#hardware isn't a personality | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fanaticalthings · 3 months

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Most children, once they've grown up and moved out, sometimes come back to visit their parents to use their house as a sort of personal grocery store

And with Bruce being a literal billionaire whose house is always stocked with food and supplies, the batkids (that aren't living in the manor) definitely visit just for the purpose of taking shit for themselves.

---

For Dick, it's just small things, food and maybe some utensils. Bruce is barely in the kitchen so he never notices dishes go missing, and there are like 10 other children in his house so literally any one of the younger kids could've stolen food in the middle of the night, so he doesn't bat an eye at all.

Babs probably steals Bruce's hardware or his tools from the batcave. Sometimes, if she's nice, she'll leave a note.

Steph probably takes shit that no one will notice at the time but will absolutely be annoyed about when they need said thing. Stapler, soap bars, the microwave plate, etc...(Taking after Jason, she steals the hub caps off the batmobile's tires)

However, for Jason, once his relationship with Bruce is somewhat decent, of course he's gonna be petty and start stealing the more expensive shit in the manor for his apartment. Jason's microwave is broken? The next day, the cave's self-made and enhanced microwave made by Bruce for convenience is just gone.

Jason's feeling a coffee maker for his place? The one in Bruce's study disappears, too.

---

At first, Bruce thinks he's just sleep deprived, but then much bigger things start to go missing, like the whole TV and couch set in the living room. He assumes the younger kids are just playing pranks on him (sounds like something Stephanie would do) but then Bruce notices that the thief deliberately avoids stealing things from the kitchen, which is where Alfred is most of the time, and suddenly Bruce has an irritated clue on who the culprit is.

At first, he doesn't say anything, until one day he comes back, tired from a patrol, and is about to log in all the info on the computer only to realize his batchair is gone. That's when he texts Jason a blunt "If you really need things for your place, you can just ask me. I'll buy them for you." (As if Jason himself isn't loaded from his totally legal activities)

---

So now Jason's pettiness levels increase tenfold, and oh, wouldn't you look at it, his bike needs some new tires, and he knows a great place to get some more.

One night, Bruce is just blearily getting up for a late night snack, only to see Damian scamper away with a...lamp? So Bruce immediately follows him into the foyer only to see ALL of his kids (sans the ones not living in the manor), trying to haul two arm chairs out the window, and they just stop dead silent to stare at him until someone whispers a nervous "Crap"

Bruce doesn't even have any energy to fight, he just pinches his nose and is all "What is the meaning of this" in his tired dad voice. And Duke meekly responds with "we wanted more chairs at Jason's place"

And suddenly it all makes sense. Not once did Bruce wonder how the HELL Jason managed to lug a whole 60in TV and a full couch set on his own in one night. Of course, he had accomplices. Bruce just turns right around and goes right the hell back to his room to sleep. He'll deal with this in the morning.

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erinaeris · 3 months

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Laios Touden and the Responsibility of Power

First off, let me gush just a bit about how fucking STRONK this man is. Olympic weightlifters are dying of sheer envy and lust over this man. He is a FUCKING POWERHOUSE.

My favorite panels ever, and judging by the cropping of the second photo, Tumblr agrees.

AHEM, where was I?

Ah yes. He's not just strong and incredibly hot, my man is literally an invasive species in this dungeon. He knows every single weak spot of every monster Thistle tried to throw at him and when he finds it he just fucking RAMS HIMSELF AT THEM AND TAKES THEM DOWN.

And when he's a dwarf HE LITERALLY BENDS STEEL.

"Beat Namari at arm wrestling"? My boy, she wouldn't let you anywhere near because you'd FUCKING BREAK HER HER HAND ALONG WITH THE TABLE. (It's such a fucking shame we didn't see Senshi at least raising an (perfectly plucked except it just grows that way naturally) eyebrow in the background when he sees this. Alas, he was too distracted by his hair.)

But I mentioned responsibility, didn't I? Strength is power in the dungeon, and we all knows what comes with great power. And Laios is, in fact, very responsible with that power!

(Futther examples under the cut, wee bit spoilers for anime watchers)

This scene lives rent-free in my head forever, because of two things: Thistle suddenly realizing just what the hell he's up against,

And Laios breaking Thistle's arm.

Now, I think Laios didn't mean to actually break his arm here, he's just half-blind and dizzy and knows he has to restrain Thistle or it will all go to shit. So that's what he does. The move you see above is a restraining hold. The point is that the person pinned down can't struggle much because the position of the arm presses the suprascapular nerve, so it hurts a lot, but unless they're held that way for too long they'll be fine.

But Thistle is TINY and elves are generally fine-boned. I think Laios really did just underestimate his strength.

And the moment the dragons aren't an IMMEDIATE THREAT anymore?

Laios heals him. Thistle's a better mage than him by miles, he could have done it himself. But no. Laios does it. He was too rough, too careless with his strength, and he immediately backtracked, fixed what he broke, and continued with more mindfullness.

And these are just the examples that stuck in my mind the most. And it happens often enough that the team isn't even fucking surprised! Laios' strength would 100% scare people who only saw him in a barfight and didn't know anything else about him. Hell, the other adventurers they meet fucking quiver before this guy who just took down a monster they had nightmares about in one blow, up until he opens his mouth and they relax. You put more malevolent software in that sort of hardware and he'd be the next Shadow Governor.

But Laios is Laios. He's a gentle soul at heart (a Great Pyrenese, specifically, the gentlest souls ever unless you're out for their flock) and he is VERY CAREFUL with his strength, ESPECIALLY around his team. Chilchuck, who is literally half his size and underfed to boot, can smack Laios as much as he wants with ZERO fear because Laios is aware he can hurt Chilchuck by literally tripping over him, so he just stays still and lets Chilchuck smack at him. I'd be surprised if he ever managed to leave a bruise. Chilchuck has to aim at Laios' weak spot (back of the knee here) just to get Laios to notice him!

But because I have some experience with marital arts and close combat, I think the fight with Shuro exemplifies my point so fucking well! Laios is HURT here, he's living every autistic person's worst nightmare.

And he HOLDS BACK. His restraint is fucking IMMACULATE.

Shuro is fucking lucky Laios still liked him when he started talking shit, because he would have broken his spine otherwise. Laios doesn't even take the fight seriously! He starts with a fucking SLAP.

Shuro retaliates with an actual punch (that does nothing but piss him off)

Laios wobbles. Shuro HITS THE DIRT.

And this is the part where he realizes just how outside his weight category he is. Shuro definitely has technique on his side, but that means jackshit when you need ten blows to to even bruise your opponent, but one hit from them will leave you drinking through a straw for a week. For a second there, Shuro thought he was in ACTUAL DANGER.

But instead of finishing the job, Laios tries to talk him down, which just sets him off again. Man was at his fucking LIMIT, and it snapped. Self-preservation who?

And the best part is? Shuro is throwing all his strength behind his punches and Laios just takes them, but Laios? He mostly pushed Shuro around!

