#even though they have no real hope of getting home in less than 60 years at that point

[angrywarrior69]

S6 E10 Pathfinder really highlights just how sad and tragic Voyager getting lost in the Delta Quadrant is

[sparklepocalypse]

First Line Analysis

Big thanks to @kiwiana-writes, @energievie, and @read-and-write- for the tags here! It's been awhile since I've done something like this, and I've posted a few things since then, so here we go!

RULES: post the first lines of your last 10 fics/chapters posted on AO3 (if you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics) and try to draw some conclusions.

Opening Lines, from most to least recent:

“We’ll just have to keep it very casual, of course.” Henry is an idiot. He hopes desperately that this realization isn’t written all over his face, like his every thought always is when it comes to the man sitting opposite him on the boldly colored sofa. The taste of Alex’s cum still lingers in Henry’s mouth, and he might have just prevented himself from ever getting a refresher, and — [Nobody Knows, Just We Two | Alex/Henry | E]

Each evening, Alex texts when he gets off the subway, and today is no different. Be home in ten. Love you. Missed your face. [He Drives Me Fucking Crazy; I am His Everything | Alex/Henry | E]

“Ma, seriously. I’m sixteen. I can go to the UN fundraiser,” Alex huffs, smoothing down the front of his shirt as the car rolls to a stop. “It feels like you’re dropping me off at daycare. I don’t even know these people.” [Count to Ten & Breathe Real Deep | Alex/Henry | E]

“Oh, come on,” Alex groans as traffic grinds to a halt on I-10 just outside of Norwalk. His shift starts in an hour and a half; it’s his first as a face character, and he’s going to be late if the cars don’t get fucking moving. [Love Like Yours Will Surely Come My Way | Alex/Henry | E]

The worst part about being a siren in the modern era, Henry ponders as yet another ship flies past his cove at a speed that he knows will disturb the anemone gardens below, is the yacht bros. Between the sound of their vessels’ motors and the dissonant noise the humans call music, Henry’s singing has no chance of attracting anyone’s attention. [All the Ocean Was Sleeping | Alex/Henry | E]

Alex Claremont-Diaz is sixteen years old, and he hasn’t presented. His dad seems to think it’s fine and offers Alex regular reassurance that his cousin Angel hadn’t presented until nearly 20. His mom, though, gets a little crease between her eyebrows whenever she thinks Alex isn’t looking. Presenting is a Big Deal in the Claremont family, and Alex just... hasn’t. [Late Bloomer | Alex/Henry | E]

For once, they’re not due on set until nearly noon. The night shoot at the V&A had run until nearly 1 AM, and Matthew had deliberately given the cast a recovery day, with only their Prime Video interview scheduled until that evening. It will, the Prime reps have promised, be a low pressure interview featuring some unserious activities framing an opportunity to reintroduce themselves to the world as the men bringing Alex and Henry to life. [You're the Spark That Won't Go Out | Taylor/Nick | E]

Nick can pinpoint the exact moment the line disappears. [Just Want You to Make Me Move | Taylor/Nick | E]

It’s coming. [Single Sad-Sack Seeking Same | Alex/Henry | E]

“Go win an election.” [Wrap Me Up, Unfold Me | Alex/Henry | E]

Analysis and tags behind the jump because that's already a wall of text. 😅🤣

First Line Analysis:

Not a ton of world-building in any of these first lines.

You can typically tell what sort of AU one of the more out-there AUs is going to be from the first line; Late Bloomer mentions presentation; All the Ocean Was Sleeping mentions sirens. The less outlandish AUs are less obvious.

60% of my last 10 fics make it clear whose POV you're reading in the first line.

Only one of these first lines contains a swear word; likewise, only one contains an overt reference to smut (even though these are literally all rated E).

Two of these first lines are a single sentence under five words; the remainder are... much longer.

Two of the first lines are either just a quote from the movie script or include a quote from the movie.

Four of the first lines open on dialogue, and of the rest, five are expository and one is ominous.

Tagging @eusuntgratie, @firenati0n, @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, @duchessdepolignaca03, @priincebutt,

@violetbaudelaire-quagmire, @cactusdragon517, @bigassbowlingballhead, @anincompletelist, @cha-melodius,

@orchidscript, @porcelainmortal, @thesleepyskipper, @onthewaytosomewhere, @mudbloodpotter05

[voxxisms]

thoughts on ram verse. put under the cut bc it got real long.

my main alastor is staticintone, who isn't quite like default ram alastor. our alastor && vox have way more history than in the actual ram au. in ram au, it seems they met in the 60s && fell apart in the 60s, but vox && alastor in this way are very different. met the actual day that vox died in 1945. they had met in life a few times, alastor was the one who encouraged vox ( george ) to follow radio more sincerely rather than from the background as a tech intern.

he let vox stay in his home, && initially it was sort of intrigue, alastor was willing at one point to get rid of him if he needed to. but that isn't what happened. they grew very close, they lived together for forty full years. vox left in 1985 to move into voxtek towers when he bought them. he hoped to earn alastor's affections (not knowing he already had them) by becoming less of a burden. becoming someone more capable, less needy. he tried so hard for decades to impress.

in 1992, alastor tried to confront him about this. about everything he was doing, the growing distance, the quiet between them, but they were interrupted by a call for vox, as a full blown attack was launched on the towers in his absence, && he fled to handle it without explanation. he didn't think, he just went. this broke them apart because vox shut down his side of their personal frequency, the mental link through radio waves that alastor built for them.

they still didn't have full issues until 2017 when vox offered a place in the vees to alastor. in their main verse, alastor finally expresses that he hates what vox has become, expressed that he doesn't want anything to do with it. vox takes this to be personal hatred, a new rule, && when alastor leaves, he is very broken for at least four or five years about it. he thinks he moves on, etc. etc..

in ram verse, of course, alastor instead chooses to fix him during the confrontation, removing his memories of the vee's especially, but effectively locking away almost all memories taking place after the end of the 70s, when they were still in a good place. vox is most vulnerable to emotional manipulation. alastor knows every little insecurity that vox has ever had, uses them against him, convinces him to agree to let him do it. but he doesn't know exactly what alastor is planning to do, if he did, he would certainly fight a little harder, make a few rules of a kind. but he trust alastor. he trusts him completely, even in the light of something so potentially awful, knowing what he did to niffty ( alice ).

vox's systems are very tech based. he is wired up more to function per processors && commands like a very old computer of sorts. this has less to do with anything other than the way that he has upgraded himself && the way his organic parts interact with the non organic parts. when the system tries to pull from information that is no longer accessible, it causes damage. confusion. misunderstandings. memories dont line up with current time once alastor abandons him at the tower. he is fine for a few weeks, because alastor said he was coming back && he trusted it. but eventually it would become unclear why or how long he was waiting. only that he was waiting for him.

his perception is skewed, but he especially has conflicting memories. with damage comes other problems. some days he thinks hes still alive, as george taylor. some days he thinks val && vel are his wife && daughter, linda && katherine. sometimes he thinks its 1975 all over again, sometimes he thinks he has been kidnapped, sometimes he isnt all there at all. sometimes, though, he remembers exactly who they are && where he is. not what happened to him, but some of the rest. those happen the least, && for the shortest amounts of time. but when his parts need more power, resources get diverted, && the locks on those memories lift a little. but he doesnt hold on to that very long.

he is volatile && paranoid, afraid of val && vel for a long time. he eventually becomes capable of making new memories of them in a reliable way so that they dont have to remind him who they are, but it took years.

alastor coming back, he took him away again. he follows him without hesitance, knowing he waited for this. he is brought to the hotel, shown to charlie as a poor unfortunate soul, && is expected to return to norm, after seeing what the vees did. alastor believes they ruined him. when he left, he seemed fine, after all. only because he hadn't processed any of it. his mind hadnt been breached by the wrongness of it all. vox signed over his power to val && vel a long time ago. it prevented him from being too strong to hold back. he has good && bad days. sometimes he is terrified but doesnt know why.

he can learn, he can eventually be fixed, there is a way to perfect this, but alastor refuses to go back in unless absolutely necessary, && vox is far from capable of doing it himself. even if he were to have memory fixed && restored ... he would be highly unlikely to turn from alastor. he would fluctuate wildly between anger && depression, but ... can he fault alastor for trying but failing to fix him?

no. no, he can't.

[nickgerlich]

Up In The Air

A decade has passed since Amazon founder Jeff Bezos rocked the universe with yet another disruption to the way we do things. He announced that Amazon Prime Air would one day deliver packages to shoppers. It was a jaw-dropping moment that evening for those watching CBS’ 60 Minutes, and quickly spread across all media.

For fans of The Jetsons, it was confirmation that all those hours spent watching a futuristic cartoon were worth it, because one more thing was coming true.

Unfortunately for Bezos, there would be many hurdles, not the least of which was the FAA (Federal Aviation Administration). Even with Bezos’ promise that his drones would only fly at altitudes less than 400 feet, there was still the possibility that mishaps with airlines could occur, not to mention flying into very tall buildings, power lines, wind turbines, and anything else jutting out of the earth.

Amazon completed its first drone delivery in December 2016, although that is not to say that his unmanned aerial vehicles have taken to the skies in large numbers. There are still a lot of things to work out, as well as limitations on the size and weight of parcels. Oh, and never mind rednecks who took it upon themselves to declare open season on an entirely new species of bird.

But that has not stopped Amazon as well as Walmart and courier companies like UPS and FedEx from working toward solving those matters. In fact, Walmart, in partnership with Alphabet’s Wing division, just announced it would start a new drone delivery program in north Dallas suburbs by the end of the year. Residences within a six-mile radius of two stores—60,000 of them—will be able to receive drone delivery within 30 minutes.

In fact, Walmart has been quietly amassing a solid history of drone delivery, with more than 10,000 deliveries from 36 stores in seven states. In contrast, CNBC reported last May that Amazon had only made 100 drone deliveries thus far, in spite of having forecast 10,000 for this year.

If it is beginning to look like Bezos was merely in the inspiration business, you might just be right. His wild dream has failed to take off, while his biggest competitor in the retail space is doing amazingly well with it.

Yes, there are still many concerns, such as whether the recipient needs to be present to take delivery. Porch pirates could steal anything dropped from the sky. Pets might have a little too much fun opening the box. And, of course, you would not do your weekly shopping online and hope to have it all delivered by a drone. The limit is 10 pounds.

I rather like this idea, though. I can imagine a day when residences will have a small helipad in their front yard, a target for the drone to hit. With precise GPS coordinates, hitting the target would be straightforward. Better yet, beyond all the convenience of receiving purchases about as fast as one could possibly imagine while never leaving home, drones fall into the “One Less Car” category. Your car. Their delivery truck. Whatever. These could help alleviate traffic snarls, and since drones fly on a straight line path not bound by where the roads are, this is about as good as it gets.

Well, as long as operators at home base can keep them from flying into one another. And I do have to wonder how Walmart will be able to track UPS or Amazon drones in the sky. Details, details.

Now think of the new jobs that will arise from a nationwide deployment of drones. Highly-trained operators will be needed to program and oversee deliveries. This is far more sophisticated than flying radio-control toys or using a drone to photograph for fun or to help sell real estate. This is one more net benefit.

If I could just get the local Thai place to use these. I dream of the day when I could exit the Classroom Center at the designated moment, and my lunch slowly drops from the sky into my ever-loving hands. DoorDash, you better take note. How about that? A disrupter being disrupted by more technology.

It’s just too bad the guy who envisioned it all hasn’t yet been able to actually do it.

Dr “I’ll Be Out Front” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[saltlickmp3]

The Beths ✨

The Beths are an indie band from Auckland, Aotearoa New Zealand, with three studio albums, a live album, a couple eps, and recently completed a couple international tours with many sellout shows.

And they are the fricken best NZ band currently recording, in my opinion. (by all means tell me who you think are better I might not have heard of, but consider : the Beths.)

They mainly work in the indie rock format, their earlier stuff being quite pop-punk (though the title track of Jump Rope Gazers sounds uncannily like nostalgic Taylor Swift it's a bit disconcerting). Their 2022 album Expert In A Dying Field, is mostly nicer soundwise, a bit less distorted as a whole (with the notable exception of Silence is Golden, with a searing solo and excellent high-on-the-fretboard-bass-playing), but still with the unflinchingly personal lyrics that typify Beths songs. They have extraordinarily catchy choruses, memorable tunes and a fine combination of distorted guitar and chirpy backup vocals.

Singer/songwriter/guitarist Elizabeth Stokes' songs are full of passion, tenderness, and the very real anxiety of sharing your feelings with people. They bring up real emotions and experiences, things everyone even slightly introspective and introverted and socially anxious is surely very familiar with. Her lyrics, even when bordering on Morrissey-level angst 'you wouldn't like me / if you saw what was inside me' and 'misery loves me / but I don't love her', often surprisingly dark contrasting with the cheerful tone of the melody 'I told you that I was afraid / of stating my opinions in a clear and honest way [...] some thoughts are best deleted // I don't know what I'm getting up for'. The lyrics are highly emotionally charged while still seeming completely genuine, without the melodramatics.

