#i bet if his wife was still alive he’d be willing to commit crimes with her or cover for her too

[wideeyedloner]

Jane commits so many crimes every episode. He literally murdered a man in public last episode in revenge for murdering his family eight years ago, and started working with the CBI with this exact intention.

Sally and Timothy Carter were undoubtedly disgusting and criminal in their behavior, but Jane is ridiculous to act like they have nothing in common.

We have eyes, Jane!

Edit: it wasn’t even the right guy. We’re supposed to be okay with it just because he’s in Red John’s network and he was guilty of different crimes.

[onelastbreath-writes]

I’ll Meet You There (Part 1)

Pairing: Marcus Moreno/ Wife!Reader (AFAB, no y/n)

Word Count: 2.5K

Warnings: Mentions child loss, loss of a spouse, survivor’s guilt, vague references to suicide/suicidal thoughts after loss of child (all located in the first 500 words, so it’s brief and not too dark, but please take care) and violence, swearing, and action/fighting.

Summary: What if Marcus’s wife didn’t actually die? What if she and a few others were kidnapped during an attack on Heroics’ HQ, and then held captive for years without realizing? If the only thing you “remember” from your past is that your husband and daughter were killed, well, you surely wouldn’t want to go back to the people who you believe did it. But maybe, with the help of a tenacious child and some re-awaking parental instincts, you’ll be able to break through the brainwashing and forced amnesia, and find your way home.

Tags: Hurt/No comfort (for now), ANGST, eventual happy ending, one really sad man for whom I just keep making things worse, #sorrynotsorry

A/N: This is my first We Can Be Heroes fic, and first reader fic, so please be gentle. I’ve got the rest of the story outlined, so I hope I can get down to writing and posting it soonish, but my RL is busy and doesn’t leave much time/energy for quick updates. If you like it and want me to do a taglist, let me know so you can know when I update again. Also a big thank you to the amazing Jay @disgruntledspacedad​ and her fic The Right Thing for inspiring this one, and for allowing me to use her wife!reader idea. Please go check her blog out, and give her some love <3

AO3 Masterlist

---

“You’ve been in a terrible accident, Doctor, and I regret to inform you of your husband’s and daughter’s passing. Our rescue and recovery efforts after the incident were unfortunately unsuccessful, and you have our deepest sympathies.”

It took months for those words to even sink into you; months before you even remembered anything about who you were... the accident, or the attack, as it was more commonly known by you and the other victims, took your entire life away in an instant. You survived, physically, but at the cost of your partner? Your child? All the memories of your life together? How could you be worth it?

“Your transcripts and accomplishments are phenomenal, Doctor, and I’m in need of talented and capable individuals such as yourself to help right the wrongs, and demand justice, from those who have committed such heinous acts against us. The Heroics are murderers, destroyers of peace, and they have gotten away with their crimes for far too long. They’ve been praised and applauded and worshipped as gods while all they truly are, are terrorists. How many more innocent lives can we allow to be lost to their carelessness? ‘For the greater good’ is quite the insult when the people saying such things aren’t the ones losing their families to the chaos, wouldn’t you agree? Join me, Doctor, and we can make a difference.”

It was easy decision for you, even in the early days of your recovery. From the distant and foggy memories of your past, your anguish in what you could recall, you knew that if you could stop someone else from having to feel the loss and pain that comes from losing their spouse and children, you would do so in a heartbeat.

Your husband had been an incredible man, your Everything, you would imagine, going by the ache in your heart when you thought of being without him. His name, his appearance; that was all lost to you when you lost him. His existence in what could be healed of your memories was just a shadow, a shade, the vague impression of the man you loved. You remembered his warmth, his kindness and gentleness, his love and devotion to you and the child you created together.

And your beautiful baby girl... if thoughts of your husband left your heart aching, then thoughts of your daughter left you in unparalleled agony, completely inconsolable. You tried to avoid thinking of her, if you were being honest, tried to leave all what-ifs and could’ve/should’ve/would‘ve’s behind... you had worked with people, mothers, who had lost children before, had seen them tear themselves apart in their grief, taking the blame for something that was in no way their fault; you had seen them destroy their lives with their hoarded guilt and perceived crimes... you couldn’t allow yourself to fall for that, those falsehoods, you had to be alive if you wanted to honour your child and husband’s sacrifice.  