They're mostly grappling here, precisely because Laios is very conscious his friend is pretty fragile right now.

And when he does have enough?

Shuro is flat on the ground again, and Laios has a black eye and a bloody nose. He sits down and five minutes later he's ready to go! Like yes, Shuro was at a low point here, but he's been mowing through monsters at only a bit slower pace than Laios' party. He's no weakling regardless. And Laios had to HOLD BACK SO HE WOULDN'T HURT HIM. And it's so obvious that Maizuru takes one look at the two of them and leaves them to their toussling.

When I saw her reaction I had to scroll back and take another look, because I was sure she would intervene! But she doesn't! She is aware of Laios' strength, she has to be, and she doesn't lift a finger to help her precious charge. She knows the big dog he's wrestling with knows to watch his strength.

And that's my whole point: my boi is STRONK AF! And he is very aware of his strength, and how he could hurt the people around him is he wasn't careful, so he is ALWAYS CAREFUL. He has deeply internalized the fact that to have strength is to be careful with it, to use it in service of people rather than to hurt them (possibly from his dad). He is going to SUCH a good king! He's not going to like the job but by GOD he will do it really well.

And I will give my right arm to see a fic about the first corrupt lord/governor/courtier who attempts to misuse their authority for their own gain. Kabru's gonna have to talk Laios out of an execution.

#dungeon meshi #laios touden #delicious in dungeon

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b1rds3ye · 1 year

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AAAA i loved that 141 + masked reader one!! omg you're filling my head with mask ideas now...

what if reader had one of those LED masks that showed different facial expressions? just walking around going ":D" ":]" "^-^" "?" ">:(" as a substitute of their real expressions. omfg imagine them coming back from a mission and price is praising them on their work or smth and they just hit him with the "uwu"

I'm glad so many people are liking the prompt, I had a lot of fun with it too!! This is very much giving me Watch Dogs 2 Wrench but also Rina Tennoji omg there are so many legendary masked characters-

The rest of the 141 were confused at first. While the mask provided anonymity, there was also the benefit of hiding facial information to an enemy. But now with these LEDs your emotions could be read like an open book, but ultimately they found it endearing.

Soap in particular loves your mask. Johnny loves surprising you to generate "!"s over the eyes and finds himself smiling every time your mask switches to a new emotion. As demolition expert, he prides himself over the one time he got you so riled up that an error message flashed across your mask. He's also genuinely curious about the mask and will gladly try to help if there are any technical difficulties or if you want a hardware upgrade. He's also the most unnerved out of the 141 if you ever turn the LEDs off, immediately by your side to comfort you as he can no longer read your mood.

Gaz doesn't often provoke you but he does find himself snickering whenever your expressions change from others. It's also an easy way for Kyle to keep track of how you're feeling, even when no one's around your mask automatically goes ";-;" when you're feeling down and he'll check up on you. Whenever he does make a joke though, he's immediately looking to your mask to see if someone will appreciate his humour. He also wishes you turned off your mask more during missions, the little angry face your mask makes isn't intimidating in the slightest and he can't risk getting distracted cooing over you during an op.

Ghost is very curious. Your own mask has him wondering if his own needs a bit of an upgrade - perhaps an LED skull mask with a moving lower jaw. Simon's heart warms up a bit at how you've picked a mask that's still so comically expressive, he enjoys interacting with someone that's so upfront with their emotions. He won't admit it but he finds it cute how your mask goes "-_-" whenever he says one of his horrendous "military humour" jokes. He's considerate of your mask and ensures that there is no water or liquids nearby.

Price's first concern was practicality (how the hell were you going to use night-vision?) but once the mask seems to work without a hitch, he now checks on your mask to not only gauge your mood but as a visual indicator of the overall atmosphere among the rest of the task force. You're now his favourite person to praise. He doesn't give it freely of course, but most of his subordinates will try to hide their smiles as they glow under his praise as they keep up their tough soldier persona. You though? The sudden "! o !" and then consequential "^_^" as you walk away with a hop in your step is probably the sweetest thing he's seen in his entire military career.

It's all fun and games until you turn off the LEDs - usually done in dark/covert missions or when you're interrogating the enemy. That's when you're truly unreadable, a masked terror. As you eliminate enemies in close combat the last thing they will see is their own face contorted into absolute terror as it is faintly reflected like a memory against the bottomless darkness of your visor.

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

#cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x you #task force 141 x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #anon mail ❤️#/*avery actually writes*/#/*avery checks the mailbox*/#/*cod x masked reader*/

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jolapeno · 8 months

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1. butterscotch orange

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter one of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.3k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over <redacted>. frankie being a single!dad to a son. coffee date. an: it is finally here! this little thing has rotted me from the inside out and nothing brings me more joy than a romcom. so here we go. buckle in. all hail @secretelephanttattoo for the wondrous idea and support (seriously thank you, i know you know ily, but i don't think I've been this happy writing something in so long). a thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who i forced to read this when we had our sleepover, ily.

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics [winks]

IF I CAN DO IT, ANYONE CAN DO IT. ALL YOU NEED—

It rings, echoes through your skull.

Has been doing so the whole ride over—your groan doing nothing to dilute it, even as you kill the engine of your car and are welcomed with silence.

There’s an element of regret you feel thrumming in you since discovering that perky voice, her high-pitched excitement becoming the bane of your existence. Forever replaying in your head. Regardless of whether it is actually playing. It remains on a loop in your mind—all light and sweet—grating on you from the amount you’ve had to watch it, just to get to this stage.

Realistically, you know you shouldn’t hate the voice, because it has been helpful—in that effortlessly playful way that’s kind of begun to fuck you off.

But then, you’re not even sure if any voice would fare much better. Because you just don’t feel like it’s just that easy—so possible, all simple and quick to do.

Because DIY apparently isn't that trouble-free for you. The bandaids on your palm, fingers, and forearm are proof of it.

Yet, somehow you’re outside of a hardware store.

One that Google promises will have all you need and more. Not that you know what that is.

The only thing you do know is that it at least gives you another reason to focus on something other than the mountain of boxes that never end. The ones not unpacked. In the home that’s now only slowly beginning to feel more like yours, and not the people you purchased it from.

Eyes flicking over the front of the store, the clutter of things all left outside—in judging various shades of buckets and plastic garden chairs—before your eyes land on the door to Harold’s Hardware.

There’s no breeze, but the door moves ever so slightly. Sitting, slightly ajar, as though once—a long time ago—it fit in the frame perfectly, but now remained warped and unwilling to even try. Then there’s the glass, all smeared and sitting inside (what you assume) would have been a bright-white frame that’s slightly yellowed and has been adorned in scuffs, swinging in its layered overuse.

But, at least it’s visited, you think. Shoving open the door, a bell sounds in some distant corner, ringing, it almost muffled by the voice from the video continuing to play in the space between your ears—a to-do list, a handful of items required, listing themselves on a never-ending loop, the billionth play through since you’d woken up.

