#i know fuck all about meters and different garage pricing

[recalcitrantlycaffeinated]

Today I organized my first group meet-up for the local pre-homeschooling moms of preschoolers group. This was a fun challenge for me, because the whole idea of the meet-up was that it was Bring a Friend Day at a nearby museum. Some people had passes, some people didn't, everybody was arriving at different times and had different family configurations, and I was in charge of pairing people up so as many people got in for free as possible.

Out of 20 people, only one person had to purchase a ticket, so I was pretty chuffed about my success. The thing I did not account for was that people would want to...talk to me. The first time I had a successful pair both present outside the building, I expected them to just...go in and do museum things? and they did not do that? almost like they did not realize this was just a fun thought experiment for me to practice logic on???

I like organizing things. I am good at organizing things. But sometimes organizing starts to take over and the thing ceases to exist in my brain.

[moody-alcoholic]

Kidnapped

John Price x reader

CW: You read the title right? break in, kidnapping, drugging, canon typical violence.

Part 2

You always thought John was joking when he told you, you might have to hide from people out to get him. He’s a soldier after all, not a crook. He’s out there doing his bit for queen and country, saving lives and fighting the bad guys.

It’s not like in the movies where there’s drugs or you’re on the run, he hasn’t broken the law. You live a simple life; you work, you cook, shop, keep the house clean. The only difference between you and any other person you know is your husband sometimes disappears for weeks at a time. Months if you’re unlucky.  

There’s missed birthdays and anniversaries, contact can be hard when he’s away. You fill your time by working overtime or hanging out with friends so when he’s home you can dedicate all your time to him. 

So you thought it was him when the slam of a door jolts you from your sleep. You open your eyes, picking up your phone to check the time. It’s almost 2am, not an unusual time for him to get back after a long deployment. 

But something is different, something is wrong. 

John is not the type of person to sneak through your house, he’s not the type of person to worry about not making noise. Whoever closed the door is walking through your house in silence. There’s no heavy drop of a duffle bag, no bounce of kicked off boots. No clank of keys in the bowl by the door. 

It’s so silent you can hear your own heartbeat picking up in your chest. 

Maybe it was the wind, maybe you forgot to close a window? Then you hear the creek on the steps, the pause in the intruder's stride. This is an old house with old floors. 

John told you want to do, he prepped you for this exact situation but somehow in the panic of the moment your mind is drawing a blank. Maybe you should pretend to be asleep, maybe then they will leave you alone. 

No, something tells you to move. You grab your phone slipping off your bed onto the floor. In the basement there’s a storm room, although living in the UK you don’t have much use for it, John refurbished it to a panic room. He keeps his ‘not-so-legal’ weapons in there, only you and him know the code. 

You’re forgetting everything he taught you, all you can think about is making sure you don’t lose your phone and making it to the garage. You pull yourself up to your feet, your hands are shaking as you make it to the door. You crack it open holding your breath. 

“I think we need to go up a floor.” 

“Ugh, it’s going to be a pain to get her out of here.”

It’s two people, and they’re clearly after you. Your heart is hammering in your chest. You wait until you hear them start up the next flight before sneaking down to the ground floor. You can feel tears well up in your eyes. 

This can’t be happening, why are people after you? What did John do? 

You make it into the kitchen, closing the door behind you. You make sure to hold the handle down so there is no audible click before you let it go. Maybe you should run, just call the police. John told you not to though. Call John, get to the safe room.

It takes you two attempts to open the contacts app on your phone. Your hands are shaking, your fingers feel numb. Eventually you manage to click on his number bringing the phone up to your ear as the call rings out. You make it over to the backdoor that leads into the garage. 

“Come on, come on, John pick up.” You whisper hearing the shake in your voice, as you fumble for the back door key on the rack. It feels like you’re making too much noise. 

The call goes to the answerphone. “Fuck, John.” Frustration boils in you, why is he not picking up?

You find the key. The frustration is replaced with relief as you fumble pressing it into the keyhole. 

You dial his number again as you go into the garage, you can see the false wall of tools John hid the door behind. You’re rushing towards it as you pull the facade back revealing the slim door, into the meter-by-meter room. 

“Hey!” You turn seeing a figure in the dark you don’t recognise.

You forgot to lock the kitchen door. 

You throw yourself into the space. It’s too late someone grabs your arm. You scream and fight as they pull you back. Your body falls to the floor, you drop the phone. 

“NO!” you scream as a hand claps round your mouth. There’s another person now they’re shouting at each other, at you. You kick, and flail as hands grip you, fingers digging into your skin. Tears stream down your face, you feel a sharp slap across your cheek. 

The hand leaves your mouth and you scream as loud as you can. Even in your ears the scream sounds foreign. It’s real fear, you’re screaming for your life.

