#hvac screening

[sesakamonster]

Charlotte Container Garden Patio Patio container garden - medium-sized, unprotected concrete paver patio container garden idea for the backyard

[ovalnews]

Reset Pivi Pro, Reset Infotainment Screen for Range Rover, Defender, Discovery

Adding this for reference since things changed with the MY24 physical controls purge. For Pivi Pro vehicles prior to 2024, with central volume knob 1 –  Select Park (P). 2 – Hold the media power button down, AKA the central volume knob 3 – Continue to hold the media power button(volume knob) down, until the touchscreen goes blank, followed by the brand logo screen being displayed. 4- Release the…

[crow-aeris]

okay, so here's the seer!tim au i promised:

Tim, freezes on the rooftop, camera in hand as the pressure of a Vision creeps against his temples. He quickly sits down next to the HVAC unit, quietly lamenting the loss of some potentially beautiful pictures before closing his eyes.

His Visions weren't easy to deal with, and would always leave him with terrible headaches- especially if he didn't have his little ball with him. Sometimes, if he wasn't careful, the Vision would overlap with his current sight, creating a vertigo-like sensation that would NOT be good next to a freaking ledge.

So, he sits down like a good kid and breathes. Tim covers his eyes further with his forearm and gently accepts the Vision.

Does he know where the Visions come from? Nope! And neither does his parents, but Tim's still grateful he gets to have it, since-

No, focus. He has to focus. If he doesn't focus, then the Vision would remain as an overlay for up to an hour, and it would make getting down from a three story rooftop extremely difficult.

So, he focuses.

The world seemed to fall away as the sounds of the current gotham faded away to gotham, but different.

Vision-Tim opens his eyes and slips into their room. The decor was the same as Current-Tim's, and the placement of the trash was similar, though the discrepancies could be waved off as natural movements and shifting as time passed. When Vision-Tim looked at the date, Current-Tim shoved it to the back of his mind to review later.

But then, Vision-Tim looks at their laptop screen, and Tim- Both Tims- felt their breath hitch in shock, and the Vision is abruptly cut off as Current-Tim feels a hand against his shoulder.

He rips his arm from his face, ignoring how his brain SCREAMED at the sudden movement, and he looks up to see Robin- the second robin, his robin- staring down at him with a worried expression, batman hovering on the next roof over.

"Hey kid, you okay?" Robin- Jason- asks, "You're crying... do you want to talk about it?"

Tim freezes like a deer in headlights, two agonizingly long seconds filled with silence stretched between them when, in one fluid and sudden move, Tim darted away.

Jason called after him, but they weren't fast enough. Tim easily drowns in the shadows and disappears, leaving behind the confused duo and a air of quiet mystery.

But, five days later, even AFTER Tim had tried to warn the bats about Jason's impending death... They didn't listen, and the future played out like clockwork.

So, what could he do?

Well, Tim did what he does best, and takes matters into his own hands. He receives his visions, sometimes looking for them himself using his scrying ball, and deposits the information directly into the laps of the GCPD and the Bats like a cat of sorts.

on one of the nights, when he's calling on a burner phone to try and warn people of Batman's path, he says, "Rumor has it: Batman will be carving through the East End tonight. Stay home, and remain quiet."

And then, people start referring to him as Rumor, and it wasnt hurting anyone, so Tim never intervened and the name just... caught on.

Little did he know, Rumor was now on a certain Oracle's radar...

[copperbadge]

Hi! Just wanted to say you're a really cool person, a great writer and friend, and a positive presence in every space I've seen you in. People like you make the world a better place.

This came in yesterday and Anon, I gotta tell you, it was extremely well-timed. I appreciate it! I do my best to be all of those things. Probably don't always succeed, but how boring would life be if I did.

I'm pretty open about my mental health here -- more open than most expect, really, which always surprises me -- but one of the things I struggle with in a kind of ongoing low-grade way that I don't really talk about is knowing, or not knowing, what others think of me, and fretting about that in pointless ways. And I'm mature enough to know that asking for validation in the ways and at the frequency I'd want to isn't appropriate, especially since I know intellectually, if not emotionally, that yes of course people like me and care about me. I do okay with it all, and actually being clinically diagnosed as charming when I got my ADHD screening helped a great deal, but it's still just always there, lurking.

So it's...IDK, it's nice to hear from someone randomly and without any real reason to that they think I'm a cool and likable person. And yesterday between the HVAC flooding and some other personal stuff was a rough day, so it was super helpful. Thank you :)

[frances-kafka]

Thought living rent free in my head:

The future of space travel belongs more to the person with the 50 Bad Dragon dildos than it does to anyone resembling a midcentury test pilot.

The person who can live in 24/7 HVAC while staring at a screen, *that* is what golden age writers couldn't envision when they imagined that generation ships would just fall into disorder.

It's gooners that are optimized to be the middle generation on a gen ship.

Gooners are the future.

[belles1011]

Today’s Updates From Off Track (idk why I keep doing this cos no one asked but here we are)

- They talked about the chaos of Talladega and the big crash

- Alex would have gone to watch Pato race if he’d done the F1 rookie race this year and seemed genuinely sad that he wouldn’t 😭

- James likes matcha lattes now and Alex says he’s not an idiot

- Alex’s screen name today was “arson is annoying” and here’s why: his power obvs went out last week, he had a bachelor party in Montreal this weekend (he was the youngest by a lot) - got woken up in the middle of the night and there was a huge fire a few doors down with casualties. Alex went back to bed, and then got woken up cos the fire was in the rafters and sat in the foyer and ate sandwiches, then the power went out. Then they finally got back in, went back to bed but still no power - turns out it was a slum lord Canadian real estate guy, and it was arson with a lot of accelerants (some kind of gang war) - still no power and no HVAC but it’s a WILD story

- Alex got called a dumb bitch and giggled

- Alex has filed a claim with Airbnb because of course he did

- Alex didn’t used to get hangovers, he would just go to the gym the next day then to bed early the next night “and everything was fine” but now he’s in his 30s not so much

- They used hangover patches and they seemed to actually work but they genuinely questioned if they were adderall cos they worked so well (b vitamins in a patch format which you can actually buy - about 33 minutes if you want the details and a promo code haha)

- Tim has a new couch

- They talked a lot about scotch, whisky and bourbon but they lost me a bit there (James was hungover after the wedding but didn’t have any patches on him)

- James reminded Alex it was his wedding anniversary soon which thankfully he knew (they’re going to an island apparently ooooo)

- James has Petit Le Mans this weekend (hasn’t driven since March tho, hasn’t done this track since 2008) and is also doing NBC comms when he isn’t in the car

- Alex has his ECR test tomorrow

[carolmunson]

love language four

happy love language sunday. this episode brought to you by me having the 'another scorcher!' sears hvac commercial stuck in my head. (if she doesn't know this commercial she's too young for you bro!) there is a description in here for a 'confetti glitter cup' and i need you to know i don't mean the ones you know of today. i mean these ones from the 90s.

love language set list

sticky. melted popsicle on toddler hands hot. running to the ice cream truck hot. public pool day for the kids with some pocket money, home made sprinkler with the hose for the kids without it hot. every shriek of their laughter peirces your ears and you smile. you sit on an almost broken beach chair, the lounge kind, blue, green and white plastic suspending you in place. a trailer park duchess on her throne in her yellow polka dot bikini and cut off shorts. the tinny echo of the radio plays across the way where mrs. milly plays with her kids, beach ball in one hand over her head, baby milly on her hip in the other. her husband took the car for work so they couldn't have the pool day they wanted. you would've driven them if eddie hadn't been going to and from home depot all morning for parts.

