#my internet died partway through answering it

[queer-book-character-tournament]

I understand what you’re trying to do with quality control, but it is starting to feel weird when you clearly have characters who a significant minority are voting up as queer and you’re questioning if the characters are queer enough.

I know that characters and people are two different cases, and I can quietly remove myself here, but I’m having a lot of fun when I’m not being ambushed with more arbitrary standards about what queer can and can’t look like, so I wanted to try an ask first.

I understand not wanting a character who isn’t explicitly queer to win, but it’s honestly upsetting to have my dash keep being interrupted with rules lawyering about what counts as queer and what doesn’t. Do you think you could maybe make note of the possible issues and just discuss them together if they win instead of discussing it every time another character turns up “questionable”? I’m otherwise really enjoying your tournament

I mean that is what I’m trying to do? Like there’s only two characters so far (out of 204 in the competition) who have been brought up after the polls went live, and like … four total posts I’ve made about it tops? Five, I guess, including this one. One asking for clarification on the question being asked in the first place, one kind of agreeing to that because again I haven’t read, and then one for each character saying it’s just something we will come back to as needed because there was some push back and I don’t really want to debate it before it’s even an actual issue as I can’t do anything during the first round anyway since it's already up. I don’t want the people pointing it out to feel ignored and for it to evolve into a discourse in the notes because it goes unaddressed. So I answered them on the second character same as the first to say let’s come back to this if it progresses past round one.

I’m questioning not if they’re “queer enough” though. We've got a wide variety of character from all over the gender/sexuality/romantic orientation spectrum. I'm not trying to gatekeep what counts as queerness. But when I do ask for quality control I am asking if it’s even canon at all that they are queer inside the text of the book. Not 'queer enough', just are they queer in canon, point blank. The rules did state canon is a requirement, but I can’t read every book submitted to check that. Sometimes I’ll know things aren’t correct, like in the ship tournament someone submitted Sam/Frodo (which is an example of what I mean. It’s not that they “aren’t queer enough” it’s that they just straight up are not stated to be queer, as much as we as fans might enjoy the idea that they are and there might be some subtext we can take from their devotion, it’s not in the pages so it does not count), but if I don’t know I have to pitch it towards you guys. And I let A Lot of characters in, so I won’t know a lot of them. For these two characters in particular I can’t make a judgement call on my own as I haven’t read the book, which is why it's getting talked about. (Although again, as I said, I'm really not trying to debate their eligibility at this time. If they win it'll be something to bring up before round two, but as of now we aren't debating it) I put up a list ahead of the polls of the characters submitted that I had already thinned out a bit with characters I knew didn't qualify and passed the question off to my followers to try and get all of that out of the way before the actual competition starts to avoid things like this, (because as you said, now that the competition is started people are voting for them, because people like these characters, so it's obviously not ideal for a debate to be breaking out now after it's up about their eligibility in the competition) but the polls are obvi getting more attention than a long list so I’m getting some new questions now.

I want everyone to be having fun, and i'm sorry if this is detracting from that for you, but again when it's characters I don't know that people are bringing up I have to actually ask about it or else it doesn't really seem fair

[cat-brodsky]

richard pipen is the worst pre-med student ever: death caps in the secret history

"Judy, what would you do if you had a hundred and three degrees of fever?” “I would go to the fucking doctor,” she said without looking away from the TV.

must i say anything else

This post may contain errors, and anyone is welcome to point them out.

@sadbabywltch gets a thanks for the inspiration

some context

"You studied medicine for a while, didn't you?” [Henry] said.

I knew this to be a prelude to some health-related inquiry. My one year of pre-med had provided scanty knowledge at best...

I’m going to cite some parts of The Secret History, but I cannot copy the entire text of the scene in question. If you haven’t read it, this scene won’t make as much sense.

This post contains extensive discussion of mushroom poisoning as a murder method, so consider yourself warned. This post also contains math and biology, so people allergic to either should turn back.

Richard Pipen knows absolutely nothing about medicine. And I intend to prove that.

on amanita phalloides

Aka, death cap. The most poisonous out of all known mushrooms - half a mushroom (30 grams) is enough to kill a grown human. If Henry had really done extensive research, he should know that - and he said that he has.

“You have no idea how much thought I've put into this. Even to the strain of poison. It's said to make the throat swell, do you know that? Victims are said to be struck dumb, unable to name their poisoner.”

He should also know that the throat swelling is a myth. A.phalloides cause gradual organ failure. Symptoms of poisoning occur twelve hours later, too late to seek treatment, and death generally occurs six to sixteen days after the poisoning.

He should also know that there are less toxic species of Amanita. For instance, Amanita muscaria (fly agaric) is a hallucinogen, and symptoms take only thirty to ninety minutes to appear. Considering that the entire friend group has already been taking drugs regularly, Henry could offer Bunny a lethal dose, ingest a small one, and seek treatment.

There is also Coprinopsis atramentaria - the common ink cap, or tippler’s bane. This mushroom is poisonous, even lethally so, if combined with alcohol. I don’t need to spell the murder method out.

But, of course, Henry is high Intelligence low Wisdom and obsessed with ancient history; if Claudius allegedly died via death caps getting mixed with Caesar’s mushrooms, then it must clearly be the best way to poison someone.

on advanced calculus

“Let's say we know, for instance, that x amount of the drug in question is enough to affect a seventy pound animal and another, slightly larger amount is sufficient to kill it. I've figured out a rough formula, but still we are talking about a very fine distinction. So, knowing this much, how do I go about calculating the rest?”

Quick reminder that Henry killed one dog and poisoned another.

I’m not going to do calculations on A.muscaria or any other method of murder - A.phalloides is what the characters were poring over. I’m going to explain the calculations as simply as I can, and then provide some references for those of you who are interested in biology.

The characters don’t have the internet available, but they have the whole college library, a virtually unlimited amount of money, and a town where everyone takes illegal substances at their disposal. What they need is a pharmacology textbook (to look up the necessary equations), a reference on poisonous mushrooms (to look up death caps), and perhaps a handbook on toxins. 

LD50 is what Henry is after - that is, “the dose required to kill half the members of a tested population after a specified test duration.” (I hope that the readers can already see that two dogs are not a large enough sample size.) LD50 is conveniently measured in mg/kg. We have the characters’ exact weights: Bunny is 86 kg, Henry is 97.5 kg.

Amatoxins are a group of toxins contained in A.phalloides, and the one that causes symptoms of death cap poisoning. LD50 of amatoxins in humans is estimated to be 0.1 mg/kg. Thus, Bunny would need to ingest 0.1*86 = 8.6 mg amatoxins, perhaps less, preferrably more, to be stone dead. Here I make an assumption that 0.05 mg/kg is not lethal; with Henry’s poor health, it might be. Henry would need to ingest under 0.05*97.5 = 4.87 mg to not be dead.

Oral LD50 for amatoxins in dogs is 0.5 mg/kg. Finding out the amatoxin content should be an easy calculation: X grams divided by 31 kg contains 0.5 mg. We know that X grams minus one gram failed to kill the other dog, so we can assume this is not low-balling the dose.

For the sake of ease, let’s say X = 31 -> 0.5 mg amatoxins in one gram of locally harvested, organic death cap. This looks close to reality. Per Yilmaz et al (2015) a death cap ingested by a patient contained 0.426 mg amatoxins per gram, and you can calculate that yourself.

And now a simple proportion:

0.5 mg (per gram) / N mg (lethal dose) = 1 gram / X grams (of mushroom)

Bunny: 8.6/0.5 = 17.2 grams (ingest more than that)

Henry: 4.87/0.5 = 9.74 grams (ingest less than that)

partway disclaimer

Of course, I wouldn’t stake my life, or anyone’s, on those calculations.

The toxin content of the A.phalloides can vary drastically depending on geographical location, season, maturity, etc. This could be remedied, I guess, by gathering a large amount of them, mixing them and chopping them into paste, then testing some of the mixture to determine LD50 and the amatoxin content.

From the data at hand, the exact content of amatoxins cannot be precisely determined. But, hey, Henry only needs to poison more dogs to find out!

and now for some more science

A.phalloides contains two main groups of toxins: amatoxins and phallotoxins, and also phallolysin. Phallolysin is not toxic if taken orally, so that’s out. Phallotoxins were found to have little contribution to death cap toxicity, perhaps because they are not absorbed through the gut. (Though it’s not certain whether the characters would have this information in 1982.) This leaves us with amatoxins.

Yilmaz et al (2015) describe a patient who recovered after ingesting approximately 0.32 mg/kg amatoxins (but after developing liver failure). This is why I’m assuming 0.05 mg/kg is non-lethal.

LD50 for amatoxins in dogs has been calculated for α-amanitin and methyl-γ-amanitin.

Garcia et al (2015) gives the amount of a-amanitin in different tissues of A.phalloides as follows (mg/gram dry weight): 0.67 to 0.78 in caps, 0.30 to 0.32 in stipes and 0.07 to 0.10 in volvas.

why richard is an idiot sandwich

Look, perhaps I’m misunderstanding what Donna Tartt has written, but Richard comes across as right for the wrong reasons. He’s right in that trying to non-lethally poison yourself with something so deadly as A.phalloides is a monumentally stupid affair. He’s wrong about everything else.

