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ironcladrhett · 1 year ago

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TIMING: Current (last night) LOCATION: Alan’s house, World’s End Isle PARTIES: Rhett (@ironcladrhett) & Alan (@alan-duarte) SUMMARY: Definitely worried about Alan’s shoulder after having been shot (and definitely not just an excuse to see him), Rhett drops in on the realtor unannounced. It’s going fine until Alan admits to Rhett, in not so many words, that he knows he’s a hunter, and he knows he attacked Cass and Alex. CONTENT WARNINGS: Wrspice (implied, it fades to black)

—

It had been months since he’d gotten shot by that fucking hunter. The wound had time to mend itself but you couldn’t say the same about Alan. The weather would only get worse and worse as the days went by, and the latest rainfall had made his shoulder ache. Still, how could he possibly regret stepping in the way? Ever since Alex had stepped into the werewolf’s life, he felt as though he had another, new reason to wake up in the morning. There was the purpose that came along with being a mentor of sorts, of course, but he also had to admit to appreciating the girl’s company, even if she spent half her air criticizing his housing projects and the other half talking about Cass.

His hand idly rubbing at his shoulder, Alan’s eyes scanned through his emails. His empty coffee cup sat nearby, next to a pile of ongoing contracts and a plate that only had a bunch of crumbs to hold now. He didn’t usually bring work home but to say they were short staffed would have been an understatement. Alan could have hired someone extra, but there weren’t many people looking forward to living or working in a town where the floor wanted you dead (or anything close enough to that), and he hadn’t found anyone who could do the job properly among the very few resumes that were sent their way.

His jaw popped as he yawned and if that wasn’t enough proof that he needed a change of mind, a knock on the door finished convincing him out of his duties. And yet, as he opened the door, answering negatively to desperate emails suddenly didn’t seem like such a terrible idea. What was he doing here?

—

He’d been attacked. Shot out in the woods while… what, hiking? The sudden surge of concern had been alarming, making his steps falter. Ophelia walked on without him for a few seconds before realizing her father wasn’t beside her anymore, slowing and turning around to face him. “What? What is it?” she inquired curiously. Rhett shook his head, his frown deepening as he tapped away at the screen. His daughter let out a huff of breath, closing the distance between them again and putting her hands on her hips. “Dad. What is it?”

Rhett clicked the screen off and stuffed the device in his pocket, shaking his head again. “Nothin’,” he lied, flashing her a brief, unconvincing smile. She frowned and rolled her eyes, pulling the sleeve of her flannel back to check the time.

“Ah, shit, I have to go—we’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow, okay?” The warden grimaced, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Do we gotta?” “Yes, we gotta. You need a place to live that isn’t that atrocious van!” Ophelia argued, shutting down his continued protest with a feisty glare. The man relented, holding up his hands in defeat. “Good. Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Can… can we do the afternoon, instead?” Rhett tried, giving her a hopeful look and a shrug. Ophelia narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, then nodded.

“Fine. 11am is late enough. Don’t be hungover,” she warned, grabbing him in a tight hug before hurrying off down the street to the nearest bus stop. Rhett sighed, watching her go for a moment before calling a taxi to take him to World’s End Isle.

The ride wasn’t unfamiliar, and neither was the home that stood before him as he got out of the taxi. Shoving a hand into his pocket, he paid his fare before moving toward the front door, pausing to pull his hair up into a messy bun along the way and push up the sleeves of the dark button-up he was wearing. He was still clad in jeans and boots, but they were a far cry from the ratty old things Alan had insisted he’d tossed. Knocking on the door, he didn’t have to wait long in the bitter cold of the darkening evening (he really should have worn a coat) for Alan to pull it open.

And just like that, his words failed him and he felt a little stupid for being here. Not unannounced, that’d never been a problem for him, but… ah, forget it. His gaze jumped from Alan’s face to one shoulder, then the other, then back to his face.

“Hey,” he said stupidly, sucking in a sharp breath. “You, ah… I was… nearby, and I thought… uh. How’s your…” Another deep breath, and the warden closed his eyes. “I been shot ‘afore. Sometimes leaves… chronic pain. Learned a few… massagin’ techniques to take the edge off. Thought I could help. Maybe.”

—

While Alan doubted at first that Rhett just happened to be in the neighborhood, he then remembered Emilio saying that he had moved into the realtor’s neighborhood and it wasn't like they had not spoken recently. It was a bit perilous, to keep talking to him as though he wasn't aware of what had happened between the hunter and Cass, or of Alex’s involvement.

Alan could get along with hunters, if they were reasonable. He got along with Emilio just fine. This complicated things. He appreciated Emilio, he cared a lot for Alex, which meant that he cared for Cass too, but ultimately, Alan also had a fondness for the man who stood on his doorstep with a bashful, stammering stream of words and what seemed like an attempt at sympathy and honesty. It was in a moment like this Alan wished he hadn't let others soften him up.

“Alright, don't stay here,” crossing his arms to wrap his cardigan around him and attempt to stay warm, he pushed himself aside. “Do you want to drink something?”

—

“Aye, when don’t I?” Rhett chuckled, moving into the home and giving a soft sigh of relief at the warmth that wrapped around him. He was still barely used to actual winters and didn’t quite prepare for them right, always overestimating his ability to handle the cold. A shiver ran up his spine and he let his gaze sweep over the place, still finding new things he’d missed despite having been here a few times. It was… nice. Maybe having a place to live that wasn’t on wheels wouldn’t be so bad.

“Anythin’s fine.” Not picky, he didn’t have to say. Alan knew that, obviously. He turned to the man as they made their way to the kitchen, his brow wrinkling as he thought about what he wanted to say.

“Hey… maybe you oughtta stick to like, neighborhood trails, aye? The woods out beyond downtown are… fucked.” He stepped a bit closer to minimize the distance between them, one hand gently finding Alan’s shoulder. “... which one?”

—

“I’ll get something from the wine cellar,” Alan’s gaze drifted toward the lights across the street. Some of his neighbors were already decorating for Christmas, and their houses could have replaced the public lighting with ease. His parents always found it wasteful and Alan had always preferred to keep his front lawn decorations to a tasteful minimum, which didn’t clash with the minimalism of his house, or Alan’s less than sunny personality. “You’re alright with Californian wine?” Most likely.

Two glasses were poured and while Alan focused on that, he could try to ignore just for a little bit the irony of Rhett’s words. One of the reasons the woods were so fucking dangerous for Alan was the presence of people who shared Rhett’s belief that a certain part of the local population didn’t deserve to live. And yet that hand on his shoulder was easy to lean against. “Wrong pick,” Alan glanced up to find the other’s eyes, and tapped on the left shoulder. The hunter didn’t look very frightening right now, did he? “Massaging techniques?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, as if he challenged the other’s ability to soothe out pain rather than cause it. “Your hand is cold dear, I’m gonna start a fire in the living room.”

—

“Where yer other scar is? Man. Unlucky shoulder,” the hunter mused, catching that look in Alan’s eyes and letting out a soft sigh. As the other announced his intention to make a fire, Rhett picked up his glass from the counter, leaning instead onto his cane as he stepped forward after his friend to slowly follow him into the next room. “S’what I said,” he answered, albeit delayed, at Alan’s apparent disbelief that there was much to be done about the aching wound. Or at least that there wasn’t much Rhett could do. Which was… fair. More fair than he figured the man knew, considering there’d not been any threats of violence yet. The way they’d carried on online, he assumed that news of the girls hadn’t made it back to Alan, which told him two things: Alan was unaware of the supernatural (which would stop the girls from having said anything, most likely), and by extension, he himself was quite normal. Human.

Or at least this was the logic that he applied because he hoped it was true. He couldn’t imagine someone putting on a facade just to fool him, pretending that they didn’t know something as devastating as what he’d done to those girls just to… to what? Get the jump on him? It didn’t make sense, so that couldn’t be it. No, he had no idea, and Rhett found himself clinging to that idea more desperately with each moment of calm familiarity that passed between them.

Parking himself on the couch while his host went about building a fire, Rhett rested his cane against the coffee table, keeping his eye trained on the other man. A finger reached up idly to push itself beneath the eyepatch and scratch at skin unseen. “Kinda good I been half-blind fer a couple years now,” he said suddenly, gesturing vaguely at the eyepatch when Alan looked over. “Would be havin’ a hell of a time with depth perception, otherwise.” It was said with a dry, nearly humorless chuckle. He’d long since adjusted, and the eye he’d lost to trauma was no more useful when it was still plugged into his head. It wasn’t something he readily told people, because it was a weakness, and he hated admitting those, but… well, it was a lot more obvious now anyway, wasn’t it? Anyway, he didn’t have to mention the fact that he could barely see out of the eye that remained. Even Emilio didn’t know about that.

—

“Same one,” Alan confirmed. Right above that one bite mark he considered still a curse rather than a blessing. It was easier to tell Alex that she should embrace it than to make her feel the same way he did. There was no cure to the evil they suffered, and there was no undoing the things Alan did. There were some things he didn’t regret, of course, but there was too much he had lost for the benefits to outweigh the disadvantages.

Sitting by the fireplace with a log in his hands, he looked over at Rhett, unaware of the hunter’s mental peregrinations. He was going through his own : it seemed unlikely that man was going to be able to do anyone harm in that state, but there was a chance he’d want to get his revenge. That is what Alan would have done if he’d been standing in his shoes. Maybe now was the right moment to ask Rhett about it. What could he do to him anyway? He had a bad leg and worse eyesight than before, and Alan liked to think he wouldn’t have come all the way to his house if he hadn’t appreciated him at all. “Since we’re talking about things that we’ve carried around for a few years,” he pushed himself back up, as the firestarter did its work and the wood started cracking gently against the new flames, “you know that old scar of mine?” He rubbed his fingers over his sweater, right where he knew the irregular scar remained. You could tell that he wasn’t the most comfortable talking about it, after all these years. Still, he took a seat, on the other end of the couch, and picked up his glass of wine. “That’s something Alex and I have in common,” with a clearly knowing look, he turned his attention toward the hunter’s face. There was no trace of amusement on Alan’s face. He didn’t particularly enjoy having this conversation with Rhett, but it wasn’t like the other had left him with much of a choice. “I’m not trying to ambush you. You’d have joined the club already if I did,” but that was not the sort of fate he wished on anyone and Alan hoped he never did such a thing on one of his full moons.