It’s so much bigger inside than you banked on. Jaw-ticking to the side, eyes marvelling at the floor-to-ceiling display and the array of things all living and existing under hanging signs that appear worn and peeling.

With each second, more and more of the charm comes to you.

That there’s a radio, crackling away, a song from decades gone by playing with difficulty, as an array of scents swirl, fighting themselves for your attention. But, two stand out, fresh-cut wood and lemon disinfectant. The latter you assume kills dirt but doesn’t make the floor tiles gleam in the way they once did. Scuff marks adorning well-walked paths. But the former, you gravitate more to, wish for it to fill your nose and remain with you long after your visit.

Adjusting the strap of your bag, you glance about again, almost fidgeting your feet in your shoes, before it dawns on you. Slams into you as you flick your gaze from sign to sign—

You haven’t got a clue about where to start.

Listing the things from memory—suddenly distant and difficult to find amongst the dooming overwhelm—as your feet begin moving of their own accord. Choosing an aisle, selecting it—all eeny-meeny-miny-mo.

Because better that, than standing aimless, lost. Watched on some flickering CCTV in the back where you assume the person who works here is.

Dragging your eyes, scanning them up and down, taking in the varying types of paint brushes, different thicknesses, different intentions. Moving from single purchase to grouped, to multi-packs, and landing finally on rollers before you’re turning, heading down an entirely different aisle.

The next isn’t any less overwhelming.

If anything, it’s more, because it’s at least more of what you needed.

Screws, bolts, fixings.

Your brain assessing, attempting to assemble whether a bolt is what you need, a screw or—

“You need a hand?”

It throws you off, the voice.

Cuts through your processing, through the low replays of the video (the ones only in your head) and the cracking radio which has moved into an advert for migraines.

It’s low, a slight gravel that he rids with a clear of his throat as you look over your shoulder, eyes sweeping over the owner of the voice, eventually turning to face him.

And fuck.

He’s broad, dressed in a deep green t-shirt under a tan apron—name badge scratched over, only leaving the lingering marks of a “here to help” and the fading logo you’d seen outside.

You don’t mean to gawk, but yet you do all the same.

Practically swallowing, attempting to whir your brain into gear as you take in the rest of him. The thick loose curls atop his head, the strong nose and the round-brown eyes. His moustache, the wiry facial hair across his chin he slowly begins to scrape at, as he remains waiting for a response.

“Screws.”

“You… you need screws?”

Nodding, you will your brain to work, to function. But, he’s just so—

Lifting his chin, he runs his thumb up and down the underside of his chin, waiting, waiting, until he smiles. “Do you know the kind?”

Think. Think. Fucking think.

And then you do. Somehow able to unspool some thoughts, find sentences. Beginning to explain, in barely-there pauses and animated hand gestures about your move, and your new lease of life, and this video you found and how you felt inspired by it to the point it had led you to order wood cut to size and tools from the internet, but screws, screws and this and that are all that you’d forgotten.

And, he listens. Sliding a hand over the sleeve of his sun-scorched tee as he does. Just nodding on occasion. Thin lines appear along his forehead at certain parts of the story, but nonetheless listening.

“Show me.”

“Show… you?”

Then he smiles. Soft, it slides up in a slow, almost cautious way, but then it’s at his eyes, touching, brushing itself there and sending sparks up into the darker brown flecks.

Licking his lips, he gestures, “The video.”

You do.

A quick shuffle in your pocket, a slide to unlock your phone and then your fingers are brushing his. They’re warm, his. That you can tell.

Heat radiating from them, slowly blanketing yours as his hand and yours cradle the phone like a newborn in an announcement photo.

From there, your chest tightens, more so when you meet his eyes, finding them watching you as intently as you wish to look at him, and it makes your heart stammer, skip—a full chaos of beats following before he’s holding your phone independently.

That’s when a new crisis calls. A new thought is all set to erode your mind.

Because your phone looks tiny in his hand.

The plastic case is almost dwarfed by him as he tips his chin, watching the video, occasionally tapping at the screen to skip ahead before he nods to himself, you all but busy trying not to choke on your own drool.

“I know what you need.”

“You do?”

A foolish question, all escaping without thought or rationale.

He just smiles, in a way that seems to settle your incoming anxiousness.

“I do.”

And he does.

A tilt of his head, his back turned to you, a brief thought crossing your brain at the sight but you quickly rid, and you’re following. Listening as he explains, as he points out things with his long, thick finger, as you nod, as though nothing lives in the space between both of your ears.

It isn’t until you’re back in your car that it hits you. Do you suddenly wish as your engine ignites and your car roars to life, that you had asked for his number—or better yet, his name.

It’s been days, and you’re still wondering if some part of you’d concocted him, made him up—thrown up an illusion of a man and exaggerated how good he looked.

The more you thought about him, the more insane it got. Even hearing yourself explain it to a friend made you question if you'd been dreaming. That maybe you’d let days mould him, shaping perfection in your consciousness.

It has more weight when you walk past the older man at the till, all white hair in a slick-back style and who tips his head and looks more what you’d expect from the decor of the place.

But a part, one fighting, scrapping for a moment to exist, still believes. Hopes.

Forcing your legs to wander down aisles you don’t need, pausing at each corner, desiring to be proven wrong. Hovering, hoping—half-wondering if it was essential that to make him appear, you had to look lost and hopeless—or whether that had just been a coincidence that first time.

With each up and down, you almost give up. Hope almost gone, erasing itself with each step, all but fading.

But there, in the centre of the paint aisle, speckled in dried flecks, it clinging in varying shades—a kaleidoscope dream on his jeans and worn t-shirt—is him. The man you haven't stopped thinking about.

"It's you."

"It's me," you grin, heat flooding your cheeks, growing up into your neck.

Arm lifting, hand brushing the back of his curls not housed in a cap, as he matches your grin. "New project?"

"Something like that."

His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't lessen, not as his grin slopes into a shy smile, before he wipes his hand on his jeans, offering it out. "Realised... I never... I'm Frankie, by the way."

You hand him your name, dropping an octave as you do—all unmeaning, entirely accidental—fingers sliding past his as you shake his hand.

“I don’t… you’ve not got your apron on.”

Glancing down, you find him grinning when he looks up, “Not my day today. Here on personal business.”

“Oh is…” squinting at the paint can in his hand, “Butterscotch Orange on a hit list or something?”

His lips slide into his cheek, a tooth-filled smirk. “Should be, it’s a right bitc—pain in the ass to sell.”

Rolling your lips, you trace your tongue across your teeth as you grin. “It’s no…” eyes squinting. “Mt Rainier Grey.”

His brow arches. “That your shade of choice?”

“I like it—don’t hate the orange though. So, maybe it’s not the paint, but the seller.”

Something twinkles in his eye, lips still cocked to one side, smirk still ever-present.