Faced with a simple calculation like the above, how does Richard go about it?

Equations about chemical concentration were never my strong point in chemistry, and they are difficult enough when you are trying to figure a fixed concentration in a suspension of distilled water; but this, dealing as it did with varying concentrations in irregularly shaped objects, was virtually impossible. He had probably used all the elementary algebra he knew in figuring this, and as far as I could follow him he hadn't done a bad job; but this wasn't a problem that could be worked with algebra, if it could be worked at all. Someone with three or four years of college calculus might have been able to come up with something that at least looked more convincing; by tinkering, I was able to narrow his ratio slightly but I had forgotten most of the little calculus I knew and the answer I wound up with, though probably closer than his own, was far from correct.

I didn’t know proportions required three or four years of college calculus. If the mushrooms are irregularly shaped, why not weigh them?

“It's a good try, but just by looking at it I can tell that it's insolvable without chemical tables and a good working knowledge of calculus and chemistry proper. There's no way to figure it otherwise. I mean, chemical concentrations aren't even measured in terms of grams and milligrams but in something called moles.”

There are different kinds of chemical concentration, and molar concentration is just one of them. “Something called moles”? A mole is, simply, an amount of substance that contains 6.02214076×1023 molecules (Avogadro number). This is sixth-grade chemistry. It’s also completely irrelevant here.

It’s a miracle Richard ever got into pre-med.

Henry, paraphrased: Oh, well, if I overdose - which I can totally figure out despite the fact that the symptoms take twelve hours to show when the damage is already done - I can just have some atropine. Atropine will totally counteract amatoxins.

...Never mind, Henry is also an idiot - though, at least, that is highlighted in-story. What does he plan on doing, drinking a whole bunch of atropine without knowing the precise dose he ingested?

“They are exactly opposite in effect. Atropine speeds the nervous system, rapid heartbeat and so forth. Amatoxins slow it down.”

No, they are not. To put it in plain English, amatoxins cause cell death - nothing about nervous system. Atropine basically counters the parasympathetic system, kicks your organism into fight or flight mode.

Do you know what atropine is an antidote to? Muscarine. It’s a compound found in certain mushrooms - such as A.muscaria, though only in trace amounts. Atropine and muscarine both bind to muscarinic acetylcholine receptors. Muscarine is not found in A.phalloides. Confusing amatoxins with muscarine is... I imagine it’s excusable if ancient Persian texts are your most recent source.

Oh, and one more thing while I’m at it.

“The Persians? I didn't know you read Arabic.”

In Persia (modern Iran), they speak Farsi, not Arabic. Oh, Richard. I imagine Henry took pity on him and didn’t correct the poor fool.

conclusion

There are two ways to engage with canon - from an in-story perspective (Watsonian) or an outside perspective (Doylist). I’ll leave you to discover what the third (Forsythian) perspective is.

From an in-story perspective, I am drawing the conclusion that both Richard and Henry are utterly inept at math, biology, medicine, and common sense; heaven only knows what “algebraic equations” they spent a good half hour going over.

From an outside perspective... well, if Tartt wrote all those errors purposefully, then it’s a nice bonus for any reader who knows basic medicine. If she didn’t, then I can fault her for not doing enough research. A middle ground is more likely: I’m certain that the 103F episode was intentional, but the Arabic in Persia wasn’t, since Henry of all people would lambast Richard for this error mercilessly.

half-assed references

Garcia, J et al. Determination of amatoxins and phallotoxins in Amanita phalloides mushrooms from northeastern Portugal by HPLC-DAD-MS. Mycologia, 107(4): 679-687. 2015.

Hooser, S.; Khan, S. Common Toxicologic Issues in Small Animals: An Update, An Issue of Veterinary Clinics of North America: Small Animal Practice: Ebook. Elsevier Health Sciences. 2018.

Tu, A.; ed. Handbook of Natural Toxins: Food Poisoning (1st edition). CRC Press.1992.

Wieland, T. Peptides of poisonous Amanita mushrooms. Springer-Verlag.1986.

Yilmaz, I et al. A Case Study: What Doses of Amanita phalloides and Amatoxins Are Lethal to Humans? Wilderness Environ Med. 26(4): 491–496. 2015.

[jade4813]

A Lie, Told Often Enough, Chapter 10

Author Notes: Inspired by @fallinginloveinaflash‘s AU prompt. All credit for the idea goes entirely to her.

Title: A Lie, Told Often Enough

Rating: NC-17

Synopsis: Iris just landed her dream job at a PR firm and her first assignment is reforming the bad boy image of celebrity artist Barry Allen. He’s overly cocky and well-known for being a playboy, but Iris has never met a challenge she couldn’t handle.

Chapters: 10/?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

“So, is there anything I should know before we do this?” Iris asked, shifting the weight of her overnight bag in one hand as she looked at the front door in dread. Nora and Henry Allen had invited them over for dinner, but Barry had suggested they spend the night while they were there. As he explained, he liked to take the opportunity to get away whenever possible. Unable to come up with an excuse to decline, Iris had reluctantly agreed.

Barry smiled and squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to be nervous. They’re going to love you, you know.” Then, after a pause, he added reassuringly, “They know the truth about us, remember?”

Though she nodded, his words did little to reassure her. His parents may have been told that their relationship was a sham, but unless they had never heard of the Internet, they also had to have seen the speculation about the two of them that morning. It wasn’t unusual for women to change dresses between the Prescott dinner and private birthday celebration. However, more than one eagle eyed fan had noticed that Barry had also changed shirts, and that had led to a flurry of speculation and innuendo.

The fact that the speculation was more or less accurate didn’t help Iris’s nerves. She had no compunction against lying to Mason as she had that morning, pretending that it was all part of her plan. It seemed underhanded, though, to do so to Barry’s parents.

Though it would probably be more mortifying to tell the truth.

It seemed silly to tell Barry all of that, however, so when he asked if she was ready, she put on a brave face and nodded. Before she could second-guess her decision, Barry threw open the door without so much as a knock and escorted her inside. “Mom! Dad! We’re here!”

“Barry!” An attractive older woman with auburn hair turned from the table and rushed towards them, pulling her son into a tight hug. An older man with a warm smile finished placing a serving bowl in the center of the table and then followed. Iris hung back, dropping her bag in the corner. She was unwilling to intrude on the moment, but when she thrust her hand forward to shake her hosts’ in greeting, they pulled her in to a hug instead.

When the immediate chaos died down, she found herself being herded towards the table by Barry’s mom, while Barry was engrossed in conversation with his dad. Scrambling for her manners, she finally offered, “Ah, you have a beautiful home. Sorry we’re late, by the way, Mrs. Allen.”

“Nora, please,” her hostess corrected her warmly. “And I’ll tell you a secret. Henry and I are well aware that our son has never been on time to anything in his life. We always tell him to come over a half hour earlier than we need him to be here. If you ever need him to show up anywhere on time, I highly recommend you try it – though don’t tell him I said so.”

Iris smiled. “I’ll bear that in mind, though he’s better with that than he used to be. When we first met, getting him to show up on time for an appointment was like pulling teeth. He’s gotten pretty punctual lately. Well, except when it involved work,” she amended with a chuckle.

“Oh, really? Well, you must be a good influence, then,” Nora remarked as she showed Iris to her seat. “Henry? Barry? Come sit! The food is getting cold!”

Iris lapsed into contented silence as Barry took his seat next to her. She was more than happy to let him take charge of the conversation, spending the next few minutes catching up with his parents. It wasn’t long, however, before his mother redirected the conversation back to her.

“So. Iris. Tell us more about yourself. Did you always want to be a publicist?”

She shook her head. “No, actually. If you can believe it, I used to want to be a cop. But, well…” Trailing off, she gestured at herself. “As you can see, I don’t exactly meet the minimum height and weight requirements. Then I thought I might want to go into journalism, but that isn’t exactly a growing field right now. Being a publicist, well…it allows me to do what I love in telling other people’s stories. Just in a different way.”

“Have you been in the business long?” Nora prompted as she passed Henry the mashed potatoes.

Iris shook her head, shifting slightly under the weight of Nora’s regard. “Not too long, I suppose. I interned with Mason – my boss – in college, and I’ve been working with him officially for a little while now. But actually, Barry’s my first real client.” Belatedly, she realized that she’d intentionally not told him that, but she simply threw him a small smile and an apologetic shrug. It wasn’t like he could exactly fire her now. He simply rolled his eyes at her in an exaggerated motion and shook his head.

“And how do you like it so far? Being a publicist, I mean.”

Before Iris could answer, Barry laughed and asked in a teasing tone, “Mom, do you want to lighten up a bit? I’ve heard less intense interrogations than you’re putting Iris through right now.”

Nora snorted. “It is not that bad!” she protested.

“Are you sure? Because I’m about to go get the lamp from the living room so you can shine it directly into her face and really give her the full experience. Do you – do you want me to go get it? I’ll go get it,” Barry offered, rising partway to his feet.

His mother laughed and shook her head. “Well, maybe if you brought women by more often, I wouldn’t be so out of practice!” she chided him.

Barry snorted. “You’ve never invited another woman over before now,” he pointed out.