—

Alan was uncomfortable. The things he was saying didn't quite click at first, and the warden just cocked his head at the man, wearing a soft, bemused smile. That’s something Alex and I have in common. His heart leapt into his throat at the girl’s name, body tensing reflexively. He felt his too-strong grip on the glass threatening to shatter it, and instead leaned forward to set it down on the coffee table, realizing that his hand was shaking as he pulled back again. “What?” he balked, refusing to believe what he was being told.

Alan was a fucking werewolf? And he knew—he knew, this whole time. There was a vague threat in there, one that had been restrained only because of… whatever this was that they shared, apparently. The hunter’s heartbeat had kicked up significantly, fearful in spite of Alan’s assurances that if he wanted Rhett dead—or worse—it would’ve already come to pass. There was no pretending now. No reason to act like he wasn’t a killer, like Alan didn’t know that he’d attacked Cass and Alex in the woods, and that his fresh scars and permanent injuries were a result of the young werewolf protecting what she loved.

Before her, he would have been angry. He would have been furious for being duped like this, duped into caring for someone who was… was… The insults felt bitter on his tongue, and of course his thoughts went briefly to his daughter. He’d been a hypocrite plenty of times in his life, he knew that, but he couldn’t—he’d said he wouldn’t. He was retired now. He couldn’t—

“You’re… I…” He didn’t know what to say, hating the feeling of fear and hurt taking up residence where the anger should have been. “I didn’t know—she… I thought I was protectin’ her,” he breathed, rising from the couch and grabbing his cane before he sank back to the floor without it. For the brief few moments before she turned and attacked us, sure. “Then she—look. Listen. I ain’t—I’m retired now, aye? I don’t…” He felt sick. Whatever sort of affection he held for the man—no, the werewolf—sitting at the other end of the couch felt tainted by his deeply ingrained disgust for inhuman things, but he was wrestling with his acceptance of his daughter at the same time. He couldn’t have it both ways, and yet his mind was trying to put the blinders back on.

He took a wobbly step backward, waving his free hand in the air defensively. “I don’t want no more trouble,” he muttered, turning away from Alan to try and hobble back toward the front door.

—

“I…” Well this wasn’t what Alan had expected. For a moment, he thought he saw it : the anger, the disgust, but there was nothing but worry and something akin to fright there. At least Alan figured that must have been fright, and he realized that perhaps he had just fucked up here. “Rhett, please…” It wasn’t like he was gonna outrun the werewolf, not in the state he was in and Alan still rushed past him, if only to stand in his way and attempt to have a conversation. “I’m sorry, I…” Putting his hands before him, Alan felt oddly vulnerable, for someone who wasn’t precisely under any threat other than Rhett’s sudden departure.

It was too much at once. Finding out Alan was a werewolf, finding out he knew about the hunting thing, about the incident with Cass, about the incident with Alex. But the werewolf was feeling a whirl of conflicting emotions ever since he had heard what happened, and the more he spoke with the hunter, the more confused he was with what was the right course of action. If he hadn’t known Rhett at all, it wouldn’t have been difficult. It would have been quite simple, really. With a sigh, Alan looked down to the side, finding it difficult to hold up his gaze.

“Can we just sit down and talk?” Because he’d just follow him outside, stubborn as he was. “You said you retired, yeah?” Whatever that meant. Retirement didn’t make anyone like Rhett completely harmless, but the way he said it made Alan wonder what had pushed him to make that call. He had mentioned a daughter earlier today, and now that the werewolf saw the damage done by Alex, he could take a wild guess and claim that the hunter was now unfit for carrying out his duties. “I wish I could do the same,” with a bitter scoff, he glanced the other way, still avoiding looking him in the eyes.

—

Alan stopping him, apologizing and asking him to just talk were things that desperately confused the warden. He came to an abrupt halt, of course, keeping his distance from Alan, knowing that there was no chance of him forcing his way through. Even with his enhanced strength, he was crippled. There was nothing to do about it, so he stayed, trapped like a stray dog for the second time in as many months.

At least this werewolf wasn’t trying to gut him like a fish.

There was a weak attempt at humor that was met with a soft exhale from Rhett, not quite a laugh, but an acknowledgement of what Alan was saying. He looked as bewildered as he felt, the grip on his cane tightening as he steadied himself on his feet and lifted it to his waist, like he was afraid he was going to have to use it to defend himself. It was clear he didn’t want a fight, because they both knew it would be his last one, but he couldn’t help the reaction.

“Nothin’ to talk about,” he argued, his voice strained with emotion. He too was looking anywhere but at Alan, his one-eyed gaze raking over the ceiling as he spoke again in a voice that was nearly too soft and too upset to be coming from such a typically gruff, loud man. “I fucked up,” he breathed, his knuckles turning white as they clutched the cane even tighter. It wasn’t clear what exactly he was referring to, though one could surmise that it was likely his attack on Alex and Cass—though in his mind, coming here had been part of it. Engaging with Alan had been part of it, even back when he thought nothing of it, because it always just made things harder. He wasn’t built for this. Never had been, and he shouldn’t have tried again. Not even to the level that they had… which was far from falling in love, but still. He cared for Alan in a way that was mostly foreign to him these days, and caring for people… well, shit, look what it had put him through with Emilio. Hell and back again.

His eye finally found Alan’s face and he hissed in a sharp breath when he felt it welling with tears. “Please,” he begged, not sure what he was begging for. He just wanted to leave, but… he also didn’t. He wanted them to be okay, but some part of him was ready to convince him that they never could. That made sense, right? How could it ever be okay?

This was why he shouldn’t be looking for a place to live. He’d fucked things up here, beyond the point of repair. There was no home to be had here. And Ophelia… she’d be better off without him. He was a destroyer, nothing more.

—

“Really? You’re gonna tell me that what happened in the woods was nothing?” The bitterness of Alan’s tone clashed with Rhett’s, and it took the werewolf aback as well, as if he had expected their tones to match instead. They both had a right to be furious at the other, didn’t they?

Confused, but not defeated yet, he pressed his lips into a thin line. “This makes things easier, don’t you think?” A monster meets a monster ; a killer, a killer, and a liar, a liar. They both had a lot of terrible things on their ledger, without a doubt, but Alan didn’t ask Rhett to stay because he wanted to have a look at an hypothetical moral balance if only because he worried his own would be just as bad, if not worse.

“You don’t precisely have a monopoly on having done terrible things or fucking up,” and he held out his hand, not entirely sure of whether the other would reject it or not. “I’m not… I just want to talk and sort things out,” because he was tired of seeing people he cared about hurt, and of losing people. He didn’t want to lose Alex, but he had come to realize he didn’t really want to lose Rhett either. What they had might have been new, he cared for that fool enough to ask him, once again to have a word with him. Maybe Alan was the fool here, who knew?

“I’m not a good person myself, but… I’m trying to be better,” because he’d seen the kind of change it made. Alan kept to himself the fact that a fae had been partly responsible for the change, at first. Forced kindness surely had done a lot for Alan’s morale at first, worsening it each passing day until he realized how different things were when he addressed others with consideration. “C’mon. You’ll be sorry you didn’t try the wine, and it’s warmer by the fireplace than out there, and…” then, and only then, he tried looking at Rhett, catching sight of near teary eyes and the look he gave him was an apologetic one. “I really am sorry for the way I brought this up.”

—

He stared at the extended hand, knowing it for what it was: an olive branch, and yet… His gaze jumped back up to find Alan’s just as he was looking at him. And he apologized again. And Rhett realized he still had yet to do that, but didn’t know if he could. He swallowed hard, finally releasing the cane with his left hand and setting it back against the floor where it belonged, leaning onto it as he realized his leg was aching.

He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, sighed, and tried again. “I’m tryin’, too. To be better.” Annoyed that his body had betrayed him, the warden pressed the sleeve of his shirt over his ‘good’ eye to soak up the unspilled tears, lowering his arm again and shaking out the nervous energy that was building up in him like a terrible storm. Again his gaze fell to Alan’s hand, and he sighed, dropped his head, and reached for it. “Stop apologizin’,” he grumbled at the other, keeping his chin down as he was led back into the living room where the fireplace and wine still waited for them.

Once they were seated again, the warden leaned forward onto his knees, hands clasped in front of him. “... what you wanna sort out, then? Before you ask, no—I ain’t gonna go after them again. Hence the whole…” Retirement thing, he left out, his voice trailing off instead as it threatened to waver and betray him once more.

—

Alan was grateful for Rhett’s pragmatism then. He didn't precisely want to ask whether or not he would have to worry for Cass’ or Alex’s safety although he was curious as to what had caused him to change his mind. Was it the fact that he’d lost an eye, or that he most likely would walk with a cane from now on? Or was it that recent revelation he had had.

It was another thing he wasn't sure how to bring up. Rhett had been evasive on the matter while they spoke online, and back then Alan was more interested in his girls’ well-being to care to push the subject any further. “What are you gonna do now? Focus on the forge business ?” Perhaps kicking around the bush was easier, for now. It wasn't like he didn't care for Rhett’s answer. Even though he was furious he had attacked Cass (especially since he’d first seen her at his place), when Alex told him what she’d done, he couldn't help but feel worried for both sides instead of just hers. And then, Alan had felt terrible about that.

He still felt conflicted. How could he not ?

“Would you like me to let them know that they’re safe?” Part of him felt like an idiot for blindly believing his word, and the other part just had to look at the poor man to forget about any sense of doubt. “Do you want something stronger than wine?” Because one glass wouldn't suffice to soothe Alan’s nerves and he assumed Rhett, much like his brother, favored stronger liquor.

