#i lit a grease fire on the stove | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

babbushka · 4 years ago

Text

5 Times Flip Ruined Valentine’s Day (And 1 Time He Didn’t)

Flip Zimmerman x Reader (Darling Jewish Wife AU)

11k ; cw: mild angst, mostly fluff & humor, mentions of baby zimmerman, mentions of war, mentions of undercover with the klansmen, brief hospitalization (sex injury), NSFW (PIV, fingering, praise kink, begging, finger sucking, multiple-orgasms, mild lactation kink, implied marathon sex)

Available on AO3

----------------

L is for the way you look at me

February 14th, 1962. Flip Zimmerman is twenty-three years old and has finally worked up the courage to ask you to be his girlfriend. After months of pining, months of agonizing, months of Jimmy makin’ fun of him for being such a chicken, he finally asked and you stunned him by saying yes straight away. It’s his first Valentine’s Day with you, but more than that, it’s his first Valentine’s Day ever. Flip has it all planned out, he’s going to make sure that this memory is a perfect one, wanting to prove to you that he can be not only your best friend, but the best boyfriend.

Oh, if only life were that easy.

It had started out innocently enough, at least he likes to tell himself that. Not wanting to go too big too fast and run out of room on the very first holiday, Flip decided to keep things simple. He was going to cook you dinner. A real dinner too, with all five courses and a dessert. You didn’t know this, but Flip had been taking cooking lessons secretly after his shift at the lumber mill twice a week. He felt bad, knowing that you always do the cooking whenever you’re together, and dammit he plans on marrying you one day, so he figures he better get his act together now. His Ma had even given him the go-ahead to use the good china.

He doesn’t know when exactly, it went wrong.

“Hey Jim, are you busy?” Flip’s just finishing up his shift at the mill, when he calls his best friend to try and get some extra muscle, “I’m about to head to the market, help me with these groceries?”

He had told Jimmy about the plan of course, mostly because he told him everything. He loved telling you everything too, but this was one of those things that he had made Jimmy swear to secrecy, so as to not fuck up the surprise.

“Sure thing, pick me up?” Jimmy’s cheerful voice crackled over the phone line, and with an affirmative reply, Flip is practically bounding out of the little office where he works, and is grabbing his keys.

Ten minutes later, Jimmy is in the passenger seat, reaching into Flip’s jacket pocket for the grocery list, wondering what the hell Flip needs his help for.

“So what’s on the list anyway – holy shit this is a lot of stuff, Flip.” Jimmy’s eyes widen comically when the grocery list seemingly never ends, and he tries to make heads or tails of Flip’s shitty handwriting.

“I know! I’m doing a soup and a salad and then making these bread rolls that I know she’ll love and then for the appetizer course I’m doing – ” Flip doesn’t catch the concern in Jimmy’s voice, so focused on driving down to the market, focused on his mission.

“Uhh, are you sure about all this? Don’t you remember what happened that time you tried to boil water?” Jimmy very gently cuts Flip off, only keeping his best friend’s interests at heart.

Flip, for his part, sours and shoots him a glare, snatching the list back from his friend’s hand.

“Shut the fuck up, I’ve been taking lessons. I got this, now would you help me find everything? I figure it’ll be faster with the two of us, and I really need to get started before she comes over.” There’s a distinct edge to his voice that’s the closest thing to panic that Jimmy’s ever heard – at least since the day that Flip broke his clavicle on that snowboarding accident a decade ago.

Once in the grocery store, Flip can’t help but feel cocky. Between the two of them, everything on the list is found with time to spare, which is good because now that he’s really doing this, Flip won’t deny he’s got butterflies. It has to be perfect, he thinks, it just has to.

“Alright that’ll be everything I think – oh!” At the checkout register, Flip quickly grabs a big chocolate bar of your favorite kind, and adds it to the already enormous pile of shit, “And this too, please.”

Jimmy helps Flip load all the paper bags into the car, and then is a good friend and helps bring everything inside the house. Flip doesn’t let him stick around to help, instead shooing Jimmy out with a big plate of his Ma’s homemade cookies as a payment for all the help, and finally letting out a deep breath that he didn’t even know he had been holding.

“Okay Phil, you can do this.” He whispers to himself, “It’s just like class.”

And surprisingly, it was just like class. Flip prepared all the vegetables and got all the dishes starting in the correct order so they’d be finished in time for your arrival – which was in exactly half an hour. He doesn’t know how the fuck he managed to pull this off, but he’s not about to go tempting fate or anything, so he decides that now would be a good time to freshen up so he doesn’t smell like raw onions when you get there.

Flip agonizes over what to wear, eventually settling on a nice dress shirt and some slacks, willing his hair to part neatly. He hopes you don’t think he looks stupid, he – the doorbell rings, and he sucks in a sharp breath to himself.

Without another second’s hesitation, Flip moves to the front door and opens it, momentarily stunned by your beauty. He should have lit up a cigarette, he thinks, because all of a sudden his hands are shaking, just from the sight of you.

“Hi.” He blurts out inelegantly, but you only give him a big smile.

“Hi, you look really handsome.” You bat your lashes and bite the inside of your cheek, and some of the tension in Flip’s shoulders slip away, because he realizes that you’re nervous too.

Taking in the sight of you, it’s very clear that you tried hard to look nice for him, something that blows Flip’s fuckin’ mind. How’d he ever get so lucky to have a girl like you want to be his? Your nails are freshly done, and he’s pretty sure he’s never seen you in this dress before, you even put on some perfume. The scent of it curls up in his nostrils, and he tries to think of something to say so that he isn’t just staring at you.

“You too.” Is the genius move he comes up with, immediately tripping over his tongue, “I mean, you’re beautiful, not that you’re not also handsome, if you want to be, I – ”

“Can I come in?” You give him a break, and he’s grateful for it.

Opening the door wider for you, he steps to the side and mentally kicks himself for being such an idiot.

“Yes. Yes please do, please come in.” Flip tries his best to remember the manners that he was raised on, although it’s difficult when you’re so beautiful and you’re here and you’re his girlfriend. “Let me take your coat?”

“Sure, thanks.” You grin, before your smile falters and a deep concerning frown dimples your forehead, “Say, something smells…um…Flip is something burning?”

Flip frowns too then, filling his lungs, trying to figure out what you’re talking about when it hits him --

“My roast!” Flip shouts, bolting into the kitchen.

What had just been a perfectly cooked dinner not thirty minutes prior, was now a large grease fire, with flames licking up high high high into the air, threatening to touch the ceiling and spread across the kitchen.

“Fuck – fuck shit! God dammit!” Flip frantically begins searching for something, mind going into overdrive to put the fire out. He grabs a bag of something, he doesn’t even know what it is, flour maybe? All he remembers from the class is to never ever throw water on a grease fire, otherwise he’d really be in trouble.

“Oh my god the stove!” The soup on the stove has boiled over and hit the gas burners, there’s smoke coming out of the oven in thick dark plumes, and you scream, “Where’s your fire extinguisher?!”

“Under the sink!” Flip remembers all of a sudden, and lunges to the cabinet under the sink, yanking on the pin and letting the white frothy foam explode out of the nozzle.

Flip pushes you to stand behind him as he puts the fire out, like some hero in an action movie, but instead of praising his heroism, you run out of the room to the phone in the hallway and dial the emergency number.

“I’m going to call the fire department, the flames could be inside the wall.” You shout to him, opening up the windows to air the place out as you go.

Ten minutes later, the fire department is crawling all through his house, and every single one of the neighbors is standing outside on their front lawns like the nosy people they are. Flip is sitting with you on the front porch, his head hung low between his knees, as you rub his back.

“God my Ma’s gonna fuckin’ murder me.” He groans, praying that the fire didn’t get big enough to ruin the whole kitchen.

“We’ll explain to her that it was just an accident.” You lean your head against his shoulder and keep him calm, a soothing balm that cools all his frayed edges. “We’re okay, and that’s what matters most, right?”

He looks at you then, cups a hand to your cheek and gives you a sheepish sigh.

“Yeah.” He grumbles, really desperate for a cigarette now, “I’m real fuckin’ sorry sweetheart, I had it all figured out and then…”

One of the firefighters walks past him, and Flip just gestures to him with a sigh.

But you, somehow, somehow you’re an angel and all you do is laugh, nudging his side with your elbow, making him look at you with an eyebrow raised. Of all the reactions that he had expected you to have, laughter wasn’t one of them.

“Hey, at least we’ll have a story to tell the grandkids one day.” You offer, and in that one little sentence, Flip’s heart beats double time.

“You’re not dumping me?” His eyes widen in surprise, because he was sure, so sure that that’s where this fucking day was going, he wouldn’t blame you if you had, he almost burned the house down after all.

“Dumping you! After how hard you worked and tried? No way.” You shake your head, almost sounding offended by the thought. “In fact, I think it makes me want to date you even more now. Just promise me next year, we stick to flowers or chocolates, okay?”

“Oh, speaking of which – ” Flip remembers, reaches around for something in his pocket, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

It’s pitiful really, the way that the chocolate bar from the grocery store has slightly melted and broken while being in his back pocket this entire time, but he figures, no better time than right now to give it to you.

And even though you’re laughing, your arms corralling him into a tight hug to kiss the side of his face and reassure him that you think the gesture was very sweet, Flip still can’t help but feel…well…burned.

O is for the only one I see

February 14th, 1967. Flip Zimmerman is thirty years old and officially (!!) your fiancée. It only took him five years to propose, but you knew Flip, and you knew how hard and long he thought about things like this, wanting everything to be perfect. And it had been, the trip to Egypt was a dream come true! The wedding was set for next month, March 18th to be exact, but Flip didn’t want to rest on that excitement to not give you the incredible Valentine’s Day he’s always dreamed of giving you.

True to his word, the previous few holidays have been spent very lowkey, a quiet night at a nice restaurant, dinner prepared by someone that wasn’t him, chocolates and champagne and big bouquets of roses.

But things were different now, he wasn’t just some lowly boyfriend who worked at the family lumber mill – no, now he was a Detective with the CSPD and more importantly, your fiancée and that had to mean something. He wanted to prove to you that he wasn’t going to start slacking now that you’ve agreed to tie the knot with him.

“Ketsl? It’s me.” Flip’s just finished changing out of his work clothes in the rec room, into something more put together for the surprise date he’s about to take you on.

“Hi honey! I’m almost ready, I’ll be all done by the time you come home.” Your voice is bright and fills him with warmth from the other end of the line.

“Remember to wear something comfortable.” Flip flicks the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk, looking at the picture of you he keeps framed right next to the phone, that way it’s like you’re really there, even when you’re not.

“Will you tell me where we’re going?” You have that pleading tone in your voice that usually Flip can never deny, but today is a different day, a special day.

“No way, then it won’t be a surprise, would it?” He chuckles into the receiver, and you groan playfully, eventually conceding.

“Okay, I love you, see you soon.” You blow kisses into the phone, and Flip shoots glares to any and everyone who dares to make fun of him for that.

So what if he’s in love? Who could fault him for that?

He had it all figured out. After the disaster that was the grease fire, Flip decided that this year there would be no adventurous cooking. Since that Valentine’s Day, he had moved into a small house right off 21st Street with you, and the last fucking thing he wanted was to burn down that kitchen too.

Instead, Flip had gotten tickets to a play you had been dying to see at the Denver Center for the Preforming Arts. It was a bit of a drive, but the trip would be worth it, especially considering the seats he was able to get thanks to a friend over at Denver PD. He was going to take you out to a nice dinner beforehand, which meant if you were going to make it in time, he needed to hit the road now.

His car makes it halfway to his house, when there’s a strange rattle that comes from somewhere inside the dash.

“Excuse me?” Flip says out loud to himself, praying that what he thinks is happening, isn’t happening right now.

A light goes off on the dash, and then another, and then somehow another light, all lighting up on the dash, as his car rattles and makes all sorts of noises that he knows he can’t fix with his tire-jack.

“Oh no,” He groans, as the car comes to a rolling stop, the engine failing for whatever fucking reason, “No no no.”

Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, he’s already doing the mental math and knowing that he’s going to be late – if he gets home to you at all. To avoid risking an accident, Flip manages to urge the car to the side of the road, and he chucks the flashers on.

“This cannot fucking be happening, not now.” Flip gets out of the car, goes around to the front and opens up the hood. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to fix things, he was handy and took mechanics in high school, but shit high school was some fuckin’ time ago and he doesn’t even know where to look first, anger and frustration bubbling up inside his chest. “How the fuck am I – Flip, remain calm. De-escalate the situation.”

Two seconds later, he still can’t figure it out, and he slams the hood shut with a loud, “God fucking dammit!”

There’s only one choice, Flip knows. He has to walk to the nearest gas station and use their phone for help. Luckily, he knows of one not too far away, you always give them a gift basket of homemade treats for the winter holidays.

As he walks down the sidewalk, leaving his car there on the street without much other choice, he feels…something.

A light plip of water on his shoulder.

Dread creeps up into his throat, because that plip turns to a downpour in five seconds flat, and Flip really had to just stand there, take a moment, and try not to scream out his frustration as the rain pours and pours and pours out of fucking nowhere.

By the time he makes it to the gas station, he is soaked to the bone, and livid.

The door to the gas station swings open and Flip steps inside, taking deep breaths to try and preserve some dignity that he has left. Of course, he had an umbrella, but it was in the car, and he wasn’t about to double back when he was already wet. The look on his face must have been murderous, because the cashier at the counter approaches him tentatively.

“Hey man, are you okay?” The guy asks. Really he’s a kid, probably not more than sixteen, and Flip composes himself as he lights up a cigarette now that he’s sure the drenching downpour won’t put it out immediately.

“My car broke down a couple miles up the road, can I use your payphone?” He sucks down a couple drags, pulling out his wallet and fishing for a few coins.

“The payphone is out of order.” The kid replies, and Flip freezes, letting that information settle into his bones.

“Of course it is.” He mutters, teeth nearly pinching through the cigarette that he’s now smoking like it’s the last one he’ll ever have.

The kid notices Flip’s darkening mood, and thinks for a minute or two, before noticing one of the other people in the gas station.

“But hey! My buddy here is a mechanic and drives a tow truck. He can give you a lift, can’t you Tony?” The kid offers on his friend Tony’s behalf, and Flip tries not to get his hopes up.

Tony, another teenager who looks like he just got his license, maybe a little older, pops up from around one of the aisles with his arms full of chips.

“Sure thing sir, where you headed?” Tony smiles brightly, and Flip just smokes smokes smokes.

“21st street.” He offers, praying that this kid knows where that is.

By the way his eyes light up, Flip thinks that maybe, just maybe, his luck is turning.

As it would turn out, Flip’s house isn’t too far from the mechanic shop that Tony works at. On the way to his house, they strike up a deal to get the car looked at and fixed up before the day was over.

It’s still pouring rain, Tony pulls the tow truck up to the curb and Flip opens the door, reaching over to shake his hand.

“Thanks, I appreciate this a lot.” Flip says, feeling much less angry and now sort of…defeated.

“No problem, I’ll give you a call when we’ve fixed her up.” Tony gives Flip’s hand a hearty shake, “And thanks again for paying for my snacks, that was pretty cool.”

They part ways, and he only gets two steps closer to the front door when it flies open and you’re rushing out into the rain to hug him, holding him close.

“Phil!” You bury your face in his chest, and automatically Flip’s arms wrap around you tight. “Oh thank god I was so fucking worried about you! It’s been hours! What happened?”

You pull away enough to cup his cheeks in your hand and search his gaze, eyes wide and worried, and Flip’s chest sinks. It’s like the first Valentine’s Day all over again, he sighs to himself, feeling just as shitty now as he had when it was a disaster then.

“The car’s in the shop, I’m sorry ketsl, I tried.” Flip shrugs, not knowing what else to do, or say.

“I know handsome, I know.” You stretch up onto your tiptoes to press a deep kiss to his lips, before grasping his hand in your own and tugging the both of you out of the rain, announcing, “But I planned for this.”

“How the hell could you have planned for this?” Flip mumbles, but you just throw a smile over your shoulder to him, trying to get him into a better mood.

“I had a feeling you’d do something extravagant, and we both know how that tends to turn out – ”

“Hey.”

“So I made us a special dinner and figured we could watch those old black and white movies together like we used to do all the time. Maybe have some champagne in the bubble bath as a pregame.” You waggle a brow, as the both of you find shelter in your front room, door locked safely behind you.