in the cacophony of the tinny radio, the woosh of hoses, the bubbling laughter of kids, you hear the clang of metal on metal just a few feet away -- followed up by a grunt of frustration you knew all too well. that HVAC unit needed fixing at the end of winter but he forgot about it. forgot until it started to get too hot. kicking off the sheets hot. cold showers at night hot. 'don't touch me, it's too hot' hot. the moment you said it he knew it had to get fixed, the sun isn't gonna get between him and whats his. "you okay over there?" you ask, sipping your lemonade through a curly straw, the ice cold drink making condensation build on the confetti cup you inherited from your aunt. you cross your legs, losing a flip flop in the process. "mhm," he grunts. you look over, his messy curls tied up on the top of his head, tongue poking out of his lips. his tattoos glisten in the sun, covered in a sheen of sweat and sun screen. he's been stripped down to a pair of black jean shorts all morning and early afternoon, bandana dangling from the back pocket that he's been using to wipe off his face. the soft definition in his arms, back, and chest makes you feel girlish -- giggly. the park's mr. fix it -- all yours, all the time. until it's too hot. broken hvac during a heat wave hot. "do you want me to help?" you ask. you see his eyes peer over the top of the machine and give you a look that can only be understood as 'please stop talking'. you sip your lemonade again. mrs. milly's beach ball hits you on the top of the head with a soft 'bop!' and you laugh. you look back over to eddie holding back his own, desperate to stay focus and annoyed at the task at hand. if he giggles, the hvac will know and won't take him seriously anymore.

"sorry!" her four year old says, her seven year old waves his hands to get the ball back. you spike it over like you know how to play volleyball. you don't. another twenty minutes and the sounds of the park mix with your boyfriend's cussing, the clang of metal on metal, of wrenches and bolts being thrown against the side of the trailer. "hey, hey," you say, getting up off the nearly broken lounge, "stop that." you hurry over in your half way on flip flops, the strings of your bikini tickling your back. he takes in a deep breath through the nose and it's just too hot and humid for it to soothe him. you offer him your lemonade and he blushes over the sunburn pink on his cheeks. the ice cubes jiggle against the plastic, the confetti in the cup catches the light while he forgoes the straw and chugs it. he breathes heavy after, passing the cup back to you, empty. "thought i could fix it," he says softly between breaths, "wayne could always fix it. this stupid piece of shit." "fuck the hvac," you say with a smile. he laughs, taking the bandana out of his pocket and wiping the sweat from under his bangs, dampended and curly. "yeah, fuck it," he smiles back.

"fuck it!" you say again, giving it a little kick. something clicks and clinks inside of the machine and it roars to life. you both look at each other, eyes wide. the sun beats down on your both -- a reminder of the heat. 'can't believe a kick in flip flops fixed the hvac' hot. "you gotta be kidding me," he says, half mad, half surprised, "i've been out here all fuckin'' day." "maybe you did need my help," you smirk. he collects his tools, tossing them in the box, muttering an annoyed 'don't talk to me.' you head into the house, shutting the windows to keep the air in while you feel it start to fill the kitchen and living room. not quite cold, but the air flow was welcomed in the stagnant heat. you pour more lemonade for yourself and your mr. fix it boyfriend. your aunts recipe that just tastes better in confetti cups. he comes in, tossing the tool box on the table and sighs at the feeling of the air flow in the room. not cooled yet, not conditioned. just the flow. he sees your offering and smile spreads across his face. he's delicate in his sips now, using the curly straw you put in there, a clear blue -- shiny. "hm," he he says in relief, feeling the drink revive him now that the worst was over. he stalks over in his black cut off shorts, hands dirty, cupping them behind your thighs to lift you onto the counter. "hey," you protest, but not really. his fingers reaching behind your back to pull at the strings of your bikini, "s'too hot." "that's why i'm takin' it off," he smirks, knowing it won't be too hot in a half hour. you feel the scratch of his five o'clock shadow brush against your jaw while his tongue collects a stripe of sweat from your neck. lemonade and salt, margaritaville skin. "hm," you mumble at the feeling. "hm," he mumbles back. dirty hands on your waist. your relief at the blinds on the storm door being shut. too hot. neck kisses on the counter hot. bikini top on the kitchen floor hot. can't complain about it being too hot, hot. lemonade sips off your skin, hot. sticky.

[rokurookajima]

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

🥵 Any plans to write steamy or spicy content this year?

🫘 Spill the beans. What's a new project you're doing this year?

🛳 Are there any new ships you want to write for? (Platonic, romantic, or anything in between.)

HAPPY NEW YEAR FRIEND!!!

🥵 any plans to write steamy or spicy content this year?

ohhhh you already KNOW!! i can't write anything without spicy content its just a necessity to me at this point. the waava free use agenda....will continue >:) that's the main thing i can say for sure, but also my original novel is like ... constantly spicy scenes so anything i write for that there is spice guaranteed. i've yet to write any spicy scenes with the two secondary protagonists (lock & jaye) so that is on the docket for sure

🫘 Spill the beans. What's a new project you're doing this year?

honestly i'm not sure!! i mostly plan to just keep working on what i have been - finish claw machine, put more work into my original novel (bitter tooth) bc if i could possibly finish or come CLOSE to finishing that this year, that would be amazing (though idk what i'd do with myself when that day comes....). a "new" project i'd love to finally get going on if possible would be my graphic novel concept which i showed you those old "teaser trailer" pages for & i haven't made anything for it since. the plot is solid but i rlly wanted to take time to develop drawing skills further to where I wanted before actually rlly moving forward on it, and i feel like at this point, I at least am ready to revisit the character designs & revamp, and maybe....go somewhere from there!!! but it's called melancholy humor, its about an immortal and a demon overcome with their own ennui, maybe finally learning to live in the moment :')

🛳 Are there any new ships you want to write for? (Platonic, romantic, or anything in between.)

also hard to say!! the ships just kinda come at me out of nowhere (or more often, they're ships I've had forever and suddenly get the intense urge to write for again). i think.... I wanna possibly try my hand at sunstar at some point 👀 metalbanders au au.....or like. polyamory LMAO bc metalband raava cannot exist as herself without wan, but the hvac fiasco fallout + vaatu's gender ego death leaves open a world of possibilities doesn't ittttt. but platonic too, i want to just give vaatu more screen time --write more about him and raava's weird childhood relationship, their estranged teenage relationship, his painful horrible hideous hate filled not yet realized crush on wan. there is so much to explore

[procrazedfan]

Fanmily

Minnie Mae Murderface was the kind of gal who didn’t let anything stand in her way. Whether it was running from Johnny Law for blowing up illegal explosives in a swamp, drinking booze to numb the back pain, or outright diving in the lake to noodle for a catfish dinner, she never hesitated on any decision she made. The way she saw it, it was a waste of time hemming and hawing. It was better to take action than to sit around and wait to ask for permission. For right or wrong, at least something would be done.

That was probably why she didn’t hesitate to put in a little somethin’ extra in her Pa’s beer before she gave it to him.

