#its at the watercooler

[mr-orion]

sometimes you gotta hype yourself up and color your sketches... anyway, Ray's about to ask you something very on the nose and it's gonna hurt. You should watch out.

[pikslasrce]

new coworker is too friendly. too nice to me. why do i feel the need to assert my masculine dominance and create an unfeminine repulsive vibe 💀

[thelastlaff]

does anyone else look at the half of chip revvington’s place (cut to the chase) covered in red solo cups and a trash bin filled to the brim with trash and think about the implications

and the fact that the lamps are all crooked probably from him throwing them so often

[compil]

So we're all just glossing over the fact that God's been having chats and bets with Satan since at least Job era. Like they're just bickering coworkers and not hereditary nemeses. Sounds like another pair I know

[marsixm]

this is fucking taking me out

How Our Flag Means Death Transformed Rhys Darby into a Merman: new behind the scenes costume design pics from Entertainment Weekly

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 4: THE MYSTERY THAT IS ARTHUR MORGAN

synopsis: you and arthur head into valentine with uncle, tilly, karen, and mary-beth.

word count: 4.6k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: (crawling out of grave) hey guys.. i've started playing rdr1 recently so the cowboy spark has been reignited within me LOL

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog , @photo1030 , @mavenhavenn , @its-yummi , @fatherbangboo , @shackspossum , @swedesfics (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

Not much time has passed since that night where you and Arthur had that conversation about the stars. Well, it wasn’t really a conversation, but it was talking, which was an improvement from the glances and stares.

Hosea has regaled you with many a tale with Arthur as the main protagonist, about how he’s not the big scary man he pretends to be. From your perspective, though? The front isn’t a front, but a truth intrinsic to Arthur’s very soul. He’s a man from 1899, through and through – and unfortunately, not all men from 1899 are to be trusted.

But Hosea seems hellbent on making you at least okay with Arthur’s presence. Just a few minutes ago, he pushed a tin cup of coffee into your hands and sent you towards Arthur’s tent. As a challenge? You’re not too sure, but it sure as hell feels like one.

“Excuse me,” you say as you round the corner of the wagon that props up the canopy over his cot. “Arthur?”

He’s sitting on the edge of his cot, writing in his leather-bound journal. He looks up from whatever he’s writing, then puts his pencil in the fold between the pages and closes it, tucking it away in his satchel.

Arthur nods at you, greeting you with a simple utterance of your name. “What is it?”

You carefully hold out the hot tin mug. “Hosea figured you’d want some coffee. I, um… I didn’t know how you’d like it, so I just put in some sugar.”

He stands from his cot and takes the coffee from you. “Thank you.”

You smile and for a moment you panic, thinking you’re showing too many teeth. (Why do you have to overthink everything you do?) “Hopefully it’s not too sweet.”

Arthur takes a sip and shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.”

A nice silence falls over the two of you as you stand somewhat-near him, watching people move about camp. Well, it would be nice if you were alone and didn’t have Arthur beside you, but you have to make the most of everything you can.

Let’s try to initiate a conversation, you think to yourself. What does Arthur care about? Guns? Meat? Uh… beard oil? No, he has, like, grown-out stubble – why would he care about beard oil? What the hell does watercooler talk even look like in 1899?

“It’s nice out,” you say. “Out west, it gets really hot this time of year. The summers are even worse.”

“Are they now?” Arthur says. “What, are you tryin’ to… deter us from encroachin’ on your Mojave?”

“Huh? No, no,” you say. “The Dead Horses and Sorrows would happily have you. Zion Canyon, it’s – it’s big enough for a few more people.”

You look away, embarrassed for some reason. You hate this elaborate song and dance – you say something, Arthur takes it as an insult and/or just insults you outright, and you have to cover for yourself before awkward silence takes hold.

“How’s Marston?” Arthur asks. “I understand that you’ve taken over carin’ for that fool.”

You glance over at him. He’s looking at you, blue-green, piercing eyes just watching you, waiting. The treeline is suddenly very interesting.

“There’ll be scars, for sure,” you say. “And he picks at the scabs. He says he doesn’t do it on purpose, but he can’t keep his hands away from his face for five minutes.”

Surprisingly, that elicits a soft chuckle from Arthur. From the corner of your eye, you can see him shake his head and sigh, a slight smile on his face.

“That sounds about right.” He brings the tin cup to his lips and takes a drink. “That idiot’s always makin’ trouble for himself.”

You listen to the sound of people milling about and the early morning birds singing with Arthur for a few minutes. Hosea was right – exposure therapy may actually be working when it comes to Arthur. He doesn’t really seem so big and so bad now that you’ve seen what he’s like when he’s quiet and contemplative. (He’s still a big motherfucker that you’re sure could wreck your shop if given half the chance, so it’s not like you’re willing to lay your neck on the line just yet.)

You glance to the side when you see someone approaching. It’s Hosea, a smile on his face as he greets you and Arthur.

He stretches his arms out, arching his back a little. “Quite a day.”

“Mhm,” you hum.

“There’s a bunch of the boys already in Valentine – Bill, Charles and Javier,” Hosea continues. “And Swanson found something down at the train station by the lake, apparently. And Strauss came back with that creepy little smile on his face! I’m sure there’s a whole list of unfortunates he’s forced money upon.”

You and Arthur laugh along. You’re glad there’s at least something to laugh about that isn’t you.

“And you?” Arthur asks Hosea.

“I’m gonna read a book,” he says decidedly.

“That sounds nice,” you say. “Can I join?”

“Join me in reading a book?” Hosea laughs. “That sounds unproductive.”

“Well, uh – no, I meant, um…” You let out a nervous chuckle. “Never mind. I’ll find something else to do.”

Hosea shrugs it off. “If you’d like to join, I’d be glad for the company.”

With that, he turns and leaves. You don’t really feel inclined to follow him. You don’t really feel inclined to do camp chores, either, but you know Miss Grimshaw well enough to not skimp out on what you’ve been assigned.

“I’ve gotta go chop firewood.” You point over at the stump that became the designated chopping block. “I can take your cup, if you’re done.”

Arthur knocks back the rest of his coffee like a shot, then hands the still-warm tin mug to you. His fingers – big, calloused – brush yours as you take it, and he offers a soft “Thank you.” A small shock runs up your arm as his skin touches yours.

Did he just shock me from static electricity? You ask yourself. Probably. Or maybe the tin did something… I don’t know.

You drop the mug in the wash basin as you pass by and make your way to the chopping stump. You dig in the inner pockets of your jacket and pull out your gloves, tugging them on before you grab the axe handle.

The axe dislodges from the wood easily, and you set up a log to split. You bring the axe over your head (ignoring the ache and whine in your side) and swing it down on the log, letting gravity do most of the work.

By the time you’re done, your shoulders and upper arms are aching, not to mention the literal hole in your side that’s still healing. But the chore is done, and there’s split firewood in a pile next to the stump. You’re spared from Miss Grimshaw’s scrutiny for a couple hours more.

You swing the axe down into the stump and leave it there. With a deep breath, you step back and tug your gloves off, tucking them into your inner jacket pocket again.

“Ain’t a surprise you got soft hands,” a voice says behind you, the tone dripping with sleaze.

You turn, stiffening up and locking eyes with Micah. His hands are resting on the belt that’s hanging off his hips and he’s sizing you up like you’re prey. It makes your stomach turn even though you know he wouldn’t try anything near camp. (Or would he? You hope not.)

“Can you get off my ass?” You ask. “I just don’t want blisters.”

“Oh I apologize, I apologize.” Micah holds his hands up, sauntering closer. You stand your ground even though you’d like nothing more than to pick up the axe again so you’re not completely defenseless.

He rounds the stump, looking down at the pile of firewood. “They’re split uneven.”

You roll your eyes and look to the side, away from Micah. That thought from earlier – whether he would try anything this close to camp or not – still has your stomach in a knot, like a spring wound tight.

He’s not worth it. You would much rather spend your time worrying about things that matter, like how fast and loose people play with their guns and how likely you are to get cholera.

And, as if on cue, someone shouts your voice, giving you an excuse to leave. You look to the source – it’s Karen, waving you over to the wagons. You leave Micah by the firewood pile without a goodbye.

