#no wonder the grid basically are done when they open their mouth to talk about each other

[bangtanlalaland]

falcon | jjk 01 (m.)

synopsis ⇣ Jungkook Jeon, known as “Falcon,” unites with his best friend to rebel against the twisted, dominant system of the city, Python, until everything changes when he crosses paths with one of many enemies.

— dystopia au; enemies to lovers au

⇢pairing: free runner!jeon jungkook x detective!female reader    ⇢featuring: free runner!park jimin, free runner!kim namjoon, free runner!min yoongi & police captain!jung hoseok

⇢genre: angst, fluff, smut

⇢word count: 12.2k

⇢contents ⨯ warnings: (this fic is totally inspired by mirror’s edge), there’s isn’t any smut in this chapter (but there will be in future chapters), slow burn, some fluff in there, so much dialogue (it’s literally a MOVIE), some violence, some blood, some death, swearing lots of action (oops), fighting, free-running, lots & lots of drama (srsly get your popcorn ready), mentions of premonitions, major plot twists, infidelity (sorta?), mentions of sex, some sope action (yes i said it), namgi is also a thing (oop), basically jungkook is a rebel & proud, jimin is very clever (like woah), namjoon is a leader & sweetheart (as always), yoongi is a bad guy (¿woahhh did we expect that?) hoseok is a fuckboi (i’m sorry ugh :(((), also viper in this story is actually taehyung (oop), police stuff (duh), lots of bi stuff going on here, (much love for the lgbtq community)

artwork poster by: @hellenys​​

song rec: “falcon” by jaden smith

a/n: woah! so this is yet another wip that I’ve had for so long. I’ve made the decision to make this a series! (or maybe a two-shot) still not 100% sure yet, but I am honestly beyond relieved to finally release this. also a huge thank you to @hellenys​ for the artwork! I was actually inspired to start writing falcon after seeing her work. (specifically the photo above^) so you guys go check her out, her artwork is amazing!

Smack.

The sound of your boss dropping a chunky stack full of vanilla colored folders onto your desk, in your cubicle, startles your attention from sipping your now third afternoon dose of coffee. You swear he has been on your ass ever since you stepped foot into the clouded atmosphere of the police department. You were convinced you’re in Hell. Literally.

He eagerly spills, “These missing persons reports aren’t going to solve themselves. I can’t even step out for a $5 burger at that fast food shit place down the street without the press breathing down my neck about the citizens’ missing loved ones.”

You sigh for what has been the one thousandth time today so far. Going on one thousand-one. This city has been getting worse as the days go by, missing persons reports dating as far as 10 years back, maybe more if you really dig deep in there. Runners scatter the rooftops of the city, yet you and your entire team were left with zero leads. And your boss was right; the press was constantly nagging like a toddler at the age of two. Yet you and your tiny team were responsible for getting hands dirty and finding answers. And here he goes yet again…

“Contact the victims families. See if there’s any new information they could give us. Just in case. Over time, victims may remember details they happened to leave out- ” The phone for the department rings on your desk, and you hold your index finger up as if to politely ask your boss to shut his damn mouth so you can answer the phone.

“Python Police Department.” Your face grows concerned, mouthing to your boss: “Missing Person.” He throws his hands up and shakes his head in response, waiting for your departure from the phone. The elderly woman seemed borderline upset, but mostly depressed. As if all the life that was once in her was drained completely. After reassuring you will find answers, you hang up and turn to face your boss.

“It was a lady named Mrs. Jeon. She wants to follow up on the case for her son. Jungkook?” You say, more so as a question rather than a statement, in hopes that you pronounced his name correctly. Your boss nods in approval, clearly knowledgeable of who you’re talking about.

“Yeah she calls here at least one or twice a week saying the same thing over and over again,” he pauses momentarily then starts, “I remember that kid. He was in high school when his mother reported him missing,” he continues while shaking his head.

“I’ll never forget the day dispatch called me out there to see what was going on. This was back in my rookie detective days. At first I thought maybe he’s just playing hooky. Happens all the time, right?” You nod in agreement. You’d heard of his name before but never looked into it, considering you’d just been promoted 4 months ago. And for the first month, you’d only been sent to canvas witnesses. Although sadly, Jungkook is simply one among hundreds if not thousands of cases that have gone cold.

He continues, “But then, we checked the grid and his chip was gone. We didn’t get any alerts about its removal, so it was definitely shocking.”

“That doesn’t make sense. What do you mean it was gone?” You ask with crossed arms.

“Well, more like the grid showed that the chips’ location was his home. Obviously, he isn’t home and we searched the house. No chip.” He pauses for a moment as if processing what he’s about to say, “Someway, somehow, he removed himself from the grid. But, he wasn’t the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I reassured Mrs. Jeon that if he didn’t show up in two days then we could file a missing persons report. She insisted that something was wrong and didn’t want to wait two days. But she had no other choice, and so she filed the report and days turned into weeks, months, and years.”

“How long?” You question.

With a sigh he replies, “Five.”

“No wonder she’s calling.”

“I know. But that’s the weirdest thing about it. As I mentioned, Jungkook wasn’t the only one with a missing chip.” He reassures with a sigh of what you assume is exhaustion.

“And?”

Your boss squints his eyes, as if he’s thinking.

“Follow me.”

He leads you to the “Cold Cases” room. It looks almost like a library, but instead of children books it’s several cases from murders to runaways — where endless amounts of evidence, files, reports, and other tangible items are stored. He scrambles through a pull out drawer of folders labeled and sectioned off in alphabetical order. He then pulls out a vanilla folder, and opens the file, revealing a photo of a young teen with dark, brown hair and plump, pink lips.

“Mrs. Park. Mother of Jimin Park. She filed a missing persons report the same day Mrs. Jeon did. They actually came together. And apparently they live on the same street.” He states while exiting the room and striding you into his office.

You inquire, trying to catch up to his quick pace. “So what are you implying?”

“I think…” he trails off, placing the folder on top of his desk and flopping into his office seat. “Jungkook and Jimin decided to drop out of school and run away in the sunset together.”

“And why would you assume that?”

“Well, let’s talk about the runners that run the rooftops. I know you’re still trying to get the hang of things, but there’s a pattern with this.”

“Okay?” You more-so question, rather than stating.

“First things first. Their chips. Runners always remove them, except we get alerts when done so.” He pauses. Of course you’re aware of the misdemeanor charge for that, right?” You nod in a “yes” gesture.

“Good. So, first they remove the chips. Second, they completely vanish. No one sees them for good and has no knowledge of where they are. It’s like they never existed, right? Families, friends, co-workers or whoever they know don’t see them anymore.”

You nod again, catching along. “Mmhmm.”

“Then, a missing persons report is filed. Either by a relative or a close friend. With that being said, it only makes sense that Jungkook and Jimin would be close together at least. I mean surely if Mrs. Park filed a report with Mrs. Jeon then couldn’t they both have known each other? Or at least had some knowledge of the relationship their sons had with one another? And again, the chips. Surely, they were in this together, and there’s not one part of me that doubts it.”

You take a deep sigh, soaking this information in, “Makes sense.”

“Look,” he says, while moving closer to you, stuffing his hands in his pockets. You gaze upon him, admiring the beauty mark on the left side of his top lip. His chocolate waves crown his face.

“What I’m trying to say is- If you find one of them, chances are you’ll find the other. Just… please be careful, ____. If these guys can suddenly vanish off the grid without a trace, who knows what else they’re capable of?”

Meanwhile, Jimin barges into a hideout on a rooftop (now part of an abandoned building) far into the city, but enough distance from prying eyes. He’s panting, out of breath, sweating and bent over as he removes his earpiece, swiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. He runs his fingers through his jet, black strands. The sun slightly scorched his once pale cheeks, resulting in a rosy, pink shade.

“Fuck!”

Namjoon removes his headset and arises from his seat in the area that he and his mates have labelled as “coms,” having hacked into the city’s surveillance system.

“Good job, Phoenix. Water?” He asks, while offering Jimin a sip of his bottled water, before downing it completely.

“Fuck, no. I almost fucking died!” Jimin replies, still panting.

“Relax. You’re alive, aren’t you?” Namjoon retorts nonchalantly.

He crushes his plastic bottle and lunges it toward Jungkooks slumped figure over the couch nearby. He grunts in response, jerking up in his sleep. Being on the run for the past 5 years has only caused him to be as alert as a hawk.

“You’re up next, Falcon.” Jungkook shakes his head, gaining consciousness of his surroundings again. His black tank top and white nylon sweats having stuck to his form. His milk, chocolate strands blanket his face as he sits up, rubbing his eyes. The faint sunlight helps to awaken him from his slumber, as he covers his eyes to adjust to the sunrays. Jimin, who now has gained his breath back, flings his earpiece at Jungkook.

“Blue lights are heavy today. Watch your ass, huh?” With that, Jungkook stretches upward while placing the earpiece on. On his way towards the tiny kitchen area, Namjoon keys into the channel.

“Thunderbird for Falcon.” Jungkook gulps his banana milk and returns the carton to its place in the fridge. Wiping his mouth to rid the milk residue, he responds, “Go for Falcon.”

“I’m sure you probably don’t want to hear this. But it’s time for a test run.”

Jungkook is silent, yet internally screaming. He hates test runs. Who doesn’t though?

“I know what you’re thinking. I’ve told you before that one time won’t count. But, I need to calculate your momentum, and it helps tremendously to compare to your previous test runs.” Jungkook wasn’t worried about speed, but more so about his body. The last time he’d done a test run, he had completely passed out from overworking his body. Namjoon couldn’t leave the hideout, given that blue lights were everywhere and he didn’t want to risk not having anyone watching over the place. Luckily Jimin was already out for a run, and decided to take a detour to rescue his best friend. But, Jungkook does not like to fail. In fact, he despises it. He’s afraid that he’d fail. Again. He takes a deep breath.

“I know you can do it. The advantage now is that you actually got rest.” Jungkook couldn’t help but nod in agreement. He knew the last time he was going non-stop and being the stubborn bunny he is, Namjoon warned him more than once that he’d burnout sooner or later. But that’s the conflict with Jungkook. He grew complacent of being on the run constantly. It’s his life now; he hates the society he lives in and refuses to live according to the systems’ standards.

“Copy that, Thunderbird.” Jungkook responds, his arms and hands flexing, veins popping, as he slips on his neon red fingerless gloves. He pulls the straps of his black mask over and behind his ears — completely concealing most of his face.

Namjoon smiles in response, “That’s what I like to hear! Let’s bring that energy to the test, Falcon.”

Back at the station, you step out of your formal addression towards your boss and slip, “Hobi, I’ll be fine.”

“I know, I just can’t see myself losing you. You know how much you mean to me, right?” He asks, while reaching his hand towards your cheek with the intent to caress you but your reflexes immediately catch on, and you turn the opposite direction while muttering under your breath, “You know that we can’t-”

“I know. Sorry.”

A brief moment of silence shares the space between you both. Hoseok Jung, or as your recent pet name for him: Hobi, is not only the police captain of the Python Police Department, but currently your main squeeze as well. At least, that’s what you’d like to think. You can’t quite pinpoint what “this” with him is, given that neither of you made it official yet or set any boundaries. Which resulted in this continuous cycle of confusion on where you stand in this said “situationship.” But you don’t probe him, instead you just go with the flow and see where things lead. The only major conflict is that no one at the station should know about your doings. Or else there would be major consequences to face. You suppose that’s why Hoseok is the way he is with you. Maybe you’re nothing but a fling to him. Although some of the things he says deem otherwise.

“Last I heard, his street name is Falcon.” Hoseok skims through a folder on his desk that contains numerous papers, all to what you assumed held important information, then he pulls one out.

“I have a list of coordinates for locations where security cameras are installed and picked up high runner activity. Check those out and see if there are any leads. If no luck, go out and canvas witnesses on the street.” You nod in agreement, gathering your belongings to head on your way when suddenly you feel Hoseok’s grasp on your wrist. You immediately turn your gaze towards him, eyes blown wide as saucers.

“Please, be careful. Call me when you make it to the first and last location.” You eye his grip on you and snatch away quickly, regaining your composure.

“I will,” you respond, while slipping out of his office to leave the building.

On the rooftops, Jungkook gets into position. Staring ahead of himself, he takes a deep breath, awaiting Namjoon’s marker. A tiny droplet of sweat drips down the right side of his face, trailing down to his neck.

“On your mark. Ready.” Jungkook takes another deep breath. The sun suddenly becomes beyond its warm state, at this point, it’s scorching. His palms are damp. The black of his tee absorbs the city’s heat.

“Set.”

His mind goes racing in a million different ways. It was strange that at this moment, his mother crosses his mind. He wondered if she was okay. But, he couldn’t risk seeing her. Exposing himself. Then blue lights would find out, and   he’d be done. For good.

No, can’t risk it. No matter how much it hurts.

Since the age of 18, Jungkook called the rooftops his home. Some part of him felt selfish for only thinking of himself and leaving his mother behind. But he knew she would only scold him for rebelling against the system. Therefore, it was imperative that he left. For months, he and Jimin elaborated an escape — consistently backtracking and fixing any errors in their plan.

Unfortunately, plans don’t always go as planned and being just a couple of high school kids, Jungkook and Jimin hadn’t fully thought out the whole “where would we bunk” deal. But, all changed when they reached the rooftops. Although the first two years were literal Hell. Probably part of the reason Jungkook had become too exhausted at the end of it all. It was horrid to run non-stop, stability not being an option. Jungkook and Jimin had several quarrels with other runners. It became a cycle that Jungkook grew weary of:

Getting accepted into a hideout → Developing trust with other runners → Everything feels comfortable now →  Someone does something to show their true colors (Runners are out to get each other, despite the consequences. Whether the reward is for money, power, or maybe even freedom) → Jungkook and Jimin realize they can’t trust other runners → In conclusion, they flee → The process repeats

That is, until they met Namjoon. At first, he resisted. He previously had one roommate before that betrayed him, just as other runners betrayed Jimin and Jungkook. He thinks of him sometimes, and he’ll never forget his name. Yoongi Min, who goes by Firebird. Blue lights offered Yoongi a deal: to persuade Namjoon into a trap, at a disclosed location, in return for clearing his own name of all criminal records — freedom. Yoongi had been Namjoon’s roommate for four years, eventually growing close and becoming trustworthy of one another. Even coining each other’s names together, as a team. He always thought he’d take over the city of Python with Yoongi. Thus, that’s why Namjoon took Jungkook and Jimin in; because he saw them as himself and Yoongi, knowing that he would have wanted someone else to do the same for him and his once good friend.

“Go.” And with that, Jungkook powers forward leading with one goal in mind: Fast.

“I want you to head straight as far as you can. Got it?”

“Copy,” Jungkook slips. He starts at a steady pace, sliding under pipes connected to cooling fan systems, and vaulting over fences being sure to avoid high voltage ones. However, his velocity decreases when doing so. Namjoon takes note of that.

“Try to keep a linear direction as much as possible. Jump to the next building, using the metal pipe as a pole.”

Jungkook makes an estimate on how fast he should run to land onto the pole that’s adjacent to the rooftop of the building he’s currently on. He backs away about two meters and plants his feet on the ground, getting into position. His body exerts force and within seconds, Jungkook leaps from the rooftop. His heart dropping to his stomach, silently praying that his calculations were correct; and within seconds he lands onto the metal pole, his toned biceps clinging on for life. The leather gloves he wears grant a better grip on the surface, as he pulls himself upward, finally reaching the rooftop.

“Good job, Falcon. Keep pushing!”

Jungkook heaves, but knows he can’t stop now. He continues to scan his surroundings, taking in the view of the city from his vantage point. The sun still beams within the distance. Glass buildings towering the city, camera drones and lightweight super-jets scattering the sky.

No time for distractions.

Jungkook continues on his path as instructed by Namjoon. Lightly jogging, he rapidly picks up his pace until he takes a quick glance to his right and something catches his eye: a security camera, hanging below a billboard on the current building he stands on. He treads forward, and notices a blue light on the camera that blinks rapidly. He sticks his middle finger up towards the object and makes a swift turn to walk away when suddenly he stops dead in his tracks.

You push open the door to the rooftop access, finally having reached the top of the corporate office building of Cobra Enterprises, the biggest conglomerate in the city. To your surprise, on your left, there stands a man with doe-like eyes and lengthy, coffee-colored strands concealing his face. Your mouth flew agape, realizing that this is your first encounter ever with a runner — his neon red gloves serving as evidence.

“Falcon, what’s going on? I’m picking up a blue light within your perimeter,” Namjoon keys in. Jungkook says nothing, simply eyeing your form. He’d never been in love, and it wasn’t as if he’d recognize love even if it were standing right in front of his face with a big sign that said: “Hey! It’s me. I am love.” It was your essence that gave him an odd feeling. A feeling that intrigued him for some strange reason. But then you flashed that shiny PPD badge, which glistened in the sun, and it caught his attention — instantly sending a wave of discouragement throughout his heart.

“I’m Detective ____ with PPD,” you slip.

“Abort the test run! Get the hell out of there!” Namjoon commands on the other end of Jungkook’s earpiece. You attempt to step closer to the man, but he raises his hand up.

“Don’t come any closer.”

You shake your head, “It’s okay. I-I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk, okay?” You reassure while gradually lifting your hands up in the air, as if surrendering to him. He scoffs, obviously not impressed by your coy tactic.

“A blue light wanting to talk? Nah, don’t think so,” he spits while clenching his fists and backing away.

“No, please! I-I-” You suddenly become tongue-tied, as the man evidently runs away out of your sight, leaving you behind. Frozen in place.

That asshole.

Your cell rings conveniently at the right moment.

— Hobi ❤️ [Incoming Call]

You swipe to answer, and can’t even get a “hello” out before Hoseok starts on his shit again.

“Goddammit, ____! I told you to call me when you got to your first location.” He sounds furious, as if you’re his pet on a leash.

“Okay, dad!” You retort, clearly annoyed with him in this moment as you make your way down the exhausting flight of stairs inside the building.

“You know what-” Hoseok runs his fingers through his waves. “My place. 30 minutes.” The sound of a click on the line indicates that he hung up, leaving you with a frustrated temper.

Jungkook storms into the hideout, snatching his mask off of his face. Namjoon rips his headset off, visibly pissed.

“You wanna tell me what the hell happened back there?”

Jungkook scoffs, currently not up for anyone’s shit, as he trails to the fridge to grab his carton of banana milk yet again. Namjoon rolls his eyes while shaking his head. Jungkook releases his lips from the carton and slips, “Nothing.”

The sound of Namjoon’s tongue clicking echoes through the space, “Bullshit! You know our code, and you did NOT follow!”

With his back, turned Jungkook takes a deep huff, cheeks on fire. Jimin silently creeps nearby and coyly chimes in,

“See a blue light, call it a night. Don’t take flight, and you’ll put up a fight.”

“That’s right, Phoenix. We do NOT stick around once a blue light is within our sight. We take flight. Is that understood?” Namjoon probes with a stern tone, directing towards Jungkook.

The youngest turns face forward, with a clenched jaw and jutted chest. He says nothing, clearly testing the eldest. Namjoon steps forward and closes the gap between one another, so close that their noses nearly touch.

“Is that understood?” He inquires, his voice a few octaves lower. Jungkook pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue before breaking.

“Copy.”

“Get your shit together, Falcon. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.” Namjoon pulls away and brushes past Jimin, heading out of the kitchen. Infuriated, Jungkook lunges the now empty carton toward the wall ahead of him and also brushes past Jimin, who grasps his wrist in time to halt him. A look of worry spreads across Jimin’s face.

“Come on, Kook. You know Thunderbird. He’s just trying to protect us. It’s like… his job.”

Jungkook stays silent, thinking if he would ever get to see your innocent face again. Jimin nudges his arm to grasp his attention.

“You do know that you can talk to me, right?” He reassures with a promising expression. Jungkook simply nods and walks away, leaving Jimin worried. He knows when something is wrong with his best friend. He can feel it. But he also knows that Jungkook is a tough cookie, and it will take time for him to finally crack.

Meanwhile, Jungkook locks himself in his room — having confined himself completely from the world even if it was just for a few hours. How could he be so stupid? Why couldn’t he just talk to you like you wanted? Maybe you were a good person. At least that’s what he assumed, considering your beautiful face.

No. Snap out of it!

He can’t trust anyone. It’s for his own good. As the sun sets, he peeks through the glass window in his room to soak in the view of the city. Streams of pink, yellow, and blue paint the evening sky. If only he’d introduced himself to you, maybe he would feel a slight less pain in his chest. It was something Jungkook craved that he’d never gotten yet.

Intimacy.

Hoseok is frustrated; he runs his fingers through his hair for what has felt like the millionth time today.

“What’s gotten into you, huh?” He asks with a dark, lustful feel in his eyes. You gaze at him in complete silence.

“Can’t obey me anymore or what?” He lets out a frustrated sigh while gripping your hips.

“Oh you’re asking for it, huh?” He coos while mustering up the idea to tickle his way into getting a response from you. You break the silence, the sound of your laughter filling up his penthouse. Giggles and gasps for breaths emit from you, a sound that Hoseok thinks he could hear for the rest of his life and never grow tired.

“Oh my-! S-stop!”

And like a light-switch, he abruptly stops. His hands falling down to your sides, gripping your hips again. He gazes into your stare for what feels like an eternity. That familiar beauty mark on his lip is your favorite sight. He notes your eyes landing on his lips for too long, and he takes the opportunity to inch forward and meet yours.

He tastes like coffee — the kind you have in the morning before heading out to the station. The kind you’re used to sipping while reading emails at work or making phone calls. Or even the kind you order from your favorite coffee shop where you first met him and continue to meet up with him there to discuss anything work related.

Your lips soften against his, as his softens against yours. You’re not even sure how that is possible. Physics? Maybe.

However, the thought of your relationship with Hoseok crosses your mind. And  before you could even think twice about what to do, with his tongue literally down your throat, you unexpectedly shove him lightly. His eyebrows furrow in response, concerned if he’d done something wrong (when he could swear you like french kissing, considering you both do it all the time, and he remembered you mentioned one moment how much you like to do so).

“What are we? What is this?” You blurt out. Hoseok’s expression makes you instantly regret asking him. He pulls himself away from you completely to pace back and forth with his hand on his hip, shaking his head. Your gaze drops to the floor, feeling like such shit for bringing it up. But you’d be damned if he made you feel bad, because you have to know. For your own sake. Your own sanity.

“Are we really doing this right now?” He asks while sitting down on the leather loveseat.

That’s it. Something in you snaps.

“Hoseok!” You screech, gaining a wide-eyed stare from him.

“We’ve been fucking for over 2 years! What did you think? That I was just going to keep floating around, letting you stuff me every fucking week and not say anything about it?”

You are a panting, hot, and frustrated mess on the verge of tears from how upset you are. Hoseok watches your riled up figure, and he can’t seem to bring words together. He’s had a long day and wants nothing more than to release his stress into you either on his bed, or this loveseat, or maybe the kitchen counter if you can’t make it to his bedroom. But your emotions are clouding the atmosphere, and it’s something he can’t handle.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” he states dryly.

You felt like someone just hammered a nail into your heart. Your mouth flies agape, sucking in a breath to contain yourself from crying in front of his eyes.

“Why can’t we just fuck and not go through all of this? What do we need a label for anyway? It’s not like anyone at the  station is going to find out.” He shrugs, emitting a chuckle paired  with a nonchalant vibe.

Drip.

And then a tear fell down your cheek, prompting yourself to march out the front door and never look back. Clutching your crossbody, your leather chelsea boots click against the hardwood floor. Before Hoseok had the chance to grab you by the wrist, you were gone. You continued strutting down the hall, better yet lightly jogging to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible. Your fingers find placement on the ↓ button for the elevator.

Ding.

The moment the elevator doors shut is when the tears came streaming down   your cheeks, like a waterfall. You knew all along it was a bad idea to get involved with Hoseok. You’re sentimental and have always been so. “Catching feelings” while having weekly sex with him was bound to happen eventually. All in all, you could say that you saw the end coming, but at least 70% of you wanted things to be different than what they were. As your mother would call it, “living in la la land.” For the remainder of  the night, you comfort yourself on your couch, stuffing your face with leftover chocolate-covered strawberries and sipping champagne. All while venting on the phone to your childhood friend and updating him on the current situation with Hoseok.

“Ah. I’m sorry, noona. Hobi is a real ass sometimes, you know?”

You take another sip from your wine glass, “Ugh. That’s the thing!” You pause, popping a strawberry in your mouth, “I knew it. And yet, I still fell for him. I’m just horrible, a mess.”

“Don’t say that,” he replies with a yawn following his response.

“It’s true, Yoongi! I’ve literally been letting him in this whole time and not standing my ground. It’s so pathetic of me,” You sigh with a frown upon your face that Yoongi obviously cannot see.

“Wow. He was that good, huh?” You roll your eyes just thinking about it, “Ugh, yes! Don’t even remind me!”

“Well-” yet another yawn cutting him off again, “Just take your time, you   know? I’m sure it won’t be that easy to get over him. But eventually, it’ll happen.” Your eyes begin to tear up again, “You really think so?”

Yoongi hesitates for a brief moment, “No, I’m just trying to get you off the phone so I can go to sleep.”

“Fuck you, Yoongi Min.” His cute giggle lifts your mood in a contagious way — making you laugh out loud along with him.

“You’ll  be fine, ____. Really.” A tear finally drops down your face. This is why you love Yoongi, and why you’d been friends with him almost your entire life. He’s someone you can trust, always having been there for you. It didn’t matter the distance you were from each other, or how long it had been since you contacted one another, you both would pick up right where you left off.

“Goodnight, Yoongs. Love you.” His gummy smile appears as he replies, “Love you too, ____. Goodnight.”

After hanging up with Yoongi and having your belly full enough of strawberries and wine, your thoughts continuously play over the events of today, making you realize how drained you are. Then the image of the runner from earlier crosses your mind. God, was he the hottest man you’ve seen in awhile, at least from what you could see due to his mask covering most of his face. But his lengthy strands paired with his toned biceps and tall, lean figure are what got you. The sun bounced perfectly on his tanned, body, displaying a gorgeous shimmer of sweat he was drenched in, kind of reminded you of your fave Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts.

His eyes were bright and beautiful, and you’ll never forget the way he was startled when you approached him — like a deer in headlights. You wonder what else was “hot” about him that you didn’t get a chance to see. Okay, maybe it’s just the wine talking. Some part of you wished you could have at least asked what his name was, but he wasted no time in evading you. Even though you felt a slight sting  in your heart, you couldn’t blame him for leaving. After all, you’re a cop and he’s a runner. Of course he’d “run” from you.

Hoseok is sound asleep until an alarming tone from his cell phone startles him from his slumber.

— Yoongi Hyung [Incoming Call]

“Shit.” Hoseok lets out a frustrated sigh before answering. His tired, raspy voice is heard from the other side of the line. “Hyung, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know you tell me.” Yoongi deadpans.

Hoseok sighs in response. Pulling away from his phone to read the time: 12:42 AM. He clenches his fist and runs his fingers through his messy mane.

“What do you want, Yoongi?”

“I need you to look into someone for me. Get ____ on the case,” Yoongi demands with a slight hint of desperation.

Seething, Hoseok retorts, “Fucking hell. Why couldn’t you wait until the morning to tell me?”

“It is morning, and before you step into the station I need to make sure it’s the first thing on your agenda. I need this done asap.”

Hoseok remains his composure on the outside but is internally screaming.

“I don’t know, Hyung. I can’t guarantee it. I have ____ on the Jungkook Jeon case, and I may have her finally close it. Hopefully-” Yoongi scoffs, on the other side, clearly not happy.

Hoseok adds, “What’s this all about anyway? And what do I get for it?”

“Did you forget who’s the eldest here?” A moment of silence falls into the phone.

“Didn’t think so,” Yoongi continues. Hoseok feels small. He always does when being confronted by Yoongi.

“I’ve cut a deal with Cobra Enterprises. The company will have a meeting tomorrow with PPD about a new project to take place. I want you to look into a guy. I’m sure you remember him. Namjoon Kim.” The youngest sighs yet again. He remembered Namjoon from his rookie days, and he also recalled Yoongi had failed to go through with the set-up.

“Press ____ to look into his file and continue there. Drop her from the Jungkook Jeon case.” Hoseok’s mouth flies open in shock at Yoongi’s request.

“Are you fucking kidding me? How the hell am I supposed to-”

“Do not try me! Now, you’ll do as I say without giving me any shit, understand?” Yoongi retorts, his voice now at a higher volume than before. His deep violet-haired, skinny stature dressed in a purple v-neck, paired with a black leather jacket and leather jeans. He paces back and forth, flipping a pen between his slender fingers. The visible ink of his black, circuit board tattoo trails from his neck down to his right shoulder and ends at his wrist.

“Yes, Hyung,” Hoseok states, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“Get her on the case for Namjoon and find out where he is! Tell her he goes by the name Thunderbird. These rooftops are massive. Viper and I cannot find him alone. Having her would help tremendously. Besides… she’s smart, and I’m sure she’d be able to get to him before I do,” he continues while staring at the view of the city from his hideout.

Hoseok lets out with a tinge of annoyance in his reply, “Fine, fine. Alright!”

“Don’t do this, and I will tell ____ about our little secret. I’m sure she wouldn’t be too happy about that either. Especially not now.”

“You better not say shit to her, you hear me?” Hoseok works up.

“Get the job done, Hobi.” Yoongi ends the call.

No, you could not find out. At least not like that. Hoseok doesn’t want you to know about the little fling with his hyung. He knows Yoongi would do anything to destroy the side thing Hoseok has with you, since he’s jealous. He wants Hoseok all to himself.

The ringing of your cell frightens you out of your sleep. Your eyes land onto your clock placed beside you on your nightstand. You silently curse whoever dares to awaken you at this ungodly hour of 3:18 AM. Surely it was none other than Hoseok Jung. You dared to not answer, but part of you needed to if you wanted to keep your job. You were slightly worried his calling may be job-related anyway. At least you hope it is, because you can’t think about how he’d hurt you the previous day. Your exhausted form answers the call with a swipe.

“Hello?”

“I’m here.” Your eyebrows furrow as you scan your bedroom in the moonlight. Your right hand finds it’s way to rub your eyes.

“What?”

“Just open the door. I’m here.”

You stay on the line, and groggily drag yourself out of bed to head beeline for the front door of your apartment. Through the peephole, there stands Hoseok with his iPhone to his ear and his head hanging low. You unlock the door and tiredly pull it open to finally meet eyes with the bastard. Yesterday’s events flash through your memory, and you’re drawn back into the mood you were in before you knocked out for what seemed like only ten minutes.

With furrowed brows you question, “Hoseok what do y-”

His lips crash with yours, cutting you off completely. Your hand that once held your phone, now wraps around his neck, easing him closer to you. His firm hands now grip your hips, flushing you to his body entirely. His plushy lips play with yours, naturally gliding and smoothing against their own accord. The bitter taste of coffee lingers on his lips, to what you assumed he more than likely had a cup of Joe before arriving to your apartment. He breaks the kiss to stare into your eyes, caressing your cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you,” he pauses for a beat, “It was wrong. I was wrong.”

A low sigh escapes your lips. Hoseok cups your cheeks, and gives you a small peck. You pull away to take hold of his hand and lead him into your apartment, closing the door behind the two of you. You find yourself sitting on the side of your bed, with Hoseok joining you. He rests his cool palm on your warm, exposed thigh, courtesy of your pajama shorts. Your fingers find placement on top of his hand. He stares into your gaze, guilt settling deep within his gut. Part of the reason he’d always treated you like nothing is due to his feelings for Yoongi. He likes this thing with you: being able to have you whenever he wants, do whatever he wants to you, and treat you how he wants.

It’s almost like he owns you, except he doesn’t. But he likes the complacency of the situation, knowing that you’ll always be there when he needs you. Yet he knows it’s selfish and such a narcissistic quality about himself, but he wants what he wants and cannot stop his actions. It’s this never-ending dilemma he’s stuck in of leading you on or admitting his feelings for you. Because all in all, Hoseok wants to “have his cake and eat it too.” On the other hand, Yoongi stands on the sidelines — waiting for the day he & Hoseok could be together. And now it’s worse since you’ve poured your feelings out to him. Although for Yoongi, it’s everything he’s ever wished for.

The luminance from the moonlight glows throughout the space that’s your room. Hoseok shivers slightly from your touch, the warmth of your fingers encases his cold, slender ones. You both sit in silence for a moment, just taking in each others presence. You attempt to gather your own thoughts of why Hoseok couldn’t wait to apologize until the next day you both work.

“Hoseok.” You let out, a yawn following afterwards.

“Hm?” He responds while glancing into your eyes with those gorgeous brown   eyes, his strands gracefully dressing his forehead in that familiar middle-part style.

“Cuddle?” You ask sheepishly why reaching your arms out towards him, offering your warmest embrace. His lips curl up into that stunning smile, making his eyes shut instinctively. He removes his bomber jacket and shoes, then climbs into the opposite side of your bed. You follow suit and pull your duvet over the two of you. Your arms naturally wrap around his abdomen, and  you curl up into his chest. Admiring the familiar scent of Hoseok’s  fresh, linen garments with a hint of some expensive cologne. He smells so clean, as a man should. It sends you into a trance. Your ear rests on top of his chest, growing familiar with the rhythm of his heartbeat. And it’s just enough to put you to rest.

