#but like. lotta issues tangled up here and i just think it's like. SO easy to be steered one way by yr gut on this stuff

[aeide-thea]

thinking abt like. there's so much fiction out there that makes me feel bad! sometimes really deeply bad! and like, in many many cases i could present a whole argument abt how it makes me feel bad bc it's pressing on bruises inflicted by some systemic prejudice that has deeply wounded my psyche—and that argument would be true!—and still i don't want that fiction erased from existence, or modified to suit my taste, or anything else that enacts my will on it, rather than the artist's and the artist's alone; i don't even want the artist erasing it because my argument ultimately convinces them it's Bad! produce a revised edition of it, fine; stick an asterisk or other warning on it, fine; but i still want the original to be available somewhere, because i don't want to be responsible for blotting creation out of existence. even when it's a creation i hate, i don't think that should be my place (or indeed anyone's).

mind you, i absolutely do want to feel that i've got somewhere i can analyze/vent about fiction like that, and people who will take my analysis/venting both seriously and sympathetically;

and i want fiction to exist that doesn't make me feel bad;

and i definitely shouldn't have to put up with discussions around fiction in which fellow discussants further express a prejudice towards me, or justify it, or whatever;

but it just seems so obvious to me that a world where framing yr discomfort with a work of fiction in sufficiently sympathetic (victimized) terms leads to its deletion [not that i think this is what all leftists who complain abt offensive fiction are looking to have happen! but i do get the impression that at least some of them might be?] is a frightening world—

a world where, to choose a sufficiently sympathetic (victimized) example, authors who have themselves been harmed by prejudice become unable to explore the workings of that prejudice in their fiction, unless they're doing it in a way that's unambiguously, didactically condemnatory—isabel fall is the obvious example here, but i'm thinking also of all the women and transmasc authors who write fic that, quite frankly, eroticizes misogyny and abuse of power, and how sometimes i think stories like that are hot and sometimes i don't feel particularly strongly about them one way or the other and sometimes they leave me furious or fucked up or both! but like. even when i hate it, even when it offends me not as a matter of abstract principle or allyship but right in my own personal gut—i still do feel that people have to be allowed to write, and to publish, fiction that strikes me personally as being in bad taste!

because the minute you let anyone's taste dictate what's allowable to express, even if it's leftist taste, you're going down a bad road; it's like saying monarchy can be a good system as long as the monarch is a good person. no! because (a) no system that relies on good actors to be good is a good system; and also because (b) no one who's happy to have power over others is actually a good person! [that's an awfully strong statement and i'm open to the idea that it may have some asterisks, but like. as a general rule: cincinnatus or bust.]

and similarly i feel like. if you personally want not just to critique other people's fiction—valid and good and i do it all the time—but to crush it out of existence because it expresses an ideology you may not (i may not!) like? i don't trust you. i think you're trying to substitute pain for principles, and like. i have huge sympathy for pain! i live with a lot of my own! but pain doesn't actually, in itself, necessarily constitute good moral guidance—it can lead you towards valuable sensitivity that helps people we should care about, but it can also lead you towards impatient reactivity that harms people we should care about; and ultimately it's thinking abt our pain, imo, not the pain itself, that steers us towards the former outcome and away from the latter.

[abarbaricyalp]

A classic, there was only one bed!

I'm just now realizing there was no ship name here. My brain just auto-filled SamBucky

I also realized, setting up the document, that I combined the 'only one bed' trope with the 'omg they were roommates' vine in my brain

(Always taking prompts)

Read on AO3

The Grief of Down

“Mr. Wils-- Captain Wil-- Mr. … Captain America,” a frazzled concierge greeted before Sam’s eyes had even adjusted to the light in the hotel lobby.

“Mr. Captain,” Bucky scoffed under his breath at Sam’s side. “That’s a new one.”

Sam jabbed his elbow into Bucky’s ribs.

“There’s been a mistake, Captain,” the concierge said. “We didn’t realize Mr… Sergeant Barnes would be attending with you. We don’t have any more rooms.”

“That’s fine,” Sam said with an easy smile, trying to calm the man down. “He can stay in my room.” He held out his hand and the concierge shook it slowly.

“No, I’m afraid, we didn’t put you in a full suite. It’s just a one-bed room.”