“We will make them pay for what they’ve done to us, Doctor, I promise you that. Together, we can get justice for your husband, for your little Missy.”

---

Marcus knew something was wrong as soon as his commlink started transmitting static instead of his teammates’ conversations. The Heroics had been deployed to stop a hoard of rogue security androids that were infected by a virus or something (he couldn’t usually follow the technobabble), which had led them to escape their testing facility and target nearby civilians with their advanced weapons technology.

Evacuating the citizens trapped in the line of fire was the team’s first objective, and once the area was cleared of potential victims, they moved onto the containment and neutralization of the enemy combatants. The Heroics team was decently cohesive; they could work together to ensure the protection of innocent lives while in a firefight, but once the civilians were in the clear and the stakes not so high, the supersized egos of the members emerged with a fiery passion. This particular firefight was no different.

“Hey ‘Legend, bet you a week of incident reports that my count is higher!” Miracle Guy’s voice broke out over the ‘link, as eager to show-boat as ever, from where he was steadily piling up his deactivated attackers.

“I’ll take that action, Miracle, easy. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby!” Crimson Legend wasn’t the type of person who could ignore a bet, especially one issued from Miracle.  “You’re probably so behind already that you don’t even stand a chance, ha!”

Of course, they just had to make it a game, keep the superiority contest going; like a single mistake couldn’t cost them a life or a limb. And just to further prove how amazingly mature the rest of Marcus’s team of Adult Superheroes were, they all started in on the bet too.  

“If I beat your totals, I want a week off from training!”

“Ha! Like any of you have a chance of winning against me! I want my on-call weekend, off”

“If I win, you’re all my personal slaves for the rest of the day!”

Did Marcus say Adult Superheroes? He meant infants.  

And they had started the mission so well, communicating and strategizing, actual teamwork instead of bickering and joking around like children. Hell, even their children didn’t get into as much trouble as their parents could.  

“Guys, it’s really not the best time to be playing around. We need to focus on-” He was cut off by the loud static burst of an out-of-range radio. Shit. That’s not good. If his comms unit was fried, he couldn’t direct his teammates, couldn’t keep track of them, couldn’t help them.

They were pretty spread out by now, giving everyone room to use their powers without worrying about another Heroic getting caught in the blast zone. He knew from their most recent locational sound off that Crushing Low and Invisi Girl were working together near the intersection two streets over from him, and if he could make his way over to them, he could figure out what was going on.

Marcus needed to know if it was just his commlink that was out of commission, or if their entire network had gone down. The former scenario was a minor inconvenience, the latter was a major issue. Either he’d have to lead his team by correspondence, or he’d have to worry about them being completely alone in the field, without support from HQ, and without any chance of backup or rescue.  

He couldn’t worry about the details now, he had to keep focused on finishing off the seemingly endless wave of androids. Androids with guns. Androids with guns that he was trying to kill with a pair of katanas... Maybe he hadn’t thought his primary weapon for this mission out very well... It was just something that he’d have to come back to later. For now: sword, robot, teammates.

---

They didn’t pay him enough for this. He should have gone into acting like he had planned before his powers manifested. This sort of shit didn’t happen to actors.  

Marcus had destroyed all the androids delaying him from reaching his nearest teammates and was finally able to move to their location with relative ease and only minor distraction. He could see Crushing Low laying waste to the few remaining functional robots in the area, and could assume that Invisi Girl was around somewhere, disabling any downed but not dead enemies while protecting ‘Low’s back.  

He was proven right when he heard a feminine voice call for him to “hit the deck, Moreno!”.

“Thanks Vis! You two doing alright? What’s your comms sitch?” He stood back up straight, just missing being nailed in the head by a flying metal limb had it not been for her heads-up.

“We’re a-okay! Comms are out though. No known damage to them, no knocks or surges, might be the tech, or it might be the channel. We’ll have to see what Tech-No thinks.” She was still invisible, but Marcus could imagine her animated expressions and movements. She was one of the most... normal... of the Heroics, if normal could ever be used to describe any of the team. Reliable and observant, with a good sense of battle strategy. He greatly appreciated her skills and efficiency in the field; she and Tech-No being the most down-to-earth of the Heroics, most willing to help him keep the peace between the rest of them.