“If I’d ever thought any of the women you dated before now were special to you, I would have!” she protested. Iris stiffened slightly, and when Barry threw his mother a wide-eyed stare, she continued quickly, “Not that you and Iris are really dating, of course. Your friends are always welcome. You know that.”

“This chicken is fantastic, honey. You really outdid yourself this time,” Henry interjected, smoothly deflecting the conversation from the peculiar nature of their son’s relationship. Iris felt herself relax at the change of subject. Over the remainder of the meal, the conversation shifted to Barry’s upcoming tour and newest album.

After dinner, however, when she reached to take the plates into the kitchen, Henry quickly moved to intercept her. “Oh, no you don’t. In this house, when one of us cooks, the other cleans. You go have a seat in the living room and relax.” Raising his voice pointedly at his son, he joked, “I’m going to see if my son still remembers how to wash a dish or if he’s gotten too spoiled in his life as a superstar.”

Barry raised his voice in mock affront, but when Iris hesitated, wondering if she should argue the point, Henry winked at her. “Nora doesn’t bite. I promise.”

She laughed good-naturedly. “I’m not worried,” she lied, letting him shoo her into the other room. Once in the living room, she paused long enough to peruse the photos hung on the walls. “You have a beautiful family,” she remarked to the older woman as she entered the room.

Nora glowed with maternal pride as she followed Iris’s gaze. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I worry sometimes about the life Barry leads, but his father and I are very proud of him.”

Iris threw his mother a quick glance over her shoulder. “It’s a different kind of world he lives in, I know. But you don’t have to worry. Barry’s…he’s wonderful. I doubt celebrity has changed him that much.”

She could feel his mother’s eyes on her as she replied, “No, I suppose not. But I worry sometimes that it’s made him closed off. Lonely. He’s never had the easiest time letting people in. These last few years…I’ve worried it’s gotten harder for him. I wish he could find happiness, but I wonder if he’d even let himself. I think he doesn’t think it’s even possible, with the life he leads.”

Iris didn’t know how to respond to that, so she simply turned her attention back to the pictures. “Did he always want to be a musician?” she asked, staring at a picture of a little tousle-haired boy with a too-large guitar on his lap.

Nora made a soft sound. “Oh, no. He used to talk about being a physicist. He and Cisco started their band in college, as just a way to blow off steam. They had just started getting some attention when Cisco sold his first invention and decided to pursue a career as an engineer. Of course, he still helps Barry out with the music when he can. They still write songs together. But I think sometimes Barry misses those days in college, when it was just the two of them, having fun together.”

Iris mulled over his mother’s words as she stared at a photo of Barry and Cisco side by side in their graduation gowns. He looked so carefree and happy. Iris had never seen that smile on his face before – at least, she hadn’t until he walked through his parents’ front door. Watching him joke around with his parents, she realized she was seeing a side to him she’d never seen before.

The next picture made her laugh – Barry at around seven years old, dressed in a superhero cape as he threw the camera a cheesy smile. “This one’s my favorite,” he remarked.

His mom chuckled. “If you like that, I have some others you should see. Hold on. I’ve got Barry’s baby book around here somewhere –”

Eager to see Barry as a little boy, Iris moved to the couch, where she sat and waited to get a glimpse of her pseudo-boyfriend as a little boy. A mischievous grin crossed her face when she pictured the expression on Barry’s face when he saw what she and his mother had been up to while he was otherwise occupied.

“So, Iris seems nice,” Henry remarked in a mild voice as he passed his son a soapy dish.

Barry shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. “We’re not really dating, you know,” he reminded his father.

“Are you sure about that?” Throwing Barry a quick look, he explained, “I’ve see the way you look at her.”

He sighed. “I’m sure. I mean, I like her. But she’s made it pretty clear she has no intention of falling in love with me.” At his father’s laugh, he frowned. “What?”

The older man shook his head. “Just remembering that there was once I time I felt much the same way. I was planning to go to medical school, and love presented a complication I was sure I didn’t need.”

“So what happened?”

Henry grinned. “I would like to see anyone resist your mother. I was in love with her before I even knew what hit me.”

Barry snorted. “Yeah? Well…Iris doesn’t seem to have that problem.”

His father lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “If you say so. But, like I said. She seems nice.”

Uncertain if he wanted to push the point, Barry let it go and changed the subject. However, he was still thinking about their peculiar conversation a few minutes later when he walked towards the living room, eager to see what Iris had gotten up to in his absence. When he saw the baby book spread open on her lap, however, his jaw dropped.

“Mom, I – Iris has barely been here for an hour and you’re already showing her my baby book?” he demanded in feigned indignation. Stepping closer, he saw that Iris was laughing at a picture of him as a little boy, dressed in nothing but a t-shirt as he pouted over a bowl of oatmeal. “Oh my god,” he breathed, feeling his face go crimson.

“You were an adorable little boy!” his mom protested.

“Do you still eat breakfast without pants on?” Iris asked with an overly-innocent grin.

Barry huffed. “You know, I’ve worked very hard to craft a certain image. Ten minutes at home, and my mom completely obliterates it.”

Iris snorted. “No don’t be silly! I –” Looking at a picture of him at the height of his awkward teenage years, she cracked up. “Nope. Sorry. I can’t do it. I can’t lie. Your image as a rock god is totally shot. I’m never getting this picture out of my head.”

“That’s it,” Barry growled, pulling his baby book off her lap before sweeping her into his arms. “I’m getting you out of here before mom shows you my naked baby pictures. Mom, Dad, if you need us, we’ll be watching movies in the guest room until Iris forgets the horror she has just seen.”

Iris gasped, though she only put up a token protest as he carried her towards the guest room. “You have naked baby pictures? I want to see! Henry, distract Barry! Nora, bring me the naked baby pictures!”

“Don’t listen to her! She’s delirious!” Barry shouted over his shoulder, over the sound of Iris’s shrieks of protest. They were both laughing when he tossed her onto the bed, falling onto the mattress next to her. “I can’t believe she did that,” he huffed, though his smile belied his irritation.

“What? Those pictures were adorable! The one of you dressed like a zombie for Halloween -?”

He groaned. “Don’t remind me.” Throwing his arm over her, he pinned her to the mattress. “Keep this up and I’m going to have to do something drastic to distract you.”

Iris tried to throw him a grave look, but the corners of her lips still twitched with mirth. After a moment, she giggled and shook her head. “Nope. Sorry. Can’t do it. I know you’re trying to be all grumpy and serious, but that image is ruined now.”

Barry thrust his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. “No! Don’t laugh! I’m intense and filled with angst! And arrogance! You’re supposed to fear me! Fear me, darn it! I’m a rock god!”

It was enough to send her over the edge, and Barry couldn’t help but grin down at her as she laughed until tears came to her eyes. Once she finally caught her breath, she lifted one hand to his cheek. “You know, I think I finally found him. The real Barry Allen.”

His smile falling, Barry stared at her with guarded eyes. “And what’s the verdict? You want to be his friend?”

Iris bit her lower lip and her eyes were troubled as her gaze swept her face. Finally, she gave an almost imperceptible nod and scraped her teeth against her lower lip. “Yeah,” she agreed in a voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, I do.”

Unable to resist, Barry ducked his head and brushed a kiss against her lips. They had agreed they would keep their relationship professional this evening, but surely she wouldn’t begrudge him one small slip. Indeed, she let out a deep sigh and melted into his kiss, pulling him closer.

Before things could progress any further, Barry pulled away and rolled off her, distracting the both of them as he turned on the television and flipped through the channels until he came across an old black and white monster movie. Iris curled up against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. Comforted by the steady rise and fall of her breath against his side, Barry felt his usual stress and tensions seep out of his body. He stroked one hand lazily up and down her spine as they settled in to watch the movie.

Later that evening, when it was time to turn in, Barry shifted to pull away, intending to return to his bedroom. However, before he could move, Iris wrapped her fingers in his shirt and held tight. “No,” she breathed. “Don’t go. Stay here with me tonight?”

Barry caught his breath. “Are you sure?” he murmured, almost unable to believe his ears.

Her hand trembled slightly against his heart, but her gaze was steady when she nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure. Just for tonight. Stay with me?”

Unable to trust himself to speak, Barry simply nodded and leaned back against the pillows. He couldn’t deny her this. He suspected he couldn’t deny her anything.

The next morning, Iris awoke to the warmth of cotton against her cheek. She froze, suspecting she knew what she would find when she opened her eyes. For this last moment, she wanted to embrace the fantasy. But eventually, she had to face the truth, and so she opened her eyes.

And found herself in bed alone.

Her heart lurched, her stomach twisting into a knot, when the bedroom door opened and Barry walked in. He was still dressed in the worn t-shirt and sweat pants he’d changed into before bed the night before, his hair still rumpled from sleep. In his hand, he carried two large mugs of coffee. “Morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Her heartbeat returning to normal, Iris breathed a heavy sigh. “Oh, thank god,” she groaned as she grabbed for the coffee. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Barry quirked his eyebrows up at her, holding the coffee mug just out of reach. “And a rock god?”

Iris laughed and lunged for the delicious black brew, both surprised and pleased to find he’d fixed it just the way she liked it. “We’ll see. The jury’s still out. Your mom isn’t done showing me pictures.”

“Oh, my god. I knew introducing the two of you was a mistake,” he grumbled as he lowered himself on the mattress next to her. “They asked if we wanted to spend the day with them, but I’m not sure I want to risk it.”

