#but most fics i read are set stanford era to season 3 (which was the Era of the spotlight) and not in a single one of them can i remember

[hellhoundlair]

smthing i never see get brought up in fics (which is understandable bc this is the smallest minute detail that would only rarely come in handy) is that for the first 3 seasons of spn the impala has a spotlight installed on the passenger side. they only use it like 2 times in the entire show but its there

[qqueenofhades]

The American(s)

I spent literally all afternoon and all night writing this monstrosity, and now I’m here to inflict it on you. It’s 16k words, so the link is to AO3.

Rating: M for sex, violence, mentions of suicide, abuse, and other dark themes. It’s based on The Americans, so if you’ve ever seen the show, you know it goes into some heavy stuff. Disclaimer, I am only in season 3, so I haven’t seen all of it, but this fic is inspired by it and the setting/premise. Warning for angst. Summary: As part of a top-secret government project, Garcia Flynn and Lucy Preston are matched up in 2010 and sent to live as a married couple in 1969, fighting a shadowy organization known as Rittenhouse for decades in suburban Cold War-era America. Their allies and their enemies are powerful and uncertain, and the only thing they can trust is each other. But in a spy game with deadly stakes, there is no way to know if that, and they, will be enough.

Garcia Flynn and Lucy Preston meet in the year 2010, in a secured military facility somewhere on the East Coast of America. He is Croatian, thirty-five, an ex-NSA asset, private security contractor, and long-time soldier of a variety of guerrilla campaigns in Eastern Europe, the Balkans, and Chechnya. She is American, twenty-seven, and has just completed a PhD in history and anthropology of American political movements at Stanford University, after a glittering academic career all through, and until recently was tipped for a prestigious faculty job or research fellowship. They are here because they have been recruited for a top-secret government task force called Project Retro. Or rather, recruited themselves; they’re about the only applicants in the dozen-strong pool who unanimously, unambiguously want to be here. They have their reasons. Like everything else right now, those are classified.

They have been put through a battery of physical and psychological tests. Their backgrounds have been scrutinized with a fine-tooth comb and they’ve been questioned for hours on every lacuna or irregularity, until their handlers are satisfied that every i has been dotted and every t crossed. It’s not clear which DoD branch is running this project. CIA, FBI, Homeland Security? Some monstrous hybrid? Nobody from anywhere seems to have enough clearance to know about all of it. Project Retro is too off-the-map for that. And given what it’s asking, it needs to be stringent. These dozen are the last men and women standing from an original intake of over five hundred. They’ve dropped out, or withdrawn themselves from consideration once the commitment became clear, or just didn’t cut it. Now it’s this.

Garcia (or Flynn, as he generally prefers to be known, an old soldier’s reflex) and Lucy first lay eyes on each other in a sterile white room. The interviews and psych assessments and simulations and grueling fitness tests have been completed, and they’ve been selected as the most compatible partners for each other. It’s hard to know how to greet a person in this situation. They’re total strangers, have maybe glanced at each other once or twice, but that’s it. They have never had a conversation. The brass hasn’t wanted to influence the results, or have anyone putting in a personal preference. They get who they are assigned. End of story.

“I’m Garcia,” he says. He’s six-foot-four, and he has to look down – well down – at this tiny five-foot-five historian, who looks back at him with a cool, unrevealing expression. “I’m pleased to – ”

“We can’t use our real names.” She gives him a warning look, as if to remind him that they have both read the dossiers, they have been memorizing their false identities for a week now, and she can’t countenance this rookie mistake right out of the gate. “Try that again.”

He clears his throat. Pauses, then says, “I’m Alexander Mueller.”

“I’m Victoria Taylor, but you can call me Vicky.” She says it easily, so much that he half-believes it. “Can I call you Alex?”

[read the rest on AO3]

[what-is-sibling-test]

from 'RittenhouseTL' for all things Timeless https://ift.tt/2sKQAh8 via Istudy world

The American(s)

I spent literally all afternoon and all night writing this monstrosity, and now I’m here to inflict it on you. It’s 16k words, so the link is to AO3.

Rating: M for sex, violence, mentions of suicide, abuse, and other dark themes. It’s based on The Americans, so if you’ve ever seen the show, you know it goes into some heavy stuff. Disclaimer, I am only in season 3, so I haven’t seen all of it, but this fic is inspired by it and the setting/premise. Warning for angst. Summary: As part of a top-secret government project, Garcia Flynn and Lucy Preston are matched up in 2010 and sent to live as a married couple in 1969, fighting a shadowy organization known as Rittenhouse for decades in suburban Cold War-era America. Their allies and their enemies are powerful and uncertain, and the only thing they can trust is each other. But in a spy game with deadly stakes, there is no way to know if that, and they, will be enough.

Garcia Flynn and Lucy Preston meet in the year 2010, in a secured military facility somewhere on the East Coast of America. He is Croatian, thirty-five, an ex-NSA asset, private security contractor, and long-time soldier of a variety of guerrilla campaigns in Eastern Europe, the Balkans, and Chechnya. She is American, twenty-seven, and has just completed a PhD in history and anthropology of American political movements at Stanford University, after a glittering academic career all through, and until recently was tipped for a prestigious faculty job or research fellowship. They are here because they have been recruited for a top-secret government task force called Project Retro. Or rather, recruited themselves; they’re about the only applicants in the dozen-strong pool who unanimously, unambiguously want to be here. They have their reasons. Like everything else right now, those are classified.

They have been put through a battery of physical and psychological tests. Their backgrounds have been scrutinized with a fine-tooth comb and they’ve been questioned for hours on every lacuna or irregularity, until their handlers are satisfied that every i has been dotted and every t crossed. It’s not clear which DoD branch is running this project. CIA, FBI, Homeland Security? Some monstrous hybrid? Nobody from anywhere seems to have enough clearance to know about all of it. Project Retro is too off-the-map for that. And given what it’s asking, it needs to be stringent. These dozen are the last men and women standing from an original intake of over five hundred. They’ve dropped out, or withdrawn themselves from consideration once the commitment became clear, or just didn’t cut it. Now it’s this.

Garcia (or Flynn, as he generally prefers to be known, an old soldier’s reflex) and Lucy first lay eyes on each other in a sterile white room. The interviews and psych assessments and simulations and grueling fitness tests have been completed, and they’ve been selected as the most compatible partners for each other. It’s hard to know how to greet a person in this situation. They’re total strangers, have maybe glanced at each other once or twice, but that’s it. They have never had a conversation. The brass hasn’t wanted to influence the results, or have anyone putting in a personal preference. They get who they are assigned. End of story.

“I’m Garcia,” he says. He’s six-foot-four, and he has to look down – well down – at this tiny five-foot-five historian, who looks back at him with a cool, unrevealing expression. “I’m pleased to – ”

“We can’t use our real names.” She gives him a warning look, as if to remind him that they have both read the dossiers, they have been memorizing their false identities for a week now, and she can’t countenance this rookie mistake right out of the gate. “Try that again.”

He clears his throat. Pauses, then says, “I’m Alexander Mueller.”

“I’m Victoria Taylor, but you can call me Vicky.” She says it easily, so much that he half-believes it. “Can I call you Alex?”

[read the rest on AO3]