Producer/lead guitarist Jonathan Pearce reminds me of Lenny Kaye (or Johnny Marr, but for some reason Lenny Kaye) - the guitarist who is crucial in shaping the sound of the band, singing backup (and backing vocals are a key feature of Beths songs) and being a *presence* in the music. His solos are excellent, drawing from a wide variety of indie influences, being technically quite good, impactful without showing off or going on too long, they always suit the song very well. He seems a true musical partner, and any band that produces their own music has full respect from me. They've had a couple drummers, especially for different tours, the drumming is a bit more heavy on their first album Future Me Hates Me. There are so far not really any particular stand out basslines I can remember but the bass always has really good tone. All band members contribute vocals, which I think is really cool.

The Beths make particular use of NZ made amps like Jansen - quick NZ music history courtesy of my friends dad / band mentor - for a long time from the 60s onwards, it was cheaper to build amps here than it was to import them from the US, so there are a lot of virtually indestructible vintage amps lying around the country - and Stokes also has a really vibey looking turquoise guitar, never seen another one like it. Their music videos are also really cool, have that nice indie / low budget / *lets do random stuff in front of the camera with some props* vibe to them.

I have seen the Beths live once, which was amazing and I loved it, it was one of those gigs that makes me want to go home and practice so that I can one day be that cool. They are really heavy live, far more distorted and on the rock end of the indie spectrum. I have also been lucky enough to meet them after said show and get a cd signed, they were all really nice. I said to Elizabeth that I had learned Future Me Hates Me with my band, and she asked if it was easy or hard, and I said it just has a lot of chords (she agreed, it does have a lot of chords). Next time they do a show here I am 100% going. I hope they will have a new album out in the next couple years and continue to explore their style a bit more, and that they continue to find an international audience because they are certainly good enough to.

Lots of love to the Beths <3

[ahoneesan]

ATHLETICS TRACKING - 5/9/23

Subtitile: HEY I USED TO MAKE POSTS ABOUT THIS

hi! its been a bit. i dont think ive made any posts about this particular subject on this particular blog. not the long form effort posts like these, at least. there have been some fairly major developments here so i figured it was as good a time as any to log them here. and maybe get into the rhythm of writing regularly about this again? dont get your hopes up. but maybe more regularly than Not At All. anyways!

so thanks to having a job i have a gym membership now! that means i can lift Actual Weight instead of being trapped at 40lbs due that being all my at-home dumbbells can do. its nice! i've been progressing through my 5x5 workout without any real trouble so far. except for my overhead press. i literally cannot even begin to finish my 5 sets there, at the suggested introductory weight of 45lbs. its kinda baffling, i wish i knew why exactly i had that one hurdle. but i was barely making 5x5 on 40lbs either so, naturally 45 would be tougher! i should probably deload down to, idk, 35 or something and work my way back up but man. cmon! lets frickin go!

the rest of my numbers (which ill list down below) are doing well. i think, at least. steady gains (though they are "newbie gains") through and through, if i stay consistent on em ill be squattin 100 byyyyyy monday after next. which would be pretty cool! i guess! i havent encountered any real hurdles yet (apart from the OP i just mentioned) so its hard to get motivated by goals. im in this for like, the thrill of the lift. again: i guess!

cardio has been fine, though due to workin out preshift i dopnt have time to just like, run forever on that. maybe i only go in early for weights n leave cardio for after? maybe i cardio by running around the block at home then bus in to work like usual? maybe i just crank the speed and hope for the best? ok i did try that last one and it fucked my knee up just a bit lol. ultimately cardio is a supplement to the weight training for me so, afaik, its more important to have that elevated heart rate sustained for longer and longer periods of time than to be trying to make a like 8 minute mile. ill keep at it for now, probably try to ramp the speed up a lil more slowly than I did but as far length of workout i kinda dunno what to do. im still kinda entranced by the treadmill i now have access to so, probably keep on that for a while longer.

as far my body numbers go, theyre more or less unchanged from where I was when i started doing all this like, a year ago. which is part of Why im not so motivated by goals n such. but thats of course still on me. havent had my diet right, wayyyyy too many breaks n off days, no ability for actual Progression until just now. hopin i can start to turn this dang machine into some fucking muscle soon. i think i can! maybe! AUGH!

NUMBERS

SQUAT - 70

BENCH - 60

ROW - 80 (pulled my back just a lil on this last time, lol.)

OVERHEAD - 45 (cant even finish this weight lol)

DEADLIFT - 105

CARDIO - 4.5mph(?), 45min

WEIGHT - 160

BODYFAT - 24%

[jodilin65]

I ended up spending most of yesterday tired, but I feel good today. We’re going out to CVS later, now that I’m staying up throughout the mornings. After too many days stuck at home, I’m itching to get out, even if it’s just a quick run to the store. I don’t know how Tom could stay home every single day for months if he had to. Maybe I would feel the same if I had worked for so many decades outside the house.

Ever since I’ve known Tom, I’ve wished we were closer in age. If I didn’t go first, I wouldn’t have many years left to lose by following him. But then I realized that maybe it’s a good thing there is an age difference. I don’t know if anything worse may lay beyond, but cutting my life short by a decade or so would mean one less decade of life’s bullshit to deal with. Life is still rough at times, even when you have it easy. As I said, something worse could await me, but as soon as this life ends, there are no more sleep and health issues, etc.

I now see that I'm not going to lose weight by cutting sugar and carbs (as if I really expected to, right?). I think my calories are already low enough, and if I lowered them any more, I wouldn't feel good. So I'm just going to keep doing what I've been doing and hope for the best as far as my A1c goes.

Nothing more to update on, other than I found a really cool wallpaper app and had some weird dreams.

In one dream, I lived in an apartment building, and Christiane lived there as well. She mostly kept her distance from me, just like she did online before she dumped me. As I was returning to my apartment and about to unlock the door, I spotted her. She looked great for being in her late 60s, tall and slim with dark hair. She wore it straight and shoulder-length, with a lot of makeup as usual.

She looked at me hesitantly and then said, “Congratulations.”

I looked at her with confusion, and she elaborated by saying she would be met with good reflections. I don’t think her English is that bad in real life, but nonetheless, I asked her what she was talking about. She said, “Rainbow.”

Pretending not to have a clue what she was talking about, even though I knew she was referring to a text message I sent a while back about a new GF named Rainbow, I said, “Who is Rainbow?”

Then she looked even more confused and said, “Who the hell have I been talking to?” as she entered her own apartment.

Andy was in the next dream. I lived alone in some place that didn’t look anything like this. He was in a long line of people waiting for some event we were to attend. I was already in front of the line, seated on a bench, waiting for him. When he spotted me, he struck some goofy poses and made funny faces.

“You look so gay,” I told him with a laugh.

I knew he was going to be sleeping with me in my bedroom, which had two twin beds. I reminded myself to tell him that I now snore at times and that it might disturb him. Then I looked forward to seeing how the hell he managed to stand his full-face CPAP mask.

The last dream was the weirdest, and no one I knew was in it. Again, I was alone and in a cold climate. I don’t know how old I was, but I was on a ship and we had to ride it for some crazy reason standing on these wooden planks that were about two feet wide and extended out over the freezing, churning water. I stood on a plank with a couple of women in their 20s or 30s, terrified of falling off and into the water. We all hung on to each other and started to sway for a minute but quickly caught ourselves. I asked if they normally had anybody ready to rescue anyone who might fall into the water, and they said no. I figured they would freeze to death before they were rescued anyway.

Then we stopped somewhere, and I was taking a shower and then using this really weird-looking toilet. The rim looked painfully thin, but when I sat on it, it felt normal.

[mitigatingacademics]

{12.25.23}

Merry Christmas, friends. 🎄

This year truly reminded me why I enjoy working the holidays.

Despite baking copious cookies, offering up Party Perks full of slow cooker hot cocoa (they're not made for that...have you ever tried to clean one after it's been used for something it's not made for? 🤦🏻‍♀️🤣) and dressing like an elf for the past four Christmas Eves, it's been hit and miss.

In 2020 we only had two trains and half the crews due to Covid furloughs. Last year we were blasted by winter weather so severe that I came back from my annual December vacation (for baking) to 3 nights without trains and finally, at least, 2 on Christmas Eve.

Last year's (workplace) Christmas was even harder than 2020's, to be honest. With the Covid cuts we knew what to expect. Fav co-worker was at a down-line station and we sent each other gifts on the train. One of my favorite Conductors was furloughed -- I actually took her gift to her house and got to see her extensive Christmas village set-up and gorgeous real tree. We adjusted.

Last year's arctic blast was unanticipated (at least beyond a few days out) and we were left, more or less, with our hands tied as to options and little else to do but apologize and feel bad.

To put it into perspective -- this year's company official ugly sweater says 'Getting You Home For The Holidays' ...which is exactly what we were NOT doing last year. 😔

This year, fully staffed and 60 degrees (which I admit I also complained about a bit, but...less -- the sweet spot is, failing a dusting of our own, being able to chisel a piece of a white Christmas off the New York train and hold it in your hand -- I'm not kidding, see below from my first Christmas at this station 😂 ) spirits were festive and good times were had.

It felt right and I'm very grateful.

White Christmas 2018 be like:

Favorite and most meaningful gifts this year include:

From Mom (selected by me).

I also received two books by Rachel Maddow and a whole-ass desk situation (I've needed a desk for so long, I can't wait to get everything put together and arranged!).

When Jamie's book arrived:

Mom: Who is Jamie Raskin?

Me: He's a Congressional Representative from Maryland. ... He was on the J6 Committee.

Mom: Of course he was. 🤦🏻‍♀️

Me: He's also an incredibly intelligent and articulate professor of Constitutional Law? 🤷🏻‍♀️😂

Dad gave generously in the form of gift cards, several of which are for Amazon and will undoubtedly go towards more books.

You can never have too many books. 📚

From fav co-worker.

I'm no longer holding a (selfish and inappropriate) grudge against her for bidding off the regular that had us working together 3 nights a week. She had her reasons and, as I told her the first time she brought it up (though it took a hot second to get over myself and actually mean it 🤦🏻‍♀️😂); I hope it helps in the way she thinks it will.

Even when we're not working together multiple nights a week, she still knows me better than just about anyone these days. These items are just a few from a huge bag of individually wrapped thoughtfulness.

I love Harry Potter in Dutch more than I could possibly explain.

Once I get through the Feb. LSAT (decided we're sticking with that one, for better or worse -- last night and tonight are the first nights since my last real post that I haven't spent at least an hour with Brad Barbary 😂), I want to get back to practicing Dutch (and French) for more than just keeping my Duolingo streak alive.

Inspiring Women Fisher-Price Little People edition is equally amazing. I'd never even seen this set (and I love it!) but also, I now have a 'collection' of these items so the next time Amazon tries to sell me the Sanderson Sisters or Golden Girls I don't have to worry about starting yet another collection. ...it was done for me! 🤣

It goes without saying that Sweet Liz telling the world, in a best-selling memoir which will undoubtedly be instrumental in the way that she's remembered far into the future, that the GOP is led by morons, is one of the greatest gifts I've ever been given.

Beyond my unending appreciation for the commendable sass with which Liz so articulately expresses herself, I am truly and seriously so grateful for the time and effort she put into not only the things that she's done, but the book she wrote about it.

I was asking for a book before its existence was announced, it had a great deal to live up to in my mind, anticipation aside, and it went above and beyond. Full review to follow (I'm almost done with my notes).

I have an incredibly blessed life and I am very grateful.

[rachelbethhines]

60 Years of Doctor Who Anniversary Marathon - McGann 3rd Review

The Adventures of Henrietta Street - Novel

Well that sucked.

I don't know why, but I was under the impression that the BBC Eighth Doctor books were generally more well regarded than the previous Virgin New Adventures. I assumed that this was because they were less try-hard edgy and fake mature because there was more BBC oversight.

I was wrong.

The Adventures of Henrietta Street is every bit as tasteless, offensive, and immature as any NA I've ever read. Worse... it's even more pretentious than any NA I've ever read, and that's really saying something!

But I'm getting ahead of myself... what is the book about?

So Gallifrey has recently been destroyed... Not by the Time War, but in some other conflict. Something to do with alternate dimensions... It's okay though cause eventually the books will reverse this decision just in time for RTD to destroy the planet again in the revival series. (No wonder he likes Chibnall's own retcon of Gallifrey's alive status.)

Therefore, cut off from his home and the Tardis, the Doctor falls ill and finds refuge in a late 1700s house of prostitution. He befriends the girls working there, and they become his 'army' against a new foe that has slipped through the cracks between dimensions now that the Time Lords are no longer around to hold them back.

His plan is to make an uneasy alliance with all the witches of the world and one man who wishes to replace the Doctor and become a Time Lord himself. And to accomplish this, the Doctor has to get married.

Did I lose you yet?

Yeah, by this time, like with the NAs, the BBC books were becoming more and more insular as they tried to appeal to their current audience of hardcore fans rather than trying to make the series accessible. So there's a lot of backstory and lore that the novel just expects you to already know.

It's not impossible to follow if, like me, you haven't read all the books up to this point, but it's not a very inviting read.

Then there's the issue with the book's 'gimmick'. Save for the opening chapter, the entire book is written like a bad History Channel documentary. You know the kind, the ones that claim aliens built the pyramids and that President Kennedy is secretly still alive.

