#i can see a mans cuffs because his suits are like properly measured to him

[ratatatastic]

beautiful picture of forsy honestly im in awe godbless this man and his coloured suits

[willow-salix]

The Shirt

This little thing is for @misssquidtracy and @soniabigcheese and was supposed to be a ficlet (tell that to the 2.5k that came out). It came about after a throw away comment to Sonia last night and then John ‘helpfully’ dropped the whole thing in my head fully formed. Enjoy!

Thanks to the awesome @myladykayo​ for the gorgeous shot of this dude!

"I don't need any new clothes, I told you that."

"And I didn't listen. Come on, John, you haven't bought anything new since college."

"And I'm happy with that, all of my clothes are perfectly serviceable," John continued to argue as Gordon towed him into yet another shop. 

As always they drew attention, Gordon because of his loud voice and, according to him, his swimmers body that the women loved. Gordon had always loved to be the center of attention, he'd reveled in it back in his Olympic days, proud of the knowledge that his promotional pictures had graced many a teenagers phone backgrounds and lock screens. 

John, on the other hand, had no idea what people saw in him and why they still watched him even when he was with his brothers. He knew his hair always drew looks and over the years he'd heard more than a few people whispering something about checking if he was a natural redhead, although he'd never wanted to stick around to listen too closely and had gotten out of there sharpish. He'd much rather just be left alone to fade into the background where his introverted wallflower tendencies could be appeased. 

"Well, I need new clothes and you can't leave a man to shop on his own, it's just not done," Gordon continued. 

"I'm pretty sure there's no such rule."

"I'm making it a rule, it's part of the bro code now," Gordon shot back, flicking through yet another rack of eye-wateringly bright shirts that even Hawaii would have disowned. 

"I reject your rule."

"You can't, I'm your baby brother, you have to be nice to me, that's in the bro code too."

"I demand to see written proof of this rule book that you seem to keep pulling things from whenever it suits you."

Gordon glanced at his brother, seeing his lips twitch as he fought valiantly to keep any display of amusement firmly at bay. John didn't often get the chance to hang out with his younger brother but he always enjoyed it, not that he'd ever admit that out loud, that would only encourage Gordon to up his annoyance level by at least five points. 

"Ha! You smiled, I'm off the hook!" 

"I did no such thing."

"You did, I saw it! The robot had a feeling- ow!" Gordon ducked out of the way, avoiding another cuff around the back of the head from his, far too lanky for his own good, brother who apparently had the reach of an orangutan. 

"I'm not a robot, you little jerk. Stand still so I can hit you properly." And there went the warm fuzzy feelings. Back to reminding himself just why said hang outs didn't happen more often. 

"Yeah, right! Like that's gonna happen." Gordon shimmied backwards through the rack of shirts that made the sun look dull and out the other side to freedom. "Too much time in space has made you slow, bro!" 

"What? HOW DARE YOU!" Without thinking John dived around the side of the rack, stretching out to grab at his grinning brother. "I'll show you who's slow!" 

"I am lightning, I am the wind!" Gordon dodged aside with perfect ease, avoiding the grasping fingers of his brother. 

"Full of wind, more like! Stand still!" How was the squid so fast? 

"Come on, old man, keep up!" 

John made another grab at the back of Gordon's shirt but the little shit wiggled out of his grasp like an eel. 

"Ha! Victory is mine!"

"I wouldn't be too sure about th-" WHUMP! John spluttered, screeching to a stop as he got a face full of fabric, evidently thrown by Gordon who'd decided that weapons were now in play. 

He flailed, tripping over the leg of a clothing rack as he stumbled blindly. He made a grab for the first solid feeling thing he could find, although his judgement of solid was woefully inadequate. He landed on the floor in a tangle of limbs, both his own and plastic, as the mannequin he'd inadvertently grabbed fell with him. 

"Gordon," he gasped, winded from his tumble, but the sound of his brother's hysterical laughter was all that he received by way of an answer. 

He yanked the material off his head, a shirt of some description by the looks of it, and staggered to his feet, dragging his dance partner up with him. 

He managed to get her upright and back on her stand after a great deal of huffing and many swear words muttered under his breath as Gordon continued to howl like a hyena, hanging onto a mirror to stop his own downward descent. 

Yanking her skirt back up where he'd accidentally yanked it down, John finally got the mannequin back in place and decently covered up. 

"Gordon stop laughing!" he ordered as he bent to pick up the shirt that had assaulted him before angrily turning to face his brother. 

"What a clumsy idiot," he heard someone whisper a few rows over, stopping him in his tracks. "Keep out of the way, he'll take us down with him next."

John ducked his head, his cheeks as red as his hair, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He hated being the center of attention and now, he risked a peek to confirm his suspicions, yep, now the whole store was looking at him. Great, just perfect. 

"I'm never coming shopping with you again," he hissed in Gordon's direction. 

"Too right. Did you see the shirt he's holding?" the woman's friend whispered back. "Anyone that picks out something like that should be avoided at all costs."

"He's looking, quick, pretend you haven't seen him!" Both women quickly looked away, suddenly extremely interested in a nearby coat. 

What were they talking about? John glanced down at the pile of fabric still clutched in his clenched fist. It was definitely a shirt of some description, beigey-brown in colour, but not just one shade, oh no, this monstrosity had at least four other shades of brown thrown in for good measure, all coming together in wavy lines of what-was-this-designer-thinking to form some kind of texan nightmare, complete with gaudy gold piping. It truly was hideous, quite honestly the most disgusting thing he'd ever laid eyes on and he'd trained with astronauts who didn't have control of their digestive systems yet. 

He looked around desperately to find somewhere to hide it away from his sight, ignoring Gordon who was taking deep breaths in an effort to calm down. 

There! He spotted a convenient looking pile of sweatpants on a shelf and moved over to stuff the offending article back into the depth of hell from whence it had crawled when a single, solitary thought tickled at the back of his brain. 

He paused, thinking, his brain hamster now awake and racing at top speed around its wheel. He glanced from the shirt to the women who had spoken before, then back down to the shirt. 

"I'm going to try this on," he announced to his stunned brother, marching past him to the changing rooms. 

He quickly stripped off his T-shirt, the one that declared that he was a communications engineer not a magician, and pulled on the horror shirt. Surprisingly enough it was actually made of quite a soft material, something his overly sensitive, due to time spent in low gravity, skin really appreciated. 

He pulled it closed and buttoned it up, rolling his shoulders to allow it to settle into place. It was remarkably comfortable, actually long enough in the body. He stretched out his arms, pleased to see that the cuffs didn't immediately hike up to his elbows. All good so far, but only one thing would assure its purchase…

He pushed open the changing room door and stepped outside. The effect was immediate as two men, three women and a toddler that had been independently milling around near the entrance took one look at him and, as one, turned as quickly as they could in the opposite direction. 

Grinning to himself he tugged the tag off the sleeve, grabbed his T-shirt from the changing room and headed to the counter. 

"I'll wear it out," he informed the cashier, loving the way he not so subtly averted his eyes, unable to look at him. "And I'll take as many as you have in stock in this size and the next one up too." The cashier rushed to do his bidding, desperate to save what remained of his eyesight. 

"See, I told you coming shopping with me was a good idea," Gordon grinned as they made their way back to the parking lot, their arms filled with bags. 

"I will admit that it had its advantages," John answered as they strode easily through the crowd that parted like the red sea, unwilling to risk being contaminated by their fashion flu. 

John breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like he could relax for the first time since they'd gotten there three hours before. 

"That shirt is magical," Gordon declared, watching in astounded awe as eyes all around them shifted to avoid looking in his brother's direction. "It's like a people repellent in clothing form, it's….it's…" he groped around for the right words. 

"It's perfect," John declared, lovingly stroking a sleeve like one would a beloved pet. And it truly was. It was like people had a filter, an ugly shirt firewall in their heads that made them avoid it at all costs.

He couldn't remember a time that he hadn't been stared at since the year he'd turned seventeen and hit his second growth spurt. In that year he'd shot up six inches, his lanky frame had filled out a little, his weedy arms turning into tightly packed muscles and he'd developed abs and a voice that had deepened a few octaves. Then, for some reason, his anxious aura with its go away vibes had become nothing but a challenge for most people, acting as a kind of siren call for them to latch on to him and decide that he needed to be included, chatted to and made the center of attention. 

Now it was like he was practically invisible and it felt amazing. Even with the neon orange shirt Gordon was wearing, people were mostly ignoring him. 

"I'm never taking this thing off again."

       ***

"Why am I always the one doing the laundry for you lazy arses?" Selene bitched as she dragged a massive basket of assorted Tracy clobber into the lounge where the assorted Tracys owners sat around in various states of lazy. 

"Because you love us?" Gordon answered, grinning cheekily. 

"Nope, that can't be it," Selene retorted, sitting down on the steps of the seating area to begin the mammoth task that was sorting and folding. She dragged out one of Virgil's plaids and folded it into some semblance of order and dropped it on the floor to start his pile. 

"Let me help," John offered, moving to sit beside her and take some of the pile from her lap. 

"Thanks, gorgeous."

"Whipped," Scott teased, reaching for his coffee cup. "Hey, Sel, if you're the only one doing the laundry as you claim, how comes you haven't managed to wreck John's ugly shirts?"

"Why would I?" she shrugged, balling up a pair of Scott's socks. 

"Because I know you. Any excuse to shop, right?" 

The socks made a handy projectile as she threw them at his head. 

"Thanks!" Scott grinned, effortlessly plucking them from midair. "Seriously though, look at it."

Selene looked at the shirt that was currently hiding the delightful chest of her even more delightful husband. 

"I fail to see the problem with it."

"Really?" 

"Hey, leave my shirt alone, it's perfectly serviceable, thank you."

"It's old, it has to be at least seven years since you bought them," Gordon joined in. "They probably don't even make them any more."

"They don't," John said, concentrating on folding one of Alan's T-shirts into a perfect square. "So nothing had better happen to the ones I have left."

"Now's your chance," Alan whispered to Selene. "Kill them with fire and you'll never have to see them again."

"Yeah, you know that he's got much nicer clothes in his wardrobe," Scott added. 

"I've actually grown quite fond of them," Selene answered, carefully folding one she'd plucked from the depths of the pile, smoothing it out like it was something precious. 

All three Tracys, minus one Virgil who was down in the hangars no doubt creating more washing for her to do by getting covered in grease and muck, stared at her like she'd just announced that she was going back to blonde. 

"What? How? You said that he's never looked better than when he's wearing a decent shirt, I had to give you a drool cloth at your wedding."

"All true," she shrugged, folding one of Virgil's vests to the best of her ability. 

"Yet you continue to let him walk about in, what was it you called it, his rodeo clown shirt?" Gordon asked, completely bemused. "Are we missing something here?" 

"I'm a witch," she started by way of explanation. 

