#every time I go out from the metro station they’re there

[swordsandholly]

Fancy: The Rewrite

Chapter One: Here's Your One Chance

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | next | masterlist | Ao3

A/N: This fic has been haunting me since I stopped working on it. I just wrote myself into a corner and sped through the story far too quickly. Plus, I have some new concepts that I think really fill out the unfortunate issues with the original. Chapter one is the most similar to the original. I'm leaving the original up on tumblr for the hell of it, but I hope you enjoy the re-write as much as I am.

A permanent darkness rests over the city; dense and unbidden. Cold, too. Despite living here your whole life you’ve never quite adjusted to the artificial nature of it - to the shadow hanging above the miles and miles of city. The chill on your skin never lifts. It leaves a shivering underneath, nearly an ache these days. Something ingrained into your very nature by your surroundings.

Really, you aren’t meant to be here. This place isn’t built for humans despite the mass that live within the confines of the city’s dome. It’s purpose made for creatures - beings of the night that stalk and rule. The air has become rotten in the lower neighborhoods over a century of pollution and overpopulation. The constant cover of the dome cannot be broken to filter it - not even for a moment can the eternal night hanging overhead end. Your lungs will turn black before the age of five without proper protection. It’s worse it summer - at least the artificially created facsimile of summer - when the air warms and wets and coats your insides. When the pollutants find their way into the water supply. As if there is any point to the heat with so sunlight in return. Your nails always have a layer of dirt crusted underneath during those months.

The lower city is nothing but old buildings on top of even older structures; all moderately crumbling in some capacity. Apartment buildings are crowded and decent living conditions are hard to come by. Many have a waitlist longer than the human lifespan. Most operate on a dorm system - at least one person per room. Randomly assigned of course, based entirely on who can pay the rent. You’ve lucked out enough to earn a shitty studio to yourself. It’s cracked and crumbling but the locks are tight and it has a window - even if the view is just a building across the alleyway. Even if the smog has turned the tempered glass a semi-opaque grey.

The slippery polyester of your black dress smooths over your skin, just as artificial as everything else in this place. You tie your hair up to show off the double string of pearls on your neck. They’re the nicest thing you own. The most authentic, at least, and the only thing that makes you seem worthy of the upper city. The only thing that can project the image needed to get proper tips - to get what you need to survive. Red lipstick as a final touch, always. It’s corny, and leaves you cringing every time you glance at the damn thing but the vampire clients are always suckers for it. Pun intended.

This job is important. There can’t be a hair out of place; can’t be a single reason to cast doubt that you are inhumanly perfect while never losing that very humanity they crave so desperately. This is your chance. Your one chance to make enough money to get out of the slums and at least make it to the middle city. Once you ruin your reputation at a place like this… well, you might as well call it permanently. You can practically hear the grime on the sidewalk as you make your way toward the metro station. Dirt and debris so caked into the very air down here that you have to wear a respirator as you go. It’ll leave marks when you first take it off, but they usually disappear by the time you’ve made it from the depot to the club.

You don’t bother with sitting on the train. Hell will freeze over before you chance catching whatever new disease has grown in that Petri dish. Instead you join the rest of the patrons in awkwardly standing in the center of the cart, damn near falling over when the train lurches to begin its journey from the slums to the upper city. There are actual names for the two areas, but nobody uses them anymore. They died two generations ago.

The respirator makes a hissing sound as you remove it after stepping out of the train. The cool, clean air of the upper city fills your lungs. It’s satisfying in a way its sticky, filtered sister could never be. The faux fur of your cropped coat tickles at your neck as you walk, blown by that strange breeze that never seems to stop up here. The one that sends all the grime and smog downhill, leaving a fog so thick you can’t even see the building lights properly.

The club sits square in central downtown - bult into the underground level of a historical hotel. It’s an elegant building. Red with curled metal accents over the windows and doors. Modeled after the ancient art nouveau movement. At least that’s what the plaque in the lobby says. You had just long enough to change a glance at it while heading up with a client once. The fixtures sparkle underneath the artificial LEDs of the city - all signs and glowing windows. You can always tell where the humans are, catching glimpses of that unmistakable glow only a UV light gives off.

You duck down the alley behind the hotel. Grimy and dark, the complete opposite of the front entrance. Your heels clack on the concrete loudly - echoing off the hard walls of the building surrounding you. If it weren’t for the small glowing sign that marks the “Back Stage” you might never know it’s there.

It’s easy enough to slip into the routine of your job. Going back and forth to the bartender, carrying various drinks and placating the egos of cowardly men and the vampires they lie to themselves about being equal to. You can see the pity in the ancient creatures’ eyes when they look at their human cohorts posturing to appease them. You can see the hunger, in equal measure, when you tilt your head, exposing more of your neck to the light; when your wrists just pass their noses as you set down their glasses. It’s all purposeful, of course, maintaining the dance of remaining just out of their grasp, but close enough that if they really wanted to take you, they could.

It’s hard work, the dance. Long hours and more days of the week than you would like, but it pays enough for you to afford your little apartment and save some for your theoretical future.

“Hey! You!” The owner barks at you as you gently set your tray back into the stack to be washed.

You whirl on your heel. Shit, did you fuck up? Your mind runs through every interaction over the course of the night - every comment, every stilted moment. Every outcome of whatever mistake you made. Being thrown out into the city before you can even gather your respirator or coat. Choking on the air as you make your way home and praying you survive the symptoms after. Though, there wouldn’t be much point to surviving them without work.

“Y-yes, sir?”

“Need you as a Companion.” He stands in front of you, the pinstripes of his suit warping over his massive, crossed arms. The wrinkle in his nose makes his mustache twitch.

“C-companion!” You squeak. “I’m not-“

“We had a mix up. Need you to take the private booth in the back.”

Your eyes are saucers - heart beating so hard you almost can’t hear him. You don’t know what to make of this. His words are nonchalant and cut right though you, but the prospect they hold… so much opportunity and disaster…

“You paying attention?” He grunts.

Your voice shakes. “Just… why me?”

“You match their preference.” Its blunt. Uncaring. Not that you would ever expect much sympathy from the owner of a place like this - feeding girls to vampires and their kin.

Generally, you’re not the type to be preferred - too big and soft for most. It’s what kept you as a server exclusively, you’re sure. Companion is such a major step up, too. You haven’t had any training. You never thought you’d get there - only a few girls make it from Server to Companion. To have it by happenstance…

With a deep breath you remind yourself that this is temporary. Just for tonight. You are acting as a replacement, nothing more. If you pull this off maybe you’ll get enough extra cash to finally replace the air filtration in your apartment. Maybe you can even get an overhead UV light. Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely!

Another tray is shoved into your hands. Is this… actual gold? You turn it over in your hands briefly. Ornate designs line the outer rim - all weaving in and out of each other inlaid with iridescent mother of pearl. It’s cold on your skin and so shiny you catch your reflection in it before the bartender sets a bottle of wine and four glasses on it. You’re fairly certain between the wine and the tray you are holding upwards of ten thousand dollars a in your hands. It takes everything to keep your hands from trembling.

You slowly head for the back booth under the scrutinizing eye of the owner - just beyond the main floor of the bar. It’s far quieter here; the music from the floor muffled by the distance. There are only a few private booths and they are only ever occupied by the city’s elite. The top of the top. You pause at the heavy, velvet burgundy curtain separating you and your clients for tonight.

You just hope they aren’t the type to get rough.

Balancing the tray on one hand, you use the other the push the heavy curtain to the side - entire body alert and tense as your eyes land on the four men sitting at the rounded booth. Their eyes meet yours, and you freeze. A shiver runs down your spine.

They’re beautiful in that way only vampires can be. Untouchable. Marble-esque. Eyes clear and bright even in the low light of the booth - that sheen of night vision apparent. Lions staring down their prey and you, who walked into the den willingly. Their stares tear through you, seemingly pulling you apart at the seams. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost think that hypervigilance leaned toward fear.

“Good evening.” It takes everything to keep your voice steady. To slip back into that comfortable service headspace you’ve curated. “I’ll be your Companion tonight.”

“What happened t’ Cherry?” The man on the outer right side of the booth asks, words slow and hushed. His arm is slung carelessly over the back of the booth, body too tense and words too stilted to sell whatever casual air he is trying for.

“She was unfortunately unable to come in tonight.” You say softly, carefully sliding the tray onto the table. “If I’m not to your standards-“

“Well, now, none of us said that.” A man with an imperial beard smiles. It softens his face - makes him look less like stone. “What’s your name, dove?”

“Fancy.” You murmur. It’s your chosen work name - based on a song your mother used to play from a century ago. All the workers names are single words. Easy to remember. Easy to request for returning quests.

“Fittin’.” The man to your left grins, bright blue eyes sparkling. His fangs catch the light - your hands tremble for a brief moment.

“Do you know who we are?” The masked man beside him asks. His voice rumbles through your nerves, all the way into your bones. You can hardly look at him - the skull covering the top half of his face makes your gut churn.

Should you know them? Oh, fuck, you probably should. Vampires live forever - their names and legacies travel across centuries. Millenia. It’s going to give you away. You’re just a low class human from the slums. You don’t know Vampires from the uppers.

The illusion of luxury only goes so far.

“It’s not a trick question.” The man to your right smiles gently, tilting his head to the side.

“No, sir.”

“Well,” The one with the beard sits a little straighter. “I’m John Price and these are my… confidants. Cohorts. Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley.” He gestures to each as he goes.

John Price… John Price… Nothing comes to mind. Nothing about any of them, for that matter.

“Lovely to meet you.” You smile pleasantly, slipping back into the script. Swallowing roughly and steadying yourself, you reach for the bottle and slowly pouring a tester amount into the four glasses. “Tonight we have a vintage red for you from 2089.”

John hums, swirling the glass before taking a sip. His eyes don’t leave you and you try not to shrink from them. “You remember the 80’s, Simon?”

“Which one?” The makes you pause. How many 80’s could there be?

John laughs, whole and hearty. Little crows feet appear in the corners of his eyes. “Which d’you think?”

“I remember the blood.” The masked man mutters. He doesn’t look at John either - dark eyes locked on you. You keep up the well trained smile. Neutral, comfortable.

“Och, ye would.” Johnny scoffs, taking his own glass after John gives you a nod to fill the four properly. “Cannae ever remember the good.”

“Well what’s your finest memory then Johnny?”

“There’s was this lass… think her name was Cassandra. Had the biggest tits and-“

“Enough of that. There’s a lady present.” John waves his hand. To your surprise, Johnny actually listens despite looking muffed about it. You can’t help but snort. Lady. As if.

How old are they, anyway? They look young - especially Johnny and Kyle. Definitely below thirty when they were turned. John obviously leads but that doesn’t necessarily mean he turned the rest of them. They could have just come together over the years. Vampire covens vary heavily as to why they came together. Sometimes friendship, sometimes relation, sometimes just convenience.

Simon is still staring you down, hooking a thumb under his mask to raise it just over the end of his nose. Scarred lips sip from his glass.

“Come sit, luv.” Kyle pats the booth beside him, voice hushed.

You snap out of your thoughts at the prompt - moving to sit in the empty spot beside Kyle. The next thing you know hands are on your hips, passing you over until you’re sat square in the middle as if you weigh nothing. You know vampires are strong - you’ve gotten thrown around by your fair share in the slums, whether a mugging or fucking - but it still startles you. They could crush you with barely a flick of the wrist.

Fingers brush over your shoulders, tracing the shape of them and leaving goosebumps in their wake before lowering to rest between your exposed shoulder blades.

“Tell us about yourself, hm?” John prompts.

“Oh, not much to tell.” You shrug and smile. “I’m from the city. Started here about a year ago-“

“How have we never seen ye then?” Johnny interrupts, eyes locked on your chest. You’d think he was staring at the mole just below your collarbone, but that’s probably too presumptuous. “A bonnie thing like ye…”

“Well…” You raise your hand to your mouth like you would when whispering a secret. “I’m not supposed to tell but I’m actually a server, normally.”

“Oh, really?” Kyle leans his chin on his palm. “In a dress like that?”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” You huff, letting the pliant facade slip just enough to make yourself seem real. Just a little less doll like before you return to the script.

“Absolutely nothin’.” Simon hums beside you, eyes near black under the shadow of his mask.

Your face heats. Client compliments never get to you and you’re not sure what about his feels so different. All of their attention is so intense. It dives under your skin and burrows deep in your marrow.

“So, seeing as you implied I should know who you are-“ You tilt your head and meeting John’s eye, “who are you?”

John chuckles, leaning close. “Oh, no one important. Contractors. Independently employed.”

“Ah, so, criminals.” You laugh.

“If you say so.”

“I can’t exactly judge.” You lean in as well, shoulder pressing against his broad chest. The material of his suit is soft and thick. High quality. “I mean, look where I am, hm?”

“Are ye a criminal, lassie?” Johnny grins at you, tilting his head. How he makes a mo-hawk cute is beyond you.

“Shh.” You press a finger to your lips.

“That how you got these?” You startle as John slips his fingers beneath the string of pearls, tugging ever so slightly. You meet his eye, only briefly, only long enough to see something hard behind them that wasn’t there before. He rolls the golden clasp between his fingers absently.

“I… I’ve always had them…” You frown, suddenly wracking your mind as to their origin. You’d never thought about it. They were your mother’s… you’re sure… but somehow that doesn’t feel right. The harder you think, the further the answer seems to be.

Either way, John seems placated by that. He retracts his hand, falling back into the simple banter from before. You allow you shoulders to relax, deciding to take his return to form at face value. Not that you have another option, really. It’s easy enough to look sultry, to play the part, to mindlessly flirt. Easy enough to fall into the simple back and forth. Scripted. Basic. Nothing out of the ordinary. They’re just clients at the end of the day, even if they have more money and power than your usual crowd.

You carefully refill each of their glasses as needed - mostly Johnny’s. His face would probably be red from the alcohol were he alive. You can feel their eyes on you - boring through your very being. It takes more concentration than you’d like to keep your breath from hitching when John’s finger traces the exposed upper curve of your spine above the dress. You lean forward, pushing each glass back to their respective owners.

Johnny takes your hand before you can retract it, placing gentle kisses from your palm to your wrist. He sighs shakily, teeth catching your skin ever so slightly.

“Johnny.” The masked man rumbles in warning.

“Not gonnae bite, LT… she just...” Johnny murmurs against your wrist.

“Have you ever been bitten, dove?” John asks, eyes half lidded as he stares you down.

Prey. You’re just prey.

“N-no…” You shake your head, voice smaller than you’d like. You’re not supposed to. Clients aren’t allowed to bite the girls here - it’s not one of those clubs - but in reality you’re at their mercy. To book one of these rooms they surely have the money to pay whoever necessary to do whatever they might want with you. It’s not like you’re one of those girls anyone would miss.

“Donnae look so afraid.” Johnny chuckles.

“We’re not goin’ t’bite.” Kyle leans forward. “Just curious.”

“Oh…” You whisper. Johnny drops your wrist and you pray that they don’t notice how quickly you retract it. As you settle back into the booth, you allow yourself to sink comfortably into the soft cushions. A jolt shoots down your spine as a cool finger tucks a section of hair behind your ear. Your eyes meet John’s - some undiscernible pain swirls in those grey-blues. It looks wrong, that much emotion on such a statuesque face. He glances past you, toward Simon, you think.

The next thing you know you’re blinking blearily, sitting in John’s lap with your legs across Kyle’s. The younger man’s hand rests on your leg, thumb gently stroking your ankle as you come back to sentience.

It’s like coming up from the undertow and getting your first gasp of air.

“There she is.” Johnny murmurs, smiling softly.

You were compelled - you know that much. There isn’t any other explanation for your sudden, uninterrupted blackout. It’s disorienting. You rub the corner of your eye, purposefully evening your breath. At least your clothes are all still in place. You don’t feel… used. Not bitten either. A choked sigh escapes you against your will, hands trembling in your lap.

“You’re alright, dove.” John coos, cold breath puffing against your neck. A shiver runs down your spine. How much time has passed? When… what… “Can be hard t’come out of it, hm?”

“I’m okay...” You whisper.

“Have some water.” Kyle pushes a glass toward you. The concern on his face feels foreign.

A large, empty decanter of scotch sits in the center of the table accompanied by five empty glasses. That’s the closest hint you have to how long you’ve been here. You take the glass of water shakily and sip, leaving an imprint of red lipstick on the rim.

John continues to coo and soothe down your hair. His other hand travels down to rest on your hip, holding you in place against him. It’s strange… this feeling. You’ve been compelled before briefly but it wasn’t like this. John has to be strong. Old. He’s been around a while to have that kind of power - for it to be this difficult for you to come out of the haze. Assuming he is the one that compelled out, of course, though it isn’t exactly a stretch based on his behavior.

It’s taking more concentration to keep from crying than you’d like.

Stranger, though, is the way they watch you. The way John works you back to reality. Most vampires would have been inappropriate while you were gone, wouldn’t bother with the borderline aftercare needed when coming out from under their spell. Most would have left you slumped in the booth - drained of blood or pleasure or both - laughing as they went.

You clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter and gathering your wits. “Can I get you gentleman anything else?”

They share a look, one that you can’t quite interpret.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” John asks, voice low.

You look up at him with big eyes. Childlike, almost, staring up in wonder. It’s so strange how vampires aren’t quite white - they just lack the redness of life. The pink under the skin that signifies a beating heart and limited life span.

“I’m sure.”

John presses closer, breath caressing the shell of your ear. “Thank you for being so gracious f’us, tonight.

“Always…” There’s an honestly behind the word that startles you. A craving deep in your bones to prove yourself worthy of him and his men.

Strange.

“We best be on our way.” Simon rumbles, prompting Johnny to let him out of the booth.

John’s eyes flick between yours briefly before he moves you off of his lap with the gentle touch one might use when handling fine china. As much as you want to stay there, dazed and still coming down, you have work to do. So, you stand after them and begin slowly gathering the empty glasses on the tray. They sit heavier in your hand the normal - each movement feels as though you’re moving through molasses.

A cold touch runs up your back and you freeze. Fingers trace the curve of your spine. You straighten, turning slowly only to meet those soft blue eyes again. John takes your hand, eyes alight with something you don’t understand. “I’ll tell the owner he’s wasting you as a servin’ girl. You’re made for more.”

Before you can even possibly decide how to respond, he’s gone. Disappeared through the curtain and into the forever night. Something crinkles in your hand. When you look down, slowly opening your fingers, the contents make your heart jump into your throat.

Cash. A massive roll of neatly banded cash.

How much is this? A few thousand? More?

With frightened eyes and slippery hands you tuck the cash into the secret pocket of your coat. Having that much cash on your person is so out of your wheelhouse - out of the realm of possibility- you don’t know how to react.

You didn’t even get to say thank you.

Your mind whirls as you finish up your shift, eyes glazed over while slipping on your coat and gathering your things from your locker to make the long trek home before the train stops running. The other girls look off put. A few whisper and stare. The air is heavy with the implication that they know something you don’t. They must. You aren’t exactly in on the gossip.

What do they think you did?

Then again, you think as you brace yourself for the lurching and squealing of the metro, there isn’t any way to know what happened. Not unless one of the vampires tells you, and good luck prying any information out of one of them. Even if they tell you, they can just make you forget all over again.

How did you behave? Were you the same as always? Were you an entirely different person?

Some people forget themselves when under compulsion - every inhibition thrown to the wind carelessly. You need your inhibitions. They keep your job secure and yourself safe. You can’t afford carelessness.

The walk back home is tense. That small bulk in your pocket burns a hole though you as your mind runs with every possibility of what might have happened. What you might have done to earn such a massive tip. It can’t have been dignified, could it? There’s no way they just like you. That’s not how vampires are. Then again, at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. They liked you enough to pay you. There isn’t any point in trying to dissect such a simple transaction beyond that.

It takes everything to motivate yourself to actually take off your clothing and jewelry before falling into bed. However long they had you, it drained you. Left you tired and shaky as you crawl under the thick bundle of quilts that make up for the lack of heating in your home.

Your eyes meet the wad of cash that barely fit in the inner pocket of your coat. It feels like a threat. Use me well or lose me forever! Make me count because you’ll never see me again!

For now, at least, you can bask in the simple victory of it.

banner by @the-aesthetics-shop

[bitethedevil]

Rome is going great. I’m normal.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Speed Limit 2525

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Summary: When Tim Bradford goes head-to-head with a bomber, he finds himself on a bus carrying a bomb and you.

Warnings: spoilers for Speed (1994) (I think this qualifies as an AU/rewrite), angst, bombings, nightmares, death and fear of dying, teasing, fluff, a little make out scene at the end? basically every warning that applies to the movie and The Rookie. I also made up a story about "Reaper"

Word Count: 11.7k+ words

A/N: This isn't completely proofread, but I'll be back soon to check it. I hope you enjoy!🤍

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

Shoot him.

Tim doesn’t feel the trigger depress, only the hot desert air beating against his face. Though the trigger doesn’t move, a bullet rips through the barrel and into Tim’s only surviving squad member. He yells to warn his teammate, but no sound comes out. The wind is loud in the desert, yet the sound of Tim’s friend falling against the sand seems to echo for miles.

“Bradford,” the injured soldier coughs. “Wrong target, Reaper.”

Tim’s chest is tight with guilt and anxiety when he wakes. The sheets are wrapped tightly around his legs, and his shallow breaths distract him from freeing himself. Before he has time to orient himself, Tim’s phone rings and snaps him out of his post-nightmare, adrenaline-fueled state as he reaches across the empty pillow to answer it.

“Bradford,” he says.

“Get to the station as soon as you can,” Sergeant Grey demands. “Your Metro captain has me calling everybody in. We’re sending patrol units out, too. It’s gonna be a long day, Tim.”

Tim forgets about the nightmare and the memory within as he rushes to get ready. Tim’s tunnel vision focuses on work, and everything else fades away. Middle-of-the-night calls aren’t unusual, especially for a Metro Sergeant like himself, but this many officers getting a wake-up call is. Whatever is happening is big, and it doesn’t sound to Tim like it will be over any time soon. He makes it to the station in record time, and his commander is directing the other Metro officers when he enters.

“We don’t have time,” she says suddenly. “I’m running this force from here. Sergeant Grey will fill you in on the way. Get to the target location and stick together. Bradford, you’re with Temple!”

Tim nods as Harry Temple walks to his side. Harry was one of Angela Lopez’s first patrol partners, but he decided Metro was a better fit when the time to move forward in his career came along. Like Tim, he was in the Army before becoming a police officer, and he and Tim have some shared experiences. Neither of them is overly eager to bond over them, however.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Tim asks Harry as he turns on the lights and sirens in the shop.

“All I heard was ‘elevator,’” Harry answers. “I’m assuming they’re more to this than that.”