Water drips from your hems onto the floor, and you reach for a very conveniently placed towel that happens to be right by the door, offering it to him.

He has never wanted to marry someone more, in his entire life, than he wants to marry you.

“Next year will be better.” He promises, kissing you sweetly, before taking you up on that promise of a bubble bath.

V is very, very extraordinary

February 14th, 1968. Flip Zimmerman is thirty-one years old and celebrating the holiday, the first Valentine’s Day together since you’ve been married, overseas.

This year was not, in any way shape or form, better.

He listens to the tape you’ve sent him, plays it over and over again just to hear your voice, hoping to drown out the harrowing experience of war just beyond his headphones. He listens to your voice, and wonders if you’re relistening to the voicemails he’s left you once upon a time, wonders if you’re having dinner with your friends, if Jimmy brought you those flowers like he had asked.

He rewinds the tape, but he knows it’s not the same.

E is even more than anyone that you adore can

February 14th, 1972. Flip Zimmerman is thirty-five and finally back home from Vietnam. He surprises you one sunny day last summer, and the two of you are practically in each other’s back pockets every day thereafter.

There is no place Flip would rather be, than with you. To anyone who didn’t know you, it might look suspiciously lovey-dovey, but no, that’s really just how you are now. You nearly lost him over there, in the war. You went three years without him by your side – you didn’t want to be more than a foot away from him if you could manage it.

This Valentine’s Day, Flip has arranged everything so that you could do just that. He had a fantastic fucking date planned for you – nothing too fancy, but special nonetheless. It was going to be a complete throw-back, he’ll take you to the diner where they now serve the Zimmerman Special -- a combo of the sub sandwiches you always order, and a chocolate milkshake to share; you can’t get the sandwiches on their own, they have to be ordered together, something that always makes your heart flutter – and then afterwards, he got passes for the mini-golf place, one of the very first dates he had taken you on all those years ago when you were first stepping into more-than-friends territory.

You’re about ready to walk out the door, and Flip is right behind you when the phone rings.

Exchanging glances, Flip seriously is tempted to ignore the phone altogether, but you raise a brow at him and he lets out a disgruntled groan, dragging his feet over to the hallway and picking the phone up.

“Zimmerman, it’s Harry.” His boss’ voice has a tone to it that already has Flip developing a localized headache right in his temple.

“Why do you sound like you’re about to give me bad news.” Flip grumbles, and Harry just sighs.

“Because I have bad news.” Harry replies, and you already seem to know what’s coming, because you close the door with a sad sigh and step out of your shoes, “Look, I’m really sorry, but Ron just gave us some new intel, looks like the boys are having some sort of get together at the Bloomin’ Tulip, and we need you there.”

He was on this case with a rookie named Ron, something about infiltrating the local klan chapter. He wasn’t happy about it, not in the fucking least, for a lot of reasons. The men were vile, and he hated spending any more time with them than he needed to, and he had really fucking hoped that he wouldn’t need to today.

“Isn’t that a strip club?” You pipe up having overheard the name of the establishment, and Flip blinks, gearing up to start shouting at his boss.

“Flip I know it’s not how you want to spend the night but – ”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? It’s Valentine’s Day! I’m not going to a strip club with a bunch of neo-nazis on Valentine’s Day! Besides, they know I’m married.” Flip seethes, the hand that’s not holding the phone gesturing wildly even though Harry can’t see it.

You light up a cigarette and hand it to him with a kiss to his cheek, knowing he’s going to need it.

“Felix and a couple of the other guys are married too, and they’re going. I’m sorry Flip but we need to know if they’re planning anything serious.” Harry really does sound apologetic, and at the end of the day, he is Flip’s boss.

Flip looks at you, and you look back at him and give him a sad smile, encouraging him to go with a little nod of your head. You knew what you were signing up for when Flip asked your thoughts on him becoming a detective, and you had agreed all those years ago. It was part of the territory, and you weren’t about to make him feel bad for protecting the town you loved so dearly – for keeping you safe.

“When?” Flip sighs into the receiver, and he can practically feel the relief in Harry’s sigh.

“You have to be there in an hour.” Harry replies quickly, already spouting off directions and whatever other bullshit that Flip’s not listening to.

“Tell Bridges I’m pissed about this.” Flip eventually cuts him off, and hangs up the fucking phone without even so much as a goodbye.

With the phone slammed back onto the wall, Flip smokes his cigarette for a second and lets his shoulders sag. He really couldn’t catch a fucking break, could he? Turning to face you, wondering where you went, he finds you settling on the couch, your pretty coat hung up on the hook, reaching for a book to start leafing through.

“Ketsl I – ” Flip’s heart sinks, and he has half a mind to call Harry back and tell him that he isn’t going to go, but you shake your head.

“Go, it’s okay. Work is more important.” You reach a hand out for him, and he takes a few long strides over to the couch, kneels in front of you and holds it reverently between his palms.

Flip rests his head on your thigh, pressing small kisses to your knuckles, hating this.

“No, it’s really fucking not.” He grumbles, anxious about the thought of leaving you. “How about this: I’ll go for just a couple hours, make some excuse, and then come right back to you and we’ll go on that date?”

He’s really going to give Ron a hard time about this, Flip thinks, when you just pat his cheek lightly and pull out your wallet from the purse you’ve left on the coffee table.

“Do you need some singles?” You rifle through the thick stack of cash and count out roughly fifty dollars.

“Why do you have a ton of singles?” Flip frowns, confused, and the playful suspicion in his tone gets you giggling, a sound that rushes through Flip like the breaking of a dam.

“Don’t worry about it.” You reply, mock-defensively, before you roll your eyes and explain, “It’s from the bake sale, trade me for bigger bills?”

Flip kisses you, a loud smacking smooch right on your cheek, and fishes out his own wallet, not wanting to steal money from the bake sale. Whatever he spends on the case he’ll get back from the station, but still, that money was to go to the children’s hospital.

“I love you more than anything in the entire fucking world and I will be back as soon as I possibly can, I promise.” Flip rushes to say, as the clock chimes, letting him know he’s got to leave now if he wants to make it in time.

“Just go.” You smile, trying to keep the disappointment out of your voice. You kiss Flip once more, and then shoo him away with a parting, “And be respectful to the girls there!”

“Of course! I love you.” Flip calls back as he leaves the house, running back to give you one last kiss, before leaving for real.

Flip has nothing against strip clubs, not at all. He knows and likes pretty much all the dancers, from his days as a rookie himself when he would be the only one around the station to calls on his late night shifts. They know and trust him, and he’s thankful for that; especially when they see he’s clearly undercover, and know to keep an eye on him without making it too obvious.

The klansmen are exactly how Flip had expected them to be – obnoxious, loud, rude. They don’t tip well, spend most of the time jeering at the women and the rest of the time talking shit about their wives or girlfriends. Felix at one point asks Flip to join in, almost a dare to prove how masculine he is, how much of one of them he is, and the words burn in the back of Flip’s throat as he lies through his teeth.

He hates this, he hates them, everything is too loud and the beer is warm, and Flip’s having a terrible fucking time.

He also has no idea how much time has actually passed, because it’s too dark to see his watch, and there aren’t any clocks on the wall. At one point, Ivanhoe decides to get a little too handsy with one of the dancers, violating rule number one of the club, and gets the entire group of them thrown out. Flip had never been happier to get thrown out of an establishment in his life, and used that as an excuse to leave, claiming an early day at work in the morning.

When he gets back in his car and sees that it’s somehow after midnight, he curses the entire fucking way back home.

He opens the front door carefully, not wanting to come home making all sorts of noise in case you’re asleep. There’s an anchor in his stomach, he feels sick, he’s so fucking annoyed with how this day has gone, and all he wants is to be back with you

“(Y/N)?” Flip whispers, making his way through the house. “Are you awake? It’s me.”

He finds you on the couch right where you had been when he left, and despite the valiant effort you must have given to try and stay up for him, it’s undeniable that you’re dozing. Head resting on the arm of the couch, you’ve got your arms wrapped around one of the throw pillows, and Flip’s chest squeezes because he knows that should be him instead.

“Hmm?” You make a little noise as Flip’s arms scoop you up and hold you against his chest, turning off the lights on his way up the stairs.

“Shh, I gotcha honey-bunny.” Flip presses a kiss to the top of your head, feeling like the worst husband in the fucking world, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” You snuggle into his chest some more, voice thick with sleep. “I ordered a pizza, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t, I can’t have my girl starving, can I?” Flip smiles weakly, bringing you into the bedroom and laying you gently down on the bed.

He tugs the stockings off your feet, works on unbuttoning your blouse to unhook your bra, knowing that must not have been comfortable. You, the spoiled princess that you are, don’t bother helping him, liking when he does all the work. Flip can’t even tease you for it tonight, the weight of how the holiday has been ruined heavy in his chest.

“The pizza place was cute, they made it in the shape of a heart.” You say, watching him with soft eyes.

“I’m going to make this up to you.” Flip promises, mind a little too exhausted to figure out exactly how he’s going to do that just yet.

“You’re here now, that’s what matters.” You shake your head, before groaning dramatically as you get off the bed much to Flip’s confusion, “Come on, let’s go shower.”

Flip checks the clock on the wall, it’s nearing up on one o’clock, and he’s sure a shower will just wake you up even further.

“You’re coming with me?” Flip asks, which is a stupid question because in the back of his tired mind, he knows that you always shower together.

“Well someone’s going to have to get the glitter out of your hair.” You give him a smile, and that stops Flip in his tracks.

“…Glitter?” Flip groans, yanking the bathroom door open and turning on the light switch, seeing how he’s completely and totally covered in the shimmery circles that he loathes probably more than anything for the way they never ever come off, “Aw fuck.”

You just laugh, and get the water running, and Flip feels like the luckiest sonofabitch that exists, even if he is covered in glitter.

Love is all that I can give to you

Love is more than just a game for two

Two in love can make it, take my heart and please don't break it

Love was made for me and you

February 14th, 1974. Flip Zimmerman is thirty-seven and is the proud father of two precious little angels, that he absolutely cannot fucking believe are his. Last Valentine’s Day was hectic with the kids being so little, but now that they weren’t so teenie tiny, he has arranged for them to be watched by his Ma for the evening.

She had of course agreed, because any opportunity she could spend with her grandchildren was a good one in her book, which let you and Flip have the evening alone together for the first time in a long time.

It was silly almost, how excited the two of you were to go out to a fancy steakhouse and have an expensive dinner, how hard you both laughed at the comedian that Flip had managed to get great seats for, even so far as being able to meet him after the show and get a photo with him.

You are still laughing about some of the jokes all the way back home, and Flip is trying his best not to feel cocky. Finally, after so many years of trying to have a good and special evening, he’s finally gotten to give it to you.

There’s some gifts waiting for you at the house that he can’t wait for you to open, but when he gets you through the door, you are on him like a bee on honey. Your hands don’t know where to settle, skimming across his shoulders, his chest, cupping his cheeks and tangling in his hair, desperate and excited in a way that makes Flip’s heart pound.

“You are so fucking sexy.” He breathes, crashing your lips to his, throwing the keys and your purse to the ground as he backs you against the door, as he holds you tight to him, licking into your mouth and working on getting you naked.

“Take me upstairs?” You moan as his teeth clamp down onto your shoulder and he sucks hickies all over your throat, head tipping back for him to get better access.

Flip groans, his cock rock hard in his slacks, and he smacks your ass to get you runnin’ up to the bedroom, chasing after you with a hearty laugh. He pinches at you and you squeak out laughter and yelps of your own, as he tackles you down to the mattress, mouth seeking yours at once.

“How’d I ever get so goddamn lucky, huh?” Flip shoves his hand into the waistband of your panties, two thick fingers pressing right up into your pussy, working eagerly to get you stretched and relaxed and ready for a good hard fucking, he grunts and groans as your pussy sucks his fingers deeper, “I’m going to make you come so fucking hard ketsl.”

“We have all night, I want you to make me come all over this house.” Your eyes glitter and sparkle in the lamp light of the bedroom, and he grins, feeling overheated in his clothes.

Pulling away much to your dissatisfaction, he works on getting himself naked, while you deal with your own clothes. He eyes you as you reveal yourself to him, and his dick twitches, wanting to thrust as far as it can go into your body, your perfect fucking body.

“Oh I will, you better fucking believe I will,” He growls, yanking your ankle and pulling you across the bed with bright laughter. Flip climbs on top of you and resumes fingering you, “This pretty pussy’s in for a long night I hope you’re ready for my big hard cock.”

Your hands squeeze at his shoulders, traveling across his back, gripping him tight as your legs part and wrap around his hips. Flip lines himself up and begins to thrust inside your wet cunt, the pulsing heat throbbing around him and making him groan, the friction so good.

Moaning and sighing together, you gasp out loud as he builds up a speed that has you bouncing bouncing bouncing on the bed. He’s managed to find your gspot right away, and he wants to make good on his promise to get you fucked until you’re thoroughly and utterly wrecked – so he figures the more orgasms he can get out of you, the better.

Kissing you deeply, groaning into your mouth, he doesn’t realize how the way he’s pistoning his hips has you moving across the mattress, until you’re grasping at his shoulders with a surprised gasp, “Wait, Flip hold on we’re a little too close to the edge.”

He shakes his head and smiles down at you, wanting you to know that you’re always safe with him.

“I’ve got you baby, you don’t worry about a fucking thing – ” He starts saying, not realizing just how close you both really were, and with one particularly eager thrust, the two of you go toppling over the side entirely, landing with a loud thud on the floor.

Shit, he thinks, as he rolls off of you, scrambling to pull out and make sure you’re okay.

When he looks at you, expecting you to be laughing and scolding him and telling him all about how you were right, and instead sees a small trickle of blood across your forehead from where you’ve hit your head on the corner of the nightstand, his body runs cold.

“(Y/N)?” At once, he begs smacking lightly at your cheeks, a heaving feeling starting to rise up in his stomach as he shouts, “Oh my god, I killed my wife!”

Flip’s military training kicks in, and all he can think about is getting you to the hospital. He grabs a pair of pants off the floor and doesn’t even realize he’s put them on backwards, as he wraps you up in the sheet and runs with you down the stairs. His heart thuds and tears blur his eyes, but he swallows them down because you’re okay you have to be okay he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if you’re not fucking okay.

“Oh my god,” Flip manages to get the bleeding to stop by bunching up the sheet and pressing it against your forehead, and he keeps one hand on you as he speeds through every single red fucking light in Colorado Springs on his way to the emergency room, “Oh my god oh my fucking god.”

The hospital isn’t too far, and thankfully him being a police officer gives him some special perks – like leaving his truck parked right on the curb as he practically kicks the doors open. He’s got you wrapped up in a sheet, carrying you bridal style with thick streams of tears pouring down his cheeks, shouting and shoving his way through the waiting room.

“Everyone out of my fucking way – can someone help my wife?” He’s frantic, must look like a fucking lunatic, but, “She won’t wake up I don’t know what to do.”

“Bring her this way, hurry!” One of the nurses who happens to recognize him buzzes him in, and he doesn’t let you out of his arms until you’re surrounded by nurses and a doctor is on the way.

He watches as they wheel you back somewhere he’s not allowed to go, not even as a police officer, and Flip punches the wall, hating that he can’t do anything else.

Twenty minutes later, one of the nurses has found him and given him a shirt, because he had forgotten to put one on in all the panic, and asked him what the hell was even going on. So he hangs his head between his knees and tries not to be sick, tears and snot hiccupping out of him.

“…And that’s when she fell over the side of the bed and smacked her head and started bleeding all over the fucking place which I know she’s going to hate because I just washed the carpeting this morning for her and fuck is she okay? Will she live?” He rambles on and on, twisting the fabric of this shirt that is too small in some places but too big in others, nervously, wondering what the fuck he’s going to tell everyone – what he’s going to tell his kids.

“Live? Trust me, she’s alive and kicking right about now.” The doc comes over then, sees the state that Flip’s in, and scoffs.

The words barely register in Flip’s mind before he’s running. He doesn’t even know where he’s running to, somewhere they’re keeping you, sticking his head into every room on the way in case it’s yours.

He finds you eventually, and relief makes his knees go weak. Rushing to your side, he carefully carefully carefully kisses you, the words spilling out of him all at once.

“(Y/N)! Oh honey-bunny I am so fucking sorry I didn’t mean for you to fall the way you did you were right I should have listened are you okay the doc told me you had to get stitches?” His eyes are wide with worry, but you have something of an amused if dazed smile on your lips as you comb your fingers through his hair.