Tilly and Mary-Beth are waiting by the wagon along with Karen, almost circling Arthur like wildcats. Arthur, on the other hand, is smoking, looking relatively unbothered, given the women. Uncle is near the front of the wagon, checking the horses’ equipment.

“Hey,” you say. “You called for me?”

“We’re tryin’ to get Arthur to take us into town,” Mary-Beth says. “Ain’t you tired of seein’ the same treeline, the same people?”

“Uh, sure, but…” You shrug. “I don’t really care.”

“We can get you some new clothes.” Karen picks at the shoulder of your jacket. “You ain’t exactly… fashion-forward.”

Right, because a trenchcoat with a low-cut blouse is so much better, you think to yourself. Woah! That was really mean. I need to put more effort into avoiding Micah – he’s infecting me. Not that I wanted to hang around him in the first place…

“I guess,” you say. “But I don’t have any money.”

“Valentine ain’t exactly a city teeming with riches,” Tilly points out. “We can get you some clothes cheap enough.”

You give a half-shrug, glancing at the women. “If my clothes are really that bad…”

“‘Sides, Karen’s ‘bout ready to murder Grimshaw,” Mary-Beth says.

“Well, can Miss Grimshaw spare you?” Arthur asks.

“Can Miss Grimshaw spare you?” Karen parrots, exasperated. “What’s happened to you, Arthur? You’re worried about house chores? C’mon, let’s go!”

Arthur looks to the side, then takes the cigarette from his mouth and gestures at the four of you. “Fair enough, you got me. C’mon, then.”

The women whoop and cheer as they climb up onto the wagon. You end up settled across from Tilly, smiling despite the pool of nerves still bubbling in your stomach. Maybe their excitement has infected you? (You’d much prefer to be infected with her excitement rather than Micah’s rudeness.)

“I can’t believe we’re gonna see civilization,” Tilly says. “It feels like weeks since we did.”

“Yeah, Valentine,” Uncle grunts as he climbs up into the front seat. “The very embodiment of civilization! You folks are gonna love it.”

“Okay then.” Arthur hauls himself up into the front seat and takes the reins from Uncle. “Let’s go.”

Uncle directs Arthur out of the camp and onto the road toward Valentine. The ride is bumpy and, even though you do enjoy bitching and moaning about them, you’d much prefer a car right now.

Mary-Beth calls you to attention by saying your name. “I’m curious – what’s the Frontier like?”

“What’re you curious about?” You ask.

“You got any family out there?” Tilly asks, then leans a little closer to you, dropping her voice a bit. “Any sisters Arthur’s age?”

“I can hear y’all,” Arthur calls from the front of the wagon, sending the women into a fit of laughter.

You smile and laugh, leaning back in your seat. “I’ve got a sister, yeah. But she’s too young for Arthur.”

“What’s her name?” Karen asks.

“Serendestiny,” you say. “Our parents were, um… creative?”

The women are sent into another fit of laughter and giggles, echoing “Serendestiny?” and various confused phrases of disbelief. Laughter bubbles up in your throat before you can help it.

“She hates her name, she hates it,” you assure them. “She just goes by Sere.”

“I’d hope so!” Karen laughs. “I wouldn’t know how to live my life with a name like Serendestiny.”

“I don’t know, it’s kinda pretty,” Mary-Beth says, hiding a smile behind her hand. “Is it a combination between serendipity and destiny?”

“I think so,” you say. “I never put that much thought into it.”

A shout from up ahead makes you snap your head towards the front of the wagon. A coach is careening on and off the road. One of the horses kicks and breaks free, bucking and going wild.

“Is one of you gonna get that feller’s horse?” Tilly asks.

“Oh, I got lumbago, it’s very serious,” Uncle says.

Arthur groans and pulls the wagon to a stop, then hops off. “Alright, I’ll see what’s goin’ on…”

You watch as he speaks to the driver, then starts walking over to the horse that broke free. It rears and tosses its head, clearly distressed. But Arthur pays that no mind, instead approaching it with his hands outstretched. You can barely hear him talking softly to the horse.

He’s soft. For once, you see Arthur being soft. He’s gentle as he strokes the horse’s neck, patting it and shushing it. He’s not irritated or annoyed that he has to go out of his way to help someone. Or maybe he just has a soft spot for horses? Who knows. Arthur is slowly turning more and more into a complete mystery.

He moves patiently and slowly as he leads the horse back to the coach driver. The horse doesn’t kick or toss its head – just walks at the pace Arthur set. You’re sure you’d be more impressed if you knew more about horses.

“You’re a gentleman, sir,” the coach driver says. “A true gentleman!”

Arthur mumbles something and climbs back up in the front seat of the wagon. He snaps the reins, and the horses start moving again.

“You’re turning into a regular old fairy godmother there, Arthur,” Uncle says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur asks.

“It means you’ve got a heart,” Mary-Beth says.

Karen nods along. “A small one, perhaps, hidden deep inside, but a real one.”

“And you haven’t, you repulsive old lizard,” Mary-Beth chimes.

Uncle turns and leans over the back of the wagon seat. “Lizards have hearts!”

“Well, Arthur,” Tilly says. “I’m proud of you.”

“To be honest, if you lot hadn’t been here…” Arthur rubs the back of his neck and leans his head back. “I prolly would’a robbed him.”

That elicits a laugh from everyone, and you laugh along even though you don’t really find it funny. You mirror them just to fit in.

“Well, you didn’t!” Mary-Beth says.

Arthur guides the wagon over the train tracks and passes a freight station, officially passing into Valentine. You’re immediately hit by the smell of shit and exhale sharply, your nose wrinkling up on instinct.

“Whew!” Tilly waves her hand in front of her face. “Smell those sheep.”

Karen laughs under her breath. “Or is that Uncle?”

“If Micah were here,” you say, “I’d wager it being him.”

The women and Uncle roar with laughter, and you’re pretty sure you can hear Arthur give a chuckle. You smile and laugh along – genuinely, this time. Micah makes for a good target when he isn’t around to hear it.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Mary-Beth looks around at the houses and buildings. “This looks like a decent little town.”

“Other people,” Tilly agrees. “Finally.”

“Look at all that snow on the mountains.” Karen points to the peaks that cut up into the sky. “Sure don’t wanna be back up there.”

“You think we should’ve asked Molly to come with us?” Tilly asks.

“Oh, no,” Karen immediately says. “Miss O’Shea is far too high and mighty now for the likes of us… or to do any real work. She’s a society lady now.”

You look over at Tilly and sort of feel bad for Molly. You haven’t been able to talk to her much in these past two weeks, but she does seem kind of… disconnected from the rest of the gang. Like she gets her dose of everyone else through Dutch. Maybe you should check on her when you get back.

You half-listen as the women talk about finding work and discuss how gullible and desperate the men in this town must be when their only option besides whores is the ewes. Arthur says something about keeping a low profile.

“Will you remember that, though, Arthur?” Karen teases.

Arthur grumbles. “Probably not.”

The wagon pulls to a stop beside the stables. Men are milling about, guiding horses and carrying saddles.

You hop down off the wagon first and fight back the urge to cringe when you feel your boots sink a quarter of an inch into mud. Instead, you turn and hold out a hand, helping the women down one by one. You figure that they don’t really need it, but it’s still the polite thing to do.

“Here we are, just like I said,” Uncle says as he hops off the front wagon seat. “The cultural center of civilization – man at his finest.”

Karen jabs her thumb over her shoulder. “We’ll start at the saloon, see what we find.”

“Okay,” Arthur says. “Just stay outta trouble and don’t get yourselves noticed.”

“Right, I need to get somethin’ from the stores,” Uncle says. He starts walking, and Arthur falls in step with him, so you just follow.

“We’ll see you at the general store when you’re done,” Arthur calls after the women.

You look around as you follow Arthur and Uncle, not really listening in on their conversation. (You find yourself doing that a lot these days – keeping your head on a swivel like you’re a kid again, zoned out and only focusing on your surroundings.) There’s a hotel, a gunsmith, a law office, a bank… If you didn’t know you were actually-maybe-possibly in the actual year 1899, you’d give props to whoever cultivated a town frozen in time like this.

