#know how to make rum and coke. will probably not notice if your habits are strange

[gideonisms]

I should get married for convenience just like this girl in the show. My brother and his wife pay under $500 a month because he had a friend who wanted to help out a lovely newlywed couple. Well I am lovely. Who wants to marry me for the benefits (financial)

[mae-gi-writes]

Once Again (Pt.2) | Iwaizumi Hajime (Haikyu!)

ONCE AGAIN | PART TWO

Summary:

Iwaizumi’s broken marriage results in his five-year-old son trying to match him up with his primary school teacher, whom he thinks will make a wonderful replacement for a mother. 

Genre: fluff, angst, f! Reader x dad! Iwaizumi

Taglist: @multi-fandom-fanfic, @168-cm-png​, @bakugouswh0r3​, @yatoatyourservice​, @ayocee​, @marvel-ing-at-it-all​, @astrolcve 

A/N: Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! Thanks to everyone for the kind feedback and for reading my work <3 

< PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART >

----

He swings his beer over the counter, "one more."

He shouldn't be drinking. Imagine the damage it's doing to his organs, alcohol sweeping through his bloodstream and purging him of all coherent thought. Iwaizumi can hear Oikawa's nagging voice in his head even within the depths of intoxication.

Does he care though? He should. He should care. Because his job is basically to get people in their best shape.

And here he is, drinking away his sorrow, still shaken up by the way Hoisuke's fingers had grabbed for him that night. The bundle of nerves he'd squashed down had only intensified upon dropping his son on his mother's doorstep the same weekend and though he knew he should've said something to Mizune, he couldn't find the will to utter the words out, lest they came back to haunt him.

His phone buzzes in his pant pocket and after finishing it out with clumsy fingers, he manages to press down onto the green button.

"Yeah?"

"You're drinking!"

"No."

"Iwa-chan~" Oikawa's voice pierces through the receiver, sickly sweet and yet with a dark threatening undertone, "what are you doing?"

"Fuck off, shittykawa."

"Where are you?"

Iwaizumi doesn't answer. He doesn't need to, for Oikawa's already exclaiming the said bar's name as he takes another sip of his newly-filled beer glass.

"I thought you said you wouldn't drink anymore," Oikawa reproaches, "think of what Hoisuke would say--"

"I said fuck off."

There's a small pause where Oikawa bristles, before he says in a quieter tone, "what's wrong?"

Still, Iwaizumi says nothing but takes another huge gulp of his beer. His head feels buzzed, disoriented.

"Iwa-chan."

The said man press his lips in a taut line.

"Iwa-chaaaan."

"I'll talk to you later," Iwaizumi barely hears his friend's protests before he cuts off the call and downs the rest of his beer like a parched man, eyes narrowing towards anyone who dares reprimand him of his behaviour.

"One more," he rasps out towards the bartender, whose sending him a look that closely mimics one that clearly says he's had enough. But he scowls in response and that's enough to make the bartender's eyes slip away.

Seriously. What is wrong with him? It's already been four months goddamnit. Get over yourself. He wishes he could punch himself in the face. God, he sounds like a loser. He looks like one. And it's no wonder that his wife has left him for someone better, richer. Everything that he's not.

Not to forget that this wound will never leave their son's heart.

"One rum and coke please."

A presence lingers in his right and the brown-haired man turns with a glare at the ready, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line to scare whatever stranger that comes a little too close for his liking.

What the--

He stares at you. You stare back at him, just as dumbfounded. Looking the same, yet completely different.

"Miss Y/N?"

"Iwaizumi-san?"

He feels the sudden urge to hide his empty glass, "what--are you doing here?"

"Don't look so surprised, Iwaizumi-san," you chuckle at what you think is his flabbergasted expression, "I'm still twenty-six you know. I came here with a few of my friends."

His eyes slide towards the table in the far corner -- easy to spot since it's one of the loudest -- before he almost misses your question, "and you?"

"I come here often."

"Ah I see."

As you pay the bartender who slides your drink over, you bristle for a bit before you ask hesitantly, "mind if I sit here?"

Iwaizumi shakes his head. It's not like he can say no after all. You're his kid's teacher. And shit, how many beers has he had? He better not run his mouth. It's a dirty habit of his whenever he's shit drunk.

"So," you start off slowly, looking so out of place next to the said man with a scowl so dark it can scare off the most violent of gangsters that the corners of Iwaizumi's mouth tilt upwards in amusement, "how's it going?"

Seriously? You're seriously going to do that? His gaze searches your features for a moment, satisfied when warmth floods your cheeks.

You look away, "you don't have to look at me like that, you know. I just thought you’d want some company."

"What makes you think that?” Iwaizumi says while he flags down another beer from the waiter. 

You blink at him, “I can go if you want--”

The man sighs, rubbing his temples with tiredness, “that’s not what I meant.”

A weird, empty gap of silence ensues. Long enough that Iwaizumi gets his fourth beer of the night in his hand and he takes a grateful swallow. 

He really should not be drinking so much.

"Where do you work?” 

You’re persistent. He’ll give you that, “personal trainer. I work at the sports academy.” 

“That’s cool,” there’s a small smile edging upon your lips, “you like it?”

He nods, pauses briefly, before asking, “do you?” 

Of course it’s a little too close for comfort, especially since you’re Hoisuke’s teacher and all. But you merely relax in your high stool, swinging your legs while nodding eagerly. He can’t help but notice the tightness of your dark jeans, your black high-heeled boots, “I don’t see myself working as anything else. I’m bad with people most of the time.”

Taking another swig of his beer, Iwaizumi feels the tension slowly ease up from his shoulders, “well you’re way better with kids than I am.”

“You’re pretty good with Hoisuke."

“That’s because you haven’t seen him throw tantrums.”

You laugh, "oh don't worry, I have. I know all about his little fits. All my kids have one, at some point."

You say it lightly, but there's definitely love laced in your words and for a minute, Iwaizumi thinks back to the way Hoisuke kept on praising you, the way he spoke so affectionately about you.

"Do you still play volleyball?" You ask him while sipping on your drink.

He mimics the gesture, "sometimes. The guys are all over town so it's harder to meet up now."

"Dang, your team was so good though."

"It was Oikawa that held us together. We weren't that good," he tastes the bitterness of Karasuno's victory on his tongue.

"That's not true," you protest, fiddling with your empty glass, "the only reason why I watched Aoba Johsai's games was because I liked watching you play."

Dark coffee-coloured orbs sweep up to yours at that statement, as if trying to peel layers off yout shell, as if wanting to confirm the truth of your words. You feel like cowering away but you don't, instead holding his stare in hopes that he doesn't notice how your hands tremble slightly underneath his scowl.

And then, features softening ever so slightly, he murmurs out, "thanks."

You know he means it in the best way possible.

-----

One drink turns to two. And two multiplies by four. And soon enough you're tipsy off your head and singing so blatantly off-key you wonder why Iwaizumi's still by your side. You haven't been this drunk in ages and this sense of freedom makes you bold; you tug him to the dance floor to join your friends, order shot after shot as the music gets louder and your head gets lighter, proceed to blabber your mouth off about literally anything and everything that by the end of the night, you wish the ground would swallow you whole so you won't have to deal with Iwaizumi the next day.

You're not entirely sure how you find yourself being dragged by none other than the said man himself, or how your nose is currently lodged in the crevice between his neck and shoulders. But he smells good, like citrus and a mixture of mint and-- you sniff a little more -- is that cookie dough? Your mouth waters just at the thought.

"You smell like cookie dough," the words tumble out of your mouth in a jumbled mess and you inwardly feel like stabbing yourself.

So pathetic. Pitiful really.

"That's Hoisuke," Iwaizumi replies, surprisingly patient even when he's clearly not impressed, glaring at the lamppost ahead, "it's his flavour of the month."

"That's cute!" You giggle, "just like you, Iwa!"

The man sighs while shifting his grip upon your waist, "let's just get you to bed."

You probably doze off at some point or black out because the next thing you see upon opening your eyes next is the ceiling.

Hoisting your head up and groaning when your head pounds in warning, you lie back down as nausea takes over.

Shit. This isn't your room. You know that much.

What the fuck happened last night?

You remember dancing atop tables, remember spotting Iwaizumi by the bar and talking to him because he just seemed so sad and lonely. You remember dragging him onto the dance floor, dancing together, his hands on your waist--

You danced with Iwaizumi?!

The thought is enough to trigger another pounding. You groan once more, placing your hand atop your head in hopes that it will stop it from throbbing. It doesn't. But before you have more time to wallow in your self-pity, the door creaks open and your eyes almost pop out of your head when you spot a mop of brown spiky hair enter the room.

Iwaizumi.

Oh fuck. Your brain short circuits. Fuck fuck fuck.

Surprise crosses his face, clearly having not expected you to be awake yet. He walks over to place a glass of water by the nightstand and grabs your palm to tilt two aspirins into your hand.

"How's your head?" He asks.

"Fine," you wince. It's far from fine. In response, he holds out the glass and you gladly wash down the pills, warm and feeling suddenly vulerable under his stare.

Chewing onto the inside of your cheek, you muster up all your courage to ask, "what--happened last night?"

You don't miss the way his eyebrows shoot up, "you don't remember?"

"...no."

Is that amusement dancing in his eyes? You're not sure since it's gone just as quickly as it came before he says, "you got drunk. Danced on the table, had too many shots and made out with two different men--"

"I'm pretty sure the last part didn't happen."

"You said you didn't remember," he smirks lightly.

"I can't even flirt, let alone kiss strangers."

That earns you a chuckle from his part, causing your heart to flutter slightly as he straightens up, "you probably want to wash up. Bathroom's on the right. I'm in the kitchen if you need me."

"Okay," and as he turns away, you quickly add, "thanks, Iwaizumi-san."

He nods back, exiting the room and finally allowing you to collapse back against the bed to try slowing down your galloping heart. Jesus christ, you think to yourself as you slowly take in your surroundings. From the lack of furniture and with only a few clothes flung over a wooden desk chair shoved in the right, you guess it's his room. A closed laptop and a small plant sits on his desk. On the left is the nightstand filled with sports books and some manga, a closet shoved in a corner and the floor is made in veneered wood.

There's no sign of family pictures, nothing that indicates the warmth of a cosy household. It doesn't take a genius to understand why. While Hoisuke had begged you not to tell his father, you weren't a stranger to the young boy sobbing in-between breaks because he misses his mother.

Well, it's not like you're allowed into family affairs anyway, as much as that breaks your heart.

After a much needed shower and a quick brush of your teeth -- you had to make do with using your fingers with his toothpaste, too embarrassed to actually ask him whether he had a spare toothbrush -- you walk out into the kitchen to see Iwaizumi already seated at a quaint wooden table laden with eggs and toast. Behind him sits the kitchen stove and white countertops next to a fridge fitting snuggly on the left corner. On the far right of the room is a large dark grey couch and a tv set, and just behind it is a small hallway which seems to be the entrance -- guessing by the coat rack and array of shoes. 

"Sunny side up or boiled?" Iwaizumi asks as you take a seat opposite him. He has already poured you a cup of strong coffee and you inhale before sighing in bliss. Your headache already feels slightly better.

"Anything is fi--" you're interrupted by his scowl, quickly changing your answer to, "sunny-side up please."

He grunts, passes you the plate and digs into his own fried eggs, the soft boiled ones forgotten at the centre of the table.

"Uhm, forgive me for point it out, but that's a lot of food Iwaizumi-san," you mumble out, not missing the way his features harden slightly.

"Force of habit," he mutters in-between mouthfuls. He doesn't need to say more, for you're pretty certain he's referring to the family he used to have, those lazy Sunday mornings that started out with brunch.

You eat in companionable silence and though it'a definitely less awkward than last night, your mind still races trying to figure out what to say to erase the permanent furrow between his brows.

Or is that his normal demeanour? To be honest, you're not quite sure yourself.

So you settle for thanking him for last night, to which he replies, "do you usually drink that much?"

"No," you duck your head, avert your gaze, "I got carried away. I'm really sorry."

"Well I wouldn't have expected my kid's teacher to be that wild," he muses while taking a bite of his toast.

Alarm zaps through you, making your eyes go wide, "I swear I'm not usually like that, really. I just--this was an exception--"

"It's fine, miss Y/N. I know," his brown pupils lock onto yours briefly, "I'm not going to report you."

"I--" nothing can really make up for your behaviour last night. You know that much, "still, I'm sorry. That wasn't appropriate," you glance up, chest tightening at the intensity of his stare, unflinching. Unwavering.

He cocks his head at you then, a semblance of a smile along his mouth, "I was pretty entertained, if you ask me."

"Was I that bad?"

"No. But let's just say that you won't want to show your face around for the next week or so."

You groan and bury your face in your hands, "what did I do?"

"You might've broken a beer glass or two," he gives you a look, "on purpose. And tried to steal the Dj's headphones cause he wasn't putting the music you requested."

"Oh god," you want to bury yourself right then and there and to your surprise, you see him laugh softly before he nudges your coffee towards you.

"Drink," he orders, "it'll make you feel less shitty."

You're about to retort with a roll of your eyes, only to be interrupted by the doorbell ringing. From the way Iwaizumi tenses, you know it's not just the mail man.

Excusing himself to go unlock the door as you twist in your seat to follow his figure, shock courses through you the moment your eyes land on Hoisuke's.

Then, his mother.

An alarm bell rings through your mind.

"I thought you said evening," comes Iwaizumi's grunt, totally unlike the guy who'd been chuckling a few seconds ago.

"Hoisuke wanted to come back early for some reason," the woman says, her gaze flickering to yours for a brief moment. It's enough to cause you to swallow hard. She continues, "I'll pick him up on--"

"Miss Y/N?!" Hoisuke shouts out suddenly and before you know it, you're being tackled into the child's arms as if you haven't seen each other forever, "what are you doing here?! Daddy!" he whips his head around in accusation, "you lied about not really really liking Miss Y/N!"

"Wha--No!" Iwaizumi yells as you frown in confusion, "huh?"

"Daddy said that really really liking someone means you wanna be boyfriend and girlfriend with them, like he was with Mama before she moved houses," Hoisuke blabbers on, totally oblivious to how the three of you keep on staring at him in growing alarm, "and then I asked him if he really really liked miss Y/N because I really really like miss Y/N but he said no, but that's a lie!"