And it’s a challenge to drag your eyes to look at the floor, you shift your weight. Trying, and failing, to think of an excuse, to leave before it gets weird—before you become too much and ruin this nondescript thing. But, his throat clearing stops you. It forces your chin up. Barely just able to catch it, the whisper, how it’s almost said to the can in his hand than to you.

“You… doing anything right now?”

Shaking your head slowly, you bite your cheek as you grin. “Just talking to a man holding a paint can.”

Tapping his fingers along the top, lips rolling, “You fancy getting a coffee? With me?”

You have to bite your smile, out of fear you’ll show how practically beaming you are. Mouth opening, but he adds an addition of I don’t usually do this that makes your lips curl into a smirk.

“What? Invite random customers for coffee or accost them with paint you can’t sell?”

Biting his upper lip, he shakes his head, tucking a curl behind his ear as your eyes glance over at them. How they glisten under the yellow-fluorescent light.

Letting your heart dance like leaves in the wind. “I’d love to get coffee with you, Frankie.”

It’s nice, the coffee place.

Not a far walk, a few doors down. The charm of it coaxes you in with sounds of crunching beans and strong scents of varying levels of caffeine sliding over and relaxing your shoulders from your ears.

Because suddenly you’re nervous.

A slight shake to your bones, a twitch of your fingers.

“Let me get this.”

Smiling, you find him watching you, not caring to drag his eyes away when you catch him.

“Because you never do this or because you’re hoping to persuade me to buy your unsellable paint?”

Smirking, he traces his eyes over you, “Both.”

The corner of his mouth slides back into his cheek, a dimple appearing, deepening—one you want to brush over with your thumb the longer he keeps looking at you the way he does.

All dark eyes, beedy, but sparkling.

'Who's next?' breaks the spell. Shatters the magic. It forces you both to blink, to focus on the task at hand. Both orders said, whirring and crunching sounding as you admire the place, glaze over the menu until he’s nudging you.

With your order in hand and tucked away in the corner—the large window letting in light and warmth from the sun on your back—you try not to moan at the taste of your drink once it hits your tongue.

Because it’s good. Brilliant, practically everything.

To the point you have to bite back a thank you, one that you feel would be never-ending, a constant swirl of words landing on the circular table between the two of you. Nothing napkins and good conversation could soak up.

Because good coffee is always great, but knowing where to find it in an unknown place is something else.

Distantly, you hear him say your name, chin dipped, eyes focused, realising—in a flood of embarrassment—he’s been talking to you.

“Sorry?”

“I said, I’ve not seen you in the store before…”

Swallowing, you take a steadying breath.

“You don’t have to…”

But, you do all the same. You pour open small bits of truth, words falling, tumbling half-strung together as your history rolls out in a timeline in front of you both. How you’d bought a new place, that it’s a bit run down, seen better days—a determination to prove friends wrong by doing it yourself.

Foolish, you comment with a shake of your head, I know fuck all about decorating.

And he listens—to the fact you’re alone, not even a pet; he listens even as you talk about your work, all boring, not entirely interesting. The two of you simply lost in one another, surrounded by coffee mug swirls and the sounds of sizzling food, coffee shop noises and mumbling daytime talk as you ask him about work, about his love for orange shades.

And your eyes glance down at his phone, how it’s turned over—his all undivided attention given to you—yet your eyes linger on the phone case. The one with a drawing, likely in pencil, a man in a hat on a hill, a child next to him and a sun with a smile on its face.

“I… I have a kid. Luca—shared custody,” he says, nodding, tongue peeking out between his teeth, hands leaving the table and wiping back on his jeans in slow slides up and down. “He… he made it me.”

It’s the grin that makes your heart swell.

Makes your hand cup your mug a little tighter so you don’t offer it out to him to hold, a thing which feels so natural, no thought required. Except you don’t know his last name—barely know a thing about him.

Yet, your body practically leans forward as you mirror the smile—all soft, as another piece of a missing puzzle sliding into place.

“Does he like drawing?”

Laughing, his palm slides along his jaw. “Loves it.”

“How old?”

“Five—does that… does that bother you?”

“That you’re a dad?” He nods, and you lick your lips, you make sure to hold his gaze. “Not in the slightest.”

You smile, watching him mirror you this time. It rushes out, kissing across every bit of his face—a shyness soon fluttering over him before he clears his throat.

“So, you freelance? You like being your own boss?”

“Not especially, but it does mean I can work at night.”

Nodding, he slides his hand around the white porcelain, hand practically dwarfing the mug. It makes you want to ask him to hold things, to see if IKEA pencils or children’s eating utensils look more ridiculous than your iPhone and a regular coffee mug.

“Prefer the night?”

“I prefer the quiet of it... to think. It’s why… why I began trying to do something in the day, needed to still be busy.”

“Sitting still not an option, Rainier Grey?”

Shrugging, you smile. “Says you Butterscotch and your three tins of unsellable paint in the bed of your truck.”

“You got me there.”

“I just… like to be busy, and with the new house, no partner—commitments, I thought why not try a bit of DIY.”

Nodding, he lifts his mug, and takes a sip—eyes remaining fixed on you as he does, as though it buys him time, lets him think up an opinion, an assessment. It makes your skin warm, but for all the uncomfortable reasons, the panicking ones—parts of you beginning to catastrophise that you’ve said the wrong thing.

“Open up your Instagram.”

You stare, blinking.

“Trust me.”

And you do. With another fumble, another slide of your phone screen open, and you follow his instructions as you type in the spelling he gives you. When you click the page, it’s hard not to grin, to not have your face explode into a smile so large it cuts into your cheeks.

“I don’t like to sit still either,” Frankie adds, as though the thousand photos and videos, the tutorials and follower count don’t say that on their own.

You’ve fallen down a hole—willingly.

It cracked open the moment you’d sat on your couch, drink in hand, blanket half over your body.

The moment you’d begun your scroll, you discovered you couldn’t stop. Starting with the latest and moving back, until you realise you’d rather see the story in the way it happened.

Choosing a moment, almost nine months ago, before you work your way forward to the present.

You were cautious, more careful than needed, to not like anything too late—to not give away how deep into his page you’d gone. Even if you were in awe, a little proud—your cheeks a little warm and lips turned up into your cheek—as you saw in real-time his confidence grow. The way he’d look at the camera, began experimenting with angles, all in all being smoother, more happy.

You suppose that’s why you type a comment under one picture:

Is that butterscotch orange in the flesh? 🟠

Stalking me are you?

Getting some tips from Mr DIY himself.

I know you went back some months, Rainy.

How do you know that?

Because as soon as you commented that’s what I did. You looked nice at the beach.

Now who’s the stalker, Butterscotch.

Me. Clearly. I’m being very upfront about it.

Out of interest, do you tutor at all? Give hands on help to beginner DIYers?

You genuinely asking or flirting?

Big-headed much?

I can help you with something if you need it.

I think I do.

Then I’m yours. Don’t worry, I promise to only snoop in your drawers when left alone.