And Sam and Bucky both waited probably too long to respond. Sam was never sure how to approach a subject like that with total strangers. Of all the jarring things he expected from the unfortunate fame of being Captain America, people believing they knew everything about him, when they really didn’t, wasn’t one of those things he could get used to.

“Well, weapons of mass destruction don’t mind sleeping on the floor,” Bucky said, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “Key?”

“Oh my God?” Sam breathed disbelievingly and elbowed his ribs again. “Can you behave?”

The concierge looked like he was about to pass out. “Of course. I’m just so sorry we couldn’t make accommodations. All of the suites were booked by other participants of the conference months ago. I tried to find the best room I could,” he explained absently, too quickly for Sam to try to keep up with. He looked around the foyer as the other man scrambled behind the desk to check him in. Bucky leaned his shoulder against Sam’s back and Sam tracked his eyeline to a table of pastries set out before shrugging him off.

“We literally ate, like, two hours ago,” he said.

“We stopped at a McDonalds and they didn’t even have Sprite. I need a sugar hit.”

“I think that’s biologically impossible for you.”

“Oh, ‘cause I’m a super soldier I can’t want things for myself?” Bucky asked, more facetious than Sam thought could fit into a single voice.

“You’re the worst.”

“Mr. America-- I mean. Mr. Wilson, here’s your keycard and an extra for Mr. Barnes.” The man’s face was so red, Sam started to feel bad for him. “There should be an itinerary of events in your room. If you need anything, call down and let us know. We’re working with the conference organizers and can reach out to them for you as well.”

Bucky reached out for the keys and tapped them on the desk twice before heading to the elevators without waiting to see if Sam was coming or not. Sam shot an apologetic look at the concierge and then followed after Bucky.

“You’re a real asshole, y’know,” he said as the doors opened and they stepped inside the elevator.

“I’m a tired asshole and I’ve been thinking about this bed since you woke me up this morning,” Bucky answered. He dropped his bag by his feet and shook out his arm like the metal could get cramps.

“I don’t know what you’re tired for. I drove most of the way.”

“I’m tired from worrying about you driving.”

Sam snorted. “I’m a much better driver than you.”

“You had to take a break halfway here,” Bucky said. And Sam knew it was bait, but he couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that came from his chest.

“Oh, I had to take a break halfway here?” he asked.

“Yeah, I distinctly remember crossing into Texas, getting through all those pine trees and then you stopping the car on the side of the road.”

Sam backed Bucky into the corner of the elevator. “Is that how you remember it, Barnes?” he asked.

“Why don’t you tell me your version of events, Wilson?” Bucky purred, looking exactly like a cat in the cream as he let Sam crowd him against the wall.

“I remember you begging me to pull over and practically flipping into the backseat. I remember you bein’ half naked before I even got back there. I remember you trying to knock out the window when you wanted us flipped over so you could blow me.”

“I don’t recall any of that,” Bucky said saccharinely, hands going to Sam’s hips to pull him closer. “Remind me again what, exactly, we did.”

Sam rolled his eyes, let his lips graze Bucky’s cheekbone and then stepped back in time for the elevator to ding on their floor. “Maybe later, Barnes,” he teased and grabbed Bucky’s bag before walking out the door. He shot an easy grin at a woman in the hallway, gave a kid a high five, apologized to both for Bucky sulking up behind him.

“Sometimes I hate how good you are at this,” Bucky grumbled behind him as Sam took the keycard from him. He rested his cheek on the back of Sam’s shoulder while Sam fought with the door. It took three tries before it finally swung open, which was enough time for Bucky to have closed his eyes and already started daydreaming. He was not pleased when Sam stepped away, but it was quickly remedied by the sight of the bathroom. He stepped inside, looking at the sleek, granite countertops, the deep sink, the wide showerhead over a huge bathtub.

“I think we could both fit in this tub together, Sammy,” he called.

The thought sent a thrill through Sam’s traitorous body. As much as he wanted to focus on being Captain America and the speech he had to give, more than any of that, he wanted to curl up in the big bed in the middle of the room and let Bucky get back to what they’d been doing four hours ago. He wanted to relax in a giant bathtub while Bucky drew nonsense patterns in the soap on his back. He wanted to check into a hotel and not have to explain that it was no issue that he and Bucky would share a room or even a bed.

