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pastpatientlywaitingforimagines · 4 years ago

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Wormhole | Spencer Reid x Reader Platonic

WC: 10k

A/N: This is a comfort fic disguised as a CM episode. Also, I had a lot of fun writing this.

WARNINGS: Kidnapping, murder, general CM things, hospitals, mentions of blood, psychopaths

You weren’t normally nervous to talk to Agent Aaron Hotchner. Sure, he was your boss, but he had also been leading the BAU for so long that you always trusted his reactions and motives. Still, the reason you had asked him to meet was so far out of left field that you were nervous he would tell you you were insane.

You were the first one in the office for the morning, perching on your desk in the empty bullpen while you waited for Hotch to arrive. You stood up when he entered the office, but waited to move until he made it to his office door and beckoned you to follow him inside.

“Good morning, (y/n).”

“Morning, Hotch,” you stood awkwardly in front of his desk, clutching the file in your hands.

“Please, sit. Is everything ok?” As soon as you made eye contact with him, your nerves settled. Everything about his behavior showed that he was genuinely concerned for you and interested in what you had to say. You took a deep breath, sliding the file onto his desk.

“I was looking into this cold case from the eighties, in Illinois. Mia-Rose Horn, 16, found murdered under a bridge. I have a theory, and I was hoping I could take a couple of days to go check it out.” You bit your lip while he picked up the file, thumbing through it.

“What’s your theory?”

“The only suspects considered were older transients in the area because the town was so biased against migrant workers. My preliminary research shows that the unsub profiles as younger, someone who knew the victim and her family personally. It feels like there’s a piece of the puzzle missing, and I think victimology can really help this case. I’d like to visit the dumpsite and walk the crime scene. I’d also like to go through the evidence to see if I can narrow it down a little more, and possibly do updated DNA analysis. I’ve already contacted the lead detective, he said it would be fine if I went out there.”

Hotch was quiet for a minute, reading the case information from the file. The longer you sat in silence, the more you feared he would say no. Finally, he closed the file and handed it back to you, “the FBI wasn’t invited in on this case when it was active, how did you find it?”

You blushed, hard. “I was watching a cold case documentary and when they talked about this one it just didn’t feel right, so I asked Garcia to pull the file. Once I looked it over more I realized my hunch was correct. They barely built a profile and the one they did make was wrong.”

“Do you work on cold cases often?”

“I’ve only worked on it when we don’t have an active case and I’m caught up on my paperwork, it makes me feel like I’m still making a difference when things are slow here.”

Hotch nodded, “you’re a good agent, (y/n). I trust that you’ll represent the BAU well. I can’t let you take the jet but you’re welcome to an SUV. However, as soon as we get an active case it takes priority. Do you understand?”

You stood up quickly, excitedly gripping at the file, “Yes sir, of course. Thank you so much. I promise I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think I could do something. I won’t let you down, sir.” Hotch smiled softly at your energy. You had reached for the door handle before he spoke again, calling after you.

“(y/n),” you turned, hand still on the doorknob, “take Reid with you, I assume he knows the details of this case, too?” You nodded quickly, practically bouncing back to your desk with excitement. You checked the clock, Spencer would probably arrive in the next ten minutes or so, giving you time to arrange everything you’d need for the trip.

As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, you were waiting for him, go bag in hand.

“Hotch said you could go?”

“Not only that, he said you could come with me,” you smirked, falling in step next to him as he walked to his desk.

“Really?”

“We’re leaving now, so get your go bag.” You did a little happy dance as he started to gather his things.

“Ooh! Where are you going?” Penelope joined you at Spencer’s desk, hot cup of coffee in her hands.

“(y/n) is solving a cold case, we’re going out to Illinois to get more information.”

“The one I pulled for you? You actually solved it? Is there anything you can’t do?” Penelope asked in disbelief. Just last week she had explained to you why she was convinced you were a superhero.

You laughed brightly, “I don’t know if I can solve it yet, that’s why I need to go check it out for myself. Yes, I’ll call you if I need anything,” you answered when she opened her mouth to speak again. She hugged both you and Spencer before you left, making you promise you’d call her with updates and letting you know she’d call the detective to let him know you were on your way.

In true Spencer fashion, he had brought enough audiobooks to last the whole drive. You didn’t mind, your brain was more focused on driving. You didn’t talk about the case until you were nearing the end of the twelve hour road trip. Spencer was the one to bring it up, turning down the volume knob on the console.

“How are you feeling about this?”

“To be honest, Spence, I haven’t really been listening.”

“I meant about the case,” he chuckled.

“I’m trying not to get my hopes up. It’s been a cold case for over three decades for a reason, you know?”

“We wouldn’t be in Illinois right now if you weren’t on to something. Instincts exist for a reason, and your instincts are usually right.”

You fiddled with the air conditioning vents absentmindedly, “I don’t want to dredge up old wounds for the family and the town unless I’m absolutely certain I can bring some closure to them as well. The detective is the only person who knows we’re coming. I don’t want to start interviewing witnesses until I know I can do something to help.”

Spencer nodded, “I’ll follow your lead, you just tell me what you need.”

You spent the rest of the time discussing the details of the case, Spencer looking over the file again while you navigated to the police office. Having Spencer with you made you feel a lot better. You knew the case front to back, but this was your first time leading an investigation and you didn’t want to accidentally miss something in the file out of nervousness. Spencer’s eidetic memory and genius brain would keep you on track and ask you questions you knew would only help you in the grand scheme of things. Spencer was also your best friend, your biggest supporter. Any considerations he had would always come from a place of love and mutual respect.

When you arrived at the police station it was late in the evening, but the detective was waiting for you. He was an older man, tall and mostly bald.

“Hi, you must be Agent (y/l/n). Nice to finally meet you in person.”

“Detective Reeves, nice to finally meet you, too. This is my partner, Doctor Reid.” Spencer brought a hand up to wave. “Thanks for letting us take a look at this.”

“Thanks for making the drive out here. This case…” he sighed, “Mia-Rose went missing two months after I started this job and I’ve been hunting her killer ever since. It’s been thirty two years, a fresh pair of eyes will do this case good. It’ll do the whole town good if you can see somethin’ I haven’t.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” you said, not wanting to promise any results to him. “Is there a room we can set up in?”

“I’ve brought all of the evidence to our conference room. Use it for as long as you need.”

“Thanks,” you took off to the door that he had pointed at, Spencer on your heels. He shut the door behind you, dropping his bag on a chair while you picked up examination gloves.

The next few hours were spent meticulously going over the evidence that had been collected. You occasionally made comments to Spencer about where the item had come from and any notes that had already been documented about it.

The clock had just passed midnight when you were ready to move on to the next part of your investigation. You wanted to walk the dumpsite, but it would be useless to go while it was still dark. Instead, you retreated to a small motel at Spencer’s insistence that you needed sleep.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to shut my brain off enough to actually sleep,” you confessed once you were wearing sweatpants and leaning up against the headboard of the bed.

Spencer wandered out of the bathroom, giving you the softest look as he sat down next to you.

“What are you thinking about the most?”

“The evidence told me exactly what I thought it would, but I can’t build a decent mental picture of what happened until I see the dump site. What if I get there and it still doesn’t make sense? What if I’m in too deep on this one, Spence?”

“This case has been cold for thirty years, it can wait one more night. You are an incredible FBI agent. You’re an incredible human, at that. I know you can handle this, and Hotch knows you can handle this, too. If you aren’t able to solve it, you’re not letting anyone down. It’s been a cold case for a reason, I’m sure you’ll solve the next one.”

“Logically I know you’re right, but that isn’t making sleep happen any easier,” you sighed, sinking down onto a pillow. You could tell from Spencer’s expression that he had an idea when he reached up, turning off the lamp beside him and laying down next to you in the dark.

“This is called Image Distraction, all you have to do is close your eyes, try to relax, and listen to my voice.”

“Are you hypnotizing me?” you giggled into the darkness, feeling like a small kid at a sleepover with their best friend.

“No, it’s just a strategy to help you fall asleep. I’m going to describe a scene to you and the idea is that it takes up enough space in your brain to prevent you from re-engaging with other thoughts. Hypnosis doesn’t actually put you to sleep, just in a trance that seems like you’re sleeping. It’s been proven to help change habits and thoughts around sleeping though. There was a study done in 2010-”

“Is that what I’m supposed to be picturing? I’m seeing dudes in lab coats and creepy hospital walls.”

You felt the mattress shake next to you as Spencer laughed.

“No, that wasn’t it. I’m going to start now, picture a waterfall. As you walk closer it gets louder, pounding onto the rocks below it and spraying a mist into the air. The droplets of water stick to your face. You can see a rainbow that touches the pool at the base of the waterfall. The plants growing around the pool of water are greener than emeralds, bright and shining in the sun…”

That was the last thing you remembered him saying before succumbing to sleep. You had a very vivid dream while you were sleeping, not uncommon for someone in your field, but it wasn’t one you had had before.

There was a teenage girl walking in front of you down a long hallway. You instantly recognized her as Mia-Rose. She turned around every so often, beckoning you to come closer, but no matter how fast you tried to move your feet it was impossible for you to catch up. The hallway was familiar, you realized it was one in Quantico that you walked down every day to get to the elevator. It took longer than normal to reach the end, and just when you thought you could catch up to Mia-Rose, Hotch stepped out in front of you, holding Spencer with one arm and holding his gun to your best friend’s temple with the other.

“You have to choose, (y/n).”

“Choose what?”

“One of them has to die. Him or her?” he moved his gun to point the barrel at Mia-Rose.

“I don’t understand, why can’t I save them both?”

“One of them has to die.”

It only took you a moment to consider, “me. Shoot me. Let them live.”

“Brave choice,” Hotch’s gun came to point at you and his finger squeezed the trigger.

You woke up.

Soft morning light was coming in through the window and Spencer was already awake, quietly tying his tie while perched on the edge of the bed.

“Morning,” he grinned when he noticed you watching him.

“Morning,” you panted, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“You were dreaming.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Hotch made me choose between him shooting Mia-Rose or shooting you.”

“What did you choose?”

“I made him shoot me instead.”

You expected Spencer to launch into an analysis of your dream and what it meant, but instead he asked another question, changing the subject.

“Can we stop for coffee before we walk the dumpsite?” he pulled a blue cardigan out from his go bag and stuck his arms through the sleeves.

“Sure,” you said, stretching as you stood up. While you got ready, Spencer found the nearest place to get coffee, and you stopped there before continuing on to the bridge where Mia-Rose’s body had been found thirty years ago.

“I’m too used to walking active crime scenes,” you murmured when you pulled over to the empty dumpsite. Normally dumpsites like this were taped off with officers present, as well as some news reporters and civilian gawkers. You were sure that it had looked like that when the crime had first happened, but now it was just a bridge that nobody thought about.

When you stepped out of the SUV you noticed a small memorial for Mia-Rose nailed to a tree, wilted and weathered flowers around it. You stopped for a minute to look at it, then continued through the brush to the overpass.

Mia-Rose had fallen off of the bridge onto the ground beneath, where you were standing now. Her death was originally ruled a suicide, which had slowed the investigation until her parents insisted she wasn’t suicidal and had her autopsied, revealing ligature marks and evidence of assault. Just from reading the file, you knew that her parents were right. She didn’t profile as suicidal, and if she was she could have jumped from further down the bridge into the flowing river to your right, not onto the ground where she likely would have survived.

“Mia-Rose was found right here,” you pointed, “and her belongings…” you turned to your left, Spencer moving from behind you to stand where the girl’s school backpack and shoes had been found, a handful of yards away.

“They were found next to this rock.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you said, facing him from where you stood, “the ME found traces of motor oil on her skin, so she must have been transported in a car. That means the unsub was driving on this road, stopped here by the bridge, then tossed her over the side. Why not just toss her stuff after her?” After thinking in silence for a minute, you started moving. “Stay where you are,” you instructed Spencer as you climbed the embankment. Once you reached the bridge, you stood on the edge so you could see both locations of dump sites.

“Spence,” you called to him, “how long is the average car?”

“Anywhere between 10 and 18 feet, depending on the size of the vehicle,” he answered quickly. You positioned yourself in line with where Mia-Rose’s body was found, then paced out roughly fifteen feet, landing you almost squarely in line with where Spencer was standing down the hill.

“What are you thinking?”

“This might sound kind of out there, but what if there was a partner?”

Spencer furrowed his eyebrows, trying to figure out how you had gotten there. He climbed up to where you were standing before asking you about it, “what makes you think that?”

“Eyewitness accounts said they saw Mia-Rose in a car with a man the night she went missing, and they were both sitting in the front of the car, but that’s about all anyone can agree on. What if there was a second unsub sitting in the back? If I’m the unsub getting Mia-Rose out of the front, you’re taking her stuff out of the trunk and tossing it over the side,” you acted out.

“Which means my DNA should be on her belongings,” Spencer concluded, finishing your thought, “I’ll call the lab and start getting things processed.”

“Good idea, I’m going to call Garcia and then we can head back to the station,” you said, pulling out your own phone as Spencer took a step away to make his call.

“Crimefighter! What have you’ve got?” Garcia answered her phone quickly.

“Hey Penelope, can you go through the list of Mia-Rose’s family members and get me some updated contact info?”

“Of course! Did you get a lead? I knew you could solve this,” she rambled. You could hear the clicking of her keyboard as she multitasked.

“Not quite, just a better understanding of the situation. I want to start interviewing family members to really nail down victimology and see if they know of anyone who fits my profile. Spencer’s calling the lab to get some evidence re-examined. When they send you results can you run them through CODIS?”

“Absolutely. Anything else?”

“That’s it for now, thanks Garcia.”

“Anytime, my love. I just sent the updated contacts to your tablet. Garcia out!”

Spencer was waiting for you in the SUV, once you finished your call with Garcia you drove back to the station. Detective Reeves assigned an officer to help you call the family members and invite them in for interviews.

“Mrs. Horn, thank you for coming in to talk with us,” you said gently to the elderly woman sitting across from you.

“Anything to help you find my little girl’s killer. Do you really think you can solve it?”

“We’re trying our best. Any information you can give us will make our job easier. Mia-Rose was walking home from school when she went missing, and was later seen getting into a blue car. Is there anyone she would have willingly accepted a ride home from?”

“No, she always walked, rain or shine so she could say hello to the neighbors on her way home. Except for Tuesdays, my brother Dylan would drive her home from band practice on Tuesdays because it was after dark.”

You exchanged a glance with Spencer, silently acknowledging that Mia-Rose was abducted on a Friday.

“Did she have any enemies? Anyone who would want to hurt her, bullies or friends she might have had a falling out with?”

“No, she was sweet to everyone. That’s why it was such a shock to the town when she was killed. There wasn’t a soul who hadn’t been touched by her kindness.” Mrs. Horn spoke so highly of her daughter, further validating your theory.

“Let’s take a break,” you said, noting the way she was tearing up, “excuse us.” You stepped out of the room with Spencer.

“We should talk to Dylan,” he said once you were out of earshot of Mrs. Horn.

“I agree. He was interrogated by police when Mia-Rose first went missing, but I don’t think he’s a suspect. His alibi was rock solid, but he might know something about what happened.”

You had the detective bring in Mrs. Horn’s brother, Dylan Godfrey. While he agreed to an interview, he was much less cooperative than Mrs. Horn.

“I told the police thirty years ago, I had nothing to do with it,” he drawled, “I was at home with my wife, God rest her soul. I didn’t even have my car to kidnap Mia if I wanted to.”

“Where was your car?” Spencer asked quickly.

“My boy had it, out with his friends. He had just gotten his driver’s license. You know how kids are, impossible to control.”

This was the first you were hearing of his son. Nowhere in the records from the original investigation did it say Dylan Godfrey had a son, let alone a son who’s whereabouts were unknown on the night of the crime.

“Mr. Godfrey, let me ask you this. How old was your son the year Mia-Rose was murdered?”

“Eighteen.”

“Do you know where he was that night?”

“Out, like I said. He didn’t come home until after two o’clock in the morning.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“Last I knew he was working on a farm just out of town, the McGilroy’s place.”

As soon as Spencer had gotten the information out of him, you were firing off texts to Garcia. She sent you the address of the farm, and you called her once you were en route.

“You’re on speaker, Garcia. What have you found about this guy and why didn’t we know about him before?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question. He wasn’t included in any of the original witness statements. I’ve barely been able to find information about him online. I know he’s still alive because I don’t have a death certificate, but other than that no home address, no phone number, no nothing. Everything I know about him is from his childhood, before Mia-Rose went missing.”

“Something is better than nothing, what did you find?”

“Daniel Godfrey, born in 1965 to Mary and Dylan Godfrey. He was a decent kid from what I can tell. He got good grades in school, even got a scholarship to a college in Chicago but he turned it down at the last minute. I’ll hit you back if I figure out why.”

“Thanks Garcia,” you chirped before she hung up. You pulled up the long dirt drive of the McGilroy’s farm, putting the SUV in park and getting out. Spencer was by your side in an instant, you noticed the way his hand rested on his revolver.

“My goal is to get him in for a voluntary interview. If we can get him talking, we can figure out what happened that night and why his known locations on that night fit our timeline. Best case, we get a confession and the name of his partner, worst case, he had nothing to do with it and we’re back where we started.”

Spencer nodded, so you reached up to knock on the door. After a moment, a blonde woman opened the door.

You flashed your credentials, “hi, I’m SSA (y/l/n) with the FBI, we’re looking for Daniel Godfrey and we were told he might be here.”

“He’s out back in the barn,” she said, pointing down a gravel path.

“Thanks so much,” Spencer said as you stepped off the porch. You reached the barn and pushed open the large door, revealing a man inside. He was carrying a bucket of water that he poured into a trough for a horse before acknowledging you.

“What can I do ya for?”

“Are you Daniel Godfrey?” you asked.

“Depend’s who’s asking,” he chuffed, wiping his hands on his dirty coveralls. You held up your credentials.

“I’m Agent (y/l/n) and this is Doctor Reid. We’re with the FBI investigating the murder of your cousin, Mia-Rose Horn. We were hoping you’d come in to the station so we could get some more information about her.”

“What kinda information? Mia’s been dead a long time now.”

You had to play this carefully, one wrong word and he wouldn’t voluntarily interview with you, “your father told us you were out with friends the night she disappeared. We were hoping you could tell us what town was like that night and if you saw anything unusual.”

“You talked to my father? I can tell ya right now, it was quiet. Just like any other night in this town.”

“Great, that’s exactly the kind of information we’re looking for. Would you be able to come with us to the station so we can get that statement through the official channels? While we’re there I’d like to ask you a few more questions, if that’s ok.”

“Are ya saying I’m being arrested?”

“No, not at all. This is completely voluntary.”

Daniel fell silent, considering your offer. When he finally spoke again it was gruff and hostile, “will my old man still be there?”

You exchanged a glance with Spencer, hoping he had a better read on what answer would be your best choice. Spencer’s tongue flickered over his lips, then he cautioned a response, “he’s there right now, will that be a problem?”

Daniel looked dejected, scuffing his feet in the hay below his boots, “not unless he makes it a problem.”

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Our car is out front, is there anything you need to do before we go?”

Daniel shook his head and quietly followed you and Spencer back to the SUV. He didn’t say much while you were driving back to the police station, and neither did you. You escorted Daniel inside the station, walking quickly past where his father was sitting, still talking to the officer Reeves had assigned to your case. Dylan stood up when he noticed his son, but Daniel just kept his head down and quickened his pace. You brought him to an interrogation room, a small space with just a table and a couple of chairs.

“You can wait here, we just have to go collect some materials and then we’ll be back, alright?”

“Whatever,” Daniel said, taking the seat closest to the door. You stepped out, shutting the door behind you.

“Did you see the way Dylan reacted when he saw Daniel?” you asked Spencer quietly. He nodded.

“Did you see the way Daniel reacted when he saw Dylan?”

“Do you think it’s relevant to this case? I don’t want to waste time asking about it if it’s just some squabble they had once. Hotch said I could only work this case until we got an active one back at Quantico, and you and I both know serial killers don’t take extended vacations.”

Spencer considered the situation, you could almost see the gears turning in his mind, “it might be a way we can get him comfortable talking to us, irrelevant or not. This is the best lead we have. Just like you said earlier, you have to get him talking.”

You trusted Spencer’s opinion, not just because he was your best friend, but because he had led his fair share of interrogations during his time in the FBI. He was really good at it, his accelerated mind picking up patterns of words and behaviors that you could only be envious of.

“What do you mean ‘I’ have to get him talking? I thought this was a team effort.”

“It is, but you have to lead this interrogation.”

You weren’t surprised at his statement, but you resented the fact that he was right. Your favorite part of your job was the quick thinking, the on-the-fly deductions you had to make in the field that helped you put all of the clues together. You liked helping people and actively putting bad guys away for the greater good of the country you served. You were good at your job, too, having spent so much time developing your skills with arguably some of the best agents in the Bureau. You couldn’t not be good at your job surrounded by minds like the ones at the BAU.

Like everyone though, there were some aspects of your career that you were better at than others. You usually excelled in the takedown and arrests of suspects and left the mind games to your colleagues that were much better equipped to handle them. Sure, you could talk a suspect into putting their weapon down instead of pointing it at you or a victim, but that was a heat of the moment interaction. Cool, collected interrogation rooms just weren’t your strong suit, and nothing during your time at the BAU so far had changed it.

“You really think I can do this?”

“Absolutely. You have the skills, knowledge, and rapport to conduct this interview,” Spencer showed no hesitation in his answer.

“Promise to let me know if I’m going down the wrong rabbit hole?”

Spencer smiled, “of course. Let’s go solve this case.” He handed you a sheet of paper, a form for Daniel to sign with his Miranda rights on it.

Once you were seated across from Daniel, you handed him the paper and read him his rights.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Daniel, what happened between you and your father?”

Daniel’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked back and forth between you and Spencer, “what kind of FBI agents are you?”

“We’re with the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia. We use psychology to solve crimes. I hope my question wasn’t intrusive, Doctor Reid and I both just noticed the way your behavior changed when you saw your father. He’s been helpful in our investigation and I don’t want any family conflicts to interfere if you’re going to help us too.”

“We had a disagreement.”

“Just a disagreement?” you pressed carefully.

“Just a disagreement.”

“Alright,” you said, deciding to leave it at that and move on. He was giving you too much resistance for the direction you had wanted to take the conversation, so you changed the subject. If his disagreement with his father was relevant to the case, you’d have to get that information out of him another way.

You started off by asking about Mia-Rose and gathering any information Daniel had about her. At first he was reluctant, just explaining that they saw each other during family gatherings and when his father would drive them both home from band practice.

“You went to the same high school then, if you were in band together?”

“Uh huh. It’s a small town, everyone goes to the same school.”

“Can you tell us about who Mia-Rose spent time with? Who were her friends?”

“Everyone was her friend. She was the friendliest kid in school.”

“Who were your friends?” Spencer asked, tilting his head. It wasn’t a question you had thought to ask, but as soon as he did you saw where he was going.

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me,” Spencer answered.

“Alec Krause, Markus Sparrow, Nicolas Rush,” Daniel listed.

“Where are they now?” you asked while Spencer pulled out his phone, presumably to text Garcia for a background check, “are you still in contact with them?”

“They all moved out of town for college. Haven’t seen or talked to ‘em since,” Daniel shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“You were supposed to go to college, in Chicago, right?” you prompted. Daniel’s eyes flickered between you and Spencer, probably wondering how much about him you knew.

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“Got a job at the farm,” he shrugged.

“Daniel, I’m going to be real with you,” you squared up, “I’ve seen plenty of small towns in this job. I’ve talked to many people from small towns just like this one, and almost all of them in your position would have taken the out. They would have moved to the city as soon as they got the chance, so why didn’t you? Why did you choose to stay in this town?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Daniel was quick to correct you.

“You didn’t?” Now you were on to something.

“The disagreement I had with my father was about me leaving. He wouldn’t let me leave, so he got me the job at the farm.”

“Alright, let’s take a break,” you said, standing up and stepping out of the room. Spencer exchanged a few words with Daniel, then followed you out.

“That was big,” you panted, trying to shake out the jump of adrenaline that you were feeling.

“You’re doing great,” Spencer confirmed.

“When Dylan was talking about his son earlier, during his interview, it seemed like he didn’t have control over Daniel. What was it he said, ‘you know how kids are’? Something must have changed to make Daniel listen to his father telling him to stay, something that changed after Mia-Rose was murdered.”

Right before you were going to go back into the interrogation room, your phone rang. Hotch’s name lit up the screen.

“Hold on, Spence. (y/l/n),” you answered, praying that Hotch wasn’t going to tell you to abandon the case and get back to Quantico right when you were making strides.

“I’m just checking in to see how things are going.”

“We’re talking to a person of interest right now, it’s just very slow going. We think he had been working with a partner when the murder took place, but he’s not giving up names,” you explained, “please don’t tell me we have a case that we have to come back for, we just got a break that might open this case up for us.”

Hotch chuckled on the other end of the line, “no, we don’t have a case. Garcia told me you had a lead and I was curious.”

“Honestly, I don’t know how you were a prosecutor before joining the BAU. This is exhausting, and every time I say something I feel like he’s going to invoke.”

“You’re doing fine,” Spencer whispered reassuringly.

“Spencer says I’m doing fine,” you relayed to Hotch.

“I’m sure you are. Sometimes unsubs like this take time to crack,” he reminded you.

“It’s already been thirty years, I’d like to close it now,” you decided, squaring your shoulders. “I’m going to go back in there and wrap this up. I’ll call you back when we’re done.” You hung up with Hotch, then turned to Spencer. “Let’s do this.”

Daniel seemed to tense up when you walked back in, sitting down across the table from him once again.

“Thanks for being patient, Daniel. I’d like to know why your father wouldn’t let you leave town. From what he told us, he gave you a lot of freedom in high school. What happened?”

“We had a disagreement, like I said.”

“Right, we’ve covered that. It must have been hard going from being able to do whatever you wanted to working a farm job under your father’s thumb. I was hoping you could tell us exactly what kind of disagreement. Was it because Mia-Rose was murdered?” Daniel nodded, “ok, that’s a start. Was there a specific reason beyond Mia-Rose’s murder?”

Your tactic was deliberate, validating his feelings before pressing harder in hopes that he would give something up.

“He didn’t want me getting into more trouble.”

“More trouble? As in, you got into trouble here first?”

“Correct.”

“We don’t have any police records for you, Mr. Godfrey. Usually that’s the kind of ‘trouble’ that stops kids from going to college,” Spencer chimed in.

“The police don’t know I was there.”

“Where?” Your question was burning hot, and you watched Daniel squirm as he realized he had dug himself into a hole.

“I was in the car.”

“Which car?” you hoped he meant the car you thought he did, but you needed a true confession.

“My father’s car…” you chose not to say anything and instead let him sit in uncomfortable silence, “the night Mia was killed.”

“With her? Was Mia in the car with you?”

“Yes, she was.”

You had to maintain your composure, even though your insides were doing cartwheels out of excitement. This was exactly the kind of lead you were looking for, you couldn’t blow it now.

“Your father said you were out with friends, were any of the people you mentioned earlier with you? Alec, Markus, and Nicholas?”

“No, it wasn’t with them.”

“Who else was in the car then, Daniel? It wasn’t just you and Mia-Rose.”

“I don’t remember,” he started backpedaling, a clear sign that you were closing in.

“We’re going to step out and give you some time to think about it, see if you can try to remember,” Spencer interrupted before you could say anything, nodding towards the door when you made eye contact with him. You followed him out, turning to him abruptly once the door was shut behind you.

“I was getting somewhere with him.” You were fired up, to say the least. Now that you were in the comfortable privacy of Spencer’s company, you could let your emotions come forward.

“I know, I know,” Spencer smirked, “Garcia got a hit with Daniel’s friends, we should call and see what she has so we have more leverage when we go back in there.”

You took a deep breath, pulling out your phone and calling Garcia.

