, they were skinny to the point of being frail; it wasn’t too much of a chore to half-carry, half-drag them inside the house, kicking the door closed behind him, and deposit them onto the couch.

It has been half a year since he’d needed that bright, clear state of hyperfocus, the one that let him notice everything, let him shove emotions and distractions aside as he analyzed clues, but he could feel it coming back to him, easy and comfortable as slipping into an old robe. He glanced over the new arrival, everything else falling away as his eyes took in any details they could find.

Male, about his age. Dark hair. Breathing, he noted with relief, but only shallowly. Skin too pale, almost a greyish-white, and cold to the touch. Thin features, eyes closed – most likely unconscious. Beautiful, a treacherous part of his mind offered helpfully, and he pushed the thought away as an irrelevant distraction. Not dressed for the weather; the stranger was in sneakers, not boots, along with black jeans and a thin dark grey t-shirt, all of which were soaked through by the storm. Not shivering.

Not shivering. Shit, that one was bad. Snippets of first aid classes came back to him, as well as anecdotes his sister had shared: signs of hypothermia, as well as ways to treat it. If he was too far gone to shiver, that wasn’t a good sign.

First things first: get the wet, freezing clothes off. The shirt was simple enough, just up and over the stranger’s head. The pants, however, were easier said than done; they were tight enough that peeling them off a conscious, cooperating person would have been a chore, and wet enough to try to cling to the skin. What followed was several minutes of awkward, undignified effort; finally, finally he managed to work them down low enough that pulling them the rest of the way off wouldn’t be too hard.

And froze.

That was…  a lot of blood.

A heartbeat later, he reassessed. Not as much blood as he’d first thought, just smeared around a lot by the tight fabric. The dark jeans must have absorbed much of it, their color and wetness hiding it until now. His eyes found the source: there, a puncture wound in the thigh, and… on a hunch he moved the leg. Yes, there - another one on the other side. Almost certainly a bullet wound.

He walked here on it. How far?

One thing was sure: this was above his paygrade. Reaching for his phone, Farid dialed 911 – only to curse a moment later at the “call failed” message. Whatever took down the internet must have knocked out the cell towers too. Fuck. For the first time since the stranger had arrived at his door, he felt the stirrings of panic.

No. That wouldn’t help. He forced himself to take a deep breath, then another, and looked at the wound again. Blood oozing, but slowly – probably because of how frozen the flesh was. That would buy him time to treat it. Not pulsing – that was good, he remembered Nasrin telling him. That meant it hadn’t hit an artery, which meant he wouldn’t have to make a judgment call on whether or not to apply a tourniquet.

If a gunshot wound doesn’t kill you from blood loss or organ failure, the next most common way it kills you is infection. He heard the words in his mind in his sister’s voice, her fascination with the more morbid aspects of her chosen profession shining through. Always clean your wounds! So that was step one. Step two was compressing and dressing it so the stranger wouldn’t bleed out once he warmed up. Then he could go back to making sure he didn’t freeze to death.

Another set of hands would be really useful right about now.

But he didn’t have one, so it was time to get moving. A quick search turned up a halfway decent first aid kit. No rubbing alcohol, but he did find a half-full bottle of Everclear – the college student’s favorite mistake – leftover from an ill-advised party a year ago. That’d do.

Back in the living room, he eased the pants the rest of the way off, then began gingerly wiping the blood from around the wound. When it was time to clean the wound itself he hesitated; then, wincing in sympathy, he poured the clear liquor liberally over it.

A strangled grunt; the leg jerked, and for the first time the stranger’s eyes flew open, apparently shocked into consciousness by the sudden pain. Farid looked up and found himself staring into wide, shocked eyes. Blue. Very blue, almost a turquoise shade.

Shit. Well, that was… inconvenient. Stop it. Stop it right now. Save the cute boy’s life first, develop a crush later.

Out loud, what he said was “…Sorry. It’s gonna hurt for a bit more.” He hesitated, then repeated, “Sorry.”

The boy just stared at him for a moment, emotions unreadable in those intense eyes. Then, with another soft groan, his eyes fluttered shut and his head slumped back down onto the couch.

Well. Better get it over with before he wakes up again.