Although, one time, it had ended with them pushing two queen sized beds together and then checking out very, very late.

“I can’t imagine what the suites in this place look like if this is just a one-bed room,” Bucky said, appearing in the bedroom portion of the room.

“Probably just means they have a kitchen and couch,” Sam said. He held out his arm and Bucky grinned, took his hand and let Sam pull him close.

“You got any nerves you need me to work out of you?” Bucky asked, dragging his hands down Sam’s back until he got to his waistband and could start to pull his shirt free.

“A speech is a speech,” Sam said. “More worried about babysitting you in public,” he said with a grin.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m the nuisance,” Bucky agreed and finished pulling Sam’s shirt off before making quick work of his own. “But I’m a hot one, so…”

Sam laughed and pushed Bucky back onto a bed that had more than enough room to share. “I think you were trying to recreate our escapades from the road,” he said, climbing over Bucky’s hips until he could press his body along Bucky’s, mouth finding Bucky’s neck, his collarbones, his shoulder.

Just for now, he could be a man in a nice hotel room with his partner and nothing else.

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky asked, loud enough from the bed that Sam heard him over the shower and sink running. He leaned out the bathroom door, one hand curled around the towel at his waist, the other holding a toothbrush in his mouth.

“Whmm?” he asked.

Bucky, still delightfully, distractedly, naked and tangled in the sheets, held up his tablet. “We’re the front page of every celebrity gossip tabloid this morning.”

Sam’s stomach turned over but then Bucky shifted and exposed more of his thigh and the worries flew out of Sam’s mind. He turned and spit toothpaste into the sink. “What for?”

“Captain America and sidekick Bucky Barnes were seen checking into a conference hotel late yesterday afternoon. Sources at the hotel say that while they split a room, there was only one bed,” Bucky read.

“Oh my God,” Sam replied blandly. “There was only one bed.”

Bucky snorted and then continued. “Speculation has run amuck in recent months about the relationship between Wilson and Barnes, especially when they’re between saving the world and chose to lay low along the Gulf Coast. Together.”

“It’s not our fault that no one can put two and two together. You think AJ and Cass are ever not talking about their uncles?” Sam pointed out.

“Yeah, but no one’s taking the word of a ten year old as gospel. Or asking him in the first place.”

Sam laughed softly and shook his head. He finished rinsing out his mouth and came back to the bed, curling around Bucky’s side and kissing his jaw. “Come on. We can think about saying something later. Right now, why don’t you come get in the shower with me?” he suggested, running his hand down Bucky’s chest and kissing his shoulder.

“Or,” Bucky said and smoothed his hand over the bedspread. “You could stay here with me. Make the most use outta something that’s causing us a whole lotta grief,” he countered. And wasn’t that a tempting idea. “Come on, it’s not like we’re payin’ for the water. The shower’ll be there when we’re done.”

Bucky pulled Sam down into that big bed and Sam couldn’t be happier to be sharing it right then.

[incomingalbatross]

Fic: Guiding Light

@foundfamilybingo fill (very belated) for the “Lost/Stranded” square, in the Gravity Falls fandom!

@awesomebutunpractical, this is for you. Thank you for waiting, and for generally being the fun and friendly Tumblr presence/mutual that you always are. It is late and I am tired right now, but I hope you like this fic. :)

Characters: Stan Pines, Soos Ramirez, Abuelita Ramirez Warnings/Pairings/Ratings: None, none, gen Length: approximately 2k words

Stan had given Soos the week off and now he was starting to wonder why.

Sure, it was the kid’s first week of high school or whatever, and sure this was always a slack week in the tourist trade and maybe he didn’t need another pair of hands, but geez. He hadn’t thought about the fact that what’s-his-name, the latest cashier kid, would be leaving too. What, was he supposed to do everything by himself around here?

Ugh, fine, whatever. He might as well close up and get some work done downstairs—at least he didn’t have any kids hanging around underfoot, getting in his way, right?

See, if things had gone the way he’d maybe kinda assumed they would, with Soos showing up whether he was paid or not to babble about his new High School Experience and generally occupy Stan’s space for hours…well, Stan wouldn’t be getting anything important done, would he? No.