“Hi Philly.” Your voice sounds rough, and Flip could cry, maybe he is crying, he doesn’t know, he’s just so happy to hear your voice. You nod, giving him a little sigh, “Yeah, just a couple right where I hit my head. Was I out for very long?”

“No, but then you were in so much pain they put you under while we worked.” The doc says, because how the hell would Flip know, he was having a nervous breakdown outside. Checking on the machines that you’re all hooked up to, he asks, “How do you feel now?”

“Like I was hit by a truck.” You sigh again, before turning to Flip and giving him a dreamy smile, “But you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Flip kisses you again, once twice three times right on the lips, before cupping your cheek and not looking away from you when he asks the doctor, “Does she have to stay overnight?”

The nurses come in then and begin to unhook the IV and pull all the cables away, bandaging you up nice and securely.

“No you’re free to go, there’s no blunt trauma or damage to the brain. All you have to do Mrs. Zimmerman, is rest up.” The doc pats your blanket-covered foot at the end of the bed, winking, “And take it easy in the bedroom next time.”

This has the both of you immediately embarrassed, feeling like scolded schoolchildren who got caught ditching class, instead of the grown adults you actually were. You give him a glance as if to say I can’t believe you told them how this happened, and he gives you back one as if to say I had to! I thought you died!

“Yes doctor, thank you doctor.” You cough awkwardly, covering your face and muttering to Flip once you’re sure everyone else is gone, “You think we’d get a free ice cream cone with how often we’re here, hm?”

“I’ll get you ice cream, do you want ice cream? We can stop by on the way home.” Flip kisses your hand, presses the tips of your fingers to his lips and smooches all over them, making you chuckle despite it all.

“Actually, that does sound pretty good.” You mull the thought over in your head, “Okay, just hand me my clothes and after I change we’ll go sign some paperwork and head home.”

It is then, that Flip realizes he forgot much more than his own shirt, when he had carried you up and away to the hospital. He looks around, wondering, hoping that the nurses had brought something for you instead of the little paper gown that you’re currently dressed in, but it seems that that hope was in vain.

“Oh…yeah…” He stalls, “Ketsl, about that…”

“You did not bring me to this hospital naked, did you??” For the first time in a long time, you give him an incredulous look, anger clouding over your face as you demand to know.

“Of course not!” Flip stammers, looking around for the proof that he, “I uh, wrapped you in a sheet.”

He holds the sheet up, still covered in the blood from your forehead,

“Philip Daniel Zimmerman!” You shout, covering your face and sinking back down into the bed, pulling the covers over your head as you realize in horror that he had somehow gotten you into the car naked, and carried through the lobby and the waiting room in nothing but a stained sheet, “God that’s so fucking embarrassing!”

“I love you so much, I love you more than anything in the entire world you are my one true love – ” Flip immediately drops to his knees, really lays it on thick as he winces, knowing that he really fucked this one up worse than all the other Valentine’s Days before it.

“Oh give me the fucking sheet.” You bemoan, snatching it from him and getting out of the hospital bed, taking stock of his own appearance.

He’s wearing his pants on backwards, and a shirt that you’ve literally never seen in your life. He’s got one sock on, and one is missing, no shoes in sight, and his face and hair are a travesty. The poor man looks awful, looks like he had spent the past hour bawling his eyes out, and with the redness in his eyes and around his nose, you’re sure that he has.

Despite it all, you can’t be mad at him. So, instead, you swallow your pride and wrap the sheet around your body like some long avant-garde evening gown, and sigh, “You’re so lucky I’m obsessed with you.”

And if anyone has anything to say about your combined appearances as you leave the hospital and head on your way to pick up ice cream from the drive-thru, neither of you notice, too glad to be alive and together to care.

L is for the way you look at me

O is for the only one I see

V is very, very extraordinary

E is even more than anyone that you adore can

February 14th, 1975. Flip Zimmerman is thirty-eight and he is sick and fucking tired of things getting in the way of this damn holiday. He is determined, absolutely fucking determined, to make sure you have the best day imaginable. He’s done everything right – and he means everything – to ensure victory in this long-sought-after, elusive battle.

Every Valentine’s Day disaster has been leading up to this, he thinks as he drives home from dropping the kids off with Uncle Jimmy. He will not be cooking, he will not be working, he has his truck tuned up and running smoothly, and he is on his way to you right now.

Fresh bagels, breakfast sandwiches, warm pastries and hot brewed coffee from that bakery down the street that you like are sitting in the passenger seat of the truck, and he’s going to surprise you with a perfect fucking day so help him.

When he comes back home, he arranges everything neatly on a tray and brings it up to you, smiling to himself that you haven’t woken up yet. He places the tray – decorated with a little rose in a vase and everything – on the dresser, and settles next to you, petting back your hair from your face.

“(Y/N),” He whispers, trying to bring you out of sleep, “Honey-bunny, wake up.”

“Mmmmorning.” You beam up at him, reaching your arms up for a hug, that he is more than happy to give.

“Hungry? I brought you breakfast.” He kisses you with a smile.

With that, you push yourself to sit up against the headboard and regard him lovingly as he leaves your side and brings the tray over. He settles it over your lap and gestures to the assortment of fresh and delicious looking breakfast choices for you to pick from, but you first lift the little rose up to your nose and give it a deep sniff, happily sighing.

“I thought something smelled good, have you been gone long?” You kiss his cheek and pat the spot next to you so he can lay in bed too, so he does, picking up a muffin and doing his best to not get crumbs all over the sheets.

“About an hour, I didn’t want to bother you on your special day.” Flip sidles up next to you and lights a cigarette, and you rest your head on his shoulder as you smile at him through the reflection of the mirror on your dresser.

“My special day huh?” You tease, knowing the track record for when Flip tries to plan something extravagant.

“Yeah, for real this time.” He’s so determined, so fucking determined, everything is going to go right if it’s the last fucking thing he does, but he doesn’t say all that.

You still hear it anyway.

“Do I get to know what we’re doing?” You prompt sweetly, almost convinced of the fact that it’s because he tries to keep things a surprise, that it all goes badly.

Flip must think so too, because he’s sighing and rolling his eyes, unhappy about spoiling the day but knowing it’s probably for the best.

“Yes, I got us a couple’s spa package. I know things have been difficult with the littles toddling around, and you do so much for them and for me, so today is all about pampering you.” He announces, and you let out a loving little squeak from the back of your throat as you aww at him, making him blush.

“That’s very very sweet, thank you honey.” You beam, excited about the prospect of a professional massage, especially because he was right; you loved your children with your entire heart but having two under two was a bit hectic at times.

“Don’t thank me yet – I don’t want to jinx anything.” Flip is quick to say, and you laugh because you know how he must be feeling right about now.

After breakfast and some lazy lovemaking in bed, the afternoon light shines brightly as you and Flip arrive at the spa.

It’s a real fancy place, the kind with a big water feature right on the wall that makes the entire lobby feel serene and luxurious. Flip is halfway expecting something to go wrong – he keeps bracing for it. But as the nice women at the front desk bring you into the couple’s massage room, everything seems to be going off without a hitch.

Hot stones are all the rage, and so for the next sixty minutes, you and Flip enjoy the peaceful quiet and mood music as the knots in your muscles vanish. Afterwards, they put some kind of mud mask on both of your faces, and add little slices of cucumber over your eyes. You both sit like that for a good while, as you’re each given a manicure and pedicure.

You get your favorite color of polish done, and Flip just asks for a clear coat, wanting his nails to look nice but not necessarily colorful. It’s fun, Flip decides, being pampered with you. Maybe this could become more of a regular thing, he sure as shit could use those hot stones now and again after a long fuckin’ week of stakeouts or pouring over paperwork.

By the time you emerge from the spa, it’s practically evening. You suggest going back home, but Flip has other plans – namely, to keep you out of the house for a little while longer. He brings you to a pizza spot that you remember fondly from your days of dating Flip back when he was working at the family mill he now owns, going out for a slice and a cola and kissing in one of the red booths in the back.

Everything is exactly the same, except everyone’s a little older, but the pizza and the company are still great. Flip can’t help but kiss you, even though you’re not in the red booth in the back, but no one seems to mind anymore. It’s been years and years of this, of Flip loving you, they’re all used to it.

Flip chucks a couple quarters into the jukebox and the two of you dance on the black and white checkerboard like you’re the only two people in the entire pizza joint, because when you’re together, it feels like you are. It feels like you’re the only two people in the entire world.

The clock strikes seven, and he knows the coast should be clear at the house by now, so he brings you home and tries not to act too suspicious. You call him out on it, but he refuses to say, manages to keep his big mouth shut the whole way home, until you’re opening the front lock and pushing the door open to reveal a romantic wonderland.

Ron and Jimmy had been working tirelessly the past two hours, blowing up heart shaped balloons, arranging big bouquets of your favorite flowers and roses of all different colors, and a thick trail of rose petals that led up the stairs to your bedroom.

Speechless, you clasp a hand over your mouth and give him a look, impressed and surprised, and Flip can only grin.

“Go up, there’s more.” He whispers, kissing you on the cheek and patting your ass playfully.

Following the trail of rose petals, you push open the bedroom door and your heart fills with so much love and appreciation for your husband, because on the bed are some carefully wrapped boxes with white satin ribbon bows just for you, along with a giant teddy bear, a bucket of ice and a bottle of expensive champagne, and your favorite kinds of chocolate.

“You are so good, you know that?” You whirl around and practically jump into Flip’s arms, hugging him and attacking his face with kisses, making him smug as shit, but rightfully so.

“Want to open them?” He offers, but you’re so overwhelmed by it all in the best way possible, you just keep hugging him.

“Oh Flip – I will, but first, please, please fuck me?” You bat your lashes up at him, suddenly desperate to feel his body against yours, desperate to feel him in and around you.

Flip hadn’t expected that right away, but that doesn’t deter him. He quickly scrambles to get everything off the bed and onto the floor or up on the dresser, and is back to you within a few moments, kissing you deeply, working to get your clothes off with a deep chuckle in the back of his throat.

“Yes, shit you’re so pretty, my pretty girl.” He scoops you up and drops you onto the bed, wrestles with you a little until you’re laughing and grinning at him, his mouth smacking smooches to your lips as he demands, “C’mere.”

“Please don’t let me fall off the side of the bed this time.” You grip his biceps and he flushes a deep embarrassed red, but brings your attention to the floor where the accident had happened all that time ago.

“One step ahead of you, ketsl.” He gestures to a series of plush pillows that he had lined up on either side of the floor by the nightstands so that if you were to fall – which he’s going to make sure you never ever do again – you’d land on something soft, “A perfectly padded landing platform.”

That is the final thing holding you back from pulling him down by his shoulders on top of you, and Flip happily goes, happily settles you underneath him, eagerly slides the head of his cock through your folds. Your pussy grows wet under his touch, and it’s not long before you’re whining for him to really give it to you, so he does – oh fuck, he does.

Lifting your hips with one of his strong hands, Flip lets your legs wrap around his waist as he thrusts shallowly in small motions, wanting to get you stretched and relaxed as he sinks his cock deeper into you, making you moan, your eyes rolling back into your head when he bottoms out in your hot cunt.

“Oh! Oh yes, right there, right – yes!” You gasp as he begins to fuck you in earnest, holding your legs up and bending your body in just the right way to give him deeper action, stronger penetration that has you gasping.

Your back arches and your toes curl just from the feeling of being so full, your head tossed to the side as your hands twist in the pillowcase underneath your head, reaching up to grip the headboard that begins to shake and smack against the wall as Flip moves his hips faster and faster.

“Look at me?” He doesn’t like that he can’t see your face though, with the way you’re tucked against your arm, so he reaches for it and grips your jaw, pulls you to look at him. Your eyes are already unfocused and glassy but you’ve got the brightest smile on your face, that drops into a beautiful perfect O as he pounds into your pussy, “Fuck, you’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen, you know that? I feel like I don’t tell you enough.”

“Tell me again.” You tease, biting your lip and shaking under him, opening your hips and letting him fuck over your gspot with wild abandon, voice wobbling from the effort, “I didn’t hear you.”

“You’re – so – yes! – fucking – beautiful – oh god,” Flip groans long and low as you clench around his cock, your pussy fluttering and pulsing, the tight we velvet heat sucking him in and never letting him go, making Flip’s ears ring with pleasure, “Do that thing again ketsl, do it.”

You do as he says, and your cunt clamps down hard on him, making fucking you even sweeter, the friction driving him insane, making him grind his cock as deep into you as it can go. You can feel it knocking against your cervix and you whine out in pleasure, tears from overstimulation pricking up at the corners of your eyes, clinging to your pretty lashes.

“Flip! Ohhhhh Flip, that’s so good,” You praise him, only spurring him on, making him sweat sweat sweat all over you, dripping sweat down onto your perfect fucking tits that he just cannot not kiss and lave his tongue over and suck on, “Your cock is so good honey, fuck me harder, please!”

“No, I’m gonna take my time with you, make you fall apart, make this pussy soaking wet by the time I’m done with you.” Shaking his head, Flip pulls one of your nipples into his mouth and makes you moan high and loud, and Flip doesn’t even stop when your body confuses him for the baby, and sweet milk floods his mouth.

“H-honey! Right there, right there just a little faster? Please just a little f-faster -- ah!” You’re crying now, your thighs shaking, feet kicking out your pleasure, one of your hands gripped tight in his hair and yanking hard, making him come a little into your cunt, making him never want to stop.

“I should tie you up, keep you right here under me where you belong,” Flip pulls off your nipple and grips your jaw, “Tell you how fucking pretty you look taking my big Jew dick – suck.”

Slipping a few fingers into your mouth to wet them and let them rub against your tongue, gagging you, making the sweetest choking noises spill from your throat as you try to moan and suck at the same time, Flip’s mind blanks out entirely with pleasure, a static sort of hum singing through his body as your pussy pins him and holds him.

“I-I-I’m --!” You wail, and that’s his cue to pull the fingers out of your mouth, drool stringing from your lip to his knuckles, and finds your clit, rubbing steady circles that have your body jackknifing up, tensing up and cry cry crying his name.

“That’s it ketsl, let it out, shh I know it’s good.” He massages your clit slowly, milking it as he fucks you through your orgasm, licks up the tears and sweat on your face, kisses you deeply, passionately.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop honey!” You beg, trembling against his lips, and Flip wouldn’t dare go against those wishes, not for anything.

You don’t know how many hours pass, before Flip comes in you for the final time. He crashes down onto the bed next to you, chests heaving, bodies sticky with sweat and come and tears of pleasure, of overstimulation, of love.

The night is still young, you still have to open your presents and drink your champagne and all, but for now, all he wants to do is gather your beautiful naked body into his arms and kiss you, so that’s exactly what he does.

“Fuck.” He grunts as his muscles which had been so loose from the spa day, are now burning with all the exertion. He kisses you and pinches your nose, asking with too much hope, “Good?”

“Really good.” You promise him, cupping his cheek with a pleasure-weak hand and kissing him again and again and again, until he’s smiling. You laugh and stretch a little, your entire body made of jell-o, and joke, “At this rate, we’ll be three for fuckin’ three years in a row.”

“Would that be so bad?” Flip thinks of the kids that should be fast asleep by now, and his chest grows warm.

You duck your head bashfully, feeling so loved and cared for and wanted by your husband. You always do, truly, but you can’t deny that it feels a little more special today.

“I gotta say, Flip,” You turn to face him and prop your head up on your bent elbow, “You really knocked it out of the park this time.”

If there were a Heaven, this would be it, Flip thinks as joy and elation course through his veins. He grins and punches the air with happiness, feeling like he suddenly has the energy for a victory lap around the property. You laugh at how display of theatrics, and he surges up then, wrestles with you playfully and nips at your jaw with his teeth, finally finally finally having succeeded in something he had tried for over a decade to do.

“Would you mind saying that again?” Flip echoes your earlier sentiment with cheeky sarcasm, “I didn’t hear you.”

And you can only laugh and tell him again and again, wanting him to know that you have had a wonderful, a perfect, a beautiful Valentine’s Day, not just this year, but every year that you’ve been together.