Or why she didn’t look back when she crawled out the back window of the broken screen of Daddy’s trailer with nothing but her usual overalls, sneakers and tool kit.

Or why she didn’t stop walking when the sun rose again over the horizon of the ten-mile marker on the road.

All she knew was that she had better get free or die trying. Cause it was either that, or she'd have to go back to Pa.

Granted, he was alright for a Pa. He was nice enough to let her keep wearing overalls and play with the other boys her age when she was a youngin'. Taught her how to fix the truck, along with HVAC units, and all other things that would need fixing at the trailer or the junkyard. They even watched NASCAR together on Sundays.

It wasn’t until that preacher fella done come by their little ol’ nowhere town of Mount Pantera that her Pa went crazy. Suddenly, he’d gotten funny about what she should wear, was told to do less “men’s work” and more “women’s work”. Even the NASCAR on Sunday went away in favor of hearing that same preacher man on the pulpit.

If that was the only thing he was trying to change she could have tolerated it.

Trying to ignore the growing pain in her lower back, and took a swig out of the bottle of beer that she saved for herself for the trip.

The question was...where was she gonna go now?

Her Ma was buried six feet under, not that she remembered much of her. Her aunts and uncles nearby would just turn her back in to her Pa as soon as they could. And the rest of her extended family was Lord Knows where.

She chewed her red hair from her right pigtail, trying to think of a solution. It was a shame she didn’t have her fiddle on hand. That was useful for thinkin’. But she reckoned she had to travel light on an occasion such as this.

Minnie tried recalling any relatives that were out there in the world, far away from the quaint little ol’ town of Mount Pantera. The only place she knew her whole life. Who was at that family reunion last year?

A beat up car in the parking lot of the diner she was walking by had been blasting some kinda music she never heard of.

The rhythm was...heavy. The sound of the drums were consistent, and the sound of the guitars were low, like a war song for a march. The singer must’ve had a frog in his throat, because she could barely make out the words from the sound of his growling.

"Hungry and tired the frigid plain yields little

  We trudge on further, eating pride and snow that's brittle

  We ride

 We ride"

She grinned a little to herself with her tooth gap showing, imagining what it would be like if she had a horse to ride out of town on instead of her own mismatched feet.

-That was “The Lost Vikings” a Dethklok Classic, stay tuned to 5184MTL for metal hits old and new -

Where had she heard of Dethklok befo- her hazel eyes widened in revelation as she slapped her knee. It was Cousin Willy’s band! She remembered Granny Murderface braggin’ about it after she had one too many beers at the reunion last year.

Everyone called her Granny on account that she was the Murderface clan’s oldest living matriarch. And when she put her foot down, that meant her word was law, even though she retired to Florida some years back.

If anyone could get her out of this situation, it was Granny Murderface, she was sure of it.

Minnie Mae walked through the doors of Flotsam and Jetsam’s Diner with a spring in her step and a wrench in her hand.

“Got anything need fixin’ round here for a plate and a phonecall?”

[criminal-mids]

#7 - Hoodie

Prompt: Borrowed Hoodie 

Sickie: Garcia

Caretaker: Morgan 

Word Count: 1,411

“Hah? What? Since when!?”

Garcia can’t believe it. She swears she hadn’t heard a word of this until now, and she usually keeps a tab on office renovation schedules because she knows the noise bothers Reid.

“Listen, lady, we’re just the repair guys, it’s not our fault your bosses didn’t tell you. Take it up with them. We still have our job to do. Feel free to work somewhere else.”

“Some- this is my place!” Garcia tries not to shriek, but she can’t help it when they’re shoving her oh-so-carefully painted minifigures aside for their dusty work bags. She rolls her chair over just in time to prevent an elf from being crushed and scoops the rest of her plastic children into her skirt, just to be safe.

“And the aircon is old and falling apart, it's an OSHA violation waiting to happen. If you wanna be in here when it causes a spark, be my guest.”

“UGH!”

The repair only takes a half hour, and truthfully, she is grateful, grumble as she may. A fire or even too much smoke could kill her hard drives.

The real problem is when they finish.

“Um, could you turn the heat up a bit, please?” Even through her chattering teeth, she tries to be kind to the repairmen. She knows how hard they work.

“Sorry, ma’am, not yet. We’re still workin’ out some kinks. The HVAC’s been updated and we’re still trying to patch in the new system and the old system together. As I said before, other parts of the building will be warmer, but hey, you’re welcome to remain in your fortress of solitude if you want.”

She suppresses the urge to roll her eyes.

‘Can’t they see I’ve got a complicated setup?’

But, she shows no outward aggression. She’s not really that upset, just cold. “It’s fine. Thank you for your help. Could you at least tell me when it’ll be fixed?”

“Sometime in the next few days.”

She can tell that’s as good as she’s getting so she nods and waves as they head out.

Instead, she directs her ire towards the faulty machine itself.

“If I could hack you I would, but you're older than me, so you're safe . . . for now.” She holds up the minuscule screwdriver from her glasses repair kit as she glares at the aircon.

- She was being dramatic before, but she really is well and chilled now.

‘Ugh. Isn’t this just Bonita?’

“I’m a California girl, I wasn't meant for the cold.” She whines to her screens.

‘If I catch a cold, I’ll really be annoyed. And everyone knows my brain goes to complete mush when I’m sick. I’m useless. I can’t afford to be out of commission, not when the team seems busier than ever. Maybe I should move outside. I can always come back in here real quick if I need more computing power. The team’s still on the jet, so I’ve got some time to compile files.’

-

“Garcia, we need a list of all homicides involving victims with cuspids removed. Go back at least 10 years. We think this may be our unsubs signature.” Hotch’s voice is firm, but calm, as usual.

“You got it, cap’”

‘All those records, I’ll need my office for that, ah, oh well.’

She hurries back to her little corner of Quantico, opening the door to find that it has, somehow, gotten colder.

Still, she sits down and gets to work.

-

Just as she hits send and gets up to retreat to the land of warmth, her screen dings.

It’s Rossi this time.

“What can I do for ya, Italian amor?” Penelope finds it hard to keep a cheery tone with the cold blasting at her, making her lips quiver, but she hopes she manages.

Her effort is wasted because Rossi ignores the quip, pressing straight to business. Another request that requires her big screens.

“All these records are from the way back when before our good friend the internet. They’re unorganised at best. Combining through all of them will take a while, I’ll pull as many as I can, and send them to you as I get them.”

“Good.”

He hangs up. She sits back down, huffing.

“Potential OSHA violation? This is an OSHA violation right here!” She mutters, pulling her cardigan around herself. 

‘If I’d known I’d be working in Antarctica today I would’ve worn a jumper.’

Nevertheless, she begins.

—

Her hands are freezing, her fingers stiff and every click of the keyboard takes conscious effort. Okay, maybe she’s being dramatic, but she’s a California girl! Can you blame her?

Just when she thinks she’s done, more files under the search parameters come up. It’s unusually demoralising.

‘If only I had a jumper or something. Note to self, pack extra clothes for future emergencies. . . . Wait, emergencies! That's it!’

She springs up, with newly formed determination, and heads out to the bullpen.

She has a destination in mind, but as she draws closer, doubt creeps in.

‘I hope he won’t mind. Is this creepy? No, it’ll be fine, I’ll wear it, then put it right back like nothing ever happened at all. That’s what I’ll do.’