So yeah, it was a good thing that it seemed like the kid might’ve finally wised up—here it was late Tuesday, after all, and Stan hadn’t seen a trace of him since Saturday, which was practically a record.

Maybe, Stan thought… Maybe after three years of this kid underfoot, being weirdly obsessed with Stan and the Shack, high school would be the thing that finally sent life back to the status quo. With Soos moving on to whatever teenagers did nowadays, and Stan in the basement, uninterrupted again.

Good.

Stan was just turning to the vending machine, still grumbling under his breath, when the phone rang. Ugh, after eight o’clock? What was it, a vampire telemarketer?

“Hello,” he barked into the receiver.

“Mr. Pines,” a quiet, softly-accented voice responded, “would you send my boy home? It is getting late, and he will need to be up early for his new school tomorrow.”

Stan grimaced, surprised and vaguely offended. “What? I mean, maybe if I had him, but I haven’t even seen Soos today. I toldja I’d give him the week off!”

There was a slight pause from Soos’s grandma. “He has not been at the Shack today?” she repeated.

“No…” Stan’s gut was starting to catch up with his ears, now, and that wasn’t a good feeling at all. “Wait,” he said. “When did you last see him?”

There was a sigh from the other end of the phone—a worried sigh. He’d never heard Soos’s Abuelita sound worried before. “This morning, before school. He texted me after school that he would be late home—I have given him a phone now, he is a big boy—and said then that he would be visiting your Shack.”

“He hasn’t shown up that I noticed,” Stan said slowly. “But…if he has a phone, why call me?”

“He has not been answering,” Abuelita said, and the bad feeling in Stan’s gut solidified into a block of ice, cold and heavy.

This was Gravity Falls. And the kid had gone missing. That was a bad, bad combination

“I’ll, uh, I’ll look around,” he said quickly. “I mean, maybe he’s just outside, or wandered in here while I wasn’t lookin’, or something. I’ll find him—I mean, it’s Soos. Where would he have gone?”

There were a lot of bad answers to that question, he knew—“gone” and “gone willingly” were very different things. But he shoved that knowledge deep, deep down, where it could panic by itself and not distract him.

From the hum Abuelita gave in response, she wasn’t much more reassured than Stan. But all she said was, “Thank you, Mr. Pines. Please make sure he gets home when you find him,” and her voice when she said it was a bit closer to its usual untroubled calm.

“Yeah, sure,” he began, but she had already hung up.

He dropped the phone and ran his hands over his face. “Okay, think, Stan,” he said to himself. “It’s Soos, he’s got some weird thing against lyin’ at all, let alone to his grandma. So if he said he was on his way here, somethin’ must’ve happened on the way…”

But that was too wide an area. It could’ve been at school—second day would be pretty early for the “lock ‘em up and leave ‘em” level of bullying, but heck, it wasn’t like Stan hadn’t seen it before. (Though that target had never been alone at school…) It could’ve been in town.

It could’ve been in the woods, and that thought made his gut twist more than anything. He told Soos the woods weren’t safe, but if the kid tried to take a shortcut or something…

He shook his head. “I can’t do this alone,” he muttered, and turned back to the vending machine.

—

There was a spell, in Ford’s dumb journal. Well, there were more than a few spells, most of them either bizarrely useless or straight-up dangerous, but this one had been…special.

A spell to “trace the threads binding your heart to others,” his brother’s stupid fancy handwriting read. When tested, it produced several strands of light emitting from my chest outward, in various directions, until out of my sight. And then he went on about the colors of the lights, because he was a nerd.

A warning, however! The entry concluded. This spell lasted only an hour (it was somewhat annoying to constantly have invisible-to-others lights around me during that period, honestly!), and once it broke I was unable to recast it. There may be a time limit in which it needs to “recharge,” it may be once per user, or there may be another component required for repeated use of which I am unaware. In any case, this is something to be aware of. (Although it is a largely useless spell, so I don’t foresee that being much of an issue.)

Stan gritted his teeth, reading over the instructions one more time. He could’ve tried it before—he’d thought about trying it before—but, well. There were a whole lotta factors that could keep Ford’s “thread” or whatever showing up for him, even if it worked, and if it did what good would it do him? He knew where Ford was, or at least how to get there. No point using something that might not even work to check that he was out there. (If he weren’t Stan would know, anyway.)