—

The sun peaks from the skyline, beginning its journey to  rise. Deep orange and yellow hues paint the sky. A gleaming ray of light shoots throughout the hideout the three men share together. Namjoon is the first to awaken, his beach-sand colored hair ruffled in a slight mess. With a bare upper body and boxer briefs, he slips from his mattress on the ground to head for the washroom — his disheveled state still working to fully awaken. After finishing up his morning routine of brushing his teeth, washing his face, and grooming his hair, he slips on black nylon sweatpants and a red fitted tank, displaying his black, circuit board ink on his left forearm snaking up to his left shoulder and neck. He stares at his own figure in the mirror, silently hating himself for letting Yoongi talk him into getting a matching tattoo.

If only he’d knew where Yoongi’s loyalty really lied, he’d  never would have given in to him. A slight pang in Namjoon’s chest  resurfaces. He missed Yoongi, a lot more than he wanted to. Because it was more than “friendship” with him. He loved Yoongi and wanted to confess his feelings for him, but he was afraid his confession would lead to corruption of their friendship. He was also afraid of Yoongi’s “distant” personality. He was for sure it would have ruined them, even if their friendship blossomed into something more. Unfortunately, after Yoongi became a traitor in Namjoon’s eyes, he couldn’t stop the feelings he had for him and continues to have. It was  ever since that one night they’d both had a little too much soju that things led from one thing to another. He relishes in the memory of Yoongi’s lips pressed against his.

The lingering, sweet taste of alcohol on his lips is the fondest moment Namjoon has of Yoongi. He had never been more aroused by anyone else ever, and Yoongi had just that effect on him. One thing led to another, and before he could process what had happened, the next morning he’d awaken to the sight of Yoongi naked and wrapped around his chest. Ever since, the entire dynamic of their friendship had changed. Yoongi hadn’t spoken of the previous night, and neither had Namjoon. He’d never thought that a week later, he would have had no other choice but to kick out the one person he had grown to trust for so long. He never forgets the look in Yoongi’s eyes. Puffy, red, and swollen from the tears he’d cried.

Namjoon  had never seen him this shaken up before, considering his inability to show his feelings. But he believed Yoongi had done all of this to  silently punish him for sleeping with him. Liquid forms in Namjoon’s  eyes as his mind goes in circles consistently, playing the events over and over in his mind — reminiscing on the presence of who he thought would have eventually been his lover. While brewing a cup of coffee, Namjoon readies himself for the day. Upon arrival to the coms room, he seats himself at his desk, an arrange of five monitors on display. The longer one in the middle is the portal to log into Thunder, a tracking software he’d created, with Yoongi, that’s designed specifically to pinpoint a runners’ location. Of course, he had re-programmed said software to track Jungkook and Jimin’s location whenever they’d go out on a run, which is why they use an earpiece that has a tracker installed.

For safety purposes, he’d also designed it to detect when other runners are nearby while also detecting blue lights in the surrounding area. Each runner is part of a team that is represented by a color on the “rainbow spectrum,” and each color has a leader. Namjoon being the leader of Red, and along with Jimin and Jungkook representing the color. Although, the only colors from the spectrum that have been confirmed are: Orange, Yellow, and Green — while Blue and Violet have yet to be discovered. In the meantime, Jimin tosses in his sleep as though he’s experiencing a nightmare. Something within his slumber startling enough to jerk him awake, his eyes blown wide and his lips parted dramatically. His chest rising up and down as he trails his fingers through his onyx strands that fall back  onto his forehead. His arms find their way up to block the sunlight from his window that forces to blind his eyes.

His body is warm, and after sitting up completely, he realizes his white tank is soaked in perspiration. Jimin snarks at the cold sweat clinging to his upper body. Rolling out of bed, the cool tile below him makes his body shiver. He pulls his top over his head and off, flinging it to the corner of his room. His toned upper body glistens with sweat, covered with the tattoo “Nevermind” on the left side of his abdomen. Jimin rushes to the washroom to start up the glass shower.

He hops in immediately; cool streams of water race down his fit figure, drenching his black strands and gradually decreasing his body temperature. He runs his index finger across the inside of his wrist where another tattoo is displayed: 13. A small grin crosses his face, thinking of the  time he’d met Jungkook when he was 13, how they’d instantly bonded, and how far they’ve come in their lives. The number also resembling the day of his own birth. But Jimin’s smile fades, after realizing the dream he had. He knew something was wrong, because for weeks now he’d been having these nightmares that something bad would happen; everything would change, yet he wasn’t 100% sure how. Even though things were okay now, but he couldn’t help the thought that maybe his gut instinct was trying to warn him.

Knock x2.

Jimin jumps slightly at the sudden knock, and his gaze snaps up to the bathroom door, “Dude… Gotta pee,” Jungkook’s tired form slips. Outside the door, he can barely keep his eyes open — having almost pulled an all-nighter, listening to music and lifting weights in his room. Jimin swings the door open, with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Scared the shit out of me, you know?” Namjoon arrives in the hallway.

“Morning, boys! We’ve got a long day ahead of us. So, get some breakfast and meet me in the coms room when you’re done.” Jimin nods and adds coyly, “Ay ay, captain!” Jungkook groans in response. On the other side of the city, the smell of eggs and bacon sizzling in a pan acts as a cue for Hoseok’s awakening. His arms stretch out, releasing  the tension that’s settled in them. He checks his phone for the time  only to find missed calls and texts, from none other than his hyung.

— Yoongi Hyung [5:02 AM] just wait till u come home. u will fucking get it!!!

— Yoongi Hyung [4:59 AM] are u fucking kidding me… i come here for dick and this is what i get? where tf are u???

— Yoongi Hyung [4:57 AM] whatever. coming in with the spare key u gave me.

— Yoongi Hyung [4:56 AM] u ass. i’ve rung the doorbell a thousand times already. are u that asleep?

— Yoongi Hyung [4:54 AM] Missed Call (x2)

Shit.

“Good morning sleepy head!” Hoseok jumps slightly at your cheeky greeting of you standing at the doorway of your room.

“I made breakfast if you’re hungry. I’ll be heading out in a few to   follow  up on any leads I can get with the Jungkook Jeon case.” Hoseok takes a huge gulp before spilling, “Yeah… About that.” He drags, while slipping out of bed. His hands find purchase on your waist, pulling you closer.

“I uh-” He pauses for a moment, remembering the threat Yoongi had given him. You stand there, all eyes on him, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m dropping you from the Jungkook Jeon case,” he states rapidly. Your eyebrows furrow, “Why would you do that?” Hoseok sighs, thinking of anything off the top of his head to lie.

“Just-  Leave it to me. I did some digging when you left the station yesterday,”  He continues while slipping his shoes on.

“I want you to look into something else,” You nod for him continue.

“Namjoon Kim. Known as Thunderbird. He’s got a record, but he’s also  been reported as missing just like Jungkook.” Hoseok breaks away from  your gaze for a moment, internally hating himself for doing this to you. He knows he’s no good for you.

“Do you still have that list of coordinates I gave you?” He inquires, while simultaneously looking up at you and tying his shoes.

“Mmmhmm,” you simply mutter, watching his form in silence. It is clear that he’s about to leave but you waited  for him to say so. Hoseok grabs his jacket and notices you’re still standing in the doorway. He pauses to slip, “I should get going. I have some errands to run-”

“It’s fine.” You cut him off, the tone in your voice clearly revealing that  no it is not “fine.” You’re slightly upset really, but part of you expected Hoseok to not stay around since you’re convinced that the only reason he’d came to apologize to you was to clear his conscious. And  because, well, he was alone and wanted some form of companionship. Typical, right? Another part of you cringed at the thought you assumed  he’d treat you as if you’re both together, even though you’re not. So, it isn’t abnormal for him to just leave. It’s not like he’s committed to you. Except your heart tells you it’s just not fair. Hoseok doesn’t miss the look of disarray that spreads across your face, due to  his departure. He looks to you before leaving your apartment.

“Maybe I can come by later?” You internally cringe at his request whilst trying to not get your hopes up.

“It’s not a big deal, only if you can! Don’t go out of your way for me. Besides, I’m sure you’re busy.” He hesitates for a brief moment, then awkwardly nods as if slowly trying to process what you said. A feeling deep inside tells him that you know he’s full of shit. Maybe it’s his guilty conscious, but that makes him feel even worse for leaving you on his off day, just to be with Yoongi. The instant you shut the door behind Hoseok, your heart broke. You want to regret getting into this thing with him, but you know it was something you wanted at one point.

Jungkook attired himself in his usual pieces. Black ink tattoos of an  “X” covers just below both of his elbows. His signature three, silver hoops dangle within both of his ears, as he deliberately munches on a protein bar, while standing in the coms room.

“I specifically asked you both to come once you were DONE with breakfast,” Namjoon retorts indirectly towards Jungkook, who is undoubtedly dropping crumbs on the ground.

“Hey, don’t look at me.” Jimin throws his hands up and shakes his head as if to surrender, his jet-black strands swaying about in front of his eyes.

“As I was saying…” Namjoon continues, “I have different tasks for you both.” Jungkook’s eyes stay glued on the eldest. Jimin’s toned arms are crossed, tilting his head to the side.

“Phoenix,” Namjoon tosses a wireless earpiece to Jimin. “I want you to head over to the docks. I’ve been picking up high blue light activity lately in that area.” Namjoon gropes his chin, as if in deep thought. “Check it out and see if there’s anything you could find that’ll tell us why they’ve been so trigger happy lately.”

Jungkook abruptly stops chewing and tunes out after hearing Namjoon’s request. That is why he felt different about you. You didn’t hurt him like most blue lights would hurt runners if they’d ever been caught. That’s the difference.

“Falcon!”

The slight ringing in Jungkook’s ears immensely fades away after he realizes Namjoon is talking to him. His eyebrows rise up, as if silently asking him What? Namjoon removes a black messenger bag he has around himself and tosses it to Jungkook, who almost didn’t catch it due to the crumpled granola wrapper still in his hand and Namjoon’s sudden reflexes.

“Since your little encounter” Namjoon makes the quotation marks gesture with his fingers. “I’m sending you on a fast cash mission. You know the rules.”

Namjoon quirks his eyebrows, as if to emphasize his point. “I’ll be guiding you, but keep your eyes peeled. Your name isn’t Falcon for nothing.” Jungkook shrugs at the audacity.

“When you reach the location, there will be a runner by the name of  Viper waiting there for you. Give him the bag, and safely return back to the hideout without being detected by any blue lights.”

“Copy that.”

Namjoon nods in response, “Oh. Before I forget.” Namjoon reaches toward his glass desk to pull out a black, wireless earpiece.

“I know you’ve been borrowing Jimin’s earpiece since yours broke. So, I made a new one.” Namjoon extends his hand out to Jungkook then snaps away.

“Try not to break it this time, huh? Materials are kind of… limited.”

Jungkook cocks an eyebrow and obtains the piece to delicately place in his ear. He places the bag over his head and lets the strap rest on his shoulder, adjusting it to his liking — making sure it’s tight around his torso. Jimin follows and pushes his earpiece in.

Namjoon makes an overly-dramatic clap noise with his hands. “Alright, boys. Let’s get to work!” On their way from the hideout, Jimin stops Jungkook before they proceed to go on their separate ways.

“Hey,” Jimin spills, his eyes now crescent, moon-shaped due to the sizzling sun displayed brightly in the sky. Jungkook replies, “Yeah?”

“Just, uh…” Jimin lingers on for a moment, observing the ambience as if he’s searching  for something. His eyes land back on the youngest, admiring how innocent he is. Jimin loved Jungkook as his own brother, and he’d do anything to protect him. He’s convinced he’d do more than Namjoon.

“Be  careful. Okay?” A tinge of worry oozes from Jimin’s command. He wishes he could just tell Jungkook the dreams he’d been having lately, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to upset him, yet he knows he’d have to tell him sooner or later. Because recurring nightmares that Jimin has are always to some extent: true. It’s been that way for as long as he could remember. The first time he’d experienced it was when he was seven years old. He dreamt the same dream during that time, that his father was caught in a rainstorm and passed away due to a car collision.

The first night he experienced the nightmare, he was afraid; and although he’d warn his parents, all else failed. They thought it was just another bad dream that would pass. A few weeks later, his father passed away due to a DUI car accident. Jimin was devastated, and although he was right all along, he hated when the same dreams occurred because he knew eventually it would no longer be a nightmare — instead a reality.

“Always,” Jungkook answers, while turning around to jog in the opposite direction. Completely unaware of Jimin who’s still left behind and laying eyes on him. An ounce of worry overtakes him, that he misses Namjoon’s calling of his name.

“Phoenix, do you copy?” Jimin snaps back from his daydream,

“Y-yeah. I mean- Copy that. I’m here.” Namjoon keeps track of Jungkook’s location and notices Jimin’s stillness.

“Alright, let’s head west and take it from there. It’s a straight shot.” Jimin starts his run, climbing over fences, sliding under pipes, and running on walls. Namjoon uses the digital map to pinpoint the intended location.

“Looks like the docks will be on the west side of the Cobra Enterprises building.

“Copy that.” Namjoon takes a sip of his now lukewarm, medium, roast coffee.

“Switching to channel two, be right back.” Jungkook sits on the edge of a building, looking below his feet where the grand city of Python seems so tiny. Pedestrians look like ants from his perspective. Moving vehicles give the appearance of toy cars kids play with. The sound of a deep voice keys into Jungkook’s earpiece.

“Thunderbird for Falcon.” Jungkook swings his feet playfully, enjoying the summer weather, “Go for Falcon.”

“You’ll be heading east to The Echidna. Viper will be there waiting for you. Deliver the package to him, and make it back safely. Remember, no blue lights.”

Hoseok turns the key to open the door of his apartment. The sound of the front door closing startles a naked Yoongi, who steps foot into Hoseok’s room with a towel wrapped around him. His soaked, purple strands dripping with water. Hoseok shuffles his jacket and shoes off, yet notices the penthouse is filled with silence. He’d hoped Yoongi had just given up for now and left, but he knew him. He wasn’t going to leave until he got what he wanted.

His fingers glide through his own soft waves, and he treads upstairs to his room. His heart suddenly pumps faster when his eyes land on the back side of Yoongi, who has removed his towel to dry his hair. His pale, porcelain skin glowing and glistening with water and sunshine. Hoseok takes a thick gulp and clears his throat. Yoongi finds Hoseok behind him and gives his signature smirk, “Good morning.” Yoongi drops his towel on the ground and gestures a “come here” motion with his finger, and Hoseok follows.

“Missed me? I know I missed you,” Yoongi caresses Hoseok’s cheek, gazing into his brown irises, his bed-hair adding a nice final touch.

“I’m sorry, I-” Hoseok is cut off by Yoongi’s index finger placed on his lips. He commands, “Just shut up and fucking kiss me already. You owe me. Big time.” Hoseok chuckles before leaning in to wrap his arms around Yoongi, placing his hands along his back, pulling Yoongi flush to his body.

Before heading out to investigate the supposed “Namjoon Kim” case Hoseok urged you earlier to begin, you chose to pay a visit to your favorite chocolatier in the mall, the one that sells your favorite chocolate-covered strawberries. The fresh, cool breeze of the air conditioner blows through your hair as you strut through the front entrance of The Echidna. The chocolate shop wasn’t far from the main entrance, on the entry level so you decided to take your time, casually strolling through the mall. The smell of pretzels, pizza, and other delicious foods filled your senses as you passed by the food court. After a minute more of walking, you reach the shop and realize they are running a promotion: Buy one dozen of chocolate-covered strawberries, get another half off.

Just in time.

On the rooftops, Jungkook blasts over buildings and latches onto pipes, ladders, and other obstacles that help him navigate throughout the environment.

“Thunderbird for Phoenix.” Jimin keys back into Namjoon while taking a break from running.

“Go for Phoenix.” Namjoon tracks Jimin’s location, and notes how far he is from the intended location.

“Good job. You’re on the right path. You should be able to see the front side of the Cobra Enterprises building from where you are.” Jimin scans his surroundings on the east side, and notes the building with a golden, cobra snake symbol. “Yeah, I see it.”

“Good. Continue your normal path and you’ll notice the building will then be on the east side of you.” Jimin nods in approval, “Copy that.”

Yoongi and Hoseok lie in bed together, wrapped in each other’s embrace. Hoseok rests on Yoongi’s chest, drawing circles on his chest with Yoongi’s fingers laced in his strands.

“So,” Yoongi breaks the silence. “So?” Hoseok questions, admiring the soft supple skin under his fingertips.

“Gonna tell me where you were last night?” Just as Hoseok gathered up the courage to respond, Yoongi cuts him off.

“No, wait! Let me guess. With ____,” he states with a dry tone. A tinge of jealousy behind his words. Hoseok turns his head around, facing Yoongi.

“Are we really doing this again?” Yoongi rolls his eyes, pushing Hoseok off of his chest. Hoseok’s eyebrows naturally crease in response.

“Yoongi, seriously?” The eldest says nothing, his back now turned to the youngest, having flipped over on his side.

“What fucking more do you want?!” Hoseok runs his fingers through his hair, his strands falling back onto his forehead. Yoongi keys in on him, with a furious gaze. “Us!” He exclaims, sitting up and easing his way out of bed to slip on his jeans.

“I fucking want us,” He continues, more-so demanding rather than stating. Hoseok takes a deep breath. “You know that I’m working on that-”

Yoongi seethes. “Yeah, and for how long?!” His voice raising with fists clenched on his jeans, zipping them up. “Don’t you fucking get it?” He adds, slipping on his signature, purple v-neck.

“____ is in love with you. How do you just “work on that?” He emphasizes with air quotation marks. Hoseok struggles to answer, leaving his lips parted slightly. A moment of silence falls between the two. Yoongi takes this as a cue of defeat — slipping on his leather jacket.

“Exactly.” He exits the bedroom, leaving Hoseok to ponder in his thoughts, while left in bed naked, regret filling him completely.

Yoongi saunters downstairs and slips on his boots, departing from Hoseok’s loft. He runs his fingers through his hair, while marching down the hallway of the complex. His mind continues to race many miles per hour. His finger presses the button to signal the elevator, and to his surprise, the doors open quicker than he’d expected. He takes a deep breath while stepping in and recounting the moment he’d had with Hoseok.

He hates himself for getting caught up in this situation with him, and now with you involved made matters worse. His heart aches at the thought of what things would be like if he hadn’t traded Namjoon out. Yoongi misses him, but he knows he’d never accept him for who he is and he wouldn’t ever forgive him for what he’d done. A pang in his chest approaches, knowing that he and Namjoon’s future was now long gone, and merely nothing but a dream now. It hurts, and he’s hurt. Which is why he’d pressed Hoseok to get you to look into his case in the first place. He needed this. Needed closure. He misses Namjoon, and there isn’t a day that passes when he doesn’t think of him. He needs him.

You’d chosen the dozen of half milk-chocolate strawberries and half white-chocolate covered strawberries. For both sets. The cashier carefully hands you the paper bag, with two gorgeous arrangements of twelve strawberries in each box. You gracefully exit the chocolatier with the brightest smile on your face, strutting toward the entrance of The Echidna to make your departure from the mall. Jungkook awaits on the rooftops, peering at his surroundings to ensure no one is in sight. And by no one, he specifically means blue lights. His tired being squats down, seating himself on the ground, nearby one of many dome-shaped, skylights that sit behind him. The sun toasting his skin causes him to wipe away the perspiration from his forehead, for what feels like the hundredth time.

Namjoon scans the time on the Thunder portal, noting that the runner should have arrived by now.

“Viper should be within your perimeter. Do you see him?” Jungkook scans his peripheral, but there is no sight of said runner. “No, he’s not here.”

Namjoon’s eyebrows furrow, as he doesn’t see any hint of a runner nearby the mall. The only indicator visible is Jungkook’s location. A red, blinking dot on the map.

“Something’s not right,” He says to himself, shaking his head.

Jungkook feels a presence behind him and just before he could turn around to say something, a deep, baritone voice speaks out.

“Thanks for meeting me here, this was a great spot.” But when Jungkook’s eyes landed on the tall, slender form, his mouth flew agape.

Violet. One of the colors on the spectrum that hadn’t been discovered yet.

There was no way, he thought. No way it was possible. And then the eldest spoke again, realizing Jungkook’s expression.

“Hey. Red, huh? Wait-” He pauses, Jungkook clenches the bag’s strap tightly. “That’s the color where- What’s that leaders name?” His finger taps his chin as if thinking. “It’s right at the tip of my tongue… Sounds like a month?”

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks, his eyes widening. How did he know Thunderbird’s real name?

“How do you know his name?” Kook questions, gripping onto the bag tighter.

“It’s Joon, right? Namjoon! There it is.” Namjoon keys in to double-check on the youngest.

“Falcon, has he arrived yet? I’m still not able to see him.” Namjoon grows hesitant from not receiving a response.

Jungkook abruptly throws the bag at the man standing in front of him and darts in the opposite direction. Viper sprints behind him and tackles the youngest down onto one of the skylights, their figures thumping and sliding against the glass. Viper bangs Jungkook’s head into the glass. Jungkook throws a harsh punch straight to Viper’s nose and tackles him down, his body now caging him in.

“Who the hell are you?!” Jungkook seethes.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Viper grins with a mischievous expression. Jungkook’s eyebrows furrow at his coy remark. His hands grip around his neck, applying pressure with much force.

“Falcon?” Namjoon keys in yet again. Growing suspicious, he continues to scan the area and notes a blinking, blue light that appears to be moving. His assumption is that whoever it is may be inside the mall. “Fuck.”

A tinge of venom seeps from Viper’s words, “Tell that leader of yours, that Firebird is looking for him-” He chokes, Jungkook applying more pressure.

“He better- get ready.. for him too.” He adds with a menacing laugh. Jungkook releases his neck and throws another punch to his face, his knuckles aching as a result. Viper continues to laugh, and manhandles Jungkook. His back falls back onto the delicate material below them. He drives his foot against the side of Jungkook’s abdomen repeatedly.

“Ahhh, fuck!” Jungkook groans, his fists clenching from the pain.

Jungkook forces a kick straight to Viper’s face, grazing his nose with his shoe, causing drips of blood to spill. Jungkook clenches his teeth and tackles Viper down again, and then suddenly.

Crack.

The two men gaze down below them, and witness cracks scattering along the glass of the skylight.

“Shit,” Jungkook slips.

“Falcon!” Namjoon yells into his earpiece.

Viper watches Jungkook’s expression with wide eyes, his lips parting in shock. Jungkook slowly stands on his two feet, removing himself from on top of the eldest and attempts to escape, but with the added weight of being on his feet, the glass shatters into pieces, Viper’s form falls through the skylight, en route to the interior of the mall. Jungkook trips, losing his grip on the edge, his veins popping out as he forces his body back up onto the rooftop.

You fumble in the pockets of your leather jacket to obtain your car keys. Until the sudden sound of shattering glass startles you and out of the blue, an intense cracking, thud-like sound follows by a body falling splat onto the ground level of the mall. The contents in your hands drop in response, and the only melody filling your ears is the screams throughout the entire atmosphere, civilians pushing their way to the nearest exit. A thumping beat resides in your chest, and it’s as if your heart pounds so loud you that the noise suffocates your hearing above everything else. Your mouth falls open, and your instincts tell you to examine from above, where the body initially came from. And then your eyes meet a familiar face; to say you were shocked was an understatement.

There he was. Again. The man you’d seen yesterday. You knew it was him because you remember those eyes, his hair, and that black mask. After locking eyes with you, he immediately vanishes. You glare at the body that lies on the ground, slowly inching toward the male. With shaky hands, you kneel down to feel his pulse under his neck and there’s nothing.

Jungkook charges off the rooftops of The Echidna, adrenaline pumping through his veins like never before. The last thing he needed was for blue lights on his tail. And he saw you. He fucked up again. You saw him, and now there’s nothing he can do to un-do what happened. The sound of Namjoon’s voice resonates within Jungkook’s earpiece. “Falcon! What the hell happened? Did you deliver the package?” Jungkook says nothing, instead, he runs.

Namjoon sighs in frustration.

“I’m here,” Jimin keys in. Namjoon locates Jimin’s location.

“Fuck,” Namjoon replies.

Jimin asks with a hint of confusion, “Did I do something wrong?” Namjoon sighs.

“No, Phoenix. You’ve made it to the destination. I haven’t heard from Jungkook since he arrived at The Echidna, and he isn’t responding.” Jimin’s eyes widen. Oh no, had something happened to him? What if… the dream?

“Wait what? Do you need me to head over there?” Namjoon shakes his head, as if he could see him.

“No! Stay where you are. Just find out what you can find, and I’ll be here. I’ll handle it. Over and out.”

Jimin’s heart drops. He hoped Jungkook was okay, for his own sake. He couldn’t lose another person close to his heart.

Namjoon locates Jungkook’s location, and he’s storming like a lightning bolt. He removes his headset to meet with the youngest. Jungkook pants, his chest rising and falling.

“Falcon, what the hell? How many times do I-” Namjoon is cut off by the expression on Jungkook’s face. He stops in his tracks and notices his mask is already off, with tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His hands are shaking, and his heart is beating rapidly.

“Jungkook?”

Jungkook begins rambling, “I-I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck just happened!” Tears stream down his cheeks, he feels like he’s on fire, his chest continues to gasp for air. He feels like he’s about to have a panic attack.

“I-It all j-just happened s-so fast, I don’t know what to do.” Namjoon notes his trembling hands; he’d never seen him so worked up before.

“He- he came. And then I saw his purple shirt a-and I panicked, I didn’t know what the fuck to do! I-” Jungkook sobs with an aching pain on his side. “I didn’t know what to do!”

“Okay, Kook just calm down. Follow me into the coms room.” Upon arrival, Namjoon processes what had been said and his eyebrows furrow in reply. “Wait… His shirt? It was what?”

Jungkook makes an attempt to calm himself down, his rosy-tinted cheeks stained with wet tears. “Violet. It’s the last color on the spectrum.”

Namjoon shakes his head, now pacing back and forth. “This could only mean one thing…” He trails off, pondering the fact he discovered a new color on the spectrum. He scrolls through the portal and peers at the map, finding the different colors of the spectrum scattered across the city of Python. Every color except Violet.

“That’s why Thunder couldn’t pinpoint his location. Violet isn’t yet programmed into the software. Which means-”

“Firebird.” Jungkook slips.

Namjoon’s gaze snaps toward him with wide eyes, “Where did you get that name?”

“Viper said it. Firebird is looking for you.” He pauses, to let in a deep breath, “And you’d better get ready.” Jungkook groans in discomfort, a sharp shock of pain shooting through his side. He watches Namjoon’s figure, noticing the startled expression on his face.

No, it can’t be. There’s no way he was looking for him. Even if he was, why? After all this time, why now? And what was it that Namjoon had to prepare for?

And then everything came crashing down. “Shit,” Namjoon spills.

“Who is Firebird, anyway?” Jungkook questions with curiosity. A distinct chattering sound can be heard from Namjoon’s headset.

“Phoenix for Thunderbird! Do you copy?” Jimin chimes in with a slight tinge of frustration and worry clouding his being.

Ignoring Jungkook’s question, Namjoon places his headset back on.

“Go for Thunderbird.”

Jimin sighs in relief, “Oh, fuck. I thought I lost you for a sec.”

Namjoon shakes his head, “What’s going on?”

With a heaving, sweaty chest Jimin states, “We have a problem. A really, fucking, big one.” — his eyes keyed in and widening at the sight of what’s happening at the docks.

[greenninjagal-blog]

The Rumor Mill Game (pt2)

You guys asked, and I have no self control at all. Have some more Intrulogical, now with Plot(tm). If you missed part one you can find it [here!]

Summary: If he thought himself a king of the office, then Logan was honored to be the guillotine. [aka When his coworker, Remus, decides to play a game, Logan is going to make sure he regrets it. Even if its the last thing he does.]

Words: 3506

Quick taglist: @chelsvans @faithfulcat111 @felicianoromano @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @silverflame-wc @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @thenaiads @treasureofpriam @midnightmagi @shadowjag @residentanchor

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

When Logan had first put on the ring, he hadn’t expected it to end like this.

But that was mostly his own folly: Logan should have realized that based on his (lack of) knowledge concerning the behaviors of Remus Prince, his imagined plan of action would be....upended. After all, he had barely known the man beyond the occasional sight of  him in the break room where he teetered on the edge of the counter sitting much like a king as his subjects bowed before him.

Logan was of the sound impression that absolutely everyone who had been hired for his company was of the particularly stupid brand. Often times he had imagined his boss had sat down in the interviews and hired the first person who walked in and smiled, because clearly Beatrice from Accounting did not know what she was doing and her inability to use Excel spreadsheets had led him to far too many late nights correcting her work.

It was one such night that had lead to this...this ludicrous situation: Logan had been in his office all day practically tearing his hair out over his coworkers inability to count (what did you do with the decimal point, Kyle? Where did this five come from? Why are you all so inept?) and his coffee had gone cold, and he should have been leaving an hour ago, but these pages had been due two weeks ago and Logan hated leaving things unfinished.

He had a headache brewing from staring at his screen for so long. He peeled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes until they watered before glancing at the clock in the bottom of his screen. After a quick and efficiently ruthless curse towards Janet for being so late to turn in any of her sheets, he scooted back in his chair and had left to refill in coffee mug.

The office floor had been deserted for the most part. Logan should have been grateful, because that meant less possible nonsense to distract him from his work.

But unfortunately, he was quite familiar with Jen’s hair in a loose-but-still-formal bun and Quin’s scarf that they wore like a talisman to ward off bad omens. They clutched it the second they noticed Logan approaching the two of them, as if he had been coming to deliver an upsetting diagnosis and not to use the coffee machine they were standing in front of.

And because Logan was absolutely not in the mood to talk to either of them, Jen had caught sight of him and puffed her cheeks in anger, like some sort of puffer fish. She tuned to face him fully with her arms on her hips and gave him some equivalent to a “death glare”, as Logan assumed people would call it.

“What are you doing here?” She asked.

“I work here,” Logan said, perhaps a little snappish, “Now, might I get to the coffee machine?”

She had huffed, tapped her foot thrice, and then shuffled to the side just enough that Logan could get to the coffee machine.

Thankfully, just enough was still technically enough. He placed his mug beside the coffee maker and checked the cartridge for leftover used grinds because-- once again-- all of his coworkers were extremely disappointing when it came to using their brains.

Jen huffed again and she was close enough that absolutely all of Logan’s internal alarms started ringing. He snapped the cartridge --thankfully clean, Logan ideally wondered if maybe it was possible they were learning. Oh wouldn’t that be a miracle?-- closed and debated giving up on the coffee all together. But he could still see grid patterns when he closed his eyes, so he dug out his preferred coffee brand and set up the maker.

Quin opened their mouth and closed it again several times. It was clear from the way they shifted on their feet and and looked anywhere but at Jen or him that they were uncomfortable. Logan found himself praying to gods that he didn’t believe in that they would hold off until he had his coffee and was safely back in his office.

“I see Remus cleaned your mug.” Quin mumbled softly because the gods that Logan didn’t believe in don’t exist and he was on this planet purely to suffer.

But they had made a semi-valid point. Remus had cleaned his cup just as Logan had requested--just as was basic human politeness when using something of someone else’s possession, regardless of the fact that Remus Prince had not asked permission to use it in the first place. Logan felt his nose twitch in irritation at the memory of the other day.

“Yes,” Logan said between his gritted teeth. Had the coffee machine always been this slow? Or perhaps it was showing its age by taking longer to make his miserable coffee. He was sure that he could move some funds around to get them a new machine by Thursday if he could just make it back to his office--

“That’s all you have to say?” Jen sniped, “Just “Yes”? Unbelievable!”

“If you have an issue,” Logan said to her, “Please keep it to yourself.”

She slammed a hand on the counter, “I cannot believe you! Perfect Logan Ackroyd! You’re just like all the rest of them!”

“Curious how this sounds very much like you are not keeping your issue to yourself,” Logan commented.

“Jen--” Quin said, but she acted much like puddle of gasoline after a match dropped on it.

She got red in the face and her neat eyebrows smashed together as she stared down him with a snarl that most certainly did not belong in the workplace. She stamped her foot like some sort of child-- honestly? Logan shouldn’t have been surprised seeing how he had been able to hear the meltdown that happened after her messy breakup with Kyle. It had been so loud that Remus had even had the gall to look moderately shocked when everything had gone down.

“Where do you guys get off on taking advantage of your significant other’s trust in you?” Jen growled, “Is it fun for you? Do you not care about our feelings? Maybe we weren’t so far off when we said you were a robot, Mr. Ackroyd! You’re cold and cruel and I hope that when your affair comes to light--”

“Jennifer,” Logan hissed, “choose your next words extremely carefully, because I have spent eleven hours going over spreadsheets that have been done wrong and am not in the mood to listen to you prattle about lost love. In case you have forgotten, I very much have control over your sector and it will only take three emails to have you demoted and-or removed from this company.”

Jen’s mouth snapped shut.

Logan thought that was the first merciful thing that had happened all day. He picked up his coffee, holding it tightly in his hand despite the heat radiating off it and headed out of the breakroom.