"Duh," Alan snorted. 

"And I have a healthy respect for glamour magic, and that right there," she continued as if she hadn't just been rudely interrupted, pointing at the shirt that John was wearing, "is the most magical thing I've ever seen in my life." 

All three of them burst out laughing, unable to believe what they were hearing. Selene waited patiently for them to finish cackling like they had just cursed Macbeth. 

"Allowing the shirts to live is doing the world, and my arrest record, a huge favour. Now, if you'll excuse us…" she got to her feet, relieved John of the socks he was busily matching and dragged him to his feet.

"OK, OK, I'll bite," Scott continued to chuckle, wiping the tears from his eyes. "What makes you think it's so magical?"

"That should be obvious, nothing short of a miracle could hide that amount of sexiness. Why do you think I'm good with him hiding in Five when he's wearing that space suit?" She dumped the half folded pile of washing back into the hamper.

"I've decided that you lot can sort your own laundry, because I've got the sudden and overwhelming urge to see that shirt on our bedroom floor. Later, fashion rejects."

John put up zero resistance. 

"I love this shirt," he grinned, waving a cheerful goodbye to his stunned brothers as his wife yanked on his hand, towing him bodily from the lounge and on to far more pleasant things than chores. 

[talatomaz]

reckless | dinah drake x lance!reader

a/n: this is kind of based on how i was feeling earlier this week. i lost someone close to me quite a while ago and though i know that grief never stops and it eventually just gets easier to deal with, it still doesn’t make it any less difficult

warnings: death, mentions of assault. brief sexual references at the end

word count: 1.9k

masterlist | request list | request rules

i do not give you permission to repost or translate my fics on any platform - likes/reblogs are okay and are much appreciated

“Morning, baby.”

“Morning.”

You replied, smiling softly as your girlfriend placed a gentle kiss on your cheek before removing herself from your shared bed.

As Police Captain, Dinah always had to get up early, a lie in a rarity. It didn’t bother you though; you often woke up at the same time, sometimes earlier as you worked in the mayoral office though you weren’t a fan of the current woman in command.

Emily Pollard was both stubborn and narrow-minded; her stance on the anti-vigilante law further proving that. But you had swallowed your pride and worked for her, mainly to keep an eye on her but also so you could sway her on her decision-making.

Though Oliver Queen aka Green Arrow had been turned into somewhat of a martyr by Mayor Pollard, your sister, Laurel, couldn’t be further from that distinction.

After all, she was the beloved Black Canary and Mayor Pollard could never act untoward about that nor to you, lest she face the judgement of the Star City citizens.

So she kept you beside her, allowing you to enlighten her and best suit her decisions for the public.

As you sat up, you contemplated the dream that you had awoken from. It had left you unsettled because, for the first time in a while, you had dreamt of Laurel and she had acted as your Guardian Angel - not any different than when she was alive but it still unnerved you.

You constantly missed your big sister, the ache in your heart a constant reminder but you had a feeling that the loss would be much worse today. Nevertheless, you had to get on with your life, so with a huff, you left the warm bed and started to get ready alongside Dinah.

***

“Hey, beautiful. How’s your day going?”

Dinah asked, as you entered into her office, case files strewn all over her desk. Clearing a space, you placed the food you had bought from Big Belly Burger down on the desk and leaned down to give your girlfriend a kiss.

“Okay. Pollard’s annoying me but what else is new? How about here?”

“A bit busy. But that’s to be expected given the events of tonight. Everyone’s scrambling to make sure the best protective measures are in place.“

Tonight, at City Hall, Mayor Pollard was due to be holding a function. One of the random fundraisers she always hosted, to pretend as if she cared about the Glades and the wellbeing of the people that lived there. She had you running around, double checking everything, which was a good thing as you weren’t idle long enough to dwell on the dream you had had earlier but you could still feel the painful longing.

“Y/N.”

You blinked, looking at Dinah, soda in hand, staring at you with concern.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I lost you there for a second. What’s up?” Her eyes narrowed in question.

You could never hide much from your girlfriend, her detective skills always managing to have you spilling secrets, but this time, you were able to come up with a relative excuse.

“Sorry, nothing. I was just thinking about tonight and what else I have left to do for Pollard.”

It wasn’t technically a lie but it wasn’t exactly the truth either. And whilst you felt bad, you didn’t want to burden Dinah with your thoughts of her vigilante predecessor.

Looking into Dinah’s hazel eyes, you could see a sliver of doubt but she nodded at your answer,

“If you need to get back, we can always catch up later tonight.”

“It’s alright, Dee. I’m just-”

You were interrupted when your phone trilled in your pocket. Sliding the green answer button, you put the phone against your ear and winced.

“Someone has messed up. I did not want Salmon. I said chicken as the appetisers. And the podium has gone. I need it.”

Sighing, you spoke into the phone,

“Yes, Mayor Pollard. I’ll sort it all out for you and reprimand the individual responsible for you. I’ll be in your office in 10 minutes.”

Disconnecting the call, you shoved the phone back into your pocket with a sigh, horrified to feel your eyes welling up.

You quickly blinked them away as Dinah stood up, gently kissing your forehead and then lowering her lips to yours.

Dinah was only ever gentle with you. With anyone else, she was to be feared. Whether that be as the Captain of the SCPD or the Black Canary. But with you, that facade was gone and she allowed herself to feel safe with you which, in turn, made you feel safe with her.

Returning her kiss, you pulled away, “I’m sorry to do this. We’ll catch up later at City Hall.”

“Have fun with Pollard. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

***

Dinah could tell that you were a little off.

Since arriving at City Hall, you had avoided her, although that wasn’t hard because as Police Captain, Dinah was pulled in every direction.

But now, after the formalities of the event, a more relaxed atmosphere took over as drinks were poured and music was played. And Dinah watched as you remained in work mode whilst also drinking a lot. She did worry about your drinking, having been made aware of your sister’s past, but you were always collected, apart from tonight.

Dinah watched as you approached the bar, quickly downing, what looked to be, a Scotch on the rocks.

It was killing her to not be your source of comfort. She just wanted to make you feel better but wanted to know what had caused you to be like this in the first place.

“Hey, Dinah.”

She turned to face Oliver and Felicity, their arms wrapped around each other’s waists.

“Hey guys. Quick question, have you noticed that y/n’s been acting a bit weird today?”

“No, not really.” Felicity answered.

“Why? What’s up?” Oliver asked.

Having grown up with you, Oliver had become a brotherly figure to you and often took care of you; especially when you had lost Laurel and when Sara had left to join the Legends.

“I’m not sure. She-”

Dinah turned back to face the bar but was shocked to see that you were no longer there.

“I-I’ll be right back.”

You staggered into the hallway, your heels loudly clacking against the marble floor. After having rectified all of Mayor Pollard’s issues and successfully dealing with the fundraiser tonight, you found yourself drowning your feelings in alcohol.

You did feel bad because you had been purposely avoiding Dinah but you didn’t know how you could face her without breaking down.

Truth be told, you weren’t doing so well and you didn’t know why today was so bad. It wasn’t as if it was a special day for you to be missing Laurel but the loss felt as bad as it did the day she died.

Your thoughts were interrupted when you felt a strong hand push you against the wall. You looked up to find yourself caged by a man you barely recognised; some politician’s lackey in a suit.

You were too inebriated to properly fight back and when you tried to remove yourself, he pushed you back against the wall.

“Stay still, y/n. Yes, I know who you are. I see you everyday helping that bitch Pollard and I just can’t contain myself around you.”

He leaned in to kiss you, but you, now slowly gaining control of your actions, pushed him away once more.

“Get off of me, you creep.”

You struggled under his harsh grip as he pinned your arms above your head.

“Shut the fuck up. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

“Get off. Let go of me.” You repeated, now trying to thrash against him.

The hold he had on you suddenly relented and you looked up, surprised at what you saw.

“She said, let go of her.”

Dinah’s voice was hard enough to make chills run down your spine and you weren’t even on the receiving end of it.

She punched your attacker, leaving him unconscious and gestured to someone behind her to cuff him. When he was taken away, she stared at you.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head profusely, immediately regretting that decision when your head started to spin.

“What’s wrong, y/n?”

“N-Nothing.”

“You’re lying.” She said, crossing her shoulders over her chest.

“I’m fine.” You said, intending it to come out firmly, but you could hear the defensiveness in your own voice.

“I can handle myself, Dinah.”

“Really? Because I don’t think you can. You’re acting fucking reckless, y/n! You’re never this drunk.”

You winced at her bitter tone.

“Leave me alone, Dinah. Please.”

You walked away, pushing away any attempts of her stopping you, and you went straight back to the bar.

***

As the music played, you felt yourself sober up after being given some food by the bartender.

Your eyes roamed the dance floor when you spotted Dinah talking with Rene and, when you jumped off the stool you were on, you watched as he nodded towards you and excused himself.

You made your way over to your girlfriend who was standing alone, leaning against a pillar.

Standing in front of her, you found yourself too exhausted for words and murmured a simple “I’m sorry’” as you wrapped your arms around her waist and rested your head against her chest.

Her arms, almost unconsciously, immediately unfolded as she held your small form; one hand around you, the other cradling your head against her.

“Y/N? Baby, what’s wrong?”

She gently held your face in her hands and turned your head upwards so you could look at her. She was stunned when she saw tears running down your face.

“Babygirl, you’re scaring me. What is it?”

Wiping away your tears, you sniffled, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. And I didn’t meant to be reckless either. I just-I’m not doing too good today, Dee. I-I’m really missing Laurel and I don’t know why. I’m sorry.”

“Oh baby,” She brought you close to her again, shushing you as you started to sob.

“It’s alright, baby. We all miss people that we’ve lost sometimes. You shouldn’t be sorry for that. I just wish you would have told me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Y/N, stop apologising, it’s okay.”

“You’re right. I’m s-”

You stopped yourself when you saw Dinah staring at you with a look you knew too well.

“Come on, let me take you home.”

***

It was the middle of the night and you felt at peace, Dinah having replaced the pain you were feeling with something much more desirable.

She was now asleep, curled up at the other end of the bed and you sighed happily.

You then felt the bed dip slightly as Dinah turned to face you. She gathered you into her arms and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“I love you, beautiful.”

Your skin flushed at the endearment term. Even half asleep, her voice was still husky and had the same effect on you.

“I love you too, Dinah Drake.”

[ruewrites]

We’re Blooming Together Chapter 3: Eyes

AO3

Ships: Solomon/Asmo

Word Count: 3023

Warnings: None

Chapter 1-Chapter 2-Chapter 3-Chapter 4-Chapter 5-Chapter 6-Chapter 7-Chapter 8-Chapter 9-Chapter 10-Chapter 11-Chapter 12

“I thought you said you were going to focus on yourself for a while.”

