#jam is a fun word

[kiaxet]

HOW ABOUT THAT @somerandomdudelmao DISASTER TWIN REUNION, HUH

Went a little feral to the tune of 2.2K words of self-indulgence. What else is new?

~~~~~~~

Donnie can't sleep. More accurately, he won't sleep. Not until he's done. He'd never been one to leave a project unfinished; death and resurrection hadn't changed that.

He taps incessantly, repetitively, on a keyboard and screen, the motions long since past inputting data and now only serving to keep him awake. The repetition is soothing, easy, and - counterintuitively - he finds his head drooping forward into sleep-

And he snaps back upright. No. Not until he can confirm Leo is okay.

Leo is behind him, he knows. Breathing. In bed. Asleep. Very much alive. And-

He jumps and whips around as a thud sounds behind him. "What the-"

Leo is on the floor.

Well, that answers the question as to whether his twin is awake.

For a fraction of a second, part of him wavers uncertainly. He loves his idiot twin. The question he hasn't been able to answer is whether his reaction to Leo waking up will fall on love or idiot twin-

"Leo!"

He can hear the exasperation in his voice, and yep, it's the latter. He takes a knee next to Leo and hauls him into his arms, lecturing him all the while, and if he can hear the annoyance in his voice then Leo sure as hell can. Sleep deprivation for the purposes of keeping his brother's soul alight had done nothing for his temper. "I swear to God, all you had to do was make a sound! Why are you such a difficult patient?"

He deposits Leo carefully on the bed - "Sit still!" - and checks him over, running every scan he can think of and making sure his brother's new body really is in good working order, spouting increasingly irritated commentary all the while. Of course the fall didn't hurt him - Leo is tougher than that, and Donnie does better work than that - but he still can't help the rising anxiety in his throat.

This almost didn't happen.

"-stupid, stupid selfless idiot!"

Donnie almost couldn't save him.

"Grrhh-"

Leo nearly died for real. Permanently beyond Donnie's reach. Well and truly gone-

"Do you have any idea how close you were to having nothing left to save?"

And now here Leo is, in perfect health, sitting on Donnie's bed with a big dopey grin on his face as Donnie chokes on his anxiety and damn near shakes himself apart-

Oh for fuck's sake.

"Hey. Are you even listening?"

Leo speaks up for the first time since he's woken up, voice shaky from disuse. "D-Donnie?"

And that is not a goddamn answer to anything Donnie has been saying, because of course it isn't. It's Leo. He's always had his own priorities. "Yeah. No. You're not fucking listening." Donnie heaves a long-suffering sigh, sinking back into the routine comfort that irritation at his twin provides. "At least you're talking." Small favors. "Although I'm surprised you're not throwing your stupid jokes at me." Even smaller favors.

He stops short as Leo's hand closes around his wrist, drawing Donnie's arm to Leo's plastron. "You're real," his brother breathes, looking from Donnie's hand to Donnie himself with tears streaming down his face. "You're real!"

And then, in the space of a thought, Leo's joy breaks, his smile turning desperate. "Are you?"

For a moment, Donnie stares at his twin, wondering at the sudden change in expression. He takes a breath-

And the part of him that had lain dormant for so long after he'd woken up - the part of him that had been screaming for his twin's safety ever since they'd recovered the few scattered embers of Leo's soul - gasps to life, blooming like a time-lapse video of a flower and reaching to the edges of Donnie's soul. Leo had called it their twin sense, and Donnie hadn't had it in him to argue after a while. Whatever it is, it's back, connected to Leo's renewed presence, and-

Donnie's heart floods with emotions. Relief and joy sprout quickly and are nearly swept away in a tide of exhaustionanxietyfearfearfearfearFEAR-

But down beneath it all, steady against the rising wall of terror, is the little blue spark of hope that his brother always carried. His core. The thing that let him continue on in the face of insurmountable odds, and lent that same strength to everyone around him. A ninja's greatest weapon.

It's Leo. It's Leo-

And Donnie can't leave him alone in his fear. Not when there's no need for it. Not when they're safe.

He lets that breath out, and sits next to Leo on the bed. "Mhm. I'm alive. And you're alive. We're safe. The Krang are gone." That's all the news that's fit to print, or at least the most important parts. What else does he have to say?

Oh.

"I'm sorry I..uh…"

He's sorry he what? Died? Left a mess for Leo to deal with? Didn't do enough while he was alive to keep everyone else alive in turn after he was gone? Kept his brother's soul in a fucking mug, because that was the only way he could ensure he wouldn't break it while Leo was still fragile? All of the above?

…yeah, it's all of the above.

He owes Leo one hell of an apology, and he's never been good at any of this, so instead he shrugs haplessly and leans forward, pulling Leo into his arms and hanging on tight.

It's a matter of moments before Leo has him flat on his shell on the bed and is sobbing into his arms. Normally he'd hate seeing his twin cry, but it's proof of life - proof that Leo made it, that his soul is intact enough for him to still be Leo, that he's alive and awake and here - and Donnie will take it.

And if he's squeezing Leo back pretty hard himself, well, that's fine too. Nobody else needs to know.

~~~~~~~

Donnie is yelling at him.

Donnie is strong enough to have picked Leo up off the ground, well enough to be on his feet without support, running tests and reading Leo the riot act over his latest boneheaded maneuver - in this case, forgetting he was missing an arm and falling out of bed.

Donnie is yelling at him, because Donnie is here to yell at him.

And Leo is smiling, because he couldn't be happier. He lets the words wash over him, draping over his shoulders like a favorite cozy blanket that he'd lost so many years ago, and he basks in the warmth that is his brother's voice and smiles.

It's enough to interrupt the yelling for a question, though he doesn't really hear it - just keeps smiling, and says Donnie's name, and it's so nice to be able to say it with a smile now, because Donnie is here-

-he is, right? This isn't just a dying hallucination on Leo's part, right?

(It couldn't be- he remembers his death, remembers breathing his last, remembers being trapped- but this-)

He reaches out, taking Donnie's wrist in hand, and pulls his brother closer to him. "You're…real…" It certainly feels real - skin and scales, softer than his own, and his fingers barely fit all the way around the wrist instead of encircling them with room to spare - and he stares down at it, tears rolling down his face as he finally looks back up at his twin. "You're real!"

The Krang show you what you want to see.

The thought strikes him unbidden, turning his joy and relief to ice. It's a well-known fact: a Krang infection can show its host what they want to see, visions of comfort and family and home, and extract intel from the host's reactions. He knows that- he knows that, and-

And he'd died surrounded by Krang- and even if he couldn't see or hear or feel, he knows he'd been held captive-

But it's Donnie- he wants this to be real- he needs this to be real- he wants his twin back so badly he can't think, and the idea that this could be a Krang hallucination is almost too much to bear-

"Are you?" He can hear how choked the words are as they leave his lips, but he needs to know-

And Donnie stops, and sits down next to him, and tells him everything he wants to hear - everything he could've ever wished for. They're alive. They're safe. The Krang are gone. It all sounds too good to be true.