Think we should get food first, show you what I’m thinking—make sure you’re up to the task.

You asking me on a date?

No. But if you keep showing off tools topless I’ll be tempted to ask you.

Knew you’d gone back further than a month.

FRANKIE’S INSTAGRAM 🌝

NEXT CHAPTER

an: you do not understand how giddy i am about this series. the chapters have flown out of me. i hope you enjoy it half as much as i'm enjoying writing it. see you soon xx

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #pedrostories

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lotus-tower · 8 months

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The Swiss Cheese Model of Covid Prevention

An edited version of the swiss cheese model tailored towards the measures that you as an individual can take to minimize your risk of infection. Public health is ultimately what its name implies, public, but that doesn't mean you're powerless.

Covid prevention is not all-or-nothing. Think of it as risk reduction, rather than a binary.

Let's go through these step by step.

VACCINES

The current vaccines are meant primarily to reduce chances of severe illness, hospitalization, and death. They will reduce your chance of infection a bit--but not nearly as much as you might think. You should still get your boosters regularly, because avoiding severe illness is of course worth doing.

If you haven't gotten the updated monovalent vaccine yet, go get it. It is not a booster. Think of it as a new vaccine. It's targeted towards the XBB lineages, which are now the most common variants. Your last boosters were likely of the bivalent type, aimed at both the original Covid strain from 2020 and Omicron. The new vaccine is monovalent, meaning it targets one family in particular.

Some studies suggest that the Novavax vaccine, which is a more traditional protein-based vaccine, is more effective and safer than mRNA vaccines, and offers better protection against future variants. Of course, the data we have so far isn't 100% conclusive (the last paper I linked is a preprint). Make of these findings what you will, just something to keep in mind. The new Novavax vaccine's availability is still limited, especially outside of the US.

MASKS

Masking is one of the most effective ways to protect yourself. While it is true that masking and reducing Covid transmission protects those around you, the idea that masks can't protect the wearer is outdated information from the early days of the pandemic when medical authorities refused to acknowledge that Covid is airborne.

The key to protecting yourself is to wear a well-fitting respirator. You want to minimize any gaps where air might leak out. If your glasses get fogged up, that's a sign that air is leaking.

Headbands will always have a tighter fit than earloop masks (and therefore provide better protection). However, you can use earloop extenders to improve the fit of earloop masks. You can find these online. Your comfort in wearing a mask is important, but there are options for compromise.

The above graphic doesn't include elastomeric respirators. While some (like the Flo Mask) are expensive, they can be much more affordable than buying disposables--look for P100 respirators at your local hardware store, but make sure it fits your face well.

For more general information, see this FAQ. For mask recommendations (NA-centric, sorry!), see my list here or Mask Nerd's YouTube channel.

For situations where you need to hydrate but don't want to take your mask off, consider the SIP valve.

Not even N95s are foolproof (N95 means it filters at least 95% of particles--with the other 5% potentially reaching you). Most people will likely not have a perfect fit. There will be situations where you'll have to take your mask off. The key is risk reduction, and that's why the Swiss cheese model is crucial.

If you can't afford high-quality masks, look for a local mask bloc or other organization that gives out free masks. Project N95 has unfortunately shut down. In Canada, there's donatemask.ca.

AVOID CROWDED INDOOR SPACES

This is rather self-explanatory. Indoor transmission is much, much, much more likely than outdoor transmission. If it's possible to move an activity outdoors instead, consider doing so.

If possible, try going to places like stores or the post office during less busy hours.

Viral particles can stay in the air for a considerable amount of time even after the person who expelled them has left. Do not take off your mask just because no one is currently present, if you know that it was previously crowded.

A CO2 monitor is a decent proxy for how many viral particles may have accumulated in the air around you. The gold standard is the Aranet4, but it's expensive, so here are some more affordable alternatives.

VENTILATION AND AIR FILTERS

Ventilation is effective for the same reason that outdoors is safer than indoors. If it's warm enough, keep windows open whenever possible. If it's cold, even cracking them open occasionally is better than nothing. Try to open windows or doors on different sides of a room to maximize airflow.

HEPA air filters can significantly reduce viral transmission indoors. Make sure to find one suitable for the room size, and replace the filters regularly. You want to look for devices with HEPA-13 filters.

You can use websites like these to calculate how long it takes for a device to change all the air in a room. Remember what I said about viral particles being able to hang around even after people have left? If an air purifier provides 2 air changes per hour, that means that after 30 minutes, any potential viral particles should be gone.

If you can't afford a commercial air filter, here's a useful DIY filter you can make with relatively simple materials. The filtration capacity is great--but due to being built with duct tape, replacing filters will be a challenge.

If you have to hold meetings or meet with people at work, having a smaller filter on the desk between you will also reduce chances of infection.

As a bonus, HEPA filters will also filter out other things like dust and allergens!

REDUCE LENGTH OF EXPOSURE IF EXPOSURE IS UNAVOIDABLE

Viral load refers to the amount of virus in a person's blood. If you've been exposed to someone with Covid, how much you've been exposed matters.

You might escape infection if the viral load you've been exposed to is very small. Or, even if you get infected, there will be less virus in you overall, leading to milder illness--and crucially, a lower chance of the virus penetrating deep into your body, creating reservoirs in your organs and wreaking long-term havoc.

A low viral load is also less contagious.

This is the same reason that wearing your mask most of the time, but having to take it off for eating, is still much better than not wearing your mask at all.

RECHARGEABLE PORTABLE AIR FILTERS

You might attract some odd looks. But if you're at high risk or just want to be as protected as possible, small portable air filters can help. Try to find models small enough to take with you on public transportation, to school, or while traveling.

These devices will be far too small to clean the air in the whole room. The goal is to have it filter air in your immediate vicinity. Be sure to angle the device so that the air is blowing in your face.

Unfortunately, rechargeable devices are much rarer and harder to find than normal air filters, and many are also expensive.

The best option at the moment, apart from DIY (which is possible, but you need to know what you're doing), seems to be the SmartAir QT3. The size and shape are a bit clunky, but it fits in a backpack. Its battery life isn't long, but it can be supplemented with a power bank.

NASAL SPRAYS

There's some research that suggests that some nasal sprays may be effective in reducing risk of infection by interfering with viruses' ability to bind to your cells.

These sprays are generally affordable, easy to find, and safe. The key ingredient is carrageenan, which is extracted from seaweed. So there are no potential risks or side effects.

Be sure to follow the instructions on the packaging carefully. Here's a video on how to properly use nasal sprays if you've never used them before.

Covixyl is another type of nasal spray that uses a different key ingredient, ethyl lauroyl arginate HCI. It also aims to disrupt viruses' ability to bind to cell walls. Unfortunately, I think it's difficult to obtain outside of the US.

CONCLUSION

None of the methods listed here are foolproof on their own. But by layering them, you can drastically reduce your chances of infection.

