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topherwrites · 2 months ago

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𝘈 𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘛 𝘍𝘐𝘙𝘌

jack abbot x fem!reader — you have a shared understanding of each other, it's the worst sort of relation. warnings: mutual pining, angst, burn out, grief, terminal illness of parent, attending x resident, hr hates to see them coming. a/n: wrote this while sick and sleep deprived, so it's in third person for some reason. let me know if ya'll like this!

Jack has seen burnout, the way this job chips away at even the soundest of doctors. He’s used to tired eyes and cracked hands and sore backs. But this is different. It’s like watching a ghost move through the hospital.

She's crumbling under the weight of grief. She’s always clocked in; there’s no escape from it. No air to come up for. There’s just a void, deep and dark, that she pulls with her through every day.

And she doesn't sleep well anymore—or at all—terrified every time she closes her eyes that she won't be there when it—the horrible thing rapidly approaching—finally happens, that her mother will be alone. That she’ll have failed in the simplest of tasks.

She doesn’t feel human now, not really. She’s a candle burning at both ends—wick nearly gone.

He sees it, the barely hidden exhaustion, the forced smiles, the vacant stare when she doesn't know anyone’s looking. But he is—always, watching her for a reason he can’t face, knows is wrong.

And so he’s there to witness her collapse, a full breakaway. They lose a patient—young. Stupid young. One of those ones who should’ve made it. Who would’ve made it, if the universe cared for things like fairness.

His eyes stay on her as he calls it, as she slowly stops compressions, discards her gloves silently, and slips from the room like if she’s quiet enough, she can just disappear. He knows that look. He follows her at a distance, checking in with Dana, the other residents, keeps his eye on her the entire time. A ticking time bomb. He sees the tremble in her hands, the measured way she’s taking in every breath.

And then she bolts—not truly, but in her professional way, she does. Sets the chart in her hand down and goes straight for the stairwell.

Dana catches him watching her and tells him to go.

He pushes the door open, stands in the doorway as he watches her fold into herself on the cold, concrete stairway floor—knees pulled to her chest, shoulders shaking in that awful, silent way. The dam has broken.

She sees him then, her breath hitching, and a sob, uncontrollable, leaves her throat—because now there’s a witness to her failure. She’s failing her patients and her mother and him. The door shuts behind him with a click, the sound of her breaking echoing around them.

He moves, kneeling in front of her, as well as he can, every old part of him protesting all the while. He tries not to crowd, just be there.

“Hey,” he says, voice firm, “Look at me.”

He knows what she needs, her Type-A constitution: someone to tell her what to do, give her permission to stop brute forcing her way through this.

She tries to swallow her emotions back down, regulate her breathing, get back to it. Her eyes raise from the ground, but she doesn't quite look at him. That's fine.

“You’re off.” She opens her mouth. “Don’t argue.”

“I can’t, I just,” her throat clogs, she imagines going home, to that house that shouldn't be as quiet as it is, just dead air and the sounds of machines.

He sighs a long breath out of his nose, thumbing it as he offers something up to her. A piece of his own grief.

Death, the great equalizer.

He husks out, “If you stop for even a second, it’ll all go to shit, right?”

He waits to see her eyes.

He knows some of how she’s feeling, not the same, but close. She was there one day, gone the next. No in between, dead in everything but name. He imagines her version is worse. The long goodbye. The drawn-out cruelty of it.

His hand, large and calloused, cups her knee, thumb rubbing gently at the tendon there, grounding. She swallows down hard. Finally, her focus returns to him, and the look in his eye—understanding—draws her out of her spiral, if only for a moment.

“It won’t," he takes a breath, waits to see if she's really listening, “Not unless you don’t take a moment for yourself.”

She wants to believe him. But the thought of having to go back—to that house, to the hospice nurse, to her mother’s living death—makes her stomach churn. She feels ungrateful, selfish.

Her mother’s dying, and her daughter’s trying to figure out a way not to go home.

She finds she keeps having a particular thought, more and more these days, I want to go home. And yet she never seems to find herself there in the quiet of her childhood home. There’s no relief or sense of safety. Just quiet dread. I want to go home. And it’s the cool skin of her mother, paper thin. The occasional brittle sound that works its way out of her throat.

She thinks, I want to go home.

But there’s no home anymore. Just a ticking clock.

And she’s trying to let go of something that isn’t even gone yet.

He keeps his eye on her. He’s sure that his words won’t sink in until later, the truth of them hard to swallow for people like them.

“My shift ends in an hour.” He leans back. Reaches into his pocket. His knuckles prod her closed fist, and something cold is placed into her grasp. Keys. He says, “Wait for me.”

She nods.

What else is she going to do?

Then he leaves her in the stairwell.

Eventually, she gathers herself together, eases back up onto her feet, and ambles her way out of the sliding doors. In a haze, she clicks the lock button and locates his car by the responding beep. It’s nice, smells like leather and pine—attending salary, she supposes.

She sinks into the passenger seat, numb; it’s the first time she’s sat still in weeks.

The car is quiet when he slides in beside her.

She doesn't open her eyes, just hears the soft click of the door, the sound of his bag hitting the backseat, the sigh he lets out like he’s been holding it in for hours.

He doesn’t start the engine right away. Just sits with her.

“You hungry?” he asks, like any of this is normal routine. Like this could be a date.

Her tired mind pauses. Like she isn’t very obviously in the midst of a clinical breakdown.

So, she shrugs halfheartedly. Can’t quite remember the last time she ate, especially the last time she ate without her mom’s nurse forcing her to just sit and chew. She feels reduced to a child, unable to care for herself.

His fingers tap against the steering wheel.

“Okay.”

The engine turns over. She sits there with her head against the window, watches the city lights blur past in the dawn. He doesn’t talk, doesn't force conversation onto her. But she can feel his eye occasionally drift over; she can’t think about the beat of her heart when it does.

His place is clean in a lived-in way. Coffee cups in the sink. A stack of foreign medical journals on the kitchen counter. Throw slung over the back of the couch.

