#door swindon

[eclipsewindowsanddoors]

Find the Best Deals on Windows and Doors in Swindon Today!

If you're looking to upgrade your home’s windows and doors, now is the perfect time to find the best deals in Swindon. Investing in high-quality windows and doors not only improves your home's aesthetic appeal but also enhances energy efficiency, security, and overall comfort. Whether you’re replacing old, drafty windows or adding a sleek set of sliding doors Swindon to your home, the right choice can make a significant difference. Here’s how to find the best deals on windows and doors in Swindon today!

1. Why UPVC Windows Are a Top Choice

When shopping for windows, UPVC Windows Swindon are one of the most popular and reliable options available. UPVC (unplasticized polyvinyl chloride) windows offer excellent thermal efficiency, durability, and low maintenance. The material is resistant to rot, rust, and corrosion, which makes it ideal for Swindon’s often unpredictable weather.

UPVC windows are highly energy-efficient, helping to keep your home warm in the winter and cool in the summer. By preventing heat loss, these windows can also reduce your energy bills. Additionally, UPVC windows come in a variety of designs and styles to suit any home, making them a versatile choice for both modern and traditional properties. When searching for deals, keep an eye out for packages that include energy-efficient glazing options to maximize your home’s insulation.

2. Upgrade with Sliding Doors for Modern Living

If you’re looking to add a touch of elegance and functionality to your home, sliding doors Swindon are a perfect option. Sliding doors are a stylish and space-saving solution that allows for easy access to your outdoor spaces, such as patios, gardens, or balconies. They let in ample natural light, giving your home a bright, open feel while providing excellent insulation.

Modern sliding doors come with advanced security features, such as multi-point locking systems, which ensure the safety of your home. They also offer excellent weather resistance, keeping out drafts and moisture during Swindon’s colder months. Many suppliers offer competitive prices on sliding doors, especially when purchased as part of a full home upgrade package with windows. Be sure to compare deals to find the perfect set of sliding doors that meet your needs and budget.

3. Finding the Best Deals

When searching for the best deals on windows and doors in Swindon, it’s essential to shop around and compare prices from different suppliers. Many local businesses offer seasonal promotions, discounts on bulk purchases, or special deals for complete home upgrades. Start by browsing online retailers and visiting local showrooms to get an idea of the styles, features, and price ranges available.

Look for suppliers that provide warranties on their products, as this can add significant value and peace of mind to your investment. Many UPVC windows and sliding doors come with extended warranties on both the frames and glazing, ensuring that your purchase is protected for years to come.

4. Maximize Savings with Energy-Efficient Options

When choosing windows and doors, prioritize energy-efficient models. Products with double or triple glazing and insulated frames will help reduce energy consumption and lower your monthly bills. Many companies in Swindon offer energy-rated windows that meet high standards of thermal efficiency, so be sure to ask about these options when comparing prices. The initial investment may be higher, but the long-term savings make energy-efficient windows and doors a smart financial decision.

5. Professional Installation Matters

While finding the best deals on windows and doors is essential, don’t overlook the importance of professional installation. Poorly installed windows and doors can lead to drafts, leaks, and security issues. Ensure that the supplier you choose offers expert installation services or recommends trusted installers in Swindon. Many suppliers offer discounted installation rates when purchasing windows and doors as part of a complete package.

Conclusion

Upgrading your home with UPVC Windows Swindon and sliding doors Swindon is a fantastic way to improve its appearance, energy efficiency, and security. By shopping around for the best deals, comparing different suppliers, and prioritizing energy-efficient options, you can make a smart investment in your home’s future. Don’t forget to look for seasonal promotions and ensure you have your new windows and doors professionally installed to get the best long-term performance. Now is the time to take advantage of great offers and transform your home!

[helloemergencyservices]

Basic repairs of the sliding glass door

Clean the rail with the door installed

If the door does not move easily, this can often be remedied by cleaning the track with the door installed. Vacuum the track thoroughly, clean it with a damp rag, and then vacuum up any remaining water. Do this with both the door open and closed so you can clean the entire length of the track. If this does not help with the door, you will need to remove it.

Remove the sliding glass door

Before you remove the sliding glass door for further maintenance, plan in advance a suitable place to put it down On the inside of the door, locate the roller adjustment screw cover plugs. Remove them by hand or with a flathead screwdriver. Raise the door roller wheels inside the sliding door by turning the screws counterclockwise. This will lower the door. While the helper is holding the door, remove the door stop at the top of the door frame by unscrewing its screws. Tilt the door out of the frame and place it on edge or flat on a soft surface.

Remove the roller wheels

Carefully lever the roller wheels out of the bottom of the sliding glass door by hand or with a screwdriver. Dirt and debris can make it difficult to pull out, so be patient and work slowly.

Cleaning or replacing the roller wheels

If the roller wheels spin freely, you should be able to keep them. In this case, clean and lubricate the inner, mechanical part of the wheels (not the wheel treads). If the wheels are bent or otherwise do not turn well, discard them and replace them with new wheels.

Clean and lubricate the rail

Even a small pebble or sand is enough to impede the door's movement. Lightly lubricate the rail with the silicone lubricant. Wipe off any excess lubricant with a clean rag.

Repair or replace the sealing strip

The weatherstrip at the end of the door is important because it prevents water, dirt and insects from entering the house. In most cases, it's easiest to remove damaged weatherstripping and replace it. The current sealing tape may be glued to the door. If this is the case, use a razor blade or spatula to pull off the sealing tape. Follow the manufacturer's instructions for applying the new sealing tapes. In many cases, the door sealing strips come with a self-adhesive strip. Clean the old adhesive from the sliding glass door with alcohol and a rag. Remove the protective film and then apply the new sealing tape.

Call the Emergency Locksmith in Swindon. We are 24 hours available. Call us now, 01793291009.

[locksmithsgloucester]

Securing a property after a burglary

Securing a property after a burglary

Before After Boarding up a patio door for a customer in Swindon after a burglary http://www.locksmiths-gloucester.com #locksmithsglos

[barbeygirl]

For a cigarette

ok ok I tried to write something. be nice lmaoo

Ron Speirs x reader

Words: 860

summary: the man who’s taken a liking to you insists on walking you home safely every night

Your quiet hometown was once again full of men in uniforms. You punched out your card and grabbed your coat. Some huge company, maybe two, had been pulled back from God knows where and were now here, crowding the small cafe and ogling at the waitresses.

You stepped into the wind with a ding from the bell hanging on the door frame. The dry cold dug deep into your bones and you wrapped your coat on tighter. You just wanted to be home already, snuggled in blankets, wearing woollen socks. Plus there was so much laundry to do.

“Hey,” a low voice came from behind you. You huffed slightly and turned around to look at him. He had came by the cafe you work at the first day they were back. He had sat quietly by the corner by himself, writing a letter to someone. They must’ve been gone for quite a while, since some of the men dressed like him were acting like they hadn’t seen women for ages. You could deal with bad pick up lines and half-lidded stares when working, but he had insisted on walking with you after a man had stood up between you and the door as you headed home.

“Yes?” You said, faking annoyance, “Will I once again be blessed with your company?” He shrugged, not looking at you as he stopped next to you, his hands searching the deep pockets of his jacket. He shoved a pack of cigarettes to your chest, which you grabbed gratefully, and tilted his head towards the road. “Let’s get going, you have places to be,” He said lowly and started walking. 

You sighed, lighting the cigarette. The very least, he was providing you with smokes. An item which was getting increasingly more difficult to obtain due to the war. He was already walking towards your home, like the strange bastard he was, as you tightly secured the pack into your pocket. You had to jog to catch up to him.