—

“I guess,” he responded dejectedly. It was true, it wasn’t like hunting was the only thing he spent his time on, and he could certainly put in more hours at the forge. They’d extend his contract if he asked, he knew that. His work made them a lot of money, after all. And that would fill the days, but what of the nights? He’d been horribly restless since Alex kicked his ass six ways to Sunday, stuck in bed all day and night, shuffling aimlessly around Parker’s house, irritated by his own uselessness. He slept enough, but not much. How would he fill the rest of those hours? It was why, in his conversation with Emilio, he’d wanted to make sure he ended up living somewhere near a pub, if that was a thing that was going to happen at all. He needed a distraction. He needed to medicate.

Glancing sideways at his friend, Rhett scoffed, but it wasn’t out of malice. He was just… well, it was difficult to describe. “They know. Er… Alex does, anyway. She… reached out, after. Told ‘er as much. Guess hearin’ it from you too ain’t gonna hurt none, though.” At the offer for something harder than wine, the warden nodded silently. It wasn’t until Alan had returned with said liquor (and Rhett had drained his glass already) that the hunter spoke of the elephant in the room.

“It’s my kid,” he offered quietly, downing a gulp of the hard liquor Alan had brought back to the living room, not much caring to know what it was, and just wanting it to help him fucking relax. “She’s… like Cass. A nymph.” He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. A moment of silence fell over them while Alan absorbed what he’d said and Rhett reached deep for the next thing he wanted to say.

“I wasn’t… always like this.” Like this meaning, of course, the sort of hunter, the sort of man that would attempt to murder a girl who had committed no crime other than being different from him. “I used to… I was, y’know. More… live n’ let live.” The explanations were not coming easily, strangled out of him like he’d never spoken them before (which he hadn’t), an admission of the person he’d been before everything went wrong only making him feel worse for the way he’d become. He couldn’t claim to have been born this way, no… it was learned. It was adopted from grief, and he’d clung to that grief so bitterly and for so long that it had overtaken him like a parasite. Why? What changed? He knew the questions were coming. He could see Desmond’s face in his mind’s eye, hear his friend accusing him of failing. Fuck. Fuck.

—

Although Alan felt as though speaking would do more harm than good, remaining quiet when someone unfolded themselves like that wasn't exactly easy. He would have liked to ask questions, but rather than push to know more, he sat back, getting his feet and his knees up on the couch to get comfortable and just listen. Nursing his glass of wine against his cashmere sweater, he shifted again, pushing on his shoulder briefly before humming quietly.

Rhett had had a child with a nymph and then decided that not one single fae deserved to live. Alan knew he was missing a piece of the puzzle here, one that Rhett kept without a doubt, close to his chest. But he had already shared so much. Was it fair to ask ? Should he have waited for him to tell by himself? Was he supposed to piece it all together on his own ?

With no clear answer to his thoughts, Alan took a long sip from his glass and leaned forward to give his pal a refill. He scooted a bit closer too, if only to put a friendly hand on his forearm. “What's her name ?” He inquired. “Did you… reach out to her?” He imagined easily that facing an angry werewolf could make one reflect on the meaning of their life. “Is she staying with you?” Neither the van nor the bunker seemed like a suitable place for a young woman to live, but Alan felt like now was a good time for kindness.

The wood cracked a bit in the fireplace, and Alan’s gaze fell onto the flames for a moment. “You’ll have to tell me more about that live and let live guy. He sounds fun,” with a light smile he picked up his wine glass, taking another sip.

—

What’s her name? Rhett stared down at his hands, at Alan’s hand on his tattooed arm, and hesitated. “Ophelia,” he finally answered, trying to make a list of the rest of them in his mind so he could rattle them off more easily and satisfy Alan’s curiosity. “And no. She.. found me. After… after this.” He gestured at his leg and eye. “Reached out once. Ignored her. Then she tracked down ‘Milio, made him agree to have us meet. N’ no. She ain’t stayin’ with me. She n’... her mum, they’re… they got a community’ah their own. One I was huntin’ down. I was ready to raze that place to the fuckin’ ground, mate.” He lifted his free hand to his face again, hiding behind his palm as he struggled with the reality of his situation. “She’s… she’s a good kid. Grown now, but… fuck’s sake.” He was crying again, gritting his teeth angrily and swiping at the tears with the back of his hand.

Rhett actually managed a weak laugh when Alan smiled as his own little half-joke. He felt like he was shaking his head too much, but it was all he could think to do half the time. All of this just felt… stupid. Wrong. He’d not talked to anyone about any of this and he didn’t know how he was supposed to feel. Was he mourning who he used to be? Relieved to have a chance to get back to that? Afraid? He couldn’t fucking decide. “He was fun,” came his answer, finally. “Fun enough to… to keep his stupid, angry brother in line, anyway. Desmond, he… he hated nonhumans. Hated ‘em all, always wanted to kill every single one we came across. I talked him outta a lot of ‘em, but after he—” Rhett’s breath caught in his throat and he shivered, pushing the thought away. He turned his head to look at Alan, distraught. “M’sorry. Fer all of it. I ain’t been right in a… a long time.”

—

That wasn't the sort of spectacle he’d have ever expected to see. Some men looked like they had never shed a tear in their entire life and up until now, Alan figured that Rhett was one of them. For a few more seconds, he didn't budge, sympathetically brushing his thumb against the tattooed forearm. “She’s a brave kid,” at least from what he understood. Searching for the guy who wanted her whole species dead took guts. “I guess she got that much from you,” moving his hand to Rhett’s cheek, Alan couldn't help but smile a bit more as he elicited a laugh out of him.

His hand dropped back to his lap, and he once again fell silent. He didn't know everything about Emilio and Rhett’s lives clearly, but he always assumed their family bond might have gone a bit further than blood. Desmond was a name he had never heard before, one Rhett spoke of past tense, he noticed. It didn't take the full sentence for Alan to connect the dots.

He remained silent, even as Rhett's apology finally arrived. With all that he had just unpacked, Alan even had to stop himself from saying sorry for the third time. “You know, if you can change once, you can change twice. I meant it when I said I'd like to know more about the live and let live version of you,” and how could that happen without support ?

His empty glass of wine was set down on the coffee table, and an offer to get or make something to eat was made. “You’re not alone, alright ?”

—

She was brave… braver than Alan knew. Braver than Rhett could bring himself to admit. She’d sought him out, even though he was the reason she and her mother had to run from place to place. She looked for him knowing that he might want to kill her, and… and he had, hadn’t he? For a moment. The first time she called him, he was angry. Angry that she existed, angry that she’d found him, angry that her presence was going to complicate his plans.

For a moment, he’d wanted her dead. For a moment, he’d settled on the idea that he’d be the one to do it. A moment turned into a week, turned into two. He’d kill her, he thought. Be done with it. Only Emilio wouldn’t let him, wouldn’t allow them to be alone together. Smart. He’d been bluffing when he told his brother that she was safe because she was his daughter—what did blood matter? He’d never been a part of her life. What did any of it matter?

But then he saw her face to face, and his fury had withered beneath her warm gaze and bright smile. All the fight had left him in one fell swoop, and he found himself wishing it’d happened just a few days sooner. Before he tracked Cass to her cave. Before Alex attacked him to save her, before she crippled him further, before all of it. But… maybe it wasn’t a bad thing, being physically unable to fight, to match how he felt inside. Maybe it made all this easier. Maybe if he hadn’t been so injured, he still would have been angry when Ophelia looked him in the eye and told him he had to stop hunting her mother. Maybe he would have done something stupid, and maybe Emilio would have been the one to put him down.

It was all for the best, probably. Except for that girl, that nymph. None of it was fair to her. Ugh.

The offer of food was turned down, the warden’s interest in anything other than booze proving to be lackluster. And the more he drank of that, the less reactive he became to the things he was saying. The pent up fear and frustration and guilt didn’t force itself out by way of tears or stammered words anymore, and for a while, Rhett was quiet. He simply existed, sitting beside Alan on the couch as they watched the flames eat up the logs in the fireplace, the comfortable but heavy silence stretching on until he felt compelled to break it with a question.

“Alan,” he began, his voice hoarse, “why don’t you hate me?”

—

Why didn't he hate him? Alan couldn't say he had tried very much. His anger against Rhett’s action had almost immediately become laced to worry and, little by little with an unsettling echo. The werewolf might have not hunted down any specific hunter in his life, most of those who had crossed his path had either come to regret it or didn't even have time to reflect on their mistake.

A few months ago, he wouldn't have seen hypocrisy in condemning what Rhett had done because it wasn't the same, right? At least Alan was protecting himself, and those hunters were probably going to try to hurt him or another werewolf. It was only self preservation. Nothing more. These last few weeks, yes, Alan felt a different way. On both sides of the story, there were people with lives and loved ones and he knew for certain that this wasn't how he’d get hunters to stop roaming the woods looking for revenge or ultimately… trying to protect their own people. Maybe it was not the same, no, but that didn't make it right.

Alan’s gaze remained fixed on the flames for a while more and he served himself another glass of wine as he thought some more on his reply.

He didn't want to give Rhett the wrong idea. Even if he did something similar, he didn't convince himself that what he did was right, even if that would have helped him sleep better some nights. And eventually what did the trick was thinking of what else defined him and telling oneself that there was more to him than his wrong doings.

“I suppose I have been reflecting on my own actions a lot lately,” and the eulogy that would have gotten him. He realized he would have been glad not to hear it. Maybe he didn't have it in him to do grand gestures of kindness but he could try at least to be kinder. That came with showing Alex how to live her lycanthropy better, helping his neighbors replace into a new home and quite frankly changing his methods. This wouldn't change how he got successful or buy him a ticket to heaven but peace of mind was good enough.

“Trying this thing called kindness,” he took a sip and didn't even grimace when he said that last word. “I wouldn't be doing a good job at that if I refused to see the good in you,” if you put aside some quirks that were anything but usual, the version of Rhett he had been around was nothing like the one he imagined the girls had faced. It didn't change what he had done, but Alan couldn't unsee it, or pretend he didn't appreciate him. “I have a lot of reasons to despise myself but I don't think I'd even try changing if there was no one to give me hope that it’ll be okay,” he looked up from the fireplace, at last, to set his eyes on the hunter. “I don't hate you, because you are so much more.”