“Boy Wonder got my text!” she answered after the first ring.

“What did you find, Garcia? We’re really making strides here and anything you’ve got could really close this for us.”

“I ran the names of Daniel’s friends, like you asked. Almost all of them checked out, normal guys with normal lives.”

“Almost all of them?” you caught the specificity of her words.

“Right. One of them, Markus, he checks out too… but his brother, oh my his brother has done some stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” Spencer asked, brows furrowed in thought.

“Kyle Sparrow. When he was 11 he attempted to rob a bank, and not just as a joke. When he was 14 he was suspended from school after locking students in storage closets. He’s been in and out of jail his whole adult life. He got out a year ago and hasn’t been back since.”

“That fits our profile. How old was he when Mia-Rose was killed?” Spencer followed up.

“That’s where things get weird, I was hoping you guys would have a good explanation because this really doesn’t make sense.”

“Garcia,” you called, refocusing her.

“Right. Kyle Sparrow was 10 years old when Mia-Rose was murdered.”

“What?” you whipped around to look at Spencer incredulously, hoping he would have some kind of information about child serial killers that would clarify the situation. Instead, he just frowned and shook his head. You had to decide if it was worth bringing up to Daniel and risk wasting precious time. You considered for a moment, then spoke. “Send us his address, we’re going to ask Daniel about him. If he seems like a viable lead then we’ll head out there. Thanks Garcia.”

“Done and done. You’ve got this, crimefighters!”

“Are you ready to go back in there?” Spencer asked when you reached for the interrogation room door handle.

“Do I have a choice? This case just took a turn that I wasn’t expecting.”

“It’s been four hours and thirty six minutes. We can take another minute to get coffee if you need a longer break,” he suggested.

“I’m too close to cracking this. I can feel it,” you confessed. Spencer nodded, acknowledging that your gut feelings were usually right. You opened the door, sitting back down across from Daniel. Spencer stood in the corner behind you, hands in his pockets.

“Did you remember who was in the car with you the night Mia-Rose was murdered?” Daniel shook his head. “Ok, that’s fine. I have some names that we’ve collected as people of interest for this case. I’m going to read them off and you tell me if one sounds familiar, ok?” Daniel nodded, so you opened your file and pulled out a blank piece of paper, holding it so Daniel couldn’t see the lack of information on your side.

“Emily Prentiss.”

He shook his head.

“Derek Morgan.”

Again, nothing.

“Penelope Garcia.”

Your list was intentional, listing people you were certain Daniel wouldn’t know so you could get a baseline for his behavior. It paid off when you listed the next name, “Kyle Sparrow.”

You could practically see Daniel tense up. Though he shook his head, his leg started bouncing nervously and his eyes were flickering frantically around the room, looking anywhere but at you and Spencer.

“Daniel,” you started, keeping your voice low, “remember when I told you Doctor Reid and I use psychology and behavior to solve crimes? You may not have noticed it, but your behavior shifted when you heard Kyle’s name. You know something about him, don’t you? Was he in the car with you that night?”

Daniel finally looked up at you, eyes watering, “I’m not a criminal.”

“I didn’t say you were. Was Kyle in the car with you the night Mia-Rose was murdered?”

“He was just a kid, my best friend’s little brother. We were out in my dad’s car, I had just gotten my license so I skipped class and took Markus and Alec for a spin around town. When I dropped them off back home Kyle said he was lookin’ to go across town to the library so I offered him a ride. I even made him sit in the back because he was still just a small kid. Then we saw Mia walking home. It always took her longer because she stopped to say hi to everyone she passed. Kyle suggested we offer her a ride too, so I did.

“It all happened so fast, first she was getting into the car and then Kyle had a knife at her throat. He told me he’d kill her if I didn’t do what he wanted. He made me drive out of town to the woods and watch as he tied her up and did horrible, horrible things to her. I didn’t even know a kid was capable of doing those things. When he was done with her he made me help put her back in the car and drive to the bridge. She wasn’t dead when he made me push her over the edge, that’s why I didn’t throw her in the river. I thought she’d survive it without Kyle knowing because he was too busy getting rid of her stuff in the trunk. He still made me drop him off at the library after, even though it was closed on account of it being real late at night, and swear that I’d never tell anyone what we did or he’d kill me too.”

“How did your father find out?” you asked.

“He found blood in the car the next morning. I told him it was from Markus, that he had gotten scratched up while we were messing around in the afternoon. He made me clean it out with bleach, told me I’d have to learn responsibility if I wanted to move out. When my auntie called him later and told him about Mia being missing, he connected the dots. He told me he didn’t want to know what I had been doing the night before, but if I tried to move away it would make me a suspect. He got me the job at the farm and I’ve been there ever since.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Daniel. We’ll tell the court how cooperative you’ve been, they might ease your sentence because of it.”

“The court? What?” Pure fear crossed Daniel’s face. It didn’t sit right with you that he had to be arrested, knowing he had been coerced into helping murder his cousin, but he had still committed a felony. You had to let the court decide his fate.

“Daniel Godfrey, you’re under arrest for accessory to the murder of Mia-Rose Horn,” Spencer moved behind Daniel, taking his hands to cuff them. As soon as he was done Daniel was passed off to an officer and you and Spencer took off, SUV keys in hand.

You sped towards the home address Garcia had sent you for Kyle Sparrow, wishing the rest of the team was there so you could split up in case he was at work. This part of your job was where you felt the most comfortable, the tactical side of an arrest that was more physical than the mind games you had just played in the interrogation room. It was just starting to rain, a light drizzle that darkened the skies as you drove to what you hoped was your final location for this case.

“Is there Kevlar in the back?” you asked, realizing you hadn’t gotten vests from the police station before you had left. Spencer turned around in his seat, checking around the vehicle.

“Nope.”

“Great,” you sighed, “let’s try not to get shot at then, alright?”

“Sounds good to me,” Spencer agreed.

You pulled up to Kyle’s house, which was more of a rundown shack on the outskirts of town. You drew your weapon as soon as your boots were on the ground, approaching the door cautiously.

“Where’s Morgan when you need him,” you mumbled, hoping you wouldn’t have to kick the door down, “Kyle Sparrow, FBI,” you announced, knocking on the door. A gunshot flew through the window next to you, shattering the glass. That was all the invitation you needed to bust open the door, but Kyle wasn’t in the room inside. You moved quickly through the maze of rooms, taking one side while Spencer took the other.

“Clear,” you called every time you ensured a room was empty. You heard Spencer clear a couple of spaces, then fall silent. You worked your way to the kitchen, finding him in a standoff with Kyle.

“I’m not going to jail again. You can’t make me,” Kyle seemed unreasonably calm, grinning slightly to himself while he pointed a pistol at Spencer.

“You’re wanted for the murder of Mia-Rose, Kyle. There’s no way to get out of this one,” you had to keep things simple for him and talk him down as quickly as possible before he shot at you again, “let’s just talk about it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not going to jail for a person I killed thirty years ago.”

“There’s no other option. We know it was you, this ends here.”

“If I have to go back, it has to be for something better. You’re right, this ends here, but not because I killed Mia-Rose Horn.”

“How does it end, Kyle?” Spencer asked. You noticed the glint in Kyle’s eye, giving you a split second to push Spencer out of the way and get hit with a searing pain in your side. You heard Spencer’s revolver fire as you hit the floor.

“Get him first,” you grunted, putting a hand on your side to try to stem the bleeding. Spencer crouched next to you, worried eyes looking you over before he pulled your handcuffs out of your pocket. Your ears were ringing, but you could just make out the sounds of Spencer talking before you blacked out.

You woke up in the hospital, an all too familiar experience. Spencer was beside you, nose in a book. You weren’t sure how much he was paying attention to it though, considering the way his brows were furrowed and his fingers were tapping against the cover. He was lost in thought somewhere, you just didn’t know where.

“Spence,” you managed to croak through your dry throat. His eyes shot up from the page, lips turning up in a small smile when his gaze met yours.

“Hi,” he practically whispered.

“Is Kyle dead?”

Spencer hesitated, no doubt weighing the value of telling you the outcome now or waiting until you were better rested. He chose the former, shaking his head.

“I did what you would have done and shot him in the hip. He’s not dead, and once he’s healed he’ll go to trial. You did it, (y/n). You solved the case.”

“We solved the case. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You also wouldn’t have gotten shot.”

“So?” you shrugged, “I lived. Where’s Garcia? Usually she’s the first one at the hospital.”

Spencer’s smile returned, “she wanted to but a case came in right right after you went into surgery. She sends her love and said she’d make up for not being here when we get back to Quantico.”

“A case? We should get back to help,” though you were exhausted, you brain immediately went into profiling mode.

“No, you’re going to stay here and rest. You should be staying for longer than you’re going to, but I was able to convince your doctor that I was more than capable of making sure you got home safely.”

“I didn’t realize you were a rule-breaker,” you teased, feeling your eyelids droop.

“I’m not, I just thought you would want to go home as soon as possible. You’re not the kind of person who likes being away from their family, and we’ve already been gone three days. Staying here doing nothing, although it would be good for you, would just torment you more.”

“Thanks, Spence,” you murmured, falling back to sleep. You dozed on and off for the better part of the day, Spencer staying by your side the whole time. Towards the end of the afternoon, you woke up to his seat vacant. The immediate panic you felt was squashed by calculated thoughts, he’s probably getting food or in the bathroom. You fought to stay awake while you waited for him to come back. He surprised you by returning with someone behind him.

“Mrs. Horn wanted to talk to you, if you’re feeling up for it,” he said, resuming his position in the chair next to you. You nodded, watching the older woman enter the room from where she had been standing in the doorway.

“I wanted to thank you for finding my daughter’s killer, even though it put you in the line of danger.”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” you reassured her, sitting up a little against your pillows.

“I wish her father could have been here to see it solved. He always told me not to lose faith, that a blessing would come our way. You were our blessing,” she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“I was just doing my job, I’m sorry it took so long for someone to figure this out.”

Mrs. Horn tutted, telling you she was just glad that her daughter could rest in peace now. Before she left, she made sure to tell you that if you were ever in Illinois you and Spencer were welcome to come over for dinner, and that she hoped you got better quickly so you could go help other victims.

Once she was gone, your doctor came in to follow up with you. You had been shot in the side, the bullet passing through and exiting out of your back without hitting any major organs. Spencer did most of the talking for you, asking questions you couldn’t make sense of and checking over your chart for what was probably the hundredth time that day.

“You seem to be healing well and have a… knowledgable… support system, so I’m going to clear you for discharge. If anything changes you’ll need to go into the nearest hospital, ok?”

“Yes ma’am,” you answered. A nurse came in later with your discharge papers, which you signed before Spencer helped you in a wheelchair and out to where the SUV was parked.

“Are you sure you want to drive in this rain? I can-“ you winced in pain, hand flying to your side, “I can do it if you don’t feel comfortable.” Spencer stifled a laugh, reaching his hands out to give you something to brace yourself against as you moved from the wheelchair the SUV.

“I don’t mind driving,” he said simply.

“Yes you do,” you quipped quickly, exhaling as you settled into the passenger seat.

“Ok, yes. Under normal circumstances, I do mind driving, but I think I can make an exception when my favorite driver has been shot.”

“Don’t let Morgan hear you say that,” you smirked, still struggling to breathe in a way that would make your side hurt less.

“Are you warm enough?” Spencer fiddled with the heating knobs once he was settled behind the wheel. You nodded, but the shiver that ran down your body betrayed you.

“You’re the one driving. I want you to be comfortable,” you mumbled.

“You’re the one who just got shot. Here,” he reached behind him into the back where both of your go bags were stored. He unzipped his own and pulled out a cardigan, then leaned over the console to drape it across you. “The wool will help you retain heat.”

“Thanks,” you sighed, relishing in the comfort of his gesture.

“You didn’t have to take that bullet for me.”

“I did. I pulled you into this mess, I wasn’t going to let you get hurt because of it.”

“Hotch sent me with you so that you wouldn’t get yourself hurt,” he rebutted.

You brushed him off, “I’ve been shot before, I’m going to be fine.”

“I’ve also been shot before, you didn’t have to push me out of the way.”

You were quick to counter, “you didn’t have to push Blake out of the way either.”

It was an unnecessary squabble, a fact you both caught onto quickly once you realized the direction the conversation was going. Instead, Spencer changed the subject to explain the history of the small towns you were passing through on your way to the interstate.

Miraculously, once the car was comfortably cruising on the highway, Spencer fell silent. You suspected it had to do with his intense concentration on driving in the elements as the rain got harder, though he also could have been giving you the space to sleep if you needed to.

It wasn’t until you were over an hour into your journey that he spoke again, after a quick glance at you revealed fresh tear tracks down your cheeks under the passing street lights.

“(Y/n), are you crying?” His question was so soft you almost missed it, “is it the pain? You’re not due to take your meds for another three hours but I know you have ibuprofen in your bag that would be ok to take now. I can pull over-“ his hand was about to move back to the steering wheel from where it had come to rest on the console, but you reached out to grab it instead.

You and Spencer didn’t really ‘do’ physical contact. You both had reasons not to, instead finding comfort just in proximity. As long as he was around, you were happy. This time, though, it was different. Maybe it was because you were touch starved, or because you had just been poked and prodded at all angles while in the hospital. Whatever the reason, the light grip you had on Spencer’s hand to stop him from pulling over was enough to make you feel the tiniest bit better. He was there with you, he was real.

“It’s not the pain,” you managed to hold your composure, knowing that letting any kind of sob escape the confines of your soul would only physically hurt you more.

“Are you tired? I drank enough coffee to get us home by morning but if you really need to sleep we can find a hotel somewhere. There are three off the next exit.”

“Spencer,” you ran your thumb over the prominent vein in his hand, “it isn’t something you can fix.”

“What do you mean?” He was puzzled, and by the way his hands were twitching you could tell he was deciding whether or not to stop the car anyways.

“There are hundreds of thousands of cold cases. Hundreds of thousands of families that don’t have closure. Hundreds of thousands of victims that haven’t gotten justice.”

“There’s one less because of you. You made a difference to Mia-Rose’s family, you got her the justice she deserves.”

“She deserved justice thirty years ago. I feel like the system failed her, the very system I work for. She was just a kid, and the answer was right there the whole time. Why did I have to be the one to figure it out, thirty years too late?”

Spencer’s response was soft and gentle, “because you’re exceptional, (y/n).”

“I didn’t have to be exceptional to solve this case, though. That’s what I’ve learned from all of the cold case documentaries I’ve watched. The ones that get solved are because someone knew what happened and didn’t come forward about it until years later. There was a psychopathic kid on the streets for thirty years because the police didn’t think to talk to Daniel Godfrey.”

“We can’t change what happened in the past, but we can make a difference in our futures.”

“I’m just so tired, Spence. I chose this job, I love this job, but it’s exhausting.”

“Then rest, (y/n). It’s ok if the only person you save some days is yourself.”

He was right, of course. You wanted to keep saving others, but you couldn’t do that if you didn't make time to save yourself too. You finally closed your eyes and pulled his cardigan up to your chin. Though you were still conscious, limiting your sensory input helped calm you down enough that you found yourself flitting in and out of dissociation. Even when Spencer’s hand gently moved out from under yours to answer his phone, you kept your eyes closed.

“Hey JJ,” his voice was quiet, barely audible over the rain pounding against the windshield, “they’re doing ok.” He paused while he listened to JJ’s response. “No, they keep reminding me that it’s not the first time they’ve been shot. I’m worried about them though.” He trailed off.

“They’ve been shouldering this burden of over 185,000 cold cases since we started working on this one, and now that it’s solved they’re finally feeling the weight of it. I don’t want them to drive themselves crazy trying to solve all of them on their own. We deal with enough active cases as it is.”

Though you were barely in a state of mind to process his words, he had hit the nail right on the head.

“How is the case you’re working on?” You presumed JJ was filling him in on what they knew, “have Garcia look into large purchases of triacetone triperoxide… Call me if anything changes. We should be back by morning.”

“Yes,” his change in tone indicated that JJ had asked him a question, “that would be great, JJ. Thank you so much.”

He must have hung up with JJ because his hand found yours again, fingers just barely touching. It was a simple action, loaded with a lot of meaning. Spencer was your best friend, and would always be your best friend. Bullets, cold cases, marriages, there was nothing that could break the bond you had with him.

You didn’t understand why people called their significant others their “better half”. It insinuated that you weren’t a whole person to begin with, a fractured existence that only found completion by the means of someone else. The idea that your life couldn’t be fulfilling until someone else made it whole was a concept that was set up for failure and self-loathing.

Instead, you believed that you were a whole person who could live a fulfilling life without the necessity of another. Instead, you surrounded yourself with people who lifted you up and helped you achieve your goals without being the direct cause of your success. Instead, you followed your dreams and somehow found Spencer Reid along the way.

Spencer was your best friend, your confidant, the one person who you knew you couldn’t live without, but he was not your other half. He was his own whole person, a mirror image of your own being. You found solace in his companionship, safety in the complexities of his brain. When the stress of your job got to be too much, you could reliably turn to each other and exist in the little slice of the world you called yours for a moment.

No, he was not your other half. He wasn’t even yours, for that matter, but he was there. He was there in a capacity that nobody else could achieve.

This is part of my GALAXY universe! If you liked this relationship, check out the MASTERLIST for more content!

Galaxy Taglist: @kermitsaysgayrights @niallthedancingharry @shadyladyperfection @thatsonezesty13 @lexshead @ceeellewrites @howdycharlie @girlycakepops @fantastic-fans @canimarrypizzaornah @daisyflower138 @dyingrexx @taylormobley @bazzleslynn @tj-drinks-tea @willa-wonky @eddiesbifocals @tee-mbrown @reniescarlett @bone-hurty-bitch @messyacademia

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #platonic imagine #platonic soulmates

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shijiujun · 4 years ago

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Time for some BL/Danmei novel recs!

You guys have probably (maybe) seen my novels list here - [X] - but it’s more for my own tracking than anything else, so here’s a brief list (I’ll probably do full ones of the ones I really love in another post, probably on Minmo).

The ones elaborated on below with the asterisks are the novels I’ve actually finished reading.

*since everyone more or less knows MXTX’s works - TGCF, MDZS and SVSSS, I’ll skip those!

1. SCI 迷案集 | SCI Mystery Series by 耳雅*

Summary: Bai Yutang and Zhan Zhao are childhood friends and rivals that end up working together under the newly established SCI unit as co-leads, with Bai Yutang providing the brawn as Captain and Zhan Zhao the brains as Vice Captain and the team’s resident genius psychologist. They solve cases together and slowly unravel a wider conspiracy that involves their parents’ generation and beyond. At the same time they also realize that they’re meant for each other!

Other CPs: Bai Jintang (Bai Yutang’s older brother) & the medical examiner, Gongsun Ce, Bai Chi (Bai Yutang’s younger cousin) & magician Zhao Zhen, and at least three other gay pairings, one of which is considered another main couple of sorts from Vol. 2 onwards

Status: Incomplete (Began in 2010, author is still going on strong with one chapter every one or two months, we’re halfway through Vol. 5 right now and it’s been 10 years ;-; Love that the author is going on strong!! Everyone on JJWXC are like “please author it’s okay if you go slow as long as you keep going we’re here for you” and jfc I understand the fear of this not completing, also when will Vol. 5 be completed and printed?!! I need to complete the collection)

Translations: Unfortunately, only the first volume has been translated well so far on novel updates. The one on Wattpad seems to have caught up, but I would not recommend that one.

Drama/Live-Action: Season 1 was filmed and released in 2018 under the same name with slightly changed names for the characters. Season 2 was supposed to start filming this month but... oh well. First season basically covered Vol. 1 novel from start to end.

*I love this one only because it was my very first danmei and so it’ll forever have a special place in my heart, and also because it’s still ongoing so ya know, I relive how much I love this every month

2. 成化十四年 | Cheng Hua’s Fourteenth Year (The Sleuth of Ming Dynasty) by 梦溪石*

Summary: Tang Fan, a prefectural judge, and Sui Zhou, a high ranking officer in the Embroidered Uniform Guards, meet while trying to solve a murder case. Both of them end up partnering very well together, Sui Zhou ends up inviting Tang Fan to live with him, and the rest is history. Through their days living together and solving cases + a larger conspiracy involving the royal palace, they fall in love. Adding to this mix is also Wang Zhi, a powerful, young eunuch who befriends the pair, and the three of them basically help the crown prince to overcome challenges and his enemies to become the next Emperor

Other CPs: None XD

Status: Complete!

Translations: Ongoing on several websites. I’m only translating relationship highlights, but here’s an introduction post I did for it, if you guys would like somewhere to start without getting too invested - [X]

Drama/Live-Action: The Sleuth of Ming Dynasty was released earlier this year, directed by Jackie Chan and starring Darren Chen and Paul Fu, but cases are a little different and there are new characters in the show that weren’t from the novel etc.

3. 杀破狼 | Shapolang by Priest*

Summary: Set in a steampunk universe where flying boats named ‘kites’ and flying armour exist. Young teenager Chang Geng lives with his mother and stepfather - the former abuses him and the latter neglects him, and the only person that he cares about (and cares about him) is Shen Shiliu, his (very young) godfather. He realizes his identity as a royal prince when the Man tribe invades his city and Shen Shiliu, whose real name is Gu Yun, turns out to be an army general whose duty was to protect Chang Geng in secret (among other things).

Chang Geng has been critically poisoned by his mother (who’s not actually his birth mother, if I recall she’s an aunt) which leads to him getting terrible dreams frequently with the end result of him being driven into insanity, while Gu Yun is half blind, half deaf due to poisoning + injury when he was much younger, and he can only regain his hearing and sight fully when he takes a medicine that is slowly losing its effectiveness with every dosage he has.

The both of them navigate learning about each other again, falling in love a few years later when Chang Geng is all grown up and also unravel conspiracies and fight bad guys (both external threats and internal as in the current Emperor and other parties) XD

*Note: The age old debate is that Gu Yun ‘preyed’ on and also ‘groomed’ Chang Geng, but I disagree and stand by the fact that Gu Yun was 90% of the time not around while Chang Geng grew from a teenager to a young adult as he was fighting wars elsewhere, while Chang Geng refused to stay at the Gu manor and insisted on running around, travelling on his own and seeing the world for a few years before they met again. And it was Chang Geng who’d always loved Gu Yun and devoted himself to caring about him, making advances on him etc. when he became an adult

Other CPs: Shen Yi (Gu Yun’s second-in-command) & Chen Qingxu (a renowned physician who ends up healing both Chang Geng and Gu Yun of their ailments)

Status: Complete!

Translations: Fully translated the last I heard, it’s up there in the list of holy grail BL/danmei novels, so I’m sure it’s done hahaha.

Drama/Live-Action: Filming in progress!

*This is up there in the hall of fame for danmei novels for more than just the amazing content and writing - It’s also famous for being one of the most complex novels ever. I don’t know how the translations team did it because DAMN it was complex and I read all my novels in Chinese without much issues but I was honestly STRUGGLING WITH this one and I went through some existential crisis while reading because I was like ‘did I ever learn Chinese, am I even Chinese’ XD

4. 默读 | Silent Reading by Priest*

Summary: Luo Wenzhou, a police captain, and his team including best friend and partner Tao Ran, face a few challenging cases that end up being small parts of a larger conspiracy, and end up having to consult with Fei Du, a flamboyant, charming and flirty, young and rich CEO, who Luo Wenzhou describes as someone who is an expert at ‘crimes’. Not deduction, not solving crimes, but someone who is familiar with how the murderer or culprits would commit crimes. Both Luo Wenzhou and Tao Ran know Fei Du well, because they first met when Fei Du was in high school, when he called the police because his mother had hanged herself in the house, and since then Tao Ran and Luo Wenzhou look out for him, spending holidays with him, giving him presents here and there. Luo Wenzhou and Fei Du overcome their misunderstandings of each other and fall in love while solving all the cases and the larger conspiracy behind it.

Other CPs: Tao Ran and someone he knew first from his school days or was a neighbour when he was younger, I can’t remember, but they meet again at a blind date and end up living in the same building on different floors XD

Status: Complete!

Translations: Complete!! There’s a huge post floating around on Tumblr with all the links (I can’t find it right now) and on Twitter you can also find the collated, epub versions etc.

Drama/Live-Action: Rights for a live-action was signed, no casting confirmation or set dates yet

5. 犯罪心理 | Criminal Psychology by 长洱*

Summary: Police captain Xing Conglian drags psychologist Lin Chen out of seclusion/hiding to solve a case that is indirectly tied to him. Lin Chen was involved in a case a few years ago that led to four deaths - these four victims were the sons/daughters of four of the five huge old-money (super rich) families in the country and these family members sought to make Lin Chen’s life very difficult for him afterwards by making him lose all the jobs he can find, by surveilling his every move and ensuring that he’s not happy etc. Because of that, he backed out of the police force as well and quietly lived as a school dorm administrator, which is where Xing Conglian finds him a few years later. Lin Chen fakes his death after the first case (not deliberately but kind of a by-the-way thing), but as fate would have it, he ends up meeting Xing Conglian on another case, and he decides that he’ll move in with him and also involve himself again, consequences be damned, and they fall in love!

Other CPs: None XD

Status: Complete!

Translations: I think it’s not complete yet.

Drama/Live-Action: None that I know of.

6. 死亡万花筒 | Kaleidoscope of Death by 西子绪* (MY ABSOLUTE FAVOURITE)

Summary: Supernatural setting where people who are about to die get a second chance to live. These individuals are either in the midst of a dangerous situation (for e.g. a shootout or a deadly mugging incident) or are about to get into accidents (for e.g. an entire bus going off a bridge or a chandelier dropping from above and crushing the person underneath) or are ill (recently diagnosed with cancer or are terminally ill with a condition for e.g.) - The list is endless, and in the situation between life and death, 12 doors will appear before them.

It is said that once these individuals finish all 12 doors, they will truly get a second chance at life and survive whatever cause of death they were imminently facing.

Each door represents a creepy, supernatural mystery, and Lin Qiushi finds himself in a strange place after opening a door when he was trying to enter his apartment one day. He meets Ruan Baijie, a beautiful, tall woman who he happens to meet, and they realize that in this strange world, he and other individuals who came through the door have to complete a given task, find a key and an exit door, and make it out alive. The others in the team (some of which have already gone through several doors) explain to Lin Qiushi, who is a first-timer, what the doors are about.

The catch is, if they die inside the door, in the real world, they’ll die immediately, by accident, throwing themselves off a building, or just throwing up blood until they die (just to name a few)

On the first night, however, three people are slaughtered and eaten by a long-haired ghost/creature. The good news is, Ruan Baijie isn’t all that she seems to be (for one, she’s not exactly a woman) and she takes a liking to Lin Qiushi immediately.

Other CPs: None XD

Status: Complete!

Translations: I think it’s not complete yet!

Drama/Live-Action: None that I know of, but honestly, this novel would be fricking EPIC as a live-action, and really creepy, but this is my all-time favourite novel, I kid you not!!!!

*I’m definitely doing a longer and more detailed to-read for KOD on my translation account, gosh you guys have no idea how much I love this.

7. 当年万里觅封侯 | Those Years in Quest of Honor Mine by 漫漫何其多

Summary: Yu She and Gu Wan were close friends for a short period of time when they were younger, but unfortunately their identities and positions meant that they were opponents. Yu She’s family was for the Second Prince and Gu Wan was taken in by the Sixth Prince’s family, but in the end it was the Second Prince who ended up getting to the throne, while the Sixth Prince was accused of treason and died somewhere far away at war after being captured. Gu Wan’s only wish was to keep the Fifth Prince’s children - Xuan Rui and a pair of twins, Xuan Yu and Xuan Congxin safe, and so he moves them to another province and asks the Emperor (the Second Prince) to demote Xuan Rui’s status to prove that they are no threat to the Emperor, if only to stay alive for another day.