“I am … But they could also be cute, you know? Now stop moving before I stab you with the pin.”

All Asmo had to do was make a few adjustments so his latest assignment actually fit Solomon before making his judgement. If it didn’t fit him just the way he wanted it to, it would look bad if not every little last detail was perfectly in place. Not to mention, the colors looked good on Solomon. Long black jacket that flared down to his knees, with dark blue snakes hiding in the fabric. They were almost invisible until the light hit the sequence just right. Underneath was a white a light grey shirt with golden trim on the collar which bled into dark grey pants. They flared out at the bottom just a bit and also had the same gold trim.  Dark and mysterious, a perfect contrast to his person. The blue of the snakes almost matched the specks of blue in his grey eyes.

“I mean note writing is a little ‘high school’ I guess, but it never happened to me before… So I think it’s kind of cute. Plus it’s very well done, much better than anything any of our old classmates could have pulled off,” Asmo sighed, adjusting the cuff of the slacks. He’d gotten a few more letters since the first, some had even included little gifts. Each one had made him bubble up with joy.

“Have you told any of your brothers?” Solomon asked, looking down at Asmodeus.

“ Hell no . While I’d love to go on and on about it, the others wouldn’t let it go , and you know how protective Luci can be.”

Lucifer had been thrown into a parental role earlier than he should have been (honestly he shouldn’t have had to do it at all), but he’d done a fairly good job from what Asmo remembered. Of course they’d had guardians, but Lucifer always tried his best for all of them. He’s also been fairly protective over all of them. Asmo could still remember how he had reacted with his first break up,or the time a group of guys had ganged up on  Mammon and Levi after school. Neither situation had ended well for their offenders. Nothing really changed much. The only difference now was that Lucifer was a big, fancy, successful lawyer. While Lucifer was smart in his own regards, it also helped that he’d just so happened to make friends with Diavolo during his studies, a man born into money and power. Diavolo adored Asmo’s dear older brother, and wanted to see him succeed in life. Despite Lucifer’s many protests, Diavolo had poured a lot into Lucifer’s law firm and helped him make Morning-Star&Dev ílle the successful and glorious firm it was today. Long story short, people used to be scared of messing with any of the younger Morning-Stars, now they were absolutely terrified .

Asmo stood and walked around Solomon once more. Everything seemed to be marked properly for him to sew later so he brought Solomon over to the mirror. He let out a low whistle.

“I like this one,” Solomon grinned, gently tugging on the long dark jacket, “And Mammon really wouldn’t model this for you?”

“Not without pay no. He doesn’t do ‘free gigs’.”

More like he didn’t have time for them. Mammon was broke every other week. Asmo didn’t really know how he could do it, so he spent most of his time in the studio to make as much as he could. Asmo had tagged along with him to the studio once, mainly so he could talk to some of the designers. However, he would say that Mammon made a pretty good model.

Even so, he liked having Solomon as his model, and he wouldn’t have to redo measurements often. Plus, Solomon looked good in everything he made. It could be because he had a tiny thing for him, or that he was his type, but whatever. He had an attractive model who he also got along with, and that was important.

“You knoooow, you could always come along with me. I’d make you my own personal model, then I could make you clothes all the time,” Asmo hummed, peaking over his shoulder, “Mr. Author and or professor Solomon would always have a snazzy new  suit for every day of the week, or outfit of your choosing. I’m not picky with what I make.”

He caught Solomon’s smirk in the mirror, damn he was attractive . He always got this little twinkle in his eyes whenever he smirked, it was so mischievous. When had he started doing that? When had that shy little boy on the playground become this man before him?

“Perhaps. I’ll think about it.”

Asmodeus hummed for a moment before pulling his bangs back slightly, there it was. That was a nice look. “Oooh you should pull your hair back when you model for my class! Or do it more anyways, that way people can see more of that handsome face of yours!” he said. Or so he could see more of that handsome face of his.

Solomon chuckled and shook his head, pulling Asmodeus’ hand away and brushed his bangs back into place. “I don’t know, I kind of like my hair the way it is. I’ll leave the fancy stuff to you Asmodeus.”

“Pulling your hair back is hardly considered fancy, dear Solomon.”

Something was still missing… Asmo circled Solomon a few more times. What was it? He stared at the breast pocket for just a moment before snapping, “Got it!” Going over to his dresser, he plucked one of the fake flowers from its place. The yellow perennial added a nice splash of color to the outfit and stood out nicely against the dark fabric and matched the golden trim, even if it hadn’t been one of the fully bloomed ones. “Now it’s perfect .”

Solomon adjusted the collar just a bit, eyes fixed on the flower in his pocket. One arm was crossed over his abdomen and the other near his chin, one finger underneath his lip. Slowly he nodded.

Why did he have to be so wonderful ?

Asmo pushed those thoughts away.

“If you think it looks good, I trust you,” Solomon smiled, “After all, you’re the designer here, not me.”

“Good! Now take it off so I can adjust it. I still need to try a few ideas for your face until I’m done with you.”

******

A familiar meow greeted Asmo as he entered the cafe. One of the many residents greeted him happily looking for chin scratches and other affections from him. Few people were here at this hour, and honestly that was for the best. After all, he didn’t want people to overhear his little gossip sessions with Satan. Visiting his brother on break was always fun. He’d get to hear countless stories of odd customers that came in that day and Asmo could tell him about some of the latest gossip on his campus.

“All I’m saying is this, the next kid that pulls one of my cats’ tails is gettin drop kicked out the door,” Satan growled, “I don’t care if he’s six Susan, do your fuckin job as a mom and teach him to not hurt my cats. ”

Asmo nodded along with his brother’s words as one of the tabby’s pressed her head into his palm. “ Children. Surely we weren’t bad when we were that age.”

“Lucifer might beg to differ.”

Asmo flicked the paper wrapper from his straw at him, and Satan snorted, “Well he would .”

“Hush. Luci basically raised us, you know he loves us.”

Satan mumbled a bit and rolled his eyes.

“Anyways,” Asmo continued, “Wanna know my latest thing while there’s no eavesdropping brothers?”

Satan leaned over the table to meet Asmo half way, a smirk on his face. “Any dirt on dear older brother? Or did something happen on campus? Some stupid freshie do dumb shit at the latest frat party?”

That was when Asmodeus hesitated for a moment. Should he tell him? He could always pull something else out to tell him. It wouldn’t be that hard. After all, he knew all of the latest news on campus, he could think of something he hadn’t told Satan yet. No. He could trust Satan. Satan could keep a secret. Even if he couldn’t, Lucifer would be the last person he’d tell. Lucifer was the one he was worried about finding out.  He would worry. He’d think the worst.

Not that he blamed him. Lucifer had heard more than enough horror stories from clients to last him five lifetimes over. He knew what the world could be like.  He had to face it almost every day he walked in. Asmo just preferred to ignore those parts. Worrying too much could cause wrinkles, and that was one thing that Asmo never wanted to happen to him. Besides, they’d all been fine up to this point and they would continue to be fine.

The letters spread across the table and Satan raised a brow. Asmo slowly opened them and even placed some of the tinier gifts on the table. “ Read them ,” he said, “Satan they’re so wonderful . So beautifully written! I’ve been finding them in my things. My bag, my laptop, my textbooks, my desks, my makeup bag- Oh it’s so romantic and secretive .”

Satan opened one of the letters slowly, eyes scanning over the words slowly, processing what this was. Asmo held his breath, eyes trained on his brother. Oh he could wait to hear Satan’s thoughts. Of course talking to Solomon had been fun, but Solomon was more of a listener. Solomon was a good listener. Those beautiful grey eyes trained on him, nodding to let him know he was listening. He also never interrupted, which was nice. He always listened to him, no matter what. And those eyes…

“Well, their penmanship is certainly impressive.”

“ Satan. Is that really all you have to say?” Asmo couldn’t hide the exasperation in his voice, “This is romance . You know, like you have in some of the books you have in that mountain of a bookshelf? And all you can comment on is the handwriting? ”

“Well it is rather exceptional,” Satan shrugged, “And you don’t have a clue who it could be?”

Asmo had fantasies about who it could be, but as far as clues went-

“Nope! Not in the slightest. All I know is that they say such wonderful things, and they sound like they absolutely adore me!” he sighed, “They even used my favorite color for the letter. I can only imagine how sweet they are, or how wonderful they might be.”

“Or they could be a complete psychopath.”

“ Shut up . This is my fantasy and you’re about to be uninvited.”

Concern crossed Satan’s face, and Asmo could already feel himself starting to suppress a groan. “I’m just being rational. It could happen. There’s plenty of weirdos out there who’d do anything to get what they want you know.”

Of course Asmo knew, but that wasn’t the case here. It couldn’t be the case here.

Right?

“You’re starting to sound like Lucifer.”

“Please, don’t insult me like that,” Satan let out a sigh and looked out the window of the cafe, “I don’t want that to be the case. You’ve only been getting these on campus?”

“ Yes. Unfortunately they don’t follow me wherever I go. It’s not like one’s going to magically pop up while we’re sitting here in the cafe. Besides, I’m more than capable of taking care of myself if something does happen. They probably just look at my accounts. It’s not hard to find my favorite color.”

He wasn’t helpless, and he certainly wasn’t stupid. He was allowed to enjoy this.

“Perhaps,” Satan couldn’t shake all  of the concern in his eyes, but he could get rid of most of it, “Although, I may have to have a talk with them if they ever choose to reveal themselves. While they’re writing is good , I’d love to help them work on their  descriptions.”

“Satan.”

“It’s cute in a sense, but there are certainly more romantic things that could be said if that’s what they were going for.”

“ Satan .”

“For example, they could have put more of an emphasis on your eyes-”

Asmo groaned and slumped over onto the table, “Satan I don’t want you giving my precious Secret an entire lesson. Knowing my luck you’ll scare them away.”

He heard Satan chuckle and felt him ruffle his hair. Asmo’s eyes peaked up from his arms so he could glare at his brother, but only for a moment. “You know the rule for partners. They get brought in, we get to embarrass whoever brought them in.”

Asmo grumbled out a quiet “yeah yeah I know ” before sitting back up straight. The future for him and Secret would be unforgiving when it came to his brothers, but he didn’t have to cross that bridge yet. Maybe he’d be able to find a way to save both of them from their cruel fate, or more accurately, maybe Asmo could save himself from the cruel fate of being embarrassed in front of his precious Secret.

“You’re all so cruel. You know that right?” Asmo huffed, “Here I am, searching for the love of my life, and all any of you can think of doing is whipping out old stories or teasing me until I turn red. The nerve of you.”

“Everyone gets the same treatment Asmo.”