“Listen up,” Sergeant Grey says over the radio. “This is your official brief. When we roll up to the scene, we go straight in. No time for questions after we exit these cars. Fifteen people are trapped on an express elevator. The owner of the building is also inside. A bomb took out the cables, and our bomber is demanding three million dollars, or he blows the emergency brake, too. Cell phone service is spotty in the building, so we can’t rely on that to track anyone or anything.”

“Cell phone service is nonexistent in the elevator. A defensive move against trade secrets,” someone adds.

“What’s our clock, Sergeant?” Harry radios.

“He gave one hour when he called, which leaves us with twenty-eight minutes.”

“The only thing that’ll stop the elevator is the basement, right?” Tim adds.

“The city plans to avoid that. They’re working to release the money.”

Tim stops the shop beside the curb at the front of the building. He leaves the lights on as he and Harry remove their weapons from the back and meet the rest of their tactical team in the lobby.

“We can’t just unload them,” an officer says.

“The bomber wired the elevator doors and the hatch to trigger the bomb. So, he’s crazy, but he ain’t stupid,” Wade explains as he enters.

“Harry volunteers to examine the device,” Tim interjects. “He was on the bomb squad in the Army.”

Harry turns to glare at Tim as he says, “Right. And since Bradford also has Army experience, he’d like to provide a second opinion.”

“Fine,” Wade says. “You two check it out. Hey! Where’s the nearest access panel?”

“32nd floor,” a nearby employee answers on his way out. “It’s in the hall by the storage closet.”

“Report only. We’re in a holding pattern until we get word from your Commander back at the station. Confirm building evac and keep your radios active.”

“What about the other elevators?” Harry asks the employee.

“In an emergency, all passenger cars go to the nearest floor and shut down,” he says.

Tim frowns and moves his gun to his side. “Looks like we’re walking up the stairs.”

Harry nods before sprinting up the stairs behind Tim. Tim outpaces him but waits at the access panel for Harry to arrive with his small tool kit. He begins removing the nuts from the metal cover while Tim watches the hallway. Harry gives Tim a signal and Tim lifts the metal sheet. Light filters into the elevator shaft as Tim crawls through the opening and moves to the top of the elevator, where the bomb rests.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the L.A.P.D.,” Tim announces loudly. “There has been an elevator malfunction. Just relax and we’ll have you out of there as soon as possible.”

Harry looks up from the bomb and raises his hands in question.

“I didn’t lie,” Tim defends.

“I don’t recognize this work, Tim. Whoever our bomber is… he’s a pro and the work is solid,” Harry says.

“Bradford, Temple, hold position,” Wade radios. “We’re waiting to hear back from the bomber.”

Tim looks at his watch and muffles a curse. Their time is nearly out, and Tim continues to look at his watch rather than think about the lives in the metal death trap below his feet.

Harry sees the look in Tim’s eyes and decides to distract him. “Terrorist in a crowded room, five pounds of dynamite. He’s got a deadman’s stick. What do you do?”

“How close am I?” Tim asks, looking away from the elevator.

“Twenty feet.”

“Taser. He can’t let go with enough volts surging through him.”

“Alright, hot shot. Fifty feet?”

“Nice try.”

“Airport, then. Gunman with one hostage, using her for cover. He’s almost on a plane, you’re a hundred feet away.”

“Why is the hostage always a woman in these scenarios? Watch too many romcoms in the academy?”

“What do you do?” Harry repeats.

Tim kneels to examine the bomb once more and remembers his nightmare. Shoot him. He shakes his head before answering, “Shoot the hostage. Take her out of the equation, he can’t get to the plane, and I have a clear shot.”

“You are out of your mind, Bradford.”

“This is wrong,” Tim says suddenly. “He’s gonna blow it. How much do you think this elevator weighs?”

“Why? You wanna try to bench it?”

Tim doesn’t acknowledge the teasing as he adds, “We can do something about the hostages.”

“No shoot them, right?”

“Roof,” Tim reads as he points to a roof access sign. There’s a heavy-duty winch secured to the corner of the roof, and Tim runs to it as he says, “We don’t shoot them. Just take them out of the equation.”

Tim pulls the cable from the winch toward the elevator housing on the roof. He drops it in and watches it fall several feet before it catches.

“It’ll hold,” Tim tells Harry. “It’ll hold,” he repeats, quieter.

“Six minutes,” Harry alerts.

Tim throws his legs over the edge of the housing and lowers carefully onto the elevator cable. He hooks the winch hook to his tactical vest before moving down in the elevator shaft. Wade and the Metro team argue with the city council about releasing the money in the lobby, and no one has a clue that the shooter is listening to their radio frequencies. Without cell phones, they’re completely reliant on their radios to stay in touch with one another. Tim ignores his radio as he flips so he’s headfirst as he nears the trapped elevator.

“One more pop quiz,” Harry begins. “Psycho Sergeant Tim Bradford rigs an elevator to drop thirty stories. What do you do?”

Tim rolls his eyes before gesturing for Harry to hold the winch cable steady. A small pile of C4 waits beside his feet, but Tim ignores it as he secures the cable hook to the frame of the elevator.

“Why did I take this job?” Tim murmurs.

“Hey, a few more decades and you get a tiny pension and a free watch,” Harry answers.

“Hit the switch, Temple.”

Harry runs to the winch, hoping that the cables used to wash windows are strong enough to catch a free-falling elevator. He flips the switch, and the winch begins pulling in the cable. As the extra cable Tim pulled into the shaft begins unspooling, he moves up to the open access panel.

In the basement, a man missing a thumb presses a button on his handheld device. Instantaneously, a red light illuminates on the bomb. Tim sees it and throws himself through the access panel just before the bomb goes off. The passengers begin screaming, but the winch catches the falling elevator before it reaches the bottom of the shaft.

“What is happening, Bradford?” Wade asks, his concern evident over the radio.

“He’s early!” Harry yells as he returns from the roof.

“We have to get them out of the elevator. They can’t be lower than 28,” Tim exclaims.

When he and Harry meet the rest of their team on the 28th floor, they see that the elevator is stranded between floors. Only the floor is accessible from their current position, but there is no time to run up and down the stairs and look for the perfect access point. The elevator passengers lower to the floor and Tim and Harry pull people out one at a time. Tim pulls the last woman to safety seconds before the winch fails and the elevator plummets to the bottom of the shaft. After the sound of impact, Tim and Harry lean back against a wall and pant from the effort they exerted.

“Is your watch slow?” Tim asks.

“Nah. He jumped the gun,” Harry says with a shake of his head. “We had three minutes.”

“He blew more than the elevator. He blew his three million dollars. Why would he do that?”

“Maybe he decided it wasn’t worth it.”

Tim sits up as he declares, “He’s here.”

“He could have blown that thing from anywhere, Tim.”

“He knew we were doing something, that’s why he acted early. That means he’s close.”

“He’s not gonna corner himself in the building. The building we evacuated.” Harry leans his head back against the wall and thinks for a moment before he adds, “He’d want to be here, yes, but stay mobile… The elevators.”

“All of the passenger cars stopped, and we checked them.”

“Did we check the freight elevators?”

Tim’s eyes widen in realization as he and Harry push themselves to stand and run to the freight elevator doors. Once Tim pries the door open, he slides down the cable and lands on top of a car. Harry reluctantly follows and freezes when a noise echoes inside. Tim doesn’t notice Harry behind him as he prepares to enter the elevator. Before he can, a shotgun is fired between them, and Harry falls into the elevator. The man inside knocks him out with the butt of the shotgun, and Tim waits until the elevator moves up to drop in through the roof panel. As he lands, he looks up and sees a shotgun barrel in his face.

“I don’t suppose anybody would pay me three million dollars just for you,” the nine-fingered bomber muses.

He pulls the trigger, but the gun is empty. Tim removes his Glock from his side and demands the bomber lower the shotgun. He does so but opens his coat to reveal dynamite strapped to his chest and a deadman switch detonator in his hand.

“Hotshot,” the man begins. Tim’s jaw clenches as he realizes the man listened to their conversations over the radio, but he can’t say anything before the bomber says, “Terrorist holding a police hostage. He’s got enough dynamite to blow the building in half. What do you do?”

“Fifty cops are waiting for us in the basement,” Tim states.

“Standard flanking, I’m aware.” He presses a button on a device wired into the elevator controls. “So, maybe we’ll get off early.”

The elevator stops at a parking level, and Tim watches as the bomber pulls Harry toward the door. His eyes open slowly, and Tim keeps his eyes on Harry rather than the man pulling him.

“Well, end of the line, Bradford. This day has been a real disappointment, I don’t mind saying.”

“Why? Because you couldn’t kill everyone?” Tim asks.

“There will come a time, hotshot, when you will wish you’d never met me.”

“I’m already there.”

“Look! I have your partner, I’m in charge! I drop this stick and they clean us up with a sponge!”

“Go ahead!” Harry yells. “Drop the stick!” “Shut up!” Tim demands.

Harry looks at Tim and mouths, “Shoot the hostage.”

Shoot him. Wrong target, Reaper. Tim takes a deep breath and shifts his arms to shoot Harry in the leg. He collapses onto the floor, and the bomber steps back in shock before running into the garage. Tim steps over Harry to shoot behind the feeling suspect. As the man reaches the door, he looks over his shoulder to smile at Tim before he disappears. Tim can’t check on Harry as the garage explodes and the force pushes him back against the wall. As Tim collides with the concrete behind him, everything goes dark. And everything changes.

After Harry’s unplanned and involuntary retirement party, Tim nearly oversleeps. His alarm pulls him from a dreamless sleep, and he winces at the sound before turning it off. Before he showers, he decides to go for a quick run to clear his head. Once he’s dressed and ready for the day, he drives to his favorite café. It’s one of the only places in Los Angeles where you can get a decent cup of coffee and breakfast without being surrounded by millennials working on their screenplays. Tim nods at another regular, Vince, as he enters.

“Hey, Tim. You look awful,” Bob, the owner of the café, says.

“Thanks, Bob,” Tim grumbles.

“Pretty boy party too hard?” Vince asks Tim.

“I- I don’t remember that well.”

“Wake up alone?”

“Always do.”

“Must be nice,” Bob interjects. “The last time I partied like that I worked up married.”

Tim shakes his head as he accepts his order and walks out behind Vince. He sets his coffee on top of his truck as he retrieves his keys from his pocket. Vince’s bus starts behind Tim and pulls away from the curb. Tim turns to wave at Vince before unlocking his door.

After it crosses the first intersection, the bus explodes. Tim stumbles as he looks toward the source of the noise. He runs to the bus as it rolls to a stop and fights against the flames to help Vince, but it’s too late. As Tim lays his hands on his knees in shock, he notices an abandoned cell phone lying on the sidewalk behind him. It rings continuously, and Tim doesn’t hesitate before he answers the phone.

“What do you think, Bradford?” the bomber from last month asks. “You think if you and Harry find all the driver’s teeth they’ll give you another medal?”

“Where are you?” Tim demands.

“Twenty-second delay. I’m in the air duct when the garage blows. Did you think I wouldn’t come prepared? I spent two years on the elevator job. Two years. I invested myself in it. You couldn’t understand the commitment I have. A child, Tim, you’re a child. You ruin a man’s life’s work and then think you can walk away. You’ve got blinders on, but I got your attention now. Didn’t I, Tim?”

“Why didn’t you just come after me?”

“This is about money – 3.7 million. Not you and your ego. None of it had to happen, Tim, and I hope you realize that. How long do you think the driver’s wife and kids will wait before they get worried tonight?”

“When I find you, I will kill you,” Tim threatens.

“There’s a bomb on a bus, hotshot. Once the bus hits fifty miles an hour, the bomb is armed. If the bus drops below fifty, it blows up. What do you do?”

Tim doesn’t answer but looks around for any sign of the suspect.

“What do you do?” he repeats.

“I’d want to know what bus it was,” Tim answers. He’s accepted the challenge and knows that it has to end with a death: either his or the bomber’s.

“You think I’m going to tell you that, Tim?”

“Yes.”

“Very good.” The man sounds happy, and Tim presses a hand against a nearby wall to control his anger. “Now there are rules, Tim; we have to do this right. No one gets off the bus. One passenger leaves, I will detonate it. Now, if I don’t get my money by 11 a.m., there’s also a timer.”

Tim looks at his watch: 8:05 a.m. “I can’t pull that money in time-“

“Focus, Tim! Your concern is the bus. Don’t call, the radios are jammed. Number 2525, running downtown from Venice. At the corner of Lincoln and Pico…”

Tim drops the cell phone and runs to his car to follow the bus. The lives on that bus are in his hands, and he doesn’t plan to shoot any hostages today.

“Please stop! Sam!” you yell as you chase your bus.

You don’t want to ride the bus, but since your most recent speeding ticket, it is your only mode of transportation. In the few weeks since your license was suspended, you’ve gotten to know the driver, Sam, and some of the regular passengers. You hope that camaraderie is enough to convince Sam to stop for you. The brakes on the bus squeal as it stops, and the door opens.

“This look like a stop to you?” Sam asks.

“You are an amazing man, Sam,” you say as you walk onto the bus. “The men in books and songs have nothing on you.”

You swipe your bus card and take a seat before saying hello to Ortiz, a regular passenger. Comfortable in your seat, and glad that none of the passengers are in a talkative mood this early on a weekday, you relax and hope to get your car back soon.

Tim drives his truck in and out of traffic, onto the shoulder, and into the emergency lane as he tries to catch up with bus 2525. Other drivers honk their horns, flip him off, and yell insults through open windows, but Tim doesn’t notice or care. If he can stop the driver before it reaches 50, then the bomb will never activate. The only danger would be the man with the detonator.

You look up as Sam slows for a traffic jam.

“Can’t you just drive over them?” you ask with a smile.

“Is it always like this?” a man asks from the back of the bus. “It’s my first time here, and it took me three hours just to get out of the airport.”

“Yep,” you answer. “It’s usually worse.”

“That’s why I never drive,” the woman behind you interjects. “I’d never have a car in this city.”

“I have a car. I miss my car,” you lament.

“In the shop?” the tourist asks.

“Something like that. Sam, seriously, the bus is huge, just run them over,” you say again.

When Tim sees the bus has stopped because of a stalled car ahead, he sighs before he pulls onto the shoulder. He exits his truck and runs toward the bus, but the accident clears faster than he expected, and begins moving before he reaches the door. Hitting his fist against the side, Tim yells for the driver to stop.

“Can’t blame him for wanting to get on the bus,” you mutter as you watch him slap an open palm against the door.

“Get off the doors, man! Wait for the next one,” Sam yells before he speeds up.

Tim removes his badge from his pocket a moment too late. He continues chasing the bus, and you look down at your phone as the other passengers watch the unknown man run down the freeway.

Nearly half a mile from his truck and with no other option, Tim stops and waits at the edge of the road. He sees a speeding sports car approaching, and he moves into the middle of its lane and raises his badge.

“Stop!” Tim yells over the traffic.

The young man driving the car slams on his brakes to avoid hitting Tim. Several cars behind him blow their horns, and he raises to yell over the convertible’s windshield.

“What the-“

“L.A.P.D.,” Tim interrupts. “Get out of the car.”

“This is my car! It ain’t stolen and you have no right!” the driver argues.

Tim pulls his gun from its holster and says, “It’s stolen now. Move over.”

The man nods quickly before he jumps over the console and settles into the passenger seat. Tim sits behind the wheel and swerves into another lane as he ignores the owner’s pleas not to scratch the car. Tim drives the expensive, sporty convertible exactly as he had driven his truck, and the man in the passenger seat covers his eyes in fear for his car more than his life. As Tim steers the car beside the bus, he lays on the horn. Sam looks over and immediately recognizes him, and his eyes widen to prove it.

“I’m a cop!” Tim yells.

Sam lowers the window and raises his voice to ask, “What?”

“L-A-P-D!” Tim spells slowly. “There’s a bomb on your bus.”

“There’s a what?” Tim’s passenger exclaims.

“I can’t hear you,” Sam says.

“There’s a bomb on the bus!” Tim repeats.

Sam shakes his head, and Tim looks at the convertible’s speedometer. He’s over 50, so the bus must be, too.

“Drive!” Tim yells as he gestures for the bus to keep moving. “FIFTY! STAY ABOVE FIFTY!”

Sam nods rapidly and trembles a bit as he holds the speed steady. The commotion draws your attention, and you turn in your seat to watch the man who desperately needs a ride or is crazy.

“Call the Mid-Wilshire division station,” Tim says as he hands his phone to the man beside him. “Ask for Detective Angela Lopez.”

“Okay, okay.” The man speaks into the phone briefly before passing it back to Tim.

“Angela,” Tim says.

“Why are you calling me on your day off?” she asks. “Harry’s here, if you’re looking for him.”

“He’s alive.”

“Who?”

“The bomber! He’s back.”

“Harry!” Angela calls.

“Tim, did he hit the bus in Venice?” Harry asks as he approaches Angela’s desk.

“Temple,” Wade interrupts. “We just got a ransom demand from your dead terrorist. Says he rigged a city bus. Where’s Tim?”

“Where do you think?” Harry replies.

Tim ends the call and navigates around the back of the bus to drive alongside the door. Traffic is increasing with the morning rush, and he doesn’t want to risk getting stuck in another slowdown. He honks to get Sam’s attention, and gestures for him to open the door.

“Drive straight,” Tim directs him. “Stay in this lane.”

Sam agrees before Tim speeds up to get ahead of the bus. He opens the driver-side door and hits the brakes, so the bus rips the door off the car. Tim presses the accelerator again to catch up with the bus as he is yelled at by the owner of the car.

“Take the wheel!” Tim says.

Tim waits until the car’s owner moves back into the driver’s seat to jump into the open bus door and pull himself up the stairs.

When the bus rips the door off a convertible, you finally look up. The man driving the car beside the bus is attractive, but you’re a little concerned for his mental well-being. Sam seems willing to help him, and you don’t understand why. When he jumps from the car and onto the bus, you stand and grip the bar above your head. He locks eyes with you before holding up a police badge.

“Everyone, I’m Sergeant Tim Bradford, L.A.P.D. We’ve got a slight… situation on the bus,” he explains.

“Are you crazy?” you ask.

“Ma'am, if you’ll please sit down, we can deal with this in an orderly-“

“But what are you-“

“Ma’am.”

His tone and the look in his eyes convinces you, so you sit down as Tim walks toward the back of the bus and looks at the other passengers. You watch him move and wonder if he’s truly a cop or just insane.

“Just stay in your seats and remain quiet,” Tim says. “Then we’ll be able to defuse the, uh, the problem.”

A passenger you’ve spoken to before, Jay, leaps from his seat and points a gun at Tim.

“Jay!” you yell worriedly.

“Get away from me!” Jay demands.

Tim pulls his gun and matches Jay’s stance. Two women at the back of the bus scream, and you look between Tim and Jay from your seat.

“I don’t know you, I’m not here for you. Let’s not do this,” Tim says calmly.

“Stop the bus, Sam,” Jay calls.

“He can’t. Look, I’m going to put my gun away.” Tim holsters it slowly and raises his hands to show they’re empty. “I don’t care about what you did. It’s over. I’m not a cop right now. See? We’re just two guys on the bus.”

Tim tosses his badge to the floor beside your feet, and you look at it before raising your eyes to Jay again. You understand why he calmed down so quickly; Tim Bradford has a soothing voice, and his presence is assertive but caring. More importantly, you can relax now, because his badge looks real. Jay’s hands begin to lower, but your fellow passenger Ortiz jumps onto his back before Jay puts it away.

Tim rushes forward as Ortiz tries to pull the gun from Jay. A shot goes off, and everyone ducks before a second shot fires.

“Sam!” someone screams.

You turn toward the front of the bus before moving to help Sam. Tim disarms Jay with minimal effort while another woman joins your side.

“Move him,” you say.

“He’s bleeding,” the woman argues.

“We have to stop the bus!”

At your words, Tim spins quickly to face you.

“No!” he yells. “Stay above fifty.”

“Sam is wounded,” you begin.

“You slow down, and this bus will explode!”

Tim holds your eyes and nods slowly. He’s not kidding, you realize. Turning quickly, you look at the speedometer, which falls to 51. While Sam is still in the seat, you push your foot onto the gas pedal and watch the line rise above fifty.

Tim handcuffs Jay to one of the poles before he explains, “There is a bomb on this bus. If we slow down, it will blow. If anyone tries to get off, it will blow.”

The women on the bus surround Sam and help him get comfortable as they try to slow the bleeding. As they pull Sam from the driver’s seat, you slide into position and steer into another lane to keep the speed over 50.

“We’re only gonna make it through this if everyone stays calm, sits down, and listens to me,” Tim adds.

You don’t hear everything he says, with your complete focus on the road ahead and the speedometer on the dash. Your knuckles are white because of your grip on the wheel, and you don’t hear Tim approach behind you. He lays a hand on the headrest behind you and leans down.

“This is great. A bomb on wheels,” you muse sarcastically.

“Can you handle this bus, ma’am?” Tim asks.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just like driving a big Toyota, right?”

“Can you handle it?”

“I’m fine. What’s the plan? Is there a plan?”

Tim nods and stands to his full height. He watches you take a deep breath before turning to the rest of the passengers.

“Everyone, I need your cell phones,” Tim announces.

“No way, man!” the tourist yells.

“There is a terrorist out there with a bomb, and I don’t need any of you live streaming or interfering with the radio signal he could be using to detonate a bomb. So, I will only say this one more time. Phones - and anything else with a cellular connection – now.”

The passengers nod and offer all of their cellular devices. Tim accepts an empty bag from a woman beside Sam and places everyone’s belongings inside. He returns to your side and removes his phone from his pocket.

“Do you have anyone you need to call?” Tim asks softly.

“No. I- I don’t want to think like that,” you answer.

“We don’t have to. Everything’s going to be okay. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

You nod and Tim lays a kind hand on your shoulder to add, “But I need your phone.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s- uh- it’s in my back pocket. Right side.”

Tim’s hand brushes your lower back as he pulls the phone from your pocket. He apologizes, though you can’t imagine why. You’ve only known Tim Bradford for a few minutes, but his words mean something, and you can only hope he keeps the promises he’s making.

“You’re a cop, right?” you ask.

“That’s right. Metro Sergeant,” Tim says. “But you can call me Tim if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Uh, no. Thanks, and you can stop calling me ‘ma’am’ while we’re at it. I just- I should probably tell you that I’m taking the bus because my driver’s license was suspended.”

“What for?”

“Speeding.”

Tim shakes his head and hides his smile before calling the station again. He leans forward, but keeps his hand beside you, to look at the news chopper circling above the bus.

“Lopez, it’s me. I took phones from all the passengers. Where do we start?” Tim asks.