It took a while for either of you to speak. You were freezing and he seemed uninterested. It both infuriated and intrigued you. He kept showing up. And in his annoying non-chalantness, he kept acting like it was his job to escort you home. Like it was something he just had to do. Both of you knew you’d be perfectly fine without him. He did know that, right? Despite that, the last three days, he would be standing outside the cafe when your shift finished and walked you home, mostly in silence.

“Any problems at work today?” He asked you gruffly as you turned to the dirt road, leaving the small town behind. You shook your head, “No, none today,” you finished your cigarette, “I think they’re getting used to civilian life again.” To which Ron chuckled and looked off to the side. Your eyes roamed his face when he looked forward again, heat rushing to your cheeks. Did you say something stupid? “Well, I’m glad they’re behaving,” He nodded.

“How about you? What have you been up to?” You asked, and he looked you in the eyes for a moment before focusing back on the fields surrounding you. “I’m hoping to get the weekend off.” He said, clicking a metal lighter open and closed in his pocket, “There’s this dance hall in Swindon. I was thinking of seeing what all the talk’s about.”

"Right,” you blinked a few times and kicked a small rock on the road, “Yeah, they’re quite popular. I’ve been a few times.” Ron raised his brows at you, “You have?” He asked and you nodded. “There’s a small rooftop if you sneak behind the curtains upstairs. Good place for a smoke,” you told him, but he didn’t respond. You looked up to him when you noticed him staring at you. “How about you show me that rooftop this Friday?” He said, mouth in some form of a smile.

You laughed in surprise. You had honestly thought he already had someone to go with. “Okay,” your voice sounded higher than usual, “Sure.”

He nodded and flashed a quick smile at you, “Great, I’ll pick you up then.” He stopped and turned around to face you, tapping on the first pole of the wooden fence around your house. 

You stood still next to him awkwardly. He never came any closer than this, stopping where the fence looped to the side of the house. Usually, you’d just walk past him, saying a quick thank you for walking you home. But now, you weren’t sure how to end the conversation. So you nodded for the final time and headed to the gate.

“Before you go,” He put a hand on your shoulder, effectively stopping you, while his other arm curved around your waist to reach the pocket in the front of your jacket. His quick fingers snatched the cigarette package. Your mouth formed a line as you simultaneously tried to breathe normally, feeling his arm around your middle, and mourned the loss of the cigarettes. “I’ll have more for you tomorrow,” He said and you rolled your eyes, not able to stop the smile before he saw it.

[thegildedbee]

Journey: May 30 Prompt from @calaisreno

This latest chapter and the previous ones are here at ao3.

(I'm a bit distant at this point from May, I know! . . . and there's one more prompt still to go, but then I'll finally be caught up with everyone else :-) ..................................................... As the train moves through the wintered fields, stations shuttered long ago flicker past, punctuated bits of expired time. An hour out from London, they begin to slow on the approach to Swindon, coming to a stop in a four-minute flurry of going and coming. Gathered round the door are a dozen or so lads in football kit with red dragons across their chests, waiting for the woman and the little boy who had been a few seats down from John to step off from the carriage. They scramble aboard, noisily pleased with having won their match, bringing in a blast of cold air that reaches in and chills John underneath his neck. They muck about as they jostle each other, eventually more or less coordinating their sprawls amongst extra rows of seats beyond what's necessary, some of them popping up to take selfies and shoot videos.

A faint smile whispers and shuts in an instant across John’s face at their exuberance, and he plugs his earphones into his mobile. He dithers about what to listen to, finally settling on a playlist that comes up after he types “welsh music” into the search bar, and then closes his eyes and slackens against the back of his seat as the train pulls away from the station and they resume their journey.

He’s vaguely bemused by young people's social media, especially their attachment to filming their lives; quite different from people his age, who've never been much fussed about having a camera to hand. He does regret, though, that he doesn’t have many photos of Sherlock; he always felt he needed to be surreptitious about taking shots, as if doing it in plain view would disturb their balancing act as flatmates. There are two amongst the small number that he likes very much: one of Sherlock facing the window while playing his violin, sunlight bringing out coppery glints in his dark curls; a second of him laid out on the sofa, allegedly in his mind palace, but actually taking a kip like an ordinary mortal. He doesn’t think Sherlock knew that he had a small set of photos – they were transferred to his laptop and sequestered several levels down inside a folder titled “Household Chores”– but since the git seemed to think that whatever was John’s, was his as well, he wouldn’t be surprised if somehow Sherlock had come across them one day when he was poking his nose about where he shouldn’t.

That thought begets another (didSherlockevertakeanypicturesofJohn?) although he decides to duck out from under that one straight off and leave it behind.

As the soft, plaintive reverberations of a pavane-like harp play inside his head, he recalls with chagrin how he jollied Sherlock into attending the media events that occurred in that last span of their time together. Clients had wanted to thank Sherlock for his successful efforts on their behalf: the rub was that they wanted to do so in front of the press. There was an auction house director for whom he’d retrieved a stolen painting worth nearly two million quid, and the big cheese banker who had been kidnapped, and then rescued by the detective.

The amount of interest Sherlock had in attending these: nil.

But he eventually complied, as he usually did when John asked him to do something; that hadn’t meant, however, that he’d play nicely. He had been cuttingly deductive, peevishly stating at the first event that the gift box held out to him contained diamond cufflinks – adding dismissively, “all my cuffs have buttons!” – and offering a similar pronouncement at the second, giving the box a shake and sharing the reveal – “tie pin!" – adding dismissively: “I don’t wear ties.”

John had intervened, correcting and redirecting Sherlock to concede to propriety and conform to convention, saying pointedly to the auction house director: “He means thank you,” to which Sherlock had snarked, “Do I?” to be countered by John pushing back: "Just say it.” In the second event he just gave it up as a bad job, and . . . shushed him.

The regular way of their world, right? Sherlock being an arse, John trying to save his arse.

As time had passed, however, John had begun to think that his attitude had been flirting at condescension, in a way that hadn’t been there at the start of their work together. When had he shifted to focusing on Sherlock as being deficient as a human being in social situations, as opposed to seeing Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies as indicative of degrees of comfort (or not) with those he perceived as outsiders?

To be fair, Sherlock’s disdain for the gifts was defensible: he didn’t sport the posh affectation of cufflinks for every day; nor had he ever been seen to wear a tie. If it was “the thought that counts,” then the thought appeared to be that, beyond his utility, Sherlock-as-individual was a human-as-null-placeholder.

In being thrust into the spotlight, abetted by John, Sherlock had been diverted from his own circumspect path, onto the one controlled by the ravening press, where it was they who decided on the right of way, whether there was safe passage to be had, and, if so, at what cost.

What if, in running interference in a way that placed John close to the side of propriety and conformity, he’d instead put his thumb on the scale for Sherlock?

It might have gone perhaps something like this: [Sherlock speaks] [John: subtle nudge, subtle nudge] [John (sotto voce): “What a wanker, eh?”] [Sherlock smiles at John] [John smiles at Sherlock] [John and Sherlock are pleased with themselves, and each other, two-of-a-kind people who laugh together at crime scenes, without giving a hang about proper decorum] [Sherlock feigns politeness] [Social order is maintained . . . a bit].

And, actually, for whose benefit were these thank-you events? Looking back with a skeptical eye, John sees them now as highlighting the givers: it was the poncy auction house director and the illustrious banker who were preening in front of the cameras – Sherlock was a pretext, surplus to requirements. Neither of the worthies needed to stage a press availability to thank Sherlock: appreciation could have been conveyed privately.

The simp of an art dealer, smarmily posing beside the “masterpiece by Turner,” with Sherlock off to the other side, while the public relations cameraman snapped images suitable for public distribution. Turning that skeptical eye on the whole scenario, the painting would now command likely a doubled sold-at-auction price, given the publicity and the story surrounding it having juiced up the intangibles that make up any artwork’s value on the open market.