It's annoying. I would have prefer to read the story in pure letter form like Dracula or just have a normal telling. Trying to do both with a Lemony Snicket type narrator doesn't work... mainly cause the author takes himself way too seriously.

Also I hope you don't like actual science fiction, cause none of it is to be found here. The story doesn't even pay lip service to it. It's pure fantasy with the Doctor as a wizard and ordinary humans capable of real ass magic with no explanation at all.

Oh and the female orgasm can stop time and summon daemons, apparently....

This is the part that really offends. I mean I don't care for the gore and burning the innocent priest alive on a cross is perhaps a step too tactless... but claiming women have magical powers just because they're women smacks of that second wave girl power bullshit that drives me up the damn wall every single time.

Placing women on a pedestal rather than treating them like real human beings is every bit as offensive as telling them they belong in the kitchen.

Oh and there's an unpleasant subplot where the Doctor is grooming a 16 year old girl to marry him.

To be fair, it's not intended to be romantic/sexual in any way, and he doesn't actually go through with it. But that's only because the girl runs away, and we're supposed to see this act of agency as a 'betrayal' or some shit.

It's gross.

Also it doesn't even really matter cause he winds up marrying someone else anyway and it's dubious as to if said wedding was even necessary. Like what does it actually accomplish narrative wise other then to transport everyone to the demon dimension... even though it's established in the story that there are plenty of other ways to get there?

And I'm not even going into the stupidly of the Doctor's rival being able to transplant one of the Doctor's hearts into his own chest and that magically giving him time travel. In fact everything about Sabbath is beyond dumb and I hope to never come across the character ever again.

Anything else? ... Oh yes, the Doctor's wife reminds me of River Song and not in a good way. Moffat really didn't have an original concept to his name, did he?

So yeah, I don't recommend this one at all. Hopefully the next story will be more fun.

[elvisabutler]

my baby's sure, his love's secure

summary: you want to trust that elvis cares. you want to trust that he'll take care of you but you're pretty sure you know better. elvis reminds you that he chose you to be his princess and that you deserve every bit of his love and every bit of his attention and money even if it's beginning to be in a little shorter supply. rating: m. pairing: austin!elvis ( 60's sde variation ) x female failed actress reader word count: 2329 warnings: sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamic. brief comparison of the reader to belle watling from gone with the wind with priscilla being a scarlett o'hara. a possible butchering of a southern accent for i fear it is hard to decide how to write one sometimes. oral ( f receiving ). mirror sex. no age difference implied, but sugar baby situations do end up leaning that way sometimes. elvis's money troubles. author's note: so welcome to my triple dip for day five: praise kink with sd elvis, specifically 60s austin elvis. so, @sassy-ahsoka-tano when i posted my list just missed out on getting this day and it went to jerry schilling which was fine we all loved that fic. however she had requested either sugar daddy austin or sugar daddy elvis. and i wrote sugar daddy austin the same day as the jerry piece but toyed with writing this one. finally settled on something i liked and well y'all get this. normal rules apply, imagine your brand of elvis, i did a weird mishmash of real ( mentioning stay away joe ) and austin for setting, but you choose, i'm not picky. hope y'all enjoy. and see i did say i was working on something else today.

Acting doesn't always pan out, that's one of the regrettable things you've realized over the years. For every Vivien Leigh and Ann Margret there is at least ten girls like you. It shouldn't be so heart wrenching when it happens but it had been your dream since all your mama and daddy could afford was a picture every few months. You had given it a nice go of it, gotten a few tiny tiny parts, nothing to write home about- and you didn't. Truly, if nothing else what your attempts at stardom had given you was Elvis. Though given might have been a strong word, his attention always split between you, the Colonel and the others. You could take his wife, that one came with the territory, you supposed, even though it made you feel a bit like the Belle Watling to her Scarlett O'Hara nowadays with your job and her making him seem oh so respectable. Poor Southern girls don't make good Hollywood wives for formerly poor white trash Southern boys, but sweet girls he found in the army apparently do. But it was the ones that weren't you or Priscilla that sometimes got to you. The film flings- the ones that shouldn't matter because Priscilla and you share his heart with his daughter. But Priscilla has a ring and a house and- you've got an apartment that you spend more money on than you ought to for someone who claims to have a good chunk of her life financed by The Elvis Presley.

Truth be told Vernon knows when he talks Graceland and Elvis Presley Enterprise finances that that he has to tell Priscilla just by virtue of her being Elvis's wife, but telling you? That shouldn't be a thing and yet- and yet you're the second call. You're the one having Vernon pour over every expenditure in your kitchen to see if there's anything Priscilla and him missed. There isn't and you know that means that Elvis's finances are as bad as they looked at first glance. You hear Vernon murmuring about not being able to pay security and having to sell a horse or several to cover the costs of Graceland and your apartment and you wave him off.

"Don't worry 'bout the apartment, Vernon- I'm- I can pay for my own apartment. One less thing, you can probably keep at least one o'the horses. Don't need security, either." You'd like it, after all it wasn't exactly a secret that you were Elvis Presley's sugar baby but you also would prefer Elvis to be able to not worry about Graceland getting overrun by overzealous fans or Elvis himself being overrun by them. Sacrifices had to be made, besides, you could handle yourself. You can handle bits of yourself that he's been handling when his films were doing well.

It's another week before you get the opportunity to visit him on set, you think the film is called Stay Away, Joe, and while you're willing to look past a lot of things when it comes to Elvis, the look he has while on set isn't necessarily one of them. You have to bite back a laugh when you see him for the first time and when he hears the laughter, he turns, looking like he's about to tear into whoever is laughing before his face softens, realizing it's you. He motions for you to head to his trailer with a tilt of his head that he can easily play off as just twitching on camera.

You would prefer to immediately talk to and see him but as always the universe has other plans. Elvis leaves you hanging for a good twenty minutes before finally making his way into the trailer, a smile on his face that lights up the air around him before it dims just a little bit at seeing the dress you have on. Once inside he pulls you close to him and moves his finger around a simple signal to get you to twirl which you readily oblige him with.

"Look at you, dressin' up in that pretty little dress that I know I didn't buy ya." He plays with the strap humming as he does, not sliding it down but just running the fabric through his fingers. "Tryin' to show me I don't need to spoil ya? Tryin' to show me ya don't need a diamond necklace on that pretty neck of yours?"

You nod slowly, licking your lips as your stance straightens up. "You don't need to be havin' a sugah baby who can take of herself. Still got my job, Daddy."

His laugh almost confuses you before you realize that he's doing it purely because he thinks what you said is the most hilarious thing. "Ever think that's why I let ya keep it? Hate the damn thing but- it's serving its purpose now. Keepin' you above water while I'm tryin' to get you everythin' and get things sorted. It's keepin' ya from finding someone else in this town. Don't realize how many of 'em want ya. Don't realize how I gotta hear the whispers."

You swallow and lean forward a little, your body moving almost on instinct. "What kinda whispers?"

"'Bout how they all wish you had caught on in the movies. How they wish you were their leading lady or their darlin'." His hand moves to push down the strap of your dress, kissing your shoulder blade as he does. "'Bout how I've got this gorgeous woman in my bed. Bein' my baby."

A hum escapes your lip as you sigh, tilting your neck to the side to expose it for more access. "Your favorite baby?"

The answer is obvious, you know it is and so does Elvis but he catches on with what you want with a smirk, pulling down the other strap of your dress as he continues to kiss your neck, "Ain't another girl who can make m'feel like you do. 'Cilla- She's pretty close but you know how perfect I think ya are. Brilliant ya are, havin' that head for numbers I never got."

Your eyes move to the mirror, eyeing your reflection and shivering just a tad. You can see the look of pleasure starting to seep into your eyes, see how your chest is starting to rise and fall just a little bit quicker than it had been. "Haven't had that much time f'me, Daddy. Been making me take care of myself. Makes a girl think ya don't want her."

Perhaps you shouldn't poke the bear like that but it's true, you've been feeling pretty neglected, feeling like he doesn't want you, that he's tired of you because all you really are beyond the occasional- okay, relatively frequent- reassurances that you're a bit more, is a sugar baby, one who holds a bit more power than most you figure, but you are not his wife and you are not his girlfriend. You're someone he spoils in exchange for your company and well, neither one of you had been holding up your end of the bargain.

Elvis can't help but raise a brow at you and purse his lips. There's a part of him that wants to argue, wants to tell you that no one told you that you had to take care of yourself, that he was fine paying for part of the apartment but he knows that you're right. That he's been so busy trying to balance keeping everyone happy and fed and comfortable that he forgot about you. Forgot about one of three people he should care about the most. Instead he hums and starts to sink to his knees. You hands find purchase in his hair, trying to pull him back up with you own raised brow. "What're ya doing, 'Vis?"

"Makin' sure my girl knows how much I want her." He answers like it's the most obvious thing in the world as he starts to bunch up your dress, exposing your underwear clad cunt to his eyes. You're a little embarrassed that despite the fact that Elvis has barely touched you that your panties are slowly becoming soaked. You figure that it's just his effect on people but then you realize that maybe it's because you've missed his touch. You're so enraptured in looking at him that you don't register that he's still talking. "Look in the mirror, darlin'."

A response back, a retort back is on your tongue, you weren't going to look at him while he did whatever he planned on doing but you want to see what he's planning for once so you look at him through the mirror only to see him grin. "That's m'good girl. M'sugar."

The shiver that goes through your body, the way you clench around nothing at those words as you see his eyes boring into you through the mirror. It's nothing you haven't seen before but there's something different about hearing him say those words and looking at you like that reflected at you. His fingers hook under your underwear, slowly pulling it down as he groans seeing your wet cunt exposed. "Soaked for me already. So responsive, best at giving me what I want to see. Not like 'Cilla but in another way. Always so wet for me. So ready for me to do whatever I want." His tongue darts out to lick his lips before he leans down, placing a kiss to the outer lips of your cunt. A whimper leaves your lips against your will, earning a small chuckle from him. "Make the noises, darlin'. Sing like a pretty bird. Sing like Ann did for me."

Your lip curls up into a bit of a snarl that doesn't even get out of your mouth before you feel Elvis's tongue between your folds giving you little kitten licks. You figure he wants you to keep your eyes on the mirror, because you've done something similar to this once before and that was the rule, no taking your eyes off of you and him. You had broken it then but now, but now knowing that he's giving you attention you've been craving, that praises seem to be falling off his lips so easily, you can't help but force yourself to keep staring.

You can hear him murmuring against your clit and against your cunt in general. The words are slightly drowned out a bit by your own sighs and whimpers and murmurs of his name but you still catch them just by virtue of being so intune to his voice. "My gorgeous woman, my head strong woman. Always wantin' t'make sure I'm takin' care of. Don't need me but ya let me keep ya. Let me spoil ya when I can. Deserve everythin' I wanna give ya. Deserve to have a palace. Deserve to have ya own Graceland."

Your hand that's been in his hair has been trying to control how his tongue moves against your clit and how his nose brushes up against it when he moves to your cunt, the noise of your arousal making an almost sickening squishing noise. That hand tightens its grip as he starts to fuck you with his tongue, seemingly wanting to bring you to orgasm before he heaps any more praise on you, any more promises of what he wants to give you. You're not complaining, in fact, as you watch yourself you see the pleasure he's bringing you written on your face. Written in how your mouth stays open, noises erupting from it with no way to stop them. You want to pull his mouth away from your cunt and your clit but then he nips at your clit, a sensation you hate normally but in this moment you swear you see white. The urge to tilt your head back, to look up to the sky as if to pray for forgiveness for how hard you're orgasming is but you force yourself to stay looking at Elvis between your legs. Your legs are shaking just a bit and as Elvis pulls away you can see a smile on his lips. You want to taste yourself on him but he won't let you pull him up to your face just yet.

"You kept looking." It's not a question, it's a statement from Elvis as he looks into the mirror and a new burst of arousal starts to unfurl in your abdomen. "And you made all those pretty noises."

You nod slowly. "I did. Did I do good?"

His fingers move play with you, fingers slipping in between your folds with ease and earning a hiss and a low groan from you. "You did great. Did exactly what I asked you to do. You don't always but when it matters you do. And even when you don't- it's for a good reason. Like you making sure my other two girls are protected. Makin' sure I can keep the house I bought for my mama."

It's then that you have to shut your eyes, the fact that he's praising you for making the sacrifice making you a bit more emotional than you expected. You hear him sigh, feel him kiss your thigh before he speaks again. "I'm gonna get you set up again soon enough, promise, darlin'. Gonna make sure you get your reward beyond this."

"You promise?" Your voice is softer than normal but you know he can hear it. "I'll actually have ya payin' for the apartment again?"

"The apartment, every single dress, every bit of jewelry. Maybe even that new car I know you've been eyein'." Each word is punctuated by a kiss before he stops and looks up at you. "Let me give you more of a reward right now? And I'll be by the apartment tonight?"

You pull him up for a kiss. "I guess I can. Just as long as ya keep tellin' me what a good girl I am. Only the best girl for you."

[scriptmedic]

COVID

Or, How to Abandon Pants & Save the World at the Same Time

Hey all. Seems like it’s getting tough out there. 