But he’d always kept it in the back of his mind, anyway, just in case. In case it became useful…or in case, one day, he just needed to try for evidence the Ford was still out there, that they were still connected.

He only got to use it once, after all.

“Well,” he muttered now, slamming the book shut, “here goes nothin’, Soos. This better work.”

He shut his eyes and chanted the weird gibberish words Ford had written down (seriously, how was this magic? He could make up better magic-sounding words than that). Then, cautiously, he cracked his eyelids open again.

“…Oh, wow.”

There was a whole tangle of multicolored lights coming from his chest, enough that it took him a minute to sort through them. He didn’t look long at any of them, though, mind focused on Soos.

There was a cluster of strings all stretching off in the same direction (towards town, he figured after a second), two bright red-and-purple strands dancing around each other and zooming south next to a couple fainter multicolored ones, a quieter but colorful string stretching east, and…

Oh yeah. That one was definitely Soos.

Stan couldn’t have said how he knew this one—almost the brightest one there, woven out of red and purple and yellow all mixed with traces of blue—was Soos’s. He just felt it, as soon as he focused on it; it felt like Soos, somehow, warm and confusing but good. Important.

Time to follow the trail, then.

—

In the end, with the help of these ridiculous magic lights, it was almost too easy. “Almost,” because Stan would never, ever complain about an easy win if he could get it, and also because he knew how bad the things that could’ve happened were. But still. It was a little anticlimactic to just follow the string to Soos and then find him actually sleeping against a tree in the middle of the woods.

Stan just stopped and stared at him, for a minute, because really? Here was Stan, charging to his rescue in the middle of the night (okay, okay, nine PM, whatever), when it wasn’t even a work day, and what kinda welcome did he get? A sleeping teenager!

He looked okay, though, so that was good. And the rope of light between him and Stan looked…kinda cool, maybe, now that Stan could see both ends. It disappeared into Soos’s chest, just like on Stan’s end, but the colors changed when they reached the kid. On his end, there was still red and yellow, but the purple gave way to green and there was a lot more blue there. Weird.

Eh, whatever.

“Soos, hey, wake up, kid,” he said, crouching down. He was tempted to yell it, just for entertainment points, but after dark in these woods that was probably not a good idea. Instead, he reached out a hand to shake the boy’s shoulder. “C’mon, time to go.”

Soos blinked his eyes open immediately, looking up at him with those stupid starry eyes Stan had always thought kids were supposed to grow out of. “Mr. Pines!” he cheered, throwing himself at Stan. “I got lost but I knew you’d find me!”

“Oof,” Stan grunted, falling back under the kid’s weight as he caught him. “Yeah, sure, kid, I only gave you a week off, not forever. What’re you doin’ in the woods anyway? Talk about a dumb idea…”

Soos shrugged, arms tightening around Stan. “I, uh, I don’t really know, Mr. Pines,” he said, sounding guilty. “I was on my way to the Shack, cause I wanted to tell you how high school was, but…then I heard singing?” He sniffled. “And I know you always say not to go into the woods, but the singing was really pretty and I wanted to get closer, and then I met these people and they were really cool-looking and I think they said there was a party? But, um, I don’t really remember that part too well. I just remember walking in the woods with them and feeling sleepy, but then they stopped? And they were all, like, yelling at each other about somebody being, like, ‘marked by the Great Protector’ or something, and then they left. And then I realized I was lost in the woods, but Abuelita always said when I was little that if I was lost I should stay where I was and wait for somebody to find me. So I sat down to wait, and then I was still tired so I guess I fell asleep.”

He paused, and then sniffled again. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Pines, that you had to come looking for me,” he said dolefully. “I was really proud of being in high school now and being, like, mature and stuff…but then I went and Hung Out With Strangers and tried to go to a Strange Party and I’m really sorry! Am I…Are you gonna fire me? Or make me take extra time off work?”

“Moses, kid, of course I’m not gonna fire you,” Stan blurted out. Freakin’ wood folk, thinking they could take his kid… He didn’t know what they thought they were talking about with that “marked by the ‘Great Protector’” stuff, because Soos wasn’t marked by anybody, but they were lucky they’d run off before Stan got to them.