The self-important banker, posed on the stairs within the embrace of his loving family – several steps higher than the detective, turfing him out onto the pavement. The journos gossiping that Mr. Something-or-Other-in-the-City was ready to climb the greasy pole, to one day get himself slotted in as Chancellor of the Exchequer, a launching pad for Prime Minister, as Major, Brown, and Sunak had done. Among the side effects of the kidnapping as media spectacle had been the boost it had given to the financier’s perceived significance, valor, and . . . name recognition.

John’s mind is expletive-strewn as he speculates how it was that these Sherlockian triumphs were choreographed by the hand of the consulting criminal, who likely pulled off a doubled win: had he inveigled the auction house to allow its painting to be stolen, and the aspiring government minister to allow himself to be kidnapped? (And therefore pocketed a tidy fee for the planning and execution of these gambits?) These events set in motion by him toward achieving the objective of setting up Sherlock to be sucked into the publicity maelstrom, as the “hero detective” became giddily glorified by the press? The bastard had probably even conspired with the unscrupulous publishing baron, Magnussen, to stage-manage the journalistic hue and cry to his specifications.

The ramping up of the press frenzy was the piece de resistance: all the fawning adulation naming Sherlock as a hero pivoted on using the Met as a foil, painting them as hapless and ineffectual, turning the table upside down by portraying them as the true amateurs, and Sherlock as a professional disguised as an amateur. Sherlock's overnight overnight celebrity ensured that his detractors at Scotland Yard would become ever more enraged at Sherlock’s existence, increasing their seething resentment and desire to take him down. The deerstalker was the Yard’s I.O.U.

John allows that he may be on the verge of losing himself in the land of the paranoid, but he wonders if Moriarty even stage-managed the thank-you events himself, through a word in the ear of those in charge, ensuring the planting of certain details. To wit, Moriarty, in his Vivienne Westwoods and beyond-bespokes: his shirts were fastened with cufflinks, his always-tied-up self flaunted tie pins. Moriarty knew that eventually Sherlock would wonder if these two data points were taunts that meant Moriarty was lurking just beyond view. And Moriarty would have felt as blissed-out at Sherlock’s sartorial humiliation as his target would have felt beleaguered, cursed as he was forevermore to be crowned by the misbegotten deerstalker in press photos.

He suspects now that Moriarty had drilled down into John’s psychology with a cleverness equal to his emotional profiling of the public, the press, and the Met, and had foreseen that he could steer John into unknowingly working with him, prompting him into facilitating Sherlock being fed into the maw of the beast by providing a platform that tapped into John’s desire to see Sherlock get his due in public.

As twisted as the maggot was, he seemed to know more about John’s and Sherlock’s emotional landscapes than perhaps they did themselves.

What had Moriarty known about John and Sherlock, the each of them? What had Moriarty known about the two of them together? And when? And why had they been blindsided?

............................... p.s. The shooting script at the BBC for S2E3 uses the term "auction house" at one point, and I've used that tiny blip for my between-the-lines jumping off point use of "canon" here, in case anyone wonders :-)

......................................

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper

@helloliriels @a-victorian-girl @keirgreeneyes @starrla89 @naefelldaurk

@topsyturvy-turtely @lisbeth-kk @raina-at @jobooksncoffee @meetinginsamarra

@solarmama-plantsareneat @bluebellofbakerstreet @dragonnan @safedistancefrombeingsmart @jolieblack

@msladysmith @ninasnakie @riversong912 @dapetty

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[magnoliasforyourmedic]

"Band-Aid Bandits" - Easy Company's Medics

Edwin Pepping and Albert "Al" Mampre were the self-proclaimed "Band-Aid Bandits."

When the regiment formed a medical detachment, Colonel Sink asked Mampre if he would like to be a medic. Mampre said yes and joined with Pepping. The two developed a knack for obtaining anything they needed without going through proper channels, calling themselves the “Band-Aid Bandits.” Both men considered medical training similar to what they learned in the Boy Scouts. The main difference: the medic candidates practiced giving shots to oranges. “I never ran into an orange in combat,” Mampre mused."

After Mampre and Pepping received their medical certifications, the regiment assigned a new lieutenant to toughen up the medics. He started off by teaching them to properly salute. In retaliation for the senseless exercise, Mampre lit a can of photo film on fire in his barracks. As smoke filled the room, Mampre ran outside to the lieutenant, shouting, “They’re trying to kill us!” The lieutenant went into the barrack and threw the burning can outside, telling Mampre, “I don’t think you’re gonna get killed.” 

...

While the training honed the men’s physical skills, it stimulated voracious appetites. One day, Mampre and his fellow medics caught the smell of fresh muffins wafting from the cook house. They found the tray of muffins and grabbed it, but not before the cooks grabbed the other end. The tug of war ended when the Military Police showed up and took down everyone’s names. “One guy said his name was ‘John Smith,’” explained Mampre, “another said ‘Terpin Hydrate,’ which means cough syrup.” Later, Mampre and his comrades snatched a line of milk bottles laid out for the battalion’s officers. “We were growing boys,” he defended, “we needed them.” The medics drank more than milk. They often drove to local watering holes in an ambulance. Mampre would sit up front with the driver and Captain Samuel “Shifty” Feiler, the dentist, between them. When they reached the bar, someone would shout, “Last one out buys!” and everyone poured out. Mampre and the driver made sure they opened their doors last, ensuring Feiler, stuck in the middle, paid.

Despite the intense training, the medics managed small rebellions. One medic, a cook, smuggled some local girls into a stable. Mampre and Lieutenant (Dr.) Jackson Neavles, the battalion surgeon, went to the stable where Neavles ordered the cook out. When he didn’t respond, they threw in colored smoke grenades. The girls ran out crying, their faces streaked with colors. “Those girls had to walk back to Swindon [about five miles away] like that,” said Mampre. The cook, on the other hand, refused to come out. Other medics had their own way of doing things. They dyed their hair with medicinal peroxide, turning them all blond or shades of red. When their hair grew back, leaving them with dual hair color, their British hosts did a double take. “They thought it was all the rage back in the U.S.,” said Mampre." 

...

Mampre also returned to his Band-Aid Bandit ways. He and some medics decided to steal an armoire from the upper story of an officers’ barracks. Mampre attached ropes to the armoire and was lowering it out a window when a lieutenant walked up and asked, “What are you doing?” Mampre told him he was trying to haul the armoire up to the room. Seeing that Mampre was about to be yanked out the window, the lieutenant told him to lower it and departed. Mampre and his buddies had a new armoire. 

...

In need of a shower, Mampre went into the officers’ shower but, while he was showering, an officer came in and asked, “Lieutenant?” When Mampre didn’t answer, the officer asked, “Captain?” Mampre finished, wrapped himself in a towel, and as he left said, “No. Staff Sergeant, but I’m clean.”

While there he saw some washing machines in crates. He “borrowed” one and had his fellow medics dig a square into the ground to hide it. The medics looked cleaner than the rest of the regiment. “Colonel Sink was wondering what was going on,” he said.

[rowanthestrange]

trip to london sitrep:

train cancelled, rushed for earlier train, train delayed, rammed with at least 2 trains worth of people, rerouted because of flooding, we might(?) be able to drive through the flooding on this line if we go slow (cheers drive), and when we called at swindon there was a technical error that made them unable to open the doors for ten minutes. Drive keeps on reminding us the url for getting ticket refunds, and that now it’s over an hour delayed that’s a “substantial amount back” so we’ve got that going for us.

[comfy-whumpee]

Pity

Whumptober 6, made to watch.

