#but ALSO my heart rate was resting at about 90 and I was shaky and having nosebleeds

[torchickentacos]

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes.

ATLA

illustrate the remnants of the life i used to live by WitchofEndor

Zuko's soul marks have been regularly burned away since before he knew what they meant. He knows that he cannot be loyal to his father and his nation while also being loyal to a soul family, so he doesn't look for them. Unfortunately, that means that he doesn't know when he's found them.

Stranger things

Shovel Talks by unkreativstermensch (+ podfic)

"Oh,” Steve says. Then again, “oh,” a little quieter. His expression changes; from confusion to something pained almost. “Mr Munson, I don’t…” he takes a deep breath, his voice a little shaky as he continues. “I don’t think he…I don’t think he likes me like that.”

He doesn’t say “it’s not like that.” Neither does he say “I’m not like that.”

That’s the first thing Wayne notices.

or: Wayne decides to give Steve the shovel talk, only to realize he might not be the one needing one

Peaceful Bliss by unkreativstermensch

"Henderson,” Eddie groans. “Do you have any idea what time it is?" He rubs his hands over his face. Dustin nods.

"Of course, it’s 6:15, but we need to talk, it's really urgent, I noticed something about the-" he stops in his tracks when he notices the patch of hair next to Eddie, sticking out from under the covers and in between pillows, and the way Eddie winces because Dustin's talking too loud, and oh shit- there's someone else in bed with him.

or: Dustin has the annoying habit of just busting into Eddie's trailer at ungodly hours. One morning Eddie's not alone though.

SVSSS

Protagonist Rehabilitation Programme by cinnamonsnaps

(oh my god they were roommates)

"Thank you, valued user, for accepting the Protagonist Rehabilitation Programme. Your task: Ensure the protagonist's happiness."

Shen Yuan is convinced that his favouri... least favourite novel's main protagonist isn't really happy. He has babes, money and power, but does he have any friends? Cue the system handily dropping Demon King Luo Binghe into his bedroom. Can Shen Yuan make him happy before the timer runs out?

(90% light-hearted comedy, 10% existential horror and fear because this is the OG PIDW Binghe we're talking about)

Shadowhunters

Families of Choice by MonPetitTresor

Life at the Institute takes a turn for the worse for Alec. When he's alone with no where else to turn, his siblings step up and help him find his feet once more with help from a few new friends along the way. Between them, Alec finally gets a chance to realize that the world doesn't begin and end with being a Shadowhunter, and there's more out there for him, so long as he's got the courage to reach out and grab it.

Salvation lets their wings unfold by HopeSilverheart

Alec is frozen and, when she spots what has him looking so horrified, so is Clary.

Above the fireplace, hanging on the wall like some sort of divine offering, rest a pair of huge, black angel wings, so similar to Alec’s own. The mere sight makes him want to throw up and curl his wings around himself to make sure all his feathers are still in place. He can’t even begin to imagine life without the pair of extra limbs every Nephilim has to deal with. To be faced with the reminder that some people want nothing more than to tear those wings off his back is…

“What the fuck, Alec?” Clary whispers, her voice choked up and angry and alarmed. “Alec, what is this?”

Or: Alec, Clary and Magnus go on a mission to a warlock's home. What they find there leaves its mark on both shadowhunters.

Star Wars

listen, there's a hell of a universe next door by storm_petrel

As it turns out, no one ever taught Luke how to tie a little green baby to his back one-handed, but Luke thinks he's pretty gods-damned good at problem-solving under pressure, thank you, and the baby is at least semi-cooperative. When he's sure the kid is strapped in as tight as he can get, Luke pauses, and reaches back. His fingers graze the wide point of the baby's fuzzy ear. "Well, kid," says Luke, and his voice is a little rough, but not bad, all things considered. "Carrying you on my back while getting the absolute banthashit kicked out of me, at least this feels familiar."

The baby coos in his ear, and then kicks him hard in the kidney. Yoda used to do the exact same thing. Somehow, it's a lot more endearing now.

Or: Luke Skywalker solves a number of life-or-death problems, makes some new friends, falls abruptly in love, and gets shot into space, all in the same day.

Clone Wars

No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold by themonopolyhat

"New orders.” Cody hands the data pad over, and Waxer takes a minute to absorb the screen contents.

“Are we—” He stops, his voice hushed with something like awe. “Do we get to hit Dooku's... the kriff do the natties call it...” He snaps his fingers and points at Wooley for some reason. “Vacation home. Are we gonna burn down Dooku's vacation home?"

Or: Six weeks after Obi-Wan's funeral, the 212th reunites with their general.

[searchingwardrobes]

Not the Type: 5/7

The muse has awakened! I feel awful for keeping ya'll waiting so long (5 months? seriously?!) for an update on this fic. I actually decided to split this chapter up once it reached 2k because I didn't want you waiting any longer for another chapter. So, this will now be 7 chapters plus an epilogue. Much thanks to my beta @hookedonapirate​ for untangling my awkward wording and making me sound so much better! You have a way of getting what I'm trying to say and making it flow. What would I do without you? Thanks to the @captainswanmoviemarathon​ mods for being so patient and understanding when I had to put this on the back burner. And finally, thank you to my dear friend @snowbellewells​ for helping me get the muse kickstarted again on this fic. You rock!

Oh, and fun fact: The part in this chapter about Ruby’s cheer injury really happened - to me when I was a cheerleader long, long ago . . .

Summary: Emma Swan first notices him in the stands at the Friday night football game. She can tell right away Killian Jones is not the football type. Then again, she’s not the cheerleader type either, but here she is with pom poms. Life hasn’t ever gone the way Emma planned. Lately, that’s actually been a good thing. Maybe Killian Jones is a good thing, too.

My loose Captain Swan AU of the movie Bring it On

Rating: T

Also on Ao3

Tagging: @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @kmomof4 @xhookswenchx @let-it-raines @bethacaciakay @tiganasummertree @shireness-says @stahlop @scientificapricot @spartanguard @welllpthisishappening @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @ilovemesomekillianjones @kday426 @ekr032-blog-blog @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @nikkiemms @optomisticgirl @profdanglaisstuff @ohmakemeahercules @carpedzem @branlovestowrite @superchocovian @sherlockwhovian​ @hollyethecurious @vvbooklady1256 @winterbaby89 @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615 @snidgetsafan @itsfabianadocarmo @lassluna

Chapter Five

“You’ve got to let go of me for one second,” Emma giggled, her tone and the fact that she was simultaneously wrapping her free arm tighter around Killian’s waist completely contradicting her words.

“Do as I say, not as I do, hm?”

“I’m trying to get the mail!”

“So?”

“So you’re kissing my neck.”

“Hm, so I am.”

He flashed her a dazzling smile, his blue eyes slightly dazed, like he was drunk on love or something. Love? Emma wriggled free of his embrace as the word penetrated her lust filled, teenage brain. They couldn’t be in love or anything like that. This wasn’t a 90's rom com or something.

Killian was unfazed by her sudden distance, his hands still finding purchase on her elbow and hip; her hair still tickling his nose and mouth. She reached into the mailbox, pulled out an unusually thick stack and started flipping through it as Killian snaked his arms around her waist from behind and propped his chin on her shoulder. Emma wasn’t surprised to see college brochures; they had begun coming with increasing regularity now that she and her brother were juniors. One white envelope with blue writing gave her pause, however. It was addressed to her, and this was no brochure. It was a very official looking letter. Emma’s hands trembled as she tore it open.

“What is it?” Killian mumbled the question, far more interested in her neck at the moment.

Emma scanned the contents of the letter, and the more the words sank in, the more she trembled. So much so that the rest of the mail went fluttering to the sidewalk. Killian was finally pulled away from his obsession with her neck and spoke his next question with deep concern.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah . . . I, um,” she swallowed hard as conflicting emotions swirled in her brain. “The University of Kentucky is interested in recruiting me for their cheerleading squad.”

“That’s amazing, Swan!”

“You have no idea,” Emma said softly as she sank down onto the front step of her apartment building.

Killian gathered up the rest of the mail, then came and sat next to her. “Then continue in my cheerleading education, love.”

Emma chuckled, though she was also touched by the obvious interest he held in her pursuits, even if they weren’t necessarily in line with his.

“UK has the best cheer program in the country,” Emma explained. “They’ve won an insane number of national titles, probably more than any other college. You don’t just make the squad, you get a full ride. They’re that good.”

Killian lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “See? I knew you were bloody brilliant.”

Emma returned his bright smile with a shaky one of her own. “You’re so sweet.”

“You’re not excited about this?”

Emma bit her lip, staring at the letter in her hands until the words started to blur together. “I am. It’s just . . . this means they’ll be sending recruiters to our competitions. That’s a lot of pressure.”

“I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion.”

Emma’s lips lifted in a half-hearted smile. Her head collapsed onto his shoulder, and he brushed his lips against her forehead.

“A full ride . . . “

She let the thought fade into the air. How could she screw up an offer like this? It would help Ruth out so much, and her brother, too.

Yeah, no pressure.

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

“Hey, Em!”

One of Ruby’s dirty socks bounced off Emma’s head and landed in her lap. With a disgusted grumble, she batted it to the floor.

“Rubes, that’s gross!”

“Well, you’re sitting there, staring into space. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly embarrassed to put that thing on in front of everybody.”

Emma looked down at the sports bra still clutched in her right hand. They all learned early on that there was no modest way to squeeze your boobs into a sports bra, so the squad basically had to get real comfortable around each other real fast. And contrary to every teen movie ever made, there was nothing sexy about it. It was just athletes being a team in the locker room.

You know, like male athletes.