"Hajime, what is he talking about?" His ex-wife is quick to narrow her eyes, "what have you been telling him?"

"Nothing, it's not what you think--"

"I think," she pointedly glances at you, "I should leave now. We'll talk about this later."

And with that, she swivels around and storms out, leaving the three of you to stare after her in a mixture of shock and confusion.

Hoisuke, oblivious to the sudden tension, blurts out, "daddy, why is Mama angry with you?"

----

The few weeks following the tiny incident that had resulted in an awkward misunderstanding between you, Hoisuke’s parents and the said child himself had caused you to retreat back into the shell of professionalism that included avoiding Iwaizumi whenever it was deemed possible. It hadn’t been hard since he was usually present and waiting outside class to pick up Hoisuke right on time, making it much easier to avoid conversation with him altogether. 

You’d texted iwaizumi right after reaching your humble abode the day he’d practically saved your drunk ass and though you spent a few spare moments to chat in-between the bustling activities of life, it doesn’t erase the fact that he’s still Hoisuke’s father, one of your dearest students. That, and the fact that you don’t really find it fair to put Hoisuke in-between the two of you, if there’s anything worth digging for anyway. 

Who are you kidding? It’s not like Iwaizumi would ever be interested in you in that sense. Having spotted his ex-wife once or twice proved that his style was of more refined women, the type that would drink wine instead of chug down beer and who’d enjoy gifts such as perfume and romantic dates instead of going on grocery trips and meal-prepping for the entire week. 

“Miss Y/N!” Hoisuke’s voice pierces through your thought bubble and your eyes quickly find his grin as he jumps towards your desk, "are you coming to our house this weekend too?!"

"Wh--What? Uhm-- no I don't think so--" eyes quickly flitting over the classroom, you're relieved to find that the rest of his classmates are long gone, "I don't think that's appropriate."

"But why? I even told Mama that I wouldn't be coming this weekend because you were," he pouted and it took all of your determination not to melt, until his words registered in your brain and your eyes widened, "o--oh, but that's--"

"Hoisuke?" You both turn to see his father's head poking through the door. Your body reacts instantly, warmth flooding through your limbs and flushing through your cheeks.

"Daddy!"

"H-Hello, Iwaizumi-san," you bow your head slightly. He returns the gesture, facial expression not giving anything away. His son bounds up to him with just as much vigor, "daddy, can we invite miss Y/N this weekend too?"

You might have laughed at Iwaizumi's shocked face if not for the fact that you are the person in question.

He splutters, "Miss Y/N has things to do--"

"But she came last weekend!"

"Yes well, it's bad manners to impose on someone when they're not free," Iwaizumi replies sternly, "come on now, we're gonna be late for Karate."

With a loud sigh and a scowl that resembles so much like his father, Hoisuke mutters out his goodbyes while Iwaizumi catches your eye, bowing slightly and muttering a silent "sorry" before he guides his son out of the room. You're glad he's out of earshot that he can't hear the stuttering of your heart against your chest.

You place a hand on your chest, sigh tiredly before looking down at your students' papers, "get a grip, Y/N," you mutter to yourself.

But it's not that easy to control yourself when Iwaizumi is making it so easy to like him.

----

Iwaizumi: sorry about yesterday. 

Y/N: it's okay. Hoisuke’s young, it's normal for him to want for a motherly figure around.

Iwaizumi's fingers drum over his knee as he watches with slight interest the newest male volleyball team practice their serves. He shouts after a few, calling them out for theit lazy postures, but other than that he can't seem to stop his thoughts from winding their way back to you.

"Who is she?" Mizune had asked him on the phone on the day following their encounter. Her tone was friendly, yet held that tone of warning that he was so accustomed to.

"How does that concern you?"

"I want to know who you're bringing around to hang out with Hoisuke."

"She's an acquaintance of mine," he paused, "and Hoisuke's teacher."

"That's inapropriate if you ask me."

Scoffing, he replied, "like what you did's so appropriate?"

A small pause ensued. When she spoke next, there was no mistaking the edge to her voice.

"You can't keep using that against me, Hajime."

"Don't tell me who I can or can't hang out with."

He'd hung up without bothering to wait for her response, seething and red hot with rage blubbering through his stomach.

Of course now that he thinks it over, Mizune has a point. Mixing the professional and the personal have never ended in happy endings. Not that this has ever stopped him before. He doesn't believe in what everyone else thinks is right. That's also one of the main reasons why Mizune couldn't handle it anymore. Or so she said before she went to suck someone else's dick.

His phone vibrates and fishing it out, a scowl instantly shadows his face upon seeing Oikawa's name flash across the screen.

Oikawa: Iwa-chan ~ have you asked her out yet?

Iwaizumi has to force himself to stay in control and not pound his phone to pieces when he types out his reply.

Iwaizumi: No.

Oikawa: BUT WHYYYY~ YOU SAID YOU FOUND HER CUTE.

Oikawa: and Hoisuke likes her. He already knows her.

Iwaizumi: I didn’t say that. And she's not interested.

Oikawa: Just because you suck at picking up cues doesn't mean she isn't throwing them at you 😏😏😏

Iwaizumi: shut up, shittykawa.

Oikawa: Just do it or I'll do it for you.

Iwaizumi: I don't even like her that way.

Oikawa: why'd you rant about not wanting to hurt her feelings yesterday night then?

Iwaizumi's hand rubs at his face with a groan. Oikawa's a little shit most of the time, but he's a perceptive little shit.

Oikawa: I mean it. Ask her out or I'll do it for you.

Oikawa: gotta go now. Match is starting. See ya!~ muah ❤

"Dumbass," Iwaizumi growls under his breath before shoving the phone back into his pocket. Easier said than done to ask someone out so casually, especially when she's Hoisuke's teacher.

If she accepts, great. If she doesn't, he'll have to suffer through humiliation for the rest of the year or avoid picking up Hoisuke altogether.

Oh fuck it.

He lets his body send the message before his brain can catch up to the way he has thrown himself under the bus, shoves his phone back into his pocket and tries to put the thought out of his mind even though the device suddenly feels hot and heavy in his pant pocket.

Iwaizumi: we're having takeout and movie night on Friday. You're free to join.

----

[astarryon]

Tame Your Demons

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Violence, blood mention, implied assault, language, general criminal minds things

Summary: The deal you have with Spencer is simple. You call him to take care of the men looking to take advantage of innocents on the street, and he comes to ensure you don’t kill them before he gets the chance. Unfortunately for the both of you, though, things don’t always go according to plan.

A/N: This is my latest love letter to Spencer Reid and Criminal Minds! Part Two will be posted a little later this week, and will be for a slightly more mature audience, if y’all catch my drift. A big thank you to @reids-trauma​ for letting me run this fic by her, she’s literally half the reason it even saw the light of day. Enjoy!

Masterlist

––

You see him before he sees you.

It doesn’t hurt your feelings— it’s the norm, in any case, and it’s what typically happens each time you reach out to plan a rendezvous. Part of the agreement is that you get to set the location, and you’re always careful to pick places you’re comfortable enough to slip your way out of unnoticed in case he ever morals up and brings his team to corner you. To his credit, that hasn’t happened yet — though you’re not naive enough to give up on the idea that it ever will just yet — but never subscribing to uncertain chances was a lesson you’d learned a long time ago.

But you know you’re safe for tonight, at least. He wouldn’t be meandering around the bar for such a prolonged amount of time searching for you if there were rows of feds waiting to take you into custody as soon as you stepped foot out the door. It takes a full fifteen seconds before his wandering gaze finally touches on you, another three before the glint of recognition appears in his eyes, and by the time he’s straightening his spine and striding purposefully toward you, it’s been an entire minute. Damn. Someone was really starting to lose their touch.

“You’re late, Doc,” you simper, arching a brow as you knock back a hearty sip from your glass. “Didn’t your mommy ever tell you it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?”

“Couldn’t be helped,” Reid huffs, crossing his arms over one another as he tries — and fails — to sidle up to you in a casual manner. You note the way he avoids touching the bar at all costs, how he folds in on himself like an exceptionally uncomfortable piece of origami. And then, of course, there’s the suit, far too dressy for a place so casual as the lively little bar nestled in the far side of downtown Georgetown. Jesus, the only way he would look like even more of an off the clock fed would be if his badge were superglued to his palm. “Getting away from the others without raising suspicion on such short notice isn’t exactly the easiest thing to pull off.”

“Yeah, well,” you chuckle, taking another sip from your glass. You make eyes at him, pointedly and conspicuously allowing your gaze to rake his lanky, suit clad frame head to toe. He looks good in the outfit he’s picked, the dark black of his jacket drawing the eye to the maroon button down he wore beneath it, and you marvel at the way his chosen color palette sets off his skin in the dim light. If Reid notices your staring or cares, he makes no show of it. Your ogling doesn’t bother him, not like it used to — doesn’t even make him blush, to your admitted dismay, though you suppose that makes sense. Spencer Reid is nothing like the sweet, shy boy he used to be. He’s not so wide eyed and naive anymore, though you’d never expected that to last very long in the first place. Still — getting a rise out of him had always been your favorite part of your arrangement. If you don’t get to keep that going, these meetings are about to become significantly less fun. “That’s the deal, isn’t it? When I call, you come running.”

“That’s the deal,” he mutters, nonchalantly waving off the approaching bartender. “And I came running. So who is it?”

You jut your lip out into a pout, resting your elbows atop the bar before settling your chin against your palms, sparing only a moment’s thought for how low the neckline of your dress must be dipping with the switch in position before casting the worry out of your mind. Were any other man your company tonight, you might have felt more concern for your modesty, but Spencer Reid was far from being anything like most men, and, honestly, the day you caught him checking you out was the day you mentally marked another tally on your side of the metaphorical score board. “Why’s it always straight to business with you?”

“Because—“

“No ‘hello’,” you go on, skirt riding further up your thigh as you cross your legs over each other. Not even a spare glance. Damn. “No ‘how are you,’ no admission of your undying love for me. If you’re not careful, Spencer, you’re going to start hurting my feelings.”

“No offense,” Spencer retorts, sounding particularly unconcerned with whether his words actually offend you or not, “but your feelings aren’t exactly my top priority right now. Arresting whoever this man is before you take it upon yourself to brutalize him is.”

“Well he’d deserve it, if I did,” you tell him matter of factly, swirling the contents of your glass as you pretend to be more interested in that than the eye-catching man just beside you. “This one likes to take advantage of young girls in clubs who accept drinks from strangers because they don’t know any better and still think there are nice people left in the world. Sometimes he keeps track, like it’s a game, and tries to see how many he can assault in a night, and this most recent time three of them made it home all right, but the fourth one turned up in a dumpster. So, yeah, Spencer, you’ll have to forgive me for figuring that if he ends up in a back alley with a couple of bruises and a broken leg he probably got what was coming to him, but don’t insult me by implying that I don’t know how to keep a promise.”

“If broken legs and bruises were all you left men with it wouldn’t be such a problem,” comes Spencer’s dry remark. “Unfortunately for the both of us, you seem to have a particular affinity for leaving men in comas.”

An affinity with which Spencer was all too familiar, you knew — not because he’d fallen victim to your habit of enacting revenge for all those poor defenseless victims, but because he’d caught you in the act with someone else. Two years later and you still weren’t positive how he’d managed to track you down. Spencer had told you minimal things — that an acquaintance on the city’s police force had reached out for his advice on a mysterious case of incapacitated men turning up in dark alleys, rarely little more than a few minutes away from going brain dead. That he’d been surprised to realize you profiled as female, considering the amount of unadulterated rage your behavior presented. That he’d made the decision to do what he could to keep from turning you in provided you help him be able to do so with a clean conscience before he’d even found you standing over some man with a white-knuckled grip on a tire iron.

“Give me your word that you’ll contact me first,” he’d instructed, a shockingly small amount of hesitancy glinting in his irises. “Give me your word that from the moment you call me, I have twenty four hours to find you so I can take care of all those awful men the right way. If I don’t make it in that time frame, they’re fair game, but if I find out that you laid a finger on them before you called me, I’ll personally see to it that you do time for every single man you’ve hospitalized. Can you agree to that?”

And you had. Partly because you had no interest in spending any prolonged amount of time behind bars, and partly because the odd sense of emotional recognition he’d gazed upon you with had been so unlike anything you’d ever been met with from another human being that you were essentially startled into instant complacency.

“He’s in the bathroom,” you sigh, downing the rest of your drink and flagging the bartender down for another. More for show than anything else, though you know the theatrics aren’t strictly necessary. Your drink of choice while out with company is much more coke than it is rum, and after two years there isn’t any doubt in your mind that Spencer is aware of that. “Has been for a while now, as a matter of fact, because he’s pompous and arrogant and wants to make sure the bait is set right for the barely legal girl he’s meeting here tonight.”

“Don’t suppose you want to share with the class the barely legal method you used to figure that one out?” Spencer deadpans, plucking your new drink from the bar and draining a few healthy sips before you even have the chance to reach for it. That’s something he’s never done before, though you suppose his repulsion to germs wouldn’t factor in one way or the other since the drink was fresh. But Spencer never indulged in alcohol around you, and was always incredibly careful to keep his guard up during these meetings. Either he was playing a different angle tonight, or something in him had drastically shifted.

“Only if you want to share with the class why I’ve been tailing this guy for two and a half weeks while you dodged my phone calls,” you retort, never breaking eye contact as you grab the glass and tilt the rim to your mouth, in just the same place that Spencer’s had been. You think you see a vein in his neck pulse as you swallow, but you can’t be sure whether the lights are playing tricks on you, so you decide not to count it. “Not like you to leave an innocent man’s life in my hands.”

Spencer arches a brow, eyes narrowing as he searches your face for something you’re not sure about. “Not like you to wait to hear back from me before doing anything about it.” He pauses, then, and more to himself than to you mutters, “And I’ve never said they were innocent.”

“Guess you’re right,” you mutter, shrugging a shoulder and leaning back in your chair as you let your eyes scan around the restaurant. The man you’re looking for is still nowhere to be found, and with the way your nerves are beginning to fray beneath Spencer’s all too calm and collected scrutiny, it’s hard to get ahold of your imagination as it barrels toward the worst case. “He’s still not back.”