“Aw, poor Barry. You –”

Before she could continue, there was a knock on the door. Henry stood in the doorway, looking far more alert at this early hour than either Iris or Barry could so much as contemplate. “Hey. There’s a Mason Bridge at the door? He wanted to speak with the two of you.”

Iris went from amused to anxious in less than a heartbeat. Feeling slightly nauseated, she threw a quick glance at the clock. Mason was there to see them before eight in the morning? That couldn’t possibly be good. Had something happened? Was she about to get fired? Not daring to look Barry’s way, she threw Henry a tight smile. “Oh. Thank you. Let him know I’ll be right there.”

Whatever had prompted this visit, it couldn’t possibly be good.

[mimosaeyes]

✏️💭 💘

(Oh gosh, thank you! I stopped doing these for years because I would get no response and it was just embarrassing and pathetic and I had to go back and delete my original post asking for asks.)

💘 - what’s your favorite AU? Least favorite?

I write a lot of canon-compliant fic, and almost no AUs. But specific to TDP, my favourite AU is an inadvertent canon divergence. Hideaway is about Ethari bringing Rayla to the meadow with the adoraburrs, on the day her parents are disgraced as members of the Dragon Guard. Except I made Rayla a kid for the cute factor, forgetting that Thunder only dies four months prior to 1x01. So the fic exists in its own ‘verse: one where Viren convinces Harrow to avenge Sarai much sooner after her death, one where Rayla grows up considering Ethari and Runaan her parents much more so than her biological ones. In that ‘verse, I imagine Rayla and Callum turn out quite different…

I don’t really have a least favourite AU that I’ve written, because if I think of an AU and then don’t like it after all, I just never write it, or I abandon my draft partway through. I do have least favourite fics; they’re just not AUs.

💭 - any ideas for a possible wip?

I posted honey, you’re familiar a couple days ago, but before I began writing it, I brainstormed several ideas for post-3x09 Rayllum. One of them is: having found out (probably from Aanya) that Kasef nearly killed Callum because he couldn’t get off the Fulminis spell fast enough, Rayla takes it upon herself to teach her dumb human some evasive tactics. Not how to attack, mind you; not even how to defend, precisely. Pretty much just how to keep his distance. The whole scene would have the same energy as Harrow and Sarai sparring. I’m not well-versed at describing fights and physical movements, though. But then... I have a fluffy ending in mind for this.

…Wait, does WIP necessarily mean a multichap, not a oneshot? If it does: since season 1, I’ve wanted more Gren and Amaya backstory. Why does Gren know sign language? Was Gren already in the army, or did they specifically recruit him as Amaya’s interpreter? I love their dynamic. They’re my favourite brotp. I actually started writing a bit of this.

✏️- favorite part about writing

Y’all know fic writers are in it for that sweet, sweet validation from strangers on the internet, right?

My less superficial answer is: that feeling of satisfaction when you read over what you’ve written and think, Yes, this is a complete package/experience, this is what I wanted to make, this is what I want to give people. It’s the reason I write oneshots instead of multichaps. They maximise my satisfaction because shorter, self-contained pieces will always afford you more control and precision. (Also, I’m not good at plot.)

Today is the 8th anniversary of my first fic. Here’s a list. Ask me stuff?

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Idea: What if, partway through the war, all the yeerks (on Earth) died? Not killed by the Animorphs-- maybe the Andalites got their act together, maybe they were wiped out by an unexpected plague, whatever. But suddenly, the teen soldiers find their enemies just... gone.

Embarrassingly enough, it takes them almost two weeks to notice.  Well, that’s not quite true.  They notice the suspicious lack of yeerk activity in less than a week, but mostly in the form of Marco declaring it to be “quiet… too quiet” and Jake wondering what has the yeerk inside Tom acting so morose all of a sudden.  It takes almost two weeks of Tobias lurking over known Yeerk Pool entrances wondering where the heck the controllers are, two weeks of Ax mentioning that the internet chatter is more full of yeerk talk than usual, two weeks of Erek reporting no Sharing meetings anywhere in the country, and two weeks of Cassie telling them to appreciate the break for a change… and then Rachel snaps.

Specifically, she gets fed up with the tension, marches up to Tom in the middle of a school hallway, and (poking him in the chest every so often for emphasis) demands to know whether the entire Yeerk Empire has suddenly gone into hibernation or— or what.

Tom’s response is to grab her by the arm and drag her into Chapman’s office.

Rachel fights him with literal teeth and literal nails, of course — right up until the moment Tom turns to Chapman and goes “See?  She remembers that there were brain-stealing aliens too.  That proves I’m not crazy.”

Rachel stares at Tom in shock.  Chapman heaves a put-upon sigh and says, “I never said you were crazy.  I said that we should all probably forget it ever happened and move on, because if we told anyone then we’d appear to be crazy.”

“But…”  Tom frowns, petulant.  “But if we, like, got a reporter to talk about the yeerks, and enough of us agreed about what happened…”

“Then no doubt the school district would send gas inspectors out to determine why so many people in this town are hallucinating,” Chapman drawls.  “The yeerks are all dead, their bodies entirely decomposed in the Earth atmosphere by now.  The nonhuman hosts were last seen wandering off in search of that mystical colony of free hork-bajir somewhere in the mountains.  I don’t have a way to contact the andalites.  All of which means that the only proof you have is a rapidly-evaporating puddle of kandrona under the school.”  He sighs.  “Any reporter with an ounce of sense will blame the fumes from that for the gas leak, and we’re back to square one.”

“The yeerks… are dead?” Rachel asks.

“How did you not already know this, if you were a controller?” Tom says.

She should probably wait and confirm this with Jake and the others.  Probably.  But then, she’s never been very good at waiting.  “Because I’m one of the morphers who’s been fighting them.”

After all that, Rachel doesn’t even get to tell the others the news.  Because she bursts into their meeting only to find that Toby is already standing there looking grave, and Cassie’s mouth is hanging open.  By the time Toby is done telling her story — and answering all 500 of Marco’s suspicious questions — most of the details come out.

A few days ago, close to a thousand hork-bajir and taxxons had simply wandered into the free hork-bajir valley.  Toby had assumed an attack, until one of the taxxons, who gave the unusual-for-a-taxxon name of Arbron, had explained that none of them were controllers.  Because, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, all the yeerks simply dropped dead a few days back.  

Toby, not being born yesterday, had forced the entire cavalcade to wait three days under constant guard before letting them into the valley. They passed.  All signs point to the conclusion that they’re telling the truth: the yeerks inside them all have died without warning.

Marco, being Marco, maintains that this is all some elaborate yeerk conspiracy.  Until Rachel shamefacedly mentions that she blurted the whole thing out to Tom.  Until Tom, muttering about their questionable taste in tourism destinations, takes them through a Yeerk Pool entrance under the car wash and shows them the cavern: empty, echoing, deserted.  Filled with detritus and congealing kandrona and abandoned junk.

Cassie becomes the one to voice the question that’s been on all their minds, later that afternoon as they sit around her barn.  “So…” she says slowly.  “Now what?”

“We’ve gotta tell someone, right?”  Rachel looks around at them.  “Just pick any adult, show them that we can morph, and then…”

«And then come the conspiracy theorists,» Tobias points out.  «Then come the social workers.  Then come the paparazzi.  Is that really what we want?»

«Prince Jake?  What do you recommend?»

Jake runs his hands through his hair.  “Honestly?  I want to go home.  I want to finish my stupid English essay, since I guess I’ve got time for it now.  I want to go to the UCSB game on Saturday.  I want to…”  He takes a breath.  “To catch up with my brother.  Maybe even get some sleep for once, while I’m at it.”

They vote on it, for lack of a better solution.  Rachel and Marco are all for telling the world.  Cassie thinks they should wait on a decision until they talk to Toby and some of the ex-hosts about what everyone else wants.  Tobias and Jake seem exhausted even by the thought of the media circus that would ensue.  Ax, as always, abstains.

“Okay,” Jake says.  “I guess that’s two votes in favor of sharing our story, three against.  We’ll go with Cassie’s suggestion: hold off for now, revisit the idea after talking to the others.”

Things get back to normal.  Kind of.  Sure.

Rachel punches a girl she doesn’t even know in the face after said girl rudely ignores Marco.  And then, when Marco makes a breathy comment about Rachel defending his honor, she punches him too.  Detention is a relief; it’s high time someone punished her.

Cassie breaks down crying in the middle of dinner for, really, no reason at all, and finds herself crying harder when her parents hover and worry and offer explanations: it’s about a boy, it’s about the goose last week they couldn’t save, it’s about hormones.

Tobias wavers.  He practices, a little bit at a time.  Pretends to be human long enough to walk downtown.  Grows fingers and dull eyes to see what happens when he rings Rachel’s doorbell like any other boy on the planet.  Each time he goes back.  Each time giving up human shape feels more like disappointment, more like relief.

Jake wanders the house in restless circles for six or more hours a night, trying to wear himself out so that the nightmares won’t wake him yet again.  Sometimes he hears the crisp pock-pock-pock of a basketball on concrete outside, and feels less alone.