“Alright. Harry and Wade are with me,” Angela replies.

“Check the speedometer, Bradford,” Harry says. “Has it been messed with? Any wires or anything that don’t belong?”

“Sorry,” Tim whispers as he leans in front of you to check the dash area. “No, it’s clean.”

“Then it’s gotta be under the bus. Probably rigged to one of the axles.”

“I can’t get under the bus to check right now. The whole you stop, you die thing. Remember?”

Tim doesn’t sound like he’s kidding; in fact, he sounds grumpier than when he first boarded, but his comment makes you laugh. He pats the back of your seat before turning.

“Sergeant Bradford,” Sam calls weakly. Tim kneels beside him to listen, and Sam stutters, “There’s a- an access panel… in the fl-floor.”

“Hold on, Angela,” Tim says into the phone.

He unscrews the panel and pulls it aside. The asphalt moves quickly under the bus, and Tim looks around before handing his phone to a passenger. You look up in the mirror above you to watch Tim briefly before returning your attention to the road.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Stephen. I’m a tourist,” Stephen introduces.

“Welcome to the City of Angels. Hold my phone, please. Tell my partner what I see.”

Stephen nods and raises the phone to his ear as Tim moves so he can see under the bus. He takes a deep breath; Tim knows a bit about bombs from his time in the Army, but it’s Harry’s expertise.

“Okay, there’s a bundle here,” Tim yells over the wind. “Pretty big.”

“There’s a pretty big bundle,” Stephen relays.

“Brass fittings. I think I can reach the circuit wire.”

“He can reach the circuit wire- No, don’t do that, Sergeant Bradford. It can be a decoy, he says. What else?”

“Hold on,” Tim murmurs before moving further underneath the bus. He sees the extent of the bomb and pulls himself back up to take the phone. “Angela, Harry, there’s enough C4 on this bus to take out everyone on the highway. There’s a wristwatch: gold band, cheap.”

You look back at Tim quickly before inhaling sharply. “Sergeant,” you call.

“What do you think, Harry?” Tim asks.

“Bradford!” you yell into the bus speaker.

Tim moves to your side and places a hand on the dash to lean forward. His face is right beside yours, and you wish you were nervous because of him and not the bomb underneath you.

“Everybody’s stopping,” you point out. “What do I do?”

“Get on the shoulder.”

“This is an exit!”

Tim flinches as you sideswipe several cars.

“Tim!”

“Off. Get off!” Tim yells.

You nearly miss the ramp and pull the wheel to the right to merge onto another road. Honking the horn and yelling for people to get out of the way, you take a deep breath. At least you’re off the freeway. Tim tells you to keep driving as he answers his phone again.

“Where?” he asks. “Got it.”

“Do I stay here?” you inquire.

“Yes. Just straight on this, they’re trying to clear the roads for us.”

“I’m never getting my license back, am I?” you grumble.

“The police commissioner will buy you a car if you ask,” Tim says quietly. “You’re doing well, okay? Don’t worry about anything else.”

You nod and return both hands to the wheel. Tim removes the flannel shirt he’s been wearing, leaving him in a white t-shirt, and drapes it over the back of your seat. Your eyes catch on his biceps before you chide yourself for getting distracted.

One of the phones in the bag rings, and Tim yells, “Who didn’t turn their phone off?”

No one is willing to admit their fault or doesn’t want to risk dealing with Tim’s wrath and ending up like Jay where he sits on the floor. Tim digs through the bag and pulls the ringing phone out. The number is one he recognizes, but he hesitates before answering.

“Taking their phones was smart,” the bomber says as the line connects. “2525… nice passengers, aren’t they? See, that’s the beauty of being in this day and age. I know everything about everyone on that bus. So, if you or your little girlfriend, or even the tourist from Kalamazoo try to double-cross me…”

“The bus explodes,” Tim interjects. “I’m aware.”

“What’s with the attitude, Tim? You’re seeing one of the prettiest places in the world, riding a bus for free… Oh, no, I know. Can’t shoot a hostage that makes that cold heart beat again, huh?”

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want! 3.7 million dollars. I get the money, and then we can both get what we want.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

“I know what you don’t want. Tell your girlfriend to keep her eyes on the road.”

The call ends and Tim raises the cell phone in his hands. “He knows who is on this bus.”

“How?” Ortiz asks.

“Your bus passes, your phones, both, maybe. Look, one of the conditions of our survival is that no one gets off the bus. If he knows who you are, then we are even more obligated to keep that promise.”

“You didn’t even try to get us off the bus!” Jay accuses.

“Because he would have blown it. I understand what you are feeling, but I need you to trust me, trust the L.A.P.D., and work with me on this.”

“Tim is this your team?” you ask over your shoulder.

A police car pulls into the lane in front of you as several more flank the sides of the bus. The road clears around them, but more news choppers are joining the airspace above you.

Tim nods and looks at you. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. What happens now, though?”

“My teammates are working on it. We’ve got gas and open road, so keep driving.”

“Is it- can I be okay and really nervous at the same time?”

“I’d be more concerned if you weren’t nervous.”

“You don’t look nervous.”

“My friend Angela says I never look anything; thinks I can’t show emotion because I can’t feel them.”

“Is it true?”

Tim looks at you and lowers to squat beside you. “No, it’s not.”

“How’s Sam?”

“The driver? He’s gonna be alright. Thanks to you.”

Someone calls for Tim, and he squeezes your shoulder reassuringly as he stands. You glance at him in the mirror as he returns to the access panel. A police helicopter drops to fly above you, and you wonder what the news stations and police officers know or think about the situation. The bus begins losing speed as you steer around a curve, and when you try to speed up again, you realize something is wrong.

Back at the station, Harry and Angela work with Wade and a bomb expert to search for a way to disarm the bomb and for their suspect. Harry has a description of the bomber, but there’s only so much they can learn about the bomb without seeing it.

“Sergeant Bradford!” you cry as you press the gas again.

“What?” Tim asks with wide eyes. You were calling him Tim, and your sudden change of formality and tone concern him.

“The gas pedal’s stuck.”

“What else can go wrong?” Tim asks under his breath. “Move your foot.”

You pull your foot from the pedal and steer as Tim presses his leg against yours to slam his foot down against the pedal. It doesn’t move, and the speedometer dips closer to fifty. Tim moves his hands to cover yours on the steering wheel and moves his leg between yours to try a new angle. You’re close to him, but the fear of dying keeps you from enjoying it in any way. He pushes the pedal again and his shoulders drop.

“There,” he announces as he steps back.

You take the wheel back and press the accelerator down again. The bus gains speed and you catch up to the police car before you.

“Lopez, talk to me,” Tim greets as he answers his phone again.

“You’ve got a hard left coming up,” Angela says. “Really hard.”

“Hard left up ahead,” Tim tells you.

“We’ll tip!” you argue.

“Who is that? Your driver?” Angela inquires.

“We’re not going to tip,” Tim says.

“Yes, we are!”

The curve in the road comes into view, and Tim suddenly agrees, “We’re going to tip.”

He leaves your side to move everyone onto the right side of the bus. The weight distribution keeps the bus from tipping, but as Tim helps you pull the wheel as hard as possible to make the turn, you forget why you were concerned. His presence is the only thing keeping you calm, and you wish he could just sit beside you the whole time.

“Angela, get those news crews off our tail!” he yells over the cheers of the passengers.

You look in the mirror beside you. The news crews must have arrived recently because you didn’t notice them before.

“On it. Harry’s working with the bomb squad. Keep it fifty,” Angela responds.

“Don’t try to make that a thing, Lopez,” Tim says before he ends the call.

“Hey, who’s doing this?” you ask Tim.

“The bomber? He’s just a guy who’s angry with me for foiling his last bombing attempt,” Tim explains.

“So, he’s trying again? Using you to get whatever it is he wants?”

“More or less.”

“What if you stop him again?”

“We do this again tomorrow. Until one of us dies trying.”

“That won’t work.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m not available to drive tomorrow.”

Tim nods but doesn’t reply before a flatbed truck merges into the lane beside the door. His Metro captain and two officers are on the back, and the driver blows the horn to get his attention. Tim opens the door and moves out of the door to talk to them. You can’t hear much but suspect that they want to get the hostages off the bus, which Tim already said was impossible. Your sudden and unbending trust in him should probably concern you, but you will do anything and everything he tells you, even if that means staying on a bus with a bomb on it.

“He called the station looking for you,” an officer announces.

“Why? He has my cell,” Tim says.

“Maybe it died.”

“Just give him my number again! And keep looking; find this guy so we can move these people.”

Tim steps onto the main platform again and closes the door.

“Are they going to help us?” the woman holding Sam’s head up asks.

“Sure, they will. They’re the police,” someone jokes.

Another phone rings in the bag, and Tim pulls your phone out this time. He hadn’t thought to turn yours off because he was concerned about you and wanted to make sure you could drive like the bus needed to be driven.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Tim, you know I trust you. But it looks to me like you’re trying to move passengers off the bus,” the bomber says.

“I need one as an act of faith,” Tim argues. “The driver has been shot.”

“You shot another hostage?”

“He’s dying! If you want your money, show a little charity.”

The line is quiet for a moment before the bomber says, “Fine. You can try to get the driver off. I have more people to kill. Tell your girlfriend behind the wheel not to slow down or he won’t get a chance to bleed out.”

“We’re getting the driver off,” Tim announces after returning your phone to the bag. “Just him for now.”

Ortiz moves out of the seat to help Tim move Sam to the door and onto the truck.

“Get as close as you can,” Tim says. “A little closer.”

The side of the bus hits the truck and swerves, and you rush to apologize.

“It’s okay.” Tim says your name, and you know that he means what he says. “Perfect! Hold it steady!”

You sigh as Tim walks past you again after getting Sam to safety, but then you see a woman walking toward the door. The officers on the truck reach out to help her, unaware of what will happen if she steps off the bus.

“No!” you yell.

“I have to,” she responds.

“No! Don’t get off! Stop!”

An explosion echoes through the bus as the steps fall out and go underneath the bus. The female passenger disappears after she falls with the debris, and you look away quickly as Tim falls forward trying to catch her.

“You’ve got to get those choppers out of here!” Tim yells to his captain. “He’s watching!”

The bus is silent as Tim stands up and waits beside you. With your eyes on the road, he doesn’t see the tear that leaks out. When the passengers start arguing behind you, your grip on the wheel tightens.

“Hey!” Tim calls as he turns to face them. They silence, and he moves his attention to you. “How are you doing?”

Tim steps forward, sees the tears covering your face, and squats with an arm behind you. “What can I do?”

His voice is softer than when he yelled at the men behind you, and you can’t lie to him.

“I thought that was the bomb. When I heard it… I thought everything was over. But then I saw her fall under the bus, and-“

“You’re glad you’re still alive,” Tim finishes.

“I’m so sorry. Does that make me a terrible person?”

“No. It doesn’t mean you don’t care. We’re still alive, and we’re all allowed to be thankful for that. The guy who put us here? He’s a terrible person. Don’t think that you’re a bad person. You’re not.”

“Tim,” you say before pointing to his Captain, who is waving for his attention.

“There’s a gap in the freeway. It’s big. We have to get these people off, Tim,” he says.

“You know I can’t, Captain.”

“Tim?” you ask as he walks past you. “What’d he say?”

“There’s a gap in the road,” Tim tells everyone.

“How big is a gap?” Ortiz asks.

“50 feet, a couple of miles ahead,” Tim says.

“Tim?” you repeat. “What if I shift down and just keep the engine revving?”

“He thought of that… Floor it.”

“What?”

“There’s an interchange, maybe there’s an incline. Just floor it.”

“Okay.”

“Everyone keep your heads down.”

The police car leading you falls off the side, but you continue driving toward the unfinished overpass. The needle on the speedometer nears 70, and Tim waits beside you. As you approach the end, Tim yells for everyone to hold on. He puts his arms around you and pulls your head down with his. You feel weightless for a moment, grounded only by his arms around you before the bus collides with the other side of the interchange. Looking up over Tim’s arm, you see more road ahead and press the gas again, so you don’t slow down.

Your forehead begins to burn and hurt, and you press your palm against your temple as the people behind you cheer. Tim checks on everyone before returning to your side, and he immediately realizes that you’re in pain. He moves your hand and presses the bottom of his shirt to your head. It’s stained with blood when he pulls his hand away, and you grimace at the idea of a wound on your head.

“Get off here!” Tim calls suddenly.

“Yes! Get off!”

You obey and soon enter the Los Angeles International Airport. Tim gives you directions to an emergency runway and explains that you can simply drive here. Without traffic or road closures, the only concern is staying above fifty.

Being in restricted air space is also a bonus, and you notice that the news helicopters are hovering at a distance. Tim seemed concerned about the presence of news cameras, so maybe the location will also keep the bomber from knowing exactly what is happening.

“Yeah?” Tim asks as he answers his phone.

“The airport. Well done. You had some close calls, but you did well, Tim,” the bomber says.

“What do you want?”

“My money. Help me get it before it’s too late, will you? The negotiators think I’m doing this for fun?”

“Are you not?”

“Oh, now you think you know me too?”

“I know you want money you didn’t earn. More than you deserve.”

“I did earn it! I got a medal, too, you know.”

“Let me off. If you want my help, I need to explain that you’re not bluffing. Just me.”

“Alright. But you have to come back. I can see everything; remember that.”

Tim ends the call and slides his phone back in his pocket.

“There’s a plan now?” you ask.

“Maybe. He’s letting me off,” Tim says.

“Hey, don’t forget about us,” you call as he steps off the bus and onto an SUV. “He’ll be back,” you promise the others.

While you circle the airport runways, Tim works with the other officers he told you about to find a way to disarm the bomb. Ortiz walks to your side and looks out at the airport.

“Ortiz?” you ask.

“He’s not coming back, I’m telling you,” he says.

“He didn’t have to get on in the first place. Hey, get behind the yellow line.”

Ortiz looks down and takes on short step back. “You let the cop up here.”

“What is that?” Stephen asks as he joins Ortiz.

“I have no idea,” you answer as you look at Tim standing on the back of a truck covered in machinery. It pulls over in front of you, and Tim lowers onto a cart attached to a winch, and you mutter, “I was right. He is insane.”

“How’d they get that so fast?” Stephen asks under his breath.

You focus more on driving in a straight line as Tim disappears under the front of the bus. He looks up at you just before he disappears, and you nod once. Knowing that he’s under the bus makes you more nervous to drive than you have been at any other point today. Driving in a straight line at the airport is more stressful because Tim is underneath a moving vehicle and touching a bomb. You know he has friends and colleagues who are helping him, but you feel more than a need to survive when you look at Sergeant Tim Bradford.

The winch on the truck releases suddenly, and the cable unfurls.

“Check and see if he came out the back!” you demand. “Can you see him?”

“He’s not back here!” Ortiz calls.

“Look under the bus! Back by the tires!”

“I don’t see him.”

The winch cable snaps and the back tire bounces over something. You press a hand over your mouth in shock, and Ortiz runs to the back access panel.

“Please tell me he’s alright!” you yell. “Do you see him?”

“I see him!” Ortiz responds. “He’s alright!”

You look back and forth between the empty runway and the back of the bus. Ortiz and Stephen pull Tim up onto the bus, and you can’t decide whether to be angry or relieved with him. Tim thanks Ortiz before walking to your side.

“How are you?” he asks.

“You scared me!” you accuse. You slap his vest to express your displeasure before hissing in pain. “What’s that smell?”

“Gas. We have a new leak.” “You caused a leak?”

“It was that or get run over. You can see the difficulty I had choosing.”

“Don’t try to be funny right now. I thought I killed you.”

“I’ll ask my captain to get a fuel truck.”

“Will it work?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not exactly comforting, you know that?”

“You just hit me and now you want comfort?”

You sigh and look at him again before saying, “Thank you, Tim.”

“Just doing my job… ma’am.”

Tim stays beside you while Harry and a S.W.A.T. team infiltrate the house listed on the bomber’s records. He was surprised by how quickly they found his identification, but now that they have the element of surprise, he hopes that this game is almost over.

 When he gets another call, you can only see the anger in his eyes as he listens to the person on the other end. The bomber tells Tim that Harry and the S.W.A.T. team walked right into his trap. You watch him and can only wonder what is making him so mad. His life is in danger, but something is capable of pushing him even further, it seems.

“I’m going to rip your spine out. If you know as much as you think you do, you know I can,” Tim threatens lowly.

“Oh, I do, Reaper. That’s why you should do what you’re told. You and I both know you can’t do it without Harry and his ability to follow a cheap watch, anyway. Get me my money and it’s over. Otherwise, you, lumberjack-ie, and the others are dead. Got that?”

“Yeah,” Tim says after a moment. “Howie.”

The bomber hesitates at the mention of his real name but doesn’t let it stop him. Tim listens to Howard Payne’s demands before ending the call. Tim turns around and kicks where the stairs used to be before pulling against the handrail in his anger. You try to get his attention over his yelling, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Tim! Please!” you try again. “I can’t do this without you. Please.”

Tim slows his movements before gripping the rail beside you. His jaw is clenched as he looks at you, but your pleas soften his eyes.

“Please stay with me,” you whisper.

“We’re going to die,” he says.

“No. You got us this far, right?”

Tim leans against the dash beside you and looks at you. His shirt is still behind you. Lumberjack-ie. Your little girlfriend.

“Lumberjacks wear flannel, right?” Tim asks.

“Uh, yeah. As far as I know,” you answer. “Why?”

“He can see you.”

“What?”

“Keep looking straight ahead.”

You turn your face to the windshield and watch the runway as Tim examines the top of the bus. He sees the camera at the top of the windshield and shakes his head.

“He said, ‘your girlfriend behind the wheel’ and ‘lumberjack-ie’. I didn’t even realize. There’s a camera in your face. He can see the whole bus.”

“He can see me, but can he hear me?” you ask.

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

“Bus cameras can’t be very high-tech, Tim. Can’t your people get it on a loop or something?”

“You’re brilliant,” Tim murmurs before pushing himself off the dash and to his feet. “Guys, there’s a camera over my left shoulder. I need everyone to sit still. No big movements, no talking, just look concerned and sit still.”

He calls his captain and asks for someone to approach the news trucks at the fence to end the live broadcasts and use their equipment to make a video loop. His captain agrees and texts Tim with an update that the reporters are cooperating.

“Remember, stay relatively still. Just look scared,” Tim reminds everyone.

“That won’t be hard,” Ortiz grumbles.

Tim leans beside you while the video is being recorded. You drive in silence for a minute before noticing the blinking red light on the dash.

“Tim,” you whisper. “Look.”

“Cap, roll the tape. We need fuel,” Tim says into his phone.

“We only have a minute recorded. That won’t convince him, we need more footage” Wade argues.

“No time. Get these people off before this bus runs out of gas.”

“Fuel tanker is running behind. Driver said big rigs need radio signals, and they’re still jammed. Crazy not stupid, right?”

“Right.”

“Now what?” you ask Tim. “Are you tired of that question yet?”

“I’d like an answer to it,” he replies. “Get alongside this bus, okay?”

You nod and drive steadily alongside an LAX passenger bus. Tim’s team lays a wooden board between the bus doors and helps people cross to safety. You listen to Tim encourage the passengers across and are glad he was the cop who got on the bus today. The rear tire blows out suddenly, and you pull the steering wheel back to the middle and yell for Tim to come help.

Tim falls on his way back to the front of the bus, but when he reaches you, he moves his arms across you to pull the wheel.

“Use this to hold down the gas pedal,” he says.

You take the device from his hand and lower it into place. Tim steps back to tie the steering wheel to the floor of the bus, and you steer to keep the bus straight while he works. The moment it’s secure, he pulls you to your feet and tells you to get on the metal access panel.

“I can’t do this,” you argue.

Tim raises his hands to either side of your neck and brushes his thumbs along your skin as he promises, “Yes, you can. I’m right here with you.”

You swallow nervously and nod before sitting on your escape route, a thin piece of metal that Tim moved with no problem. Tim moves to lay over you, and he wraps an arm around your waist as you hide your face against his shoulder.

“I got you,” he promises once more.

The bus turns and the access panel cover falls out of the bottom. You clutch Tim tightly as the metal door slides across the runway and into a nearby patch of dirt. He sits up and watches the bus slow as it nears a plane but doesn’t let go of you. Just before the bomb detonates, Tim pulls you down again and lays over you to protect you from any debris. Sirens echo in the distance, and you wrap your arms around Tim’s back.

“Are you alright?” he asks again.

“No,” you answer, your first honest answer of the day. “Oh, I hate the airport.”

Tim moves to your side but keeps an arm around your shoulder as he looks into your eyes.

“You can’t get mushy on me. You can’t show emotion, remember?” you tease.

“I think I might be able to after all.”

“Relationships that start like this never last. It’s just the high-stress, adrenaline pumping, all that.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe we can change that.”

“Uh, I think your friends are here.”

Tim looks up but doesn’t move as Angela and Wade exit a police car and run toward him.

“I was worried about you,” Angela says. “And here you are.”

“I’m sorry about Harry,” Tim offers. “I wish we could have changed it.”

“You good?” Wade asks. “’Cause I might be a nice guy and let you take the rest of the day off.”

“And stop worrying about what we could have done differently. You saved a lot of lives today, Timothy,” Angela adds.

“A day off sounds like a good deal,” you murmur.

Tim shakes his head before introducing you to Detective Angela Lopez and Sergeant Wade Grey. When he finally stands and sees the scrapes and gashes littering your skin, he forces you to let a paramedic treat you. Tim follows you to the ambulance but hangs back to talk to Angela. He’s lost a partner before, too, and knows what it’s like.

“I’m sorry for bringing everyone into this. Howard could have just come for me,” Tim concludes.

“I appreciate everything,” Angela responds. “But, you’re going to the hospital, too. Is that Chen?”

Tim turns quickly and sees Lucy running toward the police cruiser parked behind the ambulance.

“Sergeant Grey!” she yells. “We’ve got Payne on the line, and he wants to know when he’s getting his money. Whoa, Tim, are you alright?”

“He doesn’t know,” Tim says. “He doesn’t know the bus exploded.”

“Tell him thirty minutes,” Wade alerts all the nearby officers.

“Stay in the ambulance,” Tim tells you.

“But I-“

“Ma’am, stay in the ambulance.”

You nod and climb into the ambulance after refusing help from the paramedics. They continue bandaging a cut on your leg as Tim climbs in.

“I need to make a quick stop on the way to the hospital,” he tells the driver.

“Where?” she asks.

“The drop spot. Pershing Square.”

The driver reluctantly agrees, and you watch Tim as she drives. He demands you stay in the ambulance until he returns, and you agree but don’t mean it. You’ve been beside Tim for most of the morning, and you neither remember how to be away from him nor do you want to. You stand on the sidewalk beside the ambulance and watch people move around you. It’s another normal day for them, but your life will never be the same after today.