She doesn’t say anything, just stands in the doorway. A tad uncertain and eyeing.

He toes his shoes off onto a rack. Shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on a hook next to her.

He motions for her to turn around, helps her out of the stiff shell of her scrub top with gentle hands. Careful. Like she might break.

She shivers against the cool air of his apartment, sweat clinging to her skin and tank top.

His hands purposefully don’t linger. He steps away, through the large sliding barn doors at the back, where she assumes his bedroom is. A moment later, he comes back with a sweatshirt and blankets in hand.

He presents the sweatshirt to her silently. Their fingers brush as she takes it, slipping it on over her head. Worn cotton. Faded logo. It smells like detergent and him.

Already, she feels a little more alive.

“You can take the bed,” he offers, already walking toward the kitchen, giving her space. “I’ll be on the couch.”

It takes a moment. And then, “What?”

She pads quickly after him, floorboards creaking under her foot.

He doesn’t answer right away—just opens the fridge, peers down, and makes a vague sound of confirmation—nothing particularly edible left.

“I can’t cook for shit, so…”

She glances past him, can't help the comment, “And your fridge is sad.”

His eyes narrow and slowly, he straightens up, but there’s the giveaway, a little twitch of his lips. “I invite you in and you go in on my-”

“It’s, like, mostly condiments.”

And beer, but she doesn’t mention that. She’s pretty sure Harrison, McKay's kid, would call it divorced dad core. He pulls two out, silently tips one toward her in offering. Why not, she figures, reaching out and taking the bottle from him. She cracks it open, takes a sip, and leans on the counter—the taste reminds her of college, probably the last time she can remember relaxing.

Then, she sighs, returning to the topic, despite his attempt at a detour, “I’m not kicking you out of your bed.” Voice scratchy with fatigue, she adds lamely, “Don’t be stupid.”

He exhales through his nose, sentiment he doesn't know how to word staying firmly in his throat.

Arms tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, she watches him over the counter.

There’s something buzzing in her chest. Inappropriately tender.

“Not a big deal,” he says finally, then drinks, his eyes on her. Not in a waiting-for-her-to-fall-apart way. Just… on her. He’s watching her like she’s a person and not a patient, not a problem to be solved.

She’s not quite sure what to do with it. At work, at home, she has to keep it together, pretend in equal measure that nothing is wrong, that she has it all together. So now, with the space to just breathe, she falters. She doesn't know how to be anymore.

“You let strange, frazzled women crash your place often?” she says, trying for levity, settling into a stool across the island.

He seems to ignore her self-deprecation entirely. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch. Not even a pity laugh thrown her way. The quiet that’s left sobers her. Again, he sees her.

She shifts, realizing how near he is—how inconsequential the island is between them.

“No,” he swallows, looking down at the counter, then up at her, “just you.”

It lands with weight. She wonders what it means, if he even knows.

She tries to take it casually. But as it rests in the quiet, she’s forced to swallow down her clashing confusion of feelings.

She wants to say something, anything, to fill the void. Make a joke about him agreeing with her—she is frazzled. More so now. And there’s something dangerous crackling in the quiet. Instead, she sits there, eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens slightly when he notices her watching him.

She’s so fucking tired, and her brain is a mess—fogged by grief, adrenaline, the echo of chest compressions, the tremor still in her hands. She could be imagining it all. Probably is.

Just you.

“You need sleep,” he says, firm. “Real sleep. Not just half-hour naps when your body gives out on you.”

“Look that bad, huh?”

“Little worse for wear,” he starts, a familiar tilt to his mouth, “Still better than most on their best.”

Again, he throws her a fraction off-kilter.

She takes it better this time. A quick study—as he’s told her before. She’s usually better at volleying, but today she’s an exposed nerve. In the ED, the banter feels harmless, a way to pass the time. Here, in the confines of his place, it feels charged, intentional. Dangerous.

Jack sighs, more at himself than anything else, and pushes off the counter. Releases himself from looking at her. His fingers flex at his sides, a twitch like muscle memory, like he’s already imagined what it’d be like to touch her. Pull her close. Lay his palm against the back of her neck and give in to the worst of his urges, the ones that have built up in him since he very first saw her.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because she’s grief-struck and unraveling, and he knows this would be a sort of theft.

He wouldn't be able to take it back. And she rightfully may not forgive him. He might shatter this bit of comfort he’s been able to extend to her. Or perhaps worse, she’ll want him, this, now, but not when the fog dissipates, when a clearer head prevails.

“I’ll order in,” he says as he turns from her, flicks open a drawer overflowing with takeout menus. Mindlessly, he rifles through them as he takes a breath. He feels her eyes on his back, that prickling awareness at the base of his neck.

She knocks her knuckles on the counter, “Kay. I'm forewarning you, I’m gonna snoop.”

His eyes meet hers over his shoulder, and he nods to the low shelves in the corner, “Records over there.”

He watches her turn, the corners of her lips lifting in response. She unwinds, that last little bit of tension leaving her as she falls back into a familiar rhythm.

“You're such a hipster piece of shit.”

“No, just old,” he states dryly just to get a smile out of her. He’s rewarded with it, accompanied by a short exhale out of her nose.

She wanders over to the corner, squatting down as her fingers run over his collection. Taking her time gently sorting through them, she occasionally pulls one from the shelf, eyes scanning the tracklist. He can’t help the interest that’s settled into him: Which ones are to her taste? Which are bands she’s never heard of?

He’s curious about her, always—the briefest glimpses of her leading to more questions.

“You,” she starts, declaring as she pushes to stand, “are a fleetwood mac stan.”

“Of course I am, I'm a self-respecting child of the seventies.”

Her eyes stay on him for a moment before she hums, approving.

It’s that bit of curiosity that’s going to do him in.

He hasn’t told his therapist about her. Not exactly. Not in a way that counts. The predicament that’s not a predicament. Because he’s kept his head, kept things mostly professional.