—

He didn't deserve it, he knew that. Alan making an effort to see the goodness in him was a waste, but was it fair to tell the man that? He'd likely just argue it, anyway. But Rhett knew better than anyone that he wasn't worth anyone's pity or concern, not for all the hellish things he'd done in his life. He didn't deserve his daughter, who seemed to love him unconditionally in spite of those terrible things, or perhaps because of them, because she felt like she could fix him. But there was nothing left to fix. The warden could claim to be retired, he could claim to have no interest in hunting intelligent supernatural species anymore, but the damage was done. The bias was there, and it was never going away. He'd never be able to love his girl the way he should, he'd never be able to look past the things that made him and Alan so different. He could lie and say he was, but deep down, he knew. He was a hunter. He was a tool, raised for one thing, and he'd been doing it for forty years. There was more bad in him than good, and anyone who knew hunters would know that he didn't have the time to make up for it.

But... if that's what Alan chose to see, that small percentage of decency, who was Rhett to say he shouldn't? Life was fucking lonely enough already.

He shook his head like he didn't really believe what Alan was saying, the silent response cut with a soft sigh. “Flattered you think so,” he finally responded. He wasn't confirming that Alan was right or wrong, just that it was nice to hear. Because... it was. For better or worse, Rhett and Emilio clung to one another like they were the only thing keeping each other afloat, and sometimes Rhett wondered if that wasn't the truth. They were family, but that didn't mean that Emilio saw anything in Rhett that he liked. He loved him, unconditionally, just like Ophelia... but that didn't make it right. That didn't mean that Rhett was worth saving, it didn't mean that the warden had any chance of changing again.

He glanced over and found Alan looking back at him, and his throat tightened. “Don't mean it'll be okay, though. Caused a lotta damage. Figure there's plenty'ah folks that ain't gonna forgive me.” I shouldn't be staying in this town, he thought, but I have to if I want any kind of relationship with my daughter. “I'd leave, if not for...” The thought drifted away from him, dead in the air. If not for her. If not for Emilio. If not for the one person that doesn't have to like him, who shouldn’t like him, still giving him a chance. Alan.

“Guess I just don't want you gettin' the wrong sorta idea, mate. Too mercurial for anythin' like that. Not long for this world, considerin'.” Don't get attached, was what he was trying to say. “So don't go givin’ me anythin' more than I've earned, aye?” Which was next to nothing. Polite company, someone to spend the night with. He hoped Alan could understand.

—

“I think we’re both old enough to know saying it will be okay doesn't fix much, but…” he fell silent. “What I'm trying to say is don't overthink it. You’re not alone, and that has to be a relief, hasn't it?” Or maybe that was just Alan speaking out loud, reflecting on his own needs. He found relief in having his family, yes, but it weighed a lot, knowing that he was lying to them every full moon. He had missed, over the last ten years, a good share of family events that had the misfortune of happening on one of these evenings.

He offered the other man a slight smile. He didn't have much more to offer in terms of comfort. Yes, there would be folks coming at him for revenge, and perhaps they’d want more than Alex had gotten here. He knew the sentiment.

Now all Rhett could hope for was for these people to see his cane and eye patch and realize that someone had been quicker than them at getting back at him. That was also what Alan could hope for.

“Rhett, I don't want to alarm you, but you’re being extremely gentle here,” he teased, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and wrinkling his eyes. It was also quite clumsy, but what else did he expect from the New Zealander? The werewolf reached out, plucking flyaway hair from the hunter's cheek and pushing it back behind his ear. “I’m fine with what we have,” he finally stated. “I’ll let you know if that changes,” it wasn't reasonable to expect much more at his age, with his track record. “Another glass of Martinique rum?”

—

It was a relief. Rhett nodded to indicate as much, but let the man's words roll around in his head in quiet contemplation. He'd been overthinking a lot of things lately, since thinking was all he could fucking do.

Whatever will be will be. There was no point in agonizing over it. Worrying wouldn't make anything better or prevent the inevitable… so he may as well just focus on existing in the moment.

When Alan accused him of being gentle, the warden scoffed as if offended, though he did wear a slight grin at the same time. “Shut up,” he grumbled, not seeing the hand coming his way until it was touching his face. He tried not to flinch but was only partially successful, and an attempt to mask it was made as he turned his head again to look at Alan. His expression was… difficult to read. On the one hand, he was glad for the company. On the other… Alan was a werewolf. And sure, that boundary had been crossed some months ago already, but he hadn't known this then. If he had, he would have killed him. Tried, anyway. Probably ended up worse than he was now.

Alan was a werewolf, but he was also a friend. One of the very few that Rhett actually had, and certainly the only one willing to offer physical comfort—a thing the warden hadn't been aware he so desperately wanted until it had been given. He glanced at his emptied glass when Alan offered to refill it, and sighed. He'd promised Ophelia he wouldn't be hungover in the morning, but… “Sure,” he conceded, and when Alan had finished pouring from the bottle, he motioned for him to turn around. “Now, ‘bout that shoulder…” His hands quickly found a home on the correct side of Alan's neck, uncharacteristically cautious in the way they applied pressure meant to soothe, listening for any sounds of discomfort. The two-handed action was interrupted only as he moved one to grab his glass and take a sip. “Call me gentle again ‘n I'll make ya regret it,” he teased back as both thumbs dug into the muscle with care.

—

It was Alan’s turn to flinch, then. Clearly he wasn't scared too much by the hunter’s presence, but his shoulder had been giving him a hard time and while the idea of Rhett’s rough hands meddling with it didn't sound like a good one on paper, it didn’t prove so bad for now.

His nerves relaxed, and the werewolf who had no reason to feel uncomfortable by his own doing, rested his weight against the back of the couch, letting the hunter's fingers knead his tired shoulder. Alan found himself thinking of what his reaction could have been.

A year ago, if Alex had told him of Rhett’s wrong doings, the werewolf would not have thought about it at all. He would have found him and attempted to put a more permanent end to the threat.

While he was leaning into the hunter's definitely gentle touch, Alan’s smile grew up to his eyes. That wasn't supposed to be his reaction to a threat but in this instant it was difficult to feel anything but safe and warm.

“I’m glad we had this conversation,” not as eye opening as figuring out the other could be soft, but certainly important. “I always feel lighter telling people I…”

He still had his difficulties admitting to caring for others, even if he showed it in every way but words.

“Well, telling them the truth. I hope you feel lighter knowing you’re not lying to me either.”

—

“Aye,” was all Rhett could say to the sentiment, struggling even more than his counterpart to admit when he gave a shit about someone. All other soft dialogue was shoved back into a trunk and locked away, the key discarded carelessly somewhere in the maze of barren rooms that made up his mind. His stubbornness would always put up a fight, a staunch refusal to accept such things boiling down into denial that kept him, in a way, at arm’s length from everyone. Not literally, of course—hands worked deftly at easing the pain in Alan’s shoulder, quite practiced in the motions after so many years of performing them on himself after difficult hunts.

The silence that settled between them was comfortable, neither feeling the need to fill it with inanity, talking for the sake of talking. Anyway, Rhett was terrible with chit chat, a fact that Alan seemed to have already understood and internalized. He was grateful for it.

His fingers slipped beneath the collar of Alan’s shirt in the front, sliding over bare skin to the scar on his shoulder that he now knew came from a werewolf. Still massaging with the other hand, Rhett drifted his fingertips over the uneven skin, his gaze flicking up to Alan’s profile. He’d never killed a werewolf before. Had a good idea of what it’d take, and it sure as hell didn’t sound easy. Not only that, but the man’s earlier insinuation that he could’ve been turned by now was… well, accurate, for one, but it was a thought that elbowed its way to the forefront of his mind as he took in the other’s visage. What was it like, he wondered. Losing control like that, but on such a strict schedule. How did Alan cope with it? How many people had he killed? How many hunters? When had Rhett stopped being just another body to add to the pile and started being something worth protecting?

He was reminded, for a moment, of Emilio and how he had tried to protect the people in his life from Rhett. Funny, how the roles had been reversed. It was a perspective that he’d do well to think on for a while, but as his hands became distracted from their duty, wandering farther from Alan’s shoulder, so too did his thoughts. They were already quite close, but the warden leaned in to speak into his ear.

“Mind if I stay here tonight?”

—

“Aye indeed,” there was no denying that Alan, as respectful of silence as he was, was usually a little more talkative. It wasn't that he and Rhett had nothing more to say to each other but their conversation had been quite trying and the werewolf didn't want to go back there just yet. The subject would probably come back on the agenda later. Alan had a lot to make up for, too. Not that he had harmed Rhett, but among the hunters who had passed through his clutches, there were some who would come back to haunt him one day. He sometimes hoped that the large number of wolves in the region protected him. In truth, he knew nothing about it. Maybe no one was looking for him, and maybe living worried was the worst punishment he would have to endure.

Distracted by his thoughts, he was quick to notice that the hunter's hands had taken a more direct approach, and after a brief glance over his shoulder, unbuttoned the first few buttons of his white shirt to let him further examine the hideous scar that he had on his shoulder, now adorned with a second scar, more marked, recent, blistered. That silver bullet had left quite a mess.

When Rhett had flinched, Alan had told himself that his condition made him unattractive, even repulsive to the hunter, and he would have understood if that had been the case. Although he behaved like someone who had everything under control, that was how he managed to hide his weaknesses and faults from everyone. According to him, it was easier to live looking perfect for everyone to see, even if it meant being alone with your pain and difficulties, because that also meant that everyone envied what he had and that sounded better than pity. Besides, people had better things to do than deal with his personal problems.

The hunter's breath against his ear was a welcome distraction, and his unpleasant thoughts gave way to a relieved sigh as he sank into sturdy arms. “I would not mind at all,” and reaching over his head to weave fingers through unruly (but softer than usual, he noted) hair, Alan shifted to the side to grant the man an affectionate kiss on the corner of his lips.