“I might make you come back to work early,” he added, “so you don’t have time to do stupid stuff. But…eh, you’re not dumb. You know the drill, right? You made a mistake, big deal. Learn from it and don’t do it again, capisce?”

Soos hugged him again, and okay, they were approaching a limit here. “Got it, Mr. Pines, sir!” he exclaimed, almost bouncing, and Stan groaned as he got back to his feet. Kid was too enthusiastic to live with, seriously.

“Yeah, okay, good,” he muttered, pulling the teenager up. “Let’ get you home then. Oh, and Soos?”

“Yes, Mr. Pines?”

He fixed him with a raised eyebrow. “Whatever you think you saw or heard out here, that’s the kinda stuff that’ll make people think you’re crazy if you talk about it. Got it?”

Soos nodded earnestly. “I got it, Mr. Pines. I won’t talk about it to anyone, even the guys at school!”

“Oh yeah? You made friends with any one those guys yet?”

And they began trudging home, Soos happily rambling about his new school experience. And if the lights winked out, finally, just as Stan refocused on them in search of Ford’s, before he could settle whether it was there or not…

Well, that was okay for now, he figured. He’d used the spell for something else important, in the end.

[head-hopping]

Just on sheer impulse, Ramona had gone back upstairs to the bathroom, opened the door and flicked the light on. Yup. Everything looked about as it should. Took about ten seconds this time instead of thirty before the light went out, door shut, and she left Lotta’s bedroom for the downstairs living room where the woman in question has been sitting for about three hours now.

Once Lotta heard Ramona’s footsteps hit the kitchen tile, she actually snapped, “Would you stop?”

No, was the silent response as Mona peeked over the island counter at the floor. Satisfied, she returned to the couch but sat on the coffee table, hands pressed between her fidgeting knees. Lips pressed together, Mona studied Lotta’s curled form. Head in her hands, hair hanging wherever it wanted. Her fingers have stopped trembling but the stress hasn’t gotten any better. Not that Mona could blame her.

“Body for a body,” Mona muttered, leaning back a bit. “That’s one of the many mottos that keep the business afloat.”

“Not a man for a dog, Ramona!” Carlotta finally sat up, fire in her red-rimmed eyes. She shoved her hair back into some semblance of a place behind her hair, but it was too unruly to care at the moment. But so was Lotta.

“Armand had it coming.” Mona’s tone darkened. How that bastard had gotten into the apartment…obviously poisoning Enrico along the way to the upstairs bedroom. All without Mona noticing a thing. If she’d been just a few seconds later….

If she’d been a few seconds earlier, Armand might not be lying on the bathroom floor with part of his brains splattered on the wall. But walking in that room to find his hands on Lotta…Ramona had reacted. Simple as that. One shot. And he’s been growing cold up there ever since. Still, Mona had enough jitters to get up and go check, just to make sure. After all, that was the third in command at the company. Lotta’s boss. One of the untouchables. And she shot him without a second thought.

Good riddance, but what was this going to mean for her? For both of them?

“We could just go.” Mona flipped a hand towards the front door, Lotta following the gesture with a flash of apprehension, as if someone already knew Armand was dead. “Go to America. Go anywhere. You’ve wanted out of this game before. Now’s your chance.”

Lotta’s expression lightened a bit, if only to give her a look speaking volumes of stupidity in that suggestion. “This isn’t the way. If I run, I’ll look guilty.”

“You’re not the one who shot him.”

“I’m not feeding you to the wolves either, Mona. I…” Trailing, Lotta’s gaze clouded over, making the hair on the back of Mona’s neck stand on end.

“I know that look. What the hell are you planning? Lotta? L o t t a!”

Icy, distant eyes turned back to Ramona, where they lingered for a moment before smoothing over with resolve. Mona’s stomach churned. “Don’t you dare say—”

“Germany.” Ignoring Mona’s immediate and growled protest, Lotta stood, pushed her hair back again. “Not America. We’re going to Germany.”