“Miss, you can’t stand here, you need to move back,” an older officer says as he grabs your shoulders.

“Oh, I’m waiting for Tim-“

“Tim Bradford, yes. He asked that I move you out of harm’s way.”

“But he told me to stay here.”

His hold on your shoulders tightens as he says, “And I’m telling you to move.”

“Payne is late,” Angela complains.

“He’s not late,” Tim says. “He’s never late.”

“Two hundred cops are watching that sculpture, plus a tracker in the bag. He hasn’t been here,” Wade explains.

“Turn on the tracker,” Tim requests.

“What for?”

“Just do it!”

Wade presses a button on the laptop before him, and the blinking light of the tracker travels across the screen.

“He’s got the money,” Angela says.

Tim runs out of their hiding spot and to the drop spot. He pushes the art installation over and kicks it when he sees the opening in the sidewalk beneath it. As he drops into the defunct subway system, he sees someone walking farther into the tunnel and pulls his gun.

“L.A.P.D. Freeze!” he yells.

The person stops, and he aims at their head before saying, “Pop quiz. Someone has a clear shot at your head. What do you do?... Turn around.”

“If you don’t do it, I’ll kill Tim Bradford,” Howard Payne threatens as he secures a vest covered in dynamite around your chest. “What are you going to do?”

“Wait- wait for him to come in and walk away. Then I listen to you,” you answer shakily.

“Perfect. Maybe you two can have your happily ever after all. You say one word that I don’t like and you’re both dead.”

Howard disappears down the subway, and you bite your bottom lip to refrain from crying or screaming for help. Tim may shoot you, no questions asked, but at least he will be safe. When you hear something crash above you and sunlight infiltrates the dark staircase before you, you take a deep breath and begin walking away.

Tim’s voice doesn’t carry the same comforting words or soothing lilt as in the bus, but you still recognize it and want to hear it as he yells at you.

“Turn around!” he demands.

You turn slowly and can see the moment Tim realizes he’s pointing his gun at you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

The apology echoes off the concrete walls as Tim lowers his weapon. You don’t see or hear him, but you can feel the change when Howard appears behind you.

“Be prepared!” Howard says as he walks up the stairs behind you and raises the detonator, a deadman’s switch. “What are you gonna do, Tim? I don’t think you can shoot this hostage.”

“Let her go,” Tim demands as he points his gun at Howard.

“I don’t think I’m going to do that. Move the money,” he tells you.

You transfer the money from the L.A.P.D. bags and into Howard’s duffel bag as Tim yells at him to let you go.

“You don’t need her!” Tim adds.

“I will let go,” Howard threatens as he moves the detonator switch. “You don’t get it, Tim. Do you know what a bomb that doesn’t explode is? It’s the cheap, gold watch they gave me after I lost a finger and a life to my country.”

“You’re crazy.”

You push yourself against the wall as you listen to their exchange, but you keep your eyes on Tim rather than the bomb just below your chin. Howard demands you take his money and enter another part of the tunnel system and you know that you’re going to obey because he’ll kill Tim if you don’t. You tear your eyes from Tim and walk exactly where Howard leads you.

As you enter a crowded stop, Howard fires several shots into the concrete ceiling as you drop your head and cover your ears. The subway passengers waiting for the next train flee in terror as you try to get away from Howard. Tim can’t be far behind, but when you’re pushed into a subway car, you’re tempted to think that no help is coming. Howard handcuffs your hands around a pole before the subway lurches into motion.

At the back of the subway, Tim struggles to pry a set of doors open before he falls into the car. He moves strategically through the empty rows of seats with his mind on you and ending this game with Howard Payne once and for all.

The subway conductor reaches for his radio, and Howard forces the deadman switch into your hands and tells you to hold it. He turns his back on you and kills the conductor as you struggle to move away.

“Look, you won. You beat Tim, you beat everybody, you can just throw me off the train. I don’t care,” you plead.

“You see this stick? When you explode, the police will come there. But that’s not where I’ll be, so I get more time. I promise it won’t hurt,” Howard replies as he pulls the detonator away from you.

A series of dull thuds echoes, and Howard looks up quickly. He smiles, and it makes your stomach flip.

“Hey, Tim. Is that you?” he asks. “He’s so persistent. Wouldn’t be able to interest you in a bribe, would I, hotshot?”

Howard kneels and opens the duffel bag full of cash. You watch as a dye pack explodes in his face and paints his money purple. In his anger, he fires bullets into the roof, and you drop to the floor as Tim rolls out of the line of fire. Howard runs through a door, and you can only listen as he climbs onto the roof and begins struggling against Tim.

Howard has the deadman stick in his hand and can kill you by moving a centimeter to the left or right, but you’re more worried about Tim with every noise against the roof. You stay low on the pole you’re cuffed to, twisting your wrists and manipulating your fingers as you try to slip free. The struggle above you silences suddenly, and you watch the door nervously.

“Tim!” you call when he rushes in. “Tim. Where’s Payne?”

“Uh, he lost his head. Turn around,” Tim says.

You circle the pole, and Tim rips a wire free before loosening the straps of the vest.

“Let’s take this off,” he says before pulling the vest away from your chest.

“Tim, can you hear me?” someone asks through the driver’s radio. “This is Wade. Listen, the track isn’t finished.”

“What else can go wrong?” you murmur.

“Wade, I copy,” Tim radios.

“Do you copy? Try the emergency brake.”

“I copy!” Tim tries again before throwing the radio down.

He steps to the right and hits the emergency brake. After the train doesn’t even slow, he begins hitting other buttons, but nothing happens.

“None of this works!” he exclaims as he hits the control board.

He turns away from the useless machinery and returns to you. When he notices the handcuffs holding you in place, he slows.

“You can uncuff me and we can get off,” you say with an exaggerated nod.

“I don’t have a key,” Tim replies.

“You don’t have…”

You trail off and look at the handcuffs. If only you could slip your hands through them, you think. Tim begins pulling and kicking the pole as you try again to pull your hands through the metal cuffs. He pauses and lays a hand against your arm to look at how tight the cuffs are.

“Help me pull,” you grunt as you lean your weight back against the restraints.

“No, no,” Tim says quickly as he pulls you forward. “You’re just hurting yourself.”

You stand still and see a bead of blood running down your fingers. As you stare at it, Tim walks to a map on the wall. He remembers the nightmare again; a series of bad memories that end with him, “the Reaper,” standing alone in the desert before being rescued and awarded a medal. As he searches for a way to save you, Tim decides that he will never shoot the hostage again, and he won’t leave you behind, even if that means dying with you.

“Tim, please just go,” you beg.

“There’s a curve ahead. I can make it jump the track.”

“Tim! Sergeant Bradford!” Tim turns to you, and you repeat, “Get off this train. You can still jump. Tim, please. Please.”

Tim ignores you as he returns to the controls and increases the train’s speed. You slide your hands down the pole as you sit on the floor, and Tim walks silently to your side. He leans in beside you, and you raise your arms to wrap around his neck as you lean your head against his. He moves his arms around the pole to circle you and holds you tight as the train picks up speed.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper just before the lights go out.

The train car hits something and spins, but Tim tightens his arms around you. With every bump and move of the subway, you become more convinced that you’ll never get out of this position. Light enters the windows as you crash through something, and the car flips onto its side as it lands on asphalt. The impact loosens the pole, and you fall onto Tim, whose grip on you doesn’t waver for a second. As the car slides to a stop, you squeeze Tim and take a deep breath.

“You didn’t leave me,” you say before forcing yourself to open your eyes.

Tim cradles the back of your head before moving his hands to your back. You lean up gently and look into his eyes again.

“I told you to leave me!”

“I didn’t have anywhere to be just then. Rest of the day off and all,” Tim responds before pulling you down against him.

He kisses you, and you’re surprised that it is more than adrenaline. The kiss is more than a relief to be alive, and you want to feel Tim Bradford at your side every day for the rest of your life (which would have ended today if not for him). You move your hands to Tim’s short hair as you return his kiss. It’s relief, joy, love, and passion in a single touch. When Tim begins breathing heavily against you, you move up.

“I’ve heard relationships that start during intense situations like this never work,” Tim says.

“Oh,” you sigh. “Then I guess we’ll be the first.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

Glass rains down on you as you kiss Tim again, and though your day went nothing like you thought it would, it’s now the best day of your life. Tim helps you stand as his team approaches the scene, and you stop him before you exit the car.

“You know if this was a movie, they’d make another one where the same thing happens again, right?” you say softly.

“We’re never taking public transportation again,” Tim states.

“Yeah. Hey, where is the truck you were driving this morning?”

Tim hesitates and tightens his arm around your waist before turning away to yell, “Chen! I need you to do something for me.”

[saintescuderia]

welcome to the mini series of the random, mindless thoughts had by a poet disguised in an orange jumpsuit watching cars speed by all weekend. enjoy!

--- note: 5am starts, 7pm finishes. all four days. gotta love formula 1!

thursday: media day!

i want the ferrari jacket

there are school kids here?

i don’t want the ferrari jacket

$7 for a small can of red bull is THEFT

especially since they broke the cost cap

me walking through the “accredited personnel” gate and tapping my special lanyard is a CORE memory

i think my uber driver dropped me off on the opposite side of the track

*stressing about being unable to admire the sights of albert park bc i’m stress-running from the opposite end of the track to my station*

pls don’t be a dick and say i’m late - i know

how is a 5am wake up not early enough HOW?

“last year i was stationed at the corner where charles spun out.”

sole thought = 💀💀💀💀

i. fucking. love. cars.

the whole SENSORY experience of a race ffffffffffffuuuuuck

“be careful taking pictures because that security camera is on us and is straight to race control and the FIA.” is such a cool sentence to hear

a porsche gtr should not be covered with branding idc

i’m definitely going to abuse caffeine this weekend

friday: FP1 / FP2

the sun is rising over the lake as i walk on the albert park track and i’m happy to be alive

especially as i found a toilet that isn’t a port-a-loo

ah, a cafe that does good decent coffee thank GOD

am i going to pay $10 for a croissant?

i'm going to pay $10 for a croissant.

i lived in paris but this one fresh lune choc croissant has topped it all

no like there will never be another croissant experience to beat me eating a fresh pain au chocolat on a f1 circuit as the sun rises over the water with the melbourne skyline in the background

aramco engineers are walking behind me as i shit talk about f1, nice

“it is an increasingly unique experience peeing in a port-a-loo beside a formula one track as cars race by.”

120’000 is a LOT of people

how has the float not broken yet?

metro boomin has released an album as i stand before live formula one. life has PEAKED

fernando alonso is the first F1 driver i ever saw live

there is a shift in formula one as the heritage fans of motor racing are on the out as the next generation of fans absorbed in driver hype and social media takes over and we see this in how F1 has created the new US tracks and made them all into spectacles and fans are here because of it being “cool” instead of caring about cars

… maybe i should buy the redbull jacket instead?

bonus: sole thought during the pitlane walk for the marshals

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

saturday: FP3 / qualifying

the relief of thinking you’re late and then seeing someone you know HA

commentators are now contractually obligated to bring up saudi arabia every time they talk about ollie bearman

jesus they’re as bad as the f1 girlies

i have to watch the grand prix replay after all of this i have no idea what’s actually going on

CHARLES GOES FASTER THAN MAX HA

kimi spinning out has me actively wanting to cry

a safety car FROM THE PIT EXIT

welcome to F2 everyone 👏👏👏

not me lying to the cute irish guy hitting on me about @saintescuderia

a big fat ha at the eshays holding their puffer jackets - even they can’t stand the heat

don’t flex on me that you’re here at F1 when you don’t even know what’s going on yourself bruhhhh

to the red bull fan telling me i’m “dramatic” for rolling under the fence (it’s how marshals have to do it) pls get help

$7 for a calispo is a JOKE

recording F1 quali isn’t even worth it bc they're TOO FAST

JOKES I GOT A PHOTO WITH ALBONO

i’m very lucky for my team of marshals :))))))))))

i’m only going to eat half my muffin

*finishes the whole thing*

sunday: race!

KIMI ANTONELLI!

do i ask for a photo?

*every photo of charles leclerc being abused flashes through my mind*

nah leave him be

five minutes later: i regret not asking him

the group of aussies dressed as lance stroll drunk at 9am have my heart and my respect

i need a coffee

seeing kimi walk right by me has now made so much invested for f2

i really need a coffee

yep they screwed kimi with all those safety cars

i really, really need a coffee

we get to go ON TRACK? for the DRIVERS PARADE

*starts practicing “get well soon” in spanish*

my heart is BEATING

lol jokes carlos didn’t even look at us

*checks footage to see that i accidentally just recorded guanyu zhou next to carlos the whole time :))))*

lol are they putting lewis and charles together all the time?

every marshal: “that was the shittest parade ever.”

i need a drink

pls don’t talk to me for the next two hours

don't meet your heroes kids

but also why the fuck did they do the float in one big car? and do INTERVIEWS? this is legit the one time the drivers can be there JUST for the FANS

F1 can PISS OFF

race start = okay it's happening

waitwaitwaitwaitWAITDIDIJUSTSEECARLOSOVERTAKEMAX?!

nevermind i love him

"race control has asked that you calm down, marshals are supposed to be neutral."

lol at the entirety of albert cheering that max is slowly coming to a DNF

mclaren swapping oscar for lando is DISGUSTING fuck zak brown

somehow, i've forgotten that charles is just there

SEND IT CARLOS VAmos

(this is all because i told you que te mejores pronto!)

daniel ricciardo....man..... aus gp can't market you like this.......

damn yuki got HANDS

ferrari and mclaren having the top 4 places is just *chefs kiss*

lewis just had to stall just pass my sector like i hope ur okay but couldn't u not be ok in front of me?

red bull deserves this after all the FLACK i've copped from red bulls fans ("dramatic" MY ASS)

wait george russell ARE YOU SERIOUS?!

singapore all over again. i can already see the memes.

somehow marshalling a gp has you closer and more removed from the whole thing i have no idea what's going on

(literally the only time i used my F1TV live timing)

finishing after the safety car means i can't stick my head out and clap for carlos FUCK OFF

wait, he came up right UP TO MY SIDE OF THE TRACK TO WAVE

... do you think he noticed me?

[canonicallyobserving911]

“I can’t imagine anything more painful than going through life alone. Except maybe one thing… going through death alone.”

Fanonwriter2023 on AO3

Where CANON and FANON collide!

New Buddie Multi-Chapter Fanfic - 8x6 "Confessions" through mid-season finale Speculation: “I can’t imagine anything more painful than going through life alone. Except maybe one thing… going through death alone.”

Chapter 4 is now available on AO3.

“I can’t imagine anything more painful than going through life alone. Except maybe one thing… going through death alone.”

Fic Summary: Eddie feels completely alone, he isolates himself and the weight of it causes him to slip into a deep depression. Once he accepts the fact that he’ll die alone, he has a decision to make regarding his life. Buck finally gets clarity about his relationship status and once he does, realization sets in and he becomes frustrated that he didn’t see it coming. Will they finally figure out they’re each other’s person before it’s too late?

Currently 4 of 7 chapters completed: 62.2K Words; Rated: Teens and Up Audiences

One chapter will be posted at a time.

___________

Here are two snippets from Chapter 4. One is of a conversation Buck's having with Maddie and Josh at Metro Dispatch and the other is of Eddie talking to the priest.

___________

Buck

“Listen… Tommy isn’t a good guy and it’s a good thing you aren’t with him.”

Buck’s speechless for two reasons.  First, he wasn’t expecting Josh to say that and second, he didn’t know Josh even knew Tommy but when he thinks about it, he figures he should since Harbor Station is part of the LAFD and since dispatchers communicate with them, he believes they may have interacted numerous times.

After a few seconds, Maddie asks, “Josh, why would you say that?”  She questions his comment but she has her suspicions especially since Chimney told her about the way Tommy treated him when he first got assigned to the 118.  She was appalled by the fact that he’s a racist and a bigot and the only reason why she didn’t say anything to her brother was because she thought Buck knew and he chose to ignore it since everybody at the station tells each other all of their business.

Josh gets ready to respond but Buck speaks first. “Uh, why do you think it’s good that I’m not with him anymore?”

“Well… for starters, you deserve better than a racist, bigoted asshat who laughs at your misfortune.  I know all about him and his coworkers laughing at you when you found that corpse before Halloween.”

Maddie frowns because she didn’t know about that since Buck didn’t tell her.

“How do you know he laughed at me?”

“Because Carson was at Harbor Station that day installing their clean agent fire suppression system and he overheard them.  Carson knows who you are because I told him you’re Maddie’s brother.”

Buck’s trying not to spiral because even though he knew Tommy laughed at him, it seems more real now that Josh is telling the story and he wonders if other people know he laughed too.

