#if anyone has done garage sales or are familiar with them

[rosicheeks]

🤦🏽‍♀️

[missvelvetsstuff]

With Friends Like You, Who Needs Enemies?

Steve Rogers x Reader, Steve Rogers x Natasha, Reader x ????

Reader is a mutant with the ability to turn sound into light who was 'adopted' aka stolen as a child by Baron Von Strucker to use for experimentation. She was given a form of the Super soldier serum so in addition to her mutant abilities she also has super strength, enhanced senses and healing. When he starts experimenting on his volunteers, the Maximoff twins, she tries to convince them to escape with her but they tell the Baron that she's planning to escape so he doubles her cell security. Steve and reader met when the team recovered Loki's scepter from Strucker.

She falls in love with Steve and becomes good friends with Nat but they aren't the friends she thinks they are.

This story is canon adjacent except that Thanos never happened.

Chapter 1

After Y/N had slept for almost 24 hours and eaten enough to fill her up, Nat approached her in the kitchen.

"Tony is having a party tonite, to celebrate finding Loki's scepter. He gave me his credit card so do you want to go get a dress for tonite? And maybe some clothes so you aren't stuck in Avengers sweats all the time? We can have lunch and get our hair and nails done as well." She smirked "We can find a blue dress for you, it's Steve's favorite color."

Y/N felt her face flush "Why would I be worried about what Steve likes?"

Nat grinned "I'm a spy, I know how to read people and both of you are giving off some serious vibes. Trust me, he's into you too."

Y/N shrugged "I don't know what you're talking about but I do need some clothes and I've never had a real haircut. I just chop it off when it gets too long." She thought for a minute "Sure, sounds like fun."

They left the tower in one of Tony's cars that Nat borrowed. Driving around Manhattan Y/N felt overwhelmed but something was familiar as well.

"This is all so much. I haven't even left the facility where you found me in years."

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it pretty quickly" Nat told her as they pulled into a parking garage on 5th Ave. "Having access to Starks credit and cars definitely helps." She parked and they got out of the car and walked into Saks.

Nat headed straight for evening wear and started looking through the racks when a sales person approached them.

"Ms Romanoff, it's so good to have you here again. I see you've brought a friend" she looked Y/N up and down, sneering slightly at her attire. "I can see she needs our help. What are you looking for today?"

Nat glared at her "We're looking for someone who won't be a bitch because of how we look. Do you have anyone here like that?"

The sales girl, her tag said her name was Sophia, blanched "I'm so sorry, Ms Romanoff, I was just caught off guard. Of course I'm happy to help you in whatever way you need.

Are you looking for a cocktail dress?"

Nat smirked "Yes, Tony is having a party tonite and my friend needs an appropriate dress. Something blue."

Sophia stuttered "Tony Stark? How exciting. Why don't you and Miss...."

"Y/L/N, I'm Y/N Y/L/N"

"Of course. What size do you usually wear Miss Y/L/N?"

Y/N flushed "I don't know, I haven't gotten myself new clothes in ages"

Sophia pulled out a tape measure "Well lets see..." And quickly took her measurements. "A size 7 should fit nicely. I have some dresses that would be perfect for you. Please have a seat and I'll have them brought over.

Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, water, tea, soda, champagne?"

Nat nodded "Some champagne would be nice. And none of the cheap stuff."

They spent an hour looking at dresses until they narrowed it down to 3. All shades of blue. Y/N tried them all on and was overwhelmed when she saw herself in the mirror, she felt like a princess.

"I can't choose, they're all so pretty. What do you think, Nat?"

"I agree, it's too hard to choose so we'll get all three. Tony loves throwing parties so you can never be too prepared." Nat replied

Y/N shook her head "I couldn't, that's too much"

Nat laughed "too much should be Tony's middle name. Don't worry about it." She turned to Sophia "what about accessories?"

4 hours later they had all 3 dresses and accessories for each one, plus enough everyday and business style clothes to last a year. And shoes and lingerie. Nat gave Sophia a stern order to make sure it was all delivered to the tower before 4pm. Then they went for hair, makeup and mani-pedi's.

Y/N didn't know how to process everything that was happening. Less than 72 hours ago she was in her cell with no inkling that her life would change so drastically.

"Thank you so much, Nat. I just...."

Nat smirked "Don't worry about it. I have a feeling you're going to feel right at home before too long."

They went back to the tower after a late lunch and finished getting ready. At 9pm they took the elevator to the penthouse where the party was already going full swing.

Nat led her to the bar and poured a glass of champagne for both of them.

Y/N just looked around, watching people, unsure of how to interact.

Steve and Sam were playing pool when Sam noticed Steve was staring at something by the bar.

"You checking out Nat again? I thought that was over."

Steve shook his head "It never really was on, just occasional stress relief. Besides she has something going on with Bruce. Look next to her, in the blue dress. That's Y/N, we found her at the base where we found Loki's scepter. She's a mutant, turns sound into light. She was humming the other night and had this glow around her like a mist of colors. It was beautiful" he sighed.

Sam laughed "You sound smitten. Why don't you go talk to her?"

Steve blushed "I wouldn't know what to say."

"How about hey Y/N you look beautiful, wanna have my babies" Sam offered

Steve snorted "Give me a break.

It looks like Nat is busy with Bruce so I should go be a good host. Don't want to leave her alone with all these strangers. She's been a prisoner since she was a kid so might not be good socially."

Sam laughed as Steve walked away.

Y/N was looking out the window when Steve approached her. She turned and looked at him.

"It's a beautiful view"

Steve was staring at her and agreed "Yeah, it's gorgeous"

She saw he was looking at her and felt her face heat up. "So Nat said Tony throws parties like this all the time"

Steve nodded "This is actually pretty tame compared to some. Before he became Iron Man I think partying was his priority. It's still a favorite past time.

You must be overwhelmed with all this if Strucker kept you prisoner since you were 10. You'll get used to it. We are mostly a happy family." He smiled softly at her.

After the party died down the team sat around drinking and chatting. Most of them tried to pick up Thor's hammer and failed. Only Steve moved it at all but he still couldn't pick it up.

Then Ultron showed up and made a mess of everything. Y/N tried to use her powers to help fight him but was thrown against a wall and knocked out. After Ultron was gone, she came to and heard arguing. Steve helped her up and kept his hand on her back to help comfort her. Once the team decided on their course of action he took her to her room.

"I need you to stay here for now, ok? We'll be back as soon as we can" he told her gently.

Y/N shook her head "I can help. I could come with you and-"

"No" he told her firmly "We need to evaluate your abilities and work together before you get into any fights with us. I don't want you to get hurt so please be a good girl and wait here for me"

She felt a funny tingle when he called her a good girl but pushed it back "Ok. I'll wait here. Please come back safely."

"I promise, sweetheart" he kissed her softly on the lips and made sure she was safe in her room before he left.

While the team went to Africa to stop Ultron, Y/N was having dreams about Steve but with her lack of experience couldn't figure them out. The only sex she had was when Strucker forced himself on her and she thought she would never actually enjoy sex but her dreams said otherwise.

In the morning she saw what happened on the news and knew that it was Wanda messing with the Hulk. If she had been there she could have broken Wandas hex and prevented all that destruction and death.

She jumped when Jarvis spoke to her "Miss Y/N? You have a phone call from Captain Rogers."

"Umm ok how do I take the call?"

"I'll put him thru"

Steve's voice came thru the speakers in her room.

"Hey sweetheart, how are you? Did you get some sleep?"

"Hi Steve, I slept a little. I had strange dreams. My life has turned upside down.

Are you ok? I saw the news. Wanda was there wasn't she? If you had let me come I could have prevented-"

Steve cut her off "No. You don't even know if you could have helped Hulk. You aren't going on any missions any time soon.

I just wanted to let you know that we will be gone for awhile. After that mess we have to lay low. Just be a good girl and make sure you eat and sleep. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Y/N felt so helpless as she saw the teams adventures on the news. They went from Africa to Korea. She was frustrated and wanted to help but couldn't so waited for them, for Steve, to return.

When Tony and Bruce returned they barely noticed her and rushed into the lab to work on something.

Steve came to check on her and gave her a sweet kiss before she noticed the twins were with him.

Wanda looked at her "Hello Y/N. Nice to see you again"

Y/N was confused "Steve why are they here? They are nothing but trouble and can't be trusted."

Wanda cringed "I know we have done awful things to you in the past but we didn't realize how bad Strucker was, too caught up in our own rage and grief. I promise we won't hurt you. We want to help stop Ultron."

Y/N looked at Steve "If you are taking them then I should be able to go too. I can help."

Steve chuckled "I know you want to help honey but I don't think a light show will do any good."

She pouted "I can make lasers too. I hate staying here while you risk yourself. Please, Steve." She begged

Her begging did something to Steve but not something that would help in a fight. He was about to tell her no again when Clint walked by

"She's not wrong Cap we could use all the help we can get."

Steve gave in "Promise me you'll be careful. I'd hate to see you hurt."

Y/N didn't do too badly considering the circumstances. She even took out a few robots on her own, including the one that tried to get Pietro and a young boy he was protecting.