Love is all that I can give to you

Love is more than just a game for two

Two in love can make it, take my heart and please don't break it

Love was made for me and you

-------------------------

Tagging some pals! Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed :) @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @rennasiance-mama @steeevienicks @mousemakingjam @the-unmanaged-mischief @materialisthicc @drake-bells-waxed-penis @dutchiepie @slut-for-harri @littleevilme13 @erys-targaryen @leillaa @hswritingrecs @miabelay11 @han68000

#flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x reader #flip zimmerman/reader #flip zimmerman x you #flip zimmerman/you #blackkklansman #adam driver fanfic #adcu #my writing #flip zimmerman fluff #flip zimmerman smut

248 notes · View notes

xplrvibes · 3 years ago

Note

i don’t think you’ve ever spoken abt this before (and if you have i’m sorry, I’m kinda new around here) but what are your thoughts abt stas/Colby/core4 and the whole situation? i’ve seen you’re not shea’s biggest fan and you’ve spoken about that before but not about core4 as much. is there a reason why? thank you anyways!

Welcome, anon!

I may have spoken about the Core 4 here and there, but it's probably been a while. I tend to just...kind of hand wave past things that don't interest me and that collective doesn't really interest me.

Believe it or not, I don't mean that in a bad way. I love snc, I'm happy they're happy, and as I mentioned before, I am the Switzerland (aka neutral territoy) of the girls...I just don't really have a need to get excited over a group of friends that post innocuous friend content, like making puzzles and getting fall down drunk at festivals. I mean, cool for them, happy they're thriving or whatever, but I'm not super invested.

I also don't really have an opinion on snc including them in their videos, mostly because they aren't in every one. I like that snc switches it up, so no one pairing of theirs gets stale (the way Jake and Corey did after a while). While there are a few people snc work with and collab with, or have collabed with in the past, that i actively dont fuck with (as the kids say), the girls aren't on that list. I don't mind them when they are there, I don't mind them when they aren't. Neutral territory.

Now, I assume when you say "the whole situation," you mean Colby and his inability to not vaguely start some kind of absurd shipping shit storm at any given opportunity? Because personally, I'm sick of that whole damn thing, lol.

I want to preface this by stating: I don't think there's anything going on with him and Stas, but if there was- I'm not going to lose sleep over it. Man could be romancing a tree, for all I care, as long as he's happy.

That being said- you brought up Shea for a reason, and its a valid one. This situation is feeling a little...familiar, shall we say? There's a lot of vaguery and egging on of the shipping and all of that going on, and thats gets me annoyed after a while.

That's not really the reason I disliked Shea, so much as the fact that she was manipulating young girls in her group chats and telling them private things she shouldnt have been telling them, and openly hating on girls Colby was associating with and then falsely claiming feminism when she got called out. The weird shit she used to do on social media was just the icing on a cake already full of piss and vinegar, really.

At some point, the both of them (more Stas than Colby from what I've seen, although he certainly threw a lit fucking match into a sewer with that whole "malishka" thing) need to realize that they're causing a lot more of the bad kind of drama than the fun and harmless kind, and knock it the fuck off. Stas...I don't know what her motivations are here, and I don't particularly care, tbh. It's getting tiresome.

As for Colby...good god, that man knows how to flip flop a crowd, eh? He started the day with everyone feeling bad for him because of how down he's been, and ended it with half of the fandom wanting to kill him for once again starting a grease fire on the kitchen stove and then running out of the house and going across the street to the park to peacefully do a sudoku puzzle while the community burns down around him.

Man should give social media classes, lmao.

Anyway, to summarize: my opinion on the Core 4 and the horribly written Core 4 soap opera going on right now can be summarized with one word- meh. 1.6/5 stars.

#asks

3 notes · View notes

dragongirltitties · 3 years ago

Note

Hooray for your kitty health! I also have a very old cat and he lit himself on fire recently. According to the one witness to this he didn’t even notice, and was more upset about being removed from the stove since he wanted the frying pan egg grease.

oh my god if one of my cats caught on fire i would probably pass put from stress and anxiety

4 notes · View notes

terrence-silver · 4 years ago

Note

You caught me doing something dangerous and flipped out. For Terry, please?

---

He hated being hyperaware sometimes.

To notice everything, in such precise details.

People’s moods, their weaknesses, their strengths, their likes, dislikes, preferences, fears, desires - things he can exploit, things he can use for later, when the opportunity arises for a clear and lethal strike, and it always eventually did - it was both a blessing and a curse, being that hideously observant, and to Terry Silver, when the inverse happened, a point of embarrassment almost. A point of personal weakness he didn’t ever bring up and which he quite honestly didn’t fancy thinking on even when he had to, was that the concept of loss haunted him, amplified by the tenfold the minute your unfortunate self waddled into his life. And yes, as usually, he noticed things about you too. You were no exception to the rule. Quite the opposite, in fact. If he noticed anything about anyone, he noticed things about you. He noticed how you’ve next to no practical self-defense skills, at least not to a level he’d prefer, although he confessed he was something of a perfectionist in that regard. He noticed how you’re very jovial and almost annoyingly nonchalant about certain things that could be dangerous for you. Potentially speaking. How you trusted overly easily, for his tastes. How you let people in who could lie to you. Perhaps, take advantage of you. Hurt you. Or maybe he was just projecting.

But, he was like this ever since his parents passed.

And it’s a habit he tried to practically beat out of himself.

This repulsive oversensitivity and almost fucked up brand of insight.

Terry hardly considered himself a - pssh, what? An empath?

That was laughable, but he couldn’t help but be irked.

Whenever you did literally anything at all.

That didn’t include being in bed.

With him - whenever.

Because you could, well, die - like they did.

-”Why are you at the stove!? Don’t you know I pay people for that, huh?”-

He snapped at you with more blunt force then he intended - showing a bit too much of his colors for his own liking when he found you in the kitchen (one of several) cooking up a breakfast at six in the morning after sleeping over. First of all, that wasn’t your job and you were supposed to be with him right now. Second of all, he truly was paying a staff for that sort of thing and handsomely at that and while he was generous and understanding towards his men, he tolerated no slacking to this degree. Being a chef wasn’t the same as being Snake or Dennis, for crying out loud. Third of all, didn’t you know, when lit without care or special percussion, gas could violently flare up when in contact with air and explode? Didn’t you know that? He’s seen it being done before. Countless times. Napalm wasn’t a joke. He’s seen people he fought, bled and toiled with blown up to smithereens in front of his very eyes and burning down to a crisp and you were here, what, cooking? Cooking!? Reminder to self to get rid of all stoves around the mansion as he grabbed your hand managing the searing, greased-up pan, coming up behind you and turning off the fire. This is why restaurants existed and he could afford any and every.

He could try and brush this off as a joke - him playfully overreacting.

And he did, forcing a wide smile when he noticed your glare.

Leaning down to pinch your cheeks rather casually.

Phone rang, and the secretary handed him a call.

New York, concerning a certain business merger or other.

Nodding towards the maids and instructing them to take over.

Them gently pushing you out of the way, handling your little mess.

The smart choice for you now, was to go back to bed.

Wait for him there - where you were the safest.

#terry silver #karate kid 3 #cobra kai #request #terry being a hypersensitive yandere?#ptsd?#it's all there and it'll all make you cry

21 notes · View notes

mugiwara-rosewolf · 4 years ago

Note

what do you think an average day in the strawhat kitchen would be like?

Yay!! My first ask! Thank you so much, Anon! I decided to write about the morning part of the day, if that’s okay. I’m setting this scenario after Water 7 and before Thriller Bark because I forgot about Brook & Jinbe. I hope you enjoy!

Italics = dialogue (including rudimentary French)

Bold Italics = Japanese (spelled out, idk kanji)

Gif by 1997onepiece

An Average Day

The day begins early. There’s a thread of light leaking under the door even before dawn. Peeking in, a familiar lanky-noodle of a man can be seen in rumpled clothes, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. The soft clatter of dishes can be heard as his hands shuffle about on autopilot. One fist lifting a pan from a cabinet. Another fidgeting with the silk knot of his tie. A wisp of smoke trails from the corner of his lip and out the porthole window.

Every color of dawn passes through the windows. Dusky grey as the seas and shadows of night give way to light. He readjusts the buttons on his shirt that he missed. Faded indigo grows bright as flares of sunlight scatter across the wide open sky. He settles the loop of his tie under his collared shirt. The knot sits right beneath his throat. By then, the world out the window is nothing but blue.

Freshly pressed and clean as a chef can be, ‘Black Leg’ Sanji sets to work. The sizzling of ingredients over an open flame is enough to draw a few groaning bed-heads and rumbling stomachs into the room. Most are aware enough to mumble a greeting, which the chef appreciates. A small smile tugs at the edge of his cigarette as he registers each voice.

“Good morning, Chef-san,” a sweet voice croons into the room.

The click of recognition in Sanji’s brain is enough to send his heart a-flutter. “Robin-chwan!” Steam erupts from his ears like grease in a hot pan. “What a wonder it is to see you this lovely morning!” he crows. Spinning around on a perfectly-polished heel, he serves his beloved crewmate on the pristine porcelain plate she so admired back in Water 7. “A breakfast sandwich for our lovely nightingale. Bon appetit, mon amie.”

Robin hides a darling chuckle behind a delicate hand. Sanji can feel his knees wanting to crumble under the rush of hearing her laughter. Sparkling joy rushes down his spine. But he quickly shakes himself. There are more meals to be made, after all. And many more crewmates to feed.

Just as the willowy blonde cook turns back to the stove, he hears the crisp clop-clop of hooves on the hardwood floor. “Bon-bonjou--” A bright, squeaky little yawn follows the groaning of the kitchen door. “Bon morning, Sanji~”

The older cook chuckles to himself. “Très bonjour, Chopper,” He says, passing him a little wrapped package from the pantry. “This chocolate has some nuts in it, that okay?” The little reindeer gives a sleepy nod before wandering to sit next to the elegant Robin. Sanji smiles a little, gnawing on his cigarette.

All-too-soon, that chain-smoking cook hears the all-too familiar stomps of boots. The tinkling of scabbards like wind chimes rambles closer and closer until a bulky black shadow stands in the doorway. Sanji grits his teeth, nearly sawing his smoke in half. “Marimo.”

“Curly brow.”

“Go sit down.” The chef ground out. “Your food’s almost ready.”

“I think I’ll just stand here, actually.”

Sanji whirls around towards the swordsman. “You trying to piss me off, moss-hea—“

“Morning, Sanji-kun!”

Suddenly it was as if the clouds parted and the heavens opened up before him. But even the clouds of Skypiea could have hosted such a gorgeous angel. Sanji’s spinning feet nearly collapse underneath him. He pushes himself off the counter, eager to greet the darling of the Strawhat crew.

“Ah, Nami-swan!” He smiles, his heart singing at the sight of her. “What a blinding vision you are, a gift from the sea goddess herself!” He takes her hand in his, as if inviting her to dance. Her fiery sunset hair flares in the early morning light. Her warmth amber eyes dance with flattered mirth. The softness of her hand against his calloused palm has Sanji’s pulse fluttering in his ears. He leads her gracefully to the table, where she’s seated with fresh squeezed orange juice and a bowl of equally-Colorful fruit salad. “Profiter, belle mademoiselle.”

“Merci beaucoup, Sanji-kun!”

If it weren’t for the brooding Marimo glaring a variety of blades into his back, Sanji may have just fainted on the spot. However, determined to maintain his composure, he simply lifted a bento from the table and showed it to the man over his shoulder. “I told you to sit down, Moss-head. You forget where your spot was?”

Zoro grunted. Marching up to the table he swiped the bento from Sanji’s grip and dropped himself down on the dining room bench. The chef huffed. Ungrateful brute. And a messy one at that. Within a moment of sitting down, he has rice grains stuck to his cheeks and chin. Sanji rolled his eyes and returned to work. At least Zoro was enjoying the meal. That was all a good cook could ask for.

“urgh-guh-morning...” the rambling natter of a long-nosed sniper sounds almost gravely at such an early hour. Sanji can hear the soft scritch-scratch of the young man ruffling his mop of unruly curls.

“Mornin’ Long-nose,” he greets the younger man. He thinks he might hear a grumble of protest from the rumpled boy. Sanji chuffs to himself. Wordlessly, he passes Ussop a seafood omelette and a bottle of tabasco on his shuffle to the table. After a moment of hushed tapping, ceramic and silverware and murmurs of morning voices—Sanji blinks. He turns to the sniper once more. “Where’s Franky?”

“Bulled in all-Nighteye in da-shop again,” Ussop slurs. “He’s passed out. Da-sided to let’em sleep this time.”

The chef absorbs this information with a thoughtful nod. He knows there’s another bento box in the cabinet somewhere. He just needs to find one to fit Franky’s appetite. The shop is his anchoring place. Sanji will take the shipwright’s meal down there before washing up. Everybody gets messy in that place.

Speaking of appetite—“SANJI~!!”

Everybody looked up. The cook turned and braced for impact. Sure enough—THWAP! The rubbery captain smacked into him with all the force of a Marine cannonball. Sanji heaved, but managed to stand his ground. All the while, Luffy was chanting.

“Oi, Sanji! I smell food, you got food? I smell meat, do you have meat? I love meat, ‘specially meat on the bone. You got any of that, Sanji?!”

“You bet your ass I do,” Sanji retorted. Pulling open the SUPER deluxe oven Franky made last week, the chef reveals his culinary masterpiece. Three dinosaur-sized legs of meat, with a cleaned bone on one side, just like his captain liked it.

He’d had to let them marinade overnight just to make sure he didn’t make the rubber-twerp sick with undercooked meat. He wasn’t sure the impulsive freak could get sick. But he didn’t want to be the one to test that theory. Franky had to assure him many times over that the oven wouldn’t catch fire if left in attended. Just looking at the finished product, Sanji could feel his tired bones sag with relief.

Luffy had all three ‘meat sticks’ in hand in the blink of an eye. Sanji turned and growled at him. “Go sit and eat at the table, you rubber animal!”

“Course I will, Sanji. I’ll always eat what you cook!” Luffy replies with a beaming grin.

“That’s not what I—”

“Hey Ussop! I got more meat than you!”

“Of course you did, Luffy, you’re a freak of nature.”

“I think you mean force of nature—“ Nami-san commented dryly.

And so their chatter continued. Every voice overlapping and rising in a joyful noise unlike Sanji had ever heard before. Even when he sailed on the Orbit, or with the fighting cooks on the Baratie. The next time he blinked, that thrice-blasted swordsman was in front of him again. Empty bento in hand, mossy green hair mussed in all directions—the stoic fool eyed him with a level stare. Sanji was just about to bark an insult at him when...Zoro’s sash brushed past his arm. He walked just close enough so Sanji could hear:

“Itadaki—merci, Ero-cook. You did good.”

Where little embers of embarrassment were glowing on the swordsman’s ears, Sanji’s face caught fire. He stomped out his cigarette. Then quickly lit another. One deep breath. A plume of smoke follows his exhale like a sleeping dragon.

“De-rien—Dou itashimashite. Anytime, Baka.”

#straw hat pirates #one piece #rosewolf writes #mugiwara #one piece luffy #monkey d. luffy #op luffy #rosewolf #black leg sanji #rosewolf requests #rosewolf asks

23 notes · View notes

nimblermortal · 4 years ago

Text

@icryyoumercy, with thanks for deciphering that one passage of Beowulf for me, your ‘drabble’ turned into 4,981 words

@ everyone else, please correct me if I am wrong about things like which Chinese novel I’m talking about or the theology of Arabic linguistic evolution.

The urge was growing in Nicolò’s fingers on the plane to Chicago, but it wasn’t until he was looking through Nile’s mother’s kitchen cabinets that Nicolò recognized it for the bread craving it was. He always baked when they were in a new place - bread was how you knew someone lived somewhere - but he also baked for understanding his life and others’, and between that and… well, he couldn’t say he disliked the contents of the Freeman kitchen, he adored modern convenience and salt and fat and protein and immigrant cuisine, and would gladly wax rhapsodic about Ragu and instant ramen if given half a chance and his pick of languages to do it in - but the Freeman kitchen was very clearly that of a single mother who worked nights, and Nicolò needed food that took work. So as they were walking down the front steps of Nile’s house, Nicolò turned to Yusuf and said, “I’ll take watch if you’ll -“ “Bread? On it, love,” said Yusuf. Now that they weren’t performing, they were back to their own pidgin of Ligurian, Arabic, and Latin - as if the pidgin could form a wall between them and the absence of Liber. “You found us a place with a kitchen?” Yusuf only answered that one with a wounded look, as if he would bed Nicolò down for two weeks without a kitchen. But he didn’t peel off immediately to hunt down whatever cooking store he had searched up. Most of Yusuf’s cut from jobs went to kitchen goods; most of Nicolò’s went to art supplies. Treasures they brought back to the other as if they needed to prove their affection still, abandoned at each successive safehouse. The attraction of Goussainville was - had been - the cups with chips in them, the crack down Nicolò’s favorite mixing bowl. Things they had had long enough to damage. Things Nicolò did not want to go back to now. “It’s vacation,” said Yusuf. “Rest, relax.” “We just had a year of vacation,” Nicolò complained. “I want to bake bread.” “Very well,” said Yusuf, and then he did disappear into the crowd. Nicolò tried not to watch him go; it would have been suspicious, while Yusuf was disappearing.