-

Lachlan snuck out on the fourth night.

Dr Swindon had done the experiment twice now. She had looked him in the eyes and cut his throat. She had watched him bleed out with no emotion in her eyes. And he couldn’t get the image out of his head.

There weren’t cameras on the body at all hours, because it wasn’t going anywhere. They knew that for sure. Constance Irene herself had sent down the instructions for how to use the blood taken from the body before it got here. If the body couldn’t leave a circle of its own blood, they made the building from it. She had it put in the paint on the walls and sown in the soil in the grass outside. It had sounded bizarre, when Lachlan overheard Dr Swindon talking about it with her brother. Blood in the soil. But as much blood as was used in securing the lab, more could be taken as long as the body could be kept.

Lachlan was the one who could still escape. He knew he was being watched. It made sense. He’d shown his weakness now, shown he could be scared.

It was stupid. He’d agreed to this.

But it wasn’t so easy to turn his head up for the scalpel.

It definitely wasn’t easy to look at Dr Swindon in the same way.

So after doing that hour’s tests – blood pressure, temperature, pain scale, and the new voice test – he slipped through the door to visit the thing that made this all possible. It was kept in a locked room, but locked only on the inside. Lachlan stopped at the observation window for a moment, but the creature was looking out, so he hurried in.

Its room smelled bad. Lachlan had washed the body several times since its arrival, but it seemed like whoever had taken over for him, if anyone had, was doing a poor job. The stench of old blood was all over. If the creature had a sense of smell, that would be nasty.

Then again, it was bleeding pretty much all the time, so maybe it was used to it.

Lachlan lingered in the doorway, making eye contact. It really did look human. It wouldn’t make sense for it to be human, with everything it could do, but most creatures in mythology had humanlike forms too. The body was probably the inspiration for at least one or two mythical beings.

Lachlan wondered why he was here. The muzzle was always in place. He couldn’t ask the body for its opinion. That would be ridiculous, anyway.

On the other hand, what did he have to lose?

He reached for the muzzle. The body held still. It felt silly, suddenly, that there wasn’t a proper name for it. Just ‘the body’. When it moved and emoted like a person.

Surprisingly, the muzzle had only a slight tackiness as it detached. Lachlan couldn’t help but wince at the sight of the reddened skin underneath. He wished he had the washcloth and soapy water he’d used before.

He pulled back against the wall when the body moved, turning its head slowly towards him. The lurid red sigils were carved into it, all visibly different ages, but none of them properly healed. It looked like it shouldn’t be living.

“Thank you,” it hissed in a whisper-soft voice.

He should get it some water. But bringing a cup in here would make it way too obvious what he was doing. Removing the muzzle was the first thing Dr Swindon had warned them against doing. Lachlan had always wondered why, though. Did the body have a silver tongue?

“Does it hurt?” the body asked. Its voice was strained between every word. Any conversation had to be quick and to the point.

Lachlan swallowed. “Some,” he rasped, his own voice bearing the weight of his experiment. “Healing fast.”

The body closed its eyes for a moment. Then opened them. “You don’t look at me like the others,” it told him. “Not curious. No-ot grateful.” It had to stop and swallow.

Lachlan shifted his weight to his other foot. He didn’t have to guess. Curiosity was all of the doctors, especially Dr Swindon. Gratitude was Kurt. It was the weird thing about watching him, actually, and Lachlan watched everyone while being ignored. Kurt was always looking at the body, and he always looked amazed. It could be called blasphemy, to show more worship of the body than of Her Permanence. But down here, the rest of the Alliance was far away, and Her Permanence last announced her plans when the body was still missing. They had heard from her since. She only spoke to Dr Swindon.

But Kurt looked at the body like a gift. Something magic.

“You look at me weird as well,” he returned. It felt obvious to say.

The body winced, eyes darting away. “I am the reason you suffer.”

Laclan paused, thrown off by the comment. It almost felt…kind of selfish? Self-important? “I volunteered you know. I want to cure my brother and me. I chose to be here.”

Already, he was being caught up in this nonsense. He forced his breaths to settle calmly. Here was no point getting caught up in an argument with the body, the thing that bore the blood and only faked the rest. None of it mattered.

“I meant,” the thing replied. Even as Lachlan resolved not to listen, he found himself straining to make out the words. “I meant from the blood. My magic taken does not respond well. It will poison you in time.” At the last word, they broke off into weak coughs.

He shook his head. “I’m fine. Dr Swindon is monitoring me.”

“Your Pe-ermanence,” the body persisted, voice rasping weakly, “shows the dama-age it does.”

“She looks normal from what I’ve seen.”

The body was able to produce a perfectly normal, if quiet, snort of derision.

“In her portraits,” Lachlan admitted. “I’ve never met her in person. She’s busy.”

“She is – weak and frail. Her skin ash, her eyes red. She is as inhuman as I am.”

Lachlan looked away. The woman in the portraits was a beautiful, youthful blonde. Of course it was exaggerated, but… Was it just a lie? The Alliance promised eternal health and life. He’d always assumed that would include eternal youth. The body had eternal youth, that was well known.

“She is a revenant,” the body whispered.

He could have laughed. Could have, but didn’t. How was he meant to know? Zombies weren’t real, but nor were immortal magical creatures.

He looked at the body. Aside from the wounds that bound it here, or had bound it before, it was unmarked. Not a bruise, cut or scar. It was dirty, skin oily with dried sweat, hair lank in thick strands, but it was in perfect health. Through everything, it didn’t show a single mark. The tubes that kept it from having bodily needs were just a precaution. It wasn’t even thinner than before. It should have shown atrophy, but there was no change at all.

All of this helped counterbalance the scarily sincere pain in its eyes and voice. The ay it watched him. The noises it had made, when he was hurt. It reminded him of how long it had been since he’d seen his family. It made him imagine how upset his parents would be at what he’d been through. It made him think of his brother, the person who understood him best in the world, from whom he’d deliberately gone distant.

He lived in this la as much as the body did. The only people he interacted with treated him like a servant. His boss held him down and cut him open.

But every single drop of blood in this place was important. It mattered. It meant something.

“It’s worth it,” he said. God, the way it looked at him. Were those tears? “I’m sorry, but it is. If there’s a chance.”

He had to look away. He didn’t know who he was kidding. That wasn’t just a body. It was a person, in some way.

“I’m Lachlan, by the way.”

It probably already knew. But maybe, if it did have feelings, it would help a little to be asked.

“Northlight,” it whispered back. The kind of name you would use if you lived in the wilds and in clans.

Lachlan forced himself to move. He picked up the gag again. He’d had a moment of weakness, but ultimately, everything came down to his heart. It was time for him to go back, and pretend this never happened. Work would go on as usual tomorrow.

Seeing him with the muzzle clearly spurred the body on, because it said, “What humanity will you give up for humanity’s sake?”

“You should put that on a fridge magnet,” Lachlan commented, putting the muzzle to its jaw.

It laughed.

It was just a brief, breathless chuckle. Lodged somewhere in its throat. The joke wasn’t even really a joke. He’d just said it offhand. Wasn’t even thinking about it. And the body laughed.

Then another laugh, eyes on Lachlan’s face. Did he look comically surprised or something? What was so funny? The laughter continued. He had to pull back the muzzle so it was possible to breathe. And the laugh came out loud, a breathy thing, struggling to hold the jerky convulsions of the body.

Tears followed, as the laugh died out.

Lachlan ran his tongue over his gums. He couldn’t watch this. This wasn’t for him, some stranger who didn’t care for them. They should have loved ones around them. Did they even have anyone who loved them?

When the sobs stopped, he put the muzzle back on. He couldn’t look into their eyes as he did it. He didn’t want to see the pain any more than he wanted to feel it today.