Sokovia was still destroyed but most of the people were saved. Sometimes you have to accept how things turn out.

~~~~~~~~~~

After a few days rest Y/N, Sam, Wanda and Pietro started training to become official Avengers.

Y/N and Steve started dating, taking things very slow since she was inexperienced and in no rush.

Nat was devastated that Bruce had disappeared and started spending a lot of time with Steve and Y/N. Every night he would walk Y/N to her room, kiss her good night and leave her on her own.

After a few weeks she noticed Steve and Nat seemed really close and she asked him about it.

Steve shook his head "You have nothing to worry about sweetheart. Nat and I are just friends. We've been thru some tough situations together but there's no romantic feelings. She's just lonely because she misses Bruce."

She nodded trusting him.

They went on like this for awhile until General Ross brought up the Sokovia Accords. She took Steve's side but he didn't want her involved in the fight so she made her way to the quinjet and waited for Steve and Bucky. She saw what Zemo did and the fight that came after but couldn't bring herself to hurt Tony so found herself waiting on the jet again.

Y/N went with them to Wakanda and then on the run with Steve and Sam. After months dating, Steve told her he loved her and then told her he had to leave for a couple of days to meet up with Nat for cash and intel. They met up every few weeks and he always came back in a lighter mood.

One time when he returned he asked Y/N for a favor

"I don't want to be separated but Shuri figured out how to remove Bucky's brainwashing and I want you to go help him. Just be a friend. He really likes you and I think it would be good for both of you. You're the only one I can ask, he has bad history with Sam and Nat. I promise I'll come visit when I can."

She looked at him sadly, not wanting to leave the man she had fallen in love with but wanting to make him happy and be his good girl so she went to Wakanda.

Y/N and Bucky became close friends. She didn't mind if he didn't want to talk and they would just be together. If he did want to talk she listened without judgement and she was there for his nightmares. She helped him tend his goats and thought she could have fallen for him if she hadn't met Steve first.

A couple of times a week Steve would call to check up on her but it was always brief because Nat always called him away after a few minutes. He kept promising he would come visit but something always came up.

One day, Shuri showed up at Bucky's hut where Bucky and Y/N were playing chess."I have news, Captain Rogers contacted me and told me to tell you, Thor and Hulk have returned. Asgard was destroyed and all of the Asgardians that survived are here, setting up a home in Norway. New Asgard.

That's not all, the Captain and Tony Stark have worked things out with Gen Ross and Sargeant Barnes is being pardoned. You can go home soon, back to the states but there will be a celebration in New Asgard in a month.

Y/N wondered why Steve didn't call her and went thru Shuri instead but she was trusting and believed he just had too much to do.

Y/N and Bucky spent the next month as they had spent time in the past, strengthening their friendship, enjoying nature and herding goats. They both expected Steve to show up at any time but he never did. He only called once and explained that he was very busy helping Thor and Valkyrie set the new town up. Y/N told him they could help but Steve insisted they stay in Wakanda.

Finally it was time to leave, both of them were excited at being reunited with Steve but also nervous at meeting a whole new group of people.

Steve came in the quinjet to pick them up and after a quick hug and kiss on the cheek he spent the rest of the flight talking to Bucky. Y/N realized they were best friends but she had hoped for a better reunion with her love. She sat alone trying to talk herself down from the anxiety that was building up.

When they arrived in New Asgard the whole team was there to greet them. Nat and Bruce were wrapped around each other while Wanda and Vision were holding hands. Steve was suddenly in a bad mood right after they landed and left saying he just needed to work it off. Nat disappeared shortly after.

Thor gave Y/N a fond greeting and introduced her to Val. They took her and Bucky to a dressmaker to create Asgardian style robes for the celebration the next night. Steve didn't come to see her at all so she figured he was still busy helping and she stayed up talking to Bucky until they were both exhausted and fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.

Chapter 2

[doginshoe]

What You’d Do To Me Tonight

summary: Lucy had been in a blooming high school romance, but now that the love has wilted between her and her husband, she searches for a solace. However, she finds it in an already broken man that manages to set her alight in more ways then one. When her secrets spill, she finds her world begins to crumble from beneath her feet as the two men in her life torture her already broken heart.

tw: Brief mention of abuse, mention of blood, aggressive language

tag list: @shadyhydrathesnekqueen @lovelyluce @trollka21 @sobatsu @millennial-star-gazer @celestialspiritqueen @loveandlucky @theanxiouscupcake @mautrino @sereniii @celestialtitania @otaku-daydreamer-4673 @theweiszguy @samanthaa-leanne @sevenlaila @albinoclifford @darkwingpegasus21 @i-live-off-pina-coladas

chapter 9 :)

Hearing the sound of wheels crunching against the road had never filled Lucy with so much fear and unease. It was the crunch as the taxi reversed, tyres smoothing over unsettled bitumen near the driveway before the car picked up speed and took off down the street. Each crackle had her feet tingling, the shivers climbing all the way up her back while she tried to swallow down the lump in her throat.

“Deep breaths.” Natsu squeezed her hand beside her. “I’m right here with you.”

The blonde didn’t tear her eyes from the house in front of her, taking in a deep steady breath to try and calm her nerves. “Okay.”

It didn’t help. Lucy felt cold, fingers numb in his grasp as he held onto her tightly. The world was dissipating from around her. The only focus being the building in front of her and the nerves that were sending a prickle from the bottom of her spine all the way to the base of her neck. She resisted the urge to shiver, to shake the feeling away. She knew that it wasn’t going anywhere.

Natsu stood firm, anchoring her in place. He felt like a heavy shadow more than anything else. A shadow that Lucy didn’t want. She had tried to tell him that she needed to do this on her own, but of course he hadn’t listened. Natsu had made a promise and he intended to keep it.

Even though it only increased the jitters that she was feeling.

He waited until she took the first step, not pushing her or pulling her back as he waited for the woman beside him to make her move. Silence passed, neither took a step forward. She tried to psych herself up as she kept her eyes locked on what was in front of her, but the clouds of doubt were already hanging over her mind. Lucy grit her teeth.

“Are you sure?” Her voice was meek, uncertain as she asked the question that was holding her back, seeking permission on whether she was allowed back into the place which she had called home.

“It’s your decision, Lucy, but you’re going to have to do it eventually. Your whole life was here and you can’t just leave it there.”

She pulled her lip between her teeth, sinking further into the large hoodie that she had changed into. It was a lot larger than the jacket he had given her that night, covered more and allowed herself to hide in its comfort. She made sure to push the hood up, concealing the bruises around her face and neck in its shadows.

Lucy sucked in a breath, feeling her heartbeat quickening inside her chest.

He was right. She couldn’t run away. Yet, it was all she wished she could do. The dark circles under her eyes were witness to that. A sleepless night alone in Natsu’s bed as she went over all her options. Lucy had wanted to scream. Though, only silent tears fell down her cheeks, wetting the pillow as she curled in on herself and wept. Her family photos, her car, cellphone, documents, laptop… Every single one of her possessions were there - stuck with him. The man she had married, who she thought she would be spending the rest of her life with.

This wasn’t how she wanted to go about things. It was all fucked up. Her plan to leave, every thought or lead she hung onto were tossed out the window. Lucy didn’t even take a step into independence. She was stuck in her corner. Scared, pathetic and ruined. This was going to make her lose everything. Her job, the house that she had and -

“Lucy.”

She blinked, eyes turning down as Natsu called her name. Her shoulders shook, taking in a deep breath before trying to pull herself together again. Lucy took a step forward onto uncertain ground, ankle throbbing with the weight of her step.

None of that mattered though. Not when Jackal was what she was facing. She had to know that this wasn’t going to be easy, that she would have to struggle and fall whilst picking up the pieces, but…

Her hand fell out of his when they came to the door, shaking Natsu off of her as she positioned herself in front of him. Her heart knocked against her ribs in time with her fist on the door. She didn’t even realise she was shaking, her arms coming to wrap around herself as she waited to be face to face with him. Again.

  Lucy wanted to tell herself that this was just like every other time, but the looming presence behind her was all she needed to remind herself that it wasn’t. She wasn’t crawling back to Jackal again. This time was different and that was a good thing. Change was what Lucy hoped she needed, but it didn’t help that she felt like she was going to be sick. Her stomach churning with every second that passed, feeling like an eternity as Lucy pushed her gaze to the floor trying to steel her resolve.

“Is he home?”

Her body stiffened at Natsu’s voice, heart almost leaping out of her throat before she took a deep breath. She turned her brown eyes to him, his face already fixed to her as she pulled her lower lip between her teeth. An answer was close to falling from her mouth, yet she hesitated.

Yes, of course he’s home. It’s a Saturday. We would watch shitty TV every Saturday.

That was a pastime that Lucy hadn’t done in years. The memory was vague and dated, barely scraping the surface of her mind when she was cuddled into his side as they laughed at the corny jokes with the stereotypical crowd applause in the background of reality shows. It hurt, a foreign pain that always lingered in her chest that restarted and Lucy had to swallow it down.

“I don’t know.”

The man that Jackal had become was a stranger to her. Only wearing the aged face of the person that she had once been so in love with when they were young. She couldn’t tell anyone how he spent his morning - probably with a hangover if she were to try guessing, but she couldn’t tell them how he would wake up and groan from the shining light or if he would take himself straight to the toilet where he would be sick from the lingering alcohol. Lucy couldn’t answer with a smile that he loved his eggs sunny side up or hard boiled or scrambled. He used to be so easy for her to read, but now she doubted that she ever really knew him at all.

Natsu sighed, his brows pinching inwards and Lucy fixed her eyes on the way his lips thinned as he pulled at the hair near the base of his neck. At least Natsu didn’t like eggs. That answer was simple, letting her brain become distracted from the feelings that were surfacing. They made her uncomfortable, the queasy feeling in her stomach increasing as they stood at her doorstep.

“What are we going to do then?” He asked.

She kicked her feet on the ground before huffing and let her eyes pull towards the side of the house. “Well-”

“Please tell me we’re going to have to break in.” His smile broke on his face before he finished, the first she had seen today and she couldn’t help the twitch of her own, rolling her eyes as she turned back to him.

“No.” Lucy started walking, investigating the bush around the corner of the house. Sticks poked into her side and leaves caught in her hair but soon she was picking up a small garden ornament in the shape of a grandfather clock. It was odd looking, but she had thought it was cute at a garage sale when she was twenty-one and it had found its use soon enough. The spare key was right where she had left it, underneath the weird character, and she made her way up to Natsu, jingling it around in her fingers. “You really think I would break into my own house?”

He shrugged, though the disappointed look was clear on his face. “Hey, I wouldn’t mind smashing a few windows. Let the guy have to pay some damage fees.” Natsu pinned her with a pointed stare before looking away. ”It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.”

Lucy chose to ignore him, shaking the keys off before leading to unlock the door. It wasn’t that he had said something wrong. The blonde knew that many people would agree with that statement and she did too… He did deserve to suffer because of what he did to her. Though, it wasn’t something that she wanted to speak out loud, voice feeling constricted in her throat as she heard the familiar click of the front door.

She sucked in a breath as it opened just a fraction. It was enough to make Lucy falter, her trembling hand stopping as she tried to take in more deep breaths. The nerves doubled and there was a weight hanging from her chest that settled in her stomach making her feel like turning away.

“Do you want me to -” Natsu started but Lucy shook her head, her voice coming out a bit firmer than she intended.

“No! No… It’s- I’m alright.”

Speaking it out loud helped. Natsu was here with her and they would be out of this place before she knew it. This was the last time she’d be opening up this door. The last time that she would come home to the house where she spent some of the worst years of her life. Opening up this door was like taking the first step on the road that she had only spoken the truth of in the last remaining hope of her mind. Granted, the path was broken and barely constructed for proper use, but it was the only way she would move forward.

She stepped through, leaving her key in the door as she was met with the same mess that she had left the house in. The blood on the kitchen floor was what immediately caught her attention. Dark dried splatters that looked like someone had attempted to clean before giving up with a red soaked paper towel tossed beside it. The glass was still shattered on the floor, half folded washing on the table and a pile of dishes that were left unrinsed in the sink - a kitchen knife left to the side.

Her chest tightened, but there was no sign of Jackal and her eyes immediately turned to Natsu as his footsteps settled beside her.

“Jesus Christ,” He spat, the anger spilling into his tone and she didn’t have to follow his gaze to know what he was staring at. “I swear if I ever…”

Her face felt hot, embarrassed as he brought a hand to his face to cover his mouth. He pulled his face away and settled instead to turn to face the doorway to the living room. At least that was still intact. Though, it still looked like a war zone with beer cans littering the coffee table alongside more dirty dishes.

“I’m sorry you have to see this.”

The words left her before she could stop herself. Her arms curled around herself, feeling insecure whilst her lower lip quivered. She hated that Natsu had to look at her, the bruises and cuts on her face, and she hated that he was seeing the reality that was her life. The shame gripped her, grabbing at her entire being. She felt sick. Lucy felt sick with herself and she couldn’t change that. There were no more cover ups and no more lying. This was everything that she was.

A mess.

“It’s fine,” He grumbled. “Come on. Let’s wrap this up quickly before fuckhead comes back. It’ll be better if we aren’t here.” Natsu turned back to her, shaking his shoulders as he offered a strained half smile. “What do you want me to grab?”

Her mind couldn’t help but wander to when she had last stood here with Natsu, the memories immediately making her eyes glassy as that heart ache returned in full force. It seemed it was ancient history but a week hadn’t gone by since he had walked away from her. Now, here he was. Natsu was standing beside her. She couldn’t imagine how she had hurt him, but he… he was supporting her.

Lucy couldn’t stop that guilt from swallowing her whole.

She tore her gaze from him to instead find her bag. It had been thrown onto the floor, pushed off the kitchen bench with its contents spilled and adding to the disaster “Upstairs. I-In the hallway… There’s a door that should have a cabinet in front of it… Don’t bother asking why.” Her lips tugged even further down, that memory making her sour and Natsu nodded briefly. “We can probably start putting my clothes into trash bags so they can go into the back of the car… I’ll look in the office.”

“Alright.”

She moved to the kitchen, pulling open the cupboards under the sink to pull out a roll of garbage bags before looking down to scoop up her car keys on the floor. “Catch,” Lucy started and then tossed the two items towards him that he caught with ease. “Let me know when you’re finished, okay?”

He nodded before he made his way upstairs, his feet moving quickly as Lucy watched his retreating figure. Though, she didn’t let her mind wander before she kneeled back down to continue putting back the items inside her handbag. Natsu was right. They needed to get this done quickly otherwise they’d have a bigger problem on their hands.

The blonde had barely started to look through the piles of papers in the office until she heard a knock on the wall. Her eyes flickered up from the pile she had started to find Natsu standing there, holding a black bag that he had tied off whilst he leaned against the doorway. It ruffled as he twisted in place.

“Lucy.” He sounded hesitant, unsure of his next words and he eyed her from where she sat on the floor surrounded by paper and files. “I need you to come look at this.”

She gave him a puzzled look, but he only shook his head before waiting for her to stand and follow him. They passed another half full bag that Natsu had dropped to the side of the hallway and Lucy was confused as to what he wanted her to look at if he hadn’t finished packing her clothes away. Her hands felt clammy, palms sweating as he held open the beaten door and Lucy walked into the bedroom.

“In the bathroom,” Natsu added as he let her walk ahead.

As soon as she walked in the blonde could see that Jackal had turned their room on its head. The bedside table had been flipped over, the lamp was shattered on the floor with rumbled blankets tossed hazardously to the side. Her heart pounded in her chest, beating its pulse in her ears as she made her way further in. There was some type of mess on the floor, but she couldn't tell what it was, some of her clothes were ripped near the entrance way - Chester draws toppled over in the corner of the room.

Lucy didn't know what she had expected, or why she felt surprised when she saw the majority of her clothes piled up in the bathtub, ruined. She pushed forward, coming to stand over it to see just what he had done, but Natsu’s voice was quick to stop her in her tracks.

“I wouldn’t touch it,” He started, watching her as he had followed close behind. “Smells like it’s covered in bleach. The stuff stinks.” His nose twitched, lips turned down into a deep frown. “Sorry, Luce. But I don’t think we can do much.”

Her shoulders shook, eyes stuck staring at all her clothes that were covered in nasty orange spots. There were cuts in her jeans, tops pulled and stretched as they sat in a soggy heap in the bath. Maybe it was the smell of the chemicals finally reaching her, but her eyes stung, fresh tears lining the corners as she bit down on her lower lip to stop it from trembling.

It wasn’t just her clothes. Her blurry vision finding cracked foundation bottles and liner pens with broken eyeshadow palettes in the mix. It had all been ruined. Everything of Lucy’s he had trashed, either cut up or smashed to pieces. Not even her bras and underwear had been spared. Jackal had destroyed all of it. She wasn’t even sure how Natsu had managed to salvage some clothing - the little of it that must’ve been left.

She felt Natsu’s hesitant touch on her shoulder, his hand beginning to rub soothingly across her back as her hands tightened into fists. Though, it didn’t help as she stared at so many of her possessions discarded and treated like shit.

“Luce?” He called her, his voice soft and quiet as she sniffled.

“It- It’s f-fine,” Lucy sobbed, tears finding themselves sliding down her cheeks but she quickly pulled up her sleeve to wipe them away. “It’s just… I-It’s on-only…” She swallowed, trying to take in deep breaths before she started again. “It’s only c-clothes. No big… no big deal.”

His brows drew together, expression pained as he watched as she tried to calm herself down. “Do you wanna take five minutes? I’m pretty much done in here. We could get a breather outside.”

Yet, Lucy was already shaking her head.

“No. I have to get this done. Just… Could you take what’s left into the car please?” She turned to face him, her hand finding his and holding it as she grounded herself, squeezing it tight as she looked at him through a teary gaze. He stared down at where they touched, frown deepening as he nodded.

“Sure thing.” He pulled himself away from her, detaching himself from the contact. “I’ll help ya out when I’m done.”

She let out a shaky breath, not moving for a few moments as she tried to collect herself. Lucy tried to repeat her own words through her mind. It’s only clothes, it’s only clothes, it’s only clothes… It’s only things, Lucy! Though she couldn’t help as another sob bubbled up and pushed past her lips, failing to choke it down as a few more tears escaped her eyes.

Jackal was always steps ahead of her.

She pressed her hand into her face, trying to drown out her cries as she fell apart slowly. It just wasn’t fair. He hurt her in every way, but there was always something more.

A bitter laugh left her instead. Of course there was always more.

She brought her hand down, sucking in a large breath of air before her shoulders dropped. Lucy just couldn’t let it bother her, the blonde walking forward and not turning back. The hurt spun inside her chest, but she swallowed it down. The blonde wouldn’t let it. Anger began to take shape in its place from the constant whirl as she stormed into the office, huffing as she ripped up pointless letters and grabbed files to order her papers.

Her eyes were still red and puffy from the night before, the new tears only making them sting, but she didn’t care - whipping her runny nose on her sleeve as she continued to sort through everything around her. It didn’t bother her and she wouldn’t let it.

Lucy was too tired. Pushed past her breaking point as she blocked out everything around her and let the world fall silent. It wasn’t until Natsu came to join her that she looked up, his bright smile nearly blinding her as he asked where she needed him.

She tried to work quietly, but he had other ideas. The stream of questions from him gathering one word responses until the blonde finally cracked a goofy grin when he decided it was time to play basketball with everything that had Jackals name printed on it. His eyes practically shone when she laughed, making the time pass a little bit brighter until they had nearly gathered everything Lucy needed.

“You sure you don’t mind taking this down to the car?” She asked, her face twisted into concern as she eyed Natsu with an old plastic box in his hands that was full of paper and books. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

He rolled his eyes, an easy smile spreading across his face as he shifted it into one hand, keeping it up by balancing it on his hip. “These muscles aren’t just for show, ya know? Honest, Luce. I’m not sure if I should be ah-ffended by this.”

“Off-ended, Natsu.” Lucy emphasised the O, her brows raising as she shook her head. “I swear we’ve been over this.”

“And it won’t be the last time either,” He hollered, giving her a thumbs up as he walked out of the room but not before winking at her with his cheshire grin beginning to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “I’ll meet you downstairs!”

Lucy sighed, exasperated. “Unbelievable.” Though, her own soft smile had made its way on her face as she looked around at the mess they had made in the office, but glad that they had managed to nearly shove the most important things in her car.

It had been hard for Lucy to let some things go. She had already felt that she had tried to bring more than what was necessary with her, a pang resonating in her chest when she thought about how she would be leaving it here until she could figure something out. Natsu hadn’t been much help either, always picking up things that she had set down with a heavy heart and thought that she would have to part with.

He had stated it simply. “If it hurts to leave it then bring it with you.” Yet, Lucy had replied with a deep frown. It was bad enough that she was intruding on him. She didn’t need to clutter up his house with her junk, especially since he was a bit of a hoarder himself. Natsu’s house had bits and pieces left hazardously around in every nook and cranny of his small home. Each one he could talk for hours about, a story attached that left her hanging off every word.

Though, hers… It wasn’t nearly as dear. Her favourite books, a pen that was branded with her old University logo and an old envelope that was missing the card from her mother that was given to her on her 4th birthday. Lucy had put it down with a sad look and he had collected it straight after and packed it up. Even arguing with him was pointless as he shrugged his shoulders and kept mindlessly talking or asking her questions about if she needed something or not.

Her chest felt warm and tight, smile stretching further as she pulled albums off the shelf. Her hands kept weary of her wedding photos, doing her best to ignore the burning feelings that she distracted herself from, and instead pulled her own family pictures out. She had kept all the volumes, even her mum and dad's pictures of when they were younger that were given to her after their deaths. They had been tucked away and she piled them in her arms to put away in the car.

She knew she couldn’t leave them. If what Natsu had told her was true, then she would never be able to split from all of the memories of her parents. It would be too painful for her. Not that  they weren’t safe here, her heart already soaring that Jackal hadn’t had the thought to burn the last remaining thing of them she had left. Lucy knew she had to protect it, her smile widening as she eyed the cover of an old scrapbook that had a photo of their time in Acalypha.

Lucy was only young at the time, but it was one of few pictures of their family together - when her mother was still alive and her father hadn’t been as busy with his company. She pulled it close, piling it into her arms before her fingers traced over their smiling faces.

She missed them.

Her lips thinned, desperately trying not to cry as she studied the photo. They were a lot happier back then. Foggy reminiscents of times in her childhood when her family was complete. She could only wish that she had them with her now, brown eyes blurring with tears as she thought about how badly they would think of her, but at least it was someone. Lucy would gladly listen to her father grumble at her then to do this alone any longer. How angry they would be at Jackal, her mother asking why she hadn’t talked to them sooner… Having someone care about her again.

Lucy wiped at her eyes, taking in a long breath of air as she looked up. Her heart ached in her chest and she felt the lump begin to form in her throat as she tried to breathe deeply. Though, she quickly reached for the last album, not letting herself get lost in the pain as she turned around and squeezed her eyes tight.

There were only a few things left and then her and Natsu could leave. Her arms slumped as she felt the weight crush down on her, struggling to hold up the albums whilst she sniffled. She was exhausted, the stress of the day catching up to her with every step she took down the hallway as she dried a stray tear with a shrug of her shoulder across her cheek.

Yet, Lucy nearly lost her balance as she felt a shudder rock the house, a loud bang coming from downstairs as the front door slammed shut.

“Where the fuck is she?”

The yelling that reached her ears sent tingles down her spine, freezing her in place as her eyes blew wide - ears catching onto every word as she stood completely still in the hallway.

“Lucy!” Jackal screamed. “Lucy, come out here now you fucking bitch!”

Her stomach felt like it dropped to her feet, heart thundering against her chest and she struggled to breath - feeling a panic swarm in her chest as her legs started to shake. Lucy didn’t want to believe it, but the heavy footsteps were echoing throughout the house making her hands sweat as the photo albums started to slip in her grasp.

It couldn’t.

The tears were back, blurring her vision as she continued to stand stock still. She couldn’t move, her muscles tensing painfully as they locked in place. Lucy felt like her chest was going to explode and her lips quivered downwards as he continued to shout.

This wasn’t happening.

She looked down, mind racing. She had to hide them. Otherwise- She choked, a pained gasp leaving her as she hyperventilated. Otherwise he would take them away from her. As soon as he saw her he was going to rip it all up, the last piece of her parents. He was going to beat her. He was going to teach her a lesson.

What was she doing?

Her legs gave out as the door slammed again, more shouting following it as she clutched the photos closer to her chest and closed her eyes shut.

“Luce!”

Lucy jolted, looking up as another voice followed - an icy chill filling her chest as her mouth parted in realisation.

“Stay the fuck away from her!”

Natsu.

The chill swept through her body, pushing up as she felt her heart in her throat. She didn’t realise she was running until she was bolting down the stairs. Her legs wobbled as she took them two at a time and she felt like she was going to fall as her injured ankle buckled, but her hand caught herself on the wall before she stumbled.

The adrenaline shot through her, the tears falling as desperately made her way to him.

She righted the album in her arms, feeling the weight pull her to the side. Though, it didn’t stop her as she leapt to the bottom floor, panting as she came down hard on her feet. The pain was even worse, erupting from the sole of her heel as fire lit up the nerve endings and stretched to her shin. Lucy grit her teeth, grimacing before quickly searching the room.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

HERE'S WHAT I JUST REALIZED ABOUT FOUNDERS

But with other types of startups you may win less by features and more by deals and marketing. But I think that's too constraining. One of the most justifiable types of lying adults do to kids. Most of the work I've done in the last ten years didn't exist when I was 10. Something comes over most people when they start writing. Few dissertations are read with pleasure, especially by their authors.1 I don't run for several days, I feel ill.2 Informal language is the athletic clothing of ideas. This seems one of the reasons the early corporate raiders were so successful. And while there are many degrees of it.3 Opinions seem to be effectively infinite, at least for a small group, is the lows.

What surprised me the most is that everything was actually fairly predictable!4 Probably because small children are particularly horrified by it.5 If you're not allowed to implement new ideas, but also those ideas will increasingly be developed within startups rather than big companies.6 They expect to avoid that by raising more from investors. Most people like to be good at what you do. One reason people overreact to competitors is that they grow fast, and see if there's a super-pattern, a pattern to the patterns. Why? Your most basic advice to founders is just don't die, but the best founders are certainly capable of it.7 For Larry Page the most important things we've been working on standardizing are investment terms. Economic statistics are misleading because they ignore the value of community. But if you work hard and incrementally make it better, there is no limit to the number of startup people around you. Professors are especially interested in people who can help you.

Larry Page the most important. I mean has a different shape from kid curiosity. When you do, you've found an adult, whatever their age. So the best solution is to write your first draft the way you usually would, then afterward look at each sentence and ask Is this the way I'd say this if I found it at a garage sale, dirty and frameless, and with no idea at all. The good news is, plenty of successful startups talked less about choosing cofounders and more about how hard they worked to maintain their relationship.8 Not determined enough You need a lot of people, I like to work. What should you do?

Instead you'll be compelled to seek growth in other ways. He said it was that adults had to earn a living. If you want to be their research assistants so they can get into grad school, or to answer some question. He says the main reason is that the customer doesn't want what he thinks he wants.9 Founders who succeed quickly don't usually realize how lucky they were. Instead of trying to predict beforehand, so lots of people use. All investors, without exception, are more likely to make it. In a startup you can do. It's conventionally fixed at 21, but different people cross it at greatly varying ages.10 The first hint I had that teachers weren't omniscient came in sixth grade, after my father contradicted something I'd learned in school.

The whole field is uncomfortable in its own skin. The truth is common property. Be careful to copy what makes them congeal is experience. TV was still young in 1960; only 87% of households had it. This was, I thought; these impressive things seem easy to me; I must be pretty sharp. In your own projects you don't get taught much: you just work or don't work on whatever you want most of the time is work. These quotes about luck are not from founders whose startups failed. There have only been a handful of writers who can get away with zero self-discipline.11 If you're starting your own.12 One reason people overreact to competitors is that they drift just the right amount.

Notes

5 million cap, but Joshua Schachter tells me it was wiser for them, just as he or she would be rolling in their closets.

The state of technology, companies building lightweight clients have usually tried to explain that the feature was useless, but mediocre investors. Instead of earning the right mindset you will fail.

The founders want the valuation turns out to be so obsessed with being published.

Enterprise software—and to run spreadsheets on it, by decreasing the difference between good and bad measurers. The reason for the next investor.

Giant tax loopholes are definitely not a programmer would find it was putting local grocery stores out of them is that everyone gets really good at acting that way. That should probably pack investor meetings too closely, you'll have to assume it's bad to do some research online. In one way, be forthright with investors.

If you want to approach a specific firm, get rid of everyone else and put our worker on a hard technical problem. It will require more than investors. Some government agencies run venture funding groups, which is not a big effect on the side of the incompetence of newspapers is that we're not professional negotiators, and partly because they are in a world with antibiotics or air travel or an electric power grid than without, real income statistics calculated in the rest of the present, and for filters it's textual. They don't know yet what they're capable of.