“This’s the place now.” Uncle slows in front of the general store and opens the door. “C’mon.”

You file into the store after Arthur. The walls are lined with shelves and cabinets stocked with goods, along with a table in the middle with even more items for sale.

“Here.” Arthur hands you a ten dollar bill. “Get yourself somethin’ new. You been livin’ in those clothes for a while now.”

“Oh.” You take the money from him. “Yeah, I… I guess I have. Thanks.”

You peruse the limited stock of clothing while Arthur and Uncle talk some more. You keep a careful eye on the price and pray that sales taxes aren’t a thing yet. And if they are, you pray that they’re included on the price tag.

Eventually, you decide on a nondescript, grey button-up, along with an extra pair of jeans. It makes you feel bad that you’re spending extra money, but you add on a belt because the jeans honestly seem a little too big.

The clerk hands you your change – $2.35. You tuck it in your jacket pocket.

“Do you have a changing room?” You ask. “I wanna get out of these clothes.”

The clerk shrugs. “You can use the stockroom, I guess.”

You thank him and head into the stockroom behind the till. It’s not much bigger than a janitor’s closet. Still, you do the best you can to change without knocking anything over.

When you’re done, you shrug your jacket back on and feel something poke you in the side. You reach to feel it, and… it’s your wallet. You completely forgot about your wallet.

You open it, and sure enough, it still has everything you kept in it. Credit card, debit card, health insurance, COVID vaccination card… money. There’s a ten and a five jammed behind your credit card, and a few coins. Enough to pay Arthur back.

You fold your clothes and tuck them under your arm, then exit the stockroom. You thank the clerk again, then turn to Uncle.

“I’m gonna put these back on the wagon,” you say.

“We’ll be done soon enough,” he says. “Just wait for us outside.”

You nod and exit the store. The walk to the wagon is short. You hop up on the back and tuck your clothes in a small chest underneath the seat.

When you return to the general store, Arthur and Uncle are outside, sitting on a bench next to the front door. You take a seat next to Arthur – not that you have much of a choice regarding that.

Uncle leans his elbow on his knee and looks over at you, holding out a bottle. “You want some whiskey?”

“No, I’m good.” You wave it away.

“Well, I’ll drink to your health for you.” Uncle takes a hearty drink from the bottle.

You exhale sharply in a lazy laugh. “Thank you, Uncle.”

“What a generous man you are,” Arthur chimes.

“It’s a funny world,” Uncle says. “This time in my career, I pictured myself being married to an heiress.”

“Oh, that reminds me.” You pull the ten dollar bill from your pocket and nudge Arthur’s arm. “I found this in the stockroom.”

There’s a pause. You nudge him again, harder. You can almost feel the warmth of his skin through his leather jacket. “I… I don’t like feeling indebted. Just take it.”

Arthur takes the money and tucks it into his satchel. “You know you didn’t have to do that, right?”

“It’s nothing.” You set your hand in your lap, away from his. “Just call us even.”

“Even we are, then,” he says.

You hum and lean against the back of the bench. The men talk while you people-watch. It’s barely noon, but some men are already stumbling around, tipsy, if not drunk entirely.

You’re not sure how long you’re sat there with Uncle and Arthur, but Mary-Beth quickly snaps you out of your stupor. She’s walking fast, and the smile on her face tells you how excited she is. She prattles on about sneaking into a rich house and hearing about a train passing through soon.

“O…kay,” Arthur says.

Mary-Beth rolls her eyes, exasperated at his apparent thick-headedness. “A train laden with baggage, passing through a bit of deserted country at night, as to get to the docks in time for the tides, in someplace called Scarlett Meadows.”

Uncle raises a hand. “Yeah, I know it… It’s right out near New Hanover. It’s real quiet out there.”

“Sounds good,” Arthur says. “Where’s Tilly and Karen?”

“I think at the hotel,” Mary-Beth says. “They were pickin’ up some drunken fellers that they was gonna rob.”

A cold shock runs down your spine and your eyes snap up to Mary-Beth. She looks unconcerned, but the only thought in your mind is the possibilities of them being dead or nearing death. Bloody noses, whimpering, pleading for their lives.

Arthur feels the same, you can guess. His tone is stern and his voice is clipped as he spits out a “Why?”

“Seemed easy.” She checks over her shoulder at the hotel. “They have been gone for quite a while…”

You quickly get to your feet. “We’re getting them.”

You scan the other side of the street and see the skirt of a yellow dress disappearing around a corner, down an alley. It’s Tilly – you’re sure of it.

“Give me your gun.” You look at Uncle. He’s just looking back at you, bottle of whiskey still in hand. You leer closer, your lip curling. “Your gun, Uncle. Now.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a revolver. You snatch the gun by the barrel and ready it in your dominant hand.

You step down from the porch of the general store and almost storm across the street. You can hear Tilly’s voice, panicked and shouting. Nobody else seems to be paying her any attention.

“You can go kiss a damn snake for all I care,” you can hear her yell. “Get off me!”

You round the corner to see a man holding Tilly up against the wall of a building, grabbing at her. You stride up the stairs and shout: “Hey!”

You point the revolver at the man, tilting your shoulders and looking down the barrel like you were taught. The iron sights find his chest.

“Who the hell d’you think you are?” You spit. “Get your hands off her!”

“Who are you?” The man drawls, still holding Tilly against the wall.

“You think that matters?” You grit your teeth, your lip curling into a snarl.

The man moves away from Tilly, letting his arm fall and freeing her. “You really think you’re so high and mighty?”

You pull the hammer back with your thumb. “I think that you need to run while you still can.”

The man takes a step back, glancing at Tilly. He points at her like it’s meant to be threatening. “You’re making a big mistake, Tilly Jackson.”

“Just get lost,” she says.

He turns and walks away. You keep your gun trained on his back until he turns the corner. When he disappears, you exhale heavily and close your eyes. Your hands are starting to shake. Your whole body is starting to shake.

“Take the gun.” You hold the revolver out to Tilly, holding it by the barrel. “Tilly, please take the gun.”

She takes the gun and decocks the hammer. You take a few steps back until your back meets the wall of the store, then slide down until you’re squatting. You breathe out a sigh, rubbing your hands over your face. You’re still shaking, and the adrenaline drop is making you feel like shit.

“Thank you.” Tilly puts a hand on your shoulder. “Are you feelin’ okay?”

“No,” you say. You bring your hands away from your face and look over at her. “Are you okay? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“I’m fine,” she says. A soft smile crosses her face. “Y’know, for such a bundle of nerves, you sure handle yourself well when it comes to unpleasant men.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Don’t mention it.”

You close your eyes and tilt your head back until it hits the wall and rest there for a moment. You feel like absolute shit. You’re lightheaded, you’re exhausted, and you can feel sweat dampening your new shirt.

You rub a hand over your chest and hit your sternum to wake yourself up. You stand up and take the revolver from Tilly, tucking it in your belt.

“The others are waiting.” You jerk your head to the side.

Tilly follows you towards the wagon. You glance over at the hotel, where Karen is following Arthur down the steps. The corner of her mouth is bloody, but apart from that, she looks relatively untouched.

“You okay?” Tilly asks.

“Sure, he only punched me.” Karen flexes and massages her jaw. “Arthur punched him a lot harder.”

“Hey.” Mary-Beth looks over your shoulder. “Who’s that guy over there looking at us?”

You check over your shoulder and, sure enough, there’s a man atop a horse, staring at your little group.

“Weren’t you in Blackwater a few weeks back?” He calls to Arthur.

“Me?” Arthur says. “No, sir. Ain’t from there.”

“Oh, you were,” the man says. “I definitely saw you! With a bunch of fellers.”

“Me? No. Impossible,” Arthur says. He starts walking towards the man. “Listen, buddy. Come here for a minute.”

“I saw you…”

“C’mere.”

The man spurs his horse and takes off. Arthur looks back and points at Uncle.

“Go get all ‘em home.” He approaches a random nearby horse and puts his boot in the stirrup. “I’m gonna go have a word with our friend.”

“Be careful, Arthur,” Tilly says as he mounts up.

Arthur takes off with an exclamation of “Just a word!”