—

The mistake had already been made, if you could call it that, so what was the point in holding back now? Rhett would gain nothing by shutting Alan out at this point except more loneliness. He'd had plenty of that over the last couple of decades, why insist that it continue unless he sought misery? Sometimes he wondered if that wasn't the case, and he just couldn't or wouldn't admit it to himself.

Oh well. Made no difference to him now.

The feeling of fingers in his hair elicited a soft sigh from the warden, all the hostility that typically filled his days ebbing away to make room for something softer and warmer. Was this how other people often felt? Was the cold, dark grip of a life resigned to violence his own fault, or was that something he was always destined to ride out? He couldn’t say for certain, but he did recognize that it was becoming easier to forget that anger the more time he spent around people like Ophelia and Alan. People that, for all the world, should want him dead, and yet…

He chased Alan's kiss with one of his own, angling his head to better catch his mouth fully. There was something akin to desperation in the way he grasped at Alan, like he might slip away if Rhett wasn't quick enough to show his interest, like he'd come back to his senses and realize that what the warden had done was inexcusable. He guided the man to turn and face him, his bum leg dangling uselessly off the couch as the other tucked itself beneath him.

“Was hopin’ you'd say that,” he answered breathlessly before pulling Alan over the top of him as he laid back on the cushions.

—

From someone who would have happily massacred him a few months ago, Alan expected hesitant gestures as if inviting him to slow down the course of things, a kind of new timidity, as if they had actually met only a few moments ago. The fervor was as much a surprise as it was a welcomed one.

All this changed a lot of things. He knew it well. But he didn't want them to become strangers again. Doubts dissipated with each kiss given, each breath shared, each sigh whispered against the skin. Running his hand through his own hair to discipline it (a futile effort if there was one right now), Alan studied him for a short moment, his eyes wandering along those long eyelashes, the pronounced bridge of his nose, the scars more or less less recent speckling the face of the hunter like a constellation traced on his skin, up until he decided it was no longer time for contemplation.

For now at least. Because it resumed later.

It was entirely dark out now, and through the large windows that faced the living room, there was nothing to see. The fire still crackled in the attic, covering white noise and outdoor sounds. Alan often had something of the sort going, if only to cover the hum of kitchen appliances, cars in the street, or any distraction that he imagined had dogs barking.

It didn't prevent him from monitoring every breath the hunter was taking, however, his face nuzzled as it was against the crook of his neck. It was a warm, comfortable embrace, and a younger Alan would have probably agreed on greeting slumber here with just a throw blanket and a shoulder for a pillow. “How does a proper bed sound to you? Or a shower and toothbrush?” He would have rather not moved, still, the werewolf pushed himself off the couch, stepping over discarded clothes to bravely lead the way there. “Unless you’d rather stay here on your own of course.” With a glance over his shoulder, and a kind smile he disappeared around the corner.

—

As their heartbeats slowed and breaths evened out, Rhett stared blankly at the ceiling. Alan was half draped over him, perhaps the only thing keeping him from floating off into that unseen abyss that was his fractured mind. He could hear Desmond, he could see him in some capacity, like a hallucination, loudly announcing his disgust at the sight of his brother in this state. It was the same as before, the same as when Desmond realized Rhett was falling in love with Mariela. I don’t know how you’ve managed it, but you love her more than me, and you’ve only known her for six months! You’re choosing her!

It’s not that simple, Rhett had protested, and it was certainly a sentiment that could apply to the present as well. He looked down at the semi-opaque figure of his brother that stood at his feet. I’m lonely, he told the apparition in their private, shared headspace. What the fuck does it matter? I’ll be dead this time next year anyway. Desmond shook his head and turned away, just in time for Alan to stir and say something. Rhett watched him get to his feet, his chest tight. He hesitated on the couch for a few moments before pushing himself up and grabbing his cane to follow after his bedfellow, thinking that a shower, brush, and bed all sounded pretty damn nice.

#. thread ;#. with ; alan duarte #. not alone ;

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thoroughlymodernminutia · 2 years ago

Text

A Wisp of Smoke - Chapter 1 (Mike Duarte x F!Reader)

Summary: An unconventional member joins the Bronx Gang Unit.

Word Count: 3364

Content Warning: This is mildly canonical but like not really, so if that bothers you, then I’d skip. Some physical description - gave hte reader some gray hair cause I'm old and I want to represent some old people lol. Edit that out of your mind if you need to. Foul language (if that bothers you?), Gang talk, coworkers who don’t like each other, this part I don’t think has anything that would be triggering, but if you feel differently I can update the warnings.

A/N: When I tell you that I started writing this in October…it means exactly that. This has morphed into something different than I was expecting and I imagine I will have to scrap some stuff I have written once the next episode airs, so this is EVOLVING. Who even knows what this will be about by the time it’s finished. God help me. If there are typos, I apologize - I proof read this a few times and i'm sure somewhere there is something wrong

UM, Minors probably shouldn’t read this but I’m not your mother.

—-

The thing about the subway is it takes time to understand the quirks—the nuances—of the subway lines you take. The majority of your time is taking one line to and from work if you’re lucky. You’ve been taking one train line for so long, you’re at 90% accuracy of predicting when something is about to go wrong. You like the routine of it—knowing if you get to the platform right at 8:01 AM you’ll only have to wait a minute before the train comes and you’ll get to work early. It’s an art and a science, but it takes practice. It’s why taking a job so far out of your usual subway line is annoying; you have to learn it all over again. It’s made even worse by having to switch to another line, if something goes wrong on that first leg of the commute, you’re fucked for the rest of it.

And today, you feel like you’re fucked. You leave your apartment like a parent leaving for the airport; panicking about the time and trying to make sure you have everything. You feel smug catching the subway right when it pulls into the platform and getting in a nearly empty subway car. The smugness fades when you transfer to another train that happily sits between stations for 30 minutes and then decides to switch to the express track. It’s not express for you though, of course. It puts you a good mile away from where you need to be, instead of the five blocks you planned for. The extra distance isn’t an issue, for once you might show up on time without having to walk around the block ten times. It is, however, unseasonably warm for February and now your coat is overkill. You stop and take it off, juggling your bag from hand to hand as you remove it. It’s insane, not even being able to feel cold in February in New York.

While you walk the unfamiliar sidewalks of the South Bronx you think about how this is your brother-in-law Tommy’s doing. You don’t even know how or why he’s sending you up to the Bronx as some kind of backfill in the Gang Unit. You aren’t a cop, so you have no idea why they’d want you up there. You feel like it’s going to look pretty strange, a senior analyst for the NYPD in the Intelligence Bureau, joining the Gang Unit. Gangs in the Bronx aren’t really on your radar; the majority of your time is spent juggling mostly empty threats against NYC. Analyzing the message boards and social media where people spew garbage 24/7. It’s weird to think that maybe this will be a break from that.

You do know a little about Duarte’s reputation. For as much as Tommy thinks gossiping is a female trait he certainly loves to partake in it. You heard all about the drama between him and Captain Benson–Tommy was almost gleeful when recounting it. You get the impression that like most men in the NYPD Duarte is only happy when he gets his way. You could be completely wrong, it’s not like Tommy is the most reliable narrator.

—-

The precinct looks different than you thought it would. You had imagined something along the lines of a bland box with windows, but this is a beautiful limestone building. Some of the stone work looks like it belongs in an Italian palazzo in the 16th century. The inside reminds you of an old library with the heavy wood furniture and dim lighting. It’s really quite something—all these disappearing architectural gems throughout all the boroughs. As you walk towards the Desk Sergeant you wonder how much longer it will be around before the city turns it into a glassbox citing progress in the neighborhood.

When you ask where you can find Captain Duarte you realize the charm seems to end with the interior and doesn’t really extend to the people. She looks like you’ve just ruined her day by speaking to her. She nods her head towards the stairs and says it’s the third floor. You thank her, thinking maybe that’s her problem, no one ever sounds grateful for her assistance. Halfway up the stairs you do consider turning around and walking right back down and out of the building. You suppress the urge; dealing with Tommy in the aftermath of flaking would probably be worse than whatever fresh hell is waiting for you a few flights up.

You duck into the bathroom when you get to the third floor and are relieved when you find it empty. You set your bag on the edge of the sink, and drape your coat over a stall door. You turn back to the mirror and give yourself a once over. You were going for an overall look of extreme competence so you went with all black. Black silk button down, black skinny jeans, black thick soled loafers. You think maybe you look like you’re about to attend a funeral—probably your own. You hike up your jeans a little and try to ignore how much your feet hurt. You look back up to your face in the mirror to check your makeup. It still looks good; your eyeliner is intact and hopefully giving the impression that you’re precise, detail oriented. Your hair looks fine, the gray pieces framing your face, glossy under the overhead lights. You used to hate that you started going gray fairly young; you must have spent thousands covering it up over the years. At some point you stopped caring and just let it be. It came with a fun bonus, men you worked with suddenly thought you were old and left you alone. You give yourself one last once over before washing your hands. As you grab your things and head out of the bathroom you run through the little information you have like you’re cramming for a test.

An officer shows you to Captain Duarte’s office and tells you that you can wait inside, that he doesn’t know when he’ll be back. It’s very you to think that you’re going to be late to something and be the person that ends up waiting. When the officer leaves you put your bag on one of the chairs and drape your coat over the back. His desk is neat and you don’t see much in the way of personal effects on it. There’s a few books and you’re tempted to go to the other side of his desk to get a better look, but restrain yourself knowing the moment you do, he will come walking in. You sit down in one of the chairs and wait.

—-

As Duarte approaches his office he can see you sitting inside. He had put your arrival out of his mind once McGrath had told him and seeing you now throws him off for a moment. He should be prepared, he only knows what McGrath told him. Although, he’s sure that since McGrath is the one who sent you here, the information isn’t reliable. When you get up and introduce yourself, his initial impression is that you’re prissy. The way your coat is folded over the back of one of the chairs. How you’re now clasping your hands in front of you. Your outfit, a far cry from the recently departed, hoodie-clad Muncy. He can’t tell what he hates more right now, the way you look or that you were foisted on him by McGrath.