“He’s probably still in the bathroom,” Spencer offers, giving an unconcerned shrug of his own. “You said he was a primper.”

“It’s been almost twenty minutes,” you shoot back, fixing him with a harsh stare. Normally you’d bother to be a bit more vivacious when speaking to Spencer, even in spite of your own irritation, but the sinking feeling in your stomach is making it impossible to pay attention to niceties. “That’s never happened before. Something’s wrong.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” But even to you Spencer’s words sound hesitant, like he’s trying to convince rather than tell, and somehow his lack of confidence only serves to make your throat that much thicker. “He couldn’t have left already, you would’ve seen him.”

Yeah, you would have — provided you hadn’t allowed every ounce of your attention to be monopolized by Spencer. You’d been so preoccupied with trying to appeal to his attention, so hung up on matching him wit for wit and taunting and tempting him with bared flesh and sultry gazes that, truthfully, anything could have escaped your notice in the last couple of minutes. Anything. And if some poor girl ended up preyed upon, if she ended up beaten or assaulted or worse, it wouldn’t be as simple as blaming the monster taking advantage of her. You wouldn’t even be able to blame Spencer for distracting you. No— the only person you’d have to blame would be yourself.

“He’s gone,” you breathe, horror a jagged knife twisting in your stomach. Your hands shake so badly that Spencer has to uncurl your fingers from around your glass so he can set it gently down for you. “God, he’s— I let him get away. He’s gone.”

“Don’t work yourself up,” Spencer insists, and if you weren’t sure your panic was playing tricks on you, you’d have sworn you saw his hand reach out to comfort you, just as you saw apprehension tensing his expression. Of course the one thing it took to get a reaction out of him would be unbridled panic. “Listen to me, everything is fine.”

“Not for whatever girl he decided he liked enough to blow off his date for!” you hiss, and it’s a strain to keep your volume low enough not to attract the attention of any other patrons, but you manage. “We need to— Spencer, we have to stop him! He’s going to hurt somebody!”

“Okay,” Spencer tries to calm you, quickly moving to his feet. You can’t get a read on the way he’s looking at you, can’t tell if he’s taking you seriously or trying to decide if he should make a phone call to he nearest psychiatrist, but he seems to be picking up on the urgency of the situation, so you make the choice to let it go. “Let me go check the bathroom to see if he’s still here. If he’s not there, then we can start worrying.” He turns, taking three steps towards the bathroom before spinning on his heel and coming back to say, “Just— stay here, okay? Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

And as you watch his back as he makes the trek towards the restroom, you think about doing what he tells you to. Truly, you do. Spencer could walk into that bathroom and find the man you’d been planning to turn over to his custody and come back with him in handcuffs, unable to help leveling a handsome smirk at you by way of a silent I told you so. You could be panicking for nothing.

But… if there was even the slightest chance that someone innocent could be in the worst kind of danger, was it really worth leaving their fate up to a coin toss?

You’re on your feet as soon as Spencer’s out of sight, beelining for the exit and dodging between other patrons until your legs have carried you out the door and immediately to the dimly lit corner of the block, lined with the closed shops and darkened alleys the man you were after would need to get away with the unspeakable acts he planned to commit. Even as you book it to stop what you know in your gut to be happening, you can’t help but to hope that Spencer had been right. Things would certainly be easier to stomach, were that the case.

But, as you’d somehow known with sickening clarity, the closer you draw to the dark alley gaping between the buildings down the street, the more prominent sounds of a struggle become. You heard a man’s voice — deep and angry and enough to set your hands shaking and your mind blazing with fury — and then, beneath that, the muffled, whimpered cries of a young woman, the sounds of which were so pitiful that you didn’t need to have laid an eye on her to know that she was already sobbing. After that, all thoughts of Spencer effectively flew out the window. Suddenly all there was in your mind’s eye was you, some poor innocent girl having the worst night of her life, and what you were going to do to ensure that nothing bad befell her or any other girl ever again.

“Hey!” you screech, running head first into the alley. “Get the fuck off of her!”

There isn’t any time to survey your surroundings, to take stock of the fact that the man you’d known would be out here was in the process of brutalizing a young woman — one who looked to be barely more than a teen, to your unadulterated horror — nor was there time to really assess what you were barreling toward. All you knew was that your body moved of its own volition, and it was much too late to think things through once you’d collided so forcefully with the assailant that you’d knocked him bodily to the ground. It was too late to second guess yourself now, to wonder whether it wouldn’t be smarter to wait for Spencer, who could actually, legally take care of this guy. The only thing that mattered now was getting justice for everyone who had been too incapacitated to stand up for themselves.

“What the fuck?” the man hisses from beneath you, but you’re already whipping around to get a look at the frightened girl staring down at you. Her eyes are rimmed red, tears trailing down her cheeks, and to your morbid relief, you note that she appears to have no more than an expression of horror on her face.

You’d made it in time, then. By the grace of some higher power, you’d made it in time.

“There’s an FBI agent in the bar down the street,” you bark at her, struggling against the brute strength of the man you were trying — and failing — to keep pinned down. “His name is Spencer Reid. Find him.”

And that was all you had to say before she was running off down the alley and out of sight, the mercy of her safety striking such a psychological chord that you were just distracted enough for the man beneath you to throw a punch that successfully manages to clip you on the jaw, causing stars to swim in your vision as a result.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he hisses, quickly pushing himself to his feet and leering over you with a sneer. It made sense that he was under the impression that he had the upper hand— were you anyone else, he likely would have, and you’d have been little more to him than a replacement for the target you’d just saved.

But you weren’t anyone else. You weren’t helpless, or defenseless, and you certainly weren’t about to let this lowlife get away with all of the things he thought he was. No — you were someone hellbent on making a lasting difference in the world, and if that had to start with this guy getting his head bashed in, then so be it. You were down a tire iron, but your rage was weapon enough.

You wait until he grabs at your shoulder, waiting for just the right moment as he fully extends his elbow before punching as hard as you can against it in the opposite direction, not pausing to hear the sickening crunch of his bone snapping before rolling to the side, jumping to your feet, and subsequently kicking out his knee with a high heel clad foot. His howls of pain are equivalent to music in your ears, but you don’t pause to revel in the sound before you continue on with enacting your justified persecution. In this moment, you aren’t yourself. You’re not sure who you are, as a matter of fact, but you know it isn’t someone willing to let this lowlife get away with the mass amounts of pain and terror he’s inflicted on so many innocents.

“You like that, baby?” you snarl, letting your foot fly against his unprotected ribcage over and over again between sentences. “Does that feel good? Hmm?”

“You—“ The man cuts himself off with a hacked cough, spluttering and moaning as blood trickles down his chin. You’re not sure if that’s because you’ve kicked him in the face without noticing or because you’ve done enough damage to have already caused internal bleeding, but you’re not overly focused on figuring it out. “You psychotic— bitch,” he spits, and the hatred he gazes up at you with is so potent that you can’t help the wicked grin that curls across your mouth in response.

“That’s right,” you murmur, hovering your foot over the center of his chest for just a moment before digging your heel into his sternum. The harder you press, the louder he roars, and the louder he roars, the more you’re inclined to ensure that his screams continue. It’s a vicious cycle, but one you’re much too fond of to let go. “I’m a crazy, psychotic bitch because I’m a woman who stands up for herself and other women, and because I won’t let shitbags like you take advantage of us. Do you even know how old that girl was?”

His face contorts in pain, hands flying to your ankle in an attempt to pry your foot off his chest, but with one arm out of commission and pain proving to be too much of a distraction, he doesn’t manage to make any significant progress in alleviating your attacks. “Fuck you,” he hisses, but even to your ears, the vulgar words sound weak and reedy.

“I’m sure you’d like to,” you shoot back, digging your heel in that much further. You wait until you see tears welling in the corners of his eyes before letting any of the pressure up, and when you’re sure he’s hurting too badly to try and pull a fast one on you, you step off his chest and kneel to the ground, straddling his torso before your hands snake up to form a necklace at his throat. “You’re not used to girls fighting back, are you? You’re not used to anyone putting up a fight, and because of that you think you can just take whatever you want. Is that right?”

His eyes bulge out of their sockets as you begin to squeeze, hissed obscenities caught in his throat with nowhere to go, and the more he claws at the manacles your hands form, the tighter you let your grip become. It’s power, what you feel as you reconcile with the fact that you’re now quite literally holding this man’s life in your hands, and for a moment, you forget everything else. That you were only in this situation because you’d set out to save someone, that you’d sent that very same someone to go and fetch Spencer to come resolve all of this, that you weren’t an angel of death enacting revenge upon those who rightfully deserved what was coming to them. All those things washed away in the night, in just the same way as the beginning rainfall washed the man’s blood onto the ground in runny pink ribbons. It was only you and him, now. Nothing else mattered.

“You know, it’s men like you,” you snarl, squeezing so tightly against his throat that your knuckles go white and your fingers stiff, “that make people afraid to walk home alone at night. To send their kids off to college, to let their little ones grow up and experience the world. Because there are always— always monsters like you just waiting to take advantage of us. And no one’s ever made you pay for that, before, have they? That’s why you’re still so cocky, and confident enough to pull this shit out in the open because you know you’ll get away with it.”

Distantly, in the back of your mind, you think you hear someone calling your name. It’s hard to say for certain; with how focused you are on enacting revenge, on making sure this lowlife feels every single ounce of pain he’s ever managed to inflict on another unsuspecting human, your senses aren’t left with much more of an attention span. Even if they had been, you wouldn’t have bothered using it. Your fury, burning your nerves like hellfire, proves such a strong beacon of desire that you have no choice but to indulge. It feels good, the way his breath catches beneath where the heel of your palm digs into his throat, and you can tell by the way his eyes are beginning to cloud that if you keep it up, if you press just a little harder, squeeze just a little more—

Warm, strong arms snake around your middle, forming an inescapable cage of iron trying to pry you off the man beneath you, and the primal snarl that rips from your throat in response is a clear threat, but it does nothing to deter them. Hyperfixated as you are on finishing the job and ensuring that the man on the ground never lives to breathe another day, you don’t have the attention to spare, but your subconscious takes in the sharp scent of cloves filling your nostrils, the soft brush of curls against your shoulder, the domineering grip shackling your wrist maintaining a surprising air of gentleness. Your name is hurriedly whispered into your ear once, twice, three times, and by the fourth round you realize they’re not whispers at all — they’re shouts.

“Let go of him,” Spencer barks, bruising your ribs with how harshly he yanks you backwards. “Listen to me, listen to me. Let go of him.”

“Get off me!” you hiss in pain, stars dancing across your vision as you feel a slight bend in one of your bones, throwing an elbow back in retaliation. It lands square on his chest, and though the resulting grunt of pain he gives is certainly satisfying, it isn’t worth the grip you lose on the man’s neck. Once you’re down by one hand, it isn’t at all difficult for Spencer to wrench the second one back, and before you know it you’re a good ten feet down the alley, kicking and screaming wildly against Spencer’s grip as the monster you’d nearly strangled to death sputtered his way back to life.

“Calm down,” Spencer snaps, voice deep and low in your ear as he adjusts his grip around your torso so that you’re more fully pressed agains his body. “You need to breathe, do you hear me? Snap out of it. She’s okay. You got here in time and she’s okay. She’s safe, and you’re safe. Calm down. Calm down.”

You want to tell Spencer that he’s wrong. That you can’t be safe, that no one can be, so long as the man groaning on the ground across the alley is allowed to keep breathing. That this man can’t be allowed to live another day, waiting for the next opportunity to take advantage of an unsuspecting stranger who didn’t know any better. That it would be better to put him down now than to wait around for him to fuck up all over again, to ruin someone else’s life.

So you do.

Or, you try to. But all that manages to leave your mouth is little more than bent sobs and broken screams.

“It’s okay,” Spencer goes on, “it’s alright. Everything’s alright.” He uses the grip he’s got on your arm to spin you around, muffling your sobs as he brings your head against his chest and keeps it there with a gentle hand rested against the back of your head. Your body’s shaking so badly against his that, with your eyes still closed, you’re certain you’re still struggling to free yourself from his grip. It isn’t until you feel your fingers — numb with cold and shock and adrenaline — curl into his jacket that you realize you’re holding onto him for dear life. “Just breathe. Just breathe. You’re okay.”

“He was going to—“ You cut yourself off with a choked sob, shaking your head profusely. “He was going to—“

“I know,” Spencer murmurs, “I know. You don’t have to explain, just breathe.”

You hate this — that he’s caught you in such a vulnerable position, that he’s bearing witness to the rapid decline of your mental state. You hate that this is what it took to finally get him to wrap his arms around you, to offer words of reassurance and certainty rather than fixing you with unimpressed looks and exasperated eye rolls. Most of all, though, you hate that he’s now seen you at your worst, and that, going forward, he’ll never quite be able to dissociate you from the monster you truly are.

You don’t know how long he holds you there, murmuring insistent reassurances into your ear as he holds you gently to his chest. For how at odds it is with every other interaction you’d had with him — those ones where he’d roll his eyes, wave you off, regard you as little more than a vapid, spoiled brat who was all too used to getting her way — it’s nearly impossible to reconcile how you’d grown used to being treated with how you were being treated now. And though it’s certainly the last thing your mind should be focussing on, though you really don’t have the mental capacity required to work through this on top of everything else, you can’t help but come to the realization that you’re actually quite fond of the change.

A voice from across the alley cuts through the careful atmosphere of misguided comfort Spencer has crafted for you, and though he won’t let you turn around — actually goes so far as to squeeze his arms more tightly around your middle so that you can’t — the very sound of the man’s voice sends you dangerously close to the edge of the precipice all over again. “Are you… the fed that bitch was talking about?” His voice is hoarse, and half his words come out in broken hacks. It’s childish in the most juvenile of ways, but you can’t help the twinge of satisfaction that sparks to life in your blood. “Arrest her! She tried to kill me!”

“Actually,” Spencer mutters darkly in response, “from where I’m standing and from what that high school senior told me, she was only trying to stop you from committing assault. If anyone here is getting arrested tonight, it’s you.”