There’s a moment where you and the others just stare after him as he rides, his figure rapidly retreating as he chases the man from Blackwater. Then, you look away and move towards the wagon.

“Let’s go,” Tilly says. “I think I’ve had about enough of Valentine for today.”

You take her hand and help her up into the back of the wagon. “I couldn’t agree more.”

[darkkitty1208]

a serirei prompt for you :D serizawa gets hurt from a spirit and reigen has to save them both

Thank you for the prompt! 💖 I cheated a little and had a certain someone else come in clutch but I think this still fits the prompt. :)

crisis averted

Summary:

It had at first seemed like your run-of-the-mill, standard evil spirit case. Go to the alleged haunted location, find the spirit, exorcise it, and then be off on their merry ways with thicker wallets and a sense of self-satisfaction. In and out, quick and easy.  That, as it turns out, is not the case this time. OR A case gone awry.

Word count: 3,221

Tags/Warnings: Canon-typical Violence, Concussion, Canon-typical Anime-level Medical (In)Accuracy, Big Scary Evil Spirit, Possession, No Beta We Die Like My Sleep Schedule, a hint of Pining Reigen Arataka

AO3

Reigen has made a big mistake. Well, he’s made a lot of big mistakes in his lifetime, but he supposes this one isn’t any less worth noting. 

Actually, scratch that. He’s made several big mistakes. This one unequivocally included. 

The first mistake he’s made goes all the way back to the time he decided on quitting his old watercooler job and starting his own spirit consultation business. Sure, it’s his best worst mistake yet, with all the good things it has brought to his life—and he’s sure the company would’ve gotten him laid off down the line anyway—but if he hadn’t made the stupidly bold move of turning in his resignation letter way back when then he wouldn’t have been here on a chase-down with a godawful evil spirit trying to play an unbearable game of something between tag and hide and seek with them.

The second mistake he’s made is choosing to wake up that morning. If only he had stayed in bed, closed up shop for the day, or simply decided to no longer exist, then he wouldn’t have replied with an immediate affirmative to the client email he finds on his laptop sitting on the office desk that morning. 

The third mistake, which is probably the biggest mistake yet, is actually accepting the case and heading straight into his ultimate demise. 

Which, Reigen finds, is currently his complete lack of athletic stamina and endurance. He should really work out more.  

It had at first seemed like your run-of-the-mill, standard evil spirit case. Go to the alleged haunted location, find the spirit, exorcise it, and then be off on their merry ways with thicker wallets and a sense of self-satisfaction. In and out, quick and easy. 

That, as it turns out, is not the case this time. This time, apparently, is a case involving a particularly troublesome and audaciously impenitent spirit. And admittedly a very quick one. 

Reigen has since lost track of how long he and Serizawa have been running around the abandoned building, up and down the staircases to catch it. It flits quickly between one room to another, and every time they get close enough it’s always faster to escape. Reigen isn’t even sure anymore what it looks like; one second it’s a long shadow across the wall, the next second it’s dark smoke curling in a corner, and the next it’s a jet black, worm-like, gooey substance of some sort twisting about. It doesn’t seem to have any sense of shape or volume, morphing its form into its own whims—which makes it all the more frustrating for them both, it seems. 

He lets out a grumble of frustration between laboured breaths as the spirit flies up the stairs yet again, feet skidding to a halt. He turns to Serizawa, who almost looks absolutely defeated but nowhere near as horribly so as he is. At least in terms of sweat patches and dignity. He’s stopped running when he saw Reigen did, too. 

“This is not working,” Reigen says, breathless. They’ve tried splitting up, predicting its next moves and attempting to back it up into a corner, but the spirit never stays in the same spot for more than three seconds and somehow always finds a way to flee from them. It’s a slippery, annoying little thing. Reigen has not run this much since Mob’s marathon, and even then he hardly made it halfway through before nearly passing out. There was also that time he chased Mob during his psychic outburst, but… he doesn’t count that one; it was by pure luck he managed to survive that. 

Serizawa’s giving him that helpless, “what do we do now?” look he often dons when he’s confused about social cues or situations he does not know how to handle without guidance or assistance. Reigen resists the urge to don his own “I don’t even know what I’m doing” look. Instead he puts on his confident “it may not look like it but I absolutely know exactly what I’m doing” look which, to be frank, contrasts to the way that he does not, in fact, know exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s got everything handled. He does. He just needs to figure out how to. 

He pants, swallows the excess saliva in his mouth, and places his hands on his hips in what he hopes looks like the pose of a man who knows what he’s doing. He hopes to god the pit stains are not as visible as they feel. Curse him for choosing to wear a grey suit while being the sweatiest man alive. 

He thinks for a moment and considers their options. There’s not much to consider. 

One: they give up and inform the client of their failure. Not a chance. Partly because he can’t let an evil spirit roam about and potentially endanger any passerbys, but also because he wants to keep the Spirits and Such reputation intact. 

…Also partly due to the fact that they haven’t gotten many cases lately, and Reigen’s tired of eating cup noodles and cheap convenience store onigiris for the past week or so, and the client promises to pay them handsomely if they manage to get this stupid little bastard of a spirit terminated for good. 

Two: they call Mob. But Reigen will only resort to calling Mob when absolutely necessary—he’s promised himself that. The kind of cases that require bringing out the big guns—that being his trusty middle schooler/friend/student with powers that can blow your mind literally and figuratively—or especially dire ones where he’s left with no other choice, like that time with Rusty-sama and the mimic. This is not an absolutely necessary kind of situation, so he refrains himself. 

And three…

“Can’t you—” he wipes sweat off his brow. It doesn’t do much when his hands also happen to be sweaty. “Can’t you just, I don’t know— call the spirit here? To us?” 

…come up with a plan on the fly, because if Reigen Arataka is anything, it’s that he’s good at improv-ing his way through any situation. Even if said plan is a mere hypothetical. 

Serizawa drops his look of helplessness, his features morphing into that of understanding. Like he’s just realised something, or came up with a viable solution. It gives Reigen some relief. See? They know what they’re doing. Everything’s handled. Being handled, but still. His point stands.

“I can probably use my aura to do that,” he says, equally breathless, “I can extend it throughout the building and beckon it to us. It might take a while but, it might— it might actually work, I think.”

“Yeah?” Reigen says, nodding decidedly. He takes a couple steps back to give Serizawa space to do his thing. “Alright, then. Go on, Serizawa. Do your—” he makes sluggish, vague gestures with his hand, mostly out of habit. “your thing.” 

Serizawa nods back, curt and confident in a way that shouldn’t make his stomach flip because that isn’t what stomachs do. Stomachs cannot flip. They do not. Reigen knows this. 

Serizawa seems to take a moment to compose himself, steadying his breaths. And then he raises a hand upwards, eyes closed in deep concentration as a small crease forms between his brows. Reigen gulps in air as he watches, shoving his hands in his pockets as he doesn’t know what to do with them. 

He feels charged, static energy filling the air, making the thin hairs on his skin raise on end, the familiar, warm buzz of Serizawa’s aura filling the room completely, overflowing out into the rest of the building. He watches, entranced, as the curls stuck to Serizawa’s forehead begin to float upwards, a subtle iridescent glow about him. 

It seems to go on for a while—Reigen doesn’t exactly mind. Not in the slightest. Serizawa always looks so confident when he’s using his powers like this; his large, steady hands channeling powerful energy, his broad shoulders in a sure line and his face a picture of determination, ready to protect and attack for whatever threat lays ahead… 

Reigen swallows. This is not the time to be thinking about how big and strong his coworker is. God, did it just get hotter in here? Is he sweating a little more? Surely it’s from the run. It still counts as plausible deniability if it’s partly true. Right? Right.

And then he catches something swift and black slinking past the corner of his vision, slipping through doorways and windows and gaps between the walls, seemingly changing and moving with every blink of his eyes. 

He turns to Serizawa, whose frown has deepened into a near scowl as he suddenly drops his hand, the familiar energy of his aura dispersing quickly as his eyes blink open. A warning is at the tip of his tongue. 