She reassures herself as she approaches Morgan’s desk. Everyone has two go bags, just in case they don’t have time to wash one set of clothes before departing again.

Garcia knows that in this bag she’ll most likely find one of Morgan’s many grey or black hoodies. And she’s right.

It’s right on top. She takes it gingerly, slipping it on, careful not to disturb her hair ornaments. It’s warm and soft.

With the extra layer, her office feels almost normal. 

Her typing speed quickens again until she’s at normal capacity. Rossi gets the data within the next 15 minutes.

She sighs, happy with her work.

And, now that she takes time to notice it, ‘This hoodie does smell nice.’

She catches herself, then remembers she’s alone and takes another deep sniff. Morgan’s detergent has a pleasant smell that reminds her of him. Yeah, this was a good decision.

—

“Give us the best you got, pumpkin.” Morgan teases

“Oh, that’s for your ears only, handsome.” 

“I know. I’m going to transfer to video call, so you better be decent.”

“Never.” She teases with a theatrically breathy sigh.

The video chat opens revealing the team gathered around a desk, and maps in front of them.

“So Garcia, what did you find on-”

Prentiss cuts Reid off, “Wait, is that Morgan’s hoodie?”

Penelope blanches. “Wh-hat?” After a second of hesitation, she looks down, hoping by some miracle that all she’ll find is her cardigan and dress, but she already knows. She can still smell the detergent. “Oh, I- they were fixing the aircon in my office and it’s colder than the Fortress of Solitude in here so I just . . . I honestly don’t know what I was thinking! I wasn’t, I was just really cold! I can take it off. Let me just . . .” She fumbles with the hoodie, starting to pull it over her head.

“Slow down, baby girl. You look even cuter when you’re in my clothes, and I can’t have you catching a cold now can I, hmm?”

Penelope makes a noise somewhere between a squeak and squeal. “ . . . okay.”

Rossi clears his throat loudly, “Now, tell us what you found, we’re running out of time to find Kate.”

“Yes, at your service.” Still shaken, but with a new warmth in her chest, she continues.

—

“Baby girl, you in here?” Morgan’s familiar warm timbre drifts in from the door over the audio of an RPG game.

“Yes.” She blushes fiercely.

“I talked to Max and he said the system would be back to normal by tomorrow.”

“Oh, thank god. . . . I guess I should give this back to you then.” The end of the sentence is noticeably less enthusiastic than the beginning.

“Well, I was actually thinking you should keep it. Gotta mark my territory, don’t I?”

Penelope giggles, getting up to hug him.

He smells even nicer in person . . . like home, sometimes more so than the dozens of candles that fill her flat.

“Yeah.” then softer, “I’d wear a collar for you, Derek Morgan, you know that.”

“Tempting, but that can wait till tomorrow, it’s late, and even girl geniuses need their sleep.”

What a day, huh? And tomorrow she could come back to a warm office. Gideon was right, like he always said, life really is about the small things.

[dollsahoy]

In case no-one told you since that post was made 9 years ago

in which I express a series of disagreements with a very old post that still circulates largely unchallenged

Bras last longer when they're air-dried, yes, and they last even longer when they're hand-washed. Chuck 'em into a sink of warm water and detergent, swish them around a little, then leave them for a few hours; drain the sink, refill a little, and swish the bras--repeat this a few times until the water is clear, then hang them to dry

If you have a 'problem' with frizzy hair, you may actually have curly or wavy hair. The internet is full of advice for how to treat it (be aware of the "no chemicals!!!!!" approaches and their overzealous adherents)

White laundry stays whiter when you wash only whites in a load, even with cold water

You can kill a lot of the bacteria in a kitchen sponge with microwaving or a dishwasher cycle, but there aren't that many dangerous pathogens in there to begin with. If the idea of dirty sponges still icks you out, consider using knit or crocheted dishcloth scrubbies, which you can wash in the regular laundry after every use

All the top search results I looked at that talk about he benefits of airing out your home seem to be websites that are directly trying to sell you windows/screens or HVAC service, and they don't include sources, often repeat the false idea that houseplants filter air, and don't at all mention the idea that airing out your house will keep insects from coming in. (This isn't saying not to air out your space--my window is open right now--just that it may not have the miraculous benefits promised. Open your window if you want to, but not doing so won't lead to infestation and doom.)

Hair does not need to be "sleek and beautiful" (see the second point above)

Dryer sheets, and fabric softener in general, only give the sensation of soft clothes because they coat the fibers with a substance, which eventually forms a build-up that can't be easily removed (both on the clothes and in the machines, and, no, vinegar is not a good substitute.) I'm actually not clear on how the act of removing lint from the lint trap takes so long that you need a dryer sheet hack to make it go faster, which was the advice given in the post...unless lint from fabric softened laundry is...stickier?...than otherwise? I haven't used fabric softener for a very long time, so I genuinely don't know. I can quickly roll the lint off of our dryer lint trap screen with my fingers.

Washing your face every day may not be the best approach for everyone, as skin varies wildly among people, especially when aging is considered. (Removing make up is important, though)

(not a rebuttal to the post, but the above applies to hair, too. Washing every day may not be optimum for everyone.)

Take your laundry out of the dryer when it's still warm whenever possible to avoid wrinkles, yes, but don't fold it when it's still warm or the folds will be set in as they cool. I drape/stack the clothes on the dryer door as I take them out, then lay them on top of the basket until I put them away, folding then as needed.

Again: there are always multiple approaches to a lot of everyday activities, and none of them are going to work for everyone, not even the things I presented here. If you've never thought of something before, the first way it's presented to you isn't necessarily the best way.

[writefinch]

FRIENDLY CHAT

Hey! Sorry to pull you in here before your break, we just need a quick chat. So, long story short, uh, a customer complained that you point-blank offered him a condom.

This isn't the first time. You know it's against company policy. You're only supposed to get them if the customer requests it first. Like, you're not even supposed to have them on display. I know that part is stupid, but if the regional manager checks the tapes and sees condom bowls in plain view, I'd still get written up.

No, no, absolutely not, I'm not going to write you up. I don't think it's necessary and you know it goes totally against my management style. I want to talk through your concerns.

I wanna remind you that we take all the recommended industry-standard precautions. In fact we go above them! First off, you're fully vaxxed, and that's the end of ninety percent of things to worry about, period. You've got an IUD on the company health plan, even though your T-shots probably suppress it. The customers get a physical screen in the waiting area. All us boys and girlies get tested every three weeks, twice as frequent as the industry standard.

That's already extensive, it makes you safer than the vast majority of people in our line of work. If we did any more, customers will get the wrong idea. They'll think we're an unclean brothel with unclean customers. It'd remind them too much of all the you-know-what from the past few years.

Yes, you're not wrong about that. Breakthrough infections happen, and people get sick. But you know what I'm gonna say? You're very robust, you know that? You've been here for what, eighteen months, you've been pulling long hours and beacoup extra shifts and you've barely caught a sniffle. The testosterone must be helping!

Now you might not stay this lucky forever, that's why we have six paid sick days and a flexible admin rota. Usually when you catch something it'll be a mild itch and trouble peeing. You won't even wanna rest, and yeah you won't get the full rate for paid clients, you can still get paid to do the laundry and the paperwork for a week while it clears up.