“Listen… I’m not trying to be all up in your business but guys like him don’t want anything serious.  They’re the type who just want to… you know?”

~~~

Eddie

“Would you like to go into the confessional, so you’ll have privacy to speak freely?”

“No.”

“Ok.  Did anything specific bring you into the church today?”

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling kind of worthless lately and like my life doesn’t matter.  Honestly, I’ve been feeling like that for years but…”  He trails of and stops talking.

“I understand and we can stay out here and talk if you want.”

“I think that will be better because it’s been years since I sat in a confessional.”

The priest nods, then continues.  “Earlier you said, your life doesn’t matter and it’s felt like that for years.  Is that the feeling that brought you here today?”

He nods but he doesn’t verbally respond.

The priest takes a few moments before he comments.  “God creates every life with a purpose.”

“Hmm.”  He hums.

“I take it you don’t believe that’s true.”

“If it is… then I can’t for the life of me figure out why he created me since my life is bad and not at all what I wanted or expected it to be.”

___________

Chapter Summaries

Chapter 1 - Eddie’s avoiding conversations with everyone at the 118 to prevent having to talk about how lonely he feels. On the other hand, Buck excitedly prepares to spend a romantic weekend with his boyfriend only to learn something he should already know.

Chapter 2 - Eddie appears to be happy whenever he’s at work but the truth is he’s masking his high-functioning depression with smiles and laughter. After another call with Chris, he falls deeper into depression and for the second time since he’s been living in L.A., he considers risking it all because he has nothing to lose. Since Buck’s got clarity on his non-existent romantic relationship, his fear of being left behind resurfaces and it causes him to spiral and he thinks he’s lost everything. In his search for answers to his relationship problems, he starts asking the questions he should have asked years ago.

Chapter 3 - Both Buck and Eddie experience déjà vu numerous times over the course of three days and during those encounters, Buck’s reminded of his own definition of love while defining moments from Eddie’s past resurface and he finally forces himself to confront them.

Chapter 4 - As Eddie hits rock bottom, he has a difficult time trying to pull himself back up and Buck does what he always does, he never gives up.

Chapter 5 - Will be posted soon.

Chapter 6 - Will be posted soon.

Chapter 7 - Will be posted soon.

__________

Read: chapters 1 - 4 are available on AO3.

Continue reading on AO3

[mintymelty]

YHS: A Serialization [] 5. Respite- or Something Like That

⚠️Warning! This episode contains discussions of murder, suicide, and other crimes. These topics are not shown or described in detail.⚠️

┍━━━━━»•» 💛 «•«━┑

September 4th, 2015.

Slow, calm afternoons are under appreciated, honestly. This whole week, despite it being the first week back at Yamada High, has been relatively quaint. For me, at least.

I feel as though most people my age rush through life, thinking by the time they’re thirty that their freedom is gone and nothing will be exciting.

That’s not true whatsoever, as every life stage is vital for enjoying life. Fun does not necessitate decadent parties or wild love lives, to me it means the triumph of acing a difficult test, the satisfaction of saving money cooking good food from the comfort of my own home.

And to me, the meaning of life is the thrill of solving mysteries.

The locals of Las Allayes County speak of a rumor that on every October 31st, a pair of lovers disappear. And not because of the high crime rates during Halloween. Last year, an elderly couple was found dead in their homes in San Atlanta, which is particularly odd as San Atlanta is a fairly wealthy neighborhood. It was officially declared a double-suicide, but I have my doubts.

In this city of unpredictability, where the corrupt seeps through the veneer of austerity, things are never what they appear. And as always, the police ignore this and take the easy way out instead of thoroughly investigating the crime scene.

But it is what it is. It’s Friday, school’s over. I should relax. All my current assignments are done, I have some banh mi pate to eat, I have Mystreet episodes to catch up on. It’s not like I have anything to attend.

┕━»•» 💛 «•«━━━━━┙

════ ⋆💙⋆ ════

◁◁ ▐ ▌ ▷▷

💙: “CRAAAAAPPPPPPP!!! THE METRO SHUT DOWN!!”

*BAM!*

The door slams open.

💙: “GOLD! Sorry!”

💛: “What happened?? Where were you, anyway?”

💙: “SoIwasatthemetro-“

💛: “Why?”

💙: “-soIcouldgotothisguy’sgarageconcert-“

💛: “WHY?”

💙: “-becauseIhavenothingelsetodo-“

💛: “You could work on your introductory essay-“

💙: “But that’s boring! Anyways so the Redstone Link is down because someone got stabbed-“

💛: “Why would they shut a whole line down over a stabbing?”

💙: “Because it’s connected to some weird gang that everyone’s scared about-“

💛: “GANG?! Is it- wait. Tell me everything you know.”

💙: “Ooohhh! Okay, I-uh… the cop blocking off our station said some guy in a hoodie stabbed another young dude at the Sky Station.”

💛: “Seems fairly standard so far.”

💙: “But apparently the hoodie guy had some tattoo that matched a local gang- Y’know, that cop was really talkative.”

💛: “For once.”

💙: “Yeah, and that gang has been rising in prominence.”

💛: “I’m surprised you know that word.”

💙: “Yeah! Wait- hey!”

💛: “So this gang… hmm. What did you want me for, anyways?”

💙: “Can you drive me to Industry City?”

💛: “…I don’t have a car.”

💙: “Well, can’t you, like, call a taxi?”

💛: “We’re not going to Traum County, Kat. What the hell kind of a concert is this guy hosting?!”

💙: “Hey! It’s in Miller Avenue! It’s not that scary there-“

💛: “So instead of getting shot at night you’ll just get stabbed? Face it, you’re not going.”

💙: “OH MY GOD! YOU REALLY ARE A PROBATION COP!”

💛: “Don’t you dare call me a cop.”

💙: “Oh, how ironic! Says the one that gets into everybody’s business! Since you like snooping so much, snoop THIS!”

💛: “YOU FOUND IT?!?”

💙: “I knew it! This wasn’t Liv’s-“

💛: “No- There was this rumor going around that The Erinyes lost a pendant containing info on rival gangs!”

💙: “…Who?”

💛: “The gang you were talking about earlier? Yeah. They’re probably the perpetrator behind the stabbing.”

💙: “Oh… that explains why Liv told me to keep it..”

💛: “Just give it to me. The police might accuse us of being accomplices, or worse, lose it.”

💙: “Sure… hey wait! Since I gave you the pendant-“

💛: “UGHHHH, FINE. I’ll give you money for a taxi. You can go, on one condition…”

💙: “Yeah yeah, don’t drink anything anyone gives me-“

💛: “Besides that, tell me everything you see and hear. And charge your phone.”

💙: “Ok! Thank you, Kimmy-“

💛: “And double check the taxi’s license plate. And just call me Kim.”

💙: “…Aight!”

◁◁ ► ▷▷

I’m… not sure how to feel, honestly. Like, obviously I’m exicted for the garage concert and excited to meet more people that aren’t my… pseudo-sister, but at the same time something about how Kim was freaking out about the… Erin-yes?? And the stabbing make me kinda worried about how I’ll integrate into Yamada High.

But it’s okay. I know my street smarts. I can even show off my solo-cup juggling skills to impress people!

Everything will be okay.

…Right?

════ ⋆💙⋆ ════

[schmergo]

DC Cherry Blossoms This Week!

PSA for anyone going to see the cherry blossoms in DC this weekend! 

The kite festival and associated activities have been rescheduled to Sunday (when the weather is supposed to be way nicer). The cherry blossoms ARE at peak bloom! They’re absolutely gorgeous!

A few tips from me, as someone who’s been there a LOT:

* The walk around the Tidal Basin is about 2.1 miles, so if you start walking around, so be prepared for that if you’re planning to make a full circuit! It’s not really possible to just exit halfway around and go back home unless you, like, call an Uber.  

*If you just want a bite-sized cherry blossom experience, depending on where you enter the path and which direction you’re going, I recommend turning back after you hit your first memorial. (But the memorial in the middle, the FDR one, is my favorite, especially at night, so maybe come back sometime?) 

* If you’re taking the metro (which is probably the most efficient way in), it’s about a 10-15 minute walk to the blossoms from the Smithsonian Metro Station, so budget that in to your plans! A lot of visitors are surprised there’s no metro stop for the monuments/blossoms. 

* If you prefer driving and everyone in your party is able to use stairs, I recommend parking at The Portals parking garage on Maryland Avenue. It’s rather expensive but open until 11 PM and has a direct route to the blossoms. You just have to go down a bit of a long staircase behind the Salamander Hotel and then just follow the crowds.  

* The path around the Tidal Basin is stroller accessible, but visitors may be surprised by how narrow it is. Especially when the blossoms are at peak bloom and paths are packed with crowds, it may be tricky to navigate the curves of a narrow path right next to the water. There are also some low branches and uneven parts of the path that may pose a slight challenge. It is supposedly wheelchair accessible, though I suspect that in practice, some manual chair users will have a bit of a tough time. There is no real railing between the path and the water in most places. Also, dogs are allowed.

* There are public restrooms at the Jefferson and Roosevelt memorials! The Roosevelt ones may be the easiest to find because they’re right there when you first enter. 

* The best way to avoid the crowds is to go at sunrise or sunset. The monuments themselves are relatively well-lit, but the paths between are not always, so do be careful if you’re there in the dark! (Your biggest danger is probably accidentally stepping into the Tidal Basin, tbh.)

* If you go before sunset, there are food trucks in several locations just off the path! There are also benches and many grassy areas to spread out a picnic.  

* Worth noting: you’re not supposed to climb the trees or pick the blossoms. I see people doing that every year, but you could get in trouble. 

* In case you’ve never been into town, all the Smithsonian museums and memorials are free to visit! There are also themed cherry blossom festival specials at many local restaurants! 

* Have fun!

[heritageprinting]

Discover Ada Signs in Washington DC: An Essential Guide

Original Source: https://heritageprintinggraphics.blogspot.com/2024/11/discover-ada-signs-in-washington-dc.html

When it comes to accessibility, Washington DC stands out as a city deeply committed to inclusivity. Among the various aspects of accessibility that are vital in public spaces, ADA signs play a significant role. Discovering ADA signs in Washington DC not only reveals the city’s dedication to compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) but also highlights its focus on creating an environment where everyone feels welcome and informed.

What Are ADA Signs?

ADA signs are specialized signage designed to meet the requirements set by the Americans with Disabilities Act. They include braille, tactile lettering, and specific color contrast to ensure readability for people with visual impairments. These signs are more than a legal obligation; they’re a testament to a space’s commitment to accessibility and inclusivity.

Whether it’s a restroom, exit route, or elevator, ADA-compliant signs provide crucial information in a format that all can easily understand. If you’re in Washington DC, consider the thoughtfully designed ADA signs that seamlessly integrate accessibility with aesthetic appeal. You could check here for more examples of how these signs enhance public spaces.

Importance of ADA Signs in Washington DC

Washington DC is home to numerous federal buildings, historical landmarks, and bustling public spaces. Ensuring these locations are accessible to everyone, regardless of ability, is essential. ADA signs in Washington DC serve as a crucial element in achieving this goal. From guiding visitors through iconic locations like the National Mall to helping them navigate metro stations, these signs play an indispensable role.

If you’re exploring the city, pay attention to the variety of ADA signs in place. They not only assist individuals with disabilities but also provide clarity and direction for all visitors. To learn more about how these signs are implemented, click here to find out more.

Designing and Installing ADA Signs

Creating ADA signs involves a careful balance between functionality and design. Factors like font size, braille placement, and color contrast are meticulously planned to meet ADA standards. Washington DC businesses and public institutions often work with expert signage companies to ensure their signs are fully compliant.

Interested in learning how these signs are made? Click this link here now to get more information about the process and the companies specializing in ADA signage in Washington DC. From local offices to museums, every detail matters when designing signs that prioritize accessibility.

Where to Find ADA Signs in Washington DC

If you’re on a quest to discover ADA signs in Washington DC, start with popular tourist attractions like the Smithsonian museums or Union Station. These places set an excellent example of how ADA signage can blend with architectural aesthetics while serving a vital purpose. For more insights, go right here and explore detailed examples of ADA signs in action.

Why Discovering ADA Signs Matters

Understanding the importance of ADA signs helps foster an appreciation for accessible design and compliance. By taking the time to observe these signs in Washington DC, you gain insight into how small details contribute to inclusivity. Whether you’re a business owner looking to install ADA-compliant signs or a visitor keen on accessibility features, you can find out more by engaging with resources and professionals in the field.

Conclusion

Washington DC’s dedication to inclusivity shines through its thoughtfully designed ADA signage. By making spaces accessible for all, the city sets a benchmark in fostering equality and inclusivity. Whether you’re visiting the capital or managing a local business, understanding the role and significance of ADA signs can inspire positive changes.

For more information on ADA signs in Washington DC, check over here to see how these signs make a difference. Click here for more info on compliance, design, and installation to ensure your spaces meet the highest accessibility standards. Together, we can create a world where everyone feels welcomed and empowered.

[yssjj]

Music played by gentlemen who try to make their living as cigarette salesmen, and post boys, and delivery boys and messenger boys

Ben smells like cigarettes when I lean into him. “Wow, you smell so good.” This is the first date. We’re basking in the glow of some pasta we whipped up and watching something on TV.

“Thank you!” I’m leaning against him fully at this point and he’s been lightly teasing me every time I go for body contact. “Hello,” when I pop up around him to “check on the pasta.” It makes me feel a little silly and wobbly.

“Hi,” he says now, this sweet, sweet smile on his face when I look up at him from my slight lean against him. He tastes like cigarettes, too, when I kiss him. His kisses are like pressing your face against a soft comforter. “You’re so attractive.” His voice breathes out those words. I’m rippling. It's been a single date and he’s looking at me with that soft shiny eyed smile and I’m thinking about buying tickets for the play so we can go see that a month from now so I can secure a ticket to hear his voice again.

Here’s a trick: you can open your eyes when you’re kissing to peek at the other person’s face and feel a little more special when you get to witness the moment they’re completely into you, or at least into kissing you. His eyes are closed and I feel warm all over.

He shows me how to smoke and I try my first cigarette with him, and he’s marveling at how it’s a first I’m sharing with him, and even though I’m not sentimental about firsts or lasts I can’t help but make it a little special too.

-

My brother and I are in Korea, it’s the summer after my freshman year, and we’re Americans in Seoul, soaking in the local culture, soft invisible particulates of tobacco smoke snowing lightly on us, carried by the wind. We watch a cloud of gray smoke rise into the air above the stone-paved corner of the park, both of us in awe of the casual consumption of dark tar cancerous growths sticky coughs by such a large group of random individuals.

To say something, I offer a conclusion: “I guess that makes sense, a post-lunch time smoke break.” Total culture shock for the both of us, American-made puritans. Is it because of our health values? Or maybe it’s because we’re more scared of the idea of the taboo? Would it have been the same if it were just people drinking? I don’t know how to feel about the fact that it smells sweet and good, but the brain automatically links the dark tar cancer smoke gray air and I watch the smoke in the air replenish itself, getting thicker and thinner and flowing in between.

“That’s so crazy. Isn’t that crazy?” My brother shook his head.

Korea smells like cigarettes and carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide and exhaust and wet concrete. It smells like breathing in car smoke and ventilation air. When I’m little and my brother and I imagine that our home is really in Korea, even though we’ve lived in America almost our entire lives, we go and catch the smell in America behind certain apartment buildings where it’s dim and the outgasses cling to the brick walls and asphalt ground, sticking to the pores in the cool darkness.

My dad is busy at work until 6pm, at which point he’ll probably go shut himself outside to smoke and then shut himself inside to work more. But my brother and I both count the time down anyway, silently counting the number of smoke clouds we see outside as we wander around on the large sidewalk blocks and metro stations, as lunch passes into late lunch into supper into early dinner.

-

He lights his cigarette by hunching over it, flicking his lighter on with one hand and cupping around the cigarette end with the other. Do you mind if I smoke in here? It’s your car, Ben. I don’t mind. I think of the way Al Pacino would say that as Michael Corleone in The Godfather, diplomacy, quiet politeness, words coming out like he’s sighing in monotone. I don’t mind. Does he want me to say that I do mind? I’m never sure what I should say. That question only comes up because I am in love with the way he holds the cigarette in his mouth and the cigarette end bobs up and down. What does he think he looks like when he’s smoking?

I’m clinging to his arm while he’s driving us to a bar. “You smell so good.” It’s automatic. I can’t stop myself from saying it. I watch the smoke whip itself into a cloud around his open mouth.

“I do need my arm to drive.” I let go of his arm. “And I think,” he says, “that what you said is probably Freudian.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? I look at his face to try to figure out the undercurrent of emotion in that statement, but I can’t see anything in his half smile overexposed by the sun glaring through the car window.

-

I’ve never actually seen him do it, but I’ve always known that my dad smokes. His apologetic explanation always follows the smell itself, but it was always a sweet smell when he picked me up.

My mom explained to me after he had gone and left that he would smoke near the dimly lit “basketball court” (asphalt with a single crooked basketball hoop) attached to the cul-de-sac we lived on by a set of large stairs made with mulch and square wooden frames, where I once felt my six-year-old feet unstoppably smush the unending flood of wooly bear caterpillars.

I will never see him as he walks up the stairs covered in black goop. I can only imagine the image through my mom’s voice, that he would go all the way over there to smoke because he didn’t want to do it near us. Also, she said as if it was an aside, also, our next door neighbor wouldn’t let him smoke near her house.

-

Why smoking? Smoking is opulent. It’s bad for you in every way with very little reward. There is some utility to smoking. Smoking calms you down, according to Ben. That would be in line with his depression. It wakes you up too. It’s an upper (also according to Ben). Also in line with his depression if we consider the idea of self medication. It seems a little nonsensical to smoke weed and then a cigarette, the way Ben does it, since it seems to negate the intentional slowness of the former. Or, another nonsensical combo, alcohol and cigarettes. But he says that antidepressants don’t work for him so he just makes do with what he can (which is a surprising statement from a psychology major, but hey, what do I know about cigarettes and drinking five beers a day and medication resistant depression, when my depression played nice to the first medication I was put on).

Also, it looks cool. I think most people smoke cigarettes because they think it looks cool. I think that at least Ben smokes partially because he thinks it looks cool. Men smoke. In Casino, after Robert De Niro explodes (really, before he explodes, if we want to get into storyline chronology), he lights his cigarette by taking out his lighter and flicking it open, holding the flame right up to the cigarette. We’re watching Casino together after Ben showed me his newly acquired VCR copy. I curl up on the corner of his sofa and listen to the VCR squeak. The beer is making me feel warm so I watch the silhouette of Robert De Niro’s cute pink suit (did they really wear those back in the day?) get into his car and explode. He flies through the air.

“No no no, for your first time watching it you have to be able to see all the details.” Ben grabs the remote and flips through his TV and breathlessly we’re on HDMI 2 we’re on the new TV interface that’s somehow connected to wifi we’re on youtube and he’s rented a copy of Casino, without asking me to pay and it’s playing and I try to say something about how I can pay him back but he’s watching the movie so I turn to watch it too.

I can now see the buttons on Robert De Niro’s pastel pink suit, the embossed details of his nice car that he climbs into. He explodes again. He flies through the air. He turns around before all of that happens in his reality within the screen and takes out his Zippo lighter and flicks it open and puts the flame to the end of his cigarette. He takes his cigarette out of his mouth and smoke pours out like fog flowing over a creek.

Ben thinks that’s hard as fuck. I can’t say that I don’t think so too.

-

The staircase was glowing faintly. I tiptoed down and saw my dad dimly lit by the tv through the grates of the staircase railing. I can’t smell him from over here.

“What are you doing up?” He was eating the snacks we had bought at Hmart. I didn’t know that he actually was the one eating all of those. My mom had said it and I thought of it as a mythology. I didn’t know that my dad ate snacks in general.

“I can’t sleep.” I looked at my dad through the grates of the staircase and imagined myself on the sofa.

“You should go back upstairs and try again.”

I went back up the stairs. The room next to mine, my brother’s, is silent.

-

In the opening of The Sopranos, Tony Soprano smokes a fat cigar on his way down the familiar looking highways of New Jersey. The highways look exactly as they do in Virginia on a rainy day when you’re somewhere that looks like the kind of miserable Annandale, which has successfully dodged development since the 80s after the first wave of post-Korean War immigrants, maybe trying to keep that feel of an older Korea that still smells like exhaust and concrete rather than the something shinier now.

Ben’s making me watch The Sopranos because he wants to watch it. When the opening plays, Ben bops his head back and forth and bounces with the beat. I imagine that he learned this in his local Pittsburgh band days in high school, where he was introduced to cocaine. His smile is this soft thing.

Bwa oo wa oo wa, I mimic the saxophone interjecting in. His smile is this soft thing, self-satisfied, sweetly happy. I can smell the sweet smell of cigarettes lingering on him from across the room.

-

“In high school I used to dig through ashtrays to find enough cigarettes to smoke.” The orange tip of Ben’s cigarette flickered with his oxygen intake. I wanted to kiss him. Maybe rather that I wanted him to want to kiss me so I just stood there, watching his cigarette flicker in the dark. He looked into the street. I imagined the high school Ben digging through the ashtray across the street in front of a fluorescent laundromat. I’m in high school and I’m seventeen years old, snapping rubber bands against my wrist because of fucking AP tests, of all things, what have I lived through that’s “real.” I think about how if Ben and I had met in high school we would be unrecognizable to each other. I feel stupid and small for thinking he would want to kiss me.

When he finished his cigarette he threw the butt into the road. Fluorescent orange circle hitting the ground and popping soundlessly. The dash of bright orange against the darkness made me smile so hard that he looked at me and asked me if I was against his littering. I shook my head no in what I hoped was a cute manner. We walk back into the bar I’m pretending to enjoy being at so I can stay next to him.

Later, two weeks after Ben stopped responding to my texts, I wrote:

I'm not talking about the good or bad of the action,

I'm just talking about the arc a lit cigarette makes in the dark

an orange arc that dashes itself against the dark asphalt smashing into a million little stars.

-

My brother and I, most of our conversations happen passively, as if we breathed in and what came out happened to be words, since we were next to each other anyway. Never much further than that. The real version of my brother is hidden behind the perfect invisible barrier, an uncrossable ocean of privacy. Maybe he’s more comfortable this way?

We’re in the car in the two front seats. In the car, he’ll pull something up on the aux and ask me if I’d ever heard of it before. It’s MF DOOM. “I like his production,” I’ll say, knowing that I won’t be able to pull the criticism even though it’s what I’ve hated the most about my mom, her constant criticism about the music I’d show her, “but his lyrics aren’t great.” I wonder if that hurts him. I don’t know why I can’t just not say it. But the criticism comes out like carbon dioxide, the unstoppable consequence of pulling in breath.

“I like Kendrick Lamar’s lyrics,” I say. I imagine everyone else who has listened to Kendrick Lamar before my ripe age of 21 and I feel stupid, again. I wonder how many of his friends at Brown know so much more about music than I know or ever will know.

“I just can’t get used to his voice,” he says.

“No, I get that, but you know the one that goes I got I got I got royalty got loyalty inside my DNA.”

“DNA,” he responds.

“That makes sense,” I say, feeling stupid again. “I like that one. You know the one that’s about being alright in the end? I like how his voice sounds in that one. You get used to it. He talks poetry, you know?”

I wonder what my brother’s inherited inner critic is saying about me and what I’ve said. Poetry. Who do I think I am?

-

Brisk cold. Bracing cold. I think about the feel of each cold temperature as I go out to meet the morning on my way into school and the night on my way out. The morning colds are often brisk in Pittsburgh compared to how they feel in Maryland. But sometimes the yellow sun is cold in the face of a bracing cold.

The night colds are usually bracing. Had I always felt this cold in the winter? Ben said that, that stupid fucking mimetic phrase that comes out of my mouth habitually, Ben said that his favorite days are cold winter days, smoking in snow fields.