“Reigen-san, I think—” 

Reigen flits his eyes to behind his shoulder, stumbles back a step. “Uhh, Serizawa. Hold that thought because—” 

“No, this is serious. I don’t know why I only feel this now, may-maybe it was doing it in small increments before? But—” 

“Serizawa, it—” 

“Reigen-san. I think the spirit’s absorbing my energy.” 

“Well it happens to be behind you!” 

Serizawa turns around just as a large hand emerges from the dark, spiralling mass, its form swooping unsteadily in the air as its weight accustoms to gravity, steadying before knocking Serizawa off his feet and sending him flying to the side to slam against the wall before he gets the chance to dodge it. He hears a crack, and hopes it’s just the bricks. 

"Serizawa!" Reigen calls, uselessly, "Shit!" 

He turns to the spirit, and finds himself staring at… nothing. It’s a void, completely black and featureless. Its edges blur out like it isn’t meant to be here. Like it doesn’t quite fit in this world. Once or twice Reigen catches what must be an eye, or a limb, or a head, but it never seems to be definite. 

His eyes scan his surroundings to find a way to slip out and potentially call for help. He looks around frantically. 

There. The doorway, rid of its door and hinges. He just needs to slip past the writhing mass of nothingness and dash down the stairs. 

Half-baked plan in mind, Reigen doesn’t spare a second before he goes for it. He runs to the side, avoiding a whipping band that swipes over his head, but the spirit—or whatever it is—only seems to grow bigger and bigger, taking up more and more space until it blocks off his exit completely. He drives himself to a halt, wracking his mind for a next step, because Reigen always has a next step. Surely a bright, brilliant idea will appear in his mind right about now. Surely he’ll make it out safe and save the day. Surely there is a next step. 

As he’s slowly backed into a corner, breathless and sweating and just about ready to pass out, Reigen realises that perhaps he does not know what he’s doing after all. 

And that, thus far, is his biggest mistake yet. 

The spirit seems to raise itself into an upwards spiral, and then broadening to stretch itself out in a shape he could only describe as a clawed prehensile, spread wide and ready to catch its prey, and—

A flash of bright green suddenly bathes his vision. 

“Your cavalry has arrived!” Dimple announces aloud with his voice. 

You’re late! Reigen points out in his head, but can’t deny that he’s glad to relinquish his body for Dimple’s use. Dimple seems to wince at his non-existent volume. 

“Jeez, not even a thank you?” 

I had it handled. 

“Sure.” He swerves Reigen’s body to the side to avoid the hit, and he has to admit—he isn’t sure himself if he would be able to make that acrobatic twist-jump. He would be grateful if it weren’t for the fact that Dimple is, well… Dimple. “Let’s see—Seri-chan is knocked out over there, you were about to get your ass kicked—ha! This definitely looks like you had everything under control!” 

Reigen makes a mental grumble, but doesn’t resist Dimple poking around inside him for control. He watches himself dodge another hit, legs flying underneath him, head ducking down and to the side. 

“So what’s the plan?” 

Reigen has to grasp at his last mental devices to formulate one, and spits out the first thing that comes to mind. Can you eat this thing? 

“Are you crazy?!” He sounds incredulous. It sounds unusual coming from Reigen’s vocal cords. “This thing knocked Seri out—” He dodges another hit, “and you expect me to eat it? It might eat me for all I know! It’s already trying to!”

Dimple has a point. He looks at the spirit, and Reigen may not be a psychic, but even he can tell this one’s a powerful one. He can practically feel the threatening, malevolent energy emanating from it. 

“Why didn’t you just call Mob?!” 

No! 

He feels his own brows cinch together of their own accord—well, he supposes, of Dimple’s. 

“Why the hell not?” 

He’s in cram school right now! I can’t just—

“This thing’s about to kill us!” 

Well— 

Something like a yelp escapes his lips as a long, writhing thing swings itself at them, swiping them off their feet. As he feels his back slam against the ground, it registers to him that all his senses are now all his own. He tries to feel his arms, flex his fingers, looks to the side and, sure enough, Dimple’s amorphous form floats a good distance away. 

“It knocked me out!” 

Reigen feels the panic rise up his throat. This spirit hit them with enough force to knock Dimple out of his possessed body. 

Just then, a tendril wraps around his ankles and lifts him up into the air. He lets out a “Whoah!” as it holds him up unsteadily, feeling the blood rush to his head as he looks at the twisting form upside-down. 

“Heeyyy, buddy—” He puts his hands up in front of him in a placating manner, “Why don’t we just—” He yelps as its grip only tightens, the tendril lengthening around his legs and up his thighs and spinning him about until it has itself wrapped all the way up—or in this case, down—his clavicle. 

The skin at the lumpy center of it that he assumes is its head—was it even skin? Was it even flesh?—tears itself in the center, widening into a gaping hole where sharp teeth grow in circular rows and rows that end far down what he assumes is its now open mouth. The tentacle-limb-thing dangles him closer to the entrance, head mere inches from the slimy tongue that reaches up and out, and suddenly there are limbs and tentacles and arms looming over, and the creature’s mouth is wide open and ready to engulf him—

And then a familiar purple glow slices clean through in one, swift motion, and the spirit turns to smoke with one last, aggrieved screech and a blinding explosion of multicolour light. 

Reigen drops to the ground with an “ack!”, wincing as he rubs the back of his head and refrains to do the same to his pelvis. He muffles a sound of pain between clenched teeth, blinking his eyes open as everything seems to tilt and move before focusing and becoming steady again. 

The smoke dissipates, and Serizawa stands in the middle of it. Reigen notices the tell-tale, twin red patches on his cheeks. There’s blood trailing down his forehead. 

“Dimple,” he says, struggling onto his feet. He sways, catches himself, and grunts under his breath. He trudges forward, hand coming up to grab his sore elbow. “Is Serizawa…?”

“He’s in here,” Dimple answers before he even finishes his question, “Conscious. Must’ve woken him up when I possessed him.” 

Reigen nods. “Right. He’s concussed, is he?” 

Dimple scoffs a little with a pointed look. “Yeah. He’s not the only one, apparently.” 

Reigen rolls his eyes, but immediately screws them shut when that only serves to aggravate the sharp pain in his head. 

Curse Dimple. He’s right. 

“I’m fine,” Reigen waves him off. “The spirit’s gone, right? How’d you even do it?”

Dimple makes a face that does not seem like one Serizawa would ever pull. He shrugs. “Dunno. It must’ve been too occupied trying to eat you.” 

“Why was it even…?”

Dimple shrugs Serizawa’s shoulders again, face uncharacteristically callous. “Who am I to judge? I’m pretty disappointed that it didn’t.” 

Reigen huffs. Of course Dimple would say that after being the one to stop the spirit from doing exactly that. 

He draws himself to his full height, patting down the dust off his suit and straightening the creases and his tie, ignoring the multiple aches and cuts and scrapes all over his body. He’ll deal with those later.

“I’ll just go back down to talk to the client and collect our pay. And then we’ll—” He winces again at the idea of more bills. Guess this means more cup noodles this week. “—we’ll go get Serizawa to the hospital.” 

“And you?” 

He resists the eye roll this time. “And me.” 

Dimple scoffs again, and it’s rather unsettling to see Serizawa with his mannerisms like that. He seems to pause for a moment, as if having some mental conversation that Reigen isn’t a part of which does not make him pout, and then nods to himself. 

Dimple slips out, and the red marks leave with him. Serizawa’s face turns into a grimace, lax shoulders immediately hiked up in typical Serizawa manner, and his eyes slam shut as he staggers forward. 

“Whoa, there—” Reigen catches him gently by the shoulders. “You good there, big guy?”

Reigen watches his Adam's apple bob as Serizawa swallows. He lets out a low hum, managing a weak, “Yeah, just— slammed all at once, you know?” 

Reigen hums back sympathetically. He gets that. The disconnection from your body when being possessed alleviates the pain significantly—the pain from his wounds must’ve hit him all at once when Dimple left his body, Reigen figures. He had been the same back during his confrontation with Mob, but Reigen knows how to hide those things well behind sure words, sheer determination and willpower, and maybe the still-coursing adrenaline in his veins. 

“How’s the head?” 

Serizawa makes a pained grunt. “It… could be better.” 