“Are you— are you fucking serious?” The blatant shock shooting his cracked voice up two octaves might have been funny, were the situation that led to it not so horribly severe. “She broke my fucking leg!”

“Thing is,” Spencer shoots back, never even missing a beat, “they do a lot worse to rapists in prison. I’d know— I’ve seen it.” The way his voice drops as the words tumble from his mouth catches your attention, but you don’t have the time to properly contemplate asking why before he’s going on. “You ask me, she went a little too easy on you. Remember that when you finally get what’s coming to you.”

And then Spencer’s calmly leading you away, maintaining a gentle yet firm grip on your waist to keep you from trying to look back. Even if you could, you don’t imagine you’d be much inclined to. You have no remorse for what you’d nearly done, and, truthfully, you’d left men in far worse states in the past. You know that; Spencer does, too. Yet, even in spite of that, even in spite of the fact that this was the second night he’d born witness to you attempting to kill a man, his touch on your body remains soft, and he curls over you like a protective blanket.

“We can’t just leave him,” you find the strength to whisper once you’ve put a healthy amount of distance between you and the alley’s opening. The street lights grow brighter the closer the two of you get to the bar, and you’d never admit it out loud, but it makes you feel that much safer. “He’ll get away. You need to… you need to go back.”

“I called the police as soon as I went to go check the bathroom,” Spencer tells you, leading you back into the safety of the bar. Suddenly surrounded by the sounds of raucous laughter and joyful whoops, it’s almost easy to forget what just occurred outside — almost. “They were on standby in case anything went wrong, but I had them hang back until I could get you out of there safely. They’re probably in the middle of cuffing him now.”

“And the girl?” you ask, so dazed that you don’t even protest or make any sort of snappy remark as Spencer gently helps you into a secluded corner booth. “She’s... you made sure she got home safe?”

“I called her a taxi and gave her my phone number,” Spencer answers, fixing you with as reassuring a stare as he can manage. “She’s going to give me a call in the morning about pressing charges. She was scared and a little banged up, but he didn’t... nothing happened. You stopped it before it could.”

You’re too weak to do anything with the knowledge but nod and sink down to the table, protectively covering your head with your arms as you squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe. Dark thoughts, thoughts twisted in rage and a deeply intense need to protect, continue swirling through your mind, and if you’d thought catching your breath was impossible before, it’s effectively become something of an Olympic sport now, though the reasoning for why effectively evades your understanding. What you’d been through tonight, what you’d been ready to do to that man — if he could even be called a man — isn’t anything that’s never happened before. Hell, scum like that were the very reason you’d gotten caught up with Spencer in the first place.

But… something’s different now. You can tell by the way the oxygen rattles through your lungs, the way you can’t still your shaking fingers as they clatter against the tabletop. You don’t know what it is, where it’s come from, or how to stop it, but it’s there, and you can feel it.

Fingers softly brush up against one of your wrists, startling you so forcefully from your reverie that you can’t help the cry of shock that drops from your mouth as you yank your arm back with as much urgency as if you’d been burned. Seconds pass, then ten, then thirty, and even as your subconscious mind works double time to interpret the concerned light in Spencer’s eyes in response to his touch, you remain unable to fully come back to the present.

“You need to eat something,” he tells you, casting his eyes back down to the table. It’s a testament to how much time has passed that there are now two glasses of water covered in condensation that, up until this point, you’d not even been aware were present. “It’ll help with the shock.”

“I’m not going into shock,” you mutter, squeezing your hands together and resting them in front of you. Spencer catches sight, but if he has something to say about it he keeps it to himself. “And I’m not hungry. I just want to go home.”

“And I’ll take you there,” Spencer responds, metaphorically digging his feet in. “But you need to eat something first. And drink water.”

You roll your eyes, shakily moving to stand. “I’m not—“

“Sit down.” The hard glint in his eyes, sharp and metallic as a knife, makes it clear that he isn’t asking, and against your stubborn will, you immediately do as he commands. You want to think it’s simply because you’re too tired to fight back rather than too frightened or intimidated, but then, you can’t quite be sure. At least, not until Spencer leans across the table, insistently holding your gaze in something that you think might be a warning, and it’s only now that you realize he’s been holding back his frustration in favor of seeing to your needs, just as his composure begins to slip. “I told you to wait for me at the bar.”

“Yeah, you did,” you respond with a halfhearted roll of your eyes. “You should have known better.”

“No,” Spencer shoots back, “you should have listened to me. Instead you went and broke your word, all because you had something to prove to yourself.”

You can’t help but scoff in disbelief at Spencer’s implication, momentarily startled into genuine speechlessness. Those words hurt — so much so that you really weren’t inclined to admit that they did, lest Spencer think he have more power over you than you were actually willing to give him. So instead, you pushed back the hurt and leaned into the rage. It wasn’t healthy by any means, but at this point, you’d try just about anything to cut through the debilitating numbness medicating your senses at the moment.

“I didn’t break shit!” you hiss, repressing the urge to scream. “And if you really think I did what I did because I was thinking of myself, then you’re just as bad— no, scratch that, you’re… you’re even fucking worse than the rest of them!”

And you expect Spencer to launch some scathingly cruel insult back at you, one that cuts you deeper than you’d ever known words could be capable of, because Spencer’s a genius, after all, and he’s kept up with you enough over the years that he knows how to make an insult hurt if he wants it to. To your admitted surprise, though, he doesn’t open his mouth and hurl knives your way; he doesn’t even look at you like he wants to hurt you, in the way that you’re positive you’re looking at him. Instead, he only blinks down at you, carefully analyzing the expression on your face and the fury in your words before giving you any kind of response. It’s more than you deserve, really.

But Spencer’s soul has always struck you as kind.

“You could have gotten yourself hurt tonight,” he sighs, shaking his head in what you think could be disappointment. “You realize that, don’t you? That what you did was reckless and ridiculously stupid?”

You bark a harsh laugh in response to that, shaking your head as you go on squeezing your hands together. “In case you didn’t notice, I wasn’t the one in danger. Believe me, you didn’t have anything to worry about.”

“You said he’s escalated to killing girls after assaulting them,” Spencer presses, and it’s only as you minutely glance down at the table that you realize he’s curling his hands into fists of his own. “Did you ever stop to think that if he’d managed to overpower you, that could have happened to you too?

“Well it didn’t, did it?” you snap, searching for the power to quell your sudden annoyance. You know it’s misplaced; Spencer’s only doing his best to take care of you, without saying as much in so many words. You should be happier for it; after all, hadn’t you spent years attempting to get Spencer to consider you? To leave lasting impressions on his mind? To sneak your way into his late night, private, personal thoughts? Sure, on the surface it had all been more for show than anything else, but… even if he’d never known the truth, you certainly always did. “I’m fine. Okay? Fine. I’m not going into shock—“

“You’re certainly acting like you are.”

“— I’m not having a panic attack—“

“Again, you could have fooled me.”

“— and I’m not hungry! Okay? I’m not! I just want to go home!”

And it’s lucky that Spencer had the foresight to seat the both of you as far away from the general population of the bar as possible, lest any of the unsuspecting strangers hear the two of you squabbling over something so harrowing, but even if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have cared enough to bother lowering your voice. All of these people, laughing, chatting, obliviously participating in their good times, and all the while an innocent girl had nearly been violated just a few buildings away out on the street. It wouldn’t have been their fault — really, the only person that should have been held accountable was hopefully being dragged to the police station at this very moment — but the fact that life could so casually go on while a child had to suffer the worst night of their life in silence just didn’t sit particularly well in your throat.

You inhale a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut as you brace against the inky misery staining your senses. When you open them again, blinking through the stubborn tears trying to form in the brim of your eyes, you find Spencer carefully considering your face, and all you can do is hope he doesn’t notice the way your lip wobbles.

“I just want to go home,” you say again, hardly managing to get the words out in anything above a whisper. “Please, Spencer, just… I don’t… I can’t be here right now. Please just take me home.”

It’s hard to say what exactly takes the fight out of him. It could be the way you’ve said his name, softly, desperately, pleading in a manor which you’re certain he’s never heard from you before. But then, it could also be the tears welling in your eyes, far more conspicuous a sight than you’d have liked and one Spencer had only ever been confronted with once before. Whatever it is that’s done the trick, it prompts the softening of his gaze, along with the gentle downturn of the curve of his mouth. Just out of the corner of your eye, you think you see his fingers dancing hesitantly over the table top as they steadily migrate closer to yours, and though he doesn’t try to make contact with you this time, he manages to offer you an inexplicable amount of comfort as his fingers dance in a mirror image of the motions of yours.

“Okay,” Spencer concedes, frustration fading out of his expression to allow concern to take the lead. “If that’s what you need, then okay. But— just, put this on, at least.” Before you can interpret his meaning, he’s shrugging out of his jacket and pushing it across the table, and before you can protest, he’s pressing forward stubbornly. “It’s raining outside, you’re shaking, and that dress is gorgeous but it’s not going to stop you from catching hypothermia. Just wear it until we get to the car.”

He’s not leaving you a choice, judging by the glint in his eye that makes it clear he isn’t willing to hear any back talk on the subject. You consider doing so anyway — partly because you’re not sure you’re in the mood to take orders from Spencer, no matter how emotionally distressed you are, and partly because you’re afraid the weight of his jacket on your skin and the scent of his cologne in your nose would be just a bit too intimate for you to handle in this moment — but ultimately, you do as he asks, grabbing at the dark bundle of fabric and wrapping it around yourself like a blanket of protection.

It’s… warm. And it smells good, too. Embarrassing as it is, concentrating on further inhaling the scent of it — of him — is nearly enough to instantly cause your hands to cease their trembling.

“Let’s go,” Spencer murmurs, offering his hand as he stands from the table.

Wordlessly, you take it.

––

Part Two: Something of a Dangerous Game

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot “On Your Mind” (Rated NC17)

Summary: Blaine is sitting at a bar, ill-advisedly looking for Mr. Right ... and failing. But as he plans to leave, he sees an incredibly gorgeous man who captivates him. He sits back down and watches him, fantasizing about who he is, what he's doing, and why he's there. But before too long, Blaine discovers that this man is far from ordinary. (3448 words)

Notes: This is a re-write. 

Read on AO3.

Being a New Yorker isn’t for the weak-hearted. Living here is rough.

And as the days go by, it doesn’t get any easier.

The city can be cruel. But it’s exciting, too. Blaine loves living here. He may be a small town boy, but he can’t imagine living anywhere else. But he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t overwhelming.

Back home in Ohio, people wore their hearts on their sleeves. That made it easier for him to survive as the token gay kid at his high school. From bigots to allies, he pretty much knew where everyone stood from the start. But in New York, everyone has their own unique brand of armor, forged through the give and take necessary to thrive in a diverse metropolis. It’s harder to tell from the outset who’s truly on his side and who’s faking it.

When Blaine first moved to New York, he stumbled into a few hornet’s nests. He learned a valuable lesson, but now he has a habit of being super-cautious about everyone, over-analyzing behavior, picking actions and conversations apart in search of clues.

It keeps him safe, but it also leaves him lonely.

He feels the weight of that as his butt falls asleep on the hard-as-a-rock barstool he’s monopolizing, stirring the watered-down rum and coke he’s been nursing for over an hour. He doesn’t actually like rum and coke too much. He’ll drink it, but it’s not his preferred choice overall. If he wasn’t so concerned about looks, he’d order a strawberry daiquiri. But a tall curvy glass filled with pastel pink drink and topped with a colorful umbrella isn’t the impression he’s trying to give off. He’s afraid it might scream flaming gay. A rum and coke always struck him as a man’s drink, probably because that’s what his dad used to order. And if there was a man’s man anywhere out there in the world, it was definitely his dad.

But Blaine, sighing in the solitude that is his corner of the bar, really wants a daiquiri.

He runs a hand over his tired face and up into his hair, mussing what was once a helmet of meticulously plastered curls, though he figures that the way he looks far from matters now. If not a single man looked him up and down when he was fresh faced and crisp as a brand new hundred dollar bill, then no one’s going to look at him now.

Not anyone who’d want to spend more than one night with him anyway. And even then, he’s giving them too much credit. More like fifteen minutes in the bathroom. And as much as Blaine has had fun in his fair share of bathrooms, he’s really looking for something deeper. Something more.

Of course, this bar that he’s scored most of the ass he’s tapped since he’s lived in New York probably isn’t the smartest place to go looking for it.

But his choices are limited. He’s a creature of habit, and this bar happens to be a block away from his apartment. Aside from that, he’s a certifiable workaholic, and he doesn’t like to shop at work. He’s a producer and a songwriter, currently slumming the orchestra pit down at the Lyceum Theater as a favor for a friend, and even though Broadway is rife with gay men, the ones he’s hooked up with have mostly been social climbers, warming his bed, hoping for the opportunity to snag something better than chorus line.

Blaine Anderson is no one’s stepping stone.

He takes a sip of his drink, checking to see if it’s any more salvageable than it was five minutes ago, and since the answer is no, he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, preparing to settle his tab and head out. Who knows? Maybe if he hits Whole Foods on the way home, he might stumble across a nice, eligible bachelor in the organic produce department.

And this is where his imagination runs wild.

They’ll both reach for the same Asian pear. They’ll brush fingers, giggle bashfully. Blaine will offer it to him, but the man will insist Blaine take it instead. Small talk will ensue. They’ll find out they have tons of stuff in common. They’ll go for coffee and end up talking till five in the morning because time will fly by. And as the sun peeks over the horizon, they’ll share Blaine’s pear, along with a few sweet kisses …

It’s the rom-com variety meet-cute New York City is known for.

The romantic in him says it’s worth a shot.

The realist in him says don’t hold your breath.

He puts a tenner on the bar and tells the bartender to keep the change.

High-pitched laughter cuts through the murmur of drunken conversation, stopping Blaine cold, half-standing with his hand thrust awkwardly down the back pocket of his pants. He doesn’t understand why he has such an extreme reaction to it, but it calls to him, goes through him – in his ears and around his brain like a silk sheet, sliding down his throat like a rich mouthful of hot chocolate and settling in his belly. He’s never had that reaction to a laugh before. It’s almost ludicrous. He waits for it to continue, but it doesn’t, and the heat in his belly begins to cool.