Marco’s dad comments on how many evenings they’ve spent together with a reheated pizza and the latest Madden.  Marco brushes it off with a comment about earning enough brownie points to get a car.

Ax, with a little help from some commandeered yeerk tech, calls home again.  He tries to tell his parents everything that happened, and finds he doesn’t have the words.  They assure him they’re coming for him the moment they get permission from the Electorate, and he tries to believe that that time is coming soon.

Ten days later, when it seems that every single trace of yeerk activity really has disappeared for good, a kid with messy blond hair and soft grey eyes walks into their high school to enroll.  There are some inconsistencies in his paperwork, of course — he lists his uncle as his legal guardian in spite of said uncle being less than a year older than him, he gives his home address as a P.O. box downtown, he has no transcripts from previous schools — but the vice principal proves willing to overlook all of those issues in light of everything that this kid has done to keep the planet safe.  Chapman even signs off on the form claiming that Tobias requires access to a private bathroom once every two hours all day long for unspecified medical needs.  It feels, in some ways, like the first true commitment to the idea that this peace might just last.

Which is why Marco corners Tom the next day in school.  “So,” Marco says, “I had a question.  And you probably don’t know the answer, but you’re like, my second-to-last resort before Chapman, so let’s go with you’re kinda my last hope.  Anyway, I was just wondering, in case you happened to know—”

“Supervising the invasion of the Anati system,” Tom says over him, “as of the day all the yeerks on Earth kicked it.  No one’s heard from Visser One or her forces since.”

“Anati.  That’s far away, isn’t it.”  Marco doesn’t wait for confirmation.  “And if I wanted to, say, send a message to Anati…?”

Tom considers for a minute.  “Find Alloran.  He’ll know how.”

So Marco goes to Ax.  Just to Ax.  He’s getting closer and closer to the others all finding out about this, but… it’s his mom.  His problem.  He doesn’t want to trouble the others, who all deserve their rest.

Ax, however, seems to be bored out of his mind.  He seizes on Marco’s “mission” with enthusiasm, hacking every open-circuit camera he can get his hands on in about two hours flat.

Between Tobias being at school for several hours a day and Jake having essentially ordered them all to take a break, Ax has a lot of time on his hands.  It takes him less than three days to catch sight of a very familiar human morph — tall, balding, with a commanding smile — and figure out where Alloran has been hiding.  The paper trail takes a little more tracing from there, but eventually he gets a hit on a four-star hotel whose penthouse is currently being paid for by a Yeerk Empire shell corporation… and whose penthouse guest has already been reprimanded twice for stealing too many tiny Danishes from the breakfast bar.

Alloran listens to Marco, and even seems sympathetic, but insists that, as long as they don’t know what killed the yeerks on Earth, he’s not going to contact the yeerks elsewhere to let them know so that they can start invading Earth all over again.  Which is when Marco reluctantly gets the others involved, on the assumption that one of them will know how so many yeerks ended up kicking the bucket all at once.

Chapman, when asked, immediately blames the oatmeal crisis that was underway at the time when the yeerks died.  However, he has no proof to back up this theory, so he’s not much use.

Tom blames the whole thing on inbreeding.  He does not listen to Ax when Ax points out there’s no way a lack of genetic diversity could kill a whole species that quickly.

Jake comes up with an elaborate explanation about them having all died of the common cold.  Rachel pokes fun at him for plagiarizing War of the Worlds, until Cassie points out that technically a lack of genetic diversity could in theory leave them open to all being affected by the same disease.

Marco and Tobias, it might be said, get a little too far into tinfoil-hat territory around the time they connect an experimental weapons test out of Zone 91 with a fractional shift in the pH of the surrounding atmosphere, which might have something to do with the acid rain out of Nevada… which probably has nothing to do with the yeerks dying.

Alloran makes a single, muttered comment about quantum viruses.  He refuses to explain himself, or even to tell anyone what a quantum virus is.

Marco writes the whole thing off as a colossal waste of time.  He goes home that night frustrated, defeated, and wondering if Ax is quite bored enough to steal an unused Bug fighter so that they can go on a kamikaze run for Anati.

He wakes up tied to a chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse.

“Listen to me, parasite,” a very familiar voice says.  “We can do this the easy way, where you worm yourself out of him right now and no one has to get hurt… or we can do it the very, very hard way.”

Which is right around the time that Marco remembers that he  pretended to be a controller the last time he saw his mom.  “Oh crap,” he says out loud, and then, “I’m guessing you’re not a controller anymore.”

“Edriss dropped dead out of the blue, don’t know why.  I stole a Bug fighter and came straight here.”

“Huh,” Marco mumbles.  Must be genetic.

Eva raises the dracon beam in her hands until it’s pointed at his head.  “Surrender or don’t.  Either way, I’ve got no plans for the next three days.”

Marco blinks several times.  Judging by the fuzziness of his vision and the cloying taste in the back of his throat, his mom friggin’ drugged him.  There’s no telling how long he’s been gone.  “I should probably warn you.  Jake and a couple of my other very dangerous friends are gonna be looking for me, and I can pretty much guarantee that when they find us—”

“Your threats don’t mean anything to me.”  Eva smiles bitterly.  “After all, I’m already dead.  So I suggest you be quiet, or I might be forced to gag you.”

Marco does as he’s told.  Staying quiet and staying put until his mom figures out he’s not a controller seems preferable to fighting her, at any rate.

By his extremely crappy system of internal timekeeping, it is either two hours or two days later that there’s a scraping sound on the roof of the warehouse… almost like a bird of prey landing on the corrugated iron.  Eva stands up, tilting her head to listen.  In the process, she lets the dracon beam drop to her side — which is when the grizzly bear hits her like a freight train.  Her body goes skidding across the floor, a small mountain of brown fur and claws following.

“Stop!” Marco bellows.  “Rachel, STOP!”

«I’m not gonna kill her, jeez.»  Rachel pins Eva to the ground, leaning just enough weight on the arm that holds the dracon beam that the weapon clatters out of her hand.

“She’s not a controller!” Marco says.  “Visser One is dead.”

«She has you tied to a chair—»

���Yeah, exactly!”  Marco really wishes he could hold up his hands in a placating gesture right now.  “Which we both know I could get out of in about two seconds.  So if she knew I could morph, why bother trying to capture me alone?  If she didn’t know I could morph, why capture me at all?”

Rachel pauses for a second, looking between him and Eva.  «I don’t get it.  Why did she kidnap you, then?»

“Because she thinks I’m a controller.”  Marco raises his eyebrows.  “Which means she isn’t.”

«Marco’s logic does appear to be sound.»  Ax steps delicately forward.  «In that case, we apologize for inconveniencing you, Mrs. Marco’s Mom.»

Rachel sits back on her rump with a whuff of indignation.  

Eva climbs slowly to her feet.  She looks over at where Marco is awkwardly shifting out of the way so that Ax can cut him loose.  “Mijo,” she whispers, “who the hell told you that you were allowed to fight in a war?”

Marco stands up, stuffing his hands in his pockets.  “Does this mean I’m grounded?”

“Oh yes,” Eva says, pulling him into the tightest hug he’s had in his life.  “For the rest of existence.”

It finally happens less with a bang than with a whimper.  The mall downtown is expanding to a new wing, and the construction equipment encounters a sinkhole larger than any California has yet seen.  After a trackhoe breaks through to an underground cavern the size of a football stadium, the county immediately halts all activity and sends a team of archaeologists down to excavate what everyone is clearly expecting to be ancient ruins… and instead proves to be stranger than anyone imagined.

It is with no small sense of surreality that Cassie finds herself sitting on her couch with her parents to her left and Rachel to her right, watching on TV as scientists dissect a dracon beam while a Discovery Channel personality narrates the debate about lost civilizations and secret underground cities.

“I think it’s high time we gave them some answers,” Rachel says.  “Don’t you?”  Her tone is casual in a way that Cassie recognizes as an act, covering for some of the same nerves she’s feeling herself.

Cassie thinks of Toby, struggling to keep her colony alive and hidden.  Thinks of Tom, too-casual just like Rachel when saying “I’m not crazy, right?” five or six times.  Thinks of Ax swinging by twice a day, just to see if there’s anything she needs.  Thinks of Aftran, who — she hopes — would’ve wanted this.

And then she picks up the remote and turns off the TV.  “Mom.  Dad.”  She smiles in a way she hopes is reassuring.  “There’s something we have to tell you.”

[elfnerdherder]

Ill Intentions: Chapter 22

[Support my Patreon] [Read on Ao3]

A special thanks to my patrons: @sylarana @evertonem @jenacar @frostylicker @starlit-catastrophe @kenobi-is-king Mendacious Bean, Duhaunt6, Superlurk, and Cecily!

I don't have my computer with me, so this sadly won't have the cover art done by kenobi-is-king! Thank you all for your support in my writing, and I can't wait to pick up The Unquiet Grave after this!!

Also, due to this being posted on a Tumblr app on a chromebook whose internet won't load due to bad connection, it won't allow me to add the entire chapter. It ends about partway through, but until I'm back on the west coast I won't be able to load the rest of the chapter onto Tumblr! Sorry for the inconvenience!

Chapter 22: End Scene

When Tattler News released the ‘Special Edition’ of ‘Will Intentions’, Nicole pinned her copy to a corkboard much like Will’s. She’d already snuck into his apartment, taken photos, and recreated something of his workspace within her own office, to better step into the shoes of what his fans were calling ‘a vigilante move’. 