Seems like shit is getting really real, really fast. 

I’m here in New York, doing ICU transfers for one of the hospital systems, and I can’t lie to you... it’s bad. 

We’re storing bodies in refrigerated trailers because the morgues are full. 

The City is reopening potter’s fields and digging mass graves. 

Hundreds of people a day are dying. Soon, thousands.

Mostly older. Some previously-healthy adults. Mercifully, not many kids. 

It’s real, and it’s bad. 

But I promise you, the world is not ending. 

And I also promise you this post will end with HOPE, even if it’s hard to read. 

But I want to talk about something... a misconception I’ve been seeing over and over again. 

We are NOT the “Front Line.”

I keep hearing the term “front line responders” used for our nurses... doctors... PAs...

Bullshit.

We’re the LAST line.

We’re the failsafe. The oh-shit, I can’t-fix-this-any-other-way line. 

We’re the everything else has gone wrong line. 

.

The FIRST line of defense against COVID is YOU. 

.

You, sitting at home, wondering how the world will ever get back to normal. 

You, hoping that your job will still be there in a week, a month, a year. 

You, resisting the urge to walk the dog again because you’re bored. 

YOU are the ones who are going to make the difference in how many people live, and how many die. 

Not us. Not your health professionals. 

YOU. 

.

How You Can Stay Safe & Save the World 

.

I want to talk about something .... RISK. 

A lot of people I know are pretty risk-tolerant. We’re young, we’re healthy, and if we DO get COVID, it will likely just seem like a cough, or even like...  ...nothing. 

Here’s the problem. 

There are a LOT  of people testing positive (in countries doing mass testing, i.e. not here) who had NO IDEA they were infected. 

It’s called being an Asymptomatic Carrier. 

So even if you literally do not care if you get COVID...

Even if you feel completely fine...

ACT LIKE YOU HAVE IT ANYWAY.  Act like ANYONE you come into contact with could die if your breath touches their skin, their mouth, their nose. 

Act like everyone you meet is your granny, or your mom, who’s sick. Someone you love. 

.

It’s not about YOUR health, it’s about EVERYONE’S health. 

.

I’ve put together a few guidelines to help you stay safe AND save the world. 

I’m about 6 feet tall... ...so remember to keep a distance of 1 (one) Scripty apart from each other. NO EXCEPTIONS (unless you’re fluid-bonded with someone). 

Wear a mask in public, even if you have to make it yourself.  No, this does not mean you can violate social distancing!  REMEMBER -- KEEP ONE SCRIPTY APART, MINIMUM!  Yes, I know masks are direly hard to come by. Yes, I know they’re uncomfortable. Yes, I know they make it hard to breathe. I am literally wearing TWO OF THEM at the same time, between 40-60 hours per week.  WEAR ONE ANYWAY.  Not on your chin... Not hanging off of one ear... Over your nose AND your mouth. .

If you can’t find a mask, DO NOT cough out of your facehole. The correct direction to cough is due elbow.  Then make sure you SCRUB dat bendy boi.   .

Scrub dem grippy bois Hand wash for 20 seconds. Make sure you’re getting between your fingers, under your nails, and around your wrists. Sing Happy Birthday to yourself.  Just like the Mars Rover did.  . 

STAY. THE FUCK. HOME.  I know you miss normal life. Time with your friends. Visiting your family.  I miss it too. I would LOVE to spend time in a park, to go hiking again, to go back to my GYM, to just... live my freaking life.  There are SO many people I’m craving hugs from.  But here’s the truth.  THE MORE YOU STAY HOME NOW, THE SOONER THINGS CAN GET BACK TO NORMAL.  I CANNOT stress this enough. Staying home is saving lives. Period. Full stop.  I don’t know the last time I saved a life with no pants on, but you can. Right now.  TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS AND STAY HOME AND YOU WILL SAVE LIVES I PROMISE.  (it’s okay to save lives with pants on tho. your roof, your rules.) 

.

I promised you this post would end with HOPE. 

.

Here’s the thing... 

Yes, a lot of people are going to die.

Yes, a LOT of people are going to be out of a job in the short term. 

Yes, this really is THAT BAD.  .

AND. 

.

Everything in Nature has a niche. Something it’s better at than anything else.

Dogs? Dogs are the best on the planet at loving people. (That’s the #1 reason we bred them from wolves -- because they loved us.) 

But humans do ONE THING way, WAY above and beyond ANY of our competition. 

WE ADAPT. 

We are the adaptivist motherfucking species on Planet Earth. 

We live in more environments than any other warm-blooded species I know of. 

We got cold... so we figured out how to make fire. 

We got hot... so we learned to harvest ice, and then to MAKE ice, and then to make air conditioners. 

Our food was going bad... so we made iceboxes, and then refrigerators, and then takeout (because we got too lazy to cook). 

The point is, we ADAPT. 

We adapted to the influenza pandemic in 1918, twenty years before we ever saw a virus under a microscope. 

We adapted to smallpox... and then fucking eradicated it. Smallpox literally no longer exists because we decided we’d had enough of it. 

We CAN and we ARE and we WILL adapt to COVID, too. 

Smart motherfuckers are making vaccines. 

Recovering patients are donating antibodies to help save lives while the smart motherfuckers get their shit in gear. 

.

And y’all are STEPPING the FUCK UP. 

.

My heart is overloaded with love and appreciation. 

For grocery store workers. Supply chain workers. Truckers. Food service workers. 

For all the people who can’t stay home. 

I nearly cried saying thank-you to a barista about an hour ago because a cup of coffee was enough to make me feel human. 

You’re busy praising us in the health care trenches, but the truth is, we owe our ability to live our lives right now to you. 

To the guy busting his ass in a restaurant for less than minimum wage. 

To the girl making round after round of deliveries even though she’s tired AF. 

To the people who are keeping us going. 

And most especially, to those who might have the hardest job of all...

...the people who are staying the fuck home. 

I love each and every one of you.

And it’s gonna be tough. It’s gonna be tough for a WHILE. (This is a marathon, not a sprint.) 

But we will get through this together. 

You... me... everyone. 

.

So, so, SO much fucking love, 

.

xoxo, Aunt Scripty

[sock-ness-monster]

Excuse is granted. Please. I beg of you. Infodump away

Thank you so much I love telling people about this guy

So, to preface this, I'll be telling this story exactly how it was told to me by our camp counselor at a Caveing camp I went to, so it's very much an oral history that maybe can't be fact checked but the broad strokes are genuinely 100% true

TRIGGER WARNINGS: DEATH, DARKNESS, CLAUSTROPHOBIA, GRAVE DESECRATION, CRICKETS

Now that that's out of the way (and please mention if there's any other TW's I should add) the story of

Floyd Collins, The Man Who Was Buried Six Times

This story begins in Kentucky in 19very early, a young Floyd was plowing his family's field when he suddenly dropped through the ground and discovered an unknown cave system. Super cool! Now, people back then did not have television, keep in mind, so caves were really big deals and they were a brand new and lucrative tourist escapade. Floyd's family seized the idea and quickly made a little tourist attraction out of it and started raking in the dough. But they weren't the only ones who had a cave you could tour, Kentucky's geology is super unique in that it has tons of limestone and sandstone which is perfect for underground rivers to carve cool caves out of. They are everywhere in Kentucky and the surrounding area, there was a lot of competition for who had the best, the biggest, the longest cave. And Floyd and his brothers were seized by cave fever and were exploring all around looking for new tunnels and chambers. A large part of this business, unfortunately, was not just walking people through the caves but was letting them take home souvenirs. People could carve their names in the wall, take a stalagmite or stalactite or whatever cool rock they found. Destroying the sensitive ecosystem of the caves. Floyd, the cool dude that he was, was one of the only people who was against this at the time. Good for him! Salamanders are important!

Anyway, Floyd and his brothers are always on the lookout for new opportunities, and there were tons in that area. But, not all of them would pan out. Floyd had heard rumblings about a new cave system called Sand Cave that wasn't far from his family's original cave, which by now had been dubbed Crystal Cave. It didn't seem that promising to most, but Floyd was hoping it actually connected to Crystal cave, and they could tack on so many feet to how big their cave was. So he set off to see if he could find a connection.

He had been surveying the cave for a few hours, and decided to call it quits. He was crawling through a tight tunnel upwards toward the opening of the cave when a rock slide pinned his ankle down tight. He was laying flat with his hands reaching upwards, and there was no way for him to reach back behind him to free his ankle.

He had gone on this expedition without telling anyone.

This was the first time he got buried.

Three days pass, and his brother Homer finally finds him. He tries everything he can think of to free floyd, to no effect. Realizing that this may be a bigger endeavor than he can pull off, he crawls back out to go and find help. It is January of 1925, what else is there to do but go to the newspaper? They publish the story of the man trapped in a crawl way, and it's a huge hit!? People are fascinated by Floyds predicament. They want to help, they want to see, they want to know more. It even makes it on the radio! The three biggest news stories of the time were

1) the war (oof)

2)Charles Lindbergh (will come up again later)

And 3) Floyd in the hole

Everyone in America is anxious to find out how they rescue Floyd. "They" being everyone from the local cave experts to the military corps of engineers to the freakin freemasons, they're all trying to figure out how to free Floyd. Who, ya know, is just chillin in the cave, because caves stay at a constant temperature of ~54° , not too bad for January. His brothers and a reporter take turns crawling down to deliver him the three essentials; food, whiskey, and news. The reporter, "Skeets" Miller, would later win a Pulitzer Prize for his correspondence with floyd in the shaft. Now, as mentioned before, it is a cold and snowy January, but people (nearly 10,000 according to some reports) are so fascinated by the goings on at Sand Cave that they travel from far and wide to be there at the triumphant moment when Floyd emerges. Weeks have gone by at this point. Radio stations are reporting every day, Charles Lindbergh is hired to take photographs of the terrain from above. It's like a big party up top.

They camp out around the cave mouth.

They build fires for food and warmth.

The snow melts.

The cold water trickles down into the cave.

Floyd....... starts to cough.

The cave's already sketchy structure is further compromised.

There's another rock slide.

Floyd is now cut off from contact with the up side world, and the engineers panic and go with a last ditch effort they had been debating beforehand. They can't go around they can't go behind, the only path left was straight down. They drill a hole that reaches the 150 feet from daylight to Floyd's prison. They are too late. He was estimated to have died three to four days before they reached him. His leg is still stuck, and half his face has been consumed by cave crickets. And they just.....leave him there. Whatreyagonnado they shrug, he's already gone we can stop now. They fill in the shaft again.

This is the second time Floyd is buried.

Homer, his closest brother, can't accept this as his final resting place. A few weeks later, they un block the hole and carry Floyd to their family's funeral plot and have a small service with just his closest friends and family present.

This is the third time Floyd Collins is buried.

A few years go by, and the Collins family sells their farm and cave. Unfortunately, they did not see the part of the deed that entitled the new owners to everything in and under the property. Floyd's body is now legally theirs. He is exhumed and placed on display in a glass coffin in Crystal Cave (which years and years later would eventually be proven to connect to Sand Cave).

This is the fourth time Floyd is buried.

If you haven't pieced it together yet, caves were a pretty big deal. We now enter a time in Kentucky history known as the Cave Wars, and they are brutal. How brutal, you ask? Well, to answer with one scenario that happens to be related to this story, the owners of nearby cave were jealous of the attention Crystal Cave was getting from their cool exhibit of Floyd's body, against his family's wishes. Why, the only logical thing to do is steal the man's body and throw it off a cliff. Crystal Cave's new owners would recover it, though minus the left leg. And the next logical thing of course is to put him back on display but this time with a bunch more chains.

This is the fifth time Floyd Collins is buried.

Then, the 60s roll around and Crystal Cave and Floyd are purchased by the National Parks Service on the grounds of being connected to the Mammoth Cave System (the longest cave system in the entire world now). Floyds family is still fighting for his body, and in the 80s they finally get their wish. Floyd is removed from the cave in a 15 day trip and buried at a real cemetery again.

This, is the sixth time he is buried.

A pillar is constructed in honor and perhaps in reparations to all he's gone through, but it is struck by a semi truck and demolished less than a week after its unveiling.

Floyd.......went through a lot. All he ever wanted to do was see some cool rocks and support his family. And to this day, cavers do their best to do right by him. When entering Mammoth Cave, they often ask the darkness to look after them. They aren't talking to the darkness, of course, that darkness that can never be described properly. They are talking to Floyd. Asking him to watch over them as they wish he had someone to watch over him. In the caves everyone is above you, but that's not what they mean. And when they hear a whistle through the tunnels, they like to imagine it's Floyd. Floyd, who was right. The cave was so much more than people thought, in so many different ways. To this day, there's a saying in the caveing community.

"Floyd Lives"

It's like the geology version of "Eddie Would Go". As long as we carry on his legacy of exploring bravely, daring to go where noone has gone before, and do our best to preserve the natural beauty and habitat of the caves, floyd will live on. Floyd lives in our memories and hearts and the drips of water that will one day be pillars.

I don't really know how to end this. Here's a picture of the man himself;

(the picture above is not the tunnel he was trapped in, to be clear)

[paperpocalypse]

family outing.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You”: 29. Tucking their hair behind their ear to help them get it out of their face.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 1,436 words

Warning: Mild swearing

[A/N: Mild S2 spoilers!]