However, their days of hardship have only just begun, and Gu Wan decides to namedrop Yu She, whose family is so powerful now, and claims that Yu She loves him and that he was wooing Gu Wan back in the days they knew each other so that officials and others would treat the children under his care better. A few years pass and Yu She doesn’t expose Gu Wan. Gu Wan thinks they can go on like this forever, until the Emperor asks Xuan Rui and the twins to head back to the palace for a visit.

Gu Wan meets Yu She again, but the boy he knew, who was gentle, a stickler for rules and a proper, well-mannered person, has changed almost completely. Cue palace conspiracies again, brothers fighting for the throne, scheming consorts etc. XD

Other CPs: None XD

Status: Complete!

Translations: I think it’s not complete yet but I’m not super sure on this

Drama/Live-Action: None that I know of!

*They came out with a new reprint edition three days ago and it’s gorgeous! And comes with amazing freebies, and I am a sucker and read it on the day of the printed novel release because I saw the art and loved it, wanted to see if the story was any good, and damn after chapter 2 I WAS GONE and then I checked out two copies from different stores for the two different sets of freebies

A list of those I haven’t read but I see are highly raved about:

1. 二哈和他的白猫师尊 | The Husky & His White Cat Shizun by Meatbun

- I’ve already been spoiled and I know what goes on mostly, and there are a lot of warnings for a reason, but I’m still a fan, and let’s not get into the debate on the content, I know I have to read this but the angst level is apparently ridiculous, so I need like some mental preparation before I sit down for it.

2. 千秋 | A Thousand Autumns by 梦溪石

3. 烈火浇愁 | Lie Huo Jiao Chou by Priest

4. 将进酒 | Qiang Jing Jiu by 唐酒卿

- A really good group of translators picked this up initially on Twitter, but then assholes were complaining that they were being too slow and insisting that machine translation (MTL) did an equally good and faster job, so the OG dropped it, and then another nice team picked it up, but MTL team is still being an asshole XD I’ve heard really good things about this one, it’s apparently quite complex as well, I’d liken it to Shapolang level? But it might be even more complex (with a lot of politics and stuff), so much so that apparently the printed novel comes with a relationship/character chart so readers are at any point in time clear on the characters which is like amazing XD

#danmei #bl novels #novel recs #sci谜案集 #kaleidoscope of death #silent reading #shapolang #犯罪心理 #成化十四年 #the sleuth of ming dynasty #2ha #priest #梦溪石 #meatbun #西子绪 #耳雅 #长洱

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melanielocke · 3 years ago

Text

Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 33

AO3

Taglist: @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised @alastair-appreciation-month

Previous Chapter: Chapter 32

Next Chapter: Chapter 34

Alastair used his dagger to mark trees that stood out enough they’d draw his attention. How he’d woken up here with his dagger still on him, he wasn’t sure, but it was convenient. The forest looked the same everywhere and he couldn’t rely on his memory when he couldn’t tell the difference between the different paths he’d taken. He needed some things to narrow it down, which was why he’d started carving letters into trees. He’d remember enough to know where he was when he encountered one he’d previously carved, and he worked in alphabetical order. Even with his memory, he still ended up going in circles a couple of time, but at least he remembered which letters were part of that circle. When he ran out of alphabet letters, he continued with the Persian alphabet. After that, he figured numbers would do the job.

He didn’t know how much time he had left, nor did he know where Thomas was. There were very few buildings in the realm of the thief, but the scenery did change. The woods weren’t the same everywhere, although it all had the same air of darkness. Some places the woods were like he remembered from Devon, maple trees overgrown with moss. Others reminded him of the Hyrcanian forests in northern Iran his cousin Soraya had sent him pictures off. He’d started emailing with her about a year ago, but hadn’t met her yet in real life. He guessed now he never would.

He asked souls for help occasionally. Most of them could speak, but none had seen Thomas. Someone as tall and muscular as he was tended to draw attention, so Alastair assumed it was unlikely someone had seen him but did not recall. He had to be here somewhere. Someone ought to have seen him, right?

A soul of a white woman walked over to him. It was one he hadn’t seen before. She looked like she was from the Regency period. She wore a creamy white long gown with an empire waist and puffy sleeves. Alastair liked historic fashion, although he was by no means an expert, and could usually recognize the time period when it came to European fashion. Lately he’d started looking into historical Persian fashion as well. There were people from all over the world in here, although he was under the impression the majority was white. Perhaps that was a regional thing, because this part of the realm was layered over western Europe. Or perhaps the people making deals with the thief were mostly white, European people, who tended to sacrifice other white people due to proximity.

‘You’re Alastair Carstairs,’ she said.

Alastair frowned, why would someone he had not met approach him here? ‘The thief sent you,’ he concluded.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I was commanded to find you by a girl. I don’t know… She wants me to bring you to her.’

Alastair took a step back. Could he trust her? This was exactly the kind of trick he expected from the thief, to lead him to the wrong place so he would not find Thomas in time. ‘Who is she?’

‘I don’t know,’ the woman said. ‘She told me to find a man named Alastair Carstairs and I found you.’

‘But how do you know who I am?’ Alastair asked.

‘I don’t know, I just do. I know you’re the one she’s looking for.’

‘What did she look like?’

The woman tilted her head. She was wearing a creamy white bonnet that matched her dress. Not something Alastair liked exactly, although he loved men’s hats of the time period she was from. He loved historical gentlemen’s hats in general, and it was a real shame people had stopped wearing them.

‘She had light brown hair, fair skin. There was another girl with her. And a young man.’

‘Did the other girl have red hair and brown skin like mine?’ Alastair demanded.

‘Yes. She had a sword. And the boy was very tall.’

Alastair nodded. It could still be a trick, of course, but it was worth checking out. ‘Take me to them.’

Alastair followed the ghost. He wondered who she was, and how she’d ended up here. She must have been here for a very long time, still wearing the clothes she’d died in. Alastair recognized dress styles even older. A woman in a dress that looked mid eighteenth century, Elizabethan fashion even. Medieval and renaissance clothes, although he didn’t spot a lot of those.

He still made sure to mark the trees when he followed, using numbers now. The regency woman’s soul was clearly annoyed when he had to stop so often, but he suspected Lucie would want to know the way to the thief. He couldn’t afford to get lost in the shadows.

Lucie, Cordelia and Thomas were walking through a part of the woods that resembled how he pictured Scandinavian forests. Lots of pine trees, rocks like in Frozen.

The woman he was following addressed Lucie. ‘I have found Alastair Carstairs, milady,’ she said before turning around and returning to… wandering around aimlessly? Her stare went blank, and she went in a circle, as if her soul had just left her. Lucie must have woken her up somehow.

‘Alastair!’ Cordelia yelled at him. ‘Why would you do such a thing? What is wrong with you?’

‘I’m sorry, Layla. I thought you were dead. Thomas was dying. I had to do what it took to save him and I knew this was the only way.’

‘I never asked you to die for me,’ Thomas said softly.

Alastair took his hand. ‘I know, eshgham,’ he said. ‘But there was no other way. Now that Lucie and Cordelia are here, we still have a chance. But if I have to die so you can survive, that’s alright. It’s for the best.’

‘No, it’s not,’ Thomas said, almost angry. ‘I do not want this, I do not want you to sacrifice yourself for me. Have you considered how that would make me feel, to know I live because you died?’

‘I know it would be difficult. But in time, you would have realized I was never that special or interesting. You would have realized you could find someone else, and be happy. I do not think I could have done such a thing.’

‘Why, Alastair. Why do you not think your life is worth saving? Why do you think dying for me is a reasonable solution to this problem?’

Alastair couldn’t even begin to explain. Thomas did not understand, he did not see…. Alastair was too broken. He was doing the best he could with the pieces, but one day he would no longer be able to go on. He could not change, he could not be what Thomas needed. Thomas’ life was worth far more than his and so Alastair had made the only rational decision.

‘There’s no time to have this discussion, not if you want to kill the thief before my bargain ends,’ Alastair said.

‘We can’t find him,’ Lucie said. ‘We went to his castle, he isn’t there.’

‘He has another. A prettier one, classical style. If he didn’t leave, he’s still there now. I can show you the way.’

***

Cordelia followed Alastair through the woods. There were letters and numbers carved into trees every now and then. The farsi letters indicated Alastair had done that on his way here. He could navigate back easily. Cordelia wished she could talk to him, but he was right, there was no time and Alastair closed himself off from the rest of them. His face was blank and he showed the directions matter of factly. He was just like he’d been the past years, before Cordelia had learnt about their father and about Charles, never showing so much as a hint of emotion. Back then, she’d though he simply felt too good for her, or was, as her father had described it, going through a very turbulent adolescence.

Now she knew that wasn’t true at all, and she felt like she was losing him again. Even if they won. Even if he survived. He claimed he was sorry for leaving her, he’d believed she was dead. Cordelia suspected this had been his backup plan in case they failed at stopping Tatiana, something he had not shared with any of them. He could claim there was no one available to discuss his plan with at the time. Cordelia believed he’d had this plan since before they left, and had kept it a secret because he knew anyone else would try to stop him.

It felt like a punch in the gut. She’d thought that after years of silence, she finally got her brother back, but perhaps she hadn’t known him as well as she believed.

‘We’re almost there,’ Alastair said quietly. ‘Do you have a plan?’

‘We didn’t have much time to plan,’ Cordelia admitted. ‘Lucie will use her power against his in an attempt to neutralize him, which will ask a lot of her power, and that should give me the window to attack. Perhaps it’s better if you wait outside.’

‘No,’ Alastair said. ‘I have my dagger, I can help you. Besides, it’s only my soul that’s here. I don’t think I can sustain real damage.’

‘He might be able to control you though,’ Lucie said. ‘You and Thomas.’

‘Then you command me to fight him, Lucie,’ Alastair said. ‘I don’t think what I am now differs so much from a ghost. No doubt he can do it too, but with conflicting commands I hope that leaves me on your side.’

Cordelia wasn’t too sure about this, but she guessed he could help. They’d trained together, she’d want him to fight with her. She was just scared, but perhaps he was right, perhaps his soul couldn’t sustain harm. Of course, it was also possible any harm would make his heart stop beating. None of them had any idea what effect Alastair’s choice had on his body.

Cordelia was lost in thought and following her brother when Thomas suddenly grabbed her shoulder. She stopped, turned around. Alastair stopped too.

‘Watch where you’re going,’ Thomas said gently.

Cordelia looked in front of her. Nothing out of the ordinary. What was Thomas seeing? Her sight of the supernatural was not a gift she was born with, but after training with Risa for years she was decent. Right now, she saw nothing.

‘There’s a swamp there,’ Thomas explained. ‘Water, mud, with some clumsy bridges over it. Alastair picked the bridge so I thought you could see it, but then you almost stepped into the swamp. Could be dangerous, even deadly.’

Cordelia squinted, tried to picture the swamp Thomas described. Nothing.

‘I can’t see it,’ Lucie said. ‘But I can feel his magic. I think I could unravel the illusion, but I’d planned to conserve energy.’

‘This swamp wasn’t there when I exited the castle,’ Alastair said, ‘and I’m fairly certain I took this route. He changes the lay out of the world then, and uses an illusion to lure us into the swamp. Thomas can see where we can walk, as long as we follow into his footsteps we should be fine.’

Cordelia would prefer to see where she was stepping, but had to admit Alastair and Lucie were right. Lucie should save her energy for the real fight, so Cordelia did the best she could to follow into Thomas’ footsteps. She got her feet wet from a couple of mistakes, but so far could pull her feet back in time before it sunk in. Lucie had almost fallen all the way into the swamp, but Alastair had caught her in time, and Thomas had guided their steps so they’d stand somewhere safe for a while. At least she could feel the water when she stepped in it. Her shoes and socks were soaked by now, but that wouldn’t kill her, at least not in the short run. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what sort of infection she could get from the dirty water.

‘You’re going to have to jump,’ Thomas said. ‘There’s a bit missing in the bridge here.’

‘Can you mark the edge?’ Alastair asked, handing Thomas his dagger.

Cordelia wasn’t sure how he’d brought a dagger in here with his soul, but was glad for the backup. Thomas carved a line into the ground, then jumped over and carved another line at the edge. It was a doable distance, Cordelia could jump farther. She wasn’t so sure Lucie could though.

Alastair went first, jumping over and taking Thomas’ hand to find balance. Thomas avoided his gaze, Cordelia suspected he was very upset about what Alastair had done, and with good reason. She hoped they could talk it out once they were all back. She hoped she could do the same.

Cordelia went next, she didn’t need help to find balance, she could feel where she could best place her feet.

‘Catch me if I fall!’ Lucie yelled at them before jumping herself.

Cordelia’s estimation that she might not make it had been correct, she fell backward and Cordelia caught her hand just in time, pulling her back and into Cordelia’s arms.

‘Thanks, Daisy, I knew I could count on you,’ Lucie said. ‘Thomas, please tell me we’re almost there.’

‘I think I can see the palace. Just a little while farther.’

‘I don’t see anything, but I trust you,’ Cordelia said.

‘Guess he made that disappear too,’ Alastair said. ‘But I’m not stupid, I know where it was.’

‘It’s still there, don’t worry,’ Thomas said. ‘And if he made it invisible, he’s trying to keep us away. That means he’s scared, doesn’t it?’

Had the thief not counted on Thomas’ sight? He must have known about that gift, right? And Alastair’s memory? But perhaps the thief had only counted on her and Lucie as potential enemies, since Thomas and Alastair were currently his souls. Was she missing something?

‘He should be,’ Alastair said. ‘I think he believes I work for him now. Said I should fail my task, and then I could stay here with Thomas forever.’

Thomas made a face. ‘That sounds dreary.’

‘It does, and I never would have done that,’ Alastair promised. ‘Even if he said I could be his prince or whatever and live in the castle. But I think that’s why he’s not expecting me. He offered me power, and he said Thomas could be there with me if I failed to save him. He must have thought I would fall for that.’

Thomas looked away again. ‘I am starting to remember. You three, you all spark memories of who I am. Who I was. It’s… difficult, to remember the past time. So much has happened. But I remember now.’

‘That’s right,’ Alastair said. ‘It’s been a turbulent couple of weeks. But it wasn’t all bad.’

He put his hand on Thomas’ upper arm as if he was trying it out, to see if Thomas still accepted his touch. Thomas didn’t reject him, which she guessed was something, but he didn’t respond to Alastair’s touch either.

Thomas sighed. ‘No it wasn’t.’

They followed in Thomas’ footsteps for a little longer until he said they were back on dry ground. It all looked the same to Cordelia, odd how it could be so well hidden. It felt different underneath her feet though, and she instantly felt safer.

‘We’re almost at the castle,’ Thomas said.

‘Here’s my B mark,’ Alastair added. ‘I remember it’s here even if I can’t see. I never realized your sight ability helped you see through illusions.’

‘Me neither,’ Thomas admitted. ‘But I think the invisibility of supernatural creatures is an illusion itself, something I’ve always seen through. Odd you can’t, since you can usually see when you know what to look for.’

‘I’ve seen the palace and I know it’s here, but I’m not seeing anything right now.’

‘Watch out, there’s a-,’ Thomas began.

Alastair bumped into something, rubbing his head painfully. His nose looked weird, had he broken it?

‘Wall,’ Thomas finished. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Sort of. I’m fine.’

Alastair glowed a little, and then his nose looked normal again. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said.

‘What happened?’ Thomas asked.

‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Do you think breaking my nose here also breaks my real nose? Perhaps Kamala fixed it.’

Cordelia imagined that could have happened. ‘If this is a wall, then where is the entrance?’

‘Right here,’ Thomas said.

‘You didn’t remember that, Alastair?’ Cordelia asked innocently.

‘Oh shut up,’ Alastair said before following Thomas through the entrance.

Cordelia went last, and when she passed what Thomas had marked as the entrance the illusion unraveled before her eyes. The palace was mostly white with blues and gold, built in Roman style, encircled by an equally white wall.

‘Ah, I recognize this,’ Alastair said. ‘He could still be in the hall where he brought me.’

‘I can feel him,’ Lucie said quietly. ‘I think he feels me too.’

#Alastair Carstairs #Cordelia Carstairs #Thomas Lightwood #Lucie Herondale #Thomastair #Lucelia #the last hours #tlh #fanfiction

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paullicino · 3 years ago

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Ten Years

Taken from my Patreon.

Ten years is a long time. It’s long enough for many things to change, but also long enough for everything to remain the same.

I remember ten years ago as if it were yesterday, as if it passed by in the blink of an eye, with light and shadow, textures and taste all as familiar as ever.

A morning after. Shocked faces. A phone call. Events barely believable, yet all too real.

Ten years ago, my then partner and I were living in a top floor flat off Tottenham High Road. It was sweltering in the summer and the downstairs neighbours played dance music at four in the morning. But the views out the back bedroom window were of valleys of rooftops, sprouting television aerials and summited in the winter by the briefest dustings of snow.

The sun was for the front of the flat. The moon shone into our bedroom.

I remember that sunlight in the afternoon, sparkling through the shifting foliage of the tall trees outside. And I remember summer most of all. August.

We had a tap. A faucet. A great, overwrought thing that our landlady was obsessed with. It was the best tap ever, she said. It was large, curved and heavy, the pharaonic headdress worn atop a newly-fitted kitchen of which she was so proud. Wasn’t it exciting that we had such a good tap?

We just wanted our bed repaired. Our home wasn’t finished when we moved in and we slept on the sofa for weeks. When the mighty tap was finally installed, it was too heavy for its fitting. It teetered. Along with poorly-mounted cupboard doors with handles that prevented other cupboards from opening, its practicality was an afterthought.

The walk up Tottenham High Road took me to the only two locations I ever really visited, the supermarket and the job centre. The supermarket provided us with affordable food (though I’d watched the price of many staples almost double over five years) and the job centre provided me, an unemployed person, the money with which to buy that food.

The job centre, which was now extra special and had been rebranded Job Centre Plus, did not provide anyone the means with which they could get a job. It spent almost all of its time providing people with unemployment benefits. Most of the thousands of Tottenham residents who poured through its doors would’ve taken a job if they could’ve found one, but the listings at the centre itself were usually out of date, irrelevant or in some other way misfiled. Most employers don’t want to list their vacancies at the Job Centre Plus because they don’t want to employ the kind of people who go there.

Out of the Job Centre Plus and the supermarket, which one do you think burned that August?

I have written before about my strongest memory of the Job Centre Plus, but here it is again. It was of an old foreign woman and her daughter trying to speak to a clerk. The old woman didn’t speak English, so her daughter was attempting to explain that the woman was looking for work and thus registering as unemployed to gain unemployment benefit. The clerk was trying to explain that the woman was too old to work and should also be on disability benefit. The daughter was trying to explain that they had tried to navigate those systems and that they were obtuse and broken. Her mother just needed money. To live.

(Ten years before, in the summer of 2001, I’d first looked at the cost of moving out. I looked at rents around my Hampshire town, at the cost of housing and at the wages I needed to earn. England was expensive, I decided. It sure cost a lot just to live.)

Everyone was trying to explain everything. The job centre mostly wanted to give people their money and get rid of them, because there were many more lined up behind.

My strongest memory of the supermarket was of the man outside with no legs. He sat there panhandling in his wheelchair almost every day of the year. Britain had just launched its latest Astute-class nuclear submarine, each of which costs over one and a half billion pounds, but it was still a country where a man with no legs had to beg outside a shop.

I thought about that man long after I left Tottenham. I think about him here, now, ten years on.

My partner went abroad to see family and I spent some of the summer restarting my career as a freelance writer. I was fortunate with the connections and opportunities that I had, none of which would ever be found at a job centre, and I spent a lot of my time writing either to find work or simply for practice. I was writing on the night my street burned.

It began before dusk and I came home to find enormous police vehicles parked outside, the sort that are mobile command headquarters. Chains of armoured riot vans surged north. I heard there’d been a protest outside the police station and that a car or two had been burned. I checked the news occasionally. It didn’t have much to add.

Police vans kept coming, though all other traffic had stopped. The roads were closed, blocked by the police, and the latest news told me that petrol bombs had been thrown and a bus set alight. The reports were sparse.

The police in England are really good at responding to riots. They turn up in great swathes, on horses, in vans, or on foot and armed with batons and shields. They have all kinds of exciting equipment to help them. A year before, they’d kettled schoolchildren protesting the huge increase in university tuition fees, surrounding and slowly crushing hundreds of them in Trafalgar Square and on Westminster Bridge. Footage emerged of them beating the shit out of kids or dragging people out of wheelchairs. Here they were now in Tottenham, ready for more.

I kept trying to find news. The police had cordoned off most of the High Road, which meant the journalists that were arriving had no ability to find what was happening inside the riot. Distant footage of fires was the best most of them could provide. As I remember it now, the BBC had one van inside of the police cordon and couldn’t broadcast out because its dish had been damaged. I also have memories of a single journalist, almost in the thick of a mob, asking rioters to give them a moment to explain why they were protesting, or wondering why on earth they might want to block a BBC camera crew who were trying to film them.

What an inane question.

I found the news I wanted. I found it via Twitter and social media. And it was terrifying.

Broadcast news had described a riot not unlike any other. But the still relatively new sphere of social media was overflowing with witness statements, photographs and the kind of low-quality video that phones captured back then. People across Tottenham were panicking as they described growing crowds on the High Road burning not only vehicles, but also shops and businesses. They were breaking into commercial properties. They were looting. They were starting more fires. This had begun half a mile away from my home and it was spreading outward. The post office burned. Landmark businesses burned. Local shops burned and, with them, the flats and homes located above.

The updates kept coming and it’s almost impossible for me now to try to describe to you not only the sheer volume of panic and distress that waterfalled down my feed, but also the sense of utter hopelessness that came with it. People beyond the High Road described not just the violence spilling into their streets, the fights and the hundreds of looters, the fires and the damage, but also how there was no one who could stop this. No emergency services responded. Their phones went unanswered or the lines were jammed.

I read update after update that echoed the same, basic fact, something which I still struggle to comprehend even now, something I’d describe as barely believable: No help was coming.

But the social media updates kept coming. Looters were turning up with empty vans and loading them up with everything they could take. Buildings were being destroyed. A whole estate was being evacuated.

The news provided by the BBC and its peers remained limp and languid, so I spent all night reading these updates, discovering more nearby shops were being gutted, or how the retail park near me was looted to the point of emptiness, and I watched as even my own view out the window became broiling crowds of countless restless and angry people. I remember one man walking off into the darkness with brand new flatscreen televisions under each arm, the police vans now long gone. The night was regularly punctuated by shouts, screams, thumps and sometimes what might have been explosions. The sirens were always distant. The helicopters came and went.

I don’t know where the police cordon had gone. It felt almost as if they had given up and let Tottenham run rampant.

The sun came up and from that back bedroom window I saw smoke rising. I hadn’t slept. The news was full of irrelevant speculation and so, at five-thirty, I put on my shoes and walked the High Road. What I saw was barely believable. Sometimes I met the stunned gazes of other people doing the same, sometimes I avoided any eye contact. I have kept a diary for a long time now and this is what I recorded (slightly edited):

“This morning at about 5:30, as the sun rose, I tried to wander through Tottenham to take some pictures. It became one of the scariest walks I've ever taken.

The atmosphere was tense and unpleasant. Columns of smoke snaked upwards and the High Road and several other streets were blocked off or packed with police vehicles, many more of which were endlessly arriving, some from as far away as Kent.

The nearby retail park was littered with debris and many of its shopfronts were smashed. Groups of people, perhaps gangs, loitered everywhere. While some areas were busy with police officers, others were neglected and patrolled by hostile looking young men.

I didn't end up taking many pictures. I kept moving. Depending upon where you walk, Tottenham looks like a cross between a blitz bomb site and the mess after a chaotic festival.

Something still feels very different. Tottenham has hardly been rosy at the best of times, but today the sunshine can't seem to dispel a strange chill in the air. I myself can't stop thinking of all the homes that burned last night. It might not be immediately obvious to many people, but above a great deal of those shops set ablaze were flats, often family homes for very poor people. Many of those who had little now have less.”

A day after those first riots hit Tottenham, they went nationwide. London wasn’t done and, for a week, many major cities in England played host to their own riots. Tottenham was totally locked down, but it was far too late. The disorder had moved elsewhere.

I remember telling a colleague I worked with that I wouldn’t be finishing something that weekend. He laughed at the news and imagined it would all blow over. He was from a much wealthier background.

Then, everyone started trying to explain everything.

The BBC caught up with events the way a great-grandparent catches up with technology, fumbling and frowning. Goodness me, they said, in their middle class, broadcast-trained voices, and they joined in with the three broad lines of discussion that emerged. One asked how this could happen, one asked why this had happened, and one was about how this would never happen again, because the law would be firmer than ever, the punishments and prosecutions authoritative and absolute. The police were ready for more. They were going to get water cannons. I imagine those work particularly well on kids and wheelchairs.

There was a lot of talk about punishment, including from the Prime Minister, who decided to stop being on holiday in Tuscany only after England’s third night of rioting. I wonder if he had imagined it would all blow over.

Sometimes there was talk involving the people of Tottenham themselves, but it was more likely to be talk about them. A lot of people in Tottenham are Black and have families that trace back to the very first Windrush immigrants of the late 1940s. One Black Labour MP said it was important to talk about their experiences in London, their economic situation and their history of treatment by the police. After all, the spark that had set these riots alight was a protest outside the police headquarters, subsequent to the suspicious shooting of Mark Duggan, a Black man, something that called to mind a similarly suspicious death of a Black woman that also precipitated Tottenham’s 1985 riots.

For some people, the discussion became about how Black people had started the riots and been the chief participants. This wasn’t reflected in anything I saw either on social media or with my own eyes, in person, on the night. But nobody was stopping to ask me what I thought or what I saw.

Not long after that first riot, my partner called me to check I was okay and to ask if those barely believable things she’d seen on the news were really as bad as they seemed. They were. I rode the bus up the High Road on my way to Wood Green, then later to Walthamstow, both of which offered me temporary job centres that took the overspill from ours, thoroughly gutted by fire and then looted of all of its copper piping. The bus crept past burned-out shops and homes. I don’t know where those people have gone.

Later that year, my partner and I discovered that our income was low enough that we were eligible for housing benefit. It took us so long to try to apply for it that we moved home before any progress was made. When I found enough work to support myself, I visited the job centre to sign off, as we called it, to close my file. I asked a woman at reception what I needed to do. “Nothing,” she said, as the line behind me wound down several stories of stairs and out into the grey autumn street. “Just stop coming. Stop coming.”

Winter came and things rustled in the walls. There was a long, tall hedge along the High Road and I would look out the window to see men using it as a urinal. I only had to live in Tottenham for around a year and a half and I have good memories from that flat, but I also remember a stifling and sad place to live, from which I was lucky to move on. Tottenham was never my home and I never had to stay there, but I certainly feel that I came to get a sense of the place.

After moving out, our ex-landlady complained that we hadn’t left the oven as clean as she would’ve liked. She hiked the rent 9% while we were staying there. She never fixed anything that broke and provided excuses instead of solutions.

I found more work. I taught games and narrative for a semester at a small institution in East London. One of the things I asked my students to consider was the stories and the experiences of people who weren’t like them. I asked them to share how often they had been stopped and randomly searched by airport security. “Not just at the airport,” one student reminded me. “On the tube. On the street.”

My life continued to improve in many ways, but I still remembered the man in the wheelchair. The BBC and many other media outlets continued to talk about poverty and race, but not always to poor people or to people who weren’t white. In 2014 I wrote On Poverty and one of the most surprising responses I repeatedly received from people was “I had no idea that it was like this.” A friend of mine tried to apply for support for chronic health problems and documented her many struggles, including being required to explain exactly how many times a week she suffered from migraines (“You said it was two or three times a week. Well, is it two, or is it three?”). The news regularly reported growing homelessness, rising use of food banks and the inevitable deaths of people who weren’t just failed by broken systems, apathy and a lack of understanding, but also simply too poor to be alive.