His voice rings in his head, saying what he knows the man would, placid to promote some amount of self-reflection: 'Are you sure that’s a good idea, Jack? '

No. He’s not.

But he’s already in it. Not much farther to fall from here.

She watches as Jack pulls out a diner menu, asks her, “You like pancakes?”

“I'm partial to them.”

They remind her of weekends and summer and her mom. Of giggles and the smell of burnt batter. So yes, she supposed she likes pancakes.

Jack pulls out his phone. Presses it between his ear and shoulder like it’s muscle memory. Always multitasking.

“You a chocolate chip or blueberry kind of gal?”

An hour later, they’re sitting side by side, quietly eating. Forks clink against ceramic. Her elbow brushes his every now and then. Neither moves away.

He’s taken his leg off. She’s let her hair loose from its bun. Something about it feels telling.

Too comfortable for what their relationship should be.

Beer and pancakes. Two things that shouldn't mix.

“Thank you for,” she sighs, “you know.”

The air is still around them.

He looks over at her, and his eyes are as soft as she’s ever seen them, kind and unguarded in a way that’s a punch to the gut. They quietly roam her face—pinning her. It sits between them—this vast unnamable thing. She wonders what he’s looking for in her face. Perhaps the same thing she’s looking for in his.

When his gaze lands on her lips—momentary, maybe accidental—it zips down her spine, lands hotly in her stomach.

He doesn’t know how to formulate the devotion on his tongue, say, I’d do anything for you or I’m sorry or Maybe if circumstances were different.

So instead he says, “You’re not a machine. You can’t run on two hours of sleep and caffeine forever.”

She hums in return.

He knows she’ll show up to the next shift the same way—dark circles, thermos in hand, too much tension in her shoulders. Tonight, his words, will probably change very little in the grand scheme of things. Change is difficult at any scale. Especially for people like them. He’s learned that much.

But if she sleeps soundly, lets some of that tension in her shoulders release, even if only for a few hours, then maybe that’s enough.

The rest of their meal is finished over hushed conversation—him digging up the remnants of his past for a good story. A few close calls, some risky maneuvers, the periodic breaking of protocol all teased out to keep her eyes on him. But eventually, time runs out, she stifles a yawn into her fist and her lids grow heavy.

Quietly, he takes her empty plate and slides it into the dishwasher, urges her up with a hand between her shoulder blades. A gentle push to bed. His grip slides down to her waist as she reaches up onto her toes and thanks him with a press of her lips to his cheek.

And then she’s gone, the sound of her feet padding down the hallway. She doesn’t say goodnight.

She thinks, in another version of this night, he might have followed her.

But in this version—the only they have—he just stands in the kitchen, eyes on the hallway long after she’s disappeared. He rinses the cups. Wipes down the counter like it matters. Like it keeps him from thinking too hard.

He turns the record player on. Starts an album. Keeps the volume low.

Jack sinks into the couch like it’s an old friend—his hip cracks, his back protests. This isn’t his first stint sleeping in his living room. On certain nights—bad ones—his bed is too big, too empty, too quiet, too full of memory. He’ll grab a blanket and crash out here, maybe catch an hour or two of actual rest before his next shift.

Now, he stares at the ceiling as if it might offer him clarity, like it’s penance.

It doesn’t. It never does.

He remembers how she looked—backlit by his kitchen light, sipping beer like this was any normal Tuesday, like this morning wasn’t a death sentence for his already fragile grip on propriety. It’s not even the presence of her that wrecks him—it’s the ease of it. Like she belongs here. Like it’s natural. Like the universe didn’t put a giant red do not fucking cross this line between their lives and laugh every time he toed it.

She’s asleep in the other room.

And nothing happened.

Nothing will happen.

But still, there’s that buzz in his fingertips. He wanted something to happen. It burns behind his eyelids.

Somewhere, faint through the speakers still murmuring in the background—

Billy Joel starts to hum again.

She steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me.

Jack sighs, closing his eyes.

Sun starts to fill the room.

Oh, she takes care of herself; she can wait if she wants. She's ahead of her time.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #jack abbot #jack abbott #the pitt #the pitt fic #the pitt hbo #jack abbot fic #jack abbot fanfic #my writing

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potteryclaylover · 4 years ago

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Life Lessons I Learnt From Seagulls

Seagulls are the most inspirational creatures in my opinion. If I owned a sporting team of any sort, a seagull would be my mascot. Why? They’re the perfect combination of beauty, strong-will, friendliness and confidence. Though i personally never watched any seagull bird from close , but i love to watch bird from distance because i dont want to disturb their peace. But it always feel me with positive when i see group of birds eating , flying and all their activity. It is best therapy for me and its from very earlier .

Who of us has not wondered, at some point in life, if we really are living to our fullest potential? That we are really experiencing all that we are capable of experiencing?Every human being has been given the capacity to live abundantly, without boundaries. But the scope of this freedom is too large for most of us. We cringe from the vastness of all that is possible. We prefer to hide behind artificial limitations instead.

We hear of the frog in the pond that steadfastly refuses to believe that there were limitless oceans out there. For him, his pond is all that there is in the world. We also hear of the worm in the apple who believes that the whole world is its apple, nothing more.

Some of you may be familiar with the famous book Jonathon Livingston Seagull written by Richard Bach. A tale about a seagull who has dreams of being a better version of himself and flying higher and faster than any gull has ever dared before. Cast out by the flock for being different he goes off on his spiritual quest to discover his full potential. Does any of this resonate with you by any chance?

In real life many people hate seagulls. Maybe you do too. Are they the thugs of the bird world? Pests to be poisoned and driven out? Let’s be honest they have a terrible reputation because they are noisy and fearless they can appear aggressive and given the chance they will steal your food.

This little ode to seagulls may seem peculiar to you but as a result of long hours of observing them for days, I realized that inspiration can come from the simplest of things.

Have you ever heard of the expression ‘thinking out of the box?’ It means going beyond the accepted limits of imagination and daring to explore new possibilities. Jonathan Livingston Seagull was such an out-of-the-box thinker.