He cleaned both wounds as best as he could, applied gauze, wrapping the thigh in bandages as tight as he dared – not enough to cut off circulation, but enough to maintain pressure on the wounds. The need to elevate a gunshot wound above the heart to slow the bleeding warred with the need to stick the stranger’s feet in a bucket of warm-not-hot water to raise his body temperature, and the latter tentatively won for the moment.

By the time he’d maneuvered the young man into a sitting position and gotten his feet into the water he was starting to wake up again, blinking groggily and glancing around. “Okay,” Farid said, pitching his voice low and soothing. “You’re okay now. I’m gonna get you warmed back up and you’re gonna be fine.”

He wrapped a blanket over the man; for a moment he considered adding a heated blanket, but ultimately decided against it. Dangerous if he had frostbite to go with the hypothermia, and he wasn’t sure how it might affect the gunshot wound. That left another option, but it was going to be… awkward.

With a sigh, he stood and shucked off his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in shorts and an undershirt. “I swear I’m not trying to be weird or put a move on you or anything,” he explained, resigned, and started to scoot around to sit behind the man on the couch. “Skin-to-skin contact will raise your core temperature without heating up your extremities too fast and possibly doing damage.” Am I trying to reassure him or me? This needs to be done but wow, it would feel a whole lot less unethical if I didn’t find this guy attractive.

All thoughts of attractiveness and their accompanying ethical crises fled, however, the moment he wrapped himself around the stranger: it was like hugging an icicle. His immediate instinct was to recoil from the cold but he forced himself to hold on, wrapping them both in the blanket, willing his body heat to transfer.

Half a mug’s worth of forgotten-but-still-warm cocoa sat on the side table; reaching for it with one hand, he brought it up to the stranger’s mouth. “Here. Try to drink it if you can; the heat will help.” The stranger nodded; with Farid’s help he managed a few sips before leaning back as if the effort had exhausted him.

A moment later the shivering started. Small at first, then growing more violent until it seemed like the stranger’s thin frame would shake apart. Farid set the mug back down and held on tight, pulling the stranger back into the warmth of his chest and trying to hold him steady. “This is good,” he murmured, not sure if the other man could even hear him but trying to be reassuring. “It means your body is warming back up. You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

For a long while that was all there was: holding onto the man, reassuring him, warming his too-cold skin with his own, keeping him safe and secure as his body shook. Eventually, though, the stranger’s skin didn’t feel so shockingly cold, and the shivering had subsided into the occasional shudder. His breathing was no longer shallow either; he drew in breaths in shaky gasps, as if he’d just run a race, leaning limply back into Farid’s chest.

He seemed so tired, so fragile and vulnerable, and for a moment Farid felt a surge of affectionate protectiveness. What is it with me and scrawny white boys? You’d think I’d learn.

“So,” he began, clearing his throat and trying to inject some lightness into his tone, “welcome to my house? I’m Farid.”

This earned him a weary chuckle. “I’m… fortunate,” the young man answered carefully, not sitting up. His voice was raspy from the cold and the exertion. “To have found someone kind enough to take in and care for a stranger.”

No name. His curiosity pinged. That’s not suspicious at all. “What, as opposed to leaving you out there to freeze to death?”

Another quiet laugh, this one tinged with something bitter. “Many people would.”

“Damn, maybe you’re hanging out with the wrong people.” He laughed softly. “I’m glad I could help, but I’m pretty sure most people would do the same.”

The stranger huffed, amusement in the sound. “Well. I won’t argue. But I am grateful.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and Farid could feel him relaxing more against him.

“Once this storm dies down a bit I’m gonna get you to a hospital,” he promised. “I did try to call an ambulance, but the phones and internet are out. Right now I don’t think it’s safe to drive, but. I’ll get you taken care of.”

As he spoke he could feel the tension return, the young man stiffening in his arms. “…No,” he says a moment later. “No, I can’t go to the hospital.”

Farid frowned. “You got shot,” he pointed out gently. “It’s not like in the movies. It could have hit a bone and created fragments, or damaged your nerves. You could need surgery. And I cleaned it and bandaged it the best I could, but I’m not a doctor. It could start bleeding again or get infected. Plus the hypothermia,” he added. “Plus the possible frostbite. Plus the possibility of shock.”

He could feel rather than see the young man swallow. “I am aware of the risks. I am willing to take them.”