“I know, but still,” Asmo smoothed his hair back over and let out a sigh, “Couldn’t you let it slide just this once? Please ? They could be the one.” He put on his best puppy dog eyes and batted his lashes for extra measure. For a few moments. One. Then two. Then-

Satan burst out into laughter, “Nah. Nope. Sorry Asmo. If the rest of us have to suffer so do you. Not to mention all of your partners, in your own words, ‘could have been the one’. I’m starting to think that you say that more than you realize.”

That’s because each time he honestly believed it.

“Oh whatever. In any case, this stays between us okay? No one else knows. Especially not Lucifer.” Asmo’s voice was stern. Satan had to know he wasn’t joking around now. He knew what mode Lucifer would jump into if he figured out what was happening, and Asmo couldn’t have that. He didn’t want Secret to be scared off by him. If Secret truly did care about him like they wrote about, Asmo wanted them to stick around for a while….

Satan nodded, “Asmo, you know me. Anything spoken between our exclusive circle stays between us. Lucifer isn’t going to find out. Not until you want him to anyways.” He refolded the letters and pushed them back towards his brother. It was their little secret.

Asmo smiled and took the letters back carefully. “I have a new one to read tonight. I can tell you what it says tomorrow.”

“Oh? You didn’t bring it with you?”

“I’d like the first read through of a first letter to be reserved for my eyes only.”

It made the moment more intimate that way. It was special. Every new letter he opened felt like a warm embrace from his Secret. He bet their embrace felt even more wonderful than he imagined.

“Now, care to tell me about some more of your horror stories?”

*******

To the keeper of my heart,

Where do I even begin when it comes to you?

Some days I fear that my words may fall short

Or that there will be no words left to describe you properly.

What will I do then?

Perhaps I would have to come out from hiding

Hold you close

Never let you go

And recite all of the wonderful mysteries about you.

I love when you get excited about your passions.

Your eyes sparkle and outshine all of the stars in the sky

Your lips curl up in the most perfect of arcs

You voice lilts and picks up ever so slightly.

I’ve never known a more passionate person than you.

Never let anyone take away the life in your eyes.

Think of Me,

Your Secret

Asmo had read the letter three times over. Each time his eyes scanned over the words his heart skipped a beat. Of course he wasn’t new to compliments, he’d received so many over the years. People stared at him, People wanted him. Sure maybe it was a little narcissistic, but why deny it if he knew it to be true? Despite all of that, people rarely went into detail about what they loved about him. He’d had partners brag about how hot or cute he was, but many had also made him feel self conscious. He still remembered the disappointment that flickered behind an old boyfriend’s eyes the one time he had decided to “dress down” one day when he stayed over. The dismissive tone in his voice… Even though Asmo thought he’d looked cute…

Things like that stick with you.

Would Secret still love him if he dropped below the bar one day?

He didn’t want to find out…

Asmo placed the letter on his nightstand, and curled up under his covers. He certainly did think of Secret every night. He tried to create a picture of them in his head. He imagined their voice, how wonderful their embrace would feel, how absolutely perfect they would be. They truly adored him. How could Asmo not think of them? As he drifted off, his mind once again wadered to Solomon. Even if it wasn’t possible, thinking about it couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t like he was going to actually start falling for his childhood crush again. He was still allowed to think he was cute. Plenty of people were cute, that didn’t mean that he’d fall for every cute person he saw.

Once again, Asmo found himself dreaming of his best friend and his beautiful eyes.

[weepylucifer]

Let’s Go in the Garden - Ch. 3

Peter wants validation, David wants his boyfriend and Nightingale probably just wants a drink at this point.

I felt weird just leaving that situation as it was and going off to Bev’s, but there didn’t seem to be anything else for me to do, and it was nearing evening, and I did confirm I was going to be there for dinner. Besides, if anything else weird happened, I was sure Molly could hold down the fort.

I told Beverley the whole story, and she was... well, she was entertained, I guess, but I could tell something was bothering her. I sat down with her on the couch, tucked her feet into my lap and started to rub her ankles - she didn’t deal with much in the way of morning sickness, and she wasn’t showing yet, but apparently her feet were swelling like mad and it drove her to distraction - but that didn’t seem to be it.

“There’s two of them now,” she said when I asked. “That’s weird. We only ever dealt with Nightingale, and he was the only one left, and it was okay, and you’re fine, but...”

“Hey, thanks,” I said.

“You know what I mean. You’re not like the Nightingale, and you know I mean that as a compliment. But this other guy, his boyfriend or whatever... he’s going to be very Old Folly, isn’t he?”

I thought that over. I tried to remember what I’d been told about Mellenby before, the few scraps I’d gotten in passing from Nightingale and Hugh Oswald, and how that measured up against my first impression of him. It was inconclusive; there was just very little information. “Can’t tell yet.”

Beverley rested her head on my chest. “Ty won’t be too happy.”

I kept my thoughts on that to myself.

-----

I was woken in the morning by my phone ringing. Bev turned over in bed with an annoyed grumble and swatted her hand in my direction in an entreaty to do something about the noise, so I picked it up. It was the Folly - not Nightingale, who had recently taken to actually using his cellphone for convenience’s sake, but the Folly’s landline. This got me slightly worried, so I answered it.

“Yeah?”

I was treated to complete silence on the other end. There wasn’t even the sound of breath, or if there was, it was very quiet.

My worry mounted, because why would anyone pick up the Folly’s ancient bakelite phone, dial my number and then stand there in silence? Who did that sort of thing?

Then I tried, “Molly?”

There was a small scraping sound, like someone was tapping a fingernail against the receiver.

“Molly, what’s up?”

Tap, tap. If she was trying to morse her concerns, she wasn’t doing a great job.

Beverley had woken up properly by now, and peeked out from under the blanket giving me a look of confusion.

“Do you want me to... should I come over?”

Tap, tap. Tap. It seemed to grow in urgency.

“What’s happening, have they burnt the house down?”

Scratch. Scratch.

“I’ll be on my way... I guess.”

-----

The Folly was still standing when I arrived there, but something was very much amiss. Foxglove was waiting for me by the back door, and she gave me a silent, deeply troubled look that boded ill as she gestured for me to go upstairs. I headed for the breakfast room - surely Molly would have prepared a whole spread, and I hadn’t eaten anything yet, and I reckoned I was sure to run into Nightingale there.

The tension in the room was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.

Mellenby’s eyes were red-rimmed, his face blotchy. Apart from that, he cleaned up pretty well, I noted: cleaned and parted at the side, his hair was curly, surprisingly so for a white guy. He was wearing a rather ancient dark blue suit that he’d probably left behind here before going off to war and all the rest; many rooms within the Folly had simply been sealed off with their former owners’ possessions all still inside, as if they might come back and use them again. That suit hung a little loosely on him; I suspected he’d lost weight in the war and never gained it back, having spent the last seventy-odd years in a magical stasis. He was tucking into his breakfast with good appetite, but sneaking furtive glances at Nightingale. Nightingale was staring resolutely in the opposite direction. Molly was serving them coffee in the most passive-aggressive manner I had ever seen her serve anything, and I’ve been on the receiving end of Molly’s ire a couple times.

It’s not my relationship drama, I decided. No need to get involved. I simply plonked myself down across from them and grabbed a piece of toast. “Morning.”

“Ah.” Nightingale looked up in a masterful imitation of someone just now noticing the other people in the room with them. “Good morning, Peter. You’re here early.”

“Couldn’t pass up Molly’s breakfast, sir.” Just then, Molly happened to swish by behind him, so I gave her a grin. She repaid me with an arched eyebrow and a perfectly normal cup of hot coffee for my trouble. It felt sort of good to be the only one present on Molly’s good side for once, especially as Mellenby winced after one sip of his coffee and even Nightingale frowned after trying it.

“Very mature, Molly,” he said. “What even did I do?”

Molly glared at him, and then towards the carpet covering most of the floor.

“Oh, really? Because I burnt one tiny hole into the Axminster? No one but us ever sees that rug.”

“Molly probably puts a lot of work into maintaining the carpets,” Mellenby said quietly. “Especially since there’s no other staff here now. Let’s try not to drag her into this.”

Nightingale picked up the Telegraph and rustled it pointedly. “Oh, now he’s the gentleman.”

Mellenby’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying, Thomas?”

“Can any of you pass the scrambled eggs?” I asked, still not getting involved.

Their hands bumped together as they both tried to reach for the plate first. (I steadfastly refused to roll my eyes.) Mellenby’s cuff hiked up a bit and I could catch a glimpse at a kind of cast-iron wristlet he now wore. I’d seen this before on Varvara. Did this technology really come from the Nazis?

He must have seen me looking, because he fiddled with it. “...Just wish you’d take this off me, is all,” he said sullenly.

“Not until the lab results are in.” Feigning perfect calm with only middling success, Nightingale picked up his pen and turned to the crossword. He took another sip of his coffee and for a second looked like he’d bitten on a lemon.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said, looking up from my eggs. “What is Molly pissed about, sir?”

“It’s nothing,” Nightingale said. “Events... may have transpired and I might have dropped some ash off a cigarette and lightly singed the carpet in the reading room last night, is all.”

I risked a half-grin. “Events?”

He shot me a look communicating he had seen and interpreted my facial expression and just so’s I knew, he resented the implication.

“There was a... somewhat heated discussion,” Mellenby cut in. (Meaning they’d been fighting rather than fucking.)

“Heated is not quite the word I’d use,” Nightingale said.

“Not quite? Thomas, it’s a miracle your voice isn’t hoarse this morning.”

“Enough of that.” Nightingale tapped his pen against the newspaper - he still hadn’t gotten started on the crossword yet. “Peter, when you’re done I’d like you to head downstairs and get some practice in while we wait for Abdul to call.”

I nodded and hummed something affirmative around a mouthful of food. Across the table, Mellenby’s face lit up.

“Oh, may I be of assistance?” he asked. “I always wanted-”

“No.” Nightingale lowered the paper. “I would rather read your exhaustive treatise on quantum theory - or whatever it was called - again than permit you to interfere with Peter’s studies in any manner.”

There was a second of quiet as we all digested that statement. Even Molly, who had been about to leave the room with some of the empty plates, stopped and stood in apprehension of what was to come, her shoulders rigid and drawn up almost to her ears.

Then Mellenby muttered, “I thought you liked that study.”

At last, Nightingale began filling in his bloody crossword. “No, it was dead boring.”

“It was my life’s work anyhow,” Mellenby said quietly. “Even if you never understood it.”

“And we both know where your life’s work led us.” Nightingale tossed the paper down onto the tabletop, where it landed with a thwack. “Your dangerous nonsense must not be encouraged, and I will especially not allow it to distract Peter.”

I wasn’t really loving being discussed in such a way, like I wasn’t right there at the breakfast table with them. It felt like being five again. But honestly, I would only get mad about that later. Right that moment, I was way too busy staring at them in rapt attention as they argued.

“Please, Thomas, don’t!” Mellenby got out of his seat looking hurt, looking slighted, and I knew he was going to cry again. “How can you say these things! You never used to... what happened to you? What happened to the man I fell in love with?”