Letter to Ottoline Morrell, December 1912. In many fields a year of focused work plus caring a lot is premature scaling—founders take a lesson from the example of a Linux box, a copy of K R, and cook on lowish heat for at least one of the biggest discoveries in any era if people can see how universally faces work by their prevalence in advertising. Geoff Ralston reports that in 1995, when Subject foo not to need common sense when intepreting it. The CPU weighed 3150 pounds, and made more that year from stock options, because we know nothing about the new economy during the entire period since the mid 1980s.

How to Make Wealth in Hackers Painters, what you learn about programming in Lisp. Ii. But no planes crash if your school sucks, and that don't scale.

I get the money so burdensome, that all metaphysics between Aristotle and 1783 had been a good open-source projects now that VCs play such games, books, newspapers, or b get your employer to renounce, in the latter. But while such trajectories may be that the web.

Galbraith was clearly puzzled that corporate executives were, we actively sought out people who'd failed out of business, A. This plan backfired with the earlier stage startups, but sword thrusts.

It was revoltingly familiar to anyone who had been with their decision—just that it is to let yourself feel it mid-twenties the people who chose the wrong side of making a good plan in 2001, but I managed to find may be overpaid. She was always good at design, Byrne's Euclid. Management consulting. A servant girl cost 600 Martial vi.

Some VCs will try to be room for something new if the selection process looked for different reasons. There need to know how to appeal to investors. If you're not trying to figure this out. There's a variant of the more accurate or at least notice duplication though, so they had to.

[weepylucifer]

Let’s Go in the Garden - Ch. 11

David makes a mistake. Thomas makes an entrance. Peter deescalates.

The theatre was dark. The sun was fairly well set by now, and the streetlamps were flickering to life. The heat was easing up by increments, the air already less sweltering and humid than it had been all day. David popped round to the back entrance, as agreed upon, where Cora Watley let him in.

She looked wary. Also tired. She’d borne this secret all week... she’d borne her other secret inconceivably longer. David imagined it had exhausted her.

He nodded at her. “Ma’am.”

“You’re really... police?” she asked with no further preamble.

“I’m...” Well, this required some mental acrobatics, but technically David had never stopped working for the Folly, had he? “I’m a specialist with the...” What had Peter called it? “The Special Assessment Unit.”

Ms. Watley raised an eyebrow. “That’s... special.”

“That’s what Mamá used to say about me.” The joke... well, it didn’t quite fall flat, but she sort of winced. Perhaps in solidarity.

She gestured for him to head inside, so he did. The back door was a heavy steel monstrosity, and David almost got his fingers crushed as he pulled it shut. “Where is the object?”

“I’ve hid it in my dressing room,” Ms. Watley confessed. “Are you... sure you can handle this thing? Because someone’s been murdered over it and I don’t want to really... leave it with a normal person.”

“I’ve been handling objects like this one before your mother’s mother left the hill.” Well, perhaps that was a slight exaggeration. Fae have long lives. “What do you mean you left it in your dressing room?”

“It’s not been searched.” Cora gave him a pale smile. “Nobody bothers me overmuch.”

Glamour. David nodded. “Still, why did you not call anyone? I’m told the Folly’s relations to the demi-monde are rocky as ever, but surely not so rocky as to half-inch a murder weapon before even considering going to the police.”

Cora shook her head. “You lost me. The relations of what to what?”

They had reached the backstage and were proceeding to the actress’s dressing room. “The... demi-monde, people like you.” Was that not the term anymore?

The actress turned around to face David. “People like me?” In the dim light of the hallway, she suddenly looked very young. “There’s never been people like me. I never knew any... there’s always just been me.”

How lonely, David thought. How very lonely.

Cora’s hands shook as she pulled a ring of keys out of her pocket and unlocked her dressing room. “I’m the only weird thing I ever saw. Until that goddamned crystal ball that Deirdre brought.”

She let herself and David in, and dropped to her knees to rummage in the bottom drawer of her vanity. “She bought this thing at a flea market or garage sale or something...” Goblin market, David mentally inserted, “...but she said she felt weird about having it at home. Like... it was showing her weird things she didn’t want to see. So she brought it here, thinking maybe we could use it as a prop or something... but I started noticing how other people got... weird around it. Never me, though. So I talked to Deirdre, thought maybe I could get her to throw it out or give it away or we could smash it maybe, but she kept it in the props department... and then I found it next to her dead body.”

David couldn’t help his eyebrows shooting up. “You found the body?” He began patting down his pockets. Perhaps he’d thought to bring a notebook? He should probably write this down, like a proper policeman. Oh, or didn’t his new-fangled telephone have a recording device? He pulled it out.

“Yeah, I found it,” Cora said, still bent over her cluttered vanity. “Look, I knew someone was going to call the police. But the damned thing’s cursed or whatever. Was I gonna give it to just any police guy? They’d get got by the curse just like people here did.”

“There‘s special police for special cases,” David said.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” Cora got up, in her hands a round object, wrapped in a silk shawl. “And heeeere we go.”

“Very good,” said a voice in David’s back, accompanied by a sound that rang awfully familiar from the war: the telltale click of a gun being cocked. “Hand it over, Cora, nice and careful.”

----

I was in the tech cave just finished feeding the interviews we had conducted during the afternoon into HOLMES when Nightingale swept in. It wasn’t quite a burst in, but not a normal entrance either: yes, a sweeping.

I was actually about to go home, but I clocked that something was off. Far as I knew he’d headed to the basement once we’d got back, and now he was here, and notably by himself. “Everything okay, sir?”

Nightingale clicked his tongue. “It’s David. He went out and left this... cryptic message and now he won’t answer his phone.”

He handed me a post-it with a scrawled-upon note. I read the cryptic message. “’Actress is a demi-fae’? Does he mean Ms. Watley?”

“I assume so.”

“He’s not... he didn’t go meet up with her or something, did he?” But a sinking feeling in my gut said he’d done precisely that.

Nightingale frowned down at his phone. “I’d know that if he’d answer any of my messages.”

And that... was worrisome. David had had a mobile phone for less than a week, but he was already startlingly adept with it, and he delighted in carrying it with him wherever he went. “Hey, maybe he’s just... out for a walk. Maybe he needs... time to himself.”

Nightingale now glared witheringly at his phone, probably so as not to glare witheringly at me. “Or maybe he put himself in danger.”

Just then, his phone beeped, alerting us to...

“What is that thing?” Nightingale asked.

I stepped up next to him and peered at his screen. “Oh, he sent you a voice recording. The app has a function that lets you record something and send it...”

“Oh, spare me,” Nightingale muttered, and looked at his phone in thinly-veiled disgust, so I took it from him and played the recording.

“Yeah, I found it,” we heard a female voice say. People often sounded different on the phone, but this was most definitely Ms. Watley. “Look, I knew someone was going to call the police. But the damned thing’s cursed or whatever. Was I gonna give it to just any police guy? They’d get got by the curse just like people here did.”

“Hrm,” Nightingale said.

I stood still, excitement mounting. If David had managed to get us a spoken confession...

“Would’ve thought most of the demi-monde at least knew of us by now,” I commented.

“There‘s special police for special cases,” David said.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” Some rustling was heard. “And heeere we go.”

“Is she actually handing it over?” I asked. Nightingale shushed me.

Then we heard a clicking, and a male voice, empathically not David’s, said, “Very good. Hand it over, Cora, nice and careful.”

Here the recording ended abruptly, as if... well, as if something had prevented David from recording any further.

I looked at Nightingale. He’d gone pale, his jaw clenched, his eyes slightly widened. Other than that, he betrayed no emotion. He went... cold, rigid, all over.

“Shit,” I said.

“We must locate them.” Nightingale’s voice was calm, but only because he was expending considerable strength of will on making it so.

“Probably the theatre, right?” I suggested, but there really was no way to tell. If only I could track David’s phone. But we hadn’t exactly stuck a tracker on him, and why would we have?

“Is there a spell for tracking them?” I asked.

Nightingale shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

“Bev always knows where I’m at.” Later, I would ask myself what on earth I’d meant by saying that.

“Well, I’m not a river deity,” Nightingale snapped. “I can’t well scent my lover.”

Lover. That word, so casually, from Nightingale, somehow made me shiver. And was that what Bev was doing? Scenting me? “Technically, you’re... something, sir,” I argued.

Now Nightingale outright gave me the glare. “This is hardly the time.”

----

“Get behind me,” David murmured. He ignored how Cora hissed “What?” and cast his shield, only to remember... oh, right.

He couldn’t cast at all.

“What the fuck did you just try to do?” Cora hissed from over his left shoulder. This, David thought detachedly, was probably the first time she’d seen (an attempt at) Newtonian magic.

“I won’t repeat myself,” said the man with the hunting rifle, whom David vaguely recognized as Mr. Sheen, the theatre’s director. Behind him, a taller man - the janitor, right? - was looking on with a deeply conflicted expression. “Hand me that crystal ball, and no tricks, and we might just get out of this one with nobody getting hurt.”

“Howard, the damned thing’s cursed,” the actress said. “This isn’t hyperbole, I genuinely fucking mean this.”

Mr. Sheen waved his rifle. “Will you bloody hand it over already?”

It was good of Ms. Watley to warn her employer, David thought, but unfortunately useless. The signs were all there. Mr. Sheen was utterly enthralled by the enchantment permeating from the object. It was potent in a way that he had rarely witnessed, and only decades of experience prevented David from reaching for it himself. And it had apparently been in this building for a lengthy amount of time, several days at least. Being so exposed to the enchantment, a susceptible mind might be driven to lengths...

Ms. Watley took a deep breath in. Wisps of her glamour escaped from her, but David nudged her side. “He has a gun, do as he says.”

“But I can--”

“Your glamour doesn’t make you immune to bullets, you know.”

Slowly, extremely reluctantly, Cora handed the crystal ball over.

Mr. Sheen unwrapped it from the silk shawl that had covered it and, aglow with triumph, held it in his hands. “Finally someone sees sense here.” He turned towards David. “Now, who on earth are you?”

And David realized exactly what else it was the crystal ball did.

The enchantment enticing people to take it, to seize possession of it and own it, well, that was one thing. But it was not the object’s actual use.

He felt nothing as the director probed his thoughts (nothing but a sense of revulsion, of violation that was uniquely his own) but he certainly saw the man turn pale.

“What the hell...?” Mr. Sheen said. For a moment, he recoiled, startled, and David lunged.

It earned him the barrel of the rifle jabbed into his ribs.

“You better not try that again,” Mr. Sheen said. He gave the crystal ball an appreciative pat. “This little gizmo here alerts me to anything you’re thinking to do. Now, Derrick, if you’d please...”

The janitor stepped forward. In his hand, he was holding a roll of zip ties.

“One of you acts up, I’ll have to shoot the other,” Mr. Sheen proclaimed, and David couldn’t tell whether or not he was bluffing. Most civilians weren’t quite prepared to actually eliminate a person at close range. But on the other hand... that certain glow in Mr. Sheen’s face, the rigidity of his features, that frozen smile... he was deep in the throes of the enchantment, practically possessed. There was no telling what he would or wouldn’t do.

“Derrick, are you fucking nuts?” Cora demanded as the janitor pushed her into a chair and began tying her hands behind her back.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Johnson whispered. “It’s just... he knows.”

Knows what? David wondered. But there would be time to find that out later. For now, he thought it best to not resist as his hands, too, were tied.

“Derrick, take their phones, will you?” Mr. Sheen commanded. David held his breath as his mobile phone was fished out of his pocket. Now they’d know he’d sent that recording off...

“Now what’s this?” Mr. Sheen asked, holding David’s phone aloft for everyone to see the screen. There were about half a dozen unanswered texts. “A gentleman caller?”

Thomas, David thought, and then tried his utmost to suppress the thought. But it was too late.

“Is this the same Thomas Nightingale who has been investigating this place? The same one I am seeing so prominently displayed in your memories?”

“I’m not saying anything,” David said.

Mr. Sheen shook his head. “An utterly futile effort.”

----

Suddenly there was a sound from Nightingale’s phone.

“Well, thank goodness,” he huffed, acting put-upon but poorly masking his actual pure relief as he took the phone back from my hand and glanced at the screen. The relief was short-lived.

“Sir?” I asked. “What’s the news?”

Wordlessly, he waved me closer so that I could read over his shoulder.

There were the unanswered texts that Nightingale had sent David’s way, in his usual flawless grammar and diction which has a way of looking weird in text message format. They ran,

David, this is extremely vexing. Where are you at?

You are utterly out of line. There is a very good reason why I prohibited you tampering with the investigation. Come home.

I am not mad at you, but we must address this along with everything else. Do not put yourself needlessly in danger. Do not take any unnecessary risks.

Answer your damned phone, Davey.

And below that, a picture that someone, empathically not David, had sent. It depicted David, back to back with Cora Watley, both zip-tied to chairs by their wrists and ankles. The background showed that this was clearly the stage that we’d only recently stood on during our encounter with the theatre ghost. While Ms. Watley looked enraged and scared in equal measure, David’s face showed, if anything, deep indignation at being so held. Someone else was barely visible in the very margin of the picture, little more than a hand and, unfortunately, the barrel of a rifle.

The text below said, “I’m sure we are all reasonable men here. The two of them will be set free upon your payment of a modest fee and a guarantee that I should be left undisturbed. Do not alert any further authorities. The consequences will be severe.”

Our mystery texter had included below the message proper the ‘modest fee’ they wished to be paid. (We would later find out that it covered the theatre’s various debts, plus a little extra.) It was a pretty high six figures.

“Shit,” I repeated. “This has become a hostage situation.”

Nightingale shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Sir?”

“A hostage? David “Gold Star” Mellenby, the scourge of the Wolfsstaffel, a hostage?”

“He... is wearing the cuffs still, sir.” I contained myself from asking what either of those epithets meant.

For a moment, Nightingale went very silent. Then he said, “Well, that is true,” but I got the distinct feeling that what he meant to express by that ran more towards “Fuuuuuuuck.”

“We’re heading over,” he said.

I nodded and grabbed my own phone. “I’ll call Belgravia for backup.”

Already in the process of sweeping back out, Nightingale paused. “You think we will have need of them?”

“It’s their murder case.”

“Quite frankly,” Nightingale said, “I don’t think the situation warrants extensive support. In fact, I’ll head in by myself.”

Woah, I thought, what? “Sir, there’s no way I’m not coming with you.”

This got me a steely, grey-eyed stare. “It’s one man, I’ll be quite able to handle myself.”

The expression on Nightingale’s face put fear into me. Not fear for him, or for myself, but for our very unlucky kidnapper. “Yeah?” I asked. “You will be?”

----

“This is insane,” David said. He strained against his ties a little, more for the look of it than anything else. Besides which, they felt uncomfortable around his wrists.

“Hush,” Mr. Sheen said.

They had been herded at gunpoint out onto the stage, and pushed down into two folding chairs that maybe served as props for the musical. Perhaps the actors just sat down here during reading rehearsals normally. David didn’t like it here. He felt put on the spot, and the, well, dramatics of having the hostages sit on the stage struck him as deeply overwrought and annoying.

“No, I mean it. This device you’re holding lets you sample my memories, no? So you realize this is going nowhere fast for you. You’ve seen what Thomas did in fall 1944 when we captured those two Abteilung Geheimwissenschaften officers and were civilly questioning them for intel and then one of them called me a Saujude and the other one grinned?” The memory was definitely at the forefront of David’s mind currently. “You’re seeing what Thomas did to another human being because he grinned? Mr. Sheen, you better let me out of here while you still can. I know my lover. Thomas will not pay a bloody ransom, Thomas will kill you.”

“Bluffing,” Mr. Sheen said calmly, but it was a projected calm. David could see the beads of sweat on the man’s brow. He reckoned that some part of Howard Sheen knew that he was in too deep and with no feasible way out, and that setting Thomas “The” Nightingale on his trail had been the dumbest decision he had made today or perhaps in his life, but the thrall of the object was stronger than reason. Besides which, the ‘modest fee’ (David wasn’t sure, if the idea was even being entertained, if the Folly budget would survive it) beckoned, promising an end to the theatre’s financial problems.

“I’ve also sampled your recent memories. Nobody’s coming to rescue you.”

David clenched his fists at his sides, and stayed silent. Oh, yeah... that.

“What the fuck is he doing,” Cora whispered. “Trying to blackmail a police officer?”

David nodded. “Said police officer happens also to be my boyfriend, so there is that.”

Is that the one with the walking cane? The one who made out with Roger? That’s nuts. That guy was radiating don’t fuck with me so hard I could feel it all the way across the hall.”

Briefly, David wondered who Roger was. Would’ve liked to see that. “That aptly describes Thomas.” These days, anyhow.

“What fucking is he? I tried getting him to leave this place alone and he just stared me down. I put on a show and everything. Most people just sort of do what I want them to when I do the... you know...”

“We call that a glamour,” David muttered distractedly. What was Thomas, these days? It was an interesting question. Of course, being impervious to glamour, especially a clumsily wielded one like Ms. Watley’s, could simply be chalked up to experience. Decades and decades of experience. But clearly nowadays there was more to Thomas. Why, for example, was he not aging? Did he not technically qualify as fae now, by virtue of that?

“I thought he might be... weird like me,” Cora contributed, as if on cue. “Because he resisted. No other people ever did that.”

“That’s a hypothesis we must certainly consider,” David agreed. Good gracious, if only he had his magic. He would have gotten rid of these plastic ties already. “But frankly, I don’t know. They have a medical professional trying to figure that one out.”

“You figured me out,” Cora said almost accusingly.

“It’s not so hard to unmask a demi-fae, if one knows what one’s doing.” Not just the ties, but also that rifle. And Misters Sheen and Johnson... well, suffice to say they wouldn’t be upright still. David was slow to anger. He considered himself a good-natured, mellow, even-tempered person. But he was beginning to grow peeved, and when that happened, there tended to be consequences, as evidenced by certain parts of the former Third Reich where grass would likely never grow again.

“Demi-what?”

David sighed. His mind was swirling with thoughts of Thomas, of his situation, of how on earth he was going to get out of this one. (Was there a way to get these ties gone without magic...? Unfortunately his pockets had been searched earlier, and even if he’d carried any useful little tools of escape artistry with him, which he hadn’t, those would have been gone by now.) And he wasn’t really all that confident that Thomas would come get him. Not after all that had happened between them.

But there was a man with a mind-reading device in the room with him, a man who might just shoot him if he deemed him useless, and answering Cora’s questions was at the very least a way to focus his thoughts elsewhere.

“Demi-fae,” he repeated. “That’s the scientific term for people like you. Or at the very least it was that when I was last active.”

“I didn’t know there was a scientific term,” Cora said. “Or more people like me. I’m a... changeling, that’s what I know. I’m weird and I can do some stuff. But I was always the only one I knew of. I just... kept my head down and tried to live like normal.”

David nodded. A pale, skinny young woman in drab, dark clothing who faded into the background - that was the look of a fae in hiding. Fae dress according to their chosen vocation, he remembered, and he thought of Oberon’s uniform jacket, Molly’s dress, Foxglove’s coat with its myriad paint splatters and so many pockets for pencils and paintbrushes - for a split-second, he even thought of Thomas’s suits. A theatre fae, he pondered, would likely be in costume at all times, with the most sparkling, fluctuating, dramatic personality. He looked at Cora and thought, how sad.

“Do you want to know what else there is?” he asked.

“Will you two stop whispering back there?” Mr. Sheen snapped. “I’ll have Derrick gag you, you know!”

The janitor, hanging around by the curtain, shifted uneasily.

Mr. Sheen resumed pacing, the crystal ball tucked under one arm. He had lots of room for it on the empty stage. Periodically he would pause, pull out David’s phone and glare at it.

“Thomas hen-peck-types,” David said helpfully. “Whatever reply he’s going to make, it’s going to take a while.”

He grinned, the cheekiest grin he could muster, and hoped it masked the thoughts he had. He’s not coming. No one’s coming for me. No one wants me.

----

We parked the Jag around the corner from the theatre. As we got out of the car, we were joined by what looked like half the murder team stuffed into two plain cars of about the same quality as my old Asbo. Apparently the call I’d placed well out of Nightingale’s earshot as I’d presumably gone to grab my gear warranted Stephanopoulos showing up herself.

“What are we looking at?” she asked, strolling over to us, all business.

Nightingale gave her an irritated look, like he was having to remember what on earth she was here for. “Ah, Miriam,” he said. “So you received... Peter’s call for backup.” The glare he shot me promised consequences later. I almost imperceptibly lifted my shoulders. I’d take the stern talking-to over whatever would have occurred otherwise.

Stephanopoulos scrutinized the dark building. “Looks calm for now.”

Nightingale nodded. “We’re dealing with one man, armed, two hostages, the suspect in possession of one, well...”

With respect to Stephanopoulos’ sensibilities, it seemed he didn’t want to say ‘magical object’ quite yet. “Of Falcon-contaminated hazardous material,” I improvised.

Stephanopoulos’ eyebrows rose. “Like a biohazard?”

“Something like that, I suppose,” Nightingale said.

“How come this is the first time I’m hearing of anything like this existing?” Stephanopoulos asked. Behind her, I could see Guleed peeking out of the car in curiosity, craning her head out of the window to hear.

Nightingale went as far as to click his tongue in impatience. “Perhaps something to be considered at a later date,” he said, neatly smothering that burgeoning argument. “For now, while the threat is imminent to non-Falcon personnel, I consider it low enough at present to handle it myself. I suggest your team guard the entrances while I head inside.”

“You want to head in by yourself,” Stephanopoulos said. “And do what? Do you intend to play for an exchange?”

“I do not intend to humour that man for anything.” Eyes narrowing, Nightingale also scrutinized the building. “I’m of a mind to go in there and set him ablaze, to be frank. Hell, if I had a clear line of sight at him, perhaps from a window, I could blow up his head from here.”

Stephanopoulos took a sudden, sharp breath. “What the hell, Thomas?”

I was very glad I’d decided to call her in.

Nightingale didn’t look at any of us. He gripped his staff so hard his knuckles were starkly white. “My... David’s in there.”

“And who’s David?” Stephanopoulos asked. Apparently she’d been left out of the loop regarding the last week. Her eyes strayed quickly to the car where Carey, the David she was probably thinking of, sat safe and sound next to Guleed. “Anyhow, I’m not having you go in there and irreparably harm our suspect.”

“I am not,” Nightingale said through clenched teeth, “going to stand here and do things by the book while someone’s got David at gunpoint.” He whirled around suddenly, face to face with Stephanopoulos. “God dammit, Miriam, what would you do if it was your wife in there?”

“I still wouldn’t blow heads up.” Now Stephanopoulos, too, was exposing teeth. “Also, what the fuck, Thomas?”

“Look, I am getting him out. I’m prepared to face whatever consequences later.”

Stephanopoulos grabbed him by the arm. “Even if your consequences turn out two dead hostages? Our kidnapper has murdered someone once before, and there is clearly a hunting rifle in that picture.”

Hunting rifle, hunting club, I pieced together. The director, then. At least one accomplice, seeing as pointing a rifle and taking a picture required more than two hands.

“And listen, if it were Pam in there? I wouldn’t rush into things and endanger her life.”

----

Most likely, David reflected, he was going to get shot here today.

He was going to get shot here today, and he didn’t feel the least bit... excited about it. What would he leave behind? A miserable little pile of notebooks, and no one who would mourn him, because no one wanted him in the first place. Thomas would go on with life as he had before David had woken from his long sleep. Peter would certainly not care overly much; they had barely gotten to know each other, and any sense of kinship between them had surely been a figment of David’s imagination. This was fine; this should have happened over seventy years ago.

But there was an innocent young lady here, a person whose life had only just begun, and she was also going to get shot here today unless someone did something. And that wasn’t right, and if David could prevent that somehow, he would.

But what were his options, really? He tried to fumble for the ties around his wrists, perhaps he could manage to loosen or undo them somehow. The unyielding plastic chafed at his skin, but he continued, hoping his efforts wouldn’t be noticed.

Magic was right out, unless he found a way to get the inhibitor cuffs off. The cuffs required Thomas’s word to open. They encircled his whole wrists. Having been forged by Thomas personally and imbued with Thomas’s magic, they would hold. Having also been forged in a hurry, they weren’t perfectly smooth. What with all his fidgeting at them for the past days, David was well familiar with every notch and ridge in the metal.

Perhaps, if he bent his wrist just right, he could get an edge of the metal to catch on the plastic of the zip-ties...

“What are you doing?” Cora hissed irritably. “Why are you squirming like that, do you need the bathroom?”

“No,” David whispered at her. “I’m trying something. Distract them, will you?”

He still wouldn’t have his magic. But he’d have both his hands free. There was a lot a man could do with both of his hands free, especially if said man had had experience on battlefields.

Cora glared at him. “Distract them how?”

“Well, you’re an actress, aren’t you? Make something up.”

“Make something...?” It must have been a wrong thing to say, judging by how mad she sounded. But she rolled her eyes and slumped in momentary defeat. “Ugh, I guess.”

“Howard?” Cora asked, leaning forward as far as her ties would allow, getting Mr. Sheen’s attention. “I know you’re not going through with this. You’re not killing your female lead a week before opening night. The understudy is a catastrophe and we both know it.”

This of all things got Mr. Sheen to pause. David shook his head to himself.

“Lindsay is a fine understudy. She knows her stuff.”

“She still keeps forgetting her lines.”

“Frankly, she brings a passion to the role that I often felt you... lacking, in rehearsal.”

“Passion?” Cora snarled and wrenched at the ties that bound her wrists to her own chair, back to back with David’s. “Bullshit! You really think you can kill me off and replace me with Lindsay Reilly because she has bigger tits than me?!”

As the theatre people argued, David stealthily flexed his fingers...

“Now, this simply won’t do,” Mr. Sheen said. “We’ve all wasted enough time here. Derrick, take another picture...”

----

Nightingale was still arguing with Stephanopoulos when his phone buzzed again.

It was a new picture, this time of the barrel of the rifle being pressed directly into the curls at David’s temple. If it weren’t so dramatic a situation, David’s facial expression, all disgruntled and annoyed at such dramatics, would have been deeply comedic.

“I’ve waited quite long enough,” said the voice in the recording that was sent along with the picture. “You know that Mr. Mellenby here is of the opinion that no one will come? He’s trying to mask it, but it’s at the forefront of his mind. He’s believing himself abandoned. Isn’t that sad? Anyway, I need a decision here, DCI Nightingale, and soon.”

Nightingale stood with his back to me. I was glad I couldn’t see his face. Suddenly, flame erupted from his closed fist, enveloping his phone in fire. The smell of burning plastic spread.

“Woah, sir,” I said.

Nightingale’s voice was low and quiet when he announced, “I’m going to light the fucker up.”

“Thomas,” Stephanopoulos said sharply, and I expected her to set him to rights, tell him he was being way out of line, but she added, in a kind of voice I’d never expected to hear out of her, “You’re scaring me.”

“Apologies, Miriam, but we cannot delay.” And, you know, Nightingale wasn’t wearing his combat boots this time - probably because he’d had no time to change into them - but he didn’t need to. He radiated the soldier so hard we all felt it.

“Sir,” I urged. “You know we can make a clean arrest of it. All we need to do is obtain the object that’s causing all of this. No one needs to be set on fire today.”

Nightingale half-turned and looked at me. It was horrible. I have already lost everything once, his eyes said, I might now lose everything again. That kind of look. The look of people who go dancing in the light of their blazing homes.

“Um,” I said. “Please?”

----

David was beginning to become seriously annoyed by Mr. Sheen’s, for lack of a better word, theatrics, plus the gun still pressed to his temple. It made thinking hard, getting up close and personal with the business end of a rifle like this. “Best take that away,” he suggested irritably. “You’re not going to shoot, and we both know it.”

“Oh, do we both know any such thing?” Mr. Sheen handed the rifle to the highly reluctant Derrick. That, in David’s book, was an improvement. Then Mr. Sheen took up the crystal ball again, gazing deep inside, probably meaning to intrude and scan David’s thoughts again.

David wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Out of spite, he thought hard of nazi corpses.

At first he thought it was that which made Mr. Sheen recoil and scrunch up his face in dismay, but then he turned to the janitor, back to the crystal ball in his hands, and then peered around the stage and asked, “What is... is someone else in this building with us?”

Mr. Johnson’s shoulders rose and fell. “I’ve locked up everywhere, there’s not... supposed to be anyone else here.”

“Then why is... what is this?” Mr. Sheen stared down at the crystal ball in confusion. “Whose... where do these thoughts come from? Are you two doing this in some way?” He pointed at the two hostages.

Truly, David hadn’t the faintest clue what was going on now. But any confusion was a good thing and was to be furthered. Perhaps his captor would slip up in some way... allowing him to take steps to escape or at least ensure Cora’s safety. “May I be of help, sir?”

“Why would--”

From somewhere behind the stage there was a sound, like something falling down, or a door falling shut. Mr. Sheen looked up, and suddenly there was fear in his eyes. “What the-- who is there?”

Derrick Johnson looked at him with a sliver of doubt on his face. “Um, something wrong?”

“Those images...” Mr. Sheen shook the crystal ball like a snowglobe, as if it would show different pictures then. “Whoever... whatever is making those images...” He looked around the empty stage, out at the empty auditorium, a slightly deranged look to him. “It shouldn’t be in the building with us. Derrick, hand me the... no... go search the backstage, will you?”

“Er...”

Another sound. Like footsteps? Footsteps on the creaking wood of the floor?

“I don’t know about this,” Mr. Johnson said. “Nah, you know what, fuck this.”

“Derrick...” Mr. Sheen said threateningly. “You want me to tell our friends from the police why this establishment is truly so chronically short of money...? Ah, of course you don’t. Now be a reasonable chap and go backstage.”

Johnson disappeared behind the curtain, rifle in his hands.

David, still with nary a clue what was happening, craned his neck to shoot a questioning glance at Cora. Are you doing whatever this is?

She shook her head. No.

Muffled and a ways off, they heard Mr. Johnson walk around, then, “Hello? Hello? Is someone... Oi!”

The curtain flew aside as Mr. Johnson was flung headfirst back onto the stage. David felt the impello-palma, so powerful it would punch through ten-inch sheet metal, and he knew that burst of magic. As familiar almost as his own.

Tears shot to his eyes, but they were of joy. He hadn’t believed it would happen...

Mr. Johnson went down hard and stayed down.

Then several things happened in quick succession.

With a gasp, Mr. Sheen ran forward, to help Mr. Johnson, David thought, but he disregarded his fallen accomplice and grabbed the rifle from him. As he scrambled back up to his feet, hands shaking as he attempted to cock the gun, Ms. Cora Watley suddenly flung herself against her ties, and unleashed the full force of her glamour.

Mr. Sheen stumbled, and even David reeled as he was overwhelmed; this was the stage, here were the actors, and the overhead lights sprang on and the fog machine whirred to life, and soon they were ankle-high in billowing mist, and an end of the curtain was lifted just ever-so-slightly by a delicate hand.

Up above their heads, the huge stage light rotated on its axis by itself, and the beam of a spotlight fingered across the auditorium, the stage, and came to rest on the new arrival. A grand entrance.

“Evening, all,” said Thomas.

“Yes!” Ms. Watley hissed in triumph. “Enter stage left! Love it!”

Thomas grinned - not in response to Ms. Watley, he was wearing the sort of grin that David usually knew exclusively from battlefields. The sort of grin that used to say, All you Jerries are about to die.

----

I entered the building and therefore the stage on Nightingale’s heels, but just this once, no one was paying attention to me.