“Okay, but I’m not.” He could hear the frustration in his voice and tried to pull it back, but it was hard. “You could lose the use of your leg. You could lose your leg. You could die. You think I want that on my conscience?”

He was quiet for a long time, long enough that Farid worried he might have lost consciousness again. When he did speak, his voice was very quiet. “I cannot stop you,” he said slowly, “if you decide to make me go. And I… I wouldn’t ask you to go against your own conscience. But. I’m asking you not to. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I’m asking anyway. Please.” Again, even softer. “Please.”

And something clicked.

It was the second please, he decided later, that did it. Not just that, of course; there was more. Afraid to go into the system, afraid to have the gunshot reported to the police crashed up against cagey about his name crashed up against black hair and blue eyes crashed up against stilted, formal way of speaking. One detail after another, like waves against the shore.

But in the end it was the way he had asked, the way he said “please,” something so hauntingly familiar about the entreaty, that switched on the lightbulb.

Farid took a deep breath.

“Jake.”

The man in his arms froze, even his breathing paused, and Farid knew he was right.

An eternity later the stranger – Jake – began to chuckle, soundlessly and without humor. “I should have known better. I know not to underestimate you.”

A thousand questions whirled in his mind; he picked the most immediate. “What are you doing here?”

A sharp intake of breath. “Making a mistake,” came the reply, almost a whisper. “I didn’t mean to come here. I was trying very hard not to.” A note of bitterness crept into his voice. “I didn’t take into account the fact that hypothermia can decrease one’s ability to make rational decisions.”

Farid’s arms tightened involuntarily around him. Don’t be angry, don’t be angry… fuck it, I’m angry. “So what exactly was your rational decision? Bleed out in the snow? Keep walking until you fell asleep and froze?”

“Yes,” came the reply, immediate and serious. “Rather than get you involved in this? Yes. I’m sorry, Farid, but there is a non-zero chance that I led the people who shot me right to you.”

For a long moment all he could do was tilt his head forward, leaning his forehead against the damp, messy mass of curls in front of him. “No,” he said when he trusted himself to speak again. “No, that’s not your line. You owe me an apology, but not that one. Try this instead: ‘I’m sorry, Farid, that I was so stupidly overprotective that I tried to die rather than come to you for help.’”

Jake’s body stiffened again, then pulled away just enough to turn and face him, wide eyes confused and searching. “Farid,” he said slowly. “You are not part of my world. You’re a grad student. You study history. You read mysteries and buy painting supplies and never use them, and you play frisbee golf on campus when the weather is nice. You have lunch with your sister once a week and drive to your parents’ house for holidays and you were never, never once on the wrong side of the law until you met me. Hostile government agencies and shadowy men with guns do not have a place in your life.”

“Oh, are they not the same?” Farid asked, surprised. “I guess I just assumed the hostile government agencies were the shadowy men with guns.”

“Farid.” Now he sounded frustrated. “You shouldn’t get involved with me. You shouldn’t be in my life. I realized that in the mines, hiding while the FBI searched for me. I put you in danger. I will put you in more danger. There are people who want to kill me, and if they know you helped me they will want to kill you too. You would have been better off if you had never seen me again and simply assumed I had died in the mines.”

“That’s not true.” Farid glared. “Jake, that… that is so far from true, it isn’t even funny. I’d be safer, sure. But I wouldn’t be better off. Not even a little.”

Jake flinched. Blue eyes searched Farid’s face, wounded, lost. “…Why?”

Answers presented themselves, memories of conversations gone past, of admissions of trust, of things he’d almost but not quite had the courage to say during those texting sessions. Finally he settled on something safe, but no less true. “You’re my friend. I care about you. I like you. Dangerous or not, my life is better when you’re in it. Thinking you might be dead? Knowing you only went down there to save me, and you might have been killed or caught because of it? It hurt, Jake.” He realized it was true as he said it, as he finally let himself acknowledge the pain he’d been keeping a lid on these last six months. He felt the telltale prickling of tears forming in his eyes, and ignored them. “It hurt worse than you know.”

Jake blinked, looking as if he wasn’t sure how to process this. His gaze dropped. Very quietly, he said, “You would have gotten over it.”