“So,” Vanya’s brow furrows, “Five met you after the apocalypse?”

“Yep.” Leaning against her car, you cross your arms and sigh dreamily. “Hate at first sight. He almost shot me in the head.”

“… With a gun?”

You grin. “Well, he couldn’t’ve shot me with a Twinkie.”

Vanya looks ahead at where Five is talking to some middle-aged guy, his expression friendly and polite. What a businessman. Her eyes narrow in shocked disbelief. “This is crazy,” she murmurs. “My family is crazy.”

Your grin widens as she shakes her head. Something about her mannerisms helps you realize why Five is so fond of her, though he’s never said it outright. She’s definitely your favorite of the bunch. Sans murderous intent.

“Some types of crazy can be good,” you reply, nudging her arm. “But your family’s got all of them and it’s gonna get real messy. Time to spice up your little farm life, Vanya.”

She chuckles a little awkwardly and shrugs. “I just hope I’ll have time to talk to them. Again, I mean. Maybe I’ll remember something when we’re all together.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Noticing Five bidding farewell to the man, you push yourself off the bumper and wave at him. “Any luck, Five?”

He points down the street behind you as he walks back over. “Plano Street Rooming House for Solitary Men,” he answers. “It’s just a few blocks from here.”

“How do you know he’s there?” Vanya asks.

“I really doubt Luther would live anywhere else.”

You snort, raising your hands in surrender when Five returns it with a semi-faux withering look. With a sigh, he shakes his head and opens the rear passenger door, gesturing for you to get in.

As Vanya starts the car and turns into the street, you look through the rearview mirror at Five as he tells her where to go. Despite being stuck in a thirteen-year-old body, he still has that resting glower of his that makes him look perpetually stressed. 

(Of course, it’s not just a matter of looking stressed – he is definitely stressed. Wound up tighter than a spring. You’ll probably need to force him to sit down and relax for at least a half-hour tonight before he explodes.)

His hair is a little disheveled, so you reach over to brush it out of his eyes. It doesn’t really work, but just going through the familiar motion grounds you somehow. “You know,” you muse as Five glances back at you, “Luther’s probably living there, but I doubt he’ll be in right now. He’s probably with Ruby somewhere.”

“Even if he is, we can ask around. I assume that at least one person there knows his business.”

He absently lifts a hand to smooth his hair back, and you smile. “Good point.”

—

“Hello, do you know Luther Hargreeves by any chance?”

After some door-to-door work, someone from Luther’s hall finally answers your knock. He’s a burly man, though not nearly as big as Luther, and obviously drunk off his rocker. Definitely solitary. He squints at the three of you through red, puffy eyes.

“Luther? Yeahhh, I know ‘im. Huge bloke. Real hairy.”

“That’s the one,” Five confirms. “You see, we’re his brother and sister. He hasn’t visited home lately and we’re pretty worried, so we’re just wondering if you know where he is.”

Burly picks at his teeth. “Brother n’ sister, eh? Well,” he rumbles, “I dunno where he is, but I know some of the boys are gonna watch ‘im fight tonight.”

“Where’s the fight?” Vanya asks.

The man regards her with suspicion. “Well, it ain’t a place for a little lady like you.” He swirls his beer around in its bottle, then jabs a finger at all of you. “Don’t want you three squealing to the cops, either.”

“We won’t,” you assure him, smiling sweetly. “We just want to check on Luther.”

With a little more cajoling, you finally obtain the time and place for Luther’s fight before the man waves you away with a grunt, slamming his door shut. You give your companions a self-satisfied grin before descending the staircase back down to street level. Worked like a charm. (You suspect your youthful looks probably helped a lot, though.)

“How’d you do that?” Vanya wonders as the three of you step out onto the sidewalk.

“Simple,” you respond. “I have a knack for sweeping tough guys off their feet.”

You wink secretly at Five. He rolls his eyes, the minutest of smiles at the corner of his mouth, before ushering you and Vanya back to the Chevy.

Your little trio spends the next few hours driving and poking around, looking for Luther or Klaus or Allison. The optimist in you hopes you’ll run across at least one of them. But Dallas is a big place, and darkness begins to fall around 5:30 without a single sighting.

“Dammit.” Five clicks his tongue as you exit a paint shop alone.

“At least we know where Luther will be,” you point out, shoving your hands in your pockets. “How about we get something to eat before we head to the fight?”

Vanya unlocks the car. “There’s a place I know close by,” she says, lips quirking up. “They have sandwiches and donuts there.”

You pat her back. “Sounds great, Vanya. Five? You’ve got to eat something, too.”

Your favorite number crosses his arms as you and Vanya stare at him expectantly. “We’ll get something quick,” he eventually says.

The trip only takes a few minutes. The three of you get sandwiches and a donut each and unwrap them on the bench outside the bakery.

“Sissy and Harlan and I get something from here whenever we go into town,” Vanya says, finishing the last of her sandwich and picking her donut up. “It’s pretty good.”

“So good,” you agree. Lands alive, sitting out here like this makes you nostalgic. Ignoring the upcoming doomsday and the ‘60′s aesthetic, it feels like you’re back in 1927 again, staying out past curfew with your peers. You smile to yourself and look down at your half-finished maple bar. Best to enjoy it while it lasts.

A finger quickly sweeps your brow, tucking a lock of hair out of your face. You blink and glance over at Five, but he’s looking across the street and starting on his own pastry. (Apple fritter. Perhaps you’ll ask him one day why he always gets those.)

Heart feeling even softer than before, you lean silently against his side. He doesn’t move.

After a moment, Five speaks up. “When we were kids, I brought you to this donut shop near the academy a couple times.”

“You did?” Vanya asks.

“Yeah. Griddy’s.” Oh, the one near the academy. The one that had gotten destroyed along with everything else in 2019. He gestures at the last bit of donut – plain, glazed – in her hands. “You usually got that kind.”

She raises her eyebrows, looking into her napkin. “Oh, wow. I guess it must’ve been a subconscious choice or something, then.”

“Hm.”

“You know, I’m glad we found you, Vanya,” you offer warmly. “I didn’t … really have time to get to know you the last time we met.”

A smile spreads across her face. “Same here. For both things, I mean. Not that I’d know much about our first meeting.” She pauses, examining you for a second, then blurts, “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

She awkwardly motions between you and her brother. “Are you and Five …?”

“Partners,” you finish, “in every sense of the word. From what I know, at least.” With a grin, you turn to Five. “Is that more or less right?”

He rolls his eyes fondly. “Unfortunately,” he mutters as you move to smooth his hair back again. He sure had lovely hair when he was a kid – not that you didn’t appreciate his looks back in your Commission days. This de-aging thing really knocks you for a loop sometimes.

Vanya nods, still looking vaguely confused. “Okay. I don’t want to make things weird, I just – well, you two are kind of … young –”

“Believe me, we’re much older than we look,” you quip, standing up. “But that’s a tale for another time. We gotta go.”

Disposing of your trash, you join the others into the Chevy and start your next journey to Luther Hargreeves. Radio turned off, the leather seat squeaks as you lean back and listen to Vanya and Five murmuring in the front.

To see the siblings together again makes you glow inside, a bit of calm before the inevitable storm. You drink it in as much as you can.

[ironlime]

60 Years After

So somebody in the tumblrverse posted about their headcannon in which Ned Coats was Sam Vimes' kid having traveled through time. I am a fan of this. It explains a lot. So when I read it back in... April? I then sat down and wrote up this little fanfic thing. And assumed that I could not only get it posted today, but also edit it so that it's not filled with so many of my own headcannons. And is closer to the original material. But L-Space is my job, and it really does do crazy things to time (and space.) On top of that I was really hoping I could post this to that original headcannon post but... I can't find it. So, OP, if you come across this... Well, I'm sorry. I'm more sorry to Sir Terry (GNU), though.

Quick note: my friends and I have found it easier to call Vimes' kid "Wee Sam" than "Young Sam" because "Young Sam" is one of the names (along with Vimesy and Lance Constable Vimes) that Vimes calls his younger self and... yeah. We find it confusing when nerding out about a single series with two different characters called 'Young Sam'. So we Feegle it up. Even though I wouldn't be surprised if 'Wee Sam' is actually a bit taller than his dad.

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

“What happened just then, Sarge? You blurred.” Wee Sam said, while he thought Oh so that’s what that looks like.

“You only get one question, Ned,” The man who would be his father looked a little seasick, and Wee Sam knew exactly how he felt. “Now, let’s show Snapcase where the line’s drawn, shall we? Let’s finish it--”

To the majority of people there that day, Sergeant-At-Arms John Keel stood, turned towards the enemy, and charged. To two people, Commander Sam Vimes ran towards Carcer, ready to drag him kicking and screaming into the past. Or the future. Depending on who you asked.

That was what gave Wee Sam his frame of reference, actually. He remembered hearing stories about Carcer, about how his dad had arrested the bastard the day Wee Sam was born. But was this actually May 25th for his dad? Was this weeks before the arrest? Hours? He couldn’t ask. Not yet.

“Glad to see you’ve joined us and are getting along with the Sarge, Coats.” Fred Colon said, touching him on the shoulder as they ran towards the fight.

“Yeah, Fred.” Oh, Fred. Fred Colon had died a few years ago, happy and surrounded by great-grandchildren. But here and now he was young and actually capable of running. And he was running towards the fray.

Sweeper had told Wee Sam to stay away from the center of the fight, and to try not to actually kill anybody, so he stayed on the edge near the unconscious Lance-Constable Sam Vimes who had been hidden by his older, more cynical self. Three men in a battle with the same name, and two of them were the same person. Good thing Wee Sam was the only one who had to really keep track of which of them was where. He certainly didn’t trust anybody else to.

So he fought, in a very curbed way, knocking his adversaries unconscious when he could and doing his best not to step on Nobby Nobbs, who was doing his best to very slowly inch away from the battle while simultaneously pretending to be a corpse. Over by the Watch House, Reg Shoe was doing a much better impersonation of a corpse, seeing as how he was one, but in a couple of hours he’d discover that it just didn’t work for him.

“You’re nicked, my ol’ chum.” It was probably because he had been listening for it, but his father’s whisper carried. Nobody else seemed to hear it, and nobody but Wee Sam turned in time to see the two men vanish. In the same instant, a single body appeared on the ground near where they had been. So, now that he had seen that through, there was one more…

A dark grey-green shadow passed by his shoulder, and his mind registered Uncle Havelock before adding the word Young.

Havelock Vetinari ran into the fight, cutting down Carcer’s men much more brazenly than the Assassin's Guild would like, a lilac bud between his teeth. Even in Wee Sam’s time, when Vetinari’s wardrobe consisted entirely of black and everything he did was in moderation, the Patrician indulged in a little drama on a regular basis.

He chose to have Commander Sam Vimes in his life, after all.

There was a sound to Wee Sam’s left, which he recognized though his mind didn’t associate any words with it. It was a sound any human would recognize, even those who first approached the Delta where the Ankh River met the Circle sea thousands of years ago. If Wee Sam had to find Morporkain words for it, and as a Vimes he did like to use his vocabulary, they were Confused, followed by Hurt followed by… wait for it… there it was. Anger.

Wee Sam could make that noise, though he rarely did. His father’s upbringing, on the other hand, had been considerably less balanced. The kid who was the source of the sound ran into the center of the fight, and Wee Sam deftly stepped out of his way while pushing an adversary in his way. The boy chopped down the Unmentionable with one graceful movement, and Wee Sam felt that he could safely say that he hadn’t been the one to kill the bastard. And nobody had been so foolish as to tell him to prevent his father from killing anybody.

Vetinari didn’t pause, but he did turn to look at this vengeful newcomer. Vetinari hadn’t been there when young Sam Vimes participated in the first part of the battle, and Wee Sam recognized the young assassin’s look of interest.

Tell me, Uncle Havelock, will you recognize him in 15 years? Or will you need to get him well and truly angry to realize you’ve found him?

Wee Sam knew this wasn’t the first time Havelock Vetinari saw Sam Vimes, but this was probably the first time he saw the potential. That he was more than just That Kid Who Follows Keel Everywhere. I bet you didn’t actually expect him to be so damned smart. His father still didn’t think of himself as intelligent. It was infuriating, especially when he and his father were having a disagreement. A drawn out, decade-long, disagreement.

Young Sam Vimes sent a lot of the Unmentionables running, and Wee Sam cut down any of them which could be seen as ‘coming towards him with a drawn weapon’. Since they were escaping a fight, that was anyone who came within reach not wearing a lilac.

Time travel really can get to a man. He thought, feeling a little cold. There would be no arrests here, just death and fleeing and at the end of the day Sam Vimes, Havelock Vetinari, Fred Colon, Gaskin, and, less literally, Nobby Nobbs and Reg Shoe would all be left standing. That was all that mattered.

He saw Vetinari turn away from young Sam Vimes, who then spun, and for the briefest moment they had their backs to each other, and Wee Sam wished he had his paints. It was a gods awful place to paint, there was a reason battles were always ‘immortalized’ after the fact, but the color and everything was just perfect--

And then the color faded.