And then Donnie offers him an apology and a sad half-smile, pulling him into a strong hug-

And the ice in Leo's mind shatters in a flood of warmth as his twin sense opens for the first time since Donnie's death. He feels his twin's irritation, and deep-seated exhaustion, and a choking wave of guiltguiltguiltguiltguilt-

And beneath it all, steady and strong as ever, the thrum of unending determination, powered by an unfathomably deep well of love. It's the backbeat to the melody of Leo's life, the point-counterpoint to his own heartbeat- it's something he'd never had to live without until he did, but it's back, rushing in to fill the silence he'd known with the strength to go on and the knowledge that he is loved loved loved, strong and overwhelming and all-encompassing in the way only Donnie can love-

It's something the Krang could never imitate.

This is real. This is all real-

He throws himself against his twin, toppling them both over on the bed as he clings to Donnie, unable to stand even a fraction of an inch of space between them, as though he could push their hearts together through their plastrons, and he cries, sobbing out worry and terror and grief and the slow, crushing exhaustion of a losing battle finally lost. He cries as though the world was ending - and it had, once when the Krang had invaded and again every time he'd lost a member of his family, over and over until he'd sent his last hope through a portal that had cost his littlest brother his life and succumbed to death himself.

And now he's alive. Here, wherever here is, with Donnie. Clinging to his twin, and being held in turn as Donnie gently sits them both up, never letting go as Leo cries himself out.

It takes a while - long enough for Leo's gaze to settle into a stare and his thoughts to settle into a comfortable static. He's alive, Donnie is alive, and he has no fucking idea what else is going on, but he's just going to be okay with that for now.

His thoughts rouse enough to inform him of something wrong - the line of tension Donnie is carrying down his neck and over his shoulders. That won't do. Leo could try to massage it out with one hand, maybe try to get Donnie to talk about it, but Donnie never likes to talk about it, and Leo isn't one for slowly soothing away tension when he can just take an axe to the release valve instead. Plus, it gives him something definite to focus on, instead of…this whole situation. Whatever 'this whole situation' actually is.

Donnie had mentioned his stupid jokes, right?

"H-hey Dee?" His voice wavers from disuse, thick with tears, but he pushes through. "Why did- why did the tree buy a camera?"

"What?" Oh, Donnie is not going to see this coming. Excellent.

"To do a photosynthesis." It's nowhere near the level of pizazz he normally uses for a punchline delivery - he's still too tired and frazzled and clinging to Donnie entirely too hard for that - but that beautiful pause of a terrible joke sinking in tells him it had hit home nonetheless. Donnie moves - he can hear the telltale slap of face meeting palm - and then breaks down into helpless laughter, smacking the back of Leo's shell as the tension Leo had felt in his twin's shoulders abruptly relaxes. Good. It worked.

"This is so fucking stupid," is all Donnie manages as his laughter fades, and he slumps fully against Leo with a murmur. That's...abrupt. Sure, Leo had felt Donnie's exhaustion, but he hadn't realized it'd been that bad. He takes hold of Donnie, gently laying him down on the bed to rest-

Remember what happened last time Donnie fell asleep next to you.

He gasps sharply at the thought - not again NEVER again - and keeps his hand steady as he moves, laying both fingers gently against Donnie's neck and feeling for his pulse. It's easy to find, strong and steady and even, like it had been before the infection had taken Donnie's vitality and then his life.

But he's alive, and healthy, and sleeping. He's okay. And Leo-

Leo moves his hand to the side of his own neck. His pulse is also easy to find, quickened with the adrenaline of an unknown situation and multiple consecutive shocks to his system.

Okay. Take stock. Assess. Figure out a plan from there.

He's alive. Donnie's alive. The Krang are gone. And everything else…is a big fat question mark, with no easy answers and no indication as to where to begin looking for them.

Well.

Uh.