The most important layers, by far, are masking and air quality. But you should also stay conscientious when engaging with those layers. Don't let yourself become complacent with rules of thumb, and allow yourself to assess risk and make thought out decisions when situations arise where you might have to take off your mask or enter a high-risk indoor area, such as a hospital.

Remember that the goal is risk reduction. It's impossible to live risk-free, because we live among countless other people. But you can use knowledge and tools to keep yourself as safe as possible.

#covid #this took a while... i feel like i forgot stuff #but i can't think of what atm

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ms-demeanor · 4 months

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Three weeks ago:

New Guy: Hey I need pricing for a battery and RAM for this customer's laptop.

Me: Sure, ninety dollars total.

New Guy: (read)

New Guy (next day): Did you get me that quote I asked for?

Me, putting the pricing on a quote: Uh, sure, here, ninety dollars total.

Me, to New Guy two days later: Hey did you get a response to that quote? That's for that company's CEO, he wants his laptop back.

Me, the day after that, to myself: That guy isn't going to balk at a hundred dollars for parts, fuck it i'm ordering I can return them if he says no but it's going to take like three days for the battery to get here.

Me, to New Guy the day after that: Hey, did you get approval from the customer to buy those parts? I placed the order but if he doesn't want them I need to know.

Customer, in an email to my boss: Hey why is New Guy telling me that I need to sign a quote? I talked to New Guy and he was prompt and understanding and I approved the parts in the shop that day.

My Boss: You didn't order the parts?

Me: I actually DID order the parts because I figured he'd want his laptop back, but not until yesterday because I didn't know that he'd approved the price.

My Boss: You didn't tell Alli that he approved the price?

New Guy: Well you said we needed to send them a quote.

Me: Did you send them the quote that I put together for you?

New Guy: Well no, because they'd already approved the price.

My Boss: And you didn't tell Alli?

New Guy: I said he wanted his laptop fixed so we needed a price.

Me and My Boss: Great.

*one week later, new guy will be perusing career advancements elsewhere*

Customer, in an email to my boss: I'm sorry to hear that New Guy has moved on, he was wonderful to work with and it can be hard to cope with turnover in an organization. That being said, Alli may be a quality person for you to work with, but is not a person we want to work with, please don't have her handle anything to do with our account.

My Boss: What did you do that they're so mad about?

Me: Literally the only things I've worked with them on in the last four months are two quotes that you requested and sent that they have no idea I worked on, the hardware from New Guy, and a replacement UPS battery that got installed on site on Friday, which we had a bit of a back-and-forth on because the CEO approved the quote with a thumbs-up emoji and we weren't sure if that meant "I understood the explanation of why this battery needs to be replaced and I will think about it" or "I understood the explanation of why this battery needs to be replaced and I would like you to place the order" but we went ahead with the order because I knew they were already pissed about the hesitancy from New Guy.

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tpwrtrmnky · 4 days

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scheme

[ID: Three panel comic with crudely drawn stick people

Panel 1: A grayscale person is talking to a green person.

Grayscale: "Yeah no I just think chromatic people are straight up offputting a lot of the time. Green ones in particular I mean you have it way too easy."

Green: "I know you're chromophobic, you don't need to declare it."

Grayscale: "Wait, hang on".

Panel 2: The grayscale person puts on a green officer hat with a large propeller on it.

Grayscale: "I identify as army green. My hexcode is #CHOPPR. The tables have been turned and you must validate me now."

Panel 3: The green person simply walks away while the grayscale person looks in confusion.

Grayscale: "You have fallen for my brilliant scheme, for how could I possibly be chromophobic when- hey wait where are you going?"

Green: "I have shit to do."

Grayscale: "You have to validate me! Those are your rules!"

Green: "Nah. Military hardware isn't valid. Bye."

End ID.]

Start - Previous - Next

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paused-waterfall · 1 year

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I want to talk about how the qsmp federation dinner blended canon and non-canon "storylines", and just how effective that was for engaging Philza "the fourth wall is for other people and I'll sneak away mid-lore" Minecraft: Those who don't watch Philza streams might not know, but cc!Phil identifying when his eggs are not his eggs is a regular occurrence. He knows when Chayanne's admin is portraying Cucurucho, and when Tallulah's admin is subbing in to play Chayanne. Phil keeps track of which admin is which as a means of judging what scenarios are safe for them. He knows what skills he's taught them and even some of the hardware limitations they're working with. So when someone else steps in to play them, its a risk, because it means he doesn't know how his kids are going to act.

Philza takes about a minute and a half to call out "Tallulah" as not his egg. But if you watch closely, you can see that it took him less than 15 seconds to identify that the wrong person was playing her. Early in the dinner (4:52:50 on Phil's stream), Philza noticed and pointed out to his chat that the chef was lagging in a way that Tallulah normally lags. When "Tallulah" shows up to the dinner, there's a moment when he looks away from her-- he's not scanning for threats, he's checking that the chef was still around. And then giving a knowing look straight to camera. For a bit after that, he keeps looking back at the chef and talking to "Tallulah" like she's real. Because what cc!Phil hasn't decided at that point is whether or not this is canon. He knows the admins have to switch around for practical reasons, which have never been canon before.

But it's already a risk. This might be q!Tallulah, but it definitely isn't the Tallulah that cc!Phil knows how to predict and protect. All of the earnest, half-in-character conversations between Phil and Tallulah's admin about how they both want to keep her safe and how best to accomplish that are suddenly for naught, because the wrong person is on the other side of that screen.

While most of the characters and audience got to doubt reality when the eggs transformed, the same sort of process happened for cc!Phil and his chat as soon as the eggs showed up. What we were doubting was the line between canon and non-canon, but it tapped into much the same emotions while overriding the tongue-in-cheek approach to canon that normally holds sway in Phil's streams.

It's just so cool to see storytellers embrace the limitations of the medium to enhance the story they're telling like this. What a fun stream that was!

#philza #qsmp #qsmp dinner #not!eggs #tallulah #⏸️

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machine-saint · 1 year

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the op of that "you should restart your computer every few days" post blocked me so i'm going to perform the full hater move of writing my own post to explain why he's wrong

why should you listen to me: took operating system design and a "how to go from transistors to a pipelined CPU" class in college, i have several servers (one physical, four virtual) that i maintain, i use nixos which is the linux distribution for people who are even bigger fucking nerds about computers than the typical linux user. i also ran this past the other people i know that are similarly tech competent and they also agreed OP is wrong (haven't run this post by them but nothing i say here is controversial).

anyway the tl;dr here is:

you don't need to shut down or restart your computer unless something is wrong or you need to install updates

i think this misconception that restarting is necessary comes from the fact that restarting often fixes problems, and so people think that the problems are because of the not restarting. this is, generally, not true. in most cases there's some specific program (or part of the operating system) that's gotten into a bad state, and restarting that one program would fix it. but restarting is easier since you don't have to identify specifically what's gone wrong. the most common problem i can think of that wouldn't fall under this category is your graphics card drivers fucking up; that's not something you can easily reinitialize without restarting the entire OS.