“You should have fallen by now.” Sweeper observed from behind him.

“I wanted to see them fight together.” Wee Sam admitted, not turning. He had a notebook on him, and a pencil, but he knew that even with Time paused he didn’t really have it. Not to sit down and do a proper preliminary sketch. He was just going to have to remember.

Vetinari had a stiletto, an assassin’s weapon used to kill up-close. Young Sam Vimes hadn’t learned to dual-wield yet, but he had good instincts for the sword. Wait until you discover the axe.

Sweeper sighed. “Fine, and now you’ve seen it. I’m going to put the time back on and you had better be prepared to drop.”

“Yes yes alright.” Wee Sam shifted slightly, so he could seriously inconvenience the man who he was blocking before he dropped.

“Oh and stop killing people.”

“I’m a Vimes. You knew that when you hired me.”

“Indeed.” Sweeper said, and it took Wee Sam a moment to realize it was an attempt at a Vetinari impression. Before Wee Sam could reply, the color came back, and his adversary frowned in confusion.

“Oi, you blurred!” The man cried.

“This just isn’t your day.” Wee Sam gave the man a wound which might heal, if somebody tended to it within the next 10 minutes, and then fell over in a needlessly complicated way, specifically so he wouldn’t hit Nobby Nobbs.

And when he landed, the boy was looking right at him, frowning. Damn, Nobby was always the brains of Colon & Nobbs.

“You ain’t injured.” The boy hissed at him.

“Try to pick my pockets and you’ll regret it.” Wee Sam whispered back. Of course he wouldn’t dream of hurting Nobby, but the kid didn’t know that. Besides, picking the contents of his pockets back would be a relaxing way to end the day.

Nobby was still frowning at him. “You got eyes like the Sarge...”

“Nobby, get out of here before you get stepped on.” Wee Sam growled in his best imitation of his father, the Sergeant, within the past three days. The kid’s eyes went wide, and he took off running. Wee Sam glanced over to where Vimes and Vetinari were taking care of the last of Carcer’s men, and the color faded once more.

“I hope you are pleased with yourself.” Sweeper said, which Wee Sam took to mean he could stand up and dust himself off.

“Young Vimes and Vetinari live to grow up and become two of the most powerful men in Ankh-Morpork history, Carcer went back to his time more or less accompanied by my my dad so the one can be arrested by the other, your rogue ‘Time Vigilantes’ have been sorted out, oh and I don’t cease to exist either. My work here is d--” He stopped, and watched as Q and some other Technical Monks lay down a man about the same age, size and coloring as Wee Sam. “Wait, so there really was a Ned Coats?”

Sweeper had walked off without him, and Wee Sam jogged to catch up. The old monk didn’t turn to look at him when they were side-by-side, but he did start talking. “Of course there was. He was also from Psudopolis and knew the real Keel.”

“How’d he die?”

“The Agony Aunts, on his first day here. He was the real reason the real Keel accepted a job in Ankh-Morpork. The real Ned Coats was not a good man.”

“Keel... left his home to track down a criminal…” Wee Sam slowed. “That’s what my dad did! As Keel! Only, it was Carcer he had to catch.”

“Time likes continuity.” Sweeper nodded, and thanked Wee Sam quietly for holding the door open as they entered the monastery. Once in the building, color returned, with motion and sounds and smells. They were back in the Present.

The walk through the building was in relative silence, the rumbling of the procrastinators keeping it from ever becoming truly quiet here. Wee Sam could sleep almost anywhere, but the rumbling reminded him of the steam engines back home and Susan’s offer to help him find a job in Sto Lat ‘if he really couldn’t stay in Ankh-Morpork’.

Not long after his parents first met his dad had gotten fired for a couple of days, and his mom had offered to get him a job working for Susan’s parents. Susan had been young then, and sometimes he wondered what kind of person she would have grown up to be with his dad as part of her household staff.

Of course, with his parents living in two different cities, he would have never been born.

His mother would have never left Ankh-Morpork.

Then again, his father had chosen not to leave. He had stayed on the case. He… sorted it out, more or less. He kept Vetinari from getting killed. Had he done that during the battle? Young Sam and Vetinari had been facing opposite directions, had Vimesy blocked any blows aimed at the future patrician?

There was the crunch of stones under his feet, and Wee Sam consciously acknowledged they had arrived at the Garden of Inner-City Tranquility. His eyes swept the space, falling on and acknowledging the Cigarette Pack of Air, the Cat Doings of Disharmony, the Sonkie of Organic Harmony, the Cabbage Stalks of Dim Comprehension, the Discarded Fish-And-Chip Wrapper of Infinity, the Beer Bottle of Pissing Off Sweeper, and….

“The Cigar of Capriciousness is still here.” Wee Sam said, stopping between the door and the bench Sweeper always went to. He tilted his head slightly. “Or… Another cigar. Same brand, same style, smoked the same amount, probably by the same man, at the same angle... but it’s wrapped just a little differently.”

“Is it? I’ve stopped noticing.”

“You haven’t noticed the cigar that’s been smouldering here for the past month?” Wee Sam turned to Sweeper in disbelief. “I understand not paying attention to the condoms and cat doings, but time passes in here!”

Sweeper shrugged. “There is always a cigar. Even if we get rid of it, a new one shows up. If the new one lands closer to the wall, the garden always pushes it to the center.”

“Always? Since, what, the dawn of time?”

“Oh no. Since the day you were born. Or thirty years before. It’s hard to say.” Sweeper was looking at him evenly, and Wee Sam suddenly realized his reaction was being gauged.

“My dad. But…” Wee Sam looked at the cigar. “He doesn’t smoke them anymore.”

“He does. On special occasions.”

“Like what?”

“Your birthday. And when he pays certain visits.”

“He talked you into not keeping me on?” His gaze moved swiftly from the old man to the cigar, and with purpose he stalked into the middle of the garden and brought his foot back, prepared to give the thing a swift kick.

“You did that just fine without his help.” Sweeper’s voice was quiet, but it froze Wee Sam where he stood. “Corporal, we both know you don’t want to do this.”

“The mission is over. Coats is dead. I’m not a corporal anymore.” His foot fell heavily, not coming into contact with the cigar but still sending a spray of stones ahead of them. He scowled as they came sliding back towards him, settling where they had been around his foot. “This job is the closest I’ve ever gotten to what I was made to do.”

“I realize that. I’m sorry.”

There was some silence as the last of the stones slid into place. The procrastinators here were small, used only for the bathrooms in the far right corner, even though the city’s sewer pipe system now meant that they were just inconveniencing themselves in exchange for saving very little money. Wee Sam had done the math.

“Did you tell Susan?” Wee Sam didn’t want to be the one to tell her, but he also didn’t want anybody else to explain that he had squandered this opportunity.

“No. That is your problem, my boy.”

“Good.” Wee Sam squatted down, getting a closer look at his father’s cigar. The smell brought him back to his childhood, and it was comforting if not at all healthy. His mother had never allowed them in the house, but his father smoked them all the time outside and in his office, so the scent clung to his uniform like… Well like Wee Sam had back then. “Please don’t hold… me... against her. She was just looking out for me. She does that. Wish I knew why.”

“She is aware of your potential.” Sweeper said, and Wee Sam was so surprised he looked over his shoulder at the old man. “You’re good at investigating and putting the pieces together. And, some day, you will once again make a very good cop.”

“Someplace other than Ankh-Morpork.” Wee Sam grunted, but the old man shrugged, and he asked, hopefully “In Ankh-Morpork but in the future?”

“That is not for me to say.”

“No, it’s for my father to say.” He glared at the cigar, and then pushed himself to a standing position.

“You know, I didn’t just take you on because Susan asked and there happened to be another Vimes-shaped opening.” Sweeper said as Wee Sam turned towards the door.

“No?”

“I wanted to get to know the man the Theives Guild deemed ‘too dangerous’ for membership.” Sweeper sounded amused, and Wee Sam turned to look at him.

“I keep killing people. Assassin's school graduate, and all.” Wee Sam reminded him, but Sweeper waved the comment away.

“We both know neither of those things are relevant to today’s theive’s guild.” Sweeper shook his head. “Your father is afraid of you becoming him; and, well, so is everyone else. Vimeses walk in and take control. Especially under Vetinari’s influence.”

“And how do you know what my father is afraid of?” Wee Sam asked, narrowing his eyes. He was choosing to ignore the comment about Vetinari’s influence because it was true. After 300 years of cops and / or drunks it took Havelock Vetinari telling his father ‘not’ to investigate three deaths to bring his family name back to the list of the city’s gentry.

“You should ask him.” Sweeper did not ignore the narrowed eyes, but he did meet them evenly. “What he’s afraid of.”

Wee Sam turned towards the door, intending to stalk out, then thought better of it and spun so he was completely facing the old man. “You know what? I think I will.”

Then he ran, took a leap to place one foot on the bench beside Sweeper and jumped so his hands easily grasped the top of the wall. His own momentum brought him sideways, and he hurtled over the top. There was an alley on the other side, and he landed lightly. He was exactly where he expected to be, of course, and took off at a run towards the Cemetery of Small Gods.

And slowed to a walk before he reached the gates. It would not do for him to be out of breath when he arrived at the graves.

Twilight was falling, so his dad would be there, but so would Uncle Havelock and maybe Reg Shoe. Wee Sam was less concerned about how Reg saw him, especially now that he had seen Reg alive, but as far as his family was concerned he wanted to take steps towards appearing dignified. Even though they had known him his whole life, and knew better.

Sure enough, he passed Reg first. The Zombie was carrying a long-handled shovel over his left shoulder, and nodded in acknowledgement. Wee Sam managed to nod back before they passed each other.

He had expected Reg to recognize him. Reg had never noticed him behind the barricade, his father never noticed him behind the barricade, but Wee Sam had been playing Ned Coats for a full month before Sam Vimes had shown up as John Keel. Maybe Reg had never noticed that his father was Keel? How did Zombie memories work, anyway? Their brains certainly weren’t making new pathways… Did vampyre brains make new pathways?

This train of thought kept him pretty well occupied, along with the question of how he could politely go about getting some answers, when he noticed Uncle Havelock and his ‘cane’ striding silently towards him. A simple nod wouldn’t do.

“Good evening, Uncle Havelock.” Wee Sam called, since his mother had drummed into his head that you always greeted your superiors first. Admittedly, this sometimes meant that he approached his uncle with a question about what he would call the color of the sunset above a specific building at that exact moment, or if there was a poison which exploded in a particularly satisfactory fashion, but the patrician never complained. Nor did he complain if Wee Sam wandered in his office and started talking about alternative methods for coding clax messages or an unusual bird he had noticed riding the thermals above the University. And, thank gods, Havelock Vetinari knew that a formal greeting from Wee Sam Vimes meant that he didn’t want to talk.

“Happy Birthday, Wee Sam.” His uncle replied, “I trust you’ll be on time for dinner?”

Oh. That was a reminder. And a warning. “Thank you. Yes, we won’t be long.”

“Good. See you then.” The Patrician nodded, and then passed him.

“Yes.” Wee Sam muttered, and then reached for his pocket watch. When he pulled it out, he saw the time was all wrong and swore quietly. Well, from the graves he would be able to see the Tower of Art, and set his watch to the present. The battle of the lilac boys had been in the mid-morning, and it was most definitely not a quarter to noon.

John Keel’s grave marker was wood, and though it had been replaced often it had never been strong enough to support the weight of an average-sized man. Reg’s, on the other hand, was granite, and he apparently didn’t mind that Commander Sam Vimes leaned against it more and more every year.

Wee Sam didn’t make any noise, he never made any noise, but he could never sneak around his father. Commander Sam Vimes turned his head ever so slightly, and Wee Sam tooka good look at him.

Oh gods, he was so old. When had that happened? True, the last time he had seen his father he must have been about 50, but before that Wee Sam had spent three decades watching his father age and yet… It had never struck him so hard. He never could quite reconcile his memories of young Sam Vimes, that kid who had joined The Watch for three square meals a day and a little extra cash for his family. But he hadn’t thought his father had changed so much.

The old man looked him up and down. “How’d the battle go? After I left?”

Wee Sam stopped abruptly, and looked down at his outfit. He had forgotten to change into the clothes he had left at the monastery. This outfit was a uniform the Monks had given him, so he wouldn’t have the problems ‘accidental’ time travelers experienced with their clothes and meals and things staying in the time they came from. He even still had his lilac, somehow, even though that had come from the past.

“Don’t you remember?” You kicked ass.

His father shook his head. “I remember the original timeline, when Keel died at the barricade. I was pretty sure Coats wasn’t there.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he was, either.”

“I guess Vetinari showed up?” His father smirked. “Had a lilac in his teeth and everything?”

“I thought you didn’t remember it.” Wee Sam frowned.

“I don’t, but he tells me about it sometimes. I think he’s waiting for me to remember, or maybe now he’s wondering why I don’t.”

“Because time travel is a mess.” Wee Sam turned away from his father and looked across the city. He could see his family’s house from here.

“So Sweeper explained it to you?” The interest in his voice was practically tactile.

“No, but I had to run around for a month foiling somebody who had been sent to kill Havelock Vetinari. And it gave me time to wonder.”