“I’ll watch Low’s back if you can go find Tech. We need to know what’s going on, ASAP. If all the comms are down, and Tech can’t get them back up, I need you to find everyone and tell them to meet back at the robotics facility. Get Miracle and Fast to help if you can. If anyone’s injured, they’re your first priority, okay? Thanks, Vis.”

---

Getting every member of the Heroics team back together took nearly an hour, all coming fresh from the fight but thankfully not too banged up or bruised. They set up a perimeter once enough of the team had arrived to their meeting spot, allowing Tech-No to deep-dive into  investigating their communications malfunction.

“It’s the network, not our comms. We’re dealing with a drop either from HQ’s side, or a forced drop here from RFI. But considering the standard distance and all the buildings and stuff around us, a radio frequency jammer wouldn’t be able to block our communications network as far out as we were. We must assume that the problem comes from HQ. which presents further concerns, obviously. I designed most of the technology there myself, so I know exactly how much work it would be to take down the whole system. We need to consider this as part of a bigger plot, and plan accordingly.” Tech-No’s eventual explanation hang heavy in the air, no one willing to break the silence following it... If something had happened to HQ… Their co-workers were there, their friends, their children…  

Marcus thought of his daughter and wife. They were both there today. His wife worked in the medical centre, and they brought their daughter there for daycare. If something happened there... shit. If he was panicking about his family already, his teammates were doing the same. He had to head this off. He couldn’t let this get out of control. He took a breath and squared his shoulders. It was time to be Marcus Moreno the leader of the Heroics, not Marcus the husband and father. Lead by example, they’re all counting on you.

“We have no proof that anything is actually wrong, and until we know for sure why we can’t reach them, we need to do our jobs. Finish the mission. We’ve always trusted our people to hold down the fort at home so we can help people out here, and they’ve never let us down before. We are not going to doubt them now, understood? Whatever happened? We know HQ is doing their best to keep our loved ones safe. So, we finish up here, quickly and thoroughly, and then we head back to base. Let’s get moving,” He met his teammates’ eyes, allowed them to witness his own fears, but also his stubborn determination. He wasn’t asking them to ignore or dismiss their worries, but rather, put it into finishing the mission so they could go home sooner.  

No one fought him; thankfully just picked their tasks and headed out.  

“Tech, we need transport. Now. I don’t care how you do it, just get it done, alright?” Marcus refused to acknowledge the slight tremble in his voice, tried to breathe around the lump in his throat and the dread sinking in his stomach. He desperately stopped himself from thinking about coincidences and probabilities. This was all a fluke, a random string of events that didn’t mean anything more was going on. They’d be able to laugh about it when they got home and saw everything was just as they’d left it. He had to believe that. He didn’t have any other choice.

—-

Transport home turned out to be a military helicopter big enough to fit the whole team, in addition to the fully outfitted squad of soldiers already inside.

“According to the press release your director gave, there was small but powerful group of gifted individuals who invaded Heroics’ Headquarters, intending to either kidnap or kill certain “important personnel” within the building. Didn’t specify much more than that, other than that your organization would be dedicating as much manpower as they could to bring “those who would cause such destruction and terror” to justice. The address was filmed in the parking lot, but there were a lot of emergency responders and vehicle in the background. I’m sorry we can’t tell you anything more, but well, we were scrambled to your location ASAP, barely had time for the news we got...” The staff sergeant sitting across from Marcus briefed the team about what the intel they had on the HQ attack. And that was what it was. An attack. The thing they all feared most.

“Thank you for the information, and for the ride back home; we lost communication in the middle of a battle, with no clue as to why. Now, at least, we have an idea of what we should expect when we arrive.” The mention of “important personnel” jump-started Marcus’s heart into overdrive. That was the code phrase they used when describing their most vulnerable people to the public, non-combatants and injured persons usually; a smokescreen meant to dissuade targeted attacks, and shift attention away from those who couldn’t protect themselves in the case of an emergency. It was also the code that frequently represented their children.  

The families of the Heroics were classified as high-risk targets; villains and enemies of their organization didn’t often have the moral decency to leave their loved ones out of the fight. So, to afford as much anonymity and protection possible, any time the team had to reference their partners and children in physical records and documentation, it was under that code phrase.  

This attack was centred on their kids.  

What kind of monster do you have to be to go after a bunch of kindergarten and primary school children?

Fuck.