Every year I get a couple of colds from my kids and take three or four days off, and every year I always get a VD from one of the clients and spend a week washing sheets and cleaning dildos. You know what that gives me? Two or three days rolled over into vacation time!

Yes, you can get unlucky. You can get a couple of back-to-back infections. I tell every boy and girl who starts here the same thing: before they take out a loan on a new car or move out of their toxic roommate situation, make sure to get two weeks pay in a savings account. Even if you do have to dip into your rainy day fund, you know full well that there's always extra shifts to pick up around here.

Yeah, you can catch something nasty. You can have a bad reaction. We all remember how scary it was before the vaccines were available. But here's the thing: you drive to work, right? You're on the freeway twice a day. Forty-thousand people die every year in car crashes, and tens of thousands more get life-changing injuries. You don't spend every day worrying about that, right?

You just get on with it and live your life.

Look, I'm really sorry about this whole thing. You're really special to me, you know that? You're a genuine friend to me, I mean that. We get on really well, all the girls love you, you're a hit with clients and that's why I jumped on this y'know? This job is only as fun as the people here make it, and I don't want to see you written up for something that can be talked out.

Discipline here is so stupid. I'm fucking sick of the owners hassling girls, and boys, out of working here and then crying and bitching when we can't meet customer demand.

I said I'd be out of here as soon as I get my HVAC cert but if they put us all through that again I'll just quit on the spot. That's why I want to look out for you. You've helped me through some really difficult times, on shift and off. I wouldn't have been able to get through junket season without you. I'm serious, if you hadn't joined when you did, there'd be gun laws named after me.

Thanks for listening, and again, I'm sorry for even bringing this stuff up. Just promise you'll keep what I've said in mind? We've all got to look out for each other here.

Hey, once you're back from break, can I have your help with something? I've got a no-refusal client and well, all the other girls refused. What? No I don't want you to take him, c'mon man I'm not gonna let you off a written warning to guilt you into picking up my shit, honestly! No, I'm the supervisor on shift so it's up to me.

Anyway he's not into boys, even pretty ones like you, sorry. But he's a real charmer, so would you mind sticking close in case he starts throwing up or throwing hands? If I have to hit the panic button I think Sergei will throw him out of a window, and nobody needs that headache.

Thanks, I really appreciate it. We'll be in the spa room, so let me know when you're ready to play pool boy…

[some1s-sista]

240v has been run out to the smokehouse (guesthouse) so we now have working HVAC! Completely rentable now; I just need to put a fire extinguisher out there and install a smoke detector and we’re done. There are other things we’d like to do - add a screen door and a little porch, but they’re not absolutely necessary.

Now we have to run water out to the bath house, buy a toilet, and I still need to glaze the tub, but I need this warm weather to hang out for a week to do that cuz you can’t glaze under 55 degrees for 24 hours beforehand and at least 48 hours after so that it cures properly.

Meanwhile, inside the main house I have painted the kitchen window frame, broke for lunch, and am about to go back for the second coat.

Projects in this old house are never done.

[copperbadge]

[ID: A photograph of a corner of my living room; in front of a white screen, a fake Christmas tree is covered in ornaments. The tree itself is bare branches with small white bulbs on it, and lest you think this is rather sad looking, know that I love this tree because despite its creepiness and slight instability, it is the perfect way to show off my ornaments.]

The tree is trimmed! And with that, we bring National Clean Your Home Month to a close.

Dearborn was unimpressed by my tree-trimming and, after one of the ornaments suffered a tragedy, hid in the coats. She is our resident Grinch, but she's cute.

[ID: Two photos; left, my hand with palm open, holding a baroque crescent moon ornament. It is in several pieces after I dropped it on the ground, but I'm pretty sure I can fix it. Second image, my coat closet, with two large fabric bins on the floor; sitting on the top bin, mostly hidden by a number of jackets and hoodies, Dearborn the tortie peers up pensively at the camera.]

I didn't get everything done on my cleaning list, but that's okay; I did get a lot done, and I realized stuff like "clean the bathroom" needs to wait anyway, since the HVAC system is in the bathroom and I'll just have to clean after that gets replaced in any case. Meanwhile, I've decluttered, hung shelves, ridded myself of a bug infestation, organized the tupperware, cleaned out the closet, learned how to use a carpet shampooer, and more.

Thank you all for a) participating or b) tolerating my antics or at least c) quietly blacklisting the tag during NaClYoHo; this was the fifth year of the event, and we had definitely our largest turnout of participants yet. I hope you all feel great about the work you've put in and the accomplishments you made!

Remember: if you can't do a great thing, do a something.

Keep the Salty Pirate in your heart year round, and I'll see you next year for Salty Pirates 6: The Winter Scrubber.

[miri--writes]

The Long Game ◇ A Slow Horses Story

The second chapter of this story is ready! At the end of the post you can find the playlist and Pinterest board I made for inspiration :) The full chapter will also be on AO3, so you can follow me there.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62440984/chapters/159790789

Chapter 2- A Shot in the Dark

The office was designed to impress. Not garishly—modern clients preferred understated wealth—but with a deliberate elegance that whispered competence. Polished oak paneling met frosted glass walls, where light refracted in muted tones that softened edges and egos alike. Art hung just off-center on the walls, pieces curated to appear as if they weren’t curated at all. It was everything a crisis management firm needed to convey: trust us, we’ve got this.

Beyond the glass partition, however, was a world with no such pretensions. The bullpen was a sprawl of cramped cubicles crammed with cheap desks and chairs that squeaked like startled mice. Ten screens flickered as their operators spun disasters into salvation: ghostwritten apologies, sanitized interviews, and social media campaigns designed to bury today’s scandal under tomorrow’s hashtags.

Ron Haydon, former MI5 officer turned crisis management maestro, often joked that capitalism was simply the survival of the shiftiest. Tonight, though, he wasn’t in the mood for quips. It was late, and he was evaluating a delicate piece of damage control for a D-list celebrity who had found themselves on the wrong side of CCTV. By morning, the tabloids would run a polished version of events, and by week’s end, another fool would stumble into infamy.

He sighed, imagining his wife’s exasperated smile when he crawled into bed past midnight. “Couldn’t the starlet wait?” she’d tease, her voice heavy with sleep. Ten more minutes, he promised himself.

A faint rustling sound yanked him from his thoughts. He froze, fingers hovering over the keyboard. His head turned toward the door—a frosted glass barrier that blurred whatever lay beyond. The bullpen was supposed to be empty. His team had left hours ago, and the cleaning crew wasn’t due until morning. 

A shadow passed behind the glass, moving in jerks and starts. Haydon stiffened. Just the air currents, he thought. Or a draft. 

But unease settled on him like damp clothes. 

It must be the recent nightmares, vivid flashes of a shapeless figure creeping toward him. He’d woken in cold sweats, his wife murmuring reassurances beside him, her hand cool on his cheek. “It’s just stress,” she’d said. “Your mind is playing tricks.” 

The noise came again: faint, irregular, like a chair creaking or paper shifting. He reached for his desk drawer, pulling it open just enough to slip his hand inside. His fingers closed around cold steel—the revolver he kept there, a relic from his days at the Service. 

His heart thudded against his ribs as he approached the door, gun tucked discreetly under his jacket. He cracked the door open and peered out. Rows of lifeless desks stretched into dim silence, the HVAC’s low hum the only sound. 