I genuinely couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. Reader, holy fuck.

Nightingale also rose to his feet. “That was a hundred years ago, David. A lot has happened since then, some of which you even had the good grace to be present for. I was in a war, for starters, you might remember it.”

“Oh, I might remember it?” Up to this point, Mellenby had seemed soft, and sad, and apologetic. Now I could see he was getting peeved. “I came home from said war three weeks ago, and I slept for a while, and now here you are telling me a new century has dawned. I did not experience the eighty years since then, I have not had the luxury of time to heal all wounds.”

Nightingale’s eyes widened. His fist met the table, making me flinch and all the dishes rattle. “The luxury?” he asked. “The fucking luxury?!”

I had never heard him raise his voice like that outside of active combat. It broadsided me, but not as much as the f-bomb.

I got up and quickly downed the rest of my normal coffee, even if it was too hot and I singed by tongue a little. “I’ll be at the firing range, yeah? If you need me.” Then I made my escape, right past Molly, whom I tried to give a supportive and encouraging smile. I don’t think they heard me at all. I was halfway down the hallway when the first china dish shattered.

-----

Nightingale joined me at the firing range later, as I was just getting done chucking a few fireballs at my least favorite target. I don’t mean to brag, but I was pretty happy with how they were coming along in terms of speed and strength. Against a tank, my chances were probably still slim, but I was certain I was getting there. When I say ‘joined me’ I mean I ducked aside as Nightingale pulverized a few targets with uncharacteristic aggression. Soon we’d have to get new ones again.

“You’re making progress,” he said, and internally I preened a bit at the rare compliment.

“Thank you, sir,” I replied in a sufficiently casual and manly voice. “You just got done breaking dishes up there?”

He sighed. “I didn’t mean to break a cup. I’ll have to apologize to Molly later, and about the carpet as well while I’m at it. He’s right, we shouldn’t drag her into this, she’s done more than enough for us.”

I didn’t have to ask who he was. “Is it... wrong that I kind of do want to talk to him about his quantum theories?”

Nightingale gave me an impressive scowl. “When your apprenticeship ends,” he said, “you’re free to experiment in any way you see fit, even, I suppose, with David’s nonsense. But as long as I have a say in it, I would encourage you to master the correct use of the formae before you go on tweaking them and utilizing them for all sorts of frivolities. We must become familiar with the function of a thing before we can take it apart. Even David always used to hold to that.”

I nodded. I hadn’t really been expecting much else. “But what if he knows something that would be immediately useful? In a tight spot, I mean, or for a case.”

Nightingale looked at me, a little too wide-eyed. “I should hope not,” he said. “David ended up devoting most of his... inventiveness to the war effort. Not only would I empathically loathe to equip you with any of the nasty little spells he came up with, and dearly hope you wouldn’t find yourself in a situation fit to use them, but you would not enjoy possession or knowledge of them. Besides, it has been quiet.”

It was true, it had been rather quiet since Lesley had left me handcuffed to Martin Chorley’s corpse. She hadn’t been in contact lately, and she proved all but impossible to find. She might have left town, there was no way to tell. Besides, would I want to use a ‘nasty little spell’ on Lesley May? I’d rather not be faced with that choice, and I reckoned Nightingale knew that.

“We’re talking some sort of... battle magic,” I guessed.

“Close-combat practice, is what we said.” Nightingale crossed his arms, as if having to shield himself against a sudden cold. “Battle magic makes it sound so... heroic. I wouldn’t have you romanticize it, yes, it was mostly ways to kill. Multiple targets at a broader scope. Single targets at wider ranges, snipers and the such. At close range, quickly and painlessly, slowly while causing pain. The works. Many of these creations were volatile and messy, tenth-order or higher disasters. Nothing I’d want any apprentice of mine to learn.”

I frowned. I found I really, really didn’t want to think on ‘slowly while causing pain’. “A tenth-order spell on a battlefield? Who does that?”

“I,” Nightingale said simply. It wasn’t to showcase his talent. His voice was hollow, his eyes far-off and dull, looking back at something not here, something I was fairly glad I wasn’t seeing. “David was lucky to have me on hand.”

“Were you together through the whole of it?”

“Well, most of it. We did what we could to ensure we’d stay together, and command knew we made an effective team.”

I decided what the hell, I’d just go for it. I was curious. Mellenby had just been chucked into my life, no one had deigned to explain anything to me, and I wanted information. “You guys were in love love, huh?”

Nightingale huffed. “Quite. How would you like to try a new forma?”

It was a blatant attempt at distraction. A part of me wanted to fall for it. “How did that work?” I asked anyway.

“Clandestinely.” Nightingale rolled up his sleeves. “Why don’t we step over into the lab?”

We had just about gotten around to that when Molly appeared in the doorway, handing Nightingale his phone. If she still held a grudge about a broken cup, she didn’t show it, but she maybe handed the phone over a bit more coolly than usual.

“Oh, it must be Abdul with the test results. Thank you, Molly.” Nightingale answered the phone. What ensued was one of these situations where I stood there listening to Nightingale’s side of the conversation and entertained myself by mentally trying to fill in the gaps on Walid’s end. Which wasn’t all that easy, because Nightingale mostly said “Yes” and “Hm” and “No, that’s perfectly alright with me”.

“Well, the results are in,” he told me after he’d hung up. “They’re about what you’d expect.”

“So... he’s a completely normal human person?” I ventured.

Nightingale nodded. “Still, we should visit the cemetary, to make sure.”

It’s like you don’t want it to actually be him, I thought. What’s with that? I didn’t say it out loud. One does not simply psychoanalyze one’s boss. What I ended up asking was, “I thought the signare check was already foolproof?”

“To the best of our knowledge, it is,” Nightingale admitted. “But I’d like to tie up all loose ends here.” He sighed and leaned against one of the desks, and for a moment he looked... well, he never looks his age, but he looked weary, for a second. “Is that reasonable?” he asked. “I like to think I’m comporting myself reasonably, generally. But when it comes to this situation, I have my doubts.”

I opted for what I thought was safest. “That’s for you to judge, sir.”

“I appreciate your genuine insight, Peter,” Nightingale said. And sure, he looked past me at the ceiling as he said it, but it still totally counted.

I guess I must have looked or sounded surprised when I replied, “Do you, sir?” because he gave me a peculiar glance and said, “Yes, of course. You’ve had some very sound ideas while I’ve had you here. Your efforts are bringing the Folly into the modern world in a way I could never have executed and would never have thought to. Surely you must know that.”

“Sir,” I said neutrally.

“Oh, come now,” Nightingale insisted. “I must have told you that at some point.”

I cleared my throat. “Usually you say I’m easily distracted and accident-prone.” I grinned and tried to make it sound like a little inside joke between us, light-hearted banter, nothing serious. Nothing I was taking seriously. It probably came out wrong, and I felt silly about it.

Nightingale fiddled with his collar, looking almost a bit sheepish. “I have perhaps not been the most forthcoming in terms of positive feedback.”

He didn’t have to say it, but I knew he wasn’t a natural teacher. He hadn’t wanted to be, and it didn’t come easily to him. But he’d been - he was - the only one for the job. It really wasn’t worth dwelling on. “Here’s some honest insight, sir,” I said, “maybe the magical handcuffs are a bit much.”

“I don’t think they are,” Nightingale said. So much for incorporating my opinions. “We should not have a fully trained practitioner with David’s creativity and expertise running around unchecked whom we cannot fully trust.”

“Can we not fully trust your boyfriend, sir?” I asked straight out, and Nightingale shook his head.

“He’s not my... he was that. It was a while ago.”

“Then what is he?”

Nightingale took a second to mull that over. “He’s... his status is pending,” he said. “Now, I believe I was about to show you a new forma, so please focus.”

[dearlazerbunny]

Lie to Me (Ch 1 of ?)

Pairings: Loki x Reader

Genre/Ratings: M eventually (aiming for a slow burn here); warnings for kidnapping and subsequent anxiety/PTSD (will be marked before every chapter)

Words: 2200 

Summary: If you had to guess what the captured, traitor, trickster god Loki Laufeyson wanted or needed at this moment, a babysitter would be far, far down on the list. (Set after the events of Avengers 1.)

If I don’t post what I already have it’s never going to get finished soooo have some Loki. Hovering around 20k rn But I still have a looooot left to write. If anyone is interested in beta-ing/helping me flesh out ideas hit me up! 

“You.” You look up with a very good impression of a deer caught in headlights. The woman beckoning to you is clearly high up in the SHIELD hierarchy; her suit probably costs more than your entire life is worth. “Are you free?”

You glance down at the coffee you were supposed to be delivering to your coworkers. That could probably wait. “Um, yes ma’am?”

“Come with me.” She starts off in a brisk walk down the corridor, her heels clicking sharply on the floor. You follow without question, trying not to tug on your uniform too harshly in an attempt to break it in a little better. You still aren’t used to the issued clothing, considering you’ve worn the default uniform of hoodies and jeans of a college academic most of your life.

She herds you into a bare bones room, just a table and a few chairs. You stand until she gestures for you to sit, not sure why she’s even glancing your way. You’re a lackey, nothing more. Certainly not worth the attention of Maria Hill.

The woman tosses a folder onto then table, and it impressively lands squarely in front of you. “I’m assuming you’re aware of recent events?”

You raise an eyebrow. “If you’re referring to Manhattan, then yes. It’s been a bit hellacious around here.” Like there wasn’t a person on earth who hadn’t seen the footage of monstrous black aliens pouring out of a glowing portal in the sky. Everyone has been scrambling to control the situation that is blatantly so far out of their control they might as well be fighting sci-fi aliens with Neanderthal tools. It’d be amusing if it wasn’t so terrifying. “Are you with the clean-up crew?”

“Sort of.” She gestures to the folder and you open it. Inside are crystal-clear photos of Earth’s newly minted heroes and a horde of special agents escorting a raven-haired man into a transport vehicle. “Look familiar?”

You release a small breath. Intellectually, you know this is the man- god- who just tried to make himself king of humanity and threatened the entire Earth to do it. But that doesn’t stop the wonder and amazement from washing over you. Loki, Norse god of mischief, real and in the flesh. In the background you can see the golden-haired Thor, swinging his mythical hammer. Well, not exactly mythical, is it? It’s real. They’re real. All the gods and realms and monsters and mayhem that have captivated you since childhood and ultimately lead to multiple degrees on the subjects- they’re real. It’s absolutely incredible. “Yes,” you say, probably a little more wondrously that you mean for it to be.

“We’ve got Loki in custody.” She says his name so nonchalantly, like she isn’t referring to a thousands of years old immortal demigod of the golden realm of Asgard. “And we have no idea what to do with him.”

“And this has to do with me somehow?”