To partner with the Tattler News release, she’d also released a special post on her blog with a ‘tell all’ interview courtesy of Freddie Lounds, coworker and ‘close friend’ of Graham. She’d already received four more subscriptions, as well as twenty new messages in her inbox, thanking her for her hard work. 

I saved an image of the handkerchief! someone had commented. I’ll try to find one like it at the store. Maybe I’ll cosplay it. 

Lounds had asked to see the handkerchief Nicole had mentioned, but it was never revealed in person. The look on Lounds’ face when she was told ‘no’ made Nicole more than grateful she’d put a lock on her jewelry box before the reporter had shown up. 

As for her end of the bargain, she’d passed his manuscript along to her agent. Anything more, and she’d have her own story about uneasy trips to the FBI to tell her readers. 

- 

Abigail didn’t speak to Will until they were somewhere in Vancouver, BC. She spent most of the trip with her earphones in her ears and her head towards the window. Given the time, Will didn’t press her. It seemed she’d been playing a game with him for almost as long as he’d been playing a game with Hannibal. 

And yet, no; what game do you think you’re all playing? 

The border situation had been tricky, but the homeless man –Mike, Will kept having to remind himself –was more than true to his word at getting them across. Once across, it was the sort of drive done by someone who had a very important place to go with little time to get there. They stopped for gas and nothing else. The next couple of days was nothing but yoo-hoo’s and donuts, Will’s dreams bleeding into the waking hours of watching hill after hill of white pass by. Blankets of it draped along the interstate, but the plows had done their job. If their car appeared suspicious, no one stopped them. The more they kept to normal hours of traffic where it was difficult for cops to keep an eye out, the better. Hannibal remained in the backseat and only got out when absolutely necessary. 

“I’m not sorry for not telling you,” Abigail said by way of greeting. Will stood beside the passenger door, a cup of shitty gas station coffee in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. His watch had died somewhere just before the border. Since ditching his phone, he hadn’t felt the need to dig through his bag in order to charge the thing, seeing as how one without the other was somewhat of a moot point. 

He glanced to the black, blank screen, and he wondered why he was even still wearing it. He hadn’t thought about his steps since Hannibal’s office. Streak broken. He wasn’t sure if that meant something, and if it did mean something, he wasn’t ready to unbox it yet, much the same way he wasn’t quite ready to unbox that there was another person inside of his head that killed people so that he didn’t have to. 

“I didn’t tell you a lot of things,” he replied. 

“You didn’t call, either,” she said, and it took him probably longer than it should have for Will to realize she sounded almost hurt by it. He wasn’t quite focused; maybe the watch having a blank face was more of a problem to him than he thought. 

“If I’d known Hannibal had gotten to you first, I would have been…more forthcoming,” he admitted. When she didn’t speak, he took a drag from his cigarette and continued, “hell, when he was breaking into my apartment, you could have just let him in. I asked Beverly to house you because I didn’t want to make you a target of yet another serial killer.” 

“I didn’t actually get fired from Subway. I quit.” 

Will hummed in agreement. “Figured that an hour into the drive.” 

“I followed Beverly following you sometimes, too.” 

“We could have all carpooled if you two communicated better.” 

“You first,” Abigail shot back. 

That was fair. Will’s cheeks ballooned, and he blew air out slowly, counting back from ten. 

“Abigail,” he said, and the look she gave him made this so much harder. “You’re…not guilty of anything, really.” 

“Says the guy that called me ‘the knowing bait,’” she retorted. 

“No, I mean it…” he sighed and looked around the decrepit gas station pointedly. “I’m abetting a murderer.” Silence. He scowled and continued, “right now, you could walk away and not face any legal persecution should you go back to the states, whereas I would go to jail. That guy in there –” 

“The one you stabbed –” 

“I don’t remember stabbing –look, him too. The three of us would go to jail, but you wouldn’t.” 

His cigarette had burned too low; he let out a hiss when it singed his fingers, and he stubbed it out on the tire before tossing the butt of it in the trashcan by the pump. Too late, he saw the warning on the pump that said not to smoke while gassing up. Will glanced about, but there was no one to scold him on the dangers of such endeavors. There was only him and Abigail at the moment, and he’d have almost welcomed Hannibal coming to interrupt them. He could imagine how a psychiatrist would be a much better option for giving advice than he would. 

Abigail looked out past the cars parked just at the treeline, the expanse beyond it. Her expression was difficult to read, a mix of something pained and something hopeful. 

“I don’t have anything else,” she said, and when she looked back to him, she smiled. In that moment, he’d have called it genuine. “I told you before, I’m looking for closure. Since that’s all that seems to matter to me at this point, I’ll stick around until I find it.” 

Will sucked air in sharply, frowning. “The consequences –” 

“I know how to juggle consequences. I can weigh the risk of pros and cons.” 

Given how long she lived under the roof of the Minnesota Shrike, he believed her. When it was time to go, they climbed back into a beat-up Tahoe they’d swapped somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and she made a point to lay her head in Will’s lap, much like she had back at the apartment.  

Much later, Will would find a polaroid of the scene tucked into his jacket pocket, the colors washed out and faded but still good. He tucked it into his shirt pocket, to preserve the color. 

- 

“I’m just outside of Tattler News, Jerry, and here we’ve got not only fans of the paper demanding answers, we’ve got some of Will Graham’s ‘avid fans’ here with signs! Just this past evening, as we know, Will Graham’s apartment was invaded by the FBI, boxes upon boxes removed from the scene as they attempt to glean over anything they can in order to find both him, as well as the Chesapeake Ripper. So far, there is no information revealed as to whether or not they have any solid leads to their whereabouts.” 

“Now, I know we’re dealing with the Chesapeake Ripper, Chet, but I think what’s interesting are the avid fans of Graham’s you’ve got gathered around you!” 

“Yes, these people aren’t here for news on the Ripper, they’re actually here for Will Graham. You can hear some of them in the back, chanting –you can hear it, can’t you?” 

“Yes, of course!” 

“They’re upset that the suspect in the disappearance of Hannibal Lecter –” 

[Continue on Ao3]

[curious-kat]

Tea and Travel

A fic I wrote for Yuri on Ice!! Inspired by my own winter travel woes.  Read it on ao3 here

An unexpected snowstorm has grounded all flights out of St. Petersburg. This is a problem because Viktor and the Yuris have a Grand Prix Final they need to get themselves to. Why didn't they fly out earlier? Well you can blame Viktor for that...

Snow was falling in St. Petersburg.  Yuuri watched it soften the edges of buildings and fill the streets.  He sighed, breath fogging the windowpane, and turned to his fiancé.  

“Will we still make it out in time, do you think? …Viktor?”

“Sorry,” Viktor said as he looked up from his phone.  “Reading the weather reports.  This is much more snow than they expected, and a lot of flights have been delayed.” He stood up and went to Yuuri at the window, wrapping an arm around his waist. The other man leaned into him and let out a pent up breath.  Viktor whistled slightly at the rapidly whitening landscape.  

“It doesn’t look like it’s planning to stop anytime soon does it?  We really might not be able to leave today.”

“How are you so calm about this? We have to be halfway across the world for the Grand Prix Final tomorrow. Tomorrow, Viktor!”

“This is winter in St. Petersburg, Yuuri.  These things happen.”  Viktor began to rub soothing circles on his fiancé’s back.  He was rewarded with a slight relaxation of Yuuri’s tensed shoulders.  In an undertone he said, “Though you were right, we should have left early with Yakov and the junior skaters.”

Yuuri huffed a laugh.  “What was your argument for staying? Something about practicing longer in familiar territory?”

“Well, I thought it would be less nerve-wracking.”  He grinned at Yuuri’s expression of mock outrage. “I know, I know, but look, this storm was not supposed to be anything major.”  Outside snow continued to fall in heavy clumps, slowly obliterating the city. A gust of wind rattled the windows and dislodged a shower of snow from the balcony above.  Yuuri shivered violently and buried himself in Viktor’s chest.

“We’re actually going to be late and miss the final Vitya. Vitya, we could really fail because of the damn weather.  That could happen. To us.  After everything we’ve been though.”  All this came out in a muffled torrent while Viktor made soothing noises and held his fiancé as tightly as he could.  He didn’t know any better way to get Yuri through his panic.  

Out of nowhere the buzzer rang.  Yuri jumped and narrowly avoided hitting his head on Viktor’s chin. Viktor for his part rushed to the door and answered the call.

“Da? Who is this?”

“It’s me, let me in.”

“Yurio! Yes come right up.”  A minute later the door opened to admit an irate teenager.  Yuri Plitsetsky stomped snow off his boots and dropped a suitcase and skating bag on the apartment floor.  

“But Yurio, what are you doing here now?  Our flight’s not supposed to leave until later today!” Viktor said as he took Yuri’s coat.  

“Yeah, well have you looked outside? I was afraid if I didn’t get over here now I would never make it and be stuck in Yakov’s house forever. As it was I nearly died!”  He shook snow out of his hair and glared at them. “It’s your damn fault we’re still here at all and not happily in Canada!  Why did I let you convince me to stay late?”  He said the last mostly to himself.  Yuuri and Viktor exchanged a glance.  