I feel like some of the people I knew didn’t like how I kept returning to these topics. I feel, even more, that they didn’t at all understand. I remember some of these people waiving off the Brexit referendum as it approached, certain the country wouldn’t vote to amputate itself from the European Union. I don’t think they understood and I don’t think they’d seen the unhappy England that I had, both as a child and as an adult. I think they’d only seen, and been, very comfortable people.

I think these people would call themselves open-minded, progressive and keen to make the world better. I’m sure they could explain those views. At length.

If I think of those people now, I’m quite sure they are all still very comfortable, ten years on. I also think there is still a good chance that man is sat in that wheelchair outside of that supermarket, though he could also be dead by now, again simply too poor to be alive. No longer able to watch the sun sparkle through tall trees, see roofs dusted with snow or catch the moon peeping through his bedroom window.

Such things aren’t for poor people. We still get frustrated when we give them benefits or find out they own mobile phones.

---

Ten years on, Tottenham is almost a dream, a memory where the details have faded and the edges have softened. I have moved countries, had the privilege of travelling through work, enjoyed many different creative opportunities and benefited from free healthcare that has addressed difficult, long-term health issues. I have rationed my life according to a tight budget, but I’ve never had to face the overwhelming, unending hardships of others that I’ve shared neighbourhoods and postcodes with. I cannot ignore these people because they have so often been one street away, visiting the same shop or riding the same train. They are not an abstraction, they are right there, ready to tell us all about their lives.

Ten years on, Tottenham has one of the UK’s fastest-growing rates of unemployment, the latest statistic in the region’s long history of joblessness and poverty. Many of its residents, like poor people across the country, live paycheck to paycheck, at risk of financial ruin should they experience a single upheaval. Ten years on, the most reliable predictor of success and financial stability in the UK (as in many developed countries) is now considered to be the circumstances of your birth. The idea of social mobility is more irrelevant than ever, with much of your destiny decided before you are even born. Ten years on, almost a quarter of the population of the UK lives in poverty.

Ten years on, continued austerity, government apathy and cuts to social services has meant that, yes, ten years really is enough time for everything to stay the same. Without change, the problems people face become generational, systemic. Some people tell me that the 1980s were like this for certain families, regions, populations. I didn’t know. We were doing okay. Perhaps I didn’t get it, didn’t notice it, didn’t want to think about it.

Ten years on, Mark Duggan’s family filed a civil claim against the Metropolitan Police and were awarded an undisclosed sum, after his death was officially ruled a lawful killing in 2014. Lawyers for the Duggan claim commissioned this in-depth report on the shooting, which illustrated many problems with the official police version of events.

Ten years on, the UK government is trying to curtain the right to protest. It commissioned a review that concluded that the country has no systemic racism. It wants to limit the powers of the Electoral Commission and has considered conflating the concepts of whistleblowing and leaking with spying, meaning those who leak information could be treated as criminals. It is increasingly intent on punishing those who might express dissatisfaction.

And ten years on, as we all know, wages have not risen to match the rising costs of rent, food, utilities or transport. It sure costs a lot just to live.

Finally, in 2018, the UN Special Rapporteur on Poverty and Human Rights visited the United Kingdom and did speak with many of its poor. The resulting exhaustive and damning report concluded that “statistics alone cannot capture the full picture of poverty in the United Kingdom” and that “much of the glue that has held British society together since the Second World War has been deliberately removed and replaced with a harsh and uncaring ethos.” It described harsh, ill-conceived and out-of-touch support systems devised and doubled down on by a government that not only failed to understand poverty, but that couldn’t even measure it accurately. It also predicted that these things would only get worse, and without any consideration of the effect of extraordinary events, such as a global pandemic.

The government described the report as “barely believable.”

I don’t think any help is coming.

---

There’s a question that sometimes bounces around social media and it asks people this: “What radicalised you?” As if there was some moment that changed a person’s political beliefs and rearranged their perspective on the world.

Here’s the thing. I feel like my perspective is from the floor, skewed and sore after I fell between two stools, always unable to find an identity amongst wider British culture. I grew up too comfortable, too spoiled and too well-spoken to call myself working class, but I was easily alienated by schoolfriends with multiple bathrooms and university-educated parents. My interests and my sentiments aren’t supposed to be working class, but many of my life experiences and even philosophies are. I know what it’s like to memorise Shakespeare and to explain themes in Romantic-era art, as much as I know what it’s like to fight government systems that are ostensibly supposed to help, to be unable to afford your own home, to walk into a supermarket and look at staple foods you still can’t afford. You think about Descartes and then you think about which dinner provides the cheapest way to keep your body alive.

When I was a kid I remember going to friend’s houses where they were too poor to clean the carpet, or seeing them lose a parent to lung cancer, or the time someone showed me a gun hidden in their brother’s car. As an adult I wrote to my politicians to ask them what they were doing about poverty, about education, about the cost of living. I went to protests and signed petitions and supported charities both practically and financially. I suppose I was trying to articulate some of the skills I’d learned from in some situations to articulate the experiences I’d had in others. Surely you have to do something.

I both resent and appreciate aspects of both classes and I imagine I’ll never work out who I am or what I’m supposed to call myself. But I do know there are vastly different worlds and vastly different experiences within British culture and that many continue to be overlooked even when in plain sight. And it’s what I find most frustrating.

If there was one thing I learned, if not one thing that radicalised me, it wasn’t simply that poverty never goes away, it’s that it always needs to be explained. There are always, always people who don’t get it, who don’t notice it, who don’t want to think about it or who will puzzle over it from a distance as if it were some transient mirage they can never hope to touch. Those in power will continue to make decisions about poverty that they do not experience, in spite of the fact that making financially comfortable people the authority on money is like making able-bodied people the authority on wheelchair access, like making men the authority on women’s bodies, like making white people the authority on racism.

And so, ten years on, here I am again, writing about Tottenham, about class, about poverty and about ignorance, and only from a slightly different angle. I will write about these things more, not least because I’ve already started another work on these themes, but mostly because I will always need to. I don’t imagine that, during my lifetime, the explaining will ever stop. I don’t imagine that our societies will give up on punishing people for being poor in a world where it is so often simply too expensive to be alive. And I don’t imagine I will have any more patience for people who imagine it will all blow over.

I refuse to let you middle-class your way out of this.

I don’t have any solutions to these enormous and complex problems. I don’t have exhaustive lists of who exactly to blame or where precisely everything has gone wrong. But here’s what I believe: If we don’t talk about poverty, and if we don’t listen to those caught inside of it, it will never go away, and there will be infinitely more Tottenhams.

#Tottenham #Tottenham riots #Mark Duggan #poverty #London #England #writing #2011

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allegedlyanandroid · 4 years ago

Note

Pairing: Allen60 Prompt: Cold Types: Found Family, Fluff AU: Angels and Demons, Sixty as the little devil he is, and Allen just being human.

I am so late 😅 I wrote an entire thing before realising I hated every word of it and started over from scratch. Anyway... excuses aside, I hope you like it @yayen-chan <3 `(‾◡◝)´

“Okay, bookshelves first,” Allen mutters, following the intricate maze of arrows and concrete as he tries to navigate the local IKEA. “Or rugs. That works too,” he sighs when he glances up and finds himself in the wrong part of the store. Looking through the copious amounts of different rugs Allen rapidly finds himself overwhelmed. He tries reading a few of the ridiculously complicated names, stuttering over them when trying to read them out loud. “Ra- raskmol- mölle?”

Giving up on the fifth time trying to pronounce it correctly Allen rolls the grey-and-black striped fabric up and tosses it on the cart, already dreading trying to find the rest of the items on his list. There’s only one really but when passing through the plant-section he stops to pick up a potted plant. The other one is beyond salvaging from lack of water. “Ilex, foreeneling? För-enlig. What are these names?”

After another dead-end and some frustrated grumbling, he does find the bookshelf he needs. Honestly… this trip alone solidifies why he’s never getting a puppy. The one he took in to foster was a sweet thing but very demanding and unaware that he weighed quite a lot for a pup. He’d knocked Allen’s bookshelf over, thus breaking it, and also had an accident on his rug. If being petless meant never having to go here again then that’s a price he’s willing to pay. At least the shelter had found a family for him quickly and, while he did miss the little rascal, the puppy was undoubtedly in better hands.

“Kallax, hemnes... gersby?”

Too caught up in his own head he doesn't notice the strange scent of warm brimstone and ash filtering through the air nor does he notice the young “man” standing behind him, a man who seemingly appeared out of thin air, until he hears the sound of a throat clearing. Allen jerks his head up from wrestling with the cardboard box and offers an apologetic smile over his shoulder. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

“Or, you could tell me why I’m here and spare me the mundane small talk you humans seem so obnoxiously fond of.”

“I’m sorry?”

The man squints. “You summoned me.”

Allen pauses to take a good look at the man. He’s tall with black, artistically tousled hair and endless amounts of freckles. A few moles are scattered across his skin and his brown eyes are filled with irritation. Dark jeans with a long-sleeved shirt tucked into it, a black overcoat ending at about mid-thigh and a purple scarf hanging unknotted around his neck. Allen thinks long and hard yet finds no recollection of ever seeing this man before in his life let alone speaking to him. “I have no idea who you are.”

“You-” the man pinches the bridge of his nose, inhales deeply and slowly let it out before starting again. “You read the incantation to evoke me and you what… didn’t even realise it?” he asks and receives nothing but a blank stare from Allen in return. “Ugh, humans.”

In the blink of an eye the man transforms. Horns curve with the shape of his skull, producing from close to his temples, before ending in sharp tips that blend in with his raven hair. A black tail is wrapped around his leg which ends with a jagged spear-like point. The tips of his fingers look like they’ve been dipped in charcoal, fading into dark grey about halfway up his fingers, with claw-like black nails top it all off. They tap against the metal shelf next to them as the demon slowly advances.

Too shocked to move, Allen’s jaw is taken in a firm grip and when the demon smiles his teeth are pointed blades. “So… are you going to tell me what it is you want?”

“You can let go of my face for a start,” Allen says, adding a quick “thank you,” when the demon does as he’s told. “What’s your name?”

“You may call me Sixty.”

“Sixty,” Allen repeats. “No offence but I quite like having my soul intact. I’m sorry for dragging you from… whatever circle of hell you reside in, but I’m not interested in making any sort of deal with you.”

“Sucks to be you then because I’m not leaving until you do,” Sixty says and from his tone of voice alone Allen knows he’s a hundred percent serious.

‘Fucking IKEA.’

“Really? You couldn’t have chosen to live somewhere a bit warmer?” Sixty asks with disdain, thankfully back to looking human. His feet sink into the four inches worth of snow dusting the ground and he can already feel the cold seeping in through the gaps in his clothing. “Or somewhere nicer in general.”

“No one’s forcing you to stay.”

“No one’s forcing you to live here.” A pause. “Or if they are, I am more than willing to kill them for you free of charge.”

Allen sighs.

Having a demon for a housemate isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Sixty mostly keeps to himself whenever he isn’t trying to get a rise out of him or complaining about the cold or putting things on tall shelves like the little shit he is. Until Sixty gets bored that is.

Because when Sixty gets bored trouble ensues.

Emerging from his office after a long day of meetings to see his demonic housemate casually chatting with parts of his team in the breakroom is a bit out of left field and the sight of Sixty’s mischievous eyes boring into his own is enough to quicken his pace. “What are you doing here, Si- Silas?” he asks, forcing a smile on his face.

He hates how no one else can look past the innocent brown eyes and syrupy grin to see the smugness beneath. “I thought we were supposed to eat lunch together? Did you forget?”

“No, of course not,” Allen hastens to say, ignoring Willis and Clark’s knowing grins, as he wracks his brain for a response. “Though I distinctly remember asking you to wait outside.”

“It would have been rude of me to decline Julie’s offer of getting coffee,” Sixty replies and raises his mug as if to show it off.

“No need to be jealous, boss. We just wanted to get to know the guy better,” Julie says.

“Yeah, it’s not like we’ve ever seen you hang out with anyone outside of work apart from Reed,” Clark pipes up. “We got curious.”

“I’m not jealous!” Allen tries to defend himself, latching on to the word, but the agitated tone does nothing to help his case. Sixty smirking behind the rim of the coffee cup like a cat who got the cream isn’t helping to improve his mood either.

“You are the pettiest asshole I’ve ever had the unfortunate luck of meeting,” Allen says when they’re safely away from prying eyes.

Sixty snickers, knowing full well the amount of endless curiosity and ceaseless questions he’s unleashed on the human. “There’s an easy way to get rid of me.”

The fistful of snow he gets shoved in his face shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

By the time he manages to blink the melting snow out of his eyes Allen is too far away to retaliate, though that doesn’t stop Sixty from trying.

Despite his best efforts Sixty’s irritation with being unceremoniously dragged into the mortal plane dissipates after the third week of staying with Allen. By the time he’s been there for a month and a half, Allen’s team have adopted him as one of their own and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered. They genuinely care about his well-being and often invite him along on outings. As someone whose family is… overbearing, their light-hearted ribbing is a nice change of pace. Their easy dynamic is the very opposite of stifling. No one ever pries when he declines to answer a question. No one touches him after he made it clear he dislikes physical contact. No one quizzes him about his every movement.

It’s… nice.

The next team building exercise and subsequent photo op, proudly displayed on the communal fridge, includes him and Sixty doesn’t cry even a little bit upon seeing that.

Not at all.

In the end, the shift in their relationship is near seamless ‒ from reluctant roommates to friends to something more.

What hits him first is the metallic scent of fresh blood and Sixty is halfway across the room before he can even process rising to his feet. He gathers Allen up in his arms and leads him to sit down on one of the kitchen chairs. Part of his dark shirt is tacky with blood and Sixty feels no remorse when he shreds it to get it off as quickly as possible. Something, a bullet or knife, must have grazed his side. It’s bleeding sluggishly though it thankfully isn’t deep. Sixty takes the ruined shirt and presses it against the wound. “Keep putting pressure on it.”

Allen doesn’t answer and in the end he’s the one who has to move Allen’s hand to take over while he dashes to the bathroom for the medkit. Sixty plunks it down on the floor and fills a bowl of lukewarm water to put down beside it before fetching a clean towel. He kneels down between Allen’s legs and cleans meticulously around the area, noting the patches of skin where bruises are slowly forming. Swiping over the wound with antiseptic earns him a bitten-off hiss and Sixty puts a hand on Allen’s sternum to steady him after the first involuntary flinch.

He keeps it there, soothed by feeling the steady thrum of Allen’s heartbeat beneath his fingertips, until he needs the use of both his hands. In its absence, Sixty’s tail comes up to wrap loosely around his thigh for comfort.

Butterfly bandages instead of sutures, his tail instead of his hand. Allen doesn’t say a word about either choice though he is smiling down where they’re connected once Sixty chances a quick peek.

There’s nothing left for him to do after covering the wound with gauze, taping the edges down, yet Sixty finds himself lingering there regardless.

It’s easy to trace around the gauze with the very tip of a claw and when he catches Allen’s dark eyes the urge to lean down to place a gentle kiss over it wins out. Allen sighs quietly and coaxes Sixty up to kiss him properly ‒ a chaste press of lips against lips followed by a sincere thank you.

Sixty blushes and knocks his forehead against Allen’s, mindful of his horns, in a silent show of affection.

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

“Because I literally stepped in the door a second ago?” Allen laughs and pulls Sixty in for a quick kiss.

“Excuses,” Sixty sniffs and steals another kiss, one that quickly devolves into a dozen pecks being pressed all over his face until Allen plants a last lingering one to his lips.

“I love you,” Allen says when they break apart for real.

The shy smile spreading over Sixty’s lips is one he’ll never tire of seeing.

#slowly but surely working my way through these #sorry it's taking so long #dbh allen #captain allen #dbh sixty #rk800 sixty #allen60 #dbh #detroit: become human #detroit become human #allegedly answering asks #mini fic #my writing #that awkward moment when you're in an ikea and accidentally summon a demon

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solivar · 3 years ago

Text

The Left Hand Path: Three Years Ago

aka the One In Which Genji and Zenyatta meet.

The Standing Stones of Santa Ana Pueblo

Location: Just above the Red Line off I-25 N/Old New Mexico Route 68 N, Sandoval County north of the Albuquerque Military Exclusion Area.

Before the Crisis, Santa Ana Pueblo was a thriving Tamayame reservation, part of the Greater Albuquerque Metropolitan area, and a major tourist draw in the region owing to its world-class golf courses and club, a well-regarded spa resort, a casino and Michelin-starred restaurant, and a multitude of easily accessible cultural sites and events spread throughout the year. All of that changed on the afternoon of August 13, 2046 when Omnic forces advancing on Albuquerque breached the containment cordon along Route 40 and the US military, massed there to stop them, unleashed experimental high energy weaponry designed for that task.

Once the dust settled, the city of Albuquerque and much of the surrounding area, including the Sandia and Santa Ana Pueblos, was almost completely leveled. In the aftermath, the military cordoned off the ruins of the city inside the Albuquerque Military Exclusion Area, which remains under heavily patrolled Federal military control to this day. Evacuees from the surrounding area were strongly encouraged not to return, with offers to purchase their land at pre-Crisis market value to sweeten the deal. Many accepted, a handful did not, and those that chose to do so returned to a pueblo whose buildings were reduced to rubble and scattered with wreckage -- and something weird that was neither.

The Standing Stones of Santa Ana Pueblo occupy a relatively compact chunk of land on the grounds of what was once Santa Ana Golf Club, shielded from casual view by a stand of cottonwood trees that somehow survived the explosions that leveled the clubhouse and most of the other course structures and did significant damage to the surrounding area. There are nine of them, standing in a geometrically perfect circle, varying in size from from well over six feet to a little over five, perfectly hexagonal in shape, crafted of a dark stone that at least superficially resembles basalt. The inner surface of each stone is densely carved with petroglyphs incised deeply into the rock. The outer surface of each stone is carved with one petroglyph unique to that stone and which cannot be found on any of the others, inside or out. Local experts on Native American petroglyphs continue to research this topic but, as of this writing, none of the petroglyphs that appear on the Standing Stones resemble any glyphs that appear on historical sites in the region.

Nor were the Standing Stones a feature of the area before the Omnic Crisis, as confirmed by surviving photos and video of the course and local residents of the area, including the former owners of the golf club. At some point after the evacuation of Santa Ana Pueblo, the Standing Stones appeared in their current location, unnoticed by anyone despite the heavy military presence and regular patrols of the area, and despite the amount of effort such a project would entail. The stones, though tall and relatively slender, are still estimated to weigh several hundred pounds each -- not something that could be loaded, unloaded, and placed by a single person working by hand alone.

The hundred or so families who make Santa Ana Pueblo their home give the Standing Stones a wide berth, citing weirdly colored lights that appear close to the ground around them and occasionally in the sky above, strange disembodied sounds, and a deep thrumming hum that periodically rises from the area. These phenomena have appeared on official reports from area law enforcement and also on official notices issued from the Albuquerque Exclusion Area’s patrol base. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, most of these phenomena have been observed around the anniversary of the Battle of Albuquerque on August 13th.

If you want to try to catch the weirdness in action, make certain you’re prepared to handle high desert summer weather and get your permissions in order accordingly. The former grounds of Santa Ana Golf Course are private property posted against trespass and the area is periodically patrolled by both the US military and tribal coalition police.

“Tonight’s the night, everybody. August the thirteenth. The anniversary of the Battle of Albuquerque. It’s taken months to get my uncle to trust me enough to go out on perimeter patrol but this is our pay off.” Cody Peshlakai lowered his voice, dramatically, because there was no real danger of being heard, to hype up the audience watching his live HollaGram stream. “Tonight I will investigate the Standing Stones and tonight you will be with me.”

He flashed a grin and a V-for-victory sign into his camera then clipped it to the stabilizer harness strapped around his shoulders and across his chest, one more piece of survival equipment among the molle pouches carrying the rest of his gear, no different from anyone else’s. It sat there, neatly hidden next to his cellphone and the primitive walkie talkie his uncle insisted the security crews carry, through the team muster and meeting at the pueblo ranger station, broadcasting all the while. Nobody objected when he called dibs on one of the spiffy little hybrid hover/wheels ATVs, a good chunk of the all-volunteer patrol crew being old enough to value the superior shock absorption of the service’s Jeeps and trucks. The ATV yielded a much better POV for the viewers as he jetted out across the scrubby desert hardpack on the eastern bank of the Rio Grande toward his goal: the grounds of the former Santa Ana Pueblo Golf Club.

Which was, unfortunately, on the western side of the Rio Grande.

On the way, he passed clusters of habitation: the small, self-contained farmsteads of single families, an artist’s commune, the little solar farm that served the area and its caretaker’s hacienda. He paused at each and exchanged a few words with the residents, radioed a handful of coyote sightings back to base, and continued on, the excitement churning higher and higher in his gut the closer he came to his goal, as his numbers climbed on his viewership monitor.

“So, yeah, that’s my job, stream -- I help keep my community, my friends and neighbors, safe. Sometimes that’s chasing off coyotes that are getting a little too comfortable raiding the compost bins but sometimes...sometimes it’s a lot weirder.” The remains of the old Highway 550 bridge loomed out of the twilight, crumbling concrete pilings jutting out of the shallowest, siltiest part of the river and he pulled to a halt, executing a slow pan to give the stream the best view possible. “On the other side of the river and a few miles west is what’s left of the Santa Ana Pueblo Golf Club. It used to be a world-class course, fancy-ass hotel and casino inclusive, made a lot of jobs and money for the community. All that, of course, came to an end during the Omnic Crisis.”

He revved the motivator, fired up the hoverpods to their highest yield, and skimmed across the surface of the river and up the opposite bank. A vista of devastation, stained in shades of sunset and shadow, spread out before them and the stream chat went absolutely wild. The residential neighborhoods south of 550 had been utterly flattened during the Battle of Albuquerque, hardly a brick left stacked or a wall left standing, blown all-but-flat by some incomprehensibly massive force. That, combined with the occasional blast crater and random scattering of unexploded ordnance, had discouraged resettlement so thoroughly nobody even wanted to risk putting up a solar farm. Wreckage still lay scattered as far as the eye could see and the eye could see quite a distance, even with twenty-plus years of desert scrub overgrowth blurring the harshest edges.

“Nobody really knows what happened here that day -- August thirteenth, the Battle of Albuquerque,” Cody narrated as he kicked the ATV back into motion, navigating carefully down the cracked and pitted remnants of 550 toward his goal. “Just about everybody was evacuated and the ones that stayed behind...well. Let’s just say that, when all was said and done, there wasn’t anyone left to tell the tale.”

The bombed-out, burned-out remnants of the old hotel-casino came into view, its parking lot still filled with the rusting hulks of abandoned vehicles. “The casino and golf course were used as a rallying and evacuation point for the nearby communities on the west bank of the Rio Grande in the days leading up to the battle. The US Army and local militia forces were massing along I-40 -- the Red Line -- and the Air Force and Air National Guard were flying refugees out by helo, the National Guard had commandeered every bus, van, and free personnel carrier they could get their hands on to get people out of harm’s way. This entire area was an absolute hive of activity, you can find video of it all over the internet.”

He paused long enough to link some of his favorites in the chat as he turned off the main road, easing the ATV along something that was once a paved maintenance access point, running roughly parallel with the river. He hit the first scraggly bits of “green,” grass genetically engineered to survive the heat and dry of a high desert summer, a few minutes later and he pulled up onto the flat, opened up his holomap, and pinged his location for the audience. “I’m here -- just south of the lower water trap which is, at this point, completely dry. Our objective is...here.” He touched the copse of cottonwood trees a mile and a half to the north. “The Standing Stones. No one knows how they got here -- they weren’t here before the battle and they weren’t here during the evacuation. But when the recovery teams swept through to see what, if anything, had survived...there they were.”

He gunned the motivator, turned the headlights up to maximum, and muted the call trying to come in from his uncle, likely demanding where the Hell he was. Oh, he was getting fired for this. So very, very fired. But very soon that wouldn’t matter, because after tonight his career was going elsewhere.

The stream picked up every jounce and bounce as he skimmed over ruts and bits of wreckage flung miles from their origins, swerved around scrub becoming less and less scrubby as he went and the wild descendants of decorative plants that had somehow survived despite it all. The cottonwood stand was still the tallest thing around and he slowed as it came into view. “My plan is to set up motion-activated cameras in a perimeter around the Standing Stones and several inside the circle of the Stones, as well, along with a super-sensitive microphone pickup and electromagnetic monitoring equipment. If something happens tonight, we’ll see and hear it.”

He stopped as the ATV’s headlights washed over the trees and struck glints from the Standing Stones themselves, dark stone reflecting darkly -- and more. Cody froze, still straddling his seat. “Oh, fuck -- there’s someone else in there --”

Cody killed the headlights and the motivator and rolled off the ATV into the relative cover of the underbrush in one smoothish and only mildly panicked motion. He even managed to avoid squeaking too much as he whispered, “Chat, did you see that? Did anyone else see that?!”

Yes!

Me, too!

I saw it -- it was TALL

Dozens of messages bubbled up in the chat as his audience scrolled back and scrutinized every frame for him. For his part, he dug his brand new Panopticon binoculars out of gear bag, clipped them into place on his tactical visor, and tried to get a better look of his own, zooming in on the Standing Stones so closely he could clearly see the petroglyphs incised into their surfaces, even with the last of the light bleeding out of the sky behind them. None of the grainy-green of old school low light optics with these babies, and he scanned the area and slow and careful, looking for some hint of what he saw, something, anything --

A flicker of motion caught his eye, something moving among the Stones, mostly obscured by their mass.

“Fuck.” This...was not a complication he had considered, much less prepared for. This whole area in general and the Standing Stones very much in specific were so far out of bounds that he never imagined encountering another person out here at all much less…

On the night of the anniversary of the battle of Albuquerque.

He had to physically resist the urge to facepalm. “Chat, I...think I know what this is.” He crawled back out of the brush and hunkered down next to the ATV, tried to get a better angle on the inside of the circle. “You know how every year there’s a remembrance ceremony at the big Crisis Memorial up in Santa Fe? Well...what if I told you that some people come down to the pueblo for their own private remembrances, too? It’s the anniversary, after all. Let me see if --”

A shriek of audio distortion drilled his ear with the enthusiasm of an icepick straight to the brain and it was all he could do not to howl as he clawed his audio pickup out. “Holy fuck, what was that?”

The chat, in the corner of the heads-up display on his visor, was losing its entire fucking mind -- whatever it was, they had heard it, too, and --

A second pulse of sound, deep and resonant, punched him in the chest hard enough to make both his heart and breathing stutter, and the chat went absolutely apeshit again as it fed through to them, as well.

“You know what, Chat,” Cody said, as soon as he got enough breath back to speak, “I think I’m going to take your advice and get the Hell --”

Golden light blossomed inside the circle of the Standing Stones -- for an instant, to his eyes, it looked as though the petroglyphs themselves were lighting up, searing their patterns into his retinas with a single unwary glance. He reeled back and looked away as he clawed both the tac visor and the binoculars off his face, blinking afterimages out of his vision, the light washing out of the stone circle, over him, over everything, and --

Calm flowed over him, over him and through him, a wave of perfect serenity that stole away all his fear between one breath and the next, left him wobbling on legs made of rubber, legs that folded up underneath him and left him sprawled on his back, eyes and camera both pointed at the swiftly darkening sky, hazed in golden light. He could hear the pinging of his stream’s chat freaking out a few physical inches and a couple thousand conceptual realities away, but couldn’t bring himself to care. That sweet golden light was all he knew and that majestic bone-deep music, and he allowed himself to drift away on it, blinking away like a pinched-out candle between one breath and the next.

It was some time later that the rescue team found him, sprawled out next to the ATV, boneless, blissed out and drooling. But not, as they feared, dead.

“I told you this little moron was up to something,” Julia Tso nudged him in the ribs with the tip of one hiking boot. “He’s been streaming crap on HollaGram for months, Joseph.”