“Yes and no.” She sighs heavily, like she needed to be done with this shit a decade ago. “SHIELD is treating the prisoner with kiddie gloves. Fury wants every single loophole filled and locked down three times over. So we can’t just throw him in a deep dark hole and forget about him- he needs to be afforded certain… rights.” The tone of her voice implies she doesn’t agree with this sentiment.

“Like what?”

“Like company, while we sort out all the red tape so we can prosecute him properly.”

“Company.” You’re completely lost. “He needs a babysitter?”

That makes a small smile flick across her lips. “If you want to call it that. We’re not happy about it, believe me. It’s an undeniable risk. But the lawyers are demanding it, and god knows we have to keep the lawyers happy.” A pinch appears between your eyebrows. You don’t like where this is going. “So. Will you do it?”

“Me?” You squeak, then immediately try to get yourself under control. “Why me? I was literally hired a month ago, I have no qualifications to do anything like this-”

She holds up a hand. “We know. That’s the point. All you need to do is sit in his cell for a few hours every day and pretend to look interested in whatever he’s rambling about. If he talks; he’s been completely silent since we picked him up. Take a book and a few snacks with you, don’t let him schmooze you into doing anything traitorous, and you’ll be fine. Plus,” she continued, “with your background we figured you’d be at least mildly interested.”

Damn. They’ve got you there. Several masters’ in mythology along with years of a childlike fascination means you’ve been ridiculously curious about Earth’s new visitors ever since Mjolnir landed in New Mexico. The spark in your eyes must have been obvious, because Agent Hill holds out a slender hand. “Have we got a deal?”

And so, not hours later, you find yourself wandering into the depths of SHIELD’s base. “Hi there.”

The room is depressingly stark and sterile- you thought you’d gotten used to being surrounded by the chrome and weird futuristic plastic that are apparently now the only two building materials left on Earth since starting at SHIELD, but this place takes it to a whole new level. And it’s newly constructed, based on the smell of drying concrete and fresh shavings peeling up around the screw holes in the corners. There’s a small, utilitarian metal desk and chair that’s been provided for you in the center of the room, so you drop your notepad and pencil onto the tabletop with a clang and pull out the chair. It screeches painfully against the floor, making you wince. Okay, no more of that. You suck in your stomach and slide in between the table and chair so neither have to move. A little tight, but you can make it work.

The other man in the room, framed behind a wall of glass, has not reacted to any of this.

He looks exactly how he did on TV, minus the leather armor and extravagant gold horned helmet. It’s all been replaced with the thin grey uniform SHIELD deems prison garb. You have to admit, he looks a lot less intimidating sitting pale and silent against the wall, handcuffs glowing faintly around his wrists.

“Um- can you hear me?”

Still no response. He doesn’t even seem to notice you’ve entered the room. Uuuuuuum, okay... There’s a microphone attached to the desk. You lean into it, frowning, fiddling with a few of the dials at the base. Then you tap on it and speak directly into the mic. “Can you hear me?” The man flinches wildly, a radical break in his composure, and his eyes dart to you angrily. “Oh, gosh, sorry, okay, let me-” you turn the dial down a few notches. “Better?”

The volume doesn’t seem to be at max level anymore- he doesn’t flinch again- but he also doesn’t say anything else. “I’m going to need verbal confirmation that you can hear me.”

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t seem to be looking at anything. His gaze is focused on some middling thing opposite of him, something invisible on the horizon, but he’s hardly glazed over- emerald eyes are bright and sharp, flickering lightly. They are not the eyes of a defeated man, far from it. More like one who has about fifteen thousand and twenty three plans all running through his head at once.

You suppose that should scare you, but SHIELD has reassured you that the cell is one of the most technologically advanced cells they’ve ever constructed. Also, those cuffs have some sort of magic-diffusing abilities, so no funny business there. Then again, he did basically destroy all of Manhattan, like, less than a week ago. You hadn’t even been in that part of the country at the time, SHIELD had called you in from D.C., but you can still feel the horror grip your chest in a vice watching skyscrapers fall to tatters on the news-

“Yes.”

His voice is so soft you almost don’t catch it. It pulls you from your thoughts nonetheless. “Oh. Okay, great.” You pull your pencil to you and neatly label the first page of your notepad with today’s date in the top corner. If you were going be stuck with him, you might as well take notes. Think of the papers you could publish! “Can you please, uh, state your name for the record?” That sounded professional, right? You’ve heard it on Law and Order a lot, anyways.

The prisoner raises one eyebrow slowly. “Really?” He draws out that one word into a three-second attack of sarcasm, but you simply shrug your shoulders.

“It’s protocol.”

“I am Loki Laufeyson, Prince of Asgard, God of Mischief and Lies.” With every title he spits from his mouth, his eyes flash dangerously.

“O-kay.” You jot that down on your notepad, giving it an underline for good measure. “And how would you like to be addressed?”

“Your highness.” He says it as easily as he might’ve said Bob or Ricky.

You blink. “Um. Not sure that’s within my pay grade, but we’ll see how it goes.”

“Where am I?”

“A very secure holding cell,” you answer confidently, and the god scowls at you. He’s apparently waiting for more information, but you shake your head- “that is literally all the information I’m allowed to give you about that.” You glance up at the camera tacked to the ceiling of the room. “Also, you’re being recorded at all times. Gotta tell you that for legalities sake.”

“SHIELD has always so been worried about legalities.”

That gets a small snort from you, and you tap the end of your pencil on your paper. “So-”

“Who are you, exactly?” He suddenly sounds very, very tired, and a little angry, like he’s already done humoring you. “And why are you bothering me?”

“Y/N.” You give him a little wave, since you obviously can’t shake his hand. “I’m a, well- archivist, of sorts. SHIELD brought me in to talk to you.”

“And you’re, what? Fury’s pet?”

“Hardly. I’ve been here less than a month. I don’t think this uniform has even been washed yet.”

Another eyebrow raise. “An interesting choice to interrogate their most wanted prisoner.”

You tap a little more frantically. “I think it’s so if you end up getting into my head, I won’t be able to give anything up,” you say thoughtfully. There’s a huff over the speakers you’re hearing him through. “Also, this isn’t an interrogation.”

“No?”

“Nope. I’m not really qualified for that.”

“Then what are you qualified for?”

“Jeg snakker norsk,” you offer, honestly wondering that question yourself. The look he gives you is a mixed amount of horrified and amused. “They thought it might be helpful speaking in a familiar language, I guess?”

“They do know I can speak literally hundreds of thousands of languages spanning any galaxy you care to name,” he says, apparently stunned by the new heights of SHIELD’s stupidity.

You sigh. “Yeah. I thought it was a stupid idea too.”

“This is laughable.” He’s on his feet now, close to the glass and staring you down threateningly. “Why have I not been removed to Asgard? They will presumably want to prosecute me for my crimes.”

“Um, I think they’re planning on it. But they want me to, um, talk to you first.”

“About what.”

“Well. Anything you want, really.”

“I have nothing to say to you mortals,” he spits, and the word splats on the ground like it’s a curse.

“That’s cool, I get that. But right now all the bureaucrats are running themselves in circles trying to figure out what to do with you, and all that red tape is going to take some time to untangle. In the meantime, they want to make sure you don’t go crazy from the solitude or something.”

“Since when has SHIELD cared about my well being?”

“I mean, you’ve still got rights and stuff. You can’t just sit here for who knows how long with only yourself for company.”

“And why not?”

“Wouldn’t you get lonely?”

“Forgive me, but I hardly think you are going to provide any sort of adequate mental stimulation.”

Geez, way to hit below the belt. “You can request someone else if you want. They pretty much just picked me out of a lineup and threw me on you, I don’t really think they care who sits here with you.”

“What would be the point? SHIELD only hires imbeciles and fools.”

“Well, then. I guess you’re stuck with me for a while.”

The man slumps back, apparently not encouraged by your words. Then he punches the wall with one of his restrained hands and screams angrily in clear frustration.

This is going to go so well.

A/N: Jeg snakker norsk = I speak Norwegian 

[deepfriedtwinkie]

Kingsman: A Trainee’s Mission (Pt. VI)

PREQUEL FIC, this section ~2kw

note: this is the only part without any Merlin in it BUT IT’S IMPORTANT FOR LATER OKAY (don’t cry, Harry will think you don’t like him)

pt. I  | pt. II  | pt. III  | pt. IV  | pt. V

.

.

By now, the compound has been home for so long that Harry is almost enamored to see London again. It’s easy to forget how much he loves these streets, the shops, the throngs of people going about their days. Easy to forget, but easier to remember.

He walks primly at the elbow of his proposing agent, a man named Martin Turner. The same who’d first met him as a ten-year-old, enthralling him with images of the world of gentleman spies. A world he’d never known to be real, until then, even with what his mother did for a living. Gentlemen were a much rarer breed in her work, after all. Some of her stories could turn a woman to the nunnery.

As Agent Lamorak, Martin has been kept away for nearly the whole of Harry’s training so far, busy with some mission or other, always jet-setting this way or that. They’ve spoken only a couple of times, but it’s no bother. Obviously, it’s more than understandable. All the more reason to take him up on his sudden invitation, delivered in person this morning in the training room, clear out of the blue.

They enter the tailor shop, Martin holding the door. Harry smiles, hands in his pockets, taking in the atmosphere for the first time through a proper candidate’s eyes. His last visit here felt like a new world. This time, it feels like coming home. He’s quite ready to get used to that feeling.

“’Morning, Simons,” Martin greets the headtailor.

“Good morning to you, sir.” The old man’s only movement seems to be the quiver of his mustache. “May I be of assistance to you gentlemen?”

“Yes, in fact, you may, Simons.” Martin’s head tips toward him. “I’d like for you to meet Harry Hart, my proposal for one of the open positions.”

As he was raised to do, Harry gives his hand, and the headtailor accepts. They shake. “How do you do, sir,” Harry says with a smile.

“Very well, thank you.”

“Simons here is nothing less than the best this business has got, Harry,” Martin boasts. “You’ll be taken good care of with him.”

“Oh, I have no doubt, sir.”

Then he blinks so rapidly he may have to blame the mothballs.

“Wait, sir… ‘Taken care of?’”

Simons politely withdraws his hand, which is fine, because it leaves Harry’s free to drop to his side like the dead weight it is. The way Martin is looking at him makes him wonder if perhaps there’s a television camera hidden somewhere, and his own expression will be plastered on newsstands and billboards by morning.

“You didn’t think I’d let you finish out the program without your own Kingsman souvenir, did you?” Martin grins. “The hell with that. It’s time you were fitted for your first proper bespoke. Unless you object, of course.”

“No sir!” Well, that could have been less of a yelp. He swallows, tempers himself, and tries again, managing formality despite his whole face splitting ear-to-ear. “I mean…no, sir. Thank you, sir. I’d be quite honored.”