But I didn’t just imagine it! he thinks as the sensation drifts away. It was clear as day!

He turns his head, eyes sweeping the dingy bar for whoever made that sound, pausing at the front door as traffic flows in and out. A thin stream of average, uninteresting faces make an appearance but nothing that fits that voice. A few faces later, Blaine decides to go with his first instinct and leave, but he stops for a second time when a gorgeous, almost otherworldly man with pale skin and impossibly blue eyes walks into view. He turns to the bartender as he passes Blaine, not even sparing a glance for the man staring numbly like a dumbstruck teenager. When the stranger speaks, his voice sounds even more magical than before.

“Shirley Temple, extra cherries if you please, Ronnie.”

Ronnie, a surly manticore of a man with a handle-bar moustache and bright red suspenders, raises a hand to acknowledge his order.

“Sure thing,” he says, his gruff, smoker’s voice sounding happier now that he – whoever he is – has arrived. Other patrons at the bar turn to welcome him with a wave or a smile. Blaine notices that the overall atmosphere of the bar has become lighter, less depressing, as if whoever this man is swept in and cleansed the aura of the room.

Or maybe the rum, weak though it is, is finally hitting him.

Either way, this man, taking a seat at a table not too far from him – this ethereally handsome, fashion-forward man with the sea blue eyes, and (Blaine can’t help noticing) incredible ass stuffed into ridiculously tight jeans - convinces Blaine to sit back down and hang out a little while longer.

Whoa, those jeans are tight! he thinks. I mean, I guess I can’t talk. My pants are pretty tight, too. But those look dangerously tight. Like … health endangering tight.

The man sits up straight and runs his hands down his thighs, stopping briefly at his knees, then continuing back up to his hips again. Blaine leans forward at the sight of this man touching himself, stroking the dark denim pulled tight over trim legs, and nearly falls straight off his stool.

Blaine pinches his lips together tight before he can accidentally moan out loud and make a fool out of himself.

N-not that I’m complaining. If you’ve got it, flaunt it. And you definitely got it. I mean, have it. And that voice … are you a singer? I think I would have heard of you if you were a singer. You’d have Broadway wrapped around your finger if you were …

The man bites his bottom lip, holding back a smile, eyes searching the bar, looking for someone. His hand trails up the buttons of his shirt, fidgeting with his open collar, touching his neck lightly with his fingertips.

He must be waiting for someone special. Probably a lover with a reaction like that.

Looks like I don’t stand a chance, huh?

Blaine watches his fingertips move, envisioning opening the man’s shirt, button by button, following with a kiss to every newly revealed patch of skin, ending at his long neck, tracing a path up to his ear with the tip of his tongue. Blaine blinks his eyes, snapping back to reality.

Okay … I don’t know where that came from …

The man looks distracted as he peers off into the crowd and swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing when he does. A waitress comes up to his table with a tray carrying a single drink – a bubbly beverage overflowing with crayon red maraschino cherries. The man’s eyes flick up to the waitress and he smiles, the distracted look dissolving with his enigmatic grin. The waitress sets a napkin down in front of him, and then the drink on top of that. The man nods and watches the waitress walk away before he regards his drink.

Blaine has become positively fascinated with this man, every minute detail of him, even though apart from being inconceivably sexy he has yet to do anything more extraordinary than smile and sip his drink.

But that smile.

It has more character, more personality than the half dozen men he’s tried talking up this week.

The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He opens it up on the table in front of him and looks at it intently, reaching for his drink again and forgoing the straw this time to take a healthy sip.

That’s an awful lot of cherries for one poor drink, Blaine muses. And here I was, stressing over a daiquiri …

The man looks up from his paper (list? letter? Blaine can’t tell from where he’s sitting …) and chuckles. He pauses for a moment, as if he’s expecting something to happen, gaze shifting left and right, and then returns to the words on the page. The smile on the man’s face drops an inch, than an inch more, until none of it remains.

Sucky news, huh? Blaine commiserates. I understand how that is. I hope that’s not a Dear John letter. Blaine’s mind drifts to thoughts of an envelope resting against his lamp on his bedside table, the letter inside months old but read so many times that creases from the folds in the paper are tearing.

But the edges are still sharp enough to sting.

Someone with gorgeous eyes like yours shouldn’t have to read something like that, he thinks with a sigh.

The man sighs as well, eyes skimming the last few lines. His smile returns. He folds the letter back up and puts it in his pocket.

Guess not, huh? Well, good for you. A man like you deserves love letters … and poetry …

The man shakes his head, but this time he’s staring straight ahead at someone approaching his table. Another unspectacular man from the bar - this one wearing a long, tan coat - walks right up to the only vacant chair at the table and sits down without being invited.

Rude, Blaine thinks. The man he’s been watching for the last half-hour raises both eyebrows and nods his head once, as if he agrees. Blaine watches the second man closely, observing the way he sits, how his eyes bounce from face to face around him, how he keeps his hands folded in his lap, suspiciously close to his hip. The waitress comes up to take his order but the man waves her away, and Blaine gets it.

This second man is a cop.

Suddenly, this show he’s been watching has just become way more interesting. His thin rum and coke forgotten along with all pretense of ever leaving this bar, Blaine focuses on the couple, no longer concerned whether they know he’s watching them or not. He debates finding a chair closer to their table so he can hear what they’re saying, anything to give him a clue as to what his mystery man is up to.

The cop monopolizes most of the conversation from what Blaine can see. He starts talking, low and calm at first, but then more and more animatedly, gesturing with one hand since he keeps the other pinned to his side, probably where his holster is. Blaine prides himself on the fact that he has watched enough episodes of Law and Order that he’s well-versed in many aspects of police behavior by now. In fact, he’s considered becoming a police officer. He thinks he’d be really good at it. He’s athletic and smart (if he does say so himself). And he can be assertive. Only problem is he’s not too keen on guns … or chasing after people … or getting shot at …

In the middle of the officer’s speech, the man with the iridescent blue eyes starts to laugh, apparently at an inappropriate moment because the officer stares at the man with mouth agape and eyes wide, offense written in every line of his strained face. The blue-eyed man peeks up at his companion and waves a dismissive hand. It looks to Blaine like he’s assuring the angered officer that he wasn’t laughing at him or anything he said. He quiets down, gesturing for the officer to continue.

Blaine watches in silence as the two talk back and forth, concentrating on their lips to see if he can catch any snippets of conversation. He narrows his eyes until he gets a migraine, but the only words he thinks he can catch are ‘lost’ and ‘help’, and maybe ‘dead’, though it could have been ‘den’ or ‘desk’. Blaine’s eyes begin to cross, and more and more he’s starting to wish that the police officer guy would just leave so he can go back to unraveling the mystery of this man with the prismatic blue eyes.

The man (Blaine has decided to call him ‘Noel’ since he bears a striking resemblance to a young Noel Coward) closes his eyes and puts his fingers to his temples, pressing and massaging tiny circles into his skin.

Is Captain Overbearing bothering you? Blaine thinks. Is he giving you a headache? I know people like that. They walk into the room and pow! My head throbs. I used to let them walk all over me, mostly because we’d been friends forever. It happens with my brother, too. I could tell them to eff off, but I guess I have a phobia of not having any friends. But now, being a New Yorker for the past decade, I opt for revenge. Not the big kind of revenge. I mean, I don’t think I could hurt anyone, or ruin their lives, or anything. I have been known to slip a few drops of Visine into their soda. Gives them the poops for hours. That’s fairly satisfying …

In the midst of massaging his temples, the man smiles. He opens his eyes, throws his head back and laughs, and again the officer looks entirely put off. The man shakes his head, leaning toward the man across the table, putting a hand up to either amplify his voice or shield his lips from view. Blaine pouts, feeling intentionally left out of the conversation. Even though his lip reading skills have so far gotten him nowhere, now he has no hope of finding out what’s going on between Noel and his police officer friend.

The officer nods, his eyes performing a cursory glance of the bar one last time before he gets up and heads for the exit. The man at the table stands as well, reaching into his back pocket, squeezing his hand into the tight fit and pulling out his wallet. Blaine deflates when he sees the man pull out a bill along with some other thin piece of paper, something that looks suspiciously like a business card, from his wallet. He places the bill beside his half-drunk Shirley Temple on the table, and then turns on his heel. Blaine expects the man to head out the door after the police officer, but instead he looks straight at Blaine.

Blaine pivots his head left and right, then turns his head completely around and glances behind himself to be sure, and yes, he’s the only one in Noel’s sight line at present. He heads right for Blaine, eyes locked unnervingly on Blaine’s face, and for a moment Blaine becomes confused and frightened all at once. The man is striking, but he also has an undeniable air of confidence and power that makes Blaine want to drop to beg for forgiveness and do whatever this man tells him to do. But why does Blaine feel so guilty? He hasn’t said word one to the man! He’ll admit, he has been staring, but that’s all.

Maybe he should have just gone home when he’d planned. Now he’s about to get into a fist fight in a bar.

Not really. Blaine has no intention of throwing a single punch.

The man stops before Blaine, hands resting on his hips, doing nothing but look at him, eyes going over his body from head to toe. A range of emotions pass over his face from amusement to sympathy to curious. He lands back on amusement and stays there. He holds the thin card out to him. When Blaine just stares at him, speechless, he leans forward and slips it neatly into the outer pocket of Blaine’s button-down shirt.

“The name’s Kurt,” the man says, “not Noel, but I appreciate the compliment. Also, I appreciate your concern about the effects of my pants on my health, but I promise you, they’re no tighter than I can handle.”

Blaine leans against the bar, knocked out of his stupor by the man’s opening line.

“Believe it or don’t, I understand what it’s like to feel alone in a city of 8 million people. We have that in common. And by the way,” the man Blaine now knows is Kurt, not Noel, says, “I’m not a big fan of rum and coke, either. So when you take me out on Friday night, just order the damn daiquiri? Life’s too short for shitty friends and crappy drinks.”

Kurt pats Blaine’s pocket where the card is safely tucked and winks, turning and heading toward the entrance where the police officer has ducked back in to wait for his companion to follow.

Blaine still hasn’t said a word, stunned into silence as he watches Kurt leave. Kurt says something to the officer at the door, motioning vaguely in Blaine’s direction. The officer’s eyes find Blaine and the weary man smirks. He holds the door open for Kurt, who turns one last time to see Blaine stuck in the same position that he left him. He raises an arm and waves, blowing Blaine a kiss. He steps out the door with a satisfied grin, and like that, he’s gone.

Blaine waits a moment longer after Kurt has gone, trying to wrap his mind around everything that happened. But try as he might, it’s too surreal for him to comprehend. Noel – not Noel, as it turns out, but Kurt – had called him out on everything he’d thought while watching him. But how? How in the hell is that possible? Well, he works with a police officer. Is there a chance that maybe he … what?

What, Blaine? he asks himself. What on God’s green earth could possibly explain all of that?

Remembering the card waiting for him in his pocket, he pulls it out carefully, not willing to lose it and the opportunity to contact that fascinating man. Blaine reads the words embossed on it, then he reads them again. He reads them over and over, close to a hundred times, and after their meaning sinks in fully, he’s not sure if he should laugh or find the nearest rock and hide under it.

Blaine mentally goes over everything he saw tonight – every inflection Kurt made, every movement, every shift of his inquisitive eyes. Blaine has spent the past ten years of his life being a skeptic, constantly questioning everyone’s intentions and emotions, feeling like no one he’s met has truly understood him, nor has ever really wanted to. But after tonight, none of that matters.

This might be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Kurt E. Hummel

Medium

Psychic Investigator

[mysweetserpent]

5 years away pt 4

A/N: Here is the non Christmas version. If you would like the Christmas version let me know ad I’ll post it! thank you all for being so patient! Let me know how I did and if you want more!

Taglist: @lostnliterature

Part One    Part Two    Part Three

It had now been two weeks after the night Sweet Pea claimed he had forgiven you. Your dad’s funeral had passed and so had Christmas. There had been no exchange between you and Sweet Pea since that night he claimed to have forgiven you. You had now figured out that he, in fact, hadn’t forgiven you. But you had many other things to worry about rather than to dwell on it. It had been your first Christmas without your dad.  

Your mom had not been handling it well at all. She usually had all the decorations set up the day after thanksgiving but your trailer was bare. Not once thing Christmas decoration was in sight. It saddened you even more because it was your dad’s favorite holiday. He wouldn’t have wanted your mother this way.

But pushing that all aside, you decided that you were going to join in on the one serpent thing he loved to do. Heading to the Whyte Wyrm, you stopped to pick up Toni. You decided a couple days ago that there was just too much going on to worry her lying to you. “You know he is going to be there right?”

You nodded your head. “Of course I do. But I need to stop mourning my dad and start celebrating him. And plus they always lied spending Sunday nights at the Wyrm drinking, playing pool and watching football.” Silence filled the car after you spoke. Toni was afraid to upset you more, but actually you got caught up in your memories of Sweet Pea and your dad. Y/D/N had always liked Sweet Pea, but after bonding with him in this was, he grew to love the boy like his own son.

Pulling up to the Wyrm, nerves started to fill your stomach. Taking the keys out of the ignition, you took a deep sigh and leaned your head back on the head rest on your seat. Letting out a loud groan, Toni laughed and you both got out of the car. It was getting way to cold to be riding the motorcycle. You straightened out your jacket you made your way to the doors.

Walking in, you took a look around noticing that it was more of your generation of serpents. You smiled because you actually felt like home being surrounded by familiar faces. The first person to approach you though was FP with a fake smile placed on his lips. “Y/N! Let me buy you a drink.”

As you tried to reject his offer, he threw his arm over your shoulder pulling you over to the bar anyway. FP moved behind the bar motioning for you to take a seat. Rolling your eyes, you sat down and watched him make a rum and coke. “I know you are going to be here longer now, but I don’t think hanging around the Wyrm is the best move Y/N.”

He placed the drink and a shot in front of you. Downing the shot, you looked over to him. “I’m not here for him FP. I’m over having this conversation with you and Jughead. Leave it alone and let it go.” FP shook his head and hissed out, “It aint that easy kid. You might not be here for him but that doesn’t mean you aint a distraction for him.”