Duarte closes the door to his office and turns back to face you.

“I don’t really know what you’re doing here. You have no gang—no actual police experience. I’d wager to say you’ve never used a gun. I don’t care about your intelligence experience. Frankly, you could single handedly bring down all gang activity in this city and it wouldn’t matter to me. If you think whatever relationship you have with McGrath is going to help you here, you’re wrong.”

It’s a lot all at once and you try to ignore the way he says ‘relationship’. As if you slept with Tommy to get you a job with the Gang Unit. If you’re going to sleep your way to a new job in the NYPD, it wouldn’t be for a mostly lateral position all the way in the Bronx. You can feel yourself about to do that thing where you match the energy that’s being directed your way. It’s great when the person you’re dealing with isn’t an asshole. But if they’re looking to take the low road, well you own a home there.

“I’m sorry, I must have blacked out. I think I missed a part where you said something like ‘I’m glad to have you on the team.’”

The look on his face tells you he was expecting you to be more yielding in your response. Maybe eight or ten years ago you would have been. You’re tired of minimizing yourself to make men in the NYPD feel better.

“If I felt that way, I would have said it. This is real shit we deal with, no one here has time to babysit you.”

“Well, I’ll just have to cut the crust off my own sandwich then, won’t I?” You try to keep your voice calm. “Look, I’m good at my job and whatever it is I’m supposed to do here, I’ll be good at that too.”

Duarte grabs a box off of his desk and thrusts it at you.

“I think you’re going to find your confidence is misplaced.”

You balance the box on your hip as you pick up your coat and bag from the chair. You consider not saying anything else, but when you get to the door you turn around and smile.

“I just have to say, this has just been so pleasant. Really looking forward to working with you.”

He huffs in your general direction before turning back to his desk. You know he’s setting you up for failure—not giving you a single inch already. He’s probably looking forward to watching you spin your wheels and flame out. If there’s anyone that can dig their heels in it’s you, so if he is looking for some kind of low level fight you’re ready.

—-

You’re unpacking the box at your desk when you see a friendly face standing at the desk across from yours. It could be Satan smiling at you at this point and you’d take it. You both introduce yourselves as he sits down.

“Should I call you Jordan or Williams? I know how much everyone in the NYPD loves going by their last name.”

“Ha! True. Honestly, either is fine.”

You pull another stack of files and a hard drive out the box and look at your computer for the time. When you see it’s barely 10AM you know it’s going to be a long rest of the day.

“Well, Jordan, can I ask you something?”

“Let me guess, your face is giving me, is he always like that?”

“Ha, yes that is the question.”

Jordan lets out a sigh, “It depends. He’s still pissed at McGrath I think. After he let Captain Benson snatch Muncy from us. And then Benson gets attacked, I don’t know, there’s a lot going on.” He pauses for a moment. “It’s fucked up, but he’s probably worried McGrath sent you up here as a spy or something.”

“What if he did?”

Jordan leans back in his chair and scans your face trying to determine if you’re telling the truth.

“Did he?”

You give Jordan a wry smile.

“No. But it will be fun letting Captain Duarte think so.”

You can’t help but laugh because it’s so dumb; that someone would think you were sent up here to spy. It seems like something Tommy would do—send someone up here to unknowingly spy for him. Tommy is an idiot, but you’re not.

Jordan chuckles as he shakes his head.

“I think it’s going to be good having you around.”

You both chat a little more and you’re able to get from him what you couldn’t from Duarte; what he’s actually looking for. You already had a feeling that he wanted to treat gangs like terrorist groups and your theory proves true. It also proves true that he wanted someone with your experience but who was also a detective. He must think Tommy short-changed him with you so he could have a person on the inside. At least now you have a clearer picture of why he hates you. You’d probably hate you too if you were in Duarte’s shoes.

You spend the rest of the morning going through everything Duarte gave you. It’s strange trying to apply everything you know to a completely new set of circumstances. You can already feel some doubt creeping in. Yes you’re good at your job—but this is not that. You think that Duarte probably views you as some interloper trying to use this as some kind of play to get ahead. Take credit for fixing a problem and leave behind other growing problems. It’s only partially true; you don’t care about taking credit for things but you are an interloper. It’s not like this is really your community; you don’t live in areas impacted by gang violence. You don’t have the depth and breadth of knowledge on the specific systemic issues that allow this type of thing to flourish. With counter-terrorism it always seems like a much broader issue where the violence impacts many, where gang violence only affects the few. It’s something that you feel like you’re going to be unpacking for as long as you’re here.

Duarte and Williams leave early in the afternoon. You don’t know if you were expecting Duarte to tell you what’s going on, but he doesn’t. He just gives you an annoyed look as he passes by your desk and you give him a tight lipped smile. You think back to this morning and wish you would have taken the high road and acquiesced to his running commentary of your lack of abilities. It’s the ‘relationship’ jab that’s bothering you the most for some reason—probably because it was so unnecessary. You wish you were the type of person that could just move on from comments like that but you’re not; it’s probably why your last relationship ended. So you know you’re going to hold on to that relationship comment much longer than necessary.

With Duarte gone you feel like you can finally relax; your shoulders drop and you take a few quiet breaths. You plug in the hard drive to your laptop and try to figure out where to start. When you first started with the bureau in counter-terrorism, it was overwhelming, but you quickly found your footing. It was a lot of research and developing counterintelligence reports. It was your job to plan, research, develop, and communicate in-depth analysis of targets, networks, and issues to key leaders in the department. You know how to plan and implement strategies based on a combination of information and gut feeling. At least here you won’t be starting entirely from scratch. You have your experience—and while this is a different set of circumstances you know what’s needed. You settle in and start familiarizing yourself with all the information you have.

You want to memorize the faces, the names, everything about the people in the files and computer in front of you. You know right now the focus seems to be BX9, but you also know as these groups collapse they splinter off or join existing gangs. You work on putting something together that you can leave for Duarte. The thought crosses your mind that if he doesn’t expect anything of you then why bother, but you have enough self respect to not do that.

—-

He sees you in his office as he comes into the squad room. He can see through the open blinds that you’re standing behind his desk, looking out of the window towards the street. He was hoping you’d be gone and that he wouldn’t have to deal with you again today. He just wants some fucking peace.

“Do you need something?” Duarte’s voice is quiet as he enters his office but he sees you jump a little in place at the sound of it. As you turn around and see it’s him you half smile. He recognizes it as the kind of smile that says you didn’t want to see him either. He thinks for a moment how this could have gone differently. How he could have been given someone qualified—a real detective. He wouldn’t have this generalized annoyance he’s been feeling since this morning.

“No, sorry. Was just leaving something on your desk.”

You brush past him as you say it and it breaks him from his train of thought. He watches you grab your things from your desk and then turn to leave. He sees you stop as Williams comes back to his desk. He watches as you say something to Williams but it’s not loud enough for him to hear. Whatever it was it must have been funny because Williams laughs. Duarte calls him into his office and he hears you say goodnight as you’re walking out of the squad room.

“You need something, Cap?”

“I want you to keep an eye on her.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I need to know if she’s—”

Williams cuts him off and shakes his head.

“I don’t think she’s like that if that’s what you’re getting at. I like her.”

“Good for you. Just do what I ask.”

“Aye, aye Cap.”

Williams turns to leave and Duarte closes the office door behind him. He goes over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer and pulls out a bottle of bourbon and a glass. It’s incredible how fucking exhausted he is every day. Every day since the subway attack in Manhattan has steadily been draining him. And then Benson getting attacked and her inserting herself into the investigation; he feels like everyone is coming at him from all sides. He feels like a tire slowly losing air. He uncorks the bottle and pours himself a drink and downs it before sitting in his chair.

He mulls over the decision the DA’s office made every single day. On the surface he understood the reasoning behind it. But deeper, he felt it was a mistake, a decision made for optics. A lie that Manhattan has rid itself of BX9. That only the poor fucks in the Bronx have to deal with them from now on. Well that went out the fucking window once Benson got kicked in the ribs. If she had listened to him instead of only thinking about her case it would be a different story. Instead he has two dead kids in Rikers and he’s hunting for more. He pours himself another drink while he tries to ignore the pressure building in his chest. He’s grateful for the nearly empty floor, the quiet.

He leans in his chair and notices a manilla folder on his desk; it has a post-it with his name on it scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting. Maybe you’re already resigning, it wouldn’t surprise him. He knows he wasn’t very welcoming. He has no desire, no energy to be—this job is all consuming. He grabs the file folder and opens it. Inside he sees you’ve put together a briefing based on all the information you went through. You seem to have analyzed what you view as gaps in the systems that are being used to monitor gang activity currently. You’ve even outlined the resources you’ll need. It’s not even entirely focused on BX9–you included other gangs in your briefing, gangs that weren’t included in the information he gave you. He feels a little sting of something reading through everything. He can’t tell if he’s impressed or irritated that you put this much together in a day. He realizes that he knows almost nothing about you, having put in almost no effort to find out. He closes the folder and starts making some calls. He wasn’t expecting so much from you on your first day.

#mike duarte x you #mike duarte x female reader #captain mike duarte x female reader #a wisp of smoke

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mobiusstripper · 7 months ago

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Can't stop thinking about all the Expanse novellas I want but will never get:

Young Avasarala at the start of her political career

Elsa Singh POV, life on Laconia 10-20 years after end of LF

Murtry and Wei life debt backstory

Captain Akari Tanaka POV, the MCRN in its glory days + MCR-UN Cold War life + more background on her relationship with Aliana. Extra points if we get to see Bobbie's dad. Extra extra points if we get to see the MCRN Tachi.

Duarte recruiting his breakaway fleet

Really anything about Duarte pre-Laconia. Also TELL US ABOUT HIS WIFE DAMMIT.

Come on, James S.A. Corey, help me out here. Don't make me write fanfiction. I'm too busy and lazy. I'm not even skilled enough to write political and military stuff.