He discovered that for those who dare to dream, even the sky is not the limit. Jonathan lived as all seagulls do – in a flock. This flock was quite unremarkable. Seagulls are basically scavengers that inhabit the seashore, feeding off the debris that the sea throws out. Like all other seagulls, the members of this flock fed, bred and flew south in the cold winter months.

My love for these tiny birdies increased many folds when they actually taught me some valuable life lessons.

1. Don’t be afraid to stand against the wind

Look at this little fellow. He’s tiny and the wind that day was so strong even I was having trouble standing. He could just turn around and fly in the direction of the wind. But he stood his ground accepting the challenge.

Lesson: No matter how much friction you’re facing in being different or being yourself, don’t let it make you turn around in the direction of the wind.

2. Sometimes it’s good to go with the flow

If someone knows how to chill and take it easy, its the seagulls. They’ve taught me to not ALWAYS take life so seriously. That we can’t control each and every aspect of it. Sometimes you just have to let life unfold itself. See where the current takes you.

After all what’s the fun in knowing it all?

3. Evolve with your life situations

Seagulls are the masters of improvising and adapting to their circumstances. They can swim, fly or walk around depending on their need. We as humans have to realize that we are more equipped than a seagull. We have better means, internal and external, to adhere to our circumstances. We just need to be as strong-willed and easy going as a seagull.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull is a simple story with a profound message.

The message is that we can all be so much more than we believe, or are given to believe. That God – or fortune, if you wish – is on the side of the bold, the adventurous and the free in spirit.

But Jonathan sensed, in the core of his being, that there could be more to life. Much more.

4. Never be afraid to ask for your right

Anyone who has had a meal by the beach knows that the seagulls will come flocking around for their share. They are not afraid to ask for it. They’ll stand by staring at you persistently until you go, ‘oh well alright, have a chip.’

Deep in its communal heart, the flock knew that it was living below its full potential. It consoled itself with a vaguely remembered Promise, passed down various generations of seagulls. That Promise spoke of a Great Seagull – a supernaturally gifted bird that would come and deliver it from the chains of self-imposed mediocrity.

The Great Seagull was supposed to have secrets of limitless flight and a superior existence.

That discovering the Great Seagull’s secrets could have been the result of diligent effort and seeking did not occur to these seagulls. They preferred to put the responsibility of their future on a Being which they did not understand and did not try to emulate. The Great Seagull, however, did not come.

But maybe – just maybe – every seagull in that flock sometimes wondered if it was they were missing the point of this legend …

Jonathan had heard of the Great Seagull, of course. It meant nothing to him, but there was a question that did haunt him – the question that haunts us all when we have nothing to distract ourselves with. The question we ask ourselves when, for some reason or the other, we find ourselves sleepless at night.

Can I fly higher? Can I fly farther? Is there more?

The flock asked itself no such questions. The mundane preoccupations of life had them too much in thrall to consider deeper questions. But Jonathan knew that he could drink deeper of life than they did.

One day, he announced that he intended to fly higher and further than any seagull before him. The effect of his words on the flock was interesting, to say the least:

“Seagulls are not meant to fly higher than this,” is what they said. “What makes you think you’re different from us?”

That is the persistence and determination you and I need in your daily life. Ask for that promotion at work. Ask for the love and attention in a relationship. You deserve it.

5. It’s your character that makes you beautiful

Seagulls are not camera shy and are always ready to strike a pose. The poker face is their favourite. There are thousands of exquisite birds in the world but what made me fall in love with seagulls is their character. Sure they are nice to look at but it’s their confidence, strength and playful persona that makes them beautiful.

Jonathan’s answer was that he was not content with mediocrity, especially if he knew that he could attain greater heights. The rest of the flock became very angry with him – they called him a dreamer who did not know the realities of life. When he insisted on pursuing his vision, they cast him out of the flock.

Doesn’t this ring a bell in most of our minds? Doesn’t it remind us of times when we have been told – or even told ourselves – that we should realize our limits? Well, who sets those limits?

The human being has limited capabilities – but then, we only think of the capabilities we have actually demonstrated. We never think of the possibility of hidden capabilities that never see the light of day because they are not called upon.

Have you never heard of the true-life stories of people who overcame impossible odds – achieved impossible tasks – when they stopped relying solely on what they knew about themselves?

Jonathan Livingston Seagull, that anonymous bird in an anonymous flock, decided that he wanted to claim the Promise now. He wanted the power to fly higher than he had ever flown, to see sights he had never seen.

He decided that if the Great Seagull was real enough and powerful enough, it would help him achieve these goals in the Here and Now. Not in some vaguely conceived Hereafter, but in real time. In this present lifetime.

Did he turn to the Great Seagull in prayer? Or did he just draw inspiration from the fact that such a Seagull could and did exist? Richard Bach’s book remains silent on this issue. But from the moment Jonathan decided to claim the Promise, his life changed drastically.

Are you now waiting for the part where Jonathan was suddenly given miraculous spiritual and physical powers to make his dreams of impossible flight come true? Sorry, that is not what happened…

Instead, Jonathan’s belief in the Promise convinced him that the power to achieve his dream would be given to him if he put in diligent effort. He was a changed bird – he suddenly felt that he was no longer alone. And so he practiced flying higher. It was a painstaking process, but something had changed.

He no longer despaired when he considered his feeble seagull wings. He no longer doubted when he considered the fact that no seagull had ever flown as high as he wanted to fly.

This new-found assurance was not what is commonly known as ‘self-confidence’. It was confidence in something beyond him – a Higher Power, if you will. He called it the Great Seagull. Some call it God. But whatever we call it, it is a Power outside of ourselves. We cannot generate it, but we can still claim it.

And guess what? Jonathan Livingston Seagull soared. He eventually flew higher than any seagull ever had. And he finally met the Great Seagull.

Yes, he actually met the legendary Being. He basked in its approval and was given the power and privilege to lead others from the barren, empty path of self-effort to a mind-bogglingly rewarding partnership with Something Better.