“Since you’re here, do you want a cup of tea?” Facing only a further glare, Yuuri shrugged at him.  “What else is there to do?  It – it’s not like we can fly out anytime soon.”  After Yuri’s grunted assent, the Japanese man went to put on hot water, hiding his shaky breathing in the ritual.  Viktor brushed a hand against his shoulder in passing.

Ignoring them, Yuri threw himself down on the couch.  He disturbed Makkachin, who shifted from her customary napping spot to sniff at him.  He patted the top of her head and she whuffled appreciatively before settling back down to sleep on Yuri’s feet. 

“Spasibo,” he muttered distractedly when Yuuri handed him a cup of green tea.  What felt to Yuri like hours passed in a haze of suppressed tension.  Viktor took his own mug of tea and curled up in a chair to browse the internet.  Yuuri alternated between sitting on the floor by Viktor’s chair and pacing around the living room.  During one such interlude, Viktor got up to intercept his fiancé and wound up going onto their balcony to brave the outside.  He returned after less than a minute with flushed cheeks and hair swept even more over his eyes than usual.

“Yeah, that’s a storm all right,” he said at Yuuri’s concerned look, pushing snow-covered silver hair out of his face.

“Told you.” called Yuri before Yuuri could respond.  “The bus almost slid into the shelter at the stop and there were like seven cars stuck on the road.”

When twenty minutes later Viktor looked up from his laptop to announce that their flight was cancelled it came as no surprise. The storm had been steadily worsening all morning.  

“The airport is completely closed down from what I can tell.”

“I think the whole city is closed.  Look Yurio, nothing is moving on the street at all.”

Yuri raised himself up on his elbows long enough to say, “Uh-huh, no one is stupid enough to go out in that mess. I’ll be stuck with you idiots forever.”  He laid down and stretched to take up the entire couch, Makkachin having long since abandoned him for Viktor.  Partway through extending his legs, Yuri twisted suddenly to face his compatriot. Viktor raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Hey what happens if we do miss the competition?  We’re half the competitors, they couldn’t hold it without us, could they?”  Yuri was watching Viktor with an intensity that belied the causal tone of his question.  Viktor looked and saw an identical anxious expression on his fiancé’s face.  

“Well,” he paused.  

“What?”

“They can’t reschedule the events because the television programming is set.  They might let us skate the short programs at a different time, but they could also make us compete without them.”  Yuuri took a deep breath, making Viktor worry that he might break down again.  Instead, he had helpful advice.

“We should call Yakov.  We should have done that hours ago now I think about it.”

“Of course!”  Viktor pressed a palm to his forehead.  “I can also talk to the event organizers and explain –,”

Yuuri cut him off.  “I’ll call the ISU, you need to call the airline and try to get us a new flight.  My Russian isn’t good enough for that.”

“Right. Yurio, you call Yakov then. Tell him we’re stuck here. Blame me if you need to.”

Yuri sat up. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”  He flicked on his phone and pulled up Yakov’s number.  Viktor studied his laptop screen for a moment then walked into the hallway, dialing the airline.  A stream of Russian issued from the bedroom.  Plugging one ear to block that and the sound of Yuuri identifying himself to an ICU official from the kitchen, Yuri waited for Yakov to pick up.

“Yura! Have you left St. Petersburg yet?”

“Uh. No. There’s this huge storm.”

“What storm? What do you mean?  When will you get to Toronto?”  Yakov’s voice was getting progressively louder, never a good sign.

“It’s a snowstorm.  Everything is closed down and the flights are all cancelled. I nearly died getting to Viktorandyuuri’s house, it was horrible.”

“You – what? You’re with them?  Are you going to get here on time?”  Yuri by now was holding the phone four centimeters away from his ear.  Hearing Yakov, Makkachin barked excitedly.  Yuuri reached down to take the phone, stroking Makka with his free hand.  

“Yakov, hello.”

“Someone with sense, finally! What is going on?”

“A blizzard has shut down everything, like Yuri said. Vitya’s on hold with the airline trying to get us on a new flight but I don’t think anything will leave until it stops snowing.”

“And that will be…”

“Since it has snowed all day without slowing down I have no idea.  I talked to the ICU about what to do if we’re late but ­­–,”

“I will talk to them too.  Surely they would not compete without the three of you there.”

“Oh – well. I hope so. We’ll do our best to get ourselves out of here.”

“You’d better.  And tell Vitya I said that.”

Yuuri handed the phone back, saying, “Here, Yuri.”  He went to check on Viktor, followed by Makkachin wanting to be petted.

“Yuratchka?”

“Uhnm.”

“Did you lock my house when you left?”

“Yes, Yakov.”

“And you packed all your gear?”

“Yes, Yakov.”

“Yuratchka, it will be all right.  You’ll get here.”

“Uhnh.”  After a telling silence from his coach, he added, “Yes, I will!” with a passable attempt at enthusiasm.  

“That’s my boy!  I’ll see you soon.”

“’Bye.” Yuri exhaled as he set his phone down.  He got up and went to glare out at the storm standing between him and a second Grand Prix Final gold.  Japanese Yuuri had been right. Nothing was moving except the relentless fall of snowflakes, swirling in the occasional gust of wind.   As he watched the storm picked up, heavy snow blocking everything except the balcony from view.  He crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders against an imagined chill.  Coming from nowhere, Makkachin bounded between him and the window and put her paws on his chest.  

“Agh! Gettoff!”  Yuri flailed frantically to keep the dog from licking his face.  The older Yuuri started to laugh.  Finally, he called Makka over to him and gave her a rough hug.  

“You daft dog you, don’t bother Yurio you know he’s a cat person!”

“Huh. Damn right I am.” Yuri glared at Makkachin, who woofed happily.  Still laughing, Yuuri stood up.

“Hey, um, do want more tea? Or we have hot chocolate. Coffee too but I don’t think you should drink that this late in the day...”  The Russian just frowned at the storm, so Yuuri continued, “Come on, have something.”

“Hot chocolate sounds good, I guess.”  

“Great!”  They sat at the table, mugs of steaming liquid cradled in their hands.  Both avoided looking at the storm.  

“Yuuri?”

“Hm?”  Yuuri tore his gaze away from the window yet again to focus on the teenager.

“You seem so calm about all this.  Why aren’t you more nervous?”

“We’ll either get there or we won’t, so no use worrying. Is what I’ve told myself at least fifty times today.  I don’t think it’s helping much actually.”  He tightened his grip on the mug.

“So… you’re not calm.”

“Not even a little bit.”  

“But, you aren’t like, freaking out.  You just keep making tea.”  Yuri shoved hair out of his eyes, staring at the man across from him.

“Making tea is how everyone in my family copes with stress, Yuri.” Yuuri shook his head to clear fog off his glasses. “I think I’m just too tired now to flip out.  Or something.”  A burst of angry Russian from the bedroom interrupted them.  Yuuri smiled wryly as he said, “Sounds like Vitya’s making progress with the airline.”  

They sat in silence for a few minutes.  Makkachin put her head in Yuuri’s lap and he stroked her absently.  Yuri thought about his cat and blinked hurriedly to disguise tears.  He took another sip of chocolate and felt steadier. His phone buzzed.

“Oh, it’s Mila!”  He slid his finger across the screen to accept her call.

“Hi, Mila!”  Yuri mustered a smile for the grinning redhead.

“Yura! Yakov said you all were stuck in St. Petersburg!”

“Yeah.”  

“Show her the blizzard,” said Yuuri, who had looked up.

“Oh, right.  Here.” Yuri walked over to the window and pointed his phone out into the whirling snow.

“Shit, that’s quite a storm!”

“I know! I’m going to be trapped in this apartment forever! Storm’ll probably bury the building before it’s done.”

“Now Yura, don’t be melodramatic. Is that Yuuri behind you? Hi Yuuri!”

“Hey Mila.”

“And Makkachin too?”

“Yep!”  They both laughed as Makkachin stood on Yuuri’s knees to peer at the phone. Viktor walked in, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, I did what I could and we’re on standby for the next flight that goes out, which is tomorrow morning.”  He bent down to scratch Makkachin’s ears.

“Mila’s on the phone,” said Yuuri.

“Hi Mila! How are you? Is this coffee?” he added, picking up Yuuri’s mug.

“No, it’s hot choc–,”

“Hot chocolate, right,” Viktor muttered as he took a sip. He handed the mug back to Yuuri and went to boil water for coffee.  While Mila told them about her day in Toronto, Yuri walked around the table and flopped into his chair.

“Everyone’s asking about you,” Mila said.  “Even the press grilled Yakov about it.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I don’t think there’s much we can do,” said Viktor.  

“One thing’s for sure:  we won’t get any paparazzi here,” said Yuuri.

“Hah, yeah. No one can get at us through this.”  Yuri waved the hand holding his phone at the window, causing Mila to exclaim. “Sorry.”  He brought his arm down.  

The lights flickered once, then went out.  They stared at each other in the sudden darkness, hearing the howl of the wind clearly over the lack of noise from the appliances.

“What happened?” said Mila into the oppressive quiet.

Viktor said, “Our power went out.  Yuri, you should probably save your phone battery in case it doesn’t come back.”

“Um, right.  Sorry Mila.”