“Why it was different the first time around?”

Wee Sam shook his head. “Would I have survived being born if you didn’t go back and meet Lawn?”

There was absolute silence between them, until Commander Sam Vimes quietly swore.

“Sweeper told me you have to think of things as one event in front of another, which is fine, except if you hadn’t gone back in time you wouldn’t have known Lawn was competent. You had heard of him, sure, but he would have never crossed your mind.”

“So we owe your existence to the damn time monks?” There was an angry edge to his father’s voice, but Wee Sam already knew his father was protective as hell. That was how he had gotten into this mess. Sort of.

“No. As far as I can tell, we owe it to some modern young idiots who thought they could go back and kill Vetinari. Time tries to fix things, and so you were sent back in time, to meet Lawn and Carcer went with you and killed Keel so there was a place for you to be and when you were done my life got saved and the monks were able to send me back to save Vetinari’s life and… Time is what it should be. Go us.” There was something about owing his life to terrorists that made him feel sarcastic.

“For all we know Vetinari or Rosie Palm might have recommended Lawn.” His father pointed out, which wasn’t a bad alternative. But it wasn’t what had happened, and there wasn’t really anybody they could ask. At least, nobody who they could ask who would give them a meaningful answer. They both knew Vetinari was a capable doctor, but apparently neither of them could imagine Vetinari getting involved in a problematic birth when there were other competent people around to do it.

More silence. Wee Sam noticed the time on the Tower of Art, and pulled his watch back out. If they were going to avoid talking about the massive argument they had that morning, he may as well take the time to re-set his watch.

“There was the sound of dice.” His father said so quietly that it didn’t initially register.

“Hm?” Wee Sam pushed the pin in, and watched with satisfaction as his watch and the tower struck the time at the exact same minute.

“Before the Library got struck by lightning. There was the sound of dice. Were the people who wanted to kill Havelock associated with a specific god?”

“I… Don’t know. They didn’t say anything about one.” He shut the watch, and shoved it in his pocket. ‘Havelock’ meant his dad was worried. “But there was a thunderstorm, right? Was the sound of dice rolling at the exact moment as the thunder?’

“Yes.”

“Io!” They both said it at the same moment, and Wee Sam felt his heart fall to his stomach. The self-proclaimed King of the Gods had been trying to subjugate their family for a long time. The only reason he had eased up lately was because Wee Sam had trained with the witches in Lancre. And so, to a lesser extent, had his father. It made them harder targets. But Io was still The Thunder God because he had murdered all the others. And then there was the question of who he would be forced to answer to. And how. Neither of the Vimes men had an axe sharp enough for that.

“Damn, why didn’t I realize that?” His father asked the night at large.

“The gods are always playing games. And besides, you had no reason to think Io was responsible for… Well he’s probably not responsible for the Dragon Incident, at least. Or the Goblin Incident.”

“Yeah, but we’ve been operating under the assumption that he was involved in that Dam Slam.” He was rubbing his thumb thoughtfully over the inside of his left wrist, where the Mark of the Summoning Dark had been. When Wee Sam was 8 it had changed, to a symbol generally called the Guarding Dark by anyone who cared to reference it. His father never talked about either Mark, but Wee Sam didn’t blame him. The Marks were indicative of 7 year period which did a number on his view of magic, and his identity.

Speaking of.

“I haven’t told Susan yet, but the monks kicked me out.” He tapped his toe against the grass, bringing it down as softly as he could so it wouldn’t damage the grass. Leggy would be so mad if he damaged his precious ‘terf’.

“Do you want to be a Monk?” His father asked quietly.

“No, I want to be a Watchman.” He whispered. Today was his 30th birthday, though technically he was a month older than that. He felt so much older than that. “But you’re apparently so terrified of me getting myself hurt that you’ve been doing Every Damned Thing you can think of to get between me and that and so I went ahead and tried to join almost any guild in the city and quite a few refused me and I’ve been kicked out of Each. And. Every. One. which would take me and now the only thing I can think of is taking Susan up on her offer to put in a good word for me with the Sto Lat Watch unless you’re going to step in and mess that up too and I wish you would knock it the hells off because as much as I love mum and her dragons I cannot spend the rest of my life working at the damn dragon sanctuary so--”

“Corporal.” His father’s voice was conversational, and somebody who had spent less time listening for the Commander’s voice probably wouldn’t have heard it.

“I’m not finished! Will you--” Wee Sam stopped abruptly. “Is that why you made me a Corporal? You couldn’t have recognized me. I hadn’t been born yet!”

“I recognized potential. And I was right, though you didn’t have as much control as I originally thought. Was all that sparring really necessary?”

“You’ve been standing between me and what I’ve been made to do!”

“And how would 50 year old me have known that?”

“It was easier to fight… him… than you.” Wee Sam grumbled, then realized he was starting to dig up the sod with his toe. Feeling bad about the grass, he brought his toe down in the other direction, to flatten it back down.

“Easier? I kicked your ass. I’d probably have a harder time of it now.”

“I never wondered if I should hold back.” Wee Sam admitted.

“Ah.” The 80 year old nodded. “I know that feeling. I’ve often wondered what it would be like if Vetinari and I had a proper fight when we were young.”

“You could sell tickets and solve all the city’s financial problems.” Wee Sam shifted his gaze to his father. “Actually you probably still could--”

“No. Your mother would have a conniption.”

“Oh right. Yeah, she would. Shame.”

“Do I want to know who you think would win?”

“No.”

“Your faith in me is staggering.”

“Well I figure either it would be a draw or he’d kick your--”

“Yes I understood your answer to my question, thank you.” But he was smiling ever so slightly.

And then the city’s clocks started chiming 9 in the evening. His father pushed himself slowly to his feet, and Wee Sam offered his arm. Cheery had offered to get his father an axe to use as a cane, but Commander Vimes would not hear of it. He did touch Wee Sam’s arm briefly, but once he was standing straight he let go, and the pair of them headed towards the exit.

They didn’t bother to try talking until the clocks had stopped, about five minutes after Wee Sam’s watch struck the hour.

“Did those people who tried to kill young Vetinari have any friends who stayed in our time?”

“I believe so.” They were walking slowly, and Wee Sam waited a full block before he added. “You want me to turn all my information over to anyone in particular?”

“I’m not afraid of you getting hurt.” It didn’t seem like a related response, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. “I mean, of course I am, but that’s not why I’ve been saying no.”

“Really?”

“I don't want people treating you like a target for their hate for me. If you could join the way Carrot or Angua or Cheery did, that would be fine. But it’s gotten so big since they joined up.”

“Ah.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“I don’t think it would be any better if you joined anywhere else within the Clacks network.”

“Which is pretty much the whole world at this point.”

“And there’s all this scrying now.”

“Which doesn’t need towers.”

His father glared at him, but didn’t tell him to knock it off. “So I suspect your joining a Watch anywhere would ultimately be just as risky.”

“Which is your reasoning for why I shouldn’t bother with Sto Lat.”

“No, my reasoning for why you shouldn’t bother with Sto Lat is that we pay better and have the best medical benefits on the Sto Plains.”

Wee Sam stopped abruptly. “What.”

“You survived the Watch I started out in. As far as I’m concerned, you can handle today’s watch.” The old man stopped and looked back at him. “You’re going to be the oldest cadet though. Because I’m not going to let you jump straight to Corporal. We’re not at war.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s fine.”

“We’re going to be late if you don’t get moving.”

“Right.” Wee Sam managed to keep himself from skipping, so the pent up energy became a jog to his father’s side. They walked in silence, Wee Sam’s mind racing as he wondered if there was some way for him to accidentally mess this up.

“You should give your mother two week’s notice though. It’s only fair.”

“You didn’t run this by her first?” Wee Sam turned to him, shocked.

“Oh we’ve been talking about this for years.” The unspoken word ‘decades’ hung in the air between them. “Her, Vetinari, Carrot, Angua, Cheery--”

“Cheery?”

“She and Igor think you should be in forensics. I mean, it’s your choice of course-- after you pass the tests.”

“Forensics would be great.” He agreed, and thought about how fun it could be to put his Medical and Alchemical and Assassin training to something useful for once. Which reminded him “You know, there is a smouldering cigar in the center of The Garden of Inner City Tranquility at the Monastery.”

“Yeah, it hit me after you left. I had called you ‘sunshine’ during our fight, and Vetinari basically asked how you were handling turning 30, and seeing him standing there with the lilac pinned to his shirt it hit me.” He paused for a moment. “He wore it in the original timeline too, you know. I wish I had asked, but we didn’t get along as well then.”

Wee Sam felt his mouth tug into a half-smile. For his father and the patrician, ‘getting along as well’ involved an increased number of arguments. Also, he remembered ‘Keel’ using that ironic term of endearment during their spar. “You realized I was Ned Coats.”

“So I… walked as fast as I could… to the Monastery and… knocked on the damned door… And threatened to make one hell of a scene if Sweeper didn’t let me in.”

“So of course he did.”

“Of course.”

“And he took you to the garden. And… you told him what you worked out?”

“Actually I just told him that if anything happened to you I was holding him personally responsible. I knew Ned Coats died. I just didn’t know if he died the way John Keel died. I hadn’t stayed long enough to find out.”

“And what did he say?”

“He asked if my holding him responsible was more or less lethal than Susan Sto Helit holding him responsible.”

Wee Sam laughed. “Sweeper hasn’t met mum.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” His father chuckled quietly. “Anyway, Susan will be at dinner so you can tell her all about how the monks kicked you out with an audience. Your mother will find it interesting, I’m sure.”

“Does mum know about you going back...”

“Oh yes. Vetinari can’t keep a secret from her.” And neither could her husband.

“Will there be anybody at the dinner who doesn’t know?”

“Hm, no. I don’t think so. You were the only one who wasn’t in a position to make conversation then, and while Susan wasn’t involved in my adventure as far as I can tell…”

“But with Susan who knows. In any case, I think I’ll wait until we can get some privacy.”

“Suit yourself, but be warned. Everyone knows I told you I was ok with you joining the Watch. They’ll make a big deal about it. You know how they are.”

Wee Sam looked up at the big, brightly-lit, house as they waited for his dad to fully get his breath back. “I’ll try to be strong.”

Commander Sam Vimes snorted. Wee Sam opened the door, held it while his father entered the house, and followed right behind him.

[themurphyzone]

PatB AU: Pinky the Snowmouse

This is just one of those late night ideas that I wanted to post. It’s somewhat based off that Frosty the Snowman special from the 60s with a dash of Pinocchio. 

I haven’t actually watched either of these recently. My subconscious is just weird. 

1. After his fallout with Snowball, Brain continues to aspire for world domination, but finds that he’s hit a block when it comes to plans. He doesn’t have inspiration nor anyone to bounce ideas off with, but he tries to push past it and just continue creating. There’s bound to be a gem or two amidst all the duds, he tells himself. And he doesn’t need anyone else, he can rule the world on his own.

2. ACME Labs hosts a Christmas party, and they invite a magician for entertainment. Brain is in his cage, brainstorming ideas for world domination while the scientists gather around for the magician’s performance. Brain knows magic is all just sleight of hand and optical illusions, and rolls his eyes at the magician failing to even manage that. The scientists all mock the magician, and their laughter grows more when the magician fails to pull a rabbit out of his hat. 

3. The magician is laughed out of ACME Labs, and he swears revenge against all the scientists who work there. But he left his top hat on a table by Brain’s cage, and he doesn’t notice until later that night. ACME Labs closes, and Brain escapes his cage, glad that the party is finally over so he can get back to planning properly. 

4. But loneliness creeps up on Brain again, and he tries to dismiss it as the reason he can’t concentrate. So he goes outside, where a thick layer of snow has covered the ground. He starts kicking around snow and eventually builds a snowmouse, wondering if he’s gone mad since he’s partaking in an activity that’s usually reserved for children and not future emperors. 

5. He builds the snowmouse’s body first, using a stick for a tail and fashioning the head. Then he decides it’s missing some prerequisites to be a proper snowman, so he goes inside and gathers a bunch of buttons, a pink scarf, and lastly, the magician’s hat. He goes back to the snowmouse and dresses him up, then tosses on the hat as a finisher. 

6.  And boy, if Brain felt ridiculous before then now it was tripled since he decided to dress up the snowmouse like it was a real entity. He angrily starts berating himself for being distracted and that he needs to focus, because he can’t be like all those other scientists. 

He declares that their collective minds are nothing compared to the intelligence in his pinky, and a voice answers ‘yes?’ 

7. Brain thinks he’s just hearing things, then the voice goes ‘oh, i thought you called my name. Narf!’ 

Then Brain turns around and freaks out, because holy crap the snowmouse he built was alive and talking. Brain dismisses it as a figment of his imagination at first, but as the newly christened Pinky the snowmouse displays a rather glaring lack of intelligence, he can’t help but be curious about how snow can come to life. He circles Pinky and tries to figure it out, taking off the magic hat, and Pinky goes still and silent. Brain quickly puts the hat on Pinky again, and soon the snowmouse is dancing around once more. 

8.  Unbeknownst to either of them, the magician saw the hat bring Pinky to life and decides he can profit off the hat, then follows the two mice. 