this isn't saying that restarting is a bad step; if you don't want to bother trying to figure out the problem, it's not a bad first go. personally, if something goes wrong i like to try to solve it without a restart, but i also know way, way more about computers than most people.

as more evidence to point to this, i would point out that servers are typically not restarted unless there's a specific need. this is not because they run special operating systems or have special parts; people can and do run servers using commodity consumer hardware, and while linux is much more common in the server world, it doesn't have any special features to make it more capable of long operation. my server with the longest uptime is 9 months, and i'd have one with even more uptime than that if i hadn't fucked it up so bad two months ago i had to restore from a full disk backup. the laptop i'm typing this on has about a month of uptime (including time spent in sleep mode). i've had servers with uptimes measuring in years.

there's also a lot of people that think that the parts being at an elevated temperature just from running is harmful. this is also, in general, not true. i'd be worried about running it at 100% full blast CPU/GPU for months on end, but nobody reading this post is doing that.

the other reason i see a lot is energy use. the typical energy use of a computer not doing anything is like... 20-30 watts. this is about two or three lightbulbs worth. that's not nothing, but it's not a lot to be concerned over. in terms of monetary cost, that's maybe $10 on your power bill. if it's in sleep mode it's even less, and if it's in full-blown hibernation mode it's literally zero.

there are also people in the replies to that post giving reasons. all of them are false.

temporary files generally don't use enough disk space to be worth worrying about

programs that leak memory return it all to the OS when they're closed, so it's enough to just close the program itself. and the OS generally doesn't leak memory.

'clearing your RAM' is not a thing you need to do. neither is resetting your registry values.

your computer can absolutely use disk space from deleted files without a restart. i've taken a server that was almost completely full, deleted a bunch of unnecessary files, and it continued fine without a restart.

#i just had to get this out of my mind

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foone · 6 months

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I'm surprised there's not more supernatural spaceship media. Like, your average little cargo ship is jumping around the outer rim trying to cut some time off their delivery route and they pick up a distress call, so they have to answer it.

(under a readmore cause this got a little longer than I expected)

They warp in to the approximate coordinates and there's a colony ship orbiting a gas giant, stuck in the shadow of it, basically frozen over. It's centuries old, but these sleeper ships from the pre-ftl era were built to last, so it's still broadcasting the SOS. It's not responding to radio, so they need to board it.

Normally this'd just involve turning off the SOS. The ship is clearly dead and not responding to any hails, the crew must be long gone and the reactor is just keeping the SOS going. But this is a sleeper ship, so it's possible there's just no one awake. Stuck in longsleep for god knows how many decades, waiting for someone to stumble on their signal...

So they board it, activate the computer, and it tells them that everyone is dead. The ship launched, and over the 358 years it's been traveling for, every single cryo chamber has been either opened or never had any lifesigns in it in the first place. The last event logged on the computer is 136 years ago, when the acting captain set the ship to orbit this gas giant, and turn on the distress signal. Since then, nothing.

But there's still power on the bridge. There may be something there. So they climb up the decks, passing the grim sight of endless rows of cryochambers lined up like tombstones, all showing red lights of lifesign failure. As they get closer to the bridge, the time of deaths get later. The ones on the first deck were close to the launch date, and the ones near the bridge are nearer to that 136 year ago deadline.

This wasn't a hardware failure. Something killed all these people, one by one, over 220 years.

They get to the bridge. The computers are all powered down, but the power management system is still active. Two of the decks still have their cryochambers powered, but it's the ones that were supposed to be empty. There's no lifesigns in them, so the little computer in the power diagnostic system has been recommending they be turned off to save on energy. Naturally it's been recommending that for three and a half centuries. One of the crew members almost absent-mindedly agrees to the prompt, and those cryochambers deactivate. They were empty anyway, right? The sound of humming from the bridge mostly fades away, as a few hundred cryopods on the deck below power down.

The boarding crew powers off the SOS beacon. They'll alert the authorities to the ship's location when they get to a port, surely someone wants to investigate what went wrong here, or at least do an archeological study. This place is beyond an antique at this point... Wait. What's that?

The power computer says there's still one active power draw, about 1.2 kilowatts, in the captain's quarters. That's too much for a personal computer, but just about right for a single cryo pod. Maybe the captain or someone is still alive? That pod isn't on the network, so they can't see the lifesigns from here.

They head over, and the bulkhead door is still cracked open, with a thick cable running in through the gap in the door. Whoever wired this up clearly didn't have time to correctly reroute the power systems, they just lugged a cryo pod in here and basically ran an extension cord to a nearby terminal.

They pry open the door, and there's a softly glowing cryo pod in the middle of the surprisingly spacious room. It makes some amount of sense, generally on these ships the captain would be the one who has to wake up and deal with any situations that arise, while the rest of the colonists are content to sleep until they reach their new home.

They look in the pod, and there's a man lying there. He's not the captain, though. They saw his photo on the bridge. This is someone else. Some one quite pale and gaunt. Maybe they were suffering malnutrition before they put themselves in the pod?

The pod is softly beeping. It's reactivating, apparently triggered when they opened the door. The pod shows no lifesigns, so it's not worth worrying about, the panel sliding over to reveal merely a well preserved corpse.

And then he smiles. "I'm so glad to see you! When we ran out of food we we're afraid we'd never see another human again. And even through those environment suits, I can tell you're so deliciously human." he licks his lips, and the boarding crew spots his prominent canines.

There's a noise halfway between a howl and a shriek from the floor below. The man in the cryopod leans up his head. "ahh, I see you've woken up my children as well. Marvelous. I hope you brought plenty of friends for us to snack on."

The head of the boarding party lifts her arm to call their ship, tell them to get out of there or drop a torpedo into the colony ship's reactor. Before she can bring it to her face to call, there's a flash of motion. Before she can even realize what's happening, the man(?) in the cryopod is up and holding her wrist away from her face.

As she cries out at the sudden pain, the other members of the boarding party spot movement down the hall. A lot of movement. A wall of thin pale people are running towards the captain's quarters, climbing over each other and pushing each other aside, like a pack of wild wolves who just smelled prey.

The boarding party steps back into the room and slams the emergency close. At least in here they only have to deal with one of those things.

The door hits the cable and bounces off with a loud alarm. It fully opens again, ready to let the hungry mass in.

So... Have you ever noticed how much a cryopod looks like a coffin?

#my writing

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cowgurrrl · 4 months

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Strangers

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader (cowgirl!reader???)

Author’s note: goddammit is this gonna be a thing

Summary: Javi struggles to assimilate back into civilian life in Texas until an old friend returns [1.5k]

Warnings: Texas Javi my beloved, language, addictive tendencies, PTSD symptoms, Javi + Steve 4eva, reader has a brother, southernisms, pining, yeah there’s probably gonna be a part two 🙄

Javi really did try his best to leave Colombia and the ghosts that pricked at his memory every time he turned a familiar corner. He wanted to do better. He felt he had to. Too many people died for him to just throw away his chance at life, but the days were long and hot, and he was so fucking tired. The nicotine patches stopped working, and the bottle suddenly wasn't enough to convince himself he was doing what he was sent to do. That he was doing the right thing. That he was a good person.