I have a feeling that the human version of seagulls would have an amazing sense of humour as well.

Lesson learnt: Put your self out there. Have enough self-confidence to know and exhibit your good qualities and know that you’re beautiful just the way you are.

#Seagull Seagullbird Seagulllifeinspiration Life Lifeinspiration Thinkoutofbox selfconfidence achivement Success Happy Soulfullife

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ilosttrackofthings · 8 years ago

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biospec + serial killer

Grant’s mouth isdry.

Shit.

It’s notdefinitive proof that he’s been drugged but-

Yep, there it is.His fingers, when he twitches them, are numb, his wrists bound.

This isn’tSHIELD. Coulson would lock him back in that cell. Or, worse, he’dwake up strapped into the TAHITI machine, begging and pleading. Sothis is somebody else, probably some head who’s none too pleasedhe’s trying to suss them out. Bastards. He wouldn’t need to dig‘em up if they were any damn good at their jobs.

There’s someonein here with him. Light footsteps, female probably. Too much shuffle,so not an operative. Interrogator?

Whoever she is, shesteps up close enough he could grab her if he weren’t tied down.Stupid move; he could’ve broken out when she wasn’t looking. Buthe didn’t, so all he gets from the proximity is a whiff of hershampoo, some soft floral scent the girls used to favor on the Bus.She hums low in her throat and strong fingers touch his jaw, lift itso she can feel his pulse.

He focuses onkeeping it slow, steady.

She sighs, thebreath falling over his neck. Goosebumps spring up on his arms and hesquashes the sensation with an angry thought. Kara just died.Which might be an explanation for the rise she gets out of him—monthsof constant companionship and now nothing, anybody’d be wanting—butit doesn’t make it okay. She deserved better than this.

Luckyfor him—and for Kara’s memory—any lingering lustful thoughts hehad for his captor are wiped away when she speaks.

“Iknow when you’re faking, Ward.”

Hiseyes snap open and fix onSimmons, easing back from her examination. He jerks against thebonds, but he’s held fast to the chair. A glance around provesthey’re not in that base Coulson was operating out of, but thatdoesn’t say much since Simmonswasn’t at the base—not that he saw, anyway. That’d be the smartthing too, bringing him to another base, one he’s not familiarwith. And it’d keep any of the others from making a move on himbefore the procedure.

Shestraightens a folding chair and sits carefully out of what wouldnormally be his reach. “I imagine you’re confused,” she says.

“Notreally.” He cracks his neck, using the motion to look beyond her.No guards, but they could easily be behind him. This lab or …whatever, isn’t exactly what he’d have expected though.

Nowhe’s looked past a first glance, he can see how unsanitary it is.The tables are wood instead of metal and there’s dirt gathered inthe corners. How the hell did Coulson convince Simmons to work in aplace like this? The woman he knew on the Bus would’ve thrown a fitafter five minutes here.

Hemeets her eyes. “SHIELD caught up with me. Can’t say it’s not ablow, but it’s not like I didn’t expect it.”

Sheshakes her head. “I’m not with SHIELD anymore.”

Grantblinks. A couple times. He looks around again—for tentacles on thewalls this time.

“Iknow it’s rather out of the ordinary, but Ashleyand I have an arrangement soit seemed the simplest way-”

“Ashley?”he cuts in, fears of brainwashing taking a backseat to the unknown variable.

Nowit’s her turn to look confused. “The bartender?”

“Alexei?”He’s not sure whether he’s more shocked Alexei’s real name isAshley or that Simmons has an arrangementwith him.

Shenods with a smile. “He’s been very helpful. Hetold me about your girlfriend.”

Theropes dig into Grant’s wrists. “Did he?” It’s not that hedidn’t expect word of his heartbreak to get out—he’s spentevery day since Kara died warming a barstool and staring at herphoto—but he doesn’t like people talkingabout it.

IfSimmons notices the shift in his mood, it doesn’t seem to botherher. “That’s how I knew I could trust you.”

Hisspine hits the back of the chair and the pressure on his wristseases. Trust him? No one on the team trusts him—they made thatclear on that little mission in the arctic. He didn’t realize it until they were on their way but it was a disappointment. Part of him had been hoping for one last hurrah, one final moment of belonging before he ran out on them.

Oh well, he knew what he was signing up for.

“Hydrabroke her,” Simmons says, not without sympathy. “That’s whyyou’ve got men out looking for what’s left of them, isn’t it?So you can avenge her?”

Ina sense, yeah. He plans on burning Hydra to the ground. And thenbuilding his own version back up on the ashes.

She’sthin. Simmons. He was so focused on the room, he didn’t payattention to her. It looks like she’s skipped more than a few mealsrecently and those button-ups and sweaters he’s used to seeing herin are long gone. She’s got a dirty lab coat on, but underneath itis a top that would give Coulson an aneurysm. The way the coat’shanging he can’t see much, but at the same time he can see plentywith how the collar dips down clean to her naval, showing off theedges of her breasts.

“What’syour arrangement with Alexei?” he asks. He’s missing somethinghere and figures he’ll pick at the thread that makes the leastsense first.

Shebites her lip, all nervous excitement like her very first day in thefield. “He delivers agents to me. Hydra agents.”

“Whatfor?”

Sheglances over her shoulder, at the only table that’s clear ofequipment. There are blood stains on the concrete beneath it. “I …take care of them,” she says. Her lips twitch, caught between herown nerves and pride.

“Youkill them.” Grant thought he was shocked before but it’s nothingto this.

“Ofcourse.” She scoots forward to the very edge of her chair. “Theothers don’t understand. They don’t know Hydra like you and I do.We’ve both been on the inside, we know what they’re capable ofand what it will take to stopthem.”

Shewas undercover. He knew that, nearly fell out of his chair whenWhitehall told him, but that’s the last he heard about her. Heassumed she was caught at the base when Coulson came to him for helpand figured she was just keeping her distance when she never showedherself while he was there. But maybe…

“Howlong have you been at this?”