9. Pinky gets distracted and wanders into town with Brain trailing after him and making sure Pinky’s stupidity and lack of awareness about the world doesn’t kill them both. To Brain’s dismay, he finds that Pinky takes in pop culture much faster than he does at science. It’s pretty ironic that Pinky already knows who Mariah Carrey is despite being alive for less than an hour, but he believes snowflakes are manufactured in an eco-friendly factory in the clouds. 

10. Pinky sees a pair of lovers hugging, then tries to do the same with Brain. Unfortunately, all this does is make Brain shiver with cold, and Pinky feels bad for hurting him like that. Brain shouts at him for hugging, but when Pinky apologizes, Brain realizes it was just an accident and tells him not to do it again. 

11. Pinky notices that images of Santa are plastered all over the place since it’s the holiday season, and wishes he could meet the big guy. This leads into inspiration for Brain to create his own line of toys and plant them in the elf factory for mass production and distribution. Brain praises Pinky for the inspiration. 

12. Brain creates the Noodle Noggin plans and together the mice stow away in a plane bound for the North Pole. However, it’s necessary for Pinky to stay in cold temperatures, so they have to remain in the cargo hold and away from the heated cockpit. Brain is freezing despite being dressed for cold weather, and Pinky feels bad for not being able to keep him warm. Pinky says he wishes he could be a real mouse like Brain, so that he can be his friend forever. 

Brain thinks the headaches Pinky gave him were pretty real, but the companionship and kindness were real too. He keeps quiet about this, unsure of what to say. 

13. The magician has also stowed away on the plane. 

14. The plane lands at the North Pole, and the mice head to the elf factory. They discover Pinky can’t enter the elf factory since it’s heated, so Brain goes in alone to slip the Noodle Noggin plans in with the other blueprints, while Pinky wanders off and explores the North Pole settlement. 

15. Before Brain can successfully slip the blueprints in, the magician ambushes and successfully captures him, and the Noodle Noggin plans are torn beyond saving in the struggle. Angered at the loss of his plans, Brain demands the magician explain himself. The magician declares he gets a two for one profit, with a talking mouse and a magic hat, then realizes the snowmouse is missing and demands to know where he is. 

16. Without the hat, Pinky can’t stay alive. Brain refuses to reveal Pinky’s location for any reason, and the magician tries to force it out of him. Brain is stubborn though and refuses to speak. 

17. Pinky finishes wandering around the village and goes back to check on Brain, thinking he’s taking an awfully long time in the elf factory. He peeks in through a window, discovering that a man is hurting a very distressed Brain, who’s still resisting. 

18. Pinky shouts for Brain, and gets the magician’s attention. Brain yells at him for drawing attention to himself, ordering him to run. But Pinky won’t do it, because Brain is in trouble and needs help. 

19. The magician demands Pinky give up the magic hat. But Pinky will only give up the hat if he releases Brain. The magician agrees, but Brain knows full well that the magician is far too greedy and will go back on his word, and Pinky is giving up the hat and his life for a promise that won’t be kept. 

20. With Brain in hand, the magician walks over to a fireplace and tells Pinky to come inside. The fireplace is bright and warm, and Brain orders Pinky to just leave, because the heat will kill him if he doesn’t. Pinky starts to melt as he comes closer, telling Brain it’s okay, he’s happy they’re friends, even if their time together was brief. 

21. When Pinky is in front of the fireplace, the magician snatches the hat off his head, and renders Pinky lifeless. Reveling in victory, the magician releases Brain who hugs and begs Pinky to wake up and stop being stupid, just wake up and say narf, Pinky. Except Pinky can’t see or hear anymore, and is nothing more than cold, melting water with a few accessories. Brain is left crying and pleading for Pinky to come back, clutching a wet scarf in his hands. The magician mocks Brain for believing that a pile of snow had thoughts and feelings. 

22. But the magician’s joy is cut short at Santa Claus’s sudden appearance. Angry that someone could take such mirth in murdering an innocent creature and cause so much grief in his best friend, Santa orders his elves to tie up the magician and take him away. The elves obey, and the magician is reduced to a pathetic mess. 

23. Brain barely notices the commotion. Santa decides to grant Brain one Christmas wish, just to give him a little comfort. And Brain ponders, knowing that he journeyed all this way for world domination, and while he can easily cut a lot of hassle by using his wish to make himself ruler of the world...he remembers Pinky’s sacrifice.

Pinky’s compassion. Pinky’s kindness. How Pinky provided the inspiration he needed. 

Brain admits to Santa that even if Pinky was made of snow, he still had the warmest heart he’d ever known. 

24. Brain asks if it’s possible for Pinky to be revived with a body to reflect his warm heart. 

25. Santa grants the wish. The puddle that used to be Pinky reshapes and forms into a living, breathing mouse with the softest, warmest fur imaginable. Pinky marvels at his new body and the mice have their first proper hug. Brain is overjoyed at Pinky being alive again, and Pinky is happy to be a real mouse at last. 

26. Santa lets the mice ride home in his sleigh (Pinky falls in love with Donner on the way home and Brain learns what jealousy is for the first time and hopes to god they don’t get invited to any Donner parties). Meanwhile all the elves are sobbing with their hot cocoa, marshmallows, and candy canes while watching all the drama unfold on their security feed because this is the best Christmas drama they’ve seen in years. 

[pretty-face-breaker]

Thought We Understood Each Other

c.w. creepy whumper, electrocuting someone unconscious, whumpee going behind whumper’s back and paying the price, possessive physical touch/indirect threat of violence  

Following up Santiago’s escape. 

——

It took him six hours to get home but for Hayko, the time passed as if he was wading through it, never stopping to take a breath. He drove with a grip on the steering wheel that left his hands so cold despite the buildup of sweat against the rubber. The air was murky and the roads were murky and though he was there, there seemed to be a thick fog severing his mind and eyes. 

That didn’t stop him from thinking about Santiago. 

It only kept him adrift. 

Once Hayko turned that final corner that led up to Nick’s condo, he wondered how he even managed to get home in one piece. Had he even… waited at the red lights? But as soon as the realization of being not fully present had kicked in, he was adrift again. Each step up the stairs-

-and he did take the stairs. All seven floors worth, far from recognition. 

Each step knocked his heart down further and further into his stomach because for once, unimaginably, he was actually guilty. Hayko was guilty of what before would have seemed like suicide but now had happened—Santiago was gone that fast. He had shut out any voices that whispered the potential that he hadn’t made it across the border since he started driving home.

Step. Step. Step. Soft little clacks in evenly spaced intervals. Hayko’s movements were mechanical, breaths shallow, lips immobile but he could register at one point that he was praying in Armenian. It was for a lot of things from Santiago’s safety, to Vladimir’s own, to the possibility that maybe, by the grace of some god he couldn’t believe in anymore, all of them would be alright. 

As the next request left him in a breath, his leg buzzed once and he jumped in nervous surprise. In a stairwell, close to the seventh floor holding that one door, his phone was ringing. Hayko didn’t look at the name as he slid to accept the call and pulled it to his ear. “Hello?...” he asked tentatively. 

“Running late?” came the reply and he suppressed a shiver. 

“Yeah, I’m almost up, just a few more minutes,” Hayko spoke, pooling the remainder of his energy into keeping his voice as steady as Santiago would have wanted. “Sorry, thought it would’ve taken less—” His breathing stuttered as Nick cut him off. 

“I don’t expect you to start talking until you’re up here.” 

There had rarely been times when Hayko hadn’t been terrified of his voice, the jarring candidness of it shaking him to his core but especially now, where the only way was up, as the stairs below him seemed to be falling away one by one as his heels left them, no terror had ever come close to this one. He wondered whether to shoot Vladimir a concise Get out right fucking now text but knew that was out of the question. 

Hayko knew he would never leave without finding him first. 

“Still there?” Nick asked over the line, snapping Hayko out of his trance and he quickly croaked out a grim yes moments before it clicked off, Nick’s way of hurrying him. He absently stared up the final flight and was mildly horrified as he felt his regret devolving to stupid courage to take another step, and another.

Decisions had been a liberty for him, at least for the past year.

It’s just that this one had consequences that may not just sit skin deep. 

Finally, Hayko pushed open the door to the hallway and watched the number of the one further away get closer by the second—he could never remember the three digit marking on the wood, only the shape of it. 

That and what lay behind it. 

It was such a lousy barrier, this door. And he couldn’t bring himself to open it without first fumbling for his phone. 

He realized his hands were shaking when he scrolled for Vladimir’s contact and typed out “If you don’t hear from me for a bit, don’t worry. He’s out.” 

And then the door opened. 

Hayko’s eyes snapped up as he stuffed the phone away in his jeans and he started to form a greeting but by the way Nick was looking at him, he probably didn’t want to hear it as much as he wanted him inside where he could have him completely. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. 

He waited diligently for Nick’s arm to slide off the frame as his invitation inside. Every muscle in his body contracted as the door slid shut and locked—though, there was a delay. It took every fibre of his being to stay calm, for his own sake. 

At this point, Hayko knew Nick wouldn’t pity him for his fear as he had mastered how to mute it just so he wouldn’t have to. He hated it when Nick pitied him, would rather he just got it over with instead. He pulled off his jacket and went for the wooden rack, expecting to be stopped but Nick only watched him hang it up and then slip off his shoes. 

Hayko stammered at last, “It took longer than I-I thought it would.” Cursed himself for not holding up any longer. “There was… some traffic here and there and—... I made a few stops for tea and…” He glanced up and gulped at the wolfish smile Nick was now wearing. 

“You know,” Nick started, a hint of laughter in his voice, “you lie better in court than you do out of it.” He stalked over and Hayko braced himself for whatever was next. Nick took his palm and pressed it to Hayko’s chest, not so much as shoving as it was pushing him back right until his head hit the wall. 

Hayko didn’t respond, hoping staring up at him with lost, pleading eyes was enough. He shuddered at the tickle of knuckles tracing down his cheek and the next snort made him want to curl in on himself. Please, just do something already and let my fucking nerves calm down.

“You can lie to me, you do it all the time,” Nick continued. “Not like there’s a point though. You’re a pretty shit liar.”  

God, please. Please please please

Hayko swallowed thickly but his breathing really hitched when he heard the faint buzz of the phone in his jacket. He looked to Nick rapidly to see whether he heard as well but the taller man was still eyeing him, trying to pull it out of him, trying to wring him like a cloth, but Hayko had prepared for any interrogation. Had his lines and excuses chronological and ready.

“Why do you think I’m lying?” he asked. Feeling how close Nick’s breath was fanning on his face, he tipped his head back further. Don’t do this, don’t do this now 

Nick watched him thoughtfully. “You look afraid.”  

“Always,” he corrected. “I always look-... like that.” Please, please, please

A clever smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and Nick inched off the wall, muttered “Good point” and Hayko was left to catch his breath quietly, fingers tapping away at the wall behind him to dispense of the grueling anxiety and near-euphoric relief. At the same time, he was skeptical under the surface but that surface was thick with exhaustion and tension and fear enough for where the hell his friend had gone and whether he was even alive and whether it was worth anything. 

It will always be worth it. 

These are the only parts of you that you have left.  

A chaste reminder. A welcome one.

Nick had a track going, something smooth and ‘60s in the living room and he turned to beckon Hayko to come in as well. “Don’t just stand there, love. I’ve backed off haven’t I?” He laughed easily and went towards the desk holding the radio to change the track. Hayko thought it strange he would as he’d heard this song before—one of his favourites. 

Nick was entirely right. He had backed off, by some miracle. Hayko began to think that the prayer had worked and that this was a shot at redemption. Of course, he wouldn’t have known. He hadn’t told him anything about it, only implied he would be late until the night before, gone quietly and returned just as quietly albeit a little later. Only that part was a real fib. 

He tore himself from the wall and made after Nick, discomforted by the calmness but quickly assuaged that fear. It was irrational. Told himself that it was over, it was alright, and to take his good graces and just last the night before he could just forget for a few hours. 

He wouldn’t know. There wouldn’t be a way for him to know, there wouldn’t. 

He wouldn’t know because it’s not possible. 

It’s not possible because I tried too fucking hard just to get him across the border, fucking hell, let me have this one thing, let me have it I haven’t asked you for anything else, have I? Just let me have this, please

Hayko felt comfortable all of a sudden, the music cushioning his thoughts as he went to slide onto the couch until he realized that, here a moment before, Nick was gone again. 

“Hey, where did—” As he turned to call Nick back, he was already there and Hayko froze. Caught the cattle prod only for a fraction of a second before Nick grabbed him and pressed it into his chest, sending a tearing shock that kept his eyes wide in an immobile stare as each wave jerked through his limbs, ripped a new line of agony and lit up every nerve in his body. 

It went on for two, three agonizing seconds and his hand kept him there.

No no no  

Santiago

The last glance he caught of Nick’s face was the final blow. 

A laugh from the man who finally tore it away, letting Hayko collapse before nudging his forehead with his shoe. “You fucking idiot. And here I thought we understood each other.” 

——

Tagging @doveotions @heathenville @thewhumpstuff @thatsthewhump @adamantem-rose @lonesome--hunter @whumpsorbetism @whumpasaurus101 @lektricfergus @downrivergirl914