I walk into the dark today and feel the bracing cold. Bitter cold. I take out my third cigarette out of the yellow pack and fail to light it three times in a row, the wind is blowing so hard. The cigarette lights and then goes out again. Another click click click now facing away from the wind and the cherry stays in this time. Ben said it was called a cherry. Cherry sounds bad and a little slimy. It’s orange, anyway. The cigarette does nothing to warm me up and it instead makes my hands start hurting with cold in the bracing and bitter cold of the nighttime. The dark makes my hands feel more miserable. What a fucking liar Ben is. Nothing good about cigarettes in the cold and I smoke only half of it before it pisses me off and I put it out on the ground, crouching, smushing the butt into the asphalt and then getting up and stepping on it for good measure. I pick it back up and put the half cigarette in my pocket.

-

The image of Ben cupping his hand around the end of his cigarette suddenly released itself and floated away like a balloon going to touch the sky. I still watch movies and think about what he might have said about the camera angle and split diopter shots because everything he said in those moments were true and pure and from somewhere deep inside of him. But the Ben who threw me onto the bed and called me gorgeous and kissed the back of my neck, the Ben who couldn’t stop repeating how attractive I was to him, the Ben who texted me if he could give me a ride to my friend’s place just because he wanted to see me, that Ben flattened.

Most of the men I hook up with put on some sort of pleasant character that they think I or a general someone will like. Just projections of what they think is a character that’s realer or truer than they can be. It’s polite of them, I guess. Is it like if I have something to offer them, they feel obligated to be nice to me? It’s almost like sales, to lie and swim slow circles around the eventual wake of the waves. Maybe that’s what being a boy is, constant image projection. Those boys and their images blot out of my mind, but I say blot out like it’s something I do consciously, when it’s more like they leave my house and a wet fog has dampened the lines that they left in my house and their marks will fade away with the water evaporating in the morning sunlight. I wonder what my brother would think if he knew I did these things he would disapprove of, like hooking up with guys with this kind of fake exterior and smoking cigarettes, what a shitty third parent I turned out to be.

Why would you lie about being into someone? Because you weren’t lying but the attraction was just brutally short, because for him it’s not about meeting someone you actually like, it’s about having power over someone else in a small window of time, because he wanted to believe it.

More and more my dad fades from my field of view too, fading from the day that I smelled the stale cigarette smoke from his polo shirt in Korea, meeting my brother and I during my 4th grade, his 3rd grade summer visit, a surprise arrival, both my brother and I knowing that the consequences of his appearance would be a disappearance from the rest of our lives. Now all I see of him is images on Youtube and TV, images that are just surface projections of him, the banking institute professor, the PhD in economics he earned in the US that ruined him so much that he had to run from the US as a whole (according to my mom, he’s never said that to me). Does he ever think of my brother when he makes these videos? Imagine the boy who asked my dad all of these questions about his job in economics and going to graduate school and what kind of jobs there are, my dad seeing this boy for the first time in four years because he refuses to visit us in the US, so this boy traveled miles and miles and spent thousands of dollars for his tickets and mine. Does he actually think about the boy who I watched over and who watched over me when we flew internationally for the first time, a 3rd and 4th grader trying to handle passports and tickets and baggage all by themselves, dealing with a stranger grandma trying to convert us to Christianity, both of us maybe more scared for each other’s lives than for our own…

-

“Your dad smells bad, right?” My dad picks me up, all of me in a single armful. I shook my head no and felt his stubble on my cheeks. He had gotten me chocolate covered strawberries, my favorite. The blunt hairs felt like a million pencil leads. It was itchy. The smell was sweet. I wished I could handle the itchiness for a little longer but I wiggled and he pulled away.

-

One of my favorite things to do is to just sit behind my brother while he’s doing whatever on his computer, watching Youtube videos on the hottest restaurants in New York City (where he goes whenever he can), reading about expensive watches he’ll never ever let me buy for him regardless of my earning power, playing video games. I sit behind him, a couple feet of empty space separating us. He doesn’t turn around.

“What are you playing?”

“Just ARAM. Just something casual.”

“With who?”

“Brian and Jason.”

“How are they doing?”

“Good.”

That’s all I know to ask. I wish I knew what to ask more, but maybe this is what I do best for him. Sitting behind him and watching silently, like how dads do on the images I see on the internet. Giving their silent audience and hoping that their son can feel the warm sweet smell of someone watching over him for the brief moment they can.

[mywifeleftme]

350: Linda Smith // Nothing Else Matters

Nothing Else Matters Linda Smith 1995, Feel Good All Over (Bandcamp)

Leaving aside commodity fetishism, shopping as a hamster-pellet dopamine hit, and surly IYKYK credentials, a big part of the appeal of physical media collecting is the way it narrows the wired world’s horribly broad array down to a single, manageable point of focus. If only for the time it takes the needle to spiral down to the centre of the disc; the tape to unspool; the laser to complete its slow read, you’ve made the gamble to choose this over the legion of that—a fidelity solidified by the cash and labour you poured into making it yours. With bedroom/self-released/obscure stuff in particular I wonder if there’s also a sense of trying to recapture that intimate feeling a lot of us have when we first encounter music that really moves us: the sense that the artist is talking to you directly. Some people are happy to know that the connection they are feeling with a Radiohead or a Taylor Swift is shared by millions of people. (Some sick fucks might find that validating, even.) But a lot of us yearn for private songs, songs like undiscovered glades or ghost metro stations.

Bedroom pop artist Linda Smith’s catalogue was reasonably well-covered during her most active years by the late ‘80s/early ‘90s fanzine press, and it’s enjoyed a small but ardent resurgence since being rediscovered by the right people in the ‘10s. (See the Sky Girl compilation, specifically.) For most of her career though, Smith’s total audience was a rounding error from nil. And the songs sound like no one’s listening too. That’s why crawling into the depths of a mid-career highlight like Nothing Else Matters feels like trying to drowse under a thin, crocheted woolen blanket on a cold autumn morning, warmth and chill fighting over the map of your skin.

The bonus cover of Young Marble Giants’ “Salad Days” that closes Captured Tracks' 2024 vinyl reissue of Nothing Else Matters is a good representative of her sound—layers of found audio mush; a somber melody played on a juvenile-sounding electric organ; pretty but introverted vocals; all of it enveloped by the throbbing safety of its bassline. So is “In the Hospital,” with its husky vocal, churchy chord progression and simple, elegant harmonies, a fantasy about how much time you’ll have for self-reflection when you’re finally, mercifully hospitalized. “I See Your Face” opens like Beat Happening trying out the “Be My Baby” beat, but turns into a just-slightly-eerie vamp—the amateur drum machine programming making the whole song judder awkwardly, the cutesy keyboard riff scooped out and hollowed.

Not every song on Nothing Else Matters has anything wildly unusual going on, and none of them feel like they’re going out of their way to be uncommercial or “uncompromising” in the manner of some art that makes a point of eschewing the label system. It simply feels like the work of a musician who felt most secure making music on her own terms, without having to worry too much about collaborators, advances, touring, promotion, attention, or any of that rot. The music existed, whether anyone was listening to it or not. But now, with Captured Tracks’ re-release of Nothing Else Matters (and its excellent follow-up I So Liked Spring), at least a few people are listening again. The attention is deserved, and rewarded.

350/365

[monstersohmy]

Demonic Bliss

“Smile!” This chirping young man stood on a bench to take the photo from above. The girl pulled close to the demon with her left arm around his craggy shoulders. She made a kissy face and held two fingers of her right hand in a V. 

Wneurc couldn’t smile due to a lack of lips, but humored the human by opening his jaw wide to expose his curved yellow teeth and the steam that perpetually seeped from his mouth. 

“Such a great costume!” she marveled, taking her phone back. Her finger flew across the glass.

“What’s your Instagram? I’m an influencer- a thousand followers. This’ll be great for your brand.” 

This brand thing again. “I don’t have one. But, do you know where I go to request asylum?” 

The couple stared blankly.

“Like…a mental hospital?” the young man asked. 

“No,” Wneurc sighed. “A place where I can request safe haven. Where I can defect.” 

“Oh! Yeah!” the young man exclaimed. “You go to your country’s embassy. They’re all over the place in D.C. Just, like, show people a pic of your country's flag. Someone will know where it is." 

Wneurc thanked them for the information and plodded on down the sidewalk, working his way to the nearest Metro station. Embassy was always the humans’ answer. Hell had no embassy here that he knew of. 

“Ohmygodwait! I have an idea!” The girl ran back to him. “Try a church. I saw a movie once where this guy stood on a church yelling ‘SANCTUARY!’ and the church had to protect him. There’s one a few blocks that way. St. Joseph. Ohmygod you should live stream that! It would be so great for your brand!” 

Later that day, Wneurc stood in front of the grey stone church; what kind, he did not know. The human writing meant nothing to him, but he recognized the symbol adorning the sign and the space above the door and the steeple. A cross. HIS cross. 

Hopefully, he wouldn't combust before reaching the inside. Deep inhale, long exhale. Then, Wneurc rumbled up the steps and exploded into the nave. 

“SANCTUARY!” Wneurc shouted, steam rolling in a thick fog from his mouth. His knobby skin smoked, his feet burned worse than the deepest pit of Hell, and his insides gurgled violently. Every evil bit of him screamed to run, but he was committed to change.

Wneurc had made so many souls feel what he was feeling now, and often worse. He’d walked this land disguised as human, whispering, cajoling, nudging them toward the corruption that would later land them in his workshop or one like it. 

The work eventually had lost its lustre and he fell into a rut. Joy, fulfillment had drained away. All that was left was the motions of the job. Something had to change. Something drastic. 

Inspiration had come from a woman who continuously shrieked, “LIVELAUGHLOVE!” through her torment. During breaks, she would whimper the phrase. “live…laugh…love.” 

What was livelaughlove? What made her hold on to it so far into her fate? For the first time since he was a young demon, Wneurc was curious, interested. So, he set out on this journey. 

Up top, he quickly discovered that people who chant livelaughlove are the most annoying humans on Earth and that woman probably got what she deserved. 

But he was finally engaged after all this time. It had to be explored. He had to find his bliss.

“SANCTUARY!” he bellowed again. 

A white-haired priest calmly sauntered toward the demon, shaking his head and lifting his palm. Wneurc groaned in disappointed weariness. Expulsion appeared imminent. 

“Fine,” the priest sighed. “Sanctuary. Whatever.” 

Instantly, the pain stopped. Wneurc felt light. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

“Yeah, sure. Hey, Jennaphyrh!” the priest called out. “We’ve got another demon with a midlife crisis! Find him a cot and get him up to speed on how thing work around here. Also, do an email blast. Let the network know St. Joseph is full up and can’t accept any more.” 

An elephant faced demon loped up the aisle. “Of course, Father.” 

“How’d you get here? How’d you pick this church?” as Jennaphyrh led Wneurc away.

He told her of the livelaughlove soul and the influencer girl.

“You have no idea how many influencers are actually demons masquerading as humans," she nodded. "It’s such an effective mode of corruption and looks so fun! I’m think of leaving here to try it. Anyway, on Wednesdays we do Bible study--” 

Wneurc stopped short. “What.” 

“It’s ok!” Jennaphyrh laughed. “This happens all the time. You still love your job; you’re just bored. The Bible offers so many new, horrible ways to corrupt humans and torture them when they get to Hell. You are going to love it here.” 

[taylorgraymoore]

November 29, 2023

Antsy on this last day before flying out, I am down at a cafe (Perchance, just at Dunbar and 18th, a block away from me) in a table in a corner, watching the space become increasingly crowded as those children just leaving school begin to pile in. I don’t see myself staying long.

I have developed a tender relationship with cafes over the years. It’s where I started coming to write back when I was about twenty and first going out and exploring the city around me, walking random parts of it and setting myself up where I found myself wanting to sit for awhile. Mostly cafes; sometimes restaurants. Often enough, restaurants. The cafe became the centre of the experience when I went to Montreal. I remember seeing an article in the Journal de Montreal posted in my own local cafe, listing the best cafes at every metro station. I was one year in town, and off for the summer. I decided to explore the city by following that list. I did explore the city, and the idea of the cafe was absorbed into my soul. 

For years, I could only get writing done if I went to a cafe. When I went out on a day off, the reason was usually to go to a cafe. Even if I went across town, it was to go to a cafe. I have nothing but good things to say about the cafes of Commercial Dr, of Gastown, of Main St. I spent many happy and productive hours in them, and then happily boarded busses home. 

I don’t go to cafes so much anymore. Things changed when the lockdown happened; couldn’t go out anymore, so I set up an office it the attic. It ended up working for me better. Now I go here sometimes, usually for take out, sometimes down to Grounds for Coffee if I want to sit down. I don’t go out further much. If I do, I tend to go to a restaurant—I have the money to spend. 

This place is filling up and I’ve had too much coffee. I’ll be headed out soon.

Done most of my packing, save for my changers and a few clothes. Most of the evening will be trying to relax. Going to make pasta—scallops and mushrooms in a cream sauce, and I bought I nice bottle of Sicilian white wine to have with it. I’m looking forward. If my writing seemed choppy, it’s because there’s a dad with two kids hovering over me and obviously waiting for me to give up my table. I’ll finish this later if I finish it at all.

No, they’re gone. Ah, but I’ve still had too much coffee. I ought to have bought a tea, which was my first plan. Ah well. Hopefully it at least won’t keep me awake.

It’s the tail end of autumn that’s fading into winter. The mulch of the fallen leaves solidifies into frost. This time tomorrow, it will be full winter in Quebec, where I will be. What will I do? I’ll get to the AirB&B, I’ll go out and get groceries and a sandwich for dinner, and then—will I go out again? I might go out again. There’s a place I said I might be. 

[fluentmoviequoter]

Arrest Me, But It's Not So Sexy

Part 2 of Arrest Me, But Make it Sexy (🏷 @newobsessionweekly)

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: While you're undercover, Metro raids the drug manufacturing facility you're in. Tim tries to arrest you again, but you have a job to finish.

Warnings: discussion/depiction of drug trafficking, typical show warnings, fluff and banter

Word Count: 1.6k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

Put me in the back of your car and we'll start a verbal flirtation. I'm doing tax fraud and arson, now take me down to your station.

“Defying orders is the best thing I’ve ever done,” you muse as your captain reviews your current case.

“You’re just lucky Bradford didn’t actually report that,” she points out. “The body cam footage and arrest got to do all the talking.”

“And you saw it and just knew you had to have me, right?”

She nods sarcastically, then pushes an envelope toward you. “This is your cover. Nysse Bret.”

“And I fit some kind of description?”

“There’s word going around about a new dealer, better product, better prices… easy on the eyes. It’s got the target dealers and producers shaken up, just how we like them.”

You nod as you look through the envelope. It’s your first time going undercover alone, but you know you can do it.

“So, you want me to shake them up a little more, overstep on their turf, down sell their product, get them out in the open?” you clarify.

“Preferably. And given your track record of disobeying orders to do the right thing, going in solo seems like the logical next step for you.”

“The product you’re giving me?” you ask.

“It’s real,” she answers. “Diluted and nearly unusable, but legitimate. If it’s tested, it’ll come back as weak but real.”

“Got it. Don’t use it. And if I need backup?”

“Never more than five minutes out. We’ll try to grab buyers as we go, but that’s not the priority.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“Oh, and keep up this sassy, unbreakable thing. That’s what these guys will expect from Nysse Bret. That and not taking any crap.”

“You’re saying I can flash my gun if they think sassiness is an invitation.”

“Was that a question?”

You smile and slide your sunglasses onto your nose as you answer, “Nope.”

“Sergeant Bradford has new intel on Savva Pavlov, one of Los Angeles’s biggest drug manufacturers. Heroine, coke, if someone can do it, Pavlov can make it. We take him out, we take the majority of the drugs out of LA,” Captain Pine reports.

“Until the next guy moves in,” someone points out.

“Then we find him too,” Tim answers. “Pavlov is big, so we gain time, at least, if we take him out.”

“Take it, Bradford,” Pine encourages.

“Yes, ma’am. We have good intel, so we’re moving in on this location.” He pauses and points to a location on the screen. “There will be people inside, drugs inside. We go in protected, get everyone we can, and make sure that Pavlov doesn’t slip through the cracks. We’ll have teams of three stationed on every side of the building and we’ll enter from the north and south sides.”

“How can you know if Pavlov is there?” an officer asks.

“We don’t. If we get lucky, we arrest him. If not, we break one of his guys to find out where he is. This drug war needs to end, so we can’t wait around for Pavlov to get back from a smoke break.”

“Any questions?” Pine asks. “Preferably ones that aren’t stupid?”

“No, ma’am,” the team answers together.

“Then get ready, we roll in twenty.”

“So, you’re Nysse,” a man drawls, looking you up and down but never glancing above your neck.

“Depends,” you answer. “Would you make the woman taking your bosses’ customers wait?”

“They’re not his customers, they’re ours!”

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologize through chuckles. “I wasn’t aware this was a Starscream undermining Megatron situation.”

“What?”

You level your gaze, drop your smile, and remove your sunglasses to look down at the shorter man. “I said, you’re trying to act bigger and bolder than you are.”

“I’ll show you bigger and bolder,” he growls.

You lift the left side of your shirt to show the Colt 45 against your hip. “I’d like to see you try.”

The man licks his lips as he steps back. “Mr. Pavlov will be here soon. He’s finishing a meeting.”

“Perfect,” you exclaim cheerfully, dropping your shirt and sliding your sunglasses onto your head. “Hey, what’s it like working for him? Get good vacation time?”

“Perhaps you’d like to see his process while you wait,” he suggests, leading you through a swinging door.

“Oh, I’d love to.”

“This is where the magic happens,” he says, opening his arms toward the warehouse of men and women working in gas masks and hazmat suits.

“What’s back there?” you ask, pointing to a blocked-off area at the back.

“Pavlov’s office. He’ll take you back there when he arrives.” He smiles and adds, “Women like you always leave happy.”

You roll your eyes at his comment. Before you can reply sarcastically, a flashbang is thrown through one of the few ventilation windows. You see it in time to drop your head and cover your ears, but you’re still disoriented for a moment.

“LAPD Metro!” someone yells. “Drop to your knees, hands on your head! Now!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” you exclaim.

“Follow me,” the man beside you urges, blinking wildly to regain his vision. “There’s a-“

“Cop behind you,” you point out, tilting your head to the side. “He’s pretty cute, actually.”

“LAPD, on the ground. Now,” Tim says slowly. “That means you, sir.”

The man is still facing you, his back to Tim. You can tell he plans to run, so you lean against the rail beside you and cross your arms.

“What’s in it for me?” you ask.

“What?” Tim asks, holding his gun against his shoulder.

“If I get on the ground and ruin my outfit, what’s in it for me?”

Tim begins to say your name, but you shake your head once.

“Nysse Bart,” you introduce. “Maybe you’ve heard of me. But your little war on drugs is a war against me. So, make it worth my time and maybe I tell you what I know.”

“What about me?” the man before you asks.

“Sure, fine. Help us out, and we help you out, handsome,” you tell Tim. “Or we could just leave, find a more romantic spot.”

“You’re under arrest,” Tim says, dropping his gun to handcuff your tour guide.

“Cuffed while Pavlov enjoys the beauties of the port,” he mumbles.

So that’s where he is, you think. Picking up a shipment – or ladies – at the port.

“Bradford is it?” you ask as Tim moves toward you. “I really like how this shirt fits, so could you cuff me with my hands in front? As a sign of good faith, I’ll apologize for hitting on you.”

Tim shakes his head and pulls your hands behind your back. He places the cuffs in your hands rather than around your wrists. You huff and pout at him, then notice your phone, Nysse’s phone, is buzzing.

Another Metro officer takes Pavlov’s right-hand man, leaving you with Tim. You have to get to Pavlov, and after Metro raided the facility while you were inside, you have to go forward on your own.

“Sorry,” you say as you close one of the cuffs around Tim’s wrist.

He pulls his arm back when he feels your hand on him, but you snap the other side closed around the safety rail behind him.

“Take it off,” Tim demands.

“Sorry, sir,” you taunt as you walk backward, placing your sunglasses back on your nose. “That wasn’t quite sexy enough.”

“Get back here!”

“Oh, he looks like he wants to chase me,” you say, fanning yourself dramatically. “Navy blue booty, go ahead and lock me up.”

You wiggle your fingers to wave before you turn and walk through a side exit to catch Pavlov before he leaves the port with imported drugs. When you call your captain for backup, you tell her that Metro raided the facility, not knowing you were there. She grumbles something under her breath and promises to look into it and keep it from happening again. You remember the shock on Tim’s face when you cuffed him and realize it wasn’t so bad.

“And here I was, thinking that you’d be in the back of someone’s car admitting to tax fraud and arson,” you tease as you enter the roll call room.

“You caught Savva Pavlov,” Tim says. “Nice work.”

“If you want me to apologize for handcuffing you in a drug warehouse, I know this really nice place where we could have dinner, and I could kiss you to prove I mean it.”

Tim huffs a laugh, his smile appearing for several seconds. Your smile grows at the knowledge that Tim enjoys your back and forth as much as you do.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says. “We should have done our due diligence before we went in. I risked your safety during the raid, and there’s no excuse for that.”

You shrug and assure, “It worked out. Plus, you looked so good that it was a great break from the greasy little guy I’d been stuck with.”

“Yeah, he seemed to think I interrupted something.”

“A UC operation.”

Tim nods and asks, “Are you staying with the UCs?”

“I like it. Maybe not full time, but, yes, it’s something I can see myself doing again.”

“You’re a great cop, just… be careful.”

You lay your hand on Tim’s arm and promise, “I will. Knowing you’re in Metro and will come when I call helps.”

“You don’t need anyone telling you how to do your job, I know that, but I just want to make sure you’re safe. Especially after what happened today.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, gently squeezing Tim’s arm. As you step back, you ask, “Why didn’t you actually cuff me?”

“Nysse Bart? You said the name and I realized we messed up. Not to mention that, for once, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Didn’t you just say I could do no wrong?”

“No, I said-“

“So, should we go to dinner, or do you want me to go buy some illegal contraband so you can arrest me again?” you tease.

Your smile drops when Tim says, “Dinner. Meet me outside in ten.”

He turns and is almost to the door when you ask, “Wait, seriously?”

[thetransitgirl]

This actually reminds me of another interesting thing I’d been wanting to talk about, because from my recollection of the timetables I believe there’s technically one train from the Raritan Valley Line that continues past Penn to Hoboken, and I’m pretty sure it’s the only one in either direction. It took a while to figure out whether to show it, but I eventually found some consistent logic for when to show alternate terminals. There are a lot of routes that do that, after all, and showing every single service deviation would clutter the map.

A few routes have semi-regular service into multiple terminals. On LIRR, that’d be Port Washington, inner Port Jefferson, Ronkonkoma, and Babylon, while on NJT that’d be Morristown and Montclair-Boonton, which have both peak and off-peak service into Hoboken, even if it is limited. All of those should definitely be shown as branches, ‘cause it’s part of the regular service pattern.

Then there are the diesel routes that typically require a transfer to continue into NYC but send a few peak-hour trips the rest of the way. On LIRR that’s Montauk, Oyster Bay, and Port Jefferson; on Metro-North that’s Danbury and the outer Harlem Line; on NJ Transit that’s the outer North Jersey Coast Line. These are better described as service extensions rather than as service deviations, since they still serve all their regular stations. And choosing not to include them would mean Hunterspoint Av and Long Island City wouldn’t appear on the map at all, since they’re served exclusively by extended peak-hour diesel trains. So I included these and marked them as irregular service. I didn’t include the

The remaining service variations are basically all just trains that follow the route’s usual service pattern but just go to a different endpoint. And these are all quite chaotic without any regularity to them—with three exceptions, all on the LIRR. The Babylon Branch sends three peak round-trips into Atlantic Terminal, and each of them only serves stops as far out as Freeport; this service is consistent enough to warrant being shown with a separate line. (After all, I had a line for the two daily outer-NJCL trips into Penn!) The second consistent exception is that for some reason the Far Rockaway and Long Beach branches switch their Manhattan terminals on weekends. Since this map is based mostly on weekday service patterns (with a number of route segments that don’t even operate on weekends), I didn’t show that. And the third exception is a single Friday train from Greenport that’s extended past Ronkonkoma to Jamaica, which only goes one way and is even more obscure than most of the weird peak-hour terminal switches. (And it doesn’t even look like it’s running at the moment, though I’m not sure.)