“See now, that’s the thing, I’m not so sure I would.” Farid started to reach for Jake’s hand, then pulled back, suddenly awkward and unsure if the touch would be welcome despite having had both arms wrapped around him a few minutes ago. “Look, I know I’m not like you. I’m not a brilliant hacker and I’m not a sneaky spy and I’m not a heroic badass, and maybe I don’t belong in your world. Okay? But.” He took a deep breath. “A world where you’re alive is still better than one where you’re dead. A world where you’re in my life is still better than one where I never see you again. And if you’re in danger, then yeah. I’d rather be in danger with you than be far away and safe. To help you, or just…” He hesitated, knowing he was coming perilously close to the truth. “Just to be there with you. To be there for you. You’re worth the risk.”

Jake was shivering again by the time he was done, but it didn’t seem like it was from the cold. “You… would willingly put yourself in danger,” he said slowly, not looking up. “Danger that wasn’t yours, that you didn’t deserve. For me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I would.”

“Not many would.” Very slowly, almost tentatively, and without turning away again, Jake relaxed until he was once again leaning against Farid’s chest. “I have a difficult time believing it.”

Farid’s arms came up and around him again, interpreting Jake’s renewal of physical contact as tacit permission to do so. “Yeah, I know you do. We’ll work on that.” Gently, not wanting to spook him or make him feel trapped, he stroked a hand over the messy curls. “How are you feeling?”

“My leg is in a great amount of pain,” he replied promptly. “Now that I’m no longer freezing, I’m more aware of it. I’m also very sleepy, even though I know I need to tell you everything. Is that indicative of something worrying?”

Farid considered it. “I don’t think so? You’re not supposed to let someone with hypothermia fall asleep, but I think that’s just when they’re actually freezing. You’re warmed up, so. I think it’s just indicative of you being tired?” He smiled. “Sit up? I’ll get you some ibuprofen – I don’t have anything stronger, sorry – and get you more comfortable here on the couch.”

This turned out to be something of an ordeal; Jake’s leg was almost impossible to move without causing him more pain, something that had Farid privately worried. He eventually managed it by placing one hand under the leg above where the bullet had hit and another below, lifting slowly and surely and turning him around to rest it on top of a pile of pillows to keep it elevated. He checked the bandage once it was settled, relieved to find it hadn’t bled too much. Ibuprofen was brought and dutifully taken, and extra pillows and blankets carried out to the couch. Finally, assured that he’d made Jake as comfortable as he could be, Farid turned to say goodnight – only to find Jake still sitting up, watching him.

He smiled. “Need anything else?”

Jake’s gaze dropped. “No. Well.” He hesitated. “Could you… I mean. It. It was…”

Jake’s voice trailed off, pink darkening his cheeks, and Farid’s breath caught. He couldn’t possibly mean… He looked again at the way he was sitting up, awkwardly, not leaning back onto the couch and the pillows set up there, and cleared his throat. Trying to sound casual, he asked, “Was it more comfortable for you, when you could lean against me?” Jake nodded, still looking down.

Farid forced himself to breathe. “Okay, well.” Once again he found himself trying to scoot around and behind Jake on the couch, making himself into a pillow to lean on. “There. Better?”

Jake leaned back – again, slowly and carefully, as if unsure of his welcome – until he was resting against him, stretched lengthwise on the couch and leaning back into Farid. “Better.” Then, very quietly, “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Reaching up, Farid turned off the lamp beside the couch, casting the room into darkness. “Get some sleep. We’ll figure things out in the morning.” Gently, testing the waters, he wrapped his arms again around Jake, holding him loosely.

There was no response to this, so he breathed out, letting himself relax into the couch as much as possible. A few minutes later, a hand found his in the dark, fingers lacing through his own. He squeezed it once, lightly, then listened as Jake’s breathing evened out and he felt the hand go slack in his.

He realized, very quickly, that this was not at all a comfortable position for him and would only get more uncomfortable as the night went on. Holding Jake in his arms, feeling his chest rise and fall against his own, he also realized that he didn’t care.

Shit. I’ve got it bad.