“Oh God, she’s contemplating sexism in sports again,” Ariel groaned.

“She is!” crowed Ruby. “Look how she’s staring at that sports bra!”

“You mean this torture device?” Emma quipped, waving the garment in the air like a feminist about to burn something.

“She isn’t wrong,” Mary Margaret put in.

“Well, I for one am thankful for the torture device,” Jasmine piped up.

“Here we go again,” groaned Tiana.

“It’s true!” Jasmine cried out. “I don’t want the girls flopping around. It hurts!”

“While this discussion is incredibly enlightening,” a voice said dryly from the doorway, “I’d prefer we start running our competition routine, if you ladies don’t mind.”

They all mumbled apologies to Coach Ava, along with promises to get out of the locker room as quickly as possible. Emma shed her blouse and regular bra, then struggled her way into her sports bra before slipping a cheer camp t-shirt over her head. She paused before one of the cracked mirrors that hung above a row of ancient porcelain sinks that dated back to the 1950s. Being a girls’ team that didn’t really bring in any ticket sales, the cheerleading squad was relegated to practicing in the old gym. It could've been worse, however. The seniors remembered their freshman year, before the new gym was built, when the cheerleaders were forced to practice in the atrium at the front of the school. The atrium was great for painting bust-throughs, but Emma couldn’t imagine having to practice there.

As Emma tugged her hair into a messy ponytail, she thought of the letter she had shoved in the front pocket of her backpack. She'd planned on showing it to Ruby and Mary Margaret, but for some reason, she'd lost her nerve. She sighed as she made her way out of the locker room. Letter or no letter, she had to get her head on straight.

As usual, the girls started off running a mile around the gym, and just like every other practice, Emma started off keeping pace with Ruby and Mary Margaret. Her mind was still a million miles away, however.

In Kentucky, she supposed. The bluegrass state. Was the grass really blue? I mean, it couldn’t be. How can grass be blue?

“Hey,” Ruby panted, leaning over her knees when the run was over, “what’s with you?”

“What’s what?”

Emma’s brow furrowed as she did a calf stretch. She was always getting charley horses in the middle of the night during competition season. Ruth kept bugging her to eat a banana every day, but she despised bananas. They were so mushy . . .

“Earth to Emma,” Mary Margaret laughed.

Ruby snapped her fingers in Emma’s face.

“What happened to the Emma we know and love?” she asked. “You know, the one who leaves us in the dust every practice, laughing her ass off the whole way?”

“It’s not my fault you two do a leisurely jog instead of a run.”

“Running is what you do when you’re being chased,” Mary Margaret countered. It was her usual argument.

Ruby narrowed her eyes at Emma. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“Lunges, girls, across the gym floor!” shouted Coach Ava, saving Emma from responding. She lined up with the rest of the squad along one side of the gym, then stepped forward with her right leg, her hands on her hips.

“Is it Killian?” Ruby hissed at her left.

“No!”

“Just drop it,” Mary Margaret snapped.

“Yeah,” Emma grunted as she lowered herself into another lunge, “it’s kinda hard to talk and do these at the same time.”

“Tiana, I wanna see a right angle on those lunges!” their coach called out. “Ruby, you might be able to keep your balance if you stop exercising your mouth!”

Emma laughed loudly as Ruby wobbled and almost went down. “Yeah, Rubes, I’d concentrate if I were you.”

And just to rub her friend’s face in it, Emma sped up her lunges, reaching the other side of the gym first.

“Excellent job,” Coach Ava praised her. “Smooth, with speed, and you didn’t lose your form.”

Ruby practically growled when Emma threw a smirk her way.

They did a few more drills, warmed up their tumbling with a few simple passes, then gathered on the mats to go through their routine. Coach Ava was still making a few simple changes, but for the most part, it was now all about committing it to muscle memory. They needed to be able to practically do the routine in their sleep by the time December rolled around. And that was only five weeks away.

The girls got into position, and the music started. They were opening with a tumbling peel off. The girls in the front did a standing back handspring, the girls in the middle a standing back tuck, and then . . .

Emma got to shine as she kept going. Out of a standing back tuck, into two back handsprings, and then finally into a full twisting double back as the music crescendoed. Usually, Emma’s adrenaline had her ending the pass with a huge smile on her face, but today she under-rotated and almost landed flat on her face. She tried to shake it off, but in the team’s first pyramid, she started to lose her balance, almost taking the rest of the team down with her. Emma chastised herself to get it together as her stunt group moved into position for their next stunt - a twist up

Their “theme” this year was hair. They whipped their ponytails a lot in the dance portion, and every song had to do with hair. In the next stunt, Emma had to pull up on her ponytail while she twisted up into an arabesque, as if she was pulling herself up by her hair.

It was a little like patting her head and rubbing her stomach at the same time, which was incredibly frustrating to Emma. The stupid hair pull was supposed to be a cool bit of choreography, not rocket science. Yet, once again, Emma seemed to get her arms, her long hair, and her legs tangled into a mass as she twisted upward. What happened next, Emma was never entirely sure. Ruby yelled, Emma felt herself tilting sideways and she panicked, making a rookie mistake - she attempted to jump down from the stunt. Her fist was still gripped in her hair, which she almost yanked out in the fall, and she kicked her spotter away - another rookie mistake. Thankfully, Coach Ava was able to dart forward in time to catch Emma. Behind her, she heard what she swore were skulls crashing together.

It was a pretty accurate description.

Ruby was swearing loudly as she clutched her chin. A little blood seeped between her fingers. Ashley covered her mouth with both hands, and Emma was alarmed to see a lot of blood rolling down the blonde’s chin and staining her shirt. Ava abandoned Emma to check on the two bases, barking at Mary Margaret to run and get the first aid kid.

Emma felt like the worst human being in the world. She clutched at her middle and kept whispering “I’m so sorry” over and over again, but no one paid her any attention.

Ava cleaned up the blood pouring from Ashley’s mouth enough to ascertain that all of her teeth were still intact. She just had a busted lip, something many of them had endured in the past. It was crazy how badly a mouth injury bled. As for Ruby, she didn't even need a band-aid once the blood was cleaned away with an antiseptic wipe.

“Watch it carefully for infection,” Coach Ava advised.

“Why?” Ruby asked with a furrowed brow.

Ava winced slightly before reluctantly explaining. “They're bite marks. Ashley’s teeth collided with your chin.”

“WHAT??” Ruby screeched.

The rest of the squad crowded around to see as Coach Ava tilted Ruby’s chin up for a better look. Sure enough, there were two teeth-shaped puncture marks, like she’d been attacked by a wild animal. Practically growling in irritation, Ruby shoved her teammates aside and rushed to the locker room for a better look.

Ruby’s scream moments later had all of the girls collapsing with laughter.

“Well,” Ava sighed, “I suppose we’re taking a little break before we run the routine again.”

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

“So Ruby has bite marks on her chin?”

Emma snort-laughed through her nose at the look on Killian’s face. “Yep. And the rumors about how she got them get more and more unbelievable as the day goes by.”

Killian rolled his eyes before taking a bite of his sandwich. “Bloody gits”

It was too cold now to sit under the trees in the school courtyard, so she and Killian were tucked into a hidden corner in the school atrium. They had to whisper, though, because sounds reverberated against the domed ceiling. Emma couldn’t imagine cheering in this space. How did the seniors not go deaf?

“It’s not really a sexy place for bite marks though,” Emma said as she licked Cheeto powder off her fingers.

“Yeah, I can think of far kinkier places.”

She smacked him in the chest as he waggled his eyebrows at her. She wanted to be indignant at his innuendo, but instead her cheeks burned as her mind plunged straight into the gutter. She already knew a little bit of what Killian could do with his teeth . . .

“Sorry,” he apologized, shifting gears faster than she would have thought possible, “I don’t mean to be an idiot like all the rest.”

Killian blushed and scratched behind his ear. She practically melted at the way he could so swiftly go from irrepressible flirt to sweet boyfriend. She leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

Emma crumpled up the Cheeto bag and stuffed it into her lunch bag. She handed the wad of trash to her boyfriend sweetly, batting her lashes exaggeratedly. Killian took her trash, chuckling as he stood up.

“You don’t have to use doe eyes to get me to do things for you,” he told her before walking to the trash can beside the front doors.

“I don’t?”

“Never,” he answered as he returned to her side. He sat back down on the floor, his back against the wall, and pulled her snug against his chest.

“So you’ll just wait on me hand and foot?”

“Like the princess you are.”

“Wow, I should really take more advantage of how whipped you are,” she joked.

Killian retaliated by tickling her in the ribs. She wriggled and laughed, but made no attempt to pull away from him. She glanced around, saw no adults, and then pressed her lips to his.

He kissed her back, sliding a hand into her hair. They kept it brief, not wanting to get caught. Storybrooke High gave demerits for PDA. Emma was tempted to just take the demerits so she could kiss her boyfriend thoroughly, but Coach Ava would pull her from the competition line up if she got one more demerit. So Emma just sighed and snuggled against Killian’s chest. He began to idly play with her hair.

“How many demerits do you get for PDA?”

Emma craned her neck to look at him. “How did you know I was thinking that?”

He grinned down at her rakishly. “I didn’t. But how many?”

Emma frowned. “It’s not bad, but it’s still too many for me. I’ve already gotten five demerits and six will get me cut from competition.”

“Scandalous. How did you get five demerits, love?”

Emma grumbled as she shoved a stray hair out of her eyes. “The first two I got because I argued with Mr. Gold about a paper he unfairly gave me a C- on. Then he wrote me up just for questioning him about it!”

“The bastard. And the other three?”

“That was me being stupid. I used the vending machine after noon.”