This was a person. The knowledge couldn’t be shaken off. They laughed, they cried, they were afraid, and they were alone.

Not so unlike him.

[bracketsoffear]

Thursday Next (Jasper Fforde) "Thursday Next lives in an Alternate History. In her world, Time Travel, cloning and genetic engineering are commonplace; resurrected dodos are the household pet of choice. The obscenely powerful Goliath Corporation, which nearly singlehandedly reconstructed England after World War II, now runs the country as a virtual police state. And literature, particularly classic literature, is very, very, very Serious Business. Writers are revered with nearly spiritual devotion, controversial claims about books and authors can be criminal, and an entire police squad, the LiteraTecs, exist to keep the literary scene in order. Thursday works for just such a unit in Swindon, with her friend and colleague, the exceedingly polite Bowden Cable.

In the course of rescuing her Gadgeteer Genius uncle Mycroft from international arch-criminal Acheron Hades, a gleefully evil individual with supernatural powers, Thursday discovers the Great Library, a sort of pocket dimension that exists 'behind the scenes' of all works of literature, where all literary characters live. They're self-aware, acting out their roles when a person reads a book but chilling out and living their own lives as soon as they close it. The Great Library is governed by the Council of Genres and kept in line by Jurisfiction, another police force whose task it is to make sure the plot of every book stays the same every time someone reads it. (Insofar as they can.)

Such is the universe of Jasper Fforde's meta-fictional masterpiece, the Thursday Next series. The author hangs a lampshade on everything and anything relating to classic literature, the tropes of police fiction and spy fiction, and even the relationship between a work of fiction and its audience. Heavy on wordplay and puns, the series deals with the tireless heroine's adventures balancing her work as an agent of Jurisfiction in the Great Library and LiteraTec in the outside world, to say nothing of her responsibilities as a wife and mother."

Squee's Wonderful Big Giant Book of Unspeakable Horrors (Jhonen Vasquez) "Squee (named after the sound he makes when he's afraid) is a little boy whose short life is an unending parade of horrors. His parents outwardly detest him to the point where his father watches footage of his birth played in reverse for amusement, and the only kid in school who likes him is the Antichrist, who Squee is terrified of. He has never, ever, ever, had a good dream. Through the course of the book, he is visited by aliens, ghosts, zombies, time travelers and the serial killer next door.

Though Squee is as frightened by all this as anyone else might be, he takes it in his stride with a passive resilience that only a child could possess and the help of Shmee, his teddy bear and 'trauma-sponge.' He gets through the horrors just by being a simple-minded kid. Adults dwell on the past and the future. Kids live squarely in the present, daydream about flying and drink Tang until they forget it all. He takes for granted that the world is scary and just goes to school each day, provided he hasn't been abducted by aliens."

[mercurygray]

Hii Merc, could I please request #10 — emerald — for Eileen? Thank you <3

He had a 48 hour pass and an absolutely clear idea of how he was going to spend it.

The train from Swindon was a stretch, three hours at most, but Lew had a better chance of a decent meal in London, and a decent whisky, too, even with the rationing. He wanted to be in a city again - the lights and the buildings and the bustle. He'd had enough of small town living to last him quite a while, and army food wasn't ever anything anyone asked for by name.

Maxim's, or Claridge's? The Ritz? The Savoy? The possibilities seemed enormous. The Waldorf was the American outpost - perhaps he'd go there.

There was already a flurry of activity at the door, a crowd of servicemen and press types with cameras, clamoring a single name as they pushed and shoved for a better view of whichever celebrity they were anxious to see.

Lew joined the press, trying to actually reach the door for his own dinner, until he realized he knew the name - and the face that went with it.

"Miss Hammond! Miss Hammond! Miss Hammond!"

And there she was, in all her glory - Eileen Hammond. The last time he'd seen her she'd been sporting a t-shirt and shorts and a bloody nose courtesy of Herbert Sobel, but she was wearing nothing of the kind now - an emerald green suit with some kind of fur stole around her shoulders, topped off with a hat that gave slight shades of Robin Hood and Sherwood. An absolute vision, with no evidence, at least from this distance, that her nose had ever been broken or that she had ever been anything but perfectly coiffed and dressed.

She turned to the crowd, obviously practiced with this sort of thing. "Boys, boys, boys. I'm so sorry to disappoint you all but I've got a date waiting for me inside." She gave her biggest smile and glanced beneficently around the crowd, her eyes finding Nix and almost immediately lighting up, like she'd been expecting him. "Oh, Captain Nixon. There you are. Shall we?"

Nix could only mutely offer his arm, Eileen settling her gloves around it like she owned him and beaming to the crowd as she steered the two of them inside, past the doorman and the lobby clerk into the waiting eves of the hotel's restaurant entrance. God, he thought silently. That's an actress.

Once they were well and truly inside she let his arm go. "Well, there you are, Captain. Now you're the envy of every man in town." She gave a little laugh. "What, no free and easy quip? I think this is the first time I've seen Lewis Nixon without something to say."

It was true - he didn't have anything to say. For the first time in a long time, he was well and truly surprised - and, more than that, almost embarrassed. It had been one thing back at Toccoa to make a joke about what he'd do, given a hotel room and half a chance, but he didn't have that kind of power here. Here he was just another guy in a uniform, just like all the other guys out front, clamoring for her like she was a commodity on the exchange. She'd plucked him out, made him worth the attention, when usually it was the other way around, with him doing the plucking. He didn't have the same kind of power here that he usually did. "It may surprise you to hear that escorting movie starlets isn't my usual Friday."

Again that smile - she could blind people with it. "But I'm not just a movie starlet, am I? You could call me Private Hammond if you thought it would go down easier."

Lew thought mutely of Annie Sutton's steely glare and nearly winced. "It wouldn't." He swallowed, tried to gather up more of his customary charm. "So, how does this usually work? You pick some kid from the crowd, give his rank like you know him, and then bring him inside?"

She shook her head. "No. Usually I say I have someone waiting inside and then I eat dinner alone and sneak out the back. The staff here's nice for that."

Lew didn't have a quip for that - only an honest observation. "Sounds lonely."

"It is. But easier to manage."

It felt awkward, now - the honesty. He wasn't honest much, and then only with a very short list of people. The last woman he'd been honest with was - well, Joan. (Joan, who'd have a few words to say about chivalry and helping friends out of tight spots, who had a lot of stories herself about eating alone.) "Well, since I'm already here, it…seems a shame to waste it. Can a fellow treat you to dinner, Miss Hammond?"

He got an honest smile back. "I think he can."

[eclipsewindowsanddoors]

Key Points About Double Glazing Windows

Double glazing windows in the UK offer numerous benefits, making them a popular choice for homeowners. The primary advantage is it reduces heat loss, helping to lower energy bills by maintaining a consistent indoor temperature. Additionally, double glazing improves sound insulation, creating a quieter indoor environment by minimizing external noise. Finally, double glazing reduces condensation and dampness, contributing to a healthier living space.

[heathrowshuttle]

Airport Transfers Heathrow to Swindon

London Heathrow Airport to Swindon door-to-door private airport transfers 24 hours a day 7 days a week. Newer Mercedes Benz Chauffeur-driven executive class service at economy price.  Fixed Prices – No hidden charges.

[jackalsprey]

The 516 Unit (May make this a series)

UM. So...

I may have been digging around @asktrio516's old posts recently, and I discovered an old AU of hers...a Detective AU... and NOW I'VE WRITTEN SOMETHING FOR IT. With headcanons of my own for the characters she didn't mention in that post. EMMA I AM SO SORRY. (And I have another post lined up that involves her ocs... sigh. I am so sorry Emma.)