“Yeah, I know.” Joseph Peshlakai sighed and signaled the medical evac team to come in from the road. “Keep an eye on him until they get here, yeah?”

Julia rolled her eyes but nodded and Joseph crossed the remaining distance to the Standing Stones, where a golden light still pulsed among them, within them, the petroglyphs alight. He stopped outside, cleared his throat, and said, “Thank you for not killing him, Wanderer. He’s an idiot but he’s my kid brother’s favorite child.”

Youth and folly are not offenses punishable by death, my old friend. The voice echoed in his mind, warm and amused, but not less awesome because of it. Thank you, as always, for watching over them in my absence.

“My honor, Wanderer. I’m honestly a little surprised to see you this soon. It’s only been, what, five years?” Five years to the day, Joseph thought but did not say.

Yes. I...think I will be staying for a time. Not here. But close. I feel...A frisson of unease passed between them, mind to mind, a chill crawling down his spine. I feel that I will be needed, sooner rather than later.

Joseph took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. “Things have been...a little stranger than usual, I will admit. It will be good to have you back, even if only for a time.”

It will be good to be home. Farewell for now, old friend.

The golden light blinked out, and Joseph knew he was alone. The Stones faded more slowly at his back, as he walked back down the shallow rise to his lieutenant and his idiot nephew and the knowledge growing in his mind that things were going to get worse before they got better.

#The Left Hand Path #Ghost Stories On Route 66

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artificialqueens · 4 years ago

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Me and You Together, 2/10 (Taywhora) - Ortega

fic summary: The cardinal rule of having flatmates is that you Do Not Catch Feelings For Your Flatmates, because everything inevitably goes to shit and gets made horrifically awkward. A’whora and Tayce both know this, but being in first year of uni and making good decisions have never really gone hand in hand.

a/n: thank u so so much if you left a lil love or a reblog on the first chapter of this!!!! it honestly means the world and i do see and appreciate it all so thank u SO much! hope u all enjoy the next chapter!

last chapter: December- A'whora and Tayce finally kissed after months of build-up after A'whora was jealous of the attention Tayce recieved on a night out.

this chapter: September- On a damp, bright Saturday in September, six flatmates move into their student flat and meet for the first time.

***

september- i can’t remember when we met

It’s a damp, bright day when Tayce arrives in the city for the first time.

She’s been here before- once when she was eight and again for the open day- but today it’s as if she’s seeing everything through fresh eyes. The sunshine on the puddles on the pavement gives everything a sparkle and a kind of magic, and the blue sky that pokes out from the jagged edges and roofs of stone buildings fills her with a sense of excitement and optimism.

They’ve been on the road since nine in the morning and awake since seven, and Tayce should be tired, shattered even, but she feels energised and alive as she peers out the passenger window and drinks in every last little detail of the place she’s going to be calling home for the next few years: the cobbled roads that make her Mum worry about the car’s suspension, the way the streets and roads seem to snake, dip and overlap over each other in a series of bridges and tunnels that make it almost impossible to navigate, every single little cafe and boutique and restaurant and office and kebab shop. The signs for places she’s never heard of and the buses on their way there.

Nothing can dull her excitement when they pull up on the narrow, hilled street where her block of flats are hiding, not even her Dad almost having a nervous breakdown at the wheel about the lack of parking. They decide to throw caution to the wind and park on the double yellow lines outside, her parents hurriedly helping her with her heavy, stuffed suitcase and the bin bag with all her bedding in it and walking with her as she not so much trundles but drags her things through the gates into the courtyard. Tayce takes in her surroundings with darting eyes, too much to drink in at once. There’s a high stone wall in the far left-hand corner and what looks to be the laundry room on the ground floor of the building beside it. A few scrubs of plants lined with bricks are dotted around the courtyard, where a few students are already sitting smoking. The rest of the buildings that hem them in are tall with little windows dotted all over them, and each side is painted a different colour: white, powder blue, or coral red. It’s an interesting combination but Tayce supposes she doesn’t have to look all too long or all too hard at the outside of the building if she’s going to be living inside it.

There’s some little tables set up outside with uni staff manning them, so Tayce leaves her parents with her things while she goes over to pick up her keys. It’s not a long process- she gives her name and she gets handed two keys (which she’s told are her room key and her flat key) with a keyring on them, a messy scribble that reads block 4, flat 10, room 2 with a four-digit code for the front door of the block. A welcome pack gets thrust into her other hand, and she’s sent on her way with an “enjoy freshers!”.

It doesn’t take the three of them long to find block four, but they’re instantly dismayed to find out that flat ten is on the top floor and there’s no elevator. Tayce’s Dad is left to carry her suitcase up each flight of stairs while her Mum takes the bin bag and casts a judgemental eye over each floor of the echoey stairwell, clearly nervous about leaving her oldest child in the care of five strangers who could all very well be psychopaths.

“Mum,” Tayce cocks an eyebrow at her, reaching out to loop her arm through hers as they reach the top floor and the door of her flat. “I’ll be fine, okay? I’m a smart, sensible, responsible, gorgeous young lady. You did a great job raising me, I’ll be fucking golden, okay?”

“Hey! Watch your language, missus,” her Mum warns her, and Tayce stops herself from rolling her eyes and arguing about the fact that she’s about to begin her actual journey towards adulthood in favour of giving her Mum’s arm a squeeze of apology. “Of course you’ll be fine, I know you’ll be fine. You’re still my baby, though, I’m allowed to worry.”

“I know,” Tayce smiles sheepishly, looking down at her phone at the message she’s got from her sister. Opening it, she ends up snorting with laughter and beckoning her Dad over to look. “You should probably be more worried about what these three are getting up to with Gran, though.”

“Shit in the kettle,” her Mum exhales exasperatedly as she looks at the photo on the screen- Tayce’s sister mid-scream in the garden, as her two brothers and her Gran appear to be in the middle of a silly-string fight. Tayce is doubled over as her Mum turns to her Dad, insisting that she knew they should’ve taken them all on the journey up. Tayce is inclined to agree- she knows there wouldn’t have been space for all of them as well as her huge suitcase, but her family are close and she’s used to doing everything together. As much as she’s excited for uni, it’s going to be weird living somewhere other than her big crazy, busy house in Newport, with constant noise and bustle and the walls almost bursting at the seams with love.

If she thinks about it too much though she’ll end up getting emotional, so she pulls her keys out of the pocket of her jacket and flips her hair over her shoulder, because it’ll make things easier for her parents if they think she’s as confident and self-assured as she seems. “Besides, I’m sure the girls I’ll be living with will all have their heads screwed on alright.”

As she turns the key in the lock and opens the door, she’s met with a loud blast of music from the hallway that almost physically knocks her back a bit. Tayce turns to her Mum and Dad, smiling tightly as if to urge them not to let the loud music discredit the point she’s made.

“Hello?” Tayce yells into the hallway, tentatively approaching the first room where the door’s open and that the music is blaring out of. When there’s no answer she peers through the doorframe, a little nervous. Inside there’s a single bed, a cupboard, a set of drawers, a desk, and a bedside table all in the same pale wood-effect colour. There’s also a sink, a mirror, and a window. It’s all a very basic set of furniture, but the girl inside the room is livening the surroundings up a bit. Her hair falls in bouncy brown curls that rest on her shoulders, with a purple ribbon that snakes through them and is tied in a bow at her parting. She’s pale with dark eyebrows but the little absent-minded smile on her face goes some way to assuage Tayce’s nerves, and she’s humming along with her music as she unpacks her clothes from the suitcase she’s heaved onto the bed.

(It occurs to Tayce, as a result of the fact that Madonna is playing and that the girl’s wearing a red flannel shirt tucked into a pair of high-waisted Mom jeans, that at least she won’t be the only lesbian in the flat.)

It’s the relief that prompts Tayce to yell out a “hey!”, which in turn makes the girl in the room yelp and snap her head around to face her, her mouth set in a slack-jawed expression of surprise which quickly melts into one of relief.

“Fuck me sideways, I just about shat myself there!” she laughs loudly, immediately turning down her music. “Oh my God, hi babes! I’ve got a flatmate, finally! We gettin’ pished or what?”

Tayce bursts out laughing, darts her eyes to her Mum and Dad’s slightly horrified expressions from further down the hall. “Bit early for that, nah?”

“It’s never too early in Scotland!” the girl cackles, approaching Tayce and immediately giving her a hug. “Hey flatmate, I’m Lawrence! Do you want a drink?”

Tayce keeps trying not to laugh but fails when Lawrence looks out into the hall and sees Tayce’s Mum and Dad, her face immediately falling in embarrassment.

“Oh. Hi, Mr and Mrs Flatmate! I’m Lawrence!”

Tayce snorts at the way her Dad gives her a resigned wave and how her Mum’s face is the picture of grimaced concern.

“I’m Tayce. That’s my Mum and Dad,” she introduces. Then, slightly embarrassed about the fact she’s got her parents with her, follows it up with, “But they’ll be leaving soon anyway.”

She hears a muttered “charming” from her Dad.

“What room’ve you got?”

“Uh…” Tayce checks her keyring, reminding herself. “Two.”

“That’s next to me!” Lawrence says enthusiastically, banging on the wall at her side as if to make her point. “Here, I’ll let you go get unpacked and say goodbye to the fam and we’ll chat after that, awright? I’ll see you after.”

“See you in a bit,” Tayce replies, trundling her suitcase down the hall as her parents follow her. As she unlocks the door to her room, she turns to them and smiles encouragingly. “See? She seems nice!”

Her Mum’s raised eyebrows prompt her not to push things.

Tayce’s room is identical to Lawrence’s- the furniture’s all in the same positions and all in the same style. A little further down the corridor past the other bedrooms is the kitchen and living-room area, which her Mum runs her fingers over to check it’s been cleaned properly. When it’s been established she’s satisfied with it the three of them return to Tayce’s room, empty apart from her belongings. The blank canvas fills her with a little tingle of excitement at the possibility of getting to decorate it all to make it properly hers, chill and cosy just like her room at home. When she thinks about home again, though, it makes her want to burst out crying and never stop, so she turns around to her parents and takes a little breath, fixing a smile onto her face.

“Well! I guess you two can leave me to get up to all sorts of mischief now. Drink beer upside-down from a tube or…whatever happens here.”

Her Mum tearfully laughs and it becomes even harder to stop herself getting upset. She asks Tayce if she wants she and her Dad to stay to help her get unpacked or if she wants to go for some food anywhere, but Tayce’s Dad, stoic as ever, says what Tayce wants to but won’t in case she hurts her Mum’s feelings- that Tayce will want to talk to her flatmate, and she won’t want her parents hanging around for too long.

So they hug goodbye tightly with tears in their eyes and snuffly noses, Tayce promising to phone every week (but she’ll probably get so homesick that it’ll be more frequent than that). She feels guilty as all hell waving her parents off down the stairs, as if she’s leaving some well-loved pet behind at a rehoming centre, but she tries to push down her emotions in favour of the small rush of excitement that’s beginning to bubble up through the upset- she’s here, it’s uni, it’s freshers, this big event that’s been built up so much in her mind.

She hopes it lives up to the hype.

It’s when she closes the front door that she hears a movement behind her, a series of small thuds against the floor.

“Right! You wanting a drink now?”

Lawrence sits in Tayce’s room while she unpacks and they talk like old friends. There’s not really any awkwardness with Lawrence; she’s outgoing and energetic and knows how to hold a conversation. Because of this, Tayce would’ve guessed she’d be studying something to do with film and TV, but it turns out she’s studying textiles and she gets excited when Tayce tells her she’s studying fine art because they’ll both have lectures at the art college. Lawrence is seventeen which shakes nineteen-year-old Tayce to her core, and they have a huge discussion about how the hell they’re both starting uni at the same time when there’s such a disparity in age between them. It turns out that the answer is Tayce taking a year out to decide what she wanted to do with her life after sixth form, and a Scottish school system that lets kids start school at the age of four. Lawrence doesn’t seem worried that her inability to get into clubs will hinder her freshers’ week, as she’s got a friend who’s in second year and is letting her borrow her ID for the week (Lawrence’s post-9pm alias for the next seven days is named Rosé McCorkell).

“How come you didn’t just take a year out and wait til you were eighteen?” Tayce asks, taking a sip of peach schnapps from one of the plastic tumblers Lawrence has offered her.

“Because I didn’t want to,” Lawrence shrugs, and Tayce raises her eyebrows in a fair enough. “I wanted to leave home- not in a bad way, but I was just bored. You’d be too if you lived there.”

Lawrence is from Helensburgh, a town Tayce has never heard of but apparently has a Waitrose and that’s about it. This indicates to Tayce that Helensburgh is a town full of Tories. No wonder Lawrence was in such a rush to get away.

Her parents seem like they’re the cool kind of parents. They dropped her off at the flat at two in the afternoon with her suitcase and a Sainsbury’s bag full of alcohol for the week (hence the reason she has so much for someone who can’t legally buy it). Her Dad doesn’t really agree with what she’s decided to study, because apparently she got the grades for something like Law or Medicine and he wanted her to do something where she was guaranteed stability and a career. In response to this Lawrence apparently sent off five different applications to five different art schools in one of the most silent, passive-aggressive fuck you-s in history.

Tayce can relate to this. She tells Lawrence what it was like to have finally decided on something to do at uni, only to be met with “are you really sure?” and “do you think that’s wise?” and “but what will you do with that?”. They moan about how it’s so frustrating to have to justify wanting to study something when really the only desire comes from just finding it interesting, or fun, or being passionate about it.

They’re about to launch into a conversation about what each of their experiences at school had been like (stemming from a story Lawrence told her about telling her guidance counsellor to get fucked when he suggested she should train to be a teacher) when there’s a commotion out in the hall, which in turn makes the two of them run to the doorframe in excitement. They find two new flatmates laughing and grappling with their suitcases which appear to have become stuck in the small hallway: one with straight, flowing dark hair that hangs over her shoulders, dark makeup, leopard print sweatpants and an excitable smile on her face, and the other with a chaotic blonde bun that looks as if they’ve slept in it, a black bralet underneath a denim jacket, and a little Kate Moss-esque gap in their teeth when they smile.

“Here! You wantin’ a hand with those?” Lawrence yells, and the two newbies give a shriek of delight, abandoning their suitcases and climbing over them to hug their two new flatmates.

They talk at about a mile a minute as they introduce themselves and pile into Tayce’s bedroom, uninvited but by no means unwelcome. Leopard-print sweatpants’ name is Tia and bun-head’s name is Bimini. In a spooky twist of fate it turns out that their seats happened to be opposite each other on the train up, and they got talking and realised they were both going to be at the same uni, in the same accomodation, and in the same flat. They’ve been excited and a little drunk ever since, Bimini tells them, the trolley on the train acting as a mobile bar for the pair of them to order endless amounts of prosecco and toast to their new friendship.

Lawrence and Tayce decide to let the pair drop their things in each of their rooms, while they relocate to the kitchen which is much bigger. Lawrence sets all her alcohol out on the rickety dining table while Tayce thuds herself down on one of the purple sofas, looking out of the adjacent window and taking in the views out onto the buildings and streets below. She’ll go exploring tomorrow, get her bearings a bit. Tonight is for getting silly with her new flatmates and sussing them all out. She’s lucky, though, that they all seem nice enough so far.

“They seem nice, don’t they? The other two,” Tayce turns to Lawrence and verbalises what she’s thinking, and Lawrence nods in agreement as she crosses over to the sofa and takes her cup to refill it.

“Yeah. I think we’ve got lucky, to be honest, My friend in second year- that one whose ID I’m borrowing- she’s told me total horror stories about weirdo flatmates.”

“We’ve still got two to arrive, there’s still time,” Tayce considers with a snort, and Lawrence shrugs in agreement.

Bimini emerges first, wedging the fire extinguisher against the kitchen door to prop it open so that any of the other new flatmates arriving will instantly know where they are. Lawrence shoves a tumbler into their hand like some sort of bartender and they all squash onto the sofas as they chat to their new flatmate. Bimini is another one who’s glad to get out of their hometown, and has come to uni to study journalism.

“I’ve already got the fucked sleeping pattern and constant hangover, so I’m halfway there,” they say almost proudly, their accent making Tayce laugh in spite of herself.

Tia joins them all as Bimini’s halfway through a rant about how hard it was to try and sort accommodation for uni, which the other girls agree with.

“They seemed to think I could commute from Helensburgh to here every day,” Lawrence rolls her eyes, and Bimini laughs in agreement.

“Well I had a fuckin’ nightmare as well. They tried putting me in a twelve-person flat at first-”

“That’s not a flat, that’s a fuckin’ small village!”

“Right! So then they kept trying to shoehorn me into an all-boys flat, because fuck, I don’t know…they heard the words ‘non-binary’ and thought ‘man’ I guess?”

“Jesus,” Tayce wrinkles her nose up. She can’t think of anything worse than having to share with a bunch of guys. No wonder Bimini didn’t want to.

Bimini laughs ruefully as they finish their story. “In the end I rang them up and said look, what do you want…do you want me to scan you a picture of my fuckin’ genitals? Why are you so obsessed, love, just give me the fuckin’ flat I want before I pass out!”

“I never thought how annoying that must be. You know, the whole all-girl flats and all-boy flats,” Tia muses, Tayce nodding in agreement. Bimini waves a dismissive hand.

“Aw, don’t get me wrong, I’m sort of glad they exist. I mean I already know I’m gonna like living here with you lot way more than a bunch of rugby lads who barely understand the concept of women, never mind me,” Bimini smiles, and the fact they’re already feeling positive about the flat makes Tayce’s heart warm. She feels the same- she’s getting good vibes from her flatmates already, and they’re doing wonders to offset the rumbling feeling of homesickness she’s pushed to the back of her mind.

Talk turns to Tia, who’s travelled all the way up from Essex. She’s studying computer science and is, in her own words, excited to turn up to her lectures and remind everyone that women exist. She’s another girl who’s come to uni straight from school, and from the sounds of it Tia couldn’t wait to leave. Essex girls- or at least the ones in Tia’s year- seemed to live up to the stereotype, and the fact that Tia didn’t walk around constantly caked in fake tan, lash extensions and heavy makeup made her a walking target for catty comments, poorly-concealed laughter and the occasional shove in the corridor.

Tayce laments with the others about how mean people could be in school. She didn’t have things too bad, she considers. Tayce was well-liked and popular for the right reasons. She always made sure to be kind to everyone (because her Gran would’ve killed her if she wasn’t) and if she had any nasty comments to make she kept them strictly between her and her best friend Cara, who she knew wouldn’t spread things around.

(She’s also the only person at school she came out to. She imagines her high school life would’ve been a lot different if she’d brought that into the mix.)

They’ve moved on to discussing what they think uni life will be like (Bimini is particularly looking forward to getting to make pancakes for breakfast every day) when Tayce notices Lawrence’s gaze lock onto something behind Tayce’s head. Her face grows shocked and awed, and a massive smile starts to spread across it. As Tayce turns around she sees another girl standing at the doorway into the kitchen with a similar expression on her face.

Tia, who’s sitting beside Lawrence, shoots the girl a smile and a wave. “Hey-”

“Aw, fuck off! Not you! Not you!”

Tayce flinches as Lawrence leaps up from the sofa, running across the room to wrap the girl in a massive hug. Their height difference makes the hug look funny, as the new girl is tall. Tayce always thought she was tall, but this girl almost defies the laws of physics. In fact, everything about the girl seems to work in extremes- her blonde hair is so thick and full of volume that her curls seem to stick out at all angles, barely tamed by a pink scrunchie keeping half of it in order on the top of her head. Her makeup is bold and perfect, two sweeps of eyeliner framing her big eyes and pink eyeshadow dusted over her lids. Two huge heart-shaped purple earrings hang from her ears embossed with the word “bitch”, which skews Tayce’s first impression somewhat. But the girl is also in a full pink tie-dye Barbie tracksuit, so she can’t be all that mean.

Lawrence finally releases her from the hug, and the girl’s laughing breathlessly as she continues to talk. “What are you actually doing here?”

The girl splutters a laugh, shakes Lawrence by the shoulders. “Bitch! I live here! I’m moving in!”

Lawrence gives a screech of excitement again, throwing her arms around the girl and swaying her from side to side. Tayce shares a look of bewildered amusement between Bimini and Tia, none of them any the wiser as to what’s going on.

When Lawrence releases the girl again, she addresses the others this time. “Well, folks, it looks like we finally got a shatmate!”

“Fuck up!” the girl shoves her side, then dashes over to the sofas. “Hey! Nice to meet you all, I’m Ellie!”

The others all get up to hug her excitedly and introduce themselves, happy that they’re all one step closer to having a full flat, and Ellie budges up in between Lawrence and Tia on the sofa opposite Tayce as she chats about herself and learns about the others. It turns out that she and Lawrence are old friends in the most bizarre coincidence ever.

“Every Easter my family would go down to the Haven holiday park in Northumberland,” Ellie tells them the story, looking at Lawrence with a rueful smile on her face. “And we’d always get the same caravan. Well, my family got talking to the family in the caravan next door, and they had a daughter the same age as me and my brother. Turns out it was this cunt, wasn’t it!”

Lawrence laughs, smacking Ellie on the arm. “We ended up going down at the same time every year! This was from when we were six right up until we were like, sixteen. And me and her and her brothers would cause absolute abject riots together. We’d spend all day in the arcade doing the dance mats-”

“And we’d always thrash you because you were so shit!” Ellie squeals, the others laughing as Lawrence gives Ellie another thump. “I still remember when you kicked the poor guy in the Bradley Bear costume in the balls because I was so scared of him that I was crying!”

“Jesus Christ, we’re really kicking off with the embarrassing stories already,” Lawrence rolls her eyes, but from the little twinkle in them Tayce can tell she’s not really too bothered.

Ellie’s another seventeen year old (Tayce makes some joke about Scotland’s school system sending infants to university) but she seems to have ordered a fake ID off some website and it looks legit enough, Tayce inspecting it as she passes it around proudly. She’s from a place called Broughty Ferry (“but it’s easier to just say Dundee”) which has a beach and a funfair and a caravan park.

“It’s the posh part of Dundee, which is a bit of a juxtaposition in all honesty,” she explains, earning a blurt of a laugh from Bimini.

Ellie’s the first in her family to go to university, and she’s studying costume design which makes Lawrence and Tayce excited about having someone else to walk over to the college of art with in the mornings. It turns out she’s got two brothers, one of which is her twin, and she and Tayce bond over how weird it’ll be to not be living with their siblings for the first time in their lives.

Tayce doesn’t know when the minutes turn to hours but they do, the sky outside gradually growing a little darker before she even realises it. In all honesty, she feels she’s got lucky with her flatmates; they all seem to be a good laugh and kind and normal enough. It’s odd, though, that there’s still the five of them. Tayce checks her phone and she sees that it’s gone seven.

“Do we think the other girl’s going to come tomorrow?” she wonders out loud, as Tia tops up Ellie’s glass with the litre bottle of vodka she’s brought with her.

“Maybe? Bit weird not coming for the first night of freshers,” Ellie wrinkles her nose in disapproval.

“Well maybe she’s got a long haul flight or something,” Tia shrugs.

“I hope she’s not posh.”

Ellie rolls her eyes and turns to her friend. “Lawrence, you think anyone that’s from anywhere south of Paisley is posh.”

Tayce snorts at Ellie’s delivery and Lawrence’s affronted reaction, despite the fact she couldn’t put Paisley on a map if you paid her. Just then, Bimini emerges from the hall, having been to their room to grab some cigarettes so they can smoke out the window.

“We talking about the last flatmate? There’s someone moving around in the room next to mine.”

Tayce’s eyes widen a little as she looks at the others. “Have they just arrived?”

“Nah, door was shut so they’ve probably been there a while, we just ain’t noticed. Too busy getting bevved.”

“How come they’ve not come through?” Lawrence asks, her eyes narrowing. Ellie gives her a dig in the ribs with her elbow, her drink sloshing out of her glass a little.

“Because you screeching every word you speak doesn’t exactly scream ‘calm, welcoming environment’?”

“Did you knock on the door?” Tayce asks Bimini, who pulls a face.

“Well, it was kinda awkward. Think they might’ve been crying. I could hear a lot of sniffing. Still, maybe they just got a runny nose. Or they were doing a key.”

The girls all splutter at Bimini’s turn of phrase, but something heavy and uncomfortable lodges itself in Tayce’s heart at the thought of one of her new flatmates in their room on their own, alone and upset. That could very well have been Tayce if she hadn’t had Lawrence’s infectiously funny energy to pull her out of her potential slump. She decides to slide off the sofa, decisive if a little nervous.

“I’ll go see if I can talk to them.”

“Should we come with you?” Ellie asks earnestly, earning her a snort from Tia.

“Babe, the last thing she wants if she’s upset is all of us barging into her room half-drunk and hyper!”

As the others laugh, Tayce watches an ashamed little blush colour Ellie’s face. She shrugs and addresses her new flatmates as she heads towards the doorframe. “I’ll be five minutes tops. Then we can all get ready to go out.”

Tayce leaves and her plan makes the others give a little cheer of anticipation. She’s admittedly a little nervous, though. She doesn’t want to disturb her new flatmate if they just want to be left on their own, nor does she want to annoy them or give the impression of being too nosy. The only thing that keeps her approaching the room beside hers, however, is the knowledge that if it had been her in their position, she’d have wanted the same.

The door to the girl’s room is slightly ajar, but Tayce still knocks before she pushes it open a little. She doesn’t hear a “go away” or a “piss off”, so she takes that as a cue to go inside. As the room is gradually revealed to her, Tayce realises that Bimini was right when they said she must have been there for a while- the room is more or less fully decorated. There’s a string of pink fairy lights which gives the room a soft, warm glow, and photos are stuck to most available surfaces. A rose gold Macbook sits on the desk beside a little money plant in a dark green pot, and there’s stationary all perfectly laid out too. Everything is tidy and neatly in its place, and on top of the bed with its palm leaf printed duvet cover and pillows a girl is sitting curled up into a ball, hugging a well-worn cuddly toy cat to her chest which is immediately discarded under her pillow when she realises Tayce’s eyes are on her.

“Hey,” Tayce begins softly, acutely aware she’s intruded on an emotional moment. “Do you mind if I come in?”

The girl swipes two perfectly applied acrylics under her lashes, snuffles and gives a forced smile. “No, of course! No. It’s fine, come in.”

Tayce smiles tightly as she crosses the room, perches on the edge of the girl’s bed awkwardly. “I’m Tayce, by the way.”

The girl takes a little breath and composes herself. Her makeup is still perfect save from the small black smudges at her lower lash line and the way a little bit of her foundation has rubbed off on her nose. Her smile grows a little more genuine as she introduces herself to Tayce in her Northern accent. “I’m Aurora. Sorry, this is so embarrassing!”

“Oh, babe, don’t worry,” Tayce reassures her, shaking her head. “Honestly I was almost like that leaving my parents as well. Only reason I wasn’t was because I had the others to take my mind off things.”

“Still, not exactly a cracking first impression I’m making. Hiding in my room like a freak,” Aurora rolls her eyes at herself, stretching her legs a bit so they’re not hugged at her chest. She gives a little sigh. “Just…it was hard leaving my sister. We’re really close and I’ve not been away from her like this before. Longest was probably a week on year six camp and I cried like a baby every night then as well. Good to know not much has changed.”

Tayce smiles gently at her joke. “It’s alright, I don’t think I’ve matured much since I was in year six either.”

Aurora lets out a genuine giggle and tucks her long, blonde hair behind her ears. Knowing she’s helped her feel a little better reassures Tayce that coming to see her was the right thing to do.

“Probably a good thing that you decorated your room first anyway. I still haven’t made my bed, that’s a job for drunk me coming in tonight,” Tayce continues, heartened as Aurora laughs again. “You’re gonna hear me stumbling around with a sheet over my head like a Scooby-Doo ghost.”