Killian’s laughter shook his chest, making Emma smile.

“That’s a stupid rule anyway.”

“I know, right? I forgot my lunch!” Emma tightened her arms around Killian. “Principal Mills did let me keep the chips, though.”

They were silent for a moment. Killian was still playing with her hair. She felt him take a deep breath and release it.

“Have you told the squad yet? About UK?”

Emma sighed. She figured he would ask her this eventually. “I will.”

“Emma -”

“I will.” She knew she needed to. Her friends could tell something was off, and she couldn’t afford to be distracted at any more practices.

Or any competitions.

Of course, if she screwed up this badly at a competition, The University of Kentucky might change their minds.

[cecilspeaks]

124 -  A Door Ajar, part 1

Anxiety is just your body’s way of telling you something really, really terrible is about to happen. Welcome to Night Vale.

Three bodies were found behind The Pancake House this morning. Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so chipper, it must be the coffee, I just started caffeine again. Do-over! [still cheerfully] Three bodies were found behind The Pancake House this morning. The cause of death has been identified as drowning. As you know, this is particularly unsettling because The Pancake House does not border any body of water, nor does any body of water exist in Night Vale. Salt water and blobs of semi-animate clear jelly were found in the lungs of the victims, according to reports from coroner Lorelei Alvarez. Alvarez added that their clothing was salty to the taste.

The victims were discovered by a truck driver identified only as Enormous Jim, who pulled into the Pancake House parking lot around 6:30 this morning. “I knew something wasn’t right,” Jim said in his statement to the Secret Police. “I felt warm all over and kind of tingly, and I thought the fly larva had finally hatched in my hair. I got out of my truck and tried to swat the larva, but there was no larva there. And I was sad because I missed its company. That’s when I noticed what a beautiful sunrise we were having, so I stood and watched it for a while. You know that beautiful moment when you can’t tell the difference between orange and violet and the clouds look like sleeping gods? That’s when I noticed those dead bodies lying by the wall.” Oh Enormous Jim added, “It was a beautiful noiseless sunrise. I wish the larva could have seen it.”

Jim’s forehead was lined with sweat trails and his hands fluttered along his shirt buttons like clarinet keys. He explained in a shaky voice that he was hauling turnips from a farm in the south to a pulp factory in the north, where they would be turned into mulch and used to grow more turnips. He said he had a tight schedule to keep, and that he had nothing to do with any of this. And since lying is illegal, the Sheriff’s Secret Police released him from further questioning.

The victims have not yet been identified, but each held matching promotional coupons, good for one free hotcake at The Pancake House. The coupons stated they could only be used once per table, per visit. It is unclear whether the victims intended to sit at several tables and pretend no to know each other, in order to use all three coupons in the same visit. This is a developing story.

In related news, The Pancake House is having a grand reopening. It’s been closed down since the sandstorm of ’97 buried it under 200 tons of sand. It resurfaced in ’08 full of scorpions, who reopened the diner under the name Arachnid Hut. It disappeared again in ’09, after the scorpions filed chapter 7.

No one could see The Pancake House anymore, but if they walked atop the seemingly plain dune, they would run into a hard surface that felt exactly like a wall. Teenagers who had scratch heart-swaddled initials into the invisible concrete blocks could still feel the impression of their etchings suspended in the nothingness. And the area continued to smell of hash browns for a radius of nearly a mile.

Anyway, it’s back and under new, probably human ownership, and will hopefully be here to stay. Ah, so many memories from that place! Back in the 90’s, my friends and I would hang out there for all night sometimes. There was a young woman who sat in the corner booth and analyzed people’s dreams for a dollar. I once told her about this recurring nightmare I have where I am a pineapple farmer, but I have to grow each pineapple under a glass bottle. And when the pineapples grow big, the bottles break and I’m left standing in a field of broken glass. And sometimes when I woke up, I had little cuts all over the bottoms of my feet.  I don’t remember what the woman said it means, but I found out later that she was Nina Gordon, frontperson for alternative rock band Veruca Salt.

There was a lot of great memorabilia in The Pancake House, like old postcards and ceramic chickens with human fingers for eyes, and this cool antique jukebox that would automatically play Buddy Holly’s “Every Day” when someone in town was about to day. I loved that place!

Oh, we’ve just received word from the coroner’s office that more saltwater has been discovered, this time in the potholes near the controversial new roundabout in Old Town. Alvarez also found blobs of clear jelly floating there, similar to those found in the lungs of the drowning victims. Samples of these blobs were collected by a girl scout splinter faction known as The Onyx Fist, and brought to the Marine Biology Association for further examination. A girl scout member and apparent leader of The Onyx Fist named Brandy Lance said, “We knocked on the marine biologist’s door and heard muffled shouts and loud crashes coming from inside. Then the blinds closed and the lights went out! When we forced our way in using telekinesis - I earned my Mountain Mover badge last year – we heard the backdoor slam shut. The only thing we found inside was a scribbled note that said: “Closed for the day”. But it was just lying on the floor, not posted anywhere. Brandy said her troupe will not rest until they track and locate the missing biologists. Good luck, kids! We’ll be waiting for your updates.

And now traffic. As I mentioned earlier there is a controversial new traffic roundabout in Old Town. The problem is, no one knows how a roundabout works. If you go to the right if you should go to the left, your headlights explode. If you go left when you should go right, you get a phone call that one of your family members is in the hospital. If you hesitate, a stranger dies. And if you just keep going, you’ll never stop. You’re never, ever, ever stop. You’ll drive endlessly, aging at a steady rate, watching the terrain change, the seasons pass and you’ll wonder, “Have I ever stopped? Have I ever stood still or slept, or sat in a chair that wasn’t hurdling ceaselessly into the future?” The emergency almonds you keep in the glove compartment can only sustain you for so long. What happens then? There’s only like, 15 of them in an airline bag, and you’ve never been on a plane. Where did you get them? Are they safe to eat? They’ve been in there a really long time. Probably since you got the car. Maybe they came with the car. You’ve started to forget things like your name and where you bought this car. Was it at a dealership or from someone on Craigslist? Did you build the car yourself or manifest it with your mind? You find the owner’s manual, but you can’t read it for some reason. It’s either in another language or you’ve lost the ability to read. The letters rearrange themselves and fall off the page. Your leg is burning where the letter L has landed on your knee. L, L! You remember the letter L, at least there’s that. This has been traffic.

Uodate on the drowning storty. The victims have been identified as the Traylor family who reportedly have not come out of their house in nine years. Annette, the adult daughter of the family, stil has braces from when she was 13. She just never returned to the orthodontist to get them removed. It’s possible that hotcakes from The Pancake House were the only thig she could eat anymore. You know come to think of it, 11 years ago was the lats time when The Pancake House was open. There are noooo coincidences. Or, everything is a coincidence. Or, only some things are. Yeah, those are the three possibilities.

An independent consultant has determined that the saltwater samples are oceanic in nature. This has Secret Police investigators scrambling to find where the ocean is located. One of them suggested north, and the consultant began walking in that direction. The investigators wanted to determine if the ocean is a continuing threat, and whether or not they’re allowed under state and physical law to apprehend it on charges of manslaughter. Law enforcement and volunteer search parties are forming to seek justice for the Traylors, although no one remembers every interacting with them before. But everyone cares, -really- cares a lot suddenly. The silver lining in events lie these is the togetherness it brings to a community, right befroe the paranoia and blameshifting sets in and divides it further into an ever-widening chasm, but let’s just try to enjoy the unity while we have it.

Ooh, speaking of togetherness: it looks like Carlos has brought a picnic lunch for us to eat here at the station. Aww, what a nice surprise, hon! Now while I look into this basket of goodies, let’s check in with the weather.

[“Lake Full of Regrets” by Devine Carama featuring River Greene and Devin Robert https://devinecarama.bandcamp.com.]

That was weird. Carlos came in, as I mentioned, with a lovely picnic lunch from the Ralph’s deli counter. His hair was wet from the rain and there were water droplets on the tips of his eyelashes that made him look like a cute little cartoon forest animal. The phone rang here at the station, and it was one of Carlos’ scientists, Mark, asking if Carlos was here. Carlos made a wild hand gesture and shook his head rigorously, so I told Mark that he was not. When I asked Carlos what that was all about, he told me the scientists were putting together a group t locate clues about the phantom ocean, and they wanted him to lead it. And I was confused. Didn’t he want to lead it? I Mean why didn’t he want to talk to them? He’s never refused a scientific call from a fellow scientist to do science before. He was just behaving unscientifically. In fact, come to think of it, I was a bit surprised to see Carlos here at all. I-I mean I figured with today’s investigation, he would already be out in the field, and I wouldn’t see him for days.

He said, since everyone else was out on search parties, it was the perfect time to go to the Ralph’s, because there wouldn’t be a line. I mean, that does sound scientific, it sounds like scientific reasoning but a- but (that), just something struck me about it as, I dunno, just off. I mean I don’t wanna say he was lying. Carlos doesn’t lie. Besides, lying is illegal. But it seemed like there was something he wasn’t telling me, like something that was bothering him. I asked him if there was anything he wanted to talk about, and he just said he had to go get the car washed and he left without even finishing his three-bean salad, and he loves that salad, made with his three favorite beans: garbanzo, kidney, and jelly.

I mean I know, I know, it might not sound like a big deal and maybe he was just having a moment. We all have moods, sometimes out of nowhere. You know, maybe I’m the one in a weird mood. I’m probably just being overly sensitive. I’m sure nothing is really wrong, not actually. Anyway you know, let’s just move on, I’m sure it’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s fine. Maybe I should go off caffeine again?