“Mmhm. That’s what I thought.” The agent points to a heavy door of oak, off to Harry’s left. Simons comes out from behind the counter, a cloth tape measure hung over his shoulder, and Martin claps him on the back. “Give him the works now. This young man is our honored guest.”

“Of course, sir.” Simons does his best impersonation of a five-star doorman, motioning Harry into the room. “This way, please, Mr. Hart. Fitting room one.”

It’s the last thing on earth he’d have to be asked twice. He hustles forward, grateful it doesn’t turn into a cartwheel.

“I’ll be out here when you’re through,” Martin calls.

The fitting room is one of the plainest cubicles of space ever knocked together by man, little more than patterned wallpaper, brass hooks, and varnished wainscoting, but it takes Harry all of four seconds to decide that he loves it every bit as much as the rest of the place. He’s patient with Simons’s meticulous taking of his measurements, lifting arms on command, turning this way and that, holding various swatches of fabric to his chest for God knows how long. That’s the difference between the Kingsman Tailors and anywhere else. When he works here, he’s going to have to do something kind for Simons. A thank-you note, perhaps, with something for his trouble inside. Cinema tickets or something. It’s terribly kind of him to go out of his way for this.

In good time, the tailor excuses himself, returning moments later with a garment bag draping both tabled arms. “Try this, sir,” he bids, hanging the bag on one of the hooks. “It should give you a fair idea. If you find it’s to your liking, then we will proceed with alterations.”

He’s never stared so reverently at a bag before. “Thank you… Thank you kindly.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

This is it. This is the moment he’s imagined since he was a ten-year-old boy, pinning horrible drawings of suits between the butterflies on his walls. The concrete start of his new life.

The garment bag is shed to the floor before Simons is even fully gone. His brain suggests some analogy to a chrysalis, but he can’t be bothered to spare a thought to connect it. He strips to briefs and socks, dressing quickly, his back turned staunchly to the mirror. Stealing a glance too soon will ruin something about this. He isn’t sure what, but it matters.

In a moment, it’s done. He feels the places that need taking in—cuffs at his knuckles, rumpled elbows, puddles at his feet—but he doesn’t care. It’s the most comfortable thing in the world.

He turns around.

The suit is blue, he notices properly. A very, very dark navy blue. Fine pinstripes crawl the length of it. Simons has picked him a tie to match. Navy, with a slim white stripe, centered with a slimmer note of red. He takes in the two rows of handmade buttons. The press of the lapel.

Harry blinks the blur from his eyes. It is the most exquisite thing he’s ever worn.

We’ve done it, Mother. I wish you could see your boy now.

He’s making a mental note to phone her as soon as possible when another tap comes on the door. “Pardon me, sir. Agent Lamorak requests to have a look, if you’ll oblige coming out for a moment.”

He’s absolutely bursting to show someone, anyway. Lamorak will do wonderfully for now. Harry turns the heavy knob, consciously matching his stride to the elegance a suit like this commands. His expression, on the other hand, is under no such control.

Martin stands from the couch, letting out a long whistle. “You’ve outdone yourself, Simons. A few tucks and it’s a work of art.”

“Very kind of you to say, sir.”

“And this comes in the lot, yes?”

“Already ordered to your specifications, sir.”

“You’re a fucking gem.” Martin smiles Harry’s way, holding out a finger with each next word. “Bulletproof, water-resistant, flame-resistant, and conceals up to thirteen highly-classified armaments. There’ll be nothing you can’t do in this, believe you me.”

He believed it already. In front of the showroom mirror, Harry gives a crisp tug to the jacket, straightening his posture even further than it was to begin with. “I really don’t know what to say, sir. I can’t possibly thank you enough; I know this isn’t typical for only a candidate…”

“Nonsense. You’ve earned it.” His mentor takes a pull from a rock glass he’s been holding. Gin, it looks like. “Your weapons and written test scores were absolutely phenomenal.”

Yes, they were, weren’t they? He can’t help it. He’s had a feeling.

“And I’m not permitted to tell you specifics, but I can say that you’ve earned Arthur’s attention on almost every one of your practical tasks.”

That reminds him to ask. He makes eye contact through the mirror, rather than twist round in the suit. “If I may, sir, what was in those parcels we retrieved on the mountain, anyway?”

���In the envelopes? Those were floppy disks.” Swallowing another sip, Martin makes quotations with his hands. “‘Encrypted files of critical importance to international security.’ That’s this year’s bullshit for ‘Arthur’s Doctor Who fan club mailing list.’ Gives him an excuse for missing the last fifteen meetings.”

“You’re kidding.” Of course he isn’t.

“Of course I’m not.”

Why did I ask?

He’s basking in the jovial moment until Martin’s demeanor goes stony, his gaze laser-focused through the window. His tone changes in the drop of a hat.

“Harry, do as I say. Whatever you do, don’t counteract or seem suspicious,” he mutters levelly. “Time to prove your place in the family business.”

The miniature bell above the door jingles. In comes a portly man in an expensive windbreaker, lighting directly on Lamorak. Harry watches, indifferent neutrality on his face, as the newcomer ignores Simons entirely, no acknowledgment—sorry, Simons, he’d do well to remember you’re a person, too—and instead, steps up to grasp Lamorak’s hand.

They shake cordially. “Mr. Kuznetsov,” Lamorak’s far brighter with his greeting than he might’ve been. “On schedule as always.”

“Mr. Evansbee.” An alias; his name is Turner. And this man’s accent is Russian. “How could I miss one of our treasured conversations?” Lamorak set this meeting. Not the first, or the tenth, either. What kind of conversations?

“Please, allow me to introduce a star pupil of mine from the university. I’m helping him to look his finest when he represents us at St. Hugh’s next month. Oliver Greene, this is Mr. Kuznetsov, one of my trustworthiest colleagues.”

Harry doesn’t need a cue. Seamlessly he adopts his new self, shaking the hand he’s offered. “How do you do, sir.”

“I get by.”

He sends Lamorak the most innocuous look he’s got. “Shall I leave you to it, Professor? You’ve been more than enough help already.”

It’s the right decision. Nothing he gets in return suggests a forthcoming reprimand. “Yes, good lad, Oliver. You can go and get your things. I’ll see you in lecture on Monday.”

“Very good, sir. Lovely to meet you, Mr. Kuznetsov.”

“The pleasure is all mine, of course.”

Whatever you do, don’t counteract. His only move is to beeline for the fitting room, then, the outing finished just as quick as it began. The last he sees of Martin, he’s hooked an arm around the Russian’s shoulders, leading the way to the sofas, carrying on a lively discussion in whispers.

So this trip was no coincidence. Harry is implicitly careful as he removes each piece of his suit, hanging one at a time for Simons to collect. He isn’t disappointed. It should have occurred to him from this morning. Whatever Lamorak’s working on must be drawing to a close.

Besides. He could have met the contact here alone. No part of that required having a custom suit made.

Be grateful you were invited in the first place, and don’t ask why it’s over.

Well. He can’t make promises about the second part.

“Good-bye, Simons,” he says aloud near the exit, after saying a silent one to the suit in the fitting room. “I’ve left everything sorted for you.”

“Wonderful, sir. Good-bye.” It’s almost their last exchange, until the tailor catches himself. “Oh, and one more thing, sir?” He’s scribbling in a leather folder.

Harry stops, halfway through the door jamb, hoping it doesn’t count as counteraction. “Yes?”

Simons looks up, beaming friendliness. “I’ve located your file with us to store your measurements. Isn’t today your birthday, sir?”

Yes, it is. He’s all but forgotten that for the past ten minutes.

Harry smiles back. “Twenty-first,” he confirms.

“Happy birthday, sir.”

It’s certainly shaping up to be.

.

pt. VII  | pt. VIII  | pt. IX

[statusquoergo]

I HAVE! A LOT ACTUALLY! Harvey helping Mike picking up a suit for the wedding at Renes. And like he eould look at Mike trying one and just knows... like not realizing he loves him, but accepting, embracing it. He would just get lost in his thoughts for a moment and Mike would go like "Harvey? What do you think?" and... i'll leave to you to continue. Happy ending pleaseee

Read on AO3

It’s a long drive over to Rene’s.

Actuallyit’s not, not even close, but Harvey lost his sense of temporal recognitionsometime during the brief drive from his condo to Mike and Rachel’s place; onceMike slides into the backseat beside him with a giddy little bounce, bitingdown on a perfectly innocent smile, the next fifteen minutes somehow bothstretch out to three hours and condense to approximately zero seconds. ThenMike grins at Harvey and opens the car door again, and Harvey thinks he pausesfor a second or two before he gets out (which would be confusing if true), butat this point it’s impossible to know for sure (so it doesn’t mean anything).

Mike has the good graces to hold the shop door open andallow Harvey to enter first; Harvey gifts him a gracious little quirk of hislips, and Rene is upon them the moment door snicks shut.

“Harvey,” he dotes, stepping forward with his handsclasped behind his back. “Come to discuss a new palette for the upcomingseason?”

“Not today,” Harvey says with as much authority as he canmuster, given the circumstances. “Rene, you remember Mike Ross.”

“But of course,” Rene says smoothly, turning hisattention to Mike with far more respect than he probably did when they firstmet. The man knows good taste; he can see how far Mike’s come. (Harvey smilesproudly.)

“Interested in opening your own account, Mister Ross?”

Mike laughs clumsily; to his credit, Rene seemsunaffected.

“I don’t think so,” Mike tries to recover. “I’m gettingmarried, actually, and I figured if I wanted to look my best, I needed to…go tothe best.”

Good boy.

The polite deference in Rene’s smile softens his featuresfor only a moment before it’s time to get down to business. Ushering Mike tothe fitting area, hidden away in the back behind a subtle corner, Rene beginsflicking through a rack of sample suits, commenting a little snidely that themeasurements he has on file from Mike’s last fitting are surely outdated, butat least the fabric will hang better this time around that he’s not such alittle slip of a thing.

Mike doesn’t look even remotely offended, craning hisneck to survey the samples for himself, and Harvey marvels silently at how wellhe’s begun to fit into this world. It’s no wonder, of course; he’s alwaysbelonged here.

Abruptly, Rene stops muttering under his breath and pullsthree suits from the rack; holding a decent brown one up in front of Mike, hefurrows his brow and then scowls briefly, putting it back and taking a darkerblue in its stead. Harvey nods his approval at the swap, not that anyone’spaying attention.

“In this order,” Rene directs, handing the suits to Mikeone by one. “Come along, Mister Ross,”he presses when Mike only holds them nervously, “I am a busy man.”

Mike nods and looks around for a chair or something tolay the two remaining suits on in the meantime; when Harvey offers his arms, hesmiles widely in relief and hands them over.

Harvey steps back to wait.