He stopped at the door, as the dregs of the conversation spun through his brain. “Did you imply that I was having an affair?”

Quin was wringing their hands and Jen was clawing her nails into the counter. Still, they nodded.

“Who told you that?”

And really, Logan should have expected the answer. Of course it was Remus Prince, the advertising privateer who had turned the entire company into some sort of drama circus with his half truths and his lack of a mouth filter.

The Robot Extravaganza had stolen the peace and quiet of Logan’s work atmosphere and driven him up the figurative walls. That week alone had eight times more people rapping on his door frame than he had had in the entire year previously. And of course that ridiculous white board they had put up in the far wall as if Logan was incapable of reading and comprehending words. It was unprofessional and childish and Logan had barely gotten any work done when he had been constantly interrupted with mundane questions of “Logan do you need to eat?”, “Logan how do you shower without rusting?”, “Logan do you have batteries or do you plug yourself in at night?”, “Logan!”, “Logan!”, “Logan!”.

Not to mention the way that Remus had laughed the entire time as if he found the idea of Logan being harassed particularly amusing. And Logan hated that laugh. It was terrible and awful and grating, and it made Logan want to tear out his hair because it sounded so much like---

“Is that so,” Logan said absently to Jen and Quin. “Remus Prince told you I was having an affair.”

He shifted to hold his mug with both hands, his eyes slipping over to that counter where Remus had been sitting before, with that same mug between his legs daring suggestive thoughts. How many times had Logan seen him sitting there looking like he could control the whole world with a few crass comments?

It was a game to him, wasn’t it? A game that Remus loved to play because he always won.

And who better to fix that than Logan who had been craving for revenge like it was a figurative itch under his very skin?

“Ah, well then,” Logan said and then because he was very much not the type to let people misinterpret him, he added, “I hadn’t realized my husband’s antics would upset you so much, Jen. I apologize on his behalf.”

That got their attentions real quick. Quin’s neck cracked with the force of which they turned their head to look him in the eye. Jen blinked several times as if she was having trouble processing things.

“Husband?” Jen repeats, as if she hadn’t heard the term before.

Logan straightened his back, “I’ll repeat myself slower since this seems to be overwhelming for your small brain. Remus Prince and I are married.”

“You’re a real asshole!” She covered her mouth and then fluttered her hands in a bootless waste of motions. “You’re serious? Wait of course you are! How could I forget, necktie! Oh my god, you’re serious. You and Remus?”

Logan took a sip of his coffee. “I have spreadsheets to amend.”

“Wait wait wait! I want details! Logan get back, here!” Jen screeched after him.

Logan wondered vaguely if this was the reason why Remus spread these rumors so often: the short zappy thrill that had ignited his neurons was much more effective than his coffee could ever hope to be. And Jen had believed him without a hesitance-- which truly was revealing of her hot headed nature. It was, dare he say, exciting. He hadn’t felt this way since his college lab days when he had tackled the creation of experiments with unbridled vigour.

Just how much was she willing to accept just because Logan had been the one to tell her? Just how wild of an accusation could Logan offer up before she wisened up? How quickly would this get back to Remus?

Logan itched to set up an experiment to test it all out. After all he would only get one chance to do this: most certainly when Remus gathered wind of how Logan had turned his false information back on him, Remus would come clean and admit that they had never even seen each other.

It would ruin both of their reputations. Remus as someone who spread truths, and Logan as someone who could be believed in every instance.

But Remus would still choose it over allowing anyone in the work area to think they were married. Logan knew this easily, obviously, irrefutably. They were strangers, not even acquaintances.

“Janet! Janet!” Jen screeched surprisingly loud for someone of her stature. “Janet did you know that Remus and Logan are married?” 

Logan hadn’t realized Janet was still there at all, but at the accusation she flung backwards from her cubical in her rolling office chair and nearly crashed into Logan on just feet from his private office door.

“Run that by me again!” She demanded, “Remus and Logan?”

Logan opened his door and let himself in but before he could close it, Janet wedged her foot in the way.

“No way! Remus doesn’t wear a ring!”

“Allergic to metals,” Logan listed off the top of his head.

“You don’t wear a ring, either!” Janet said grabbing at his hand and nearly causing him to spill his coffee.

And well….

Quin, Jen, and Janet were all standing at his door, ready to believe whatever he said. He could have just said he was also allergic to metals too, but there was dubious gleam in Janet’s eyes, because yes, this is the sole thing she seemed to be knowledgeable about.

If Janet didn’t believe him now, then Jen would get even more upset at him than before and that would ruin the surprise for Remus tomorrow. A half baked revenge wouldn’t be nearly as good as the one he was expecting.

So he needed a ring.

His eyes slipped over his shoulder to the dinner jacket slumped on the chair in the corner of the room, crumpled and abandoned and gathering dust with the filing cabinet and the box of records that Logan had arranged his first week on the job. 

He needed a ring.

And really it was just for one night.

He could pretend.

So Logan swallowed the sudden unexpected lump in his throat and tracked the three steps to the chair to dig the silver band from the pocket. He tried to remember how long it had been there, how long he had tried shoving it from his mind, and pretending like it and the jacket and that night had never existed. 

It had been a reminder for so long now: like a flashing sign in the night had warned him that a relationship would never be worth that again, that romantic pursuits were frivolous and fleeting and meaningless.

Regardless, it felt like putting on one of his favorite ties, like slipping into his shoes that were broken in perfectly, like it was made for him.

(It hadn’t been and wasn’t that the most ridiculous part of the story?)

It was only for one night, so he let Jen and Janet and Quin ogle over it and answered their questions efficiently. He tore into Remus’s reputation as subtly as he could, making Quin flee the room and Janet fan her face and Jen cackle. He made up a story about a summer wedding, about a honeymoon he thought was just ridiculous, about late night activities he could never imagine doing with anyone.

And when they left, Logan had stared at the band engraved so delicately for another ten minutes. 

“A robot,” Logan said to himself.

Is that what he had thought, too? 

Logan shook his head to clear his mind. He tossed the ring in his pencil cup and gathered his bag and car keys.

If he allowed himself to ignore the lapse in reality, he could even pretend like using the ring in this fashion was the same as saying “Fuck you” to the man he had almost married a year ago.

It was just one night, and an hour or so tomorrow morning after all.

Logan arrived the next day earlier than normal, which was an unexpected surprise. He got to flick on the lights and watch the floor illuminate itself. His shoes made a lovely type of clack on the tiling.

It used to feel lonely, being this early to work, but Logan found himself distracted by the anticipation of the days promised events.

He finished correcting Janet's spreadsheets and sent them off for proper filing, reorganized his desk, slipped on his ring, and managed to get his coffee brewed before most of the office had come alive. 

"Holy shit," he heard Kyle whisper to Max, "Is Logan smiling?"

Curious. It seemed that he was. Logan settled himself against the wall of the break room, Remus’s preferred cup in hand, where he had an excellent view of the cubical where Remus came up with his schemes. Jen, Janet, and Beatrice were already huddling around the entrance, much like a committee of domesticated vultures preparing for a feast.

By the time that Remus showed up to the office, running three minutes late, Logan was nearly giddy. Perhaps he could understand why Remus did what he did, if this was the sort of feeling that he experienced every time he opened his mouth.

Logan had seen many beautiful things in his lifetime; one of his hobbies was visiting art museums, art galleries, movie premieres and the likes while on his mandatory three weeks of time off from work. Still nothing could quite capture the glee that was invoked directly into Logan when Remus’s eyes had widened and his jaw dropped and his face flushed with embarrassment when Quinn squeaked at the sight of him. 

Remus Prince looked like a work of art when the world dumped him on the floor and left him too shocked to speak.

If he thought himself a king of the office, then Logan was honored to be the guillotine. 

Except.

“Logie!” Remus whined, throwing his arms up, “I thought we agreed to keep it a secret!”

Logan’s smile vaporized, almost instantly, “Wait--”

“You Mischievous Mathematician, You!” Remus giggled crossing the area far quicker than a person should be able to cross that distance. Logan blinked and suddenly Remus was right in front of him, a foot, half a foot, a handful of inches. And his voice only seemed to get louder, bolder, more excited with every step. Logan had a hypothesis that all twenty eight of the workers on the floor were watching them with baited breath.

“Well I’m happy!” Remus said loudly for Kyle and Jen and Janet and Beatrice and, and, and-- “I’ve missed getting lunch together! Let’s go to the sandwich shop down the street!”

“Absolutely not--”

“Or we could do that Thai restaurant that’s your favorite!” Remus said, which tripped Logan up because Remus had noticed he preferred Thai? Logan couldn’t even remember the last time he had Thai! How could Remus have possibly known he liked Thai? 

“I’ll pay!” Remus said when Logan hadn’t responded quick enough to turn down the lunch proposal. “Oh this is going to be so much fun, Lolo!”

And Remus came in far too close, closer than anyone has been to him in a year. His eyes were brown with flecks of green dark enough to seem like a swamp at Twilight. They gleamed as he fluttered his lashes at Logan and his mouth curls into a pointed smile.

“Let’s play,” Remus said so softly that Logan himself could barely hear it. And then he pulled back, and stepped away with Logan’s coffee in his hands. He took a long sip and licked his lip afterwards. “Mmm! Just how I like it Lo! You’re so good to me!”

Logan knew for a fact that Remus did not like black coffee. He’d seen the numbers that went into buying creamer for the break room.

Just what did Remus think he was doing? Playing along with Logan’s rumor reversal? Encouraging it? 

Remus smiled at him. “Lunch it is!” He said and waved Logan goodbye with his fingers.

Of course Logan could out him right there, right then. All he had to say was that it was a lie and that he and Remus were in no way married and he had no intentions of having lunch together. But for some reason the words seemed to be figuratively jammed in his throat, leaving him with nothing more than splutterings to vocalize his frustration.

Fine. Logan inhaled through his nose, curled his lip, and twisted his watch on his left hand to center his thoughts. Remus would like to play a game?

Fine. Logan could play a game with him. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something, dearest?” Logan said before Remus could get too far away.

He could see the way Remus’s eyes light up at the nickname, the twitch of his mustache where he was struggling not to laugh too boldly. “Am I?”

“I did make you coffee. Do you not tip your barista?” 

“Ah,” Remus swirled the mug, “And how does my “barista” like his tips then?”

When Logan had put on the ring, he had not expected to end up with Remus’s lips on his.

And yet.

Remus kissed like he was dying and wanted to make every second last, like he was living for the moment, like he had nothing left too lose. Logan thought it was ridiculous that he tasted like pickles this early in the morning.

“I think you’ll find I won’t fold that easily, Specs,” Remus breathed when he pulled back.

Logan replied, “May the best man win.”

And then he took his coffee back out of Remus’s hands and headed back to his office with that ring firmly on his hand. It appeared that he would need it for just a bit longer.

Part Three

[its-pronounced-quoassoint]

Logan!!! On Ice

Did I actually make a Yoi!sanders sides au? Yes. This is purely self indulgent and like I don’t really know if I like it that much. I’m gonna post the first chapter on ao3 too and maybe I’ll keep going if I have the time but just consider this a tentative WIP for now. I kinda want to see if people actually care about this idea and if I can write figure skating scenes well. (I’m trying to broaden my writing abilities) This is like stretching my brain power today but heck it’s gotta happen. Anway!

Chapter 1 - A Man that Surprises

Chapter warnings: Past unhealthy behavior, mentions of depression, crying, swearing, food mention, slight panic attack, minor character death(it’s late so if there are more warnings I should add please yell at me to do so)

Ao3 link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27851718/chapters/68190586

I hope this is well recieved I kinda like this concept.

Logan Katsuki  wouldn’t admit it to anyone but those who knew him well that his inspiration was rather basic. He loved to skate yes, but his reasons for continuing to every time it got difficult? That was something he preferred to keep to himself. Not because it was all too special, it wasn’t and he would admit that if you asked. He kept it to himself because it was more embarrassing than anything else. In interviews he would say that his family, specifically his mother, inspired him to continue his career in figure skating, and while that wasn’t entirely wrong, it wasn’t the whole truth either. Since Logan was young, younger than he can remember, his true inspiration was one person and one person alone. Patton Nikiforov.

The Russian skater was first shown to him by his friend Yuuko when the two had had a sleepover. She was very invested in skating at the time and wanted to show him her favorite. Patton Nikiforov was a man who surprised the figure skating scene with his ambition. He was sociable, passionate, and had found a way to capture a crowd’s attention with a single smile. Patton was everything a skater could dream of being. He worked hard and always kept a smile, you could simply tell he loved doing what he did. Logan couldn’t tell which part of that he envied most. It was after one of Patton’s performances where he won gold that Logan knew what he wanted. He wanted to be the best damn figure skater he could possibly be.

However, you don’t always get what you want and Logan had learned that many times throughout his career. His dreams started getting smaller. From winning gold, to silver, to being on the podium, to just simply making it in the same rink as Patton. And now, he just wanted to hide. 

A terrible set and a terrible performance was the push that Logan needed to go over the edge. He was done. He was ending his career as a 23 year old skater with little to his name. He didn’t know what he was going to do, maybe he’d work at his mom’s bathhouse, or maybe he’d do ice skating lessons for the kids in his town, but whatever it was, he was going to do it at home. Surrounded by his family and friends. The past year had been the most difficult for him when it came to his mental and physical health, and Logan knew he couldn’t go on in those habits. Skating was no longer fun, he could no longer smile while he performed unless he forced it and Logan had to stop before it hurt him to the point of no return. 

It was the night before his flight home and he was supposed to be resting, but his friend Phichit was going on the ice and Logan wanted to be there to cheer him on, no matter how much it hurt. Phichit and him had met in Detroit where they trained and eventually got the same coach. Phichit was the only fellow skater that Logan had ever really considered a true friend, on or off the ice. His caring Thai friend had done his best to keep Logan from retiring, but he could see what it was putting him through. 

Logan knew he was going to miss some things about skating, but his decision was final. When Phichit’s performance was over Logan made his way as fast as he could to meet him. He’d made a few mistakes but his jumps were wonderful and he’d picked himself up, never losing his momentum. 

“You did an excellent job!” Logan told his friend. “I’m proud of you Phichit, really.”

“Thanks Logan.” Phichit laughed. Logan handed his friend a small bundle of daisies, his favorite. “Lo, are you sure I can’t get you to stay? I-I know that it’s been tough but you're still so young, you can do so much.”

“I don’t wanna talk about that Phichit. I just, I don’t have much left for me here.” Logan sighed. “But you on the other hand! You’re full of talent and potential. I can’t wait to see you do so much more.”

“Oh come on.” Phichit looked away, embarrassed. 

“I’m serious. And now that I’m out, well, expect my mother to send you all sorts of gifts. She was texting me during your entire performance, she loved it.” Logan said, pulling out his phone. “Just read, if you thought I knew how to flatter you should learn where I get it from.”

Phichit took the phone with a smile and began reading the messages eagerly. He wasn’t much younger than Logan, but he sure acted like a little kid whenever he was praised. While Logan Looked around the room of skaters exiting the Detroit rink and crowds outside awaiting their favorites he couldn’t help but smile. This was something he hadn’t quite decided whether he missed or not. Logan was never a sociable person, so after he’d almost dropped off the grid he was unsurprised to find he hadn’t made that much of a mark. No matter what he did he would never have the impact on the world like Patton Nikiforov had. Still, that fact simply didn’t sit right with him.

“You did good I don’t understand why you’re sulking.” A voice said to Logan’s right. A voice that was familiar to Logan, but now, in a sort of bitter way. 

“Whatever.” A different person replied. 

Both had russian accents and Logan knew he had not mistaken what he’d heard. Sure enough Patton himself was walking beside a fellow skater. Logan couldn’t really help himself, he just stared. He’d seen Patton a myriad of times before, but it never meant Logan got used to him. Tall, pale, silver hair, bright electrifying blue eyes, shapely jaw, perfect lips, oh Logan had always been terrible at playing straight and Patton Nikiforov certainly had never made it easier.

“Your steps could use some work but I think that comes with strength training-”

“Oh my god who cares? I know what I did wrong, it's already over.” The other russain beside him groaned. “Could you quit nagging me, you’re not my dad.”

“Virgil shut it!” The coach that they’d been walking towards bellowed. “You are an ungrateful brat, don’t you dare talk to-”

Logan wasn’t listening anymore. He’d spaced out, no longer really knowing what his surroundings were, just that he was standing, that everything felt heavy. His feet were like cinder blocks and his legs couldn’t hold the rest of his body up. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Found himself removed from the rest of the world. In fact he’d been doing it a lot lately.

“Lo?” Phichit’s voice pulled him out of his stupor. “Uh, here’s your phone back.”

“Oh,” Logan finally pulled his eyes away from Patton, just as he thought his gaze had been met. But no, he must have imagined it. “Thanks.”

“You okay?” Phichit asked.

“Sorry, did you want a picture?” 

Logan turned around, and found yes indeed he had been right. Patton Nikiforov had caught him staring and asked him if he wanted a picture, whether it was a habit he’d picked up from years in the spotlight or whether it was to save Logan the embarrassment. Logan stepped back, he’d always wanted to meet Patton, talk to him, but something about this felt wrong. It felt so very wrong and Logan hesitated for one moment more before stalking forward, past Patton, past the moody kid, past the yelling coach, and past Phichit who was calling his name. 

He didn’t stop until he was in the bathroom, the red stalls seemed so tall once he’d entered one. It almost felt like they were growing, surrounding him, overwhelming his senses. This wasn’t the first time Logan had cried, in fact it was one of many times that he’d sat and cried his eyes out. It was familiar to him. Too familiar. His eyes burned as his tears fell and he tried wiping at his face but Logan’s soft cheeks only felt raw under his hands. He hissed from the pain and ran a hand through his hair instead. Pulling at it harshly. Logan had never understood when people talked about ‘crying so hard no sound comes out’ but in this past year he felt that phrase ring true, deep in his bones. 

“Logan?” Phichit had followed him, he was walking through the bathroom before stopping at Logan’s stall. “Hey are you okay?”

Logan knew if he tried to respond no sound other than pathetic cries would come out so he clamped his mouth shut. 

“Okay uhm, you really shouldn’t drink the water in here so I’m gonna go get you some and then we’re gonna get out of here. Don’t worry it’ll be okay.” And with that he was gone. Logan flinched a little when the door slammed shut and he cursed himself for doing so. 

He had never liked feeling so fragile, so insecure. It was something he had buried long ago and since his tremendous failure last season it had been let loose, left to encompass Logan’s being. As he began rocking back and forth, Logan’s stomach clenched in a torturous way. He heard the door squeak open once again and he covered his mouth, attempting to stifle any indication that he was crying. However when the pair of shoes stopped in front of his stall Logan knew he’d been caught. He just wasn’t sure who was there. Those were in no way Pichit’s shoes and he didn’t recognize them as anyone he knew who was there. He didn’t have too much time to figure out who they were however because one of the feet had apparently decided to kick Logan’s stall door aggressively. Logan was startled back and had to take several deep breaths before standing up tentatively and opening the door inward, facing this angry person-Logan all but hoped he wouldn’t kick Logan the way he had that door.

“Sorry I-” Logan stopped. 

It was a kid. Well not a kid kid. But now that Logan had a good view of his face he knew who he was. Virgil Plistesky, the junior grand prix gold medalist. The junior grand prix had been earlier in the evening and it didn’t shock Logan that many of the competitors stayed to watch the older group as their season came to a close. This kid though, Logan couldn’t stop hearing about. Like his fellow russain skater he was an outright prodigy. He was aggressive and had a distinct style, not to mention the huge fanbase of young girls that fawned over him with more ferocity than Logan could comprehend. He wasn’t exactly intimidating, he was short, skinny, almost unnaturally pale, and had blonde chin length hair that did nothing but make him look young. The expression he held however, was nothing short of a placid face masking petty unadulterated rage. 

“I’ll be competing in the senior division next year.” He said, practically snarling. He pointed a harsh finger at Logan’s face. “I’d rather not have to waste time watching your fat ass perform. So I came here to thank you for retiring.” 

Virgil moved his hand back, swishing his hair out of place just in time for Logan to see his bright green eye glint before being covered again. The other eye, a pale brown color, looked at Logan similarly. No matter how bland a look he tried to leave Logan with, his eyes revealed just how angry he was. Everyone’s eyes did.

“Loser.” Virgil whipped around, the bottom of his sweatshirt flying around to hit Logan in the stomach before he walked out. Something about his pace had changed, like he’d let a little weight off his shoulders. 

Logan didn’t know what to do. He was stunned for sure, no one had really spoken to him like that, let alone a teenager. Though he supposed he deserved it, he was rather easy to make fun of and teenagers weren’t entirely known for their compassion and empathy. Still, Logan had stopped crying, you’d expect those words to cut someone deep, ruin them even, all it did though was make Logan curious. Then it hit him.

“That poor kid.” Logan said to himself. “He just won the international junior grand prix and neither of his parents were here to see him.”

It was no wonder he was so upset. He’d simply needed to get frustration out, and as stated earlier Logan was easy to poke fun at. 

“Lo?” 

“Phichit?” Logan turned to see his friend carrying a water bottle and pretzels. 

“You-you’re okay?” He asked, heading toward Logan and offering him the water. 

“Yeah.” Logan said. 

. . . 1 . . . 

“Logan is that you?!” 

Oh how Logen wanted to run.

“I’d recognize those square-ass glasses anywhere!” Okukawa Minako, Logan’s former dance teacher and now close friend greeted him happily.

Logan walked toward her though every instinct told him to book it in the other direction. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, it was just that explaining to his biggest supporter that he was the most depressed he’d ever been wasn’t exactly a conversation he wanted to have. 

“Oh come on, give your aunty Minako a hug dammit!” She didn’t wait before pulling him into a bone crushing hug. Even with all the weight he’d gained her hug still felt like he was being squeezed to his limit. 

“It’s good to see you again Minako.” Logan said with a little difficulty. 

“You bet it is! God it’s been forever! Since you’ve been gone so much has happened.” She pulled back finally and stood in front of him, posing a little. “Yuki had her third kid, that one bathhouse closed, and I got even hotter!”

Logan laughed with her and the two began making their way out of the airport and to her car. 

“Everyone is so excited to see you Lolo.” She told him. “Your mom’s been making herself sick with all the worrying she’s doing over you.”

Logan didn’t say anything. One of the worst parts of this past year was knowing just how terribly his family must have been feeling during this time. That had been one of Logan’s main reasons for coming home at all, he didn’t want his family to worry over him any longer. And if he were with them more surely they’d know he was fine.

“You know Yuuko hasn’t stopped talking about you coming back today. You should go see her some time.” Minako said softly.

“I’m really tired Minako, I don’t know.”

“Yeah.” Minako sighed. “Just, ya know, try. I know it’s a lot right now and you’re probably nervous about your appointment coming up but if you can, please, just go see her. She’s giving you space cause we all know you need it, but she can’t wait for you to meet her girls.”

Logan nodded. He knew he’d try. Yuuko might as well be his sister at this point. Going to see her would probably make him happy, he just had to think of what he could possibly say. He was never the most eloquent of talkers. Thinkers yes, but translating his thoughts into words, no longer his specialty.

“How’s mom and dad been?” Logan asked. 

“Well.” She said, flipping on her blinker and making a right turn. “As well as they can be anyway. With all the bathhouses closing around town it makes sense that they’re a little worried. I think they’re the only one left.”

“So it’s the bathhouses that are worrying them?” Logan asked, full well knowing the answer. 

“No.” Minako’s hands fidgeted just a bit on the wheel before she sighed and stared forward. 

Logan never liked this. A year and half ago Logan’s younger brother Itsuki had died in a car accident. While Logan’s father was left paralyzed from the waist down, his brother had been taken from their family and his name had become almost taboo. Logan wished he could just say his brother’s name without it bringing his father or his mother to tears. Itsuki had been the most wonderful supporter through his skating career despite having no interest in the sport and when he died while Logan was in the middle of his season it broke him. Logan however didn’t like to blame his failures on his brother’s death. That felt wrong, dishonest even.Logan didn’t want to excuse his behavior on a tragedy, he wanted to pretend like it had never happened at all. Though that wasn’t exactly the right answer either, it certainly hurt less.

When they arrived at Logan’s parents’ home Minako and Logan hopped out, heading to the front door. Logan thought perhaps his own tentative behavior may have rubbed off on his friend. 

“Momma Lo your son is home!” Minako shouted with a smile. 

“Oh my baby!!” 

“Mother” Logan greeted 

Logan and his mother embraced each other. Her hugs were always the same. Always warm, always welcoming, never overwhelming. 

“Oh my dearest how I’ve missed you.” She cooed, fluffing his hair. “I made your favorite food to eat tonight and your room is all ready for you to move back in.”

“Thanks momma.” Logan smiled at her. 

“Oh don’t thank me, you thank your father when he gets home. Now I want my boy to go rest up, take the rest of the day to say hi to your friends and eat and sleep. I want you to do nothing more so tomorrow you’re all ready for your appointment and you can put all this sadness behind you.” She said simply.

“I love you.” Logan said, not really knowing what else to say. 

“I love you too. Now head to bed you must be so jet lagged.” She pulled back and started hurrying him off. “And you missy! You look wonderful!” 

“Oh thank you momma!” Minako laughed, giving Logan’s mother a kiss on the hand.

“I thought you’d be so much more bloated considering how much you’ve been drinking.” Logan could still hear his mother smiling as she said that and he hurried off, not wanting to know Minako’s reaction.

Logan made his way to his bedroom and placed his bags down at the foot of his bed before heading back down the hallway. When he entered the small room Logan wasted no time sitting on the pillow that had been placed in the center. He looked forward at the picture on the mantle. Itsuki, he was fifteen and he was smiling so widely as he held Patton, their family’s brown poodle. Logan lit the tall candles that surrounded the picture and sat back on his heels. 

You would hate me if you knew me now, Logan thought, you would never listen to an older brother like me. I just want to make you proud. How do I make you proud?

“So you came home eh?” 

“I did Mari.” Logan replied. He could smell the smoke of her cigarette and turned to see her leaning against the doorframe. 

“Good. It was getting real shitty without you around. No matter how depressed you are.” Mari gave him a wry smile. Logan’s sister was always blunt with him. Never surprising. Logan needed that right now. “Want a smoke?”

“No, I shouldn’t.” Logan shook his head. 

“C’mon, you and I used to smoke all the time as kids, you didn’t get addicted then, I think you can have a puff.” She gestured to him with her cigarette.

“That stuff kills you Mari.” Logan told her. 

“Hey, grandma Ami lived to be 103.” She rolled her eyes.

“She smoked?” Logan asked. 

“No she minded her own business.” Mari chuckled. 

It was Logan’s turn to roll his eyes, but he got up and walked toward his sister anyway. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been gone, I should’ve come home the second he-”

“No.” Mari stopped Logan. “You should have come home when you decided to quit. But you didn’t. And it’s painful to see what this past year has done to you.”

Logan looked away in guilt.

“But that doesn’t matter.” Mari gave him a sideways smile. “You’re here now aren’t you. Even if a piece of you is still on that ice, you’re here. And you’re getting better. All that matters now, is that you’re getting better. You should jump in the hotsprings before dinner, trust me you need it.”

Logan let the room be silent. He looked back at the picture of his brother, he was so young, and could have done so much more than Logan would ever dream of achieving. Logan had asked himself why it wasn’t him, why his brother was gone and he was still there. Asking the question again almost felt normal to him. He wanted to ask his sister if that was supposed to feel normal. He didn’t. 

“I think I’ll have that smoke now.” Logan said instead.

. . . 1 . . . 

Hasetsu Kyushu was an island town, mostly a tourist destination nowadays but it was a nice place to grow up nonetheless. The castle town was surrounded by beautiful waters and while the castle itself was no longer home to royals, it was still a marvelous sight to behold. Now with Logan’s family being the only ones to offer a hot springs stay Logan hoped his family would start making a lot more money. 

As it turned out, sitting in the hot springs to think was exactly what Logan had needed. Not only was he ready for the rest of the day, he knew what he was going to say to Yuuko once he saw her again, and he was finally relaxed enough to head into the common area, though it was just for a bit.

“With group two now finished skating we look at the scores and see-”

“Oh Logan, Logan, Logan,” Minako slurred her words just a bit as she watched the figure skating championship. “I wanted to go to this grand prix so bad, if only you’d kept at it! You could give me all their room numbers!”

“So you support me cause it makes it easy for you to hit on hot boys?” Logan asked as he was passing through.

“Hey now! Just cause it’s one of the reasons I support you, it’s not all the reasons!” She thrust her drink at him before pulling it back to sip.

Logan watched on the tv as the skaters were preparing themselves for the upcoming finale. Of course they were mostly focused on Patton. He hadn’t even put his skates on yet, he was just running through the top half of his routine but he looked so graceful doing it, it was hard to look away. Logan pulled himself out of the trance however, and left the room, Minako still rambling on about all the hot boys and other patrons getting thoroughly uncomfortable with it.

Logann stepped outside into the cold air, night was just beginning to set and buses weren’t still running. That didn’t matter however, it had been a long time since Logan had walked to the ice rink, he wanted to know what had changed. 

“Leaving already? I thought you wanted to be home.” Logan’s mother gave him a smile, she was carrying boxes in through the back door and Logan put his bag down to help her. 

“I’m just going to see Yuuko mom don’t worry.” Logan told her, lifting one of the boxes and walking it toward the others. 

“I don’t worry about you. I worry for you.” She told him softly. “I just want you to be happy baby, and I know what makes you happy. I’m just afraid that you don’t.”

“I guess I’m still trying to figure that out.” Logan offered. He thought he’d found what made him happy, but he must not have, afterall here he was. 

They were finished with the boxes and Logan grabbed his bag, waving goodbye to his mother and beginning his trek to the rink. Maybe figure skating wasn’t making him happy anymore, but he knew seeing Yuuko again like this would. As he jogged he found not much had really changed. Some of the trees were newly planted, there was a restaurant where Logan remembered a general store being, but he was sure the restaurant was nice. When Logan was little he’d always thought his home was one of the most beautiful places ever, and even with all his travelling he still thought it was truly a sight to behold. Even when it wasn’t.

Logan  reached the rink as it seemed the last of its guests were leaving. He went inside with a smile, he couldn’t wait to show her.

“Hello?” Logan called when he couldn’t find anyone at the desk.

“Sorry we’re closed for today! We open at eight am tomorrow though so-” Yuuko stepped in from her office holding a pair of skates. “Logan!”

“Hey Yuuko.” Logan chuckled as she practically launched herself across the counter to give him a hug. 

“Oh how’ve you been?!” Yuuko asked excitedly. 

“Alright.”

Yuuko gave him a look but didn’t press any further instead stepping back and searching for something. “You wanna skate right? I’m guessing no audience is sorta your thing right now. Go on!” She finally found what she was looking for and started leading him toward the rink, though he already knew. 

Yuuko had been the figure skater of the town ever since they were little. She was the one who’d helped get Logan into it in the first place. He remembered being a little boy trying out his skates for the first time, watching Yuuko as she danced across the ice, he wanted to be just as beautiful as her one day. She was very invested in Patton’s career when they were younger, she’d even shown him an article about Patton’s dog that inspired Logan to ask for a brown poodle nonstop until he and Itsuki got one. Logan laced up his skates quickly and hopped out on the ice. Yuuko standing on the other side with an encouraging smile. He handed her his glasses and gave her a small smile in return.

“I’ve been practicing this routine a lot.” Logan told her. 

Yuuko nodded, she had a careful smile.

Logan skated swiftly to the center of the ice, taking his beginning stance and breathing in one fast breath before letting his arms up and bringing them down gracefully around his head as he turned. Yuuko’s gasp told him that she recognized the set. He knew she would. Logan pushed himself forward, following his arm as it reached out, before he turned to his left and wrapped his arms around himself again. When he reached towards the sky once more he let himself drop to one knee and then fall a little to his side, using the momentum to pick himself up and swing his legs around, he went forward and back again in a figure eight motion before pushing himself up and spinning as many times as he could, it was supposed to be a quad but Logan wasn’t sure he’d gotten enough rotation, no matter, he landed wonderfully and spread his arms out skating back before turning 180 degrees and pushing off again. His arms once again taking a grateful place around him, following his movements with freedom. As he pushed his leg out a little behind him, Logan used that force to push himself up into a quadruple flip. This time he knew he’d made it. 

Logan reached his arms out in front of him as if to embrace someone as he skated back before turning once more and performing another jump and a series of ballerina like spins. When the beat came Logan let his arm down and spun himself in place, right let out making a perfect 90 degree angle, he held that for one more beat before dropping slowly down and then putting himself back up, his arms behind his back, still spinning in place when he let up one final time he used that motion to go back on his skate. When he went forward once more he was following his arms, reaching for something the music in his head was calling for, something the music told him he couldn’t have. He skated softly a little bit longer before leaping from one skate to another, then doing it again before falling into a sit-spin that lasted for a couple seconds before standing back up again and turning. 