No, you know what, I really can’t shake this feeling. Nina Gordon, the former frontperson of Veruca Salt once told me that the subconscious is a powerful force. Maybe it’s all in my subconscious. Maybe if things are too good for too long, and you think about it too hard, it can start to make you nervous. And then, maybe you can’t take the pressure of waiting for things to wrong, and you start inventing problems just so you can have control over them. But you have to think about whatever can go wrong. Otherwise, you’re lazily enjoying a sunrise and dreaming of free hotcakes, and suddenly you’re drowning in a waterless parking lot before you even know what hit you.

No, this is silly! I’m just gonna call him. OK. [clears throat] Ringing… Ringing… no answer. Not unusual, really. He’s probably at the car wash like he said. Which can be very hypnotic. You know, sometimes you find yourself caught up in the rhythmic dance of the foaming brush, and you wake up in the parking lot hours later missing your wallet and part of your shirt, dry-mouthed and trying to remember how many teeth you have.

Oh good! I’ve just been handed some breaking news to distract me. Oh, oh. Well this is actually just a press release for the grand reopening of The Pancake House. Well, a press release is definitely a form of breaking news. They are announcing their new weekly menu specials. Quote: “We here at The Pancake House acknowledge that time is circular. Like a roundabout, not an unfathomable endless line with no beginning or end. We like repetition. It’s comforting. We know what’s behind us, and what’s ahead, and what will come again.

 It means there are certain truths, no matter what else may happen. In honor of our innate preference for cyclical thinking, we can guarantee that every Monday, fluffy omelets will be on special. Every Tuesday, we will have corn beef hash. No matter what happens, there will be liver and onions on Wednesday. You can lose your job and have your car repossessed on Thursday and still know that there will be chicken fingers on special that night like clockwork. We often think of Friday was being better than other days. For this reason, if something bad happens on a Friday, it can be particularly disappointing. You won’t be disappointed by our ham patties. They are consistent and dependable. Saturday we are here for you with liver and onions again. On Sunday, you can rely on our fried eggs and toast points. They will provide you with unwavering support, even if something really bad happens. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing at all anymore. Even if all the buildings suddenly seem slanted to the right by a few degrees, and everything that used to look yellow now smells yellow. You can always come to The Pancake House, no matter what happens.”

Ah, well that’s a nice sentiment! Oo it also has a coupon attached here. “Good for one free hotcake, one per table per visit.” That’s very nice. OK, I’m just gonna try and call Carlos again. Straight to voicemail this time. Well, that happens. Everything’s fine. He always forgets to charge his phone, I-I-I tease him about it. you know, I like to buy him different novelty phone chargers and hide them in his jacket and car, and in his shoes and lunch bag, but still he forgets. He has a very busy mind. Maybe he doesn’t like me to tease him so much. Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe it’s just too much coffee.

Or maybe I’ll head down to The Pancake House for dinner. Let’s it’s Thursday so let’s see. Chicken fingers! Or there’s always the hotcake coupon. Maybe I’ll see some of you down there. That would be nice. Or maybe you already have plans, which is totally fine too. I’ll just see you some other time. It’s no big deal. Everything’s fine. I need more coffee.

Stay tuned next for the sound of someone distracting you while you’re driving, and then yelling that you missed the turn.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Bite your tongue. Fun, right?

[almostjollyhologram]

How Many Pushups Should I Be Able To Do

For a service to our readers, Harvard Health Publishing provides access to our library of archived content. Please note the date each post was posted or last reviewed. No content on this website, irrespective of date, should be utilized as a substitute for immediate medical advice from your doctor or other qualified clinician. I dropped to the ground and did 50 push-ups, one per year. I had to break this up into places and the past couple where shaky, but I did it now. And it felt great. As a brand new member into the 50-plus club, I realized this bread-and-butter exercise nevertheless works wonders because a picture of your own fitness center. In addition, it might predict your risk for cardiovascular issues. In an analysis of male firefighters printed in the February 2019 issue of JAMA Network Open, guys who could complete at least 40 push-ups over 30 seconds had a significantly lower risk of heart attack, heart failure, or other cardiovascular disease during the next 10 years in  How many pushups should i be able to do? with men who were able to finish less than 10. "The number of you can do at one time provides a real-time measurement of your own strength and muscle endurance and is an easy tool that will help you improve," says Dr. Edward Phillips, assistant professor of physical medicine and rehabilitation at Harvard Medical School. All you will need is your body weight and a few minutes." The perfect exercise The push-up engages your body from top to bottom. It works several muscle groups simultaneously: the arms, torso, abdomen (core), hips, and legs. Push-ups can also be altered as needed. "By adjusting the rate you perform a push, the angle of the body, and even hand positioning, it is possible to include more or less intensity, or concentrate on particular muscles," says Dr. Phillips. A study published in the February 2016 dilemma of the Journal of Physical Therapy Science discovered that the chest muscle activity was greater when push-ups were conducted with the hands placed halfway from their normal position. The perfect form To maximize what push-ups can provide, you need to perform them correctly. Keep your back straight and your weight evenly distributed. Look down and lower your body until your elbows are at 90 degrees (or visit the ground to rest, if needed), then push up to finish one rep. Try to just take two seconds to go down and one moment to move up. If that is too hard, perform from a hands and knees position. "You can still participate the heart and operate your arms and torso, as you put less weight on the torso and shoulders," says Dr. Phillips. With a regular push-up, you lift about 50% to 75% of your own body weight. (The actual percentage changes based on the person's body shape and weight.) Modifications such as knee and inclined push-ups use about 36 percent to 45% of your own body weight. Set a foundation To find your beginning point, perform as many push-ups as you can while maintaining good shape. Focus on hitting this number initially with a rest day between sessions. As your strength improves, add more reps, or move as much as a complete push-up position (if you've been bending at your knees or performing push-ups against a wall) or build up to doing two to three places. Since they provide immediate feedback, push-ups can be a great incentive. Push-up battles are trendy. Can you do a particular number in each week, or in 30 days? Can you perform 15 to 20 non stop? "Challenges are a fun way to prepare mini, short-term goals, which many men will need to remain focused," says. Dr. Phillips. Create your own push-up challenge and see if you can reach it. Begin small and once you achieve it, set the bar higher. My challenge would be to perform 50 push-ups every day for the whole year. Thus far, so great. I knock them out before I brush my teeth in the morning, and can now do 30 nonstop. Push-ups have taught me that in regards to improving my fitness, I can still climb to the event.

[webcricket]

Nudge Theory

Characters: CastielXReader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Word Count: 5323 (Act V)

A/N: The [extended] conclusion to a five-act miniseries. The reader and Castiel must work together to solve the curious case of the missing Winchesters. Fluff, smut, and a plot for kicks (I’ve been informed it got kinda angsty – so, uh, yay, something for everyone?!). All mysteries and roads converge in Clifton Springs, NY – whither will they lead from there? Here’s a hint about the roads – there is a 100% probability they all lead to a mountain of fluff.

Completed Series Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/162181272535/nudge-theory-masterlist

Nudge [verb] –

·       “Coax or gently encourage someone to do something.”

Act V

“Y/N?”

The familiar rumbling whisper thundered through your pounding head with the boom of a freight train. You groaned in response.

“They’ve left for the moment,” the whispered onslaught continued, “there was a heated argument. Mrs. Kinlay did not want to miss bingo night at the senior center despite Mr. Kinlay’s wounds. Evidently, a Mrs. Reynolds recently returned from an extended cruise which was in reality a cover story for obtaining plastic surgery and the so-called botch job isn’t to be missed.”

You groaned again.

“Are you hurt?”

More discombobulated yet distinctly incensed syllables somersaulted from your tongue. You meant to say: “Bingo? Seriously? Well at least something about those impostors stinks of being geriatric.”

Cas took the irate tone of your incoherent groans as confirmation you were unharmed save for the diminishing effects of the cataleptic drug in your system, “They intend to perform some sort of ritual. We appear to be central components. Fortunately, it seems important to them that we remain largely unharmed.”

Functional alertness struck you all at once. You jerked against the restraints binding you to a chair, the commotion agitating and sloshing tepid water from the basin where your bare feet were submerged. The room was dim and windowless; the walls of concrete block with enormous red, blue, and yellow pipes towering around you. The ceaseless drone of a generator – no, a gargantuan water pump – deafeningly hummed. The raucous din roaring in your ears wasn’t a freight train, and the angel hadn’t been whispering at all – he was shouting.

“No point in struggling. I’ve already tried,” Cas said matter-of-factly, “the ties are bound by spell work.” His warm fingers squirmed to cover your hands to the extent his ropes allowed, offering what little consolation he could while being bound together back to back. You couldn’t see it, but his feet also soaked in a basin of water.

You let your head loll to rest in the cushion of his dark hair, your voice cracking dryly, “Cas, what the hell happened back there?”

“You mean, how was I overpowered by a 90-year-old woman?” he muttered wryly, angling his neck to bring his lips nearer your ears to avoid yelling so loud.

“I wasn’t going to phrase it quite as callously, but yeah,” you wondered how the fighting prowess of an angel of the Lord faired so miserably in hand-to-hand combat against a senior citizen.

“I wasn’t bested until she threatened me with ending your life,” he explained, “I heard your distressed prayer for help and had no choice but to cooperate.”

You pictured the stoic square set of his jaw and the sincerity glistening in his blue eyes as he recounted the story. He said he had no choice, but that wasn’t true. He could’ve kept on fighting, evaded capture, held out until the Winchesters arrived – instead, he chose to save you. Regardless of the situation, you’d never been on the receiving end of a more romantic gesture. Forget flowers, chocolate, and whispered sweet nothings, you’d take self-sacrifice over that kind of clichéd hokum any day. The realization that you needed him to know how you felt before it was too late again overwhelmed your thoughts. I love you, you tried the declaration first in your mind – no superfluities, no chance of confusing him with vague allusions. No more running from love – whether because you were presently forcibly chained in place to the owner of your heart, or not.