"What the fuck," Leo whispers to the room at large, as though the walls could answer.

~~~~~~~

(A world away and still very close, a younger pair of twins cling to one another the way a drowning man clings to driftwood: desperately, clutching tight, as though letting go will spell their doom. Neither of them know where the emotions came from, or why; all they know is that each of them are damn glad the other is alive, and they'll do everything they can to make sure that continues to be the case.)

(What the fuck, indeed.)

[ethersic]

PLAY HERE

17+ Elysium — A short interactive fiction butchering of Greek mythology made in 5 hours. [Submission to Locus Jam — Other Entries]

Rewarded with afterlife in the Elysian Fields, you find it hard to accept such a gift after all you’ve done. You’re undeserving.

See a long gone lover.

Speak to some unknown gods (?).

Accept the promise of paradise, or don’t.

Content Warnings: Comparisons of humans to meat, murder to consumption, descriptions of gore, blood, death, violence, dismemberment, self-hatred, and generally dark content.

[thedeafprophet]

There's just.... something so fun with the fact that The Princess is ethereally (and creepily) beautiful, enchanting, everyone is captivated and fawning over her...

...and *she* finds Jamie attractive 🤭

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

cant scribble it out bc its too Involved but here's a Laughingstock thought that just feels Right:

im imagining them sitting down and going through a list of pet names to use for each other. like Howdy has a clipboard, Barnaby's sitting across the counter, they're going through the list and striking out the ones that don't work. playfully teasing each other about certain suggestions, losing it over a Bit where they try to call each other the names in the most sickeningly sweet lovey-dovey voices and see who cracks first, mutually making fun of some options, getting flustered when they find one they like. yeah <3

[sketchiefoxie]

In a Jam

Had a surprisingly traumatic dream where Jam (Purple Leo) from @intotheelliwoods 2AL Au died, and I cried about it. Now I'm feeling inspired, so buckle up!!

Story based off of this post by @intotheelliwoods

Also, song I listened to while writing this :)

(Here's the Ao3 version)

TW: Blood, some slight gore, Character Death

Jam's shoulder slammed up against the wall, breath catching in his throat, body wracked with painful shivers. He needed to keep going. He needed to find Mikey. He couldn't stop now!!

Despite all of Eon's efforts to keep this timeline safe, they just didn't have enough time. Everything was falling apart, and Eon...

Jam choked on a sob, feeling as it tore at his throat. Eon... His older self, was gone. He was gone now, he was gone! He could still hear his desperate scream.

"JAM!!! Jam, whatever you do, don't let them take you!! Don't let them get you!! Jam, go find Mikey!!" There had been a pause, and Eon had attempted to call out, voice wavering "Jam, I lo--" Then a sickening crunch.

Jam kept running, feet sliding this way and that on the ground, slick from the blood of all the bodies. "M-Mi-Mikeyyyyy!!" He choked out, practically wailing his name. He had no clue if he was even alive anymore.

Jam whined as his knees suddenly decided they had enough, and he collapsed, body crumpling to the hard floor of the base, prosthetic arm clattering beside him, broken into pieces hanging only together by the many wires within. He coughed weakly, feeling when a clot of something dislodged itself from the back of his throat. Without a doubt, he knew it was blood.

His whole body ached. He knew he was hurt, but it was starting to sink in how badly he was hurt. He felt so hot that his body told him it was cold. Like having chills during the flu.

"L...Lee...."

Jam's eyes snapped open, and he gasped, immediately regretting it as his lungs reminded him that technically, one of them was punctured.

Jam coughed, loud and painful, hacking as blood attempted to choke him, his body turning against him traitorously.

He felt a gentle touch upon his face, and he jerked, eyes flying open again, blurry from the tears streaming down his face, accumulated through the act of violently coughing and the grief breaking his heart.

"M-Mike..." He choked out, a small whine escaping his throat. "M-Mikey, th-they got him."

Mikey was on the ground just like him, having dragged himself closer by the chain of his nunchaku wrapped around a pile of rubble. "I-I know..." He whispered; voice broken by pain. "I know..."

Jam looked his brother up and down, taking in his matted grey hair, sticky from sweat and blood. The way he lay painfully upon the ground, lower half contorted. It looked like both his legs had been broken.

Anything Jam were to say, got stuck in his throat, clogged up tightly.  Mikey was dying, wasn't he? The golden cracks illuminating his body said as much. In fact, most likely the only reason for Mikey still being alive, was his nimpo. It was keeping him alive, while slowly killing him.

A blessing and a curse.

"D-Don't worry." Mikey hummed, voice crackling, and Jam recognized that tone. "N-No..." He whispered, eyes welling with tears as Mikey confessed. "It doesn't even hurt that much. I-I think I'm in shock though..."

Jam choked out, blood accidentally splattering against Mikey's cheek and shoulder. "W-We lost. We lost, Mikey!! W-we lost... We lost... E-Eon's gone... He's gone... We didn't have enough time, he's gone..."

They sat in almost silence, the sounds of the outside battle raging loudly. Violent sounds of death, and fear. They knew how to kill the entity; they just didn't have enough time to do it.

Mikey breathed out, slow and labored as he began. "W-We're closer in this timeline th-than during E-Eon's right? He never got th-this far, before h-he came here."

Jam paused and nodded slowly before Eon's final words clicked in his head. "Send me back." he demanded, a sudden surge of hope coursing through his chest. "I-I might still have a chance to fix this."

Mikey stared at him, with what should have been an expression of shock, but was mostly just blank sadness and pain, and he nodded slowly. He pushed himself up onto his forearms, whimpering as pain evidently wracked through his form. "E-Eon said I might have to--"

Mikey wasn't even able to finish his sentence before a rumbling began. With a sharp inhale, Jam glanced up. That was all the warning they got before the building began to collapse.

Mikey's entire body blazed brightly like a fire, and he screamed, mystic energy flaring to life as the building came down upon them.

The last things Jam could remember happening was immeasurable pain as something huge fell upon his shell, cracking it open, and a brilliant golden light.

Then he was falling, falling, falling down.

The gold surrounding him began to flicker, and its energy waned. Mikey... Jam reached out with his own nimpo, desperate to help in any sort of way, support Mikey the best he could. His nimpo connected briefly, grazing against the beautiful, brilliant energy of his baby brother... Then it fizzled out.

Jam almost lost control of the portal at that, heart breaking as blue overcame gold. The end of the portal was near, giving Jam virtually no time to process this new feeling of grief.

He was dumped out of his portal, most ungraciously, his body hitting the floor with a almost wet thump. That didn't sound good.

Jam moaned, pained by both his physical wounds and the emotional wounds on his heart. Everything was blurry, so he wasn't really sure where he was at.

With a hiss, he rolled onto his side to check the damage to his body. He hadn't really gotten a good look at what had happened, but he had a feeling that he had multiple broken ribs, which might be stabbing into one of his lungs. He knew that his shell was cracked open just from how when he moved, he felt the horrible sensation of his shell grating upon itself. Like two stones rubbing together.

He felt hands upon his good arm, and a voice filled with extreme worry. He knew that voice, didn't he? Jam groaned as he was carefully rolled onto the ground, and his eyes began to focus.

In front of him was a young turtle. Himself. He looked to be either in his late teens, or early twenties. His skin was a slightly lighter shade of green than Jam's own, and instead of purple face crescents, his were a deep maroon red. A very rich color.

Jam paused, eyes flickering back and forth as he took in the features of his younger self. He was so young, and precious... He looked about old enough to be in the Krang apocalypse.

The younger Leo was stammering, and frantically trying to staunch the bleeding all while grabbing at his communicator to presumably call for help.

"H-Hey..." Jam croaked out, wincing in pain, but managing a crooked smile.

The Leo shushed him, quivering with adrenaline and fear. "Shhh-shh. D-Don't speak, we'll get you all fixed up, ok?"

Jam smiled up at him, fondness for the young Leo drowning out the pain. Or maybe that was his body beginning to lose feeling. "Aw, d-don't worry about me." He managed to say without choking on his own words. "Seriously, it's gonna be fine."