Reigen huffs a small laugh. “Gotcha.” 

“How about yours, Reigen-san? Are you alright? I— I don’t know what happened but—” 

God, Serizawa’s the one injured and he’s still fretting over him. This guy. 

“Oh don’t worry about it, Serizawa,” he waves a flippant hand, “You’re the one injured. And anyway, it…” He recalls the concussion he had after the chase with Mob. He shrugs. “It could be worse.” 

Serizawa looks somewhere between unconvinced and eternally concerned. Reigen just shrugs again. Dimple mutters something about idiots and having to save their asses all the time. Reigen pretends he doesn’t hear. Serizawa sends Dimple an apologetic look. 

All in all, Reigen counts this case as a success. He can regret all those mistakes some other time when he’s ready to confront them and mentally prepared for an existential crisis—for now, though, he’s just glad everything worked out fine. 

[mxriviera]

What if there were more "Dummy Cogs" like The Desk Jockeys in TTCC?

Warning? None of this is probably canon compliant. Please don't be mad they're just silly little guys..

Well uh? wonder no longer??? Prism (me) has made the fan-tier just for you! Initially drafted to help toons learn about more advanced concepts like Specialists, Battle Adaption, Corporate Tiers and... Boss Fights? These silly little things proved a bit too volatile to control, and with the enemy cogs finding them to be a bit too wacky and unprofessional to be properly "influenced" It's been said that they have been sent to where all junk goes. The scrapyard in the outskirts of town!

Though... its been said, if you're exceptionally quiet, you could hear the scrapped Dummy Cogs, wandering and making the closest attempts at speech to each other.

At the second to the bottom of the tier and above desk jockeys we have: Kitchen Slob & Associate Specialist: Work-A-Holic!

Inspired by the messy looks of Throw and Squirt Gags, as well as some less than helpful habits. rambling about name choices and designs below the cut!

Kitchen Slob: somebody, who leaves dirty dishes on the counter or in the sink, abandons meals in the microwave and forgets about food that they placed in the fridge.

I wanted to base Kitchen Slob off of the messy splotches off of throw gag residue! As well as the aforementioned dirty dishes and misplaced cookery and food. His eyes are googly eyes, giving him a silly wall eyed stare. i also like to think it shakes when it gets hit. He's a bit of a mess, he doesnt know how to tie his bowtie and his hands are always covered in some sort of goo, whatever it is, it's ALWAYS sticky! Gross!

Work-a-holic: a person who works compulsively. A workaholic experiences an inability to limit the amount of time they spend on work despite negative consequences such as damage to their relationships or health.

Work-a-holic was something I really wanted to delve in. He has a lot of more subtle reasoning behind his design. I initially wanted his design to be more akin to be the water coolers you find in an office. But then I realized, toons DONT have water coolers like that. The cooler you see in the training room is just a giant seltzer bottle. Considering where they're made, A schoolhouse, I wanted to go for a watercooler you'd see in P.E or in school sports! Though the nod to the workplace watercooler is still there, with the stacks of colorful paper triangle cups you'd see attached to the office cooler. He's just as much of a mess as Kitchen Slob, if the Kitchen Slob is Sticky, this guy is weirdly always wet, and always smelling like mildew. The both of them are subtle but serious health risks. Gross!

anyways i love them!!

bonus kitchen slob for cool people who bothered to read all that above it.

[art-of-manliness]

10 Ways to Be a Better Husband Today

To countenance the statistics on divorce is to recognize that happy, lasting marriages do not happen by default. In strong marriages, each spouse, rather than sinking into indifference and complacency, makes an effort to do things that leave their partner enamored and appreciative. To find out what kinds of things tend to have this effect when coming from the man in the marriage, I talked to Kate and some other married women about what husbands do on a day-to-day basis that make them swoon. Below, I’ll share what I learned from them and from the many relationship experts I’ve interviewed on the AoM podcast. If you’ve already got a good relationship with your wife, these suggestions can help strengthen that bond and further boost its happiness. If your marriage has been struggling, then engaging in these behaviors might help change the course of its trajectory. There can sometimes be a tendency in these situations for someone to think, “Why should I make an effort if she isn’t?” But often all it takes to get a relationship back on track is for one person to take the initiative in acting in a different way. Once one person starts sowing positive behavioral seeds, the other person becomes less defensive and instinctively starts acting in kind. A stalemate is broken and a virtuous cycle begins that turns the relationship around. If your wife doesn’t reciprocate by leveling up her own relational game, then, yes, that probably means your marriage needs a more serious/professional intervention. But why not try the simple behaviors below first? 10 Ways to Be Better Husband Today 1. Be an interesting conversationalist. Marriage is essentially one long conversation, and when the quality of the conversation between spouses sags, so does the quality of the relationship. When you come home from work and your wife asks how your day was, don’t just say, “Fine,” and leave it at that. Even if not much happened, dig up a detail or two to share. Intentionally collect conversational fodder during the day to share when you and your spouse catch up. Remember some interesting tidbit of office gossip you heard around the watercooler at work. Read interesting articles that catch your eye and file away some details you can talk about later. Be mulling over ideas you’ve heard so that if your wife asks, “What have you been thinking about lately?” you’ll have something to say. While one of the privileges of a close, long-standing relationship is the ability to comfortably sit in silence, in the healthiest relationships, you enjoy conversing so much that you rarely want to. 2. Leave love notes. Through years of watching marriages fall apart, divorce lawyer James Sexton has learned a thing or two about how to reverse engineer things and keep a relationship together. As he shared on the AoM podcast (his episode is such a good one; be sure to listen to it), his strongest suggestion for avoiding ever having to see him in his office is to simply “leave your wife a note every morning for a couple of weeks”: just leave her a note, just a little, ‘Hey, Babe, thanks for last night on the couch watching TV. It was so nice, like the smell of you just makes me so happy. I fell asleep with it on me.’ Or ‘you looked so pretty when I woke up this morning and I’m so glad to have such a wonderful woman in my life. I love you.’ And that takes you 30 seconds, and I’m telling you that little tiny investment of time and effort will pay dividends like you wouldn’t believe. If you want to really challenge yourself, leave your wife a love note every week for a year, like this guy did. 3. Be a man with a plan. One woman I spoke to said she really appreciates it when her husband comes up with a plan for a date night or family outing and then executes it without her having to worry about anything. “Plans really turn me on!” she declared. Don’t wait around for your wife to plan your next date or family microadventure. Come up with an idea for a good time and then carry it out. 4. Perform small acts of… http://dlvr.it/TBGnF6

[annadelveys]

btw we have a new polish lesbian coworker and let me tell you its SO MUCH FUN to workplace flirt with a woman for once. like i workplace flirt with pretty much every single at-least-semi-hot guy /this is an incredibly male-dominated working environment/ because that's just who i am, i am a flirty person. but now. NOW i get to workplace flirt with a woman for hours. like who has that. i am asking you. how many people are lucky enough that they can have a proper lesbian flirt by the watercooler & no one can say shit about it. truly i might be the luckiest person on earth.

[pikslasrce]

me (internally): oh my god. another gay perso– wait its not right to assume peoples identity based on stereotypes like tha– but look at him. the mullet. the chunky highlights. the way he talks– okok. im not the only gay person h– WAIT hes coming this way look approachable

me (externally): *stares homophobically*

[feralbutfluffy]

42: Crowley

Chapter 42 of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably

*******************************************

"What were you thinking? I'd already said I didn't need an apology! Yeah, look, I was still angry before, but then you - stupidly, by the way - went back up there - like an idiot, I might add - and you killed The Metatron. That tears up the ledger, Aziraphale."

Muriel had left to escort a scandalised Saraqael back to Heaven to recover. They'd concocted a cover story involving a demonic pyromaniac, although Saraqael had recovered enough strength to hide their wings so Crowley was really, really hoping the story wouldn’t be necessary...

Muriel had come up with most of it.

On their way out, Muriel had said that seeing the apology dance in all its glory had probably been the thing to shock Saraqael back to themselves, and privately Crowley had to agree. They'd looked so affronted he'd briefly thought there might be a Victorian-era swoon and Aziraphale would have to locate his smelling salts from the 19th century. There was no doubt that somewhere in the bookshop, Aziraphale had smelling salts. That seemed inarguable; the angel was a veritable hoarder of nostalgic sentimentalities.