Anyways - DETECTIVE AU! Not much happens here, I want to save the action for later installments, this is mostly a slice of life depicting the actual relationships and dynamics of the unit.

Oh for quick reference - ages!

Thomas: 24 -Edward: 56 - Henry: 28 (don't ask why I make him and Hiro so young XD) - Gordon: 42 - James: 38 - Percy: 22 - Toby: 53 - Duck: 31 - Donnie and Douglas: 34 - Oliver: 32 - Emily: 27 - Rosie: 23 - Hiro: 30 (not all of them are here, but if I make this a series, then they will be)

Sodor. A small, lush green island off the coast of England, filled with beautiful valleys, towering mountains, and quaint classical towns. It's a vacation hotspot and a thriving business center.

This also means its' crime rate is massive. The local gang, nicknamed the "Diesels" because of their habit of leaving oil on each of the places or people they've robbed, hit all over the island on a regular basis. And that means a cop force has to be in place to stop them.

And luckily for Sodor, they've got some of the best in the UK: The 516 unit. These brave men and women head out into the streets on the daily, ready to kick ass, save the day, and risk their lives to be the heroes the island needs.

Unfortunately, most of them also happen to be idiots, as demonstrated by Detective Montague "Duck" Pannier, and his partner and cousin, Oliver Swindon.

"Oliver, that is disgusting and should not be allowed by God. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion you'll be struck down by him in the next thirty seconds."

Oliver sighed, continuing to stir honey into his mocha latte. The two detectives stood in the unit's walk-in kitchen, it was an ungodly hour of the morning, and frankly, he had neither the time nor the patience for his cousin's bullshit.

"Duck, frankly, I don't give a damn. You be boring over there with your tea and leave me alone."

The blond pinched the bridge of his nose. "There are two ways of doing things, Oliver. The Great Western Way-"

"And the wrong way, I know, I know. And from where I'm sitting..." Oliver cocked his eyebrow. "You're doing it the wrong way."

Before Duck could respond by cracking his mug over his cousin's head (it was his favorite whale mug), the bickering was interrupted by the stern voice of one Gordon Gresley - the 6'2 wall of lean muscle they called their unit chief. Always clad in a blue suit and a pipe in his mouth, his salt and pepper hair neatly brushed, no one tried to piss the chief off unless they had a death wish. Especially not this early in the morning.

"Gentlemen," he sighed.

Oliver snapped to attention, while Duck simply turned around and leaned against the counter, sipping from his mug unconcernedly. "Chief Gresley, sir! What can we do for you?"

"Stop blocking the fridge, for a start," he grumbled. "Don't keep a man from his breakfast."

Oliver scrambled out of the way, while Gordon yanked open their beaten-up fridge and pulled out a carton of vanilla yogurt and some milk. He firmly believed in the idea of keeping as much calcium in your body as possible. The last thing he needed was for his officers to get broken bones. Popping the lid off, he made the rare choice to make small talk - about work, of course.

"Have you seen any of the others so far today?" He asked his detective duo. "I haven't heard anyone come in besides you two."

Duck shrugged, gesturing out to the maze of cubicles behind the door his chief had just walked through. "I saw Edward head downstairs to the analog systems. No clue why he loves those old things so much. Haven't seen anyone else so far."

Oliver scratched his neck. "The twins should be here soon. Douglas is just picking Donald up."

"Oh, of course you know just where Douggie is," Duck teased, wiggling his eyebrows and dodging the fist aimed at his ear.

Sighing, Oliver continued. "And I think the rookies are on their way as well, sir."

"Eager kids," Gordon commented, gulping down some milk and putting the carton back. "They piss me off, but they'll be good. Eventually."

The rookies in question were Rosita "Rosie" Davenport, Thomas Awdry, and Percy Wickham. They were all recent graduates of the police academy and had been serving in the unit for only a few months respectively. Thomas and Percy in particular were described as the "little shit nuggets" by the Scottish Twins, and had issues with following orders. Rosie at least was good at listening and could be trusted to not do anything stupid... most of the time.

Duck finished his tea with a sigh and put the mug in the sink. "Well, I'm off to work on the Diseasel case. You coming, Oliver?"

"Gimme a minute, gotta finish the coffee."

"That coffee is an abomination."

"Duck, you son of a-"

"Stop, both of you," Gordon sighed. "God, why can't Edward be around right now..."

=================================

Contrary to what the movies and TV said, most of the police work was paperwork and not charging into warehouses and criminal gang hideouts, though there was still plenty of that involved. Instead, most members of the 516 unit, who had since filed into the office in varying stages of tiredness, sat at their desks, filling out reports, sorting old files, and trying their best to stay awake. That last part was having various levels of success.

Finally, one particular agent couldn't stand it any longer - the Latino ladies man James Hughes. Tall, with wavy black hair that had a couple red streaks in the front, and always in a red leisure suit with black undertones, he looked sexy and he knew it. He stood up, slammed his laptop shut, and shouted at the top of his lungs.

"If we don't get a new case in the next five minutes, I will jump out of the window after breaking it with Gordon's chair!"

"I think we'd all appreciate that, James," Oliver grumbled from his corner. "Jumping out the window, not breaking it and Gordon's chair."

"I don't give a fuck, I'm bored and I'm antsy! Give us a fucking case already!"

Thomas hopped to his feet as well. "I'm with James! Why is today so slow?"

Donald (or was it Douglas?) scoffed. "Ah, the action'll come latter for ye, laddie. Most days, bein a coppa's just this bullshit."

Douglas (or was it Donald?) nodded in agreement with his brother. "Aye. It ain't all shoot-outs and drug busts, lad."

And perfectly on cue, the sires went off, announcing the arrival of a new case. The loudspeakers came up with the voice of their PA, Emily Gallagher, giving them the update.

"Unit 516, I need at least two officers to respond to a 10-33 in Arlesburgh - it appears there has been another Diesel attack. Vandalism and larceny are the accused crimes."

"You were saying, gentlemen?" James cackled, already on his way out the door. "Yo, Thomas! You wanna get some action?"

"Hell yeah!" The younger man fist-pumped and followed him.

"Remember to call for-"

SLAM!

"Back-up..." Gordon finished, sighing heavily.

Just another day at the 516 unit.

======================

JESUS THIS TOOK WAY TOO LONG. Once again, Emma, I am so sorry.

The AU and the designs in mind belong to @asktrio516, of course.

[aercascade]

Tented Market - Scrapbook

These are some more rougher photos, taken of the Tented Market before it's closure on the 31st of August 2017.

On a beautiful sunny day in 2017 I decided to visit the Tented Market for 1 last time before it's closure.

It had a special place in my heart as when I was a young child I remember my parents taking me here, it was a different time back then. The Tented Market was alive and well. The thriving market was a bastion for local businesses.

The pristine white roofs were well kept, bright and followed a theme of the town centre. It wasn't the only place to feature such decor, but over time it had been changed.

As the town of swindon grew, the Tented Market remained much the same. It was home to great local businesses but they could not survive against the competitors.

The council invested more into the Brunel Centre, and times changed; the local stores within this once welcoming structure could no longer compete. It was a time capsule still standing but barely.

Even outwardly, they had to remind people the place was still open. Signs were plastered all over the building. An attempt to save the doomed building.

It was clear that those left in this place still actively loved and appreciated the Tented Market. Unfortunately. It did little to save it.

What used to be a grand entrance to the Tented market, had nothing to advertise itself as a bustling store. It's no wonder they needed signs to remind the passersby that the place was still open.

At the staircase to one of the main entrances. It was so neglected, not even the typical unsavoury type had any desire to loiter here. It was that empty.