“I’d offer to help but my goal for the night is to get so drunk that I forget about missing my family entirely, or that I even have a family. Or that I’m even a sentient human being.”

“Oh, that’s the goal right there. First night of freshers, gotta go big or go home,” Tayce winks, and the pair of them share a smile.

“So wait, are you next door to me then?” Aurora asks, tilting her head with intrigue.

“I’m on that side, Bimini’s on your other side,” Tayce points at each wall in turn, and Aurora nods. Tayce bounces a little on the bed as she slaps her lap decisively. “Speaking of, d’you want to come meet everyone?”

Tayce can see the uncertainty and hesitation on Aurora’s face. She clearly notices Tayce watching her, because she meets her eyes and gives a bashful sort of smile. “God, honestly, I promise I’m not normally this shy. I’m just scared that everyone thinks I’m a total weird bitch for hiding in my room.”

“They don’t at all!” Tayce protests, smiling kindly at Aurora as she insists. “They’re all lovely, honestly. Bimini is so fun already, Tia is really nice and so’s Ellie, and it’s impossible to be sad when Lawrence is around, she’s hilarious. C’mon, I’ll go with you.”

“God, I’ve probably ruined all my makeup,” Aurora moans, sliding off her bed and crossing the room to look at her reflection in the mirror. She turns around to face Tayce as she speaks again. “Do I look like total shit? You have to be honest with me, we’re flatmates.”

Tayce laughs at Aurora’s joke, and she looks properly at her flatmate. She’s got these big brown eyes and long lashes and Tayce is already a little jealous of both of them. Her lips are full and her nose is small and her skin is clear and glowing.

She’s really pretty.

“You look lush,” Tayce smiles supportively, putting a hand on the doorhandle and making to open it. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll even be your government assigned emotional support flatmate tonight, if you want.”

“Tonight? I think I’ll need one every night,” Aurora laughs bashfully, tucking her hair behind her ears again. “This was really kind of you, y’know. Thanks, Tayce.”

Tayce opens the door and holds it open for her, glad she’s drawn her new flatmate out of her shell and excited for the first night of freshers to properly begin.

“No worries. Let’s go get drunk.”

#rpdr fanfiction #rpdr uk #ortega #me and you together #taywhora #uk2 #lesbian au #university au #british au #college au #freshers au #roommate au #tayce #a'whora #friends with benefits to lovers #lawrence chaney #ellie diamond #bimini bon boulash #tia kofi

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abrightcontainer · 4 years ago

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I want to tell you the story of the time my MIL, who is the world's NICEST person, signed up the whole family for a 5 hour "Space Camp Adventure". This was basically a Star Trek LARP, complete with set pieces, in a middle school building.

My husband is the oldest of 5, and with the exception of my MIL, every single one of them are HARDCORE RPG PLAYERS. The first book my husband remembers reading was the D&D Monster Manual. The married siblings naturally chose spouses of a similar bent. Every single one of us had played D&D, Vampire, Call of Cthulhu, etc since we could read. That meant we had about 10 people (a couple of cousins were there too and they're no exception), all of whom were ready to LARP our butts off for, again, FIVE STRAIGHT HOURS.

I think the people running the game knew they were in trouble from the first moment the "ship's captain" (played by Mr. Container) walked into the set and we all immediately stood up and saluted... we'd invented the salute in the 3 minutes between us going into the "ship" and the Captain joining and it was basically all of us smacking ourselves in the forehead with an open palm IN UNISON.

I was playing a security officer, and since they'd given me a Whorf-esque sash I decided I was a Klingon and kept saying things like "Today is a good day to die" and "I am going to punch that nebula." I'm not sure the game people actually watched any Star Trek because they seemed very alarmed.

The first hint that we were too savvy of game players came when I, having nothing else to do while we navigated, was "scanning" the ship for intruders with the computer program. Each terminal on the "bridge" had a little program that you were supposed to use while playing your part. So that's how I discovered there were intruders on board probably a good 10 minutes before we were supposed to be surprised by them bursting into the bridge.

As I had been instructed in the pre-game info session, I immediately told the program to close all the bulkhead doors to seal the bridge off. This did absolutely nothing, because the intruders were a vital plot point and also I wasn't supposed to have seen them anyway.

Later on, we captured a "Russian Spy" (she came through a wormhole or something idk I'd kind of lost the plot by then because I was still mad about the intruders thing). I went with another character to interrogate her in the brig. She kept saying "no eeenglish" in a fake Russian accent. Then my BIL says "oh Mark speaks Russian" and drags in his sister's husband who went on his LDS mission to Russia and is in fact fluent. The look of sheer panic on this poor woman's face (she did not actually know any Russian) when Mark walks in and starts talking to her in Russian was something.

Somehow the Spy escaped and our ship was going to self-destruct, so we all did the perfectly sensible thing and just... abandoned ship. At this point they had had it up to here with us, and when we all busted into the prep room after having "jettisoned the escape pods" the game staff on duty just yelled "What are you DOING get back IN THERE" and miraculously our ship was saved.

Also at some point we encountered creepy aliens (I'll hand it to them, the costumes and set dressing for these 8-foot-tall beings was VERY creepy). By now they'd brought in a NPC captain of another ship to try and keep the game on track because we were constantly derailing the plot. She asked us if we knew how to deal with these aliens and of course I said PUNCHING and I think they were starting to get worried that I, a 5 foot 4 middle aged woman, might actually punch an alien so in an inspired bit of what I'm sure was improv the NPC captain gave a speech on how the aliens were actually incorporeal and also would suck you into a hell dimension if you touched one.

My FIL, who I swear is a LOVELY man, has the gift of saying the MOST INSULTING THINGS while still looking and sounding like an affable 60ish grandpa. He is the undisputed king of board game trash talk. When we finally encountered the Big Bad of the game he managed to be so politely rude that suddenly we were just attacked by the giant aliens again and had to run for our lives, abruptly ending the game.

Also I think we definitely ran over our 5 hours with how much derailing we did. We had a 15-minute argument with the Big Bad about CHAIRS.

Anyway, we've found a D&D type adventure in the same town to try next time we have a family reunion. I apologize in advance.

I never did get to punch that nebula.

#RPG #larp #sorry DM

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majoraslion · 3 years ago

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Mind Your Role Demigod (Mk11 Oc x Shang Tsung)

Fluff, Angst, Sadness and Anger

Rating:More on Mature side for cursing, gore and slight NSFW mentions

Characters: Julissia (Oc), Dark Raiden, Funjin, and Shang Tsung

Prompt: Julissa had gotten into another arguement with Raiden about her role as a demigod and she stormed off from the sky temple angry, she figured she’d head to the Sorcerer’s island to talk and relax but it turns out Shang Tsung is in a angry mood and won’t give the dragon the time of the day to listen to her problems. So they get into a arguement and Harsh things are said before Julissa heads off to the other side of the island to be alone and Shang starts to feel guilty for what he said before he complicates on either comforting her or leaving her be.

(It may not be the best written but hope you like it!)

Rain pours down against the ground in a harsh manner, some would think the rain was showing it’s anger and boy they was right. Up above in the clouds lays a temple in the sky. Dark clouds that echoes with thunder lay around as two loud voices was booming from the halls. A 7 foot tall giant of a man slams a staff down electricity coming from it as he glares down over a young woman who looked like she wasn’t backing down anytime soon. On the other side watching them was another man who was braiding his hair eyeing the the man making sure the argument wasn’t going anywhere rougher than it needed to be. “Uncle Raiden for the last time no. I am not taking on these stupid duties! That is your job not mine.” “Don’t raise your voice at me Julissa!” The booming voice of Raiden speaks.

“You will stop these mortal games and take your place in learning about your demi god role. It is part of your duty and you will do it.” Julissa rolls her eyes and she crosses her arms looking up staring in Raiden’s glowing white eyes softly. “Uncle Raiden stop. I just want to be normal okay, it’s bad enough i deal with the fact my mom was a pure evil goddess bent on ruling everything. You don’t think i don’t hear this shit enough from Cetrion and then you! It’s tiring just like all the training!” Raiden sighs and puts a firm hand on her shoulder as he squeezes it gently. “Watch your Language Julissa..and you know we do this for your own good. We have to be on our toes to protect Earthrealm at anytime. Lu Kaing can’t always be there as the chosen one.” “Oh so the “Chosen one” gets it off real easy since he’s your star pupil, all i get is chewed out by a demi good who hasn’t taken a nap in a millennium! Which news flash it helps!”

Raiden scowls raising his voice as the thunder grows stronger outside shaking the building with each strike. “Julissa do not back talk me! You will take on you role, you can’t always run away from your problems when it’s necessary !” “My problems never fight me back unlike you do!” She pushes his hand off her shoulder and the man walks over from the wall putting a gentle hand on Julissa’s shoulder feeling her relax under his grip as Raiden eyes him. “Fujin do not butt into our conversation.” “Brother I think you need to take it easy on her. She can only do so much without you stressing her out.” Raiden crosses his arms as they feel the anger radiating off him as the wind god and dragon god look to each other bracing the wrath from the thunder god himself. “This is all because you hang around that snake Shang Tsung! You have become rebelious listening to his lies!” Julissa opens her mouth but she shakes her head growling towards Raiden. “Hey! Don’t talk about Shang like that! He isn’t the problem, ever thought that it’s you Uncle Raiden. You won’t take anything we tell you with a grain of salt!”

“She is right brother.” Fujin says calmly as he puts Julissa behind his back starting at his brother. “I understand you have been under a lot of stress here with the tournament and what’s been going on. Take it out on me but not Julissa. She has no part in this.” “She has every part in this when she goes behind our backs and hangs out with Shang Tsung. He’s been filling her head with lies Fujin, who knows what he has told her to make her ditch her duties.” Fujin rolls his eyes and he walks up to Raiden as he puts his hand on his shoulder making sure not to anger him further. “Brother the only one here that’s been filling her head with things would be you. You been putting pressure on her to be fill her role that you haven’t been doing a good job yourself, it’s a wonder she stays away from the temple and lives among the mortals. She feels like herself there and has love and support of everyone but you. You have driven her away and made her resent you.”

Raiden clenches his fists as his electricity turns a deep red and the two’s eyes widen at the action. “Well then If it must be done then I’ll teach you a lesson first brother, then i will make sure Julissa listens to me.” Julissa backs up from the thunder gods wraith and she almost yelps as static is felt at her tail. “Oh..he’s angry Uncle Fujin, what do we do.” “Julissa head off, I will calm my brother down.” Julissa looks to her uncle as he sheaves his sword softly. “Will you be okay.” “I’ll be fine, he’s under stress and isn’t meaning to take it out on us. But if you don’t want to see it get ugly i suggest you go now.” She nods at Fujin and the woman rushes off noting Raiden walking towards her before he is stopped by Fujin in his tracks. “Your fight is with me not her.” “Move brother NOW.” Julissa dodges a bolt of electricity and she closes her eyes feeling fur and scales grow as she transforms into her dragon form, her claws click against the marble floor and she sees the clouds ahead as yells is heard behind her the winds and electricity picking up more. A bolt hits Julissa’s side and she hisses in pain being knocked into the clouds as she falls through them. Below the clouds Julissa floats down softly eyeing the ocean around her as she navigates around, she ignores the pain in her side as she spots the island ahead of her knowing that’s her destination. She bears her fangs as she slips and she lands in the sands clumsily sliding down until she comes to a complete stop. Julissa pants laying down in the warm sand resting a bit as she gets her bearings.

“If I knew better I’d say you made quite the show didn’t you dragon..” Julissa lifts her head up seeing Shang Tsung walking towards her looking quite annoyed at her sudden interruption of whatever he was doing, she groans getting up and she watches him stop eyeing the damage done to her body. “Sorry to interrupt your “highness” but Im in need of a hiding place for a little while until Uncle Raiden cools off.” His lips quirk up into a smirk at her snapback of a tone and he chuckles dryly. “I sensed the storm brewing, what did you do this time hmm?” She huffs turning back into her human form and she sways as Shang helps her up. “What didn’t I do, he’s pissed off as usual at me rejecting being a god and hanging out with you.” Shang Tsung rolls his eyes and lets her hand go walking ahead as the woman follows him softly, Julissa holds her side watching the servants back up nervously as they walk through the halls. She was used to Shang’s abrupt ways of things but she knew it was his way of showing he did like her company even if he was distant.. They stop at his studies and walk in as he throws old books off his desk to the floor clearing it off. “Sit dragon.”

“Yes sir~.” She purrs sitting on the cool desk with a wince, Shang closes the door with a thud locking it and he walks over sitting in the chair staring at her with cold eyes. “Well..” “Well what?” She looks to him confused as he holds the bridge of his nose. “Take your shirt off Dragon..” “I thought you was done studying me for a few weeks Shang, am I that interesting to you.” She lightly teases and he looks to her with a unamused look as he grips the singed side of her shirt with his gauntlet. “The wound you moron, take your damned shirt off or ill do it.” “Okay okay sheesh! Everyone’s a critic..” She grips the base of the cloth raising it over her head wincing as the place starts to hurt, she throws it to the side looking back to Shang with tired eyes. “There happy?” She shivers at the cool air and relaxes a bit as she’s pretty comfortable with Shang seeing her half naked. It’s not like he hasn’t as much as he studies her in and out of her dragon form. He’s comfortable with her as much as he’s seen her breasts a lot of times. Raiden would kill her if he knew about it though. “How bad is the damage.” He reaches over to a box grabbing some glasses putting them on before he goes back to Julissa, he looks to the burned spot his cool gauntlets grazing over her skin making her shiver softly. Shang studies the place seeing the burned and charred skin that was bleeding in some places as he uses the sharp end of the gauntlet to scrape off some of the burnt skin revealing the bright red muscle hearing Kaiti let out a sharp hiss of pain.

“What the hell Shang Tsung!? That hurts you know!!” He looks up to her before he presses his hand against it hearing her whimpers of pain, she holds back her tears as she grips the table. “Who did this to you Songbird..” The dark tone that laced his voice go un noticed by Julissa as she looks to him hearing the nickname, prior to anyone’s knowledge Shang was kind and gentle around Julissa when no one was around. She was used to the small nicknames he gave her but it did show he cared about her. “It was Uncle Raiden..” She groans out feeling blood now leaking from the wound as it was aggravated from all the unwanted touches. Shang sighs as he lightly heals the wound so far as it could go before he starts to wrap it up with bandages. “You just let him attack you?” “No I didn’t just let him attack me, Fujin sent me off before any damage could be done.” He tightens the bandages handing Julissa one of his old shirts as she watches him clean up putting the shirt on noting it was pretty big on her. “Were is he now.” “Still at the temple, Fujin should be calming him down by now. It’s why i came down here. It wouldn’t have been bad if he didn’t start that demi god shit like he does.”

Shang ignores her as he picks up the books around them. “Seriously it make’s me mad he sometimes compares me to Lu Kaing and them, like am I not my own person just because I don’t want to do any of that.” She doesn’t hear anything from the sorcerer and she looks seeing him ignoring her still. “Uh Shang did you hear any of that?” “I heard you. I just chose to ignore it like i usually do.” “W-What..you mean every time i try to talk to you, you ignore me!?” “He may have a point dear, you can’t just ignore all the problems that comes with what you are. You always put it away just to goof off. You aren’t the most responsible fighter there is you know.” Julissa narrows her eyes and she gets up gripping his arm in anger before she turns him to face her. “Don’t tell me your gonna give me the same damned lecture to. I thought i could come to you Shang Tsung. I really thought you’d understand me out of all people. Your just like Raiden!!” She spits a bit of fire feeling her body heat up from all the emotions, Shang puts his hands on her shoulders seeing her look to him. “Calm down Julissa. It isn’t that bad, we can talk if you want dear but your making a big deal out of nothing.” “NOTHING!? Dammit i escaped this shit up at the temple and now Im hearing it from a man i care about! Your all the same you don’t understand!!” She feels hot tears run down her cheeks as her vision gets blurry.

Shang feels his patience getting thin and he digs his clawed fingers into her shirt digging them in. “S-Shang that hurts..” “You listen to me..you do not direct that anger towards me. I can throw you off my island as fast as you came here dragon.” Julissa glares and she throws his hands off her. “Then why don’t you do it. You seem so sure that don’t want me around!” “Maybe I don’t want a immature brat around here! You don’t take anything seriously and your nothing but a thorn in my side!” Julissa feels the tears pour some more and she shakes her head. “I wish I never met you Shang Tsung! Your a old fool who was nothing but a lackey to Shao Khan!” Shang goes quiet and he glares to Julissa with hatred and hurt in his eyes. “Mind your role Demigod..your a pathetic weak mongrel that Raiden just uses to help fuel his ego. Your not worth those powers and deserve what comes to you.” Julissa’s eyes widen and she shakes softly. “I hate you Shang Tsung..” The dragon god disappears and Shang Tsung is stunned as the words echoes through his head, Julissa lands in the sand on the outside of the island and she holds her head finally letting it all out with a roar of pain. She hits the sand in anger and turns into her dragon form letting out more roars before she collapses sobbing quietly.

The moon rises in the sky as Shang is trying to enjoy his dinner, its quiet not having Julissa sit beside him to enjoy it with him. He shakes his head messing with his food hating these weak feelings. He’s been feeling guilty for yelling at her and her words had been echoing through his head all day. Although he can sense she’s still on the island he hasn’t heard a word from her, Shang gets up and he heads to the window looking out over the ocean noticing her laying on the beach. He sighs softly and he walks off going to talk to her. Julissa looks at the water quietly hearing seagulls cawing over her, she didn’t really have the strength to leave since she felt drained from letting all her emotions out but the view was peaceful to her. She covers her body trying to keep warm but to no avail as the water comes in. A shiver racks though her and she closes her eyes trying to distract herself from it until she feels warm all of a sudden. Julissa opens her eyes confused and she looks seeing a coat was placed over her body, she grips the coat to her feeling someone sit next to her.

“Shang..” She says tired and hoarse looking ahead of her. Last person she expected to come and see her after what happened, Shang shifts in place and he wraps a arm around Julissa bringing her close to him. “What are you doing sorcerer.” “You’ll freeze to death if you don’t warm up dragon..you been out here all night you know.” She looks down softly and she sighs letting him hold her, they both sit quietly watching the waves come in before Shang breaks the silence finally. “I’m..I’m sorry Julissa. It was wrong of me to ignore you when you needed me and to say those things when i didn’t mean it.” Julissa looks to him grabbing his hand as he looks to her tired eyes. “I’m sorry to Shang Tsung. It was wrong of me to get angry with you and say those horrible things. I understand your a busy man and under stress. I guess i do come to you with to much of my problems huh.” He lets out a deep chuckle and brings the woman in his lap gently pressing a kiss to her forehead letting her lay her head on his chest. “I guess we’re both under stress huh..” “Yes but I promise to listen to you more.” “And I promise to take my demi god role more serious, I guess you and Raiden was right. I am a bit immature huh.”

Shang presses butterfly kisses to her neck and she lets out loud giggles. “Hey quit that tickles!” She laughs as they both go back in the sand laughing and look up to the moon, Julissa lays on his chest listening to his heart and she sighs. “Looks like I may need to stay the night. Although I don’t see any storms raging I wonder if Uncle Raiden has calmed down any.” “He may have songbird. Although i wouldn’t test the waters to be sure.” “Pfft Uncle Fujin is the king of keeping him at bay i’m sure it’s good.” They both relax on the beach talking as the clouds part some more, Fujin and Raiden back up from the sight and Raiden rubs his head. “I guess you was right brother. They are happy together.” “I told you let her go towards the decisions. She’ll come around trust me, tomorrow she’ll be up here and then you two can talk.” “What would I do without you brother.” Raiden gives Fujin a hug and they walk off as the wind picks up below on the beach. “UNCLE FUJIN NOT COOL!!” Yells Julissa as Fujin lets out a laugh with Raiden. “I have to bother her sometimes.”

#Mk11 #Mk11 oc #Julissa #Shang Tsung #shang tsung mortal kombat #Fujin #one-shot #fluff #angst #sadness #anger #sorry if theres mistakes #hope its good!#i tried lol

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mimik-u · 4 years ago

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Flower Child (Chapter 14): Night

AO3 Link

6:10PM:

For the last fifteen years, Jay Zircon had been Diamond Electric’s top lawyer alongside her sister and fellow counsel, Gilda. Whatever lawsuits the company faced—and it had faced more than its fair share—the pair headed the legal team which incisively ensured victory for their illustrious CEO, Yellow Diamond.

Where Gilda was aggressive and willing to snipe beneath the belt, a style that suited their similarly minded boss, Jay was more circumspect in her methodology, able to work through all the variables of a given case to create a slower but undeniably thorough position. When the two of them worked together, they made a dichotomous but somehow remarkably fluid team.

They didn’t lose very often.

They couldn’t afford to lose given the status, prestige, and formidable demand of their employer, who also didn’t lose.

Very often.

(Yellow Diamond had lost her only child four years ago, and it was clear to everyone, to all who knew her, that she hadn’t been the same since.)

The Zircons worked together often in the sense that they were continually forced into close proximity to each other by the nature of their jobs and painful holidays with their aging mother… but as far as working together in a more metaphorical sense went, aliens would invade Earth first before the siblings would ever find common ground for longer than a day.

And somehow, aliens were less of a far-stretch.

“I’m looking at all the facts now, and I truly think, if I-I’m allowed to be frank, Mrs. Diamond, that it is in our best interest to settle for this particular case.” Jay’s voice trembled as she carefully addressed the figure at the head of the conference table.

Arranged in a black three piece suit, Yellow Diamond was simply—there was no other word for it—striking, a slightly slouched but otherwise imperial statue cut from marble in her hardback chair. There was always an air about her, an impression, that she was an impenetrable fortress, her tall walls fortified with sharp weaponry and stone.

Her architecture was magnificent, but in its harshness and angularity, all lines and geometrical edges, it always emphasized an implicit message: She was a woman who it would be unwise to cross.

She stared between the sisters impassively, finger interlocked below her sharp chin as she listened, though Jay couldn’t help but notice that the CEO’s attention was divided between them and her phone, which sat dormant on the table, a silent specter.

“That’s your go-to solution, isn’t it?” Gilda scoffed, her arrogance impressively balanced in the haughty tilt of her nose. “Settle. What is this? A petty traffic ticket? We shouldn’t be settling anything! We could have them on the ropes if we just—”

“Gilda!” She interrupted incredulously, splaying her hands forcibly on the table. “Loosen your cravat so you can see the big picture for heaven’s sake! The factory‘s waste has been unlawfully leaking on a protected reservation for twelve years. We can contest that until we’re blue in the face, but no judge on this green earth is going to rule in our favor.”

Her sister opened that insufferable mouth of hers, likely to argue some asinine point that Jay would spend the next thirty minutes trying to meticulously deconstruct, but the familiar tango was harshly interrupted by the ringing of a phone that was neither of theirs.

“Quiet!” Yellow Diamond hissed, fluidly pulling the device up to her ear, and there was a viciousness in her ordinarily well-regimented face that neither lawyer felt particularly equipped to contest.

So they blanched into obedient silence on either side of the tense CEO.

Gilda uncomfortably picked at her portfolio.

“Blue? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

On the other end of the line, the woman who Jay knew to be Yellow Diamond’s wife, seemed to reply.

Fifteen years was a long time to have known the Diamonds, and during that span—all those days, weeks, and months—Jay understood both very little about them and an incredible lot.

Fifteen years ago, Pink Diamond had been a precocious ten-year old who had accompanied her mother to work from time to time. She used to play on the elevator, zipping from the lobby to the fortieth floor constantly, as though it was some exciting game called Annoy the Poor Elevator Attendant. Jay had been awkward and clumsy then, a young lawyer still trying to find her footing as the newest addition to one of the most elite legal teams in the entire city, and one of her most vivid memories from that time was the youngest Diamond accidentally bumping into her on said elevator, causing her to spill her scalding coffee all over her favorite portfolio.

The child had apologized profusely and even proffered her own jacket as a napkin because she was sweet like that—if a little impish. Freckles crossed the bridge of her nose like trailing dandelion dust; there was a gap in her mouth where she’d just lost a tooth.

For a couple of years there, Jay became familiarized with the heiress’s occasional presence in the building. She was the shock of pink hair bobbing impatiently in the elevator, and she was the flash of red converses heeling off down the hallway and around the corner. She was the lone bubbly voice in a sea of sober business droning. She was ten, and then she was thirteen, and then she was sixteen, obnoxiously jingling the keys to her new convertible around everywhere, as though just begging someone to ask about them.

She was the rare smile on Yellow Diamond’s unbending mouth—crooked there, stiff.

Almost reluctant.

But undoubtedly there.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

The hallways of Diamond Electric felt a little less… vibrant without the spontaneity of those red converses and the climbing octaves of that high, lilting laugh.

Mischievous.

To the last.

As for Blue Diamond, Jay could only claim to have seen her maybe a handful of times in the course of her employ at DE, though only one occasion was stark in the lawyer’s well-ordered recollections.

At the trial where Pink Diamond’s killers were sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole, the Zircons’ euphoria at having argued their cased well was immediately tempered as the entire courtroom watched a tragedy unfold before their eyes. There was no applause as Yellow Diamond stood and held her wife in her arms.

There was only silence.

And baited breath.

And a mutual, unspoken, dirty relief that they were not the Diamonds and only passive voyeurs to what was assuredly unspeakable misery.

That night, Jay and Gilda were quite polite to each other as they taxied away from the courthouse.

A mutual, unspoken, dirty truce.

“No, no, I’m, of course I’m not busy,” Yellow said, standing up with an abruptness that startled the Zircons. She was already halfway to the door before at least one of them recovered their wits.

“But, Mrs. Diamond!” Gilda interjected. “The lawsuit. We—”

“We’re done for the night,” Yellow called over her shoulder, a brusqueness in her voice that left no room for argument. “We can reconvene in the morning.” “But—”

The door slammed on Gilda’s final protestation.

A framed picture of the Empire City skyline comically fell from its place on the wall at the force of the exit, landing facedown on the floor with a pathetic ker-clunk.

Jay glanced down at the neatly compiled packet below her—the efforts of at least two weeks worth of joint research.

They had barely made it past page four; there were fifty-two pages total.

“Her head’s just not in the game anymore,” Gilda sniffed, scooping up her own papers with a roughness that wasn’t entirely impersonal. “Hasn’t been in years now.”

“Gilda,” Jay chided sharply, her voice low, but even she knew that whispering was an exercise in futility.

Their boss was long gone.

“Oh, don’t give me that holier than thou nonsense, sister mine. You know it. Everyone in this office—nay!—this building knows it.” She shoved her portfolio back into her briefcase and closed it, harshly palming the brass clasps. “Our stalwart leader has been compromised.”

“She’s still grieving obviously. She’s taking care of her wife…”

Gilda only shook her head, standing up from her own chair. Her impeccable coif—tall and vaguely impossible looking—gleamed beneath the warm overheads.

“And I’m sympathetic towards her,” she said. “I am. But you cannot run a multibillion dollar business on sentiment.”

It was an effective closing statement to which Jay Zircon had no reasonable rebuttal.

Her sister swept out of the conference room with a last harrumph of contempt, while she alone remained, the last diner at that long, empty table. She shuffled a few of her papers absentmindedly and glanced out of the yellow-tinted windows as the sky slowly turned over to night, charcoaling.

Sentiment.

This company had no use for it.

6:44PM:

The conversation had lasted maybe ten minutes, two of which were lost to clumsy silence as Yellow Diamond navigated from the conference room to her office around the corner, closing the door behind her with a resolute click.

They spent three minutes more on useless pleasantries because that was just what a phone call between two spouses who didn’t really talk anymore entailed.

The barely breathed, Hello.

The awkwardly returned, Hi.

The shuffling of their reluctant breaths, all static and white noise over the line, before Yellow ripped the bandage off with all the indelicacy she centered her brutal facade around, exposing the wound raw.

Did you mean it? Are you sure you’re… okay ?