“Also, as I’m sure you can agree, the element of surprise was skillfully effected here,” Cas added, “I may need to reconsider my preconceived notions regarding the elderly.”

“Cas?”

He kept on rambling, tone distinctly apologetic, as if the entire debacle were somehow his fault, “And she possessed a strange command over my vessel…”

“Castiel?”

“…one which inhibited any of my abilities beyond the woefully inadequate human strength limited to me in this form.”

“Cas!”

“The upside being that they don’t seem to know I’m an-”

“Angel, I love you.”

He hushed with such swiftness and stillness you would have thought yourself abandoned if not for his fingers still pressed soothingly over your trembling ones.

You held your breath, certain your heart was thumping louder than the pump and about to burst forth from your ribcage.

He remained motionless and unbearably silent.

Tears verging on the corners of your eyes, you defaulted to plucky defensive sass, “That element of surprise is a real bitch, eh?”

He found his tongue, stammering, “Y/N, I-I don’t-”

“Cas just forget it, okay?” you choked, cutting him off, not wanting to know how his sentence finished. The options were endless, and you couldn’t currently fathom any in your favor.

Waylaid by your confession of love, he sat there, jaw agape, cursing himself for his ineptitude once again at navigating the dicey sea of human emotion. He knew he profoundly failed you in his delayed and fumbling response – the truth was he didn’t know what to say because he didn’t exactly understand what he was feeling, and this truth was better left unuttered.

You began an internal tirade: You idiot! It was just sex and you went and fell in love. He doesn’t love you. How could he? He’s a freaking angel. You barely even know each other. A few days working a case together and you lose your damn mind. What the hell were you thinking? With a shaky sigh, you wrangled your spiraling emotions, concentrating your focus on basic survival – one crisis at a time, and your imminent peril merited top priority. You steeled your nerves to speak, “What are these things parading around as old fogies anyway?”

“Benefactors, my dear,” a meek female voice answered.

Cas’ thoroughly distracted angelic ears had failed to detect the soft scuffle of slippers announcing the return of your captors.

“Look at this mess you’ve made,” Marge bent to fret over the spilled water around your basin.

“Messes are my specialty,” you snapped, referring not to the water, but life in general right now.

The old woman straightened her back creakingly, “Al, be a dear and fetch more water.”

Unhearing, Mr. Kinlay fidgeted with the white linen bandaging his hand.

“Hurry up, you impotent old fool!” Marge commanded.

Al twitched in his wrinkled skin suit, gimping figure scurrying out of sight.

Marge smiled, sweetly innocent. “Now where were we? Ah, of course! These hunters,” her eyes twinkled knowingly, “yes I know exactly what you are, my dears.” She went on, “These hunters think they deserve an explanation.”

“These hunters are going to end you!” you spat.

“Feisty young thing, isn’t she? Yes, you’ll do nicely,” her smile stretched haughtily.

You nagged, pilfering time to come up with a plan of escape, “What’s with the bondage-themed spa experience anyway? Here I would have thought cold tea and stale cookies were more bogus grannie speed. You know, just between us girls, it’s kind of turning me on. I really hope there’s a sadistic hot stone massage lined up for later.”

“And this one is heavenly, isn’t he?” unruffled, she ignored your unashamed heckling as her crinkled fingers admiringly stroked Cas’ prickly cheek, dipping to fuss with and straighten the knot of his tie.

“You have no idea,” Cas retorted calmly, breaking his silence. He gave your hands an emphatic squeeze as he spoke.

You suddenly understood the meaning of the bizarre wink at the motel, and what he had attempted to relay to you before you abruptly dropped the L-bomb: The upside being that they don’t seem to know I’m an…angel. They have no idea he’s an angel! You weren’t clear how this helped matters, but you were damn sure it didn’t hurt to have a surprise of your own in store for these geezers.

Al reappeared with a silver pitcher to re-fill your basin.

“So confident too, my Al could do with a bit of that confidence,” she shook her head wearily, “isn’t that right, Al dear? Al!”

The old man nodded agreeably even though he hadn’t heard any of her comments over the noisy water pump.

“It’s nearly time!” Marge mimed pointing to a watch, “Get the chest.”

Al wandered arthritically off into the maze of pipes.

Marge continued her speech, “As I was saying. A hunter came here years ago…”

“Thirteen years ago, right?” you rudely interjected, mimicking her cloyingly sweet smile. “Yeah, good friend of mine,” you lied, never having actually met John Winchester.

The old woman snarled, spiteful foam forming at the crinkled corners of her mouth, “That hunter killed my sister. After everything we’ve done for this town and we ask so little in return – merely to be loved. Calliphaea did not deserve the violent death dealt to her at a hunter’s hands.”

“Uh huh, can you fast forward to the part where you tell us what exactly you are?” you griped – at this rate Al would return and derail her rant. You briefly wondered why John didn’t mention any of these crucial details in his journal considering he’d apparently killed one of whatever these creatures were.

Marge sneered, “Humans call us many names – I am Iasis, daughter in the sisterhood of the Ionides. We are water nymphs, naiads, the undine. For time immemorial we have healed the people drawn to our springs. Once the sanatorium here was renowned in the far corners of the world. People flocked great distances to bathe in the healing waters.”

“We followed a historical trail of death, not miracles, to find you,” Cas astutely pointed out.

“Necessary sacrifices,” she asserted. “Did you ever stop to think about why a town as tiny as Clifton Springs needs senior housing? It’s because of us. The trappings of old age, not disease, is the nemesis of these people. A tragedy once a generation is simply fodder for these crones to reminisce about in the dull hours of their long lives. Once my sisters and I were worshipped, revered, adored. When the love of humans trickled and dried,” she gestured feebly around the stark mechanics of the room, “when this abomination was built to harness our spring, our life-sustaining essence, we improvised.”

“You murdered!” you accused.

“We adapted!” she countered.

Al materialized with an oblong bundle wrapped in silk.

Iasis gazed wistfully upon him, “When I met my Al, I again knew what it was to be loved.” She moved closer to you, shriveled grisly lips brushing over your ear in a low croaking whisper, “I see the way this man Castiel looks at you with true devotion in his eyes – wouldn’t you do anything to bask in his love forever?” She backed off, false teeth clicking, “I’m giving you forever dear, doesn’t that sound nice?”

You were too preoccupied straining to recall the scanty lore on nymphs retained in your memory to pay her much heed. Elemental creatures, you remembered being bored witless reading about them in an obscure musty text once, at Bobby Singer’s house of all places. God, that was ages ago! You met Dean for the first time that same trip. He was a barely contained mess of edgy nerves, vibrant green eyes, and self-assured posturing futilely searching for his missing father then. You fatefully exchanged numbers out front beside a wrecked Mustang, just in case you ran into a hunter of John’s description or came across any leads in your travels. Dean barreled in and out of that salvage yard, en route to Stanford to meet up with Sam, so fast he spared only a fleeting wisp of breath to comment on your great ass as he departed. You nearly tossed his contact info, thinking he was just like every other propositioning chauvinistic pig of a hunter you crossed paths with, but Bobby swore up and down Dean was a good kid, and an even better hunter – that stress had a funny way of subjugating his manners. The fond image of the curmudgeonly hunter brought the recollection of the text flooding forward: Supposed extinct since the early 19th century, reclusive healers, elementals grounded in fresh water sources especially potent, propensity for cruelty if provoked, quartz crystal consecrated by the four elements impaled through the heart will snuff them. You didn’t suppose you’d be lucky enough for Cas to have one of those handy in those deep trench pockets of his.

“I asked you a question!” Iasis slapped you smartly across the cheek.

“Leave her alo-”

She strangled Cas’ objection with a tic of her hand, “Young man, in my domain I dictate the orders. Are you aware the human body is composed almost entirely of the fluid element of water?” She freed her invisible hold on his throat.

Cas narrowed his eyes contemptuously, “Yes, I am aware of that fact.”

“Then you’d do well to remember it,” she cautioned, “for you flimsy little humans, water is life.” She snapped her fingers, “And death.”

The air in your lungs turned boggy. A hiccup-like spasm seized your diaphragm and you began to cough, convulsing and sputtering endless rivulets of cool clear water out of your lips and nose.

Helpless to do anything save beg for your life, Cas twined his fingers with yours, “I’ll remember. Please…I’ll do whatever you want. Please…please don’t hurt her.”

Satisfied with the effect of her demonstration, Iasis smirked and jerked her knobby fingers.

Spasmodically gasping, your lungs cleared. They painfully seared as you sucked to inflate them again with air.

The nymph turned her back on you, gently unwrapping the folded layers of silk surrounding the oaken box held aloft in Al’s upturned arms. Her voice tinged with distain, “Unfortunately, in binding my immortal essence to Al’s soul, I became one of you. Human. And these decrepit vessels can only be sustained for so long before they require replacement.” She withdrew two large glassy tapered quartz crystals from the box, “Our love must endure.”

“Then you intend to take us as new vessels?” Cas’ brow furrowed askance.

You stared achingly at the crystals – you’d bet your life they were conveniently consecrated by the four elements to perform this particular ritual. Cas, if you can hear me, you prayed, we need to stab her in the heart with one of those crystals.

Cas heard you, squeezing your hand tight in confirmation.