A crumpled banner lay on the floor: ‘Let the world see you for who you are’. Its cheery font mocked him.

“Bloody janitors,” he muttered, louder than intended, as though volume could banish his discomfort.

Back in his office, he locked the gun away, grabbed his briefcase, and powered down his computer. The clicks and whirs echoed unnaturally in the stillness.

The underground parking lot was colder than he’d expected. His footsteps reverberated off the concrete walls as he made his way to his silver sedan, parked under a flickering fluorescent light.

A soft pssst broke the silence. Then, a muted pop.

Warmth spread across his chest. Staggering, he glanced down at the red soaking through his shirt. His knees buckled, and the ground rushed to meet him.

The last thing he saw was the sedan’s tires, framed by the lazy tendrils of his blood.

✴

The killer crouched in the shadows, steady and unhurried, as Haydon’s blood pooled across the concrete. The silenced shot had merged seamlessly with the hum of the parking lot’s ventilation, leaving the space unnervingly quiet.

He stood, holstering the weapon beneath his coat with practiced precision. He moved toward the exit without hesitation, navigating blind spots in the CCTV coverage with deliberate ease. The biting cold gnawed at his exposed skin, but he ignored it. The city’s relentless chill had lingered for weeks, sharpening edges and numbing sensations. Discomfort was an indulgence he’d long since discarded.

Emerging onto the streets, he blended into the muted rhythm of the city. Frost clung to the pavements, faint halos forming under the dim streetlights. He avoided the main roads, sticking to back alleys and narrow lanes where cameras were scarce, his silhouette vanishing into the endless sprawl of London.

From his pocket, he drew a burner phone, its keypad glowing faintly in the darkness. He typed a single word: Volchok. The phone emitted a quiet beep, confirming the message had been sent. Without breaking stride, he slipped it back into his coat.

Ahead, an oil drum fire flickered, its orange glow throwing jagged shadows against blackened brick. Two men were hunched by the flames, their thin jackets pulled tight against the cold. They fell silent as he approached, wary eyes tracking his every move.

Without a word, he retrieved the phone from his coat once more. In one smooth motion, he tossed it into the fire. The flames hissed and flared, devouring plastic and circuitry.

The killer continued, his dark figure dissolving into the night as the fire surged momentarily, a fleeting beacon in the stillness. Behind him, the faint crackle of burning plastic faded into the city’s noises, leaving no trace of his presence—only ash and dying flames.

✴✴✴

Ashley’s flat was quiet, only softly interrupted by the uneven gurgle of the radiator fighting against the cold. The living room was caught in a limbo of disorder—a space staggering between neglect and half-hearted attempts to restore order. Books she’d promised herself she’d read, yesterday’s coffee cup perched precariously on the armrest of the sofa, and a lavender diffuser, her mother’s Christmas gift, emitting a faint, futile scent of calm.

She scrolled through Instagram with detached disinterest, her thumb moving on autopilot. Carefully filtered snapshots of mountain peaks, turquoise lakes, and sunlit beaches passed by in a blur. Every image seemed to scream one thing: escape. Her gaze shifted to the framed photos lining the wall—snapshots of other days, other places. She stared at them for a moment longer, then closed her eyes, trying to summon a feeling she barely remembered: grass beneath her feet, the sharpness of winter air, or sunlight breaking through a canopy of trees. Anything to chase away the stale scent of Slough House that seemed to cling to her like damp wool.

Three weeks. That’s how long it had taken to fall into the rhythm of monotony—or to become numb to it. File after file. Chart after chart. Numbers no one cared about, discrepancies no one would ever act on. Once, she’d been someone who could anticipate danger before it unfolded. She’d trained to take down threats in seconds. Now?

Check folder 1, chart 1. Check folder 2, chart 2. Repeat. Log off. Go home.

There was a small comfort, though: the people. Against all odds, she was talking to them—not much, but enough to break the silence. Catherine had been the first. Reliable, warm, a steady presence that coaxed hesitant remarks out of Ashley. Then there was Louisa, reserved and deliberate, someone who seemed to keep the world at arm’s length. Ashley liked her, but her attempts at friendliness often felt clumsy, leaving her second-guessing every word.

Marcus was a surprise. He let slip anecdotes about his kids or wife—small windows into a life weighed down by more than he admitted.

And River. She hadn’t worked him out yet. Quick-witted but guarded, he radiated an energy bordering self-assuredness, though there was something unpolished beneath it, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. After her first day at work, their conversations were cautious, circling safe topics: his grandfather, her mother, always skirting the edge of deeper territory.

She’d thought, fleetingly, about asking him out for a pint. Just as coworkers. Just to unwind. But the thought evaporated almost as quickly as it arrived. Too soon. What if he said no? Or worse, what if he said yes?

That day, as the office emptied, Ashley lingered by the door. River was still at his desk, scrolling through his phone, his jacket draped over the back of his chair.

“Heading out?” he asked without looking up.

“Yeah.” She forced a casual tone. “You?”

“Eventually.” He glanced up briefly. “Thought I’d stop by and see my grandad first.”

The words hung lightly in the air. Her question hovered on her tongue—fancy a pint? No. Instead, she nodded and tightened her grip on her bag.

“Well, see you tomorrow,” she managed.

“Yeah, tomorrow.” A quick smile flashed before he returned to his phone.

Ashley walked into the damp evening, her brisk steps echoing against the pavement. She allowed herself a small moment of pride—progress, however slow. Socializing was a minefield she’d spent years avoiding. Even this small victory felt like something.

Still, the Slow Horses weren’t a team. Not really. They were a collection of missteps and disappointments, tied together by circumstance and little else. Each carried their failures like shields, and Ashley doubted they’d let them down long enough to truly connect.

Back at her flat, the radiator groaned into life. traffic in the distance, a low, steady rhythm. Her phone buzzed and the screen lit up with a FaceTime call from her mother. Ashley sighed, swiped to answer, and was greeted by her mother’s sunkissed face.

“Ashley, preciosa.” Her voice was gentle, threaded with worry and a lilting Spanish accent.

“Hi, Mamá.” Ashley offered a soft smile.

“You look tired,” her mother said, bypassing small talk. “Are you eating enough? Sleeping enough?”

Ashley sighed. “I’m fine, mom.”

Her mother didn’t look convinced. “You should come visit. Get some sun, breathe fresh air. I’ll make you gazpacho, like when you were little.”

Ashley’s smile deepened, but only slightly. “I’ll think about it.”

The conversation meandered into familiar territory: updates about Spanish markets and trekking sessions, nosy neighbors, and the stray cat her mother had adopted. The warmth of her voice painted pictures of a sunlit life far removed from London’s gray streets—a city her mother had left after Ashley’s father died, fleeing memories, back to the country she loved.

Ashley listened, murmuring the occasional response, but her thoughts strayed to her father. His face surfaced vividly, etched into her mind. Twelve years hadn’t dulled the ache of his absence. His death had been an accident—a tragic end to a life spent serving the Defence Intelligence Staff. But his choices had deeply shaped Ashley’s view of the world and her future. And his absence had reinforced the feeling that she was alone against the world.

When the call ended, Ashley set her phone down and stared at the blank screen. The reflection staring back at her looked tired. She leaned into the sofa, letting fatigue seep into her bones.

Somewhere beyond her window, the world carried on. News broke of a man found dead in an underground parking lot, but Ashley didn’t see it. Her phone silent, still on the table.