His eyes moved past you to who you were assuming was Sweet Pea, but you didn’t have the courage to look back at him too. FP and Jughead had been giving you the same speech every time you stepped in to the same room as Sweet Pea and it was beginning to piss you off beyond belief. “FP, I respect you and I love you like a uncle but you and your son are really pissing me off. I just barred my dad and you are more worried about how my presence effect Sweet Pea. I am not going to tell either one of you again. I am not here for him.”

“Who are you not here for?” You tensed as you heard his voice. FP’s eyebrows raised at you which caused you to roll yours and bring your drink up to your lips, downing this one too. Before FP could answer him, you spun around in your bar stool. Looking up and down Sweet Pea, you met his eyes and spoke a simple “You” before getting up to walk past him.

Reaching Toni, Fangs and Jughead, they all turned their heads like they weren’t creeping on the interaction that just happened. “Can we just ignore what happened?” The gang all nodded before returning to their teasing of Fangs for still not being able to win a game of pool in 5 years.

“Y/N, you know you didn’t have to come out tonight right? You could’ve stayed home with your mom.” Fangs said as everyone went back to what they were doing. You shook your head, “Are you kidding? This was my dad favorite thing to do every Sunday. He’d start haunting my ass if I didn’t come to at least once in his honor.”

You felt eyes burning on the side of your face as you spoke. Knowing damn well they were Pea’s, you din’t bother looking. You defiantly weren’t in the mood for anymore fake apologies. But unfortunately he spoke up making you look at him. “Actually Y/N I’m glad your here. The serpents are from now on going to call Sundays, the Y/L/N’s sundays where all rum and cokes are half off.

Listening to Sweet Pea’s words, you couldn’t help but start to cry. This would’ve meant so much do your dad and for Sweet Pea to be the leader to place the law, it only felt right. Not wanting anyone to see you cry, you turned around and stormed out. Leaning against the wall, you brought your hands to your face trying to wipe away the tears that kept on flowing.

Hearing the door open, you started to calm yourself down. You were sick of crying in front of people and receiving the pitiful looks. Your head was still hung low as the person leaned against the wall next to you. Opening your eyes, but still keeping them on the ground, you noticed Sweet Pea’s boots. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You shook your head as you pulled your head up. “You just caught me off guard that’s all. I guess I just wasn’t expecting something nice out of you.” Looking up at him, his face dropped a little. Probably from the harsh careless tone you had given him for the second time today. You reached over and pulled the cigarette out of his hand before taking a hit of it. It had now became a stress habit for you.

“I thought we were good now that I forgave you?” He questioned like he was confused. You scoffed. He might have fooled you and gotten you off his back that night but you weren’t stupid. “You never were a good liar Pea.”

You flicked the ash off cigarette that was still lit and brought it uno your lips again. You didn’t have to look at him to know that his hand was in his hair pulling at it. “Listen, I don’t want to keep going back and forth with you. I get that I hurt you and I’m sorry that I let you down. But maybe I just did too much damage.”

Flicking the cigarette to the ground, you stomped it out. “I did mean what I said that night Y/N. I have forgiven you, but that doesn’t mean I’m still not so pissed at you for walking away from me. And even though it’s been so long I can still feel the pain.” Closing your eyes, you leaned your head against the wall. Sweet Pea spoke up again, “What was that conversation with FP all about?”

You let out a rough sarcastic laugh. “Let’s just say they don’t like that I’m still in your presence let alone Riverdale.” Taking a look at him, his face hardened a little bit before it relaxed again. “Well when do you plan on going back to that fancy college of yours?”

“I’m actually finished college. I just have to graduate. I missed out of graduating because I had to come here. If I’m right, I got back right after the new year and there are holding a small ceremony for a handful who missed graduation.” Immediately, your mind went to how your dad wouldn’t be there. As the law degree was placed in your hand, finally, he wouldn’t be cheering you on in the stands.

“Do you plan on coming back here?” He asked curiously. But before you could answer, Fangs came outside. “The game is starting Boss.” You bursted in to laughter after hearing Fangs call him boss. Both boys rolled their eyes and you all made your way back inside.

“Hey Y/N. Want another drink and a round of wings?” Toni asked. You nodded your head yes as you grabbed the drink you had finishing it. Toni walked away and you walked over to were Fangs and Jughead and just began another game of pool. “Do you guys come here to watch football or to play pool?” You asked the two.

Jughead looked up at you with a face telling you that you already knew the answer as Fangs let out a loud sigh because he was already losing the new game. “I like football but I just wanna win one damn pool game Y/N.” You laughed at his foolishness. You took a step back in to your surroundings as you took everything in. Your dad would’ve loved this. Hell he would’ve been walking around here bragging about it. But even more, he would’ve loved seeing you in the Wyrm again.

Sweet Pea noticed you and walked over. “Are you okay?” He whispered to you. Only nodding in response because you couldn’t trust your voice, you wrapped an arm around his waist to side hug him. Surprisingly, her threw his arm around your shoulders. “He would’ve loved this.”

After Sweet Pea’s words, you pulled away from him and walked away meeting Toni at the table you were all sharing. Grabbing the new drink she had brought you, you began to chug it. “Wow slow down there Mrs. Jack Daniel’s. What’s got you all worked up?” Just having to send Toni a look in response to her question she got the hint.

“At least he isn’t still being cold with you. I mean things can only get better from here right?” You shrugged in response. Who knew with you and Pea. Apparently Fangs gave up on losing, because Jughead and him came over to were you and Toni were. “So we haven’t really gotten the chance to hear about what you’ve been up to in fancy New York Y/N.” Jughead stated.

“Not much to tell. I basically had my nose in a textbook 24/7. It was law school not a vacation.” You laughed as Jug threw his hadn’t up in defense. “You had to have some type of fun while you were there. No parties? No boys? No sightseeing?” Toni asked throwing in her questions.

“A few parties with my roommate. Only two boys but defiantly nothing to brag about.” You rolled your eyes at the thought of those two mistakes you made. “The sights were defiantly amazing though. I could see the whole city from the roof of my dorm. I use to spend most of my nights studying up there.” You smiled at the thought of being on that peaceful roof again.

“Oh and I had this nut of an English professor. I literally handed in the same essay for three things and got an A+ on all three times. She didn’t even realize that it was the same one.” All four of you laughed at the stupid professor. But when the laughter faded, things got serious. “So when are you leaving us?”

At this point, Sweet Pea had walked up to the four of you. You sighed. “I’m leaving in three days.” All of their head dropped and Pea’s face hardened. He made eye contact with you. “Are you gonna come back this time or take off for another 5 years?” He spat out.

“The plan is to come back. I’m moving back to Riverdale.”

[lumiolivier]

The Good Old Days Chapter 28: World's Greatest Wingman

A/N: Hi, friends! So, I'm currently rolling. I'm the ok fingers emoji close to snapping. I could use all the validation I could get. Love you! x

Just what I need. A good, long night at the office with my pain in the ass hermanita. Just a little something, something to clear my head. Yeah, I miss Vanessa. I’m going to. I love her. She’s an ocean away. That’s bound to happen. But for the sake of my o9wn sanity, I need to keep going. The world doesn’t stop turning because Vanessa’s in a different part of it. It just feels like it does. Still, I need to keep moving. March…It’s only until March.

“Morning, boss,” I walked into the Old Man’s office like I did every other night as if nothing happened. Everything’s fine. What do you mean, I seem different? Of course not. I’m fine, “What do I got today?”

“Necesitamos hablar, Francisco,” the Old Man got serious, “Siéntate.”

Oh, shit…Why did I have that same feeling I’d get when Mama had a wooden spoon in her hand? I did as he asked me and sat across from him. The Old Man taught me how to read people, but his face was written in Greek, “What’s up?”

“Your mother’s worried about you, Frankie,” the Old Man began, pouring himself a glass of scotch.

“When isn’t she4?” I laughed him off, quietly praying this would be the end of it.

“Frankie…” he stood his ground, “You act like Sariña and I don’t talk. She asked me to keep an especially close eye on you tonight.”

“When did you talk to my mother?”

“When you weren’t even getting out of bed,” the Old Man growled, “You scared the shit out of her. At one point, she thought you were dead. At least until she noticed you were breathing again. Now, when I met you, kid, I never thought I’d ever ear your mother so scared. When I met that kid in the restaurant that night, I didn’t think anything could crush him more than working there. So, what did I do? Me being the kind-hearted Samaritan I am, I offered him a new home. Something a little more loving and nurturing than soul crushing. Talk to me, Frankie. What happened?”

“Vanessa’s gone,” I told him, probably being a little blunter than I needed to be. I knew he wasn’t going to let up, so I might as well, “She’s gone, Old Man. She left this morning for Italy and I’ve been a little depressed ever since.”

“I figured the girl had something to do with it,” he winced, “Shit…I’m so sorry, kid. That sucks. Tell you what. How about I give you the night off, so you can get your head right?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I shot him down, “I can shake it off for the sake of professionalism. No worries.”

“Not tonight,” the Old Man insisted, “You stick around home tonight. We’ll go sit at the bar, throw a few back. It feels like ages since you and I had a drink together. Has it been since you started working for me?”

“We had to,” I thought back, “I really do appreciate the concern, Old Man, but I got it. Really. Where am I going tonight?”

“You’re going to the bar tonight,” he ordered, “Plain and simple. You don’t get to call the shots around here yet, kid. I do. So, if I tell you you’re sitting at the bar tonight and getting paid to do so, then so be it. My word around these parts is law. You know that.”

“I do,” I nodded, “But perhaps the occasional bit of council doesn’t hurt.”

“When it’s unsolicited,” the Old Man got up and slammed the rest of his scotch, “It gets a little under my skin. That’s when it’s overstepping. I pretty much let you get away with murder here, Frankie. That’s not a charmed position everyone gets to be in. There are few in this world that can ask me to jump and I’ll ask them how high they want me. But right now, you’re starting to piss me off. I know you want to go out and run this town, but you can’t do that when you’re like this. And this is one of those things that will take a sec to heal. You can’t always just rub some dirt in it and call it a day. Trust me. That’s all I’m asking. I’m worried about you and this is my way of fixing it. So, I’m not going to send one of my guys that’s not in his right mind out to take care of my shit. Got it?”

“Got it.” Mama’s spoon would’ve been nicer.

“Go get a drink,” he nudged me out the door.

“Alright,” I got up from my chair, “And by the way, Old Man…”

“What?” he snapped a bit. Alright…I see he’s still a little heated. And I couldn’t blame him.

“There might be someone coming by tonight…” I bit the inside of my cheek, “That may or may not be underage…”

“No,” the Old Man put his foot down, “No, no, no. We’re not doing that, Frankie. We don’t let minors in here. Once we start allowing that, cops come in and start sniffing around. And that’s really something we don’t need. Granted, with the local fuzz, we’re on pretty good terms. They don’t fuck with my shit. I don’t fuck with theirs unless they need a consultant. But we don’t allow minors here.”

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” a voice screeched from the bar. I think everyone in the Narrows could’ve heard that one.

Speak of the devil…The Old Man shot me an angry glare. Yeah…I think it’s safe to say I’m pretty high on the Old Man’s shit list right now, “Handle it. Now.”

“Got it, boss,” I took off for the bar and pried Veronica out of the arms of the bouncers. Damn, Veronica…It took two of them for one of you? Color me impressed, “Guys! Guys! Let her go. She’s with me.”

“It’s like I told you fucking meatheads when I walked in,” Veronica shook them off, “I’m not in here to get wasted.”

“Hey,” I pulled Veronica into my chest, “Relax, Veronica. You’re alright, kiddo. You’re safe.”

“Hi, Frankie,” Veronica’s face lit up very quickly, “I told you I’d be in here tonight. Why the fuck did Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dipshit grab me at the door?”

“Because it’s not often we let an eighteen-year-old in here,” I explained, bringing her to the bar, “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault,” she let it go, “Did you not tell anyone I’d be here?”

“I just told the boss minutes before you came in,” I chuckled a bit, “If we’re being honest.”

“Oh, god…” the Old Man came out of his office, “Just what we need. Another fucking Scarlotti to corrupt.”

“Love you, too, Old Man,” Veronica giggled, running into the Old Man’s arms.

“Hi, Veronica,” he kissed her forehead, “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I know I make it a habit to hang around miscreants and troublemakers,” she shrugged, “But I felt like hanging around a different breed tonight.”

“Organized miscreants and troublemakers?” the Old Man poked at her.

“Only the most organized,” Veronica smiled, “I mean…You got to the top somehow, didn’t you?”

“Alright,” he relaxed, “She can stay. It’s not every day I make this exception, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

“After what happened last time, though,” the Old Man let it go, “There’s nowhere safer in the city for you than right here.”

“Damn straight,” Veronica made herself comfortable at the bar.

“Hey,” the Old Man flagged down the bartender, “Do not serve her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Old Man…” Veronica awed, “Come on…Rude.”

“You’ll live,” the Old Man assured her, “Frankie…”

“Yeah?” I perked up, thanking God for putting Veronica on this Earth. The Old Man was about to blow a fucking gasket and I didn’t want to be the one he blew up on.

“She’s your responsibility tonight,” he ordered, “You wanted work so bad? There’s your assignment. I need to go see a guy across town. You kids play nice. Raincheck on that drink.”

“Alright,” I wasn’t going to fight him. It’s not like I was in the position to. If I would’ve said two more words, I had a feeling the Old Man would’ve brought my ass to the warehouse and that’s somewhere I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies.

Once the Old Man left, Veronica flagged the bartender down yet again, “Can I get a rum and diet Coke please?”

“No, you cannot,” the bartender shot her down.

“Son of a bitch!” she pouted, “Seriously? The Old Man’s not even here.”

“His word is law around here, Veronica,” I threw an arm around her, “Sometimes, you learn that one the hard way.”

“What did you do, Frankie…?” Veronica gasped.

“I didn’t do anything.” That she needed to know about, “I’m just saying.”

“I ask for one damn drink,” she rolled her eyes, “It’s not like I can’t handle myself.”

Regrets were about to be had. I could feel it. But I leaned into Veronica’s ear, making sure to keep my voice down, “I’ll see if I can score you something later. The current bartender gets off at midnight. I’ll jump behind the bar until last call.”