He came back, as he always did on such ventures, while Nicolò was rearranging the contents of the kitchen they’d rented. (The spatulas had been across the kitchen from the stove, far enough that even Nicolò could not reach them one-handed. It was an abomination, and someone would spend decades in Purgatory for this.) “I brought you a gun,” he said, which was not how he announced it when he had obtained a real gun for Nicolò. Nicolò pursed his lips faintly in question, and Yusuf laughed, trying to balance all of the bags he’d brought back on the counter. “There,” he said when he was done, fishing around in one, and brought out a yellow thing like a construction toy. “It fires lasers.” “That is the shortest shotgun I have ever seen,” Nicolò said solemnly, and took it from him. There was a screen at the back that stayed obstinately blank as Nicolò swept the room with it, trigger finger resting alongside the body of the gun since he had no intention of shooting anyone just yet. There was also a tag, but reading that would have been cheating. With a frown, he pointed it at his foot and squeezed the trigger. The screen lit up at around ninety. When he fired aimlessly into the room, it dropped by twenty. He looked up. Yusuf was watching him with interest and smothered laughter. Nicolò shot him right between the eyes. “Ninety nine,” he declared on inspection. “Do you want to lay down and I’ll get you some tea for your fever? What is the function of this object?” “It tells you whether things are done cooking without having to pierce it with needles or fumble it out and juggle it while you knock on the crust or open the oven door and have your soufflé fall.” “Hm,” said Nicolò speculatively, and left it on the counter where he would remember to try it later and decide what he thought of it, or determine its range and accuracy. Nile would probably agree to standing by the stove and keeping a pot of water just barely boiling so he could calibrate the accuracy at varying distances, but she was busy doing something with her brother that involved one of those televisor screens and a lot of leaning and screaming at each other. “What else did you bring me?” “Just your usual,” Yusuf replied, pulling things out of bags and finding cupboard space for them. After this many years, he could put them where Nicolò would look for them in any kitchen. When Nicolò brought out a pan and started pouring milk into it, Yusuf frowned. “Are you not planning to sleep tonight?” he asked. Nicolò shrugged. It was dark outside already. “I’ll keep watch,” he said, and gestured to the far end of the counter, where neither of them had let any bags come close to the little pink walkie-talkie Nile had leant them when she realized burner phones were not going to cut it for their twenty-four-hour surveillance plan. “I’ll be cold without you,” Yusuf warned him. “You’ve been cold before,” said Nicolò. He stirred the milk. Heat it slow, for sweetness. He had all the time in the world. “Go to bed. It’s not necessary for both of us to be tired tomorrow.” Yusuf hummed thoughtfully and kicked at his own heel. He was thinking about luring Nicolò into bed, what tricks he might apply to convince Nicolò to sleep instead of starting bread to rise. Nicolò hooked a foot lovingly around his ankle and swept. Yusuf unthinkingly shifted his weight and lifted the foot out of the way. “I’m not upset. Just antsy. Let me make this place home,” Nicolò said. He didn’t sweep Yusuf unless both of them were feeling safe. It had become an unspoken rule of their relationship, a declaration of honesty that, honestly, reflected what they had seen from Andromache and Quynh. When they had been hoping for something half so honest for themselves. Yusuf registered his protest by making calming mint tea for the both of them while Nicolò emptied grains into containers, and leaving the tea where Nicolò would drink it. The tea had been a recent ritual, only a couple of hundred years old, something Yusuf clung to to attach him to a regional identity that had superseded what he had grown up in. Nicolò had quietly adopted it as a way of laying claim to his identity as Yusuf’s husband. He let Yusuf make it this time, and made a point of sipping it before Yusuf left the room. And then he was alone with the kitchen, to make this stopping-place his. He stretched, hands overhead and then locked behind to pull first up, then down. Then he got busy. The milk was soaking over oatmeal - it would probably be softer than he liked, since he’d been so eager to get started, to signal what he was doing. That was all right, it just gave the bread more grain anyway. The yeast didn’t really need proofing, but he set it to do so in the little oven-proof dish Yusuf had brought, because he liked proofing yeast. After this bread was done, he’d take a little malt from the still and start a yeast bath in that dish, and Liber would yell at him for interfering with the fermentation, and - no, Liber wouldn’t yell at him for anything at all, any time soon. He couldn’t say prayers for anyone else, or grant them redemption with a wave of his hand. Perhaps at one point he had been qualified to offer absolution, but there were things for which absolution was not satisfactory, for any party. God was compassionate, was merciful, and the confessional was about one’s own forgiveness, not His. So he took a deep breath and looked for the lard Yusuf had brought him. It was some local vegetable shortening that he had seen in Nile’s mother’s kitchen, that came out white as a meringue but tacky. Another joke or gift from Yusuf, who had listened to Nicolò’s steady muttered encomium on what he had found in that kitchen, the wonders of modern technology, pasta sauce that came in a jar and could be kept at room temperature indefinitely and pasta that set next to it on the shelf and pre-cooked sausages… but he was getting distracted. He poked the lard suspiciously, but it seemed to be all right, and the label promised him it was shortening. So he melted that over the stove, and at least it greased the measuring cup sufficiently that the honey didn’t stick. Water, beaten eggs, salt - salt was so incredibly available these days, it was as much a miracle as the aluminum foil that sat quietly in its rolled box. To think, high-purity aluminum used as a disposable wrapper! Nicolò remembered being awed by the stories of Napoleon permitting his valued guests to eat off aluminum dishes, while the lower benches had to satisfy themselves with golden tableware. Liber had complained for years after he heard that story, and refused to say whether it was because he’d never been offered so much as silverware. Much safer, sturdier, more familiar than any of these was the wooden spoon to mix it with. Classic things. Yusuf liked to bring him gadgets - he still needed to play with that laser gun - but Nicolò was… all right, stodgier. He liked things he could understand. He’d driven Andromache crazy by taking apart the first several guns she brought them, until she gave up and apprenticed him to a gunsmith and he learned to make gunpowder and firing mechanisms and bullets, and eventually decided he knew enough to understand how to fire one. And then had gone through the whole process again when people started making them with rifling, or repeaters. Bread was meditative, was all. It brought back memories. Nicolò had baked a lot of bread, and the smells, even with strange modern flours and ingredients, even the Saxon bread he was making, were familiar and evocative. The stuff in his bowl was a dense, oily liquid, technically homogeneous but the heavier honey wanting to precipitate out of it. He started combining bowls - milk and oats first, then the proofed yeast, and finally flours. That was where it started to get good, where it really started to feel like baking bread. There was a lot of mixing involved, a lot of gradually adding more flour, wheat and white together. That was another strange thing, the way dark flour was valued these days, when throughout his history the white had been prized and saved for lords, the value in the lightness of the crumb. That was home bread for Nicolò, the way flat breads were home for Yusuf. And yet when he came to a new place, he strayed over the border toward the Germanic peoples, the grains darker and more varied, and came up with… this. Strangely Anglo-Saxon bread. Well. It was a joy to knead. The kneading only took a few minutes - eight, or ten. Enough to feel it in the outsides of his arms and start wondering how long it would take, before the dough went stretchy and elastic and the bubbles started to form under the outer edge. That was impossible to explain, the texture of bread when it began to take in air and breath, when it became not just dough but something with skin, something alive. For all the life he had taken, he could give life to this. Yusuf had brought him a special bowl just for rising bread. It was another silly contraption, but a classic one this time; Yusuf had decided that Nicolò must always have a bowl for raising bread. Nicolò spread a bit of oil across the bowl and lowered his dough tenderly into it, the creased side up, because then he slipped his hand under the body of the dough and turned it over so that the oil formed a protective coat. And then he could put a towel over it, and let it rise, and grow. On lazy days, like this, he liked to take it with him where he went, like a baby that might wake if it sensed its parent had left. He hooked it under one arm and went to see what books Yusuf had brought him, and what he might have as a comfort read, a beach read. Yusuf usually got their comfort reads out of the classics section, because things comfortable and familiar to them were old and strange to these modern mayfly people. And unfortunately, in Chicago that meant English. He hated English, with no particular passion except that it was a lingua franca he did not know. Well, and the idioms. And the strange elision of the subjunctive. And of every other familiar signpost at which Nicolò might remember how to decline or conjugate a word. He wasn’t a natural polyglot like Yusuf or Andromache, and he objected to every new language that crossed their path, and why couldn’t things be like Arabic that at least tried to stay the same (in some regions, in some contexts*), or at least why couldn’t people have stuck with writing things down in Latin like they had when Nicolò was a boy and still young enough to catch on to languages decently? If everyone was supposed to be best at learning languages before they turned twenty, how much worse must he be after turning nine hundred and twenty? It wasn’t fair that languages kept changing. He hadn’t had to learn a new language for Liber. Liber had already spoken Latin, and had been huffy about it being the language of education, of books, right up until Yusuf drawled at him in hillbilly Latin he’d learned from Andromache, We can’t all be book learners, and that was that, Sebastien became Liber Discipuli, the educated one. The freedom frighter, and the drinker. How had Nicolò not seen how unhappy he was? But he wasn’t here to think about Liber, so he picked something older than Liber was. Dream of the Red Chamber. They’d been in China when it was written, and like the rest of the country they had played at adding chapters of their own**. Some of them had made it into the modern version, and he liked to play at guessing which bits were whose, now that he could no longer remember. It was a bit of fluff and nonsense, but it was something where he could find his friends in its pages. Yusuf and still-grieving Andromache, laughing at life and its meaning, before Liber had ever been a part of their company. Yusuf was curled up in the bed, wound tighter than he was when he had Nicolò to curl around. He only partially woke up when he felt Nicolò join him in bed, moaning protest slightly at the light and pressure before he felt the bowl against his side and curled around it, managing to look sarcastic even in his sleep. They had shared a bed like this many times before: Nicolò sitting up to read or keep watch, Yusuf curled toward his side, the bread in a bowl between them rising from their shared warmth. Yusuf curled a hand around a fistful of Nicolò’s shirt and seemed content with that; Nicolò luxuriated in clear, steady modern light, and held the book one-handed, the other absent-mindedly threading through Yusuf’s curls, and checking once a chapter to see if the bread had started to nudge the towel aside yet. When it did, he set the book aside and nudged Yusuf awake. “Gnnngghh,” said Yusuf. “I’m going to depress the bread,” Nicolò said. Yusuf made another outraged, sleepy noise, and Nicolò waited for him, one hand on the back of his neck. Yusuf liked to watch Nicolò press rising bread dough down, had liked it since he had watched Nicolò in a heated debate with a monk a few decades ago, arguing about whether the way one treated yeast was any fair reflection of the way one treated mankind. It had been a silly argument, but Nicolò liked silly arguments sometimes, small things to get fully emotionally invested in; and this monk was willing to argue it with him in Latin, in which he could express himself properly. Liber had bet Nicolò that he knew more about bread than the monk, and then had the gall to roll his eyes when they got into an argument and forced him to adjudicate it. Yusuf struggled awake and his eyes started to uncross, to focus and take in the light, and Nicolò’s book, and the bread rising between them. “You’re going to press it down?” he asked in Arabic. Nicolò nodded, and Yusuf propped himself up on an elbow. Nicolò reached over and folded the cloth back as if it covered a baby or a sacrament on an altar, but when he spread his hand over the risen dough and began to press, he watched Yusuf’s eyes. As much as Yusuf liked to watch Nicolò be gentle with the bread, Nicolò liked to watch him watch, to see moment when his eyes rounded and every bit of tension went out of his body and he became limp with love. It was only a few seconds, and then Nicolò had to get up and deal with the bread, but he pressed a kiss to Yusuf’s temple first. “You torture me,” Yusuf grumbled, or Nicolò suspected this was what he said, blurred as it was with sleepiness. “If you would stop baking at night, I could write you the poem you deserve…” “Go back to sleep,” Nicolò told him, but Yusuf was already sinking down and pulling the covers over his head. Nicolò took the bread rising bowl (still a ridiculous idea), switched out the light, and went back into the kitchen. The first thing he did was check the walkie-talkie, as if it could have left some message. Nile would not thank him for waking her if he tried to send a message to her now, but if she were in real trouble she would not have stopped buzzing him for help. Or he liked to think so, and not about gas and grenades in the night and waking up helpless in a van… The bread needed tending. He tipped it out onto its floured surface and let it rest, puttering about the kitchen and cleaning implements while he waited. Baking bread did take quite a number of dishes, and he was done at least with the mixing bowl and the rising bowl now. He found the temperature gun while he was putzing, and shot the bread dough with it, but it didn’t register as any temperature higher than the rest of the room. He shrugged, set it down again, and set about the business of separating the bread into two loaves, folding them over until they were loaf shaped, brushing them with milk as if he could brush away any remaining unpleasant thoughts that way, and sprinkling them with flakes of barley. He had told Yusuf over and over that he could bake with whatever grains were convenient, that the oats that went into the bread were fine as a topping, and still every time Yusuf came back with barley flakes, would spend an extra hour combing the city for them as if they were the only grain that would do. As if the barley scattered over the top meant anything, except that he was fond of Nicolò, and even when he was sleeping Nicolò could feel his love just looking at those loaves. He twitched the towel over them to stop the smile growing at the corner of his mouth. It had some sort of novelty slogan on it, and he could tell by the pattern that it was probably cute, but he didn’t feel like reading the English just now. Yusuf could tell him what it said in the morning, or Andromache more likely - she would tease him when she found the bread. He took the walkie-talkie with him to the bedroom this time, just in case, and climbed back into bed with Yusuf to read. Yusuf felt the depression in the bed and rolled nearer, draped an arm over him and groaned something unintelligible in any language. Nicolò patted his shoulder and told him to go back to sleep, and turned back to puzzling over where Andromache’s hand came in to the story of Jia Baoyu, and if he would ever be able to figure this out without reading it in the original. When he got up the next time, he could tell from standing next to the oven that it was cheaper than the stone Yusuf had brought him to put in it. The heat was leaking out already. He frowned at it as if he could shame it into behaving, then swiped the gun off the counter and shot it twice. Well, it certainly seemed to be hot enough. This particular baking stone was not large enough for both loaves of bread, at least not after their second rise, so he picked one up by the parchment paper underneath it and laid it into the oven along with its ovenproof bowl, and sat down at the table this time. The baking process involved a great deal more interaction, and he had no desire to be up and down, disturbing Yusuf every time he got in or out of bed. Instead he took the gun Yusuf had obtained that morning - the real gun, that fired bullets, not temperature-sensing lasers - and disassembled it, making sure everything was clean and aligned and functioning the way he expected. He usually had to make minor adjustments to the guns they obtained on the fly. Every so often Yusuf would find him an honest-to-god crossbow and he would get to tune that up in proper Genoese style. One day this would happen while Nile was here, and he would get to give her his lecture on crossbow teams and maintenance, and Yusuf would watch the two of them and laugh and flutter his eyelashes, and Liber would not be there to roll his eyes and complain about Nicolò talking endlessly about crossbows again. Half way through the baking process, he took the water out; a little later he replaced it with some of that ridiculously luxurious aluminum foil, imagine, tearing aluminum sheerly for the vanity of getting a slightly prettier loaf. The wastefulness of it boggled him. He could bring himself to making a sheet of it to cover the bread, but he couldn’t bring himself to not reuse that sheet, not just for the bread, but for everything he cooked for the rest of the week, until the aluminum was wrinkled and torn beyond use. It had happened before. It would happen again. When the last timer ended, he reached for an oven mitt first, to pick the loaf up and knock it as he had for centuries. And then he remembered the gun and swore. He had the loaf in his hands already, but he managed to fumble it into one hand and reach sideways for the gun, the heat from the oven washing over him as he held the loaf at arm’s reach and shredded it with a laser machine gun fire. It seemed to be 198 F, which meant about as much to Nicolò as if it had been in Kelvin. When he knocked on it, it sounded good. Well, he could tell Yusuf he had used the gun for its intended purpose. He slipped the loaf onto the cooling rack, and reached for the second. Andromache was in the doorway to the kitchen. If he were less accustomed to her sudden appearances, he would have yelped. “You couldn’t be bothered to help when I was struggling?” he demanded instead. “You seemed to be managing,” she said. “You’re letting the oven cool.” He kicked the oven door closed. Oven like that, it could wait a few minutes before it was ready to take on another loaf. Andromache circled around the table in the kitchen, and Nicolò tried not to retreat or bristle. Tried and failed. He knew how menacing Andromache could be, and now when she was not even trying he was having trouble forgetting. Wound up about something, or more than one thing. He had thought the bread was helping. “You’re up early,” he said. “I smelled something good,” she said. “Can I…?” She gestured to the bread knife. “No,” Nicolò growled, and wrinkled his nose as he realized she had teased him out of being afraid of her. But she would have collapsed the bread if she had tried to cut it so soon, and it was still his to protect. “Have you slept yet?” she asked, more seriously. Nicolò shrugged and shook his head. “I can bake the second loaf of bread.” “Another hour won’t kill me,” said Nicolò. “Someone had to watch the…” He circled a hand and gestured at the little pink walkie-talkie. “You could have slept with it. Even Yusuf would have woken if it crackled,” she said. “You overestimate him,” he said. “You underestimate yourself,” she answered. “Why are you awake, Nicolò?” “I keep thinking about Liber,” he admitted, and there it was again, staring him in the face: That they hadn’t even bothered to use Liber’s name, that they hadn’t even noticed the misery in his nickname. “We can call him if you like,” said Andromache. Nicolò tried not to gawp at her. “That simple? One whimper and you’ve given in?” he asked. “I don’t have a lot of time left to hold grudges,” she said, and he’d been so caught up in not fretting about Nile by not-fretting about Liber that he’d forgotten they had Andromache to worry over now, that Andromache was someone they could worry over and not about. “He needs…” Nicolò began. Andromache held a hand up. “I know what your Catholicism is telling you, you’ve told me about your deity often enough,” she said. “I’m telling you, if you want to call him, we can.” I want to, Nicolò thought. He missed Liber, missed walking past him while he and Booker argued about whatever sport they were on now, missed making him French treats and being told his baking was not worthy of a dog, missed the sense of him holding down whatever corner of a room he was in, sturdy and new as a peg in a Shaker coffee table. “Not now,” he said instead, miserable over it. “He needs time. Maybe not a hundred years, but for now he is just wallowing. He needs time to forgive himself and build his life anew. He needs to think he has a hundred years to do so.” He walked past Andromache to open the oven door, but she blocked his way with a hand. “And I?” she asked, and there was an actual, honest-to-God tremble in her voice. “If I wanted to call him?” “I would be on the phone with Copley now, to get his number,” said Nicolò, and picked up the edges of the parchment paper. “I would find us travel tickets or stow us away in the holds of ships, and I would speak every word of English necessary to bring us to him, if that is what you needed.” He settled the bread in the oven to his satisfaction, and added the little dish of water to care for it. When he closed the oven door, Andromache was standing by the counter with her weight askew. “That is what I needed to hear,” she said, her voice husky. “Oh, Andromache,” said Nicolò, and gathered him to her, and felt her hand settle against his neck after an uncommon moment’s hesitation, right where he had held Yusuf’s earlier that night. “It’s all right to be scared.” He could hear what she didn’t say: that there were so many things that could happen, that she had never had to worry about before, that she had always assumed she would die in battle and that would be that, no fuss, no worry, no long-drawn-out years wondering what would happen if she drank too much or ate too little salad or if her brothers-in-arms fussed over her like an invalid, or how she could mark her last years as significant when her first thousands had already contained so much. Things Andromache would never be able to say aloud, and that Nicolò had already worried over. “Which part of Dream of the Red Chamber did you write?” he asked. Andromache laughed against him, shaking in his arms and he could feel it in her belly, the way she didn’t do things by halves even when they were little puffs of air. “You know, I don’t remember anymore,” she said. “Wasn’t some of it lost? Maybe none of it.” “Useless,” Nicolò declared her. “I should find a task for you.” He pulled back and reached across the counter without looking, fingers curling around the little pink rectangle in the corner against the wall. “Can you watch the bread for me?” he asked, pressing it into her hands. “I should get some sleep.” “Yeah,” said Andromache, holding the toy like it was Nile’s immortal life, which in some ways it was. “No problem, Nicolò. I have six thousand years of experience.” “Just don’t burn the buns,” said Nicolò, and went to bed.