✴✴✴

Slough House was colder than usual. The heating was dead again, leaving everyone wrapped in whatever layers they could scrounge. Shirley had doubled down with a puffer jacket over two sweaters, a scarf practically swallowing her neck. Marcus wore a beanie pulled low and fingerless gloves, his breath puffing faintly in the icy air.

River stepped into the room with two chipped mugs of tea, steam curling lazily upwards.

Ashley glanced at him as he walked over. Even in the perpetual shabbiness of Slough House, River managed to look somehow polished. He carried himself with the air of someone put together. It was rather distinct. She shifted her attention back to her screen, jabbing at the mouse. “Bloody thing’s frozen again,” she muttered.

“Cutting-edge tech,” River said with a smirk, setting one of the mugs next to her.

She shot him a sidelong glare, but a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “This relic belongs in an exhibition.”

“Budget cuts,” he replied, settling into his chair. “We should be grateful Catherine restocks the tea bags.”

Ashley picked up the mug and sipped. Chamomile, two sugars—exactly how she liked it. Her cheeks warmed for a moment before she pushed the thought aside. He probably remembered her tea preferences the way he remembered codes and patterns—a mind wired for details.

A sharp shout shattered the relative quiet.

“You’re not going to believe this!” Shirley’s voice carried from downstairs.

Marcus groaned without looking up. “Indoor voice, Shirley.”

Louisa barely reacted, keeping her focus on her screen. But River, with a quick glance, noticed the slight tightness in her shoulders, the fatigue in the way her fingers moved over the keyboard. Ashley was watching her too, her gaze lingering before shifting back to Shirley.

“Lower your voice,” Ashley said, her tone calm but firm.

Shirley ignored her, dropping into a chair. “It’s in The Guardian. Roy Haydon. Ex MI5. Ran some crisis management firm.”

River caught a faint flicker of recognition on Ashley’s face—so brief it could’ve been missed.

“Do you know him?” he asked.

Ashley shook her head quickly. “Just…sounds familiar.”

River let it drop, for now. “What’s the story?”

Shirley squinted at her phone. “Shot in a parking lot near St. Paul’s. No witnesses.”

“Bit risky, don’t you think?” River said. “Car parks are crawling with CCTV these days.”

“Not always,” Ashley murmured, keeping her eyes on her screen. “Some of those posh firms have their own systems. They might leave a blind spot or two.”

“Blind spots for what?” Shirley quipped “Murder packages included in the corporate plan?”

Ashley shrugged and tapped at her keyboard.

“Anything else?” River asked.

“Not unless you’ve got fifty quid for premium access,” Shirley said, scowling at a subscription pop-up.

River glanced at Ashley. Her expression was carefully neutral, but he sensed there was more beneath it.

“Sure you’re okay?” he asked, studying her.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said quickly, then added, “The name rings a bell from my time on Tactics, but I’m not sure.”

River leaned back, letting the silence linger for a beat. “Always a sad day when an agent dies.”

“Ex-agent,” Ashley corrected. “And I’m sure the Park will catch the killer in no time.” She took another sip of tea and added, “Thanks. It’s exactly how I like it.”

River tapped his temple with two fingers, a brief, knowing gesture.

By the end of the day, the cold had driven everyone out. Even the slow horses moved quickly when warmth and shelter were waiting elsewhere. Ashley was tightening her coat as she made her way down the stairs when River fell into step beside her.

“Hey,” he said, brushing her arm lightly. “If you know something, maybe it’s worth sharing.”

The comment caught her off guard.

“What do you mean?” she snapped, then softened her tone. “Haydon just…sounds familiar, that’s all.”

He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Keeping secrets has caused enough problems lately. I know we’re spooks”—he raised a hand to preempt her sarcastic retort—“but we can help each other out.”

Ashley hesitated, then smiled softly. She wanted to say more but wasn’t ready. Instead, she nodded.

“Oh, that’s so fucking sweet,” came Lamb’s voice, cutting through the moment like a knife. He stood at the top of the stairs, his sudden appearance as unnerving as ever. “But Cartwright’s wrong, obviously. You’re not spooks. You’re rejects. You don’t have secrets because you don’t do anything worth hiding. Now go home and stop leeching off the heating.”

Behind him, Catherine appeared, one eyebrow arched, her arms crossed. “A remark as warm as ever, Jackson. Lucky the heating’s back on.” 

The moment dissolved as they stepped into the cold evening. Ashley quickened her pace to match River’s, reaching out briefly to touch his arm.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice quiet. Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked briskly toward Barbican Station.

River watched her retreating figure, then turned in the opposite direction, heading into the night.

✴✴✴

Ashley bent over her laptop, fingers drumming absently on the table. Outside, the recent rain tapped steadily against the window, echoing her rhythm, while the damp chill seemed to seep through the walls, pooling around her ankles. The Guardian’s online portal loaded sluggishly, and she resisted the urge to curse at the spinning wheel of death on her screen.

The article was straightforward—deceptively so. A few blurry images of the crime scene caught her eye: two uniformed officers standing near the cordon. Behind them, almost lost in the shadows, was a figure that snagged her attention. She zoomed in, scrolling her mouse wheel until the screen was filled with the unmistakable face of Ingrid Tearney’s guard dog, Duffy, the head of MI5’s internal police.

What was Duffy doing there? His presence signaled that the murder of an ex-agent may be more layered, wheels turning in the background. Was this a cleanup? What were they looking for?

Ashley leaned back in her chair, brushing her hair out of her face. Two fingertips pressed into the corners of her eyes as she tried to summon clarity. With a sharp shake of her head, she typed “Roy Haydon” into the search bar.

As expected, not much came up. A LinkedIn profile so pristine it was almost useless, a few mentions of his crisis management firm, and a grainy headshot from a security conference years ago. The kind of man who worked behind the scenes, kept his digital footprint minimal, and avoided anything that might connect him to something... unsavory.

She glanced at the time. Eight o’clock. Over an hour had passed, and her neck ached from the tension of hunching forward.  The rain had eased to a drizzle, but the damp air seemed heavier now.

Ashley pulled out her notepad and scribbled quick notes:

Duffy at the scene

No CCTV in car park → intentional blind spot?

Haydon linked to Lynton… how?

The bookkeeper.

She circled the last phrase twice, her pen hovering for a moment before she added “R.H.” beside it. Roy Haydon, the bookkeeper. The pieces were beginning to align. Corridor whispers from years ago about an agent who excelled at making problems disappear—and money multiply. An agent rumored to have been key to operations.

Yet, doubt crept in. Seeing ghosts, Ashley? Trying to stitch together a conspiracy to claw your way back? She could hear her coworkers’ cynical tones echoing in her mind. Spying relied on gut instinct, but paranoia was a dangerous label—especially for someone already relegated to the Service’s scrapheap.

She stood abruptly, grabbing her coat. The drizzle outside called to her. She needed fresh air, to clear her head before spiraling further.

Camden always felt alive, even in weather like this. Neon lights from the Electric Ballroom shimmered in puddles, and the mingling scents of damp stone and street food clung to the air. Ashley kept her pace steady, breath fogging faintly as she walked along Camden High Street.

The drizzle clung to her, cold and insistent, but the shiver crawling up her spine wasn’t entirely from the weather. She caught a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye, reflected in the darkened window of a closed café. A figure.