Okay, I AM thrilled that we got a Cortazar POV and the backstory of Cara + Xan. And I'm glad that we got to find out what ever became of Filip.

I just want more, is that too much to ask?

#the expanse #james s.a. corey #i love seeing what powerful people were like before they had power

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duartegazzola · 2 years ago

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Scourge - Of shared fate

Tool: Paint Tool SAI ver.2

Character: Scourge (Warrior Cats)

Meaning: None

Extra commentary: Was being a hot second since I dip my toes into polished lineart, the "Linework Layer" of paint tool sai, is honestly the best tool of any digital art program ever. Especially because I use a tv as my screen, my tablet is like 4x times smaller, is hard to get anything straight.

Adding this as redbubble sticker because is I think this would be cool sticker to have.

#warriorcats #warrior cats #warrior cats fanart #duarte gazzola #scourge #digital art

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alan-duarte · 2 years ago

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TIMING: Friday, 7th of April, 5pm LOCATION: Whitlock Wares PARTIES: Ariadne @ariadnewhitlock & Alan @alan-duarte SUMMARY: Creating models takes time, money and quite a few materials. What better place than Whitlock Wares for all your crafty needs? CONTENT WARNINGS: Unsanitary tw

Good afternoon White Crest. It’s 5 o’clock and you’re listening to WWMJ. This is your hos-

Alan reached out for his phone, the sound drowning out as he scrolled through his emails. Though he had a secretary who dealt with responses, he liked to keep an eye on the messages they sent to the office. Just in case. He got out of his car, making his way toward the hardware store, this time with his eyes focused on his surroundings.

He was aware of the importance of timing, caution and knowing how to get your point across when it came to the essential matter that was problem solving. So far, there had been no problem Alan couldn’t find a solution to although his creativity had been challenged quite a few times already by the locals. In the end, what mattered was that his business was thriving, and so was he.

Although he had been very busy with work, Alan also knew how to take time to recharge his batteries, and this was a far cry from massage parlors, pilates classes or the kind of bullshit where people seemed to waste time, energy and certainly a lot of money. He wasn't stingy, but he didn't like throwing his money away either. That was not how he had been brought up.

“How are you doing Simon?” Simon Whitlock was about 5 years younger than Alan, which meant that they hadn’t really grown up together and yet were familiar with one another for a long while. Back when Alan was a teenager, Simon used to sit on the counter, by the register. That had changed, but there was always a Whitlock kid not too far away, working at the store. Speaking of… “Ariadne, Alan’s here !”

Her family’s store had always been a second home - in more ways than one. Her father claimed that it had been where she’d taken her first steps, and though video footage technically proved otherwise, the rest of Ariadne’s family went along with it. It added another layer of wholesomeness to the store - not that it was something the store was in need of, but it certainly added to the familial feel of it.

Today she didn’t have classes in the afternoon, and so she’d stopped by the store, electing to organize some new boxes of nails and tape measures. Something about the sheer sameness of it, the fact that she could restock the shelves with her eyes closed, served to at least somewhat help the constant nerves that crept all throughout her body. Nerves that she couldn’t get to go away no matter how many hours of mediation she attempted to listen to on any of the applications she’d downloaded onto her phone. Nerves that felt wholly and entirely constricting, that left her with little ability to focus on much else.

Her dance professor had noticed, multiple times. Even pulled her over at the end of class, to check in, to make sure that there wasn’t anything she could do to help. No, Ariadne had said, I’m just not sleeping well, just trying to do too much, probably! and even she knew that the grin she’d flashed had to have seemed completely and entirely faked.

Her dad’s voice startled her for a moment, and she looked up and over to the counter. Ariadne set her work down, and made her way over to the counter where her father stood. “Mr. Duarte,” she bowed her head, briefly, because there was something about the man that commanded an extra layer of respect, even beyond what she would normally have offered to any adult. “How can we - I - we - help you today? My dad was just about to run out and get us some smoothies, so I’d be happy to help you, if that’s quite alright with you?”

We - I - we. Wasn’t she the poster girl for confidence ? Then he couldn’t say many people her age qualified for the position either. He was certainly glad to be out of his twenties. What a dreaded time that was, sitting with your ass on two different chairs, one for teenagehood, one for adulthood. Being in the army, and being the eldest of four forced him to grow up faster, yet he still recalled not liking it all that much. His thirties were a lot more comfortable, but he found that this new decade of his life was his favorite one yet. Nostalgia who? Alan smiled at her, his fondness forming wrinkles at the corner of his nose and eyes. “How are you doing Ariadne?” Crossing his arms over his chest, Alan picked at a piece of lint on his sleeve.

“I’m in good hands then,” Alan pointed out with a polite nod to her father.

He liked a challenge, but the store was such a landmark of the town that Alan never dared trying to purchase it from the Whitlocks. Alan would not have many qualms about investing in a commercial zone should the chance arise, but until then, he wouldn’t lay a finger on that family or their business. Too much trouble for too little profit. The thought left his mind as swiftly as it had arrived. “I’m gonna need plastic for the 3D printer,” he fished a piece of paper out of his wallet, a list he’d scribbled on the back of a receipt while waiting for a client to return with a complimentary coffee cup. “It’s probably best if I just hand you the list,” he smiled politely, and turned his eyes toward the shelves. Paper, wood, glue, paint, led lights and batteries, they had everything. He could have gotten it all from Amazon, but his networking would have suffered from it and it was a good look, politically, to avoid purchasing from the internet giant.

Her face brightened at his smile. “Pretty well - school’s wildly busy, but that’s okay! Better than being bored, I figure.” She fiddled with her necklace for a moment. “Which is pretty much super obvious, but figure it’s worth being said, still.” Ariadne nodded. “How are you doing? The real estate market still good?” Even if she certainly didn’t know all too much (or much at all) about real estate, she knew a bit here and there, and she knew that it was Alan’s business, and therefore something he’d enjoy being asked about.

“I mean, I do know my way around this store pretty well. When I was about seven, I even helped to reorganize the housewares section…” Ariadne let her voice trail off. “So I promise I’m not going to lead you astray or misguide you or anything at all like that!”

She tapped her fingertips against her thigh. If nothing else, helping out at the store gave her reason to focus on something besides the very thing she was so avidly avoiding - and she liked it here, it was familiar, and Ariadne had gotten a new blush to add some extra color to her cheeks. She wasn’t sure if she looked as pale as she imagined she did, but a light bit of extra color wasn’t going to do anyone any harm, right? “Oh, yes, of course.” Another nod. “You can give me the list, and we’ll grab you a basket and we can go about the store and make sure we’ve got everything you need. Does that sound good? I’ll hold the basket if it’s easier for you, too, even.”

“School?” His eyebrows furrowed while he tried to remember what the girl was studying. Alan didn’t actively try to keep tabs on everyone (though he did do that for people he needed to keep dirt on), but the Whitlocks were folks he saw at least once or twice a week, every week for the past ten years, and that tended to help with remembering details. “School’s alright, it’s the exams I used to dread,” because that meant learning every little detail about a lesson, just in case the teacher would ask about that. It wasn’t practical, and he’d never been one for pure theory.

“I know,” well, he certainly wasn’t aware of those details. His parents weren’t running a business, which meant that he was never exploited that way. This being said, they expected him to keep the house in good shape on the weekends, especially when they were working, and he did more than a fair share of dishes and cooking from the age of 12 until the age of 18. He assumed first that the second oldest sibling would help out in turn, but his parents bought a dishwasher the very year he left home to be in the Air Force. Ouch.

A smile graced his lips as she took charge and Alan happily handed the list over to her, following her around the store while she went to get a basket.

“Yeah, that thing where you get a degree so the wilder world accepts you as like, legit or whatever?” Ariadne shrugged. “I like college better than I liked high school, so that’s something, at least?” An emphatic nod followed his comment about exams. “Oh, absolutely. Exams are the worst. If I could learn without worrying about grades, I’d be all set.” She made a face, “grades are not fun.” She shook her head. “Am I talking too much?”

Ariadne glanced down at her feet. “Right, okay, sorry.” She wasn’t even sure why she was saying sorry. Just that somehow, it felt right - she hadn’t talked this much about herself to anyone in what felt like forever, and the last thing she wanted to do was overburden someone - a patron, no less - with random facts about her childhood.

Grabbing the list, she quickly scurried over to get a basket. “Do you have a preferred brand for any of these things, or would you like me to just give you the best we’ve got? Also, any restrictions on cost? Just ‘cause I don’t want to suggest something that’s out of an allotted budget, if there is an allotted budget for this.” Ariadne grabbed a couple packs of batteries. “These good?”

“And for a great price too,” Alan chuckled. Things weren’t so bad in his youth, and doing the army was his way of being debt free all while getting proper education, though he would never blame anyone for not being willing to do the same sacrifice. “College is supposed to be about learning about something you’re passionate about, I sure hope you prefer it to high school,” otherwise it would just mean she picked the wrong major. As if he had decided that this was enough chit-chat for now, Alan fell silent then, and picked up a can of paint from a shelf, to have a look at the color on the lid, and then at the one next to it, repeating the same course of actions over and over until he set his hand on the right shade of white he needed. Eggshell white. “What? Talking too much?” Yes. “No, it’s the contrast. Contrast is beautiful,” he offered a kind smile and put the small can of paint in the basket.

“Reasonable quality, I’d say. Not the cheap stuff, but I don’t need a top brand either,” what mattered was that he could tend to his hobby in peace, just him, his paintbrush and a tiny world growing beneath his fingertips.

“AAA batteries. That sounds right,” with an encouraging smile, Alan turned his attention to the front of the shop, glancing toward the front door as he heard it chime on her father’s way out. He could have asked her if she planned to take over after them. The store was in their family for two centuries after all. He remained silent instead. Chit chat wasn’t his thing and he’d already done his fair share of it already, yet when his eyes settled on something that looked straight out of an infomercial, he had to open his mouth. “That thing actually works?”