The only good news was that there was no mention of the attack being a success.  

So, all the Heroics knew for certain was that a group of villains had tried to get to their children, and while obviously causing significant damage to HQ, they had been stopped. Were unsuccessful. The Home Team had saved the day again.  

Marcus thanked every deity he could think of for keeping his and his friends’ kids safe.  

The rest of the flight home was quiet. Him and teammates finally able to get some rest after all the fighting and panic, and the soldiers conversing just loud enough to be heard over the headsets and hum of the chopper’s motors.  

He was pulled back from the edge of unconsciousness he had been drifting along for a while when the pilot gave them their five-minute ETA.

They were home at long last, and everything was going to be just fine.

---

[Next Part]

[bewareofchris]

Is there more about the coffin maker& fed modern au? I really liked it and would love to read more!

There is a bit more.  I keep going back to it and thinking: “man I should finish that” and I started an entirely separate story (but not the original story) for them but didn’t finish this AU.

The Coffin Maker and the Fed (the modern version) | PG-13 | language, themes, some violence?

         Clarence, future G-man, FBI academy applicant, had a disastrouslove affair with the seedy criminal underground.  When he was a child hehad been intrigued by shoplifting and vandalism while his mother stared downher long nose at the filthy poor illiterates that would stoop to such crimes. She had gone on for hours about how vagrants and delinquents should befunneled into jails and milled out in work farms so they could make up for theevil that they had inflicted on humanity. It didn’t matter to her what their crime was—from stealing bread tobutchering babies—or even if they hadn’t committed one.  The fact was that Mother was simply above allthe common things that affected common people and whatever she couldn’tunderstand should be punished.  The onetime—and it was only one time—he had shoplifted a candy bar, he was seven andthe shop clerk gave him the sternest, meanest stare she could manage while shecalled his mom (but not the police) and by the time his mother arrived in fullregalia breathing fire out of her nose and shooting laser beams out of hereyes, the shop clerk looked terrified and repentant.  Clarence was lectured and berated the entireride home and then he was sent to bed without dinner, had all of his toysremoved from his room, spent two months grounded to his room and went withoutbirthday or Christmas presents that year. (His father, predictably, had done nothing to temper his wife’s rage buttook Clarence aside and asked him if he were ever going to do anything sofucking stupid again and Clarence—miserable and lonely and bored—had said no.)

The fact that he was aterrible crook with an insane mother and a push-over father notwithstanding,his love affair with the criminal mind and the criminal underworld had movedbeyond petty crimes and developed into a full-fledged romance with the mosttwisted and disturbingly wrong facets of humanity.  At twenty-one, born and bred upper class,stationed in a beautiful apartment just within walking distance to the collegehe attended (not that he had to walk because he had a car), Clarence’s grasp ofthe anything criminal was almost entirely theoretical.  What little of the seedy underbelly he hadmanaged to see consisted of amateur drag races and small-time drug dealerssubletting their stash to pay for food or more drugs.  He’d met a prostitute once, at a party, andshe was short with thick thighs and red lips that talked to him about politicswith more intelligence than half the stoners that he went to school with.  She never offered him a deal on her servicesand it was just as well because he liked to remember her with pink on hercheeks complaining about Republicans.

Still, whenever helearned about anything resembling remotely illegal, he was compelled to go to it.  Thatwas how he found himself driving two towns over to an underground fight, allbut bare-knuckled in an abandoned parking lot. His friend Ed (or Ned, or Ted or even Fred—he forgot because his friendswere passing whims, always here and then gone) sitting shotgun and running awild commentary on how he’d seen these guys fight before and the blood was ridiculous.  Clarence could care less about the blood, orthe violence, but it was the whole idea of it and the sort of people that itattracted that made his body vibrate just under his skin.

He parked them away fromthe other cars, locked the doors with a wince and shoved his keys down into thedeepest part of his pocket and followed the smell-and-sound of the crowd with (T)Edat his side.  They were stopped at amake-shift gate by a guy without a neck that demanded a modest fee forentry.  Clarence paid it and then workedhis way through the dense crowd of bodies. The smell was end-of-the-day, summer-after-dark strong with a tinge ofgirl perfume and hair product thrown in now and again to break off the chokingsmell of sweating-bodies.  By the timehe’d wormed his way through to the front, he’d lost (N)Ed among the otherruddy-cheeked spectators.  They werealive with the prospect of blood and the whole homoerotic mess of half-nakedsweating men grabbing and smacking on each other.