He expected the feeling to leave him once he left the imaginary borders of Colombia and returned to the northern valley. He thought working with his dad and getting his feet back under him after years of being pushed and pulled at Reagan's whim would feel better than shaking down teenagers for narco information. Of course, it didn't disappear in the cacti and hazy horizons of Loredo or the arms of his father. It's only been a couple of hours, Peña, he thought. Give it some time. Who knows? Blistering Texas sunsets might be good for burning the blood off his hands.

Except everybody in his small town knew of his exploits in Latin America. They knew his name was plastered to boxes full of evidence against the cartel and then some. They knew Chucho's boy was some kind of fucked up veteran or hero or whatever they wanted to call him. He avoided going into town more than necessary when he first got home because of how often he got stopped. It didn't matter if he was going to the hardware store, HEB, or the mechanic. Somebody ended up talking to him about Escobar or Cali. He couldn't escape his past even thousands of miles away from it. The only good thing about his newfound fame was the free drinks people pushed his way in the shit hole bar just on the outskirts of town.

He tells himself to slow down, what with the early mornings and long days he's working, but it'd be a dick move to turn down free drinks, right? Sometimes, Javi loses hours in the bar, betting money on pool, flirting with women passing through town, and telling war stories of the jungle and sicarios and whatever else comes spilling out of his loose lips. He tells himself he's coping the best way he knows how when he comes down for breakfast looking and feeling like shit, his hair practically wet from lingering cigarette smoke, but he knows better.

His dad deals with Javi's vices the same way they dealt with his mother's death: inefficiently and without making a sound. The most Chucho does is shake his head and sigh when Javi comes stumbling in at some ungodly hour. What more could he do? Javi barely told his dad where he was in the world. How was he supposed to tell him what he'd done? What he saw? What he allowed? No, his dad can never know. It'll kill him. It'll kill Javi to retell.

Sometimes, Javi will call Steve and ask about Connie and the kids, and they'll act like they're old school buddies and not tethered together through tragedy and white powder. Steve will ask him about his sleep, and Javi will give some bullshit answer which makes Steve laugh. "Yeah, me too," he says one time. "Woke the baby up the other night 'cause I was talkin' again. Don't even know what about. Isn't that fun?" Javi doesn't give much away. He never does, but sometimes, it's just nice to know he's not alone in his struggle to get back to normal.

Javi is back in town for a full forty days before he finally stumbles across you. At first, he doesn't remember you or your first name. Your last name, however, rattles around his skull until he finally gets the courage to ask if he knows you as he stands in line at the store. "You look familiar." He says, making you laugh.

"I'd hope so. You were practically livin' in my house in high school." You say, throwing him back to his high school baseball days, spending time either in the field or on the ranch with your older brother. You were a little bit younger than him— the daughter of a weathered cattle rancher— and only caught his attention when you were in the way or being an obnoxious teenager. Man, did you grow up pretty, he thinks. Suddenly, he's hyperaware of his sweaty hair, rumpled shirt, and god-awful farmer's tan.

"Last I heard, you'd moved out of town," Javi says, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing you carefully. The freckles dotting your face from all your time in the sun should be considered lethal, especially when you smile.

"Last I heard, you were engaged." Just as you did then, you don't hold your punches. The jab doesn't hurt, but it does make him laugh, an embarrassed blush crawling up his neck.

"Alright, you got me there," he says. "How's your brother?"

"Good. Married Suzanna a few years ago, and now they've got some babies running around."

"They live around here?"

"Dallas," you say. "Dillon thinks he's too good for us and decided to be a real estate agent out there instead."

"Sounds riveting," Javi says and you laugh. The line gets shorter and shorter as you talk, but he can't focus on anything but you. "And you? What's a pretty girl like you still doing in this shit hole?" Something behind your eyes flickers at the comment and you take a deep breath, suddenly all too aware of how hot it is today.

"Somebody's gotta get Daddy off the horse every once in a while."

"And what? Your mama can't do that for you?"

"She knows better than to keep tryin'. I'm just as stubborn as he is, so one of us'll win or give up before the other."

"Well, my money's on you." He says easily. You stare at each other for a little bit longer than necessary before the clerk calls you by name to get your attention. Your items are scanned, bagged, and paid for all in the span of a few seconds. You have no reason to linger in the checkout aisle, but you do, rocking on your boots' heels just a little.

"Don't be a stranger, Peña." You say, looking him over as if you're seeing him for the first time.

"I don't think this town's big enough for that." He says, and you chuckle.

"No, I don't think so either," you say. "Tell your dad I said hi." With all your Southern hospitality, you turn and leave. Javi watches you go until the clerk calls his name and breaks him out of it. Well, that and the sound of something crashing to the floor makes him reach for a gun he doesn't carry anymore. His shoulders brace for an explosion, and he can't catch his breath. He stares at the box and the broken jars in it as a pissed-off employee storms off to find a broom. He scoffs.

Javi has dealt with some of the most dangerous people in the world, and jams are what spike his adrenaline.

He tries to shrug it off and pay the cashier, but his ears are still ringing, and his heart is still racing when he climbs back into his truck. Fucking jam. He tries to forget about it as he drives home. He wants to forget about it. He wants to think of anything else.

If that happens to be your smile, the way your laugh fills the air, or the inconspicuous way you looked at him when he complimented you, it's just a coincidence.

When he gets home, he's craving a drink or a cigarette or something more physical to get his mind off of what happened. His shoulders slump with the weight of memory and Chucho sees. He always sees. He just doesn't know the right way to fix it.

"Y'know, uh… your friend you used to play baseball with?" He asks, seemingly out of nowhere, as Javi puts away the groceries. He furrows his brows and gives his dad a confused look.

"I had lots of friends I played baseball with."

"He was datin' that girl you went to Homecoming with when you were a freshman?" Of all the things his dad remembers, of course, it's that. Javi resists the urge to roll his eyes and grinds his teeth instead.

"Suzanna?" He asks and Chucho snaps his fingers in a way that tells him that was the right answer. "His name was Dillion. What about him?"

"Well, his dad heard you're back in town and invited us over for a barbecue," he says nonchalantly and Javi scoffs. "I'm not sure how he didn't know, but you know that old fucker's always out doin' something. Somebody probably told him something or the other. Anyway, you can say no. I told him you were still adjustin'."

"I'll go," Javi agrees too fast. "Might be good to… get outta the house. Wouldn't wanna be a stranger." Chucho is surprised but not displeased with Javi's answer, and they leave it as is.

It's just reintegrating into civilian life. It's just socializing. It's just a barbecue. It's not an interrogation or a raid. It's coping.

Apparently, coping could be really fun if he plays his cards right.

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