“Fivemonths.”

Fuck.

She’sbeen roofying Hydra agents so she could kill them for five months. How the hell did he notknow? And, for that matter, do the others?

Sherests her elbows on her knees, her clasped hands falling between them soshe’s nearly touching him. “That’s why I need your help. I’mdoing my best, but you have far more experience than I do. Think ofwhat we could do working together.”

Thesmile she gives him is so sincere; it’s the first real kindnesshe’s seen since Kara.

“You’reasking me to be your partner in crime?” He nearly laughs the words.If the others could see them now…

Hersmile grows. She’s practically vibrating with excitement. Hewonders how long she’s been planning this little job offer. “Yes.”

“Andif I refuse?” he asks. To his regret, the smile dims considerably.She straightens her spine, putting some distance between them.

“ThenI’ll let you go,” she says, trying—and failing—to soundnonchalant about it. “Of course.” She leans forward again to resta hand on his knee. “You’re not my enemy, Ward. I know that. It’sonly Hydra I’m after.”

Herskin is warm through the thick denim and he finds himself staring atthe point of contact for long seconds before he swallows down thelast of that dryness that woke him up.

“I’mnot saying no. I just wantedeverything out in the open first.” He twists his arms, bringing hispalms up. “Now how about you show me your operation and we can talkabout our next move.”

She practically bounces across theroom to grab a knife so she can cut him loose and spends the nexthalf hour babbling about chemical cocktails and means of death andhow interesting it is seeing how different individuals take theirimpending demise.

At that last, Grant laughs and hugs her to hisside. It wasn’t the members of the team he missed, it was the camaraderie, and it looks like he just might have found it with this new version of Simmons. He doesn’t know what happened between her undercover gig and now to screw her up this bad, but they are gonna have so much fun together. And when he tells her so, she smiles so bright it puts her earlier one to shame.

#biospecialist #my fic #*td #ask fic #biospec fic #anonymous

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ishikagupta3796 · 6 years ago

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All About Gold Chains

Gold chain for women is one of the most common ways that gold is used in jewelry. However, most people make the mistake of thinking that a gold chain or gold necklace for women is a simple one-choice item.

Gold chains for women come in a variety of styles and lengths, and it can be quite a challenge to pick one. Whether it is used to hold a pendant or to be worn as a simple chain around your neck, here are a few important things to remember when you are on the hunt for the perfect gold chain.

Know what you are looking for

There are different types of chains that work for different purposes and personalities. Some chains have a masculine look whereas others are quite feminine. Some are able to withstand daily wear and others are better to hold pendants. Knowing why you’re buying the chain will help you zero in on the right type.

Here are the most common types of gold chains available:

Bead or Ball Chain – This variety of chains have small round beads of metal that are either spaced with some distance or linked closely together with just a tiny space to allow movement. These are very popular especially with dog tags for men. You can choose the thickness of the bead which generally varies between 1mm to 2mm thickness.

Box Chain – This type of chain has square “box” links that are usually worn as a necklace for pendants and around the wrist with watches. The nice thing about this chain is that it is easier to repair than other types of chains. If a “box” breaks, the link can be replaced or the broken chain reattached with the remaining links. Box chains are popular among women and range in size from 0.5 mm to 1.5mm.

Cable Chain – This is probably the simplest type of gold chain and looks much like a tiny version of a common iron chain. Simple but elegant, it has identical, uniformly interlocked ovals. This chain is popular for both men and women and ranges in thickness to suit all styles.

Figaro - This is another gender-neutral chain, but a tad fancier than cable chains. Originating from Italy, Figaro is composed of an alternating pattern of flattened links varying in size. Usually, the pattern is 2 or 3 shorter links followed by a longer link. Figaro chains are commonly chosen for necklaces as well as bracelets.

Anchor or Mariner Chain – This chain is composed of interlocking ovals with a bar that runs across the center of each oval. Anchor or mariner chains come in a variety of widths, with thicker sizes common among men. There is a modern version called the puffed mariner which is also very popular these days.

Rope Chain - This works like a “supporting” chain in that it is intricately designed to look like a real rope. These are more popular worn with a pendant which is the actual focal point.

Snake Chain - Composed of small rings, either plates or bands, snake chains are knit closely together to form a continuous tube-like appearance that resembles that of a snake’s skin. These are very delicate but very flexible and would complement a pendant well.

Spiga or Wheat Chain - Spiga, meaning wheat, is formed by delicately woven strands of twisted oval links. The chain looks like a soft golden braid. This necklace is very popular with women because of its intricate pattern. It has a delicate, stylish look and can be worn by itself or with a pendant.

Singapore Chain – This is one of the most delicate-looking and beautifully designed types of chains. Made of fibers that are braided and twisted together, this is a classic chain known for its durability and strength.

Know the chain strengths

If your main purpose for a wearing a gold necklace is daily worn, the number one question would be:

What is the strongest chain?

Out of all the types of chains, we mentioned above, the strongest ones are those made of LINKS, such as cable, Figaro and anchor. These are the strongest for the following reasons:

The links are soldered individually

They can be made thicker (and more durable) and still retain that flexibility of a rope chain

With the above said they do not have a bending point - which means they will not break and can withstand any form of activity like bending, twisting, folding or knotting.

In the rare event that a link breaks, the chain can be repaired by replacing the link or reattaching the remaining links.

You have to remember though that this will only apply to quality metal. Any jewelry made out of substandard material will deteriorate over time regardless of the design.

But how to sort the real deal from the not-so-great ones?

Know the material: Solid chain vs. hollow gold chain

There are three types of material that a gold chain for women can be made of: Solid gold, gold filled and gold plated.

For a detailed insight, check out our comprehensive guide to gold. Here is just a brief outline:

Solid Gold Chains

Solid Gold – Solid gold doesn’t necessarily mean that the chain is made of 100% pure gold (24 karats). It can be 22K, 18K, 14K or 10K. Of these, 18 and 14 karat gold have the best combination of beauty and strength. Higher gold karatage results in a weaker chain while lower karatage results in chains that don’t have the best gold color.