A wet rag is placed over your nose and mouth. It smells rancid, after a few breaths your head starts to swim. The second pair of hands grip your ankles. Suddenly you don’t have the strength to fight. Adrenaline pulses through you, you try to dig your heels into the ground. 

For a second you free one of your legs slamming your foot flat on the ground.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” 

An arm comes round your neck squeezing tight. You can’t breathe, you can't suck in air. Your head swims, your body goes limp. You try to squirm but it's no use. Your last though is of John, you hope you haven't let him down.

____

Part 2

[likeamattoutofhell-archive]

Money - Alain & Matty

Alain and Matty do some dirty business, the Babineaux dogs are good boys, a certain katana-wielding slayer-killer gets lightly roasted... and sold out, for cash. You know what Pink Floyd had to say about that stuff.

The sun had disappeared west of White Crest, signing the beginning of Alain's extra hours. And yet, he was not on his way to the nearest mausoleum tonight. Alone in his garage, he was taking care of a client's bike as he waited for Dave's contact to appear. Music played on the radio although he was not paying too much attention to it. His thoughts were elsewhere. Asking him to trust a vampire was really asking him a lot, and if he had not known Dave for a long long time, he would have never contacted the damn undead monster which was about to arrive anytime. At least, that was if the damn thing was able to respect a set date for a meeting. 

Tidying up his workspace, the hunter then moved the bike back to the side and threw his glove on the workbench, picked up his phone and headed to his office to reheat his dinner. He replied to Evelyn's texts, took the lasagna out of the microwave oven and headed to his desk. Orion's snout reached for his owner’s hand, but was dismissed to his basket. Alain knew too well that this was only a ploy to get a bite of his food. “You have food in your bowl,” sitting at his desk, he kept the door to his office open to have his eyes on the front door. He could have gone to the vampire’s place, but knowing where he lived was enough information, and he didn’t care much for visiting it, although he was intrigued. Matty, if this was even his real name, did not sound anything like usual vampires : full of pride, arrogant, like the world was owed to them just like the gift of immortality was. Seeing someone approaching from where he stood, the hunter called out “come in,” and pushed away his half empty plate.

Oh, this was a bad idea. Not that said idea was his. Obviously. Matty slunk along through the dark, well past regretting… a lot of things. Not that that mattered much, when you were not just stuck, but entirely fucked, between a rock and a hard place. Or a leech and a slayer, as the case was. But. If this all went how it sensibly ought to, there’d be no going wrong, exactly. Would there? One less scary motherfucker in White Crest. One less scary motherfucker in White Crest who knew way too much about Matty for his personal comfort, seriously. At least he could add… some garage, to what he knew about this guy. Garage Babineaux. A detail to throw that old bastard’s way, when the time came. Remained to be seen if this dude was Babineaux himself, but. Who the fuck else but the owner would be hanging around a place like this, after closing time? 

Someone who had the imagination to look around a garage and see plenty of opportunities to be an intimidating son of a bitch, maybe. Opportunities like monkey wrenches, power-lifts, tire irons, and blowtorches. All solid choices, so far as scare tactics went. 

As were the fuckin’ dogs. Catching the invitation, Matty pushed himself into the glow of the garage, and stiffened. German Shepherds. Two. Oh, no. No, thank you. With a thick, nervous swallow, he dragged his eyes up to the guy sitting between them. “Uh. Hi.” God, he hadn’t been this close to one of those damn dogs since… a long fuckin’ time, but. Still. Matty inched nearer, swayed to a stop. He’d come sober. Not, like, all the way. Obviously. But as much as he could stand. Functionally on edge. “We’ve - we have a mutual friend, right?” Friend, yeah. “Dave? Just… making sure.”

Sitting back in his chair, Alain looked at the vampire, starting by looking at their hands, then their face. Only after this did he take time to take into account the man’s general appearance. Not exactly what one would expect from your stereotypical vampire. Good for him, because he hated those even more. Standing up from his office chair, he left his office to stand in the workshop, a couple meters apart from the vampire. The dogs followed behind, although they were more curious than in the mood for a fight, even if they could not hear a heartbeat coming from the vampire, and had been trained to lunge at such monsters. Alain had trained them for this, and they were ready for his order, although such an order would not come, not tonight. He had no interest in killing Matty, as long as he proved to be useful.  