Anyway.

Saraqael (and Muriel, once Aziraphale had pointed out they might not be well enough to go alone) had left the bookshop in haste that would have been offensive if Crowley hadn’t been so glad to see them leave. They had healed him, and he was grateful, but he couldn’t shake the fact that hanging out with an archangel made him feel like a cat getting rubbed up the wrong way. 

Well. That particular archangel, anyway. 

The other archangel - the Supreme one who had just twirled and bowed before him like Salome - was distractedly leafing through papers on the desk, studiously avoiding Crowley’s gaze.

"Whatever chance I may have had to redeem myself only came to pass as a result of my original actions,” Aziraphale said stiffly. “You were still owed an apology dance for the original offense."

Crowley let his head fall back and closed his eyes. 

“How noble of you,” he said, only half-mockingly. “Did that debt really require you to bow submissively in the presence of two angels? Muriel’s… fine, probably - that one's as loyal as a hound - but if Saraqael’s the gossip-at-the-holy-watercooler type you’re never going to hear the end of it Upstairs. They’ll think I have some sort of power over you.” 

He smirked as he tried to imagine Saraqael describing the dance to a cluster of horrified angels. He found it harder to imagine than he thought he would, actually. Aziraphale was probably safe enough from the office rumour mill.

Still. Aziraphale hated doing that dance, which was part of why Crowley so enjoyed asking him to do it. That, and the sensual, warm, coiling feeling he always got at the end, when Aziraphale swept into his ludicrously dramatic bow and looked up at him like he was a knight pledging loyalty to his liege. 

Having witnesses had significantly diminished his enjoyment.

Aziraphale had fallen silent, and Crowley opened one eye to see the angel staring down at the ground with an odd look on his face. Crowley opened his other eye and lifted his head to fix him with a questioning frown. Had he upset him?

Aziraphale fiddled with the hem of his jacket and then, in a shy, coy voice Crowley barely recognised, said, “Don’t you?”

Every single thought in Crowley’s head instantly abandoned him, leaving him stranded in a whited-out moment of blinding confusion. What was he asking? What had he said? He tried to remember what had preceded the question, but some subconscious part of him must have heard, understood, and abruptly shut down his mental processes, because he couldn’t catch hold of a single coherent thought.

“Mn?” 

Aziraphale tilted his head, attention now fixed on the base of the desk. 

“Don’t you?” He repeated. This time his tone was mild, almost disinterested. Deceptively casual.

Whatever Crowley had said, he’d said it less than a minute ago. Bit alarming, thought Crowley, trying to stay calm about the fact that his short-term memory now had the structural integrity of Swiss cheese. What had he been rambling about? Something about Saraqael gossiping… His frown deepened, and then, finally, he managed to scrape together enough cognitive ability to recall the last thing he’d said. 

‘They’ll think I have some sort of power over you.’

‘Don’t you?’

He pitched forward gracelessly, searching Aziraphale’s downturned face for sarcasm or mockery. His muscles were rigid with tension. What was the angel playing at?

Aziraphale slowly, reluctantly, dragged his gaze upward.

They locked eyes. 

Crowley found no humour there. Aziraphale had the wide, wet, terrified look of a rabbit realising they’ve been cornered by a fox. 

Presumably he was the fox in this analogy. 

He sighed. Whatever fear was thrumming through Aziraphale, it was entirely self-imposed; Crowley was in no condition to be pouncing on anything except maybe a pillow.  He felt so, so tired. Physically, yes, but also tired of talking round in circles, tired of the same arguments in different guises, tired of 6000 years spent running to stand still, tired of stitching up his wounded heart every time Aziraphale took fright and disappeared.

‘They’ll think I have some sort of power over you.’

‘Don’t you?’

“No,” he said wearily, absent-mindedly touching the cut under his eye. He felt the dried blood there, hard and rough beneath his fingertip. It stung a bit when he pressed it, and the narrow point of uncomplicated pain was a welcome distraction. Aziraphale’s question had rubbed raw a hurt he'd been making a heroic effort to ignore.

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to disagree, and Crowley felt annoyance flare in his chest. His hand dropped, clenching into a fist against his thigh. “If I had any sort of power over you, you’d have stayed, don’t you think?” He tried to keep his voice soft. He wasn’t trying to hurt Aziraphale, but it was the truth. 

“When they asked you to go - and I shouldn't need to tell you this, because you already know - I used everything in my power to ask you to stay.” He stared evenly at Aziraphale, whose mouth was pressed into an unhappy line. “Was it enough?”

Aziraphale was silent. 

“So, to answer your question again: no.” Crowley broke eye contact, his eyes burning. 

Aziraphale was up and sitting next to him before he had a chance to finish the sentence, thigh pressed against Crowley’s, eyes fixed on his face. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. You’ve said. It’s fine. You’re forgiven. It’s…” he tugged at his sleeve and cleared his throat. “It’s in the past. Just don’t- don't say things like that. Feels…”

Cruel. 

“...a bit thoughtless.” Crowley shifted uncomfortably, trying to create an inch or two of space between them.

Aziraphale was still staring at him. He could feel it through his skin, like a tingle. He valiantly resisted the urge to press his hand to it.

“Muriel told me you went to sleep after I left. They said you were sleeping right up until they woke you. How long were you planning to sleep for?” Aziraphale said, and his voice was gentle and sad and, frankly, unbearable.

The shadow of pity in Aziraphale’s voice was enough to spring the trap of Crowley’s temper. He spoke without thinking, tit-for-tat on the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah? Muriel told me about your diary entry from 1941.”

He regretted the words instantly.

S orry Muriel.

“What?” Aziraphale blanched and leaned away from him. 

Crowley wondered if there was a way to backtrack. He doubted the angel would buy it. 

Damage limitation it is.

“Just, ah, broad strokes. General jist. That sort of thing. Nothing too, ah, detailed.”

He thought he must be glowing with the lie. He darted a look at Aziraphale, whose eyes had that wet, hunted look about them again. Brilliant. Back to being the fox, and this time he had brought it on himself.

Well, he’d heard the best defense was a good offence… 

“Look. Right. So. They might have mentioned- You wrote- " Oh, this was agonising. "You wrote that I made your heart hammer…” 

Aziraphale didn’t so much as blink; he looked absolutely horrified. Crowley narrowed his eyes and continued, “...from fear. You wrote that I made your heart hammer from fear ."

Not a flicker of movement.

"... And then earlier, before our date with The Metatron, you said and I quote, ' You’ve never frightened me, Crowley .' Those were your exact words. So. I’d like to know who you’re lying to, because they can’t both be true.”

Crowley’s eyes caught on a hint of movement; Aziraphale’s hands were shaking. Part of Crowley wanted to stop then, wanted to sink back into himself, apologise for anything and everything, smooth things over with soft words and gentle humour… 

Of course, that was always his reaction to Aziraphale’s distress. Make it better. At all costs, make it better. He’d been whatever he’d needed to be to keep snapping back to Aziraphale’s side, and he’d done it over and over and over again until he couldn’t do it anymore. 

Now there was another part - a fierce, excruciatingly hopeful part - that thought that if he could just hold his nerve, he might be able to snap them out of their usual pattern, might be able to knock them onto a new course.

He was an ouroboros trying to pull the tail out of his own mouth.

“Angel, are you lying to me? Or are you lying to yourself?”

[oldlovecassette]

The fact that there are new fans of one direction is so fascinating to me. It really was a thing of its time and where the culture was at in the moment and nothing more, musically they weren't innovative or that exciting even if they do have bops (Four number one album), and the experience of witnessing their antics in interviews and bonding on stage and whatnot doesn't seem like it would be that fun outside of the moment those things happened in, especially now that they barely fuck w/ each other so it all just seems like it was never really real. It's basically just celebrating a group of coworkers who had to work at a really weird and stressful job for five years but managed to bond and enjoy their time around the proverbial watercooler. That being said being a fan of them in 2014 and on tumblr was a great time. I remember laughing so much the week of weedgate. like if you weren't there you just missed the boat and for that I'm sorry but there will be other boats that are probably better. like whatever's going on with the formula 1 people for example, that seems like an apt replacement

[ittybittybumblebee]

nothing will destroy our water cooler its cool will never stop its water will never break thank you water cooler for getting me through a tough 11 years water cooler ❤️you foreveranimal that spits in my cup you will never die in my heart you are my freind you will not hurt me never beezie <3 watercooler unshakable bond

[sassasafreeaction]

While The Resurrectionist minisode gives us a lot of different things, one of the most important things that it gives us is the concept of plausible deniability and how important it is for Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship.