And so really, the map wouldn’t gain much from adding any of the service variations other than the diesel-route extensions and the Babylon Branch service to Atlantic Terminal. Sure, they’re connections that are technically possible, but only at very specific times—and they’re something that wouldn’t be useful to basically any user of the map.

A project I’ve been working on for several months is now almost finished :)

[geesenoises]

i was tagged in a different (shorter) version of this awhile ago and i had it all answered and then accidentally backed out of it just as i was about to post 🙃 so this time i did it in google docs. thank you @saintgarbanzo for tagging me! deepest apologies to everyone for how long this is. i tend to go on.

relationship status single, but also i take my marriage to @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm very seriously.

favorite food dim sum. shrimp rice rolls drowned in sweet dim sum soy sauce foreverrrrr.

favorite color green, pink. i think i’m really just a very saturated color person. neons. jewel tones. love them.

song stuck in your head for reasons unknown - the killers. they bring fans up on stage to play the drums with them when they play it on tour and i watched so many of them last night. my favorites are kyle, from their scotland show (which @wolfpants will probably appreciate) and katie from manchester (brandon calls her casey, but there was a fairly credible article that identified her). but there are so many and you should look them all up!! i clap and cheer at the end of every single one.

last thing you googled "how much is a steinway” i cannot play piano, nor do i want one. i just couldn’t remember if they’re in the $50k or $100k range (probably could get an old used one for $50k if you looked, but starting around $70k depending on model. and the sky’s the limit.)

time 8:13pm

dream trip a trip that literally will only exist in my dreams is one i was supposed to take before the panini ruined everything. visiting my brother in japan. i would stop in singapore for a week first, and then go visit him and we’d maybe go on a road trip together. he’s moving back here in the spring, so it can’t happen, but i did get to see him and take a mini american road trip so thats okay. other places: italy, hong kong, taiwan, various american roadtrips, a house in the country or next to lake with all the people i love most in the world.

last book you read uhhhh this is very embarrassing. i have not read a complete book in the longest time. but the last book i started is george saunder’s A Swim in a Pond in the Rain

last book you enjoyed i was enjoying the saunders book. brain just does not cooperate.

last book you hated reading i’d have to have read something to hate it

favorite thing to cook/bake either things that are low effort, high reward (my favorite brownie recipe), or things that are high effort to make, which makes it very expensive to buy or source, so i must supply it for myself. the pinnacle of this for me are canneles. my favorite pastry ever, especially fresh. i think i will go make myself some chocolate cake now tho.

favorite craft to do i’ve been very into knitting since i started last year. so far i’ve completed: a scarf for myself, a hat and scarf for my friends’ toddler, a shawl for my mom, a hat for me. working on: a shawl for me, a sweater for me, a cowl for a friend. 

most niche dislikes the phrase “have a good one” feels too vague for me. though i’ve mellowed on it somewhat over the years. i hate bell peppers. i think they ruin anything they’re in. traffic lights on roads where the speed limit is 40+ mph. (which is like in many places in the US, but god, it’s horrible trying to stop in the right time/place for the red at that speed without slamming the brakes.)

opinion on circuses i don’t know enough about present day circuses to have an opinion, tbh. might have to go change the “last thing you googled” answer shortly.

Do you have a sense of direction and if not what’s the worst way you’ve gotten lost? i think i do! i don’t think i’ve ever gotten lost real bad, but i’ve been unable to find something and had to wander. i was in shanghai for an overnight layover and made the mistake of leaving the airport without getting cash. you couldn’t buy metro tickets without cash and we needed to get to our hotel. it was about 9pm. i wandered around the airport train station looking for an atm google maps was telling me was nearby while my dad waited with our luggage. couldn’t find it. had to find the nearest bank. jammed my card in the wrong slot and almost lost it inside the machine. a pair of nail clippers in my backpack saved me. i managed to use them like tweezers to pull the card out. finally got money. but on top of that, uh, let’s say the airplane food was not agreeing with me. so. it was a difficult hour for me. i never travel without nail clippers now.

last show you watched gamechanger, a game show where the game changes every time. it’s on dropout.tv and you should look up clips on youtube if you need a laugh.

currently watching nothing, but probably the sandman is next on my list.

currently reading nothing omg. i’m even between fics.

current obsessions welcome to mountport. eva noblezada. my backyard stray cat. finishing my ex-wireless fic. trying to figure out the ideal shampoo/conditioner situation for my head. this drarry fic that's a wip. every thing i talked about above. you know, normal things.

i'm just tagging people for attention. let's be transparent about this. do it if you feel like it!! @makeitp1nk @phoebe-delia @basicallyahedgehog @sorrybutblog @m0srael @cavendishbutterfly @corvuscrowned (who i know is away but 🤷🏻‍♀️)

[formeandmyfics]

Jugenea Fan fiction

ARE YOU READY?

Gene Kelly looks back on the specific moment when he and Judy Garland realized they’d be in each other’s life for the rest of their lives. 

(photo cred: ohmygarlands)

Excerpts from the Gene Kelly Autobiography

“Dancing Over the Rainbow”

You know, after all the on-and-offs and up-and-downs between Judy and I for all those years, I must say there really was a defining moment when Judy and I realized we would spend the rest of our lives together. We didn't know what that would entail, because we were still married to other people, but we knew at that moment, we'd be together somehow, someway. We used to call it our 'ah-ha' moment.

We were about to start pre-production on our last film together, and Judy's last finished film for Metro, 'Summer Stock'. Leading up to starting work again, Judy was very nervous about working again since her return from Boston. She wanted to clear her head and stay stress free. Stress free was not an option at home.  

As much as Judy loved the house she shared with Vincente, little Liza was away at the time and by late 1949 she hated being alone with Minnelli. They were now just 'housemates that passed the kid back and forth' as she once put it. Though Vince didn't have a say either way, he willfully accepted her decision to have some space. It was only a few weeks. So, she stayed at a friend's vacant apartment in Beverly Hills, on North Beverly Drive.  

As you guessed it, I took every opportunity I could to be there with her and that's when it happened...

***

Benny Goodman's orchestra glided out of the radio of Gene's new car as he waited at a red light on the corner of Sunset and Beverly Drive, kiddy corner of the Beverly Hills Hotel. He loved this area during sunset. The orange and pink sun always set through the palms there, at the same spot, making everything seem like a dark silhouette. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the tune, he leaned his head back against the seat and smiled as he admired his new two-seater convertible; a 1940 Coach Craft Roadster.  He was driving his dream car on his way to be with his girl and it was a gorgeous evening. Life was good.  

Gene could hear the same Benny Goodman station playing as he approached the apartment door. He could also hear pots and pans from inside. He used the spare key and quickly went inside with curiosity, and a bouquet of yellow roses hidden behind his back.

The apartment had an open layout, so before he could even shut the door, he saw Judy scrambling around the open-air kitchen. She was completely oblivious to his presence as he stood there watching her cute, little, aproned-self walking from the stove to the cabinet to another.

Judy smiled, but didn't look his way, when she heard the apartment door swing shut. She knew he'd be surprised and she took joy in that as she stirred the spaghetti noodles in the boiling water.  

"Oh...my...God...you're cooking," he said walking into the kitchen, "Did Chasen's burn down?"

"Yes, it di-id," she said in a sing-song voice, "And your sex life went with it."

Chuckling, he walked up beside her and gave her a kiss on the cheek, which then she turned her head to accept a peck on the lips, too.

"Next time, when you respond with a catty remark, use something that won't punish us both," he instructed and Judy giggled. He then tugged at the bow of her apron, "When did you turn into Betty Crocker?"

Judy turned away from the stove to pose, "What do you think? Do I look as homey now as the papers say I do since returning home?"  

"What the papers say is bullshit, but you do look cute. Here, sweetheart, these are for you," he smiled and revealed the bouquet of her favorite flowers.

Judy gasped and took them with awe, "Darling, they're beautiful."

“I wanted to do something nice for you."

"Thank you. That's so sweet," she said and leaned forward for another kiss.  

"Here, I'll put them in water so you can do whatever it is you're doing," he teased.

"Well," she said going back to the stove, "I think I'm cooking. Am I doing it wrong?"

"I don't know if you're doing it wrong, baby, I just didn't know you could cook."

"I've cooked plenty of times but I don't think I'm good at it and I usually have no time. I figured I'm here in my own place for a bit, not working yet, so I wanted to do something nice for you, too."  

Gene placed the flowers in water in vase on the island counter and came up behind her to look over her shoulder, "I'm flattered you wanted to cook for me, but you didn't have to do that."

"I know. But I wanted to."

"What are we making?"

"Pasta. I'm afraid it's the only thing I can cook decently without ruining. When I was with Dave, I burned our meals way too often. And with Liza, I've messed up way too many pancakes."

Gene chuckled and embraced his arms around her waist hugging her close as he leaned his chin on her shoulder, "I like pasta."

"Oo, good."

"How about dessert?"

Judy thought a moment and became disappointed, "Oh, I didn't even think about dessert. I don't think there's even ice cream in the ice box."

"I didn't mean food," he said his voice becoming low and seductive as he softly swayed them.

"Oh," she smiled sheepishly, "Then, yes, there will definitely be dessert."

"I know that dessert usually comes after the meal..." he started placing kisses on her neck distracting her, "...but I think I want dessert first."

Judy closed her eyes and leaned her head back against his chest as his seductive kisses now hit under jaw slightly sucking.

"Mmm," she let out when she felt his hand softly cup her breasts over her apron as his mouth slightly bit her jawline, breathing out against her he almost made a sound himself.

DINGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

Judy jumped startled when the timer on the oven went off. She immediately pushed Gene back and grabbed her oven mitts.

"You're using the oven? I thought you said you usually burn things?"

"I took the chance. You can't have spaghetti without garlic bread," she said as if insulted.

"You're absolutely right," he said seriously and then giggled to himself.

"Ta da! Look, not one piece is charred."

Proudly, she stood with her hands on her hips and looked back at him for approval.

"Congratulations," he said amused.

"Don't poke fun," she pouted, "I want to make a nice dinner for us."

"I'm not. I'm surprised but I'm really happy you wanted to do this for me, thank you."

Gene went to embrace her again, but she quickly pushed against his chest, "Nuh uh. Stop distracting me."

"Fine," he said with his hands up in defense, "I won't touch. Do you want help?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I don't trust you."

"You're the one that burns things and you don't trust me to help?"

"I don't trust that you won't touch. You've been here two minutes and you've already gotten to second base."

Gene laughed loudly leaning his head back which made her giggle, "Shoo, get out of my kitchen."

"Well, damn," he said eyes wide but with a smile.

"Go and get relaxed and I'll finish up here."

"Yes ma'am."

After finishing cooking, Gene told her he'd set the table up for them as she got freshened up. When she returned not a few minutes later, the room was dimmed to just the lights in the kitchen as he had lit candles and poured some wine. The music had been lowered as well.  

"Oh, honey," she exclaimed, "This is so romantic."

"You cooked for me. I thought the best I could do was add some atmosphere."

"I love it."

As Gene pulled out the chair for her, Judy noticed a small bag next to his shoes.

"What's that?"

"My overnight bag."

"Why do you have that?"

"Because I plan to stay overnight."

"Are you serious?"

"If you'll let me."

"Well, of course," she said happily surprised as she took her seat, "You just usually don't stay the night. Are you telling Betsy you're doing an overnighter?"

An overnighter was what was referred to when an actor worked overtime into the night and had an early call the next morning so they would sleep in their trailers. Gene had used it as an excuse more times than he actually really needed to do it. He did that a lot when they were doing 'For Me and My Gal' early on in their affair. It was a way for them to be together. Betsy asked no questions back then. It was harder for him to do that now. Judy was so far up on Mr. Mayer's list, it would be unheard of for her to have to do that. It was so unheard of that it would have caused suspicion from Dave or Vince if she used it as an excuse so she always had to be more creative or simply just didn't say anything.  

"Nope. Her friend in San Diego had some trouble with her husband so Betsy took the train down. She'll be gone a few days."

"Did she bring Kerry?"

"No, but Kerry's at a sleepover tonight. You have me all to yourself the entire night and all morning. All we have is that pre-production meeting at 10."

"That's all you have to do at the studio tomorrow?"

"Yup."

"Golly. Seems a little surreal."

"I know it. But Kerry is being dropped off there at noon just to let you know."

"That's alright. I get you all to myself for the entire night without you having to slip away. I'll take it. Why don't you and Kerry have some bonding time together after you leave the studio? Take her out for ice cream or have a picnic."

"That sounds like a great idea, actually. She likes the beach. Maybe I'll take her out for a ride to Santa Monica and have a picnic there."

"There you go."

"After we eat here, would you like to go for a ride?"

"Well, that depends on what you mean by that. Because fifteen minutes ago, dessert meant something entirely different than a chocolate sundae."

Gene laughed again, "I actually mean go for a ride, but dessert still comes later."

"Sure, if you want to."

"It's a beautiful night for a drive...in a convertible."

"You don't have a convertible," she said taking a bite of garlic bread.

"I do now," he said trying not to smile as he took a sip of wine.  

"You bought a new car?"

"Yep."

"Why? You love your Cadillac," she practically shrieked, "I loved that car, Gene. It held a lot of memories for us."

"Calm down. I still have the Cadillac."

"What did you buy?"

"Go look. It's parked right out front."

Seeing the funny look on his face, she wiped her mouth with her napkin and got up heading for the large window in the open living room.

"It's the black convertible," he said getting up to meet her at the window.

"Gene. You bought yourself a roadster?"

"Yep."

"Why?"  

"I've always wanted one. I went and got it today on a whim."

Judy raised her eyebrow, "While the wife was out of town no less. I bet she doesn't want you racing any more than I do."

"I'm not going to race it."

"Liar. I bet Lawford put you up to it."

"He didn't put me up to it. I make my own decisions," Gene said sternly, but when he saw the 'wife' expression on her face, Gene sulked just a little, "But he did kind of talk me into it."

"Mm hm. Well, you just be careful."

"I will. I would never do anything to jeopardize my safety, honey. But I have always wanted this car since I seen it at a 1939 car show in New York. I'm excited."

Judy smiled and peeked through the sheer drapes to look at it again and joked, "I don't think I'll be able to fit into that."

"Stop it. Come on, let's finish eating," he said grabbing her hand.

"Maybe I should have made chicken and vegetables instead."

Gene laughed and urged her to finish their dinner.

***

Judy tightened her head scarf around her head as they pulled up to a stoplight.

"See, you fit fine, don't ya," Gene teased.

"More leg room than I thought but it's still tiny."

"Sport cars are meant to be smaller."

"I still like the Cadillac better," Judy smiled and pointed her thumb to the back of them, "No back seat in this one."

Gene shifted gears as they rolled through the green light, "You're right about that. There isn't room for fooling around in this car."

He switched through some radio stations and immediately stopped when he heard Judy's Decca recording of 'If I had you'.  

"Oh, no, please Gene, no."  

"What?"

"Turn it off."

"Why?"

"Please."

"Will you sing it for me then?"

"Absolutely not."

Judy switched the channel and he just smiled letting her have her way. He slapped her thigh before holding onto it in comfort. As they pulled up to another red light, they didn't notice the notable couple next to them until they heard a shriek.

"Judy, doll, is that you?"

They looked next to them and noticed Lana Turner and her husband Bob in their Mercedes convertible. Gene slid his hand off of Judy's thigh before they noticed and smiled.

"Hi, honey," Judy gleefully stated back.

"Gene," Bob shouted happily, "When did you get that ride?"

"Today. Isn't it sweet?"

"Kick ass ride, my man."

Lana sat up on her knees, leaning her elbows against the door frame, "You giving Judy a ride in your new car?"

"You got it," Gene played along.

"Can I have a ride, too?"

"Anytime you'd like, darlin'."

"Then you got yourself a deal, buddy."

"Just hands off," Bob played along and leaned forward to look at Judy, "That goes for you, too, toots. Remember, he's a married man."

Gene looked at Judy chuckling knowing she would be annoyed and all she did was force a laugh.  

"She's married, too, ya know" Lana said to her hubby.

"Ha ha ha," Judy continued laughing then her smile disappeared as quick as it appeared and she poked Gene's leg when the light turned green, "Go."

"See you later guys," Gene waved and sped off.

"Hands off, my ass," she said and wrapped her arms around his right arm to cuddle.

"That a girl.

In a preppy voice she did her best impression of her friend, "Can I have a ride, too," Judy then lowered her voice to imitate a male, "Anytime you'd like sweetheart."

"That supposed to be me?" When she didn't respond, he continued sheepishly, "Well, if it is supposed to be me, I didn't say sweetheart. I said darlin'."

"Oh, excuse me."

Gene glanced at her as she picked off some invisible lint and looked irritated, "Don't be getting all jealous on me now. What did you expect me to say? I'm sorry I can't, I only let Judy handle my stick?"

Judy's eyes widened, "She asked for a ride, not to drive your car."

"Oh, excuse me," he mimicked her and she couldn't help but smile.  

"Can we drive somewhere out of all the traffic at least? There's absolutely no privacy. I'd like to at least hold your hand without someone spotting us."

"Let's go up Mulholland. It's darker there in the hills, no traffic."

"Oh, darling, let's go to our old spot and watch the lights like we used to."

"Just what I was thinking."

***

Driving around the winding roads on Mulholland, with only a passing headlight here and there, Judy slid over to cuddle Gene. He immediately swooped his arm around her shoulder and slowed down so he could enjoy their closeness with the warm evening air swooshing around them.  

When they reached a part of the mountain, they got no more radio service but static. Judy turned it off and started humming. Then...she started singing.

"I could show the world how to smile

I could be glad all of the while

I could change the grey skies to blues

If I had you."

Gene smiled and kissed her head as she continued.

"I could leave the old days behind

Leave all my pals, I'd never mind

I could start my life all a new

If I had you," Judy reached up and pinched his cheek, "That's all you get, buster."

"I'll take it. That was beautiful, baby."  

Only a few minutes later, they pulled into a scenic overlook which wasn't currently occupied which they were grateful for. It was nestled in the shadows, only lit up houses above and below them on the mountain and the shimmering lights of Burbank shone below. There was one large tree and a single bench there. The couple got out of the car and leaned back on the hood of his car side-by-side watching the lights.  

Judy crossed her arms and sighed, "Remember when we first found this spot?"

"Ah huh."

"The very first time? I don't believe you."

"I sure as hell do. It was the night after our first cast read-thru of the script. It was before we even got together. We went for dinner and..."

"I didn't want to go home," she said softly.

"You said 'just drive'," he added, "And we wound up here."

"The perfect little spot."

"Yeah."

"We had long talks. I like to think it's where we became best friends," she was silent a moment, "Gosh, it seems so long ago, doesn't it?"

Gene pushed himself off of the car to stand in front of her and embraced her around the waist, her tush pushing back against the hood a little more.

"It does, but it really wasn't."

"Bittersweet memories," she smiled.

"That bench is where I first kissed you."

"I kissed you first," she said matter-of-factly.

"You were teaching me how to kiss on camera, that doesn't count."

"Oh, I don't know," she said with an innocent voice, but her eyes penetrated with seduction as she slowly slithered her hands up his chest and around his neck, "It kind of counted for me."

Gene smiled, licking the bottom of his lip feeling arousal start in the pit of his stomach, "Just 'kind-of', huh?"  

"Well, it made me interested enough to let you kiss me over there," she nodded her head behind them towards the bench.

Gene softly placed his palm on her jaw to gently hold her face steady as he stared into her eyes. They were met with such warmth.

"And look at us now, still kissing after all these years."

Judy traced her finger over the scar on his cheek and looked down at his lips, "You're such a good man, Gene Kelly."

He met her lips with a soft kiss.  

Once. Twice.  

Sliding his tongue against hers even softer than the slight tugs of his lips on her plush lower one. There was no need to hurry, no need to rush.  

Gene leaned his forehead against hers as her fingers played with his collar, looking down almost bashful.

"How about dessert?"

***

The fireplace crackled. The orange hue, from the fire, was the only light in the room as the two embraced on the couch. Gene was leaning back against the sofa, his hands were flat up against Judy's bare back as a kind-of-support, as her hips slowly glided back and forth on his lap.

She wove her arms around his neck pushing closer to him as she stared down at his handsome face. Like their kissing earlier, there was no rush in their love making. Even though the passion was there, it was always there, the two just seemed to enjoy the closeness of being together.  

Judy lifted her face from his, and rested her chin on top of his head as he kissed her neck lovingly. Her mind raced of their lovely evening together, the reminiscing they did, the memories that they had shared together after all those years. She had done a lot of thinking about the past between them since recovering in Boston. That summer away from him, though they spoke on the phone and through telegrams, she knew she was head-over-heels in-love with Mr. Gene Kelly and always would be no matter the circumstances.  

He must’ve sensed her distraction, because she felt him give her sides a squeeze which prompted her to look back down at him and gave him a reassuring smile. Gene continued to let her keep the pace, but her could tell her mind was going elsewhere, not in a bad way however. He gave her a curious expression but when she genuinely smiled at him, reassuring him that her thoughts were only of him, he relaxed again and leaned in kissing her.  

Rearranging herself a bit, to make her movements a bit steamier after feeling those tingle sensations between her legs and up to her nipples get stronger, Judy untangled her arms from his shoulders and held his hands in each of hers, their fingers intertwining as she sped up the pace.

When she did this, Gene didn’t respond in a heated way as usual. Instead, he brought one of those hands up to kiss the back of hers. Judy caught her breath as he did this, as it seemingly it looked like he did it for his own pleasure and her respect. Then, he scooped some hair behind her ear looking at her with such love and adoration. It was almost overwhelming what she suddenly felt.  

Gene felt her movements get slower and slower and her eyes become glossy with tears. Suddenly, she stopped all together and her bottom lip quivered. Gene immediately became worried and he sat up straight, with her still straddling him, and he cupped her face in his hands.

“Darling, what’s wrong?”

Judy couldn’t help but giggle as she wrapped her arms around his neck, “You know what an emotional wreck I've been lately.”

“But why now,” he said wiping a tear away with his thumb.

Judy’s smile faltered and she blinked a few times before answering, “I just love you, you know.”

“Well, that’s good,” he smiled, “cause I love you just the same,” Gene kissed her and they hugged tightly, “Probably even more than you.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” she giggled.

Leaning back to look at her face again, he showed her some determination, “Wanna bet?”

Before she knew it, Judy shrieked amused as she was swiftly flipped over onto her back on the sofa.

***

Judy listened to the clock tick on the night stand of the master bedroom as she lay next to Gene. Laying side by side, on their sides, nothing but a sheet over their bottoms, Judy admired his sleeping face.  

Looking down at his hand resting beside her, she saw the reflection of the moon from the window hitting his silver wedding ring. Putting her left hand next to his, their rings side-by-side, she had a beautiful, but remorseful, thought. What if, one day, they would wear rings that was a symbol of their love not their current marriages.

“Darling,” she whispered.

“You’re awake,” he sleepily mumbled.

“You’re awake,” she said back amused and fully of smile. It widened when she saw him mirror her and then his eyes met hers.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

“You know my sleep patten is all over the place.”

“I’m surprised you’re not tired.”

“I am. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Does it have anything to do with what you were thinking about when we were making love? Which I hope to God was about me.”

She laughed and he chuckled pulling her to him. She got comfortable on his chest and playfully tickled his side to which he swatter her hand away, “Don’t worry. It was.”

Feeling his chest rise up and down, feeling his heartbeat against her ear, feelings his warmth, she never wanted to leave.

“Feels good to be with you like this, doesn’t it, honey?”

She didn’t respond but he could feel her nod. Again, she got quiet.