Shoving his hands in his pockets, the hunter remained silent for a couple more seconds, a frown appearing on his face right as he started talking: We’ve - we have a mutual friend, right? Dave? Just… making sure. The odds of Alain being a different person were low, weren’t they? Instead of replying, he sighed and blinked slowly. Right. “Do you have what I asked ?” Motioning toward a paper bag on the workbench, he then crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Yeah, that had been… yeah. Stupid question. Seriously off chance this wasn’t the dude he was after. But if he was gonna get punked - and he had been, before - might as well get it over with quick. Not that there was much Matty could hope to do but play through, when these douchebags felt like having a bit of fun. A lifeline was a lifeline, and shit as it was, that’s what the hunters of White Crest amounted to: blood he didn’t have to kill for, hurt for, bite for. Or, well. The means to get it, in theory. Fuck, why couldn’t this asshole have just gone down to the meat counter, or something? Even that was better than having to hit the Night Market himself, knowing how many slayers were watching. And how many things like him were skulking around, down there. 

 Speaking of. He dipped a hand into his back pocket, and waved a bit of paper, folded up. “Mhm. Took some looking, man. Slick son of a bitch, this guy.” Not wrong. Matty had stayed put, as the slayer moved. And the dogs. He hesitated, then took a cautious step towards the bench, his payment. “You mind if I, uh, count that out, before we get down to the details?” 

“Huh uh,” at the vampire’s request to count the money, Alain sighed and blew heavily through his nose. “If I wanted to screw you, you’d be dead already,” he commented, raising his eyebrows as he looked to the ceiling. “But suit yourself,” taking a seat on the workbench, he looked down at his two dogs and smiled at them, tapping his leg to get them to approach him. 

"You know, vampires usually don't sell out their own kind," you could not trust them, but within their species, they usually were knit together and this was what made hunting them so hard sometimes. If newly made vampires were easy to dust, as most of them never had to get in a fight in their whole human life, the same couldn't be said about the older ones and while Alain could enjoy a fight, he'd rather have it happen at the Silver Bullet than in a cemetery.  Killing vampires was not fun, and he treated it as such. Whoever was responsible for killing those slayers would know the same fate as many vampires before him. This much he knew.

Alain glanced over at the vampire and tilted his head. "Do hunters usually pay you in blood?" If so, he really would have to have a word with Dave, although nothing stopped him from dusting dear Matty once he would be done with the other vampire. "So, those pieces of information ?"

You’d be dead already. They always said that kinda thing. As if it was any comfort, at all, come on. As if his new pal, here, wasn’t plenty likely to stake him for the hell of it, when this was done. But. Not a point he was about to make. “Right. Totally.” Matty threw a fragile smile across the garage, and helped himself to the envelope. Counting fast. Because yeah, it fuckin’ suited him. Bad enough this bastard had dicked him around about the price, in the first place - he didn’t want to walk away underpaid, to boot. Blood didn’t come cheap.  

Neither did his extremely dangerous so-called job. A dry, sour sort of laugh shook out of him, there, as Babineaux (presumably, anyway) started to poke. No, vampires didn’t tend to do what he did. They tended to chew open your neck and drink you dead. “Yeah, well. The fuck do I owe those freaks, huh?” The money looked to be all there, but. He’d be damned if he didn’t go all the way through, just to be sure. Tossing a bit of hair out of his face, Matty hazarded a glance at this slayer, and his dogs. “And yeah, they do. That’s kinda the whole idea? The deal. I eat, stay outta trouble, and save you people some legwork. It’s symbiotic, or whatever. Everybody comes out better off.” Like hell he was gonna mention that more than a few of them were happy to short the snacks, and make up the difference with substances. Which worked out, most of the time, but… didn’t seem likely to earn him any points, here. 

He waited on the delivery until he was sure, to the last bill - not taking his time, exactly, but. Not about to miscount. But, there it was. To the dollar. “Alright. So. You’re looking for this.” Matty dipped two fingers into his back pocket, holding up a sharp sketch. That motherfucker’s face, from the alley, as clear as he could remember it. “Don’t have a phone, or whatever, so. Best I could do, media-wise.” He set the drawing down the bench, and took a step back. Liked his distance. “He’s old, like I said. Enough that he can go to mist, real quick. Likes to use that, in a fight. And a - a fuckin’, you know…” what were they called, even? “A samurai sword, or whatever. Put that right through Evgeni Sidorov’s chest, I saw it. If you knew him.” Possible he hadn’t. Hunters were in a niche business, sure, but. White Crest was crawling with these fuckers. Understandably. “Your guy has something he uses to break the bodies down, after he’s done. But, first, he takes their teeth. Yeah.” Matty reached up, pushing his upper lip aside with a thumb, indicating the canines. “Big on souvenirs. Sounds like he’s got a real pile of the things. And he jogs. At Hanging Rock. Around eight, most nights.” Sliding a little further away, Matty watched the shepherds, watched Babineaux. “Definitely this Friday. Heard him talking, at Teeth. Seems like the kinda dude to keep a pretty tight schedule. Places to be, slayers to melt, I guess.” Another slinking step, towards the door. “Speaking, uh, of which, I should… get going. If we’re cool.” As cool as they could possibly be. So. Asphalt in August, in, say. Houston, maybe. 