The placard sign commemorated the market being open for a grand total of 22 years. It's one reason why the closure of the Tented Market hit me.

There are definitely older shopping centres in Swindon. Though that's discrediting what the Tented Market was before this was built in 1994.

Obviously, this was well before my time. I have no photographs of the Tented Market in any other state.

Unfortunately I took 1 photograph of the Tented Market map. I wish I took more photographs of the Tented Market, but 2017 “me” was a bit more afraid of taking pictures inside businesses.

This map wasn't even accurate, there are more businesses that were on there than there should be. Ouch.

In one of the many empty shop spaces I saw a "SAVE OUR TENT MARKET" poster. One of many attempts to spare the market from closure.

Left, you can see the remains of the comic shop. On the right I can't remember what it was. At the only used entrance you could see 2 of the last remaining shops in the Tented Market.

In 2013 when I was still attending college I visited this place for lunch. At this time it was clearly on its way out but the Tented Market had it's share of visitors.

You could walk in here and smell the exotic food. I can say it was pretty good. At the time of this photo, it was nothing. Just an empty stall and a reminder of what was lost.

They still kept the bench and chair used by the very few customers who would wait for their order... yes. When I was at college it was the very chair I sat on waiting for my chicken wrap. Nothing had changed in that time.

It was still advertising the same menu available in 2013, Eggelicious was only a recent move. Setting sights on a new offering opening up in the Brunel Centre...

The Brunel Centre in this year (2017) was undergoing a drastic renovation to one of the interior corridors. They opened it up into a designated food hall. It seemed at this time Eggelicious decided to finally abandon the Tented Market and instead opt for the much newer food court instead.

Included is the photograph of them building the escalator to the new food hall still in progress.

I found some stickers that had accumulated on the door, A time capsule. Including a sticker that read "Never Trust a Hipster"

Here is a collection of empty doors, empty stores. Much appears the same.

For a time I can remember there existing an American Candy store. I can't say I'm surprised they didn't take off. The drink I had was so sugary and expensive... I'll stick to European snacks I think.

They still tried to get people on board. I hadn't taken note of what that sign said until today... I mean if they're still offering up a commercial space for £20 a week. I'd be down to set up a photography shop.

That's not half bad... if you ignore the fact this place is dead. Also not opening ever again.



That is the end of the Tented Market. There are whispers here and there of redevelopment. Like much of Swindon it's destined to become something else.

Something mid. That is.

That isn't all I have to show of Swindon. There are far more parts of the it to be documented!

~ Aercascade

[barbers11]

Barbers in Bristol(Barbers in Emersons Green & Barbers in Bradley stoke)

When they first opened, their aim was to be a barbershop near the community they serve. And they have stayed true to that goal by not just cutting hair, but also by offering training that leads to jobs for those who are homeless, elderly, young people, or anyone who wants to stay on the right path. Their services have since been extended to their barber shops in Bristol, with one in Emersons Green and another in Bradley Stoke (opening soon!). And they have plans to expand to more locations in the future.

Their Swindon barbershop is located at the North Orbital Centre, opposite the library, and just a few doors down from Costa. It has been rated one of the three best barbershops and top barbers near you in Swindon. The local barbershop caters to people in the area who are looking for barbers that cater to all types of hair, including black and Afro hair. They are also one of the men's barbers and barbers in Swindon that open daily.

At Route 8 Barbers, you can expect to be served by highly-trained barbers who are experienced in helping their clients look and feel amazing. They use only the best products in the market, and their barbering skills are second to none. But more than that, they strive to make a positive impact in their community by giving back and empowering those who are in need.

So if you're looking for a barbershop that offers more than just a haircut, visit Route 8 Barbers in barbers in bristol You won't just leave with a great haircut, but also with the satisfaction of knowing that you've supported a business that is dedicated to making a difference in the community.

[sergeant-spoons]

50. It Would Be You

Leslie Sheppard

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​ @chaosklutz​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​ @50svibes​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​​ @heirsoflilith​​​​​ @itswormtrain​​​​​ @actualtrashpanda​​​​​ @wtrpxrks​​​​​

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, the seven friends groggily packed their things and met up in the hotel restaurant for breakfast, some still blinking away sleep while the rest reflected excitedly on the concert and all they would tell their friends back in Aldbourne. Daylight revealed a cloudy horizon, and by the time they'd boarded the train to Swindon, the sky had opened up, shrouding London in a misty shower. The ladies (plus Penk) claimed two compartments while their friends dealt with all their luggage, and as the last whistle blew before their departure, they scattered to pick their seats and settle in for the ride. The journey would take them an hour at the most; accordingly, they were expected to rejoin the day's training as soon as they returned to the base. Mulling over what they might have missed in the garage yesterday, Leslie stretched out on a cushioned bench, crossing one leg over the other, facing the window. She yawned into her hand, then flashed a smile at her friends as Tink dragged Kiko into the compartment—and shut the door.

"I had a dream last night," Tink blurted out, plopping down on the seat across from Leslie, who looked at Kiko, who, in turn, shrugged.

"A dream?" Leslie asked, swinging her legs down and turning her torso to face her friends, quirking her head and brow as one.

"One helluva dream," Tink repeated, shaking her head. "Sit."

Kiko did so.

"I think maybe if I tell it to you two, I might be able to make some sense of it."

Leslie gestured—the floor is yours—and Tink slouched back on the bench, looking up at the luggage rack above Leslie's head.

"The way it started was, I was sitting in the big armchair that Mama E keeps beside the fireplace in her office..."

Socket was napping in her lap, she told them, and Meatball was curled up on the rug beside the fireplace, also asleep. Tink was at peace, stroking Socket as she dozed in the armchair. The fire burned low and as the light dimmed, she started to sense a presence watching her from the shadows in the hall. It felt like somebody she loved was coming near, so she looked up and called out, and that was when the sneering face clawed its way out of the darkness, contorted with disgust—

"Tink?"

She felt a pressure on her wrist and the face disintegrated. Kiko was gripping her hand, frowning, her eyes wide and her face a little pale. Blinking hard, Tink rebounded, the train compartment rapidly reshaping around her. She tried to smile at her friends, but it was a meager attempt, and they saw right through her.

"You alright?" Leslie asked, and Kiko nodded as if seconding the query.

"Yeah, sorry," Tink chuckled awkwardly, itching the inside of her elbow. "Did I stop talking?"

"Uh-huh," Kiko said, her brow still furrowed with unease, "right after you said you thought someone was coming near."

"Right. I..." 

Tink's gaze wandered a bit as she thought, but she was still with them, present in the moment and the conversation, and that was a relief. 

"I was expecting one of you, or my brothers, or my cousin Janie, but nobody was in the doorway when I looked up, and not in the hall, either."

The absence of a particular name on Tink's list did not go unnoticed by her friends, though they didn't speak and knew better than to risk a shared glance.

"I couldn't get up because Socket was on my lap, so I asked who was there, and..." She ran her hand down her nose and cheek, then rubbed the side of her jaw and neck, soothing her agitation. "There was a face, stepping out from the darkness."

"Who?"

"It wasn't anybody I recognized," she hummed, puzzled, "but he looked kind of like..."

Several long seconds passed. Tink squinted at the cushion backing beside Leslie and did not move or make any attempt to continue her revelation aloud. Just as Kiko moved to touch her arm, worried she needed to be woken again, Tink straightened up and sighed.

"Scratch that, I did recognize him," she admitted, "I just didn't want to be right about it."

"You don't mean..?" Leslie nodded at the wall past Tink's head to signify one of their friends in the compartment over, specifically the one whose fondness for Tink was known to all but Tink herself.

"Huh?" Tink reddened slightly. "Oh, no, it wasn't- Not him. It- it was-"

A hiccup of grief cut her off, and she looked aside as if ashamed.