“It’s beautifully poetic, don’t you think?” Iasis hobbled over to immerse a crystal in the basin of water at Cas’ feet, “We’ve always chosen young lovers for our new hosts. No one bats an eye when an old married couple knocks off together, especially one as inseparable and devoted to each other as we are. Think of it this way, in Al and I, your love will bloom evergreen.”

“Well, when you put it like that it sounds so…yeah, it still sounds completely insane,” you rolled your eyes, “And vaguely like the lyrics of a creepy alt-Ed Sheeran song.”

“Al, dear, it’s time,” Iasis announced.

Al dragged himself over to stand in front of Cas.

“Y/N, do you trust me?” Cas loosened his grasp of your hands.

You frantically tried to peer over your shoulder, “Cas, what’s happening?”

“Do you trust me?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes I trust you,” you replied, “but what’s going on?”

“It’s okay,” Cas’ gruff voice reassured you, “I think it’s best if we don’t protest.” The angel strongly suspected he would be able to interfere with the transfer process of the ritual, celestial energy unencumbered when Al’s soul penetrated the physical boundaries of his vessel. And surely he couldn’t fail you twice in one evening. He slipped his fingers from yours, evasive when you went hunting for them again.

“There’s a good boy,” Iasis flashed a pleased-as-punch smile at Cas, passing the other crystal to Al, “you remember the incantation, dear?”

Al bobbed his chin, raising a wilted hand to pull the cap from the balding spate of his head and hold it to the wool vest hugging his shallowly puffing chest. He began to chant in a language utterly foreign to you.

Cas observed the surging white glow of the crystal in Al’s clutches. In a blinding luster of luminance, the energy arched to strike the crystal submerged in the basin at his feet. The angel slumped limply forward against the enchanted bindings.

Al’s former body crumpled to the floor with a sickening wet plop.

“Cas!” you shrieked.

“Quickly now, Al dear,” Iasis undid the bindings securing Cas to the chair, “it’s my turn.”

He stumbled from the chair, clumsily bowing to retrieve the crystals, obediently circling to drop one of them in your basin.

“Cas?” you entreated.

He refused to so much as look at you.

Iasis tottered into position in front of you, a cruel smile plastered across her features, “I’m ready. Hand me the quartz, my love.”

No quartz was tendered over.

“Al?” she jolted electrically, features contorting, limbs contracting then going lax.

The water pump chugged ominously shriller, metal pings and pops sharply echoing off the concrete walls as the pressure swelled.

Cas’ arm roughly anchored around her shoulders as the pointed end of the crystal emerged glossy and bloodied through the center of her chest. He leaned nearer to whisper in her ear, supporting her weight as she collapsed, “I’m not your love, that sentiment belongs to another.”

Incapable of hearing him over the ruthless churning of the pump, you tried and failed to read his lips.

Iasis’ mouth parted as if to scream – a veritable river of water poured out.

The angel eased her lifeless vessel to the floor.

A colossal screeching of metal commenced, pipes bursting asunder one by one to inundate the room with explosive blasts of water. The floor rapidly began to swamp.

Cas unbound you from the chair and helped you to stand. He bellowed something in your ear, the deepness of his voice unable to cleave through the escalating racket.

Piercing pain shocked your ankle and shot up your calf as the water gushed around your feet, slamming a chunk of metal into your leg. You vexed yourself for crying in front of the angel, thankful the spray of water masked the salty tears streaking your cheeks. The physical pain was simply an excuse to let the tears flow. You wanted to vomit. You didn’t. The room swirled around you in a chaotic blur.

Cas swept you up in his arms and fled to the exit.

Rocking safely within his strong embrace, you clung to the sopping wet lapels of his trench coat, burying your face into his chest, and closing your eyes. When you deigned to open them again, Sam’s was the first face you saw.

“Hey Y/N,” the younger Winchester wore the characteristic small cheerful smile he reserved specifically for boosting spirits.

“Sam?” you attempted to sit up.

“Woah, take it easy there sweetheart!” Dean pressed a palm firmly to your shoulder, “You don’t want to pass out again. Trust me.” He smirked, green eyes glinting mischievously, “I had to stop Sammy here from drawing obscene objects on your forehead with a permanent marker.”

“Come on Dean,” Sam whined, “that was your idea.”

“So immature,” Dean shook his head disdainfully.

“What happened?” you swatted Dean’s coddling hand aside, “That last thing I remember…”

“Orthostatic hypotensive syncope,” Cas enumerated from the end of the bed.

“Gesundheit,” Dean coughed into the back of his sleeve.

Cas scowled at Dean.

“What?” you looked to Sam, the sensible brother, for a translation.

“It means you fainted because you stood up too fast,” Sam rubbed his chin, “probably a side effect from whatever drug you were injected with.”

“That’s good,” you murmured thoughtfully.

“How is that good?” Dean took the bait.

“Cause now you two have at least a solid few minutes to explain to me where the hell you’ve been all this time while we worked your case before I regain enough strength to kick your asses,” you replied, brandishing a disapproving frown.

Cas flipped the blanket up over your feet and clasped his fingers around your swollen and bruised ankle. He met your curious gaze with the trace of a smile softening his dour features, advising, “You’ll need this healed to properly kick both of their asses.” His grace spread warmly through your foot and leg, healing the sprain.

“Thanks…,” you wavered to add the term of endearment, angel, that perched naturally on the tip of your tongue, “…Cas.”

“Yeah, thanks, Cas,” Dean scoffed, “You could have let us have a running start.”

Cas gifted Dean with another unamused scowl. You got the impression from the finely tuned aesthetic of the expression that he did that a lot.

“Clock’s ticking boys,” you impatiently clucked your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“It was Dean’s drunken idea,” Sam caved first, seeking to release himself of any blame by doing so.

Betrayed by his own flesh and blood, Dean made a sound like a mortally wounded animal.

“Hmm, I don’t doubt it,” you vaulted an inquiring brow in Dean’s direction, “Spill it, Winchester.”

Dean fixed his brother with a steely gaze, “Perhaps you should ask my sweet, innocent, gigantic little brother of an accomplice to hand over the contents of his left front coat pocket.” Dean refused to go down with the ship alone.

Sam’s eyes widened, giant stature shrinking under the weight of the accusation, the shift in body language alone fairly admitting to his guilt as a co-conspirator.

“Touché,” Dean mouthed the word silently to Sam, embellishing it with a wink.

Sam produced an off-white lined piece of paper folded into quarters from the aforementioned pocket, thrusting it in your general direction, all the while glaring indignantly at his brother.

Once or twice Dean glanced away, feigning interest in a speck of dust clinging to the wall, a misalignment of the wallpaper over there, a loop of carpet snagged loose in the corner, only to find Sam still burning a hole in his skull when he again dared to peek over. It made Dean’s skin crawl. After all, Sam hadn’t lied – it was Dean’s drunken idea.

You plucked the paper from between Sam’s clinched fingertips. Unfolding it to reveal the contents, you immediately recognized the neat black ink handwriting as belonging to John Winchester – the paper obviously a page neatly removed from his journal. Skimming the words, you realized it detailed the conclusion of John’s hunt here in Clifton Springs thirteen years ago, outlining the successful slaying of a lovelorn nymph calling herself Calliphaea who had run amuck in the town trying various young women on for size then discarding their lifeless bodies like ill-fitting articles of clothing. She wielded sacrosanct crystals juiced up by a particular alignment of planets occurring every thirteenth year. Curiously, these crystals went missing before he could secure them. John wrongly surmised the nymph was a one-hit wonder and labelled the hunt case-closed. In short, this single slip of paper contained a mountain of exceedingly useful material which would have saved you and Cas a heck of a lot of mis-adventure and a close call with death because, for starters, you never would have left the bunker to follow up on a closed case. Why Sam and Dean withheld this key piece of information, led you and Cas blind-folded into danger, and then ignored all attempts at establishing contact, was beyond your imagining. Dean’s drunken idea? Even drunk, you had a hard time believing Dean could be that malicious, and as far as you knew, you hadn’t done anything deserving of such cold-hearted treatment. You offered the page to Cas for perusal. “Why?” the single word query was all you could muster.

“Look…,” Dean began.

“We’re sorry,” Sam spoke over whatever excuse his brother was going to try and make, knowing the situation warranted an apology first and an explanation second, “This wasn’t supposed to be a real case.”

You wagged your head in disbelief, “What are you talking about? You left leads at the bunker. We followed the research.”

“We thought you were missing,” Cas chimed in, glancing up from the paper, “or worse.”

“I know, we know,” Sam lowered his gaze, “trust me, if we’d known there was any danger we never would have let this charade go on for as long as it did.”

“Charade?” you peered scathingly between the brothers, “A deranged geriatric water nymph and her narcotic-laced-syringe-wielding husband nearly killed me! Would have too if it wasn’t for Cas being an angel and all. Some charade!”

“You saw the journal entry, we thought our dad eliminated the threat here,” Sam counseled.

“She had a sister. Calliphaea had a sister,” you grumbled.

“The really nutty ones always have a sister,” Dean bemoaned.

“Not helping, Dean,” Sam scolded, rubbing his hands exasperatedly over his face.

“Look,” Dean began again, dissatisfied with his brother’s diplomatic approach, “this whole shebang was a set-up, an excuse to get you and Cas together. Together, together. A bonding experience if you will. No real danger, just some implied peril with a couple of not-actually-missing friends nudging things along in the right direction while warming the seats at a cheesy honky-tonk bar just across the county line.” He inserted his patented brand of off-kilter commentated reflection to try to lighten the mood, “Great strawberry daiquiris, by the way. You know, if you’re into girly drinks.” It didn’t work.

“I think you should leave,” you stated in no uncertain terms.