This song had always been a somber one, Logan had never been fond of somber songs until he performed this one. As he did more graceful spins around the rink before once again attempting a quad. As he came back down Logan let his arms guide him, let his longing guide him. Then finally he propelled himself forward gaining enough speed to hop up and spin in the air, then dropping back down only to hop up once more and spin again. He pulled his arms back to his sides as he came down, and spun a bit before lifting them up and stretching out, spinning like a ballerina once again. He continued spinning forward and back, letting himself get wrapped up in the music only he could hear. After repeating his motions a few times he hopped up into a  triple lutz and then a triple flip. Now he stood before Yuuko, he reached his hands out and smiled at her before pulling himself back and into a quadruple toe loop and then a triple toe loop right after. 

Logan had done it, he finished his quads and now all that was left was his graceful spin that led him up into a few jumps before he spun with his arms above him one last time, bringing them down and crossing them, his head up in the air and his arms triumphant by his chin. The music ended. Logan could now only hear his intense breathing as he held his pose. He felt his cheeks growing hotter and hotter the longer he stood like that. From the side he could hear Yuuko breathing a little hard as well. Logan let his arms down and looked at her, he saw his friend with her hands covering her mouth as small tears pricked her eyes. 

“That was,” Yuuko slammed her hands down. “Incredible!! Oh my god you’re amazing Logan!! That was practically a perfect copy of Patton’s routine!!”

Logan skated toward her and smiled. 

“I thought you’d be too upset to skate again.”

“I was.” Logan admitted. “But I don’t know. My mother said she wants me to find what makes me happy, maybe I can get back the happiness that skating used to bring me. Remember copying all of his routines in the past? It had been so much fun for the two of us, I just wonder if I can find that again.”

“I know you will Logan, even if you think you won’t.” Yuuko told him, her hand softly rested on his. 

“Wow you got really fat!” 

Logan was startled, he hopped back a bit at the aggressive voice before seeing Yuuko’s annoyed expression. 

“You’re retiring?!”

“Have you really never had a girlfriend?!” 

Logan didn’t know who on Earth was asking him these questions but when he saw three little faces try to poke above the barrier he rolled his eyes and skated back over to them. 

“Logan, my girls, Axel, Lutz, and Loop.” Yuuko said, her exhaustion came back quickly. “They’ve grown quite a bit since you’ve been gone.”

“They sure have.” Logan said, looking down at them. 

“They’re getting rude.” Yuuko pouted a bit. “They’re sort of groupies now though.”

“They’re your biggest fans.” Logan recognized that voice. Nishigori, Yuuko’s husband, walked over to the group and gave Logan a pat on the head. “You can come by the rink any time to practice!”

“I think I might take you up on that.” Logan said. 

“Yay!” One of the triplets giggled.

“You got this Logan come on you can’t quit now!” Another told him forcefully. 

. . . 1 . . . 

“Ugh!” Logan was awakened by a rather gruff voice at his bedroom door, the light had barely shown through his windows. “Logan you were out late last night I didn’t get to see you!”

“Go away Minako I need to sleep!” Logan shouted at his door.

“Nooooo!” She yelled back. “Let me in!”

“If I don’t get the optimal amount of sleep I will be distrubed all day now please leave me alone!”

“You didn’t even see who the winner of the grand prix was! Ya know, the winner of the season you didn’t qualify for!” Minako said through the small crack between his door and its frame. 

“Minako please go away.” Logan begged. 

“It was your boyfriend Patton!” She cooed. 

“Yeah no shit! That’s kind of how he works!” Logan yelled. “Winner of everything.”

“You know sometimes,” Logan heard Minako slump against his door. “I can’t tell if you have a crush on him or you hate him!”

Logan didn’t give that a response. He knew the answer. And sober Minako did too. Well, he supposed if he let Minako in his room and she saw all of his posters of Patton she might know, but that wasn’t about to happen. 

“Maybe you just really wanna hate-fuck him ya know?”

“Minako! Please I will do anything if you just go away!” Logan sat up in his bed and yelled at the door. 

“Become a skater again!” 

“Anything but that!” 

“Boooooo!” She shouted. He could hear her continuing to boo him from the other side of the door until the sound faded and was replaced with a small snoring. 

She’s asleep. Logan realized, laying back down in his bed. He didn’t get back to his state of sleep from before, but he did spend a nice relaxing time staring around at his posters. Maybe he was never going to see Patton again, and he knew that was perfectly fine. He just didn’t know why on Earth that lump in his throat was aching so bad at the thought. 

When Logan’s alarm stirred him he finally got out of bed and started getting himself ready for the day. He’d promised his father he’d help around the bathhouse, and one look out the window told him it had snowed-strange but not completely insane-and shovelling was going to be his main priority. After bundling himself up well Logan opened the door and was surprised when Minako’s body slammed into the floor, until he remembered earlier that morning. 

“Ow! That really hurt!” She complained. 

“That’s what you get for waking me up so early.” Logan told her. 

“Hey I have a  hangover too.” She said, rubbing her head. 

“Oh who could have guessed that would happen?” Logan said in mock surprise. 

“Ha ha, whatever.” She crossed her arms. “You look like a character in a disney original Christmas movie so shut up.”

“For your information I’m dressed like this because it snowed and someone needs to do work around here.”

“For your information,” She mimicked Logan terribly. “I don’t care. Get me an aspirin please?”

“Maybe.” Logan said, walking past her. 

“Ooo wait, change that to an orange soda with crushed aspirin around the rim of the glass.” 

“Definitely not.” Logan gave her a little wave and continued walking into the main area.

The snow had piled high against the doors and Logan had to tromp through it to get to the shack where the shovels were stored. Once he retrieved it he started shovelling along the path from the shack to his home and then made it halfway to the door that led the family into the bathhouse when he was summoned by his friend yet again. 

“Logan Katsuki get your ass over here now!!! What the hell is this!?!” She screeched. 

Logan turned to Minako who was racing toward him, her phone out.

“What’s what?” Logan asked. 

Minako stopped in front of him, shoving the phone to his face and pressing the center of the screen. Logan watched with wide, startled eyes as he saw himself from yesterday, skating at the rink for Yuuko. He watched himself move for a second longer in shock before snatching the phone from Minako and scrolling through all the media she had. 

“You thought you could go viral without me you shit weasel!?! She shouted. “You said you were done skating what the hell!!”

“I-I am!! I don’t know how this happened!! I didn’t do this!!”

“What do you mean you didn’t do this! That’s you skating right there! Getting millions of likes and shares!” 

“I know that Minako, I mean I didn’t post this-wait did you say millions?” Logan deadpanned. 

“Yes! Can’t you read smart ass? That right there says millions.”

“In a few hours?” Logan asked, startled. 

“I’m sorry do you not know how insane the people that watch figure skating are?!”

“It’s been a while okay!”

“Arghhh!” She huffed in frustration. “I can’t believe you!! How on Earth did you even manage this!? Oh wait, hang on I’m getting a call.”

Logan watched as Minako plucked the phone out of his hand before he could read the caller ID. She answered it and listened for a few seconds before sighing and handing the phone to Logan. 

“I’m so sorry!!” Yuuko’s voice could be heard over the phone. 

“What?” Logan asked. 

“I didn’t know the girls had taken a video and when I woke up this morning my twitter had blown up! They posted the video they took of you skating last night! I had no idea!” She said apologetically. 

“Well that’s one of my questions answered.” Logan sighed. 

“Logan!!”

Oh what is it now, he thought, exhaustion already setting in and the day had barely started. 

“C’mere baby I need you to help me with this.” His mother yelled from the bath house. 

“Coming!” Logan said. 

“Lo I swear we’re gonna take it down!” Yuuko assured him. 

“As if! I bet there’s already been like fifty fancams of him made!” Minako cackled. “Hold on.” She grabbed her phone back again and said a goodbye to Yuuko before typing away quickly. 

Logan shuddered as he made his way to his mom. Once inside the warm bath house he took his large coat off and walked to his mother at the front desk. 

“Oh dear I need you to read this amount for me.” 

“Mom just get reader’s glasses.” Logan sighed. 

“No! Unlike you, glasses make me look old.” She snapped. 

“They do not.”

“Yes they do! You look fetching in glasses baby, but I just look like a grandma!” 

“You could be a grandma.” Logan told her. 

“Please, your sister smokes and you’re gay and hate kids. I could never be a grandma.” She said, moving aside so Logan could punch in the numbers. 

“I don’t hate kids.” Logan defended. 

“The only small thing that you would ever take care of is a dog! And dogs do not count as kids.” His mother told him. “Logan do you remember telling me when you were a teenager that you would drop-kick a baby?”

“Mom that was one time and I never actually did it.”

“No but you thought about it! I could see it in your eyes!” She said, waving her hands spookily. “You were also going through your emo phase. Remember that?”

“Yes, yes I do.” Logan sighed. 

He stepped out of the way of his mom and walked to the other side of the counter, looking at the newspaper until he heard a dog’s barking to his right. 

“Oh speaking of which!” She laughed. 

Logan turned to see a brown poodle bounding its way toward him until it knocked Logan on his but and placed its paws on his chest, licking Logan’s face excitedly. 

“There’s a man here with a dog! He’s going to be staying with us for a while now.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” Logan said, finally getting the dog to stop licking him and sitting up. “You look so familiar.”

“He looks just like our old Patty don’t he!” Logan’s dad yelled from his place at the table, his dad’s friends also sat around, all of them appeared to be playing a card game. Logan always thought it strange that these old men bet so early. 

“Yeah.” Logan said, grabbing the sides of the dog’s face and looking at it. “But, it’s something else. Wait a minute!”

“Now you’ll find this funny,” Logan’s mom started up again. “Her owner looks just like that man on the posters you have in your room.”

“Wha-what?!” Logan exclaimed. 

“Yes yes, he’s in the hot springs now if you’d like to go see for yourself.”

Logan had never bolted up so fast in his life. The blood rushed to his head painfully but he found he didn’t quite care. His legs moved him through the men’s shower area, though he slipped quite a bit on the wet floors, and Logan threw open the doors to the hot spring so fast he was momentarily worried he’d broken something. When Logan’s face hit the crisp cold he whipped at his glasses trying his hardest to get the fog off, and when he looked over, he swore he was still dreaming. This wasn’t happening. 

“Pa-Patton?” Logan stammered. “What?”

“Hello Logan.” The man stood, his half-naked body came out of the water and he extended an arm in Logan’s direction. “Starting today, I’ll be your new coach. You’re going to get to the Grand Prix final. And you’re going to win gold.”

“What!?!”

Patton Nikiforov, the man of a million surprises, had just done it once again. And possibly broken Logan in the process.

[caranfindel]

Initial reaction 15.14: Last Holiday

Well, friends, here we go. Are you ready?

(I'm not. But here we go anyway.)

THEN: Cuthbert Sinclair. (Really? That's a deep cut.) Abbadon. Larry Ganem. (And S8 Sam, who is fucking gorgeous.) Oh, and God and Jack and all that stuff, in case you forgot.

NOW: Sam's in the library, doing research, and is distracted by some ominous noises. Ominous in a machinery-breaking-down kind of way, not in a monstery kind of way. Enter Dean, wearing an apron. "What's with the apron," asks Sam, "because it's only protecting your jeans, not the Red Shirt of Bad Decisions." At least that's how it sounded in my head. I mean, who only gets dirty from the waist down when they're cooking? (Well, that lends itself to all kinds of double entendres, doesn't it?) Or maybe Sam doesn't say that because he hopes the RSoBD will be destroyed in a tragic burger accident.

Seriously, Dean, that shirt is precious and you need to protect it, no matter what Sam thinks.

Dean complains that the pilot light keeps going out, and the hot water is unsatisfactory (and we know how he feels about his showers), and Sam reminds him that if the bunker was ever state-of-the-art, it was in the 50s. They exposition for us that Jack is hiding in his room. "Can you blame him?" Sam says. "His soul is back. Everything is hitting him. Everything he's done..." And Sam continues, but I'm sorry, I'm stuck here, thinking about re-souled Sam with everything hitting him. {sob} However, neither of the Winchesters seem to be thinking about this, so. Carry on.

The guys remind us that if Jack kills God, he'll have to kill Amara as well. Which I assume means Amara isn't going to get killed? Just saying. As much as I talk about foreshadowing (too much, please stop!) this show teases us with anti-foreshadowing with equal fervor. And Cas is apparently looking for Amara? What does he hope to accomplish? "Excuse me, but we're killing your brother, so you have to die too. Condolences. But if we follow canon - not that there's any reason to assume we will - you have to die at about the same time. So I need you to come with me while we figure out where he is and how to kill him."

There's another ominous noise, and Dean says "Oh, come on. Now the air?" I hope he means the air conditioning, and not the air purifying/exchange/whatever that Ketch shut off when he locked them in the bunker back in... whatever the BMoL season was. Hey, remember when the guys were locked in the bunker and they were running out of air and they wore single layers and goggles and got all sweaty and depressed? Because I've kind of never gotten over it. But I digress.

Sam is surprised that Dean expects them to fix it. "We've fought the devil," Dean says. "I've killed Hitler. I think we can handle a few old pipes." Surely this isn't the first time they've had to do some repairs around the place.

Deep within the bowels of the bunker, Sam reads some ancient instructions and complains that they can't just call a plumber. Dean refers to the bunker as the most "secretive, secure supernatural hideout in the world," which makes me laugh, because remember when Larry Ganem told Sam it was secure against all manner of evil? What a joke. Is there anything or anyone evil who hasn't been able to get into the bunker? My house is more secure against evil than the bunker, and all I have for protection is a circle of termite bait and a couple of ancient dogs.

They locate the "bunker grid control center thing thingy" (oh Sam, I adore you), complete with reset and standby buttons. Standby is glowing. Dean hypothesizes that it will work just like his computer, which needs to be shut down when it gets too many popups (I suspect you need some virus protection, dear boy), and slams down the reset button before Sam can stop him. Everything goes dark, but then starts up again, so Dean considers it a success. He calls himself "Meat Man" again and heads upstairs to finish cooking his burgers.

Time jump. Dean goes into his room, carrying a burger and a beer, and is astonished to find a middle-aged woman there. She's wearing a plaid wool skirt I owned in the 80s and is folding his underwear. "Oh, hello dear!" she says cheerfully. Dean yells for Sam.

Gosh, Dean, it's like this place isn't secretive or secure at all.

The horrified Shaggy and Scooby boxers are ~chef's kiss.~ Well done, someone.

Title card!

Library. The woman tuts at dust and wonders how they've lived in "this filth," which reminds me of an awesome Tumblr post which theorizes that faeries actually keep the bunker clean, and only first-born son Dean can see them. "Lady, who the hell are you," Dean demands, and is chastized for his language. He calls for Sam again, and gives him the story of how he walked into his room and found her "folding my underthings."

She explains that her actual name is indecipherable in "your tongue," but "Mr. Ganem called me _Mrs. Butters."_She's a wood nymph. And she's not in the woods, nymphing (thank you Dean) because she has more important things to do - she lives in the bunker and takes care of the Men of Letters. I.e., "my boys. My family."

Dean invites her to leave, but this is her home, and she's been here since "before the war." And she thinks it's 1958. "Well, I hate to tell you," Dean says, "but it's 2020." YES, DEAN, WE ALL FEEL THAT WAY ABOUT 2020. Mrs. Butters is horrified to learn all her boys are dead. And for some reason Dean tells her they were murdered by a demon instead of saying old age, or they went to a farm upstate, or whatever. She spots a photo of the last group of MoL, which we've never noticed before, and realizes that this is why they never came back from that last ceremony. When they didn't return, she decided to put the bunker - and herself - in standby mode.

But she also realizes that if these boys are like those boys, it's been a while since they had a home-cooked meal or celebrated a holiday. Or washed their clothes, as she makes a face. That's uncalled for, lady. We all know that Sam Winchester smells like rosemary and mint no matter how long it's been since he did laundry. Sam explains that they're not really "holiday people," which rings true coming from the guy who didn't want to celebrate Christmas and hates Halloween. (And only had one real Thanksgiving in his life and his brother still holds that against him but NO I'M NOT BITTER.)

Dean is more interested in what "standby mode" is. Mrs. Butters says the MoL used her magic to give the bunker "extra oomph," and snaps her fingers. Voila, extra oomph! There's some humming noises, the telescope alcove lights up (!), and an alarm sounds. Because the map table is actually a monster radar, and it indicates a nest of vampires 50 miles away. And gives the address. WELL.

{Sidebar: Why didn't the BMoL know the AMoL had this capability? Why was their focus on "you're not as good as us" instead of "you used to be as good as us; what happened?" Discuss.}

Do I care? No. Because look at these precious perplexed faces.

Dean's ready to go (and it earns him another stern warning about his language), but Sam wonders if they can trust her. "Look at her," Dean says. And I agree. She's a dumpy middle aged woman in a brown plaid wool skirt. She's basically me. And who could be more trustworthy, more concerned with the Winchesters' health and safety, than me?

Um. Anyway.

Not to change the subject or anything, but the pretty is strong tonight, y'all.

Dean suggests they give her the benefit of the doubt, and if it turns out she's not what she says she is, "then we deal with it." The music turns ominous. "What about Jack?" Sam asks.

Oh, Jack is actually in this episode? I thought maybe they were explaining his absence earlier, like they always do with Cas. (Because I always cover the guest star credits on first watch. Spoilers.) But it turns out Jack is actually with us tonight. Sitting on his bed, looking depressed. Dean knocks on his door and tells him they're going out, and there's a "probably harmless" guest making snickerdoodles. This sparks Jack's interest. It would work on me, too. I love snickerdoodles.

Impala. Sam's not sure it's a good idea to keep Mrs. Butters around, even if she is legit. He's concerned about Jack, but Dean brushes him off.

He'll be fine. I mean, I've been through worse and look at me. I'm the picture of health.

Ignoring your trauma doesn't make you healthy.

Sure it does.

Oh, Sam. Just listen to yourself. No, I mean, please. Listen to yourself.

Sam feels like Jack is hiding something, and I wish there were someone around who had also done awful things while un-souled, and remembered what it felt like to deal with that afterward. Someone sympathetic and empathetic. With soft puppy dog eyes and beautiful hair. Oh well. I guess Jack will just have to go unburden himself onto whoever he comes across.

Bunker. Mrs. Butters brings Jack a sandwich. He doesn't open the door, but she leaves it for him.

Vampire nest. A couple of vampires are watching Dark Shadows (so meta!) and drinking blood stolen from a blood bank. So, are these, like, maybe not bad vampires? Maybe they don't kill people? We'll never know, because Sam and Dean walk in and cut off their heads. And come home to... Christmas. Lights are strung all over, jazzy Christmas music is playing, there's a huge decorated tree and gifts, and Mrs. Butters has a tray of homemade cookies. "We are so keeping her," Dean says. Sam looks unsure.

Kitchen. Mrs. Butters tells Sam that since he and Dean have been so busy killing monsters, they haven't had a chance to celebrate anything. But I can barely pay attention to a single word that comes out of the woman's mouth because LOOK AT SAM IN THIS T-SHIRT. LOOK AT IT.

Single-layer Sam is something to celebrate.

She insists that Sam "enjoy the world you're fighting for" (which is never gonna happen, lady) and excitedly talks about all the holidays she wants to make up for. Then Jack enters, and her mood changes instantly. Even Jack's adorable little dorky wave doesn't melt her. "What are you?" she asks coldly.

Enter Dean, wearing a real-life version of the purple "sleeping robe" and nightcap he wore in "Scoobynatural." OH MY GAWD. I really hope this was a surprise for the rest of the cast.

And I also hope he's not really going commando underneath... or do I?

Mrs. Butters is distracted enough to decide that if the boys vouch for Jack, he must be okay. She hands Jack a smoothie but tells Dean he must have tomato juice due to his cholesterol. And she pronounces it the Patrick Stewart way, not the Mark Hammil way.

Before Dean can drink his to-mah-toh juice, the monster radar alarm goes off, and the guys rush off to prepare for a hunt. For future reference, when you leave the kitchen, Sam's room is to the right and Dean's is to the left. We next see the guys fully dressed, receiving sack lunches from Mrs. Butters. Dean's sandwich has the crusts cut off. {Sidebar: Sam never had someone to cut the crusts off his sandwich. Hold me. And also, how many reminders am I going to have of "Dark Side of the Moon" tonight?} She tells Sam the monster is a lamia, the blessed knives are in the trunk, and she just waxed the car so Dean needs to take it easy.

As the guys rush off, she turns to Jack and his smoothie mustache. "Well. What shall we do with you?"

NOTHING GOOD, I'M SURE.

As Jack helps wash dishes, he fills her in. Lucifer was his father, Mary was his family and his friend but he killed her. Mrs. Butters is very supportive, telling him "life gives us second chances and it's our obligation to hold onto them." And she presents him with another smoothie.

Montage! Thanksgiving dinner. More hunts. More sack lunches. Halloween (and even Sam seems to enjoy it). Fourth of July. (Yet another "Dark Side of the Moon" shoutout). A hunt requiring the grenade launcher and Thor's hammer from that episode whose title I can't remember! Sam's birthday! By the way, none of these holiday celebrations include Cas.

Mmmm. So worthy.

Time jump. Jack catches Mrs. Butters looking at something in a file cabinet and being very sneaky about it. He requests another smoothie to get her out of the room, and then finds what she was looking at. It's her MoL file, including a reel of film. The film shows Cuthbert Sinclar talking about File 5150 (aw, RIP Eddie Van Halen). The subject was actually recovered from the Thule (aw, "Everybody Hates Hitler") and we learn that wood nymphs "react violently when home or family are threatened." Sinclair says he "conducted a series of experiments designed to show this strange and magical being of our mission" and convinced her to join the MoL family. Huh. Wonder how he did that. Then Mrs. Butters demonstrates her devotion by literally ripping the head off a Thule. "Son of a bitch," says Jack, because he's been spending a lot of time with Dean.

Jack runs into the war room looking for Sam (and yes, I'm petty enough to love that he looks to Sam first), who is off getting ready for a "big date." Huh. Okay. Mrs. Butters offers him soup, but then Sam walks in, giving off some pretty strong Hot Professor Sam vibes (hello again, "Everybody Hates Hitler") with a sweater vest and tie, and I am thrilled with this development.

Thrilled, I tell you.

Mrs. Butters tells him he looks wonderful but offers to trim his hair (back off, lady, I will cut you) and Dean enters in time to make a weak Abercrombie and Bitch joke. Sam tells him Eileen's in town, and he's taking her out to dinner and "some privacy, something."

"Heavy on the something," Dean says, and we're going to talk about that later, I promise. But for now, Mrs. Butters tells Sam to take one of the old cars from the garage. Finally. Can we just make this permanent? Can Sam have his own fucking car, please? She produces a bouquet of roses from nowhere and sends him on his adorably anxious way. Then she tells Dean she found a broken TV in one of the rooms and fixed it. "The Dean Cave?" Dean is off like a shot. I wonder if that's the TV he smashed with a hammer, and if so, how did she fix it? (Also, hello again, "Scoobynatural.")

Jack is still unsettled. He follows her into the dungeon and tells her he saw the film. {Sidebar: The film showed her killing one of their enemies because she's protective of the MoL. Is it really that awful? Discuss.} "And how did that make you feel?" she asks. "You relished his pain, didn't you, Jack?" Oh, turns out that was a setup - she wanted Jack to see the video, so she could confirm that he was a bloodthirsty little monster. And do the Winchesters know how powerful he has become?

They should be scared of you!

I would never hurt them.

You have before, haven't you? Have you ever thought that Sam and Dean keep you in here, closed in, secure, because they're scared you'll do to someone else what you did to their mother?

Well, I mean. Now he has. She flings Jack into the wall. He tries to use the glowy eyes on her, but he finds himself powerless. She snaps the magic handcuffs on him. "You didn't think those smoothies were for your health, did you? Oh, I've learned a few things while I was doing the dusting around here. A little yarrow root, some ground jawbone for texture, and voila! You are as weak as a puppy."

Wait. That's all it took? To power down a nephilim, who is canonically more powerful than his archangel parent? So when the Winchesters were trying to take down Lucifer and AU Michael, all they needed was some yarrow root and ground jawbone? And the answers were all right here in the bunker?

(Sigh. Don't think about it. That way lies madness.)

(Also, canon! Ha ha ha ha.)

She tells Jack she's making the bunker safe again and getting rid of all the monsters. Like you, sweetness. Aw. Sad Jack.

Kitchen. Dean comes in looking for a snack and is immediately presented with some kind of grilled sandwich. She tells him to eat it, because he'll need his strength when they go kill Jack. Aw, that's the sound of a heart breaking.

Dean is disappointed that their good thing has gone "full Nurse Ratchet," and glances longingly at the sandwich he has to leave behind. He takes Mrs. B's knife and suggests they let Jack go and pretend this never happened. The only logical conclusion is that Dean is under Jack's spell, so he gets tossed into the dungeon too. Oh, cool. Does that mean Sam gets to be the hero and save them?

Spoiler alert: Ha ha ha ha no.

Hello, Demon Dean. That's the only other time we've seen this expression, isn't it? {Or is it simply the only one branded onto my brain? Discuss.)

Map table room. Sam comes in and is met by Mrs. B. "Bit past your curfew, Samuel," she says curtly. He's no longer wearing his tie. Hmm. So, let's talk about the Eileen situation. Isn't it weird that (1) Dean didn't know she was in town, and (b) she's not spending the night at the bunker? Wouldn't you think she'd be a house guest? I mean, she's not "in town" for the heck of it. The only thing that would bring her to Lebanon would be Sam. So why isn't she here seeing Sam? Is she just driving through on her way somewhere else? She can't even spend one night in the bunker? And the tie? If Sam removed his tie, doesn't that strongly suggest Dean was right about the "something" going on? Did they do it in the back of the old car? At a hotel? I have questions, friends.

Anyway. Sam asks where Jack and Dean are, since it's late and they should be sitting around the map table waiting for him to come home and not, like, in bed or anything. "Well, I have some good news, and some bad news."

HERE IS SOME GOOD NEWS INDEED.

Honestly, I like this look better without the tie.

Time jump.

So, Jack has taken over Dean's mind. And they're both downstairs, right now, ready to be killed by us.

You were always the smart one, yes.

Sam, who is the smart one, says he's going to go to his room and get his gun, and he'll meet her in the dungeon. "And we can... get to the killing." I LOVE HIM. {Sidebar: I have watched his fake relieved sigh several times and it makes me smile every time.} Once he’s safe in his room, Sam calls Dean and starts to tell him about Mrs. Butters.

Went psycho, we know.

Why didn't you call me?

Well, I mean I, you know, I figured you were "practicing your sign language."

And that's more important than coming to save you?

...

Dean?

It's been a while for you, man, you know?

Aw. Always the supportive big brother. {Sidebar: As long as Sam is doing something Dean thinks Sam should be doing. But I digress.}

{Sidebar: I love Dean, y'all know I do. Warts and all. He'd be boring if he were perfect.}

Dean suggests Sam shoot her, although they don't know if a gun will kill her because neither of them got around to researching it because they were distracted by Christmas and Thanksgiving and breakfast on Boxing Day. That's how you get killed, guys. {Sidebar: How much do I love that Sam calls it Boxing Day? For my Brit friends, that's not really a thing in the U.S., although it's gradually starting to become one. And I love it.}

Dean then suggests that putting the bunker in standby mode might put Mrs. B in suspended animation again. Meanwhile, Jack and Dean are stuck in the dungeon. Jack suggests using his power to remove the cuffs, but Dean points out that the power surge would catch Chuck's attention. But what power surge? Jack already tried to use his power against Mrs. B and it turned out he didn't have any.

Jack suspects there are other reasons Dean doesn't want him to use his power, and suddenly decides it's time for a deep conversation.

Do you still think I'm a monster? Okay, I'm just gonna say this, okay? Just get it out there. Jack, I'm trying, okay? I really am. But what you did, that's not easy to forget. Now, I was angry with you. For a while. And maybe I still am a little bit, okay? But I'm not gonna let some evil Mary Poppins take you out. You understand?

Okay. Good talk.

Sam shows up in the library looking for Mrs. B, and trying to hide his gun, as if he hadn't told her he was going to his room specifically to retrieve said gun. But Mrs. B realizes he's trying to kill her, and freezes him. She's not mad, she's just disappointed. She tosses him into a chair and keeps him there with the power of her mind, not with rope or anything, in case you were wondering. {Oh, hello, "Funeralia" and "The Trap."} She tells him that when the MoL first found her, she didn't realize how important they were. But Mr. Cuthbert explained it to her. And since Sam is her favorite, she's not going to give up on him. Yet. She's going help Sam the same way Mr. Cuthbert helped her understand. Well, that doesn't sound ominous at all.

He's my favorite too! And I also think he needs to be hurt! See, she's basically me!

Dungeon. Dean is going to try to chop Jack's handcuffs off.

You're sure this is gonna work?

Let's say yes.

Aw. That was a perfect opportunity to bring back "maybe 90% sure." And it doesn't work - Jack is sent flying into a glassed-in cabinet that I've never seen in the dungeon before. Dean says "dang it" before remembering that he can use his big boy words, which is adorable. And then he gets an idea.

Upstairs. Mrs. B tries to convince Sam that Jack is a monster because he's Lucifer's son. Sam, of course, takes the opposite side of this debate. "Now, Mr. Cuthbert taught me that pain can be a wonderful teacher. Let's see if it can't correct your ways."

I SWEAR, Y'ALL, SHE IS ME.

Sam could sneer at her and say "I've been tortured by the devil himself; what can you do to me?" but we don't have that version of Sam any more. Mrs. B, without tools, yanks off one of his fingernails. {Oh, hello "A Very Supernatural Christmas!"}

Meanwhile, downstairs, Dean has a different theory on pain. It's just "weakness leaving the body," he tells Jack. We get a little "on three" bit, where he actually does the thing on one. And the thing is that he tries to cut Jack's handcuffs again, but this time Jack is strategically placed in front of the dungeon door. So when he's thrown back by the blast, he ends up breaking the door down.

Upstairs. Sam's been relieved of even more fingernails.

Downstairs. Dean takes a hammer (!) and smashes the reset button. Why doesn't he just push it with his hand? I mean, sure, we get the hammer, and the red lights and warning klaxon, and all of that turns me into Pavlov's dog {Hello, "Soul Survivor"}. But still. Seems unnecessary.

Upstairs. Mrs. B seems to be gone, and Dean bends over like he's untying Sam's wrist. But Sam's wrists aren't tied to anything, so. I got nothin'.

Downstairs. The runes that seem to hold Mrs. B in stasis light up, but do not stay lit. Well, that can't be good. And then the bunker grid control center thing thingy starts shaking and springs a leak. Ooops. Here she comes, complete with glowy green eyes.

Upstairs. Dean finishes untying Sam from the chair he wasn't tied to, and remarks on how gross his tortured hand is. Mrs. B shows up, yells that they've all been very bad, and flings them across the room. She's sure Sam will thank her someday for killing Jack, because it's so important to kill monsters and keep the MoL safe. It's why she couldn't go back to her forest. Sam explains to her that Mr. Cuthbert tortured her and used her, and Dean tells her Jack is going to save the world. Oh, okay then. The regular lights turn back on and Mrs. B tearfully says she misses the MoL so much.

Aftermath. Mrs. B heals Sam's hand and apologizes and all is immediately forgotten and once again, Sam gets to forgive his torturer and turn the other cheek. Yay! Sam, what was it you said earlier?

Gif stolen from @michaeldean

The guys send Mrs. B back to the woods, but first they have this conversation:

Sadly, without my magic, the bunker will revert to standby mode, so. Ah well, things were getting too easy anyway, you know? Who needs a monster radar? Or whatever that telescope thing is? It's an interdimensional geoscope. It's a what? I looked in it earlier; I didn't see anything. Oh. Well that's not good.

Holy crap, you guys. Interdimensional. It let the MoL look at the alternate worlds. And now you can't see anything because all of the alternate worlds have been destroyed. Gotta admit, this is an excellent little twist.

Jack presents Mrs. B with the photo of the MoL. "Oh look," she says. "The man who tortured me and kept me from my home, right here, front and center." Well, no, she doesn't. But I do.

Mrs. Butters gives them some last instruction. "Dean, eat your vegetables. And Sam, cut your hair. And Jack, go save the world." Well, I'm in favor of one or two of those things.

Try to tell me I'm wrong. Just try.

After-aftermath. Jack tells Sam that he doesn't know if he can kill God, since he was sidelined by a wood nymph "because I was stupid." He asks if Sam thinks he can do it.

"Jack, you're the only who can." No pressure.

Dean shows up with a truly awful-looking birthday cake for Jack. "I made it myself. Obviously." But Jack is thrilled because it's from Dean, and it means Dean loves him and has forgiven him, until the plot requires otherwise. He makes a wish and blows out his single candle. Fade to black.

So! There were parts of this that were simply marvelous. There were parts that were kind of dumb. There were parts that would have made me very angry if I weren't so tired and jaded. But the good parts were darn good, and the pretty was dialed up to 11, and we all know I'm a sucker for a pretty episode. And there was NO B PLOT. AT ALL. Thank you baby Jesus.

And let’s just refuse to consider the possibility that these were, in fact, their last holidays. Thanks.

Now I get to see what you thought about it. And, as always, please help me stay unspoiled for future episodes, including episode titles and casting info. {smooches}

[acedesigns]

Precious [Good Omens: Aziraphale X Reader]

Word Count: 4225

Warnings: Alcohol mention, sexual harassment mention, minimal editing, politics, death mention

A/N: Woot, this is my 100th fanfic post for Good Omens. This was heavily inspired by my time running for political office.