Because the bleak truth was that she wasn’t sure she believed Blue when she said that she was fine. Four years of perpetual mourning had taught her entirely too much about silent, grief stricken nights and very little about belief, hope, and all of those other empty platitudes. Blue Diamond could say that she was fine and leave a suicide note in the wastebasket three hours later. Blue Diamond could promise that she was okay, only to dissolve on a balcony full of sun because she was light five minutes ago… and now—and forevermore—she was not. She could build a cathedral out of reassurances and condemn it to the ground with just the thought, the remembrance, and the overwhelming absence of Pink Diamond, who haunted them both perpetually and always.

They’d been in the ruins for four years now, and the bottom line was that Yellow Diamond didn’t trust mere words.

And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t trust Bl—

Pleasantries and silence—that was what a phone call between two spouses who didn’t really talk anymore entailed.

There was breathing, and there was the swelling darkness just outside the gold colored windows of Diamond Electric.

In and out and in and out.

Inhale.

Exhale.

And there was a long pause as Blue Diamond collected her thoughts in that quietly precise way of hers; she was always so meticulous in how she used her words, as though they were instruments to be handled with delicate care.

Yes? She replied gently, her voice lilting upwards as though she was asking a question. And no… perhaps both at the same time if those emotions can coexist without contradiction… Yellow, I—

What? Because Yellow had abruptly cut in, unable to stand the tension.

So impatient to the last.

Unfailingly.

The coldness of the office pressed upon her like a vice, its hard edges sinking in her skin. She dug her fingers into the smooth surface of her desk as though to ground herself, but there was nothing to hold on to but the grains. It was always like this when she talked to Blue; the expansive scope of her world narrowed down to her and her alone. Gravity meant nothing; time meant nothing; everything in the world meant nothing.

Except.

And always.

Blue.

I’m sorry, she simply said.

It was only two words; they landed in the pit of Yellow’s stomach like a blow.

I’ve hurt you—immeasurably—in all these collected years, and I’m sorry for that, Yellow, she continued, her voice soft, for all the immeasurable, collected hurts. I am.

Two weeks ago, Blue Diamond had been lying catatonic in her bed, decomposing.

And now, she was apologizing for four years worth of hurt.

It was inconceivable.

Impossible.

It felt wrong.

Surreal.

Why? Yellow’s voice was strangled in her throat, dry and parched. Why now?

Why not a year ago when Yellow knelt by her bedside and pleaded with her—begged her—to stay goddammit? Why not all those hundreds upon hundred of nights that she had slept in the study on a damn leather couch, keeping one eye on the half-opened door in her study, even in the throes of sleep? Why today, of all days, when the consummate businesswoman was in the middle of yet another crucial meeting she would easily abandon all for the sake of one person?

Why?

The question scratched her chest; it punctured her beating lungs.

Why now?

And why… why was Yellow never enough?

(She had wanted to be enough.)

I visited a boy who is fighting for his life today, came the quiet reply. And it reminded me, quickly, of how fragile this all really is.

She had paused then.

The unspoken name nestled between them; the memory of their daughter wreathed her neck.

Pink used to love coming up to this very office just because she liked spinning around in her mother’s chair. Her shoes would briefly flash against the floor just so she could gain momentum, and then she would spin, spin, spin, her head tilted back in the beginnings of a long laugh.

Yellow glanced at it then, the worn leather shining dully in the light glancing in from the windows.

It was completely and utterly empty.

I have to go, Blue. Sorry. I stepped out of a meeting.

She had dismissed the meeting.

Oh, I—

We can talk when I get home tonight.

And then she had clicked the phone off unceremoniously and shoved it across the desk as though it offended.

Ten minutes.

For the last twenty, Yellow Diamond had been sitting in the darkness of her office in that damn leather chair, nursing a glass of scotch between her trembling hands. She downed one smooth shot and then another; she drank and she drank until the expensive decanter was all gone, and the after notes of vanilla and barley and peat smoke burned her aching mouth. She drank and she drank, rummaging through her liqueur cabinet with a kind of desperation that made her feel less like a human and more like a rabid dog, hunting for just a drop of water.

Anything to take off the edge.

She drank until all the memories went away, until four years worth of them were walled off by the dulling buzz of Lagavulin.

And when a single tear crept down the hardened architecture of her face, collecting pitifully on the point of her sharp shin, she was so damn drunk, that she didn’t even know what she was crying about anymore.

Why?

Why now?

And why was she not enough?

She had wanted to be enough.

The beginnings of stars rose from the fire of the sky, and Yellow Diamond watched them as they crashed and burned.

7:01PM:

See, the trouble started when the vending machine near their hotel room stopped working.

Nose wrinkling, stomach rumbling for the want of a snack that would tide her over until Greg got back with pizza, Amethyst tried shaking it, kicking it, and even pleading with the stupid thing all for the sake of a Twinkie she knew probably wouldn’t even taste that good.

But to no avail.

The Twinkie gods hated her apparently.

And so, with a sigh that sounded a hell of a lot more like a groan, she punched the refund button and got her dollar twenty five back in quarters before deciding to try the vending machine in the hospital lobby, moving along the smooth, carpeted floor with new purpose. The rubber sole of her left boot flapped noisily as she walked, having come loose a few weeks ago; she’d been meaning to get it repaired, but between work and Steven, time had been less of a quantity that she possessed, so much as it was something that she chased after.

Every second was a gift, and every minute was a fucking lottery.

There was an elevator ride down and accompanying elevator music, jingling and jangling rhythmically to the beat of her antsy nerves. And there was a text from Vidalia asking how Steven was doing, which she didn’t know how to answer, so she just didn’t reply. (V would get it better than most. Her hubs was a quiet man, so she knew the language of silence entirely too well, whereas Amethyst was still getting the hang of it. Silence was a stalker she had spent half of her life trying to avoid.)

And finally, there was the elevator prying itself open into an atrium that was darkening with the gathering night. Only a few visitors remained, scattered in various hardback chairs and wearing the same tired, careworn faces.

Amethyst didn’t doubt that she looked the same to them.

Because these were faces, sure enough, of loving someone and being afraid to lose them. There was a depletion to the act, a necessary consumption, that united them together beneath the flat roof of the Empire City Regional Medical Center.

They were exhausted—all of them.

So damn weary.

Amethyst had already slumped halfway to the vending machine when she saw her.

One of those same tired, careworn faces.

But a very particular tired, careworn face at the same time.

Blue Diamond, looking incredibly uncomfortable in the chair upon which she sat, her metal cane gleaming by her side.

Amethyst flicked her phone upwards so that the home screen briefly flashed on—it was 7:07. Hella late, and yet, the old lady was still here, looking for all the world like someone had killed her cat or something equally as egregious. Her plump lips were all twisted in a quiet, gnawing sort of frown as she played a little with her long hands on her lap.

Her eyes stared at the ground, but Amethyst could tell—the woman wasn’t really seeing it.

And there was something so singularly sad about this image.

Vulnerable.

That made Amethyst push her Twinkie quest to the back of her mind.

Shoving her curled fists into the pockets of her joggers, Amethyst took one step and then another across the tiled floor until she was standing right in front of the puzzle of Blue Diamond, the multibillionaire who had worn a bathrobe to a cemetery.

And she knew it was insensitive of her to think that way. Regardless of the woman’s faults, numerous though Amethyst assumed they were, she hadn’t asked for her griefs to be handed to her on a silver platter.

She hadn’t asked to be undone.

To be fair, though, no one ever did.

That was just the dice of life, rolled across a slanting table.

Snake eyes.

Sorry.

Better luck next time.

“Anyone sittin’ here?” She asked gruffly, jerking her thumb towards the empty chair on Blue Diamond’s left.

Startled from her solemn reverie, Blue looked up then, mouth parting slightly in a soft ‘o’ of surprise as recognition pinched her silvery brow. She shifted in her seat, hunched shoulders straightening with an understated kind of elegance that Amethyst had come to closely associate with Pearl.

This wasn’t an especially welcome analogy, though. After all, while she’d gotten used to Pearl’s various quirks by now, for a long time there—years even—she’d always felt… condescended by her in a way.

Patronized.

Small.

That feeling took a long ass while to go away with a person whom she considered to be one of her closest friends; how much longer would the sensation last with a total effing stranger, especially the very one she was, like, supposed to hate just on mere principle?

Amethyst ran a habitual hand through her hair in the awkwardness of it all and shifted her weight from one shoe to the other, rocking back and forth. The sole of the left one went flap, flap, flap.

“You’re… one of Steven’s guardians, yes?”

“Yup, one of many.” And then, because she knew that probably didn’t clarify matters, brusquely added, “Amethyst. I was the one who brought him to your suite the other day. Can I sit?”

She once again gestured pointedly to the chair, raising a lavender brow in such a way that more or less communicated, Jeez, woman, get it together.

“Oh, yes! My apologies,” came the appropriately abashed reply. “Please. Be my guest.”

And so, with a little more force than was necessary, Amethyst threw herself into the empty seat, ass already chafing against its hard bottom, the tips of her boots just barely scraping the clinically white floor.

She could feel Blue Diamond’s tallness next to her more than she dared to look at it for herself; her presence was overwhelming as it was without having to look at her dead on—the shadows turning circles beneath her huge eyes, the parentheses around her quivering mouth, and that air of misery that the twenty-nine year old knew well enough without needing to observe it in a perfect stranger. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she could see that the woman had gone back to staring at her wrinkled hands, templing them delicately on the blue fabric of her lap.

“My valet is coming to pick me up,” she offered without prompting, “but I believe traffic is delaying her.”

“S’always cray cray around this time of night,” Amethyst returned knowledgeably. She couldn’t claim to like Empire City, but after a few months of driving up here so often, she supposed she at least couldn’t refute that she knew it. “Lotsa idiots out n about.”

“Reckless, are they not?”

“The absolute wooooorst.”

And both of their mouths briefly quirked at exactly the same time before silence fell between them again, clumsy and awkward, like an entity still growing into its feet.

They were talking about traffic.

Neither of them really wanted to talk about traffic.

Amethyst broke the stillness first, studiously continuing to not look at her companion. Instead, she drew her leg upwards into her chair, so she could pick at her boot some more.

Flap, flap, flap.

“So you saw him, huh?”

It wasn’t necessary to evoke his name; after all, she was pretty sure that the image of him laying in that hospital bed, all swarming with tubes, haunted the both of them even now, invading the sanctity of their minds and eyes.

Flap, flap, flap.

She was going to tear her shoe to shreds if she kept it up.

(She kept it up.)

“I saw him, yes,” Blue agreed quietly, her fingers stilling in their cathedral position. One thumb was balanced carefully atop of the other, bricks without mortar, construction without foundation. “I... wasn't ready… he was so small... and I almost looked away... I'm ashamed to even admit it."

The confession was broken into tiny fragments, each splinter slow and painful in the rolling of her accent.

Amethyst couldn’t help herself then—restraint had never been the name by which she was known.

She was blunt.

She parried back, “You still could, y’know. You don’t have to be here for this.”

You don’t have to put yourself through this if you can help it.

(We can’t help it.)

“Not your circus, not your monkeys, and all that jazz.”

And maybe that was the crux of it, the beating heart behind the entanglement of her reluctance when it came to the wealthy woman sitting next to her. The Crystal Gem couldn’t understand why someone, anyone, would willingly partake in this exhibition when they had every blessed out in the world. Blue Diamond didn’t have to care for Steven. She didn’t have to be here. She could go back to the fiftieth floor of her penthouse suite and wall herself away from one care of this world more. Just from her looks alone, Amethyst could tell that she couldn’t afford another loss, and yet, she could absolutely afford to get away from the possibility of another loss if she just, well, left.

If she hurried.

Before the boy who was kind enough to extend flowers to random ladies in the cemetery could worm his way into a heart that had already had its reckoning.

But—and Amethyst was just now realizing this with the force of a collision—maybe that was the crux of it, too.

That simple goodness of a proffered hand had been enough.

It had changed a life.

Maybe, quite possibly, it had saved one.

“I… just got off the phone with my wife,” Blue Diamond whispered, “and she asked a singular question to which I couldn’t provide the answer. Why? Such a simple beast, and yet a devastatingly complex one.”

Why Rose all those many years ago?

Why Steven now? Why couldn’t they find him a damn kidney?

Why couldn’t life give them one damn break?

Why?

The familiarity of the question rose like a lump in Amethyst’s throat.

“I’ve looked away from her—from everything, really—for so many years, even before my daughter…” The woman trailed away, her voice hitching. It took her a few seconds to regroup. She placed a steadying hand on her chest. “… and now, for reasons I cannot necessarily explain myself… I don’t want to anymore. Maybe, Yellow, it is because a child in a cemetery told me that it was quite possible to still feel the pain of my loss and still live? Maybe, Yellow, it is because I sat upon a balcony with him and envied the hunger he had for life, and wondered, for the first time in years, if it was still possible to obtain a modicum of it for myself? Maybe, Yellow, I saw him in a hospital bed today—sick—and it reminded me of a truth that I’d long forgotten.”

Amethyst chanced a peek at Blue Diamond then, stole it ashamedly, as though she was a child reaching a hand into the cookie jar.

The dim incandescence of the overheads crowned her silvery head in soft, white light as she glanced upwards, her half-moon gaze angled to a spot that the Crystal Gem couldn’t quite see.

She almost looked beautiful—a portrait in melancholy, all feathery brushstrokes.

Steven would have thought so anyway.

Hell, he was the type of person who would have even said it.

“And what that’d be?” She asked.

What was the answer to that devastatingly simple, that horribly complex question, Why?

If there was even an answer at all.

What truth had a woman as seemingly erudite as Blue Diamond so guiltily forgotten?

Blue looked down then, a strand of wavy hair falling between her eyes. It curled a little at the end.

“Why?” She murmured, her strained voice barely above a whisper. Amethyst had to lean in just to catch what she said next. “Because I love you, Yellow—so much. That is why.”

The rawness of the proclamation, the sincerity of it, seared the both of them, landing cleanly between them like the precise swing of an axe. It was always such a vulnerable gamble to admit to love, and perhaps it was even revolutionary to proffer it as the solution to why.

Why am I trying?

Why am I still here?

Why can’t I look away, Steven?

Because I love you—so much. That is it.

That is all.

And that is why.

It was a simple phrase, and it was a profound one. It was scarcely said; in Blue Diamond’s case, it was forgotten.

“You should tell that to her,” Amethyst suddenly said, and just for a moment there, it didn’t matter that the person in question was the dread Yellow Diamond, her mortal enemy or whatever.

Just for a moment, Yellow Diamond was merely a person who was loved by another.

“Exactly like that,” she pressed before glancing away, her bangs falling across her eyes. She played with her busted shoe again as heat clambered up her face—flap, flap, flap. It was surreal to be sitting here, giving advice to a woman so different from her and so alien. It was only chance that they were both sitting here—here, of all places—beneath the roof of this hospital.

Tired and careworn.

Alike but not especially.

Perfect strangers.

Connected simply by a flower and a boy.

Now it was Blue Diamond’s turn to stare; her tall, sickle-shaped eyes were drawn to the noise of flap, flap, flap, which made Amethyst self-conscious about the fact that the woman was likely wearing a designer dress.

Damn these rich people.

“I fear it may be too late. I’ve done my damage.”

“Maybe,” Amethyst shrugged. It was all she could do. “But ya won’t know until you’ve tried.”

They were both silent again. Outside the glass windows, the world had taken on the dull purple of night, pulling it over its shoulders like a cozy, star-spangled nightgown.

“Thank you… Amethyst.”

Blue Diamond offered her a parenthetical smile of an olive branch of a truce; it was a reluctant little gesture, still stiff and foreign on the mouth of someone who looked like she hadn’t smiled in years.

“Nah, don’t mention it, dude," she shrugged.

It was not forgiveness, nor was it absolution.

But it was a tiny concession.

It was a tired half-smile pulling at her lips.

“I needed the reminder, too.”

7:39PM:

Traffic in Empire City was always a risky gamble of a business, especially at night when the only rule of the six lane seemed to be, “Everything goes, and good luck with the going, buddy, old pal, my friend.”

Having spent years driving up here with Rose for various doctor appointments and then relearning the routine all over again with Steven these past few months, Greg liked to fancy that he could navigate the beast as well as any boardie from a small beach town could ever claim to. But even still, all the ample driving experience in the world was no match for what a car wreck could do to the flow of vehicles streaming down the neon lit highway.

Somewhere a little up above his van, there was a cacophony of sirens—red and blue and shrill and insistent. In the passenger seat, the pizzas he’d picked up nearly an hour ago were cooling, the rich, greasy smell of them sidling up to his shoulder temptingly. He thought about taking a bite because it was late and he was hungry, but ultimately decided against it.

Amethyst would never let him hear the end of it.

So he thought about the accident up ahead and hoped that no one had been seriously injured. (He had his doubts, though. There were so many sirens, wailing.) His van slowly crept forward as the cars ahead were painstakingly navigated around the ruins. People honked up and down the endless line because patience wasn’t Empire City’s strong suit; the big city, the golden apple, didn’t wait for anyone, least of all everyone, and sometimes, it felt like everyone in the world lived here, a population made of skyscrapers and cars and brilliant lights.

But thinking about the wreck didn’t entertain him for very long—his apologies to those affected—so he thought about the soulful tunes crooning through his staticky radio. Some R&B band from the eighties whose name just barely escaped him. They sung about love and loss and red Corvettes that shined beneath the hot, sticky sun. Greg’s thumbs slapped the wheel rhythmically to the melody, picking out the notes with an easiness that might have made old Marty proud on a good day.

But then the music suddenly shuddered off, the jockey apologizing for the inconvenience.

They’d try to get the station back up shortly.

The silence was unbearable.

So he popped in the closest CD, thinking it was his relaxing music compilation.

But nope.

It was death metal, the sudden explosion of the heavy bass and snare drums nearly sending his car veering into the next lane over as his hands jerked on the wheel.

“Wrong one!” He panted, chest heaving with feral panic. “Stop! Eject!”

And with a slap harder than intended, he punched the panel of buttons at random, the noise screeching to a stop, the CD comically popping out like toast from a toaster.

Ding.

And silence filled all the empty spaces once again.

In the silence, Greg had no choice but to think of Steven.

He took great gulps of air, his shoulders still shaking from the reverberations of the abruptly snuffed music, and could find no more distractions.

This was the end of the road on an endless road of snailing cars.

His hands clenched painfully around the wheel, the images revving across his mind’s eye—unbidden, quick, ugly, and unwanted.

His son.

His only son.

Laying in that hospital bed.

Dying.

Was this all life had to offer? He wondered to himself, and in the place of noise, there was emotion; there was sadness and horror and anger roaring up the column of his throat.

Rising.

Leaking.

Dripping.

Down his ruddy cheeks and into his beard.

Down his throat.

Draining.

Loving people who were gonna always leave him in the end? Finding home only for it to immediately forsake him? Maybe old Andy had had it right, always up there in that great, blue oasis of sky—never touching the ground long enough for people to find him and love him and hurt him.

Maybe there was something to the idea of giving up.

But no. “Stop that,” Greg scolded himself harshly. “Stop.”

He’d spent his entire teen years running away from his folks and all their shiny expectations, so he was done running away. He had told himself that the moment he kicked Marty outta his van and turned it back around to Beach City and its sprawling sands—to the little oceanside town and the big woman with pink hair.

Right then and there, he’d been ready to accept the consequences of his actions.

The starchild had grown into a man.

And that meant staying the course, no looking back or skywards, no regrets or what-could-have-beens.

For Steven Universe, he would stay until the end… no matter what that end happened to be.

That was responsibility.

And that, above all, was love.

Love was solidity, and it was thereness, and it was warmth.

It was patience, and it was risk that never quite guaranteed reward.

Love was staying.

Even when things got tough, and maybe especially when they did.

(Stay, he'd pleaded with Rose when Dr. Howard turned the ventilator off. He had held her hand. He didn't want her to be alone.)

(Please, he begged as the lines that measured the beating of her heart began to falter and fade away.)

His bushy brow furrowed in quiet sympathy as he finally maneuvered around the scene of the accident, going slowly as a traffic officer signaled him on with a hand and a whistle. He saw the carnage out of the corner of his eye, all twisted metal and climbing smoke. What looked like a Nissan had plowed right into the back of a fancy lookin’ black town car, not unlike the one which had brought Blue Diamond to the hospital earlier…

His heart lurched.

But then he thought about it.

He considered.

Nah.

Couldn’t be her.

From what he understood, her high rise was somewhere past the hospital.

8:54PM:

“Pearl, go home before I tell Gunga on you,” Kiki teased, but all the same, there was concern in her voice, a hint of seriousness that didn’t quite mark her playful threat as simply playful. It flashed in the depths of her warm, brown eyes. And it brushed against Pearl’s shoulder with a gentleness she had come to expect from the younger Pizza sister.

The two of them were both working behind the bar of Fish Stew Cuisine tonight, the restaurant Kiki’s father and grandmother owned. It used to be just a casual place for locals—then called Fish Stew Pizza—but with time, effort, and a considerable amount of increased tourism when vacationers realized that there was a lovely beach here to visit and trash, it had expanded into one of Beach City’s finest restaurants.

It was a slow night, though, rain coming down in heavy sheets outside the tall, glass windows.

At this late hour, only a few diners remained, casually enjoying their dinners to the rhythmic tattoo of the storm—mostly regulars, people who understood that through rain, hail, sleet, or snow, Fish Stew would always be here for patient guests, arms open wide and plates steaming with good food. The amber light strewn from the dusky lamps made the place feel warm, as though it was full of quiet fire, flickering in so many overhanging hearths.

Pearl swiped persistently at a stain on the glass she was cleaning.

She’d been working on it for five minutes now in the absence of a new customer to tend to.

“I can’t just leave,” she returned exasperatedly, still scrubbing away at the mark. She was starting to think that it was yet another lost cause.

(She seemed to have a penchant for those lately.)

“I promised to work until closing.”

And I have to.

There are bills to pay and possible surgeries to fund.

But she didn’t say this part aloud; she didn’t want to put that weight on a seventeen-year old who meant well.

“Girl, closing isn’t ’til eleven, and you’ve been here since two,” Jenny Pizza laughed, glancing up from her phone long enough to do so. She was Kiki’s older sister and a bit of a rebel to the boot. Though she was technically on the clock, too, she had been sitting on the other side of the bar for the past half hour now, sending something she called “snaps” to her friends. These “snaps” often involved her making funny faces at her camera, ninety percent of these compelling her to poke her lips out. “Go home, and get some shut eye. Seriously.”

“Seriously,” Kiki parroted, snatching the glass from out of Pearl’s hands when she wasn’t looking.

With a certain primness, she chunked it into the nearest recycling bin as the bell on the door pealed, signaling an incoming customer.

“Kiki!”

“The new ones are coming in next week anyway,” the girl only replied with a shrug of mischievous shoulder. “Now, Pearl, go the eff home. We got this. Right, Jenny?”

“Mhm.” Jenny made a vague noise of agreement without looking up again. “Yeah, you’ve got this, Kiki. Get it.”

“Well,” Kiki only rolled her eyes, “I’ve got this anyway.”

Two massive arms, both scarred and tattooed, slammed down on the countertop then, and Pearl’s mouth immediately twitched into a smile to see that it was none other than Bismuth, a local construction worker for the city and a fellow Crystal Gem. Her spectacularly colorful dreads were thrown upwards into a haphazard ponytail, and her mouth was wide with one of those trademark Bismuth smiles, all lopsided, shining with white teeth.

“Pearl,” she scolded in that wry way of hers, “are you givin’ these pretty ladies trouble again?”

“Yesssssss,” Kiki replied, already starting on the woman’s usual order. (Jerk chicken and eggs.) “Homegirl won’t go home even though she’s been here all day. Just look at her.” The teenager gestured vaguely at Pearl’s body. “She looks dead on her feet.”

“You’re being incredibly rude tonight, you know,” Pearl huffed, unable to resist the urge to glance down. There was an unidentifiable stain on the collar of her shirt.

She hated unidentifiable stains on the collars of her shirts.

“It’s for your own good,” she replied sagely, turning away as her saucepan began to sizzle on the stove. With Jenny also occupied, Pearl was left to the mercy of Bismuth, who’d always had a way of seeing through her, down to her deepest core.

Nothing escaped those dark eyes of hers, not a tool, not a loose screw, not the quiet, aching sadnesses of a friend. With a self-assuredness that Pearl had always lacked and a gentleness that she had always loved, her old companion reached across the bar and placed a calloused palm atop of the pale ridges of Pearl’s knuckles, covering them completely.

“C’mere, sugar,” she said softly, “and tell me all about it.”

“It’s late,” Pearl whispered automatically, glancing away. She always had some excuse or another. “And you’ve been working. You must be tired.”

“Hell,” Bismuth snorted as Kiki pushed a soda towards her, “if I’m tired, then you must be exhausted. The kid’s right. You look it.”

“The kid’s always right,” Kiki chimed in knowingly before moving away again.

And so, as the breath of rain continued to hiss on the roof, Pearl drew up a stool and sat across the bar from Bismuth, her hand warm beneath the other’s surprisingly gentle touch.

And they talked.

Softly.

Pearl told her everything.

She told her about the cemetery and Steven and the tiny hibiscus flower that passed from his hand to that of Blue Diamond’s, watching as Bismuth’s expressive face twisted in the same sort of horror and disgust that she herself had been grappling with ever since the bathrobed woman had somehow made her way into the entanglement of their lives. And Pearl told her about the last trip to Empire City, how Steven had almost needed a blood transfusion, and how that almost had become their reality when he’d collapsed in the beach house, hitting those wooden slats with a thunk that still echoed in the hollows of her head.

“I yelled at Amethyst,” she whispered, horrified, trying to withdraw her hand from beneath Bismuth’s.

Bismuth’s grip only tightened.

“I said some horrible things.”

“We all say horrible things,” the woman only replied, looking down, ever so subtly glancing away. Fifteen years ago, she and Rose had had a falling out over how to protest Diamond Electric. They hadn’t made up before she died. “The fixin’ part is what matters.”

And so Pearl, swallowing hard in acceptance of this lived-through truth, went on and on until her voice was scratchy from the strain of it. She told Bismuth about how small Steven was in the hospital bed and how sickly. She told her, fingernails digging into the grains of the bar, about how Priyanka Maheswaran, who always had a solution, didn’t really have an answer. She told her about the IVs and the wires and the blood transfusions and the possibility of a feeding tube.

And she told her, without saying a word, that she was scared.

Admissions did not come easily to the woman, but they were written across the physiognomy of her entire body anyway.

The desperation leaked from her pale eyes.

And all the sleepless nights lined her pointed face.

And there was a stiffness in the way she held herself, so harshly, with studied discipline.

But by definition, discipline was necessarily repression, and repress, repress, repress was the motto and model by which Pearl lived her life. It was the lone vanguard which kept her from shattering to pieces on the floor—just another mess for Kiki to sweep up with the rest of the clutter.

It was her last defense against total dissolution.

When she had nothing, at least she could put a smile on her face and pretend otherwise.

“So it’s been a long week,” she smiled wearily at the end of this.

She smiled because the alternative was to fall apart.

"To say the least.”

But, again, that was the thing about Bismuth.

Nothing escaped those dark eyes of hers, not a tool, not a loose screw, not the quiet, aching sadnesses of a friend.

With that familiar self-assuredness, her old companion rose from her seat and walked around to the other side of the bar.

“Bismuth, wait, I—”

And then, without hesitating, she crushed Pearl into her strong arms.

The engineer smelled faintly of oil and flavored tobacco.

Peppermint.

Crisp and sharp.

“To say the least,” she only agreed as Pearl’s lower lip began to tremble.

Her arms were limp, useless, by her sides, hanging over the edges of the stool.

“I’m fine,” she tried. The word fell flat on her tongue. “Really.”