#theory and chalk #the *ld G**rd #I still am not satisfied with the ending #but I think I plugged enough gaps where I'd just pulled things over from other things I wrote and never put anywhere #anyway this is the first time I've used a recipe as an outline so that was fun #if I can get that blasted last line fixed #and possibly a reference or two I'm not certain about #I'll put it on AO3 with the recipe #in the meantime: ask about anything you're not certain of!#there was a fair bit of Journeyman Knower of Things in this one

7 notes · View notes

dashielldeveron · 5 years ago

Text

Viper VI: Suppressio Veri

Summary: Reality continues to ruin your life. This jackassery will not stand.

Warnings: violence, swears, the law. Severe injury.

Ding.

You reached towards your holster and silenced your phone. “I’m here to see Judge Le,” you said, sliding the papers across the check-in counter. “She’s expecting me.”

The receptionist hardly glanced at you. “Have you visited her before?”

“Yes. She’s on the third floor. Room 310. I’m dropping off gifts from her co-workers,” you said, shifting your bag up your shoulder.

Ding.

“She should be awake by now. I doubt you’ll get much conversation out of her, though; she only just got out of her second surgery this morning.”

“I don’t mind,” you said, “and I won’t be long. I’ll just be glad to see her again.”

“Go on, then,” she said, “Elevator’s broken. Take the stairs.”

You nodded and strode in their direction—not directly, though, because Judge Le wasn’t your only target this time at the hospital. You were doing a run checking up on the doctors and admins who took care of members of the mob and kept it under wraps. A thank you, if you will. Judge Le was going to be the recipient of direct evidence you were going to deliver regarding an upcoming trial—and you’d had time between the Davey’s run and physically seeing Ms. Pham today, so you’d picked up more biscotti than usual for the doctors. Security and common courtesy, really.

Ding.

And Tom wouldn’t stop fucking texting you, yet he wasn’t quite saying anything. You unlocked your phone.

Tom: You’re late. I thought I told you I wanted you in my office at 9:00 sharp?

Tom: Where are you?

Tom: I want you now.

Stopping in your tracks, you (with a rather dry throat) twiddled your thumbs uselessly over the keys before typing out a response.

You: Chill. I’m at Central Hospital. What do you need?

You stowed your phone away, determined to make him wait, and you swung open the door to the stairs. The doctors’ break room was on the second floor, so you’d run by that first. You counted five stairs before checking your notifications.

Tom: You. In person.

You: What do you need me to check out?

Tom: Give me a second, and I’ll show you.

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Second floor door, here we are.

Ding.

Does he not have anything else to do? He actually had a meeting scheduled at 9:00 this morning, so that was why you weren’t there. Tom should be meeting with the D’Aleo underboss, but he apparently wasn’t, if he had the time to text you back. You opened his message, and your heel curled in, making you stumble.

Tom: Don’t be gentle with me.

[image attached]

Tom had sent you a picture of another polaroid, this one of you and Tom exiting the sewer, both grimy as all get out. However, he had taken a picture of it lying flat on the edge of his desk, and the bottom third of it showed his clenched left fist resting on his upper thigh, his pants so tight that you could make out the hem of his tucked-in shirt through them, and his belt pulled snugly around his hips with the end unlooped, probably intentionally loosely curled around half of his cock—the view you would have if you were resting your chin on his shoulder and looked down.

You leant against the wall outside the break room and held your phone to your chest. Fuck. Fffffuck. This manipulation, this—charming—of you. 1) He didn’t know you knew about it. 2) What exactly did he want? You didn’t have any ulterior motives.

3) You wanted it. Oh, God, did you want it. 4) But you wanted Tom to treat you like this out of genuine feelings, not to get something out of you. So, 5) you couldn’t exactly respond well, because you’d be doing exactly what he wanted you to, except 5a) you didn’t haven any information he wanted [5b) except where you lived, your social security, etc.].

6) You were a little insulted that he thought he could charm you through basic shit like hot dominance and a pic of his lap. 7) You hated that it was working.

So, 8) how do you handle this?

Mulling it over, you allowed yourself to leave the letters to the doctors on payroll and to arrange the biscotti (traditional, lemon wedding, and chocolate almond) and crumiri in the doctors’ lounge before you responded.

You: Am I supposed to be impressed? I can’t make that out for shit.

Tom: Come back to Osseous to get a better look.

You: I’m busy, Holland.

Tom: Oh, yeah? With what?

You snapped a picture of the biscotti, pausing to bite out of a crumiri, and held it up in front of the rest.

You: Want a bite?

You moved to stow away your phone, but he responded immediately.

Tom: More than one.

Time to stop. Time to fucking stop. Shoving the crumiri into your mouth, you left the doctors’ lounge, fuming. You had made it halfway back to the stairs before he sent you another text, and you scowled, stopping in front of an open hospital room and tapping your heel with aggression.

Tom: It’s time to stop fucking around and come home, V.

Your fingernails tapped against the screen as you tried to figure out what to say, and from the open hospital room, you heard a weak voice call your name—your real fucking name.

Hand on your knife, you treaded lightly into the hospital room, completely void of personal effects, where on the bed lay a body heavily shrunken by severe burns. Months ago, you would have winced and shied away, but now, you merely grew closer towards the red and white flesh, twisted, scarred, and barely healing—second and fucking third degree, oh, my God, primarily around the upper body, and disfiguring almost to the point of non-recognition the face of—oh, gross.

Your old boss, Polson, scowled at you from his hospital bed and pressed a button so that it tilted into a sitting position. Tendons around the bones in his hand quivered when he did, and he let out a deep breath, like the action had been too much for him. “If it isn’t the bitch who left my firm without even a two-week notice. What do you want?”

If that’s how it’s going to be. “What happened to you, Mr. Polson?”

“You weren’t hard to replace. There are thousands of desperate receptionists out in New York, but it pissed me off to go through the hiring process again,” he said, “Got someone who doesn’t complain, though.”

You crossed your arms. “That poor woman. Why are you in the hospital?”

“I bet you’re making your new boss’s life a living hell, right? Unless you’re working for yourself now, which would make sense why I haven’t heard a damn thing about you.”

Ding.

Polson glared at your hip, and you silenced your phone again. “My new boss can be demanding.”

“Is that him?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You bothered to sleep with him, right?”

“Mr. Polson,” you said, “You, of all people, should know that I will never compromise professionalism and justice for the sake of my own personal advancement or enjoyment, and I will never use anything other than my brain to move forward. With all due respect, sir—” Shit, you shouldn’t’ve called him that; old habits, you guessed. “—I’d like to move on to why you’re lying in a pathetic, empty hospital room, looking like you’ve been frying in bacon grease for the past four hours. Care to elaborate?”

Polson shifted in his bed and tugged his sheets farther up his chest. “Someone lit my house on fire. I was sleeping. Didn’t realise until it reached my bed.” He licked his lips and the burnt skin surrounding them.

Ding.

“How do you know it was arson? You could’ve left your stupid gas stove on—”

“Roscoe’s and Jennings’s apartments burnt down this past two weeks, too,” said Polson, “Or are you too big and important nowadays to remembers your co-workers?”

No, you remembered. Roscoe worked with child custody cases, and Jennings was Polson’s co. Jennings liked talking about superhero movies with you, and Roscoe was the first one to show you the town when you moved here. Roscoe was the one who had helped you move into your own apartment, along with another co-worker, Harriet, who lived below you. “Someone’s…targeting members of your staff? You don’t think they’re accidents?”

Ding.

“Firefighters say all the fires started at the front door,” said Polson, “and whenever I get my hands on whoever did this fucking shit—” He made a choking motion, his hand shaking with tension. “We’re all staying at a hotel until we can find new places, but you know how the market is.”

Ding.

Nodding, you moved to leave, but you, with doubt and pity, backtracked to give Polson a pack of leftover biscotti. He wouldn’t look at you.

Tom: You do as you’re told, understand?

Tom: If you don’t get your ass to Osseous within the next thirty minutes, you’re on sentry duty in Brooklyn for a month.

Tom: I don’t care about traffic. The deadline stands. Come here.

Tom: I get it. You’re ignoring me because of how much of a hardass I’m being, yeah? Well. Show me you can follow orders, and I’ll be a lot kinder.

You: Say please.

***

Tom wasn’t in his office, even though his schedule said he’d be there, so you took the elevator to the lower floors and checked them, culminating with your coming to a halt when you stepped into a conference room permeated with smoke and sweat. You wiped your nose with the back of your hand.

“Viper,” came Tom’s voice through the haze, “Good of you to finally show up.” He must be at the head of the conference table, judging from the direction of his voice; how many others were present? Motion, motion—from both sides, multiple pairs of hands, cigars, cufflinks—the suits. Funding. They weren’t supposed to be here until tonight (that meant there were six of them, because Taylor cancelled). You rubbed the fog off your watch—they were hours early, and you were late for Ms. Pham.

You got out your phone to text her that you’d run into a snag, but Tom’s voice came through the smoke, sharper this time. “Ah, ah, Viper, put that thing away. You don’t need it here.”

You glanced at Tom, his figure becoming clearer as he waved the fog away. “Try to stop me.”

The air thinned as the suits fell silent. “Is that a challenge?” Tom asked coldly, snuffing out his cigar in the ashtray. “You’ve always had a mouth on you—and I can think of a few ways to shut you up.”

Laughter from the suits. One of them (Cristo, from the files) grabbed your hand and jerked you towards him, one of your hips pressed against his shoulder. “A girl like you shouldn’t be so disobedient,” he said—and when he tried to nuzzle his nose against your hip, you flinched out of his grip and struck the back of his head.

“Don’t infantilise me,” you said, brows downturned and heat rushing to your face, “A girl is a child, punk. That’s not me. And I’m not here for you to touch.”

When another suit reached for your hand, Tom said, “Enough.” He was staring you down, his eyes not quite angry, but you couldn’t label what it was exactly. He beckoned you with two fingers, his golden watch slipping down his wrist and into his shirtsleeve.

Tom yanked you down to his level (his hand was warm from holding the cigar) and said into your ear, spit flicking onto you from the harsh consonants. “Listen. I can’t have these people all over you, and these morons are old-fashioned. If they see a woman dominate me, they’re not gonna back me anymore.”

“Don’t you trust me?” you said under your breath.

“You’re not the one I don’t trust,” said Tom, and he licked his lips, the tip of his tongue grazing the shell of your ear. “You know I’m on your side, right? You’ve got to do this for me.”

Hell to the fucking no. If Tom thinks you’re going to sacrifice your dignity and reputation that you’ve built over the past year, then he’s got to—

“Please.”

Oh. Oh, no. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. You held your breath for a moment, and then you said aloud, shrinking away from him, “Yes, sir.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Tom loudly, shoving your hand away, “If you think that was bad, just wait and see what I’m gonna do to you once I get you alone. Go wait in my office for me.”

“Yes, sir,” you said, nodding once, and you skirted out of the room, a final laugh from a suit erupting before you shut the door.

What now? You guess…you guessed you go wait in his office.

Once there and mindlessly assigning via email capos territory scouting overnight, you had time to think. That whole interaction was weird as hell. Who were these guys Tom was keen on keeping an image with? They weren’t anyone extraordinary. Just businessmen. Yeah, there were loads of people you had to work with in this business who didn’t treat people right, let alone women, whom they didn’t consider to be people—it was like they were straight out of Tolstoy’s The Kreutzer Sonata: misogynistic, violent men apt to jump to conclusions about deception and sex.

Was this a sex thing? Were they under the impression Tom was fucking you? (You shook yourself; the bluntness of that thought shocked you. Sleeping with. Under the impression Tom was sleeping with you.) You supposed that most of them would think that a don would only be keeping a woman around for sex, but as Viper, you were clearly Not the Mistress. So, why now?

Tom had better have a hell of an explanation.

And then seeing Polson again, all burnt and pathetic, made your stomach lurch. That man—you didn’t want to say that anyone deserved to burn, but Polson made you want to bend what you usually thought. The burns, it seemed, calmed him the fuck down and made him a lot nicer, but his nice was still not how you deserve to be spoken to. You didn’t like having a part of your old life resurface. Hearing your real name said aloud made your heart palpitate. Polson still didn’t respect you and called you a bitch first off, so why did you give him…? He didn’t deserve that. Polson’s a jerk. He shouldn’t…whatever.