“Or you could feed on animals like a normal person? Those blood bags should be going to humans who need them. People don’t donate blood to save dead people like yourself,” he looked at Matty, and his nose scrunched up just a little as he kept staring at him. If Alain was more than aware that animal blood was not exactly as suitable as human blood, he did not care much about it. Even if the “feeding on human beings and causing them harm” part was bad enough, it was the fact that they could spread their disease to others that made them such a big problem to him. Moreover, some vampires had their heads so far up their asses that they considered becoming one of them to be a gift, a blessing. 

“You know, some of us don’t have an eternity to spend on Earth,” he commented once Matty was, at last, done counting his payment. Picking up the piece of paper from the bench, he raised an eyebrow. Wow. Even if the drawing was far from a bad one, was this truly the best he could do? Not that it mattered much what the fella looked like. He had never needed photos to know if someone was a vampire or not. And so, he did not comment, and instead listened to what he had to tell. Still, at the mention of samurai swords, he couldn’t hold back a scoff. “It’s called a katana,” he corrected him. This wasn’t the reason why he had laughed. The idea of someone who looked far from Japanese, owning such a sword, sounded extremely tacky to his ears. “How original,” another comment. Still, he had taken note of the mist. This part worried him more than the fact that this vampire seemed to idealize samurais. Evgeni. The name sounded familiar. He had heard it before, right after that hunter disappeared. He never spoke with that guy, but that did not change a thing. Vampires had no business killing slayers, no right to defend themselves. They were abominations, and they had to be destroyed, each and everyone of them. “Souvenirs, huh?” Wouldn’t be the first or the last vampire to feel like they could do whatever they wanted to their victims. “Right.” He rubbed his hands, fingers stretched out. That part about Hanging rock and schedules screamed coup monté but he did not make any comments. He half expected Matty to tell me to show exactly at 3am next. Alone. With no weapons. Surely he would have to be careful, but this would hardly be his first time against an old vampire like that one, and he had a few tricks up his sleeve if things didn't go quite as planned. “Of course. Places to be, people to scare and harm,” he waved in the vampire’s direction idly. “If this goes well, I’ll see you soon. And if this goes wrong, you won’t see me at all.”

God, he could kiss Nic. If he weren’t, you know. A hunter, and generally terrifying. But - at least he didn’t pull this kinda shit. Like Matty didn’t know. Like he didn’t care. His eyes would’ve rolled, if they weren’t too busy keeping a sharp watch on this slayer, over here. “You think they stretch to blood bags? Fuck, man. Comes in a jar, half the time. Outta morgues, or some shit, I don’t know…” The other half, well. Yeah. Blood, for the living. Feeding the dead. The only reason he didn’t crumple more, under the weight of that, was - there just wasn’t much left to wring out of him, at this point. “I take what I get, alright?” Sounded tired, there. Because he was. Didn’t matter that none of it was his fault. Didn’t matter to hunters, at least. 

He shot a look across his counting, still flicking through the envelope. No comment. Yeah, supposed-Babineaux did look like he was getting up there, for a guy in his, you know. Line of work. Which meant he was a special kind of scary. The sort with experience. Matty couldn’t speak to the ravages of time, or whatever; missed those, lucky him. So goddamn lucky, totally. The crack about the katana - apparently - sent a smirk sneaking over his face, a more than half-nervous snicker chasing after it. “Right? Like Blade, or some shit. Couldn’t believe it. Fuckin’ asshole…” No, he didn’t want to think about whatever this maniac went killing with. Didn’t see anything too obvious lying around - besides crowbars, maybe - and it was plain enough that the slayer was sharp as hell. Had to be, to make it to his age, doing what he did. So. Matty wasn’t going to push the intel-gathering. Instead, he nodded, vigorously. Souvenirs. It’d almost seemed like too much to throw in, but. Babineaux had bit enough, at least. Enough to seal the deal, and let him go. 

Not without a parting jab, but. Honestly. He’d heard worse. Thought worse. Appearances, though. These people, in Matty’s experience, they liked to see it hurt. And it still did, so. Wasn’t hard to cringe, believably, on his way out. “Something like that,” he sighed, thinly. Remembering that face, this place, the pant and whine of those shepherds, sprawled around their owner’s feet like… like something out of a painting, old-school hunting dogs, ready to lurch for a fox. Never seemed like a fair fight, but. As if fairness had ever been the point of anything like that. Of anything, period. Whatever this turned into, it wouldn’t be his problem. “Happy hunting, yeah?” Slipping through the door with a creak and a flat, tossed-off wave, Matty took a deep, shaky breath of the dark, and started walking. Fast.