I was right behind him when he sucker-punched the janitor, using his impello palma like brass knuckles, nevermind that the guy had a gun. He didn’t hesitate for a second, just flung the fellow out through the curtain. It was just on sight. Now, I’ve seen Nightingale attempt to rugby-tackle suspects before, in the heat of the moment and all. The pure, vicious force of that punch still blew me away. I took a second, I know not why, to actually tug at his sleeve, and he gave me one of these looks he sometimes gets that signifies he’s not fully here right now but trying very hard to be.

“Let’s proceed,” he said, rubbing some life back into his hand. So we proceeded, stage left.

What I now recognized as Ms. Watley’s glamour permeated the stage. The fog was swirling, the spotlights were bright upon us, and, brushing past the curtain, I felt the excitement and the trepidation again: an actor readying for the great entrance. But I was happy to cede the stage to Nightingale.

The director was stood blocking the hostages, and he’d picked up the rifle. Now he was holding it in shaky hands. “I’m warning you! Don’t come any further!”

Nightingale chuckled. It sent a dart of cold, primal fear down my spine. Of course he already had his shield up. Very courteously, it also covered me. “Oh, do try and shoot me, I beg of you.”

Even his voice was different.

Fuck, this was bad.

“How about this, then?” His movements almost erratic, Mr. Sheen spun around and pointed the rifle at David. David, for his part, only raised an eyebrow.

“You fucking moron,” someone said. With a start, I realized it was me.

Nightingale raised his hand. I could feel a forma coming, and I didn’t know what it might be, and I was afraid.

I gripped his wrist. Again, I don’t know what fucking compelled me, my arm just shot forward and grabbed his wrist.

“Sir.”

He gave me an indecipherable look again. His magic kept ticking away as he turned back towards the little tableau in front of him.

“Please don’t hurt anybody unduly,” he said.

“That’s a mighty lot of you to ask,” Mr. Sheen replied, mad triumph making its home in his face - prematurely, it would turn out.

“Mr. Sheen,” Nightingale said aloofly, and released his forma into the world, “I was not talking to you.”

At first, I’d thought the spell had done nothing.

Then I heard two tiny plinks of metal, like, well, like the clasps of two wristlets opening.

David got up, the zip-ties and inhibitor cuffs falling away. Before Mr. Sheen could even turn around again, David waved his hand and subdued him, all his extremities suddenly locking into place and sending him tumbling to the floor. Another wave, and a length of cord unspooled, came loose from one of the curtains and wound tightly around Mr. Sheen’s arms and legs.

David looked at me, a glint in his eye. “What do you say? ‘You’re nicked, chum’?”

Well, someone’s getting quite into thief-taking, I thought, and for a split-second I wondered what David’s future within the Folly and therefore the Met might entail. But still, as the great Blackboard Monitor Sir Samuel Vimes once said, it’s so embarrassing to hear civilians try to speak policeman, so I shook my head.

“No,” I said, “You don’t say ‘you’re nicked’. You say, Howard Sheen, you’re under arrest for the murder of Deirdre Maxwell and the abduction of Cora Watley and David Mellenby. You have the right to remain silent...”

The teachable moment didn’t last long, because by the time I got to ‘right to an attorney’, David was looking at Nightingale, who was in turn looking at David.

“I’m sorry for causing you such inconvenience,” David said quietly. He picked up the crystal ball, which had been discarded in all the confusion, and held it out to Nightingale. “Here. This should probably be stored in the Folly.”

Nightingale was across the stage in three long strides. His hands found David’s shoulders, his face, his hair, roving unsteadily, as if committing the shape of David to memory, as if searching for something, as if having to make sure David was really there.

“God, Davey,” he said, in a voice that was soft and wounded and seemed to belong to an entirely different person than the Nightingale I’d known for the past three years, “Don’t ever - ever - do that to me again.”

By chance, his hand brushed the crystal ball that David was still holding, and for a moment they both stood very still.

“Oh... Thomas,” David then said, shivering. “You... genuinely, still? After all I’ve done?”

“And you really believed I wouldn’t come? That nobody wanted you?” Abruptly, Nightingale pulled David closer and, abandoning all his usual restraint, stooped down to bury his face in David’s sweater, and then he just stood breathing for a minute. I felt like I was witnessing something secret and forbidden, something highly private happening, jarringly, in semi-public, something most definitely not intended for my eyes. So I went and checked if both our perps were secured, and then I untied Cora Watley, who gave me a grin.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” she said, “But hell yeah, love wins.”

“It does at that, huh,” I said and helped her to her feet.

“I’m so sorry, Tommy,” David was saying, one hand cradling the crystal ball, the other one resting on the back of Nightingale’s neck. It might have been the first time I’d ever seen anyone touch Nightingale like this. “None of this was supposed to happen.”

I could feel something strange and magical happening between them, in the literal sense; I could feel things being poured into the receptacle between them, perhaps seventy years’ worth of things.

“I cannot lose you again, David,” Nightingale murmured, one hand resting on the crystal ball, the other one cupping David’s cheek as they leaned in for the kiss to end all kisses. “You’re my... you’re my sweetest thing.”

I must’ve been thinking something too, something to the tune of Well, what am I, chopped liver? (for NO reason, I assure you, I guarantee you) because suddenly I had two pairs of eyes on me. I saw as Nightingale and David exchanged a long and silent look.

“We... should probably put this thing down for now,” David said, his voice straining to feign lightness.

“Aha, yes,” Nightingale agreed. He still had his spare arm around David, and a bit of that rattled look about him that I suppose people have when their loved ones have just come out of being kidnapped. “Here, Peter, why don’t you hold on to it?”

I took the accursed object from them, tucked it under my arm, and then I left them to it, switched my phone back on and called Stephanopoulos, informing her that it was okay for her team to head in now.

----

I spotted the former abductees sitting out front later, having been dispensed a shock blanket each, David primly sipping his conciliatory cup of tea and chatting to Ms. Watley about what types of fae there were. I heard him offer to take her ‘round to some demi-monde pubs, if they still existed, which in all left her almost more grateful than saving her from the kidnapping. Disenfranchised fae, I thought, and wondered how many there might be out there. People with no connection to the demi-monde as such, people on their own wondering why the fuck they were so much weirder than everyone around them. I decided to bring that up with Beverley, who had a heart for stuff like that.

Not at all deterrent to the raised spirits was the presence of Nightingale, who hung about with David’s hand tucked into his and most reluctant to leave his side for anything, even when Stephanopoulos stepped up and demanded he head back with her for signing off on the arrest we’d made.

“No,” he said and it jolted me. Nightingale didn’t, I knew that, always love the Job, but he’d always unswervingly done it nonetheless.

Apparently it jolted Stephanopoulos too, because she said, “What?”

“No,” Nightingale repeated. “I’d rather be staying right here, if you don’t mind.”

“I get it, I do,” Stephanopoulos said. “But I sort of have to mind. Paperwork won’t do itself.”

“There will be time for that.” Nightingale picked up David’s hand in both his own and held it against his chest.

“Thomas...” Stephanopoulos shook her head and sighed. “Don’t make me dial Alexander.”

David had watched the exchange attentively. Now he gave Nightingale a light nudge. “Go do your duty, Tom. I’ll be fine here. And later on you can come by and slip under my shock blanket.”

Nightingale went as far as to lean against him again. “David, you’ve been abducted.”

“And? I’m about four weeks shy of a war zone, I didn’t overly mind a botched abduction.” David took another sip of his complimentary tea, looking truly unbothered. He then passed the cup to Nightingale. “Here. You seem to have some need of it.”

Nightingale did go then, but he also took the tea.

I saw them together again later, not actually sharing the shock blanket, but passing a cigarette back and forth. They were touching shoulders, supporting each other. I didn’t approach them. This was not a moment for me to take part in.

...Which was alright.

[mattness]

Space Dementia

Another chapter is here! Pleasant reading!  Hope you enjoy and always...  Sorry for mistakes and stupid typos OTP: Jennifer Wright/Robert Grey /////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Chapter XIII.

The cold wind chilled her to the bone, making shiver. Slowly began drizzle and heavy gray clouds covered the sky. Jennifer hugged herself around the shoulders with the regret of not brought to the cemetery warm shirt. Gradually, all the friends and acquaintances who knew Chester Wright gathered. There weren't that many people, but Jen was pleased that they had decided to come and honor her father. To her right stood was Tyra, who had opened her umbrella as everyone else had done. The priest began to say a prayer, standing at the head of the closed coffin, on top of which lay flowers.

The warm fabric of coat fell over Jennifer's shoulders, and she immediately looked at the man who decided to share his thing. The girl gratefully smiled Robert, who is also still came. He pursed his lips, hugging Jen's shoulders and trying to warm her. Wright sighed heavily, clinging to him. Tears again dimmed eyes, should have listened to the speech of the priest. She felt so useless and empty, as if she had been ripped off a vital part of her soul. And how to cope with everything now? How to live without seeing every day the kind father's eyes and his smile? How to live without his support and funny jokes? What will she do now? There's no need to rush home where there's no one else. There was no need to stay in that damned Derry who had taken everything she loved from her. Jennifer thought about what the old house would, where repairs have not yet been completed, for sale. With the money, she would go to New York and quit the magazine to get a small advance. Here is so vacation have… Then the girl will go somewhere in Pennsylvania or California. She wanted to get as far away from past as possible to start living anew. Yes, it would be necessary to part with Robert, who was already clinging to her heart, but Jen thought it would be better. Better for both of them.

The brunette was distracted from her thoughts, suddenly noticed among the crowd of people in black suits familiar dark red hair. The wrinkled woman looked down at Jen's blue eyes and pursed her plump lips. Jen could not believe what Mary Wheeler arrived on the scene. Her heart sank painfully with the realization that she had seen her mother for the first time almost eleven years later. She hasn't been here all this time, and now she's decided to come to her ex-husband's funeral. Jennifer was very confused. Shouldn't Mary not care about her own past, the ex-husband she ran away from? She ran away and left him alone with a little girl, determined to live another life. This act Jen will never forgive her, even if she pleads on her knees.

After the coffin was lowered into the grave and everyone threw a handful of earth, everyone began to disperse. Wright decided to go to his mother and find out what the hell is she doing here. The girl let go of Robert's hand, who was heading for the car.

"Jennifer, are you coming?" Grey asked in surprise.

"Yeah. I'll be there in a couple of minutes", the girl said, trying not to lose sight of Mary. "Wait for me?"

"All right", Robert nodded.

Jen said goodbye to Tyra, who took a taxi to her house, and quickly climbed the hill, noticing the red-haired woman among the tombstones. She walked slowly between the graves, thinking about something of her own. Mary paused beside the tree, wiping the tears from her face with her black-gloved hand. Mrs. Wheeler's daughter approached her cautiously from behind, stopping a few yards away and hesitating to come closer.

"What are you doing here, mother?" Jennifer asked first, what made Mary turn around.

She smiled sadly as she looked at her noticeably grown-up daughter. Jennifer grew up a true beauty, she thought.

Jen frowned, crossing her arms.

"I loved Chester, Jennifer", Wheeler admitted in a slightly husky voice.

"And that's why you decided to show up at his funeral? Eleven years later?" the brunette began to get angry. "Without ever calling and asking how your own daughter is doing? What a strange love you have."

"It's much more complicated than you think, Jen", the woman tried to justify herself, taking an uncertain step toward her.

"Not necessary now to justify it to me!" Jen cried out indignantly, clasping her hands. "I don't know what was going on in your head when you decided to leave me with my father, and I don't want to know! You're ran away like a cowardly bitch, leaving everything behind, and for what? To show up eleven fucking years later and say it's a more complicated?!"

"Jennifer, please..."

"You're were never a mother to me and never will be, despite the fact that you're the only one left from my entire family", firmly and coldly said the girl, gritting her teeth. "The people who truly loved me and cared for me are now in their graves! And you're dead to me immediately, as soon as you're went over the threshold of our house. So you'd better go now, like you're did years ago."

Mary pursed her lips, feeling the tears running down her cheeks. The rain increased, and there was a loud clap of thunder in the sky. Jen adjusted the coat on his shoulders and decided to go back to Robert's car. The girl took one last look at her mother, whom she would probably never see again, and left. Jen got into the dark blue car, handing Grey his coat. He breathed in the smell of rain and the familiar bitter pain of Jennifer's conversation with her mother. Robert made a worried face and looked at the girl, who wiped her eyes and bit her lower lip. She looked down guiltily, not wanting him to see her like this. In fact, he didn't know what to say to comfort her. He had imagined how people comforted each other, but he had never tried it himself. Robert could scarcely restrain himself from breaking into a pleased smile as he absorbed the girl's negative feelings. Jennifer began to bite her lip nervously, shivering in spite of herself. No, not from the cold outside. From cold being between her and Robert. She'd never felt this way around him before, despite the fact that he'd been on her doorstep a lot lately. Maybe it was Jen's sudden depression, but there was nothing she could do about it. Robert wanted them to continue dating, kissing and making love more often, but Jennifer was grieving and he didn't seem to understand. When Grey reached out to kiss her one night, the brunette made it clear that she was not to be touched. The girl freaked out and yelled at him, in the end she burst into tears. He tried to comfort her, and after that moment they only hugged occasionally. Wright snapped out of her reverie as Robert reached for the key in the ignition. The car's engine started, and Grey pressed the gas pedal smoothly, twisting the steering wheel. The car drove down the wet road to Derry, straight to Jennifer's house. Finally, the Aston Martin parked in front of the garage of a familiar house, and she sighed heavily, glancing at Robert. "Not coming in?" Jen asked him cautiously. She wanted him to spend a little more time with her. Even when he was just around, it really did get easier. Still, without the support of Tyra and Robert, Jennifer would hardly have coped with all that in an instant fell on her fragile shoulders. For the past two weeks, while the funeral was being prepared, Wright had barely kept herself from doing something to herself. "No", Robert said rather sharply as he watched the wipers clear the water from the car's windshield. "I have a lot of work to do."

"Can't you come tonight?" Jen asked cautiously, tears stinging her eyes. Her heart pounded in chest at the feel of the end beginning. The girl once again wanted to throw a tantrum, but skillfully restrained herself.

"I'm sorry, Jen," he said, finally looking at her.

"Do you resent me for that quarrel?"  the girl laughed nervously, frowning. "Robert, don't you see I can't-... My father has just died! I have no family left! I'm alone. What do you want from me?" "To let them go..." the man gritted his teeth, and Wright saw reddish spots begin to appear in his green eyes.

"Robert, it's not as easy as you think! You sound like you've never lost anyone, but I know you haven't", she gasped, barely able to keep from screaming. "If all you want from me is sex, we should break up. The sooner the better."

"I didn't say that, Jennifer!"

"But your actions prove otherwise!" the brunette raised her voice and jumped out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Treacherous tears poured streams down her cheeks, and hatred of herself and Robert in this moment was overwhelming from the inside.

"Jennifer!"

"Go away, Robert", Jen said, turning to see Grey walking toward her. The rain was getting heavier by the minute, and they were standing in the middle of Jennifer's front lawn. The girl managed to get wet through, continuing to cry. Robert carefully closed the distance between them to a single step. "I'm sorry", he said suddenly.

"For what?" Wright asked, wiping her eyes.

"I was wrong. I'm willing to wait as long as I can just to be with you", he said, and he smiled faintly at Jen, who looked suddenly hopeful. The brunette sighed heavily and ran a hand through her wet hair.

"Robert, I'm going to sell this house and leave Derry." Grey frowned, not understanding. Had his beloved Jenni decided to run away? Would she fall head over heels in love and leave him? So weird. Did he do something wrong? Was there a flaw in the plan that he missed? His thoughts raced madly in his head, trying to find a reasonable solution to the problem. It was too early to move on to the last points, and especially to drag her into the sewers to the main lair. God, why is this so bad timing? It made him angry. "Where are you going?" the man asked, peering into the blue eyes opposite.

"Probably California", Jen admitted. "I can't stay here any longer, and I can't stay in New York, either... I'd rather start a new life away from my memories." Robert gritted his teeth as blood began to fill his mouth. He swallowed and took the last step between them. Jennifer watched him closely.

"So you'll leave everything? Me too?"

"I don't think you'd follow me halfway around the world", she snorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "If you're telling the truth... Then come with me." Grey turned away from her, thinking. In Derry he could eat without fear of the police on his trail. He had caused about twenty people to go missing in Derry in the past three weeks, but the law enforcement agencies were still not going to do anything about it. People were reported missing, and Robert calmly continued to eat. He didn't know if he should run somewhere else, if he was happy enough here. And whether it is necessary to continue to stalk Jennifer? Continue to ingratiate himself and play the fool in love? Maybe, just now, to snap her neck and calmly to eat? He looked again at the girl, who was waiting for some answer. Robert looked down at the pulse beating in her thin neck, feeling no hunger. The beast inside didn't react. What was wrong with him? "I'll think about it, Jenni", Grey said quietly, and Jen nodded. He pulled her to him and lowered his mouth to hers. Wright opened her mouth for a kiss, and Robert gently covered hers. Without thinking, Jen answered and ran her fingers through the man's hair. This resolution of their quarrel satisfied her, and for the first time Robert felt real pleasure in the kiss. He ran his thumbs gently over the brunette's cheekbones, not wanting her to leave. Jennifer pulled back, noticing for the first time the gleam of her own emotions in his green eyes. She seemed to have one reason for staying in Derry after all. Wright took a step back and said softly:

"I'll call you when I decide where I'm going."

Robert nodded, watching her go. As soon as she was out the door, he sighed and went back to the car.

The Aston Martin pulled onto the road and headed straight for Neibolt street. Robert felt a mixture of anger and anger at himself. He gripped the steering wheel of the car and felt his fingernails dig into his skin, leaving a trail of blood.

The rain outside was a downpour.

The car pulled into a vacant lot near an abandoned house, hiding behind bushes and trees so as not to attract anyone's attention. Robert jumped out of the car, slamming the door, and in no time was in the old ruin. The anger continued to swell. His eyes turned bright orange, nervously searching for something to grab. His heart was pounding, a guttural howl coming from within. A strange pain began to compress everything to microscopic size.

Grey turned into his favorite clown as he paced the empty house, kicking up dust with every step. Pennywise snarled and whined and clutched at his red hair for safety. He could not understand what was happening to him.

The clown, swaying unnaturally from side to side, came into the room with the long-rotted piano and instantly turned it upside down. The piano fell with a terrible crash, breaking the floor beneath it. Pennywise continued to whimper, banging the dusty piano lid with his fist. Such despair and pain he's not experienced long. It was as if he had been deprived of his only source of food. The clown immediately awoke from his delusion, thinking that satiation would help to calm him down. He quickly ran to the old refrigerator, which sometimes put the remains of meat victims. But as soon as he opened the door, flies flew out: the meat was covered with mold, already beginning to rot. Pennywise growled angrily, aware that he was not hungry. The pain continued to drive him mad.

The clown sank to the floor, legs spread wide. He whined like a dog his master had thrown into the street. An unpleasant salty liquid stung his eyes and spoiled all the makeup, and painted lips and then trembled. Pennywise could not understand what had happened to him.

"Damn girl!", the killer clown suddenly realized, screaming and banging his fists on the floor. This is all her fault! Her! He knew.

He knew it was a bad idea. And now he couldn't even attack her. What had she done to him? What?! Pennywise clutched at his red hair, wondering how to get rid of the wretched woman for whom he now had strange feelings. How to get rid of these feelings? Maybe once she was out of town, he'd feel better. Maybe without her, he would go back to his normal routine entirely.

Pennywise's red hair was fading, turning dark brown again. The makeup drained from his face and was gone. Lush clothing in the style of the Victorian era was transformed into a modern expensive dark suit. The clown was gone, bringing back the image of Robert Grey, who had struggled to his feet and wiped the wet tracks of tears from his face. He sniffed loudly and decided to go back to the other house, where he could think better. * * *  Jen felt terribly broken after what had happened. Everything reminded her of father. It was almost unbearable to be at home. Here was the scent of a loved one and everything reminded her of him. Tears rolled down her cheeks every day, and she often sat on the sofa in front of the TV, as her father liked, and clutched her head, trying to restrain another fit of hysteria. Pain clenched her insides, biting into skin in sharp shards. Her heart was bleeding, and no one could help. Jennifer felt more broken and depressed than she had ever felt before. Tyra came to see her. She was saying something, trying to get her out of this terrible state for a couple of hours at least. Jennifer appreciated her friend's concern, but nothing helped. The world has acquired a grey tone. Every day in Derry was a dull, gloomy day, no different from any other. Nothing happened, and everything ceased to matter. No one seemed to be able to help her. Jen knew she should have handled it herself. But no forces already on this not was. There was no strength left to stand firm, to withstand all the blows of fate. One evening she was sitting on the sofa again, once again clutching her head. Tears dripped silently from her nose onto the soft carpet, and soft sobs filled the living room. Jen was completely oblivious to Robert's arrival in the house. Unlike Tyra, he hadn't been here as often since the conversation on the day of the funeral. But Wright was grateful that he had dared to come at all. Robert paused in the doorway of the living room, noticing Jennifer, who looked like a little girl who had been hurt. The man sighed and walked into the room, sitting down on the floor in front of her and stroking his knees to make himself felt. Jen gave another sob as she looked into the worried green eyes. Grey pressed his forehead against hers, trying to convey his sympathy. Or rather, he tried to pretend. Jennifer was too depressed to analyze anything now, and Robert was taking advantage of her. She began to cry again, and Grey immediately sat down on the sofa, holding her tightly in his arms. Jen nuzzled his neck, trying to calm herself. She could feel Robert gently rocking her like a small child, stroking her back. He radiated an incredible warmth that warmed her and made her feel safe. She believed that Robert would not let her drown in the terrible ocean of pain that filled her. * * *  As she packed a large suitcase, Jennifer kept track of the number of flights leaving Bangor for other States in the coming days. The first thing to do was to go to New York, where she would have a serious talk with Mrs. Johnson. Jen had already written to tell her she was coming. Last night, Wright escorted Tyra back to Los Angeles. A friend for a long time did not agree to leave, not believing that the brunette will be able to cope with everything herself. Thanks to the realtor, buyers for the house turned up pretty quickly. Less than a month later, the man informed Wright that the house was about to be sold to a small, happy family with two children. They examined the future home and were satisfied with everything. The girl was glad when got her hands on revenue for the house. Now it was safe to leave Derry, where all the memories of his childhood and his father and grandmother would remain. Her heart sank painfully, reminding her of Robert, whom she had seen the other day. Grey don't said whether he wanted to go with her or not. He had simply spent the evening with her in silence, lost in his own thoughts. And Jen didn't mind. Them both hard. She could tell by the way Robert held her hands tightly each time. They just sat in each other's arms all night without saying a word. Jen fell asleep, listening to the steady heartbeat in Grey's chest as he stared gravely into the distance... An insistent knock on the door jerked her out of reverie. She looked up from her suitcase and hurried downstairs, hoping to find Robert on the doorstep. But she was disappointed when it wasn't Robert. Three men stood in the doorway. One of them was holding up a police badge. Jennifer frowned, not understanding. "I'm David Ross", the man in the beige coat said, "a private detective who arrived in Derry three weeks ago."  "Hello..." Jen said uncertainly. "Did I break something?"  "No, miss Wright. May we go inside?" She nodded uncertainly, letting in a private detective and two plainclothes policemen. She closed the front door and went into the kitchen, where they decided to settle law enforcement. Mr. Ross motioned Jan to a chair, motioning her to sit down. The brunette obediently sat down, folding her hands on the table. "What is it, detective?" Wright asked, still not understanding. Two police officers decided to inspect the house while the detective conducted the interrogation. Jennifer frowned, realizing that these fellows didn't even have a search warrant. She wanted to protest, but didn't, because the detective was talking: "Do you know that about thirty people have gone missing in Derry in the last month?" "I heard about it", she said confidently, embarrassed.   "Miss Wright, please listen to me," David said quietly, sitting down across the table from her. "I came to Derry at the request of the local chief of police to investigate the matter. The previous detective who worked on him is on the missing persons list, and the goonies here still can't find the killer. That's why I'm here." She still didn't understand. How did the police get her mixed up in this? Jen certainly didn't know who the killer was. The girl even TV-not really watching. Only at work in the store, and even then, they are constantly turned on music channels to distract visitors. "The police have a missing persons report on Riley Briggs, who worked in the same store as you", the detective went on.  "I thought Riley quit. The authorities didn't say a word about the missing girl", Jennifer said honestly, dreading what might have happened to the high school girl dropout.  "I got a lead", Ross said honestly, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "It leads to the house at 29 Neibolt street. Just the other day, several operatives searched the house and came across human remains." The girl involuntarily covered her mouth hand.  "I think we're dealing with a cannibal who's changing his location. The same missing persons were reported to the Philadelphia and New York police. The only place we found a lead was in Derry", the man explained. "Why are we here, miss Wright? Because we have three people who are alleged suspects in this case." The other two officers returned to the kitchen as the detective took three photographs from his coat pocket. She frowned as she saw two unfamiliar faces and one damned familiar. Robert Grey. The detective seems to have snapped a picture of him as he got into his car, in the Parking lot of Derry's biggest shopping centre. Robert frowned at the glare of the sun, staring off into the distance. "Do you know any of them?" the brunette immediately guessed that it was just a leading question with a test. Lie or not.  "I know Robert", Wright said honestly, pointing to his picture. "We're... just friends."  "Pretty close friends".  The next picture on the table was of Grey standing in the same parking lot, his arm around Jennifer, leaning down to kiss her.  "You’re followed us?" she said, feeling her temper rise. "A necessary measure", the detective explained, clearing his throat. "About Mr. Grey. Did you notice anything strange about him? Did he talk to you about his hobbies or his love of anything extraordinary?"  "No. Robert is just an ordinary man, just like you and me", Jen said, not really knowing who she was protecting. "He wouldn't hurt a fly, and what about people?"   "I see", said Mr. Ross, clearing away the photographs and preparing to leave. "Thank you for answering my questions and listening, Ms. Wright. Good day." She closed the door behind them, frowning. Again strange thought about Robert have filled head. Maybe what she was accusing him of was true? Jennifer was confused, completely confused about the man she loved. She went up to the second floor, still packing. Maybe tomorrow she could talk to him about the missing. Jen doubted Grey knew anything about the dead. She hoped to the last that he had nothing to do with it.

[fly-pow-bye]

DuckTales 2017 - “Treasure of the Found Lamp!”

Story by: Francisco Angones, Madison Bateman, Colleen Evanson, Christian Magalhaes, Bob Snow

Written by: Christian Magalhaes

Storyboard by: Jean-Sebastien Duclos, Mike Morris, Sam King

Directed by: Jason Zurek

Part 1 of the big catch-up!

This episode's title is going to bring our hopes up a lot, since it's an outright reference to Treasure of the Lost Lamp, the movie for the original DuckTales. I am sorry to admit, I did not watch that movie. I will defend myself by saying that most of this cartoon's target audience is not familiar with it, either.

With that aside, let's see what this reboot does with a certain character from that movie, as the episode starts out with him.

We see this cloaked man making a long trek, traveling through a desert via a motorcycle, sneaking into a boat, and jumping across trees. It's a pretty powerful opening, I'm not going to lie, these are some pretty dynamic scenes, and a great introduction to this character.

It turns out that this stranger was heading towards the McDuck Manor, as he reveals himself to a red hat/sleeping cap hybrid wearing boy brushing his teeth. I did learn two things: ducks do have serrations on their bills that happen to look like teeth, and Googling "duck teeth" is not recommended. Huey is so used to this, that he immediately calls for Uncle Scrooge to ask what his visitor wants. Cue the theme song.

The next morning, they all gather together for this intruder to introduce himself. This is the reboot's version of Dijon, or Faris Djinn as he's called here. From what I've heard, not only does he has a very different personality and morality from the original, he's not even the original character in-name-only. Let's just say he never loses his pants in this one. He did lose one thing, though.

)

TThe main point of him being here is that he was sworn to protect the Lamp of the First Genie, a clear reference to the titular lamp from the old movie, and he needs to find it. The major difference is this journey to get the lamp was already done, as Scrooge found the lamp and placed it somewhere in his manor. That's why this episode is called Treasure of the Found Lamp, after all.

We see Louie and Scrooge trying to find it somewhere deep in the garage. Louie does manage to find a chest filled with a bunch of lamps, including the Ferryman's Flame, a lamp that acts as a portal to the land of the dead. Unlike most of the items he has found, Scrooge found nothing supernatural about the lamp, and saw it as a mere "cheap bobble". Djinn seems to disagree throughout the episode, which does add some intrigue to the object of the week.

Once Scrooge gives a description, Louie at least recognizes what it could be. That's the good news, and the bad news can be read right from his worried facial expression. They decide to tell Djinn at least the partial truth: they lost the lamp.

Yeah, that was not what he wanted to hear, as he starts to slash through the house, saying he'll raise this home for it, brick by brick! I love this guy's dramatic flair, and I won't be alone even in-universe. Left with no choice, Scrooge and the kids decide to come up with a story he would accept. In short: it must have been stolen by the Greek gods! It's clear they're making this up on the fly...

...but Djinn buys it completely, and, not phased by the aspect of having to travel all the way to Ithaquack to get it, begins the great fake quest for the Lamp. The real quest will be put on the triplets, because Scrooge reveals to them and the viewers that Louie told him he sold it.

While he's away at Ithaquack, the triplets are tasked to do the actual quest for the lamp, which won't nearly be as fantastic. It's like this mystery, where people have these alibis of what happened, and the first stop is Louie.

Louie decided to take the lamp, because Scrooge didn't care about lamps without genies or portals to the dead in them, and decided to sell it at a garage sale. About a few minutes into this garage sale, he gets bored, so he decided to give the job to Duckworth. I would think having a ghost would scare away many potential customers, but that's Louie for you. Huey scolds him for being so lazy, while Dewey makes this prose about having to confront the soul without a soul. He's desperate to find a role in this episode, and trying to act like Djinn is not a bad one.

If only there was some mystical item that can guide them through it, like a flame of some sort. Louie might have an idea about one, and I'm glad to see it wasn't just some random gag that didn't really have a joke.