With a short burst of adrenaline, Jam remembered what he was supposed to be doing, and he struggled to sit up, if not slightly to speak easier. The younger Leo quickly scooted forwards, helping Jam lay upon his lap. "Wait, wait, what's going on, why are you here, how--" The young Leo began, and Jam cut him off. "No time for th-that. I-I need to warn you about something, I-I-- O-oh gosh, I-I'm sorry-- Its a-amazing that I-I made it here at all--It really looks like I-I showed up t-to late, and..."

Tears welled in his eyes, and he found it impossible to continue. He had failed, hadn't he. He didn't know how to beat the entity; he hadn't made it here in time. He didn't have anything to say, he didn't--

Jam glanced back up at the fearful, tearful expression of the younger Leo. He was just so small. Jam remembered being that small... This little Leo reminded him of the story of the little teacup whale.

So small, so precious that it lived in a teacup, till one day, it grew out of it and became a grand beauty that the people all adored.

This little teacup whale of a Leo.

Before he could stop himself, he let out a small smile, and a little chuckle. "Hey..." he began, voice slurring in an effort to be heard. "Teacup... its... it’s good to see you..."

'Wh-What?" The younger Leo, Teacup choked out, voice high-pitched with emotion. "Wait, no no no no no, wait, you can't do this to me, WAIT WAIT WAIT!!!"

Jam felt as he was pulled into a tight embrace, and he felt the full body rocking sobs of the younger Leo, as he cried into his shoulder.

Jam closed his eyes, and softly hummed 'You are my sunshine' to Teacup, hoping to ease his pain. He couldn't help him anymore; he had screwed up. But at least he got to see a Leo, one last time...

***

Raph came out of a meeting room, mood soured by the fact that Leo hadn't come when he said he would. Sure, Leo had been frustrated earlier and stormed off to 'think' but he wasn't really one to skip the war meetings.

Especially as he was the leader.

With Donnie and Mikey behind him, Raph paused and asked. "Any of you seen Leo?"

Raph watched as his brothers halted, and their expressions went blank. That was a no then. Mikey piped up, chirping. "He said he needed time to think." and Donnie cut in. "Yes, Angelo, but that was an hour ago, before the meeting."

Raph sighed, almost a little disappointed in his younger brother. He really thought he was past this whole 'immature' thing. "Donnie?" he asked, not even needing to voice his question.

"Already on it." Donnie replied, tapping the screen upon the cuff on his arm. A hologram of Leo's contact picture popped up, as a little loading circle formed beneath it. After a few moments of silence, the purple hologram changed, displaying voicemail, insinuating that Leo did not pick up his phone.

Donnie scoffed and tried again. The same result. The brothers paused, a sudden silence thickening up the air in the hall. It felt as if the people walking around them suddenly didn't exist, making the brothers feel as if they were alone right in the middle.

Donnie immediately pulled up his tracker screen, and the moment Leo's location was online, they took off, racing through the halls, and around the folks who were there for the cause.

Raph immediately slammed open the door the moment they made it to the somewhat unused room and was shocked by what he saw.

Leo was by the wall, hugging someone, covered in blood, rocking back and forth as weak sobs wracked his body. He was murmuring something, begging quietly, soft enough that none of them understood what he was saying.

"Sweet Galileo!" Donnie exclaimed, and Mikey cried out, rushing forwards. "Leo!! Leo what happened?"

Leo only cried harder; voice wrecked from the sheer amount of crying he was doing.

Raph followed behind Mikey, taking in the scene, completely stunned. Behind him, Donnie was paging the med bay team and giving them their coordinates.

"Leo, what's going on, who's this?" Mikey tried again, but Leo only shook his head, unable to get anything out from around his sobs.

Raph reached out to try and pry Leo away from the body that bore an uncanny resemblance to his younger brother, but Leo only screamed an uncoherent "NO!!!" and clung tighter to the broken body.

Mikey had started crying, and Raph could feel his own emotions choking him up. "Leo... What happened?"

***

The rest of the day was long and torturous.

They were able to take the body to the med bay to see if anything could be done. But whoever it was, was gone.

Leo refused to leave their side, choking and crying silently the entire time, eyes never leaving the face of the turtle.

This persisted on even late into the night, when they found a place to bury the stranger.

Leo refused to leave the grave, kneeling upon the soft dirt and hugging himself tightly, humming 'you are my sunshine'.

[tyrianludaship]

This isn't completely related to selfshipping but i unironically love making up shipnames for my s/i and the tf2 characters.

[also to note: some of these are not canon; pyro and scout are friends; and saxton hale is just kinda there. idk he's alright.]

Engineer x Morale: Radio Repair

Soldier x Morale: Roger That

Spy x Morale: Esprit de corps, Radio Drama

Medic x Morale: Herzschlag / Heartbeat

Demoman x Morale: Boombox

Sniper x Morale: Radio Silence, National Outback

Heavy x Morale: Tea and Jam

Scout x Morale: Skip Distance

Pyro x Morale: Smoke Signals

Miss Pauling x Morale: Two-way Radio

Saxton Hale x Morale: Mating Calls [this one is just dumb ignore]

Proships DNI

[asexualbookbird]

chose PAINTED DEVILS as my audiobook and all i can say is DODODODODOODOOBOOBOODO ITS A HAUNTED DOLL WATCH

[ljbrary]

someone tell me i need to lock in and write my paper bc it’s due tmrw and i have not one iota of a sentence written down

[sesamestreep]

Crozier/Fitzjames, fake amnesia

from this list of reverse tropes for fic writers. i told @firstelevens I wasn’t sure I had it in me to write fic for these two and then I went and washed my hair and while I did that, this idea popped into my head fully formed and I was bound by honor to write it down. Also it’s the first thing my brain has wanted to write in like two months, so I took that as a good sign?? Anyway, here’s…something. Kind of a Parks and Rec AU?? but also not in any serious way? It’s like…what if these dudes from The Terror worked in local government or whatever… don’t worry about logistics, I mostly wanted to write Blanky and Crozier being best friends and also talk about sobriety feelings a bunch. AND THEN I DID. only fits the prompt if you squint super hard but, regardless, please enjoy… on ao3 because why not

“So, you feel ready to go back to work tomorrow?”

Francis removes his gaze with considerable effort from the perfect red orb that is the sun sinking steadily under the horizon line across the lake and shifts it reluctantly back to Tom, who’s sitting back in his chair with his booted foot propped up on a milk crate that he got from God knows where. The sight of the boot that encases the lower half of his left leg does push a wave of guilty bile up the back of his throat but he’s already been told that if he apologizes for causing Tom to have need of it one more time, he’ll be drowned in the aforementioned lake, so he resists. Tom knows Francis is sorry about what happened and he’s chosen to forgive him, even if Francis still thinks it’s a stupid choice, second only to him befriending Francis in the first place all those years ago. Francis doesn’t know where he himself would have ended up if that hadn’t happened, though, so it all comes out in the wash he supposes.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Francis says, tracing a hairline fracture in his coffee mug with his thumbnail just for something to do. “If I take any more time off, I’ll just never go back, so it’s now or never, really.”

“Attaboy,” Tom says before taking a long, thoughtful drink from his own mug. Out of solidarity, or maybe sensitivity, he hadn’t had anything to drink tonight either, despite Francis’s assurances that it wouldn’t bother him and might even be a good idea, just for him to get used to it. It’s not like he could reasonably expect to go the rest of his life without ever seeing alcohol again. He’d seen four different ads for light beer alone this afternoon while watching reruns of ‘Bones’ on the couch and imagining every possible way his first day back in the office after rehab could go wrong and that hadn’t sent him into a tailspin, so he’d probably survive watching his best friend drink in his presence. Still, Tom had chosen to just drink decaf coffee with him after dinner like the ancient relics they are, because he is, without a doubt, the best person Francis has ever known. “You talk to anybody about it? I mean, besides me…”

“What, you mean like a therapist? Of course. I’ve got, what, six of them now, for Christ’s sake!”

“No, I mean, from the office. Have you talked to anyone about coming back?”

“Well, John, obviously.”

“I suppose you’d have to, yeah,” Tom says, running a ponderous hand over his chin. “Anything interesting from that quarter?”