Sam and Dean wasted no time stealing themselves to the exit.

Cas stood stationary at the end of the bed, watching them go.

“You too, Cas,” it pained you to say it, but you needed some time alone. Time to think. Time to ponder how you felt having learned this whole ordeal was a sham-gone-sideways.

The angel met your gaze, a dejected haze muddying the crystal blue of his eyes as they searched yours and perceived the detached sincerity of your request – it instilled him with a sense of emptiness unlike anything he’d heretofore experienced. He was unsure what to say to console you, to plead his case for remaining by your side, to insist that the emotion he felt stirring inside himself toward you existed separate from Sam and Dean’s meddling. Wary of using the wrong words again, haunted by and frightened of repeated failure, he said nothing at all and slipped mutely from the room.

Over-wrought, weary of mind, body and heart, you sank into a dreamless sleep. You awoke late the next morning to gently caressing beams of sunshine spilling through the curtains to touch upon your cheeks. The beams flickered and skipped around you, broken in fits by the flutter of leaves in swaying trees outside the motel. The dance of light tickled your sleep-bleared vision; you couldn’t help but smile at the effect until you remembered – remembered curtly sending the angel away, remembered the anguished look clouding his aspect, remembered that despite the ridiculous circumstances under which it happened, in spite of yourself, you loved him.

Rolling from bed, you spotted your phone on the dresser. Like everything else in your possession last night now meticulously arranged on the wood surface, it had gotten saturated in the torrent of water. You realized it didn’t matter; you didn’t have Cas’ number anyway. You’d been inseparable these few days, and never had reason to get it. You didn’t suppose the phone directory would conveniently contain a listing for angels. You smacked your palm to your forehead, jostling your apparently also waterlogged mind – you could always pray. Your idea was deflected by the notice of an envelope slipping beneath the bottom of the door. Circling cautiously nearer, craning your neck, you read your name scrawled in perfect winding script across the front. You picked it up, turning it over in your hands a few times before carefully unsealing the flap.

The note composed inside read:

Y/N,

As you don’t wish to be in my company at present, and since in your presence I seem incapable of articulating what I mean, I’ve taken the impetus to write you this letter in an effort to restore all that which has been lost without fear of making the already regretful circumstances worse.

Firstly, regarding the grievous mess instigated by the Winchesters – while the error in Sam and Dean’s judgement is unquestionable, their hearts are in the right place. More than once they’ve forgiven me for doing far worse with the best of intentions. Each time I wonder what I have done to deserve such a loyal friendship as theirs has been. I sincerely hope for their sake, with time, you might find it in your heart to absolve them of their guilt.

Above all else, I owe you an apology. You declared your love to me, and in the delicate fleeting moment you bared this most reverent of emotions lodged within the bounds of your kind heart and beautiful soul to my unworthy being, I humbly failed to reciprocate the sentiment. It was not then, nor is it now because I do not love you in return.

This feeling when I’m with you, when you look at me, when we touch, when you laugh, when you smile, when we’re apart, when I think of you – there is no word in my vocabulary with which to contain it, none in any language I know, and I expect a term may not exist anywhere in the whole of creation itself. What you mean to me…it is so much more than love.

If you’ll allow me, I vow to spend the rest of my existence endeavoring to define for you all that you are to me.

Yours, Castiel

Note held quivering in your fingertips, dewy tears brimmed your eyes to spatter and smudge the ink in spots. Smearing your wet cheeks with the backs of your hands, you twisted the doorknob and swung in the door.

Castiel, your angel of contradictions, abided patiently on the other side – for all his awkward ineloquence in speaking his heart, he was nonetheless a poet. His sky-blue gaze illumined an impossible shade brighter when his eyes alit upon yours. He said nothing – everything that required saying already fluently expressed in the letter still held in your trembling grasp.

Awed to the point of speechlessness, you might have stood there in the rapt quietude gaping at him for hours if it wasn’t for your noticing the laptop tucked in the crook of his arm and your habitual neurotic impulse to fill silent voids with mundane observation. “What’s with the computer?” you sniffled, tears abating, “I thought you were strictly low tech.”

If Cas was surprised by your redirection, he didn’t let it show in his reply. “Sam loaned it to me,” he answered unfalteringly, “If you recall, you suggested we should watch a movie together when the case concluded.”

A delighted smile frolicked across your features at the pleasant shared memory, “I remember, in the corn field with that stunning sunrise.” Closing your eyes for a moment, you vividly evoked the elating combined warmth of his regard and the rising sun on your face, murmuring, “I fell, and you caught me.”

A blushing smile reflected in the angel’s aspect – he fell too, there in the corn field – fast and far and forevermore. “I asked Sam to arrange it so we can watch it on this device,” he offered you the computer, “That is, if you still want to…with me.”

“There isn’t anything else in the world I’d rather do right now, angel,” you shifted onto the tips of your toes to press a soft kiss to his unshaven cheek.

“Then, it’s a…,” he bashfully regarded the ground between his shoes, shuffling his weight from foot to foot, a full grin unfurling across his flushed countenance, “it’s a date?”

“It’s a date,” you clasped his hand in affirmation, giggling as you tugged him over the threshold and into your open arms. A date, a fresh start, and precisely the nudge neither of you knew you needed – all thanks to a freaking Winchester, no less.

[limpblotter]

Fly me to the Moon

[Previously...] a/n: LAST PART (on tumblr) the rest of this will be on my ao3 which I will post the link to. THANK YOU TO ALL WHO ENJOYED MY TRASH WRITING. I’m a happy bean. Next time I update it will be an ao3 link! Summary: Christmas came early to the De La Vega household. Usnavi is mildly wondering if it’s too late to send it back Warning: Depressing thoughts, hints of anxiety, angst, rejection taggies: @hell-yes-puns-and-ships (also credit for beta’ing <3 ) w/c: 2830

Usnavi didn’t have time to process it all. All of the sudden he was being held, by warm, strong arms. He was like a decrepit house; held up by two strong support beams. The only things keeping his abandoned, hollowed frame from falling apart. He was...really crumbling down. It was only a matter of time. He had these bouts of emotions. A hurricane of emotions that rattled at the frame he worked to keep up. The frame of a business owner who smiled at every customer. The frame of a friend, of a big brother, all of that framework just to keep his shaky foundation from crashing down on top of him.

“Hey…” Johan didn’t even get a chance to put his things down. Usnavi dove into his arms and held on with all his way as if his life depended on it. Johan carefully stepped into the apartment, his cold body warmed by the sudden embrace. Without taking off his coat, he held Usnavi close and allowed him to cry out as long as he wanted. His body was like a rock in his arms. Johan could tell Usnavi was trying so hard to keep it in. He could feel his muscles constrict as if he was literally fighting his own sorrow to stay just below his surface. Helplessly unaware why Usnavi was so painfully distraught all Johan could do was offer him a simple promise.

Very delicately he pressed his lips against the top of Usnavi’s head and whispered, “I’m here for you.”

He was, Usnavi never felt more certain words ever said to him. Johan was literally here for him. Tangible. Real. This was no dream. He pressed his face against the puffy exterior of his coat and inhaled softly. Slowly that tense body started to soften in Johan’s arms, tears began to roll down his cheeks in silence. The hurricane of emotions was subsiding. The framework of Usnavi’s psyche stood firm as he allowed himself to bask in the warmth that came after the storm.

The silence droned on for a moment. Then realization quickly came after, reality, responsibility, logic. “Johan, what are you doing in New York?” It was the holidays, and just a day or so ago he had messaged Johan who was seemingly back in California. Usnavi felt nothing but confusion, though in the pit of some dusty, lost vast of hope...he wondered.

Johan’s eyes got wide. It dawned on him, like it usually did, after his reckless actions what he had really done. He had flown across the country to Usnavi to say what...exactly? He didn’t plan this out and did not plan to get this sort of reaction when he first arrived. Johan looked for a good cover up, an impeccably acceptable lie that wouldn’t make him out to be such a freak. He opened his mouth and the truth bubbled out violently before he could reel himself in. “I was worried about you.”

Ah.

Usnavi felt his heart take a few horse like gallop against his chest. He jockeyed his emotions trying to keep himself in the ‘safe’ line unaware the finish line could end with a victory or a crippling disappointment. “W-Worried huh…” Usnavi suddenly got up and made his way to the kitchen. Something, he needed something in his hands to take his mind off it all. In the sink there was only the coffee press he had been meaning to clean from this morning. Perfect tool to cope with emotions. Nervously, he began to take the press apart and scrub the individual pieces. The methodical scrubbing did well to distract him, keep his mind in line while he formulated his plan.

Ah. Johan was left alone on the couch to explain himself. He ran his hand through his hair, shaking off the wet, crystalline snowflakes that hadn’t melted off upon contact. “Well...it's just, Sonny is away and you...uh..” He toyed with the zipper of his coat. Softly deciding to shed it since his body was slowly overheating as is. “I remember you told me that December isn’t the best time for you…” He remembered. Usnavi felt the sponge loosen in his grasp. He held it under the running water then slowly he as if reminding himself, he squeezed the suds and began to massage the sponge against the dirty coffee pot. “I-It's the anniversary of my parents’ death yea…” he tried to play it off like he was over it. But simply pretending he was over it made his tongue hang limp with bitterness. “I’m fine. Fine.” He smiled, he made the mistake of looking up from the sink. Johan was standing, those concerned brown eyes bore into him.