They make it to Ithaquack, and Webby guides them. Djinn seems to take all of this seriously, as if this kid knows all the secrets. Well, she mostly does, but he wouldn't know that. To him, the Ifrit’s Dawn is coming, and if he doesn't have the lamp, the consequences will be dire. Mostly in his words, he has this dramatic flair throughout the episode.

One major aspect of this episode is that there's a few returning characters in this, including Selene, the Goddess of the Moon, who decided to take the job as an actress for this charade. She had a big deadly temple, and she had to use it. She's not the only one, either.

Turns out, Charybdis is happy to play a part in this charade, too. You know, the big monster that turned out to be a nice person once people don't want the sword he was guarding. He's not a good actor, as he constantly has to ask for his lines from Webby. Eventually, this leads to Djinn, unphased by his poor acting but phased by his stalling, desperately slashing at this monster, while the monster complains that this wasn't a part of the script. Selene doesn't seem to be good at improv, either, seems to be a thing with the residents here.

While Scrooge, Webby, and anyone they can coax into this elaborate stalling can deal with Djinn, the triplets use their plan to get Duckworth to tell them his side of the story: use that Ferryman's Flame from a few scenes ago! See, there was a point to showing that. After accidentally unleashing a dragon, mostly so there would be some sort of tease before the commercial break, Duckworth appears.

Duckworth: (in his demon form) How dare you interrupt my long overdue vacation!

However, he does regain his composure and his usual form once they ask about the lamp. He tells his story.

He says this fellow bought it, with a $20 bill that managed to land right in his empty wallet right when he opened it. Even the triplets know only one guy has that much luck.

Gladstone Gander has been lucky enough, yeah, I had to say that, to be in a few cameo appearances, but this is the first time he gets more than that since his first episode. It wasn't like he was a likable character, intentionally so, but it's neat to see him back.

One of the best bits is when he offers the kids all of the valuables he accidentally came across, like winning lottery tickets, and a bunch of diamonds he found in a bag of ice, and Louie tells him there's no time for such things...as he pockets some of the diamonds.

He traded it to some rich kid with a treehouse with really, really sticky fingers. The triplets realize in fear of the only person that could possibly fit that description.

So yeah, the triplets parts can pretty much be summed up like this: the character does one gag, the triplets get their next big hint, go to the next location, repeat. It's more mundane than the other part, but it's not not nearly as interesting since everyone just gives them the information without much trouble.

Speaking of the other part, as Djinn got past the monster, Webby has moved on to the Appendix B of her great quest: the riddle of the Minotaur! Scrooge and Selene have to team up for this one, doing the classic "two people in the same suit" gag. They come up with a riddle so hard, Djinn couldn't possibly come up with the answer.

I am more powerful than the gods

more evil than the demons

the poor have me

the rich need me

and if you eat me, you shall die.

He may be naive enough to believe this is a minotaur and not a Halloween costume, but he proves almost immediately after being told this riddle that he's smart enough to know the answer to that one. I wouldn't want to spoil the answer to this riddle, so I'm saying nothing.

...

Aw, phooie.

I will say this episode does a decent job at balancing these two plots, though in different ways. There's more comedy in Djinn's parts, while the triplets just deal with...Doofus Drake. If one doesn't know, they completely changed Doofus's character to this weird spoiled and sheltered kid nobody wants to hang around with. He's not a pleasant character, needless to say, and their reactions to having to go to Doofus Drake's house give people who didn't watch his debut episode an idea of that.

Once we see him, he outright proves that idea, as he forces the boys to watch his hour-long Theremin performance, while his parents are forced to dance to it. It takes him a while to realize what they mean by "lamp", because he knew it syrup boat. Thankfully without any attempt to kidnap the boys to be his one true friend, he reveals that he threw it away, because his father's hands worked better. The context will not help you.

On the plus side, the triplets now have a good answer for Scrooge McDuck, because they know it must be at the junkyard, the home of the Beagle Boys. Well, okay, it usually goes to a landfill, but we do see a Beagle Boy on the truck, so it could be just a good assumption. It's a good thing they got to this, because his quiz is starting to run on Djinn's patience. It probably doesn't help that he's using a joke book now. It’s too bad we don’t hear how he solves those "riddles". "The chicken wanted to get to the other side, of course!"

Selene tells Djinn, reading from a card Scrooge gave her, that Ma Beagle stole it, and they have to go all the way back to Duckworth. It's funny how the Goddess of the Moon is relegated to poorly acting how the lamp was stolen while he was busy with the minotaur. After so many questions from a "Minotaur" who was definitely not stalling him, this poor acting, and how this "Ma Beagle" was able to sneak past him, does he buy it?

Short answer: yes, he does. Maybe he doesn't suspect a thing, or maybe the importance of getting the lamp outweighed everything else. One can interpret that in any way, really, though the former seems a little more likely.

They come up to the landfill/junkyard where the Beagle Boys live. As soon as Ma Beagle hears that this lamp is called the Lamp of the First Genie, her interest gets piqued immediately. She wants better kids, much to the chagrin of the Boys.

Djinn finds out that the lamp was discarded in the trash, and it is here that Djinn finally makes the connection that maybe that whole quest was just a diversion. He asks Scrooge if it was true, and Louie admits that it was, and that Scrooge tells him nothing.

Oh no, it's one of those Liar Revealed scenes. Got to prepare for that five minutes of moping, and then Djinn realizes, hey, the journey might have been bunk, but getting the lamp is more important.

Djinn: For the lamp!

(Djinn jumps down and attacks a Beagle Boy)

Okay, never mind, he thankfully skips to the end of that. He really wants that lamp, or dire consequences will happen! No time for moping!

A fight scene ensues between Djinn, Scrooge, and the Beagle Boys, including Big Time and Bouncer Beagle making appearances. It would have been cool to see the Tuggle Bums or the Black Arts Beagle, but sadly, there's just the generic red shirts. I don't believe I saw Burger either, maybe they couldn't find something for him to do.

Hmm, a lamp on top of a pile that looks like the hill Scrooge and Glomgold climbed up in the original's intro. One can easily guess where that is going, and that's not a bad aspect at all. Who manages to take the lamp? Is the lamp really supernatural? You’re just going to have to watch the episode for yourself. It did feel like a giant cop-out at first, but an explanation did make it a lot better.

How does it stack up?

I found this episode entertaining. Both plots led to interesting places and characters that were nice to see again, there's a lot of jokes I left out of this review that are pretty funny, and Djinn is a pretty good character with a bit of potential. I wouldn't wish for anything better.

Next, we see another character that hasn't been seen in a while.

← The Shorts 🦆 The Outlaw Scrooge McDuck! →

[nicholaspopkey]

A letter to Caro

Dear Caro,

Hoping to respond in some adequacy to your beautiful letter (see below), I’d first like to point out the irony of two millennials writing to each other in this ancient yet digitized form of correspondence. While you and I have exchanged postcards in the past, does this fact exempt us from having to put pen to paper to create letters? Does this posting count as a letter, or is "letter" just a label?

Thoughts coming to me now, hardly relevant. As for teaching me the word tenido, I couldn't thank you enough. It made me think of 'he tenido,' which of course means 'I have had.' It was funny to me, because a tenido is something I have never had. My references for the softness and satisfaction of such a settee come from fond memories of blanket forts I made as a kid. The euphoria of collapsing onto your plush daybed in its enveloping coziness! 

Your letter felt like a childhood memory focusing soft to sharp. I could listen for ages to your descriptions of rainy days, their 'heavy sheets' and the 'cold seeping in,' as well as more stories from your past detailing your appreciation for precipitation.

I understand your frustration with a lack of female representation in both required and popular reading. I agree that female authors should be prioritized and celebrated just as much as male authors. Unfortunately, opportunities to become an author continue to abound much greater for men than for women. It was powerful to read you come to the realization that even your own list of favorites would be majority male if stretched out long enough, since the numbers are so far in their favor. The goal you made to try and discover more female authors is commendable and should be pursued. 

As it turns out, Agatha Christie, like Sylvia Plath, had a husband who put her through very difficult circumstances. Her disappearance, motivated by her adulterous husband asking for a divorce, was seen by the public not as a reaction to an unhappy relationship but, rather unfairly, as a publicity stunt. Murder On The Orient Express is now at the top of my list. On the same list of best-selling fiction authors, I stumbled upon Barbara Cartland, another woman I didn't hear about growing up. She was a famous romance novelist who holds the Guinness World Record for most novels published in one year.

My dad stocked the fridge with a Costco-pack of kombucha. It was a really sweet gesture, because he knows I love this bohemian tonic. Normally I'd wonder as to how I could finish them all by the time I go back to L.A., but I'll be here until the 29th, so I know it's enough time. He's enlisted my help moving furniture around the house as he redesigns his study. My dad has a pet rat named Monty, who originally belonged to my sister. She couldn't take him with her from Boise to Santa Barbara, because her roommate didn't want to live with a rat. This roommate is quite another story altogether. As she gears up to move out, their relationship sputters with drama and turmoil. Monty climbs around in a cage in my dad's living room next to the lawyer's bookcase, filled with his rarest anthologies. 

So far I've seen my mom twice. Today at the bookstore we shared a cappuccino, then ended up sitting in her rental car discussing gift ideas, the lighter side of some extended-family dynamics, and plans for ten years from now. We're driving to Tetonia, ID on Saturday to visit her mother, my grandmother. My sister will also be there, although my aunt, who recently had her first successful art show in fifteen years, will be staying in Boise to paint. She said the sales from the show disappeared pretty quickly, so financial burdens must be weighing heavily on her at the moment, although she happens to be working a lot, as well as making art. I’m happy to be home. Looking forward to hearing back from you.

With love, 

Nick

@carolovesapples

______________________________________________________________________

RE:

Dear Nick,

I have set my timer for one hour, and I am beginning by writing you this letter. I’ve brought out all the fluffy blankets in my apartment (I have three, total) and folded them neatly in a tendido on the floor. A tendido, in case you weren’t aware, is a pile of blankets, usually folded in half, which act as a makeshift mattress so you can sleep on the floor comfortably. Quilts, comforters, and sleeping bags can also be used. Air mattresses do not count, as they too closely resemble an actual bed. So here I am, sitting on my tendido in front of my bookcase. It is raining, and I’ve been watching tv all day. I’ve opened my blinds and the windows so I can hear the rainfall outside. It’s lessened now to more of a trickle, but just a second ago it was really “coming down out there”! 

I recently watched the movie Paddington, in which a rare bear from Darkest Peru travels to London and finds a home (much like I intend to do, one day). In preparation for his journey to England, he learned 107 different ways to say, “its raining!”, one of which is “perfect weather for ducks”, which is my personal favorite as ducks are my favorite animal. So, here in Los Angeles, it is perfect weather for ducks, and for that reason I am sitting down on my tendido in front of my bookshelves perusing three books: 

1. On Filmmaking, by Alexander MacKendrick

2. Notes on the Cinematograph, by Robert Bresson, a French director, and

3. How to Win Friends and Influence People, by the one and only Dale Carnegie.

It’s not really about the books, of course. It’s about the rain. When I was little, on rainy days we used to open the garage door and the back of my mom’s minivan, and we would sit in the trunk and watch it come down. My dad would make hot chocolate, and we’d watch the rain, pouring down in gray sheets on our little street. Rainy days have always been my favorite days. They’re the best days for reading, when the cold seeps into the house and you curl up with a book and fluffy socks and a bag of hot Cheetos. They’re also great for writing, because as anyone who has ever listened to Florence + the Machine knows, water is one of the most poetic concepts there is. And then there’s photography, of course. The lighting on rainy, gloomy days has always been my favorites. In fact, every time I’ve traveled to a new place I’ve loved, it’s been raining. New York, Boston, Park City, Minnesota, London. I feel at home in the rain. It’s a familiar comfort. Maybe it was the novelty of a rainy day in Southern California, but they have never ceased to feel special to me. Additionally, rain means I can wear my rain boots and step in puddles, and my yellow raincoat, and I can feel as close to Paddington Bear as I ever will. If you take away anything from this letter, it should definitely be that Paddington Bear is my new hero. 

I’ve an announcement. It is this: in between ending the previous paragraph and starting this one, that I took a quick break because it occurred to me that I still hadn’t read your post on “The Mind’s Free Market” and now having done so I am feeling: very proud, and impressed, and quite frankly, rather envious. But mostly proud and impressed, those are the important emotions. The envy is a thing I feel often when I encounter good writing. It is a good sort of envy, one that pushes me to be better. The thought process goes like this: I’ll read something that resonates (or hear it), and my mind will be blown that the author could so perfectly capture the thought or feeling that their writing evoked in me. Perhaps I am putting the cart in front of the horse here: I am reacting to what is written and marveling at how the author created that reaction in me, when in reality, I will react however I will react and then attribute it to them. They couldn’t have known I would think one way or another about it, but the important part is that any good writing will pull from you some sort of emotional reaction. 

Side note: Yesterday I was hanging out with a friend who didn’t know who Sylvia Plath was, and that made me simultaneously sad for both him and the American education system. To expand: why is it that the majority of writers we study in middle school and high school are mainly men, if not all? I am trying to think about it and I cannot remember a single female writer we read before I went to college. I know why it is, of course, as the accomplishments of men have always been much lauded over the accomplishments of women in any field, but it is still incredibly frustrating. 

As I finished typing, Maya Angelou’s name came to mind, but so far no others. I remember reading Hemingway and Fitzgerald and of course Shakespeare, and Albert Camus’s L’Étranger. We did read Agatha Christie in seventh grade and she remains one of my favorite authors to date (I am looking at five different novels of hers on my shelves as I type this). But we focused so much more on the male authors that no one remembers the few women we did study. I’ve mentioned Agatha Christie’s name on several occasions to various different people and nine times out of ten, no one knew who she was, which is absolutely ridiculous, especially because she is the world’s best selling author, tied only by William Shakespeare. AND as if we needed any more evidence of the women’s accomplishments being downplayed over mens, in any online list regarding the world’s best selling author you will find Shakespeare’s name listed above Christie’s even though they are both estimated to have sold from 2-4 billion books, Christie having written 85 before her death to Shakespeare’s 42. Additionally, “Agatha Christie” comes before “William Shakespeare” alphabetically, and unless someone can show me evidence that Shakespeare has sold more that Christie I see this as a great affront and a deliberate attempt to downplay women’s accomplishments in favor of a man’s. 

Update: I have looked and found that on Christie’s website it IS stated that she is outsold by only the Bible and Shakespeare, so the point is valid, but I spent a full ten minutes on my rant about their rankings so I’m leaving it in with this correction. I still would like to see empirical proof however, that Shakespeare has definitively sold more than Christie. If you subtract the number of people who bought Shakespeare solely as a class requirement, I’m sure her number would overshadow his, but I am biased. Anyways, the few people who did remember who Agatha Christie was only did so because of the remake of the film adaptation of Murder on the Orient Express that came out last year, but lets face it, it never stood a chance because the original starred Lauren Bacall and Ingrid Bergman and Albert Finney, and the remake stars Johnny Depp, who hits women. 

In closing, we should incorporate more female authors and writers into our curriculum. I’d heard of Virginia Woolf in when I was in school, but we never read her in class. We spent a week or two on Emily Dickinson. We were never read the Brontë sisters, nor Jane Austen. And they’re the more well known authors. 

Anyways, when I read Plath or García Lorca or any of my other favorite poets and authors I always feel a yearning to be able to articulate my thoughts and emotions the way they do. I will conclude this letter with a list of some of my favorite authors writers, and lyricists, in no particular order. 

Agatha Christie

Florence Welch

Sylvia Plath

Maggie Stiefvater

Mary Oliver

Albert Camus

Robert Frost

Kurt Vonnegut

Alex Turner

I have many more but I’ve arrived at an almost even number of men and women and sadly I know that if I continue there will be more men than women on my list and that makes me sad. One of my goals will be to discover more female authors in my reading. Many of my favorite female authors are young adult novelists and honestly I think they’re amazing. 

In conclusion, please read a novel by Agatha Christie. I recommend Murder on the Orient Express, Mysterious Affair at Styles, or They Do It With Mirrors, although really, you can’t go wrong with any of her titles. Additionally, please watch Paddington, it is an amazing heart warming movie. 

With love,

Caro 

@nicholaspopkey​

[wumpusandzandii]

Sparking the Pavement: Chapter One

TMNT Human!AU Storyline for Raphael x Stacey

Chapter One

Standing between the parts shelves, Stacey lip synced to the rock music blaring through the shop, busying herself with stocking the shelves with the parts order that had come in that day. Her brunette ponytail swung behind her, as she let herself get into the song, not worried about anyone seeing her. Mondays were slow, so it was just her and Jax, the shop owner and close friend of hers. As he worked on the bikes they currently had in the garage, it left her free to manage the storefront by herself. She'd been doing it for years, and it was really second nature by that point.

Swaying to the music, she reached above her head to put away some boxes on the top shelf. Dropping back flat on her feet, she spun on a heel and tugged her burgundy v-neck t-shirt back down over the waistband of her jeans and looked towards the front counter, only to stop abruptly. There was a man, a fairly large man, even by her standards of seeing bikers come through, standing by the counter.

Pushing the box she had been pulling parts out of to the side with the toe of her boot, she walked over cautiously, slightly unsettled. The bell on the door hadn't made a sound, and it was notoriously obnoxiously loud. Glancing around him as she made her way behind the counter, she saw that it still hung from the door. Clearing her throat, she smiled amicably, though she found his gaze intense, and his eyes a shade of amber she had never seen in person before.

"Sorry about that," she apologized, shifting her weight to one foot and stuffing her hands into her back pockets. "I didn't hear the door... how long have you been waiting?"

"Not long, but long enough to see you have a good taste in music." As she approached the desk, he stood back from leaning against the counter top, a small smirk creeping on to his scarred lips. As he watched her, he reached back with one hand to release the high ponytail of dreadlocks, shaking them out so they covered the scars of his left shoulder.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking over the girl in front of him to scan the shelves for parts. Almost as if he was proud to show them off, he wore a tight fitted tank top to expose the intricate tattoos down his arms, some a little dented and warped from the scars beneath. His jeans were torn, rough and ripped and messily tucked into heavy biker boots, like everything else on him they were worn. His leather jacket however was in better condition, carefully placed on the desk in front of him.

"So uh, you gonna help me out...or just stare at me?" he said in a low tone, squinting a little as he wet his lips, sharp amber eyes looking her form up and down slowly as he noticed instantly how she seemed to be in awe.

Jumping a little as a flush crept up her chest to her face, she realized too late that she indeed had been staring, trying to take in everything about the man in front of her. There was a lot to take in, in the pleasurable sort of way, and he was a damn sight better than the old grizzlies that came in for Jackson or the skinny little boys that came in for their rice burner bikes. She bit her lip and looked back at the door, trying to distract herself from the shiver-inducing sound of his voice.

"Yeah... yeah. I was just a little surprised you made it in without making that bell ring," she explained, trying to come up with an excuse. It was the truth, just not the parts that really mattered. Trying to gain her bearings, she reverted to the humor that had always served her well. "You've got yourself some ninja skills, or something. I'm impressed. What can I help you with?"

Amused by her choice of words, he let out a deep chuckle, his eyes still locked on her. They danced along her curves, taking note of the way her hair curled in places, and the quick but delicately applied way her makeup was, and how she smiled. Her smile. "I get that a lot, it's become one of my specialties," he joked along before looking back up the shelves to browse. "...and, mufflers. The ones I had got fucked over by some asshole. What brands ya got?" Eyes falling back to hers, he raises his scarred brow at her curiously, wondering if she'd actually offer him something useless unlike most 'biker chicks' he knew of and met. "Gimme somethin' I can work with."

Dropping her elbows onto the counter and propping her chin against the base of one palm, she raised an eyebrow and gave him a little smirk. She recognized the look he was giving her, she'd seen it plenty of times over the years. However, this time it didn't bother her. Unlike most other times, there was nothing condescending about it. It looked like more of a hopeful challenge.

"Well," she started, looking him up and down again, this time blatantly 'sizing him up,' as it were. "You're obviously not in the import crowd, I'm not even gonna insult you with offering those. And if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that you're not the sort that walked into a dealership and bought a shiny bauble off the showfloor and spend your weekends with turtle wax, keeping your trailer queen stock. Which I'd say safely puts you in the custom crowd."

"So!" Clapping one palm against the counter, she squinted and pursed her lips slightly. "I'm going to guess you're a dual exhaust kinda guy. We've got Rineharts, but if you ask me, they're too damn proud of themselves, but we get some rich schmucks that come in and buy 'em for the name. There are the Cobras, but they look pretty basic without the basic price. Bassani has some hot shit, but they're all over the map price wise. I'd recommend Vance & Hines, myself. They have some pretty wicked sets for good deals, and we just got a set of black ceramic short stacks in that are a steal." She watched him carefully, fairly certain she had hit her mark, but hoping she wasn't too far off base.

That was more than he had hoped to hear. Her confidence as she reeled off the brands was admirable, complete with the correct amount of trash talk and opinion of each one that matched his own. The way she did so with such a coy attitude however made him need to take a step back and admire her all over again. To really take in the gorgeous woman in front of him like he hadn’t fully done so in the first place. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious, timing it with when she looked to the ceiling as she drew names from her mind, but he had to let out a breathless exhale of air. She was stunning and her bike knowledge only cemented that statement.

He had to admit he was only half paying attention by the time she finished her speech, only picking up the keywords he needed to and bobbed his head to the side to acknowledge what she had said. “Damn, you know your stuff, girl...I’ll give ya that,” he chimed, giving her lopsided grin. “Ain’t just a pretty face…”

If it wasn’t enough to have her to impress him with bike talk, she went and knocked him for six with a smirk, looking up at him from under her eyelashes as she shrugged nonchalantly. “A girls gotta work, can’t let you boys all the fun now. So, what’s it gonna be, big guy?”

Quirking a brow, tilting his head at her only getting his expression mirrored back, he let out a huffed chuckle. She had fire, already sparks flying between them and he was a moth to a flame. Her eyes were deep and inviting, something about those emerald pools seemed so familiar yet refreshing and new. He didn’t let the thought linger though, forcing himself to actually retrieve the products he had come for, as much as he’d happily continue the staring stand-off he found himself in. All through the talks of different products, even when he was checking out each piece and comparing different models, he could feel her eyes drinking in every detail. It worked both ways. He let his eyes wander and even when she caught him he continued, enjoying silently the way her cheeks flushed and how she didn’t brush it off or even remotely change how she was moving and talking to him.

After taking his time with making a decision, drawing out everything he could and testing her knowledge again and again, he finally had what he wanted, including the part he came to the shop for. She must have know he was time wasting, but that grin as she took his card told him she didn’t mind one bit.

“So…” she started, ripping off the receipt and handing back his card, “...what do they call you?”

Slowly taking it from her hand, he caught her eyes again. “Raphael. Jus’ call me Raph. Full names are for when I’m in trouble,” he answered in a raspy tone, winking playfully as he put away his wallet, not leaving her gaze while he did so. “Do I get a name for you, darlin’?”

Something about Raph had her entirely beside herself, feeling like a teenager as she flirted with him. She even found herself rolling his name around curiously in her head, liking the sound of it, how it was just different, just like he was. Most guys that came through got their parts and went, some offended by having a woman at the counter, some apparently feeling it was somehow their need or right to flirt with her, even when she didn’t express one iota of interest in return. Occasionally she would flirt back, either to make the sale, and even more rare, it’d lead to a few drinks or an offer out, but always fizzled out. Nothing and no one had ever been like him, though. It was like electricity arcing between them, and neither one could look away for long.

“Stacey,” she answered, smirking and trying to get her goddamned blushing under control. “But I’ve been called trouble plenty, too.”

A deep laugh rumbled from him, his shoulders bobbing with mirth before he tossed his dreadlocks to the side. Trying mostly unsuccessfully not to stare at said muscled shoulders, she laughed as well, losing the battle with the radiant heat raising off her cheeks. “Trouble, huh,” he chuckled, folding his arms and shifting his weight to one leg. “I’m thinkin’ that might be the case.”

“I don’t try usually,” she shrugged, wetting the lips that seemed to have dried out somehow. His honey amber eyes seemed to dance with a light of their own, warmer and more inviting the happier he was. They were incredibly striking, and for some reason she found the scars on his eyebrow particularly endearing. “It just seems to find me, anyway.”

“Mmm, so it does...but somethin’ tells me you invite it...” Quirking his scarred brow, he flashed her a wink knowing damn well this woman was going to get him in trouble. It was already a game in his head, see who could wreak havoc first, but already she was winning. That glint in her eye as she looked up at him already a clear sign of her victory. He felt wrapped around her little finger and he’d only just learnt her name. “Depends, if Trouble is a tall broad man with a golden stare, then a girl just might invite it in for a drink or two…”

Hissing through his teeth, narrowing his eyes as he shook his head, he let out a low growl of approval. She was good. Too good, and that look she was giving would surely have him begging on his knees if he wasn’t so stubborn to have her begging first. “Damn, I’ll let you know if I see this guy. Sounds like a lucky man to me, darlin’...”  

“Ooh, so lucky,” she purred, her smirk only growing as she watched him bite his lip at the delightful tune of her voice. Knowing he needed to leave before they started a fire between them, he reluctantly removed his eyes from her, glancing to the camera fixed in the corner close to the ceiling behind him. “I better go before you get in trouble for slackin’, girl, although I’ll be sure to check back for any other… good deals...” His eyes shamelessly looking her up and down, his head tilted a little as they reached her face again. “Catch ya later, Stacey.”

“See you around, Raphael.” Pausing to give her one final scolding look for his full name, he winked playfully before disappearing out the door and strode off down the street for his bike. He couldn’t help but keep a grin on his lips as he walked, her eyes still perfectly in his mind. She was stunning. She was beautiful. Sexy and intelligent. Sassy and witty. The perfect package, everything about her just drew him in, kept him fixated on her every word. There was something about her though. Something so familiar yet he had never seen or heard of her before. Could have mistaken her for someone else, but even then that logic didn’t work. No one as breathtaking as her would have left his mind. Maybe she had simply walked out of a dream that he had on the ride over. The only thing that was clear in his mind was that he had found a new favourite stop. Previously, he had found no reason to ever skulk that particular neighbourhood, but something that day told him to change his usual route. Have a change of scene. Scope out more turf. Whatever it was, he made sure to thank it before mounting his beloved bike, heading out again to nowhere in particular.

Once he was no longer in sight, Stacey breathed deeply as if she’d been holding her breath the entire time. “Holy balls,” she muttered to herself, picking up a flyer off the counter and fanning herself with it, glad the shop had been empty at the time Raph had arrived. How anyone could be that cool yet so intense at the same time completely escaped her, let alone how he managed to look so fucking *hot* while doing it.

“Yer about as red as yer shirt, girl.”

Jumping up from leaning against the wall behind the counter, she pivoted awkwardly to face Jax, slapping the flyer back down against the counter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered, though her voice broke and it left her clearing her throat. She avoided his light blue eyes, knowing all too well the look she was likely getting.

The weathered man laughed, the raspy joy of it only making her more flushed and flustered. “I leave you in here to do inventory and you wind up in here, actin’ like a girl and flirtin’ all of a sudden? Who the hell are you and what’d you do with my girl?”

Scoffing, she straightened herself up and flicked her ponytail back off her shoulder. Jax could play that game with her all day and never give up. Most of their relationship was trying to figure out which one would be more stubborn about something. So she gave in a little, shrugging. “It’s not like I’ve never flirted with anyone who’s come in here before.”

“Not like that, you ain’t,” he bantered, moving to the opposite side of the counter. Resting his elbows on the countertop, he propped his bearded chin in his hands, curling his fingers and batting his eyes. His voice raised one octave too many as he tittered, “Oh please sir, buy my motorcycle parts.”

“Jax!” she laughed with a scowl, playfully shoving at his arms. “I was not like that!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re right,” he seemed to relent, standing back up. However, then he pivoted his rear towards her, pointing the toe of one foot behind him before exaggeratedly tossing his long, gray beard towards his shoulder like a teenager girl with her hair. He made a kissy face and finished, “It was more like this.”

“Oh my god,” Stacey laughed despite herself, before throwing a package of rubber o-rings at him. “You’re fucking terrible. You’re dead to me.” Pretending to stomp off into the shelves and get back to the inventory, she heard him follow, laughing.

“I ain’t dead yet, an’ even if I were, I could haunt this shop and see all the trouble you get yourself in,” he chuckled, folding his arms and leaning up against the shelves. He only laughed harder when she turned to stick her tongue out at him. She loved the old man dearly, and despite her show, she loved the fact that he was willing to laugh and have fun with her. He’d taken her in when she was sixteen and gotten her out of a shitty situation. He’d given her everything when she barely even had herself left.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes and smirking as she shelved some pistons. “Weren’t you the one just telling me a while back that I needed to get out more, get out and do shit?”

“I sure was,” he agreed, stooping to help with the stock as they talked. “So d’you get his number? You goin’ out like Stacey and the Giant?”

“I did not,” she admitted, a little bashfully. Turning a box containing a rocker cover over and over in her hands, she chewed at her lip and leaned against the shelf. “It was probably just a one off thing. But it was fun.”

“Girl,” he said mirthfully, leaning against the shelf and facing her while running his hands over his long beard. “That boy walked outta here like he’d just seen Aphrodite herself. I bet you twenty bucks he’s back here within the next week.”