--

Politics had always made him a bit squeamish. He has seen time and time again the death that it can cause. If two leaders didn’t get along, then citizens would be killed. It was no wonder politics was basically a nest squirming with demons. That was why, despite his dislike for it, Aziraphale found himself wandering around a political event, keeping an eye on demons that weren’t in his arrangement.

Everyone was gathering in the auditorium. They each had a voter card with their precinct number, voting district, and name. The political party they were in didn’t matter, they were all in the same party, after all. And while he didn’t necessarily agree with everything this party did, they were certainly better than the conservatives.

The session was already fully underway. Now, the party was trying to make sure every position had someone running. A list was projected onto the screen for what positions were still vacant and its basic description. There was a section for city council. He looked around at the crowd, wondering if anyone would volunteer when the time came. One by one, the leader of the group went down the list. Then, almost immediately after she said city council, a voice shouted, “I’ll do it!”

He looked over and saw you stand up in the auditorium. You held your head high and shoulder back as you made your way down the steps and towards the stage. He was shocked to see such a young individual volunteer to run for office.

When you made it to the stage, you exchanged words with the leader, giving her your name. She then spoke into the microphone and handed it off to you for an improvisational speech.

“Hello, my name is [Y/N], and I am running for city council,” you spoke with such confidence that it appeared you were already a well-seasoned politician. “I am honored to have this privilege in connecting with you today. It is my goal to also make sure that we connect our amazing city to the ample amount of options available to us. We can connect our power grid to clean, renewable resources. No longer will we have to rely on dirty, Earth-killing factories. We can connect all of our citizens to high-speed networks. Our citizens will be able to call for help, work on school projects, and search for jobs with this network. We can connect our most vulnerable communities to the resources they need to survive. As a queer individual, I know the struggles we go through in feeling accepted.”

You paused as the audience erupted in cheers at you mentioning you being queer. Aziraphale found himself smiling at the warm reception you were receiving. He began clapping along with the rest of the crowd. Once it quieted down, you continued, “But I cannot do this alone. Together, we must connect with our community, gather support, and get out to the polls later this year! My name is [Y/N] and I am running for city council.”

You bowed slightly and waved as the crowd grew louder. It was the loudest they’ve been thus far. Aziraphale watched as you made your way off stage and sat back in the chair you originally came from. He tried to sense if there was any demonic intervention going on, given with the near-perfect speech you gave, but there was nothing. Throughout the rest of the event, he kept an eye on you just to be sure.

He stood up once everyone was dismissed and made his way over to you. He was curious as to what would drive you to run for office, especially at the age where individuals weren’t too keen on politics.

You were speaking with some other individuals. Given your more reserved body posture, he could tell you didn’t know the people. They shook your hand and took a selfie with you before thanking you and leaving. You sighed slightly and wiped your brow with the back of your hand. It was only then, he noticed you looked a sickly pale.

“Are you alright?” he asked as he approached you.

You looked at him and nodded but stumbled while standing so slightly. “I-I uh, I am going to the hospital after I’m done here.”

“Goodness!” Aziraphale eyes widened in alarm. “Do you need someone to take you there?”

You held a hand up to your mouth and turned away from him. For a moment, he thought you were going to be sick. For a moment, you thought you were going to be, too. Then, you turned back to him, after having seemingly swallowed down the vomit before nodding your head sheepishly. “Yes, probably.”

“Just one moment! Let me call my friend and he can take us,” Aziraphale hesitated before he miracled a cellphone in his pocket and dialed Crowley’s friend. He spoke quickly in the phone before he hung up. “He’ll be here soon. Do you want to sit down?”

You nodded and staggered over to a nearby seat. “Thanks,” you grumbled and sat up straight when you noticed other people looking. “Sorry, I should be more professional.”

“Professional?” Aziraphale chuckled as he made sure you were comfortable. “If you’re going to the hospital, I’d say I’m amazed you’re still concerned over what others are thinking. May I ask what’s wrong?”

“Food poisoning,” you grunted and wiped your brow once more, the nausea was making you feel hot. “I’ve had it for a couple of weeks, now.”

“And you came here?” Aziraphale was stunned at how you held yourself on stage while being so sick.

“I had to,” you mumbled.

“And why’s that?”

You looked up at him and sighed. “This city is so broken. None of the other politicians are doing anything about it. They’re all just being bought. I was so angry when I figured I’d fix it myself if no one else would.”

“That’s very admirable and brave.”

You chuckled lightly. “Brave is just another word for stupid.”

“Hopeful, but not stupid,” he said when he felt his phone vibrate. “He’s here. Let’s get you to the doctor, shall we?”

--

“Are you sure your people haven’t tempted them with anything, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked while he was getting ready to attend one of your political events.

“Positive,” Crowley hummed while lounging on Aziraphale’s couch. “The only ones that would have would have been Hastur or Ligur, and they haven’t been here for a while. ‘Course, that’s not to say that they won’t try something.”

“Yes, then I shall keep an eye on them!” Aziraphale straightened his bow-tie and glanced in the mirror.

Crowley smirked as the angel was fretting over his appearance. “To make sure they don’t get tempted or for your own personal reasons?”

“Personal reasons?” Aziraphale turned to the demon with a stunned expression. “What sort of personal reasons would I have?”

“I’d say you fancy them,” Crowley said smugly. “I’d say you have a crush on them!”

Aziraphale cheeks were tinted red. “I do not have a crush on them!” He turned back towards the mirror and fixed his hair before applying some cologne. “I simply enjoy their company, is all.” Crowley snorted. “And that is all! Now, if you’ll excuse me. I must get going.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale out of the bookshop. As Aziraphale was locking up, Crowley started to walk away and yelled, “Enjoy your date!”

--

You were at the event, and you were already dreading being there. You glanced around nervously while trying to keep a polite smile on your face. Someone that had been harassing you was going to be there. You honestly hoped he wouldn’t show up, but you knew he would.

“[Y/N], my dear! How are you?” You jumped and turned before relaxing at who it was.

“I’m doing well, Aziraphale. How are you?” you asked with a smile that was no longer forced.

“Tip-top!” Aziraphale grinned. “Are you ready for tonight? You always ace your speeches!”

You laughed lightly. “I wouldn’t say that, but thank you.”

“There they are!” a voice called from behind you. You stiffened and swallowed down some fear. Aziraphale frowned at the sudden change in your mood. “[Y/N]! It’s me!”

You slowly turned and the corners of your mouth twitched as you tried to force yourself to smile. “Hello, Richard.”

“It’s so nice to see you,” he said while looking you up and down. He stepped forward and opened his arms out wide.

Aziraphale stepped forward. “I’m afraid [Y/N] has actually injured themselves, so hugging is painful for them right now.”

You glanced at Aziraphale before smoothly nodding and following along with his lie. “Yes, I pulled a muscle. Sorry.”

Richard frowned while trying to decide if he wanted to force you to hug him anyway. “Alright. Why don’t we get a drink before this thing starts? There’s some beer.”

“No thank you,” you said with a tone that said you were trying to be polite, but he could die for all you cared. You turned away from the man that was making you skin crawl and towards Aziraphale. “How is your bookshop doing?”

"I only read comic books,” the man said and tried to force himself between you and Aziraphale.

Aziraphale gave him an incredulous look before looking back at you. “Doing quite well! I procured the most fascinating book a few days ago. I’ll have to show you the next time you stop by!”

“We should go together, [Y/N],” the man butted in once more. “It’ll be a date.”

Aziraphale glanced down to your left hand that was clenching into a fist. Your knuckles were turning white. Your nostrils flared as you tried to take in some deep breaths to calm yourself. With a tight smile, you looked at Richard. “I’m too busy.”

Richard shrugged, “Find some time, then.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Aziraphale finally had it. “But I’m afraid that they declined already and are simply too polite to straight up tell you to beat it. However, with them running for political office, they cannot afford to be what could be considered rude. Though, with your behavior, I would hardly consider it rude if they did tell you to bugger off.”

Richard turned towards you with a scowl. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that, [Y/N]?”

“No, he’s right,” you snapped and glared over at Richard. “Take the hint.”

Richard’s scowl darkened. “Why won’t you go out with me? It’s just one date. We’ll just go to the bar.”

“Why? So you can try to get me drunk and take advantage of me? No. I said no. Accept it. I don’t owe you anything. You’re not even in my voting district.” You grabbed Aziraphale by the arm and dragged him away from a stewing Richard. “I’m sorry about that, Aziraphale.”

"Don’t be,” Aziraphale puffed and straightened his jacket. “If we weren’t at a political event, I would have said some stronger things! Perhaps even cursed!”

Laughter bubbled out of you and tears welled up in your eyes at the idea of the cheery man actually cursing someone out. You leaned against Aziraphale to keep yourself propped upright. Aziraphale chuckled with a soft smile. Then, he paused. His cheeks warmed. In his mind, he did actually curse. Crowley was right.

--

The bell to the bookshop rang. Aziraphale glanced up from a book he was reading and automatically felt his heart quicken. He watched as you softly closed the door behind you and turned towards him. You gave him a small smile.

“Mind if I hang out here for a bit?” you asked. “I need a break.”

“Of course not!” Aziraphale closed his book and put it back where he found it. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please.”

Aziraphale nodded and motioned for you to follow him. He put the kettle on and prepared the tea just the way you liked it. “What is it that you need a break from, [Y/N]?”

You sat down on the couch and rolled your head back so you were staring at the ceiling. “My opponent attacked me on social media. She said I was too childish because I still live with my parents. I can’t afford to move out and my dad has that heart issue, so I don’t know how much longer he’ll be around for.”

Aziraphale frowned and nodded. “That’s completely understandable. And one living with one’s parents does not say anything about their maturity level.”

“Yeah,” you hummed. With a sigh, you continued, “I was ready for her to attack me. I have more campaign contributions than her and am garnering more support than her. But there was just…like…This little voice in my head tempting me to attack her back and say these awful things. I had to just take a break and clear my head, you know?”

Aziraphale froze. He glanced over at you with a thoughtful look. Then, the phone started ringing. “Excuse me,” Aziraphale apologized and picked up the receiver already having an idea of who was calling. “Hello?”

“Aziraphale, it’s me,” Crowley’s voice sounded on the other line.

“Crowley.”

“They’ve targeted them,” Crowley warned. “Hastur tried to tempt them earlier. It didn’t work, but he might try again.”

“Yes, I’m already well aware of that,” Aziraphale mumbled and turned to face you while you started to play with a loose string on your cardigan. “Is there a way to stop it from happening?”

“You know as much as me, angel. Just try to balance it out with miracles.”

“Right. Thank you, Crowley.” He hung up the phone just in time for the kettle to start whistling. He quickly made his way over towards it and began to pour the hot water out into two mugs.

“How’s Crowley?”

“Hmm? Oh, fine, fine. He was just telling me about something that happened to him. Nothing, really.” He made his way over with a mug of tea. “Here you are, my dear.” He sat down next to you, opting to not sit in his chair as usual. “You know, I was thinking. Perhaps you could put a positive spin on how your opponent attacked you. Maybe say why it’s a good thing you’re a young candidate. It’s not a bad thing. You have fresh ideas that no one has ever had! You understand how the future the world is heading in better than anyone.”

You took a sip of the tea, it somehow being the perfect temperature after just boiling. For a moment or two, you simply pondered over what Aziraphale had said. Then, you dug out your phone and started typing away. “That’s a good idea. Thank you.”

Aziraphale smiled with a certain gleam in his eyes before taking a drink of his own beverage.

--

There was a death in your family and you were absolutely torn up about it. You had spent the entire night crying. When you woke up that morning, you told yourself you weren’t allowed to cry. You had a political event to attend. If your opponent caught wind that you were a wreck, she’d only attack you for it.

With a slow exhale, you got out of your car and walked towards the building you’d be giving the same old speech in. Aziraphale was already there. He looked at you with a sad smile.

“How are you doing?” he asked and greeted you with a warm hug.

“I want to cry,” you croaked and clung onto him. He was the only thing keeping you grounded at that moment.

“It’s alright to cry, my dear.”

“Not when there are people here,” you reminded yourself more than him and pulled away. “I can’t cry right now.”

He watched you and nodded. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I have to do.”

“Alright. How about after this we go back to my shop so you can decompress?”

You looked down at your feet and nodded. “I’d like that.”

Aziraphale watched as you interacted with people. He stayed close in case you needed him for comfort or to get you out of a conversation. Though, you didn’t. You remained strong. Sure, your responses might have been shorter, but you managed to smile politely.

Finally, the even was over. You made your way towards Aziraphale. He offered his arm out towards you which you gladly took. He led both of you towards the bookshop. It was a silent walk; you didn’t really have that much to say. Aziraphale allowed you the time to get more acquainted with his thoughts. Though, the moment you made it in the bookshop and he locked the door, you collapsed onto the ground.

Aziraphale hurried towards you and wrapped you up in his arms. Tears poured out. You bawled and clung onto him for dear life. “I want her back,” you wailed. “I want her back!”

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale hushed and rocked you back and forth.

"I just want to wake up. This can’t be real.”

You ended up crying yourself to sleep in his arms.

--

There was about one month of the election season left. Since the first couple of months of the campaign, you had gone from being extremely sick from food poisoning, being sexually harassed by random guys (that was still going on), losing a loved one, being sick just about every week to sitting in Aziraphale’s bookshop. You sat with your feet tucked underneath you on the couch. A hot mug of tea was in your hands. There was also a blanket around your shoulders that Aziraphale had placed there. Aziraphale was busy helping a customer.

Though, there was something nagging at you. You couldn’t help but think that so many of the people you had become acquainted with, perhaps even friends with, were just using you. It was eating away at you. You felt that after the election they’d all just leave you. With a sigh, you put your mug down on a coaster on the end table and stood from the couch.

Aziraphale had just finished convincing a customer to leave without a book. He pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance at almost losing something so valuable to him. Then, he felt a sudden weight hit his side. He glanced down and smiled slightly seeing you had just headbutted him.

“What was that for?” he asked and still watched you as your head didn’t move away from him. You grumbled to yourself. “Sorry?”

You pushed yourself off of him and looked up at him with a slightly guilty and embarrassed look. “I show affection through headbutts.”

Aziraphale chuckled with a light blush. “So I am worthy of your affection?”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “It’s a very high honor, you know?”

“It certainly is.”

“I…” you started and paused as you tried to gather your words. “I’ve been having some thoughts.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows bunched together in concern. “What kind of thoughts?”

“Are you going to not want to talk to me after the election?” you asked quietly and bit your lip. You refused to make eye contact with him.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. He held his mouth open in shock. “No, of course not! Did I do something to make you think I would?”

You shook your head. “No. I just…I can’t help thinking that people won’t want anything to do with me when this is all over.”

Aziraphale frowned. It sounded like the work of a demon. With a deep breath, Aziraphale took your hand. “I promise I won’t do that, [Y/N]. You are far too precious to me.”

Your eyes darted up to meet his. A blush slowly formed on your face. You felt your heart skip a beat. A warmth started to spread from your chest through the rest of your body. It was a warmth that made you feel giddy, excited, but also calm. Your thoughts slowly started to wonder if it was love that you were feeling.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” you murmured softly. “Can I hug you?”

Aziraphale nodded with a light chuckle. A blush of his own started to form as he held you to him tightly. He lightly inhaled your scent, allowing him this one moment to be selfish.

--

You were holding a mental health seminar. There was a crisis happening in the world where people tended to stigmatize mental illnesses. It wasn’t right and it was costing lives. And although you knew you wouldn’t win this election, you thought that you could perhaps make a difference. So you invited mental health professionals to the seminar to discuss what mental illness is, what contributes to it, and how to treat it.

“I’m so proud of you, my dear,” Aziraphale greeted you with a hug after the seminar had ended.

“Thank you,” you whispered and shyly looked to the side.

“Really, you are making a tremendous difference,” he spoke so sure of himself. “I am so, so very proud of you.” He took a hold of both of your hands and swung it back and forth with a soft smile on his face.

You just barely kept yourself from crying at the overwhelming emotions that filled your heart. Instead, you laughed as his arms swung faster. The warmth was back. You were definitely in love with him.

--

About a week after the seminar, Aziraphale had called you. He sounded scared. Immediately, you dropped what you were doing and rushed to his bookshop. When you opened the door, you heard him sniffling in the backroom. You ran towards him. He was sitting in a chair, with his face in his hands.

"Aziraphale, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” you asked and knelt down in front of him.

Aziraphale sat up and rubbed his eyes. He looked at you with a heartbroken frown. His eyes were red and puffy. His breathing stuttered every so often as he tried to collect himself.

“I have to be honest with you,” Aziraphale spoke quietly. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t know how, but now I realize I’ve been far too selfish.”

“Tell me what?” You were starting to panic. Was he sick? Was he dying?

“I understand if you don’t believe me. But I have proof if you need it. The truth is,” he paused and another sob escaped him. “I don’t want to lose you,” he gasped out and rubbed his eyes again before breaking down.

“Lose me? You’re not going to lose me,” you comforted and wrapped your arms around him. “I promise you won’t lose me.”

Aziraphale buried his face in the crook of your neck. He stayed there in your arms until he calmed down. He pulled away and took a deep breath. White wings shot out from his back and folded in. “I’m an angel,” he said suddenly.

You blinked and looked at him in shock. He looked absolutely terrified and broken. You reached your hand up towards his face. He flinched and clenched his eyes shut. Slowly, you cupped his cheek and rubbed away his tears with your thumb.

"You’re not going to lose me,” you promised.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and looked at you with wonder. “I’m not?”

"Of course not,” you hummed with a smile. “You are far too precious to me.”

--

It was the night of the election. You had reluctantly gone to a watch party. You knew you weren’t going to win, but your supporters wanted you to show up. Still, you had set up an escape. You had plans with Aziraphale that you would leave the party for.

After thanking everyone for their support, you quickly dashed out of the bar. You got in your car and drove through London to get to where you were meeting him.  He said he wanted you to meet him at St James’ Park. When you parked, you made your way towards the gazebo. Though, you paused when you got there.

There was a trail of candles and flower petals leading off the path. You slowly followed it with your heart hammering. A blush had already started to form on your face and burned hotter than the candles. When you got to the end, you looked up and saw Aziraphale standing there with a nervous look. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. On the ground next to him, was a picnic basket. You walked up to him with your eyebrows raised.

“What’s this all about?” you asked quietly.

Aziraphale adjusted his bowtie. “Well, I wanted to celebrate all of your hard work and how much you have accomplished this year.” He took a deep breath. “I also wanted to tell you just how important you are to me.”

You sniffled and wiped away a tear that had started to fall. “Oh?” You were finally right in front of him.

He took one of your hand and lovingly rubbed his thumb in circles. “I am amazed by how strong, intelligent, and caring you are. Getting to know you has been one of the best things I have ever experienced. And…And I realized that I have fallen in love with you. I love you.”

You laughed and threw your arms around his neck. He immediately wrapped both of his arms around your waist and held you in an embrace. “I love you,” you hiccupped through your tears of joy.

[recurring-polynya]

Hey, remember that metapost I did a week ago, when I joked that I was charmed by the idea of Renji and Rukia getting together immediately after the Soul Society arc and making out in the waiting room of the Coordinated Relief Station while waiting for Byakuya to get out of surgery?

Uh, welp, some fanfic fell out.

Fast Times at the Coordinated Relief Station [AO3][FF.net] (leave me some kudo/favs, you animals!)

Quality Assurance by @diademchiofthetripod

Rated T for salty language and make-outs.

Everything about this is just extremely disrespectful to Byakuya.

Rukia glanced at the clock over the nurse’s station. 1:17p.m. 

A little later than planned, but that was Ichigo's fault, as usual. She had wanted to check in with him and make sure he was actually resting and not destroying any beloved cultural institutions before she got tied up for the afternoon. He was not, as it happens, resting. He was mostly shouting, as was his way, but at least he seemed to be staying in his bed down in the recovery ward. She felt she had left him in good hands, between Chad and Orihime. Uryuu was there, too, although he appeared to be the proximate cause of the shouting.

“Has my brother been taken into surgery, yet?” Rukia asked the harried nurse on duty.

The nurse flipped through some papers. “Who is your brother?”

“Kuchiki Byakuya? Captain of the Sixth?”

The nurse didn’t seem to care whether he was the Soul King himself. She unhurriedly located the correct chart. “Yes. He was deemed well enough to have the surgery today, and they just took him in. It should be two hours at least. If you’d like to stay, go down to Waiting Area 4C.” She pointed down the hallway without looking up.

Byakuya’s head retainer, Seike, had offered to come down and wait, in case anything went amiss during the surgery, but Rukia had insisted on coming herself. It was probably the first time she had insisted on anything since she had come to live with the Kuchikis. Byakuya had been injured saving her, though, and this was something she wanted to do. To her surprise, Seike had seemed almost...charmed by her insistence.

Was it only two days ago?

Two days ago that Rukia had nearly been executed. Two days ago that Ichigo and then her captain and then Renji and then Ichigo again had come to her rescue. Two days ago that Captain Aizen had betrayed Soul Society and escaped with two other captains in tow. Two days ago that Byakuya had taken a blade through the heart meant to take her life. 

Byakuya’s condition had been dicey the first day, Captain Unohana hovering over him casting kaidou after kaidou, hesitant to do anything more disruptive that might tip him toward the worse. He had stabilized somewhat the next day, and Unohana had declared that, unless he took a turn overnight, he was well enough to undergo surgery to repair the damage and get him back on the real road to recovery. 

Brother will be okay, Rukia kept reminding herself as she walked down the hallway, eyes scanning the hallways for Waiting Area 4C. He’s so strong, he can survive anything. This was a bit of a new feeling. She was used to thinking of her brother as "intimidating" or sometimes "downright terrifying." Being proud of him was a nice change.

Ah, there it was, the placard proclaiming "4C". But as she slid open the door, she was surprised to find the room wasn’t empty. The first thing she noticed was a pair of long legs in black hakama stretched halfway across the little waiting area. The face of the other visitor was hidden behind a copy of the Bulletin.

“Oh, pardon me,” Rukia said, ducking head. “I didn’t realize anyone was--”

“Rukia?”

 1:28pm

Rukia blinked as the copy of the newspaper lowered to reveal a face that had once been more familiar than her own, now a little older and bearing significantly more tattoos than it did in her memories. “Renji? What are you doing here?”

Her old friend rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, a familiar gesture that flooded her heart with nostalgia. “Uh, same as you, I imagine. Waitin’ around to hear how the captain’s surgery goes.”

Rukia twisted her hands together. “Oh. That’s nice of you.”

“I’m his lieutenant,” Renji scoffed, as if this explained everything. 

“You’re still going to work for him?” she asked. “After all that happened?”

Renji pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Was plannin’ on it. If he’ll have me.”

Rukia glanced around the room. It really wasn’t very big. There were two banks of seats, almost like couches, on either side of the room, with a low table against the wall opposite the door, covered in out-of-date periodicals. She could either sit next to Renji or opposite him. His outstretched legs reached most of the way across the room. Self-consciously, he pulled them in, sitting up a little straighter. Gingerly, she sat down facing him. 

Why was this more awkward without a set of cell bars separating them?

He folded his newspaper and tucked it neatly in his lap. 

“How're you feeling?”

“Me?” she asked, surprised. “Fine. Tired, I guess.” Hanatarou had been by to see her the day before, and said that it looked like her body was finally starting to replenish her depleted reiryoku, which was a good sign, but it was also somewhat exhausting. “How about you? You were, uh, kinda busted up the last time I saw you.”

Renji laughed. “No kidding! All flesh wounds, though. I got to go home yesterday morning. It’s been over twenty-four hours now since I’ve been in a fight, it’s like being on vacation.” He paused thoughtfully. "At least until Captain Zaraki hears I made bankai. Then I'm really in for it."

Rukia swallowed. He'd made bankai, something only the most elite shinigami could do, and was sitting here talking about it as though it barely rated notice. Perhaps that was true, compared to everything else that had happened, but surely it was important to him. Abarai Renji, a boy of her acquaintance who once got a newt stuck in own hair, was now, strictly speaking, qualified to become a captain of the Gotei 13. She'd always known he'd be good at this.

She should say something. He helped save her life. He’d risked his career and his life for her. He’d...said some things, as well.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said cheerfully, as though he had merely strained a muscle instead of being slashed into large chunks by Aizen just a few hours after being shredded into small chunks by her own brother. Flesh wounds, indeed. "And congratulations on bankai. I'm sure no one's made the proper fuss you deserve over it, but it's a big deal." She wanted to say more. "I'm proud of you", maybe? But what right did she have, being proud of someone she wouldn't even talk to for forty years?

He looked at her curiously. "Thanks."

Rukia swallowed.  “I didn’t mean to interrupt, you certainly don’t need to entertain me.”

He looked at her, confused, then remembered his newspaper. “I’d rather talk to just about anyone than read a three-week old newspaper. And you’re not just anyone.”

Rukia’s cheeks colored. “I’ve been in jail. I don’t have anything interesting to talk about." She drummed her fingers on her knee. "You could do the logic puzzle.”

Renji laughed again. “I’m sh-- crap at those things.”

“Don’t!” she snapped.

“Huh?” He was taken aback by her sudden vehemence.

“Who do you think I am, Abarai Renji, that you would need to watch your language around me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The lady of the Kuchikis maybe. The sister of my captain.”

“I may be those things, but I was your friend long before that, I don’t recall you ever holding back for the sake of my delicate ears. I would much prefer you continued to afford me the same respect.”

Renji’s mouth quirked up in a pleased smile. “Arright, m’lady. I’m shit at logic puzzles. You happy now, asshole?”

“They’re very simple if you have any brains at all.” She got up from her seat and sat down next to him instead, poking at his newspaper insistently. “Come on. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

 1:52pm

"There! Complete! I told you these were easy, when one is capable of basic reasoning."

She had spent a good ten minutes leaning over his arm and trying to explain how you used the numbers on the borders of the grid to determine which blocks should be blackened and which left blank, before realizing that he wasn't actually listening, just making approving noises and funny faces at her. Then she had stolen his newspaper and done it herself.

He scrutinized her work.

"What is that, a rabbit riding a skateboard?"

"It's very cute, I think. The author of the puzzle obviously has some real artistic talent."

"I think you gave up on trying to solve it and just drew a rabbit riding a skateboard."

Rukia gasped and made a shocked face. This was, of course, exactly what she had done. No one could solve these things, they were impossible. "Well, there's no solution in the back, so we'll never know shall we?" She tossed the newspaper to the side.

"Mmm," Renji agreed noncommittally.

Rukia sucked her teeth and put her hands in her lap. It occurred to her that she was sitting rather close to him.

She wondered if she should move back to the other side of the room.

There was a clock on the wall above the magazine table. They both looked at it at the same time.

 1:58pm

“Do you carry a spirit phone?” Renji asked, out of the blue.

Rukia looked back at him. “What? Of course I do. Why?”

“Well, if you didn’t want to wait around, you could just give me your number, and I could let you know if we get any news.”   

Rukia snorted. “He’s my brother and he got injured saving me. I know I’m not actually helping in any way, but it… I want to do this." She frowned. "You could go and I could let you know.”

He shook his head. “Nah, same. Also, he confiscated my keys, so I can’t get into the office, it’s not like I could get any work done.”

“He confiscated your keys?”

“Yeah. He kinda fired me. I don’t think he got any of the paperwork filled out, though, so I’m hoping he’ll either reconsider or forget about it. It was on the basis that I started a fight with Kurosaki Ichigo and lost and I feel like he doesn’t have a lot of high ground there.”

“Was this before or after he tried to kill you?” Rukia still hadn’t gotten most of the details of what Renji went through leading up to her rescue, although she'd heard about that part from Hanatarou. She supposed she could ask. They were going to be here for a while.

“Before, actually.” Renji sighed. “I probably should give you my number, in any case.”

“Why?” Rukia asked, suspicious of his motives.

“‘Cause your brother doesn’t carry a phone, so if you need to get a message to him when we’re out in the field, you can send it through me.”

“He doesn’t?” Now that he mentioned it, she had certainly never seen Byakuya with one. He also tended to use Hell Butterflies for even the most trivial communications.

“You didn’t know that?”

“He doesn’t talk to me. At least he didn’t used to. Things might be different now.”

“Mmm,” Renji agreed. He started reciting numbers.

“Hold on, hold on!” Rukia exclaimed, pulling out her phone. She had already started making a new contact before realizing that she hadn’t actually agreed to this. Not that she objected, his rationale made perfect sense. It just wasn't right, Renji tricking her into doing things. She glared at him over the top of her phone.

“1-1-3-8,” he repeated the last few digits, his face a portrait of innocence.

“Okay, I’m going to text you now, so you have mine. In case you need to reach him when he’s at home.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“He would love it. ‘Oh, my devoted lieutenant, Text Messaging me in his Leisure Hours,’” Rukia intoned over her typing.

Renji rolled his eyes, and glanced down at his phone. He blinked.

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” she had sent.

He looked back up at her and smiled. “No problem.”

 2:10pm

“They have tea down by the nurses’ station. I’m gonna go get some. You want me to get you one?”

“Yeah, sure,” Rukia agreed. 

She watched him stretch his back as he left, accompanied by an array of painful-sounding pops and cracks. Served him right for being so stupidly tall.

She wondered if he had ever learned how to make tea properly.

 2:16pm

“One tea bag makes one cup. They’re portioned that way.”

“We're not poor anymore, Rukia. We don't have to live like that.”

When he had returned, Renji had sat back down on the other side of the room, so they were facing each other once again. He took a sip of his tea, even though Rukia knew it was still brutally hot. 

“No. That’s not how it works," she tried once more. "More tea bags do not make it better.”

“If it’s bad, it’s because they don’t keep the water hot enough. Maybe you should leave the bags in a little longer to make up for it.”

“That’s not-- you know what? It’s fine. Thanks for the tea. It’s great.” Rukia blew on hers, icing her breath just a bit before she took a sip. It tasted the way a shakkahou smelled. This was exactly like being in jail again.

 2:24pm

Renji appeared to be checking his texts. “So, what are the rules for texting you?” he asked without looking up. “Byakuya pass-through only, or can I hit you up when I’m looking for someone to go out for a drink with?”

“I don’t go out much.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

He was no longer looking at his phone, but watching her with a look that she had never seen on his face before. It was appreciative, but nonchalant, with just a hint of Rukongai swagger. Was he… flirting with her? Impossible. The Renji of her youth had zero game. Had he acquired game? It had been forty years, he must have been doing something with his time besides lifting weights and getting tattooed.

“You can text me if you want. I can’t promise I’ll text back. I’ll tell you if you start getting obnoxious.”

“Deal.” He thought for a moment. “You aren’t seeing anyone these days, are you?”

She almost choked. “Me? No. Not even a little bit.” The only people who were interested in her were thirsty nobles trying to get into her brother’s good graces and Ichigo’s gross friend Keigo. She stared back at Renji, and very blatantly looked him up and down, keeping a stony scowl on her face the whole time. He’d always been good-looking growing up, but now he was downright hot. He’d finally filled out all that height with muscle, accented by those little glimpses of his tats you got around the edges of his shihakushou. “How ‘bout you?” she threw back.

He seemed to find all this very amusing. “Naw, not right now.”

“Why not?” She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. “Look at you. Any girl in the Gotei would go out with you. Half the guys, too.”

He shrugged, and gave her a look that positively smoldered. “There’s someone I’m a little hung up on.”

 2:26pm

Rukia fisted her hands into the cloth of her kimono. “What the hell, Abarai Renji?”

He blinked and sat up abruptly.

“You are flirting with me, aren't you? Or is this just how you are with everyone, now? With all your… your… tallness and good delts and… and... strong jawline?”

"I dunno! You've been flirting with me this whole time!"

"What?! I most certainly have not!"

"Are you kidding?" He started ticking off on his fingers. "You showed off at something you aren't actually good at and then bragged about it, you invaded my personal space, and you criticized me when I did something nice for you. Just now, you checked me out in a weirdly aggressive way. I mean, that's obviously not how normal people flirt, but you might've well handed me a note that says, 'Do you like me? Circle yes or no.'"

Rukia took a deep breath and screwed up her face.

Renji leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “And before you start stammering out excuses, I'll just tell you: Yes. I. Do.”

They sat in a hospital waiting area, across from one another, leaning forward, in absolute silence. 

 2:28pm

“Um. Ummm,” Rukia managed. 

This wasn’t a surprise, not exactly. She could pretend that they hadn't said those things to each other as he carried her away from Soukyoku Hill, that she hadn't ended up crying all over his kosode like a dumb baby. That she hadn't noticed the hitch in his voice when he promised, to her and her alone, that he would never let her go, right before he tightened his hand on his sword and used what he thought was his last breath to scream his defiance at Aizen. These things had happened though, and they both knew it.

That's how things went between Renji and Rukia. They had a long history of keeping their feelings jarred up and left to ferment deep in the basements of their souls. Sometimes, one of them would say something just a little too heartfelt or there would be some physical contact that lasted just a bit too long and they would ignore it and go on with their lives , because what else were you supposed to do?

Talk about it, apparently, although Rukia didn't recall agreeing to this.