“Bless you,” Veronica kissed my cheek, “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Because the fact that I’m in love with your sister has nothing to do with it. I had to be honest. I didn’t mind hanging out with Veronica for the night. For a while, I thought all I’d be doing is wishing she were her sister instead, but no. It was a genuine good time. Maybe the Old Man was right. Maybe I did need a night off to get my head right again. And if throwing a couple drinks back with one of my favorite people in the world is how I do that, then so be it. I’ll take this any day of the week.

As the night went on and midnight was upon us, I jumped behind the bar and started slinging drinks. I got a little too caught up in it and ended up losing Veronica, but I knew she was still here. And that was ok. As long as she stayed here, nothing could go wrong. And everything would be ok. The Old Man couldn’t get pissed at me for letting Veronica out of my sight. Veronica was still in a safe and controlled environment. Everything’s great. However, out of nowhere, I found her again. Or, the more accurate description, she found me.

“Frankie, holy shit!” Veronica bolted up to the bar.

“Jesus Christ, Veronica,” I caught my breath, “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong…” she freaked, “But I need a wingman.”

“What?” I looked at her strange, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need a fucking wingman,” Veronica slammed the seltzer water I put on the counter for her and subtly pointed toward the jukebox, “Over there.”

A blue-eyed beauty with a bright pink streak in her dark brown hair stood there, flipping through the catalog without a care in the world, “What about her?”

“She’s who I need the wingman for…”

“She’s cute, Veronica,” I applauded her taste.

“Hell yeah, she is,” Veronica swooned, “I didn’t intend to come in here trolling for ass, but…I want that one.”

“Alright, alright,” I settled her, “Chill, killer. See if you can get her over here and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I love you, Frankie,” she threw her arms around me, “I really appreciate it.”

“I love you, too,” I nudged her away, “Good luck, kiddo.”

“Thanks…” And there she goes. I got a better look at the lady that caught Veronica’s eye. Huh…She seemed kind of like the impossible dreamer type. She’s the kind of girl that’s going to either make Veronica fall in love or completely break her to pieces. Blisters and calluses on her fingers, more eye makeup than one person had a right to, but who was I to judge? Musician, I bet. It wouldn’t surprise me. If she was enough to make Veronica turn into a lost puppy around her, she must be something special.

“And so,” the Old Man came back and pulled up a seat at the bar, “Love claims another victim?”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” I started mixing him a drink.

“Looks like those Scarlotti girls have a type,” he teased.

“Very cute,” I giggled, “When’d you get back?”

“A couple minutes ago,” the Old Man tipped his drink to me, “How have things been since I left?”

“Not too bad,” I poured myself a little something, something, “Relatively simple. How’d your meeting go?”

“Can’t complain,” he reported, “Pretty alright as far as I’m concerned.”

“Excuse me,” a newly familiar face came to the bar. Oh, she’s all covered in piercings, too. No wonder Veronica fell so hard. The girl’s a sucker for hardware, “Can I get a rum and Coke please?”

Huh…Interesting…Veronica like rum. I know I’m not supposed to serve her, but how am I supposed to know if she’s going to give this to Veronica or not. Although, I could see Veronica sweating by a corner table, so maybe she could use a little drink. I know I’m not supposed to serve her, but sorry, Old Man. I can’t leave her dying like that, “Sure.”

“Thank you,” she sat at the bar and waited for me.

I mixed a straight rum and Coke for her and handed her another one. That one was diet. Veronica was picky, but right now, I had a feeling she wasn’t going to care as long as it had a proof. I slid the glasses across the bar, “Here. Second one’s on me.”

“Thanks,” she smiled.

“Hey…” I stopped her before she could get away and nodded toward Veronica twiddling her thumbs, “She seems kind of tense. I bet one of those could mellow her out.”

“I just met her tonight,” she played with her lip ring, “Do you know her?”

“Yeah, I know her,” I nodded, “She’s a little trouble, but nothing too detrimental. A little trouble, but a good heart.”

“And she’s kind of cute, don’t you think?” she looked back over at Veronica, “In that whole Catholic schoolgirl fantasy kind of way. Yeah?”

“I suppose so.” It felt weird thinking of someone I saw as a little sister in that light, but sure. Whatever works for her.

“This might be asking a lot,” she winced, “But…Do you know if she’s…tasting the rainbow, if you know what I mean?”

I figured it out. I looked over at Veronica, who must have heard the conversation. Because if she nodded any faster, she’s going to end up with whiplash. And that was all the permission I needed, “Yeah. She does. What’s your name?”

“Tessa,” she introduced herself, “I just moved to town a couple days ago.”

“Well, Tessa,” I grabbed my drink and toasted with her, “Welcome to the mean streets of New York City. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Good luck with Veronica.”

“Thanks,” Tessa blushed a bit, “Hey…You don’t think I could…I mean, I know we just met, too, but you don’t think I could ask you a favor…Do you?”

“What else am I here for other than to be the friendly neighborhood bartender?” I shrugged, “What can I do for you?”

“Since you know Veronica,” she asked, “Do you think…Maybe you could kind of wingman for me? Like I said, I really don’t know many people here yet and my roommates were being a little loud tonight, so you’re kind of the best I got here…I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask you your name and I’m already asking for favors.”

“It’s Frankie,” I introduced myself, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to Veronica and see what I can do.”

“Thank you so much,” Tessa beamed, “I really do appreciate it.”

“No problem…” I’m smelling a pattern here.

“Look at you…” the Old Man praised, “Playing devil’s advocate, are we, Frankie?”

“I’m just helping a sister out,” I finished off my drink and got another one, “Do you mind if I go on break, Old Man?”

“You’re not even technically on the clock, kid,” he let me go, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were excited about this.”

“If my love story’s on hold,” I hopped the bar, “Then, why not live vicariously through someone else’s?”

“Make me proud, Frankie…”

“Will do,” I went over to Veronica and Tessa’s table, “Evening, ladies.”

“Frankie…” Veronica looked at me so lost and confused. And yet, something in her eyes said what the fuck am I doing here and to fuck off, “What brings you here?”

“I work here,” I pointed out, “And I figured I’d come over and say hi.”

“Do you mind?” Veronica got defensive. That’s her nerves running on high. And I can’t blame her for that, “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“I see that,” I glanced at the other side of the table, “Hi, Tessa.”

“Hi, Frankie,” Tessa finished off her drink.

“Look…I’m going to be honest with you,” I sat down, “This girl here? She’s an absolute sweetheart. And I love her like she’s my own.”

“Oh…” Tessa got jumpy, her eyes shifting between Veronica and me, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were already seeing someone, Veronica. I’ll just…”

“No, no,” I stopped her, “It’s not like that. You asked me at the bar if I knew Veronica. And I told you yes. But that’s because I’m dating her older sister. It’s not like that with us.”

“Oh…” Tessa let out a little sigh of relief, “Ok…”

“Frankie, I love you,” Veronica jammed the heel of her boot into my toes, “And we can catch up later. I promise. But right now, I’m kind of busy.”

“Actually, Veronica,” Tessa chimed in, “Do you…maybe want to get out of here? I know a place uptown that’s not too far from my apartment building. If that’s alright.”

“Um…” Veronica didn’t know what to do. She was absolutely frozen in her seat. But she looked to me almost as if she were asking permission. She knew I was supposed to be keeping an eye on her tonight, but it was getting to be that time again where I was fully off the clock.

“Just be careful, ok?” I threw my arms around her, keeping my voice down, “I suggest being back home by daylight. We don’t need another kidnapping incident on our hands. It’s bad enough we had Vanessa and me. I don’t want to see you go through that same level of bullshit.”

“Bold of you to assume anyone even knows I’m gone,” Veronica kissed my cheek, “I’ll see you later, Frankie. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I sent Veronica and Tessa off to God knows where to hopefully have a good time. I didn’t get any bad vibes from Tessa. She seemed alright.

I went back to the bar and had one last drink. Something to bring this fairytale to its end. Yet, the Old Man looked at me just as lost as Veronica did, “What the hell just happened?”

“I just set my sister up with a lovely young lady,” I sipped on my rum. You’re a good man, Frankie. You’ve done good tonight. And dammit, you earned that drink.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: A Helping Hand From Beyond (4/?)

Summary: “You know, sometimes the deceased stay with us, waiting until they’re sure we’ve moved on before they can move on themselves. Giving us a helping hand from beyond, as it were.”

When Gloria Rush and Rum Gold meet one cold October morning, they quickly come to the realisation that they share a common goal – to help those they left behind in life to move on and find happiness again. Using what little means available to them, the two lost souls team up to ensure their widows’ future, and find their own peace.

Rumbelle, Rushbelle, Gloria/Nick, and an epic Gold&Gloria bromance.

NB: This fic will contain a lot of discussion of death and what comes after.

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[One] [Two] [Three] [AO3]

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Four

First Intervention

Gloria has a lot of fun with a screwdriver. Gold holds the flashlight.

“Well, this is certainly a new experience for me.”

“You’ve never been on a stakeout before?”

Gold looks at Gloria with a raised eyebrow. “No. Do you make a habit of it?”

“Not a habit, but it’s not the first time I’ve done it.”

They’re sitting in a darkened corridor of the physics building outside Nicholas’s office, waiting for the man himself to leave. It’s almost midnight and the rest of the place is deserted; the cleaning staff are long gone.

“Does your husband ever sleep?” Gold asks incredulously, going over to peer through the glass panel in his office door for the third time.

“Oh, sometimes.” Gloria’s voice is airy, as if this is an entirely normal occurrence. Well, for her it probably is. “But he likes to work through his feelings. I’d take this as a good sign, if I were you.”

It’s been a week since their first meeting, and by proxy Nicholas and Belle’s first meeting. Nothing more has happened, apart from a couple more lectures in which there has been no interaction between the two aside from that of professor and student, and Gloria has decided that it is time to make their move. Hence their position hiding out in the physics department until everyone has gone home. Although, given their current spanner in the works, they may have to wait a lot longer than they were expecting. Gloria hasn’t told Gold the full extent of her plan yet, but she mentioned something about coffee machines and Gold’s quite happy to go along with it since he hasn’t had any better ideas. After that first meeting, things seem to have stagnated so anything to give proceedings a little push in the right direction will be useful.

“He’s working himself into the ground to try and avoid Belle?” Gold hedges. Gloria nods.

“Well, not avoid Belle, per se. More… avoid thinking about her. Avoid thinking about anything, really. It’s always been his way.”

“Hmm.” Gold glances into the room again. “Do you think we ought to do something to get him out of there?”

Gloria gives him an amused smile. “What do you suggest?”

“Well, we’re dead. I suggest haunting him. You know, just open the door, go in, throw some books around.”

Gloria snorts. “Have you ever done that?”

“No,” Gold admits, “but it was very tempting after a while. I mean, when I first…” For some reason he can’t bring himself to say the words. “At first I was too concerned with keeping an eye on Belle, but when she started to get better I started testing the limits, so to speak. I had my fair share of enemies and there were always people who gave Belle the side-eye for having married me. Small town, small minds and all that. I would dearly have loved to have got back at the Mother Superior. Oh, I can see the headlines now. Convent haunted by ghost of malevolent rent collector.”

“You owned a convent?”

Gold shrugs. “It’s a building like any other.”

Gloria gives a shrug of concession and leans back against the wall. She’s sitting comfortably on the floor whilst Gold paces up and down, his footsteps and cane making no sound on the hard linoleum. Suddenly something catches his eye in Nicholas’s office and he rushes over to see.  

“Oh, hang on, I think we have movement.” The professor is standing up and stretching the cricks out of his spine, packing papers away, and Gold neatly sidesteps as the door opens.

“Are we going in?” he asks Gloria.

“No, we’re just here to make sure he goes. Our mission lies in this direction.”

They watch Nicholas lock up and leave the building, and then Gloria guides them through the dim corridors towards the janitor’s closet.

“Why…” Gold throws his hands up in defeat as Gloria fiddles at the lock with a bobby pin. “You know what, I’m just not going to question it.”

“Are you any good with locks?” Gloria asks, holding up the bobby pin without looking up. “We could be here all night.”

Gold smirks, gives her back the bobby pin and takes his picks out of his coat pocket.

“Are you sure you were a landlord and not a master criminal?” Gloria asks shrewdly as he works, deftly unlocking the cupboard door within a few seconds.

“It always pays for someone in my line of work to be able to pick locks,” he replies, swinging the door wide.

“You have no idea how incredibly creepy that made you sound,” Gloria points out.

“When you’ve had your tenants lose their keys, their spare keys, and your master key, you need some way of getting them inside.” He pockets the picks again and gestures to the open closet with a flourish. “I did antique restoration on the side, and you’d be surprised how many old things are locked and the key lost to time.”

“Did you ever find anything interesting?” Gloria asks as she rummages through the shelves, finally coming up triumphant with a screwdriver and a flashlight. Gold decides that it would be wise not to make any comment and just follows her down the corridor.

“Not usually. The odd bit of jewellery. Several grams of fifty year old cocaine.”

“What?!”

“I would never have guessed that the sweet old lady from the manor house on the hill was a coke fiend,” Gold says lightly. That was definitely one of the more interesting items that he’s come into possession of over the years, and he still laments the fact that it had to be handed over to the police. Not the cocaine, the box that it had been locked in. It was really an exquisite piece.

They have since reached Gloria’s destination, and she hands him the flashlight. They’re in the main breakout area of the building, and they are standing next to the coffee machine.

Gold dutifully helps Gloria pull the machine away from the wall and points the flashlight at the back of it. “I’ve refrained from asking so far, but what are you doing?”

Gloria grins at him from the other side of the coffee machine. “Sabotage!”

“I knew I shouldn’t have asked.”

Gloria happily unscrews one of the panels on the back of the coffee machine and pokes about inside. Gold wonders what someone outside could see if they were to look in. Would they really see a flashlight and a screwdriver floating around in mid-air, or would the people holding them become visible? Or would they not see anything at all? For all the time he’s been in this state, Gold has never actually thought too far into the mechanics of it. Possibly because he’s never interfered in life quite like this.

“Nicholas loves his coffee,” Gloria continues, carefully pulling a wire out of the back of the machine.