“What are you thinking?”

Again, she didn’t respond, but her hold on him got tighter.

“Talk to me,” he urged.  

“We’ve gone on getaways in the past.”

“Right.”

“And we’ve been alone before. We’ve slept in each other’s arms before.”

“Yeah,” he said getting more curious.

“But for some reason, lately, it’s felt different.”

“Different how?”

“It just all feels so right. I feel like I’m at home with you. And right now it almost feels like...we’re married,” she leaned up to look at him and her interest was peaked like a child’s, “Is that odd?”

Gene gently sat up so he wouldn’t startle her and turned on the bedside lamp. Judy lifted the covers around her chest and became a little uneasy when she saw him reach for the cigarettes next to him. He only reached for a cigarette in the middle of the night when he was stressed. She leaned over him and grabbed his arm to stop him. She didn’t want to believe he was stressed.

“What?”

Gene sighed and cracked his neck before looking at her seriously, “I’ve felt it, too.”

“You have?”

“Yeah.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Like you said, a bit odd, but a good odd.”

“A confusing one.”

“I’ve been in love with you, kiddo, for years, but you’re right. Lately our relationship and our time together has felt different.”

There was silence between them before she scooted closer, on her knees, and became like a playful child again, “You wanna know what I think?”

“What,” he chuckled never knowing what would come out of her mouth.

“I think we’re going to be in each other’s lives, for the rest of our lives.”

“I know we are. I’ve already concluded that. I just don’t know the ‘what were when why how’ part yet.”

“Even if we’re 80, somehow, someway, I know we’re going to end up together with the world knowing about us.”

What Judy and I didn’t know, at the time, was how much sooner the world would end up knowing about us. 32 hours from then, our worlds would change, and all because of one newspaper headline. We could have easily denied it, but we were tired...and were done hiding.  

***

Judy tossed her ‘Summer Stock’ script on top of Gene’s which lay on the small coffee table in his trailer.  

“The meeting went well, don’t you think,” he asked getting comfortable on the couch.

Judy nodded but looked a little apprehensive as she sat down next to him.

“Gene.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me or baby me, you know?”

Gene sat up concerned, “Why do you think that?”

“I’m just a little nervous.”

“Honey, everyone, and I do mean everyone, on this film, cast and crew, are all doing it for you, for us. Because, they all love you and want you to succeed. Of course they’re all going to know one thing or another about what you’ve been through, if they read the papers, but I don’t think there will be any patronizing going on.”

“You mean that?”

“You know I do.”

“I know this picture is way beneath you. Thank you again for doing it.”

“This picture is way beneath you, too, so that makes it perfect for us to do together. I told you, if I *really* didn’t want to do it, I wouldn’t have, even if that meant not working with you again. But I love you. You asked for my help and I’d do anything for you. Just like you’ve done for me.”

Judy giggled and leaned over to kiss him, “I love you.”

“Besides, I am looking forward to the dances. And that ‘Wonderful You’ sequence, I’m gonna sweep you off your feet.”

“Oh, darling,” she laughed and leaned on his chest, “You don’t have to dance with me to sweep me off my feet I can attest to that.”

The two embraced into a longer lip lock when there was a knock on the door. Startled, the two immediately sat up and separated, a dance their bodies did instinctively now after all those years.  

As Gene got up to answer the door, Judy opened her script to make it look like they were working.

“Hi, daddy!”

Gene was surprised to see Kerry there with one of the studio’s PA’s.

“Hi, honey. You’re early. Thank you, John.”

John nodded and walked off as Gene lead Kerry inside. She dropped her book bag on the floor and was surprised to see Judy.

“Auntie Judy!”

“Hi, darling.”

Kerry immediately embraced her.  

“Oo, you look so pretty,” Judy said tugging on the bottom of her dress.

“And I’ve got ‘Dorothy’ braids, see?”

Judy laughed and playfully tugged on them, “You sure do.”

“Whatchu doin’,” Kerry asked sitting down on the couch.

“We’re going over a script for a new movie your Daddy and I are going to be in.”

“Is it a fun movie?”

“Is sure is,” Gene said confidently, “Remember, I told you it takes place on a farm.”

“Will there be lots of animals?”

“Oh, I would think so if it’s a farm,” Judy stated.

“And Daddy, you’ll dance?”

“Your daddy better dance,” Judy teased.

“And Judy better sing,” Gene teased back, “Did you have fun at the sleepover, sweetheart?”

“Uh huh.”

The phone ringing tore Gene away from the conversation. As he took the phone call, Judy had Kerry tell her everything she did at the sleepover.  

“Alright, girls,” Gene said walking back over to them, “We’ve got a little bit of a pickle. That was Pasternak. He and Freed need to speak to me about some chorography stuff.”

“What’s choreography stuff,” Kerry asked curious.

“Dancing. Steps and how to create dances,” Gene said crossing his arms.

“How long do you think you’ll be gone,” Judy asked.

“Maybe 45 minutes, an hour at most.”

“I’ll stay with her.”

“You sure about that?”

“Of course. I don’t have any place to be.”

“Will you be ok with that, Kerry? Just for a little while?”

“Sure, daddy.”

“Ok. I won’t be long. I also thought once we leave here, we can go have a picnic on the beach. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes, Daddy, please,” the little girl exclaimed excited.

Gene looked at Judy smiling as if thanking her for the idea.

“Alright. I’ll see you girls in a bit,” Gene gave a knowing wink to Judy before walking out.

***

The ‘Disney hour’ was playing over the radio as Judy and Kerry both drew together. Judy hadn’t even paid attention to the time until she heard footsteps up the ladder steps.

The door swung open and Judy was shocked to see it wasn’t Gene but Betsy. Betsy stopped in her tracks stunned to see Kerry sitting there with Judy, with no Gene in sight.

For a moment they were both silent.

“Hi, Mommy!”

Betsy’s shock wore off and, even though she tried to hide it, Judy could see the woman was angry. She walked in and looked around as if looking for her husband. When she didn’t see him, she started urging Kerry to grab her things.

“Come on, sweetheart. Grab your things.”

“Look, Auntie Judy and I were drawing pictures. I drew Daddy and I on the beach.”

“That’s swell. You can leave it here for him.”

“But I want to give it to him.”

Betsy picked up her bookbag, “You can give it to him at home. How was your sleepover?”

“Good.”

“Do you have everything?”

“Yep.”

Without even acknowledging Judy, Betsy took the little girl's hand and walked her out of the trailer. Judy immediately followed them out.

“Betsy.”

Betsy stopped and turned around, clearly vexed.

“I was only staying with Kerry because Gene had a...”

“Ms. Garland...” Betsy cut her off, “You took my husband away from me, so stay the hell away from my daughter.”

Turning around, she started towards the car again. Kerry, looking confused and a little sad, looked over her shoulder at Judy. Judy immediately put on a reassuring smile and waved her fingers ‘goodbye’.  

***

With his leather-bound script tucked beneath his arm, Gene rolled up to his trailer in his studio golf cart when he noticed Judy down the street walking away. And, he didn’t see Kerry next to her.  

Confused, Gene turned the cart back and sped after Judy.  

“Hey.”

Judy slowed her walk when Gene rolled up next to her.

“Hi,” she checked her watch as they both came to a stop, “You were taking longer than we thought. I thought I’d get going.”

“That’s fine, but where’s Kerry?”

“Oh, ah,” Judy remained as casual as possible, “Well, Betsy came and got her.”

“Betsy? She’s supposed to be out of town for a few more days.”

Nervously, Judy giggled, “It was a surprise to me, too, when she came walking into your trailer.”

“Oh, shit. Was everything ok? What did she say?”

“Oh, nothing. She was in a hurry.”

Gene gave Judy a funny look. Something felt off. Judy could tell he was going to pry so she spoke up, “You should probably head home, though. Yeah?”

Gene checked his watch, “Yeah, probably.”

“You call me, hm?”

Gene smiled flirtatiously, “What if I want to do more than call you?”

Judy smiled back, “You know where to find me.”

With a wink, she walked away.

*** When Gene rolled up into the driveway of his home, he noticed Kerry swinging on the tire in the backyard and decided to go in through the backyard gate.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, baby.”

“You have good meeting?”

“I did. I’m sorry it ran late. Did you have a good time with Judy until Mommy came and got you?”

“Yeah. We drew.”

Gene could tell his daughter not only looked a little curious, but melancholy.

“What are you thinking about, kiddo,” he asked spinning her gently.

“Just something Mommy said to Aunt Judy.”

Gene immediately froze and felt a bad feeling in his gut. Not only because Judy fibbed, but because whatever was said was enough to trouble his daughter.

“What did she say?”

“She told Auntie Judy to stay away from you.”

Gene closed his eyes and let out a deep exhale through his nose, “She, ah, she did?”

The little girl nodded and looked up at her father, “Mommy said to her that she took you away.”

Gene bit his bottom lip feeling blood boil.

“What did she mean?”

Gene squat down placing both his hands in hers on her lap, “Mommy was just upset. It’s grown-up things that you’ll understand when you’re older. I know that might not seem fair to you right now, because you’re confused, but just know that everything is ok and I’m right here.”

Kerry smiled when Gene placed a big kiss against her cheek.

“I drew something for you. It’s on the kitchen table.”

“Oh. I like drawings. I’ll go look right now.”

Gene walked through the patio kitchen door and immediately saw the drawing of stick people on the beach. In her sloppy handwriting, as best as she could do, she wrote Daddy and Kerry over the Dad and daughter. Gene smiled, but felt disappointed when he suddenly remembered he was going to take her on a picnic there. How excited she must have been to draw it.  

“Dammit,” he murmured as he put it up on the fridge.  

Gene poured himself a glass of water and watched Kerry out the window as she did twirls and entertained herself. Even though he was watching a joyful scene, he was very angry inside. Why did Judy lie? It must have really hurt her. Why the hell hadn’t she told him? I suppose to not make the situation worse. Maybe to not make him angry. Boy, he *was* angry. Angry at Betsy.  

“Don’t ever leave my daughter with your whore again.”

Gene hadn’t even heard his wife walk into the kitchen, but her heard her voice loud and clear. And that statement was like some kind of forbidden language that one just did not say. It felt like a red-hot knife enter him. Suddenly all his muscles became stiff, his biceps flexed, his heart started pumping faster. He knew what this kind of adrenaline was. It was rage. It was the kind of feelings he got before he was about to hit a guy for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But, he wasn’t in a bar or a nightclub with a drunkard. He was at home, in his kitchen, with his wife, a woman, and his little girl playing ten feet away.

Gene forced himself to relax, and his shoulders dropped back down, as he continued at the sink washing out his cup not saying a word.

“What,” Betsy asked leaning to the side to get a better look at his face, “I’m sorry dear...is that not accurate?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry. Opening her legs for a married man doesn’t constitute as a wh-”

Gene banged his fist against the counter rattling the silverware, “Shut your God damn mouth, Betsy, I mean it. I would never let anyone speak about you that way and I sure as hell am not going to let you speak about my best friend just the same.”

“Ooo, now he’s getting angry,” she said unphased as she crossed her arms.

“Yeah, I am angry,” Gene turned around, “I’m angry that you had to go and say that Judy took me away in front of *OUR* daughter. Kerry’s out there confused at why you said that as she knows I never left. She’s a little girl now asking questions. We promised no matter what happened, we would never fight or discuss anything like that in front of her! JESUS! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!”

“I WASN’T THINKING! I came into your trailer to find you and instead my daughter is all cozy on the couch with my husband’s girlfriend!”

Gene looked at her ridiculously, “She’s not my...”

Betsy held up her hand cutting him off, “She’s your girlfriend.”

The tears in her eyes made Gene feel immediate guilt, but the way she said it proved a point that he could not argue. Instead, he placed his hands on his hips and looked down for a moment before going on.

“The two of us just got done with a meeting for the new film when Kerry was dropped off early. Then I was called away to another meeting. Judy was gracious enough to stay with her. Kerry was fine with it. She sees Judy as friend, as Liza’s Mommy, there was no harm in that, Bets. She was doing me a favor.”

Betsy perched her lips together, thinking, and then pointed at him, “Unless the Minnelli kid is present, I don’t want Judy around my daughter. I mean it, Gene.”

“So, what? Now, Kerry can’t visit me when I’m working? This film is with Judy. She’s going to be around.”

“That’s not my problem. Get yourself a different movie.”

To her it seemed so simple, but there was a lot more at stake with this film than just switching actors. Something she had no idea about.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? You’ve done it before.”

“Because, I’m doing this film as a favor for Judy. She asked for my help.”

“Help? Yeah, I bet,” she said with a ridiculous giggle.

“You have no idea, so cut it out,” he hissed.

“Excuse me?”

“She . Needs . My . Help,” he emphasized.  

“Yeah, yeah, I read all about her little escapades. Can’t you just see she’s crying wolf? A lot of movie Princesses will find anything to get their names in the papers or snag the guy they want. They’ll fake a pregnancy, fake an illness or in Judy’s case, hurt myself a little, I’ll get the attention that I want.”

Betsy suddenly stepped back flinching when Gene spun around, muscles popping as well as veins. Growling, he grabbed the kitchen chair and flung it across the room, breaking against the wall.  

Betsy made a small sound as he walked up on her, her back against the wall. She wasn’t afraid, she knew he’d never physically hurt her, but she was very startled.

“She could have died! Forget what you think of her. She is my friend. She’s a mother, just like you, and she could have died. No one seems to FUCKING UNDERSTAND THAT! It was a cry for help which she desperately needs.”

“Well, she got it didn’t she?! She went away to a hospital, didn’t she?! Where’s her husband in all this?! Let him help her.”

“If he could help her, she never would have gotten as bad as she got. He treats her like a god damn porcelain doll. He doesn’t know how to handle her, just like the studio doesn’t either. Vince is my friend, but he doesn’t know shit, Bets. But what he understands, and appreciates, is how *I* help her. For some reason, something I never even asked for, I’m the one that can keep her stable. I don’t know why, but I do. Did you know, he once thanked me?”

“For fucking his wife?”

Gene let that comment go and tried to make her understand, “He said he would have lost his wife a long time ago if I wasn’t around. Judy is back working again, with everyone scrutinizing her. Her mental health is far more important to me than what any asshole writes in the paper on what they *think* they know about Miss Judy Garland. I understand you feel betrayed, as you have every fucking right to be, I get that, but DON’T be one of those assholes. She asked for my help on this project and if you think for one second that I won’t let Kerry come on set, something that she loves doing, and be around us even without Liza there, then you are very mistaken.”

Betsy was silent a moment before she pushed against her husband’s chest, “And what about how I feel?”

“Before or after you opened *your* legs, dear?”  

Betsy stopped and brushed some hair away from her forehead a little taken breathless, “What?”

“Judy didn’t take me away, or steal me away. I’m still here aren’t I? After all these years, I’m still here. We agreed to work on it for Kerry growing up. If I wanted to leave, I would have left a long time ago. I also would have left when I found out you were out fucking other men.”

“You’re crazy,” she said and pushed past him.

He grabbed her elbow to spin her around, “You continue to make me feel guilty, because you feel guilty, too. Victor Rogan.”

Betsy sucked in a breath at the name of her lover, one that had been a friend of theirs since Gene had been in theater in New York, who now worked at Fox. That was an affair going on for over 6 months now.

“Yeah, you didn’t think I’d find out about that one, did ya?”

“Why didn’t you say anything,” Betsy spat out trying to turn the tables.

“Why would I after what I did first? I cheated first.”

“Well, at least you have the balls to admit it. Congratulations.”

“Don’t be too proud there, babe. You see, Judy and I didn’t look for this to happen. All those years ago, it was just something that did. We even tried to stop it. She was married, too. Still is. And I even pushed my friendship away with her for some time after to focus solely on you and our daughter. But, inevitably, we just kept...we couldn’t stay away. We have respect and honesty and protect each other. I never wanted this to happen with her. I don’t know why I couldn’t stay away. I don’t know what it is. But after all this time, I still haven’t left. That has to mean something, right? It means I still love you and our family.”

Betsy’s demeanor dropped a little, softening, hearing her husband more honest about what she already knew, than she had ever heard him before.

“But you...you didn’t end up fucking other men because you fell in love. You did it out of spite for me and, now with Victor, just a fun time in the sac. You can never compare what I have with Judy to what you did.”

“You’re right.”

Gene’s arms dropped not believing what he was hearing. Betsy never just gave up and said he was right...with anything.

“You’re right. And I want you to say what you just said about Judy.”

“What?”

“That I didn’t fall in love with other men,” she looked him square in the eyes, “Have you fallen in-love with Garland?”

Gene knew the answer. Hell, he and Judy had already admitted it to one another, but now the sound of it made the color drain from his face. Emotions swelled up deep inside of him that even his eyes started to swell up with tears. Betsy could see the sincere shame written on his face, she could see him fighting his demons.

“I’m an honorable man,” he said choking up and he pointed at himself whispering, “I’m a good man.”

“Gene,” she sighed, “This isn’t a psychiatrist’s office. The sooner you admit it, maybe the sooner we can move on.”

When he still didn’t say anything, she got angry and impatient and raised her voice, “ADMIT IT!”  

“Yes,” he backed up leaning against the opposite counter and crossed his arms for his own comfort, “I love her.”  

Admitting to my wife that I was in-love with another woman was the hardest thing I ever did. At that point in time, it should have made me feel a little relieved, but it scared the shit out of me. I didn’t regret saying it, because it was true, but it didn’t taste good coming out of my mouth either. I left home shortly after our confrontation, to get my bearings. I chased my bearings all the way to a bar on Highland.

I drank so I could think and then I stopped thinking so I drank some more. I didn’t know how long time had passed as I drank my feelings. I still thought it was light out when a cop showed up inside the bar and ruffled my feathers. Next thing I knew I was in handcuffs. I didn’t know Judy was about to save my ass, and exploit her own.

***

Judy slammed on her breaks in the middle of Hollywood and Vine.  A car swerved around to avoid backending her. She didn’t even notice the driver lay on their horn as they sped past because her eyes were on Gene’s new car parked on the street just up above and a cop car behind it with the lights.  

Judy squinted in the bright nightlife of Highland to see where they were at. Of course, he was parked in front of a bar. What did he get himself into now, she thought. Through the lights of the cop car, Judy noticed Gene being moved towards the police car and he was handcuffed.

“Oh, no,” she cried and got out of her car.

Judy rushed up to them, startling the cop some. Gene looked worse for wear. His eyes were half shut, so he didn’t notice her yet. When she spoke, he did.

“Officer, what do you think you’re going?”

Gene’s eyes popped open and he immediately turned to look away from her more annoyed than embarrassed, “Christ.”

“Ma’am, do you mind. I’m doing my job,” the officer said and went to move Gene into the back of the squad car but Judy blocked them.

“I do mind. I mind a lot.”

“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to move.”

“Not until you tell me why you’re arresting him.”

“Judy,” Gene warned her with a slur, clearly drunk.

“No,” she spat back at him.

“This man is being arrested for...”

“Do you know who this man is,” she interrupted.

“I am aware.”

Judy raised her eyebrow, “Mm. Do you know who *I* am?”

“I recognize ya, Miss Garland, and with all do respect, none of that is relevant right now. He is being charged with public intoxication and aggravation and resisting arrest.”

“Resisting arrest? He looks pretty calm to me.”

“He wasn’t in the bar. Now, if you’ll kindly move so I can...”

“Officer, please,” she said with her most put-on, sweetest voice she could muster up.

“Oh, here she goes,” Gene murmured all too familiar with her ‘Dorothy’ voice.

“I know this man very well. He’s never been arrested before. He’s a good, decent citizen. If he was aggravated, it’s because he’s been going through hell lately. Can you please just let him go with a warning? Please?”

Gene looked at the officer and saw the man was falling for her charms.

“It is a first offense...” the officer looked at Gene...”I suppose I can let you off with a warning but I can only release you to a spouse, next of kin or significant other.”

“Can you release him to me? I promise I won’t let him drive. I’ll take him straight home.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Garland. Policy stats only to spouse, next of kin or significant other. How about a wife, Mr. Kelly?”

“Might as well throw me behind bars,” Gene stated.

Judy licked her lips nervously and looked at them back and forth before she blurted out, “I’m his significant other.”

Gene looked over at Judy wide eyed.

“And I’ll sign whatever you need me to, to prove it.”

***

The sun was shining bright into the master bedroom of Judy’s apartment as Gene walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. He smiled as Judy stirred and hopped onto the bed making her sleepily moan.

“Good morning,” he said cuddling her from behind.

“Don’t you have a hangover,” she mumbled sleepy.

“I did, but the shower washed it away. You should have joined me.”

When his lips landed upon her neck, Judy flinched and swatted him away.

“Nah, uh. You’re not getting off that easily.”

Gene chuckled, “No pun intended.”

Judy sat up looking quite serious, “I mean it.”

Gene sighed and laid on his back, his arm resting behind his head.

“I was stupid.”

“Yeah. You almost got arrested, buster.”

“Again, I was stupid.”

“You want to finally tell me what happened yesterday?”

Gene sighed and held his palm out for her to link her fingers with this which she did.

“I drank my feelings.”

“Your feelings?”

Gene nodded, “But first, would you like to tell me why you lied to me?”

“What on earth did I lie to you about?”

“That everything was fine when Betsy came and got Kerry.”

Judy lowered her eyes and her hand started to pull out of his but he grabbed onto it knowing she wanted to escape but if he had to explain, so did she.

“No. Tell me.”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“What she said to you was a big deal. And I reprimanded her already for what she said in front of Kerry.”

“Gene, I let it go in one ear and out the other because I know I would feel the same if I were in her shoes.”

“But if it was Liza, would you have said that in front of her?”

“No, of course not.”

“Exactly. Don’t worry about it. Kerry will be visiting the set. You’ll get to see her.”

“Darling, that’s the least of my worries. I want to know what caused you to get angry enough to nearly be thrown in jail.”  

“Bets and I had a fight. She confronted me about you and I confronted her about her affairs. I laid out some things to her and it shook us both up.”

“Laid of what things?”

Gene sat up and bit on his knuckle, “How I feel about you.”

Judy caught her breath and this time she let her hand slither out of his as she stood up, “What did you tell her?”

“She asked if I fell in love with you,” Gene looked up at her, “I couldn’t deny it.”

“Oh, Gene. You said that...you actually told Betsy?”

“Yeah. Told her I love you.”

“And she kicked you out and you went to the bar?”

“No. Oddly enough she seemed impressed I actually had the guts to admit something like that. She said something about us being able to move on now.”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s why I got drunk, Judy. I don’t exactly know what it means. Does it mean we can move on together from the things we admitted to one another or do we move on from our marriage?”

Their eyes stared as the phone rang, loud and stinging to both their ears. Gene picked up the receiver, but handed it to her, the cords stretching over him.

“Hello? Oh, good morning, Kay. Hm? No, I haven’t. I just woke up. Why? What happened? Yes. Ok. Yeah, I will right now. Ok. Yes, I’ll call you. Bye.”

Judy reached across Gene to hang it up and immediately bounced out the room.

“What’s wrong,” he called out.

“I don’t know. That was Kay. She said I have to look at the morning newspaper right now in the entertainment section.”

Judy opened the front door and the newspaper, as usual, laid on the ground with fresh milk. Bringing both in, Judy didn’t see anything unusual on the front papers. Placing the milk on the counter, Judy opened the paper to the entertainment section. There, on the front page, top billing, is when she saw it.

“GENE!”

Gene had put on his pajama bottoms when he heard Judy’s frightened shriek. Running out of the room, he met her in the kitchen looking at the paper in horror.

“What? Did my almost arrest make it to the papers?”

Looking up, Judy just nodded but didn’t say anything more. Confused, Gene took the paper to read himself.

GENE KELLY NEARLY ARRESTED. PUBLIC INTOXICATION. RELEASED TO JUDY GARLAND. STATES SHE’S SIGNIFICANT OTHER.

Gene didn’t need to read the article. The headline said it all. Folding the paper up, Gene tossed it aside and looked at her. Her hands were locked in a prayer pose under her chin staring at him with big eyes as if waiting his decision. It wasn’t just his decision, however.

“What do you think,” he asked softly.

“We’ve dealt with slander and fake news before.”

“But this time, it’s true.”

“We can deny it.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m tired of hiding,” her eyes teared up.

Gene took a step to her and took her face in his hands, “You realize what that would mean?”

“Aren’t you tired of hiding?”

“I’m tired of hiding and running and lying.”

“Maybe this one, we just leave alone. And let everything else play out the way it’s supposed to.”

“You realize that means sooner or later, we will finally be able to be together...with others knowing about us. I want you to think about this.”

Judy giggled through her tears and reached up to run some damp hair behind his ear, “Darling, I’ve been thinking about this since 1942.”

Gene laughed and kissed her.

“Are you ready,” she asked asking just as softly as he had.

“I’ve been ready since 1942.”