“Glen plaid,”Rene says as Mike buttons the jacket of the first suit, a nice neutral greynumber that reminds Harvey of Roger Thornhill. “Pay no mind to the fit, this isobviously a mere trial run, but you strike me as a man who has a healthyrespect for something with a bit of history behind it.”

Gripping the lapels, Mike turns slowly and looks backover his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His lipsare parted slightly, his eyes focused but just a touch narrowed, and Harvey hasno trouble understanding his thoughts; he likes it but doesn’t love it, andhe’s afraid to upset Rene by disagreeing with his taste. Mike is right—the suitis a nice shade, and the cut will work well on him once it’s fitted properly,but there’s something too somber about it for the occasion, toobusiness-formal. This should be a happy day, the happiest of Mike’s life, andhis suit ought to reflect that.

For a minute there, Harvey remembers Mike’s splittingsmile, his child-like wonder when he’d passed on that simple message, You got in, and reminds himself thatMike’s happiness is the most important thing. (That’s why we’re here, afterall.)

Rene must see Mike’s hesitancy too, because he shakes hishead and gestures for Mike to remove the ensemble.

“Not a soul will appreciate it in context,” headmonishes, “this won’t do at all. Go on now, the notch lapel.”

Mike looks blankly at Harvey, who has the good sense topass over the other grey suit; this one is darker and without pattern, andHarvey hopes to god it fits Mike to a T because he has nothing but respect forRene’s eye for color and tailoring, but Harvey’s been present for enough ofMike’s five-year fashion odyssey to know that the strong shoulders and higharmholes will flatter Mike’s figure perfectly, and that dark grey makes theboy’s eyes light up like a night sky full of stars.

Well that’s a hell of a thing to notice.

The whole journey has been quite the adventure, hasn’tit.

From the very first day, dumping his plastic bags of potall over Harvey’s meeting room at the Chilton, Mike has put a spark in Harveythat he’s been missing since… He isn’t even sure how to finish the thought. Itprobably hasn’t been missing “since” anything, whatever it is that Mike adds tohis life; it’s all Mike, irreplaceable and incontrovertible. His cockinessthat’s been tempered with practice and defeat into a more dignifiedself-confidence, but never quite lost its edge; his enthusiasm for life that’sonly grown the more he’s seen of the intricacies of the world outside his ownexperiences; his determination in the face of overwhelming odds to protect thethings and the people he holds dear, to always do the right thing, or the wrongthing for the right reasons…

There has never been a man quite like Michael James Ross.

“Harvey?”

Harvey looks up at Mike on the fitting stage.

Whatever happens, from now on to whenever, he’ll probablylove him ‘til the end of time.

Mike twists his spine and then tries to stand upstraight, smoothing down front panels and raising his chest with some dignity.

“So?”

Handing the remaining blue suit back to Rene to return tothe rack, Harvey crosses his arms over his chest. Yeah; this is the one,alright. It’ll run up some kind of bill—he estimates about five thousand, giveor take—but it’s worth it.

“What do you think?” Mike presses a little nervously atHarvey’s lack of response.

Here we are, at the end of the line.

Just give me a second, kid.

This’ll take some getting used to.

It takes a little more than a second, but Harvey smilesand nods, small enough that Mike has to pay attention to catch it; he will,Harvey knows he will, knows it in the grin that breaks out on his face inresponse, the comfort with which he puts his hands in the trouser pockets, therelief in his relaxing posture. The sparkle in his eyes, like a night full ofstars.

Rene’s assistant appears out of thin air to take Mike’smeasurements quickly and efficiently, and Harvey slips his credit card to Reneduring a particularly distracted moment; Mike catches him all the same andHarvey raises his hand to stem any potential protests.

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists. “All part of beingthe best man.”

Mike is about to say something anyway before he thinksbetter of it. His face falls, just a touch, like he’s worried about something;Harvey hopes it isn’t the money. Whatever the final tally comes to, it’ll beworth it to see that smile on Mike’s face again as he stands in front ofHarvey’s windows, maybe on the balcony if it’s a nice day, backlit by the citythey both call home, on the happiest day of his life.

Yeah.

Mike steps down off the stage, shrugging out of thejacket.

“So, Harvey,” he says as he finishes putting his own trousersback on. “What’s wrong?”

Harvey stares, momentarily at a loss—surely he isn’t sotransparent—and then smiles as though the question is absurd.

“Nothing,” he says, the weakest of defenses. “Nothing’swrong.”

“So I know that’s not true,” Mike replies, unbuttoninghis cuffs to roll up his sleeves. “But how long is this gonna take? Ballpark.”

Harvey shakes his head; they’re not discussing this now.Not ever, but especially not now.

“Nothing’s wrong, Mike, don’t worry about it.”

“Harvey.”

God dammit.

Shrugging, Harvey tries to come up with something thatwon’t sound too self-incriminating. (Thisisn’t about you.)

“You’ve come pretty far,” he says. “I’m proud of you,kid.”

For a minute, Mike’s face is completely blank; he looksat Harvey like he doesn’t know quite what to make of him, like he’s just beengiven some important information that he isn’t sure how he’s meant to react to.Then it clears, and the pit in Harvey’s stomach lightens.

“It took almost six years,” he teases; “I was this closeto giving up, but here we are: Harvey Specter has feelings.”

This again.

This is safer ground; this, they know how to do.

“Don’t go spreading that around,” Harvey warns, raisinghis eyebrows, and Mike laughs.

“It’s on the record now,” he says, “no take-backs; can Iget it in writing, I’d like to have it notarized.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Mike laughs again, but it trails off weakly; his eyes dima shade or two, and though he’s still smiling, some of the luster is gone.They’re not kidding around anymore, and it was wrong to pretend.

Rene steps forward with his hands behind his back and anauthoritative coolness to his expression.

“Four weeks,” he dictates. “You will be notified upon thesuit’s completion and we’ll expect you to retrieve it in a timely manner.”

Mike blinks.

“Oh—thanks,” he fumbles. “Thank you.”

Rene nods, eyeing them for a moment before he turns tothe back of the shop and disappears. Harvey pats imaginary dust from histhighs.

Mike looks at the tie racks.

“Shouldn’t I be happier?” he asks idly, and Harveyfrowns.

“What’s wrong?”

Mike sighs.

“Nothing,” he says. “That’s the thing, nothing’s wrongand I’m getting married to a wonderful woman and I got into the Bar and all mydreams are coming true and I should be…happier, right?”

Harvey steps into Mike’s eyeline and thinks about puttinghis hand on his arm (but he doesn’t).

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Mikeinsists, “everything is perfect, butI…I dunno. Something’s…missing, or something.”

He looks into Harvey’s eyes then, and Harvey’s definitelyimagining it this time, but it’s almost as though he finds a little of whathe’s looking for (whatever it is).

“Are youhappy?”

Oh, Mike, don’t ask me that.

Harvey does clap his hand down on Mike’s shoulder now, affirming and steadying and trying to remind them (himself) what’s real,what’s important.

“I’m happy for you,” he says. “Like you said, you’regetting everything you want, and…I’m proud of you. I am.”

“You don’t think I’m settling?”

If that isn’t straight out of left field. Harvey shiftsback, just a bit, and drops his hand.

“I thought you and Rachel were happy together,” he says,because this isn’t about the job, can’t be about the job (not when Mike is backwhere he belongs). “Did she say something?”

Mike laughs under his breath. “No, but you kind of did.”

Shit, shit, shit—

Harvey tries to convey skeptical derision, hoping none ofthe panic shows through. He didn’t say anything, did he? (When?) No, definitelyno. (Did he?)

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s not what you said,” Mike clarifies, “but—just now,when I was trying on the suits, you had this… I don’t know how to describe it.This expression.” He shakes his head with a little smile and directs his nextcommentary out the storefront windows. “My grandmother used to get itsometimes, when she’d given me something that had been hard to find, or hardfor her to get; like she was happy I was happy, like all her sacrifices hadbeen worth it because I was getting something I really wanted, something thatwas important to me.”

Harvey’s answering smile is tight-lipped and narrow; heand Edith would have been good friends, he’s pretty sure. He’s sorry he didn’thave the chance to get to know her.

There’s a hardness to Mike’s stare when he turns back toHarvey, a set determination that Harvey doesn’t know what to do with.

“Am I missing out on something I don’t have to be?”

Harvey’s been in this game long enough to know when anopportunity isn’t going to come around again. All the signs are there; thesingularity of the surrounding circumstances, the trepidation of the otherparty, the risk inherent in taking the plunge, in saying “Yes,” the knowledgethat there’s no turning back once he does.

It’s a yes-or-no question, man.

Harvey steels himself and holds onto the tightness in hischest.

“Mike,” he says. “If there’s anything more I can do tomake you happy; you got it.”

It’s as much admission as he’s capable of giving at thismoment. Mike searches his face with those skylight eyes of his; he knows thesame, knows that they’re about to dive over the edge of a cliff without knowinghow long the fall will last.

His smile is small and uncertain, but that’s okay. (I’mscared, too.)

There’s just enough of a lead-in for Harvey to back awayif he really wants, but that would be ridiculous; then Mike’s hands holdhis head steady as he leans in and damn, the boy knows how to kiss.

Harvey brings his arm up around Mike’s shoulders, drawinghim in, holding him close, and it feels terribly sensationalist even though itreally isn’t; they’re behind a row of mannequins decked out to the nines, andanyway, no one spares them a single glance, no one gives a fuck; no oneunderstands how tremendous this is, how abruptly the world has been tipped onits axis. Righted.

Harvey opens his eyes a moment before they part; Mikekeeps his closed for a moment after as he drops his hands away.

“Uh-oh,” he says quietly, but he’s smiling as he does.

Harvey rubs his thumb up and down over Mike’s shoulder.

“You’ve got about a month before your suit’s ready,” hemurmurs, and Mike nods.

“Kind of sucks that it happened this way,” he says. Thecorner of Harvey’s mouth quirks in a little smirk.

“What can I say,” he offers, “I was tired of waiting.”

Mike bursts out laughing, raising his hand to Harvey’sneck and leaving it there as he looks away, regaining his bearings.

“Oh, god, I love you,” he says carelessly; Harvey waitsfor the retraction, the “oh shit” moment after he hears himself, but it nevercomes. They’re bigger than those stupid clichés, anyway.

“I’m following your lead here,” Harvey informs him,because this is fun and all, but there’s the real world out there with its realworld consequences waiting for the chance to eat them alive. Mike nods, his jawclenching surreptitiously.

“I’ll do you proud,” he replies.

Harvey kisses him again, quickly.

Nodoubt about that.

—

Roger Thornhill (Cary Grant), the protagonist of North by Northwest (1959), iconically wears a grey Glen plaid suit.

This is a black version of the suit Mike ends up buying. (More accurately, it’s this, but in that picture it’s just draped over a chair.)

[shockcity]

SH #4 - Resurrect