         (Clarence wouldnever-not-ever understand how the heterosexual mind worked, and how it managedto compartmentalize all of its various contradictions without imploding fromthe effort.)

         There was a refereein a black-and-white striped jersey with a mike calling the fight from thethick of it.  Off to the side there werevendors selling cold microwave popcorn and muggy-warm beer while bookies workedthe lines of people taking bets. Clarence wanted to stop one and find out what the odds were but he wastoo caught up in the sheer glory of the grunt-and-punch fight.  There was no way (none at all) that they wereall going to make it away from this fight without the cops dropping by to breakit up and he was straining his ears to listen for the wail of sirens over theroar of the thick crowd.

         The third fight hesaw was the last fight of the night, the ref was calling back the winners ofthe previous rounds—the same guy he’d just watched beat the hell out of someredheaded man with freckles over bruises on his skin.  Clarence was half-willing to put money onthat guy (the Amazing-something, according to the ref) because he was like afucking machine that never just couldn’t stop but as the ref called out thesecond name, the crowd exploded in a mix of cheers and hisses of disapproval.

         There was Elias, Burger-StopElias of syrup stocking fame, bare-chested, tan, fat lip and bruised knuckles,stepping into the make-shift ring with a beautifully crafted blankexpression.  His hands were wrapped insome kind of tape and he was barefoot on hot asphalt without a wince.  He had blood at the edge of his chin likehe’d been wiping it off his face and he walked up to his opponent to touchfists together like they were both old pros at this.  Elias walked a circle around the ring, gotclose enough that when a few hands darted out to touch him they nearly grazedhis over-sized shoulder.  

         The fight wasshort-and-brutal.  The amazing-whoevercame after Elias as soon as the bell was sounded, and like before he was allfury and flying fists, landing blows wherever he could catch enough skin.  Elias took it in silence, protected his faceand waited for a clean shot.  The amazingdumbass took a half-second to catch his breath and Elias shifted from defenseto attack.  He landed three hits and theother man went down, hard, like hard-enough to crack-the-sidewalk-hard.  

         The crowd wascaught between hisses and cheers, separated by fans and losers who were chantingout cheat in an effort to reclaim their suddenly lost bets.  Clarence was the only one (as far as he couldtell form a hastily hazarded look around) that was shoving his fists into hispockets to conceal an ill-timed boner while he watched Elias wipe at the newsmear of blood on his mouth as he walked toward the exit of the ring.  As soon as he was through it, disappearingout of the bright utility lights and fading into the shadows, the whole crowdwas breaking up.  Women in slut shoeswere working through the men, picking out the happy faces that were suddenrecipients of handfuls of cash and getting high on their own giddyaccomplishment.  Clarence worked his waythrough the crowd as it started to move, threaded through to the side wherethere was a brief, warm catch of fresh air before it was overwhelmed again bystale butter popcorn, spilt beer and cigarette smoke.  He splashed through a puddle of suds that hesincerely hoped was beer and not piss and jogged toward Elias.  He was standing apart, accepting his share ofthe winnings with his shirt thrown over one shoulder and his shoes tucked underone arm.  

         Clarence was,literally, five short feet away from him when the first shrill peal of policesirens cut into the murmuring noise of the dispersing crowd.  The man doling out cash to Elias jumped likehe’d been shocked and hastily shoved over the rest of the money owed before heturned and ran.  Behind him, there werehalf-frightened screams with the undercurrent of a sudden stampede.  Elias just turned toward the sound, towardthe light of the ring and let out a sigh like he was already resigned to beingcaught and questioned for his part in it.

         “I’ve got a car,”Clarence said because Elias was looking over him and not at him and because hehad a car.  The sirens were closer-now;the edge of red-and-blue lights coming in around buildings and Clarence grabbedElias by the hand and pulled him into a run. “Work with me, here.”