“I don't doubt that you are. I never would. But you don’t have to be, hon,” Bismuth replied softly, her breath kindling warm against her ear. “You work so hard… and you care so much… that it ain’t a crime to need some tender love n care, too. It ain't weakness to be kind to yourself, Pearl."

Pearl was frozen, statuesque, even as the world somehow continued to spin around her. Diners chatted, rain fell, and the eggs sizzled in their frying pan. Everything and everyone else had their place in this world.

She wasn’t sure where that left her and all the griefs she so tightly wrapped herself around—scars and still-bleeding wounds.

“How can I break,” she asked, her voice tight, “knowing he’s lying in that hospital bed? What right do I have to fall to pieces when what he’s fighting is a hundred times worse?”

Somehow, Bismuth had an answer to this, too; she seemed to always have an answer.

She rubbed gentle circles into Pearl’s back.

She didn't let go.

“Pain isn’t a competition, Pearl,” she admonished. “When you’re hurting, you’re hurting.”

There was a matter-of-factness to this statement, a sense of finality, and perhaps that was what did it in the end; the raw truth of it confronted her, and it scalded her, and it forced her to confess.

Pearl shattered, and Bismuth was there to scoop up all the pretty, broken pieces.

“It hurts all over,” she admitted as the tears wrenched themselves loose from her eyes.

“I know, sugar."

Outside the restaurant, the rain continued to beat its relentless dirge into the Boardwalk, the sky falling in shards and unholy music, all needle sharp notes.

If the crescendo screamed, it absolutely roared.

10:03PM:

Outside the window of Room 11037, night wrapped its velvety arms around a sky shivering with stars, and Garnet, attentive of every wire and tube, wrapped her warm arms around Steven as they laid in his hospital bed together, watching a late night re-run of Crying Breakfast Friends. This was the episode where Pear betrayed the stoic Spoon’s trust, and all the assorted breakfast people cried about it for a good seven minutes of the show’s eleven minute runtime.

For some odd reason, the animation on Spoon’s tears was exceptionally well done, the liquid fluidly running down the curvature of their face as they wailed incoherently.

“Wahhhhhhhhhh.”

(Not for the first time, Garnet absently wondered who had been paid to write this.)

Beneath her, Steven sniffed noisily, bringing up the less-encumbered of his hands to swipe tentatively at his nose; it was an awkward movement with the oxygen cannulas in the way.

“You’ve seen this one before,” Garnet teased softly, her voice landing somewhere in his dark hair. “Twice that I know of. It can’t be that sad anymore.”

She waited for a laugh and a witty retort—for a remarkably insightful analysis into why it was okay to cry over crying breakfast utensils—but one wasn’t forthcoming, even though the child’s shoulders were conspicuously shaking.

She looked down at him then, catching a sliver of his face in the light wash of the television; tears streamed silently from his eyes and down the sunken hollows of his face, down into the collar of his gown, down past the spiral of wires.

“Steven.” Garnet propped herself up with an abruptness that was almost violent, though when she cupped his face between her long fingers, her touch was exceedingly gentle. “What’s wrong?”

But Steven shook his head, burying it into the front of her sweatshirt as a low whine escaped past his anemic lips.

His chubby fingers twisted into the fabric next to her stomach.

“Steven!” Panic slipped up the rungs of her voice.

She looked around wildly her for the call button on the railing, but they were surrounded by so many tubes and blankets.

And it was dark.

And Steven was crying.

“Garnet,” he finally moaned, “my back hurts.”

It was a common symptom with his disease. Because the kidneys were located right below the ribcage, his upper back often spasmed when they were being particularly bothersome.

At home, they would give him medicine and press a heating pad to his spine, hoping against both hell and hope that the warmth would sooth the worst of the pain.

Here in the hospital, they could give him morphine.

They could even sedate him.

Make the pain go away for a few hours if that was mercy.

(Once, after a particularly bad attack that’d almost brought them to the hospital, Steven had described the pain like being stung by a jellyfish over and over again, as though its tentacles were wrapped around his torso, wringing him out all over.)

“I have to get a nurse,” she said automatically, her throat dry. He clung to her so tightly that she didn’t dare move an inch. On the TV, Spoon was still crying, their keening overwrought next to Steven, who cried so quietly these days that it was almost like he hated for anyone to hear.

“They’ll drug me?” He asked astutely, the sound muffled in her shirt.

“Yes.”

“It’d make me sleep.”

“Maybe... yes.” Garnet couldn’t see where he was going with this until his fingers tightened just a fraction more where they gripped her.

Her lips parted.

And there was silence.

And there was crying.

And there was understanding most of all. It scorched Garnet and simply ruined her.

“You don’t want to go to sleep.”

It was a statement, hoarsely dragged from her mouth.

She received a minimal head shake as her answer.

“You’re scared.”

And somehow, she knew the veracity of her words before he nodded his assent into her chest.

Steven was scared to fall asleep—afraid, maybe even terrified, that he wouldn’t wake up. The horror of it, the awfulness and the unfairness, and the cruelty of it rose up in Garnet’s chest like a tsunami, a fire, a hurricane, a storm.

Yet, she remained immobile.

She didn’t move.

What could she even say to that?

What was she supposed to say?

Words were insufficient.

(She couldn’t even reassure herself.)

The small TV screen suddenly faded to black as Crying Breakfast Friends ended, and the credits rolled, the show’s elegiac theme song playing softly in the background, all piano notes and somber violin strings.

It was a little easier, at least, when she couldn’t see his face.

“I’m scared, too,” she admitted.

It was only three words, but they exacted her, and they excavated her; heat clambered up her cheeks, settling somewhere behind her burning eyes.

Steven’s shoulders briefly stilled, though all the machines keeping him alive continued to whir on.

“Y-you are?”

“All the time.” Scared to touch him, scared to even look at him. Scared that one day, she would wake up and he would be gone, a shell finally reclaimed by its shore. Scared to leave this hospital room lest she miss a single moment, and scared to stay if that meant watching him go. Scared that they wouldn’t find him a kidney in time, and scared that if they did, they couldn’t afford it.

Garnet was a wreck, barely holding together.

She was Garnet.

She had to hold together anyway.

“And sometimes, Steven,” she whispered, hugging him to her chest as much as the tubing would allow, “that is what love is—being scared and moving forward anyway.”

Into the darkness, hand in hand.

Without the promise of safe return.

Her mothers had done it.

Rose Quartz had done it.

And the footprints they had left behind were big to fill, but Garnet didn’t have to fill them; she just had to follow their lead.

Steven was quiet for a couple more heartbeats still before he slowly withdrew his head from her chest to look up at her; he didn’t quite let go of her shirt; he took ragged, rasping breaths, his shoulders heaving to the rhythmic whirring of his heart monitor.

“You can call the nurse now.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

It was all she could manage.

“And, Garnet?”

“Yes, Steven?”

“I love you.”

10:45PM:

Cooling down after a long day of work was always struggle for Priyanka, whose mind was such that it was perpetually working ahead to the next day of work—all the patients she had to do rounds upon, all the charts she had to fill out, and all the procedures she had to meticulously prep for, spending as much time in the hospital’s library as she did the operating room.

If the table of her head wasn’t perpetually well-set, her thoughts surgically arranged on a porcelain plate, scalpels placed in descending order by size on the adjacent napkin, then the doctor felt unmoored from the trait which made her feel fundamentally herself.

Her precision—unerring, diligent, and unpretentious.

She checked and double-checked and was a better nephrologist for it. By the nature of the temperamental organ she was dealing with, her patient mortality rate was high, but no one, by the nature of her methodology, could say that it was because of human error.

She checked and double-checked, trying to quantify every conceivable possibility before they could make themselves known in the real world, and when she neglected to deconstruct a hypothetical, which was a rarity in and of itself, she would chastise herself for it both before and better than anyone else ever could.

Priyanka Maheswaran was a study in precision, never shirking away from the reward that often laid at the end of hard labor.

But what no one had ever told her was that a side effect of being precise was being so damn tired.

All the time.

She struggled to cool down, and she was exhausted. She desperately wanted to sleep, but her mind whirred and whirled and calculated and thought. The dichotomous interplay of these qualities led to her sipping hot tea in bed with a pinched expression on her face as her husband stretched out next to her, reading his tattered copy of Crime and Punishment and sometimes laughing aloud when a line struck him as funny.

“Ha,” he snorted after awhile of this before replacing his bookmark (an old grocery store receipt) in his new spot and closing the heavy tome. “I love Dostoevsky.”

Lips pressed to the rim of her nearly empty mug, Priyanka arched a sharp brow at him, smiling wryly.

Her husband was a dork.

“Should I be jealous, dear?”

“Naturally,” Doug returned, reaching over to place the book on his nightstand before turning back towards her. “Dostoevsky has it all. A great grasp on existentialism and a beard for days. He could tone it down on the heavy moralism, though.”

“That’s what you said about Tolstoy,” she reminded him with a tilt of her head. “Good beard, too much sermonizing.”

“It’s a running theme,” her husband admitted sadly, and then, catching each other’s eye, the two Maheswarans suddenly laughed, the sounds loud in the otherwise quiet room.

It was moments like these, after nearly seventeen years together, that kept them going strong. They loved each other, and they liked each other, and they especially liked to make each other laugh.

Even if it was about something as specific as Russian literature titans.

And maybe especially if it was about something as specific as Russian literature titans.

“We’re going to wake our daughter up,” Priyanka finally said, setting her mug down on her own nightstand. In the lamplight, the dark ceramic gleamed. Her phone, sitting next to it, showed that she had a new message from one of the surgical interns she was training.

She’d open it in a minute.

Knowing the group of fools she’d gotten this year, whoever it was had probably stabbed themselves with a syringe.

(Again.)

“It’s never too early for Connie to have an opinion on old Russian men,” Doug chuckled, but he, too, was settling down as the heaviness of night began to sweep across them both.

He sighed fondly and took her hand then, intertwining their fingers on top of the blankets.

Priyanka wasn’t much of a touchy-feely person, but her husband absolutely was, and she knew, from all the coagulated years of having been married to him, that this simple gesture was about being close to her, about reacquainting himself to her presence.

So she didn’t let go.

Instead, she squeezed once, resting her head against the backboard of their bed and closing her eyes for the first time in what felt like days. The darkness was nice and inviting, blanketing her head like a cozy throw.

It was just all the thoughts, buzzing like bees at the velvety, black edges, that made it so unbearable.

Patients, charts, and procedures.

And Steven Universe most of all.

She worried for him constantly now that he was in the hospital; she carried his sunken face with her everywhere that she went; he made her half-sick.

He forced her to become undone.

Caring.

It did something to her.

“You look tired, honey,” Doug said softly. “Shall we put a nightcap on the evening?”

Priyanka opened her eyes again and nodded ever so briskly. She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and let out a small, exacting sigh.

“I think that’d be in order,” she agreed, and it was a sign of her exhaustion that she acquiesced so easily. Usually, he had to plead with her to close down shop for the night.

These weren’t usual times.

Without letting go of her hand, her husband twisted away and turned the latch of his lamp with a click, thrusting half of the room into darkness.

And she was about to do the same when the rectangular light of her phone caught her attention again.

Instead of just one message from her intern—a perky blonde named Dr. Stephens—now she had eight of them in total and a missed call.

The doctor always put her phone on silent when she drank her nightly tea so she didn’t have to be a doctor for fifteen minutes.

She could simply be Priyanka.

Her stomach clenched.

An influx of messages was never a good thing; her mind raced ahead of her; it anticipated the worst.

“Hon?”

Doug’s questioning concern pressed against her side, and Priyanka found herself clenching his hand all the tighter as she used her free one to pick up the phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe and clicking the message app with a suddenness that was brutal.

Monday, 10:57PM:

Dr. Stephens: DR. MAHESWARAN!!!!!

Dr. Stephens: UNOS JUST CALLED.

Dr. Stephens: WE HAVE A KIDNEY FOR STEVEN UNIVERSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dr. Stephens: Car crash on the lower East Side. The donor is brain dead, but all their other organs are viable.

Dr. Stephens: And they’re a match for Steven.

Dr. Stephens: Seriously. I’ve checked and double-checked.

Dr. Stephens: This is our person.

Dr. Stephens: The surgeon at Empire Gen’s gonna perform the harvest procedure tomorrow morning at 10AM, and I told them you’d be there.

In the half-darkness of her room, Priyanka held that phone aloft like it was priceless gold and let out a breath she had been holding for a very long time. Her shoulders heaved with the sensation of it, the feeling, the emotion.

Of goddamn relief.

Warm, sweeping, glorious relief.

A kidney.

Steven Universe was getting a kidney.

#bellow diamond #blue diamond #yellow diamond #steven universe #pearl #amethyst #garnet #priyanka maheswaran #yellow zircon #blue zircon #jenny pizza #kiki pizza #greg universe #bismuth #s: steven universe #mimik-u #flower child #hoooooo boy this is a long ass chapter

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dragonleesupporter · 3 years ago

Text

The Many Sides of Murder Part I

A/N: Eyy I’m not dead, I promise. I’ve just been smacked around by life a bit. Anyway, this a fanfiction based off of an rp between me and some good homies, shout out to good homies! I’ve been wanting to write this for a very long time.

WARNING: Not for the faint of heart! Also, no t-community stuff in here!

Patton was walking out of the office building after a long day at work. He was exhausted, but he’d have his beautiful rose bush to look forward to when he got home.

“Rosebud…” He said to himself jokingly, shivering in the cold.

One of the first to come to work, and one of the last to leave… Patton looked across the vast parking lot and saw his grey, rusty car sitting on the far end.

Sigh.

As he continued walking, he heard what sounded like scuffling behind the ginormous square garbage bins to his left. He had gotten used to the noises the critters made at night, working the closing shift. Raccoons, possums, skunks, hell- sometimes the homeless stopped by to check the garbage for valuable items.

After several moments of listening to the sound, Patton started to pick up on small alterations, like heavy breathing and shushing of sort. Yep, a homeless or drunk. No doubt about it. Suddenly, a shape leaped out in front of him, running in the same direction as his car. Patton froze, his voice caught in his throat. There was no way he could break into-

“Your efforts are futile.” He heard a monotone voice call out from behind the garbage bins. He then saw what he could only perceive as a living knife launch from the same place the other shape had come from. In mere moments, the man who had started running, was now motionless on the asphalt. The other shape looked down at the body before looking up at Patton.

Patton’s instincts finally kicked in and he turned tail to run in the opposite direction. Even in the dim light of the widely-spaced street lamps, he could tell he had made direct eye contact with whoever just attacked that other person. The sooner he made himself invisible, the better!

“The tree line!” He thought to himself. “There! If I can make it there, then maybe- “

Too late. He felt a harsh shove from behind has he lost his balance mid-stride, falling onto his chest. He then felt a hand grasp his face, some kind of cloth covering his mouth. He took in a deep breath to scream for help, but as soon as he did, his consciousness faded into an almost peaceful oblivion.

“That was close.” Logan silently scolded himself as he carried Patton on his shoulders back to the body of Orlando. “How could I have let a witness run so far away from the execution site? Utterly useless. I must increase my intake, it seems.”

He lit the body ablaze and covered his tracks. Every grain of sand out of place was corrected. He was never there. The only thing now was to decide what to do with the witness he had captured. He adjusted his glasses, sighing. It would slow down his current plan, but in order to make it more secure, he would just have to be patient and take the witness into his care. Perhaps he could reason with him, or at least keep him in a place that he wouldn’t cause any trouble.

…

Patton woke up in a very awkward position. Both his hands and his ankles were restrained, and he immediately noticed that the hearing on the right side of his head had gone blank.

“N-no… this can’t be real.” He started to feel tears well up in his eyes. “This is just a bad dream… I’m at home safe w-with my rosebush… please, please let it be a dream.”

“Ah, you’re finally awake.” A chillingly monotone voice sounded from the other side of the room.

“Wh-what do you want from me?!” Patton blurted out, making an attempt to sound brave and failing somewhat.

“I don’t want anything from you, good sir… in fact, it’s rather a shame that you had to bear witness to my execution. I do not enjoy this situation any more than you do.” Logan stayed sitting on the opposite side of the room.

As Patton’s eyes adjusted, he saw a lean, tall figure sat against the few steps that lined the entrance to a hallway just behind him leading into the room. He had milky white skin and clear blue veins running along his arms and legs. Despite the hostility he had seen at his hand, Logan’s face was strangely calm, his eyes grey behind his glasses. The rest of his attire was simply a black suit and pants, fitting his body as tight was possible. No part of his clothing was loose on him. Just as jet black as his attire, his hair was neatly combed back.

“That being said, I hope we can come to an agreement that benefits both parties.” His grey eyes pierced into Patton’s, reflecting all the apathy the rest of Patton’s left drew to him.

No one really cared about him… he had no friends… no family other than his brother who hardly visited… no one was coming to save him… he was going to die here.

Logan’s posture stiffened at the sound coming out of Patton.

“Like heck! I’m not trusting a word you say!” Patton screamed, tears streaming down his face.

Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I knew this would be an issue… I probably should explain myself…”

“No! I am not listening to ANYTHING you have to stay!” Patton’s heart burned with the knowledge that this man could do whatever he wanted to him. He started pulling on his restraints.

“You know that’s not going to work… I wish I could’ve avoided the restraints, but how else am I supposed to keep her here safely?” Logan got up, slowly walking toward the struggling man before him.

It was almost hard for Logan to look into his prisoner’s eyes. They were so bright and full of passion and emotion, even behind his contact lenses. His bright blue eyes kindly reflected off of his matching blue t-shirt, also blending well with his worn-out jeans. His bright blonde hair nearly blinded the criminal as he approached, wavy and tangled.

“Why not just let me go then?! S-stay away from me! Don’t get any closer!” Patton struggled harder as Logan got closer.

“Calm your nerves, you wiggling worm… I need to ask you a question.” Logan sat down next to the bed Patton was tied to.

“Well, I have nothing better to do. Ask away!” Patton called sarcastically. A small hope inside him told him that if he kept acting tough and hiding just how scared he was, he might be able to find a way out.

“Is this correct?” Logan held up an ear aid.

“What do you mean is it correct?” Patton scoffed.

“Is it the right model? After cleaning up, I realized an ear aid had been knocked out of your head. However, when I found it, it had been broken. I did my best to judge what model it was so I could get another for you. Is this the correct model?” Logan’s monotone voice didn’t help Patton’s mood, however his question did puzzle him.

“Th-that is the correct model, yes. Why?” Patton looked up at the figure who almost had to look away from his bright cyan blue eyes.

“Good. I will momentarily untie one of your restraints so you can manually place the ear aid in. As well as take out your contacts. I’m aware they can be painful if you sleep in them.” Logan’s voice changed just a little bit in that moment, and that little bit was all it took.

“O-okay…” Patton’s body went limp as Logan undid one of his restraints.

“And no trying to escape, or I’ll knock you out again.” Logan watched him closely as Patton adjusted both his hearing aids and took out his contacts, relaxing significantly from the lack of pain. Afterwards, Logan tied him up again.

“So, are there any bathroom breaks here?” Patton asked sheepishly.

“Yes. But I’ll only release you if we can gain a mutual sense trust… You see I only restrained you to keep you safe. This is the only place I could keep you from spreading knowledge of my existence. All of these hallways behind me are open to the front door, but they’re all rigged with traps that only I know how to navigate around. This was only set up for defensive measures, but I cannot turn them off now, so they also act a hinderance to your escape. If you were to try and escape, many of those traps would cause you extreme pain, and, in full honesty, I don’t want that.” Logan tapped his chin in thought.

“Something’s not making sense here.” Patton finally spoke after a long silence. “How come you don’t want to hurt me when you hurt that other person?”

“That low-life scum can barely be considered a person…” Logan’s voice grew heavy with anger. “Sh-shit!”

Patton turned to look at his captor to find a surprising sight. Logan, was bent over with a hand firmly pressed to his head. “Damn, it’s wearing off faster!” The criminal rushed over to the opposite side of the room, taking out a syringe.

Patton watched in horror as Logan plunged the needle into his skin and quickly injected himself, his tenses muscles going lax again. Patton saw, for a brief moment, color in Logan’s eyes before it changed back to the grey he had know for the past fifteen minutes.

“I apologize for the interruption. But unbeknownst to you, there’s a great difference between you and the man I killed. I would go into detail, but I have an inkling it might disturb you, so until we are better acquainted, I see no reason to explain.” Logan’s posture loosened further. “I should probably start with my name. My name is Logan, and I’ve been on the hunt for a specific group of individuals. The one you saw me take out was one of those individuals.”

Patton felt odd staring at this man… could even call him that? This THING?

“Well, my name is Patton, and I’ve been on the hunt for a meaningful life.” He chuckled sadly.

“What’s funny?” Logan cocked his head.

“Oh, it was a joke! I like to tell them a lot…”

“A… joke…” Logan appeared to be lost on what Patton was describing.

“Yeah. You tell it to people you care about to make them laugh and smile…” Patton looked away from Logan’s eyes, afraid he would become equally apathetic if he continued to stare.

“And what about searching for a meaningful life is funny?” Logan tapped his chin in thought with a perplexed expression, looking at the ceiling.

“Oh wait… of course this guy’s not going to understand jokes! He’s a complete psychopath! I need to figure out how to get out of here! He said he would give me access to a bathroom once we gained mutual trust for each other. So, if I pretend to trust him, he might trust me and warrant me access to the bathroom. But the bathroom probably doesn’t have any escape routes. If there isn’t a window or a vent… I might be stuck… unless… he’s lying about the hallways! He must think I’m stupid… if there’s no chance of escape in the bathroom, I’ll abide by his rules until he gets sleepy or needs another one of those needles. Yes! Flawless plan!”

“I realized that you’re smiling. Is something funny? Did I unknowingly… tell a… joke?” It took Logan a moment to think of the word again.

“Oh no… I was just thinking about a joke one of my friends told me a couple days ago…” Patton lied.

“Oh? A memory can make you smile… I forgot that…” Logan looked down at the floor. “Thank you for reminding me.”

After a few more moments of awkward silence and Patton trying to avoid the gaze of the mad man, his stomach growled loudly.

“Dammit stomach! This is not the time to be complaining!”

“Ah, I assumed you would need sustenance before long… luckily I was able to grab some ramen from the store. I know from experience that it’s very filling, if not a little bland in taste. I’ll prepare some…” Logan turned his back to Patton getting a stove heated up.

“Oh no! I can’t eat anything that monster gives me! It could be poisoned, or laced with something to make me be truthful with him! But if I don’t eat soon, I might start thinking illogically… m-maybe I already am! Dammit, Patton why did you skip your last break last night??”

“To put all doubts to rest, I will also eat from the same brewed pot of ramen… I apologize for the lack of nutrients in this specific dish. But hopefully, if everything goes according to plan, one meal is all you’ll need…” Logan turned around, giving full view of the pot of ramen, stirring it around.

“Oh Jesus, he’s going to kill me! According to plan?? Only one meal?? That has to be it!”

“A-and what plan would that be?” The captive muttered nervously, eyeing the noodles like he would a loaded gun.

“Ah, my apologies. Allow me to explain after I’ve finished undoing your cuffs.” Patton violently flinched away from the criminal as he undid all of his bonds. “Come sit with me, Patton…”

There was… a hitch in his voice for some reason. Patton couldn’t tell why, but Logan’s perfectly monotone dialogue had broken, just for a second, but he noticed…

He sat down stiffly on the other side of the pot as Logan poured each half of the brew into their bowls. He took the first bite, fully knowing that Patton wouldn’t eat unless he was certain that the food was safe.

“Maybe he built up an immunity a poison he put in the brew… ahhh but it smells so good! I can’t get distracted! Think, Patton! Think…”

Logan continued to eat as Patton played with his food, his thoughts racing. After he had finished the whole bowl, he just sat and stared at Patton, waiting patiently for him to trust the noodles. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity to Patton, he finally took a bite. He had no way of telling time, but from his judgement, Logan would’ve shown some signs of discomfort if the noodles had been poisoned. It was just a risk he’d have to take, considering, just how badly he needed the food. But he also needed something else.

“M-may I use the restroom?” He asked, looking away from Logan’s piercing eyes.

“I suppose I have no reason not to trust you in this moment, and you trusted me enough to eat what I made for you. How about a compromise? My original offer was to free you of your cuffs without feeling the need to restrain you again… while also giving you free access to the bathroom… but since I can’t fully trust you in moments to come, even if I can trust you now, I’ll give you access to the restroom but restrain you afterwards, though I’ll make sure your restraints aren’t as tight this time…” Logan explained, eyeing the bruises on Patton’s hands.

“O-okay… and where is the bathroom?” He was shaking a little.

“Just to your left. It’s not the most luxurious, but is serves its purpose.” Logan hadn’t even finished his sentence, before the door to the restroom was slammed shut. “I suppose I should clean up this mess…”

“Dammit! No windows or vents! This room is an oven!” Patton thought to himself while doing his business. “It certainly isn’t a good restroom, but it’s a clean one… and right now, I’m in no place to complain… these walls are pretty thick, he probably can’t hear what I’m doing… meaning, if I hurry, he might not be prepared for me to make an escape. The longer I wait, the more he’ll expect me to come out. Better make this quick!”

Patton slowly opened the door and peeked out at Logan, who was occupied washing the dishes they had just eaten from. He had blue eyes again… why did he look so… sad? Patton felt the smallest pang of sympathy for his kidnapper, despite everything. He’d soon need another syringe that made his eyes turn grey again. Some kind of drug. His posture was looser and his normally expressionless face was bent in a look of grief.

“I- is he shaking?” Patton squinted. He could see long-range distance just fine, but movement was a little hard, but he swore, he could see his captor, shaking in place uncontrollably. Enough, he had to get out of there, NOW.

Patton dashed for the hallway entrance just next to the kitchen, side closest to him. Logan noticed the movement right away, and try as he might, he couldn’t move fast to block the blonde from what he knew was going to happen.

“AHHHH!!!” Patton screamed bloody murder as an improvised bear trap snapped around his right leg, dragging him down to the ground. He laid there, whimpering on the ground.

“You stupid son of a bitch!” Logan ran up to him, quickly carrying him back to the main room. “What made you think I was lying about my traps?? Damn you, I was trying to do something good for once and you had to go and make such a stupid move!” He laid Patton down as he cried openly, unable to take the pain.

He quickly ripped off the bear trap and started to examine his leg.

“D-don’t touch me! It hurts! It hurts…” Patton sobbed, unable to move as Logan pressed different parts of his leg.

“Okay, it didn’t break any bones, but your muscle and tissue are severely damaged… I didn’t design that thing to break through bone, but I never tested it before, so that’s a relief… Now all that’s there to do is bandage your poor leg…” Logan quickly wrapped up the wound, adding on several straps of ice to help ease the pain. He then laid Patton back in the bed. “You just made things ten times harder for both you AND me!”

Patton looked up fearfully to see Logan’s bold, indigo eyes starting back at him, his booming voice scolding him. Yet, strangely enough, Patton felt an odd sense of relief. Logan’s colorful eyes and evidently angry voice gave the criminal emotion. The blonde would rather have his kidnapper yell at him, than stare at him coldly from across the room. Logan then cried out in pain, grabbing his head again.

“DAMN! This is YOUR fault! Now I’m even having problems with my CURE!” He hurried back to his cabinet to take another syringe, wincing harshly as the drug made its way into his body, before taking a deep exhale, relaxing significantly, as his eyes started to turn back to the void-ish grey that Patton had come to hate.

“I apologize for my outburst… there will need to be a change of plan due to your foolish refusal to heed my warning about my security system…” Aaaand there’s that awful monotone voice again.

Just then a figure burst into the room from the hallway, several bruises and scratches on him.

“EVERYONE FREEZE!” He held up his gun at both Logan and Patton, who put their hands up. It was a police officer!

As Roman pointed the barrel toward the uninjured suspect, he nearly dropped it.

“L-Logan…? What happened to you?”

To be continued...

@imflynn @boba-and-doughnuts @tottalynotgayatall

#murder Sandersides rp nont

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