“Just about what you’d expect,” Francis says, trying to be generous. John had been kind enough to let him keep his job, after all, despite how bad things got in the end, but Francis’s issues with the man remain, even with his newfound sobriety. Francis had sent him a long, downright obsequious email apologizing for the damage he’d done with his drunken theatrics both over the years and in the very recent past and explained in detail all the ways he was going to do better in the future, while expressing gratitude for the unprecedented amount of grace everyone, but particularly John, had shown him during this stressful time. It was, in no uncertain terms, the most embarrassing thing Francis has ever had to do, and he has, in his life, proposed to the same woman three separate times with absolutely no success, so it’s not like he’s lacking in options for that top spot.

John is, thankfully, the sort of man who likes to breeze past unpleasantness wherever he can and is also, more importantly, a deeply entrenched bureaucrat who’d just as soon do no work as do even a little work and therefore could not be bothered to hire a replacement for Francis. In fact, if he had to guess, John was probably clever enough to frame it as some sort of protection against a discrimination lawsuit somewhere down the line, despite the fact that several things Francis did at the staff Christmas party right before hitting rock bottom were definitely fireable offenses. John’s unflappable dedication to the status quo has worked in Francis’s favor for once, and while he certainly doesn’t deserve the break, he’s going to take it where he can get it on the off chance it never happens again.

“And the staff? Your team, I mean.”

“I got coffee with a few of them individually, just to clear the air and apologize, so that if anyone wanted to take a swing at me, they could do it outside of work,” Francis says, scuffing his shoe against the porch.

“Well, that’s considerate of you. Any of them try it?”

“No. The cowards,” Francis scoffs, which makes Tom laugh. “Jopson and Edward both seemed like they might be sick at the prospect of anyone in charge actually deigning to apologize to them, which was…humbling, to say the least. Then I got an extremely nervous monologue from Harry about the history and relative efficacy of Alcoholics Anonymous, which I think was his way of saying we’re square. And Silna told me if I tried to meet up with her outside of work hours again, she’d block my number and quit without notice, so...”

“She’s got the right of it,” Tom says, with a crooked grin.

“Yeah, that was my favorite of the lot,” Francis replies. “We’ll have a team meeting tomorrow and we’ll get someone in from HR so everyone can talk about feelings, God help us, but I think it might be okay. Which I could not have predicted when all this started, but here we are.”

“I could have,” Tom says. “You’ve made plenty of mistakes, I grant you, but you’ve also done right by these people in a lot of ways. They’re not going to forget that in a hurry. They’re a loyal bunch.”

Francis nods, looking out over the water again. The pinks and golds of the sunset a few moments ago have already faded into purples and blues as night creeps in. The nocturnal chorus of frogs croaking and insects trilling is rising in the nearby woods. He’s already said his piece about how absurd it is that they’re sitting comfortably outside on the porch after dinner—with jackets on and a fire going, sure, but still—and it’s only the beginning of March. Tom doesn’t need to hear any more ranting about global warming right now; it’s no fair repayment of his generosity. What Francis really should do is head for home soon and let his friend have some peace and quiet. He could use some of that himself, but he somehow doubts that he’ll get much rest once he’s home for the evening. At least he can panic about tomorrow properly there, though, by himself.

“Speaking of throwing punches,” Tom says, carefully, after they’ve been quiet a moment, “have you spoken to James at all?”

Francis winces with what feels like his entire body. “I haven’t had the chance,” he says, as lightly as he can manage.

It isn’t precisely true. If he found the time to contact everyone else who’d been affected by his spectacular fall from grace during his leave of absence, he could have found the time to reach out to James too, but he hadn’t. The apology he owes James Fitzjames is too big for an email, which he’d, in a truly cowardly fashion, gotten away with for almost everyone else, and the presumption and humiliation of asking for any of his free time as he’d done with some of his subordinates was a bridge too far. Besides, if they’d met up at a coffee shop to talk things out, Francis has no doubt James would have ordered his drink with oat milk or stevia instead of sugar or mentioned a cleanse he was on and Francis would have rolled his eyes and said something awful and then he probably would have had to go to rehab all over again, which would have defeated the point. Francis has been told by outside observers—professionals in the field, for what it’s worth—that he’s making progress, but he’s even more sure that he’s still, at his core, a miserable old bastard. He’s just less miserable than he was before, by a small margin. Unfortunately, he’s not any less old, though. In fact, he’s older, but that’s beside the point.

“You’ll have to face him sooner or later,” Tom says, not quite gently but not as bullying as he could be either.

“I know,” Francis says, covering his face with his hands. “I’ll do it tomorrow. I mean, if anyone’s entitled to an in-person apology, it’s James, surely.”

“After you punched him in front of everyone at the Christmas party and verbally berated him? Yeah, I think something more than a text message might be in order.”

“You accepted an apology text,” Francis says, scowling into his mug. “And I broke your leg. You needed surgery and everything. I don’t even think I broke James’s nose.”

“Only because your aim sucks when you’re wasted,” Tom replies, unbothered. “Gave him quite the shiner, though, if you want to compare wounds.”

Francis sighs. “I already said I’d talk to him. You have my word.”

“What am I? Your bloody father?”

“No, and I like you a great deal better for it.”

“Good, then what do I need your word for?”

“I was just trying to convey my sincerity.”

“I don’t doubt your sincerity, Francis. Never have. It’s everyone else you need to convince.”

“I don’t know what to say to James,” Francis says, into his hands. “I mean, with you at least, we’ve known each other for ages. We can bounce back from quite a lot, it turns out. James, he’s—I’ve never known how to talk to him in the first place. Now I’ve got to do it sober? I don’t know where to start.”

“How about, ‘James, I’m sorry for trying to knock your lights out with an audience present while I was drunk off my ass on the company dime’ to start?”

Francis closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, letting the shame wash over him like a wave and then, more importantly, letting it recede like waves do. He sighs loudly and shakes his head.

“You know, I’ve always regretted I wasn’t the sort of drunk who forgets what he does when he’s wasted. Feels like it might be easier, ultimately. Like, I could say, ‘oh, sorry for whatever I might have done to you, James. The trouble is I don’t remember any of it, but I’m sure it’s nothing I would have done sober, all the same.’”

“Feigning amnesia?” Tom barks, laughing and looking at him sideways. “What’s that? The thirteenth step?”

“Leave me alone,” Francis replies, waving him off but laughing himself despite his best efforts. “I’ve done a lot of owning up to things lately. Can’t I keep one petty grievance for myself?”

“You could probably get away with it, if you’d left it as a petty grievance rather than escalating to violence. And your resistance to dealing with James should tell you making amends there is your highest priority. Discomfort is a good thing here, a signal you’re heading in the right direction. If it were all easy, everyone would do it, you know.”

“That’s lovely, Tom. Will you be cross-stitching any of these aphorisms onto pillows to remind me to stay the course, or shall I just memorize them for when times get tough?”

“Fuck off, you dusty old prick,” Tom laughs. “Hey, what about this? ‘James, I’m ever so sorry for getting plastered and calling you out in front of everyone and then attempting to rearrange your pretty face with my fist! I do think some of the blame lies in you being so pretty and in me having some unresolved issues around my masculinity and my self-esteem, all of which you can blame on my waste of a father figure growing up, but in this case, I suppose I have to shoulder some of the responsibility for my actions myself. Forgive me?’”

“There’s no one else on earth who could get away with saying even half those things to me, you know,” Francis says, even as his blood doesn’t boil or even heat in the slightest hearing them. It rushes to his face instead, no doubt resulting in a fierce blush that the gathering darkness mercifully hides from view.

“I earned it the hard way, my friend,” Tom says, patting his boot.