“I wasn’t real honest with you about my intentions when we were younger,” Renji was saying. “And I don’t think it turned out too good for either of us. Maybe this is a good chance to start things off on a different foot. I think you’re real cute and cool as hell and I can’t imagine anything better than being with you, if that’s something you’d be up for.”

Rukia’s mouth fell open. “You...and me?” she managed, trying to sound skeptical. It was a little bit difficult with her idiot brain flailing, 'He thinks I'm cute?' in the background.

“We used to be a pretty incredible team.”

Well, there was no denying that. 

“Things are different now. You’re a vice captain. I’m, uh, noble. I guess.”

“You guess,” he echoed, rolling his eyes.

“How would it even work?” she grumbled.

Renji shrugged. “I’ve thought about that. I’ve thought about that a lot, as it happens, over the years. It’s intractable. Nearly impossible. And in the last week, a human kid busted his way through Squad 11, your brother, and one of the most powerful magical artifacts in Soul Society. I committed treason. Three captains defected to Hueco Mundo. So my definition of 'impossible' has shifted a little, and uptight people bitchin’ about who I smooch doesn't cut it anymore.”

“Oh, you want to smooch now?”

Renji leaned back, stretching his arms up and resting his head on his interlaced fingers. "You act like you've never smooched anyone before, which I know ain't true. There's no reason to make a big deal outta this. It's not like I suggested we start coming up with combination zanpakutou attacks, I just asked if you'd like to get a maybe-more-than-friendly drink sometime."

"That's bullshit," Rukia snapped.

 2:32pm

"Excuse me?" Renji replied coolly.

"I know you, Abarai Renji! You don't even know what my sword does and you've thought about combo attacks, admit it!"

His ears turned a little bit red, and Rukia was pleased to finally have him on the ropes. "I do so! I read your file when I got sent to arrest you and your zanpakutou sounds rad as hell, do you blame me?"

"That's--" she started to exclaim, "--kind of sweet, actually."

Renji smiled hopefully.

"Ichigo says your bankai's big enough that a person could reasonably ride around on it?"

"Yeah, he was too busy to try, though, so you can have first crack if you want it."

"Stop trying to sucker me in!" Rukia protested, but it was clear from her voice that her heart wasn't quite in it.

"I'm not," replied, leaning back on his hands again and closing his eyes. "I just like you. When you're done being defensive and decide if you like me back or not, let me know, okay?"

Rukia was silent.

She considered some facts.

Fact #1: Young Renji, at his best, was one of the most excellent people she had ever had the privilege of knowing. 

Fact #2: Renji, in his Academy days, had been a real shit.

Fact #3: Rukia had recently had occasion to spend a bunch of time with some teens. It turned out that a lot of teens were real shits. Some teens even managed to exist as both a real shit and an excellent person at the same time.

Fact #4: Shithead Academy Rukia would have been absolutely over the moon if Shithead Academy Renji had told her he liked her. Utterly ecstatic. 

Fact #5: Vice-Captain Renji seemed to be a marked improvement over Shithead Academy Renji.

Fact #6: Rukia had spent a long time closing herself off from other people. Frankly, it had sucked.

Fact #7: Some jerks, some real shits, had recently wormed their way past her defenses and tricked her into being friends with them. Frankly, it had ruled.

Maybe it was time to let someone in again. Maybe Renji was a really good someone to start with.

 2:35 pm

Rukia stood up and strode across the room, which took all of four steps, even for her.

"Listen up, dumbass," she announced. 

He cracked open one eye.

"Here's how it is: I might like you. I haven't decided yet. You're kinda hot, and I respect that. You used to be a pretty good guy once in a while, so I'm giving you a chance, but that doesn't mean you get a free ride on past good behavior, you got that?"

He'd opened the other eye by this time, and they'd both gone a bit wide. He dropped his arms to his sides and sat up a bit straighter.

"None of this is because you rescued me, is that clear? You didn't even rescue me, really, more like ruined what was shaping up to be a pretty good execution."

"Technically, Ichigo ruined your execution."

"That's absolutely correct, and I expect you to stick to that." She put one hand down on either side of his head, looming down over him as much as her four feet, nine-and-a-half inches would allow. "We are absolutely coming up with combo attacks, starting immediately. When we fight Aizen, I get to stab him first. I will never make you come to noble stuff, but I'll get you in if that's something you're interested in. I can't speak for what Brother makes you do. I get veto power over all nicknames. You will let me wear your pink bathrobe whenever I want." She thought for a moment. "I reserve the right to add more things later."

She stared into his eyes, waiting.

"Is that it?"

"That's it."

He nodded. "I accept."

 2:38pm

She kissed him.

 Still 2:38pm

He kissed her back.

 2:41pm

Rukia had expected to surprise him and then tease him for getting flustered.

She had not expected to kiss him long enough for her neck to start to get stiff. This was not a problem she usually encountered.

She certainly could have stopped kissing him. 

That seemed extreme.

Instead, she hitched up her kimono and hefted one knee and then the other up onto the chair on either side of his legs and settled down in his lap, moving her hands to a less threatening position on the back of his neck. Renji sighed contentedly and slid his hands to her hips.

 2:43pm

Rukia placed her hands onto his shoulders and slowly pushed herself backwards, until she could see Renji's face again.

The first time she had ever kissed him, under the old dead tree outside their squat in Inuzuri, he'd made a face like he'd just been whacked over the head with a tree branch.

The last time she'd kissed him, drunk, around the burned down coals of a bonfire celebrating the end of their first semester at school, he had gazed at her with such longing and affection in his eyes that she almost didn't recognize him.

He'd gotten some practice since then, that much was obvious. She liked the look in his eyes right then: It had a little of that boyish longing and affection and a little bit of being hit over the head with a tree branch, but it had a number of other things in there she didn't quite recognize, too. A little Squad 11 ferocity? The rampant self-esteem of a newly minted vice-captain? Just a dash of stone-cold lust, the look that a grown-ass man gave a woman he was enjoying having in his lap?

"I don't even know you anymore," she murmured. "How am I supposed to know if I like you or not?"

"I'm mostly the same," he promised.

"I might be into the new you."

"I'm very different. Whole new guy."

"I think," Rukia said, tilting her head to one side, "I might be interested in finding out."

 2:43pm

Kissing again.

 3:18pm

Whack! Whack!

"Ow!"

"There is no--" Whack! "--making out--" Whack! "--permitted in the Coordinated Relief Station!"

"Isane--ow!--stop!"

"Oh, Rukia, is that you?"

"Yes."

Kotetsu Isane, lieutenant of the Fourth Division, tapped her rolled up newspaper in the palm of her hand as the two disheveled shinigami before her sat up and adjusted their clothing. "Rukia, I would have thought better of you! Then again, you do hang out with my sister, whose bad habits-- Lieutenant Abarai?"

"Present," he groaned.

Isane looked at Rukia with wide eyes. "Well done," she mouthed, before clearing her throat. "You will both be happy to hear that Captain Kuchiki's surgery went very well.”

“Great!” Rukia chirped, casually fishing something out of her sleeve. She stared at it in befuddlement for a moment before recognizing it as Renji's bandana and thrusting it at him.

“Can we see him?” Renji asked, trying to grab the bandana back without actually looking at it. He kept missing.

“He’s still heavily sedated,” Isane explained. “It will be a while before he’s ready for visitors.”

“Gosh,” said Rukia. 

“How long we talkin’?” asked Renji.

 7:40pm

Rukia listened very carefully, nodding at appropriate times, as Captain Unohana explained Byakuya’s status and the details of his recovery regimen. Occasionally, on the topic of restricted activity, the gentle doctor would glance back and make steely eye contact with Renji, who would take over on nodding duty. They paused outside of Byakuya’s room. “One last thing. Due to his unusually high spiritual energy, we had to give him a...lot...of painkillers.”

“Ahhhh,” said Rukia. 

Renji looked confused.

“He may act a little strange,” Unohana clarified.

“I’ve been on a pretty heavy load of those a time or two myself,” Renji frowned. “Never had a problem.”

Unohana’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline and she rolled her eyes so hard that in another part of the Seireitei, Zaraki Kenpachi sat up a little straighter. Renji did not appear to notice. “Of course, Lieutenant.”

Rukia looked at Renji as Unohana went into Byakuya's room to check some of his vitals. “This is good actually. I’ve seen him on these a time or two before. He’s utterly cuckoo, but he thinks he’s fine, so if we can get him to agree to anything--like not firing you--he’ll remember it later and think he made the decision rationally.”

“That sounds...underhanded.”

“It’s how I got him to sponsor that Gotei 13 Eurovision thing the Women's Association put on last year."

"Squad 11 got robbed in that, by the way. You need to never mention it around my friend Ayesegawa."

It gave Rukia a bit of a warm feeling in her stomach, that he was already thinking about introducing her to his friends. She couldn't imagine how terrible his Squad 11 friends were. She couldn't wait to meet them.

 "I will remember that. But in any case, these are rare opportunities. We're basically obligated to take advantage of them. Trust me.”

Unohana reappeared, having finished her business. "He's all yours," she said, gliding down the hallway.

Byakuya was sitting up in bed, poking at a tray of food. His face was pale and drawn, his hair uncharacteristically non-silky, but he was most definitely making a very Byakuya facial expression.

“Helloooo, Brother!” Rukia said cheerfully, walking into the room. 

He looked at her, slightly lost for a moment.

“It’s me. Rukia. Your little sister.”

An extremely non-Byakuya-like smile spread across his face. “Kuchiki Rukia! My beloved sister!”

“How do you feel, Brother?”

“Horrid,” Byakuya replied. “Also, they have given me this slop. I would like to throw it out the window, but I cannot reach. Could you do that for me?”

“I’m sorry to say that you should eat as much as you can. You need to regain your strength.”

Byakuya made an extremely petulant face.

“Guess who else came to see you!” Rukia waved at the doorway.

A little hesitantly, Renji stepped into the room. “Hey, there, Captain. Glad to see you looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

“Abarai Renji! My loyal lieutenant! You may have forgotten, but I do not have a tail!”

“I did not forget, sir.”

“Kuchiki Rukia! Do you see this? Abarai Renji, my indomitable second, a man who fought by my side in the War for the 79th Bridge--”

“That was 800 years ago, neither of us was alive then.”

“--has come to see me! During his Leisure Hours!”

Rukia gave Renji a Look.

“Abarai Renji! If you are still the man you were when we stormed the Demon Realms together--”

“We definitely didn’t.”

“--you will throw this tray of food out the window for me!”

Renji walked over, grabbed the tray of food, opened the window, and hurled it out. There was a far-off thump and an indignant shout. Renji shut the window again.

“Renji!” Rukia hissed.

“He’s my captain," Renji shrugged. "It was a basically reasonable request. In the grand scheme of things."

“Truly, I chose wisely when I named you general of my armies and proclaimed that your family shall heretofore be a branch family to my own!” 

“You don’t have any--” Renji gave up. “To be honest, Captain, I really just want to know if I’m still fired or not.”

Byakuya lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I will never fire you. You are my favorite.”

“That’s great news, sir. Thank you. At some point, I would appreciate it if you would give me the keys to the office back, but no hurry on that.”

“How fares the Manor, Rukia?” Byakuya asked grandly.

“Oh, it will run smoothly without you for a few days more, but everyone has been worried, Brother. They will be very happy to hear how well you are recovering.”

“I am counting on you to fill in during my absence,” Byakuya informed her. “If anyone does not afford you the proper respects, write their name down, and I will kill them once I am recovered.”

“That’s--" Rukia paused suddenly. "Do you mean servants, or other nobles? Because Lord Noragashi was by yesterday and he was very salty to me about you not being at home.”

“I will kill him,” Byakuya swore.

“Or you could… just not go to his next party or something.”

“Or I could attend and be handsomer than he!”

“Sure. Sure, that sounds good.” Rukia licked her lips and glanced at Renji, who nodded slightly.  “We have some other news for you, as well, Brother,” Rukia said gently.

Renji sucked in a deep breath and held it.

“Renji and I are seeing each other.”

Byakuya looked at Rukia very seriously, his eyebrows beetling. Then he looked at Renji. Then back at Rukia. “You are not seeing Kurosaki Ichigo, then?”

Rukia looked vaguely stricken. “Uh, no, Brother. Certainly not.”

“But you are seeing Lieutenant Abarai Renji? Vice-Captain of the Sixth Division?

“Yes, that one.”

“My faithful adjutant! Who has served me without question for over fifty years!”

“Six weeks. Sir.” Renji elected not to mention the treason.

“Come here, Abarai.” He tried to motion with his finger, but couldn’t summon the fine motor control. Renji came over anyway. “Closer.” Renji leaned down, glancing briefly at Rukia. “Attend me well, Abarai Renji,” Byakuya said in the same loud whisper that Rukia could hear perfectly clearly from across the room. “I have not always done right by my sister, but I have resolved to do so in the future.”

Rukia’s cheeks colored.

“It seems that she likes you.”

“She’s giving it a go, sir.”

“And it is self-evident that you like her.”

“That’s very true, sir.”

“And you are very much not Kurosaki Ichigo.”

“That is also very true.”

“So I shall accept this development and not require you to best me in combat. I suspect that, at this exact moment, you might actually be capable of doing so.”

“It’s possible,” Renji speculated.

“But I shall require your regular attendance at Sunday dinner.”

“With all the aunts?” Rukia asked, eyebrows raised.

“Withstanding the aunts is what it means to be a Kuchiki!” Byakuya proclaimed.

“For Rukia’s sake, I will do it,” Renji promised.

“Welcome to the family, my beloved son-in-law!”

“I’m not--”

“Let’s just count this as a win,” Rukia suggested. 

Renji smiled hopefully at her. It was, in Rukia's opinion, a very cute smile.

Rukia smiled back. She couldn't help it.

This was going to be an adventure.

 ~ end

[incorrectly-quoted-queers]

Drunk Punch Love 2: Chapter 1

Pairing: FemShep and Garrus Vakarian (Shakarian)

Rating: PG-13 (with some tossed F-bombs)

Summary: Their awkward, badass journey through saving the galaxy and accidentally falling in love

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089466/chapters/54170929

Part 2- Chapter 1: Breathe Again

"Wake up, Shepard!"

As she fell through the haze of darkness and brain fog, she saw flashes of dark space, burning light, and bright blue eyes. When her eyes started to flutter open to a blindingly white lab ceiling and the loud voice sharpened until she could identify it as a woman's. Memories were starting to come back to her, and she was only more confused realizing that the last thing she knew, her lungs were popping and she was dying. On instinct, she clutched her chest, but her lungs were functioning just fine, sucking in normal air.

And based on the heart thudding in her chest, dying wasn't the case anymore.

She didn't really have the time to think about that for long, though. Between the overcom instructions and muscle memory, she basically ran like a bot on command. Anya understood she was in a Cerberus facility, and she got that yes, she did die, but they brought her back, and that this Jacob guy was way too friendly. But past that? She just shot shit and hoped it worked out. Lucky for her, some of her muscles felt even nicer than she remembered.

By the end of it, she was helping out the uncomfortably attractive Miranda person and too-friendly Jacob survive their own base. The weird part, though, was having other people all up in arms about protecting her. Because from what she could gather, the organization pumped billions of credits into her.

If she was ever asked how much weight on her back might finally break her, billions might do it.

Anya still couldn't quite wrap her head around it. Culture and firefights were her wheelhouse. Economics were not. All the numbers and metrics Miranda kept throwing just gave her dark flashbacks to when her mother abandoned her in Alliance accounting to "learn a thing or two" and she just ended up hiding in a closet.

Mostly unrelated, that's how she met her first crush, Ryel. He was also hiding from "learning a thing or two".

Honestly, Anya wasn't even sure her brain knew how to process linear time until they were back at another Cerberus base. Jacob had asked her some questions about her record and memory, but she did that on autopilot.

Hopefully she answered everything right.

When she finally felt like she could count her fingers in a row without getting distracted, she was already being thrown in front of the infamous Illusive Man.

He blabbered on about his investments and creations and all his plans for her, like any manipulative movie villain. Shepard was quick to cut him off. "What stops me from taking the resources you give me and heading straight back to the Alliance?"

Looking a little shocked, he laughed. "I can't help but admire your bluntless, however ill-advised." His fingers twined into each other as he sat on his asshole chair. Anya wished she could kick the hologram over, but she knew what that kind of look meant: a planned answer. "Let's put it this way, Shepard: you're basically walking around with a Cerberus receipt on your back. Go back to the Alliance, too up in their own asses getting defensive instead of offensive, and you'll be grounded until they decide you're not a spy. I'll give you much more flexibility, as long as you take my concessions."

"And what are those?"

"Use my ships, my people, my contacts. Hunt down the Collectors. Pull together dossiers that I suggest and you like. Do whatever you want, just make sure to send reports back to me."

"So I don't have to follow your dumbass orders?"

"Unfortunately, you seem most effective on your own." It was at least a little satisfying that he seemed genuinely annoyed by that fact. Guy might be an asshole, but a pragmatic one. "As much as your ideology and attitude pain me, Shepard, you are the best shot humanity has. Backing you is the only option."

"Understood." Shepard paused, not sure if she wanted to bring up the people that mattered most to her in front of him. But when it came to saving lives, she needed to factor them into the equation. "Any of these dossiers for my old teammates? People I trust?"

"Wrex and Tali are tied up with their people. Kaidan is an Alliance boy, through and through. T'soni is deliberately elusive, and Vakarian has gone dark. But I do have one surprise for you."

Anya's heart had already stopped dead at the thought of Garrus being MIA, but there had to be more to it. He had to be alright. Cerberus was a shady organization with a wealth of information. "Gone dark" couldn't be it. Maybe they had a few clues and, if they passed them along, she could find him. After all this, she couldn't come back to a galaxy without those bright blue eyes in it. Her favorite, dumb turian had to be somewhere and she had to be able to find out where. She opened her mouth and said, "Wait-"

But the Illusive Man gave her a wave and the most irritating smirk she'd ever seen in her life. "We'll talk again soon enough, Shepard." And then he disappeared, leaving the room an empty, black square.

She was ready to shoot his dumb face for cutting her off. While Anya knew that really wasn't an option, she at least kicked her foot at the ground like she kicked his stupid chair out from under him. It was marginally satisfying.

But most of all, she was mad because regardless if Garrus was missing, he was fucking right about the Alliance. She needed to get shit done, not get stuck in bureaucracy. Bastard had her under his thumb. For now.

All her violent thoughts went silent, though, when she walked out to see someone she'd never expect in a Cerberus uniform.

Chronic lean and annoying smile in tow, Joker said, "about time you dragged your ass out of the grave."

Anya didn't mean to, but she pulled him into her arms and hugged him, tight. It was the first time anything in this new reality of hers felt real. He groaned under her grip. Anya released his shoulders, hoping she didn't break anything. After everything, seeing him... It was so refreshing she had to hold on tight. She said, "Sorry! Sorry. How are you...?"

"Cerberus said they were rebuilding you and my baby. And Alliance didn't feel right without you. How the hell could I say no?"

Overall she still wasn't sure how she felt about Joker in a Cerberus uniform, but it didn't matter. Everything about this moment was overwhelming, and after hours of dazed autopilot, it all hit her. She lost two years, lost time with the people she loved, and now she was back and at least Joker was still here. Anya didn't mean to, but her eyes welled up with tears. "It's so good to see you."

"Hell, Shep. Don't think I've ever seen you cry." What he said was a joke, but Joker put a hand on her shoulder.

Regaining composure, on instinct Shepard shrugged his hand off. But the second she did, she grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. It felt so wrong to push him away, knowing she'd lost him. And if it wasn't for Cerberus, it would've been forever. "This rebooted body comes with a lot of surprises." In her head, she kept replaying every second here with him, trying to notice any possible differences in his face, voice, demeanor. She couldn't help but notice he seemed a little seriouser, even if his humor didn't show it. But then something he said came back to her, and she raised an eyebrow. "Wait, what did you say about your baby?"

He smirked. "Come with me."

Anya followed him down a few halls until they were in front of a huge docking window. She didn't mean to stop breathing, but right in front of her-

"The Normandy. Good as new, eh? With some new Cerberus features. Chairs are nicer, but the crew still isn't mine yet. Having my family there will make it better." Joker leaned on the railing and looked right at her. "Leaving the Alliance wasn't easy, but if it meant having you and my ship? There wasn't any other option." Grumbling, he also added, "Anyway, they grounded me for way too long after the funeral."

His jokes slid right past her consciousness. Instead, Anya was just staring at the ship that changed her life; the one she called home. It was different, but it was hers. That wasn't some easy thing to swallow. Hell, none of this was easy to swallow. "Oh my god. I still can't believe you're Cerberus. What did my mother say about you doing this?"

"You think I have a death wish? No, I delayed that suffering. As far as Oksana knows, I went on a trip and fell off the grid. If I'm lucky, she'll just think I went on a bender."

"Christ. Mama bear's going to kill you."

Joker scoffed and bumped Shepard's shoulder. With so much new tissue in her body, it almost felt alien. But the memories? They made sure Anya knew that she just got some of her family back. He countered, "Me? Talk about yourself, zombie commander."

"Maybe we seek forgiveness once this blows over, not ask permission."

"Sounds good enough to me."

Trying to stay casual, Anya kept all her stunned staring to a minimum. But she did admit to him how important seeing him was, in her own way. She wasn't the best with saying what she should. She just hoped it was enough. "I'm happy to see a familiar face. None of this felt... Real."

"I know, right?" Joker rolled his shoulders, and she wondered who'd been bandaging his shoulders or keeping an eye out for him the past two years. He didn't need it, per se, but it was apart of who she was with him. It made her chest ache, knowing how his routines changed because she got herself killed. Who did he go to when he got drunk? Or was he just alone now?

Joker himself interrupted her thoughts. "These Cerberus guys don't tell me anything. Are we getting any of the old team?"

If her heart wasn't caving in enough about Joker, what the Illusive Man said about Tali, Kaidan, Garrus... It all hit her like a thundering pack of Varren. Anya shook her head at him. "No one. A lot has changed in two years. It looks like it's just you and me this time, spearheading a new crew."

"I haven't seen most of them since the funeral. None of us were the same, after that." She watched his shoulders sag, a weight and responsibility she'd never seen on him. He stood up straight and said, refusing to meet her eyes, "Anya, I'm-"

"Don't." Leaning her head on his shoulder, she added, "I would do it again in a heartbeat."

Sighing, Joker flashed her a smile that didn't seem all that real, but she still appreciated it. "Ready to save the Galaxy again?"

"Nope. But we're going to do it anyway."

"Sounds about right."

///

I so very much my best girl Anya Shepard. I love the strong badass and awkward middle school ballerina wrapped up on one. Time for her to get back to saving the galaxy, friends!

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[ifishouldvanish]

The Boston Hour (15/?)

In which Belle is an Antiques Roadshow super-fan and Gold is her favorite appraiser.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Belle receives two phone calls. Rumford and David go out for “a couple beers”. RATING: T WORDS: 9,087 A/N: Big thank you to @whimsical36 for beta reading this chapter!♥  TMI’s for last chapter - [x]

Also: With this update, this story has officially hit the 100k mark! I wanna thank everyone for sticking with this story, because it's become my baby-- and it never would have happened if not for all of you guys' support! *blows kisses*

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Read on AO3]

Belle shifted in bed as she finished reading her emails on her phone. It was well past time to get up and start the day, but since she was in no hurry to be anywhere this morning, she just rolled onto her back and switched to the gallery app instead.

She happily began skimming through the pictures from her weekend with Rumford, which included shots of the wares on display at the market, the things they had eaten, and views of the docks and the park. Rumford seemed to shy away from having his photo taken, but hadn’t refused when somebody offered to take their picture while they were walking along the docks Saturday evening.

It had come out quite well, Belle thought. The sun had just begun to set, she looked so happy with Rumford’s arm around her shoulders, and he looked so handsome with his pinstriped suit and boutonniere. She smiled and continued swiping, lingering on the handful of shots where she’d managed to capture glimpses of him– an arm, a shoulder, his back, a blurry figure in the distance. There were a few she’d taken at the soap vendor where he could be seen sniffing lotions and bars of soap, including one he must not have liked, judging by the funny look on his face. But then there was one of him smiling– or perhaps laughing– dimples and all, and she decided it was her favorite.

Her phone suddenly buzzed in her hand, the screen overtaken by an incoming call.

What a man, what a man, what a mighty good man! Say it again, now! What a man, what a man, what a mighty good– 

“Oh!” Belle gasped and scrambled to answer it, only to drop the phone onto her face. She sputtered and picked it back up, hoping she hadn’t accidentally answered it with her nose.

A call from Rumford!

Taking a deep breath, she tapped the screen and pressed the device to her ear. “Rumford?”

“Ah… Belle?”

Her insides did a little dance at the sound of his voice, and she squirmed under her sheets. “Hi, Rumford...”

“Hi.” he said, and oh! His voice was just so soft and gentle and sweet!

Belle bit into her lower lip. “...Hi.”

“I ah… well, you said I should give you a call once I made it back to Syracuse.”

“Oh, yeah!” she smiled and snuggled up against her pillows. “How was the drive?”

“Interminable.” he scoffed. “I ah… wouldn’t have minded some company.”

“I’d have happily kept you company if I could...” she said.

He let out a little chuckle, not seeming sure of what to say to that. “So ah… w-what are your plans for today?”

Belle blew out a long breath. “I have classes, but they don't start until two, so I get to sleep in.”

“Ah.” he chuckled. “You know, I tried to come into the shop on time at nine this morning, but ah… it seems my employees and my son have conspired to make sure I get some sleep after the trip, so… I just got out of bed myself.”

Fresh out of bed Rumford!

He probably had cute, matching pajamas, Belle thought– his eyes glazed and sleepy, and his hair mussed from the pillows…

“Sounds like they worry about you a lot,” she smiled, giddily tugging the covers up to her chin.

Rumford scoffed. “Aye, they do. Neal's always taken very good care of me– making sure I sleep, making sure I eat. And Ariel, she's… she's very sweet. Lovely young woman and a great worker. Don't know how I'd run the shop without her.”

“Well I'm glad you have people over there looking out for you.”

“Aye. Though I did manage to steal copies of the proposals Ariel worked on before she kicked me out, so… I may still get some work done yet.”

“Rumford!” Belle admonished. “You’re so bad…”

“Oh, I know.” he said. “But from what I've seen so far, they all look great. Haven't found a thing I'd change yet.”

“Can I ask what the proposals are for? Or is that… I don't know,” she shrugged, “confident–”

“Sure, sure.” he said. “The ah… biggest project is restoring a dining set from the 1860s. ‘Nother is repairing an old family Bible that was printed and bound in 1807.”

“Oh, wow.”

“And the others aren’t proposals, but insurance valuations. Got one for a collection of model trains. Quite impressive. Another for an old set of silverware, one for a stamp collection... and another for a few paintings from the Ashcan School.”

Belle rolled onto her belly. Propping her chin upon her fist, she let out a wistful sigh.

After a beat, Rumford smacked his lips. “Which ah… which classes have you got today?”

“Oh, uh... resources for children, and then my capstone.”

“Ah. Resources for children, what's that all about?”

“Um… basically how to develop a curriculum for an elementary school library. How to target the needs of children who are still learning to read, or still uh, developing their comprehension skills.”

“Oh.” Rumford chuckled. “And that's… y-you’d enjoy that, you think? Working with children?”

“Well, yeah!” Belle smiled, beginning to paddle her feet through the air. “I uh, I love kids.”

“Oh. That's… that's wonderful, sweetheart.”

Of course she loved kids!

She wanted to have some of her own one day!

Did Rumford want to have more kids? Because she'd totally have kids with him. Lots of them.

Well, like… three, tops, but still.

Or was it too soon to be thinking about having babies together?

No , Belle decided. That was silly!

She'd always known she wanted to have children. It was only natural, that if she was seeing somebody who gave her butterflies, and it was going well, that she'd daydream about a future with them! A future with babies! Cute, snuggly, precious, little babies with their tiny hands and tiny feet and tiny noses and tiny everything! So soft, and with pudgy cheeks, too!

“...Belle?”

Her feet stopped paddling. “Mhm?”

Rumford coughed. “Well, I-I just wanted to say that I ah… I had a lovely time last night. Th-the whole weekend, I mean.”

Belle nibbled her lip and snuggled her pillow a little more tightly. “...Me too.”

“I regret that I had to leave so soon, but…”

“I know.” she said, glancing toward the window. “You got work, I got work, school…”

“Aye.” he said. “But you know, I-I have to say it, Belle. You were... incredible last night.”

“Oh.” she giggled, feeling herself blush.

“It was a ah... honor, to see such a brilliant mind at work.”

“Well…” Belle fought back a smile, “the other members of the University Word Warriors club don’t call me the Bogglemeister for nothing.”

“...Quadricentennial.” he sighed. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“You weren't so bad yourself,” she murmured. “...Mr epistemologies.”

“No no–” he said. “Child's play compared to your schadenfreude. I-I'd never even considered playing loanwords before, Belle. You… reinvented the game for me, sweetheart. Truly.”

“Oh, I don't know about that…” she blushed, her legs swaying in the air again.

“Oh, but I do.” he crooned.

Belle nibbled her lip again and pressed her thighs together. “...Yeah?”

“I'll ah, never look at a Boggle grid the same way again.”

“You know, all this flattery will get you nowhere,” she teased. “Dr Gold.”

“No?” he asked. “Because so far it seems to be doing a great job of bringing that lovely blush to your face. Miss French.”

“Rumford!” she giggled. “What makes you think I'm blushing, hm?”

“Oh, I can tell.” he murmured. “I can hear it in your voice– sounds even sweeter than usual...”

A delighted little squeal escaped her, and Belle clamped a hand over her mouth.

“...what?” he asked.

“Well, if anyone would know what I sound like when I’m blushing, it’d be you…”

“O-oh?” he stammered, and the silken quality that had been in his voice was suddenly replaced with something shaky and uncertain. “I–”

“It’s hard not to blush whenever I’m talking with you, Rumford…” she spelled out for him.

“...Oh,” he chuckled. “Well… I’m afraid I’m the one who’s blushing now, sweetheart.”

*****

Ruby had just crawled out of bed and was headed to the kitchen when she heard giggling from Belle's bedroom. She paused and hovered outside the door, unable to resist the temptation to eavesdrop.

“Rumford…”

She couldn't make out much, or any of Dr Gold's half of the conversation for that matter, but they were definitely exchanging sweet little nothings.

Thank God, Ruby thought, continuing towards the kitchen. They finally boned.

She hadn't expected Dr Gold to still be in town, but she supposed she couldn't blame the guy, either. If there was any excuse for him to extend his stay in Storybrooke, being too worn out from a night of dancing the horizontal Mambo would be it.

A high-pitched squeal sounded from Belle's room, and Ruby smothered a laugh. The apartment had been completely quiet when she got home late last night, but it appeared a good night's sleep had the two lovebirds ready for another roll in the hay.

Once in the kitchen, Ruby prepared herself a big bowl of cereal and carried it (and the box) over to the couch – making sure she had a good view down the hall. Belle and Dr Gold was one walk of shame she wouldn't want to miss. And surely enough, within a few minutes, there was some movement down the hall and Belle's door creaked open.

Belle appeared, raising her arms up and letting out a big yawn. She had a little pep in her step as she came down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Hey there, peanut.” Ruby said behind a sly grin. “Ya have a good time last night?”

“Mhm!” Belle answered, opening the fridge.

“Looks like it.” she teased.

Belle plucked a cup of yogurt out of the fridge and spun around for the utensil drawer, grabbing a spoon before slamming it shut with a saucy sway of her hips. She had a big smile on her face she was clearly trying to be casual about– which was what Belle always did when she was dying to tell her something. But of course, in typical Belle fashion, she was just standing there, leaning against the counter, happily eating her yogurt like she was auditioning for a Yoplait commercial.

“So…” Ruby took the bait. “How was–”

“I showed Rumford my spreadsheet.” Belle volunteered.

“Oh, God.” Ruby dropped her spoon into her bowl and leveled her a look before remembering that whatever had happened last night, clearly went well. And naturally– she was curious. “...What did he say?”

“That it was a highly valuable set of data and incredibly helpful.” Belle said proudly, joining her on the couch. “...and then he um, called me sweetheart. Again.”

Ruby blinked. Of course they'd end up making foreplay out of the damn spreadsheet.

Should've expected it, honestly.

“Anyway, we ate dinner after that… he really seemed to enjoy the meatloaf by the way... and then we talked and cuddled right there…” Belle continued, looking fondly at the other end of the couch as she licked the yogurt off of her spoon. “And um, things may have gotten a little heated after that…”

Ruby flared her nostrils and tried not to fidget too noticeably where she sat.

They boned. On the couch. Where she was now sitting. Less than twelve hours later. Eating.

Hadn't she specifically begged her not to do it on the couch?

Belle sighed. “Rumford is such a good kisser, Rubes.” she said. “And he smells so good. Have you ever made out with someone who smells really good? Because it's like… you feel all hot and tingly from the things they're doing with their mouth, and then when you pull back to catch your breath, it's like BAM! Sexy smell!”

“Yeah. It's… something else…” Ruby nodded along, peering down the hall. Where was the man of the hour, anyway?