You started typing a reply to Haz’s email. Told him that it’s taken care of. That the men killed off today would disappear legally. That you’ve got it under control.

Three fires connected to your former co-workers. Should you be concerned? You’d check the files on arsonists later, yeah, when all of this was over. See who’s out and about. You’ve already got one pattern, but maybe there’s another.

Hours ticked by. Fucking hours. At least there wouldn’t be much plant recording to listen to tonight. You advised a group of soldiers and their leading capo about their boundary crossing mission tonight (“Take the train; although the tickets mark your presence physically, fewer people are likely to be watching underground.”) and dug out the arsonist files. No one with a pattern had been released from prison in the past two years.

You jumped when your phone rang, but thank God; it was only Zendaya talking about a series of screeching noises coming from the sewers in the heights, and she just wanted to report it to you. She also made sure you logged Harrison’s latest injury that he hadn’t written on the last write-up (his ankles are going to be fucked up when he’s older). You thanked her.

When the clock hit 5:00, you stopped doing mob work and moved onto an Epiales article. You were ahead of your deadlines by three weeks, now, so you didn’t really concentrate too hard. You wrote half of another article and decided to check that fake-o’s twitter account. The past few days had been strangely apolitical.

Epiales (@Epiales): Pasărea în văzduh.

[image]

Epiales (@Epiales): L'Oiseau dans l'espace.

[image]

Epiales (@Epiales): Bird in Space.

[image]

Each image was a new angle of Bird in Space. You’d never heard of it. Apparently, it was a marble and bronze series of sculptures by Constatin Brâncuși, but only the bronze ones had been posted. But it was, like, parts of the bird instead of the whole thing, mostly looking like single feathers on stands. The captions had been the title in Romanian, French, and then English. The sculptures themselves were actually in the city, housed at the Met and MOMA.

What the fuck.

Epiales (@Epiales): A night in. The world out.

[image]

This picture was, strangely, a normal Instagram-type picture of someone’s (a liar’s) coffee table, with an open wine bottle, a glass, and—oh, how fucking clever—a copy of Catch Me If You Can propped up against four corks. Dumbass. You wrote a note to review the plot. Maybe this identity thief is also into forgery? Maybe that’s a stretch.

Four corks, one bottle. Why…why the fuck would that be featured? Are other bottles off-screen? Oh, there’s an update.

Epiales (@Epiales): Just heard from Central Hospital. James Polson has passed away. Tragic. Burns that severe can often turn deadly.

Your stomach plummeted.

That’s…that’s a little too personal for your tastes. A little too close. You locked your phone and tucked it between the cushion and the arm of the chair, and you brought your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them.

Your identity thief was the arsonist, wasn’t he?

Shit.

Fucking fuck, did that mean he knew your real name and who you were? He hadn’t known when he wrote that note for you and Tom to retrieve Isadora (you felt a pang in your chest at the thought of her), but, you guessed, you’re not perfect. You could have slipped somewhere, and he could have found you out. But when? You’d been scrupulous. If you fucked up somewhere, it had to be minor, something so small that you wouldn’t notice it. Who the fuck are you dealing with? God. Where’s your panic medicine? You felt a panic attack coming on.

It’s at the bottom of your bag, baby. Just dig through your shit—that’s right, under your laptop, your flash drive pocket, wallet—you��re doing so well, honey; that’s it—where’s the damn pill bo—

“Oh, thank fuck, Viper. You’re still here,” Tom said as the door slammed open into the wall, shaking the nearby frame, “I thought you might leave after I treated you like that.” C’mon, unscrew the cap slowly; nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong. Is there a liquid besides liquor in here?

“But I have to say, you did all right. They licked it up, so the rest of it went well.”

Guess you’ll have to dry swallow them. Fuck, you could never get used to the scratching of the pill capsules as you choked them down your throat.

Tom raised an eyebrow when you threw back the pills. “Need anything?”

You swallowed again, but your throat was too dry. Focus on your breathing, honey. You can’t hyperventilate now.

“The fuck’s wrong with—?”

You gasped and cleared your throat. “Fuck all the way off, Holland.”

Tom’s face snapped into a grimace with hard, cold eyes, and he reached behind himself to lock the door. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“You,” you said, tossing the bottle back into your bag, “You can’t fucking behave around me like you did down there. I don’t deserve that.”

“Then what do you deserve?” He crossed his arms and leant with most of his weight on the door.

“I don’t have to justify myself to you. I don’t have to explain anything,” you said, and you closed your laptop and slid it into its case, “I have the right to say no. I’m not your dog. But I’m still human, in case you haven’t fucking noticed.” You looped your portfolio closed and slid everything into your rucksack. “And I will not stand for the way you’ve been treating me.”

Tom scoffed. “I’ve been more than kind.”

“Not—not really.” You slung your rucksack over your shoulder. “You’re trying to manipulate me into something. The way you’ve been talking—all this, the inflections, the innuendo—I don’t want it if it’s not real.”

Tom moved away from the door as you approached it, his arms still crossed but his gaze on his shoes.

“You think I can’t spot a change in behaviour?” You think I don’t have a listening device in your cactus? “Think again, bucko. I’m not gonna tolerate maltreatment, jackassery, or anything I don’t deserve.” You gripped the doorknob and turned it, but you didn’t pull it forward. “I cordially invite you to braid your rectum, since you’ll need something vaguely aesthetically interesting to draw attention while you’ve got your head up your ass.”

You paused to swallow again, and Tom took the opportunity to ask quietly, “Are you gonna be in for work tomorrow?”

Rubbing your eye, you took a deep breath and a moment. “Yeah,” you said, “I’ll be in. Just don’t talk to me until after lunch.”

Tom nodded once, and you eased the door shut behind you.

***

You took a taxi home; you couldn’t bear the subway tonight. You just couldn’t. You leant your forehead against the cold glass and ignored the cabbie’s attempts at conversation, your eyes fluttering shut (the city lights still flashed through your eyelids).

At least you still had your job.

Well, it’s not like he could get rid of you at this point, anyway.

Whatever. It was all so fucking exhausting. If Tom were completely honest with you, that would take a load off of your shoulders. You don’t need near-gaslighting anywhere in your life right now; you needed someone in your corner. You supposed that was part of why you were exhausted: you didn’t have a local support system for your mental health. Sure, you had Dr. Prine on speed dial, but she was miles and miles away; Grace at the women’s centre needed more help than you did, and Ms. Pham didn’t seem to have feelings. Zendaya was cool, but you didn’t exactly know the nature of her relationship with Harrison and whether or not you could talk to her honestly without her relaying some of the information back to Haz or Tom.

Haz? Forget it.

Tom, though, he really screwed with your mind. You hated it. You could see the potential in him to be your main confidante, if only he would do the same with you (You were on a level of that already, but somehow, even though you had a lot of his dirt, it was like it wasn’t personal to him, like it held no weight. Dumbass). Tom must relax around Haz, right? They were friends before the mob, so there’s got to be some sense of genuine comradery about him, right?

He can’t be all bad. He’s got a dog, and pretty much everyone speaks to a dog in a high pitched voice.

You brought your knees to your chest, your heels on the edge of the torn leather, and you scrunched your eyes shut more tightly—the lights were getting brighter and harder to ignore; you dipped your head between your knees.

The cab driver gave a low whistle. “Holy motherfucking shit,” he said, and you dragged yourself up to look out—as he came to a stop.

No. No, it couldn’t—fucking fu—your apartment building was on fire. The flames blazed from a corner room on the third story and licking up towards yours—your own damn apartment. The worst of it was coming from the…the apartment right below yours. Harriet.

Paying the cabbie took way too fucking long, and you grabbed your bag and immediately dumped them on the sidewalk; where was Harriet? Moreover, where was your fucking cat?

You were turned away from the entrance. You manoeuvred your way through other tenets, calling for Trout, skinning your knees when your dropped to the pavement to scan the bushes for her, and by the time you found Harriet, your face was all red and blotchy, and the front of your shirt was soaked.

“Oh, my God. It’s good to see you safe,” said Harriet, gripping your shoulders and also crying, “I just got off the phone with my mom, and. And I don’t know what to do. The fire department said they’d be here soon, but it’s fucking five o’clock traffic, and—”

“Have you—” You hiccupped. “Have you seen a cat?”

Harriet shook her head. “Want me to help?”

Harriet looked so sincere and willing, with her wide eyes and strong voice, even with her hair already in its bonnet for the night. Harriet had always been kind when you’d worked with her; she’d always been—so why wasn’t she already in your corner? Why had you shuffled her off for the most part?

You looked her in the eyes and then back up at the burning building, your life flaking away in wallpaper ashes. Her life, too. “No,” you said, “You have enough on your mind right now. It looks like the fire started in your apartment, anyway, so there’s got to be a lot of damage you’re gonna have to deal with.”

Harriet nodded. “How’d you know it started in mine?”

“I—” You closed your mouth and frowned. “I didn’t. Did—did you leave the oven on, or?”

“I was downstairs in the laundry room facetiming Roscoe,” she said, “We started dating since you left, by the way. I was down there forever, but I can’t remember if I left anything on or any incense burning or anything.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, snapping your head in the direction of low movement, but it wasn’t Trout. “Have you heard about Polson yet?”

“Polson?” Harriet crossed her arms, her phone in her armpit. “No, why?”

“I’ll tell you later. You still have my number, right? I—you should find the landlord, talk to him about this. Ask him about renters’ insurance. I’ve got to—I’m gonna keep looking for my cat.”

“You do that,” she said, “I’ll check up on you in a few hours, all right?”

“Yeah,” you said, “Thank you.”

She walked off towards the admins, and you stood frozen for a minute, your eyes glazed over, until a spark flitted down to your arm. You flinched and swatted at it, your gaze falling to a smoking leaf at your feet.

You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?

Backtracking to your bag on the sidewalk, you found your found and found his contact with shaky thumbs. It rang once.

“Viper?” His background was silent.

“Tom?” You forced your jaw to stop quivering. He can’t hear your fear.

“It’s me,” he said, and his voice sounded more urgent. “What’s wrong? What do you need?”

Fuck it. “You. I need you,” you said, your eyes watering again, “Are you that far out in your commute? I need you to come to—to my apartment. It’s on fi—fire, Tom.”

You heard him slap the leather of his chauffer’s seat, a familiar gesture for him to pay attention. “Address, now.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you if you’re that far out—”

“Address.”

You gave it to him, and he cursed with his mouth away from the speaker before barking it to his driver. “I’ll be there as soon as I possibly can, okay? I want you to stay there. Can you do that for me, V?”

You nodded, remembered he couldn’t see you, and said, “Yes. I’ve, uh. Thank you. Thanks, Tom.”

“Stay there. I won’t be long.”

“Okay. I’ve got to keep looking for my cat, so, um, I’ll be close. See you in a bit.”

“See you.”

You hung up and wiped your eyes. What’s done is done.

You were searching the bushes on your hands and knees when his car pulled up and parked behind the firefighters. When he tapped your back, you jolted and gave a shout, but you recovered slightly and shifted back to sit on your knees.

“Hey,” said Tom, crouching next to you, his tie still tight around his neck.

“Hey,” you said, “Her name is Trout, if you don’t remember, and she’s beautiful and stubborn, and I love her, and I can’t find her.”

“Is she in the building?”

“They wouldn’t let me inside to look.”

“If we don’t find her, someone else will. Does she have a collar?”

“Why would a cat whose entire world is a two-room apartment have a collar? No, I mean,” you said, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand, “She doesn’t.”

“Hey, that snark,” said Tom, “That’s how I know you’re gonna be okay. You haven’t lost it. We’re gonna find her before we leave.”

He let you cry in peace while the two of you searched, sirens and the water hoses too loud for further conversation, anyway. He couldn’t even hear your sob of relief when you discovered Trout licking drops from a hose faucet on the opposite side of the building, and you scooped her up and kissed her little forehead.

Tom scratched her neck before directing you towards his car, jogging back to your bag himself. But you stood outside his car, staring at your reflection in the window. Part of the building groaned and collapsed behind you, thousands of sparks flying upwards.

Your mind blanked.

That was your whole fucking life.

Crumbling to the ground.

Holy shit.

Where do you go from here?

You supposed the answer literally was the closest hotel, which was that stupid Holiday Inn, but it probably didn’t allow pets, so you’d have to go farther, which means a higher fare for the taxi, but now you need to conserve as much money as possibly to find a new place, and since Polson couldn’t even find one, then you were probably sunk, which meant—

“Were you waiting for me to open the door for you, darlin’?” Tom jogged to his car and opened the door to the backseat. “Go ahead and get in. It’s gonna be okay, I swear.”

Staring at him for a beat, you stiffly climbed into the back and released Trout once Tom had thrown in your bag and slammed the door shut behind him. Trout was freaked out by the sudden movement of the car, but once it became constant (or as near constant as it could get in New York traffic), she began exploring the car, starting with burrowing under the driver’s seat.

You wanted to touch him. If there were ever a time for it, it was now, when you were weak and gross and now possibly destitute. He’s seen you cry, now, so it’s like he’s seen too much of you. No one ever sees you cry, and you just wanted for once to have physical comfort from someone? You’ve never had someone there for that sort of thing, and damn it, you wanted Tom to hold you.

His suit’s wet and dirty, and he’s stuffed his tie into a pocket. He tapped his fingers on the leather seat between you as he scrunched his face up, lost in thought. Tom glanced at you, and his face softened, his eyes flickering from your blotchy face to your trembling hands. “All right, you’ve made deductions. Tell me what you think.”

“I don’t—” Deep breath. “I’m unsure I can talk right now.” What to say except Hold my hand, bitch?

“V, I swear, when you wake up tomorrow, you’re gonna be all numb. You’re gonna try to distance yourself from reality. I know you will. So, please,” said Tom for the second time that day, “Tell me what’s going on in that whirling brain of yours.”

You ran your tongue over your lower lip. “Is there any water in here? I haven’t—thanks,” you said, accepting the water bottle when Tom pulled it out from under his seat, “I haven’t ingested anything since this morning. I’m running on empty.”

“Bet you are. Take your time,” he said, leaning on his elbow against the window, “There’s no rush. We’ve got a bit of a drive.”

Nodding, you watched Trout loaf on the seat between the two of you. She let out a low meow.

You placed a hand on her back and scratched her lightly. “I really was angry at you this afternoon. How you spoke to me. How you made me wait.”

You paused to take a sip from the bottle, and Tom simply watched you, his gaze slipping to your neck when you swallowed. “But other stuff happened today that’ve put me on edge. I’m, uh, I’m not doing too hot right now.” Really, now? “I went to the hospital earlier, and you were texting me all those—strange things, which were already unnerving me. But then I ran into my old boss. From the law firm. He said some pretty awful things to me. Reprehensible, really.”

“I’m gonna fucking murder him,” said Tom, shifting in his seat.

You reached out a hand to his shoulder and pushed him back down, letting your touch linger (although there was still ash on his jacket). “He’s already dead.”

His lips parted. “What?”

“Polson was in the hospital for burns. Someone had burnt his house down. Told me it happened to some of my old co-workers, too.”

Licking his lips, Tom said, “Then your apartment building was arson. They knew about you.”

“I don’t think so,” you said, working through it yourself, “One of my co-workers lived beneath me. She’d recommended the building to me in the first place when I moved here, and although there’s not an official report yet, I’m pretty sure it started in her place. I’m not certain, though; I’m judging by the fact that her apartment was completely doused in flames and that fire climbs. It hadn’t engulfed mine entirely yet.”

Tom folded his arms and unbuckled; he turned to face you and crossed his leg over the other at the ankle. “You said Polson was dead.”

Sighing, you picked up Trout and put her in your lap. She did not want to settle. “I was doing research while I waited in your office. I ended up on that fake Epiales’s twitter account, and he announced it. Whoever the fake Epiales is is probably behind the arson, too. Targeting Polson’s employees, for some reason. I don’t know; I haven’t thought about it too hard yet. It was too personal for me, uh, to handle.”

“How do you know that?” Tom said, leaning in, “How do you know they’re the same? How do you even know that Epiales is fake, anyway?”

“Grammar. Syntax. The fact that the real Epiales wrote that it wasn’t him on his website?”

“You said that last time. What’s the real reason?”