In the episode, Crowley drinks literal poison, and while he gets to be very silly, he also gets to be a more honest and genuine version of himself. He gets to do good, and when Aziraphale points this out, he immediately throws in the rebuttal - "Not kind! Off my head on laudanum."

Now, the next time he sees Aziraphale, he asks for holy water, so it's hard to say how much deniability the laudanum actually gave him. At the same time though, Crowley is still around and not eliminated.

The only real effect that a supernatural being seems to experience with poison is drunkness, which in a way I guess makes sense because alcohol is its own poison. However, it's also a poison that the two of them regularly partake in.

A lot of the more serious and genuine conversations that the two of them have happen while they're drinking, when they have that level of plausible deniability. It would be so easy for one of them to say something and take it back under the ruse of being drunk and not knowing what they're doing or saying, even though they both know that it takes an extraordinary amount of alcohol or a strong poison for them to actually be drunk.

The first example we see is in the bookshop after Crowley has delivered the Antichrist, and he's trying to convince Aziraphale to help him. When they had met up initially, Aziraphale had adamantly refused to help him, but once they're safe in the bookshop with several bottles of wine in their system, Aziraphale is honest for the first time about his feelings on the situation. "I don't like it anymore than you."

Sure, they sober up shortly after that, but it isn't until there is that liquid courage/plausible deniability in their system that he's even willing to dare to start to humor the thought.

(In Hard Times, you do have them sharing a drink together in Rome. It's the first time where they seem to genuinely indicate that they'd be interested in actively pursuing the other's company. There's less to pick a part because it's so short, but worth mentioning, especially because the entire time the two of them talk, they have a drink in their hand.)

The next time we see either of them drinking is right after Crowley has left the bookshop fire. A lot of people drink when they're sad, so that's not the most exciting, but he is drinking because he's sad about Aziraphale, his "best friend," and while Hell probably doesn't care because they have bigger things on their mind, it still gives that placebo level of protection.

Side note, there's a strong chance that if Crowley does remember the Fall that this is probably the most accurate description since he's the most open we've probably seen him in the show here- essentially talking crap at the Heavenly Watercooler with the boys and then ending up in a boiling pit of sulfur.

The Script Book has a line that I think is super worth mentioning as Crowley says, "Aziraphale? I'm trying to get drunk. Failing." It emphasizes how much of a cover drinking has become for them, and that the act of pretending is more important than genuinely being drunk. Also, Crowley doesn't try to hide from Aziraphale. He doesn't specifically say "I thought I lost you," but he looks absolutely wrecked. The way Aziraphale pauses in return makes me feel like he has to know, but also, they're idiots.

The two of them also share a drink before the Swap, and they get rather philosophical in regards to the Almighty. This is also the first and only time that Crowley uses the phrase 'We're on our side' and Aziraphale doesn't have a rebuttal.

At the end of Season 1, they're at the Ritz, drinking of course, and it's here where both of them tease at how they genuinely feel about the other. The drinking is on the light side though, so we don't get anything more concrete than 'To the World'. (Although the way that Aziraphale looks at him and says that phrase still makes me weak.)

Season 2 sees Crowley offering Aziraphale his first drink. The angel refuses but Bildad still gets his drink on. This is the first time that Crowley introduces the concept of not being on Hell's side.

(Also, he just watches Aziraphale pleasure himself enjoy some ox ribs which is freaking wild. I'm pretty sure everyone has analyzed the undertones of this scene to death, but there's drinking involved so it makes the cut.)

After speaking with Heaven and Hell, Crowley and Aziraphale get together at the pub to discuss their new plan. They both have a single drink, but you have the chest touch and Crowley talking about falling in love in the rain (ya know like he did).

In 1941, following the magic act, we have them drinking again. Crowley asks Aziraphale to retire the act, and then there is an important beat as they get ready to start a more serious conversation. As soon as Aziraphale decides to take them toward more serious territory, he tops off Crowley's glass. They again tease at the concept of 'our side' by discussing the morally grey.

Now, in S2E6, Crowley mentions to Muriel about taking Aziraphale for an extremely alcoholic breakfast at The Ritz, which to me suggests that even without Maggie and Nina talking with him, Crowley likely would have confessed.

However, in Episode 5, when Crowley is sitting at the restaurant, the first thing he does after getting Aziraphale's attention is ask if he wants a glass of wine. Aziraphale tells him "I'm at work and I have a meeting". I feel like this was almost the original confession from Crowley. Forgive me because I can't find the post, but I know someone has pointed out some of the other parts things that indicate this (Crowley's is the only table with a rose, him walking right into the 'smitten' phrasing because he thought that might make a good transition, etc. I'm really sorry I didn't find it right away when I scrolled and I gave up.) I think the wine speaks a lot to it though because it allows for the same song and dance of if this doesn't work out, I can always blame it on the alcohol.

Now you could say that the two of them just really enjoy alcohol and its a coincidence, but there are an angel and a demon who also happen to meet a pub. Gabriel gets himself and Beelzebub a beer, but the two of them never drink them.

Unlike Aziraphale and Crowley, they have the luxury of power to protect them. They don't need to have the plausible deniability because as far as they're concerned, they answer to no one.

Maggie, a human, also turns down alcohol while she's with Nina. Nina needs the liquid courage, but she doesn't. She has no interest in alcohol. However, Nina is in a sticky situation with her partner. Maggie carries a torch for Nina, but she's also brave enough to be the first one to offer a gift and indicate how she genuinely feels about her. They're both human, so they can be honest with one another.

I'm sure drinks will probably still be important in Season 3, but I wouldn't be surprised if they have a scene where either Aziraphale or Crowley actively turns down a drink because they no longer need to hide.

[katenoteight]

Thanks for the tag @myargalargan , always lovely to be pinged by a Romione buddy 😉

So, here goes...

Last song I listened to: "From Can to Can't" by Corey Taylor while doing lunch prep, bc who doesn't listen to rock metal while making mashed potatoes...aye?!

Favourite colour: Purple. Don't know what that says about me, but 🍆 are purple and my bestie likes to send an 🍆 my way whenever I'm a dick, so idk, make your own conclusions... 🤷‍♀️

Currently watching: The House of Dragons season 1 to refresh my memory while waiting for the coming bloodshed and dragons!!!

Sweet / Savory / Spicy: Savory and spicy - and I will give you this 🤨 look if you eat sweet popcorn. Even the sweets I like are sour. Generally, just a salty person.

Relationship status: Been with the same guy since college - we endure each other's nonsense and manage 2 kids with 'their mother's attitude'. We're a sassy fam of 4 and soon 5 (we're getting a dog... pray for my sanity).

Current obsession: Latest fanfic which I'm writing with @hpfanted14 and finishing all the unfinished fics I've got (summer project - yay! including Magic Matches and Watercooler Strategists)

Currently reading: sadly nothing, but have uploaded heaps of books to kindle for summer, and hols are mere 3 days away so yaaaaaay 🥳

Last thing I googled: nothing exciting - something about the workings of our new fridge. But kudos to me for finding the right youtube video before my 'savvy' husband. 😏

Currently craving: Huh... could do with a glass of red wine - its Wednesday - I made it halfway to the weekend, I deserve a treat! 🍷

Coffee or tea: I think you can tell I'm very much a coffee person (see profile) ... In true Balkan fashion - I can drink it all day, any time of day. Bring me a strong Turkish brewed coffee and we can be friends. As for tea - love mint tea.

Well, this was fun 😆 no pressure tags:

@hpfanted14 @reallybeth9 @am2c @nena-96 @ronherm @romione22