“Oh all the stupid. Idiotic. D u m b things we’ve done, Carlotta, that’s got to be the worst! Did you forget what he did to you?! What he’s still doing to you?!” Mona motioned generally at Lotta’s body while she walked away, still ignoring all the sputtering protests. “Those things are still active! I f he can even be trusted about that! There’s too much I don’t know about him to go asking him for help! Lotta! Lotta, I swear to—get back here!”

Growling again, Ramona shot to her feet and trailed after Lotta up the stairs. “I absolutely refuse to condone this.”

“It’s not up to you to condone anything, Ramona.” Lotta shot her a hard look over her shoulder before disappearing into the closet to get dressed. Packed, probably. “Just watch my back.”

“Which is exactly what I’m doing, if you’d let me.” Ramona rubbed her non-aug eye and sighed. Frankly, she never liked being the voice of reason, but Lotta forced her into that position more often than not. The lack of argument, though…nothing added, no trying to talk her into this, no excuses, meant that Lotta was deadly serious about turning to Albrecht Stroman to slip through Alonso’s fingers.

Plodding to lean against the closet doorway, Ramona crossed her arms. “This isn’t even going from pot to fire, this is just from one level of hell into another.” A shirt smacked her in the face.

“Get dressed and get the plane tickets ready. I want to be on the first flight out we can make.” So her nerves didn’t get the chance to catch up with her decision. By the time they were rolling out on the tarmac, it’d be way too late to turn back.

~*~

The flight to Munich wasn’t too terrible, if fighting back reoccurring waves of sickness didn’t count. Lotta couldn’t even drink she felt so nauseous about running to him for help.

Ironic how things tied themselves together in a tangled little knot that screwed up the web of your life.

Germany itself looked about the same as Italy on the surface, but the undercity is typically where the uniqueness expressed itself and ancient stone structures sometimes poked out from under all the collected garbage to create individual dumps where the lowlifes tended to thrive, if thrive is what anyone would call such a state of living. Coming from the upper city, though, Lotta certainly had her bias, but with Ramona around she didn’t feel much of a threat, even in a foreign city unfamiliar to them both.

In a sense, she’d expected someone as…suave as Albrecht Stroman to have achieved upper city level living, but maybe, for the state of his business, staying low made him easy to underestimate, easier to lose. He definitely didn’t make anything easy. Finding him, unfortunately, had been easy, since all she had to do was call him on that little device he’d given her at her own villa. She couldn’t even have the satisfaction of arriving unexpectedly.

The building he’d instructed them to visit looked like the outside of a garbage dump. Ramona wouldn’t let her hand off her gun, not even when the grubby guard at the door gave her guff for it. Stroman must have left specific instruction, though, because after the third refusal, they were let inside anyway. After what this jackass initiated in the last that resulted in Ramona losing her leg…like hell was she going anywhere near him without her weapon. And she wouldn’t be sitting in any chairs, either.

Inside didn’t particularly look or smell any better, and by now both women were certain this wasn’t really his base of operation; not that they expected to be whisked in without being prodded at first. More guards were stationed periodically through the halls, navigating them towards the back of the long building and eventually into a room thankfully cleaned up to at least a tolerable standard, the open glass table and elegant chairs looking severely out of place. Then again, so did he.

Stroman was already seated, a platter and tea set sitting in the middle of the table, steam rising thoughtfully into the dim-ish lighting that apparently couldn’t be entirely fixed. Eight more guards lined the walls in utter silence, though all eyes were fixed on the pair of ladies as they were ushered in and requested to sit. With only one other chair at the table anyway, Ramona didn’t have to stir up a stink to stand behind and to the side of Lotta’s chair. As any good guard dog should, she kept silent, sharp, and seriously pissed to even be standing here. And yet, collected all the same.

Carlotta actually took the seat without losing her nerve, feeling that studying and amused gaze of his sliding all over her, searching for any indication of why she actually decided to come here. Even he was stupid or arrogant enough to assume this a friendly visit or a demand for change of their agreement. No. Something very large brought her here, and Stroman was just curious and confident enough to want to know why.

“Tea?” he asked with a crook of a smirk just barely in the corner of his mouth. The baiting’s already started.

Carlotta forced herself to study him back, look right into those twisted blue eyes. “No.” Implied that she won’t ever touch a drop of anything he’s touched.