“No, no it’s fine.  Talk to you later!”

“Bye. Thanks for calling.”  

Viktor’s teapot whistled, startling all of them.  He took it off the burner.  “At least we have a gas stove and can still cook.”

“Yeah… why is it so dark outside? It’s only like 3 in the afternoon!”  Yuuri had gone over to the window and was fiddling with the blinds.

“We’re far north.  There’s only a few hours on daylight in the winter even on nice days.”

“I’m still not used to it.  Whose idea was it to build a city here anyway?”

“Peter the Great,” muttered Yuri.  He went to turn on his phone, then checked himself.  “Now what do we do?” he asked of the room in general. Viktor poured himself a cup of coffee and sat next to his fiancé.

“I’m going to drink this coffee and then probably take a nap.”  Yuuri scooted his chair over and leaned his head on Viktor’s shoulder.

“Your caffeine tolerance is ridiculous Vitya,” Yuuri yawned. “You don’t even notice the inherent contradiction in that sentence.”

“What?  It’s only a cup.”  Viktor twined their hands together, Yuuri’s ring glinting in the scant light.  He planted a kiss on Yuuri’s head.  Seeing the Russian Yuri roll his eyes, Viktor said, “There are candles in the living room if you want to light them.  Matches should be in the drawer by the sink.” Grumbling, Yuri got up and brought candles into kitchen.  The flare of the first match threw deep shadows on their faces.  Soon the room was suffused with warm flickering light. Yuuri sighed, still leaning on Viktor.

“Should we figure out what we’re doing for dinner?”

Yuri straightened up. “Can we make pirozhki?”

“Sure.  Oh no wait, we can’t use the oven.”

“It’s perfectly possible to light the oven without power,” said Viktor. “All you have to do is stick you head in there while the gas is on and find the pilot light with a match.”  They looked at the shadow-shrouded oven.  

“I could do a stir-fry.” said Yuuri after a moment. “There’s rice.  Do we have any decent vegetables?”

“Some frozen maybe, I mostly cleaned out the fridge since I naively assumed we would be leaving on a trip.”  Viktor downed the last of his coffee and he and Yuuri got up to rummage in the freezer for food.  Yuri sank his chin in his hands and stared at a candle flame, mesmerized.  A few minutes later they had some chicken thawing in the sink and Yuuri was clearing the counters in preparation for cooking.  He looked up as someone knocked sharply on the door.  Viktor walked over to answer it, picking up a candlestick as he did so to bring light into the shadowed entryway.  

“Hello Vitya!”

“Irina! Come in, come in.”  He swung the door wide to admit a middle-aged women draped in a robe over her clothes.  

“Your power is out too, then?” asked Viktor, gesturing to the flashlight in her hand.

“Yes, I think the whole block must be.  At least the street light outside my window is dark.  Though that might just be the snow covering it.”

“You remember Yuri Plisetsky?  From the rink?  Yuri this is our neighbor across the hall.”  Yuri raised his head long enough to say “Hi” before pillowing it on his arms again.  Irina chuckled.

“I remember him, we’ve met before.”  Makkachin had bounded over to investigate the visitor, and Irina scratched her ears, murmuring a greeting.  At Viktor’s invitation she sat down at the table and accepted Yuuri’s offer of tea.  He put a kettle on and successfully lit the burner with a match on his second try, forestalling Viktor’s motion to help.  

Irina said, “I just dropped by to check on Makkachin, in case you had somehow managed to fly out as scheduled.”

“Well thank you for thinking of it.  We’re not going to leave until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“Ah, I thought as much.  I’ll come back then to take her on her walk.  Won’t I?”  she addressed to the dog, patting her.

“I do appreciate it.  And Makka likes seeing you too.”  They chatted as Irina drank her tea.  Even Yuri was drawn in when she asked him about his grandfather’s pirozhki recipe, which she’d gotten to sample once.  Viktor was replacing one of the smaller candles which had burned down when she rose to leave.

“Won’t you stay for dinner?” asked Yuuri.  “I’m making a stir-fry.”

“Oh no thank you, I have a pot of shchii on the stove at home. Thanks much for the tea and company.”

“Of course, anytime!  And thanks again for checking in,” said Viktor as he led her to the door. Yuri slouched over to the couch and curled up under a blanket while the older Yuuri started cooking.  Viktor took Makkachin out for her walk, bundling himself up under several layers of coats and scarves.  As a final touch he added a fur hat.  

“Wish me luck!” he called he and Makkachin left.

“Don’t freeze,” said Yuri through his blanket.  Within ten minutes they were back, both lightly dusted with snow and Viktor with flushed cheeks.  

“It’s still snowing, but coming down more slowly,” Viktor reported, dodging Makkachin as she shook herself and sent snow flying everywhere.  “And not too cold, except when the wind blows.”  He hung up his last coat and sat down at the table.  Yuuri handed him a cup of coffee, leaning down for a quick kiss as he did so.

“Ooh, your lips are freezing,” he said. Viktor beamed up at him.

“Yours are so warm.”  The pan on the stove sizzled, breaking the moment.  Yuuri jumped to check on it.  He brought the pan over to the table, holding it next to one of the candles.

“What are you doing?”  Viktor asked, his voice betraying a laugh.

“I can’t tell if the onions are cooked or not, it’s so dark by the stove.”  Yuuri sniffed the pan.  “No, I think they need more time.”  Out of the corner of his eye he caught Viktor smiling at him with a warmth that erased the chill in the room.  Yuuri grinned to himself as he added giner to the pan.  Eventually Yuuri declared his stir fry cooked enough and set the table for dinner.  The three of them huddled in the circle of candlelight, passing food back and forth at constant risk of setting their sleeves on fire.  Yuri said almost nothing but had three helpings, plus some chicken he let Makkachin steal.  Viktor and his fiancé spoke softly.  

As they were finishing, Viktor held up his hand and said, “Listen.”  The wind had picked up and was whistling with an eerie tone.  As its undulating howl filled the room, Yuri buried his head in his arms.  

“Make it stop,” he said softly.  Viktor put a hand on his shoulder but Yuri shrugged him off. Yuuri hesitated, then got a blanket off the couch and draped it over the teenager.  He gave Yuri a half hug and raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise when Yuri accepted it.  He and Viktor slowly cleared the dishes.  When Viktor went to sit in the living room, Yuri followed him and curled up on the couch. Makkachin joined him there and stuck her nose in his face.  He put an arm around her.  Yuuri returned from the bedroom carrying his laptop.  

“Do we want to watch a movie or something?  This has a lot of battery left.”

“Sure. Yura?”

“Mmphh.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”  Yuuri pulled up an old favorite and set his laptop on the coffee table.  Viktor collected pillows and sat on the floor in front of the couch with his fiancé.  Yuuri leaned back and let the sound of his native language wash over him. Russian Yuri sat forward to peer at the subtitles.  

“I like this girl.” he announced.  “She has more sense than her parents.”  Yuuri chuckled. They passed a few hours like that, curled together against the darkness. When the movie ended Viktor shifted and sat up. He looked at Yuri, illuminated in the light from the laptop screen.  The teenager’s eyes were closed.  He nudged his fiancé.              “I think he’s asleep,” Viktor said under his breath.

“’M not.” Yuri curled himself more tightly.  Grinning at each other, Viktor and Yuuri gathered up their blankets and put them away.  Yuri roused enough to let Viktor make him a bed on the couch with extra pillows and blankets.  

“You know,” said Yuuri, who was peering out the window, “It might have stopped snowing.”  Viktor opened the balcony door and stuck his arm out, palm up.  

“Yeah, it has,” he said.

“Yay,” Yuri cheered weakly.  “Death to the storm from hell.”  

“Hear, hear,” said Viktor.  He hugged his fiancé, who pressed their foreheads together and breathed deep.  Yuri dragged himself over to his suitcase and pulled out a toothbrush and toothpaste. He dug through the rest of it in increasing desperation.

“Damn,” he said, “I forgot to bring a nightshirt.”

“You can borrow one of my t-shirts,” said Viktor. “It’ll be long on you.”

Yuri growled. Then he sighed. “Fine.”  A minute later he added, “I am taller you know.”

“Still not as tall as me,” said Viktor as he tossed Yuri an oversized t-shirt.  Yuri got himself ready for bed, only bumping the counter a few times in the dark unfamiliar bathroom.  He stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes.  Viktor washed dishes as quietly as possible in the kitchen.  He blew out all the candles, murmuring “Good night,” as he extinguished the one on the coffee table.  Viktor retreated to the bedroom.

It was not a particularly restful night for anyone.  Yuri struggled to get comfortable on the couch.   Viktor held Yuuri close to him, but the Japanese man was tense and couldn’t relax enough to sleep.  At 2 am, the power came back.  The sudden flare of light brought Yuri awake yelling.  He fell off the couch in a tangle of blankets, summoning Viktor who ran in with an arm shielding his eyes from the glare.

“Here,” he helped Yuri back into bed and went around turning off all the lights.  

“Viktor?”

“Try and get some sleep Yura, we leave in about four hours.” Viktor patted Makkachin, who had chosen to stay with Yuri and was getting herself re-oriented.  Smothering a huge yawn, Viktor staggered back to his own bed.  Storm from hell, indeed.