Slowly with angled precision those eyes broke down that business man smile of his into nothing. His lips were set back into a small frown. “Usnavi…”

“Look, I don’t expect you to get it. But my parents, they were sick. So they died one after the other, it was years ago.” Usnavi shook his head and focused on the rhythmic lapping of the hot water against the sink. His fingers reddening from the blazing water but he couldn’t feel a thing. The only thing he felt was a bitter after taste every word left on his tongue. “I’m a grown man. I’m fine, I don’t know why you came all this way. It’s…” Weird. He wanted to say weird but it didn’t feel weird. It was weird no doubt but this didn’t feel strange. New perhaps, but far from strange.

The running water between them was the only thing that broke their silence, the elephant in the room was still there. Neither of them wanted to tackle it.

Why was Johan here? What did it matter? Why did Usnavi want him here?

“Usnavi…” Johan began, from the kitchen even under the roar of hot running water, Usnavi could hear his shoes tapping against the creaky wood floorboards as he crossed the living room.

He took a breath, “Yea…?” Usnavi kept his eyes on the dish, which had long been cleaned by now. Now Usnavi was using it as a scapegoat.

“I know you’ve told me how things can be hard on you sometimes…” He was getting closer, the kitchen was getting hotter. “I guess, I don’t know I haven’t able to stop thinking about you since the last time I was here.”

What months ago? They only just picked up contact over social media. Of course they texted from time to time… The feeling was mutual. Sadly. “Y-Yeah?” Usnavi muttered out, his shoulders rose as did the intensity of his heart rate.

“I wanted to see you again.” Johan was right next to him. Usnavi could feel the shadow being casted over him by the towering man. He swallowed hard and offered no input to that. “Usnavi...did you hear me?”

Of course he did. He heard him as clear as day that didn’t mean he wanted to hear that. He didn’t want to hear exactly what he had been secretly hoping for. He didn’t want to hear the reciprocation. He wanted this to be a fantasy. One he could enjoy when he wanted and...never get hurt from it because it wasn’t real. This…

“Usnavi.”

Couldn’t be real. Johan’s hand gently turned off the water. Usnavi watched as the last bits of steam disappeared. His eyes examined his red and raw fingers which had no feeling in them whatsoever. Silence, the storm was coming back. He could feel it, they were standing in the eye of the hurricane that had passed before. His rickety frame was swaying. He planted himself firmly and waited for the storm to crash down on him.

“Usnavi, say something?” Johan’s voice was weak but it had the power of 90 mph winds, battering at Usnavi’s interior. It roared and made something in him want to squeak back. The worried expression on his face of a man who just admitted more or less something fairly emotional rained down on him like pelting golfball sized droplets. Inside Usnavi was struggling to keep himself afloat. But on the outside?

“I think you need to go home, Johan.” He shook his hands once and wiped them against his shirt. He spun fast, just barely walking around the taller man. “I admit, you coming all the way here just to see me is nice but...I mean I don’t know you.” But I want to, he felt his heart bite back at his logic. “You need to go home” Please stay, he moved to the living room, Johan slowly tailing behind him.

If Usnavi dared to look back, he’d see Johan’s expression turn to a soft sadness. He wasn’t upset or hateful like Usnavi would have been if the tables were turned. He was genuinely hurt. The kind of hurt that reminded him of times kids would fall because their friend had been a little too rough on them, and they were biting back tears because they didn’t want their friend to feel bad. Johan...didn’t want Usnavi to feel bad.

All Johan could offer as a response was “Uh huh.”

“Plus, it's the holidays.” Usnavi smiled as if it wasn’t the worse time of year for him. “Your family needs you.” I need you.

Johan slowly lowered himself on the couch. Robotically he began sliding his arms back into his coat. “I’ll..uh..look for a flight. Find somewhere to stay…”

Good, he’d leave. It was better this way. Johan was still somewhat a stranger. A stranger Usnavi was projecting some weird, unexplained emotion towards.

“I’m sorry.” Johan looked up at Usnavi, at this point was staring out the window fixated on a streetlight. He wasn’t apologizing for coming here. They both knew that. He was apologizing because he had misunderstood what was here. Usnavi felt like laughing, sorry? Why did Johan have to be sorry? Usnavi should be sorry. Johan did what every person ever dreamed of, Christmas eve was tomorrow and Johan flew out just to see Usnavi and declare (somewhat) his feelings.

And as per usual, Usnavi disappointed someone else. It was better now than later. Better now than years of pining leading up to realize this can’t work. It wouldn’t work. No one fits here with him. Where two people started to fit together like puzzle pieces...Usnavi was that corner piece. There was nothing connecting him to anyone. He was the last piece to the big picture and the big picture didn’t include Johan. Big picture was him being Sonny’s big brother, Nina and Benny’s friend and godfather to their daughter. It was being a store owner and working until he could retire with the last bits of money abuela left him.

It was keeping these stories and telling them. Not making his own story. No… Usnavi zoned out, his eyes going in and out of focus as he watched the streetlight on the corner flicker, flicker then go out. As did the rest of the lights in his apartment. “Aye carajo!” Usnavi hissed, a black out in winter? This was literally a storm, inside and out.

“Uh...everything ok?” Johan blinked, he wasn’t sure if everything was meant to go out like that. Thankfully NYC was far from a dark place. The light from the rest of the city gave Usnavi some view as he shuffled around for a flashlight.

“No.” He snapped. “Nothing is ok.”

“Can I help?”

Why was Johan so soft? Why was he so kind and loving, he was only making this harder for Usnavi. “Yea, you can find a flight back to California.” He barked with some venom. Usnavi didn’t need lights to know Johan’s face must have looked offended or the very least shocked. He watched as Johan’s phone lit up and he began to scroll. One problem then the other, Usnavi would tackle them all.

“...there are no flights.”

“QUE?”

“I’m going to assume that means something exclamatory by the way you yelled that.” Johan’s voice mocked a cold tone as well. He was upset at Usnavi. Good. This would make getting Johan out even easier. “There is a blizzard watch popping up, there are no flights tomorrow or Christmas as of now.” Johan hoisted himself up and started for the door.

Usnavi felt each step send a cold spike through his facade. “W-where are you going?”

“You wanted me to leave so badly…” Johan whispered, now he was the one gaining more of a nerve. As if attitudes swapped places, Usnavi felt everything inside him grow soft. “Bye Usnavi.”

Oh no. Usnavi felt something unhinge. The strong support beams gave out and he was faced with nothing but his broken, aged foundation. No way capable of holding him up anymore. This hollow home, his lonesome oasis inside of his mind was crashing down on top of him. “It's dangerous outside…”

“Bye Usnavi,” Johan repeated going for the door.

Usnavi took two steps. “At least let me know where you’re going.”

Johan’s eyeroll could be felt around the world. “Goodbye Usnavi.”

“Wait-”

“What do you want?” Johan turned, he stared down the man he had flown miles across the nation. A man whose face invaded every thought, every worry, who made him jump at every message and tried so hard to feel mean. He wanted to mock him. He wanted to do something to fill the ache Usnavi’s weird mood swings had put him through. But he met terrified beady eyes under the shade of his blacked out apartment and couldn’t harbor even the slightest bad intention. “What do you want me to do?” He genuinely asked now. The Dominican man’s browns unknitted, they relaxed as he tried to satisfy the logic in him that told him to send Johan packing, regardless of what was happening. And the feeling of wanting to keep Johan within arms’ reach. “Stay here for now...until you can get a flight.” Logic: 0, Usnavi: 1.

Johan didn’t fight it, he didn’t question. A part of him still upset over Usnavi’s first reaction to his muddled declaration of emotion was temporarily silenced by the fact Usnavi cared enough to keep Johan from spending money at a motel. Cared enough to not send the clueless Californian on a snowy hike at night to some place to stay. He watched as the smaller man, flashlight in hand, fluttered around making the couch into a place to sleep. He pulled thick blankets from Sonny’s room, pillows, and a few candles by the coffee table.

“...the power is out.”

“I noticed Usnavi” He chuckled, the sound was so delightful. Right now he could live off that sound after the terrible feelings that had swarmed him all of the sudden.

“Heh, let me finish, idiota.” He licked chapped lips, basking in the warmth of Johan’s short lived laughter. “I mean, since the power is out if you get cold feel free to ...get more sheets from Sonny’s room...or just use his bed...it's small… so I put you here. Not saying you’re huge just…” If Usnavi could kick himself in the mouth just to shut up, he would.

Johan curled up on the couch with his shoes still on watching Usnavi ramble. Meanwhile, somewhere a small part of Usnavi was upset about that...but said nothing. “I’m fine, Usnavi. This is more than enough for a kid who use to sleep in a cubby of an RV...and in a tree...and there was that one time--” He shook his head not wanting to go into it. After all, Usnavi made it clear he wasn’t interested. “Goodnight.” He sank into the couch-bed and pulled the sheets around. Already the few minutes without power made a difference. The old began seeping in through the heating vents.

Without a sound, Usnavi retreated to his room closing the door. He, as silent as he could be, undressed his skin flushed from head to toe. The cold didn’t bother him though. It was a mild annoyance on his sensitive skin. His body was all too aware of the fact Johan was in the next room.

Johan was in his house.

Johan was sleeping in his living room.

Johan was here.

His body felt warm for the moment. He relived Johan’s chuckle and relished in it like it was sunlight on this dark, wintry night. He knew that this wouldn’t last though. In the morning, Johan would try again. Usnavi would push him to find a flight. He’d force Johan back home before this got messy. He felt the weight of all that reality push on him. God, it had been a long day.

He crawled on to his bed, flopped against the pillow face first and groaned. Johan would leave and surely never try to mix whatever this was up again. This was the reality Usnavi was ready for.

But for tonight, and just for tonight...He would turn his head towards the door and sleep well knowing, Johan was just a room away.

If only for tonight, he was here.