         Elias was aslow-start runner, like a rhinoceros that had to build up and like a beast toodamn big-and-heavy for its own good; he couldn’t corner worth a damn.  Clarence made a quick right and Elias knockedthem both over, Clarence face-first into the ground with only his hands and oneknee to catch himself and Elias rolled across his back and hit the ground nextto him.  Something popped in Clarence’shand but he didn’t have time to worry too-much about that because Elias wasalready back on his feet and grabbing him by the elbow to drag him up and thenpull him along until he’d managed to jump start his limp into a full-outrun.  They fell into the car at fullspeed, Clarence’s throbbing, bloody palms catching painfully on the keys shoveddown into his pocket before he was able to open the locks and get into the damncar.

         His heart wasbeating the inside of his ribcage sore by the time he got the car started andpulled out of the parking lot a few buildings away from the fight.  The first cop car was already on the scene,highlighting the fleeing bodies with its red-and-blue strobe effect.  He slipped away as quietly as he could, triedto drive in a way that seemed nonchalant and innocent when he felt tipped-overand out of control.  Elias was silent nextto him, taking up space and giving off heat but not even managing to make enoughnoise with his breathing to be noticeable.

         Clarence parkedthem in front of a twenty-four hour pancake place and flopped back against theseat with the car still on and the radio still playing the worst hits of theeighties, nineties and today.  Elias letout a breath and squinted up at the neon letters promising drunken college kidscheap food at all hours and then looked back at him.  

         “Should I assumethat every time I meet you is going to involve pancakes?” Elias said.

         And maybe that waswhy Clarence remembered the first time they met, hung over as hell, becauseElias remembered it.  He was grinninglike an idiot because Elias rememberedhim and because he was exhausted from the slide down from adrenaline andthe pain in his ragged bloody-palms was working its way back into hisbrain.  He looked down at his hands, theground chuck look of them and the fattening swell of his now-crooked ringfinger on his left hand.  “Shit,” hesaid.

         “That looksbroken,” Elias said helpfully from the side.

         “No shit,” hesaid.  He touched it gingerly, poked atthe red-blush of heat around the broken bone and decided he was really too muchof a wimp to even try to nudge it straight again.  “Guess you’re going to the ER with me.”

         “Why would I dothat?” Elias asked.

         “Because if yourolled over me and broke my finger and it’s your responsibility to make surethat I get medical attention for my injury,” Clarence said.  He turned his hand over once-or-twice andtried to ignore the boiling pain that was working up his hand toward his wrist.

         “That’s a veryentitled view on the situation,” Elias said, “besides I don’t have a shirt orshoes.  I lost them when I rolled overyou and I don’t think they let you sit around the ER waiting room shirtless.”

         Clarence used hisgood hand to open his door and popped open the trunk of the car with his keyfob.  “Come on,” he said when Eliasdidn’t move to follow him immediately. They stood at the trunk, Elias staring in disbelief in the array ofclothes he had stockpiled and with one hand on the car and the other hanginglimply at his side as his finger swelled even fatter.  “I can feel you judging me.”

         “These aren’t yourclothes,” Elias said, “why do you have a trunk full of clothes that don’tbelong to you?”

         “They get leftbehind.  The point is that there is ashirt in here and,” he dug under the piles until he found the pair of terribleflip flops that were tucked in the side by the tire iron, “these are verynearly shoes.”  

         Elias looked at himsideways, thinking all the worst possible things about him from slut to insaneand Clarence wouldn’t have denied a single one of the accusations if they’dbeen spoken out loud.  It was just thatlook of disbelief and disdain on Elias’ face, that same look that sometimeshis-mother used on him whenever she found him messing in dirt and couldn’tbring herself to touch him because of it. That face was half the reason Clarence had gone off and gone throughwith every stupid idea he’d ever had, just fucking because (and fuck their perfect faces too).  “I’ll drive,” Elias said, “what hospital doyou want to go to?”

         Clarence had adisconnected moment between hearing-and-registering the words.  So he was full of venom when he opened hismouth and it came out in his voice like fire, he said, “you know—what?”

         “I said, I’lldrive.  You can’t hold the wheel withbroken fingers.”  He dug around throughthe shirts, found one that he thought was decent enough and smelled it in fourdifferent places before he put it on. “What’s your name?” he asked.

         “Clarence.  And—thanks,” he said.  He tossed his car keys to Elias withoutworrying about whether or not he was a legal driver, if he could drive stick,if he were a crazed killer in his spare time between Burger-Stop and streetfighting.  He just watched him fittinghis dirty-bare-feet into the flip flops after he pulled the long sleeve T-shirton over his head and then went to get into the passenger side of the car.