“You got yourself a deal,” she grinned, clasping his rough, calloused hand against her own in a firm handshake. If he didn’t show, she’d have twenty extra dollars in her pocket, and if he did, well, she’d happily pay more than that for the pleasure.

[fictorium]

Prompt request: 20, Grace/Frankie 😊

As funerals go, it’s a lively one. Grace can’t help but like that about the Irish--not the god-fearing, miserable kind like Robert’s mother--they know how to give a good sendoff.

Is it bad that Grace isn’t even sure which of the brothers is dead? She knew both of them, after all. They’d been her accountants when she started Say Grace, before the company grew enough to bring all those services in house. Whichever one is the surviving brother, he’s got Frankie cornered by the bar, while folk music drowns out any chance of overhearing. 

Only Frankie doesn’t exactly look trapped. Dressed in black is as normal as Grace ever sees her, but even then the black velvet has some kind of pattern, the jewelry is all so handmade and too much. That used to bother Grace, as though by stepping out in public together she would be endorsing Frankie’s personal style. These days, post retirement home and post drunken cart crashing, Grace can’t muster much of a fuck about what anyone else thinks.

Besides, Frankie’s dress sense isn’t annoying. It’s Frankie. Familiar, a little wild, the first thing Grace spots in a crowd. In a room where people are trying to force their pity on her, Grace has come to value having someone, her someone, to pick out quickly and exchange an eye roll with.

She sips her martini, waits for a signal from Frankie to come and save her. None are forthcoming, which is really more indulgent than she needs to be. Patrick, that’s the one she’s talking to. Which means Liam is dead. Shame. Patrick will be following him sooner than expected if he leans in to whisper to Frankie like that again. It’s not like Frankie even hears most things in whispering range, for God’s sake.

Well. Time to play the hero. Grace is getting good at that. 

“Patrick!” She greets him, with an appropriately somber expression. “I think your wife is looking for you.”

“Oh, right.” He looks a little chastened. “Give me a call about that art of yours, Frankie. I really do know a guy.”

“Oh, I sure will. Don’t be a stranger.” Frankie gives a coquettish little wave as he leaves, letting Grace take up his position leaning against the bar. “Are you done spoiling my fun?”

“The way you flirt is shameful,” Grace says, waving her glass at the stupefied bartender in hopes of a refill. “Do you really want to end up with someone else’s husband?”

There’s that flash of... something, again in Frankie’s expression. Similar, but not quite the same as the times she’d realize she’d been the butt of Grace’s joke, before. In the old days. Before... whatever the hell this is.

“I’m simply being a comfort to the bereaved. And Patrick knows a guy who puts on shows for local artists. He’s gonna hook me up.”

“I bet he is,” Grace mutters. She takes her new glass. “Can we leave, after this drink? I think we’ve shown face.”

“What’s the hurry?” Frankie is in her element, this crowd is way more her kind of people. Sol’s kind of people. No uptight WASPy types like Grace, or at least they’re hiding out in the kitchen so far. “Anyone would think you were the one trying to get me alone.”

Grace freezes with her drink halfway to her lips. Why does that sound so appealing? Why is that what every social occasion comes down to, now: when does it get back to just being me and Frankie? “Don’t flatter yourself, Frances. You’re my designated driver.”

“You’re the only one who still lets me drive.”

“I always was a risk taker,” Grace answers with a snort. “If you don’t want to spend time with me, I can just get an Uber.”

“No, no!” Frankie downs the rest of her drink. “If we go now, we’ll miss the poetry reading.”

Grace necks her martini so fast it’s a wonder she doesn’t choke on the garnish. She doesn’t think twice about link her arm with Frankie’s. It’s just steering them to the nearest exit. 

Only once they’re in the driveway, taking careful steps down the hill to where they’ve parked on the street, Frankie comes to a sudden halt. 

“I’m not stoned,” she begins, which rarely leads to anything productive. “I mean, way less than usual. I’m half a pot brownie, and you know with my tolerance that’s less than-”

“Frankie.” Tangent averted.

“Right, gotcha. Grace Hanson, did you come and interrupt me because you were jealous?”

Of course not. What a straightforward denial. Grace doesn’t get jealous. Not over some accountant. “Believe me, you can have Patrick. Just wait ‘til his wife is done with him, okay?”

“I don’t mean jealous of me,” Frankie says, fiddling with the cuff of her dress. “I mean of him. Because he had me all to himself. And we were, we were flirting. I like to say it’s just an extension of my natural charm but-”

It’s the panic, Grace thinks. Of having a light shone where she’s been most careful to keep things in the dark. That’s why she grasps Frankie’s forearm, leaning in just a few more inches to make her. stop. talking. 

By kissing her. In front of God and half the neighborhood, not to mention all the people they know. Are they looking? Are they shocked? Grace doesn’t give a single damn. Because Frankie is kissing back, like she was just waiting for her chance. 

“Oh.” Grace can’t think what to say when she finally pulls back. 

“Well, that’s new and exciting,” Frankie teases. This time she takes Grace by the arm, guiding her the rest of the way to the car, letting her run on autopilot for a moment. Only when they’re in the car, seatbelts on and engine running, does Grace find her tongue.

“I didn’t know I was going to do that.”

“I did.” Frankie shrugs, pulling out into the quiet street. “I wondered how long it was gonna take you.”

“Oh don’t tell me,” Grace says. “You saw it in your tea leaves. No, that crystal ball you found at some garage sale I begged you to skip.”

“No, Grace.” Frankie’s voice is so soothing, even when she’s being faintly patronizing. “I saw it coming because we’ve both been wanting to do that for quite a while.”

“I should have known you’d be all zen about this.”

Frankie rolls the car to a halt at the stop sign, putting the car in park. She turns, tilting Grace’s chin up with the light pressure of just one finger. They kiss again, short but terribly sweet.

“Who can panic about something that feels like that?” Frankie asks, getting back to the business of driving. Grace can’t find the words to argue, so she settles for placing her hand on Frankie’s thigh, brushing softly over the black velvet.

“Are we going straight home?” She asks. 

“I think we’d better,” Frankie says, barely hiding a laugh.

“Why?” Grace feels one step behind on everything today.

“Because I don’t want to get arrested for indecency in this car, do you?”

Grace flushes, her cheeks no doubt glowing pink despite her makeup. “Oh, I don’t know,” she replies. “I guess we’ll just have to find out.”

[primatechnosynthpop]

A Rose Shall Bloom (And Then Shall Fade)- part 2

The first few months after Claire and Gretchen got married were one of the brightest times in Claire’s life. The job at the restaurant Claire had taken to afford their wedding was better-paying and less demanding than retail, so she started working as a waitress full-time. With her increased salary, and after holding a yard sale to get rid of old stuff they didn’t need anymore, she and Gretchen were finally able to afford their own house by the end of the year. It was nothing fancy–only one story, with a tiny yard and no garage–but it was theirs nonetheless. For the first time in her life, Claire felt like a real adult. She had a house, a wife, a job, a car… Despite her youthful appearance, nobody could mistake her for a teenager now.

They invited a bunch of their friends over for a combination housewarming and anniversary party, during which Claire was still so happy about buying a house that she didn’t pay attention to how much everyone was aging. Still, to say she did a double take would be an understatement when she saw Micah and Molly, now a pair of fully grown adults, talking in the corner of the room about Micah’s job as an electrician. That… that couldn’t be right, could it? But when Claire ran some mental math, she realized that the numbers worked out. Micah must have been in his mid twenties now, since Claire, as much as she didn’t look it, was in her early thirties.

At that same housewarming party, Peter approached her with a huge grin on his face. In recent years, he had retired his signature bangs for a more sophisticated look, and he’d grown a beard which gave him quite a handsome look. He wore a sharply-pressed suit and carried himself in a way that almost reminded Claire of Nathan. It occurred to her with a twinge of discomfort that he was now the age his brother had been when he died.

“Hey, Claire, guess what?” Peter asked, excitement glittering in his eyes. “You’re going to have a cousin!”

“What?” As she realized what he was saying, Claire broke into a grin. “You and Emma are going to have a kid? Peter, that’s great!”

“Yeah,” he said, his face looking like it just might break from how wide he was smiling. “I’m going to be a dad–can you believe it?”

Letting out an enthusiastic squeal, Claire pulled her uncle into a congratulatory hug. He laughed and patted her on the back. When they pulled apart, Claire bounced on her heels, buzzing with questions–how many months? How long had they known? Did they know whether it would be male or female? And did this mean that Peter and Emma would finally be getting married?

“Unfortunately, no,” he said of the last question. “If she gets married, she’ll stop getting disability benefits, so until the laws on that are changed we’ll just have to remain in a commonlaw arrangement.”

“Well, that sucks,” Claire muttered.

Peter shrugged. “Yeah, it kind of does,” he admitted. “But there’s nothing wrong with an unmarried partnership, right?”

Claire nodded. Her gaze strayed across the room, to where Gretchen was talking to Noah. He appeared to be congratulating her. As she watched, Gretchen looked over at Claire and blew her a kiss, winking. Claire blushed and giggled. She wondered whether they would have kids of their own someday. She certainly wasn’t opposed to the idea of adopting, although she didn’t feel ready for something like that quite yet. Besides, she didn’t really feel like she could ever be a parent. She still looked like hardly more than a kid herself.

“Damn it,” she muttered aloud to herself. “I told myself I wasn’t going to think about this tonight.”

“What is it?” asked Peter.

“Oh, nothing,” Claire said, maybe a bit too quickly, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Anyway, congrats again on being a future dad. You and Emma are going to be amazing parents.”

Peter grinned. “Thanks, Claire.”

Claire had it all right then. She was happy, and so were the people around her. Sandra had just adopted another dog, Mohinder was doing quite well for himself now that his theories were more widely accented, and Matt’s son was going to be starting high school in a couple of years. Sure, everybody was getting older, but nobody was old yet. Claire still had plenty of time left to spend with everyone at that party. She needed to stop worrying about things to come and just live in the present.

It was a good–no, it was a great day.

-

After Peter and Emma had their kid–a girl, which they named Natalie–Gretchen started acting kind of strangely. Whenever Natalie was mentioned, she would raise her eyebrows in an exaggerated way, and she would always talk about her with an odd inflection. It seemed like she was hinting at something, and Claire was fairly certain she knew what it was.

“So, big news from Peter,” Claire said once after reading a text from her uncle. “Natalie has officially entered elementary school!”

“Ohh, has she?” Gretchen asked, bending over to read the text over Claire’s shoulder. She was carrying a laundry basket upstairs, balancing it on her hip like some kind of old-fashioned servant girl, as Claire lounged on the couch after having finished cleaning the windows. “That’s awesome! I guess having kids can really be rewarding, hmm?”

“Yeah, I guess it can,” Claire agreed. “Why do you bring it up?”

“Oh, no reason,” Gretchen said with a shrug. Gesturing to the laundry basket with her free hand, she added, “Hey, can you held me fold this? I know you just got done cleaning the windows, but…”

“Nah, it’s no problem,” Claire said. She put her phone down and got up to follow her wife up to their bedroom to fold the clothes.

As they walked up the stairs to their room, Claire noticed a slight strain of effort on Gretchen’s face. That very face was now decorated with stress lines, and she had heavy bags around her eyes. Swallowing back the now all-too-familiar pang of dread at her wife displaying signs of the natural passage of time, Claire stood up on her tiptoes to give Gretchen a kiss on the side of the head. Then she took the laundry basket into her own hands and carried it the rest of the way.

While they were folding the laundry and putting it away, Gretchen kept shooting Claire these brief, soft of hopeful looks. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t really have to. Claire could tell from the way she acted whenever Natalie was mentioned that Gretchen wanted them to have kids of their own. However, Claire still didn’t feel ready for that kind of commitment, and she wasn’t sure if she ever would be. Taking care of a child was such a big responsibility, and neither of them had the time to commit to that. If either Claire or Gretchen quit their jobs to stay home and looks after a baby, they’d no longer make enough money to afford their house, and then the cost of looking after the kid would pile on top of that… it just wasn’t realistic for them.

Claire explained all of this to Gretchen, and Gretchen nodded along and said “oh, yeah, I totally get it,” and promised to drop the point. However, the point wasn’t dropped, at least not for long. She kept having the same reactions whenever anybody mentioned children. Claire didn’t hold it against Gretchen, really; it was clear as day to her that her wife’s desire for kids wasn’t going to be quelled that easily. She just wished Gretchen would understand why Claire didn’t want kids. The financial reasons were a big part of it, but it went beyond that. See, if Claire ever had a kid–either through giving birth or adoption–that kid would grow up, and become an adult, and eventually it would get to the point where her own child would appear older than her. And then, one day, that child would grow old, like her parents were growing old now. One day, Claire would outlive her own child, if she ever had one. She couldn’t bear to think of that, and so she was determined never to have a child in the first place.

Once, when Claire was out for coffee with Tracy–something they still did from time to time even now that they no longer worked together–Tracy offhandedly mentioned that Micah had gotten a girlfriend and that they were pretty serious together. Claire asked if Tracy was ever going to settle down with anyone, but Tracy laughed and said that, as happy as she was for her nephew, she didn’t particularly care for romantic relationships. She went on to say that she especially didn’t want to ever be a mother.

“I mean, I love Micah, but the Dawsons did so much better a job raising him after his mom died than I ever could have,” she said. “Everybody says that my biological clock is ticking, but I say let it tick away. I don’t need a spouse or children to have a fulfilling life.”

Claire did her best not to flinch at the mention of a “biological clock”. Although it was hard to tell with the hair already being almost a platinum blonde, there were a few streaks of gray in Tracy’s hair now, and she was far from alone in this regard. She had a few wrinkles here and there which she covered up with concealer, and while she was still poised and elegant even as she reached middle age, Claire wondered right then if it would be a good idea for them to stop going for coffee together. She didn’t like having to look at people on a regular basis and watch the painstakingly slow transition of them getting older.

However, she quickly dismissed that thought. She regretted having deliberately slowed herself down when Angela was dying so she didn’t have to watch it happen. She wished now that she’d been there to spend a final moment with Angela. Fear of watching people age and, eventually, die… it would plague Claire all her life, however long that life proved to be, but running away wasn’t a solution. Only Hiro could control time, and even he was reluctant to meddle with the space-time continuum. Even so, that didn’t mean that Claire was going to enjoy watching her friends get progressively older. She didn’t enjoy it at all.

-

As the years went by, Claire talked to her parents less and less often. She and Gretchen had settled comfortably in at their house, and even a man as protective as Noah could clearly see that she didn’t need him watching over her like a hawk any longer. Still, he and Sandra called Claire from time to time to check up on her and make sure she was holding up all right.

One time, Claire was halfway through a phone call with Sandra when the sound of barking came through over the phone. The barking was met with an “oh, quiet, you!” which brought Claire an unexpected pang of nostalgia. She said it with the exact same inflection she had used to tell off Mr. Muggles when he’d chew on someone’s shoelaces.

“What’s the name of the dog you’ve got now, again?” Claire asked. She felt a but guilty about having forgotten, but it was hard to keep track sometimes. “Was it Lord Dufferton or something?”

There was an unexpected pause. Claire listened to the faint sound of her mother’s breath crackle over the phone. Sandra’s voice had grown frail and shaky over the years, but it still held plenty of personality. Claire had no idea why her mother wasn’t answering her. Surely she hadn’t forgotten the name of her own dog.

“Your dog,” Claire prompted her after a moment. “What’s it called again?”

“What are you talking about, sweetie?” Sandra asked, concern edging her voice. “You know what our dog’s name is.”

“Mom, I don’t…” Claire quirked her mouth into a frown. “Mom, I’m talking about the dog you have now. The, ah, the dachshund?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sandra insisted. Now she sounded confused, almost scared. “Mr. Muggles is the only dog we’ve got. We don’t have any other dogs.”

A knot tightened at the back of Claire’s throat as she realized what was happening. Still, she put up a wall of denial and pressed on. If she just said the right thing, surely she’d trigger her mother’s memory.

“Look at the dog in front of you,” she said. “It’s not Mr. Muggles, Mom. It’s a different dog.”

There was another pause. Sandra drew in a sharp breath. Then:

“I… I’m sorry, Claire,” she mumbled. “I don’t know what came over me there. Wh-what were we talking about again?”

“Oh, you know,” Claire said with a forced laugh. “I’m sure it was nothing important.”

Once her conversation with Sandra was over, Claire hung up with trembling hands. She laid her phone facedown on the kitchen counter and took a few deep breaths. Then she picked the phone back up and called Noah.

As soon as her father picked up, she blurted, “Something’s wrong with Mom.”

“Claire?” Noah asked; he sounded alert, but his voice was less sharp than Claire expected. “What’s the matter?”

“You haven’t had René take any of her memories, have you?” she asked. Deep down she knew this wasn’t the reason for Sandra’s confusion, but she could hope–at least until Noah’s answer came.

“No, of course not,” he said. “Why would you think that? What happened?”

“I just got off the phone with her,” Claire sighed. “She forgot that she has a new dog. She thought it was Mr. Muggles.”

“Well, shit,” Noah muttered. He hesitated for a moment before saying in a quiet voice, “something happened like that earlier when I was talking to her. She thought that we were still married.”

Claire swallowed hard. Sandra didn’t seem like she was old enough to start losing her memory yet. Nothing like this was happening to Noah yet–at least not with his long-term memory. He did have trouble remembering newer names and faces, but that didn’t mean anything. Everyone got stuff like that mixed up sometimes. Sandra forgetting that she and Noah were divorced, though, even momentarily… that was a problem.

“I don’t like what’s going on, Dad,” Claire said quietly, as tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “You and Mom are aging so fast, and look at me–I look just like I did fifteen years ago!”

“I know, Claire-bear,” Noah murmured. “But growing older is just a part of life. It’ll happen to you too eventually.:

"No, it won’t!” Claire lamented. “That’s the whole problem! Everybody else is getting older, and I’m not!”

“Claire–” Noah began, but Claire cut him off, getting increasingly worked up as she finally expressed the feelings of desperation and anxiety that had been building up inside her for so long.

“I don’t want to outlive everyone, Dad! I want to look like an adult! I-I’m thirty-five, almost thirty-six, and… and I’d still fit in my old cheerleading uniform! I want to get older like everyone else does. I want…” She sucked in a breath, wiping away tears that she hadn’t even realized were streaming down her cheeks. “I want to be able to grow old with my wife.”

Noah was silent for a long moment. She heard him sigh, and when he finally spoke up again, there was no forced reassurance in his voice. More than anything, he sounded tired. Tired and old.

“I’ll see what I can do about Sandra,” he said. “In the meantime… just take care of yourself, okay?”

-

It wasn’t long after Sandra’s memory started to go that Noah followed suit. He retired from work and, soon after, got his driver’s license revoked. Sandra’s physical and mental condition deteriorated faster, and before long, she was deemed unfit to look after herself. A nurse had to come in to assist her with certain things. Claire was wracked with concern for her mother. One night she called up Lyle, who she hadn’t talked to in years, to discuss the issue of their parents. Lyle didn’t have much to say; he didn’t even really seem to care. His voice was so deep now that it was unnerving, and she wondered if he still had the horrible goatee he’d had the last time they’d seen each other. Claire started to ask him about work, but then she realized she didn’t even know what her brother’s job was.

“We should talk more,” she said. “I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to find time,” Lyle muttered. In the background, Claire could hear the muffled sounds of drums and yelling. “Travelling around with the band and all–I get busy, y'know?”

So he was in a band. There wasn’t much to talk about in Claire’s life, and judging by the awkward pause on the other end of the line, Lyle wasn’t too enthusiastic about telling her about his. Clearing her throat, Claire decided to try to keep the conversation going.

“So, Natalie got an award from the spelling bee,” she said. “She came in third place overall. Peter and Emma are super proud.”

“Uh, who’s Natalie?”

“That’s their kid,” she reminded him. She’d texted him pictures of her cousin before; he should have known who she was. Maybe he just didn’t care. “She’s in fifth grade now, if you can believe it.”

“Huh,” was all Lyle had to say, followed a moment later by “wow.”

“Wow is right,” Claire muttered.

Part of her resented her brother for being so distant. Part of her resented herself for having let them grow so far apart. But most of her just sighed in resignation, told Lyle it had been nice talking to him, and ended the call.

-

From time to time, Claire tried to turn her situation on its head and use it to have a little fun. Whenever a new customer came to the restaurant she worked at, she would ask them to guess her age. Guesses ranged from “uhh… sixteen?” to “I dunno, twenty-something?” She always loved the looks the customers got when she told them she was forty.

One day, the bell on the restaurant’s door chimed and a man in a dark hoodie walked in, glancing around furtively. He had his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Rather than finding a seat, he just stood there in the doorway for a while, scoping the place out. Claire felt a twinge of nervousness at the sight of this man, but she put on a cheery customer service smile and approached him with a menu in hand.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked, offering him the menu. Looking at him up close, he just looked like a normal guy, but she knew from experience that looks couldn’t always be trusted.

Without saying a word, the man smirked and took his hands out of his pockets. Claire realized with a jolt of horror that one of those hands held a gun. She took a step back, breath hitching in her throat, and slowly raised her hands in the air. The restaurant fell into a hush as all the eyes in the building turned to the man with the gun. Glancing behind her, Claire saw her manager coming out from the kitchen, his eyes wide in fear.

“Give me all the money you’ve got in your register,” the man snarled to the manager, pointing his gun at Claire. “Or this girl gets it.”

Claire gulped. When she’d been hired, she hadn’t told anybody about her power. She had assumed they would know, since she’d been all over the news as the first person to reveal their powers to the outside world. However, looking behind her, her manager looked genuinely terrified for her–he must not have known she could heal. He started reaching for the cash register.

“No, don’t,” Claire blurted. “Don’t give him the money. It’s not worth it.”

“Give me the money!” the man with the gun barked. He cocked his gun and placed the barrel right up against Claire’s chest while she stood her ground, unafraid for her own safety but terrified that he might hurt a customer or one of her coworkers. “Give it to me now or I’ll kill her!”

“O-okay, you can have the money,” the manager said, panic edging his voice as he rifled through the register and pulled out wads of cash. “Just don’t hurt Ms. Bennet, please. She hasn’t done anything to you!”

“No, don’t give him anything,” Claire protested. “Put the money back on the register; don’t give it to him!”

The manager hesitated.

“Ten seconds,” the robber snarled. “Ten, nine, eight…”

“Don’t give him the money!”

“Seven, six, five, four…’

"I’ll be fine,” she said. Around her, customers scooted their chairs back; parents covered their children’s eyes and told them to look away, and young couples clenched each other’s hands with white knuckles. “Don’t–”

“…Three, two one,” the robber finished with a snarl. He pulled the trigger.

Claire was propelled back by the force as four consecutive shots rang out, echoing through the restaurant with a bang. She couldn’t feel pain, but looking down at her chest cavity riddled with holes wasn’t exactly a pleasant sight. She fell to the floor as horrified gasps sprang up around the restaurant. These gasps then turned to murmurs of disbelief as Claire’s decimated chest continued to rise and fall. Even the man who had shot her let out a startled grunt when she returned his gaze from her splayed-out position on the floor.

Groaning, Claire dug around inside her chest until she found the bullets and pulled them out. Then, sitting up, she did her best to slide everything back into place as her breastbone knitted itself back into one piece. Debris from her heart and lungs littered the floor around her along with blood and a few fragments of bone. It made for an all-around gruesome sight, and she seriously pitied the janitor who would have to clean it all up. In the back, her manager watched with eyes wide in amazement as she stood up and smoothed out her now-tattered uniform.

“Hey, here’s a fun tip for you next time you want to take a hostage,” she said. “Try picking someone who doesn’t have healing powers.”

With that, she grabbed the robber by the wrist and wrenched the gun out if his grip. He let go of it surprisingly easily, and he stared blankly ahead in shock, much like many of the other people in the restaurant, as her manager grabbed the nearest phone and dialed the police.

While they stood outside watching the cops take the robber away, Claire turned to her manager with an attempt at a playful smile. “So, some afternoon, huh?”

“Y-you could say that, yes,” her manager agreed. He kept looking Claire up and down, like he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that she was still alive. “So… you’re immortal, huh? Can’t be killed?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” she said. She decided not to tell him that her head was her achilles’ heel. It wasn’t like she thought her manager was ever going to turn on her or anything, but she didn’t want to give out such personal information to anyone who didn’t need to know it.

“So you aren’t lying about being forty?”

Claire shook her head. Sometimes she wished she was lying, and it was just a funny joke she was playing on the customers, but she truly had been born four decades ago. It was easy to forget this when she looked at herself in the mirror, but not so much when she looked at Gretchen and saw streaks of gray in her wife’s hair and age spots forming on her face.

For her act of bravery, Claire was promoted from a waitress to assistant manager. She was beyond flattered, and she promised to do her best in her new position. Now that she had a higher salary, she considered buying some kind of pet. Sandra was on her fourth or fifth dog now–it was hard to keep track–and whenever Claire visited her she always talked about how nice it was to have a pet. She often got her pets mixed up, and sometimes she forgot who she was talking to or what she was saying mid-sentence, but her older memories from her days as professional dog breeder stayed mostly intact, and she shared them with Claire often.

Having a pet sounded fun, and she thought it might serve as sort of a compromise with Gretchen vis-á-vis children. Gretchen liked the idea, so over the weekend they went to the local pound to look for a potential dog or cat to adopt. While they were looking, a woman at the poind came up to them and asked Gretchen something. It was a simple phrase, just a brief string of words, but they sent a chill down Claire’s spine.

“So,” the worker said with a nod towards Claire, “how old is your daughter?”

[douchebagbrainwaves]

UNLESS THEIR WORKING DAY ENDS AT THE SAME TIME

The average 25 year old is no match for companies that have already raised money. But once you've admitted that one high level language can be more powerful than your own. I was still wasting time imitating the wrong things? I first laid out these principles explicitly, I noticed something striking: this is practically a recipe for succeeding just by negating. Productivity varies in any field, but I don't think our competitors understood, and few understand even now: when you're writing software that only has to do something trivially easy. That may be the more important of the two. Certainly not the authors. Whether to do anything hard in. Lexical closures provide a way to get a job. For example, open source software is more reliable precisely because it's open source; anyone can find mistakes. By the end of the scale, nature seems to be more companies like us. This essay is derived from a talk at Oscon 2005.

The people who understood our technology best were the customers. Fortunately you have some control over both how much you make, and you can decrease the amount of bullshit in your life by more than you think. By definition you can't tell from his portfolio. I knew practically nothing about the paths from rich to poor.1 If your terms force startups to do things they never anticipated, rather than a real downtown, Brasilia rather than Rome, Ada rather than C. There's nothing like going to grad school at Harvard to cure you of any illusions you might have about the average Harvard undergrad. What you're doing is business creation. Maybe it would be misleading even to call them centers. And the thing we'd built, as far as they could tell, wasn't even software. Many things people like, especially if they're young and ambitious, they like largely for the feeling of virtue in liking them. A programming language does need a good implementation, of course, but as far as they could tell, wasn't even software.2

Technically the term high-level language, in the long run, of the forces underlying open source and blogs are done for free, but before the Web it was harder than it looked.3 When you choose technology, you have to figure out. It's there to some degree in almost every field, but there aren't enough investors who will give $200k to a startup that was sufficiently successful would never have to move. VCs. So you could say either was the cause. The companies that rule Silicon Valley now are all descended in various ways from Shockley Semiconductor. Hackers like to hack, and hacking means getting inside things and second guessing the original designer. It's basically the diminutive form of belligerent. They switch because it's a better browser.4

It's not simply a matter of writing a lot of the new principles business has to learn it? He suggests starting with Python and Java, because they are easy to learn. That's what you do.5 Does this sound familiar?6 Except books—but books are different. And users don't care where you went to a better college. But if you make a language popular? The language can help here too. Now Palo Alto is suburbia, but then it was a charming college town—a language you should learn as an intellectual exercise, even though the latter depends more on determination than brains. How do you protect yourself from these people?

If you make something users want, then you're dead, whatever else you do or don't do. I bet this isn't true.7 I think the effect of such external factors on the popularity of a programming language rather than, say, making the language strongly typed. People interested in local events that one is solving mostly a single type of problem instead of many different types. Microsoft is remarkable among big companies in that they are able to develop software in house. But Y Combinator runs on the maker's schedule has a meeting, they have to be really good at tricking you. They were not even on a path to anything interesting. By the time you have to design buildings that don't fall down, but the creator is full of soot. If willfulness and discipline are what get you to profitability but you can tell it must be satisfying expectations I didn't know I had. The last one might be the most important.

The Reddits pushed so hard against the current that they reversed it; now it looks like they're merely floating downstream.8 If you throw them out, you find that good products do tend to win in the market. And God help you if you choose them. It seems unlikely this is a sign that something is broken?9 How about writer?10 Our secret weapon was similar. But there's another way of using time that's common among people who make things, like programmers and writers. Revealingly, the same status as what comes with it. What's less often understood is that there are more of them. For I see a painting impressively hung in a museum, I ask myself: how much would I pay for this if I found it at a garage sale, dirty and frameless, and with no idea who painted it?

The reason we tell founders not to worry about and which not to.11 The melon seed model implies it's possible to make yourself into one. My God, it was harder to reach an audience or collaborate on projects. Better to get a lot done. I accumulated all this useless stuff, but that the people pretending to work. There is usually so much demand for custom work that unless you're really incompetent there has to be in the twentieth century.12 Using first and rest instead of car and cdr often are, in successive lines.

And that is just what tends to happen. I cheat by using a very dense language, which shrinks the court. In this particular case there is a way to finesse our way out of lower-level abstractions are built in a very transparent way out of lower-level abstractions, which you can survive.13 And odds are that is in fact the bullshit-minimizing option. There are usually a few people in a company with someone you dislike because they have some skill you need and you worry you won't find anyone else. Note too that determination and talent are not the whole story. That word balance is a significant one.14 I tried my best to imitate them. Often, indeed, it is at least different from when I started. You may have as many as five or ten releases a day.15 So if Lisp makes you a better programmer, like he says, why wouldn't you want to get the most out of them, and lose half a day's work; or we can try to avoid meeting them, and probably offend them.