Belle glanced over her shoulder, spoon in her mouth, and frowned when she saw that nothing was there. “...What is it?”

“He takin’ a shower or something?”

Belle creased her brows. “What?”

Ruby shrugged. “Rumford.”

She shook her head. “He left the apartment at eleven or so last night. Had to leave really early this morning for Syracuse– It's like a six-hour drive, you know.”

“Oh. I just thought I heard…” Ruby trailed off.

“Heard what? We were on the phone.”

Ruby rolled her eyes and set her cereal bowl on the coffee table. Doing her best impression of Belle, she dropped her wrist and giggled, “Rumford!”

Belle’s eyes went wide and she huffed. “I don't sound like that!”

Ruby threw her head back and laughed. “Yeah, you do!”

“Do not!” Belle said, throwing the empty yogurt cup at her. It bounced off Ruby's arm and tumbled onto the floor.

“Around him? That is exactly what you sound like!”

“Yeah, well–” Belle began to protest, “...maybe Rumford happens to be really funny.” she said, lifting her chin.

Ruby shot her a skeptical look. “Is he, Belle?” she asked. “Is he really funny?”

Belle pursed her lips, refusing to look her in the eyes. “Okay, fine. Maybe he's just really cute and I like him a lot and can't help getting all giggly around him.” she admitted. “So what?”

“...Mhm.” Ruby grinned, picking her cereal bowl back up and continuing to munch away. “Nothing.”

“Come on,” Belle sighed. “You and Dorothy don't act giggly and cute around each other? Not even a little?”

“Nah.” Ruby swallowed. “But then again, I don't need to act cute. I just am, ” she shrugged. “I mean– look at me.”

Belle narrowed her eyes, trying not to laugh.

“So.” Ruby shoveled another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. “...How was it? Did he uh... give you full market value?” she asked, wiggling her brows.

Belle tilted her head. “Huh?”

“Oh, come on!” she whined. “Full market value! That was good!”

“...what?”

“Hang on.”

Ruby brought her bowl up to her lips and tilted her head back, slurping the milk down before setting it back on the coffee table.

“The sex!” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “Did you guys finally bone or what?! I need to know! Did. My girl. Get. Laid. Did she ride that–”

“Oh!” Belle realized with a smile. “No.”

Ruby deflated in an instant. “What.”

“No. We uh, we didn't have sex.” she said, dusting some imaginary crumbs off her lap.

Ruby rubbed a hand over her face and groaned. “Christ, I'm starting to get blue balls here!” she said. “I don't even have balls, Belle!”

“I mean, we almost did…” she mumbled.

Ruby gestured impatiently for her to continue. “But…?”

Belle shrugged. “We just decided we aren't ready for that yet.”

“I mean–” Ruby huffed. “That's cool. And I respect that. But–” she trailed off and flapped her arms wildly in frustration.

Belle laughed. “We wound up playing Boggle instead. You know– he's quite good!”

“I'm… sure he is.” Ruby grumbled in defeat.

There was a sound then, coming from the bedroom.

“...Phone.” she said, nodding towards the hall.

Belle raised her brows. “What?”

“Your phone, peanut. Someone's calling you.”

“Oh.” she blinked and hopped off the couch. “ God, how can you hear that?” she asked, following the muffled melody to her bedroom.

Ruby shrugged. “We all have our gifts, Belle. Clairvoyance, supersonic hearing, mad Boggle chops…”

Belle rolled her eyes and disappeared into her room, returning a moment later with reluctant pout on her face.

“What's the matter?” Ruby snickered. “You look like somebody spilled coffee on your copy of Pride and Prejudice.”

“It's my dad.”

“Yeah, I figured.” she said, darting a pointed glance at Belle's phone, where it continued to blare Papa Don't Preach in her hand. “Your ringtones? A little on the nose. What does he want?”

Belle let out a deep sigh. “I don't know.”

*****

Every so often, Rumford would receive a call from David, inviting him out for a couple beers. Usually he'd find some excuse not to go– Working late tonight. Going in early tomorrow. Too many errands to run.

But when David called Tuesday, asking him to come out for a couple beers on Thursday, Rumford had been feeling a little saucy and said yes.

He knew just what the source of his newfound sauciness was, too.

It was no doubt the work of certain aspiring librarian in Maine. He and Belle had talked about so many things last weekend– the sort of things that emboldened a man, and made him feel more like he had a right to the space he occupied in the world. Like he had something to offer, something to give. That invitations to the pub from someone as likeable as David Nolan were born of a genuine desire to actually enjoy his company rather than being some reluctant act of pity.

Of course David Nolan wanted to hang out and have a couple beers with Rumford Gold!

Rumford Gold was sharp and witty! A good listener! Was maybe even a little handsome, depending on who you asked– though he'd prefer it if you asked Belle.

And so on Thursday night, Rumford drove up to one of the Irish pubs in town. To meet David. For a couple beers.

Not literally a couple beers– as he didn't drink beer and intended to order whisky instead– but figuratively a couple beers, as in heterosexual male bonding.

...Or was it just platonic male bonding?

When he and Jefferson used to go out, they didn't have to do so under the guise of some passive activity like drinking beer! They'd just say it: I haven't heard from you in a while. We should catch up.

At the very least, it would be I’d like to try that new restaurant that opened up. But even then, if they wanted to try the new restaurant that opened up, then they tried the new restaurant that opened up. Critiqued the menu, the decor, the lighting concept, how comfortable the chairs were.

Rumford had been on this earth long enough to know that when someone invited you out for a couple beers, their intentions were rarely so simple.

But maybe a couple beers wasn't a heterosexual thing so much as it was a “men who aren't attracted to each other” thing. Maybe two men who, while attracted to other men but not necessarily each other, also went out for a couple beers.

Rumford reached the pub’s front door and hesitated.

Was this what people meant when they said bisexuals were confused? Because he was definitely feeling confused right now. As confused as he was certain about his interest in men and women.

Should he tell David about his little discovery, he wondered?

It had felt liberating to tell Belle. Like a weight off of his shoulders. But now that he was back in Syracuse, the weight seemed to have crept back over him.

Maybe he shouldn't.

It seemed rather self-important, didn't it? Oh, let me just interrupt you for a second there to tell you that I like men.

Just... unprompted like that.

And what if David took it the wrong way? Thought he was confessing to being attracted to him? What if it made things weird?

It wasn't fair, was it? Nobody else had to work up the nerve to tell their friends and colleagues that they were heterosexual! People just assumed they were and there was never any need to correct them!

Rumford shook his head and finally stepped inside the dimly lit pub, doing his best to avoid eye contact with the hostess– to look like he knew where he was going because it was always uncomfortable when you were meeting somebody and couldn't find them. Then the hostess would try to offer you a table, and you had to explain to them that you didn't need their help finding a table– you just needed a few more seconds to adjust to how bloody dark it was in there so you could distinguish one shadowy figure at the bar from another.

Fortunately however, the hostess was preoccupied with taking a dinner reservation and it never became an issue. Rumford swept past her podium without having to endure so much as a gratuitous service smile!

Anyway, he'd want to tell Neal at some point, too. If there was anybody he wanted to completely be his true self around, it was his boy.

But what about somebody like Miss Halloran? Was it any of her business to know? It'd be nice if she knew, he supposed– they worked alongside each other every day at the shop after all. But still, he didn't feel like they had the kind of relationship that warranted a whole conversation about his sexuality.

Because what now? Would he just have to keep bringing it up again and again? With every person he grew close to? Where did one draw the line? Was he just supposed to spend the rest of his life explaining himself to people?

Bloody hell.

How exhausting!

“Gold?”

If only there was some way he could… broadcast that information, but on a low frequency. Something subtle that whispered, “bisexual,” to whomever was listening. He wouldn't be hiding it, but he wouldn't be making a big deal of it either. It’d just be there. Like any other clearly observable fact about him. Like his height, or his hair color, or the keen eye for aesthetics that frequently had ladies in department stores approaching him and asking his opinion while they shopped for their husbands.

A hand clapped over Rumford's shoulder and he startled.

“You alright there, man?” David asked.

Rumford blinked.

Jefferson never clapped him on the shoulder like that before either. He would gently touch his shoulder. Or brush his arm. Sometimes, when they were being brought to their table at a restaurant, he'd trail behind him, splaying a guiding hand over his back.

God, Rumford thought.

How oblivious was he?

“Aye. Just… dark in here, is all,” he said.

“Yeah, you can say that again,” David chuckled. “Got us a spot right here, buddy,” he said, pointing to a vacant spot at the bar.

Yes, Rumford thought as he followed David over.

His bisexuality wouldn't be a big deal unless someone else wanted to make it a big deal– in which case he could show them the door. After all, what did he have to lose? He was a grown man who owned a house in the historic district! It's not like his father could disown him!

Bastard already did that when he was eight years old!

Risk getting fired from his job? It was his business!

Lose customers? Please. Their work had been featured in Antiques Quarterly half a dozen times! The waiting list to get an appraisal with him was a month long! Restoration work– four!

Four months!

If half those people decided they didn't want their R & J Adam dinette chairs repaired by a man who liked men, what did he care!?

Fewer deadlines for him to worry about!

He’d probably sleep better!

What else was there...

Milah making insensitive remarks over dinner when she visited for the holidays?

She did that anyway!

“So, what's up?” David asked, seating himself on one of the barstools. “What's happenin’?”

Rumford stared at the empty stool beside him for a moment, determining how best to climb up without making a spectacle of himself. “Oh, nothing, nothing...” he dismissed. “Ah… how about you?”

“Good, good.” David nodded, leaning over the counter to flag down the bartender.

Rumford fidgeted into his seat, struggling to make himself as comfortable as was possible on a wooden bar stool. “That's… good.” he coughed.

The bartender wasted no time getting their orders, a small diversion for which Rumford was grateful.

“It's good to see you, buddy.” David said.

“Aye. …Good to see you too.” Rumford nodded.

Good.

Good, good, good.

Everything was good.

“We never really get to just hang out, you know?”

Rumford raised his brows, his mouth hanging open dumbly. “Ah… no. We don't, don't we?”

“Well, thanks for comin’ out.” David said.

Rumford's pulse thickened.

Coming out?

Did he know? Could he tell? Had everyone already known he was bisexual except him?

No, no, Rumford decided. He meant coming out literally. Coming out physically.

“...aye.” he said, relaxing a little. “Of course.”

The bartender, absolute godsend that she was, set their drinks in front of them then, and Rumford didn't hesitate to take a sip from his glass.

Well, two sips.

David took a hefty swig of his beer and let out a refreshed sigh. “We should do this more often, you know?”

Rumford huffed a little laugh through his nose.

Should they? Because it'd only been five minutes and he already wanted to go home.

He took another sip. “Aye. For sure.”

At this point, Jefferson would have remarked on how disappointing and uninspired the latest blockbuster films were, or how heartbroken he was to have just finished a novel he'd been enjoying so terribly much. He might have shared an amusing anecdote about one of his students, which would've reminded Rumford of a story about a particularly difficult customer they'd had at the shop.

Oh, he and Jefferson would have each other in stitches, wouldn't they? And then as they settled down and caught their breath, their eyes would meet, and...

Rumford cleared his throat and took another sip, ignoring the warm sensation in his chest.

“How ah… how was the game?” he asked. Because there was always a game.

“Good,” David nodded, “Blue Jays just secured themselves a spot in the World Series, so I'm happy about that.”

Rumford gave a tight-lipped smile. “That's… wonderful.”

He took another swig and frowned. “You sure you're alright, buddy? You seem…”

“No.” Rumford shook his head. “Just... thinking.” About how gay I am.

“Something on your mind?”

“Ah…” he floundered, trying to think of something. Anything but the conversation he wanted but didn't feel quite ready to have.

“Ye know, we got this chair in,” he settled with. “An old Chippendale. And the right back leg ? Completely snapped at the joint.”

“Oh.” David scowled. “Sounds like you got your work cut out for you.”

Work. Always a safe topic.

“Aye. Hell with the hide glue, I'm gonnae need to use some epoxy.” Rumford said, hiking his brows emphatically.

“Is it mahogany? Walnut?” David asked. “‘Cause I've got a bunch of scrap lying around, if you think you'll need to carve in and reinforce that.”

“Aye. Aye, for sure. That'd be great.”

“Yeah, whatever you need. And hey– if you think you'll need some power tools, you could just bring it over to the workshop. Mi casa es su casa , alright?”

Rumford frowned.

“...What?” David asked.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I haven't touched a power tool in years.”

“So? I'm sure you've still got it, man.” David said, giving his shoulder a shove– and what was with all the shoving!? And the smacking? His poor shoulder was going to dislocate if he kept on with that!

“I dunno. I… I think it might be time for me to start turning away jobs like this,” Rumford chuckled. “Jewelry, watch repair? Sure. But no more of this... carpentry.”

“Hey now– the work you did on that Sheraton side chair a few years back was a master class. ” David said, wagging his bottle at him. “Thing looked brand new.”

“Well, I-I appreciate that, but…”

“But what?”

Time for another sip. “...I dunno.”

“Well, I'm just saying.” David said. “Come by the workshop sometime, play with the jointer and the table saw, and tell me you don't miss it.”

"Eh…” Rumford hesitated. "I'll consider it.”

He didn't necessarily miss the work. It's just that that kind of work involved things like safety gear, and… wearing blue jeans.

David set his beer down with a heavy sigh. “Alright. So, I gotta be honest,” he said. “There's uh… there's a reason I called you out here.”

Rumford furrowed his brows. Swallowed hard.

I gotta be honest? There's a reason I called you out here?

Had more terrifying words ever been spoken?

“You see, I got this thing I was kinda hoping you could give me some advice, some perspective, on.”

Rumford pouted and started blankly ahead. What could David Nolan possibly need his advice on? Picking out anniversary gifts, hopefully. He was good at that. Customers at the shop were always looking for something a little off the beaten path there. Or perhaps planning an outfit. Or the best approach for appraising something. Or–

“It's about Emma.” David explained.

“Oh.” Rumford smiled and turned to face him a little better, because that was another matter entirely! “What is it?”

“Well…” he stared ahead for a moment and sighed. “She's going to be doing all these after school programs this year, and so Mary Margaret and I decided to get her a cell phone.”

“A cell phone?” Rumford scoffed. “She's nine years old! Neal didn't get one until he got his driver's license last year!”

“I know! It seems crazy,” David laughed. “But we talked about it, and we agreed we wanted to have a way for us to reach each other, no matter what. Because in this world, who knows what could happen, right?”

“Aye, I suppose…” Rumford said.

“But here's the thing: Phones these days, you know, they aren't just phones anymore.”

“Oh, tell me about it.” he agreed.

“I mean, it's crazy!” David said. “They can take pictures and send pictures and go online and talk to strangers and– it's scary.”

“It is.”

“So Mary Margaret found out about this software that lets you monitor everything they do on their phone. And I mean everything. And she seems really gung-ho about it, but it just…”

“Feels wrong.”

“Invasive. Yeah.” David said. “I mean, we do everything on our phones these days. But when I was a kid, we didn't have cell phones! It was like, you and your buddies rode your bikes and hung out at the baseball fields, and everything was fine as long as you were home before dark, you know?

Rumford hesitated.

Friends?

Bicycle rides with one's buddies?

Baseball?

“ ...Aye.”

“And look, there's plenty of stupid stuff my friends and I said and did in those days that my mom never knew about. That I still wouldn't want her to know about. But it was just harmless fun, you know? We all turned out fine and stayed out of trouble.”

“For sure, for sure.”

“So I mean… the fancy phones… are they not just… this generation's baseball field?” David said. “I mean, Emma's nine now, but in a few years… well, when does it stop? Where do we draw the line? What happens when she starts liking boys? Are we–”

“Or girls.” Rumford chimed in. “...Or both.”

David pinned him with an odd look. Not surprise or disgust, but something unreadable.

Rumford looked down at his glass and smacked his lips. “...You never know.”

“Right?” David said. “It just feels like something out of an Orwell novel, is what I'm saying.”

“I understand.”

“So… I don't know what to do. I want to protect our daughter from all the ugly in the world, but… she should still have the right to her privacy. And the right to just… be a kid and make her own mistakes and learn from them.” he sighed. “You did a good job with Neal. What would you do?”

“Ah…”

What would he do?

What would Barbara Rumford Gold do?

“I… ah… Well, it… The thing–” he cut himself off with a sigh.

David was listening so attentively, with eyes so wide, so gleaming, so earnest– and he really didn't want to botch this up!

He'd given good advice to Belle though, hadn't he? And her father?

That was different, though. Neither of them had asked for advice. They'd just said something that prompted him to speak from his own experience!

Rumford rubbed a hand over his mouth.

Oh.

Yes.

Life experience and all that.

“My ah… da always wanted to know everything.” he finally said, and David leaned in a little closer.

“He was always watching and demanding to know what I was doing, or reading. Who I talked to at school, if I had touched any of his things while I was gone, just… everything. He'd notice something wasn't quite right in the flat, and it was always my fault, and he'd get so angry and–”

Well, perhaps it wasn’t necessary to go into quite so much detail.

“I was walking on eggshells all the time,” he went with, “and I… I hated this feeling that nothing was just mine. And I don't just mean material things, but– well, the more he demanded to know, the more determined I was to keep things from him, you know? Not with any sort of malicious intent, but just so that I could have something.”

David pressed his lips together and nodded. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“So I knew I didn't want Neal to feel that way, not ever.” Rumford said. “The thing is, for me… being a parent… it's not my job to make Neal's choices for him. It's… teaching him how to make his own, you know? I mean, he really cocks things up from time to time, but we all do. That doesn't make him a bad kid. But the important thing, is that he should know that no matter what, he can come to me and expect me to help him through whatever's he got on.”

“Absolutely.”

He swirled his finger through the condensation on his glass and smiled. “Two, three years ago, I get a phone call. I answer, and it's Neal calling from a friend's phone, and he goes, ‘Pop. We fucked up.’ ”

David huffed out a laugh.

“Turns out he and his friends had stolen the keys to their parents car and taken it for a joyride. Big pickup truck, with the four wheel drive, and they decided to take it off-road. It had been raining though, and they lost control and swerved straight into a damn tree.”

“Ouch.”

“And I was… so disappointed, because I knew he knew better than that, you know?”

“We usually do, don't we?” David chuckled.

“...Aye.” Rumford agreed, hiking his brows. “So I hop in the car and drive out to them, and they're fine, thank God. Neal can hardly look me in the eyes of course– he knows what he's done. But then his friends are practically grovelling at my feet, ‘please don't make us call our parents!’ which... they'd mangled the fender on the bloody thing, there wasn't any other way about it– but I was glad to know that when my son found himself in that situation, he felt that he could call me. That he wasn’t afraid to call me. Because he didn't have to, you know? It wasn't my car, they swore up and down that he hadn't been the one driving, none of them had gotten hurt save for a few nasty bruises... He could've kept it from me. Easily. But as horrible as the circumstances were, I was glad to know that at some point, the three of them were pacing around, scared, not knowing what to do, and that my son went, 'I know: let me call my da. He'll know what to do.’”

David sat quietly with the corners of his mouth pinched. “...That had to be terrifying, though.” he finally said, his eyes fixed on the wall.

Rumford tapped a finger on his glass, thinking of what to say. It had been terrifying, and if there was any chance that he could go back and ensure it had never happened, he’d no doubt that he’d take it.

“I think… it's easy to be scared, to get angry in those situations.” he said. “But if there are children who respond well to that, I can tell you Neal was never one of them. I learned that I've got to bite my tongue where that's concerned. Try to be calm about it when I tell him he needs to be more careful, that what if they hadn't been so lucky and they'd gotten seriously hurt– or worse. Because all the times I panicked and lashed out at him, I could see it in his eyes, the same resentment I would have toward my da. That urge to pull further away.”

David rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Do you ever regret not knowing what they were up to though? Before it was too late, I mean.” he said. “Because like you said, what if they weren't so lucky?”

“Of course you do.” Rumford admitted. “But… the more they know you're watching, the better they get at hiding those things, you know? I know I did. And it took years after my da left for me to… unlearn that.” he said. “At the end of the day, you’ve got to trust them. And hear me when I say that they’ll violate that trust. Likely more than once. But if you can’t give them your trust to begin with, they’ll never understand the value of it, and they’ll never want to work to repair it.”

David released another slow, heavy breath and hiked his brows.

“It’s… not easy,” Rumford chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood.

“No, you’re right.” he agreed. He gently drummed his hands over the bartop, and looked at Rumford with a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, man. I’ll uh, think about that.”

Rumford smiled back and nodded. “Aye. Of course.”

“So, speaking of kids…” David grinned, leaning back in his seat. “You ready to be an empty nester?”

Rumford slouched his shoulders. “I'm… excited for him.”

“He's a good kid.” David offered. “I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

Rumford scoffed.

Worried about Neal? Ha! He wasn't worried about Neal! Neal was a smart boy! With a good head on his shoulders!

No, no! He was worried about himself!

Coming home to an empty house! Not having anyone to nag about leaving dishes in the sink or laundry in the dryer! Not having anyone's profanity to correct! Not having a messy bedroom that called his name every time he walked by, luring him to come in and tidy up– just a little bit!

Because when you took all of those things away, what was there left to be grumpy about!?

Dust bunnies?

There was a pathetic thought.

Rumford Gold. Home alone with nothing but his dusty trinkets to keep him company.

It made a heavy feeling settle in his stomach, and he frowned at his glass.

“Hey, man.” David said, putting a hand in his shoulder. “You’ll be alright. Now you get to… relax. Focus on you.”

Rumford nodded, but his frown stayed in place.

That's what they said, the other parents. How ‘done’ they were, and how now they would finally have the time to rekindle their marriages, or make that career change, or retire, or start that side business they'd always dreamt of.

But he didn't have a marriage to rekindle! He was happy with his work and he was proud of his shop! And above all else, he didn't feel ‘done’ with kids! He loved being a Papa and he couldn't shake this feeling that he had more of that in him!

And so he'd just nod along and smile, ignoring the hollow feeling in his heart. Pretending he didn't feel like something was missing.

“You know…” David said, setting a hand on his shoulder, “I really do consider you a friend, Rum.”

Rumford sighed and stared down at the bartop.

“I know Neal leaving for college is gonna be hard, or maybe just weird for you, but– well, if you ever wanna talk about it, I'm all ears.” he said. “‘Cause I know you'd do the same for me. Because, well, in a lot of ways, you're... kind of like the dad I never had.”

Rumford looked up at him and cocked his head to the side, at a loss for words.

David smiled. “I mean, I had a dad, but… you’re like… a second dad. Or a really close uncle, or–” he cut himself off and shook his head. “Point is, when I have stuff I can't talk to anyone else about– the kind of stuff I wish I could talk to my dad about– I know I can come to you.”

Rumford could feel the beginning of tears coming on, and blinked them away. “I– Thank you.” he whispered and nodded.. “That… thank you.”

David gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“You're… sort of like a son to me,” Rumford managed with an uncertain shrug. “Sometimes?”

Because while yes, he did have a special fondness for David, it just wasn't the same. Mentor and mentee, surely. But father and son? That felt a bit of a stretch.

David seemed to pick up on his uncertainty and looked away, taking a quick swig of his beer. “You don’t have to– it's alright, I understand.”

“I… appreciate that, though.” Rumford said. “Truly. Thank you.”

“Well, however you choose to look at it.” David chuckled, “I'm glad we're friends.”

Friends.

He and David were friends.

A certain feeling overcame him, and Rumford hesitated. But after a beat, he turned toward David– toward his friend – and clapped his hand on his shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Me too.”

His hand lingered there for a moment, and what was an appropriate length of time to be touching someone’s shoulder like this, anyway?

He released his grip and let his hand drop down, making a point to not snap it away too quickly nor drag it away too slowly.

“Anyway–” David coughed, “how uh… how are things with Belle? You guys still seeing each other?”

“Yeah.” Rumford nodded and cleared his throat, folding his arms over the bartop. “Yeah, we're still… seeing each other. As much as we can, at least.”

Time for another sip.

David motioned for the bartender. “And how's that working out?”

“Good…” he mumbled. “I think.”

“You think?” David chuckled. “Well, do you like spending time with her?”

Rumford rolled his eyes. “Of course I do!”

“The distance is pretty tough though, huh?”

Rumford bobbed his head from side to side for a moment. “It's… not ideal.” he admitted. “But… we still talk, exchange letters.”

David raised his brows. “Letters? As in– snail mail?”

“Why?” he shot back defensively. “What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing! Nothing.” he said. “Just–”

“We... like the personal touch.” Rumford said, his voice sounding far too high in pitch for his liking. “And having something physical–”

“No, I get it.” David assured. “It sounds really romantic.”

Rumford took a deep breath, easing his posture.

Damned right, he thought. He was an utterly romantic fool! He could admit that to himself! Just not out loud.

“I visited her, last weekend.” Rumford said. “It was… nice. We… we had a lovely time together.”

“You don't seem… too enthusiastic.” David observed.

“No, it's fine.” he shrugged.

“You sure?” David grinned. “Because a month ago, you were waxing poetic about this woman over the phone to me. Something about... the first day of spring?”

Rumford scowled. He'd almost successfully forgotten about that conversation.

“Like I said. If you got something on your mind, man, you can tell me.”

Rumford glanced around the bar for a moment, doing his best to stall until the bartender returned with their drinks.

“Can I– I know you said– and if I'm crossing a line, please.” Rumford stammered, and at last his glass was set down in front of him. “But I-I-I have a question.” he finished, and rushed to take a heavy swig.

David raised a brow. “Okay…”

“About, well, the…” Rumford shifted closer and lowered his voice to a whisper, ignoring the tightness in his chest. “The other other thing.” he said. “The bees.”

“Oh.” David's eyes went wide, despite how hard he was clearly trying not to let them. “What about the uh, bees?”

God, how did he ever think this was a good idea? For even a fraction of a second?

But it was too late now. He'd already said the word. Bees.

“Just– it– well, Belle and I.” Rumford said. “W-we had dinner at her place, and then we were on the couch and we were talking… and the talking turned into cuddling and the cuddling turned into kissing and– well, then she… made her intentions clear.” he whispered. “That she… wanted to… have her flower pollin–”

“Okay!” David interrupted, slamming his bottle down to cut him off. “You know, you don't have to use the euphemism, it's… just...”

“Oh.” he drew back and looked away. “I'm sorry, I–”

“Just, sex.” David said. “You can say sex. She wanted to have sex.”

“Yes.” Rumford exhaled and coughed. “Sex. Sexual… intercourse.”

Now that he said the word, it didn't seem so bad, did it? Sex, sex, sex. Sexy sex. Sexual sexiness. Just a bisexual man talking about his sex life with his sexy girlfriend.

“So… I take it you didn't want to?”

“Well– not exactly.” Rumford shrugged. “I mean, Belle's… stunning. With gorgeous, sexy eyes, and legs that go on for–”

“Rum–”

“–and she does this thing where she bites her lip that makes–”

“Alright.” David chuckled uncomfortably and held up his hand, signaling for him to stop. “Got it, got it. She's uh… she's hot.”

Rumford scoffed. “Now, there's an understatement. Everything about her just–”

David cleared his throat pointedly. “You said you had a question?”

“Right. Yes.” he coughed. Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, he leaned in closely again. “Is it… normal? These days? To… well, to make love without… having said the words?”

David set his bottle down and leaned back in his seat, letting out a deep sigh.

That couldn't have been a good sign.

He blinked and raised his brows. “I mean, sure.” he shrugged, gesturing limply with his hand. “Plenty of people have sex without being in love first.”

“Because I… I wanted to, but– well, it felt wrong.”

David looked at him with furrowed brows. “Rum, she didn't… pressure you into any–”

“No! Heaven's no!” Rumford said. “I told her I wasn’t ready and we played Boggle instead!”

“Oh,” he relaxed. “Thank God.”

“God! What sort of woman do you think Belle is!?”

“Nothing! Nothing! I'm sure she's wonderful,” David said. “Just– looking out for you, man.”

“Oh. Well…” Rumford swallowed. “Thank you.”

David chugged his beer down to the label and set it down with a sigh. “So let me get this straight– she was ready to, and you were… interested . But you decided you'd rather wait?”

“Aye. But–” Rumford tilted his head from side to side in hesitation. “I don't know! It's just that the last woman I– the only person I was ever with was my ex-wife.” he confessed– and by God, did it sound embarrassing when he said it out loud like that.

David gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “And you're not sure if you're ready to share that with another person?”

“Eh… it's not quite that, I don't think.” Rumford dismissed, shaking his head. “It's just... I like Belle! A lot! I'd like to… be intimate with her. It's certainly been long enough for me that I think I'm ready to do that again. But isn't it too soon? For us? Or am I being too old-fashioned?” he asked. “Because I-I always felt… it should be about love, you know? Showing how you feel. And I know I have feelings for Belle. Good, strong feelings. But Milah and I knew each other for almost a year before we– I met Belle little more than a month ago.”

“Alright. Look, Rum.” David said, making a decisive gesture with his hand. “Whether you want to wait or not, or how long you wait, is up to you. Be it after x amount of dates or months, or until however long it takes to say you love each other, until you’re married, or whatever. There's no wrong choice there. But sex doesn't always have to be about… making love. It can just be about... having fun and making each other feel good. Or something in-between. The important thing is that you're both on the same page about it.”

Rumford let out a heavy sigh. “Ah suppose.”

“Just… honesty, man. Communication. Talk to her about it.”

“Talk to her.” Rumford muttered.

It seemed talking was David's solution for everything!

But talking was hard! At least, the kind of talking he was referring to– the kind that involved being vulnerable! It was so much easier to just flirt and make Belle smile and blush and giggle!

Because the more Belle knew about him, the more likely it was that she'd… realize how boring he was, and leave him for somebody more sexy and exciting. Like the roofer.

Rumford tapped a finger on his glass and sighed. “I don't think it's just that though. Th-the sex, I mean.”

David paused, his bottle hovering a inch from his lips. “No?”

“You know… what if it doesn't work out?”

He set his beer down and tilted his head at him.

“Being with Belle.” Rumford said. “I-it's made me realize how much I missed… having someone, you know? But I'm forty-five years old. I'm no’ getting any younger. If I'm gonnae… see somebody, I want to know that they're…”

Interested in getting married and having children?

Growing old and grey together?

Never going to leave me?

“...Looking for something serious?” David offered.

“Aye.”

Looking for something serious. That was good! That sounded far less pathetic!

Rumford cleared his throat. “We were talking on the phone Monday, and she mentioned that she loved kids and it hit me, you know? I know I want to have more kids but what about her? What if she doesn't?”

“I don't understand. You just said she told you she loves kids.”

“Aye, but liking kids and wanting to have your own are very different things. I-it just seems like we ought to talk about those things, doesn't it?”

“Eh…” David hesitated.

“Or is it too soon to talk about that? Because what we have so far is… it's nice. And I don't wannae scare her away by bringing those things up, but…”

“You're worried she just wants something casual and that you're heading towards a dead-end?”

Rumford nodded. “I can't do casual, David. I don't want casual. I don't even know what that means!” he said, looking around the bar helplessly. “It sounds sad!”

“Hey, now. Relax.” David said, setting a hand on his arm to ground him.

“I never should have gone on that first date with her,” Rumford sighed. “Then I wouldn't be in this mess with all these feelings, David.”

“No, don't say that.” he said. “The way I see it? If it's not too soon for you to be worrying about those things, it's not too soon for you to talk about them with her. It's a conversation every new relationship needs to have at some point, what the expectations are.”

Rumford looked at him with a pained expression.

Was it?

He and Milah had never really had that conversation. They’d studied together, fallen into bed a few times, and next thing he knew she was carrying his child and they were getting married.

How did one have that conversation, anyway? The thought of asking Belle if they were serious or not was nauseating! After all, what if she said no? It wasn't like there was a subtle, approachable way to say, I think I'm falling in love with you– but before you say anything, you should also know that I want to have more children someday and if you're not down with that, then we should just quit while we're ahead.

“Just be open about it.” David said. “It's uncomfortable and it'll be tempting to be as brief as possible, but take her through your thought process. All of it. From the… sex, to the… you know. Other, big picture stuff.”

“But what if she–”

“Look. I can't promise you how she'll react,” David said. “Maybe she'll decide she's not ready for all that and break things off. Or maybe she feels the same way and she'll be relieved. But if it's something you know you want, avoiding that conversation would just be torturing yourself.”

His mouth flopped open and closed. “I should at least wait though, right? I-I mean–”

“OK. Then wait how long?” David asked. He inched into his space, and Rumford couldn't help shrinking in his seat a little. “A month? Two months? Three? Let it fester for six? ...A year?”

Yes! Festering for a year sounded perfect!

“Trust me.” David said, giving him a pat on the back. “Best to just nip these things in the bud.”

Rumford grumbled and looked away. Damn David. Always being so… sensible about things.

“So, you'll tell her?”

He looked at his glass and let out a huff of resignation. “I'll… try.”

David shrugged. “You deserve to be happy, man, is all I'm saying. You know what you want– you shouldn't have to hide or apologize for it.”

Rumford rubbed a hand over his mouth.

Wanting things and not apologizing for the inevitable burden those foolish desires place on the people around you?

People did that?

But how?

It certainly made things seem so much more simple, he had to admit.