“That you did,” Francis says, and rises from his seat. “I’d better be going, then. Much to do, after all: apologies to draft, laundry to fold, worst case scenarios to spin out.”

Tom gets up with effort, clunky and inelegant in his boot, but not so proud as to decline Francis’s hand when it’s offered. “I wasn’t trying to scare you off,” he says once he’s vertical.

“You didn’t. It’s like I said, I’ve a lot to do before the big day.”

Tom nods and, after a moment of deliberation, puts a hand on Francis’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, you know.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Francis replies, shifting away from the praise. “More of a bad man trying to be better.”

Tom gives him a long look at that and then shakes his head, smiling. “All that work on yourself and you still don’t get it,” he says, not unkindly. “What else do you think a good man is?”

Francis doesn’t know, but he spends the whole ride home and the rest of the night thinking about it all the same.

*

Francis’s plan of attack, such as it even exists, takes form more easily than he could have predicted. Once he starts thinking about how best to approach James at work and make amends on that front, he finds he knows a lot more about the man than he originally thought. A few years working together, however contentiously, has been enough to pick up on each other’s habits and quirks well enough that Francis can reasonably predict when he’ll be able to get a moment of James’s time without anyone else around. The fact that he can do this and yet never thought to do it before under any other circumstances is the cause of another wave of shame that passes less quickly than Francis would like.

Francis arrives at the City Planner’s office just before 8:30 in the morning with the certainty that he won’t run into John—the man has many flaws but his dedication to never showing up to work any earlier than he absolutely needs to is not one of them, in Francis’s opinion—but that he will, in all likelihood, find James already there and more than likely already working. He also arrives with the materials for a bribe, should that prove necessary.

He’s so worked up, going through everything he’s planning to say one last time in his mind before he actually sees James, that he doesn’t think to knock on the outer door, which is sitting half-open anyway, and just barges in instead. It’s not a great start, he realizes a second after it’s too late to do anything else, and it’s made even worse by the fact that James is there, as expected, and he’s only partially in his shirt, which is not so expected. Francis stops and gapes for a moment with all the grace of someone who’s been tased.

“God, sorry,” he says, and tries to step back, only to collide with the door jamb. “I should’ve—”

“Francis, it’s—good morning, I—this isn’t—I’m the—I’m sorry,” James says, managing to sound crisp and self-possessed even when he’s stammering his way through an apology. “I don’t normally…do this…in the office, I mean.”

“No, of course not,” Francis says, behaving like a teenager in a romantic comedy for some reason and averting his eyes, even though there’s nothing to see. James was in the process of buttoning his shirt when he came in, so it’s really the sight of his clavicle that’s made Francis so uncomfortable. Was he always this much of a ninny? Is that why he started drinking, to cover it up? It’s the only explanation that makes any sense now.

“I went for a run this morning and I neglected to pack a shirt with my work clothes, so I had to use the spare I keep in my desk for emergencies.”

The old Francis (of several weeks and easily a thousand group sessions ago) would have rolled his eyes at any number of things in that small explanation: running to work, keeping a spare shirt in one’s desk, referring to anything related to fashion as an ‘emergency’ and meaning it. Now, he nods thoughtfully and tries to think of it all as part and parcel of what he respects and admires about James: his dedication and planning, his ability to anticipate and address future challenges. The fact that he looks nice in blue. Whatever. It turns out it’s easier to do than he imagined it would be.

“I don’t think you have a habit of undressing in the office for fun, James,” Francis says, instead of any of those nice things. “Don’t worry.”

“Right,” James says, lightly, even as his shoulders remain tense. He does up the last few buttons and his clavicle disappears under the taut poplin fabric of his dress shirt. “Well, what can I do for you, Francis?”

Francis has heard—and, in turn, mocked—James on any number of occasions start conversations with a smooth, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’, which is not an expression Francis himself has been treated to in a long time and for good reason. He doesn’t know why he thinks of it now, except that he’d take even a sarcastic reference to the pleasure of his company (of which there is none and never has been for James in particular, he thinks) over the idea that James should do anything for him, at this point.

“You’re training, then?” Francis asks, skirting gracelessly around the question James actually posed. “For another one of the what-do-ya-call-em’s? Not a marathon. The thing you did last year…?”

“The Ironman,” James suggests, looking slightly pained. “It’s a triathlon.”

“Yeah, that sounds right. Another one of those?”

“God, no,” James replies, nose wrinkling slightly before he seems to catch himself doing it and intentionally blanks his expression. “I’m not likely to do another one of those. I already have my bragging rights, after all. Today’s run was just for health.”

“Oh, sure,” Francis says, tapping a fingertip nervously against the cardboard sleeve of his coffee cup. “I’m meant to be doing that now.”

“Running?” James asks, betraying some surprise, which is fair enough.

“Exercising. For my health. To keep me…”

“Fit?”

“Well, distracted,” Francis replies, with a shrug. “There seems to be some thought of it helping to keep me away from drink, though I’m not sure what the logic is there. But I’m meant to be thinking of something I’d enjoy, anyway.”

“Not running, then,” James says, brow crinkling like he’s giving the matter serious thought. James is a fixer by nature—and by profession, of course, being paid mostly to follow John around and make sure the grand promises that flow from his mouth actually happen somehow. He thrives with a problem to solve. If Francis were even marginally less stupid and less proud, he might have thought to come to James sooner. He’s nothing if not several very large problems wrapped in a trench coat. Or a wind breaker, in actuality. The point is, Francis could use all the fixing he can get his hands on.

“Not likely. Never enjoyed it, really. Hard on the ankles, I’ve found.”

“Yes, it can be quite stressful on the joints. You’ve got to take all sorts of precautions,” James says, in the tone he gets when he’s working his way up to a long treatise of some kind, but he stops abruptly and his face betrays that he’s seemingly caught himself. He clears his throat. “So, it’s not for everyone. I understand.”

“Yes, well, my sponsor was saying that I might try tennis or racquetball, but then I’d have to find a regular partner or group, and I’m not sure I have it in me.”

“There’s a club nearby, actually, and they could help you arrange—” James pauses and shakes his head, once again stopping himself from expounding on the different options available the way he normally would. It’s an uncharacteristic amount of restraint coming from James, who loves recommending things to other people almost as much as he loves the sound of his own voice. Francis sees some of his own handiwork in this new display of shame and feels the need to make amends even more keenly than before because of it. “Well, you can Google it, I imagine, and it would be faster than listening to me. It is, uh—it’s in Eagleton, however, so I suppose that won’t do.”

“No,” Francis replies, frowning. “Thanks all the same, though. I imagine I’ll end up doing water aerobics with the rest of the senior citizens at the community center and call it a day.”

“You’re not a—you’re barely fifty, Francis!”

“I’m fifty-two, actually.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I hope you have your affairs in order,” James gripes, as he messes with something entirely unnecessarily on his desk. Francis smiles at the strange comfort of annoying him, which should not be reassuring to him at all but he’s a messed up sort of fellow even on his best days. The smile grows when James clears his throat again and adds, like he can’t quite stop himself, “Swimming’s rather good for the joints, actually.”

“Swimming?” Francis asks.

“Yes, swimming. As in, laps…in a pool. Something else the community center offers, if you were interested. It’s solitary—meditative, even—and good exercise. In—that is, in case you were wondering.”

“If this is you trying to talk me into a triathlon, James—”