You closed your eyes. “Please, Tom. Please trust me on this. I just know, okay? I can’t elaborate.”

“Will you eventually?”

You opened them. His face seemed relaxed, but his knuckles were pinched white. “I can’t promise you that. Please, trust me on this one thing without explanation.”

Tom glared at you, the city night lights not even reflecting in his eyes, and he dropped his arms, moving to tap his fingers on his thigh. He edged a hint closer to the window. “I can do that,” he said, smiling too widely.

He’s lying.

He’s so lying.

He’s still going to be constantly vigilant, waiting for you to let something slip. You cannot afford to let your guard down around him, even now that you’re beyond vulnerable: no house, no possessions, and no composure. You’ve got to be even more careful, now.

“Oh, and Viper?” Tom didn’t even look away from the window. “If they’re targeting people associated with your old workplace, don’t you think you had better cut all ties with them? Erase evidence you were connected?” He put your phone on the seat between you.

“I guess so.”

Deleted pictures. Emails. Harriet’s cheerful picture smiled up at you from her contact. She’d offered to check on you tonight.

You blocked her number.

There, you thought, setting your phone aside, That’s the end of my old life. Completely gone. Trout squirmed out of your grip, and she stumbled over to his lap and headbutted his lower chest. Now my life is nothing but Tom fucking Holland.

And there’s nowhere else to run to, only him.

Out of all the thoughts churning inside, one question bubbling to the surface, and another, you bottled-up.

“Where are we going?”

Were you safe?

***

suppressio veri: suppression of the truth.

***

taglist: @hollandroos @starksparker @pparkerwrites @qxeen-of-hearts @stealth-spiderr @presidentbttrflyfreak @parsleysbaby @madmadmilk @paradoxparker @bi-writes @astronomyparkers @bornsickbutilove @infamous-webhead @laurfangirl424 @softspideys @gryfinpuffs @plethoraofpuppies @laucontrerasv @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven @spiderboytotherescue @cassiopeiaskies

#tom holland #tom holland/reader #tom holland fanfic #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fic #mob au #mob tom #Mob!Tom #mob!tom holland #viper au #dash it all

42 notes · View notes

sadoeuphemist · 5 years ago

Text

The end must have not been so bad, the people said. Otherwise why would she have been smiling? It was the first day of the New Year, and people stood huddled out in the snow, stomping their feet and blowing on their fingers, gathered around the frozen corpse. It was a little girl, just a child, and her feet were blue and bare and the blood had frozen in her cheeks, so that even in death, she was still rosy-faced and smiling. Some had seen her the day before, limping from door to door with her matches, but preparations for the New Year had been well underway, and there had been little attention to spare for a grimy ragamuffin. The poor girl, they murmured among themselves, and toed the burnt-out matches in the snow. At least the cold had numbed her senses. Perhaps she even died believing she was warm.

A mustached man sniffed and rubbed at his nose, and then tilted his head to the air. "Does anyone smell that?" he said. And indeed, there was the scent of something burning. They stepped, back, boots sloshing through icy water as the snow melted around them. The black burnt-out matches re-lit themselves, blazed red hot. There was something buried in the snow beneath the girl, gnarled hands emerging like roots. "My God!" a woman screamed. "There was nothing there! There can't have been anything there!" And yet bony arms clutched the frozen corpse, snow melted into a toothless grin. The crowd scattered backwards, leashed to the periphery of the horror. It was suddenly very hot, and very bright. The people looked up and saw the boughs of a great Christmas tree towering above them, its branches blazing with thousands and thousands of candles. The sky was black and stars fell from the sky, trailing lines of fire behind them.

"Now someone is dying," the little corpse said, her cheeks very pink and her smile frozen on her. "When a star falls, an angel tumbles down to Earth."

The light went out, momentarily, and the people were stumbling in the dark. Then there was a sound of a match being struck.

There was fire, God! There was so much fire. The people threw off their scarves, tore open their coats, sweat pouring down their faces. There was the hiss of burning fat, and a roast goose with knife and fork still embedded in its body danced in front of them, its skin blistered and sweating. The little corpse bit into it, and it writhed in pleasure as grease ran down her chin. People fell to their knees and begged. Some of them prayed. It did them no good. The little grinning corpse struck another match, r-r-ratch!

They were in a great and polished stove, its brass sides sloping, so that there was no escape from the flames. The people screamed as they slid down into the pit of Hell, fingers clawing at the unforgiving metal. Their bodies sizzled, their bones cracked from the heat. The little corpse dangled her feet down and warmed them by the fire as the people were rendered into ash, their screams echoing across the curves of the stove.

And then all the matches had been consumed, and there was just a little girl standing among the ashes, her yellow hair curled prettily around her neck. She carefully picked through the ashes and extracted two slippers, one after another, and slipped them on. They flopped oversized on her dainty feet, her soles now black with soot. The air had grown cold again, and the skies darkened, and it had begun to snow. She knelt, and began to gather the remains of the matches.

"I would have gone gloriously," she said, and began to fill her apron. "I would have gone with God, once upon a time."

#fiction #fairytales reversed #happy holidays :)

40 notes · View notes

rocket-roach · 6 years ago

Note

Bruce Wayne has to go undercover working at Bat Burger. He hates his life. He tells no one, but somehow, everyone finds out anyway.

allow me to share some of my experiences working in retail pharmacy through bruce suffering in fast food

word count: 2164

“I’llbe dark for the next few weeks. Do not try to contact or find me. I can’tstress this enough,” Bruce said as he spun in his chain to face his assembledkids. “Gotham is resting on all of your shoulders. I know you can handle it. So,take care of her, okay? I’ll be back whenever the mission is done.”

Dicknibbled on his lip as his eyes flashed to the batsuit encased in glass.

“Do youwant me to go out as Batman?” He asked as his brothers and sisters eyestraveled to the offending case.

“No,”Bruce stood. “That won’t be necessary. We’ve gotten them quiet, and they shouldstay that way for a while. But don’t start any big cases until I get back. Thisis just patrol.”

Jasonpulled a pack of blue Camels out which was quickly followed by his Zippolighter. He lit up, blowing a smoke ring towards the roof of the cave. “What’sthe mission?”

“Stopsmoking in the cave. It upsets the bats. Also, that’s classified.”

“Classifiedfrom family?” Tim asked as he headed towards the fire extinguisher.

“I gethow the Justice League feels now,” Steph added.

“We’llkeep Gotham safe,” Dick said as Tim sprayed Jason with the fire extinguisher.

Withthe arrival of Bruce’s third decade of his vigilante career, he was getting damngood at putting on wigs and applying fake beards. He pulled the carefullyrumpled and wrinkled big box store button up from his suitcase and lookedaround at the crappy bedroom he’d rented in the larger, shittier two bedroomdeep within Gotham. He’d found this place after scouring Craigslist. It was 750square feet, with a gunk covered stove, blackened oven, and dish filled sink.Additionally, the bathroom appeared to have been designed in the 1920’s andthen had never been cleaned. His roommate was one Isaiah Addams.

Arecent grad from Gotham University, Isaiah was a country boy trying to make itbig in the big city. He was working at Big Belly Burger as well as a dive bardown the street. Isaiah was simple, ineffective, and for the sake of this case,an ideal roommate. But Isaiah only knew Bruce as Paul Scott, a down on his luckrecent divorcee who was out a wife, a job, and a house.

“HeyPaul?” Isaiah asked as Bruce finished checking over the resume he printed.

“Yeah?”

“Areyou uh, hungry? My friend Deb recommended this ramen place down the road. Shesaid I needed to try real ramen. I guess Maruchan isn’t the gold standard.”

“Thankyou, but I think I’ll pass. I need to save money until I can find a job.”

“Yourloss, man. By the way, Bat Burger is hiring. They’ll take anyone with a pulse.Have a good night.”

Brucewaved as Isaiah grabbed his keys, and slammed the rickety front door shut.Bruce ran a hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh. The apartmentreeked like the backed-up sewer that ran beneath it, and the stench of sewerwater was helping Bruce get further into character.

Thenext day found Bruce sitting in the chaotic closet that was the manager’soffice. Zach was a burly man, nearly too large to fit in the room. With eachmovement, the black swivel chair groaned.

“Yourresume’s impressive,” Zach started. “But you don’t have any food serviceexperience.”

“I’m aquick learner. I have some retail, customer service experience. To be honest,working in food is something I’ve always wanted to try. I’m always on time.”

“Youlive close?”

“Justdown the block.”

Zachsighed as he placed the resume on the television tray that was apparentlyserving as a desk. “Well, jobs yours. You can start today. Janey can starttraining you. You just missed the lunch rush, but by dinner we’ll have youflipping burgers.”

Janeywas a single mom of three, with only a GED and a 1990 silver Toyota Camry toher name. Her teeth were yellow from the cigarettes she’d been smoking sincesixteen and her hair had been permed into oblivion. But she was patient, whichmade his training go exceptionally.

“Alright,so Paul. You’re gonna get complainers. Old people, mainly. They’ll throw a fitif you so much as look at the burger wrong. The easiest thing to do is justredo it. But sometimes, they’ll throw a fit for a voucher. Cashiers can’t give‘em vouchers, and they know that. They’re gonna scream for the manager andZach’s always here. Just get Zach, sweetie. It’s less of a headache.”

Paulnodded, filing all this information away. He looked around at the fewcustomers, each sitting in their own booth, chowing down on the grease filledburgers with relish. Janey carried on through the training, showing him how tooperate the registers, which codes to call when he needed change, or when therewas too much cash in register. Then she moved him back into the kitchen. Oldfridges and even older ovens lined the walls, covered with black grease. He wasafraid to look into the grease traps.

Janeypassed him off to Daniel, the cook for the midshift.

“Youever flip burgers before?”

“No,”he answered honestly.

“Youabout to learn.”

Eventually,Daniel banished Paul from the kitchen. He had burned just one too many burgers,and that was how he found himself standing back at the register next to Jackie.It was five o’clock.

Brucewatched as the parking lot began to fill up with the cars of the people justgetting off work from Gotham’s downtown. Janey took a steadying breath, and thesmell of her most recent cigarette filled Paul’s nostrils.

DickGrayson walked in, his eyes rimmed by dark circles.

“Lemmeget Bat-beef deluxe with cheese and no tomatoes, please, Janey.”

“Surething, hon. You want to Jokerize that?” Janey asked as she typed in the order.

“Pleaseand thank you,” Dick narrowed his eyes as he took in Paul. “Haven’t seen you inhere before.”

“He’s anew hire. Name’s Paul. Little shy but got a good head on his shoulders. Paul, Iwant you to meet Dick. He’s a cop.”

Dick’seyes were still narrowed.

“Paul,huh?”

“Uh,yes sir. Today’s my first day.”

“Anyoneever tell you, you kind of look like Bruce Wayne?”

Afterthat, and a few more days of training, Paul offered to take theovernight shift. As he wiped down the tables, counting the customers in therestaurant, the amount of food they’d ordered, he decided that there was no waythis franchise was making enough money to stay open twenty-four hours a day andpay workers and other bills. When he was back in his mold-ridden apartment, headded notes to the ever-growing file he kept stashed underneath his mattress.He dressed in the ill-fitting batsuit and began his trek towards his job.

Theyellow streetlamps were bright enough to see the sidewalk, but not brightenough to illuminate the cracks and uneven slabs. He had a few skinned knees toprove it. But tonight, had been fall free. He stretched his arms above hishead, his neck cracking loudly as Sal, a regular, stomped back up to theregister.

Heslammed a half-eaten Mister Freeze dog onto the counter.

“I onlygot half a dog!”

Brucewatched as the ketchup oozed. “I gave you the full dog you ordered, Sal.”

“Don’t‘Sal’ me, Paul. You only gave me halfa dog. I want my money back. And a voucher. You know what? Get me your manager.I want to talk to Zach.”

“Hewent home for the day.”

“Thencall him! I can wait.”

“It’stwo in the morning. Zach won’t be in till about eight. I can get you Jazz,she’s working now.”

“No. Iwant to speak with the store manager. I want you fired.”

Brucealso wanted to be fired.

“I’llbuy his dog,” a deep voice that Bruce knew very well, cut in. “Sal, do you wantanother Freeze dog?”

“No!”

Redhood turned to face Sal, his hands drifting towards his hip holsters.

“I’mgonna ask one more time.”

Brucequickly picked up on Janey’s tactic of going outside for a smoke. He didn’t smoke;maintaining his peak physical form and all that, but getting the fresh, sewagescented air of Gotham did help clear his head. Usually. When Jason wasn’tsmoking a cigarette three feet from him.

“Howlong?” Jay asked.

“Howlong what?”

“Don’tplay dumb, old man. I know who you are. Who you really are.”

“I’mPaul,” Bruce wanted to yell at him.

“Okay, Paul,” he said after blowing a smokeright. “Why are you here?”

“I needmoney,” Paul was starting to get a little pissed.

Jasonlaughed as he crushed the butt under his boot. “I need money, too. Yet, Ididn’t realize we were so destitute that you had to pick up a side gig at BigBelly.”

“I haveto go back to work,” Bruce’s face was pinched. If his damn kids didn’t stop,the whole thing would be blown. “Have a good day, sir.”

“’Sir’,” Jason started laughing. “You’re agoddamn hoot, Paul.”

Paulwas locked into his room, buried in his notes when he heard Isaiah shouting forhim. He ignored him, hoping that Isaiah would shut up and let him work inpeace. It usually worked in the past. Usually. But soon the sounds of a scufflereached his bedroom.

Aheadache bloomed behind his eyes as he heard Tim Drake shouting his way toPaul’s room.

“Listen,kid, I dunno ho yougot in here, but you have to leave!”

“Isaiah,right? I just really need to talk to Bru- Paul. He’s behind… on his loanpayments.”

“Youlook like you’re twelve!” Isaiah said.

“Internship,”Tim fired back before he jimmied open Paul’s lock.

Paulhad been desperately trying to shove all his papers under the mattress, butthis damn kid was too fast. He darted over, snatching up as many papers as hecould. Bruce lunged for him. Tim dodged.

“Goddamnit!What part of ‘Dark, do not contact me,’was unclear to you all?” Bruce nearly snarled.

“It wasfine until we realized you’re trying to dethrone the Falcones. They knowsomeone is working against them from the inside, Bruce,” Tim waved as hescanned Bruce’s notes. “You’re writing as Paul, not Bruce. There are key factsmissing from this case—”

Brucewalked over to Tim. He grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt, and bodily liftedhim into the air. It was only then that Tim saw the anger bubbling in Bruce’seyes. He’d thought his dad would have been happy to see him after so many weeksgone, but Bruce just tired, frustrated, and bordering on pissed.

“Gohome,” he said lowly. “Tell everybody else this area is off limits. If I see any of you, you’ll all begrounded for the rest of your lives. Clear?”

“Crystal,”Tim gulped, slowly curling into a small ball.

Paulwas coming up on two months on being undercover. After his conversation withTim, his children’s visits had cut down significantly. But tonight, as he threwthe heavy black trash bags into the dumpster behind the building, he noticedone small shadow that was out of place. He wiped his hands on his pants legs, looking up at his daughter.

“Cass.”

Theshadow disappeared for a moment, then appeared right in front of him. Her darkeyes were staring intensely at him; and with that Bruce realized she was aboutto ream him out. Her hands began flying, and it took every ounce of Bruce’sstrength not to immediately head home and start packing up his stuff.

“Iknow. I’m nearly done.”

“You’relying. To me,” she said.

“I’llkeep trying till you buy it,” He smiled sheepishly.

“Even Icould tell that you were,” Damian’s voice reached him from above.

Brucelooked up, mildly impressed with his youngest’s ability to sneak. He wasgetting better. Glacial blue eyes flickered to Cass, and she was grinningproudly.

“Oh,god. You two have been teaming up,” he groaned. “Fine, two more weeks. I’llhave it all wrapped up.”

It didn’ttake two weeks. It didn’t even take one. The Falcone’s goons blew up hisapartment as he was leaving for work that night. Isaiah, thankfully, had gone outto sing in the subway. Bruce sighed as the flaming remnants of his notesfloated to the ground. He went to work after giving a statement to the policeand ignoring the way Gordon kept staring at him.

The doorcreaked open.

Insidesat Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Orphan, Robin and Spoiler. Hog tied at theirfeet sat the Falcone family, gagged and growling.

“Paul,”Nightwing smiled. “Did you know you were working for the most notorious crimefamily in Gotham?”

54 notes · View notes