[sillypinkboy]

Cooking Together

Characters: Joe Fixit, Jake Lockley, Bruce Banner

Relationship: Bloody Protectors (Jake Lockley / Joe Fixit) , Joe Fixit and Bruce Banner

Word count: 558

Tagging: @goodoldfashionedengineer

Note: yet another one coming from engineer ! This is going to be part of a series, which will be under the #winter cabin series tag

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The weather was cold. There was enough snow to knock the router out, and no signs of the flurries stopping. A newly built fire crackled, casting a warm light against the dark wood of the cabin. Blankets had been gathered and left to the couch, abandoned books and board games sat on the floor. An empty whisky tumbler sat next to a lamp on a lonely side table.

Soft laughter spilled from the kitchen, the small space of the lodge quickly filled with it.

The soft sound of a knife hitting a cutting board mixed into the noise. Metal being laid against metal following.

“You’d be stupid if you thought it wasn’t a bad movie,” a playful voice spoke. Another laugh was soon to join it.

“Maybe ya just don’t understand movies, Sunshine,” teasing was offered back. The man it belonged to, an older man with gray eyes and auburn hair, pulled an arm around a brunette’s waist.

The brunette shook his head, shaking curls. A small smile rested against his freckled face.

“Maybe you just don’t have a good taste in movies, Doll,” a New York drawl caught heavily on his words.

The older man hummed, pulling the other closer, “‘Aybe you’re just picky, hm?”

“Maybe you should finish with those carrots,” he countered.

Joe let go and continued back with his chopping. “Avoidin’ the question, huh?”

“Nope!” Jake hummed.

The older man laughed, quickly finishing with the carrots. “Ready for these yet?” he offered.

The brunette nodded, taking the ladle out of its pot. As the taller man moved to throw the carrots in, he bent down to grab a kiss from the chef.

“What are you doing?” a familiar voice creeped into his conscious thoughts.

“What’s it look like?” an annoyed tone met the curious one.

“It looks like you're getting a bit too comfortable with the company,” the voice answered.

Joe rolled his eyes, he could practically see Bruce crossing his arms, “We’re makin’ lunch, Brainiac.”

Jake chuckled at the response. Bruce, though, didn’t find it as amusing.

“You never cook,” he rebuttled.

Joe huffed, “Tryin’ somethin’ new. Whole point of the trip, yeah?”

A silence fell.

The fire crackled, a metal ladle hit the side of the pot again. A cabinet opened and closed.

“Maybe he’s bored,” Jake offered, opening a can and handing it to Joe to drain.

“Yeah! Got bored sittin’ inside all day. ‘Sides, ain’t we s’posed ta be meeting the neighbors?” the taller man continued.

Bruce huffed, “I guess.”

Joe was hoping the other would leave, but the doctor stayed put. He rolled his eyes, pouring the corn into the pot.

“No reason to stay, yeah?” he said, after a moment.

Bruce didn’t acknowledge the statement. Joe hated when he did that.

“Go away, Bruce,” he tried again.

This time he got a response.

“I think I’d rather stay,” the doctor’s tone said he wasn’t going to budge.

Joe groaned.

Jake sighed.

The soup bubbled.

The fire crackled.

Quiet stayed in the air, pouring an uncomfortable feeling into everyone.

Finally, Jake decided to break it.

“I’ve got this, don’t worry about it,” he stirred the pot before putting a lid on it, “It’s almost done anyway.”

A passing look of disappointment crossed the older man’s face.

“I’ll try to get the tv workin’,” he mumbled, walking off.

“Thanks, Joe.”

[walkswithdave]

CNC is Computer Numerical Control. These are various machining tools that are guided by a computer, and they have been around since about the middle of last century. I first saw one of these when I was in elementary school and I visited my mom’s friend Bill’s machine shop. He manufactured metal parts for various industrial purposes, and parts for his son’s Formula One race car (I used to love hanging out in the pits at these races at Riverside raceway).

When I went to Sheridan Lumber the first time and was given a flyer for a shop that has a CNC router, I had the idea to make curves where there were previously right angles on the original Device.

The thick maple/mahogany wood sandwiches (that had the crazy number of clamps) are what these shapes will be cut out of. I’ll also be making some small mahogany cylinders where they were previously PVC (the Linear Motion Transfer Cylinders).

I thought we would be doing the cutting today, but Manuel needs time to get all the information into the CAD program. This is a bit more of a complicated project then they usually do there, which is just cutting shapes out of thin sheets of wood for things like wall designs and other interior home type stuff.

When he's ready, I'll go in for the actual cutting, which I am excited to see happen.