"It was Charlie," she revealed reluctantly, "but he looked old. Not grandpa-old, but... withered. Like, uh, like when a flower starts to wilt at the first winter frost."

As soon as she laid eyes on him, Tink said, he flew into a rage. He hollered at her for what seemed like a convoluted and stretched forever, going off about small things she had done recently that would have annoyed him had he been there to witness them. Confused and frightened, Tink cowered in the armchair, holding Socket to her chest to calm the racing of her heart. Meatball started meowing, only adding to the cacophony. Then something in the air burst and Charlie surged towards her, his fists clenched and a wicked fire in his eyes, and the window on the other side of the office shattered. As Tink screamed, someone leaped through the window, rushing toward Charlie. The figure tackled him away and he vanished into the shadows, and as Tink gaped, she realized she knew her savior, even without seeing his face.

"And I think it was because he was waking me up," she says, "that George showed up in the dream. He was there, standing in front of me, and then he turned around and looked at me and he looked worried, and then I woke up and he was still there, the actual George, staring at me, trying to wake me up."

Leslie considered this for a moment. "Did you tell him about the dream?"

"George? No. I just told him I had a nightmare, but not what about." As Tink's pondering gaze caught on Kiko, her brow creased. "What're you lookin' so sad for?"

Kiko quickly put on a smile. "Oh, no reason, just... thinking."

Tink scrunched up one side of her mouth, then tried at a smile of her own.

"I'm fine, Kiko, really," she reassured, squeezing her friend's hand as she guessed at what had got her down. "It was just a bad dream." She stood and rolled her shoulders back, then stretched her arms toward the ceiling. "Well, I'm gonna go see if Skip wants to lose at canasta."

"Again?" Despite her grin, Leslie widened her eyes as if pitying. "Have mercy on the poor boy!"

Laughing, Tink slipped out the compartment door to visit their neighbors. Only a minute or so after they heard the muffled challenge being made (followed by the usual commotion as the card game was set up), the door opened again and let another familiar face through.

"Heya!"

"Hi, George."

"Hello, Luz."

"Either o' you seen Lucky?"

They shared a glance, and George quirked a brow.

"What's that look for?" he asked, half-jesting, half-concerned.

"You got a minute, George?"

At once, he came in and sat with them, and the coincidence of him sitting right where Tink had sat only moments prior did not go unnoticed by his companions, for he had to go around Kiko to sit by the window instead of taking the easier spot next to Leslie. As the sounds of the enthusiastic card game swelled next door, Leslie leaned forward, her elbows braced against her knees and tilted her head at George.

"Tink said you woke her up from a nightmare."

"Yeah, I did." He blinked. "Is she alright? It seemed like a real bad dream-"

"She's fine," Leslie reassured. "But, uh, George... did you two share a room last night?"

"She didn't...?" At the looks on their faces, George blushed. "Oh. Oh, uh, yeah, we did, I just- I thought she would have told you."

"She did," Leslie supposed, looking directly at the man who had roused Tink from her turbulent dream, "but in a roundabout sort of way, not outright."

"Oh, well, uh..." George rubbed the side of his neck, clearly nervous now that the light of day was upon him. "She stopped Skippy and I before we could leave her her own room and told us she didn't wanna sleep all by her lonesome. She didn't say that she didn't wanna, exactly, but that she, uh... couldn't. And she asked me to stay."

Even before he'd finished speaking, a troubled look had crept upon Leslie's face; the more he spoke, the longer it lingered.

"She's had trouble sleeping ever since we came overseas, especially alone, but... George, do you think she knew she'd have a nightmare?"

After a beat of consideration, their friend dipped his chin in concurrence.

"Now that you mention it, I think she did. She kept tugging at her clothes and looking out the window at the sky and then didn't hear me half the time I talked to her. I don't think she was uncomfortable—she fell asleep right away—but she sure was, ah, tense."

"I'm sure it wasn't you," Leslie assured. "Kiko and I are both glad you stayed with her."

Their third companion started to nod, and George relaxed, but then Leslie wrinkled up her nose and drummed her fingers on the cushion beside her.

"That is, unless you two, um...?"

Kiko's smile became a little awkward, but she didn't challenge the unspoken question, knowing for their friend's sake it had to be asked.

"Hmm?" George looked between the two young women, then blanched and rocked back on his bench. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no! Just sleeping together. Actual sleeping! In the same bed! But that's all! I wouldn't-"

"Catch your breath," Leslie cut him off, reassuring. "We believe you."

"Okay." He looked a little upset—tense, even, like he'd said Tink had been. "I just- I don't want any sort o' rumor to get started, something that could hurt her."

"We know." Leslie leaned over and patted his knee. "That's why you're such a good friend to her."

"... Thank-"

"Can I say something crazy?"

Leslie and George turned to Kiko. She'd been silent for a while, but now that she had spoken, they could tell she'd been deep in solemn reflection. Assenting, George tipped his head at her, and she considered her words a moment more before speaking.

"If I had my pick of anybody in the world for her to be engaged to," she confessed, lowering her voice, and they all knew who she was talking about, "it wouldn't be that nasty Charlie Hammond. It would be you, George. I wish it was you."

George's cheeks and neck took on a rosy hue, but in tandem, his smile began to fade. As if they were fingers pinching out a candle's fragile flame, Kiko's words extinguished the laughter in his eyes.

"Well, shit..." He picked at his thumbnail and scrunched up the lower half of his face, uncharacteristically shy. "I wish that, too."

The door blustered open and they all jumped, and when Tink poked her head, she was smiling as if she half-jokingly and half-seriously suspected she'd barged in on something.

"What is this, a secret council?" she joked. "What's with the guilty faces?"

"No reason," Leslie laughed, waving off her suspicion, which easily melted away. "What's up, Tink?"

"We're almost there," she told them, and her friends could tell she'd won the card game because she was noticeably more cheerful than when she'd left them. "I can see Swindon through the window out here in the hall."

"Really?" 

George got up and went with her to look. Kiko stuck her foot out and kept the compartment door propped open so they could listen in to the conversation, and Leslie scooted down the bench to see better.

"Look, just past the trees—hold on, we gotta get around this hill..."

"Oh, yeah, I see it. There's the church on the edge of town."

"You ever been?"

"No," George admitted, "we've got sermons on the base."

"You should come with me sometime. The pastor's a real sweetheart. He's absolutely ancient but in a lot o' ways, he's pretty, uh..."

"Forward-thinking?"

"Yeah!"

"Maybe I will come."

Tink went quiet for a long moment. Kiko couldn't see from where she was sitting, but Leslie could, and the sudden hesitance in Tink's demeanor made her a little nervous to hear what her friend was about to say.

"George?" Tink asked at last; he had already turned to her before she'd gotten the first syllable out.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

He rocked back and forth on his heels, his thumbs tucked through his belt loops.

"For what?"

"You know for what."

"Oh. Oh, well, yeah, of course, you were havin' a bad-"

"No, not for- well, yes, for wakin' me up, but, not-"

Tink took a deep breath.

"Thank you, George, for being my friend."

Leslie stuck out her neck, peering through the gap in the door. When she leaned back in, she was trying her best to stifle a smile.

"What?" Kiko mouthed, trying to see around the flimsy compartment wall.

Leslie mimed holding hands, nodding not-so-subtly toward the oblivious pair in the hall, and though Kiko looked endeared at first, her expression quickly turned sad. As Leslie's own smile began to fade, Kiko moved her foot, allowing the door to slide shut, then reached up to fasten the latch.

"In another life," Leslie said softly, and Kiko nodded, her gaze falling to Leslie's shoes without really seeing them.

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