Why did you do that? Why are you telling me this?

Because I bloody well wanted to, that's why!

Rumford scoffed.

Of course! So simple!

He smiled and gave David's hand a few pats. “Thank you.” he finally said. “For… listening. To all of that.”

“Sure thing.” David winked. “Any time.”

“Well–” Rumford hopped out of his chair. “David. It's been lovely, we should most certainly do this again... but I think I'd like to take the rest of the evening to reflect privately on the matters discussed.”

“Oh.” David blinked. “O-okay.”

“Have a wonderful evening, and give Emma and Mary Margaret my regards.” he said, straightening his jacket and spinning on his heels toward the door.

“Gold, wait–”

Rumford froze and looked over his shoulder, brows raised expectantly.

David shook his head and laughed. “You gotta pay your bill, man.”

[break-danser-en-enfer]

Not So Blissful Oblivion

It was Harry’s last year at Hogwarts, and everyone has been wondering what he would be doing next.

Harry Potter, the Star Auror.

Harry the Healing Savior

Harry the Potter.

It was getting ridiculous really.

All he wanted to do after everything was maybe skive off of the grid and live his life like a hermit. (Maybe with a certain blonde involved but. That was wishful thinking he was sure.) And was that too much to ask? Not if you ask Harry.

Hermione says he ought not keep his feelings at bay, that it will lead to depression or something equally psychological. Honestly Mione, as if he wasn’t insane enough already. What’s one more drop to the ocean, eh?

And before he knew it, her worries had taken the most lethal form. A Mission. Apparently being subjected to the horrors of Skeeter’s writing on a daily basis, having to use his cloak to go to classes or you know DYING, wasn’t enough, Oh no, the world decided that Harry James Potter is the perfect subject for Hermione Jean Granger’s New and Exciting Mission.

He heard about it from Dean, who heard Parvati and Lavender giggling about it, who had heard it from Luna, who- well you get the drift.

G.H.A.S.M. Or rather Get Harry A Soul Mate, was the latest project of the brightest witch of his age. G.H.A.S.M Ha! More like GHASTLY.

The most embarrassing thing is (which, honestly, he has been subjected to so many of them that saying this was something) that she was not being subtle about it either. She had made him fill out a form. Really. Wherein he was to choose whether he preferred blondes or brunettes or gingers or ughhhh. It was just so frustrating! As if people weren’t aware of his embarrassing thing for blondes.

And now as he moved towards the Room of Requirement he felt a sort of heaviness settle on his shoulders. Oh wait. That was his cloak. Or maybe his weariness. He did not even know one from other. It was such a constant weight really.

There was a long line in front of the room. Students from 5th year and above, were queuing and chatting. All excitable little things. Girls, boys and everyone in between. All of them with shining eyes and breathless smiles. Ha. If only they knew what awaited them. If only they knew how ruthless Mione really was. If only.

He moves inside the room, avoiding touching anyone or anything. But well, even the Savior can’t resist elbowing Anthony Goldstein.

The yelp of indignation that echoes makes him grin. But it’s only fleeting. He is not a fool after all.

And there she is. Sitting on a chair as if it was a throne. All she needs is a crown to enhance the look of royalty.

There are stacks of paper in front of her. An ink bottle, some quills and some muggle pens. A white board rests on a tripod behind her. Harry can see it peeking through her hair. Markers are already working their way through something on it. Harry has never felt dread this acutely.

He pulls off his cloak in a motion and-

“Hullo Potter. I must say, I expected you to be here earlier.”

And there, standing in all his glory is none other then Blaise Zabini. You see, him and Mione had struck up an odd and well, terrifying friendship. Terrifying for anyone who crosses their paths. Obviously.

“I told you so. My galleons, Zabini.” Hermione had a hand outstretched, but her eyes were trained on the paper. Her hair messier than they should be and wait a minute- that’s-is that a hickey on her neck?!- No he Will Not think about it. Just. No.

“Mione. Blaise.” He tried. He really did. But his voice still ended up coming strangled.

“Harry. Come sit. We have a long list to go through.” Hermione finally looks up to address him.

“Yes Potter. Do sit. I’m sure you’ve seen the line of admirers waiting on you.” And really, what Harry wouldn’t do to wash that smirk off of Zabini’s face.

“Mione, you know this is really not necessa-”

“Hold it right there Harry Potter. I will not, absolutely NOT sit here and see you- dwindle like an idiot with your feelings. I refuse to let this be a repeat of sixth year. I refuse!” Okay, he did not expect Hermione to seethe over this, but on retrospect maybe he should have seen this coming. She has been working on G.H.A.S.M for months now. He had known how even breathing the wrong way when it was mentioned was Forbidden. And yet he had gone ahead and done it. And wait, sixth year? What about-

“Right. Calm down there Granger. And Potter, do us all a favour and shut that shit hole of a mouth.”

“Mione I-”

“Mate! There you are. I’ve been looking all around the castle for you and- whoa which storm struck here?”

“Weasley. Tactile and you never really go together, yes?”

“And Zabini is here too. Great way of making me feel involved guys. Really.”

“Ron. Honestly. If you’d have found time to look up from Blaise’s arse maybe you’d have heard me the six hundred and sixty-sixth time when I was detailing how we are going to go about The Auditions.” Hermione bites back a sigh looks towards the Heavens for some help. Or patience. Definitely patience.

Ron looks at her betrayed. Hand on his heart and eyes wide.

“Mione. Out of everyone I did NOT expect you to be the one who would do me wrong. You’re not supposed to out your friend when they’re checking someone hot out. That’s basically bro code 101!”

“Sure, sure. Now that we are all here, Harry, I want you to go through this-”

“STOP WHATEVER YOU ARE DOING YOU FILTHY TRAITORS.”

“Draco…?” Ron inquires to the poor door.

“Ah finally.” Mutters Zabini to his- and wait a minute- where did he get a bloody peacock feather from?!

“Precisely on time.” Hermione is the only one who looks, for some twisted reason happy.

“Honestly Potter, you should get your eyes checked just to be sure if you can even see at all or not. I’m voting for the latter-”

“What did I do now?”

“And Granger- you do this, after I specifically told you NOT to pull a stunt- and don’t even talk to me Blaise. I refuse to know you-”

Ron peeks out of the door that Draco had banged open, trying to see a way out. Harry would follow him faithfully.

“Wait a minute. Where did the people go?” Asks a confused and innocent Ron, who probably has a death wish. Harry can only pay his sympathies.

Draco narrows his eyes as he turns to Weasely. “I told them to bugger off. Is that a problem Weasely?” And honestly, even if it was, Ron wouldn’t have the nerve to say it when he was being rewarded by the Draco Malfoy Look of Wrath. Gryffindor or not.

“I… No. Absolutely not. I mean why would I of all people-”

“Then shut you gob-hole. And Potter, you come here. I swear to God I will hex you today. 7 years. Seven years I’ve been dropping hints but Salazar no, you would not be Harry Potter if you took hints of all things. Ha. What a wild concept.” He sniffs and wait…are those tears? No, this can not happen. This- Harry’s pretty sure this was not in the Manual to the Malfoy’s.

“Draco are you- wait a minute- seven years?? Hints? What in Godric’s name are you on about?”

“See?! You wouldn’t know a confession if it bit you in the arse! Ugh Potter must I spell it out? Okay you know what, don’t bother. I will. I D-R-A-C-O M-A-L-F-O-Y A-M I-R-R-E-V-O-C-A-B-L-Y , U-N-N-E-C-E-S-S-A-R-I-L-Y A-N-D A-N-N-O-Y-I-N-G-L-Y I-N L-O-V-E W-I-T-H T-H-E P-R-A-T W-H-O L-I-V-E-D. THERE!” By the time he reaches the end Draco is huffing madly with a maniac look in his eyes and hold it right there- did he- did he just-

“Wait a minute-”

Collective groaning can be heard from the Room of Requirement. 2 minutes later, Hermione Granger, dragging with her Ron Weasely and his rumoured boyfriend, Blaise Zabini can be seen exiting the hell hole. And is that Draco Malfoy with his hands on the Savior ’s cheek? And wait a minute-!

[element-effect-blog]

My 8 Finest Blogging & Content Creation Hacks (That Actually Work).

As I showed you all last week, terrific writing and true idea management does not appear out of thin air, unfortunately. Which is a genuine downer, if you ask me.

Yes, composing thousands and thousands of words is a core part of my occupation, and a big part of my career is fueled by an insatiable enthusiasm for helping others comprehend how to inform their stories better.

That stated, I am likewise a naturally lazy individual.

I just got into The Wonderful Mrs. Maisel this previous weekend because the pilot autoplayed after another show of mine had actually ended. I was bundled so cozily in a blanket burrito on the couch-- with the remote about 3 inches out of reach-- that I decided, "Meh, it's unworthy the effort to move."

That's. It wasn't colleagues like Kathleen badgering me for more than a year about how I simply had to watch this show, because I would absolutely like it, that lastly got me to cave. It was an ill-placed remote.

It may shock you to discover that I have a comparable approach to writing.

Once again, while there is no material wizard in the sky all set to "make it rain" polished prose for you, I have spent a significant amount of time searching for methods to streamline or boost the writing procedure-- without needing to go back to the days of intermediate school, where relentless English instructors would for force us to write thorough, ungraded lays out.

To be clear, detailing still serves a really important function (if done correctly). There are so numerous other ways to make creating content and getting a concept onto virtual paper a lot easier.

In truth, there are 8 specific blogging hacks I want to share with you today that will right away get rid of a few of the pain you're experiencing when you develop material, and make the whole process go a heck of a lot quicker.

1. Stop telling yourself you can't before you even start

I'm going to go out on a limb here and state that if you read this post, you've most likely made a commitment to develop more-- or at least better -- material in 2019, 2020, and beyond.

(If you do not have that resolution, I hope you can feel my death look across the stretch of cyber space.)

Even the most well-meaning material creators arrive at the keyboard with a set of fears that can weaken their capacity, making the whole process way harder than it has to be, before they've even struck their first keystroke.

"I don't have anything interesting to say."

"I'm not a writer."

"What story do I need to inform?"

"This is not my task-- I'm not excellent at this."

If you're proficient at your task, believe me when I state that little voice is incorrect.

In truth, it actually became a running joke with myself awhile back that when a customer would tell me, "I do not actually have anything to discuss," they were nearly guaranteed to become the team factor with the most engaging insights to share.

With this in mind, hear me when I state I'm not challenging you to reserve your fears and your avoidance based upon the truth that I think you're a writer first-- I'm doing it because you're not.

Whenever you take a seat to write, and you hear that bothersome voice in your head, tearing you down, remember this:

People are actually (and figuratively) browsing for your expertise in a market or location that probably has no to do with writing-- not the next literary classic.

That's why you don't require to be Hemingway. You just require to be you.

2. Decide on your subject at least one day prior to composing

After fear, the worst thing you can do to yourself is not choose a subject prior to you take a seat to compose.

Seriously, it impresses me the number of people complain about how long composing a blog site takes them, just to discover it's because they have to spend half of that time going through the basic step of finding out what it is they're talking about.

Obviously, blogging is going to seem like the absolute worst when you do that.

So, at least one day (ideally a week) before you desire to start putting your piece together, select your blog site subject and compose it down. On a post-it. On the mirror after a steamy shower with your finger. In your journal. On your burger in catsup.

I do not care how or where you document your topic-- the important thing is that you understand out of your head and record it someplace. Otherwise, the concept will stay abstract, which doesn't count.

It doesn't need to be a quite title, and it might alter, however it needs to be particular.

For example, blogging about persuasive writing in basic is intriguing, however too broad of a subject. Blogging about how and why buzzwords damage your capability to convince, or pointers for being a much better persuasive writer are much more distinct alternatives.

Again, as a devoted high school essay overview hater, I'm not asking you to do anything more than this.

If you're anything like me, as soon as you zero in on a concept-- any idea-- for a title, your brain will passively flesh it out, mull it over, and form it, while you move onto other things.

Think of it like giving a computer system an intricate equation to crunch as a background procedure.

By the time you take a seat to actually do your blogging thing, your subject might still be in tact, or it may have changed. It does not matter, since you'll have given yourself a head start with days of subconscious legwork currently completed.

3. Utilize my valuable material framework to prepare out the overall direction of what you're writing

One of the most difficult parts of writing-- for me, anyway-- is to get my head around the fundamentals of what I wish to cover. For every single subject, there are numerous ways I can pick to address it, consisting of an unlimited sea of anecdotes, suggestions, lists, and so on.

I can't treat every post I compose like the kitchen area sink. There needs to be some organization and purpose to what I put in, and I desire to make sure that everything I compose is as efficient as possible.

Go into stage left, my useful material framework:

It takes in between 10 and 20 minutes to finish the above grid; although now it takes me about five minutes to go through this psychologically.

You fill it out in this order:

WHAT What are you speaking about precisely, in an uneditorialized, uncontextualized way? This short article would be "blogging hacks."

WHY The "why" container just asks the question "Why you?" Why are you certified to address this subject? Is it a summary of experiences? Is it a particular experience or story that makes you uniquely qualified to not only show you can relate to their scenario, however also help them solve their issue? Is it both?

HOW How is the pay-off. Now that you know what you're discussing, who you're speaking with about this topic (and why they appreciate it), and why you're the one who should be resolving it, you're going to lay out how you're going to resolve it. For instance, "I'm going to note a couple of different blogging hacks, including stop telling yourself you can't write, picking your topic a day beforehand, the useful content structure, and more. I'll most likely likewise relate to the reality that much of the writing process we've been taught is not fun, and although composing is my task, it is tough for me, too. Possibly I can find a story in that."

I desire you to think about the above tool I developed like a compass. Upon finishing it, you will have an 80,000-foot-view of exactly where you want to opt for what you're writing, which makes it a lot much easier to either dive into laying out (if that's your bag) or immediately into writing your initial draft.

on how to utilize the material framework above.

4. Develop a simple "roadmap" of what you're going to state

Even though I'm an author by trade, I'll be sincere. There are some days when the words flow with ease, and there are others when the words merely ... don't.

Have you ever opened your mouth and started speaking with no end video game in mind? You rake ahead with your well-meaning word salad, hoping that you magically figure out where you desire your words to go as you speak?

I do this all the time, which most likely says all examples about my personality, but whatever. If you associate with this, you know how awkward it is. Even if you in some way manage to blindly find your way to a point.

This exact same reasoning can apply to writing.

While I do fully sign up for the concept of free-writing as a workout, writing a complete overview as a first action can be just as demoralizing as writing a blog site, and it's not always that essential.

Rather, I like to create what's called a "roadmap" for my blog site. To show you what I imply, here's the roadmap I produced for this post:

(Psst! Bear as my distraction-free editor of choice.)

In other words, a roadmap is an approach I use when I'm feeling lost with a topic to plot out the beats I desire to hit in an article-- and it can be as ugly and as bare bones as it needs to be. (Simply look at that compelling conclusion, am I right?)

The purpose of a roadmap isn't to do all the heavy-lifting for me prior to I start composing.

It's to offer me confidence that, from an 80,000-foot view, I'm going someplace with what I'm writing, and I have a path to arrive. (It also helps me keep track with the point I'm attempting to make, when I'm lured to wander off or go off on a tangent.)

If you desire to continue to refine and add detail to your own roadmap to make it more of an outline, however, do not let me stop you. (In reality, if you are working on a long-form piece that needs lots of information, it may be a wise relocation.) It's just my choice that, from here, I come down to company.

Mentioning which ...

5. Start "completing the blanks" by composing the simplest area initially

As soon as you have your roadmap in location, here is among my preferred hacks: You do not need to write your blog in order.

Rather, take a look at your roadmap and select the spot or section that seems to come simplest. After that, the next most convenient, and so on.

I love this technique for a few factors. Initially, it enables you to separate writing your post into workable pieces over the course of a few hours and even a few days. Second, it has actually empowered me at a more global level to recognize that the finest work I've developed normally comes together in pieces I deal with out of order.

A nip here. A tuck there. Oh, this idea I simply had made me understand I should return and expand this other section near the top.

As I mold my blog post into its last type, I have the ability to go back and assess what requires tweaking and fixing to get it just right, without getting hung up on whether or not I'm doing things in the right order.

6. Skip the difficult things, return to it later on

I'm going to keep this one concise. Whenever I'm writing, I constantly have those moments where I know what I wish to state, however the concept or the words aren't ready to fall out of my brain yet.

Rather of falling into a pit of anguish about how I'm the worst and everything is awful, I make note of where my brain fart occurred in my draft and move on.

Here's an example:

This is the original summary section for this post, as I was composing it.

As you can see, my quips about instructors wishing to torture me and keep me away from Carson Daly weren't totally formed when I initially started dealing with my draft.

At first, I stopped. I glared at the screen. I tried a couple of versions of what I wished to say, and they were horrible, so I decided to come back to it later, with a fresh brain.

So, if you get stuck like I did, note it in your writing and proceed.

Do not let a single idea or sentence be the obstruction that sends you spiraling into a limitless devoid of self-doubt. The worst thing you can do is stall your momentum with the asinine concept that you require to have all of your words and ideas completely figured out when you sit down to compose.

Even if a whole section is puzzling you, set it aside, work on a different area, and attempt again later.

7. Compose your introduction and conclusion last

Conserve what is often the worst for last.

One of the most unpleasant parts of writing for me is when I understand what I want to blog about, however I'm stumped when I try to write that first sentence; that hook that makes me people go, "Wow! I need to read this."

In those cases, I won't deal with writing the introduction and conclusion until after everything else is written-- unless, naturally, I have some sort uncommon stroke of magnificent motivation.

After I write everything else, I've generally spent adequate time with my total writing topic to know how to kick it off and cover it up effectively.

I feel like I must have more to say about this hack, but that's really all there is to it.

8. Listen to ambient sound rather of music

I have actually been in the professional world for more than 10 years, and it's just remained in the last 2 or so years that I realized I was doing one thing that completely deteriorated my ability to stay concentrated and produce my finest work.

I listened to music when I tried to compose.

I don't learn about you, but-- with the exception of very few playlists-- my mind wanders when I listen to music. I think about the lyrics or the artist ... or perhaps a specific tune brings me back to an especially pleased (or unfortunate) memory.

That's great if I'm dealing with something that does not require additional psychological mojo-- positioning web copy into a page template, formatting short articles for publication, constructing out a piece of pillar material that has actually currently been composed and edited, doing some light copyediting, producing an editorial calendar, etc.

. But when I'm writing, I need to listen to something that concurrently shuts out all of the interruptions around me, however also does not pull me into a brand-new ball of diversions.

Then I discovered Noisli:

Noisli is a free, life-altering website, Chrome extension, and downloadable application that allows you to develop personalized ambient noise sound blends, so you can be your most efficient.

There are studies that reveal listening to ambient sound rather of music increases performance.

I do not understand if I'm all set to provide up listening to Beyoncé when I'm feeling especially alert about a nonwriting work job. I will state that I have actually never felt more focused, more productive, or more able to develop in on the specific words I'm looking for so quickly than when I'm working while listening to Noisli.

Sometimes it's the little things we take for given that end up being the most prominent conditions for success, when it comes to composing.

Composing still needs effort & & self-awareness I thought twice utilizing the

word"hacks" as part of the title for this blog post, because I believe that some people-- not all-- are constantly on the lookout for some sort of wonderful unicorn faster way that will take the pain out of writing. The reality is that producing content takes some time and effort,

and this should be a surprise to no one. Additionally, the truth that often you require to sit down and think, and occasionally get stymied should not be a signal to you that you're bad at developing content. It's merely part of the process-- and all of us go through it. That said, I hope you find worth in the pointers I have actually shared here.

They have actually helped me significantly as I've continued to improve and "hack" my own process throughout the years. Simply remember there's no blanket blogging solution that will apply to

everyone. Much of finding what will eventually work for you will need you to dedicate to the practice of producing material and maintain awareness of the particular obstacles you're coming across along the way.

This content was originally published here.

[keaalu]

Remember Me, chapter two

Title (chapter): Remember Me (02)

Series: Transformers, G1-based “Blue” AU

Rating: PG-13

Notes: In which we find out that what do you know, Ramjet’s trine aren’t a bunch of total incompetents, or at least not all the time.

               Today was apparently Slipstream’s turn to spark-sit.

               It hadn’t been, to start with – but Footloose had been called away at short notice to an emergency in the recycling plant on the edge of the district and pleaded his help. He didn’t mind giving his twin a hand, especially if it might lead to the opportunity to blackmail her later.

               Skydash might have been small, but that first-instar frame apparently had oversized tanks because she always had energy to spare. Keeping up with her was usually a collective affair. Only her dam Celerity seemed to be able to manage it on her own, and that was probably only because she was big enough for a cold-fusion core generator. (Slipstream tried not to be jealous of it.)

               Slipstream had collected his little cousin from Surefire, currently on spark-duty in the makeshift nursery in Celerity’s office, then joined up with a small group of close friends and family to take his mid-orn break in one of Deixar’s small new parks. It was greener than most Cybertronians were familiar with, but the trees weren’t just decorative – a small energy collector grafted onto each plant’s trunk fed power into the grid, or any tired machine that wanted to take advantage of it.

               After downloading the latest news to his wafer, the blue mech crashed out in the shade of a nice mature tree to read it while he charged. Longbeam and Whitesides sat together nearby, catching up on the gossip, sharing the remains of a bag of bright fulminating candies (probably swiped off Pulsar’s desk). Sunspot, one of Slipstream’s housemates, lounged full length nearby, chewing a stylus and preparing a playlist; the little yellow bike had almost offlined in shock at being invited to put something together for the Vosian celebrations, and had since spent at least ten orns solid doing nothing else.

               All the inactivity had left Skydash bored. Nobody was doing anything except talk and sit. She wanted to call “Unnolawp” and get him to take her flying, but her little transmitter didn’t have a good enough power output yet to reach him (she knew; she’d tried already) and Unnolseem wouldn’t call him for her.

               Unimpressed by having her family refuse to take her with them to New Vos, Skydash was busy trying to get to the tallest point on the small tree nearby, to see if it’d be tall enough for her to see all the way out there. Unfortunately the spindly trunk wasn’t really up to supporting her weight, and every time she got a fraction higher than halfway, it bowed almost all the way in half to dump her back on her small aft.

               So frustrating!

               She sprawled dramatically over her cousin’s lap, on top of his newssheet, scrolling through a dozen or so pages at once. “Unnolseem. Why Day not take?”

               Slipstream set his wafer to one side and flicked one of her tiny wing-nubs. “Didn’t we go through this two breems ago, Scraplet? Because he’s at work, and it’s a building site, and you’re still little and squish-able.”

               “Took before.”

               “He wasn’t at work before.”

               “But want see! Make fly!”

               “Footloose said she’d come and pick you up as soon as she was done with her latest trauma case, remember? Isn’t she good enough for going for a fly with?”

               Skydash thought about it for a few seconds. “Yes? Not Day.”

               “Ugh. Some people are never satisfied.”

               With an exaggerated roll of the optics, Slipstream rolled her out of his lap and tumbled her down the little slope; giggling, she finally fetched up against Longbeam. The tall femme peered down on her for a second before posting a candy into the small mouth that opened expectantly at her, like the gape of a baby bird.

               No wonder Dash kept them running most of the time. She was always getting topups.

               Slipstream stretched out more comfortably and flicked his way back to his place in the news. It surely wouldn’t have been that big a deal to take the little scrap off to Vos? It wasn’t like she often actually detached from Thundercracker’s shoulders when the big jet was looking after her.

               The sound of approaching jet engines shaded subtly into his awareness. Slipstream looked up from his wafer, curiously – of his family, no-one was due back in the region for ten breems, and no other airframes lived very close to Deixar.

               He couldn’t see anything, and sent out a broad-ranging positional request instead.

               …and got nothing.

               Uneasy, he stood up to get a better look around. Why would someone privacy lock their basic signal data? He dipped into a police channel instead, and turned it into an official request for an ident.

               Still nothing. Slag. He felt his pumps clicking subtly into a higher gear and defensive protocols coming online.

               Longbeam picked up on the use of the official cipher and looked up at him. “Problem, Seemo?”

               “You didn’t hear jets, just then?” At her nod, he added; “They’re not responding to my pings.” The sound of engines had disappeared; too abruptly to have just passed over. They must have landed.

               “You think they’re in trouble?” She stood and moved closer, lowering her voice.

               Something about the exact subharmonic frequency of the engine noise had upset his diagnostics in a very familiar way. “I think they are the trouble.”

               She straightened, subtly, suddenly anxious, and mouthed Decepticons? at him.

               “Not sure. Maybe?” He whispered the words back to her, even though he was aware that suddenly everyone was listening closely to him. “Might wanna get everyone out of the open, just in case.”

               “Good idea.” Longbeam crouched next to her sibling. “Whitesides? Might need you to run interference for me…”

               Slipstream turned his attention towards Thundercracker, out in New Vos. -sent anyone to Deixar?- he asked. -got company, no ident-

               No reply. Wait, no. Not no reply… his signal wasn’t even getting out. Something was jamming him-!

               At last, Slipstream realised Skydash was talking to him.

               “…Who they, unnol? Who coming?”

               Slag! Too close already!

               Slipstream turned, alarmed, and barely had the chance to register the large white body hurtling in his direction before he was impacted by a violent tackle that sent them both crashing into the vegetation. The poor tree didn’t stand a chance, exploding into matchsticks around them.

               The final impact with the ground destabilised all his gyroscopes and left him flat on his back, groaning. Ramjet!

               “You’re coming with us, short stuff,” he heard the jet snarl, over the disorienting echo of rebalancing audios. A big hand clamped down on his wrist and yanked him unceremoniously back to his feet. He promptly went all the way over and ended up on his hands and knees instead, almost falling on top of Whitesides.

               The smaller mech was already tensed into a subtle crouch, fingers curled into fists, looking like he was about to hurl himself into the fight; alarm flashed like cold fingers up the back of Slipstream’s helm. What the bike thought he’d actually achieve by joining the brawl, Slipstream had no idea; Ramjet must have out-massed him by three times his own weight, and was damn near impossible to incapacitate through brute force alone. The diminutive mech would get flattened in an instant.

               “No, run! Get helmmmf!” Slipstream managed to splutter, before an arm came around his throat and a big hand flattened over his mouth, hauling him backwards.

               Whitesides didn’t need telling twice. He folded up into his alt mode and was gone in a flash of dust towards the station. Sunspot high-tailed it in the exact opposite direction. Longbeam was already nowhere to be seen.

               Late to the party, his wingmates dithered on the pavement, not sure which one to chase.

               “Leave ‘em!” Ramjet snapped, struggling to wrangle the smaller mech. “Gimme a hand here, will you?”

               “But they’re gonna raise the alarm-!” Thrust protested.

               “Of course they are, Primus-! That’s the point! Leave them! The block on their comms won’t last long, we’ve gotta get back to the bridge before they can stop us getting through-”

               Using his captor’s momentary inattention, Slipstream got his feet back under himself and shoved backwards, hard. It toppled Ramjet past his centre of gravity, and both went sprawling with a crunch. The smaller mech threw himself away to one side, scrabbling for his footing.

               Ramjet secured a tenuous hold on one ankle and tripped their quarry over again. “So help me Primus, if you two frag this thing up-!”

               Stung into action, Thrust finally piled into the fray. Before the teleport could triangulate an escape route, he lunged and landed square on his back. “Well if you could try and keep a grip on the sparkling, that’d be real helpful.” Wrenching Slipstream’s arms back behind him, he hauled him right up off his feet – unintentionally giving their prey a platform to launch a kick that connected with Ramjet’s face with enough force to knock him clean onto his aft.

               Ramjet snarled and cursed; the kick had fractured his cheek. “He’s a slagging cop, for Primus sake, steal his pitfragged cuffs-! Dirge! The frag are you even doing?”

               The blue jet was barely paying attention, approaching the splintered ruins of the tree Ramjet had destroyed. “I think I see something-“

               “Dirge-! Primus, we don’t have time-! ”

               Dirge ignored him, focused on the shape he’d spotted. Rounding the mess of broken branches, he found something tall and white, trying to pick something up off the floor without drawing too much attention to itself.

               Their optics met and for an instant, they just stared at each other.

               Dirge’s lips drew back in an unhealthy smile.

               Longbeam exploded into action, apparently going to try and outpace him on foot, something small clutched in her arms. She barged into him with her shoulder as she passed, overbalancing him into the bushes, and was halfway up the street in seconds, apparently aiming for a narrow alleyway.

               “Oh please.” Dirge watched her run, amused, then revved his thrusters, creating that precise engine harmonic that put even his allies on edge.

               The bike made a little noise of alarm and stumbled, tripped against a kerb and fetched up on her hands and knees. The small bundle slipped from her arms and tumbled away across the pavement, disappearing into the alleyway.

               Dirge followed, at a more casual pace. “Running away? Nice. That’s one I haven’t seen in a while.”

               Longbeam was fast – already back on her feet, her small sidearm was in her hand, her arm swinging up to shoot – but Dirge was faster. He delivered a quick pulse from his cannon, instantly obliterating the weapon… and most of the hand holding it. The force of the blast spun her around and slammed her shoulder-first into the wall. She choked out a horrible half-sob of pain.

               Dirge ambled over, still purring that hideous fear-inducing sing-song. She scrambled backwards on her aft, away from him, injured arm clutched across her chassis and fans huffing out increasingly warm air. She whooped her siren, trying to threaten him away.

               “This almost makes up for not being allowed to shoot Starscream.” The blue jet dropped to one knee beside her, and flattened a palm over her mouth. “Tell Skywarp I said thanks, Squeaky,” he murmured, before pressing the emitter cone of one cannon into her midsection.

               She knew immediately what he was going to do and braced her feet against him, to try and kick his arm away, but the battle was hopelessly one-sided, over before it even started. The shot was underpowered, but tore all the way through her flank, shredding superstructure. She arched under his hands, screaming against his palm, thrashing against the unforgiving dirt. A sludge of energon and other fluids immediately began to puddle beneath her.

               “All right, that’s enough of that.” Keeping his hand flattened over her face, he gave her a single sharp shove, cracking the back of her head into the ground. Her siren died with a strangled squeak of pain. “Now, where did your little friend go?”

               Leaving his wingmates still trying to wrangle Slipstream, Dirge followed the signal into the alley, towards a little gap between dumpsters. A chilly, flickery blue light filled the space, leading him precisely where he needed to go.

               He crouched to find Skydash huddling into a corner, trying ineffectively to hide from him.

               Dirge picked the small body up in both hands, and held the sparkling at arm’s length; she turned her face away, frozen in fear by the subtle noise of his cycling thrusters. “My. You have been a busy mech, Skywarp. I’d have thought your two little pit-spawn were more than enough.”

               He re-emerged to an assortment of glares, and Thrust had his hands over his audio venting, as if that’d somehow help block out the sound. In spite of Dirge’s uncomfortable broadcast, they’d maintained the upper hand; with both his wrists and ankles finally cuffed, Slipstream had crumpled in the restraining arms, huffing softly in fright.

               “Do you have to do that?” Ramjet snapped.

               Dirge smirked. Yellow fingers had left three bright streaks of warpaint across his cheek. “Sorry. Only way I could catch it.” He lifted the sparkling with a hand around her neck, unable to help preening at his wingmates’ sudden looks of amazement.

               “Where in Pit did you find that?!”

               “I’ll tell you on the way.” Dirge tucked his small prisoner into his cockpit. “Didn’t you say we needed to get to the bridge before anyone could raise the alarm?”

----------

               In the recycling plant in Deixar West-13-B, Footloose straightened up bolt upright, promptly dropping the arm of the poor mech she was working on. “Seem?”

               The mech gave a shriek of pain and turned the air briefly blue, making her fellow paramedic jump and almost drop his other arm. Footloose ignored him; no-one capable of that many decibels could be too badly injured.

               Without any warning, her twin brother’s signal had just… vanished. As split sparks, they could almost always perceive each other’s presence in some way, and now there was just nothing. It either meant he was a seriously long way out of range, or had stopped transmitting, and neither was good. For a spark to stop transmitting? Yeah, that was some seriously bad slag.

               She lurched to her thrusters. “Sorry, Braze, I’ve got to go. This is our last patient, right?”

               Her fellow paramedic looked up at her, alarmed. “What’s happened?”

               “Seem’s gone right off the registry. I can’t see him any more. I’ve gotta chase this.” She shook her head. ”You can cope, yeah? Love you!”

               She kicked off and after barely an astro-second of flight, teleported out of view.

               Braze stared at the spot she’d occupied an instant previously, and wondered how bad the trouble was.

----------

               In the breems after the Coneheads had fled, Longbeam had somehow managed to regain her feet, heeling dramatically over on her injured side and trailing dirty purple footprints.

               After a small eternity, she finally staggered into the reception area of Deixar Central Station, still trailing a slimy mess of mixed fluids behind her, and collapsed against Whisper’s desk. She was dimly aware of the desk sergeant leaping from his chair and yelling for help, even as her legs lost their strength and she sagged to the floor, dragging energon-covered paperwork down with her.

               A confusing swirl of colleagues surrounded her, but she couldn’t pick anyone out of the mass, or even process the words being spoken, any more.

               “Decepticons,” she managed, before the light in her optics guttered and consciousness finally left her.