Gold Filled – Also called rolled gold, this type of metal is made by bonding sheets of gold onto a base metal, commonly silver. Rolled gold is much less valuable than a solid gold chain but better than gold plate.

Gold Plated – Gold plate is done by submerging the non-gold alloy into molten gold to create the golden coating. This is one of the inferior forms of golden chains in the sense that the only gold material you can find is on the coating of the base metal. It is less costly but it is more temperamental because it needs so much care and maintenance to make its beauty last longer.

Hollow Gold Chains

Hollow gold chains have a hollow space inside, somewhat like a tube. The reason for this is to reduce the quantity of gold used in the chain.

For example, a hollow 14K gold chain will still be a gold chain, but with much less gold than in a solid chain. Hollow gold chains are less expensive and lighter but they are much weaker. They can dent, kink or break easily.

If you have the choice, go for a solid chain as it will last you a very long time and will never lose its value. But if you’re on a budget, a hollow chain gold chain still has more resale value than a solid gold plated or gold filled piece.

Is a hollow gold chain fake?

This depends on the amount of gold in the chain.

Not all hollow gold chains are fake. Hollow chains refer to how the chains are constructed not what type of material they are made of. As mentioned above, hollow gold chains can still be made out of pure, 24-karat gold or the other valuable gold alloys. And of course, they can be gold plated.

But are hollow gold chains the best type? Depending on what you use it for, hollow chains are either value for money or a wasted investment.

Hollow gold chains are better worn every now and then and do not perform well for daily wear.

Evaluate the quality of your gold

Because gold is a very in-demand metal, there will always be people who will try to fob you off with a fake. The key to outsmarting them is to know your information and not fall for these traps! Here are five easy ways to determine whether a gold chain is real or fake:

Hallmark - A hallmark is a tiny engraving on the surface of an item of gold jewelry, usually found in very inconspicuous parts. This indicates the purity and material of the gold chain. Any reputable gold chain manufacturer will include a hallmark on their work.

Porcelain test - One of the easiest ways to initially determine if the material is fake or not is by rubbing it against an unglazed porcelain tile. Inspect the color the chain has left on the tile. If it is real gold, you should be able to see a golden yellow stain. If it is a fake (usually of pyrite), it would leave a black streak.

Magnet - Another easy initial test would be to check if the product is magnetic. There is no such thing as magnetic gold. If your chain is attracted to a magnet, then it means that it has some iron or even nickel in it. While this is a good test, remember that some scammers use non-magnetic metals such as copper, aluminum, and lead.

Acid Test - You can do this with nitric acid, hydrochloric acid or sulphuric acid. Granted, it isn’t always easy to get your hands on these chemicals. But assuming that you do, all you have to do is to drop a very small amount of acid on the body (not the clasps since some scammers would go so far as to make the clasps real just to trick you). If there is no reaction, there is a good chance that you have the real deal. If there is, then you’ve got either a fake, a gold-plated item, or an item with a very small percentage of gold (and not exactly what the karat hallmark says).

Appraisal - This is the sure-fire way to determine the authenticity of your gold chain. It is somewhat costly to pay for an appraiser and this is best if you are dealing with high-risk purchases.

Chain thickness: know which is for what

The thickness of a gold chain doesn’t only serve aesthetic purposes. It also has practical uses. Gold chains are produced thick or thin according to how they are used.

If you are going to use the chain to hold a pendant, consider the size of the pendant. Make sure the chain is thick enough to be able to hold the weight.

Some people consider having long hair a major issue when wearing gold chains. This is because smaller, thinner chains can tangle easily, taking your hair with them. To avoid this, it is advisable to wear a chain of medium thickness.

For men who use the chain as a standalone accessory, personality is key. If you are more of a flashy, boisterous type, a thicker gold chain for men is good for you. For simpler silent types, a thin chain works well.

Pick the length of your chain

You don’t want to be choked to death by your own jewelry because it’s too short nor deal with a mess of tangles because it’s too long. Chains ranging from 14 to 22 inches are the most common for regular wear.

Shorter chains are good for day and night use and are more comfortable if you plan to wear the chain while you sleep. As an aside, it is not advisable to wear your gold chain when you sleep because it can cause sleep marks on your skin and there is the possibility of damaging the gold by bending or denting it. Another thing you have to avoid with short chains is getting choked. Make room for some movement.

Longer chains are best for outdoor wear and/or parties. They get in the way more than short chains do and therefore are best for special occasions or when you are heading out.

Know your style

You have to know your style in order to choose your chain.

If you like classy and elegant designs, go for a thin, delicate chain. Choose a simple pendant to go with it for a casual, stylishly minimalist look. For a more outgoing person who likes to make a statement, an eye-catching larger chain will work wonders. You can pull it off, so why hold back!

#rolex watches for women gold #rolex watches #rolex watches for men #gold chains #10k white gold chains #gold chains for men #gold chains for womens

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samanthasroberts · 6 years ago

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What Random Walks in Multiple Dimensions Teach You About Life

The last time I looked at random walks, I used them to calculate the value of Pi for Pi Day. But what is a random walk, really? A mathematician will tell you that it's a stochastic process—a path defined by a series of random steps. It's a pretty abstract concept, but I want to show you how it can reveal something fundamental about life itself—the proteins that make up you and me and everything around us.

So let's start with the simplest random walk, in one dimension.

One Dimensional Random Walk

Suppose I have an object. This object can either move one space to the left or one space to the right. Suppose I let it make 100 steps. Here's what that might look like. (click the "play" to run it)

That's at least marginally interesting, right? But the cool part is that if you run it a bunch of times, it will (on average) end up farther away from the starting point depending on the number of steps. Oh sure—it's possible that it could take 1,000 steps and end up where it started, but that probably won't happen.