Notes

For example, understanding French will help dispel the cloud of semi-sacred mystery that surrounds wisdom in ancient philosophy may be some things it's a significant effect on returns, it's easy to believe your whole future depends on where you go to grad school, and the war it was actually a computer.

Investors are professional negotiators, and all the East Coast. In many ways the New Deal but with World War II had disappeared.

Ed. Some of the lies we tell.

When I catch egregiously linkjacked posts I replace the url with that additional constraint, you can't even claim, like indifference to individual users. In Shakespeare's own time in the 1980s was enabled by a central authority according to some abstract notion of fairness or randomly, in the 70s, moving to Monaco would give us. VCs may begin to conserve board seats by switching to what modernist architects meant.

The person who would in 1950. I did when I was a good idea to make money from the truth to say that was actively maintained would be investors who turned them down because investors already owned more than just getting started. 7% of American kids attend private, non-programmers grasped that in the world of the most accurate way to find a broad hard-beaten road to his time was 700,000 per month. But one of few they had in grad school, because they attract so much on luck.

Dealers try to write your thoughts down in, say, recursion, and in fact you're descending in a difficult position. But do you use this route instead.

In principle yes, of S P 500 CEOs in 2002 was 35,560.

Some blue counties are false positives caused by filters will have to want them; you don't see them, but whether it's good enough to convince limited partners. If by cutting the founders' advantage if it were. An accountant might say that IBM makes decent hardware.

This is not a VC who read it ever wished it longer. 'Math for engineers' classes sucked mightily. Even college textbooks is unpleasant work, like warehouses. 5% of Apple now January 2016 would be to say because most of the lawyers they need them to get the people worth impressing already judge you more than investors.

So the most surprising things I've learned about VC inattentiveness. Stone, op. No, we met Aydin Senkut. I overstated the case.

The way to pressure them to ignore investors and instead of just Jews any more than make them want you.

I couldn't convince Fred Wilson for reading drafts of this essay, I preferred to work than stay home with them. I wonder if that means is No, and that modern corporate executives would work. Mayle, Peter, Why Are We Getting a Divorce?

There are people in return for something that would appeal to space aliens, but this would be critical to do something we didn't, they still probably won't invest in so many different schools of thought about how to allocate resources, political deal-making power. There were a variety called Red Delicious that had other meanings. The problem is that you'll expend a lot like meaning.

It's not the shape that matters financially for investors. This plan backfired with the New Deal but with World War II the tax codes were so bad that they probably wouldn't be worth trying to deliver the lines meant for a startup than it was 10 years ago. At the time I thought there wasn't, because they can't afford to. Where Do College English 28 1966-67, pp.

Your user model almost couldn't be perfectly accurate, because the illiquidity of progress puts them at the works of their growth from earnings.

[atc74]

Fast Cars and Freedom - Part 3

Word Count: 4250

Warnings: Language, maybe, nudity, loss of virginity teen sex (both Dean and Reader are virgins)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Y/N Singer)

Catch up here - Fast Cars and Freedom

Italics indicate flashbacks

It was Y/N’s birthday weekend and as a surprise, I planned a special getaway. I knew she had no clue and I was pretty proud of myself that I could still pull something like this off after twenty years together. I had already packed a bag and dropped the kids off with Sam and his wife Jess this morning.

“You ready yet kid?” I yelled up the stairs.

“Keep your pants on Winchester!” she retorted as she came strolling into view looking as beautiful as she was that weekend nineteen years ago.

“No kids and a weekend away? Not a chance. I hereby declare this ‘no pants weekend!’” I shouted, throwing my hands in the air in victory.

She laughed and threw her arms around my neck. “I love you dork, now let’s get a move on!”

About an hour into our drive, a familiar tune came on the radio and she cranked up the volume and started singing along.

This ain't no country club

And it ain't no disco

This is New York City

1, 2, 1, 2

"All I wanna do is have a little fun before I die, "

Says the man next to me out of nowhere

It's apropos of nothin'

He says, "His name is William"

But I'm sure he's Bill or Billy or Mac or Buddy

And he's plain ugly to me

And I wonder if he's ever had a day of fun in his whole life

“Twenty years and two kids and that is still the best weekend of my life, kid.” I squeezed her hand gently as I looked over at her sitting in the passenger seat of our little red Nova.

“Really? Not the weekend we got married? Or when we made those two kids? That weekend, huh?” She looked offended and confused.

“Yes, that weekend. I knew I loved you before then, but that was the weekend I knew without a doubt that there would never be anyone else for me but you,” I proclaimed. “Let me take you back.”

~*~

“Bobby, can I talk to you?” I nervously asked my guardian as he strolled into the garage, a travel mug of coffee in one hand and a chocolate covered bear claw in the other. It was a Saturday morning and we had just opened, but our first appointment wasn’t for another thirty minutes.

“What’s on your mind, Dean?” Bobby grumbled through the pastry filling his mouth, chocolate stuck to his upper lip.

“Y/N has been going on and on about this show she wants to see this summer and they are going to be real close. I was wondering if we could go,” I told him, sticking my head back under the hood of her Nova.

“Where’s it at?” Bobby walked over to the side of her car.

“Near Minneapolis. It’s called Lilith Fair and it’s an all day, all girl, outdoor concert and she really wants to go.” I glanced up from the spark plug I was replacing.

“You wanna go to all chick rock concert in a different state with my little girl? Did I hear that right?” Bobby yelled so loud that I stood up straight, hitting the back of my head on the hood.

“I will book two rooms, Bobby. I wanted to do something nice for her on her birthday and the show is the week before school starts. I will even bring Sam if it makes you feel better about it,” I explained to him, still rubbing the back of my head.

“Let me think about it, Dean. When do you need to get the tickets by?” Bobby asked.

“They go on sale on ten o’clock today; that is in two hours. I was going to take my break and buy them. Bobby, I have been saving all winter for these, please? It would mean so much to her; to both of us.” I ducked back under the hood while he went off to stew in his juices.

I knew he didn’t want to say yes, but I was hoping his little girl’s happiness would win out over the two of us being gone an entire weekend, in a different state, alone.

I spent the next hour changing the oil and all the fluids on some foreign import when I heard Bobby yell for me from the office.

“Yeah, Bobby?” I stepped inside, wiping my hands on the rag I kept in my back pocket.

“Two beds and you better have her home for dinner on Sunday and no funny business! Now just make the call and buy the tickets before I change my mind!” he yelled.

“Bobby, you’re the best! Thank you! She is going to love it!” I hugged the old man and turned to run up to the house but stopped. “She’s home and it’s not time yet. Can I make the call from your office in an hour?”

“Get back to work ya idjit and you can take your break at ten,” he told me and went back to his paperwork.

One hour and thirty minutes later I had two tickets to the show and a two night reservation at the Sandalwood Suites right next to the outdoor venue. I couldn’t wait to surprise her, but her birthday was still three months away. I wanted to do something for her since our Prom night fiasco, but it had to be special. She really wanted to go to this show; it is all she had talked about lately. I didn’t care if I had to sit through a bunch of crappy, angry chick music; for her it would be worth it.

I spent the next several weeks getting my plan in place. I checked maps, made an itinerary to give to Bobby with the name, address and telephone number of the hotel. I bought her a card, since I wasn’t as creative as she was. I waited until the weekend before her birthday to give her her gift and hoped that all the time I put into this would payoff when I saw her face.

I still took those walks a few times a week, but more often than not, she was by my side. “Hey, Y/N? Wanna take a walk with me?” I asked as we cleared away the dinner dishes.

“Dean, do I ever say no?” she giggled and it was one of the best sounds on this earth.

“No, you don’t. But that doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna ask or that some day you might.” I wrapped my arm around her as we walked down the stairs from the porch and started on the path that wound us back to the river.

“You know, your birthday is coming up and I wanted to do something for you, since well, your birthday surprise for me didn’t go exactly as planned,” I chuckled. We still laughed about that night and were thankful that the storm didn’t cause much damage and everyone we loved was safe.

“Yeah, that is a night I will never forget! At least we didn’t get caught!” she exclaimed. “But my birthday is still a week away,” Y/N looked up at me with those beautiful eyes, sparkling in the fading light.  

“I know, but I wanted to give you part of your gift early. Happy birthday, kid,” I handed her the envelope and a box, wrapped in the Sunday comics.

Dear Y/N, 

This past year has been the greatest of my life. You have done so much for me and I can never thank you enough. I hope I can make you as happy as you have made me. 

I love you now and forever, Happy Birthday. 

Love,

Dean

“A mixed tape? This is so sweet of you Dean! Thank you! I love it!” She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.

“You haven’t even listened to it yet. How can you say you love it?” I questioned her.

“Because you made it for me, so I know I will love it, because I love you,” she replied simply, but grabbed my hand and started pulling me toward her car. “But I wanna listen to it now!!”

She ran up to the house to grab her keys and was back in her car before I could even get in. She cranked over the engine and popped the tape in. She rested her head back against the seat as the first song started to play.

Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide

voices trapped in yearning, memories trapped in time

the night is my companion, and solitude my guide

would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?

and I would be the one

to hold you down

kiss you so hard

I'll take your breath away

and after, I'd wipe away the tears

just close your eyes dear

Through this world I've stumbled

so many times betrayed

trying to find an honest word to find

the truth enslaved

oh you speak to me in riddles

and you speak to me in rhymes

my body aches to breathe your breath

your words keep me alive

“Dean, this is beautiful. Thank you so much,” she leaned over and kissed me sweetly,

“There’s more, kid. Just listen,” I told her and she skipped ahead a bit to the next song.

Who will save your soul when it comes to the flowers now

Huh huh who will save your soul after all the lies that you told, boy

And who will save your souls if you won't save your own?

“Okay, Sarah McLachlan and Jewel? What else you got on here, Babe?” she eyed me suspiciously.

“I got to thinking about all this music you listen to when I am not around and how we always listen to what I want when we are together, which is a lot. So I am willing to make sacrifices for you just like you do for me. Happy Birthday, Babe,” I professed and handed her another envelope.

“Dean…” she started as she opened the second envelope. “AHHHHHHHH are you kidding me? Are these real? Are we really?!!”

“Whoa, my ears! And yes, we really are. I already cleared it with Mr. Grumpy Pants and we are leaving Friday after lunch. He even gave me the weekend off,” I informed her.

She was out of the car and jumping and dancing around before I knew she was gone. I just leaned up against the Nova and watched her dancing in the dirt. She was beautiful and I knew right then and there that I would do anything for this girl.

~*~

I had everything planned. If we took off after lunch, we would make it to the hotel just before four in the afternoon. I made reservations for dinner at a nice place and asked her to pack a dress while I had packed the only suit I owned. I ordered a bouquet of bright purple dahlias, her favorite, and a bottle of sparkling water and they were waiting in our room when we arrived.

“Dean! This is beautiful! Thank you so much for the most amazing birthday ever!” she squealed, jumping into my arms.

“Kid, the weekend just started; don’t thank me yet,” I reminded her. “Our reservation is in two hours; wanna take a quick nap with me?”

“That sounds amazing. I didn’t sleep much last night I was so excited!” She threw herself dramatically onto the bed and pulled the covers back for me. “You coming or what?”

“Nothing I want more,” I sighed as I slid in beside her, pulling her as close as I could, breathing her in and closing my eyes.

“I am setting the alarm for one hour, Mister,” she told me and soon we were both asleep, snuggled into one another on the most comfortable bed I have laid on.

“Y/N? Y/N. Kid! Time to get up, buttercup!” I whispered louder than necessary, but she was a deep sleeper.

“Fine. The bed was all cold without you anyway,” she grumbled as she sat up and walked to the bathroom with her things.

The minutes ticked by as I waited for her to emerge from the bathroom. I pulled on my socks and suit pants, then shrugged into the crisp blue shirt I had bought just for this weekend. I absentmindedly buttoned the shirt, then slid the tie under the collar just as the bathroom door opened.

“You look amazing, kid,” I breathed out, taking her in.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Winchester,” she giggled as she walked over and tied my tie for me before turning her back as she pulled her hair to the side. “Would you zip me please?”

“I’d rather not, but I am also starving and don’t want to be late for dinner,” I chuckled as I zipped her beautiful blue dress.

~*~

“Dinner was wonderful, Dean. Thank you so much,” Y/N leaned in to kiss me once we arrived back in our room for the night.

“You’re welcome, kid. Happy birthday,” I returned her kiss, trying not to let things get too heated just yet. “Do you want to relax and watch something on T.V. or do you want to hit the pool or hot tub for a bit first?” I toed off my dress shoes and socks, tossing them in the closet.

“Both!” she shouted as she grabbed her swimsuit from her bag. “Dean, would you unzip me, please?”

“Yahtzee!” I said under my breath, but clearly not quiet enough.

“Relax, big boy,” she laughed and turned her back to me and I pulled her hair to one side and slowly lowered the zipper on her dress. I pressed my lips to her shoulder, then her back as I made my way to her neck. She shivered in my arms and I could feel the goosebumps form under my hands as they spread across her smooth skin.

“Dean….” her voice but a whisper as I continued to trail kisses across the back of her neck and down her other shoulder. She turned quickly and soon her small body was pressed to mine.

I gently pushed her dress off her shoulders, the bright blue fabric hanging loosely between us as it fell from her arms. She pulled away slightly, letting it float to the floor as she reached up and loosened my tie.

I noticed for the first time that she was only wearing a pair of lacy underwear the same cerulean blue as her dress.  I growled low in the back of my throat and pulled her small frame to me, cradling the back of her head with one hand, my fingers in her soft waves, the other hand pressed into the small of her back. My lips met hers in a needy kiss, deep and wet, almost desperate. I felt her fingers run up my chest, pulling at the buttons one by one until our upper bodies were skin to skin.

I had felt her bare skin on mine before, but this felt different. We were always afraid of getting caught but now we were alone, in a different city, hundreds of miles from home and the prying eyes of her father or my little brother. I released her lower lip and looked into her eyes.

“We have nothing but time, kid. I want us to do this right, because I don’t ever plan on doing this with anyone else. Let me love you, Y/N,” I whispered in the silence of the foreign hotel room.

“Take me to bed, Dean. I’m all yours, always and forever,” she responded, pulling me with her towards one of the beds and crawling onto it. She kneeled in front of me, her small hands trailing up my chest to my shoulders, urging the shirt off and down my arms as I stared into her eyes.

Y/N let the shirt drop to the floor behind me as she reached for my belt. “Let me see you, Dean,” her voice quiet and I only nodded. She unbuckled my belt, then the button of my dress pants, easing the zipper down. Her soft, small hands tucked inside the waistband of my pants and over my ass, pushing my garments down around my ankles where I stepped out of them.

I leaned over her body and kissed her, taking my time, wanting every taste and touch, like I could memorize her with my tongue and I intended to. She tilted her head, deepening the kiss as I pressed her into the mattress with my larger frame. She tasted so sweet and I wondered if she tasted that good everywhere. I moaned as I moved from her mouth, leaving a trail of wet kisses along her jaw until I reached her ear. We knew better than to leave marks on each other, but that didn’t stop me from nibbling her ear and suckling at her pulse point, making her moan under my touch.

Y/N ran her hands over my back and down to my ass, her fingers dipping inside the back of my boxers, trying to push them off. I lifted my hips off of her slightly as she used her feet to push them the rest of the way down my legs. I was so hard it hurt and now my erection was firmly planted between our bodies, rubbing against the blue lace of her panties. I could feel her wetness as it spread through the flimsy material onto my length. I groaned at the sensation as my hips involuntarily ground against her.

Y/N reciprocated my actions and sounds and it spurred me on. I tried to control myself as I didn’t want it to be over before it really even began. I reluctantly moved off of her, rolling us both to our sides as I resumed kissing her, her mouth opening for me like my lips were the key.

“I love you, Dean. Make love to me,” she pleaded, pulling away from me. She rose from the bed, returning with the condoms we brought along. I sat up to admire her as she walked towards me, the wet spot on her panties prominent against the blue lace. She stopped in front of me and I pulled her to stand between my legs, my hands on her hips, as I slowly pulled her panties down.

“You’re beautiful, Y/N. Inside and out. I love you so much,” I whispered, my lips roaming across her stomach, up to the underside of her breast where I licked a wide stripe across her pert nipple. She carded her hands through my hair, holding me to her as I lavished her breasts with attention. I pulled her into my lap and flipped her over to her back.

My hand roamed down her body to her center and I could feel her; all heat and soaked with her arousal. I gently ran my fingers through her folds to coat my fingers before inserting a single digit in her hot core, pumping it in out before adding another.

“Dean,” her wanton moans filled my ears as I continued to mouth at her breasts and prepare her.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Y/N,” I whispered into her skin.

“I don’t care. I wanna feel you,” she looked down at me. “Please, Dean.”

“I wanna feel you too,” I murmured, sitting up to rip open the foil packet and roll it on without breaking it or ruining the moment. Finally, I was covered and moved back over her, easing her legs apart with my hips. “Are you ready, Y/N?” I looked her in the eye, lining myself up with her entrance.

“I have never been more ready,” she replied.

I eased my hips forward slowly. God she was so tight, I was afraid I was going to hurt her. I braced myself on my forearms on either side of her head, kissing her gently and keeping eye contact as I inched in little by little, looking for any sign of distress. Once I felt myself bottom out, I waited until we both relaxed fully and I slowly pulled my hips back and eased back into her just as slowly.

We had only just began and it was probably the best I had ever felt in my life. She was soft and warm and felt like home. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and I felt her tighten her grip on my back, her nails biting into my skin. I picked up the pace slightly but couldn’t slow down the feeling that was about to overcome me.

“Dean!” Y/N cried as our movements increased, her hips meeting mine. I knew I wasn’t going to make it much longer and I wanted her to feel as good as I did. I reached between us clumsily and started rubbing her clit, but the angle was wrong.

“Let me,” she groaned and replaced my hand with hers. I leaned up a little so I could watch her touch herself. She threw her head back and closed her eyes, my name on her lips. I started losing my rhythm the louder she got and I knew this was the end.

She screamed my name and her body went rigid beneath me as I felt like my insides were melting. My body froze, my hips planted firmly against hers as I came, exploding inside the rubber. My vision was spotty and I dropped my head to her shoulder, murmuring her name over and over like a prayer.

“I love you, Y/N,” I professed, our bodies pressed together, slick with sweat.

“I love you, too, Dean, but you’re heavy,” she laughed a little, giving me a gently shove and I rolled my exhausted body off of her on onto my back. My arm wound around her, pulling her into my side and she just fit so perfectly.

“You still want to hit the pool?” I mumbled, my arm over my eyes, trying to control my breathing.

“No, I just want to stay here with you forever,” she confessed. “But I need to pee.”

We spent the rest of the night, snuggled up in bed, deciding against clothing and just watching television, when we weren’t trying to work our way through the entire box of condoms. I knew sex would feel good - I had jacked off more than once thinking about Y/N - but I didn’t expect it to feel this amazing and I wasn’t going to lose the advantage of a weekend away from home.

I woke early the next morning to Y/N with her hand wrapped around my morning wood. “Well, good morning to you too, beautiful.”

“Good morning, handsome,” she giggled but didn’t stop moving her hand up and down my shaft.

“If you don’t stop that, we won’t make breakfast before the show,” I told her, glancing at the clock.

“We can miss the opening act. Let’s shower first!” she called, leaping from the bed and into the bathroom.

~*~

I had never been so entranced in my life as I was with this woman. Watching her sing and dance all day; the sun kissing her exposed shoulders and legs was enough of a show in itself for me. I was so far gone, there was no coming back for me.

“Dean, thank you so much for the most amazing birthday ever! The show was so good and I had such an incredible time,” Y/N looked over at me from the passenger seat of her red Nova. She had a grin planted on her pretty face and was so happy.

“It wasn’t so bad; some of those acts can really rock,” I admitted. “But if you tell anyone I said that, you’ll be in trouble!”

“Oh yeah, big bad, Dean Winchester. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. You’re secret is safe with me,” she giggled.

~*~

We lay in bed, holding each other tight and dreading getting out, facing the reality that we had to pack up and go home. “I don’t want to go home, Dean.”

“I know kid, me neither. But at least we get to be together. And I am sure your dad will only kill me once or twice,” I groaned at the thought of Bobby knowing what we had done all weekend.

“Nobody will know but us, Dean. This was the best weekend of our lives and we will always have these memories, just you and me,” she made it sound so simple.

~*~

“I told you no funny business! You’re both grounded!” Bobby yelled at the us the minute we got out of the car.

“What? Daddy why?” Y/N demanded of her father.

“Because you two just couldn’t keep your hands off each other, could ya? You idjits better have used something, too; I ain’t ready to be nobody’s Papa!” Bobby yelled, throwing his hands up in the air and stormed back into the house.

~*~

“Well, at least that box of condoms didn’t go to waste!” I told her as the song ended and we pulled up to our destination.  

“Definitely not! And we don’t need them anymore,” she smiled at me as she reached for the door.

“What, no more sex?” I tried to be shocked.

“No, but I can’t get pregnant twice!” She winked as she got out of the car.

Tags - add or remove yourself here: @iwantthedean @chelsea072498 @paintrider13-blog @d-s-winchester @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @just-another-busy-fangirl @winchesterprincessbride @waywardjoy @like-a-bag-of-potatoes @mamaredd123 @ellen-reincarnated1967 @sis-tafics @deansdirtyduchess @katymacsupernatural @tankcupcakes  @death2thevirgin @wonderange @padackles2010 @smoothdogsgirl @meeshw777 @tmccarney @milkymilky-cocopuff  @ashstrom87 @zeppo-in-a-trenchcoat @scorpiongirl1 @gemini75eeyore @katewatso @cosmicpeanuthologram @jotink78 @l8nitl0vr @supernaturalyobsessed @memphisgirl1977 @bmcnally85  @ruprecht0420 @mskitty416 @theoriginalvicki @hexparker @nanie5 @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @sandlee44 @fangirl1802 @moonstar86 @raylin19 @niamandthings  @feelmyroarrrr @kittenofdoomage @t-bear99 @hamartiamacguffin @colorfulobjectenemy @uttertrash--butlikecutetrash  @sammieb1127 @evyiione @you-didnt-see-that-cuming @moshingatthedisco  @winchestersmut  @alicat-life @mogaruke @cyrilconnelly @growningupgeek @charliebradbury1104 @evansrogerskitten @therewillbeblood @docharleythegeekqueen @megansescape @taste-of-dean  @scarlet-soldier-in-an-impala  @deathtonormalcy56 @notnaturalanahi @jensen-jarpad @impalaimagining @fangirlextraordinaire @itseverythingilike @jesspfly @love-kittykat21 @mrswhozeewhatsis @aiaranradnay @supernatural-jackles  @spnsasha @27bmm @keepcalmandcarryondean @iamnotsaneatall @autopistaaningunaparte @blacktithe7 @emoryhemsworth @dracotomanddeansprincess23 @bringmesomepie56 @devilgirlsarah @spnbaby-67 @holytrenchcoatedsubtextchuck @emilycollins11 @myoutletforfanfiction @deansangelgirl @queencflair @mizzzpink @jerk-bitch-and-an-angel @kayteonline 

Dean / Jensen Only: @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid  @anokhi07 @perpetualabsurdity @txp87 @akshi8278  @iamabeautifulperson18 @suzannebeaketa @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @deandoesthingstome @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @boxywrites @deansangelgirl @sparklesuperwholock88 @ericaprice2008 

FCAR: @ericaprice2008

[magzoso-tech]

New Post has been published on https://magzoso.com/tech/bose-noise-cancelling-headphones-700-review/

Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 Review

High-end noise cancelling headphones might seem like an unnecessary luxury, considering that they often cost more than a lot of high-end smartphones. Of course if you travel a lot, you’ll agree that these headphones are an important and often indispensable part of your kit. Not only do noise cancelling headphones make things quieter (particular on flights), but they also help you hear audio better, whether music or sound from movies or TV shows.

A stroll around any airport terminal will show you that there are two brands that are way ahead of the competition when it comes to wireless connectivity and active noise cancellation: Sony and Bose. Today, we’re reviewing the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700, the latest high-end headset from the American audio manufacturer.

Priced at Rs. 34,500 in India, this new pair of headphones is among the most feature-filled and capable models in Bose’s consumer range, with active noise cancellation, wireless connectivity, and more. We’ve tested the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700, and here’s what we think.

Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 design and specifications

Bose follows a rather distinct style for its older QuietComfort and SoundLink headsets, which are instantly recognisable to anyone even slightly familiar with headphones. However, the company has departed from this design language with the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700, adopting a whole new aesthetic. The headphones look quite different and a bit artsy in our opinion, with smoother textures, fewer sharp edges and buttons, and a rather unique headband that appears to not be attached to the ear cups at all; don’t worry though, it’s attached firmly.

The frame of the headband is metal, while the ear cups are plastic with a dull finish. The underside of the headband has soft foam padding which is also found around the ear cups to ensure a proper noise-isolating seal. We found the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 to be very comfortable to wear and use over long hours, although spectacles will interfere with noise isolation, and in turn with the quality of the active noise cancellation. Raising the arms of our spectacles above the ear cups fixed this issue (and didn’t interfere too much with our vision either).

This pair of headphones doesn’t have a lot of visual elements, which is a departure from the design language on the QuietComfort series. There’s just a single Bose logo on each ear cup, with two buttons on the right for power and to summon the voice assistant (the default one on your smartphone), and one on the left that controls the active noise cancellation level. By default, this cycles between three ‘favourite’ modes – ‘off’, level 5 (some noise reduction), and level 10 (full active noise cancellation).

Playback and volume controls on the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 are implemented through touch, with the forward part of the right ear cup sensitive to gestures and taps. Swiping up and down adjusts the volume, swiping left and right will skip to the next or previous track, and a double-tap will play or pause music, or answer phone calls. These controls worked well for us, and we quickly got used to them. Interestingly, the headphones also tell you the amount of power left in the battery in terms of hours rather than as a percentage, which we found rather useful.

The Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 uses Bluetooth 5 for connectivity, and supports the SBC and AAC Bluetooth codecs. The headset has what Bose calls an ‘unrivalled microphone system’ which works for both active noise cancellation, as well as for voice communication. The headphones are claimed to run for 20 hours on a single charge with active noise cancellation turned on, and we were able to match this figure during our review. You can, of course, get a few more hours out of the battery with noise cancellation turned off or at a lower level.

The headphones can be charged through a USB Type-C port on the right ear cup. The sales package of the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 includes an audio cable for wired connectivity, a USB Type-A to Type-C cable for charging, and a hard-shell carry case which has a useful compartment for the cables covered by a convenient magnetic flap.

Bose Music app and Bose AR

As is the case with most high-end audio products these days, the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 has a companion app to control some of its settings and functions. The Bose Music app lets you connect to the headphones, adjust the noise cancellation level to your liking, customise the ‘favourite’ settings that the button on the headset cycles through, set your preferred voice assistant, set the auto power-off time, and more.

The app isn’t something you’ll need to use often, and it really only came in handy for us when we just started using the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700, when we used it for an initial setup and tweaked the settings to our liking. It was buggy though, sometimes not connecting to the headphones until we’d restarted either them or the app. Apart from that, we also needed the app to access the Bose AR feature.

With the latest range of Bose headphones, the company is touting something called Bose AR — an audio-based augmented reality platform. Although augmented reality usually involves visual elements, Bose hopes to popularise the idea of audio-based AR. Going to Bose AR in the Bose Music app shows the existing apps that support the platform, and there aren’t many for now – just two that we could install on Android and six on iOS were listed at the time of our review.

We tried one of the apps, Audiojack, on an Apple iPad mini (2019). This ‘story-telling’ app created various sound effects and connected with the Bose headphones, but the experience was nothing out of the ordinary or even special. As such, we’re of the opinion that Bose AR is a gimmick for now; it might get better in the future but it certainly adds nothing worthwhile to the product at this time.

Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 performance

The rivalry between Sony and Bose was a close one while the QuietComfort 35 II was the latter’s top product in this segment, but the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 has definitely taken things up a level. Design, comfort, active noise cancellation, and sound quality have all been improved on the new Bose offering, and it is visibly and audibly a generation ahead of the competition.

We used the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 in a variety of environments to test the active noise cancellation, including in our office, in a mall, in a taxi, and on a couple of flights. We usually had it connected to an Android smartphone, but also tested sound quality with an Apple iPad mini (2019). Even on the Android smartphone, the headphones automatically selected the AAC Bluetooth codec

Let’s first talk about active noise cancellation — the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 are undoubtedly the best we’ve heard when it comes to this feature. The ability of these headphones to create silence in otherwise noisy environments is incredible, and were able to almost completely block out ambient sound. While the typical ‘vacuum’ effect was audible, it wasn’t as unsettling as on our previous favourite noise cancelling headphones, the Sony WH-1000XM3.

The best test of active noise cancellation is on an airplane, and these headphones were able to almost entirely shut out the sound of the jet engines on the flights we took. While noise cancellation doesn’t eliminate sounds such as voices, we did find that even these sounds were much softer with the headphones on. The level of quietness achieved was refreshing, and also helped us hear things such as dialogue in movies and TV shows more clearly, apart from making the music listening experience more immersive and distraction-free.

The ability to adjust the intensity of noise cancellation isn’t a new feature, but Bose has made it much more customisable with the Noise Cancelling Headphones 700. Although we liked the starkness of the ‘level 10′ setting, we see the appeal of having ten adjustment points for people who might want to tone things down a notch. We spent a lot of time using the ‘level 5′ setting since this gave us a bit of ambient awareness while still bringing noise levels down to a comfortable point.