“You know, that was one thing that I had noticed.”

Gloria looks up at the dry humour in his tone and grins. “Not a coffee drinker yourself then?”

“Tea all the way. You?”

“I prefer coffee to tea, but I’m not as bad as Nicholas. I think he’d get it intravenously if he could. I tried getting him to switch to decaf once, that didn’t go down well. He thought I’d poisoned him.”

“You’re no stranger to subterfuge then,” Gold remarks as she pulls out another wire.

“Nope. Sometimes that’s the best way to get his attention.”

She begins to screw the panel in place again and Gold leans on the wall with the flashlight.

“So, call me slow if you will, but what exactly is breaking the coffee machine going to accomplish?”

“Nicholas really likes the coffee from this machine. I mean, when you drink as much as he does, you can be called a connoisseur. Not that he won’t drink any kind of sludge as long as it’s got caffeine in it when he’s desperate, which is roughly fifty per cent of the time. Through careful observation I know that if this coffee machine is for any reason out of action, then the nearest one of its type is in…”

Gloria pauses.

“Yes?” Gold presses gently.

“I was waiting for a drum roll.”

“Oh.” Gold drums his fingers against the wall. “Sufficient?”

“Thank you. The nearest coffee machine of this type is in the library.”

Gold nods, impressed. “You think of everything.”

“No, I just know Nicholas.”

A noise in an adjoining corridor has Rum switching off the flashlight and plunging them into darkness. They’ve never yet been in a position whereby someone might see them, or rather see what they’re doing if not themselves, and call attention to the strange goings on, and they have no desire to find out what would happen if they do find themselves in that position. Footsteps come closer, and Gold draws in a sharp breath that he really doesn’t need to take any more. It’s funny how the instincts refuse to die even in the afterlife.

A security guard gives a cursory flick of his flashlight around the breakout area, finds nothing amiss, and moves away again. There’s no more leisurely conversation as they finish their task and carefully move the coffee machine back into position, and then it’s a game of cat and mouse as they return to the janitor’s cupboard trying to avoid the security guard. Thankfully, they don’t see him again, but Rum’s nerves are thrumming with tension as he works the lock to cover up any evidence of their break in, with Gloria keeping watch.

“Time to make a break for it,” she observes as they make their way towards the doors and see the guard coming in the opposite direction.

Gold nods his agreement. “As lovely as your husband’s workplace is, I’d rather not be stuck here all night.”

Gloria just raises an eyebrow at his describing the physics department as ‘lovely’.

They slip out of the building after the guard and wander through the darkened campus to the fountain, still bubbling away. It feels strange, Gold thinks, knowing that they have begun to intervene. A part of him is excited and wondering how long it will take to change the status quo, but at the same time, the part of him that clings so desperately to Belle is hoping that this will be a lengthy process so that he can stay with her for longer.

In a way, he’s scared of what comes next, of what he might find in that great hereafter once he’s ready to pass on. He thinks that there must be something there, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. Why would they spend this agonising time waiting to pass over into peace, only for there to be nothing on other side of that veil?

“Penny for them?” Gloria asks softly, looking at him with a curious expression, as if she’s trying to read him.

“Do you ever wonder about what comes next?”

Gloria shakes her head. “I try to avoid that as much as possible.”

“Idle speculation sets you up for disappointment,” Gold agrees.

“No, I just have faith that wherever it is, it’s going to be the right place. It’s not something I can ever hope to properly imagine.”

Gold is not a believer himself, but his aunts had been, and he respects Gloria’s ability to place her trust in something so much bigger than her. He’s always liked to be in control of his life far too much to place any kind of belief in a higher power, but he expects that it must be a comfort to think that there’s someone up there watching out for her. Gold gives a wan smile and stares unseeing at the fountain, and tries not to think about what comes next. Maybe by the time this stage of his afterlife is over, he’ll be proved wrong and forced to eat his words, but if there’s one thing that he remembers from his aunts, it was that God is forgiving and hopefully won’t hold his lack of faith during life against him. He shakes the thought away. His focus for now is making sure that Belle, who is still here and who hopefully has many, many blissful years ahead of her before she has to think about her own passing, is happy.

“People say that you shouldn’t fear something you have no control over,” Gloria says presently.

“I suppose that makes sense,” Gold says.

“It’s bullshit.”

Gold turns to his companion, it’s the first time he’s ever heard her so vehement.

“I was terrified of dying,” she continues. “Even though I knew everything would be all right in the end, for me at least, and I knew that I’d finally be free from all the pain, which I was definitely looking forward to, and even though I put a brave face on it for Nicholas, I was still scared, knowing that it was coming but never knowing quite when.”

Gold isn’t sure how to respond to that.

“I suppose what I’m trying to say is that it’s fine to feel fear even if something’s inevitable. You’ve got no control over what happens next, and it’s fine to find that terrifying.”

It’s not exactly reassuring, but it’s nice to know that he’s not the only one who’s been scared of the unknown.

Nothing more is said as they continue to watch the sun rise over the campus.

[tcfuselier]

Someone Else's Problem

Life is fickle and meaningless. Sounds morbid, yeah? Well, that’s because it is. The universe is 92.8 billion light years in diameter, and you don’t matter. Multiply your biggest dreams and most horrifying fears tenfold and they don’t even register as a drop in the cosmic ocean. My wife just left me. She’s keeping the kids. I still don’t matter, not to her or this Goddamn universe. These Baltimore roads are too bumpy and winding. They should’ve had smarter people design them all those years ago. I had to get out of the house. I couldn’t stand the sight of the wretched woman anymore. If I had stayed I probably would’ve killed her. You probably took that for hyperbole, but no. I would’ve killed her. I had to leave. The streets are decorated with ignorant people living happy lives. They don’t understand they're meaninglessness. Not like I do, at least. The pub is in sight now. I figure I might as well get hammered before I do it. No sense in being sober, that’s what I always say. O’Henry’s isn’t anything special. Four brick walls, a green roof and door, and a green neon sign that reads the pub’s name greet me as I park my café racer outside. The door is heavy but I’ve opened it many, many times before. It doesn’t slow me down. The room is warm and humid. Cigarette smoke and sexual tension cloud the space and make it difficult to take in. A full-length bar lines the left side of the room while tables and booths fill the space to the right. Waiters and waitresses scurry to and fro, doing their best to please the sad, lonely people so that they might receive the last of their drug money as a tip. A tall, muscular man stands behind the bar. He sports facial stubble and sharp features. I’ve always envied him. He’s what women would call “classically attractive.” That’s Peter Goodman, the bartender. As I approach the bar, his face lights up. “Hey Freddy, what can I do you for?” he says in his Bostonian accent as I take a seat next to a bearded man in glasses. He smelled of wine and cheap perfume. “Well, Rebecca is leaving me, so whatever will get me really drunk really fast.” “Jesus, Fred, what the hell happened?” “Jesus? He's got nothing to do with this, I promise you. She didn't like my habits,” I said, eyeing my rum and coke. “Well okay then, don't you think drinking these problems away seems counterproductive?” “Peter, shut the hell up. I don't need life coaching from a bar monkey. I'll let you know when I do.” I hopped off the rickety barstool and headed for one of the two-person tables across on the right side of the bar. I sat down with my head hanging solemnly, my fingers tracing the grain of the wooden table. Behind me I heard two men arguing over their card game. In front of me, two young lovers held hands. Disgusting. I had half a mind to go off on them; tell them it wouldn’t last. Eh, it’s not my place. They’ll figure it out eventually. Finally, after twenty minutes of waiting, the waitress arrived. Boy, did she arrive. Approximately 5’3, maybe 130 pounds, brunette, nice figure and stunning features. “Hi, my name is Victoria. Is there anything I can help you with?” I was stunned. I could barely croak out an, “I’ll have a rum and coke.” She smiled and walked past, the scent of autumn and warm berries trailing behind her. She must be new. This is my usual bar and I’ve never seen her before. I would’ve noticed her. I promise I would’ve noticed her. Moments that seemed like eons pass and Victoria comes bouncing back, my liquor in hand. “Thank you.” I manage as she bounces away as quickly as she came. Suddenly thoughts of my wife subside, what a wretched witch, and are replaced by sweet, young Ms. Victoria. I have to find out more about her. She has to be mine. She will be mine. Days pass, weeks. Each day I return to O’Henry’s and each day, Ms. Victoria serves me my rum and coke. She never says anything more to me than to ask for my order, but she never has to say more. She says it with her eyes. I love Ms. Victoria and I know she loves me too, I can see it. She must love me. She will. She creeps her way into my fantasies. I dream of her every night. My mind begins to wander, and where it goes there too I am. Increasingly it is drawn to her, so with her I am. My favorite is picturing our future together. We’ll live a lovely life with our children. I’ll no longer struggle with alcohol. She will replace my desires. I want her. I need her. I will have her. I decide that I no longer can keep these feelings to myself, but I certainly cannot share them with Ms. Victoria. I cross the room to find Peter at his usual post, wiping down glasses behind the counter. Why are bartenders always wiping glasses? What an odd trope. “Say Peter, what say you about the brunette?” “Who?” “The brunette across the bar,” I said, motioning ever so slightly towards Ms. Victoria so as not to alert her to my talking about her. “I believe her name is Victoria.” “Oh Victoria? Yeah she’s pretty new. Very sweet girl. Not a bad looker either, if I do say so myself.” said Peter, eyeing Ms. Victoria up and down. I did not like that. In fact, I hated that. Peter always pisses me off. I do not like Peter. “Goodbye, Peter.” I said pushing open the large green door and exiting the pub. “Goodbye, Mr. Frederic.” he replied. I returned to the motel I have been staying at and pulled my laptop from my bag and proceeded to find out everything I could about Ms. Victoria. Victoria Long, age 23, attending the University of Maryland as a journalist. She’s a wordsmith like me. I like that. I wonder if she writes about me like I do about her. That’s preposterous, she doesn’t know me. We are in love, however. Very madly and deeply in love. Finally, the words that I have been looking for scroll across my screen. 8260 Westmeadow Dr. Her address. Now I know it seems mad. Maybe it is. Maybe I am. But what if something were to happen to Ms. Victoria? I have to know where she lives. I have to protect her. I continue to frequent O’Henry’s. Days turn into weeks and I’m rapidly falling more deeply for her. By now I’ve mapped every inch of her face; her everything. I know her better than her own mother. Peering into her eyes is like peering down the rabbit hole and into Wonderland. I feel like the Mad Hatter and she is my Alice. I cannot wait for her to be mine. She is mine. I can’t help but notice, however, young Peter Goodman behind his bar. I see the way he looks at her. The way he flirts with her. It’s disgusting, really. He doesn’t even know her! Not like I do. I wonder if her writes to her like I do. I wonder if he thinks about her like I do. I wonder if he loves Ms. Victoria as much as I do. He can’t. There’s no way. How dare he disgrace such elegance and beauty with his tainted stare? I cannot allow such disrespect any longer. Peter must be dealt with. Peter will be dealt with. I never really liked Peter. The next day came. I sat in my usual seat with my rum and coke. 2 AM rolled around and it was time for Peter to lock up. The rest of the staff had gone home and only Peter and I remained in the smoky establishment. “Alright, Mr. Frederic, it’s about that time. Why don’t you go ahead and finish up your drink and we can head home.” said Peter, ignorantly. “Sure thing, Pete.” I said, slamming the last of the liquor. “Say, Pete, you mind if I ask you something strange? About Victoria?” The hatred must have been clearly evident on my face. “Ummm, yeah, what’s up?” “What’s with the way you’ve been eyeing her? She’s mine.” “What? Vic and I have been dating for a few weeks now, what’s your problem?” “She’s. Mine.” I said, quieter and more forcefully this time. “Listen, Fred. You’re drunk and starting to get belligerent with me. I’m going to have to call the police.” He reached for the bar phone, but I had other plans in mind. In one fluid motion I smashed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s sitting on the counter and drug the jagged bottleneck across Peter’s neck. He reached for his throat, clenching as blood began to seep through his fingers. He tried to scream, but only garbled grunts seemed to come through. I had made sure to sever the vocal cords. Peter collapsed, eyes agape, behind his beloved bar counter. I made quick work of the body, throwing him into the dumpster out back. I was never one for proper burials, especially for pricks like Peter. Now to find Ms. Victoria. I locked up the pub for Peter (obviously he was slightly preoccupied with, you know, death) and took off on my motorcycle. I made quick work of the winding Baltimore streets until I finally came to a stop outside 8260 Westmeadow. It was a small, 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom home. She lives alone, I know that. I sneak in through her bedroom window. There she is, fast asleep. I stand and watch her for what seems like a few minutes but is more like 2 hours. “You’ve been a naughty, naughty girl, Ms. Victoria.” She shoots up in bed. “Fred? From the bar? What the hell?” She yells, still slightly groggy. “You’ve gone and cheated on me with that prick Peter, you whore.” I walk toward her bed. “Fred, listen--” “No you listen, bitch. I’ve had enough of you playing with my emotions.” I reach into my bag until my hand finds purchase on my 9mm. I draw the firearm and chamber a round. “Fred, please--” “SHUT UP!” I yell. “I loved you, and this is how you treat me?” “Fred I don’t--” is all she managed to whimper before I pulled the trigger. I emptied 8 of the rounds of the 9 round capacity magazine into Ms. Victoria. She deserved it. All she had to do was love me, but she couldn’t even get that right. I fled the house as quickly as I could. I don’t bother to clean up. It doesn’t matter anymore. I return to the motel. Inside my room I sit on the neatly made bed. The room was old yet well kept. A small bathroom to your left as you enter the room, the bed to your right with a T.V. across from it. Simple. Quaint. Enjoyable. I held the firearm in my right hand. She was the only reason I didn’t do it all those weeks ago. She was gone now. Dead to me and to the world. It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does. Big universe, remember? I figure this gun is the best way. It’s quick and virtually painless. I suppose I’ll be a messy clean up. I’ll once again become someone else’s mess. I’ll be someone else’s problem. I’ve never been one for poetry, but I think that’s pretty poetic. “He died how he lived: as someone else’s problem.” I raise the gun and place the barrel in my mouth with the muzzle facing the sky. It’s cold. I pull the trigger.