James sniffs, more performatively haughty than genuinely haughty, Francis suspects. “I’d never,” he says. “I was merely recommending an activity that you might enjoy more than water aerobics, and that might spare the elderly of our community from dealing your obvious personality disorder early in the morning, when those classes tend to be held.”

Francis, much to James’s surprise from the look on his face, laughs at that. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he says, while James continues to regard him like he’s wild animal exhibiting signs of rabies who’s suddenly appeared in his path, which is maybe a common occurrence in town, depending on who you ask. “Thank you.”

James nods, distracted. “Sure.”

“Well, I—I…listen, I didn’t come here to talk about exercise regimes, which I figure you could have guessed,” Francis says, in a rush, because anything less than a headlong dive into the subject they need to discuss will hurt much worse than just getting it over with, he suspects. “And I don’t want to presume anything about your life, but I also figure there’s a non-zero chance that you’re already familiar with the famous 12 step program, maybe just through cultural osmosis, and I don’t want to over explain any of it to you, but, well, there’s a pretty important part about identifying people you’ve wronged through your addiction and the resulting behavior and making direct amends to said try people and—”

“I’m familiar,” James interrupts, softly. “Not directly, of course, or, um, anything like that—I don’t want to detract—but—”

Francis waves him off. “No need to explain. I just—well, obviously, that list of people, for me, had to include you, because of what transpired between us at the end of last year and how I behaved. The things I said to you, then—how I’ve always spoken to you, really—and of course, I—God, I’m so sorry. It feels absurd to say out loud but I’m sorry for lashing out at you and hitting you, I should never have—”

“It’s fine, Francis,” James says, starchily. He’s got a nervous hand pressed to his ribcage, so intently that it’s almost shocking to look and see no actual knife sticking out from there, somehow. With that, it’s hard to believe the breeziness of his words. “Really, this isn’t necessary.”

“And I’m telling you it is,” Francis explains, as carefully as he can manage. “Maybe it isn’t for you, I don’t know, but it’s necessary for me. Do you—can you understand that?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” James says, after a deep breath. “Of course. Is there…more?”

“You tell me. Is there any other ways my drinking harmed you that I haven’t thought of?”

“No, I wasn’t—”

Francis holds up a hand to stop him. “That probably read as very sarcastic, given our…history, let’s say, but it was a genuine question. I think I’ve raked myself over the coals for every possible slight I can imagine but if there’s anything I did that I can address for you now, I’d have you tell me.”

“No, it’s fine, really,” James replies, shakily. “I only meant, I don’t really know what goes into all this. Is amends just an apology or is there more to it? I don’t need there to be, I was just curious. That’s all.”

“Well, you’re meant to endeavor to show you’ve changed your ways, I suppose. To indicate that you won’t be perpetuating the same harm in the future. Which, in this case, is tough, because…well, I mean, all I can give you is my word I won’t try to knock you out at work ever again.”

“Outside of work hours, however…” James muses, with a small, mirthless smile.

Francis winces, but otherwise doesn’t react. “I’ll never behave that way towards you again. On my honor, for whatever that’s worth.”

James folds his arms over his chest and looks down at the carpet, appearing like a sullen youth for a brief moment before he raises his gaze and becomes a grown man once more. Francis remembers when he’d shown up with John that first time, how he’d called James an infant to Tom when they finished their initial meeting with him about the town’s budget crisis all those years ago. Tom had laughed at him, wheezing ‘he’s a decade younger than us, if he’s anything, Francis. He’s our bloody peer now, and if you don’t see it, you’re cracked!’ Francis thought—still thinks—Tom is the one who’s cracked, in this case. James looked young, then; he looks young now, everywhere except the eyes, which contain a stormy sea’s worth of disappointment. Francis can be self-centered with the best of them but he knows he’s not the one who put that feeling there in the first place. He’s not that important. For the first time, however, he feels protective of the man in front of him because of it and takes it as his very solemn duty to never be the cause of his disappointment again, so long as it can be helped. All that and it’s not even 9 in the morning yet.

“It’s worth plenty,” James says, eventually, clearly just as uncomfortable with this much emotion so early in the day as Francis is and eager to be done with it. “Thank you, Francis.”

“Yes, well, I won’t take up any more of your time, I’ve been nuisance enough for one morning, but if there’s ever anything you want to discuss or clear up between us, my door’s always open. To you, that is. Well, to anyone, but just in case your particular welcome was unclear, I mean, you should—”

James sweeps a hand out wide in a graceful gesture like he’s literally clearing the air. “Understood,” he says, sincerely, “and appreciated.”

“Great,” Francis says, too cheerily and then winces again. “I mean, uh—right, I’ll just be going then.”

As he pivots back towards the door, the sloshing noise of the ice shifting in one of the cups he’d forgotten he was holding draws his attention. Christ, right. The whole point was—Francis really is starting to lose his mind. He contemplates just leaving anyway, like nothing’s amiss, but he’ll have to explain the two drinks to his team, absolutely none of whom will buy that the iced chai is for him. He’s gone on too many rants about how coffee shouldn’t be iced and tea only on certain occasions. He’s the type to drink hot, black coffee even on the most brutal summer days, though his sponsor did warn him that a lot of alcoholics do turn to sweets as a coping mechanism for replacing alcohol in their daily lives and not to be surprised if he found himself needing additional sweetener in his morning coffee as a result. Francis hadn’t credited it at the time, but he had found himself momentarily tempted at the coffee shop this morning by a sign advertising something called a ‘death by chocolate latte’ as the daily special before he’d gotten a hold of himself, so maybe there’s some truth to it. The point is, dragging this extra drink back to his office will be more humiliating than turning around and giving it to James like he originally planned, no matter how awkward it feels right now.

“Okay,” he says, turning back, “I promise this is the last thing and then I will let you get back to work. There’s, uh—it’s not a bribe, mind you, just an extension of the apology for what happened and for the fact that you’ll have to continue working with me for the foreseeable future and—you don’t have to forgive me, you don’t owe me that, I just thought—”

James looks at him, utterly perplexed, fingertips gently steepled on the top of the desk like he’d already been going back to whatever he was working on when Francis interrupted again. “What is it?” he asks, somehow still not betraying any annoyance at the interruption, hiding it well under an open tone of curiosity.

“The—this,” Francis finally spits out with considerable effort, holding the cup out towards James, rather than try to explain himself further. “It’s for you.”

“Oh,” James replies, with an expression like Francis is trying to hand him a live gerbil and not an upsettingly overpriced beverage like the ones he’s seen James drink on dozens of occasions. “I, uh—that’s really not necessary.”

“You must take it, James. Please. I said you’re not obligated to forgive me, I’m not trying to sway you, really. It just felt wrong to show up empty handed, after everything.”

“I understand, but, really—”

“You’re not on another one of your cleanses, are you? Giving up sugar or…calories before noon or something?” Francis ventures, imbuing his tone with more patience than he normally would, even though he still feels very little towards this thing in particular.

James is already so annoyingly healthy and brisk and handsome, it does take extraordinary amounts of patience to tolerate his talk of intermittent fasting and green juice with the goal of making himself even more annoyingly perfect. Surely, there’s got to be a limit to that sort of thing, but Francis doesn’t know; he’s on the opposite end of the spectrum it seems, having to re-learn the fundamentals of barely looking after himself in middle age without the aid of alcohol. It’s pretty grim, if he’s being honest. It really is no wonder that James has been so consistently earning the gold medal spot in the competitive sport of getting on Francis’s nerves, with that in mind.

His intentional gentleness does seem to pay off in this case, though, since James smiles at him in only mild embarrassment. “Uh, no, I’m not. I just—you’re not obliged to—”