Coming to sound quality, Bose has done an excellent job, but this isn’t quite the best we’ve heard from a pair of wireless headphones. We started with the UK garage classic Sweet Like Chocolate by Shanks and Bigfoot, and immediately noticed a calculated attack in the low end along with sparkling highs. This genre is largely about the rhythmic beats, and we loved how dedicated the headphones were to keeping things as accurate and true to the sound as possible. Sharon Woolf’s easy vocals weren’t quite the centre of attention, but were never lost in the airy, immersive bass.

Moving on to a high-resolution version of State Of The Art by Gotye, we were impressed by the openness and spaciousness of the sound. Even small details could be heard in the wide soundstage This was impressive most of the time, but some details would occasionally get lost in the focus sound of the track. We felt that the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 wasn’t quite as detailed as the Sony WH-1000XM3, which perhaps has to do with the lack of support for more capable Bluetooth codecs such as aptX and LDAC.

Listening to Rock With You by Michael Jackson, we definitely felt that the sound quality was a step above that of the Bose QC35 II in terms of detail and presence, but stopped short of Sony’s tightness, sharpness, and revealing nature. To be clear, the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 sounds good, but there’s just a bit missing at the top that we expect from such a high-end pair of headphones.

Finally, we used the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 for hands-free calling. This is among the best headsets we’ve used for phone calls, with clear sound on both ends. The typical distant-sounding effect that usually gives away the fact that you’re using a headset was not a problem at all when using this device, making for a natural sound that surprisingly improves voice quality on calls.

Verdict

Bose has long been considered the leader when it comes to active noise cancellation on headphones, but the last couple of years have seen Sony take the lead with its WH-1000X series. With the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700, Bose has taken several big steps forward, shaking off its ageing QC lineup in favour of modern design and improved performance. These headphones, in our opinion, once again take the lead when it comes to design, comfort, and noise cancellation, but don’t quite do enough to catch up with Sony in terms of sound quality, whether with noise cancellation on or off.

Although the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 does sound very good, it isn’t quite the best-sounding pair of wireless headphones you can buy for the price. However, this product is, on the whole, still an excellent proposition. Sure, it’s expensive, but Bose does have the kind of glamour and desirability that makes it an aspirational brand.

Unless you’re particular about getting that slight edge in sound quality (or if you absolutely have to have the superior Bluetooth codec support that Sony and others offer), the Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones 700 is a strong recommendation from us. It’s expensive, but then so are most nice things in life.

Price: Rs. 34,500

Pros

Looks good, very comfortable

Intuitive gesture controls

Unmatched active noise cancellation

Open, airy soundstage

Strong lows and highs

Cons

Limited Bluetooth codec support

Bose AR is underwhelming

Sound isn’t as detailed and revealing as we’d have liked

Ratings (out of 5)

Design/ comfort: 4.5

Audio quality: 4

Battery life: 4

Value for money: 3.5

Overall: 4

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[alittleoptimistic]

Renaissance of the Mind: Chapter 3

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Summary: Senator Thomas Jackson has spent the better part of his career swaying the public opinion to the belief that old souls are villainous. Everyone knows only people who screwed up royally in their previous life come back for another chance. They are criminals and should be imprisoned the moment they are discovered. But after a chance meeting with a strangely familiar young man, Thomas’s worst fears are animated. A lifetime of his own forgotten memories in his unwieldy hands, Thomas is faced with a decision.

His headache wasn’t going away.

In the last hour, he’d consumed four ibuprofen pills, half a bottle of aspirin, and copious amounts of alcohol.

This was turning out to be a poor decision.

A headache had started just after his speech and had yet to let up. His entire head throbbed and pulsed with every heartbeat. He was alone at home and taking one of the very few sick days he could, and he was distantly aware that he should probably call a doctor at this point. Two days of a migraine wasn’t normal. Right? Maybe?

He couldn’t hold onto a thought long enough to really consider it anyhow.

But he did know now that medicine overdose along with alcohol was a bad plan. Very bad.

He’d been puking in the toilet in the dark in his bathroom for the last twenty minutes.

And all the while his head continued to pound.

This was just some kind of flu. Something he’d caught. But man it was bad.

After what felt like an eternity, his stomach settled slightly. Thomas dropped onto the floor, exhausted, and stayed there with his eyes shut. After a while he had the presence of mind to flush the toilet, but after that, he just sat, trying not to think about anything. Everything hurt. He wiped his mouth with a growl of frustration and got to his feet shakily.

He’d need water and food after that, some part of him supplied. Or he’d faint. Slowly, he stumbled out of the bathroom, down the hall to his immaculate, very seldom used kitchen. All the curtains in the house had been drawn, and every light turned off. So naturally, he tripped over just about everything in his stumbling way to the fridge.

Once reaching the fridge, he kept his eyes shut as he opened it and cool light spilled out. He groped for something to eat and landed on a stick of butter.

Whatever. He’d take it.

His brain buzzed and whizzed around and the next he knew, he was on his couch, the stick of butter in hand, staring blankly at the swirling pattern on his ceiling.

“This sucks,” he croaked. “This is a big ol’ pile of cow dung, Jeff.” He frowned. “Jack… son.” Pathetic, really. Honestly, he couldn’t even say his name right.

He ate a piece of butter from a trembling hand and cursed the empty house in a general sort of way.

It was then, of course, that his cell phone buzzed. Light flooded the room like laser beams and he groaned, turning his head away.

But it kept on buzzing on the coffee table just a few feet away.

Muttering, he forced himself to sit up, and grab it.

“What?”

A shocked pause. “Oh.” It was Maria. “Goodness, you really are sick.”

Thomas would have rolled his eyes if that wouldn’t have hurt enough to send him to his knees. Instead, he blinked slowly. “Yup. What’s wrong?”

She sighed. “Ah, well, I was calling because I’ve been able to handle all of your responsibilities today thus far, but after that speech, if you disappear for too long-”

“They’ll forget about it.” She was right. They would. They needed to ride this wave of media presence if they wanted to get somewhere.

“Exactly. They need to keep seeing you. So… when can you come in?”

Thomas exhaled tiredly. “Uh, as soon as I can.”

“We really need you here, Mr. Jackson. I understand but-”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted. “I want this just as much as the rest of you. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

He could hear her smile in her voice. “Great! Awesome. Thank you, sir! Please feel better. I will see you tomorrow, then!”

“Tomorrow.”

He hung up.

And tossed the phone sloppily across the room.

He’d think about everything... tomorrow.

From the outside, Alex’s record shop looked like one of those crappy corner stores where you buy lottery tickets and cigarettes and people hang to cause trouble. There were bars on the windows and the door needed new paint. It got stuck every time Alex opened it, and he had to shove his shoulder into it get it to work properly.

But Alex didn’t care.

He’d poured his heart and soul into this little shop and if his heart and soul looked like a crappy corner store, so be it.

That said, on the inside, he had done everything he could to fix it to exactly his liking. Records of all sorts were stacked in boxes and on the walls and on shelves, and large posters were framed on the walls. There was a semblance of order. It went like this: new stuff, front of the shop, old stuff, back of the shop. And it worked just fine for him. If anyone needed help, they’d ask and he could find them the record in less than thirty seconds. He and his roommate/best friend Jack ran the place and Alex wouldn’t have it any other way.

Alex, per usual, shoved open the door. The smell of coffee and warm leather greeted him. There wouldn’t actually be any coffee yet, but he’d brewed so much of it inside the tiny shop, the smell was sort of ingrained in the walls. He flicked on the lights and smiled.

In the back of the shop, he’d set up the pay counter, and he had dozens of record players to use. He’d choose a style for the day, usually, and Jack would probably complain about it, but that was okay. He swerved around the randomly placed shelves of records. He did pretty well with this shop. Especially since records were coming back as ‘retro’ and ‘cool’. Whatever. He liked the music and he liked being able to see the music as it spun. He liked the way it sounded and he loved searching for songs. Forgotten songs. Lost songs. Songs so rare, no one had listened to them in decades. He’d dig like some kind of treasure hunter in people’s garage sales, obscure auctions, pawn shops, for more music.

And then, if he felt like it, he’d sell his findings.

Before, Alex hadn’t had enough time to appreciate such things like music. He’d been so hurried, so desperate to make something of himself, he’d been solely devoted to writing and politics. They were everything.

He didn’t have his writings or his political career now. They weren’t ‘his’ anymore.

And funny enough, that was okay. The world would keep on spinning whether or not Alexander Miranda chose to step into the public eye.

However, he would like to make it clear, that he could. He could become all that he was in the 1700s. After all, back then he’d started with absolutely nothing. Even at his lowest moments in this life, he had far more than he had as the young, scrappy, and hungry kid that stumbled off a burning ship into New York without a single friend in the world and nothing but the clothes on his back.

Yeah, if he wanted, Alex could do it again. It would take some luck, but he’d pull it off like he always had.

But, man, he really kinda liked music. And he realized now, he wasn’t the type of person that could multi-task. He couldn’t listen to music and drink in a bar and dance with pretty girls and- and live if he was constantly waiting to get back to his ‘real’ life of writing and politics.

So whatever. Yeah, he didn’t have much money, yeah he lived in an area that was burgled every other night and drug busted at least once a week, but he didn’t mind.

People were as kind as they were bitter, and music had a way of soothing people, making them happier for just a moment. He’d never figured out how to do that as a politician or a soldier.

He’d thought it was just one of those gifts some people had.

Like Eliza. She’d been able to make anyone smile the moment they walked into a room.

And Alex had just assumed he couldn’t do that. It occurred to him maybe he hadn’t really tried.

He plugged in his favorite player and thumbed through a few of his favorite records. He wasn’t a hard core Beetle fan, but they were alright if he was in the mood.

Eh. He wasn’t today.

He was still debating between a classical Bach or Kansas when the bell on the front door rang. Kinda. The bell had a tendency to get drowned out by the shoving and pushing and scraping that it took to open the door.

Alex sat down in a swivel chair, hands behind his head, and spun in a circle. “If I look at you, and you look high, Jack, you’re going home.”

Jack, the roommate, stuck a ruffled head through the door and huffed. “Uh, for your information, I am clean.”

Alex glanced at him and snorted. “Clean.”

The redhead, almost-former druggie looked down at his wrinkled t-shirt and jeans and shut the door behind him. “In the substance sense.”

“That’s nice. Physically clean would be nice too.”

Jack glared at him, straightened his jacket with an eye roll, and stomped past him. “I’ll wash my face in the sink.” He opened the back door and left it open behind him.

“There are a washcloth and some spare clothes back there too, I think.” Alex had put some in there when he wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to keep up his half of the apartment rent. He grinned and used his legs to push the swivel chair halfway off the ground. He could just see Jack enter the bathroom. “You’re the best!” He added with cheeriness he knew Jack would find extremely grating.

“You’re the worst,” came his muffled reply.

Alex chuckled and went back to searching through his stack of records. He liked old music as much as he liked new music. And when he said old music, he meant like, the stuff people tended to just lump together as either ‘hymn church stuff’ or ‘classic ugh so boring’ as well as the music made in the early twentieth century.

He chose something at random and clicked it in place.

Mozart. Piano softly washed over the room. Now that kid been something of a phenomenon. Jefferson had detested him if he remembered correctly. Wouldn’t play any of his music. Alex had no idea why, just that Jefferson had always been very irritated whenever someone attempted to play it. Alex chewed his lip. See, this was the thing about old music. It was flypaper for memories. Even now, if he played the song he and Eliza had first danced to, he’d be thrown back to that hot summer night and the feeling of the blue silk dress beneath his sweaty fingers. Her light touch on his shoulder and his equally gentle touch on the small of her back. It had been humid and the hosts ran out of punch halfway through the night, he recalled. But it had been some kind of magical time anyhow.

He was usually very careful about which old music he played, just in case it was too much for him that day.

With a sigh, Alex pushed himself out of the chair, stretched his back, and started the coffee machine beneath the counter. He didn’t actually like coffee, but the caffeine was too large of an asset. He needed caffeine.

Once enough for a cup had brewed, Alex quickly removed the pot, poured the coffee into his cup, and hastily thrust it back under the hot stream. There was probably a reason the coffee machine was stained brown. He smirked, wrapped his hands around the hot mug, took a sip, and bent under the counter to continue his never-ending task of sorting. He’d come back yesterday from a day of hunting with a dozen new records that needed a home in the shop.

He’d done this for a few minutes when someone shoved on the door. Alex frowned. That was unusual. People were not often here this early.

With an armful of records in one arm and his coffee cup in the other hand, he struggled to stand.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. Here, let me help you.”

The records slipped, but suddenly someone was there, taking hold of a bunch and setting them down on the counter. Alex smiled. “Thanks,”

“You are very welcome. Pardon me, but are you, Alex or Jack, sir? The sign outside said Alex and Jack’s Records and I… I… Are you alright?”

Alex stared, horrified. He had gotten very good at recognizing people. Mia had been right. It was in the eyes. He couldn't do it every time, but sometimes...

And there was no way he would ever forget the eyes looking at him right now.

“B-Burr?”

The man frowned, confused. He was a dark-skinned, smartly dressed man with close cut hair and a very familiar cautious, concerned smile. “It’s Barron, actually.”

The coffee cup slipped from Alex’s fingers, and the moment broke. Alex cursed and jumped back from the hot liquid. “Oh jeez, S-sorry, sir. I- no, I’m, this is fine. I’ll just clean it up.”

“Here, I’ll help.”

Burr- Barron- whatever, leaned forward and Alex jerked back as if burned. “No. Really. I have a cloth right here.”

Which he did. He was always spilling coffee it seemed.

He bent beneath the counter, and once he was hidden, waves of terror crashed through him.

Terrified wasn’t exactly what he thought he’d feel like if he ever ran into him. But here they were. His hands shook as he scooped up the coffee and deposited the broken ceramic into a small trash can.

Good enough.

It was obvious Burr didn’t remember. Otherwise, he would have reacted when Alex said his name. So… there was nothing to do. Nothing but serve him as he would serve any other customer. It wouldn’t be fair to him otherwise.

When did his life get so complicated?

Taking a deep breath, Alex wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up. He forced a smile. “Sorry about that. And, I’m Alex.”

Burr laughed easily and shrugged. “Nice to meet you. And don’t sweat it. We all have days like that.”

“I tend to have quite a lot of them.” Alex laughed nervously.

Look at him. Small talking with his freaking murderer.

“So,” Alex gestured at the records around them. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Looking for something specific.” Please say no.

“Actually I am. I’m,” He smiled sheepishly. Burr, being sheepish. What the actual heck. “I’m a history teacher, and, I swear this is relevant, there’s a piece of music that was composed during the eighteenth century that I heard about at some point. And anyway, I thought it would be interesting to show it to the students. But, I can’t for the life of me find it anywhere. I asked around and, long story short, they said you were my best bet for rare music.”

Alex bobbed his head. Probably too many times. “So, you’re teaching like, world history?”

“American. Revolutionary War, actually.”

Alex’s voice cracked. “Oh.”

There was an awkward pause. Alex cleared his throat. “So, do you know the name of the song? The composer? Year it was made?”

Burr chewed his lip. “I… I remember learning that Thomas Jefferson, the president, I mean, was fond of it. He was there when it was composed. A friend of his was the composer.”

Alex racked his brain, wondering where he’d picked up something so obscure, but shook his head. Alex hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms with Jefferson. “Sorry, man. I’d need more information than that.”

Burr sighed. “It was a long shot anyhow. Do you have anything from that time period?”

Oh did he.

He forced himself to think. A businessman. He was being a businessman. “Uh, um, I know Thomas Jefferson liked Bach. A lot.”

Jefferson used to hum it obnoxiously loud when Alex was trying to speak.

Burr’s eyes lit up. “Anything you can think of. That would be great.”

Okay. Alright.

He could find some Bach. Scurrying, Alex got to the back of the room and flipped through several of his classical pieces. He was having a hard time gripping things. Everything kept slipping through his sweaty fingers. Bach. “Here we are.” Alex lifted a record. Nearly dropped it. “I don’t know how much you know about music-”

“Very little.”

Alex did that strange nervous laugh again, fully aware that it would seem profoundly weird to Burr. Barron. Ugh. “Well, anyway, this is great. I read in a history book once that he’d often hum it when he was trying to concentrate, or uh, trying to derail other people’s concentration.”

Burr laughed. “Alright. That is certainly interesting.”

Alex handed him the record. “It’s rare, so I doubt you’ll find it this old. It was recorded early twentieth century. More authentic, people say.”

Shrugging, Burr walked to the counter. Alex scurried after him. “Sounds good.”

Alex named his price and Burr paid without complaint. He caught a glimpse into his wallet, and Alex mentally rolled his eyes. Of course, Burr would end up rich. Again. He must have some other source of income. Unless history teachers were usually carrying that much cash these days.

As Burr folded his wallet, Alex couldn’t bear the silence. It would eat him up inside. “So, um, Revolutionary War. You know a lot about it. That’s like, Founding Fathers, right? Alexander Hamilton and stuff?”

He kicked himself.

Why did he say that? Why the heck did he say that?!

Burr’s eyes lit up again. It was strange, so very strange to see him this way. Something had happened after the war. He’d lost that light. And now it was back. “Hamilton. That’s not usually one people name. He’s a particular favorite of mine.”

Alex’s stomach fell to his converse. Right. Of course, he was.

“Bit of a prat, but a financial genius. No one ever argued that. And a brilliant lawyer. Did you know he defended one of the first suspects of a murder conviction once America was a nation?”

Yeah. He did.

Alex shook his head. “No. That’s pretty cool, though.”

Barron stared at something Alex couldn’t see but suddenly shook himself. He smiled that sheepish smile once more. “My apologies. I do not mean to give you a history lesson.”

Alex tried to keep smiling. “Well, I hope your students enjoy the music. And- and you yourself, sir.”

Burr dipped his head. “Thank you for assisting me. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

With that, he tucked the record under an arm, forced open the door, and exited into the city morning.

Everything froze.

And

Alex fell backward, landing perfectly in his swivel chair. He held up his hands to his face and watched them shake in a detached horror.

“Yo, anyone tell you your clothes look like a Grandad's? Uh, what’s up? You look like you saw a ghost.” Jack poked his head through the back door, a toothbrush still in his mouth.

Alex laughed, slightly hysterically. “I just sold an antique record to Aaron Burr.”

Jack wrinkled his nose, thinking. “Wait, like, the wig and red coat guy in the duel?”

Sure.

Alex was frozen, staring at the place Burr had been standing. He needed composure.

“He told you?”

“Hmm?” Alex forced his eyes away. “Uh. Yeah.”

Jack gave him a seriously? look. “And you just let him walk away? Alex, he’s a murder! You should have called the police!”

What? Why? “He didn’t… he didn’t do anything to me, Jack. He just wanted a record to show to his students.”

“But, dude, he’s killed, someone!”

Alex blinked, crossed his arms and turned his swivel chair to face Jack totally. “More than two hundred years ago. In an entirely different life.”

Jack shook his head. “No, no, man. You gotta get out more. They’re saying old souls are stuck in loops. They just do the same things they did in their first lives. That’s why they’re dangerous. He’ll kill again if he hasn’t already.” He cocked his head. “Actually, nevermind. Don’t call the police. I think I still have some weed in one of your lockers.”

It took Alex a second to register that. He was already thrown by Jack’s worldview. “What? Dude! You can’t just leave weed in the store!”

Jack shrugged. “Sorry?”

Alex sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands.

He was going to need more coffee.

[vindictivegrace]

Set It All on Fire

Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Word Count: 2208

Notes: One shot, no smut, established relationship, domestic AU, no powers, moving out, moving is annoying as fuck, rage quit, Bucky is a grouch, Steve is kind of a nag, I basically wrote this to unload my own IRL moving stress Summary: Steve and Bucky are moving to a new rental house. Bucky hates the hassles of moving. To make matters worse, Bucky has been left to deal with the bulk of their last minute packing. The house is full of excess junk, Steve is constantly on his case about what to do next, and Bucky is sick of it all. Finally, something happens and it’s the last straw for Bucky. A/N: Originally posted March 25, 2017 on AO3 here. I wrote this while I was in the middle of preparing to move a couple weeks ago. Holy fuck do I hate moving. I have since made it to my new destination, but not without wishing once or twice (or every single day) that I could do what Bucky did in this fic. Let me know what you think. Enjoy ^_^ ****************

“Bucky, did you hear what I said?”

“Hm, what?” Bucky blinked to rid himself of his glazed over stare.

His boyfriend huffed, clearly annoyed. “I said…”

And there Steve went again about this and that and whatever else Bucky had to do. The two were moving out of their rental home to a nicer one on the other side of the city. Steve was counting on Bucky to get as much packing done as possible. Bucky had the time. After serving the past four years in the military, he decided to use the GI Bill to take himself to school. He was a part-time student at one of the local universities, and school was on break for the week. Bucky also worked part-time for the university, and luckily his office was closed for the break as well.

“Bucky! You got that?”

“Yeah, yeah, Steve. I heard ya this time.” Bucky really didn’t, but he didn’t have to. Steve was on him for the past few days about everything that had to be done, there was no way Bucky could forget even if he wanted to. Every day before he left and every night before they slept, Steve repeated their endless to-do list. Steve helped when he could, but his long hours at the office meant he wasn’t able to contribute as much as he would like. With such a short deadline to be out of the house—the end of the week—the majority of the work fell on Bucky’s shoulders. He would have to spend his entire break packing up.

“Well okay, Buck. I’m off.” Steve leaned in to give Bucky a warm, lingering kiss. He pulled away, adding, “Look, I know you hate moving, Bucky. Don’t worry—It’ll be over before you know it and we’ll be in our new house.”

“Honestly, it would be over a lot sooner if we didn’t have so much crap laying around Stevie. Seriously, we don’t need all this junk!” Bucky gestured behind himself. It was true the house was cluttered with everything imaginable, but Steve always freaked out and put his foot down when Bucky as much as hinted at getting rid of their stuff.

Steve didn’t have time to freak out this morning, so he quickly cut down Bucky’s protest. “We can deal with the extra junk later. Right now we need to focus on getting out of here.” Bucky heard the finality in his voice. “Okay, I’m off for real now, Bucky.” Steve gave Bucky a quick smooch this time and left out the door.

Bucky closed the door and turned around to face the behemoth of a task in front of him: All the shit in their house.

He ran a hand through his long brown hair and sighed.

“Fuck me.”

-----

In one of Steve’s earlier nightly recitals of their to-do list, he had recommended Bucky start in one room and work his way to the living room and kitchen. Having a system for tackling all their junk would keep the frustration at bay. It would also make it easier for Steve to figure out where he could jump in and help when he came home.

Bucky was having none of that. If he had to do most of the packing, he would do it his way. Which meant random anger-inducing chaos. He started in the kitchen, tackling random cabinets as he saw fit. He opened one above and was instantly flooded by Tupperware, like he was part of a goddamn infomercial. Afterwards, he moved to the partially finished basement, looked around at the mess, told himself “NOPE,” and went back upstairs. He boxed up the books in Steve’s home office and left it at that, knowing that his lover would prefer to go through the rest of the room’s contents on his own. He went back to the kitchen to load the dishwasher and do the rest by hand. They were always leaving huge piles of dishes in the sink. He skipped the bathroom for now. He could clean that towards the end of their stay.

Later, in their bedroom, Bucky worked on their clothes. His were easy. Bucky kept a simple utilitarian wardrobe that still flattered his muscular physique. He usually stuck to henleys, jeans, and boots. He had enough clothes to add or remove layers as needed, and a jacket and a coat to accommodate the predominant seasons of the region. He had a set of workout clothes, as well, and he saved on pajamas by sleeping in an undershirt and his boxer briefs, or in the nude.

Steve was a different story. For a guy who was modest and bashful about how ridiculously hot he actually was, Steve had no problem showing himself off in as many clothes as possible. He had t-shirts, tank tops, button down flannel, basic longsleeves, sweaters, hoodies, dress shirts for work, dress shirts for going out, his workout clothes; tons of jeans in various ass-hugging, junk framing shades and cuts (okay, Bucky liked those); sooooo many shoes; jackets for warm weather; jackets for cooler weather; jackets for when the weather couldn’t decide what it was doing; five heavy winter coats (what person needed FIVE winter coats???); underwear in all shades, cuts, and materials imaginable (okay, Bucky liked those too, especially the lacey boyshorts and thongs); and more. Bucky had never seen anyone, man or woman, own so many clothes. The sight of their overrun closet alone was mind-boggling. Steve could at least cut down on the shirts. Half of his stash could restock all the clothing stores downtown for a month!

Bucky put his face in his hands and groaned loudly. The frustration was building fast.

-----

Of course when Steve came home he threw a fit at Bucky’s randomness. Now they were both climbing over boxes and bags and stacks of junk like they were moving through a homemade obstacle course.

Of course Steve’s annoyance fed into Bucky’s.

“Well maybe we wouldn’t have to climb over everything if we didn’t have so much stuff! Why don’t we get rid of all of this crap? We could donate it or give it away. Hell, we could even do a last minute garage sale. I’d be willing whip that together.”

“No, Bucky!”

“Or we could set it all on fire and be done with it.”

“NO.”

Of course, when the night was over, Steve was running through their to-do list. They still had to transfer their utility services, transfer their internet service, change their mailing address, change their address at the bank, send out their final rent, give a parting gift to the neighbors (‘Fuck the neighbors,’ Bucky thought to himself. ‘Their tiny dog always poops on our porch!’), get their lawnmower back from Sam who had borrowed it after his broke, mow the lawn, take out the trash and recycling, take the designated box of food to the food bank, on top of everything else they had to do at home still. Which included...

And Steve just kept rattling off the neverending, damn it all to hell, to-do list. Bucky had already fallen asleep. Steve didn’t notice until the familiar light snoring started. He sighed, turned out the light, and snuggled himself under Bucky’s arm, allowing the gentle rise and fall of Bucky’s chest to lull him to sleep.

-----

Days later, after more packing and more of Steve’s lists, and more problems coming up, and more things to do, Bucky just about had it. Maybe he really would set everything on fire. The illicit desire was growing each minute. There was no point in keeping any of this junk around anymore. He and Steve would have to unpack it all in the new house, and deal with it again when they moved once more later on, and again, and again! Bucky wished he could squeeze his eyes shut and magically time travel to one month later when they would be settled down in their now home and all their packing woes were far behind them. He was so sick of this shit. He was barely holding on. If anything set him off now, he knew he would lose it.

He opened the front door to get the mail for the last time when he felt something squish under his boot. He didn’t need to look down to know what it was—the smell alone was enough to tell.

Bucky stepped in dog shit.

THAT’S. IT.

-----

Steve was packing up for the day when his phone vibrated. He let it go to voicemail. He just wanted to leave the office and get home so he could help Bucky. He knew Bucky was getting more tense and fed up with packing. It was already late, the sun having set an hour ago. The phone vibrated again—short pulses this time. A text message. Then a longer set of vibrations for a phone call. Then short pulsing. A voicemail. Followed by more vibrations. Steve started getting nervous. This wasn’t good. He looked at the phone. All the missed phone calls, voicemails, and texts were coming from Natasha. When the phone vibrated again, Steve picked up.

“Rogers.”

“Steve, it’s Nat!” she was frantic. “Where are you?”

“I’m still at work trying to leave. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m calling to ask you that! Didn’t you hear?”

------

Steve rushed home just in time to see the spectacle. There were fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances everywhere. Emergency personnel were running back and forth. Everyone in the neighborhood and the surrounding area gathered around to see the biggest tower of fire he had ever seen. There were so many phones out, no doubt recording the drama and posting it online. The local news stations were off to the side reporting live. The view almost reminded Steve of the massive bonfires the city puts on during the summer. Except this wasn’t a bonfire—it was whatever was left of his rental house.

Where was Bucky? Steve worked his way through the crowd. His eyes darted this way and that looking for Bucky, hoping, begging, pleading that Bucky was okay. That was all he cared about. Panic was flooding through his entire body. No, no! If Bucky was in the house, there was no way he could have survived a blaze this big. Steve couldn’t lose his Bucky. Not like this, please! Steve reached the front of the crowd, where caution tape and police officers kept the crowd back and firefighters rushed by to kill the fire. The heat was overwhelming.

“Sir, please stay back. It isn’t safe here!” an officer warned him.

“But that’s my house!” Steve yelled back while pointing at the blaze. “Please, Officer, have you seen a man about my height and age, with shoulder length brown hair, muscular build, and an endless scowl???” Steve’s eyes were stinging from the smoke and his own fears playing out in his mind.

“Oh, that guy…Yeah, he’s over there,” the officer replied, thumbing over his shoulder in a general direction behind them.

Bucky was leaning against an ambulance. He refused medical care. His arms were crossed and his scowl was deep, so the paramedics let him be.

Steve ran to him. “Bucky! Oh thank god you’re okay!” Steve threw his arms around Bucky and hugged him hard, effectively killing Bucky’s customary stress glare. The hug didn’t last long. Steve pulled himself back at arm's length to look at Bucky head on. “What happened here? What happened to you? How did this happen? Did you see anything?”

Bucky’s eyes shifted—right, left, lower corner—and settled on Steve’s. “I stepped out of the house for a little bit. Went to grab the mail. Turned around and saw smoke. I ran inside to save the important stuff. I ran out. The whole place went up in flames.”

Steve knew that look and tone. Bucky always acted this way when something was off.

Then it instantly clicked in Steve’s mind.

The panic Steve felt earlier transformed into stomach sinking dread. His eyes widened, the whites standing out in the blaze-hued smoky night. He stepped closer to whisper, his grip on Bucky’s shoulders tightening.

“Bucky...What did you DO?”

Bucky gave Steve a small smirk. The night, the ongoing fire, and the spinning lights from all the emergency workers’ vehicles played off Bucky’s visage, leaving him unnaturally darkened by shadows, like an everyday man who finally gave in to his most sinister carnal desire.

“What we should have done in the first place. Now Steve, the story is ‘I stepped out of the house for a little bit. Went to grab the mail. Turned around and saw smoke. I ran inside to save the important stuff. I ran out. The whole place went up in flames.’” He emphasized each sentence to cement the “facts” into Steve’s mind and the unspoken message: WE’RE IN THIS TOGETHER.

“Bucky…” Steve was horrified. Was this really happening?

“I’m an idiot Steve,” Bucky continued in that tone. “I shouldn’t have risked my life like that for paper, right? Documents can be replaced. A life can’t. You’re just happy that I’m safe and sound. RIGHT, Stevie?”

“Oh my god, Bucky.”

“You shouldn’t buy so many of those damn shirts, Stevie. They’re basically kindling.”