Am I being followed?

Hands shoved into her jacket pockets, she sped up, acutely aware she didn’t have her mobile on her. How long had they been behind her? Had she truly let someone tail her without noticing? Some bloody spy you are, she thought bitterly.

The figure lingered in her peripheral vision. Turning abruptly, she ducked into a quieter side street, weaving through clusters of pedestrians. Spotting a Tesco Express, she slipped inside, heading straight to the back. Using the reflection in a freezer door, she watched the entrance, breath held. Minutes ticked by. No one followed.

When she finally stepped outside, the street was empty. Still, the walk home felt longer than usual, the lingering sense of being watched gnawing at her nerves. She knew better than to glance over her shoulder.

Back in her flat, Ashley fumbled with her keys, locking the door behind her with a sharp twist. She leaned against the counter, gulping down a glass of water as she tried to steady herself. Focus. Breathe. She exhaled slowly, her mind churning with questions she couldn’t quite arrange into order.

Still wearing her damp jacket, she returned to her laptop, hesitating before reaching for her phone. Catherine was her first thought, but what would she say? Lamb’s mocking sneer intruded. “You think Standish is your lifeline?”

She exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought, and opened WhatsApp. Her thumbs hovered for a moment before she typed cautiously:

Ashley: Hi Catherine, sorry for the late message. I think I left my notepad at Slough House. Could I get River’s number to check if he’s seen it?

It was a flimsy excuse, she knew, but her mind was preoccupied with heavier matters, and this would have to do.

Catherine’s reply arrived almost instantly:

Catherine: Of course. Here it is. But don’t call—he might be with his grandfather. Just text.

Ashley let out a small sigh of relief, the corners of her mouth lifting briefly. Catherine always had a way of providing just the right kind of nudge. Saving the number, she hesitated before composing another message:

Ashley: Hi, River. It’s Ashley. Sorry to bother you so late, but I think I left my notepad at Slough House. Did you by any chance come across it?

Rereading the message, the excuse sounded even thinner now, like something scraped together at the last minute. But she hit send anyway, resisting the urge to rewrite it for the third time.

The reply took longer than she expected.

River: Uh, hi, Ashley. No bother. Haven’t seen it, but I can check tomorrow.

She frowned. This wasn’t going to be easy. Taking a deep breath, she typed again:

Ashley: Actually, I was hoping to ask you about something else.

River: Okay… what’s up?

Ashley: I think I might’ve been followed tonight. I shook them off, but I’ve got a bad feeling… and Haydon’s name keeps coming up.

River: Are you sure?

Ashley: Not really. But something doesn’t feel right.

There was another pause before:

River: Let’s talk about it in person. Want to grab a beer?

Ashley blinked at the screen. A beer? It wasn’t what she’d expected, but it made sense—no paper trail.

Ashley: Sure. Where?

✴

The pub River chose was low-key, tucked away from Camden’s busier streets. Ashley arrived first, nerves jangling as she ordered a pint. By the time River walked in, she’d already worked her way through half of it.

“So,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. “What happened?”

Ashley recounted the night, carefully laying out the details: the article, the photographs, Duffy, and the unsettling feeling of being followed. River listened intently, one elbow propped on the table, a finger tapping his chin. His expression remained unreadable, though a small crease formed between his brows. When she finished, he leaned back, exhaling slowly.

“It could be something,” he said. “But it could also be nothing. Maybe…” He hesitated. “Maybe we just want it to be something. You know, to feel back in the game.”

Ashley frowned. “You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that.” His voice was steady, his look reassuring. “I just think we’ve been in the wilderness so long, we’re ready to chase any rabbit we see.”

Both of them knew that sense all too well—the urge to piece together puzzles, even when none seemed to exist. River had learned it firsthand during an assignment months ago, assessing a quiet village that masked darker truths. On the outskirts of London, in a place that looked like a postcard, he had discovered that the absence of obvious clues often meant the key was hiding in plain sight.

He circled back to Duffy, musing aloud. “The head Dog wouldn’t be there unless Tearney was worried about something.”

Ashley tilted her head. “Or just doing his due diligence.”

River gave a faint smirk. “Duffy doesn’t do diligence. He’s got a talent for smoothing over screw-ups.”

Their conversation shifted as they worked through their drinks. From Duffy, they moved to Taverner, their mutual distrust of the Service, and the complicated truth that, despite it all, they still wanted to belong. For the first time in weeks—maybe months—Ashley felt heard. River didn’t dismiss her concerns, and the tension in her shoulders began to ease.

Then he blindsided her.

“Why did you take the blame?”

Ashley blinked. “What?”

“During the training exercise,” River said. “Years ago. The one we did together.”

The memory surfaced sharply. The mock surveillance operation, the dynamics of their team, and the moment she had stepped forward to take responsibility for a tactical error that could have botched their plan. She shifted uncomfortably. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Why?” he pressed.

“It was a tactical mistake,” Ashley said carefully. “That was my area of expertise during the exercise. If anyone should’ve caught it, it was me.”

River shook his head. “It wasn’t your mistake. I was supposed to attach the mic to the target’s belt. I didn’t. They took their jacket off in the car, and we lost the feed.”  

Ashley shrugged, brushing it off. “It didn’t matter. There was a mistake, and someone needed to own it.”

He studied her for a moment. “I remember thinking you didn’t like me.”

She blinked, startled. “Why would you think that?”

“You were so quiet back then. I figured you thought I was useless—or that you were as unimpressed with Spider as with me.”

Ashley’s brows furrowed. She hadn’t considered that River, confident as he usually seemed, might have harbored insecurities. She thought she’d been professional, not cold.

At the mention of Spider Webb, her lips twitched involuntarily. She looked down at her drink, but River caught the reaction.

“You didn’t like him, did you?” he asked, his tone sharpening with curiosity.

“No,” she admitted after a pause. “He was… full of himself.  When he wasn’t giving unsolicited advice, he treated me like liking him was the only natural thing to do.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around her glass, stopping herself from saying more. But the half-formed thought must’ve shown on her face because, when she glanced up, River’s expression hinted at faint annoyance.

She redirected the conversation. “Anyway, that mistake didn’t matter. We were a team. When you’re working with other people, you get better at what you do. You’re only as strong as your partner.”

River’s gaze lingered on her. “It’s hard to feel that way now, though, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“With Lamb constantly reminding us we’re useless,” he said dryly. “It’s hard to feel like what you say or do matters when someone’s got their boot on your neck.”

Ashley huffed a small laugh. “Fair point. But back then, it was the same—just a different boot.” She hesitated before adding, “I know I’m not imagining things.”

River raised an eyebrow.

“It’s my old instinct,” she said quietly. “I can feel it.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the din of the pub around them fading into the background.  When the waitress came to tell them it was closing time, they both glanced at the nearly empty pub with surprise, as if neither had noticed how much time had passed.  

Outside, River hailed a cab for Ashley.  

“I’ll talk to my grandfather,” he said, his tone serious. “See if he knows anything about Lynton or Haydon.”

Ashley hesitated. “Thanks,” she said softly.

He smiled—not the faint, polite smile she’d grown used to, but something warmer. Genuine.

“Anytime.”

As the cab pulled away, Ashley glanced back. River stood on the pavement, tall and still in his dark coat, the collar turned up against the cold.

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