But wait. There is another kind of random walk—there is the Self Avoiding Walk (SAW). This is just like a random walk except that the object can't cross over its own path. In one dimension this would just be an object that continues to move to the left or continues to move to the right. After it makes its first move, there is only one way it can go. This is a boring simulation, so I won't show it—but you can change line 37 in the code above so that it reads saw=True (case matters) and then it will be a self avoiding walk.

Now for a plot. Suppose I run the random walk (the normal one, not the self avoiding one) such that it goes 10 steps. If I repeat these 10 steps 500 times, I will get an average final distance. Then I can repeat this for 20 steps, then 30 steps and so on. After that (which takes a while to run), I get the following plot of average distance vs. number of steps. If you want to see the code to produce this plot, here it is (no warranty included).

What is important about this plot? Really, the only thing to notice is that this is different than a plot of a one dimensional random self avoiding walk. That plot would be boring as it would show the distance as equal to the number of steps (since it can't go back on itself).

Two Dimensional Random Walk

If we go in two dimensions, it gets a little more interesting. Check this out—it's a 2-D random self avoiding walk. I have it set for 100 steps, but it doesn't usually make it that far before it gets stuck. Yes, if the object avoids its own path it can get into a situation where it can not make a move. Check it out. Again, click the "play" to run it (it's fun).

Again, let's see what happens when I run it a bunch of times at 10 steps up to 500 steps. Note: I just have the program quit when it gets stuck for a SAW.

The curve that fits the data isn't important. The thing you should focus on is the difference between SAW and non-SAW data. Since the SAW can't cross its own path, it is forced to expand outward giving it (on average) a greater distance from the starting point. However, the SAW also gets stuck at some point such that it doesn't really get farther than 10 units away (that's why it levels off). I think that's pretty cool.

Three Dimensional Random Walk

When will it end? Will I just keep moving into more and more dimensions (spoiler alert: No, I am going to stop at 4-D). Here is a 3-D random SAW.

Note: I turned off "user zoom" so that you won't accidentally zoom to nothing. However, you can still rotate the scene since it's 3-D. Just right-click-drag or ctrl-click-drag to move the camera view of the 3-D path. It's pretty. Oh, also notice that this is rarely going to get "stuck." With six options for movement, there is probably going to be at least one of those directions that is open (and not already traveled).

What about average distance traveled for SAW vs. non-SAW? Here you go (note, this is the same program for all of these graphs).

Again, the SAW version ends up at a greater distance because the object can't cross its path and gets "pushed" out more. But both types of walks have nice curve fits with the increasing distance with step size to the power of 0.4975 and the SAW increasing at a power of 0.4688. So, they are close to being the same but still different.

Four Dimensional Random Walk

How do you make a random walk in four dimensions? Mathematically, it's pretty easy—you just need an extra variable to represent that fourth dimension (and no, you can't use time as a fourth dimension here). For my python code, I am just going use a vector for position along with an extra variable (that I call "w"). If you still want a visual animation, the code still works. It just displays motion in the fourth dimension as a change in color. That means that in a SAW, it's possible that the object appears to cross its own path—but it doesn't. Actually, it just moved in the fourth dimension (which you can't really see) and avoided the path. Here is the 4-D walk (notice that I didn't tell you to click "play").

Now for the important part. Here is a plot of final distance vs. step number for both the normal and the SAW.

Notice that there is still a difference between SAW and normal walks—but the difference is very small. Basically in 4-D the object doesn't really run into its own path so that it doesn't have to avoid itself. Oh, and I have never seen it get stuck (but it's still technically possible).

Random Walks in Real Life

You might be thinking that I'm just some crazy old man that's obsessed with random walks. OK, that's mostly true. But still—there are real world applications of random walks. In particular, proteins can be modeled as a random walk. I won't go into all the details of proteins except to say two things. First, these are long molecular chains. Second, proteins are important for living things like you and me. If a protein is like a random walk, then maybe this model shows why life is in three dimensions instead of one, two, or four. Hear me out. (Yes, I know I'm crazy.)

Life can't be in one dimension. Sure you could make a 1-D protein, but it would never do anything useful. It wouldn't interact with other things (except on the ends) and more importantly, it wouldn't interact with itself. If the protein chain can't fold over and connect back to itself, it can't make useful molecules (you know, for life and stuff).

What about two-dimensional life? The big problem here is that you can't make long proteins. Yeast proteins are over 400 units long. Good luck getting a random SAW that is over 50 units long without it getting stuck. You just can't get long proteins in two dimensions and you can't have yeast in 2-D. Without yeast, you can't have two-dimensional beer—so we know life can't exist in 2-D.

If more dimensions allows for longer proteins, then why isn't life in 4-D? Oh, don't worry about space being 3-D—that's a whole other debate we can save for another time. More importantly, there is a problem with 4-D random walks. Since there are so many options for each step, a random walk is unlikely to cross over its own path—which is bad for proteins. You want them to be able to get long but also to have the opportunity to connect to itself. In four dimensions, random walks do that rarely, which would make it difficult (unlikely) to get more complex molecules that are probably important for life.

Or maybe I'm still just a crazy dude that likes random walks.

Homework

How about some homework questions for you? Yes, that's a good idea.

In all of my examples, I have a random walks (and SAW) as a lattice walk. This means that the vector location of the object always consists of components that are integers. This makes it much easier to program, but maybe it's not realistic. See if the same conclusions about random walks in different dimensions holds true for a random walk that takes a step size of 1 unit, but at a random angle. This is pretty easy in 2-D since you just need one random angle. In 3-D you need two angles (the angles from spherical coordinates). Not sure how do to this in 4-D. Oh, seeing if it crosses its own path is more difficult too. Good luck.

What if you don't have a step size of 1 but instead each step has its own distance? Pick something like a normal distribution for step sizes and see if this same stuff works.

What does the average distance vs. step number look like for a five-dimensional SAW and a 5-D random walk?

What is the average number of steps before a random walk has a path conflict (such that it would have to either avoid its path or connect to make some type of molecule)? Yes, do this for two, three, and four dimensions.