“That’s fair enough.” After widening knowingly shortly, the smirk disappeared into an expression more professional. “Let’s not toy around too much. You and I both know that nothing short of death would bring you anywhere near my stomping grounds. So what am I going to have to consider covering for you?”

Lotta’s attempt not to tighten her jaw failed rather miserably, yet she let the second tick by before answering evenly. “A personal issue has turned business in an unfortunate way.” To put it lightly.

Albrecht steepled his fingers, elbows resting on either side of the chair’s armrests, watching her with too much curiosity. “I’m afraid I’ll need more detail than that, otherwise I’ll just send you home with slap on the wrist for wasting my time.”

No doubt the news will be out soon enough. “Armand DiRusso is dead.”

“Really.” Now he looked a little bored.

“Yes. Ramona shot him. He’s probably still lying in my apartment, but he’ll be found soon. That’s a cornerstone of the business gone.”

Now Albrecht frowned, pressing the sides of his first fingers to his lips. “From all I’ve heard you’ve done them a great service. But it won’t be taken that way. So rather than give me what I needed from the DiRussos, you’ve completely shot all my chances to hell. Now, you tell me, why would you think I’d help you after that?”

His anger, though astoundingly calm, still sent a shiver through the room, and Ramona tightened her hold on the butt of her gun.

“In theory?” Lotta’s heart pounded in her ears. Her next words needed to be surgically precise. “You shouldn’t. But you know me well enough by now to know that I wouldn’t be here with nothing more than a scandal, asking for a bandage with the company. You wanted your in with the DiRussos. Now there’s a vacancy.” Lotta crossed her legs, leaning back into a position of comfort, exuding her own confidence while meeting him square in the eye. “So take the opportunity. Whether you wanted to topple the empire, or join it, now’s your chance. What are you going to do about it?”

For the first time, she saw shock flit across his features. A sliver of uncertainty. It was covered quickly, but she saw it. Already he’s taken the bait.

“What do you want on your end of this deal?” he mused, back to searching her face, her body language. Looking for any cracks in her defenses.

“I want the credit for finding you, and protection while the wooing happens. If you’re as good as you say, then there’s a decent possibility that Alonso might consider you as a replacement.” A near wild shot in the dark, that, but Lotta firmly believed that Stroman fit the mold better than Armand of what Alonso wanted in a partner. This, of course, would make her ambitions all the more difficult, but at least she’d be able to breathe again, reconfigure her next steps. And have Stroman close enough to watch as well. With Armand out of the way, that would narrow her field of vision considerably while looking over her shoulder. The rules of the game might change, sure, but she could handle it. She had to.

“So…” Albrecht leaned forward a bit, betraying his interested—or feigning it. “In exchange for my seal of protection from your own company…you want me to send in my resume? Essentially. Take the job. But, you see, this bears the question of what’s to stop you from explaining that I have been the thrust of espionage on the company? While on their grounds, that leaves me in a very vulnerable position. I find myself wondering why I should take such a large step away from my original intentions just because you happened to kill one of the higher-ups.” He spread his hands, shrugged.

Lotta took a subtle deep breath. “Because I believe that the threat you’ve given me before still stands. If I would, I’d pay for it. If I wanted to pay for something that I’ve done, I would have stayed in Vulcan.”

He stared at her, at length. She met his gaze for every second of his scrutiny until he finally smirked again, took a sip from his teacup. “Interesting. Very…interesting. You surprise me, Carlotta. And I very much enjoy surprises. But only if they turn up in my favor.”

“I knew you’d see reason in this.” While she couldn’t exactly return his smile, Lotta knew better than to allow this moment to pass with complete sobriety. So far, Stroman has…been a man of his word. If he offered to give her some protection from Alonso until this whole mess could be straightened out, then he would. At least, until something more advantageous came along. She’ll just have to be that advantage until his attentions swung elsewhere. The man loved power more than anything else. That was usually so easy to play off of when needed.

Still. His smile set her teeth on edge. “On the contrary, Lotta…I see some enjoyment in this, no matter which way it turns.” His gaze flicked up to Ramona, a hint of gleeful teasing in his eyes. “If you’ll allow me, ladies, I have a place in mind better suited to your accommodation needs. Trust me. You’ll enjoy every moment of it.”