“I don’t hate school, but I like learning more than I like actual school, if that makes sense?” Ariadne shrugged. “I don’t actually normally talk a lot, but maybe it’s the whole ‘I want to be good with customer service’ that’s turned this on.” Anyhow… she shook her head, taking in a steadying breath. There was no reason to be worried right now.

“Okay, that makes sense. I’ll make sure you get stuff that won’t go bad or whatever on you, but also isn’t like the super high-end fancy stuff.” Luckily, her father saw it fit to stock a wide variety of items, and Ariadne at least liked to believe that he charged as reasonable a price as was possible - though of course, she knew full well that she had a certain level of bias at play with everything.

“Good, good.” Ariadne offered a tentative smile back to him. “Sorry?” Her head whipped toward him. “What thing? Batteries work well, yeah -” she followed his gaze. “That? No, I - that isn’t anything we’ve ordered, I don’t think, at least. Unless you want it! In which case, we can grab one and see about it.”

“If that’s the case, I hope you picked a job where you’re going to be learning every day,” if Alan honed his skills each day that passed, he didn’t feel like you could really learn to be good at it. It was a matter of temperament. Some jobs just required the right attitude, or a good amount of charisma, some others, diplomas, diplomas and truckloads of experience. “Less is more sometimes,” he pondered. “But for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing well,”

With a polite smile, he nodded along as she told him his purchase wouldn’t go bad or whatever on him. What a completely positive and non worrying thought that was. Maybe not doing so well after all. Alan figured she was just clumsy with words, like most kids were, and instead turned his attention toward a dog brush - glove fusion that seemed a whole lot too good to be true.

As seen on tv, the product read. Not on my tv, Alan thought as he reached out to get a look at the cardboard box. “Removes hairs from clothes, dogs, cats, and all living things,” he read out loud. If the first bit was enticing, the last part provoked in him an urge to put that thing away. Yet, instead, Alan started to turn the thin box around to find a way to open it. “Do you mind if we have a look?”

“I might be a professor, maybe.” She wasn’t sure, but that seemed like a good enough answer to keep away any further questions about her future. Ariadne had used to have elaborate dreams about what her future held, but those had all been brought to a halt, doubly so, now. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“We can look.” Her face scrunched up, puzzled once again. “But I don’t remember my dad ordering this, but I mean, I’m not like, in charge of keeping track of what we have in stock, or what we order. Maybe they were a freebie or something?” Ariadne shook her head. “Regardless, feel free to open it, I think we probably should look to make sure it’s not something dangerous or otherwise questionable.” She adjusted the basket on her arm.

“That’s one way to do that,” it sounded exhausting, and he heard it didn’t pay well. All those years in school to be broke? No thanks. Alan gave a courteous nod to the young girl, and finally found the tab to open the damn box. “Well that was easy.” With a raise of his eyebrows, the wolf pulled on it and folded aside the top of the cardboard.

The object within seemed to resemble the one on the package, except for one highly disturbing detail. Glancing at Ariadne Whitlock, Alan gave a grimace, holding his fist to his mouth while he tried not to feel too sick over the gruesome sight. If this was a marketing strategy, he certainly wasn’t buying it.

The glove looked exactly as the one on the box, yes, but by the look of it, it had been used. Covered in hairs, wet hairs, the object, inanimate as it might be, had a threatening aura the wolf was quick to get as far from him as he could, even if that meant throwing it away back on the shelf. “What.” Pause. “The fuck is that?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. Of course, she probably wouldn’t end up doing that, but having some sort of stock answer at least helped a little bit with Ariadne’s nerves. Alan not giving her too many followup questions was also something of a relief. She could help with finding things in the store; that was easy enough to fake being normal about.

A small scream escaped from her lips. “I - what?” She glanced around, “I don’t know.” Whatever it was, it absolutely wasn’t supposed to be like that. “Maybe - maybe someone used it and brought it back, and didn’t want to try to return it?” Except that didn’t make sense because, again, until Alan had pointed the box out, Ariadne couldn’t remember seeing it at all.

“Do - I - I can look at it, if you want?” She did her best to contain the look of disgust on her face. If he said yes, she’d just have to imagine it was like looking for roly polies under rocks as a kid. Curious, a bit strange, but not bad. At least the glove couldn’t kill anyone. Ariadne bit down on her tongue. “I’ll have to tell my dad about this.”

“Why is it wet?” Saying it outloud was enough to make him feel like gagging, and Alan put his wrist to his mouth, shaking his head in disapproval. “You’re gonna want to look at the security cameras,” did they have any? They didn’t look like the type. They looked like the type to trust everyone blindly, which was beautiful, he supposed.

“Look at it? Do you expect it to suddenly not be disgusting?” That made absolutely no sense, and he was protective enough of innocent folks that he had to raise his hands on that. “Absolutely not. You want to burn this thing to the ground,” his eyes went toward the other boxes on the shelf, who weren’t supposed to be there either. “Do you think the rest of the boxes are like that ?”

“I don’t know.” This time, the look of disgust was clear all across her face. “I - we don’t have those. Or I don’t think we do. Maybe one by the cash register, because of the money and stuff but…” Ariadne’s voice trailed off. “I - I’m confused.” Which didn’t even begin to cover it, but still.

“I don’t know, I just - well,” she bit her lip. “I don’t think we should light things on fire in the store. Which - I doubt is what you meant, but I - shouldn’t we show my dad? In case it’s someone playing a rude prank on us?” Ariadne sighed. “I think it’s probably worth checking out, at the very least? Maybe this one’s just faulty, or something.”

Alan raised both his hands, as if to say : your shop, not mine. He didn't have to make decisions for them although he did hope that they'd decide to get rid of that thing in the most brutal way.

"A prank which consists of putting your shower drain," or something that looked like it, but also not like it, as if the hairs were human, but not quite. "On a glove. In a closed box." With a deadpan stare, Alan took a step back, turning his heels on her. "What if there's something else in each box? A surprise per box?" As horrifying as it was, he preferred to fear the worst than be surprised.

"It's not faulty," she knew that, right?

“Please. Let’s not further visualize it.” Ariadne made a face. “It’s gross and really quite mean, if it’s some sort of prank. Like, why would you do that?” Except she was with a customer, and that meant you had to be as professional as possible.

“That’s a very good point. Would you like me to open the next one?” Tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth to steady herself as much as was possible. Which wasn’t a whole lot, but Ariadne figured anything counted, at this point.

“Defective, then?”

“Quite mean?” It was none of his business, really, but had it been, Alan would have tried to track the scent on that box back to whoever had brought it here. Depending on who it was, his reaction would have ranged from casually leaving that glove in their mailbox to breaking in and putting it on their pillow, like a fucked up redo of the Godfather. “Why would you do that? I don’t know. Maybe people are disgusting, maybe your dad has beef with someone. I don’t know kiddo.”

Opening another might not have been such a great idea, but he was too curious not to nod along, all while standing further from it.

“How can this leave the factory looking like this? Those must get made by the thousands, it’s not that,” how could someone be so naive? Alan bit on the inside of his cheek and glared over at the box in her hands instead, as if to urge her to get to it.

“I don’t think anybody’s ever been mad with my dad, ever.” Ariadne shrugged. “Though I guess I am biased, so I don’t know.” There was a lot she didn’t know, she was discovering. Which wasn’t a comfortable feeling to sit with, but one that she was realizing more and more than she didn’t really have any sort of choice about.

“I don’t know, there should be some quality control, right? I don’t know what to call it, if not defective or just confusing. I - well, gross, I guess. That just seems rude though? The glove didn’t ask for this. Not that it could - I -” Ariadne opened the next box and, with a small squeak, dropped it on the floor. “Okay. Safe to say they might all be like that.”

"That's not possible. Your dad sees too many folks every day for this to be true," it didn't have to be something bad either. Sometimes saying no sufficed to make a certain brand of people offended. He learned the kids like to call them Karens and Kyles but Alan, from what he gathered, understood that these people were usually all about words and not about actions. Pathetic shits.

"The glove didn't ask for this?" Rather than to ask ok, and, Alan gave Ariadne what looked like a sympathetic smile. Who the fuck cared about the glove's feelings ? His answer to that question promised not to be pleasant, which was why he preferred to remain quiet. "Alright, well while you settle this troubling case of folks being unjust to gloves," with a raise of his eyebrows, Alan turned his attention toward the list he gave her, in the basket, with the batteries and the paint. Being alone with his thoughts at home didn't seem so enticing anymore. "I'll go get myself a drink," or more. He'd probably find a former client to chat with, and hopefully forget about that damn horror. Alan didn't suspect it already, but anytime he'd come to Whitlock’s Wares ever again, the mental image of the hairy moist glove would come and haunt him.

“I guess, but this just feels extreme. Like, he doesn’t even really have bad reviews on Google or Yelp or whatever.” Ariadne made another face. “I guess I’d expect something like that before whatever this is.”

She paused, offering him a somewhat awkward smile, “I mean, I know it’s not sentient, that’s not possible, but I - it’s not fair to try to do harm to anything, really. Even non-sentient gloves or whatever.” At his next comment, Ariadne swallowed. “Oh - okay. I’ll just save everything for you to come by and pick up whenever’s good for you?”

“So, whoever did this is too old for Google Reviews. You should be wary of the elders,” ominous as the warning may have sounded, Alan shrugged it off. “Harm gloves? Wait...Do you not eat vegetables? Fruits? Cause I have some bad news here.” His eyes narrowed in faux suspicion, and it was about then Alan picked up just how silent the store was in this instant, how silent she was. With the sound of their footsteps, of clatter and chatter, he hadn’t really paid attention to the fact that she lacked a heartbeat. Right. Alright, perhaps was this his cue to get the hell out. “I’ll be back in the morning, I suppose.” There was another full moon tonight but he could probably get a drink or two in his system before it started. Maybe it would dull some of the pain, and maybe he’d forget about the lack of a ticking inside of her. “And there’s your dad back with smoothies. I’ll let you tell him about the non sentient gloves,” his nose wrinkled as he scoffed. “Good evening you two. See you next morning.”

#wickedswriting #ariadne threads #ariadnewhitlock #under blue moon threads

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