“I know, but—listen, James, I already committed my penance by having to say the phrase ‘dirty chai’ with a straight face to a college student with a lip piercing at eight in the morning, okay? The damage is done. You might as well enjoy the spoils of my humiliation.”

James’s smile widens at that, looking for all the world like he can’t really stop himself. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that mental image might be worth more to me than the entirety of your apology.”

“No offense taken,” Francis says, finally succeeding in handing off the cup, slick with condensation by now, into James’s care. “I hope it will sustain you for a while yet.”

“Oh, it shall,” James says, placing the cup gingerly onto his desk.

“Right, well,” Francis replies, “that’s all, then. I’ll see you…later, I suppose.”

James nods. “We have a meeting set for Tuesday—tomorrow. It should be on your calendar. Thomas said he—”

“If Jopson says it’s there, it’s there.”

“Great,” James says, easily. “Until then.”

“Yes. ‘Til tomorrow.”

Mission completed, Francis turns once more towards the door and is only interrupted in leaving by the sound of James clearing his throat behind him. He pauses, and looks over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows in question when he meets James’s eye.

“It’s only—forgive me if this is the wrong thing to say, under the circumstances,” James offers, fidgeting with the edge of the notepad lying open on his desk, “but you do—that is, you look well, Francis.”

Francis doesn’t allow himself the liberty of moving even an inch, not to fiddle with his collar or brush back his hair or otherwise indicate he gives so much as one singular damn about his appearance. “Do I?” he asks, tone purposely vague, like James has just told him the weather forecast and it’s only interesting to him in theory, really.

“Yes, very well,” James says, putting his hand flat on the desk very deliberately, like it was giving him away before. At what, who knows, but he’s got it under control now. “This change, it suits you.”

“Well, thank you, I guess.”

James now looks at his computer screen, absently. The next words he says might be something he was reading off of there, if they were anything else. “You look good, is what I meant.”

“How—?” Francis pauses, feeling immense pressure to say this right, somehow. “Sorry, but how would that be the wrong thing to say?”

“I wouldn’t want you to think, well—” James interrupts himself by laughing, just a little and rather joylessly. “It’s not that you didn’t look good before.”

“Oh, right,” Francis says, even as those words continue to make no sense to him in that particular order coming from this particular person. “Wait, you’re saying—I did?”

James meets his eye again, finally, but only to give him the most impatient, long-suffering look in human history. “Is it too much to hope that one of the twelve steps involves learning to take a compliment?” he asks, sounding depleted by the effort. “Because it is one of your most exhausting qualities that you can’t do so without endless interrogation first.”

“And it’s got a lot of competition,” Francis replies, feeling himself smile and choosing to do nothing to stop it, “what with all my other exhausting qualities.”

“You’re really only proving my point here, you know.”

“Thank you, James,” Francis says, dutifully. “It’s very kind of you to say. Better?”

“Much,” James sighs. “You’re showing remarkable improvement already.”

Francis leaves him, then, because to stay any longer would just be exposing himself to further ridicule and he’d absolutely deserve it, what with the stupid smile he now can’t seem to get rid of.

[gilears]

also. first(?????) follow up fic for this week's episode will definitely be up tonight:)

[dullahandyke]

(guy coping with unintentionally fucked up pdfs of stories not meant to be hard to read) even the obstructions to the medium are a part of the experience 😌

[you-are-my-neverland]

*disclaimer: will this actually decide my fate? who knows, but it's fun to do it anyways.

option one: eight years ago, helena yang died, taking cian byrne with her and ending the horror. the red revolution won, and the doomsday prophecy was fulfilled. in the new commonwealth, all magic users are created equal, and people no longer have to suffer under the previous reign of terror.

but everything is not what it seems. there is a coffin in the woods that should never be opened. the white wraiths, a terrorist organization, haunt the streets, and a mysterious assassin called the magician eludes capture. and in the corners of the city, the rot slowly creeps back in...

in which helena yang was the chosen one, cian byrne was the antichrist, and when they died, they left legacies behind that have yet to be filled. alice yang, helena's younger sister, has made it her mission to hunt down the elusive magician, while kellan st. trinita grapples with being handed a legacy he doesn't know what to do with. and in the woods, someone wakes up...

my baby for the past couple of months. i'm 16k into a draft (and 26k into the planning doc lol), but i ran out of ordered plot so it's at a bit of a standstill despite the numerous ideas bouncing around in my head. definitely want to work on it, but it has a ton going on with character threads and plots, etc etc.

option two: in a world where the earth, sky, and sea were created from the bodies of gods in a sort of sacrifice-creation-by-dismemberment cosmogony, the 'hearts,' the power sources of the gods, are lost. whoever finds them will possess unimaginable power. the search for the sea goddess', nisa's, heart has led to a surge of piracy in the past decades - in a world where you become a pirate or live under them, many turn to the sea for better options and opportunities.

for arete, the quest for nisa's heart is not what she wants, but rather her destiny. daughter of a famous pirate captain, arete's skin bears a map that will lead her to the heart - if she can make it out to sea first. saved as a child by akane and her mother, then separated from akane later when pirates attack their village, the two promise to find one another. they travel different but parallel paths as akane struggles to survive and become the strongest warrior, and arete strives to find the pefect crew to become the strongest on the seas and free herself from her cursed destiny.

currently worldbuilding on this one, and there's sooo many interesting elements that i really like (and that are too hard to explain in a little summary so sorry if it reads confusing). the first little bit would be sort of a precursor to the actual story, taking place in the five-six years akane and arete are living together up until their violent separation. the present timeline would begin six years later, when arete starts to actually build her crew.

option three: set in a futuristic world where sensors - those born with certain enhanced senses - exist. saing knows who killed her brother, but with no body ever found, there is nothing she can do about it. her search for justice brings her to the seedy underground, where a vigilante assassin who goes by the name of foxglove is said to exact revenge for those who can convince them.

however, when one of the suspected culprits behind her brother's death - noe, the head of sca (sensor control agency) - falls into a coma before she or foxglove can get to him, the situation becomes more complicated. pilar, the successor to noe's position and his protegee, becomes embroiled in the mystery surrounding the man she considers her savior, and in the hunt for foxglove.

still very much planning this one, but it's been an idea in my head for a while, i just haven't had time to dedicate to it. there's so much i like about it, and a lot of scenes jumbled together, plus the basis for the plot is pretty much there. again, there's a lot more going on than i can succinctly explain in two paragraphs (this was my first time trying to summarize it), but basically there's human experimentation (always a hallmark of my wips i know), children who never escape the cycle of abuse, class differences, characters making bad decisions, and some really complicated relationships (hurt people hurt people and then help them hurt other people or something like that...)

option four: i work on all four at once and the only thing i draft completely are my history papers (the most unproductive option, because if i don't focus on one i won't really make serious headway into any of them. but in all honesty i'll be thinking about all of them during the month anyways so?)

[k66-official]

for the end of the m!a. please everyone give keroro a little kissie or hug for his troubles. Hurt And Comfort

Most of my men aren't big huggers, but we made things work, kero!

[cherry-vennom]

I'm having so much fun planning my outfits for this 3 day festival coming up next month❣️ literally my favorite part of these things is dressing up 🍒💗👽

[carcarrot]

my high level of anxiety around people vs. my need to jam out and sing along

[unloneliest]

aw MAN making my comprehensive eliot spencer mountain goats playlist just got. harder because i remembered that the leverage universe is the same as the stargate universe & that eliot Knows That.